Chapter VI: Introduction: On the Reading of Plays (5)

VIOLETTA. No, I didn't--at least, I said twenty minutes for them to get good and warm and another twenty minutes for them to become brown. That makes forty--don't you remember?

CHANCELLOR. I shall carry your message to His Majesty.

(VIOLETTA _again runs to the window and peers anxiously up the road._)

CHANCELLOR (_knocking loudly_). The King commands you to open the door.

VIOLETTA. Commands! Tell him--Is he there--with you?

CHANCELLOR. His Majesty is at the door.

VIOLETTA. Pompy, I think you are rude, very rude indeed. I don't see how you can be so rude--to command me, your own Violetta who loves you so. (_She again looks in vain for the_ KNAVE.) Oh, dear! (_Wringing her hands_) Where can he be!

POMPDEBILE (_outside_). This is nonsense. Don't you see how worried we are? It is a compliment to you--

VIOLETTA. Well, come in; I don't care--only I'm sure they are not finished.

(_She opens the door for the_ KING, the CHANCELLOR, _and the two_ PASTRY COOKS. _The_ KING _walks to his throne. He finds_ LADY VIOLETTA'S _lace handkerchief on it._)

POMPDEBILE (_holding up handkerchief_). What is this?

VIOLETTA. Oh, that's my handkerchief.

POMPDEBILE. It is very damp. Can it be that you are anxious, that you are afraid?

VIOLETTA. How silly, Pompy. I washed my hands, as one always does after cooking; (_to the_ PASTRY COOKS) doesn't one? But there was no towel, so I used my handkerchief instead of my petticoat, which is made of chiffon and is very perishable.

CHANCELLOR. Is the Lady Violetta ready to produce her work?

VIOLETTA. I don't understand what you mean by work, Chancellor. Oh, the tarts! (_Nervously_) They were quite simple--quite simple to make--no work at all--A little imagination is all one needs for such things, just imagination. You agree with me, don't you, Pompy, that imagination will work wonders--will do almost anything, in fact? I remember--

POMPDEBILE. The Pastry Cooks will remove the tarts from the oven.

VIOLETTA. Oh, _no_, Pompy! They are not finished or cooked, or whatever one calls it. They are not. The last five minutes is of the greatest importance. Please don't let them touch them! _Please_--

POMPDEBILE. There, there, my dear Violetta, calm yourself. If you wish, they will put them back again. There can be no harm in looking at them. Come, I will hold your hand.

VIOLETTA. That will help a great deal, Pompy, your holding my hand.

(_She scrambles up on the throne beside the_ KING.)

CHANCELLOR (_in horror_). On the throne, Your Majesty?

POMPDEBILE. Of course not, Chancellor. We regret that you are not yet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear. In a little while--

VIOLETTA (_coming down_). Oh, I see. May I sit here, Chancellor, in this seemingly humble position at his feet? Of course, I can't _really_ be humble when he is holding my hand and enjoying it so much.

POMPDEBILE. Violetta! (_To the_ PASTRY COOKS) Sample the tarts. This suspense is unbearable!

(_The_ KING'S _voice is husky with excitement. The two_ PASTRY COOKS, _after bowing with great ceremony to the_ KING, _to each other, to the_ CHANCELLOR--_for this is the most important moment of their lives by far--walk to the oven door and open it, impressively. They fall back in astonishment so great that they lose their balance, but they quickly scramble to their feet again_).

YELLOW HOSE. Your Majesty, there are no tarts there!

BLUE HOSE. Your Majesty, the tarts have gone!

VIOLETTA (_clasping her hands_). Gone! Oh, where could they have gone?

POMPDEBILB (_coming down from throne_). That is impossible.

PASTRY COOKS (_greatly excited_). You see, you see, the oven is empty as a drum.

POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). Did you go out of this room?

VIOLETTA (_wailing_). Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to powder my nose before the mirror in the pantry. (_To_ PASTRY COOKS) When one cooks one becomes so disheveled, doesn't one? But if I had thought for one little minute--

POMPDEBILE (_interrupting_). The tarts have been stolen!

VIOLETTA (_with a shriek, throwing herself on a chair_). Stolen! Oh, I shall faint; help me. Oh, oh, to think that any one would take my delicious little, my dear little tarts. My salts. Oh! Oh!

(PASTRY COOKS _run to the door and call._)

YELLOW HOSE. Salts! Bring the Lady Violetta's salts.

BLUE HOSE. The Lady Violetta has fainted!

(URSULA _enters hurriedly bearing a smelling-bottle._)

URSULA. Here, here--What has happened? Oh, My Lady, my sweet mistress!

POMPDEBILE. Some wretch has stolen the tarts.

(LADY VIOLETTA _moans._)

URSULA. Bring some water. I will take off her headdress and bathe her forehead.

VIOLETTA (_sitting up_). I feel better now. Where am I? What is the matter? I remember. Oh, my poor tarts!

(_She buries her face in her hands._)

CHANCELLOR (_suspiciously_). Your Majesty, this is very strange.

URSULA (_excitedly_). I know, Your Majesty. It was the Knave. One of the Queen's women, who was walking in the garden, saw the Knave jump out of this window with a tray in his hand. It was the Knave.

VIOLETTA. Oh, I don't think it was he. I don't, really.

POMPDEBILE. The scoundrel. Of course it was he. We shall banish him for this or have him _beheaded._

CHANCELLOR. It should have been done long ago, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. You are right.

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty will never listen to me.

POMPDEBILE. We _do_ listen to you. Be quiet.

VIOLETTA. What are you going to do, Pompy, dear?

POMPDEBILE. Herald, issue a proclamation at once. Let it be known all over the Kingdom that I desire that the Knave be brought here dead or alive. Send the royal detectives and policemen in every direction.

CHANCELLOR. Excellent; just what I should have advised had Your Majesty listened to me.

POMPDEBILE (_in a rage_). Be quiet. (_Exit_ HERALD.) I never have a brilliant thought but you claim it. It is insufferable!

(_The_ HERALDS _can be heard in the distance._)

CHANCELLOR. I resign.

POMPDEBILE. Good. We accept your thirty-eighth resignation at once.

CHANCELLOR. You did me the honor to appoint me as your Chancellor, Your Majesty, yet never, never do you give me an opportunity to chancel. That is my only grievance. You must admit, Your Majesty, that as your advisers advise you, as your dressers dress you, as your hunters hunt, as your bakers bake, your Chancellor should be allowed to chancel. However, I will be just--as I have been with you so long; before I leave you, I will give you a month's notice.

