THE ATLANTIC BOOK

OF MODERN PLAYS

Edited with Introduction, Commentand Annotated Bibliography

bySterling Andrus Leonard

_Department of EnglishThe University of Wisconsin andThe Wisconsin High School_

The Atlantic Monthly PressBoston

_The rights of production of these plays are in every casereserved by the authors or their representatives. No play can begiven publicly without an individual arrangement. The law doesnot, of course, prevent their reading in classrooms or theirproduction before an audience of a school or invited guests whereno fee is charged; but it is, naturally, more courteous to askpermission. _

1921

The Atlantic Monthly Press

First impression, December, 1921Second impression, April, 1922Third impression, October, 1922

_Printed in the United States of America_

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS

THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS _Harold Chapin_

SPREADING THE NEWS _Lady Gregory_

THE BEGGAR AND THE KING _Winthrop Parkhurst_

TIDES _George Middleton_

ILE _Eugene O'Neill_

CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _J. A. Ferguson_

THE SUN _John Galsworthy_

THE KNAVE OF HEARTS _Louise Saunders_

FAME AND THE POET _Lord Dunsany_

THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE _Beulah Marie Dix_

GETTYSBURG _Percy Mackaye_

LONESOME-LIKE _Harold Brighouse_

RIDERS TO THE SEA _John Millington Synge_

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE _William Butler Yeats_

RIDING TO LITHEND _Gordon Bottomley_

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION IN READING THE PLAYS

NOTES ON THE DRAMAS AND THE DRAMATISTS

ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PLAYS AND RELATED BOOKS

FOREWORD

We are at present in the midst of a bewildering quantity ofplay-publication and production. The one-act play in particular, chiefly represented in this volume, appears to be taking theplace of that rather squeezed sponge, the short story, in thefavor of the reading public. Of course, this tendency has itsreaction in schoolrooms. One even hears of high-school classeswhich attempt to keep up with the entire output of such dramas inEnglish readings. If this is not merely an apologue, it iscertainly a horrible example. The bulk of current drama, as ofpublished matter generally, is not worthy the time of the Englishclass. Only what is measurably of rank, in truth and fineness, with the literature which has endured from past times can bedefended for use there. And we have too much that is both wellfitted to young people's keen interest and enjoyment, andbeautifully worthy as well, for time to be wasted upon the third-and fourth-rate. 

Obviously, much of the best in modern play-writing has not beenincluded in this volume. Because of copyright complications theworks of Mr. Masefield, Mr. Shaw, Mr. Drinkwater, and Sir JamesBarrie are not here represented. The plays by these writers thatseem 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 asto desirable inclusions and omissions will be welcomed by theeditor and the publishers. 

Following in their own way the lead of the Théâtre Libre in Parisand the Freie Bühne in Germany, and of the Independent and theRepertory theatres in Great Britain, numerous "little theatres"and drama associations in this country are giving impulsion anddirection to the movement for finer drama and more excellentpresentation. The Harvard dramatic societies, the MorningsidePlayers at Columbia, Mr. Alex Drummond's Community Theatre at theState Fair in Ithaca, the Little Country Theatre at Fargo, SouthDakota, and similar groups at the University of California andelsewhere, illustrate the leadership of the colleges. In manyhigh schools, as at South Bend, Indiana, more or less completeLittle Theatres are active. The Chicago Little Theatre, theWisconsin Dramatic Society, the Provincetown Players, theNeighborhood Playhouse, in New York, and others of that ilk, arewell known and influential. They are extending the tradition ofthe best European theatres in their attempts to cultivateexcellent and individual expression in drama. They realize thatplays must be tested by actual performance, --though notnecessarily by the unnatural demands of success in competitionwith Broadway revues and farce-melodramas, --and thus developedtoward a genuine artistic embodiment of the vast and varied life, the manifold and deep idealism of this country. 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For their courteous and generous cooperation the editor isgreatly indebted to the authors and publishers of all the playsincluded. He is equally grateful to other dramatists who werepersonally as cordial in intention but quite impotent to grantcopyright privileges. In addition, he has received most friendlyand cordial criticism from friends and friendly strangers to whomhe appealed--among others, from Mr. Harold Brighouse; Mr. Theodore Hinckley, editor of "Drama"; Mr. Clarence Stratton, nowDirector of English at Cleveland, and author of a forthcomingbook on the Little Theatre in this country; Mr. Allan Monkhouse, author of "Mary Broome" and "War Plays"; Professor Allan Abbot, of Teachers College, Columbia University; Mr. Frank G. Thompkins, of Central High School, Detroit; Mrs. Mary Austin; Professor EarlB. Pence, of De Pauw University; Professor Brander Matthews; andMrs. Alice Chapin. Indebtedness to many lists is obvious, particularly to that of the Drama League and the National Councilof Teachers of English, and that of Professor Pence in the"Illinois Bulletin. "

"Ile" is reprinted by special arrangement with the author andwith Boni and Liveright, publishers, New York. "Ile" is reprintedfrom the volume "The Moon of The Caribbees" and six other playsof the sea, which volume is one of the series of plays by Mr. O'Neill, the series including "Beyond the Horizon, " a drama infour 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 thefamous romances, said that all he needed for constructing a dramawas "four boards, two actors, and a passion. " What he meant bypassion has been defined by a later French writer, FerdinandBrunetière, as a conflict of wills. The Philosopher of Butterbiggens, whom you will meet early in this book, points out that "what youare all the time wanting" is "your own way. " When two strongdesires conflict and we wonder which is coming out ahead, we saythat the situation is dramatic. This clash is clearly defined inany effective play, from the crude melodrama in which the forcesare hero and villain with pistols, to such subtle conflicts, based on a man's misunderstanding of even his own motives andpurposes, as in Mr. Middleton's "Tides. "

In comedy, and even in farce, struggle is clearly present. Hereour sympathy is with people who engage in a not impossiblecombat--against rather obvious villains who can be unmasked, oragainst such public opinion or popular conventions as can beoverset. The hold of an absurd bit of gossip upon stupid peopleis firm enough in "Spreading the News"; but fortunately it mustyield to facts at last. The Queen and the Knave of Hearts aresufficiently clever, with the aid of the superb cookery of theKnave's wife, to do away with an ancient and solemnly reverencedlaw of Pompdebile's court. So, too, the force of ancient loyaltyand enthusiasm almost works a miracle in the invalid veteran of"Gettysburg. " And we feel sure that the uncanny powers of theBeggar will be no less successful in overturning the power of theKing in Mr. Parkhurst's play. 

Again, in comedies as in mathematics, the problem is often solvedby substitution. The soldier in Mr. Galsworthy's "The Sun" isable to find a satisfactory and apparently happy ending withoutachieving what he originally set out to gain. And the same istrue of Jock in Mr. Brighouse's "Lonesome-Like. " Or the playwhich does not end as the chief character wishes may still provenot too serious because, as in "Fame and the Poet, " the situationis merely inconvenient and absurd rather than tragic. Now andthen it is next to impossible to tell whether the ending istragic or not; in the "Land of Heart's Desire" we must firstdecide whether our sympathies are more with Shawn Bruin and withMaire'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 wedesire satisfying solutions of the problems in our own lives. Andwhenever 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 wherepowerful and terrible influences have to be combated, only a poordramatist will make use of mere chance, or compel his charactersto do what such people really would not do, to bring about afactitious "happy ending. " With the relentless, mighty arms ofEngland engaged in hunting the defeated Highlanders after theBattle of Culloden, a play like "Campbell of Kilmhor, " in which wesympathize with the ill-fated Stewarts, cannot end happily. Ifthey had yielded under pressure and betrayed their comrades, wemight have pitied them, but we could not admire their action, andthere would have been no strong conclusion. In "Riders to theSea, " where the characters are compelled by bitter poverty to facethe relentless forces of storm and sea, and in "The Biding toLithend, " we expect a tragic end almost from the first lines ofthe play. We recognize this same dramatic tensity of hopelessconflict in many stories as well as plays; it is most powerful inthree or four novels by George Eliot, George Meredith, and ThomasHardy. 

One of the best ways to understand these as real stage plays isthrough some sort of dramatization. This does not mean, however, that they need be produced with elaborate scenery and costumes, memorizing, and rehearsal; often the best understanding may besecured by quite informal reading in the class, with perhaps a hatand cloak and a lath sword or two for properties. With simply aclear space in the classroom for a stage, you and yourimaginations can give all the performance necessary for realizingthese plays very well indeed. But, of course, you must clearlyunderstand the lines and the play as a whole before you try totake a part, so that you can read simply and naturally, as youthink the people in the story probably spoke. Some questions fordiscussion in the appendix may help you in talking the plays overin class or in reading them for yourself before you try to take apart. You will find it sometimes helps, also, to make a diagram ora colored sketch of the scene as the author describes it, or evena small model of the stage for a "dramatic museum" for yourschool. If you have not tried this, you do not know how much ithelps in seeing plays of other times, like Shakespeare's orMolière's; and it is useful also for modern dramas. Such smallstages can be used for puppet theatres as well. "The Knave ofHearts" is intended as a marionette play, and otherdramas--Maeterlinck's and even Shakespeare's--have been given inthis way with very interesting effects. 

If you bring these plays to a performance for others outside yourown class, you will find that the simplest and least pretentioussettings are generally most effective. The Irish players, as Mr. Yeats tells us, "have made scenery, indeed, but scenery that islittle more than a suggestion--a pattern with recurring boughs andleaves of gold for a wood, a great green curtain, with a redstencil upon it to carry the eye upward, for a palace. " Mr. JohnMerrill of the Francis Parker School describes the quite excellentresults secured with a dark curtain in a semicircle--acyclorama--for background, and with colored lights. [1] Such astaging leaves the attention free to follow the lines, and theimagination to picture whatever the play suggests as the place ofthe action. 

[Footnote 1: John Merrill: "Drama and the School, " in _Drama_, November, 1919. ]

THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS[1]

Harold Chapin

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Mrs. Alice Chapin. Permission to present this play must be secured from SamuelFrench, 28 West 38th Street, New York City, who controls allacting rights, etc. , in this country. ]

CHARACTERS

DAVID PIRNIE LIZZIE, his daughterJOHN BELL, his son-in-lawALEXANDER, John's little son

SCENE: JOHN BELL'S _tenement at Butterbiggens. It consists of thevery usual "two rooms, kitchen, and bath, " a concealed bed in theparlor and another in the kitchen enabling him to house hisfamily--consisting of himself, his wife, his little son, and hisaged father-in-law--therein. The kitchen-and-living-room is agood-sized square room. The right wall (our right as we look atit) 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 contains a low paintedcupboard. Over the far cupboard hangs a picture of a ship, butover the near one is a small square window. The far wall has twolarge doors in it, that on the right leading to the lobby, andthat on the left appertaining to the old father-in-law's concealedbed. The walls are distempered a brickish red. The ceiling oncewas white. The floor is covered with bright linoleum and a coupleof rag rugs--one before the fire--a large one--and a smaller onebefore the door of the concealed bed. _

_A deal table is just to right of centre. A long flexiblegas-bracket depends from the ceiling above it. Anothermany-jointed gas-bracket projects from the middle of the highmantelpiece, its flame turned down towards the stove. There arewooden chairs at the table, above, below, and to left of it. Ahigh-backed easy chair is above the fire, a kitchen elbow-chairbelow it. _

_The kitchen is very tidy. A newspaper newly fallen to the rugbefore the fire and another--an evening one--spread flat on thetable are (besides a child's mug and plate, also on the table)the only things not stowed in their prescribed places. It isevening--the light beyond the little square window being the graydimness of a long Northern twilight which slowly deepens duringthe play. When the curtain rises it is still light enough in theroom for a man to read if the print be not too faint and his eyesbe good. The warm light of the fire leaps and flickers throughthe gray, showing up with exceptional clearness the deep-linedface of old DAVID PIRNIE, who is discovered half-risen from hisarmchair above the fire, standing on the hearth-rug, his bodybent and his hand on the chair arm. He is a little, feeble oldman with a well-shaped head and weather-beaten face, set off by agrizzled beard and whiskers, wiry and vigorous, in curiouscontrast to the wreath of snowy hair that encircles his head. Hisupper lip is shaven. He wears an old suit--the unbuttonedwaistcoat of which shows an old flannel shirt. His slippers arelow at the heel and his socks loose at the ankles. _

_The old man's eyes are fixed appealingly on those of hisdaughter, who stands in the half-open door, her grasp on thehandle, 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 withhis head in his hands, reads hard at the paper and tries to lookunconcerned. _

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 tohim 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 offgradually 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' upfor himself if he got to count on me--

LIZZIE. I wasna thinkin' o' yer deein', feyther--only--it's noguid for a bairn--

DAVID. Where's the harm in my giein' him a bit story before hegangs 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 harmin it?

LIZZIE (_keeping her patience with difficulty_). Because it getshim into the habit. 

DAVID. But why should he no' get into the habit if there's naeharm in it?

(_John at the table chuckles. Lizzie gives him a look, but hemeets it not. _)

LIZZIE. Really, feyther, ye micht be a wean yerself, ye're thatpersistent. 

DAVID. No, Lizzie, I'm no' persistent, I'm reasoning wi' ye. Yesaid there was nae harm in my tellin' him a bit story, an' now yesay I'm not to because it'll get him into the habit; an' what I'maskin' ye is, where's the harm o' his gettin' into the habit ifthere's nae harm in it?

LIZZIE. Oh, aye; ye can be gey clever, twistin' the words in mymouth, feyther; but richt is richt, an' wrang's wrang, for allyer cleverness. 

DAVID (_earnestly_). I'm no bein' clever ava, Lizzie, --no' thenoo, --I'm just tryin' to make ye see that, if ye admit there'snae harm in a thing, ye canna say there's ony harm in it, an'(_pathetically_) I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit storybefore he gangs to his bed. 

JOHN (_aside to her_). Och, wumman--

LIZZIE. T'ts, John; ye'd gie in tae onybody if they were justpersistent enough. 

JOHN. He's an auld 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 giein to--

JOHN (_bringing a fresh mind to bear upon the argument_). Efter a', Lizzie, there's nae harm--

LIZZIE (_almost with a scream of anger_). Och, now you've stairted, have you? Harm. Harm. Harm. You're talkin' about harm, and I'mtalking about richt an' wrang. You'd see your son grow up adrunken keelie, an' mebbe a thief an' a murderer, so long as youcould say there was nae harm in it. 

DAVID (_expostulating with some cause_). But I cudna say there wasnae harm in that, Lizzie, an' I wudna. Only when there's naeharm--

LIZZIE. Och. (_Exits, calling off to the cause of the trouble. _)Are ye in yer bed yet, Alexander?

(_Shuts door with a click. _)

DAVID (_standing on hearth-rug and shaking his head more in sorrowthan in anger_). She's no reasonable, ye ken, John; she disnaargue fair. I'm no complaining o' her mither, but it's a weething hard that the only twa women I've known to be really chattyan' argumentative with should ha' been just like that. An' methat 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. Yesee, I've only kent they twa to study carefully--an' it's no fairto judge the whole sex by just the twa examples, an' itwere--(_Running on_) But it's gey hard, an' I was wantin' to tellwee Alexander a special fine story the nicht. (_Removes glassesand blinks his eyes. _) Aweel. 

JOHN (_comforting_). Mebbe the morn--

DAVID. If it's no richt the nicht, it'll no be richt the morn'snicht. 

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'mblack affrontit. I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a specialfine story the nicht, an' now here's Lizzie wi' her richt's richtan' wrang's wrang--Och, there's nae reason in the women. 

JOHN. We has to gie in to them though. 

DAVID. Aye. That's why. 

(_There is a pause. The old man picks up his paper again andsettles his glasses on his nose. JOHN rises, and with a spillfrom the mantelpiece lights the gas there, which he then bends tothrow 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 Hillwi' the tram--(_Breaking his mood impatiently_) Och. 

JOHN (_crossing to table and lighting up there_). It's gettin' darkgey early. We'll shin be haein' tea by the gas. 

DAVID (_rustling his paper_). Aye--(_Suddenly_) There never was afemale philosopher, ye ken, John. 

JOHN. Was there no'?

DAVID. No. (_Angrily, in a gust_) An'there never will be! (_Thenmore calmly_) An' yet there's an' awful lot o' philosophy aboutwomen, John. 

JOHN. Aye?

DAVID. Och, aye. They're that unreasonable, an' yet ye cannareason them down; an' they're that weak, an' yet ye canna makethem gie in tae ye. Of course, ye'll say ye canna reason doon astane, or make a clod o' earth gie in tae ye. 

JOHN. Will I?

DAVID. Aye. An' ye'll be richt. But then I'll tell ye a stanewill na answer ye back, an' a clod of earth will na try towithstand ye, so how can ye argue them down?

JOHN (_convinced_). Ye canna. 

DAVID. Richt! Ye canna! But a wumman _will_ answer ye back, an'she _will_ stand against ye, an' _yet_ ye canna argue her downthough 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'--yeken--Philosophy--

(_He ceases to speak and wipes his glasses again. JOHN, intenselytroubled, tiptoes up to the door and opens it a foot. The wailsof ALEXANDER can be heard muffled by a farther door. JOHN callsoff. _)

JOHN. Lizzie. 

(_Lizzie immediately comes into sight outside the door with a"Shsh. "_)

JOHN. Yer feyther's greetin'. 

LIZZIE (_with 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 (_with patience_). No, I'm no' heartless, John; but there'stoo much heart in this family, an' someone's got to use theirheid. 

(DAVID _cranes round the side of his chair to catch what theyare saying. She stops and comes to him kindly but with womanlyfirmness. _)

LIZZIE. I'm vexed ye should be disappointed, feyther, but ye see, don't ye--

(_A singularly piercing wail from ALEXANDER goes up. LIZZIE rushesto silence him. _)

LIZZIE. Mercy! The neighbors will think we're murderin' him. 

(_The door closes behind her. _)

DAVID (_nodding for a space as he revolves the woman's attitude_). Ye hear that, John?

JOHN. Whit?

DAVID (_with quiet irony_). She's vexed I should be disappointed. The wumman thinks she's richt! Women always think they'rericht--mebbe it's that that makes them that obstinate. (_With theghost of a twinkle_) She's feart o' the neighbors, though. 

JOHN (_stolidly_). A' women are 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'mtoo 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 themost important thing in life, John?

(JOHN _opens his mouth--and shuts it again unused. _)

DAVID. Ye ken perfectly well. What is it ye're wantin' a' thetime?

JOHN. Different things. 

DAVID (_satisfied_). Aye--different things! But ye want them a', doye no'?

JOHN. Aye. 

DAVID. If ye had yer ain way ye'd hae them a', eh?

JOHN. I wud that. 

DAVID (_triumphant_). Then is that no' what ye want: yer ain way?

JOHN (_enlightened_). Losh!

DAVID (_warming to it_). That's what life is, John--gettin' yer ainway. First ye're born, an' ye canna dae anything but cry; butGod's given yer mither ears an' ye get yer way by just cryin' forit. (_Hastily, anticipating criticism_) I ken that's no exactly inkeeping with what I've been saying aboot Alexander--but anew-born bairnie's an awfu' delicate thing, an' the Lord gets itpast its infancy by a dispensation of Providence very unsettlingto oor poor human understandings. Ye'll notice the weans ceasegettin' their wey by juist greetin' for it as shin as they're oldenough to seek it otherwise. 

JOHN. The habit hangs on to them whiles. 

DAVID. It does that. (_With a twinkle_) An' mebbe, if God's gi'enyer neighbors ears an' ye live close, ye'll get yer wey by adispensation o' Providence a while longer. But there's thingsye'll hae to do for yerself gin ye want to--an' ye will. Ye'llwant to hold oot yer hand, an' ye will hold oot yer hand; an' ye'll want to stand up and walk, and ye _will_ stand up andwalk; an' ye'll want to dae as ye please, and ye _will_ daeas ye please; and then ye are practised an' lernt in the art ofgettin' yer ain way--and ye're a man!

JOHN. Man, feyther--ye're wonderful!

DAVID (_complacently_). I'm a philosopher, John. But it goes onmebbe. 

JOHN. Aye?

David. Aye: mebbe ye think ye'd like to make ither folk mind yean' 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, asI was, John. (_Dropping into the minor_) An then ye come doon thehill. 

JOHN (_apprehensively_). Doon the hill?

DAVID. Aye--doon to mebbe wantin' to tell a wean a bit storybefore he gangs tae his bed, an' ye canna dae even that. An' thena while more an' ye want to get to yer feet an' walk, and yecanna; an' a while more an' ye want to lift up yer hand, an' yecanna--an' in a while more ye're just forgotten an' done wi'. 

JOHN. Aw, feyther!

DAVID. Dinna look sae troubled, John. I'm no' afraid to dee whenmy time comes. It's these hints that I'm done wi' before I'm deadthat I dinna like. 

JOHN. What'n hints?

DAVID. Well--Lizzie an' her richt's richt and wrang's wrang whenI think o' tellin' wee Alexander a bit story before he gangs taehis bed. 

JOHN (_gently_). Ye are a wee thing persistent, feyther. 

DAVID. No, I'm no' persistent, John. I've gied in. I'm aphilosopher, John, an' a philosopher kens when he's done wi'. 

JOHN. Aw, feyther!

DAVID (_getting lower and lower_). It's gey interesting, philosophy, John, an' the only philosophy worth thinkin' about isthe philosophy of growing old--because that's what we're a' doing, a' living things. There's nae philosophy in a stane, John; he'sjuist a stane, an' in a hundred years he'll be juist a stanestill--unless he's broken up, an' then he'll be juist not astane, but he'll no' ken what's happened to him, because he didnabreak up gradual and first lose his boat an' then his hoose, an'then hae his wee grandson taken away when he was for tellin' hima bit story before he gangs tae his bed. --It's yon losing yergrip bit by bit and kennin' that yer losin' it that makes aphilosopher, John. 

JOHN. If I kennt what ye meant by philosophy, feyther, I'd bebetter able to follow ye. 

(LIZZIE _enters quietly and closes door after her. _)

JOHN. Is he asleep?

LIZZIE. No, he's no' asleep, but I've shut both doors, and theneighbors canna hear him. 

JOHN. Aw, Lizzie--

LIZZIE (_sharply_). John--

DAVID. Whit was I tellin' ye, John, about weans gettin' their ainway if the neighbors had ears an' they lived close? Was I no'richt?

LIZZIE (_answering for JOHN with some acerbity_). Aye, ye werericht, 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 bewarmer--

DAVID (_placably_). I believe ye, wumman--(_with a fainttwinkle_)--but it's turned oot luckily, has it no'?

(_DAVID waits for a reply but gets none. LIZZIE fetches needleworkfrom the dresser drawer and sits above table. DAVID'S face andvoice take on a more thoughtful tone. _)

DAVID (_musing_). Puir wee man! If he was in here you'd no' beletting him greet his heart oot where onybody could hear him. Wudye?

LIZZIE (_calmly_). Mebbe I'd no'. 

JOHN. Ye ken fine ye'd no', wumman. 

LIZZIE. John, thread my needle an' dinna take feyther's partagainst me. 

JOHN (_surprised_). I'm no'. 

LIZZIE. No, I ken ye're no meanin' to, but you men are thatthrang--

(_She is interrupted by a loud squall from_ DAVID, _which hemaintains, eyes shut, chair-arms gripped, and mouth open, fornearly half a minute, before he cuts it off abruptly and looks atthe 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--

LIZZIE (_firmly but very kindly_). But ye're no' goin' to--

(_She breaks off in alarm as her father opens his mouthpreparatory to another yell, which however he postpones to speakto_ JOHN. )

DAVID. Ye mind whit I was saying aboot the dispensation 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 somesort of dispensation to look after the auld yins who were pastit?

JOHN. No. 

DAVID. Aweel--it didna occur to me at the time--(_and he lets offanother prolonged wail_). 

LIZZIE (_going to him_). Shsh! Feyther! The neighbors will hearye!!!

DAVID (_desisting as before_). I ken fine; _I'm_ no' at theback of the hoose. (_Shorter wail. _)

LIZZIE (_almost in tears_). They'll be coming to ask. 

DAVID. Let them. They'll no'ask _me_. (_Squall. _)

LIZZIE. Feyther--ye're no'behaving well. John--

JOHN. Aye?

LIZZIE (_helplessly_). Naething--feyther, stop it. They'll thinkye're clean daft. 

DAVID (_ceasing to howl and speaking with gravity_). I ken it fine, Lizzie; an' it's no easy for a man who has been respeckit an'lookit up to a' his life to be thought daft at eighty-three; butthe most important thing in life is to get yer ain way. (_Resumeswailing. _)

LIZZIE (_puzzled, to_ JOHN). Whit's that?

JOHN. It's his philosophy that he was talking aboot. 

DAVID (_firmly_). An' I'm gaein' to tell wee Alexander yon bitstory, tho' they think me daft for it. 

LIZZIE. But it's no' for his ain guid, feyther. I've telt ye so, but ye wudna listen. 

DAVID. I wudna listen, wumman! It was you wudna listen to me whenI axed ye whit harm--(_Chuckles. --Checking himself_) No! I'm nogaein' to hae that ower again. I've gied up arguing wi' women. I'm juist gaein' tae greet loud an' sair till wee Alexander'sbrought in here to hae his bit story; an' if the neighbors--(_Loudsquall. _)

LIZZIE (_aside to_ JOHN). He's fair daft!

JOHN (_aghast_). Ye'd no send him to--

LIZZIE (_reproachfully_). John!

(_A louder squall from the old man. _)

LIZZIE (_beating her hands together distractedly_). He'll be--We'll--He'll--Och!!! (_Resigned and beaten_) John, go and bringwee Alexander in here. 

(JOHN _is off like a shot. The opening of the door of the otherroom can be told by the burst of_ ALEXANDER'S _voice. The old man'swails have stopped the second his daughter capitulated. JOHNreturns with_ ALEXANDER _and bears him to his grandfather's waitingknee. The boy's tears and howls have ceased and he is smilingtriumphantly. 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 thelips_). There you are! That's the kind o' boy he is. Greet hisheart 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! (_Playinghoarse_)

I doot I've enough voice left for a--(_Bursting out very loudand making the boy laugh. _) Aweel! Whit's it gaein' to be--eh?

 [CURTAIN]

SPREADING THE NEWS[1]

Lady Gregory

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Lady Gregory andof Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, the publishers of _Seven ShortPlays_ (1909), and other volumes of Lady Gregory's works. Application for acting rights must be made to Samuel French, 28West 38th Street, New York City. ]

CHARACTERS

BARTLEY FALLONMRS. FALLONJACK SMITSHAWN EARLYTIM CASEYJAMES RYANMRS. TARPEYMRS. TULLYJOE MULDOON, a policemanA REMOVABLE MAGISTRATE

SCENE: _The outskirts of a Fair. An Apple Stall. _ MRS. TARPEY_sitting at it. _ MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN _enter. _

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 thisplace?

POLICEMAN. There is. 

MAGISTRATE. Common assault?

POLICEMAN. It's common enough. 

MAGISTRATE. Agrarian crime, no doubt?

POLICEMAN. That is so. 

MAGISTRATE. Boycotting? Maiming of cattle? Firing into houses?

POLICEMAN. There was one time, and there might be again. 

MAGISTRATE. That is bad. Does it go any farther than that?

POLICEMAN. Far enough, indeed. 

MAGISTRATE. Homicide, then! This district has been shamefullyneglected! I will change all that. When I was in the AndamanIslands, my system never failed. Yes, yes, I will change allthat. What has that woman on her stall?

POLICEMAN. Apples mostly--and sweets. 

MAGISTRATE. Just see if there are any unlicensed goodsunderneath--spirits or the like. We had evasions of the salt taxin the Andaman Islands. 

POLICEMAN (_sniffing cautiously and upsetting a heap of apples_). Isee no spirits here--or salt. 

MAGISTRATE (_to_ MRS. TARPEY). Do you know this town well, my goodwoman?

MRS. TARPEY (_holding out some apples_). A penny the half-dozen, your honor. 

POLICEMAN (_shouting_). The gentleman is asking do you know thetown! He's the new magistrate!

MRS. TARPEY (_rising and ducking_). Do I know the town? I do, to besure. 

MAGISTRATE (_shouting_). What is its chief business?

MRS, TARPEY. Business, is it? What business would the people herehave but to be minding one another's business?

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 MAGISTRATE, heretreats quickly, taking pipe from mouth. _)

MAGISTRATE. The smoke from that man's pipe had a greenish look;he may be growing unlicensed tobacco at home. I wish I hadbrought my telescope to this district. Come to the post-office; Iwill telegraph for it. I found it very useful in the AndamanIslands. 

(MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN _go out left. _)

MRS. TARPEY. Bad luck to Jo Muldoon, knocking my apples this wayand that way. (_Begins arranging them. _) Showing off he was to thenew magistrate. 

(_Enter_ BARTLEY FALLON _and_ MRS. FALLON. )

BARTLEY. Indeed it's a poor country and a scarce country to beliving in. But I'm thinking if I went to America it's long agothe day I'd be dead!

MRS. FALLON. So you might, indeed. 

(_She puts her basket on a barrel and begins putting parcels init, taking them from under her cloak. _)

BARTLEY. And it's a great expense for a poor man to be buried inAmerica. 

MRS. FALLON. Never fear, Bartley Fallon, but I'll give you a goodburying the day you'll die. 

BARTLEY. Maybe it's yourself will be buried in the graveyard ofCloonmara before me, Mary Fallon, and I myself that will be dyingunbeknownst some night, and no one a-near me. And the cat itselfmay be gone straying through the country, and the mice squealingover the quilt. 

MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of dying. It might be twenty yearsyou'll be living yet. 

BARTLEY (_with a deep sigh_). I'm thinking if I'll be living at theend of twenty years, it's a very old man I'll be then!

MRS. TARPEY (_turns and sees them_). Good-morrow, Bartley Fallon;good-morrow, Mrs. Fallon. Well, Bartley, you'll find no cause forcomplaining 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 didn't expect more, wegot less. That's the way with me always: whatever I have to sellgoes down and whatever I have to buy goes up. If there's ever anymisfortune coming to this world, it's on myself it pitches, likea flock of crows on seed potatoes. 

MRS. FALLON. Leave off talking of misfortunes, and listen to JackSmith 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 ahayfork. _)

MRS. 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 onit!

(_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; bleaching theclothes on the hedge she is, and she daren't leave them, with allthe tinkers that do be passing to the fair. It isn't to the fairI came myself, but up to the Five-Acre Meadow I'm going, where Ihave a contract for the hay. We'll get a share of it into trampsto-day. 

(_He lays down hayfork and lights his pipe. _)

BARTLEY. You will not get it into tramps to-day. The rain will bedown on it by evening, and on myself too. It's seldom I everstarted on a journey but the rain would come down on me beforeI'd find any place of shelter. 

JACK SMITH. If it didn't itself, Bartley, it is my belief youwould carry a leaky pail on your head in place of a hat, the wayyou'd not be without some cause of complaining. 

(_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 backinginto Shaughnessy's bullocks with the dint of the crowd! Don't bedaunted, Pat, I'll give you a hand with her. (_He goes out, leaving his hayfork. _)

MRS. FALLON. It's time for ourselves to be going home. I have allI bought put in the basket. Look at there, Jack Smith's hayforkhe left after him! He'll be wanting it. (_Calls_) Jack Smith! JackSmith!--He's gone through the crowd; hurry after him, Bartley, he'll be wanting it. 

BARTLEY. I'll do that. This is no safe place to be leaving it. (_He takes up fork awkwardly and upsets the basket. _) Look at thatnow! If there is any basket in the fair upset, it must be our ownbasket! (_He goes out to right. _)

MRS. FALLON. Get out of that! It is your own fault, it is. Talkof misfortunes and misfortunes will come. Glory be! Look at mynew egg-cups rolling in every part--and my two pound of sugarwith the paper broke--

MRS. TARPEY (_turning from stall_). God help us, Mrs. Fallon, whathappened your basket?

MRS. FALLON. It's himself that knocked it down, bad manners tohim. (_Putting things up_) My grand sugar that's destroyed, andhe'll not drink his tea without it. I had best go back to theshop for more, much good may it do him!

(_Enter_ TIM CASEY. )

TIM CASEY. Where is Bartley Fallon, Mrs. Fallon? I want a wordwith him before he'll leave the fair. I was afraid he might havegone home by this, for he's a temperate man. 

MRS. FALLON. I wish he did go home! It'd be best for me if hewent home straight from the fair green, or if he never came withme at all! Where is he, is it? He's gone up the road (_jerkselbow_) following Jack Smith with a hayfork. 

(_She goes out to left. _)

TIM CASEY. Following Jack Smith with a hayfork! Did ever anyonehear the like of that. (_Shouts_) Did you hear that news, Mrs. Tarpey?

MRS. TARPEY. I heard no news at all. 

TIM CASEY. Some dispute I suppose it was that rose between JackSmith and Bartley Fallon, and it seems Jack made off, and Bartleyis following him with a hayfork!

MRS. TARPEY. Is he now? Well, that was quick work! It's not tenminutes since the two of them were here, Bartley going home andJack going to the Five-Acre Meadow; and I had my apples to settleup, that Jo Muldoon of the police had scattered, and when Ilooked round again Jack Smith was gone, and Bartley Fallon wasgone, and Mrs. Fallon's basket upset, and all in it strewed uponthe ground--the tea here--the two pound of sugar there--theegg-cups there. Look, now, what a great hardship the deafnessputs upon me, that I didn't hear the commincement of the fight!Wait till I tell James Ryan that I see below; he is a neighbor ofBartley's; it would be a pity if he wouldn't hear the news!

(_She goes out. Enter_ SHAWN EARLY _and_ MRS. TULLY. )

TIM CASEY. Listen, Shawn Early! Listen, Mrs. Tully, to the news!Jack Smith and Bartley Fallon had a falling out, and Jack knockedMrs. Fallon's basket into the road, and Bartley made an attack onhim 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, andBartley Fallen so quiet a man!

MRS. TULLY. I wouldn't wonder at all. I would never think well ofa man that would have that sort of a moldering look. It's likelyhe has overtaken Jack by this. 

(_Enter_ JAMES RYAN _and_ MRS. TARPEY. )

JAMES RYAN. That is great news Mrs. Tarpey was telling me! Isuppose that's what brought the police and the magistrate up thisway. I was wondering to see them in it a while ago. 

SHAWN EARLY. The police after them? Bartley Fallen must haveinjured Jack so. They wouldn't meddle in a fight that was onlyfor show!

MRS. TULLY. Why wouldn't he injure him? There was many a mankilled with no more of a weapon than a hayfork. 

JAMES RYAN. Wait till I run north as far as Kelly's bar to spreadthe news!

(_He goes out. _)

TIM CASEY. I'll go tell Jack Smith's first cousin that isstanding there south of the church after selling his lambs. 

(_Goes out. _)

MRS. TULLY. I'll go telling a few of the neighbors I see beyondto the west. 

(_Goes out. _)

SHAWN EARLY. I'll give word of it beyond at the east of thegreen. 

(_Is going out when MRS. TARPEY seizes hold of him. _)

MRS. TARPEY. Stop a minute, Shawn Early, and tell me did you seered Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary, in any place?

SHAWN EARLY. I did. At her own house she was, drying clothes onthe hedge as I passed. 

MRS. TARPEY. What did you say she was doing?

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 mercyon us! Jack Smith dead, and his wife laying out a sheet for hisburying! (_Calls out_) Why didn't you tell me that before, ShawnEarly? Isn't the deafness the great hardship? Half the worldmight be dead without me knowing of it or getting word of it atall! (_She sits down and rocks herself. _) O my poor Jack Smith! Tobe going to his work so nice and so hearty, and to be leftstretched on the ground in the full light of the day!

(_Enter_ TIM CASEY. )

TIM CASEY. What 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?

MRS. 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 wipes her eyes. _) I suppose they'll wake him the sameas another?

(_Enter_ MRS. TULLY, SHAWN EARLY, _and_ JAMES RYAN. )

MRS. TULLY. There is great talk about this work in every quarterof the fair. 

MRS. TARPEY. Ochone! cold and dead. And myself maybe the last hewas speaking to!

JAMES RYAN. The Lord save us! Is it dead he is?

TIM CASEY. Dead surely, and the wife getting provision for thewake. 

SHAWN EARLY. Well, now, hadn't Bartley Fallon great venom in him?

MRS. TULLY. You may be sure he had some cause. Why would he havemade an end of him if he had not? (_To MRS. TARPEY, raising hervoice_) What was it rose the dispute at all, Mrs. Tarpey?

MRS. TARPEY. Not a one of me knows. The last I saw of them, JackSmith was standing there, and Bartley 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, ShawnEarly and James Ryan? Bartley Fallon was here this morninglistening to red Jack Smith's wife, Kitty Keary that was!Listening to her and whispering with her! It was she started thefight so!

SHAWN EARLY. She must have followed him from her own house. It islikely some person roused him. 

TIM CASEY. I never knew, before, Bartley Fallon was great withJack Smith's wife. 

MRS. TULLY. How would you know it? Sure it's not in the streetsthey would be calling it. If Mrs. Fallon didn't know of it, andif I that have the next house to them didn't know of it, and ifJack Smith himself didn't know of it, it is not likely you wouldknow of it, Tim Casey. 

SHAWN EARLY. Let Bartley Fallon take charge of her from this outso, and let him provide for her. It is little pity she will getfrom any person in this parish. 

TIM CASEY. How can he take charge of her? Sure he has a wife ofhis own. Sure you don't think he'd turn souper and marry her in aProtestant church?

JAMES RYAN. It would be easy for him to marry her if he broughther to America. 

SHAWN EARLY. With or without Kitty Keary, believe me, it is forAmerica he's making at this minute. I saw the new magistrate andJo Muldoon of the police going into the post-office as I cameup--there was hurry on them--you may be sure it was to telegraphthey went, the way he'll be stopped in the docks at Queenstown!

MRS. TULLY. It's likely Kitty Keary is gone with him, and notminding a sheet or a wake at all. The poor man, to be deserted byhis own wife, and the breath hardly gone out yet from his bodythat is lying bloody in the field!

(_Enter_ MRS. FALLON. )

MRS. FALLON. What is it the whole of the town is talking about?And what is it you yourselves are talking about? Is it about myman Bartley Fallon you are talking? Is it lies about him you aretelling, saying that he went killing Jack Smith? My grief thatever he came into this place at all!

JAMES RYAN. Be easy now, Mrs. Fallon. Sure there is no one at allin the whole fair but is sorry for you!

MRS. FALLON. Sorry for me, is it? Why would anyone be sorry forme? Let you be sorry for yourselves, and that there may be shameon you forever and at the day of judgment, for the words you aresaying and the lies you are telling to take away the character ofmy poor man, and to take the good name off of him, and to drivehim to destruction! That is what you are doing!

SHAWN EARLY. Take comfort now, Mrs. Fallon. The police are not sosmart as they think. Sure he might give them the slip yet, thesame as Lynchehaun. 

MRS. TULLY. If they do get him, and if they do put a rope aroundhis neck, there is no one can say he does not deserve it!

MRS. FALLON. Is that what you are saying, Bridget Tully, and isthat what you think? I tell you it's too much talk you have, making yourself out to be such a great one, and to be runningdown every respectable person! A rope, is it? It isn't much of arope was needed to tie up your own furniture the day you cameinto Martin Tully's house, and you never bringing as much as ablanket, or a penny, or a suit of clothes with you, and I myselfbringing seventy pounds and two feather beds. And now you arestiffer than a woman would have a hundred pounds! It is too muchtalk the whole of you have. A rope is it? I tell you the whole ofthis town is full of liars and schemers that would hang you upfor half a glass of whiskey (_turning to go_). People they are youwouldn't believe as much as daylight from, without you'd get upto have a look at it yourself. Killing Jack Smith indeed! Whereare you at all, Bartley, till I bring you out of this? My nicequiet little man! My decent comrade! He that is as kind and asharmless as an innocent beast of the field! He'll be doing noharm at all if he'll shed the blood of some of you after thisday's work! That much would be no harm at all. (_Calls out_)Bartley! Bartley Fallen! Where are you? (_Going out_) Did anyonesee Bartley Fallon?

(_All turn to look after her. _)

JAMES RYAN. It is hard for her to believe any such a thing, Godhelp her!

(_Enter BARTLEY FALLON from right, carrying hayfork. _)

BARTLEY. It is what I often said to myself, if there is ever anymisfortune coming to this world it is on myself it is sure tocome!

