Chapter X: Act III (1)

SCENE: _The same room--if possible dingier than ever._ JEMIMA _is sitting hunched up by the fire, which is enveloping her in a yellow cloud_. BLOGGS _is pushed into the room by a hard-faced man_.

THE HARD-FACED MAN (_grimly_): I’ve brought you back your husband, ma’am. You may as well know he’s discharged from my employment.

JEMIMA (_tonelessly_): Oh?

THE H.F.M.: And lucky he’s not prosecuted.

JEMIMA (_as before_): Oh?

THE H.F.M.: Embezzlement’s a serious thing.

JEMIMA: Yes.... Starvation’s serious too.

THE H.F.M.: That’s your affair.... I don’t want thanks. I don’t intend to prosecute, because it’s a nuisance. That’s all.

JEMIMA: Yes.

BLOGGS (_inadvertently stepping out of the picture_): I tell you I did it to save my little girl. She’s dying. I must have money to save her--to send her abroad. Oh, Amy, Amy, my child. (_He tries in vain to sob._)

THE H.F.M. (_chillingly_): No sentiment, please! This is not the Lyceum.... Now, I’m going. I hope I never see either of you again. I don’t care two straws whether the girl dies or not. And I won’t wish you luck, because I don’t specially want you to have it, and anyway you wouldn’t get it. (_But they are paying no attention, and he goes._)

JEMIMA (_listlessly_): Doctor’s been again.

BLOGGS (_the same_): Oh yes?

JEMIMA: Says she’s getting better.

BLOGGS: Is she? (_He sits by the fire in his hat and coat. The inevitable_ HOOKER _slouches in, similarly clad, and takes his place on the other side. A melancholy silence reigns._)

HOOKER (_at last_): It’s raining again.

JEMIMA (_bringing in the milk-jug_): The thunder’s turned the milk sour.

BLOGGS (_dismally_): I thought it would.

HOOKER (_shivering, and hugging himself in his coat_): There’s a thick fog, and it’s very damp.

BLOGGS (_gloomily_): There always is.

HOOKER: Yes. (_The fire contributes to the general depression by a shower of soot, and a sudden belch of acrid yellow fumes._)

BLOGGS: Jemima, the fire’s smoking.

JEMIMA (_wearily_): I’ll make it up in a minute. (_She worries it with various implements. More soot falls and the smoke increases. She stirs it aimlessly with the poker. It flickers and goes out for the last time. They, and the audience, are too depressed to care. They sit staring blankly at the grate as the cold and fog gradually invade the room._)

THE CURTAIN FALLS VERY SLOWLY.

UNDER EASTERN SKIES

(_A Romantic Drama suitable for performance at His Majesty’s Theatre_.)

FIRST SCENE.--_A street in Damascus, copied, with meticulous exactitude, from the Byway of Beggars in that famous city. Even the smells are there--thanks to an ingenious contrivance of concealed sprays, by means of which the appropriate odour is insinuated into the nostrils of the audience._

_A party of camels, an elephant and a couple of giraffes, are loitering about in the charge of officials from the Zoological Gardens disguised as Bedouin Sheiks._ ALI BABA, SINBAD THE SAILOR, SHIBLI BAGARAG, _and other familiar Eastern figures are exchanging hoarse Oriental salutations from their houses and shops. Goats, sheep, goatwomen, shepherds, etc., complete the picture._

ALI BABA (_in a wailing shriek_): Inshallah, wullahy, eywallah.

SHIBLI BAGARAG (_lamenting_): Eywah! Traadisveribadahii! (_He beats his breast_).

A PASSER-BY (_indignantly addressing a stolid camel-driver_): Bismillah, O Son of my Uncle, have thy camels, on whom be peace, acquired a _firman_ investing in them the sole use of this highway?

THE OUTRAGED CAMEL-DRIVER (_forgetting his part and falling back on the language of Regent’s Park_): ’Ere. Look ’ere----

ANOTHER PASSER-BY (_hastily interrupting, and turning upon the first with contumely_): Hence, brother of a baboon. Mock not dumb beasts, as it is written.

A GOAT: M-a-a-a-a.

A GOATWOMAN: Aie, little one, muzzle thy tongue ... (_resuming her conversation_). In sooth, O my father, as thou dost say----

THE GOAT (_rebelliously_): M-a-a-a-a-a.

THE GOATWOMAN: Arree, be silent, child of misfortune, or thou shalt see the inside of a stewpan. (_The goat thinks better of it._)

THE HAJJI OSKARASHI BEN DAOUD BEN ISMAIL (_a holy and very dirty man of enormous size, sinister appearance and awe-inspiring voice, appearing from a hovel_): Alms. Alms for the love of Allah. (_People give him money. He takes it nonchalantly and without thanks._) Alms in the name of the Compassionate. (_He moves majestically on, until he meets a disreputable-looking being who has just emerged from a side street. Aside to this apparition._) Is all arranged?

HIS CONFEDERATE (_in a low tone_): Ya, holy one. (_At the top of his voice in order to deceive everyone except the audience._) Nay, I have nothing for thee, thou evil-smelling and consummate old humbug.

OSKARASHI (_whining_): Deny not of thy plenty, O gracious benefactor, as it is written. (_Aside_) What is the signal?

HIS CONFEDERATE (_giving money with bad grace_): Veialeikum a-salaam, O holy one. (_Aside_) Three raps on the outer postern gate: and then----

OSKARASHI (_showing his teeth in a terrible smile_): And then--blood and much booty (_passing on_). Alms in the name of Allah.

THE GOAT (_unable to contain itself_): M-a-a-a-a-a!

THE CAMELS AND GIRAFFES: M-o-o-o-o-o!

THE ELEPHANT--_But no, we cannot describe the cry of the elephant._

A MUEZZIN (_appearing on his minaret_): La Allah il Allah (_a bell tolls. The faithful prostrate themselves towards the East_).

