Chapter I: Part 1

Transcriber’s Note: Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by
_underscores_.

DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

DEAD LETTERS

“This is one of those rare and delightful books, in which the reader is invited to smile rather than to laugh, and to think even when he is most amused.”--_The Globe._

“Many a tired mind will find in this volume refreshing stimulus.”--_The Observer._

“Surely the ease, the irony, and the mere humour of this will be very grateful to any mind that values those gifts.”--_The Outlook._

“Altogether stimulating and delightful.”--_The Daily Express._

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON.

DIMINUTIVE
DRAMAS

BY
MAURICE BARING

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1911

These “Diminutive Dramas” first appeared in the _Morning Post_ and are reprinted here by the courtesy of the Editor.

DEDICATED

TO

A. I.

WHOSE UNWRITTEN CHRONICLES ARE BETTER THAN BOOKS
AND
WHOSE UNPREMEDITATED SUGGESTION HITS A TARGET
BEYOND THE REACH OF ARTISTS
AND THE KEN OF CRITICS

CONTENTS

PAGE

1. CATHERINE PARR 1

2. THE DRAWBACK 12

3. PIOUS ÆNEAS 23

4. THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER 33

5. THE GREEK VASE 41

6. THE FATAL RUBBER 51

7. THE REHEARSAL 62

8. THE BLUE HARLEQUIN 76

9. THE MEMBER FOR LITERATURE 88

10. CALIGULA’S PICNIC 98

11. THE AULIS DIFFICULTY 108

12. DON JUAN’S FAILURE 119

13. CALPURNIA’S DINNER-PARTY 129

14. LUCULLUS’S DINNER-PARTY 138

15. THE STOIC’S DAUGHTER 149

16. AFTER EURIPIDES’ “ELECTRA” 160

17. JASON AND MEDEA 171

18. KING ALFRED AND THE NEAT-HERD 181

19. ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR 189

20. ARIADNE IN NAXOS 198

21. VELASQUEZ AND THE “VENUS” 207

22. XANTIPPE AND SOCRATES 216

I

CATHERINE PARR

OR

ALEXANDER’S HORSE

SCENE.--_London. Breakfast chamber in the Palace._ KING HENRY
VIII. _and_ CATHERINE PARR _are discovered sitting opposite to
each other at the breakfast table. The_ KING _has just cracked a
boiled egg._

KING HENRY. My egg’s raw. It really is too bad.

CATHERINE. Yesterday you complained of their being hard.

KING HENRY. And so they were. I don’t want a hard egg and I don’t want a raw egg. I want them to be cooked just right.

CATHERINE. You are very difficult to please. The egg was in boiling water for three minutes and a half. I boiled it myself. But give it me. I like them like that. I will boil you another.

KING HENRY. No, it’s too late now. But it is a fact that you have no idea how to boil an egg. I wish you’d let them do them in the kitchen.

CATHERINE. If they’re done in the kitchen you complain because they’re not here when you come down, and if they are here, you say they’re cold.

KING HENRY. I never say anything of the kind. The cook boils eggs beautifully.

CATHERINE. She shall boil them to-morrow.

KING HENRY. One would have thought that a woman of your experience might at least know how to boil an egg. I hate a watery egg. (_Pensively_) Poor dear Katie used to boil eggs beautifully.

CATHERINE. Do you mean Catherine Howard or Katharine of Aragon?

KING HENRY. I was alluding to poor, dear, misguided Katie Howard. Katharine of Aragon never was my wife. The marriage was not valid.

CATHERINE. Well, Catherine Howard ought to have known how to boil eggs, considering her mother was a kitchenmaid.

KING HENRY. That is utterly untrue. Her mother was a Rockford.

CATHERINE. You’re thinking of Anne Bullen.

KING HENRY. Yes, yes, to be sure, Katie’s mother was a Somerset.

CATHERINE. You’re thinking of Jane Seymour.

KING HENRY. Not at all. Jane Seymour was a sister of Somerset’s.

CATHERINE. All I know is that Catherine Howard’s mother was a kitchenmaid. And I think it’s very unkind of you to throw her up at me. I suppose you mean that you wish she were alive, and that you loved her better than you love me.

KING HENRY. I never said anything of the kind. All I said was that she knew how to boil eggs.

CATHERINE. You clearly meant to say that she had all the qualities which I lack.

KING HENRY. You are most unfair. I never meant to hint at any such thing. All I said was that I hate a watery egg, and my egg this morning was raw.

CATHERINE (_rising and going to the door in a temper_). Well, the best thing you can do is to get rid of me, and to marry some one who knows how to boil an egg.

KING HENRY. Catherine, come back! I really didn’t mean to offend you. You know how to boil eggs very well.

CATHERINE (_sitting down_). One takes an endless amount of trouble, and that’s all the thanks one gets. Don’t think that I shall ever boil your eggs for you again, because I shan’t.

KING HENRY. I was thinking we might have a little music this morning. I have composed a new ballad which I should like to try over with you. It’s for viol and lute and voice. We might try it.

CATHERINE. I’m not sure if I have time. What is it called?

KING HENRY. It’s called “The Triumph of Love,” and it begins:

Come list to Alexander’s deed,
Great Jove’s immortal son,
Who, riding on a snow-white steed,
To Babylon did come.

CATHERINE. “Son” doesn’t rhyme with “come.”

KING HENRY. It’s not meant to. It’s assonance.

CATHERINE. Do you mean Alexander the Great?

KING HENRY. Yes, of course.

CATHERINE. The only thing is, his horse was black.

KING HENRY. No, my dear, you’re mistaken; his horse was white.

CATHERINE. Black--black as jet.

KING HENRY. But I know for a fact it was white.

CATHERINE. Alexander’s horse was black. Everybody knows it was black.

KING HENRY. It was white. You can ask any one you like.

CATHERINE. It was black. He was famous for his black horse. There are hundreds of pictures of him on his _black_ horse--my father has got one.

KING HENRY. Then the painter made a mistake. Plutarch, Xenophon, Aristotle all mention his _white_ horse.

CATHERINE. Black.

KING HENRY. But, my dear, how obstinate you are! I _know_ it is white----

CATHERINE. Black, _coal_-black.

KING HENRY. Have you read Xenophon?

CATHERINE. You are thinking of something else. Even when we were children my father always showed us the picture of Alexander’s _black_ horse.

