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THREE PLAYS
FOR PURITANS
By the Same Author.
Plays Pleasant and
Unpleasant
IN TWO VOLUMES.
With Portrait in Photogravure.
Crown Szfo, C/oth, 6s. each.
Vol. I. — Unpleasant.
Preface — Mainly about Myself.
Widowers' Houses.
The Philanderer.
Mrs. Warren's Profession.
Vol. II. — Pleasant.
Preface — continued.
Arms and the Man.
Candida.
The Man of Destiny.
You Never Can Tell.
The Perfect Wagnerke
Crown Svoy C/oth, 3/. 6^.
Preliminary Encouragements. — The
Four Evenings of The Ring. —
Wagner as Revolutionist. — Sieg-
fried as Protestant. — Wagner's
Own Explanation. — The Music
of The Ring.— The Old and the
New Music. — The Music of The
Future. — Bayreuth.
London: GRANT RICHARDS,
9 Henrietta St. Covent Garden, W.C.
Three Plays for Puri-
tans : The DeviFs Dis-
ciple, Caesar and Cleo-
Datra, & Captain Brass-
30und*s Conversion. By
Bernard Shaw.
London : Grant Richards,
9 Henrietta St. Covent
Garden, W.C. 1901.
REPLACING
hs
ifoiL
MA/aJ
THREE PLAYS FOR PURITANS
WHY FOR PURITANS?
Since I gave my Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant, to the
world two years ago, many things have happened to me. I
had then just entered on the fourth year of my activity as
a critic of the London theatres. They very nearly killed
me. I had survived seven years of London's music, four
or five years of London's pictures, and about as much of its
current literature, wrestling critically with them with all
my force and skill. After that, the criticism of the theatre
came to me as a huge relief in point of bodily exertion.
The difference between the leisure of a Persian cat and the
labor of a cockney cab horse is not greater than the differ-
ence between the official weekly or fortnightly playgoings
of the theatre critic and the restless daily rushing to and
fro of the music critic, from the stroke of three in the after-
noon, when the concerts begin, to the stroke of twelve at
night, when the opera ends. The pictures were nearly as
bad. An Alpinist once, noticing the massive soles of my
boots, asked me whether I climbed mountains. No, I re-
plied : these boots are for the hard floors of the London
galleries. Yet I once dealt with music and pictures to-
gether in the spare time of an active young revolutionist,
and wrote plays and books and other toilsome things into
ivi8309ao
vi Three Plays for Puritans
the bargain. But the theatre struck me down like the
veriest weakling. I sank under it like a baby fed on starch.
My very bones began to perish, so that I had to get them
planed and gouged by accomplished surgeons. I fell from
heights and broke my limbs in pieces. The doctors said :
This man has not eaten meat for twenty years : he must
eat it or die. I said : This man has been going to the
London theatres for three years ; and the soul of him has
become inane and is feeding unnaturally on his body. And
I was right. I did not change my diet ; but I had myself
carried up into a mountain where there was no theatre ;
and there I began to revive. Too weak to work, I wrote
books and plays : hence the second and third plays in this
volume. And now I am stronger than I have been at any
moment since my feet first carried me as a critic across the
fatal threshold of a London playhouse.
Why was this ? What is the matter with the theatre,
that a strong man can die of it ? Well, the answer will make
a long story ; but it must be told. And, to begin, why have
I just called the theatre a playhouse? The well-fed Eng-
lishman, though he lives and dies a schoolboy, cannot play.
He cannot even play cricket or football : he has to work
at them : that is why he beats the foreigner who plays at
them. To him playing means playing the fool. He can
hunt and shoot and travel and fight : he can, when special
holiday festivity is suggested to hi:n, eat and drink, dice
and drab, smoke and lounge. But play he cannot. The
moment you make his theatre a place of amusement instead
of a place of edification, you make it, not a real playhouse,
but a place of excitement for the sportsman and the
sensualist.
However, this well-fed grown-up-schoolboy Englishman
counts for little in the modern metropolitan audience. In
the long lines of waiting playgoers lining the pavements
outside our fashionable theatres every evening, the men are
only the currants in the dumpling. Women are in the
majority; and women and men alike belong to that least
Why for Puritans ? vii
robust of all our social classes, the class which earns from
eighteen to thirty shillings a week in sedentary employ-
ment, and lives in a dull lodging or with its intolerably
prosaic families. These people preserve the innocence of
the theatre : they have neither the philosopher's impa-
tience to get to realities (reality being the one thing they
want to escape from), nor the longing of the sportsman for
violent action, nor the fullfed, experienced, disillusioned
sensuality of the rich man, whether he be gentleman or
sporting publican. They read a good deal, and are at home
in the fool's paradise of popular romance. They love the
pretty man and the pretty woman, and will have both
of them fashionably dressed and exquisitely idle, posing
against backgrounds of drawingroom and dainty garden ;
in love, but sentimentally, romantically ; always ladylike
and gentlemanlike. Jejunely insipid, all this, to the stalls,
which are paid for (when they are paid for) by people who
have their own dresses and drawingrooms, and know them
to be a mere masquerade behind which there is nothing
romantic, and little that is interesting to most of the mas-
queraders except the clandestine play of natural licentious-
ness.
The stalls cannot be fully understood without taking
into account the absence of the rich evangelical English
merchant and his family, and the presence of the rich
Jewish merchant and his family. I can see no validity
whatever in the view that the influence of the rich Jews
on the theatre is any worse than the influence of the rich
of any other race. Other qualities being equal, men be-
come rich in commerce in proportion to the intensity and
exclusiveness of their desire for money. It may be a mis-
fortune that the purchasing power of men who value money
above art, philosophy, and the welfare of the whole com-
munity, should enable them to influence the theatre (and
everything else in the market) ; but there is no reason to
suppose that their influence is any nobler when they
imagine themselves Christians than when they know them-
viii Three Plays for Puritans
selves Jews. All that can fairly be said of the Jewish
influence on the theatre is that it is exotic, and is not only
a customer's influence but a financier's influence : so much
so, that the way is smoothest for those plays and those per-
formers that appeal specially to the Jewish taste. English
influence on the theatre, as far as the stalls are concerned,
does not exist, because the rich purchasing-powerful Eng-
lishman prefers politics and church-going : his soul is too
stubborn to be purged by an avowed make-believe. When
he wants sensuality he practises it : he does not play with
voluptuous or romantic ideas. From the play of ideas —
and the drama can never be anything more — he demands
edification, and will not pay for anything else in that arena.
Consequently the box office will never become an English
influence until the theatre turns from the drama of romance
and sensuality to the drama of edification.
Turning from the stalls to the whole auditorium, con-
sider what is implied by the fact that the prices (all much
too high, by the way) range from half a guinea to a shil-
ling, the ages from eighteen to eighty, whilst every age,
and nearly every price, represents a different taste. Is it
not clear that this diversity in the audience makes it im-
possible to gratify every one of its units by the same
luxury, since in that domain of infinite caprice, one man's
meat is another man's poison, one age's longing another
age's loathing ? And yet that is just what the theatres kept
trying to do almost all the time I was doomed to attend
them. On the other hand, to interest people of divers ages
classes and temperaments by some generally momentous
subject of thought, as the politicians and preachers do,
would seem the most obvious course in the world. And
yet the theatres avoided that as a ruinous eccentricity.
Their wiseacres persisted in assuming that all men have
the same tastes, fancies, and qualities of passion ; that no
two have the same interests ; and that most playgoers have
no interests at all. This being precisely contrary to the
obvious facts, it followed that the majority of the plays pro-
Why for Puritans ? ix
duced were failures, recognizable as such before the end of
the first act by the very wiseacres aforementioned, who,
quite incapable of understanding the lesson, would there-
upon set to work to obtain and produce a play applying
their theory still more strictly, with proportionately more
disastrous results. The sums of money I saw thus trans-
ferred from the pockets of theatrical speculators and syn-
dicates to those of wigmakers, costumiers, scene painters,
carpenters, doorkeepers, actors, theatre landlords, and all
the other people for whose exclusive benefit most London
theatres seem to exist, would have kept a theatre devoted
exclusively to the highest drama open all the year round.
If the Browning and Shelley Societies were fools, as the
wiseacres said they were, for producing Strafford, Colombe's
Birthday, and The Cenci ; if the Independent Theatre,
the New Century Theatre, and the Stage Society are im-
practicable faddists for producing the plays of Ibsen and
Maeterlinck, then what epithet is contemptuous enough
for the people who produce the would-be popular plays ?
The actor-managers were far more successful, because
they produced plays that at least pleased themselves, where-
as the others, with a false theory of how to please every-
body, produced plays that pleased nobody. But their
occasional personal successes in voluptuous plays, and, in
any case, their careful concealment of failure, confirmed
the prevalent error, which was only exposed fully when
the plays had to stand or fall openly by their own merits.
Even Shakespear was played with his brains cut out. In
1896, when Sir Henry Irving was disabled by an accident
at a moment when Miss Ellen Terry was too ill to
appear, the theatre had to be closed after a brief attempt
to rely on the attraction of a Shakespearean play performed
by the stock company. This may have been Shakespear's
fault : indeed Sir Henry later on complained that he
had lost a princely sum by Shakespear. But Shakespear's
reply to this, if he were able to make it, would be that
the princely sum was spent, not on his dramatic poetry, but
X Three Plays for Puritans
on a gorgeous stage ritualism superimposed on reckless muti-
lations of his text, the whole being addressed to a public as
to which nothing is certain except that its natural bias is
towards reverence for Shakespear and dislike and distrust
of ritualism. No doubt the Lyceum ritual appealed to a
far more cultivated sensuousness and imaginativeness than
the musical farces in which our stage Abbots of Misrule
pontificated (with the same financially disastrous result) ;
but in both there was the same intentional brainlessness,
founded on the same theory that the public did not want
brains, did not want to think, did not want anything but
pleasure at the theatre. Unfortunately, this theory hap-
pens to be true of a certain section of the public. This
section, being courted by the theatres, went to them and
drove the other people out. It then discovered, as any ex-
pert could have foreseen, that the theatre cannot compete
in mere pleasuremongering either with the other arts or
with matter-of-fact gallantry. Stage pictures are the worst
pictures, stage music the worst music, stage scenery the
worst scenery within reach of the Londoner. The leading
lady or gentleman may be as tempting to the admirer in the
pit as the dishes in a cookshop window are to the penniless
tramp on the pavement ; but people do not, I presume, go
to the theatre to be merely tantalized.
The breakdown on the last point was conclusive. For
when the managers tried to put their principle of pleasing
everybody into practice. Necessity, ever ironical towards
Folly, had driven them to seek a universal pleasure to appeal
to. And since many have no ear for music or eye for color,
the search for universality inevitably flung the managers
back on the instinct of sex as the avenue to all hearts. Of
course the appeal w^as a vapid failure. Speaking for my
own sex, I can say that the leading lady was not to every-
body's taste : her pretty face often became ugly when she
tried to make it expressive ; her voice lost its charm (if it
ever had any) when she had nothing sincere to say ; and
the stalls, from racial prejudice, were apt to insist on more
Why for Puritans ? xi
Rebecca and less Rowena than the pit cared for. It may
seem strange, even monstrous, that a man should feel a
constant attachment to the hideous witches in Macbeth,
and yet yawn at the prospect of spending another evening
in the contemplation of a beauteous young leading lady
with voluptuous contours and longlashed eyes, painted and
dressed to perfection in the latest fashions. But that is just
what happened to me in the theatre.
I did not find that matters were improved by the lady
pretending to be " a woman with a past," violently over-
sexed, or the play being called a problem play, even when
the manager, and sometimes, I suspect, the very author,
firmly believed the word problem to be the latest euphemism
for what Justice Shallow called a bona roba, and certainly
would not either of them have staked a farthing on the
interest of a genuine problem. In fact these so-called
problem plays invariably depended for their dramatic
interest on foregone conclusions of the most heartwearying
conventionality concerning sexual morality. The authors
had no problematic views : all they wanted was to capture
some of the fascination of Ibsen. It seemed to them that
most of Ibsen's heroines were naughty ladies. And they
tried to produce Ibsen plays by making their heroines
naughty. But they took great care to make them pretty
and expensively dressed. Thus the pseudo-Ibsen play was
nothing but the ordinary sensuous ritual of the stage become
as frankly pornographic as good manners allowed.
I found that the whole business of stage sensuousness,
whether as Lyceum Shakespear, musical farce, or sham
Ibsen, finally disgusted me, not because I was Pharisaical,
or intolerantly refined, but because I was bored ; and bore-
dom is a condition which makes men as susceptible to
disgust and irritation as headache makes them to noise and
glare. Being a man, I have my share of the masculine
silliness and vulgarity on the subject of sex which so
astonishes women, to whom sex is a serious matter. I am
not an Archbishop, and do not pretend to pass my life on
xii Three Plays for Puritans
one plane or in one mood, and that the highest : on the
contrary, I am, I protest, as accessible to the humors of The
Rogue's Comedy or The Rake's Progress as to the pious
decencies of The Sign of the Cross. Thus FalstafF, coarser
than any of the men in our loosest plays, does not bore me :
Doll Tearsheet, more abandoned than any of the women,
does not shock me. I think that Romeo and Juliet would
be a poorer play if it were robbed of the solitary fragment
it has preserved for us of the conversation of the husband
of Juliet's nurse. No: my disgust was not mere thinskinned
prudery. When my moral sense revolted, as it often did to
the very fibres, it was invariably at the nauseous compliances
of the theatre with conventional virtue. If I despised the
musical farces, it was because they never had the courage
of their vices. With all their labored efforts to keep up
an understanding of furtive naughtiness between the low
comedian on the stage and the drunken undergraduate in
the stalls, they insisted all the time on their virtue and
patriotism and loyalty as pitifully as a poor girl of the
pavement will pretend to be a clergyman's daughter. True,
I may have been offended when a manager, catering for me
with coarse frankness as a slave dealer caters for a Pasha,
invited me to forget the common bond of humanity
between me and his company by demanding nothing from
them but a gloatably voluptuous appearance. But this ex-
treme is never reached at our better theatres. The shop
assistants, the typists, the clerks, who, as I have said, pre-
serve the innocence of the theatre, would not dare to let
themselves be pleased by it. Even if they did, they would
not get it from the managers, who, when they are brought to
the only logical conclusion from their principle of making
the theatre a temple of pleasure, indignantly refuse to
change the dramatic profession for Mrs Warren's. For
that is what all this demand for pleasure at the theatre
finally comes to ; and the answer to it is, not that people
ought not to desire sensuous pleasure (they cannot help
it) but that the theatre cannot give it to them, even to
Why for Puritans ? xiii
the extent permitted by the honor and conscience of the
best managers, because a theatre is so far from being a
pleasant or even a comfortable place that only by mak-
ing us forget ourselves can it prevent us from realizing
its inconveniences. A play that does not do this for the
pleasure-seeker allows him to discover that he has chosen
a disagreeable and expensive way of spending the evening.
He wants to drink, to smoke, to change the spectacle, to get
rid of the middle-aged actor and actress who are boring
him, and to see shapely young dancing girls and acrobats
doing more amusing things in a more plastic manner. In
short, he wants the music hall ; and he goes there, leaving
the managers astonished at this unexpected but quite in-
evitable result of the attempt to please him. Whereas, had
he been enthralled by the play, even with horror, instead
of himself enthralling with the dread of his displeasure the
manager, the author and the actors, all had been well. And
so we must conclude that the theatre is a place which
people can only endure when they forget themselves : that
IS, when their attention is entirely captured, their interest
thoroughly roused, their sympathies raised to the eagerest
readiness, and their selfishness utterly annihilated. Imagine,
then, the result of conducting theatres on the principle of
appealing exclusively to the instinct of self-gratification in
people without power of attention, without interests, with-
out sympathy, in short, without brains or heart. That is
how they were conducted whilst I was writing about them ;
and that is how they nearly killed me.
Yet the managers mean well. Their self-respect is in
excess rather than in defect ; for they are in full reaction
against the Bohemianism of past generations of actors, and
so bent on compelling social recognition by a blameless re-
spectability, that the drama, neglected in the struggle, is only
just beginning to stir feebly after standing stock-still in Eng-
land from Robertson's time in the sixties until the first actor
was knighted in the nineties. The manager may not want
good plays J but he does not want bad plays : he wants nice
XIV Three Plays for Puritans
ones. Nice plays, with nice dresses, nice drawingrooms and
nice people, are indispensable : to be ungenteel is worse than
to fail. I use the word ungenteel purposely ; for the stage
presents life on thirty pounds a day, not as it is, but as it is
conceived by the earners of thirty shillings a week. The
real thing would shock the audience exactly as the man-
ners of the public school and university shock a Board of
Guardians. In just the same way, the plays which consti-
tute the genuine aristocracy of modern dramatic literature
shock the reverence for gentility which governs our theatres
today. For instance, the objection to Ibsen is not really
an objection to his philosophy : it is a protest against the
fact that his characters do not behave as ladies and gentle-
men are popularly supposed to behave. If you adore Hedda
Gabler in real life, if you envy her and feel that nothing but
your poverty prevents you from being as exquisite a creature,
if you know that the accident of matrimony (say with an
officer of the guards who falls in love with you across the
counter whilst you are reckoning the words in his telegrarn)
may at any moment put you in her place, Ibsen's exposi'/e
of the worthlessness and meanness of her life is cruel and
blasphemous to you. This point of view is not caught by the
clever ladies of Hedda's own class, who recognize the por-
trait, applaud its painter, and think the fuss against Ibsen
means nothing more than the conventional disapproval of
her discussions of a menage a trois with Judge Brack. A little
experience of popular plays would soon convince these clever
ladies that a heroine who atones in the last act by commit-
ting suicide may do all the things that Hedda only talked
about, without a word of remonstrance from the press or the
public. It is not murder, not adultery, not rapine that is
objected to : quite the contrary. It is an unladylike atti-
tude towards life : in other words, a disparagement of the
social ideals of the poorer middle class and of the vast rein-
forcements it has had from the working class during the last
twenty years. Let but the attitude of the author be gentle-
manlike, and his heroines may do what they please. Mrs
Why for Puritans ? xv
Tanqueray was received with delight by the public : Saint
Teresa would have been hissed ofF the same stage for her
contempt for the ideal represented by a carriage, a fashion-
able dressmaker, and a dozen servants.
Here, then, is a pretty problem for the manager. He is
convinced that plays must depend for their dramatic force
on appeals to the sex instinct ; and yet he owes it to his own
newly conquered social position that they shall be perfectly
genteel plays, fit for churchgoers. The sex instinct must
therefore proceed upon genteel assumptions. Impossible !
you will exclaim. But you are wrong : nothing is more
astonishing than the extent to which, in real life, the sex
instinct does so proceed, even when the consequence is its
lifelong starvation. Few of us have vitality enough to make
any of our instincts imperious : we can be made to live on
pretences, as the masterful minority well know. But the
timid majority, if it rules nowhere else, at least rules in the
theatre : fitly enough too, because on the stage pretence is
all that can exist. Life has its realities behind its shows :
the theatre has nothing but its shows. But can the theatre
make a show of lovers' endearments ? A thousand times
no : perish the thought of such unladylike, ungentleman-
like exhibitions. You can have fights, rescues, conflagra-
tions, trials-at-law, avalanches, murders and executions all
directly simulated on the stage if you will. But any such
realistic treatment of the incidents of sex is quite out of the
question. The singer, the dramatic dancer, the exquisite
declaimer of impassioned poesy, the rare artist who, bring-
ing something of the art of all three to the ordinary work
of the theatre, can enthral an audience by the expression of
dramatic feeling alone, may take love for a theme on the
stage ; but the prosaic walking gentlemen of our fashion-
able theatres, realistically simulating the incidents of life,
cannot touch it without indecorum.
Can any dilemma be more complete .? Love is assumed
to be the only theme that touches all your audience in-
fallibly, young and old, rich and poor. And yet love is
XVI Three Plays for Puritans
the one subject that the drawingroom drama dare not
present.
Out of this dilemma, which is a very old one, has come
the romantic play : that is, the play in which love is care-
fully kept off the stage, whilst it is alleged as the motive
of all the actions presented to the audience. The result
is, to me at least, an intolerable perversion of human con-
duct. There arc two classes of stories that seem to me to
be not only fundamentally false but sordidly base. One is
the pseudo-religious story, in which the hero or heroine
does good on strictly commercial grounds, reluctantly exer-
cising a little virtue on earth in consideration of receiving
in return an exorbitant payment in heaven : much as if an
odalisque were to allow a cadi to whip her for a couple of
millions in gold. The other is the romance in which the
hero, also rigidly commercial, will do nothing except for
the sake of the heroine. Surely this is as depressing as it
is unreal. Compare with it the treatment of love, frankly
indecent according to our notions, in oriental fiction. In
The Arabian Nights we have a series of stories, some of
them very good ones, in which no sort of decorum is
observed. The result is that they are infinitely more in-
structive and enjoyable than our romances, because love is
treated in them as naturally as any other passion. There
is no cast iron convention as to its effects ; no false associa-
tion of general depravity of character with its corporealities
or of general elevation with its sentimentalities ; no pre-
tence that a man or woman cannot be courageous and kind
and friendly unless infatuatedly in love with somebody (is no
poet manly enough to sing The Old Maids of England ?) :
rather, indeed, an insistence on the blinding and narrowing
power of lovesickness to make princely heroes unhappy
and unfortunate. These tales expose, further, the delusion
that the interest of this most capricious, most transient,
most easily baffled of all instincts, is inexhaustible, and
that the field of the English romancer has been cruelly
narrowed by the restrictions under which he is permitted
Why for Puritans ? xvii
to deal with it. The Arabian storyteller, relieved of all
such restrictions, heaps character on character, adventure
on adventure, marvel on marvel ; whilst the English novel-
ist, like the starving tramp who can think of nothing but
his hunger, seems to be unable to escape from the obsession
of sex, and will rewrite the very gospels because the
originals are not written in the sensuously ecstatic style.
At the instance of Martin Luther we long ago gave up
imposing celibacy on our priests ; but we still impose it on
our art, with the very undesirable and unexpected result
that no editor, publisher, or manager, will now accept a
story or produce a play without " love interest " in it.
Take, for a recent example, Mr H. G. Wells's War of
Two Worlds, a tale of the invasion of the earth by the
inhabitants of the planet Mars : a capital story, not to be
laid down until finished. Love interest is impossible on
its scientific plane : nothing could be more impertinent
and irritating. Yet Mr Wells has had to pretend that
the hero is in love with a young lady manufactured for the
purpose, and to imply that it is on her account alone that
he feels concerned about the apparently inevitable destruc-
tion of the human race by the Martians. Another example.
An American novelist, recently deceased, made a hit some
years ago by compiling a Bostonian Utopia from the pro-
spectuses of the little bands of devout Communists who
have from time to time, since the days of Fourier and
Owen, tried to establish millennial colonies outside our
commercial civilization. Even in this economic Utopia
we find the inevitable love afi'air. The hero, waking
up in a distant future from a miraculous sleep, meets a
Boston young lady, provided expressly for him to fall in
love with. Women have by that time given up wearing
skirts ; but she, to spare his delicacy, gets one out of a
museum of antiquities to wear in his presence until he is
hardened to the customs o^ the new age. When I came to
that touching incident, I became as Paolo and Francesca :
"in that book I r?a4 no more." I will not multiply
xviii Three Plays for Puritans
examples : if such unendurable follies occur in the sort of
story made by working out a meteorologic or economic
hypothesis, the extent to which it is carried in sentimental
romances needs no cxpatiation.
The worst of it is that since man's intellectual conscious-
ness of himself is derived from the descriptions of him in
books, a persistent misrepresentation of humanity in litera-
ture gets finally accepted and acted upon. If every mirror
reflected our noses twice their natural size, we should live
and die in the faith that we were all Punches ; and we
should scout a true mirror as the work of a fool, madman,
or jester. Nay, I believe we should, by Lamarckian
adaptation, enlarge our noses to the admired size ; for I
have noticed that when a certain type of feature appears in
painting and is admired as beautiful, it presently becomes
common in nature ; so that the Beatrices and Francescas
in the picture galleries of one generation, to whom minor
poets address verses entitled To My Lady, come to life as
the parlormaids and waitresses of the next. If the con-
ventions of romance are only insisted on long enough and
uniformly enough (a condition guaranteed by the uniformity
of human folly and vanity), then, for the huge School
Board-taught masses who read romance and nothing else,
these conventions will become the laws of personal honor.
Jealousy, which is either an egotistical meanness or a specific
mania, will become obligatory ; and ruin, ostracism, break-
ing up of homes, duelling, murder, suicide and infanticide
will be produced (often have been produced, in fact) by
incidents which, if left to the operation of natural and right
feeling, would produce nothing worse than an hour's soon-
forgotten fuss. Men will be slain needlessly on the field of
battle because officers conceive it to be their first duty to
make romantic exhibitions of conspicuous gallantry. The
squire who has never spared an hour from the hunting
field to do a little public work on a parish council will be
cheered as a patriot because he is willing to kill and get
killed for the sake of conferring himself as an institution on
Why for Puritans ? xix
other countries. In the courts cases will be argued, not on
juridical but on romantic principles ; and vindictive damages
and vindictive sentences, with the acceptance of nonsensical,
and the repudiation or suppression of sensible testimony,
will destroy the very sense of law. Kaisers, generals, judges,
and prime ministers will set the example of playing to the
gallery. Finally the people, now that their Board School
literacy enables every penman to play on their romantic
illusions, will be led by the nose far more completely than
they ever were by playing on their former ignorance and
superstition. Nay, why should I say will be ? they are.
Ten years of cheap reading have changed the English
from the most stolid nation in Europe to the most theatrical
and hysterical.
Is it clear now, why the theatre was insufferable to
me ; why it left its black mark on my bones as it has left
its black mark on the character of the nation ; why I call
the Puritans to rescue it again as they rescued it before
when its foolish pursuit of pleasure sunk it in "profaneness
and immorality " ? I have, I think, always been a Puritan
in my attitude towards Art. I am as fond of fine music
and handsome building as Milton was, or Cromwell, or
Bunyan ; but if I found that they were becoming the in-
struments of a systematic idolatry of sensuousness, I would
hold it good statesmanship to blow every cathedral in the
world to pieces with dynamite, organ and all, without the
least heed to the screams of the art critics and cultured
voluptuaries. And when I see that the nineteenth century
has crowned the idolatry of Art with the deification of Love,
so that every poet is supposed to have pierced to the holy
of holies when he has announced that Love is the Supreme,
or the Enough, or the All, I feel that Art was safer in the
hands of the most fanatical of Cromwell's major generals
than it will be if ever it gets into mine. The pleasures of
the senses I can sympathize with and share ; but the sub-
stitution of sensuous ecstasy for intellectual activity and
honesty is the very devil. It has already brought us to
XX Three Plays for Puritans
Fl ogging Bills in Parliament, anci, by reaction, to androgynous
heroes on the stage ; and if the infection spreads until the
democratic attitude becomes thoroughly Romanticist, the
country will become unbearable for all realists, Philistine
or Platonic. When it comes to that, the brute force of the
strong-minded Bismarckian man of action, impatient of
humbug, will combine with the subtlety and spiritual energy
of the man of thought whom shams cannot illude or interest.
That combination will be on one side ; and Romanticism
will be on the other. In which event, so much the worse
for Romanticism, which will come down even if it has to
drag Democracy down with it. For all institutions have
in the long run to live by the nature of things, and not by
imagination.
ON DIABOLONIAN ETHICS
There is a foolish opinion prevalent that an author
should allow his works to speak for themselves, and that
he who appends and prefixes explanations to them is likely
to be as bad an artist as the painter cited by Cervantes, who
wrote under his picture This is a Cock, lest there should
be any mistake about it. The pat retort to this thoughtless
comparison is that the painter invariably does so label his
picture. What is a Royal Academy catalogue but a series
of statements that This is The Vale of Rest, This is The
School of Athens, This is Chill October, This is The
Prince of Wales, and so on? The reason most dramatists
do not publish their plays with prefaces is that they cannot
write them, the business of intellectually conscious philoso-
pher and skilled critic being no part of the playwright's craft.
Naturally, making a virtue of their incapacity, they either
repudiate prefaces as shameful, or else, with a modest air,
request some popular critic to supply one, as much as to
say. Were I to tell the truth about myself I must needs
seem vainglorious : were I to tell less than the truth I
On Diabolonian Ethics xxi
should do myself an injustice and deceive my readers. As
to the critic thus called in from the outside, what can he
do but imply that his friend's transcendant ability as a
dramatist is surpassed only by his beautiful nature as a
man ? Now what I say is, why should I get another man
to praise me when I can praise myself? I have no disabilities
to plead : produce me your best critic, and I will criticize
his head ofF. As to philosophy, I taught my critics the little
they know in my Quintessence of Ibsenism ; and now they
turn their guns — the guns I loaded for them — on me, and
proclaim that I write as if mankind had intellect without
will, or heart, as they call it. Ingrates : who was it that
directed your attention to the distinction between Will and
Intellect ? Not Schopenhauer, I think, but Shaw.
Again, they tell me that So-and-So, who does not write
prefaces, is no charlatan. Well, I am. I first caught the
ear of the British public on a cart in Hyde Park, to the
blaring of brass bands, and this not at all as a reluctant
sacrifice of my instinct of privacy to political necessity, but
because, like all dramatists and mimes of genuine vocation,
I am a natural-born mountebank. I am well aware that
the ordinary British citizen requires a profession of shame
from all mountebanks by way of homage to the sanctity of
the ignoble private life to which he is condemned by his
incapacity for public life. Thus Shakespear, after proclaim-
ing that Not marble nor the gilded monuments of Princes
should outlive his powerful rhyme, would apologize, in the
approved taste, for making himself a motley to the view ;
and the British citizen has ever since quoted the apology and
ignored the fanfare. When an actress writes her memoirs,
she impresses on you in every chapter how cruelly it tried
her feelings to exhibit her person to the public gaze ; but
she does not forget to decorate the book with a dozen portraits
of herself. I really cannot respond to this demand for mock-
modesty. I am ashamed neither of my work nor of the way
it is done. I like explaining its merits to the huge majority
who dont know good work from bad. It does them good ;
xxii Three Plays for Puritans
and it does me good, curing me of nervousness, laziness,
and snobbishness. I write prefaces as Dryden did, and
treatises as Wagner, because I can; and I would give half
a dozen of Shakespear's plays for one of the prefaces he
ought to have written. I leave the delicacies of retirement
to those who are gentlemen first and literary workmen after-
wards. The cart and trumpet for me.
This is all very well ; but the trumpet is an instrument
that grows on one ; and sometimes my blasts have been so
strident that even those who are most annoyed by them
have mistaken the novelty of my shamelessness for novelty
in my plays and opinions. Take, for instance, the first play
in this volume, entitled The Devil's Disciple. It does not
contain a single even passably novel incident. Every old
patron of the Adelphi pit would, were he not beglamored
in a way presently to be explained, recognize the reading
of the will, the oppressed orphan finding a protector, the
arrest, the heroic sacrifice, the court martial, the scaffold,
the reprieve at the last moment, as he recognizes beefsteak
pudding on the bill of fare at his restaurant. Yet when the
play was produced in 1897 in New York by Mr Richard
Mansfield, with a success that proves either that the melo-
drama was built on very safe old lines, or that the American
public is composed exclusively of men of genius, the critics,
though one said one thing and another another as to the
play's merits, yet all agreed that it was novel — original^ as
they put it — to the verge of audacious eccentricity.
Now this, if it applies to the incidents, plot, construc-
tion, and general professional and technical qualities of the
play, is nonsense ; for the truth is, I am in these matters a
very old-fashioned playwright. When a good deal of the
same talk, both hostile and friendly, was provoked by my
last volume of plays, Mr Robert Buchanan, a dramatist who
knows what I know and remembers what I remember of
the history of the stage, pointed out that the stage tricks
by which I gave the younger generation of playgoers an
exquisite sense of quaint unexpectedness, had done duty
On Diabolonian Ethics xxiii
years ago in Cool as a Cucumber, Used Up, and many
forgotten farces and comedies of the Byron -Robertson
school, in which the imperturbably impudent comedian,
afterwards shelved by the reaction to brainless sentiment-
ality, was a stock figure. It is always so more or less : the
novelties of one generation are only the resuscitated fashions
of the generation before last.
But the stage tricks of The Devil's Disciple are not,
like some of those of Arms and the Man, the forgotten
ones of the sixties, but the hackneyed ones of our own
time. Why, then, were they not recognized ? Partly, no
doubt, because of my trumpet and cartwheel declamation.
The critics were the victims of the long course of hypnotic
suggestion by which G.B.S. the journalist manufactured
an unconventional reputation for Bernard Shaw the author.
In England as elsewhere the spontaneous recognition of
really original work begins with a mere handful of people,
and propagates itself so slowly that it has become a
commonplace to say that genius, demanding bread, is given
a stone after its possessor's death. The remedy for this is
sedulous advertisement. Accordingly, I have advertized
myself so well that I find myself, whilst still in middle
life, almost as legendary a person as the Flying Dutchman.
Critics, like other people, see what they look for, not
what is actually before them. In my plays they look for
my legendary qualities, and find originality and brilliancy
in my most hackneyed claptraps. Were I to republish
Buckstone's Wreck Ashore as my latest comedy, it would
be hailed as a masterpiece of perverse paradox and scintil-
lating satire. Not, of course, by the really able critics —
for example, you, my friend, now reading this sentence.
The illusion that makes you think me so original is far
subtler than that. The Devil's Disciple has, in truth, a
genuine novelty in it. Only, that novelty is not any in-
vention of my own, but simply the novelty of the advanced
thought of my day. As such, it will assuredly lose its gloss
with the lapse of time, and leave The Devil's Disciple-
XXIV Three Plays for Puritans
exposed as the threadbare popular melodrama it technic-
ally is.
Let me explain (for, as Mr A. B. Walkley has pointed
out in his disquisitions on Frames of Mind, I am nothing if
not explanatory). Dick Dudgeon, the devil's disciple, is a
Puritan of the Puritans. He is brought up in a household
where the Puritan religion has died, and become, in its cor-
ruption, an excuse for his mother's master passion of hatred
in all its phases of cruelty and envy. This corruption
has already been dramatized for us by Charles Dickens in
his picture of the Clennam household in Little Dorrit :
Mrs Dudgeon being a replica of Mrs Clennam with cer-
tain circumstantial variations, and perhaps a touch of the
same author's Mrs Gargery in Great Expectations. In
such a home the young Puritan finds himself starved of
religion, which is the most clamorous need of his nature.
With all his mother's indomitable selfFulness, but with
Pity instead of Hatred as his master passion, he pities the
devil ; takes his side ; and champions him, like a true
Covenanter, against the world. He thus becomes, like all
genuinely religious men, a reprobate and an outcast. Once
this is understood, the play becomes straightforwardly
simple.
The Diabolonian position is new to the London play-
goer of today, but not to lovers of serious literature. From
Prometheus to the Wagnerian Siegfried, some enemy of the
gods, unterrified champion of those oppressed by them, has
always towered among the heroes of the loftiest poetry.
Our newest idol, the Overman, celebrating the death of
godhead, may be younger than the hills ; but he is as
old as the shepherds. Two and a half centuries ago our
greatest English dramatizer of life, John Bunyan, ended
one of his stories with the remark that there is a way
to hell even from the gates of heaven, and so led us
to the equally true proposition that there is a way to
heaven even from the gates of hell. A century ago
William Blake was, like Dick Dudgeon, an avowed
On Diabolonian Ethics xxv
Diabolonlan : he called his angels devils and his devils
angels. His devil is a Redeemer. Let those who have
praised my originality in conceiving Dick Dudgeon's
strange religion read Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell;
and I shall be fortunate if they do not rail at me for a
plagiarist. But they need not go back to Blake and
Bunyan. Have they not heard the recent fuss about
Nietzsche and his Good and Evil Turned Inside Out ?
Mr Robert Buchanan has actually written a long poem
of w^hich the Devil is the merciful hero, which poem
was in my hands before a word of The Devil's Disciple
was written. There never was a play more certain
to be written than The Devil's Disciple at the end of
the nineteenth century. The age was visibly pregnant
with it.
I grieve to have to add that my old friends and col-
leagues the London critics for the most part shewed no
sort of connoisseurship either in Puritanism or in Diabolon-
ianism when the play was performed for a few weeks at a
suburban theatre (Kennington) in October 1899 by Mr
Murray Carson. They took Mrs Dudgeon at her own
valuation as a religious woman because she was detestably
disagreeable. And they took Dick as a blackguard, on her
authority, because he was neither detestable nor disagree-
able. But they presently found themselves in a dilemma.
Why should a blackguard save another man's life, and that
man no friend of his, at the risk of his own? Clearly, said
the critics, because he is redeemed by love. All wicked
heroes are, on the stage : that is the romantic metaphysic.