SECOND SCENE.--_Bagdad. The harem of Oskarashi ben Daoud, etc. We deduce either that alms-seeking in the East is a highly lucrative profession, or else that the “much booty,” referred to in the first scene, proved even more abundant than was expected. The harem is an enormous apartment, about the size of the Albert Hall, with a swimming pool fed by a golden fountain in the centre, and rows of marble colonnades receding in all directions into an apparently illimitable distance. A vast concourse of beautiful and, despite their biscuit-coloured complexions, unmistakably European young women, languish on cushions of every variety of texture and colouring._

_A pair of acrobats, a jazz band of strange instruments, and some kind of Oriental glee party are giving a simultaneous performance. Some withered crones with birches are chastising certain recalcitrant wives in a corner. Our friends the camels, giraffes and elephants have been replaced by a party of leopards, duck-billed platypuses, anthropoid apes, okapis and tapirs._ OSKARASHI _himself, comatose after an enormous Eastern supper, is keeping awake with difficulty, propped up against a mound of cushions piled on a huge divan. Entwined around him, serpent-wise, is Zobeide el Okra, the Bulbul of the harem._

THE GLEE PARTY (_bursting into the well-known Eastern ditty_):

We sit and gobble with chopsticks and spoon
From the midnight hour to the stroke of noon,
Gobble at work and----

OSKARASHI: Enough. Let them be dispatched. (_Black slaves hurl them into the Tigris, which obligingly flows near by._) Let the feast proceed. (_An obsequious conjurer appears; nobody, however, pays any attention, except the junior members of the audience, who are properly fascinated._)

ONE OF THE ACROBATS (_drawing aside his disguise and revealing himself as the terrible_ ASWARAK--_whom we forgot to mention in Scene I, but who plays an important part in the proceedings. He addresses one of the attendants, who draws aside his disguise and reveals the features of the dreaded_ BOO BOO): All is ready?

BOO BOO (_grimly_): Ya Aswarak. Allah hath favoured us. Every door is stopped and the black guards have received their price.

ASWARAK: It is well.... Remember she is to be mine.

BOO BOO: Whom--I mean who?

ASWARAK (_rapturously_): The Bulbul of the night, the reward of the favoured of Islam.

BOO BOO: Have a care, Holy One, we may be overheard.

ASWARAK: And the signal?

BOO BOO: Thy song. (_The conjurer concludes his entertainment._)

ASWARAK: I will now sing.

EVERYONE: Oh, Allah, must this be?

OSKARASHI (_grimly_): Let him sing. Guards be at hand to do my bidding.

ASWARAK (_aside_): Thy last bidding in this world, O corpulent Father of Obscenity. (_Aloud_) As thou sayest, O Protector of the Poor. (_He takes his lute and sings, gazing ardently--almost too ardently--at Zobeide_):

Ah, when the sun
Gives up the ghost;
And lovers run,
With ardent boast,

To woo the one
Each fancies most--
The stars arise
Behind thine eyes
O Bulbul.

ALL: O Bul-bul-bul.

ASWARAK: And I thy sighs
Apostrophize
O Bulbul.

ALL: O Bul-bul-bul--

OSKARASHI (_who has no intention of allowing this kind of thing to go on_): Enough! Well sung, Minstrel. (_Darkly_) Thy reward?

ASWARAK (_throwing off his disguise_): Thy head, Father of Abomination. (_Tumult. He draws a sword and rushes at the divan. The wives scuttle wailing, pursued by the guards, who pour into the chamber. Everyone runs shouting after someone else._ OSKARASHI _strikes his assailants into a heap, and hurls himself roaring into the Tigris. The curtain falls upon a writhing mass of humanity._)

THIRD SCENE.--_The action has for some reason shifted to China--probably in order that Mr. Gloomy Bishop, the celebrated producer, may be enabled to show the London public what he is really capable of, when he cares to extend himself. The stage, therefore, is a blaze of red lacquer and Chinese Lanterns, supplemented by pagodas, palanquins and pigtails. A forbidding archway of crumbling masonry--flanked on either side by a barbaric figure armed with crossbow, javelin, long horsehair moustache and a hideous expression of brutality, indicates that the action is about to continue at the Gateway of the Lotus--a bypath in Old Pekin._ OSKARASHI, _the Venerable Hajji, has lain here in honourable concealment ever since his escape in the Tigris. But ah! his hiding place has been discovered. This is made apparent by the highly suspicious conduct of two strolling passers-by, whose physical characteristics appear to correspond more or less accurately with those of_ ASWARAK _and the odious_ BOO BOO.

FIRST STROLLER (_accosting the other with all the honeyed courtesy of the Celestial Empire_): Honourable Dweller in a foreign land, deign to accept of my accursed superfluity. (_Gives money and continues in an undertone_) The detested of Islam has been discovered.

SECOND STROLLER (_performing the ceremonies, observances and obeisances prescribed in the canons of Celestial etiquette_): May the shadow of this undeserving one diminish and disappear, if he should unworthily be found wanting in gratitude to your honourable and beatific and excellent self. (_Pouches the coins and continues also in an undertone_) Where, O Father of Procrastination?

FIRST STROLLER: As Confucius justly remarks, charity--(_dropping his voice_). In a certain hovel in the back street beyond the wall, he conceals himself, plying the disreputable calling--may his porkers perish--of a seller of swine’s flesh--the curse of the prophet’s beard be upon him. Everything is arranged. To-night we surround the house: rush in at the appointed hour: and nail him to the counter in the midst of his abominable merchandise. Bismillah.

SECOND STROLLER (_fiercely_): Inshallah! (_Louder_) The honourable greeting of your illustrious Excellency has brought sunshine and hope into the miserable existence of this one.

FIRST STROLLER: Your honourable praise is sweeter in the ears of this obsequious rubbish-heap, than the music of the Celestial stars. Peace be with you.

_They depart. A bundle of rags and blankets in a neighbouring corner suddenly comes to life, and reveals the familiar lineaments of Oskarashi, as he slinks away, like an enormous anthropoid ape, to his hovel in the back street beyond the wall._

FOURTH SCENE.--_We now find ourselves at night in an even more ancient and dilapidated part of the city--the neighbourhood of the hovel in the back street, beyond the wall. A number of American tourists, shepherded by an unsightly and bespectacled Baboo from the local Cook’s office, are making a tour of these rather unsavoury precincts, before embarking to join the P. and O. steamer at Hong Kong. Lurking in the background are_ ASWARAK, BOO BOO AND CO., with an arsenal of weapons, closing in upon their enemy.