(_All turn round and face him. _)

BARTLEY. To be going about with this fork and to find no one totake it, and no place to leave it down, and I wanting to be goneout of this--Is that you, Shawn Early?

(_Holds out fork. _) It's well I met you. You have no call to beleaving the fair for a while the way I have, and how can I gotill I'm rid of this fork? Will you take it and keep it untilsuch time as Jack Smith--

SHAWN EARLY (_backing_). I will not take it, Bartley Fallon, I'mvery thankful to you!

BARTLEY (_turning to apple stall_). Look at it now, Mrs. Tarpey, itwas here I got it; let me thrust it in under the stall. It willlie there safe enough, and no one will take notice of it untilsuch time as Jack Smith--

MRS. TARPEY. Take your fork out of that! Is it to put trouble onme and to destroy me you want? putting it there for the police tobe rooting it out maybe. 

(_Thrusts him back. _)

BARTLEY. That is a very unneighborly thing for you to do, Mrs. Tarpey. Hadn't I enough care on me with that fork before this, running up and down with it like the swinging of a clock, andafeard to lay it down in any place! I wish I'd never touched itor 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 aneighborly man. 

JAMES 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 orany encouragement for this day's work. If it was somethingagrarian now--

BARTLEY. If no one at all will take it, maybe it's best to giveit 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 bebrought. 

MRS. TARPEY (_rocking to and fro_). I wonder now who will take theexpense of the wake for poor Jack Smith?

BARTLEY. The wake for Jack Smith!

TIM CASEY. Why wouldn't he get a wake as well as another? Wouldyou begrudge him that much?

BARTLEY. Red Jack Smith dead! Who was telling you?

SHAWN EARLY. The whole town knows of it by this. 

BARTLEY. Do they say what way did he die?

JAMES RYAN. You don't know that yourself, I suppose, BartleyFallon? You don't know he was followed and that he was laid deadwith the stab of a hayfork?

BARTLEY. The stab of a hayfork!

SHAWN EARLY. You don't know, I suppose, that the body was foundin the Five-Acre Meadow?

BARTLEY. The Five-Acre Meadow!

TIM CASEY. It is likely you don't know that the police are afterthe man that did it?

BARTLEY. The man that did it!

MRS. TULLY. You don't know, maybe, that he was made away with forthe sake of Kitty Keary, his wife?

BARTLEY. Kitty Keary, his wife! (_Sits down bewildered. _)

MRS. TULLY. And what have you to say now, Bartley Fallon?

BARTLEY (_crossing himself_). I to bring that fork here, and tofind that news before me! It is much if I can ever stir from thisplace at all, or reach as far as the road!

TIM CASEY. Look, boys, at the new magistrate, and Jo Muldoonalong with him! It's best for us to quit this. 

SHAWN EARLY. That is so. It is best not to be mixed in thisbusiness at all. 

JAMES RYAN. Bad as he is, I wouldn't like to be an informeragainst any man. 

(_All hurry away except_ MRS. TARPEY, _who remains behind her stall. Enter_ MAGISTRATE _and_ POLICEMAN. )

MAGISTRATE. I knew the district was in a bad state, but I did notexpect to be confronted with a murder at the first fair I cameto. 

POLICEMAN. I am sure you did not, indeed. 

MAGISTRATE. It was well I had not gone home. I caught a few wordshere and there that roused my suspicions. 

POLICEMAN. So they would, too. 

MAGISTRATE. 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. 

MAGISTRATE. What is that man doing? He is sitting alone with ahayfork. He has a guilty look. The murder was done with ahayfork!

POLICEMAN (_in a whisper_). That's the very man they say did theact, Bartley Fallon himself!

MAGISTRATE. He must have found escape difficult--he is trying tobrazen it out. A convict in the Andaman Islands tried the samegame, but he could not escape my system! Stand aside--Don't gofar--Have the handcuffs ready. (_He walks up to BARTLEY, folds hisarms, and stands before him. _) Here, my man, do you know anythingof 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 theshoulder_). Where is Jack Smith?

BARTLEY (_with a deep sigh, and shaking his head slowly_). Where ishe, 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 amatch on the sole of his shoe--

MAGISTRATE. I ask you, for the third time, where is he?

BARTLEY. I wouldn't like to say that. It is a great mystery, andit 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--

MAGISTRATE. Nonsense! This is trifling! Get to the point. 

BARTLEY. Maybe you don't hold with the clergy so? That is theteaching of the clergy. Maybe you hold with the old people. It iswhat they do be saying, that the shadow goes wandering, and thesoul is tired, and the body is taking a rest--The shadow! (_Startsup. _) I was nearly sure I saw Jack Smith not ten minutes ago atthe corner of the forge, and I lost him again--Was it his ghost Isaw, do you think?

MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). Conscience-struck! He will confess allnow!

BARTLEY. His ghost to come before me! It is likely it was onaccount of the fork! I to have it and he to have no way to defendhimself the time he met with his death!

MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). I must note down his words. (_Takes outnotebook. To_ BARTLEY) I warn you that your words are being noted. 

BARTLEY. If I had ha' run faster in the beginning, this terrorwould not be on me at the latter end! Maybe he will cast it upagainst me at the day of judgment--I wouldn't wonder at all atthat. 

MAGISTRATE (_writing_). At the day of judgment--

BARTLEY. It was soon for his ghost to appear to me--is it comingafter me always by day it will be, and stripping the clothes offin the nighttime?--I wouldn't wonder at all at that, being as Iam an unfortunate man!

MAGISTRATE (_sternly_). Tell me this truly. What was the motive ofthis crime?

BARTLEY. The motive, is it?

MAGISTRATE. Yes, the motive; the cause. 

BARTLEY. I'd sooner not say that. 

MAGISTRATE. You'd better tell me truly. Was it money?

BARTLEY. Not at all! What did poor Jack Smith ever have in hispockets unless it might be his hands that would be in them?

MAGISTRATE. Any dispute about land?

BARTLEY (_indignantly_). Not at all! He never was a grabber orgrabbed from anyone!

MAGISTRATE. You will find it better for you if you tell me atonce. 

BARTLEY. I tell you I wouldn't for the whole world wish to saywhat 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 discoveredin the end. 

BARTLEY. Well, I suppose it will, seeing that mostly everybodyknows it before. Whisper here now. I will tell no lie; wherewould be the use? (_Puts his hand to his mouth and MAGISTRATEstoops. _) Don't be putting the blame on the parish, for such athing was never done in the parish before--it was done for thesake of Kitty Keary, Jack Smith's wife. 

MAGISTRATE (_to_ POLICEMAN). Put on the handcuffs. We have beensaved some trouble. I knew he would confess if taken in the rightway. 

(POLICEMAN _puts on handcuffs. _)

BARTLEY. Handcuffs now! Glory be! I always said, if there wasever any misfortune coming to this place it was on myself itwould fall. I to be in handcuffs! There's no wonder at all inthat. 

(_Enter MRS. FALLON, followed by the rest. She is looking back atthem as she speaks. _)

MRS. FALLON. Telling lies the whole of the people of this townare; telling lies, telling lies as fast as a dog will trot!Speaking against my poor respectable man! Saying he made an endof Jack Smith! My decent comrade! There is no better man and nokinder man in the whole of the five parishes! It's littleannoyance he ever gave to anyone! (_Turns and sees him. _) What inthe earthly world do I see before me? Bartley Fallon in charge ofthe police! Handcuffs on him! O Bartley, Bartley, what did you doat all at all?

BAHTLEY. O Mary, there has a great misfortune come upon me! It iswhat I always said, that if there is ever any misfortune--

MRS. 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 believe them! They areall liars in this place! Give me back my man!

MAGISTRATE. It is natural you should take his part, but you haveno cause of complaint against your neighbors. He has beenarrested for the murder of John Smith, on his own confession. 

MRS. FALLON. The saints of heaven protect us! And what did hewant killing Jack Smith?

MAGISTRATE. It is best you should know all. He did it on accountof a love-affair with the murdered man's wife. 

MRS. FALLON (_sitting down_). With Jack Smith's wife! With KittyKeary!--Ochone, the traitor!

THE CROWD. A great shame, indeed. He is a traitor, indeed. 

MRS. TULLY. To America he was bringing her, Mrs. Fallon. 

BAETLEY. What are you saying, Mary? I tell you--

MRS. FALLON. Don't say a word! I won't listen to any word you'llsay! (_Stops her ears. _) Oh, isn't he the treacherous villain?Ohone go deo!

BARTLEY. Be quiet till I speak! Listen to what I say!

MRS. FALLON. Sitting beside me on the ass car coming to the town, so quiet and so respectable, and treachery like that in hisheart!

BARTLEY. Is it your wits you have lost, or is it I myself thathave lost my wits?

MRS. FALLON. And it's hard I earned you, slaving, slaving--andyou grumbling, and sighing, and coughing, and discontented, andthe priest wore out anointing you, with all the times youthreatened to die!

BARTLEY. Let you be quiet till I tell you!

MRS. FALLON. You to bring such a disgrace into the parish. Athing 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 handsome woman, but for a little fistful of a woman like Kitty Keary, that's notfour feet high hardly, and not three teeth in her head unless shegot new ones! May God reward you, Bartley Fallon, for the blacktreachery in your heart and the wickedness in your mind, and thered 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 singbefore. It is after myself and the fork he is coming! (_Goes back. Enter_ JACK SMITH. ) Let one of you give him the fork and I will beclear of him now and for eternity!

MRS. TARPEY. The Lord have mercy on us! Red Jack Smith! The manthat was going to be waked!

JAMES RYAN. Is 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 thewhole of you. What would my wife want bringing Bartley Fallon toAmerica?

MRS. FALLON. To leave yourself, and to get quit of you she wants, Jack Smith, and to bring him away from myself. That's what thetwo of them had settled together. 

JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that says that! Who isit says it? (_To_ TIM CASEY) Was it you said it? (_To_ SHAWN EARLY)Was it you?

ALL TOGETHER (_backing and shaking their heads_). It wasn't I saidit!

JACK SMITH. Tell me the name of any man that said it!

ALL TOGETHEB (_pointing to_ BARTLEY). It was _him_ that saidit!

JACK SMITH. Let me at him till I break his head!

(BARTLEY _backs in terror. Neighbors hold_ JACK SMITH _back. _)

JACK SMITH (_trying to free himself_). Let me at him! Isn't he thepleasant sort of a scarecrow for any woman to be crossing theocean 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 andtreachery in his heart, and another man's wife by his side, andhe passing her off as his own! Let me at him, can't you?

(_Makes another rush, but is held back. _)

MAGISTRATE (_pointing to_ JACK SMITH). Policeman, put the handcuffson this man. I see it all now. A case of false impersonation, aconspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. There was a case in theAndaman Islands, a murderer of the Mopsa tribe, a religiousenthusiast--

POLICEMAN. So he might be, too. 

MAGISTRATE. We must take both these men to the scene of themurder. We must confront them with the body of the real JackSmith. 

JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that will find my deadbody!

MAGISTRATE. I'll call more help from the barracks. 

(_Blows POLICEMAN'S whistle. _)

BARTLEY. It is what I am thinking, if myself and Jack Smith areput together in the one cell for the night, the handcuffs will betaken off him, and his hands will be free, and murder will bedone that time surely!

MAGISTRATE. Come on!

(_They turn to the right. _)

 [CURTAIN]

THE BEGGAR AND THE KING[1]

Winthrop Parkhurst

[Footnote 1: Reprinted from Drama, No. 33, February, 1919, bypermission of Mr. Parkhurst and the editors of Drama. Copyrighted, 1918, as a dramatic composition, by WinthropParkhurst. All rights of production reserved by author. ]

CHARACTERS

THE KING OF A GREAT COUNTRYHIS SERVANTA BEGGAR

_A chamber in the palace overlooks a courtyard. The season ismidsummer. The windows of the palace are open, and from adistance there comes the sound of a man's voice crying for bread. _THE KING _sits in a golden chair. A golden crown is on his head, and he holds in his hand a sceptre which is also of gold. A_SERVANT _stands by his side, fanning him with an enormous fan ofpeacock feathers. _

THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. 

THE KING (_languidly_). Who is that crying in the street for bread?

THE SERVANT (_fanning_). O king, it is a beggar. 

THE KING. Why does he cry for bread?

THE SERVANT. O king, he cries for bread in order that he may fillhis belly. 

THE KING. I do not like the sound of his voice. It annoys me verymuch. 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 eachtime that he is sent away he returns again, crying louder than hedid before. 

THE KING. He is very unwise to annoy me on such a warm day. Hemust 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 SEBVANT. O king, the guards have already bloodied theirswords many times driving him away from the palace gates. But itis of no avail. 

THE KING. Then bind him and gag him if necessary. If need be cutout his tongue. I do not like the sound of the fellow's voice. Itannoys me very much. 

THE SERVANT. O king, thy orders were obeyed even yesterday. 

THE KING (_frowning_). No. That cannot be. A beggar cannot cry forbread 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 alifetime. To have more than one tongue is treason. 

THE SERVANT. If it is treason to have more than one tongue, Oking, then is this beggar surely guilty of treason. 

THE KING (_pompously_). The punishment for treason is death. See toit that the fellow is slain. And do not fan me so languidly. I amvery warm. 

THE SERVANT (_fanning more rapidly_). Behold, O great andillustrious king, all thy commands were obeyed even yesterday. 

THE KING. How! Do not jest with thy king. 

THE SERVANT. If I jest, then there is truth in a jest. Evenyesterday, O king, as I have told thee, the beggar which thou nowhearest crying aloud in the street was slain by thy soldiers witha sword. 

THE KING. Do ghosts eat bread? Forsooth, men who have been slainwith a sword do not go about in the streets crying for a piece ofbread. 

THE SERVANT. Forsooth, they do if they are fashioned as thisbeggar. 

THE KING. Why, he is but a man. Surely he cannot have more thanone 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 crying aloud inthe streets for bread, but his wounds are already healed. Theycut out his tongue, but he immediately grew another. They slewhim, 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, either. 

THE SERVANT. O king, that may be well also. 

THE KING. Thou art speaking now in riddles. I do not likeriddles. They confuse my brain. 

THE SERVANT. Behold, O king, if I speak in riddles it is becausea riddle has come to pass. 

(THE BEGGAR'S _voice suddenly cries out loudly. _)

THE BEGGAR (_outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. 

THE KING. Ah! He is crying out again. His voice seems to melouder than it was before. 

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 thewindow?

THE KING. No! To feed a beggar is always foolish. Every crumbthat is given to a beggar is an evil seed from which springsanother 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 breadthine 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 thisfellow's begging must annoy thee greatly. 

THE KING. It does. 

THE SERVANT. Doubtless he craves only a small crust from thytable and he would be content. 

THE KING. Yea, doubtless he craves only to be a king and he wouldbe 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 tofling him just one small crust from the window?

THE KING. My commands I have already given thee. See that thebeggar is driven away. 

THE SERVANT. But alas! O king, if he is driven away he willreturn again even as he did before. 

THE KING. Then see to it that he is slain. I cannot be annoyedwith the sound of his voice. 

THE SERVANT. But alas! O great and illustrious king, if he isslain he will come to life again even as he did before. 

THE KING. Ah! that is true. But his voice troubles me. I do notlike to hear it. 

THE SERVANT. His lungs are fattened with hunger. Of a truth theyare 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 fanningme. I am exceedingly warm. 

THE SERVANT (_fanning vigorously_). A crust of bread, 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 ofbread. If I gave him a crust to-day he would be just as hungryagain to-morrow, and my troubles would be as great as before. 

THE SERVANT. That is true, O king. Thy mind is surely filled withgreat learning. 

THE KING. Therefore, some other remedy must be found. 

THE SERVANT. O king, the words of thy illustrious mouth are asvery meat-balls of wisdom. 

THE KING (_musing_). Now let me consider. Thou sayest he does notsuffer 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 must think of some other way. 

THE SERVANT. Perhaps a small crust of bread, O king--

THE KING. Ha! I have it. I have it. I myself will order him tostop. 

THE SERVANT (_horrified_). O king!

THE KING. Send the beggar here. 

THE SERVANT. O king!

THE KING. Ha! I rather fancy the fellow will stop his noise whenthe king commands him to. Ha, ha, ha!

THE SERVANT. O king, thou wilt not have a beggar brought into thyroyal chamber!

THE KING (_pleased with his idea_). Yea. Go outside and tell thisfellow that the king desires his presence. 

THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely notdo this thing. Thou wilt surely not soil thy royal eyes bylooking on such a filthy creature. Thou wilt surely notcontaminate thy lips by speaking to a common beggar who criesaloud in the streets for bread. 

THE KING. My ears have been soiled too much already. Therefore gonow and do as I have commanded thee. 

THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely not--

THE KING (_roaring at him_). I said, Go! (THE SERVANT, _abashed, goes out. _) Forsooth, I fancy the fellow will stop his bawlingwhen I order him to. Forsooth, I fancy he will be pretty wellfrightened 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 thebeggar who has been crying aloud in the streets for bread?

THE BEGGAR (_in a faint voice, after a slight pause_). Art thou theking?

THE KING. I am the king. 

THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). It is not proper for a beggarto ask a question of a king. Speak only as thou art spoken to. 

THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Do thou likewise. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) Ihave ordered thee here to speak to thee concerning a very gravematter. Thou art the beggar, I understand, who often cries aloudin the streets for bread. Now, the complaint of thy voice annoysme 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 commanded theenot to beg for bread any more. The noise of thy voice is asgarbage in his ears. 

THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Ha! An excellent flower of speech. Pinit in thy buttonhole. (_To_ THE BEGGAR) Thine ears, I see, are inneed of a bath even more than thy body. I said, _Do not beg anymore. _

THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand. 

THE KING (_making a trumpet of his hands and shouting_). _DO NOTBEG ANY MORE. _

THE BEGGAR. I--I do not understand. 

THE KING. Heavens! He is deafer than a stone wall. 

THE SERVANT. O king, he cannot be deaf, for he understood mequite easily when I spoke to him in the street. 

THE KING (_to_ THE BEGGAR). Art thou deaf? Canst thou hear what Iam saying to thee now?

THE BEGGAR. Alas! I can hear every word perfectly. 

THE KING. Fft! The impudence. Thy tongue shall be cut out forthis. 

THE SERVANT. O king, to cut out his tongue is useless, for hewill grow another. 

THE KING. No matter. It shall be cut out anyway. (_To_ THE BEGGAR)I have ordered thee not to beg any more in the streets. Whatmeanest thou by saying thou dost not understand?

THE BEGGAR. The words of thy mouth I can hear perfectly. Buttheir noise is only a foolish tinkling in my ears. 

THE KING. Fft! Only a--! A lash will tinkle thy hide for thee ifthou dost not cure thy tongue of impudence. I, thy king, haveordered thee not to beg any more in the streets for bread. Signify, therefore, that thou wilt obey the orders of thy king byquickly touching thy forehead thrice to the floor. 

THE BEGGAR. That is impossible. 

THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE BEGGAR). Come. It is not safe to temptthe 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 tothe 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 thesound of thy voice is grievous unto my ears. Touch thy foreheadnow to the floor, as I have commanded thee, and thou shall gofrom this palace a free man. Refuse, and thou wilt be sorrybefore an hour that thy father ever came within twenty paces ofthy mother. 

THE BEGGAR. I have ever lamented that he did. For to be born intothis world a beggar is a more unhappy thing than any that Iknow--unless it is to be born a king. 

THE KING. Fft! Thy tongue of a truth is too lively for thyhealth. Come, now, touch thy forehead thrice to the floor andpromise solemnly that thou wilt never beg in the streets again. And hurry!

THE SERVANT (_aside_). It is wise to do as thy king commands thee. His patience is near an end. 

THE KING. Do not be afraid to soil the floor with thy forehead. Iwill graciously forgive thee for that. 

(THE BEGGAR _stands motionless. _)

THE SERVANT. I said, it is not wise to keep the king waiting. 

(THE BEGGAR _does not move. _)

THE KING. Well? (_A pause. _) _Well?_ (_In a rage_) _WELL?_

THE BEGGAR. O king, thou hast commanded me not to beg in thestreets for bread, for the noise of my voice offends thee. Nowtherefore do I likewise command thee to remove thy crown from thyforehead and throw it from yonder window into the street. Forwhen thou hast thrown thy crown into the street, then will I nolonger be obliged to beg. 

THE KING. Fft! _Thou_ commandest _me!_ _Thou_, abeggar from the streets, commandest _me_, a king, to removemy crown from my forehead and throw it from yonder window intothe street!

THE BEGGAR. That is what I said. 

THE KING. Why, dost thou not know I can have thee slain for suchwords?

THE BEGGAR. No. Thou canst not have me slain. The spears of thysoldiers are as straws against my body. 

THE KING. Ha! We shall see if they are. We shall see!

THE SERVANT. O king, it is indeed true. It is even as he has toldthee. 

THE BEGGAR. I have required thee to remove thy crown from thyforehead. If so be thou wilt throw it from yonder window into thestreet, my voice will cease to annoy thee any more. But if thourefuse, then thou wilt wish thou hadst never had any crown atall. For thy days will be filled with a terrible boding and thynights will be full of horrors, even as a ship is full of rats. 

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 yonderwindow?

THE SERVANT (_aside to_ THE KING). Perhaps it were wise to humorhim, O king. After thou hast thrown thy crown away I can gooutside and bring it to thee again. 

THE BEGGAR. Well? Well? (_He points to the window. _) Well?

THE KING. No! I will not throw my crown from that window--no, norfrom any other window. What! Shall I obey the orders of a beggar?Never!

THE BEGGAR (_preparing to leave_). Truly, that is spoken like aking. Thou art a king, so thou wouldst prefer to lose thy headthan that silly circle of gold that so foolishly sits upon it. But it is well. Thou art a king. Thou couldst not preferotherwise. (_He walks calmly toward the door. _)

THE KING (_to_ THE SERVANT). Stop him! Seize him! Does he think toget off so easily with his impudence!

THE BEGGAR (_coolly_). One of thy servants cannot stop me. Neithercan ten thousand of them do me any harm. I am stronger than amountain. 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 inchains. 

THE BEGGAR. My strength is greater than a mountain and my wordsare more fearful than a hurricane. This servant of thine cannoteven touch me. With one breath of my mouth I can blow over thiswhole palace. 

THE KING. Dost thou hear the impudence he is offering me? Whydost thou not seize him? What is the matter with thee? Why dostthou not call the guards?

THE BEGGAR. I will not harm thee now. I will only cry aloud inthe streets for bread wherewith to fill my belly. But one day Iwill not be so kind to thee. On that day my mouth will be filledwith a rushing wind and my arms will become as strong as steelrods, and I will blow over this palace, and all the bones in thyfoolish body I will snap between my fingers. I will beat upon alarge drum and thy head will be my drumstick. I will not do thesethings now. But one day I will do them. Therefore, when my voicesounds again in thine ears, begging for bread, remember what Ihave told thee. Remember, O king, and be afraid!

(_He walks out. THE SERVANT, struck dumb, stares after him. THEKING sits in his chair, dazed. _)

THE KING (_suddenly collecting his wits_). After him! After him! Hemust 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 putin chains. Quick, I say. Call the guards!

THE SERVANT. O king--I cannot seem to call them. 

THE KING. How! Art thou dumb? Ah!

(THE BEGGAR'S _voice is heard outside. _)

THE BEGGAR. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread. 

THE KING. Ah. (_He turns toward the window, half-frightened, andthen, almost instinctively, raises his hands toward his crown, and seems on the point of tossing it out the window. But with anoath he replaces it and presses it firmly on his head. _) How! Am Iafraid of a beggar!

THE BEGGAR (_continuing outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me somebread. 

THE KING (_with terrible anger_). Close that window!

(THE SERVANT _stands stupent, and the voice of THE BEGGAR growslouder as the curtain falls. _)

TIDES[1]

George Middleton

[Footnote 1: Reprinted by permission of the author and of Messrs. Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume, _Masksand Other One-Act Plays_ (1920). ]

CHARACTERS

WILLIAM WHITE, a famous InternationalistHILDA, his wifeWALLACE, their son

SCENE: _At the Whites'; spring, 1917. A simply furnished study. The walls are lined with bookshelves, indicating, by theirimprovised quality, that they have been increased as occasiondemanded. On these are stacked, in addition to the booksthemselves, many files of papers, magazines, and "reports. " Thelarge work-table, upon which rests a double student lamp and atelephone, is conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows isopposite, pointing toward a doorway which leads into theliving-room. There is also a doorway in back, which apparentlyopens on the hallway beyond. The room is comfortable in spite ofits general disorder: it is essentially the workshop of a busyman of public affairs. The strong sunlight of a spring day comesin through the window, flooding the table. _

WILLIAM WHITE _is standing by the window, smoking a pipe. He isabout fifty, of striking appearance: the visual incarnation ofthe popular conception of a leader of men. There is authority andstrength in the lines of his face; his whole personality iscommanding; his voice has all the modulations of a well-trainedorator; his gestures are sweeping--for, even in privateconversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience. Otherwise, he is simple and engaging, with some indication of hishumble origin. _

_On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand, _ HILDA WHITE, _hiswife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in fact, though inappearance she is as one who has been worn a bit by the struggleof many years. Her manner contrasts with her husband's: herinheritance of delicate refinement is ever present in her softvoice and gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength--thesort which will endure all for a fixed intention. _

_It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have been happycomrades in their life together, and that a deep fundamental bondhas united them in spite of the different social spheres fromwhich each has sprung. _

WHITE (_seeing she has paused_). Go on, dear; go on. Let's hear allof it. 

HILDA. Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how differently hefeels about the war. 

WHITE (_with quiet sarcasm_). But it's been so many years sinceyour respectable brother has honored me even with the slightestallusion--

HILDA. If you care for what he says--(_continuing to read theletter_)--"Remember, Hilda, you are an American. I don't supposeyour husband considers that an honor; but I do. "

WHITE (_interrupting_). And what kind of an American has he been intimes of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of hisfactory and fought every effort of the workers to organize. Ah, these smug hypocrites!

HILDA (_reading_). "His violent opposition to America going in hasbeen disgrace enough--"

WHITE. But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes. 

HILDA. Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (_Reading_) "--beendisgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm writing in the fainthope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you willpersuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerateno difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get onboard the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance. " (_She stopsreading. _) He's right, dear. There will be nothing moreintolerant than a so-called democracy at war. 

WHITE. By God! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and now hewrites his poor misguided sister for fear she will be furtherdisgraced by her radical husband. 

HILDA. We mustn't descend to his bitterness. 

WHITE. No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrineof forgiving my enemies. 

HILDA. He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it alldifferently. 

WHITE. I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twentyyears--ever since you married me--"out of your class, " as hecalled it. 

HILDA. Oh, hush, Will. I've been so happy with you I can bear himno ill will. Besides, doesn't his attitude seem natural? Youmustn't forget that no man in this country has fought his classmore than you. That hurts--especially coming from an _acquired_relative. 

WHITE. Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell yousomething you may not know. (_Bitterly_) Whenever I've spokenagainst privilege and wealth it's been his pudgy, comfortableface I've shaken my fist at. He's been so damned comfortable allhis life. 

HILDA. (_She looks at him in surprise. _) Why, Will, you surelydon't envy him his comfort, do you? I can't make you out. What'scome over you these last weeks? You've always been above suchpersonal bitterness; even when you were most condemned andridiculed. If it were anybody but you I'd think you had donesomething you were ashamed of. 

WHITE. What do you mean?

HILDA. Haven't you sometimes noticed that is what bitterness toanother means: a failure within oneself? (_He goes over to chairand sits without answering. _) I can think of you beaten by outsidethings--that sort of failure we all meet; but somehow I can neverthink of you failing yourself. You've been so brave andself-reliant: you've fought so hard for the truth. 

WHITE (_tapping letter_). But he thinks he knows the truth, too. 

HILDA. He's also an intense nature. 

WHITE (_thoughtfully after a pause_). Yet there is _some_truth in what he says. 

HILDA (_smiling_). But you didn't like it--coming from him?

WHITE. It will be different with you and me now that America'sgone in. 

HILDA. Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is alwaysfarthest from the trenches. But you and I are not the sort whowould compromise to escape the persecution which is the resourceof the non-combatant. 

(_The phone rings: he looks at his watch. _)

WHITE. That's for me. 

HILDA. Let me. (_She goes. _) It may be Wallace. (_At phone_) Yes:this is 116 Chelsea. Long Distance? (_He starts as she says tohim_) It must be our boy. (_At phone_) Who? Oh--Mr. William White?Yes: he'll be here. (_She hangs up receiver. _) She'll ring when shegets the connection through. 

WHITE (_turning away_). It takes so long these days. 

HILDA. Funny he didn'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 atcollege 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 otherboys to cling to these days when everybody is losing his head asthe band plays and the flag is waved. He won't be carried away byit. He'll remember all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think wenow have conscription--as they have in Germany--I thank God everynight 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 oracceptance!

HILDA. I would rather have my son in prison than have him do whathe felt was wrong. Wouldn't you?

WHITE (_evasively_). We won't have to face that problem for twoyears. 

HILDA. And when it comes--if he falters--I'll give him thesenotes of that wonderful speech you made at the InternationalConference in 1910. (_Picking it up_) I was looking through it onlythis morning. 

WHITE (_troubled_). Oh, that speech. 

HILDA (_glancing through it with enthusiasm_). "All wars areimperialistic in origin. Do away with overseas investments, traderoutes, private control of ammunition factories, secretdiplomacy--"

WHITE. Don't you see that's all dead wood?

HILDA (_not heeding him_). This part gave me new strength when Ithought of Wallace. (_Reading with eloquence_) "War will stop whenyoung men put Internationalism above Nationality, the law of Godabove the dictates of statesmen, the law of love above the law ofhate, the law of self-sacrifice above the law of profit. Theremust be no boundaries in man's thought. Let the young men of theworld once throw down their arms, let them once refuse to pointtheir guns at human hearts, and all the boundaries of the worldwill melt away and peace will find a resting-place in the heartsof men!"

WHITE (_taking it from her_). And I made you believe it! What sillyprophets we radicals were. (_He tears it up. _) Mere scraps ofpaper, 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, veryseriously with you. I've been putting it off. 

HILDA. Yes, dear? (_The outer door is heard to bang. _) Listen:wasn't that the front door?

WHITE. Perhaps it's the maid?

HILDA (_a bit nervously_). No: she's upstairs. No one rang. Pleasesee. 

WHITE (_smiling_). Now don't worry! It can't possibly be the SecretService. 

HILDA. One never knows in war times what to expect. I sometimesfeel I am in a foreign country. 

(WHITE _goes slowly to the door in back and opens it. _ WALLACE, _their son, with valise in hand, is standing there, as if he hadhesitated to enter. _

_He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father's physicalendowment and his mother's spiritual intensity. The essentialnote he strikes is that of honesty. It is apparent he is underthe pressure of a momentous decision which has brought himunexpectedly home from college. _)

WHITE. Wallace!

WALLACE (_shaking hands_). Hello, Dad!

HILDA. Wallace! My boy!

(WALLACE _drops valise and goes to his mother's arms. _)

WALLACE (_with deep feeling_). Mother!

WHITE (_after a pause_). Well, boy; this is unexpected. We werejust 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 couldn't stand it there. I'veleft--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 withmother first. 

WHITE. Of course, old fellow, that's right. She'll stand by youjust as she's always stood by me--all these years. (_He kissesher. _) I--I--

(_He smooths her hair gently, looking into her eyes as she smilesup at him. _)

We mustn'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 guiltily. _) Let meknow when the phone comes. 

(_He goes out hastily. She closes the door after him and thencomes 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, thebillboards advertising the glory of war, the call of adventureoffered to youth, the pressure of your friends--all made it hardfor you to be called a slacker. 

WALLACE, No, mother. I wasn't afraid of what they could call me. That was easy. 

HILDA (_proudly_). You are your father's son!

WALLACE. Mother, I can't stand the thought of killing, you knowthat. And I couldn't forget all you've told me. That's why I'vehad to think this out all these months alone; why I've hesitatedlonger than most fellows. The only thing I was really afraid ofwas being wrong. But now I know I'm right and I'm going cleanthrough to the limit. 

HILDA. As your father said, I 'll stand by you--whatever itis--if only you feel it's right. 

WALLACE. Will you? Will you, mother? No matter what happens? (_Shenods. _) I knew you would. (_Taking her hand_) Then, mother, listen. I've volunteered. 

HILDA (_shocked_). Volunteered!

WALLACE. Yes. I leave for training-camp to-night. 

HILDA. To-night?

WALLACE. Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind, I couldn't wait tobe drafted. I wanted to offer myself. I didn't want to be made togo. 

HILDA (_hardly grasping it_). But you are too young. 

WALLACE. I lied about my age. You and father can stop me if youtell the truth. That's why I've come back. I want you to promiseyou won't tell. 

HILDA. _You_ ask me to aid you in what I don't believe?WALLACE. But you said you'd stick by me if _I_ thought itwas right. 

HILDA. But--

WALLACE (_with fervor_). And I tell you, mother, I do feel it wasright for America to go in. I see now we ought to have declaredwar when they crushed Belgium. Yes; we ought to have gone in whenthe Lusitania was sunk. But we've been patient. The Presidenttried to keep us out of it until we _had_ to go in to saveour 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 andStripes wasn't a dish-rag on which the Germans could dry theirbloody hands!

HILDA (_gazing at him incredulously_). You hate them as much asthat?

WALLACE. Hate? No, mother, no. (_As if questioning himself_) Ireally haven't any hate for the German _people_. People arejust people everywhere, I suppose, and they're tricked and fooledby their rotten government, as the President says. 

HILDA. Then why fight them?

WALLACE. Because they're standing back of their government, doingwhat it says. And they've got to be licked to show them what kindof 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 isn't for the poordevils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home fellow herein America who sits in a comfortable armchair, who applaudspatriotic sentiment, cheers the flag, and does nothing for hiscountry but hate and hate--while we fight for him. That's thefellow I'll hate all right when I sit in the trenches. And that'swhy I couldn't look myself in the face if I stayed out a daylonger; 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 hebelieves. 

HILDA. You are my son, _too_! For I would willingly havedied if it could have kept us out of this war. 

WALLACE. Yes. I am your son, too. And that's why you wouldn'trespect me if I didn't go through. 

HILDA. No. I wouldn't have respected you. But--but--(_She breaksa bit, then controls herself. _) You are quite sure you're doingwhat's right?

WALLACE (_tenderly_). Would I have been willing to hurt you likethis?

HILDA (_holding him close to her_). My boy; my boy!

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. 

WALLACE (_after a pause_). Then you won't tell my real age, orinterfere?

HILDA. I respect your right to decide your own life. 

WALLACE (_joyed_). Mother!

HILDA. I respect your dedication; your willingness to sacrificefor your beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a crime for me tostand in your way--even with my mother's love. (_He kisses her. _)Do it all as cleanly as you can. I'll hope and pray that you'llcome back to me. (_Half breaking down and taking him in her arms_). Oh, my boy; my boy. Let me hold you. You'll never know how hardit is for a mother. 

WALLACE (_gently_). But other mothers send their boys. 

HILDA. Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting for. Mothers have got to believe in it; or else how could they standthe thought of bayonets stuck into the bodies they brought forthin their own blood? (_There is a pause till she controls herself. _)I'll help you get your things together. 

WALLACE. And father?

HILDA. He will be angry. 

WALLACE. But you will make him understand?

HILDA. I'll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he doesn'tunderstand. Don't ever forget his long fight against all kinds ofPrussianism when you hear him reviled by those who have alwayshated his radicalism and who, now, under the guise of patriotism, are trying to render him useless for further attacks on themafter the war. He's been persecuted so by them--even back in thedays when our press was praising Germany and our distinguishedcitizens were dining at the Emperor's table. Don't forget allthis, my boy. These days are hard for him--and me--harder perhapsthan for you who go out to die in glory and praise. There are noflags for us, no music that stirs, no applause; but we too sufferin silence for what we believe. And it is only the strongest whocan survive. --Now call your father. 

WALLACE (_goes to door_). Dad! (_He leaves door open and turns tohis mother. _) I'll be getting my things together. (_There is apause. _ WHITE _enters. _) Dad, mother has something to ask you. (_Helooks from father to mother. _) Thanks, little mother. 

(_He kisses her and goes out, taking the valise. His father andmother stand facing each other. _)

HILDA. Wallace has volunteered. (_He looks at her keenly. _) He haslied 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. 

WHITE. 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 whenhe was born? (_He soothes her. _) And all we nursed him throughafterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to show him aboutwar. (_With a shrug of her shoulders_) None of it has mattered. 

WHITE. War is stronger than all that. 

HILDA. So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him?

WHITE. He fears I will?

HILDA. He has always feared you a little, though he loves youdeeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You won't?

WHITE (_wearily_). Is there any use opposing anybody or anythingthese 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 sitsilent 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, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have been allwrong? (_She looks at him, as she holds his hand. _) What couldthese frail hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes haltthis tide that has swept over the world? Isn't it better, afterall, that men should fight themselves out; bring such desolationupon themselves that they will be forced to see the futility ofwar? May it not become so terrible that men--the workers, Imean--will throw down their worn-out weapons of their own accord?Won't permanent peace come through bitter experience rather thantalk--talk--talk?

HILDA (_touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling_). Hereis your answer to your own question. 

WHITE. Oh, that was all theory. We're in now. You say yourself wecan't oppose it. Isn't it better if we try to direct the currentto our own ends rather than sink by trying to swim against it?

HILDA. Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who _could_compromise. 

WHITE. But haven't we radicals been too intolerant of compromise?

HILDA. That has been _your_ strength. And it is yourstrength 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 yousaid there was something--(_The phone rings. They both look atit. _) That's for you. 

WHITE (_not moving_). Yes. 

HILDA _hardly believing his attititde_). 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. LongDistance? Washington? (_Her lips repeat the word. _) Yes. This isWilliam White. Hello. Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, Iappreciate the honor of having you confirm it personally. SenatorBough is chairman? At his request? Ah, yes; war makes strangebedfellows. 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 Icouldn'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 bepart 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 appointment on thiscommission 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 differently. I'mgoing to be part of it. Yes. I'm going to help direct thecurrent. 

HILDA. I can't believe what I am hearing. Is it you, WilliamWhite, speaking? You who, for twenty years, have stood againstall war!

WHITE. Yes. 

HILDA. And now, when the test comes, you are going to lendyourself to it! You of all men!

WHITE. Hilda, dear; I didn't expect you to accept it easily; butI think I can make you see if you will let me. 

HILDA (_poignantly_). If I will let you! Why, Will, I mustunderstand; I must. 

WHITE. Perhaps it will be difficult at first--with yourstandards. 

HILDA. But my standards were yours, Will. You gave them to me. You taught me. You took a young girl who loved you. You showedher the truth, and she followed you and has followed you gladlythrough hard years of struggle and poverty because of thoseideals. And now you talk of my standards! Will, don't you see, Imust understand?

WHITE. Dear, standards are relative things; they differ withcircumstance. 

HILDA. Have your ideals only been old clothes you change to suitthe weather?

WHITE. It's the end we must keep in mind. I haven't changed orcompromised 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 (_with eloquence_). Yes. Because it is necessary. I've cometo see we can't argue war out of the world with words. We've gotto beat it out of the world. It can't be done with our handslifted up in prayer; it can only be done with iron hands crushingit down. War is the mood of the world. Well, I'm going to fightin my fashion. And when it is over, I'm going to keep onfighting; for the next war will be greater than this. It will beeconomic revolution. It will be the war of capital and labor. AndI mean to be ready. 

HILDA (_listening incredulously_). And to get ready you are willingto link arms now with Senator Bough--a man you once called thelackey of Wall Street--a man who has always opposed everydemocratic principle. 

WHITE. Yes. Don't you see the Government is beginning to realizeit can't do without us? Don't you see my appointment is anacknowledgment of the rising tide of radicalism in the world?Don't you see, with the prestige that will come to me from thisappointment, I will have greater power after the war; power tobring about the realization of all our dreams; power todemand--even at the Peace table itself, perhaps--that all warsmust end?

HILDA. Do you actually believe you will have any power with your_own_ people when you have compromised them for a temporaryexpediency?

WHITE (_with a gesture_). The leader must be wiser than the peoplewho follow. 

HILDA. So, contempt for your people is the first thing your newpower has brought you! (_He makes a gesture of denial. _) You feelyou are above them--not of them. Do you believe for a moment thatSenator Bough has anything but contempt for you, too?

WHITE (_confidently_). He needs me. 