Unfortunately for this explanation (which I do not profess
to understand) it turned out in the third act that Dick was
a Puritan in this respect also : a man impassioned only for
saving grace, and not to be led or turned by wife or mother.
Church or State, pride of life or lust of the flesh. In the
lovely home of the courageous, afi^ectionate, practical
minister who marries a pretty wife twenty years younger
than himself, and turns soldier in an instant to save the man
xxvi Three Plays for Puritans
who has saved him, Dick looks round and understands the
charm and the peace and the sanctity, but knows that such
material comforts are not for him. When the woman nursed
in that atmosphere falls in love with him and concludes
(like the critics, who somehow always agree with my senti-
mental heroines) that he risked his life for her sake, he tells
her the obvious truth that he would have done as much for
any stranger — that the law of his own nature, and no in-
terest nor lust whatsoever, forbad him to cry out that the
hangman's noose should be taken off his neck only to be
put on another man's.
But then, said the critics, where is the motive? Why
did Dick save Anderson ? On the stage, it appears, people
do things for reasons. Off the stage they dont : that is why
your penny-in-the-slot heroes, who only work when you
drop a motive into them, are so oppressively automatic and
uninteresting. The saving of life at the risk of the saver's
own is not a common thing ; but modern populations are so
vast that even the most uncommon things are recorded once
a week or oftener. Not one of my critics but has seen a
hundred times in his paper how some policeman or fireman
or nursemaid has received a medal, or the compliments of a
magistrate, or perhaps a public funeral, for risking his or her
life to save another's. Has he ever seen it added that the
saved was the husband of the woman the saver loved, or was
that woman herself, or was even known to the saver as much
as by sight ? Never. When we want to read of the deeds
that are done for love, whither do we turn ? To the murder
column ; and there we are rarely disappointed.
Need I repeat that the theatre critic's professional routine
so discourages any association between real life and the stage,
that he soon loses the natural habit of referring to the one
to explain the other ? The critic who discovered a romantic
motive for Dick's sacrifice was no mere literary dreamer,
but a clever barrister. He pointed out that Dick Dudgeon
clearly did adore Mrs Anderson ; that it was for her sake
that he offered his life to save her beloved husband ; and that
Better than Shakespear ? xxvii
his explicit denial of his passion was the splendid mendacity
of a gentleman whose respect for a married woman, and
duty to her absent husband, sealed his passion-palpitating
lips. From the moment that this fatally plausible explan-
ation was launched, my play became my critic's play,
not mine. Thenceforth Dick Dudgeon every night con-
firmed the critic by stealing behind Judith, and mutely
attesting his passion by surreptitiously imprinting a heart-
broken kiss on a stray lock of her hair whilst he uttered the
barren denial. As for me, I was just then wandering about
the streets of Constantinople, unaware of all these doings.
When I returned all was over. My personal relations with
the critic and the actor forbad me to curse them. I had not
even the chance of publicly forgiving them. They meant
well by me ; but if they ever write a play, may I be there
to explain ! *
BETTER THAN SHAKESPEAR ?
As to the other plays in this volume, the application of
my title is less obvious, since neither Julius Caesar, Cleo-
patra nor Lady Cicely Waynflete have any external political
connexion with Puritanism. The very name of Cleopatra
suggests at once a tragedy of Circe, with the horrible differ-
ence that whereas the ancient myth rightly represents Circe
as turning heroes into hogs, the modern romantic convention
would represent her as turning hogs into heroes. Shake-
spear's Antony and Cleopatra must needs be as intolerable
to the true Puritan as it is vaguely distressing to the ordinary
* As I pass these pages through the press (September 1900), the
critics of Yorkshire are struggling, as against some unholy fascination,
with the apparition of Dick Dudgeon on their stage in the person of Mr
Forbes Robertson. "A finished scoundrel" is the description which one
of them gives of Dick, This is worth recording as an example of the extent
to which the moral sense remains dormant in people who are content with
the customary formulas for respectable conduct.
xxviii Three Plays for Puritans
healthy citizen, because, after giving a faithful picture of
the soldier broken down by debauchery, and the typical
wanton in whose arms such men perish, Shakespear finally
strains all his huge command of rhetoric and stage pathos
to give a theatrical sublimity to the wretched end of the
business, and to persuade foolish spectators that the world
was well lost by the twain. Such falsehood is not to be
borne except by the real Cleopatras and Antonys (they are
to be found in every public house) who would no doubt be
glad enough to be transfigured by some poet as immortal
lovers. Woe to the poet who stoops to such folly ! The lot
of the man who sees life truly and thinks about it romantic-
ally is Despair. How well we know the cries of that despair !
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity ! moans the Preacher, when
life has at last taught him that Nature will not dance to his
moralist-made tunes. Thackeray, scores of centuries later,
is still baying the moon in the same terms. Out, out, brief
candle ! cries Shakespear, in his tragedy of the modern
literary man as murderer and witch consulter. Surely the
time is past for patience with writers who, having to choose
between giving up life in despair and discarding the trumpery
moral kitchen scales in which they try to weigh the uni-
verse, superstitiously stick to the scales, and spend the rest
of the lives they pretend to despise in breaking men's spirits.
But even in pessimism there is a choice between intellectual
honesty and dishonesty. Hogarth drew the rake and the
harlot without glorifying their end. Swift, accepting our
system of morals and religion, delivered the inevitable verdict
of that system on us through the mouth of the king of
Brobdingnag, and described man as the Yahoo, shocking his
superior the horse by his every action. Strindberg, the only
living genuine Shakespearean dramatist, shews that the
female Yahoo, measured by romantic standards, is viler than
her male dupe and slave. I respect these resolute tragi-
comedians : they are logical and faithful : they force you to
face the fact that you must either accept their conclusions
as valid (in which case it is cowardly to continue living) or
Better than Shakespear ? xxix
admit that your way of judging conduct is absurd. But when
your Shakespears and Thackerays huddle up the matter at
the end by killing somebody and covering your eyes with
the undertaker's handkerchief, duly onioned with some
pathetic phrase, as The flight of angels sing thee to thy
rest, or Adsum, or the like, I have no respect for them at
all : such maudlin tricks may impose on tea-drunkards, not
on me.
Besides, I have a technical objection to making sexual
infatuation a tragic theme. Experience proves that it is only
effective in the comic spirit. We can bear to see Mrs
Ouickly pawning her plate for love of Falstaff, but not
Antony running away from the battle of Actium for love of
Cleopatra. Let realism have its demonstration, comedy its
criticism, or even bawdry its horselaugh at the expense of
sexual infatuation, if it must ; but to ask us to subject our
souls to its ruinous glamor, to worship it, deify it, and imply
that it alone makes our life worth living, is nothing but
folly gone mad erotically — a thing compared to which Fal-
staff's unbeglamored drinking and drabbing is respectable
and rightminded. Whoever, then, expects to find Cleopatra
a Circe and Caesar a hog in these pages, had better lay down
my book and be spared a disappointment.
In Cassar, I have used another character with which
Shakespear has been beforehand. But Shakespear, who
knew human weakness so well, never knew human strength
of the Cssarian type. His Cssar is an admitted failure :
his Lear is a masterpiece. The tragedy of disillusion and
doubt, of the agonized struggle for a foothold on the quick-
sand made by an acute observation striving to verify its vain
attribution of morality and respectability to Nature, of the
faithless will and the keen eyes that the faithless will is
too weak to blind : all this will give you a Hamlet or a
Macbeth, and win you great applause from literary gentle-
men ; but it will not give you a Julius Caesar. Caesar was
not in Shakespear, nor in the epoch, now fast waning,
which he inaugurated. It cost Shakespear no pang to write
XXX Three Plays for Puritans
Cassar down for the merely technical purpose of writing
Brutus up. And what a Brutus ! A perfect Girondin,
mirrored in Shakespear's art two hundred years before the
real thing came to maturity and talked and stalked and had
its head duly cut off by the coarser Antonys and Octaviuses
of its time, who at least knew the difference between life
and rhetoric.
It will be said that these remarks can bear no other con-
struction than an offer of my Caesar to the public as an
improvement on Shakespear's. And in fact, that is their
precise purport. But here let me give a friendly warning
to those scribes who have so often exclaimed against my
criticisms of Shakespear as blasphemies against a hitherto
unquestioned Perfection and Infallibility. Such criticisms
are no more new than the creed of my Diabolonian Puritan
or my revival of the humors of Cool as a Cucumber. Too
much surprise at them betrays an acquaintance with Shake-
spear criticism so limited as not to include even the prefaces
of Dr Johnson and the utterances of Napoleon. I have
merely repeated in the dialect of my own time and in the
light of its philosophy what they said in the dialect and
light of theirs. Do not be misled by the Shakespear fanciers
who, ever since his own time, have delighted in his plays
ju:t as they might have delighted in a particular breed of
pigeons if they had never learnt to read. His genuine
critics, from Ben Jonson to Mr Frank Harris, have always
kept as far on this side idolatry as I.
As to our ordinary uncritical citizens, they have been
slowly trudging forward these three centuries to the point
which Shakespear reached at a bound in Elizabeth's time.
Today most of them have arrived there or thereabouts, with
the result that his plays are at last beginning to be performed
as he wrote them ; and the long line of disgraceful farces,
melodramas, and stage pageants which actor -managers,
from Garrick and Cibber to our own contemporaries, have
hacked out of his plays as peasants have hacked huts out of
the Coliseum, are beginning to vanish from the stage. It
Better than Shakespear ? xxxi
is a significant fact that the mutilators of Shakespear, who
never could be persuaded that Shakespear knew his business
better than they, have ever been the most fanatical of his
worshippers. The late Augustin Daly thought no price too
extravagant for an addition to his collection of Shakespear
relics ; but in arranging Shakespear's plays for the stage,
he proceeded on the assumption that Shakespear was a
botcher and he an artist. I am far too good a Shake-
spearean ever to forgive Sir Henry Irving for producing a
version of King Lear so mutilated that the numerous
critics who had never read the play could not follow the
story of Gloster. Both these idolaters of the Bard must
have thought Mr Forbes Robertson mad because he
restored Fortinbras to the stage and played as much
of Hamlet as there was time for instead of as little. And
the instant success of the experiment probably altered their
minds no further than to make them think the public mad.
Mr Benson actually gives the play complete at two sit-
tings, causing the aforesaid numerous critics to remark with
naive surprise that Polonius is a complete and interesting
character. It was the age of gross ignorance of Shakespear
and incapacity for his works that produced the indiscriminate
eulogies with which we are familiar. It was the revival
of genuine criticism of those works that coincided with the
movement for giving genuine instead of spurious and silly
representations of his plays. So much for Bardolatry !
It does not follow, however, that the right to criticize
Shakespear involves the power of writing better plays. And
in fact — do not be surprised at my modesty — I do not pro-
fess to write better plays. The writing of practicable stage
plays does not present an infinite scope to human talent ;
and the dramatists who magnify its difficulties are humbugs.
The summit of their art has been attained again and again.
No man will ever write a better tragedy than Lear, a better
comedy than Le Festin de Pierre or Peer Gynt, a better
opera than Don Giovanni, a better music drama than The
Niblung's Ring, or, for the matter of that, better fashion-
xxxii Three Plays for Puritans
able plays and melodramas than are now being turned out
by writers whom nobody dreams of mocking with the word
immortal. It is the philosophy, the outlook on life, that
changes, not the craft of the playwright. A generation that
is thoroughly moralized and patriotized, that conceives virtu-
ous indignation as spiritually nutritious, that murders the
murderer and robs the thief, that grovels before all sorts of
ideals, social, military, ecclesiastical, royal and divine, may
be, from my point of view, steeped in error ; but it need
not want for as good plays as the hand of man can produce.
Only, those plays will be neither written nor relished by
men in whose philosophy guilt and innocence, and con-
sequently revenge and idolatry, have no meaning. Such
men must rewrite all the old plays in terms of their own
philosophy ; and that is why, as Mr Stuart-Glennie has
pointed out, there can be no new drama without a new
philosophy. To which I may add that there can be no
Shakespear or Goethe without one either, nor two Shake-
spears in one philosophic epoch, since, as I have said, the
first great comer in that epoch reaps the whole harvest and
reduces those who come after to the rank of mere gleaners,
or, worse than that, fools who go laboriously through all
the motions of the reaper and binder in an empty field.
What is the use of writing plays or painting frescoes if you
have nothing more to say or shew than was said and shewn
by Shakespear, Michael Angelo, and Raphael ? If these had
not seen things differently, for better or worse, from the
dramatic poets of the Townley mysteries, or from Giotto,
they could not have produced their works : no, not though
their skill of pen and hand had been double what it was.
After them there was no need (and need alone nerves men
to face the persecution in the teeth of which new art is
brought to birth) to redo the already done, until in due
time, when their philosophy wore itself out, a new race
of nineteenth century poets and critics, from Byron to
William Morris, began, first to speak coldly of Shakespear
and Raphael, and then to rediscover, in the medieval art
Better than Shakespear ? xxxiii
which these Renascence masters had superseded, certain
forgotten elements which were germinating again for the
new harvest. What is more, they began to discover that
the technical skill of the masters was by no means super-
lative. Indeed, I defy anyone to prove that the great epoch
makers in fine art have owed their position to their techni-
cal skill. It is true that when we search for examples of a
prodigious command of language and of graphic line, we
can think of nobody better than Shakespear and Michael
Angelo. But both of them laid their arts waste for centuries
by leading later artists to seek greatness in copying their
technique. The technique was acquired, refined on, and
surpassed over and over again ; but the supremacy of the
two great exemplars remained undisputed. As a matter of
easily observable fact, every generation produces men of
extraordinary special faculty, artistic, mathematical and
linguistic, who for lack of new ideas, or indeed of any
ideas worth mentioning, achieve no distinction outside
music halls and class rooms, although they can do things
easily that the great epoch makers did clumsily or not
at all. The contempt of the academic pedant for the
original artist is often founded on a genuine superiority of
technical knowledge and aptitude : he is sometimes a better
anatomical draughtsman than Raphael, a better hand at
triple counterpoint than Beethoven, a better versifier than
Byron. Nay, this is true not merely of pedants, but of men
who have produced works of art of some note. If technical
facility were the secret of greatness in art, Mr Swinburne
would be greater than Browning and Byron rolled into one,
Stevenson greater than Scott or Dickens, Mendelssohn
than Wagner, Maclise than Madox Brown. Besides, new
ideas make their technique as water makes its channel ; and
the technician without ideas is as useless as the canal con-
structor without water, though he may do very skilfully
what the Mississippi does very rudely. To clinch the argu-
ment, you have only to observe that the epoch maker himself
has generally begun working professionally before his new
xxxiv Three Plays for Puritans
ideas have mastered him sufficiently to insist on constant
expression by his art. In such cases you are compelled to
admit that if he had by chance died earlier, his greatness
would have remained unachieved, although his technical
qualifications would have been well enough established.
The early imitative works of great men are usually con-
spicuously inferior to the best works of their forerunners.
Imagine Wagner dying after composing Rienzi, or Shelley
after Zastrozzi ! Would any competent critic then have
rated Wagner's technical aptitude as high as Rossini's,
Spontini's, or Meyerbeer's ; or Shelley's as high as Moore's?
Turn the problem another way : does anyone suppose that
if Shakespear had conceived Goethe's or Ibsen's ideas, he
would have expressed them any worse than Goethe or
Ibsen.? Human faculty being what it is, is it likely that in
our time any advance, except in external conditions, will
take place in the arts of expression sufficient to enable an
author, without making himself ridiculous, to undertake to
say what he has to say better than Homer or Shakespear?
But the humblest author, and much more a rather arrogant
one like myself, may profess to have something to say by
this time that neither Homer nor Shakespear said. And
the playgoer may reasonably ask to have historical events
and persons presented to him in the light of his own time,
even though Homer and Shakespear have already shewn
them in the light of their time. For example. Homer
presented Achilles and Ajax as heroes to the world in the
Iliads. In due time came Shakespear, who said, virtually :
I really cannot accept this selfish hound and this brawny
brute as great men merely because Homer flattered them
in playing to the Greek gallery. Consequently we have,
in Troilus and Cressida, the verdict of Shakespear's epoch
(our own) on the pair. This did not in the least involve
any pretence on Shakespear's part to be a greater poet than
Homer.
When Shakespear in turn came to deal with Henry V
and Julius Cassar, he did so according to his own essentially
Better than Shakespear ? xxxv
knightly conception of a great statesman-commander. But
in the XIX century comes the German historian Mommsen,
who also takes Caesar for his hero, and explains the im-
mense difference in scope between the perfect knight
Vercingetorix and his great conqueror Julius Cassar. In
this country, Carlyle, with his vein of peasant inspiration,
apprehended the sort of greatness that places the true hero
of history so far beyond the mere freux chevalier^ whose
fanatical personal honor, gallantry and self-sacrifice, are
founded on a passion for death born of inability to bear the
weight of a life that will not grant ideal conditions to the
liver. This one ray of perception became Carlyle's whole
stock-in-trade ; and it sufficed to make a literary master of
him. In due time, when Mommsen is an old man, and
Carlyle dead, come I, and dramatize the by-this-time familiar
distinction in Arms and the Man, with its comedic conflict
between the knightly Bulgarian and the Mommsenite Swiss
captain. Whereupon a great many playgoers who have not
yet read Shakespear, much less Mommsen and Carlyle, raise
a shriek of concern for their knightly ideal as if nobody had
ever questioned its sufficiency since the middle ages. Let
them thank me for educating them so far. And let them
allow me to set forth Caesar in the same modern light, taking
the same liberty with Shakespear as he with Homer, and
with no thought of pretending to express the Mommsenite
view of Caesar any better than Shakespear expressed a view
which was not even Plutarchian, and must, I fear, be re-
ferred to the tradition in stage conquerors established by
Marlowe's Tamerlane as much as to even the chivalrous
conception of heroism dramatized in Henry V.
For my own part, I can avouch that such powers of
invention, humor and stage ingenuity as I have been able
to exercise in Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant, and in
these Three Plays for Puritans, availed me not at all until
I saw the old facts in a new light. Technically, I do not
find myself able to proceed otherwise than as former play-
wrights have done. True, myplays have the latest mechanical
xxxvi Three Plays for Puritans
improvements : the action is not carried on by impossible
soliloquys and asides ; and my people get on and off the
stage without requiring four doors to a room which in real
life would have only ope. But my stories are the old stories ;
my characters are the familiar harlequin and columbine,
clown and pantaloon (note the harlequin's leap in the third
act of Caesar and Cleopatra) ; my stage tricks and suspenses
and thrills and jests arc the ones in vogue when I was a
boy, by which time my grandfather was tired of them. To
the young people who make their acquaintance for the first
time in my plays, they may be as novel as Cyrano's nose to
those who have never seen Punch ; whilst to older play-
goers the unexpectedness of my attempt to substitute natural
history for conventional ethics and romantic logic may so
transfigure the eternal stage puppets and their inevitable
dilemmas as to make their identification impossible for the
moment. If so, so much the better for me : I shall perhaps
enjoy a few years of immortality. But the whirligig of
time will soon bring my audiences to my own point of view ;
and then the next Shakespear that comes along will turn
these petty tentatives of mine into masterpieces final for
their epoch. By that time my twentieth century charac-
teristics will pass unnoticed as a matter of course, whilst
the eighteenth century artificiality that marks the work of
every literary Irishman of mygenerationwill seemantiquated
and silly. It is a dangerous thing to be hailed at once, as
a few rash admirers have hailed me, as above all things
original : what the world calls originality is only an un-
accustomed method of tickling it. Meyerbeer seemed
prodigiously original to the Parisians when he first burst on
them. Today, he is only the crow who followed Beethoven's
plough. I am a crow who have followed many ploughs. No
doubt I seem prodigiously clever to those who have never
hopped, hungry and curious, across the fields of philosophy,
politics and art. Karl Marx said of Stuart Mill that his
eminence was due to the flatness of the surrounding country.
In these days of Board Schools, universal reading, cheap
Better than Shakespear ? xxxvii
newspapers, and the inevitable ensuing demand for nota-
bilities of all sorts, literary, military, political and fashion-
able, to write paragraphs about, that sort of eminence is
within the reach of very moderate ability. Reputations are
cheap nowadays. Even were they dear, it would still be
impossible for any public-spirited citizen of the world to
hope that his reputation might endure ; for this would be
to hope that the flood of general enlightenment may never
rise above his miserable high-watermark. I hate to think
that Shakespear has lasted 300 years, though he got no
further than Koheleth the Preacher, who died many
centuries before him; or that Plato, more than 2000 years
old, is still ahead of our voters. We must hurry on : we
must get rid of reputations : they are weeds in the soil
of ignorance. Cultivate that soil, and they will flower
more beautifully, but only as annuals. If this preface will
at all help to get rid of mine, the writing of it will have
been well worth the pains.
Surrey, 1900.
Preface ....
Why for Puritans
On Diabolonian Ethics
Better than Shakespear ?
The Devil's Disciple : A Melodrama
Notes to The Devil's Disciple :
General Burgoyne
Brudenell
Cassar and Cleopatra : A History .
Notes to C^sar and Cleopatra :
Cleopatra's Cure for Baldness
Apparent Anachronisms
Cleopatra
Britannus
Julius Ceesar .
Captain Brassbound's Conversion : An Ad
Notes to Captain Brassbound :
Sources of the Play .
English and American Dialects
V
XX
xxvii
82
88
201
202
206
207
208
cnture .
301
30+
89
213
[These plays have been publicly perfonned within the United
Kingdom. Tl:ey are entered at Stationers* Hall, and at the
Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A. All rights re-
serve d\.
THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE
VIII
London 1897.
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THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE
ACT I
At the most wretched hour between a black night and a wintry
morning in the year 1777, Mrs Dudgeon, of New Hampshire,
is sitting up in the kitchen and general dwelling room of her far jn
house on the outskirts of the town of Websterbridge. She is not
a prepossessing woman. No woman looks her best after sitting
up all night ; and Mrs Dudgeon's face, even at its best, is
grimly trenched by the channels into which the barren forms
and observances of a dead Puritanism can pen a bitter temper
and a fierce pride. She is an elderly matron who has worked hard
and got nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her sor-
did home, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and respect-
ability among her neighbors, to whom drink and debauchery are
still so much more tempting than religion and rectitude, that they
conceive goodness simply as self-denial. This conception is easily
extended to others-denial, and finally generalized as covering
anything disagreeable. So Mrs Dudgeon, being exceedingly dis-
agreeable, is held to be exceedingly good. Short of flat felony,
she enjoys complete license except for amiable weaknesses of any
sort, and is consequently, without knowing it, the most licentious
woman in the parish on the strength of never having broken the
seventh commandment or missed a Sunday at the Presbyterian
church.
The year 1777 // the one in which the passions roused by the
4 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
breaking-off of the Ajnerican colonies from England^ more by
their own weight than their own will, boiled up to shooting
point, the shooting being idealized to the English mind as sup-
pression of rebellion and maintenance of British dominion, and to
the Ajnerican as defence of liberty, resistance to tyranny, and
self-sacrifice on the altar of the Rights of Man. Into the merits
of these idealizations it is not here necessary to inquire : suffice
it to say, without prejudice, that they have coTwinced both Ameri-
cans and English that the most highminded course for them to
pursue is to kill as many of one another as possible^ and that mili-
tary operations to that end are in full swing, morally supported
by confident requests from the clergy of both sides for the blessing
of God on their arms.
Under such circumstances many other women besides this dis-
agreeable Mrs Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night wait-
ing for news. Like her, too, they fall asleep towards mor7iing at the
risk of nodding themselves into the kitchen fire. Mrs Dudgeon
sleeps with a shawl over her head, and her feet on a broad fender
of iron laths, the step of the domestic altar of the fireplace, with
its huge hobs and boiler, and its hinged arm above the smoky
mantelshelf for roasting. The plain kitchen table is opposite the
fire, at her elhow, with a candle on it in a tin sconce. Her chair,
like all the others in the room, is uncushioned and unpainted; but
as it has a round railed back and a seat conventionally moulded
to the sitter^ s curves, it is comparatively a chair of state. The room
has three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace, near the
corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, at the opposite end of
the opposite wall, leading to the scullery ana washhouse; and the
housedoor, with its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy wooden bar, in the
frofit wall, between the window in its middle and the corner next
the bedroom door. Between the door and the window a rack of
pegs suggests to the deductive observer that the men of the house
are all away, as there are no hats or coats on them. On the other
side of the window the clock hangs on a nail, with its white
wooden dial, black iron weights, and brass pendulum. Between
the clock and the corner, a big cupboard^ locked^ stands on a dwarf
dresser full of common crockery.
Act I The DeviFs Disciple 5
On the side opposite the fireplace^ betwee?i the door and the
corner, a shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against the
wall. An inspection of its stridulous surface shews that Mrs
Dudgeon is not alone. A girl of sixteen or seventeen has fallen
asleep on it. She is a wild, timid looking creature with black hair
and tanned skin. Her frock., a scanty garment., is rent., weather-
stained., berrystained, and by no means scrupulously clean. It
hangs on her with a freedom which, taken with her brown legs
and bare feet, suggests no great stock of underclothing.
Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door., not loud enough
to wake the sleepers. Then knocking, which disturbs Mrs Dud-
geon a little. Finally the latch is tried, whereupon she springs up
at once.
MRS DUDGEON [threateningly'] Well, why dont you open
the door ? [ She sees that the girl is asleep, and immediately
raises a clamor of heartfelt vexation]. Well, dear, dear me!
Now this is — \shaking her] wake up, wake up : do you hear ?
THE GIRL [sitting up] What is it ?
MRS DUDGEON. Wake up ; and be ashamed of yourself,
you unfeeling sinful girl, falling asleep like that, and your
father hardly cold in his grave.
THE GIRL [half asleep still] I didnt mean to. I dropped
off—
MRS DUDGEON [cutting her short] Oh yes, youve plenty of
excuses, I daresay. Dropped ofF ! [Fiercely, as the knocking
recommences] Why dont you get up and let your uncle in?
after me waiting up all night for him ! [She pushes her rudely
off the sofa]. There: I'll open the door : much good you are
to wait up. Go and mend that fire a bit.
The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log
on. Mrs Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting i?ito the
stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and a great deal of the chill
of the dawn, also her second son Christy, a fat t is h, stupid, fair-
haired, roundfaced man of about 22, muffled in a plaid shawl
and grey overcoat. He hurries, shivering, to the fire, leaving
Mrs Dudgeon to shut the door.
6 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
CHRISTY [at the Jire\ F — f — f ! but it is cold. [Seeing the
girl, and staring lumpishly at her] Why, who are you ?
THE GIRL [shy/y] Essie.
MRS DUDGEON. Oh, you may well ask. [To Essie] Go to
your room, child, and lie down, since you havnt feeling
enough to keep you awake. Your history isnt fit for your
own ears to hear.
ESSIE. I —
MRS DUDGEON [peremptorily] Dont answer me, Miss; but
shew your obedience by doing what I tell you. [Essie, al-
most in tears, crosses the room to the door near the sofa]. And
dont forget your prayers. [Essie goes out]. She'd have gone
to bed last night just as if nothing had happened if I'd let
her.
CHRISTY [phlegmatic ally] Well, she cant be expected to
feel Uncle Peter's death like one of the family.
MRS DUDGEON. What are you talking about, child? Isnt
she his daughter — the punishment of his wickedness and
shame ? [She assaults her chair by sitting down],
CHRISTY [staring] Uncle Peter's daughter !
MRS DUDGEON. Why clse should she be here ? D'ye think
Ive not had enough trouble and care put upon me bringing
up my own girls, let alone you and your good-for-nothing
brother, without having your uncle's bastards —
CHRISTY [interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at the
door by which Essie we?it out] Sh ! She may hear you.
MRS DUDGEON [raising her voice] Let her hear me. People
who fear God dont fear to give the devil's work its right
name. [Christy, soullessly indifferent to the strife of Good and
Evil, stares at the fire, warming himself]. Well, how long are
you going to stare there like a stuck pig? What news have
you for me?
CHRISTY [taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack
to hang them up] The minister is to break the news to you.
He'll be here presently.
MRS DUDGEON. Break what news ?
CHRISTY [standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his
Act I The Devil's Disciple 7
hat up, though he is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speak-
ing with callous placidity, considering the nature of the a?inounce-
ment'] Father's dead too.
MRS DUDGEON \^stupent^ Your father !
CHRISTY [sulkily, coming back to the f re and warming him-
self again, attending much fuore to the fire than to his ?ncther']
Well, it's not my fault. When we got to Nevinstown
we found him ill in bed. He didnt know us at first. The
minister sat up with him and sent me away. He died in
the night.
MRS DUDGEON \bursting into dry angry tears] Well, I do
think this is hard on me — very hard on me. His brother,
that was a disgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on the
public gallows as a rebel ; and your father, instead of stay-
ing at home where his duty was, with his own family, goes
after him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders.
After sending this girl to me to take care of, too! [She
plucks her shawl vexedly over her ears]. It's sinful, so it is :
downright sinful.
CHRISTY [with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause] I
think it's going to be a fine morning, after all.
MRS DUDGEON [railing at him] A fine morning! And your
father newly dead! Wheres your feelings, child?
CHRISTY [obstinately] Well, I didnt mean any harm. I
suppose a man may make a remark about the weather even
if his father's dead.
MRS DUDGEON [bitterly] A nice comfort my children are
to me ! One son a fool, and the other a lost sinner thats left
his home to live with smugglers and gypsies and villains,
the scum of the earth !
Someone knocks.
CHRISTY [without moving] That's the minister.
MRS DUDGEON [sharply] Well, arnt you going to let Mr
Anderson in I
Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs Dudgeon buries her
face in her hands, as it is her duty as a widozv to be overcome
with grief. Christy opens the door, and admits the minister.
8 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
Anthony Anderson^ a shrewdy genial^ ready Presbyterian divine
of about 50, with so?ne thing of the authority of his profession in
his bearing. But it is an altogether secular authority, sweetened
by a conciliatory, sensible tnanner not at all suggestive of a
quite thoroughgoing other-worldliness. He is a strong, healthy
man too, with a thick sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful mouth
cuts into somewhat fleshy corners. No doubt an excellent parson,
but still a man capable of making the most of this world, and
perhaps a little apologetically conscious of getting on better with
it than a sound Presbyterian ought.
ANDERSON \to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs Dudgeon
whilst he takes off his cloak'\ Have you told her?
CHRISTY. She made me. \He shuts the door; yawns; and
loafs across to the sofa, where he sits down and presently drops off
to sleep\
Anderson looks compassionately at Mrs Dudgeon. Then he
hangs his cloak and hat on the rack. Mrs Dudgeon dries her eyes
and looks up at him.
ANDERSON. Sistcr : the Lord has laid his hand very heavily
upon you.
MRS DUDGEON \with intensely recalcitrant resignation"] It's
His will, I suppose; and I must bow to it. But I do think
it hard. What call had Timothy to go to Springtown, and
remind everybody that he belonged to a man that was being
hanged? — and [spitefully] that deserved it, if ever a man did.
ANDERSON [gently] They were brothers, Mrs Dudgeon.
MRS DUDGEON. Timothy never acknowledged him as his
brother after we were married : he had too much respect
for me to insult me with such a brother. Would such a sel-
fish wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to see Timothy
hanged, do you think ? Not thirty yards, not he. How-
ever, I must bear my cross as best I may : least said is
soonest mended.
ANDERSON [vcry grave, coming down to the fire to stand with
his back to it] Your eldest son was present at the execution,
Mrs Dudgeon.
MRS DUDGEON [disagreeably surprised] Richard r
Act I The Devil's Disciple 9
ANDERSON [nodding] Yes.
MRS DUDGEON [vindtctwely'] Let it be a warning to him.
He may end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, god-
less — [she suddenly stops; her voice fails ; and she asks, with
evident dread] Did Timothy see him ?
ANDERSON. YeS.
MRS DUDGEON [holding her breath] Well ?
ANDERSON. He Only saw him in the crowd : they did not
speak. [Mrs Dudgeon, greatly reliez'ed, exhales the pent up
breath and sits at her ease again]. Your husband was greatly
touched and impressed by his brother's awful death. [Mrs
Dudgeon sneers. Anderson breaks off to demand with some
indignation] Well, wasnt it only natural, Mrs Dudgeon ?
He softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. He
sent for him to come to see him.
MRS DUDGEON [her alarm renewed] Sent for Richard !
ANDERSON. Ycs ; but Richard would not come. He sent
his father a message ; but I'm sorry to say it was a wicked
message — an awful message.
MRS DUDGEON. What was it?
ANDERSON. That hc would stand by his wicked uncle,
and stand against his good parents, in this world and the
next.
MRS DUDGEON [implacably] He will be punished for it.
He will be punished for it — in both worlds.
ANDERSON. That is not in our hands, Mrs Dudgeon.
MRS DUDGEON. Did I say it was, Mr Anderson ? We
are told that the wicked shall be punished. Why should
we do our duty and keep God's law if there is to be no differ-
ence made between us and those who follow their own
likings and dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their
Maker's word ?
ANDERSON. Well, Richard's earthly father has been merci-
ful to him ; and his heavenly judge is the father of us all.
MRS DUDGEON [forgetting herself] Richard's earthly father
was a softheaded —
ANDERSON [shocked] Oh !
lo Three Plays for Puritans Act I
MRS DUDGEON \_zvith a touch of shame'] Well, I am Richard's
mother. If I am against him who has any right to be for
him? [Trying to conciliate hi?n] Wont you sit down, Mr
Anderson? I should have asked you before; but I'm so
troubled.
ANDERSON. Thank you. \^He takes a chair from beside the
fireplace^ and turns it so that he can sit comfortably at the fire.
When he is seated he adds^ in the tone of a man who knows that
he is ope?mig a difficult subject] Has Christy told you about
the new will ?
MRS DUDGEON [^// her fears returning] The new will !
Did Timothy — ? \^She breaks off^ gasping^ unable to complete
the question].
ANDERSON. Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind.
MRS DUDGEON [white with intense rage] And you let him
rob me?
ANDERSON. I had no power to prevent him giving what
was his to his own son.
MRS DUDGEON. He had nothing of his own. His money
was the money I brought him as my marriage portion. It
was for me to deal with my own money and my own son.
He dare not have done it if I had been with him ; and well
he knew it. That was why he stole away like a thief to
take advantage of the law to rob me by making a new will
behind my back. The more shame on you, Mr Anderson,
— you, a minister of the gospel — to act as his accomplice
in such a crime.
ANDERSON [rising] I will take no offence at what you
say in the first bitterness of your grief.
MRS DUDGEON [contcmptuously] Grief!
ANDERSON. Well, of your disappointment, if you can
find it in your heart to think that the better word.
MRS DUDGEON. My heart ! My heart! And since when,
pray, have you begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy
guides for us ?
ANDERSON [rather guiltily] I — er —
MRS DUDGEON [vehemently] Dont lie, Mr Anderson. We
Act I The Devil's Disciple 1 1
arc told that the heart of man is deceitful above all things,
and desperately wicked. My heart belonged, not to
Timothy, but to that poor wretched brother of his that has
just ended his days with a rope round his neck — aye, to
Peter Dudgeon. You know it : old Eli Hawkins, the man
to whose pulpit you succeeded, though you are not worthy
to loose his shoe latchet, told it you when he gave over our
souls into your charge. He warned me and strengthened
me against my heart, and made me marry a Godfearing
man — as he thought. What else but that discipline has
made me the woman I am? And you, you, who followed
your heart in your marriage, you talk to me of what I find
in my heart. Go home to your pretty wife, man ; and
leave me to my prayers. [S/^e turns from him and leans with
her elbows on the table, brooding over her wrongs and taking
no further notice of him\
ANDERSON [wUHng enough to escape] The Lord forbid that
I should, come between you and the source of all comfort !
\^He goes to the rack for his coat and hat].
MRS DUDGEON [without looking at him] The Lord will
know what to forbid and what to allow without your help.
ANDERSON. And whom to forgive, I hope — Eli Hawkins
and myself, if we have ever set up our preaching against His
law. \He fastens his cloak, and is now ready to go]. Just
one word — on necessary business, Mrs Dudgeon. There is
the reading of the will to be gone through ; and Richard
has a right to be present. He is in the town; but he has
the grace to say that he does not want to force himself in
here.
MRS DUDGEON. Hc shall comc here. Does he expect
us to leave his father's house for his convenience t Let
them all come, and come quickly, and go quickly. They
shall not make the will an excuse to shirk half their day's
work. I shall be ready, never fear.
ANDERSON \_coming hack a step or tzvo] Mrs Dudgeon : I
used to have some little influence with you. When did I
lose it ?
1 2 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
MRS DUDGEON [stUi without tumitig to kirn] When you
married for love. Now youre answered.
ANDERSON. Yes : I am answered. \^He goes out^ musing'].