THE BABOO (_addressing his audience collectively_): And--here--we--have--a--typical--example--of--the--ar--chitecture--of old--Pekin--dating--to--a--time--co--eval--with--Ginghis Khan--in--my--country.

A TOURIST: My, Sally. Look at here! (_To the guide_) Say, cutey, what you callum this? (_She points to a procession forming up among the houses._)

THE BABOO: This--is--a very--fortunate--circumstance. Ladies--and--gentlemen--we--are--about--to--witness--a--Manchu--funeral.

ANOTHER TOURIST: Some guy pegged out, I guess.

THE BABOO: We must--withdraw--to--one--side. (_They do so._)

ASWARAK (_or_ BOO BOO): A thousand curses. We must delay the assault until this pig of an unbeliever has been taken away. (_They confer._)

_The procession advances, headed by the Mourners, who are singing a terrible wailing melody. As they approach the words become audible._

THE MOURNERS (_dolefully_):

Honourable mandarin gone west,
Welly sick belly and pain in chest,
Silly fellow leave off winter vest,
No can facee breeze.
First catchee chicken-pox, then get croup,
Double pneumonia, and off he poop:
Chop-suey, Laichee, Birds-nest-soup,
That’s good stage Chinese.

(_They go out with their melancholy burden._)

THE BABOO: We--will--now--return--in time--for--the--especial--dance--for--ladies--and gentlemen--at--the--Nautical--Club. (_He takes his tribe away._)

(_The stage darkens._ ASWARAK AND CO. _begin to emerge stealthily from their hiding place. Red limelight illumines the stage. Weird music. They rush into the hovel. Reappear raving like Bedlamites._ OSKARASHI _has escaped. They realise that he was in the coffin of the Manchu funeral. In the thick of the hubbub, the voices of the returning mourners are heard._)

THE MOURNERS (_returning_):

Chinky Chinky Chip Chip Choop,
And any damn rot you please,
Chop-suey, Laichee, Birds-nest-soup
Welly good stage Chinese.

ASWARAK (_foaming at the mouth_): Halt, evil-tongued progeny of obscene mothers!

THE MOURNERS (_tearing off their disguises_): What? Offal-eating scum of the bazaar! (_They fall on each other. The curtain falls on the familiar spectacle of writhing humanity._)

The last scene we are not sure about. It depends largely on the temperamental judgment of Mr. Gloomy Bishop. It was originally planned to be the courtyard of the Dalai Lamasery of Thibet. Mr. Bishop, however, leans in favour of a Patagonian village or alternatively a street scene in Tristan d’Acunha. He thinks the latter might enable him to introduce a talking penguin as a counterweight to Mr. Charles Cochran’s singing duck. And he is not absolutely certain that he wouldn’t like a Honolulu surf scene, or perhaps a salt mining camp on the Gulf of Carpentaria. Mr. Bishop is not sure; and he must have time to think it over.

Things, therefore, are held up until the producer and author can come to an agreement. But on one thing the author is adamant. Oskarashi has got to come to a sticky end. The author absolutely refuses to allow the fellow to be perpetuated in another play.

THE VODKA BOTTLE

(_A Play of Russian Life in the manner of Anton Tchekov._)

_The study of Ivan Ivanovitch Bougárov, a wealthy landowner. Bougárov is alone at the desk. A vodka bottle and a measuring glass are at his elbow._

BOUGÁROV (_sniffing the glass_): It’s strong enough, I think.... Brr, what a filthy stench!... Where are the directions? (_He gropes for a piece of paper._) Here they are. Sprinkle it on toasted cheese, and leave it lying about in the vicinity of their holes. (_Examining the bottle._) That ought to be sufficient for all the rats in Little Russia as the saying is. (_Enter_ STEPAN STEPANOVITCH RUMBUNKSKI.)

RUMBUNKSKI: Good morning, honoured Ivan Ivanovitch.

BOUGÁROV: Little Fathers, Stepan Stepanovitch, how you startled me.

RUMBUNKSKI: Your nerves are upset, my darling. You must give up the vodka, and all that.

BOUGÁROV: But my dear little Stepan Stepanovitch, you are wrong; because you see, my dearest little Stepan Stepanovitch, I don’t drink vodka now, and so it can’t be vodka.

RUMBUNKSKI: Don’t drink vodka?

BOUGÁROV: No, my precious, I don’t drink it any more; so you see you must be wrong, my little woodchuck.

RUMBUNKSKI: But, Ivan Ivanovitch, my dear fellow, don’t try to stuff my head, as the French say. You must drink vodka, because there’s a bottle and glass on the table before you. I don’t say you drink to excess, my dearest little love-bird, but you must drink it sometimes--or you wouldn’t have it always on the table in front of you, and so on.

BOUGÁROV: Stepan Stepanovitch, be careful how you contradict me, because I can’t stand it, my dear little flying-fish, and that’s a fact. You ought to know better than to come into a brother landowner’s house and accuse him of drunkenness to his face. It’s mean; it’s beastly; it’s not worthy of you, my little alligator.

RUMBUNKSKI: I didn’t accuse you of anything of the kind. I only said----

BOUGÁROV: Well, well, you withdraw. That’s all right. We’ll say no more about it.

RUMBUNKSKI: But excuse me, my dear Ivan Ivanovitch, I don’t withdraw, because I have said nothing that calls for withdrawal. I didn’t make any beastly accusation and all that. All I said----

BOUGÁROV: Oh, little God Almighty, won’t you stop talking! I can’t stand it, I tell you. My head’s bursting, and I’ve got a terrible pain in my shoulder blades. And both my ears are burning.

RUMBUNKSKI: All I said was that vodka didn’t agree with you, and you know it doesn’t. Why everyone knows perfectly well that one night, at Roobikov’s, you----

BOUGÁROV: Excuse me, Stepan Stepanovitch, but you’d better go. Yes, you had better go. I might do you a mischief, and so on; and I shall be sorry afterwards. That night at Roobikov’s, let me tell you, you were in a disgusting state yourself, and unfit to pass an opinion on anybody.

