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DRAMAS    AND    DIVERSIONS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The  Literary  Man's  Bible 

The  Feminine  Note  in  Fiction 

The  Idea  of  Tragedy 

The  Development  of  Maurice  Maeterlinck 

The  Metaphysics  of  J.  S.  Mill 

Constriutive  Ethics 

Studies  New  and  Old 

Studies  at  Leisure 


DRAMAS 


AND 


DIVERSIONS 


BY 

W.   L.   COURTNEY 


LONDON 

CHAPMAN   AND   HALL,   Ltd. 

1908 


Richard  Clay  &  Sons,  Limited, 

bread  street  hill,  e.c.,  and 

bungay,  suffolk. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Bridals  of  Blood    .         .         .         .         .         .         .  i 

Kit  Marlowe's  Death     ......       99 

Gaston  Bonnier:  or,  Time's  Revenges      .  .127 

Undine  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         '175 

Father  Time  and  his  Children        .         .         .         .239 

Pericles  and  Aspasia         ......     249 

On  the  Side  of  the  Angels     .         .         .         .         .275 


357780 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/dramasdiversionsOOcourrich 


BRIDALS  OF   BLOOD 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


ING  Charles  IX.,  King  of  France. 

Henry,  King  of  Navarre  and  Bearn  (betrothed  to  Margaret), 

a  Huguenot. 

Henry  of  Anjou,        |  j^_.^^j^^^^  ^^  ^.      (,^^^j^^_ 

Francis  of  ALEN90N,  j  ° 

Henry  of  Guise,  enamoured  of  Margaret. 

Cardinal  of  Lorraine,  Guise's  Uncle. 

Admiral  Coligni,  Huguenot  General. 

Rioux,  Henry  of  Navarre's  Aide-de-camp. 

PoLTROT,  Captain  of  the  Guard — an  assassin. 

Ruggieri,  Queen  Catherine's  confidant — a  magician. 

Marshal  Tavannes,        "^   .      ,     /-.  ^1    r     a 

, ,  ^  T^ '        y  in  the  Catholic  Army. 

Marshal  Gondi-Retz,  J  ^ 

Prince  Conde,     ^  tt  ^  /-u-  r 

Count  Teugni,  |  ^''^S  Huguenot  Chiefs. 

Catherine  De  Medici,  the  Queen-Mother. 

FRAN901SE,    Marquise     De     Fontanges,    Lady-in-Waiting    to 

Margaret. 
Margaret  of  Valois,   sister   to   King   Charles,   betrothed  to 

Navarre. 
A    Chancellor,    a    Herald,    Chamberlains,    Gentlemen,    and 

Ladies-in- Waiting,  Guards,  and  Pages. 

In  the  Louvre,  in  Paris.     August  1572. 


*^*  This    play   is    founded    on    Ludwig  Fulda's  Die  Bluthochzeit.     For 
most  of  the  perversions  of  history  the  original  author  is  responsible. 


SrNOPSIS  OF  SCENERr 
ACT  I 


Hall  in  the  Louvre. 


ACT  II 


Scene  i. — Garden  of  the  Louvre. 
Scene  2. — Catherine's  Room. 

ACT  III 
State-Room  in  the  Louvre. 

ACT    IV 

Scene  i  . — In  the  Queen's  Room. 

Scene  2. — Ante-Chamber  to  Queen's  Room. 

Scene  3. — Turret-Chamber  of  Henry  of  Navarre. 

T^e  action  of  the  piece  occupies  a  feiv  days  at  the  end  of  the  month 
of  August  1572. 

The  third  Act  is  in  the  evening  of  August  2 'J^rd  (St.  Bartholomew^ 
Day),  and  early  hours  of  Sunday,  August  z^h  (St.  Bartholomew's 
Day), 


*^*  The  acting  rights  of  this  play  are  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  H.  B. 
Irving  and  Mr.  Laurence  Irving,  to  whom  they  vrere  bequeathed  by  Sir 
Henry  Irving. 


BRIDALS    OF    BLOOD 


ACT  I 

Scene. — A  Reception  Hall  in  the  Louvre,     Alen^on  and    Act  I 
Anjou.     ALEN90N    is    the  curled^   empty-headed  fop^ 
Anjou  is  the  soldier. 

ALEN90N 
[^Entering  one  door^  while  Anjou  enters  from  another^    Well, 
is  he  coming  ? 

ANJOU 

Who  ?     The  Huguenot  ? 
Ay,  he  is  here.     To-day  he  makes  his  entry. 
Clad  like  a  conqueror,  to  woo  his  bride, 
And  celebrate  this  cursed  peace-making 
'Twixc  Catholic  and  heretic. 

ALEN90N 

'Tis  strange, 
I  know  not  what  it  means. 

ANJOU 

Nor  I,  young  brother. 
Why  comes  be  here,  this  Henry  of  Navarre, 
Within  our  courts  and  in  our  merry  Paris, 
Bringing  his  sullen  face  of  Huguenot 
To  mar  our  festivals  ?     I  like  it  not ! 

ALEN90N 
'Tis  the  Queen's  policy 


4  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  ANJOU 

Oh,  ay,  the  Queen's  ! 
The  crafty  Catherine  gives  our  sister's  hand 
To  this  young  hypocrite  of  Gascony, 
And  signs  a  lasting  peace.     I  know  not  why 
My  sister  Margaret  should  change  her  faith 
And  welcome  to  the  Louvre  our  country's  foes 
To  please  the  passing  fancy  of  our  mother. 

ALEN90N 
Nor  I,  in  sooth.     Why  may  not  Margaret  wed 
An  honest  Catholic,  the  Duke  of  Guise, 
Our  princely  cousin,  whom,  they  say,  she  loves, 
And  who  has  loved  her  long  ? 

ANJOU 

I  cannot  tell. 
This  policy's  too  crafty  for  my  wit 
To  compass  all  its  meaning.     I  can  draw 
A  gallant  sword  to  serve  my  country's  cause — 
I'll  fight  the  Bourbon  when  and  where  he  wills, 
Catholic  with  Huguenot,  on  any  field 
To  which  he  bids  me  come,  in  open  war ; 
But  all  this  smooth-tongued  cant  of  love  and  peace. 
This  new-formed  amity  of  ancient  foes, 
This  marriage  with  a  cursed  Protestant — 
'Fore  God,  it  sickens  me  ! 

ALEN90N 

I  would  I  knew 
What  the  Queen- Mother  wills. 

ANJOU 

Here's  Ruggieri ; 
Mayhap,  he'll  tell  us  of  those  midnight  spells 
He  whispers  in  our  mother's  private  ear. 

Enter  RuGGiERi,  the  Magician, 
Ruggieri ! 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD 

5 

RUGGIERI 

My  lords  ? 

Act  I 

ANJOU 

Come  hither,  master, 

VV  C   i<tlil    WUUIU    KIIUW 

RUGGIERI 

I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 
I  am  in  haste — the  Queen  desires  my  presence. 

ALEN90N 

[Stopping  him.]    Come,  come,  old  Florentine — not  quite 

so  fast ! 
You  are  a  potent  wizard — as  we  know 
Much  to  our  cost — worker  of  miracles, 
Italian  sorcerer  to  Her  Majesty, 
And  keeper  of  her  secrets,  fair  and  foul ; 
Grant  us  a  scanty  minute  of  your  time 
To  solve  a  problem  which,  believe  me,  sir. 
Much  weighs  upon  our  hearts. 

RUGGIERI 

What  troubles  you, 
My  Lord  Alengon  ? 

ANJOU 

[Interrupting  Alenqon.]    Why,  master,  it  stands  thus. 
France  has  a  foe,  whom  all  the  sons  of  France 
Must  needs  abhor  3  the  Church  an  enemy 
Whom  every  Catholic  must  hate,  perforce. 
He  comes  to  Paris.     In  how  many  ways 
Can  one  receive  him,  graciously  and  well. 
With  courteous  hospitality  and  love. 
Such  as  a  foe  deserves  ? 

RUGGIERI 

I  know  not,  sire. 
How  I  should  answer  such  strange  questioning. 


6  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  ALEN90N 

Nor  I,  i'faith. 

RUGGIERI 

I  pray  you,  let  me  go.     [/i  going. 

ANJOU 

One  moment,  Ruggieri.     There's  a  man — 
Alen^on  here,  my  brother,  we'll  suppose — 
Who  finds  himself  supplanted  in  his  love 
By  some  infernal  villain. 

ALEN90N 

And,  in  sooth, 
I  am  not  always  fortunate  in  love. 

ANJOU 

He  fain  would  rid  him  of  his  enemy — 

What  is  the  secret  method  of  despatch 

Taught  in  the  foreign  schools  ?     What  tricks  of  art, 

What  subtle  vengeance  do  Italians  use 

To  end  their  quarrels  and  lay  low  their  foes  ? 

RUGGIERI 

My  lords,  I  fear  you  mock  me. 

ANJOU 

Nay,  not  so. 
We  know  your  mastery,  we  applaud  your  skill  j 
We  fain  would  learn  a  lesson  for  ourselves. 
Is  it  not  so,  Alen9on  ? 

ALEN90N 

Ay,  God's  truth. 
I  love  a  maid,  and  much  it  doth  perplex  me 
Why  she  doth  love  another. 


BRIDALS    OF  BLOOD 


ANJOU  Act  I 


Hear  you  that  ? 
Come,  Ruggieri,  you  can  help  indeed  : 
What  is  the  latest  mode  of  alchemy, 
Of  witchery  or  poison  ? 

RUGGIERI 

Oh,  my  lord, 
If  you  be  serious — nay,  I  know  you  are  not — 
Still — as  a  matter  of  mere  pastime — I 
Could  teach  you  strange  devices,  which  of  late 
I  learnt  in  Florence.     We  can  make  a  man 
Wither  in  torment  o'er  the  witches'  fire. 
A  waxen  image  of  the  foe  you  hate 
May  melt  itself  away,  and  he,  the  while. 
Be  sickening  to  his  death.     Or  else  a  letter, 
A  simple  letter,  may  convey  his  doom. 
He  may  be  poisoned  by  a  scented  flower, 
A  glove — a  taper — nay,  it  matters  not 
How  small  the  implement — there  is  a  way 
To  make  it  perilous. 


It  is  a  wondrous  art. 


ALEN90N 
Say  you  so,  indeed  ? 


ANJOU 

\Musingly.'\  It  is,  in  truth. 

I  thank  you,  Ruggieri ;  fare  you  well. 

You  are  a  useful  friend.     Well,  brother  mine, 

To-day  we  welcome  Henry  of  Navarre, 

To  wed  our  Princess,  Margaret  of  Valois — 

A  Huguenot  to  wed  a  Catholic — 

By  order  of  the  Queen. 

RUGGIERI 

The  Queen,  my  lord, 
Hath  doubtless  a  wise  counsel  in  all  this. 


8  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  ANJOU 

Ay,  and  she  keeps  her  counsel  to  herself, 
No  doubt  as  wisely. 

RUGGIERI 

Very  true,  my  lord. 
I  humbly  take  my  leave.     [Poltrot  crosses  the  stage.'] 

Poltrot,  the  Queen 
Desires  your  presence.     She  has  work  for  you. 

POLTROT 

Whate'er  her  Queenship  pleases. 

[Exit  RuGGiERi,  followea  by  Poltrot, 

ANJOU 

Marked  you  that  ? 
The  Captain  of  the  Guard  is  wanted  too — 
The  paid  assassin  of  our  royal  mother — 
With  Ruggieri,  at  this  private  council. 
'Tis  passing  strange.     I  know  not  what  it  means. 
Well,  brother  mine,  we  needs  must  wait  th'  event. 
Come,  we  will  to  our  duty,  and  receive 
This  new-found  cousin,  Henry  of  Navarre, 
As  the  Queen  bids. 

ALENCON 

I  follow,  brother. 
[Anjou  and  Alencon  exeunt.  From  R.  u.  E. 
enter  Margaret  of  Valois,  with  the 
Marquise  of  Fontanges,  her  lady-in- 
waiting.  She  comes  down  musingly^  with  an 
abstracted  air. 


Fontanges 


MARGARET 

FONTANGES 

Your  Majesty  ? 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  9 

MARGARET  Act  I 

I  would  I  knew  ! 

FONTANGES 

What  troubles  you,  Princess  ? 

MARGARET 

I  cannot  tell. 
My  royal  consort,  Henry  of  Navarre, 
Calls  himself  Protestant.     What  does  this  mean  ? 
What  is  the  secret  difference  of  soul  ' 

Which  makes  him  heretic  ?     I  ought  to  know, 
I  am  his  future  wife.     What  is  the  bar 
Which  keeps  his  heart  from  mine  ? 

FONTANGES 

\Astonhhed^  Alas,  dear  lady, 

Has  no  one  ever  told  you 

MARGARET 

All  the  shame. 
The  base  reproach,  with  such  a  name  can  bear 
For  Christian  ears  ?     Oh  yes,  they've  told  me  that  I 
But  do  they  speak  the  truth  ?     I  cannot  trust 
The  doctrines  they  instil,  I  want  the  truth. 
The  truth,  d'ye  hear  ?  and  priestly  hate  hath  none. 
For  see  how  strong  must  be  the  faith  of  those 
Who  give  up  all  they  have — their  best,  their  dearest, 
With  willing  hearts  !     Can  such  a  faith  be  false  ? 
I  fear  I  am  deceived  by  priestly  talk. 
Did  Luther  fail  ? — the  monk  who  stirred  this  storm  ? 
And  if  he  failed — was  it  a  fall  from  grace  ? 

FONTANGES 

[Looking  offl]    Your  Majesty  ! 


MARGARET 

Who  comes  ? 


Act  I 


lo  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

FONTANGES 

The  Prince  of  Guise  ! 
Enter  Henry  of  Guise  [hastily], 

GUISE 

What,  Margaret  ?     And  is  the  story  true 
That  in  the  council  of  the  royal  mother 
They  wrung  to-day  a  hesitating  "  yes  " 
From  out  your  lips  ?     Did  you  consent  at  last  ? 

[Exit  Fontanges. 

MARGARET 

[Looking  down.]    They   pledged   my  troth    to  Henry  ot 

Navarre 
Early  this  morning. 

GUISE 

And  your  pretty  vows, 
All  the  sweet  bonds  which  linked  your  soul  with  mine, 
Torn  into  shreds  and  blown  into  thin  air  ! 

MARGARET 

My  country — 'tis  my  country  ! 

GUISE 

Country — bah  ! 
The  change  has  other  reasons.     'Tis  a  play, 
A  comedy  for  patriots,  with  the  Guise 
To  give  his  blessing,  as  the  curtain  falls  ! 
But  tell  me  this — if  "country"  be  the  reason. 
Must  France  ally  herself  with  heretics  ? 

MARGARET 

I  hope  so,  Henry.     When  I  gave  my  hand, 
Tearing  the  memories  of  an  early  love 
From  out  my  heart,  and  pledged  myself  away. 
Ah,  then  it  was  no  queen  who  urged  her  will 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  ii 

On  a  princess,  nor  mother  on  her  child,  Act  I 

But  'twas  a  nation's  voice,  the  voice  of  France, 

Which  sounded  in  my  ears  and  made  me  listen. 

From  all  the  thousand  wounds  her  body  bore, 

From  all  the  bleeding  scars  and  desperate  rents 

Dealt  in  these  holy  wars,  my  country  cried  : 

"  Take  for  thy  chosen  spouse  a  Huguenot, 

The  Huguenot  King,  and  stay  this  flow  of  blood. 

Accept  the  bond  which  puts  an  end  to  hate  : 

Give  the  land  peace,  e'en  tho'  the  price  may  be 

The  peace  of  thine  own  heart."     My  brother  signed 

The  treaty  of  St.  Germain r- 

GUISE 

What !  the  King, 
Thy  brother  Charles  ?     I  warrant  in  his  mind 
There  was  more  thought  of  sonnets,  ritornels. 
Of  hawks  and  hounds,  and  all  his  other  frippery 
Than  of  the  Calvinists  !     A  pretty  King  ! 

MARGARET 

You  ever  mock  at  him — yet  well  I  know 
That  such  a  peace  needs  sanction  by  my  hand. 
I  give  myself,  I  make  my  sacrifice, 
I  wring  it  from  myself  with  tears.     Henry, 
I  pray  thee  do  the  same  !     As  Guise  doth  stand 
Next  to  the  King,  the  highest  son  of  France, 
Be  thou  the  noblest  Frenchman  of  them  all  ! 
Make  my  task  lighter  !     Help  me  to  forget  ! 

GUISE 

{With  a  sneer.]   And  Catherine  told  you  that  she  sought 

the  peace 
With  such  a  purpose  ? 


Which  made  me  yield 


MARGARET 

'Twas  the  only  plea 


12  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  GUISE 

[With  a  hitter  laugh,']  That  I  can  well  believe  ! 

MARGARET 

Why  do  you  laugh  ?     If  not  for  such  a  purpose 
What  other  could  she  have  ? 

GUISE 

[Still  Utterly^  I  vi^as  not  there 

To  read  her  inmost  soul,  but  this  I  knov^ — 
When  she  speaks  soft,  'tis  then  w^e  dread  her  most  ! 

MARGARET 

Because  of  France  she  gives  away  her  child, 
She  gives  her  willingly,  despite  her  grief, 
And  with  as  good  a  heart  her  child  obeys. 

GUISE 

Is't  so  indeed  ?     Well,  then,  Queen  Catherine 

Has  an  obedient  and  submissive  child ! 

And  Margaret  has  a  mother  whom  she  loves 

Doubtless  as  much  as — France — or  as  myself  ! 

Nay,  say  no  more.     A  Guise  is  not  so  pliant. 

He  loves  his  friend  and  hates  his  enemy. 

And  cannot  change  at  will  his  love  and  hatred 

For  a  mere  whim  or  stratagem  of  state  ! 

No  more,  no  more — I  am  not  apt  at  words. 

Farewell,  and  blame  me  not  !     From  head  to  foot 

I  loathe  this  Bourbon  with  the  hate  of  hell  !  [Exit, 

MARGARET 

[Strikes  hell  and  calls.]  Fontanges  ! 

[Flourish  of  trumpets  heard. 
Hark  !    'Tis  the  trumpet  of  the  King,  my  brother. 
Who  gives  his  escort  to  Navarre. 
[Goes  to  window.]  They  come. 

[Calls  again.]  Fontanges  ! 

Re-enter  Fontanges. 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  13 

FONTANGES  Act  I 

You  called  me,  Princess  ? 

MARGARET 

You  saw  the  Duke  ?     What  is  this  madness  named 
Which  he  can  feel  so  keenly  ? 

FONTANGES 

If  not  love, 
What  else  ? 

MARGARET 

I  know  not.     Will  he  always  hold 
My  heart  within  the  hollow  of  his  hand  ? 
[Looking  off.^    The  bridegroom  comes  and  I  await  my  king. 
[Exeunt  Margaret  and  Fontanges. 

J  flourish  is  heard.  Enter  a  detachment  of  Guards, 
Courtiers,  and  Gentlemen-in- Waiting,  followed  by 
King  Charles  IX.  and  Henry  of  Navarre.  King 
Charles  signs  to  the  Attendants  ««^  Guards  to  retire^ 
and  comes  down  to  the  front  of  the  stage^  where  he  sinks 
into  a  chair.  Henry  of  Navarre,  gallant^  loud-voiced^ 
and  martial  in  his  bearings  remains  standing. 

NAVARRE 

iWhat,  King  of  France — and  therefore,  of  the  world — 
[You  in  the  Louvre,  in  merry-hearted  Paris, 
[Living  a  life  of  gloom  ?     Are  we  to  bring 

o  men  who  dream  at  ease  on  Champagne  slopes 
[Sunshine  and  happiness  from  Gascony  ? 
'Nay — nay — in  wit  and  beauty,  wine  and  women, 
[You  have  no  rivals  from  the  Pyrenees ! 
'Where  lurks  the  silent  grief,  my  kingly  coz  ? 

CHARLES 

I  Ah,  but,  my  friend,  all's  well  enough  for  you  ! 
The  wine  can  bring  the  blood  into  your  cheek  ; 
The  women  smile,  and  then  your  heart's  aflame. 


14  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I    I  am  not  merry.     In  this  sombre  court 

There  is  a  cloud  which  broods  in  gloom  above  ; 
We  move  within  the  shadow  of  some  ill — 
Some  woe,  disaster,  doom — I  know  not  what, 
Which  our  sad  hearts  presage.     And  you,  my  cousin, 
Come  with  that  face  of  yours,  that  merry  wit 
Which  sets  our  spirits  jigging — by  St.  Denis, 
Look  on  my  face  and  yours  !     Why,  you  are  strong. 
Well-favoured,  handsome,  made  for  love,  a  man 
Fashioned  and  wrought  in  Nature's  kindliest  mould — 
And  I  ?     You  see  the  old  man's  wrinkled  face 
Peering  from  eyes  of  youth  ;  in  age  a  boy. 
In  heart,  a  grey-beard.     And  there's  something  else. 
Listen  !     \_Drawing  him  asidej]     I  have  a  mother  in  this 
Louvre —  [Pauses, 

Have  you  a  mother  ?     Nay,  I  know  you  have, 
Joanna  d'Albret,  whom  your  people  worship  ! 

NAVARRE 

Worship  ?  'Tis  true.  Oh,  what  a  mother.  Sire  ! 
I  would  you  knew  her  and  her  tender  love. 
As  shines  the  sun  of  May  upon  the  world, 
So  from  her  soft  eyes  springs  a  fount  of  joy 
For  all  who  suffer  and  are  tired.  It  makes 
Them  love  their  life  again,  and  thank  their  God 
For  what  He  gave  them. 

CHARLES 

[Jstonished.]  St.  Denis  !     How  you  preach  ! 

What  are  you,  Henry  ?     Are  you  fool  or  knave  ? 

You  seem  light-hearted — and  anon  you  change 

All  of  a  sudden,  at  a  mother's  name. 

And  rant  and  mouth — like  priests  at  Christmastide. 

What  is  my  grief  ?  you  asked.     Well,  I  will  tell  you. 

I  have  a  mother,  Henry,  and  I  fear  her  ! 

Hush,  do  not  speak  too  loud  !     Here  in  the  Louvre 

She  sees  and  hears  and  spies  o'er  everything  ! 

I  fear  her,  Henry,  she  can  haunt  my  dreams, 


1 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  15 

She  meets  me  when  I  wake,  watches  my  sleep,  Act  I 

Dogs  me  from  room  to  room — I  hear  her  voice 
And  cannot  help  but  tremble  ! 

NAVARRE  ' 

Ah,  poor  King  ! 

CHARLES 

Now,  by  the  Cross,  I  would  I  were  a  King  ! 

NAVARRE 

And  if  you  were,  what  would  your  kingship  choose  ? 
What  would  you  do  ? 

CHARLES 

[Smiling.]  Why,  cut  ofF  all  their  heads 

Whose  faces  wore  a  fairer  look  than  mine  ! 

NAVARRE 

What,  mine  among  the  rest  ? 

CHARLES 

No  doubt  of  that  ! 

NAVARRE 

I  thank  you.  Sire.     I'm  glad  you  are  not  King. 
At  least  I  live,  until  you  claim  your  crown. 
Well — and  what  else  ? 

CHARLES 

A  thousand  other  things  ! 
Whate'er  my  wondering  fancy  drove  me  to  ! 
I'd  play  at  chess,  or  hunt  with  all  my  hounds 
Here  through  these  palace  rooms  j  work  at  my  forge, 
Eat  candied  almonds,  write  some  honeyed  rhymes, 
Some  sonnets,  pastorals — I  know  not  what — 
And  my  good  mother,  if  she  dared  reproof — 
I'd  shut  her  in  a  cage,  where  she  might  fret. 
And  storm  and  rage,  until  her  spirit  failed 
To  see  how  happy  Charles  was  ! 


Act  I 


I6  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

NAVARRE 

And  your  land  ? 
Who  would  be  King  of  France  ? 

CHARLES 

Whoever  liked  ! 

NAVARRE 

Good,  Cousin  Charles  !     Then  give  the  crown  to  me  ! 

CHARLES 

No,  no  ;  that  may  not  be  !     You  are  my  fool, 
My  own  Court  fool,  remember  ! 

NAVARRE 

That's  no  odds. 
Then  Folly  becomes  monarch — nothing  else  ! 

CHARLES 

Oho,  let's  see  !     And  how  would  you  begin 
Your  foolish  rule  ? 

NAVARRE 

I'd  marry  Margaret. 

CHARLES 

What,  is  that  folly  ? 

NAVARRE 

Then  I  would  invite 
Huguenot  and  Catholic — whoever  pleased — 
To  come  as  favoured  guests  of  mine  to  Paris — 
A  splendid  masquerade  throughout  the  land  ! 
And  we,  meanwhile,  would  sit  and  watch  the  sport 
Like  foxes  clad  in  lambs'  skins — you  and  I 

CHARLES 

Why,  Henry,  'twould  be  royal  sport  indeed  ! 
But  stay  a  minute — for  you  puzzle  me — 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  17 

You  are  already  come  as  bridegroom,  pledged  Act  I 

To  Margot's  hand.     The  Huguenots  are  here 

As  guests  of  ours  to  celebrate  this  wedding. 

It  was  my  mother's  thought,  to  which  I  gave 

My  own  assent  in  writing  ;  for,  my  cousin, 

'Tis  she  designs,  I  add  my  signature. 

That  is  the  way  we  govern  ! 

NAVARRE 

Is  it  so  ? 
Then  may  the  masquerade  begin  forthwith  ; 
And  we  will  to  our  sheepskins.     Oh,  'tis  sport, 
— Sport  fit  for  kings — to  sit  and  watch  the  world 
From  out  some  hiding-place,  ourselves  unseen  ! 


Enter  Guise,  Anjou,  Alen^on. 

CHARLES 

Here  comes  the  Prince  of  Guise  to  give  you  greeting, 

Together  with  Alen^on  and  Anjou, 

My  brothers.     They  would  bid  you  welcome,  Henry. 

[Charles  retires  and  takes  out  his  tablets^ 
only  half  listening. 

ALEN90N 
^Aside.l  Yes,  and  to  see  what  heretics  are  like. 
Why  he's  for  all  the  world  like  other  men  ! 

NAVARRE 

My  Lord  of  Anjou,  we  met   last,  methinks,  on  the 
bloody  day  of  Jarnac. 

ANJOU 

{Indifferently^  I  did  not  see  you. 

NAVARRE 

Nay,  think  again.     I  stood  near  Coligni  on  the  battle- 
field  


i8  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  ANJOU 

Where  is  Coligni  ?  Has  he  not  come  among  the 
guests  ?     Where  are  the  Chatillons  ? 

NAVARRE 

They're  all  coming.  Coligni  comes,  my  old  warrior, 
and  my  mother  comes  from  La  Rochelle.  What  !  did 
you  think  that  fear  would  make  us  hesitate  to  accept  the 
King's  most  gracious  invitation  ?  Nay,  we  heretics  are 
jealous  of  our  honour,  even  if  you  keep  none  with  us. 
Catholics,  mayhap,  don't  need  it.  Your  faith  will  have 
none  of  it. 


That's  true  enough. 


ALEN^ON 


NAVARRE 

Well,  let  me  see,  where  was  I.  Oh,  at  Jarnac. 
When  the  fortune  of  the  day  was  yours,  and  Prince 
Conde,  my  uncle,'surrendered  himself  to  you,  we  stood,  do 
you  remember,  face  to  face,  to  discuss  the  terms  of  peace. 
Just  behind  you  there  was  a  drunken  rascal — may  Heaven 
confound  him  for  a  knave  ! — playing  with  his  matchlock. 
Off  went  the  gun — a  most  regrettable  accident,  of  course 
— and  my  good  uncle  got  a  ball  right  through  his  .body. 
You  hewed  the  fool  to  the  ground — no  fault  of  yours — 
but  might  not  the  shot  just  as  well  have  struck  Coligni, 
who  was  standing  hard  by  ?  A  most  annoying  accident, 
was  it  not  ? 

ANJOU 

\To  Guise.]     Is  this  joke  or  earnest?     I  know  you 

manage  your  sword  better  than  your  tongue,  prince 

\Lays  his  hand  upon  his  sword, 

GUISE 

Anjou,  patience  !  [To  Navarre.]  And  if  that  shot 
had  robbed  you  of  your  great  leader,  would  it  not  have 
struck  down  my  father's  murderer  ? 


I 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  19 

CHARLES 

[Coming  down.']  Hold,  peace,  I  say  !  No  more  of 
this  !  We  did  not  sign  the  peace  of  St.  Germain  in  order 
to  recall  these  stale  old  stories ;  are  you  going  to  quarrel 
because  I  give  my  sister's  hand  to  my  enemy  ?  God's 
death,  you  anger  me  to  my  grave  !  Navarre  !  Guise  ! 
take  your  hands  off  your  sword-hilts  !  'Tis  my  com- 
mand— the  King's  ! 

GUISE 

[Aside,']  A  pretty  king,  forsooth  ! 

NAVARRE 

Will  he  tell  me  to  my  face  that  Coligni  w^as  a  common 
murderer  ?  That  it  was  he  who  killed  Francis  of  Guise 
before  Orleans  ?  Why,  I  know  that  the  rascal,  Poltrot 
de  Mere,  was  taken  red-handed  in  the  act  and  dragged  to 
Paris.     Where  is  he  ? 

GUISE 

What  do  I  know  of  the  man  ? 

ANJOU 

Or  I? 

ALEN90N 
There  I  can  help  you. 

ANJOU 

[In  a  low  voice,]  Hold  your  tongue  ! 

ALEN90N 
Poltrot  was  appointed  Captain  of  the  Guard. 

NAVARRE 

What  !  Guise's  murderer  made  a  captain  ?  And  by 
you? 

ANJOU 

He  means  his  brother. 


Act  I 


20  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  ALEN90N 

No,  I  mean  the  murderer,  Poltrot  de  M6r6. 

NAVARRE 

Captain,  is  he  ?  Well,  you  have  strange  customs  in 
Paris.  We  barbarians  have  a  different  way  with  mur- 
derers. We  hang  them  to  the  nearest  tree.  Well,  well, 
noble  princes,  perhaps  wine  will  help  us  to  compose  our 
differences.  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead.  Let  the 
living  live  ! 

CHARLES 

Silence,  gentlemen,  no  brawling  here  !  /  made  the 
peace,  /  asked  the  Prince  of  Navarre  to  this  Court,  /gave 
him  my  sister's  hand.     /  will  be  King  here.     Whoever 

dares  to  contravene  my  wishes [  With  a  sudden  change 

of  manner.']  Ah,  here  comes  the  Queen,  my  mother  ! 

[Charles  goes  to  the  background, 

NAVARRE 

[Aside.]  A  cordial  welcome  truly  !     Here  are  friends, 
True  friends  of  mine,  who  love  me — to  my  death  ! 
I  must  be  cunning,  where  such  guile  abounds. 
And  take  no  step  too  far  to  be  recovered — 
Must  watch  and  wait,  and  wait  and  watch  again  ! 


Enter  Catherine  of  Medici.  With  her  the  Cardinal 
OF  Lorraine,  and  her  magician,  Ruggieri.  After  her 
enter  Margaret,  Fontanges,  and  other  Court  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  Finally  Poltrot  and  guards  of  honour, 
who  remain  in  the  gallery.  Catherine  is  apparently 
praying,  the  Cardinal  whispering  the  words  in  her 
ear.  She  comes  down  without  raising  her  eyes. 
Navarre  bends  his  knee  and  awaits  her  speech, 
Charles  furtively  watches  in  the  distance  with  some 
restlessness. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  21 

NAVARRE  Act  I 

[/^side.]  Margaret  !   I  dare  not  look  upon  her  face, 
Or  my  heart  fails  me.     I  must  play  my  game. 

CARDINAL 

[Presenting    Navarre.]    The   Lord    Prince    Henry  of 

Navarre  and  Beam 
Offers  his  homage  to  your  Majesty. 

CATHERINE 

[Looking  up.]  Welcome,  my  Prince. 

[Gives  him  her  hand  to  kiss.    Navarre  rises  from 

his  knees. 

We  have  w^ith  all  our  hearts 
Longed  for  this  day  to  heal  the  gaping  w^ounds 
With  which  for  thirteen  years  our  country  suffers. 
And  find  at  last  the  vi^elcome  boon  of  peace. 

NAVARRE 

Oh,  pardon  me,  my  Queen.     Grim  politics 
Are  all  my  uncle's.     Let  me  be  the  bridegroom. 

CARDINAL 

[Presenting  Margaret.]  This  is  the  bride,  the  Princess 
Margaret. 

CATHERINE 

So  please  you,  my  Lord  Prince,  salute  your  bride, 
Daughter  of  France,  fair  Margaret  of  Valois. 

NAVARRE 

[Somewhat  pompously.']  O  Queen  of  Beauty,  deign  to  look 

on  me 
The  low^est  of  thy  slaves.     Naught  is  my  life. 
Empty  and  meaningless,  save  that  thy  hand 
Lend    it   some  grace   and    meaning.     [Aside.]   In   good 

sooth. 
This  formal  love  will  end  in  deadly  earnest, 
For  my  heart  fails  me  when  I  look  on  her  ! 


22  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  MARGARET 

[^Coldly.']  I  will  for  ever  serve  and  do  thy  will, 
As  in  the  sight  of  God,  in  all  the  claims 
A  husband  makes  upon  a  faithful  wife. 

NAVARRE 

Good  sense  and  well  delivered.     But  no  love  ? 

MARGARET 

I  pray  you,  ask  my  mother.     She,  who  gave, 
Will  stand,  I  doubt  not,  proxy  for  the  gift. 

NAVARRE 

[Earnestly.']  You  love  me  not  ? 

MARGARET 

[Startled.]  I  know  not  what  you  mean. 

CATHERINE 

[  To  Navarre.]  Coligni  comes  ?     And  is  your  mother 
here  ? 

NAVARRE 

Ay,  ay,  my  Queen.     How  could  a  day  like  this 
Without  my  mother  please  me  ?     She's  at  Tours — 
Her  chair  was  not  so  fast  as  I  could  ride. 


CATHERINE 

With  open  arms  I  wait  to  greet  her.  Prince, 
That  noble  Queen,  who,  like  another  Joan, 
Great  Joan  of  Arc,  made  all  her  warriors  brave 
Because  her  presence  filled  the  camp  with  courage. 
Now  surely  war  is  over — peace  is  signed. 
Whate'er  the  issue,  let  all  evil  deeds 
On  both  sides  be  forgiven. 

RIOUX 

[Outside.]  My  lord,  my  lord  ! 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  23 

CATHERINE  Act  I 

What  noise  is  that  ? 

Rioux  comes  hastily  through  the  gallery  to  Navarre. 

NAVARRE 

[Going  to  meet  him.]  Rioux — my  mother?     Where's  my 
mother,  Rioux  ? 

RIOUX 

My  lord — I  cannot  speak — Queen  Joan  is  dead  ! 

NAVARRE 

[Stunned.]  Dead?     Joan   of  Albret  ?     Is  my  mother 
dead  ? 

CATHERINE 

[fFith  a  glance  at  RuGGiERi.]     Dead  !    [After  a  pause.] 
Knight,  tell  us  how  she  died. 

Rioux 

It  was  at  Vaudemont,  your  Majesty, 

We  found  your  messenger.     No  one  was  near 

When  the  Queen  talked  with  him — yet  I  could  see 

By  her  bright  eyes  how  joyfully  she  learned 

Your  royal  welcome,  and  received  your  gift. 

She  could  not  well  be  merrier,  as  she  pulled 

The  gloves  you  gave  her  on  her  eager  hand. 

Then  on  a  sudden — ere  an  hour  had  fled 

Her  face  had  changed.     I  saw  her  press  her  hand 

Upon  her  heart,  she  sank  back  with  a  groan, 

And  in  their  arms  her  ladies  held — a  corpse  ! 

[During  these  words  Anjou  and  Alencon  ex- 
change glances.  Catherine's  <?«^  Navarre's 
eyes  meet^  and  they  remain  staring  fixedly  at 
each  other, 

NAVARRE 

Your  messenger,  my  Queen — may  he  be  seen  ? 


24  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  CATHERINE 

I  fear  me,  no — he's  on  his  way  to  Rome 
Upon  another  errand. 

NAVARRE 

[^Aside  to  Rioux.]  Ah,  my  good  Rioux, 

Mark  well  her  words.     Is  she  not — wonderful  ? 

Oh,  for  the  man  who  owns  a  mother  still ! 

CHARLES 

[Nervously.']  I  pray  you,  cousin,  cease — you  loved  your 
mother  ? 

NAVARRE 

[TVith  unconcealed  warmth.]  Oh,  could  you  look  into  my 
heart,  my  Prince  ! 

[  Then  more  bluntly^  remembering  himself, 
I  loved  her — that  is  all.     A  noble  woman. 

0  Cousin  Charles,  you  have  a  mother  still, 
Whatever  her  mind  may  be  1 

CHARLES 

Hush,  cousin,  hush  ! 
What,  my  Court  fool — and  in  his  eye  a  tear  ! 

1  pray  thee  be  a  man  ! 

NAVARRE 

I  must  indeed  ! 
I  have  no  right  to  mourn  on  wedding-days. 
Be  merry,  lords  and  ladies.     By  our  law 
This  is  the  bridegroom's  day.     We'll  let  the  dead 
Bury  their  dead,  or  bury  them  ourselves 
With  song  and  laughter.     By  your  leave.  Princess. 

[Offers  his  hand, 

MARGARET 

You  are  not  what  you  seem. 

NAVARRE 

What  would  you  wish  ? 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  25 

MARGARET  Act  I 

I  wish  as  much  as  France  may  ask  from  you. 

NAVARRE 

I  never  knew  that  gloomy  politics 

Could  turn  into  a  woman — Ventre  St.  Gris  ! — 

With  kiss-inviting  lips,  like  yours,  sweet  wife  ! 

I  am  no  grave-digger.     Come,  nobles  all, 

We'll  to  the  feast — and,  Rioux,  shut  your  eyes 

And   close   your   mouth.     Should   that   which    happens 

come 
Not  to  your  liking,  then  like  all  that  comes  !  \^ings, 

Le  Prince  de  Cond6 
II  a  ete  tue  : 
Mais  Monsieur  FAmiral 
Est  encore  a  cheval — 

[Navarre  exit  with  Margaret,  followed  by 
the  Court  ladies  and  gentlemen.  Charles 
looks  after  them^  and  then  falls  into  a  seat. 
Catherine,  with  Cardinal,  Ruggieri, 
and  Poltrot,  prepare  to  go  out, 

CATHERINE 

Come,  Charles,  your  hand  ! 

CHARLES 

I'll  follow  you,  Queen-Mother  ! 

[Exeunt  Catherine,  etc, 
\Left  aloney  after  pause  bursts  out  boisterously  singing  with  a 
laugh."] 

"Le  Prince  deCondd,"  etc. 

\^Air  taken  up  by  Orchestra, 


ACT   II 


Act  II    Scene  i. — In  the  Garden^  outside  the  walls  of  the  Louvre, 

Enter  Navarre,  a  wreath  upon  his  head^  and  Alen^on. 
The  latter  is  drunky  the  former  only  simulates  drunkenness. 

NAVARRE 

Hillo,  my  gallant  Prince,  steady  !     Stand  still  ! 

ALEN90N 
Easy  enough  to  say  that,  but  w^ho  can  stand  still,  with 
the  ground  spinning  round  ! 

NAVARRE 

Ventre  St.  Gris  I  If  I  had  known  before  what  good 
men  and  true  Alengon,  Guise,  and  Anjou  were,  when 
the  cups  circle  and  the  knives  and  forks  are  clattering 

ALEN90N 
And  Cond^,  Teligni,  and  all  the  other  damned  heretics 
— Navarre,  too,  of  course 

NAVARRE 

We  should  never  have  got  bloody  coxcombs  in  twenty 
battles  !  Cousin,  tell  me — if  you  can  possibly  stand  still. 
They  say  that  the  Louvre  is  a  conundrum,  a  building  full 
of  mystery.     What  is  hidden  in  these  cellars  ? 

ALENCON 

[Solemnly.]  Powder-casks  ! 
26 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  27 

NAVARRE  Act  II 

Diantre !  I  should  have  thought  it  was  sack  and 
malvoisie  !  And  what  is  behind  the  wainscoting  and 
these  walls  ?     The  black  eyes  of  witching  maidens  ?     . 

ALENCON 

Black  gun-barrels  ! 

NAVARRE 

H'm — not  the  most  pleasant  house  for  a  marriage- feast. 
Our  liveries  will  be  blood-red  before  we've  done.  And 
this  wing  has  been  newly  furnished,  I  hear,  for  the  chiefs 
of  the  ''  damned  heretics  "  ? 

ALENCON 

Look  you  here,  friend.  There's  no  hole  or  corner  in 
this  Louvre  but  has  its  miracle  !  The  Medici — don't 
speak  too  loud — has  her  magic  everywhere.  Here  it 
laughs  and  gibbers — there  it  groans  and  thunders — and 
scares  you  out  of  your  wits,  before  you  know  where  you 
are.  And  the  Master  Magician,  Ruggieri,  helps  her  at 
the  game — so  they  tell  me.  I  saw  him  to-day  slink  into 
the  Queen's  room  with  a  picture  in  his  hand — a  picture 
which,  by  the  way,  resembled  you  ! — only  at  a  distance, 
mind,  only  at  a  distance  ! 

NAVARRE 

\Laughs,'\  Will  the  old  witch  be  trying  her  love  charms 
on  me  ? 

ALENCON 

I  don't  know.  I  can't  stand  being  questioned.  What 
the  devil  are  you,  cousin — a  dolt  or  a  philosopher  ?  I 
can't  make  you  out ! 

NAVARRE 

Don't  bother  your  head  about  it,  my  young  friend  ! 
Time  enough  for  that  when  you  are  sober.         [Points  off. 


28  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  ALENfON 

[Staggers  away.]  All  right  !  [Aside.]  A  proper  kind 
of  bridegroom  for  you  !  Why,  he  even  wanted  to  draw 
secrets  out  of  me — and  that  I  couldn't  stand  !  [Exit, 

NAVARRE 

[Sinks    into    a    garden   seat.]      So,   in    the    very    lap    of 

threatening  Fate, 
We  play  a  silly  game  of  hide-and-seek. 
And  while  we  tremble  at  the  storm,  we  smile. 
The  distant  thunder  rumbles  'mid  the  blue, 
The  lightning  quivers  at  the  sunset's  edge — 
And  I,  a  truant  bridegroom,  from  the  feast 
Where  beauty  waits  me,  lurk  and  linger  here, 
Afraid  to  taste  the  rapture  of  those  lips 
Which  seem  to  whisper  of  some  fatal  doom 
To  me — and  her — and  France  ! 
I  came  not  to  your  side,  sweet  Margaret, 
I  could  not  come  !     I  do  not  care  to  claim 
My  royal  bride,  or  even  touch  her  hand. 
While  yet  this  damning  doubt  assails  my  soul. 
Whether  this  revel  be  an  ambuscade, 
Or  mean  a  lasting  peace — if  she  be  true 
To  me,  her  husband — or  her  fair  face  smile 
To  lure  me  to  my  fall 

Enter  Rioux,  hatless,  and  with  a  drawn  sword^  his  hand 
pressed  on  his  arm. 

RIOUX 

My  lord,  they  murder  us  ! 

NAVARRE 

Rioux — you  have  a  wound  ? 

RIOUX 

Don't  trouble  about  me — a  tiny  scratch. 
No  more.     The  Admiral 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  29 

NAVARRE  Act  II 

Coligni — well  ? 

RIOUX 

Was  riding  up  the  street  of  L'Auxerrois 
Up  to  the  Louvre,  when  from  an  open  window 
A  shot  came  suddenly.     Heavens  !  am  I  come 
Here  to  this  town  only  to  tell  of  murder  ? 

NAVARRE 

A  shot  ?     Coligni  fell  ? 

RIOUX 

Coligni  lives, 
The  ball  but  grazed  his  arm.     He's  here,  my  lord. 


Enter  CoLiGNi,  h'ls  arm  bandaged.  With  him  Anjou  and 
Guise  ;  and  two  young  Huguenot  chiefsy  the  young 
Prince  of  Cond^  and  Count  Teligni. 

NAVARRE 

[Running  to  Coligni.]  My  father,  you  still  live  ?    Thank 

Heaven  for  it ! 
Did  not  my  message  reach  you  ? 

COLIGNI 

Message — yours  ? 

NAVARRE 

I  warned  you  [recollecting  himself^ — well,  I  warned  you  to 

make  haste. 
Before  the  feast  was  over.     Admiral, 
A  merry  city — Paris  ! 

COLIGNI 

What  is  this  ? 
A  wreath  upon  your  head  ?     Is  this  Arcadia  ? 


30  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  NAVARRE 

A  bridal  guerdon,  suitable  for — peace  ! 

\Tears  off  the  wreath. 
My  lord  of  Anjou,  such  a  shot  as  this 

[Pointing  to  CoLlGNl's  arm. 
Does  little  honour  to  your  soldiers'  skill. 
Will  you  not  hang  the  rascal,  when  you  find  him  ? 

ANJOU 

We  have  done  all  we  can  to  find  the  knave. 
Lord  Admiral,  this  is  a  sorry  welcome. 
We  tender  you  apology. 

GUISE 

We  hope 
You  will  not  think  us  the  less  glad  to  see  you. 

COLIGNI 

No  more,  no  more,  I  beg  you,  noble  Princes. 

ANJOU 

You're  very  welcome  in  our  capital  ! 

[Anjou  and  Guise  exeunt, 

NAVARRE 

[Aside,]  So  says  the  hunter,  when  the  prey  is  snared  ! 

COLIGNI 

[Turning  to  Navarre.]  Sire,  will  you  tell  me 

NAVARRE 

Rioux,  cousins  mine, 

Teligni,  Cond^,  may  I  have  a  word 

Here  with  the  Admiral  ?     I  pray  you  go 

And,  if  no  other  sport  attracts  your  minds. 

Sharpen  your  swords — look  to  your  armour  well — 

And  wait  the  royal  mother's  trumpet-call  ! 

[Exeunt  Teligni,   Conde,  and  Rioux,  looking 
at  each  other  with  some  bewilderment. 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  31 

COLIGNI  Act  II 

My  Prince  ! 

NAVARRE 

[Throwing  himself  into  a  garden  chair ^  It's  horrible, 
too  horrible  ! 

COLIGNI 

Why,  what  is  this  ? 

NAVARRE 

Oh,  vi^hy  are  you  here, 
My  father  ?     And  my  messenger  miscarried  ! 
Is  Heaven  void  of  angels — none  to  warn  ? 
Why  have  you  come  ? 

COLIGNI 

The  order  of  my  King  ? 

NAVARRE 

Ah,  you  must  keep  your  word,  e'en  though  it  kill  you  ! 
And  all  the  Huguenot  chiefs — chiefs  of  the  faith 
For  which  we  shed  our  blood — imprisoned  here  ; 
Locked  in  this  bloody  den  of  murderers. 
Through  me — through  me — and  this  unholy  marriage  ! 

COLIGNI 

What  do  you  fear  ?     They've  given  us  their  word. 

NAVARRE 

And  they  will  break  it,  whensoe'er  they  list. 
No  faith  is  kept  with  heretics  ! 

COLIGNI 

My  Prince, 
Who  taught  you  that  ? 


32  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  NAVARRE 

He  of  the  Lateran  ! 
Ask  history  for  proof !     A  million  oaths 
Proud  Rome  has  broken  ;  and  a  million  wrongs 
Made  consecrate  for  service  in  God's  name  ! 
What  shall  I  say  ?     You  ask  me  what  I  fear — 
I  know  not,  for  my  thoughts  in  widest  range 
Can  scarcely  compass  all  that  may  betide, 
And  yet  I  fear — I  fear.     My  bride  I  see  not, — 
I  dare  not  see  her.     And  I  play  my  game 
And  wear  the  mask  of  folly  j  watch  unseen 
That  wily  snake  of  Florence,  the  Queen-Mother 
Catherine.     I  cannot  say — the  danger's  here — 
I  only  know  'tis  somewhere,  everywhere  ! 
I  call  you  "  father."     May  not  aching  thoughts 
Turn  to  my  mother  too  ?     My  broken  heart 
Has  shed  a  rain  of  bloody  tears  to-day. 
While  foolish  jests  were  crowding  to  my  lips. 
You  know  it,  Admiral  r     She's  dead  ! 

COLIGNI 

God's  will  ! 

NAVARRE 

No,  'tis  the  hired  assassin's,  'tis  her  will. 
That  cunning  connoisseur  in  deadly  poisons, 
Last  viper  of  the  Medicean  brood  ! 

COLIGNI 

Nay,  that's  some  lying  story  of  the  gossips  ! 

NAVARRE 

Then  lies  the  wound  upon  your  arm,  Coligni, 
Which  for  the  first  time  proved  your  murderess 
A  bungler  in  the  business  of  blood  ! 
And  all  the  horror  weighs  upon  my  conscience  ! 
All  that  has  come,  or  will  come  circling  round 
My  single  self !     And  death,  which  left  us  free 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  33 

On  many  fields  of  battle,  finds  his  prey  Act  II 

Trapped  at  the  last,  like  vermin  in  a  snare  ! 

COLIGNI 

These  are  but  charges — none  of  them  made  good. 
Your  mother,  maybe,  was  not  really  poisoned. 
The  shot  which  struck  me  was  an  accident. 

NAVARRE 

Well,  have  it  as  you  will.     But  I  shall  watch. 
Still,  are  our  troops  advanced,  as  I  suggested. 
South  of  the  city  ? 

COLIGNI 

They  stand  ready.  Prince, 
In  case  of  peril.     Do  you  come  with  me 
To  the  King's  presence  ? 

NAVARRE 

No  ;  whatever  threatens. 
You  must  protect  yourself.     The  task  is  easy. 
For  Charles's  temper  is  not  harsh  and  cruel. 
His  mother's  hands  have  maimed  him.     Yet,  my  friend, 
Diplomacy,  I  fear,  is  not  your  gift. 
You  are  but  honest  warrior.     You  are 


COLIGNI 

Fearless  and  true,  the  motto  of  my  house  ! 

But,  Sire,  I  pray  you  pardon  this  white  hair, 

Pardon  the  heart  that  loves  you — if  I  dare 

To  ask  of  you  a  promise  and  an  oath. 

If  there  are  plots — I  know  not  if  there  be — 

Yet  if  the  things  you  fear  take  bloody  shape 

And  drive  us  to  our  swords,  remember.  Sire, 

You  are  the  King  on  whom  rests  all  our  hopes  ! 

The  Huguenot  cause  is  yours,  and,  if  you  fall, 

It,  too,  must  perish.     It  is  ours  to  die. 

But  you — the  King — must  live.     I  know  you  brave- 

D 


34  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II    A  lion-hearted  soldier.     Yet  you  bear 

A  greater  burden  than  a  soldier's  sword — 

Your  country's  crown.     I  charge  you,  on  your  oath, 

E'en  in  the  darkest  hour  of  doubt  and  danger. 

Hold  this  the  highest  duty  that  you  owe 

To  those  you  love  and  to  our  common  faith — 

Preserve  our  King  alive  ! 

NAVARRE 

[Solemnly  kissing  his  sword,]  'Fore  God,  I  promise. 

[Exeunt  together. 

Scene  2. — Catherine's  room.  A  long  pier-glass  at  back^ 
reaching  to  the  floor.  There  is  a  gallery  at  one  side. 
Enter  Catherine  and  the  Cardinal,  Ruggieri 
the  Magician^  and  a  Chamberlain. 

CATHERINE 

The  fool,  the  idiot,  Poltrot  !  What,  only  graze 
Coligni's  arm,  and  waste  a  shot  !  [To  the  Magician.]  Is 
yonder  mirror  ready,  as  I  bade  you  ? 

RUGGIERI 

I  have  prepared  it  as  you  wish,  my  Queen. 

CATHERINE 

The  cheat  cannot  be  guessed  ? 

RUGGIERI 

Impossible,  my  liege. 

CATHERINE 

Await  my  signal.  [Ruggieri  exit.  To  Cardinal.] 
Now,  my  Lord  Cardinal,  what  news  from  Rome  ? 

cardinal 
The  Holy  Father  thinks  that  a  judgment  of  heretics, 
sanctioned  by  the  Church,  will — primarily  at  all  events — 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  35 

bring  profit  and  advantage  almost  solely  to  the  crown  of    Act  II 
France.     [Catherine  looks  at  him  uneasily.']     Therefore 
it  may  be  no  more  than  reasonable  that  a  kind  of  indemni- 
fication or  recompense   to    Rome   may  be    paid  by  the 
Louvre. 

CATHERINE 

Well,  have  you  made  out  the  reckoning  ?  How  much 
is  the  papal  blessing  to  cost  ?     Speak  ! 

CARDINAL 

If  Henry  of  Navarre  dies,  together  with  the  princes  of 
his  house,  there  will  be  no  need — so  the  Holy  Father 
thinks — to  place  the  lands  of  Navarre  and  Beam  into  the 
hands  of  any  worldly  regent 

CATHERINE 

But  ? 

CARDINAL 

But  they  can  be  made  into  a  province  of  the  Church. 

CATHERINE 

[^Gravely.']  The  sagacity  of  Rome  is  truly  wonderful  ! 
It  never  fails 

CARDINAL 

Never,  my  Queen. 

CATHERINE 

Unless  it  encounters  a  sagacity  greater  than  its  own. 

CARDINAL 

What  means  your  Majesty  ? 

CATHERINE 

Why,  this.  Margaret  loves  Guise.  How  if  I  make 
this  Guise  the  King  of  Navarre  ? 

CARDINAL 

Then,  in  that  case 


36  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  CATHERINE 

She  will  become  Queen-regent  of  Navarre  and  the 
wife  of  the  man  she  loves.  You  see,  my  plan  is  so 
compact  of  love  that  I  can  hardly  grant  this  time  the 
little  request  of  Rome. 

CARDINAL 

And  if  at  the  last  moment  the  Holy  Father  refuses 
his  consent  to  the  dealing  with  the  heretics  ? 

CATHERINE 

Cardinal,  how  old  is  the  Holy  Father  ? 

CARDINAL 

Over  sixty. 

CATHERINE 

Over  sixty  !  An  old  man.  Had  you  some  thought 
of  becoming  a  candidate — when  his  Holiness  expires  ? 

CARDINAL 

[^Hesitating  and  disconcerted.']  My  own  influence — my 
princely  birth 

CATHERINE 

[Smiles.']  Send  your  nephew,  the  Duke  of  Guise,  to  me. 

CARDINAL 

[Makes  the  sign  of  the  Cross.]  Benedicat  tibi  Dominus  ! 

[E,it. 


Enter  Margaret. 

MARGARET 

You  called  me,  mother  ? 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  37 

CATHERINE  Act  II 

Yes,  for  a  mother's  heart 
Is  yearning  for  her  child.     I  fain  would  have 
Some  little  ray  of  sunshine.     By  the  stars, 
I  love  you,  Margaret ! 

MARGARET 

I  know^  it,  mother. 

CATHERINE 

You  know^  it,  yet  you  grieve,  your  cheek  is  pale  ; 
The  mother,  whom  you  love,  has  robbed  her  child 
Of  all  her  happiness. 

MARGARET 

Because  of  France  ! 

CATHERINE 

But  now  the  end  has  come.     Because  of  France, 
I  gave  thee  to  him,  and  I  take  thee  back. 
Men  tied  the  knot  and  men  must  let  it  loose, 
Heaven  did  not  will  this  marriage.     Navarre's  false  ! 

MARGARET 

[Start/ed.]  Almighty  God,  and  why  ? 

CATHERINE 

He  and  his  following  die  !     They  stand  accused 
Of  treachery  to  God  and  France.     They  die  ! 

MARGARET 

What — the  Huguenots  ? 

CATHERINE 

They  only  came  to  Paris 
To  form  a  plot  against  thy  brother,  Charles, 
And  the  whole  race  of  Valois. 


38  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  MARGARET 

Was  this  the  man 
To  whom  I  pledged  my  faith  as  loving  wife  ? 
It  cost  him  little,  doubtless  ;  it  was  I 
Who  took  the  oaths  and  suffered — in  my  soul, 
He  came  not  to  my  chamber — now  I  see 
The  reason — nay,  he  could  not,  dared  not  come. 
\To  Mother^  You  must  have  proofs,  my  mother,  ample 

proofs 
Of  such  a  shameful  treason  ! 

CATHERINE 

Proofs  I  have. 
Which,  when  your  brother  hears,  will  make  him  king 
Beyond  his  wont.     Leave  all  the  proofs  to  him. 
You  could  not  save  him,  even  if  you  loved 
The  man  whom  now  you  hate.     Give  up  the  traitor, 
And  let  him  die  !     My  daughter,  you  are  free  ! 

MARGARET 

[Half  sobbing,']  Ah,  mother  mine, 

I  would  have  suffered  all,  and  borne  my  cross 

Could  but  my  pain  have  watered  with  my  tears 

The  flowers  of  peace  for  France  !     'Tis  over  now  ! 

I  tear  the  traitor's  image  from  my  heart ; 

Last  relic  of  a  loveless  love — 'tis  gone  ! 

And  I  am  free — am  free  ! 


CATHERINE 

Beloved  child  !    [Embraces  her, 
[Smiling.']  And  shall  we  find  in  European  courts 
A  second  husband  ? 

MARGARET 

Never  ! 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  39 

CATHERINE  ^^t  II 

Shall  I  ask 

The  Holy  Sisters  of  the  Heart  of  God 

Dear  love,  how  pale  you  grow  !     And  do  you  dare 
Another  wedlock  with  another  Henry 

Guise  enters  at  hack. 

MARGARET 

What  mean  you,  mother  ? 

CATHERINE 

Of  the  house  of  Guise  ? 

MARGARET 

I  am  but  youAg, 

Yet  far  behind  me  lies  a  childhood's  dream. 
When  I  could  think  of  one  who  loved  me  well, 
And  whom  I  loved  as  no  one  else  beside. 
He  seemed  the  princeliest  knight  within  our  Courts, 
The  truest,  tenderest  warrior.     In  his  eyes 
I  saw  the  faith  of  one  who  could  not  swerve 
A  hair's-breadth  from  his  duty  or  his  love. 
Not  like  this  Huguenot  rebel  !  this  false  King 
Of  heretic  traitors  !  \^he  sees  Guise. 

Ah  !     The  Prince  of  Guise  ! 

guise 

\Comes  forwara  and  falls  on  one  knee  before  her?[  Margot  ! 

dear  Margot  !  let  me  claim  thy  hand  ! 
And  let  my  knee  fulfil  its  wonted  task 
Of  joyful  service  at  thy  feet ! 

MARGARET 

My  mother, 
You  sent  for  him  ?     That,  surely,  was  not  well ! 


40  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  CATHERINE 

[To  Guise.]  You've  spoken  with  my  lord  the  Cardinal  ? 

GUISE 

[Rising  and  kissing  the  Queen's  hand,]  I  heard  my  fate  as 

in  a  waking  dream. 
As  for  the  Huguenots,  I  knew  your  mind 
Was  set  against  them 

CATHERINE 

[Hastily  interrupting  him.]  They  are  traitors  all  ! 
This  hateful  plot  against  our  royal  house — 
You  understand  me,  Prince  ? — is  in  my  hands. 
No  more  of  them.     I  have  a  sweeter  task. 
To-morrow  Margaret  is  free,  released 
From  all  the  vows  she  gave  the  Bourbon  King. 
The  rest,  perchance,  you  would  prefer  to  hear 
From  younger  lips.     Heaven's  blessing  on  you  both  ! 

[Exit  Catherine. 

GUISE 

[Aside,]  The  plot  ?     What  plot  ?     I  know  not  what  she 

means  ! 
But  what  care  I  ?     [Aloud.]  To-morrow,  Margaret  ? 

MARGARET 

[Excitedly.]  Go,  Henry,  go  ! 

GUISE 

Why  do  you  tremble,  dear  ? 

MARGARET 

To-morrow  I  am  free  ;  to-morrow,  Henry  ! 
I  think  you  love  me — leave  me  for  to-day  ! 

GUISE 

Between  to-morrow  and  to-day  there  lies 

Only  a  moment — yet  eternity 

To  all  my  wishes  !    [Coming  nearer  and  trying  to  clasp  her. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  \\ 

MARGARET  Act  II 

Leave  me  for  to-day, 
I  pray  you,  Henry  !  \ls  going, 

GUISE 

Whither  are  you  going  ? 

MARGARET 

To  save  me  from  myself !     Farew^ell,  farewell ! 


GUISE 


You  love  me,  then  ? 


MARGARET 

To-morrow  you  shall  know  !  \Runs  out, 

GUISE 

She  loves  me  !     Call  my  blood  but  stagnant  water, 

Or  I  will  wring  an  answer  from  her  lips 

This  very  hour  !  [Follows  her. 


Enter  Charles  followed  by  Coligni,  who  stands  waiting, 
Charles  is  engrossed  in  a  paper, 

CHARLES 
[Reading?^  "  Oh,  kingly  crown. 

When  cares  o'erweight  our  hearts,  from  youth  to  age, 
Will  thy  dread  burden  be  our  only  wage  ? " 
Good.     Who  is  here  ?     How  like  you  these  few  lines  ? 

COLIGNI 

Sire,  'tis  a  sonnet. 

CHARLES 

Ay,  I  have  some  skill 
In  turning  out  a  verse.     Why,  are  you  not 
Admiral  Coligni  ?     Wherefore  are  you  come  ? 


42  DRAMAS  AND   DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  COLIGNI 

I  came  because  you  sent  for  me,  my  liege. 

CHARLES 

Your  arm — you're  wounded  ? 

COLIGNI 

'Twas  an  accident ! 

CHARLES 

Stay,  I  remember  now.     My  head  is  racked 
With  many  thoughts.     I  have  so  much  to  think  of ! 
You  cannot  say  /  bade  the  villain  fire  ? 
It  was  not  I  ! 

COLIGNI 

No  more,  I  pray  you,  Sire  ! 

CHARLES 

Nay,  do  not  think  it.     They  plan  many  things 

Without  my  cognizance,  and  at  the  last 

They  ask  me  for  my  sanction  and  my  seal. 

Fm  not  so  stupid  as  they  think.     I  can 

Make  ritornels  as  well  as  other  men. 

Only  in  speech  at  times  the  right  word  fails  me. 

I  bade  you  come,  'tis  true,  Lord  Admiral, 

But  now  it  grieves  me.     You  are  much  too  loyal, 

And  loyalty  is  folly — as  you  know. 

COLIGNI 

Nay,  Sire,  'tis  surely  better  to  be  loyal 

Whate'er  the  cost.     Your  gracious  message  bade  me 

Come  to  your  presence — not  to  be  a  guest. 

But  for  some  warlike  service  ? 

CHARLES 

Yes,  be  seated. 
Come  nearer.     I  can  look  you  in  the  face. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  43 

I  like  to  watch  your  eyes — 'tis  passing  strange —  Act  II 

For  most  men's  eyes  I  shun.     Dost  know,  my  friend, 
You  are  to  march  to  Flanders  ? 

COLIGNI 

[  Uneasily.']  Flanders,  Sire  ? 

What  is  my  business  there  ? 

CHARLES 

Oh,  pray  you,  ask 
My  mother,  who  is  acting  with  the  Spaniard, 
Duke  Alva,  Philip's  captain.     At  Bayonne 
They  lately  shuffled  cards — you  know  the  man. 
What  is  your  business  ?     Why,  hang  heretics, 
Flay,  burn,  behead  the  rebels,  make  a  wager 
Which  of  you  two's  the  better  murderer  ! 

COLIGNI 

[Drawing  back.]    You   will    not  so  dishonour    my   gray 

hairs  ! 
What,  old  Coligni,  hand  in  hand  in  blood 
With  the  Dutch  hangman — in  the  pay  of  Spain  ! 
Oh,  pardon  me,  my  liege — I  speak  too  bold. 
I  know  the  perils  gathering  for  France 
Beyond  the  mountains,  in  Don  Philip's  Court  ! 
Where  lie  the  troops  which  I  must  lead  to  Flanders  ? 

CHARLES 

Rochelle,  or  Chatillon — I  know  not. 

COLIGNI 

What ! 
My  Huguenots — my  brothers  in  the  faith  ! 
And  I  to  lead  them  to  a  massacre 
Of  fellow-Christians  in  the  Netherlands — 
For  Philip's  greater  glory  ?     Gracious  Heaven, 
This  is  no  plan  of  yours,  my  honoured  liege, 
This  devil's  work  is  hatched  by  other  brains  ! 


44  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  CHARLES 

Hush — do  not  speak  so  loud — do  not  revile  them. 
They've  told  me,  till  I  think  it  must  be  true, 
I  owe  to  Heaven  for  my  many  sins 
Atonement  and  some  signal  recompense. 
They  bid  me  do  some  act  of  penitence, 
Some  royal  act  !     To  w^in  eternal  grace 
There  is  but  one  v^^ay — so  they  ever  tell  me — 
I  needs  must  clear  the  land  of  heresy. 
And  wipe  out  Huguenots  from  sea  to  sea 
To  the  last  man. 

COLIGNI 

Good  God  !     They  poison  bodies, 
And  now  assail  men's  souls  ! 

CHARLES 

What,  Admiral  ! 
You  dare  to  thwart  my  wishes — my  commands  ? 
I've  had  men  killed  for  less.     Have  you  no  fear  ? 

COLIGNI 

Due  reverence,  my  liege — I  know  not  fear. 

CHARLES 

Praise  Heaven,  then,  I've  found  a  miracle, 

A  man  who  knows  no  fear  !     Speak  on,  speak  on  ; 

I  give  you  leave  to  speak. 

COLIGNI 

I  thank  your  Majesty 
For  this  your  gracious  word.     Ah,  do  not  think 
Coligni  stands  before  you,  but  a  man 
Of  flesh  and  blood  like  you,  who  loves  his  foe. 
And  knows  the  touch  of  human  tenderness. 
And  human  sorrow.     Put  aside  your  crown — 
This  gilded  trouble  which  you  sing  in  verse — 
And  be  a  man  like  me.     Burst  all  the  chains 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  45 

Of  royal  habit — all  this  courtly  pomp  ;  Act  II 

Let  your  heart  speak,  as  though  I  were  your  father 
And  you  my  son.     Naught  severs  us,  believe  me. 
Except  a  book 

CHARLES 

A  book  ? 

COLIGNI 

The  Holy  Bible 
Which  by  the  mouth  of  all  the  holy  prophets 
God  hath  revealed. 

CHARLES 

Yes,  father,  yes — speak  on. 

COLIGNI 

They  tell  you  that  the  blood  of  heretics 

Is  a  sweet  savour  to  eternal  Heaven  ; 

God's  writing  in  that  Bible  runs  not  so. 

'Tis  "Judge  not  and  ye  shall  not  be  judged  "  ;   or  this, 

"  Love  your  enemies,  bless  them  that  curse  you  " — 

Of  such  commands  love  is  the  true  fulfilment. 

[Catherine  and  the  Cardinal  appear  in  the 
gallery  behind, 

CHARLES 

Is  that  so  ? 
'Tis  not  what  they  have  taught  me. 

COLIGNI 

No — the  priests 
Explain  the  book  according  to  their  needs. 

CHARLES 

You  have  white  hair — I  do  not  think  you  lie. 
"  Love  your  enemies,  bless  them  that  curse  you." 
A  wondrous  text — I  never  heard  the  like  ! 


46  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II    Oh,  "judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged  of  God  " — 
That  is  a  fearful  fate  !     But  tell  me  more. 
What  else  is  in  the  book  ? 

COLIGNI 

"  The  time  shall  come 
When  many  shall  draw  near  to  me  and  say, 

*  Lord,  in  thy  name  full  many  a  work  is  ours, 
Lord,  in  thy  name  we've  spilled  much  human  blood, 
And  in  thy  name  have  doomed  to  endless  death.' 

[A  pause. 
Then  will  the  Lord  reply  to  them  in  thunder, 

*  I  made  you  ministers  of  endless  Love, 
And  all  ye  know  is  Enmity  and  Hate. 
Away,  away — ye  workers  of  all  evil  ! '  " 

CHARLES 

[Covers  his  face  with  his  hands^  and  falls  on  his  knees.^  Have 
mercy.  Lord,  have  mercy  on  thy  servant  ! 

[Catherine  and  Cardinal  steal  out  of  gallery, 

COLIGNI 

[Lifts  him  up.'\  Yet  whosoever  cometh  to  His  throne. 

Lisping  the  childish  syllables  of  prayer, 
Shall  find  forgiveness,  for  He  willeth  not 
A  sinner's  death. 

CHARLES 

I  pray  you,  give  me  truth. 
Truth — what  is  truth  ? 


We  can  but  love. 


COLIGNI 

Truth  only  dwells  with  God. 


CHARLES 

Then  give  this  love  to  me, 
God  knows  I  need  it,  father.     Mother's  love 
I  never  had,  I  never  shall  have  more. 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  47 

I  fain  would  pray.     And  therefore  leave  me,  father.  Act  II 

You  shall  not  go  to  Flanders.     Let  me  pray. 

[COLIGNI  exit. 

CHARLES 

\^inks  on  his  knees.]  Beloved  Saviour — dear  Bartholomew, 

Whose  feast  we  keep  to-morrow — at  the  stake 

I  promise  thee  a  dozen  heretics, — 

All  that  I  ask  of  thee's  to  save  my  soul, 

Forgive — forget — 

Be  gracious,  Lord,  forgive — I  cannot  pray. 

No  prayer  succeeds. 


Enter  Catherine  and  the  Cardinal. 

CATHERINE 

Stand  up,  I'll  teach  you  prayer  ! 

CHARLES 

[Shuddering.]  You — mother — here  ? 

CATHERINE 

To  open  your  blind  eyes 
Before  the  flames  of  Paris. 

CHARLES 

Paris  ? 

CATHERINE 

Yes, 
Before  your  city  falls.     You  are  the  traitor  ! 
You  have  betrayed  the  Lord,  betrayed  the  Church, 


CARDINAL 

And  doomed  your  soul  to  everlasting  hell  ! 

CHARLES 

Ah,  save  me  from  this  anguish  !     Give  me  truth, 
The  truth.     Who  has  the  truth,  my  mother  ? 


48  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  CATHERINE 

[Pointing  to  the  Cardinal.]  Rome  ! 

CARDINAL 

This  is  the  truth,  King  Charles,  as  it  is  written, 
"  He  that  is  not  with  me  is  against  me." 

CATHERINE 

Prepare  thyself  by  penitence,  my  son. 

To  be  forgiven.     You  think  your  mother  cruel ; 

You  call  her  hard,  and  why  ?     Because  I  know 

My  duty  as  the  widow  of  a  king  ; 

My  royal  duty  to  the  house  of  Valois, 

And  to  the  throne  of  France. 

CHARLES 

And  house  and  throne, 
Are  they  in  danger  ?     What  is  this  you  dream  ? 

CATHERINE 

If  it  be  dream,  I  would  some  kindly  sleep 

Might  win  my  eyelids  to  forgetfulness  ! 

I  cannot  count  the  days,  the  sleepless  nights. 

The  slow-drawn  hours,  wherein  I  think  and  scheme 

Both  for  the  Valois,  and  the  royal  crown. 

CARDINAL 

And  all  seems  vain  !    For  look  you,  how  the  world 

Is  changing  from  the  fashion  of  its  prime, 

The  old  world  dying  tardily,  the  new 

Rising  in  might  from  out  the  womb  of  Time. 

Our  ancient  service  was  of  Reverence, 

Of  Faith,  the  humble  worship  of  the  Unseen  ; 

Of  Trust,  the  simple  credence  in  a  God. 

Now  all  is  chaos  and  catastrophe  ! 

That  cursed  art  of  Mayence  has  laid  bare 

To  vulgar  eyes  a  prostituted  truth. 

The  tree  of  knowledge  is  plucked  bare  of  leaves  ; 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  49 

Men  eat  forbidden  fruit,  and,  eating,  die  !  Act  II 

Till  at  the  last,  the  monk  of  Wittenberg, 

Spawn  of  the  Devil,  blasts  the  world  with  lies, 

And  Hell  itself,  bursting  its  barriers, 

Roars  at  the  portals  of  the  Lateran  ! 

Monarchs  and  crowns  go  downwards  in  the  crash 

Of  falling  empires  ;  every  slave's  a  king. 

And  kings  are  slaves.     Wilt  thou  await  thy  doom, 

Thou  latest  lily  of  the  line  of  Valois, 

Till  the  storm  take  thee,  and  thy  battered  leaves 

Fall  into  nothingness  ? 


CHARLES 

What  must  I  do  ? 

CARDINAL 

It  is  commanded  to  maintain  thy  rights  : 
And  make  all  earthly  means  secure  this  end. 
Such  is  the  ancient  doctrine  of  thy  house. 
Look  everywhere  around  thee — war  and  hate. 
Carnage  and  ruin,  pestilence  and  death, 
O'erspread  the  land  and  prove  the  wrath  of  Heaven. 
Thou  art  begirt  with  peril,  learn  thy  task  ; 
Crush  or  be  crushed  ;  destroy  or  be  destroyed  ! 

{^Exit  Cardinal. 

CHARLES 

{Turning  to  Catherine.]    What  would   you   have    me 

do  ?     I  will  not  lie 
To  those  who  are  my  friends,  nor  prove  a  traitor 
To  men  who  trust  me  ;  everything  but  that ! 

CATHERINE 

When  you  invited  heretics  to  Paris 
To  see  your  sister  wedded,  and  they  came 
Armed  with  a  plan  to  overthrow  your  house, 
I  call  that  treachery  and  nothing  else  ! 

CHARLES 

[Startled.]  What  proof  have  you  of  that  ? 


so  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II 

CATHERINE 

[Strikes  a  bell,']  Marshal  Tavannes  ! 

[He  enters. 
His  Majesty  the  King  desires  to  know 
What  news  you  have  of  districts  south  of  Paris  ? 

TAVANNES 

My  messengers  report  that  troops  in  arms, 

From  Troyes  to  Chartres,  are  forming  crescent-wise, 

And  threatening  your  city, 

CHARLES 

Troops  ?     What  troops  ? 

TAVANNES 

The  Huguenots,  my  liege. 

CATHERINE 

[Makes  a  sign  to  Tavannes.]  You  may  retire. 

[Tavannes  exit, 
[To   Charles.]    And    have    you    put   Coligni    to    the 

proof  ? 
Goes  he  to  Flanders  ? 

CHARLES 

[Startled.]  No,  he  would  not  lead 

His  forces  'gainst  his  brethren  in  the  faith 

To  the  Low  Countries. 

CATHERINE 

I  was  sure  of  it  ! 
Will  you  peruse  this  paper  ?  [Gives  him  a  letter, 

CHARLES 

[Reads,]    "  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England  is  ready  with 
ships  and  money  in  case  Admiral  Coligni  will  support 
the  rising  in  Flanders,  secretly." 
How  came  this  letter,  mother,  in  your  hands  ? 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  51 

CATHERINE  Act  II 

'Twas  captured  in  Boulogne. 

CHARLES 

Ah,  and  these  troops  ? 

CATHERINE 

Of  two  things  one.     Either  they  go  to  Flanders, 
Or  else  they  storm  this  drowsy  capital 
While  we  are  feasting. 

CHARLES 

Oh,  then,  mother,  help  \ 
Defend  the  crown  of  France,  and  save  me. 

CATHERINE 

[^spreading  a  paper  before  him  at  the  table,"]  Sign. 

CHARLES 

[Bending  over   it.']    "The    Huguenots    in    Paris," — "in 

one  night," — 
"  To  the  last  man."     Why,  fifteen  thousand  souls 
Are  here  in  Paris  ! 

CATHERINE 

There  is  more  than  that. 
Read  further. 

CHARLES 

"And  in  all  the  provinces 
From  sea  to  sea."     Great  Heaven  1     Words  like  these 
Reek  with  the  scent  of  blood.     They  drive  me  mad  ! 
This  plan  is  hatched  of  devils  j  hell  itself 
Rewards  its  execution  ! 

CATHERINE 

[^Showing  another  document^  to  which  hangs  a  seal.] 