POMPDEBILE. That isn't necessary.

CHANCELLOR (_referring to the constitution hanging at his belt_). It's in the constitution.

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet.

VIOLETTA. Well, I think as things have turned out so--so unfortunately, I shall change my gown. (_To_ URSULA) Put out my cloth of silver with the moonstones. It is always a relief to change one's gown. May I have my handkerchief, Pompy? Rather a pretty one, isn't it, Pompy? Of course you don't object to my calling you Pompy now. When I'm in trouble it's a comfort, like holding your hand.

POMPDEBILE (_magnanimously_). You may hold our hand too, Violetta.

VIOLETTA (_fervently_). Oh, how good you are, how sympathetic! But you see it's impossible just now, as I have to change my gown--unless you will come with me while I change.

CHANCELLOR (_in a voice charged with inexpressible horror_). Your Majesty!

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet! You have been discharged! (_He starts to descend, when a_ HERALD _bursts through the door in a state of great excitement. He kneels before_ POMPDEBILE.)

HERALD. We have found him; we have found him, Your Majesty. In fact,_I_ found him all by myself! He was sitting under the shrubbery eating a tart. I stumbled over one of his legs and fell. "How easy it is to send man and all his pride into the dust," he said, and then--I saw him!

POMPDEBILE. Eating a tart! Eating a tart, did you say? The scoundrel! Bring him here immediately.

(_The_ HERALD _rushes out and returns with the_ KNAVE, _followed by the six little_ PAGES. _The_ KNAVE _carries a tray of tarts in his hand._)

POMPDEBILE (_almost speechless with rage_). How dare you--you--you--

KNAVE (_bowing_). Knave, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. You Knave, you shall be punished for this.

CHANCELLOR. Behead him, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Yes, behead him at once.

VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy, not that! It is not severe enough.

POMPDEBILE. Not severe enough, to cut off a man's head! Really, Violetta--

VIOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been beheaded, one's consciousness that one has been beheaded comes off too. It is inevitable. And then, what does it matter, when one doesn't know? Let us think of something really cruel--really fiendish. I have it--deprive him of social position for the rest of his life--force him to remain a mere knave, forever.

POMPDEBILE. You are right.

KNAVE. Terrible as this punishment is, I admit that I deserve it, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. What prompted you to commit this dastardly crime?

KNAVE. All my life I have had a craving for tarts of any kind. There is something in my nature that demands tarts--something in my constitution that cries out for them--and I obey my constitution as rigidly as does the Chancellor seek to obey his. I was in the garden reading, as is my habit, when a delicate odor floated to my nostrils, a persuasive odor, a seductive, light brown, flaky odor, an odor so enticing, so suggestive of tarts fit for the gods--- that I could stand it no longer. It was stronger than I. With one gesture I threw reputation, my chances for future happiness, to the winds, and leaped through the window. The odor led me to the oven; I seized a tart, and, eating it, experienced the one perfect moment of my existence. After having eaten that one tart, my craving for other tarts has disappeared. I shall live with the memory of that first tart before me forever, or die content, having tasted true perfection.

POMPDEBILE. M-m-m, how extraordinary! Let him be beaten fifteen strokes on the back. Now, Pastry Cooks to the Royal Household, we await your decision!

(_The_ COOKS _bow as before; then each selects a tart from the tray on the table, lifts it high, then puts it in his mouth. An expression of absolute ecstasy and beatitude comes over their faces. They clasp hands, then fall on each other's necks, weeping._)

POMPDEBILE (_impatiently_). What on earth is the matter?

YELLOW HOSE. Excuse our emotion. It is because we have at last encountered a true genius, a great master, or rather mistress, of our art.

(_They bow to_ VIOLETTA.)

POMPDEBILE. They are good, then?

BLUE HOSE (_his eyes to heaven_). Good! They are angelic!

POMPDEBILE. Give one of the tarts to us. We would sample it.

(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _hand the tray to the KING, who selects a tart and eats it._)

POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). My dear, they are marvels! marvels! (_He comes down from the throne and leads_ VIOLETTA _up to the dais._) Your throne, my dear.

VIOLETTA (_sitting down, with a sigh_). I'm glad it's such a comfortable one.

POMPDEBILE. Knave, we forgive your offense. The temptation was very great. There are things that mere human nature cannot be expected to resist. Another tart, Cooks, and yet another!

CHANCELLOR. But, Your Majesty, don't eat them all. They must go to the museum with the dishes of the previous Queens of Hearts.

YELLOW HOSE. A museum--those tarts! As well lock a rose in a money-box!

CHANCELLOR. But the constitution commands it. How else can we commemorate, for future generations, this event?

KNAVE. An Your Majesty, please, I will commemorate it in a rhyme.

POMPDEBILE. How can a mere rhyme serve to keep this affair in the minds of the people?

KNAVE. It is the only way to keep it in the minds of the people. No event is truly deathless unless its monument be built in rhyme. Consider that fall which, though insignificant in itself, became the most famous of all history, because someone happened to put it into rhyme. The crash of it sounded through centuries and will vibrate for generations to come.

VIOLETTA. You mean the fall of the Holy Roman Empire?

KNAVE. No, Madam, I refer to the fall of Humpty Dumpty.

POMPDEBILE. Well, make your rhyme. In the meantime let us celebrate. You may all have one tart. (_The_ PASTRY COOKS _pass the tarts. To_ VIOLETTA) Are you willing, dear, to ride the white palfrey garlanded with flowers through the streets of the city?

VIOLETTA. Willing! I have been practising for days!

POMPDEBILE. The people, I suppose, are still clamoring at the gates.

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they must clamor. I _want_ them to. Herald, tell them that to every man I shall toss a flower, to every woman a shining gold piece, but to the babies I shall throw only kisses, thousands of them, like little winged birds. Kisses and gold and roses! They will surely love me then!

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, I protest. Of what possible use to the people--?

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet. The Queen may scatter what she pleases.

KNAVE. My rhyme is ready, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Repeat it.

KNAVE.

The Queen of Hearts
She made some tarts
All on a summer's day.
The Knave of Hearts
He stole those tarts
And took them quite away.

The King of Hearts
Called for those tarts
And beat the Knave full sore.
The Knave of Hearts
Brought back the tarts
And vowed he'd sin no more.