KING HENRY. Well, I can easily prove it to you. There’s a Plutarch here in the bookcase. (_He goes to the bookcase and takes out a book._)

CATHERINE. I remember it particularly well because my brother had a black horse and we called it “Bucephalus,” after Alexander’s _black_ horse.

KING HENRY (_turning over the leaves of the book_). If it had been black it would never have been called Bucephalus--it would be absurd to call a black horse Bucephalus.

CATHERINE. Not so absurd as calling a white horse Bucephalus.

KING HENRY. He would never have chosen a black horse. He was superstitious----

CATHERINE. Just because you’re superstitious and believe in Saints, and worship images, you think every one else is. As a matter of fact, he chose a black horse on purpose to show he didn’t care a pin about superstitions----

KING HENRY. Here it is--“χαλεπὸς εἶναι καὶ κομιδῆ δύσχρηστος”--“The horse was wild and extremely difficult to manage.” In fact, he had all the characteristics of the white Thessalian horses of that day.

CATHERINE. But it doesn’t say it was white. And Thessalian horses are famous for being black.

KING HENRY. You really are too obstinate for words. I will find you the proof in Xenophon. It is distinctly stated that the horse was _white_. It is an historical fact. Nobody has ever disputed it.

CATHERINE. But Plutarch, you see, practically says it was black.

KING HENRY. Plutarch says nothing of the kind. Besides, I now remember talking about this with Wolsey, who was an excellent scholar. I distinctly remember his saying one day: “As white as Bucephalus.” It’s quite a common phrase among scholars.

CATHERINE. He must have said “As black as Bucephalus.”

KING HENRY. Of course, if you mean to say I tell lies----

CATHERINE. I don’t mean that you tell lies, but you are mistaken--that’s all.

KING HENRY. But I tell you that there is no mistake possible. I know it as well as I know my own name.

CATHERINE. Your memory plays you tricks. Just now you couldn’t remember Catherine Howard’s mother’s name.

KING HENRY. That’s nothing to do with it. Besides, I did remember it. I made a slip, that’s all. But this is an historical fact which I’ve known all my life.

CATHERINE. I quite understand your memory failing you. You have so many names to remember. I expect you were confusing Alexander’s black horse with King Alfred’s white horse--the white horse of Wantage.

KING HENRY. Good gracious! If you had a smattering of education you wouldn’t say such things! It comes of having no religion and no education, and of not knowing Latin. A Lutheran education is worse than none. Even Anne of Cleves knew Latin.

CATHERINE. Thank heavens, I don’t know Latin! Stupid, superstitious language, fit only for bigots and monks!

KING HENRY. I suppose you mean I am a bigot.

CATHERINE. You can turn what one says into meaning anything you like. As a matter of fact, all I said was that the horse was black.

KING HENRY. I’d rather be a bigot than a Lutheran heretic.

CATHERINE. You know you’re wrong and you try to escape the point. That’s just like a Tudor. No Tudor could ever listen to reason.

KING HENRY. I must ask you not to insult my family.

CATHERINE. You’ve insulted mine, which is a far older one. My family has no blood on its escutcheon.

KING HENRY. I won’t stand this any longer. (_He gets up, opens the door, and calls_) Denny, Butts, Page, who is there?

_Enter a_ PAGE

PAGE. Your Majesty.

KING HENRY. Go and tell the Lord Chamberlain to make the necessary arrangements for transporting the Ex-Queen to the Tower.

PAGE (_puzzled_). Yes, your Majesty. Does your Majesty mean the late Queen’s remains?

KING HENRY. I said the _Ex_-Queen, you stupid boy--Queen Catherine Parr.

PAGE. Yes, your Majesty.

KING HENRY. And tell him to give orders to the Governor of the Tower to have everything ready for the Ex-Queen’s execution.

PAGE. Is the same ceremonial to be observed as in the case of Queen Catherine Howard, your Majesty?

KING HENRY. Yes; only there need only be one roll of drums instead of two--at the end. (_The_ PAGE _goes to the door._) And on the way ask Dr. Butts whether Alexander the Great’s horse was black or white.

CATHERINE. It was black. (_The_ PAGE _bows and goes out._) Well, since I’m to be executed I daresay you will allow me to go and pack up my things. By the way, you left your lute in my sitting-room yesterday. I will bring it down.

KING HENRY. Wait a minute, there’s no hurry.

CATHERINE. I beg your pardon, I have very little time, and a great many letters to write.

KING HENRY (_hesitating_). And I wanted to have some music.

CATHERINE. You don’t expect me to accompany you now, I suppose? You had better find some one else. I have got other things to think about during my last moments on earth.

KING HENRY (_laughing uneasily_). I was only joking, of course, my dear. You don’t mean to say you took it seriously.

CATHERINE. I am afraid I don’t appreciate that kind of joke.

KING HENRY. Come, come; let bygones be bygones, and let us have some music. I want to play you my ballad.

_Enter the_ PAGE

PAGE. If you please, your Majesty, I can’t find the Lord Chamberlain, and Dr. Butts says your Majesty was quite correct as to the colour of Alexander the Great’s horse.

KING HENRY (_beaming_). Very good; you can go. You need not deliver the message to the Lord Chamberlain. (_The_ PAGE _bows and retires._) And now, my dear, we’ll go and play. You see I knew I was right.

[_The_ KING _opens the door with a bow._

CATHERINE. It was black, all the same.

KING HENRY (_indulgently, as if speaking to a child_). Yes, yes, my dear, of course it was black, but let’s go and have some music.

[_They go out._

CURTAIN.

II

THE DRAWBACK

SCENE.--_A corner in Kensington Gardens. A summer evening.
Discovered, sitting on a seat, a girl, aged 21, pretty and neat,
and a good-looking young man, aged 27, dressed in a top hat and a
black morning coat._

HE. But are you quite sure you will not change your mind?

SHE. I never change my mind once it is made up. I often take a very long time to make up my mind, but once I’ve made it up I never change. Now my sister Alice is quite different. She never knows her mind from one minute to the other.

HE. But your father----

SHE. Papa always does what I want. Besides, directly he knows you it will be all right. And when he knows that you’re at the Bar he will be delighted. He always wanted me to marry a lawyer. You see Papa was at the Bar in his young days--I daresay your father was too.

HE (_embarrassed_). No, yes--I mean no. That’s to say he is in a way indirectly connected with the Bar; but my father’s principal hobby is playing on the harp. He gives himself up almost entirely to that now.