HILDA. Needs you? Don't you understand why he had you appointedon that committee? He wanted to get you out of the way. 

WHITE. Isn't that an acknowledgment of my power?

HILDA. Yes. You're a great asset now. You're a "reformed"radical. Why, Will, he'll use you in the capitals of Europe toadvertise his liberalism; just as the prohibitionist exhibits areformed drunkard. 

WHITE. And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be strongerthan he is, stronger than any of them. 

HILDA. 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 isn't the oneyou'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 myselfyou are mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the rut and habit ofyears? Easy to know my friends will jeer and say I've sold out?Easy to have you misunderstand? (_Goes to her. _) Hilda, I'm doingthis for their good. I'm doing it--just as Wallace is--because Ifeel it's right. 

HILDA. No; you shouldn't say that. You are not doing this for thesame reason Wallace is. He believes in this war. He has acceptedit all simply without a question. If you had seen the look in hiseyes, you would have known he was a dedicated spirit; there wasno shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You believedifferently! You can't hush the mind that for twenty years hasthought no war ever could henceforth be justified. You can't giveyourself to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. Yousee power in it and profit for yourself. (_He protests. _) That'syour own confession. You are only doing what is expedient--notwhat is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your motives with those ofour son. I sent him forth, without a word of protest, because hewishes to die for his own ideals: you are killing your own idealsfor the ideals of others! (_She turns away. _) Oh, Will, that's whathurts. If you were only like him, I--I could stand it. 

WHITE (_quietly, after a pause_). I can't be angry at you--evenwhen you say such things. You've been too much a part of my life, and work, and I love you, Hilda. You know that, don't you, dear?(_He sits beside her and takes her hand. _) I knew it would bedifficult to make you understand. Only once have I lackedcourage, and that was when I felt myself being drawn into thisand they offered me the appointment. For then I saw I must tellyou. You know I never have wanted to cause you pain. But when youasked me to let Wallace go, I thought you would understand mygoing, too. --Oh, perhaps our motives are different; he is young;war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a duty, a way toaccomplish my ideals. 

HILDA. Let's leave ideals out of this now. It's like bitterenemies 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'll grant allthat. Only, America has gone in. The whole tide was against us, dear. It is sweeping over the world: a brown tide of khakisweeping everything before it. All my life I've fought againstthe current. (_Wearily_) And now that I've gone in, too, my armsseem 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 tendernessin her eyes. _)

HILDA. Oh, now, Will, I do understand. Now I see the real reasonfor what you've done. 

WHITE (_defensively_). I've given the real reason. 

HILDA (_her heart going out to him_). You poor tired man. My dearone. Forgive me if I made it difficult for you, if I said cruelwords. I ought to have guessed; ought to have seen what life hasdone to you. (_He looks up, not understanding her words_). Thosehands of yours first dug a living out of the ground. Then theybuilt houses and grew strong because you were a workman--a man ofthe people. You saw injustice, and all your life you foughtagainst those who had the power to inflict it: the press; thecomfortable respectables, like my brother; and even those of yourown group who opposed you--you fought them all. And they look atyou as an outsider, an alien in your own country. O Will, I knowhow hard it has been for you to be always on the defensive, against the majority. It is hard to live alone, away from theherd. It does tire one to the bone and make one envious of thecomfort and security they find by being together. 

WHITE. Yes--but--

HILDA. Now the war comes and with it a chance to get back; to bepart of the majority; to be welcomed with open arms by those whohave fought you; to go back with honor and praise. And, yes, tohave the warmth and comfort of the crowd. That's the real reasonyou're going in. You're tired and worn out with the fight. Iknow. I understand now. 

WHITE (_earnestly_). If I thought it was that, I'd kill myself. 

HILDA. There's been enough killing already. I have to understandit somehow to accept it at all. 

(_He stares at her, wondering at her words. She smiles. He goes toa chair and sits down, gazing before him. The music of Over Thereis now heard outside in the street, approaching nearer andnearer. It is a military band. WALLACE excitedly rushes indressed in khaki. _)

WALLACE. Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the street. (_Sees father. _) Dad! Mother has told you?

HILDA (_calmly_). Yes; I've told him. 

WALLACE. And you're going to let me go, Dad?

HILDA. Yes. 

WALLACE. Oh, thanks, Dad (_grasping his hand_). 

I knew mother would make you see. (_Music nearer. _) Listen! Isn'tthat a great tune? Lifts you up on your feet and carries you overthere. Gee, it just gets into a fellow and makes him want to runfor 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 themcoming down the avenue. Oh, thank God, I'm going to be one ofthem soon. Thank God! I'm going to fight for Uncle Sam and theStars and Stripes. (_Calls off_) Hurrah! (_To them_) Oh, I wish I hada flag. Why haven't we got a flag here?--Hurrah!!

(_As he goes out on the balcony the music plays louder. HILDA hasgone to WHITE during this, and stands behind him, with her armsdown 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 ofher hands. _)

 [CURTAIN]

ILE

Eugene O'Neill

SCENE: CAPTAIN KEENEY'S cabin on board the steam whaling shipAtlantic Queen--a small, square compartment, about eight feethigh, with a skylight in the centre looking out on the poop deck. On the left (_the stern of the ship_) a long bench with roughcushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench, atable. Over the bench, several curtained portholes. 

In the rear, left, a door leading to the captain'ssleeping-quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, looking as if it were brand-new, is placed against the wall. 

On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped, sideboard. On thesideboard, a woman's sewing-basket. Farther forward, a doorwayleading to the companion way, and past the officers' quarters tothe main deck. 

In the centre of the room, a stove. From the middle of theceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin arepainted white. 

There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comesthrough the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating one of thosegray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silenceis unbroken except for the measured tread of someone walking upand down on the poop deck overhead. 

It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a dayin the year 1895. 

At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. Then the STEWARD enters and commences to clear the table of thefew dishes which still remain on it after the CAPTAIN'S dinner. He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, 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 upwardat the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear andlistens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makeshis face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noisefrom the doorway on the right, and he darts back to the table. 

BEN enters. He is an over-grown, gawky boy with a long, pinchedface. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth arechattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove, where hestands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slappingthem against his sides, on the verge of crying. 

THE STEWARD (_in relieved tones--seeing who it is_). Oh, 'tis you, is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where yebelong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'. 

BEN. It's c-c-old. (_Trying to control his chatteringteeth--derisively_) Who d' ye think it were--the Old Man?

THE STEWARD. (_He makes a threatening move--BEN shrinks away. _)None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. (_More kindly_) Wherewas 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 monkey-shinin'with the handstand ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in ahurry. 

BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. (_A trace of awe in his tones--heglances upward. _) He just walks up and down like he didn't noticenobody--and stares at the ice to the no'th'ard. 

THE STEWARD (_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_). He'salways starin' at the ice. (_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist atthe 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 itlike 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 afool to ever ship on it! (_Subsiding, as if realizing theuselessness of this outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deepconviction_) He's a hard man--as hard a man as ever sailed theseas. 

BEN (_solemnly_). Aye. 

THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done thisday. Blessed Christ! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck inthe fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin'low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back forhome! (_Bitterly_) Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot onland again. (_Excitedly_) What is it he thinks he's goin' to do?Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the lastman of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardlyto last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the mengoin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'le?

BEN (_going over to him--in a half-whisper_). They said if he don'tput back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny. 

THE STEWARD (_with grim satisfaction_). Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the onlything they can do; and serve him right after the manner he'streated them--'s if they weren't no better nor dogs. 

BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'rd. They's clear water'sfar's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' backfor home, the men says. 

THE STEWARD (_bitterly_). He won't look nowheres but no'th'rd wherethey'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 heain't had good luck with the whales. (_Shaking his head_) I thinkthe 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 hearever of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? (_Pointingto the door in rear_) Who but a man that's mad would take hiswoman--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 fornigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever--for it's sureshe'll never be the same again. 

BEN (_sadly_). She useter be awful nice to me before--(_his eyesgrow wide and frightened_) she got--like she is. 

THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'T would have beenhell on board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hardman--a driver if there ever was one. (_With a grim laugh_) I hopehe's satisfied now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. And who could blame her? 'T is a God's wonder we're not a shipfull of crazed people--with the damned ice all the time, and thequiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice. 

BEN (_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_). Shedon't never speak to me no more--jest looks at me's if she didn'tknow me. 

THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks tohim--when she does talk--right enough. 

BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and thenshe 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 his fist_). God send his soul tohell for the devil he is!

(_There is the noise of someone coming slowly down thecompanionway stairs. _ THE STEWARD _hurries to his stacked-updishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the topone, which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, trembling with dread. BEN is violently rubbing off the organ witha piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket_, CAPTAINKEENEY _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 five-ten in height, but looking much shorter on account ofthe enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face ismassive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleakhardness, and a tightly clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thickhair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket andblue pants stuffed into his sea-boots. _

_He is followed into the cabin by the_ SECOND MATE, _a rangysix-footer with a lean, weatherbeaten face. _ The MATE _is dressedabout the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so. _)

KEENEY. (_Comes toward the_ STEWARD--_with a stern look on hisface. The_ STEWARD _is visibly frightened and the stack of dishesrattles in his trembling hands. _ KEENEY _draws back his fist andthe_ STEWARD _shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and_KEENEY _speaks slowly. _) 'T would be like hitting a worm. It Isnigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet. 

THE STEWARD (_stammering_). Y-y-yes, sir. 

KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below heregossipin' old woman's talk with that boy. (_To_ BEN _fiercely_) Getout o' this, you! Clean up the chartroom. (BEN _darts past the_MATE _to the open doorway. _) Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward!

THE STEWARD (_doing so with difficulty_). Yes, sir. 

KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath inthe 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 shouldcatch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you tocome below. 

KEENEY (_impatiently_). Speak your say, Mr. Slocum. 

MATE (_unconsciously lowering his voice_). I'm afeard there'll betrouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turnugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The twoyears 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 thinkI've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?

(_The door in rear is opened and_ MRS. KEENEY _stands in thedoorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressedin black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn andpale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and standsas if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping andunclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look ather. _)

KEENEY (_with rough tenderness_). Well, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_as if awakening from a dream_). David, I--(_She issilent. The_ MATE _starts for the doorway. _)

KEENEY (_turning to him--sharply_). Wait!

MATE. Yes, sir. 

KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause, during which she seems to beendeavoring to collect her thoughts_). I thought maybe--I'd go upon deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air. 

(_She stand's 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. KEENEY (_monotonously_). I know--ice, ice, ice! But there'snothing 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 me in mind ofhome. 

KEENEY (_a touch of resentment in his voice_). I got it jest foryou. 

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I know. (_She turns away from them and walksslowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains andlooks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy. _) Ah, water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks afterall these months of ice! (_She turns round to them, her facetransfigured with joy. _) Ah, now I must go upon deck and look atit, David. 

KEENEY (_frowning_). Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a daywhen the sun shines. 

MRS. KEENEY (_desperately_). But the sun never shines in thisterrible place. 

KEENEY (_a tone of command in his voice_). Best not to-day, Annie. 

MRS. KEENEY (_crumbling before this command--abjectly_). 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'sbusiness. 

MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David. 

(_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quartersshut behind her. _)

KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be anytrouble. 

MATE. 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 examines it. _)

Got yourn?

MATE. Yes, sir. 

KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breedof dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (_Grimly_) I ain't neverbeen forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and bysea's long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, Ireckon. 

MATE (_hesitatingly_). Then you ain't goin'--to turn back?

KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin's'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile inthe hold?

MATE (_hastily_). No, sir--but the grub's gittin' low. 

KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're carefulwith it; and they's plenty o' water. 

MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the twoyears they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make troublefor you in the courts when we git home. 

KEENEY. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble theykin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git theile! (_Glancing sharply at the_ MATE) You ain't turnin' no damnedsea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?

MATE (_flushing_). Not by a hell of a sight, sir. 

KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o'the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco. 

MATE (_slowly_). They wants to git back to their folks an' things, I s'pose. 

KEENEY (_looking at him searchingly_). 'N' you want to turn back, too. (THE MATE _looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze. _)Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (_Withgrim sarcasm_) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine themen agin me. 

MATE (_indignantly_). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things. 

KEENEY (_with satisfaction_). I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. Noman kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one. 

MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, Imean. (_Desperately_) But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain'tjest satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' badluck an' the ice an' all. 

KEENEY (_his face clouding--rebukingly but not severely_). That'smy business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o'that. (_A pause. _) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'rd. I couldsee it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun, Annie'll perk up. (_Another pause--then he bursts forth_) It ain'tthe damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrelof ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my dayswithout a full ship. Ain't that truth?

MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'--

KEENEY (_scornfully_). And d' you s'pose any of 'em would believethat--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can'tyou hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simmsand the rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeneywhat boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin'back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile?" (_The thought ofthis drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down onthe marble top of the sideboard. _) Hell! I got to git the ile, Itell you. How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so badbefore in the thirty year I been a-comin' here. And now it'sbreakin'up. In a couple o'days it'll be all gone. And they'swhale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gonewrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of allhell, 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. Thetwo men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then_ KEENEY _goesover to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if hewere going to enter--then closes the door softly. _ JOE, _theharpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, enters from right and stands waiting for the captain to noticehim. _)

KEENEY (_turning and seeing him_). Don't be standin' there like agawk, Harpooner. Speak up!

JOE (_confusedly_). We want--the men, sir--they want send adepitation aft to have a word with you. 

KEENEY (_furiously_). Tell 'em to go to--(_checks himself andcontinues grimly_) Tell'em to come. I'll see'em. 

JOE. Aye, aye, sir. 

(_He goes out. _)

KEENEY (_with a grim smile_). Here it comes, the trouble you spokeof, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better tocrush such things at the start than let them make headway. 

MATE (_worriedly_). Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? Wemight 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 five of thecrew crowd into the cabin, led by_ JOE. _All are dressedalike--sweaters, sea-boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the_CAPTAIN, _twirling 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 speakyour say and be quick about it. 

JOE (_trying not to wilt before the CAPTAIN'S glance and avoidinghis 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, far'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. 

JOB (_after a slight pause during which the others mumble angrilyto one another_). The grub we're gittin' now is rotten. 

KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are haveeaten worse. 

(_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd. _)

JOE (_encouraged by this support_). We ain'ta-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 'll say we was right. 

KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'mthe law on this ship. (_Edging up toward the harpooner. _) And everymother'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 theold hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?

(_As he turns his head to look at the others_, KEENEY'S _fistshoots out to the side of his jaw. _ JOE _goes down in a heap andlies there. _ MRS. KEENEY _gives a shriek and hides her face inher hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolversof_ KEENEY _and the_ MATE. )

KEENEY (_his eyes and voice snapping_). Hold still! (_The menstand huddled together in a sullen silence. _ KEENEY'S _voice isfull of mockery. _) You've found out it ain't safe to mutiny onthis 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'll shoot deadas sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest thesame. Git for'ard now! Quick! (_The men leave in cowed silence, carrying_ JOE _with them. _ KEENEY _turns to the_ MATE _with ashort laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket. _) Best getup on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none oftheir skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from nowon. I know 'em. 

MATE. Yes, sir. 

(_He goes out, right. _ KEENEY _hears his wife's hystericalweeping and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to herside. _)

KEENEY (_putting an arm around her shoulder--with grufftenderness_). There, there, Annie. Don't be afeard. It's all pastand gone. 

MRS. KEENEY (_shrinking away from, him_). Oh, I can't bear it! Ican't bear it any longer!

KEENEY (_gently_). Can't bear what, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_hysterically_). All this horrible brutality, andthese brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cellof a room, and the ice all around, and the silence. 

(_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with herhandkerchief. _)

KEENEY (_after a pause during which he looks down at her with apuzzled frown_). Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come onthis voyage, Annie. 

MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? Ididn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I'vebeen doing these last six years since we were married--waiting, and watching, and fearing--with nothing to keep my mindoccupied--not able to go back teaching school on account of beingDave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the dangerand vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero theymake you out to be in Homeport. And instead--(_her voice growstremulous_) all I find is ice--and cold--and brutality!

(_Her voice breaks. _)

KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't noladies' tea party, " I says to you, "and you better stay to homewhere 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 isn't your fault, David. Yousee, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the oldVikings in the story-books and I thought you were one of them. 

KEENEY (_protestingly_). I done my best to make it as cozy andcomfortable as could be. (MRS. KEENEY _looks around her in wildscorn. _) 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 wascalms and things was dull like. 

MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Yes, you were very kind, David. I knowthat. (_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the portholeand looks out--then suddenly bursts forth. _) I won't stand it--Ican't stand it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. (_She runsover to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts hisarm protectingly 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 feelas 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 faceanxiously_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You gotfever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen youlook this way before. 

MRS. KEENEY (_laughing hysterically_). It's the ice and the coldand the silence--they'd make anyone look strange. 

KEENEY (_soothingly_). In a month or two, with good luck, three atthe most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give hereverything she'll stand and p'int for home. 

MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want toget home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It'scruel, 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. Ifyou've a heart at all, you've got to turn back. 

KEENEY (_harshly_). I can't, Annie. 

MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason. 

MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Because it's a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the othercaptains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with afull ship. You want to live up to our silly reputation even ifyou do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it. 

KEENEY (_his jaw set stubbornly_). It ain't that, Annie. Themskippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much whatanyone'd say--but--(_He hesitates, struggling to express hismeaning. _) You see--I've always done it--since my first voyage asskipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seemright not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o'Homeport, and--Don't you see my meanin', Annie? (_He glances ather. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying. _) Annie! (_She comes to herselfwith a start. _) Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. Youain't well. 

MRS. KEENEY (_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door inrear_). David! Won't you please turn back?

KEENEY (_gently_). I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see mymeanin'. I got to git the ile. 

MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but youdon't. You've got more than plenty. 

KEENEY (_impatiently_). It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'youthink I'm as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). No--I don't know--I can'tunderstand--(_Intensely_) Oh, I want to be home in the old houseonce more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voicetalking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems solong ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back. 

KEENEY (_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in hereyes_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well. 

MRS. KEENEY (_not appearing to hear him_). I used to be lonely whenyou were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonousplace. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when itwas windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of thefine free life you must be leading. (_She gives a laugh which ishalf a sob. _) I used to love the sea then. (_She pauses; thencontinues with slow intensity. _) But now--I don't ever want to seethe sea again. 

KEENEY (_thinking to humor her_). 'Tis 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 agesture of pathetic weariness_). How long would it take us toreach home--if we started now?

KEENEY (_frowning_). 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fairluck. 

MRS. KEENEY (_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a raptsmile_). That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn'tit? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it?

KEENEY (_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have movedhim--gruffly_). Don't you remember?

MRS. KEENEY (_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_). Mymemory is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. (_Apause--then she smiles dreamily. _) It's June now. The lilacs willbe all in bloom in the front yard--and the climbing roses on thetrellis to the side of the house--they're budding. 

(_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences tosob. _)

KEENEY (_disturbed_). Go in and rest, Annie. You're all wore outcryin' over what can't be helped. 

MRS. KEENEY (_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck andclinging to him_). You love me, don't you, David?

KEENEY (_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_) Love you? Whyd'you ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him--fiercely_). But you do, don't you, David? Tell me!

KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could therebe aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him again--still more fiercely_). Then you dolove me. Say it!

KEENEY (_simply_). I do, Annie. 

MRS. KEENEY. (_Gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to hersides. _ KEENEY _regards her anxiously. She passes her hand acrossher eyes and murmurs half to herself. _) I sometimes think if wecould only have had a child. (KEENEY _turns away from her, deeplymoved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to faceher--intensely. _) And I've always been a good wife to you, haven't I, David?

KEENEY (_his voice betraying his emotion_). No man ever had abetter, Annie. 

MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have I?

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie. 

MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Then do this, this once, for my sake, forGod's sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--thebrutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feelthe threat in the air. I can hear the silence threatening me--dayafter gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. (_Sobbing. _) I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, ifyou love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take mehome!

(_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. Heholds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For amoment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakensas he looks at her tear-stained face. _)

KEENEY (_dragging out the words with an effort_). I'll 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!

(_He turns away from her silently and walks toward thecompanionway. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footstepson 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 terrified eyes. _)

KEENEY (_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_). A clearpassage? To no'th'rd?

MATE. Yes, sir. 

KEENEY (_his voice suddenly grim with determination_). Then get herready and we'll drive her through. 

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. 

MRS. KEENEY (_appealingly_). David!

KEENEY (_not heeding her_). Will the men turn to willin' or must wedrag 'em out?

MATE. They 'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' Godinto '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 ofscuffing feet from the deck outside and the_ MATE'S _voice shoutingorders. _)

KEENEY (_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_). And I was a-goin'home like a yaller dog!

MRS. KEENEY (_imploringly_). David!

KEENEY (_sternly_). Woman, you ain't a-doin' right when you meddlein men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. Igot to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git the ile, I tell ye. 

MRS. KEENEY (_supplicatingly_). David! Aren't you going home?

KEENEY (_ignoring this question--commandingly_). You ain't well. Goand lay down a mite. (_He starts for the door. _) I got to git ondeck. 

(_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laughhysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts toplay wildly an old hymn. _ KEENEY _reënters from the doorway to thedeck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabsher roughly by the shoulder. _)

KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? (_She laughs wildly, and he starts back from her in alarm. _) Annie! What is it? (_Shedoesn't answer him. _ KEENEY'S _voice trembles. _) Don't you know me, Annie?

(_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so thathe can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupidexpression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, and she commences softly to play the organ again. _)

KEENEY (_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he haddifficulty in speaking_). You said--you was agoin' mad--God!

(_A long wail is heard from the deck above: "Ah bl-o-o-o-ow!" Amoment later the_ MATE'S _face appears through the skylight. Hecannot see_ MRS. KEENEY. )

MATE (_in great excitement_). Whales, sir--a whole school of'em--off the starb'd quarter 'bout five mile away--big ones!

KEENEY (_galvanized into action_). Are you lowerin' the boats?

MATE. Yes, sir. 

KEENEY (_with grim decision_). I'm a-comin' with ye. 

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. (_Jubilantly_) You'll git the ile now rightenough, sir. 

(_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders. _)

KEENEY (_turning to his wife_). Annie! Did you hear him? I'll gitthe ile. (_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. Hegives a hard laugh, which is almost a groan. _) I know you'refoolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind--(_anxiously_) beyou? I'll git the ile now right enough--jest a little whilelonger, 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 suddenterror_) Answer me! You ain't mad, be you?

(_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The_ MATE'S_face appears again through the skylight. _)

MATE. All ready, sir. 

(KEENEY _turns his back on his wife 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 tonotice his departure. Her whole attention seems centred in theorgan. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a littlefrom side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers movefaster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly asthe Curtain falls. _)

CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR[1]

J. A. Ferguson

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, Glasgow. ]

CHARACTERS

MARY STEWARTMORAG CAMERONDUGALD STEWARTCAPTAIN SANDEMANARCHIBALD CAMPBELLJAMES MACKENZIE

SCENE: _Interior of a lonely cottage on the road from Struan toRannoch in North Perthshire. _

TIME: _After the Rising of 1745. _

MORAG _is restlessly moving backwards and forwards. The old womanis seated on a low stool beside the peat fire in the centre ofthe floor. _

_The room is scantily furnished and the women are poorly clad. MORAG is barefooted. At the back is the door that leads to theoutside. On the left of the door is a small window. On the rightside of the room there is a door that opens into a barn. MORAGstands for a moment at the window, looking out. _

MORAG. It is the wild night outside. 

MARY 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 cannot see theother side of the road. 

MARY STEWART. That is good. 

(MORAG _moves across the floor and stops irresolutely. She isrestless, expectant. _)

MORAG. Will I be putting the light in the window?

MARY STEWART. Why should you be doing that? You have not heardhis call (_turns eagerly_), have you?

MORAG (_with sign of head_). No, but the light in the window wouldshow him all is well. 

MARY STEWART. 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 calling for longand 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 isthat in me that tells me something is going to befall us thisnight. Oh, that wind! Hear to it, sobbing round the house as ifit brought some poor lost soul up to the door, and we refusing itshelter. 

MARY STEWART. Do not be fretting yourself like that. Do as I bidyou. Put more peats to the fire. 

MORAG (_at the wicker peat-basket_). Never since I. .. . What wasthat?

(_Both listen for a moment. _)

MARY STEWART. It was just the wind; it is rising more. A sorenight for them that are out in the heather. 

(MORAG _puts peat on the fire without speaking. _)

MARY STEWART. Did you notice were there many people going byto-day?

MORAG. No. After daybreak the redcoats came by from Struan; andthere was no more till nine, when an old man like the Catechistfrom Killichonan passed. At four o'clock, just when the dark wasfalling, a horseman with a lad holding to the stirrup, andrunning fast, went by towards Rannoch. 

MARY STEWART. But no more redcoats?

MORAG (_shaking her head_). The road has been as quiet as thehills, and they as quiet as the grave. Do you think will he come?

MARY STEWART. Is it you think I have the gift, girl, that you askme that? All I know is that it is five days since he was here formeat and drink for himself and for the others--five days and fivenights, mind you; and little enough he took away; and those inhiding no' used to such sore lying, I'll be thinking. He must tryto get through to-night. But that quietness, with no one to beseen from daylight till dark, I do not like it, Morag. They mustknow something. They must be watching. 

(_A sound is heard by both women. They stand listening. _)

MARY STEWART. Haste you with the light, Morag. 

MORAG. But it came from the back of the house--from the hillside. 

MARY STEWART. Do as I tell you. The other side may be watched. 

(_A candle is lit and placed in the window. Girl goes hurrying tothe door. _)

MARY STEWART. Stop, stop! Would you be opening the door with alight like that shining from the house? A man would be seenagainst it in the doorway for a mile. And who knows what eyes maybe watching? Put out the light now and cover the fire. 

(_Room is reduced to semi-darkness, and the door unbarred. Someoneenters. _)

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 winacross the water. 

(_The old woman has now relit candle and taken away plaid fromfire. _)

MARY 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 iswith them. 

MARY STEWART. Wheest! (_Glances at_ MORAG. )

STEWART. Mother, is it that you can--

MARY STEWART. Yes, yes, Morag will bring out the food for ye tocarry back. It is under the hay in the barn, well hid. Morag willbring 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. 

MARY 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 whereI left them, but not where I am to _find_ them. 

MARY STEWART. They are not where you said now?

STEWART. No; they left the corrie last night, and I am to findthem (_whispers_) in a quiet part on Rannoch moor. 

MARY 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 roofover the head is a great comfort. 

MARY STEWART. Ye'll no' can stop the night?

STEWART. No. I must be many a mile from here before the daybreaks on Ben Dearig. 

(MORAG _reënters. _)

MORAG. 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 inthe burns because of the snow that shows a man's steps and tellswho he is to them that can read; and there's plenty can do thatabroad, God knows. 

MORAG. But none spied ye?

STEWART. Who can tell? Before dark came, from far up on theslopes of Dearig I saw soldiers about; and away towards theRannoch Moor they were scattered all over the country like blackflies on a white sheet. A wild cat or anything that couldna flycould never have got through. And men at every brig and ford andpass! I had to strike away up across the slopes again; and evenso as I turned round the bend beyond Kilrain I ran straight intoa sentry sheltering behind a great rock. But after that it waseasy going. 

MORAG. How could that be?

STEWART. Well, you see I took the boots off him, and then I hadno need to mind who might see my steps in the snow. 

MORAG. You took the boots off him!

STEWART (_laughing_). I did that same. Does that puzzle your bonnyhead? How does a lad take the boots off a redcoat? Find out theanswer, my lass, while I will be finishing my meat. 

MORAG. Maybe he was asleep?

STEWART. Asleep! Asleep! Well, well, he sleeps sound enough now, with the ten toes of him pointed to the sky. 

(_The old woman has taken up dirk from table. She puts it downagain. _ MORAG _sees the action and pushes dirk away so that itrolls off the table and drops to the floor. She hides her face inher hands. _)

MARY STEWART. Morag, bring in the kebbuck o' cheese. Now that allis well and safe it is we that will look after his comfortto-night. (MORAG _goes into barn. _)--I mind well her mother sayingto me--it was one day in the black winter that she died, when thefrost took the land in its grip and the birds fell stiff from thetrees, and the deer came down and put their noses to the door--Imind 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 presenceand hurries into barn. He overlooks dirk on floor. The old womangoes towards door. _)

MARY STEWART. Who is there? What do you want?

A VOICE. Open, open. 

(MARY STEWART _opens door and_ CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _follows_ CAPTAINSANDEMAN _into the house. Behind_ KILMHOR _comes a man carrying aleather wallet_, JAMES MACKENZIE, _his clerk. The rear is broughtup 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 supper. Searchthe house, men. 

MARY STEWART. I'm just a lonely old woman. You have beenmisguided. I was getting through my supper. 

CAMPBELL (_holding up dirk_). And this was your toothpick, eh? Na!Na! We ken whaur we are, and wha we want, and by Cruachan, Ithink we've got him. 

(_Sounds are heard from barn, and soldiers return with MORAG. Shehas stayed in hiding from fear, and she still holds the cheese inher hands. _)

SANDEMAN. What have we here?

CAMPBELL. A lass!

MARY STEWART. It's just my dead brother's daughter. She wasgetting me the cheese, as you can see. 

CAMPBELL. On, men, again: the other turtle doo will no' be faraway. (_Banteringly to the old woman_) Tut, tut, Mistress 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, uponye!

(_Soldiers reappear with_ STEWART, _whose arms are pinioned. _)

CAMPBELL. Did I no' tell ye! And this, Mrs. Stewart, will be yourdead sister's son, I'm thinking; or aiblins your leddyship'sbutler! Weel, woman, I'll tell ye this: Pharaoh spared ae butler, but Erchie Campbell will no' spare anither. Na! na! Pharaoh'scase is no' to be taken as forming ony preceedent. And so if hedoesna answer certain questions we have to speir at him, beforemorning he'll hang as high as Haman. 

(STEWART _is placed before the table at which_ CAMPBELL _has seatedhimself. Two soldiers guard_ STEWART. _Another is behind_ CAMPBELL'S_chair and another is by the door. The clerk_, MACKENZIE, _is seatedat up corner of table. _ SANDEMAN _stands by the fire. _)

CAMPBELL (_to STEWART_). Weel, sir, it is within the cognizance ofthe law that you have knowledge and information of the place ofharbor and concealment used by certain persons who are in a stateof proscription. Furthermore, it is known that four days agocertain other proscribed persons did join with these, and thatthey are banded together in an endeavor to secure the escape fromthese dominions of His Majesty, King George, of certain personswho 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. Greataffairs of state lie behind this which are beyond your simpleunderstanding. Speak up and it will be the better for ye. 

(STEWART _silent as before. _)

CAMPBELL. Look you. I'll be frank with you. No harm will befallyou this night--and I wish all in this house to note my words--noharm will befall you this night if you supply the informationrequired. 

(STEWART _as before. _)

CAMPBELL (_with sudden passion_). Sandeman, put your sword to thecarcass o' this muckle ass and see will it louse his tongue. 

STEWART. It may be as well then, Mr. Campbell, that I should saya word to save your breath. It is this: Till you talk RannochLoch to the top of Schiehallion, ye'll no' talk me into a yea ornay. 

CAMPBELL (_quietly_). Say ye so? Noo, I widna be so very sure if Iwere you. I've had a lairge experience o' life, and speaking outof it I would say that only fools and the dead never change theirminds. 

STEWART (_quietly too_). Then you'll be adding to your experienceto-night, Mr. Campbell, and you'll have something to put on tothe other side of it. 

CAMPBELL (_tapping his snuff-box_). Very possibly, young sir, butwhat I would present for your consideration is this: While ye maybe prepared to keep your mouth shut under the condition of afool, are ye equally prepared to do so in the condition of a deadman?

(CAMPBELL _waits expectantly. _ STEWART _silent as before. _)

CAMPBELL. Tut, tut, now, if it's afraid ye are, my lad, with myhand on my heart and on my word as a gentleman--

STEWART. Afraid!

(_He spits in contempt towards_ CAMPBELL. )

CAMPBELL (_enraged_). Ye damned stubborn Hieland stot. (_To_SANDEMAN) Have him taken out. We'll get it another way. 

(CAMPBELL _rises. _ STEWART _is moved into barn by soldiers. _)

CAMPBELL (_walking_). Some puling eediots, Sandeman, would applaudthis contumacy and call it constancy. Constancy! Now, I've had alairge experience o' life, and I never saw yet a sensible maninsensible to the touch of yellow metal. If there may be such aman, it is demonstrable that he is no sensible man. Fideelity!quotha, it's sheer obstinacy. They just see that ye wantsomething oot o' them, and they're so damned selfish and thrawnthey winna pairt. And with the natural inabeelity o' their brainsto hold mair than one idea at a time they canna see that inreturn you could put something into their palms far moreprofitable. (_Sits again at table. _) Aweel, bring Mistress Stewartup. 

(_Old woman is placed before him where son had been. _)

CAMPBELL (_more ingratiatingly_). Weel noo, Mistress Stewart, goodwoman, this is a sair predeecament for ye to be in. I would jistcounsel ye to be candid. Doubtless yer mind is a' in a swirl. Yekenna what way to turn. Maybe ye are like the Psalmist and say:"I lookit this way and that, and there was no man to peety me, orto have compassion upon my fatherless children. " But, see now, yewould be wrong; and, if ye tell me a' ye ken, I'll stand freendswi' 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' themmyself. There's but ae Campbell that I care muckle aboot, aftera'. But, good wife, it's no' the Campbells we're trying the noo;so as time presses we'll jist "_birze yont_, " as they saythemselves. Noo then, speak up. 

(MARY STEWART _is silent. _)

CAMPBELL (_beginning grimly and passing through astonishment, expostulation, and a feigned contempt for mother and pity forson, to a pretence of sadness which, except at the end, makes hiswords come haltingly_). Ah! ye also. I suppose ye understand, woman, how it will go wi' your son? (_To his clerk_) Here's a finemother for ye, James! Would you believe it? She kens what wouldsave her son--the very babe she nursed at her breast; but willshe save him? Na! na! Sir, he may look after himself! A mother, amother! Ha! ha!

(CAMPBELL _laughs. _ MACKENZIE _titters foolishly. _ CAMPBELL _pauses towatch effect of his words. _)

Aye, you would think, James, that she would remember the timewhen he was but little and afraid of all the terrors that walk indarkness, and how he looked up to her as to a tower of safety, and would run to her with outstretched hands, hiding his facefrom his fear, in her gown. The darkness! It is the dark nightand a long journey before him now. 

(_He pauses again. _)

You would think, James, that she would mind how she happit himfrom 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 werebecome her enemies--And to what purpose all this care?--tell methat, my man, to what good, if she is to leave him at the last todangle from a tree at the end of a hempen rope--to see his fleshgiven to be meat for the fowls of the air--her son, her littleson!

MARY STEWAET. My son is guilty of no crime!

CAMPBELL. Is he no'! Weel, mistress, as ye'll no' take my wordfor it, maybe ye'll list to Mr. Mackenzie here. What say ye, James?

MACKENZIE. He is guilty of aiding and abetting in the concealmentof proscribed persons; likewise with being found in thepossession of arms, contrary to statute, both very heinouscrimes. 

CAMPBELL. Very well said, James! Forby, between ourselves, Mrs. Stewart, the young man in my opeenion is guilty of another crime(_snuffs_)--he is guilty of the heinous crime of not knowing onwhich side his bread is buttered. --Come now--

MARY STEWART. Ye durst not lay a finger on the lad, ye durst nothang him. 

MACKENZIE. And why should the gentleman not hang him if itpleesure him?

(CAMPBELL _taps snuff-box and takes pinch. _)

MARY STEWART (_with intensity_). Campbell of Kilmhor, lay but onefinger on Dugald Stewart and the weight of Ben Cruachan will belight to the weight that will be laid on your soul. I will laythe curse of the seven rings upon your life: I will call up thefires of Ephron, the blue and the green and the gray fires, forthe destruction of your soul: I will curse you in your homesteadand in the wife it shelters and in the children that will neverbear your name. Yea, and ye shall be cursed. 

CAMPBELL. (_Startled--betrays agitation--the snuff is spilled fromhis trembling hand. _) Hoot toot, woman! ye're, ye're--(_Angrily_) Yeauld beldame, to say such things to me! I'll have ye firstwhippet and syne droont for a witch. Damn thae stubborn andsupersteetious cattle! (_To_ SANDEMAN) We should have come in herebefore him and listened in the barn, Sandeman!

SANDEMAN. Ah, listen behind the door you mean! Now I neverthought of that!

CAMPBELL. Did ye not! Humph! Well, no doubt there are a good manythings 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 wouldunderstand. 

CAMPBELL. Name them. 

SANDEMAN. Well, in the first place, we have not wings like crowsto fly--and the footsteps on the snow--Second point--the womanwould have told him we were there. 

CAMPBELL. Not if I told her I had power to clap her in Invernessjail. 

MARY STEWART (_in contempt_). Yes, even if ye had told me ye hadpower 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 towardsbarn. _) No, not there; pitch the old girzie into the snow. 

MARY STEWART. Ye'll never find him, Campbell, never, never!

CAMPBELL (_enraged_). Find him! Aye, by God I'll find him, if Ihave to keek under every stone on the mountains from the Boar ofBadenoch to the Sow of Athole. (_Old woman and soldiers gooutside. _) And now, Captain Sandeman, you an' me must have a wordor two. I noted your objection to listening ahint doors and soon. Now, I make a' necessary allowances for youth and the grandand magneeficent ideas commonly held, for a little while, in thatperiod. I had them myself. But, man, gin ye had trod the floor ofthe Parliament Hoose in Edinburry as long as I did, wi' a pair o'thin hands at the bottom o' toom pockets, ye'd ha'e shed yourfine notions, as I did. Noo, fine pernickety noansense will no'do in this business--

SANDEMAN. Sir!

CAMPBELL. Softly, softly, Captain Sandeman, and hear till what Ihave to say. I have noticed with regret several things in yourremarks and bearing which are displeasing to me. I would say justone word in your ear; it is this. These things, Sandeman, are notconducive 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 not like thiswork, but I loathe your methods. 

CAMPBELL. Mislike the methods you may, but the work ye must do!Methods are my business. Let me tell you the true position. In aeword it is no more and no less than this. You and me are baithhere to carry out the proveesions of the Act for the Pacificationof the Highlands. That means the cleaning up of a very big mess, Sandeman, a very big mess. Now, what is your special office inthis work? I'll tell ye, man; you and your men are just beesomsin the hands of the law-officers of the Crown. In this district, I order and ye soop! (_He indicates door of barn. _) Now soop, Captain Sandeman. 

SANDEMAN (_in some agitation_). What is your purpose? What are youafter? I would give something to see into your mind. 

CAMPBELL. Ne'er fash aboot my mind: what has a soldier to do withony mental operations? It's His Grace's orders that concern you. Oot wi' your man and set him up against the wa'. 

SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, it is murder--murder, Kilmhor!

CAMPBELL. Hoots, awa', man, it's a thing o' nae specialsignificance. 

SANDEMAN. I must ask you for a warrant. 

CAMPBELL. Quick then: Mackenzie will bring it out to you. 

(CLERK _begins writing. _ SANDEMAN _and soldiers lead_ STEWART_outside_, CAMPBELL _sits till they are out. _ CLERK _finishes_, CAMPBELL _signs warrant--and former goes. _ CAMPBELL _is alone, save for_ MORAG CAMERON, _who is sitting huddled up on stool byfire, and is unnoticed by_ CAMPBELL. )

CAMPBELL (_as one speaking his thoughts aloud_). I've been beatenfor a' that. A strange thing, noo. Beforehand I would ha'e saidnaething could be easier. And yet--and yet--there it is!. .. Itwould have been a grand stroke for me. .. . Cluny--Keppoch--Lochiel, and maybe . .. Maybe--Hell! when I think of it! Just a whisperedword--a mere pointed finger would ha'e telled a'. But no! theirvisions, their dreams beat me. "You'll be adding to yourexperience to-night, Mr. Campbell, and have something to put tothe other side of it, " says he; aye, and by God I have addedsomething to it, and it is a thing I like but little--that adream can be stronger than a strong man armed. --Here come I, Archibald Campbell of Kilmhor, invested with authority aslaw-officer of the Crown, bearing in my hand the power of lifeand death, fire and the sword, backed up by the visible authorityof armed men, and yet I am powerless before the dreams of an oldwoman and a half-grown lad--soldiers and horses and the gallowsand yellow gold are less than the wind blowing in theirfaces. --It is a strange thing that: it is a thing I do notunderstand. --It is a thing fit to sicken a man against the notionthat there are probabeelities on this earth. --have been beatenfor a' that. Aye, the pair o' them have beat me--though it's amatter of seconds till one of them be dead. 

