Chapter V: Introduction: On the Reading of Plays (4)

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

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

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

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

CAMPBELL (_tapping his snuff-box_). Very possibly, young sir, but what I would present for your consideration is this: While ye may be prepared to keep your mouth shut under the condition of a fool, are ye equally prepared to do so in the condition of a dead man?

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

CAMPBELL. Tut, tut, now, if it's afraid ye are, my lad, with my hand 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 applaud this contumacy and call it constancy. Constancy! Now, I've had a lairge experience o' life, and I never saw yet a sensible man insensible to the touch of yellow metal. If there may be such a man, it is demonstrable that he is no sensible man. Fideelity! quotha, it's sheer obstinacy. They just see that ye want something oot o' them, and they're so damned selfish and thrawn they winna pairt. And with the natural inabeelity o' their brains to hold mair than one idea at a time they canna see that in return you could put something into their palms far more profitable. (_Sits again at table._) Aweel, bring Mistress Stewart up.

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

CAMPBELL (_more ingratiatingly_). Weel noo, Mistress Stewart, good woman, this is a sair predeecament for ye to be in. I would jist counsel ye to be candid. Doubtless yer mind is a' in a swirl. Ye kenna what way to turn. Maybe ye are like the Psalmist and say: "I lookit this way and that, and there was no man to peety me, or to have compassion upon my fatherless children." But, see now, ye would be wrong; and, if ye tell me a' ye ken, I'll stand freends wi' ye. Put your trust in Erchie Campbell.

MARY STEWART. I trust no Campbell.

CAMPBELL. Weel, weel noo, I'm no' jist that set up wi' them myself. There's but ae Campbell that I care muckle aboot, after a'. But, good wife, it's no' the Campbells we're trying the noo; so as time presses we'll jist "_birze yont_," as they say themselves. Noo then, speak up.

(MARY STEWART _is silent._)

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

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

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

(_He pauses again._)

You would think, James, that she would mind how she happit him from the cold of winter and sheltered him from the summer heats, and, when he began to find his footing, how she had an eye on a' the beasts of the field and on the water and the fire that were become her enemies--And to what purpose all this care?--tell me that, my man, to what good, if she is to leave him at the last to dangle from a tree at the end of a hempen rope--to see his flesh given to be meat for the fowls of the air--her son, her little son!

MARY STEWAET. My son is guilty of no crime!

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

MACKENZIE. He is guilty of aiding and abetting in the concealment of proscribed persons; likewise with being found in the possession of arms, contrary to statute, both very heinous crimes.

CAMPBELL. Very well said, James! Forby, between 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 on which side his bread is buttered.--Come now--

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

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

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

MARY STEWART (_with intensity_). Campbell of Kilmhor, lay but one finger on Dugald Stewart and the weight of Ben Cruachan will be light to the weight that will be laid on your soul. I will lay the curse of the seven rings upon your life: I will call up the fires of Ephron, the blue and the green and the gray fires, for the destruction of your soul: I will curse you in your homestead and in the wife it shelters and in the children that will never bear your name. Yea, and ye shall be cursed.

CAMPBELL. (_Startled--betrays agitation--the snuff is spilled from his trembling hand._) Hoot toot, woman! ye're, ye're--(_Angrily_) Ye auld beldame, to say such things to me! I'll have ye first whippet and syne droont for a witch. Damn thae stubborn and supersteetious cattle! (_To_ SANDEMAN) We should have come in here before him and listened in the barn, Sandeman!

SANDEMAN. Ah, listen behind the door you mean! Now I never thought of that!

CAMPBELL. Did ye not! Humph! Well, no doubt there are a good many things in the universe that yet wait for your thought upon them. What would be your objections, now?

SANDEMAN. There are two objections, Kilmhor, that you would understand.

CAMPBELL. Name them.

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

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

MARY STEWART (_in contempt_). Yes, even if ye had told me ye had power to clap me in hell, Mr. Campbell.

CAMPBELL. Lift me that screeching Jezebel oot o' here; Sandeman, we'll mak' a quick finish o' this. (_Soldiers take her towards barn._) No, not there; pitch the old girzie into the snow.