SHE. I see.

HE. Have you told your father yet?

SHE. You told me I wasn’t to until I’d seen you again.

HE. Yes, of course. I thought you might have changed your mind.

SHE. As if that were likely.

HE. And then, if you remember, I told you when I, when you, when we settled everything that there was a--er--drawback.

SHE. As if any drawback could possibly make any difference.

HE. I thought it might.

SHE. You mean to say that it is something which might make me wish to change my mind?

HE. Exactly.

SHE. That shows you know me very little--but what is it?

HE. You see it’s a kind of confession.

SHE. I know what it is; you want to tell me you once loved some one else.

HE. No, not that, I swear I never did. I may have thought once or twice that I was in love, but until I met you I never knew what love, what real love, was.

SHE. And those other times when you thought you were in love--were there many of them?

HE. It only happened twice; that’s to say three times, only the third time didn’t count.

SHE. And the first time, who was she?

HE. I was quite young, only a boy. She was a girl in an A.B.C. shop.

SHE. Was she pretty?

HE. Not exactly.

SHE. Did you propose to her?

HE. Yes, but she refused.

SHE. And that’s all that happened?

HE. That’s all.

SHE. And the second time?

HE. It was the parson’s daughter down in the country.

SHE. Did you make love to her?

HE. No, not really, of course, but we were friends.

SHE. Did you kiss her?

HE. Only once, and that was by accident. But it was all years ago.

SHE. How many years ago?

HE. Let me see; two, no, no, it must have been four years ago. I’m not sure it wasn’t five. She married the curate.

SHE. And the third time?

HE. Oh! that was nothing.

SHE. Who was she?

HE. She was an artist--a singer.

SHE. A concert singer?

HE. Almost; that’s to say she wanted to be one. She sang in a music-hall.

SHE. Oh!

HE. Only a _serious_ turn. She wasn’t dressed up or anything. She sang “The Lost Chord” and songs like that. She was called “The New Zealand Nightingale.”

SHE. And you knew her?

HE. Very slightly. I had tea with her once or twice. And then she went away.

SHE. Back to New Zealand?

HE. Yes, back to New Zealand.

SHE. Now I’ve made you confess everything. Aren’t you glad you’ve got it off your mind? I don’t mind a bit, and I like you for being so honest.

HE. But it’s not that at all. It’s nothing to do with me.

SHE. Then who has it got to do with?

HE. My father.

SHE. You mean he won’t approve of me?

HE. Of course I don’t mean that. He’d simply love you.

SHE. He’s going to marry again.

HE. No, it’s not that.

SHE. He doesn’t want you to marry.

HE. No, it’s nothing to do with me.

SHE. Then I don’t understand.

HE. It’s something to do with him.

SHE. He’s consumptive.

HE. No; his health is excellent.

SHE. He’s lost his money.

HE. No; he’s very well off. You see it’s something to do with his social position. A matter of--I don’t quite know how to put it.

SHE. But, Georgie, you don’t think I’m such a snob as to care twopence for social position and conventions of that kind? Your father is your father--that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

HE. I know, I know, but there are prejudices.

SHE. Is it something your father’s done? Has he been in the Bankruptcy Court? I wouldn’t care a pin.

HE. No, it’s nothing he’s done. It’s something he _is_.

SHE. He’s a Socialist!

HE. No.

SHE. Is he a Roman Catholic?

HE. Oh no! He’s Church of England.

SHE. I know; he’s a Liberal.

HE. No; he says the Liberals are just as bad as the Conservatives.

SHE. Then he’s a Little Englander.

HE. On the contrary; he’s outside politics. He belongs to no party.

SHE. He’s a foreigner--by birth, I mean.

HE. Not at all.

SHE. He’s not a Mormon?

HE. No. It’s nothing to do with politics or religion or that kind of thing. It’s his profession.

SHE. His profession! But I thought--as if I cared about his profession!

HE. But you might--there are some professions----

SHE. You see, I know he’s honest.

HE. Oh! you needn’t have any fear. He’s perfectly honest, respectable, and respected.

SHE. Then what is it?

HE. I’d rather you guessed it.

SHE. How absurd you are! I know what it is; he’s somebody’s agent.

HE. No.

SHE. Then he’s a schoolmaster.

HE. No.

SHE (_tentatively_). Of course, I know he was never in trade?

HE. No, never. He had nothing to do with it.

SHE. Is he on the stage?

HE. No; he disapproves of actors.

SHE. He’s a Quaker.

HE. I told you it’s nothing to do with religion.

SHE. Then, he’s a photographer. Some photographers almost count as artists.

HE. No.

SHE. Then it is something to do with art.

HE. His profession certainly needs art and skill.

SHE. He’s not a conjurer?

HE. Conjurers are scarcely respectable.

SHE. I know, of course. He’s a jockey.

HE. No

SHE. A bookmaker.

HE. No.

SHE. A veterinary surgeon.

HE. No.

SHE. Does he ever give lessons?

HE. Only to his assistants, whom he’s training.

SHE. He’s a prize-fighter.

HE. Oh no!

SHE. He’s an Art-dressmaker.

HE. No. You see it’s something some people might mind.

SHE. What can it be? A dentist.

HE. No.

SHE. How stupid of me. He’s a literary man.

HE. He’s never written a line.

SHE. But you told me. I remember now. He plays the harp. He’s something musical; but nobody could mind that. He’s a dancing-master.

HE. No.

SHE. A commercial traveller.

HE. No.

SHE. Of course not; it’s something to do with art. But what could one mind?

HE. Not exactly art. It’s more skill.

SHE. Is he a chiropodist?

HE. No.

SHE. Or a Swedish masseur?

HE. Nothing like it.

SHE. Is it anything to do with officials?

HE. Yes, in a way.

SHE. Then I’ve guessed. He’s a detective.

HE. No.

SHE. He’s in the Secret Service.

HE. No.

SHE. It’s something to do with the police.

HE. Not exactly.

SHE. With prisons.

HE. In a way.

SHE. He’s a prison inspector.

HE. No.

SHE. A prison chaplain.

HE. No; he’s not in Orders.

SHE. The prison doctor who has to feed the Suffragettes.

HE. No.

SHE. I’ve guessed. He’s a keeper in a lunatic asylum.

HE. You’re getting cold again.

SHE. Then it’s something to do with prisons?

HE. Yes.

SHE. He’s a warder.