VIOLETTA (_earnestly_). My dear Knave, how wonderful of you! You shall be Poet Laureate. A Poet Laureate has no social position, has he?

KNAVE. It depends, Your Majesty, upon whether or not he chooses to be more laureate than poet.

VIOLETTA (_rising, her eyes closed in ecstasy_). _Your Majesty!_ Those words go to my head--like wine!

KNAVE. Long live Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta!

(_The trumpets sound._)

HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta!

VIOLETTA (_excitedly_). _Vee_-oletta, please!

HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen _Vee_-oletta--

(_The_ KING _and_ QUEEN _show themselves at the door--and the people can be heard clamoring outside._)

[CURTAIN]

FAME AND THE POET[1]

Lord Dunsany

[Footnote 1: Reprinted from the _Atlantic Monthly_ for June, 1919, by special permission of Lord Dunsany and the editors of the _Atlantic Monthly._]

SCENE: The Poet's rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screen in a corner.

TIME: February 30th.

CHARACTERS

HARRY DE REVES.--A Poet.

(_This name, though of course of French origin, has become anglicized and is pronounced_ DE REEVES.)

DICK PRATTLE.--A Lieutenant-Major of the Royal Horse Marines.

FAME.

(_The_ POET _is sitting at a table, writing. Enter_ DICK PRATTLE.)

PRATTLE. Hullo, Harry.

DE REVES. Hullo, Dick. Good Lord, where are you from?

PRATTLE (_casually_). The ends of the Earth.

DE REVES. Well, I'm damned!

PRATTLE. Thought I'd drop in and see how you were getting on.

DE REVES. Well, that's splendid. What are you doing in London?

PRATTLE. Well, I wanted to see if I could get one or two decent ties to wear,--you can get nothing out there,--then I thought I'd have a look and see how London was getting on.

DE REVES. Splendid! How's everybody?

PRATTLE. All going strong.

DE REVES. That's good.

PRATTLE. (_seeing paper and ink_). But what are you doing?

DE REVES. Writing.

PRATTLE. Writing? I didn't know you wrote.

DE REVES. Yes, I've taken to it rather.

PRATTLE. I say--writing's no good. What do you write?

DE REVES. Oh, poetry.

PRATTLE. Poetry? Good Lord!

DE REVES. Yes, that sort of thing, you know.

PRATTLE. Good Lord! Do you make any money by it?

DE REVES. No. Hardly any.

PRATTLE. I say--why don't you chuck it?

DE REVES. Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like my stuff, rather. That's why I go on.

PRATTLE. I'd chuck it if there's no money in it.

DE REVES. Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it? You'd hardly approve of poetry if there _was_ money in it.

PRATTLE. Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry as I can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, only--

DE REVES. Only what?

PRATTLE. Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense in betting, somehow.

DE REVES. Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what an earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus--

PRATTLE. What's Pegasus?

DE REVES. Oh, the winged horse of poets.

PRATTLE. I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you?

DE REVES. In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. They all represent some large truth to turn us. An emblem like Pegasus is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner would be to you.

PRATTLE. I say. (_Give me a cigarette. Thanks._) What? Then you'd believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind of birds?

DE REVES. Yes. Yes. In all of them.

PRATTLE. Good Lord!

DE REVES. You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you?

PRATTLE. Yes, of course; but what has--

DE REVES. Four million people or so made him Lord Mayor, didn't they? And he represents to them the wealth and dignity and tradition of--

PRATTLE. Yes; but, I say, what has all this--

DE REVES. Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him Lord Mayor, and so he is one....

PRATTLE. Well, of course he is.

DE REVES. In the same way Pan has been made what he is by millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions.

PRATTLE. (_rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughing and looking at the POET in a kind of assumed wonder_). I say.... I say.... You old heathen ... but Good Lord....

(_He bumps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a little._)

DE REVES. Look out! Look out!

PRATTLE. What? What's the matter?

DE REVES. The screen!

PRATTLE. Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right.

(_He is about to go round behind it._)

DE REVES. No, don't go round there.

PRATTLE. What? Why not?

DE REVES. Oh, you wouldn't understand.

PRATTLE. Wouldn't understand? Why, what have you got?

DE REVES. Oh, one of those things.... You wouldn't understand.

PRATTLE. Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look. (_The_ POET _walks toward_ PRATTLE _and the screen. He protests no further._ PRATTLE _looks round the corner of the screen._) An altar.

DE REVES. (_removing the screen altogether_). That is all. What do you make of it?

(_An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is revealed. Papers litter the floor all about it._)

PRATTLE. I say--you always were an untidy devil.

DE REVES. Well, what do you make of it?

PRATTLE. It reminds me of your room at Eton.

DE REVES. My room at Eton?

PRATTLE. Yes, you always had papers all over your floor.

DE REVES. Oh, yes--

PRATTLE. And what are these?

DE REVES. All these are poems; and this is my altar to Fame.

PRATTLE. To Fame?

DE REVES. The same that Homer knew.

PRATTLE. Good Lord!

DE REVES. Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young. She came late at the best of times, now scarcely ever.

PRATTLE. But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you think there really is such a person?

DE REVES. I offer all my songs to her.

PRATTLE. But you don't mean you think you could actually _see_ Fame?

DE REVES. We poets personify abstract things, and not poets only but sculptors and painters too. All the great things of the world are those abstract things.

PRATTLE. But what I mean is they're not really there, like you or me.

DE REVES. To us these things are more real than men, they outlive generations, they watch the passing of Kingdoms: we go by them like dust; they are still here, unmoved, unsmiling.

PRATTLE. But, but, you can't think that you could _see_ Fame, you don't expect to _see_ it.

DE REVES. Not to me. Never to me. She of the golden trumpet and Greek dress will never appear to me.... We all have our dreams.

PRATTLE. I say--what have you been doing all day?

DE REVES. I? Oh, only writing a sonnet.

PRATTLE. Is it a long one?

DE REVES. Not very.

PRATTLE. About how long is it?

DE REVES. About fourteen lines.

PRATTLE (_impressively_). I tell you what it is.

DE REVES. Yes?

PRATTLE. I tell you what. You've been overworking yourself. I once got like that on board the Sandhurst, working for the passing-out exam. I got so bad that I could have seen anything.

DE REVES. Seen anything?

PRATTLE. Lord, yes: horned pigs, snakes with wings, anything, one of your winged horses even. They gave me some stuff called bromide for it. You take a rest.