RUMBUNKSKI: That’s a lie, Ivan Ivanovitch: you were always a liar and an intriguer. And as for doing me a mischief, come and try, that’s all!

BOUGÁROV: Oh, little Mothers, help me to be patient. You’re a skunk and a coward, Stepan Stepanovitch. A skunk. You know you’re safe in threatening me, because I’m on my last legs with disease, and dying out, and all that, and so you think you can insult me with impunity. But when Dmitri Dmitriov thrashed you with a cane----

RUMBUNKSKI: What’s this? What’s this lie about Dmitri Dmitriov. Oh, Little Uncles and Aunts, this is a bit too much!

BOUGÁROV: Yes. Dmitri Dmitriov thrashed you, didn’t he? And you ran squealing about the room, trying to hide under the furniture----

RUMBUNKSKI: Ivan Ivanovitch, how can you tell such falsehoods? I was wounded at the time and couldn’t put up a fight. But I settled him afterwards.

BOUGÁROV: Yes. By having him waylaid and thrashed by Yats, the blacksmith.

RUMBUNKSKI: Ivan Ivanovitch, you impugn my honour. You insult me. If you weren’t an old infirm vodka drunkard I’d smash you into a jelly. I’d stamp on your face. But please don’t imagine I shall marry your daughter now. I say, please don’t. That’s finished. You don’t marry into a family that insults you. No. Never.

BOUGÁROV: Now, my dear Stepan Stepanovitch, do be reasonable. Anything harsh that I may have said you brought on yourself, my darling. You shouldn’t have begun about the vodka, my dearest little duck-billed platypus.

RUMBUNKSKI: So I’m a coward, am I? Just wait. I’ll get my breath, and then you’ll see.... I’m sick. I must have a drink. (_Seizes the vodka bottle._)

BOUGÁROV (_trying to take it away_): Not that, my dear fellow. Give it back, I implore you.

RUMBUNKSKI: I must have a drink, I tell you... I’m seeing stars ... bats are flying round my head ... I’m falling--(_drinks from the bottle_). T’shoo! Pfui!! What disgusting liquor.

BOUGÁROV (_protesting_): It isn’t liquor at all, honoured Stepan Stepanovitch. It’s poison, my dearest little frog. I told you it wasn’t vodka, and you wouldn’t believe me.

RUMBUNKSKI (_in wild horror_): Poison. Where’s an emetic?... I can’t see.... My head’s going to burst.... Now my heart’s come to pieces. My nose is twitching. Both my eyes are falling out. Ah--h----(_falls into a chair sobbing hysterically_).

BOUGÁROV (_yelling_): He’s poisoned. I’m a rat-catcher ... we’re all murderers.... Little Fathers, have pity! (_Enter_ IRENA IVANOVNA, _Bougárov’s daughter_.) There. Your husband to be. I’ve murdered him. Lock me up. Suffocate yourself. Tickle his throat. Give him mustard and water. A drink. I’m fainting. Quick. (_She gives him the glass from the desk. He drains it._) Pouagh! Now I’m poisoned too.... My ears have gone to sleep.... All my teeth are aching. I’m agony all over (_collapses on the sofa screaming_).

IRENA IVANOVNA (_wildly_): Vodka--Champagne--Mustard and Water. (_She plies them with assorted liquors, which they drink gratefully. They are shaken by internal tempests. They recover slowly._)

BOUGÁROV (_faintly_): Give thanks to Irena Ivanovna, my dear Stepan Stepanovitch. Without the presence of mind of your wife-to-be you’d be a dead man, my little angel-elect.

RUMBUNKSKI (_feebly_): I say no. I’ve told you I won’t marry her. Impugn my honour and all that. A thousand times no.

IRENA (_tenderly_): Nobody’s impugned your honour, illustrious Stepan Stepanovitch. Your mind is affected by the poison, my little darling.

RUMBUNKSKI: No. He did (_indicates_ BOUGÁROV). He accuses me of waylaying Dmitri Dmitriov. Not that he has any right to talk after what was done to Andrey Andreyvitch.

BOUGÁROV (_as violently as he is able_): Now I give you one chance, Stepan Stepanovitch. Either stop these insinuations or leave my house. Yes. I’m sick of you. Yes. I’ve had enough. Enough, I say.

RUMBUNKSKI (_staggering_): I’ll go. Yes. I’d better go. I’m fainting with pain, and I’ve such a bilious attack I can hardly move without nausea; but I’d sooner suffer any torments than put up with false friends.

IRENA: False friends? Take care what you say, Stepan Stepanovitch. When you talk about false friends remember how you betrayed Nicolai Nicolaivitch at Moscow, and so on. Think of the Cheka and all that, before you talk of disloyalty, my little wood pigeon.

BOUGÁROV (_sneering_): And remember that even if I am a dying man with heart disease and paralysis, I’ve got people in my house who are good enough to settle the hash of a lame hen like you, honoured Stepan Stepanovitch Rumbunkski.

RUMBUNKSKI: Ah, you threaten, do you? Wait a bit.... Ah, Little Fathers, this poison. I’m dead again. (_He falls over sideways._)

IRENA IVANOVNA (_screaming at_ BOUGÁROV): He’s dead. Unnatural father. Murderer.

BOUGÁROV (_at the top of his voice_): Don’t yell like that. You inflict me with the most acute palpitations.... I can’t see.... I’m a dead man. (_He sinks back in his chair._)

IRENA IVANOVNA: Little Fathers and Mothers!... I must escape. (_She drains the vodka bottle and falls prostrate. They all lie motionless. You think they are dead; but they are not. Just as the light is failing they come to life one by one and resume their dispute. The fall of the curtain and the end of the play leave nothing decided._)

KING DAVID I

(_An Historical Drama in the manner sometimes attributed to the Lord Verulam._)

SCENE: _The Welsh Hills near Criccieth. A vast concourse of people, Druids and Burghers among them. Flourish of trumpets. Enter_ KING DAVID, _attended by_ ALFRED, KNIGHT OF SWANSEA, _and_ RIDDELL OF WALTON HEATH.