HE. No.

SHE. I don’t know who else is in a prison, except the prisoners.

HE. He doesn’t live in the prison.

SHE. But he goes there sometimes?

HE. Yes.

SHE. I give it up.

HE. His duty is a disagreeable one, but some one has to do it.

SHE. He’s the man who has to taste the prisoners’ food.

HE. I didn’t know there was such a person.

SHE. You must tell me. I’ll never guess.

HE (_blurting it out_). Well, you see, he’s the hangman.

[_A Pause._

SHE. You mean he----

HE. Yes, he----

SHE. Oh, I see.

HE. Some people might mind this. He’s going to retire very soon--on a pension.

SHE. Yes?

HE. And, of course, he very seldom----

SHE. Yes, I suppose----

HE. It’s all quite private, of course.

SHE. Yes, of course.

[_A Pause._

(_Looking at her watch_) Good gracious! I shall be late for dinner. It’s nearly seven o’clock. I must fly. I was late yesterday.

HE. Shall I--shall we meet to-morrow?

SHE. No, not to-morrow. I’m busy all to-morrow.

HE. Perhaps the day after.

SHE. Perhaps I had better tell you at once what I was going to write to you.

HE. You think the drawback----

SHE (_indignantly_). I wasn’t thinking of that. But I do think you ought to have told me directly about those others.

HE. What others?

SHE. Those women--the A.B.C. shop, the clergyman’s daughter, and that music-hall singer.

HE. But you said you didn’t mind.

SHE. I minded too much to speak about it. A music-hall singer! The New Zealand Nightingale! Oh! to think that you, that I----Oh! the shame of it.

HE. But----

SHE. There’s no but. You’ve grossly deceived me. You played with my feelings. You led me on. You trifled with me. You’ve treated me scandalously. You’ve broken my heart. You’ve ruined my life.

HE. But let me say one word.

SHE. Not one word. A girl in an A.B.C. shop! A clergyman’s daughter! and a music-hall singer!

HE. You really mean----

SHE. I’ve heard quite enough. Thank you, Mr. Belleville. Please to understand that our acquaintance is at an end. Good evening. (_She bows and walks away._)

CURTAIN.

III

PIOUS ÆNEAS

SCENE.--_A room in_ DIDO’S _Palace at Carthage. Discovered:_
ÆNEAS, _wearing a cloak of Tyrian purple;_ SERESTUS _and_
SERGESTUS.

ÆNEAS (_in a sharp military tone_). Is everything ready?

SERESTUS. Aye, aye, sir.

ÆNEAS. No leave for either watches to-night. We shall probably go to sea to-morrow morning at four. I’ll let you know later.

SERESTUS. Aye, aye, sir.

ÆNEAS. That’s all. Don’t any of you get talking, and you, Sergestus, report seven minutes to noon to me.

SERGESTUS. Aye, aye, sir.

[SERGESTUS _and_ SERESTUS _salute and go out L._

[ÆNEAS _unrolls a chart._

[DIDO _enters through a curtain C._ ÆNEAS
_hastily conceals the chart._

DIDO (_cheerfully_). Well?

ÆNEAS. Good morning.

DIDO. Are you busy? If so I won’t disturb you.

ÆNEAS. No, no, I’m not at all busy.

DIDO. I thought you were reading something when I came in.

ÆNEAS. I was only looking through some accounts.

DIDO. Aren’t you cold in this room? Wouldn’t you like a fire?

ÆNEAS. No, thank you. I don’t feel the cold.

DIDO. It’s blowing so hard to-day. I’ve been for a walk.

ÆNEAS. Oh, is it? I haven’t been out this morning.

DIDO. I went for quite a long walk, past the quays.

ÆNEAS. Do you think that was wise? You ought to be careful in this cold weather.

DIDO. I like the cold. It reminds me of the day you came. Do you remember how cold you all were?

ÆNEAS. Yes.

DIDO. I’m sure you’re busy. I’m sure I’m disturbing you.

ÆNEAS. Not in the least, I promise you.

DIDO. Æneas.

ÆNEAS. Well?

DIDO. I’ve guessed!

ÆNEAS (_uneasy and alarmed_). What? I don’t understand.

DIDO (_smiling_). Your little surprise.

ÆNEAS. What surprise?

DIDO. I meant not to say, but I can’t help it. I found it out this morning by accident. I think it’s too dear of you to take all this trouble for me, and to send a _whole_ fleet to Tyre to bring me back that purple dye which you promised me--the same colour as your cloak, which _I_ gave you. I meant to pretend I didn’t know, but I am so touched I can’t help it.

ÆNEAS. Oh! the expedition to Tyre. Yes, I was thinking----

DIDO. And when do they start?

ÆNEAS. It isn’t quite settled. It depends.

DIDO. Couldn’t we go a part of the way with them?

ÆNEAS. No, I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question. The time of year, you see, is so bad. I don’t think you would enjoy it at all. It’s very cold and the sea will be rough.

DIDO. I love a rough sea. Couldn’t we go as far as Sicily with them? They’re going to stop there.

ÆNEAS. I don’t think you could leave Carthage just at this moment, could you?

DIDO. No, that’s true. We couldn’t very well leave Carthage just now, could we? Because King Iarbas has sent another threatening message.

ÆNEAS. Again?

DIDO. Yes; he threatens to attack Carthage at once. He cannot get over the fact that we really are married, and that I have a brave, dear, faithful, darling husband to love and protect me for ever and ever.

ÆNEAS. It certainly is most awkward.

DIDO. What? What does it matter to us what he says and does?

ÆNEAS. Well, the fact is that I shall probably have to go with the fleet.

DIDO. Then I’ll come with you.

ÆNEAS. My dear Elissa, that’s impossible.

DIDO. You don’t mean to say that you’re going to leave me--your wife--alone and unprotected, to face the invasion of a powerful, savage, and angry king when there is absolutely no necessity for your going at all?

ÆNEAS. I can’t possibly leave the fleet to Palinurus--our only pilot. Quite between ourselves he doesn’t know how to navigate--he once mistook the Charybdis beacon for a star ... it was after supper....

DIDO. Dearest, I quite understand. You must put off the expedition. I promise you not to mind. I don’t really want the purple dye. We’ll wait till the season is more propitious. It was most dear of you to think of it.

ÆNEAS. But I’m afraid it can’t be put off.

DIDO. Why?