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

CAMPBELL (_enraged_). Find him! Aye, by God I'll find him, if I have to keek under every stone on the mountains from the Boar of Badenoch to the Sow of Athole. (_Old woman and soldiers go outside._) And now, Captain Sandeman, you an' me must have a word or two. I noted your objection to listening ahint doors and so on. Now, I make a' necessary allowances for youth and the grand and magneeficent ideas commonly held, for a little while, in that period. I had them myself. But, man, gin ye had trod the floor of the 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 your fine 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 I have to say. I have noticed with regret several things in your remarks and bearing which are displeasing to me. I would say just one word in your ear; it is this. These things, Sandeman, are not conducive to advancement in His Majesty's service.

SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, I am a soldier, and if I speak out my mind, you must pardon me if my words are blunt. I do not like this work, 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 ae word it is no more and no less than this. You and me are baith here to carry out the proveesions of the Act for the Pacification of the Highlands. That means the cleaning up of a very big mess, Sandeman, a very big mess. Now, what is your special office in this work? I'll tell ye, man; you and your men are just beesoms in 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 you after? I would give something to see into your mind.

CAMPBELL. Ne'er fash aboot my mind: what has a soldier to do with ony 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 special significance.

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 by fire, and is unnoticed by_ CAMPBELL.)

CAMPBELL (_as one speaking his thoughts aloud_). I've been beaten for a' that. A strange thing, noo. Beforehand I would ha'e said naething could be easier. And yet--and yet--there it is!... It would have been a grand stroke for me.... Cluny--Keppoch--Lochiel, and maybe ... maybe--Hell! when I think of it! Just a whispered word--a mere pointed finger would ha'e telled a'. But no! their visions, their dreams beat me. "You'll be adding to your experience to-night, Mr. Campbell, and have something to put to the other side of it," says he; aye, and by God I have added something to it, and it is a thing I like but little--that a dream can be stronger than a strong man armed.--Here come I, Archibald Campbell of Kilmhor, invested with authority as law-officer of the Crown, bearing in my hand the power of life and death, fire and the sword, backed up by the visible authority of armed men, and yet I am powerless before the dreams of an old woman and a half-grown lad--soldiers and horses and the gallows and yellow gold are less than the wind blowing in their faces.--It is a strange thing that: it is a thing I do not understand.--It is a thing fit to sicken a man against the notion that there are probabeelities on this earth.--have been beaten for a' that. Aye, the pair o' them have beat me--though it's a matter of seconds till one of them be dead.

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

CAMPBELL (_turning hastily_). 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 for death.

(_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 the very act--in the very act of--tell me--tell me at once.

MORAG. You will promise that he will not be hanged?

CAMPBELL. He will not. I swear it.

MORAG. You will give him back to me?

CAMPBELL. I will give him back unhung.

MORAG. Then (CAMPBELL _comes near_), in a corrie half-way up the far side of Dearig--God save me!

CAMPBELL. Dished after a'. I've clean dished them! Loard, Loard! once more I can believe in the rationality of Thy world. (_Gathers up again his cloak, hat, etc._) And to think--to think--I was on the very act of going away like a beaten dog!

MORAG. He is safe from hanging now?

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

(_He holds up his hand--a volley of musketry is heard. KILMHOR goes out, closing the door behind him. After a short interval of silence the old woman enters and advances a few steps._)

MARY STEWART. Did you hear, Morag Cameron, did you hear?

(_The girl is sobbing, her head on her arms._)

MARY STEWART. Och! be quiet now; I would be listening till the last sound of it passes into the great hills and over all the wide world.--It is fitting for you to be crying, a child that cannot understand; but water shall never wet eye of mine for Dugald Stewart. Last night I was but the mother of a lad that herded sheep on the Athole hills: this morn it is I that am the mother of a man who is among the great ones of the earth. All over the land they will be telling of Dugald Stewart. Mothers will teach their children to be men by him. High will his name be with the teller of fine tales.--The great men came, they came in their pride, terrible like the storm they were, and cunning with words of guile were they. Death was with them.... He was but a lad, a young lad, with great length of days before him, and the grandeur of the world. But he put it all from him. "Speak," said they, "speak, and life and great riches will be for yourself." But he said no word at all! Loud was the swelling of their wrath! Let the heart of you rejoice, Morag Cameron, for the snow is red with his blood. There are things greater than death. Let them that are children shed the tears.