DE REVES. But my dear fellow, you don't understand at all. I merely said that abstract things are to a poet as near and real and visible as one of your bookmakers or barmaids.

PRATTLE. I know. You take a rest.

DE REVES. Well, perhaps I will. I'd come with you to that musical comedy you're going to see, only I'm a bit tired after writing this; it's a tedious job. I'll come another night.

PRATTLE. How do you know I'm going to see a musical comedy?

DE REVES. Well, where would you go? _Hamlet's_ on at the Lord Chamberlain's. You're not going there.

PBATTLE. Do I look like it?

DE REVES. No.

PRATTLE. Well, you're quite right. I'm going to see "The Girl from Bedlam." So long. I must push off now. It's getting late. You take a rest. Don't add another line to that sonnet; fourteen's quite enough. You take a rest. Don't have any dinner to-night, just rest. I was like that once myself. So long.

DE REVES. So long.

(_Exit_ PRATTLE. DE REVES _returns to his table and sits down._)

Good old Dick. He's the same as ever. Lord, how time passes.

(_He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alterations._)

Well, that's finished. I can't do any more to it.

(_He rises and goes to the screen; he draws back part of it and goes up to the altar. He is about to place his sonnet reverently at the foot of the altar amongst his other verses._)

No, I will not put it there. This one is worthy of the altar.

(_He places the sonnet upon the altar itself._)

If that sonnet does not give me Fame, nothing that I have done before will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do.

(_He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the table. Twilight is coming on. He sits with his elbow on the table, his head on his hand, or however the actor pleases._)

Well, well. Fancy seeing Dick again. Well, Dick enjoys his life, so he's no fool. What was that he said? "There's no money in poetry. You'd better chuck it." Ten years' work and what have I to show for it? The admiration of men who care for poetry, and how many of _them_ are there? There's a bigger demand for smoked glasses to look at eclipses of the sun. Why should Fame come to me? Haven't I given up my days for her? That is enough to keep her away. I am a poet; that is enough reason for her to slight me. Proud and aloof and cold as marble, what does Fame care for us? Yes, Dick is right. It's a poor game chasing illusions, hunting the intangible, pursuing dreams. Dreams? Why, we are ourselves dreams. (_He leans back in his chair._)

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

(_He is silent for a while. Suddenly he lifts his head_)

My room at Eton, Dick said. An untidy mess.

(_As he lifts his head and says these words, twilight gives place to broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author of the play may have been mistaken, and the whole thing may have been no more than a poet's dream._)

So it was, and it's an untidy mess there (_looking at screen_) too. Dick's right. I'll tidy it up. I'll burn the whole damned heap. (_He advances impetuously toward the screen_) Every damned poem that I was ever fool enough to waste my time on.

(_He pushes back the screen._ FAME _in a Greek dress with a long golden trumpet in her hand is seen standing motionless on the altar like a marble goddess._)

So ... you have come!

(_For a while he stands thunderstruck. Then he approaches the altar._)

Divine fair lady, you have come.

(_He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from the altar and into the centre of the stage. At whatever moment the actor finds it most convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnet that he had placed on the altar. He now offers it to_ FAME.)

This is my sonnet. Is it well done?

(FAME _takes it, reads it in silence, while the_ POET _watches her rapturously._)

FAME. You're a bit of all right.

DE REVES. What?

FAME. Some poet.

DE REVES. I--I--scarcely ... understand.

FAME. You're IT.

DE REVES. But ... it is not possible ... are you she that knew Homer?

FAME. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard.

DE REVES. O Heavens!

(FAME _walks beautifully to the window. She opens it and puts her head out._)

FAME (_in a voice with which a woman in an upper story would cry for help if the house was well alight_). Hi! Hi! Boys! Hi! Say, folks! Hi!

(_The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard._ FAME _blows her trumpet._)

FAME. Hi, he's a poet. (_Quickly, over her shoulder._) What's your name?

DE REVES. De Reves.

FAME. His name's de Reves.

DE REVES. Harry de Reves.

FAME. His pals call him Harry.

THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

FAME. Say, what's your favourite color?

DE REVES. I ... I ... I don't quite understand.

FAME. Well, which do you like best, green or blue?

DE REVES. Oh--er--blue. (_She blows her trumpet out of the window._) No--er--I think green.

FAME. Green is his favourite colour.

THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

FAME. 'Ere, tell us something. They want to know all about yer.

DE REVES; Wouldn't you perhaps ... would they care to hear my sonnet, if you would--er....

FAME (_picking up quill_). Here, what's this?

DE REVES. Oh, that's my pen.

FAME (_after another blast on her trumpet_). He writes with a quill. (_Cheers from_ THE CROWD.)

FAME (_going to a cupboard_). Here, what have you got in here?

DE REVES. Oh ... er ... those are my breakfast things.

FAME (_finding a dirty plate_). What have yer had on this one?

DE REVES (_mournfully_). Oh, eggs and bacon.

FAME (_at the window_). He has eggs and bacon for breakfast.

THE CROWD. Hip hip hip _hooray!_ Hip hip hip _hooray!_ Hip hip hip _hooray!_

FAME. Hi, and what's this?

DE REVES (_miserably_). Oh, a golf stick.

FAME. He's a man's man! He's a virile man! He's a manly man!

(_Wild cheers from_ THE CROWD, _this time only from women's voices._)

DE REVES. Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This is terrible.

(FAME _gives another peal on her horn. She is about to speak._)

DE REVES (_solemnly and mournfully_). One moment, one moment....

FAME. Well, out with it.

DE REVES. For ten years, divine lady, I have worshipped you, offering all my songs ... I find ... I find I am not worthy....

FAME. Oh, you're all right.

DE REVES. No, no, I am not worthy. It cannot be. It cannot possibly be. Others deserve you more. I must say it! _I cannot possibly love you._ Others are worthy. You will find others. But I, no, no, no. It cannot be. It cannot be. Oh, pardon me, but it _must_ not.

(_Meanwhile_ FAME _has been lighting one of his cigarettes. She sits in a comfortable chair, leans right back, and puts her feet right up on the table amongst the poet's papers._)

Oh, I fear I offend you. But--it cannot be.

FAME. Oh, that's all right, old bird; no offence. I ain't going to leave you.

DE REVES. But--but--but--I do not understand.

FAME. I've come to stay, I have.