ÆNEAS. Well, you see I have absolutely promised--I have definitely pledged myself--I have given my word of honour to visit my brother Eryx in Sicily.

DIDO. You can put that off until the spring.

ÆNEAS. I’m afraid it would be too late then. You see the whole matter is most complicated. Eryx expects me. I promised him to go, and if I don’t go now----

DIDO. What will happen?

ÆNEAS (_vaguely_). He won’t be there.

DIDO. Why? Is he going away?

ÆNEAS. And then there’s another matter which is still more important. I simply must visit my father’s tomb in Sicily.

DIDO. You might have thought of that before.

ÆNEAS. I have constantly--but I put it off.

DIDO. As you have put it off so long already, you may just as well put it off a little longer.

ÆNEAS. Yes, but there’s Jove.

DIDO. What has Jove got to do with it?

ÆNEAS. He wishes me to go. He is anxious that I should go to Sicily and (_pauses_) to Italy.

DIDO. Why to Italy?

ÆNEAS. It’s entirely for my boy’s sake, Ascanius ... to establish a home for him.

DIDO. And how long will you stay there?

ÆNEAS. It depends how things turn out.

DIDO. A month?

ÆNEAS. I’m afraid it will be a little longer than that.

DIDO. Six weeks?

ÆNEAS. You see it all depends on Jove.

DIDO. I ask you as a favour to put off the whole thing until the spring.

ÆNEAS. You know I would do anything you ask me, but I’m afraid I can’t do that. I would if I could, but I can’t.

DIDO. You mean you are determined to go to Italy.

ÆNEAS. It’s the last thing I wish to do personally, but Jove----

DIDO. Please leave Jove out of the discussion.

ÆNEAS. After all I must go there some time or other.

DIDO. You are tired of me.

ÆNEAS. How can you say such a thing?

DIDO. I knew it at once. You are going to Italy, and you’re never coming back.

ÆNEAS. Of course I shall come back some time.

DIDO (_violently_). Then it’s true! I knew you were tired of me! I’ve known it for a long time; but I never thought you could be so despicably mean as to try and go away without saying a word.

ÆNEAS. But I never dreamt----

DIDO. You build a fleet on the sly, in the middle of winter, to go to a strange country where you have no ties.

ÆNEAS. I beg your pardon, there’s my brother----

DIDO. When wind and weather are at their worst, simply and solely to get away from me----

ÆNEAS. But I swear----

DIDO. Oh! you don’t expect me to believe for a moment all that nonsense about Jove. If you wanted to stay you wouldn’t think twice about Jove. You don’t care a pin what may happen to me. You have set everybody against me; even my relations, my brother, all the Numidians, and the whole of Libya. You’ve ruined my reputation and given me over to my enemies, and then you put it all upon Jove.

ÆNEAS. I beg you to listen, Elissa. I had never for a moment meant to conceal my journey.

DIDO. Then why tell all those silly lies about Tyre and the purple dye?

ÆNEAS. I never said a word about Tyre and the purple dye. It was you.

DIDO. How can you tell such lies? When I asked you if the fleet was going to Tyre you distinctly said Yes.

ÆNEAS. What I did say was that I was obliged to go to Sicily to visit my father’s tomb, and that is the simple truth. You can’t expect me to wish the whole world to think me unfilial! As it is, I haven’t had a night’s rest for months. My father’s ghost appears to me every night.

DIDO. You expect me----

ÆNEAS. Please let me finish. And only yesterday I received a direct command from Jove, saying I was to go to Italy at once and found a kingdom there. Of course, if this only concerned myself I shouldn’t care, but there’s my son Ascanius to be thought of. I have no right to defraud him of his kingdom. If it were a question of inclination of course I should stay here, and Italy’s the last place I want to go to. If I went anywhere I should go to Troy; but Jove has made my duty plain, and after all a man must do his duty.

DIDO. Your duty! And I suppose it was a part of your duty to deceive me, to ruin me, to stir up enemies against me, and then to leave me to them defenceless! Me, your wife!

ÆNEAS (_angrily_). I must point out that I warned you at the time that our marriage was in no sense legal or valid--it could never be recognised as an alliance.

DIDO (_calmly_). You are quite right. It is entirely my fault. I thought you were a man of honour. I believed your word. I thought you were a man. I was mistaken. You were only a Trojan. I found you shipwrecked, an outcast, starving, helpless, at death’s door. I saved your fleet. I rescued your comrades from death. I saved you from destruction. And this is my reward. The Greeks were right when they burned Troy to the ground, killed your men and made your women into slaves. They were right to spare you, because you are not a man. Your place is with the menials. Please don’t think I shall prevent you going to Italy. Don’t imagine for a moment I am going to argue with you. By all means go and found a kingdom. I trust you will enjoy it and that it will turn out better than Troy. I am sure you know best, and I am sure you know what is best, and I am sure you are right. Don’t imagine that I mind, or that I shall miss you, for I shan’t. I am not the least annoyed at your going, I am only surprised and vexed to find that a man whom I thought was honourable, and truthful, and brave should turn out to be dishonourable, a liar, a coward--and a mean coward. I am angry with myself that I should have made such a mistake about a man, and that you, by your foolish, silly, transparent lies and shuffling should have shown me what a poor opinion you have of me. I wish you a very pleasant journey, and I hope you will do your duty in Italy as well as you have done it in Carthage.

[_She goes out C._

ÆNEAS (_wiping his forehead with a handkerchief_). That’s over!

_Enter_ SERGESTUS _R._

SERGESTUS. Seven minutes to noon, sir.

ÆNEAS. It’s all right. We go to sea to-morrow.

SERGESTUS. Aye, aye, sir.

[ÆNEAS _goes out, whistling the tune “Good-bye,
Carthage, I must leave you.”_

CURTAIN.

IV

THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER

SCENE FROM A TRAGEDY.--“_The Life and Death of Alexander._”
Anon. [Old Plays. Printed for _Peter Buck_, at the sign of the
_Temple_, near the _Inner-Temple-gate_ in _Fleetstreet_, 1701.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.--_Babylon. A bed-chamber in_ ALEXANDER’S
_Palace._ ALEXANDER _sleeping in bed;_ ROXANA _attending._

ROXANA. Full thrice hath Phœbus bath’d in Neptune’s flood,
Thrice hath the pale-fac’d moon increas’d and wan’d,
But Alexander is uncomforted.
Not watchful care, nor drugs, nor natural simples
Can hold at bay the sickness which pursues him.
Methinks that treason whets his murderous knife,
And meditates a foul and bloody deed.
I dare not sleep. Have pity on my woes,
Immortal gods! I know not friends from foes!