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

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

[CURTAIN]

THE SUN[1]

John Glasworthy

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

[Footnote 1: From _Scribner's Magazine_, May, 1919. Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons; included by special permission 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 the fightin'--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 back from the fightin'.

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

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

THE MAN (_gripping her shoulder_). Daise, don't you never go back on me, or I should kill you, and 'im too.

(THE GIRL _looks at him, shivers, and puts her lips to his._)

THE GIRL. I never could.

THE MAN. Will you run for it? 'E'd never find us.

(THE GIRL _shakes her head._)

THE MAN (_dully_). What's the good o' stayin'? The world's wide.

THE GIRL. I'd rather have it off me mind, with him 'ome.

THE MAN (_clenching his hands_). It's temptin' 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 as much of hell as he has, any day. What like is he?

THE GIRL (_dully_). I dunno, just. I've not seen 'im these three years. I dunno no more, since I've known you.

THE MAN. Big, or little chap?

THE GIRL. 'Bout your size. Oh! Jim, go along!

THE MAN. No fear! What's a blighter like that to old Fritz's shells? We didn't shift when they was comin'. If you'll go, I'll go; not else.

(_Again she shakes her head._)

THE GIRL. Jim, do you love me true? (_For answer_, THE MAN _takes her avidly in his arms._) I ain't ashamed--I ain't ashamed. If 'e could see me 'eart.

THE MAN. Daise! If I'd known you out there I never could 'a' stuck it. They'd 'a' got me for a deserter. That's 'ow I love you!

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

THE MAN. That's according.

THE GIRL. Promise!

THE MAN. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm not accountable--not always, 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 no fear'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._) The river's 'andy. One more or less. 'E shan't 'arm you; nor me neither.

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

THE MAN (_smiling_). No fear! (_He puts it away._) Shan't 'ave no need for it, like as not. All right, little Daise; you can't be expected 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 on the wires like flies on a fly-paper; I've been as good as dead meself 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's safe; not 'im, nor anybody else; not even you. I'm speakin' sober.

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

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

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

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

(_The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace._ THE GIRL _starts from his arms and looks behind her along the towing-path._ THE MAN _draws back against the hedge, fingering his side, 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's little Daise 'erself_! THE GIRL _stands rigid. The figure of a soldier appears on the other side of the stile. His cap is tucked into his belt, his hair is bright in the sunshine; he is lean, wasted, brown, and laughing._)

SOLDIER. Daise! Daise! Hallo, old pretty girl!

(THE GIRL _does not move, barring the way, as it were._)

THE GIRL. Hallo, Jack! (_Softly_) I got things to tell you.

SOLDIER. What sort o' things, this lovely day? Why, I got things that'd take me years to tell. 'Ave you missed me, Daise?

THE GIRL. You been so long.

SOLDIER. So I 'ave. My Gawd! It's a way they 'ave in the Army. I said when I got out of it I'd laugh. Like as the sun itself I used to think of you, Daise, when the crumps was comin' over, and the wind was up. D' you remember that last night in the wood? "Come back, and marry me quick, Jack!" Well, 'ere I am--got me pass to 'eaven. No more fightin', an' trampin,' no more sleepin" rough. We can get married now, Daise. We can live soft an' 'appy. Give us a kiss, old pretty.

THE GIRL (_drawing back_). No.

SOLDIER (_blankly_). Why not?

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

THE MAN. That's why, soldier.

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

THE GIRL. My man.

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

THE MAN (_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 to the other._) I'm laughin' at things in general. Where did you get it, 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 for a 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 laugh in me you can't put out, black as you are! Good-bye, little Daise!

(THE GIRL _makes a movement toward him._)

THE MAN. Don't touch 'im!

(THE GIRL _stands hesitating, and suddenly bursts into tears._)

SOLDIER. Look 'ere, soldier; shake 'ands! I don't want to see a girl cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I seen too much o' sorrer. You an' me've been at the back of it. We've 'ad our whack. Shake!