MRS DUDGEON [/(? her Self, thinking of her husband] Thief!
Thief!! \_She shakes herself angrily out of her chair; throws
back the shazvl frofn her head; and sets to work to prepare the
room for the reading of the will, beginning by replacing
Anderso7i s chair against the wall, and pushing back her own to
the window. Then she calls, in her hard, driviiig, wrathful
way] Christy. \^No answer: he is fast asleep]. Christy.
\^8he shakes him roughly]. Get up out of that; and be
ashamed of yourself — sleeping, and your father dead ! \^She
returns to the table; puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and
takes from the table drawer a red table cloth which she spreads].
CHRISTY [rising reluctantly] Well, do you suppose we
are never going to sleep until we are out of mourning?
MRS DUDGEON. I waut nouc of your sulks. Here: help
me to set this table. [They place the table in the middle of
the roo?n, with Christy's end towards the f replace and Mrs
Dudgeon's towards the sofa. Christy drops the table as soon as
possible, and goes to t/?e fire, leaving his mother to ?nake the
final adjustments of its position]. We shall have the minister
back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the will
before you have done toasting yourself. Go and wake that
girl ; and then light the stove in the shed : you cant have
your breakfast here. And mind you wash yourself, and
make yourself fit to receive the company. [She punctuates
th)ese orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking it; and pro-
ducing a decanter of wine, which has no doubt stood there un-
touched since the last state occasion in thje fa?nily, and some
glasses, which she sets on the table. Also two green ware plates,
on one of which she puts a barnbrack with a knife beside it.
On th:e other she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting back
one or two, and counting the rest]. Now mind : there are
ten biscuits there : let there be ten there when I come back
after dressing myself. And keep your fingers off the raisins
in that cake. And tell Essie the same. I suppose I can
Act I The Devil's Disciple 1 3
trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds without
breaking the glass? [S/^e replaces the tin in the cupboard,
which she locks, pocketing the key carefully'],
CHRISTY [lingering at the fire] Youd better put the ink-
stand instead, for the lawyer.
MRS DUDGEON. Thats no answer to make to me, sir. Go
and do as youre told. [Christy turns sullenly to obey]. Stop :
take down that shutter before you go, and let the daylight
in : you cant expect me to do all the heavy work of the
house with a great heavy lout like you idling about.
Christy takes the window bar out of its clamps, and puts it
aside ; then opens the shutter, shewing the grey morning. Mrs
Dudgeon takes the sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the
candle ; extinguishes the snuff by pinching it with her fingers, first
licking them for the purpose; and replaces the sconce on the shelf
CHRISTY [looking through the window] Here's the minister's
wife.
MRS DUDGEON [displeased] What! Is she coming here?
CHRISTY. Yes.
MRS DUDGEON. What does she want troubling me at this
hour, before I'm properly dressed to receive people ?
CHRISTY. Youd better ask her.
MRS DUDGEON [threateningly] Youd better keep a civil
tongue in your head. [He goes sulkily towards the door. She
comes after him, plying him with instructions]. Tell that girl to
come to me as soon as she's had her breakfast. And tell
her to make herself fit to be seen before the people.
[Christy goes out and slams the door in her face]. Nice
manners, that ! [Someone knocks at the house door : she turns
and cries inhospitably] Come in. [fudith Anderson, the
minister's wife, comes in. Judith is more than twenty years
•younger than her husband, though she will never be as young
as he in vitality. She is pretty and proper and ladylike, and has
been admired and petted into an opinion of herself sufficiently
favorable to give her a self-assurance which serves her i?istead
of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, and in her face the
pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by dreams. Even
14 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
her little self-complacency is pretty ^ like a chiWs vanity.
Rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic observer who
knows how rough a place the world is. One feels, on the whole,
that Anderson migh^t have chosen worse, and that she, needing
protection, could not have chosen hetter\ Oh, it's you, is it,
Mrs Anderson ?
JUDITH [c'^ry politely — almost patronizingly^ Yes. Can I
do anything for you, Mrs Dudgeon? Can I help to get
the place ready before they come to read the will ?
MRS DUDGEON [stiffiy'\ Thank you, Mrs Anderson, my
house is always ready for anyone to come into.
MRS ANDERSON [with complaccnt amiability'\ Yes, indeed it
is. Perhaps you had rather I did not intrude on you j ust now.
MRS DUDGEON. Oh, one more or less will make no
difference this morning, Mrs Anderson. Now that youre
here, youd better stay. If you wouldnt mind shutting the
door! \_Judith smiles, implying '"'' How stupid of meT'' and
shuts it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty and
becoming\ Thats better. I must go and tidy myself a bit.
I suppose you dont mind stopping here to receive anyone
that comes until I'm ready.
JUDITH [^graciously giving her leave'\ Oh yes, certainly.
Leave them to me, Mrs Dudgeon ; and take your time.
[She hangs her cloak and bonnet on the rack],
MRS DUDGEON [half snccring] I thought that would be
more in your way than getting the house ready. [Essie
comes back]. Oh, here you are ! [Severely] Come here : let
me see you. [Essie timidly goes to her. Mrs Dudgeon takes
her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect the
results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself — results which
shew little practice and less conviction]. Mm ! Thats what
you call doing your hair properly, I suppose. It's easy to
see what you are, and how you were brought up. [She
throws her arm away, and goes on, peremptorily] Now you
listen to me and do as youre told. You sit down there in
the corner by the fire; and when the company comes
dont dare to speak until youre spoken to. [Essie creeps away
Act I The Devil's Disciple 1 5
to the fireplace\. Your father's people had better see you
and know youre there : theyre as much bound to keep
you from starvation as I am. At any rate they might help.
But let me have no chattering and making free with them,
as if you were their equal. Do you hear?
ESSIE. Yes.
MRS DUDGEON. Well, then go and do as youre told.
\_Es5ie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest
from the door\ Never mind her, Mrs Anderson : you know
who she is and what she is. If she gives you any trouble,
just tell me ; and I'll settle accounts with her. \Mrs
Dudgeon goes into the bedroom^ shutting the door sharply behind
her as if even it had to be made do its duty with a ruthless
band].
JUDITH [patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and wine
on the table more becomingly] You must not mind if your
aunt is strict with you. She is a very good woman, and
desires your good too.
ESSIE \in listless 7nisery] Yes.
JUDITH [annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled
and edified, and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the
remark] You are not going to be sullen, I hope, Essie.
ESSIE. No.
JUDITH. Thats a good girl ! [She places a couple of chairs
at the table with their backs to the window, with a pleasant
sense of being a more thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs Dudgeon],
Do you know any of your father's relatives .''
ESSIE. No. They wouldnt have anything to do with
him : they were too religious. Father used to talk about
Dick Dudgeon ; but I never saw him.
JUDITH [ostentatiously shocked] Dick Dudgeon ! Essie : do
you wish to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and to
make a place for yourself here by steady good conduct?
ESSIE [very half-heartedly] Yes.
JUDITH. Then you must never mention the name of
Richard Dudgeon — never even think about him. He is a
bad man.
1 6 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
ESSIE. What has he done?
JUDITH. You must not ask questions about him, Essie.
You are too young to know what it is to be a bad man.
But he is a smuggler ; and he lives with gypsies ; and he
has no love for his mother and his family ; and he wrestles
and plays games on Sunday instead of going to church.
Never let him into your presence, if you can help it,
Essie ; and try to keep yourself and all womanhood un-
spotted by contact with such men.
ESSIE. Yes.
JUDITH [again displeased] I am afraid you say Yes and No
without thinking very deeply.
ESSIE. Yes. At least I mean —
JUDITH [severely] What do you mean ?
ESSIE [almost crying] Only — my father was a smuggler ;
and — [Someone knocks].
JUDITH. They are beginning to come. Now remember
your aunt's directions, Essie ; and be a good girl. [Christy
comes back with the stand of stuffed birds under a glass case,
and an inkstand, which he places on the table]. Good morning,
Mr Dudgeon. Will you open the door, please : the people
have come.
CHRISTY. Good morning. [He opens the house door].
The morning is now fairly bright and warm; and Anderson.,
who is the first to enter, has left his cloak at home. He is
accompanied by Lawyer Hawkins, a brisk, middle aged man in
brown riding gaiters and yellow breeches, looking as much squire
as solicitor. He and Anderson are allowed precedence as repre-
senting the learned professions. After them comes the family,
headed by the senior uncle, William Dudgeon, a large, shape-
less man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. His
clothes are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a
prosperous man. The junior uncle., Titus Dudgeon, is a wiry
little terrier of a man, with an immense and visibly purseproud
wife, both free from the cares of the William household.
Hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair
nearest the sofa, Christy having left the inkstand there. He
Act 1 The Devil's Disciple 17
puts his hat on the fioor beside him, and produces the will.
Uncle William comes to the fire and stands on the hearth warm-
ing his coat tails, leaving Mrs William derelict near the door.
Uncle Titus, zvho is the ladfs man of the family, rescues her
by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing her to the sofa,
where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his
brother's. Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word
with Judith.
JUDITH. She will be here in a moment. Ask them to
wait, \_8he taps at the bedrootn door. Receiving an answer
from within, she opens it and passes through^.
ANDERSON {taking his place at the table at the opposite end
to Hawkijis'] Our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a
moment. Are we all here ?
CHRISTY \_at the house door, which he has just shut] All
except Dick.
The callousness with which Christy names the reprobate jars
on the moral sense of the family. Uncle William shakes his
head slowly and repeatedly. Mrs Titus catches her breath con-
vulsively through her nose. Her husband speaks.
UNCLE TITUS. Well, I hopc he will have the grace not
to come. I hope so.
The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who goes
to the window and posts himself there, looking out. Hawkins
smiles secretively as if he knew something that would change
their tune if they knew it. Anderson is uneasy : the love of
solemn family councils, especially funereal ones, is not in his
nature. Judith appears at the bedroom door.
JUDITH [with gentle impressiveness] Friends, Mrs Dudgeon.
[She takes the chair from beside the fireplace ; and places it
for Mrs Dudgeon, who comes from the bedroom in black, with
a clean handkerchief to her eyes. All rise, except Essie.
Mrs Titus and Mrs William produce equally clean handker-
chiefs and weep. It is an affectiiig moment].
UNCLE WILLIAM. Would it comfort you, sister, if we
were to offer up a prayer?
UNCLE TITUS. Or sing a hymn r
c
l8 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
ANDERSON [rather hastily'] I have been with our sister
this morning already, friends. In our hearts we ask a
blessing.
ALL [except Essie] Amen.
They all sit down^ except 'Judith, who stands behind Mr
Dudgeon's chair.
JUDITH [to Essie] Essie : did you say Amen ?
ESSIE [scaredly] No.
JUDITH. Then say it, like a good girl.
ESSIE. Amen.
UNCLE WILLIAM [encouragingly] Thats right : thats right.
We know who you are ; but we are willing to be kind to
you if you are a good girl and deserve it. We are all equal
before the Throne.
This republican sentiment does not please the women, who
are convinced that the Throne is precisely the place where their
superiority, often questioned in this world, will be recognized
and rewarded.
CHRISTY [at the window] Here's Dick.
Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie, with a
gleam of interest breaking through her misery, looks up. Christy
grins and gapes expectantly at the door. The rest are petrified
with the intensity of their sense of Virtue menaced with outrage
by the approach of flaunting Vice. The reprobate appears in the
doorway, graced beyond his alleged merits by the morning sun-
light. He is certainly the best looking member of the family;
but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner defiant
and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. Only, his fore-
head and mouth betray an extraordinary steadfastness ; and
his eyes are the eyes of a fanatic .
RICHARD [on the threshold, taking off his hat] Ladies and
gentlemen : your servant, your very humble servant. [With
this comprehensive insult, he throws his hat to Christy with a
suddenness that makes him jump like a negligent wicket keeper,
and comes into the middle of the room, where he turns and de-
liberately surveys the company]. How happy you all look !
how glad to see me ! [He turns towards Mrs Dudgeon's chair ;
Act I The Devil's Disciple 19
and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her
look of undisguised hatred\. Well, mother: keeping up
appearances as usual? thats right, thats right. [Judith
pointedly moves azvay from his neighborhood to the other side
of the kitchen, holding her skirt instinctively as if to save it
from contamination. Uncle Titus promptly marks his approval
of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing a chair for her
to sit down upon']. What! Uncle William ! I havnt seen
you since you gave up drinking. [Poor Uncle William,
shamed, would protest ; hut Richard claps him heartily on his
shoulder, adding] you have given it up, havnt you? [releas-
ing him with a playful push] of course you have : quite right
too: you overdid it. [He turns away from Uncle William
and makes for the sofa]. And now, where is that upright
horsedealer Uncle Titus? Uncle Titus : come forth. [He
comes upon him holding the chair as fudith sits down]. As
usual, looking after the ladies !
UNCLE TITUS [indignantly] Be ashamed of yourself, sir —
RICHARD [interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of
him] I am : I am ; but I am proud of my uncle — proud of
all my relatives — [again surveying them] who could look at
them and not be proud and joyful ? [Uncle Titus, overborne,
resumes his seat on the sofa. Richard turns to the table]. Ah,
Mr Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding
them. Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them
up to the mark. Come! [with a spring he seats hi?nself on
the table and takes up the decanter] clink a glass with me.
Pastor, for the sake of old times.
ANDERSON. You know, I think, Mr Dudgeon, that I do
not drink before dinner.
RICHARD. You will, some day. Pastor : Uncle William
used to drink before breakfast. Come : it will give your
sermons unction. [He smells the wine and fnakes a wry face].
But do not begin on my mother's company sherry. I stole
some when I was six years old ; and I have been a tem-
perate man ever since. [He puts the decanter down and
changes the subject]. So I hear you are married, Pastor,
20 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
and that your wife has a most ungodly allowance of good
looks.
ANDERSON \_quietly i?idicati?ig 'Judith'\ Sir : you are in the
presence of my wife. \^udith rises and stands with stony
propriety^
RICHARD \_quickiy slipping down from the table zvith instinc-
tive good ma?iners'\ Your servant, madam : no offence. [He
looks at her earnestly\ You deserve your reputation ; but I'm
sorry to see by your expression that youre a good woman.
[She looks shocked^ and sits down a?nid a mur/nur of indignant
sympathy from his relatives. Anderson, sensible enough to know
that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man
who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains perfectly
goodhum9red\ All the same, Pastor, I respect you more than
I did before. By the way, did I hear, or did I not, that
our late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was a
father ?
UNCLE TITUS. He had only one irregular child, sir.
RiCHAilD. Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle!
I blush for you, Uncle Titus.
ANDERSON. Mr Dudgeon : you are in the presence of
your mother and her grief.
RICHARD. It touches me profoundly. Pastor. By the
way, what has become of the irregular child?
ANDERSON [pointing to Essie] There, sir, listening to
you.
RICHARD [shocked into sincerity] What ! Why the devil
didnt you tell me that before? Children suffer enough in
this house without — [He hurries remorsefully to Essie].
Come, little cousin ! never mind me : it was not meant to
hurt you. [She looks up gratefully at him. Her tear stained
face affects him violeiitly ; and he hursts out, in a transport of
wrath] Who has been making her cry? Who has been ill-
treating her? By God —
MRS DUDGEON [rising and confronting him] Silence your
blasphemous tongue. I will bear no more of this. Leave
my house.
Act 1 The Devil's Disciple 2 1
RICHARD. How do you know it's your house until the
will is read? [They look at one another for a moment with
intense hatred; and then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair.
Ric/:ard goes boldly up past Anderson to the zvindozu, where he
takes the railed chair in his hand']. Ladies and gentlemen :
as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy
head of this household, I bid you welcome. By your leave.
Minister Anderson : by your leave, Lawyer Hawkins.
The head of the table for the head of the family. [He
places the chair at the table between the minister and the attor-
ney ; sits dozun between them; and addresses the assembly with
a presidential air\ We meet on a melancholy occasion : a
father dead! an uncle actually hanged, and probably
damned. \He shakes his head deploringly. The relatives freeze
with horror']. Thats right: pull your longest faces \_his
voice suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance lights on Essie]
provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child.
[Briskly] Now then. Lawyer Hawkins : business, business.
Get on with the will, man.
TITUS. Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr
Hawkins.
HAWKINS [very politely and willingly] Mr Dudgeon means
no offence, I feel sure. I will not keep you one second,
Mr Dudgeon. Just while I get my glasses — [he fumbles for
them. The Dudgeons look at one another with misgiviyig].
RICHARD. Aha ! They notice your civility, Mr Hawkins.
They are prepared for the worst. A glass of wine to clear
your voice before you begin. [He pours out one for him and
hands it; then pours one for himself].
HAWKINS. Thank you, Mr Dudgeon. Your good health,
sir.
RICHARD. Yours, sir. [With the glass half way to his lips,
he checks himself, giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds,
with quaint intensity] Will anyone oblige me with a glass of
water ?
Essie, who has been hanging on Ins every word and move-
ment, rises stealthily and slips out behind Mrs Dudgeon through
2 2 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
the bedroom door, returning presently with a jug and going out
of the house as quietly as possible.
HAWKINS. The will is not exactly in proper legal phrase-
ology.
RICHARD. No : my father died without the consolations
of the law.
HAWKINS. Good again, Mr Dudgeon, good again. {^Pre-
paring to read'\ Are you ready, sir?
RICHARD. Ready, aye ready. For what we are about
to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Go
ahead.
HAWKINS {reading"] " This is the last will and testament
of me Timothy Dudgeon on my deathbed at Nevinstown
on the road from Springtown to Websterbridge on this
twenty-fourth day of September, one thousand seven hun-
dred and seventy seven. I hereby revoke all former wills
made by me and declare that I am of sound mind and
know well what I am doing and that this is my real will
according to my own wish and affections. "
RICHARD [glancing at his mother'] Aha !
HAWKINS [shaking his head] Bad phraseology, sir, wrong
phraseology. " I give and bequeath a hundred pounds to
my younger son Christopher Dudgeon, fifty pounds to be
paid to him on the day of his marriage to Sarah Wilkins if
she will have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each
of his children up to the number of five."
RICHARD. How if she wont have him ?
CHRISTY. She will if I have fifty pounds.
RICHARD. Good, my brother. Proceed.
HAWKINS. " 1 give and bequeath to my wife Annie
Dudgeon, born Annie Primrose" — you see he did not
know the law, Mr Dudgeon : your mother was not born
Annie : she was christened so — " an annuity of fifty-two
pounds a year for life [Mrs Dudgeon, with all eyes on her,
holds herself convulsively rigid] to be paid out of the interest
on her own money " — there's a way to put it, Mr Dud-
geon ! Her own money !
Act I The Devil's Disciple 23
MRS DUDGEON. A vcry good way to put God's truth.
It was every penny my own. Fifty-two pounds a year !
HAWKINS. "And I recommend her for her goodness
and piety to the forgiving care of her children, having
stood between them and her as far as I could to the best
of my ability."
MRS DUDGEON. And this is my reward ! [Raging inzvardly'\
You know what I think, Mr Anderson : you know the
word I gave to it.
ANDERSON. It cannot be helped, Mrs Dudgeon. We
must take what comes to us. \_To Hawkins']. Go on,
sir.
HAWKINS. "I give and bequeath my house at Webster-
bridge with the land belonging to it and all the rest of
my property soever to my eldest son and heir, Richard
Dudgeon."
RICHARD. Oho ! The fatted calf, Minister, the fatted
calf.
HAWKINS. " On these conditions — "
RICHARD. The devil! Are there conditions.?
HAWKINS. "To wit : first, that he shall not let my brother
Peter's natural child starve or be driven by want to an
evil life."
RICHARD [emphatically, striking his fist on the tahle\ Agreed,
Mrs Dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at Essie, misses
her and looks quickly round to see where she has moved to ;
then, seeing that she has left the room without leave, closes her
lips vengefully.
HAWKINS. " Second, that he shall be a good friend to
my old horse Jim " — {again shaking his head] he should
have written James, sir.
RICHARD. James shall live in clover. Go on.
HAWKINS. — " and keep my deaf farm labourer Prodger
Feston in his service."
RICHARD. Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday.
HAWKINS. " Third, that he make Christy a present on
his marriage out of the ornaments in the best room."
24 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
RICHARD ^holding up the stuffed birds] Here you are,
Christy.
CHRISTY {disappointed] I'd rather have the china pea-
cocks.
RICHARD. You shall have both. {Christy is greatly
pleased]. Go on.
HAWKINS. " Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at
peace with his mother as far as she will consent to it."
RICHARD {dubiously] Hm ! Anything more, Mr Hawkins ?
HAWKINS {sole?nnly] " Finally I give and bequeath my
soul into my Maker's hands, humbly asking forgiveness for
all my sins and mistakes, and hoping that He will so guide
my son that it may not be said that I have done wrong in
trusting to him rather than to others in the perplexity of
my last hour in this strange place."
ANDERSON. AmCU.
THE UNCLES AND AUNTS. Amen.
RICHARD. My mother does not say Amen.
MRS. DUDGEON {rising^ unable to give up her property with-
out a struggle] Mr Hawkins : is that a proper will?
Remember, I have his rightful, legal will, drawn up by
yourself, leaving all to me.
HAWKINS. This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded
will, Mrs Dudgeon ; though {turning politely to Richard]
it contains in my judgment an excellent disposal of his
property.
ANDERSON {interposing before Mrs Dudgeon can retort]
That is not what you are asked, Mr Hawkins. Is it a
legal will?
HAWKINS. The courts will sustain it against the other.
ANDERSON. But why, if the other is more lawfully
worded?
HAWKINS. Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim
of a man — and that man the eldest son — against any
woman, if they can. I warned you, Mrs Dudgeon, when
you got me to draw that other will, that it was not a wise
will, and that though you might make him sign it, he
Act I The Devil's Disciple 25
would never be easy until he revoked it. But you wouldnt
take advice ; and now Mr Richard is cock of the walk.
[He takes his hat from the fioor ; rises ; and begins pocketing
Ins papers and spectacles'].
This is the signal for the breaking- up of the party.
Anderson takes his hat from the rack and joins Uncle I'Filliam
at the fire. Titus fetches Judith her things from the rack.
The three on the sofa rise and chat with Hawkins. Mrs
Dudgeon,, now an intruder in her own house, stands inert,,
crushed by the weight of the law on women, accepting it, as she
has been trained to accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs of
the greatness of the power that inflicts them, and of her own
wormlike insignificance. For at this time, remember, Mary
W oilstone craft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her Vin-
dication of the Rights of Women is still fourteen years off.
Mrs Dudgeon is rescued from her apathy by Essie, who comes
back with the jug full of water. She is taking it to Richard
when Mrs Dudgeon stops her.
MRS DUDGEON \th:reatening her] Where have you been ?
[Essie, appalled, tries to answer, but cannot]. How dare you
go out by yourself after the orders I gave you ?
ESSIE. He asked for a drink — [she stops, her tongue
cleaving to her palate with terror].
JUDITH [with gentler severity] Who asked for a drink?
[Essie, speechless, points to Richard],
RICHARD. What ! I !
JUDITH [shocked] Oh Essie, Essie !
RICHARD. I believe I did. [He takes a glass and holds it
to Essie to be filled. Her hand shakes]. What ! afraid of me ?
Y.'i,%\^ [quickly] No. I — [She pours out the water].
RICHARD [tasting it] Ah, youve been up the street to the
market gate spring to get that. [He takes a draught],
Delicious! Thank you. [U 7 fortunately, at this moment he
chances to catch sight of fu dittoes face, which expresses the
most prudish disapproval of his evident attraction for Essie,
who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. His mocking
expression returns instantly. He puts down the glass ; deliber-
26 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
citely winds his arm round Essie's shoulders ; and hririgs /:er
into the middle of the company. Mrs Dudgeon being in Essie'' s
way as they co?ne past the table ^ he says\ By your leave,
mother \and co?npeh her to make way for them'\. What do
they call you ? Bessie ?
ESSIE. Essie.
RICHARD. Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie ?
ESSIE [greatly disappointed that he, of all people, should begin
at her in this way'] Yes. [She looks doubtfully at Judith]. I
think so. I mean I — I hope so.
RICHARD. Essie : did you ever hear of a person called
the devil ?
ANDERSON [revolted] Shame on you, sir, with a mere
child —
RICHARD. By your leave. Minister : I do not interfere
with your sermons : do not you interrupt mine. [To Essie]
Do you know what they call me, Essie?
ESSIE. Dick.
RICHARD [ainused: patting her on the shoulder] Yes, Dick ;
but something else too. They call me the Devil's Dis-
ciple.
ESSIE. Why do you let them ?
RICHARD [seriously] Because it's true. I was brought up
in the other service ; but I knew from the first that the
Devil was my natural master and captain and friend. I
saw that he was in the right, and that the world cringed to
his conqueror only through fear. I prayed secretly to him ;
and he comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit
broken in this house of children's tears. I promised him
my soul, and swore an oath that I would stand up for him
in this world and stand by him in the next. [Solemnly]
That promise and that oath made a man of me. From this
day this house is his home ; and no child shall cry in it :
this hearth is his altar; and no soul shall ever cower over
it in the dark evenings and be afraid. Now [turning forcibly
on the rest] which of you good men will take this child and
rescue her from the house of the devil?
Act I The Devil's Disciple 27
JUDITH [coming to Essie and throwing a protecting arm about
her] I will. You should be burnt alive.
ESSIE. But I dont want to. [She shrinks back^ leaving
Richard and Judith face to face\
RICHARD [to Judith] Actually doesnt want to, most vir-
tuous lady !
UNCLE TITUS. Havc a care, Richard Dudgeon. The
law —
RICHARD [turning threateningly on him] Have a care, you.
In an hour from this there will be no law here but martial
law. I passed the soldiers within six miles on my way
here : before noon Major Swindon's gallows for rebels will
be up in the market place.
ANDERSON [calmlj] What have we to fear from that,
sir?
RICHARD. More than you think. He hanged the wrong
man at Springtown : he thought Uncle Peter was respect-
able, because the Dudgeons had a good name. But his
next example will be the best man in the town to whom
he can bring home a rebellious word. Well, we're all
rebels ; and you know it.
ALL THE MEN [except Anderson] No, no, no !
RICHARD. Yes, you are. You havnt damned King
George up hill and down dale as I have ; but youve prayed
for his defeat; and you, Anthony Anderson, have conducted
the service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of
pistols. They maynt hang me, perhaps ; because the moral
effect of the Devil's Disciple dancing on nothing wouldnt
help them. But a minister ! [Judith, dismayed, clings to
Anderson] or a lawyer ! [Hawkins smiles like a man able to
take care of himself] or an upright horsedealer ! [Uncle Titus
snarls at him in rage and terror] or a reformed drunkard !
[Uncle William, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear]
eh? Would that shew that King George meant business
— ha?
ANDERSON [perfectly self-possessed] Come, my dear : he is
only trying to frighten you. There is no danger. [He takes
28 Three Plays for Puritans Act 1
her out of the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow him,
except Essie, who remains near Richard\
RICHARD {boisterously derisive"] Now then : how many of
you will stay with me ; run up the American flag on the
devil's house ; and make a fight for freedom ? \_They scramble
out, Christy a?nong them, hmstling one another in their haste]
Ha ha ! Long live the devil! [21? Mrs Dudgeon, who is
following them] What, mother ! Are you off too ?
MRS DUDGEON \deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as if
she had received a deathblow] My curse on you ! My dying
curse ! \^Sl:e goes out].
RICHARD [calling after her] It will bring me luck. Ha
ha ha !
ESSIE {anxiously] Maynt I stay?
RICHARD {turning to her] What ! Have they forgotten to
save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies ?
Oh yes : you may stay. {He turns excitedly away again and
shakes his fist after the?n. His left fist, also clenched, hangs
down. Essie seizes it and kisses it, her tears falling on it. He
starts and looks at it]. Tears ! The devil's baptism ! {She
falls on her knees, sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to raise her,
saying] Oh yes, you may cry that way, Essie, if you like.
ACT II
Minister Anderson's house is in the 7nain street of Webster-
bridge^ not far from the town hall. To the eye of the eighteenth
century New Engiander, it is much grander than the plain
farmhouse of the Dudgeons ; but it is so plain itself that a
modern house agent would let both at about the same rent.
The chief dwelling room has the same sort of kitchen fireplace^
with boiler^ toaster hanging on the bars, movable iron griddle
socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad fender,
on which stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. The
door, between the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels,
fingerplates nor handles : it is made of plain boards, and fastens
with a latch. The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle
colored cover of American cloth, chapped at the corners by drap-
ing. The tea service on it consists of tzvo thick cups and saucers
of the plainest ware, with milk jug and bowl to match, each
large enough to contain nearly a quart, on a black japanned
tray, and, in the middle of the table, a wooden trencher with a
big loaf upon it, and a square half pound block of butter in a
crock. The big oak press facing the fire from the opposite side
of the room, is for use and storage, not for ornament; and the
minister's house coat hangs on a peg from its door, shewing that
he is out ; for when he is in, it is his best coat that hangs there.
His big riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their
usual place, and rather proud of themselves. In fact, the evo-
lution of the minister's kitchen, dining room and drawing room
into three separate apartments has not yet taken place ; and so.
30 Three Plays for Puritans Act ii
from the point of viezv of our pampered period^ he is no better
off than the Dudgeons.
But there is a difference^ for all that. To begin zuith, Mrs
Anderson is a pleas ant er person to live with than Mrs Dudgeon.
To which Mrs Dudgeon would at once reply ^ with reason, that
Mrs Anderson has no children to look after ; no poultry, pigs
nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not directly depende?it on
harvests and prices at fairs ; an affectionate husband who is a
tower of strength to her: in short, that life is as easy at the
minister's house as it is hard at the farm. This is true ; but to
explain a fact is not to alter it; and however little credit Mrs
Anderson may deserve for making her home happier, she has
certainly succeeded in doing it. The outward and visible signs
of her superior social pretensions are, a drugget on the floor, a
plaster ceiling between the timbers, and chairs which, though not
upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are repre-
sented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, a
copperplate of Raphael's St Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo
presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of
miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths,
and, at the corners, two large cowrie shells. A pretty feature
of the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole
width, with little red curtains running on a rod half way up
it to serve as a blind. There is no sofa; but one of the seats,
standing near the press, has a railed back and is long enough to
accommodate two people easily. On the whole, it is rather the
sort of room that the nineteerith century has ended in struggling
to get back to under the leadership of Mr Philip Webb and his
disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman
would have tolerated it flfty years ago.
The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for
the cosy flrelight and the di7n oil lamps seen through the window
in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, zuarm, windless
downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith
comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks,
and sets them on the table. Her self-conscious airs of the morn-
ing are gone : she is anxious ana frightened. She goes to the
Act II The Devil's Disciple 31
window and peers into the street. The first thing she sees there is
her husband^ hurrying home through the rain. She gives a little
gasp of relief ^ not very far removed from a sob, and turns to the
door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak.
JUDITH [running to him"] Oh, here you are at last, at last!
[She attempts to embrace him'].
ANDERSON [keeping her off] Take care, my love : I'm wet.
Wait till I get my cloak off. [He places a chair with its hack
to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from
his hat and puts it on the fender ; and at last turns with his hands
outstretched to Judith]. Now ! [She fiies into his arms]. I am
not late, am I? The town clock struck the quarter as I came
in at the front door. And the town clock is always fast.
JUDITH. I'm sure it's slow this evening. I'm so glad youre
back.
ANDERSON [taking her more closely in his arms] Anxious, my
dear ?
JUDITH. A little.
ANDERSON. Why, youve been crying.
JUDITH. Only a little. Never mind : it's all over now.
[A bugle call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror and
retreats to the long seat, listening.] Whats that ?
ANDERSON [following her tenderly to the seat and making her
sit down with him] Only King George, my dear. He's return-
ing to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting ready for
tea, or booting or saddling or something. Soldiers dont ring
the bell or call over the banisters when they want anything:
they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the whole town.
JUDITH. Do you think there is really any danger?
ANDERSON. Not the least in the world.
JUDITH. You say that to comfort me, not because you be-
lieve it.
ANDERSON. My dear : in this world there is always
danger for those who are afraid of it. There's a danger that
the house will catch fire in the night ; but we shant sleep
any the less soundly for that.
32 Three Plays for Puritans Act il
JUDITH. Yes, I know what you always say; and youre
quite right. Oh, quite right: I know it. But — I suppose
I'm not brave : thats all. My heart shrinks every time I
think of the soldiers.
ANDERSON. Never mind that, dear : bravery is none the
worse for costing a little pain.
JUDITH. Yes, I suppose so. \_En1braci71g him ^gain] Oh
how brave you are, my dear ! [fFith tears in her eyes] Well,
I'll be brave too : you shant be ashamed of your wife.
ANDERSON. Thats right. Now you make me happy. Well,
well ! [He rises and goes cheerily to tl:e fire to dry his shoes'].
I called on Richard Dudgeon on my way back ; but he
wasnt in.
JUDITH [rising in consternation] You called on that man !
ANDERSON [reassuring her] Oh, nothing happened, dearie.
He was out.
JUDITH [a/most in tears, as if the visit were a personal hu?nili-
ation to her] But why did you go there?
ANDERSON [gravely] Well, it is all the talk that Major
Swindon is going to do what he did in Springtown — make
an example of some notorious rebel, as he calls us. He
pounced on Peter Dudgeon as the worst character there ;
and it is the general belief that he will pounce on Richard
as the worst here.
JUDITH. But Richard said —
K-^V)Y.K%0'^[goodhumoredly cutting her short] Pooh! Richard
said ! He said what he thought would frighten you and frighten
me, my dear. He said what perhaps (God forgive him !) he
would like to believe. It's a terrible thing to think of what
death must mean for a man like that. I felt that I must
warn him. I left a message for him.
JUDITH [querulously] What message ?
ANDERSON. Only that I should be glad to see him for a
moment on a matter of importance to himself, and that if
he would look in here when he was passing he would be
welcome.
JUDITH [aghast] You asked that man to come here !
Act II The Devil's Disciple 33
ANDERSON. I did.
JUDITH [si?iki?ig 071 the seat and clasping her hands'] I hope
he wont come ! Oh, I pray that he may not come !
ANDERSON. Why? Dont you want him to be warned.?
JUDITH. He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it wrong
to hate a blasphemer and a villain.? I do hate him. I cant
get him out of my mind : I know he will bring harm with
him. He insulted you : he insulted me : he insulted his
mother.
ANDERSON \_quaintly] Well, dear, let's forgive him ; and
then it wont matter.
JUDITH. Oh, I know it's wrong to hate anybody ; but —
ANDERSON \gouig ovev to her with hunioTous tendemess] Come,
dear, youre not so wicked as you think. The worst sin to-
wards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be in-
different to them : thats the essence of inhumanity. After
all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, youll be sur-
prised to find how like hate is to love. \^She starts^ strangely
touched — even appalled. He is amused at her\ Yes: I'm quite
in earnest. Think of how some of our married friends worry
one another, tax one another, are jealous of one another,
cant bear to let one another out of sight for a day, are more
like jailers and slave-owners than lovers. Think of those
very same people with their enemies, scrupulous, lofty, self-
respecting, determined to be independent of one another,
careful of how they speak of one another — pooh ! havent
you often thought that if they only knew it, they were better
friends to their enemies than to their own husbands and
wives } Come : depend on it, my dear, you are really fonder
of Richard than you are of me, if you only knew it. Eh !
JUDITH. Oh, dont say that : dont say that, Tony, even
in jest. You dont know what a horrible feeling it gives
me.
ANDERSON [laughing] V^^ell, well : never mind, pet.
He's a bad man ; and you hate him as he deserves. And
youre going to make the tea, arnt you t
JUDITH [remorsefully] Oh yes, I forgot. Ive been
D
34 Three Plays for Puritans Act il
keeping you waiting all this time. [S/:e goes to the fire and
puts OTi the kettle].
ANDERSON \_going to the press and taking his coat off] Have
you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat?
JUDITH. Yes, dear. [She goes to the table, and sets about
putting the tea into the teapot frofn the caddy],
ANDERSON [as he chajiges his coat for the older one hanging
on the press, and replaces it by the one he has just taken off]
Did anyone call when I was out?
JUDITH. No, only — [Someone knocks at the door. With
a start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to
the further end of the table with the tea caddy and spoon in her
hands, exclaiming] Who's that ?
ANDERSON \going to her and patting her encouragingly on
the shoulder] AH right, pet, all right. He wont eat you,
whoever he is. [She tries to smile, and nearly makes herself
cry. He goes to the door and opens it. Richard is there, with-
out overcoat or cloak]. You might have raised the latch and
come in, Mr Dudgeon. Nobody stands on much ceremony
with us. [Hospitably] Come in. [Richard comes in carelessly
and stands at the table, looking round the room with a slight
pucker of his nose at the mezzotinted divine on the wall.
Judith keeps her eyes on the tea caddy]. Is it still raining?