_Enter a_ SLAVE

SLAVE. Madam.

ROXANA. I know thou bringest some ill news.

SLAVE. Good madam, there is treason in the palace.
The Queen Statira, envious of thy issue,
Is plotting murder. She hath a strange syrup,
Brew’d by a wizard in Arabia,
More direful than the hebenon which Medea
Did cull in Colchos by the yawning graves.
She purposes, when sleep shall seize thee wholly,
To give my Lord o’ the juice.

ROXANA. I thank you, slave,
I thank you, here is gold.

SLAVE. I thank you, madam.

[_Exit_ SLAVE. ROXANA _feigns sleep._

_Enter_ QUEEN STATIRA

STATIRA. My Lord, I come to say a last farewell,
Perchance the lying mist which seal’d thine eyes
Shall dissipate and we may be aton’d;
And, deaf to false Roxana, thou’lt prefer
Thy Royal spouse, and cancel and defy
Her bastard’s claim.

ROXANA. Hence! hence, foul murd’ress hence!
Thou cursed thief who in the midnight season
Dost come to filch Great Alexander’s soul
With mixture dire of hellish property,
Begone! Thy treason is made palpable,
Thy baleful juice is harmless as pure water,
And thy dread weapon, turning on thyself,
Shall compass thine own ignomy.

STATIRA. Vain fool!
Thy scolding frights me not. I am Statira.
Nor canst thou with false accusation
Raze from this brow the seal of royalty,
Nor take away the sov’ranty of birth.
Albeit supplanted by a saucy caitiff,
Albeit slighted, I was once a Queen;
And I am still the daughter of Darius,
The King, whom kneeling Emperors called the Great.
Farewell, my Lord, with no more dreadful purpose
Have I come hither, than to say farewell.
I was thy spouse, and I will not importune
A faithless husband with a faithfulness
Unprofitable. So my Lord, farewell.

[_Exit_ STATIRA. ALEXANDER _wakes._

ALEXANDER. Roxana, take thy lute. My soul is heavy.
Sing me asleep with music, let me rest.

SONG

’Twas in the merry month of May,
When the sweet birds do sing,
That Proserpine--ah! lack-a-day!--
Did go a-gathering.
She stoop’d and cull’d the violet,
The pansy and the oxlip wet.

But gloomy Dis the maid espied,
And yoked his horses six,
And in his wagon drove a bride
Across the doleful Styx.
’Twas in the merry month of May
She gathered flowers. Ah! lack-a-day!

ALEXANDER. I thank you, ’tis a tuneful melody.
I am aweary. Sleep, impiteous sleep,
Unmitigable, uncorruptible gaoler,
Come, cloak my senses with thy leaden robe,
Lead me to durance in thy drowsy cell.

_Enter_ DOCTOR

DOCTOR. How doth my Lord?

ROXANA. Ill, ill beyond the power
Of simples, drugs, and the physician’s art.
In slumb’ry perturbation he’ll converse
With images of his distemper’d fancy;
Or he will bid me touch the instrument
And soothe his fever’d spirit with a strain.

DOCTOR. Are you not weary? It is now three nights
That you have watch’d.

ROXANA. The canker of sharp grief,
The sleepless sorrow gnawing at my heart
Doth countervail outwearied nature’s claim.
I shall not sleep till Alexander wakes
To health, or till he sleeps to wake no more.
But, softly. See, he stirs.

DOCTOR. Good night, sweet lady.

ROXANA. Good night to you.

[_Exit_ DOCTOR. ROXANA _sleeps._

ALEXANDER. The galleys ride at anchor!
To-morrow we’ll set sail for Italy,
Nor rest until we’ve pitch’d our tent in Rome,
And snatch’d the insolent jewel of the West.
But yesterday the Afric oracle
Bespake to me an unconfined sway,
An orb and empery unparallel’d.
And thence, when the barbarians of the West
Are mild as leashed hounds beneath our yoke,
And when each sev’ral province hath subscrib’d,
To India we’ll retrace our eager steps
And reach the undiscover’d sea beyond.
By the lush banks of Ganges, Alexander
Shall build a temple to his royal sire,
Great Jupiter. Thence we’ll to Babylon,
And plant there our abiding seat of rule
In the fix’d centre of the universe.
North, south, and east and west shall our dominion,
Like the spread rays of gold Hyperion,
Pierce to the distant corners of the globe.
Oh look, Seleucus, look, Hephæstion,
Look, the Swarth King in jewell’d burgonet,
All clinquant, mounted on an elephant,
Advances with his congregated host.
On veterans! On, on, Bucephalus!
The ford! The ford! The villains fly! Come, Ho!
Clitus, awake, Roxana, O.

ROXANA. My Lord?

ALEXANDER. Didst thou cry out?

ROXANA. My Lord, I was asleep,
And knew not that I cried.

ALEXANDER. Give me to drink.
Methought I was once more in India,
Crying my veterans to victory
Across the enchafed surges of Hydaspes,
My spirit fails. Come near to me, Roxana,
That I may breathe my last in fond adieu.

ROXANA. Drink, my Lord, of this potion. It is mix’d
Of herb-grace by a sure apothecary.

ALEXANDER. Farewell, Roxana. Hie thee to my mother,
Olympias, and tell her that I die
Her name upon my lips, a dutiful son.
Salute her with deep duty, say I needed
Her tenderness; say that I am the shadow,
The mockery and ruins of her boy
Who manag’d and bestrid Bucephalus.
Remain with her, and let our only child
Be nurs’d and school’d in martial exercise,
And taught, as I was taught, philosophy.
Farewell, adieu! The last of all the Greeks
Hath gone to meet Achilles.

ROXANA. O my Lord!

_Enter_ MESSENGER

MESSENGER. Most gracious liege, the veterans are here,
They press without.

ALEXANDER. They shall be welcome. Ho!
Come quickly, veterans, or I am dead.

ROXANA. My Lord! My husband!

_Enter_ VETERANS

ALEXANDER. Friends, farewell to you,
Friends all and brothers all and countrymen,
Born of one soil in Macedonia,
Tell Macedon of how we fought together
Beyond Hydaspes. Grieve not overmuch,
That with the world half-conquer’d I must die,
Not fighting, but in bed, and like a woman.
I, to whom earth’s huge globe was all too small,
Must occupy a niggard urn of dust.
I am for India. Come, Bucephalus,
One charge and we are masters of the world!