Will  you  hear 
A  message  from  his  Holiness  the  Pope  f 


52  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  CHARLES 

[Reads.']    "  A  hundred  thousand  slaughtered  Huguenots, — 
I  grant  him  absolution."     [Laughs  insanely.] 

Only  that  ! 
A  paltry  offering  !     And  I  must  sign, 
Or  else  be  damned  !     Nay,  mother,  leave  me  one, 
Leave  me  my  Henry,  for  he  drives  the  ghosts 
Out  of  my  head  by  all  his  merry  jests. 
And  he's  not  dangerous !     Leave  me  my  fool ! 

CATHERINE 

Better  to  leave  the  hundred  thousand  lives 
Than  just  this  Henry  !     Spare  his  life  and  then, 
Here  in  thy  stead,  this  so-called  harmless  fool, 
This  Henry  of  Navarre  is — King  of  France  ! 

CHARLES 

Navarre — the  King  ?     What  Henry,  King  of  France  ? 


Nay,  but  my  will- 


CATHERINE 

Fate  laughs  at  all  thy  wills  ! 
Crush  or  be  crushed — destroy  or  be  destroyed  ! 

[She  begins  to  make  incantations. 
By  pains  and  tortures  in  the  gulfs  of  hell 
Which  ye  shall  suffer  if  ye  mock  my  w^ill — 
Ay,  for  a  thousand  years — appear,  appear. 
Ye  spirits  of  the  nether  world,  appear, 
Obedient  to  my  summons  !     Spirits  come  ! 

[A  flash  of  lightning    and  thunder,     A  gale  of 
wind  blows  through  the   room.     Some  of  the 
candles  are  blown  out.     In  others^  the  flames 
visibly  bend  before  the  draught. 
In  yonder  mirror  show  to  us  the  face 
Of  him  who,  after  Charles,  shall  wear  the  crown  ! 
Out  of  the  clouds  it  comes  !     Behold,  behold  ! 

[Clouds  of  smoke  rise^  and  then  the  picture  of  a 
king  with  sceptre  and  crown  is  seen  for  the 
moment  on  the  surface  of  the  mirror^  after- 
wards disappearing  in  smoke. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  53 

CHARLES  Act  II 

\Who  approaches  the  mirror  and  then  draws  back."]     Ha  ! 

A  king's  face  !     'Tis  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 
Look,  how  it  bends  its  scornful  eyes  on  mine, 
And  waves  its  stolen  sceptre  !     Thunder  and  devils  ! 
Thou — if  thou  art  a  king — stand  to  my  sword  ! 

[He   advances  towards   the    mirror  with  drawn 
sword,  then  steps  back. 
Why,  look  you — it  is  gone  !     Stand,  coward,  stand  ! 

CATHERINE 

[Touches  his  arm  and  points  to   the  table.']    Impalpable  is 
Fate  !     Kill  flesh  and  blood  ! 

CHARLES 

[Sobbing.]  In  flesh  and  blood  I  kill  thee,  cursed  shape  I 
Defend  thyself!     Canst  thou  return  and  break 
The  marble  ribs  of  thine  imperial  tomb  ? 
Then  be  my  heir  !     For  with  a  pen-stroke — thus — 

[Signs  the  paper. 
I  stab  thee  to  thy  death  !  [Falls  fainting  to  the  floor. 

[Catherine  takes  up  the  paper  and  holds  it  before 
her  triumphantly. 

CATHERINE 

Crush  or  be  crushed — destroy  or  be  destroyed  ! 


ACT   III 


Act  III  Scene. — State-room  in  the  Louvre.  At  one  side  there  is  an 
oratory.  In  the  centre  back  there  is  a  curtain^  behind 
which  some  steps  between  pillars  lead  up  to  a  balcony. 
Late  afternoon.  In  the  background  Catherine  is 
with  the  Cardinal  in  prayer.  In  the  foreground  are 
the  Dukes  of  Anjou  and  Guise,  the  Marshals 
Tavannes  and  Gondi-Retz.     Poltrot  at  back. 

CATHERINE 

[Getting  up  from  her  knees  and  coming  forward.'\ 
Are  we  ready,  gentlemen  ?  My  Lord  Cardinal — you 
represent  the  cause  of  Holy  Church  in  France — will  you 
ask  these  Princes  whether  any  one  of  them  desires  to 
recall  the  solemn  oath  he  pledged  to  you  ? 

cardinal 
I  ask,  as  the  Queen  desires. 

GUISE 

Command  my  sword. 

ANJOU 

And  why  ask  me  ?     My  work  is  war. 

CATHERINE 

Marshal  Tavannes,  our  troops  will  take  up  their 
position  before  the  Louvre.  When  eleven  strikes  all  the 
streets  opening  into  the  Square  of  the  Louvre  are  to  be 
barricaded  with  chains.  The  houses  of  the  Catholics 
must    have   lights    in    them.     Whoever   appears    in    the 

54 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  '    55 

thoroughfares  without  a  white  cross  on  his  shoulder,  dies.    Act  III 
A  shot  from  the  tower  of  St.  Germain  will   give  the 
signal  for  the  festival  to  begin.     In  one  night  France 
will  win  peace,  or  never  again  !     Henry  of  Guise,  of  all 
the  thousand  victims,  I  desire  but  one  at  thy  hands  ! 


GUISE 


Navarre  ? 


CATHERINE 

Navarre  for  myself !     For  you — Coligni. 

GUISE 

By  my  father's  blood,  which  cries  to  me  from  the 
ground  against  this  murderer — Coligni  dies  ! 

ANJOU 

Death  to  the  traitors ! — Traitors  to  Heaven  and 
France !  \_Exeunt  Princes. 

CATHERINE 

Your  Eminence,  I  still  require  some  ghostly  help 
from  you. 

CARDINAL 

Can  the  Church  help  you  ?  We,  who  swing  the 
censer  and  bear  the  Cross — what  can  we  do  ? 

CATHERINE 

You  can  do  much.  Throw  open  all  the  monasteries 
of  Paris — let  them  vomit  forth  their  inmates  into  the 
streets  !  Let  those  who  cannot  wield  the  sword  and 
dagger,  wave  the  crucifix  ! 

CARDINAL 

Enough,  my  Queen.  'Tis  an  idea  of  which  Tor- 
quemada  might  be  proud  !  {Exit  Cardinal. 


56  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  CATHERINE 

Poltrot  ! 

PoLTROT  advances, 

POLTROT 

Your  Majesty  requires  me  ? 

CATHERINE 

Arrest  the  King  of  Navarre  to-night. 

POLTROT 

Where  shall  I  find  him  ? 

CATHERINE 

In  the  turret-chamber, 

POLTROT 

And  if — if  the  King  defends  himself  ? 

CATHERINE 

I  hope  he  may  ! 

POLTROT 

What — that  I  may  be  forced  to — you  mean  ? 

CATHERINE 

Away,  knave  !     What  you  mean,  I  mean  ! 

[Goes  to  door^  which  Poltrot  opens, 

POLTROT 

[Bowing  low.]  As  you  will,  your  Majesty.        [Exeunt. 
Enter  Charles  and  Margaret.     //  is  growing  dusk. 

CHARLES 

Now  you  know  all.     The  wicked  thought  was  hers ; 
- — 'Tis  always  she  who  fills  my  reeling  brain 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  57 

With  such  rank  poison — and  I  signed  my  name.  Act  III 

I  signed  my  name — in  sooth,  it  drives  me  mad. 

And  therefore  have  I  sought  thee,  sister  mine, 

To  see  thy  face  and  hear  thy  voice  !     Great  Heaven, 

I  needs  must  give  my  pent-up  soul  relief, 

I  needs  must  talk  with  some  one.     And  you  love, 

You — you  alone — in  all  this  stupid  world. 

Your  hapless  brother.     Margot  is  still  here, 

Margot  will  comfort  me,  as  she  was  wont. 

When  in  the  bygone  days,  as  boy  and  girl, 

We  played  at  Cluny. 

MARGARET 

Brother — brother  mine 


CHARLES 

Can  you  remember  how  in  Cluny  woods 

We  played  together  ?      And  I  see  you  still 

Shoot  like  a  lizard  through  the  golden  green 

Amid  the  sunshine,  and  your  merry  laugh 

Trilled  like  the  happy  chatter  of  the  birds  ! 

And  the  old  gardener — is  he  living  yet  ? 

I  would  I  knew.  \With  a  sudden  change  of  manner. 

Why  should  not  Harry  hold 
The  sceptre  when  Fm  dead  ?     It  matters  not. 
Naught  matters  now.     I  once  was  proud  to  think 
The  Valois  line  might  long  endure — but  now — 
I  do  not  love  my  brothers,  and  the  Queen, 
Queen-Mother,  Catherine,  with  her  magic  arts 
I  hate  !     'Twas  jugglery  which  bent  my  will 
And  made  me  sign  that  paper — she  it  was 
Who  fooled  my  senses  with  the  cursed  tricks 
Of  black-souled  Ruggieri  and  his  crew. 
And  is  there  no  revenge  ?     Why,  Henry  King, — 
That  cannot  break  my  sleep  !     With  Henry  King, 
You  would  be  Queen  of  France  and  wear  my  crown. 
I  should  be  happy  then — and  I  would  have 
A  little  garden  near  the  Cluny  woods 
Where  I  could  train  carnations 


58  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  MARGARET 

[Smi/ing.]  What,  my  brother, 

When  you  were  dead  ? 

CHARLES 

[Sii/I  absently.']  But  Harry  is  a  fool. 

'Tis  pity,  Margot,  and  he  loves  you  not.  [A  pause. 

They  say  that  Cousin  Guise  came  somewhat  late 
From  out  your  chamber. 

MARGARET 

[Rising.']  Sire,  you  forget  yourself. 

CHARLES 

[Pettishly.]    "Sire,"    "Sire,"    'tis    always    "Sire"    and 

"Majesty"! 
I  hate  these  royal  titles  !     Oh,  for  love. 
One  little  grain  of  love  to  ease  my  heart 
And  fill  my  eyes  with  tears.     Come,  sister  mine, 
I  would  not  have  you  angry — let  me  throw. 
Just  for  to-night,  my  royalty  aside, 
And  be  a  brother  merely.     See,  'tis  dark 
Already  over  Paris — go  and  pray. 
Pray  for  yourself  and  me — but  leave  her  out, 
Leave  mother  out,  that  God  may  hear  your  prayers  ! 

[Exit. 

MARGARET 

[Musingly.]  The  world  was  happy  once  and  seemed  to 

smile  : 
Now  all  seems  different.     I  drain  the  cup 
Which  all  our  fathers  drained — the  primal  curse 
Of  sin  and  suffering — which  from  sire  to  son 
Comes  on  our  race  like  a  descending  flood. 
I  know  not  where  I  stand,  between  the  love 
Which  once  was  mine — to  take  or  throw  away — 
And  all  the  horror  of  these  new  espousals. 

[Covers  her  face  with  her  hands. 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  59 

Act  III 

Enter  Navarre  through  a  secret  door. 

NAVARRE 

Margaret  ? 

MARGARET 

Who's  there  ? 

NAVARRE 

'Tis  I, — Navarre  ! 
Margaret  of  Valois,  I  vt^ould  speak  with  you. 

MARGARET 

Sire,  if  men's  lives  are  fastened,  each  to  each. 
By  threads  of  destiny,  we  twain  must  be 
Together  to  the  fated  end.     Speak  on. 

NAVARRE 

I  thank  thee.  Princess,  hear  me  to  the  end. 
I'll  bare  to  thee  my  soul.     When  first  I  knew 
That  thou  and  I  were  plighted,  and  a  peace 
Assured  'twixt  both  our  camps,  I  asked  myself. 
Are  they  in  earnest,  and  does  Paris  want 
A  true  alliance  ?     Then  no  price  were  high. 
No  sacrifice  too  great,  e'en  though  the  bride 
Were  something  other  than — fair  Margaret  ! 
Our  country's  claim  is  clearly  paramount. 
No  matter  though  the  bridegroom  be  a  man 
Light-minded,  foolish,  fickle,  as  you  know. 

MARGARET 

\^Astontshed.'\  Not  so,  I  find  you  changed.  You  are  not  he 
Whom  once  I  knew. 

NAVARRE 

We  came  to  Paris,  all 
The  Huguenot  chiefs,  with  friendship  in  our  hearts 


6o  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III    And  swords  in  sheath — to  find  your  Catholics 
Armed  to  the  teeth.     I  hastened  to  the  Louvre 
Before  my  men,  to  keep  a  watchful  eye 
On  all  that  might  befall.     And  had  I  come, 
As  gallant  as  your  virgin  fancy  dreamed. 
And  had  you  learned  to  love  me — did  the  Queen 
In  truth  desire  your  happiness  alone  f 
Was  this  her  only  object  ? 

MARGARET 

Nay — I  know  not. 

NAVARRE 

Nor  I,  fair  Princess — yet  I  needs  must  know. 
Because  of  France  I  wore  a  mask  of  folly, 
And  made  a  mock  of  all  my  bridal  rights — 
The  while  I  watched  the  Queen,  to  learn  my  fate. 
Your  fate  and  mine — the  destiny  of  France  ! 

MARGARET 

No  more,  no  more  !     My  sorrow  is  past  cure  ! 
I  dreamed  you  only  worthy  of  contempt, 
I  dared  despise  you,  at  my  mother's  bidding  ! 
It  was  my  mother's  act — it  is  her  curse  ; 
She  dooms  to  ruin  everything  she  rules  ! 

NAVARRE 

Blame  not  thyself,  nor  her  ;  I  too  have  dreamed, 

And  found  fulfilment  bitter.     When  I  lay 

Upon  my  bed  in  utter  wretchedness 

Here  in  this  Louvre,  and  the  slow  daylight  crept 

Across  the  growing  whiteness  of  the  sky, 

I  had  a  vision  of  what  might  have  been. 

I  saw  thy  face  grown  kindly  with  a  love 

Of  perfect  faith  in  me  :  I  saw  myself 

Upon  a  throne — the  throne  of  France. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  6i 

MARGARET  ,  Act  III 

[Startled^  and  to  herself.]  'Tis  thus 

You  are  accused — but  no,  it  cannot  be  ! 

NAVARRE 

Around  us  twain  a  race  of  happy  brothers 

Whom  peace  had  cradled  in  forgetfulness 

Of  all  the  bloody  past.     From  sea  to  sea 

No  hand  was  raised  for  strife,  no  swords  were  drawn. 

No  trumpet  blown  for  warfare.     With  one  voice 

They  hymned  the  God  of  righteousness  and  love — 

One  God  for  peaceful  France  ! 

MARGARET 

O  cruel  mother ! 
O  husband,  husband  ! 

NAVARRE 

[Kneels.']  Nay,  my  Margot,  thou 

Wert  centre  of  my  dream,  thy  face  enshrined 
Queen  of  my  vision,  Queen  of  happy  France, 
Queen  of  my  heart ! 

MARGARET 

[Draws  back  and  speaks  in  a  whisper.]  Nay,   Henry   or 

Navarre  ! 
Too  late  ! 

NAVARRE 

Too  late  ? 

MARGARET 

[TVith  a  revulsion  of  feeling.]  Yes.     If  of  you  and  me 
One  is  the  baser,  the  less  worthy,  I — 
'Tis  I,  and  I  alone.     It  were  not  just. 
If  on  this  day  which  severs  us  for  ever — 
Which  tears  apart  the  husband  and  the  wife. 
And  leaves  each  solitary,  friendless,  lone — 


62  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  NAVARRE 

\^tarUng^  Good  God  !     What  mean  you  ? 

MARGARET 

[Smi/ing  half  sadly.']  Ah,  I  know  it  now, 

I  knew  not  love  before.     In  innocence 

Of  virgin  fancy,  when  my  heart  was  young 

I  pledged  my  maiden  vows  and  thought  I  loved. 

'Twas  long  ago,  before  I  saw  your  face. 

We  dream  some  early  dream  of  wedded  troth, 

We  see  some  face,  some  form  of  gallant  mould, 

And  straightway  think  'tis  he  !     Love  comes  not  thus. 

'Tis  born  of  travail  and  of  loneliness. 

Not  in  the  dawn,  but  in  the  midday  heat. 

Born  of  the  spirit's  anguish,  in  the  fire 

Of  noontide  passion,  in  its  fiercest  glow — 

Too  late  !  too  late  !  too  late  ! 

NAVARRE 

Nay,  Margaret, 
I  know  not  what  you  mean.     'Tis  not  too  late, 
I  cannot  leave  you  now,  for  if  we  love. 
What  need  we  else  ? 

MARGARET 

'Twas  a  good  angel,  love. 
Which  brought  thee  to  my  side,  which  led  us  both 
To  make  confessions.     Yet,  but  tell  me  this  ; 
It  is  not  true  you  plotted  against  Charles 
To  win  his  royal  throne  ?     That  dream  of  yours 
Was  only  dream  ? 

NAVARRE 

By  yonder  cross.  Princess, 
I  am  no  traitor  ;  and  my  dream  concerned 
The  welfare  of  the  people,  not  myself  ! 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  63 

MARGARET  Act  III 

\With  sudden  energy,]  For  God's  sake  save  yourself ! 

NAVARRE 

In  Heaven's  name, 
Tell  me  your  meaning  ?     For  your  vv^ords  convey 
Some  hint  of  awful  danger  !     Let  me  face  it, 
It  only  scares,  unseen. 

MARGARET 

Look  out  and  see. 

NAVARRE 

[Looking  behind  the  curtain.']  I  see  a  city  slumbering  in 

peace. 
Nay,  w^hat  is  this  ?     Bodies  of  armed  men 
Are  gathering  around  the  Louvre  ;  each  soldier  wears 
A  white  cross  on  his  shoulder.     [Stepping  back.]     Has  the 

scene 
Of  brooding  horror,  shrouded  by  the  night — 
Has  it  a  name,  a  meaning  ? 

MARGARET 

It  is  death. 

NAVARRE 

Death  ?     And  to  whom  ?     The  princes  of  my  house — 
Coligni  ?     Conde  ?     IJenry  of  Navarre  ? 

MARGARET 

To-night  ten  thousand  Huguenots  are  slain  ! 
To-night,  this  very  hour.     Ah,  save  yourself ! 

NAVARRE 

In  Heaven's  name,  'tis  false  ! 

MARGARET 

Yes,  it  is  false ; 
Tis  not  ten  thousand  ;  forty  thousand,  rather, 


64  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III    Fall  throughout  France  this  hour — my  mother's  work ; 
She  slips  the  leash,  and  the  wild  dogs  of  war 
Are  ravening  in  the  streets.     You  see  the  peace 
To  which  you  were  invited  by  the  Queen  ! 

NAVARRE 

Now  I  see  light  1     The  mystery  is  cleared, 

The  dragon  takes  its  stand  before  our  eyes, 

Visible  and  palpable  ;  but  what  your  part  ? 

And  what  is  mine  ?  what  is  the  doom  I  win 

Here,  in  this  charnel-house  ?     I  go  to  meet 

My  foe  !  [A  going, 

MARGARET 

Stay,  Henry  !     All  the  gates  are  barred, 
You  cannot  leave  the  Louvre  ! 

NAVARRE 

Within  it,  then  ! 
'Tis  better  so.     V\\  hasten  to  my  room, 
And  make  each  single  drop  of  blood  atone 
A  Huguenot's  death  ! 

MARGARET 

Too  late.     A  murderer  stands 
In  every  corridor.     You  cannot  pass. 


NAVARRE 


Well — Rioux,  then  ? 


MARGARET 

Where  is  the  knight  ? 

NAVARRE 

He  lies 
Within  my  tower  chamber.     He  shall  ride 
Fast  to  the  south  for  succour. 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  65 

MARGARET  Act  III 

He  must  die. 
You  cannot  save  him.     Save  yourself.     'Tis  all 
That  human  skill  may  do. 

NAVARRE 

I,  too,  v^ill  die. 

MARGARET 

What  of  your  dream,  then  ?     Was  it  sent  from  Heaven  ? 
If  you  are  v^iser  than  great  God  Himself, 
Here  is  the  door,  Navarre,  step  forth  and  die  ! 

NAVARRE 

\To  himself?^  Ah,  God — my  promise  to  Coligni !     This, 

Ay,  this,  is  what  his  prescient  mind  foresaw  ! 

My  blood  cries  out  to  die  beside  my  friends. 

But  I  have  sworn,  and  I  must  keep  my  oath, 

And  bear  the  heavier  burdens  of  a  King. 

\To  Margaret.]  Yet,  if  I  stay,  is  there  a  corner  safe 

In  the  whole  palace  ? 

MARGARET 

Yes,  one  corner — there  ! 
\Opening  to  the  door  of  her  bedroom, 

NAVARRE 

Your  bedroom.  Princess  !     'Tis  a  bitter  jest ! 

MARGARET 

Nay,  Henry,  'tis  no  jest ! 

NAVARRE 

To-morrow,  then. 
Who  finds  me  not  to-night,  will  find  me  there 
To-morrow !      [Drawing  his   sword.']     Better    die    than 

live  a  coward  ! 
When  does  this  carnival  of  blood  begin  ? 

F 


66  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  MARGARET 

They  wait  a  signal  from  St.  Germain's  tower. 


NAVARRE 

Are  we  so  far  already  ?     Let  me  go  ! 


\A  cannon-shot  is  heard, 
\Trm  to  push  by  her. 


MARGARET 

Not  till  you  hear  me  speak.  _  .'Tis  my  last  word  ! 
Take  but  one  step  from  out  this  room — but  one — 
To  certain  death — and  I  will  plunge  the  steel 

[Drawing  a  dagger. 
Here  in  my  heart.     Your  death  shall  be  my  own  ! 
Now — leave  me,  if  you  will !     I  am  no  coward, 
I  am  a  Queen — a  daughter  of  the  Valois  ! 
And  if  your  doom  must  come — and  come  through  me, 
Then  Henry's  wife  shall  die  beside  her  lord  ! 

[Steps  are  heard. 

NAVARRE 

[Dropping  his  sword-point  and  drawing  her   to   him.]     I 

would  my  Huguenots  could  see  you  now  ! 
Brave  wife  and  true  !  [Is  going. 

MARGARET 

[Js  the  steps  come  nearer  throwing  herself  before  him.]     Ah, 

they  are  coming  !     Hark  ! 
Quick,  Henry,  quick  !     Nay,  but  I  pray  you,  love. 
You  are  the  King  France  looks  for — and  my  King, 
My  heart,  my  all !     For  my  sake,  for  our  love's  sake, 
quick. 

[She  hurriedly  ties  a  white  ribbon  on  his  arm  and 
pushes  him  into  her  room  as  a  page  enters 
with  the  words  "  The  Queen''  Margaret 
sinks  down. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  67 

The  bells  begin  to  ring^  the  firing  has  commenced^  but  it  is  Act  III 
still  some  way  off  in  the  distance^  so  that  the  dialogue  is 
not  interrupted.  Enter  Catherine  with  the  Cardi- 
nal, ALEN90N,  Anjou,  Court  Ladies,  and  Gentlemen 
of  the  Chamber.  All  the  Catholics  wear  a  white  cross 
on  their  shoulders  from  this  to  the  end  of  the  Act. 

CATHERINE 

[Margaret   rises.']    We   fain   would   have   you  merry, 

Margaret ! 
We  miss  your  presence  in  this  festival 
With  all  good  Catholics  to-night. 

MARGARET 

To-night ! 
And  this  a  festival  ?     These  clanging  bells, 
This  roaring  musketry 

CATHERINE 

A  firev/ork,  child  ! 
Some  entertainment  and  festivity 

We  ovfQ  our  honoured  guests.    [Turning  round,]   Come 
here,  to  me  ! 

MARGARET 

Who  is  the  murderer  my  mother  calls  ? 
Will  no  one  answ^er  ?     Must  a  bride's  lips  tell 
The  horrid  truth  ?     'Tis  murder  1     In  this  hour 
Ten  thousand  Huguenots  die  ! 


So  much  the  better  ! 


CATHERINE 

You  know  it,  then  ? 


MARGARET 

[To  ALEN90N.]  And  Alen9on — you — 

What  are  you  doing  here  ?     Go  forth  and  draw 

Your  sword  for  God's  own  glory  ! 


68  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  ALENCON 

\^ullenly,'\  By  the  Cross, 

The  night  is  dark.     I  am  a  son  of  France. 

MARGARET 

[Turning    to   the    Cardinal.]   You,    Cardinal,   to   your 

office  !     There  are  saints 
To  earn  your  blessing  !     Every  one  who  kills 
A  heretic  is  on  his  certain  way 
To  Heaven  to-night  ! 

CATHERINE 

I  fear  my  daughter's  soul 
Hath  caught  the  taint  of  heresy. 

MARGARET^ 

Speak  on  ! 
I'm  ready  for  the  cloister.     Have  your  will  ! 
I  leave  these  human  shambles  to  your  hands  ! 
I  was  the  snare — you  cannot  tell  me  more 
Than  what  I  know — the  innocent  decoy 
To  draw  the  Huguenots  within  the  nets, 
The  long-spun  nets  of  Death  !     Do  as  you  will, 
And  win  eternal  infamy  to-night ! 

CATHERINE 

\JVith  a   sneer.']    Methinks  we're   not    so    merry  as  we 

like  ! 
Cardinal,  a  game  of  chess.  My  ladies,  go — 
Make  love,  and  play,  and  dance  !  [A  Chamberlain  places 
a  chess-board.  The  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the 
Court  exeunt  into  the  adjoining  roomy  whence  is  heard 
the  music  of  a  gavotte  or  a  minuet.]  Alengon — 
you 

ALENCON 

I  go,  dear  mother,  to  the  monastery, 
To  shoot  in  concert  with  Dominicans. 

[ALEN90N  exit. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  69 

CATHERINE  Act  III 

Open  the  curtains — let  the  cool  night  air 
Blow  in  our  faces.     We  would  hear  and  see 
Our  faithful  people's  midnight  revelry  ! 

\The  curtains  are  drawn  back^  and  the  windows 

thrown  open.     Beyond  the  balcony  the  sky  is 

seen  to  be  blood-red. 
Where  is  my  son,  the  King  ? 

PoLTROT  enters  and  goes  up  to  Catherine. 

POLTROT 

Your  Majesty  ! 

CATHERINE 

[Looking  up,]  Navarre  is  dead  ? 

POLTROT 

He  died,  as  you  commanded  ! 

CATHERINE 

Was  he  within  his  room  ? 

POTTROT 

Ay. 

CATHERINE 

Bolted  in  ? 

POLTROT 

The  door  was  open.     I  could  see  within 

A  figure  on  a  cushion — fast  asleep — 

By  the  faint  starlight  I  crept  up  to  him, 

And  stabbed  him  as  he  lay.     He  only  groaned. 

The  word  "  Navarre  "  came  rattling  from  his  throat. 

CATHERINE 

Who  now  is  Lord  of  France — ye  spirits,  say, 
Liars  and  traitors — when  King  Charles  is  dead  ? 


70  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III    Enter  Guise,  and  behind  him  a  Page,  carrying  something 
covered  with  a  cloth  on  a  silver  tray. 

MARGARET 

\To  Guise.]  Guise  —  cousin  —  take  me  hence — for 
Heaven's  sake  ! 

CATHERINE 

[To  Guise.]   Coligni,  Prince  ? 

GUISE 

My  father  is  avenged  ! 
\Beckons  the  Page,  who  comes  forward  and  kneels, 

CATHERINE 

Ay,  and  the  Catholics  !  \She  goes  over  to  the  Page  and 
lifts  the  cloth  a  little  away  from  the  audience,']  Fare- 
v^ell,  Coligni  !  [Starts. 

Look,  Cardinal,  he  smiles.     His  features  w^ear 

The  perfect  peace  of  grace  !     He  died  in  peace  ! 

And  this  a  heretic  ?     Can  the  devil's  lies 

Extend  beyond  the  grave  ? 

CARDINAL 

Sit  anathema  ! 
'Tis  hell's  eternal  triumph  to  deceive  !  [Exit  Page. 

CATHERINE 

My  Lord  of  Guise,  I  owe  you  recompense. 
I  give  it  here.    [Pointing  to  Margaret.]    Receive  it  from 
her  lips  ! 

GUISE 

Nay,  Queen,  there's  other  vvrork.     Where  is  Navarre  ? 

CATHERINE 

Navarre  is  dead. 

GUISE 

Already  ?     Why,  I  hoped 
To  lay  his  head  before  my  Margaret's  feet. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  71 

A 

Out  of  my  sight,  assassin  ! 


MARGARET  Act  III 


GUISE 

{Astonished?^  Margaret  ! 

You  had  another  message  for  my  ears 
But  yesterday.      [Turning  to  Queen.]  And  is  he  dead,  in 
truth  ? 

CATHERINE 

The  answer  lies  within  the  turret-room. 

GUISE 

ril  find  it  there  !  [Exit. 

MARGARET 

[Sobbing.]  Oh,  for  a  single  word 

To  reach  my  mother's  heart  !     Oh,  for  the  tongue 

Of  some  inspired  angel  to  awake 

The  tenderer  thoughts  of  conscience,  and  give  pause 

To   all    this    senseless    butchery  !     [Fal/s   at   her  feet.] 

Mother,  spare, 
Spare  further  slaughter  !     Put  an  end  to  blood  ! 

CATHERINE 

[Quietly   to  Cardinal,  resuming  her   chess.]    Your  castle 
is  in  danger,  Cardinal  ! 


Enter  Charles,  wildly  excited, 

CHARLES 

Begone,  pale  shadows  !     Take  that  form  away- 
That  form,  gray-headed,  with  its  kindly  smile. 
I  cannot  bear  to  look  upon  his  face. 
Why  do  ye  dog  me  thus  ? 

cardinal 

Is  the  King  ill  ? 


72  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  CHARLES 

Bloodhounds  !   ye  rouse  a  tiger  in  my  veins 

Which  scents  the  smell  of  blood — it  will  not  sleep — 

It  will  have  blood — oh,  for  the  love  of  God, 

Will  no  one  tell  me  if  Coligni  lives  ? 

I  saw  him  but  just  now  ! 

CATHERINE 

Where,  idiot,  where  ? 

CHARLES 

I  saw  him  in  the  corridor.     He  stood 
As  pale  as  death,  with  blood  upon  his  face. 
With  hollow  voice,  as  though  from  out  his  grave, 
He  stood  and  cried  "  Be  King,  at  length  a  King  !  " 

CATHERINE 

A  fancy — nothing  more  ! 

CHARLES 

A  game  of  chess  ?    [Sits  down, 
I'll  play.     Move,  mother.     How  much  is  the  stake  ? 

CATHERINE 

Your  crown,  my  son  ! 

CHARLES 

Good,  if  I  win  I'm  King  ! 

[He  makes  a  move, 

CARDINAL 

Check  to  the  Queen  ! 

CHARLES 

[Jumping  up.]  Spirits  and  devils  !  who — 

Who  made  that  move  ! 

CARDINAL 

The  move  is  good,  my  liege. 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  73 

CHARLES  Act  III 

You  saw  it  not  ?     Why  there  it  stood,  and  moved 
My  hand  upon  the  board  ! 

CARDINAL 

Who,  Sire? 

CHARLES 

Coligni  ! 
I  am  not  guilty  of  his  blood,  and  yet 
His  spirit  tortures  me  !  {With  a  change  of  manner. 

Nay,  if  I  must 
Condemn  a  thousand  innocents  to  murder 
I  will  have  one  at  least  to  be  my  prey  ! 
I  want  a  Huguenot  corpse  !     A  musket — quick  ! 

\^ei'Les  the  gun  of  one  of  the  Guards,  and  springs 
up  into  the  balcony, 

CATHERINE 

Deafen  this  chattering  madman  !     Music  !  there. 

[Dance  music  begins  again  in  the  ante-room. 
Outside  in  the  streets  there  rolls  up  to  the 
windows  the  chant  of  marching  Huguenots : 
"  Eine  feste  Burg "  ("  God  is  our  strong 
rock  ").  Then  it  is  eventually  drowned  in  a 
discharge  of  musketry. 

CATHERINE 

[Looking  up  from  her  game.]  What  is  that  noise  ? 

ANJOU 

[Entering.]  The  war-cry  of  the  foe  ; 
The  Huguenot  chant  of  battle  ! 

MARGARET 

Hark,  they  sing. 
"  God  is  our  rock."     How  many  Gods,  ye  priests, 
Can  reign  in  Heaven,  if  their  faith  be  vain  ? 


74  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  CHARLES 

[ShootsJl  Aha  !  he's  hit  !     He  wallows  in  the  street  ! 
His  blood  is  maddening  wine  !     Give  me  some  more  1 
Another  musket  ! 

[  The  chant  is  over^  but  a  few  voices  remain  singing. 

'*  Thou  takest  from  us  earthly  life^ 
Possessions,  houses,  children,  wife." 

CATHERINE 

Peace  I  let  this  screaming  cease  ! 

CHARLES 

[fFi/diy.]  I  will  have  blood  !     A  shot  !     Another  shot  ! 
[A  single  voice  is  heard,  "  The  kingdom  must  be 
ours"  interrupted  by  a  death-shriek  as  Charles 
shoots  him. 
I  have  him  !     See,  he  falls  I  Aha  !  he's  dead  ! 

\^As  he  turns  round   he  sees — unseen   by  others — 
CoLlGNl's  ghost,  standing  on  the  steps  leading 
up  to  the  balcony. 
There  !  there  he  stands  !     I  see  him,  standing  there  ! 
He  offers  me  a  golden  sceptre.     See  ! 
He  tells  me  to  be  King  !     I  will,  pale  ghost, 
I  will  indeed  be  King  !     Ah,  he  is  gone. 

[Totters  down  from  the  balcony. 
You  saw  him,  Margaret  ? 

MARGARET 

My  poor,  poor  Charles  ! 

CHARLES 

Wait — give  me  air  !     I  dare  not  look  again. 
Is't  there  ? 

MARGARET 

Be  King,  and  it  will  come  no  more  ! 
Undo  your  work,  let  the  mad  revel  cease, 
Withdraw  your  troops — I  pray  you  end  this  murder. 
Let  live  whoever  lives.     Be  King,  be  King  ! 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  75 

CATHERINE  Act  III 

What  Insolence  is  this  ?     This  puppet  King 
Must  off  to  bed  !     This  night  is  wholly  mine  ! 

MARGARET 

Mother,  once  more  I  ask  you,  stay  your  hand  ; 

Recall  your  orders ;  if  you  have  a  heart 

Stop  this  wild  massacre,  or  else  I  swear, 

Here  at  your  feet,  all  duty  I  renounce. 

You  are  no  mother — I  no  more  your  child  ! 

\To  Charles.]  List  to  me,  Charles.    So  help  you  Heaven 

above, 
My  brother,  be  the  King  and  give  us  peace  ! 
'Tis  your  good  angel's  voice  ! 


Enter  Guise. 

GUISE 

You  are  betrayed,  my  Queen  ! 
In  yonder  turret-room  there  lies  Rioux, 
A  halberd  in  his  heart.     'Tis  not  Navarre  ! 

CATHERINE 

[Standing  up.]    What,  not   Navarre  !     Nay,   everything 

was  dark, 
You  could  not  see  him. 

GUISE 

I  was  not  alone, 
A  servant  with  me  bore  a  torch. 

CATHERINE 

Great  Heaven  ! 
I  am  the  more  deceived.     Where  is  Poltrot  ? 

[PoLTROT  throws  himself  at  her  feet. 
Away  with  him  !     Away  !     Navarre  still  lives ! 

[Poltrot  is  led  off  by  the  Guards. 


76  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  CHARLES 

Navarre  still  lives  ?     What  ?     He  for  w^hose  one  life 
Paris  is  soaked  in  blood  ?     Ten  thousand  fall 
And  yet  he  lives  !     St.  Denis  !     Here's  a  sign 
For  Charles  to  understand,  a  sign  from  Heaven 
Which  e'en  the  blind  might  see,  the  deaf  might  hear 
Shoot  out  your  lightnings,  mother,  I  care  not. 
I  will  be  King  indeed.     You  shall  obey. 
What,  in  one  night  ten  thousand  of  my  people 
Butchered  in  Paris,  and  in  France  still  more  ? 
And  I  their  King. — Nay,  mother,  I  forgive, 
Freely  forgive  you  all  the  rest.     He  lives  ! 
Navarre  still  lives  !     Nay,  but  this  plot  of  thine 
Is  comedy  indeed,  my  mother  ! 

MARGARET 

\Who  has  followed  him  breathlessly ^  and  falls  on  her  knees,] 

Heaven  be  praised  ! 
Charles  takes  his  sceptre,  Charles  will  yet  be  King. 
Navarre  is  saved,  is  saved  ! 

CATHERINE 

[Going  up  to  her.]  Where  is  he,  where  ? 

You  know  his  hiding-place  ? 

MARGARET 

I  know 


CATHERINE 

[Threatening  her  with  a  dagger.]  Where,  then  ? 

Tell  me,  or  else  I'll  kill  you  !     In  the  Louvre  ? 

MARGARET 

Your  hands  may  find  him.     I  will  not  betray  ! 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  77 

Act  III 

Enter  Navarre  from  the  side  door, 

NAVARRE 

Navarre  is  here.     He  will  protect  his  wife. 
Release  her,  Queen,  and  turn  thy  steel  on  me  ! 

CATHERINE 

What,  in  my  daughter's  bedroom  ?     Treason  !   Treason  ! 

\To  the  Guards. 
Arrest  them  both  ! 

CHARLES 

Stay  !     Hither,  officer  ! 
[To  Catherine.]     Your  time  is  over.     \To  Officer.] 

Hasten  to  the  troops. 
Show  them  my  seal  !     I  bid  the  slaughter  cease  ! 

CATHERINE 

Who  dares  repeal  my  order  ? 

CHARLES 

[IVith  dignity.]  I,  the  King  ! 


ACT  IV 


Act  IV    Scene  i. — In  the  Queen's  room.     Catherine,  Charles 
IX.,  Anjou,  ALEN90N,  seated  round  a  table, 

CATHERINE 

And  why  compel  a  Valois  by  force  to  occupy  a  throne 
which  he  despises  ? 

CHARLES 

Well,  I  might  answer,  because  I  shall  thus  uphold  the 
honour  of  my  race  in  securing  the  Polish  realm.  I  might 
say  Ventre  St.  Gris  ! — like  our  good  Harry,  the  Bourbon 
King — and  tell  you  that  such  is  my  will. 

ANJOU 

Poles,  too  !  Is  a  Valois,  a  knight  of  France,  to  be  sent 
among  wolves,  to  learn  how  to  breed  horses  in  the  marshes  ? 
God's  blood  ! 

CHARLES 

Take  your  courtly  state  with  you  from  Paris.  You 
know  you  love  the  camp.  In  this  country,  brother  Anjou, 
there  is  nothing  left  to  fight ;  our  heretics,  thanks  to  our 
mother,  have  been  murdered  long  ago  ;  but  there  you  will 
find  on  your  borders  crowds,  doubtless,  of  heathen  folk. 
Try  your  skill  on  them. 

ALENCON 

If  he  won't,  I  will.  Give  me  a  crown.  So  long  as  it 
is  made  of  gold,  what  care  I  what  my  subjects  are  called  ? 
I  will  play  cards  and  pocket  my  taxes 

78 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  79 

CHARLES  Act  IV 

Silence,  Alen^on.  This  is  a  conference  of  men,  not 
blockheads.     You  are  not  permitted  to  have  a  voice. 

ALEN^ON 

As  usual ! 

CHARLES 

\Fushes  his  chair  back.]  I  close  the  conference.  You 
have  tried  the  patience  of  a  brother  long  enough  ;  I  warn 
you  not  to  tempt  the  anger  of  a  king  !  [Exit. 

CATHERINE 

Go  and  play  cards,  Alengion. 

ALENCON 

Yes,  mother.  [Exit. 

ANJOU 

I  will  not  go  to  Poland  ! 

CATHERINE 

You  win  go  to  Poland,  if  your  mother  bids  you. 

ANJOU 

You  ?     Have  you  any  wish  to  accompany  me  ? 

CATHERINE 

I  have  a  wish  to  see  you  on  Charles's  throne  within  the 
year. 

ANJOU 

I  wish  that  myself. 

CATHERINE 

Listen  to  me,  Henry.  The  King,  so  far  as  I  can  see, 
will  not  live  till  the  year's  end — he  is  weak  and  diseased 
alike  in  body  and  in  soul.  The  rest  is  in  my  hands. 
Now  go. 


8o  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

^^^  ^  ANJOU 

A  year  ?  It  may  be  so.  Then  shall  I  sleep  all  the 
softer  in  the  Louvre.  To  get  at  the  kernel  one  must 
needs  bite  through  the  shell.  \Exlt. 

CATHERINE 

[Jlone,^    Not  yet,  not  yet — my  power  has  not  yet  ceased. 
Not  yet,  King  Charles  ! 

Rings  a  bell,     A  Chamberlain  enters. 

The  Princess  Margaret.     \Exit  Chamberlain. 
1  needs  must  know  how  they  get  on  together, 
The  husband  and  the  wife.     Can  they  be  friends  ? 
Will  she  be  in  her  husband's  room  to-night  ? 


Enter  Margaret,  dressed  in  black, 

CATHERINE 

Are  we  in  mourning  in  the  Court,  Princess  ? 

MARGARET 

Yes,  we,  the  country,  the  wide  world  and  God. 
My  presence  was  required,  your  Majesty  ? 

CATHERINE 

"  Required  "  ?  "  Your  Majesty  "  ?  I  asked  to  see 
My  daughter,  merely. 

MARGARET 

Not  to  seek  her  good, 
As  formerly,  I  hope  ?     Oh  !  never,  never  more  ! 

\Comes  nearer. 
There  is  no  blessing  on  your  sleep.     You  wake 
To  curse  the  new-born  day.     Confess  it  all  ! 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  8i 

You  hide  it  from  the  world,  but  Heaven's  eye  Act  IV 

Can  find  it  out.     The  sword  of  Heaven's  vengeance 
Hangs  o'er  your  head  ;  you  see  it — and  you  tremble  ! 

CATHERINE 

I  Stand  condemned — I  cannot  tell  you  why — 

Ask  me  no  questions,  for  my  mouth  is  sealed. 

I  wait  my  sentence  from  the  only  lips 

Which  dare  to  tell  the  truth.     Give  me  no  love, 

For  love  is  agony.     Come,  daughter,  come. 

Call  your  whole  heart  of  loathing  to  your  lips. 

And  let  me  taste  the  rapture  of  your  hate 

In  ample  measure — let  me  be  condemned. 

Lies  to  the  priest,  but  only  truth  to  you  ; 

I  will  confess  it  all,  and  on  my  knees 

Ask  for  your  absolution.  \Falls  on  her  knees, 

MARGARET 

What  is  this  ? 
Is  everlasting  Nature  in  revolt  ? 
My  mother  on  her  knees  !     Oh,  if  my  words 
Can  free  you  from  the  chain  of  reckless  sin, 
Repent — repent 

CATHERINE 

\Recovering  her  self. \         Nay,  daughter 

MARGARET 

Feel  remorse — 
Oh,  tell  me  that  you  feel  at  least  remorse  ! 
'Twas  for  our  sins  Christ  came  into  the  world. 
And  every  man,  and  not  the  priest  alone, 
May  grant  his  brother  absolution. 

CATHERINE 

Stay, 
I  was  but  faint — a  momentary  spasm. 
Mere  woman's  weakness. 


82  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  MARGARET 

Nothing  more  than  that  ? 

CATHERINE 

Come,  child,  no  more  !     We'll  talk  of  other  matters. 


No  more  than  that  ? 


MARGARET 
CATHERINE 

I  seek  your  happiness  ! 


MARGARET 

My  happiness,  you  say  ?     Deck  me  with  gold, 
Place  on  my  head  a  dozen  queenly  crowns, 
You  can  no  more — and  it  is  all  too  little. 
There  is  but  one  soil  whence  the  flower  can  grow 
Of  perfect  happiness — a  heart  at  peace 
With  its  own  self  and  God. 

CATHERINE 

If  we  can  loose 
What  God  hath  never  joined,  a  loveless  marriage, 
Can  that  be  mortal  error  ? 

MARGARET 

Ah,  the  old  creed. 
The  fatal  creed  of  Rome  !     I  pray  thee,  speak. 
Is  it  arranged  that  for  the  good  of  France 
My  fortunes  from  Navarre  are  severed  ?     Speak  ! 

CATHERINE 

Not  from  the  land  of  Beam  and  Navarre, 
But  from  a  heretic's  side.     The  Pope  of  Rome 
Gives  his  consent. 

MARGARET 

'Twere  better  he  had  willed 
That  such  an  union  should  have  ne'er  been  made. 
Yet — 'twas  God's  will. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  83 

CATHERINE  Act  IV 

And  Guise  hath  asked  thy  hand ! 

MARGARET 

Guise  ?     No,  I  hate  him  ! 

CATHERINE 

Hate  him  ?     What,  so  soon  ? 
And  yet  I  heard  the  whisper  of  a  story — 

MARGARET 

I  pray  thee,  mother,  cease  ;  mayhap  the  cause 

Of  all  my  hatred  is  this  selfsame  story; 

Who  knows  a  woman's  heart  ?     No  more  of  Guise  ! 

CATHERINE 

So  then  you  love  Navarre  ? 

MARGARET 

My  lot  is  plain — 
In  all  that  he  commands,  through  joy  and  pain. 
Through  sickness  and  through  health,  I  cleave  to  Henry  ! 

CATHERINE 

Turning  away.]     She    gets    beyond   me,  like    her   wilful 
brother.  \JVatclnng  her  narrowly. 

Your  husband  waits  to-night — the  guards  so  tell  me — 
A  lady  in  his  rooms 

MARGARET 

Angrily  breaking  out.]  What's  that  to  me  ? 


And  so,  good  night  ! 


CATHERINE 

The  guards  well  know  the  lady  ! 


MARGARET 

And  if  they  do,  my  mother  knows  the  reason. 

I  pray  you  let  me  go,  before  you  stain 

Your  lips  by  mentioning  her  name — good  night  ! 


84  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  CATHERINE 

[Quickly^  forgetting  herself,']  Then  'tis  not  you  ?     'Tis 

true  you  never  visit 
Your  husband's  chamber  ? 

MARGARET 

[Suddenly  attentive.']  If  you  needs  must  know  it, 
I  will  admit  I've  never  done  so  yet  ! 

CATHERINE 

Sweet  child — I'm  glad  of  it.     It  is  not  you  ! 

That  peace  and  friendship  is  restored  with  Henry 

Is  truly  welcome  news.     To-day  I  go 

With  all  my  Court  to  pay  my  solemn  vows 

Before  the  altar  of  the  Innocents. 

You  will  come  with  me  ?     No  ?     Well,  as  you  will. 

[Exit, 

MARGARET 

[After  a  restless  pause.]     What  does  she  mean    by    this  ? 

I  would  I  knew  ! 
Was  there  no  note  of  triumph  when  she  heard 
I  go  not  to  his  rooms  ?     Is  there  a  plot 
New-hatched  against  my  husband's  peace — and  mine  ? 
For  Catherine's  hatred,  when  it's  once  aflame, 
Knows  neither  pause  nor  end  !      What  shall  I  do  ? 
I'll  warn  my  husband  of  the  coming  danger. 
Alive  or  dead,  my  place  is  by  his  side  !  [Exit. 


Scene  2. — Ante-chamber  to  Queen's  Room, 

Enter  Fontanges. 

fontanges 
An  urgent  message  from  Her  Majesty  ?     The  Queen 
expects  me  here  ?     What  is  her  need  of  me  ?     She  is  not 
wont  to  be  so  kind. 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  85 


Enter  Catherine. 

CATHERINE 

Marquise,  do  me  a  kindness  as  you  happen  to  be  here  ? 
Write  me  three  lines,  Marquise.  Sit  down  and  write  : 
"  Sire,  grant  me  the  favour  to  receive  in  your  rooms  to- 
night a  lady,  who,  needing  protection,  would  fain  speak 
with  you,  not  as  a  king,  but  as  a  man  of  honour." 

FONTANGES 

[J side.]  My  God  !  What  can  this  mean  ?  Her  eyes 
are  glittering  like  a  tiger's  on  the  spring  ! 

CATHERINE 

Address  the  letter :  "  His  Majesty  the  King  of  Navarre." 
[Jside.]  A  feeling  of  gallantry — the  love  of  adventure — 
that's  the  best  bait  ! 

FONTANGES 

[Jside.]  Some  danger  threatens  him.  How  can  I 
warn   him  ? 

CATHERINE 

Fontanges,  I  am  obliged  to  you.  Return  to  your  room, 
and — let  us  have  roses  on  your  cheeks  to-mor'-ow  ! 
[Fontanges  exit  r.  Catherine  goes  l.,  and  calls.] 
Officer  of  the  guard  ! 


An  Officer  enters^  l. 

The  Marquise  of  Fontanges  is  put  under  strict  arrest 
until  further  orders.  \^Exii  Officer.  Pushing  open  a  side 
door  L.  u.  E.]     Ruggieri  ! 

Enter  Ruggieri. 

CATHERINE 


Act  IV 


The  tapers  ? 


86  DRAMAS  AND   DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  RUGGIERI 

Madam,  they  are  ready. 

CATHERINE 

You  have  tested  them  ? 

RUGGIERI 

Madam,  I  have. 

CATHERINE 

You  have  the  keys  of  all  the  turret-rooms  in  the  Louvre. 
Navarre  is  gone  falconing  to  St.  Denis,  w^e  hear.  Go 
and  put  the  tapers  in  the  brackets  in  his  room,  and  then 
come  back.  [Exit  Ruggieri. 

[Alone.']     Not    yet — not    yet — my    power   has    not    yet 

ceased. 
Not  yet,  King  Charles  !     For  thirty  years  I  fought 
And  conquered.     Shall  I,  fighting  with  a  boy, 
Yield  up  forthwith  the  victory  in  a  day  ? 
Fate  in  the  stars  may  threaten  me  with  ruin, 
I  care  not — I  will  tear  her  from  her  throne. 
And  she  shall  be  my  slave.     I  fought  the  fight 
With  thirty  thousand  Huguenots  to  the  death, 
And  shall  I  fail  in  conflict  with  their  King  ? 
I  will  not  fail  again.     The  hunter's  craft 
Is  best  and  surest  when  he  snares  the  game 
In  its  own  lair.  [Exit, 

Scene  3. — In  Navarre's  turret  bed-chamber.     The  lights 
are  burning  in  the  candelabra  with  peculiar  brightness, 

NAVARRE 

[Reading  a  letter^  A  woman's  hand  !  the  note  perfumed 

with  roses  ! 
'Tis  either  the  first  blush  of  innocence, 
Or  some  old  maid  in  trouble.     Which  is  it  ? 
Let's  listen  to  the  lady.     What,  to-night  ? 
In  my  own  room  ?     Oh,  it  must  be  the  old  one  ! 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  87 

Lambkins  have  not  the  courage  !  more's  the  pity  !  Act  VJ 

What  does  she  say  ?     She  "  needs  protection,"  eh  ? 

Old  maids  are  safe  enough  from  man's  pursuit ; 

It  cannot  be  the  old  one  !     Beautiful,  of  course, 

For  ugliness,  we  know,  protects  itself ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?     I  needs  must  see  the  lady  ; — 

So  speaks  the  young,  rash  devil  of  my  folly. 

But  there's  another  voice  which  whispers  me, 

Shut  fast  thy  door,  let  no  one  enter  here  ! 

Ah,  that's  the  whisper  of  my  better  self, 

The  voice  of  secret  love,  the  voice  of  her 

Whose  name  eclipses  every  other  name. 

Whose  light  outshines  all  other  lesser  stars. 

Sun  of  my  life,  lord  of  my  firmament. 

The  sweetest  name  to  swear  by — Margaret  ! 

And  shall  I  blush  for  shame,  because  my  wife — 

My  wife — no  other — satisfies  my  soul  ? 

I  love  her,  as  a  guardian  angel  loves 

His  sinful  child,  I  love  her  with  my  tears. 

My  faith,  my  reverence,  my  sincerest  self; 

Before  her  image  I  can  kneel  and  pray 

In  dumb,  forgetful  silence. — Hush  !  who  comes  ? 


Enter  Charles,  in  night  attire. 
King  Charles,  so  late  ? 

CHARLES 

Late — is  it  very  late  ? 
Are  you  alone  ? 

NAVARRE 

Well,  for  the  moment,  Sire, 
I  am  alone.     What  drives  you  from  your  couch  ? 

CHARLES 

Nettles  and  briars,  Henry,  nettles  and  briars  ! 
They  sting,  they  burn,  they  blister.     Oh,  for  sleep  ! 


88  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV    If  I  could  only  sleep  !     There  in  my  room, 

Pale  ghosts  are  always  flitting.     On  the  walls 
They  move  in  slow  procession  to  and  fro, 
Pale,  bloodless,  ghastly  phantoms  ;  as  they  pass 
Each  turns  its  eyeless  socket  on  my  face — 
Huguenots,  and  Huguenots,  and  Huguenots — 
Ten  thousand  ghosts,  and  ever  more  and  more  ! 

NAVARRE 

Poor,  troubled  King  ! 

CHARLES 

We  will  change  rooms,  my  Harry, 
Or  I  will  sleep  near  you.     No  ghosts  come  here. 
If  I  could  only  banish  that  one  face 
So  mild  and  gentle,  with  the  snow-white  hair, 
Martyred  Coligni,  who  will  stand  and  smile — 
If  only  he  would  frown  ! — and  strive  to  speak, 
Save  that  some  awful  fetters  chain  his  tongue — 
Oh,  it  is  frightful  1 

NAVARRE 

'Tis  thy  mother,  Sire, 
To  whom  Heaven  looks  for  vengeance,  not  thyself. 
Nay,  but  take  courage,  steel  thy  fainting  nerves. 
Look  Nature  in  the  face  !     They'll   come  no  more. 
These  foolish  ghosts  !     See,  we  will  range  the  woods 
After  the  deer  to-morrow  ;  or,  if  you  will. 
Dressed  like  the  Caliph  in  the  tale,  we'll  visit 
Each  street  and  alley,  enter  the  rooms 
And  climb  the  balconies — as  chance  may  lead. 
Come — let  us  bury  all  this  royal  state 
In  sportj  or  feast,  or  idle  merriment ! 

CHARLES 

By  Denis,  so  we  will !     Methinks  we'll  have 
Some  famous  days  together.     You're  the  man 
To  doctor  my  weak  soul.     But  listen,  Harry. 
Henceforth,  we'll  sleep  together.     In  this  room 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  89 

I  feel  so  strangely  sleepy,  for  the  air  Act  IV 

Is  free  from  angry  ghosts.     Yes,  I  will  sleep  ! 

NAVARRE 

So  be  it  !     While  you  sleep  here  in  my  room, 
I  will  pursue  your  ghosts  in  yours,  and  see 
What  stuff  they're  made  of.     Never  fear  for  me. 
'Tis  in  your  brain  they  gibber — not  in  mine  ! 
What  papers  have  you,  brother  ? 

CHARLES 

My  last  will  ! 

NAVARRE 

What  last,  already — ere  the  first  be  signed  ! 

CHARLES 

\Gloomily^     The   first    may    be  the    last.     'Twill  make 
them  stare  ! 

NAVARRE 

Stare?     Who? 

CHARLES 

My  brothers  !     Catherine  !     The  world  ! 

My  cousin,  answer  me. 

What  would  you  do  if  you  were  King  of  France  ? 

NAVARRE 

I'd  put  a  fowl  each  Sunday,  Ventre  St.  Gris  ! 
Into  the  dish  of  each  good  citizen. 

CHARLES 

What,  heretics  too  ? 

NAVARRE 

What  is  a  heretic.  Sire  ? 

CHARLES 

Why,  you,  yourself,  God  help  you  !     Better  change 
Your  faith,  good  Harry,  or  you  will  be  damned. 


90  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  NAVARRE 

That's  like  enough,  for  sundry  lies  I  told, 
Whereby  I  made  a  maiden's  heart  beat  faster — 
But  not  because  I  will  not  go  to  Mass  ! 
No  more  of  that,  I  pray  you.     Now,  good  night ; 
The  air,  methinks,  is  somewhat  sultry  here. 
Ah,  by  the  way,  should  any  ghost  appear 

CHARLES 

What's  that  you  say  ? 

NAVARRE 

Nay,  do  not  be  alarmed. 
The  kind  I  mean  have  human  flesh  and  blood. 
And  if  she  comes,  I  pray  you,  press  her  hand  ; 
I  warrant  she'll  be  frightened  more  than  you  ! 

CHARLES 

[Looking   up  with  a  sad  smi/e.]    What,  Margaret,  is  it  ? 

Make  her  happy,  Harry. 
Be  happy  both  ;  had  I  the  power  to  bless, 
Be  sure  I'd  wish  you  happiness  for  ever ; 

NAVARRE 

[fp^ho  has  turned  away.]   My  God,  if  it  were  she  !  but  that's 

absurd. 
I  will  not  so  beguile  my  heart.     Good  night. 
You'll  tell  me  who  it  is  to-morrow,  Charles  ; 
To-night,  I'm  not  at  home.     Her  letter  bore 
No  signature.     Sleep  peacefully,  my  King. 
I  go  to  fill  my  lungs  with  the  night  air 
Upon  the  tower.     May  all  good  angels  watch 
Thy  peaceful  sleep  ! 

CHARLES 

Sleep — sleep  ! 

NAVARRE 

Once  more,  good  night ! 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  91 

CHARLES  Act  IV 

Good  night  !  [Navarre  exit. 

It  h  a  comedy  !     For  years  they've  w^hispered, 
Made  all  their  plots,  and  spilt  some  human  blood. 
Now^,  with  a  pen  stroke,  he  whom  ne'er  they've  asked 
Opinion  from,  or  thought  about  at  all, 
Brings — with  a  pen  stroke — the  whole  house  of  cards 
In  headlong  ruin.     'Tis  true  comedy  !  [Wildly. 

If  I  have  nothing  else  to  will  away, 
I  have  the  crown. 

Enter  Margaret,  in  night  attire. 

MARGARET 

My  brother  ? 

CHARLES 

Margaret  ? 

MARGARET 

And  Henry — where — 
Where  is  my  husband  ? 

CHARLES 

And  are  you  the  one — 
The  lady  seeking  him  ? 

MARGARET 

I  seek  him  for 


CHARLES 

Dost  love  him,  Margaret  ?     Is  it  love  at  last  ? 

MARGARET 

Why  ask  me  ? 

CHARLES 

Why — because  it  gives  me  joy 
To  see  two  happy  and  united  hearts. 
Mayhap  I  ne'er  shall  see  the  like  again  ! 


92  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV    You  ask  for  Henry — well,  he  went  away, 
Because  the  loving  missive  lacked  a  name. 
Had  it  borne  yours,  I  think  he  would  have  stayed. 
Why,  Margot — how  you  blush  and  droop  your  eyes 
Shame-faced  to  the  ground  as  though  you  were 
A  callow  girl  enamoured  of  a  boy  ! 
You  are  in  love  ! 

MARGARET 

Nay,  jest  not,  brother  mine, 
This  is  no  time  for  jests — 'tis  deadly  earnest  ! 
I  came  to  warn  my  husband. 

CHARLES 

Danger  is't  ? 
What  danger  ?     Whence  ?     Where  stands  the  peril  ? 

MARGARET 

Only  this  I  know, 
My  husband's  life  is  threatened  in  this  room. 
I  came  to  share  what  peril  may  befall 
Close  by  his  side. 

CHARLES 

True  wife,  true  yoke-fellow  ! 
Still  I  am  here,  and  here  I  shall  remain, 
I  am  the  King — what  if  we  waited  here  ? 
Ay,  that  were  wise — I  think  we  will  remain. 
What  was  I  saying  ?     Why,  the  air  is  dense. 
As  Harry  said,  it  makes  the  brain  spin  round — 
We  two  will  wait  and  see  this  lady  come. 
This  pretty  dame  who  claims  to  visit  Harry, 
And  catch  her  in  the  act  with  all  the  proofs 
Of  villainy  upon  her.     By  the  Cross, 
I'll  send  her  to  some  far-off  lonely  tower 
Hard  by  the  ocean's  marge,  where  she  shall  hear 
Naught  but  the  billows'  melancholy  plaint 
Beating  their  life  out  on  a  desolate  shore. 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  93 

MARGARET  Act  IV 

I,  too,  will  Stay  with  thee  and  see  what  comes. 

CHARLES 

Right,  sister  mine — we  twain  will  sit  and  watch. 
Come,  nestle  here,  and  fold  my  mantle  close 
Around  you,  as  I  twine  you  with  my  arms. 
I  am  the  mother-bird  who  calls  her  chicks 
Under  her  wings  as  soon  as  night-time  comes — 
Night  with  its  unknown  perils  and  alarms. 
And  I  will  shield  you  from  the  birds  of  prey 
Who  spy  upon  your  loneliness  and  vex 
Within  your  heart  the  heaven  of  your  love. 
What  was  that  mournful  song  we  used  to  sing 
Of  kingly  lives,  so  anguish-fraught  and  drear. 
So  sweetly  sad,  so  rich  in  piteous  tears  ? 

[Chants  in  low  voice  to  soft  orchestral  music. 
As  children  in  the  vale  where  Cluny  lies 

We  laughed  for  nothing  :  now  in  royal  state. 
Here  in  this  Louvre,  with  sorrow-laden  eyes, 

We  weep  at  every  turn  and  trick  of  fate  ! 

MARGARET 

We  played  with  pebbles  once  and  sang  for  joy, 
But  now  our  jewels  are  all  wet  with  tears  ! 

Gold  was  our  sunshine — gold  without  alloy  : 
How  black  our  night  is,  girt  with  royal  fears  ! 

CHARLES 

At  eve  we  sighed,  because  the  light  was  done, — 
The    happy   light    which    gave    us    time   to 
play ; 

But  now  we  dread  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
The  dawning  of  some  new  and  tragic  day  ! 

MARGARET 

No  royal  pomp,  no  guarded  palace  lends 

The    painless    peace   we  fain    would   make 
our  own. 


94  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  CHARLES 

A  hungry  beggar  may  have  troops  of  friends. 

MARGARET 

But  we  are  kings,  and  therefore  all  alone  1 

CHARLES 

How     shall     we     end     our    chant    of  kings 
forlorn  ? 

MARGARET 

I  end  it   thus  :     "  Would    God,  we'd  ne'er 
been    born  !  " 

CHARLES 

\Repeats^^  "  Would  God  we'd  ne'er  been  born  !  " 
\After  a  short  pause.]    Is  music  sounding  here  ?     No,  all 

is  peace. 
And  yet  what  roar  of  cataracts  is  this 
Which  break  in  thunder  from  the  mountain  sides  ? 
Oh,  for  some  Arctic  sea,  some  polar  stream 
To  cool  this  burning  brow  !     I  melt  in  fire  ! 
How  goes  it  with  you,  sister  ? 

MARGARET 

Well,  indeed. 
I  sit  alone  within  a  deep  green  wood. 
And  wait  and  wait  until  my  consort  comes, 
The  noble  quarry  whom  my  soul  desires. 
Then  will  I  spring  upon  his  neck  and  hold 
Him  close,  a  willing  prisoner  in  these  arms.  [Pause, 

I  knew  a  song  of  royal  children  once —  [Pause, 

Ah  !  if  my  head  would  cease  its  throbbing  pain  ! 

CHARLES 

[Springing    up  with  clenched  hands.]     Blood,    blood,    my 

sweat  is  blood — the  Huguenots'  blood  ! 
See  the  great  drops  which  trickle  from  my  hands. 
How  ruby  red  they  shine  !     Is  there  no  room 
Untenanted  by  ghosts  where  I  can  stay  ? 


BRIDALS  OF  BLOOD  95 

Ghosts  ?     No — a  sick  man's  fancy  !     'Tis  the  air,  Act  IV 

The  poisoned  air  that  kills.     Rise,  sister,  rise. 
The  danger  that  we  waited  for  has  come — 
We  are  betrayed.     Where  stands  the  enemy  ? 

\He  reaches  out  wildly  with  a  sword  which  he  has 
seized. 
Not  palpable  to  touch,  unheard,  unfelt — 
Nay,  this  is  devil's  work.     {Throws  it  away  and  gasps 

down  to  the  front  of  the  stage.]     I  cannot  breathe. 
The  air,  the  air  is  poisoned.     Sister,  rise. 
Fly  if  you  can.     The  mother's  festering  breath 
Is  wafted  through  the  room.     I  pray  you  rise  ! 

[He  has  with  difficulty  dragged  himself  to  her^  and 
props  up  her  drooping  hcad^  bending  over  her. 
Foam  on  her  lips  !     A  cold  sweat  on  her  brow  ! 
Pray  Heaven,  'tis  not  too  late  !     Oh,  for  one  gleam — 
One  little  gleam  of  thought  to  help  me  now. 
Just  the  bare  remnant  of  my  consciousness. 

\IIis  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  candelabra. 
Where  have  I  seen  such  tapers  ?     Eddying  rings 

Of  vapour  rise  and  curl \^teps  nearer  and  looks  at  the 

ground.]     The  ground  is  strewn 
With  glittering  points  of  poison-laden  dust. 
Help  !     Murder  !     Help  !     The  very  air  is  death  ; 
I  drink  in  death  in  gasps  of  labouring  breath. 
This  then  was  Henry's  doom  !     \^ei%es  the  bell  and  rings 

continuously.]     Oh  !  that  this  bell 
Might  call  all  Paris  to  this  treachery  ! 

[Pages  and  Gentlemen  and  Ladies  of  the  Chamber 
hurry  in  with  lights. 
Quick  !  doors  and  windows  open,  take  these  lights  away  ; 
Let  the  sweet  air  of  night  into  the  room. 

\_The  Pages  change  the  candles  and  go  out  with  the 
old  ones, 

MARGARET 

[Crooning  to  herself] 

The  bells  ring  out  the  marriage  peal. 
Why  doth  the  bridegroom  tarry  ? 


96  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  CHARLES 

Where  are  the  women  ? 
Quick,  give  the  Princess  air  ! 

MARGARET 

Where  is  the  bride  her  vows  to  seal  ? 
Where  is  the  priest  to  marry  ? 
Ah  ! — my  mother  did  it  all.     God  rest  her  soul  ! 

\ls  led  to  the  window.    The  Women  attend  to  her. 

CHARLES  ^ 

Come  to  me. 

[  Two  Gentlemen  that  remain  behind  support  him. 
Now,  God  of  justice,  now  I  pray  thee,  strengthen 
This  nerveless  hand  of  mine  to  give  the  stroke. 
The  final  stroke  which  seals  this  testament. 
In  Heaven's  stead  I  stand  to  show  the  world 
Eternal  justice  lives.     Doom  to  the  Valois  : 
That  is  the  sacred  ordinance  of  Heaven. 
Open  this  will.     The  name  alone  remains 
Unsigned.     \^JVrites.'\    'Tis  done.    Go  forth  and  summon 

here. 
Tear  him  from  bed  if  need  be,  our  State  Councillor. 
Bid  him  come  quick  to  execute  this  deed. 

\^Exit  a  Chamberlain. 
So — all  the  rest  is  hardly  worth  a  smile. 
Now  comes  the  end.  \Sinks  on  a  chair. 


Enter  Catherine  with  Pages,  and  from  the  other  side  Guise, 
Guards,  etc. 

CATHERINE 

What  is  all  this  ?     What  noise  disturbs  our  sleep  ? 

You  in  this  room,  and  where  is Is  not  this 

The  turret-room  of  Henry  of  Navarre  ? 


BRIDALS   OF  BLOOD  97 

CHARLES  Act  IV 

Ah  !     Thou  unholy  agent  of  revenge, 
If  one  were  blind  and  deaf,  one  then  might  think 
'Twas  all  mischance ;  but  God — believe  me,  mother — 
Does  not  permit  such  trafficking  w^ith  Heaven. 

GiJISE 

What  is  the  matter,  Charles  ? 

CHARLES 

Nay,  ask  of  her  [pointing  to  Catherine], 
If  she  will  speak.     Call  Henry  of  Navarre. 


CATHERINE 


Nay,  call  a  priest. 


See,  here  he  comes. 


CHARLES 

Call  Henry  of  Navarre. 


GUISE 


Enter  Navarre.     He  clasps  Margaret  in  his  arms, 

NAVARRE 

Margot — my  own — I  find  you  then  at  last. 
My  love,  my  bride  !     Nay,  you  are  ill  and  pale. 
You  draw  your  breath  in  slow  and  painful  gasps, 
What  strange  event  is  here  ?  ' 

CHARLES 

Ah,  there  is  much  to  say. 
See,  mother,  how  your  cursed  plan  has  failed  ! 
Her  love  hath  kept  her  safe  !     They  are  together — 
They're  one,  at  last !     So  falls  the  house  of  Valois, 
And  Beam  wins  ! 

CATHERINE 

Can  this  be  Heaven's  vengeance  ? 

H 


98  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  CHARLES 

[  To  Navarre.]   Nay,  leave  her,  brother  mine,  and  bend 

thine  ear 
Close  to  my  mouth.     I  fain  would  speak  a  word, 
A  final  word,  ere  death  arrest  my  tongue. 
I  pray  you,  Henry,  make  the  Church  at  peace. 
Let  each  man,  as  he  lives  beneath  thy  rule, 
Find  his  own  path  to  Heaven. 

Enter  Chancellor,  Heralds,  and  Pages. 

Nay,  Queen  Catherine, 
Your  day  is  past  for  ever.     Chancellor,  now. 

CHANCELLOR 

\Keads,'\  "  In  the  name  of  God  and  by  order  of  the 
King  !  Herewith,  with  a  sound  mind,  so  may  God  help 
us  to  everlasting  peace,  we  appoint  to  the  inheritance  and 
rule  of  our  Kingdom  Henry,  the  King  of  Navarre  and 
Beam "  [Catherine  stands  transfixed, 

CHARLES 

\Raises  himself  with  a  final  effort.']   Greet  the  new  King  ! 
Greet  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 

[Dies.  The  Herald  breaks  a  staff  with  the  words 
"  Le  Roi  est  morty  vive  le  Roi  I "  The 
Guards  salute. 


Curtain. 


KIT   MARLOWE'S    DEATH 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Christopher  Marlowe,  poet  and  dramatist. 

Sir  Thomas  Walsingham,  Marlowe's  friend  and  patron. 

Thomas  Nash,  dramatist! 

Thomas  Lodge,  poet      Vifriends  of  Marlowe. 

Edward  Alleyn,  actor  J 

Henry  Chettle,  a  literary  man. 

Francis  Archer,  landlord  of  "  Red  Lion  "  Inn  at  Deptford. 

Nan,  Archer's  housekeeper. 


Scene. — "  Red  Lion  "  Inn  at  Deptford. 


*^*  The  acting    rights  of  this    play  are  in  the  hands  of   Mr.  George 
Alexander. 


KIT    MARLOWE'S   DEATH 


Scene. — "  Red  Lion  "  Inn  at  Deptford,  Parlour  with 
sanded  floor.  Nan  discovered  laying  table  and  making 
preparations  for  a  meal  as  the  curtain  rises.  "  Come 
live  with  me  and  he  my  love  "  is  sung  as  a  quartette 
behind  stage.  Nan  laying  table  and  hustling  about 
while  music  is  going  on.  She  sighs  from  time  to  time,  and 
goes  finally  to  window  and  draws  back  curtain^  looking 
out  on  a  moonlit  scene. 

Time. — Evening  of  June  i,  1593. 
Enter  Francis  Archer  {the  landlord  of  the  Inn). 

ARCHER 

Why,  how  now,  Nan,  is  everything  ready  for  our 
guests  ?  A  noisy  crew  they  will  be,  I  warrant — ay,  and 
a  quarrelsome  one  before  the  night  is  out ! 

NAN 

[Sighing.]  Ay,  Master  Archer.  [She  still  looks  out  of 
window^  and  does  not  turn  round.] 

ARCHER 

Master  Archer  !  Master  Archer  !  How  many  times 
am  I  to  tell  thee,  girl,  that  to  thee  I  am  not  Master 
Archer,  but  plain  Francis — Francis,  an  it  please  you, 
that  loveth  thee  with  as  true  and  honest  a  love  as  ever 
man  gave  to  a  maid.     Is  it  moonlight  to-night,  Nan  ? 

lOI 


<  J,r :  t 


19a,  .  ,        DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

NAN 

Yes,  Master  Archer. 

ARCHER 

Master  Archer  again  !  Why,  sweet  Nan,  bonny  Nan, 
know  you  not  that  moonlight  is  made  for  lovers  ?  [coming 
close  to  her,]  And  that  thou  and  I  are  very  like  to  be 
betrothed  to-night  ?  [She  turns  away  and  goes  back  to  table  ; 
he  follows.]  Didst  thou  not  promise,  girl,  that  it  should 
be  even  so  ?  Didst  thou  not  swear  to  me  that  to-night, 
after  the  clock  had  struck  midnight,  thou  wouldst  give  me 
a  fair  and  straightforward  answer,  ay  or  nay  ?  Knowest 
thou  not  that  since  my  late  wife  died  (God  rest  her  soul  !) 
I  have  favoured  no  other  maid,  but  only  thee  r  I  grant 
you  that  my  late  venture  was  no  profitable  one.  But 
thou,  Nan,  will  make  more  than  amends  for  all  I  have 
suffered  ;  and  thy  bright  eye  will  clear  my  bosom  of  all 
the  perilous  stuff  of  anger  and  petulance  which  have  har- 
boured there  these  many  years  past.  Shall  it  not  be  so. 
Nan  ?     Didst  thou  not  make  the  promise  I  have  said  ? 

NAN 

Yes,  Master  Archer,  I  have  promised  ;  but  [as  he  comes 
still  nearer^  and  tries  to  take  her  hand]  after  midnight,  and 
not  before. 

ARCHER 

Nay,  Nan,  I  understand  thee  well  enow.  But  thy 
coldness  disconcerts  me.  Art  thou  coy,  lass,  with  me, 
that  hath  loved  thee  these  many  months  ;  Art  thou 
afeard  of  me,  that  would  take  thee  to  his  breast,  like  a 
frightened  and  timorous  bird  ?  Dost  thou  not  know  me, 
child  ?  [He  at  last  gets  possession  of  her  hand^  but  she  still 
keeps  her  eyes  turned  away  from  him.]  Is  it  something  else. 
Nan,  that  keeps  thee  from  me  ?  [fiercely.]  What  is  it  ? 
Who  is  it  ?  Thou  shalt  tell  me.  Nan  ;  ay,  even  if  I  tear 
thy  secret  from  out  thy  lips  ! 


KIT  MARLOWE'S  DEATH  103 

NAN 

Nay,  Master  Archer  ;  I  have  naught  to  tell.  Let  me 
go.     [Bursts  into  tears.'] 

ARCHER 

Now,  by  all  the  saints  in  Heaven,  I  will  know  !  Who 
is  it  ?  I  ask  thee  again.  It  cannot  be  that  one  of  the 
gentry  hath  spoken  soft  things  in  thine  ear  ?  Thou 
wouldst  never  dare  lift  thine  eyes  so  high.  Who  is  it,  girl  ? 
[roughly.']  Some  simple  swain,  to  whom  thou  hast  plighted 
thy  troth  long  ago,  before  thou  becamest  housekeeper  in 
my  service,  and  to  whom  thou  yet  feelest  thyself  bound  ? 
God's  blood,  but  I  am  worth  more  than  so  clumsy  a  hind  ! 
No  ?  Who  then  ?  Not  one  of  these  mad  players  and 
playwrights,  who  go  over  the  whole  face  of  the  earth  in 
paint  and  powder,  cozening  the  face  which  Heaven  hath 
given  them  into  the  likeness  of  knave  or  hero,  God  or 
devil  ?  Ah  !  have  I  touched  thee  there  ?  Then  was  I  a 
thousand  times  right  in  asking  their  worshipful  vagrancies 
here,  and  watching  their  wild  antics  with  thee.  Which 
is  it.  Nan  ?  for  God  is  my  witness,  know  I  will,  and  that 
soon.  Is  it  that  wild  tragedy  villain,  Alleyn,  who  hath 
debased  himself  into  all  the  sins  of  Tamburlaine — so  they 
tell  me — ay,  and  even  hath  given  himself  a  false  nose  and 
red  hair,  and  masqueraded  as  Barabas,  a  Jew  of  Malta  ? 
or  is  it  that  whimpering  Chettle  ?  or  the  cold,  sneering 
Nash  ?  or — may  God  confound  him — is  it  that  handsome, 
careless,  devil-may-care  Kit  Marlowe,  with  his  saucy 
manners  and  his  sparkling  eyes,  who  hath  taken  the  whole 
town  by  storm  ?  Nan,  is  it  Kit  ?  God  in  Heaven,  not 
Marlowe  !     Speak,  girl,  speak  ! 