THE KNIGHT OF SWANSEA: Gif me your attentions, I pray you, and mark vell dese vorts. Ve Velshman haf great traditions. Ve are proud and ancient peoples. Some tink perhaps ve shows too much ze pride of race, yes? Ze fierce Celtic patriotism? But ve are chustly proud to tink ourself descendant of Cadvallader, cradle of Tudors, and fine stocks of Owen Clendower, look you--Mark den vat vorts our leader shall tell you and observe dese rulings. (_He withdraws a pace._)

FIRST DRUID:

Methinks his words, though seasoned with good sense
And aptly illustrative of our merits,
Bewray a foreign origin.

SECOND DRUID:

Why, sir,
The man’s as good a Welshman as e’er breathed!
His pedigree I’ll tell you in brief space,
Identifying in so many words
Wales with the lost ten tribes of Israel.
Moses begat----

A HERALD: Peace Ho! Have silence there.

VOICES FROM THE CROWD: Silence for David.

OTHER VOICES: Peace for the Man of Wales.

RIDDELL (_aside_):

Mark, Swansea, how impregnable he looks,
Like some proud eagle, weary of scouring the skies,
That pauses on a lofty pinnacle
Refashioning his pinions, whetting his beak
Ready to swoop again.

KING DAVID:

Good countrymen,
And ye, my immemorial Cymric Hills,
I came among ye in my indecision
To steel myself anew.
Good countrymen,
I have well pondered here in Criccieth
And now have made resolve, in which I’ll pray
A moment hence for your support; but first
’Tis meet I should explain.
Ye well do know
How lately has arisen from the ranks
A party sutler, subtle enough it seems,
Older than I, yet Younger by God’s grace,
Who seeks to take direction by the throat,
Sow discord where was harmony before,
Bring ruin on the Coalition, bind
Our fortunes, mine and yours, to Torydom,
Vex all my policies, overthrow my plans,
And make of our political affairs
The kind of stew the French call _bouillabaisse_.

THE CROWD (_murmuring_): We’ll have none of that. None of that. We’ll rise and storm their strongholds. We’ll burn down their castles to the ground.

KING DAVID:

Peace, peace, my friends, and hear me out.
They say
(Insolent curs), these Younger statesmen say,
They’d have my leadership because they know,
Perchance, that I have prowess in the field.
But in the Council Chamber I’ll be nought,
A thing, a cipher, ordered here and there....
What? Shall we now on Unionists depend?
Sue them for favours, fawn on them for smiles?
Eat from the dish of infamy the food
They’d grudge to give had they the giving of it?
Not in these trousers, sirs!

DRUIDS:

Nay, never! Never!
He’s been despitefully and most vilely used.

KING DAVID:

Must I go on and watch complacently
The fairest promise turned to rottenness
By bigots--dull, reactionary fools?
Why, I could form a better Government
(With Riddell’s and my faithful Swansea’s help)
Of certain Davieses and sundry Jones,
Llewellyns a few, an Evans here and there,
A sprinkle of the goodly Williams blood;
And not a Chamberlain among the lot
To dull our spirits with his laggard’s breath.

THE DAVIESES (_talking among themselves_): There’s much in this.

THE WILLIAMSES: Most true and notable.

THE EVANSES: Not to be lightly put aside, look you.

A DRUID: Peace, he begins again.

KING DAVID:

My noble friends,
This, then, the resolution I have formed.
I’ll back to Westminster and beard them there
And put this Younger’s power to the test.
If, as I think, he fall before my lance,
Why, we’ll admit them to some sort of quarter;
But if, as may be, they resist my terms,
Then to the hustings with our banners high,
Our hopes and hearts and courage higher still;
And I, and doughty Riddell, and wise Mond,
Fisher and Greenwood, Churchill and Monro,
And all these gallant gentlemen of ours,
Will armour up and lead our forces out
’Gainst Bonar and his liver-hearted crew
Of purse-proud commoners and needy peers,
And bear them down and roll them in the dust.
Heads shall fall right and left, Curzon’s and Chamberlain’s,
Amery’s, Baldwin’s. We’ll have Ormsby’s gore,
Young F. E.’s Birken-head and Carson’s scowl,
Old Devonshire’s yawning mask, and Derby’s jowl;
And Younger on a dung heap shall be thrown
That day when David comes into his own.

ALL: Away. Away. We’ll to the fray, amain;
And see Welsh David cleanse the land again.

(_Sound a flourish._ EXEUNT.)

THE SLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD

(_A Play in the Irish Manner._)

SCENE I.--_A hovel by the sea at Ballycottin, near Queenstown. Eamon, in squalid garments and in an appropriate attitude of misery, is crouched over the fire. Seamus Smitha is distilling poteen by the door. Peadar Roabensôn and the Men of Gunn (a war-like clan) are lurking in the background. Caitilin ni Houlihan, Bridgeen Dick, and the Widow Markiewicz are watching Eamon with speechless devotion. The door is flung open and Sean de Browna bursts in._

SEAN: Where’s himself?

SEAMUS: Taking a bit of sleep, maybe, if he’s able--God help him!

SEAN (_exultantly_): There’s fine doings on the sands this night, with great ships boarded and sunk and the lads making grand talk. Rifles and cannon we’ve taken, and munitions would be enough for a great war.

THE MEN OF GUNN (_murmuring appreciatively_): Bully for you, Kid!

PEADAR: It’s himself will bless these tidings. (_Addressing Eamon with conspicuous timidity_): Mister, honey, he’s after saying they’ve sunk the British Navy, and captured all the munitions in the western world.

EAMON: The blessing of Gunn upon those words! (_Dropping his voice_): I say, what d’you imagine they’ve really got?

PEADAR (_dropping his_): Oh, I don’t know--a few dozen rifles, I suppose, and a couple of boxes of S.A.A. One has to exaggerate a bit in an Irish drama.

(_Enter Boûgus, claimant to the throne of Ulster, followed by Naisi and Narsti, the sons of Gunn._)

BOÛGUS (_in bloodthirsty tones_): It’s taking the arms up to the caves they are, till all’s ready to strike the blow; and it’s fine gory heads there’ll be, and great masses of dead bodies that day in the six counties, and throughout the land, so you’ll not avoid to tread on the white upturned faces of the dead, they lying so thick. And I’ll be king that day in Ulster, and the black Orangemen destroyed and vanquished.