[_Dies._

ROXANA. Great Alexander’s dead. That soaring spirit
Which fretted in the confines of the world,
Hath broken from its circumscribing clay.
Hyperion himself was not so bright,
Nor Mars so bold. Our Orient sun hath set.
Ashy eclipse shall darken the stale world:
Asia and Egypt to the furthest Ind,
And Greece, and Macedon, where he was born,
Shall mingle tears of everlasting woe.
Come bear his body hence, and build a pyre
More lofty than the walls of Babylon;
And when the funeral’s done, we’ll bear his urn,
Obsequiously in sad procession,
Across the Libyan desert, to the grove
Where stands the Temple of his father Jove.

CURTAIN.

V

THE GREEK VASE

SCENE.--_A garret on the top floor of a squalid house in the
Trastevere, Rome. Discovered:_ GIOVANNI, _a young sculptor, lying
in bed, pale and emaciated; he coughs incessantly. The room is
quite bare. There are only two chairs and one cupboard. It is
very cold. There is no fire. By the bedside sits a prosperous
dealer. He wears a frock-coat and a gold pince-nez._

GIOVANNI (_wearily_). But I tell you it’s not for sale.

THE DEALER. You might let me look at it.

GIOVANNI. What is the use? I tell you I won’t sell it.

THE DEALER. There can be no harm in your showing it to me.

GIOVANNI (_coughing_). Not to-day. Can’t you see that I’m very ill and that talking tires me?

THE DEALER. Very well. I will call again to-morrow.

GIOVANNI. You won’t find me at home.

THE DEALER. Are you going away?

GIOVANNI. Yes, on a long journey.

THE DEALER. Abroad?

GIOVANNI. Abroad.

THE DEALER. To what country?

GIOVANNI. They have prescribed me change of air. They say it is the only thing which can cure me.

THE DEALER. You are going to the seaside?

GIOVANNI. On the contrary, I am going to be near a river.

THE DEALER. The Arno? Pisa, I suppose?

GIOVANNI. No.

THE DEALER. Not Paris; that would be bad for you.

GIOVANNI. Why do you think Paris would be bad for me?

THE DEALER. In the first place it’s very cold there now, and then I don’t think a large town is what you need.

GIOVANNI. You are anxious that I should not go to Paris.

THE DEALER. I? Not at all. Why? I merely meant that I thought you needed country air.

GIOVANNI. Yes, a villa on the Riviera for the winter, and another for the summer at Amalfi with a garden of roses; or a chalet in the Tyrol; or perhaps an island in the Tropics with palm trees and a yacht to sail about in--all that would do me good, wouldn’t it? One doesn’t have to pay for little luxuries like that, does one? They drop from heaven into the pockets of starving artists.

THE DEALER. Now, if you would only be reasonable and show me that vase. I am sure we could make enough money for you to take a trip to Albano. The air there is beautiful.

GIOVANNI. Very well, you may see it. It’s in the cupboard.

[_The_ DEALER _goes to the cupboard and takes out large black
circular Greek vase with figures painted on it. He observes it
carefully._

THE DEALER. This is not, of course, up to your best form. I won’t say that it is valueless. There is, however, very little market now for this kind of thing, and if I bought it I should probably have it on my hands for years.

GIOVANNI. You needn’t trouble about that. The vase is not for sale.

THE DEALER. But in the peculiar circumstances, and since we have done business together for so many years, I am willing to make an exception in this case. How much do you want for it?

GIOVANNI (_savagely_). I tell you it’s not for sale.

THE DEALER. Now, be reasonable. I will give forty lire for it.

GIOVANNI. You amuse me immensely.

THE DEALER. The vase is of no particular use to me, and the fashion changes so quickly. Collectors now are mad about Egypt and Japan. Greece is finished. It’s old, finished. Why, collectors now prefer even Roman things to Greek. Giordani says----

GIOVANNI. You are wasting your breath.

THE DEALER. I will give you forty-five lire. Mind you, that’s an enormous price, because, I repeat, the vase is not up to your usual standard.

GIOVANNI. Please put the vase down on this chair, there, next me. (_The_ DEALER _puts the vase down on the chair next to_ GIOVANNI.) Thank you. Now I wish you would go away. I am tired. You tire me. (_He coughs._)

THE DEALER. Now, instead of a vase, if it had only been a Japanese idol or a Renaissance figure, it would be a very different matter.

GIOVANNI. When you bought my Simonetta you said there was no demand for Renaissance work.

THE DEALER. That was three years ago. It was perfectly true then. The fashion changes so quickly.

GIOVANNI. I won’t sell the vase.

THE DEALER. Then, how do you propose to live?

GIOVANNI. Perhaps I have found a patron?

THE DEALER. Ah! Who is he?

GIOVANNI. You would like to know, wouldn’t you?

THE DEALER. I wouldn’t believe it of you. I know you are far too honest to violate all the canons of business etiquette and to play off one patron against another. You have always dealt with me, and I have always treated you handsomely--most handsomely--you must admit that.

GIOVANNI. How much did you give me for my large terra-cotta bust of Pallas?

THE DEALER. I was mad when I bought that bust. I sold it for a quarter of what I gave you. I had the greatest difficulty in getting rid of it.

GIOVANNI. How much exactly did you give me for it?

THE DEALER. Of course, I could never give you so much as that again.

GIOVANNI (_impatiently_). How much was it?

THE DEALER. I believe it was eighty-five lire. I must have been mad. But times were better then. There is no market for that kind of thing now, none whatever.

GIOVANNI. So much the better for you, then, as you won’t lose money over my vase.

THE DEALER. For old acquaintance’ sake, I offer you fifty lire; there, you see?

GIOVANNI. You make very good jokes.

THE DEALER. Do you mean to say you think that’s too little?

GIOVANNI. I said you make very good jokes. You’re a witty fellow.

THE DEALER. You artists are so improvident. You never know how many soldi there are in a lira.

GIOVANNI. You see we don’t have very much experience in counting lire. (_He coughs._)

THE DEALER. Ah! if you only counted the soldi the lire would take care of themselves.

GIOVANNI. We don’t always have the chance of counting soldi.