(_She blows a puff of smoke through her trumpet._)

[CURTAIN]

THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE[1]

Beulah Marie Dix

SCENE: In the cheerless hour before the dawn of a wet spring morning five gentlemen-troopers of the broken Royalist army, fagged and outworn with three long days of siege, are holding, with what strength and courage are left them, the Gatehouse of the Bridge of Cashala, which is the key to the road that leads into Connaught. The upper chamber of the Gatehouse, in which they make their stand, is a narrow, dim-lit apartment, built of stone. At one side is a small fireplace, and beside it a narrow, barred door, which leads to the stairhead. At the end of the room, gained by a single raised step, are three slit-like windows, breast-high, designed, as now used, for defense in time of war. The room is meagrely furnished, with a table on which are powder-flask, touch-box, etc., for charging guns, a stool or two, and an open keg of powder. The whole look of the place, bare and martial, but depressed, bespeaks a losing fight. On the hearth the ashes of a fire are white, and on the chimneypiece a brace of candles are guttering out.

The five men who hold the Gatehouse wear much soiled and torn military dress. They are pale, powder-begrimed, sunken-eyed, with every mark of weariness of body and soul. Their leader, JOHN TALBOT, is standing at one of the shot-windows, with piece presented, looking forth. He is in his mid-twenties, of Norman-Irish blood, and distinctly of a finer, more nervous type than his companions. He has been wounded, and bears his left hand wrapped in a bloody rag. DICK FENTON, a typical, careless young English swashbuckler, sits by the table, charging a musket, and singing beneath his breath as he does so. He, too, has been wounded, and bears a bandage about his knee. Upon the floor (_at right_) KIT NEWCOMBE lies in the sleep of utter exhaustion. He is an English lad, in his teens, a mere tired, haggard child, with his head rudely bandaged. On a stool by the hearth sits MYLES BUTLER, a man of JOHN TALBOT'S own years, but a slower, heavier, almost sullen type. Beside him kneels PHELIMY DRISCOLL, a nervous, dark Irish lad, of one and twenty. He is resting his injured arm across BUTLER'S knee, and BUTLER is roughly bandaging the hurt.

For a moment there is a weary, heavy silence, in which the words of the song which FENTON sings are audible. It is the doleful old strain of "the hanging-tune."

[Footnote 1: Included by permission of the author and of Messrs. Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume _Allison's Lad and Other Martial Interludes._ (1910).]

FENTON (_singing_).

Fortune, my foe, why dost thou frown on me, And will thy favors never greater be? Wilt thou, I say, forever breed me pain, And wilt thou not restore my joys again?

BUTLER (_shifting_ DRISCOLL'S _arm, none too tenderly_). More to the light!

DRISCOLL (_catching breath with pain_). Ah! Softly, Myles!

JOHN TALBOT (_leaning forward tensely_). Ah!

FENTON. Jack! Jack Talbot! What is it that you see?

JOHN TALBOT (_with the anger of a man whose nerves are strained almost beyond endurance_). What should I see but Cromwell's watch-fires along the boreen? What else should I see, and the night as black as the mouth of hell? What else should I see, and a pest choke your throat with your fool's questions, Dick Fenton!

(_Resumes his watch._)

FENTON (_as who should say: "I thank you!"_). God 'a' mercy--_Captain_ Talbot!

(_Resumes his singing._)

DRISCOLL. God's love! I bade ye have a care, Myles Butler.

BUTLEK (_tying the last bandage_). It's a stout heart you have in you, Phelimy Driscoll--you to be crying out for a scratch. It's better you would have been, you and the like of you, to be stopping at home with your mother.

(_Rises and takes up his musket from the corner by the fireplace._)

DRISCOLL. You--you dare--you call me--coward? Ye black liar! I'll lesson ye! I'll--

(_Tries to rise, but in the effort sways weakly forward and rests with his head upon the stool which_ BUTLER _has quitted._)

BUTLER. A'Heaven's name, ha' done with that hanging tune! Ha' done, Dick Fenton! We're not yet at the gallows' foot.

(_Joins_ JOHN TALBOT _at the shot-windows._)

FENTON. Nay, Myles, for us 'tis like to be nothing half so merry as the gallows.

BUTLER. Hold your fool's tongue!

NEWCOMBE (_crying out in his sleep_). Oh! Oh!

JOHN TALBOT. What was that?

FENTON. 'Twas naught but young Newcombe that cried out in the clutch of a nightmare.

BUTLER. 'Tis time Kit Newcombe rose and stood his watch.

JOHN TALBOT (_leaving the window_). Nay, 'tis only a boy. Let him sleep while he can! Let him sleep!

BUTLER. Turn and turn at the watch, 'tis but fair. Stir yonder sluggard awake, Dick!

FENTON. Aye. (_Starts to rise._)

JOHN TALBOT. Who gives commands here? Sit you down, Fenton! To your place, Myles Butler!

BUTLER. Captain of the Gate! D'ye mark the high tone of him, Dick?

JOHN TALBOT (_tying a fresh bandage about his hand_). You're out there, Myles. There is but one Captain of the Gate of Connaught--he who set me here--my cousin, Hugh Talbot.

BUTLER (_muttering_). Aye, and it's a deal you'll need to be growing, ere you fill Hugh Talbot's shoes.

JOHN TALBOT. And that's a true word! But 'twas Hugh Talbot's will that I should command, here at the Bridge of Cashala. And as long as breath is in me I--

DRISCOLL (_raising his head heavily_). Water! Water! Myles! Dick! Will ye give me to drink, lads? Jack Talbot! I'm choked wi' thirst.

JOHN TALBOT. There's never a drop of water left us, Phelimy, lad.

FENTON. Owen Bourke drained the last of it, God rest him!

BUTLER. 'Tis likely our clever new Captain of the Gate will hit on some shift to fill our empty casks.

(DRISCOLL _rises heavily._)

JOHN TALBOT. Not the new Captain of the Gate. The old Captain of the Gate--Hugh Talbot. He'll be here this day--this hour, maybe.

FENTON. That tale grows something old, Jack Talbot.

JOHN TALBOT. He swore he'd bring us succor. He--

(DRISCOLL _tries to unbar the exit door._)

Driscoll! Are you gone mad? Stand you back from that door!

(_Thrusts_ DRISCOLL _from the door._)

DRISCOLL (_half delirious_). Let me forth! The spring--'tis just below--there on the river-bank! Let me slip down to it--but a moment--and drink!