MORAG (_starting into upright position and staring at him; hervoice is like an echo to his_). Dead!

CAMPBELL (_turning hastily_). What is that!

MORAG. Is he dead?

CAMPBELL (_grimly_). Not yet, but if ye'll look through this window(_he indicates window_) presently, ye'll see him gotten ready fordeath. 

(_He begins to collect articles of personal property, hat, etc. _)

MORAG. I will tell you. 

CAMPBELL (_astounded_). What!

MORAG. I will tell you all you are seeking to know. 

CAMPBELL (_quietly_). Good God, and to think, to think I was on thevery 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 thefar 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. (_Gathersup again his cloak, hat, etc. _) And to think--to think--I was onthe very act of going away like a beaten dog!

MORAG. He is safe from hanging now?

CAMPBELL (_chuckles and looks out at window before replying, andis at door when he speaks_). Very near it, very near it. Listen!

(_He holds up his hand--a volley of musketry is heard. KILMHORgoes out, closing the door behind him. After a short interval ofsilence 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 listening till thelast sound of it passes into the great hills and over all thewide world. --It is fitting for you to be crying, a child thatcannot understand; but water shall never wet eye of mine forDugald Stewart. Last night I was but the mother of a lad thatherded sheep on the Athole hills: this morn it is I that am themother of a man who is among the great ones of the earth. Allover the land they will be telling of Dugald Stewart. Motherswill teach their children to be men by him. High will his name bewith the teller of fine tales. --The great men came, they came intheir pride, terrible like the storm they were, and cunning withwords of guile were they. Death was with them. .. . He was but alad, a young lad, with great length of days before him, and thegrandeur of the world. But he put it all from him. "Speak, " saidthey, "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 redwith his blood. There are things greater than death. Let themthat are children shed the tears. 

(_She comes forward and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder. _)

MARY STEWART. Let us go and lift him into the house, and not beleaving him lie out there alone. 

 [CURTAIN]

THE SUN[1]

John Glasworthy

SCENE: A GIRL sits crouched over her knees on a stile close to ariver. A MAN with a silver badge stands beside her clutching theworn top plank. THE GIRL'S level brows are drawn together; hereyes see her memories. THE MAN'S eyes see THE GIRL; he has adark, twisted face. The bright sun shines; the quiet river flows;the cuckoo is calling; the mayflower is in bloom along the hedgethat ends in the stile on the towing-path. 

[Footnote 1: From _Scribner's Magazine_, May, 1919. Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons; included by specialpermission of the writer and publishers. ]

THE GIRL. God knows what 'e'll say, Jim. 

THE MAN. Let 'im. 'E's come too late, that's all. 

THE GIRL. He couldn't come before. I'm frightened. 'E was fond o'me. 

THE MAN. And aren't I fond of you? My Gawd!

THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited, Jim; with 'im in the fightin'. 

THE MAN (_passionately_). And what about me? Aren't I been in thefightin'--earned all I could get?

THE GIRL (_touching him_). Ah!

THE MAN. Did you--

(_He cannot speak the words. _)

THE GIRL. Not like you, Jim--not like you. 

THE MAN. 'Ave a spirit, then. 

THE GIRL. I promised 'im. 

THE MAN. One man's luck'a another's poison. I've seen it. 

THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited. I never thought 'e'd come backfrom the fightin'. 

THE MAN (_grimly_). Maybe 'e'd better not 'ave. 

THE GIRL (_looking back along the tow-path_). What'll 'e be like, Iwonder?

THE MAN (_gripping her shoulder_). Daise, don't you never go backon 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' Providence. 

THE GIRL. What's the time, Jim?

THE MAN (_glancing at the sun_). '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 asmuch of hell as he has, any day. What like is he?

THE GIRL (_dully_). I dunno, just. I've not seen 'im these threeyears. 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! What's a blighter like that to old Fritz'sshells? We didn't shift when they was comin'. If you'll go, I'llgo; not else. 

(_Again she shakes her head. _)

THE GIRL. Jim, do you love me true? (_For answer_, THE MAN _takesher avidly in his arms. _) I ain't ashamed--I ain't ashamed. If 'ecould 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 loveyou!

THE GIRL. Jim, don't lift your 'and to 'im. Promise!

THE MAN. That's according. 

THE GIRL. Promise!

THE MAN. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm not accountable--notalways, I tell you straight--not since I've been through that. 

THE GIRL (_with a shiver_). Nor p'r'aps 'e isn't. 

THE MAN. Like as not. It takes the lynchpins out, I tell you. 

THE GIRL. God 'elp us!

THE MAN (_grimly_). Ah! We said that a bit too often. What we want, we take, now; there's no one to give it us, and there's nofear'll 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 GIRL. I'm frightened. 

THE MAN (_tenderly_). No, Daise, no! (_He takes out a knife. _) Theriver's 'andy. One more or less. 'E shan't 'arm you; nor meneither. 

THE GIRL (_seizing his hand_). Oh! no! Give it to me, Jim!

THE MAN (_smiling_). No fear! (_He puts it away. _) Shan't 'ave noneed for it, like as not. All right, little Daise; you can't beexpected to see things like what we do. What's a life, anyway?I've seen a thousand taken in five minutes. I've seen dead men onthe wires like flies on a fly-paper; I've been as good as deadmeself an 'undred times. I've killed a dozen men. It's nothin'. 'E's safe, if 'e don't get my blood up. If 'e does, nobody'ssafe; not 'im, nor anybody else; not even you. I'm speakin'sober. 

THE GIRL (_softly_). Jim, you won't go fightin', wi' the sun outand the birds all callin'?

THE MAN. That depends on 'im. I'm not lookin' for it. Daise, Ilove you. I love your eyes. I love your hair. I love you. 

THE GIRL. And I love you, Jim. I don't want nothin' more than youin the whole world. 

THE MAN. Amen to that, my dear. Kiss me close!

(_The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace. _ THEGIRL _starts from his arms and looks behind her along thetowing-path. _ THE MAN _draws back against the hedge, fingering hisside, where the knife is hidden. The song comes nearer. _)

 I'll 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'slittle Daise 'erself_! THE GIRL _stands rigid. The figure of asoldier appears on the other side of the stile. His cap is tuckedinto 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 thingsthat'd take me years to tell. 'Ave you missed me, Daise?

THE GIRL. You been so long. 

SOLDIER. So I 'ave. My Gawd! It's a way they 'ave in the Army. Isaid when I got out of it I'd laugh. Like as the sun itself Iused to think of you, Daise, when the crumps was comin' over, andthe wind was up. D' you remember that last night in the wood?"Come back, and marry me quick, Jack!" Well, 'ere I am--got mepass 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 (_drawing back_). No. 

SOLDIER (_blankly_). Why not?

(THE MAN, _with a swift movement, steps along the hedge to_ THEGIRL'S _side. _)

THE MAN. That's why, soldier. 

SOLDIER (_leaping over the stile_). 'Oo are you, Pompey? The sundon't shine in your inside, do it? 'Oo is 'e, Daise?

THE GIRL. My man. 

SOLDIER. Your--man! Lummy! "Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was athief"! Well, soldier? So you've been through it, too. I'mlaughin' this mornin', as luck will 'ave it. Ah! I can see yourknife. 

THE MAN (_who has half drawn his knife_). Don't laugh at _me_, I tell you. 

SOLDIER. Not at you, soldier, not at you. (_He looks from one tothe other. _) I'm laughin' at things in general. Where did you getit, soldier?

THE MAN (_watchfully_). Through the lung. 

SOLDIER. Think o' that! An' 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. _)Well! The world's before me. (_He laughs. _) I'll give you Daise fora lung protector. 

THE MAN (_fiercely_). You won't. I've took her. 

SOLDIER. That's all right, then. You keep 'er. I've got a laughin 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 agirl cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I seen too mucho' sorrer. You an' me've been at the back of it. We've 'ad ourwhack. Shake!

THE MAN. Who are you kiddin'? You never loved 'er!

SOLDIER. Oh! I thought I did. 

THE MAN (_fiercely_). I'll 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 MAN (_with clenched fists_). I don't want 'is charity. I onlywant 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 laughto-day, and laugh I will. I've come through that, an' all thestink 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!

SOLDIER (_looking back_). No fear, old pretty girl! Enjoy yourfancy! So long! Gawd bless you both!

(_He sings and goes along the path, and the song_--

 I'll be right there to-night Where the fields are snowy white; Banjos ringin', darkies singin'-- All the world seems bright!--

_fades away. _)

THE MAN. 'E's mad. 

THE GIRL (_looking down the path, with her hands clasped_). Thesun 'as touched 'im, Jim!

 [CURTAIN]

THE KNAVE OF HEARTS[1]

Louise Saunders

[Footnote 1: This play is fully protected by copyright and may beused only with the written permission of, and the payment ofroyalty to, Norman Lee Swartout, Summit, New Jersey. Included bypermission of the author and Mr. Swartout. ]

CHARACTERS

THE MANAGERBLUE HOSEYELLOW HOSE1ST HERALD2D HERALDPOMPDEBILE THE EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS (pronounced Pomp-_di_biley)THE CHANCELLORTHE KNAVE OF HEARTSURSULATHE LADY VIOLETTASIX LITTLE PAGES

(THE MANAGER _appears before the curtain in doublet and hose. Hecarries a cap with a long, red feather. _)

THE MANAGER (_bowing deeply_). Ladies and gentlemen, you are aboutto hear the truth of an old legend that has persisted wronglythrough the ages, the truth that, until now, has been hid behindthe embroidered curtain of a rhyme, about the Knave of Hearts, who was no knave but a very hero indeed. The truth, you willagree with me, gentlemen and most honored ladies, is rare! It isonly the quiet, unimpassioned things of nature that seem whatthey are. Clouds rolled in massy radiance against the blue, pinesshadowed deep and darkly green, mirrored in still waters, thecontemplative mystery of the hills--these things which exist, absorbed but in their own existence--these are the perfectchalices of truth. 

But we, gentlemen and thrice-honored ladies, flounder about in atangled net of prejudice, of intrigue. We are blinded byconventions, we are crushed by misunderstanding, we aredistracted by violence, we are deceived by hypocrisy, until onlytoo often villains receive the rewards of nobility and the trulygreat-hearted are suspected, distrusted, and maligned. 

And so, ladies and gentlemen, for the sake of justice and also, Idare to hope, for your approval, I have taken my puppets downfrom their dusty shelves. I have polished their faces, brushedtheir clothes, and strung them on wires, so that they may enactfor you this history. 

(_He parts the curtains, revealing two_ PASTRY COOKS _in flaringwhite caps and spotless aprons leaning over in stiff profile, their wooden spoons, three feet long, pointing rigidly to theceiling. They are in one of the kitchens of_ POMPDEBILE THEEIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS. _It is a pleasant kitchen, with a row oflittle dormer windows and a huge stove, adorned with the crest of_POMPDEBILE--_a heart rampant, on a gold shield. _)

THE MANAGER. You see here, ladies and gentlemen, two pastry cooksbelonging to the royal household of Pompdebile the Eighth--BlueHose and Yellow Hose, by name. At a signal from me they willspring to action, and as they have been made with astonishingcleverness, they will bear every semblance of life. Happily, however, you need have no fear that, should they please you, theexulting wine of your appreciation may go to their heads--theirheads being but things of wire and wood; and happily, too, asthey are but wood and wire, they will be spared the shame andhumiliation that would otherwise be theirs should they fail tomeet with your approval. 

The play, most honored ladies and gentlemen, will now begin. 

(_He claps his hands. Instantly the two_ PASTRY COOKS _come 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, thePages, dressed in their best, waiting in the pantry with theirvarious jars full of the finest butter, the sweetest sugar, thehottest pepper, the richest milk, the--

BLUE HOSE. Yes, yes, no doubt. (_Thoughtfully_) It is a greatresponsibility, this that they have put on our shoulders. 

YELLOW HOSE. Ah, yes. I have never felt more important. 

BLUE HOSE. Nor I more uncomfortable. 

YELLOW HOSE. Even on the day, or rather the night, when I awokeand found myself famous--I refer to the time when I laid beforean astonished world my creation, "Humming birds' hearts souffle, au vin blanc"--I did not feel more important. It is a pleasingsensation!

BLUE HOSE. I like it not at all. It makes me dizzy, this eminenceon 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 iscapable of making good pastry. I have discovered through longexperience that it is the heaviest women who make the lightestpastry, and _vice versa. _ Well, then, suppose that she doesnot pass this examination--suppose that her pastry is lumpy, white like the skin of a boiled fowl. 

YELLOW HOSE. Then, according to the law of the Kingdom of Hearts, we must condemn it, and the Lady Violetta cannot become the brideof Pompdebile. Back to her native land she will be sent, riding amule. 

BLUE HOSE. And she is so pretty, so exquisite! What a law! Whatan outrageous law!

YELLOW HOSE. Outrageous law! How dare you! There is nothing sonecessary to the welfare of the nation as our art. Good cooksmake good tempers, don't they? Must not the queen set an examplefor the other women to follow? Did not our fathers and ourgrandfathers before us judge the dishes of the previous queens ofhearts?

BLUE HOSE. I wish I were mixing the rolls for to-morrow'sbreakfast. 

YELLOW HOSE. Bah! You are fit for nothing else. The affairs ofstate are beyond you. 

(_Distant sound of trumpets. _)

BLUE HOSE (_nervously_). What's that?

YELLOW HOSE. The King is approaching! The ceremonies are about tocommence!

BLUE HOSE. Is everything 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 (_wailing_). We are lost!

YELLOW HOSE. She may not call for it. 

(_Both stand very erect and make a desperate effort to appearcalm. _)

BLUE HOSE (_very nervous_). Which door? Which door?

YELLOW HOSE. The big one, idiot. Be still!

(_The sound of trumpets increases, and cries of "Make way for theKing. " Two_ HERALDS _come in and stand on either side of the door. The_ KING OF HEARTS _enters, followed by ladies and gentlemen ofthe court. _ POMPDEBILE _is in full regalia, and very imposingindeed with his red robe bordered with ermine, his crown andsceptre. After him comes the_ CHANCELLOR, _an old man with 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 isan important moment in the history of our reign. The LadyVioletta, whom you love and respect--that is, I mean to say, whomthe ladies love and the lords--er--respect, is about to provewhether or not she be fitted to hold the exalted position ofQueen of Hearts, according to the law, made a thousand years agoby Pompdebile the Great, and steadily followed ever since. Shewill 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. _)

If their verdict be favorable, she shall ride through the streetsof the city on a white palfrey, garlanded with flowers. She willbe crowned, the populace will cheer her, and she will reign byour side, attending to the domestic affairs of the realm, whilewe give our time to weightier matters. This of course you allunderstand is a time of great anxiety for the Lady Violetta. Shewill 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. 

POMPDEBILE. Let there be a few violets put in with theroses--er--We are ready for the ceremony to commence. We confessto a slight nervousness unbecoming to one of our station. TheLady Violetta, though trying at times, we have found--er--shallwe say--er--satisfying?

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 (_in a grieved tone_). This is hardly necessary. Have Iever neglected or forgotten any of your commands, Your Majesty?

POMPDEBILE. You have, often. However, don't be insulted. It takesa great deal of our time and it is most uninteresting. 

CHANCELLOR (_indignantly_). I resign, Your Majesty. 

POMPDEBILE. Your thirty-seventh resignation will be acceptedto-morrow. Just now it is our wish to begin at once. The anxietythat no doubt gathered in the breast of each of the sevensuccessive Pompdebiles before us seems to have concentrated inours. Already the people are clamoring at the gates of the palaceto know the decision. Begin. Let the Pages be summoned. 

KNAVE (_bowing_). Beg pardon, Your Majesty; before summoning thePages, should not the Lady Violetta be here?

POMPDEBILE. She should, and is, we presume, on the other side ofthat door--waiting breathlessly. 

(THE KNAVE _quietly opens the door and closes it. _)

KNAVE (_bowing_). She is not, Your Majesty, on the other side ofthat door waiting breathlessly. In fact, to speak plainly, she isnot on the other side of that door at all. 

POMPDEBILE. Can that be true? Where are her ladies?

KNAVE. They are all there, Your Majesty. 

POMPDEBILE. Summon one of them. 

(THE KNAVE _goes out, shutting the door. He returns, following_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 thanshe could bear. Did she say anything before she left?

URSULA (_trembling_). 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 shedidn't intend to stay there any longer. 

POMPDEBILE (_roaring_). _Pokey!!_

URSULA. Yes, Your Majesty, and she bade me call her when youcame, but we can't find her, Your Majesty. 

(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _whisper. _ URSULA _is in tears. _)

CHANCELLOR. This should not be countenanced, Your Majesty. Theword "pokey" cannot be found in the dictionary. It is the mostflagrant disrespect to use a word that is not in the dictionaryin connection with a king. 

POMPDEBILE. We are quite aware of that, Chancellor, and althoughwe may appear calm on the surface, inwardly we are swelling, _swelling_, with rage and indignation. 

KNAVE (_looking out the window_). I see the Lady Violetta in thegarden. (_He goes to the door and holds it open, bowing. _) The LadyVioletta is at the door, Your Majesty. 

(_Enter the_ LADY VIOLETTA, _her purple train over her arm. She hasbeen running. _)

VIOLETTA. Am I late? I just remembered and came as fast as Icould. I bumped into a sentry and he fell down. I didn't. That'sstrange, isn't it? I suppose it's because he stands in oneposition so long he--Why, Pompy dear, what's the matter? Oh, oh!(_Walking closer_) Your feelings are hurt!

POMPDEBILE. _Don't_ call us Pompy. It doesn't seem to matterto 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, Pompdebile dear. I know, becausethey are connected with your eyebrows. When your feelings godown, up go your eyebrows, and when your feelings go up, they godown--always. 

POMPDEBILE (_severely_). Where have you been?

VIOLETTA. I, just now?

POMPDEBILE. Just now, when you should have been outside that doorwaiting _breathlessly. _

VIOLETTA. I was in the garden. Really, Pompy, you couldn't expectme to stay all day in that ridiculous pantry; and as for beingbreathless, it's quite impossible to be it unless one has beenjumping or something. 

POMPDEBILE. What were you doing in the garden?

VIOLETTA (_laughing_). Oh, it was too funny. I must tell you. Ifound a goat there who had a beard just like the Chancellor's--reallyit was quite remarkable, the resemblance--in other ways too. Itook him by the horns and I looked deep into his eyes, and Isaid, "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 emperor, a greatemperor, named Pompey. 

POMPDEBILE. We know him not. Begin at once; the people areclamoring at the gates. Bring the ingredients. 

(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _open the door, and, single file, six littleboys march in, bearing large jars labeled butter, salt, flour, pepper, cinnamon, and milk. The_ COOKS _place a table and a largebowl and a pan in front of the_ LADY VIOLETTA _and give her aspoon. The six little boys stand three on each side. _)

VIOLETTA. Oh, what darling little ingredients. May I have anapron, 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 thepepper, My Lady. They all _would_ sneeze in such a disturbingway. 

VIOLETTA. This is a perfectly controlled little boy. He hasn'tsneezed once. 

YELLOW HOSE. That, if it please Your Ladyship, is not a littleboy. 

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 thespoon, bowing. _) Your Majesty, Lords and Ladies of the court, Ipropose to make (_impressively_) raspberry tarts. 

BLUE HOSE. Heaven be kind to us!

YELLOW HOSE (_suddenly agitated_). Your Majesty, I implore yourforgiveness. There is no raspberry jam in the palace. 

POMPDEBILE What! Who is responsible for this carelessness?

BLUE HOSE. I gave the order to the grocer, but it didn't come. (_Aside_) I knew something like this would happen. I knew it. 

VIOLETTA (_untying her apron_). Then, Pompdebile, I'm verysorry--we shall have to postpone it. 

CHANCELLOR. If I may be allowed to suggest, Lady Violetta canprepare something else. 

KNAVE. The law distinctly says that the Queen-elect has theprivilege of choosing the dish which she prefers to prepare. 

VIOLETTA. Dear Pompdebile, let's give it up. It's such a sillylaw! Why should a great splendid ruler like you follow it justbecause one of your ancestors, who wasn't half as nice as youare, or one bit wiser, said to do it? Dearest Pompdebile, please. 

POMPDEBILE. We are inclined to think that there may be somethingin what the Lady Violetta says. 

CHANCELLOR. I can no longer remain silent. It is due to thatbrilliant law of Pompdebile the First, justly called the Great, that all members of our male sex are well fed, and, as a naturalconsequence, happy. 

KNAVE. The happiness of a set of moles who never knew thesunlight. 

POMPDEBILE. If we made an effort, we could think of a newlaw--just as wise. It only requires effort. 

CHANCELLOR. But the constitution. We can't touch theconstitution. 

POMPDEBILE (_starting up_). We shall destroy the constitution!

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 (_to_ KNAVE). Go you, and procure some. I will give ahundred golden guineas for it. 

(_The little boy who holds the cinnamon pot comes forward. _)

BOY. Please, Your Majesty, I have some. 

POMPDEBILE. You! Where?

BOY. In my pocket. If someone would please hold my cinnamonjar--I could get it. 

(UBSULA _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 toallow this?

POMPDEBILE (_sadly_). Yes, Chancellor. We have such an impulsivenature!

(_The_ LADY VIOLETTA _receives the money. _)

VIOLETTA. Thank you. (_She gives it to the boy. _) Now we are readyto begin. Milk, please. (_The boy who holds the milk jar comesforward 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, taking greatcare that it falls exactly in the middle of the bowl. (_To thelittle boy_) Thank you, dear. Now the flour, no, the pepper, andthen--one pound of butter. I hope that it is good butter, or thewhole thing will be quite spoiled. 

BLUE HOSE. This is the most astonishing thing I have everwitnessed. 

YELLOW HOSE. I don't understand it. 

VIOLETTA (_stirring_). I find that the butter is _not_ verygood. It makes a great difference. I shall have to use morepepper to counteract it. That's better. (_She pours in pepper. Theboy with the pepper pot sneezes violently. _) Oh, oh, dear! Lendhim your handkerchief, Chancellor. Knave, will you? (YELLOW HOSE_silences the boy's sneezes with the_ KNAVE'S _handkerchief. _) Ithink that they are going to turn out very well. Aren't you glad, Chancellor? You shall have one if you will be glad and smilenicely--a little brown tart with raspberry jam in the middle. Nowfor a dash of vinegar. 

COOKS (_in horror_). Vinegar! Great Goslings! Vinegar!

VIOLETTA (_stops stirring_). Vinegar will make them crumbly. Do youlike them crumbly, Pompdebile, darling? They are really for you, you know, since I am trying, by this example, to show all thewives how to please all the husbands. 

POMPDEBILE. Remember that they are to go in the museum with thetests of the previous Queens. 

VIOLETTA (_thoughtfully_). Oh, yes, I had forgotten that. Under thecircumstances, I shall omit the vinegar. We don't want them toocrumbly. They would fall about and catch the dust so frightfully. The museum-keeper would never forgive me in years to come. Now Idip them by the spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nicelittle boy's raspberry jam--I'm sorry I have to use it all, butyou may lick the spoon--put them in the oven, slam the door. Now, my Lord Pompy, the fire will do the rest. 

(_She curtsies before the_ KING. )

POMPDEBILE. It gave us great pleasure to see the ease with whichyou performed your task. You must have been practising for weeks. This relieves, somewhat, the anxiety under which we have beensuffering and makes us think that we would enjoy a game ofcheckers once more. How long a time will it take for yourcreation 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, hischin in hand--then exits slowly, right. The room is empty. Thecuckoo clock strikes. Presently both right and left doors openstealthily. Enter_ LADY VIOLETTA _at one door, the_ KNAVE _at theother, backward, looking down the passage. They turn suddenly andsee each other. _)

VIOLETTA (_tearfully_). O Knave, I can't cook! Anything--anythingat 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 thatthey turned out all right? (_Whispering_) Take them out of theoven. Let's look. 

KNAVE. That's what I intended to do before you came in. It'spossible that a miracle has occurred. 

(_He tries the door of the oven. _)

VIOLETTA. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my handkerchief. 

KNAVE. The gods forbid, My Lady. 

(_He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings outthe pan, which he puts on the table softly. _)

VIOLETTA (_with a look of horror_) How queer! They've melted orsomething. See, they are quite soft and runny. Do you think thatthey will be good for anything, Knave?

KNAVE. For paste, My Lady, perhaps. 

VIOLETTA. Oh, dear. Isn't it dreadful!

KNAVE. It is. 

VIOLETTA (_beginning to cry_). I don't want to be banished, especially on a mule--

KNAVE. Don't cry, My Lady. It's very--upsetting. 

VIOLETTA. I would make a delightful queen. The fêtes that I wouldgive--under the starlight, with soft music stealing from theshadows, fêtes all perfume and deep mystery, where the young--likeyou and me, Knave--would find the glowing flowers of youth readyto be gathered in all their dewy freshness!

KNAVE. Ah!

VIOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouldn't I make a prettypicture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with flowers, followed by the cheers of the populace--Long live Queen Violetta, long live Queen Violetta! Those _abominable_ tarts!

KNAVE. I'm afraid that Her Ladyship is vain. 

VIOLETTA. I am indeed. Isn't it fortunate?

KNAVE. Fortunate?

VIOLETTA. Well, I mean it would be fortunate if I were going tobe queen. They get so much flattery. The queens who don't adoreit as I do must be bored to death. Poor things! I'm never sohappy as when I am being flattered. It makes me feel all warm andpurry. That is another reason why I feel sure I was _made_to be a queen. 

KNAVE (_looking ruefully at the pan_). You will never be queen, MyLady, unless we can think of something quickly, some plan--

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, dear Knave, please think of a plan at once. Banished people, I suppose, have to comb their own hair, put ontheir shoes, and button themselves up the back. I have neverperformed these estimable and worthy tasks, Knave. I don't knowhow; I don't even know how to scent my bath. I haven't the leastidea what makes it smell deliciously of violets. I only know thatit always _does_ smell deliciously of violets because I wishit 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 queenin the world has to understand cooking; even the Queen of Spadesdoesn't. Why should the Queen of Hearts, of all people!

KNAVE. Perhaps it is because--I have heard a proverb: "The way tothe heart is through the--"

VIOLETTA (_angrily, stamping her foot_). Don't repeat that hatefulproverb! Nothing can make me more angry. I feel like crying whenI 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 area set of mules. How can moles or mules either be expected tounderstand 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 youanything to suggest--a plan?

KNAVE. If only there were time my wife could teach you. Herfigure is squat, round, her nose is clumsy, and her eyes stumbleover it; but her cooking, ah--(_He blows a kiss_) it is a thing todream about. She cooks as naturally as the angels sing. Thedelicate flavors of her concoctions float over the palate likethe perfumes of a thousand flowers. True, her temper, it isanything but sweet--However, I am conceded by many to be the mosthappily married man in the kingdom. 

VIOLETTA (_sadly_). Yes. That's all they care about here. One maybe, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every other way, but ifone can't cook nobody loves one at all. 

KNAVE. Beasts! My higher nature cries out at them for holdingsuch views. Fools! Swine! But my lower nature whispers thatperhaps after all they are not far from right, and as my lowernature is the only one that ever gets any encouragement--

VIOLETTA. Then you think that there is nothing to be done--Ishall have to be banished?

KNAVE. I'm afraid--Wait, I have an idea! (_Excitedly_) Dulcinea, mywife--her name is Dulcinea--made known to me this morning, veryforcibly--Yes, I remember, I'm sure--Yes, she was going to bakethis very morning some raspberry tarts--a dish in which sheparticularly excels--If I could only procure some of them andbring 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 stealthily. _)

KNAVE. I shall run as fast as I can. Don't let anyone come inuntil I get back, if you can help it. 

(_He jumps on the table, ready to go out the window. _)

VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, how clever of you to think of it. It is thecustom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen at hercoronation. 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 Iwould rather die than possess. Oh, how we argue about that, mywife and I! Dulcinea wishes to climb, and the higher she climbs, the less she cooks. Should you have me made Chancellor, she wouldnever wield a spoon again. 

VIOLETTA (_pursing her lips_). But it doesn't seem fair, exactly. Think of how much I shall be indebted to her. If she enjoyssocial position, I might as well give her some. We have lots andlots of it lying around. 

KNAVE. She wouldn't, My Lady, she wouldn't enjoy it. Dulcinea isa true genius, you understand, and the happiness of a genius liessolely in using his gift. If she didn't cook she would bemiserable, although she might not be aware of it, I'm perfectlysure. 

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 aminute; then she takes her skirt between the tips of her fingersand practises in pantomime her anticipated ride on the palfrey. She bows, smiles, kisses her hand, until suddenly she remembersthe mule standing outside the gates of the palace. That thoughtsaddens her, so she curls up in_ POMPDEBILE'S _throne and criessoftly, wiping away her tears with a lace handkerchief. There isa knock. She flies to the door and holds it shut. _)

VIOLETTA (_breathlessly_). Who is there?

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!

CHANCELLOR. You said they would be ready in twenty minutes. HisMajesty 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 itagain just for me? Or would it be too great a strain on you tokeep from beating him twice in succession?

CHANCELLOR. I shall tell the King that you refuse admission. 

(VIOLETTA _runs to the window 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 themaway. 

VIOLETTA. But the tarts aren't done, really. 

CHANCELLOR. You said twenty minutes. 

VIOLETTA. No, I didn't--at least, I said twenty minutes for themto get good and warm and another twenty minutes for them tobecome 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 theroad. _)

CHANCELLOR (_knocking loudly_). The King commands you to open thedoor. 

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'tsee how you can be so rude--to command me, your own Violetta wholoves you so. (_She again looks in vain for the_ KNAVE. ) Oh, dear!(_Wringing her hands_) Where can he be!

POMPDEBILE (_outside_). This is nonsense. Don't you see how worriedwe are? It is a compliment to you--

VIOLETTA. Well, come in; I don't care--only I'm sure they are notfinished. 

(_She opens the door for the_ KING, the CHANCELLOR, _and the two_PASTRY COOKS. _The_ KING _walks to his throne. He finds_ LADYVIOLETTA'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, thatyou are afraid?

VIOLETTA. How silly, Pompy. I washed my hands, as one always doesafter cooking; (_to the_ PASTRY COOKS) doesn't one? But there wasno towel, so I used my handkerchief 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 simpleto make--no work at all--A little imagination is all one needsfor such things, just imagination. You agree with me, don't you, Pompy, that imagination will work wonders--will do almostanything, in fact? I remember--

POMPDEBILE. The Pastry 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 isof the greatest importance. Please don't let them touch them!_Please_--

POMPDEBILE. There, there, my dear Violetta, calm yourself. If youwish, they will put them back again. There can be no harm inlooking at them. Come, I will hold your hand. 

VIOLETTA. That will help a great deal, Pompy, your holding myhand. 

(_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 notyet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear. In a little while--

VIOLETTA (_coming down_). Oh, I see. May I sit here, Chancellor, inthis seemingly humble position at his feet? Of course, I can't_really_ be humble when he is holding my hand and enjoyingit so much. 

POMPDEBILE. Violetta! (_To the_ PASTRY COOKS) Sample the tarts. This suspense is unbearable!

(_The_ KING'S _voice is husky with excitement. The two_ PASTRY COOKS, _after bowing with great ceremony to the_ KING, _to each other, tothe_ CHANCELLOR--_for this is the most important moment of theirlives by far--walk to the oven door and open it, impressively. They fall back in astonishment so great that they lose theirbalance, but they quickly scramble to their feet again_). 

YELLOW HOSE. Your Majesty, there are no tarts there!

BLUE HOSE. Your Majesty, the tarts have gone!

VIOLETTA (_clasping her hands_). Gone! Oh, where could they havegone?

POMPDEBILB (_coming down from throne_). That is impossible. 

PASTRY COOKS (_greatly excited_). You see, you see, the oven isempty as a drum. 

POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). Did you go out of this room?

VIOLETTA (_wailing_). Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to powder mynose before the mirror in the pantry. (_To_ PASTRY COOKS) When onecooks one becomes so disheveled, doesn't one? But if I hadthought 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 wouldtake 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 sweetmistress!

POMPDEBILE. Some wretch has stolen the tarts. 

(LADY VIOLETTA _moans. _)

URSULA. Bring some water. I will take off her headdress and batheher forehead. 

VIOLETTA (_sitting up_). I feel better now. Where am I? What is thematter? 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. Oneof the Queen's women, who was walking in the garden, saw theKnave jump out of this window with a tray in his hand. It was theKnave. 

VIOLETTA. Oh, I don't think it was he. I don't, really. 

POMPDEBILE. The scoundrel. Of course it was he. We shall banishhim 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 knownall over the Kingdom that I desire that the Knave be brought heredead or alive. Send the royal detectives and policemen in everydirection. 

CHANCELLOR. Excellent; just what I should have advised had YourMajesty listened to me. 

POMPDEBILE (_in a rage_). Be quiet. (_Exit_ HERALD. ) I never have abrilliant thought but you claim it. It is insufferable!

(_The_ HERALDS _can be heard in the distance. _)

CHANCELLOR. I resign. 

POMPDEBILE. Good. We accept your thirty-eighth resignation atonce. 

CHANCELLOR. You did me the honor to appoint me as yourChancellor, Your Majesty, yet never, never do you give me anopportunity to chancel. That is my only grievance. You mustadmit, Your Majesty, that as your advisers advise you, as yourdressers dress you, as your hunters hunt, as your bakers bake, your Chancellor should be allowed to chancel. However, I will bejust--as I have been with you so long; before I leave you, I willgive you a month's notice. 

POMPDEBILE. That isn't necessary. 

CHANCELLOR (_referring to the constitution hanging at his belt_). It's in the constitution. 

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet. 

VIOLETTA. Well, I think as things have turned out so--sounfortunately, I shall change my gown. (_To_ URSULA) Put out mycloth of silver with the moonstones. It is always a relief tochange one's gown. May I have my handkerchief, Pompy? Rather apretty one, isn't it, Pompy? Of course you don't object to mycalling you Pompy now. When I'm in trouble it's a comfort, likeholding your hand. 

POMPDEBILE (_magnanimously_). You may hold our hand too, Violetta. 

VIOLETTA (_fervently_). Oh, how good you are, how sympathetic! Butyou see it's impossible just now, as I have to change mygown--unless you will come with me while I change. 

CHANCELLOR (_in a voice charged with inexpressible horror_). YourMajesty!

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet! You have been discharged! (_He starts todescend, when a_ HERALD _bursts through the door in a state ofgreat excitement. He kneels before_ POMPDEBILE. )

HERALD. We have found him; we have found him, Your Majesty. Infact, _I_ found him all by myself! He was sitting under theshrubbery eating a tart. I stumbled over one of his legs andfell. "How easy it is to send man and all his pride into thedust, " he said, and then--I saw him!

POMPDEBILE. Eating a tart! Eating a tart, did you say? Thescoundrel! Bring him here immediately. 

(_The_ HERALD _rushes out and returns with the_ KNAVE, _followedby the six little_ PAGES. _The_ KNAVE _carries a tray of tarts inhis hand. _)

POMPDEBILE (_almost speechless with rage_). How dareyou--you--you--

KNAVE (_bowing_). Knave, Your Majesty. 

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 severe enough, to cut off a man's head! Really, Violetta--

VIOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been beheaded, one'sconsciousness that one has been beheaded comes off too. It isinevitable. And then, what does it matter, when one doesn't know?Let us think of something really cruel--really fiendish. I haveit--deprive him of social position for the rest of his life--forcehim to remain a mere knave, forever. 

POMPDEBILE. You are right. 

KNAVE. Terrible as this punishment is, I admit that I deserve it, Your Majesty. 

POMPDEBILE. What prompted you to commit this dastardly 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 inmy constitution that cries out for them--and I obey myconstitution as rigidly as does the Chancellor seek to obey his. I was in the garden reading, as is my habit, when a delicate odorfloated to my nostrils, a persuasive odor, a seductive, lightbrown, flaky odor, an odor so enticing, so suggestive of tartsfit for the gods--- that I could stand it no longer. It wasstronger than I. With one gesture I threw reputation, my chancesfor future happiness, to the winds, and leaped through thewindow. The odor led me to the oven; I seized a tart, and, eatingit, experienced the one perfect moment of my existence. Afterhaving eaten that one tart, my craving for other tarts hasdisappeared. I shall live with the memory of that first tartbefore me forever, or die content, having tasted true perfection. 

POMPDEBILE. M-m-m, how extraordinary! Let him be beaten fifteenstrokes on the back. Now, Pastry Cooks to the Royal Household, weawait your decision!

(_The_ COOKS _bow as before; then each selects a tart from thetray on the table, lifts it high, then puts it in his mouth. Anexpression of absolute ecstasy and beatitude comes over theirfaces. 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 lastencountered a true genius, a great master, or rather mistress, ofour 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 atart and eats it. _)

POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). My dear, they are marvels! marvels!(_He comes down from the throne and leads_ VIOLETTA _up to thedais. _) Your throne, my dear. 

VIOLETTA (_sitting down, with a sigh_). I'm glad it's such acomfortable one. 

POMPDEBILE. Knave, we forgive your offense. The temptation wasvery great. There are things that mere human nature cannot beexpected to resist. Another tart, Cooks, and yet another!

CHANCELLOR. But, Your Majesty, don't eat them all. They must goto the museum with the dishes of the previous Queens of Hearts. 

YELLOW HOSE. A museum--those tarts! As well lock a rose in amoney-box!

CHANCELLOR. But the constitution commands it. How else can wecommemorate, 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 theminds of the people?

KNAVE. It is the only way to keep it in the minds of the people. No event is truly deathless unless its monument be built inrhyme. Consider that fall which, though insignificant in itself, became the most famous of all history, because someone happenedto put it into rhyme. The crash of it sounded through centuriesand will vibrate for generations to come. 

VIOLETTA. You mean the fall of the Holy Roman Empire?

KNAVE. No, Madam, I refer to the fall of Humpty Dumpty. 

POMPDEBILE. Well, make your rhyme. In the meantime let uscelebrate. You may all have one tart. (_The_ PASTRY COOKS _passthe tarts. To_ VIOLETTA) Are you willing, dear, to ride the whitepalfrey 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 thegates. 

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they must clamor. I _want_ them to. Herald, tell them that to every man I shall toss a flower, to every womana shining gold piece, but to the babies I shall throw onlykisses, thousands of them, like little winged birds. Kisses andgold and roses! They will surely love me then!

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, I protest. Of what possible use to thepeople--?

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! Youshall be Poet Laureate. A Poet Laureate has no social position, has he?

KNAVE. It depends, Your Majesty, upon whether or not he choosesto be more laureate than poet. 

VIOLETTA (_rising, her eyes closed in ecstasy_). _YourMajesty!_ 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 Violetta!

VIOLETTA (_excitedly_). _Vee_-oletta, please!

HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen_Vee_-oletta--

(_The_ KING _and_ QUEEN _show themselves at the door--and the peoplecan be heard clamoring outside. _)

 [CURTAIN]

FAME AND THE POET[1]

Lord Dunsany

[Footnote 1: Reprinted from the _Atlantic Monthly_ for June, 1919, by special permission of Lord Dunsany and the editors ofthe _Atlantic Monthly. _]

SCENE: The Poet's rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screenin a corner. 

TIME: February 30th. 

CHARACTERS

HARRY DE REVES. --A Poet. 

(_This name, though of course of French origin, has becomeanglicized 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, Harry. 

DE REVES. Hullo, Dick. Good Lord, where are you from?

PRATTLE (_casually_). The ends of the Earth. 

DE REVES. Well, I'm damned!

PRATTLE. Thought I'd drop in and see how you were getting on. 

DE REVES. Well, that's splendid. What are you doing in London?

PRATTLE. Well, I wanted to see if I could get one or two decentties to wear, --you can get nothing out there, --then I thoughtI'd have a look and see how London was getting on. 

DE REVES. Splendid! How's everybody?

PRATTLE. All going strong. 

DE REVES. That's good. 

PRATTLE. (_seeing paper and ink_). But what are you doing?

DE REVES. Writing. 

PRATTLE. Writing? I didn'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'dhardly approve of poetry if there _was_ money in it. 