THE MEN OF GUNN (_with appreciation_): Sa-ay, kid, that’s talking.

EAMON: Let you go down now, Boûgus, with Naisi and Narsti and the men of Gunn; for I’ve word that Cosgrave, or perhaps Mulcahy, do be coming to Castlebar or maybe Dundalk, and it’s there he must be sent away with scorn and laughter, and maybe a leaden bullet or two.

THE MEN OF GUNN (_springing to their feet_): Easy money. Get right after it, boys.

BOÛGUS (_bursting into song_): Oh, Alannah, Acushla, Asthore, Macree, Honomandhiaul!!! (_He dashes out at the head of the party. Eamon wraps himself complacently in his rags and nods over the fire. The women continue to regard him with speechless devotion._)

SCENE II.--_A hovel by the sea at Ballyruff. The roar of breakers almost drowns the voices of the speakers. Enter Seamus Smitha and Peadar hurriedly_.

SEAMUS: Where’s himself?

SEAN: Asleep, God help him, and dreaming of Caitilin ni Houlihan, the creature, and her wedded to him in these coming days.

PEADAR (_roughly_): It’s her he can put from his mind then, for she’s up there on the hillside with Cosgrave and Mulcahy, and James Craig, and they going on together with dancing and merriment, the way would surprise the stags for leppin’; and her that let on to be a decent woman would marry a holy man.

BRIDGEEN DICK (_sharply_): Let yourself be holding your tongue now, Peadar Roabensôn, with your great noises to waken the seven sleepers, and he not stretched in his bed a dozen hours to be resting after his great labours.

BOÛGUS (_rushing in, followed by Naisi and Narsti_): It’s destroyed we are, entirely.

EAMON (_sitting up suddenly_): I beg your pardon? Did you say destroyed?

BOÛGUS: Aye, destroyed.... She’s turned against us, and joined the hands of Cosgrave and James in friendship--as Deirdre, in the days of old, did try with Conchubor and the sons of Usna.

EAMON (_in an undertone, to one of his personal retinue_): My God, what are we to do now?

THE OTHER (_whispering_): You must make a speech in Gaelic.

EAMON (_also whispering_): I can’t. I’ve left the book at the Mansion House.

THE OTHER: Well, you must think of something appropriate in English, then.

BOÛGUS (_keening_): Oh, whirra, whirra, Ochone, Ochone. (_They all burst into tears._)

EAMON (_as one pronouncing a curse_): If the sun could have darkened to hide her shame, and the waters of the great ocean given themselves to wash away her faithlessness, it’s a strange, black, arid world we’d be living in this day. O’Connell, Parnell, Redmond, she’s broken the heart in all of them; and now it’s mine she’s broken, too; and it’s not Cosgrave and James that she’ll spare in the days to come.--I will go out with the Men of Gunn....

SCENE III.--_A hovel by the sea among the Balmy Stones of Claptrapatrick, near Ballyidiocee. Enter_ SEAMUS _as usual_.

SEAMUS: Where’s himself?

SEAN: Musha avick, how many more times will I be telling you in this play that he’s asleep, God help him, the holy man, and maybe dreaming, if he’s able, of the grand goings on there’ll be when they’re after making him Pope and King of all the world, and he a scraggy, thin, weakly man would put you in mind of an old hen, or maybe a worn-out jackass to be taken from the shafts and turned away among the roots and grasses to die.

PEADAR: Sure, I’m thinking that’s not what he’d be dreaming at all, but the great joy of making combats and running here and there in high spirits, with the Men of Gunn around him.

EAMON (_mournfully_): The heart’s broke in me, Seamus Smitha, for it’s all put aside and finished now, and there’s no more doings I can contrive; and there’s nothing left but to go back, the way we came, among the Bohunks and Dagoes, and die in a little dirty state in the hind end of America.

THE WIDOW MARKIEWICZ (_scornfully_): And isn’t there land called England over across a dirty bit of water would hardly wet your boots to cross it; where do be fine houses, and gold ornaments, and a stupid uncomplaining people to govern, and a crazy Parliament over it all is calling for ever on the Mother of God to send an alternative Government?

THE MEN OF GUNN: Gee whiz!!

THE WIDOW: How do you say, Eamon! Will you take this country and people and make a new Ireland there; and be leaving the North and the South to slit the throats on each other?

EAMON (_in a great voice_): I’ll do it, so.... And won’t it be the fine adventure to hold it over the heads of Cosgrave and Mulcahy, when I’m sitting in the seat of Lloyd George with the Kings and Emperors and Presidents of the world around under my feet, and Boûgus beside me, and Naisi and Narsti on my either hand, and the Men of Gunn holding the fair land of England, and me Lord of it all?

BRIDGEEN: And haven’t you the right, Mister honey, to be sitting in that place and taking your ease, and a sup of whiskey itself maybe; for it’s you surely is destroyed by thinking and fighting in these days in Ireland, and where would there be your match for craft and savagery in all the western islands?

EAMON: I have so. (_To Naisi and Narsti_): Call up the Men of Gunn, and let Boûgus be there, and Seamus, and Sean, and Peadar Roabensôn, and any other man would make his future, so; and I’ll lead them out to England, or Russia itself if need be, and split the brainpan on Lloyd George and all of them, and be master of the world in their places; and so I will. (_They go out._)

THE WIDOW MARKIEWICZ (_looking after them as they go_): And isn’t he the fine handsome lad to be riding forth on a great adventure; and he, God help him, nothing but a poor crazy scholar, with a great savagery and bitterness in his heart?

IMPOLITICS

A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT

A man, or woman, who has just been elected to Parliament may be pardoned if, in the words of Gilbert, “the compliment implied, inflates” him (or her) “with legitimate pride.” It is rather difficult, when the declaration of the poll is announced by the Returning Officer, and you find yourself, by a swinging (or narrow) majority, the elected representative of some 30,000 people, to avoid a certain feeling of pleasurable self-congratulation. For the first time in your life you are, suddenly, the central figure of a great demonstration. You are astonished at your own popularity. Strangers rush up and clasp you by the hand; bearded men kiss you on both cheeks; you are taken in charge by the police, to save you from being torn limb from limb by your almost too enthusiastic friends. And, if there is a fleeting resemblance, in the triumphal march from the returning office to the headquarters of your organisation, to the old-time procession to the scaffold of a popular highwayman--a resemblance heightened by the necessity for making a speech on a crazy wooden erection usually known as “the hustings,” that air of spurious importance is, for the most part, effaced next day, when you leave your constituency by train, unrecognised and even unremarked. After the splendours of the previous night, this anonymity is an almost painful contrast; but there are lower depths of abasement to be reached. You have yet to pay your first visit to the House of Commons.