JOHN TALBOT. Cromwell's soldiers hold the spring.

DRISCOLL. I care not! Let me forth and drink! Let me forth!

JOHN TALBOT. 'T would be to your death.

BUTLER. And what will he get but his death if he stay here, Captain Talbot?

DRISCOLL (_struggling with_ JOHN TALBOT). I'm choked! I'm choked, I tell ye! Let me go, Jack Talbot! Let me go!

NEWCOMBE (_still half-asleep, rises to his knees, with a terrible cry, and his groping hands upthrust to guard his head_). God's pity! No! no! no!

DRISCOLL (_shocked into sanity, staggers back, crossing himself_). God shield us!

BUTLER. Silence that whelp!

FENTON. Clear to the rebel camp they'll hear him!

JOHN TALBOT (_catching_ NEWCOMBE _by the shoulder_). Newcombe! Kit Newcombe!

NEWCOMBE. Ah, God! Keep them from me! Keep them from me!

JOHN TALBOT. Ha' done! Ha' done!

NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not the butt of the muskets! Not that! Not that!

JOHN TALBOT (_stifling_ NEWCOMBE'S _outcry with a hand upon his mouth_). Wake! You're dreaming!

DRISCOLL. 'Tis ill luck! 'Tis ill luck comes of such dreaming!

NEWCOMBE. Drogheda! I dreamed I was at Drogheda, where my brother--my brother--they beat out his brains--Cromwell's men--with their clubbed muskets--they--

(_Clings shuddering to_ JOHN TALBOT.)

FENTON. English officers that serve amongst the Irish--'t is thus that Cromwell uses them!

BUTLER. English officers--aye, like ourselves!

JOHN TALBOT. Be quiet, Kit! You're far from Drogheda--here at the Bridge of Cashala.

BUTLER. Aye, safe in Cashala Gatehouse, with five hundred of Cromwell's men sitting down before it.

JOHN TALBOT. Keep your watch, Butler!

NEWCOMBE. You give orders? You still command, Jack? Where's Captain Talbot, then?

(_Snatches up his sword and rises._)

BUTLER (_quitting the window_). Aye, where _is_ Captain Talbot?

JOHN TALBOT. You say--

FENTON (_rising_). We all say it.

JOHN TALBOT. Even thou, Dick?

DRISCOLL. He does not come! Hugh Talbot does not come!

FENTON. He bade us hold the bridge one day. We've held it three days now.

BUTLER. And where is Hugh Talbot with the aid he promised?

JOHN TALBOT. He promised. He has never broken faith. He will bring us aid.

FENTON. Aye, if he be living!

DRISCOLL. Living? You mean that he--Och, he's dead! Hugh Talbot's dead! And we're destroyed! We're destroyed!

NEWCOMBE (_cowering_). The butt of the muskets!

FENTON. God!

(_Deliberately_ BUTLER _lays down his musket._)

JOHN TALBOT. Take up your piece!

BUTLER. Renounce me if I do!

FENTON. I stand with you, Myles Butler. Make terms for us, John Talbot, or, on my soul, we'll make them for ourselves.

JOHN TALBOT. Surrender?

NEWCOMBE. Will Cromwell spare us, an we yield ourselves now? Will he spare us? Will he--

FENTON. 'Tis our one chance.

NEWCOMBE. Give me that white rag!

(_Crosses and snatches a bandage from chimneypiece._)

FENTON (_drawing his ramrod_). Here's a staff!

(_Together FENTON and NEWCOMBE make ready a flag of truce._)

JOHN TALBOT (_struggling with_ BUTLER _and_ DRISCOLL). A black curse on you!

BUTLER. We'll not be butchered like oxen in the shambles!

JOHN TALBOT. Your oaths!

BUTLER. We'll not fight longer to be knocked on the head at the last.

NEWCOMBE. No! No! Not that! Out with the flag, Dick!

FENTON. A light here at the grating!

(NEWCOMBE _turns to take a candle, obedient to_ FENTON'S _order. At that moment, close at hand, a bugle sounds._)

JOHN TALBOT. Hark!

DRISCOLL. The bugle! They're upon us!

BUTLER (_releasing his hold on_ JOHN TALBOT). What was that?

JOHN TALBOT. You swore to hold the bridge.

BUTLER. Swore to hold it one day. We've held it three days now.

FENTON. And the half of us are slain.

NEWCOMBE. And we've no water--and no food!

JOHN TALBOT (_pointing to the powder-keg_). We have powder in plenty.

DRISCOLL. We can't drink powder. Ah, for God's love, be swift, Dick Fenton! Be swift!

JOHN TALBOT. You shall not show that white flag!

(_Starts toward_ FENTON, _hand on sword._)

BUTLER (_pinioning_ JOHN TALBOT). God's death! We shall! Help me here, Phelimy!

JOHN TALBOT. A summons to parley. What see you, Fenton?

FENTON (_at the shot-window_). Torches coming from the boreen, and a white flag beneath them. I can see the faces. (_With a cry_) Look, Jack! A'God's name! Look!

(JOHN TALBOT _springs to the window._)

DRISCOLL. What is it you're seeing?

FENTON. It _is_--

JOHN TALBOT (_turning from the window_). 'Tis Hugh Talbot comes! 'Tis the Captain of the Gate!

BUTLER. With them? A prisoner?

JOHN TALBOT. No, no! No prisoner! He wears his sword.

(BUTLER _snatches up his piece and resumes watch._)

FENTON. Then he'll have made terms with them! Terms!

NEWCOMBE (_embracing_ DRISCOLL). Terms for us! Terms for us!

JOHN TALBOT. I told ye truth. He has come. Hugh Talbot has come.

(_Goes to door._)

HUGH TALBOT (_speaks outside_). Open! I come alone, and in peace. Open unto me!

JOHN TALBOT. Who goes there?

HUGH TALBOT (_outside_). The Captain of the Gate!

(JOHN TALBOT _unbars the door, and bars it again upon the entrance of_ HUGH TALBOT. _The latter comes slowly into the room. He is a man in his late thirties, a tall, martial figure, clad in much-worn velvet and leather, with sword at side. The five salute him as he enters._)

HUGH TALBOT (_halts and for a moment surveys his followers_). Well, lads?

(_The five stand trembling on the edge of a nervous break, unable for the moment to speak._)

NEWCOMBE. We thought--we thought--that you--that you--

(_Breaks into childish sobbing._)

FENTON. What terms will they grant us, sir?