NAN 

[With  face  averted^  and  frightened.]  Let  me  alone. 
Master  Archer  ;  nay,  but  I  will  not  be  thus  harried  by 
thee  !  Let  me  alone,  I  say  !  Have  I  not  promised  thee 
that  I  will  give  thee  my  answer  to-night  ?  Will  not 
that  content  thee  ? 


I04  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

ARCHER 

Content  me,  no — nor  any  other  man,  who  feeleth  the 
devil's  own  jealousy  within  him,  as  I  do.  Tell  me  fairly 
and  openly,  Nan,  is  it  Marlowe  ?  [with  a  change  of  manner.^ 
Thou  wilt  not  be  hard-hearted.  Nan  ;  thou  wilt  not  be 
so  unkind  to  one  who  hath  loved  thee,  and  would  fain 
cherish  thee  all  the  years  of  thy  life  ?  Say,  Nan,  thou  wilt 
tell  me,  wilt  thou  not  ? 

NAN 

[Crying.'\  Nay,  nay,  nay,  I  cannot  ;  leave  me  go,  leave 
me  go,  Master  Archer.  See,  how  thy  rude  hand  hath 
hurt  my  wrist  !     Unmannerly  ! 

ARCHER 

Unmannerly,  sayest  thou  ?  And  what  of  thee,  who 
hast  led  me  on  from  week  to  week  and  from  month  to 
month  with  the  ever-deferred  promise  that  thou  wilt  be 
mine  ?  Is  that  unmannerly  ?  What  of  thyself,  who 
hast  played  with  so  wanton  a  lightness  on  my  heart's 
strings  until,  as  thou  knowest  full  well,  I  have  no  thought 
but  of  thee  ;  and  then,  when  the  happiness  of  thy  posses- 
sion seemed  to  be  at  last  within  my  reach,  thou  fliest  off 
after  some  new  fancy — some  fresh  young  light-o'-love,  no 
sooner  seen  than  desired  !  Is  that  unmannerly  ?  Heaven's 
truth  !  Speak  not  to  me  of  unmannerliness,  when  thou 
canst  thus  throw  off  an  old  friend  ! 

NAN 

Indeed,  indeed,  Master  Archer,  thou  knowest  that  I 
have  always  respected  and — and — liked  thee  well  enow. 

ARCHER 

[Bitterly.l  Liked  !  Respected  !  And  when  some 
beggarly  young  scapegrace  of  an  actor  and  playwright, 
some  son  of  a  cobbler,  who  hath  already  lamed  himself  in 
his  wild  riots  on  the  stage,  and  earned  a  fame  at  "  the 
Curtain  "  which  should  be  the  shame  of  honest  men  j 


KIT  MARLOWE S  DEATH  105 

who  hath  disgraced  the  mother  that  bare  him  and  the 

learned  colleges  which  have  brought  him  up  ;  who   is 

notorious   for    his  quarrels   and   his   cups,   ay,  and   his 

mistresses ;  who 

NAN 

[Breaking  in.']  Thou  shalt  not  thus  wrong  Master 
Marlowe.  I  will  not  listen  to  thee.  He  hath  ever  been 
kind  of  heart  and  open  of  hand  to  all  who  have  been 
in  sorrow  or  in  need.     Why,  only  yester-even 

ARCHER 

Ah  1  it  is  Marlowe,  then  !  \Jiercely,'\  Tore  God,  Nan, 
thou  and  he  shall  live  to  repent  this  !  What,  it  is  he 
then  that  hath  caught  this  silly,  fluttering  bird — who 
hath  taken  all  the  gloss  off  thy  butterfly  wings  !  And 
I — well,  I  may  go  hang  where  and  when  it  listeth  me  ! 
But  it  shall  not  be  so.  Nan  !  I  swear  it  on  my  oath  ! 
He  shall  never  hold  thee  in  his  arms  as  I  am  holding  thee 
now.     [Clasps  her.]     This  very  night 

Enter  Lodge,  Nash,  Alleyn,  Chettle,  Sir  Thomas 

Walsingham.  Nash  holding  a  paper^  over  which 
they  are  all  laughing  immoderately^  with  the  exception  of 
Chettle.     Archer    leaves   Nan,    who   escapes   out 

of  the  room^  and  turning  with  a  low  how 

[Exit  Nan. 
Your  servant,  gentlemen  all ! 

LODGE 

Good  even.  Master  Francis.  Servant,  be  it ;  and  look 
you,  we  be  thirsty  souls  ;  therefore  serve  us  with  some 
wine,  and  be  quick  about  it ;  and  we  be  hungry  souls, 
look  you,  therefore  serve  us  with  that  same  supper  which 
thou  wottest  of  j  and  hurry  thy  legs  about  that  too  ! 

ARCHER 

\()hsequious^  Certes,  gentlemen.     Your   appetites  and 


io6  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

your  thirst  shall  not  exceed  my  nimbleness.  Ye  shall  be 
served  with  a  supper  which  hath  been  these  ten  minutes 
awaiting  you. 

SIR    THOMAS    WALSINGHAM 

Who  was  that  comely  wench,  who  so  incontinently 
fled  our  coming  ?  Methinks,  if  we  are  to  be  served  by 
her  hands,  we  shall  not  do  amiss,  please  God. 

ARCHER 

It's  my  housekeeper,  my  lord. 

SIR    THOMAS 

Housekeeper,  villain  !  She  is  young  enough  to  be  thy 
daughter. 

LODGE 

[Laughing.']  "  Young  enough  and  fair  enough  and  free 
enough  to — cheat  thee  !  "  Aha,  Sir  Thomas,  thine  eye 
is  ever  for  the  wenches  !     At  thine  age,  too  ! 

SIR   THOMAS 

Well,  well,  the  supper — and  thy  housekeeper.  Archer 
— especially  the  housekeeper  !  [Exit  Archer. 

ALLEYN 

And  now  for  the  dying  will  and  testament,  friend 
Nash.  Out  with  it ;  let  us  all  hear  thee,  and  let  those 
who  have  galled  withers  wince  !  I  care  not,  I.  But  who 
would  have  thought  our  old  friend  Robin  Greene  would 
have  made  such  an  ending  ? 

CHETTLE 

[Rubbing  his  hands.']  Ay,  ay,  he  was  a  kindly  man 
was  Robin  Greene.  A  kindly  man  and  a  thoughtful — a 
rare  writer  of  plays  and  a  rare  critic  of  his  friends  ! 

LODGE 

Peace,  thou  sallow-faced  weasel,  and  let  thy  betters 
speak. 


KIT  MARLOWE S  DEATH  107 

NASH 

[Reading  from  Greeners  "  Groatsworth  of  Wit  Bought  by 
a  Million  of  Repentance^'l  "To  those  gentlemen  his 
quondam  acquaintance  that  spend  their  wits  in  making 
playes,  R.  G.  wisheth  a  better  exercise,  and  wisdom  to 
prevent  his  extremities." 

LODGE 

Poor  friend  Robin  !     He  died  hard,  so  it  is  reported. 

CHETTLE 

Nay,  gentlemen,  peace.     Let  us  hear  him. 

NASH 

\Reading.'\  "  If  woeful  experience  may  move  you, 
gentlemen,  to  beware,  or  unheard-of  wretchedness  intreat 
you  to  take  heed,  I  doubt  not  but  you  will  look  back 
with  sorrow  on  your  time  past,  and  endeavour  with 
repentance  to  spend  that  which  is  to  come." 

ALLEYN 

Is  not  this  brave  ?     A  rare  preacher  !  say  I. 

NASH 

[Reading.']  "  Wonder  not  (for  with  thee  will  I  first 
begin),  thou  famous  gracer  of  tragedians " 

ALLEYN 

Kit  Marlowe  !     Kit  Marlowe  ! 

SIR   THOMAS 

'Twere  best  he  speak  no  ill  of  Marlowe  in  my  presence. 
What  does  the  graceless  villain  say  of  Marlowe  ? 

CHETTLE 

Peace,  peace,  gentlemen.     I  pray  you  listen. 


io8  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

NASH 

[Reading.']  "Why  should  thy  excellent  wit  be  so 
blinded  that  thou  shouldst  give  no  glory  to  the  Giver  ? 
Is  it  pestilent  Machiavellian  policy  that  thou  hast  studied  ? 
O,  peevish  folly ! "  Nay,  friends,  is  not  this  infamous  ? 
I  will  not  sully  my  tongue  with  such  dying  venom. 
Hardly  a  year  in  his  grave,  and  to  leave  such  a  legacy  ! 
I  would  that  Kit  were  here  to  hear  himself  bespattered  ! 

CHETTLE 

Nay,  but  proceed,  Master  Nash.  There  is  much 
sound  wit  and  judgment  in  what  is  to  come. 

NASH 

Proceed  ?  Not  I.  Is  it  thou,  thou  white-faced  loon, 
that  hast  given  this  pestilent  rubbish  to  the  world  ? 

ALLEYN 

Ay,  Chettle,  art  thou  the  editor  ? 

CHETTLE 

Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  I  pray  you  be  just  to  me. 
I  have  all  the  time  of  my  knowledge  of  books  hindered, 
so  far  as  it  hath  lain  with  me,  the  bitter  inveighing 
against  scholars,  and  how  in  that  I  have  dealt  I  can 
sufficiently  prove.  As  for  this  Marlowe,  I  am  not 
acquainted  with  him,  and  I  care  not  if  I  never  be. 

SIR    THOMAS 

Well,  then,  if  thou  carest  to  have  a  whole  skin,  the 
sooner  thou  departest  the  better  for  thee.  Do  I  hear 
Kit's  voice  ?  [Marlowe's  voice  heard  without^  singing. 

NASH 

Ay,  begone  with  thee,  Chettle  !  If  thou  givest  such 
rubbish  as  this  to  honest  men,  beware  their  resentment ! 


KIT  MARLOWE S  DEATH  109 

ALLEYN 

Out  with  thee,  thou  knavish  purveyor  of  malice  ! 

\^As  they  threaten^  Chettle  slinh  out  L. 
From  door  r.  Nan  comes  in  with  tankards 
and  wine.  From  door  c.  enter  Marlov^E, 
flushed^  and  as  he  comes  in  he  sings : — 

And  saw  you  not  my  Nan  to-day  ? 

My  winsome  maid  have  you  not  seen  ? 
My  pretty  Nan  is  gone  away 

To  seek  her  love  upon  the  green. 

As  he  comes  down  he  sees  Nan,  and  puts  his 
arm  round  her  waist  and  draws  her  to  him. 
Archer,  who  has  followed  Nan  with  dishes^ 
sees  the  act. 

MARLOWE 

[^Seating  himself  at  table.]  Well,  comrades,  how  goeth  it 
with  you  ?  Be  ye  merry,  and  I  will  give  you  a  stave. 
But  an  ye  be  mournful,  I  am  not  of  your  company 
[looking  after  Nan,  who  has  gone  outy   and  sings'] — 

My  pretty  Nan  is  gone  away 

To  seek  her  love  upon  the  green. 

SIR   THOMAS 

Thou  art  come  in  time,  friend  Kit,  for  this  varlct 
Archer  hath  been  like  to  upset  the  pasty  on  my  lap,  so 
overjoyed  is  he  at  thy  coming.  [To  Archer]  Sirrah, 
wilt  thou  put  the  dish  down  and  be  gone  ?  Come,  thou 
tragic  histrio,  AUeyn,  repeat  to  him  some  of  thy  deep- 
mouthed  verses  to  frighten  him  ! 

ALLEYN 

[JVith  tragedy  air.]  "Holla,  ye  pampered  jades  of 
Asia  !  "     [They  all  laugh.] 

MARLOWE 

Nay,  nay,  Tom  Nash  loveth  not  "the  drumming 
decasyllabon,"  eh,  Tom  ?     "  The  swelling  bombast  of  a 


no  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

bragging  blank  verse,"  eh,  Tom  ?  But,  my  worthy  sirs, 
though  I  see  many  cups,  yet  there  is  to  my  mind  a 
miserable  paucity  of  contents.  Friend  Archer,  wilt  thou 
not  remove  that  sullen  face  of  thine,  and  let  thy  Nan 
come  in  to  replenish  our  emptiness  ? 

[Archer  goes  out  sullenly. 

SIR   THOMAS 

Who  is  this  Nan,  Kit  ? 

MARLOWE 

[Carelessly.']  Nan  ?  She  is  what  Archer  calls  his  house-, 
keeper,  is  she  not  ? 

SIR    THOMAS 

Ay,  ay,  we  know  that  well  enough.  But  canst  thou 
tell  us  no  more  of  her  than  what  we  know  already  ? 
Did  not  my  ears  catch  some  ribald  lines  which  thou  wert 
repeating  in  her  honour,  and  did  not  my  eyes  see  thy 
tender  salutation  ? 

MARLOWE 

[Laughing.']  Each  one  to  his  own  !  say  I.  Nay,  in  all 
seriousness,  gentlemen,  she  is  a  small  chit  that  hath  much 
helped  to  relieve  my  dulness  in  this  village  while  the 
plague  is  raging  in  the  town.  I  did  her,  or  her  mother, 
some  small  kindness  :  I  forget  which  it  was,  or  what  it 
was ;  and  she  hath  in  return  done  me  the  great  kindness 
of  living  in  Deptford,  whereby  I  have  something  whereon 
to  feast  my  weary  eyes.  [Nan  comes  in  with  more  wine.] 
Hast  thou  not.  Nan  ? 

NAN 

\Shyly.]  I  know  not,  Mr.  Marlowe,  what  thou  sayest. 

MARLOWE 

[As  she  fills  his  cup.]  Well,  Nan,  thou  shalt  give  my 
cup  the  benison  of  thy  lips.  Drink  to  me,  lass.  Nay, 
I   insist.     [She  touches  the  cup  with  her  lips;  Marlowe 


KIT  MARLOWE'S  DEATH  iii 

drains  it  down.]  'Fore  Heaven,  'tis  nectar  now.  "A 
lass  and  a  glass,"  saith  the  wise  man.  And  now,  Nan, 
go  thy  ways,  my  bonny  girl  ;  for  we  hard  drinkers  are 
not  meet  company  for  thee.     Go  thy  ways,  lass ;  go  ! 

[She  goes  out. 

NASH 

Confound  thee.  Kit ;  thou  always  hast  the  devil's  own 
luck. 

MARLOWE 

Which  is  more  than  I  can  say  for  thee,  Tom,  when  thou 
writest  in  the  company  of  Robin  Greene  and  decriest  thy 
learned  friends  as  "  idiot  art-masters  "  !  [  The  others  laugh  at 
Nash's  expense.]  But  what  was  the  business  over  which  ye 
all  looked  so  grave  as  I  entered  ?  It  was  a  thirsty  business, 
I'll  be  bound,  or  all  the  cups  would  not  have  been  so 
empty  ! 

NASH 

We  were  reading  Greene's  testament,  wherein,  to  his 
shame,  he  hath  said  so  many  hard  words  of  thee. 


MARLOWE 

So  hast  thou,  Tom,  in  thy  time,  so  hast  thou  !  Nay, 
deny  it  not,  man,  nor  think  that  it  angereth  me  a  jot. 
Dame  Nature  hath  given  me  a  tough  hide. 

SIR     THOMAS 

And  a  tender  heart. 

MARLOWE 

That  shall  be  as  it  may  be.  But  read  on,  Nash,  read 
on.  I  would  fain  have  some  savoury  morsel  wherewith  to 
flavour  my  cup. 

NASH 

{Reading].  "  Defer  not  till  the  last  point  of  extremity  " 
— he  is  speaking  of  thee.  Kit — "  for  little  knowest  thou 
how  in  the  end  thou  shalt  be  visited." 


112  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

MARLOWE 

Like  enough  !  like  enough  !  Unvisited,  unwept  for, 
and  alone  !  \_Thts  in  a  half-asidcy  with  almost  a  serious 
air.] 

NASH 

[Continuing.]  "  With  thee  I  join  young  Juvenal,  that 
biting  satirist.  Sweet  boy,  might  I  advise  thee,  be 
advised,  and  get  not  many  enemies  by  bitter  words."  He 
must  mean  thee,  Tom  Lodge. 

LODGE 

No.  Am  I  not  a  gentleman  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  a 
Master  of  Arts  ? 

MARLOWE 

Ay,  a  better  Master  of  Arts  than  thou  art  a  Doctor  of 
Divinity  !  But  he  means  not  Tom  Lodge,  but  Tom 
Nash.  Have  we  not  all  suffered  from  his  biting 
satires  ? 

NASH 

I  care  not,  whether  it  be  I  or  he.  But  here  is  a 
worthier  passage.  Listen,  sirs,  and  tell  me  whether  even 
poor  crazy  Robin  Greene  speaketh  not  sometimes  to  the 
point  [reads]  :  "  There  is  an  upstart  crow,  beautified  with 
our  feathers,  that  supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bombast 
out  a  blank  verse  as  the  best  of  you,  and  being  an  abso- 
lute Johannes-factotum,  is  in  his  own  conceit  the  only 
Shakescene  in  a  country."  Aha,  methinks  he  hath  taken 
off  our  young  deer-stealer  to  a  nicety  ! 

SIR   THOMAS 

Ay,  that  is  the  proper  sauce  wherewith  to  serve  so 
eminent  a  gosling  1 

LODGE 

Bravo,  Robin  !  Thou  canst  be  young  Juvenal  too, 
when  it  liketh  thee  ! 


KIT  MARLOWE S  DEATH  113 

MARLOWE 

[Starting  up.]  Now,  'fore  Heaven,  I  think  ye  be  too  un- 
charitable !  I  care  not  what  he  saith  of  me  or  any  of 
you,  but  no  man  shall  speak  thus  in. my  presence  of  young 
Will  Shakespeare. 

SIR    THOMAS 

Why,  Kit,  they  say  he  is  like  to  be  thy  rival  ! 

MARLOWE 

Rival,  sayest  thou  ?  Nay,  mistake  me  not.  He  is  not 
my  rival,  nor  any  man's.  I  tell  ye  all  that  when  we  are 
lying  in  our  graves,  there  will  be  one  man  who  will  be 
living  in  men's  mouths — Will  Shakespeare  !  When  men 
have  forgotten  the  very  names  we  bore,  when  all  that  we 
have  written  becomes  like  letters  on  the  sand  or  the  water 
— there  is  one  name  they  will  never  forget — Will 
Shakespeare  !  Ye  talk  of  me  and  of  my  mighty  line  ; 
what  is  all  that  I  have  penned,  weighed  in  the  balances 
against  Will  Shakespeare  ?  Why,  gentlemen,  he  is  but  in 
the  first  blush  of  his  spring,  and  mayhap  none  of  us  shall 
see  his  summer,  but  I  tell  ye  that  there  are  thoughts  of  his 
and  words  which  he  hath  written  which  ring  in  my  ears 
hke  the  divinest  music,  which  cross  the  dull  and  muddy 
air  we  breathe  like  lightning  flashes  of  Heaven's  own 
blinding  radiance  !  I  say  nothing  of  the  man  himself, 
how  gentle  he  is  and  how  modest,  compared  to  our  noisy 
crew,  and  with  how  simple  a  life  he  is  for  ever  rebuking 
our  mad  escapades  ;  but  if  this  speech  be  my  last,  I  will 
bear  testimony  to  the  finest  mind  and  purest  genius  that 
ever  blest  our  English  tongue  with  inimitable  pearls  and 
diamonds — ay,  the  one  man  who,  if  fate  so  will  that 
our  dear  England  be  conquered  by  some  foreign  foe  and 
sink  into  obscurity  and  nothingness,  will  for  ever  redeem 
our  race  and  the  common  name  we  bear — because  Will 
Shakespeare  was  an  Englishman  !  [Marlowe  sinks  down 
on  his  seat.]  [J pause. 

I 


114  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

SIR   THOMAS 

Why,  how  now,  Kit,  this  is  tragedy  indeed  ! 

MARLOWE 

[Wearily.'\  Ay,  ay,  mayhap  I  am  something  over- 
wrought to-night.  Give  me  more  to  drink.  Is  it  true 
that  men  have  sometimes  a  strange  feeling  that  their  end 
is  nigh,  and  that  all  their  work  is  over  ?  Pshaw,  this  is 
woman's  weakness  ! 

NASH 

Come,  come.  Kit.  Tell  us  of  thyself.  Hast  thou 
been  doing  aught  that  is  noteworthy  ? 

MARLOWE 

[Brightening.']  Something  here  and  there,  by  fits  and 
starts,  as  is  my  wont.  Rememberest  thou  the  tragedy  of 
Dido  and  those  young  school-boy  essays  of  mistranslating 
Virgil  ?  Well,  Tom,  there  is  work  in  that  for  thee. 
The  work  tires  me  somewhat.  Wilt  thou  take  it  in 
hand  ? 

NASH 

Ay,  that  I  will,  and  welcome.  Right  proud  am  I  to  be 
thy  helper. 

ALLEYN 

But  hast  thou  nothing  for  me  ?  I  would  fain  have 
something  to  study  that  is  thine — some  character  to  take 
the  town,  when  this  cursed  plague  is  over.  Hast  thou  no 
new  Barabas  ? 

Thus  like  the  sad-presaging  raven  that  tolls 
The  sick  man's  passport  in  her  hollow  beak. 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  silent  night 
Doth  shake  contagion  from  her  sable  wings — 

Hast  thou  nothing  like  that,  now  ? 

MARLOWE 

[Smiling'].  Maybe  I  have,  and  thou,  my  Alleyn,  shalt  be 
my  interpreter. 


KIT  MARLOWE S  DEATH  115 

LODGE 

What  is  it  ?     May  we  know  ? 

MARLOWE 

What  say  ye,  gentlemen,  to  a  new  character  ?  A  man 
who  hath  something  in  him  of  Tamburlaine,  and  here 
and  there  a  likeness  to  thy  friend  \to  Alleyn]  Barabas  ? 

NASH 

Perchance,  too,  there  is  a  touch  of  Faustus  ? 

MARLOWE 

Nay,  nay,  there  is  only  one  Faustus  ! 

ALLEYN 

And  his  name.  Kit,  his  name  ? 

MARLOWE 

Hebrew,  sirs,  Hebrew.  The  Hebrews  have  all  the 
vices  and  the  intelligence  of  our  time.  Nay,  now  I  be- 
think me,  I  have  made  him  a  Moor. 

ALLEYN 

But  his  name.  Kit,  his  name  ! 

MARLOWE 

Art  thou  not  forward  in  thy  haste  ?  His  name  is 
Aaron.  Wouldst  thou  hear  somewhat  of  his  speech  ? 
Well,  give  me  a  brimming  cup  to  baptize  my  latest  off- 
spring. [They  pour  out  wine  in  his  cup^  which  he  swallows.^ 
Again,  lads,  again.  Aaron  is  a  name  somewhat  dry  in 
the  mouth,  methinks.  [Marlowe />«//;  a  MS.  out  of  his 
pocket  and  reads  from  the  play  of  "  Titus  Jndronicus."] 

[Nan  stea/s  in  and  listens  by  the  door. 

As  when  the  golden  sun  salutes  the  morn. 
And  having  gilt  the  ocean  with  his  beams, 
Gallops  the  zodiac  in  his  glistering  coach 
And  overlooks  the  highest-peering  hills 

^^nay^  it  is  sorry  stuff. 


ii6  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

NASH 

Marlowe's  line,  nathless. 

ALLEYN 

More,  more,  I  pray  thee. 

MARLOWE 
\Turm  over  a  few  pageSy  and  reads'] — 

Madam,  though  Venus  govern  your  desires, 

Saturn  is  dominator  over  mine  ; 

What  signifies  my  deadly-standing  eye. 

My  silence  and  my  cloudy  melancholy  ? 

My  fleece  of  woolly  hair  that  now  uncurls 

Even  as  an  adder,  when  she  doth  unroll 

To  do  some  fatal  execution  ? 

Vengeance  is  in  my  heart,  death  in  my  hand. 

Blood  and  revenge  are  hammering  in  my  head. 

LODGE 

"  D'^adly-standing  eye  "  is  good. 

MARLOWE 

Good,  quotha  ?  Nay,  I  am  sick  of  it.  Oh,  that  I 
had  the  grace  of  Will  Shakespeare  to  fashion  my  hard 
verses  to  smoothest  melody  !  I  care  not  if  I  never  finish 
it.  [Seeing  Nan,  who  has  been  listening  with  rapt 
attention.']  Ah,  Nan,  art  thou  there  ?  Leave  me, 
gentlemen,  I  pray  you.  I  fear  I  am  not  so  lightsome 
in  my  heart  as  you  would  desire.     Leave  me. 

NASH 

Leave  you  ?     Not  L 

ALLEYN 

Nor  L 


MARLOWE 


I  pray  you,  do. 


SIR    THOMAS 

What  !  shall  we  humour  him  ?    Then  give  us  thy  new 
play  to  amuse  ourselves  withal.    [Marlowe  gives  his  MS.^ 


KIT  MARLOWE'S  DEATH  117 

But  we  will  return  anon,  Kit.    Thou  graceless  villain,  are 
we  to  leave  thee  all  the  sweets  ?     Well,  gentlemen,  come. 
{Exeunt    Sir    Thomas,    Nash,    Lodge,     and 
Alleyn.     Marlowe  h  left  with  Nan. 

MARLOWE 

Come  hither,  sweet.  Hast  thou  been  here  all  the 
time,  and  I  saw  thee  not  ? 

NAN 

Nay,  I  only  came  when  I  heard  the  sound  of  thy 
voice.  Thou  knowest  that  it  rings  like  music  in  my 
ears. 

MARLOWE 

A  harsh  note.  Nan,  believe  me.  There  is  no  music  in 
my  composition.  Some  force,  maybe,  and  fervour,  some 
gift  of  high-sounding  words  which  these  lads,  that  are 
my  friends,  do  not  attain  unto.  But  no  music.  Nan — I 
would  there  were  ! — no  unearthly  melody  like  that  which 
haunts  the  least  words  of  Will  Shakespeare.  But  why 
talk  I  thus  to  thee  ?  Come  nearer  and  comfort  me,  lass, 
for  I  feel  strangely  sick  at  heart. 

NAN 

Art  thou  ill,  dear  master  ? 

MARLOWE 

111  ?  No,  only  moody  and  dispirited.  No  matter,  let 
us  drink. 

NAN 

No,  no  {putting  away  his  glass],  I  do  not  like  thee  in 
thy  company  vein.  I  like  thee  by  thyself,  as  when  we 
sometimes  walk  through  the  great  solemn  woods,  and  see 
the  shadows  of  the  tall  trees  on  the  grass,  and  hear  the 
birds  sing  in  the  meadows.  Ah,  thou  hast  been  a  kind 
friend  to  me  ! 

MARLOWE 

No,  lass,  no.     'Tis  thou  rather  that  has  been  kind  to 


ii8  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

me.  See  here,  sweet,  I  am  but  young  in  years.  What 
is  my  age  ?  'Tis  barely  thirty,  but  methinks  I  have 
lived  too  long.  I  have  seen  too  much,  or  else  I  have 
lived  through  my  allotted  space  too  fast.  Whatever  it 
be,  I  am  all  avi^eary  of  the  w^orld,  and  thy  Kit  Marlowe 
is  an  old  man  before  his  time.  My  life  hath  withered  up 
my  heart. 

NAN 

Nay,  now,  I  know  that  thou  speakest  falsely.  Hast 
thou  no  heart,  thinkest  thou,  when  thou  canst  turn  out 
of  thy  way  to  be  kind  to  a  poor  country  lass  like  me  ? 
When  thou  savedst  my  mother's  life  with  thy  timely  gifts 
and  still  more  kindly  words,  dost  think  thou  hadst  no 
heart  ?     Ah,  Master  Marlowe,  I  know  thee  better. 

MARLOWE 

No  more  of  that,  I  pray  you.  Come,  let  us  be 
merry,  and  talk  of  love,  and  laugh  at  death  and  old  age. 
Thou  art  a  bonny  child.  Nan,  and  'fore  Heaven  I  love 
thee  well  !  \Draws  her  to  him  and  kisses  her.^  Drink, 
lass,  drink  !     Life  is  all  glorious  when  we  drink  ! 

NAN 

When  dost  thou  go  away  ? 

MARLOWE 

What  talk  is  this  of  going  away  ?  Why,  Nan,  have  I 
infected  thee  with  my  dull  spirits  ?  Maybe,  I  shall  never 
go  away. 

NAN 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

MARLOWE 

God's  truth,  I  know  not.  What  a  strange  life  is  this 
of  ours,  when  ever  and  anon  there  come  visitings  from 
another  world — when  in  the  heyday  of  life  there  is  the 

sudden  shadow  cast  across  our  path Why  do  I  talk 

thus  to  thee  ?     Drink,  girl,  drink  ! 


KIT  MARLOWE'S  DEATH  119 

NAN 

Art  thou  ill  ? 

MARLOWE 

[^Musing.']  Is  there  another  world  ?  And  is  all  that 
we  see  and  feel  and  touch  the  mere  semblance  of  a  dream 
which  shall  roll  away,  and  leave  us  bare  and  naked  before 
some  dread  Reality  ? — I  had  a  strange  vision  last  night. 

NAN 

Tell  me,  kind  master.  I  would  fain  know  all  thy 
thoughts. 

MARLOWE 

I  believe  thou  wouldst,  for  I  have  ever  found  in  thee, 
although  that  thou  art  but  a  village  child,  some  touch 
of  poesy.  Ay,  let  me  tell  thee.  But  let  me  feel  thy 
warm  touch  about  my  face  ;  let  me  link  thy  arms  about 
me.  [He  puts  her  arms  round  his  necky  she  only  half  resisting.'] 
Listen,  child.  Methought  I  was  in  some  large  plain, 
and  before  me  there  was  a  mountain  which  bounded  the 
horizon,  and  it  seemed  that  I  must  needs  climb  the 
ascent.  And  though  the  way  was  steep,  and  I  could  see 
others  fainting  by  my  side,  to  me  it  was  an  easy  and 
delightful  task  to  climb  the  lower  bases  of  the  mountain. 
And  then,  as  I  rose,  I  found  that  the  mountain  divided 
itself  into  twin  peaks — one  of  them  all  rocky  and 
precipitous,  and  the  other  slowly  rising  from  the  day  into 
some  wondrous  region  of  cloud  and  mist.  And  a  voice 
said,  "  Choose  which  thou  wilt  climb."  And  I  said  to 
myself,  "  Let  me  choose  the  steep  and  arduous  peak  ;  the 
other  only  requireth  patience,  and  surely  all  men  can 
attain  to  it."  [Putting  her  from  him  and  rising.]  So  I 
climbed  up  the  precipices,  and  my  foot  was  light  and  my 
hands  were  strong :  nor  could  aught  prevent  my  eager 
haste,  till  I  placed  myself  at  last  on  the  cold,  stony  top 
of  the  hill  I  had  chosen.  And  when  I  laid  myself  down 
to  rest,  of  a  sudden  there  was  thunder,  and  I  heard  a 
pealing  cry,  "  Live  thou  on  thy  peak  alone."      And  the 


I20  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

clouds  that  rested  on  the  other  summit  were  swept  aside 
for  a  moment,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  immeasurably 
higher  than  mine.  And  again  the  awful  voice,  "Thou 
hast  chosen  ill." — Nay,  child,  I  have  frightened  thee  with 
my  fancies. 

NAN 

\^Slowly\.  When  dost  thou  go  away  ? 

MARLOWE 

Again  that  question  ?  Why,  Nan,  how  unkind  thou 
art  to  me  in  thus  harping  upon  my  going.  When  do  I 
go  away  ?  Mayhap  in  a  month,  or  a  day,  or  never. 
Dost  thou  love  me,  lass  ? 

NAN 

Oh,  do  not  ask  ! 

MARLOWE 

But  thou  must  say,  lass-^thou  must  say.  Dost  thou 
love  me  ? 

NAN 

\_Shyly.']  Thou  knowest  that  I  do.  Hast  thou  not 
been  all  kindness  and  tenderness  to  me  ? 

MARLOWE 

I  know  not.  Maybe  I  have  been  unkind,  for  in 
certain  ways,  methinks,  I  have  deceived  thee.  I  would 
not  have  thee  mistake  me.  Nan.  Think  not  that  love — 
the  mere  love  of  man  for  maid — can  ever  sway  my  heart. 
It  is  not  so  ;  I  have  a  love  within  me — a  passionate  love, 
which  naught  can  assuage  ;  but  it  is  not  an  earthly  love. 
They  call  me  '  atheist,'  do  they  not  ? 

NAN 

Ay,  sir  ;  I  have  heard  so. 

MARLOWE 

Atheist ;  ay,  so  says  Richard  Bame.  But  it  is  not  true 
— at  least,  not  true  save  in  their  narrow  sense.     I  have  an 


KIT  MARLOWE'S  DEATH  121 

unearthly  love  about  me  for  something  to  whicli  I  can 
give  no  name.  It  is  a  haunting  passion,  an  aspiration  for 
that  w^hich  hath  never  been,  nor  ever  yet  w^ill  be  :  a  mad 
feverish  thirst  for  the  grand,  the  divine,  the  impossible. 
There  is  for  ever  hovering  in  my  restless  head — 

One  thought,  one  grace,  one  wonder,  at  the  least 
Which  into  words  no  virtue  can  digest. 

Why — \laughing\ — what  a  sorry  knave  am  I,  that  must 
needs  quote  my  ovv^n  words,  like  some  poor  prating  parrot  ! 
Dost  love  me,  Nan  ? 

NAN 

I  love  thee. 

MARLOWE 

Love  me  not,  love  me  not  !     I  only  love  my  art. 

NAN 

Ah — but — nay,  why  shouldst  thou  care  what  my  lot 
may  be  ? 

MARLOWE 

What  is  thy  lot.  Nan  ? 

NAN 

I  have  promised  Francis  Archer  that  I  will  marry  him. 

MARLOWE 

Marry  Francis  Archer  ?  What,  hast  thou  promised  ? 
No,  'fore  God,  thou  shalt  not  marry  him  ;  thou  shalt 
marry  me.  S'blood,  I  am  sick  of  the  town  life.  I  will 
stay  here  with  thee.     Wilt  thou  marry  me,  Naii  ? 

NAN 

Ah — mock  me  not ! 

MARLOWE 

Mock  thee  ?  not  I !  Marry  Francis  Archer  ?  Never  ! 
Never  !  Come,  marry  thee  I  will,  willy  nilly.  When 
shall  it  be  ?     To-morrow  ?     To-night  ?  {getting  excited^ 


122  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

In  sober  truth,  I  will  leave  the  world  and  live  with  thee. 
I  will  marry  thee  now.     Where  is  the  priest  ? 

NAN 

Nay,  thou  knowest  that  there  is  no  priest  here. 

MARLOWE 

No  priest  ?  Nay,  the  ceremony  shall  be  now.  \Going 
to  the  doovy  wildly.']  Here,  Nash,  Lodge,  Alleyn,  come 
in,  all  of  you.  \_They  enter.']  Come  in,  come  in  and  be 
my  witnesses  in  a  solemn  act  of  betrothal  ! 

NASH 

What  mad  prank  is  this  ? 

MARLOWE 

Nay,  I  am  in  sober  earnest,  or  I  shall  be  with  one  more 
cup  of  wine.     Come  and  be  my  witnesses. 

LODGE 

"  Is  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships "  ? 
[pointing  to  Nan.] 

MARLOWE 

Ay,  and  a  pretty  one,  too  !  Come,  thou  tragedy- 
monger,  Ned  Alleyn,  and  be  my  priest. 

alleyn 
Thy  priest,  Kit  ? 

MARLOWE 

Ay,  art  thou  not  an  actor  ? — which  in  good  high- 
sounding  Greek  means  a  hypocrite.  Priest,  actor,  hypo- 
crite, 'tis  all  one  !  Come,  marry  us.  \^He  seizes  Nan  and 
forces  her  down  on  her  knees  with  himself  in  front  ^Alleyn, 
the  others  laughing.] 


KIT  MARLOWE'S  DEATH  123 

Enter  Archer.     He  stops  appalled^  then  rushes  forward. 

ARCHER 

Sirs,  sirs,  what  mean  ye  by  this  foolery  ?  Let  the  girl 
go! 

NASH 

Why,  how  now,  thou  moody  knave  !  Nay,  we  must 
have  no  brawlers  in  church.  \_Seizes  him^  and  attempts  to 
push  him  to  the  door.      They  struggle.'] 

MARLOWE 

Thou  insolent  varlet  !  What,  thou  art  going  to  marry 
Nan,  art  thou  ?  Nay,  let  me  get  at  him  \to  Lodge  and 
Alleyn,  who  stop  and  attempt  to  keep  him  back].  Nay,  I 
will  turn  him  out  of  doors.  'Fore  Heaven,  I  will  murder 
him  !     Let  me  get  at  him,  the  drunken  fool  ! 

[Marlowe,  struggling  with  Lodge  and  Alleyn, 
gets  at  last  to  Nash,  who  is  struggling  with 
Archer.  As  they  struggle  the  table  is  over- 
turned^  and  Archer  seizes  a  knife  on  the 
floor^  which  has  been  upset  from  the  table. 
As  Marlowe  at  last  reaches  him^  throwing 
off  his  friends y  Archer  stabs  Marlowe  to 
the  heart. 

ARCHER 

Take  that,  thou  vile  seducer  ! 

[Marlowe  secures  the  knife  after  a  struggle^ 
and  holds  it  over  Archer,  then  sinks  back^ 
and  the  knife  falls  on  the  floor.  The  others 
rush  up  to  hiniy  and  Archer  escapes  from 
the  room. 

ALLEYN 

Kit,  Kit,  look  up,  lad.     Thou  art  not  hurt  ? 

MARLOWE 

Hurt  ?     Ay,   past   surgery.      Nan,   art    thou    there  ? 


124  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

\^he  comes  forward^  trembling^  and  lifts  his  head  on  her  knee.^ 
Lend  me  thy  kerchief,  lass,  to  stanch  this  bleeding.  It 
is  draining  my  life.  Look  cheerily,  lass,  'tis  all  one ; 
and  if  it  is  not  to-day,  then  it  will  be  to-morrow.  Nay, 
nay,  weep  not,  child.  Thou  knowest  I  would  have 
married  thee  ? 

NAN 

Ay,  my  dear  lord   \weeping\. 

MARLOWE 

Well,  then,  I  am  thy  husband.  Fare  thee  well  ! 
Come,  come,  gentlemen,  eye  me  not  so  sadly.  Ye  will 
grieve,  it  may  be,  for  a  time,  and  anon  ye  will  be  merry 
again.     'Tis  all  one. 

LODGE 

Let  some  one  go  and  arrest  the  murderer. 

MARLOWE 

Nay,  let  him  go.     He  thought  I  had  wronged  him. 

ALLEYN 

Oh,  Kit,  Kit !     Thou  wilt  not  die  and  leave  us  ? 

MARLOWE 

Needs  must,  sirs,  when  fate  calls.  Poor  Kit  Marlowe  ! 
'Tis  a  sorry  ending  to  a  sorry  life !  Well,  it  would  have 
come  hereafter.  "  O  water,  gentle  friends,  to  cool  my 
thirst !  "     [His  head  sinks  down.] 

NASH 

Is  he  gone  ?     [They  press  some  water  to  his  lips.] 

MARLOWE 

Nay,  there  is  yet  a  flicker  ere  the  light  goes  out.  But 
ah,  my  plays,  my  plays  !  When  comes  another  Tambur- 
laine  ?  Will  men  write  another  "  Faustus  "  ?  And  my 
"  Hero  and    Leander "  !     I   pray  ye  ask  George  Chap- 


KIT  MARLOWE S  DEATH  125 

man  to  end  it  for  me ;  but  when  ?  when  ?  And  men 
will  judge  me  only  by  what  I  have  written.  Poor,  poor 
Kit  Marlowe  !     \His  head  sinks  again.] 

ALLEYN 

Nay,  Kit,  thy  memory  shall  be  dear  to  us. 

MARLOWE 

[Starting  up.]  Is  it  e'en  so  ?  "  Nay,  nay,  come  not, 
Lucifer  !  See  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the 
firmament  ! "  Ah,  ah  !  [shrieks].  [Recovering.]  Nay, 
friends,  look  not  so  terrified.  It  is  but  Faustus  that 
speaks.  Will  they  remember  me,  think  you,  in  the  after 
days  ?  Will  they  speak  kindly  of  poor,  wild  Kit 
Marlowe  ?  "  Weep  not  for  Mortimer,  that  scorns  the 
world,  and  as  a  traveller  goes  to  discover  countries  yet 
unknown."  Oh,  God  !  God  !  will  death  never  come  ? 
I  am  but  what  I  am — a  poor  froward  boy,  who  hath 
shipwrecked  his  life  on  the  sharp  rocks  of  circumstances 
and  fate.     The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart [Dies.] 

ALLEYN 

[Solemn/y] — 

Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  straight, 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough. 

["  Comey  live  with  w^,"  sung  or  played  softly^  as  the  curtain 
descends.] 


Slow  Curtain. 


GASTON     BONNIER 

OR 

TIME'S   REVENGES 


DRAMAriS   PERSONjE 

Gaston  Bonnier,  a  well-to-do  French  farmer. 

Pierre  Bonnier,  his  son. 

Le  Petit  Gaston,  his  grandson. 

Marcel,  a  soldier. 

Hortense,  secretly  married  to  Pierre. 

Marthe,  housekeeper  to  Gaston  Bonnier. 


ACT   I 
Interior  of  Gaston   Bonnier's  Parlour,  1854. 

ACT    II 
Interior  of  Gaston  Bonnier's  Parlour  (after  sixteen  years), 

1870. 


*^*  Written  for  and    performed    by  Professor  Hubert  von  Herkomer, 
R.A.,  at  his  theatre  at  Bushey. 


GASTON    BONNIER 


OR 


TIME'S    REVENGES 


ACT   I 

Scene. — Parlour   of  a   farmer's    house    in    France^    early    Act  I 
morning, 

\As  curtain  ascends^  chorus  of  harvesUsong  is  sung.  The  song 
continues  in  a  subdued  key  through  all  the  opening 
sentences  of  the  dialogue^ 

Enter  Marthe. 

MARTHE 
\Who  draws  aside  the  curtains  and  opens  the  windows.l 
Sunshine  and  music.  A  lovely  morning  !  There  could 
not  be  a  finer  day  for  the  harvest  festival,  and  no  one  will 
be  better  pleased  than  M.  Gaston,  w^ho  loves  to  see  all  the 
young  folks  around  him  enjoying  themselves.  Ah  !  He 
is  a  man  with  a  heart  of  gold — I  wish  there  were  more 
like  him  !  All  round  the  country  side  there  is  no  truer 
friend  to  the  labourers  than  M.  Gaston. 


Enter  Hortense. 

HORTENSE 

[Puts  her  head  in  at  the  door,  and  then  advances  into  the 
room  on  tiptoe^  behind  Marthe's  back  ;  she  puts  her  hands 

129  K 


130  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I    round  Marthe's  eyes  and  simulates  a  gruff  voice."]     Is  this 
the  house  of  M.  Gaston  Bonnier  ?     [Then  laughs  merrily.'] 

MARTHE 

No,  it's  no  good,  my  young  lady,  your  trying  to  deceive 
me,  I  could  tell  your  footsteps  among  a  thousand.  But 
you  are  early,  Mademoiselle  ! 

HORTENSE 

No,  it's  you  who  are  late.  What,  on  a  festival  day  like 
this,  and  on  such  a  lovely  morning,  to  be  only  just  down. 
Lazy  old  Marthe  !     [Turns  her  face  round  and  kisses  her.] 

MARTHE 

Bless  you.  Mile.  Hortense,  we  cannot  all  be  such 
early  birds  as  you.  But  come  and  sit  down  and  tell  me 
what  you  want. 

HORTENSE 

No,  no,  Marthe.  I  am  in  a  hurry.  Has  M.  Pierre 
come  down  yet  ? 

MARTHE 

M.  Pierre,  M.  Pierre — what  do  I  know  about  M. 
Pierre  ? 

HORTENSE 

Oh,  don't  tease  me,  you  wicked  old  thing.  You  know 
quite  well  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you,  and  so  you  pretend 
you  cannot  understand — just  on  purpose  to  annoy  me. 

MARTHE 

Come,  come,  ladybird — don't  fly  out  at  me  like  that. 
I  know  you,  you  young  ladies,  you  are  always  in  a  hurry, 
and  if  one  does  not  answer  you  directly,  you  begin  to 
pout  and  call  people  all  manner  of  unkind  names.  No — 
I  don't  know  anything  about  M.  Pierre. 

HORTENSE 

Dear  old  Marthe — you  must  not  begin  the  day  so 
badly  with  so  naughty  a  falsehood.  Come,  tell  me, 
there's  a  darling.     [Kisses  her.] 


GASTON  BONNIER  131 

MARTHE  Act  I 

Oh  yes,  you  expect  to  get  over  me  with  those  soft 
ways  !     No,  no  ! 

HORTENSE 

Get  over  you,  of  course  I  do.  Why  you  dear,  silly  old 
Marthe,  don't  you  know  how  I  love  you  ? 

MARTHE 

Not  so  much  as  you  do  a  certain  gentleman  who  shall 
be  nameless  !     Oh,  you  don't  deceive  me. 

HORTENSE 

But,  Marthe  dear,  has  M.  Pierre  come  down  yet  ? 

MARTHE 

There  we  go  !  I've  told  you  I  didn't  know  anything 
about  M.  Pierre,  and  you  go  on,  just  as  if  you  didn't 
believe  me. 

HORTENSE 

But  I  don't  believe  you,  I  don't  believe  a  word  you  say. 

MARTHE 

Did  any  one  ever  hear  the  like  of  that  ?  Ah,  you  saucy 
child,  there's  no  resisting  you.  Well,  well,  I  will  tell 
you  all  I  know  about  M.  Pierre. 

HORTENSE 

{^Eagerly,']  Yes,  yes. 

MARTHE 

Because  I  know  nothing. 

HORTENSE 

Oh,  you  dreadful  old  story-teller  !  Didn't  I  tell  you 
you  weren't  to  be  believed  ? 

MARTHE 

Well  then,  what's  the  good  of  my  speaking  ?  M.  Pierre 
is  not  down  yet — will  that  content  you  ? 


132  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  HORTENSE 

I  can  see  that  with  my  own  eyes. 

MARTHE 

That  was  what  you  asked  me,  wasn't  It  ?  And  I 
shouldn't  think  he  would  be  down  for  some  time  yet. 
He  was  very  late  last  night. 

HORTENSE 

[Anxiously,']  Very  late  ? 

MARTHE 

Yes,  he  was  sitting  in  his  room  very  late — writing  and 
writing  and  writing — I  think  he  was  writing  to  his  father. 

HORTENSE 

[Turning  pale.]  To  his  father  ?  To  M.  Gaston 
Bonnier  ? 

MARTHE 

Yes,  why  should  he  not  ?  Though,  to  be  sure,  he 
has  got  him  in  the  house  and  he  might  as  well  say  all  he 
wants  to,  by  word  of  mouth.  But  some  people  prefer 
writing,  when  they  are  not  quite  sure  of  what  they  ought 
to  say. 

HORTENSE 

Oh,  M.  Gaston  frightens  me. 

MARTHE 

No,  no,  dearie,  no.  He  is  a  man  to  love,  not  to  fear. 
He  is  a  good,  honest  man,  very  just,  and  very  clear- 
sighted, and  I  don't  think  he  would  willingly  wrong  any 
man. 

HORTENSE 

But  he  has  got  such  hard  eyes. 

MARTHE 

Well,  he  has  suffered,  you  know,  and  that  makes  a 
man  hard  sometimes.  Poor  M.  Gaston,  I  don't  think  he 
deserved  to  be  treated  as  he  was. 


GASTON  BONNIER  133 

HORTENSE 

Why,  how  has  he  suffered  ? 

MARTHE 

Didn't  you  know  ?  Poor  child,  how  should  you  ? 
Well,  you  will  know  some  day,  and  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  now.     His  wife  ran  away  from  him. 

HORTENSE 

His  wife  ran  away  from  him  ? 

MARTHE 

Yes,  she  was  a  girl  belonging  to  this  part  of  the 
country — ^just  like  yourself.  She  ran  away  with  a 
soldier.  And  for  this  reason  M.  Gaston  is  sometimes 
hard  on  country  girls  and  doesn't  like  soldiers.  He  makes 
an  exception  in  favour  of  M.  Marcel,  though  he  is  a 
soldier,  but  I  don't  think  he  would  like  to  see  too  much 
of  him, 

HORTENSE 

And  he  does  not  make  an  exception  in  favour  of  me, 
I  am  afraid. 

[y/  voice  is  heard  without^  "  Is  that  yoUy  Marthe  F  " 

MARTHE 

[Looh  out  of  window.']  Ah,  there  is  M.  Marcel.  Run 
away,  dear,  I  want  to  talk  to  him. 

HORTENSE 

Well — mind  you  tell  M.  Pierre  that  I  am  waiting  for 
him  outside — he  promised  to  dance  with  me. 

MARTHE 

Yes,  yes.  Mile.  Hortense.  [Hortense  goes  out.]  Poor 
little  bird,  she  is  too  fond  of  M.  Pierre,  I  am  afraid. 
And  M.  Gaston  has  such  good  cause  to  be  angry  at  the 
match  !     What  will  come  of  it  all  ? 


Act  I 


Act  I 


134  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 


Enter  Marcel. 

MARCEL 

Aha,  Marthe,  good  morning,  good  morning  ! 

MARTHE 

Marthe  indeed  !  Madame  Marthe,  if  you  please,  M. 
Marcel.     It's  not  too  early  to  be  polite  ! 

MARCEL 

Well,  Mile.  Marthe,  then  ! 

MARTHE 

I  said  Madame  ! 

MARCEL 

And  I  said  Mademoiselle  !  Why,  don't  you  know, 
you  are  coming  to  the  festival  with  me  and  going  to 
dance  with  me  ?  \H.e  attempts  to  seize  her  round  the  waisty 
but  she  laughingly  retreats."] 

MARTHE 

No,  no,  M.  Marcel.  I  am  sure  I  am  old  enough  to 
be  called  Madame.  But,  be  serious,  if  you  can.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you. 

MARCEL 

Oh,  bother  seriousness  !  No  one  can  be  serious  on  a 
day  like  this. 

MARTHE 

But  you  must  be.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  M. 
Pierre  and  Mile.  Hortense. 

MARCEL 

Why,  what  about  them  ?  They  are  lovers,  aren't  they  ? 
Just  as  much  lovers  as — as — you  and  I.     \^Laughs,] 


GASTON  BONNIER  135 

MARTHE  Act  I 

[Shaking  her  head,]  If  they  were  only  lovers  !  You 
know  how  angry  M.  Gaston  is,  if  any  one  couples  their 
two  names  together.  Well,  they  are  more  than  lovers,  I 
am  afraid  ? 

MARCEL 

More  than  lovers  ?  There  is  nothing  greater  than  love 
in  this  world,  is  there  ? 

MARTHE 

I  think  they  are  already  married.  Hush  !  Here  comes 
M.  Pierre,  not  a  word  ! 

Enter  Pierre  Bonnier. 

PIERRE 

Good  morning,  Marthe  !  Marcel  too  !  Preparing 
for  to-day's  holiday,  eh  ?  I  don't  think  there's  a  finer 
looking  woman  in  the  village  than  Marthe — eh.  Marcel  ? 
No,  nor  a  better  dancer,  if  she  likes — eh.  Marcel  ?  Upon 
my  word,  if  I  hadn't  other  fish  to  fry,  I  should  like  to  cut 
you  out,  you  rogue  ! 

MARTHE 

Mile.  Hortense  has  been  here,  M.  Pierre,  asking  how 
much  longer  you  would  be  before  you  were  ready. 

PIERRE 

Mile.  Hortense  1     Oh,  I  will  go  out  to  her  at  once. 

[Prepares  to  go  out,^ 

MARTHE 

But,  M.  Pierre,  what  shall  I  say  to  your  father  when 
he  asks  for  you  ? 

PIERRE 

Oh,  say  anything — say  that  Marcel  here  brought  me 
a  message — that  I  was  wanted  at  once  !  Say  anything 
you  like  !  [Exit  hurriedly. 


136  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  MARTHE 

[Looking  after  him.']  Ah,  M.  Pierre,  if  only  you 
weren't  so  careless.  You  will  have  to  suffer  for  all  this 
some  day,  I  am  afraid  ! 

MARCEL 

[At  window.']  Look,  there  he  goes,  and  there's  Mile. 
Hortense  too  ! 

MARTHE 

[At  window.]  A  pretty  pair  ;  as  handsome  a  pair  as 
you  would  wish  to  see.  [Music  outside.]  Look  at  them, 
they  are  beginning  to  dance,  ah,  it  makes  one  young 
again  ! 

MARCEL 

Well,  come  and  join  them,  come  along  !  [Puts  his 
arm  round  her  waist,  again  she  repels  hifn.] 

MARTHE 

No,  no,  I  have  got  my  work  to  do,  if  you  have  none, 
M.  Marcel. 

MARCEL 

But  I  have.  I  have  got  to  speak  to  M.  Gaston,  only 
you  make  me  forget  everything  !  What  is  it  you  said 
about  their  being  married  ? 

MARTHE 

Oh,  it  is  only  my  suspicion.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong. 
Don't  think  any  more  about  it. 

MARCEL 

But  why  shouldn't  they  be  married,  if  they  want  to 
be? 

MARTHE 

Ah,  you  don't  know,  you  can't  imagine  how  angry  M. 
Gaston  will  be. 


GASTON  BONNIER  137 

MARCEL 

Oh,  he  will  get  over  that,  when  he  finds  there's  nothing 
to  be  done. 

MARTHE 

Marcel,  have  you  ever  thought  who  Hortense  is — I 
mean  who  were  her  father  and  her  mother,  and  where  she 
came  from  ? 

MARCEL 

\Careleisly.'\  No,  who  is  she  ? 

MARTHE 

I  swore  I  would  never  tell  a  soul. 

MARCEL 

Well  then,  tell  me — I  am  not  a  soul,  no  soldier  is,  so 
far  as  I  know  ! 

MARTHE 

Ah.  don't  laugh  !  Well,  I  will  tell  you,  because  I  think 
you  are  a  man  to  be  trusted,  and  you  have  been  a  good 
friend  to  us  all.  You  remember  that  sad  sorrow  of  M. 
Gaston  when  his  wife  ran  away  with  Captain  Rivardier  ? 
Well,  he  took  away  M.  Gaston's  wife,  but  he  left  behind 
his  own  child  !  He  wrote  a  brief  note  to  M.  Gaston 
saying  that  to  comfort  his  solitude  he  bequeathed  him  the 
care  of  his  daughter.  Exchange — ah,  I  remember  his 
brutal  words — exchange,  he  said,  was  no  robbery  ! 

MARCEL 

And  Mile.  Hortense  is 

MARTHE 

Captain  Rivardier's  daughter  ! 

MARCEL 

Phew — the  devil  ! 


Act  I 


138  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  MARTHE 

Yes  !  Poor  little  child  !  She  was  brought  up  in  the 
village  here,  under  the  care  of  old  Madame  Plozet,  to 
whom  I  entrusted  her.  As  for  M.  Gaston,  he  cannot 
bear  the  sight  of  her.  Poor  man,  she  is  always  reminding 
him  of  his  loss  ! 

MARCEL 

[Meditative/yJ]  H'm  !    Does  Hortense  know  all  this  ? 

MARTHE 

No,  no,  not  a  word.  But  you  now  understand  why  I 
hope  they  are  not  married.  I  will  tell  M.  Gaston  you 
are  here.     Poor,  poor  M.  Pierre.  [Exit. 

MARCEL 

H'm,  I  wonder  if  it's  true  they  are  married  !  But 
how  ?  Pierre  could  never  get  his  father's  written  consent. 
Forgery  ?  It's  not  unlikely.  M.  Pierre  is  so  head-strong 
and  he  was  bound  to  get  into  mischief  before  long.  Poor 
M.  Pierre  indeed  !  Poor  M.  Gaston,  I  think  !  He  won't 
be  very  pleased  when  he  hears  of  it,  especially  as  I  have 
got  some  news  for  him  which  will  rather  upset  him  this 
morning.  I  almost  wish  I  hadn't  come  to  disturb  this 
holiday,  but  I  hadn't  another  day  to  spare  before  I 
go  Eastwards.  Heaven  be  praised  that  I  have  no 
wife  and  no  son  !  All  this  marrying  and  giving  in 
marriage  brings  grey  hairs  on  the  head,  and  adds  wrinkles 
to  the  cheek — which  would  never  do  for  a  soldier.  Ah, 
here  comes  M.  Gaston. 

Enter  M.  Gaston  Bonnier. 

Good  morning,  Monsieur  Gaston,  I  hope  I  see  you  well  ! 

bonnier 
Well  and  hearty,  thank  you  Marcel,  well  and  hearty  ! 
But  what  brings  you  here  so  early  ? 


GASTON  BONNIER  139 

MARCEL 

\Aloud.'\  Oh,  Fm  off  to-morrow  to  the  Russian  war, 
and  I  thought  I  should  Hke  to  see  you  all  before  I  go. 
To-morrow  I  join  my  regiment  and  then,  hey  for  the 
Crimea  !     [Jsicle.]  I  cannot  tell  him  yet. 

BONNIER 

Ah,  rolling  stones  all  you  soldiers  !  Here  to-day,  gone 
to-morrow,  with  never  a  house  to  call  your  own,  or  any 
spot  in  the  wide  world  to  be  your  home  !  Upon  my 
word.  Marcel,  if  you  were  not  a  good  fellow,  and  one  who 
has  been  a  kind  friend  to  me  in  the  past,  I  would  not  let 
you  come  here  to  disturb  us  with  your  restless  soldier-ways, 
and  your  wild  campaigning  talk  ! 

MARCEL 

[Laughs.]  I  am  not  going  to  trouble  you  for  long,  any- 
how ;  only  just  a  good-bye,  and  I  am  off.  [Re^ective/y,] 
I  don't  much  care  for  the  idea  of  fighting  side  by  side 
with  those  English,  it  is  true  ;  but,  still,  fighting  is 
fighting,  whoever  may  be  your  friends  or  enemies.  [Aside.] 
How  can  I  tell  him  ? 

BONNIER 

[Sitting  down.]  Well,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you, 
although  you  are  a  soldier.  You  have  been  good  to  me. 
Marcel,  indeed  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done 
without  you.     Any  news  from — from  Paris  ? 

MARCEL 

It  is  just  about  that  that  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

BONNIER 

Yes,  yes  ;  now  that  you  are  going  out  of  France,  who 
is  going  to  see  that  her  money  is  paid  to  her,  and  that  she 
has  all  she  wants  ?     Have  you  seen  her  lately  ? 

MARCEL 

[Reluctantly.]  I  don't  think  you  need  trouble  much 
about  that. 


Act  I 


14©  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  BONNIER 

Not  trouble  about  that  ?  Ah,  Marcel,  that  is  the  first 
unkind  word  you  have  said  to  me  !  Not  trouble  about 
her  ?  Poor  Clementine  !  She  is  dead  to  me,  ever  since 
she  left  me  so  cruelly,  so  cruelly,  but  she  shall  never  want 
her  daily  bread  while  I  am  alive. 

MARCEL 

[Slowly.']  She  will  not  want  her  daily  bread  any  more. 

BONNIER 

What  ?  She  hasn't  made  it  up  with  that  soldier  fellow 
who  betrayed  her  ?     Not  that,  not  that.  Marcel. 

MARCEL 
[Shakes  his  head."]  No,  no. 

BONNIER 

Something  worse  !  Fallen  into  some  one  else's  hands  ? 
Ah,  how  you  torture  me  !     Tell  me  at  once  ! 

MARCEL 

She  is  dead,  Monsieur  Gaston  I 

BONNIER 

[Pause.']  Dead  !  My  Clementine  dead  !  Poor,  poor 
Clementine  !  You  broke  my  heart  when  you  ran  away 
from  me,  and  now,  now  that  Heaven  in  its  mercy  has 
taken  you  to  itself,  you  almost  break  my  heart  a  second 
time  !     Poor,  poor  Clementine  ! 

MARCEL 

Ah,  do  not  make  me  wish  I  had  never  told  you. 

BONNIER 

No,  no,  of  course  you  had  to  tell  me.  I  can  bear  it, 
Marcel.  Twenty  years  ago,  when  the  wound  was  yet 
fresh,  I  should  almost  have  welcomed  her  death  as  the  best 
way  out  of  the  trouble.     But  now,  time  has,  if  not  healed 


GASTON  BONNIER  141 

the  wound,  at  least  robbed  it  of  its  sharpest  pangs,  and  Act  I 
Clementine  has  become  a  memory,  a  dream,  an  imagina- 
tion, which,  when  it  is  gone,  leaves  me  all  the  poorer  for 
its  loss.  Well,  she  is  gone,  with  all  the  sorrow  she 
brought  upon  herself,  and  upon  me  !  Heaven  be  merciful 
to  us  all  ! 

MARCEL 

She  died  peacefully,  and  her  last  words  were  of  you. 

BONNIER 

God  be  thanked  for  that  !  But  my  boy  must  know  of 
it.  Where  is  Pierre  ?  Oh,  at  the  festival,  of  course.  How 
strangely  comes  the  news  of  her  death  on  this  day  of  all 
days  of  the  year  !  But  I  must  not  spoil  his  happiness  to- 
day ',  no,  we  older  ones  are  made  to  bear  these  rude  shocks 
of  fate,  from  which  we  must  try  to  screen  the  younger 
ones. 

MARCEL 

That's  right.  Bonnier  !  Let  him  have  his  merriment 
while  he  can. 

BONNIER 

Of  course,  of  course.  And  after^erriment,  business 
and  sorrow.    You  know.  Marcel,  what  I  mean  him  to  do  ? 

MARCEL 

Let  him  be  a  soldier,  sir !    There  is  no  other  profession. 

BONNIER 

A  soldier  !  I  would  rather  see  him  in  his  grave.  He 
drew  a  lucky  number  in  the  conscription,  thank  Heaven  ! 
I  hate  all  soldiers,  ever  since — well  you  know  what  I  have 
suffered  at  a  soldier's  hands.  No,  I  mean  him  to  study  the 
law  and  go  to  Paris  and  pass  all  his  examinations,  and  be 
an  honour  to  himself  and  his  father  !  To-day  I  intend 
to  talk  to  him  seriously  about  all  this.  No,  whatever  rude 
blows  fortune  has  given  me,  I  have  still  a  son,  to  be  proud 


142  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I    of  and  to  love.    Come,  Marcel,  let  us  go  and  see  how  our 
people  are  enjoying  themselves. 

\The  music  begins  without  as  Bonnier  exits. 

MARCEL 

In  a  moment,  M.  Bonnier,  I  will  join  you  in  a  moment. 
Where  is  Marthe  ?  I  must  know  why  she  suspects — 
hullo,  here's  the  truant  ! 


Enter  Pierre. 

PIERRE 

Truant  ?  Why  truant  ?  What  have  I  run  away 
from,  or  who  has  been  asking  for  me  ? 

MARCEL 

Well  Pierre,  your  father  has  been  asking  for  you  ! 
What  are  you  going  to  do,  lad,  when  I  am  gone  ?  Don't 
you  wish  you  were  coming  with  me  to  the  Crimea  ? 

PIERRE 

In  some  ways,  yes.  But  I  don't  think  my  father 
would  ever  allow  it. 

MARCEL 

There  are  other  things  your  father  wouldn't  allow, 
Pierre,  besides  soldiering. 

PIERRE 

What  do  you  mean  ?  [Marcel  points  significantly 
outside  where  the  music  and  dance  are  proceeding.^  Oh, 
yes,  of  course. 

MARCEL 

You  are  to  go  oft  to  Paris,  young  man,  and  become  a 
lawyer,  that's  what  you  are  fated  for  !  So  the  sooner 
you  forget  all  this  [pointing  outside]^  the  better  for  you. 


GASTON  BONNIER  143 

PIERRE  Act  I 

\Moodily?^  Yes,  I  know.  [Suddenly.]  Look  here, 
Marcel,  I  am  in  a  devil  of  a  mess,  and  I'm  hanged  if  I 
know  what  to  do  !     . 

MARCEL 

Out  with  it  then,  young  man,  there  is  no  father 
confessor  like  a  soldier.  If  he  does  not  forget  to-day 
what  you  have  told  him  he  is  generally  twenty  leagues 
away  to-morrow,  and  so  it  makes  little  odds  whether  he 
remembers  or  forgets  ! 

PIERRE 

Yes,  I  had  better  tell  you.  Well  then,  Marcel — 
Hush  !     Here  she  is. 

[There  is  a  hurst  of  singing.  Hortense,  with 
three  or  four  Girls  in  holiday  clothes^  singing 
the  concluding  notes  of  the  song^  hound  into  the 
room^  flushed  with  the  dance.  The  other 
Girls,  when  the  song  is  over^  how  to  Hor- 
tense and  Pierre,  and  exeunt. 

HORTENSE 

Where  have  you  hidden  yourself,  you  traitor  !  [Stops.] 
Oh,  I  see  you  are  not  alone,  I  beg  your  pardon. 

PIERRE 

No,  no,  this  is  my  oldest  friend,  M.  Marcel.  Marcel, 
I  don't  think  you  have  ever  met  Mile.  Hortense  ? 

MARCEL 

Mademoiselle,  I  have  the  honour.  [Bows  low^  and 
Hortense  curtsies.] 

PIERRE 

M.  Marcel  is  trying  to  tempt  me  to  go  with  him  to 
the  Crimea,  Hortense,  and  he  had  almost  persuaded  me 
when  you  came  in. 


144  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  HORTENSE 

Then  I  am  glad  I  have  come  in  time — if  M.  Marcel 
will  pardon  me. 

MARCEL 

M.  Pierre  is  only  joking,  Mademoiselle  ;  I  think  he  is 
only  too  happy  where  he  is  for  me  to  try  and  take  him 
away.  Well,  I  must  rejoin  M.  Gaston.  \To  Pierre.] 
You  will  find  me  outside  when  you  want  me. 

\_BoiJus  to  HoRTENSE  and  exit. 

[The  music  is  very  soft  throughout  the  following  scene."] 

HORTENSE 

You  were  only  joking  Pierre,  were  you  not  ?  You 
weren't  really  serious  ? 

PIERRE 

Serious,  about  what  ? 

HORTENSE 

About  the  Crimea. 

PIERRE 

Silly  child  I     Why,  I  must  live. 

HORTENSE 

Yes,  but  if  you  went  to  the  Crimea,  that  would  be  the 
way  to  die  !  And  what  would  become  of  me  ?  Ah, 
Pierre  dear,  you  don't  know,  you  can't  know. 

PIERRE 

Can't  know  what,  little  one  ? 

HORTENSE 

[Shyly.']  Oh,  it  so  hard  to  put  into  words — [after  a 
pause] — how  I  love  you. 

PIERRE 

Yes,  I  do,  darling.  And  don't  you  know  how  I  love 
you  ?  [They  kiss ;  the  music  gets  louder,  Hortense  starts 
up.] 


GASTON  BONNIER  145 

HORTENSE  Act  I 

Come  on,  Pierre,  let  us  dance  again  ?  But  listen,  sir,  I 
wont  have  you  dancing  with  other  girls  !  How  I  hated 
you  when  you  were  dancing  with  Amande  ?  Why,  you 
had  actually  got  your  arm  round  her  waist  [indignantly], 

PIERRE 

Well,  I  couldn't  dance  with  her  if  I  had  not  got  my 
arm  round  her  waist,  could  I  ? 

HORTENSE 

Well  then,  you  shouldn't  dance  with  her  at  all  !  I 
am  the  only  person  you  are  to  dance  with,  do  you  hear, 
and 

PIERRE 

And  this  is  the  only  waist  I  am  to  put  my  arm  round, 
eh  ?     [Draws  her  to  himself^  putting  his  arm  round  her.] 

HORTENSE 

Dear  Pierre  !     Oh,  it  does  seem  so  strange. 

PIERRE 

What  ? 

HORTENSE 

Why,  that  we  are — put  your  ear  close  to  my  mouth 
[whispers] — married  !  Ever  since  yesterday  !  What  a 
long  way  off  yesterday  seems  to  be.     [Sighs.] 

PIERRE 

Yes,  that  is  why  we  have  got  to  be  serious,  and  think 
about  the  future. 

HORTENSE 

Oh,  not  to-day,  not  to-day  ! 

PIERRE 

Yes,  dear,  to-day  !  I  must  tell  my  father  sooner  or 
later,  and  it  had  better  be  got  over  at  once.  Heaven 
knows  what  he  will  say  ! 

L 


146  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  HORTENSE 

To-day  ?     Oh,  Pierre,  I  am  so  afraid  of  M.  Gaston  ! 

PIERRE 

Nonsense,  little  one,  what  is  done  cannot  be  undone, 
and  whatever  he  may  say  or  do,  you  and  I  are  still  man 
and  wife. 

HORTENSE 

{Hiding  her  face  on  his  shou/der.]  Not  to-day,  not 
to-day  !  Let  us  have  one  more  day  to  enjoy  ourselves 
without  thought  for — for  the  future.  See,  you  have  quite 
frightened  me  ! 

PIERRE 

Come,  Hortense,  hold  your  head  up  and  be  brave.  He 
wants  me  to  go  to  Paris  and  study  for  the  law. 

HORTENSE 

And  leave  me  ? 

PIERRE 

No,  no,  dear,  he  cannot  separate  us,  you  forget  that. 

HORTENSE 

But  you  won't  go  to  Paris  ?  What  should  I  do  in  a 
big  city,  without  fields  and  flowers,  where  there  is  only 
the  hard  pavement  under  one's  feet  and  the  pitiless  sky 
above  one's  head  ?     It  would  kill  me,  Paris 

PIERRE 

[Moodily,'}  Well,  it  must  be  either  that  or  the 
Crimea.     I  don't  see  any  other  choice. 

HORTENSE 

Oh,  how  hard  life  is  !  Cannot  we  stay  here  always  ? 
No,  no,  of  course,  for  you  must  work  and  I  must  work, 
and  we  must  earn  a  living,  now  [with  a  sad  smile'] — now 
that  we  are  married  !  And  I  suppose  M.  Gaston  must 
know  ;  but  oh,  the  dream,  the  romance,  what  will  become 
of  that  ? 


GASTON  BONNIER  147 

PIERRE  Act  I 

Why,  it  will  remain  where  it  is,  little  one,  so  long  as 
you  and  I  love  one  another. 

HORTENSE 

Dear,  dear  Pierre. 

\While  they  kiss,  M.  Gaston  Bonnier  comes  into 
the  room.  He  looks  from  one  to  the  other  in 
astonished  displeasure. 

bonnier 
Pierre,   what  does   all    this  mean  ?       Mile.   Hortense, 
may  I  ask  why  you  are  here  ?     I  wish  to  talk  to  my  son 
on  an  affair  of  business,  and  I  wish  to  talk  to  him  alone. 

PIERRE 

Whatever  you  have  to  say,  there  is  no  reason  why 
Hortense  should  not  hear  it ! 

BONNIER 

Indeed  !  And  what  do  you  say  to  that,  Mademoiselle  ? 
Are  you  to  be  made  privy  to  all  our  secrets?  Are  you 
to  affect  an  interest  in  whatever  a  father  and  son  may 
have  in  common  ? 

HORTENSE 

Oh,  M.  Bonnier,  indeed  I  don't  want  to  offend  you. 

BONNIER 

Then  may  I  ask  you  kindly  to  leave  my  son  here  with 
me  ? 

HORTENSE 

Yes,  I  will  wait  for  him  outside.     [Going.l 

PIERRE 

[Firmly.]  No,  Hortense,  there  is  nothing,  I  feel  sure, 


148  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  in  what  my  father  is  going  to  say  to  me  Which  you  may 
not  hear.  Besides,  you  have  a  right  to  listen — as  much 
right  as  I  have. 

BONNIER 

[Getting  angry.']  A  right  ?  I  don't  quite  see  hov^^  that 
can  be.  Why,  Pierre,  I  know^  you  are  young  and  Mile. 
Hortense  is  a  pretty  girl  and  you  both  see  a  good  deal  of 
each  other  and  are  very  good  companions,  and  I  dare  say 
you  fancy  you  are  in  love  w^ith  each  other.  That  is  all 
very  well  for  a  day  of  festival  like  this,  when  there  is  music 
and  dancing.  But,  unfortunately,  I  have  to  talk  to  Pierre 
on  a  matter  of  business — a  serious  matter  of  business.  It 
is  quite  time  that  he  should  leave  this  idle  life  of  flirting 
and  gossiping  and  begin  to  think  about  his  career.  Come, 
Mademoiselle,  I  don't  wish  to  say  anything  to  hurt  you, 
but 

PIERRE 

Father,  stop  1  I  beseech  you. 

BONNIER 

No,  Pierre,  I  must  say  what  is  in  my  mind.  I  have 
been  foolish  not  to  have  said  it  before,  but  at  all  events  I 
will  delay  no  longer.  Mile.  Hortense,  it  is  my  wish  that 
Pierre  should  break  this — what  shall  I  call  it  ? — this  idle 
intercourse  with  you.  You  are  neither  of  you  children. 
You  must  remain  in  the  village  with  your — your  other 
friends,  and  Pierre  must  go  to  Paris. 

HORTENSE 

Oh,  M.  Bonnier,  do  not  be  so  hard  and  cruel  ! 

PIERRE 

[Firmly,']  Father,  what  you  say  is  impossible. 

BONNIER 

Impossible !  Nonsense  !  I  say  it  shall  be.  My  mind 
is  made  up ;  that  is  enough. 


GASTON  BONNIER  149 

PIERRE  Ac^  I 

I  repeat :   it  is  impossible. 

BONNIER 

What !  will  you  drive  me  to  still  harsher  measures  ? 
Well,  then,  I  command.  Mile.  Hortense,  you  see  that 
my  house  is  no  place  for  you  at  the  present  moment. 

HORTENSE 

[Looks  tearfully  from  one  to  the  other,']  What  am  I  to  do, 
Pierre  ? 

BONNIER 

What  are  you  to  do  ?  Great  Heaven  ! — and  you  ask 
Pierre  what  you  are  to  do  ?  Why,  what  is  Pierre  to  you, 
or  what  are  you  to  Pierre,  that  you  should  interfere  with 
my  wishes,  my  commands  ?  I  have  been  a  fool,  I  see, 
not  to  have  spoken  before.  Well,  Mademoiselle,  if  you 
will  hear  the  truth,  I  will  speak  it.  I  would  sooner  see 
Pierre  in  his  grave  than  that  he  should  marry — you. 


PIERRE 


Father,  father,  stop 


BONNIER 

No,  I  will  not  stop.  She  shall  hear  everything,  sinc« 
she  so  chooses.  Listen,  Mademoiselle,  I  had  a  wife  once, 
a  wife  taken  from  this  village,  a  pretty  girl,  just  as  you  are. 
She  left  me  after  five  years  of  marriage.  Left  me  for  a 
soldier,  whose  fine  coat  and  dashing  manners  attracted 
her  more  than  my  humble  ways  and  work-a-day  clothes  ! 
Left  me  and  her  little  boy  alone,  to  get  on  as  best  we 
might  :  I  without  a  wife,  and  he  without  a  mother  !  And 
I  swore  a  great  oath  then  that  I  would  sooner  see  Pierre 
in  his  grave  than  that  he  should  wear  a  soldier's  coat  or 
marry  a  girl  like  you  !  I  swore  it  then,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  break  my  oath  now  ! 


ISO  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  HORTENSE 

[Covering  her  face  with  her  hands,']  Don't  say  that ! 
Ah,  don't  say  that ! 

BONNIER 

Come,  Pierre,  you  understand  me  better  now. 

PIERRE 

Too  late,  too  late. 

BONNIER 

Too  late  1     What  does  the  boy  mean  ? 

PIERRE 

I  should  have  told  you  sooner. 