THE MAN. Who 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 only want what I can take.

SOLDIER. Daise, which of us will you 'ave?

THE GIRL (_covering her face_). Oh! _Him._

SOLDIER. You see, soldier! Drop your 'ands, now. There's nothin' for it but a laugh. You an' me know that. Laugh, soldier!

THE MAN. You blarsted--

(THE GIRL _springs to him and stops his mouth._)

SOLDIER. It's no use, soldier. I can't do it. I said I'd laugh to-day, and laugh I will. I've come through that, an' all the stink of it; I've come through sorrer. Never again! Cheer-o, mate! The sun's shinin'!

(_He turns away._)

THE GIRL. Jack, don't think too 'ard of me!

SOLDIER (_looking back_). No fear, old pretty girl! Enjoy your fancy! 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_). The sun 'as touched 'im, Jim!

[CURTAIN]

THE KNAVE OF HEARTS[1]

Louise Saunders

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

CHARACTERS

THE MANAGER BLUE HOSE YELLOW HOSE 1ST HERALD 2D HERALD POMPDEBILE THE EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS (pronounced Pomp-_di_biley) THE CHANCELLOR THE KNAVE OF HEARTS URSULA THE LADY VIOLETTA SIX LITTLE PAGES

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

THE MANAGER (_bowing deeply_). Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to hear the truth of an old legend that has persisted wrongly through the ages, the truth that, until now, has been hid behind the embroidered curtain of a rhyme, about the Knave of Hearts, who was no knave but a very hero indeed. The truth, you will agree with me, gentlemen and most honored ladies, is rare! It is only the quiet, unimpassioned things of nature that seem what they are. Clouds rolled in massy radiance against the blue, pines shadowed deep and darkly green, mirrored in still waters, the contemplative mystery of the hills--these things which exist, absorbed but in their own existence--these are the perfect chalices of truth.

But we, gentlemen and thrice-honored ladies, flounder about in a tangled net of prejudice, of intrigue. We are blinded by conventions, we are crushed by misunderstanding, we are distracted by violence, we are deceived by hypocrisy, until only too often villains receive the rewards of nobility and the truly great-hearted are suspected, distrusted, and maligned.

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

(_He parts the curtains, revealing two_ PASTRY COOKS _in flaring white caps and spotless aprons leaning over in stiff profile, their wooden spoons, three feet long, pointing rigidly to the ceiling. They are in one of the kitchens of_ POMPDEBILE THE EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS. _It is a pleasant kitchen, with a row of little 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 cooks belonging to the royal household of Pompdebile the Eighth--Blue Hose and Yellow Hose, by name. At a signal from me they will spring to action, and as they have been made with astonishing cleverness, they will bear every semblance of life. Happily, however, you need have no fear that, should they please you, the exulting wine of your appreciation may go to their heads--their heads being but things of wire and wood; and happily, too, as they are but wood and wire, they will be spared the shame and humiliation that would otherwise be theirs should they fail to meet with your approval.

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

(_He claps his hands. Instantly the two_ PASTRY COOKS _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, the Pages, dressed in their best, waiting in the pantry with their various jars full of the finest butter, the sweetest sugar, the hottest pepper, the richest milk, the--

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

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

BLUE HOSE. Nor I more uncomfortable.

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

BLUE HOSE. I like it not at all. It makes me dizzy, this eminence on which they have placed us. The Lady Violetta is slim and fair. She does not, in my opinion, look like the kind of person who is capable of making good pastry. I have discovered through long experience that it is the heaviest women who make the lightest pastry, and _vice versa._ Well, then, suppose that she does not pass this examination--suppose that her pastry is lumpy, white like the skin of a boiled fowl.

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

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

YELLOW HOSE. Outrageous law! How dare you! There is nothing so necessary to the welfare of the nation as our art. Good cooks make good tempers, don't they? Must not the queen set an example for the other women to follow? Did not our fathers and our grandfathers before us judge the dishes of the previous queens of hearts?

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

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

(_Distant sound of trumpets._)

BLUE HOSE (_nervously_). What's that?