PRATTLE. Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetryas I can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, only--

DE REVES. Only what?

PRATTLE. Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense inbetting, somehow. 

DE REVES. Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what anearthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus--

PRATTLE. What's Pegasus?

DE REVES. Oh, the winged horse of poets. 

PRATTLE. I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you?

DE REVES. In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. Theyall represent some large truth to turn us. An emblem like Pegasusis 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'dbelieve in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind ofbirds?

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, didn'tthey? And he represents to them the wealth and dignity andtradition of--

PRATTLE. Yes; but, I say, what has all this--

DE REVES. Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made himLord Mayor, and so he is one. .. . 

PRATTLE. Well, of course he is. 

DE REVES. In the same way Pan has been made what he is bymillions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions. 

PRATTLE. (_rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughingand looking at the POET in a kind of assumed wonder_). I say. .. . Isay. .. . 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. 

PRATTLE. What? Why not?

DE REVES. Oh, you wouldn't understand. 

PRATTLE. Wouldn't understand? Why, what have you got?

DE REVES. Oh, one of those things. .. . You wouldn't understand. 

PRATTLE. Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look. (_The_ POET_walks 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 doyou make of it?

(_An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is revealed. 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 camelate at the best of times, now scarcely ever. 

PRATTLE. But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you think therereally is such a person?

DE REVES. I offer all my songs to her. 

PRATTLE. But you don't mean you think you could actually_see_ Fame?

DE REVES. We poets personify abstract things, and not poets onlybut sculptors and painters too. All the great things of the worldare those abstract things. 

PRATTLE. But what I mean is they're not really there, like you orme. 

DE REVES. To us these things are more real than men, they outlivegenerations, they watch the passing of Kingdoms: we go by themlike dust; they are still here, unmoved, 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 andGreek 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. Ionce got like that on board the Sandhurst, working for thepassing-out exam. I got so bad that I could have seen anything. 

DE REVES. Seen anything?

PRATTLE. Lord, yes: horned pigs, snakes with wings, anything, oneof your winged horses even. They gave me some stuff calledbromide for it. You take a rest. 

DE REVES. But my dear fellow, you don't understand at all. Imerely said that abstract things are to a poet as near and realand visible as one of your bookmakers or barmaids. 

PRATTLE. I know. You take a rest. 

DE REVES. Well, perhaps I will. I'd come with you to that musicalcomedy you're going to see, only I'm a bit tired after writingthis; it's a tedious job. I'll 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 theLord Chamberlain's. You're not going there. 

PBATTLE. Do I look like it?

DE REVES. No. 

PRATTLE. Well, you're quite right. I'm going to see "The Girlfrom 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 dinnerto-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 down. _)

Good old Dick. He's the same as ever. Lord, how time passes. 

(_He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alterations. _)

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 andgoes up to the altar. He is about to place his sonnet reverentlyat 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 donebefore will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do. 

(_He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the table. Twilight is coming on. He sits with his elbow on the table, hishead on his hand, or however the actor pleases. _)

Well, well. Fancy seeing Dick again. Well, Dick enjoys his life, so he's no fool. What was that he said? "There's no money inpoetry. You'd better chuck it. " Ten years' work and what have Ito show for it? The admiration of men who care for poetry, andhow many of _them_ are there? There's a bigger demand forsmoked glasses to look at eclipses of the sun. Why should Famecome to me? Haven't I given up my days for her? That is enough tokeep her away. I am a poet; that is enough reason for her toslight me. Proud and aloof and cold as marble, what does Famecare for us? Yes, Dick is right. It's a poor game chasingillusions, hunting the intangible, pursuing dreams. Dreams? Why, 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. Suddenly he lifts his head_)

My room at Eton, Dick said. An untidy mess. 

(_As he lifts his head and says these words, twilight gives placeto broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author of the playmay have been mistaken, and the whole thing may have been no morethan a poet's dream. _)

So it was, and it's an untidy mess there (_looking at screen_) too. Dick's right. I'll tidy it up. I'll burn the whole damned heap. (_He advances impetuously toward the screen_) Every damned poemthat I was ever fool enough to waste my time on. 

(_He pushes back the screen. _ FAME _in a Greek dress with a longgolden trumpet in her hand is seen standing motionless on thealtar like a marble goddess. _)

So . .. You have come!

(_For a while he stands thunderstruck. Then he approaches thealtar. _)

Divine fair lady, you have come. 

(_He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from the altarand into the centre of the stage. At whatever moment the actorfinds it most convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnetthat he had placed on the altar. He now offers it to_ FAME. )

This is my sonnet. Is it well done?

(FAME _takes it, reads it in silence, while the_ POET _watches herrapturously. _)

FAME. You're a bit of all right. 

DE REVES. What?

FAME. Some poet. 

DE REVES. I--I--scarcely . .. Understand. 

FAME. You're IT. 

DE REVES. But . .. It is not possible . .. Are you she that knew Homer?

FAME. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard. 

DE REVES. O Heavens!

(FAME _walks beautifully to the window. She opens it and puts herhead out. _)

FAME (_in a voice with which a woman in an upper story would cryfor help if the house was well alight_). Hi! Hi! Boys! Hi! Say, folks! Hi!

(_The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard. _ FAME _blows hertrumpet. _)

FAME. Hi, he's a poet. (_Quickly, over her shoulder. _) What's yourname?

DE REVES. De Reves. 

FAME. His name's de Reves. 

DE REVES. Harry de Reves. 

FAME. His pals call him Harry. 

THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

FAME. Say, what's your favourite color?

DE REVES. I . .. I . .. I don't quite understand. 

FAME. Well, which do you like best, green or blue?

DE REVES. Oh--er--blue. (_She blows her trumpet out of thewindow. _) 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; Wouldn't you perhaps . .. Would they care to hear mysonnet, 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 aquill. (_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. 

FAME (_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 bacon for breakfast. 

THE CROWD. Hip hip hip _hooray!_ Hip hip hip _hooray!_Hip hip hip _hooray!_

FAME. 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, _this time only from women's voices. _)

DE REVES. Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This isterrible. 

(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 cannotpossibly be. Others deserve you more. I must say it! _I cannotpossibly love you. _ Others are worthy. You will find others. But I, no, no, no. It cannot be. It cannot be. Oh, pardon me, butit _must_ not. 

(_Meanwhile_ FAME _has been lighting one of his cigarettes. She sitsin a comfortable chair, leans right back, and puts her feet rightup 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 goingto 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. _)

 [CURTAIN]

THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE[1]

Beulah Marie Dix

SCENE: In the cheerless hour before the dawn of a wet springmorning five gentlemen-troopers of the broken Royalist army, fagged and outworn with three long days of siege, are holding, with what strength and courage are left them, the Gatehouse ofthe Bridge of Cashala, which is the key to the road that leadsinto Connaught. The upper chamber of the Gatehouse, in which theymake their stand, is a narrow, dim-lit apartment, built of stone. At one side is a small fireplace, and beside it a narrow, barreddoor, which leads to the stairhead. At the end of the room, gained by a single raised step, are three slit-like windows, breast-high, designed, as now used, for defense in time of war. The room is meagrely furnished, with a table on which arepowder-flask, touch-box, etc. , for charging guns, a stool or two, and an open keg of powder. The whole look of the place, bare andmartial, but depressed, bespeaks a losing fight. On the hearththe ashes of a fire are white, and on the chimneypiece a brace ofcandles are guttering out. 

The five men who hold the Gatehouse wear much soiled and tornmilitary dress. They are pale, powder-begrimed, sunken-eyed, withevery mark of weariness of body and soul. Their leader, JOHNTALBOT, is standing at one of the shot-windows, with piecepresented, looking forth. He is in his mid-twenties, ofNorman-Irish blood, and distinctly of a finer, more nervous typethan his companions. He has been wounded, and bears his left handwrapped in a bloody rag. DICK FENTON, a typical, careless youngEnglish swashbuckler, sits by the table, charging a musket, andsinging beneath his breath as he does so. He, too, has beenwounded, and bears a bandage about his knee. Upon the floor (_atright_) KIT NEWCOMBE lies in the sleep of utter exhaustion. He isan English lad, in his teens, a mere tired, haggard child, withhis head rudely bandaged. On a stool by the hearth sits MYLESBUTLER, a man of JOHN TALBOT'S own years, but a slower, heavier, almost sullen type. Beside him kneels PHELIMY DRISCOLL, anervous, dark Irish lad, of one and twenty. He is resting hisinjured arm across BUTLER'S knee, and BUTLER is roughly bandagingthe hurt. 

For a moment there is a weary, heavy silence, in which the wordsof the song which FENTON sings are audible. It is the doleful oldstrain of "the hanging-tune. "

[Footnote 1: Included by permission of the author and of Messrs. Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume_Allison's Lad and Other Martial Interludes. _ (1910). ]

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 wilt thou not restore my joys again?

BUTLER (_shifting_ DRISCOLL'S _arm, none too tenderly_). More to thelight!

DRISCOLL (_catching breath with pain_). Ah! Softly, Myles!

JOHN 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 strainedalmost beyond endurance_). What should I see but Cromwell'swatch-fires along the boreen? What else should I see, and thenight as black as the mouth of hell? What else should I see, anda pest choke your throat with your fool's questions, Dick Fenton!

(_Resumes his watch. _)

FENTON (_as who should say: "I thank you!"_). God 'a'mercy--_Captain_ Talbot!

(_Resumes his singing. _)

DRISCOLL. God's love! I bade ye have a care, Myles Butler. 

BUTLEK (_tying the last bandage_). It's a stout heart you have inyou, Phelimy Driscoll--you to be crying out for a scratch. It'sbetter you would have been, you and the like of you, to bestopping 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'lllesson ye! I'll--

(_Tries to rise, but in the effort sways weakly forward and restswith his head upon the stool which_ 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 'tis like to be nothing half so merryas the gallows. 

BUTLER. Hold your fool's tongue!

NEWCOMBE (_crying out in his sleep_). Oh! Oh!

JOHN TALBOT. What was that?

FENTON. 'Twas naught but young Newcombe that cried out in theclutch of a nightmare. 

BUTLER. 'Tis time Kit Newcombe rose and stood his watch. 

JOHN TALBOT (_leaving the window_). Nay, 'tis only a boy. Let himsleep while he can! Let him sleep!

BUTLER. Turn and turn at the watch, 'tis but fair. Stir yondersluggard awake, Dick!

FENTON. Aye. (_Starts to rise. _)

JOHN TALBOT. Who gives commands here? Sit you down, Fenton! Toyour 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 outthere, Myles. There is but one Captain of the Gate ofConnaught--he who set me here--my cousin, Hugh Talbot. 

BUTLER (_muttering_). Aye, and it's a deal you'll need to begrowing, ere you fill Hugh Talbot's shoes. 

JOHN TALBOT. And that's a true word! But 'twas Hugh Talbot's willthat I should command, here at the Bridge of Cashala. And as longas 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 will hiton some shift to fill our empty casks. 

(DRISCOLL _rises heavily. _)

JOHN TALBOT. Not the new Captain of the Gate. The old Captain ofthe Gate--Hugh Talbot. He'll 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. _)

Driscoll! Are you gone mad? Stand you back from that door!

(_Thrusts_ DRISCOLL _from the door. _)

DRISCOLL (_half delirious_). Let me forth! The spring--'tis justbelow--there on the river-bank! Let me slip down to it--but amoment--and drink!

JOHN TALBOT. Cromwell'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 with_ JOHN TALBOT). I'm choked! I'm choked, Itell ye! Let me go, Jack Talbot! Let me go!

NEWCOMBE (_still half-asleep, rises to his knees, with a terriblecry, and his groping hands upthrust to guard his head_). God'spity! 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! KitNewcombe!

NEWCOMBE. Ah, God! Keep them from me! Keep them from me!

JOHN TALBOT. Ha' done! Ha' done!

NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not the butt of the muskets! Not that! Notthat!

JOHN TALBOT (_stifling_ NEWCOMBE'S _outcry with a hand upon hismouth_). Wake! You're dreaming!

DRISCOLL. 'Tis ill luck! 'Tis ill luck comes of such dreaming!

NEWCOMBE. Drogheda! I dreamed I was at Drogheda, where mybrother--my brother--they beat out his brains--Cromwell'smen--with their clubbed muskets--they--

(_Clings shuddering to_ JOHN TALBOT. )

FENTON. English officers that serve amongst the Irish--'t is thusthat Cromwell uses them!

BUTLER. English officers--aye, like ourselves!

JOHN TALBOT. Be quiet, Kit! You're far from Drogheda--here atthe Bridge of Cashala. 

BUTLER. Aye, safe in Cashala Gatehouse, with five hundred ofCromwell's men sitting down before it. 

JOHN TALBOT. Keep your watch, Butler!

NEWCOMBE. You give orders? You still command, Jack? Where'sCaptain Talbot, then?

(_Snatches up his sword and rises. _)

BUTLER (_quitting the window_). Aye, where _is_ CaptainTalbot?

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 threedays now. 

BUTLER. And where is Hugh Talbot with the aid he promised?

JOHN TALBOT. He promised. He has never broken faith. He willbring us aid. 

FENTON. Aye, if he be living!

DRISCOLL. Living? You mean that he--Och, he's dead! Hugh Talbot'sdead! And we're destroyed! We're destroyed!

NEWCOMBE (_cowering_). The butt of the muskets!

FENTON. God!

(_Deliberately_ BUTLER _lays down his musket. _)

JOHN TALBOT. Take up your piece!

BUTLER. Renounce me if I do!

FENTON. I stand with you, Myles Butler. Make terms for us, JohnTalbot, or, on my soul, we'll make them for ourselves. 

JOHN TALBOT. Surrender?

NEWCOMBE. Will Cromwell spare us, an we yield ourselves now? Willhe spare us? Will he--

FENTON. 'Tis our one chance. 

NEWCOMBE. Give me that white rag!

(_Crosses and snatches a bandage from chimneypiece. _)

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 curseon you!

BUTLER. We'll not be butchered like oxen in the shambles!

JOHN TALBOT. Your oaths!

BUTLER. We'll not fight longer to be knocked on the head at thelast. 

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. Atthat moment, close at hand, a bugle sounds. _)

JOHN TALBOT. Hark!

DRISCOLL. The bugle! They're upon us!

BUTLER (_releasing his hold on_ JOHN TALBOT). What was that?

JOHN TALBOT. You swore to hold the bridge. 

BUTLER. Swore to hold it one day. We've held it three days now. 

FENTON. And the half of us are slain. 

NEWCOMBE. And we've no water--and no food!

JOHN TALBOT (_pointing to the powder-keg_). We have powder inplenty. 

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 shall! Help mehere, Phelimy!

JOHN TALBOT. A summons to parley. What see you, Fenton?

FENTON (_at the shot-window_). Torches coming from the boreen, anda 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_). 'Tis Hugh Talbot comes!'Tis 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'll 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!

(JOHN TALBOT _unbars the door, and bars it again upon the entranceof_ HUGH TALBOT. _The latter comes slowly into the room. He is aman in his late thirties, a tall, martial figure, clad inmuch-worn velvet and leather, with sword at side. The five salutehim as he enters. _)

HUGH TALBOT (_halts and for a moment surveys his followers_). Well, lads?

(_The five stand trembling on the edge of a nervous break, unablefor 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. 'Tis not worth heeding, sir. 

HUGH TALBOT. Kit! Kit! (_At the voice_ NEWCOMBE _pulls himselftogether. _) A light here! Dick, you've your pouch under your hand?

FENTON. 'Tis here, sir. 

(_Offers his tobacco pouch. _)

HUGH TALBOT (_filling his pipe_). Leave the window, Myles! They'vepromised us a half hour's truce--and Cromwell's a man of hisword. 

NEWCOMBE (_bringing a lighted candle_). He'll let us pass free now, sir, will he not?

HUGH TALBOT (_lighting his pipe at the candle_). You're not afraid, Kit?

NEWCOMBE. I? Faith, no, sir. No! Not now!

HUGH TALBOT. Sit ye down, Phelimy, lad! You look dead on yourfeet. Give me to see that arm! (_As_ HUGH TALBOT _starts toward_DRISCOLL, _his eye falls on the open keg of powder. He draws backhastily, covering his lighted pipe. _) Jack Talbot! Who taught yeto leave your powder uncovered, 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 somewhat pressedfor time. 

(_The five laugh, half hysterically. _)

HUGH TALBOT (_sitting by fire_). And you never thought, maybe, thatin that keg there was powder enough to blow the bridge of Cashalato hell?

JOHN TALBOT. It seemed a matter of small moment, sir. 

HUGH TALBOT. Small moment! Powder enough, put case ye set itthere, at the stairhead--d'ye follow me?--powder enough to makean end of Cashala Bridge for all time--aye, and of all within theGatehouse. 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 recallthe powder to your minds. 

DRISCOLL. We thought--(BUTLER _motions him to be silent. _) Wethought maybe you would not be coming at all, sir. Maybe youwould be dead. 

HUGH TALBOT. Well? What an if I had been dead? You had yourorders. You did not dream of giving up the Bridge of Cashala--eh, Myles Butler?

BUTLER (_after a moment_). No, sir. 

HUGH TALBOT. Nor you, Dick Fenton?

FENTON. Sir, I--No!

HUGH TALBOT (_smoking throughout_). Good lads! The wise heads weresaying I was a stark fool to set you here at Cashala. But I said:I can be trusting the young riders that are learning theirlessons in war from me. I'll be safe putting my honor into theirhands. And I was right, wasn't I, Phelimy Driscoll?

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 devilsits yonder in Cromwell's tent. 

NEWCOMBE (_with a shudder_). Cromwell!

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, he was slaying your brother at Drogheda, Kit, and a fine, gallant lad your brother was. And I'm thinking you'relike him, Kit. Else I shouldn't be trusting you here at Cashala. 

NEWCOMBE. I--I--Will they let us keep our swords?

HUGH TALBOT. Well, it's with yourselves it lies, whether you'llkeep them or not. 

FENTON. He means--we mean--on what terms, sir, do we surrender?

HUGH TALBOT. Surrender? Terms?

JOHN TALBOT. We thought, sir, from your coming under their whiteflag--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 forself-control. _)

HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms that you would hear to?Cashala Bridge is the gate of Connaught. 

JOHN TALBOT. Yes. 

HUGH TALBOT. Give Cromwell Cashala Bridge, and he'll be on theheels of our women and our little ones. At what price would ye beselling their safety?

DRISCOLL. Cromwell--when he takes us--when he takes us--

NEWCOMBE. He'll knock us on the head!

HUGH TALBOT. Yes. At the last. Your five lives against ourpeople'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'llsee how we shall fight. 

HUGH TALBOT. I shall be seeing you fight, perhaps, but I cannotstay 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 aliar, 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 usthat shall die at Cashala--you that come walking under the rebelflag--that swore to bring us aid--and have not brought it! Tellus whither you go now!

HUGH TALBOT. Well, I'm a shade doubtful, Myles, my lad, thoughhopeful of the best. 

BUTLER. 'Tis to Cromwell you go--you that have made your peacewith him--that have sold us--

DRISCOLL. Captain! A' God's name, what is it that you're meaning?

HUGH TALBOT. I mean that you shall hold the Bridge ofCashala--whatever happen to you--whatever happen to me--

FENTON. To you? Captain Talbot!

HUGH TALBOT. I am going unto Cromwell--as you said, Myles. I gavemy promise. 

DRISCOLL. Your promise?

JOHN TALBOT. We--have been very blind. So--they made youprisoner?

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Jack. When I tried to cut my way through tobring you aid. And they granted me this half hour on my parole tocome unto you. 

JOHN TALBOT. To come--

HUGH TALBOT. To counsel you to surrender. And I have given youcounsel. Hold the bridge! Hold it! Whatever they do!

DRISCOLL. Captain! Captain Talbot! God of Heaven! If you goback--'tis killed you'll be among them!

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 to door. _)

JOHN TALBOT (_barring his way_). No, no! You shan't go forth!

FENTON. God's mercy, no!

HUGH TALBOT. Are you stark crazed?

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'retraveling the same road. 

FENTON. God! But we'll give them a good fight at the last. (_Goesto the shot-window. _) Take up your musket, Kit. 

NEWCOMBB. But I--Captain! When you are gone, I--I--

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 thestairhead, 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_ HUGHTALBOT _goes out. In the moment's silence upon his exit_, JOHNTALBOT _bars the door and turns to his comrades. _) You have--HughTalbot's orders. Take your pieces! Driscoll! Newcombe!

(_Obediently the two join_ FENTON _at windows. _) 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!

DRISCOLL. Christ Jesus!

(_Goes back from the window, with his arm across his eyes, andfalls on his knees in headlong prayer. _)

JOHN TALBOT. Kit! Kit Newcombe!

(_Motions him to window. _)

NEWCOMBE. I cannot! I--

JOHN TALBOT. Look forth! Look! And remember--when you meetthem--remember! (NEWCOMBE _stands swaying, clutching at thegrating of the window, as he looks forth. _) Lads! (_Motions to_BUTLER _and_ FENTON _to carry the powder to the stairhead. _) The timeis short. His orders!

(DRISCOLL _raises his head and gazes fixedly toward the centre ofthe 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 thelight! Newcombe! Come! You have your places, all. 

DRISCOLL. But, Captain! The sixth man--where will the sixth manbe standing?

(_There is a blank silence, in which the men look questioningly 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, even as, a few moments before, he hassaluted_ HUGH TALBOT, _living. _

NEWCOMBE _gives a smothered cry, as one who half sees, and takescourage. _ FENTON _dazedly starts to salute. Outside a buglesounds, 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 ourcommander stands with us!

VOICE OUTSIDE. And who might your commander be?

JOHN TALBOT. Hugh Talbot, the Captain of the Gate! The lighthere, Phelimy. 

(JOHN TALBOT _bends to set the candle to the powder that shalldestroy Cashala Gatehouse, and all within it. His mates aregathered round him, with steady, bright faces, for in the littlespace left vacant in their midst they know in that minute that_HUGH TALBOT _stands. _)

 [CURTAIN]

GETTYSBURG[1]

Percy MacKaye

SCENE: A woodshed, in the ell of a farm-house. 

The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the aperturesbeing slightly arched at the top. (_In bad weather, thesepresumably may be closed by big double doors, which stand opennow--swung back outward beyond sight. _) Thus the nearer opening isthe proscenium arch of the scene, under which the spectator looksthrough the shed to the background--a grassy yard, a road withgreat trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a greenhillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large beams. 

On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from the housekitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed into the barn. In the foreground, against the right wall, is a work-bench. Onthis are tools, a long, narrow, wooden box, and a smalloil-stove, with steaming kettle upon it. 

Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply isstacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stovewood andkindlings mixed with small chips of the floor, which is pileddeep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust. 

Not far from this mounded pile, at right centre of the scene, stands a wooden armchair, in which LINK TADBOURNE, in hisshirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted by the sunlight beyond, his sharp-drawn profile is that of an old man, with white haircropped close, and gray moustache of a faded black hue at theouter edges. Between his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittledround by the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in hislap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden yoke andcollar. Near him is a chopping-block. 

In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the hum andfloating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the old man murmursin his sleep, clenching his hand. Slowly the hand relaxes again. 

From the door, right, comes POLLY--a sweet-faced girl ofseventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is dressed simply. Inone hand she carries a man's wide-brimmed felt hat, over theother arm a blue coat. These she brings toward LINK. Seeing himasleep, she begins to tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on thechopping-block, goes to the bench, and trims the wick of theoil-stove, under the kettle. Then she returns and stands nearLINK, surveying the shed. 

On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a certainorder in its chaos; some of the splittings have been piled inirregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of wood-dust andchips has been scooped, and the little mounds slope and rise likeminiature valleys and hills. [2]

Taking up a hoe, POLLY--with careful steps--moves among thehollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, scraping andsmoothing the little mounds with the hoe. As she does so, fromfar away, a bugle sounds. 

[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1912, by Percy Mackaye. All rightsreserved. ]

[Footnote 2: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement ofthese mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field annexedto the volume by Captain R. K. Beecham, entitled _Gettysburg_(A. C. McClurg, 1911). ]

 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?

 LINK (_giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong_)

 Thar! When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug, I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to-- (_Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he holds the whittled 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 What's that I used to sing ye?

 "Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on--"

 (_Chuckling'_)

 We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea!

 POLLY The kettle's boilin'. 

 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 the farther end of the box, steam then emerges through a small hole. _)

 POLLY You're feelin' smart to-day. 

 LINK Smart!--Wall, if I could git a hull man to swap legs with me, mebbe I'd arn 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'. 

 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. _)

 What's that?

 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; but I must take my little laugh. I told him I guessed I wa'n't persent'ble 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 up 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. 

 LINK (_looking up 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 like 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 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. 

 LINK Map? Oh, the map!

 (_Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods. _)

 Yes, thar she be: old Gettysburg!

 POLLY I know the places--most. 

 LINK So, _do_ ye? Good, now: whar's your marker?

 POLLY (_taking up the hoe_)

 Here. 

 LINK Willoughby Run: whar's that?

 POLLY (_pointing with the hoe toward the left of the woodpile_)

 That's farthest over next the barn 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 Wheatfield--

 LINK Lord, Lord, the Wheatfield!

 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: Culp's Hill: I don't jest spy Culp's Hill. 

 POLLY There wa'n't enough kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay east there, towards the kitchen. 

 LINK Let it go! That's whar us Yanks left our back door ajar and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep' it thar, too, till he got it squoze off by old Slocum. Let Culp's Hill lay for now. --Lend me your marker. (POLLY _hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches with it and digs in the chips. _) 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 Wheatfield: 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, red-yeller as a punkin 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-- layin' 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 knowed 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 white 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 bit o' rubbish--red and white and blue. ' And Link he laughed. 'What be you laughin' for?' says I. 'Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!'" says Link. 

 POLLY What did the span-new mister say to that?

 LINK I didn't stop to listen. 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's the 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!

 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 grapplin' 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 twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment on, the sound and emotion of the brass music, slowly growing louder, permeates the scene. _)

 POLLY Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow the created world to act that awful?

 LINK Now, I wonder!--Cast your eye along this hoe:

 (_He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron. _)

 Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?--That's the boy I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "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 hand, which rests on his hoe_)

 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, list'nin' to bugles--bugles--bugles, callin'. 

 (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!

 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 Brown'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-marchin' 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 disremember 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 words of "John Brown's Body. " At the sound, _ LINK'S _face becomes transformed with emotion, his body shakes, and his shoulders heave and straighten. _) No!--I--_won't_--set!

 (_Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and stands. _)

 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 with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously 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-mould'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 with 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!

 (_Swinging the flag_)

 Hooray!--Hooray!--Hooray!

 (_Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old men and children sing martially to the brass music. _

 _With his final cheer_, LINK _stumbles 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, with the singers:_)

 "--ry hallelujah, Glory, glory hallelujah, His truth is marchin" on!"

 [CURTAIN]

LONESOME-LIKE[1]

Harold Brighouse

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the author and ofthe publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, of Glasgow. ]

CHARACTERS

SAKAH ORMEHOD, An old womanEMMA BRIERLEY, A young womanTHE REV. FRANK ALLEYNE, A curateSAM HORROCKS, A young man

THE SCENE _represents the interior of a cottage in a Lancashirevillage. Through the window at the back the gray row of cottagesopposite is just visible. The outside door is next to the window. Door left. As regards furniture the room is very bare. Thesuggestion is not of an empty room, but a stripped room. Forexample, there are several square patches where the distemper ofthe walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indicating theplaces once occupied by pictures. There is an uncovered dealthe left wall is a dresser and a plate-rack above it containing afew pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils upon it. Ablackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking-range, but theroom contains only the barest necessities. The floor isuncarpeted. There are no window curtains, but a yard of cheapmuslin is fastened across the window, not coming, however, highenough to prevent a passer-by from looking in, should he wish todo so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered black tintrunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the door leftis a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned beadedbonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain rises the room isempty. Immediately, however, the door left opens and SARAHORMEROD, an old woman, enters, carrying clumsily in her arms acouple of pink flannelette nightdresses, folded neatly. Her blackstuff dress is well worn, and her wedding-ring is her onlyornament. She wears elastic-sided boots, and her rather shortskirt shows a pair of gray worsted stockings. A small plaid shawlcovers her shoulders. SARAH crosses and puts the nightdresses onthe table, surveying the trunk ruefully. There is a knock at theoutside door and she looks up. _

SARAH. Who's theer?

EMMA (_without_). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierley. 

SARAH. Eh, coom in, Emma, lass. 

(_Enter_ EMMA BRIERLEY. _She is a young weaver, and, having justleft her work, she wears a dark skirt, a blouse of someindeterminate blue-gray shade made of cotton, and a large shawlover her head and shoulders in place of a jacket and hat. Acolored cotton apron covers her skirt below the waist, and theshort skirt displays stout stockings similar to Sarah's. Shewears clogs, and the clothes--except the shawl--are covered withends of cotton and cotton-wool fluff. Even her hair has notescaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her waist. _)

SARAH. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think o'coomin' to see an ould woman like me. 

EMMA (_by door_). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod. Th' mill's justloosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were passin' and see 'ow thawas feeling like. 

SARAH (_crossing to box_). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It'sonly my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a weaver's nomanner o' good to nobody without th' use o' 'er'ands. A'm allreeght in masel'. That's worst of it. 

EMMA. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought as Acan do for thee?

SARAH. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma. 

EMMA (_taking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on apeg in the door_). Well, A knaws better. What wert doin' whenA coom in? Packin' yon box?

SARAH. Aye. Tha sees theer's a two three things as A canna bearthowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw if they'll let metak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna have 'em sold wi' restof stuff. 

EMMA (_crosses below SARAH to box, going on her knees_). Let mehelp 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 carrysafe that road. 

SARAH. A know. It's my 'ands, tha sees, as mak's it difficult forme. 

(_Sits on chair. _)

EMMA. Aye. A'll soon settle 'em a bit tighter. 

(_Lifts all out, buries her arms in the box, and rearranges itscontents. _)

SARAH. But what's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They'll not weaveby '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' weeksittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do. 

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_)

SARAH. Aye, th' art reeght theer, lass. Theer's none on us likesto think o' goin' to workus when we're ould. 

EMMA. 'Appen it'll be all reeght after all. Parson's coomin' tosee thee. 

SARAH. Aye, A knaw 'e is. A dunno, but A'm in 'opes 'e'll dosummat for me. Tha can't never tell what them folks can do. 

EMMA (_kneeling up_). Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Ormerod. That'swhat my moother says to me when A tould 'er A were coomin' in tothee. Keep 'er pecker oop, she says. It's not as if she'd beenlazy 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 fault. God knaws A'm game enough forwork, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd 'ave to work for myliving all th' days o' my life. A never was a savin' sort. 

EMMA. Theer's nowt against thee for that. Theer's soom as can becareful o' theer brass an' soom as can't. It's not a virtue, it'sa gift. That's what my moother allays says. 

(_Resumes packing. _)

SARAH. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o' savin', myman and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took an' died, the club money asA 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 better, an' A goes to all as A can. (_Rises. _) A dotes on buryin's. Arethese the next?

(_Crosses before table for nightdresses, takes the nightdressesand resumes packing. _)

SARAH. Aye

(_Emma puts them in and rests on her knees listening to Sarah'snext 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 asanother's. Even th' manager's missus oop to factory 'ouse theer, she never 'ad a better show o' furniture nor me, though A says itas shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to keep a decent 'ouse over youryead. An' we allays 'ad our full week's 'ollydayin' at Blackpoolreg'lar at Wakes time. Us didn't 'ave no childer o' our own tospend it on, an' us spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plentyo' good food in th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom 'eliked '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 'tis. We works cruel 'ard in th' mill, an' when us plays, us playsas '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 memany 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'vecraved 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 neverlate. "Work or clem, " that were what Tom allays tould me th' ouldbell were sayin'. An' 'e were reeght, Emma. "Work or clem" isGod's truth. (EMMA'S _head in box. _) An' now th' time's coom when Acan't work no more. But Parson's a good man, 'e'll mak' it allreeght. (EMMA'S _head appears. _) Eh, it were good o' thee to coomin, lass. A bit o' coompany do mak' a world o' difference. A'mtwice as cheerful as A were. 

EMMA. A'm glad to 'ear tha say so, Mrs. Ormerod. (_Rises from thebox. _) Is theer owt else?

SARAH. A were thinkin' A'd like to tak' my black silk as A'veworn o' Sundays this many a year, but A canna think it's reeghtthing for workus. 

EMMA. Oh, thee tak' it, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. A'd dearly love to. Tha sees A'm noan in debt, nobbut whatchairs an table 'ull payfor, and A doan't like thowt o' leavingowt as A'm greatly fond of. 

EMMA. Yo doan't, Mrs. Ormerod. Thee tak' it. Wheer is it? A'llput un in. Theer's lots o'room on top. A'll see un's noancrushed. 

SARAH. It's hanging theer behind door. (EMMA _crosses back todoor, gets clothes. _) A got un out to show Parson. A thowt A'd askun if it were proper to tak' it if A've to go. My best bonnet'swith it, an' all. 

(EMMA _goes below table, takes the frock and bonnet, folds it onthe table, and packs it. _)

EMMA. A'll put un in. 

SARAH. 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. _)

SARAH (_after a pause, looking round_). Place doan't look much, an'that's a fact. Th' furniture's bin goin' bit by bit, and theerain't much left to part wi' now. 

EMMA. Never mind; it 'ull be all reeght now Parson's takken theeoop. 

SARAH. A'm hopin' so. A _am_ hopin' so. A never could abideth' thowt o' th' workus--me as 'as bin an 'ard-workin' woman. Acouldn't fancy sleepin' in a strange bed wi' strange folk roundme, an' when th' Matron said, "Do that, " A'd 'ave to do it, an'when she said, "Go theer, " A'd 'ave to a' gone wheer she touldme--me as 'as allays 'eld my yead 'igh an' gone the way A pleasedmasel'. Eh, it's a terrible thowt, the workus. 

EMMA (_rising_). Now tha's sure that's all?

SARAH (_after a pause, considers_). Eh, if A havna forgot myneeghtcaps. (_Rises, moves centre and stops. _) A suppose they'lllet me wear un in yonder. A doan't reeghtly think as A'd get myrest proper wi'out my neeghtcaps. 

EMMA. Oh, they'll let thee wear un all reeght. 

SARAH (_as she goes_). A'll go an' get un. (_Exit right, returningpresently 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 abovefire. _) Yo' never knaw 'ow they go. Soom on 'em turn again yo'when they're growed, or they get wed themselves an' forget all asyo' 've done for 'em, like a many A could name, and they'reallays a worrit to yo' when they're young. 

EMMA. A'm gettin' wed masel' soon, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. Are yo', now, Emma? Well, tha art not one o' themgraceless good-for-nowts. Tha'll never forget thy moother, Aknaw, nor what she's done for thee. Who's tha keepin' coompanywith?

EMMA. It's Joe Hindle as goes wi' me, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. 'Indle, 'Indle? What, not son to Robert 'Indle, 'im asused to be overlooker in th' factory till 'e went to foreignparts to learn them Roossians 'ow to weave?

EMMA. Aye, that's 'im. 

SARAH. Well, A dunno aught about th' lad. 'Is faither were a fineman. A minds 'im well. But A'll tell thee this, Emma, an' A'lltell it thee to thy faice, 'e's doin' well for 'isself, is youngJoe 'Indle. 

EMMA. Thankee, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. Gettin' wed! Think o' that. Why, it seems as 't were onlyt'other day as tha was runnin' about in short frocks, an' nowtha's growed up and gettin' thasel' wed! Time do run on. Sithee, Emma, tha's a good lass, A've gotten an ould teapot in yonder(_indicating her bedroom_) as my moother give me when A was wed. Aweren't for packing it in box because o' risk o' breaking it. Awere going to carry it in my 'and. A'd a mind to keep it till Adied, but A reckon A'll 'ave no use for it in workus. 

EMMA. Tha's not gone theer yet. 

SARAH. Never mind that. (_Slowly rises. _) A'm going to give itthee, lass, for a weddin' gift. Tha'll tak' care of it, A knaw, and when thy eye catches it, 'appen tha'll spare me a thowt. 

EMMA. Oh, no, Mrs. Ormerod, A couldn't think o' takkin' it. 

SARAH. Art too proud to tak' a gift from me?

EMMA. No. Tha knaws A'm not. 

SARAH. Then hold thy hush. A'll be back in a minute. Happen A'dbest tidy masel' up too against Parson cooms. 

EMMA. Can A help thee, Mrs. Ormerod?

SARAH. No, lass, no. A can do a bit for masel'. My 'ands isn'tthat bad; A canna weave wi' 'em, but A can do all as A need do. 

EMMA. Well, A'll do box up. 

(_Crosses to table right and gets cord. _)

SARAH. Aye. 

EMMA. All reeght. 

(_Exit_ SARAH. _A man's face appears outside at the window. Hesurveys the room, and then the face vanishes as he knocks at thedoor. _)

Who's theer?

SAM (_without_). It's me, Sam Horrocks. (_EMMA crosses left andopens door. _) May A coom in?

EMMA. What dost want?

SAM (_on the doorstep_). A want a word wi' thee, Emma Brierley. Afollowed thee oop from factory and A've bin waitin' out theertill A'm tired o' waitin'. 

EMMA. Well, tha'd better coom in. A 'aven't time to talk wi' theeat door. 

(EMMA _lets him in, closes door, and, leaving him standing in themiddle of the room, resumes work on her knees at the box. _ SAMHORROCKS _is a hulking young man of a rather vacant expression. Heis dressed in mechanic's blue dungarees. His face is oily and hisclothes stained. He wears boots, not clogs. He mechanically takesa ball of oily black cotton-waste from his right pocket when inconversational difficulties and wipes his hands upon it. He has ared muffler round his neck without collar, and his shock affairhair is surmounted by a greasy black cap, which covers perhapsone tenth of it. _)

SAM (_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 shortwi' a chap. 

EMMA. She's in scullery washin' 'er, if tha wants to knaw. 

SAM. Oh!

EMMA (_looking at him over her shoulder after a slight pause_). Doan't tha tak' thy cap off in 'ouse, Sam Horrocks?

SAM. Naw. 

EMMA. Well, tha can tak' it off in this 'ouse or get t' t'otherside o' door. 

SAM. (_Takes off his cap and stuffs it in his left pocket aftertrying his right and finding the ball of waste in it. _) Yes, Emma. 

(EMMA _resumes work with her back towards him and waits for him tospeak. But he is not ready yet. _)

EMMA. Well, what dost want?

SAM. Nought. --Eh, but tha art a gradely wench. 

EMMA. What's that to do wi' thee?

SAM. Nought. 

EMMA. Then just tha mind thy own business, an' doan't passcompliments behind folks' backs. 

SAM. A didn't mean no 'arm. 

EMMA. Well?

SAM. It's a fine day, isn'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 suppose not. Not sin' ma moother died. She were afine woman, ma moother, for all she were bed-ridden. 

EMMA. She were better than 'er son, though that's not saying muchneither. 

SAM. Naw, but tha does mind ma 'ouse, Emma, as it were when shewere alive?

EMMA. Aye. 

SAM. A 've done a bit at it sin' them days. Got a new quilt onbed from Co-op. Red un, it is, wi' blue stripes down 'er. 

EMMA. Aye. 

SAM. Well, Emma?

EMMA (_over her shoulder_). Well, what? What's thy 'ouse an' thyquilt to do wi' me?

SAM. Oh, nought. --Tha doesn't 'elp a feller much, neither. 

EMMA. (_Rises and faces him. SAM is behind corner table and backsa little before her. _) What's tha gettin' at, Sam Horrocks? Tha'sgot a tongue in thy faice, hasn'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, SamHorrocks, 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, themengines, them an' me's pals. They talks to me an' A understandstheir ways. A doan't some'ow seem to understand th' ways o' folkslike as A does th' ways o' them engines. 

EMMA. Tha doesn't try. T' other lads goes rattin' ordog-feeghtin' on a Sunday or to a football match of a Saturdayafternoon. Tha stays moonin' about th' 'ouse. Tha's not likely tounderstand folks. Tha's not sociable. 

SAM. Naw. That's reeght enough. A nobbut get laughed at when Atries 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'tcarry 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 dowant a wench about th' plaice. Th' engines is all reeght fordays, but th' neeghts is that lonesome-like tha wouldn't believe. 

EMMA. Tha's only thasel' to blame. It's nought to do wi' me, choosehow. 