[He shuts the door].
RICHARD. Raining like the very [his eye catches Judith's
as she looks quickly and haughtily up] — I beg your pardon ;
but [shewing that his coat is wet] you see — !
ANDERSON. Take it off, sir ; and let it hang before the
fire a while : my wife will excuse your shirtsleeves.
Judith : put in another spoonful of tea for Mr Dudgeon.
RICHARD [eyeing him cynically] The magic of property,
Pastor! Are even you civil to me now that I have suc-
ceeded to my father's estate ?
Judith throws down the spoon indignantly.
ANDERSON [quite unruffled, and helping Richard off with
his coat] I think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality,
you cannot have so bad an opinion of it. Sit down. [With
Act II The Devil's Disciple 35
the coat in his hand, he points to the railed seat. Richard, in his
shirtsleeves, looks at him half quarrelsomel;^ for a moment ; then,
with a nod, acknowledges that the minister has got the better of
him, and sits down on the seat. Anderson pushes his cloak into
a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and hangs Richard^ s
coat on the back in its place'].
RICHARD. I come, sir, on your own invitation. You left
word you had something important to tell me.
ANDERSON. I have a warning which it is my duty to give
you.
RICHARD [quickly rising] You want to preach to me.
Excuse me : I prefer a walk in the rain \_he makes for his
coat].
ANDERSON [stopping him] Dont be alarmed, sir : I am no
great preacher. You are quite safe. [Richard stniles in
spite of himself. His glance softens : he even makes a gesture
of excuse. Anderson, seeing that he has tamed him., now
addresses him earnestly]. Mr Dudgeon : you are in danger
in this town.
RICHARD. What danger?
ANDERSON. Your uuclc's danger. Major Swindon's
gallows.
RICHARD. It is you who are in danger. I warned you —
ANDERSON [interrupting him goodhumoredly but authorita-
tively] Yes, yes, Mr Dudgeon ; but they do not think so
in the town. And even if I were in danger, I have duties
here which I must not forsake. But you are a free man.
Why should you run any risk ?
RICHARD. Do you think I should be any great loss.
Minister?
ANDERSON. I think that a man's life is worth saving,
whoever it belongs to. [Richard makes him an ironical bow.
Anderson returns the bow humorously]. Come : youll have a
cup of tea, to prevent you catching cold ?
RICHARD. I observe that Mrs Anderson is not quite so
pressing as you are, Pastor.
JUDITH [almost stified with resentment, which she has been
36 Three Plays for Puritans Act 11
expecting her husband to share and express for her at every
insult of Richard^s'] You are welcome for my husband's
sake. [She brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on the
hob].
RICHARD. I know I am not welcome for my own,
madam. [He rises']. But I think I will not break bread
here, Minister.
ANDERSON [cheerily] Give me a good reason for that.
RICHARD. Because there is something in you that I
respect, and that makes me desire to have you for my
enemy.
ANDERSON. Thats well said. On those terms, sir, I will
accept your enmity or any man's. Judith : Mr Dudgeon
will stay to tea. Sit down : it will take a few minutes to
draw by the fire. [Richard glances at him with a troubled
face ; then sits down with his head bent, to hide a convulsive
swelling of his throat]. I was just saying to my wife,
Mr Dudgeon, that enmity — [iS" he grasps his hand and looks
imploringly at hi?n^ doing both with an intensity that checks
him at once]. Well, well, I mustnt tell you, I see ; but it
was nothing that need leave us worse friend — enemies, I
mean. Judith is a great enemy of yours.
RICHARD. If all my enemies were like Mrs Anderson, I
should be the best Christian in America.
ANDERSON [gratified, patting her hand] You hear that,
Judith.'' Mr Dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment.
The latch is lifted frofn without.
JUDITH [starting] Who is that?
Christy comes in.
CHRISTY [stoppi7ig and staring at Richard] Oh, are you
here ?
RICHARD. Yes. Begone, you fool : Mrs Anderson doesnt
want the whole family to tea at once.
CHRISTY [coming further in] Mother's very ill.
RICHARD. Well, does she want to see me?
CHRISTY. No.
RICHARD. I thought not.
Act II The Devil's Disciple 37
CHRISTY. She wants to see the minister — at once.
JUDITH [to Anderson] Oh, not before youve had some tea.
ANDERSON. I shall cnjoy it more when I come back,
dear. [He is about to take up his cloak].
CHRISTY. The rain's over.
ANDERSON [dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from
the fender] Where is your mother, Christy?
CHRISTY. At Uncle Titus's.
ANDERSON. Have you fetched the doctor?
CHRISTY. No: she didnt tell me to.
ANDERSON. Go on thcrc at once : I'll overtake you on
his doorstep. [Christy turns to go]. Wait a moment. Your
brother must be anxious to know the particulars.
RICHARD. Psha ! not I: he doesnt know^ ; and I dont
care. [Violently] Be off, you oaf. [Christy runs out. Richard
adds, a little shamefacedly] We shall know soon enough.
ANDERSON. Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the
news myself. Judith : will you give Mr Dudgeon his tea,
and keep him here until I return.
JUDITH [white and trembling] Must I —
ANDERSON [taking her hands and interrupti?ig her to cover
her agitation] My dear : I can depend on you ?
JUDITH [with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust] Yes.
ANDERSON [pressing her hand against his cheek] You will
not mind two old people like us, Mr Dudgeon. [Going]
I shall not say good evening : you will be here when I
come back. [He goes out].
They watch him pass the window, and then look at each other
du^rbly, quite disconcerted. Richard, noting the quiver of her
lips, is the first to pull himself together.
RICHARD. Mrs Anderson : I am perfectly aware of the
nature of your sentiments towards me. I shall not intrude
on you. Good evening. [Again he starts for the fireplace to
get his coat].
JUDITH [getting between him and the coat] No, no. Dont
go : please dont go.
RICHARD [roughly] Why? You dont want me here.
38 Three Plays for Puritans Act il
JUDITH. Yes, I — \^Wringi?ig her hands in despair\ Oh,
if I tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me.
RICHARD \indignantly'\ Torment ! What right have you
to say that? Do you expect me to stay after that ?
JUDITH. I want you to stay ; but {suddenly raging at him
like an angry child^ it is not because I like you.
RICHARD. Indeed !
JUDITH. Yes : I had rather you did go than mistake me
about that. I hate and dread you ; and my husband knows
it. If you are not here when he comes back, he will believe
that I disobeyed him and drove you away.
RICHARD [ironicallyl Whereas, of course, you have really
been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that I
only want to go away out of mere contrariness, eh ?
Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into
tears,
RICHARD. Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Dont do that.
{Putting his hand to his breast as if to a zvound] He wrung
my heart by being a man. Need you tear it by being a
woman.? Has he not raised you above my insults, like
himself? {She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat,
looking at him with a scared curiosity"]. There : thats right.
{Sympathetically'] Youre better now, arnt you? {He puts his
hand encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises haughtily,
and stares at h:i?n defiantly. He at once drops into his usual
sardonic tone]. Ah, thats better. You are yourself again :
so is Richard. Well, shall we go to tea like a quiet re-
spectable couple, and wait for your husband's return ?
JUDITH {rather ashamed of h:erself] If you please. I — I
am sorry to have been so foolish. {She stoops to take up the
plate of toast from the fender].
RICHARD. I am sorry, for your sake, that I am — what
I am. Allow me. {He takes the plate from her and goes with
it to the table].
JUDITH {following with the teapot] Will you sit down?
{He sits down at the end of the table nearest the press. There
is a plate and knife laid there. The otl:er plate is laid near it;
Act II The Devil's Disciple 39
but Judith stays at the opposite end of the table, next the fire,
and takes her place there, drawing the tray towards her]. Do
you take sugar?
RICHARD. No ; but plenty of milk. Let me give you
some toast. [He puts some on the second plate, and hands it to
her, with the knife. The action shews quietly how well he knows
that she has avoided her usual place so as to be as far from him
as possible].
JUDITH {consciously] Thanks, [She gives him his tea].
Wont you help yourself?
RICHARD. Thanks. \He puts a piece of toast on his own
plate; and she pours out tea for herself],
JUDITH [observing that he tastes nothing] Dont you like
it? You are not eating anything.
RICHARD. Neither are you.
JUDITH [nervously] I never care much for my tea.
Please dont mind me.
RICHARD [looking dreamily round] I am thinking. It is all
so strange to me. I can see the beauty and peace of this
home : I think I have never been more at rest in my life
than at this moment ; and yet I know quite well I could
never live here. It's not in my nature, I suppose, to be
domesticated. But it's very beautiful : it's almost holy.
[He muses a moment, and then laughs softly],
JUDITH [quickly] Why do you laugh ?
RICHARD. I was thinking that if any stranger came in
here now, he would take us for man and wife.
JUDITH [taking offence] You mean, I suppose, that you
are more my age than he is.
RICHARD [staring at this unexpected turn] I never thought
of such a thing. [Sardonic again], I see there is another
side to domestic joy.
JUDITH [angrily] I would rather have a husband whom
everybody respects than — than —
RICHARD. Than the devil's disciple. You are right ;
but I daresay your love helps him to be a good man, just
as your hate helps me to be a bad one.
40 Three Plays for Puritans Act il
JUDITH. My husband has been very good to you. He
has forgiven you for insulting him, and is trying to save
you. Can you not forgive him for being so much better
than you are? How dare you belittle him by putting
yourself in his place?
RICHARD. Did I ?
JUDITH. Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came
in they would take us for man and — \^S':e stops^ terror-
stricken , as a squad of soldiers tramps past the windozu\. The
English soldiers ! Oh, what do they —
RICHARD \listening\ Sh !
A VOICE \outside'\ Halt ! Four outside : two in with me.
'Judith half rises ^ listening and holing with dilated eyes at
Richard^ who takes up h:is cup prosaically, and is drinking his
tea when the latch goes up with a sharp click, and an English
sergeant walks into the room with two privates, who post them-
selves at the door. He comes promptly to the table between
them.
THE SERGEANT. Sorry to disturb you, mum. Duty 1
Anthony Anderson : I arrest you in King George's name
as a rebel.
JUDITH \j)ointi?ig at Richard^ But that is not — \He looks
up quickly at her, zvith a face of iron. She stops her jnouth
hastily with the hand she has raised to indicate him, and stands
staring ajfrightedly\
THE SERGEANT. Come, parson : put your coat on and
come along.
RICHARD. Yes : I'll come. \^He rises and takes a step
towards his own coat ; then recollects himself, and, with his back
to the sergeant, moves his gaze slowly round the room without
turning his head until he sees Anderson's black coat hanging up
on the press. He goes composedly to it; takes it down; and
puts it on. The idea of hitnself as a parson tickles him: he
looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then smiles slyly
at Judith, whose white face shezus him that what she is painfully
struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its
horror. He turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with
Act II The Devil's Disciple 41
a fair of handcuffs hidden behind him^ and says lightly]^ Did
you ever arrest a man of my cloth before, Sergeant ?
THE SERGEANT \instinctively respectful^ half to the black
coat, half to Richard's good breeding'] Well, no sir. At least,
only an army chaplain. \_S hewing the handcuffs']. I'm sorry
sir ; but duty —
RICHARD. Just so, Sergeant. Well, I'm not ashamed of
them : thank you kindly for the apology. [He holds out his
hands],
SERGEANT [tiot availing hifnselfofthe offer] One gentleman
to another, sir. Wouldnt you like to say a word to your
missis, sir, before you go ?
RICHARD [smiling] Oh, we shall meet again before —
eh? [meaning '■'-before you hang me^'].
SERGEANT [loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness] Oh, of
course, of course. No call for the lady to distress herself.
Still — [in a lower voice, intended for Richard alone] your
last chance, sir.
They look at one another significantly for a moment. Then
Richard exhales a deep breath and turns towards Judith.
RICHARD [very distinctly] My love. [She looks at him,
pitiably pale, and tries to anszuer, but cannot — tries also to
come to him, but cannot trust herself to stand without the sup-
port of the table]. This gallant gentleman is good enough
to allow us a moment of leavetaking. [The sergeant retires
delicately and joins his men near the door]. He is trying to
spare you the truth ; but you had better know it. Are you
listening to me? [She signifies assent]. Do you understand
that I am going to my death ? [She signifies that she under-
stands]. Remember, you must find our friend who was
with us just now. Do you understand? [She signifies yes].
See that you get him safely out of harm's way. Dont for
your life let him know of my danger; but if he finds it
out, tell him that he cannot save me : they would hang
him ; and they would not spare me. And tell him that I
am steadfast in my religion as he is in his, and that he may
depend on me to the death. [He turns to go, and meets tie
42 Three Plays for Puritans Act ii
ey of the sergeant^ who looks a little suspicious. He considers
a moment^ and then, turning rcguish^ly to Judith with something
of a smile breaking through his earnestness^ /^yjj] And now,
my dear, I am afraid the sergeant will not believe that you
love me like a wife unless you give one kiss before I go.
He approaches her and holds out his arms. She quits the
table and abnost falls into the?n.
JUDITH \the words choking her"] I ought to — it's murder —
RICHARD. No : only a kiss \_softly to her] for his sake.
JUDITH. I cant. You must —
RICHARD [folding her in his arms with an impulse of com-
passion for her distress] My poor girl !
Judith^ with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him;
kisses him ; and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the
ground as if the kiss had killed her.
RICHARD [going quickly to the sergeant] Now, Sergeant :
quick, before she comes to. The handcuffs. [He puts out
his hands].
SERGEANT [pocketing the?n] Never mind, sir : I'll trust
you. Youre a game one. You ought to a bin a soldier,
sir. Between them two, please. [The soldiers place them-
selves one before Richard and one behind him. The sergeant
opens the door].
RICHARD [taking a last look round him] Goodbye, wife :
goodbye, home. Muffle the drums, and quick march !
The sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. They
fie out quickly. *************^*
* When Anderson returns from Mrs Dudgeon's, he is aston-
ished to find the room apparently empty and almost in darkness
except for the glozv from the fire; for one of the candles has
burnt out, and the other is at its last fiicker.
ANDERSON. Why, what on earth — ? [Calli?ig] Judith,
Judith! [He listens: there is no answer]. Hm ! [He goes
to the cupboard; takes a canale from the drazver ; lights it at
the fiicker of the expiring one on the table ; and looks wonder-
ingly at the untasted ?neal by its light. Then he sticks it in
tbe candlestick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, tnuch
Act II The Devil's Disciple 43
puzzled. This action causes him to look at the floor for the
first time; and there he sees Judith lying motionless with her
eyes closed. He runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her
head]. Judith.
JUDITH [waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of
exhaustion after sufj'ering] Yes. Did you call ? Whats the
matter ?
ANDERSON. Ivc just coiTie in and found you lying here
with the candles burnt out and the tea poured out and
cold. What has happened ?
JUDITH \_sttll astray\ I dont know. Have I been asleep.?
I suppose — \_She stops blankly]. I dont know.
ANDERSON [groaning] Heaven forgive me, I left you alone
with that scoundrel. [Judith re?ne?nbers. With an agonized
cry, she clutches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as he
rises with her. He clasps her tenderly in his arms]. My poor
pet!
JUDITH [frantically clinging to him] What shall I do ? Oh
my God, what shall I do?
ANDERSON. Ncver mind, never mind, my dearest dear :
it was my fault. Come : youre safe now ; and youre not
hurt, are you ? [He takes his arms from her to see whether
she can stand]. There : thats right, thats right. If only you
are not hurt, nothing else matters.
JUDITH. No, no, no : I'm not hurt.
ANDERSON. Thank Heaven for that ! Come now : [lead-
ing her to the railed seat and making her sit down beside him]
sit down and rest : you can tell me about it to-morrow.
Or [misunderstanding her distress] you shall not tell me at
all if it worries you. There, there ! [Cheerfully] I'll make
you some fresh tea : that will set you up again. [He goes
to the table, and empties the teapot into the slop bozvl].
JUDITH [in a strained tone] Tony.
ANDERSON. Ycs, dear ?
JUDITH. Do you think we are only in a dream now:
ANDERSON [glancing round at her for a mo?ne?it with a pang
of anxiety, though he goes on steadily and cheerfully putting
44 Three Plays for Puritans Act ll
fresh tea into the pot'] Perhaps so, pet. But you may as well
dream a cup of tea when youre about it.
JUDITH. Oh stop, stop. You dont know — [Distracted,
she buries Ler face in her knotted hands],
ANDERSON [breaking down and coming to her] My dear,
what is it? I cant bear it any longer : you must tell me.
It was all my fault : I was mad to trust him.
JUDITH. No: dont say that. You mustnt say that. He
— oh no, no: I cant. Tony: dont speak to me. Take
my hands — both my hands. [He takes them,, wondering].
Make me think of you, not of him. There's danger, fright-
ful danger ; but it is your danger ; and I cant keep thinking
of it : I cant, I cant : my mind goes back to his danger. He
must be saved — no: you must be saved: you, you, you.
[Sl:e springs up as if to do so?nething or go somezuhere, exclaim-
ing] Oh, Heaven help me !
ANDERSON [keeping his seat and holding her hands with
resolute co??iposure] Calmly, calmly, my pet. Youre quite
distracted.
JUDITH. I may well be. I dont know what to do. I
dont know what to do. [Tearing her hands azvay]. I must
save him. [Anderson rises in alarm as she runs wildly to the
door. It is opened in her face by Essie, who hurries in full of
anxiety. The surprise is so disagreeable to Judith that it
brings her to her senses. Her tone is sharp and a?igry as s/?e
demands] What do you want ?
ESSIE. I was to come to you.
ANDERSON. Who told you to?
ESSIE [staring at him, as if his presence asto?ns/:ed her] Are
you here?
JUDITH. Of course. Dont be foolish, child.
ANDERSON. Gently, dearest : youll frighten her. [Going
between them]. Come here, Essie. [She comes to him].
Who sent you ?
ESSIE. Dick. He sent me word by a soldier. I was to
come here at once and do whatever Mrs Anderson told me.
ANDERSON [enlightened] A soldier ! Ah, I see it all now !
Act II The Devil's Disciple 45
They have arrested Richard, \jfudith makes a gesture of
despair],
ESSIE. No. I asked the soldier. Dick's safe. But the
soldier said you had been taken.
ANDERSON. I! \_Bezvildered^ he turns to "Judith for an
explanation].
JUDITH [^coaxingly] All right, dear : I understand. [To
Essie] Thank you, Essie, for coming ; but I dont need
you now. You may go home.
ESSIE [suspicious] Are you sure Dick has not been touched }
Perhaps he told the soldier to say it was the minister.
\Jnxiously] Mrs Anderson : do you think it can have been
that ?
ANDERSON. Tell her the truth if it is so, Judith. She
will learn it from the first neighbor she meets in the
street. [Judith turns away and covers her eyes with her
hands],
ESSIE [wailing] But what will they do to him ? Oh,
what will they do to him ? Will they hang him ? [Judith
shudders convulsively^ and throws herself into the chair in which
Richard sat at the tea table],
ANDERSON [patting Essie'' s shoulder and tryi?ig to comfort
her] I hope not. I hope not. Perhaps if youre very quiet
and patient, we may be able to help him in some way.
ESSIE. Yes — help him — yes, yes, yes. I'll be good.
ANDERSON. I must go to him at once, Judith.
JUDITH [springing up] Oh no. You must go away — far
away, to some place of safety.
ANDERSON. Pooh !
JUDITH [passionately] Do you want to kill me ? Do you
think I can bear to live for days and days with every knock
at the door — every footstep — giving me a spasm of terror ?
to lie awake for nights and nights in an agony of dread,
listening for them to come and arrest you ?
ANDERSON. Do you think it would be better to know
that I had run away from my post at the first sign of
danger ?
46 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
JUDITH \_bitterly'] Oh, you wont go. I know it. Youll
stay; and I shall go mad.
ANDERSON. My dear, your duty —
JUDITH [fiercelyl What do I care about my duty:
ANDERSON [shocked^ Judith !
JUDITH. I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty.
My duty is to get you away, to save you, to leave him to
his fate [Essie utters a cry of distress and sinks on the chair
at the fire, sobbing silent ly\ My instinct is the same as hers
— to save him above all things, though it would be so
much better for him to die ! so much greater ! But I know
you will take your own way as he took it. I have no
power. [She sits down sulle?ily on the railed seat] I'm only
a woman : I can do nothing but sit here and suffer. Only,
tell him I tried to save you — that I did my best to save you.
ANDERSON. My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking
more of his own danger than of mine.
JUDITH. Stop ; or I shall hate you.
ANDERSON [remonstrating] Come, come, come ! How
am I to leave you if you talk like this.!* You are quite out
of your senses. [He turns to Essie] Essie.
ESSIE [eagerly rising and drying her eyes] Yes ?
ANDERSON. Just Wait outsidc a moment, like a good girl :
Mrs Anderson is not well. [Essie looks doubtful]. Never
fear: I'll come to you presently; and I'll go to Dick.
Essie. You are sure you will go to him ? [Whispering],
You wont let her prevent you?
ANDERSON [smiUng] No, no : it's all right. All right.
[She goes], Thats a good girl. [He closes the door, and re-
turns to Judith],
JUDITH [seated — rigid] You are going to your death.
ANDERSON [quaintly] Then I shall go in my best coat,
dear. [He turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat].
Where — ? [He stares at the e?npty nail for a moment; then
looks quickly round to the fire; strides across to it; and lifts
Richard'' s coat]. Why, my dear, it seems that he has gone
in my best coat.
Act II The Devil's Disciple 47
JUDITH [still motionless'] Yes.
ANDERSON. Did the soldiers make a mistake?
JUDITH. Yes : they made a mistake.
ANDERSON. He might have told them. Poor fellow, he
was too upset, I suppose.
JUDITH. Yes : he might have told them. So might I.
ANDERSON. Well, it's all very puzzling — almost funny.
It's curious how these little things strike us even in the
most — [He breaks off and begins putting on Richard's coat].
I'd better take him his own coat. I know what he'll say —
[imitating Richard's sardonic manner] "Anxious about my
soul, Pastor, and also about your best coat." Eh?
JUDITH. Yes, that is just what he will say to you.
[Vacantly] It doesnt matter : I shall never see either of
you again.
ANDERSON [rallying her] Oh pooh, pooh, pooh ! [He sits
down beside her]. Is this how you keep your promise that
I shant be ashamed of my brave wife ?
JUDITH. No : this is how I break it. I cannot keep my
promises to him : why should I keep my promises to you?
ANDERSON. Dout speak so strangely, my love. It sounds
insincere to me. [She looks unutterable reproach at him]. Yes,
dear, nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is talking
nonsense. Just nonsense. [Her face darkens into dumb ob-
stinacy. She stares straight before her, and does not look at him
again, absorbed in Richard'' s fate. He scans her face; sees that
his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up, making no
further effort to conceal his anxiety]. I wish I knew what has
frightened you so. Was there a struggle? Did he fight r
JUDITH. No. He smiled.
ANDERSON. Did he realise his danger, do you think ?
JUDITH. He realised yours.
ANDERSON. Mine !
JUDITH [monotonously] He said "See that you get him
safely out of harm's way." I promised : I cant keep my
promise. He said, " Dont for your life let him know of
my danger." Ive told you of it. He said that if you found
48 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
it out, you could not save him — that they will hang him
and not spare you.
ANDEP.soN \risi?ig in generous indignation'] And you think
that I will let a man with that much good in him die like
a dog, when a few words might make him die like a Chris-
tian. I'm ashamed of you, Judith,
JUDITH. He will be steadfast in his religion as you are
in yours ; and you may depend on him to the death. He
said so.
ANDERSON. God forglvc him! What else did he say?
JUDITH. He said goodbye.
ANDERSON \fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern]
Poor fellow, poor fellow ! You said goodbye to him in all
kindness and charity, Judith, I hope.
JUDITH. I kissed him.
ANDERSON. What! Judith!
JUDITH. Are you angry?
ANDERSON. No, no. You Were right : you were right.
Poor fellow, poor fellow ! [Greatly distressed] To be
hanged like that at his age ! And then did they take him
away ?
JUDITH \wearilj] Then you were here : thats the next
thing I remember. I suppose I fainted. Now bid me
goodbye, Tony. Perhaps I shall faint again. I wish I
could die.
ANDERSON. No, no, my dear : you must pull yourself
together and be sensible. I am in no danger — not the
least in the world.
JUDITH \solemnlf] You are going to your death, Tony —
your sure death, if God will let innocent men be mur-
dered. They will not let you see him : they will arrest
you the moment you give your name. It was for you the
soldiers came.
ANDERSON [tkunderstruck] For me ! ! ! [His fists clinch ;
his neck thickens; his face reddens; the fie shy purses under his
eyes become injected with hot blood; the man of peace vanishes,
transfigured into a choleric and formidable man of war. Stilly
Act ll The Devil's Disciple 49
she does not come out of her absorption to look at him: her eyes
are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of Richard'' s stead-
fastness].
JUDITH. He took your place : he is dying to save you.
That is why he went in your coat. That is why I kissed
him.
ANDERSON [cxploding] Blood an' owns ! \^His voice is rough
and dominant, his gesture full of brute energy]. Here ! Essie,
Essie !
ESSIE [running in] Yes.
ANDERSON \impetuously] OiF with you as hard as you can
run, to the inn. Tell them to saddle the fastest and strong-
est horse they have [Judith rises breathless, and stares at hi?n
incredulously] — the chestnut mare, if she's fresh — without
a moment's delay. Go into the stable yard and tell the
black man there that I'll give him a silver dollar if the
horse is waiting for me when I come, and that I am close
on your heels. Away with you. [His energy sends Essie
flying from the room. He pounces on his riding boots; rushes
with them to the chair at the fire; and begins pulling them on].
JUDITH [unable to believe such a thing of him] You are
not going to him!
" ANDERSON [busy with the boots] Going to him ! What
good would that do? [Growling to himself as he gets the first
boot on with a wrench] I'll go to them, so I will. [To Judith
peremptorily] Get me the pistols : I want them. And
money, money: I want money — all the money in the
house. [He stoops over the other boot, grumbling] A great
satisfaction it would be to him to have my company on
the gallows. [He pulls on the boot].
JUDITH. You are deserting him, then?
ANDERSON. Hold your tongue, woman ; and get me the
pistols. [She goes to the press and takes from it a leather belt
with two pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of bullets attached
to it. She throws it on the table. Then she unlocks a drawer
in the press and takes out a purse. Anderson grabs the belt and
buckles it on, saying] If they took him for me in my coat,
E
jo Three Plays for Puritans Act ll
perhaps theyll take me for him in his. \Hitching the belt
into its place\ Do I look like him ?
JUDITH {turning with the purse in her hand'\ Horribly un-
like him.
ANDERSON [snatching t/:e purse frofn her and emptying it on
the table] Hm ! We shall see.
JUDITH {sitting down helplessly] Is it of any use to pray,
do you think, Tony?
ANDERSON \counting the money] Pray ! Can we pray
Swindon's rope off Richard's neck?
JUDITH. God may soften Major Swindon's heart.
ANDERSON \contemptuously — pocketing a handful of money]
Let him, then. I am not God; and I must go to work
another way. [Judith gasps at the blasphemy. He throws the
purse on the table]. Keep that. Ive taken 25 dollars.
JUDITH. Have you forgotten even that you are a minister ?
ANDERSON. Minister be — faugh ! My hat : wheres my
hat? {He snatches up hat and cloak, and puts both on in hot
haste]. Now listen, you. If you can get a word with
him by pretending youre his wife, tell him to hold his
tongue until morning : that will give me all the start I
need.
JUDITH [solemnly] You may depend on him to the
death.
ANDERSON. Yourc a fool, a fool, Judith. [For a ?noment
checking the torrent of his haste, and speaking with something
of his old quiet and i?npressive conviction] You dont know the
man youre married to. [Essie returns. He swoops at her at
once]. Well : is the horse ready ?
ESSIE [breathless] It will be ready when you come.
ANDERSON. Good. [He makes for the door].
JUDITH [rising and stretching out her arms after him invol-
untarily] Wont you say goodbye ?
ANDERSON. And wastc another half minute ! Psha ! [He
rushes out like an avalanche],
ESSIE [hurrying to Judith] He has gone to save Richard,
hasnt he ?
Act II The Devil's Disciple 51
JUDITH. To save Richard ! No : Richard has saved him.
He has gone to save himself. Richard must die.
Essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding her
face. Judith, without heeding her, locks rigidly straight in
front of her, at the vision of Richard, dyitig.
ACT in
Early next mornirig the sergea?it, at the British headquarters
in the Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled
waitiTig room, and invites Judith to enter. She has had a bad
night, probably a rather delirious one ; for even in the reality
of the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes bach, at mo?nents
when her attention is not strongly held.
The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and
is sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fi?ie
figure of a man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels
specially qualified, in a respectful way, to console her.
SERGEANT. You Can havc a quiet word with him here,
mum.
JUDITH. Shall I have long to wait?
SERGEANT. No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in
the Bridewell for the night; and he's just been brought
over here for the court martial. Dont fret, mum : he slep
like a child, and has made a rare good breakfast.
JUDITH [incredulously'] He is in good spirits !
SERGEANT. Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to
see him last night ; and he won seventeen shillings ofF
him at spoil five. He spent it among us like the gentle-
man he is. Duty's duty, mum, of course ; but youre among
friends here. [The tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard
approaching]. There : I think he's coming. [Richard comes
in^ without a sign of care or captivity in his bearing. The"
Act III The Devil's Disciple 53
sergeant nods to the two soldiers, and shews them the key of
the room in his hand. T/:ey withdraw']. Your good lady, sir.
RICHARD [going to her] What ! My wife. My adored
one. \_He takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish
gallantry]. How long do you allow a brokenhearted hus-
band for leave-taking. Sergeant?
SERGEANT. As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb
you till the court sits.
RICHARD. But it has struck the hour.
SERGEANT. So it has, sir ; but there's a delay. General
Burgoyne's just arrived — Gentlemanly Johnny we call
him, sir — and he wont have done finding fault with every-
thing this side of half past. I know him, sir : I served
with him in Portugal. You may count on twenty minutes,
sir ; and by your leave I wont waste any more of them.
[He goes out, locking the door. Richard im?nediately drops his
raffish manner and turns to Judith zvith considerate sincerity].
RICHARD. Mrs Anderson : this visit is very kind of you.
And how are you after last night? I had to leave you
before you recovered; but I sent word to Essie to go and
look after you. Did she understand the message ?
JUDITH [breathless and urgejit] Oh, dont think of me :
I havnt come here to talk about myself. Are they going
to — to — [meaning " to hang you "] ?
RICHARD [whitn sic ally] At noon, punctually. At least,
that was when they disposed of Uncle Peter. [8 he shudders].
Is your husband safe ? Is he on the wing?
JUDITH. He is no longer my husband.
RICHARD [opening his eyes wide] Eh?
JUDITH. I disobeyed you. I told him ev^erything. I ex-
pected him to come here and save you. I wanted him to
come here and save you. He ran away instead.
RICHARD. Well, thats what I meant him to do. What
good would his staying have done ? Theyd only have hanged
us both.
JUDITH [with reproachful earnestness] Richard Dudgeon :
on your honour, what would you have done in his place ?
54 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
' RICHARD. Exactly what he has done, of course.
JUDITH. Oh, why will you not be simple with me —
honest and straightforward? If you are so selfish as that,
why did you let them take you last night?
RICHARD [gai/y] Upon my life, Mrs Anderson, I dont
know. Ive been asking myself that question ever since ; and
I can find no manner of reason for acting as I did.
JUDITH. You know you did it for his sake, believing he
was a more worthy man than yourself.
RICHARD [/aug/:ing] Oho ! No: thats a very pretty reason,
I must say; but I'm not so modest as that. No: it wasnt
for his sake.
JUDITH [after a pause, during which sh:e looks shamefacedly at
him, blushing painfullf\ Was it for my sake ?
RICHARD [gallantlf\ Well, you had a hand in it. It must
have been a little for your sake. You let them take me, at
all events.
JUDITH. Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself
that all night ? Your death will be at my door. [Impulsively,
she gives him her hand, and adds, with intense earnestness\ If I
could save you as you saved him, I would do it, no matter
how cruel the death was.
RICHARD \_holdi?!g her hand and s?niling, but keeping her al-
fnost at arms length'] I am very sure I shouldnt let you.-
JUDITH. Dont you see that I can save you?
RICHARD. How? By changing clothes with me, eh?
JUDITH [disengaging her hand to touch his lips with zV] Dont
[?neaning " Dont Jest^^]. No : by telling the Court who you
really are.
RICHARD [frowning] No use : they wouldnt spare me ;
and it would spoil half his chance of escaping. They are
determined to cow us by making an example of somebody
on that gallows to-day. Well, let us cow them by showing
that we can stand by one another to the death. That is the
only force that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic
and make America a nation.
JUDITH [impatie7itly] Oh, what does all that matter?
Act III The Devil's Disciple 55
KiCH AKD [/aug^ing] True: what does it matter? what
does anything matter? You see, men have these strange
notions, Mrs Anderson ; and women see the folly of
them.
JUDITH. Women have to lose those they love through
them.
RICHARD. They can easily get fresh lovers.
JUDITH [revo/ud] Oh ! [l^eliemently'] Do you realise that
you are going to kill yourself?
RICHARD. The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs
Anderson. Dont be concerned : no woman will lose her
lover through my death. \_S7niling'] Bless you, nobody cares
for me. Have you heard that my mother is dead?
JUDITH. Dead !
RICHARD. Of heart disease — in the night. Her last word
to me was her curse : I dont think I could have borne her
blessing. My other relatives will not grieve much on my
account. Essie will cry for a day or two ; but I have provided
for her: I made my own will last night.
JUDITH [stonily, after a moments silence\ And I !
RICHARD \surprised^^ You ?
JUDITH. Yes, I. Am I not to care at all?
RICHARD {gaily a?id bluntly'\ Not a scrap. Oh, you ex-
pressed your feelings towards me very frankly yesterday.
What happened may have softened you for the moment;
but believe me, Mrs Anderson, you dont like a bone in my
skin or a hair on my head. I shall be as good a riddance
at 12 to-day as I should have been at 12 yesterday.
JUDITH \J:er voice tremblingi What can I do to shew you
that you are mistaken.
RICHARD. Dont trouble. I'll give you credit for liking me
a little better than you did. All I say is that my death will
not break your heart.
JUDITH \almo5t in a whisper'] How do you know? [Sh
puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him].
RICHARD [amazed — divining the truth] Mrs Anderson!
[The bell of the town clock strikes the quarter. He collects him-
56 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
self^ and removes her hands, saving rather coldly'] Excuse me:
they will be here for me presently. It is too late.
JUDITH. It is not too late. Call me as witness : they will
never kill you when they know how heroically you have
acted.
RICHARD [with some scorn] Indeed ! But if I dont go
through with it, where will the heroism be ? I shall simply
have tricked them ; and theyll hang me for that like a dog.
Serve me right too !
JUDITH [wildly] Oh, I believe you want to die.
RICHARD [obstinately] No I dont.
JUDITH. Then why not try to save yourself? I implore
you — listen. You said just now that you saved him for
my sake — yes [clutching him as he recoils zvith a gesture of
denial] a little for my sake. Well, save yourself for my sake.
And I will go with you to the end of the world,
RICHARD [taki?2g her by the wrists and holding her a little
way from him, looking steadily at her] Judith.
JUDITH [breathless — delighted at the na?ne] Yes.
RICHARD. \i I said — to please you — that I did what I
did ever so little for your sake, I lied as men always lie to
women. You know how much I have lived with worthless
men — aye, and worthless women too. Well, they could all
rise to some sort of goodness and kindness when they were
in love [the word love comes fro?n him with true Puritan scorn].
That has taught me to set very little store by the goodness
that only comes out red hot. What I did last night, I did in
cold blood, caring not half so much for your husband, or [ruth-
lessly] for you [she droops, stricken] as I do for myself. I had
no motive and no interest : all I can tell you is that when
it came to the point whether I would take my neck out of
the noose and put another man's into it, I could not do it.
I dont know why not : I see myself as a fool for my pains ;
but I could not and I cannot. I have been brought up
standing by the law of my own nature ; and I may not go
against it, gallows or no gallows. [She has slowly raised her
head and is now looking full at him]. I should have done the
Act III . The Devil's Disciple ^^j
same for any other man in the town, or any other man's wite.
{Releasing her\ Do you understand that ?
JUDITH. Yes : you mean that you do not love me.
RICHARD [revolted — with fierce contempt^ Is that all it
means to you ?
JUDITH. What more — what worse — can it mean to me }
yrte serge a?it knocks. Tie blow on tie door jars on her l:eart\
Oh, one moment more. \^She throzvs herself on her knees]. I
pray to you —
RICHARD. Hush ! [Calling] Come in. [The sergeant
unlocks the door and opens it. The guard is with him].