YELLOW HOSE. The King is approaching! The ceremonies are about to commence!

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 appear calm._)

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 the King." Two_ HERALDS _come in and stand on either side of the door. The_ KING OF HEARTS _enters, followed by ladies and gentlemen of the court._ POMPDEBILE _is in full regalia, and very imposing indeed with his red robe bordered with ermine, his crown and sceptre. 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 is an important moment in the history of our reign. The Lady Violetta, whom you love and respect--that is, I mean to say, whom the ladies love and the lords--er--respect, is about to prove whether or not she be fitted to hold the exalted position of Queen of Hearts, according to the law, made a thousand years ago by Pompdebile the Great, and steadily followed ever since. She will prepare with her own delicate, white hands a dish of pastry. This will be judged by the two finest pastry cooks in the land.

(BLUE HOSE _and_ YELLOW HOSE _bow deeply._)

If their verdict be favorable, she shall ride through the streets of the city on a white palfrey, garlanded with flowers. She will be crowned, the populace will cheer her, and she will reign by our side, attending to the domestic affairs of the realm, while we give our time to weightier matters. This of course you all understand is a time of great anxiety for the Lady Violetta. She will appear worried--(_To_ CHANCELLOR) The palfrey is in readiness, we suppose.

CHANCELLOR. It is, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Garlanded with flowers?

CHANCELLOR. With roses, Your Majesty.

KNAVE (_bowing_). The Lady Violetta prefers violets, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Let there be a few violets put in with the roses--er--We are ready for the ceremony to commence. We confess to a slight nervousness unbecoming to one of our station. The Lady Violetta, though trying at times, we have found--er--shall we say--er--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 I ever neglected or forgotten any of your commands, Your Majesty?

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

CHANCELLOR (_indignantly_). I resign, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Your thirty-seventh resignation will be accepted to-morrow. Just now it is our wish to begin at once. The anxiety that no doubt gathered in the breast of each of the seven successive Pompdebiles before us seems to have concentrated in ours. Already the people are clamoring at the gates of the palace to know the decision. Begin. Let the Pages be summoned.

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

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

(THE KNAVE _quietly opens the door and closes it._)

KNAVE (_bowing_). She is not, Your Majesty, on the other side of that door waiting breathlessly. In fact, to speak plainly, she is not on the other side of that door at all.

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 than she 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 she didn't intend to stay there any longer.

POMPDEBILE (_roaring_). _Pokey!!_

URSULA. Yes, Your Majesty, and she bade me call her when you came, but we can't find her, Your Majesty.

(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _whisper._ URSULA _is in tears._)

CHANCELLOR. This should not be countenanced, Your Majesty. The word "pokey" cannot be found in the dictionary. It is the most flagrant disrespect to use a word that is not in the dictionary in connection with a king.

POMPDEBILE. We are quite aware of that, Chancellor, and although we 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 the garden. (_He goes to the door and holds it open, bowing._) The Lady Violetta is at the door, Your Majesty.

(_Enter the_ LADY VIOLETTA, _her purple train over her arm. She has been running._)

VIOLETTA. Am I late? I just remembered and came as fast as I could. I bumped into a sentry and he fell down. I didn't. That's strange, isn't it? I suppose it's because he stands in one position 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 matter to you whether you are divorced or not.

VIOLETTA (_anxiously_). Is that why your feelings are hurt?

POMPDEBILE. Our feelings are not hurt, not at all.

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they are, Pompdebile dear. I know, because they are connected with your eyebrows. When your feelings go down, up go your eyebrows, and when your feelings go up, they go down--always.

POMPDEBILE (_severely_). Where have you been?

VIOLETTA. I, just now?

POMPDEBILE. Just now, when you should have been outside that door waiting _breathlessly._

VIOLETTA. I was in the garden. Really, Pompy, you couldn't expect me to stay all day in that ridiculous pantry; and as for being breathless, it's quite impossible to be it unless one has been jumping or something.

POMPDEBILE. What were you doing in the garden?