BONNIER 

Good  God  !  what  do  you  mean  ? 

PIERRE 

Father,  it  is  too  late.     We  are  already  married  ! 

BONNIER 

Married  !  You  and  Hortense  married  ?  No,  no,  it's 
impossible  !  I  say  it  is  impossible,  and  it  shall  never  be  ! 
Married  !  Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  but  speak,  speak, 
I  cannot  understand  what  you  mean. 

PIERRE 

Hortense  and  I  were  married  yesterday. 

BONNIER 

And  my  consent  ?  [Pierre  does  not  answer.']  My 
consent,  I  say  ?     How  did  you  get  my  written  consent  ? 

PIERRE 

[With  a  struggle,']  Father,  I  had  to  get  it  somehow  ; 
I — I — wrote  it  myself  ! 

BONNIER 

Forged  it  ?  [Pierre  does  not  answer.]  Is  that  what 
you  mean  ?     Fool,   fool,  fool  !     Ah,  so   it's  you,  is   it. 


GASTON  BONNIER  151 

Mademoiselle,  who  have  tempted  my  boy  to  his  ruin  ?    Act  I 
My  only  boy  !     May  Heaven  revi^ard  you  for  what  you 
have  done  to  a  desolate  father  and  his  only  son. 

PIERRE 

Hush  I  father,  she  is  my  wife. 

BONNIER 

Your  wife  !  We  will  see  about  that  !  I  refuse  my 
consent  !  Pierre,  you  shall  leave  for  Paris  to-morrow — no, 
to-day,  this  very  hour  !  You  shall  be  separated  from  her 
for  ever  !  Do  you  hear  ?  For  ever  !  Go  out  of  the 
room  and  pack  up  at  once,  or  I  shall  curse  you  both! 

PIERRE 

I  cannot  go  without  my  wife. 

BONNIER 

Ah,  Pierre,  you  were  always  a  good  son  to  me.  Don't 
break  my  heart.  Don't  break  your  father's  heart  !  You 
know  you  have  always  been  my  darling,  my  love,  my  all ! 
What  is  there  that  I  would  not  have  done  for  your  sake  ! 

PIERRE 

You  make  it  very  hard  for  me,  father,  but  I  cannot  do 
what  you  ask. 

BONNIER 

You  will  not  go  to  Paris  ? 

PIERRE 

I  will  not  leave  my  wife. 

BONNIER 

Once  more,  and  only  once.  Will  you  leave  Hortense 
and  do  what  I  tell  you  ? 

PIERRE 

No,  father,  I  cannot  leave  my  wife. 

BONNIER 

Then,  God  knows  I  am  driven  to  tell  you,  what  I 
thought  should  be  for  ever  locked  up  in  my  heart.     Look 


152  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  at  that  girl,  Pierre  !  look  at  Hortense,  as  she  calls  herself ! 
Do  you  know  who  she  is  ?  I  will  tell  you.  She  is  the 
daughter  of  your  mother's  seducer. 

PIERRE 

Oh,  father,  father  ! 

BONNIER 

Yes,  Rivardier's  daughter  !  He  left  his  child,  when  he 
took  away  my  wife.  Take  her  with  you  now  if  you  like, 
but  I  will  never  give  my  consent,  never  !  And  without 
it  yours  is  no  marriage,  and  your  children  will  be  ille- 
gitimate. 

PIERRE 

For  God's  sake,  do  not  speak  so  wildly.  There  is 
nothing  wrong  in  our  union.  She  is  no  blood-relation  of 
mine,  and  it  is  not  her  fault  if  her  father  was  a  villain. 

BONNIER 

Will  you  leave  Hortense  ?  [Pierre  takes  Hortense 
in  his  arms.]  Then — Heaven  be  my  witness,  I  wash 
my  hands  of  you  both  !  You  have  chosen  your  own  path, 
and  you  shall  follow  it  to  the  end.  From  this  time  hence- 
forth you  are  no  son  of  mine.  I  cast  you  off,  I  renounce 
you,  I  expel  you  from  my  doors  !  Go  where  you  like, 
but  never  come  into  this  house  again  !  I  am  no  longer 
your  father,  and  you  are  no  longer  my  son  !     Go  ! 

PIERRE 

Enough,  father,  enough  !  I  will  not  stay  any  longer. 
As  you  say.  Heaven  shall  judge  between  you  and  me.  I 
shall  go  with  Marcel  to  the  war.  [Goes  out  with  Hortense 
in  his  arms,] 

BONNIER 

[A/one.]  To  the  war  !  Clementine  dead  !  My 
Pierre  a  soldier  !  And  married  to  Hortense  !  My  God, 
is  this  my  doom  ? 


ACT  II 

(1870) 

Scene. — Parlour  as  before.     Sixteen  years  afterwards.  Act  II 

Time. — Late  afternoon^  growing  dusk.  The  stage  is  empty 
as  the  curtain  rises. 

Drums — as  of  a  regiment  marching — are  played  just  before 
and  as  the  curtain  ascends^  and  continue^  going  away  into 
the  distance^  during  the  opening  of  the  Scene. 

When  curtain  has  gone  up  on  an  empty  stage^  there  is  a  soft 
knock  heard  on  the  outside  door  §f  the  parlour^  which 
after  a  time  is  repeated. 


Enter  Marthe  with  greyish  hair. 

MARTHE 

[Hurriedly  and  noiselessly.^  Who  is  there  ?  [Going  to  the 
door.^  Can  they  have  come  ?  Marcel  told  me  that  they 
would  be  here  soon.     [Listens  at  door.] 

PIERRE 

[Outside.]  Is  that  you,  Marthe  ?     May  we  come  in  ? 

MARTHE 

[Opening  door.]  Yes — hush,  do  not  make  any  noise. 

[Enter  PiERRE  and  Hortense. 
M.  Gaston  may  come  in  at  any  moment. 

153 


154  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  PIERRE 

Marcel  told  you  we  were  coming,  did  he  not  ? 

MARTHE 

Yes,  yes — ah,  dear  M.  Pierre,  how  you  are  changed  ! 
And  you  too,  Madame.  But  where  is  he,  where  is  the 
little  boy  ? 

HORTENSE 

He  is  not  very  little,  dear  old  Marthe,  remember  he  is 
now  fifteen  years  old.  Ah,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  see  your 
dear  honest  old  face.     \Kisses  her,] 

MARTHE 

[Crying.]  But  the  boy,  the  boy,  where  have  you  left 
him  ? 

PIERRE 

He  is  with  Marcel.  We  thought  it  better  to  leave 
him  while  we  came  to  see  how  the  land  lay.  And  now, 
Marthe,  tell  me,  how  is  my  poor  old  father  ? 

MARTHE 

[To  HoRTENSE.]  Sit  you  down,  dearie.  Hush  !  [Goes 
to  inner  door.]  Let  me  see  if  everything  is  quiet  first. 
[Opens  door  and  looks  within^  while  the  others  sit  down.] 
Nothing's  stirring  in  the  house.  He  must  have  fallen 
asleep.     [Comes  back  to  Pierre  and  Hortense.] 

HORTENSE 

[Taking  both  Marthe's  hands  and  looking  in  her  face.] 
You  are  changed  too,  Marthe.     Have  you  been  ill  ? 

MARTHE 

No,  no,  only  sad,  and  sorrow  makes  one  old.  But  you 
should  see  M.  Gaston  !  Such  white  hair,  and  such  a 
worn,  troubled  face — ever  since,  ever  since  you  both  went 
away. 


GASTON  BONNIER  155 

PIERRE  Act  II 

But  he  is  well,  Marthe,  he  is  not  suffering  now  ? 

MARTHE 

Suffering  ?  He  has  never  ceased  to  suffer  since  that 
fatal  day.  Always  muttering  to  himself,  and  moaning 
that  he  has  killed  you.  He  thinks  you  were  killed  at 
the  Crimea — we  all  thought  that — till  Marcel  told  you 
had  got  home,  safe  to  Madame  at  Marseilles.  But  M. 
Gaston  still  thinks  you  dead,  and  I  have  never  been  able 
to  assure  him  of  your  safety.  Why  did  you  never  come 
before  ? 

PIERRE 

My  poor  father  !  But  it  was  no  good  coming,  Marthe, 
till  many  years  had  passed  away  and  perhaps  softened  his 
memory  of  the  past.  Besides,  you  know,  I  was  badly 
wounded,  and  was  ill  for  a  long  time.  Do  you  think  he 
has  forgiven  me,  Marthe  ?  \eagerly^ 

HORTENSE 

And  me  ?     Has  he  forgiven  me  ? 

MARTHE 

\Crying^  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  He  is  so 
old,  and  feeble,  and  querulous.  Hush,  I  thought  I  heard 
him.  \Goes  to  door  aga'in^  listens  for  a  moment^  and  returns?^ 
Quick,  quick,  tell  me  what  you  intend  to  do  ? 

HORTENSE 

We  came  to  ask  you,  Marthe. 

PIERRE 

I  thought  we  had  better  come  boldly  and  see  him. 

MARTHE 

No,  no,  it  would  kill  him,  I  think.  \After  a  moments 
pause^  while  she  listens.']  No,  the  only  way  is  for  Marcel  to 
bring  the  little  boy. 


156  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  HORTENSE 

But  he  will  not  be  angry  with  little  Gaston  ? 

MARTHE 

I  think  not — I  think  he  may  be  overjoyed  to  see  him, 
and  there  is  no  peace-maker  like  a  child.  Let  him  plead 
your  cause,  and  let  us  pray  Heaven  that  all  may  be  well. 

PIERRE 

Well,  you  know  best,  Marthe,  I  think.     But  still 

MARTHE 

Not  another  word,  I  hear  his  footsteps.  Send  Marcel 
with  the  child — that's  the  only  way.  And  now  go,  go  I 
beseech  you.     [Hurrying  them  to  door.'] 

HORTENSE 

God  bless  you,  Marthe,  you  will  take  care  of  little 
Gaston,  if  he  comes  ? 

MARTHE 

Yes,  yes ! 

PIERRE 

[At  door  ;  Hortense  has  gone  out,]  Remember,  if  any- 
thing happens  to  the  child,  it  will  break  his  mother's  heart. 
Good-bye,  Marthe. 

[Goes  out^  Marthe  hurriedly  shuts  and  locks  the 
door.  Enter  Bonnier  with  candle.  He  is 
old  and  feeble, 

BONNIER 

So  dark  !  So  dark  !  Marthe,  Marthe  !  Where  is  she  ? 
They  are  always  leaving  me  alone. 

MARTHE 

Yes,  Monsieur,  did  you  call  me  ? 

BONNIER 

No — yes — I  have  forgotten  what  I  wanted.  What 
time  is  it  ? 


GASTON  BONNIER  157 

MARTHE  Act  II 

Seven  o'clock,  Monsieur,  I  think. 

BONNIER 

Have  I  been  asleep,  then  ?  Did  I  dream  that  I  heard 
some  drums  beating  and  soldiers  marching  ? 

MARTHE 

No,  Monsieur,  it  w^as  no  dream.  Some  troops  have 
just  passed  through  the  village,  a  fine  body  of  men,  vs^ith 
their  colours  flying  and  their  band  playing.  I  suppose 
they  are  going  to  the  v^^ar. 

BONNIER 

War,  vvrar,  it  is  always  vi^ar  !  No  other  w^ord  seems  to 
ring  like  that  in  my  brain  !  It  is  alw^ays  echoing  there 
from  morning  till  evening.  I  hear  it  w^hen  first  I  open 
my  eyes,  and  it  is  the  last  sound  v^rhich  I  remember  when 
I  get  to  sleep.     Alw^ays  war,  war,  war  ! 

MARTHE 

Dear  M.  Bonnier,  never  mind  the  war,  I  was  wrong  to 
mention  it.  The  Prussian  war  will  not  affect  us  much,  at 
any  rate. 

BONNIER 

Not  affect  us  much  ?  Ah,  no,  nothing  matters  much 
now.  But  you  are  wrong  if  you  think  I  feel  no  interest 
in  the  war.  Can  I  ever  forget  the  war  ?  Why,  war  and 
soldiers  have  been  my  ruin  all  through  my  life.  They 
robbed  me  of  my  wife,  and  then  they  robbed  me  of  my 
son.  Curse  the  war  !  No,  no,  I  will  never  curse  any- 
thing again,  never  again  !  Curses  come  home  to  roost ! 
\GeU  to  chair  in  chimney-corner  and  sits  down.] 

MARTHE 

Try  to  sleep  again,  Monsieur ;  the  soldiers  have  gone 
now. 


158  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  BONNIER 

No,  I  am  wide  awake,  I  don't  want  to  sleep.  What 
time  was  it  when  I  left  this  room  ? 

MARTHE 

Three  o'clock,  I  think. 

BONNIER 

Three  till  five.  I  have  been  sleeping  two  hours.  Ah, 
I  remember  now,  I  had  a  dream.  I  thought  I  saw  nothing 
but  plains,  covered  with  snow  everywhere,  blotting  out 
every  road  and  tree  and  hedge  in  the  landscape,  a  dead 
white  grave-cloth  of  snow  over  the  face  of  nature.  And 
I  seemed  to  be  looking  for  something,  searching  and 
peering  about  amongst  the  snow-heaps  with  my  eyes 
almost  blinded  with  that  eternal  whiteness — digging  with 
bleeding  fingers,  and,  though  faint  and  weary,  never 
desisting  from  my  patient,  untiring  search.  I  found  it 
at  last,  the  little  black  wooden  cross  with  the  two  letters 
scratched  roughly  upon  it,  P.B. — Pierre  Bonnier — marking 
a  soldier's  grave.  And  then  I  was  seized  with  a  longing 
to  see  him  once  again — my  poor,  poor  boy,  whom  I  sent 
out  to  his  death  in  the  Russian  war.  I  was  all  alone, 
and  no  one  would  see  me  take  the  mould  off  his  body, 
and  I  would  kiss  him  and  hold  him  to  my  breast,  and,  if 
God  so  willed,  I  would  lie  down  by  his  side  and  share 
with  him  a  common  grave.  But  when  I  had  scratched 
away  the  earth,  it  was  not  Pierre's  body  that  I  saw,  but  a 
child,  who  looked  up  at  me  brightly,  and  called  me  by  my 
name.  Then  there  was  a  sound  of  drums,  and  I  awoke. 
It  was  a  strange  dream,  Marthe,  wasn't  it  ? 

MARTHE 

[Half  crying.']  Ah,  Monsieur  Bonnier,  try  and  sleep  again. 

BONNIER 

Do  you  think,  Marthe,  if  I  slept  again  I  could  go  on 
with  that  dream  ?     Maybe  I  should,  and  then  perhaps  I 


GASTON  BONNIER  159 

could  understand  it  better.  Yes,  I  will  try  to  sleep  again.  Act  II 
Leave  me,  Marthe,  I  shall  be  all  right  by  myself.  [Marthe 
goes  out  with  candle ^  crying.  The  room  is  only  lighted  by  fire- 
light.'] Pierre  !  Did  you  forgive  me,  I  wonder,  and  all 
my  hard  words,  before  you  died  ?  Did  you  remember  all 
I  had  suffered  in  my  past  life,  and  how  the  remembrance 
of  my  wife  made  me  mad  against  Hortense  ?  Ah,  but 
you  could  not  know  that  I  had  heard  that  very  morning 
that  Clementine  was  dead  ;  no,  you  were  not  aware  how 
my  nerves  were  all  unstrung  by  what  Marcel  had  told 
me  !  And  then  came  that  sudden  revelation  about  your 
marriage,  and  I  went  mad.  Oh,  my  boy,  if  all  the  sorrow 
and  despair  which  I  have  felt — all  the  solitary  anguish 
that  has  been  my  lot  since  you  left  me — be  any  atone- 
ment for  my  crime,  you  have  no  cause  to  hate  me  now ! 
And  I  sent  you  to  your  grave,  out  there  amongst  the 
Crimean  snows,  with  a  father's  curse  ringing  in  your  ears. 
And  Hortense  ?  It  was  she  who  tempted  you  ;  hers  was 
the  fault,  not  yours,  not  yours.  It  was  she  whom  I  ought 
to  have  cursed ;  I  cannot  forgive  her  for  all  she  has  done ! 
No,  God  help  me,  I  cannot  forgive  her  !  IPause.]  Pierre, 
did  you  call  me  ?  I  thought  I  heard  your  voice.  I  am 
coming  to  you,  I  am  coming,  my  son.  Is  it  cold  out 
there  under  the  snow  ?  No,  I  will  take  you  in  my  arms 
and  warm  you,  Pierre,  and  we  will  be  happy  again  and 
forget  all  that  is  past.  [Gradually  going  to  sleepy  You 
are  mine  again,  Pierre — forgive,  forget — mine  once  more. 
[Sleeps?^ 

[There  is  a  pause,  then  Marthe  steals  into  the  room 
on  tiptoe  with  the  candle,  and  looks  at  him, 
Marthe  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out, 
and  beckons  to  some  one  outside;  then  goes  to 
door,  which  she  opens,  noiselessly,  and  Marcel 
enters,  looking  worn  and  grizzled. 


marthe 
Hush  !  be  very  quiet ;  he's  asleep — speak  low. 


i6o  DRAMAS  AND   DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  MARCEL 

How  he  is  changed  !     Poor  Monsieur  Gaston. 

MARTHE 
[Speaking  low  and  quickly. '\  Is  he  outside  ? 

MARCEL 

Yes,  shall  I  bring  him  in  ? 

MARTHE 

Don't  you  think  that  will  be  the  best  way  ? 

MARCEL 

Yes,  if  you  are  sure  that  the  joy  will  not  kill  him  ? 

MARTHE 

We  must  run  the  risk  of  that.  I^et  the  boy  come  in, 
and  we  must  leave  them  alone  together. 

MARCEL 

Hadn't  we  better  be  in  the  room  too  ? 

MARTHE 

No,  I  think  not.  Better  leave  them  alone.  Oh,  how 
my  heart  beats !     Bring  him  in. 

[Marcel  goes  and  re-etiters  with  little  Gaston, 
both  walking  softly  and  on  tiptoe.  The  boy 
looks  scared ;  Marthe  folds  the  boy  in  her 
arms, 

PETIT    GASTON 

[In  a  whisper, 1  Is  that  grandpapa  ? 

MARTHE 

Yes,  darling,  yes ;  we  will  leave  you  together,  and 
when  he  wakes  you  must  tell  him  who  you  are.  Come, 
Marcel. 


GASTON  BONNIER  i6i 

MARCEL  Act  II 

Remember,  Gaston,  he   loves   your  father   and   your 
father  loves  him  ! 

\Exeunt  Marcel  and  Marthe  with  the  light. 
The  boy  is  left  alone  with  old  Gaston,  who 
is  sleeping  in  the  easy  chair.  He  stands  watch- 
ing him  for  some  time  in  a  quiet  awed  silence. 
Then  he  goes  closer  to  him  and  timidly  lays 
one  hand  on  his  arm. 

GASTON 

M.  Bonnier,  grandpapa.    [Again  a  silence^  and  the  words 
are  repeated."] 

bonnier 
[In  his  dream.]  Yes,  Pierre,  yes ;  I  hear  you    call.     I 
can't  get  through  this  snow.     I  am  coming  to  you,  dear, 
but  I  am  old — so  old  and  weak  ! 

GASTON 

Not  Pierre,  Monsieur  ;  it  is  I,  Gaston. 

BONNIER 

[Opens  his  eyes.]  Not  Pierre  ?     Ah,  who  is  it  ? 

GASTON 

It  is  I,  Gaston, 

BONNIER 

My  dream,  my  dream  !     You  are  the  child  I  found  in 
his  grave.     Who  are  you  ? 

GASTON 

Gaston,  le  petit  Gaston. 

BONNIER 

Gaston  !     That   is   my  name.     Who  gave  you  that 
name  I 


i62  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  GASTON 

My  father,  Monsieur,  my  father  ! 

BONNIER 

And  your  father's  name  was ? 


GASTON 

Pierre. 

BONNIER 

No,  no — not  that  name.  [WaUingly,']  Pierre  is  dead ; 
he  died  long  ago  in  the  Crimea. 

GASTON 

He  gave  me  the  name  of  Gaston  after  his  own  father. 

BONNIER 

His  own  father  ?  Come  here  closer — let  me  have  a 
look  at  you  closer.  In  Heaven's  name  do  not  deceive  me, 
child.     I  am  an  old  man — a  poor,  weak,  foolish  old  man. 

GASTON 

It  is  true,  grandpapa  ! 

BONNIER 

[Eagerly.']  Yes,  yes,  I  hope  it  is  true ;  or  is  it  all  part 
of  my  dream  ?     Tell  me  over  again. 

GASTON 

I  am  your  grandson.  Monsieur.  My  father  called  me 
Gaston  because  his  own  father  bore  that  name ;  and  my 
father  was  called  Pierre,  and  you  are  my  grandfather. 

BONNIER 

Hush,  hush — do  not  say  it  so  loud.  You  will  wake 
me,  and  then  the  dream  will  pass  away.  Come,  dear 
\takes  him  in  his  arms],  you  shall  whisper  it  in  my  ears. 
Say  it  all  over  softly  to  me.  This  is  too  sweet  a  dream 
to  break. 


GASTON  BONNIER  163 

GASTON  Act  II 

It  is  no  dream,  M.  Bonnier. 

BONNIER 

Not  that  name — the  other  name  you  used  just  now. 
Call  me  by  that  other  name. 

GASTON 

Grandpapa  ! 

BONNIER 

My  little  grandson,  my  little  Gaston  ;  oh,  if  this  be  a 
dream  let  me  never  wake  again,  now  that  I  have  found 
my  Pierre  again  in  you.  [Holds  him  fondly  in  his  arms^ 
there  is  a  pause^  then  Marthe  and  Marcel  enter  softlyJ] 

[Excitedly,']  Marthe,  Marthe  !  Look  at  him,  tell  me 
who  it  is  ;  is  it — can  it  be 

MARTHE 

\}Vho  is  half  crying^  Yes,  Monsieur  Bonnier,  it  is  your 
grandson.     Marcel  brought  him,  ask  Marcel  here. 

BONNIER 

Marcel,  you  ?  Do  dead  men  come  out  of  their  graves  ? 
I  thought  you  were  dead  in  the  Crimea  with — with 

MARCEL 

Me  dead  !  No,  no.  Bonnier,  I  am  too  tough  to  be 
killed  very  easily.  I  am  alive,  thank  God  !  and  I  am  glad 
of  it,  since  I  have  been  able  to  bring  you  your  grandson. 

BONNIER 

Yes,  yes,  my  grandson,  tell  me  about  him.  How  did 
you  find  him  ?     Where  did  you  find  him  ? 

MARCEL 

Well,  I  think  it  was  he  who  found  me,  wasn't  it,  little 
one? 


i64  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  GASTON 

Yes,  Monsieur  Marcel,  my  father  wrote  and  told  me 
whenever  I  was  in  trouble  to  ask  for  Marcel.  Those 
were  his  words.  Mother  showed  them  to  me  in  a  letter. 
So  I  looked  for  you  and  found  you. 

MARCEL 

Quite  right,  my  boy  ;  Marcel  will  stick  to  you  always, 
for  your  own  and  your  father's  sake.  Why,  he  told  me 
often  in  the  Crimea  to  look  after  his  child  at  Marseilles. 

BONNIER 

You  found  him  at  Marseilles  ? 

MARCEL 

Not  much  trouble  about  that  !  I  have  seen  a  good  bit 
of  them — Hortense  and  the  little  Gaston  :  have  I  not, 
Marthe  ? 

MARTHE 

It  is  true,  Monsieur. 

MARCEL 

Yes,  I  have  tried  to  do  what  I  could  for  them,  not 
that  that  is  much,  for,  as  you  told  me  many  years  ago, 
Bonnier,  we  soldiers  are  rolling  stones,  and  it  is  not  often 
that  this  particular  stone  has  rolled  to  Marseilles.  But  it 
is  from  Marseilles  that  I  have  brought  him  here. 

BONNIER 

But  you  said  the  boy  found  you  ? 

GASTON 

So  I  did,  I  went  down  to  the  quay  and  foimd  him. 

MARCEL 

Quite  true,  little  lad,  quite  true.  You  knew  that 
Marcel  would  come  to  you,  whenever  you  wanted  him. 


GASTON  BONNIER  165 

MARTHE  Act  II 

\Breah  in  hurriedlyJ\  Come,  Monsieur  Bonnier,  it  is 
not  the  time  to  tell  over  our  tales — now  that  the  little  one 
has  come  home.     Let  me  bring  in  the  wine. 

BONNIER 

\JVith  growing  excitement.']  Yes,  yes,  Marthe,  bring  in 
the  wine.  Here  is  Marcel — old  dog  !  I  never  knew 
him  refuse  a  glass  of  wine  !  And  I  shall  drink  too, 
and  my  little  boy  here  shall  drink  and  we  will  begin  a 
new  life.  Wine,  Marthe,  wine  !  [Marthe  goes  out.] 
[To  Marcel.]  Old  friend,  I  think  I  should  hardly  have 
known  you.  But  I  suppose  we  are  both  changed,  both 
grown  old  and  grey  ! 

MARCEL 

Yes,  Bonnier,  time  plays  sad  tricks  with  us  old  ones, 
though  it  does  not  change  our  hearts.  But  you  will  get 
young  again  now  that  little  Gaston  has  come. 

BONNIER 

We  will  all  get  young  again  ;  Gaston  shall  teach  us  the 
way.  Aha,  here  comes  Marthe  !  [Enter  Marthe  with 
winey  etc.y  and  sets  the  things  on  the  tahle^  which  she  draws 
close  to  Bonnier.]  Come,  we  will  forget  the  past  and  live 
in  the  present.  There — now  you.  Marcel,  shall  sit  there, 
and  my  little  grandson  must  sit  here — by  my  side.  Pour 
out  the  wine,  Marthe,  pour  out  the  wine  !  We  are  going 
to  be  merry  and  never  be  sorry  any  more  1  We  are  not 
too  old  to  be  merry,  are  we.  Marcel  ?  \They  sit  at  table 
and  Marthe  helps  them.] 

MARCEL 

Not  I,  at  all  events.  Well,  here's  to  you,  Bonnier. 
[Drinks.]     With  all  my  heart. 

BONNIER 

That's  not  the  proper  toast  !  No,  no,  we  will  first 
drink  to  this  young  man  !  Here,  Gaston,  here's  to  your 
health,  my  boy. 


i66  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  MARCEL 

Hear,  hear  !     Gaston,  your  good  health. 

GASTON 

\Prinh  to  both.']  I  hope  you  will  both  have  a  long  life 
and  much  happiness. 

BONNIER 

If  I  have,  it  will  all  be  owing  to  you,  Gaston.  Marthe 
must  drink  too  !      [  They  all  drink.] 

MARCEL 

[After  a  deep  draught.]  Come,  that's  better  !  Now  I 
don't  care  what  happens  in  this  war.  If  I  Jive,  so  much 
the  better  ;  and  if  I  die,  it  will  be  for  France.  Vive  la 
France  !     [Drinks  again.] 

GASTON 

Vive  la  France,  et  i  bas  les  Prussiens  ! 

MARCEL 

[Laughing.]  Hear  him,  hear  the  young  patriot  ! 
That's  right,  my  boy,  stick  to  the  text  and  you  won't  go 
far  wrong. 

BONNIER 

War  again,  it  is  always  war  ! 

MARCEL 

Well,  if  there  wasn't  war,  what  would  an  old  soldier 
like  me  do  ?  You  don't  suppose  I  could  ever  rest  quietly 
in  a  cottage  and  smoke  my  pipe  in  a  chimney  corner  ? 
No,  vive  la  guerre  !  say  I. 

GASTON 

Vive  la  guerre  ! 

MARTHE 

Hush,  Monsieur,  hush  !  [Pushes  the  table  back  away 
from  Bonnier.] 


GASTON  BONNIER  167 

GASTON  Act  II 

Why  ?  I  like  hearing  about  war.  My  father  is  a 
soldier  !     Tell  me  about  the  war,  Marcel ! 

MARCEL 

\Rising^  No  time  now,  little  one.  I  must  be  ofF.  We 
have  had  our  marching  orders,  and  I  am  not  the  one  to 
delay.  One  more  glass,  Bonnier,  and  then — a  Berlin. 
[Laughs  as  he  drinks  ;  drums  begin  outside.] 

BONNIER 

War,  always  war  !     Don't  go  yet,  Marcel  I 

MARCEL 

But  I  must,  old  friend  !  France  calls  me,  you  don't 
suppose  that  when  the  drums  are  beating  and  the  flags 
flying.  Marcel  is  going  to  be  a  laggard  ?  Good-bye,  old 
friend,  I  have  done  the  best  service  I  could  for  you  and 
Pierre,  and  now  I  am  ofF!  Vive  la  guerre!  Vive  la 
France  !     A  Berlin  ! 

GASTON 
[Has    been   watching   him    with   eager ^  wide-open    eyes.] 
Adieu,   adieu,    Marcel  !     Mind    you  beat    them — those 
Prussians ! 

MARCEL 

All  right,  youngster !  Come,  Marthe,  you  shall  see  me 
to  the  door.     Adieu  ! 

[Marcel  and  Marthe  go  out.  There  is  a  brief 
pause  while  Petit  Gaston^^«  to  the  window 
to  see  the  last  <?/Marcel.      Opens  window. 

GASTON 

There  he  goes,  there  he  goes  !  Oh,  is  he  not  fine 
and  strong.  Marcel  ! 

[Drums,  gradually  dying  away. 


i68  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  BONNIER 

\Feehly  and  a  Utile  irritably.']  Yes,  yes,  come  back  and 
shut  the  window,  Gaston  !  Come  and  sit  by  me  !  Don't 
let  us  talk  about  the  war  !  [Drums  cease. 

GASTON 

[Cornes  back.]   But  don't  you  like  Marcel,  then  ? 

BONNIER 

Marcel  is  a  fine  fellow — for  a  soldier.  But  you  and  I 
have  got  something  else  to  think  about  than  war  and 
soldiers.     Tell  me  about  yourself. 

GASTON 

What  shall  I  tell  you  ?  About  our  life  at  Marseilles  ? 
Oh,  may  I  tell  you  about  my  dear  mother  ? 

BONNIER 

No,  no,  about  your  father. 

GASTON 

Didn't  you  like  mother  ? 

BONNIER 

I — I — hardly  knew  your  mother. 

GASTON 

Oh,  then,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  her.  I  used  to  call 
her  "Angel." 

BONNIER 

[Aside.]  The  boy  will  kill  me.  [Aloud.]  Your  father 
first,  Gaston. 

GASTON 

Father  was  a  soldier,  and  he  was  always  ready  to  die 
for  his  country,  and  I  am  going  to  be  a  soldier  too,  and  if 
France  calls  me,  I  will  die  for  her. 

BONNIER 

Gaston,  I  don't  want  you  to  be  a  soldier. 


GASTON  BONNIER  169 

GASTON  Act  II 

Not  a  soldier  ?  What  else  is  a  man  fit  for  ?  Why, 
father  was  a  soldier  ;  didn't  you  want  him  to  be  a  soldier  ? 

BONNIER 
No.      [%^5.] 

GASTON 

And  yet  he  was  one,  why  was  that  ? 

BONNIER 

He  would  be,  Gaston,  whether  I  liked  it  or  no. 

GASTON 

And  were  you  angry  with  him  ? 

BONNIER 

[Aside.]  What  am  I  to  say  ?  How  cruel  a  child  can 
be! 

GASTON 

[Looks  at  him  with  wondering  eyes.]  My  father  was  a 
soldier,  and  you  didn't  want  him  to  be.  I  want  to  be  a 
soldier,  and  you  say  no.  Will  you  be  angry  with  me 
too  ? 

BONNIER 

No,  no,  Gaston,  if  you  will  stay  at  home  with  me  and 
forget  all  about  wars. 

GASTON 

But  that  cannot  be  always.  I  want  to  be  a  soldier, 
and  fight  the  Prussians.  I  promised  mother  that  I  would, 
and  that  is  a  promise  I  cannot  break. 

BONNIER 

[Irritably.]  Your  mother,  your  mother !  I  tell  you 
I  want  you,  Gaston,  to  be  with  me, 

GASTON 

I  am  sure  you  didn't  like  mother.  [Suddenly.]  Why 
did  you  never  have  mother  here  ?  [Bonnier  does  not 
answer.]     Was  it  because  you  were  angry  with  father  ? 


I70  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  BONNIER 

Oh,  Gaston,  do  not  ask  such  questions.  It's  all  long 
ago  now,  and  I  don't  want  to  remember  the  past.  Be 
kind  to  your  old  grandfather. 

GASTON 

ISlowly.l  Yes,  I  will  if  I  can.  But  I  am  not  quite  a 
child.  Monsieur.  You  cannot  wish  me  to  break  a  promise 
to  my  mother,  or  forget  my  father's  life. 

BONNIER 

I  never  forget  Pierre,  Gaston. 

GASTON 

And  yet  you  were  angry  with  him  ? 

BONNIER 

I  was  wrong,  Gaston,  I  was  wrong,  and  I  have  repented 
it  bitterly  since  !  I  know  it  was  my  fault  that  he  left 
this  house  and  became  a  soldier,  but  indeed,  indeed,  I 
have  suffered,  ever  since,  ever  since,  God  knows  ! 

GASTON 

He  left  you  because  you  were  angry  ?  Oh,  Monsieur, 
tell  me  the  truth  !  It  is  right  that  I  should  know.  I  am 
no  longer  a  child. 

BONNIER 

Yes,  Gaston,  yes.  I  was  angry  and  said  wicked  words, 
and  he  went  away.  [y^side.]  My  God,  do  not  punish 
me  by  means  of  this  child. 

GASTON 

And  my  mother — were  you  angry  with  her  too  ? 

BONNIER 

Yes,  because  she  took  him  away  from  me. 

GASTON 

Did  you  forgive  them  ? 


GASTON  BONNIER  171 

BONNIER  Act  II 

I  forgave  your  father. 

GASTON 

But  you  never  forgave  my  mother — is  that  true  ? 
[Bonnier  is  silent  and  hides  his  face  in  his  hands  with  a 
groan.]  Monsieur  !  [S/ow/y.]  I  think  I  must  go  vv^ith 
Marcel   to  the  war. 

BONNIER 

No,  no,  anything  but  that,  anything  but  that !  Oh, 
my  boy,  my  boy,  you  are  all  that  I  have  now,  all  that  I 
have  to  remind  me  of  Pierre.  Do  not  leave  me,  I  have 
found  you  after  many  years,  do  not  leave  me.  See  how 
old  and  worn  I  am,  I  cannot  hope  to  live  long.  Stay 
with  me  while  I  live,  I  beseech  you,  Gaston  !  If  I  could 
I  would  ask  you  on  my  knees.  Yes,  I,  your  grandfather, 
would  beg  you  on  my  knees  not  to  leave  me,  old  and 
desolate  and  comfortless. 

GASTON 

[Slowly.]  And  would  you  forgive  them  now  ? 

BONNIER 

Ah,  it  is  all  long  ago  !  Yes,  I  have  forgiven  them. 
[With  a  long  sigh.] 

GASTON 

Ah,  grandfather.  [Coming  close  to  him  and  looking  at  him 
earnestly.]     Will  you  forgive  them  now  ? 

BONNIER 

[Feebly.]  Hush  !  we  must  not  talk  about  the  dead. 

GASTON 

But  they  are  not  dead — they  are  alive. 

BONNIER 

[Half  rises  with  a  cry.]  Not  dead !  What  do  you 
mean  ? 


172  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  GASTON 

They  are  alive,  they  are  alive  !  They  are  here  in  the 
village;  they  are  just  outside.  [Bonnier  rises  with  a 
choking  cry  and  then  falls  back.  Attempts  to  speak^  but 
no  articulate  words  will  come.]  Grandpapa,  grandpapa, 
don't  look  like  that,  [y^fter  a  pause^  in  which  Bonnier 
tries  to  speak  but  cannot.]  Speak  to  me,  speak  to  me, 
say  something.  Can  you  forgive  them  ?  [As  Bonnier 
remains  silent^  the  boy  looks  at  him  for  a  moment  in  a  scared 
way^  then  runs  to  door.]  Marthe,  Marthe  !  Come — 
quick  ! 


Enter  Marthe,  hurriedly  followed  by  Pierre  and 

HORTENSE. 
MARTHE 

Ah,  Heavens  !  poor  Monsieur  Bonnier.  [^Runs  over  to 
himy  supports  his  head.]  Quick,  some  wine,  wine  ! 
[Pierre  y?//j  a  glass  from  thetable^  and  Marthe  on  one  side 
of  him,  Pierre  the  other  side^  hold  him  up  and  hold  wine  to 
his  lips.  The  boy  remains  kneeling  in  front  of  him  ;  Hortense, 
shylyy  at  a  little  distance?^ 

PIERRE 

Oh,  father,  father,  have  I  come  too  late  ? 

GASTON 

\Wailingly^  Forgive  them,  forgive  them  !  Oh,  what 
have  I  done ! 

BONNIER 

\With  an  effort^  Pierre,  Pierre,  come  to  me. 
[Pierre  comes  round  and  kneels  in  front.  The  boy  drags 
Hortense  vuer^  and  brings  her  before  Bonnier,  where  she 
too  kneels^ 


GASTON  BONNIER  173 

MARTHE  Act  II 

[Behind  Bonnier.]  Monsieur  Gaston,  say  one  word, 
forgive  them. 

[Bonnier y^^i'/y  lays  one  hand  upon  Pierre's  head. 
Then  he  lifts  it  to  place  it  on  Hortense's 
head.  As  it  gets  nearly  to  her,  the  hand  falls 
nervelessly  on  his  lap,  and  with  a  groan 
Bonnier's  head  falls  forward,  and  he  dies. 
In  the  far  distance  are  heard  the  drums  as  the 
curtain  slowly  descends.^ 


Slow  Curtain, 


UNDINE 

A   DREAM   PLAY 


DRJMJTIS  PERSONS 

Undine. 

Count  Huldbrand  of  Ringstetten. 

Bertalda. 

Father  Heilmann. 

Fisherman. 

Fisherman's  Wife. 

Bertalda's  Foster-parents. 

Shepherd. 

Three  Beggars. 

A  Blind  Man. 

Courtiers,  Attendants,  Crowd,  etc. 

.     ACT    I 
Interior  of  Fisherman's  Cottage. 

ACT     II 
Hall  of  Castle  of  Ringstetten. 

ACT    III 

A  Mountain  Gorge  near  Ringstetten. 


*^*  The  acting  rights  of  this  play  are  in  the  hands  of   Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell. 

It    has    been    translated    into   Spanish,   and    a   performance   given    at 
Barcelona,  under  the  care  of  £.  Franquesa  Bach. 


UNDINE 


ACT  I 

Scene  I. — Interior  of  Fisuerman^s  cottage.  It  is  evening.  A  Act  I 
staircase  comes  down  from  thi  upper  part  of  the  cottage  at 
one  corner:  there  is  a  fireplace  in  the  centre  with  an  ingle- 
nook^  and  a  spinning-wheel  stands  at  one  side  ofit^  where 
the  Fisherman's  Wife  is  spinning.  The  Fisherman 
enters  by  the  door  leading  outside^  and^  as  he  enters^  a 
gust  of  wind  shows  that  outside  a  storm  of  rain  and 
wind  is  raging^  the  windows  are  rattling  with  the 
tempesty  and  the  sound  of  a  lashing  rainstorm  is  heard 
on  the  roof  while  the  wind  howls  round  the  eaves. 
While  the  Fisherman's  Wife  is  seated  very  quietly 
and  placidly^  the  Fisherman,  after  shutting  the  door^  is 
restless  and  disturbed.  He  comes  to  the  fireplace^  warms 
himself  for  a  moment^  then  goes  to  the  window^  and 
returns  once  more  to  the  fireplace.  He  glances  at  his 
Wife,  as  though  irritated  by  hir  stillness, 

fisherman 
It  is  many  years  since  we  had  such  a  storm — not 
since  Undine  came  to  us.  And  the  water  is  rising  all 
round,  and  cutting  us  off  from  the  mainland.  It  makes 
one  uneasy  and  restless.  Where  is  Undine  ?  How  can 
you  sit  there,  wife,  hour  after  hour,  as  though  nothing 
was  happening — as  though  nothing  was  going  to  happen  ? 

wife 
No  one  can  alter  fate.     [She  goes  on  spinning.'] 


177 


N 


178  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  FISHERMAN 

Oh,  I  have  not  your  patience.  You  sit  there,  just  as 
you  have  sat  for  years — spinning,  spinning,  spinning. 
And  the  world  is  altering  all  the  time.  So  many  morn- 
ings and  evenings  come  and  pass  aw^ay  ;  and  the  sun  rises 
and  sets,  and  the  stars  come  out :  and  each  day  something 
is  happening  which  may  change  all  our  lives.  I  am  very 
uneasy  and  restless  to-night.  I  feel  that  some  change  is 
coming.     I  feel  it  in  my  bones. 

WIFE 

Well,  husband,  if  it  has  to  come,  it  will  come.  You 
can  do  nothing  but  wait  and  receive  at  Fate's  hands 
whatever  Fate  has  to  give  you. 

UNDINE 

\Co7n'ing  downstairs^  gaily  singing,'] 

Where  is  the  Sea-King's  home  ? 
There  where  the  great  fish  roam, 
In  the  heart  of  the  deep  sea's  foam, 
There  is  the  Sea-King's  home.  .  .  . 

Arkel,  Sibol,  Harald,  Ktihleborn  !  I  hear  you  !  I  hear 
you  !  [Dances  round  Fisherman's  Wife  and  kisses  her,] 
I  am  coming  !  I  am  coming  !     [Goes  to  window.] 

FISHERMAN 

Where  are  you  going,  Undine  ?  It  is  not  a  night  for 
you  to  leave  the  house. 

UNDINE 

[Laughs].  Why  not  ?  It  is  a  night  when  all  my  kinsmen 
are  abroad  !     Arkel,  Sibol  .  .  .       [She  opens  the  window.] 

FISHERMAN 

Hark,  how  the  winds  are  howling  and  the  rain  ...  the 
rain  ! 


UNDINE  179 

UNDINE  Act  I 

Yes  [shutting  window],  they  are  riding  the  wings  of 
the  rain  !  and  I  hear  them  caUing  for  me  .  .  .  their 
voices  are  tossed  along  the  paths  of  the  storm  !  I  am 
coming  !     I  am  coming  !      [She  goes  to  door,] 

FISHERMAN 

[Coming  up  to  her.]  Undine,  do  not  leave  us ! 

UNDINE 

[Blowing  a  kiss  to  him.]  Only  for  a  little  w^hile  !  I 
am  the  child  of  the  storm  !  [Sings  a  few  notes  and  then 
goes  out,  laughing.] 

[Fisherman  goes  to  door — looks  after  her — then 
shuts  the  door  with  a  sigh  and  comes  to  fireplace. 

FISHERMAN 

All  the  spirits  of  evil  are  in  the  air.  I  can  hear  them 
muttering  their  spells.  They  whisper  and  whisper,  and 
then  they  do  the  mischief  which  God  allows.  Hark, 
what  was  that  ?  [He  crosses  himself  devoutly.]  I  thought 
I  heard  a  cry.  Undine  ! — [there  comes  a  splash  of  water 
against  the  window  panes,  followed  by  a  wild  laugh] — 
Undine  !     Come  back  !     Come  home  ! 

WIFE 

She  will  not  come.  She  loves  the  storm.  She  is  the 
daughter  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

FISHERMAN 

No,  no,  she  is  our  daughter — yours  and  mine,  wife. 
It  is  time  she  gave  up  her  impish  tricks.  She  is  no 
longer  so  young  as  when  we  found  her.  She  is  no  more 
a  child.  [He  goes  to  the  door  and  calls.]  Undine!  Come 
home  ! 

VOICE    IN    DISTANCE 

No — no — I  am  happy  here  !     [Laughter.] 

[Fisherman  ^huts  dooj^ 


i8o  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  WIFE 

She  will  never  be  our  daughter,  husband.  She  is  not 
of  our  kith  and  kin.  Is  it  red  blood  that  flows  in  her 
veins  ?  I  do  not  know,  nor  do  you.  What  is  it  that  is 
wanting  in  her  face?  Something  which  others  have, 
men  and  women  like  ourselves,  but  she  has  it  not.  She 
has  strange,  uncanny  ways.  Can  she  be  warm  and  loving 
and  kind  ?     Can  she  love  ?     I  do  not  know,  nor  do  you. 

FISHERMAN 

She  will  be  our  daughter,  I  tell  you,  if  you  only  give 
her  time.  She  will  forget  all  her  wild  kindred  and  no 
longer  be  the  sister  of  winds  and  waves.  And  when  she 
loves  a  man,  as  woman  loves,  then  the  something  you 
speak  of  will  come  into  her  face,  and  we  shall  be  proud 
of  her,  and  have  our  little  grandchildren  at  our  knees  .  .  . 

WIFE 

I  think  not,  I  think  not.  She  does  not  come  to  you 
when  you  call.     Call  her,  she  will  not  obey  ! 

FISHERMAN 

Hark,  what  was  that  ?  I  thought  I  heard  a  cry.  It  is 
the  second  time  I  have  heard  a  cry.  [^He  goes  to  the 
window  :  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door,] 

THE    VOICE    OUTSIDE 

Let  me  in,  let  me  in,  for  the  love  of  God  ! 

FISHERMAN 

Shall  I  open,  shall  I  open  the  door,  good  wife  ? 

WIFE 

Better  not.  It  is  Kiihleborn,  it  may  be,  Kiihleborn, 
spirit  of  evil,  disguised  in  some  mad  shape,  come  to  mock 
at  us. 


UNDINE  i8i 

FISHERMAN  Act  I 

But  it  may  be  some  Christian  soul.     Yet  who  can  be 
abroad  on  so  wild  a  night  ? 

\The  knocking  is  repeated^  and  the  same  voice, 

WIFE 

It  may  be  Fate,  good  husband,  knocking  at  our  doors. 
One  must  open  the  door  when  Fate  knocks. 

FISHERMAN 

[Going  to  door.]    Come  in,  come  in.     I  pray  God  all  may 
be  well. 


Enter  Count  Huldbrand,  wet  from  the  storm, 

HULDBRAND 

I  thank  you,  good  friends.  Peace  be  with  you.  I  am 
worn  and  wasted  with  travel,  and  I  would  fain  rest 
awhile,  if  I  may.  Good  Lord,  how  the  wind  blows 
to-night  !     \H.e  shivers.] 

WIFE 

Come  to  the  fire,  and  welcome,  sir.  It  is  ill  to  be 
abroad  in  storms  like  these. 

[Huldbrand    throws  off  c/oak,  and  comes 
towards  fire. 

FISHERMAN 

We  ask  no  questions,  sir.  We  give  all  we  can,  warmth 
and  shelter. 

WIFE 

Nay,  but  we  can  give  some  poor  morsel  to  eat,  if  the 
knight  be  hungry. 

huldbrand 
I  am  hungry,  good  mother — and  cold  and  wet.     [Sits 
down.] 


i82  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  The  Fisherman  bestirs  himself  to  put  bread  and 

cheese  and  beer  from  a  cupboard  on  the  table^ 
the  Knight  watching  him  awhile^  and  then 
gazing  into  the  fire  abstractedly, 

HULDBRAND 

[After  a  moment's  pause."]  You  have  not  asked  my 
name,  good  friends,  but  I  owe  it  to  you  and  to  your 
hospitality  to  tell  you.  I  am  Count  Huldbrand  of 
Ringstetten — perchance  you  know  the  castle  ? 

FISHERMAN 

Ay,  ay.     I  have  heard  of  it. 

HULDBRAND 

But  what  a  forest !  What  a  forest  !  [Looks  into  the 
fire  gloomily.'] 

FISHERMAN 

You  lost  your  way  in  our  forest,  sir  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes  .  .  .  All  the  devils  of  the  air  are  abroad  to-night ! 

WIFE 

Ay,  ay.  They  ride  the  horses  of  the  wind,  and  the 
spirits  of  the  forest  come  to  meet  them.  Trouble  and 
woe,  trouble  and  woe  for  those  who  have  to  pass  them, 
when  they  are  at  play  ! 

HULDBRAND 

[Shudders.]  And  the  voices,  and  the  whisperings,  and 
the  thunder  of  their  laughter  !  I  was  mad  to  try  the 
journey. 

FISHERMAN 

You  were  put  to  some  proof,  sir  ? 

HULDBRAND 

No — well,  in  one  fashion,  yes.     I  was  bidden  by  the 


UNDINE  183 

lady  Bertalda,  the  queen  of  the  tourney,  to  pass  through  Act  I 
the  forest.  I  could  not  be  her  liege-knight  if  I  did  not 
accept  her  challenge.  But  it  was  a  fool's  errand  I  was 
sent  upon.  I  lost  my  horse,  for  he  was  frightened  and 
threw  me,  and  galloped  into  the  night.  And  I  was  forced 
to  make  my  way  as  best  I  could  on  foot.  It  was  a  fool's 
errand — ^just  to  win  a  lady's  smile.  May  I  eat,  good 
mother  ? 

FISHERMAN 

Ay,  sir,  eat  and  drink.     It  is  humble  fare,  but  you  are 
welcome. 

\The  Knight  eats  silently  and  there  is  silence, 
Suddenly  there  is  a  splash  of  water  on  the 
window  panes  and  a  peal  of  laughter.  The 
Knight  starts. 


HULDBRAND 

What  was  that  ? 

fisherman 
Nay,  sir,  do  not  start,  it  is  only  my  wild  madcap  of  a 
daughter,  playing  us  one  of  her  tricks. 

HULDBRAND 

Your  daughter  ?     And  abroad  such  a  night  as  this  ? 

fisherman 
Yes,  our  daughter.  Undine.    She  has  ever  been  fond  of 
some  roguery.     But  I  would  that  she  would  come  back 
home. 

wife 
She  is  not  of  our  kith  and  kin,  Sir  Knight.  We  lost 
our  own  bairn,  and  heavy  was  our  sorrow.  Then  was 
this  child.  Undine,  found  asleep  on  the  edge  of  the  lake. 
And  we  took  her,  and  have  brought  her  up  as  our  own. 
But  in  nature  she  belongs  not  to  us,  but  to  the  waters 
whence  she  came.     Undine,  the  child  of  the  wave. 


i84  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  FISHERMAN 

Come,  come,  good  wife.  She  will  grow  to  be  our  very 
own  in  time.  She  is  but  seventeen  as  yet.  And  dearer 
to  us  every  year  that  passes.  \^Goes  to  the  window^  opens  it 
and  listens.]  But  I  would  fain  see  her  face  and  know  that 
she  is  safe.     Undine  !     Undine  ! 

HULDBRAND 

It  cannot  be  well  that  she  should  be  out  and  abroad 
to-night. 

FISHERMAN 

I  am  going  out  to  find  her,  good  wife.  I  cannot  sleep 
in  peace,  if  she  be  not  returned. 

HULIDBRAND 

And  I  will  go  with  you  and  help  you. 

FISHERMAN 

Nay,  sir,  I  would  not  trouble  you.  You  have  had 
walking  enough  to-ni^ht. 

HULDBRAND 

I  am  stronger  now.  Come,  Fisherman,  we  will  find 
her.     [Puts  on  cloak  and  hat  and  they  go  out  together.] 

WIFE 

[Left  alone^puts  away  the  eatables  in  the  cupboard  and  then 
goes  on  spinning.]  We  do  not  know  when  Fate  comes  to 
our  doors,  for  she  comes  in  many  guises.  But  she  must 
always  come  in  .  .  .  there  are  no  bolts  and  bars  that  will 
keep  her  out.  As  I  sit  here  and  spin  I  think  of  many 
things,  and  sometimes  I  know  when  Fate's  moment  has 
arrived.  Dark  and  strange  is  the  forest,  and  dark  and 
strange  the  figure  which  moves  through  it  .  .  .  moving, 
moving  to  our  doors.  What  will  the  morrow  bring  ? 
That  which  is  born  of  to-day.  It  is  fated,  it  cannot  be 
altered.  [J  chorus  outside  sings  softly. 


UNDINE  185 


CHORUS   OF   FATE  Act  I 

High  in  the  spaces  of  sky 

Reigns  inaccessible  Fate  : 
Yields  she  to  prayer  or  to  cry  ? 

Answers  she  early  or  late  ? 

Change  and  re-birth  and  decay, 

Dawning  and  darkness  and  light — 
Creatures  they  are  of  a  day. 

Lost  in  a  pitiless  night. 

Men  are  like  children  who  play 

Unknown  by  an  unknown  sea  : 
Centuries  vanish  away — 

She  waits — the  eternal  She. 

Nay,  but  the  Gods  are  afraid 

Of  the  hoary  Mother's  nod  ; 
They  are  of  things  that  are  made. 

She  the  original  God. 

They  have  seen  dynasties  fall 

In  ruin  of  what  has  been  : 
Her  no  upheavals  appal — 

Silent,  unmoved,  and  serene. 

Silent,  unmoved,  and  serene. 

Reigns  in  a  world  uncreate. 
Eldest  of  Gods  and  their  Queen, 

Featureless,  passionless  Fate. 

\The     Fisherman's    Wife    puts    away 
spinning-wheel  and  exit  to  her  room. 


i86  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 


Act  I  Scene  2. 

Enter  Count  Huldbrand  with  Undine.  Both  are  wet 
with  the  rain^  and  Undine's  hair  is  blown  about  her 
face.     Undine  is  very  quiet ^  with  large  wistful  eyes. 

HULDBRAND 

I  have  found  you,  Undine.  ...  I  have  found  you  at 
last. 

undine 
Yes,  you  have  found  me.     You  were  always  sure  to 
find  me,  for  I  have  knovirn  you  a  long  time  past  ! 

huldbrand 
But  how  can  that  be,  Undine  ?     I  knew  your  name, 
for  your  foster-father  has  told  me,  and  your  strange,  wild 
history.     But  how  do  you  know  me  ?     I  have  never  seen 
you  before,  nor  have  you  seen  me. 

undine 
I  do  not  know  your  name — but  that  does  not  matter. 
What  is  your  name  ? 

huldbrand 
Huldbrand — the  Count  Huldbrand,  who  lives  in    the 
castle  of  Ringstetten. 

UNDINE 

Huldbrand,  Huldbrand.  I  will  try  to  remember  your 
name.  But  your  name  does  not  matter.  I  have  known 
you  a  long  time. 

huldbrand 
No,  no.  Undine  .  .  .  that  is  impossible. 

UNDINE 

Does  it  seem  to  you  so  strange  ?  But  I  have  dreamt  of 
you,  and  dreams  tell  the  truth. 


UNDINE  187 

HULDBRAND 

When  have  you  dreamt  of  me,  Undine  ? 

UNDINE 

Oh,  deep  down  in  the  blue  waters,  where  all  my  child- 
hood was  spent.  There  were  miles  and  miles  of  blue 
sea  above  me,  and  all  my  fathers  and  brothers  and 
kinsmen  were  about  me,  and  Kiihleborn  used  to  watch  me 
with  his  big  eyes. 

HULDBRAND 

Who  is  Kiihleborn  ? 

UNDINE 

Hush  !  .  .  .  you  must  not  speak  his  name.  He  is  my 
uncle,  and  he  never  liked  me  to  dream,  because  he  knew 
that  in  dreams  I  ceased  to  belong  to  the  sea.  Dreams 
always  take  one  into  another  world,  and  then  one  gets 
restless.  All  love  of  change  is  born  of  dreams.  And  if 
one  desires  change,  then  the  old  world  slips  away  and  the 
new  thing  happens  to  one — the  strange  new  thing  which 
is  to  give  one  a  soul.  .  .  . 

HULDBRAND 

What  do  you  mean.  Undine  ? 

UNDINE 

They  told  me  I  had  no  soul,  it  was  Kiihleborn  who 
told  me.  "You  have  no  soul.  Undine,"  he  said,  "what 
is  the  good  of  dreaming  ?  "  And  I  said,  "  But  it  is  a  soul 
I  want ;  why  should  I  not  dream  ? "  And  he  used  to  shake 
his  head  and  turn  away.  But  for  me  the  passion  grew 
stronger  and  stronger,  the  passion  for  the  new  thing,  the 
passion  for  a  soul.  And  it  was  you  whom  I  saw,  you  who 
were  to  give  me  a  soul.  That  is  why  I  have  come  up 
out  of  the  deep  waters  to  find  you.  .  .  .  Long  time  have 
I  known  you,  Huldbrand 

HULDBRAND 

You  are  very  beautiful,  Undine. 


Act  I 


i88  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  UNDINE 

Can  one  be  beautiful  if  one  has  no  soul  ?  I  do  not 
think  so.  The  soul  must  look  out  of  the  eyes.  In  the 
deep  world  below  the  waters  there  are  many  shapes  and 
bodies  and  limbs  which  are  beautiful,  but  no  beautiful 
faces,  no  beautiful  eyes  .  .  .  they  are  all  soulless  .  .  . 

HULDBRAND 

You  are  more  beautiful  than  the  women  of  my  world. 
Undine. 

UNDINE 

The  women  of  your  world,  Huldbrand  ?  Are  they 
beautiful  ?  Tell  me  of  them  ...  I  have  only  seen  my 
foster-mother.  [Laughs.']  Have  you  seen  many  fair 
women,  Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

Fairer  than  I  am  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes.  ...  I  do  not  know  .  .  . 

UNDINE 

Beautiful  women  ?  Have  you  seen  one  most  beautiful 
woman  ?  For  to  all  of  us  there  must  be  one  most  beauti- 
ful thing — that  for  which  the  body  is  athirst  and  the  heart 
craves.  I  saw  that  in  my  dream — a  face  and  a  shape  like 
yours,  Huldbrand.  And  that  is  why  I  knew  you  when 
you  came.  But  you — have  you  seen  the  one  most 
beautiful  woman  ? 

HULDBRAND 

I  do  not  know,  Undine — perhaps — I  thought  so — once. 

UNDINE 

You  thought  so  once  ?  When  did  you  think  so  ?  Tell 
me  about  her.     What  was  her  name  ? 


UNDINE  189 

HULDBRAND  Act  I 

Never  mind  about  her  ?     Let  us  speak  about  you. 

UNDINE 

No,  no,  I  want  to  know  her  name.     Should  I  like  her  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Her  name  was  Bertalda. 

UNDINE 

Bertalda — it  is  a  beautiful  name.  But  I  do  not  like 
her.  Why  do  I  not  like  her  ?  Was  she  good  to  you  ? 
Do  you  love  her  ? 

HULDBRAND 

I  do  not  know — perhaps. 

UNDINE 

Whose  are  those  colours  you  are  wearing  ?  Are  they 
Bertalda's  ? 

HULDBRAND 

\^miling?^  Yes.  .  .  .  But  .  .  . 

UNDINE 

[Takes  his  hand  and  puts  her  teeth  to  itJ]  I  hate  her  .  .  . 
I  hate  Bertalda  !     [Her  manner  gets  wilder.^ 

HULDBRAND 

Oh,  little  cat !     Why  did  you  bite  me  ? 

UNDINE 

[Gets  up  and  goes  away  from  him.']  What  did  Bertalda 
make  you  do  ?     For  all  women  make  men  do  something. 

HULDBRAND 

You  hurt  me,  Undine.     Why  did  you  bite  me  ? 

UNDINE 

Because  I  hate  Bertalda.     What  did  she  make  you  do  ? 


I90  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  HULDBRAND 

She  made  me  come  through  the  forest.  She  was  the 
queen  of  the  tourney,  and  I  wore  her  colours  and  had  to 
do  what  she  ordained.  And  she  challenged  me  to  go 
alone  through  the  enchanted  forest.  But  the  forest 
brought  me  to  you,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

Ah,  yes,  the  forest !  I  knew  what  must  have  happened 
to  you  there.  You  had  a  strange  time  in  the  forest ! 
\}Valt7.ing  with  slow  steps?^  Many  of  my  kinsmen  were 
round  you,  Arkel  and  Sibol  and  Harald,  and — Kuhleborn  ! 
They  were  round  you  all  the  time,  and  they — teased  you  ! 
\Laughs^ 

HULDBRAND 

Yes — yes  .  .  .  but  it  is  over  now. 

UNDINE 

[5////  moving  in  slow  dancing  steps.^  I  heard  them  calling, 
calling  all  night.  The  spirit  of  the  storm,  and  the  spirit 
of  the  trees,  and  the  spirit  of  the  waters.  I  knew  that 
they  were  holding  high  revels.  And  once  the  voices  were 
so  loud  that  I  went  out,  but  they  would  not  listen  to  me. 
And  again,  a  little  later,  I  heard  them  crying — "  He  is 
coming  !  He  is  coming  !  But  Undine  must  not  know  ! 
Stop  him  !  Stop  him  !  Bind  him  with  your  chains  ! 
Let  him  never  get  out  of  the  forest,  lest  Undine  should 
see  him  and  love  him  !  "  I  heard  them  plainly  enough. 
[Stops  dancing.]  But  it  was  fated  that  you  should  come 
here,  and  that  I  should  see  you,  and  that  I  should  love 
you.     [Sings,] 

There  was  a  kingdom  fair  to  see, 

But  pale,  so  pale,  with  never  a  rose  : 

The  cold  wind  blows  across  the  lea. 
Westward  the  pale  sun  goes. 


UNDINE  191 

There  was  a  maiden,  soft  and  dear,  Act  I 

But  pale,  so  pale,  with  never  a  rose  : 
Each  quivering  eyelid  holds  a  tear, 

Sea-ward  her  sad  heart  goes  .  .  . 

\Ends  with' almost  a  sob. 

You  will  not  go  away  again,  Huldbrand  ?  [Sits  down  again.'] 

HULDBRAND 

No — I  shall  not  go  away  again. 

UNDINE 

You  will  not  leave  me  ? 

HULDBRAND 

No — I  shall  not  leave  you. 

UNDINE 

Am  I  beautiful,  am  I  beautiful,  Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  yes. 

UNDINE 

More  beautiful  than  all  ?  More  beautiful  than — 
Bertalda  ?  [Comes  over  to  him  and  puts  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder.'] 

HULDBRAND 

Yes.  Put  your  face  near  mine.  Ah,  you  are  beautiful, 
Undine  !  You  are  like  the  spring  coming  over  the  fields. 
You  are  the  dawn  coming  over  the  waters.  You  are  the 
first  star  that  shines  when  the  sun  has  gone  down  and 
the  twilight  creeps  over  the  land.  You  are  the  flower  of 
the  earth,  the  fine-spun  foam  of  the  sea !  You  are 
beautiful — beautiful ! 

UNDINE 

Do  you  love  me — do  you  love  me,  Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  I  love  you.  Undine.    Put  your  face  close  to  me — 


192  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I    close.     Your  mouth — give  me  your  mouth.     Your  sweet, 
full  lips.  Ah  !    \He  kisses  her,]  Why  do  you  tremble,  dear  ? 

UNDINE 

I  love  you,  Huldbrand — I  shall  always  love  you.  [She 
kisses  him.] 

Scene  3. 

Enter  Fisherman  with  a  priest^  Priest  Heilmann,  both 
very  wet.  Undine  goes  forward  to  greet  the  Fisherman. 

FISHERMAN 

Undine  \emhraces  her\  you  have  come  back,  thank  the 
good  Lord  for  His  mercies.  I  knew  you  would  come 
back.  [Turning  to  Knight.]  You  found  her,  Sir  Knight  ? 
Nay,  you  might  have  let  me  know.  I  searched  long  and 
far,  and  all  in  vain  ! 

HULDBRAND 

And  I  only  went  down  to  the  little  river,  and  there  on 
the  opposite  bank  was  Undine.  I  crossed  the  river — 
though  she  waved  me  back,  for  she  knew  the  current  to 
be  strong — and  the  waves  tore  and  tugged  at  me  as  I 
waded  across.  But  I  would  not  have  Undine  touch  the 
water  again. 

FISHERMAN 

You  carried  her  over  the  water  ?  [The  Knight 
assents.]  And  you,  Undine  .  .  .  are  you  glad  to  be 
home  ?     You  have  made  me  very  anxious  to-night. 

UNDINE 

Yes,  I  am  glad  to  be  home.  [She  is  very  quiet  throughout 
this  scene.  She  sits  in  a  corner  of  the  room^  watching  every 
one  with  big  thoughtful  eyes,] 

HULDBRAND 

But  you,  too,  have  found  some  one  ?  [indicating  the 
Priest.] 


UNDINE  193 

FISHERMAN  Act     I 

Yes.  Come  forward  to  the  fire,  Priest  Heilmann. 
Your  dress  is  dripping  with  to-night's  storm. 

PRIEST 

It  is  a  good  deed  you  have  done  in  that  you  saved  me 
to-night.  I  thought  to  die  in  the  forest.  But  God  was 
good  to  me.  Perchance  He  hath  still  some  work  for  His 
servant  to  do.     \Looh  at  Knight  and  Undine.] 

FISHERMAN 

Come,  let  us  draw  close  to  the  fire,  all  of  us.  My  old 
wife,  I  take  it,  has  gone  to  bed.  But  we  can  talk  awhile. 
Take  some  food  and  drink.  \The  Priest  shakes  his  head.'] 
The  storm  is  dying  down,  I  think. 

PRIEST 

Nay,  still  the  clouds  press  low  upon  the  earth,  and  the 
wind  is  still  moaning  round  the  eaves  of  the  cottage,  and 
the  waters  are  running  in  mad  course — the  waters  which 
divide  us  from  the  mainland,  and  bring  us  nearer  this 
strange  lake.  The  lake,  too,  is  full  of  voices.  What  do 
they  say  to  you.  Fisherman  ?  What  do  they  say  to  you, 
Sir  Knight  ? 

FISHERMAN 

To  me  they  say  that  Undine  is  returned. 

HULDBRAND 

And  to  me  that  Undine  is  won. 

PRIEST 

And  to  me  that  God  hath  still  some  work  for  His 
servant  to  do.     Nay,  what  was  that  ? 

[There  is  a  burst  of  rain  upon  the  window^  which 

forces  it  open.     All  of  them  sit  still  and  look 

fearfully  out  into  the  darkness.    Undine  slowly 

rises^  and  remains  standing^  spellbound.      The 

voice  of  KuHLEBORN  is  heard  singing. 

O 


Act  I 


194  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

[KUHLEBORN  SingS.'\ 

A  night  of  storm 

And  a  night  of  woe  ! 
And  the  sailors  bold 
And  the  ships  of  old 
Are  hidden  and  buried  for  aye 
In  the  deep  sea's  mystery — 
Long,  long  ago  ! 

The  ships  are  torn 

And  the  men  are  dead  : 
And  their  names  are  lost 
And  their  bones  are  tost 
Hither  and  thither,  to  and  fro, 
Where  no  man  may  see  and  no  man  know — 
r  the  deep  sea's  bed  ! 

HULDBRAND 

Whose  voice  was  that  ? 

UNDINE 

It  was  Kiihleborn's.  \^he  goes  over  to  the  window,  mutter- 
ing some  words,  and  moving  her  arms.  The  window  closes 
again.    The  Priest  holds  up  the  cross  hanging  on  his  girdle.'\ 

PRIEST 

There  is  witchery  here.  Devil  or  angel,  man  or  fiend, 
I  bid  thee  leave  us.  ...  I  ban  thee  from  our  sight  .  .  . 

FISHERMAN 

Nay,  Father,  we  hear  many  such  sounds,  night  and 
day.  I  pray  you,  be  not  concerned.  For  Undine  knows 
how  to  govern  these  spirits.  She  talks  to  them  in  their 
own  tongue,  and  they  obey.  Draw  nearer  the  fire. 
The  whole  night  has  been  alive  with  voices. 

HULDBRAND 

Ay,  that  is  true.      \_He  shudders.'] 

PRIEST 

And  for  me  it  hath  been  a  night  of  peril  and  of  trial. 
The  devil  in  many  shapes   hath    been  at  my  side :   and 


UNDINE  195 

strange,  muttering  shapes  of  temptation  and  sin  have  Act  1 
plucked  at  my  girdle.  .  .  .  Not  only  storm  and  wind 
and  rain  have  buffeted  me.  These  I  could  bear.  But 
hell  hath  been  let  loose  and  all  Satan's  messengers  have 
been  abroad.  Fiends  have  sate  upon  the  back  of  w^inds, 
and  the  thunder  hath  echoed  w^ords  of  fearful  blasphemy. 
.  .  .  Is  my  penance  complete,  O  God,  is  my  penance 
complete  ?  [Undine  looks  at  him  with  wonder. 

UNDINE 

What  is  your  penance,  good  Father  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Is  there  some  sin  for  which  you  have  had  to  atone  ? 
Tell  us,  if  your  lips  be  not  sealed. 

[Undine  comes  forward  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  Priest,  and  sits  by  the  side  of  the 
Knight  on  the  ground^  with  her  head 
resting  against  his  knee. 

PRIEST 

Ay,  I  will  tell  you.  For  it  is  ill  to  bear  a  burden 
alone.  Seven  days  ago  I  set  out  from  a  convent,  because 
for  me  there  was  no  longer  a  life  within  its  holy  walls. 
Only  by  suffering  could  I  redeem  what  I  had  done. 
I  had  failed  to  save  a  soul. 

undine 
Failed    to   save    a    human    soul  ?       [She   watches   him 
intently.^ 

PRIEST 

An  old  man  was  dying,  and  to  me  it  had  been  ordered 
to  take  to  him  the  holy  elements  ere  he  died.  I  was  to 
be  with  him  at  eleven — no  later,  for  he  was  sinking  fast, 
and  I  had  some  journey  to  travel  ere  I  could  reach  him. 
But  at  ten  deep  sleep  overcame  me,  I  know  not  from 
what  cause.  And  when  I  awoke  at  last  and  hurried  to 
his  side,  it  was  too  late.     He  was  dead.     His  soul  had 


196  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  gone  unshriven  to  the  other  world,  and  the  fault  was 
mine,  the  fault  was  mine  !  Eternally  mine  !  [He  covers 
his  face  with  his  hands.^ 

HULDBRAND 

Nay,  but  we  cannot  help  the  tyranny  of  sleep. 

PRIEST 

Sir  Knight,  can  a  man  win  the  whole  world  if  the 
cost  be  the  loss  of  a  soul  ?  The  fault  was  mine,  the  sin 
was  grievous.  There  could  be  no  excuse  or  pardon  for 
a  sin  like  this.  Many  waters  will  not  wash  away  the 
deep  stain  of  wilful  transgression. 

HULDBRAND 

And  the  penance.  Father  ? 

PRIEST 

The  abbot  bade  me  wander  forth  on  a  hopeless  quest. 
I  was  to  seek  through  all  the  land,  nor  ever  rest  by  day 
or  night  in  the  shelter  of  a  home,  until  I  had  given  a 
soul — given  a  soul  in  compensation  for  the  soul  I  had 
lost.  Is  this  not  a  hopeless  task  ?  For  where  and  how 
can  I  give  that  with  which  all  human  beings  are  born — 
God's  gracious  gift  of  a  soul,  which  lifts  us  from  the 
brute  ?  Nay,  even  now  I  am  wrong  to  linger  here. 
I  may  not  take  shelter  in  a  home,  till  my  task  be  done. 
And  that,  alas,  it  can  never  be  !  Woe  is  me,  for  I  am 
undone,  for  ever  and  ever  !  God's  penance  is  harder 
than  I  can  bear  1 

l^He  rises  slowly  from  his  seat  with  a  deep  sigh. 

Undine  goes  over  to  him  and  lays  her  hand 

on  his  arm. 

undine 
Holy  Father,  what  is  a  soul  ? 

FISHERMAN 

Hear  the  child  !  What  is  a  soul  ?  Why,  we  all 
know  that !     Nay,  mind  her  not,  Father, 


UNDINE  197 


HULDBRAND 


But  let  the  child  speak,  and  let  the  Father  answer. 
What  is  a  soul  ? 

PRIEST 

Ah,  my  child,  I  can  only  tell  in  part.  It  is  that  by 
which  we  live  in  this  world  and  that  by  which  we  hope 
to  live  in  the  world  to  come.  God  gives  it  to  us  that  we 
may  be  removed  from  the  beasts  that  perish,  and  that 
we  may  know  Him  .  .  . 

UNDINE 

Does  it  hurt,  the  soul  ? 

FISHERMAN 

Why,  what  means  this  strange  question  ?  How  can 
the  soul  hurt  ?     Hush,  hush.  Undine  .  .  . 

HULDBRAND 

I  think  I  know  what  Undine  means.  ...  Is  it  .true 
that  things  have  more  power  to  hurt  us  because  we  have 
a  soul  ? 

PRIEST 

Ay,  ay.  Evil  can  hurt  us,  because  we  have  a  soul. 
Passion  and  sin  can  stain  our  lives,  remorse  can  sting  our 
conscience,  because  we  have  a  soul.     But  .  .  . 

UNDINE 

Is  it  good  to  be  hurt,  to  be  stained,  to  be  stung  .  .  .  ? 

PRIEST 

My  child,  it  hath  been  so  ordained,  that  by  suffering 
men  should  become  good. 

UNDINE 

Can  one  love  without  a  soul  ?  {Looking  away  from 
Priest  and  nestling  against  Huldbrand.]  You  can  tell 
me,  Huldbrand,  for  the  Father  knows  little,  maybe, 
about  love. 


Act  I 


198  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  HULDBRAND 

Tell  me  yourself,  Undine,  for  indeed  I  cannot  say 

UNDINE 

I  think  one  may  love  without  a  soul  ...  as  the  birds 
and  the  beasts  love.  But  the  love  of  human  beings  seems 
to  be  different  from  this.  I  cannot  explain  it  altogether, 
but  there  seems  to  look  from  the  eyes  of  men  and  w^omen 
something  which  will  make  the  man  die  for  the  woman, 
and  the  woman  live  for  the  man.  Before  we  love,  we 
think  mostly  for  ourselves,  but  when  we  love  we  think 
always,  always,  always,  for  that  which  is  more  than 
ourselves  .  .  .  the  thing  to  which  the  heart  clings. 
\The  storm  seems  to  rise  again  without. '\  \With  a  change 
of  manner, '\  Hark  !  I  hear  the  wind  sighing  and  the 
waters  moaning  !  Kiihleborn,  Kuhleborn.  .  .  .  No,  no, 
I  do  not  want  a  soul  !  I  want  to  be  free — free  ! 
Kuhleborn  !  \^he  goes  to  the  window^  throws  it  open  and 
looks  out.  Then  turning  round.'\  Shall  I  sing  to  you,  good 
Father  ?     Listen  to  the  song  of  the  winds  and  waters. 

[She  chants  the  same  song  that  Kuhleborn  had 
sungy  and  as  she  sings,  a  soft  chorus  outside, 
repeating  the  same  words,  grows  louder  and 
louder. 

[Undine  sings. 1 

A  night  of  storm 

And  a  night  of  woe  ! 
And  the  sailors  bold 
And  the  ships  of  old 
Are  hidden  and  buried  for  aye 
In  the  deep  sea's  mystery — 
Long,  long  ago  ! 

The  ships  are  torn 

And  the  men  are  dead  : 
And  their  names  are  lost 
And  their  bones  ar«  tost 
Hither  and  thither,  to  and  fro, 
Where  no  man  may  see  and  no  man  know — 
r  the  deep  sea's  bed  ! 


UNDINE  199 

PRIEST  Act  I 

[Rises  and  goes  over  to  her.]  Child,  what  are  you  ? 
I  conjure  you  to  tell  me.  [He  raises  the  crucifix  and 
Undine  is  cowed,] 

UNDINE 

I  am  Undine,  the  child  of  the  wave  ...  I  cannot 
harm  you.  But  you  can  harm  me.  No — I  do  not  want 
a  soul.     It  frightens  me,  it  frightens  me  ! 

PRIEST 

[To  Fisherman.]  Whose  child  is  this  ? 

FISHERMAN 

It  is  ours,  holy  Father,  my  wife's  and  mine.  It  has 
been  ours  for  many,  many  years. 

UNDINE 

No — no.  I  am  the  child  of  the  sea-depths,  born  or 
the  foam  and  the  surge.  My  father  is  the  Lord  of  the 
Mediterranean,  and  Kuhleborn  is  my  uncle ;  and  my 
cousins  are  Arkel,  and  Sibol,  and  Harald  !  I  want  no 
soul  !  I  want  no  soul  !  Why  should  I  suffer  pain  and 
sorrow  and  remorse  ? 