JOHN TALBOT. Sir, we have held the bridge.

HUGH TALBOT. You five--

JOHN TALBOT. Bourke is dead, sir, and Tregarris, and Langdale, and--and James Talbot, my brother.

DRISCOLL. And we've had no water, sir, these many hours.

HUGH TALBOT. So! You're wounded, Phelimy.

DRISCOLL. 'Tis not worth heeding, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. Kit! Kit! (_At the voice_ NEWCOMBE _pulls himself together._) A light here! Dick, you've your pouch under your hand?

FENTON. 'Tis here, sir.

(_Offers his tobacco pouch._)

HUGH TALBOT (_filling his pipe_). Leave the window, Myles! They've promised us a half hour's truce--and Cromwell's a man of his word.

NEWCOMBE (_bringing a lighted candle_). He'll let us pass free now, sir, will he not?

HUGH TALBOT (_lighting his pipe at the candle_). You're not afraid, Kit?

NEWCOMBE. I? Faith, no, sir. No! Not now!

HUGH TALBOT. Sit ye down, Phelimy, lad! You look dead on your feet. Give me to see that arm! (_As_ HUGH TALBOT _starts toward_ DRISCOLL, _his eye falls on the open keg of powder. He draws back hastily, covering his lighted pipe._) Jack Talbot! Who taught ye to leave your powder uncovered, where lighted match was laid?

BUTLER. My blame, sir.

(_Covers the keg._)

JOHN TALBOT. We opened the keg, and then--

FENTON. Truth, we did not cover it again, being somewhat pressed for time.

(_The five laugh, half hysterically._)

HUGH TALBOT (_sitting by fire_). And you never thought, maybe, that in that keg there was powder enough to blow the bridge of Cashala to hell?

JOHN TALBOT. It seemed a matter of small moment, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. Small moment! Powder enough, put case ye set it there, at the stairhead--d'ye follow me?--powder enough to make an end of Cashala Bridge for all time--aye, and of all within the Gatehouse. You never thought on that, eh?

JOHN TALBOT. We had so much to think on, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. I did suspect as much. So I came hither to recall the powder to your minds.

DRISCOLL. We thought--(BUTLER _motions him to be silent._) We thought maybe you would not be coming at all, sir. Maybe you would be dead.

HUGH TALBOT. Well? What an if I had been dead? You had your orders. You did not dream of giving up the Bridge of Cashala--eh, Myles Butler?

BUTLER (_after a moment_). No, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. Nor you, Dick Fenton?

FENTON. Sir, I--No!

HUGH TALBOT (_smoking throughout_). Good lads! The wise heads were saying I was a stark fool to set you here at Cashala. But I said: I can be trusting the young riders that are learning their lessons in war from me. I'll be safe putting my honor into their hands. And I was right, wasn't I, Phelimy Driscoll?

DRISCOLL. Give us the chance, sir, and we'll be holding Cashala, even against the devil himself!

FENTON. Aye, well said!

HUGH TALBOT. Sure,'tis a passing good substitute for the devil sits yonder in Cromwell's tent.

NEWCOMBE (_with a shudder_). Cromwell!

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, he was slaying your brother at Drogheda, Kit, and a fine, gallant lad your brother was. And I'm thinking you're like him, Kit. Else I shouldn't be trusting you here at Cashala.

NEWCOMBE. I--I--Will they let us keep our swords?

HUGH TALBOT. Well, it's with yourselves it lies, whether you'll keep them or not.

FENTON. He means--we mean--on what terms, sir, do we surrender?

HUGH TALBOT. Surrender? Terms?

JOHN TALBOT. We thought, sir, from your coming under their white flag--perhaps you had made terms for us.

HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms?

NEWCOMBE. Captain!

(_At a look from_ HUGH TALBOT _he becomes silent, fighting for self-control._)

HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms that you would hear to? Cashala Bridge is the gate of Connaught.

JOHN TALBOT. Yes.

HUGH TALBOT. Give Cromwell Cashala Bridge, and he'll be on the heels of our women and our little ones. At what price would ye be selling their safety?

DRISCOLL. Cromwell--when he takes us--when he takes us--

NEWCOMBE. He'll knock us on the head!

HUGH TALBOT. Yes. At the last. Your five lives against our people's safety. You'd not give up the bridge?

JOHN TALBOT. Five? Our five? But you--you are the sixth.

FENTON. You stay with us, Captain. And then we'll fight--you'll see how we shall fight.

HUGH TALBOT. I shall be seeing you fight, perhaps, but I cannot stay now at Cashala.

(_Rises._)

DRISCOLL. Ye won't be staying with us?

BUTLER (_laughing harshly_). Now, on my soul! Is this your faith, Hugh Talbot? One liar I've followed, Charles Stuart, the son of a liar, and now a second liar--

JOHN TALBOT (_catching BUTLER'S throat_). A plague choke you!

HUGH TALBOT (_stepping between_ JOHN TALBOT _and_ BUTLER). Ha' done, Jack! Ha' done! What more, Myles Butler?

BUTLER. Tell us whither you go, when you turn your back on us that shall die at Cashala--you that come walking under the rebel flag--that swore to bring us aid--and have not brought it! Tell us whither you go now!

HUGH TALBOT. Well, I'm a shade doubtful, Myles, my lad, though hopeful of the best.

BUTLER. 'Tis to Cromwell you go--you that have made your peace with him--that have sold us--

DRISCOLL. Captain! A' God's name, what is it that you're meaning?

HUGH TALBOT. I mean that you shall hold the Bridge of Cashala--whatever happen to you--whatever happen to me--

FENTON. To you? Captain Talbot!

HUGH TALBOT. I am going unto Cromwell--as you said, Myles. I gave my promise.

DRISCOLL. Your promise?

JOHN TALBOT. We--have been very blind. So--they made you prisoner?

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Jack. When I tried to cut my way through to bring you aid. And they granted me this half hour on my parole to come unto you.

JOHN TALBOT. To come--

HUGH TALBOT. To counsel you to surrender. And I have given you counsel. Hold the bridge! Hold it! Whatever they do!

DRISCOLL. Captain! Captain Talbot! God of Heaven! If you go back--'tis killed you'll be among them!

HUGH TALBOT. A little sooner than you lads? Aye, true!

FENTON. They cannot! Even Cromwell--

HUGH TALBOT. Tut, tut, Dick! It's little ye know of Cromwell.