VIOLETTA (_laughing_). Oh, it was too funny. I must tell you. I found a goat there who had a beard just like the Chancellor's--really it was quite remarkable, the resemblance--in other ways too. I took him by the horns and I looked deep into his eyes, and I said, "Chancellor, if you try to influence Pompy--"

POMPDEBILE (_shouting_). Don't call us Pompy.

VIOLETTA. Excuse me, Pomp--

(_Checking herself._)

KNAVE. And yet I think I remember hearing of an emperor, a great emperor, named Pompey.

POMPDEBILE. We know him not. Begin at once; the people are clamoring at the gates. Bring the ingredients.

(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _open the door, and, single file, six little boys march in, bearing large jars labeled butter, salt, flour, pepper, cinnamon, and milk. The_ COOKS _place a table and a large bowl and a pan in front of the_ LADY VIOLETTA _and give her a spoon. The six little boys stand three on each side._)

VIOLETTA. Oh, what darling little ingredients. May I have an apron, please?

(URSULA _puts a silk apron, embroidered with red hearts, on the_ LADY VIOLETTA.)

BLUE HOSE. We were unable to find a little boy to carry the pepper, My Lady. They all _would_ sneeze in such a disturbing way.

VIOLETTA. This is a perfectly controlled little boy. He hasn't sneezed once.

YELLOW HOSE. That, if it please Your Ladyship, is not a little boy.

VIOLETTA. Oh! How nice! Perhaps she will help me.

CHANCELLOR (_severely_). You are allowed no help, Lady Violetta.

VIOLETTA. Oh, Chancellor, how cruel of you. (_She takes up the spoon, bowing._) Your Majesty, Lords and Ladies of the court, I propose to make (_impressively_) raspberry tarts.

BLUE HOSE. Heaven be kind to us!

YELLOW HOSE (_suddenly agitated_). Your Majesty, I implore your forgiveness. 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 very sorry--we shall have to postpone it.

CHANCELLOR. If I may be allowed to suggest, Lady Violetta can prepare something else.

KNAVE. The law distinctly says that the Queen-elect has the privilege of choosing the dish which she prefers to prepare.

VIOLETTA. Dear Pompdebile, let's give it up. It's such a silly law! Why should a great splendid ruler like you follow it just because one of your ancestors, who wasn't half as nice as you are, or one bit wiser, said to do it? Dearest Pompdebile, please.

POMPDEBILE. We are inclined to think that there may be something in what the Lady Violetta says.

CHANCELLOR. I can no longer remain silent. It is due to that brilliant law of Pompdebile the First, justly called the Great, that all members of our male sex are well fed, and, as a natural consequence, happy.

KNAVE. The happiness of a set of moles who never knew the sunlight.

POMPDEBILE. If we made an effort, we could think of a new law--just as wise. It only requires effort.

CHANCELLOR. But the constitution. We can't touch the constitution.

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 a hundred 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 cinnamon jar--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 to allow this?

POMPDEBILE (_sadly_). Yes, Chancellor. We have such an impulsive nature!

(_The_ LADY VIOLETTA _receives the money._)

VIOLETTA. Thank you. (_She gives it to the boy._) Now we are ready to begin. Milk, please. (_The boy who holds the milk jar comes forward and kneels._) I take some of this milk and beat it well.

YELLOW HOSE (_in a whisper_). _Beat_ it--milk!

VIOLETTA. Then I put in two tablespoonfuls of salt, taking great care that it falls exactly in the middle of the bowl. (_To the little boy_) Thank you, dear. Now the flour, no, the pepper, and then--one pound of butter. I hope that it is good butter, or the whole thing will be quite spoiled.

BLUE HOSE. This is the most astonishing thing I have ever witnessed.

YELLOW HOSE. I don't understand it.

VIOLETTA (_stirring_). I find that the butter is _not_ very good. It makes a great difference. I shall have to use more pepper to counteract it. That's better. (_She pours in pepper. The boy with the pepper pot sneezes violently._) Oh, oh, dear! Lend him your handkerchief, Chancellor. Knave, will you? (YELLOW HOSE _silences the boy's sneezes with the_ KNAVE'S _handkerchief._) I think that they are going to turn out very well. Aren't you glad, Chancellor? You shall have one if you will be glad and smile nicely--a little brown tart with raspberry jam in the middle. Now for a dash of vinegar.