PRIEST 

Child,  God  hath  sent  me  to  you  :  He  hath  still  some 
work  for  His  servant  to  do.  Is  it  not  strange  that  I 
should  come  after  seven  days'  wandering — I  that  had  lost 
a  human  soul  by  my  folly  and  neglect — to  find  that 
I  may,  if  Heaven  so  will,  give  a  soul  ?  ...  I  do  not 
rightly  understand  who  you  are,  nor  what  is  the  strange 
kinship  with  the  winds  and  waves  of  which  you  boast. 
But  this  at  least  I  dimly  see  .  .  .  that  you  are  soulless, 
and  that  God  gives  you  the  chance,  the  one  chance,  to 
become  human  and  to  know  Him  ,  .  . 

UNDINE 

[Petulantly.]  I  am  the  spirit  of  the  dancing  waters. 
I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  pain  and  sorrow  and 


200  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I    remorse.  .  .  .  Ktihleborn,  Kiihleborn  !     \^he  goes  to  the 
window  and  opens  //.] 

PRIEST 

Then  my  penance  must  remain  unfulfilled ;  the  hard 
yoke  laid  on  me  ...  I  must  go  forth  from  your  home, 
Fisherman  ...  I  must  fare  on  my  way  alone  ... 

FISHERMAN 

[Anxiously.']  Undine,  have  you  no  pity  for  the  holy 
Father  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Undine,  Undine  !  Do  you  renounce  my  love  ?  You 
cannot  love  without  a  human  soul.  You  said  so  yourself. 
[Undine  looks  wistfully  at  Huldbrand.]  And  your 
dreams.  Undine  ?  Did  you  not  dream  that  you  would 
find  me  and  put  your  hand  in  mine  ?  Was  not  this  the 
passion  of  your  youth  ?  Why,  then,  do  you  start  back — 
now  when  the  time  comes  to  win  a  human  soul  ?  Have 
you  forgotten,  have  you  forgotten.  Undine  ? 

undine 
[Slowly.]  No,  I  have  not  forgotten.  [She  shuts  the 
window^  against  which  there  comes  a  rattle  of  water  and 
wind.]  Peace,  peace,  Kiihleborn  !  It  is  fated  that  so  it 
should  be.  No  one  can  escape  the  thing  that  is  doomed  ! 
And  it  is  better  that  I  should  live  the  new  life  .  .  . 

PRIEST 

God  be  with  thee,  my  daughter,  for  thou  seest  more 
than  all  of  us.  It  may  be  that  thou  wilt  suffer  if  thou 
becomest  human  ;  but  thou  shalt  know  joy  and  sorrow 
and  love — the  things  which  are  of  great  price.  And  for 
awhile,  maybe,  thou  shalt  taste  all  the  blessedness  of 
human  warmth  and  the  kindness  of  human  hearts  .  .  . 

UNDINE 

[Whose  manner  has  become  very  quiet  and  who  has  come 


UNDINE  201 

hack  to  HuLDBRAND.]     Say  it  again,  say  it  again,  Huld-    Act  I 
brand  ! 

HULDBRAND 

Say  what  again.  Undine  ? 

UNDINE 

That  you  love  me. 

HULDBRAND 

I  love  you.  Undine. 

UNDINE 

I  love  you,  Huldbrand.  I  shall  always  love  you.  {^he 
kisses  him.] 

[Starting  away."]  But  will  you  always  be  kind  to  me  ? 
Never  say  a  harsh  or  bitter  word  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Never,  never,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

For,  indeed,  you  must  not  be  angry  with  me,  if  you 
would  keep  me  by  your  side.  Hark,  how  the  spirits  of 
the  air  are  storming  outside  I  Hark,  how  Kiihleborn 
raves  !  For  he  knows  that  I  am  going  away  from  him, 
from  the  old  home  ...  to  the  new  home — where  all 
will  be  strange.    Never  be  angry  with  me,  Huldbrand  .  .  . 

HULDBRAND 

Never,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

For  if  you  speak  bitter  words  to  me,  by  the  sea,  or  by 
the  river,  by  running  streams  or  dancing  fountains,  then 
will  the  spell  be  undone,  and  I  shall  go  back  to  Kiihle- 
born !  It  is  by  love  that  I  am  winning  a  human  soul, 
and  if  love  fails  then  the  human  soul  is  lost.  .  .  .  Do  you 
understand,  Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

I  understand.     [He  gives  her  his  hand.'] 


202  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  UNDINE 

Holy  Father,  give  us  your  blessing.  Make  us  man  and 
wife. 

PRIEST 

\Raises  his  hands  over  them  as  they  kneel.']  If  his  love  be 
thine  and  thine  be  his,  then  I  pronounce  you,  Huldbrand 
and  Undine,  to  be  man  and  vv^ife.  God's  blessing  rest  on 
you.     [  They  risej] 

FISHERMAN 

[Embracing  Undine.]  God  be  with  you,  my  child. 
You  are  my  child  at  last  ! 

UNDINE 

[Going  back  to  HuLDBRAND.]  Say  it  again,  say  it  again, 
Huldbrand  ! 

HULDBRAND 

I  love  you,  I  love  you.  Undine.     [They  kiss.] 


ACT   II 

[Some  weeks  elapsej] 

Scene  i. — At  Castle  Ringstetten.  It  is  midday.  The  Act  II 
scene  is  a  large  hall  opening  on  a  balustrade  looking  over 
the  courtyard.  There  is  a  fountain  with  gushing  water 
at  the  end  of  the  hall.  The  hall  is  full  of  guests^  as  it 
is  the  day  of  welcome  for  Count  Huldbrand  and  his 
wife  Undine.  Among  the  guests  are  the  Fisherman 
and  his  Wife,  whose  appearance  causes  some  surprise 
and  derision  ;  but  they  are  evidently  there  for  a  purpose. 
Constant  movement  is  seen  in  the  crowds  and  laughter. 
There  are  three  Beggar  Men  and  one  Blind  Man 
with  dog  on  the  steps, 

first  beggar 
It  is  a  good  day  for  us  when  the  Count  comes  home. 

BLIND    MAN 

Is  the  day  fair  ?     Does  the  sun  shine  ? 

SECOND    beggar 

The   day  is  fair,  but  there  is  no  sun  ;  and  there  are 
dark  clouds  gathering  in  the  west. 

THIRD    BEGGAR 

And  what  may  that  mean  ?     Can  you  tell  us  that  ? 

BLIND    MAN 

Joy  and    sorrow    combined :    sorrow    coming  in    the 
evening. 

203 


204  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  FIRST    BEGGAR 

But  joy  at  midday.     It  is  a  good  day  for  us  when  the 
Count  comes  home  ! 

FISHERMAN 

When  does  the  Count  come  ? 

THIRD    BEGGAR 

We  know  not :  he  is  waited  for  now. 

WIFE 

\To  blind  man.']  Why  sayest    thou   sorrow   comes    in 
the  evening  ? 

BLIND    MAN 

Nay,  it  is  not  given  to  me  to  say  why.     I  see  not  with 
my  eyes.     I  see  only  with  the  eyes  of  the  soul. 

WIFE 

[Shaking  her  head.]  Ay,  ay,  no  one  can  tell  how  the 
day  will  end.     What  must  be,  will  be. 

FISHERMAN 

And  Undine  comes  too — Count  Huldbrand's  bride  ! 

SECOND    BEGGAR 

[Pointing,]    See  how  the  water  rises  and  falls  in   the 
fountain  ! 

BLIND    MAN 

Is  the  water  angry  ?     Does  it  rise  and  fall  as  though  in 
pain  and  fury  ? 

WIFE 

Why  should  the  water  be  angry  ? 

BLIND    MAN 

Nay,  I  know  not.      I  only  know  that  which  I  see 
with  the  eyes  of  my  soul. 

FIRST    BEGGAR 

It  is  a  good  day  for  us  when  the  Count  comes  home  ! 


UNDINE  205 


Enter    Bertalda,    with    her  foster-parents^    who^    being 
people  of  dignity^  are  shown  up  to  the  dais, 

BERTALDA 

\To  her  parents."]  It  is  now  some  weeks  since  I  saw 
Count  Huldbrand,  and  I  marvel  at  men's  fickleness. 
For,  indeed,  when  I  saw  him  last  he  was  the  victor  in 
the  lists,  and  I  the  queen  to  whom,  after  his  battles,  he 
made  obeisance.  And  he  made  me  a  certain  promise  and 
asked  for  my  gloves.  But  I  said  that  he  should  have  my 
gloves  only  when  he  had  been  through  the  forest,  wherein 
no  man  is  safe,  and  come  back  to  me  again.  And  now 
he  comes  not  to  beg  of  me  any  guerdon  for  his  loyalty 
and  the  performance  of  his  word,  but  as  a  disloyal  knight, 
who  has  fallen  in  love  with  some  leman's  eyes,  and  brings 
her  home  as  his  bride  !  Truly  I  marvel  that  a  i^w 
weeks  should  make  so  great  a  change  ! 

FISHERMAN 

[Coming  up  to  her,]  I  pray  you,  good  lady,  to  pardon 
me,  but  how  soon  is  the  Lady  Undine  expected  to  arrive  ? 

BERTALDA 

[Haughtily.']  You  had  better  ask  one  of  the  attend- 
ants.    I  know  no  Lady  Undine. 

FISHERMAN 

Not  know  the  Lady  Undine  ?  Why,  she  is  my 
daughter,  and  the  wife  of  a  worthy  knight.  Count 
Huldbrand  of  Ringstetten  ! 

WIFE 

Nay,  she  is  no  daughter  of  ours,  I  would  have  you 
know,,  fair  lady,  although  my  good  man  here  is  for  ever 
thinking  and  saying  so.  She  is  our  foster-daughter,  given 
us  by  kind  Heaven,  when  our  own  was  lost.  [To  herself] 
I  know  not  how  all  this  will  betide  ! 


Act  II 


2o6  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  THE  PEOPLE 

[Watching  eagerly  and  pointing  to  distance^  suddenly  raise 
a  cheer,']  Long  live  Count  Huldbrand  !  Long  live  Sir 
Huldbrand  of  Ringstetten  ! 

BERTALDA 

Worthy  knight,  indeed  !  And  long  live  his  wife, 
Undine,  the  fisherman's  daughter  ! 

FISHERMAN 

[Eagerly.']  Ay,  ay.  I  say  Amen  to  that  !  Long  live 
Undine  ! 

THE    PEOPLE 

[Laughing  at  him.]  Thy  daughter  !  A  likely  story  ! 
Tell  us,  old  greybeard  !      [They  crowd  round  hi?n.] 

FISHERMAN 

Ay,  sirs,  she  is  my  daughter.  At  least  [looking  round 
anxiously  for  fear  of  his  wifs  correction]  she  is  our  foster- 
daughter — a  fair  g'rl  and  a  beautiful,  and  the  very  apple 
of  my  eye 

WIFE 

Nay,  good  man,  hold  thy  tongue.  Dost  see  how  all 
the  folk  are  laughing  at  thee  ? 

BERTALDA 

There  is  good  cause  for  laughter  if  this  tale  be  true.  I 
am  glad  I  let  the  old  man  talk.  [Coming  over  to 
Fisherman.]     She  is  your  daughter,  old  fisherman  t 

FISHERMAN 

Ay,  my  lady,  our  foster-daughter. 

BERTALDA 

And  her  name  is — what  did  you  say  ? 

FISHERMAN 

Undine,  my  lady. 


UNDINE  207 

A  til 

BERTALDA  A 

And  how  came  she  to  be  Count  Huldbrand's  wife  ? 

FISHERMAN 

The  Count  came  to  my  cottage — my  cottage  by  the  lake 
— through  the  forest,  the  dreadful  forest,  wherein  no  man 
is  safe ;  and  because  rest  is  sweet  after  toil,  and  safety 
welcome  after  danger,  he  fared  well  and  happily  with  me 
and  my  old  wife. 

BERTALDA 

Yes — and  Undine  ? 

FISHERMAN 

She  is  a  child  of  springs  and  seas  and  running  water,  and 
she  found  grace  in  the  eyes  of  the  Knight.  So  they  were 
wed,  and  a  Priest,  who  was  with  us,  gave  her  his  blessing 
and  made  them  man  and  wife. 

WIFE 

I  wonder  at  thee,  that  thou  talkest  so  much.  What 
matters  all  this  to  the  good  lady  ? 

BERTALDA 

Nay,  I  thank  you,  good  fisherman.     \Goes  up.'\ 

THE    PEOPLE 

[Shouting.']  They  come,  they  come  I  Here  are  the 
Count  and  his  bride.  Long  live  the  Count  Huldbrand  ! 
Long  live  his  bride  ! 

[There  is  a  general  commotion^  while  Huldbrand 
and  Undine,  preceded  by  Heralds  and  Ser- 
ving-men, appear  at  the  balustrade^  having 
came  up  from  the  courtyard^  and  then  pass 
through  hall  to  the  dais.  Loud  acclamations 
are  heard  and  then  music  and  song  of  Choir, 
The  Heralds  blow  a  fanfare.  Undine  is 
looking  here  and  there — with  a  pleased  and 
happy  smile — and  as  she  sees  Fisherman  and 
Wife  she  greets  them  heartily.  Her  eyes 
finally  rest  on  the  fountain  and  she  grows 
pensive  for  a  moment. 


Ac»  n 


208  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

HULDBRAND 

My  friends  !  I  thank  you  for  your  welcome  home.  I 
am  glad  of  your  presence  here  on  a  day  which  means  so 
much  for  my  happiness,  and,  I  hope,  yours  also.  And  I 
present  to  you  my  bride — my  bride,  Undine,  who  is  as 
joyful  to  be  with  you  all  as  I  am. 

\Cheers ;  Undine  bows  and  smiles. 

THE    PEOPLE 

Long  live  Count  Huldbrand's  bride,  Undine  ! 

[Bertalda  and  her  foster-parents  go  up  to 
HuLDBRAND,  who  presents  Undine  to  them. 
They  remain  talking  while  Undine  slowly 
moves  towards  the  fountain.  She  bends  over 
it.      The  people  are  slowly  fling  out, 

undine 

Kuhleborn  !  KUhleborn  !  Will  you  not  leave  me  this 
one  day  in  peace  ?  Nay,  I  know  thy  message,  and  I  will 
deliver  it  faithfully.     Peace,  peace,  Kiihleborn  ! 

BERTALDA 

What  says  your  wife.  Sir  Count  ?  Did  I  not  hear  her 
speak  ? 

HULDBRAND 

No — I  did  not  hear  her  say  anything. 

BERTALDA 

I  thought  she  said  some  words  at  the  fountain.  See,  she 
is  now  wholly  engrossed  with  the  old  fisherman  and  his 
wife.     Perhaps  she  prefers  their  conversation  to  ours. 

HULDBRAND 

Why,  yes,  in  some  sort  that  may  be  true.  They  are 
her  parents.     Come  hither,  Undine. 

[Undine  comes  back  to  dais, 

BERTALDA 

You  know  well  the  fisherman  and  his  wife,  it  seems. 
Can  it  be  true,  as  I  have  heard,  that  they  are  your  parents  ? 


UNDINE  209 

UNDINE  Act  II 

\With  a  slow^  sweet  smi/e.']  No — they  were  very  good 
to  me  at  the  cottage  by  the  lake.  They  are,  in  truth,  my 
foster-parents.  But  I  am  not  of  their  kin,  I  am  the  child 
of  the  waters. 

HULDBRAND 

Not  now.  Undine. 

UNDINE 

No — that  is  true.  I  was  the  child  of  the  waters  until  I 
married  you.     Now  I  am  Count  Huldbrand's  wife. 

BERTALDA 

[Laughs].  One  cannot  so  easily  change  one's  blood  by 
marriage,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

No,  Bertalda,  one  cannot  easily  change  one's  blood.  For 
you,  too,  hold  to  your  own  proper  ancestry  and  carry 
about  with  you  the  blood  of  your  father  and  mother. 

BERTALDA 

What  do  you  mean  ?  My  parents  came  with  me  to 
this  hall  to  wish  you  and  the  Count  welcome. 

UNDINE 

Your  foster-parents,  Bertalda.  But  you  do  not  belong  to 
them,  for  you  were  given  to  them  by  the  will  of  Heaven 
as  a  foundling.  They  have  been  very  good  to  you,  as 
my  foster-parents  have  been  to  me  ;  and  you  have  lived 
with  them  now  for  many  years,  just  as  if  you  had  been 
their  very  own.  But  I  can  give  you  your  real  father  and 
mother.  Your  real  father  and  mother  are  here  !  [Point- 
ing to  Fisherman  and  Wife.] 

BERTALDA 

Mere  fisherfolk ! 

HULDBRAND 

What  nonsense  is  this,  Undine  ? 


2IO  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  UNDINE 

It  is  not  nonsense,  Huldbrand.  I  know  what  I  am 
saying,  for  the  secret  has  been  told  me — by  those  you 
wot  of.  These  two,  the  fisherman  and  his  wife,  lost 
their  child  and  then  found  me.  Their  lost  child  was 
taken  to  Ringstetten  and  she  stands  there  !  [Pointing  to 
Bertalda.]  Are  you  not  glad  to  find  your  kith  and 
kin  ? 

BERTALDA 

Is  your  wife  mad,  Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Hush,  hush.  Undine,  do  not  speak  such  wild  words.  All 
these  things — secret  messages,  hidden  mysteries,  marvel- 
lous relationships — belong  to  your  past.  They  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  present,  remember. 

UNDINE 

But  indeed,  indeed,  what  I  say  is  true.  \To  Bertalda.] 
Are  you  not  glad  to  find  your  father  and  mother  ?  And 
you  [turning  to  Fisherman],  are  you  not  glad  to  get  back 
again  your  own  child  ? 

FISHERMAN 

Nay,  nay,  you  are  my  child,  Undine ;  I  want  no 
other. 

WIFE 

And  what  have  we  to  do  with  fine  ladies  !  We  live 
as  we  can,  and  we  do  that  which  Fate  allows. 

UNDINE 

[Ha  If  crying.]  Will  no  one  believe  me?  Not  you — 
or  you — or  you  ? 

HULDBRAND 

[Sternfy.]  Where  did  you  learn  these  fancies,  Un- 
dine ?  With  whom  have  you  been  talking  by  the  way  ? 
Are  these  two  [pointing  to  Fisherman  and  Wife]  in  this 


UNDINE  211 

plot?     \They  shake  their  heads  and  move  off.']     Or  is  this    Act  II 
fine  story  only  your  invention  ?    I  had  thought  differently 
of  you,  Undine. 

BERTALDA 

She  wishes  to  get  rid  of  me,  Huldbrand,  that  is  what 
she  desires. 

UNDINE 

There  is  no  plot.  There  is  no  invention.  It  is  true. 
He  told  me. 

HULDBRAND 

He  told  you  ?  Who  ?  [Undine  is  silent.']  Was  it 
Heilmann,  the  priest  ?  [Undine  is  silent.]  Who  was 
it  ?  \^He  comes  over  to  her  and  seizes  her  by  the  hands.] 
Tell  me.     You  shall  tell  me. 

undine 
[Slowly,]  It  was  Kiihleborn.     Oh,  let  me  go  ! 

huldbrand 
[Throwing  her  off.]    I  thought  all  that   was   over.     I 
hoped  you  were  beginning  a  new  life  !     But  you  have 
deceived    me,  it   appears.   Undine.     You    have    made  a 
mock  at  Bertalda.     You  have  filled  me  with  shame. 

[Undine,  bursting  into  tearsy  goes  sadly  through 
the  hall.  The  Fisherman  and  his  Wife 
hold  out  their  hands  to  her^  and  she  goes  out 
with  them.  As  she  passes  the  steps  the  fountain 
bubbles  furiously.  First  Beggar  Man  is  on 
the  steps. 

FIRST  beggar  man 

It  is  a  good  day  for  us  when  the  Count  comes  home  ! 

Scene  2. — Bertalda  and  Huldbrand  alone,     A  silence, 

bertalda 
I  congratulate  you  on  your  wife,  Huldbrand. 


212  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  HULDBRAND 

Nay,  she  was  overwrought — tired,  maybe,  with  her 
journey. 

BERTALDA 

Is  that  so  ?  To  me  she  seemed  not  so  much  tired 
as 

HULDBRAND 

As  what,  Bertalda  ? 

BERTALDA 

Well,  if  she  was  mad,  there  was  some  sense  and  method 
in  her  madness. 

HULDBRAND 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

BERTALDA 

You  must  forgive  me  if  I  ask  you  a  question,  Huld- 
brand.  For,  indeed,  in  some  senses,  I  have  a  right  to 
know.  When  you  went  through  the  forest  and  found 
Undine  at  the  cottage  by  the  lake,  did  you  have  some 
talk,  you  two,  about  each  other  and  about  the  past  ?  Did 
she  tell  you  anything  about  herself,  and  did  you  tell  her 
anything  about  yourself? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  we  talked — we  talked  of  many  things.  But  I  do 
not,  of  course,  remember  all  that  we  said. 

BERTALDA 

Oh,  I  know  that  Undine  is  more  beautiful  than  I  am, 
and  beauty  has  its  privileges.  When  a  man  talks  to  a 
beautiful  woman  he  is  not  thinking  of  what  she  says,  but 
of  what  she  is.  It  is  enough  for  him  that  something 
lovely  and  exquisite  and  gracious  is  before  his  eyes.  So 
when  you  were  talking  to  Undine,  it  was  Undine's  beauty 
you  were  thinking  of,  not  of  the  precise  words  she  was 


UNDINE  213 

uttering.     But   perhaps  you  may   remember  what   you    Act  II 
told  her  about  yourself? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  Bertalda,  I  think  I  do. 

BERTALDA 

Did  you  tell  her  why  you  had  passed  through  the 
forest,  for  example  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  I  said  I  was  under  some  sort  of  challenge  and 
promise,  so  that  I  must  needs  pass  through — on  the 
honour  of  my  knighthood. 

BERTALDA 

And  you  mentioned  my  name  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes. 

BERTALDA 

Then  I  quite  understand  Undine's  little  plot,  Huld- 
brand  ! 

HULDBRAND 

Was  it  a  plot,  Bertalda  ? 

BERTALDA 

You  gave  it  that  name  yourself!  But  if  Undine 
knew  that  you  loved  me  before  you  loved  her — or,  shall  I 
say,  that  we  had  talked  together  before  ever  such  a  woman 
as  Undine  had  been  heard  of — why  it  is  just  possible  that 
she  was — what  shall  I  say? — jealous  ?  You  are  silent, 
Huldbrand — but  is  it  not,  at  least,  possible  ?  And,  after 
all,  what  do  you  know  of  Undine  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Bertalda,  Bertalda,  she  is  my  wife. 


214  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  BERTALDA 

Yes,  I  know  she  is  your  wife,  but  what  do  you  know 
of  her,  of  her  ancestry,  of  her  character,  her  nature  ? 
Who  is  this  Kuhleborn  of  whom  she  speaks  ?  And  why 
does  she  mutter  to  herself  when  she  thinks  no  one  is 
noticing  her  ?  There  is  something  strange  and  uncanny 
about  her,  and  you  know  it. 

HULDBRAND 

Bertalda,  she  is  my  wife. 

BERTALDA 

Oh  yes,  she  is  your  wife  ;  but  is  she  the  wife  for 
Count  Huldbrand  of  Ringstetten  ?  How  will  Count 
Huldbrand  be  able  to  live  with  all  these  Kuhleborns  and 
this  love  of  fountains  and  this  muttering  of  spells  and 
incantations  ?  What  is  Count  Huldbrand's  place  in  a 
home  shared  with  elves  and  sprites  and  hobgoblins  ?  Have 
you  thought  of  all  this  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Oh,  Bertalda,  do  not  talk  of  these  things ;  she  is  my 
wife. 

BERTALDA 

And  I — have  I  no  right  to  be  heard  ?  Is  Bertalda  so 
wholly  forgotten  ?  What  were  the  words  you  said  to 
me  only  a  few  weeks  ago  ?  For  whose  sake  did  you  go 
through  the  forest  ?  Who  was  the  queen  of  the  tourney 
when  you  fought  so  stoutly  in  the  lists  ?  Is  it  the  same 
Huldbrand  who  whispered  soft  words  of  love  in  my  ear, 
and  who  asked  of  me,  as  the  gage  and  testament  of  his 
plighted  troth,  my  gloves  ?  Will  you  ask  of  me  my 
gloves  now,  Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Bertalda,  Bertalda  .  .  . 


UNDINE  215 

BERTALDA  Act  II 

Ah,  Huldbrand,  Huldbrand,  is  man's  memory  so  short  ? 
I  have  not  forgotten,  Huldbrand,  for  woman's  love  has 
deeper  roots — it  cannot  be  torn  up  and  flung  aside  so    . 
easily.     [Coming  close  to  lum,']     Huldbrand,  v^ill  you  take 
my  gloves  now  ? 

HULDBRAND 

No,  no — Bertalda  .  .  . 

BERTALDA 

See,  I  offer  them  to  you,  Huldbrand.  I  will  give  you 
my  gloves  and  you  shall  give  me  that  little  chain  you 
wear.  It  shall  be  my  necklace,  and  it  shall  never  be 
taken  from  my  neck.  .  .  .  Just  for  memory's  sake, 
Huldbrand,  will  you  grant  me  this  little  boon  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  Bertalda  [s/owly'jy  I  will  give  you  the  chain  and 
welcome.  But  your  gloves  I  may  not  have  .  .  .  no — 
no  .  .  .  they  cannot  belong  to  me — now.  [Gives  her  the 
chain. ^ 

BERTALDA 

Will  you  not  put  the  chain  round  my  neck,  Huld- 
brand ?  For  memory's  sake  ?  [He  is  putting  the  chain 
round  her  neck.  She  holds  up  her  face  to  him.]  For  memory's 
sake,  Huldbrand  ?     [He  bends,  as  he  kisses  her.] 

[The  stage  grows  dark.  The  fountain  plashes 
noisily.  There  is  a  flash,  and  Kuhleborn 
is  heard  singing.  Terror  of  Bertalda, 
who  clings  to  Huldbrand.  In  the  midst 
of  the  turmoil.  Undine  comes  in,  and  the 
stage  grows  light  again.      They  start  apart. 

Scene  3. 

UNDINE 

Kuhleborn  !     Kiihleborn  !     Will  you  never  leave  me 


2i6  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II    free  ?    Peace  !  Peace  !     \She  goes  over  to  fountain^  which 
becomes  calmed.^ 

HULDBRAND 

I  know  not  what  sort  of  peace  we  are  likely  to  have 
here,  Undine.  But  is  there  never  to  be  any  breaking  of 
the  old  ties  which  bind  you  to  these  spirits  of  yours  ? 
What  kind  of  new  life  is  this — such  as  you  promised — 
nay,  swore  to  me  on  your  wedding-day  ?  You  are  false 
to  your  oath,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

Ah,  Huldbrand,  it  is  not  I  who  am  false  to  our  oaths 
— the  oaths  we  both  made  when  we  were  wed.  For, 
indeed,  the  spirit  of  the  waters  is  not  wroth  without  cause, 
nor  is  he  wont  to  vex  himself  for  naught.  I  know  not 
what  may  have  stirred  his  anger,  but 

BERTALDA 

Perhaps  it  is  I,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

Perhaps — I  know  not. 

BERTALDA 

\To  Huldbrand.]  You  hear  how  madly  she  is  set 
on  driving  me  forth  ?  First,  the  false  story  about  my 
parentage :  and  now  the  suspicion  that  I  vex  her 
attendant  .  .  .  devils  1 

HULDBRAND 

For  shame,  for  shame.  Undine.  What  has  Bertalda 
done  that  you  thus  pursue  with  spite  and  jealousy  ? 

UNDINE 

\^adly\.  I  pursue  her  with  spite  and  jealousy  ?  Of 
what,  then,  should  I  be  jealous  ?  Nay,  I  know  not 
whether  it  be  she  or  you  or  I  with  whom  the  spirit  of  the 
waters  is  wroth.     But,  Huldbrand,  I  beseech  you,  look 


UNDINE  217 

not  on  me  so  coldly  and  strangely.     Ask  yourself  what  I    Act  II 
have  done.     Have  I  failed  in  my  vi^ifely  duty  ? 

HULDBRAND 

These  interruptions  from  the  spirit  world,  this  constant 
reminiscence  that  I  won  you  in  spite  of  winds  and  waves 
— they  make  me  mad.  I  thought  the  old  order  had 
changed  when  Father  Heilmann  gave  us  his  blessing. 

BERTALDA 

It  is  not  likely  to  be  a  peaceful  house,  where  spirits  of 
evil  are  abroad. 

UNDINE 

[With  a  sigh.]  We  must  have  the  fountain  closed, 
Huldbrand. 

HULDBRAND 

The  fountain  ?  But  it  has  been  here  in  this  hall  for 
years.  It  belongs  to  my  father  and  grandfather  and  the 
past  generations  of  my  house. 

UNDINE 

Nevertheless,  I  beg  of  you,  have  it  closed.  If  there  be 
a  great  stone  placed  on  the  top,  so  that  no  water  can 
bubble  through,  then  the  spirits  of  the  water  cannot 
make  their  presence  known,  and  I  shall  be  at  rest  and 
you  once  more  content  with  me. 

BERTALDA 

Close  the  fountain  ?  What  silly  tale  is  this  ?  For 
myself  I  like  the  fountain  ! 

[She  goes  over    to    it^  playing  with  the  necklace 
which  Huldbrand  had  given  her. 

UNDINE 

Bertalda,  Bertalda,  do  not  go  near  the  fountain  ! 

BERTALDA 

Why  not  ?     I  am  not  afraid  of  it.     I  have  known  it 


2i8  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II    for  years.     Dear   fountain,  we  are  old  friends,  are  we 
not  ? 

\^he  bends  over  it.  Suddenly  a  hand  comes  from 
the  fountain  and  snatches  the  necklace  away, 
Bertalda  gives  a  cry. 

BERTALDA 

Oh,  my  necklace,  my  necklace  ! 

UNDINE 

Bertalda,  what  is  it  ?     What  have  you  lost  ? 

BERTALDA 

My  necklace,  my  necklace  !  The  necklace  which 
Huldbrand  gave  me  !  Give  it  back  to  me  !  \She  holds 
out  imploring  hands  to  the  fountain.'\ 

UNDINE 

[Slowly.']  The  necklace  Huldbrand  gave  you  ?  When  ? 
Why  ?  C5h,  Huldbrand  !  [She  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands.] 

BERTALDA 

My  necklace  !  Can  you  not  help  me,  Undine  ?  You 
are  in  league  with  these  spirits  !  Ask  them  to  give  it 
back! 

UNDINE 

Am  I  to  help  her,  Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

[Turning  away.]  Of  course.     If  you  can.  Undine. 

UNDINE 

Very  well,  if  you  wish  it. 

[Undine  goes  slowly  over  to  the  fountain^  and, 
bending  over  it,  sings  a  little  crooning  song. 

I  weave  the  spell  of  the  wayside  streams 

Where  the  wise  old  willows  grow  : 
There  is  peace,  there  is  peace,  'neath  the  tender  beams 

When  the  westering  sun  is  low. 


UNDINE  219 

I  weave  the  spell  of  the  twilight  hour  Act  II 

Which  all  mortal  things  obey  ; 
There  is  sleep,  there  is  sleep,  when  the  shadows  lower 

At  the  close  of  the  long,  long  day. 

[Then  she  dips  her  hand  into  the  water  and  brings 
out  another  necklace^  made  of  coraly  which  she 
offers  to  Bertalda. 

UNDINE 

Here,  Bertalda. 

BERTALDA 

But  this  coral  gaud  is  not  my  necklace  !  I  want  no 
present  from  your  evil  spirits,  Undine.  I  want  the  neck- 
lace with  great  pearls  which  Huldbrand  gave  me.  Huld- 
brand,  speak  to  her  ;  speak  to  this  sorceress  of  yours,  who 
is  not  content  with  her  lies  and  slander,  but  steals  .  .  , 
what  is  yours  and  mine  .  .  . 

HULDBRAND 

[Striding  over  to  fountain.']  Come,  come,  I  have  had 
enough  of  this.  I  do  not  choose  to  have  my  presents 
exchanged  in  this  fashion  !  [He  seizes  the  coral  necklace 
from  Bertalda's  hands  and  flings  it  away.]  There  !  I 
wash  my  hands  of  all  your  devilries  ! 

UNDINE 

[Covers  her  face  and  bursts  out  weeping.]  Oh,  Huld- 
brand, Huldbrand  ! 

huldbrand 
Is  it  not  time  ?  Have  I  not  borne  with  all  this  foolery 
long  enough  ?  When  I  married  you,  I  did  not  marry  all 
the  wild  heritage  of  the  past.  I  married  you  for  what 
you  are — not  for  what  you  had  been.  The  Undine 
whom  I  brought  away  from  the  cottage  by  the  lake  was 
quiet,  tender,  submissive  .  .  .  not  a  witch  in  league  with 
spirits  ! 


220  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  UNDINE 

Oh,  Huldbrand — and  am  I  not  even  now  quiet,  tender, 
submissive  ?  Can  I  help  it  that  when  you  bring  me  near 
fountains  and  streams  and  running  water  the  old  links 
which  bound  me  to  the  sea,  with  my  father  in  the 
Mediterranean  and  with  Kiihleborn,  revive  and  grow 
strong  again  ?  Did  I  not  warn  you  of  this  ?  Did  I  not, 
only  a  moment  ago,  bid  you  close  up  this  fountain  for 
fear  of  what  might  happen  ?  Did  I  not  beg  Bertalda  not 
to  go  near  ? 

HULDBRAND 

I  have  nothing  to  do  with  all  this.  I  only  know  that 
Undine  my  wife  must  have  no  relations  with  Undine  the 
daughter  of  the  floods  !  I  thought  that  this  was  your 
promise  when  we  plighted  our  troth  in  the  cottage. 

UNDINE 

Oh,  be  patient,  dear  Huldbrand,  For  it  only  needs  a 
little  patience,  a  little  love,  a  little  sympathy,  and  all  will 
be  well.  Gradually  the  whole  past  will  wear  itself  away 
and  be  forgotten  like  a  dream.  But  you  must  love  me, 
you  must  love  me,  Huldbrand  !  Only  love  can  work  the 
miracle  of  change,  or  bring  a  soul  to  its  full  maturity. 

BERTALDA 

[Laughs.^  The  daughter  of  the  fisherman  is  too 
modest  !  Listen  to  the  small  and  insignificant  boon  she 
asks  ! 

UNDINE 

Nay,  it  is  not  much  for  love  to  ask  or  love  to  grant. 

HULDBRAND 

And  my  life  meanwhile  ?  Is  it  to  be  one  constant 
storm,  haunted  by  all  these  demons  of  evil  who  scruple 
not  to  rob  by  force  the  gifts  I  choose  to  make  ?  Or  is  it 
only  to  you  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  give  gifts  ? 


UNDINE  221 

UNDINE  Act  II 

Oh,  Huldbrand,  why  did  you  give  your  necklace  to 
Bertalda  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Ah,  there,  I  suppose,  is  the  root  of  the  whole  matter, 
Undine.  But  understand  me,  once  for  all,  I  shall  give 
gifts  when  the  fancy  takes  me,  and  I  shall  give  them 
to  whomsoever  I  choose. 

\_The  fountain  bubbles  up  once  more. 

UNDINE 

[^Looking  with  alarm  at  the  fountain.']  Oh,  Huldbrand,  I 
beg  of  you  not  to  speak  so  loudly  ! 

BERTALDA 

[Laughs  once  more.]  Are  you  master  in  your  own  house, 
Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

I  intend  to  be,  and  my  wife  must  be  something 
different  from  this  .  .  .  witch. 

[Fountain  bubbles  up  again. 

UNDINE 

[Throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  him.]  Oh,  Huld- 
brand, Huldbrand,  do  not  say  such  terrible  words  !  See — I 
will  do  all  you  ask.  I  will  try  to  be  the  wife  you  wish, 
there  is  no  single  thought  or  desire  of  yours  that  I  will  not 
seek  to  understand,  and — if  it  be  possible  for  me — carry 
out.  I  will  work  for  you,  tend  you  in  health  or  sickness, 
surround  you  with  my  tenderest  love,  live  for  nothing 
else  save  you — you — you.  Only  do  not  look  at  me  so 
angrily  ;  do  not  say  such  cruel  words.  Remember  that 
I  warned  you,  and  you  promised  not  to  be  angry  with 
me.  You  promised,  you  promised,  Huldbrand.  Have 
you  forgotten  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Will  you  banish  once  for  all  these  associates  of  yours, 


22  2  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  11  ^jjQ  jj^g  jj^  fountains  and  waters  ?  Will  you  swear  to 
me  that  there  shall  be  no  more  interruptions  from  the 
spirit  world  ?  Will  you  break  this  power  which  Kiihle- 
born  exercises  over  you  and  over  my  house  ?  Am  I  to 
have  peace  or  war  ? 

UNDINE 

Be  patient,  be  patient,  Huldbrand. 


HULDBRAND 

No,  I  will    not   be  patient.     I  mean  to  have  peace. 
Will  you  swear  to  me  that  henceforth  you  .  .  . 

[Fountain  bubbles  with  greater  violence. 

UNDINE 

Oh,  Huldbrand,  you  know  I  cannot  yet  .  .  .  it  is  not 
possible  yet  ... 

HULDBRAND 

[FuriousJ]  Very  well,  then,  my  mind  is  made  up.  In 
the  name  of  all  the  witches,  go  and  live  with  them,  and 
leave  us  mortals  in  peace  !  Sorceress  as  you  are,  there  is 
no  room  for  you  in  my  house  !  Out  of  my  sight  .  .  . 
witch!  [There  is  a  blinding  flash  of  lightning^  the  stage 
grows  dark,  Kuhleborn  comes  forth  from  the  fountain 
and  clasps  Undine  in  his  arms.  There  is  a  long  roll  of 
thunder, 

UNDINE 

[As  she  fades  away.]  Huldbrand  .  .  .  Huldbrand  .  .  . 
[Terror  ^Bertalda,  who  runs  to  Huldbrand. 
He  holds  her  close  for  a  moment.  He  then 
sternly  repels  her^  and  she  runs  out.  Huld- 
brand, leftaloney  stands  for  a  moment^  gazing 
fixedly  after  Undine,  takes  a  few  steps  after 
her^  and  returns.  Then  falls  on  his  knees  and 
holds  out  his  hands, 

huldbrand 
Undine  .  .  .  Undine  .  .  . 


ACT    III 

[J  week  e/apses.] 

Scene  i — J  wild  gorge  of  the  mountains  near  Ringstetten  Act  III 
through  which  a  stream  runs.  It  is  late  after  noon  y 
whichy  as  the  scene  progresses^  changes  through  sunset  to 
twilight.  There  are  large  boulders  and  rocks.  On  the 
crest  of  one  of  the  environing  hills  is  a  wayside  crucifix. 
Father  Heilmann  and  a  Shepherd  meet  in  the  gorge, 

HEILMANN 

[To  Shepherd.]  You  are  searching  for  something  ? 

SHEPHERD  , 

Ay.     It  is  difficult  to  find  them  sometimes  when  they 
stray  away. 

HEILMANN 

What  is  it  you  are  looking  for  ? 

SHEPHERD 

A  sheep. 

HEILMANN 

I  will  help  you,  for  I  too  am  looking  for  something. 

SHEPHERD 

What  is  it  ? 

HEILMANN 

A  human  soul.     It  is  difficult  to  find   it  sometimes 
when  it  strays  away. 

223 


2  24  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  SHEPHERD 

Ay,  ay,  maybe  I  shall  find  my  sheep  before  you  find 
your  human  soul. 

HEILMANN 

I  don't  know.     It  is  possible.      Shall   we    help    each 
other  ? 

SHEPHERD 

I  am  willing  enough.     But  I   know  a  sheep  when  I 
see  it,  and  .  .  . 

HEILMANN 

You  do  not  know  a  human  soul  ? 

SHEPHERD 

[fVith   a    laugh.']     Well — no.     It    is    your    business, 
human  souls  :    just  as  mine  is  sheep. 

HEILMANN 
Yes,  we  are  both  shepherds.     You  know  the  country 
well  ? 

SHEPHERD 
I  ought  to.     I  have  been  over  it  since  I  was  a  boy. 
But  the  sheep  are   foolish  things,  when  you  leave  them 
by  themselves,  and  sometimes  they  fall  down  the  gorge 
and  break  their  legs. 

HEILMANN 
Yes,  yes.     Human  souls  are  foolish  things,  too,  when 
left  to  themselves.     They  are  very  apt  to  fall,  or  else 
they  are  driven  away  by  cruelty  or  stupidity  or  careless- 
ness J  and  then  it  is  a  long  search  to  recover  them  again. 

SHEPHERD 
[Who  has  climbed  upy  and  stands  by  the  crucifix.]   You 
will  see  the  country  better,  if  you  stand  up  here. 

HEILMANN 

Yes.     The  Cross  will  help  both  you  and  me. 

[He  climbs  up.     Meanwhile  Huldbrand  comes 
down  the  gorge.      There  is  a  distant  hollo. 


UNDINE  225 

SHEPHERD  Act  III 

Ah,  Father,  there  is  my  mate  calling  to  me.     Mayhap, 
he  has  found  the  sheep  !     Good  luck  be  with  you  ! 

\Exiu 
HEILMANN 
And  God  aid  you  ! 

\They  both  disappear  over  the  crest  of  the  mountain. 

[HuLDBRAND  sits  and  nngs^ 

Why  do  you  turn  away, 

Face  that  was  always  kind  ? 
If  life  hath  gone  astray, 

Is  nothing  left  behind  ? 

You  ask — must  this  be  true, 

We  pass  and  we  forget ; 
With  love  for  what  is  new, 

For  old  a  bare  regret  ? 

Not  so  :  in  worlds  grown  gray, 

New  good  we  shall  not  find  ; 
Why  do  you  turn  away. 

Face  that  was  always  kind  ? 

HEILMANN 
[Re-enters.]    Ah,  here  is  one  of  my  penitents  !     Has 
he  found  his  sheep,  I  wonder  ?     [He  climbs  down.] 

HULDBRAND 

Father  Heilmann,  you  ?     Let  me  help  you. 

HEILMANN 

Nay,  let  me  help  you,  my  son.     I  think  you  need  it 
more  than  I.     You  have  not  found  Undine  ? 

HULDBRAND 
No.     I  have  not  seen  her  since  she  disappeared  from 
Ringstetten.     I  have  looked  everywhere,  but  Kiihleborn 
keeps  his  secret  well. 

HEILMANN 

Have  you  asked  yourself  why  she  had  to  leave  you  ? 

Q 


226  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  HULDBRAND 

Oh,  Father,  I  know  full  well.  I  was  wroth  with  her, 
exceeding  wroth  :  and  that,  too,  when  I  had  promised 
never  to  be  angry  with  her.  I  have  done  wrong.  Father, 
a  great,  irremediable  wrong  !  And  now  she  has  left  me 
for  ever ! 

HEILMANN 

And  Bertalda  ? 

HULDBRAND 
Speak  not  of  her.     She  was  to  blame  as  well  as  I.     I 
drove  her  from  the  castle.     I  shall  not  see  her  again. 

HEILMANN 

My  son,  you  have  done  grievous  wrong.  But  we 
must  both  look  for  Undine,  lest  she  perish  for  ever.  The 
burden  lies  as  heavy  on  me  as  on  you. 

HULDBRAND 

Nay,  Father,  you  have  not  driven  her  away. 

HEILMANN 

But  it  was  I  who  helped  to  give  her  a  human  soul. 
Her  love  for  you  inspired  her  with  longing  :  the  clasp  of 
your  arms  fulfilled  her  desire.  But  it  was  the  Divine 
blessing  that  my  lips  were  allowed  to  utter  which  set  the 
seal  on  the  bond.  And  as  I  found  a  human  soul  to 
lift  off  my  own  shoulders  the  penance  that  was  set  on 
me  :  so  must  I  re-discover  it  again  to  save  a  human  soul 
from  perdition.     Woe  is  me,  if  I  find  her  not ! 

HULDBRAND 
Must  she  parish,  if  we  find  her  not  ? 

HEILMANN 

Surely — for  then  she  returns  to  the  spirits  and  demons 
from  whom  we  delivered  her. 

HULDBRAND 
{^adly.l  Nay — may  it  not  be  better  that  she  should 
return  to  her  old    home  ?     Was  she  not  a  stranger  in 


UNDINE  227 

our  midst,  an  exile  amongst  men  of  rough  speech  and    Act  III 
wild  ways,  such  as  I  ? 

HEILMANN 

And  you,  my  son,  what  will  you  do  without  her  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Mea  culpa  !     I  have  done  wrong  and  I  must  suffer. 
£<S/V5  down  wearily  by  a  stone, ^ 

HEILMANN 
[Mounting  the  pass  again.]  Come  up  to  the  Cross,  my 
son  !     The  Cross  may  help  you.     [He  goes  over  the  crest 
of  the  hill  and  disappears.'] 


Scene  2. — Bertalda  is  seen  coming  down  the  gorge.     The 
sun  is  setting. 

HULDBRAND 
[Rests  his  head  upon  his  hand.]  Nay,  how  shall  Priest  or 
Cross  help  me  now  ?  When  that  which  we  know  to  be 
the  highest  has  come  into  our  life,  and  we  have  driven  it 
away,  what  help  is  it  to  make  moan  and  say  we  have 
sinned  ?     The  Light  has  gone  !     The  Light  has  gone  ! 

BERTALDA 
[Has  come  down  during  Huldbrand's  speech  and  creeps 
swiftly  like  a  snake  behind  him.]  Can  I  help  you,  Huld- 
brand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Bertalda !     You  here  ? 

BERTALDA 
Yes,  Huldbrand,  I  am  here.      Why  did  you  drive  me 
away  ? 

HULDBRAND 
[Sitting  up  and  facing  her  with  anger  in  his  eyes.]   Why  did 
I  drive  you  away  ?     I  will  tell  you.     Because  you  crept 


228  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  like  a  snake  between  me  and  my  happiness.  Because  you 
tempted  me  when  I  was  weak,  and  played  upon  my  folly 
till  I  grew  mad.  Because  you  made  me  think  I  was  to 
be  master  in  my  own  house,  when  I  had  wedded  a  Queen. 
Because  it  was  you,  you  above  all  others,  who  have  torn 
Undine  from  my  arms  .  .  . 

BERTALDA 

Enough,  enough,  Huldbrand.  You  drove  me  away 
because  I  told  you  the  truth — that  there  could  be  no 
happiness  in  your  marriage.  Did  not  your  marriage 
fail  \ 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  yes,  a  thousand  times,  yes  !  But  it  is  not  her  fault. 
It  is  not  Undine's  fault.  I  know  it  now.  No,  it  was 
not  the  fault  of  the  Queen,  nor  of  him  who  should  have 
been  her  slave.  The  fault  was  yours  .  .  .  yours  .  .  . 
yours  ! 

BERTALDA 

\With  a  slight  smile.']  And  in  no  sense  yours  ?  [Huld- 
brand does  not  answer!]  Not  yours  ?  [Huldbrand  sinks 
down  and  bows  his  head  on  his  hands.]  Come,  come,  Huld- 
brand, you  were  not  wont  to  be  a  fool.  See  now,  I  do  not 
wish  to  pain  you.  I  will  say  no  word  but  what  is  wise. 
I  will  not  even  say  that  you  were  to  blame.  You  are  a 
man  .  .  .  that  is  all,  and,  like  a  man,  you  wanted  certain 
things.     Every  man,  all  the  world  over,  wants  .  .  . 

huldbrand 
Why  have  you  come  here  ? 

BERTALDA 

Oh,  I  will  not  pain  you.  Every  man,  all  the  world  over, 
wants  certain  things  .  .  .  warmth  and  happiness  and 
human  love.  He  wants  round  him  the  home  of  common 
joys  and  common  hopes.  He  wants  round  him  the  arms 
of  some  one  like  himself,  a  woman  who  knows  and 
understands.  It  is  not  much  that  he  wants,  after  all  .  .  . 
only  peace  and  rest  and  a  woman's  face,  after  his  everyday 


I 


UNDINE  229 

struggle  is  over.     He  does  not  want  coldness  and  aloofness,    Act  III 
an  icicle  of  purity  .  .  . 

HULDBRAND 

What  are  you  saying,  Bertalda  ? 

BERTALDA 

Nay,  ask  yourself.  Does  a  man  always  need  a  saint  to 
worship  ?  Does  he  really  love  an  image  on  a  pedestal  ? 
Is  it  a  pleasure  to  him  to  be  ever  kneeling  at  a  shrine  ? 
Is  it  ?  Ask  yourself.  Does  a  man  like  to  humble  himself 
in  the  dust  before  the  woman  he  loves  ?  Oh,  Huldbrand  ! 
Is  not  that  on  which  a  man's  eyes  love  to  fasten  just  a 
woman's  hair,  a  woman's  flushing  cheek,  a  woman's 
heaving  breast  ?  Something  he  can  touch  and  fondle  and 
kiss  ? 

HULDBRAND 

{^Hiding  hh  face  on  his  knees ^    Retro  me,  Sathana.  .  .  . 

BERTALDA 

Where  would  the  husband  be  whose  wife  was  a  saint  ? 
I  can  tell  you  where  he  would  not  be  .  .  .  within  the 
walls  of  his  own  home.  For  what  part  or  lot  would 
he  have  in  that  which  was  for  ever  above  and  beyond  him, 
a  thing  that  had  no  human  heart,  a  beautiful,  passionless 
.  .  .  Undine  !  .  .  . 

HULDBRAND 

{Starts  up."]  You  shall  not  say  her  name.  Her  name  is 
soiled  by  your  lips.  Bertalda — who  may  not  say  Bertalda  ? 
But  Undine  !  but  Undine  !  .  .  . 

BERTALDA 

[Laughs.l  And  how  are  your  lips  better  fitted  to  say 
Undine  ?  You  said  her  name  once,  when  you  thought 
you  loved  her.  Then  you  were  angry  with  Undine,  and 
Undine  left  you.  Would  you  not  often  have  been  angry 
with  Undine  ?  Undine  .  .  .  what  is  Undine  ?  Where 
is  Undine  ? 

HULDBRAND 

[A/most  lifting  his  hand  to  strike  hen]  For  Heaven's  sake. 


230  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  do  not  tempt  me  too  far.  You  do  not  understand  .  .  . 
let  me  remember  that  !  You  cannot  understand.  Leave 
me,  for  Heaven's  sake,  leave  me  ! 

BERTALDA 

{Very  coolly,']  Leave  you  ?  What,  as  you  have  left  me  ? 
Forgive  me,  Huldbrand,  I  v^as  wrong  to  say  one  word 
against  Undine.  She  was  fair  and  beautiful.  But  she  is 
gone.     Where  is  she  now  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Ah,  do  not  mock  me  .  .  .  you  know  I  am  alone.  .  .  . 
Yet,  perchance,  I  may  see  her  again.  Leave  me  that  one 
hope  .  .  .  that  one  star  in  blackest  night  ! 

BERTALDA 

And  what  of  me  ?  Have  you  ever  considered  what  you 
have  done  to  me  ?  There  was  a  time  when  you  loved 
me,  Huldbrand — nay,  do  not  start  and  shake  your  head 
— when  you  thought  that  you  loved  me.  You  asked  of 
me  a  pledge.  You  wore  my  colours  through  the  forest. 
You  gave  me  your  necklace.     You  kissed  my  lips. 

HULDBRAND 

Ah,  my  God  ! 

BERTALDA 

Is  that  all  over,  Huldbrand  ?  [She  comes  nearer  to  him.] 
Is  it  ?  [She  puts  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  He  shakes  it  off.] 
Oh,  Huldbrand  !  Huldbrand  ! 

HULDBRAND 

[Rising  angrily,  then  controlling  himself.]  You  do  not 
understand  .  .  .  you  do  not  understand  ! 

BERTALDA 

[Bursting  into  tears.]  Forgive  me,  I  am  weak  and  a 
woman.  We  will  not  speak  of  that.  The  past  is  dead 
.  .  .  dead.  But  what  of  the  future  ?  What  is  to  become 
of  me  ...  of  me  whom  you  have  kissed  ? 

HULDBRAND 

What  do  you  mean  r 


UNDINE  231 

BERTALDA  Act  III 

Did  you  not  kiss  me,  Huldbrand  ?  I  thought  it  was  you 
.  .  .  when  you  gave  me  the  necklace ;  do  you  remember  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Hush,  hush  ! 

BERTALDA 

And  where  am  I  to  go  .  .  .  now  ?  Bertalda,  whom 
Huldbrand  kissed,  to  whose  life  he  once  laid  claim,  whose 
gloves  he  begged,  and  to  whom  he  gave  the  necklace  from 
his  own  neck.  ,  .  .  Bertalda  has  no  home. 

HULDBRAND 

[With  some  sternness,']  Go  back  to  your  parents, 
Bertalda.  .  .  . 

BERTALDA 

To  my  parents  ?  But  they  are  not  my  parents. 
Undine  was  right.  I  know  it  all  now,  and  they  know  it. 
They  are  my  foster-parents,  as  Undine  said.  They  do 
not  belong  to  me,  nor  I  to  them.  And  my  real  parents 
are  a  fisherman  and  his  wife,  who  will  have  none  of  me 
and  who  are  gone  ...  I  know  not  where.  [Coming 
close  to  Huldbrand  again.]  Huldbrand,  I  am  alone  .  .  . 
alone  ! 

huldbrand 

[Rising^  takei  a  pace  or  two  backwards  and  forwards^  while 
Bertalda  y^//f  on  her  knees  and  holds  out  her  hands  to  him 
in  piteous  appeal.]  Bertalda,  listen  to  me.  God  knows  that 
I  am  sorry  for  all  that  has  been  done  ...  for  you  and 
for  myself.  I  know  that  the  fault  is  mine.  It  is  not  so 
much  yours  as  mine.  I  have  been  to  blame  throughout. 
I  was  wrong  when  I  asked  to  be  your  knight-errant 
through  the  forest.  I  was  wrong,  doubly  wrong,  when  I 
^ave  you  the  necklace.  I  was  wrong,  doubly  and  trebly 
wrong,  when  I  let  you  move  me  to  anger  against  Undine 
.  .  .  when  you  made  me  drive  her  back  to  her  kindred. 
It  seemed  to  me  then  that  I  wanted  my  wife  to  be  as  I 
am,  as  human  as  I.  My  punishment  is  greater  therefore. 
But  I  do  not  want  it  now. 


232  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  BERTALDA 

\^lowly^  You  do  not  want  it  now  ? 

HULDBRAND 

No,  Bertalda,  my  wrong  was  great,  but  I  will  not 
make  it  greater.  We  do  not  make  wrong  right  by- 
adding  thereto  another  wrong.  It  may  be  that  you 
tempted  me  somewhat  .  .  .  but  I  will  say  nothing  of 
that.  I  will  say  the  fault  was  wholly  mine.  Only  now, 
that  my  eyes  are  open  and  I  see  aright,  I  will  not  again 
choose  blindness. 

BERTALDA 

\With  some  wonder^  Blindness  ?  You  call  it  blindness, 
Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  blindness.  If  one  moves  in  the  dark,  and  some 
kindly  hand  sheds  light  through  an  open  door,  one  does 
not  care  any  longer  for  the  dark.  When  the  morning 
dawns,  the  windows  are  thrown  wide  open  and  the  night 
is  left  behind.  The  brightness  of  the  day  leaves  no 
longing  for  the  sombre  shadows  of  the  dark  .  .  . 

BERTALDA 

[Gathering  herself  up  slowly^  scornfully^  on  her  feetJ]  Is 
this  true,  Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

My  morning  has  dawned  .  .  .  my  day  has  come  !  I 
can  never  go  back  !  She  came,  who  has  made  all  things 
different,  my  star  of  morning,  my  sunlight,  my  day  !  I 
can  never  go  back  ! 

BERTALDA 

[With  concentrated  anger.]  You  can  never  go  back  ! 
Coward  !  Liar  !  Traitor  !  [She  hisses  the  words  to 
herself] 

HULDBRAND 

And  if  I  never  see  her  again  it  will  always  be  the 
same  !      She  will  always  be  Undine,  the  child    of  the 


UNDINE  233 

morning  waves,  my  bride,  my  love,  always  my  Undine !    Act  III 
[Father  Heilmann  h  seen  on  the  mountain  ridge, 

BERTALDA 

[Through  her  teeth.']  You  fool  !  She  has  left  you ! 
She  is  gone  ! 

HULDBRAND 

[Sinking  down  ;  Father  Heilmann  seeing  Huldbrand 
and  Bertalda,  is  rapidly  coming  down  the  gorge,] 
Gone  !  Is  she  gone  ?  No,  no,  she  is  not  gone.  She  is 
always  with  me — I  feel  her  presence  here.  She  has  not 
wholly  left  me.  Her  breath  is  on  my  face.  I  see  her 
hair,  her  lips,  her  mouth  !  Undine,  come  back  !  come 
back  to  me !  [He  sinks  forward^  face  in  his  hands. 
Father  Heilmann  is  close  to  them,] 

bertalda 
[Behind  him^  swiftly  takes  out  a  knife^  Fool  !  .  .  . 
[She  raises  her  hand  to  plunge  the  knife  into  his  necky  when 
her  hand  is  seized  by  Father  Heilmann  from  behind, 
Huldbrand  starts  up^  and^  after  a  brief  struggle^  Bertalda 
is  disarmed.     She  bursts  into  an  agony  of  weeping.] 

huldbrand 

Bertalda  ! 

heilmann 
My  daughter,  my  daughter  !  I  have  come  in  time. 
Thank  God,  I  have  come  in  time  !  Nay,  do  not  speak  ! 
There  is  no  need  for  words !  [Bertalda  sobs.]  No 
need  for  words  !  No  need  for  tears  .  .  .  save  for  those 
that  will  heal  thee,  if  thou  repentest.  Come  with  me, 
daughter,  come  with  me  !  Leave  Huldbrand  here — ^he 
hath  his  own  repentance  to  make.  But  thou  .  .  .  pray 
Heaven  that  I  may  save  thy  soul !  Come  with  me  ! 
God  hath  still  some  work  for  His  servant  to  do  ! 

[He  takes  her  away^  she  going  with  him^  sub- 
missivey  quiet,  like  a  child.  They  pass 
upward  towards  the  Cross,  where  the  Priest 
stays  for   a    moment    with    hands    clasped. 


234  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  praying.    Then  they  disappear,    Huldbrand 

throws  himself  once  more  on  the  ground.     He 
begins  in  a  low  voice  the  song. 

[Huldbrand  sings!\ 

Why  do  you  turn  away, 

Face  that  was  always  kind  ? 
If  life  hath  gone  astray, 
Is  nothing  left  behind  ? 

Scene  3. — The  sun  has  set  and  a  glimmering  moonlight 
begins.  Huldbrand  is  seated  with  head  bent  by  the 
stone.  As  he  repeats  the  verse  with  low  voice^  some  soft 
music  begins^  at  first  very  quietly^  then  louder.  At  last 
Undine  comes  out  of  the  running  stream  and  stands  over 
Huldbrand. 

[Undine  sings^^ 

Death  and  sorrow  and  sleep — 

Here  where  the  slow  waves  creep 
This  is  the  chant  I  hear. 

The  chant  of  the  measureless  deep. 

What  was  sorrow  to  me 

Then  when  the  young  life  free 

Thirsted  for  joys  of  earth 
Far  from  the  desolate  sea  r 

What  was  sleep  but  a  rest. 

Giving  to  youth  the  best 
Dreams  from  the  ivory  gate, 

Visions  of  God  manifest  r 

What  was  death  but  a  tale 

Told  to  faces  grown  pale, 
Worn  and  wasted  with  years — 

A  meaningless  thing  to  the  hale  ? 

Death  and  sorrow  and  sleep — 
Now  their  sad  message  I  keep. 

Tossed  on  the  wet  wind's  breath. 
The  chant  of  the  measureless  deep. 


UNDINE  235 

UNDINE  Act  III 


Huldbrand ! 


HULDBRAND 

[Starting  upJ\  Undine  ! 

UNDINE 

You  must  not  touch  me,  Huldbrand.  I  am  no  longer 
yours.  Only  have  I  had  leave  to  speak  with  you  for  a 
while.  For  I  saw  you  sad  and  lonely,  and  then  I  knew 
that  your  love  for  Undine  was  not  dead,  and  that  you 
would  be  glad  to  see  her  once  again. 

HULDBRAND 

Ah,  Undine  ... 

UNDINE 

Are  you  not  glad,  Huldbrand  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Yes,  yes  .  .  .  but  I  know  not  what  to  say, 
Undine  .  .  . 

UNDINE 

No,  for  all  things  are  now  changed.  We  can  neither 
of  us  go  back  to  the  past,  dear  Huldbrand  ;  the  will  of 
those  mightier  than  ourselves  has  so  ordained.  But  I 
wished  to  see  you  once  more,  as,  indeed,  I  think  you 
wished  to  see  me.  You  have  sought  me  for  long,  have 
you  not  ? 

HULDBRAND 

I  have  sought  you.  Undine — as  a  hungry  man  seeks 
for  bread,  as  a  shipwrecked  man  strains  his  eyes  to  find 
the  land,  as  a  dying  man  prays  for  the  Holy  Elements  to 
deliver  his  soul  .  .  . 

UNDINE 

But  I  may  not  deliver  you,  or  at  least  not  wholly. 
We  cannot  alter  the  past,  neither  by  tears  nor  by  prayer ; 
and  what  has  once  been  done  remains  done  to  the  end  of 
time.  Perhaps  I  was  foolish  when  I  wished  to  become 
human  and  to  win  my  humanity  by  marrying  you.     I  do 


236  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  not  know  whether  I  was  foolish  or  not,  but  the  time  is 
past  for  thinking  of  that.  I  have  had  my  chance,  and 
somehow — through  my  fault  or  another's — I  have  failed. 

HULDBRAND 

Undine,  I  cannot  speak  as  you  speak.  Whether  you 
were  foolish  or  not  in  marrying  me,  Heaven  knows  ;  but 
I  know  that  it  was  no  madness  in  me  to  desire  to  marry 
you.  For  you  were  my  Ideal,  and  you  still  are  :  only  I 
have  forfeited  my  Ideal,  because  I  was  too  common  and 
coarse  and  headstrong  to  live  in  the  purer  air. 

UNDINE 

Do  not  say  that,  Huldbrand.  The  fault,  I  think,  was 
not  altogether  yours.  How  could  I,  child  of  the  sea- 
waves  and  the  running  water,  hope  to  be  veritably  human 
— to  live  the  warm,  fitful,  inconstant,  lovable  life  of 
mortal  men  ?  Only  a  miracle  could  have  made  my  blood 
one  with  yours  or  teach  my  pulses  to  keep  tune  with 
yours.  How  could  I  hope  to  become  all  you  wanted  in 
a  wife  ? 

HULDBRAND 

Another  man  might  have  taught  you.  Undine,  the 
fault  was  mine  that  I  could  not.  The  highest  life  is 
that  which  realizes  the  wonderful  union  of  spirit  and  flesh 
in  our  everyday  existence.  The  man  who  paints  a 
picture  does  it ;  the  man  who  writes  or  sings  does  it. 
Some  men  can  marry  the  Ideal  and  bring  her  to  their 
hearth-side. 

UNDINE 

But  does  she  remain  the  Ideal  r  I  know  not,  Huldbrand. 
Perhaps  I  am  not  the  Ideal.  Or  perhaps  only  in  some 
other  world  can  I  keep  true  to  my  nature  .  .  . 

HULDBRAND 

Ah,  Undine  !     \l?auses.'\ 

UNDINE 

Huldbrand  ? 


UNDINE  237 

HULDBRAND  Act  III 

Will  you  not  come  back  to  me — after  all  ?  May  not 
the  miracle  be  wrought,  even  now  ? 

UNDINE 

No — no,  Huldbrand,  I  may  not  come — it  is  not  per- 
mitted. I  was  only  allowed  to  see  you  for  a  brief  moment 
or  two  .  ,  .  lest  you  should  break  your  heart  with  longing. 

HULDBRAND 

My  heart  is  breaking  now,  Undine  .  .  . 

UNDINE 

No,  no,  Huldbrand. 

HULDBRAND 

I  cannot  live  without  you,  for  you  have  taught  me 
things  which  I  cannot  forget.  You  have  altered  my  life, 
and  I  cannot  take  it  up  again,  as  though  you  had  never 
been.  .  .  .  Will  you  not  kiss  me,  at  least,  Undine  ? 

UNDINE 

No — no — I  may  not  .  .  .  unless  .  .  , 

HULDBRAND 

Unless 

UNDINE 

Unless  you  choose  to  come  to  me.  If  I  kiss  you  it  will 
kill  you,  Huldbrand.  You  will  have  to  give  up  your 
human  life  and  live  my  life,  wherever  I  am  .  .  . 

HULDBRAND 

Wherever  you  are,  I  choose  to  be  with  you.  .  .  .  Kiss 
me,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

And  live  not  your  life,  but  mine  ? 

HULDBRAND 

And  live  your  life — always.  .  .  ,  Kiss  me,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

Think  well,  dear  Huldbrand.  Your  mortal  life  is 
sweet. 


238  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  HULDBRAND 

But  life  with  you  is  sweeter.  .  .  .  Kiss  me,  Undine. 
\^He  holds  out  his  arms.     She  bends  to  him  and  kisses  him.] 

HULDBRAND 

I  love  you,  Undine. 

UNDINE 

Say  it  again,  Huldbrand,  say  it  again, 

HULDBRAND 

I  love  you,  Undine,  I  shall  always  love  you. 

[The  scene  gradually  fades  as  Huldbrand  and 
Undine  are  clasped  in  each  other's  arms. 


FATHER   TIME    AND    HIS 
CHILDREN 


A   NEW  YEAR'S   CAROL   FOR 
BOYS  AND  GIRLS 


FATHER    TIME    AND    HIS 
CHILDREN 


FATHER    TIME 

\^Seated  by  himself  in  a  chair  in  centre  of  stage.'\ 
I  love  them  all  !     I  love  them  all ! 
My  merry  months,  from  spring  to  fall ; 
From  summer's  heat  to  winter's  cold ; 
They  bring  me  happiness  untold. 
Unhid,  they  serve  my  least  behest — 
I  know  not  which  I  love  the  best  ! 

JANUARY 

[Peeping  in  from  side  of  stage. ^ 
May  I  come  in  ? 

TIME 

Come  in,  you  rogue  ! 
What  is  the  season's  latest  vogue  ? 

JANUARY 

Oh,  muffs  and  tippets,  furry  hats, 
And  all  the  gentlemen  wear  spats. 
And  all  the  ladies  put  on  veils. 
And  ice  is  found  in  all  the  pails. 
And  little  children  hate  their  tubs, 
And  biting  frost  all  noses  rubs, 
And  old  men  wear  a  thicker  vest — 
Surely  your  Lordship  likes  me  best  ? 

[Dances  round  him,  and  takes  up  a  position  by 
the  side  of  his  chair. 

241  R 


242  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

TIME 

Wait  till  I  see  your  sisters,  dear. 
Well,  who  is  this  ?     Appear,  appear  ! 


Enter  February. 

FEBRUARY 

Your  second-born,  my  worthy  sire  ! 
Who  comes  with  all  the  troubles  dire 
Of  rain  and  sleet  and  blinding  snow, 
Which  fill  all  eyes,  and  trickling  go 
Adown  the  backs  of  shivering  men — 
They  do  not  like  me  much  ;  but  then 
I  do  not  mind  their  hate  confest : 
You  love  me.  Father,  much  the  best ! 

\Dances  with  January  round  his  chair, 

TIME 

You  saucy  child  !     Well,  here's  a  kiss 
To  keep  you  quiet.     Who  is  this  ? 


Enter  March. 

MARCH 

I'm  blustering  March,  a  tyrant  wild. 
I  am  your  Honour's  noisiest  child  ! 
All  down  the  streets  I  make  a  rout 
And  turn  umbrellas  inside  out. 
And  blow  down  slates  and  chimneys  tall, 
And  drive  men's  hats  in  eddying  squall ! 
Each  peck  of  dust  I  broadcast  fling 
Is  worth  the  ransom  of  a  king  ! 

\The  Three  Months  dance  together, 

TIME 

Mad  creatures,  cease  !     Do  what  I  bid  ye  ! 
Your  antics  make  me  downright  giddy  ! 


FATHER   TIME  AND  HIS  CHILDREN    243 


Enter  April. 

APRIL 

I  am  a  shy  and  trembling  thing, 
A  fairy  harbinger  of  spring. 
With  softest  rain  and  gentlest  gale 
I  woo  the  hill,  the  plain,  the  vale. 
There's  health  and  beauty  in  my  breeze, 
And  when  I  weep 

TIME 

You  make  me  sneeze  ! 
\^nee'Les  loudly. 
Be  quiet,  do,  and  join  your  friends. 

\The  Four  dance. 
Ah,  who  is  this,  who  hither  wends  ? 

Enter  May. 

MAY 

All  flowers  and  sunshine,  soft  I  move 
To  teach  poor  mortals  how  to  love  ! 
Young  men  and  maidens  courting  go, 
Whisp'ring  their  secrets  sweet  and  low 
Adown  the  lanes,  begirt  with  May, 
While  cuckoo  sings  the  livelong  day. 
And  tender  grass  with  dew  is  wet — 
I  am  my  Father's  chosen  pet ! 

TIME 

Don't  be  too  sure,  my  winsome  child — 
I've  known  you  anything  but  mild  ! 

\Dance  as  before. 
But  see  ! — who  comes  ? 


Enter  June. 

JUNE 

The  lovely  June ! 
When  birds  sing  out  a  merry  tune, 


244  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

And  roses  clamber  round  the  porch, 
Unclouded  suns  can,  sometimes,  scorch  : 
When  men  and  boys  at  cricket  play. 
And  welcome  smiles  Midsummer  Day. 
You  like  me  best  ? 

TIME 

I'm  not  quite  clear  ; 
Sometimes  your  welcome's  rather  dear. 
June  Twenty-fourth's  not  always  fine, 
And  when  it  rains 


Enter  July. 

JULY 

I  come  to  shine  ! 
The  grass  is  long  and  lush  and  sweet, 
And  all  the  sunny  hours  can  fleet 
With  dancing  steps  across  the  lea 
To  summer's  merry  minstrelsy  ! 
There  is  no  month  throughout  the  year 
Which  wears  a  better,  braver  cheer  ! 

TIME 

H'm — what  about  St.  Swithin,  pet  ? 
And  forty  days  of  constant  wet  ? 
Well,  next  man  in  !     Come,  look  alive  ! 
We  draw  the  stumps  at  half-past  five  ! 


Enter  August. 

AUGUST 

With  oats  and  barley  crowned  am  I — 
A  month  of  jocund  revelry  ! 
The  harvest  wagon's  heaped  with  corn, 
The  harvest  moon  shines  on  till  morn  ; 
The  fields  are  stripped  'mid  rustic  play — 
St.  Lubbock  keeps  Bank  Holiday  ! 


FATHER   TIME  AND  HIS  CHILDREN    245 

TIME 

IPouhtfully?^ 

They  say  the  British  farmers  swear 

That  you're  not  what  you  were,  my  dear  ! 

Bread  is  too  cheap,  love,  nowadays. 

And  agriculture  seldom  pays  ! 

Well,  better  luck  next  year  !  ^A  gun  goes  off. 

Come  in  ! 
Good  gracious  !     What's  that  dreadful  din  ? 

Enter  September. 

SEPTEMBER 

With  banging  guns  amid  the  stubble 
I  give  the  partridge  endless  trouble  ! 
Poor  little  bird,  his  fate  is  booked, 
But  he's  so  very  nice  when  cooked ! 
At  Michaelmas  the  goose  is  roasted. 
And  oysters 

TIME 

Hush,  enough  you've  boasted  ! 
Dear  me,  I  hardly  could  be  thinner — 
D'you  think  I  don't  enjoy  a  dinner  ? 
Peace,  little  glutton  !     Silence,  pray  ! 

SEPTEMBER 
\_JVhispering  to  her  Sisters.] 

Is  Father  rather  cross  to-day  ? 


Enter  October. 

OCTOBER 

October  comes  to  give  men  cheer, 
With  purple  grapes  and  mild-brewed  beer  ! 
The  days  grow  short,  the  nights  are  cold, 
The  year's  beginning  to  be  old. 


246  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

The  streets  are  wet  with  constant  mire, 
And  aren't  we  glad  to  get  a  fire  r 

TIME 

\^hivering^ 

Don't  make  me  shiver  ere  I  need. 
You  are  a  forward  child,  indeed. 
Two  months  to  Christmas  !     Deary  me  ! 
What  is  this  wondrous  form  I  see  ? 


Enter  November. 

NOVEMBER 

Enwreathed  in  fog,  all  grim  and  gray, 
I  hide  from  human  sight  the  day  ; 
The  sun  himself,  a  copper  orb. 
Can  scarce  the  clinging  mists  absorb. 
Poor  London  lives  'neath  darkest  sky, 
And  gas  and  water  rates  are  high  ! 

TIME 

Ugh  !     Come  to  me,  child  ;  no  more  faces 
You're  bright  enough  in  country  places, 
Where  cubs  are  hunted  at  the  dawn 
And  pheasants  shot  from  early  morn. 
Only  in  cities  careless  folk 
Cannot  as  yet  consume  their  smoke. 
Aha  !     At  last  my  Benjamin, 
My  youngest  child,  comes  tripping  in  ! 


Enter  December. 

DECEMBER 

Holly  and  ice  and  pantomimes. 
And  minor  poets'  hackneyed  rhymes 
Of  Noel  and  of  Wenceslas, 
Of  turkeys,  mince-pies,  and  the  glass 


I 


FATHER   TIME  AND  HIS  CHILDREN    247 

Which  always  cheers  the  festive  guest — 

Surely  I  bring  of  boons  the  best. 

To  all  who  love  a  merry  meeting, 

A  good  old-fashioned  Christmas  greeting  ! 

TIME 

You  do,  you  do  !     Come,  take  your  places, 
And  range  yourselves,  with  happy  faces, 
Before  my  chair.     Come  now,  confess, 
You  want  to  hear  a  Father  bless  ? 
Which  do  I  love  the  best,  you  ask  ? 
H'm — let  me  see — a  tedious  task 
To  answer,  that,  and  foolish,  too  ! 
'Tis  you,  and  you,  and  you,  and  you  ! 

[Pointing  to  them  in  turn, 
I  love  you  all,  I  love  you  all. 
My  merry  months,  from  spring  to  fall  ! 
From  summer's  heat  to  winter's  cold 
You  bring  me  happiness  untold. 
Unbid,  you  serve  my  least  behest — 
I  know  not  which  I  love  the  best  !  [Dance. 


Curtain, 


;  PERICLES  AND  ASP  ASIA 

I  A  FARCE 


DRJMJTIS  PERSONS 

Pericles,  Prime  Minister  of  the  Athenian  Republic. 

Voice  (of  his  wife). 

AsPASiA,  his  Secretary  and  Typist. 

Alcibiades,  Pericles'  cousin.     A  very  forward  young  man. 

Scene  :  Pericles'  Study  in  his  house  at  Athens. 


PERICLES   AND   ASPASIA 

The  Scene  is  laid  in  Pericles^  study  in  his  house  at  Athens, 
He  is  walking  to  and  fro ^  composing  his  famous  funeral 
oration.  Every  now  and  then  he  goes  to  his  desk  and  jots 
down  a  few  words.  There  is  a  typewriter  at  a  separ- 
ate table.  Also  on  his  desk  is  a  telephone.  Various 
reports^  etc.^  are  littered  on  his  table. 

The  characters  are  supposed  to  be  in  Greek  dress. 

PERICLES 

[Repeating  to  himself]  For  we  Athenians  are  lovers  of 
the  beautiful,  yet  simple  in  our  tastes.  We  cultivate  the 
mind  without  loss  of  manliness — without  loss  of  manli- 
ness      An    Athenian    citizen    does   not   neglect  the 

state,  because  he  takes  care  of  his  own  household. 

VOICE   OF    HIS    WIFE   FROM   WITHIN 

Pericles,  Pericles  ! 