SAM. Naw? A'd--A'd 'oped as 'ow it might 'ave, Emma. 

EMMA (_approaching threateningly_). Sam Horrocks, if tha doan'ttell me proper what tha means A 'll give tha such a slap in th'mouth. 

SAM (_backing before her_). Tha does fluster a feller, Emma. Justlike ma moother. 

EMMA. A wish A 'ad bin. A'd 'ave knocked some sense into thysilly 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 oop, tha great fool. If tha didn't keep thasel' soclose wi' tha moonin' about in th' engine-'ouse an' neverspeakin' a word to nobody, tha'd knaw A were keepin' coompany wi'Joe Hindle. 

SAM (_scrambling up_). Is that a fact, Emma?

EMMA. Of course it's a fact. Banns 'ull be oop come Sundayfortneeght. We've not 'idden it neither. It's just like the greatblind 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 begoin'. 

EMMA (_lifts box to left_). Aye. Parson's coomin' to see Mrs. Ormerod in a minute. 

SAM (_with pride_). A knaw all about that, anyhow. 

EMMA. She'm in a bad way. A dunno masel' as Parson can do muchfor 'er. 

SAM. It's 'ard lines on an ould un. Well, yo' 'll not wantme'ere. A 'll be movin' on. (_Getting his cap out_) No offense, Emma, A 'ope. A'd 'ave asked thee first if A'd knawn as 'e wereafter thee. A've bin tryin' for long enough. 

EMMA. No. Theer's no offense, Sam. Tha's a good lad if tha art afool, an' mebbe tha's not to blame for that. Good-bye. 

SAM. Good-bye, Emma. An'--An' A 'ope 'e'll mak' thee 'appy. A'ddearly like to coom to th' weddin' an' shake 'is 'and. 

(MRS. ORMEROD _heard off right. _)

EMMA. A'll see tha's asked. Theer's Mrs. Ormerod stirrin'. Tha'dbest 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. 

EMMA. It were Sam Horrocks, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. Yon lad of ould Sal Horrocks as died last year? 'Im asisn'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 didn't knaw about Joe. It made me feel cruel like to'ave to tell 'im. 

SARAH. 'E'll get ower it. Soom lass 'll tak' 'im. 

EMMA. A suppose so. 

SARAH (_coming down, putting the teapot in EMMA'S hands_). Well, theer's teapot. 

EMMA (_meets SARAH right centre, examining teapot_). It'sbeautiful. Beautiful, it is, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. Aye, it's a bit o' real china is that. Tha'll tak' careon't, lass, won't thee?

EMMA. A will an' all. 

SARAH. Aye. A knaw it's safe wi' thee. Mebbe safer than it wouldbe in workus. A can't think well on yon plaice. A goa cold allower at thowt of it. 

(_A knock at the door. _)

EMMA. That'll be Parson. 

SARAH (_crosses left, smoothing her hair_). Goa an' look throughwindow first, an' see who 't is. 

EMMA (_puts teapot on table; looking through window_). It is notth' ould Parson. It's one o' them young curate chaps. 

SARAH. Well, coom away from window an' sit thee down. It won't doto seem too eager. Let un knock again if it's not th' ouldParson. 

(EMMA _leaves the window and goes to right of table. The knock isrepeated. _)

SARAH (_raising her voice_). Coom in so who tha art. Door's onlatch. 

(_Enter the_ REV. FRANK ALLEYNE. _He is a young curate, aLondoner and an Oxford man, by association, training, and tastetotally unfitted for a Lancashire curacy, in which he is, unfortunately, no exception. _)

ALLEYNE. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. Good day to thee. 

ALLEYNE. I'm sorry to say Mr. Blundell has had to go to amissionary meeting, but he asked me to come and see you in hisstead. 

SARAH. Tha's welcoom, lad. Sit thee doon. 

(EMMA _comes below table left. Dusts a chair, which doesn't needit, with her apron. _ ALLEYNE _raises a deprecatory hand. _ SARAH'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. 

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, andthey're takin' me to workus, but A'm not dead yet, and that'ssummat to be thankul for. 

ALLEYNE. Oh, yes, yes, Mrs. Ormerod. The--er--message I am todeliver is, I fear, not quite what Mr. Blundell led you to hopefor. His efforts on your behalf have--er--- unfortunately failed. He finds himself obliged to give up all hope of aiding you to alivelihood. In fact--er--I understand that the arrangements madefor your removal to the workhouse this afternoon must be carriedout. It seems there is no alternative. I am grieved to be thebearer of bad tidings, but I am sure you will find a comfortablehome awaiting you, Mrs. --er--Ormerod. 

SARAH. 'Appen A shall an' 'appen A shan't. Theer's no tellin' 'owyou'll favor a thing till you've tried it. 

ALLEYNE. You must resign yourself to the will of Providence. Theconsolations of religion are always with us. Shall I pray withyou?

SARAH. A never were much at prayin' when A were well off, an' Adoubt 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 permission to bringa little gift to you, Mrs. Ormerod. (_Feeling in his coattailsand bringing out a Testament. _) Allow me to present you with thisTestament, and may it help you to bear your Cross with resignation. (_He hands her the Testament. _ SARAH _does not raise her hands, and it drops on her lap. _ ALLEYNE _takes it again and puts it onthe table. _) Ah, yes, of course--your poor hands--I understand. 

SARAH. Thankee kindly. Readin' don't coom easy to me, an' my eyesaren't what they were, but A'll 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. 

SARAH. Good day to thee. 

(_Exit_ ALLEYNE. )

EMMA. Tha doesn'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 feart to do it. A never could abide them curate lads. We doan't want no grandLunnon gentlemen down 'ere. 'E doan't understand us no more thanwe understand 'im. 'E means all reeght, poor lad. Sithee, Emma, A've bin a church-goin' woman all my days. A was browt oop tochurch, an' many's th' bit o' brass they've 'ad out o' me in mytime. An' in th' end they send me a fine curate with a tuppennyTestament. 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 mesee 'e knaw'd it, but A doan't say as it's ony different wi'chapels, neither. They get what they can outer yo', but yo'mustn't look for nothin' back, when th' pinch cooms. (_Clockoutside strikes three. _) Sakes alive, theer's clock goin' three. My dinner 'ull be nice an' cold. 

SARAH. Eh, what's that, lass? Dost mean to tell me tha's binclemmin' all this time?

EMMA. A coom 'ere straight from factory. 

SARAH. Then tha doesn't move till tha's 'ad summat to eat. 

EMMA. My dinner's ready for me at whoam, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. Then just look sharp an' get it, tha silly lass. Tha 's noreeght to go wi'out thy baggin'. 

EMMA (_putting her shawl on_). All reeght. A'm off. 

(_Picks up teapot. _)

SARAH. Tha's bin a world o' coomfort to me, Emma. It'll be 'arderto bear when tha's gone. Th' thowt's too much for me. Eh, lass, A'm feart o' yon great gaunt building wi' th' drear windows. 

EMMA. 'Appen ma moother 'ull coom in. Tha'll do wi' a bit o'coompany. A 'll ask her to coom an' fetch thee a coop o' teabye-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_) Hasttha wiped thy boots on scraper?

SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. Coom in then. (EMMA _in left corner. Enter_ SAM. ) Tak' thycap off. 

SAM. Yes, Mrs. Ormerod. 

SARAH. What dost want?

SAM. A've soom business 'ere. A thowt A'd find thee by thysel'. A'll 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 like 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'll ask my moother to step hilater on, Mrs. Ormerod, and thank thee very much for th' teapot. 

SARAH. A'll be thankful if she'll coom. (_Exit_ EMMA _with teapot. _)Now, Sam Horrocks, what's the matter wi' thee?

SAM (_dropping the cotton-waste he is fumbling with and picking itup_). It's a fine day for th' time o' th' year. 

SARAH. Didst want to see me private to tell me that, lad?

SAM. Naw, not exactly. 

SARAH. Well, what is it then? Coom, lad, A'm waitin' on thee. Arttongue-tied? Can't tha quit mawlin' yon bit o' waste an' tell mewhat 'tis tha wants?

SAM (_desperately_). Mebbe it'll not be so fine in th' mornin'. 

SARAH. A'll 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'sgot business wi' me, tha'd best state it sharp or A 'll beshowin' thee the shape o' my door. 

SAM. Tha do fluster a feller so as A doan't knaw wheer A am. A'venot been nagged like that theer sin' my ould moother died. 

SARAH. A've 'eerd folk say Sal Horrocks were a slick un wi' 'ertongue. 

SAM (_admiringly_). She were that. Rare talker she were. She'd lietheer in 'er bed all day as it might be in yon corner, an' callme all th' names she could put her tongue to, till A couldn'ttell ma reeght 'and from ma left. (_Still reminiscent. _) Wonnerfulsperrit, she 'ad, considerin' she were bed-ridden so long. Shewere only a little un an' cripple an' all, but by gum, she couldsling it at a feller if 'er tea weren't brewed to 'er taste. Talk! She'd talk a donkey's yead off, she would. 

SARAH (_on her mettle_). An' A'll talk thy silly yead off an' allif tha doan't get 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. 

SAM (_detachedly, looking at window; pause_). Wunnerful breeght thesky is, to-day. 

SARAH. Tha great 'ulkin' fool. A'd tak' a broomstick to theeif--if A'd the use o' my 'ands. 

SAM. Now, if that isn't just what ma moother used to say. 

SARAH. Dang thy moother. An' A doan't mean no disrepect to 'erneither. She's bin in 'er grave this year an' more, poor woman. 

SAM. A canna 'elp thinkin' to 'er all same. Eh, but she werewunnerful. 

SARAH. An' A'd be wunnerful too. A'd talk to thee. A'd call theeif 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. 

SARAH. Tha great fool, what does mean? Art askin' me to wed thee?

SAM. A didn't mean to offend thee, Mrs. Ormerod. A'm sorry Aspoke. A allays do wrong thing. But A did so 'ope as tha mightcoom. Tha sees A got used to moother. A got used to 'earin' 'ercuss me. A got used to doin' for 'er an' A've nought to do in th'evenings now. It's terrible lonesome in th' neeghttime. An' whennotion coom to me, A thowt as A'd mention un to thee casual. 

SARAH. Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks? Dost tha know what tha'ssayin', 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'vea slate loose; A shan't never get wed. A thowt A'd mebbe a chancewi' yon lass as were 'ere wi' thee, but hoo towld me A were toolate. 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 youngwench. They mak's me go 'ot and cowld all over. An' when curatetowld me as tha was to go to workus, A thowt A'd a chance wi'thee. A knaw'd it weren't a big chance, because my plaice ain'tmuch cop after what tha's bin used to 'ere. A've got no finefixin'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 to do for mamoother, an' when A yeerd thee talkin' now an' callin' me a foolan' th' rest, by gum, A just yearned to 'ave thee for allays. Tha'd fill 'er plaice wunnerful well. A'd just a' loved to adoptthee. 

SARAH. To adopt me?

SAM. Ay, for a moother. A'm sorry tha can't see thy way to letme. A didn't mean no offence (_turning to the door_). 

SARAH. 'Ere, lad, tha tell me this. If A'd said tha might tak' mefor thy moother, what wouldst ha' done?

SAM. Why, kissed thee, an' takken thee oop in ma arms whoam tothy bed. It's standin' ready in yonder wi' clean sheets an' all, an' a new quilt from Co-op. A 'opes you'll pardon th' liberty o'mentioning it. 

SARAH. A new quilt, Sam? What's color?

SAM. Red, wi' blue stripes down 'er. 

SARAH. 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 try, Sam Horrocks? God bless thee, wilt tha try, lad?

SAM. Dost mean it, Mrs. Ormerod? Dost mean tha'll coom? Tha's notcoddin' 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'll coom back fur thy box. 

SABAH. Carry me careful, tha great luny. A'm not a sack o' flour. 

SAM. Eh, but A likes to year thee talk. Yon was real mootherly, it were. 

(_Exit through door, carrying her. _)

[CURTAIN _at clink of latch_]

RIDERS TO THE SEA[1]

J. M. Synge

[Footnote 1: Included by permission of Messrs. John W. Luce andCompany. ]

CHARACTERS

MAURYA, an old womanBARTLEY, her sonCATHLEEN, her daughterNORA, a younger daughterMEN AND WOMEN

SCENE: _An island off the West of Ireland. Cottage kitchen, withnets, oilskins, spinning-wheel, some new boards standing by thewall, etc. _ CATHLEEN, _a girl of about twenty, finishes kneadingcake, and puts it down in the pot-oven by the fire; then wipesher 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, ifshe's able. 

(NORA _comes in softly, and takes a bundle from under her shawl. _)

CATHLEEN (_spinning the wheel rapidly_). What is it you have?

NOBA. The young priest is after bringing them. It's a shirt and aplain stocking were got off a drowned man in Donegal. 

(CATHLEEN _stops her wheel with a sudden movement, and leans outto listen. _)

NORA. We're to find out if it's Michael's they are; some timeherself will be down looking by the sea. 

CATHLEEN. How would they be Michael's, Nora? How would he go thelength of that way to the far north?

NORA. The young priest says he's known the like of it. "If it'sMichael's they are, " says he, "you can tell herself he's got aclean burial by the grace of God, and if they're not his, let noone say a word about them, for she'll be getting her death, " sayshe, "with crying and lamenting. "

(_The door which_ NORA _half closed is blown open by a gust ofwind. _)

CATHLEEN (_looking out anxiously_). Did you ask him would he stopBartley going this day with the horses to the Galway fair?

NORA. "I won't stop him, " says he, "but let you not be afraid. Herself does be saying prayers half through the night, and theAlmighty God won't leave her destitute, " says he, "with no sonliving. "

CATHLEEN. Is the sea bad by the white rocks, Nora?

NORA. Middling bad, God help us. There's a great roaring in thewest, and it's worse it'll be getting when the tide's turned tothe wind. 

(_She goes over to the table with the bundle. _)

Shall I open it now?

CATHLEEN. Maybe she'd wake up on us, and come in before we'ddone. (_Coming to the table_) It's a long time we'll be, and thetwo of us crying. 

NORA (_goes to the inner door and listens_). She's moving about onthe bed. She'll be coming in a minute. 

CATHLEEN. Give me the ladder, and I'll put them up in theturf-loft, the way she won't know of them at all, and maybe whenthe tide turns she'll be going down to see would he be floatingfrom 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. MAURYAcomes from the inner room. _)

MAURYA (_looking up at CATHLEEN and speaking querulously_). Isn'tit 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 tideturns if he goes to Connemara. 

(NORA _picks up the turf and puts it round the pot-oven. _)

MAURYA (_sitting down on a stool at the fire_). He won't go thisday with the wind rising from the south and west. He won't gothis day, for the young priest will stop him surely. 

NORA. He'll not stop him, mother, and I heard Eamon Simon andStephen Pheety and Colum Shawn saying he would go. 

MAURYA. Where is he itself?

NORA. He went down to see would there be another boat sailing inthe 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'stacking from the east. 

CATHLEEN. I hear someone passing the big stones. 

NORA (_looking out_). He's coming now, and he in a hurry. 

BARTLEY (_comes in and looks round the room; speaking sadly andquietly_). Where is the bit of new rope, Cathleen, was bought inConnemara?

CATHLEEN (_coming down_). Give it to him, Nora; it's on a nail bythe white boards. I hung it up this morning, for the pig with theblack feet was eating it. 

NORA (_giving him a rope_). Is that it, Bartley?

MAURYA. You'd do right to leave that rope, Bartley, hanging bythe boards. (BARTLEY _takes the rope. _) It will be wanting in thisplace, I'm telling you, if Michael is washed up to-morrowmorning, or the next morning, or any morning in the week, forit's a deep grave we'll make him by the grace of God. 

BARTLEY (_beginning to work with the rope_). I've no halter the wayI can ride down on the mare, and I must go now quickly. This isthe one boat going for two weeks or beyond it, and the fair willbe a good fair for horses, I heard them saying below. 

MAURYA. It's a hard thing they'll be saying below if the body iswashed up and there's no man in it to make the coffin, and Iafter giving a big price for the finest white boards you'd findin Connemara. 

(_She looks round at the boards. _)

BARTLEY. How would it be washed up, and we after looking each dayfor nine days, and a strong wind blowing a while back from thewest and south?

MAURYA. If it wasn't found itself, that wind is raising the sea, and there was a star up against the moon, and it rising in thenight. If it was a hundred horses, or a thousand horses you haditself, what is the price of a thousand horses against a sonwhere there is one son only?

BARTLEY (_working at the halter, to_ CATHLEEN). Let you go downeach day, and see the sheep aren't jumping in on the rye, and ifthe jobber comes you can sell the pig with the black feet ifthere is a good price going. 

MAURYA. How would the like of her get a good price for a pig?

BARTLEY (_to_ CATHLEEN). If the west wind holds with the last bitof the moon let you and Nora get up weed enough for another cockfor the kelp. It's hard set we'll be from this day with no one init but one man to work. 

MAURYA. It's hard set we'll be surely the day you're drownd'dwith the rest. What way will I live and the girls with me, and Ian old woman looking for the grave?

(BARTLEY _lays down the halter, takes off his old coat, and putson 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 fallher sails. 

BARTLEY (_getting his purse and tobacco_). I'll have half an hourto go down, and you'll see me coming again in two days, or inthree days, or maybe in four days if the wind is bad. 

MAURYA (_turning round to the fire, and putting her shawl over herhead_). Isn't it a hard and cruel man won't hear a word from anold 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 shesaying it over?

BARTLEY (_taking the halter_). I must go now quickly. I'll ridedown on the red mare, and the gray pony'll run behind me. Theblessing of God on you. 

(_He goes out. _)

MAURYA (_crying out as he is in the door_). He's gone now, Godspare us, and we'll not see him again. He's gone now, and whenthe black night is falling I'll have no son left me in the world. 

CATHLEEN. Why wouldn't you give him your blessing and he lookinground in the door? Isn't it sorrow enough is on everyone in thishouse without your sending him out with an unlucky word behindhim, and a hard word in his ear?

(MAURYA _takes up the tongs and begins raking the fire aimlesslywithout looking round. _)

NORA (_turning towards her_). You're taking away the turf from thecake. 

CATHLEEN (_crying out_). The Son of God forgive us, Nora, we'reafter forgetting his bit of bread. 

(_She comes over to the fire. _)

NORA. And it's destroyed he'll be going till dark night, and heafter eating nothing since the sun went up. 

CATHLEEN (_turning the cake out of the oven_). It's destroyed he'llbe, surely. There's no sense left on any person in a house wherean old woman will be talking for ever. 

(MAURYA _sways herself on her stool. _)

CATHLEEN (_cutting off some of the bread and rolling it in acloth, to_ MAURYA). Let you go down now to the spring well andgive him this and he passing. You'll see him then and the darkword will be broken, and you can say, "God speed you, " the wayhe'll be easy in his mind. 

MAURYA (_taking the bread_). Will I be in it as soon as himself?

CATHLEEN. If you go now quickly. 

MAURYA (_standing up unsteadily_). It's hard set I am to walk. 

CATHLEEN (_looking at her anxiously_). Give her the stick, Nora, ormaybe she'll slip on the big stones. 

NORA. What stick?

CATHLEEN. The stick Michael brought from Connemara. 

MAURYA (_taking a stick NORA gives her_). In the big world the oldpeople do be leaving things after them for their sons andchildren, but in this place it is the young men do be leavingthings behind for them that do be old. 

(_She goes out slowly. NORA goes over to the ladder. _)

CATHLEEN. Wait, Nora, maybe she'd turn back quickly. She's thatsorry, God help her, you wouldn't know the thing she'd do. 

NORA. Is she gone round by the bush?

CATHLEEN (_looking out_). She's gone now. Throw it down quickly, for the Lord knows when she'll be out of it again. 

NORA (_getting the bundle from the loft_). The young priest saidhe'd be passing to-morrow, and we might go down and speak to himbelow if it's Michael's they are surely. 

CATHLEEN (_taking the bundle_). Did he say what way they werefound?

NORA (_coming down_). "There were two men, " says he, "and theyrowing round with poteen before the cocks crowed, and the oar ofone of them caught the body, and they passing the black cliffs ofthe north. "

CATHLEEN (_trying to open the bundle_). Give me a knife, Nora; thestring's perished with the salt water, and there's a black knoton it you wouldn't loosen in a week. 

NORA (_giving her a knife_). I've heard tell it was a long way toDonegal. 

CATHLEEN (_cutting the string_). It is surely. There was a man inhere a while ago--the man sold us that knife--and he said if youset off walking from the rocks beyond, it would be seven daysyou'd be in Donegal. 

NORA. And what time would a man take, and he floating?

(CATHLEEN _opens the bundle and takes out a bit of a stocking. They look at them eagerly. _)

CATHLEEN (_in a low voice_). The Lord spare us, Nora! Isn't it aqueer hard thing to say if it's his they are surely?

NORA. I'll get his shirt off the hook the way we can put the oneflannel on the other. (_She looks through some clothes hanging inthe corner_) It's not with them, Cathleen, and where will it be?

CATHLEEN. I'm thinking Bartley put it on him in the morning, forhis own shirt was heavy with the salt in it. (_Pointing to thecorner_) There's a bit of a sleeve was of the same stuff. Give methat 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, aren'tthere great rolls of it in the shops of Galway, and isn't it manyanother man may have a shirt of it as well as Michael himself?

NORA (_who has taken up the stocking and counted the stitches, crying out_) It's Michael, Cathleen, it's Michael; God spare hissoul and what will herself say when she hears this story, andBartley 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 putup 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 himfloating that way to the far north, and no one to keen him butthe black hags that do be flying on the sea?

NORA (_swinging herself round, and throwing out her arms on theclothes_). And isn't it a pitiful thing when there is nothing leftof a man who was a great rower and fisher, but a bit of an oldshirt and a plain stocking?

CATHLEEN (_after an instant_). Tell me is herself coming, Nora? Ihear a little sound on the path. 

NORA (_looking out_). She is, Cathleen. She's coming up to thedoor. 

CATHLEEN. Put these things away before she'll come in. Maybe it'seasier she'll be after giving her blessing to Bartley, and wewon't let on we've heard anything the time he's on the sea. 

NORA (_helping CATHLEEN to close the bundle_). We'll put them herein the corner. 

(_They put them into a hole in the chimney corner. CATHLEEN goesback to the spinning wheel. _)

NORA. Will she see it was crying I was?

CATHLEEN. Keep your back to the door the way the light'll not beon you. 

(NORA _sits down at the chimney corner, with her back to the door. _MAURYA _comes in very slowly, without looking at the girls, andgoes over to her stool at the other side of the fire. The clothwith the bread is still in her hand. The girls look at eachother, and_ NORA _points to the bundle of bread. _)

CATHLEEN (_offer spinning for a moment_), You didn't give him hisbit 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 abetter thing to raise your voice and tell what you seen, than tobe making lamentation for a thing that's done? Did you seeBartley, I'm saying to you. 

MAURYA (_with a weak voice_). My heart's broken from this day. 

CATHLEEN (_as before_). Did you see Bartley?

MAURYA. I seen the fearfulest thing. 

CATHLEEN (_leaves her wheel and looks out_). God forgive you; he'sriding the mare now over the green head, and the gray pony behindhim. 

MAURYA (_starts, so that her shawl falls back from her head andshows her white tossed hair; with a frightened voice_). The graypony behind him. 

CATHLEEN (_coming to the fire_). What is it ails you, at all?

MAURYA (_speaking very slowly_). I've seen the fearfulest thing anyperson has seen, since the day Bride Dara seen the dead man withthe child in his arms. 

CATHLEEN AND NORA. Uah. 

(_They crouch down 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 sayinga prayer to myself. Then Bartley came along, and he riding on thered 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!

CATHLEEN. What is it you seen?

MAURYA. I seen Michael himself. 

CATHLEEN (_speaking softly_). You did not, mother; it wasn'tMichael you seen, for his body is after being found in the farnorth, and he's got a clean burial by the grace of God. 

MAURYA (_a little defiantly_). I'm after seeing him this day, andhe riding and galloping. Bartley came first on the red mare; andI tried to say "God speed you, " but something choked the words inmy throat. He went by quickly; and, "The blessing of God on you, "says he, and I could say nothing. I looked up then, and I crying, at the gray pony, and there was Michael upon it--with fineclothes on him, and new shoes on his feet. 

CATHLEEN (_begins to keen_). It's destroyed we are from this day. It's destroyed, surely. 

NORA. Didn't the young priest say the Almighty God wouldn't leaveher destitute with no son living?

MAUKYA (_in a low voice, but clearly_). It's little the like of himknows of the sea. .. . Bartley will be lost now, and let you callin Eamon and make me a good coffin out of the white boards, for Iwon't live after them. I've had a husband, and a husband'sfather, and six sons in this house--six fine men, though it was ahard birth I had with every one of them and they coming to theworld--and some of them were found and some of them were notfound, but they're gone now, the lot of them. .. . There wereStephen, and Shawn, were lost in the great wind, and found afterin the Bay of Gregory of the Golden Mouth, and carried up the twoof them on the one plank, and in by that door. 

(_She pauses for a moment, the girls start as if they heardsomething through the door that is half-open behind them. _)

NORA (_in a whisper_). Did you hear that, Cathleen? Did you hear anoise in the northeast?

CATHLEEN (_in a whisper_). There's someone after crying out by theseashore. 

MAURYA (_continues without hearing anything_). There was Sheamusand his father, and his own father again, were lost in a darknight, and not a stick or sign was seen of them when the sun wentup. There was Patch after was drowned out of a curagh that turnedover. I was sitting here with Bartley, and he a baby, lying on mytwo knees, and I seen two women, and three women, and four womencoming in, and they crossing themselves, and not saying a word. Ilooked out then, and there were men coming after them, and theyholding a thing in the half of a red sail, and water dripping outof it--it was a dry day, Nora--and leaving a track to the door. 

(_She pauses again with her hand stretched out towards the door. It opens softly and old women begin to come in, crossingthemselves on the threshold, and kneeling down in front of thestage with red petticoats over their heads. _)

MAURYA (_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 whenhe is found there how could he be here in this place?

MAURYA. There does be a power of young men floating round in thesea, and what way would they know if it was Michael they had, oranother man like him, for when a man is nine days in the sea, andthe wind blowing, it's hard set his own mother would be to saywhat man was it. 

CATHLEEN. It's Michael, God spare him, for they're after sendingus a bit of his clothes from the far north. 

(_She reaches out and hands MAURYA the clothes that belonged to_MICHAEL. MAURYA _stands up slowly, and takes them in her hands. _NORA _looks out. _)

NORA. They're carrying a thing among them and there's waterdripping out of it and leaving a track by the big stones. 

CATHLEEN (_in a whisper to the women who have come in_). Is itBartley 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 carryin the body of_ BARTLEY, _laid on a plank, with a bit of a sailover it, and lay it on the table. _)

CATHLEEN (_to the women, as they are doing so_). What way was hedrowned?

ONE OF THE WOMEN. The gray pony knocked him into the sea, and hewas washed out where there is a great surf on the white rocks. 

(MAURYA _has gone over and knelt down at the head of the table. The women are keening softly and swaying themselves with a slowmovement. _ 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 thepeople around her_). They're all gone now, and there isn'tanything more the sea can do to me. .. . I'll have no call now tobe up crying and praying when the wind breaks from the south, andyou can hear the surf is in the east, and the surf is in thewest, making a great stir with the two noises, and they hittingone on the other. I'll have no call now to be going down andgetting Holy Water in the dark nights after Samhain, and I won'tcare 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 stillon the dresser. 

(NORA _gives it to her. _)

MAURYA (_drops_ MICHAEL'S _clothes across_ BARTLEY'S _feet, andsprinkles the Holy Water over him_). It isn't that I haven'tprayed for you, BARTLEY, to the Almighty God. It isn't that Ihaven't said prayers in the dark night till you wouldn't knowwhat I'd be saying; but it's a great rest I'll have now, and it'stime surely. It's a great rest I'll have now, and great sleepingin the long nights after Samhain, if it's only a bit of wet flourwe do have to eat, and maybe a fish that would be stinking. 

(_She kneels down again, crossing herself, and saying prayersunder her breath. _)

CATHLEEN (_to an old man_). Maybe yourself and Eamon would make acoffin when the sun rises. We have fine white boards herselfbought, God help her, thinking Michael would be found, and I havea new cake you can eat while you'll be working. 

THE OLD MAN (_looking at the boards_). Are there nails with them?

CATHLEEN. There are not, Colum; we didn't think of the nails. 

ANOTHER MAN. It's a great wonder she wouldn't think of the nails, and all the coffins she's seen made already. 

CATHLEEN. It's getting old she is, and broken. 

(MAURYA _stands up again very slowly and spreads out the pieces of_MICHAEL'S _clothes beside the body, sprinkling them with the lastof the Holy Water. _)

NORA (_in a whisper to_ CATHLEEN). She's quiet now and easy; butthe day Michael was drowned you could hear her crying out fromthis to the spring-well. It's fonder she was of Michael, andwould anyone have thought that?

CATHLEEN (_slowly and clearly_). An old woman will be soon tiredwith anything she will do, and isn't it nine days herself isafter crying and keening, and making great sorrow in the house?

MAURYA (_puts the empty cup mouth downwards on the table, and laysher hands together on_ BARTLEY'S _feet_). They're all together thistime, and the end is come. May the Almighty God have mercy onBartley's soul, and on Michael's soul, and on the souls ofSheamus and Patch, and Stephen and Shawn (_bending her head_); andmay He have mercy on my soul, Nora, and on the soul of everyoneis left living in the world. 

(_She pauses, and the keen rises a little more loudly from thewomen, then sinks away. _)

MAURYA (_continuing_). Michael has a clean burial in the far north, by the grace of the Almighty God. Bartley will have a fine coffinout of the white boards, and a deep grave surely. What more canwe want than that? No man at all can be living for ever, and wemust be satisfied. 

(_She kneels down again, and the curtain falls slowly_). 

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE[1]

William Butler Yeats

[Footnote 1: Reprinted by arrangement with Mr. Yeats and theMacmillan Company, New York, publishers of Mr. Yeats's CollectedWorks (1912). ]

CHARACTERS

MAURTEEN BRUINBRIDGET BRUIN, his wifeSHAWN BRUIN, their sonMAIRE BRUIN, wife of ShawnFATHER HARTA FAERY CHILD

SCENE: _In the Barony of Kilmacowan, in the county of Sligo, at aremote time. _

SETTING: _a room with a hearth on the floor in the middle of adeep alcove on the right. There are benches in the alcove, and atable; a crucifix on the wall. The alcove is full of a glow oflight from the fire. There is an open door facing the audience, to the left, and to the left of this a bench. Through the doorone can see the forest. It is night, but the moon or a latesunset glimmers through the trees, and carries the eye far offinto a vague, mysterious world. MAURTEEN BRUIN, SHAWN BRUIN, andBRIDGET BRUIN sit in the alcove at the table, or about the fire. They are dressed in the costume of some remote time, and nearthem sits an old priest, FATHER HART, in the garb of a friar. There is food and drink upon the table. MAIRE BRUIN stands by thedoor, reading a yellow manuscript. If she looks up, she can seethrough 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. 

 SHAWN BRUIN You are too cross. 

 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 HART Their hearts are wild As be the hearts of birds, till children come. 

 BRIDGET BRUIN She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow, Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth. 

 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?

 MARIE 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 Faëry, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue; And she is still there, busied with a dance, Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top. 

 MAURTEEN BRUIN 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 ease, but years went by And they grew like their neighbours and 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. 

 MAURTEEN BRUIN That's true--but she's too young to know it's true. 

 BRIDGET BRUIN She's old enough to know that it is wrong To mope and idle. 

 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 burn up those who do them any wrong. 

 MARIE 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?

 MAURTEEN BRUIN No one's child at all. She often dreams that someone has gone by When there was nothing but a puff of wind. 

 MARIE BRUIN They will not bring good luck into the house, For they have blown 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. 

 MARIE BRUIN He will smile, Father, perhaps, and open His great door, And call the pretty and kind into His house. 

 FATHER HART 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. 

 (_A knock at the door. _ MAIRE BRUIN _opens 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. _)

 MARIE BRUIN A little queer old woman cloaked in green, Who came to beg a porringer of milk. 

 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?

 MARIE 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. 

 MAURTEEN 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. 

 BRIDGET BRUIN You are 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 good 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 have a hundred acres of good land, And sit beside each other at the fire, The wise priest of our parish to our right, And you and our dear son to left of us. To sit beside the board and drink good wine And watch the turf smoke coiling from the fire And feel content and wisdom in your heart, This is the best 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 BRUIN _opens it and then takes a sod of turf out of the hearth in the tongs and goes out through the door. _ SHAWN _follows her and meets her coming in. _)

 SHAWN BRUIN What is it draws you to the chill o' the wood? There is a light among the stems of the trees That makes one shiver. 

 MARIE BRUIN A little queer old man Made me a sign to show he wanted fire To light his pipe. 

 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--

 SHAWN BRUIN Be quiet, mother!

 MAURTEEN BRUIN You are much too cross!

 MARIE BRUIN What do I care if I have given this house, Where I must hear all day a bitter tongue, Into the power of faëries!

 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. 

 MARIE BRUIN Come, faëries, 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! Faëries, 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!

 FATHER HART You cannot know the meaning of your words. 

 MARIE BRUIN Father, I am right weary of four tongues: A tongue that is too crafty and too wise, 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 the 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 Under a cloudy blossoming of hair! Sit down beside me here--these are too old, And have forgotten they were ever young. 

 MARIE BRUIN Oh, you are the great door-post of this house, And I, the red nasturtium, 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 beyond His peace, From maddening freedom and bewildering light. 

 SHAWN BRUIN Would that the world were mine to give it you With every quiet hearth and barren waste, The maddening freedom of its woods and tides, And the bewildering light upon its hills. 

 MARIE 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 burning to your lonely face. 

 MARIE 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 forever; 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. _)

 MARIE 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. 

 A VOICE (_close to the door_) 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 faëries 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!"

 MAURTEEN BRUIN I am right happy, and would make all else Be happy too. I hear a child outside, And will go bring her in out of the cold. 

 (_He opens the door. A_ CHILD _dressed in pale green and with red-gold hair comes into the house. _)

 THE CHILD I tire of winds and waters and pale lights!

 MAURTEEN BRUIN You are most welcome. It is cold out there; Who would think to face such cold on a May Eve?

 THE CHILD And when I tire of this warm little house There is one here who must away, away, To where the woods, the 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 CHILD I will sit upon your knee, For I have run from where the winds are born, And long to rest my feet a little while. 

 (_She sits upon his knee. _)

 BRIDGET BRUIN How pretty you are!

 MAURTEEN BRUIN Your 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. _)

 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. 

 MAURTEEN 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. 

 MAURTEEN BRUIN What a small bite! The milk is ready now; What a small sip!

 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. 

 BRIDGET (_Having put on her shoes, she gets off the old man's knees 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. 

 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 carries 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, swaying about like the reeds. _)

 MAIRE (_to_ SHAWN BRUIN) 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. 

 MARIE 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!

 THE CHILD Ah! but you love this fireside!

 FATHER HART I love you. When the Almighty puts so great a share Of His own ageless youth into a creature, To look is but to love. 

 THE CHILD But you love Him above. 

 BRIDGET BRUIN She is blaspheming. 

 THE CHILD (_to_ MAIRE) And do you love me?

 MARIE 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!

 MARIE BRUIN Queen of the Angels and kind Saints, defend us! Some dreadful fate has fallen: 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. 

 FATHER HART You fear because of her wild, pretty prattle; She knows no better. 

 (_To_ 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 faëry 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 behind 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'll turn you from the house. 

 FATHER HART No, 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 my feet have danced Or where I've twirled my finger tops. 

 (SHAWN _tries to approach her and cannot. _)

 MAURTEEN Look, look! There something stops him--look how he moves his hands As though he rubbed them on a wall of glass. 

 FATHER HART I will confront this mighty spirit alone. 

 (_They cling to him and hold him back. _)

 THE CHILD (_while she strews primroses_) No one whose heart is heavy 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. 

 (THE CHILD _ceases strewing the primroses, and kneels upon the settle beside MAIRE and puts her arms about her neck. _)

 Cry, daughter, to the Angels and the Saints. 

 THE CHILD You shall go with me, newly married bride, And gaze upon a merrier multitude; White-armed Nuala, Aengus 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 with 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, 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 up 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. 

 (_They hang about him in terror and prevent him from moving. _)

 BRIDGET 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 CHILD I hear them crying, "Newly married bride, Come to the woods and waters and pale lights. "

 MARIE 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. 

 MARIE 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. 

 MARIE BRUIN Dear face! Dear voice!

 THE CHILD Come, newly married bride!

 MARIE 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. 

 MARIE BRUIN She calls to me!

 THE CHILD Come with me, little bird!

 MARIE BRUIN I can hear songs and dancing!

 SHAWN BRUIN Stay with me!

 MARIE BRUIN I think that I would stay--and yet--and yet--

 THE CHILD Come, little bird with crest of gold!

 MARIE 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 are gone. You have thrown your arms about 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. 

 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 faëries 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 by many voices, who sing loudly, as if in triumph. Some of the voices seem to come from within the house. _)

 [CURTAIN]

THE RIDING TO LITHEND[1]

Gordon Bottomley

[Footnote 1: This play is reprinted by permission of and byarrangement with Constable and Company, Limited, London. ]

CHARACTERS

GUNNAR HAMUNDSSONHALLGERD LONGCOAT, his wifeRANNVEIG, his motherODDNY, ASTRID, and STEINVOR, Hallgerd's housewomenORMILD, a woman thrallBIARTEY, JOFRID, and GUDFINN, beggar-womenGIZUR THE WHITE, MORD VALGARDSSON, THORGRIM THE EASTERLING, THORBRAND THORLEIKSSON and ASBRAND his brother, AUNUND, THORGEIB, and HROALD, ridersMANY OTHER RIDERS AND VOICES OF RIDERS

TIME: _Iceland, A. D. 990_

SCENE: _The hall of GUNNAR'S house at Lithend in South Iceland. The portion shewn is set on the stage diagonally, so that to theright one end is seen, while from the rear corner of this, oneside runs down almost to the left front. _

_The side wall is low and wainscoted with carved panelling onwhich hang weapons, shields, and coats of mail. In one place apanel slid aside shews a shut bed. _

_In front of the panelling are two long benches with a carvedhigh-seat between them. Across the end of the hall are similarpanellings and the seats, with corresponding tables, of thewomen's dais; behind these and in the gable wall is a high narrowdoor with a rounded top. _

_A timber roof slopes down to the side wall and is upheld bycross-beams and two rows of tall pillars which make a rathernarrow nave of the centre of the hall. One of these rows runsparallel to the side wall, the pair of pillars before thehigh-seat being carved and ended with images; of the other rowonly two pillars are visible at the extreme right. _

_Within this nave is the space for the hearths; but the onlyhearth visible is the one near the women's dais. In the roofabove 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 ofthe side walls, forming an open loft which is reached by a wideladder fixed against the wall: a bed is seen in this loft. Low inthe roof at intervals are shuttered casements, one being abovethe loft: all the shutters are closed. Near the fire a largeshaggy hound is sleeping; and ORMILD, in the undyed woollen dressof a thrall, 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 Who 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 Because 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. 

 ASTRID (_pointing to the weapons 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. 

 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, 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 dawn, For death is making narrowing passages About this hushed and terrifying house. 

 (RANNVEIG, _an old wimpled woman, enters as if from a door at 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 in foreign places, 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. 

 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_; RANNVEIG _isfollowing 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 doorway. _)

 Must I shut fast 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 Irish girls in Athcliath With golden flies and pearls and glinting things: 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. 

 GUNNAR (_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, Snowflakes 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 Athcliath: 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 Bergthorsknoll 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 humble--as one who lives on others. 

 (_She snatches off her wimple, 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, Letting my hair go loose past either cheek In two bright clouds and drop beyond my bosom, Turning the waving ends under 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 widowhood: Two men have had you, chilled their bosoms with you, And trusted that they held a precious thing-- Yet your mean passionate wastefulness poured out Their lives for joy of seeing something done with. Cannot you wait this time? 'Twill not be long. 

 HALLGERD I am a hazardous desirable thing, A warm unsounded peril, a flashing mischief, A divine malice, a disquieting voice: Thus I was shapen, 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 worth 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, 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: Why 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: 'Tis 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 meantime_ HALLGERD _has seated herself in the high-seat near the sewing 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. 

 GUNNAR (_laughing_) Fierce woman, teach me to be brave in age, And let us see if it is safe for you. 