SERGEANT [cofuing in] Time's up, sir.
RICHARD. Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. [He
attempts to raise her].
JUDITH [clinging to him] Only one thing more — I entreat,
I implore you. Let me be present in the court. I have
seen Major Swindon: he said I should be allowed if you
asked it. You will ask it. It is my last request : I shall
never ask you anything again, [^he clasps his knee], I beg
and pray it of you.
RICHARD. If I do, will you be silent ?
JUDITH. Yes.
RICHARD. You will keep faith?
JUDITH. I will keep — [She breaks down, sobbing].
RICHARD [taking her arfn to lift her] Just — her other arm,
Sergeant.
They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two
men.
Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court
martial. It is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in th:e
middle under a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon cur-
tains zuith the royal monogram G.R. In front of the cl?air is
a table, also draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy inkstand,
and zvriting materials on it. Several chairs are set at the table.
The door is at th:e right hand of the occupant of the chair of state
zvhen it has an occupant : at present it is empty. Major Swindon,
a pale, sandy-haired, very conscientious looki?!g man of about ^ 5,
58 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
sits at the end of the table with his back to t/:e door, writing.
He is alone until the sergeant announces the General in a sub-
dued manner which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been
making his presence felt rather heavily,
SERGEANT. The General, sir.
Swindon rises hastily. The general comes in: the sergeant
goes out. Gefieral Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved.
He is a man of fashion, gallant enough to have made a dis-
tinguished marriage by an elopement, witty enough to write success-
ful comedies, aristocratically-connected enough to have had oppor-
tujiities of high military distinction. His eyes, large, brilliant,
apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remarkable feature :
without them his fine nose and small mouth would suggest rather
more fastidiousness and less force than go to the making of a first
rate general. Just now the eyes are angry and tragic, and the
mouth and nostrils tense.
BURGOYNE. Major Swindon, I presume.
SWINDON. Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not.
\They bow to one atiother cere?noniously\ I am glad to hav^e the
support of your presence this morning. It is not particularly
lively business, hanging this poor devil of a minister.
BURGOYNE [throwing himself into Swindon^ s chair"] No, sir,
it is not. It is making too much of the fellow to execute
him : what more could you have done if he had been a
member of the Church of England ? Martyrdom, sir, is
what these people like : it is the only way in which a man
can become famous without ability. However, you have
committed us to hanging him ; and the sooner he is hanged
the better.
SWINDON. We have arranged it for 12 o'clock. Nothing
remains to be done except to try him.
BURGOYNE \looking at him with suppressed anger] Nothing
— except to save our own necks, perhaps. Have you
heard the news from Springtown ?
SWINDON. Nothing special. The latest reports are
satisfactory.
BURGOYNE [rising in amaze?nent] Satisfactory, sir 1 Satis-
Act III The DeviFs Disciple 59
factory ! ! [He stares at him for a moment, and then adds,
with grim intensity"] I am glad you take that view of them.
SWINDON [puzzled] Do I understand that in your
opinion —
BURGOYNE. I do not cxpress my opinion. I never stoop
to that habit of profane language which unfortunately
coarsens our profession. If I did, sir, perhaps I should be
able to express my opinion of the news from Springtown
— the news which you [severely] have apparently not
heard. How soon do you get news from your supports
here? — in the course of a month, eh?
SWINDON [turning sulky] I suppose the reports have been
taken to you, sir, instead of to me. Is there anything
serious ?
BURGOYNE [taking a report from his pocket and holding it
up] Springtown's in the hands of the rebels. [He throws
the report on the table],
SWINDON [aghast] Since yesterday !
BURGOYNE. Sincc two o'clock this morning. Perhaps
we shall be in their hands before two o'clock to-morrow
morning. Have you thought of that ?
SWINDON [confidently] As to that, General, the British
soldier will give a good account of himself.
BURGOYNE [bitterly] And therefore, I suppose, sir, the
British officer need not know his business : the British
soldier will get him out of all his blunders with the
bayonet. In future, sir, I must ask you to be a little less
generous with the blood of your men, and a little more
generous with your own brains.
SWINDON. I am sorry I cannot pretend to your intel-
lectual eminence, sir. I can only do my best, and rely on
the devotion of my countrymen.
BURGOYNE [suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic] May I ask
are you writing a melodrama, Major Swindon ?
SWINDON [flushing] No, sir.
BURGOYNE. What a pity! What a pity! [Dropping his
sarcastic tone and facing him suddenly and seriously] Do you
6o Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
at all realize, sir, that we have nothing standing between
us and destruction but our own bluff and the shcepishness
of these colonists ? They are men of the same English
stock as ourselves : six to one of us [repeating it emphatically']
six to one, sir ; and nearly half our troops are Hessians,
Brunswickers, German dragoons, and Indians with scalping
knives. These are the countrymen on whose devotion you
rely ! Suppose the colonists find a leader ! Suppose the
news from Springtown should turn out to mean that they
have already found a leader! What shall we do then?
Eh?
SWINDON [sullenly] Our duty, sir, I presume.
BURGOYNE [again sarcastic — giving him up as a fool]
Quite SO, quite so. Thank you, Major Swindon, thank
you. Now youve settled the question, sir — thrown a flood
of light on the situation. What a comfort to me to feel
that I have at my side so devoted and able an officer to
support me in this emergency ! I think, sir, it will prob-
ably relieve both our feelings if we proceed to hang this
dissenter without further delay [he strikes the bell] especially
as I am debarred by my principles from the customary
military vent for my feelings. [The sergeant appears].
Bring your man in.
SERGEANT. YcS, sir.
BURGOYNE. And mention to any officer you may meet
that the court cannot wait any longer for him.
SWINDON [keeping his temper with difficulty] The staff is
perfectly ready, sir. They have been waiting your con-
venience for fully half an hour. Perfectly ready, sir.
BURGOYNE [blandly] So am I. [Several officers come in
and take their seats. One of them sits at the end of the table
furthest from the door^ and acts throughout as clerk to the courts
making notes of the proceedings. The unifor?ns are those of the
()th^ 20th, list, 2^th, M^f^-> "^yd^ and 62nd British Infantry.
One officer is a Major General of the Royal Artillery. There
are also Gerrnan officers of the Hessian Rifles., and of German
dragoon and Brunszuicker regiments]. Oh, good morning,
Act III The Devil's Disciple 6i
gentlemen. Sorry to disturb you, I am sure. Very good
of you to spare us a few moments.
SWINDON. Will you preside, sir ?
BURGOYNE \becoming additionally polished^ ^ofty, sarcastic
and urbane now that he is in public'] No, sir : I feel my own
deficiencies too keenly to presume so far. If you will
kindly allow me, I will sit at the feet of Gamaliel. [He
takes the chair at the end of the table next the door, and motions
Swindon to the chair of state, waiting for him to be seated
before sitting down himself].
SWINDON [greatly annoyed] As you please, sir. I am only
trying to do my duty under excessively trying circum-
stances. [He takes his place in the chair of state].
Burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment,
sits down and begins to read the report with knitted brows and
careworn looks, reflecting on his desperate situation and Swindon^ s
uselessness. Richard is brought in. Judith walks beside him.
Two soldiers precede and two follow him, with the sergeant in
command. They cross the room to the wall opposite the door ;
but when Richard has just passed before the chair of state the
Sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and posts himself
behind him, at his elbow. Judith stands timidly at the wall.
The four soldiers place themselves in a squad near her.
BURGOYNE [looking Up and seeing Judith] Who is that
woman ?
SERGEANT. Prisoncr's wife, sir.
SWINDON [nervously] She begged me to allow her to be
present; and I thought —
BURGOYNE [completing the sentence for him ironically] You
thought it would be a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite so.
[Blandly] Give the lady a chair ; and make her thoroughly
comfortable.
The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard.
JUDITH. Thank you, sir. [She sits down after an awe-
stricken curtsy to Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a dig-
nified bend of his head].
SWINDON [to Richard, sharply] Your name, sir ?
62 Three Plays for Puritans Act iii
RICHARD [affable^ but obstinate'] Come : you dont mean
to say that youvc brought me here without knowing who
I am?
SWINDON. As a matter of form, sir, give your name.
RICHARD. As a matter of form then, my name is Anthony
Anderson, Presbyterian minister in this town.
BURGOYNE [interested] Indeed ! Pray, Mr Anderson, what
do you gentlemen believe ?
RICHARD. I shall be happy to explain if time is allowed
me. I cannot undertake to complete your conversion in
less than a fortnight.
SWINDON {snubbing him] We are not here to discuss your
views.
BURGOYNE \zvith an elaborate bow to the unfortunate
Szvindon] I stand rebuked.
SWINDON [embarrassed] Oh, not you, I as —
BURGOYNE. Dout mention it. [To Richard^ very politely]
Any political views, Mr Anderson ?
RICHARD. I understand that that is just what we are
here to find out.
SWINDON [severely] Do you mean to deny that you are a
rebel ?
RICHARD. Tam an American, sir.
SWINDON. What do you expect me to think of that
speech, Mr Anderson ?
RICHARD. I never expect a soldier to think, sir.
Burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort^ which
almost reconciles him to the loss of Jmerica.
SWINDON, [whitening with anger] I advise you not to be
insolent, prisoner.
RICHARD. You cant help yourself, General. When you
make up your mind to hang a man, you put yourself at a
disadvantage with him. Why should I be civil to you ? I
may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.
SWINDON. You have no right to assume that the court
has made up its mind without a fair trial. And you will
please not address me as General. I am Major Swindon.
Act III The Devil's Disciple 63
RICHARD. A thousand pardons. I thought I had the
honor of addressing Gentlemanly Johnny.
Sensation among the officers. The sergeant has a narrow
escape from a guffaw.
BURGOYNE \_with extrctJie suavity'] I believe I am Gentle-
manly Johnny, sir, at your service. My more intimate
friends call me General Burgoyne. [Richard bows with
perfect politeness']. You will understand, sir, I hope, since
you seem to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit in
spite of your calling, that if w^e should have the misfortune
to hang you, we shall do so as a mere matter of political
necessity and military duty, without any personal ill-feeling.
RICHARD. Oh, quite so. That makes all the difference
in the world, of course.
They all smile in spite of themselves ; ana some of the
younger officers hurst out laughing.
JUDITH \her dread and horror deepening at every one of these
jests and compliments] How can you ?
RICHARD. You promised to be silent.
BURGOYNE \to fudith^ with studied courtesy] Believe me.
Madam, your husband is placing us under the greatest obli-
gation by taking this very disagreeable business so thoroughly
in the spirit of a gentleman. Sergeant : give Mr Anderson
a chair. \The sergeant does so. Richard sits dozen]. Now,
Major Swindon : we are waiting for you.
SWINDON. You are aware, I presume, Mr Anderson, of
your obligations as a subject of His Majesty King George
the Third.
RICHARD. I am aware, sir, that His Majesty King George
the Third is about to hang me because I object to Lord
North's robbing me.
SWINDON. That is a treasonable speech, sir.
RICHARD {briefly] Yes. I meant it to be.
BURGOYNE [strongly deprecating this line of defence^ but
still polite] Dont you think, Mr Anderson, that this is
rather — if you will excuse the word — a vulgar line to
take ? Why should you cry out robbery because of a stamp
64 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
duty and a tea duty and so forth ? After all, it is the
essence of your position as a gentleman that you pay with
a good grace.
RICHARD. It is not the money, General. But to be
swindled by a pig-headed lunatic like King George —
SWINDON [scandd/ised'\ Chut, sir — silence!
SERGEANT [ifi stentoriau tones, greatly shocked] Silence !
BURGOYNE [uTiruffied] Ah, that is another point of view.
My position does not allow of my going into that, except
in private. But [shrugging his shoulders'] of course, Mr
Anderson, if you are determined to be hanged [Judith
fiinches] there's nothing more to be said. An unusual
taste ! however [with a final shrug] — !
SWINDON [To Burgoyne] Shall we call witnesses?
RICHARD. What need is there of witnesses? If the
townspeople here had listened to me, you would have
found the streets barricaded, the houses loopholed, and
the people in arms to hold the town against you to the
last man. But you arrived, unfortunately, before we had
got out of the talking stage ; and then it was too late.
SWINDON [sez^erely] Well, sir, we shall teach you and
your townspeople a lesson they will not forget. Have you
anything more to say ?
RICHARD. I think you might have the decency to treat
me as a prisoner of war, and shoot me like a man instead
of hanging me like a dog.
BURGOYNE [sympathetically] Now there, Mr Anderson, you
talk like a civilian, if you will excuse my saying so. Have
you any idea of the average marksmanship of the army of
His Majesty King George the Third ? If we make you up
a firing party, what will happen ? Half of them will miss
you : the rest will make a mess of the business and leave
you to the provo-marshal's pistol. Whereas we can hang
you in a perfectly workmanlike and agreeable way. [Kindly]
Let me persuade you to be hanged, Mr Anderson?
JUDITH [sick with horror] My God !
RICHARD [To Judith] Your promise! [To Burgoyne]
Act Hi The Devirs Disciple 65
Thank you, General : that view of the case did not occur
to me before. To oblige you, I withdraw my objection to
the rope. Hang me, by all means.
BURGOYNE \jmoothl'^\ Will 12 o'clock suit you, Mr
Anderson ?
RICHARD. 1 shall be at your disposal then, General.
BURGOYNE [rising] Nothing more to be said, gentlemen.
[Thy a// rise].
JUDITH [rusking to the table] Oh, you are not going to
murder a man like that, without a proper trial — without
thinking of what you are doing — without — [she cannot
find words]
RICHARD. Is this how you keep your promise.?
JUDITH. If I am not to speak, you must. Defend your-
self: save yourself: tell them the truth.
RICHARD [worriedly] I have told them truth enough to
hang me ten times over. If you say another word you will
risk other lives ; but you will not save mine.
BURGOYNE. My good lady, our only desire is to save un-
pleasantness. What satisfaction would it give you to have
a solemn fuss made, with my friend Swindon in a black cap
and so forth ? I am sure we are greatly indebted to the admir-
able tact and gentlemanly feeling shewn by your husband.
JUDITH [throwing the words in his face] Oh, you are mad.
Is it nothing to you what wicked thing you do if only you
do it like a gentleman ? Is it nothing to you whether you
are a murderer or not, if only you murder in a red coat.?
[Desperately] You shall not hang him : that man is not
my husband.
The officers look at o?ie another, and whisper : some of the
Germans asking their neighbors to explain what the woman had
said. Burgoyne, who has been visibly shaken by fudith^s re-
'proach, recovers himself promptly at this 7iew developmeiit.
Richard ?neanwhile raises his voice above the buzz.
RICHARD. I appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to
this. She will not believe that she cannot save me. Break
up the court.
F
66 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
BURGOYNE [in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores silence
at once] One moment, Mr Anderson. One moment, gentle-
men. [He resumes his seat. Swindon and the officers follow his
example]. Let me understand you clearly, madam. Do you
mean that this gentleman is not your husband, or merely
— I wish to put this with all delicacy — that you are not
his wife?
JUDITH. I dont know what you mean. I say that he is
not my husband — that my husband has escaped. This man
took his place to save him. Ask anyone in the town — send
out into the street for the first person you find there, and
bring him in as a witness. He will tell you that the prisoner
is not Anthony Anderson.
BURGOYNE [quietly\ as before] Sergeant.
SERGEANT. Yes sir.
BURGOYNE. Go out into the street and bring in the first
townsman you see there.
SERGEANT [making for the door] Yes sir.
BURGOYNE [as the sergeant passes] The first clean, sober
townsman you see.
SERGEANT. Yes sir. [He goes out].
BURGOYNE. Sit down, Mr Anderson — if I may call you
so for the present. [Richard sits down]. Sit down, madam,
whilst we wait. Give the lady a newspaper.
RICHARD [indignantly] Shame !
BURGOYNE [keenly, with a half smile] If you are not her
husband, sir, the case is not a serious one — for her.
[Richard bites his lip, silenced].
JUDITH [to Richard, as she returns to her seat] I couldnt
help it. [He shakes his head. She sits down].
BURGOYNE. You will Understand of course, Mr Anderson,
that you must not build on this little incident. We are
bound to make an example of somebody.
RICHARD. I quite understand. I suppose there's no use
in my explaining.
BURGOYNE. I think we should prefer independent testi-
mony, if you dont mind.
Act III The Devil's Disciple 67
The sergeant^ with a packet of papers in his hand, returns
conducting Christy, zvho is much scared.
SERGEANT ^giving Burgoyne the packet'] Dispatches, sir.
Delivered by a corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard
riding, sir.
Burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes absorbed
in them. They are so serious as to take his attention completely
from the court martial.
THE SERGEANT \to C hristy] Now then. Attention ; and
take your hat off. [^He posts himself in charge of Christy, who
stands on Burgoyne' s side of the court].
RICHARD [in his usual bullying tone to Christy] Dont be
frightened, you fool : youre only wanted as a witness.
Theyre not going to hang you.
SWINDON. What's your name?
CHRISTY. Christy.
RICHARD [impatiently] Christopher Dudgeon, you blatant
idiot. Give your full name.
SWINDON. Be silent, prisoner. You must not prompt
the witness.
RICHARD. Very well. But I warn you youll get nothing
out of him unless you shake it out of him. He has been
too well brought up by a pious mother to have any sense
or manhood left in him.
BURGOYNE [spri?iging up and speaking to the sergeant in a
startling voice] Where is the man who brought these ?
SERGEANT. In the guard-room, sir.
Burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers exchang-
ing looks.
SWINDON [to Christy] Do you know Anthony Anderson,
the Presbyterian minister?
CHRISTY. Of course I do [implying that Swindon must be
an ass not to know it].
SWINDON. Is he here ?
CHRISTY [staring round] I dont know,
SWINDON. Do you see him?
CHRISTY. No.
68 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
SWINDON. You seem to know the prisoner?
CHRISTY. Do you mean Dick?
SWINDON. Which is Dick ?
CHRISTY [pointing to Richard] Him.
SWINDON. What is his name?
CHRISTY. Dick.
RICHARD. Answer properly, you jumping jackass. What
do they know about Dick?
CHRISTY. Well, you are Dick, aint you? What am I
to say?
SWINDON. Address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be
silent. Tell us who the prisoner is.
CHRISTY. He's my brother Dick — Richard — Richard
Dudgeon.
SWINDON. Your brother !
CHRISTY. Yes.
SWINDON. You are sure he is not Anderson.
CHRISTY. Who?
RICHARD \exa5peratedly\ Me, me, me, you —
SWINDON. Silence, sir.
SERGEANT \shouting\ Silcncc.
RICHARD [impatiently] Yah! {To Christy] He wants to
know am I Minister Anderson. Tell him, and stop grin-
ning like a zany.
CHRISTY [grinning more than ever] You Pastor Anderson !
\To Swindon] Why, Mr Anderson's a minister — a very
good man; and Dick's a bad character: the respectable
people wont speak to him. He's the bad brother : I'm the
good one. \The officers laugh outright. The soldiers grin],
SWINDON. Who arrested this man ?
SERGEANT. I did, sir. I found him in the minister's
house, sitting at tea with the lady with his coat off, quite
at home. If he isnt married to her, he ought to be.
SWINDON. Did he answer to the minister's name?
SERGEANT. Ycs sir, but not to a minister's nature. You
ask the chaplain, sir.
SWINDON [to Richard, threateningly] So, sir, you have
Act III The Devil's Disciple 69
attempted to cheat us. And your name is Richard
Dudgeon ?
RICHARD. Youve found it out at last, have you ?
SWINDON. Dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh ?
RICHARD. Yes : Peter Dudgeon, whom you murdered,
was my uncle.
SWINDON. Hm ! [He compresses his lips, and looks at
Richard with vindictive gravity^
CHRISTY. Are they going to hang you, Dick }
RICHARD. Yes. Get out : theyve done with you.
CHRISTY. And I may keep the china peacocks.''
RICHARD [jumping up] Get out. Get out, you blither-
ing baboon, you. [Christy _fiies, panicstricken].
SWINDON [rising — all rise] Since you have taken the
minister's place, Richard Dudgeon, you shall go through
with it. The execution will take place at 12 o'clock as
arranged; and unless Anderson surrenders before then,
you shall take his place on the gallows. Sergeant : take
your man out.
JUDITH [distracted] No, no —
SWINDON [fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties]
Take that woman away.
RICHARD [springing across the table with a tiger-like bounds
and seizing Swindon by the throat] You infernal scoun-
drel—
The sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the soldiers
from the other. They seize Richard and drag him back to his
place. Swindon, who has been throzvn supine on the table,
rises, arranging his stock. He is about to speak, when he is
anticipated by Burgoyne, who has just appeared at the door
with two papers in his hand: a white letter and a blue dis-
patch,
BURGOYNE [advanci?ig to the table, elaborately cool] What
is this? Whats happening? Mr Anderson : I'm astonished
at you.
RICHARD. I am sorry I disturbed you. General. I merely
wanted to strangle your understrapper there. [Breaking
70 Three Plays for Puritans Act in
out violently at Swi7ido?i] Why do you raise the devil in
me by bullying the woman like that? You oatmeal faced
dog, I'd twist your cursed head off with the greatest satis-
faction. \^He puts out his hands to the sergeant'] Here :
handcuff me, will you ; or I'll not undertake to keep my
fingers off him.
T/:e sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to
Burgoyne for instructions.
BURGOYNE. Have you addressed profane language to the
lady, Major Swindon?
SWINDON [very angry] No, sir, certainly not. That
question should not have been put to me. I ordered the
woman to be removed, as she was disorderly; and the
fellow sprang at me. Put away those handcuffs. I am
perfectly able to take care of myself.
RICHARD. Now you talk like a man, I have no quarrel
with you.
BURGOYNE. Mr Andcrson —
SWINDON. His name is Dudgeon, sir, Richard Dudgeon.
He is an impostor.
BURGOYNE [brusquely] Nonsense, sir : you hanged Dud-
geon at Springtown.
RICHARD. It was my uncle, General.
BURGOYNE. Oh, your uncle. [To Szuindon, handsomely] I
beg your pardon, Major Swindon. [Szvindon acknowledges
the apology stiffly. Burgoy?ie turns to Richard], We are some-
what unfortunate in our relations with your family. Well,
Mr Dudgeon, what I wanted to ask you is this. Who
is [reading the name from the letter] William Maindeck
Parshotter ?
RICHARD. He is the Mayor of Springtown.
BURGOYNE. Is William — Maindeck and so on — a man
of his word ?
RICHARD. Is he selling you anything?
BURGOYNE. No.
RICHARD. Then you may depend on him.
BURGOYNE. Thank you, Mr — 'm Dudgeon. By the way,
Act III The Devil's Disciple /"71
since you are not Mr Anderson, do we still — eh, Msjnf
Swindon ? [meaning " do we still hang him /"']
RICHARD. The arrangements are unaltered, General.
BURGOYNE. Ah, indeed. I am sorry. Good morning, Mr
Dudgeon. Good morning, madam.
RICHARD [interrupting Judith ahnost Jiercely as she is about
to make some wild appeal^ and taking her arm resolutely^ Not
one word more. Come.
She looks imploringly at him^ but is overborne by his deter-
mination. They are marched out by the four soldiers : the sergeant^
very sulky, walking betzveen Swindon and Richard, whom he
watches as if he were a dangerous animal.
BURGOYNE. Gentlemen : we need not detain you. Major
Swindon: a word with you. [The officers go out. Burgoyne
waits with unruffled serenity until the last of them disappears.
Then he becomes very grave, and addresses Swindon for the first
time without his title]. Swindon : do you know what this is
[shewing him the letter] ?
SWINDON. What ?
BURGOYNE. A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of
their militia to come here and arrange terms with us.
SWINDON. Oh, they are giving in.
BURGOYNE. They add that they are sending the man who
raised Springtown last night and drove us out ; so that we
may know that we are dealing with an officer of importance.
SWINDON. Pooh !
BURGOYNE. He will be fully empowered to arrange the
terms of — guess what.
SWINDON. Their surrender, I hope.
BURGOYNE. No : our evacuation of the town. They offer
us just six hours to clear out.
SWINDON. What monstrous impudence !
BURGOYNE. What shall we do, eh ?
SWINDON. March on Springtown and strike a decisive
blow at once.
BURGOYNE [^/i'/(f//^] Hm ! [Tuming to the door] Come to
the adjutant's office.
72 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
SWINDON. What for?
BURGOYNE. To Write out that safe-conduct. \_He puts his
hand to the door Jinob to open it'].
SWINDON [who has not budged] General Burgoyne.
BURGOYNE [returning] Sir.?
SWINDON. It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not
consider the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a suffi-
cient reason for our giving way.
BURGOYNE [imperturbable] Suppose I resign my command
to you, what will you do?
SWINDON. I will undertake to do what we have marched
south from Boston to do, and what General Flowe has
marched north from New York to do: effect a junction at
Albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united forces.
BURGOYNE [enigmatically] And will you wipe out our
enemies in London, too?
SWINDON. In London ! What enemies ?
BURGOYNE [forcibly] Jobbery and snobbery, incompet-
ence and Red Tape. [He holds up the dispatch and adds., with
despair in Ins face and voice] I have just learnt, sir, that
General Howe is still in New York.
SWINDON [thunderstruck] Good God ! He has disobeyed
orders !
BURGOYNE [with sardonic calm] He has received no orders,
sir. Some gentleman in London forgot to dispatch them: he
was leaving town for his holiday, I believe. To avoid up-
setting his arrangements, England will lose her American
colonies ; and in a few days you and I will be at Saratoga
with 5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable
position.
SWINDON [appalled] Impossible ?
BURGOYNE [coldly] I beg your pardon !
SWINDON, I cant believe it ! What will History say ?
BURGOYNE. History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: we
must send the safe-conduct. [He goes out].
SWINDON [following distractedly] My God, my God ! We
shall be wiped out.
Act III The DeviFs Disciple
As noon approaches there is excitement in tl^e market pL
The gallows which hangs there permanently for the terror .
evildoers^ with such minor advertixers and examples of crime ai
the pillory, the whipping post, and the stocks, has a new rope
attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the uprights, out of
reach of the hoys. Its ladder, too, has been brought out and
placed in position by the town beadle, who stands by to guard it
from unauthorised cli?nbing. The Websterbridge tozvnsfolk are
present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has spread
that it is the deviPs disciple and not the minister that the Con-
tinentals [so they call Bufgoyne's forces'] are about to hang: conse-
quently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as to
its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allozving it to take place
without a struggle. There is even sotnefear of a disappointment
as midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle with the
ladder remains the only sign of preparation. But at last re-
assuring shouts of Here they cojne : Here they are, are heard;
and a company of soldiers with fixed bayonets, half British
infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly into the middle of the
market place, driving the crowd to the sides.
THE SERGEANT. Halt. Front, Dress. {The soldiers change
their colu??in into a square enclosing the gallows, their petty
officers, energetically led by the sergeant, hustling the persons
who find themselves inside the square out at the corners]. Now
then ! Out of it with you : out of it. Some o youll get
strung up yourselves presently. Form that square there,
will you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin German
to them: talk to their toes with the butt ends of your
muskets: theyll understand that. Get out of it, will you.
\He comes upon Judith, standing near the gallows]. Now
then : youve no call here.
JUDITH. May I not stay? What harm am I doing?
SERGEANT. 1 Want nouc of your argufying. You ought
to be ashamed of yourself, running to see a man hanged
thats not your husband. And he's no better than
yourself. I told my major he was a gentleman ; and
then he goes and tries to strangle him, and calls his
Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
iVlajesty a lunatic. So out of it with you, double
iTH. Will you take these two silver dollars and let
ay ?
.''ke sergeant, without an instanis hesitation, looks quickly
furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his
:ket. Then l?e raises his voice in virtuous indignation.
THE SERGEANT. M c take moncy in the execution of my
4uty! Certainly not. Now I'll tell you what I'll do, to
/teach you to corrupt the King's officer. I'll put you under
' arrest until the execution's over. You just stand there;
and dont let me see you as much as move from that spot
until youre let. {If^ith a swift wink at her he points to the
corner of the square behind the gallows on his right, and turns
noisily away, shouting'] Now then, dress up and keep em
back, will you.
Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the townsfolk;
and the sound of a military hand, playing the Dead March fro7n
Saul, is heard. The crowd becomes quiet at once ; arid the
sergeant and petty officers, hurrying to the back of the square,
with a few whispered orders and some stealthy hustling cause it
to open and ad?nit the funeral procession, which is protected from
the crowd by a double fie of soldiers. First come Burgoyne ana
Swindon, who, on entering the square, glance with distaste at
the gallows, and avoid passing under it by wheeling a little to
the right and stationing themselves on that side. Then Mr
Brudenell, the chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book
open in his hand, walking beside Richard, who is ?noody and dis-
orderly. He walks doggedly through the gallows framework,
and posts himself a little in front of it. Behind him comes the
executioner, a stalwart soldier in his shirtsleeves. Following
him, tzvo soldiers haul a light military waggon. Finally comes
the band, which posts itself at the back of the square, and finishes
the Dead March. Judith, watching Richard painfully, steals
down to the gallows, and stands leaning against its right post.
During the conversation which follozus, the two soldiers place the
cart under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which point back-
Act III The Devil's Disciple 75
wards. The executioner takes a set of steps from the cart and
places it ready for the prisoner to mount. Then he climbs the
tall ladder which stands against the gallows^ and cuts the string
by which the rope is hitched up ; so that the noose drops dangling
over the cart, i?ito which he steps as he descends.
RICHARD [with suppressed impatience^ to Brudenell] Look
here, sir : this is no place for a man of your profession.
Hadnt you better go away?
SWINDON. I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense
of decency left, to listen to the ministrations of the chap-
lain, and pay due heed to the solemnity of the occasion.
THE CHAPLAIN [gently reproving Richard^ Try to control
yourself, and submit to the divine will. [He lifts his book
to proceed with the service'].
RICHARD. Answer for your own will, sir, and those of
your accomplices here [indicating Burgoyne and Swindon'] :
I see little divinity about them or you. You talk to me of
Christianity when you are in the act of hanging your
enemies. Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense !
[To Swindon, more rudely] Youve got up the solemnity of
the occasion, as you call it, to impress the people with
your own dignity — Handel's music and a clergyman to
make murder look like piety! Do you suppose / am going
to help you ? Youve asked me to choose the rope because
you dont know your own trade well enough to shoot me
properly. Well, hang away and have done with it.
SWINDON [to the chaplain] Can you do nothing with him,
Mr Brudenell ?
CHAPLAIN. I will try, sir. [Beginning to read] Man that
is born of woman hath —
RICHARD [fxing his eyes on him] "Thou shalt not kill."
The book drops in BrudeneWs hands.
CHAPLAIN [confessing his embarrassment] What am I to
say, Mr Dudgeon ?
RICHARD. Let me alone, man, cant you?
BURGOYNE [with cxtrcfnc urbanity] I think, Mr Brudenell,
that as the usual professional observations seem to strike
76 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
Mr Dudgeon as incongruous under the circumstances, you
had better omit them until — er — until Mr Dudgeon can
no longer be inconvenienced by them. \_BrudenelI, with a
shrugs shuts his book and retires behind the gallows']. You
seem in a hurry, Mr Dudgeon.
RICHARD [with tf:e Iwrror of death upon him] Do you think
this is a pleasant sort of thing to be kept waiting for?
Youve made up your mind to commit murder : well, do
it and have done with it.
BURGOYNE. Mr Dudgeon : we are only doing this —
RICHARD. Because youre paid to do it.
SWINDON. You insolent — [he swallows his rage].
BURGOYNE [with MUch charm of manner] Ah, I am really
sorry that you should think that, Mr Dudgeon. If you
knew what my commission cost me, and what my pay is,
you would think better of me. I should be glad to part
from you on friendly terms.
RICHARD. Hark ye. General Burgoyne. If you think
that I like being hanged, youre mistaken. I dont like it ;
and I dont mean to pretend that I do. And if you think
I'm obliged to you for hanging me in a gentlemanly way,
youre wrong there too. I take the whole business in
devilish bad part ; and the only satisfaction I have in it
is that youU feel a good deal meaner than I'll look when
it's over. [He turns away, and is striding to the cart when
Judith advances and i?iter poses with her arms stretched out to
him. Richard^ fueling that a very little will upset his self-
possession, shrinks from her, crying] What are you doing
here t This is no place for you. [She makes a gesture as if
to touch him. He recoils impatiently] No : go away, go away :
youll unnerve me. Take her away, will you.
JUDITH. Wont you bid me good-bye .''
RICHARD [allowing her to take his hand] Oh good-bye,
good-bye. Now go — go — quickly. [She clings to his
hand — will not be put off with so cold a last farewell — at
last, as he tries to disengage himself, throws herself on his
breast in agony].
Act III The Devirs Disciple 77
SWINDON [angrily to the sergeant^ who, alarmed at Judith^s
movement, has come from the back of the square to pull her
back, and stopped irresolutely on finding that he is too late]
How is this? Why is she inside the lines?
SERGEANT [guHtHy] I dunno, sir. She's that artful —
cant keep her away.
BURGOYNE. You Were bribed.
SERGEANT [protesting] No, sir —
SWINDON [severely] Fall back. [He obeys],
RICHARD [imploringly to those around hi?n, and finally to
Burgoyne, as the least stolid of them] Take her away. Do
you think I want a woman near me now?
BURGOYNE [going to Judith and taking her hand] Here,
madam : you had better keep inside the lines ; but stand
here behind us ; and dont look.
Richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases him
and turns to Burgoyne, fiies for refuge to the cart and mounts
into it. The executioner takes off his coat and pinions him.
JUDITH [resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand
away] No : I must stay. I wont look. [Bhe goes to the
right of the gallows. She tries to look at Richard, but turns
away with a frightful shudder, and falls on her knees in prayer.
Brudenell comes towards her from the back of the square].
BURGOYNE [noddiiig approvingly as she kneels] Ah, quite so.
Do not disturb her, Mr -Brudenell : that will do very
nicely. [Brudenell nods also, and withdraws a little, zuatching
her sympathetically. Burgoyne resumes his former position, and
takes out a handsofne gold chrcnometer]. Now then, are those
preparations made? We must not detain Mr Dudgeon.
By this time Richard's hands are bound behind hi?n ; and
the noose is round his neck. The two soldiers take the shaft of
the waggon, ready to pull it away. The executioner, standing
in the cart behind Richard, makes a sign to the sergeant.
SERGEANT [to Burgoyne] Ready, sir.
BURGOYNE. Havc you anything more to say, Mr Dud-
geon ? It wants two minutes of twelve still.
RICHARD [in the strong voice of a man who has conquered
yS Three Plays for Puritans Act III
t/:e /bitterness of death'\ Your watch is two minutes slow by
the town clock, which I can see from here, General.
\The town clock strikes the first stroke of twelve. Involuntarily
the people flinch at the sounds and a subdued groan breaks from
theni\. Amen ! my life for the world's future !
ANDERSON [shouting as he rushes into the market place"]
Amen ; and stop the execution. \^He bursts through the line
of soldiers opposite Burgoyne, and rushes, panting^ to the gallows'].
I am Anthony Anderson, the man you want.
Th?e crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears.
Judith, half rising, stares at him ; then lifts her hands like one
whose dearest prayer has been granted.
SWINDON. Indeed. Then you are just in time to take your
place on the gallows. Arrest him.
At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to
seize Anderson.
ANDERSON [thrusting a paper under Swindon's nose] There's
my safe-conduct, sir.
SWINDON [taken aback] Safe-conduct ! Are you — !
ANDERSON [emphatically] I am. [The two soldiers take
him by the elbows]. Tell these men to take their hands
off me.
SWINDON [to the men] Let him go.
SERGEANT. Fall back.
The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise a
cheer ; and begin to excha?ige exult ajit looks, with a presentiment
of triumph as they see their Pastor speaking with tl:eir enemies in
the gate.
ANDERSON [exhdUng a deep breath of relief, and dabbing his
perspiring brow with his handkerchief] Thank God, I was in
time !
BURGOYNE [cahn as ever, and still watch in hand] Ample
time, sir. Plenty of time. I should never dream of hanging
any gentleman by an American clock. [He puts up his watch],
ANDERSON. Ycs : wc are some minutes ahead of you al-
ready. General. Now tell them to take the rope from the
neck of that American citizen.
Act III The Devil's Disciple 79
BURGOYNE [fo the execuHofier in the cart — very politely]
Kindly undo Mr Dudgeon.
The executioner takes the rope from Richard^ s neck^ unties
his hands, and helps him on with his coat.
JUDITH [^Stealing timidly to Anderson] Tony.
ANDERSON \_putting his arm round her shoulders and banter-
ing her affectionately] Well, what do you think of your hus-
band now, eh ? — eh ? ? — eh ? ? ?
JUDITH. I am ashamed — \she hides her face against his
breast],
BURGOYNE \to Swindon] You look disappointed, Major
Swindon.