COOKS (_in horror_). Vinegar! Great Goslings! Vinegar!

VIOLETTA (_stops stirring_). Vinegar will make them crumbly. Do you like them crumbly, Pompdebile, darling? They are really for you, you know, since I am trying, by this example, to show all the wives how to please all the husbands.

POMPDEBILE. Remember that they are to go in the museum with the tests of the previous Queens.

VIOLETTA (_thoughtfully_). Oh, yes, I had forgotten that. Under the circumstances, I shall omit the vinegar. We don't want them too crumbly. They would fall about and catch the dust so frightfully. The museum-keeper would never forgive me in years to come. Now I dip them by the spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nice little boy's raspberry jam--I'm sorry I have to use it all, but you may lick the 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 which you performed your task. You must have been practising for weeks. This relieves, somewhat, the anxiety under which we have been suffering and makes us think that we would enjoy a game of checkers once more. How long a time will it take for your creation to be thoroughly done, so that it may be tested?

VIOLETTA (_considering_). About twenty minutes, Pompy.

POMPDEBILE (_to_ HERALD). Inform the people. Come, we will retire. (_To_ KNAVE) Let no one enter until the Lady Violetta commands.

(_All exit, left, except the_ KNAVE. _He stands in deep thought, his chin in hand--then exits slowly, right. The room is empty. The cuckoo clock strikes. Presently both right and left doors open stealthily. Enter_ LADY VIOLETTA _at one door, the_ KNAVE _at the other, backward, looking down the passage. They turn suddenly and see each other._)

VIOLETTA (_tearfully_). O Knave, I can't cook! Anything--anything at all, not even a baked potato.

KNAVE. So I rather concluded, My Lady, a few minutes ago.

VIOLETTA (_pleadingly_). Don't you think it might just happen that they turned out all right? (_Whispering_) Take them out of the oven. Let's look.

KNAVE. That's what I intended to do before you came in. It's possible that a miracle has occurred.

(_He tries the door of the oven._)

VIOLETTA. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my handkerchief.

KNAVE. The gods forbid, My Lady.

(_He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings out the pan, which he puts on the table softly._)

VIOLETTA (_with a look of horror_) How queer! They've melted or something. See, they are quite soft and runny. Do you think that they will be good for anything, Knave?

KNAVE. For paste, My Lady, perhaps.

VIOLETTA. Oh, dear. 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 would give--under the starlight, with soft music stealing from the shadows, fêtes all perfume and deep mystery, where the young--like you and me, Knave--would find the glowing flowers of youth ready to be gathered in all their dewy freshness!

KNAVE. Ah!

VIOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouldn't I make a pretty picture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with flowers, followed by the cheers of the populace--Long live Queen Violetta, long live Queen 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 to be queen. They get so much flattery. The queens who don't adore it as I do must be bored to death. Poor things! I'm never so happy as when I am being flattered. It makes me feel all warm and purry. That is another reason why I feel sure I was _made_ to be a queen.

KNAVE (_looking ruefully at the pan_). You will never be queen, My Lady, 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 on their shoes, and button themselves up the back. I have never performed these estimable and worthy tasks, Knave. I don't know how; I don't even know how to scent my bath. I haven't the least idea what makes it smell deliciously of violets. I only know that it always _does_ smell deliciously of violets because I wish it that way. I should be miserable; save me, Knave, please.

KNAVE. My mind is unhappily a blank, Your Majesty.

VIOLETTA. It's very unjust. Indeed, it's unjust! No other queen in the world has to understand cooking; even the Queen of Spades doesn't. Why should the Queen of Hearts, of all people!

KNAVE. Perhaps it is because--I have heard a proverb: "The way to the heart is through the--"

VIOLETTA (_angrily, stamping her foot_). Don't repeat that hateful proverb! Nothing can make me more angry. I feel like crying when I hear it, too. Now see, I'm crying. You made me.

KNAVE. Why does that proverb make you cry, My Lady?