PERICLES 

Yes,  my  dear.  [Murmuring  to  himself]  Because  he 
takes  care  of  his  household 

VOICE 

Pericles,  are  you  busy  ? 

PERICLES 

Well  yes,  a  little.  [Murmuring  to  himself]  An 
Athenian  citizen  does  not  neglect  the  state. 

VOICE 

Oh,  I  do  not  want  to  disturb  you.  I  only  wanted  to 
know  whether  you  send  five  or  six  chitons  to  the  wash 
this  week. 

251 


252  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

PERICLES 

Six,  my  dear  ;  six,  I  think.  {Murmuring  to  himself.'] 
We  cultivate  the  mind  without  loss  of  manliness. 

VOICE 

You  have  signed  a  cheque  for  the  laundress,  haven't 
you  ? 

PERICLES 

Yes — no — I  w^ill  at  once 

VOICE 

Well,  leave  it  on  your  desk,  then  I  need  not  disturb 
you. 

PERICLES 

Yes — yes — of  course.  I'll  do  it  in  a  few  moments. 
[Goes  on  murmuring.']  Because  he  takes  care  of  his  own 
household — um — um  .  .  .  Even  those  of  us  who  are 
engaged  in  business  have  a  very  fair  idea  of  politics. 

VOICE 

You  remember  the  cheque  is  for  two  weeks,  Pericles. 
You  didn't  pay  last  week's  bill. 

PERICLES 

All  right,  my  dear,  all  right — only  tell  me  the  amount. 

VOICE 

Very  well,  I'll  add  it  up  and  let  you  know  in  a  minute 
or  two. 

PERICLES 

Let  me  see,  where  was  I  ?  Oh  yes — Wealth,  we 
employ  not  for  talk  or  ostentation,  but  when  there  is  a 
real  use  for  it.     To  avow  poverty  with  us  is  no  disgrace. 

VOICE 

It  comes  to  40  drachmae.     You  hear,  don't  you  ? 

PERICLES 

Yes,  yes,  I  hear  ;  50  drachmae. 

VOICE 

Not  50,  dear — 40.     I  am   sure   the  woman    charges 


PERICLES  AND  ASP  ASIA  253 

enough  in  all  conscience.  We  needn't  pay  her  more 
than  she  asks  ."  .  .  \yoice  slowly  dies  away  in  the  dis^ 
tance^  talking.^ 

PERICLES 

Let  me  see — let  me  see.  What  did  I  say  ?  Oh  yes — 
To  avow  poverty  with  us  is  no  disgrace.  The  true 
disgrace  lies  in  our  doing  nothing  to  prevent  it.  We 
alone  in  Greece  regard  a  man  who  takes  no  interest  in 
public  affairs  not  as  a  harmless  but  as  a  useless  character  : 
in  other  words,  we  cannot  bear  mugwumps.  Above  all, 
every  one  of  us,  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  young  or  old, 
is  a  lover  of  the  beautiful.  [^Repeats  as  he  goes  to  desk.] 
Yes,  yes,  lover  of  the  beautiful. 

Enter  Aspasia. 

PERICLES 

[Looking  up  as  she  enters.']    A  lover  of  the  beautiful 

ASPASIA 

Meaning  me  ?  Oh,  what  a  nice  compHment !  Good 
morning. 

PERICLES 

My  dear  Aspasia,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  But 
.  .  .  aren't  we  just  a  little  late  this  morning — ^just  a 
little  late,  eh  ?     There  are  a  lot  of  things  .  .  . 

ASPASIA 

Am  I  looking  well  to-day  ? 

PERICLES 

You  always  look  well.  I  say,  there  are  a  lot  of 
things  .  .  . 

ASPASIA 

Yes,  but  am  I  looking  extra  well  ?     Better  than  usual  ? 

PERICLES 

Of  course,  of  course,  but  why  ?     What  is  the  reason  ? 

ASPASIA 

Oh,.  Alcibiades  writes  that  he  is  coming  round  here 


2  54  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

this  morning.     [Pericles  grunts.]     You  don't  like  your 
young  cousin  Alcibiades  ? 

PERICLES 

He  is  a  good-looking  young  man. 

ASPASIA 

Good-looking  ?  I  should  think  he  was  :  but  he  is 
much  more  than  good-looking.  He  is  beautiful — he  is 
an  Adonis,  a  Narcissus,  a  young  Apollo  .  .  . 

PERICLES 

My  dear  Aspasia,  why  all  this  unnecessary  enthusiasm  ? 
Alcibiades  is,  I  say,  a  sufficiently  good-looking  young 
man.     But  as  I  have  a  good  deal  of  work  to  do  .  .  . 

ASPASIA 

[Going  to  typewriter  on  table  and  taking  off  the  cover.] 
You  clearly  do  not  like  your  cousin.    Why,  I  wonder  .  .  . 

PERICLES 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  like  young  men.  They  are  very 
vain — and — and — extremely  difficult  to  talk  to  ...  I 
mean,  extremely  difficult  for  me  to  talk  to  .  .  .  and 
they  are  rash  and  impetuous  .  .  . 

ASPASIA 

\Who  has  seated  herself  before  the  typewriter.]  In  short, 
they  are  young  :  I  suppose  that  is  the  truth  of  it  .  .  . 
You  have  no  sympathy  with  "  Youth  knocking  at  our 
doors,"  as  Hesiod  says  ...  or  was  it  Mimnermus  ? 

PERICLES 

I  really  do  not  remember.  The  phrase  is  after  all  a 
commonplace.     Shall  we  begin  ? 

ASPASIA 

Anyway,  Alcibiades  is  coming  here  this  morning. 
You  had  better  be  out  of  the  way.  Shall  I  make  the 
usual  excuse — necessity  for  spending  the  week-end  in  the 
country  ?  You  know  that  Cimon  says  that  for  a  good 
democrat  you  stay  too  much  in  the  country  houses  of  the 
wealthy. 


PERICLES  AND  ASFASIA  255 

PERICLES 

Confound  Cimon  ! 

ASPASIA 

By  all  means.  But  that  is  precisely  what  he  tries  to  do 
to  you  when  you  speak  at  the  Ecclesia  .  .  .  Well,  what  is 
the  subject  of  your  dictation  ? 

PERICLES 

I  am  composing  the  funeral  oration  for  those  who  have 
fallen  in  the  war.  Shall  I  begin  ?  um — um — um — I 
will  speak  first  of  our  ancestors,  for  it  is  right  and  becom- 
ing that  now,  when  we  are  lamenting  the  dead,  a  tribute 
should  be  paid  to  their  memory  ....  And  if  they  are 
worthy  of  praise,  still  more  are  our  fathers,  who  added  to 
their  inheritance,  and  after  many  a  struggle  transmitted 
to  us — their  sons — this  great  Empire  .  .  .  our  great 
Empire. — Surely,  Aspasia,  your  typewriter  is  more  than 
usually  noisy  this  morning  ? 

ASPASIA 

I  don't  think  so.  Perhaps  your  nerves  are  a  little  out 
of  order.  You  were  supping  with  Socrates  last  night,  I 
think.  Socrates  is  very  hard-headed,  is  he  not  ?  I  mean, 
nothing  seems  to  make  any  impression  upon  him,  does 
it? 

PERICLES 

Would  you  mind  taking  what  I  say  down  in  short- 
hand ?  You  can  type  it  afterwards — when  Alcibiades  is 
here. 

ASPASIA 

\^Gatly.']  When  youth  knocks  at  our  doors  ?  Oh,  very 
well.    [She  takes  a  notebook  out  of  a  drawer,']     Proceed  .  .  . 

PERICLES 

[  up  and  down  the  room^  dictating,']  "  Of  the  military 
exploits  by  which  our  various  possessions  were  acquired, 
or  of  the  energy  with  which  we  or  our  fathers  drove  back 
the  tide  of  war,  Hellenic  or  Barbarian  .  .  . 


2s6  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

ASPASIA 

\^Lookingup  and  beginning  to  sharpen  her  pencil,']  Pericles, 
do  you  think  you  are  wise  in  magnifying  war  so  much  ? 
You  give  so  many  opportunities  to  your  enemies  to  criti- 
cize your  militarism  and  your  Imperialistic  spirit.  Why, 
only  yesterday  at  our  Beautiful  Souls  Club  in  the  Lyceum, 
Cleon — you  know  Cleon,  rather  a  vulgar  person,  but  de- 
cidedly clever — spoke  of  the  methods  of  barbarism  with 
which  you  had  conducted  the  first  campaign  against  the 
Spartans.  "  Methods  of  Barbarism  "  is  a  phrase  which 
Pindar  uses  in  one  of  his  Olympian  odes,  if  I  remember 
right. 

PERICLES 

Cleon   be .     Do  you  mean  that  low  hound  who 

intends  to  impeach   me  for    embezzling   public    money 
contributed  to  the  Parthenon  r 

ASPASIA 

My  dear  Pericles,  let  me  remind  you  that  we  live  in  a 
democratic  age.  As  you  once  beautifully  remarked,  "  We 
are  all  Socialists  now."  Cleon  represents  "  the  belligerent 
forces  of  the  hitherto  submerged  levels  of  our  social 
state  "...  You  recall  your  glowing  words  when  he  made 
his  first  speech  ? 

PERICLES 

He  was  a  very  short  time  ago  the  leader  of  the  dock- 
strike  in  the  Piraeus. 

ASPASIA 

Yes,  and  he  is  now  the  leader  of  the  Radical  section  of 
the  Ecclesia.  By  the  way,  you  still  call  yourself  a  Liberal, 
do  you  not  ? 

PERICLES 

H'm,  yes — perhaps  a  Whig,  an  old  Whig  .  .  . 

ASPASIA 

Oh,  I  thought  the  old  Whigs  went  out  with  Solon  .  .  . 
Well  .  .  .  I'm  waiting.  .  .     [Ho/ds  pencil  poised.] 


PERICLES  AND  ASFASIA  257 

PERICLES 

What  was  I  saying  ?  H'm  .  .  .  Oh  yes  ...  I  want  to 
say  something  about  our  glorious  constitution.  "  Our 
form  of  government  does  not  enter  into  rivalry  with  the 
constitution  of  others.  We  do  not  copy  our  neighbours, 
but  are  an  example  to  them.  It  is  true  that  we  are  called 
a  Democracy,  for  the  administration  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
many  and  not  of  the  few.  But  while  the  law  secures 
equal  justice  to  all,  the  claim  of  excellence  is  heartily 
recognized."     That's  all  right,  isn't  it  ? 

ASPASIA 

Yes,  I  see — your  apology  for  being  "  an  uncrowned 
king."       Didn't    Thucydides   call    you    an    uncrowned 

king  ? 

PERICLES 

I  believe  he  did  so  honour  me.  The  phrase  was 
originally  mine,  of  course.  Well,  to  continue.  "  When 
a  citizen  is  in  any  way  distinguished " 

VOICE    OF    WIFE    OUTSIDE 

Pericles,  Pericles,  so  sorry  .  .  . 

PERICLES 

Well  I 

VOICE 

So  awfully  sorry  to  disturb  you.  But  I  have  had  to 
give  the  cook  notice,  and  she  has  been  so  rude,  and 
declares  that  she  is  going  away  this  very  minute. 

PERICLES 

Well,  you  must  get  another,  then. 

VOICE 

Oh,  it  is  very  easy  to  say  get  another.  But  a  cook 
does  not  grow  on  every  gooseberry-bush,  you  know. 

ASPASIA 

How  sweet  to  hear  the  words  of  divine  Sappho  !  You 
recall  that  beautiful  line  of  hers  about  the  gooseberrv- 
bush  ?  ^  ^ 


2  58  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

VOICE 

Pericles,  is  Aspasia  with  you  ? 

PERICLES 

Of  course. 

VOICE 

I  suppose  Aspasia  could  not  cook  the  dinner,  could  she  ? 
Because  if  she  would  come  into  the  scullery 

ASPASIA 

Really,  your  wife  allows  herself  an  unpardonable  license 
of  speech  ! 

PERICLES 

No,  no.  Absurd.  Go  to  the  Registry  Office,  my  love. 
We  are  busy. 

VOICE 

S^Going  away.'\  Registry  Office,  indeed  !  I  don't  know 
what  has  become  of  all  the  good  servants  we  used  to  be 
able  to  get  in  Attica.     Ever  since  the  war  began  .  .  . 

PERICLES 

I  really  must  pay  my  undivided  attention  to  this  speech. 
Let  me  see,  let  me  see  .  .  .  "  There  is  no  exclusiveness  in 
our  public  life,  and  in  our  private  intercourse  we  are  not 
suspicious  of  one  another,  or  angry  with  our  neighbour  if 
he  chooses  to  do  what  he  likes.  Our  city  is  thrown  open 
to  the  world,  and  we  never  expel  a  foreigner  .  .  ." 

ASPASIA 

No  Alien  Acts,  eh  ?  Fortunately  for  me,  born  in 
Miletus. 

PERICLES 

No,  my  dear.  You  are  a  most  desirable  alien.  [Bows 
in  courtly  fashion  and  goes  on.]  "Because  of  the  greatness  of 
our  city,  the  fruits  of  the  whole  earth  flow  in  upon  us,  so 
that  we  enjoy  the  goods  of  other  countries  as  freely  as 
our  own  .  .  ." 

ASPASIA 

[Thoughtfully.]    You   are   sure   that   there  is   nothing 


PERICLES  AND  ASFASIA  259 

to  be  said  for  a  general  tariff — for  revenue  purposes,  of 
course  .  .  . 

PERICLES 

My  dear,  Cimon  is  a  Protectionist.     I  am 

ASPASIA 

A  Free-trader  ? 

PERICLES 

Well,  let  me  say  a  Retaliator.  [Continues^]  "  And  we 
have  not  forgotten  to  provide  for  our  weary  spirits  many 
relaxations  from  toil ;  we  have  regular  games  and  dramatic 
entertainments  throughout  the  year  .  .  ."  [The  telephone 
bell  rings.'] 

PERICLES 

D n  !     I    beg   your   pardon.     Please   answer   the 

telephone. 

ASPASIA 

\At  telephone.]  Hullo,  yes,  I  am  72  Ceramicus.  What 
do  you  want  ?  Wrong  number,  I  think.  Please  ring 
off.  Oh,  it  is  you,  is  it  ?  Yes,  I  am  Aspasia.  [Listens.^ 
Of  course  .  .  .  Oh,  you  mustn't  say  that  .  .  .  you 
naughty  boy.     Well  .  .  . 

PERICLES 

Who  is  it  ? 

ASPASIA 

Hush,  it's  Alcibiades  ...  He  says  he  is  coming  right 
along  in  ten  minutes  time  .  .  .  [Puts  up  telephone.]  We 
had  better  get  on.  You  were  saying  something  about 
dramatic  shows.  By  the  bye,  you  are  not  an  admirer  of 
Euripides,  are  you  ?  "  Our  Euripides  the  new  man,"  as 
Alcibiades  wittily  says,  parodying  the  line  in  Sophocles. 

PERICLES 

No,  I  side  with  Aristophanes.  I  infinitely  prefer 
i^schylus. 

ASPASIA 

But  you  see  the  charm  of  Euripides  for  us  women, 
surely.  He  is  the  only  dramatist  who  knows  a  woman's 
nature,  who  can  paint  our  strength  and  our  weaknesses 


26o  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

PERICLES 

Especially  your  weaknesses.  He  does  not  paint  a  flat- 
tering portrait  of  women.  He  makes  you  all  huntresses, 
animals  of  prey,  hunting  down  your  quarry — man  ! 

ASPASIA 

Oh,  but  think  of  the  white-souled  Candida,  chaffing 
the  priest  and  flirting  with  her  mad  young  poet !  Isn't 
she  true  ?  Isn't  she  real  ?  Isn't  she  vital  ?  Do  you 
remember  the  sequel,  how  Electra  lied  to  her  husband, 
Pylades  ? 

PERICLES 

What  ?  Oh  yes,  they  are  vital  enough,  those  dreadful 
women — especially  that  Aphrodite  lady  who  pursued  her 
lover  in  a  motor-car,  wasn't  it  ?  Shocking  person.  Why, 
until  Euripides  came,  we  never  had  these  terrible  exhibi- 
tions on  our  Attic  stage  of  the  effects  of  this  ordinary — 
what  shall  I  say  ? — unredeemed  and  unashamed  Eros  ! 

ASPASIA 

Yes.  I  believe  that  is  exactly  why  Euripides  conquered 
Athens.  He  responded  to  a  "  felt  want,"  as  Hesiod  used 
to  say  in  the  advertisement  columns  of  "  Works  and  Days." 
"  It  subsequently  transpired  " — you  remember  that  pictur- 
esque report  of  Euripides'  triumph — "it  subsequently 
transpired  that  the  reason  of  Euripides'  astonishing  and 
phenomenal  victory  was  that  his  drama  corresponded  to 
a  felt  want !  " 

PERICLES 

Of  course,  Sappho — and  in  some  ways  I  venture  to 
think  that  you,  Aspasia,  are  an  intellectual  descendant  of 
the  poetess — introduced  a  certain  colour  and — er — warmth 
into  her  odes — "  All  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost " — 
that  was  her  celebrated  line,  I  think.  But  who  was  the 
shameless  young  person  who  ran  after  her  lover  beyond 
the  pillars  of  Heracles  ? 

ASPASIA 

Do  not  mock  her,  please.  She  was  a  Cosmic  Energy, 
a  Vital  Force.    Hippolytus  Tanner  thought  that  he  could 


PERICLES  AND  ASFASIA  261 

overcome  her  by  much  speaking.  He  was  rash  enough 
to  defy  her,  and  called  her  after  the  names  of  strange 
Egyptian  beasts.  But  Aphrodite  Ann  had  the  best  of  it 
in  the  long  run.  Ha  !  ha  !  "  Time  and  woman  outlast 
all  things,"  as  the  Gnomic  poet — I  forget  his  name — says. 

PERICLES 

Shall  I  resume  my  speech  ?  If  you  don't  mind,  Aspasia, 
as  I  have  a  good  deal  to  get  through  .  .  . 

ASPASIA 

Yes — in  a  minute.  Of  course  Euripides'  finest  and 
most  topical  piece  is  "Hellas'  Other  Island,"  or  half- 
island,  in  which  the  differences  between  Athenian  and 
Spartan  character  are  so  cleverly  portrayed.  The 
dramatist  absolutely  proves  that  we  can  as  little  under- 
stand the  Lacedaemonian  as  he  can  understand  us — a 
beautiful  moral,  don't  you  think  ?  The  man  you  dislike 
is  the  man  you  don't  know,  or  "  to  know  all  is  to  forgive 
all,"  as  Stesichorus  puts  it  in  one  of  his  least  familiar 
songs.  Which  piece  of  Euripides  do  you  admire  the 
most  ? 

PERICLES 

Damn  and  Super-Damn  ! 

ASPASIA 

[SweetlyJ]  You  haven't  got  the  title  quite  accurately, 
but  I  know  which  you  mean.  However,  don't  let  us 
waste  any  more  time.  I  have  to  attend  a  meeting  this 
afternoon  for  the  higher  education  of  the  ordinary 
housewife.     Rather  necessary,  I  fancy. 

PERICLES 

[With  a  glance  at  the  door  whence  the  voice  of  his  wife 
had  been  heard J\  Certainly,  certainly.  [Clears  his  voice.^ 
Now  I  want  to  arrange  my  peroration, — something  big 
and  fine  about  the  mighty  fallen.  Let  me  see  .  .  .  let 
me  see  .  .  . 


262  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

ASPASIA 

You  ought  to  say  something  about  the  women  of 
Athens. 

PERICLES 

Ah,  yes.  "  To  a  woman  not  to  show  more  weakness 
than  is  natural  to  her  sex  is  a  great  glor)^  Her  chief 
honour  is  not  to  be  talked  about  either  for  good  or  for 
evil  amongst  men." 

ASPASIA 

I  don't  think  I  should  say  that. 

PERICLES 

Why  not  ? 

ASPASIA 

Well,  my  dear  Pericles  .  .  .  it's  rather  a  reflection  on 
me,  you  know. 

PERICLES 

Nonsense — of  course  you  are  different — every  one  knov^rs 
that. 

ASPASIA 

Different  ?     How  different  ?  [Pericles    is  silent  and 

scratches  his  head.]     Really,   my  dear   Pericles,    you  are 

hardly  complimentary  .  .  .  You  had  better  go  on  with 
the  mighty  dead. 

PERICLES 

Um  .  .  .  um  ..."  The  whole  earth  is  the  sepulchre 
of  famous  men  "...  [There  is  a  riotous  knock  at  the  door, 
AsPAsiA  jumps  up.] 

ASPASIA 

Oh,  that  must  be  Alcibiades.  You  had  better  go  now, 
Pericles.     We  can  finish  this  speech  later. 

PERICLES 

[Irritably.]  But  cannot  Alcibiades  wait  ? 

ASPASIA 

Oh  no,  youth  never  waits  .  .  .  When  youth  knocks 
at  our  doors — you  remember  ? 


PERICLES  AND  ASFASIA  263 

PERICLES 

[Grumblingly  picking  up  his  papers^  etc.]  Oh  this  youth, 
this  youth  !  If  youth  had  a  little  more  knowledge,  and 
old  age  a  little  more  power — I  think,  Aspasia,  that  was 
one  of  the  best  epigrams  I  ever  made  in  the  Ecclesia 
,  ,  .   [Jt  the  door.] 

ASPASIA 

Yes,  dear,  yes.  Good-bye.  [She  pushes  him  out  and 
shuts  the  door.  Whistles  a  tune^  arranges  her  hair  at  a  glass. 
Then  runs  across  room  to  opposite  door  and  admits  Alcibiades.] 

ALCIBIADES 

[Looks  round  room  hurriedly.]  I  say,  Spasy,  are  you 
alone  ?     That's  rippin'.     How  jolly  you  look  ! 

ASPASIA 

My  dear  boy,  how  often  am  I  to  remind  you  that  I  am 
a  "  blue-stocking  "  ?  I  believe  that  is  what  Aristophanes 
chooses  to  call  educated  women.  His  meaning  is  a  little 
obscure,  because  they  are  not  in  the  habit  of  wearing 
stockings,  blue,  or  any  colour,  so  far  as  I  am  aware.  But 
you  must  not  treat  a  "blue-stocking"  with  such  airy 
frivolity. 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh,  I  say,  that's  all  rot.  .  .  . 

ASPASIA 

You  ought  to  behave  as  respectfully  to  me  as  if  I  were 
— what  shall  I  say  ? — a  maiden  aunt. 

ALCIBIADES 

Aunt  be  jiggered  !     Why,  Spasy.  .  .  . 

ASPASIA 

And  you  must  not  call  me  by  so  vulgar  a  name. 

ALCIBIADES 

What's  the  matter  with  Spasy  ?  I  cannot  call  you 
Aspy,  you  know.     You  are  a  sort  of  cousin,  after  all. 

ASPASIA 

Pericles  is  your  cousin. 


264  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

ALCIBIADES 

Well,  and  aren't  you  and  Pericles  one  ?  I  mean, 
wouldn't  he  jolly  well  like  it  if  you  were  one  ?  By  the 
way,  where  is  the  G.  O.  M.  ? 

ASPASIA 

The  G.  O.  M.  ?     What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh,  I  don't  know.  Somebody — Cleon  or  Cimon  or 
some  such  josser  calls  him  that. 

ASPASIA 

But  what  does  G.  O.  M.  mean  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

Don't  know,  I  am  sure.  Perhaps  it  means  "  God  over 
Mortals  "  or  "  Good  Old  Muddler  " — something  sarcas- 
tical,  you  bet !     But  where  is  my  revered  cousin  ? 

ASPASIA 

He  is  somewhere  about  the  house — alone  with  his 
great  thoughts. 

ALCIBIADES 

Jolly  solitary  business,  I  should  think,  to  be  closeted 
with  your  ideas.  Not  for  this  child  !  And  what  are  you 
doing  ? 

ASPASIA 

I  am  going  to  type  out  some  of  his  great  thoughts. 

ALCIBIADES 

Ugh  !  \^hiversl\  Makes  me  cold  all  down  my  back- 
bone, don't  you  know. 

ASPASIA 

Silly  boy  !  Aren't  you  aware  that  when  the  Thun- 
derer speaks  all  Hellas  shivers  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

Thunderer  !  I  thought  that  was  the  name  of  a  news- 
paper. 


PERICLES  AND  ASPASIA  265 

ASPASIA 

Nonsense.     It  is  the  name  that  Aristophanes  gave  him. 

ALCIBIADES 

I  say,  you  seem  jolly  intimate  with  Aristophanes,  That 
is  the  second  time  you  have  mentioned  him  in  five 
minutes. 

ASPASIA 

Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  am  an  educated  woman  ? 
I  know  all  the  men  of  light  and  leading  in  Athens. 
**  Light  and  leading  " — what  a  pretty  phrase  of  Cratinus  ! 

[The  scene  gets  gradually  darker. "] 

ALCIBIADES 

Yes,  and  Anaxagoras  is  another  of  your  pals — a  bit 
dangerous,  that  sort  of  pal,  I  imagine.  Dreadful  sceptic  ! 
Why,  he  says  the  moon  is  made  of  green  cheese,  doesn't 
he? 

ASPASIA 

He  never  said  anything  so  stupid  ! 

ALCIBIADES 

Well,  then,  it  must  have  been  some  other  Johnny  of 
the  same  name. 

ASPASIA 

After  all,  he  is  not  more  dangerous  than  your  friend, 
Socrates. 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh,  Soccy's  a  bit  of  all-right.  He's  a  ripper,  I  can  tell 
you.  He  has  got  the  strongest  head  for  liquor  in  Athens. 
And  isn't  he  a  quaint  old  bird  !  [IVhistles  a  tune.]  Bit 
ugly,  though :  that's  a  drawback  for  you  ladies,  I  suppose. 
And  such  a  nose  !    My  Lord  !  just  like  a  prize-fighter's. 

ASPASIA 

I  wish  you  weren't  so  vulgar,  Alcy — I  mean  Alcibiades. 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh,  don't  mind  me,  old  girl.  I  prefer  Alcy  or  Biddy, 
or  anything  you  like.     But,  I  say,  Spasy  ... 


^6^  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

ASPASIA 

Don't  call  me  Spasy.  .  .  . 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh  come,  what's  sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the 
gander,  as  Orestes  remarked  to  iEgisthus  after  he  had 
killed  Clytemnestra.  But  tell  me,  Spasy — I  mean  Aspasia 
— you  don't  really  like  history  and  philosophy,  and  all  that 
high-falutin'  business  which  Pericles  talks  about,  do  you  ? 
I  mean,  you  don't  think  that  life  consists  only  in  using 
long  words,  eh  ? 

ASPASIA 

I  am  very  fond  of  philosophy — and  of  Pericles. 

ALCIBIADES 

Yes,  yes,  of  course.  But  if  I  praise  your  frock  and 
your  looks,  and  call  you  a  deuced  pretty  girl,  you  don't 
think  me  altogether  an  idiot,  do  you  ? 

ASPASIA 

I  think  you  a  very  silly  boy. 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh,  rot !  Every  woman  likes  to  be  admired,  and  the 
more  educated  a  woman  is,  the  more  she  wishes  to  be 
admired  for  her  face,  and  not  for  her  mind.  At  all  events, 
that's  my  experience  of  the  sex. 

ASPASIA 

Oh,  wise  young  philosopher  !  You  have  been  talking 
to  Socrates,  haven't  you  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

You're  a  jolly  pretty  philosopher,  anyhow,  and  you 
know  in  your  heart  of  hearts  you  would  rather  be  called 
pretty  than  a  philosopher.  Come,  isn't  that  so  ?  [Aspasia 
looks  down  and  is  silent. '\     Eh,  Spa — Aspasia  ? 

aspasia 
Please  do  not  talk  such  nonsense.     Besides,  I  am  busy. 
[She  goes  back  to  typewriter. 1     How  dark  it  has  grown  1 


PERICLES  AND  ASPASIA  267- 

Turn  up  the    electric    light,   that's   a    good    boy.     \^He 
switches  on    the    light.']     That's    better.     Now   to  work. 
[She  bends   over   her    work    and   begins    to    type^ 
Alcibiades  comes  close  and  bends  over  her, 

ALCIBIADES 

I  say,  I  am  not  in  your  way,  am  I  ? 

ASPASIA 

Naturally — you  are  very  much  in  my  way  when  you 
get  between  me  and  the  light. 

ALCIBIADES 

[Going  to  the  other  side  of  her.]  "  Your  father  was  not 
a  glazier,"  as  Polyphemus  said  to  Ulysses  when  his  eye 
had  been  put  out.  No,  but — bar  chafF — are  you  fright- 
fully busy  ? 

ASPASIA 

Frightfully.  Don't  you  see  I  am  ?  You  had  better 
run  away  and  play. 

ALCIBIADES 

It's  raining  rather  fast. 

ASPASIA 

Is  it  ?     Only  a  shower. 

ALCIBIADES 

By  Zeus,  Pericles  does  use  some  big  words,  doesn't  he  I 

ASPASIA 

That  is  because  he  has  such  big  thoughts.  I  shall  be 
spelling  some  of  these  long  words  wrong  if  you  chatter 
so.  .  .  .  Do  run  away  ! 

ALCIBIADES 

All  right,  my  honey,  I  won't  utter  a  sound.  [Pause 
while  the  typewriter  clicks^  and  Alcibiades  whistles  a  tune.] 
The  rain  is  coming  down  with  a  vengeance  !  I  say, 
may  I  smoke  ?  [Aspasia  nods  her  head  without  speaking. 
He  produces  a  cigarette-case  and  offers  it  to  her.  She  shakes 
her  head.]  Come,  come,  all  literary  ladies  smoke,  I've 
seen  them  over  and  over  again.    They  say  it  soothes  their 


r268  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

nerves.  Dreadfully  nervous  people,  literary  ladies  !  You 
v^on't  take  one  ?  Oh,  all  right.  \^He  takes  out  a  match- 
box^ strikes  a  match  against  his  sandals^  and  lights  a  cigarette^ 
humming  a  tune  as  he  does  so.  He  strolls  casually  about  the 
roomy  takes  up  a  manuscript^  throws  it  down^  goes  over  to  a 
bust  of  Homer. ']  I  say,  that's  by  Pheidias,  isn't  it  ?  [She 
nods.]  Clever  chap,  Pheidias.  Who  is  the  old  fogey  ? 
Homer  ?  [She  nods  again.']  Of  course  it's  all  rot  about 
his  vi^riting  the  Iliad,  you  know.  Hesiod  wrote  it  under 
t'other  chap's  name.  The  cypher  makes  that  plain 
enough.  All  the  literary  critics  are  agreed.  You  think 
Hesiod  wrote  Homer,  don't  you  ? 

ASPASIA 

[Without  looking  up.]  My  dear  boy,  do  be  quiet — 
only  for  a  few  minutes. 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh,  all  right.  [He  whistles  again,  then  comes  back  and 
looks  over  her  shoulder.]     Hullo  !     There's  a  jolly  howler  ! 

ASPASIA 

[Stopping.]  Where? 

ALCIBIADES 

[Pointing  to  page,  hanging  out  of  machine,]  Why  there  ! 
You  have  spelt  "  fiscalitis  "  with  two  I's. 

ASPASIA 

Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  .  .  .  [iS^^  looks  up  at  him  in- 
dignantly,  as  he  is  bending  over  her,  Their  faces  are  quite 
close^  and  he  kisses  her.  There  is  a  low  growl  of  thunder. 
Both  start  away^  and  there  is  a  moment* s  pause.] 

ALCIBIADES 

What  the  dickens  is  that  ? 

ASPASIA 

[Who  recovers  first.]  One  of  his  big  thoughts  ! 
Thunderer,  you  know.  [She  laughs  and  he  joins  her 
rather  nervously.] 


PERICLES  AND  ASPASIA  269. 

ALCIBIADES 

Well,  I  wish  he  would  keep  his  big  thoughts  to  himself. 
It  makes  a  chap  nervous. 

ASPASIA 

Perhaps  you  smoke  too  many  cigarettes,  like  the  literary 
ladies.  Besides,  it  serves  you  right  for  \_pause\  criticizing 
my  spelling.     Good-bye,  I  am  going. 

ALCIBIADES 

I  won't  do  it  again,  I  promise. 

ASPASIA 

What  do  you  mean  by  "  it "  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

Why,  the  spelling,  of  course. 

ASPASIA 

Only  the  spelling  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

Well,  the  etcetera. 

ASPASIA 

You  promise  not  to  repeat  the  etcetera  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

I  promise — on  the  sacred  word  of  an  Injun. 

ASPASIA 

A — what  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

An  honest  Injun.  Don't  you  remember  what  Xerxes 
said  to  Themistocles  ? 

ASPASIA 

I  cannot  think  where  you  pick  up  your  notions  of 
history.  However,  if  you  promise,  I  will  stay — till  the 
rain  stops. 

ALCIBIADES 

I  say,  what  are  you  doing  to-night  ? 

ASPASIA 

Well,  let  me  see.  ...  I  have  to  go  to  a  meeting  of 
the  Beautiful  Souls  at  the  Lyceum. 


2  70  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

ALCIBIADES 

That's  pretty  steep,  isn't  it  ? 

ASPASIA 

I  don't  suppose  it  would  amuse  you.  I  am  going  to 
read  them  a  paper  on  the  right  of  women  to  vote  at 
elections,  and  Cleon  will  speak  on  Trade-Unions  and  the 
Law. 

ALCIBIADES 

Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  it  will  amuse  you  ? 

ASPASIA 

Oh  yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  am  a  blue-stocking,  please 
remember.     What's  your  programme  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh,  I'm  thinking  of  going  to  a  music-hall.  I  suppose  .  .  . 
you  wouldn't  come  to  a  music-hall  ? 

ASPASIA 

Alcibiades  ! 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh,  I  suppose  you  only  care  for  a  theatre  and  the 
legitimate  drama.  Jolly  slow,  I  think  !  Why,  if  you 
want  to  have  something  really  artistic  you  should  go  to 
the  Hegemony  and  hear  Aglae  sing  "  Small  Maria,"  or 
watch  Circe  dance  the  cake-dance  ! 

\lt  grows  gradually  lighterJ] 

ASPASIA 

The — what  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

The  cake-dance.  Don't  you  remember  your  Iliad — 
how  Circe  treated  the  companions  of  Ulysses  to  afternoon 
tea  and  cakes  ? 

ASPASIA 

Silly  boy  !     She  turned  them  into  pigs. 

ALCIBIADES 

[Indifferently."]  Oh,  I  dare  say.  Anyhow,  Aglae  is 
nppin'  fun,  and  Leucothea — well,  she's  a  dream. 


PERICLES  AND  ASFASIA  ^71 

ASPASIA 

Why  don't  you  go  to  a  theatre  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

Can't  stand  the  long  speeches.  Besides,  you  can't 
smoke  in  a  theatre.  Look  here,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
I'll  compromise.  I'll  take  you  to  one  of  Euripides' 
plays.  Come  now,  isn't  there  a  play  of  his  something 
about  Barbara  ?     That's  pretty  fair,  isn't  it  ? 

ASPASIA 

I  think  it  is  a  wonderful  study  of  a  woman.  I  should 
like  to  see  it  very  much 

ALCIBIADES 

Well,  that's  something,  anyhow.  I  tell  you  what  we 
will  do.  What's  the  time  ?  About  five  ?  And  the 
weather's  cleared  now.  Well,  we'll  just  run  over  to 
Salamis  by  trireme,  dine  at  the  Basileia  Restaurant,  and 
we  can  get  back  in  lots  of  time  for  the  show. 

ASPASIA 

I  thought  the  triremes  were  not  running  now. 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh  yes,  they  are.  Your  friends,  the  Archons,  have 
spent  any  amount  of  the  people's  money  over  them,  so 
they  must  keep  them  going.  There'll  be  nobody  on 
board — there  never  is — so  we  shall  have  the  trireme  to 
ourselves.     Rippin'  fun  ! 

ASPASIA 
I  should  like  to  go.     [Hesitating.']     But  there's  a  lot  ot 
work  to  do,  and  Pericles  has  not  finished  his  speech  yet. 

ALCIBIADES 

More  big  thoughts  ?  Well,  don't  you  think  he  ought 
to  wrestle  with  them  by  himself!  I  don't  like  thunder, 
do  you  ? 

ASPASIA 

Is  it  not  rather  selfish  to  go  ? 


272  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

ALCIBIADES 

Well,  you  know  that  Protagoras  says  we  ought  to  work 
for  the  benefit  of  the  greatest  number.  Greatest  number, 
number  One.  Eh,  Spasy  ?  Or  shall  we  say  Two — you 
and  I  r 

ASPASIA 

You  won't  call  me  Spasy,  will  you,  if  I  come  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh  no,  Aspasia,  never  again. 

ASPASIA 

Yes.  \Hesitatmg^  But  what  excuse  can  we  make — 
or  rather  how  can  I  excuse  myself  to  Pericles  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

I'll  tell  you  what,  Aspasia.  \He  says  the  word  slowly^ 
resting  on  each  syllable.']  If  you  will  make  my  excuse  I  will 
make  yours.  We  will  write  them  out  big — big  as  the 
great  man's  thoughts — on  pieces  of  paper  and  leave  them 
for  the  great  man  to  see.  Come  along.  \^He  drags  her 
to  the  tahle^  she  half  laughing^  half  hesitating.  He  takes  two 
pieces  of  paper  and  gives  her  one^  keeping  the  other  himself^ 

ASPASIA 

I  really  don't  know  what  to  say. 

ALCIBIADES 

Oh,  anything  will  do.  Have  you  got  your  fountain 
pen  ?  All  right,  fire  away.  When  you've  finished  lend 
the  pen  to  me.  \IIe  strolls  away^  humming  to  himself  She 
pausesy  writes  .  .  .  and  turns  the  paper  face  downwards."] 

ASPASIA 

Here  is  the  pen.  [He  comes  hacky  writes,  and  turns  his 
paper  down.] 

ALCIBIADES 

All  right  !     Now  let's  see  what  we've  written. 


PERICLES  AND  ASP  ASIA  273 

ASPASIA 

\Reads  out.]  "  Alcibiades  has  gone  to  talk  philosophy 
with  Socrates." 

ALCIBIADES 

[Reads  out.]  "  Aspasia  has  gone  to  lecture  on  Women's 
Suffrage  at  the  Lyceum."  Hooray  !  That's  capital. 
Come  along  !  [He  seizes  her  hand  and  the  two  go  laughing 
to  the  door  like  a  couple  ofschool-children.  At  the  door  Aspasia 
pauses.] 

ASPASIA 

I  say,  Alcy,  you'll  promise  not  to  repeat  the  etcetera  ? 

ALCIBIADES 

Honour  bright,  Spasy  ! 

[They  go  out  laughing^  leaving  the  electric  light 
burning.  After  a  pause  Pericles  comes  slowly 
in.  He  looks  round  the  room^  and  seems  surprised 
at  seeing  no  one  there.  Then  he  goes  to  the 
table  and  sees  the  two  placards^  reads  them  to 
himself  nodding  his  head.] 

PERICLES 

Yes,  they  are  good,  studious  children,  and  I  am  proud 
of  them.  [Looks  round.]  But  they  need  not  have  left 
the  electric  light  on.  Dear,  dear,  how  extravagant 
children  are  !  Sad  lack  of  the  economical  habit.  .  .  . 
[He  carefully  puts  the  light  out,  then  with  a  sigh.]  Well,  I 
suppose  I  must  finish  my  speech  myself.  [Sits  down  and 
begins  to  arrange  his  papers.] 

VOICE    OF   WIFE   OUTSIDE 

Pericles,  are  you  there  ? 

PERICLES 

Yes,  my  love. 

VOICE 

Do  you  think  you  can  dine  at  the  club  to-night  ?  There 
will  be  no  dinner  at  home,  you  know,  because  the  cook 
has  gone.  I  hope  you  won't  mind.  I  am  dining  out  my- 
self.    [Foice  slowly  dies  away  in  the  distance.] 

T 


2  74  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

PERICLES 

Oh,  Socrates,  Socrates  !  Was  your  Xanthippe  like 
this  ?  [Sighs  deeply.  Then  turns  over  his  papers^  and 
begins,']  Let  me  see — let  me  see — "  Every  Athenian,  while 
he  engages  in  political  life,  loves  to  keep  his  house  in 
order."  "  His  house  in  order  " — that,  I  think,  is  an  original 
phrase.  I  will  suggest  it  to  Sophocles  for  a  new  play.  .  ,  . 
um  .  .  .  um  ...  I  think  I  had  finished  that  passage.  [  Turns 
over  papers,] 

[Writes.]  "  For  the  man  who  is  master  of  himself  is 
master  of  the  world."  [Repeats.]  Master  of  the  world  ! 
[TVith  a  whimsical  sigh  as  he  bends  over  his  writing,] 


Curtain, 


I 


ON   THE    SIDE    OF   THE 
ANGELS 


DRAMJriS   PERSONS 

Major  Ralph  Hawstorne. 
Dr.  Tom  Raleigh. 
Hon.  Guy  Daneborough. 
Hon.  and  Rev.  Charles  Hargreaves. 
Lord  Vivian  Rodney. 
Mr.  Robert  Tidman. 
Mr.  Ray  Luneville. 
Tommy,  crippled  boy. 
Jarvis. 
Harvey. 

Grace  Mayhew. 

Lady  (Enid)   Rolleston,  a  widow,  sister  to  Hon.  Guy  Dane- 
borough. 
Mrs.  Mayhew,  Grace's  Mother. 
Lady  Daneborough,  Guy's  Mother. 
Mrs.  Hargreaves. 
Miss  Angela  Crompton. 


ACT   I 

In  Mrs.  Mayhew's  Cottage.     (Afternoon.) 

ACT   II 
At  Lady  Rolleston's.     (Late  afternoon.) 

ACT   III 
The  Same.     (Evening.) 

ACT   IV 

In  Mrs.  Mayhew's  Cottage.     (Morning.) 

*^*  This    play    was    produced    by   "  The    Pioneers "    at    the    Royalty 
Theatre,  Dec.   i6,   1906. 


ON    THE    SIDE    OF    THE 
ANGELS 

ACT  I 

Scene. — Room  in  Mrs.  Mayhew's  cottage  at  Wootton-le-    Act  I 
Hay^  Wharvedale^  Yorkshire,     Broad  window^  leading 
out    to   rustic  garden    (c),    bright    with  flowers   and 
sunshine.     Door  L. 

MRS.  MAYHEW 
\Old^  pleasant-looking^  p-devant  nurse,  enters  bringing  in 
Lady  Rolleston.]  Yes,  Madam.  [Looking  at  card,] 
My  Lady,  I  should  say.  I  will  tell  Major  Hawstorne  you 
are  here.  He  is  out  in  the  garden,  I  think,  or  gone  down 
to  the  village. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[Fashionably  dressed  lady  of  the  world.]  Out  of  doors  ? 
Why,  I  thought  he  was  very  ill.     He  has  been  ill,  has  he 
not  ? 

MRS.  MAYHEW 
[Smiling.]  Not  very  ill.  He  has  had  the  influenza — 
for  the  sixth  time,  I  think  it  is.  He  was  always  a  terrible 
boy  for  catching  cold.  [Lady  Rolleston  looks  surprised.] 
I  ought  to  know,  for  I  nursed  him  when  he  was  a  baby. 
A  terrible  lad  for  catching  cold.  I  used  to  say  to  his 
mother,  a  lad  you  will  always  have  to  preach  flannel  to — 
Jaegers,  for  choice.  "  Old  Flannels,"  he  used  to  call  me. 
But,  lor'  bless  him  !  he  never  would  wear  no  flannel,  when 
he  com'd  to  be  a  man.  He  said  that  it  was  all  very  well 
for   England,  but  it  didn't  do  for  India.     It  was  them 

277 


278  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I    linen  shirts  that  have  been  the  ruin  of  his  health — canvas 
shirts  and  white  ducks,  and  nothing  warm  next  his  heart ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

You  seem  to  be  very  well  acquainted  with  Major 
Hawstorne's  physical  health. 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

Yes,  Madam — my  Lady,  I  should  say — I  have  known 
him  on  and  ofF  for  thirty-six  years  come  next  Michaelmas. 
I  was  in  the  service  of  his  mother  ;  a  pretty,  nice,  delicate 
woman  she  was,  always  ailing  a  bit,  never  what  I  might 
call  breezy  and  spry.     Oh,  I  remember  the  time 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Yes,  yes.  I  made  Major  Hawstorne's  acquaintance  in 
India.  He  was  never  very  strong.  I  only  heard  the 
other  day  that  he  was  here.  I  live  not  far  off,  about 
twenty  miles  away,  at  Ottley-St.-Mary,  How  does  he 
come  to  be  here  ? 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

Well,  my  Lady,  it  is  like  this.  He  was  in  London,  and 
going  the  pace,  from  all  I  can  hear — he  was  always  light- 
hearted.  Master  Ralph — and  then  he  gets  the  influenza. 
They  are  always  having  the  influenza  in  London,  they 
tell  me.  It  comes  regular,  like  the  fogs  and  the  showers 
of  blacks  and  the  Rates  and  Taxes  and  the  road-repairs. 
"The  streets  are  all  up,"  writes  Master  Ralph  to  me, 
"  and  I've  got  the  influenza  again,  so,  as  the  doctors  tell 
me  to  go  down  into  the  country,  I  am  going  to  ask  you 
to  put  me  up.  If  any  one  can  cure  me,  it's  you,  dear  old 
Flannels." — That's  what  he  calls  me,  and  I  hadn't  seen 
him  since  he  went  out  to  India  with  his  regiment,  and  I 
wrote  to  him  to  come  here  at  once,  and  I'd  cure  him. 
He  was  a  poor,  battered-looking  thing  when  he  arrived. 
"  Whatever  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself.  Master 
Ralph  ? "  says  I.  "  Don't  know,"  he  says,  "  nothing 
more  than  usual.  Suppose  I  want  a  change  of  air.'* 
"  Change  of  air  \ "     I  tells  him,  "  it's  change  of  habits 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       279 

and  change  of  life  you  want."    Was  he  often  ill  in  India,    Act  I 
my  Lady  ? " 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Oh,  he  had  jungle  fever  and  touches  of  ague  pretty 
constantly,  I  fancy.     He  was  not  very  careful  of  himself. 

MRS.    MAYHEW 
Careful   of   himself  ?     No,   he   has   never   been   that. 
That's  what  his  father  has  done   for  him,   ay,  and   his 
grandfather  before  him. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[Afore  interestea  than  she  pretends  to  be,^  Does  he  come 
of  a  bad  or  a  delicate  stock  ? 

MRS.  MAYHEW 
Well,  I  wouldn't  say  that  exactly.  The  Hawstornes 
always  held  their  heads  high  in  Yorkshire.  But  the 
grandfather  was  very  free  with  his  money,  they  tell  me, 
drank  more  than  was  good  for  him,  spent  all  he  got, 
wasted  his  own  and  his  wife's  income,  and  died  young. 
The  father — Ralph  Hawstorne's  father — was  a  cold,  hard 
man,  whom  no  one  seemed  to  understand,  least  of  all  his 
wife.  He  made  a  good  bit  of  money,  and  he  certainly 
never  spent  more  than  he  could  help  upon  his  family  ! 
But  when  he  came  to  die  they  found  that  he  had  been 
keeping  up  more  than  one  establishment,  and  that  he  had 
left  the  greater  part  of  his  money  away  to  a  foreign  lady. 
My  poor  mistress,  it  fairly  broke  her  heart,  and  she  died 
not  long  after  him.  So  you  see.  Master  Ralph  is  not 
likely  to  be  very  careful  about  himself — what  with  the 
drinking  habits  of  his  grandfather,  and  the  bad,  licentious 
ways  of  his  father.  But  he  is  the  best  of  the  three,  I 
reckon — a  free,  generous  nature,  and  a  good  lad,  if  only 
he  would  think  a  little  about  his  health,  and,  as  I  say, 
wear  flannel  next  his  heart  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  my 
Lady,  I  talk  too  much. 


28o  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  LADY    ROLLESTON 

Oh  no,  you  interest  me  greatly.  I  took  a  great  fancy 
to  Major  Hawstorne  in  India.  Has  he  gone  down  to 
the  village,  do  you  say  ? 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

Yes,  he  went  out  with  my  daughter  about  half-an-hour 
ago. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Your  daughter  ?     Is  this  your  daughter  ?     \Taking  up 
a  photograph  from    the    table.     Mrs.    Mayhew    assents. '\ 
Oh,  I  see.      \After    a  pause^  smiles.]      My    dear   Mrs. — 
Mrs. ? 

MRS.    MAYHEW 
Mayhew,  my  Lady. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Mrs  Mayhew,  I  think  you  are  quite  right  to  make  him 
wear  flannel  next  his  heart — or  perhaps  I  should  say 
[pointing  to  photo]  Mile.  Flannelette  !  Well,  please  give 
Major  Hawstorne  my  card.  I  shall  come  back  again 
presently,  if  you  will  allow  me.  Or  perhaps  I  shall  meet 
Major  Hawstorne  in  the  village.  I  am  going  in  my 
motor  to  meet  my  brother.  Will  you  give  him  my  card  ? 
I  think  he  may  like  to  see  me. 

MRS.  MAYHEW 
[Curtsying.]  Yes,  ma'am — yes,  my  Lady,  certainly. 
This  way,  please.  [Shows  her  out  by  door  l.  After  a 
pause  enters  by  window  at  c.  Grace  Mayhew,  a  simple^ 
fresh-looking  country  girl^  very  sweet  and  pretty^  with  a  lot 
of  flowers  in  her  hands.] 

GRACE 
Mother — mother — where  is  she  ?    [Re-enter  Mrs.  May- 
hew at  L.]     Oh,  mother,  who  is  the  fine  lady  who  has 
been  here  ?     I  saw  a  motor  at  the  gate. 

MRS.    MAYHEW 
I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  much  care.     Oh,  here  is  her 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       281 

card — Lady  RoUeston.  Says  she  knew  Master  Ralph  in  Act  I 
India,  and  is  much  interested  in  him.  But  I  must  say  I 
didn't  take  to  her.  She  has  an  ofF-hand,  stand-out-of- 
my-sunlight  kind  of  way,  which  makes  me  cross.  A 
beautifully  dressed  woman  of  the  world,  I  suppose.  I 
know  the  sort.     No  manners  and  no  heart. 

GRACE 
India  ?  Oh,  I  see.  Perhaps  she  met  him  at  Simla. 
Perhaps  she  is  first  cousin  to  Mrs.  Hawksbee.  Oh,  I 
forgot,  mother,  you  have  not  read  "  Plain  Tales  from  the 
Hills."  Nor  had  I,  till  Ralph — Major  Hawstorne — gave 
me  Rudyard  Kipling's  novels. 

MRS.    MAYHEW 
I  don't  quite  understand  her  either.     She  called  you 
Mile.  Flannelette,  by  the  bye.     What  did  she  mean  by 
that  ? 

GRACE 
[Laughing.']    Oh,    if    you    are    Madame    Flannels,    I 
suppose   I    am    Mile.    Flannelette.      Never    mind    her. 
She  has  gone. 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

Yes,  but  she  is  coming  back.     She  said  she  thought 
Master  Ralph  would  like  to  see  her. 

GRACE 
[Disappointed,]   Oh  ! 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

Where  is  Master  Ralph  ? 

GRACE 
He  is  close  behind  me,  I  think.  He  stopped  to  give 
sweetmeats  to  the  children  in  the  village — and  to  help 
the  little  lame  boy  in  some  trouble  or  other.  I  think 
some  bigger  boys  were  bullying  him.  You  know  how 
fond  he  is  of  children. 


282  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

^C'  I  MRS.    MAYHEW 

So  he  is,  bless  his  heart !  He  ought  to  have  some 
child  of  his  own  to  love  some  day.  [Grace  looks  away.] 
But  I  hope  he  has  not  gone  too  far.  He  might  easily  get 
a  touch  of  sun  after  being  laid  up  indoors. 

GRACE 
[Looking  off?^  Oh,  there  he  comes — followed   by  the 
children  as  usual. 


Enter  Ralph  Hawstorne  hy  the  window.  He  has  a  small 
crippled  hoy  in  his  arms^  and  turns  round  to  children 
outside  window, 

HAWSTORNE 
There — youVe  got  my  very  last  sweetmeat.  Be  ofF 
with  you.  Run  away  and  play.  [Turning  round  /(jMrs. 
Mayhew.]  Aha,  dear  old  Mother  Flannels,  here's  a  little 
patient  for  you.  Some  horrid  big  boys  were  throwing 
stones  in  the  road,  and  our  poor  little  friend  here  got  his 
leg  in  the  way — what,  wasn't  it  your  leg  ?  Well,  your 
body,  then,  or  your  poor  back,  or  something.  Anyhow, 
it  hurted  very  much,  didn't  it  ?  And  so  I  told  him  that 
I  would  just  take  him  back  to  Mother  Flannels,  and  she 
would  put  it  all  right  for  him.  Poor  little  man  !  There 
— gently — better  already,  isn't  it  ?  Take  him  away, 
Flannels  dear,  and  be  a  mother  to  him  !  [Gives  the  boy 
to  Mrs.  Mayhew.] 

MRS.    mayhew 

Ah,  Master  Ralph,  you've  got  a  wonderful  way  with 
children — a  real  good  heart,  I'm  thinking. 

hawstorne 
Have  I  ?  A  really  good  heart  ?  Well — I  wonder. 
Oh,  by  the  bye,  Mrs.  Mayhew,  you  have  not  seen  my 
ring  anywhere,  have  you  ?  I  miss  it  from  my  finger. 
It's  probably  in  my  bedroom.  Anyhow,  have  a  iQok  for 
it,  there's  a  dear  ! 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       283 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

What,  that  wonderful  ring  with  the  three  stones  you 
set  such  a  store  by  ?     Dear,  oh  dear  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

Only  two  stones  in  it  now,  Mrs.  Mayhew  !  You 
know  I've  managed  to  lose  one.  Anyhow,  I  don't  want 
to  lose  the  whole  ring.  I  do  value  it  very  much  indeed. 
You're  sure  to  find  it.  Have  a  good  look.  Good-bye, 
little  man.  [Cripple  tries  to  speak.']  No,  no,  don't  talk 
any  more.  Mother  Flannels  will  soon  put  you  all  right. 
[Mrs.  Mayhew  and  the  little  boy  go  out  l. 

HAWSTORNE 
[Coming  down^  musingly.']     A  good  heart.     She  says  I 
have  a  good  heart.     Grace  dear,  have  I  a  good  heart  ? 
You  ought  to  know, 

GRACE 
Oh,   don't   ask   me,    Ralph.      You   know   what   my 
answer  will  be. 

HAWSTORNE 
Yes,  but  I  meant  a  good  heart,  not  a  loving  heart. 
They  are  not  the  same  thing,  I  fear. 

GRACE 
Are  they  not  ?     They  are  the  same  thing  to  me.     I 
cannot  imagine  love  without  goodness,  or  goodness  without 
love. 

HAWSTORNE 
My  poor  little  child,  it  is  very  clear  that  you  don't 
know  much  about  the  world.  Why,  about  one  in  every 
thousand  of  the  people  in  this  over-populated  world  is — 
perhaps — good  ;  but  the  remaining  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  can  all  love — after  their  fashion  ! 

GRACE 

Oh,  love  after  their  fashion  !     I  didn't  mean  love ;  I 
meant  LOVE  ! 


Act! 


284  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  HAWSTORNE 

Love  in  capital  letters,  eh  ?  Well,  I'm  very  fond  of 
you,  little  vi^oman,  and  that's  the  end  of  it.  And  you're 
the  sweetest  little  friend  I've  ever  met — or  likely  to  meet, 
more's  the  pity  !  Heigh-ho,  I  vi^ish  all  our  jolly  time 
was  coming  over  again,  don't  you  ? 

GRACE 

Why? 

HAWSTORNE 

Because  the  beginnings  of  things  are  so  sweet. 

GRACE 

And  don't  they  go  on  being  sweet  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

H'm,  I  don't  know.  You  see,  all  kinds  of  horrid 
irrelevant  circumstances  come  in  after  a  time  and  spoil 
the  first  fine  careless  rapture.  There  are  one's  friends 
and  relations,  for  instance.  I'd  back  friends  and  relations 
to  spoil  any  dream,  however  sweet.  And  then  there's 
the  necessity  for  a  change,  the  going  back  to  one's  normal 
existence,  the  taking-up  of  the  burden  of  one's  workaday 
life  once  more.  You  know  the  dew  goes  off  the  grass 
when  the  stupid,  commonplace  sun  begins  to  get  hot,  and 
all  the  shadows  grow  hard  and  black,  and  there's  no  mist, 
no  atmosphere,  no  mystery  left  ! 

GRACE 

Ah,  that's  just  where  men  differ  from  women.  Women 
are  always  looking  forward,  and  men  are  generally  look- 
ing back.  Women  take  their  poetry  with  them  into  the 
midday  heat,  and  men  like  to  keep  it  solely  for  the  early 
morning — before  the  work  begins  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

You're  a  very  wise  little  woman,  Gracie,  and  I  dare 
say  you're  right.  Come  here,  dear,  and  sit  down.  We 
will  keep  the  dew  on  the  grass  as  long  as  we  can,  won't 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       285 

we  ?     I'm  a  little  gloomy  to-day.     \He  takes  out  cigar-    Act  I 
case  and  opens  it  abstractedly,'] 

GRACE 

What  an  odd  cigar-case  !  What  do  you  keep  in  it  ? 
These  are  not  cigarettes,  are  they  ?  [  Takes  out  cocaine 
injections.'] 

HAWSTORNE 

No,  no,  but  they  do  just  as  well  as  cigarettes.  {With 
an  uneasy  laugh.']  I  have  to  use  these  things  for  my 
nerves.     You  know  how  influenza  pulls  one  down. 

GRACE 

And  ought  you  to  take  them  ?    Does  the  doctor  know  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes,  Raleigh  knows  all  right.  In  fact,  he — he — 
ordered  them.  [Putting  case  down  on  table.]  I  wish  I 
did  not  feel  so  gloomy.  If  I  was  really  superstitious — 
I  should  think  that  something  was  going  to  happen.  I 
suppose  it  is  the  loss  of  that  ring  which  has  upset  me. 

GRACE 

And  you  say  you're  not  superstitious  !  Tell  me,  dear^ 
why  you  value  the  ring  so  much — you  promised  to  tell 
me  some  time. 

HAWSTORNE 

No,  not  to-day. 

GRACE 

Yes,  to-day — now.  If  something  is  going  to  happen, 
if  you — you — have  to  go  away  from  me — and  I  cannot 
think  what  worse  thing  can  happen — will  you  not  please 
tell  me — ^just  for  once  ?     It's  not  much  to  ask,  is  it  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes  and  no.  If  that  stone  had  not  tumbled  out,  it 
would  be  easier  to  tell  you. 

GRACE 

Ah — please — please. 


286  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

-^^^  ^  HAWSTORNE 

Very  well,  only  don't  blame  me  afterwards.     Promise 
you  won't  blame  me. 

GRACE 

Of  course  I  promise.     Why  should  I  blame  you  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
It  was  at  Benares,  when  I  was  in  India  soldiering.  I 
remember  that  I  had  been  having  rather  a  rackety  time 
for  several  months — what  with  pig-sticking  and  polo  and 
card-playing  and  dances — and — and  flirtations  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  You  don't  know  the  kind  of  life  a 
soldier  lives  there.  A  good  deal  of  it  is  beer  and  skittles, 
I  can  assure  you.  Don't  look  so  serious,  little  girl,  or  I 
shall  never  get  on  with  my  story.  Well,  a  mahunt,  that 
is  a  kind  of  priest,  not  very  high-class,  but  a  good  deal 
better  than  a  fakir,  took  rather  a  fancy  to  me.  Heaven 
knows  why  !  I  suppose  I  had  done  him  some  act  of 
kindness — nothing  romantic.  I  believe  I  was  kind  to  his 
adopted  son,  and  I  got  him  some  medicines  which  enabled 
him  to  win  a  wholly  fictitious  reputation  for  wonderful 
cures.  This  mahunt  asked  me  to  come  and  see  him, 
that  I  might  choose  whatever  I  liked  out  of  his  collection 
of  sacred  trifles — amulets  and  relics,  and  so  on.  He  was 
a  queer-looking  devil,  and  his  eyes  didn't  both  look  the 
same  way  ;  one  of  them  was  green  and  the  other  had  a 
yellowish  tint,  so  far  as  I  recollect.  Not  the  most  com- 
panionable fellow  to  have  an  intimacy  with.  What's  the 
matter,  Gracie  ? 

GRACE 
Nothing,  only  [nestling  closer  to  him]  you  rather  frighten 
me  sometimes. 

HAWSTORNE 

Well,  this  beggar   rather  frightened  me,  I  think.     He 

looked    me  through  and  through,  and  said  in   his  own 

lingo  that  I  was  bound  to  come  to  a  bad  end — at  least, 

that  was  what  I  made  out  of  his  grumblings  and  incanta- 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       287 

tions.  And  when  from  his  store  of  odds  and  ends  I  Act  I 
chose  a  ring,  he  shook  his  head  in  the  most  solemn  fashion, 
and  asked  me  to  select  anything  else  in  his  possession  and 
leave  that  alone.  You  know  what  an  obstinate  chap  I 
am,  when  I  have  once  set  my  mind  on  a  thing,  don't 
you,  Gracie  ?  Well,  the  more  he  warned  me  off  the 
ring,  the  more  determined  I  was  to  have  that  and  no 
other.     Do  you  remember  the  ring  ? 

GRACE 
Of  course.  Three  queer-looking  opals  set  in  some 
beautifully  worked  old  gold — filigree  work,  do  you  call 
it  ?  Anyhow,  there  was  an  inscription  inside — wasn't  it 
Sanskrit,  you  told  me  ? — and  the  opals  looked  positively 
alive  !  They  were  always  changing  their  colour  in 
different  lights,  and  sometimes  they  looked  quite  angry  ! 
Oh,  but  there  are  only  two  now — one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  them,  full  of  changing,  iridescent  hues,  is  gone  ! 

HAWSTORNE 
What  a  romantic  little  puss  you  are  !  Almost  as 
mystical  as  my  friend,  the  mahunt.  When  he  saw  that 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  have  the  ring  he  told  me  a 
long  rigmarole  as  to  how  a  Brahmin  had  given  it  to  him, 
and  that  originally  the  ring  came  from  Tibet,  or  some- 
where. Then  he  read  the  inscription.  "  What  will  be, 
must  be.  To  desire,  to  possess,  to  know — this  is  the 
sum  of  human  wisdom  and  human  folly."  That  did  not 
tell  one  much,  did  it  ?  But  you  should  have  heard  my 
friend  preach  on  this  theme  !  "  My  son,"  he  said,  "  if  this 
ring  is  yours,  then  know  that  it  is  the  ring  of  your  fate. 
It  will  grant  you  much  that  you  wish,  but  each  wish, 
when  granted,  will  take  something  away  from  its  value. 
It  will  become  part  of  your  life,  it  will  live  as  you  live,  it 
will  die  as  you  die.  It  is  the  mirror  of  your  soul,  a  con- 
science that  rebukes,  a  god  who  condemns.  Look  at  it, 
if  you  would  know  what  you  are  and  where  you  are. 
Its  message  is  easy  to  learn,  but  what  is  lost  of  it  can 
never  be  regained."     And  a  lot  more  of  the  same  kind  of 


288  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  talk,  very  impressive  and  serious — and  rather  alarming,  I 
remember,  at  the  time  that  it  w^as  uttered.  But  you  see 
v^rhy,  although  I  am  not  really  superstitious,  I  don't  v^^ant 
it  mislaid.  I  miss  it  so  much.  It  is  a  kind  of  companion, 
or  judge,  or  critic,  perhaps,  of  my  existence. 

GRACE 

[Who  has  got  up  and  looks  really  alarmed.l  Oh,  Ralph  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

What  is  it,  dear  ?  Why  have  you  gone  so  far  from 
me  ? 

GRACE 

Oh,  don't  you  see,  don't  you  see  ?     Oh,  it's  terrible  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

There  now,  I  told  you  that  I  didn't  want  you  to  know 
the  story.     It's  your  fault ;  you  made  me  tell  you. 

GRACE 

But  the  stone  that  is  lost,  the  stone  that  is  lost ! 

HAWSTORNE 

Well,  what  of  it  ?     It's  gone,  and  it  can't  be  helped. 

GRACE 

Yes,  but  do  you  remember  when  it  was  lost  ?  Do  you 
remember  that  it  was  missing  after  that  night,  when — 
when [She  breaks  down^  and  begins  to  sob^ 

HAWSTORNE 

That  night  when  you — yes,  by  Jove,  you're  right ! 

GRACE 

And  don't  you  see  what  it  means  ?  It  is  a  bit  of  your 
life  gone.  That  is  the  punishment  of  us  two,  for  what 
we  have  done  !     Oh,  oh  !     [She  sobs?[ 

HAWSTORNE 

[Musingly,]  To  desire,  to  possess,  to  know — yes 
[aside\  and  now  I  no  longer  desire.  It's  deuced  odd  ! 
[Aloud.l  Well,  what's  done  can't  be  mended.  What 
will  be,  must  be.  Come,  come,  little  woman,  don't  fret. 
It's  all  right.     Come  here  and  kiss  me. 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       289 

GRACE 

Oh,  but  Ralph \^he  comes  over  and  sinks  into  his 

arms.] 

HAWSTORNE 

Well,  it's  a  bit  of  my  life  gone,  as  you  say.  But  don't 
you  think  it  is  worth  it,  when  you  have  given  me  yours  ? 
Eh,  Gracie  ?  You  see,  you  make  up  for  it.  By  Jove,  I 
should  think  you  did  !  [He  pets  her,  and  her  sobs  gradually 
subside.]  Cheer  up,  childie.  Remember,  you  promised 
not  to  blame  me,  didn't  you  ? 

GRACE 

Oh,  I  don't  blame  you,  dear,  only  somehow  all  the  joy 
and  the  fresh  young  happiness  seem  to  have  gone  out 
of  our  lives.  Tell  me  that  they  have  not  gone,  Ralph  ; 
I  can't  bear  to  think  they  have.  They  will  come  again, 
won't  they  ?  It  is  not  only  the  beginnings  of  things  that 
are  sweet  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

The  love  remains,  Gracie. 

GRACE 

Yes — yes.  Talk  to  me  about  it.  I  want  to  feel  that 
the  love  remains — that  it  is  all  round  us  and  will  not  go 
away. 

HAWSTORNE 

[Folding  her  in  his  arms.]  Of  course  love  will  remain, 
and  even  if  I  go  away 

GRACE 

Are  you  going  away  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

I  may  have  to.  I  have  got  my  life  to  lead,  remember. 
But  I  shall  come  back,  little  woman  ;  I  shall  come  back, 
to  claim  you  as  my  very  own. 

GRACE 

[Dreamily.]   You  will    come    back,  and  the  dew  will 

u 


Act  I 


290  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I    be  on  the  grass — and  we  will  find  the  ring  again,  and  no 
more  stones  shall  be  lost  out  of  it. 


Enter  Mrs.  Mayhew.      They  start  apart, 

MRS.  MAYHEW 

Master  Ralph — Major  Hawstorne,  I  beg  your  pardon. 

HAWSTORNE 

Oh,  bother  Major  Hawstorne  !  What  is  it.  Flannels 
dear  ? 

MRS.   MAYHEW 

It  is  a  lady  to  see  you — Lady  Rolleston  is  her   name. 

[Looking  at  card.] 

HAWSTORNE 

Lady  Rolleston  ?  What  in  Heaven's  name  is  she 
here  for  ? 

GRACE 

Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Mother  says  that  a  lady 
called  while  we — while  you — were  in  the  village,  left 
her  card,  and  said  that  she  would  call  again. 

HAWSTORNE 

[Pettishly.]  Why  the  devil  couldn't  you  say  that  I  had 
gone  away,  or  was  dead,  or  something  ? 

MRS.  MAYHEW 

She  is  waiting  outside.  Master  Ralph. 

HAWSTORNE 

Oh,  I  suppose  I  must  see  her.  Show  her  in.  Run 
away,  Grace,  and  look  for  my  ring. 

MRS.  MAYHEW 

We  will  both  look  for  your  ring. 

[Grace  runs  out  by  window  c,  Mrs.  Mayhew 
goes  to  door  L.,  and  after  a  moment's  pause 
ushers  in  Lady  Rolleston. 


ON  THE  SIDE  OE  THE  ANGELS       291 

MRS.    MAYHEW  Act  I 

Lady  Rolleston,  please,  sir.  \^he  goes  out.  There  h  a 
pause.^ 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Jdvancing.]  Well,  Ralph,  aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

My  dear  Lady  Rolleston,  every  one  is  glad  to  see  you, 
always.  .  .  .  You  bring  with  you  "the  full  effulgence 
of  summer,"  as  your  friend,  the  Simla  poet,  used  to  say. 
By  the  way,  how  is  that  idiot — I  beg  pardon,  that  dis- 
tinguished versifier — Ray  Luneville  ?  And  how,  by  all 
that's  wonderful,  do  I  see  you  in  Mrs.  Mayhew's  cottage 
in  this  out-of-the-way  spot  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

You  forget  that  I  come  from  Yorkshire,  and  that  my 
brother  Guy  happens  to  have  his  shooting-box  only  five 
miles  from  here.  I  hope  to  induce  you  to  come  and  visit 
us  for  the  I2th.  Guy  has  some  capital  shooting  on 
the  moors. 

HAWSTORNE 

Oh,  delighted,  I'm  sure — that  is — well,  I  don't  know 
if  I  can 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Yes,  you  can  if  you  try.  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with 
you,  Ralph.  What  is  the  matter  ?  You  never  used  to 
be  so  fidgety  and  gauche.  You  can't  treat  me  altogether 
like  a  stranger,  can  you  ?     Come,  think,  am  I  a  stranger  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

No,  Enid,  Heaven  knows  you  are  no  stranger  to  me, 
nor  I  to  you.  But  time  passes,  as  you  are  aware,  and 
circumstances  change 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

And  men  alter,  of  course.  It  used  to  be  said  that 
changeability  was  the  characteristic  of  woman.  How 
false  that  is  !     It  is  very  difficult  for  a  woman  to  change, 


292  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I    while  men Why,  a  man  is  a  different  being  when 

he  is  in  tweeds  from  what  he  is  in  a  dress  suit. 
He  is  practical  in  the  morning,  desperately  athletic  during 
the  afternoon,  and  romantic  after  dinner.  He  makes 
love  to  you  in  a  white  tie,  and  he  simply  ignores  your 
existence  when  he  has  got  on  his  shooting-boots  ! 

HAWSTORNE 
[Z)r//y.]  Did  you  come  here  to  tell  me  this  ? 

LADY   ROLLESTON 

No,  I  want  you  to  come  and  see  me  at  Ottley-St.- 
Mary.  You  will,  won't  you  ?  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
am  more  than  a  little  bored,  and  I  want  some  distraction. 

HAWSTORNE 
And  do  you  think  that  I  can  represent  this  amiable 
rUe  of  distractor  ?     You  pay  me  too  great  a  compliment  ! 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
Well — soy ons  f ranches.  You  remember  how  you  found 
me  at  that  hill  station  in  India  ?  I  was  wrongly  placed, 
somehow.  I  don't  think  that  it  was  altogether  my  fault, 
but  I  seemed  to  be  depaysee^  to  be  out  of  touch  with  my 
surroundings — at  war  with  my  environment.  I  was 
listless,  moody,  unnerved.  You  came  and  made  things 
better  for  me.  Oh,  I  don't  wish  to  flatter  you  !  You 
had  a  sunnier  temper  than  the  others,  and  a  wonderful 
gift  of — what  shall  I  call  it  ? — delicate  tact.  You  seemed 
to  understand  me  and  put  me  right.  We  had  long  talks 
together  then,  Ralph,  and  my  life  grew  to  be  happier 
through  your  companionship.  It  was  a  pity,  perhaps, 
that  our  friendship  did  not  remain  on  the  levels  of  the 
philosophical  and  the  Platonic — was  it  a  pity,  Ralph  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

That  is  not  for  me  to  say.  Plato's  mood  requires  a 
genius  to  sustain,  and  I  fear  I  am  not  a  genius. 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        293 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
\^milingi\  No — nor  am  I.  What  an  extraordinarily 
comfortable  doctrine  the  Platonic  friendship  is  !  How 
admirably  it  smooths  the  way  for  a  real  flirtation  !  I 
wonder  if  the  old  Greek  gentleman  was  a  cynic  or  a 
fool  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Plato  !  How  many  errors  have  been  committed  in 
thy  name  !  But  perhaps  he  was  neither  naif  nor 
hypocritical.  Perhaps  Platonic  love  is  a  later  doctrine, 
an  eighteenth-century  or  a  nineteenth-century  gloss — 
foisted  upon  his  real  theory.  I  think  I  remember  that 
some  ingenuous  student  declared  that  he  would  rather  be 
wrong  with  Plato  than  right  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 

•     LADY  ROLLESTON 
Well,  we  were  all  right  with  Plato — or  all  wrong  with 
him,  whichever  you  like.     But  it  was  a  splendid  time — 
a  time  to  look  back  upon  and  remember — a  sort  of  golden 
summer  full  of  sun  and  flowers  ! 

HAWSTORNE 
I   think  you  must  be  quoting  from  your  idiot  Simla 
poet,  aren't  you  ? 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
\Laughing^  Ah,  Ralph,  you  were  a  little   jealous  of 
my  poor  Ray  Luneville  !     Come,  confess.     Weren't  you 
a  little  jealous  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Had  I  any  cause  to  be  ? 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
[Suddenly  getting  serious,]  No,  Heaven  knows  you  had 
not.  I  loved  you,  Ralph — oh,  why  should  I  not  say  it 
out  ?  I  loved  you  with  all  my  heart.  Some  people  will 
tell  you  it  was  the  common  talk  at  Simla  that  I  had  no 
heart.     They  were  good  enough    to  call  me  beautiful, 


Act  I 


294  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  but  they  added  that  I  was  dangerous — gare  a  qui  la  touche  I 
Ralph,  I  don't  think  I  knew  that  I  had  a  heart  till  I 
saw  you.  Whatever  it  was  that  beat  in  my  heart — old 
memories  of  an  innocent  youth,  vague  dreams  of  some 
possible  happiness,  or,  it  might  be,  a  still  unforgotten 
reverence  for  an  ideal  of  goodness  and  confidence  and 
truth — woke  up  and  sprang  into  life  at  your  touch. 
When  you  first  put  your  arms  about  me,  when  you  first 
kissed  me,  then  I  knew  that  I  could  love.  What  else  is 
a  heart  but  this  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Well,  physiologists  say  that  a  heart  is  a  rather  hard- 
worked  pump,  which  sends  blood  down  the  arteries  and 
receives  it  back  again  through  the  veins. 

LADY  ROLLESTON 

Ah,  don't  chaft  me,  dear.  I  cannot  bear  it  to-day.  I 
have  got  back  to  the  old  mood,  when  everything 
and  everybody  used  to  bore  me — before  I  saw  you  first. 
Oh,  the  flat,  stale,  unprofitable  uses  of  life  !  How  dreary 
is  the  dawning  of  each  new  day  !  But  I  want  to  get  out 
of  this  desolate  mood.  I  want  the  knight  to  crash  his 
way  through  the  wood  and  cut  the  clinging  thorns,  and 
wake  the  Sleeping  Beauty.  I  want  you,  I  want  you  badly. 
Won't  you  come  to  me  ?  I  loved  you,  Ralph  ;  I  love 
you  still  !     [^She  goes  close  to  htm  and  stretches  out  her  hands.'\ 

Enter  Mrs.  Mayhew,  bringing  in  Guy  Daneborough. 

MRS.  mayhew 
I  beg  pardon,  sir,  but  Mr.  Guy  Daneborough  would 
like  to  see  you. 

Enter  Guy  Daneborough. 

GUY 
[Florid,  stout,  commonplace,  with  signs  on  his  face  of  hard 
drinking  and   hard   living.']   Ah,  Hawstorne,   glad  to  see 
you.     Sissie  said    you  were    here.     Sissie   wants  you  to 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        295 

come  to  us  for  the  shootin'.     Pretty  good  shootin'  I've    Act  I 
got.    D — — n  it,  it  costs  me  enough,  don't  it,  Sissie  ?     \^he 
winces  each  time  he  alludes  to  her.] 