In the interval between your election and the summoning of Parliament, you have probably to some extent recovered your normal self-confidence. You have doubtless secured a home near Westminster, “to be near the House, you know.” You may even have been interviewed by a provincial paper. It is just possible that one of the leaders of your party--a junior one--in the first generous glow of the election results, may have shaken you by the hand. Perhaps (but this happens very rarely) the august personage who speaks from the Front Bench in the name of your party, may have stared you out of countenance at Lady Broadside’s reception. You are actually beginning to feel that you are Somebody after all; and so you nerve yourself to make your first visit to the scene of your future labours.

Somehow, as you slink into Old Palace Yard, the fine fervour of enthusiasm, that accompanied you in your walk along Victoria Street, seems to have largely abated. You cannot help secretly wondering whether you will be required to produce credentials by the doorkeeper. You visualise a painful moment, when a gigantic functionary will say politely, but oh so firmly, in response to your frantic asseverations, “Very sorry, sir, but if you can’t prove you’re a member, I can’t let you in.” You wonder whether he will accept the evidence of the birth certificate, and the cutting from the “Times” announcing your victory, which you hastily stuffed into your pocket before starting out; or whether you had better lie in wait for some senior member of your party, and steal in, in his wake. And, whilst these fearful doubts are invading your mind, you find yourself at the entrance, and an enormous, genial, rubicund policeman accosts you smilingly: “Good morning, Sir! New member, Sir?”

Down, swelling heart!

You try to avoid bursting with pride; acknowledge his salute; and walk in. But ah, you think, the terrors are yet to come. Another constable equally large, equally genial, touches his hat as you pass through the swing doors, and says: “Cloakroom on the right, sir.” “Here at least,” you fear, “there will be a challenge.” An attendant comes up to you. He gives you a searching look. Your heart sinks into your boots. “Good Heavens,” you think to yourself, “I am in the wrong part of the building--this is probably reserved for Cabinet Ministers.” You are about to mutter an excuse and slink away. Quite unnecessary. He was only memorising your face. “Name, sir?” he asks. You give it; you will never have to do so again. Like your face and appearance, it has been indelibly recorded for future reference. “Your peg’s here, sir,” he says; and you find, rather to your astonishment, that a peg has already been reserved for you, and bears your name. Two or three other members come in--old members evidently, for he knows them personally. They exchange greetings; and you think to yourself: now where have I seen something like this before?--Your mind, in a flash, bridges a gulf of a quarter of a century, and takes you back to your first day at your public school.... “New boy, sir?” said the janitor, committing your face and name to memory. “Mr. ----’s house, sir? That’s your peg in that corner; them’s the school notices under that shed, see? You ought to read them every day; and that’s the tuckshop the other side of the road opposite the gates.” ... “New member, sir?” enquires the attendant. “There’s your peg, sir; you’ll find the Post Office at the top of the stairs on the left of the Lobby; you ought to ask there for the letters. Smoking-room, sir? Along the corridor, turn to the right; and it’s on your left-hand side.”

Truly the boy is father to the man.

You leave your coat, and wander up the stairs to the inner Lobby. You sample the thrill of receiving your first batch of letters in the House of Commons. You peep reverentially into the empty Chamber--half afraid to go inside for fear of inadvertently transgressing some rule of the House. You would like to look at the Library and the smoking-room; and yet you feel a certain unwillingness to trouble the attendants with questions. Suddenly a stranger, noticing your irresolution, saunters up to you. “New member?” he asks affably (as who should say “New boy?”); and when you have admitted the soft impeachment--“Thought so,” he continues, “I think I knew most of the last Parliament. Care to look round? I’ve nothing to do for an hour.”

And, even as you accept, you remember how Williams (or Brown), who afterwards grew to be your _alter ego_, took pity on you in the old days at Greyfriars, led you round and “put you wise”; and, whilst your new friend is explaining the mysteries of the Chamber--the Chair, the Cross Benches, the Bar, the Galleries--leading you through the Library, along the passages to the House of Lords, and making you acquainted with your new public school, you think with gratitude, and some wonder, of the eternal youth of human institutions.

WOES OF THE WHIPS

The Chief Whip of a Party is a very august personage. He shares in the councils of the Party leaders. He is one of the links that bind them to the Headquarters organisation, and the constituencies. He holds the party together on the lines laid down by the Leader. He keeps a watchful eye upon recalcitrants, like a sheep-dog with wayward sheep. He is, in fact, the Chief of Staff; and his lot is not an unenviable one.

The Junior Whips are another matter. Rebellious members of the party who would, however, feel some compunction about speaking their minds to the Chief Whip, lay bare their grievances, with embarrassing plain-spokenness, to the juniors. The Scottish and Welsh Whips must often find themselves like to the unfortunate victims of that mythological giant, whose habit it was to tie the legs of his foes to opposing fir-trees, and, releasing the trees, divide them in twain--by reason of the rival claims of their own particular groups of members and of the Chief Whip himself. Needless to say, in all parties, there is the fullest opportunity for members to bring their point of view to the notice of the leaders, both through the Whips and at party meetings. But once a party decision has been taken, it is obvious that, for the sake of the unity of the party, it is highly important that its members should present a consolidated front. And it is when the preconceived opinions of individual members, or special circumstances in their constituencies, happen to be at variance with the general policy of the party, that the troubles of the Junior Whips begin. They have obviously an inclination towards those who compose their own group, such as the Welsh members or Scottish members; they have also their duty towards the party as a whole--not always easily to be reconciled. Anyone who experienced the unenviable position of a Junior Staff Officer in one of the feuds that habitually raged between battalion and brigade, or between brigade and division, during the war, will have a fairly accurate understanding of the trials of a Junior Whip.