SWINDON. You look defeated, General Burgoyne.
BURGOYNE. I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be glad
of it. \Richard jumps down from the cart, Brudenell offering
his hand to help him, and runs to Anderson, whose left hand he
shakes heartily, the right being occupied by Judith]. By the
way, Mr Anderson, I do not quite understand. The safe-
conduct was for a commander of the militia. I understand
you are a — \^He looks as pointedly as his good manners permit
at the riding boots, the pistols, and Richard'' s coat, and adds] —
a clergyman.
ANDERSON \betzueen Judith and Richard] Sir : it is in the
hour of trial that a man finds his true profession. This foolish
young man \_ placing his hand on Richard^ s shoulder] boasted
himself the Devil's Disciple; but when the hour of trial
came to him, he found that it was his destiny to suffer and
be faithful to the death. I thought myself a decent minister
of the gospel of peace ; but when the hour of trial came to
me, I found that it was my destiny to be a man of action,
and that my place was amid the thunder of the captains and
the shouting. So I am starting life at fifty as Captain An-
thony Anderson of the Springtown militia; and the Devil's
Disciple here will start presently as the Reverend Richard
Dudgeon, and wag his pow in my old pulpit, and give good
advice to this silly sentimental little wife of mine [putting
his other hand on her shoulder. She steals a glance at Richard
8o Three Plays for Puritans Act III
to see how the prospect pleases him\ Your mother told me,
Richard, that I should never have chosen Judith if I'd been
born for the ministry. I am afraid she was right; so, by your
leave, you may keep my coat and I'll keep yours.
RICHARD. Minister — I should say Captain. I have be-
haved like a fool.
JUDITH. Like a hero.
RICHARD. Much the same thing, perhaps. \lVith some
bitterness towards himself^ But no : if I had been any good,
I should have done for you what you did for me, instead of
making a vain sacrifice.
ANDERSON. Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make
a world — saints as well as soldiers. YTurriing to Burgoyne'\
And now, General, time presses ; and America is in a hurry.
Have you realized that though you may occupy towns and
win battles, you cannot conquer a nation?
BURGOYNE. My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot
have an aristocracy. Come and settle the matter at my
quarters.
ANDERSON. At your scrvicc, sir. [To Ruhard] See Judith
home for me, will you, my boy. [He hands her over to him'].
Now, General. [He goes busily up th?e market place towards
the Town Hall, leaving Judith and Richard together. Burgoyne
follows him a step or two ; then checks himself and turns to
Richard].
BURGOYNE. Oh, by the way, Mr Dudgeon, I shall be glad
to see you at lunch at half-past one. [He pauses a moment,
and adds, with politely veiled slyness] Bring Mrs Anderson, if
she will be so good. [To Swindon, who is fuming] Take it
quietly, Major Swindon: your friend the British soldier can
stand up to anything except the British War Office. [He
follows Anderson].
SERGEANT [to Swtndon] What orders, sir ?
SWINDON [savagely] Orders ! What use are orders now ?
There's no army. Back to quarters; and be d — [He turns
on his heel and goes],
SERGEANT [pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea of
Act in The Devil's Disciple 8i
defeat\ 'Tention. Now then: cock up your chins, and shew
em you dont care a damn for em. Slope arms ! Fours !
Wheel ! Quick march !
The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the hand
strikes up British Grenadiers; and ti^e Sergeant^ Brudenelly
and the English troops march off defiantly to their quarters. The
townsfolk press in behind, and follow them up the market, jeering
at them ; and the town hand, a very primitive affair, brings up
the rear, playing Yankee Doodle. Essie, who comes in with them,
runs to Richard.
ESSIE. Oh, Dick !
RICHARD \_good-humoredly, but wilfully'] Now, now : come,
come ! I dont mind being hanged; but I will not be cried
over.
ESSIE. No, I promise. I'll be good. [She tries to restrain
her tears, but cannot]. I — I want to see where the soldiers
are going to. [She goes a little way up the market, pretending
to look after the crowd].
JUDITH. Promise me you will never tell him.
RICHARD. Dont be afraid.
They shake hands on it.
ESSIE [calling to them] Theyre coming back. They want
you.
Jubilation in the market. The townsfolk surge back again
in wild enthusiasm with their band, and hoist Richard on their
shoulders, cheering him.
NOTES TO THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE
Burgoyne.
General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play for
the first time (as far as I am aware) on the English stage, is
not a conventional stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait
as it is in the nature of stage portraits to be. His objection
to profane swearing is not borrowed from Mr Gilbert's
H.M.S. Pinafore: it is taken from the Code of Instructions
drawn up by himself for his officers when he introduced
Light Horse into the English army. His opinion that
English soldiers should be treated as thinking beings was no
doubt as unwelcome to the military authorities of his time,
when nothing was thought of ordering a soldier a thousand
lashes, as it will be to those modern victims of the flagel-
lation neurosis who are so anxious to revive that discredited
sport. His military reports are very clever as criticisms, and
are humane and enlightened within certain aristocratic
limits, best illustrated perhaps by his declaration, which
now sounds so curious, that he should blush to ask for pro-
motion on any other ground than that of family influence.
As a parliamentary candidate, Burgoyne took our common
expression "fighting an election " so very literally that he
led his supporters to the poll at Preston in 1768 with a
loaded pistol in each hand, and won the seat, though he
was fined j^ 1000, and denounced by Junius, for the pistols.
It is only within quite recent years that any general
recognition has become possible for the feeling that led
Burgoyne, a professed enemy of oppression in India and
Notes 83
elsewhere, to accept his American command when so many
other officers threw up their commissions rather than serve
in a civil war against the Colonies. His biographer Dc
Fonblanque, writing in 1876, evidently regarded his posi-
tion as indefensible. Nowadays, it is sufficient to say that
Burgoyne was an Imperialist. He sympathized with the
colonists ; but when they proposed as a remedy the disrup-
tion of the Empire, he regarded that as a step backward
in civilization. As he put it to the House of Commons,
"while we remember that we are contending against
brothers and fellow subjects, we must also remember
that we are contending in this crisis for the fate of
the British Empire." Eightyfour years after his defeat, his
republican conquerors themselves engaged in a civil war
for the integrity of their Union. In 1885 the Whigs who
represented the anti-Burgoyne tradition of American Inde-
pendence in English politics, abandoned Gladstone and
made common cause with their political opponents in de-
fence of the Union between England and Ireland. Only
the other day England sent 200,000 men into the field south
of the equator to fight out the question whether South Africa
should develop as a Federation of British Colonies or as an
independent Afrikander United States. In all these cases
the Unionists who were detached from their parties were
called renegades, as Burgoyne was. That, of course, is only
one of the unfortunate consequences of the fact that man-
kind, being for the most part incapable of politics, accepts
vituperation as an easy and congenial substitute. Whether
Burgoyne or Washington, Lincoln or Davis, Gladstone or
Bright, Mr Chamberlain or Mr Leonard Courtney was in
the right will never be settled, because it will never be
possible to prove that the government of the victor has been
better for mankind than the government of the vanquished
would hav^e been. It is true that the victors have no doubt
on the point ; but to the dramatist, that certainty of theirs
is only part of the human comedy. The American Unionist
is often a Separatist as to Ireland ; the English Unionist
84 The Devil's Disciple
often sympathizes with the Polish Home Ruler ; and both
English and American Unionists are apt to be Disruption-
ists as regards that Imperial Ancient of Days, the Empire of
China. Both are Unionists concerning Canada, but with a
difference as to the precise application to it of the Monroe
doctrine. As for me, the dramatist, I smile, and lead the
conversation back to Burgoyne.
Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga made him that occa-
sionally necessary part of our British system, a scapegoat.
The explanation of his defeat given in the play (p. 72) is
founded on a passage quoted by De Fonblanque from Fitz-
maurice's Life of Lord Shelburne, as follows: "Lord George
Germain, having among other peculiarities a particular dis-
like to be put out of his way on any occasion, had arranged
to call at his office on his way to the country to sign the
dispatches ; but as those addressed to Howe had not been
fair-copied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his
projected visit to Kent, they were not signed then and were
forgotten on his return home." These were the dispatches
instructing Sir William Howe, who was in New York, to
effect a junction at Albany with Burgoyne, who had marched
from Boston for that purpose. Burgoyne got as far as Sara-
toga, where, failing the expected reinforcement, he was
hopelessly outnumbered, and his officers picked off, Boer
fashion, by the American farmer-sharpshooters. His own
collar was pierced by a bullet. The publicity of his defeat,
however, was more than compensated at home by the fact
that Lord George's trip to Kent had not been interfered
with, and that nobody knew about the oversight of the dis-
patch. The policy of the English Government and Court
for the next two years was simply concealment of Germain's
neglect. Burgoyne's demand for an inquiry was defeated in
the House of Commons by the court party; and when he
at last obtained a committee, the king got rid of it by a pro-
rogation. When Burgoyne realized what had happened about
the instructions to Howe (the scene in which I have repre-
sented him as learning it before Saratoga is not historical:
Notes 85
the truth did not dawn on liim until many months after-
wards) the king actually took advantage of his being a
prisoner of war in England on parole, and ordered him to
return to America into captivity. Burgoyne immediately
resigned all his appointments ; and this practically closed
his military career, though he was afterwards made Com-
mander of the Forces in Ireland for the purpose of banish-
ing him from parliament.
The episode illustrates the curious perversion of the
English sense of honor when the privileges and prestige of
the aristocracy are at stake. Mr Frank Harris said, after
the disastrous battle of Modder River, that the English,
having lost America a century ago because they preferred
George III, were quite prepared to lose South Africa to-day
because they preferred aristocratic commanders to success-
ful ones. Horace Walpole, when the parliamentary recess
came at a critical period of the War of Independence, said
that the Lords could not be expected to lose their pheasant
shooting for the sake of America. In the working class, which,
like all classes, has its own official aristocracy, there is the
same reluctance to discredit an institution or to " do a man
out of his job." At bottom, of course, this apparently shame-
less sacrifice of great public interests to petty personal ones,
is simply the preference of the ordinary man for the things
he can feel and understand to the things that arc beyond
his capacity. It is stupidity, not dishonesty.-^
Burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways.
Not only was he thrown over, in spite of his high character
and distinguished services, to screen a court favorite who
had actually been cashiered for cowardice and misconduct
in the field fifteen years before ; but his peculiar critical
temperament and talent, artistic, satirical, rather histrionic,
and his fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit and
humanity, were just the qualities to make him disliked by
stupid people because of their dread of ironic criticism/ Long
after his death, Thackeray, who had an intense s*erise of
human character, but was typically stupid in valuing and
86 The Devil's Disciple
interpreting it, instinctively sneered at him and exulted in
his defeat. That sneer represents the common English atti-
tude towards the Burgoyne type. Every instance in which the
critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (for both
temperaments have their genius) "muddles through all
right," is popular in England. But Burgoyne's failure was
not the work of his own temperament, but of the stupid
temperament. What man could do under the circumstances
he did, and did handsomely and loftily. \He fell, and his
ideal empire was dismembered, not through his own mis-
conduct, but because Sir George Germain overestimated the
importance of his Kentish holiday, and underestimated the
difficulty of conquering those remote and inferior creatures,
the colonists. And King George and the rest of the nation
agreed, on the whole, with Germain. It is a significant point
that in America, where Burgoyne was an enemy and an in-
vader, he was admired and praised. The climate there is no
doubt more favorable to intellectual vivacity.
I have described Burgoyne's temperament as rather his-
trionic ; and the reader will have observed that the Bur-
goyne of the Devil's Disciple is a man who plays his part
in life, and makes all its points, in the manner of a born
high comedian.^Jf he had been killed at Saratoga, with all
his comedies unwritten, and his plan for turning As You
Like It into a Beggar's Opera unconceived, I should still
have painted the same picture of him on the strength of
his reply to the articles of capitulation proposed to him by
his American conqueror General Gates. Here they are :
Proposition. Answer.
I. General Burgoyne's army be- Lieut-General Burgoyne's army,
ing reduced by repeated defeats, by however reduced, will never admit
desertion, sickness, etc., their pro- that their retreat is cut off while
visions exhausted, their military they have arms in their hands,
horses, tents and baggage taken or
destroyed, their retreat cut off, and
their camp invested, they can only
be allowed to surrender as prisoners
of war.
Notes
87
Noted.
A
2. The officers and soldiers may
keep the baggage belonging to them.
The Generals of the United States
never permit individuals to be pil-
laged,
3. The troops under his Excel-
lency General Burgoyne will be con-
ducted by the most convenient route
to New England, marching by easy
marches, and sufficiently provided
for by the way.
4. The officers will be admitted
on parole and will be treated with
the liberality customary in such
cases, so long as they, by proper be-
haviour, continue to deserve it; but
those who are apprehended having
broke their parole, as some British
officers have done, must expect to
be close confined.
5. All public stores, artillery,
arms, ammunition, carriages, horses,
etc., etc., must be delivered to com-
missaries appointed to receive them.
6. These terms being agreed to
and signed, the troops under his
Excellency's, General Burgoyne's
command, may be drawn up in
their encampments, where they will
be ordered to ground their arms, and
may thereupon be marched to the
river-side on their way to Benning-
ton.
And, later on, " If General Gates does not mean to re-
cede from the 6th article, the treaty ends at once: the army
will to a man proceed to any act of desperation sooner than
submit to that article."
Here you have the man at his Burgoynest. Need I add
that he had his own way; and that when the actual cere-
mony of surrender came, he would have played poor General
Gates off the stage, had not that commander risen to the
occasion by handing him back his sword, '^r*
In connection with the reference to Indians with scalp-
Agreed.
There being no officer in this
army under, or capable of being
under, the description of breaking
parole, this article needs no answer.
All public stores may h6 deliv-
ered, arms excepted.
This article is inadmissible in
any extremity. Sooner than this
army will consent to ground their
arms in their encampments, they
will rush on the enemy determined
to take no quarter.
88 The Devil's Disciple
ing knives, who, with the troops hired from Germany, made
up about half Burgoyne's force, I may mention that Bur-
goyne offered two of them a reward to guide a Miss McCrea,
betrothed to one of the English officers, into the English lines.
The two braves quarrelled about the reward ; and the more
sensitive of them, as a protest against the unfairness of the
other, tomahawked the young lady. The usual retaliations
were proposed under the popular titles of justice and so
forth; but as the tribe of the slayer would certainly have
followed suit by a massacre of whites on the Canadian fron-
tier, Burgoyne was compelled to forgive the crime, to the
intense disgust of indignant Christendom.
Brudenell.
Brudenell is also a real person. At least, an artillery
chaplain of that name distinguished himself at Saratoga by
reading the burial service over Major Eraser under lire, and
by a quite readable adventure, chronicled by Burgoyne, with
Lady Harriet Ackland. Lady Harriet's husband achieved
the remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of his
adversary, in a duel. He overbalanced himself in the heat
of his swordsmanship, and fell with his head against a
pebble. Lady Harriet then married the warrior chaplain,
who, like Anthony Anderson in the play, seems to have
mistaken his natural profession.
The rest of the Devil's Disciple may have actually
occurred, like most stories invented by dramatists; but I
cannot produce any documents. Major Swindon's name
is invented; but the man, of course, is real. There are
dozens of him extant to this day.
C^SAR AND CLEOPATRA
IX
1898
'U'aM^&ecaterr^if* -
aic^f^J viae-
'J<cr
^^Oyv/z Me ^HtA^ in Mc ^^neu^xont <r-& ^yjcria
C^SAR AND CLEOPATRA
ACT I
An October night on the Syrian border of Egypt towards
the end of the XXXIII Dynasty, in the year 706 by Roman
computation, afterwards reckoned by Christian computation as
48 B.C. A great radiance of silver fire, the dawn of a moonlit
night, is rising in the east. The stars and the cloudless sky are
our own contemporaries, nineteen and a half centuries younger
than 10 e know them; but you would not guess that from their
appearance. Below them are two notable drawbacks of civilisa-
tion: a palace, and soldiers. The palace, an old, low, Syrian
building of whitened mud, is not so ugly as Buckingham Palace;
and the officers in the courtyard are more highly civilized than
modern English officers: for example, they do not dig up the
corpses of their dead enemies and mutilate them, as we dug up
Cromwell and the Mahdi. They are in two groups: one intent
on the ga?nb ling of their captain Belzanor, a warrior of fifty,
who, -with his spear on the ground beside his knee, is stooping to
throw dice with a sly-looking young Persian recruit ; the other
gatheked about a guardsman who has just finished telling a
naughty story (still current in English barracks) at which they
are la^ughing uproariously. They are about a dozen in number,
all highly aristocratic young Egyptian guardsmen, handsomely
equipped with weapons and armor, very un English in point of
not being ashamed of and uncomfortable in their professional
92 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
dress; on the contrary, rather ostentatiously and arrogantly
zuarllke, as valuing themselves on their military caste.
Belxanor is a typical veteran, tough and wilful ; prompt,
capable and crafty where brute force will serve ; helpless and
boyish when it will not: an effective sergeant, an incompetent
general, a deplorable dictator. IVould, if influentially connected,
be employed in the two last capacities by a modern European
State on the strength of his success in the first. Is rather to be
pitied just now in view of the fact that Julius Casar is invad-
ing his country. Not knowing this, is intent on his game with
the Persian, whom, as a foreigner, he considers quite capable
of cheating him.
His subalterns are mostly handsome young fellows whose
interest in the game and the story symbolize with tolerable com-
pleteness the main i?iterests in life of which they are conscious.
Their spears are leaning against the walls, or lying on the ground
ready to their hands. The corner of the courtyard forms a tri-
angle of which one side is the front of the palace, with a doorway,
the other a wall with a gateway. The storytellers are on the
palace side: the gamblers, on the gateway side. Close to the
gateway, against the wall, is a stone block high enough to enable
a Nubian sentinel, standing on it, to look over the wall. The
yard is lighted by a torch stuck in the wall. As the laughter
from the group round the storyteller dies away, the kneeling
Persian, win?iing the throw, snatches up the stake from the
ground.
BELZANOR. Bv ApIs, Persian, thy gods are good to thee.
THE PERSIAN. Try yet again, O captain. Double or
quits !
BELZANOR. No morc. I am not in the vein.
THE SENTINEL \_poising his javelin as he peers over the wall]
Stand. Who goes there ?
They all start, listening. A strange voice replies from with-
out.
VOICE. The bearer of evil tidings.
BELZANOR [calling to the sentry] Pass him.
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 93
THE SENTINEL [grou?idi?ig his javeli?i\ Draw near, O bearer
of evil tidings.
BELZANOR [pockettng the dice and picking up his spear] Let
us receive this man with honor. He bears evil tidings.
The guardsmen seize their spears and gather about the gate,
leaving a way through for the new comer.
PERSIAN [rising from his knee] Are evil tidings, then, so
honorable ?
BELZANOR. O barbarous Persian, hear my instruction.
In Egypt the bearer of good tidings is sacrificed to the gods
as a thank offering ; but no god will accept the blood of the
messenger of evil. When we have good tidings, we are
careful to send them in the mouth of the cheapest slave
we can find. Evil tidings are borne by young noblemen
who desire to bring themselves into notice. [They Join the
rest at the gate.]
THE SENTINEL. Pass, O young captain ; and bow the head
in the House of the Queen.
VOICE. Go anoint thy javelin with fat of swine, O
Blackamoor ; for before morning the Romans will make thee
eat it to the very butt.
The owner of the voice, a fairhaired dandy, dressed in a
different fashion from that affected by the guardsmen, but no less
extravagantly, comes through the gateway laughing. He is
somewhat battlestained ; and his left for ear 7n, bandaged, comes
through a torn sleeve. In his right hand he caj-ries a Roman
sword in its sheath. He szu aggers down the courtyard, the Per-
sian on his right, Belzanor on his left, and the guardsmen
crowding down behind him.
BELZANOR. Who art thou that laughest in the House of
Cleopatra the Queen, and in the teeth of Belzanor, the
captain of her guard ?
THE NEW COMER. I am Bcl Affris, descended from che
gods.
BELZANOR [ceremoniously] Hail, cousin !
ALL [except the Persian] Hail, cousin !
PERSIAN. All the Queen's guards are descended from the
94 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
gods, O stranger, save myself. I am Persian, and descended
from many kings.
BEL AFFRis [to the guards7nen'\ Hail, cousins ! \To the
Persian^ condescendingly] Hail, mortal !
BELZANOR. You havc been in battle, Bel AfFris ; and you
are a soldier among soldiers. You will not let the Queen's
women have the first of your tidings.
BEL AFFRIS. I havc no tidings, except that we shall have
our throats cut presently, women, soldiers, and all.
PERSIAN [to Belzanor\ I told you so.
THE SENTINEL \who has been listening] Woe, alas !
BEL AFFRIS \calling to him'] Peace, peace, poor Ethiop :
destiny is with the gods who painted thee black. [To Bel-
zanor] What has this mortal [indicating the Persian] told
you?
BELZANOR. He says that the Roman Julius C^sar, who
has landed on our shores with a handful of followers, will
make himself master of Egypt. He is afraid of the Roman
soldiers. [The gunrdstnen laugh with boisterous scorn]. Peas-
ants, brought up to scare crows and follow the plough ! Sons
of smiths and millers and tanners! And we nobles, conse-
crated to arms, descended from the gods !
PERSIAN. Belzanor : the gods are not always good to
their poor relations.
BELZANOR [hotly^ to the Persian] Man to man, are we
worse than the slaves of Caesar.?
BEL AFFRIS [stepping between them] Listen, cousin. Man
to man, we Egyptians are as gods above the Romans.
THE GUARDSMEN [cxultantly] Aha!
BEL AFFRIS. But this Cacsar does not pit man against
man : he throws a legion at you where you are weakest as
he throws a stone from a catapult ; and that legion is as a
man with one head, a thousand arms, and no religion. I
have fought against them ; and I know.
BELZANOR [derisively] Were you frightened, cousin ?
The guardsmen roar with laughter^ their eyes sparkling at
the wit of their captain.
Act I Cassar and Cleopatra 95
BEL AFFRis. No, cousin J but I was beaten. They were
frightened (perhaps) ; but they scattered us like chaff.
The guardsmen^ much damped^ utter a grozol of contempt-
uous disgust.
BELZANOR. Could you not die ?
BEL AFFRIS. No : that was too easy to be worthy of a
descendant of the gods. Besides, there was no time : all
was over in a moment. The attack came just where we
least expected it.
BELZANOR. That shcws that the Romans are cowards.
BEL AFFRIS. They care nothing about cowardice, these
Romans : they fight to win. The pride and honor of war
are nothing to them.
PERSIAN. Tell us the tale of the battle. What befell ?
THE GUARDSMEN [gatheri?ig eagerly round Bel Affris'\ Ay :
the tale of the battle.
BEL AFFRIS. Khow then, that I am a novice in the guard
of the temple of Ra in Memphis, serving neither Cleopatra
nor her brother Ptolemy, but only the high gods. We
went a journey to inquire of Ptolemy why he had driven
Cleopatra into Syria, and how we of Egypt should deal
with the Roman Pompey, newly come to our shores after
his defeat by Caesar at Pharsalia. What, think ye, did we
learn? Even that Caesar is coming also in hot pursuit of
his foe, and that Ptolemy has slain Pompey, whose severed
head he holds in readiness to present to the conqueror.
\^Sensation amo?ig the guardsmen\ Nay, more : we found
that Caesar is already come ; for we had not made half a
day's journey on our way back when we came upon a city
rabble flying from his legions, whose landing they had gone
out to withstand.
BELZANOR. And yc, the temple guard ! did ye not with-
stand these legions r
BEL AFFRIS. What man could, that we did. But there
came the sound of a trumpet whose voice was as the curs-
ing of a black mountain. Then saw we a moving wall of
shields coming towards us. You know how the heart burns
96 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
when you charge a fortified wall ; but how if the fortified
wall were to charge you ?
THE PERSIAN \exulting in having told them 5o\ Did I not
say it ?
BEL AFFRis. When the wall came nigh, it changed into
a line of men — common fellows enough, with helmets,
leather tunics, and breastplates. Every man of them flung
his javelin : the one that came my way drove through my
shield as through a papyrus — lo there ! \he points to the
bandage on his left arm] and would have gone through my
neck had I not stooped. They were charging at the double
then, and were upon us with short swords almost as soon
as their javelins. When a man is close to you with such a
sword, you can do nothing with our weapons : they are all
too long.
THE PERSIAN. What did you do ?
BEL AFFRIS. Doubled my fist and smote my Roman on
the sharpness of his jaw. He was but mortal after all : he
lay down in a stupor ; and I took his sword and laid it on.
[Drawing the sword] Lo ! a Roman sword with Roman
blood on it!
THE GUARDSMEN [^approz'ingly] Good ! [^They take tl:e sword
and hand it round, examining it curiously].
THE PERSIAN. And your men ?
BEL AFFRIS. Fled. Scattered like sheep.
BELZANOR [furiously] The cowardly slaves ! Leaving the
descendants of the gods to be butchered !
BEL AFFRIS \with add coolness] The descendants of the
gods did not stay to be butchered, cousin. The battle was
not to the strong; but the race was to the swift. The
Romans, who have no chariots, sent a cloud of horsemen
in pursuit, and slew multitudes. Then our high priest's
captain rallied a dozen descendants of the gods and exhorted
us to die fighting. I said to myself: surely it is safer to stand
than to lose my breath and be stabbed in the back ; so I
joined our captain and stood. Then the Romans treated
us with respect; for no man attacks a lion when the field
Act 1 Caesar and Cleopatra 97
is full of sheep, except for the pride and honor of war, of
which these Romans know nothing. So we escaped with
our lives; and I am come to warn you that you must open
your gates to Caesar ; for his advance guard is scarce an
hour behind me ; and not an Egyptian warrior is left stand-
ing between you and his legions.
THE SENTINEL. Woc, alas ! [He throzus down his javelin
and fiies into the palace.^
BELZANOR. Nail him to the door, quick ! \_The guards ?nen
rush for hi?n with their spears; but he is too quick for them'].
Now this news will run through the palace like fire through
stubble.
BEL AFFRis. What shall we do to save the women from
the Romans?
BELZANOR. Why not kill them ?
PERSIAN. Because we should have to pay blood money
for some of them. Better let the Romans kill them : it is
cheaper.
BELZANOR \awestruck at his brain power] O subtle one !
O serpent !
BEL AFFRIS. But your Quccn ?
BELZANOR. Truc : we must carry off Cleopatra.
BEL AFFRIS. Will ye not await her command ?
BELZANOR. Command ! a girl of sixteen ! Not we. At
Memphis ye deem her a (^ueen : here we know better. I
will take her on the crupper of my horse. When we sol-
diers have carried her out of Czesar's reach, then the priests
and the nurses and the rest of them can pretend she is a
queen again, and put their commands into her mouth.
PERSIAN. Listen to me, Belzanor.
BELZANOR. Speak, O subtle beyond thy years.
THE PERSIAN. Clcopatra's brother Ptolemy is at war with
her. Let us sell her to him.
THE GUARDSMEN. O subtlc onc ! O scrpcnt !
BELZANOR. We dare not. We are descended from the
gods ; but Cleopatra is descended from the river Nile ; and
the lands of our fathers will grow no grain if the Nile rises
H
98 Three Plays for Puritans Act 1
not to water them. Without our father's gifts we should
live the lives of dogs.
PERSIAN. It is true : the Queen's guard cannot live on
its pay. But hear me further, O ye kinsmen of Osiris.
THE GUARDSMEN. Speak, O subtle One. Hear the serpent
begotten !
PERSIAN. Have I heretofore spoken truly to you of
Caesar, when you thought I mocked you ?
GUARDSMEN. Truly, truly.
BELZANOR [reluctantly admitting it] So Bel AfFris says.
PERSIAN. Hear more of him, then. This Caesar is a
great lover of women : he makes them his friends and
counsellors.
BELZANOR. Faugh ! This rule of women will be the
ruin of Egypt.
THE PERSIAN. Let it rather be the ruin of Rome ! Csesar
grows old now : he is past fifty and full of labors and battles.
He is too old for the young women ; and the old women
are too wise to worship him.
BEL AFFRIS. Take heed, Persian. C^sar is by this time
almost within earshot.
PERSIAN. Cleopatra is not yet a woman : neither is she
wise. But she already troubles men's wisdom.
BELZANOR. Ay : that is because she is descended from
the river Nile and a black kitten of the sacred White Cat.
What then ?
PERSIAN. Why, sell her secretly to Ptolemy, and then
offer ourselves to Caesar as volunteers to fight for the over-
throw of her brother and the rescue of our Queen, the
Great Granddaughter of the Nile.
THE GUARDSMEN. O scrpent !
PERSIAN. He will listen to us if we come with her
picture in our mouths. He will conquer and kill her
brother, and reign in Egypt with Cleopatra for his Queen.
And we shall be her guard.
GUARDSMEN. O subtlcst of all the serpents ! O admira-
tion ! O wisdom !
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 99
BEL AFFRis. Hc wiU also havc arrived before you have
done talking, O word spinner.
BELZANOR. That is true. [Jn affrighted uproar in the
palace interrupts him']. Quick : the flight has begun : guard
the door. [ They rush to the door and form a cordon before it
with their spears, A mob of women-servants and nurses surges
out. Those in front recoil from the spears^ screaming to those
behind to keep back. Belzanor's voice dominates the disturbance
as he shouts] Back there. In again, unprofitable cattle.
THE GUARDSMEN. Back, Unprofitable cattle.
BELZANOR. Send US out Ftatateeta, the Queen's chief
nurse.
THE WOMEN [calling into the palace] Ftatateeta, Ftatateeta.
Come, come. Speak to Belzanor.
A WOMAN. Oh, keep back. You are thrusting me on the
spearheads.
J huge grim woman, her face covered with a network of
tiny wrinkles, and her eyes old, large, and wise ; sinewy handed,
very tall, very strong ; with the mouth of a bloodhound and the
jaws of a bulldog, appears on the threshold. She is dressed like
a person of consequence in the palace, and confronts the guards-
men insolently.
FTATATEETA. Make Way for the Oueen's chief nurse.
BELZANOR [with sokmn arrogance] Ftatateeta : I am Bel-
zanor, the captain of the Queen's guard, descended from
the gods.
FTATATEETA [retorting his arrogance with interest] Bel-
zanor : I am Ftatateeta, the Queen's chief nurse ; and your
divine ancestors were proud to be painted on the wall in
the pyramids of the kings whom my fathers served.
The women laugh triumphantly.
BELZANOR \with grifu humor] Ftatateeta : daughter of a
long-tongued, swivel-eyed chameleon, the Romans are at
hand. \_A cry of terror from the women : they would fly but
for the spears]. Not even the descendants of the gods can
resist them ; for they havc each man seven arms, each
carrying seven spears. The blood in their veins is boiling
loo Three Plays for Puritans Act I
quicksilver; and their wives become mothers in three
hours, and are slain and eaten the next day.
A shudder of korror from the women. Ftatateeta^ despisi?ig
them and scorning the soldiers, pushes her way through the
crowd and confronts the spear points undismayed.
FTATATEETA. Then fly and save yourselves, O cowardly
sons of the cheap clay gods that are sold to fish porters ;
and leave us to shift for ourselves.
BELZANOR. Not Until you have first done our bidding, O
terror of manhood. Bring out Cleopatra the Oueen to us ;
and then go whither you will.
FTATATEETA \with a derisive laugh'] Now I know why the
gods have taken her out of our hands. \_The guardsmen start
and look at one another']. Know, thou foolish soldier, that
the Queen has been missing since an hour past sundown.
BELZANOR [furiously] Hag : you have hidden her to sell
to Cassar or her brother. \^He grasps her by the left wrist, and
drags her, helped by a few of the guard, to the middle of the
courtyard, where, as they fling her on her knees, he draws a
murderous looking knife]. Where is she? Where is she? or
— \he threatens to cut her throat],
FTATATEETA \savagely] Touch me, dog ; and the Nile
will not rise on your fields for seven times seven years of
famine.
BELZANOR [frightened, but desperate] I will sacrifice : I
will pay. Or stay. [To the Persian] You, O subtle one:
your father's lands lie far from the Nile. Slay her.
PERSIAN [threatening her with his knife] Persia has but
one god ; yet he loves the blood of old women. Where is
Cleopatra ?
FTATATEETA. Persian : as Osiris lives, I do not know.
I chid her for bringing evil days upon us by talking to the
sacred cats of the priests, and carrying them in her arms.
I told her she would be left alone here when the Romans
came as a punishment for her disobedience. And now
she is gone — runaway — hidden. I speak the truth. I
call Osiris to witness —
Act I Cassar and Cleopatra loi
THE WOMEN [protesting officiously'] She speaks the truth,
Belzanor.
BELZANOR. You havc frightened the child : she is hiding.
Search — quick — into the palace — search every corner.
The guards, led by Belzanor, shoulder their way into the
palace through the fiying crowd of women, who escape through
the courtyard gate.
FTATATEETA \screaming\ Sacrilege ! Men in the Queen's
chambers ! Sa — \her voice dies away as the Persian puts his
knife to her throat].
BEL AFFRis [laying a hand on Ftatateeta's left shoulder]
Forbear her yet a moment, Persian. [To Ftatateeta, very
significantly] Mother : your gods are asleep or away hunt-
ing ; and the sword is at your throat. Bring us to where
the Queen is hid, and you shall live.
FTATATEETA [contemptuously] Who shall stay the sword in
the hand of a fool, if the high gods put it there ? Listen
to me, ye young men without understanding. Cleopatra
fears me ; but she fears the Romans more. There is
but one power greater in her eyes than the wrath of
the Queen's nurse and the cruelty of Caesar ; and that
is the power of the Sphinx that sits in the desert watch-
ing the way to the sea. What she would have it know,
she tells into the ears of the sacred cats ; and on her
birthday she sacrifices to it and decks it with poppies. Go
ye therefore into the desert and seek Cleopatra in the
shadow of the Sphinx ; and on your heads see to it that
no harm comes to her.
BEL AFFRIS [to the Persian] May we believe this, O subtle
one?
PERSIAN. Which way come the Romans ?
BEL AFFRIS. Ovcr the desert, from the sea, by this very
Sphinx.
PERSIAN [to Ftatateeta] O mother of guile ! O aspic's
tongue ! You have made up this tale so that we two may
go into the desert and perish on the spears of the Romans.
[Lifting his knife] Taste death.
I02 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
FTATATEETA. Not Iroiii tliec, baby. \^Sh snatches his ankle
from under him and Jlies stooping along the palace wall, vanishing
in the darkness within its precinct. Bel Affris roars with
laughter as the Persian tumbles. The guardsmen rush out of
the palace with Belzanor and a mob of fugitives, mostly carry-
ing bundles'].
PERSIAN. Have you found Cleopatra ?
BELZANOR. She is gone. We have searched every corner.
THE NUBIAN SENTINEL [^appearing at the door of the palace]
Woe ! Alas ! Fly, fly !
BELZANOR. What is the matter now ?
THE NUBIAN SENTINEL. The sacred white cat has been
stolen.
ALL. Woe! woe! \_General panic. They all fly with cries
of consternation. The torch is thrown down and extinguished
in the rush. Darkness. The noise of the fugitives dies away.
Dead silence. Suspense. Then the blackness and stillness break
softly into silver mist and strange airs as the windswept harp
of Memnon plays at the dawning of the moon. It rises full over
the desert; and a vast horizon comes into relief broken by a
huge shape which soon reveals itself in the spreading radiance as
a Sphinx pedestalled on the sands. The light still clears, until
the upraised eyes of the image are distinguished looking straight
forward and upward in infiTiite fearless vigil, and a mass of
color between its great paws defines itself as a heap of red poppies
on which a girl lies motionless, her silken vest heaving gently
and regularly with the breathing of a dreamless sleeper, and her
braided hair glittering in a shaft of moonlight like a bird's
wing.
Suddenly there comes from afar a vaguely fearful sound {it
might be the bellow of a Minotaur softened by great distance')
and Me?nnon^s music stops. Silence: then a few faint high-
ringing trumpet notes. Then silence again. Then a man comes
from the south with stealing steps, ravished by the mystery of the
night, all wonder, and halts, lost in contemplation, opposite the
left flank of the Sphinx, whose bosom, with its burden, is hidden
fro?n him by its massive shoulder.
Act I Cssar and Cleopatra 103
THE MAN. Hail, Sphinx: salutation from Julius Csesar !
I have wandered in many lands, seeking the lost regions
from which my birth into this world exiled me, and the
company of creatures such as I myself. I have found
flocks and pastures, men and cities, but no other Caesar, no
air native to me, no man kindred to me, none who can do
my day's deed, and think my night's thought. In the little
world yonder, Sphinx, my place is as high as yours in this
great desert ; only I wander, and you sit still ; I conquer,
and you endure ; I work and wonder, you watch and wait ;
I look up and am dazzled, look down and am darkened, look
round and am puzzled, whilst your eyes never turn from
looking out — out of the world — to the lost region — the
home from which we have strayed. Sphinx, you and I,
strangers to the race of men, are no strangers to one another :
have I not been conscious of you and of this place since I
was born ? Rome is a madman's dream : this is my Reality.