JOHN TALBOT. Then--you mean--

HUGH TALBOT. An you surrender Cashala, we may all six pass free. An you hold Cashala, they will hang me, here before your eyes.

(DRISCOLL _gives a rattling cry._)

BUTLER. God forgive me!

HUGH TALBOT. You have your orders. Hold the bridge!

(_Turns to door._)

JOHN TALBOT (_barring his way_). No, no! You shan't go forth!

FENTON. God's mercy, no!

HUGH TALBOT. Are you stark crazed?

FENTON. You shall stay with us.

JOHN TALBOT. What's your pledged word to men that know not honor?

HUGH TALBOT. My word. Unbar the door, Jack. Why, lad, we're traveling the same road.

FENTON. God! But we'll give them a good fight at the last. (_Goes to the shot-window._) Take up your musket, Kit.

NEWCOMBB. But I--Captain! When you are gone, I--I--

HUGH TALBOT. I'll not be far. You'll hold the bridge?

JOHN TALBOT. Aye, sir.

BUTLER. We've powder enough--you said it, sir,--laid there at the stairhead, to blow the bridge to hell.

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Myles, you've hit it!

(_Holds out his hand._)

BUTLER. Not yet, sir!

HUGH TALBOT. Hereafter, then. God speed you, lads!

JOHN TALBOT. Speed you, sir! (_All five stand at salute as_ HUGH TALBOT _goes out. In the moment's silence upon his exit_, JOHN TALBOT _bars the door and turns to his comrades._) You have--Hugh Talbot's orders. Take your pieces! Driscoll! Newcombe!

(_Obediently the two join_ FENTON _at windows._) Butler!

BUTLER. Aye! We have Hugh Talbot's orders.

(_Points to powder-keg._)

JOHN TALBOT. Are you meaning--

BUTLER. It's not I will be failing him now!

FENTON (_at window_). God! They waste no time.

JOHN TALBOT. Already--they have dared--

FENTON. Here--this moment--under our very eyes!

DRISCOLL. Christ Jesus!

(_Goes back from the window, with his arm across his eyes, and falls on his knees in headlong prayer._)

JOHN TALBOT. Kit! Kit Newcombe!

(_Motions him to window._)

NEWCOMBE. I cannot! I--

JOHN TALBOT. Look forth! Look! And remember--when you meet them--remember! (NEWCOMBE _stands swaying, clutching at the grating of the window, as he looks forth._) Lads! (_Motions to_ BUTLER _and_ FENTON _to carry the powder to the stairhead._) The time is short. His orders!

(DRISCOLL _raises his head and gazes fixedly toward the centre of the room._)

FENTON. Yonder, at the stairhead.

BUTLER. Aye.

(FENTON _and_ BUTLER _carry the keg to the door._)

NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not that death! No! No!

JOHN TALBOT. Be silent! And look yonder! Driscoll! Fetch the light! Newcombe! Come! You have your places, all.

DRISCOLL. But, Captain! The sixth man--where will the sixth man be standing?

(_There is a blank silence, in which the men look questioningly at_ DRISCOLL'S _rapt face and at one another._)

JOHN TALBOT. Sixth?

FENTON. What sixth?

DRISCOLL. The blind eyes of ye! Yonder!

(_Comes to the salute, even as, a few moments before, he has saluted_ HUGH TALBOT, _living._

NEWCOMBE _gives a smothered cry, as one who half sees, and takes courage._ FENTON _dazedly starts to salute. Outside a bugle sounds, and a voice, almost at the door, is heard to speak._)

VOICE OUTSIDE. For the last time: will you surrender you?

JOHN TALBOT (_in a loud and confident voice_). No! Not while our commander stands with us!

VOICE OUTSIDE. And who might your commander be?

JOHN TALBOT. Hugh Talbot, the Captain of the Gate! The light here, Phelimy.

(JOHN TALBOT _bends to set the candle to the powder that shall destroy Cashala Gatehouse, and all within it. His mates are gathered round him, with steady, bright faces, for in the little space left vacant in their midst they know in that minute that_ HUGH TALBOT _stands._)

[CURTAIN]

GETTYSBURG[1]

Percy MacKaye

SCENE: A woodshed, in the ell of a farm-house.

The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the apertures being slightly arched at the top. (_In bad weather, these presumably may be closed by big double doors, which stand open now--swung back outward beyond sight._) Thus the nearer opening is the proscenium arch of the scene, under which the spectator looks through the shed to the background--a grassy yard, a road with great trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a green hillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large beams.

On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from the house kitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed into the barn. In the foreground, against the right wall, is a work-bench. On this are tools, a long, narrow, wooden box, and a small oil-stove, with steaming kettle upon it.

Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply is stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stovewood and kindlings mixed with small chips of the floor, which is piled deep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust.

Not far from this mounded pile, at right centre of the scene, stands a wooden armchair, in which LINK TADBOURNE, in his shirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted by the sunlight beyond, his sharp-drawn profile is that of an old man, with white hair cropped close, and gray moustache of a faded black hue at the outer edges. Between his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittled round by the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in his lap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden yoke and collar. Near him is a chopping-block.

In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the hum and floating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the old man murmurs in his sleep, clenching his hand. Slowly the hand relaxes again.

From the door, right, comes POLLY--a sweet-faced girl of seventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is dressed simply. In one hand she carries a man's wide-brimmed felt hat, over the other arm a blue coat. These she brings toward LINK. Seeing him asleep, she begins to tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on the chopping-block, goes to the bench, and trims the wick of the oil-stove, under the kettle. Then she returns and stands near LINK, surveying the shed.

On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a certain order in its chaos; some of the splittings have been piled in irregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of wood-dust and chips has been scooped, and the little mounds slope and rise like miniature valleys and hills. [2]

Taking up a hoe, POLLY--with careful steps--moves among the hollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, scraping and smoothing the little mounds with the hoe. As she does so, from far away, a bugle sounds.

[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1912, by Percy Mackaye. All rights reserved.]

[Footnote 2: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field annexed to the volume by Captain R.K. Beecham, entitled _Gettysburg_ (A.C. McClurg, 1911).]

LINK
(_snapping his eyes wide open, sits up_)

Hello! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly?

POLLY
Just
A kitten-nap, I guess.

(_Laying the hoe down, she approaches_)

The yoke done?

LINK
(_giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong_)