VIOLETTA. Oh, because it is such a stupid proverb and so silly, because it's true in most cases, and because--I don't know why.

KNAVE. We are a set of moles here. One might also say that we are a set of mules. How can moles or mules either be expected to understand the point of view of a Bird of Paradise when she--

VIOLETTA. Bird of Paradise! Do you mean me?

KNAVE (_bowing_). I do, My Lady, figuratively speaking.

VIOLETTA (_drying her eyes_). How very pretty of you! Do you know, I think that you would make a splendid chancellor.

KNAVE. Her Ladyship is vain, as I remarked before.

VIOLETTA (_coldly_). As I remarked before, how fortunate. Have you anything to suggest--a plan?

KNAVE. If only there were time my wife could teach you. Her figure is squat, round, her nose is clumsy, and her eyes stumble over it; but her cooking, ah--(_He blows a kiss_) it is a thing to dream about. She cooks as naturally as the angels sing. The delicate flavors of her concoctions float over the palate like the perfumes of a thousand flowers. True, her temper, it is anything but sweet--However, I am conceded by many to be the most happily married man in the kingdom.

VIOLETTA (_sadly_). Yes. That's all they care about here. One may be, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every other way, but if one can't cook nobody loves one at all.

KNAVE. Beasts! My higher nature cries out at them for holding such views. Fools! Swine! But my lower nature whispers that perhaps after all they are not far from right, and as my lower nature is the only one that ever gets any encouragement--

VIOLETTA. Then you think that there is nothing to be done--I shall have to be banished?

KNAVE. I'm afraid--Wait, I have an idea! (_Excitedly_) Dulcinea, my wife--her name is Dulcinea--made known to me this morning, very forcibly--Yes, I remember, I'm sure--Yes, she was going to bake this very morning some raspberry tarts--a dish in which she particularly excels--If I could only procure some of them and bring them here!

VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, dearest, sweetest Knave, could you, I mean, would you? Is there time? The court will return.

(_They tiptoe to the door and listen stealthily._)

KNAVE. I shall run as fast as I can. Don't let anyone come in until 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 the custom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen at her coronation. I shall ask that you be made Chancellor.

KNAVE (_turning back_). Oh, please don't, My Lady, I implore you.

VIOLETTA. Why not?

KNAVE. It would give me social position, My Lady, and that I would rather die than possess. Oh, how we argue about that, my wife and I! Dulcinea wishes to climb, and the higher she climbs, the less she cooks. Should you have me made Chancellor, she would never wield a spoon again.

VIOLETTA (_pursing her lips_). But it doesn't seem fair, exactly. Think of how much I shall be indebted to her. If she enjoys social position, I might as well give her some. We have lots and lots of it lying around.

KNAVE. She wouldn't, My Lady, she wouldn't enjoy it. Dulcinea is a true genius, you understand, and the happiness of a genius lies solely in using his gift. If she didn't cook she would be miserable, although she might not be aware of it, I'm perfectly sure.

VIOLETTA. Then I shall take all social position away from you. You shall rank below the scullery maids. Do you like that better? Hurry, please.

KNAVE. Thank you, My Lady; it will suit me perfectly.

(_He goes out with the tarts._ VIOLETTA _listens anxiously for a minute; then she takes her skirt between the tips of her fingers and practises in pantomime her anticipated ride on the palfrey. She bows, smiles, kisses her hand, until suddenly she remembers the mule standing outside the gates of the palace. That thought saddens her, so she curls up in_ POMPDEBILE'S _throne and cries softly, wiping away her tears with a lace handkerchief. There is a 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. His Majesty is impatient.

VIOLETTA. Did you play a game of checkers with him, Chancellor?

CHANCELLOR. Yes.

VIOLETTA. And did you beat him?

CHANCELLOR (_shortly_). I did not.

VIOLETTA (_laughing_). How sweet of you! Would you mind doing it again just for me? Or would it be too great a strain on you to keep from beating him twice in succession?

CHANCELLOR. I shall tell the King that you refuse admission.

(VIOLETTA _runs to the 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 them away.

VIOLETTA. But the tarts aren't done, really.

CHANCELLOR. You said twenty minutes.