These starry lamps of yours I have seen from afar in Gaul,
in Britain, in Spain, in Thessaly, signalling great secrets to
some eternal sentinel below, whose post I never could
find. And here at last is their sentinel — an image of the
constant and immortal part of my life, silent, full of
thoughts, alone in the silver desert. Sphinx, Sphinx : I
have climbed mountains at night to hear in the distance
the stealthy footfall of the winds that chase your sands in
forbidden play — our invisible children, O Sphinx, laughing
in whispers. My way hither was the way of destiny ; for
I am he of whose genius you are the symbol : part brute,
part woman, and part god — nothing of man in me at all.
Have I read your riddle. Sphinx ?
THE GIRL [who kas wakemd^ and peeped cautiously from
her nest to see who is speaking] Old gentleman.
CiESAR [starting violently^ and clutching his sword] Im-
mortal gods !
THE GIRL. Old gentleman : dont run away.
c^SAR [stupefed] "Old gentleman : dont run away" ! ! !
This! to Julius Caesar !
I04 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
THE GIRL [urgently'] Old gentleman.
c/ESAR. Sphinx : you presume on your centuries. I am
younger than you, though your voice is but a girl's voice
as yet.
THE GIRL. Climb up here, quickly ; or the Romans will
come and eat you.
c^SAR [running forward past the Sphinxes shoulder, and
seeing her] A child at its breast ! a divine child !
THE GIRL. Come up quickly. You must get up at its
side and creep round.
c^SAR [amaxed] Who are you ?
THE GIRL. Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt.
C-ffiSAR. Queen of the Gypsies, you mean.
CLEOPATRA. You must not be disrespectful to me, or the
Sphinx will let the Romans eat you. Come up. It is quite
cosy here.
c^sAR [to himself] What a dream ! What a magnificent
dream ! Only let me not wake, and I will conquer ten
continents to pay for dreaming it out to the end. [He
climbs to the Sphinx'* s flank, and presently reappears to her on
the pedestal, stepping round its right shoulder].
CLEOPATRA. Take care. That's right. Now sit down :
you may have its other paw. [She seats herself comfortably
on its left paw]. It is very powerful and will protect us ;
but [shivering, and with plaintive loneliness] it would not take
any notice of me or keep me company. I am glad you have
come : I was very lonely. Did you happen to see a white
cat anywhere ?
c^SAR [sitting slowly down on the right paw in extreme
wonderment] Have you lost one?
CLEOPATRA. Ycs : the sacred white cat : is it not dread-
ful ? I brought him here to sacrifice him to the Sphinx ;
but when we got a little way from the city a black cat
called him, and he jumped out of my arms and ran away
to it. Do you think that the black cat can have been my
great-great-great-grandmother ?
CiESAR [staring at her] Your great-great-great-grand-
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 105
mother ! Well, why not ? Nothing would surprise me on
this night of nights.
CLEOPATRA. I think it must have been. My great-grand-
mother's great-grandmother was a black kitten of the sacred
white cat ; and the river Nile made her his seventh wife.
That is why my hair is so wavy. And I always want to be
let do as I like, no matter whether it is the will of the gods
or not : that is because my blood is made with Nile water.
c^sAR. What are you doing here at this time of night ?
Do you live here ?
CLEOPATRA. Of coursc not : I am the Queen ; and I
shall live in the palace at Alexandria when I have killed
my brother, who drove me out of it. When I am old
enough I shall do just what I like. I shall be able to poison
the slaves and see them wriggle, and pretend to Ftatateeta
that she is going to be put into the fiery furnace.
c^SAR. Hm ! Meanwhile why are you not at home and
in bed?
CLEOPATRA. Bccausc the Romans are coming to eat us
all. You are not at home and in bed either.
c^sAR [with conviction\ Yes I am. I live in a tent ; and I
am now in that tent, fast asleep and dreaming. Do you
suppose that I believe you are real, you impossible little
dream witch ?
CLEOPATRA [giggling and leaning trustfully towards hini]
You are a funny old gentleman. I like you.
c^SAR. Ah, that spoils the dream. Why dont you
dream that I am young?
CLEOPATRA. I wish you were ; only I think I should be
more afraid of you. I like men, especially young men with
round strong arms ; but I am afraid of them. You are old
and rather thin and stringy ; but you have a nice voice ; and
I like to have somebody to talk to, though I think you are
a little mad. It is the moon that makes you talk to yourself
in that silly way.
c-flESAR. What! you heard that, did you? I was saying
my prayers to the great Sphinx.
io6 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
CLEOPATRA. But this isnt the great Sphinx.
CJESAR \7nuch disappointedy looking up at the statue] What !
CLEOPATRA. This is only a dear little kitten of a Sphinx.
Why, the great Sphinx is so big that it has a temple between
its paws. This is my pet Sphinx. Tell me : do you think
the Romans have any sorcerers who could take us away
from the Sphinx by magic?
Cu^SAR. Why.? Are you afraid of the Romans?
CLEOPATRA [z'ery seriously'] Oh, they would eat us if they
caught us. They are barbarians. Their chief is called
Julius Caesar. His father was a tiger and his mother a
burning mountain ; and his nose is like an elephant's trunk.
[Casar involuntarily rubs kis nose]. They all have long
noses, and ivory tusks, and little tails, and seven arms with
a hundred arrows in each; and they live on human flesh.
c^sAR. Would you like me to shew you a real Roman ?
CLEOPATRA [terrified] No. You are frightening me.
c^SAR. No matter : this is only a dream —
CLEOPATRA \excitedly] It is not a dream : it is not a
dream. See, see. [^ he plucks a pin from her hair and jabs it
repeatedly into his arm],
c^sAR. Ffff — Stop. [Wrathfully] How dare you?
CLEOPATRA \ahashed] You said you were dreaming.
[Whimpering] I only wanted to shew you —
c^sAR [gently] Come, come : dont cry. A queen mustnt
cry. [He rubs his arm^ wondering at the reality of the smart].
Ami awake ? [He strikes his hand against the Sphinx to test
its solidity. It feels so real that he begins to be alarmed ^ and
says perplexedly] Yes, I — [quite panic stricken] no : impos-
sible : madness, madness ! [Desperately] Back to camp —
to camp [He rises to spring down from the pedestal].
CLEOPATRA [flinging her arms in terror round him] No :
you shant leave me. No, no, no : dont go. I'm afraid —
afraid of the Romans.
c^sAR [as the conviction that he is really awake forces
itself on him] Cleopatra : can you see my face well?
CLEOPATRA. Ycs. It is SO whitc in the moonlight.
Act I Cassar and Cleopatra 107
c^SAR. Are you sure it is the moonlight that makes me
look whiter than an Egyptian? [Grim/y] Do you notice
that I have a rather long nose ?
CLEOPATRA [recoi/t/ig^para/yzed by a terrible suspicion] Oh !
C7ESAR. It is a Roman nose, Cleopatra,
CLEOPATRA. Ah ! [JVith a piercing scream she springs up ;
darts round the left shoulder of the Sphinx; scrambles down
to the sand; and falls on her knees in frantic supplicdtton^
shrieking] Bite him in two, Sphinx : bite him in two. I
meant to sacrifice the white cat — I did indeed — I \C,asar^
tuho has slipped down from the pedestal, touches her on the
shoulder] Ah ! \She buries her head in her arms].
CESAR. Cleopatra : shall I teach you a way to prevent
Caesar from eating you ?
CLEOPATRA [cHnging to hi?n piteously] Oh do, do, do. I
will steal Ftatateeta's jewels and give them to you. I will
make the river Nile water your lands twice a year.
CiESAR. Peace, peace, my child. Your gods are afraid
of the Romans : you see the Sphinx dare not bite me, nor
prevent me carrying you off to Julius Ceesar.
CLEOPATRA \in pleading murmurings] You wont, you
wont. You said you wouldnt.
C-ffiSAR. Caesar never eats women.
CLEOPATRA [springing up full of hope] What !
c^sAR [impressively] But he eats girls [she relapses] and
cats. Now you are a silly little girl ; and you are descended
from the black kitten. You are both a girl and a cat.
CLEOPATRA [trembling] And will he eat me?
c^sAR. Yes; unless you make him believe that you are
a woman.
CLEOPATRA. Oh, you must get a sorcerer to make a
woman of me. Are you a sorcerer?
c^SAR. Perhaps. But it will take a long time ; and this
very night you must stand face to face with C^sar in the
palace of your fathers.
CLEOPATRA. No, no. I dafcnt.
Ci^sAR. Whatever dread may be in your soul — however
io8 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
terrible C^sar may be to you — you must confront him as
a brave woman and a great queen ; and you must feel no
fear. If your hand shakes : if your voice quavers ; then —
night and death ! [S/:e 7noa7is\. But if he thinks you worthy
to rule, he will set you on the throne by his side and make
you the real ruler of Egypt.
CLEOPATRA [despairingly'] No : he will find me out : he
will find me out.
c^sAR [rather mournfully'] He is easily deceived by
women. Their eyes dazzle him ; and he sees them not as
they are, but as he wishes them to appear to him.
CLEOPATRA [kopefully] Then we will cheat him. I will
put on Ftatateeta's head-dress; and he will think me quite
an old woman.
c^SAR. If you do that he will eat you at one mouthful.
CLEOPATRA. But I w^ill give him a cake with my magic
opal and seven hairs of the white cat baked in it; and —
c^sAR [abruptly] Pah ! you are a little fool. He will
eat your cake and you too. [He turns contemptuously from
her],
CLEOPATRA [running after him and clinging to hitn] Oh
please, please ! I will do whatever you tell me. I will be
good. I will be your slave. [Again the terrible bellowing
note sounds across the desert, now closer at hand. It is the
bucina, the Roman war trumpet].
c^sAR. Hark !
CLEOPATRA [trembling] What was that ?
c^sAR. Caesar's voice.
CLEOPATRA [pulUng at his hand] Let us run away. Come.
Oh, come.
c^SAR. You are safe with me until you stand on your
throne to receive Caesar. Now lead me thither.
CLEOPATRA [only too glad to get away] I will, I will.
[Again the bucina]. Oh come, come, come : the gods are
angry. Do you feel the earth shaking?
c-^SAR. It is the tread of Caesar's legions.
CLEOPATRA [drawing him away] This way, quickly. And
Act I Cssar and Cleopatra 109
let us look for the white cat as we go. It is he that has
turned you into a Roman.
c^SAR. Incorrigible, oh, incorrigible ! Away ! [He
follows her^ the bucina sounding louder as they steal across the
desert. The moonlight wanes : the horizon again shows black
against the sky, broken only by the fantastic silhouette of the
Sphinx. The sky itself vanishes in darkness, from which there
is no relief until the gleam of a distant torch falls on great
Egyptian pillars supporting the roof of a majestic corridor. At
the further end of this corridor a Nubian slave appears carry-
ing the torch. Casar, still led by Cleopatra, follows him. They
come down the corridor, Casar peering keenly about at the
strange architecture, and at the pillar shadows between which,
as the passing torch makes them hurry noiselessly backwards,
figures of men with wings and hawks' heads, and vast black
marble cats, seem to flit in and out of ambush. Further along,
the wall turns a corner and makes a spacious transept in which
Casar sees, on his right, a throne, and behind the throne a door.
On each side of the throne is a slender pillar with a lamp on it.
c^SAR. What place is this ?
CLEOPATRA. This is where I sit on the throne when I
am allowed to wear my crown and robes. \The slave holds
his torch to shew the throne^
c^sAR. Order the slave to light the lamps.
CLEOPATRA \shyly'\ Do you think I may ?
CJESAR. Of course. You are the Oueen. [She hesitates'].
Go on.
CLEOPATRA [timidly, to the slave] Light all the lamps.
FTATATEETA [suddenly coming from behind the throne] Stop.
[ The slave stops. She turns sternly to Cleopatra, who quails
like a naughty child]. Who is this you have with you ; and
how dare you order the lamps to be lighted without my
permission ? [Cleopatra is dumb with apprehension],
c^SAR. Who is she ?
CLEOPATRA. Ftatatccta.
FTATATEETA [arrogantly] Chief nurse to —
c^sAR [cutting her short] I speak to the Queen. Be silent.
1 10 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
[To Cleopatra] Is this how your servants know their places ?
Send her away ; and do you [to the slave] do as the Queen
has bidden. [The slave lights the lamps. Meanwhile Cleo-
patra stands hesitating^ afraid of Ftatateeta], You are the
Queen : send her away.
CLEOPATRA [cajoUng] Ftatateeta, dear : you must go away
— just for a little.
c^SAR. You are not commanding her to go away : you
are begging her. You are no Queen. You will be eaten.
Farewell. [He turns to go\
CLEOPATRA [clutching him] No, no, no. Dont leave me.
c^sAR. A Roman does not stay with queens who are
afraid of their slaves.
CLEOPATRA. I am not afraid. Indeed I am not afraid.
FTATATEETA. We shall scc who is afraid here. [Mena-
cingly] Cleopatra —
c^sAR. On your knees, woman : am I also a child that
you dare trifle with me ? [He points to the floor at Cleopatra's
feet. Ftatateeta, half cowed, half savage, hesitates. Ccesar
calls to the Nubian] Slave. [The Nubian comes to him] Can
you cut off a head? [The Nubian nods and grins ecstatically,
showing all his teeth. Casar takes his sword by the scab-
bard, ready to offer the hilt to the Nubian, and turns again
to Ftatateeta, repeating his gesture]. Have you remembered
yourself, mistress t
Ftatateeta, crushed, kneels before Cleopatra, who can hardly
believe her eyes.
FTATATEETA [hoarsely] O Queen, forget not thy servant
in the days of thy greatness.
CLEOPATRA [blazing with excitement] Go. Begone. Go
away. [Ftatateeta rises with stooped head, and moves backwards
towards the door. Cleopatra watches her submission eagerly,
almost clapping her hands, which are trembling. Suddenly she
cries] Give me something to beat her with. [She snatches a
snake-skin from the throne and dashes after Ftatateeta, whirling
it like a scourge in the air. Ccesar ?nakes a bound and manages
to catch her and hold her while Ftatateeta escapes].
Act I Cssar and Cleopatra 1 1 1
CiESAR. You scratch, kitten, do you ?
CLEOPATRA [breaking from him) I will beat somebody. I
will beat him. [She attacks the slave']. There, there, there !
[The slave fiies for his life up the corridor and vanishes. She
throws the snake-skin away and jumps on the step of the throne
with her arms waving^ crying] I am a real Queen at last —
a real, real Queen ! Cleopatra the Queen ! [Casar shakes
his head dubiously^ the advantage of the cha?ige seeming open to
question from the point of view of the general welfare of Egypt.
She turns and looks at him exultantly. Then she jumps down
from the step., runs to him., and fiings her arms round him
rapturously^ crying] Oh, I love you for making me a
Queen.
c^SAR. But queens love only kings.
CLEOPATRA. I will make all the men I love kings. I will
make you a king. I will have many young kings, with
round, strong arms ; and when I am tired of them I will
whip them to death ; but you shall always be my king :
my nice, kind, wise, good old king.
CESAR. Oh, my wrinkles, my wrinkles ! And my child's
heart ! You will be the most dangerous of all Caesar's con-
quests.
CLEOPATRA [appalled] Caesar ! I forgot Caesar. [Anxiously]
You will tell him that I am a Queen, will you not? — a
real Queen. Listen ! [stealthily coaxing him] : let us run
away and hide until Caesar is gone.
c^SAR. If you fear Caesar, you are no true queen ; and
though you were to hide beneath a pyramid, he would go
straight to it and lift it with one hand. And then — ! [he
chops his teeth together].
CLEOPATRA [trembling] Oh !
c^SAR. Be afraid if you dare. [The note of the bucina re-
sounds again in the distance. She moans with fear, desar
exults in it, exclaiming] Aha ! Csesar approaches the throne
of Cleopatra. Come : take your place. [He takes her hand
and leads her to the throne. She is too downcast to speak]. Ho,
there, Teetatota. How do you call your slaves ?
1 12 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
CLEOPATRA [^Spiritlessly, as she siriRs on the throne and cowers
there, shaking"]. Clap your hands.
He claps Ins hands. Ftatateeta returns,
c^SAR. Bring the Oueen's robes, and her crown, and
her women ; and prepare her.
CLEOPATRA [eagerly — recovering herself a little] Yes, the
crown, Ftatateeta : I shall wear the crown.
FTATATEETA. For whom must the Queen put on her state ?
c^SAR. For a citizen of Rome. A king of kings, Tota-
tceta.
CLEOPATRA [stamping at her] How dare you ask ques-
tions? Go and do as you are told. [Ftatateeta goes out with
a grim smile. Cleopatra goes on eagerly, to Ccesar] Caesar will
know that I am a Queen when he sees my crown and robes,
will he not?
c^sAR. No. How shall he know that you are not a
slave dressed up in the Queen's ornaments ?
CLEOPATRA. You must tell him.
c^SAR. He will not ask me. He will know Cleopatra by
her pride, her courage, her majesty, and her beauty, [^he
looks very doubtful]. Are you trembling ?
CLEOPATRA [shivering with dread] No, I — I — [in a very
sickly voice] No.
Ftatateeta and three women come in with the regalia.
FTATATEETA. Of all the Queen's women, these three
alone are left. The rest are fled. [They begin to deck Cleo-
patra, who submits, pale and motionless].
Ci^SAR. Good, good. TM^ are enough. Poor Caesar
generally has to dress himseln^
FTATATEETA [contemptuously] The queen of Egypt is not
a Roman barbarian. [To Cleopatra] Be brave, my nursling.
Hold up your head before this stranger.
c^SAR [adfniring Cleopatra, and placing the crown on her
head] Is it sweet or bitter to be a Queen, Cleopatra?
CLEOPATRA. Bitter.
c^SAR. Cast out fear; and you will conquer Caesar.
Tota : arc the Romans at hand ?
Act 1 Caesar and Cleopatra 1 1 3
FTATATEETA. They are at hand ; and the guard has fled.
THE WOMEN [waiHng subduedlj\ Woe to us !
The Nubian comes running down the halL
NUBIAN. The Romans are in the courtyard. \He holts
through the door. With a shriek, the women fly after him.
Ftatateeta^s jaw expresses savage resolution: she does not budge.
Cleopatra can hardly restrain herself from following them.
Casar grips her wrist, and looks steadfastly at her. She stands
like a martyr\
c^SAR. The Queen must face Csesar alone. Answer
"So be it."
CLEOPATRA \white'\ So be it.
c^sAR [releasing her] Good.
J tramp and tumult of armed men is heard. Cleopatra^ s
terror increases. The bucina sounds close at hand, followed by a
formidable clangor of trumpets. This is too much for Cleopatra:
she utters a cry and darts towards the door. Ftatateeta stops
her ruthlessly.
FTATATEETA. You are my nursling. You have said " So
be it"; and if you die for it, you must make the Queen's
word good. [She hands Cleopatra to Casar, who takes her
back, almost beside herself with apprehension, to the throne].
c^sAR. Now, if you quail — ! [He seats himself on the
throne].
She stands on the step, all but unconscious, waiting for death.
The Roman soldiers troop in tumultuously through the corridor,
headed by their ensign with his eagle, and their bucinator, a
burly fellow with his instrument coiled round his body, its braxen
bell shaped like the head of a howling wolf When they reach
the transept, they stare in amazement at the throne ; dress into
ordered rank opposite it; draw their swords and lift them ifi
the air with a shout ^Hail, C^sar. Cleopatra turns and
stares wildly at Casar ; grasps the situation; and, with a great
sob of relief , falls into his arms.
ACT II
Alexandria. A hall on the first Jioor of the Palace^ ending
in a loggia approached by two steps. Through the arches of the
loggia the Mediterranean can be seen, bright in the morning
sun. The clean lofty walls, painted with a procession of the
Egyptian theocracy, presented in profile as fiat ornament, and
the absence of mirrors, sham perspectives, stuffy upholstery and
textiles, make the place handsome, wholesome, simple and cool,
or, as a rich English manufacturer would express it, poor, bare,
ridiculous and unhomely. For Tottenham Court Road civiliza-
tion is to this Egyptian civilization as glass bead and tattoo
civilization is to Tottenham Court Road.
The young king Ptolemy Dionysus {aged ten) is at the top
of the steps, on his way in through the loggia, led by his guardian
Pothinus, who has him by the hand. The court is assembled to
receive hitn. It is made up of men and women {some of the
women being ofiicials) of various co?nplexions and races, mostly
Egyptian; some of them, comparatively fair, from lower Egypt;
some, much darker, from upper Egypt; with a few Greeks and
Jews. Prominent in a group on Ptolemy's right hand is Theo-
dotus, Ptolemfs tutor. Another group, on Ptolemfs left, is
headed by Achillas, the general of Ptolemy's troops. Theodotus
is a little old man, whose features are as cramped and wizened
as his limbs, except his tall straight forehead, which occupies
more space than all the rest of his face. He maintains an air of
magpie keenness and profundity, listening to what the others say
with the sarcastic vigilance of a philosopher listening to the exer-
Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 1 1 5
cises of his disciples, Achillas is a tall handsome man of thirty -
five, with a fine black beard curled like the coat of a poodle.
Apparently not a clever man, but distinguished and dignified,
Pothinus is a vigorous man of fifty, a eu?iuch, passionate, ener-
getic and quick witted, but of common mind and character ;
impatient and unable to control his temper. He has fine tawny
hair, like fur. Ptolemy, the King, looks much older than an
English boy of ten; but he has the childish air, the habit of
being in leading strings, the mixture of impotence and petulance,
the appearance of bei?jg excessively washed, combed and dressed
by other hands, which is exhibited by court-bred princes of all
ages.
All receive the King with reverences. He comes down the
steps to a chair of state which stands a little to his right, the
only seat in the hall. Taking his place before it, he looks nervously
for instructions to Pothinus, who places himself at his left hand.
POTHINUS. The king of Egypt has a word to speak.
THEODOTUS \in a squeak which he makes impressive by sheer
selfopinionativeness'^^ Peace for the King's word !
PTOLEMY [without any vocal infiexions : he is evidently repeat-
ing a lesson'] Take notice of this all of you. I am the first-
born son of Auletes the Flute Blower who was your King.
My sister Berenice drove him from his throne and reigned
in his stead but — but — \_he hesitates] —
POTHINUS [stealthily prompting] — but the gods would not
suffer —
PTOLEMY. Yes — the gods would not suffer — not suffer
— [H^ stops; then, crestfallen] I forget what the gods would
not suffer.
THEODOTUS. Let Pothinus, the King's guardian, speak for
the King.
POTHINUS [suppressing his impatience with difficulty] The
King wished to say that the gods would not suffer the
impiety of his sister to go unpunished.
PTOLEMY [hastily] Yes : I remember the rest of it. [He
resumes his monotone]. Therefore the gods sent a stranger
ii6 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
one Mark Antony a Roman captain of horsemen across the
sands of the desert and he set my father again upon the
throne. And my father took Berenice my sister and struck
her head off. And now that my father is dead yet another
of his daughters my sister Cleopatra would snatch the king-
dom from me and reign in my place. But the gods would
not suffer — {Fotkinus coughs admonitorilj\ — the gods — the
gods would not suffer —
poTHiNUS [prompting] — will not maintain —
PTOLEMY. Oh yes — will not maintain such iniquity they
will give her head to the axe even as her sister's. But with
the help of the witch Ftatateeta she hath cast a spell on the
Roman Julius Caesar to make him uphold her false pretence
to rule in Egypt. Take notice then that I will not suffer
— that I will not suffer — [pettishly, to Pothinus] What is
it that I will not suffer ?
POTHINUS [suddenly exploding with all the force and emphasis
of political passion] The King will not suffer a foreigner to
take from him the throne of our Egypt. [A shout of ap-
plause]. Tell the King, Achillas, how many soldiers and
horsemen follow the Roman ?
THEODOTus. Let the King's general speak !
ACHILLAS. But two Roman legions, O King. Three
thousand soldiers and scarce a thousand horsemen.
The court breaks into derisive laughter; and a great chat-
tering begins, amid zuhich Rufio, a Roman officer, appears in
the loggia. He is a burl"^, black-bearded man of middle age,
very blunt, prompt and rough, with small clear eyes, and plump
nose and cheeks, which, however, like the rest of his flesh, are in
ironhard condition,
RUFio [from the steps] Peace, ho! [The laughter and
chatter cease abruptly]. Caesar approaches.
THEODOTUS [with much presence of mind] The King per-
mits the Roman commander to enter !
Ccssar, plainly dressed, but wearing an oak wreath to conceal
his baldness, enters fro7n the loggia, attended by Brit annus, his
secretary, a Briton, about forty, tall, solemn, and already
Act II C^sar and Cleopatra 1 1 7
slightly bald, with a heavy, drooping, hazel-colored moustache
trained so as to lose its ends in a pair of trim whiskers. He is
carefully dressed in blue, with portfolio^ inkhorn, and reed pen
at his girdle. His serious air and sense of the importance of the
business in hand is in marked contrast to the kindly interest of
Casar, who looks at the scene, which is new to him, with the
frank curiosity of a child, and then turns to the king's chair :
Britajinus and Rufio posting the7nsek'es near the steps at the
other side.
c^SAR \looking at Pothinus and Ptolemy'] Which is the
King? the man or the boy?
POTHINUS. I am Pothinus, the guardian of my l©rd the
King.
c^SAR [patting Ptolemy kindly on the shoulder] So you are
the King. Dull work at your age, eh? [To Pothinus] Your
servant, Pothinus. [He turns away unconcernedly and comes
slowly alojig the middle of the hall, looking from side to side at
the courtiers until he reaches Achillas]. And this gentleman ?
THEODOTus. Achillas, the King's general.
c^SAR [to Achillas, very friendly] A general, eh? I am a
general myself. But I began too old, too old. Health and
many victories, Achillas !
ACHILLAS. As the gods will, Cssar.
c^sAR [turning to Theodotus] And you, sir, are — ?
THEODOTUS. Thcodotus, the King's tutor.
CiESAR. You teach men how to be kings, Theodotus.
That is very clever of you. [Looking at the gods on the walls
as he turns away from Theodotus and goes up again to Pothinus]
And this place ?
POTHINUS. The council chamber of the chancellors of
tlTe King's treasury, Caesar.
c^sAR. Ah ! that reminds me. I want some money.
POTHINUS. The King's treasury is poor, Caesar.
c/ESAR. Yes: I notice that there is but one chair in it.
RUFIO [shouting gruffiy] Bring a chair there, some of
you, for Cssar.
PTOLEMY [rising shyly to offer his chair] Cassar —
ii8 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
c^SAR [kindly"] No, no, my boy : that is your chair of
state. Sit down.
He makes Ptolemy sit down again. Meanwhile Rufio, look-
ing about him^ sees in the nearest corner an image of the god
Ra^ represented as a seated man with the head of a hawk.
Before the image is a bronze tripod, about as large as a three-
legged stool, with a stick of incense burning on it. Rufio, with
Roman resourcefulness and indifference to foreign superstitions,
promptly seizes the tripod ; shakes off the incense ; blows away
the ash; and dumps it down behind Casar, nearly in the middle
of the hall.
RUFio. Sit on that, Cassar.
A shiver runs through the court, followed by a hissing
whisper ^^/^ Sacrilege !
c^sAR [seating himself] Now, Pothinus, to business. I
am badly in want of money.
BRiTANNus [disapproving of these informal expressions] My
master would say that there is a lawful debt due to Rome
by Egypt, contracted by the King's deceased father to the
Triumvirate ; and that it is Cassar's duty to his country to
require immediate payment.
c^SAR [blandly] Ah, I forgot. I have not made my
companions known here. Pothinus : this is Britannus, my
secretary. He is an islander from the western end of the
world, a day's voyage from Gaul. [Britannus bows stiffly].
This gentleman is Ruiio, my comrade in arms. [Rufio nods],
Pothinus: I want i,6oo talents.
The courtiers, appalled, murmur loudly, and Theodotus and
Achillas appeal mutely to one another against so monstrous a
demand.
POTHINUS [aghast] Forty million sesterces! Impossible.
There is not so much money in the King's treasury.
CESAR [encouragingly] Only sixteen hundred talents,
Pothinus. Why count it in sesterces? A sestertius is only
worth a loaf of bread.
POTHINUS. And a talent is worth a racehorse. I say it is
impossible. We have been at strife here, because the King's
Act II Csesar and Cleopatra 1 1 9
sister Cleopatra falsely claims his throne. The King's taxes
have not been collected for a whole year.
CiESAR. Yes they have, Pothinus. My officers have been
collecting them all the morning. {^Renewed whisper and sen-
sation^ not without some stified laughter^ among the courtiers\
RUFio [bluntly'] You must pay, Pothinus. Why waste
words? You are getting off cheaply enough.
POTHINUS [^bitterly] Is it possible that Cassar, the con-
queror of the world, has time to occupy himself with such
a trifle as our taxes ?
c^SAR. My friend : taxes are the chief business of a
conqueror of the world.
POTHINUS. Then take warning, Caesar. This day, the
treasures of the temples and the gold of the King's treasury
shall be sent to the mint to be melted down for our ransom
in the sight of the people. They shall see us sitting under
bare walls and drinking from wooden cups. And their
wrath be on your head, Ceesar, if you force us to this
sacrilege !
c^SAR. Do not fear, Pothinus : the people know how well
wine tastes in wooden cups. In return for your bounty, I
will settle this dispute about the throne for you, if you will.
What say you ?
POTHINUS. If I say no, will that hinder you ?
RUFIO \_dejiantly'] No.
c^SAR. You say the matter has been at issue for a year,
Pothinus. May I have ten minutes at it?
POTHINUS. You will do your pleasure, doubtless.
c^sAR. Good! But first, let us have Cleopatra here.
THEODOTus. She is not in Alexandria : she is fled into
Syria.
c^SAR. I think not. [To Rufio] Call Totateeta.
RUFio [Calling] Ho there, Teetatota.
Ftatateeta enters the loggia^ and stands arrogantly at the top
of the steps.
FTATATEETA. Who prououuccs the name of Ftatateeta,
the Queen's chief nurse?
I20 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
c.'ESAR. Nobody can pronounce it, Tota, except your-
self. Where is your mistress?
Cleopatra^ who is hiding behind Ftatateeta, peeps out at theni^
laughing. Ccesnr rises.
c^SAR. Will the Queen favor us with her presence for
a moment?
CLEOPATRA \_pushing Ftatateeta aside and standing haughtily
on the brink of tl:e steps] Am I to behave like a Oueen?
c^SAR. Yes.
Cleopatra immediately comes down to the chair of state ;
seizes Ptolemy ; drags him out of his seat ; then takes his
place in the chair. Ftatateeta seats herself on the step of the
loggia, and sits there ^ watching the scene with sibylline intensity.
PTOLEMY \jnortified, and strugglifig with his tears] Csesar :
this is how she treats me always. If I am a king why is
she allowed to take everything from me?
CLEOPATRA. You are not to be King, you little cry-baby.
You are to be eaten by the Romans.
CJESkK [touched by Ptolemy's distress] Come here, my boy,
and stand by me.
Ptolemy goes over to Casar, who, resuming his seat on the
tripod, takes the bofs hand to encourage him. Cleopatra, furi-
ously jealous, rises and glares at them.
CLEOPATRA \with faming cheeks] Take your throne : I
dont want it. [She flings away from the chair, and approaches
Ptolemy, who shrinks from her]. Go this instant and sit
down in your place.
c^sAR. Go, Ptolemy. Always take a throne when it is
offered to you.
RUFio. I hope you will have the good sense to follow
your own advice when we return to Rome, Caesar.
Ptolemy slowly goes back to the throne, giving Cleopatra a
wide berth, in evident fear of her hands. She takes his place
beside Casar.
c-flESAR. Pothinus —
CLEOPATRA [interrupting him] Are you not going to speak
to me ?
Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 121
c^sAR. Be quiet. Open your mouth again before I give
you leave ; and you shall be eaten.
CLEOPATRA. I am not afraid. A queen must not be afraid.
Eat my husband there, if you like : he is afraid.
c^sAR [starting] Your husband ! What do you mean ?
CLEOPATRA [pointing to Ptolemy] That little thing.
T/:e two Rotnans and the Briton stare at o?ie another in
amaze?nent.
THEODOTUS. Caesar : you are a stranger here, and not
conversant v^dth our laws. The kings and queens of Egypt
may not marry except with their own royal blood. Ptolemy
and Cleopatra are born king and consort just as they are
born brother and sister.
BRiTANNUs [shocked] Caesar : this is not proper.
THEODOTUS [outraged] How !
c^SAR [recovering his self-possession] Pardon him, Theo-
dotus : he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his
tribe and island are the laws of nature.
BRITANNUS. On the contrary, Caesar, it is these Egyptians
who are barbarians ; and you do wrong to encourage them.
I say it is a scandal.
c^sAR. Scandal or not, my friend, it opens the gate of
peace. [He addresses Pothinus seriously]. Pothinus : hear
what I propose.
RUFio. Hear Cassar there.
c^sAR. Ptolemy and Cleopatra shall reign jointly in
Egypt.
ACHILLAS. What of the King's younger brother and
Cleopatra's younger sister?
RUFIO [explaining] There is another little Ptolemy,
Caesar : so they tell me.
c-^SAR. Well, the little Ptolemy can marry the other
sister ; and we will make them both a present of Cyprus.
POTHINUS [impatiently] Cyprus is of no use to any-
body.
c^SAR. No matter : you shall have it for the sake of
peace.
122 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
BRiTANNUs [uncoTJSciously anticipating a later statesman'\
Peace with honor, Pothinus.
POTHINUS [mutinously] Caesar : be honest. The money
you demand is the price of our freedom. Take it ; and leave
us to settle our own affairs.
THE BOLDER COURTIERS \_encouraged by Pothinus s tone and
Cesar's quietness] Yes, yes. Egypt for the Egyptians !
The conference now becomes an altercation, the Egyptians
becoming more and more heated. Casar remains unruffled; but
Rufio grows fiercer and doggeder, and Brit annus haughtily in-
Jt.
RUFio [contemptuously] Egypt for the Egyptians ! Do you
forget that there is a Roman army of occupation here, left
by Aulus Gabinius when he set up your toy king for
you ?
ACHILLAS [suddenly asserting himself] And now under my
command. / am the Roman general here, Caesar.
c^sAR [tickled by the humor of the situation] And also the
Egyptian general, eh?
POTHINUS [triumphantly] That is so, Ceesar.
c^SAR [to Achillas] So you can make war on the
Egyptians in the name of Rome, and on the Romans — on
me, if necessary — in the name of Egypt.''
ACHILLAS. That is so, Caesar.
c^SAR. And which side are you on at present, if I may
presume to ask, general ?
ACHILLAS. On the side of the right and of the gods.
c^sAR. Hm ! How many men have you ?
ACHILLAS. That will appear when I take the field.
RUFio [truculently] Are your men Romans ? If not, it
matters not how many there are, provided you are no
stronger than 500 to ten.
POTHINUS. It is useless to try to bluff us, Rufio. Caesar
has been defeated before and may be defeated again. A
few weeks ago Caesar was flying for his life before Pompey:
a few months hence he may be flying for his life before
Cato and Juba of Numidia, the African King.
Act II Cssar and Cleopatra 123
ACHILLAS \^ following up Pothinus^s speech menacingly\ What
can you do with 4,000 men ?
THEODOTUS \_ following up Achillas' s speech with a raucous
squeak] And without money? Away with you.
ALL THE COURTIERS \shouting fiercely and crowding towards
C^sar] Away with you. Egypt for the Egyptians ! Begone.
Rufio bites his beard, too angry to speak. Cessar sits as com-
fortably as if he were at breakfast, and the cat were clamoring
for a piece of Finnan-haddie.
CLEOPATRA. Why do you let them talk to you like that^
Cassar? Are you afraid?
c^SAR. Why, my dear, what they say is quite true.
CLEOPATRA. But if you go away, I shall not be Queen.
c^SAR. I shall not go away until you are gueen.
POTHINUS. Achillas : if you are not a fool, you will take
that girl whilst she is under your hand.
RUFIO [daring them"] Why not take Caesar as well, Achillas?
POTHINUS [retorting the defiance with interest'] Well said,
Rufio. Why not?
RUFIO. Try, Achillas. [Calling] Guard there.
The loggia immediately fills with Casar's soldiers, who stand,
sword in hand, at the top of the steps, waiting the word to charge
from their centurion, who carries a cudgel. For a moment the
Egyptians face them proudly : then they retire sullenly to their
former places.
BRiTANNus. You are Caesar's prisoners, all of you.
ciESAR [benevolently] Oh no, no, no. By no means. Caesar's
guests, gentlemen.