HAWSTORNE 

Lady  Rolleston  has  been  good  enough  to  invite  me, 
Daneborough.  We  were  just  discussing  the  matter  when 
you  came. 

GUY 

Discussin'  ?     What's  the  good  of  discussin'  ?     D n 

it,  man,  come.  We  can  put  you  up  all  right.  Some 
capital  chaps  comin' — good  table,  good  drinks,  jolly 
company,  and  some  clinkin'  grouse  drives.     Eh,  Sissie  ? 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
I  have  been  telling  Major  Hawstorne  that  we  hope  to 
make  him  comfortable,  if  only  he  will  honour  us. 

GUY 

Hullo,  Sissie,  on  the  high  horse,  eh  ?  Don't  he  care 
for  our  society  ?  You  two  used  to  be  pretty  chummy  in 
the  old  days  up  on  the  hills.     What's  up  now  ? 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
Oh,  Major  Hawstorne  has  been  rather  ill,  and  he  is 
not  quite  sure  whether  he  is  sufficiently  recovered  to  pay 
visits. 

GUY 

[Half  to  himself.]  D d  silly  stilted  talk,   all  this! 

[Jioud.]  What's  been  the  matter,  Hawstorne  ?  Off 
your  feed  ?  Liver  wrong  ?  See  blacks  before  your  eyes 
in  the  mornin'  ?     Been  going  the  pace,  eh  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

I  have  been  stupidly  going  through  my  sixth  attack  of 
influenza.  That  is  why  I  am  living  in  this  cottage  with 
my  old  nurse,  Mrs.  Mayhew. 

GUY 

Influenza  ?     Silly  rot  !     Come  out  on  the  moors,  man, 


296  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  and  take  your  place  in  a  butt  and  watch  for  the  grouse 
to  come  flyin'  over  you  !  That's  the  best  remedy  for  all 
this  tommy  foolery  of  influenza  !  Sissie,  talk  to  him. 
Give  him  beans  if  he  gets  restive  1  If  any  one  can 
persuade  him,  you  can.  You  used  to  turn  him  round 
your  little  finger  ! 

LADY  ROLLESTON 

I  am  afraid  my  little  finger  has  got  out  of  vv^ork  lately. 

GUY 
Oh,  by  the  way,  there's  a  chap  outside  waitin'  to  see 
you.     Suppose   he's  the   doctor  chap.     Said   he   had   an 
appointment  with  you,  but  I  told  him  I  would  not  stay 
two  minutes.     Shall  I  call  him  in  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

If  Lady  RoUeston  will  permit  me. 

GUY 
Of  course  Sissie  will  let  you  see  your  doctor.  We'll 
hear  what  he  says.  If  he  has  got  any  brains — and  he'll 
be  an  exception  in  his  trade  if  he  has — he'll  advise  you  to 
come  to  us.  [Going  to  window  and  calling.^  Hi,  you  out 
there  !  Doctor,  aren't  you  ?  Well,  come  in  and  see 
your  patient.     We  all  want  your  advice. 

\By  the  window  enters  Dr.  Tom  Raleigh,  a 
young  man^  clear-eyed^  alert, 

HAWSTORNE 

Raleigh,  let  me  present  you  to  Lady  Rolleston  and  Mr. 
Guy  Daneborough — Dr.  Raleigh.  [Lady  Rolleston 
hows?^ 

GUY 

Oh,  we've  met  outside.  Go  ahead,  my  good  man  ; 
look  at  his  tongue,  feel  his  pulse,  and  just  give  him  a 
clean  bill  of  health  ! 

RALEIGH 
[Smiling,]  That's  easier  said    than  done,  Mr.   Dane- 
borough. 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF   THE  ANGELS       297 

GUY 

Good  Lord,  man,  it's  easy  enough.  Look  at  me.  1 
have  a  doctor  in  town  and  a  doctor  in  the  country.  When 
I  feel  out  of  sorts  in  London  I  go  to  my  man  in  Harley 
Street,  and  he  says,  "  Go  into  the  country,  Mr.  Guy. 
What  you  want  is  fresh  air,  early  to  bed,  and  lots  of 
exercise."  And  when  I  am  bored  with  the  country  I 
go  to  my  country  friend,  and  he  says,  "  What  you  want, 
Mr.  Guy,  is  a  little  excitement.  You  are  rather  dead-alive 
down  here.  Capital  tonic  is  excitement  !  Run  up  to  town 
and  enjoy  yourself  for  a  few  weeks.  You'll  be  all  the  better 
for  it."  That's  how  they  treat  me  ;  and  as  both  get 
their  guineas,  and  shove  all  responsibility  off  on  each 
other's  shoulders,  why,  they're  both  satisfied.  And  so  am 
I,  by  Gad  ! 

RALEIGH 

Charming  arrangement,  certainly.  But  then  you  are 
probably  an  exceptionally  healthy  man. 

GUY 

Of  course  I  am.  I  know  how  to  treat  myself.  Take 
a  blue  pill  sometimes.  If  one  don't  do,  then  take  a 
second.  Let  'em  fight  it  out  !  That's  my  way  !  Well, 
just  make  Hawstorne  trim  and  fit,  and  tell  him  to  come 
shootin'  with  me.  I'll  take  a  turn  round  the  garden, 
meanwhile.     Comin',  Sissie  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

I  shall  follow  you  in  a  moment  or  two. 

[Guy  goes  out  breezily. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

May  I  stay.  Dr.  Raleigh  ?  Or  do  you  wish  me  to  go  ? 
I  am  an  old  friend  of  Major  Hawstorne.  \^Looks  appealingly 
to  Hawstorne.] 

RALEIGH 

Well,  Lady  Rolleston,  I — [looks  also  to  Hawstorne]  I 
don't  suppose  that  I  shall  have  much  to  say  to  Major 
Hawstorne. 


Act  I 


298  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  HAWSTORNE 

Or  course,  Lady  Rolleston,  if  it  doesn't  bore  you — 
naturally,  I  am  flattered.  [^Looks  half-annoyed^  half- 
embarrassed^ 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
What  is  the  matter  with  him  ? 

RALEIGH 
Well,  the  pulse  is  better  this  morning.  I  think  he  is 
picking  up.  If,  as  I  understand,  you  are  an  old — er — 
acquaintance  of  his,  you  are  probably  aware  that  Major 
Hawstorne  is  not  constitutionally  strong — a  certain  ten- 
dency to  pulmonary  affection,  and  these  repeated  attacks 
of  influenza  are  weakening.  We  are  always  a  little 
afraid  about  the  lungs  after  influenza — especially  in  a  case 
like  this.  But  if  only  he  will  take  a  little  care  of  himself, 
he  will  be  all  right. 

HAWSTORNE 

I'm  afraid  I  never  was  one  to  take  care  of  myself, 
doctor  !     [Laughs.] 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
What  do  you  recommend  ? 

RALEIGH 
Oh,  Vm  afraid  I  can  only  give  the  usual  advice.  He 
must  avoid  excitement  and  late  hours,  and  lead  a  primi- 
tive, pastoral  sort  of  life.  His  nerves  are  a  little  out  of 
order.  Therefore  I  recommend  as  little  wine  and  spirits 
as  possible,  and  lots  of  sunshine.  I  wouldn't  drink  spirits 
at  all  if  I  were  you,  Hawstorne. 

HAWSTORNE 

Well,  Lady  Rolleston,  are  you  satisfied  with  the 
diagnosis  of  my  uninteresting  case  ? 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
[Disregarding  him,  and  turning  to  doctor.]    Don't  you 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       299 

think  it  would  do  him  good  to  come  and  stay  with  us,  at    Act  I 
our  shooting-lodge,  for  a  week  or  so  ? 

RALEIGH 
Oh — well — yes,  certainly.  If  he  does  not  stay  up  late 
smoking  at  night,  and  does  not  overdo  the  exercise.  He 
must  get  to  bed  early.  In  many  ways  [hesitating]  this 
vegetable  kind  of  existence  in  Mrs.  Mayhew's  cottage  is 
almost  ideal  for  him. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
[Eagerly.]  I  would  see  that  he  went  to  bed  early,  and 
I  would  do  my    best  to  look  after   him.     Wouldn't  I, 
Ralph  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
You  see,  doctor,  my  fate  is  taken  out  of  my  hands  ! 

RALEIGH 

[Smiles  rather  uneasily.]  In  that  case  I  have  nothing  to 
say.  I  will  look  in  again  to-morrow  morning,  or  later 
this  afternoon.  Good  morning,  Lady  RoUeston.  Good 
morning,  Major  Hawstorne.  By  the  way,  you  will  be 
careful  to  take  my  advice  on  every  point — on  everv  point, 
won't  you  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Oh  yes.     By  the  way,  doctor,  just  have  a  look  at  a 
boy  who  got  hurt  in  a  scrimmage  in  the  village,  will  you  ? 
You  will  find  him  in  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Mayhew. 

[Doctor  smiles,  bows,  and  goes  out  L. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

[Looks  triumphantly  at  Hawstorne.]   Well,  Ralph  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
[Indifferently.]  Well,  Enid  ? 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
You  see,  I  shall  get  my  way  ! 


Act  I 


300  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

HAWSTORNE 
Of  course.     You  usually  do.    It  is  your  most  charming 
and  most  dangerous  prerogative. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

I    assure   you,   I  exercise   it   with  ail    prudence    and 
caution. 

HAWSTORNE 

Since  when  ? 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
Oh,  since  this  morning  !     I  am  going  to  turn  over  a 
new  leaf  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

Another  ?  You  will  be  getting  to  the  end  of  the  book 
soon. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
Oh,  don't  spar  with   me.     I'm   too  happy  to    argue. 
You  are  coming  to  me  again,  that's  the  great  point.     I 
shall  see  you  again,  and  be  with  you  and  talk  to  you — 
just  like  the  old  time  ! 

HAWSTORNE 
Not  like  the  old  time  in  every  particular,  I  trust. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
Don't  be  silly.     Of  course  not  [coming  close  to  him  and 
taking  his  hand].     Ralph,  I  want  you  to   promise  .  .  . 
What  has   become  of  that  wonderful  ring  you  used  to 
wear  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Unfortunately,  I  have  mislaid  it — only  temporarily,  I 
hope.  It  is  very  annoying.  I  lost  one  stone  out  of  it 
the  other  day,  which  seems  to  have  gone  beyond  recall. 
And  now  the  whole  ring  has  disappeared. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

Are  the  people  in  the  cottage  honest  ? 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        301 

HAWSTORNE  Act  I 

As  honest  as  the  day.  Why,  they  are  probably  search- 
ing everywhere  for  the  ring  at  the  present  moment,  Mrs. 
May  hew  and  Grace 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

Grace  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes,  Grace — that  is  Miss  Mayhew. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
Oh,  the  beautiful  rustic  maiden.     Mile.  Flannelette. 

HAWSTORNE 
Why  do  you  call  her  by  that  name  ?    Oh,  I  see,  Mrs. 
Mayhew  is  old  Mother  Flannels.     I  did  not  know  that 
you  had  heard  me  call  her  so. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
Nor  have  I.     But  Mrs.   Mayhew  gave  me  at   great 
length  her  prescription  to  you  to  wear  flannel  next  your 
heart,  and  I  thought  that  the  daughter  might  possibly 
enter  into  the  treatment  as  Mile.  Flannelette  ! 

HAWSTORNE 
Don't  laugh  at  her,  Enid.     She  is  very  good  and  sweet, 
and  I  am  very  fond  of  her. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

Really  ?     Am  I  to  be  jealous  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Certainly,  if  you  like. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
Don't  be  so  ridiculous,  Ralph.      Why,  you  are  quite 
cross  !     Mayn't  I  say  a  word  against  your  rustic  divinity 
— not  even  in  fun  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Enid — no,  I  don't  think  you  would  understand. 


302  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

-A-Ct  I  LADY     ROLLESTON 

Well,  try  me.     I  am  not  supposed  to  be  quite  a  fool. 

HAWSTORNE 

I  wonder  if  I  can  explain.  You  know  me  pretty 
well,  or  at  all  events  you  did  know  a  good  deal  about  me 
in  India.  We  have  acted  in  private  theatricals  at  Simla, 
and  it  was  usually  my  stage  duty  to  make  love  to  you  .  .  . 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

You  did  it  very  well,  Ralph,  both  on  and  off  the  stage. 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes,  I  suppose  I  did.  And  I  lived  the  life  out  there 
to  the  full.  But  I  wonder  if  you  can  realize  that  one 
sometimes  gets  dead  sick  and  tired  of  that  sort  of  existence 
— all  spangles,  rouge-pot,  and  limelight — even  when  so 
splendid  and  so  materially  real  a  woman  as  you  is  thrown 
in  ?  And  since  I  have  been  here  I  can  confess  to  you 
that  I  have  been  a  bit  anxious  about  my  health,  and 
have  tried  hard  to  pull  up  in  time  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and 
see  things  differently.  I  am  afraid  I  am  very  clumsy 
and  stupid  in  explaining  what  I  mean. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
On    the  contrary — you   are  very  lucid,  my  dear.     I 
quite    grasp    what    is    in    your  ;  mind.     But    I    wonder 
whether  you  understand  yourself  and  your  own  nature. 

HAWSTORNE 
Why— don't  I  ? 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

Well,  let  me  put  it  to  you  in  this  way.  You  are  tired, 
we  will  say,  of  society,  and  a  bit  off  colour,  as  my  brother 
would  phrase  it  in  his  singularly  expressive  speech  ;  and 
you  think  that  nothing  is  so  good  as  simplicity,  curds  and 
whey,  haymaking,  blue  eyes,  virtue,  innocence,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it.  Very  well.  The  devil  was  sick,  the  devil 
a  monk  would  be.     But  how  long  would  it  take  you  to 


ON  THE  SIDE   OE  THE  ANGELS        303 

get  tired  of  Arcadia  ?  I  rather  think  that  curds  and  Act  I 
whey  would  rapidly  be  found  a  bilious  form  of  refresh- 
ment— that  haymaking  entails  the  companionship  of  dis- 
agreeable things  that  bite  and  sting — and  that  an  eternity 
even  of  blue  eyes  would  pall  on  a  fastidious  taste.  .  .  . 
The  devil  was  well,  the  devil  a  monk  was  he  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes,  but  how  about  purity,  innocence,  and  the  rest  of 
it? 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

Ah,  my  friend,  how  little  you  know  yourself !  Primi- 
tive virtues  require  primitive  natures,  not  temperaments 
like  yours  and  mine.  Do  you  remember  how  the  fine 
ladies  at  the  French  Court  admired  Watteau  and  tried  to 
be  shepherdesses  ?  It  was  merely  a  pose,  and  they  were 
just  the  same  artificial,  vain,  extravagant,  and  most  amorous 
ladies  all  the  time. 

HAWSTORNE 
{Moodily?^  And  is  my  life  here  at  this  cottage  a  mere 
pose  ? 

LADY     ROLLESTON 
No,  it's  a  contrast,  and  all  contrasts  have  their  piquancy. 
We  live  in  zig-zags,  most  of  us — action,  reaction  ;  pres« 
sure,  rest ;  excitement,  calm.     And  you,  poor  boy,  with 
your  keenly  nervous  organization,  more  than  most  of  us. 

HAWSTORNE 

You  are  very  worldly  wise,  Enid. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

You  are  a  big  baby,  Ralph.  That  is  half  your  charm. 
No  amount  of  experience  will  ever  prevent  you  from 
making  a  fool  of  yourself.  Please  forgive  my  frankness. 
I  have  become  a  philosopher  since  we  met. 

HAWSTORNE 

\Hentating^  I  dare  say  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself  down 
here. 


Act  I 


304  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

I  have  no  doubt  whatsoever  that  you  have.  But  tell 
me  quite  honestly,  Ralph,  have  you  not  already  begun  to 
be  just  a  little  sick  of  this  cottage  ?  Just  a  tiny,  v^^ee  little 
bit,  eh  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Oh,  I  dare  say — yes,  I  suppose  I  have.  Oh,  of  course 
you're  right,  Enid  ;  you  alw^ays  were  a  clever  woman — 
a  great  deal  cleverer  than  me. 

LADY     ROLLESTON 

\^oftly?^  Not  cleverer,  Ralph,  only  more  practical. 

HAWSTORNE 
I  should  not  put  the  matter  quite  so  delicately  as  you 
have,  but  I  agree  with  you  in  the  main.  Once  eat 
of  the  fruit  of  the  tree,  and  you've  got  to  take  the  conse- 
quences. As  Hamlet  or  Solomon  says — I  never  can 
distinguish  between  those  two  authorities — the  dyer's 
hand  is  steeped  in  what  he  works  in.  The  sow  that  was 
washed  goes  back  to  her  wallowing  in  the  mire  !  Yes,  I 
suppose  you're  right.     I  haven't  a  dog's  chance  to  reform  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Come  to  me,  and  I  will  help  you. 

HAWSTORNE 

\With  a  hitter  laugh,']  What,  to  reform  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Ah,  don't  laugh,  Ralph  ;  it  goes  through  me.  Come 
to  me,  dear,  and  I  will  be  good  and  nice  to  you.  And 
we  will  be  ever  so  wise  and  practical,  and  work  at  the 
philosophy  of  life  together,  won't  we  ?  [She  is  very  near 
him?^  You  will  come  to  Ottley-St.-Mary  ?  Promise 
me,  Ralph  ?     \She  almost  puts  up  her  face  to  his^ 

HAWSTORNE 

[Looking  down  into  her  eyes.]  Yes,  I  will  come. 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       305 

Enter  suddemy  Grace  Mayhew  by  door  l.    After  her  first 
sentence  she  stopSy  embarrassed  and  confused. 

GRACE 
I  have  found  your  ring  !     I  am  so  glad  I  have  found 
your  ring — Oh,  I  beg  pardon. 

HAWSTORNE 
This  is  Lady  RoUeston — Miss  Mayhew.     Miss  Grace 
Mayhevi^ — Lady  RoUeston. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
I  am  very   glad   to  see  you,   Miss   Mayhew^.     Major 
Hawstorne  has  been  singing  your  praises  to  me.     He  says 
that  you  are  a  capital  nurse. 

GRACE 
I  am  to  be  trained  as  a  nurse,  my  Lady.     That  will  be 
my  profession.    [She  goes  up  to  Hawstorne.]     Here  is  the 
ring.     I  am  so  glad  I  found  it. 

HAWSTORNE 

Where  on  earth  had  it  got  to  ? 

GRACE 

Oh,  the  oddest  thing  !  That  little  crippled  boy  had  it 
clasped  tightly  in  his  hand — the  boy  you  brought  in,  you 
know.  He  would  not  give  it  up  at  first,  till  I  promised 
to  bring  it  straight  to  you. 

HAWSTORNE 
I  suppose  I  must  have  given  it  to  him  to  play  with 
\j)utting  the  ring  on  his  €nger\    Many  thanks.     I  am  ever 
so  much  obliged. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Who    has   been    watching    them.]    You    are    going    to 

be    released    of   your    responsibilities    for   a    time.    Miss 

Mayhew.     Major  Hawstorne  is  going  to  pay  us  a  visit  at 

Ottley-St.-Mary.     Good-bye.     I   shall   send   the   motor 


Act  I 


3o6  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  I  for  you  to-morrow,  midday.  Will  that  suit  you  ?  [Haw- 
STORNE  nodsI\  Well,  good-bye.  No,  don't  see  me  out. 
I  shall  go  by  the  garden. 

\Exit  Lady  Rolleston  hy  window  c.      There 
is  a  pausei\ 

GRACE 

Ralph,  are  you  going  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes,  only  for  a  few  days.  The  doctor  says  it  will  do 
me  good. 

GRACE 

And  will  you  come  back  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Of  course,  Grace.  I  promised  to  come  back,  didn't  I  ? 
Why,  I  must  come  back  and  look  after  you  !  Oh,  don't 
cry,  little  woman.     Can't  you  trust  me  ? 

GRACE 
Yes,  Ralph,  yes  ;  I  will  trust  you.     And  you  won't 
forget  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

No,  no.  Where  is  Mrs.  Mayhew  ?  I  want  to  speak 
to  her. 

GRACE 
In  the  kitchen.     \^he  watches  Hawstorne  go  to  door^ 
L.      He  waves  his  hand  to  her^  and  is  going  out.] 

Oh,  here's  your  cigar-case.    You'll  want  that,  won't  you  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
[Embarrassed.]  Thanks. 

GRACE 
[J/one.]  He  is  going  away.     Oh,  God  !  will  he  ever 
come  back  ?     [She  sinks  down  and  covers  her  eyes  with  her 
hands.] 

Curtain. 


ACT   II 

[J  month  has  elapsed.] 

Scene. — //  is  September.     Hall  sitting-room  at  Ottley-St,-    Act  II 
Mary.     It  is  late  afternoon.     Ladies  are  sitting  in  tea- 
gowns  round  the  fire.     It  is  a  coldy  chilly  day  in  autumn^ 
and  the  afternoon  tea  is  still  on  the  table. 

Ray  Luneville  is  the  only  man.  The  ladies  are  Lady 
RoLLESTON,  Mrs.  Hargreaves,  Miss  Angela 
Crompton,  Lady  Daneborough  {old  lady). 

MISS    CROMPTON 
[Slimy  affectedy  literary^     Oh,  really,  Mr.  Luneville,  you 
should  not  say  such  naughty  things  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Looking  up  from  book.]  What  desperately  wicked  things 
has  Mr.  Luneville  perpetrated.  Miss  Crompton  ?  I  really 
ought  to  have  wrarned  you  against  him  ! 

ray    LUNEVILLE 

Dear  Lady  RoUeston,  you  have  known  of  old  my 
virgin  and  immaculate  mind.  I  feel  safe  in  your  judg- 
ment of  me. 

MRS.    hargreaves 

[Aside  to  old  Lady  Daneborough.]  Yes,  I  should 
think  Mr.  Luneville  was  quite  harmless.  He  seems  to  be 
an  old  maid  manquee. 

LADY    daneborough 
[Rather  deaf]  Old  maid  ?     Who  said  she  was  an  old 
maid  ?     To  my  certain  knowledge  she  has  refused  three 
offers  of  marriage. 

307 


3o8  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

^Ct  II  MRS.     HARGREAVES 

Dear  Lady  Daneborough,  I  don't  think  we  are  talking 
of  the  same  person. 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

I  thought  you  asked  me  if  Miss  Crompton  was  an  old 
maid.  Now  I  knew  her  mother  very  intimately,  and 
though  the  girl  is  a  little  awkward,  and  dresses  abomin- 
ably  

MRS.     HARGREAVES 
No — no — no.     I  meant  Mr.  Luneville.     [JVhispers.'] 

LADY     DANEBOROUGH 
Eh  ?     What .?     Mr.  Luneville  .?     Mr.  Luneville  an  old 
maid  ?     Ha,  ha  !   very  good.     Mr.  Luneville  [raising  her 
voice],  why  are  you  like  an  old  maid  ? 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

I  suppose,  because  I  am  devoted  to  cats. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Dear  me,  now  which  of  us  is  he  devoted  to  ?     This  is 
distinctly  compromising  !     Miss  Crompton,  have  a  care  ! 
Mr.  Luneville's  compliments  are  double-edged  ! 

MISS    CROMPTON 
Oh,   we   were    talking   of    palmistry.     Mr.    Luneville 
says  that  my  hand  is  of  the  variety  called  psychological, 
and  that  my  headline  is  more  strongly  marked  than  my 
heart. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

No  wise  woman  shows  her  hand,  either  in  cards  or  in 
life. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Except  sometimes  to  her  partner,  prospective  or 
actual  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Pray,  Miss  Crompton,  is  this  a  specimen  of  the  naughty 
things  he  says  ? 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        309 

RAY    LUNEVILLE  Act  II 

Oh  no.  My  great  charm  is  my  transparent  goodness. 
I  assure  you,  it  is  r  positive  foible  with  me  to  be  frank. 
I  am  only  wilful  and  obscure  when  I  write. 

MRS.    HARGREAVES 

What  do  you  write,  Mr.  Luneville  ?  Please  forgive  my 
ignorance. 

RAY  LUNEVILLE 
Don't  mention  it. !  Nearly  every  one  is  ignorant  of 
my  works,  I  am  glad  to  say.  How  dreadful  it  would  be 
if  my  verses  were  quoted  in  the  daily  newspaper  !  Just 
think  !  The  Motorist  says  that  Mr.  Luneville's  verses  are 
really  capital  !     Oh  ! 

MRS.    HARGREAVES 

Pecuniarily  rather  useful,  wouldn't  it  be  ? 

RAY  LUNEVILLE 
I  don't  think  any  one  has  ever  seen  my  last  book, 
Suspiria  Do/entis,  referred  to  in  any  current  periodical  ? 
Life  has  few  consolations,  but  one  of  the  greatest  is 
the  knowledge  that  one  stands  alone  and  unknown, 
"  Fallentis  semita  vitae  " — I  beg  your  pardon  ! 

MRS.    HARGREAVES 

Have  you  achieved  your  ideal .? — to  be  unknown  and 
obscure  ? 

MISS    CROMPTON 
Oh,  but  I  have  read  some  of  your  pieces — "  SoufH6  and 
Sorrow,"  for  instance,  and  "  The  Plaint  of  Pasiphae." 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Perhaps  Mr.  Luneville  would  not  consider  that  your 
knowledge    of    him    interfered    with    his     ideal.     Miss 
C  romp  ton. 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

You   don't   shoot,    Mr.  Luneville  ?      [Ray  shakes  his 


3IO  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II    head^^     I   thought  not.     Men  who   don't  shoot  usually 
take  to  palmistry  or  poetry. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 
It  is  their  way  of  doing  some  damage,  at  all  events. 
No,  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  interested  in  grouse  or   par- 
tridges.    They  always  seem  to  be  suffering  from  disease. 
Did  your  grouse  suffer  from  disease,  Lady  Rolleston  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Well,  I  believe  there  has  been  some  disease  among  the 
birds. 

RAY  LUNEVILLE 
I  thought  so.  And  the  early  broods  were  washed 
away  by  the  bad  weather  in  the  spring.  And  the  second 
broods  are  too  young  to  be  shot  before  September,  I  feel 
sure.  And  your  brother  says  that  he  never  knew  such  a 
bad  season  before  in  his  life.  The  records  of  sport  are 
very  monotonous,  my  dear  hostess.  May  I  have  another 
cup  of  tea  ? 

MISS    CROMPTON 
Is  not  life  very  monotonous,  Mr.  Luneville  ? 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Oh,  that  depends  on  the  digestion.  If  the  digestion  is 
good  and  the  liver  sound,  as  they  generally  are  with 
sportsmen,  then,  I  admit,  life  can  be  very  monotonous. 
But  there  is  always  a  charming  variety  of  incidents  if  you 
are  dyspeptic  I  Think  how  differently  eating  appeals  to 
you  if  you  are  dyspeptic,  or  how  brilliantly  diverse  appear 
to  you  the  characters  and  dispositions  of  your  friends  ! 

MISS    CROMPTON 
Oh,  Mr.   Luneville ;  how  can   you  utter  such   para- 
doxes ?     I  thought  you  had  a  conscience. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

My    conscience   is  purely   literary,  I  assure  you,  not 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        311 

Besides, 
ethical  dyspepsia 


social.      Besides,    what    is    conscience  ?     It    is    merely    Act  II 

I 


LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

I  cannot  make  out  what  he  is  talking  about.  I  know 
he  insisted  on  having  a  large  piece  of  cake  after  lunch. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Yes,  that  was  the  only  way  to  give  a  taste  to  the  sloe 
gin.  And  now  I  am  going  to  have  a  large  piece  of  bun 
to  add  piquancy  to  the  Pekoe  !  I  study  the  science  of 
the  appropriate  adjunct.  It's  like  finding  the  right 
adjective  in  literary  criticism. 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 
\Grumhling  in  a  loud  whisper  to  herslf.]  I  should  think 
the  man  has  been  drinking. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

No,  my  dear  Lady  Daneborough,  the  true  pick-me-up 
is  conversation  with  combative  people. 

MISS    CROMPTON 

Oh,  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  a  pick-me-up  ?  I  am  not 
combative. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 
On  the  contrary,  my  dear  young  lady — you  have  all 
the  charm  of  a  dazzling  exception.     Did  you  not   say 
that  you  had  read  my  poems  ? 

MRS.    HARGREAVES 

She  did  not  say  she  understood  them. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

No,  thank  Heaven  !  To  be  understood  is  to  be  vulgar. 
Why,  I  don't  understand  myself ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Well,  we  are  all  in  the  same  position.     We  none  of 
us  understand  you. 


Act  II 


312  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Then  is  the  cup  of  my  happiness  full — unlike  my  tea- 
cup, by  the  way.  May  I  have  some  more  tea — with  lots 
of  milk  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Ah,  you  are  determined  to  keep  on  good  relations  with 
cats,  I  observe. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 
Indeed,  yes.     Cats  are  sublime.     Do  not  all  cats  com- 
bine real  ferocity  of  nature  with  exquisite  manners  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Looking  across  to  Lady  Daneborough.]  I  think  he  is 
paying  you  a  compliment,  mother  ? 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

Good  gracious  !     What  hetise  can  I  have  committed  ! 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Silence,    Lady    Daneborough.      Silence    is    the    only 

hetise, 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

You  get  tiresome,  Ray.  Run  away  and  play — with 
Miss  Crompton,  for  instance  ! 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 
Oh,  I  am  banished — the  usual  fate  of  the  abnormal. 
Miss  Crompton,  will  you  take  pity  on  me  ?     Will  you 
share  with   me  an  abnormal  half-hour  in  the  drawing- 
room  ? 

MISS    CROMPTON 

With  pleasure,  Mr.  Luneville — if  you  will  do  all  the 
talking. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Ah,  I  am  afraid  that  would  be  only  too  normal ! 

[Ray  and  Miss  Angela  go  out. 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       313 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH  Act  II 

Thank  goodness  he's  gone.  I  never  came  across  so 
strange  a  specimen  !  Is  he  a  man  gone  wrong,  or  a 
woman  who  has  missed  her  vocation  ? 

MRS.    HARGREAVES 
I  told  you  he  was  an  old  maid  manquh  ! 

LADY  DANEBOROUGH 
Well,  anyhow,  we  shall  have  a  little  peace.  I  did  not 
hear  half  he  said.  I  never  before  was  so  thankful  for  my 
deafness.  But  if  the  other  half  has  any  resemblance  to 
what  I  did  hear,  the  man  ought  to  be  in  the  Zoological 
Gardens  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
I  believe  he  studies  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica, 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

I  thought  SO.  That  proves  my  point.  Where  on 
earth  did  you  pick  him  up  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

I  did  not  pick  him  up  on  earth.  I  found  him  on  the 
hills — at  Simla. 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 
Ah,  by  the  way,  Simla — what's  the  matter  with  your 
friend  Major  Hawstorne  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Coldly,']  Is  anything  the  matter  with  him  ? 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

You  know  there  is.  He  is  as  moody  as  he  can  be,  as 
nearly  rude  as  his  manners  will  permit  him,  and  of  a 
most  indifferent  temper.  Is  he  in  love,  or  has  he  taken  to 
nipping  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Well,  I  see  him  coming  down  the  drive — you  had 
better  ask  him  yourself. 


314  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

That  I  certainly  shall  not.  I  will  not  run  the  risk  of 
having  my  head  snapped  off.  Come,  Mrs.  Hargreaves, 
let's  leave  him  to  his  hostess — in  the  faint  hope  that  she 
may  do  him  some  good.     I  take  a  long  time  dressing. 

[Mrs.  Hargreaves  and  Lady  Daneborough 
go  off. 

Enter  by  hall  door  Major  Hawstorne.     He  is  much  older- 
looking  than  in  the  first  acty  and  much  worn  and  haggard, 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
\Gets  Up  and  goes  to  him.]  Well,  Ralph,  you're  back 
early  from  shooting  ? 

hawstorne 

Yes.     [Curtly.]    Couldn't  hit  a  d d  bird — not  even 

[with  a  bitter  laugh]  after  lunch. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
What's  the  matter  ?     It  isn't  like  you  to  be  so  cross- 
grained.     Do  you  feel  ill  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
No,   I   think  not,   only  a  little  out  of  sorts.     Don't 
mind  me. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Will  you  have  some  tea  ?    I  will  have  some  fresh  made. 

HAWSTORNE 
No.     I  think  I  will  have  a  brandy-and-soda.     May  I 
ring  ?     [He  goes  to  the  bell.] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Better  have  some  tea. 

HAWSTORNE 

No,  thank  you.    [With  sudden  violence.]    D n  it  all, 

Enid,   I   suppose   I    may   have  what  I  like — I  beg  your 
pardon,  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  me.     I  don't 


ON  THE  SIDE   OE  THE  ANGELS       315 

seem   to  have  any   self-control.     \The  servant  comes  in.]     Act  II 
A  brandy-and-soda,  please.  [Exit  servant. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Of  course  you  can  have  what  you  like,  Ralph.     But 
you  used  to  listen  to  my  advice  sometimes.     You  used  to 
be  guided  by  me.     And  now^ 

HAWS  TORN E 

Yes,  I  know  I  am  a  beast.  But,  believe  me,  I  am  as 
much  surprised  at  myself  as  you  can  be.  I  don't  recognize 
myself — that's  a  fact.  And,  oh  !  how  I  do  hate  my  own 
personality  !  [Servant  comes  in  with  brandy-and-soda.] 
Thanks.  Not  much  soda,  please.  That  will  do.  [He 
dashes  it  off  feverishly.] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Ralph,  I  try  to  do  what  I  can,  but  you  have  gone 
beyond  me,  somehow.  I  wish  you  would  treat  me  as 
your  friend,  and  tell  me  whatever  it  may  be  you  have  got 
on  your  mind. 

HAWSTORNE 
Well,  it's  a  little  difficult.  [With  a  shorty  hoarse  laugh.] 
For  I  have  got  nothing  on  my  mind.  That's  the  ugly 
part  of  it.  I  don't  think  of  anything,  and  I  brood,  brood, 
brood— God  knows  what  about  !  There  is  a  sort  of 
cloud  over  me — or  else  I  seem  to  have  dived  down  rather 
deep,  and  there  are  miles  of  green  sea  over  me,  and,  try 
what  I  will,  I  cannot  get  to  the  surface.  And  then, 
good  God  !  my  temper  ! 

LADY  ROLLESTON 

Can  I  do  nothing  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
I  am  not  sure  that  any  one  can.  The  sun  seems  never 
to  shine  in  my  sky  ;  it's  always  clouds,  clouds,  clouds, 
and  driving,  pitiless  rain.  Can  you  guess  what  I  did  to- 
day ?  Oh,  I  may  as  well  tell  you.  I  was  shooting  as 
jealous  as  possible,  being    in    a   thoroughly  nasty  mood, 


3i6  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  and  missing  more  birds  than  I  have  ever  done  in  all  my 
life  !  And  I  seemed  to  get  conscious  that  other  people 
were  laughing  at  me — especially  that  swaggering  young 
Member  of  Parliament — what  is  he  called  ? — Vivian 
Rodney,  who  sits  for  one  of  the  northern  constituencies 
— in  Cumberland,  isn't  it  ?  As  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
he  was  next  me,  and  whenever  he  fired  I  fired  too,  and 
claimed  his  bird.  At  last  he  expostulated,  and  then  I 
called  him  a  liar  I  Good  Heavens,  fancy  telling  a  lie 
oneself  and  then,  out  of  sheer  cowardice,  calling  another 
chap  a  liar  !  And  all  about  some  silly  partridges  !  But 
I  hate  that  Vivian  Rodney,  and  Til  see  him  damned 
before  I  apologize  ! 

LADY  ROLLESTON 

My  poor  boy.  \^She  comes  over  to  him.  He  shrinks  from 
her  touch.']  Go  to  bed.  Don't  come  down  to  dinner.  I 
will  send  you  something — or  I  will  bring  it  myself — up 
to  your  bedroom. 

HAWSTORNE 

What — ^just  because  I  have  had  a  bad  day,  and  shot 
vilely  ?  No,  thank  you  !  And  let  that  silly  young  ass, 
Rodney,  explain  to  the  company  how  much  in  the  wrong 
I  was,  and  that  my  only  way  of  decent  apology  was  to 
go  to  bed  ?  You  must  think  meanly  of  me  !  Hang  it 
all,  I'm  not  a  coward,  and  I  can  stand  my  own  racket  ! 
May  I  have  some  more  brandy  ?  There's  too  much  soda 
in  this  glass.     \^Rings  the  bell.'] 

LADY  ROLLESTON 

Ralph,  you're  a  child.  No,  you  shall  not  have  any 
more  brandy.  You've  had  quite  enough.  Look  at  the 
time ;  it's  half-past  six,  and  we  dine  at  eight.  [Servant 
comes  in.]     Jarvis,  has  the  evening  post  come  in  ? 

JARVIS 
No,  my  Lady,  I  think  not,  but  I'll  inquire. 

HAWSTORNE 
Oh,  and — Jarvis,  bring  me  a  liqueur  of  brandy.    [Servant 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       317 

goes  out.]      You  may  think  me  a  child,  Enid,  but,  con-    Act  II 
found  it  all,  I  have  got  a  will  of  my  own.     You  insisted 
on  asking  me  here,  and  now  I've  come  I  may  at  least 
be  permitted  to  do  as  I  like 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Was  it  a  mistake  asking  you  here  ?     Oh,  don't  say  it 
was  a  mistake  ! 

HAWSTORNE 
I  don't  know.  Of  course  I  have  drifted,  and  you 
have  drifted.  Probably  you  knew  quite  well  we  should 
drift.  But  oh.  Heavens  !  that  is  nothing  compared  to  the 
deadly  depression  which  comes  over  me  !  This  hideous, 
opaque  cloud  of  gloom,  which  is  always  round  me,  and 
which  I  struggle  against  in  vain  !  How  can  one  fight 
with  a  cloud  ?  But  it  is  choking  me,  I  tell  you — it  is 
choking  me  !  I  can't  breathe  !  Oh,  God  !  [He  lets  his 
head  fall  between  his  hands.  She  tries  to  stroke  his  head.  He 
fiercely  resents^  No,  don't  touch  me,  please.  I  can't  bear 
it !  ^y  the  way  \suddenly\  you  are  not  wearing  my  ring 
to-day.     Where  is  it  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
I  cannot  wear  it.     You  know  I  cannot  wear  it — with 
my  mother's  eyes  always  on   me,  and   Miss  Crompton 
watching  me.     I  have  got  it  upstairs  in  my  room. 


HAWSTORNE 

Fetch  it,  please  ;  do  you  mind  ?    I  want  to  see  it.    Oh, 
here's  the  brandy. 

Enter  Jarvis,  with  the  liqueur  of  brandy  and  some  letters. 

JARVIS 
The  letters,  my  Lady.    Your  liqueur,  sir.    \Exit  Jarvis. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
One,  two,   three,   four   for  me.     And  three  for  you 
Ralph.     Very  well,  I  will  go  and  fetch  your  ring  whi'e 
you  read  your  letters.  \Exit  Lady  Rollesto/, 


/ 


3i8  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  HAWSTORNE 

\By  himself^  opening  letters.  The  first  letter  is  from  Dr.  Tom 
Raleigh.]  What  does  Raleigh  want  ?  "  My  dear  Major 
Hawstorne," —  hm — hm — hm — "  I  hope  you  are  taking 
care  of  yourself  and  not  getting  wet  or  sitting  up  late."  1 
sat  up  late  last  night  and  got  wet  this  afternoon.  Oh, 
bother,  I  can't  read  all  this  good  advice.  .  .  .  What's 
this  ?  "  By  the  bye,  forgive  me  if  I  once  more  warn 
you  against  cocaine.  It's  all  very  well  when  you  were 
in  actual  pain,  or  your  nerves  were  completely  out  of 
order.  Then  I  allowed  it — very  much  against  my  will 
— occasionally.  But  now  that  you  ought  to  be  in  per- 
fect health,  with  regular  exercise,  and  out  a  good  deal  in 
the  fresh  air " — fancy  my  being  in  perfect  health  ! — 
"you  ought  never  to  look  at  it.  Remember  that  its 
action  is  in  the  highest  degree  deleterious.  It  is  poison 
for  you."  \He  lets  the  letter  fall  on  his  lap^  and  looks  serious.] 
Well,  I  have  only  taken  it  once  or  twice.  Besides,  my 
nerves  are  wretchedly  shattered,  and  I  must  do  something 
to  steady  them.  [Takes  up  second  letter.]  From  Grace. 
. "  My  dear  Ralph,  you  haven't  written  to  me  for  a  long 
time,  and  I  am  afraid  you  have  quite  forgotten  your  poor 
little  friend."  Really,  I  can't  be  expected  to  write  to 
her  every  day.  What  a  nuisance  she  is  1  [He  is  about  to 
tear  up  the  letter  when  he  stops.]  No,  she  is  not  half  such  a 
nuisance  as  the  other  woman.  What  infernal  bad  luck 
that  I  should  have  come  across  her  again  !  Grace  is  a  nice 
child — much  too  nice  for  me,  I  am  afraid.  But  still — 
if  it  comes  to  marriage — oh,  that's  absurd  !  "  You  know 
that  you  are  never  out  of  my  thoughts,  and  that  I  have 
your  photograph  on  the  mantelpiece  in  my  bedroom." — 
Poor  little  Gracie.  [He  is  still  reading  the  letter  when  enter y 
boisterously^  Guy  Daneborough,  Lord  Vivian  Rodney, 
Hon.  and  Rev.  Charles   Hargreaves,  Robert  Tid- 

MAN.] 

GUY 

Hullo,  Hawstorne,  you  gave  us  the  slip !     D d  poor 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       319 

sport.     You  were  quite  right.     But  you  might  have  told    Act  II 
me  you  were  going.     You  put  poor  Byles  out  terribly  ! 

HAWSTORNE 
[Looking  up  from  the  letter  he  is  reading,']  What  Byles, 
your  gamekeeper  ?     I  thought  I  told  him  I  was  going 
home. 

HARGREAVES 
Perhaps  Major   Hawstorne  was  feeling    the   weather. 
All  this  rain  and  damp  are  terribly  trying.     It  makes  me 
feel  very  rheumatic. 

GUY 
Oh,  rot  !      Have  a  hot  bath.      You'll  preach  all  the 
better  next  Sunday.     Nothing  like  exercise  and  baths  for 
pulpit  oratory  ! 

RODNEY 

[Supercilious^  glass  in  his  eye,]  I  see  that  Major  Hawstorne 
prefers  another  kind  of  protection  against  the  weather. 
Eh,  what  ?  [Pointing  to  liqueur  glass  of  brandy^  still  un- 
tasted.] 

HAWSTORNE 

[Fery  shortly,]  Yes.     Have  some  ? 

RODNEY 
No,  thank  you.     I  never  drink  between  meals. 

TIDMAN 
Really  ?  Well,  now,  I  wish  I  could  say  the  same 
myself,  my  Lord  !  [He  is  an  officious^  obsequious,  deferen- 
tial slave  of  the  aristocracy.]  I  often  think  a  glass  of  sherry 
and  bitters  rather  pleasant  before  dinner — or,  say,  a  glass 
of  brown  sherry. 

HAWSTORNE 
[IVithout  looking  up,]  You    had  much  better  copy  the 
virtue  of  Lord  Vivian,  Tidman.     You  couldn't  have  a 
better  example. 


320  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

^^^  ^^  RODNEY 

Oh,  as  for  that,  it  isn't  virtue ;  it  is  merely  prudence, 

don't   you   know.     I  can't    both  shoot  and    drink — eh, 
what  ? 

TIDMAN 
^^niggering.^  Well,  perhaps  Major  Hawstorne  can  !    He 
is  so  strong. 

RODNEY 

\JVith  a  meaning  look  at  Hawstorne.]  Can  he  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
[Getting  up  and  going  to  fireplace?^  Rodney,  I've  got  a 
bad  temper,   and   I'm  sorry  I  behaved  badly  to  you  this 
afternoon.     I  was  in  the  wrong,  and  I  missed  most  of 
my  birds.     Well,  I'm  sorry — that's  all. 

RODNEY 
Oh — that's  all  right  !      We  none  or   us  are   particu- 
larly amiable  when  we  shoot  badly,  don't  you  know — 
except  Tidman.     He's  always  amiable — eh,  what  ? 

TIDMAN 
Oh,  my  Lord,  you  are  too  good  ! 

GUY 

\lVho  has  been  talking  to  Hargreaves.]  What  are  you 
people  bickerin'  about  ?  When  the  day's  shootin's  over — 
well,  it's  over — that's  what  I  say.  Sorry  you've  all  had 
such  bad  sport — better  luck  next  time.  Come,  it's  nearly 
time  to  dress  for  dinner.      Perrier  Jouet  89  to-night. 

\Exit  Hawstorne. 

RODNEY 
Well,  Fm  off  too.     What  is  it  you  recommend,  Mr. 
Hargreaves  ?     Hot  bath  ?      Not  a  bad  idea — eh,  what  ? 

HARGREAVES 
Our  host  said  that  it  is  a  good  tonic  for  pulpit  oratory, 
I  believe. 


ON  THE  SIDE    OF  THE  ANGELS       321 

RODNEY  Act  II 

What's  good  for  pulpit  is  good  for  parliament — eh, 
don't  you  think  so  ?     \H.e  goes  outy  obsequiously  followed  by 

TiDMAN.] 

GUY 

Wait  one  minute,  Hargreaves.  Noticed  anythin'  queer 
about  Hawstorne  ? 

HARGREAVES 
He  seems  to  be — not  quite  himself. 

GUY 
Not  quite  himself!     I  should  think   not.     Why,  he 

ain't  the  same  man  he  used  to  be.     D d  good  chap — 

I  beg  your  pardon  ;  can't  help  swearin'.  Wretched  form 
to  swear  before  a  clergyman,  I  know.  But  it  makes  me 
swear. 

HARGREAVES 

What  do  you  notice — exactly  ? 

GUY 

Well,  it's  like  this.  You  know  we  used  to  see  a  good 
deal  of  one  another  in  India,  and  he  was  the  smartest 
officer  in  Simla.  And  then  there's  my  sister  Enid.  She's 
very  fond  of  him,  as  I  dare  say  you  have  noticed.  She's  a 
bit  rapid,  of  course,  and  all  that,  but  she  has  a  good  heart. 
Never  cared  for  her  late  husband,  though.  Let  me  see, 
where  was  I  ? 

HARGREAVES 

You  were  talking  about  Lady  RoUeston  and  Haw- 
storne. 

GUY 

Of  course.  Well,  I  always  thought  that  they  were 
goin'  to  hit  off  a  match.  Shouldn't  have  let  them  be  so 
much  together  otherwise.  People  talked  a  lot  about  them, 
too.  But  I  naturally  believed  it  would  be  all  right.  And 
now 


322  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  HARGREAVES 

Yes.     Has  something  interfered  ? 

GUY 
No,  not  exactly,  but  I  don't  like  the  look  of  things. 
He    left  India  without    proposin',  but  I  thought    when 
they  met  again  in  England  the  event  would  come  off. 

HARGREAVES 

They  seem  to  be  very  fond  of  each  other's  society  now 
— if  I  may  be  pardoned  for  saying  so. 

GUY 

Yes,  but  d n  it  all — I  beg  your  pardon — he  is  so 

strange  and  moody,  and  all  that.  I'm  not  sure  whether 
he  is  the  right  sort  of  husband  for  her.  You  see,  I  like 
old  Enid.  She  don't  make  herself  pleasant  to  everybody, 
I'm  aware.  But  she's  a  good  sort ;  and  I  like  Haw- 
storne,  too — at  least,  I  used  to.  Can't  make  him  out 
now — and  that's  a  fact. 

HARGREAVES 

But  what  can  I  do  ? 

GUY 
Well — I  thought  if  you  had  a  chance,  you  might  talk 
to  him  a  bit.  You're  a  clergyman,  you  know,  and  all 
that,  and  there's  no  offence  if  a  clergyman  says  a  straight 
thing  or  two.  Hawstorne  may  drink  too  much,  for 
aught  I  know.     Anyhow,  I'm  quite  upset  about  him. 

HARGREAVES 

It's  a  little  difficult,  but  if  I  get  a  favourable  oppor- 
tunity  

GUY 
That's  a  good  fellow.     I  knew  you  would.     Talk  to 
him  after  dinner.    Perrier  Jouet  89,  you  know.    Any  one 

•    can  talk  on  that  wine  !     D n  it,  what's  the  good  of 

being  a  clergyman  if  you  can't  intrude — beg  pardon,  I 
don't  mean  that — interfere — no,  that's  not  the  word — 
well,  you  know  what  I  mean  ! 


ON  THE   SIDE    OF  THE  ANGELS        323 

HARGREAVES  Act  II 

[Smiling.]  You  mean,  give  counsel  and  advice 

GUY 

Yes,  it  w^ill  be  very  good  of  you.  Wonder  if  he  vi^ill 
stand  it,  though  ? 

HARGREAVES 

I  vi^ill  see  what  can  be  done. 

[Exit  Hargreaves.  Js  Guy  is  going  out  by  another 
door^  Lady  Rolleston  comes  in  hurriedly. 
She  is  in  a  tea-gown. 

GUY 

Hullo,  Sissie  !     Not  dressed  yet  ?     What's  up  ? 

LADY    rolleston 

I  want  to  see  Major  Hawstorne — at  once  !  [Goes  to 
bell  and  rings.] 

GUY 

Well,  he's  dressing,  I  expect.  Can't  you  wait  till 
dinner  ?  [Exit, 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

No,  I  can't.  [She  walks  up  and  down  the  room.  Enter 
servant.]  Ask  Major  Hawstorne  to  come  here.  Tell 
him  it's  important.  [Exit  servant.  She  walks  up  and 
down  again.  Suddenly  she  sees  a  letter  lying  on  the  floor ^ 
dropped  by  Hawstorne.  She  takes  it  up^  hesitates  a  moment^ 
then  some  words  catch  her  eye^  and  she  reads.]  "  Forgive 
me  if  I  warn  you  once  more  against  cocaine.  Its  action 
is  in  the  highest  degree  deleterious.  ...  It  is  poison  to 
you."  [She  stops.]  Good  God  !  He  is  poisoning  him- 
self with  cocaine  !  Poor  boy,  poor  boy  !  [She  sinks  down 
in  a  chair^  watching  the  door  by  which  Hawstorne  must 
enter,] 

[Hawstorne  enters^  looking  worried  to  the  last  degree.  He 
has  on  a  dressing-jacket^  and  is  evidently  half-dressed. 
She  starts  forward  as  he  comes  in,  and  stops  appalled  at 
the  look  in  his  face.  He,  too,  stands  at  the  doorway, 
staring  at  her.      There  is  a  moment^  silence. 


324  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

^^^  II  LADY    ROLLESTON 

Ralph 

HAWSTORNE 
\Who   looks  dulled   and   only  half-comcious^    Enid — you 
sent  for  me 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Come  to  me — come  nearer — I   cannot  talk  to  you  if 
you  stand  there. 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes \He  moves  almost  in  a  dream  nearer  her^  and 

sinks  into  a  chair.]     Well 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

I  cannot  tell  you — I  cannot  tell  you. 

HAWSTORNE 

Is  there  any  need  for  telling  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Why — do  you  know  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

No — but  I  don't  seem  to  care.     Does  anything  matter 
— after  this  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
After  what  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

This [He  holds  out  a  letter  to  her^  which  she  takes 

and  is  about  to  open.]     Stop — why  did  you  send  for  me  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Oh,  Ralph,  your  ring  ! 

HAWSTORNE 
Have  you  got  it  ?     Yes  ?     Why  don't  you  give  it  to 
me  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

I  dare  not ! 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        325 

HAWSTORNE 

Why,  of  course,  I  know.     Has  another  stone  gone  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Holding  it  out  to  him.]  Yes. 

HAWSTORNE 

Of  course,  I  might  have  known  it. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Read  that  letter  [pointing  to  letter  in  her  hand\  and  you 
will  understand. 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
[Opens  and  reads.]  "  I  regret  to  have  to  inform  you  "... 
What  is  this  ?  "  Messrs.  Allen,  Judkins  and  Co."  .  .  . 
"unable  to  meet  the  demands  of  their  creditors" — sus- 
pended payment.  Oh,  Ralph  !  Had  you  much  money 
with  them  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Practically  all  my  money  was  with  them. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

And  now 

HAWSTORNE 

Well,  now  I  am  a  beggar,  that's  all.  It's  infernal 
luck,  or,  rather,  it's  my  usual  luck.  Oh,  God  !  Was 
there  ever  such  a  poor,  miserable,  helpless  devil  in  this 
world  as  I  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

And  the  ring  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

D n  the  ring  !     I  have  not  had  a  moment's  luck 

since  it  came  into  my  possession.  Of  course,  the  second 
stone  has  gone.  "To  desire — to  possess — to  know." 
Desire    has    failed — and    possession    has    gone.      Great 


Act  II 


326  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  Heavens,  how  long  will  knowledge  remain  to  me  ?  [He 
stands^  looking  moodily  at  the  ring.  Lady  Rolleston  silently 
looks  up  at  him.  In  the  silence  comes  from  the  drawing-room 
the  tinkle  of  a  piano  and  a  woman  s  voice  singing  "  Love  laid 
his  sleepless  head."]     Who's  that  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Angela  Crompton  singing  to  Ray  Luneville,  I  think. 
Shall  I  ask  her  to  stop  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
No;  I  have  no  right  to  interfere  with  their  amuse- 
ment.    It's  pretty  maddening,  isn't  it  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

The  music  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Yes,  music,  the  world,  life — everything  1  I  suppose 
every  man  only  gets  what  he  deserves,  but  it  is  hard  to 
bear — very  hard  to  bear  !  "  The  fathers  eat  sour  grapes 
and  the  children's  teeth  are  set  on  edge."  Is  it  my  fault 
that  my  grandfather  was  a  drunkard  and  a  spendthrift, 
and  my  father  a  spendthrift  and  a  libertine  ?  Never- 
theless, I  have  to  pay  the  debt  to  the  full.  I  lose  all  that 
makes  life  worth  having — health,  spirits,  hope,  money  ! 
Everything  I  touch  fails.  Friends  desert  me.  Love  has 
long  since  left  me.  I  am  a  wreck — bodily,  mental, 
social,  moral.  .  .  .  Well,  why  don't  you  say  something  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

It  is  not  the  time  to  say  much — one  must  do  something. 

HAWSTORNE 

Do  something  ?    I  am  sick  of  doing  something.    What's 
the  use  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Well,  I  am  going  to  do  something,  Ralph.     This  is 
not  the  only  letter  you  had  to-night.    There  was  another. 

HAWSTORNE 
There  were  two  others,  I  believe. 


ON  THE   SIDE    OF  THE   ANGELS      327 

LADY    ROLLESTON  Act  II 

You  dropped  one  when  you  left  the  hall.  It  was  from 
Dr.  Raleigh.  I  have  read  it.  Here  it  is.  \Holds  out 
letter  to  him  J] 

HAWSTORNE 
Thanks.    So  you  know  about  that  too — cocaine  ?    Well, 
I'm  glad.     Better  know  the  worst.     Well  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

I  shall  telegraph  to  Dr.  Raleigh  to  come  here — at  once. 

HAWSTORNE 

What's  the  use  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Every  use.    He  must  look  after  you — without  delay. 

HAWSTORNE 
[Indifferently.]  Just  as  you  like.     I  don't  suppose  it  will 
make  much  difference  to  me.     He  can't  help  me. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

We  shall  see.  But  that  is  not  all.  There  is  yourself 
to  be  considered — your  future — and  we  must  think  what 
had  best  be  done. 

HAWSTORNE 

You  are  very  good  to  me,  Enid.  I  always  thought 
you  had  a  kindly  heart,  though  you  never  gave  yourself 
a  proper  chance,  if  you  will  forgive  me  for  saying  so. 
You  wasted  yourself  over  the  trifling  and  the  insignifi- 
cant. I  ought  to  know,  for  I  did  the  same  thing,  and 
it  does  not  do  in  the  long  run.  Only  the  big  things 
count,  after  all. 

LADY   ROLLESTON 

And  what  are  the  big  things,  Ralph  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Oh,  it  isn't  for  me  to  preach — besides,  preaching  is 
not   in   my  line.     But  when  one  has  had  a  facer,  as  I 


328  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  have — when  one  has  gone  through  a  lot  of  experience — 
mostly  tawdry  and  ignoble  experience,  as  I  have  done 
— there  comes  a  queer  sort  of  insight,  born  of  one's 
personal  trouble,  into  the  things  that  really  matter  in 
this  life.  I  do  not  for  a  moment  say  that,  if  I  was 
put  all  right  at  this  moment  I  should  ever  be  able  to 
attain  to  them.  A  stronger  will  than  I  have  is  wanted. 
But  it  is  something,  I  suppose,  even  to  be  able  to  see 
from  a  distance  the  difference  between  the  great  shining 
peaks  of  existence,  and  the  drab-coloured,  stupid  com- 
monplace plains. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Tell  me,  Ralph.  I  haven't  often  heard  you  talk  like 
this. 

HAWSTORNE 

No,  I  dare  say  not.  I  have  generally  managed  to  frivol 
away  my  time  pretty  successfully.  But  I  imagine  that 
there  are  certain  really  good  and  satisfactory  things — 
honour  and  truth^  straightforwardness  and  simplicity,  kind- 
ness— oh  yes,  kindness  above  all,  all  the  religion  worth  talk- 
ing about  is  kindness — generosity — and — and  .  .  .  respect 
and  reverence  for  virtue  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  chastity.  .  .  . 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

You  are  a  good  fellow,  Ralph,  much  too  good  to  have 
come  down  to — drink — and  cocaine. 

HAWSTORNE 

No — that's  just  the  worst  of  it.  I  am  not  good.  I 
see  the  right  and  I  don't  do  it.  You  see  [with  a  sad^  wan 
smi/e]  I  have  still  got  knowledge  left  in  my  ring 
[looking  at  it  mournfully].  But  what  use  is  it  to 
know  so  clearly  the  right,  and  not  have  the  will-power 
to  do  it  ?  That  is  the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost — 
sinning  against  light.  .  .  .     [He  shudders.'] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Let  me  help  you,  Ralph. 

HAWSTORNE 

[Listlessly.]   Can  you  ? 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       329 

LADY    ROLLESTON  Act  II 

Yes,  I  think  so.  Do  you  like  me  ?  You  don't  dislike 
me,  at  any  rate  ?     I  used  to  be  something  in  your  life. 

HAWSTORNE 

Well,  you  are  still,  Enid,  Heaven  knows  you  are.  I 
have  not  got  so  many  friends  that  I  can  afford  to  lose 
one. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Well,  now,  let  us  look  at  the  state  of  the  case,  quite 
simply.  You  are  down  on  your  luck — very  badly  down 
on  your  luck.  Your  health  is  bad  ;  you  have  been 
staying  up  too  late  ;  you  have  not  been  sleeping  well ; 
you  have  been  drinking  too  much — and,  because  your 
nerves  are  bad,  you  have  been  poisoning  yourself  with 
cocaine.     You  see,  I  am  not  going  to  spare  you. 

HAWSTORNE 

All  right.     Go  on. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Well,  then,  we  will  wipe  you  entirely  out  of  the 
account — as  a  non-negociable  asset,  because,  to  finish  the 
whole  story,  you  are,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a 
bankrupt.     Is  that  so  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes — practically  that  is  so.  I  suppose  I  shall  have 
about  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  a  year  to  live  on. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

And  debts  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes — pretty  bad  debts. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

So  you  are  no  good  at  all,  dear  boy — simply  zero,  Z  99. 

HAWSTORNE 

That's  about  the  state  of  the  case.     Oh,  d n  that 

piano  !      [From   the  next  room  comes  the  sound  of  a  marCs 


330  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II    alto  voice.     Ray  Luneville  is  singing^  "  Why  do  they  call 
me  a  Gibson  Girl  F  "] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Never  mind  the  piano  or  Ray  Luneville.  If  you  count 
as  nothing,  he  represents  a  hopelessly  minus  quantity,  so  we 
need  not  trouble  about  him.  Ralph,  I  am  going  to  ask 
you  a  question.  Is  there  any  just  cause  or  impediment 
why  you  should  not  ask  me  to  marry  you  ?  [Ralph 
starts.]  Because  if  there  is  not  I  can  put  you  financially 
straight,  you  see.  I  will  not  pay  you  the  bad  compliment 
of  supposing  that  you  would  let  me  be  your  banker  under 
any  other  conditions.     That's  so,  isn't  it  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Good  Heavens,  Enid  !     What  are  you  saying  ? 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
Oh,  something  very  simple.  You  may  have  forgotten 
it,  Ralph  ;  but  long  ago  I  told  you  I  loved  you.  You 
are  the  one  man  who  has  ever  made  me  forget  my 
ordinary,  worldly,  social  existence,  and  inspired  me  to 
dream  of  other  things.  When  that  happens  to  a  woman 
— when  she  comes  across  a  man  who  takes  her  out  of 
her  wonted  plane  and  transports  her  to  a  new  level — 
well,  she  never  forgets  the  experience,  or  the  man  who 
has  worked  the  miracle.  And  I  shall  never  forget  you, 
Ralph.  I  love  you,  and  I  ask  you  to  marry  me.  .  .  . 
What  is  your  answer  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Enid.  .  .  .   [He  hesitates.] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Well,  your  answer  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

I   had    three   letters  by  to-night's  post,  and    they  all 

meant  something  to  me.     One  was  from  Tom  Raleigh 

— that  you  read.     Another  was  from  Allen,  Judkins  and 

Co. — that  you  hold  in  your  hand.    The  third  [fumbling  in 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        331 

his  pocket] — the  third   [he  holds  it  out  to  her] No,  I    Act  II 

think  I  would  rather  you  would  not  read  that. 
LADY    ROLLESTON 

Tell  me  it  yourself. 

HAWSTORNE 
It  was  from  Grace  Mayhew — the  little  girl  at  Wootton 
le-Hay — the  girl  you  laughed  at. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Your  rustic  divinity  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Well  ?     [A  pause.]     Do  you  mean  that  if  you  marry 
at  all  you  ought  to  marry  her  ?    that  you  are  morally 
bound  to  marry  her  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes. 

[There  is  silence^  and  from  the  next  room  comes  the 
final  verse,  "  0^hy  do  they  call  me  a  Gibson 
Girl  ?  "  Ralph  gets  up,  puts  his  fingers  in 
his  ears,  then  walks  to  window,  then  comes 
back  again  and  flings  himself  into  a  chair. 
The  dressing-gong  sounds,  and  Ralph  winces.] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[Gets    up.]     We    must    go    and    dress.       [She   stops.] 
Ralph  .  .  .  have  you  nothing  else  to  say  to  me  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
No,  nothing.  .  .  .  Enid,  you  have  been  very  good  to 
me  .  .  .  much  better  than  1  deserve,  and  I  am — well, 
I  don't  quite  know  what  words  would  exactly  describe 
me.  But  I  thank  you,  Enid.  I  thank  you — from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  ,  .  . 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
My  poor  boy — forgive  me  ;  but  I  think  you  are  a  bit 
of  a  fool  1 


332  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  II  HAWSTORNE 

I'm  afraid  that's  not  the  only  word  !     [Laughs  bitterly,'] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

For  once,  let  my  worldly  instinct  help  you.  Do  you 
think  that  you  have  any  right  to  make  an  absolute  ship- 
wreck of  your  life  ?  You  have  come  very  near  it,  Ralph, 
but  that's  no  reason  why  you  should  drive  your  ship  straight 
on  the  rocks.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are  the 
sort  of  man  to  marry  the  daughter  of  your  old  nurse  ? 
Do  you  think  you  could  make  her  happy  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
I  don't  know,  but  I  would  try. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

You  would  try — for  how  long  ?  A  year,  six  months, 
a  single  month  ?  Don't  you  know — in  your  heart  of 
hearts — that  both  you  and  she  would  be  perfectly 
miserable  ?  Look  at  your  ring.  You  have  still  got  the 
stone  which  means  knowledge,  and  I  presume  that  that 
includes  a  certain  knowledge  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Besides 
— I  am  almost  ashamed  to  urge  the  point — but — don't 
you  think  that  you  owe  me  something  ?  However,  I 
won't  say  anything  further.  Think  it  over.  [She  is 
going  to  the  door.]     I  must  finish  my  dressing.  .  .  . 

HAWSTORNE 

Enid — stop  !  Don't  go  yet.  Give  me  one  moment 
more. 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
[Jt  the  door.]  Is  there  anything  still  left  to  discuss  ? 
You  see,  I  am  in  rather  a  difficult  position.  I  really 
ought  to  blush  for  what  I  have  done  already.  Think 
for  a  moment.  It  is  not  usually  considered  quite  comme 
il  faut  for  a  woman  to  propose  marriage  to  a  man. 
I  have  asked  you  to  marry  me.  It  is  thought  outrageous 
for  a  man  to  accept  money  from  a  woman  ;  I  have 
asked  you  to  accept  money  from    me.     Both  of  these 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        333 

social  enormities  I  have  committed — why  ?  Because  we  Act  II 
have  been  old  friends  and  old  lovers,  and  I  thought  I 
might  dare  to  overstep  those  unwritten  social  laws 
which  are  so  much  more  obligatory  than  the  ordinary 
provisions  of  the  Decalogue.  Well,  what  is  the  position 
now?  You  refuse  both  my  offers,  and  you  tell  me  that 
you  are  bound  to  marry  another  woman — the  daughter  of 
your  nurse.  What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do — but  to 
retire  with  as  much  grace  as  is  possible  to  a  woman  so 
scorned  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Scorned  ?  Oh,  Enid,  no  !  Admired,  respected,  wor- 
shipped with  the  gratitude  of  a  full  heart.  ... 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

But  not — loved  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
I  know  you  are  my  best  friend — my  only  friend — my 
only  wise  friend,  kind,  affectionate  adviser  and  helper.     I 
owe  you  everything — everything  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

But  not — love  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes,  yes  ;  love  too  !  Come  back  to  me.  I  am  so 
hopeless,  so  solitary,  so  absolutely  alone.  Come  back  to 
me.     I  want  you. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

You  want  me  ?  And  if  I  come  back,  in  what  relation 
do  I  come  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Anything  you  wish — anything.     Whatever  I  could  do 
for  you  would  be  as  nothing  compared  with  what  you 
have  done  for  me.     Come  back  to  me  !     \He  goes  half- 
way to  the  door  where  she  is  standing.^     Be  my  wife  ! 


334  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

^^^  II  LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Coming  to  him  and  holding  out  her  hands."]  My  darling  ! 
\They  kiss.] 

[There  is  a  pause.  Then  the  door  to  the  drawing- 
room  slowly  opens.  Lady  Rolleston 
swiftly  leaves  the  hall.  Ralph  goes  to  the 
table.  Ray  Luneville  comes  in  in  evening 
dress^  a  "  hope  I  dont  intrude  "  sort  of  air. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Hullo,  Hawstorne,  alone  ?     I  thought  I  heard  voices, 

hawstorne 
As  you  see. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

I  say,  aren't  you  dressed  yet  ?  It's  just  dinner-time. 
I  have  been  dressed  the  last  half-hour,  singing  in 
the  drawing-room.  By  the  w^ay,  I  hope  I  did  not 
disturb  you  by  my  singing.  I  didn't  know^  any  one  w^as 
in  the  hall. 

HAWSTORNE 
Were  you  singing  ? 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Warbling,  my  boy,  w^arbling  !  A  little  playful  way  I 
have  !  They  don't  always  appreciate  me  after  dinner. 
The  big  bulls  of  Bashan  roar  after  dinner,  and  the  linnet 
has  no  chance. 

HAWSTORNE 

Well,  hop  away,  linnet !    I  want  to  write  a  post-card. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 
All  right.     See  you  at  dinner.     [He  goes  to  door^  half 
goes  out^  then  puts  his  head  in.]     Perrier  Jouet  89  to-night  ! 

[Exit. 

HAWSTORNE 
[Alone.      Gets  up^  strolls  to  fireplace.      Takes  a  cigarette^ 
lights  ity  puffs  a  few  times^  then  throws  it  away.]      It  was 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        335 

the  only  thing  to  do,  the  only  thing  to  do!  Between  Act  II 
the  devil  and  the  deep  sea  !  \Goes  to  window^  gazes 
gloomily  out,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.^  But  how  in 
God's  name  am  I  to  tell  Gracie  ?  Poor  child,  poor  child  ! 
[The  dinner-gong  sounds  loudly.  Ralph  starts.']  Confound 
it  !  What  a  noise  everything  makes  in  this  house  1  I 
suppose  it's  these  cursed  nerves  of  mine.  \^He  throws 
himself  into  a  chair  and  stares  in  front  of  him.]  I  don't 
see  what  else  I  could  have  done.     [Then  his  head  sinks 

on  the  table.]     Oh,  d n  !     D n  everything  !      [He 

rolls  up  his  sleeve,  takes  a  cigarette-case  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  extracting  a  tube  of  cocaine  and  a  syringe^  proceeds  to 
inject  cocaine  into  his  arm  as  the  curtain  falls.] 


ACT  III 

Act  III  The  Scene  is  the  same.  The  door  at  L.  leads  from  the  dtning- 
room^  that  at  R.  leads  to  drawing-room^  and  there  is 
a  door  at  c.  which  leads  to  the  billiard-room  and  smoking- 
room  proper.  The  ladies^  who  are  discovered  when  the 
curtain  ascends^  have  come  in  from  dinner.  There  is 
Lady  Rolleston,  who  is  seated  at  escritoire^  Miss 
Angela  Crompton  at  piano^  Mrs.  Hargreaves 
talking  to  {or  trying  to  talk  to)  Lady  Daneborough. 

lady  rolleston 

\^Goes  over  and  rings  bell^  and  then  continues  writing  till 
the  footman  enters.  Enter  Harvey.]  Has  Dr.  Raleigh 
come  yet  ? 

HARVEY 

No,  my  Lady. 

lady  rolleston 
When  was  the  telegram  sent  to  him  ? 

HARVEY 

About  eight  o'clock,  my  Lady. 

LADY    rolleston 
Be  sure  you  tell  me  the  moment  he  arrives.     Oh,  and, 
Harvey,  here's  a  letter  for  the  post. 

HARVEY 
[Takes  letter.']  Yes,  my  Lady.  [Exit. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[Turns  round  from  escritoire.]  Miss  Crompton,  do  you 
mind  not  humming  ?     I  am  very  sorry  to  bother  you,  but 
"  Love  laid  his  sleepless  head  "  gets  on  my  nerves. 

336 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        337 

MISS   CROMPTON  Act  III 

I'm  sorry,  dear  Lady  Rolleston.  You  see,  Mr.  Lune- 
ville  is  very  fond  of  it. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[Smiling.]  Well,  I  don't  wish  to  have  a  sleepless  head, 
whatever    Mr.    Luneville's    ambitions    may   be    on   the 
subject. 

MISS    CROMPTON 
Oh,  he  assures  me  that  he  sleeps  very  little.     The 
brain,  he  tells  me,  is  rested  in  about  an  hour,  whereas  the 
body  takes  seven  or  eight  hours  to  recover,  and  as  he  only 
exercises  his  brain,  you  see,  he  needn't  sleep  much. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Dear  me  !     I  should  have  thought  that,  as  he  neither 
exercises  his  body  nor  his  brain,  he  needn't  sleep  at  all  ! 

MISS    CROMPTON 

[Reproachfully.]  You  used  to  like  Mr.  Luneville 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
I  like  him  very  much  now,  my  child,  only  sometimes 
he  is  too — what  shall   I  say  ? — ethereal — like   a   dinner 
consisting  solely  of  hors  d^ceuvres  and  entrees. 

MISS    CROMPTON 

Ah  !  his  talk  is  as  light  as  thistledown. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Naturally.  I  should  think  his  food  was  thistles.  .  .  . 
Forgive  me.  Miss  Crompton.  I  am  out  of  temper 
to-night.     I  have  got  a  sad  headache. 

MRS.    HARGREAVES 

[Looking  up.]  I  am  so  sorry.  Lady  Rolleston.  I  thought 
you  looked  far  from  well  at  dinner. 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

Eh  ?  What  ?    I  thought  the  dinner  very  good — particu- 

z 


338  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  larly  that  dish  with  all  the  truffles  and  what-d'ye-call-'ems 
in  it.  What's  its  name  ?  Nothing  wrong  with  the 
dinner. 

MRS.    HARGREAVES 
I  didn't  say  anything  was  wrong  with  the  dinner.     I 
thought  something  was  wrong  with  Lady  Rolleston. 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 
Enid  ?      I  suppose    she  was    bothering   about    Ralph 
Hawstorne.     She  has  got  him  on  the  brain. 

MRS.     HARGREAVES 

I  thought  he  was  particularly  pleasant  to-night. 
MISS    CROMPTON 

Oh,  he  was  positively  brilliant  !     How  clever  he  is  ! 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

Yes,  he  was  even  pleasant  to  me — a  luxury  in  which  he 
has  seldom  indulged  lately. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Irritably.'\  Oh,  go  to  sleep,  mother,  until  it's  time  for 
your  Bridge. 

LADY  DANEBOROUGH 
My  dear,  you  need  not  fly  down  my  throat  because  I 
pass  a  criticism  on  Major  Hawstorne,  I  told  you  this 
afternoon  that  he  was  out  of  sorts.  To-night  he  seems 
better.  That's  all.  ...  I  thought  he  drank  too  much, 
by  the  bye,  and  ate  too  little. 

[Lady   R.  turns  away  to   the  escritoire.     Mrs. 
Hargreaves  crosses  over  to  her.'\ 

MRS.  HARGREAVES 
Dear  Lady  Rolleston,  I  know  you  are  worried  about 
Major  Hawstorne.  My  husband  told  me,  while  we  were 
dressing  for  dinner,  that  Mr.  Daneborough  had  asked  him 
to  keep  an  eye  on  him,  and  help  him  if  he  could.  I  am 
sure  he  will  do  his  best. 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE   ANGELS        339 

LADY    ROLLESTON  Act  III 

Guy  asked  Mr.  Hargreaves  to — oh,  good  Heavens  ! 

MRS.     HARGREAVES 

Yes.  If  he  only  has  an  opportunity,  I  feel  certain  that 
he  will  do  him  good. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Pithily.]  I  wish  I  could  feel  as  certain.  However,  it 
doesn't  matter.  Miss  Crompton,  you  sat  next  to  Major 
Hawstorne. 

MISS    CROMPTON 

Yes,  and  he  said  such  clever  things  !  Poor  Mr.  Lune- 
ville,  on  the  other  side  of  me,  was  quite  outshone,  and 
really  looked  quite  sad.  I  remember  that  Major  Haw- 
storne recommended  him  to  have  some  more  champagne. 
And  he  seemed  so  excited  and  his  eyes  sparkled  so  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[S/ow/y.]     Yes,  he  seemed  excited,     [y^brupt/y.]     Did 
he  eat  much  ? 

MISS    CROMPTON 
No,  very  little  indeed. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Ah  1  Did  his  hand  shake,  do  you  remember  ?  He 
broke  a  wine-glass,  I  think. 

MISS    CROMPTON 
Yes.     He  said  it  was  for  luck.     What  a  strange  ring 
that  is  which  he  wears  !     There  are  two  stones  lost  out 
of  it,  and  he  says  that  they  cannot  be  replaced. 

LADY  ROLLESTON 
Yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  he  values  that  ring — quite  absurdly. 
Ah,  here  is   Mr.  Luneville,  at  all  events,  as  a  sort  of 
advance    guard.     [Enter    Ray    Luneville.]     Tired    of 
men's  society,  Mr.  Luneville  ? 


340  DRAMAS  AND   DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Longing  for  ladies'  society — that  is  how  I  should  put  it. 
What  a  barbarous  custom  it  is  to  banish  the  ladies  just 
when  the  dull  business  of  eating  is  over  and  talk  begins  to 
run  free. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Perhaps  it  is  the  freedom  of  the  talk  which  makes  the 
ladies  depart. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Ah,  I  observe  you  make  the  common  confusion  between 
freedom  and  license. 

MISS    CROMPTON 

What  is  the  precise  distinction,  Mr.  Luneville  ? 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Well,  you  see,  if  I  say  a  risque  thing,  that  is  only 
freedom,  but  if  another  man  says  a  similar  witticism,  I  call 
it  license. 