 (_Leads_ RANNVEIG _out, his hand on her shoulder; the hound goes with them. _)

 STEINVOR Mistress, my heart is big with mutinies For your proud sake: does 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. 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 Fire 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 kill 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 Who would not sell to us in famine time But denied Gunnar as if he were suppliant: Then at our feast when men rode from the Thing I spread the stolen food and Gunnar knew. He 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 'Tis 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 Otkell'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 Njal'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 off your strength, you have maimed yourself, You are losing power and worship and men's trust. When Gunnar dies no other man dare take you. 

 HALLGERD You gather poison in your mouth for me. A high-born woman may handle what she fancies Without being ear-pruned like a pilfering beggar. 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 About my shoulders, mingle with my skirts, And billow in the draught along the floor. 

 (_She rises and holds the veil behind her 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?

 HALLGERD I'll shorten it. 

 ODDNY I have no shears with me. 

 HALLGERD 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 throws the tissue on the ground, and goes out by the dais door. _)

 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. _)

 GUNNAR (_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 GUDFINN. They hobble and limp, and are swathed in shapeless, nameless rags which trail about their feet; BIARTEY'S left sleeve is torn completely 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 that project like tusks. _)

 GUNNAR Get in to the light. Yea, has he mouthed ye?. .. What men send ye here? Who are ye? Whence 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--

 BIARTEY (_interrupting him_) Out of the bosoms of cairns and standing stones. I am Biartey: she is Jofrid: she is Gudfinn: We 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?

 BIARTEY 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 woes among the black rocks crouching. 

 (GUDFINN _joins her in a sing-song utterance. _) From the East, from the East we drove and the wind 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. 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 _joins 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. We are spent, our feet are moving wounds, our bodies Dream of themselves and seem to trail behind us Because we went unfed down in the mountains. Feed us and shelter us beneath your roof, And put us over the Markfleet, over the channels. We are weak old women: we are beseeching you. 

 GUNNAR 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 stead-- 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. 

 BIARTEY Thou art a merciful man and we shall thank thee. 

 (GUNNAR _goes out again to the left. The old women approach 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. 

 BIARTEY Not in a litten house: Not ere the hour when night turns on itself And shakes the silence: not while ye wake 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?

 BIARTEY 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?

 BIARTEY 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 'Tis an unlikely tale: he never said it. No one could mind such things in such an hour. 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! No man speaks thus. 

 JOFRID No man, no man: he must be doomed somewhere. 

 BIARTEY Doomed and fey, my sisters. .. . We are 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. 

 BIARTEY Oddny, when you are old Would you not be proud to be no man's purse-string, But wild and wandering 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. 

 STEINVOR 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. .. . 

 BIARTEY 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 distaff. .. . 

 ODDNY Are there spells Wrought on a distaff?

 STEINVOR 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. 

 BIARTEY (_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 hands. 

 I twine them thinner, The dead wool doubts; The outer is inner, The core slips out. .. . 

 (HALLGERD _reënters by the dais door, holding a pair of shears. _)

 HALLGERD What are these women, Oddny? Who let them in?

 BIARTEY (_who spins through all that follows_) 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 unearthly eyes And cross the veils of the air, and are not men But fierce abstractions eating their own hearts Impatiently and seeing too much to be joyful. If Gunnar welcomed ye, ye may remain. 

 BIARTEY She is a fair free lady, is she not? But that was to be looked for in a high one Who counts among her fathers the bright Sigurd, The bane of Fafnir the Worm, the end of the god-kings; 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. 

 BIARTEY 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'll be thieving in the night. Ye are idle, Ye suck a man's house bare and seek another. 'Tis bed-time; get to sleep--that stills much hunger. 

 BIARTEY 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, 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. 

 HALLGERD Now have I gashed the golden cloth awry: 'Tis 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 with 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, 'tis not hair, but sopped 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'll 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, Gunnar is ended by the theft and the thief. Is it not told that when you first grew tall, 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. _)

 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'll 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 them. Shall we not roost in her bower yet? Woe! Woe!

 (_The distaff breaks, and HALLGERD drives them out with 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. 

 ODDNY 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 are all up too late. 

 STEINVOR (_as she turns with ASTRID and ODDNY to the dais_) If beds are made for sleep we might sit long. 

 (_They go out by the dais door. _)

 GUNNAR (_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 _in. _)

 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 baying is succeeded by one mid howl. _)

 Nay, nay! 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. 

 RANNVEIG 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 down the great bill_) Let me but reach this haft, I shall get hold Of steel enough to fence me all about. 

 (_He shakes the bill above his head: a deep resonant humming follows. _

 _The dais door is thrown open, and_ ODDNY, ASTRID, _and_ STEINVOR _stream through in their night-clothes. _)

 STEINVOR The bill!

 ODDNY The bill is singing!

 ASTRID The bill sings!

 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 'Tis good: the woman's cunning for once is faithful. 

 GUNNAR (_turning again to the weapons_) 'Tis 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. 

 ASTRID O Gunnar, we shall serve you. 

 (ASTRID, ODDNY, _and_ STEINVOR _go out by the dais door. _)

 RANNVEIG Hallgerd, 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. 

 RANNVEIG 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?. .. Let the door stand, my mother: it is her way. 

 (_He looks out at the casement. _) Here's a red kirtle on the lower roof. 

 (_He thrusts with the bill through the casement. _)

 A MAN'S VOICE (_far off_) Is Gunnar within?

 THORGRIM THE EASTERLING'S VOICE (_near the casement_) Find that out for yourselves: I am only sure his bill is yet within. 

 (_A noise of falling is heard. _)

 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: Gizur the White 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'll 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 the 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'll come up to mock them. 

 GUNNAR (_loosing the arrow_) Hoia! Swerve down upon them, little hawk. 

 (_A 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. _)

 GUNNAR Wife, here is something in my arm at last: The head is twisted--I must cut it clear. 

 (STEINVOR _throws open the dais door and rushes through with a high shriek. _)

 STEINVOR Woman, let us out--help us out-- The burning comes--they are calling out for fire. 

 (_She shrieks again. ODDNY and ASTRID, who have come behind her, muffle her head in a kirtle and lift her. _)

 ASTRID (_turning as they bear her out_) Fire suffuses only her cloudy brain: The flare she walks in is on the other side Of her shot eyes. We heard a passionate voice, A shrill unwomanish voice that must be Mord, With "Let us burn him--burn him house and all. " And then a grave and trembling voice replied, "Although 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 speak 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'll strive with them again. 

 (_He lifts his bow and loosens arrows at intervals while_ HALLGERD _and_ RANNVEIG _speak. _)

 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 fumbling 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 with 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?

 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. Who is dead?

 RANNVEIG Go to the bower: the women will care for you. 

 (ORMILD _totters up the hall from pillar to pillar. _)

 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 _takes_ ORMILD, _who has just reached her, and goes out with her by the dais door, which 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. .. . Reach harder. .. . Ai. .. . 

 GUNNAR Stand clear, stand clear--it moves. 

 THE VOICES It moves. .. . Ai, ai. .. . 

 (_The whole roof slides down rumblingly, disappearing with a crash behind the watt 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: 'tis coming on to snow. The harvesters will hurry 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, To shear through hemp and gut. .. . 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 with 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 THORLEIKSSON _starts up in his place. _)

 ASBRAND (_striking repeatedly with a sword_) Oh, down, down, down!

 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, maybe-- Be hasty, or you'll not come up with him. 

 (_He thrusts with the bill_: ASBRAND _lifts a shield before the blow. _)

 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?

 GUNNAR 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 (_tossing back 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 man who has trod a warship's deck, And borne a weapon of pride, has a proud heart And asks not twice for any little thing. Hallgerd, I'll ask no more from you, no more. 

 RANNVEIG (_tearing off her wimple_) 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 heartstrings 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. 

 (AUNUND'S _head rises above the wall near_ GUNNAR. )

 What, are you there?

 AUNUND Yea, Gunnar, we are here. 

 GUNNAR (_thrusting with the bill_) 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. 

 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 many armed men, so that only the rising and falling of his bill is seen. _)

 The threshing-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 the 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. .. . 

 GUNNAR 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. .. . 

 MANY VOICES (_shouting in confusion_) Have him down. .. . Heels on the bill. .. . Ahui, ahui. .. . 

 (_The bill does not rise. _)

 HROALD (_with 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 (_laughing 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. 

 MORD Come down and splinter those old birds his gods That perch upon the carven high-seat pillars, Wreck every place his shadow fell upon, Rive out his gear, drive off his forfeit beasts. 

 SECOND MAN It shall not be. 

 MANY MEN Never. 

 GIZUR 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 disappear. _)

 HALLGERD Now I shall close his nostrils and his eyes, And thereby take his blood-feud into my hands. 

 RANNVEIG 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 does not know. 

 HALLGERD His wife I was, and yet he never judged me: He did not set your motherhood between us. Let me alone--I stand here for my sons. 

 RANNVEIG The wolf, the 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. 

 RANNVEIG 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 stiffen as you should. A murdered man should have a murdered wife When all his fate is treasured in her mouth. This wifely hairpin will be sharp enough. 

 HALLGERD (_starting up as RANNVEIG half loosens her to take a hairpin from her own head_) She is mad, mad. .. . Oh, the bower is barred-- Hallgerd, come out, let mountains cover you. 

 (_She rushes out to the left. _)

 RANNVEIG (_following 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 we 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 set himself against us all. .. . 

 (_He goes out. _)

 RANNVEIG Gunnar, my son, we are alone again. 

 (_She goes up the hall, mounts to the loft, and stoops beside him. _)

 Oh, they have hurt you--but that is forgot. Boy, it is bedtime; though I am too changed, And cannot lift you up and lay you in, You shall go warm to bed--I'll 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'll 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 bill: 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 peopledesire who "want their ain way"? What forces favor these desires, and what oppose them--for instance, David Pirnie's determinationto tell wee Alexander a bit story, in _The Philosopher ofButterbiggens_? Can you always put any one character altogetheron one side? Or does his own weakness or carelessness orstupidity, for example, sometimes work against his getting whathe wants, so that he is, in part, _not_ on his own side, butagainst it, as Brutus is in _Julius Caesar_? Are there otherforces in the play besides the people--storm or accident or fate?With what side or what character are you in sympathy? Is thisconstant throughout the play, or do you feel a change at somepoint in it? Does the author sympathize with any specialcharacter? Does he have a prejudice against any one of them? Forexample, in _Campbell of Kilmhor_, where is your sympathy? Whereis the author's, apparently?

2. _The Beginning and the End. _

What events important to this play occurred before the curtainrises? Why does the author begin just here, and not earlier orlater? How does he contrive to let you know these importantthings without coming before the curtain to announce themhimself, or having two servants dusting the furniture and tellingthem to each other?

What happens _after_ the curtain falls? Can you go on picturingthese events? Are any of them important to the story--forinstance, in _The Beggar and the King_? Why did the author stopbefore telling us these things?

Does the ending satisfy you? Even if you do not find it happy andenjoyable, does it seem the natural and perhaps the inevitableresult of the forces at work--in _Riders to the Sea_ and_Campbell of Kilmhor_, for instance? Or has the author interferedto make characters do what they would not naturally do, or usedchance and coincidence, like the accidentally discovered will orthe long-lost relative in melodramas, to bring about a result heprefers--a "happy ending, " or a clap-trap surprise, or a supposedproof of some theory about politics or morals?

Does the interest mount steadily from beginning to end, or doesit droop and fail somewhere? You may find it interesting to trydrawing the diagram of interest for a play, as suggested inchapter X of Dr. Brander Matthews's _Study of the Drama_, andaccounting for the drop in interest, if you find any. 

3. _The Playwright's Purpose. _

What was the author trying to do in writing the play? It may havebeen:--

Merely to tell a good story To paint a picture of life in theArran Islands or in old France or in a modern industrial town Toshow us character and its development, as in novels likeThackeray's and Eliot's (Of course, brief plays like these cannotshow development of character, but only critical points in suchdevelopment--the result of forces perhaps long at work, or theawakening of new ideas and other determinants of character. ) Toportray a social situation, such as the relation between workmenand employers, or between men and women To show the inevitableeffects of action and motive, as of the determined loyalty ofDugald Stewart and his mother, or the battle of fisher-folk orweavers with grinding poverty. 

Of course, no play will probably do any one of these thingsexclusively, but usually each is concerned most with some onepurpose. 

What effect has the play on you? Even if its tragedy is painfulor its account of human character makes you uncomfortable, is itgood for you to realize these things, or merely uselesslyunpleasant? Is the play stupidly and falsely cheering because itpresents untrue "happy endings" or other distortions of things asthey are? Do you think the play has merely temporary, or genuineand permanent, appeal?

NOTES ON THE DRAMAS AND THE DRAMATISTS

_Harold Chapin_: THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS

Harold Chapin, as we learn from _Soldier and Dramatist_ (Lane, 1917), was an American both by ancestry and nativity. But helived the greater part of his life in England, and died forEngland at Loos in April, 1915. His activity was alwaysassociated with the stage. When he was but seven years old heplayed the little Marcius to his mother's Volumnia at theShakespeare Festival, at Stratford-on-Avon in 1893. In 1911 heproduced Mr. Harold Brighouse's _Lonesome-Like_ and several ofhis own short plays at the Glasgow Repertory Theatre. For severalyears before the war he was Mr. Granville Barker's stage manager, and helped him to produce the beautiful Shakespearean plays atthe Savoy Theatre in London. 

Of Chapin's own dramas, _The New Morality_ and _Art andOpportunity_ have been given recently in New York and in London, and several of the one-act plays at a memorial performance inLondon in 1916, in matinée at the Punch and Judy Theatre, andbefore the Drama League in New York in March and April, 1921. Ofthe shorter plays, mentioned in the bibliographies followingthese notes, _It's the Poor that 'elps the Poor, The Dumb andthe Blind, and The Philosopher of Butterbiggens_ have beengiven the highest praise by such critics as Mr. William Archer, who wrote, "No English-speaking man of more unquestionable geniushas been lost to the world in this world-frenzy. " These true andhonest dramas represent the English Repertory theatres at theirbest in this brief form, and give promise of the great andpermanently interesting "human comedy" which Chapin might havecompleted had his life not been sacrificed. In spite of thesimplicity and lightness of the little play here given, there ismore shrewd philosophy in old David Pirnie, and more realhumanity in his family, than is to be found portrayed in manypretentious social dramas and difficult psychological novels. Itis admirable on the stage, as was shown by the ProvincetownPlayers last winter. In the memorial performance for HaroldChapin in London, the author's little son appeared in the part ofwee 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 inthis play if one remembers that _ae_ generally takes the place ofsuch sounds as _e_ in _tea_, _o_ in _so_, _a_ in _have_, and soon, and that _a'_ means _all_. A _wean_ is a small _bairn_, _yinst_ is _once_, _ava_ is _at all_, and _thrang_ is "thick" orintimate. 

_Distempered_ means calcimined, or painted in water-dissolvedcolor on the plaster. 

_Lady Gregory_: SPREADING THE NEWS

In her notes on the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, which she was mostinfluential in building up, Lady Augusta Gregory says that it wasthe desire of the players and writers who worked there toestablish an Irish drama which should have a "firm base inreality and an apex of beauty. " This phrase, which admirablyexpresses the best in the play-making going on to-day, finds mostadequate illustration in the work of Synge, of Yeats, and of LadyGregory herself. The basis in reality of such jolly and robustcomedies as her _Seven Irish Plays_ and _New Irish Comedies_ isclearly discernible. They are in the tradition of the best earlyEnglish comedy, from the miracle plays onward; of Hans Sachs's_Shrovetide Plays_, and of Molière's dramatizations of medieaval_fabliaux_, as in _The Physician in Spite of Himself_. LadyGregory describes in her notes on _Spreading the News_ how theplay grew out of an idea of picturing tragic consequences fromidle rumor and defamation of character. It is certainly not to beregretted that she allowed "laughter to have its way with thelittle play, " and gave Bartley Fallon a share of glory from thewoeful day to illuminate dull, older years. 

The inhabitants of this same village of Cloon appear as oldfriends in other of Lady Gregory's plays, with, as usual, nothingto do but mind one another's business. In _The Jackdaw_ anotherabsurd rumor is fanned into full blaze by greed; upon _HyacinthHalvey_ works the potent and embarrassing influence of too good areputation. Still other plays attain a notable height ofbeauty--notably _The Rising of the Moon_ and _The Traveling Man_. _The Gaol Gate_ tells a story similar to that of _Campbell ofKilmhor_, with genuinely tragic effect. She has written, besides, two volumes of Irish folk-history, _Gods and Fighting Men_ and_Cuchulain of Muirthemne_, which Mr. Yeats calls masterpieces ofprose which one "can weigh with Malory and feel no discontent atthe tally. "[1] A writer who has produced such range and beauty ofworks, from very human, characteristic comedy and farce to fine, poignant tragedy, besides writing excellent stories andcontributing largely to an important experimental theatre, issecure of her share of fame. 

The "Removable Magistrate" is apparently one appointed by Britishofficialdom; this one, having just come from the Bay of Bengal, is going to fit upon the natives of Cloon methods which may haveworked in a rather different district. 

The song "with a skin on it, " which Bartley sings, is given inLady Gregory's _Seven Short Plays_ (Putnam, 1909). 

[Footnote 1: Appendix to _The Poetical Works of William B. Yeats_, volume II, (Macmillan, 1912). ]

_Winthrop Parkhurst_: THE BEGGAR AND THE KING

_The Beggar and the King_ looks at first like a pleasantabsurdity; it is in reality valuable as a short history of theostrich method of dealing with realities. The beggar, of course, continues to cry aloud after his tongue, and even his head, havebeen removed, because there are so many millions of him. Againand again, in the course of history, he has gathered desperatecourage to defy authority that is blind and evil. Always at last, as in the French and the Russian revolutions and in the morerecent European revolts, he succeeds in wresting the power fromthose in autocratic authority. And yet, just as of old, not onlykings, but all others who attempt dictatorship and the playing ofprovidence, try the simple tactics of the ostrich; they close thewindow, or their eyes and ears, as a sufficient answer torebellion. Appreciating the futility of these methods, we have nodifficulty in continuing the drama ourselves beyond the fall ofthe curtain. 

Mr. Winthrop Parkhurst, by birth a New Yorker, according to afamily tradition is a descendant on his mother's side of JohnHuss, the Bohemian reformer and martyr, and on his father's ofthe executioner of Charles I of England. His writings include_Maracca_, a Biblical one-act play, and several short satiricalsketches. 

_George Middleton_: TIDES

Mr. George Middleton generally pictures in his dramas problemswhich are not easy to solve. And he does not try to giveready-made solutions. He merely shows us how various people havetried to work these problems; and his dramas are like real lifebecause the attempts at solutions fail as often as they succeed. Certain of the problems Mr. Middleton presents are such ashigh-school students meet and can well consider; several of theseplays appear in the lists following. _Tides_ is about a man whohas supported an unpopular theory. Nothing is said about whetherhis ideal is right or wrong, but it is clear that he has held toit in perfect sincerity of belief and has been quite unmoved bythe bitterest persecution. But when he is offered honor andflattering respect, though he does not really change his beliefand 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'sself-deception is made evident to him and to us by his honest andcourageous wife, who tells him frankly of it. "Haven't yousometimes noticed that is what bitterness to another means: afailure within oneself?" she comments wisely. An effectivecontrast is furnished by the son, who has altogether and honestlyabandoned his father's theories in the face of new realities ashe sees them. 

_Eugene O'Neill_: ILE

Eugene O'Neill, American seaman, laborer, newspaperman, anddramatist, has been associated for several years with theProvincetown Players. This group, including Mrs. Glaspell andother playwrights of importance, gather in Provincetown, on CapeCod, during the summer, and in winter present significant foreignand native plays in a converted stable on Macdougall Street inNew York, where may be seen the ring to which Pegasus was oncetethered! In 1919 Mr. O'Neill received the Pulitzer Prize for themost important American play of the year. 

Mr. O'Neill has had experience of the sea, like the greatEnglishmen, Mr. Masefield and Mr. Joseph Conrad. He knows theinterminable whaling voyages, as described in Melville's _Moby__Dick_ and the first chapter of _Typee_--best of all in Bullen's_Cruise of the Cachalot_. Out of this experience of hard life andharder men he has written many poignant and terrible dramas--perhapsthe greatest this story of the skipper's wife who insisted onmaking the voyage with her husband and is worn to the edge ofinsanity by months of ice-bound solitude. The motive of CaptainKeeney is like that which caused Skipper Ireson to leave hisfellow townsmen to sink in Chaleur Bay. Against his irondetermination his wife's piteous pleading and evident sufferingare more potent than the mutinying hands; whether she can availto turn him home "with a measly four hundred barrel of ile" isthe problem of the play. 

_J. A. Ferguson_: CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR

This tragic story of the war and hatred in Scotland belongs inthe series of attempts made by Charles Edward Stuart and hisfather to regain the throne lost by James II in 1688. "The YoungPretender's" vigorous campaign in 1745, carried far into England, might easily have succeeded but for the quarrels and disaffectionof the Highland chiefs who supported him. His failure wascompleted at the bloody battle of Culloden, or Drumossie Moor, in1746, celebrated in Scottish story and song of lamentation. Scott's hero Waverley went into the highland country shortlyafter these uprisings, and David Balfour, in _Kidnapped_, hadnumerous adventures in crossing it with Allan Breck Stewart, whowas in the service of his kinsmen, the exiled Stuarts. The hatredof Campbells and Stuarts, of Lowlander and Highlander, Loyalistand Jacobite, is intense throughout the record of those days. 

The young Scot and his stanch and proudly tearless mother are, ofcourse, the heroic characters in the play. We have a hint thatCharles Edward Stuart himself is with the band whom the young manprotects so loyally. It may seem strange that the drama is named, not for him, but for the crafty and pitiless executioner of theking's justice. But he is after all the most interestingcharacter in the piece, with his Biblical references in broadLowland Scots (we may suppose that the Stewarts speak Gaelicamong themselves), his superstition, his remorseless cruelty. Weshould like to see how he takes the discovery that, perhaps forthe first time, he has been baffled in his career of unscrupulousand bloody deeds!

This play represents the most successful work of the GlasgowRepertory Theatre in 1914. The author has written no others whichhave been published, though he is credited with a good story ortwo. It may be hoped that he will write other dramas as excellentas this one. He has put into very brief and effective form herethe spirit and idea of a most intense period of mercilessconflict. 

A _kebbuck_ is a cheese; _keek_ means peek; _toom_, empty; a_besom_, a broom; and _soop_, sweep. 

_John Galsworthy_: THE SUN

According to Professor Lewisohn and other critics Mr. Galsworthyis without question the foremost English dramatist to-day. Without arguing or attempting to offer solutions, he gives themost searching presentation of problems which we have to face andsomehow settle. In _Strife_, after a furious contest and bitterhardships, the strike is settled by a compromise which theleaders of both sides count as failure. Things are much as theywere at the start; the difficulty is no nearer solution. In_Justice_, "society stamps out a human life not without its fairpossibilities--for eighty-one pounds, " because obviously clearand guilty infraction of law cannot go unavenged. Justice is notcondemned by the facts shown in this play, nor is its workingextolled. In _The Mob_, the patrioteering element destroys a manwho proclaims the injustice of a small and greedy war ofconquest. In _The Pigeon_, brilliant debate is held, but noconclusion reached, as to what we should do with derelict andwasted lives, with men who do not fit into the scheme of successand society. 

In his sketches and stories Mr. Galsworthy presents these sameproblems, and again without attempted conclusions. _TheFreelands_ particularly is a most dramatic novel of conditionsand results similar to those in some of the dramas mentionedabove. Many of his sketches and essays also--for example, "MyDistant Relative" in _The Inn of Tranquillity_ and "Comfort" in_A Commentary_--are of biting and almost cynical irony in viewingproposed and present solutions of problems; but none suggestpanaceas. They merely make us think soberly of the size of ourproblems and their immense complexity, move us to go out to lookfor more information and to examine carefully our most solidinstitutions as well as suggested alterations in them. 

A large part of Mr. Galsworthy's time and thought, both duringthe war and since, has been given to the problem of some measureof justice to soldiers, and particularly to wounded and brokensoldiers. In _A Sheaf_ and _Another Sheaf_ appear various paperspresenting sharply the conditions of suffering and neglect thatactually exist. _The Sun_ is a brief sketch of after-wardays, --this time of a wounded man who has gained an advantageover one who escaped injury, --and of joy in deliverance from thehell of war--a joy so profound and luminous that the releasedsoldier cannot let a sharp mischance and disappointment mar hishappiness. The whole piece is in the key of Captain Bassoon'sverses after the Armistice:--

 "Every one suddenly burst out singing. "

The other two think the happy soldier mad. We are left wonderingwhat the reaction will be from this height of joyful release tothe harsh and sombre conditions of workingmen's life after thepeace. 

The _silver badge_ represents a discharge for wounds. _Crumps_are, of course, shells. 

_Louise Sounders_: THE KNAVE OF HEARTS

_The Knave of Hearts_ is one of the happy tradition ofpuppet-plays, which come down in unbroken line from the mostancient history, through the illustrious Dr. Faustus and Mr. Punch, to new and even greater favor and fame to-day. For just asthe ancient puppet-shows of Italy and England seemed to be losingground before the moving-picture invasion, they have beenheroically rescued by Mr. Tony Sarg, --whose performance ofThackeray's _The Rose and the Ring_ is perfectly absurd andcaptivating, --and by other excellent artists. 

Puppet-shows are delightful because they are easily made andquite convincing. Very good ones have been improvised even bytiny children, with a pasteboard suit-box opening to the front, aslit at the top to let down paper-doll actors on a thread, a bitof scenery, outdoors or in, drawn as background, and a showman totalk for all the characters. Still better puppets are doll headsand arms of various sorts, dressed in flowing robes and providedwith holes for two fingers and a thumb of the operator, who movesthem from below. They can be made to dance and antic as you likeon a stage above the showman's head, as Punch and Judy havealways done. The more elaborate marionettes are worked withstrings from above, so that they can open and close their mouthsand otherwise act most realistically; these are, of course, moredifficult, but quite possible to make. In such simple theatres, Goethe and Robert Louis Stevenson and many other famous peopleplayed themselves endless stories. If you want to pursue thisidea further, a list of references below gives you opportunityfor all the information you like about marionettes and puppets. 

_The Knave of Hearts_ is charming, either as a puppet-play or, asa class in junior high school gave it recently, a "legitimatedrama. " The remarks of the manager are all the funnier whenapplied to real characters. The play explains clearly the reasonsfor the strange behavior of a respectable nursery character. Itis to be published soon in a book of its own with illustrationsby Mr. Maxfield Parrish (Scribner's). The author has writtenother plays and stories, some of which you may have seen in _St. Nicholas_, and also a pleasant operetta, with music by AliceTerhune--_The Woodland_ _Princess_, listed in the bibliographyfollowing. 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. , standingon its hind legs, however that may be accomplished), reminds oneof the arms suggested for the old clergyman-scholar, Mr. Casaubon, in George Eliot's _Middlemarch_--"three cuttlefishsable and a commentator rampant. "

_Lord Dunsany_: FAME AND THE POET

Lord Dunsany (Edward Moreton Max Plunkett), the eighteenth baronof his name, is the author of a number of stories and plays uniquein their type of clever imaginativeness. Besides the inimitableFive Plays and other dramas listed in the bibliography, his bestwritings are to be found in _Fifty-One Tales_, which includes "TheHen, " "Death and Odysseus, " "The True Story of the Hare and theTortoise, " and other highly entertaining matters. _Fame and thePoet_, originally published in the _Atlantic_, has been recentlyproduced with good effect by the Harvard Dramatic Club. Fame'sstartling revelation to her faithful worshiper of her real natureand attributes is naturally most distressing--even more so, perhaps, than the rendezvous which this same goddess appointedanother poet, in the _Fifty-One Tales_: "In the cemetery back ofthe workhouse, after a hundred years. "

Lord Dunsany was a captain in the First Royal IniskillingFusileers--a regiment mentioned in Sheridan's _Saint Patrick'sDay_--and saw service in Syria and the Near East as well as onthe western front. He was wounded on April 25, 1916, in Flanders. Since the war he has visited the United States and seen aperformance of his _Tents of the Arabs_ at the NeighborhoodPlayhouse, New York City. 

_Beulah Marie Dix_: THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE

Miss Dix is author of several plays--in addition to those from_Allison's Lad_ included in the play-list, of _Across theBorder_, and, with the late Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland, of thefrequently acted _Rose of Plymouth Town_. She has also writtenseveral favorite historical stories, including _Merrylips. TheCaptain of the Gate_ is a tragedy of Cromwell's ruthlessdevastation of Ireland. The determined and heroic captainsurrenders, to face an ignominious death, to keep his word andensure delaying the advance of the enemy upon an unpreparedcountryside, and his courage inspires exhausted and failing mento like heroism. This is an effective piece of dramaticpresentation. 

_Percy Mackaye_: GETTYSBURG

Mr. Percy Mackaye has been most active in the movement for acommunity theatre in the United States and for the revival ofpageantry. He contends rightly that this development might be oneof the strongest possible influences for true Americanism, andhis dramatic work has all been directed toward such a theatre. Most notable are his pageants and masques, particularly _Calibanby the Yellow Sands_, for the Shakespeare Tercentenary; his play_The Scarecrow_, a lively dramatization of Hawthorne's_Feathertop_; his opera _Rip van Winkle_, for which Reginald DeKoven composed music; and _The Canterbury Pilgrims_, in which theWife of Bath is the heroine of further robustious adventures. Mr. Mackaye is also translator, with Professor Tablock, of the_Modern Reader's Chaucer_. The little sketch presented here istaken from a volume of _Yankee Fantasies_, in which variousobservations of past and present New England life are recorded. Stephen Crane's _The Red Badge of Courage_, a powerful story ofthe Civil War, is a most excellent help to realizing what the boyLige really endured in those days of battle. 

Mr. Mackaye has adopted here a regularly rhythmic verse withoutthe conventional capital letters at the beginnings of lines--perhaps to typify the simple homeliness of the talk. 

_Harold Brighouse_: LONESOME-LIKE

Mr. Brighouse has been best represented in this country by anexcellent comedy, _Hobson's Choice_, which was widely played andwas printed in the Drama League series of plays (1906). His otherbest-known work here is the present play, and _The Price of Coal_(1909), a picturing of the hard life of miners' wives and theirSpartan firmness in expectation of fatal accidents. He hasproduced and published a number of other plays, among them thoselisted in the bibliography. Mr. Brighouse represents in thisvolume the work of the English Repertory theatres, which parallelthe Abbey Theatre in Dublin, the Glasgow Repertory Theatre, andvarious European stage-societies. That at Manchester, with whichhe has been associated, is directed by Miss Isabel Horniman, hasseen beautiful stage-settings designed by Mr. Robert Burne-Jones, and counts among its dramatists such well-known men as Messrs. Allan Monkhouse, author of _Mary Broome_, a sombre and powerfultragedy; Stanley Houghton, and Gilbert Cannan. The LiverpoolTheatre has become even more famous through the dramatic work ofMr. John Drinkwater. The Little Theatre movement in this country, our Drama League, and the various dramatic societies in ourcolleges and cities are our nearest parallel to these repertorytheatres. 

_Lonesome-Like_, Mr. Brighouse's most effective short play, iswritten in a modified Lancashire dialect, the speech of thevillage weavers and spinners. Many of the words are English ofElizabethan 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 shoeswith wooden soles and leather uppers, and _dungarees_, garmentsof coarse cotton cloth rather like overalls. _A_ is usedthroughout 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

The work of the Irish Renaissance in the Abbey Theatre in Dublinreached its most powerful and tragic height in this tragedy, which Mr. Yeats compared to the Antigone and (Edipus ofSophocles). Synge at first wandered about Europe, poetizing; itwas Yeats who brought him back to study and embody in genuineliterature the poetry of life among his own people. On the bleakArran Islands he lived in a fisherman's cottage, and through thefloor of his room heard the dialect which he presents in simpleand poignant beauty in this drama of hopeless struggle. The"second sight"--called "the gift" in _Campbell of Kilmhor_, andan incident also in _The Riding to Lithend_--was a sort ofprophetic vision altogether credited among Celtic peoples, asamong those of Scott's _Lady of the Lake_. When the mother seesthe "riders to the sea, "--her drowned son and her living sonriding together, --she feels convinced that he must soon die. Thesharp cries of her grief and, above all, the peace of herresignation at the end, after all hope is gone, make this, as awriter in the _Manchester Guardian_ is quoted as calling it, "thetragic masterpiece of our language in our time; wherever it hasbeen in Europe, from Galway to Prague, it has made the wordtragedy mean something more profoundly stirring and cleansing tothe spirit than it did. "

The speech of the people is not difficult to understand when youmaster a few of its peculiarities. One is the omission of wordswe generally include, as in, "Isn't it a hard and cruel man (who)won't hear. .. . " Another is the common form "It was crying I was. "A few phrases, like _what way_ for how, _the way_ for so that, _in it_ for here or near, and _itself_ for even, or with noparticular meaning, as "Where is he itself?" The meanings ofother words will be easily untangled. 

_William Butler Yeats_: THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE

Mr. Yeats's best poetic dramas, and particularly this one, represent beyond question that "apex of beauty" to which LadyGregory spoke of the Abbey Theatre dramatists as aspiring. Thisplay is not founded on any particular Irish folk-tale. It isfilled with the half-dread, half-envy with which the tellers ofIrish legends seem to regard the fate of mortals bewitched by theLeprechaun or Good People. It is rich, too, with the music ofbeautiful words, without which, Mr. Yeats contends no play can be"of a great kind. " He says too, "There is no poem so great that afine speaker cannot make it greater, or that a bad ear cannotmake it nothing. "

Mr. Yeats has written broad comedy like Synge's _Shadow of theGlen_ and Lady Gregory's _Irish Comedies_; his _Pot of Broth_ isa most clever retelling of an old, comical tale. But it is by hismystical and poetical plays that he would be judged as playwrightand poet--particularly _Deirdre_, which should be compared withSynge's _Deirdre of the Sorrows_; _The Unicorn of the Stars_, written in collaboration with Lady Gregory; _Cathleen NiHoolihan_, a dramatization of the spirit of Ireland; _The King'sThreshold_, a high glorification of the poet's art, with a fable, based on an ancient Celtic rite, of the hunger strike; and _TheLand of Heart's Desire_, most beautifully perfect of all. 

_Gordon Bottomley_: THE RIDING TO LITHEND

"_The Riding to Lithend_ is an Icelandic play taken out of thenoblest of the Sagas, " wrote Mr. Lascelles Abercrombie in hisreview of the published drama in 1909. "[It] is a fight, one ofthe greatest fights in legend. .. . The subject is stirring, andMr. Bottomley takes it into a very high region of poetry, givingit a purport beyond that of the original teller of the tale. .. . [The play] is not a representation of life; it is a symbol oflife. In it life is entirely fermented into rhythm, by which wemean not only rhythm of words, but rhythm of outline also; thebeauty and impressiveness of the play do not depend only on thesubject, the diction, and the metre, but on the fact that it hasdistinct and most evident form, in the musician's sense of theword. It is one of those plays that reach the artist's idealcondition of music, in fact. "

This is high praise; but who, after studying the play, will doubtthat it is deserved? The powerfully moving events of the storyindeed lead up to the climax in a forthright and exciting manner. The terror of the house-women and the thrall, the fearful love ofGunnar's mother Rannveig, and the caution of Kolskegg hisbrother, who "sailed long ago and far away from us" in obedienceto the doom or sentence of the Thing--all these bring out sharplythe quite reckless daring of Gunnar himself, who braves thedecree. A mysterious and epic touch is added by the three ancienthags-evidently of these minor Norns who watch over individualdestinies and announce the irrevocable doom of the gods. It wasHallgerd who broke their thread, representing, of course, Gunnar's span of life. 

The centre of interest, as well as the spring of the action, isclearly Hallgerd, descendant of Sigurd Fafnirsbane and ofBrynhild--

 . .. A hazardous desirable thing, A warm unsounded peril, a flashing mischief, A divine malice, a disquieting voice. 

She, and not any superstitious belief in "second-sight" and deathdecreed, is the cause of Gunnar's remaining outlawed. Shewrangles about the headdress, not because she particularly wantsit, but to send her husband on a perilous mission to secure it. She says openly that she has "set men at him to show forth hismight . .. Planned thefts and breakings of his word" to stir himto battle. Mr. Abercrombie believes that "She loves her husbandGunnar, but she refuses to give him any help in his last fight, in order that she may see him fight better and fiercer. " Weshould, then, have to suppose that her amazing speech at hisdeath--

 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--

is not for the blow Gunnar had given her when she "planned theftsand breakings of his word, " but is rather, as the linespowerfully indicate, the exultation of a descendant of theValkyrie watching above the battlefields. 

Really poetical plays--plays which are both poetic and stronglydramatic--are indeed exceedingly rare. Mr. Bottomley is one ofthe few who have produced such drama in English. For many yearshe printed his work privately, in beautiful editions for hisfriends; but of late several of the plays have been madeavailable--_King Lear's Wife in Georgian Poetry_, 1913-15, and ina volume of the same title, including _Midsummer Eve_ and _TheRiding to Lithend_, published in London last year. 

Those who want more stories of this sort will find them in_Thorgils_ and other Icelandic stories modernized by Mr. Hewlett;in the _Burnt Njal_, translated by Sir George Dasent, from whichthis story itself springs; and in the translations by EirikrMagnusson and William Morris, the _Saga Library_--particularlythe stories of the Volsungs and Nibelungs, and of Grettir theStrong. 

_louvre_--a smoke-hole in the roof

_thrall_--a captive or serf

_bill_--a battle-ax

_second sight_--prophetic vision, as in _Riders to the Sea_ and_Campbell of Kilmhor_

_fetch_--one's double; seeing it is supposed to be a sign thatone is _fey_ or fated to die

_wimpled_--"clouted up, " as Hallgerd expresses it, in a headdressrather like a nun's. A widow, apparently, might wear her hairuncovered

_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 sameroot, 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 earlyIcelandic meaning of the word _thing_

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PLAYS FOR READING IN HIGH SCHOOLS

+Thomas Bailey Aldrich+

MERCEDES: A tragic story of the inextinguishable hatreds andreprisals of the French invasion of Spain in 1810, and of awoman's terrible heroism. 

In _Collected Works_, Houghton Mifflin. 

PAULINE PAVLOVNA: 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 quitedifferent scheme. 

_Ibid. _

+Mary Austin+

THE ARROW-MAKER: The tragedy of a noble medicine-woman of a tribeof California Indians, and of a weak and selfish chief. 

Duffield. 

+Granville Barker+

Rococo: In which we discover a clergyman and his relatives inphysical altercation over a rococo vase, and follow their disputeto a determinative conclusion. 

Sidgwick and Jackson, London. 

VOTE BY BALLOT: A drama of English elections and the forcesinvolved. 

Sidgwick and Jackson. 

THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE: The inheritance is a dishonored name anda dishonest business. 

In _Three Plays_, Sidgwick and Jackson. 

+Granville Barker and Dion Calthorpe+

HARLEQUINADE: Its development from the days of Persephone, Momus, and Charon is displayed and explained by Alice and her uncle. 

Sidgwick and Jackson. 

+James Barrie+

THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON: In the struggle for existence on a desertisland, the family butler provides the brains and safety for anEnglish family; the party is then rescued, and returns to theimpeccable conventions of London. 

Scribner's, New York; Hodder and Stoughton, London. 

ALICE SIT-BY-THE FIRE: A mother with keen insight and adelightful sense of humor has to deal with a serious attack ofromantic imagination in her very young daughter, who feelsresponsible for the conduct of the family. 

Scribner's; Hodder and Stoughton. 

THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS: Mrs. Dowie, a charwoman who hasresorted to desperate remedies in order to have some part in thewar, goes through an agonizing crisis of exposure, into real joyand sharp sorrow. The rich humor of the characters makes thisquite unique among plays of its type. 

In _Echoes of the War_, Scribner's. 

THE WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE. 

_Ibid. _

PETER PAN: A charming fairy drama of the baby from theNever-Never Land and of his make-believe play with his friends inthe nursery. 

Scribner's. 

THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK: On the eve of achieving knighthood thehero suffers a startling disclosure which leads him to looksuspiciously for the "twelve-pound look" in his lady's eyes. 

In _Half-Hours_, Scribner's. 

WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS: As we behold the creation of John Shand'scareer by Maggie his wife, who lacks charm, and particularly aswe observe her campaign against a woman fully possessed of charm, we want to learn "what every woman knows. " The secret isenlightening. 

Scribner's. 

+Lewis Beach+

BROTHERS, A SARDONIC COMEDY: Two "poor whites" quarrel violentlyover a worthless inheritance, and then combine in arson toprevent their mother from getting it: a disquieting and searchingstudy of depths of shiftlessness and passionate meanness. 

In _Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays_, edited by Frank Shay andPierre S. Loving. Frank Shay. 

THE CLOD: A powerful drama of the flare-up of a stolid andapparently unfeeling nature in the flame of the pity and horrorof war. 

In _Washington Square Plays_, Doubleday. 

+Jacinto Benavente+

HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND: An absurd comedy of the small gossip andrigid conventions in a Spanish provincial capital. (Translated byJohn Garrett Underhill. )

In Plays, _First Series_, Scribner's. 

+Arnold Bennett+

A GOOD WOMAN: A farcical triangular plot with particularly goodcomic characters. 

In _Polite Farces_, Doran. 

THE STEPMOTHER: Satirical presentment of a lady novelist, herefficient secretary, and her stepson, not to mention the doctordownstairs; amusing studies in character. 

_Ibid. _

THE GREAT ADVENTURE: Good dramatization of the astoundingadventures of Priam Farll (from _Buried Alive_), who attends hisown funeral in Westminster Abbey, marries a young and suitablewidow with whom his late valet has corresponded through amatrimonial bureau, and meets other amazing situations. 

Doran. 

THE TITLE: A delightful comedy in which several people who havedenounced the disgraceful awarding of English titles have a badtime of it with Mrs. Culver, who does not propose to let slip theopportunity of being called "My Lady. " You can probably guesswhich side wins in the end. 

Doran. 

+Gordon Bottomley+

KING LEAR'S WIFE: An episode in King Lear's earlier years, whichthrows much imaginative light on Goneril's and Cordelia's latertreatment of their father. Lear's wife herself, as we might haveguessed, is a pathetic figure. 

Constable, London; also in _Georgian Poetry_, 1913-15. 

MIDSUMMER EVE: Several farm maidservants meet to see their futurelovers' spirits on Midsummer Eve, but see only the "fetch" ordouble of one of them, foretelling her death. 

In _King Lear's Wife and Other Plays_, Constable. 

+Anna Hempstead Branch+

ROSE OF THE WIND: A fairy play of the dancing and allurement ofbewitched slippers, and of other wonders. 

Houghton Mifflin. 

+Harold Brighouse+

THE DOORWAY: A sharp and cruel picture of unsheltered people on afreezing night in London. 

Joseph Williams, London. 

THE GAME: A cocksure and triumphant girl meets more than hermatch in an old peasant woman, the mother of the man she wants tomarry. 

In Three Lancashire Plays, Samuel French. 

HOBSON'S CHOICE: In which the eldest daughter at Hobson's plays awinning game against her tyrannous father and superior-feelingsisters, using a quite excellent but disregarded piece. 

Constable, London; Doubleday, New York. 

MAID OF FRANCE: An effective play in which Joan of Arc lays asideher old hate for the English soldiers, whom she discovers onFrench soil again. 

Gowans and Gray, Glasgow. 

THE OAK SETTLE

Gowans and Gray. 

THE PRICE OF COAL: Picturing the stoical and terrible resignationto peril of death of old women in the coal regions--andpresenting an unexpected ending. 

Gowans and Gray. 

+Harold Brock+

THE BANK ACCOUNT: A small but poignant tragedy of thesavings-account which a clerk has counted upon to free him aftermany years of drudgery, and which he has entrusted to his stupidand 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 OldLadies' Home have to face and solve the problem of living in thesame room. 

Walter H. Baker. 

+Witter Bynner+

THE LITTLE KING: A delineation of the cruel suffering and thedauntless courage of the small Louis XVII; he refuses to be cowedby the bullying of his keeper or to let a poor boy assume hisfate. 

Kennerley. 

+George Calderon+ idealized him meanwhile that her realization ofthe altered situation brings an astounding reaction. 

Sidgwick and Jackson. 

+Margaret Cameron+

THE TEETH OF THE GIFT HORSE: A pleasant farce built about twohuge and hideous hand-painted vases and a charming little oldlady who perpetrated them. 

French. 

+Gilbert Cannan+

EVERYBODY'S HUSBAND: Three generations of ladies discuss theindividual characteristics of their husbands, but find them, after all, indistinguishable men. 

Seeker, London. 

JAMES AND JOHN: They are faced with their invalid mother'srequest that they crown many years of tedious sacrifice andatonement for their father's weak crime by taking him into theirlives again. 

In _Four Plays_, Sidgwick and Jackson. 

MARY'S WEDDING: Bill's mother tries in vain to dissuade Mary fromthe certain and inescapable misery of marrying her drunkard son. Bill himself settles the problem. 

_Ibid. _

A SHORT WAY WITH AUTHORS: An entertaining farce showing how agreat actor-manager goes about encouraging serious dramaticcomposition. 

_Ibid. _

+Harold Chapin+

AUGUSTUS IN SEARCH OF A FATHER: He returns from abroad anddiscusses with a night-watchman the problem of his search for hisfather. 

THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE: A mother has denied herself everything tobuild a small mausoleum to her dead son, and so Gowans and Gray. 

THE AUTOCRAT OF THE COFFEE STALLS: A strange character with anastonishing history is shown us in the night-light from arefreshment wagon in London streets. 

Gowans and Gray. 

THE DUMB AND THE BLIND: A study of a bargeman's family in Londontenements. Mr. William Archer calls this "a veritable masterpiecein its way--a thing Dickens would have delighted in. .. . We feelthat the dumb has spoken and the blind has seen. "

Gowans and Gray; forthcoming, French, New York. 

IT'S THE POOR THAT 'ELPS THE POOR: Of the simple kindliness ofLondon costermongers and their neighborly help and sympathy. 

French. 

MUDDLE ANNIE: Of course, it is "Muddle Annie" who helps theirfriend the policeman save the more suave and self-satisfiedmembers of her family from a precious rogue. 

Gowans and Gray. 

THE THRESHOLD: Tells of a Welsh girl about to elope with aspecious rascal, and of the intervention of her old father, whois 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 medieaval French farce. Jacquinot endures a miserable compound tyranny of petticoatsuntil matters are brought to a head by cumulative injustice andthe intervention of accident. 

In _Poet Lore_ (1917), 28:722. 

+Padraic Colum+

MOGU THE WANDERER: Pageantesque and dramatic story of the rise ofa beggar to be the king's vizier, and of as sudden and entirereversal of fortunes. 

Little, Brown. 

THOMAS MUSKERRY: The tragic story of a poorhouse-keeper whorepeats Lear's error of letting go his cherished power, and whosuffers as keenly a more humble tragedy. 

Maunsell, Dublin. 

+Rachel Crothers+

HE AND SHE: A woman's designs win over those of her husband, whohas the greater reputation, a large competitive award for a pieceof sculpture; but she declines the commission in face of nearerand higher responsibilities. 

In Quinn's _Representative American Plays_, Century. 

+Windsor P. Daggett and Winifred Smith+

LELIO AND ISABELLA: A COMMEDIA DELL'ARTE: The story of Romeo andJuliet, as the foremost players of the Italian Comedy of Masksmay have given it in seventeenth-century Paris--with an ending oftheir choice. An interesting study in the type. 

In manuscript: N. L. Swartout, Summit, N. J. 

+H. H. Davies+

THE MOLLUSC: Clever study of a woman who is a mollusc--not merelylazy, since she is capable of huge exertions to avoid beingdisturbed; she finds plenty of opposition to show forth herpowers upon. 

Baker. 

+Thomas H. Dickinson+

IN HOSPITAL: A poignant small dialogue of a husband and wife whomeet courageously the threatened shipwreck of their happiness. 

In _Wisconsin Plays, First Series_, B. W. Huebsch. 

+Beulah M. Dix+

ALLISON'S LAD: A Cavalier lad, about to be shot as a spy, isseized by terror, but dies bravely, "as if strong arms werearound him. "

In _Allison's Lad and Other Martial Interludes_, Holt. 

THE DARK OF THE DAWN: Colonel Basil Tollocho spares a boy he hassworn to destroy in revenge of a great wrong, and is made glad ofhis clemency. 

_Ibid. _

THE HUNDREDTH TRICK: Con of the Hundred Tricks takes fearfullystern measures against possible betrayal of his cause. 

_Ibid. _

+Beulah Marie Dix and Evelyn Greenleaf Sutherland+

ROSE O'PLYMOUTH TOWN: A pleasant play of Puritans and theirneighbors. 

Dramatic Publishing Company. 

+Oliphant Down+

THE MAKER OF DREAMS: Poetical small play in which love appearswith a new make-up but in the old role. 

Gowans and Gray. 

+Ernest Dowson+

THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE: A quite charming tale of Pierrot andthe Moon-Maiden. 

In his _Collected Poems_, Lane. 

+John Drinkwater+

ABRAHAM LINCOLN: A dramatic presentation of episodes in Lincoln'slife, from his nomination to the presidency to his death. 

Sidgwick and Jackson; Houghton Mifflin. 

COPHETUA: In which King Cophetua justifies to his court andcouncillors his marriage to the beggar maid. 

Sidgwick and Jackson; Houghton Mifflin. 

THE STORM: An intense but quiet tragedy of a woman who waitswhile men search for her husband, lost in a great storm in thehills. 

In _Four Poetic Plays_, Houghtou Mifflin; _Pawns_, Sidgwick andJackson. 

THE GOD or QUIETNESS: The zest of war draws away all the notableworshipers of the god of quietness, and an angry war-lord slaysthe god himself. 

_Ibid. _

X-O: A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR: Trojans and Greeks, lovers ofpoetry, fellowship, and justice, carry on ruthless slaughter, andby irreparable losses strike a balance of exact advantage toeither side. 

_Ibid. _

+Lord Dunsany+

THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN: Of seven beggars who wear pieces ofgreen silk beneath their rags, and by brilliant devices of Agmar, their leader, contrive to be taken for the gods of the mountaindisguised as beggars--until the real gods leave their thrones atManna. 

In _Five Plays_, Richards, London; Little, Brown. 

KING ARGFMENES AND THE UNKNOWN WABBIOR: A slave, born a king, finds an old bronze sword buried in the ground he is tilling, andhenceforward 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 pavementsfurnishes 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 anddislikes the idea of returning for it. 

_Ibid. _

THE QUEEN'S ENEMIES: They are invited to a feast ofreconciliation in the great banquet room below the level of theriver. 

In _Plays of Gods and Men. _ Unwin, London; J. W. Luce, Boston. 

A NIGHT AT AN INN: A commonplace ancient plot is filled anew withdramatic terror and a sense of mystery. 

_Ibid. _

+Edith M. O. Ellis (Mrs. Havelock Ellis)+

THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA: Joe Pengilly, a Cornish villager, isfinally convinced that strong measures toward her subjection arealone capable of keeping his wife's love, and buys a stout cane. We learn how he fared in carrying these measures out. 

In _Love in Danger_, Houghton Mifflin. 

+St. John Ervine+

FOUR IRISH PLAYS:

MIXED MARRIAGE: A tragedy of the violent hatreds of Ulster. 

Maunsell. 

THE ORANGEMAN: A comic study of the petty madness of the samehatreds. 

Maunsell. 

THE CRITICS: Dramatic critics furiously condemn a play at theAbbey Theatre in Dublin. Gradually we discover the idea of theplay through their abuse, and at last we recognize it. 

Maunsell. 

JANE CLEGG: A strong and clear-sighted, honest woman has to dealwith a feeble and braggart husband whose foolish crime threatensto wreck her own and her children's lives. 

Sidgwick and Jackson. 

+Rachel Lyman Field+

THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE: Fantastic play of a little sick boy whogives the medicine that was to have made him strong to feedingthe starved and abused souls of various passers-by. 

In _Plays of the 47 Workshop_, First Series, Brentano's. 

+Anatole France+

THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE: A mad and comic farce, in thetradition of _Pierre Patelin_ and _The Physician in Spite ofHimself_. Judge Botal calls in a learned physician and his aidesto make his dumb wife speak. The result is so astoundinglysuccessful that he pleads for relief. Finally a desperate remedyis found. 

Translated by Curtis Hidden Page, Lane, 1915. 

+J. O. Francis+

CHANGE: The tragic conflict of ideals of two generations whichhave grown irreparably apart in social and economic views. 

Educational Publishing Company, Cardiff; Doubleday, New York. 

+Zona Gale+

THE NEIGHBORS: Kindliness called forth among village people toaid a poor seamstress who is to undertake the care of her orphannephew. 

In _Wisconsin Plays, First Series_, B. W. Huebsch. 

MISS LULU BETT: A starved life blossoms suddenly andunexpectedly. 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 differentsolutions of similar problems when different individual and classfactors enter into them. 

Scribner's. 

JUSTICE: Mr. Ludwig Lewisohn writes: "The economic structure ofsociety on any basis requires the keeping of certain compacts. Itcannot endure such a breaking of these compacts as Falder isguilty of when he changes the figures on the cheque. Yet by thesimple march of events it is overwhelmingly proven that societyhere 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 oftourist, and absurd apotheosis of the Little Man, of noparticular nation and of insignificant appearance, who provesquietly capable of doing what the rest discuss. 

Scribner's. 

THE MOB: The reply of the hysterical and "patrioteering" membersof his own class, and of the many-headed rage, to a man who stoodagainst 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 tookthe purse--'E took the purse, but (_in a muffled shout_) it's 'ismoney got '_im_ off! _Justice_!

"The Magistrate: We will now adjourn for lunch. " (Act II. )

In _Plays, First Series_, Scribner's, 1916. 

STRIFE: In the strike the leaders of the men and of the employersare stanch against compromise, but "the strong men with strongconvictions are broken. The second-rate run the world throughhalf-measures and concessions. " (Lewisohn. )

_Ibid. _

+Louise Ayers Garnett+

MASTER WILL OF STRATFORD: A pleasant drama of Will Shakespeare'sboyhood. Compare Landor's "Citation and Examination of WillShakespeare for Deer-Stealing. "

Macmillan. 

+Alice Gerstenberg+

OVERTONES: While two women are conversing politely, they areattended by their real, unconventional selves, who interrupt tosay what the women actually think and mean. Compare Ninah WilcoxPutnam's _Orthodoxy_ (_Forum_, June, 1914, 51:801), in whicheveryone in church says what he is thinking instead of what isproper and expected. 

In _Washington Square Plays_, Doubleday. 

+Giuseppa Giacosa+

THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL: Anna is sternly loyal to her husbandPaolo, but refuses to submit to his incessant prying into herindividuality and questioning of her thoughts and her feelings. 

Frank Shay. 

THE WAGER: "Sentimental comedy, poetic and graceful, by one ofthe greatest contemporary Italian dramatists. "

Barrett H. Clark, translator. French. 

+W. S. Gilbert+

ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN: A most absurd parody on Hamlet, wherein a lamentable tragedy written and repented by his unclethe king is unearthed and turned to the sad prince's undoing. 

In _Original Plays_, Scribner's. 

ENGAGED

PRINCESS IDA

+William Gillette+

SECRET SERVICE: A most intense situation in Richmond during theCivil War, ably handled by a quiet and brilliant Northernsecret-service man; weakened by a manufactured happy ending. 

French. 

+Susan Glaspell+

TRIFLES: Two women, by noting the significant trifles which thesheriff and the attorney overlook, discover the story ofsuffering which led to a crime. Speaking of their neglect ofneighborly kindness, one says, "That's a crime too, and who'sgoing to punish that?"

In _Washington Square Plays_. 

+Lady Gregory+

IRISH FOLK-HISTORY PLAYS:

I. THE TRAGEDIES: Stories of the beautiful and potent queens whobrought suffering upon themselves and upon others; compareSynge's and Yeats's stories of Deirdre. 

Putnam. 

II. THE TRAGI-COMEDIES: THE WHITE COCKADE: In which James IIdefeats the gains of his loyal subjects by his abject andridiculous cowardice. 

Putnam. 

CANAVANS: A covetous miller, his clever wandering brother, andsome pleasant absurdity about the popular worship of QueenElizabeth by her loyal subjects in Ireland. 

Putnam. 

THE DELIVERER: Apparently an Irish peasant's idea of the story ofMoses. 

Putnam. 

WORKHOUSE WARD; HYACINTH HALVEY; THE JACKDAW:

Comedies full of Irish wit, conscious and unconscious comedy, andendless 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 Halveyfrom his troublesome reputation and from the place by the magicand lunacy of moonlight. 

In _New Irish Comedies_, Putnam. 

DAMER'S GOLD: A fortunate rescue from the torments of miserlinessand pestilent heirs; the author's notes on the origin of the playare interesting. 

_Ibid. _

THE GAOL GATE: A brief and effective tragic story of two womenwho fear that their man has betrayed his mates, but who find thathe has been hanged without informing; the mother improvises apsalm of praise of his steadfastness. 

In _Seven Short Plays_. 

THE TRAVELING MAN: A peasant woman who has been befriended bya mysterious wanderer expects his return so that she may thankhim. She drives away a tramp from her kitchen, and then discoverswho he was. 

_Ibid. _

THE GOLDEN APPLE: Many scenes, some excellent fun; of a searchfor miraculous fruit, of a giant who is high and bloodthirstyonly in carefully fostered reputation, and the like matters. 

Putnam. 

+St. John Hankin+

THE PERFECT LOVER: Delightful dramatic version of Suckling's"Constant 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 returnedprodigal, calmly puts upon them the question of his future. 

_Ibid. _

THE CASSILIS ENGAGEMENT

_Ibid. _

+Gerhardt Hauptmann+

THE WEAVERS: Painful presentation of the suffering of the Germanweavers in the first adjustments of the Industrial Revolution. 

In Dickinson's _Chief Contemporary Dramatists_; also inLewisohn's translations, Huebsch. 

+Winifred N. Hawkridge+

THE FLORIST SHOP: Rather sentimentalist play of good influenceswafted by a young woman as a florist's clerk; excellent businesscombines with the influences. 

In _Harvard Dramatic Club Plays, First Series_, Brentano's. 

+Hazelton and Benrimo+

THE YELLOW JACKET: The conventions of the Chinese theatre, moreor less faithfully presented, make a quite comical presentment ofan ancient Chinese legend. 

Bobbs, Merrill. 

+Theresa Helburn+

ENTER THE HERO: A madly fanciful girl fabricates a romance out ofwhole cloth, casts a friend as hero, and tells her small worldabout it. Even the rough measures the hero has to use to escapedo not succeed in curing her of the habit. 

In _Flying Stage Plays, No. 4_, Ahrens; _Fifty ContemporaryOne-Act Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. 

+Perez Hirschbein+

IN THE DARK: Grim and awful picture of the depths of misery andstarvation in a Ghetto basement. Translated by Goldberg. 

In _Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre, First Series_: Luce. 

+Hugo von Hofmannsthal+

MADONNA DIANORA: Fearsome tragedy of the Ring-and-Book sort, beautifully and poignantly presented. 

Translated by Harriett Boas, Badger. 

+Stanley Houghton+

THE DEAR DEPARTED: Somewhat precipitate haste for advantage individing grandfather's effects is fittingly rebuked. 

In _Dramatic Works_, vol. I. French, New York; Constable, London. 

THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT: A mother finds being an "imaginaryinvalid" excellent for checkmating her daughter's plans, butinconveniently in the way of her own. 

_Ibid. _

+Laurence Housman+

RETURN OF ALCESTIS: A modern poetic view of the spirit ofAlcestis returning to Admetus after her sacrifice and rescue. Edwin Arlington Robinson has also handled this theme lately. 

French. 

BIRD IN HAND: A pedantic old scholar is mysteriously plagued byan illusion of faery, but in time conquers the obsession. 

French. 

BETHLEHEM: A nativity play. 

Macmillan. 

THE CHINESE LANTERN: Pleasantly effective scenes in a Chinesestudio. 

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 thevoluble 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 hiscommunity has to reckon with the people; compare The Mob, by JohnGalsworthy. 

Boni and Liveright. 

THE DOLL'S HOUSE: Nora Hjalmar, who has always been petted andshielded, at last has to face and solve certain difficultproblems for herself. She thus discovers just how much herhusband's love and indulgence are worth. Her solution of thedifficulty is presented, not as necessarily the right thing tohave done, but as what such a woman would do under thecircumstances. 

Boni and Liveright. 

THE LADY FROM THE SEA: Ellida Wrangel, wife of the villagepastor, feels the call of the sea; she feels she must go with therough sailor to whom she was once betrothed. When Wrangelsincerely offers her liberty to choose, she "seeks the securityof a familiar home, and the wild lure of the great sea spaces cantrouble her no more. " (Lewisohn. )

Boni and Liveright. 

+W. W. Jacobs and Others+

ADMIRAL PETERS; THE GRAY PABKOT; THE CHANGELING; BOATSWAIN'SMATE: Jolly farces of sailors and watchmen and their families, based on Jacobs's stories in _Captains All, Many Cargoes_, andthe rest. 

French. 

THE MONKEY'S PAW: A most fearful and gruesome play, based onJacobs's story, in the vein of the _Three Wishes_, and the _Footof Pharaoh_, by Gautier. 

French. 

+Jerome K. Jerome+

FANNY AND THE SERVANT PBOBLEM: The new Lady Bantock is surprisedto discover both her real rank and her strange relationship withher twenty-three servants. An interesting character study. 

French. 

+William Ellery Leonard+

GLORY OF THE MORNING: The pathos of two civilizations contendingfor the children of the Indian woman, Glory of the Morning; theymust go with their father to France or stay with their mother. Dr. Leonard has newly completed another powerful tragedy, _RedBird_, as yet unpublished. 

In _Wisconsin Plays, First Series_, 1914, B. W. Huebsch. 

+Justin McCarthy+

IF I WERE KING: A romantic play, in the vein of De Banville's_Gringoire_, in which Villon becomes Marshal of France, for abrief time and with a fearful condition stipulated by thespider-king, Louis XI. 

Heinemann. 

+Edward Knoblauch and Arnold Bennett+

MILESTONES: Three different generations, with their differentideas and ideals, confront similar problems with different views, and arrive at various conclusions. 

Doran. 

+Percy Mackaye+

THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS: Mr. Mackaye, translator with ProfessorTatlock of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, has written here a cleverplay of the travelers' adventures. The Wife of Bath is of coursethe ringleader in mischief. 

Macmillan. 

CALIBAN BY THE YELLOW SANDS: A masque for the ShakespeareTercentenary Celebration, New York City. 

Doubleday. 

JEANNE D'ARC: A tragedy made up of incidents in the life of theMaid. 

Macmillan. 

SAM AVERAGE: A Silhouette. A soldier of 1812 is kept true to thecause 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 STAR: Portraying the cruel suffering of two Irishpeasant women who wait in a city tenement for Christmas as theyremember it. 

In Short Plays, Stewart and Kidd. 

+Maurice Maeterlinck+

ARDIANE AND BLUEBEARD: A resolute wife finally defies Bluebeardand rescues his wives; but they refuse to forsake theirunfortunate 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 andinescapable forces surrounding and closing in upon men's lives. 

Boni and Liveright; Dodd, Mead. 

THE BLUE BIRD: Two peasant children, accompanied by their friendsDog, Cat, Bread, Sugar, and others, search everywhere for theblue bird of happiness. They visit among other places the realmsof 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. 

+John Masefield+

PHILIP THE KING; TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT:

High tragedies. The great Pompey, defeated by the upstart Ceesar, is kingly to the end. 

Sidgwick and Jackson, London; Macmillan, New York. 

THE SWEEPS OF NINETY-EIGHT: A fugitive from an unsuccessfulrebellion achieves a sweeping revenge upon the leaders of theenemy; amusing comedy. 

Macmillan. 

THE TRAGEDY OF NAN: One of the most poignantly tragic of modernplays; the mercilessness of weak and selfish people crushes out abeautiful life. 

Richards, London. 

+Rutherford Mayne (J. Waddell)+

THE DRONE: An old man by playing craftily at being on the eve ofa great invention lives most comfortably on his brother's means;but forces accumulate against him and he is threatened witheviction from the hive. 

Luce. 

+George Middleton+

THE BLACK TIE: A play of sharp and quiet suffering, presenting ata new angle the Southern cleavage of races. The negro classes arenot allowed to appear in the Sunday-school procession, and thesmall disappointment is typical of greater deprivations. 

In Possession 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 hecreated and then forced to do as they would not really have done. 

In Masks and other One-Act Plays, Holt. 

MOTHERS: A mother tries in vain to prevent a young woman whom sheloves from marrying her son and repeating the misery of her ownmarriage with a weakling. 

In Tradition and other One-Act Plays, Holt. 

ON BAIL: A gambler's wife who has shared his illegal gains musthelp him pay his debt to the law; their son, too, is involved. 

_Ibid. _

THE TWO HOUSES: An old professor and his wife talk quietlytogether of the plans and the realities they have lived among. 

In Masks, etc. 

WAITING: False conventional ideas have long thwarted, and nowthreaten to wreck, the happiness of people who care greatly foreach other. 

In Tradition, etc. 

+Edna St. Vincent Millay+

ABIA DA CAPO: A fantasy in which Pierrot, Columbine, and theGrecian shepherds of Theocritus display their varied views oflife. 

In Reedy's Mirror: reprinted in Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, Stewart and Kidd, Cincinnati. 

+Allan Milne+

THE BOY COMES HOME: A war profiteer has a bad half-hour ofdifficulties in getting his soldier nephew to work and liveaccording 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 countedon, but his chorus of relatives--surely related to Sir WilloughbyPatterne's--do not even notice the misfortune. 

_Ibid. _

WURZEL-FLUMMERY: Of two men offered a good-sized fortune by awill provided they will adopt Wurzel-Flummery in place of theirown more satisfactory surnames, and of their decision. 

_Ibid. _

+Allan Monkhouse+

NIGHT WATCHES: A quiet and vivid picturing of the potentialcruelty and frightfulness of ordinary well-meaning ignorance andterror; the fable reminds one of Galsworthy's "The BlackGodmother, " in The Inn of Tranquillity. 

In War Plays, Constable, London. 

+William Vaughn Moody+

THE FAITH HEALER: A serious drama presenting in moving and humanfashion the effects of faith and disillusion. 

Macmillan. 

+Dhan Gopal Mukerji+

THE JUDGMENT or INDRA: A Hindu play, in which a priest of Indra, after making a supreme sacrifice of himself and others in orderto root out human affection from his heart, thinks that his godspeaks in the lightning of the storm that ensues. 

In Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, edited by Shay and Loving. Stewart and Kidd. 

+Tracy Mygatt+

GOOD FRIDAY: A Passion Play. A powerful tragedy of theconscientious objector. 

Published by the author, 23 Bank Street, New York, N. Y. 

+Alfred Noyes+

SHERWOOD: A poetical play of Robin Hood and his band. 

Stokes. 

+Eugene O'Neill+

BEYOND THE HORIZON: The Pulitzer Prize Play, 1920. A tragic storyof a young man who longed to seek romance "beyond the horizon, "and could find neither that nor any happiness, but only defeatand misery, in his everyday surroundings. 

Boni and Liveright. 

BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF: The injury and death of a forecastlehand, illuminating the varying natures of his shipmates. 

In Moon 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 theforecastle. 

_Ibid. _

WHERE THE CROSS IS MADE: An old sailor goes mad waiting futilelyfor the return of a treasure expedition he has sent out, and themadness of his idea spreads like panic. 

_Ibid. _

+Hubert Osborne+

THE GOOD MEN DO: AN INDECOROUS EPILOGUE: Shakespeare's familycarefully burn his surviving plays in the effort to cast oblivionupon his low occupation. 

In Plays of the 47 Workshop, First Series, 1918. 

+Monica Barrie O'Shea+

THE RUSHLIGHT: A mother, whose son may be saved if he will betrayhis comrades, has only to send him a paper containing theinformation the authorities want. Her attitude should be comparedwith that of the women in Campbell of Kilmhor and Lady Gregory'sThe Gaol Gate. 

Drama, November, 1917, 28:602. 

+Louis N. Parker+

DISRAELI: Play of intrigue centring about the character of LordBeaconsfield and his manoeuvres to obtain control of the SuezCanal. 

Lane. 

MINUET: A brief play of courage and loyalty in face of MadameGuillotine. 

In Century Magazine, January, 1915. 

+Josephine Preston Peabody+

MARLOWE: A tragedy introducing several of the Elizabethanplaywrights in tavern scenes, and making a fine and romanticcharacter of Kit Marlowe. 

Houghton Mifflin. 

THE PIPER: A pleasant dramatization of the legend of HamelinTown. 

Houghton Mifflin. 

THE WOLF OF GUBBIO: A play about Saint Francis and some of hisbrothers, both animals and villagers. 

Houghton Mifflin. 

+Louise Saunders (Perkins)+

THE WOODLAND PRINCESS: Very attractive children's operetta withmusic by Alice Terhune. 

Schirmer; French. 

+Stephen Phillips+

ULYSSES: A drama or masque of Ulysses' adventures, from hisfarewell to Calypso through a vigorous combat with the wooers. 

Macmillan. 

+Eden Phillpotts+

THE SHADOW: A most affecting and tragic play of the influence ofa crime upon two people who love most sincerely, and upon theirvery loyal friend. 

In _Three Plays_, Duckworth, London. 

THE MOTHER: A moving presentation of the force of a mother'ssense and love; she refuses to shield her son when he has donewrong, but works in every way to set him straight and to continueher influence after her death. 

_Ibid. _

THE POINT OF VIEW: A domestic altercation is arbitrated by afriend of the family, and then the arbiter is given new light onthe situation. 

_Curtain Raisers_, Duckworth, London. 

+Arthur Wing Pinero+

THE PLAYGOERS: A farce in which a lady attempts to providecultural amusement for her servants, and succeeds in breaking upthe smooth-running establishment. 

London. 

+David Pinski+

ABIGAIL: A dramatization of a Biblical story from the wars ofDavid. Translated from the Yiddish by Dr. Goldberg. 

In _Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre_, Luce. 

FORGOTTEN SOULS: Fanny Segal's self-sacrifice for her sister andlover is carried to a strange and morbid extreme. 

In _Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre_, Luce. 

+Graham Pryce+

THE COMING OF FAIR ANNIE: A simple but effective dramatization ofthe 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 Quintero+

A SUNNY MOHNING: Two very old people recall the tremendouslyromantic 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 putshis own desires out of court and plays providence in the lives ofhis friends. 

Macmillan. 

+Santiago Rosinol+

THE PRODIGAL DOLL: A comical marionette sows his wild oats mostviolently and repents in deep sorrow. 

In _Drama_, February, 1917, 5:15. 

+Edmond Rostand+

CYRANO DE BERGERAC: A great play of a swashbuckling hero of theParis of Molière's time. 

Doubleday; also in Dickinson's Contemporary Dramatists, I, Houghton Mifflin. 

L'AIGLON: The tragic story of Napoleon's son, the little King ofRome, captive among enemies determined to tame his spirit. 

Harper. 

THE PRINCESS FAR-AWAY: The story of the Troubadour Rudel and thePrincess of Tripoli, celebrated in one of Browning's poems, represents all worship of what is beyond attainment. 

Stokes. 

THE ROMANCERS: The foolish and romantic notions of two lovers areably caricatured by their fathers' plots and stratagems. 

Baker, 1906. 

+Arthur Schnitzler+

LAST MASKS: A dying man in the Vienna Hospital contrives anopportunity for the cruel stroke he has intended at a man who hassucceeded where he himself has failed; at the moment of possibletriumph a different mood controls him. There are three excellentstudies 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 lionremembered as his friend--with much shrewd light upon certaintypes of early Christians. 

Constable. 

CAESAR AND CLEOPATRA: New views of the chief characters, introduced by two interesting scenes--of a garrison in Syria bynight and of Cleopatra in the arms of the Sphinx. 

In _Three Plays for Puritans_, Constable. 

THE MAN OF DESTINY: Napoleon after Lodi, attacking all courses ofhis dinner simultaneously, drawing maps with his fork dipped inthe gravy, and discoursing shrewdly on courage and success. 

Constable. 

O'FLAHERTY, V. C. : On a recruiting mission in his own country, O'Flaherty must account to his mother for his hitherto concealedcrime of fighting not against, but for England. 

In _Heartbreak House_, Constable. 

AUGUSTUS DOES HIS BIT: A high-born muddler in Britain's conductof the war. 

_Ibid. _

+Arthur Shirley+

GRINGOIRE THE BALLAD-MAKER: A translation and adaptation of deBanville's comedy about another poet than Villon in the hands ofLouis XI. 

Dramatic Publishing Company. 

+Thomas Wood Stevens+

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN: "Vernon Lee's" eighteenth-centurylegend of Sister Benvenuta and the Christ-Child, in a simple andeffectively dramatic form. 

In _Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. 

+Alfred Sutro+

THE MAN ON THE KERB: A workman who has failed in every attempt toget work or help faces starvation with his wife and baby in aLondon tenement basement. No solution of the problem is offered. 

In _Five Little Plays_, Duckworth, London. 

A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED: Comedy of a rejected proposal for asociety "marriage of convenience, " followed by an adjustment ofunderstanding upon another basis. 

_Ibid. _

+John Millington Synge+

DEIRDRE OF THE SORROWS: A beautiful and poetic dramatization ofthe tragic Celtic legend of Deirdre and the Sons of Usna. Thismay well be compared with Yeats's dramatization of the samestory. 

Luce. 

THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD: Rather fearful comedy of thepopular idolatry offered by Irish peasants to a man who boasts hehas killed his father. 

Luce. 

IN THE SHADOW OF THE GLEN: An awesome husband makes a test of hiswife's love. 

Luce. 

THE TINKER'S WEDDING: Rather boisterous comedy of a tinker-womanwho upsets ancient custom by insisting on a church wedding. 

Luce. 

THE WELL OF THE SAINTS: A gruesome tragedy of a blind beggar andhis wife. All these dramas are as strangely filled with beautyand 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 MARRIAGE PROPOSAL; THE WEDDING FEAST; THE TRAGEDIANIN SPITE OF HIMSELF:

Comical farces of extravagant conversation and action, andapparently real studies of Russian character. 

In _Plays, Second Series_ Scribner's. 

+William Makepiece Thackeray+

THE ROSE AND THE RING: One of the most delightful of puppet-playsis based on the favorite story. 

Smith, Elder and Company, London; Macmillan, New York. 

+Augustus Thomas+

OLIVER GOLDSMITH: A very engaging play, introducing Burke, Goldsmith, Garrick in several amusing roles, Dr. Johnson, andothers in his circle, and presenting (in Act II) a dressrehearsal of _She Stoops to Conquer_. 

French. 

+Frank G. Tompkins+

SHAM: A SOCIAL SATIRE: Of a most superior burglar, who takes onlygenuine objects of art, disdains the imitation stuff that littersCharles and Clara's home, and reads them a severe lecture onreality and sham in this and other departments of life. 

Stewart and Kidd. 

+Ridgley Torrence+

GRANNY MAUMEE: Highly tragic play of the blood-hatred of negroesfor those who have tortured and killed, and of voodoo rites andmiracles; power is given the play by a most human reversal offeeling at the last. 

In _Plays for a Negro Theatre_, Macmillan. 

THE RIDER OF DREAMS: A masterful mulatto who keeps his peopleobedient to a benevolent despotism. 

_Ibid. _

+Stuart Walker+

THE MEDICINE SHOW: Some amusing characters, shiftless but fertileof invention, and their device for getting rich. 

In _Portmanteau Plays_, Stewart and Kidd. 

NEVERTHELESS: A play which has interested high-school pupils andtheir friends in Better Speech programmes. 

_Ibid. _

SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL: A quaint and pleasant comedyof a boy set to watch the lentils cooking, of a queen who isfugitive from execution for a violation of etiquette, and ofother matters. 

_Ibid. _

+Percival Wilde+

THE TRAITOR: A traitor in the British camp is discovered by aruse 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 Swedishcook and her fiancé have potent influence in an Americanhousehold. 

In Mayorga, _Representative One-Act Plays_, Little, Brown. 

+William Butler Yeats+

DEIRDRE: The last scene in the tragedy of Deirdre of the Sorrows. 

Macmillan. 

THE GREEN HELMET: Dramatization of a most interesting Gaelicvariant of the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight; itcontains good character study. 

Macmillan. 

THE KINO'S THRESHOLD: A poet and singer, deprived of his rightfulhonor at the Irish King's court, makes effective use of theancient traditional weapon of the hunger strike in order tosecure to his art and its worthy practisers their due recognition. 

Macmillan. 

THE HOUR GLASS: A mystical play of wisdom and folly and theapproach of death. 

Macmillan. 

CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN: A moving dramatization of the compellingspirit of Love of Country. 

Macmillan. 

THE POT OF BROTH: An ancient story, pleasantly dramatized, of awitty wanderer who plays to his advantage 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 roughcontacts with reality. 

Stratford, 1904. 

+Israel Zangwill+

THE WAR GOD: Those who sacrifice others to the War God arethemselves immolated on his altar. 

Macmillan. 

THE MELTING POT: A serious play in which the tragic consequencesof race prejudice are realizably and poignantly set forth. 

Macmillan. 

BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE, MARIONETTES AND CHILDREN'S PLAYS

+William Archer+

PLAY MAKING: Small, Maynard and Co. 

+Richard Burton+

HOW TO SEE A PLAY: Macmillan. 

+Percival Chubb and Others+

FESTIVALS AND PLAYS IN SCHOOLS AND ELSEWHERE: Harper. 

+Barrett Clark+

HOW TO PRODUCE AMATEUR PLAYS: Little, Brown. 

+Payne Collier (attributed)+

PUNCH AND JUDY: London, 1828. 

A history of the marionettes in England, illustrated byCruikshank. 

+Clayton Hamilton+

STUDIES IN STAGECRAFT: Holt. 

THE THEORY OF THE THEATRE: Holt. 

+Helen Joseph+

A BOOK OF MARIONETTES: Huebsch. 

Beautifully illustrated history of the puppet-plays. 

+Gertrude Johnson+

CHOOSING A PLAY: Century Co. 

+Ludwig Lewisohn+

THE MODERN DRAMA: Huebsch. 

The best criticism of naturalistic and neo-romantic drama today. 

+Karl Mantzius+

HISTORY OF THEATRICAL ART IN ANCIENT AND MODERN TIMES: Fivevolumes: Louise von Sossell, translator. Illustrated. Lippincott. 

+Roy Mitchell+

SHAKESPEARE FOR COMMUNITY PLATERS: Dutton. 

Illustrated with cuts of costume, properties, etc. 

+Constance D'Arcy MacKaye+

COSTUMES AND SCENERY FOR AMATEURS; HOW TO PRODUCE CHILDREN'SPLAYS: Holt. Illustrations and directions. 

+Constance MacKay+

THE LITTLE THEATRE IN THE UNITED STATES: Holt. 

+Percy Mackaye+

THE COMMUNITY DRAMA: Houghton Mifflin. THE CIVIC THEATRE:Mitchell Kennerley. 

+George Jean Nathan+

ANOTHER BOOK ON THE THEATRE: Huebsch. 

+Brander Matthews+

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE DRAMA: 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 AFOLK-PAGEANT. Drama, VII, Nos 26, 27. Valuable articles forreconstructing the Elizabethan plays. 

+Maurice Sand+

HISTORY OF THE HARLEQUINADE: Lippincott. 

+Clarence Stratton+

PRODUCING IN LITTLE THEATRES: Holt, 1921. The magazines _Drama, Poet Lore, _ the _Theater Arts Magazine_, the _Little TheaterMagazine_, and articles in the _English Journal_ are of value. 

AS TO PLAYS AND DRAMATIZATION IN SCHOOL

+H. Caldwell Cook+

THE PLAY WAY: Heinemann. Valuable account of work at the PearseSchool in Cambridge, England. 

+Emma Sheridan Fry+

EDUCATIONAL DRAMATICS: Lloyd Adams Noble. 

+Alice Minnie Herts+

THE CHILDREN'S EDUCATIONAL THEATRE: Harper. 

+Alice Minnie Herts Heniger+

THE KINGDOM OF THE CHILD: Dutton. 

+Margaret Skinner+

SOCIALIZING DRAMATICS: _English Journal_, October, 1920, 9:445. An excellent account of really educational dramatics.