But that is not all. The Whips are responsible for the social side of the party as well. Sir Augustus and Lady Broadside, let us say, offer to arrange a reception. For some reason, limitation of space for instance, it is not possible to invite everybody. On the Whips falls the invidious duty of making the selection, who shall be asked and who not. And when this difficult task has been performed, it is discovered that, by an oversight, there is no record of the fact that some new member is married--consequently he is asked and his wife is not, with inevitable heartburnings as the result. Or, again, there are ceremonial duties to be attended to. Members wishing to attend the King’s Levee must have their paths made smooth. The presentation at Court of the wives and daughters of members must be arranged. The Whips must expect to be consulted, as well, on sumptuary questions, such, for instance, as whether a member ought to buy a levee dress, or whether it will be considered sufficient if he avails himself of the new regulation, and attends in evening coat and knee breeches; and what is the most appropriate garment, other than a white sheet, in which to make a maiden speech.

As if that was not enough, there are the speaking arrangements to be made. It does not, of course, follow that the list will be adhered to, but, for the convenience of the Speaker, it is usual for him to be furnished “through the usual channels,” which means in other words by the Whips, with a list of members of each party who would like to speak in any Debate. Obviously some selection must be made, or in a Parliament of active politicians, such as the present, the list of each party would be impossibly large. More than half a dozen names for each party would be more of a hindrance to the Speaker than a help, because there would be no possibility of getting them all in--seeing that the normal hours of Debate are between four in the afternoon and eleven at night--seven hours in all--and the average duration of speeches is twenty minutes, giving a maximum of twenty-one speakers. This process of selection calls for tact of the highest order. On the one hand, if the list is too full, the Whip must not put off further volunteers in such a manner as to discourage them. On the other hand, he must be careful not to create the impression that he wants them to speak always, or they will never leave him in peace. Even the most sensible and level-headed people are touchy about their speaking; and the effect of a hasty word may easily take a whole session to efface from the mind of the person to whom it was addressed.

Nor do the Whip’s duties end there. A question suddenly arises needing instant determination. On the one hand, the leader may make up his mind at once as to the party attitude; in that case the Whips must hurry round, and communicate it to the members of the party. On the other hand, the leader may wish to know the feelings of his party before deciding on a course of action; there is no opportunity for holding a party meeting, the decision must be taken probably within half an hour; it now becomes the duty of the Whips to flit from member to member, collecting opinions and suggestions for communication to the Leader by the “Chief.” Or it may be necessary to “keep a house” for one of the back-benchers who is “raising a question on the adjournment”; again the busy Whips must hurry here and there lobbying their party to make sure that forty members will be present, to protect their colleague against the misfortune of being “counted out.”

And then, on top of all this, there is liaison with the other parties, which in practice is more or less reserved for the Chief Whip himself--for this kind of work demands the delicacy of Agag. These are the accommodations, arrangements of business, exchange of party views, that necessarily go on behind the scenes as a preliminary to the set Debates--especially in connection with the procedure of the House and the settlement of the order of public business.

There is a certain glamour in being styled a Whip. Your name and, probably, your photograph are published in the papers; you are given special facilities for entertaining your fellow-members; if your party happens to be in power, you hold a junior office in the Treasury. The Chief Whip, despite his responsibilities, has, on the whole, an interesting job. He is largely concerned with what is sometimes called the kitchen side of politics; but his function of linking up the Parliamentary party with the leader, calls for high qualities; and his weight, in the determination of the party programme in the conclave of leaders, is considerable. The Junior Whips are devotees of a high order to their party’s organisation. Their task is a thankless one. They condemn themselves to well-nigh Trappist vows in the Chamber, because they are almost always at work outside it. They place themselves at everyone’s beck and call. They are in demand to smooth out any difficulty that may arise.

In fact, as a man once said, who was A.D.C. to a Colonial Governor: “It’s a spittoon of a life.”

YOUNG MEN AND “MAIDENS”

Defer it as you may, upon one pretext or another, the fatal moment will come at last when you must make your maiden speech. There have, it is to be supposed, been members of Parliament of such agonising modesty or such iron self-restraint, that they would have been willing to pass their entire Parliamentary lives in silence. But sooner or later, and probably sooner than later, an aggregation of pressures--duty to the constituency, the spur of _amour propre_, green jealousy of the triumph of X., who so impressed the House by his speech on the Protection of Insects Bill, the subtle encouragement of some fair flatterer who, when X.’s speech was discussed, eyed you archly and murmured, “Of course _you_ ...” leaving your vanity to fill in the blanks--these, and other compelling reasons, combine to persuade you to the irrevocable step of giving in your name to the Whips, after which, feeling like a man who has made an appointment with his dentist, you slink away and prepare for the worst.

With becoming modesty, you select some insignificant, and relatively trivial, subject--such as World Federation, the Solar system, or the relations of the Almighty and the Universe, as affording you scope for the pronouncement you feel it in you to make. You collect a whole pantechnicon-load of authorities, which, when you have read them through, are allowed to lie piled in the darkest passages of your house for the servants to fall over; you take a ticket for the British Museum Library; you apply yourself to study with all the fervour of a Bengalee competing for an examination. And then, one or at the most two days before the great oration is scheduled to be delivered, your Whip says casually, “Oh, we’ve had to change the arrangements. We’re getting you in on the Committee stage of the Impurities in Milk (Abolition) Bill”; and all your labour is shown to be wasted and vain. There are only three days left. You rush to the Dairy Produce Association, the Institute of Milkmaids, and the Society for the Preservation of Cattle and Kine, from each of which you receive an undigested mass of propaganda, disguised in the form of scientific tracts. There is no time to push your investigations beyond these, so you set yourself to learn them word by word. You come down to the House on the fatal day primed with knowledge, with lactialities on your lips and the milk of human kindness bubbling from your heart--and you discover that, before your arrival, a member of your own party, interested in the welfare of subject populations of the Empire, has moved the Adjournment of the House to draw attention to a matter of urgent and definite public importance, namely, the refusal of the Government to issue practising licences and a charter of incorporation to the witch-doctors in the U-Ba-Be district of Abeokeuta.