LADY  ROLLESTON 

Freedom,  in  fact,  is  what  you  claim  for  yourself; 
license  is  the  quality  you  impute  to  other  people — admir- 
able !  Well,  that  exactly  explains  why  we  ladies  leave 
the  table  after  dinner. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

And  also  why  I  come  here. 

MISS    CROMPTON 

Oh,  Mr.  Luneville,  do  you  want  to  see  what  license 
we  ladies  allow  ourselves  ? 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Heaven  forbid  !  my  dear  young  lady.  I  am  afraid  I 
could  never  understand  the  stories  ladies  tell  each  other 
after  dinner.     Their  interest  is  too  esoteric. 

Miss    CROMPTON 

Esoteric — oh,  what  a  lovely  word  !  What  does  it 
mean  ? 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       341 

MRS.    HARGREAVES  Act  III 

The  unmentionable  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

The  piquantly  peculiar  ? 

MISS    CROMPTON 

The  too  awfully  awful  ! 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

The  idiotic  !• 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Something  of  all  these — especially  the  last,  Lady  Dane- 
borough  \with  a  how  to  her].  The  esoteric  is  a  fusion 
of  subtlety  and  inwardness,  the  abstruse,  for  which  we 
require  some  initiation 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Like  your  jokes  ? 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Precisely — or  like  a  lady's  costume.  Mystery,  you  see, 
is  the  salt  of  life.  I  put  it  into  my  talk.  You  put  it 
into  your  dress.     In  either  case,  the  result  is  fascinating. 


Miss    CROMPTON 


How  clever  ! 


LADY    DANEBOROUGH 

[Grumblingly,']  What  rubbish  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

And  did  other  people's  license  interfere  with  your  free- 
dom in  the  other  room  ? 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Most  grievously,  I  regret  to  say.  There  was  no  free 
exchange.  The  Cobdenite  conversationalist  had  no 
chance.  Talk  was  conducted  on  the  principle  of  Protec- 
tive tariffs — let  me  get  the  highest  price  for  my  commodity 
and  put  a  tax  on  yours. 


342  DRAMAS  AND   DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  LADY    ROLLESTON 

So  the  conscientious  free-trader  was  out  of  it  ?  Who 
monopolized  the  conversation  ? 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Well,  do  you  know,  Major  Hawstorne,  I  think,  was 
the  chief  offender.     He  was  most  selfish 

MRS.    HARGREAVES 
Don't  you  like  Major  Hawstorne  ? 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Oh,  charming  !  Sometimes  a  little  obtrusive,  perhaps. 
He  talks  of  philosophy,  which  he  does  not  understand, 
and  of  morality,  which  he  does  not  practise,  and  of 
manners,  to  which  he  can  lay  no  claim.  Within  these 
limits  he  is  quite  a  good  fellow. 

MISS    CROMPTON 

What  a  curious  testimonial  !  I  am  afraid  you  are 
jealous  of  Major  Hawstorne  ! 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

\Tq  Miss  Crompton.]  Jealousy  suggests  such  an  ugly 
shade  of  green.  My  favourite  colour  \looking  at  Miss 
Crompton's  dressi  is  rose-pink. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Well,  here  come  the  gentlemen,  and  here  is  Major 
Hawstorne  to  answer  for  himself. 

\Enter  Major  Hawstorne,  Guy  Daneborough,  Lord 
Vivian  Rodney,  Robert  Tidman,  Charles  Har- 
GREAVEs.  Hawstorne  has  an  excited  manner^  and  is 
somewhat  flushed. 

hawstorne 
What   have   I  got   to   answer   for  ?     Somebody  been 
attacking  me  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Only  Mr.  Luneville  has  been  suggesting  some  limita- 
tions to  your  acquaintance  with  philosophy  and  ethics. 


ON  THE   SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       343 

HAWSTORNE 
What,  Luneville  ?      Ha,  ha  !     I   know  his  favourite 

formula   with   his   friends — "D d    scoundrel — great 

friend  of  mine — that's  how  he  treats  his   nearest   and 
dearest !     Dangerous  sort  of  chap,  Luneville. 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

Dear  me,  what  a  compliment  !  To  be  dangerous  is  to 
be  important. 

HAWSTORNE 
Yes — important  to  avoid.     But  cheer  up,  Luneville  ; 
your  books  are  specified  as  harmless — didn't  you  tell  me 
so,  Mr.  Hargreaves  ? 

HARGREAVES 
[Looking  shocked.]    I — oh,  no  !     I — ah — I    never   read 
erotic  poetry.     I  was,  I  believe,  telling  you  how  rarely  I 
came  across  a  modern  novel  which  was  harmless. 

HAWSTORNE 
Or  a  modern  woman  either,  eh  ?    [Laughs  rather  noisily,'] 
Women  are  the  devil — I  beg  pardon,  present  company,  of 
course,  excepted  ! 

GUY 

Come,  Bridge,  Bridge  !  What  are  you  all  wastin' 
time  for  ?  Here's  my  old  mother  dyin'  for  a  game  I 
Bridge  !  Bridge  !  [He  fusses  about  noisily.  Lady 
Dane  BOROUGH  has  already  taken  her  seat  at  one  of  the 
two  tables.] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Yes,  it's  quite  time  some  of  us  settled  down — quietly. 
[Looking  at  Hawstorne.] 

RAY    LUNEVILLE 

The  lilies  and  languors  of  cards  are  better  than  the 
roses  and  raptures  of  talk,  aren't  they  ? 


Act  in 


344  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  H  AWSTO  R  N  E 

Especially  to  those  who  don't  know  how  to  talk. 
Cards  are  like  a  band  at  dinner.  Intended  to  conceal  the 
poverty  of  conversation  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Come  and  sit  here  by  me,  Ralph.  There  are  quite 
enough  to  play. 

[At  one  table  are  Lady  Daneborough,  Mr. 
Charles  Hargreaves,  Miss  Crompton, 
Ray  Luneville.  At  the  second  are  Mrs. 
Hargreaves,  Lord  Vivian  Rodney,  Mr. 
TiDMAN,  and  Guy  Daneborough.  Haw- 
STORNE  and  Lady  Rolleston  come  down  R. 

RODNEY 

Doesn't  Major  Hawstorne  care  to  play — eh  ? 

MR.    TIDMAN 

He  probably  prefers  to  talk  to  our  hostess. 

RODNEY 
Burnt  his  bridges,  in  fact — eh,  what  ? 

TIDMAN 
Oh,  my  Lord  !     [Laughs  consumed/y.] 

GUY 

Can't  think  what  people  have  to  talk  about  all  night. 
Talkin'  bores  me  to  death.  [They  play, 

LADY   rolleston 

Ralph,  you  are  better,  are  you  not  ? 

hawstorne 
[IVho  has  alternations  of  excitement  and  sulkiness.]  Better  ? 
Of  course  I'm  better.     Never  felt  so  fit  in  my  life. 

lady  rolleston 
You  frightened  me  rather  at  dinner — you  seemed  to  be 
so  excited  ! 

hawstorne 
Was  I  ?     Well,  I'm  flat  enough  now. 


ON  THE   SIDE    OF  THE  ANGELS       345 

LADY  ROLLESTON  Act  III 

But  oh,  Ralph — how  am  I  to  help  you,  when  you — 
you  take  so  much  champagne  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Oh,  don't  mind  me.     I  know  how  to  manage  myself 
pretty  well. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Yes,  but  you  talked  so  much  and  so  loud.     You  were 
talking  to  the  whole  table,  do  you  know  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
\Laughs,'\  I  can't  help  it.  If  they  are  so  silent,  some 
one  must  do  the  talking  unless  we  are  all  to  be  a  set  of 
mummies.  Yes,  I  suppose  I  did  talk — did  you  hear  me  sit 
on  Vivian  Rodney  ?  I  can't  stand  that  chap — insufferable 
young  prig  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Was  that  when  you  broke  a  wine-glass  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Did  I  break  a  wine-glass  ?     I  dare  say.     Somehow  the 
whole  dinner  passed    like  a  dream — or  a  nightmare.     I 
pinched  myself  sometimes  to  see  if  I  was  awake. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[Looking  anxious.']     You  know  I  telegraphed  to    Dr. 
Raleigh  ?     He  ought  to  be  here  soon. 

HAWSTORNE 

What  the  devil  did  you  do  that  for  ?     I  am  all  right. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

You   remember,  I  told   you   I  was  going  to — before 
dinner. 

HAWSTORNE 
I  don't  remember  anything  of  the  kind.     Confound  it, 
Enid,  you  might  leave  me  alone.     I  can  look  after  myself. 
I  don't  want  to  see  Raleigh.     And  I  think  it's  not  fair  on 


346  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III    me  to  send   for  him  behind  my  back.     You've  got  no 
right  to  do  anything  of  the  kind. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Oh,  Ralph,  no  right  ?  Not  when  you  have  asked  me 
to  be  your  wife  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Oh  yes  ;  I  had  forgotten  that !     [With  a  hollow  laugh.'] 
By   the  bye,  have  you  told  any  of  these   people — your 
brother  and  mother  ?     I  Suppose  they  ought  to  be  told. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
No,  I  haven't  said  anything  yet. 

HAWSTORNE 
Well,  it  seems  to  me  such  glorious  news  ought  to  be 
spread  as  widely  as  possible.     Look  here,  I'll  tell  them. 
[He  rises.~\ 

LADY  ROLLESTON 

No,  no,  Ralph — not  now.  Besides,  they  are  deep  in 
their  game. 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes,  now  and  here.  Why  not  ?  Confound  their 
Bridge.  [Getting  excited  suddenly.']  Of  course,!  knew  there 
was  something  I  had  to  tell  them.  I  could  not  think 
what  the  grand  secret  was  all  through  dinner-time.  Of 
course,  our  engagement — I'll  tell  them  at  once. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
No,  no.     [She  stops  him.] 

HAWSTORNE 
Yes,  yes,  I  tell  you.     Don't   stop  me.  It  is  much  too 
splendid  a  thing  to  be  kept  secret  any  longer.     Ha,    ha  ! 
[  The  laugh  is  bitter  and  hollow.] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Oh,  Ralph,  don't  be  so  wild,  and  don't  laugh  like  that. 
[She  sinks  in  a  corner  helplessly.] 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       347 

HAWSTORNE 
Why  not  ?  It  is  a  real  comedy.  Some  people  might 
even  call  it  a  tragic  farce  !  Ha,  ha  !  Look  here,  my 
excellent  and  worthy  friends.  \He  goes  up  U  one  of  the  tables.'] 
I  have  got  something  much  more  interesting  for  you  than 
your  stupid  Bridge.  [They  look  up  surprised.]  Here,Tiddle- 
a-winks,  my  Lord  Tom  Noddy,  or  whatever  you  call 
yourself  [at  the  other  table].  Miss  Angela  Crumpet,  and 
my  dear  friend  and  adviser  Graveyard — forgive  my 
apparent  excitement — but  you  will  understand  when  you 
hear  my'news  !  Confound  the  cards !  [He  seizes  Tidman's 
hand  of  cards.]  You  couldn't  have  won  with  that  hand 
in  a  month  of  Sundays  !  Much  better  listen  to  me  ! 
[He  throws  the  cards  down.] 

TIDMAN 

Really,  Major  Hawstorne ! 

[They  laugh  at  first,  then  get  serious.] 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes,  really,  Tiddle-a-winks  !  Forgive  me — I  can't 
remember  your  admirable  name,  but  I  think  it  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  sea-salt  !  Well — you  would  never  have 
guessed  it — I  am  going  to  be  married  !  Why  don't  you 
congratulate  me — all  of  you  ?  Miss  Crumpet,  I  really 
think  you  might  pay  me  the  conventional  compliments. 

GUY 
Hawstorne,  I  must  ask  you [Getting  up.] 

HAWSTORNE 
Ask  away,  old  chap.  I'll  tell  you  anything  you  want 
to  know.  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  see  you  looking 
rather  surprised,  and  I  hasten  to  relieve  your  embar- 
rassment. I  apologize  for  any  chance  inadvertence  in  my 
phrases,  or  any  inconvenience  I  may  have  caused  you 
by  my  abruptness.  If  I  was  a  poet,  like  Loony  Rayville 
there,  I  could  put  the  thing  much  more  prettily.  But  you 
know  there  are  some  situations  in  which  a  man  is  allowed 


Act  III 


348  DRAMAS  AND   DIVERSIONS 

Act  III    a  certain  amount  of  rope — one  is  when  he  is  going  to  be 
hanged,  and  another  is  when  he  is  going  to  be  married  ! 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 
Going  to  be  mad  !     He's  mad  already  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

Married,  dear  lady,  not  mad.  You  mistake  the  effect 
for  the  cause.  At  present  we're  only  in  the  initial  stage. 
But  when  a  man  is  to  be  hanged  or  married,  he  desires  to 
make  a  sort  of  confession,  or  rhapsody,  or  swan-song — to 
improve  the  occasion,  in  short  !  Do  not  look  alarmed, 
Mr.  Hargreaves ;  I  am  not  going  to  poach,  more  than  I 
can  help,  on  your  preserves. 

MRS.    HARGREAVES 

Dear  me  !  Dear  me  !  Can  nothing  be  done  to  put  a 
stop  to  this  ? 

GUY 

Hawstorne,  once  more,  stop  this  foolin'.  We've  had 
enough. 

HAWSTORNE 
One  moment,  please.  I  ask  for  your  patience.  A 
charming  lady  has  consented  to  be  my  wife — at  my 
particular  request.  If  marriages  are  made  in  Paradise,  I 
suppose  engagements  are  at  least  worthy  of  Purgatory. 
And  observe  the  complete  appropriateness  of  the  affair. 
For,  clearly,  the  mere  bachelor,  the  obstinate,  pre- 
destined bachelor,  is  admirably  fitted  for  the  Inferno — 
what  do  you  think,  old  Tom  Tiddler's  ground  ?  [He 
slaps  TiDMAN  on  the  back,  and  laughs.']  The  Adam  in  this 
restored  Eden  is  your  humble  servant.  The  Eve — well, 
never  mind  the  Eve  for  the  present.  Adam  is  a  middle- 
aged  bankrupt — but  still  she  takes  compassion  on  him. 
Adam  is  a  man  who  has  been  known  to  drink  too  much — 
but  still  she  takes  compassion  on  him.  Adam  has  wasted  his 
youth  and  tarnished  his  manhood — but  still  she  does  not 
turn  her  face  away.     Adam  is  not  likely,  for  causes  already 


ON  THE   SIDE    OF  THE  ANGELS       349 

mentioned,  to  have  a  long  life — but  still  she  accepts  what    Act  III 
is  left  of  him.     You  will  observe  that  Eve  undertakes 
somewhat  grave  responsibilities.     I  can't  think  why  she 
assumes  such  a  burden,  can  you  ? 

LADY    DANEBOROUGH 
I  don't   know  why    we   should   have  to  listen  to  the 
ravings  of  a  lunatic  !     Guy,  pray   ring   the  bell  for  my 
maid. 

[Guy  goes  to  bell     Hawstorne  anticipates  him.] 

HAWSTORNE 
Allow  me,  my  dear  Lady.  You  are  quite  right  to  retire. 
Such  discussions  are  not  suited  to  your  virgin  ears. 
[Servant  enters.]  Lady  Daneborough  wants  her  maid 
and  her  perambulator,  if  you  please.  [Mrs.  Hargreaves 
goes  up  to  Lady  Daneborough,  offers  her  an  arm^  and 
exeunt  together?^  That's  all  right.  My  discourse  has 
the  effect  of  dispersing  the  congregation  almost  faster 
than  one  of  your  sermons,  honourable  and  reverend  Mr. 
Harrowgrave  !  And  now  that  all  ladies  and  children 
have  left  the  court  at  the  command  of  the  presiding  judge, 
we  will  resume  this  distressing  case.  Let  me  see — where 
was  I  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Ralph — for  Heaven's  sake  !  .  .  .  \^he  half  rises.] 

HAWSTORNE 
Never  mind.  Eve  dear  ;  we  will  come  to  you  presently. 
Marriage  is  a  mystery,  a  holy  covenant,  a  sacrament — 
isn't  it  ?  Don't  shake  your  head.  Loony  rhyme-spinner  ! 
You  can't  find  a  good  rhyme  to  "  covenant,"  can  you  ? 
or  "  sacrament "  either  ?  Never  mind.  You  ask  the 
parson  if  I  am  not  right  !  Well,  for  what  reasons  do  we 
enter  the  holy  estate  of  matrimony  ?  Social  convenience  ? 
Expediency  ?  A  family  arrangement  ?  Statecraft  ? 
Maternal  diplomacy  ?  Passion  ?  Money  ?  Excellent 
reasons  for  tying  the  matrimonial  noose,  aren't  they  ? 
particularly  the  last  ?     My    dear    Miss   Crumpet,   don't 


350  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  blush  !  Ask  your  amorous  poet  there.  He  will  give  you 
admirable  rhymes  for  love,  but  he  will  take  devilish  good 
care  to  find  something  more  practical  and  substantial 
in  his  own  interest  !  Ha,  ha  !  But  these  are  not  the 
only  causes  for  wedlock  !  I  will  give  you  another.  Ne- 
cessity !  My  dear  friends — because  you  must  !  Because 
you  can't  help  yourself !  Adam  has  made  an  infernal 
fool  of  himself  all  his  life,  and  then,  when  he  has  played 
his  last  stake,  and  sees  ruin,  moral,  social,  bodily,  mental 
ruin  staring  him  in  the  face,  when  he  is  good  for  nothing, 
and  neither  Heaven,  nor  Earth,  nor  Hell,  offers  him  the 
ghost  of  a  chance,  or  the  glimmer  of  a  fading  hope — he 
marries  !  When  in  doubt,  play  trumps,  you  know  ! 
When  you  have  spent  your  bottom  dollar,  and  in  the 
ranks  of  humanity  have  reached  the  class  known  as 
Z  99 — you  must  either  take  orders — beg  pardon,  rector 
— or  get  married — either  lump  it  or  leave  it,  ha,  ha  ! 
Matrimony  is  the  solace  of  a  broken  heart — like  religion  ; 
the  last  refuge  for  the  ruined — like  the  bankruptcy  court  ! 
Then  come  the  statelier  bridals,  of  which  the  poet  dreams. 
Then  comes  the  gracious  Eve,  who  takes  Adam  for  better 
or  worse — the  worse,  for  choice.  Then  dawns  the  light 
of  a  newer  Eden — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  \_He  sinks  down 
suddenly^  in  a  quick  and  strange  reaction.']  Oh,  God  !  how 
tired  I  am  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[Rising  and  going  over   to  him.]      Guy,   for   Heaven's 
sake,  take  him  away.     Ring,  and  let's  get  him,  to  bed.     I 
have  sent  for  his  doctor. 

GUY 

Goodness  knows  what  we're  to  do  with  him  !  Here, 
Luneville,  take  Miss  Crompton  away.  She's  frightened 
out  of  her  wits! 

MISS    CROMPTON 
Oh,  Mr.   Luneville,  yes — let  us  go  into  the  drawing- 
room.     Anywhere — anywhere,  out  of  this. 


ON  THE   SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       351 

RAY    LUNEVILLE  Act  III 

Dear  Miss  Angela — Angela — I  will  look  after  you. 
Come  with  me.  [Ray  Luneville  and  Miss  Angela  go 
out  into  drawing-room^ 

GUY 

Here,  you  fellows  \to  Hargreaves,  Tidman,  and 
Rodney],  help  me.     We  must  get  him  away. 

tidman 
\Officiously?[  Shall  I  ring  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

No — no.  I  don't  want  the  servants  to  see  him  like 
this. 

HAWSTORNE 
[Rousing  himself.']  Go  to  bed  !  Who  said  go  to  bed  ? 
Nonsense  !  I  am  not  tired.  Let's  play  a  round  game  or 
something.  Look  here,  Rodney,  I  will  back  myself 
against  you  in  anything  you  like — cards,  billiards,  running, 
jumping,  fighting.  Five  pounds  each  event.  .  .  .  Don't 
be  a  cur — come  on  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[Whispering.']    Oh,   do   humour   him.     Take    him    to 
the  billiard-room.     I  cannot  bear  any  more.  .  .  . 

GUY 

Come  into  the  billiard-room,  Hawstorne.  It  is  cooler 
there. 

HAWSTORNE 

All  right.  I  want  a  whisky-and-potash  and  a  smoke. 
[Tidman  opens  the  door  c.  Hawstorne  goes 
out^  digging  Tidman  in  the  ribs  as  he  passes. 
The  others  follow^  and  the  door  is  closed. 
Lady  Rolleston  is  left  alone.  She  totters 
to  the  bcll^  and  then  sinks  down  on  chair  r., 
sobbing  and  almost  fainting.     Jarvis  enters.] 


352  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  JARVIS 

If  you  please,  my  Lady,  Dr.  Raleigh  has  just  driven 
up  to  the  door. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Thank  God  ! 

JARVIS 
Shall  I  show  him  in  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Yes — no.     Give  me  something  to  drink  first  .  .  .  and, 
Jarvis,  just  arrange  the  room  a  little. 

[The  other  servant^  Harvey,  comes  in.  Jar  vis 
goes  out^  while  Harvey  arranges  the  room^ 
picking  up  a  chair  that  had  fallen^  and  the 
cards^  which  are  strewn  on  the  floor.  Jarvis 
re-enters  with  brandy-and-soda^  which  he  gives 
to  Lady  Rolleston.     After  a  pause. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Now,  show  Dr.  Raleigh  in,  please.     [Jarvis  exit  with 
Harvey.     Lady  Rolleston  goes  to  looking-glass^  then  sits 
at  escritoire^  pretending  to  write.'] 

Enter  Jarvis,  ushering  in  Dr.  Raleigh. 

JARVIS 

Dr.  Raleigh,  my  Lady. 

RALEIGH 
I  am  sorry  to  be  so  late.  Lady  Rolleston,  but  I  was 
out  when  your  telegram  came.     I  gather  that  there  is 
something  urgent 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Oh,  thank  Heaven  you  have  come.  Dr.  Raleigh  ! 
Yes,  indeed  ;  I  wanted  you  very  badly,  or  I  should  not 
have  given  you  all  this  trouble. 

RALEIGH 
What   is  it  ?     In   the  first  place  I  think  I  ought  to 
attend  to  you.     You  look  very  far  from  well. 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       353 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Never  mind  about  me.  Of  course,  I  sent  for  you 
about  Major  Hawstorne. 

RALEIGH 

Ah,  so  I  feared.     What  has  happened  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

The  most  dreadful  things.  He  seems  to  have  utterly 
lost  all  control  over  himself,  and  just  now  we  had  a 
terrible  outbreak. 

RALEIGH 
You  see,  he  was  not  fit  to  pay  you  a  visit  at  all.  I 
was  only  too  afraid  of  what  might  occur  that  afternoon 
when  I  saw  you  at  Mrs.  Mayhew's  cottage ;  but  both 
you  and  he  seemed  50  eager  that  the  visit  should  take 
place  that  I  allowed  myself  to  be  over-persuaded.  I  was 
wrong,  evidently.  You  know  what  he  is  suffering 
from  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Yes,  we  are  old  friends,  you  know,  since  his  time  in 
India,  and  he  showed  me  the  letter  you  wrote  to  him. 
You  alluded  to  cocaine 

RALEIGH 

He  has  been  poisoning  himself  for  months  with  the 
wretched  stuff.  I  kept  him  under  strict  control  while  he 
was  at  Wootton-le-Hay.  But  even  then  he  sometimes 
broke  my  orders.  It  seems  that  he  got  into  the  habit  in 
England,  after  some  repetition  of  the  ague-fits  which  he 
contracted  in  India.  I  suppose  he  was  not  very  strong  in 
India  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Yes  and  no.  He  had  lots  of  spirit,  and  was  ready  for 
anything  ;  but  he  had  fever  very  badly,  and  was  much 
pulled  down.     Then  he  was  invalided  home. 

A  A 


Act  III 


Act  III 


354  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

RALEIGH 

He  told  me  that  he  was  very  liable  to  influenza 
attacks.  At  all  events,  some  one  told  him  that  cocaine 
was  good  for  the  nerves — you  know  what  great  depression 
is  caused  by  influenza — and  he  got  into  the  habit  of 
using  it.  Of  course,  the  thing  grew  upon  him  ;  these 
habits  invariably  end  by  making  the  man  or  the  woman 
who  indulges  in  them  an  abject,  miserable  slave.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  know  the  effects  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

I  know  something  about  morphia  and  the  morphino- 
maniacs. 

RALEIGH 
Well,  it's  much  the  same — in  many  respects  actually 
worse.  The  victim,  of  course,  requires  more  and  more 
to  produce  the  desired  result.  It  is  highly  stimulating, 
and  the  reactions  are  dreadful.  Sometimes  the  patient  is 
in  the  wildest  spirits,  and  afterwards  he  is  in  the  lowest 
depths  of  despair.  His  temper  is  uncertain,  his  face 
changes  in  colour,  he  suffers  from  sleeplessness  and  loss 
of  appetite,  the  hands  tremble.  But  the  moral  effects 
are  still  more  lamentable.  All  self-control  is  lost,  and 
gradually  every  kind  of  distinction  between  right  and 
wrong  vanishes.  Above  all,  the  instinct  for  truthfulness 
disappears  ;  falsehood  and  deception  become  natural ;  and 
in  the  last  and  worst  stages  the  victim  is  a  hopeless  liar. 
\Loud  laughter  from  adjoining  room.] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Don't — please,   don't   say   any    more  !     [Shuddering.'] 
It's  too  horrible  ! 

RALEIGH 

Of  course,  Major  Hawstorne  is  not  so  bad  as  that — 
yet.  But  he  has  acquired,  I  am  soiry  to  say,  the  irresist- 
ible craving  for  the  temporary  feeling  of  happiness  and 
well-being  which  cocaine,  like  all  similar  drugs — hashish 


ON  THE   SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       355 

and  opium,   for    instance — produces.     And  at  times  he    Act  III 
would  almost  sell  his  soul  to  get  peace  for  his  throbbing 
nerves.     By  the  way,  where  is  he  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

In  the  next  room,  the  billiard-room. 
RALEIGH 

Ah,  I  thought  I  heard  his  laugh  just  now.  It  is  not 
pleasant  to  hear — it's  almost  a  maniac's  laugh. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Yes,  yes.     But  what  is  to  be  done  ? 

RALEIGH 
I  must  take  him  away,  as  soon  as  possible,  and  nurse 
him.     Foreseeing  what  might  happen,  I  have  brought  a 
nurse  with  me — a  nurse  whom  he  knows. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Can  I  not  nurse  him  here  ? 

RALEIGH 
No,  Lady  Rolleston.     There  I  am  afraid  I  must  be 
firm.     I  must  take  him  away  with  me.     Did  you  say  he 
had  had  an  outburst  lately  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

A  dreadful  outburst — this  evening — just  now.  He 
has  been  in  a  queer  state  all  the  afternoon,  and  when  he 
came  back  from  shooting  he  complained  that  he  was  out 
of  sorts,  and  could  not  hit  anything. 

RALEIGH 

Has  he  had  any  mental  shock — something,  I  mean 
to  worry  him  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Yes,  he  had  a  letter,  I  think,  which  upset  him.  It 
came  with  j^ours  by  the  evening  post. 


356  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

■Act  III  RALEIGH 

Ah — he  probably  took  cocaine  before  dinner  to  steady 
his  nerves.  Feeling  anxious  and  worried,  he  would  be 
almost  sure  to  fly  to  the  cursed  drug.  How  and  when 
can  I  see  him  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Shall  I  go  into  the  billiard-room  and  ask  him  to  come 
here  ? 

RALEIGH 
No  ;  he  would  probably  refuse,  and  lose  his  temper. 
I  must  wait  till  he  comes  out  of  his  own  accord.  He  is 
sure  to  have  the  usual  reaction,  and  then  he  will  get 
moody  and  tired — at  all  events,  he  will  be  relatively  quiet 
and  reasonable.  ...  I  must  see  him  alone. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
And    you    are    sure    that  he  cannot  be  nursed  here  ? 
Surely  it's  better  to  get  him  to  bed  here  ?  for  to-night  ? 
I  would  do  everything  you  told  me  to,  and  take  every 
care  of  him. 

RALEIGH 

\Firmly?^  No,  Lady  Rolleston.  Forgive  me  ;  I  must 
insist.  I  am  afraid  [hesitating]  that  you  may  be — pardon 
me  once  more — that  you  may  be  rather  an  exciting 
agency  for  him  in  his  present  condition. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Oh,  why  ?     I  am  very  fond  of  him. 

RALEIGH 
Pray  do  not  say  anything  further  on  the  point.  If  you 
are  fond  of  him,  if  you  care  for  him  at  all,  you  will  do 
what  you  can  to  help  him  in  this  crisis.  And  by  far  the 
best  thing  for  him  is  to  let  me  take  him  away  from  this 
house,  and — I  regret  to  have  to  say  it — from  you. 


ON  THE   SIDE    OF  THE  ANGELS       357 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Of  course,  if  you  say  it  is  necessary,  I  must  give  way. 
Oh,  here  is  some  one  from  the  billiard-room. 

Enter  from  billiard-room  Guy  Daneborough,  almost  purple 
in  the  face. 

GUY 
Look  here,  Sissie,  I  can't  stand  this  any  more 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Guy,  this  is  Dr.  Raleigh.  [Dr.  Raleigh  hows, 

GUY 

Raleigh,  I'm  devilish  glad  to  see  you.  I'm  a  pretty 
patient  man,  very  long-sufFerin',  and  all  that,  but  the 
way  Hawstorne  has  been  going  on  is  more  than  I  can 
stand.  .  .  .  Enid  would  have  him  here — I  can't  make 
out  why — I'm   sure   I  didn't  want  him,  and   now   Fm 

d d  if  I  know  what  we  are  to  do  with  him.     Get 

him  away,  Raleigh,  for  Heaven's  sake  ! 

RALEIGH 

I  am  here  for  that  purpose. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

What  has  happened  ?     I  thought  he  was  quieter, 

GUY 
He  was  fairly  quiet  at  first,  and  played  pyramids  all 
right.  Then  he  got  excited  again.  He  has  cut  my 
cloth,  of  course.  I  don't  mind  that  so  much,  although 
the  billiard-table  is  spoilt,  and  equally,  of  course,  he  has 
spilt  his  drink  all  over  the  place.  But  he  is  so  infernally 
quarrelsome.  He  deliberately  picked  a  quarrel  with  young 
Vivian  Rodney — I  suppose  he  doesn't  like  him.  Anyhow, 
he  wanted  to  fight  a  duel,  -or  somethin'  !  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
can't  remember  now  what  excited  him.  He  had  lost  a 
cigarette-case,  on  which  he  set  great  store,  and  he  made 


Act  HI 


358  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  a  devil  of  a  row  about  it.  .  .  .  And  then  he  jabbered  a 
lot  about  that  ring  of  his.  I  couldn't  make  head  or  tail 
of  what  he  said — some  rubbish  about  an  Indian  priest  or 
somethin'.  He  is  mad — that's  what  he  is — rank,  roarin' 
mad,  and  the  sooner  he  is  put  into  a  lunatic  asylum,  the 
better  for  us  all.  [Enter  from  billiard-room  Lord  Vivian 
Rodney,  Tidman,  and  Hargreaves.]  Hullo,  you  chaps, 
where  have  you  left  the  maniac  ? 

RODNEY 
He  is  quiet  now.     He  has  shaken  hands  with  me,  and 
told  me  he  was  sorry.     He's  a  rum  lot — eh,  what  ? 

TIDMAN 
He  was  very  insolent  to  you,  my  Lord. 

RODNEY 

So  he  was  to  you,  Tidman. 

TIDMAN 

But  it's  different  to  me. 

GUY 
Is  it  ?     Well,  I  should  have  thought  an  insult  was  an 
insult  all  the  world  over  ?     Do  you  say  he's  quiet  now  ? 

hargreaves 
Yes — we  left  him  at  his  own   request.     He  said  he 
wanted  to  be  alone. 

RODNEY 
By  the  way,  he   wanted   to  enter   into  a  theological 
discussion  with  Mr.  Hargreaves.     Odd  fish,  eh,  what  ? 

hargreaves 
He  is  very  anxious  to  find  that  cigarette-case  he  was 
talking  about.  I  think,  do  you  know,  he  half  suspects  us 
of  robbing  him  of  it.  He  told  us  we  were  persecuting 
him.  That  is  probably  why  he  wanted  to  be  left  alone — 
in  order  to  look  for  the  case  himself. 


ON  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  ANGELS       5^9 

GUY  Act  III 

This  is  the  doctor — Dr.  Raleigh.     Thank  Heaven,  our 
responsibility  is  over  ! 

RALEIGH 

Gentlemen,  I  wrill  ask  you  to  be  good  enough  to  leave 
me  to  deal  with  him.     Will  you  oblige  me  ? 

GUY 

Oh,  certainly,  certainly.  With  the  greatest  pleasure. 
Come  along. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
\Anxiously^  May  I  stay  w^ith  you,  doctor  ? 

RALEIGH 

No,  Lady  Rolleston,  I  think  not. 

GUY 

Well,  we  are  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Raleigh — very 
grateful,  in  fact.  Ring  if  you  want  any  thin'.  \The 
gentlemen  go  out,] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Quite  sure,  doctor  ? 

RALEIGH 

Quite  sure.  [Lady  Rolleston  goes  out  reluctantly. 

[As  soon  as  they  have  gone^  Dr.  Raleigh  rings 
the  helL     After  a  moment  the  servant  comes, 

RALEIGH 
Kindly  ask  the  nurse  I  brought  with  me  to  come  here, 
to  this  room,  as  soon  as  possible.     Bring  her  to  the  door. 
You  need  not  come  in  yourself.     You  understand  ? 

SERVANT 

Yes,  sir.  \Exit, 

[Dr.  Raleigh  proceeds  to  turn  some  of  the  lights 

outy  and  leaves  one  only  glimmering.     Then 

he  throws  open  the  windows^  and  lets  in  a 


36o  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  flood  of  moonlight.     Then  he  waits.    Presently 

there  is  a  knock  at  the  door^  and  a  voice 
without^  "  ^hall  I  come  in,  doctor  ? "  {in  a 
whisper^ 


RALEIGH 


Yes,  come  in. 


\The  figure  of  a  nurse — Grace — comes  across  the 
moonlight, 

RALEIGH 

Come  here,  in  the  shadow.     We  must  wait. 

GRACE 
\JVhispers^  Where  is  he  ? 

RALEIGH 
IWhispers,^  In  there.     We  must  wait. 

[There  is  a  pause  and  a  long  silence.  Then  the 
door  of  the  billiard-room  opens  and  Haw- 
STORNE  comes  in.  He  looks  frightfully  haggard 
in  the  moonlight,  and  dishevelled^  with  large^ 
staring  eyes — as  if  he  were  walking  in  his 
sleep.  The  nurse  and  doctor  keep  in  the 
shadow  while  he  comes  down. 

HAWSTORNE 
I  must  find  it,  I  must  find  it.  Where  the  devil  can  I 
have  dropped  it  ?  All  dark  here.  Confound  it,  where 
are  the  matches  ?  \H.e  goes  to  table  and  feels  for  match- 
box, and  then  in  his  own  pockets,']  I  must  have  that — that 
cigarette.  I  shall  die  if  I  can't  have  .  .  .  [He  speaks 
dreamily.  Then,  after  some  search,  he  drops  into  a  chair.] 
I  am  so  tired.  I  think  I  am  dying.  Death  would  be  the 
best  thing  of  all  for  me.  Oh,  I  hope  I  am  dying.  What 
else  remains  ?  [He  puts  his  hands  over  his  face,  then  drops 
his  hands  6n  his  knees.  His  fingers  are  clearly  seen  in  the 
moonlight.  He  looks  down  at  his  hands.  Then  suddenly  his 
eye  is  caught  by  his  ring  on  his  finger,  and  he  stares  at  it — 
incredulously  at  first,  and  then  with  growing  alarm,]  Good 


ON  THE   SIDE   OF  THE   ANGELS      361 

God  !  the  ring  !  the  ring  !     It  has  gone — the  last  stone    Act  III 

has  gone  !     To  desire — to  possess — to  know — all    have 

gone  !     Is  this  the  end  ?     \^He  takes  the  ring  off  his  finger^ 

as  though  to  fling  it  out  of  window.     Then  pauses^     No,  no  ; 

I  cannot  throw  it  away  !     It  is  all  I  have  !     Oh,  help, 

help,  help  !      \^He  screams  at  last  in  sheer  terror^  then  falls 

on  the  floor ^  fainting.     Dr.  Raleigh  turns  up  one  light^  and 

comes  over  to  him.'] 

RALEIGH 

He  has  fainted.  \To  Grace.]  Is  there  any  water  in  the 
room  ? 

grace 
Here  is  a  half-finished  glass  of  something — brandy-and- 
soda,  I  think.      [She  brings  over   the  glass   which    Lady 
RoLLESTON  had  begun  when  Dr.  Raleigh  was  announced,^ 

RALEIGH 

That  will  do.  [^He  holds  the  glass  to  Hawstorne's  lips^ 
while  he  and  the  Nurse  support  his  head.]  That's  better. 
He  is  coming  to.     [Hawstorne  slowly  opens  his  eyes.] 

hawstorne 

[Faintly.]  Where  am  I  ?  Who  are  you  ?  What  do 
you  want  ? 

RALEIGH 

We  are  your  best  friends,  Hawstorne. 

hawstorne 
[Whose  eyes  are  fixed  dn  Grace.]  Who  are  you  ?    Let  me 
see  your  face.     Who  is  it ! 

grace 
It  is  I — Grace  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

Grace — and  you  ?     [Turning  to  Raleigh.]     Raleigh  ? 


362  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  III  RALEIGH 

Yes. 

HAWSTORNE 

Grace,  and   Tom   Raleigh  !     Oh,  thank  God,  thank 
God! 

\He  sinks  back^  happy^  into  their  arms.'] 


Curtain, 


ACT   IV 

Four  weeks  have  elapsed.  The  Scene  is  the  same  as  Act  I.  Act  IV 
Mrs.  Mayhew's  cottage  at  Wootion-le-Hay,  Wharve- 
dale.  Bright  October  sunshine  ;  open  window  c.  Mrs. 
Mayhew  and  Grace,  dressed  as  a  professional  nurse^ 
are  dusting  the  room^  putting  things  in  order ^  etc.  The 
little  crippled  hoy  of  Act  I.  is  helping  as  best  he  can^ 
hobbling  about  ^  and  looking  from  time  to  time  out  of  the 
window  c] 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

\Watching  him.]     What   is   it,  Tommy  ?     You  seem 
quite  excited  this  morning. 

TOMMY 
l^^ho  speaks  in  odd^  jerky  monosyllables.]  Major — come — 
soon  ? 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

Yes,  Dr.  Raleigh  has  allowed  him  to  come  down  for 
the  first  time  this  morning. 

TOMMY 

Major — better  ? 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

Yes,  Tommy,  much  better,  the  doctor  says. 

TOMMY 

Me — see — Major  ?     [Mrs.  Mayhew  turns  to  Grace.] 

GRACE 
Yes,   if  you  are  very  good  and  quiet.     Poor   Major 
Hawstorne  is  not  strong,  you  know.     He  is  ever  so  pale 
and  weak,  and  we  must  take  lots  of  care  of  him. 

363 


364  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  TOMMY 

Me — take — care — him. 

GRACE 

You  dear  child !  \Kisses  him.]  Yes,  you  shall  help 
me  to  take  care  of  him.     Where  are  you  going  ? 

TOMMY 
Tell — children — village.     [He  limps  out  of  open  window^ 

MRS.    MAYHEW 
[Looking  after  him  with  a  smile.]   Oh,  he  has  got  some 
little  scheme,  I  think,  on  his  mind.     He  is  going  to  tell 
some  of  the  little  children  in  the  village  about  Master 
Ralph. 

GRACE 

He  is  a  dear  little  boy,  and  nothing  can  exceed  his 
gratitude  and  devotion  to  Major  Haw^storne.  You 
remember  his  first  appearance  here  ? 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

Yes — Master  Ralph  brought  him  in  his  arms  and  gave 
him  to  me.     He  had  been  hurt. 

GRACE 
Tommy  has  never  forgotten  it.     Nor  yet  the  ring — do 
you  recollect  ?     He  had  it  tightly  clasped  in  his  hand,  and 
it  was  ever  so  difficult  to  persuade  him  to  give  it  up.     He 
often  asks  about  the  ring  now,  and  wants  to  see  it. 

MRS.    MAYHEW 

What  has  become  of  the  ring  ? 

GRACE 
Oh,  it's  still  on  Major  Hawstorne's  finger — that  is  to 
say,  the  frame  of  the  ring.     The  stones  are  lost.  .  .  . 

MRS.    MAYHEW 
Ah,  the  stones  are  gone,  and  he  set  such  store  by  them  ! 


ON  THE  SIDE    OF  THE  ANGELS       365 

GRACE  Act  IV 

[Smiling.]  He  thinks  they  are  all  lost.  But  I  picked  up 
one — when — when  I  went  with  Dr.  Raleigh  to — to  fetch 
him  home.     He  does  not  know  yet.     Don't  tell  him. 

MRS.  MAYHEW 
Of  course  not. 

GRACE 

I  want  to  keep  it  as  a  surprise  for  him  to-day. 

MRS.   MAYHEW 
Poor  Master  Ralph  !    He  wants  all  the  pleasure  we  can 
give  him.     Hush,  what  is  that  ?     Don't  I  hear  his  foot- 
steps outside  ? 

GRACE 
Yes — yes.  [She  runs  excitedly  to  the  door  L.] 
[Enter  Hawstorne  supported  by  Dr.  Raleigh.  He  is  very 
much  pulled  down — very  pale  and  bloodless^  and  apparently 
walks  with  difficulty,  Grace  runs  up  and  supports  him 
on  the  one  side.  Mrs.  Mayhew  pulls  forward  a  long 
easy  chair  by  the  window^  and  they  put  Hawstorne 
into  it. 

HAWSTORNE 
[In  a  weak  voice  and  with  a  ghost  of  a  smile.]     Aha, 
Mother  Flannels,  you  see  I  am  getting  on  famously — thanks 
to  Grace  and  this  dear  doctor.     I  shall  soon  pull  round. 

MRS.  MAYHEW 
[Crying.]  Oh,  dear,  Master  Ralph,  I  wish  we  could 
do  more  for  you.  But  it  is  a  blessed  sight  to  see  you 
downstairs  again.  .  .  .  Do  you  feel  any  draught  from  the 
window  ?  Doctor,  is  it  safe  for  him  to  sit  by  an  open 
window  ? 

RALEIGH 
Quite  safe,  Mrs.  Mayhew.  The  air  is  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  for  him. 


366  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  GRACE 

It  is  almost  as  warm  as  July — a  beautiful  St.  Luke's 
summer  ! 

MRS.   MAY  HEW 
Yes — yes — yes — but  it's  treacherous  too.     Has  he  got 
flannel — thick  flannel — round  him  ? 

RALEIGH 
He's  all  right,  I  can  assure  you. 

HAWSTORNE 
Dear   old    Mother  Flannels  I     She  thinks  the  whole 
world  can  be  cured  by  Viyella  or  Jaegers. 

RALEIGH 

She  is  not  far  wrong,  either.  Well — now  that  you  are 
comfortable  I  must  go  my  rounds,  and  then  I  will  call  in 
again.  Remember,  Nurse,  he  is  not  to  be  here  too  long. 
Directly  he  feels  tired  he  must  go  back  to  bed.  Good- 
bye, Mrs.  Mayhew.     Au  revoir,  Hawstorne. 

[As  he  is  going  out  by  the  window^  Tommy,  who 
is  rushing  in,  runs  full  tilt  against  him. 

RALEIGH 
Bless  the  boy  !     What's  up  now  ?     Considering  that 
you  are  a  cripple.  Tommy,  you  manage  to  get  over  the 
ground  pretty  fast.     [He  pats  Tommy  on  the  head  and 
exit.^ 

tommy 
Major — down — hooray  ! 

GRACE 

Yes,  Tommy,  but  you  must  not  tire  him.  [Tommy 
draws  Grace  aside  and  whispers  in  her  earJ\  All  right — 
yes,  now,  at  once.     I  will  tell  Major  Hawstorne. 

TOMMY 
No — no — mum's  the  word  !     [He  hobbles  out  quickly. 


^ 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       367 

MRS.    MAYHEW  Act  IV 

Bless  US  and  save  us  !  Wherever  is  the  boy  off  to 
now  ?     [She  goes  out  after  him  into  the  garden.] 

HAWSTORNE 

Grace  dear. 

GRACE 

Yes. 

HAWSTORNE 

Come  near  to  me,  and  call  me  "  Ralph." 

GRACE 
Yes.  .  .  .  Ralph.     [She  goes  over  to  him.] 

HAWSTORNE 
Am  I  really  better  ? 

GRACE 

Yes — the  doctor  gives  a  good  account  of  you — and  so 
do  I. 

HAWSTORNE 

Am  I  going  to  live — after  all  ? 

GRACE 

Of  course  you  are.  Only  we  must  take  great  care  of 
you. 

HAWSTORNE 

Ah,  you  are  all  so  kind  to  me,  so  good  and  tender  and 
affectionate.  But  is  it  worth  while  keeping  a  man  like 
me  alive  ?     Is  it  worth  while,  I  wonder  ?  .  .  . 

GRACE 

Hush,  hush  !     You  must  not  talk  like  that  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

I  feel  so  utterly  worthless  and  weak,  such  a  wreck — a 
mere   rag   of  a   man.     Just   look  at  these  hands — they 


368  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  almost  frighten  me  !  I  don't  dare  to  look  at  my  face  in 
the  glass.  It  must  be  horrible  !  And  sometimes  an  awful 
craving  comes  on  me,  a  craving  for  that — you  know  what 
I  mean.  I  think  I  would  sell  my  soul  to  have  that  cigar- 
ette-case again.  I  wonder  what  became  of  it  ?  It  is 
cruel  to  deny  me,  I  only  ask  for  such  a  little.  Surely  it 
cannot  be  right  to  break  a  habit  in  so  abrupt  a  fashion. 
You  ought  to  let  a  man  down  easily.  Come,  Grace,  is  it 
kind  ? 

GRACE 
Ralph  dear,  you  know  what  Dr.  Raleigh's  orders  are. 
He  believes  in  absolute  cessation — stopping  the  thing  once 
and  for  all — at  whatever  cost.  If  you  had  any  more  of 
that  dreadful  cocaine  it  would  ruin  you.  You  would  go 
back  to  all  the  bad  ways.  .  .  . 

HAWSTORNE 

But  surely  some  people  are  broken  in  gradually,  by  con- 
tinually lessening  doses.  I  remember  a  man  in  India  who 
was  treated  that  way,  and  he  got  all  right.  .  .  . 

GRACE 
It  was  morphia,  probably — not  cocaine.    No.   [Firmly.'] 
We  must  do  what  the  doctor  tells  us,  and  not  complain. 

HAWSTORNE 

Well,  it's  jolly  hard  upon  a  fellow.  [Pettishly,']  Oh, 
it's  all  very  well  for  you  to  preach  at  me,  but  you  don't 
know  what  it  feels  like  to  have  an  aching,  maddening 
craving  like  mine.     A  little  would  satisfy  me,  you  know 

mly  a  very  little. 


GRACE 
Dear,  don't  let  us  talk  about  it.     Don't  make  it  so  hard 
for  me  to  refuse.     [Tommy  runs  in  again ^ 

TOMMY 
Major — all  right  ? 


ON  THE   SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       369 

GRACE  Act  IV 

Yes,  Tommy.  Ralph, Tommy  has  organized  a  children's 
chorus  to  greet  your  first  appearance  downstairs.  You 
don't  mind,  do  you  ?     It  won't  bore  you  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
\Feehly^  Oh,  it   is  very  good  of  Tommy.     Let  him 
do  what  he  likes.     Go  ahead.  Tommy. 

[Tommy  goes  to  window  and  makes  signs.  Outside 
a  row  of  small  boys  and  girls  is  drawn  up. 
With  a  large  paper-knife  in  his  hand  he 
imitates  with  perfect  gravity  the  conductor  of 
a  hand^  heating  time^  and  saying  "  One — two 
— three.  Go  I  "  The  children  begin  wrong. 
Tommy  stops  them  by  beating  with  his  paper- 
knife  on  the  window-ledge^  waves  his  arms 
and  tries  to  pull  them  together.  Then  they 
burst  into  a  chorus^  "  See  the  conquering  hero 
comes^  HAWSTORNE'sy^c^  gradually  relaxes 
into  a  smile^  as  he  sees  Tommy's  excited  gestures. 

GRACE 
That  will  do,  Tommy.     We  must  not  tire  the  Major. 

HAWSTORNE 

Come  here,  Tommy.  I  want  you  to  thank  the  children 
for  me,  and  give  them  these  [putting  some  coins  into  his 
hand]  for  sweetmeats.  Tell  them  that  I  am  very  grateful 
to  them  for  their  kindness,  which  I  deeply  appreciate,  and 
say  how  glad  I  am  to  see  them  all  again. 

TOMMY 
[Strutting  back  to  window.  Tumbling  his  words  over 
one  another.]  Children — Major — very  good — kindness  to 
you — 'preciate  very  much.  Hooray!  [They  cheer ^^ommx 
turns  back  again^  bows,  and  puts  himself  at  the  head  of  the 
children^  who  march  off.  Grace  and  Hawstorne  laugh 
happily. 

B  B 


370  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  HAWSTORNE 

Happy  little  kids  !  I  was  once  like  that,  Grace,  though 
you  may  find  it  difficult  to  believe — ^just  a  chubby-cheeked, 
curly-headed  boy.     What  colour  is  my  hair  now  ? 

GRACE 
[Bending  over  him  tenderly.]   Rather  gray,  Ralph.   There 
are  a  good  many  white  hairs — more  white  than  brown, 
I'm  afraid. 

HAWSTORNE 
It  was  golden  once.  Fancy  a  broken-down,  good-for- 
nothing  failure  like  me  having  golden  curly  locks  once  ! 
I  remember  my  mother  cried  when  they  were  cut  off,  and 
kept  them,  done  up  in  silver  paper,  in  her  jewel-case. 
She  was  proud  of  me — then. 

GRACE 
May  I  have  one  of  the  golden  curls,  Ralph  ? 

HAWSTORNE 
Yes,  dear,  if  they  still  survive.  They  will  remind  you 
that  Ralph  Hawstorne — wastrel,  failure  and  ne'er-do-well 
— was  once  an  innocent-hearted  child  !  [He  takes  her 
hand.]  I  am  sorry  I  was  pettish  and  stupid  just  now — 
forgive  me.  You  know  that  though  you  have  always 
been  on  the  side  of  the  angels,  I  am  not  quite  fit  for 
Paradise  ! 

GRACE 

Not  yet,  Ralph. 

HAWSTORNE 
Ah,  but  you  think  I  shall  be  ?  Well,  there's  many 
a  bad  man  who  has  been  dragged  into  Heaven  by  a  good 
woman.  It  won't  be  your  fault,  anyway,  if  I  cannot 
climb  the  steep  path.  But  seriously,  Grace,  if  I  am  to 
remain  angelic  for  five  minutes  you  must  get  me  some- 
thing to  do. 

GRACE 
Shall  I  read  to  you  ? 


ON  THE   SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       371 

HAWSTORNE  Act  IV 

No,  that  will  be  your  doing  something,  not  me.     Do 
you  think  your  gracious  highness  will  permit  me  to  smoke  ? 

GRACE 

I  don't  think  one  cigarette  will  hurt  you. 

HAWSTORNE 
\With  a  grim  smile ^  One  cigarette  !  Ye  gods,  have  I 
come  to  this  !  Well,  half  a  smoke  is  better  than  no 
tobacco  !  It's  better  than  nothing.  But  where  shall  we 
get  this  precious  cigarette  ?  I  have  not  got  any,  and  I 
don't  suppose  Mother  Flannels  counts  secret  smoking 
among  her  vices,  does  she  ?  Run  down  into  the  village 
and  get  me  some  cigarettes,  that's  a  good  girl.  I  think  I 
could  even  tolerate  a  packet  of  Virginian  from  the  post 
office  ! 

GRACE 

Oh,  but  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  leave  you. 

HAWSTORNE 
Nonsense — it  won't  take  you  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.    And  you  know  I  have  not  got  such  superabundant 
activity  that  I  am  likely  to  get  into  mischief.    I  shall  only 
sit  here,  like  a  log,  and  count  the  minutes. 

GRACE 

You  will  promise  not  to  try  to  move  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Honest  Injun.     Be  off,  Gracie,  and  come  back  soon. 

GRACE 

[Reluctantly. 1  Very  well.     Be  a  good  boy  while  I  am 
away. 

HAWSTORNE 
If  goodness  means  sitting  absolutely  still,  as  we  were 
taught  in  the  nursery,  I  shall  be  a  perfect  model  of  recti- 
tude.    Run  away.  [Grace  goes  off  quickly  L. 


372  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  [Hawstorne,  left    alone ^   takes    up  a  newspaper 

which  is  lying  close  to  him^  and  tries  to  read. 
He  soon  puts  it  down^  shakes  his  head  despond- 
ently. Then  he  whistles  softly  and  gradually^ 
gets  drowsy^  almost  falling  to  sleep.  Enter 
by  the  window  Lady  Rolleston,  who 
comes  in  very  softly^  tiptoes  over  to  him  and 
stands  watching  him  for  a  moment  or  two.] 

HAWSTORNE 
[Without  opening  his  eyes.]  Grace — is  that  you  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

No,  it  is  not  Grace. 

HAWSTORNE 

[Starting  and  looking  up.]  Enid  !    Great  Heaven — you  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Yes,  it  is  I,  Enid.  I  think  it  is  about  time  that  I 
should  see  you.  [He  slightly  shivers.]  Four  weeks 
ago  you  left  my  house.  Oh,  I  have  tried  to  see  you 
several  times  before  this,  but  have  always  been  sternly 
repulsed.  You  have  such  dragons  to  watch  you — Dr. 
Raleigh,  perfectly  courteous  but  obstinately  firm,  and  your 
friend  Grace,  who  looks  at  me  with  the  wild  eyes  of  an 
animal,  as  if  I  was  going  to  take  away  something  that 
belonged  to  her.  Well,  I  suppose  you  do  belong  to  her 
now,  don't  you  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

[Rather  faintly.]  Yes.     How  did  you  get  here  ? 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Not  very  difficult,  my  dear  Ralph.  It  is  such  a  lovely 
October  day  that  you  naturally  have  your  windows  wide 
open.  So  I  did  not  trouble  to  go  round  to  the  front  door, 
but  walked  in  through  the  garden.  I  don't  quite  know 
how  I  managed  to  escape  your  dragons,  though. 

HAWSTORNE 
They  are  out.     I  sent  Grace  out  myself  on  a  small 
errand,  but  she  will  be  back  very  soon. 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       373 

LADY    ROLLESTON  Act  IV 

Meanwhile  we  have  a  wholly  unexpected  opportunity 
for  a  little  talk.  I,  at  all  events,  have  been  wanting  such 
an  opportunity  for  a  long  time.  You,  poor  fellow,  have 
probably  been  too  ill  to  wai.t  anything  but  doctors'  stuff 
and  nursing  \with  a  tenderer  manner\  Are  you  better, 
Ralph  ?     I  have  been  rather  miserable  about  you. 

HAWSTORNE 
\Who  speaks  very  shortly  and  for  the  most  part  keeps  his 
face  turned  away.]  They  tell  me  I  am  better,  but  I  feel 
very  weak  and  low-spirited. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Poor  old  boy  1  I  hope  they  are  looking  after  you 
properly.  I  suppose  Miss  Grace  can  be  trusted,  although 
she  can  hardly  be  described  as  a  trained  nurse  of  much 
experience.  Oh,  don't  look  angry  !  [With  a  hard  laugh.] 
I  will  not  try  to  show  any  unseemly  jealousy  of  Mile. 
Flannelette.  By  the  way,  how  delighted  her  mother 
must  be  to  be  able  to  preach  to  you  again  the  sovereign 
virtues  of  flannel. 

HAWSTORNE 

[With  a  nervous^  irritable  manner.]  Why  have  you 
come,  Enid  ?  I  thought  you  had  passed  out  of  my  life 
.  .  .  after  .  .  .  after  that  .  .  .  that  breakdown. 

LADY    ROLLESTON  ' 

Why  have  I  come  ?  Really,  Ralph,  you  are  a  little 
unreasonable.  Have  I  not  the  ordinary  right  of  a  friend 
to  pay  you  a  visit  of  condolence  and  sympathy  ?  And 
may  I  remind  you — forgive  me,  if  it  is  an  unwelcome 
reminiscence — that  we  are  still,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
engaged  to  be  married  ?  [Hawstorne  shudders.]  Oh, 
don't  shudder.  It's  such  a  bad  compliment  to  me,  isn't  it  ? 
Am  I  really  so  undesirable  a  person  as  all  that  ?  Believe 
me,  I  do  not  wish  to  lay  any  stress  on  the  engagement. 
Circumstances  alter  cases — very  effectually  sometimes. . .  . 
And  when  you  were  taken  out  of  my  house  to  be  nursed 


374  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  by  people  who,  to  say  the  least,  had  a  certain  dislike  of 
me,  and  who  would  be  sure  to  do  their  best  to  keep  us 
apart — why,  then  I  felt  that  the  fate  of  our  engage- 
ment had  been  practically  decided.  .  .  .  Besides,  it  is 
better  for  you  and  better  for  me  that  the  thing  should  be 
cancelled,  finished,  done  with.  .  .  , 

HAWSTORNE 

[Repeats  in  a  dreamy  voice.']  Cancelled,  finished,  done 
with.  .  .  . 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Yes,  dear,  let  us  part,  sans  rancune — as  old  friends  ought 
to  do.  After  all,  Ralph,  we  have  not  been  bad  pals,  you 
and  I.  I  dare  say  we  have  not  done  each  other  much 
good,  either  at  Simla  or  in  Yorkshire.  But  that  was  not 
altogether  our  fault.  Men  and  women  are  born  with  a 
particular  nature,  which  is  theirs  by  birthright.  They 
did  not  create  that  nature  :  it  was  given  to  them  by  their 
fathers  and  grandfathers  back  to  the  fourth  generation, 
who  bequeathed  not  only  their  good,  but,  more  particu- 
larly, their  bad  qualities.  We  did  not  start  with  very 
good  chances,  it  seems  to  me.  I  was  born  worldly  and  a 
flirt.  You  were  born  a  casual,  careless,  rackety  sort  of 
fellow,  with  a  good  heart,  and  a  certain  tendency  to  hys- 
teria. Upon  my  word,  I  think  that,  considering  our 
disadvantages,  we  did  not  do  so  very  badly.  We  were 
fond  of  each  other,  and  perhaps  we  behaved  without  much 
— what  shall  I  say  \ — discretion.  I  don't  think  if  we  had 
married,  we  should  either  of  us  have  been  happy,  and  I 
am  inclined  to  believe  that  in  our  secret  hearts  we  were 
both  aware  of  the  fact.  Meanwhile  we  were  intimate 
friends,  and  you  helped  me  a  good  deal.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  helped  you  much,  but,  as  Heaven  is  my  wit- 
ness, I  sincerely  wanted  to  help  you.  And  I  loved  you, 
Ralph,  don't  forget  that.  .  .  . 

HAWSTORNE 

You  were  very  good  to  me  at  Ottley-St.-Mary.  I  don't 
know  how  to  thank  you.  .  .  . 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       375 

LADY    ROLLESTON  Act  IV 

Don't  try  to  thank  me,  Ralph.  I  can't  bear  it.  Our 
mutual  relations  have  gone  beyond  the  region  of  mere 
thanks  and  ordinary  gratitude.  I  know  that  we  have  to 
part.  I  am  certain  that  it  is  the  only  wise  course,  the 
only  possible  course.  But  let  us  part  friends.  I  want  you 
to  think  kindly  of  me  in  your  heart,  as  I  most  assuredly 
will  always  think  kindly  of  you.  When  you  hear  of 
Enid  Rolleston,  let  there  be  some  tender  memory  which 
prevents  you  from  passing  judgment  on  her.  And  when 
I  hear  of  Ralph  Hawstorne,  his  name  will  always  call  up 
a  host  of  affectionate  thoughts  .  .  .  and  some  tears. 
Promise   me   that,   Ralph,   promise  me  that.  .  .  , 

HAWSTORNE 

Don't  talk  to  me,  Enid.   I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't  bear  it  I 

LADY   ROLLESTON 

[Recovering  herself].  All  right,  old  boy.  I  do  not 
want  to  pain  you.  I  imagine  that  I  always  loved  you  a 
bit  more  than  you  loved  me.  It  is  woman's  way.  And, 
of  course,  my  love  was  not  your  salvation,  but  your  bane. 
I  will  try  to  remember  that.  Well — that  is  over.  \She 
sighs.]  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  was  almost  forgetting  one  or 
the  reasons  of  my  visit.  You  lost  your  cigarette-case  in 
my  house.  It  was  found  after  you  left.  I  have  brought 
it  to  you. 

HAWSTORNE 

My  cigarette-case  !  [For  the  first  time  he  shows  a  glim- 
mer of  excitement.]     Give  it  to  me  !     Give  it  to  me  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Here  it  is.  Why,  how  eager  you  are  !  Have  you 
missed  it  as  badly  as  all  that  ?  Come,  come,  let  me  open 
it  and  see  what  is  inside.  [She  opens  it  and  sees  the  cocaine 
tubes.]     Ah ! 

HAWSTORNE 

Give  it  to  me  !     You  don't  know  how  I  wanted  it  ! 


376  DRAMAS   AND   DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  LADY    ROLLESTON 

Wait,  wait,  wait — this  is  the  cocaine,  isn't  it,  that  you 
have  poisoned  yourself  with  ?     You  must  not  have  that. 

HAWSTORNE 

Oh,  it's  all  right.  You  see,  one  cannot  break  a  habit 
ofF  all  at  once.  You  must  do  it  gradually,  in  lessening 
doses.  .  .  . 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

But  what  does  Dr.  Raleigh  say  ?     Does  he  allow  it  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Enid  dear,  you  do  not  understand.  .  .  .  You  see,  if 
one  has  become  a  drunkard,  or  a  morphinomaniac — or 
anything  else  that  makes  one  a  slave — the  only  way  is  to 
break  down  the  tyranny  gently,  so  as  to  avoid  the  terrible 
depression,  the  awful  yearning  of  abstinence.  It  is  all 
right,  I  assure  you  it  is  all  right. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

No,  dear,  no.     I  cannot  think  that  is  right. 

HAWSTORNE 

Oh  Enid,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  and  unkind  !  You 
have  been  so  nice  to  me,  and  talked  so  kindly  and  affec- 
tionately as  though  you  really  understood  me,  and  now, 
when  you  can  do  me  a  great  service,  the  greatest  of  all 
services,  you  refuse.  \He  is  half  crying.']  How  can  a 
woman,  who  says  that  she  loves,  be  so  unfeeling,  so  hard- 
hearted I  [Lady  R.  shakes  her  head.]  Enid,  darling  Enid, 
you  have  always  been  good  to  me,  and  I  have  been  a  cur 
and  a  beast  to  you — but  I  will  do  anything — anything 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[With  a  sudden  gleam  in  her  eyes^  You  will  do  any- 
thing ?     [Aside.]   Oh,  God  !   what  an  awful  temptation  ! 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes,  yes,  anything,  anything.  .  .  . 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

You  will  do  anything  I  ask  ? 


ON  THE   SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS        377 

HAWSTORNE  Act  IV 

Yes,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  Anything,  any- 
thing  

LADY  ROLLESTON 

\To  herself. 1  Oh,  I  can't  resist — I  can't  resist  !  \Aloud.'\ 
Well,  here  is  the  tube.  If  I  give  it  to  you  will  you  make 
me  a  promise. . . .  Shall  our  engagement  stand  ?    Will  you  ? 

[  There  is  a  pause.  Lady  Rolleston  stands  with  the  tube 
half  held  out  in  her  hand,  Hawstorne  is  in  an  agony 
of  doubt  and  hesitation.  Suddenly  the  door  at  L.  opens^ 
and  Grace  bursts  into  the  room. 

GRACE 

Ralph  !  .  .  .  Lady  Rolleston  !  .  .  .  What  does  this 
mean  ?  What  are  you  doing  ?  What  is  that  in  your 
hand  ?  \^he  seizes  Lady  Rolleston's  wrist.]  Give  it  to 
me — I  will  have  it.  Good  God  !  It's  a  tube  of  cocaine  ! 
How  dare  you  ! 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

[Cooliy.]  I  was  restoring  to  Major  Hawstorne  his 
property.  Miss  May  hew.  .  .  . 

GRACE 

[Indignantly.]  And  doing  your  best  to  kill  him. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Come,  come,  do  not  let  us  be  melodramatic.  Major 
Hawstorne  lost  a  cigarette-case  in  my  house.  It  was 
found  by  the  servants,  and  I  have  brought  it  back  to  him 
— that  is  all. 

GRACE 

[With  her  face  agiow.]  Perhaps  you  do  not  understand. 
I  will  try  to  think  that  you  do  not  understand.  Cocaine 
is  absolute  poison  to  him  in  his  present  condition.  Dr. 
Raleigh  and  I  have  for  four  weeks  kept  him  away  from 
all  temptations.  And  he  has  cried  for  the  drug,  cried  for 
it — over  and  over  again.     But  we  know  that  if  he  once 


378  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  gave  way  all  the  good  work  of  his  reform  would  be  use- 
less. It  has  not  been  easy,  Lady  Rolleston,  to  refuse  him 
— especially  when  one  loves  him,  as  I  do.  Why  should  I 
hesitate  to  tell  you?  I  have  loved  him  and  refused  him 
the  drug,  because  I  knew  that  one  relapse  meant  death  ! 


LADY    ROLLESTON 
I  knew  Major  Hawstorne  before  you  did.  Miss  May- 
hew.     And — as  truth-speaking  seems  in  the  air — I  loved 
him  before  you  did.     You  have  not  got  a  monopoly  of 
affection  for  him. 

GRACE 
\^cornfully?\^  Loved  him — you  !  Yes,  I  know  that 
kind  of  love  !  You  loved  him,  and  because  you  wanted 
him  all  to  yourself,  you  do  not  care  what  ruin  you  cause 
so  long  as  you  have  him  in  your  hands.  You  loved  him 
— and  yet  you  do  not  consider  what  harm  happens  to  him, 
what  poison  he  imbibes,  what  dreadful  form  of  death  he 
has  to  face  !  You  are  the  sort  of  woman  who  loves  a 
man,  not  for  his  sake,  but  for  her  own  ;  who  will  sacrifice 
his  best  interests  to  her  own  passionate  folly  ;  who  prates 
about  her  love  and  is  not  aware  that  it  is  only  selfishness. 
Love  ?  What  is  your  love  ?  A  stupid,  sensual  thing,  a 
madness  of  your  nerves,  a  hysterical  delirium  !  Love  ? 
Why,  it  is  only  yourself  that  you  are  thinking  of  !  You 
have  not  learned  the  first  lesson  of  love.  Love  is  not 
selfishness,  it  is  the  sacrifice  of  self  on  the  altar  of  a  higher 
faith  !  And  you  dare  to  talk  of  your  love  !  \^he  takes 
the  cocaine  tubes  out  of  the  cigarette-case  and  throws  them  into 
the  fireplace, '\ 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Dear  me.  Miss  Mayhew,  I  thought  you  had  been  trained 
to  be  a  nurse.    I  did  not  know  you  were  qualifying  yourself 
for  the  stage  !     However,  so  far  as  the  cocaine  goes,  I 
dare  say  you  are  right.  .  .  . 


ON  THE  SIDE    OF  THE  ANGELS       379 

DR.    RALEIGH  Act  IV 

\Who  has  stepped  in  through  the  window,  and  now  comes 
forward.']  She  is  undoubtedly  right,  Lady  Rolleston. 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
Miss  Mayhew's  knowledge  of  these  matters  is  obviously 
greater  than  mine.     Medicine  is  her  sphere  of  education. 
Nursing  is  her  profession.     It  is  not  mine. 

RALEIGH 
[Stiffiy.']  I  give  you  the  benefit  of  your  ignorance, 
madam.  I  v^^ill  admit  that  you  did  not  understand  v^^hat 
you  were  doing.  By  the  way,  we  will  get  rid  of  these 
things — they  are  dangerous.  [Picks  up  cocaine  and  puts  in 
pocket.']  And  now  may  I  be  permitted  to  see  you  to  your 
motor  ?     Allow  me.  .  .  . 

LADY    ROLLESTON 

Yes,  I  will  go.  Good-bye,  Major  Hawstorne.  Good- 
bye, Miss  Mayhew.  ...  I  think  you  will  judge  me  more 
fairly  hereafter,  when  you  know  all  the  circumstances. 
Perhaps  even  your  love  has  some  selfish  elements  in  it. 
Think  it  over.     Good-bye. 

RALEIGH 
Come- — we  will  leave  the  nurse  to  attend  to  her  patient. 
[They  go  out.] 

LADY    ROLLESTON 
[With  a  shrug.]  We  will  leave  the  man  to  the  woman 
who  loves  him.     [They  go  out.    Grace  <7«^  Hawstorne 
are  left  alone.] 

GRACE 
[Goes  up  to  Hawstorne,  who  is  sitting  in  the  chair  with 
his  head  bowed  in  his  hands.]  My  poor  boy,  my  poor  boy, 
I  am  so  sorry  you  have  had  all  this  bother,  on  the  very 
first  day  of  your  coming  downstairs.  You  see,  I  ought 
not  to  have  left  you,  ought  I  ? 


38o  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  HAWSTORNE 

Grace,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  It  is  all  too  humiliat- 
ing and  dreadful.  No,  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  be  left 
alone  for  a  single  second.  I  cannot  look  after  myself. 
[With  a  wan  smile.']  I  am  not  to  be  trusted.  I  ought 
to  be  treated  ^like  a  child.  But  oh  !  Will  it  be  always 
like  this  ? 

GRACE 

No,  no,  dear.  You  will  get  stronger,  if  we  take  proper 
care  of  you. 

HAWSTORNE 
Honestly,  Grace,  I  cannot  understand  myself.  One 
moment  I  seem  to  have  some  glimmering  of  reason,  some 
atom  ot  self-control  and  self-respect.  And  then  the  good 
moment  goes.  There  comes  upon  me  another  and  a 
blacker  mood,  in  which  I  am  not  a  man  at  all,  but  an 
animal,  growling  and  snarling  for  some  forbidden  food — 
— a  wild  beast  raging — madly,  passionately,  horribly — for 
the  raw  meat  it  loves  !  It  is  not  the  same  ego.  It  is  two 
different  personalities  who  war  within  my  soul.  I  am 
Jekyll  when  you  are  here,  and  Hyde  when  you  go  away. 
And  then  after  the  mad  struggle  I  feel  the  utter  weariness, 
the  prostration — I  am  conscious  of  the  dank,  dead,  cling- 
ing mist  of  depression  and  despair.  Oh,  Grace,  you  don't 
know  all  my  misery,  and  my  utter  loneliness  !  If  only  I 
could  really  understand  myself,  have  some  real,  steady 
knowledge  of  what  I  am  and  what  I  ought  to  be  ! 

GRACE 

[Taking  his  hand  gently  and  stroking  it,  her  eyes  are  caught 
by  the  framework  of  the  ring.]  Poor  old  Ralph,  I  wish  I 
could  help  you,  dear.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  have  got  one 
piece  of  good  news  for  you.  [Fingering  the  ring.]  Let 
me  see — "  to  desire — to  possess — to  know " 

HAWSTORNE 
All  gone — all  gone  ! 


ON  THE  SIDE    OF  THE  ANGELS      381 

GRACE  Act  IV 

No,  not  all  gone.  Look  here.  [5^^  takes  out  a  stone.'] 
I  found  this — on  the  floor — at  Ottley-St.-Mary — that 
night  when  we — when  I — came  for  you.  So  knowledge 
remains,  knowledge  remains,  after  all  ! 

HAWSTORNE 
[Musing  to  himselfy  as  he  touches  the   stone.]  To  know 
the  truth  .  .  .  and  the  truth  shall  make  you  free.  .  .  . 
Shall  I  win  that  freedom,  Grace  ? 

GRACE 

Yes,  dear — if  you  do  your  best  to  keep  your  body  sound 
and  your  brain  clear  and  unclouded.  After  all,  the  ring 
was  only  a  symbol — to  illustrate  a  living  truth.  Desire 
shall  fail  and  possession  shall  cease,  but  knowledge  is  a 
lasting  treasure.  Sometimes,  I  think,  you  have  been  in- 
clined to  lay  too  much  stress  on  this  ring.  You  have 
regarded  it  as  something  deadly  as  well  as  precious,  an 
agent  of  evil  to  you.  And,  after  all,  it  has  only  been  a 
poor  sort  of  conscience,  reminding  you  when  you  have 
gone  wrong,  but  not  helping  you  to  go  right.  Do  not 
let  yourself  be  superstitious  about  it,  as  though  it  were  a 
talisman. 

HAWSTORNE 

Have  I  been  superstitious  ? 


GRACE 


A  little,  I  think. 


HAWSTORNE 

Well — suppose  we  get  rid  of  it  altogether.     What  do 
you  say  ? 

GRACE 
I  shall  not  mind. 

HAWSTORNE 
Very  well,  then.    [He  slips  the  ring  off  his  finger.]     Give 


382  DRAMAS  AND  DIVERSIONS 

Act  IV  me  your  hand,  Grace.  Now,  one,  two,  three — and  all 
together.  Out  it  goes.  [The  two  hands  throw  the  ring 
out  of  the  window.']  There,  you  can  bury  it  in  the 
garden — do  whatever  you  like  with  it ;  only  never  let 
any  one  get  hold  of  it,  and  never  let  me  see  it  agam. 
Phew  !     I  am  so  glad  to  be  quit  of  the  beastly  thing. 

GRACE 

So  am  I. 

HAWSTORNE 

And  now,  what  remains  for  us  to  do  ? 

GRACE 

\JVho  has  suddenly  got  shy.]  I  don't  know,  Ralph, 

HAWSTORNE 

No  more  do  I.  [IVith  a  smile.]  Shall  we  send  for 
Tom  Raleigh,  and  ask  him  ?  Or  do  you  think  that  your 
mother,  dear  old  Flannels,  would  give  good  advice  ? 

GRACE 
I  think  we  had  better  decide  for  ourselves. 

HAWSTORNE 

And  not  ask  for  any  advice  ? 

GRACE 
No — don't  let  us  ask. 

HAWSTORNE 

Except  our  own  hearts  ? 

GRACE 

Except  our  own  hearts. 

HAWSTORNE 
Ir  we  happen  to  have  hearts.    I  wonder  if  I  have  ?    Do 
you  think  I  have  got  any  heart  left,  Grace  ? 

GRACE 
I  am  sure  you  have — a  very  big,  big  heart — almost  as 
big  as  mine. 


ON  THE  SIDE   OF  THE  ANGELS       383 

HAWSTORNE  Act  IV 

How  big  is  yours  ?     As  big  as  this  room  ? 

GRACE 
As  big  as  the  world — as  your  world  and  mine,  Ralph  ; 
as  big  as  our  past  and  our  present  and  our  future.     Do 
you  remember  when — long  ago — you  said  that  "only  the 
beginnings  of  things  were  sweet  "  ? 

HAWSTORNE 

Yes — and  that  the  dew  had  a  tendency  to  go  ofF  the 
grass. 

GRACE 
Well,  we  have  got  to  begin  all  over  again,  you  and  I. 
I  think  we  shall  find  the  new  beginning  infinitely  sweet. 
And  if  we  are  tender  and  loving  and  true,  I  don't  think 
that  the  dew  will  ever  go  off  the  grass — or  any  cloud 
darken  our  sky.  .  .  . 

HAWSTORNE 

Ah,  Grace,  you  were  always  on  the  side  of  the  angels  ! 
Kiss  me,  dear. 

\^he  bends  over  htm  as  the  curtain  falls. ^ 


THE  END 


Richard  Clay  &  Sons,  Limitid, 
bread  street  hill,  e.c.,  and 

BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. 


•f  ^ 


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