THE DEALER. To think of the position you might be in now if you had only observed the elementary rules of thrift.

GIOVANNI. And to think of the position you are in by my not having done so!

THE DEALER. Yes; here am I obliged, positively forced, to offer you for a trumpery vase at least three times its value, and I give you my word of honour that in offering you fifty-five lire for the vase--for I am going to go as far as that--I shall be out of pocket--out of pocket. Do you understand?

GIOVANNI. I quite understand, only if I were you I shouldn’t bring in the word “honour.”

THE DEALER. I don’t understand.

GIOVANNI. You wouldn’t.

THE DEALER. Well, fifty-five lire; it’s a bargain!

GIOVANNI. Suppose we talk about something else.

THE DEALER. You are all the same, you artists.... You never will listen to reason. You never will understand that business is business and not----

GIOVANNI. Charity.

THE DEALER. In this case it is charity, pure charity. I would not dream of buying the vase from any one else.

GIOVANNI. I don’t expect you would.

THE DEALER. Why, Leonardi sold me only yesterday a little ivory Perseus for thirty lire.

GIOVANNI. I made that Perseus, and you know it; otherwise you wouldn’t have bought it.

THE DEALER. Well, I’m a busy man, and I can’t waste my time arguing with you. I’ll give you sixty lire. That’s my last word.

GIOVANNI. It’s a great pity you didn’t go on the stage.

THE DEALER. You think I’m trying to cheat you. Surely----

GIOVANNI. No, I don’t _think_ anything of the kind.

THE DEALER. Now, come, let me take the vase. You’ve got no use for it here. Think what a nice little trip to Albano will do for you.

GIOVANNI (_coughing_). You can’t imagine how you tire me.

THE DEALER. I never knew such an obstinate fellow as you are. I’ll make it seventy, but this is positively my last word. You can take it or leave it.

GIOVANNI. Oh! Leave it for Heaven’s sake. Leave the vase, and leave me. (_He coughs._)

THE DEALER. You’re surely not going to sell it to some one else; you wouldn’t be so mean!

GIOVANNI. Who knows?

THE DEALER. That kind of bluff, my friend, won’t do with me. I am too old a bird to be caught by a trick. Come now, I offer you seventy lire--seventy whole lire. Do you understand?

GIOVANNI. It’s impossible. The vase is disposed of.

THE DEALER. Sold! Impossible! You couldn’t do such a thing. You couldn’t play me such a shabby trick. Who has bought it?

GIOVANNI. Nobody has bought it.

THE DEALER. You are trifling. It isn’t fair. You are wasting my time. You know I’m a busy man.

GIOVANNI. And you are wasting my time, and I am a dying man. They say I can’t live twenty-four hours.

THE DEALER. What nonsense! There, you see how foolish you are! Now I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you two hundred lire for the vase. It’s unheard of, but in view----

GIOVANNI. I am a dying man, and this is our last bargain. It has consequently no effect on future dealings. The time at your disposal is short; dying men don’t bluff, you must have the vase; all this makes your price jump up. Listen to me a moment. (_He takes a cutting from a newspaper out of his pocket._) This is a cutting from an English illustrated newspaper. A friend sent it me. It is the reproduction of a photograph, and under it is written: “The terra-cotta bust of Pallas, a work of the central period of Greek perfection, the age of Pericles, after having been rejected by the British Museum, has been purchased for the Louvre for the sum of £6000. While congratulating the French nation on their acquisition, we cannot help asking ourselves what the British Museum authorities,” etc. I skip. But wait--Here is a further comment which may interest you. “Some of our criticasters have thrown doubts on the authenticity of the vase.” Now look at the photograph. Perhaps you recognise the bust.

THE DEALER. You don’t mean to say you think----

GIOVANNI (_in a low voice_). Be quiet. You see this vase. (_He takes the vase._) It’s not for sale. It never will be. Do you know why? Because it’s my masterpiece, and because it’s mine. This is what I’m going to do with it. (_He takes the vase and throws it to the ground, shattering it to fragments._) And now I can die in peace. Go!

THE DEALER. But----

GIOVANNI. Go! (_Giovanni turns his head to the wall._)

[_Exit Dealer, mumbling._

CURTAIN.

VI

THE FATAL RUBBER

SCENE.--_A Room in the Palace of the Louvre. Discovered, seated
at a card-table:_ CHARLES VI., _King of France,_ ISABEAU DE
BAVIÈRE, _the Queen, the_ DAUPHIN, _and_ CATHERINE, _his sister_.

THE KING. I think we might have some clean cards.

THE QUEEN. I won’t play with those thick English cards, it takes hours to shuffle them. Besides, I think it’s unpatriotic.

THE KING. Rubbish! Games are outside politics.

THE QUEEN. I think it is unpatriotic just now, when the war’s going on, and I always shall think so.

THE DAUPHIN (_yawning_). What game are we going to play to-night?

THE KING. Pont d’Avignon.

THE QUEEN. Pont d’Avignon.

THE DAUPHIN. Biribi.

CATHERINE. Nain Jaune.

THE QUEEN. We shall, of course, play Pont d’Avignon. Your father wishes it.

THE KING. Cut for deal. (_They cut._)

THE DAUPHIN. You and I play together, Papa.

[_They change seats so as to be opposite one another._

THE KING. Cut for deal. (_They cut._)

THE DAUPHIN. It’s Papa’s deal. (_The_ KING _deals._)

THE KING. I leave it.

THE DAUPHIN. I make no trumps.

CATHERINE. I double.

THE DAUPHIN. I redouble.

THE QUEEN. We’re content.

THE KING. You’ve no business to say “we’re content.”

THE QUEEN. We play Hearts, of course, in doubled no trumps.

THE KING. Never; we always play the highest of the shortest. Besides which it’s Catherine who doubled.

THE QUEEN. I play Hearts. The Queen of Hearts is called after me, so of course you must play Hearts, Catherine.

THE KING. You ought to have said that before. Besides in this case the rule doesn’t apply.

CATHERINE (_playing the two of Hearts to the Dauphin_). Put your cards down, Charles.

[_The_ DAUPHIN _puts his hand down. He has got no Hearts, the ace,
King, ten, Knave, and five of Clubs; ace, Queen, ten, and six of
Diamonds; Queen, Knave, ten, nine of Spades._

THE KING. That’s not a no-trumper. You might have made no trumps if it had been your make. As for redoubling, it’s too absurd.