CLEOPATRA. Wont you cut their heads off?
c^SAR. What! Cut off your brother's head?
CLEOPATRA. Why not ? He would cut off mine, if he got
the chance. Wouldnt you, Ptolemy ?
PTOLEMY [pale and obstinate] I would. I will, too, when
I grow up.
Cleopatra is rent by a struggle between her newly-acquired
dignity as a queen, and a strong impulse to put out her tongue at
him. She takes no part in the scene which follows, but watches
1 24 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
// zvith curiosity and wonder^ fidgeting with the restlessness of a
childy and sitting down on Casar^s tripod when he rises.
POTHINUS. Caesar: if you attempt to detain us —
RUFio. He will succeed, Egyptian : make up your mind
to that. We hold the palace, the beach, and the eastern
harbor. The road to Rome is open ; and you shall travel
it if Caesar chooses.
Ci^SAR \courteouslf\ I could do no less, Pothinus, to secure
the retreat of my own soldiers. I am accountable for every
life among them. But you are free to go. So are all here,
and in the palace.
RUFIO \aghast at this clemency^ What ! Renegades and
all?
c^SAR [softeni?ig the expression"] Roman army of occupa-
tion and all, Rufio.
POTHINUS [^desperately] Then I make a last appeal to
Caesar's justice. I shall call a witness to prove that but for
us, the Roman army of occupation, led by the greatest
soldier in the world, would now have Caesar at its mercy.
[Calling through the loggia] Ho, there, Lucius Septimius
[Ci^sar starts, deeply moved]: if my voice can reach you,
come forth and testify before C2;sar.
c^.SAR [shrinking] No, no.
THEODOTus. Yes, I Say. Let the military tribune bear
witness.
Lucius Septimius, a clean shaven, trim athlete of about 40,
with symmetrical features, resolute mouth, and handso7?ie, thin
Roman nose, in the dress of a Roman officer, comes in through
the loggia and confronts Casar, who hides his face with his robe
for a mo?nent ; then, mastering himself, drops it, and confronts
the tribu?:e with dignity.
POTHINUS. Bear witness, Lucius Septimius. Csesar came
hither in pursuit of his foe. Did we shelter his foe?
LUCIUS. As Pompey's foot touched the Egyptian shore,
his head fell by the stroke of my sword.
THEODOTUS [with vipcrish relish] Under the eyes of his
wife and child ! Remember that, Caesar ! They saw it from
Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 125
the ship he had just left. We have given you a full and
sweet measure of vengeance.
Ci^sAR [with horror] Vengeance !
poTHiNus. Our first gift to you, as your galley came into
the roadstead, was the head of your rival for the empire of
the world. Bear witness, Lucius Septimius : is it not so?
LUCIUS. It is so. With this hand, that slew Pompey, I
placed his head at the feet of Caesar.
c^sAR. Murderer ! So would you have slain Caesar, had
Pompey been victorious at Pharsalia.
LUCIUS. Woe to the vanquished, Caesar ! When I served
Pompey, I slew as good men as he, only because he con-
quered them. His turn came at last.
THEODOTus [flatteringly'] The deed was not yours, Caesar,
but ours — nay, mine; for it was done by my counsel.
Thanks to us, you keep your reputation for clemency, and
have your vengeance too.
c^SAR. Vengeance ! Vengeance ! ! Oh, if I could stoop
to vengeance, what would I not exact from you as the price
of this murdered man's blood? [T/:ey shrink back^ appalled
and disconcerted]. Was he not my son-in-law, my ancient
friend, for 20 years the master of great Rome, for 30 years
the compeller of victory? Did not I, as a Roman, share
his glory? Was the Fate that forced us to fight for the
mastery of the world, of our making? Am I Julius Caesar,
or am I a wolf, that you fling to me the grey head of the
old soldier, the laurelled conqueror, the mighty Roman,
treacherously struck down by this callous ruffian, and then
claim my gratitude for it! [To Lucius Septimius] Begone:
you fill me with horror.
LUCIUS [cold and undaunted] Pshaw ! You have seen sev-
ered heads before, Caesar, and severed right hands too, I
think ; some thousands of them, in Gaul, after you van-
quished Vercingetorix. Did you spare him, with all your
clemency? Was that vengeance?
c^SAR. No, by the gods ! would that it had been ! Ven-
geance at least is human. No^ I say : those severed right
126 Three Plays for Puritans Act li
hands, and the brave Vercingetorix basely strangled in a
vault beneath the Capitol, were [with shuddering satire'] a
wise severity, a necessary protection to the commonwealth,
a duty of statesmanship — follies and fictions ten times
bloodier than honest vengeance! What a fool was I
then ! To think that men's lives should be at the mercy
of such fools! [Humbly] Lucius Septimius, pardon me:
why should the slayer of Vercingetorix rebuke the
slayer of Pompey? You are free to go with the rest.
Or stay if you will : I will find a place for you in my
service.
LUCIUS. The odds are against you, Caesar. I go. [He turns
to go out through the loggia].
RUFio [full of wrath at seeing his prey escaping] That means
that he is a Republican.
LUCIUS [turning defiantly on the loggia steps] And what are
you?
RUFIO. A Caesarian, like all Caesar's soldiers.
c^sAR [courteously] Lucius : believe me, Cassar is no
Caesarian. Were Rome a true republic, then were Caesar
the first of Republicans. But you have made your choice.
Farewell.
LUCIUS. Farewell. Come, Achillas, whilst there is yet
time.
Casar^ seeing that Rufios temper threatens to get the worse
of him^ puts his hand on his shoulder and brings him down the
hall out of harm^s way^ Brit annus accompanying them and post-
ing himself on Ctssar''s right hand. This movement brings the
three in a little group to the place occupied by Achillas^ who
moves haughtily away and joins Theodotus on the other side.
Lucius Septimius goes out through the soldiers in the loggia.
Pothinus^ Theodotus and Achillas follow him with the courtiers^
very mistrustful of the soldiers^ who close up in their rear and
go out after them, keeping them moving without much ceremony.
The King is left in his chair, piteous, obstinate, with twitching
face and fingers. During these movements Rufio maintains an
energetic grumbling, as follows: —
Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 1 27
RUFio [as Lucius departs'\ Do you suppose he would let
us go if he had our heads in his hands ?
c^SAR. I have no right to suppose that his ways are any
baser than mine.
RUFIO. Psha !
CiESAR. Rufio: if I take Lucius Septimius for my model,
and become exactly like him, ceasing to be C^sar, will you
serve me still ?
BRiTANNUS. Cassar : this is not good sense. Your duty
to Rome demands that her enemies should be prevented
from doing further mischief. \Casar^ whose delight in the
moral eye-to-business of his British secretary is inexhaustible^
smiles indulgently'].
RUFio. It is no use talking to him, Britannus : you may
save your breath to cool your porridge. But mark this,
Caesar. Clemency is very well for you ; but what is it for
your soldiers, who have to fight to-morrow the men you
spared yesterday? You may give what orders you please;
but I tell you that your next victory will be a massacre,
thanks to your clemency. /, for one, will take no prisoners.
I will kill my enemies in the field ; and then you can preach
as much clemency as you please : I shall never have to fight
them again. And now, with your leave, I will see these
gentry off the premises. [He turns to go].
CJESAK [turning also and seeifig Ptolemy] What ! have they
left the boy alone ! Oh shame, shame !
RUFIO [taking Ptolemy'' s hand and making him rise] Come,
your majesty !
PTOLEMY [to Casar^ drawing away his hand from Rufio]
Is he turning me out of my palace ?
RUFIO [grimly] You are welcome to stay if you wish.
c^SAR [ki7idly] Go, my boy. I will not harm you ; but
you will be safer away, among your friends. Here you are
in the lion's mouth.
PTOLEMY [turning to go] It is not the lion I fear, but
[looking at Rufio] the jackal. [He goes out through the loggia],
c^SAR [laughing approvingly] Brave boy !
128 Three Plays for Puritans Actll
CLEOPATRA \jealous of Casar^s approbation^ calling after
Ptolefny] Little silly. You think that very clever.
c^SAR. Britannus: attend the King. Give him in charge
to that Pothinus fellow. ^Britannus goes out after Ptolemy\
RUFio [pointing to Cleopatra'] And this piece of goods?
What is to be done with her? However, I suppose I may
leave that to you. [He goes out through the loggia].
CLEOPATRA [flushing suddenly and tur?ii?ig on Caesar] Did
you mean me to go with the rest?
c^SAR [a little preoccupied, goes with a sigh to Ptolemy's
chair, whilst she waits for his answer with red cheeks and
clenched fists] You are free to do just as you please, Cleo-
patra.
CLEOPATRA. Then you do not care whether I stay or
not?
c^sAR [smiling] Of course I had rather you stayed.
CLEOPATRA. Much, much rather?
c^sAR [nodding] Much, much rather.
CLEOPATRA. Then I consent to stay, because I am asked.
But I do not want to, mind.
CJESAR. That is quite understood. [Calling] Totateeta.
Ftatateeta, still seated, turns her eyes on him with a sinister
expression, but does not move.
CLEOPATRA [with a splutter of laughter] Her name is not
Totateeta : it is Ftatateeta. [Calling] Ftatateeta. [Ftata-
teeta instantly rises and comes to Cleopatra].
c^SAR [stumbling over the name] Tfatafeeta will forgive
the erring tongue of a Roman. Tota : the Queen will hold
her state here in Alexandria. Engage women to attend
upon her ; and do all that is needful.
FTATATEETA. Am I then the mistress of the Queen's
household?
CLEOPTATRA [sharply] No: /am the mistress of the Queen's
household. Go and do as you are told, or I will have you
thrown into the Nile this very afternoon, to poison the
poor crocodiles.
CiESAR [shocked] Oh no, no.
V.
Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 129
CLEOPATRA. Oh ycs, yes. You are very sentimental,
C:£sar ; but you are clever ; and if you do as I tell you,
you will soon learn to govern.
C^sar, quite du7?ibfounded by this impertinence^ turns in his
chair and stares at her.
Ftatateeta^ smiling grimly^ and showing a splendid set of
teeth, goes, leaving them alone together.
c^SAR. Cleopatra : I really think I must eat you, after all.
CLEOPATRA {kneeling beside him and looking at him with
eager interest, half real, half affected to shezu how intelligent
she /V] You must not talk to me now as if I were a child.
c^sAR. You have been growing up since the sphinx in-
troduced us the other night ; and you think you know more
than I do already.
CLEOPATRA {taken down, and anxious to justify herself^ No:
that would be very silly of me : of course I know that.
But — {suddenly^ are you angry with me?
C^SAR. No.
CLEOPATRA \only half believi?ig him~\ Then why are you
so thoughtful ?
c^SAR [prising'] I have work to do, Cleopatra.
Ch'E.ovkTYiA {drawing back'] Work! {Offended] You are
tired of talking to me ; and that is your excuse to get away
from mc.
CJESAR {sitting down again to appease her] Well, well :
another minute. But then — work!
CLEOPATRA. Work! what nonsense! You must remember
that you are a king now : I have made you one. Kings dont
work.
CiESAR. Oh! Who told you that, little kitten? Eh?
CLEOPATRA. My father was King of Egypt ; and he never
worked. But he was a great king, and cut off my sister's
head because she rebelled against him and took the throne
from him.
c.^SAR. Well ; and how did he get his throne back
again ?
CLEOPATRA {eagerly, her eyes lighting up] I will tell you,
K
130 Three Plays for Puritans Act li
A beautiful young man, with strong round arms, came
over the desert with many horsemen, and slew my
sister's husband and gave my father back his throne.
[Wistfully'] I was only twelve then. Oh, I wish he would
come again, now that I am a queen. I would make him
my husband.
CiESAR. It might be managed, perhaps ; for it was I who
sent that beautiful young man to help your father.
CLEOPATRA [enraptured] You know him !
c^SAR [nodding] I do.
CLEOPATRA. Has he come with you r [C^sar shakes his
head: she is cruelly disappointed]. Oh, I wish he had, I wish
he had. If only I were a little older; so that he might not
think me a mere kitten, as you do ! But perhaps that is be-
cause you are old. He is many many years younger than
you, is he not ?
c^SAR [as if swallowing a pill] He is somewhat younger.
CLEOPATRA. Would he be my husband, do you think, if
I asked him ?
CiESAR. Very likely.
CLEOPATRA. But I should not like to ask him. Could you
not persuade him to ask me — without knowing that I
wanted him to?
CiESAR [touched by her innocence of the beautiful young man^s
character] My poor child !
CLEOPATRA. Why do you say that as if you were sorry
for me ? Does he love anyone else ?
c^SAR. I am afraid so.
CLEOPATRA [tearfully] Then I shall not be his first love.
c^SAR. Not quite the first. He is greatly admired by
women.
CLEOPATRA. I wish I could be the first. But if he loves
me, I will make him kill all the rest. Tell me : is he still
beautiful? Do his strong round arms shine in the sun like
marble ?
c^SAR. He is in excellent condition — considering how
much he eats and drinks.
Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 1 3 i
CLEOPATRA. Oh, you must not say common, earthly
things about him ; for I love him. He is a god.
c^SAR. He is a great captain of horsemen, and swifter
of foot than any other Roman.
CLEOPATRA. What is his real name ?
c^sAR \_puzzkd'\ His real name?
CLEOPATRA. Yes. I always call him Horus, because
Horus is the most beautiful of our gods. But J want to know
his real name.
c^SAR. His name is Mark Antony.
CLEOPATRA [musically'] Mark Antony, Mark Antony, Mark
Antony! What a beautiful name! \^She throws her arms
round C<^sar^s neck']. Oh, how I love you for sending
him to help my father ! Did you love my father very
much ?
c^sAR. No, my child ; but your father, as you say, never
worked. I always work. So when he lost his crown he had
to promise me 16,000 talents to get it back for him.
CLEOPATRA. Did he ever pay you ?
c^sAR. Not in full.
CLEOPATRA. He was quite right : it was too dear. The
whole world is not worth 16,000 talents.
Ci5;sAR. That is perhaps true, Cleopatra. Those Egyp-
tians who work paid as much of it as he could drag from
them. The rest is still due. But as I most likely shall not
get it, I must go back to my work. So you must run away
for a little and send my secretary to me.
CLEOPATRA [^coaxing] No : I want to stay and hear you
talk about Mark Antony.
c^SAR. But if I do not get to work, Pothinus and the
rest of them wMl cut us off from the harbor; and then the
way from Rome will be blocked.
CLEOPATRA. No matter : I dont want you to go back to
Rome.
c^SAR. But you want Mark Antony to come from it.
CLEOPATRA [^Springing up] Oh yes, yes, yes : I forgot. Go
quickly and work, Caesar ; and keep the way over the sea
132 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
open for my Mark Antony. [S^e runs out through th:e loggia^
kissbig her hand to Mark Antony across the sea].
CiESAR [going briskly up the ?niddle of th?e hall to the loggia
steps] Ho, Britannus. [He is startled by the entry of a
wounded Rotnan soldier^ who cofifronts him from the upper step].
What now ?
SOLDIER [pointing to his bandaged l:ead] This, Caesar; and
two of my comrades killed in the market place.
Ci^SAR [quiet ^ but attending] Ay. Why?
SOLDIER. There is an army come to Alexandria, calling
itself the Roman army.
c^sAR. The Roman army of occupation. Ay?
SOLDIER. Commanded by one Achillas.
c^sAR. Well?
SOLDIER. The citizens rose against us when the army
entered the gates. I was with two others in the market
place when the news came. They set upon us. I cut my
way out ; and here I am.
c^sAR. Good. I am glad to see you alive. [Rufio enters
the loggia hastily^ passing behind the soldier to look out through
one of the arches at the quay beneath]. Rufio : we are be-
sieged.
RUFio. What ! Already ?
c^sAR. Now or to-morrow : what does it matter ? We
shall be besieged.
Britannus runs in.
BRITANNUS. CaEsar —
Ci5:sAR [anticipating hi?n] Yes : I know. [Rufio and
Britannus come down the hall from the loggia at opposite sides,
past Casar, who waits for a moment near the step to say to the
soldier] Comrade : give the word to turn out on the beach
and stand by the boats. Get your wound attended to. Go.
[The soldier hurries out. Ccesar comes down the hall between
Rufio and Britannus] Rufio : we have some ships in the
west harbor. Burn them.
RUFIO [staring] Burn them !!
Ci5:sAR. Take every boat we have in the east harbor.
Act II Ccesar and Cleopatra 133
and seize the Pharos — that island with the lighthouse.
Leave half our men behind to hold the beach and the quay
outside this palace : that is the way home.
RUFio \_dis approving strongly^ Are we to give up the city ?
c^sAR. We have not got it, Rufio. This palace we
have; and — what is that building next door?
RUFio. The theatre. jl
c-ffiSAR. We will have that too : it commands the strand.
For the rest, Egypt for the Egyptians !
RUFio. Well, you know best, I suppose. Is that all?
c^SAR. That is all. Are those ships burnt yet ?
RUFIO. Be easy : I shall waste no more time. \^He ru?is
out'].
BRiTANNUS. Cscsar : Pothinus demands speech of you.
In my opinion he needs a lesson. His manner is most in-
solent.
c-SESAR. Where is he ?
BRITANNUS. Hc waits without.
c^SAR. Ho there ! admit Pothinus.
Pothi?ius appears in the loggia^ and comes down the hall very
haughtily to Ccesar's left hand.
c^sAR. Well, Pothinus ?
POTHINUS. I have brought you our ultimatum, Cassar.
C-ffiSAR. Ultimatum ! The door was open : you should
have gone out through it before you declared war. You are
my prisoner now. {He goes to the chair and loosens his toga].
POTHINUS [scorn/ully] I your prisoner ! Do you know
that you are in Alexandria, and that King Ptolemy, with
an army outnumbering your little troop a hundred to one,
is in possession of Alexandria ?
c^sAR [unconcernedly taking off his toga and throwing it on
the chair] Well, my friend, get out if you can. And tell
your friends not to kill any more Romans in the market
place. Otherwise my soldiers, who do not share my cele-
brated clemency, will probably kill you. Britannus : pass
the word to the guard ; and fetch my armor. [Britannus
runs out. Rufio returns]. Well ?
134 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
RUFio [pointing from the loggia to a cloud of smoke drifting
over the harbor] See there ! [Pothinus runs eagerly up the
steps to look out].
CJESAR. What, ablaze already ! Impossible !
RUFIO. Yes, five good ships, and a barge laden with oil
grappled to each. But it is not my doing : the Egyptians
have saved me the trouble. They have captured the west
harbor.
c^SAR [anxiously] And the east harbor ? The light-
house, Rulio?
RUFio [zvith a sudden splutter of raging ill usage, coming down
to Ccesar and scolding him] Can I embark a legion in five
minutes ? The first cohort is already on the beach. We
can do no more. If you want faster work, come and do it
yourself.
c^sAR [soothing him] Good, good. Patience, Rufio,
patience.
RUFio. Patience ! Who is impatient here, you or 1 1
Would I be here, if I could not oversee them from that
balcony ?
CJESAR. Forgive me, Rufio ; and [anxiously] hurry them
as much as —
He is interrupted by an outcry as of an old man in the ex-
tremity of misfortune. It draws near rapidly; and Theodotus
rushes in, tearing his hair, and squeaking the most lamentable
exclamations. Rufio steps back to stare at him, amazed at his
frantic condition. Pothinus turns to listen.
THEODOTUS [on the steps, with uplifted arms] Horror un-
speakable ! Woe, alas ! Help !
RUFIO. What now?
CJESAR [frowning] Who is slain .?
THEODOTUS. Slain ! Oh, worse than the death of ten
thousand men ! Loss irreparable to mankind !
RUFIO. What has happened, man ?
THEODOTUS [rushing down the hall between them] The fire
has spread from your ships. The first of the seven wonders
of the world perishes. The library of Alexandria is in flames.
Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 135
RUFio. Psha ! [Quite relieved^ he goes up to the loggia and
watches the preparations of the troops on the beach'].
c^SAR. Is that all ?
THEODOTus \unable to believe hii senses'] All ! Csesar : will
you go down to posterity as a barbarous soldier too ignorant
to know the value of books ?
c^SAR. Theodotus : I am an author myself; and I tell
you it is better that the Egyptians should live their lives
than dream them away with the help of books.
THEODOTUS [kneeling, with genuine literary emotion: the
passion of the pedant] Cassar : once in ten generations of
men, the world gains an immortal book.
c^SAR [inflexible] If it did not flatter mankind, the
common executioner would burn it.
THEODOTUS. Without history, death will lay you beside
your meanest soldier.
Ci5:sAR. Death will do that in any case. I ask no better
grave.
THEODOTUS. What is burning there is the memory of
mankind.
CffiSAR. A shameful memory. Let it burn.
THEODOTUS [wUdlf] Will you destroy the past ?
c^sAR. Ay, and build the future with its ruins. [Theo-
dotus, in despair, strikes himself on the temples with his fists].
But harken, Theodotus, teacher of kings : you who valued
Pompey's head no more than a shepherd values an onion,
and who now kneel to me, with tears in your old eyes, to
plead for a few sheepskins scrawled with errors. I can-
not spare you a man or a bucket of water just now; but
you shall pass freely out of the palace. Now, away with
you to Achillas ; and borrow his legions to put out the fire.
[He hurries hi?n to the steps].
poTHiNus [significantly] You understand, Theodotus : I
remain a prisoner.
THEODOTUS. A prisoucr !
CiESAR. Will you stay to talk whilst the memory of
mankind is burning? [Calling through the loggia] Ho
136 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
there ! Pass Theodotus out. [To Theodotus\ Away with
you.
THEODOTUS \To PotHnus'] ] must go to save the library.
[He hurries out].
c^SAR. Follow him to the gate, Pothinus. Bid him
urge your people to kill no more of my soldiers, for your
sake.
POTHINUS. My life will cost you dear if you take it,
Csesar. [He goes out after Theodotus\
Rufio^ absorbed in watching the embarkation^ does not notice
the departure of the two Egyptians.
RUFio [sloouting from the loggia to the beach] All ready.
there ?
A CENTURION [from below] All ready. We wait for
Caesar.
. Ci^sAR. Tell them Csesar is coming — the rogues!
[Calling] Britannicus. [This magniloquent version of his
secretary's name is one of Cesar's jokes. In later years it
would have meant, quite seriously and officially, Conqueror of
Britain].
RUFio [calling down] Push off, all except the longboat.
Stand by it to embark, Caesar's guard there. [He leaves the
balcony and comes down into the hall]. Where are those
Egyptians ? Is this more clemency ? Have you let them go r
c^SAR [chuckling] I have let Theodotus go to save the
library. We must respect literature, Rufio.
RUFIO [raging] Folly on folly's head ! I believe if you
could bring back all the dead of Spain, Gaul and Thessaly
to life, you would do it that we might have the trouble of
fighting them over again.
CiESAR. Might not the gods destroy the world if their
only thought were to be at peace next year? [Rufio, out of
all patience, turns away in afiger. Casar suddenly grips his
sleeve, and adds slyly in his ear] Besides, my friend : every
Egyptian we imprison means imprisoning two Roman sol-
diers to guard him. Eh ?
RUFIO. Agh ! I might have known there was some fox's
Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 137
trick behind your fine talking. [He gets azuay from Casar
with an ill-hufnored shrugs and goes to the balcony for another
look at the preparations ; finally goes out].
c^SAR. Is Britannus asleep? I sent him for my armor
an hour ago. [Calling] Britannicus, thou British islander.
Britannicus !
Cleopatra runs in through the loggia zuith Ccesars helmet
and szuord, snatched from Britannus^ zvho follozvs her zoith a
cuirass and greaves. They come dozen to Caesar, she to his left
hand^ Britannus to his right.
CLEOPATRA. I am going to dress you, Caesar. Sit down.
[He obeys]. These Roman helmets are so becoming ! [She
takes off his zvreath]. Oh ! [She bursts out laughing at him],
c^SAR. What are you laughing at ?
CLEOPATRA. Yourc bald [beginning zvith a big B^ and end-
ing zuith a splutter].
CuESAR [almost annoyed] Cleopatra ! [He rises., for the
convenience of Britannus., zvho puts the cuirass on him].
CLEOPATRA. So that is why you wear the wreath — to
hide it.
BRITANNUS. Peacc, Egyptian: they are the bays of the •
conqueror. [He buckles the cuirass].
CLEOPATRA. Peace, thou : islander ! [To Caesar] You
should rub your head with strong spirits of sugar, Cssar.
That will make it grow.
Q.i^'=>K-?i [zvith a zvry face] Cleopatra: do you like to be
reminded that you are very young?
CLEOPATRA [pOUting] No.
CiESAR [sitting dozvn again., and setting out his leg for
Britan?ius, zvho kneels to put on his greaves] Neither do I
like to be reminded that I am — middle aged. Let me give
you ten of my superfluous years. That will make you 26,
and leave me only — no matter. Is it a bargain?
CLEOPATRA. Agreed. 26, mind. [She puts the helmet on
him]. Oh ! How nice ! You look only about 50 in it !
BRITANNUS [looking Up Severely at Cleopatra] You must
not speak in this manner to Caesar.
138 Three Plays for Puritans Act ii
CLEOPATRA. Is it truc that when Csesar caught you on
that island, you were painted all over blue ?
BRiTANNUS. Blue is the color worn by all Britons of
good standing. In war we stain our bodies blue ; so that
though our enemies may strip us of our clothes and our
lives, they cannot strip us of our respectability. [He rises].
CLEOPATRA [zvii6 Ci^sar's sword] Let me hang this on.
Now you look splendid. Have they made any statues of
you in Rome?
c^sAR. Yes, many statues.
CLEOPATRA. You must scnd for one and give it to me.
RUFio [coming back into the loggia, more impatient than ever]
Now Caesar: have you done talking? The moment your
foot is aboard there will be no holding our men back : the
boats will race one another for the lighthouse.
c^SAR {drawing his sword and trying the edge] Is this
well set to-day, Britannicus ? At Pharsalia it was as blunt
as a barrel-hoop.
BRITANNUS. It will spHt One of the Egyptian's hairs
to-day, Caesar. I have set it myself.
CLEOPATRA [suddenly throwing her arms in terror round
Ccesar] Oh, you are not really going into battle to be
killed?
CJESAR. No, Cleopatra. No man goes to battle to be
killed.
CLEOPATRA. But they do get killed. My sister's husband
was killed in battle. You must not go. Let him go [pointing
to Rufio. T/:ey all laugh at her]. Oh please, please dont go.
What will happen to me if you never come back?
c^SAR [gravely] Are you afraid ?
CLEOPATRA [shrinking] No.
ciESAR [with quiet authority] Go to the balcony ; and you
shall see us take the Pharos. You must learn to look on
battles. Go. [She goes, downcast, and looks out from the
balcony]. That is well. Now, Rufio. March.
CLEOPATRA [suddenly clapping her hands] Oh, you will not
be able to go !
Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 139
CiESAR. Why? What now?
CLEOPATRA. They are drying up the harbor with
buckets — a multitude of soldiers — over there [pointing out
across the sea to her left'\ — they are dipping up the water.
RUFio {hastening to look] It is true. The Egyptian army !
Crawling over the edge of the west harbor like locusts.
[With sudden anger he strides down to Ccesar\ This is your
accursed clemency, Cassar. Theodotus has brought them.
c^SAR [delighted at his own cleverness] I meant him to,
Rutio. They have come to put out the fire. The library
will keep them busy whilst we seize the lighthouse. Eh?
[He rushes out buoyantly through the loggia^ followed by
Brit annus] .
RUFio [disgustedly] More foxing ! Agh ! [He rushes off.
A shout from the soldiers announces the appearance of Casar
below].
CENTURION [below] All aboard. Give way there.
[Another shout].
CLEOPATRA [waving her scarf through the loggia arch]
Goodbye, goodbye, dear Caesar. Come back safe. Good-
bye !
ACT III
The edge of the quay in front of the palace^ looking out west
over the east harbor of Alexandria to Pharos island^ just oj-
the end of which^ and connected with it by a narrow mole, is the
famous lighthouse, a gigantic square tower of white marble
diminishing in size storey by storey to the top, on which stands a
cresset beacon. The island is joined to the main land by the
Heptastadium, a great mole or causeway five miles long bound-
ing the harbor on the south.
In the middle of the quay a Roman sentinel stands on guard,
pilum in hand, looking out to the lighthouse with strained atten-
tion, his left hand shading his eyes. The pilum is a stout wooden
shaft \\ feet long, with an iron spit about three feet long fixed
in it. The sentinel is so absorbed that he does ?iot notice the
approach from the north end of the quay of four Egyptian
market porters carrying rolls of carpet, preceded by Ftatateeta
and A polio dor us the Sicilian. Apollo dor us is a dashing young
man of about 24, handsome and debonair, dressed with deliberate
cestheticism in the most delicate purples and dove greys, with
orna?nents of bronze, oxydized silver, and stones of jade and
agate. His sword, designed as carefully as a medieval cross,
has a blued blade showing through an openwork scabbard of
purple leather and filagree. The porters, conducted by Ftata-
teeta, pass along the quay behind the sentinel to the steps of the
palace, where they put down their bales and squat on the ground.
Apollodorus does not pass along with them : he halts, amused by
the preoccupation of the sentinel.
!\AViTrw5 xm
a t no J trie m f^/ie (rnurr/i c/o)^.^ fltrrA n/ ( I en ('re
Act III Cassar and Cleopatra 141
APOLLODORUS \calling to the sentinel] Who goes there, eh ?
SENTINEL [starting violently and turning with his pilum at
the charge, revealing himself as a s?nall, wiry, sandy-haired,
conscientious young man with an elderly face] Whats this r
Stand. Who are you ?
APOLLODORUS. I am Apollodorus the Sicilian. Why, man,
what are you dreaming of? Since I came through the lines
beyond the theatre there, I have brought my caravan past
three sentinels, all so busy staring at the lighthouse that
nor one of them challenged me. Is this Roman dis-
cipline ?
SENTINEL. We are not here to watch the land but the
sea. Caesar has just landed on the Pharos. [Looking at
Ftatateeta] What have you here? Who is this piece of
Egyptian crockery?
FTATATEETA. Apollodorus : Tcbuke this Roman dog ; and
bid him bridle his tongue in the presence o^ Ftatateeta, the
mistress of the Queen's household.
APOLLODORUS. My fricud : this is a great lady, who stands
high with Cassar.
SENTINEL [not at all itnpressed, pointing to the carpets] And
what is all this truck ?
APOLLODORUS. Carpcts for the furnishing of the Queen's
apartments in the palace. I have picked them from the best
carpets in the world ; and the Queen shall choose the best
of my choosing.
SENTINEL. So you are the carpet merchant ?
APOLLODORUS [hurt] My friend : I am a patrician.
SENTINEL. A patrician ! A patrician keeping a shop in-
stead of following arms !
APOLLODORUS. I do not keep a shop. Mine is a temple of
the arts. I am a worshipper of beauty. My calling is to
choose beautiful things for beautiful queens. My motto is
Art for Art's sake.
SENTINEL. That is not the password.
APOLLODORUS. It is a universal password.
SENTINEL. I know nothing about universal passwords.
142 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
Either giv^e mc the password for the day or get back to your
shop.
Ftatateeta^ roused by his hostile tone^ steals towards the edge
of the quay with the step of a panther^ and gets behind him.
APOLLODORus. How if" I do neither?
SENTINEL. Then I will drive this pilum through you.
APOLLODORUS. At youf service, my friend. \^He draws his
sword^ and spri?igs to his guard with unruffled grace'\.
FT AT ATE ETA \suddenly seizing the sentinel's arms from be-
hind'\ Thrust your knife into the dog's throat, Apollodorus.
[ The chivalrous Apollodor'us laughingly shakes his head; breaks
ground away from the sentinel towards the palace; and lowers
his point'].
SENTINEL [struggling vainly] Curse on you ! Let me go.
Help ho !
FTATATEETA [lifting him from the ground] Stab the little
Roman reptile. Spit him on your sword.
A couple of Roman soldiers^ with a centurion^ come running
along the edge of the quay from the north end. They rescue
their comrade^ and throw off Ftatateeta^ who is sent reeling
away on the left hand of the sentinel.
CENTURION [an unattractive man of fifty ^ short in his speech
and manners^ with a vinewood cudgel in his hand] How now?
What is all this ?
FTATATEETA [to Apollodorus] Why did you not stab him ?
There was time I
APOLLODORUS. CentuHon : I am here by order of the
Queen to —
CENTURION [interrupting him] The Queen ! Yes, yes : [to
the sentinel] pass him in. Pass all these bazaar people in
to the Queen, with their goods. But mind you pass no one
out that you have not passed in — not even the Queen her-
self.
SENTINEL. This old woman is dangerous : she is as strong
as three men. She wanted the merchant to stab me.
APOLLODORUS. Ccnturion : T am not a merchant. I am a
patrician and a votary of art.
Act III C^sar and Cleopatra 143
CENTURION. Is the woman your wife ?
APOLLODORUS [horrijied'] No, no! [Correcting himself
politelf\ Not that the lady is not a striking figure in her
own way. But [emphatically'] she is not my wife.
FTATATEETA [to the centurioTi'] Roman : I am Ftatateeta,
the mistress of the Queen's household.
CENTURION. Keep your hands off our men, mistress ; or
I will have you pitched into the harbor, though you were
as strong as ten men. [To his men] To your posts: march !
[He returns with his men the way they came].
FTATATEETA [looking malignantly after hi?n] We shall see
whom Isis loves best : her servant Ftatateeta or a dog of a
Roman.
SENTINEL [to Apollodorus^ with a wave of his pilum towards
the palace] Pass in there; and keep your distance. [Turn-
ing to Ftatateeta] Come within a yard of me, you old croco-
dile ; and I will give you this [the pilum] in your jaws.
CLEOPATRA [calling from the palace] Ftatateeta, Ftatateeta.
FTATATEETA [looking up, scandalized] Go from the window,
go from the window. There are men here.
CLEOPATRA. I am coming down.
FTATATEETA [distracted] No, no. What are you dreaming
of? O ye gods, ye gods ! Apollodorus : bid your men pick
up your bales; and in with me quickly.
APOLLODORUS. Obey the mistress of the Queen's household.
FTATATEETA [impatiently, as the porters stoop to lift the bales]
Quick, quick : she will be out upon us. [Cleopatra comes
from the palace and runs across the quay to Ftatateeta]. Oh
that ever I was born !
CLEOPATRA [^tf^ifr/y] Ftatateeta: I have thought of some-
thing. I want a boat — at once.
FTATATEETA. A boat ! No, no : you cannot. Apollodorus:
speak to the Queen.
APOLLODORUS [gallantly] Beautiful queen : I am Apollo-
dorus the Sicilian, your servant, from the bazaar. I have
brought you the three most beautiful Persian carpets in the
world to choose from.
144 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
CLEOPATRA. I have no time for carpets to-day. Get me
a boat.
FTATATEETA. What whim is this? You cannot go on the
water except in the royal barge.
APOLLODORUS. Royalty, Ftatateeta, lies not in the barge
but in the Queen. [To Cleopatra] The touch of your
majesty's foot on the gunwale of the meanest boat in
the harbor will make it royal. [He turns to the harbor
and calls seaward] Ho there, boatman ! Pull in to the
steps.
CLEOPATRA. Apollodorus : you are my perfect knight ;
and I will always buy my carpets through you. [Apollo-
dorus bows joyously. An oar appears above the quay ; and the
boatman^ a bullet-headed^ vivacious, grimiing fellozv, burnt al-
most black by the sun, comes up a flight of steps from the water
on the sentineVs right, oar in hand, and waits at the top]. Can
you row, Apollodorus t
APOLLODORUS. My oars shall be your majesty's wings.
Whither shall I row my Queen ?
CLEOPATRA. To the Hghthousc. Come. [She makes for the
steps].
SENTINEL [opposing her with his pilum at the charge] Stand.
You cannot pass.
CLEOPATRA [flushing angrily] How dare you.^ Do you
know that I am the Queen?
SENTINEL. 1 have my orders. You cannot pass.
CLEOPATRA. I will make Caesar have you killed if you do
not obey me.
SENTINEL. He will do worse to me if I disobey my officer.
Stand back.
CLEOPATRA. Ftatateeta : strangle him.
SENTINEL [alarmed — looking apprehensively at Ftatateeta,
and brandishing his pilum] Keep off, there.
CLEOPATRA [running to Apollodorus] Apollodorus: make
your slaves help us.
APOLLODORUS. I shall not need their help, lady. [He
draws his sword]. Now, soldier : choose which weapon you
Act III Cssar and Cleopatra 14^
will defend yourself with. Shall it be sword against pilum,
or sword against sword ?
SENTINEL. Roman against Sicilian, curse you. Take that.
\^He hurls his pilum at Jpollodorus, who drops expertly on one
knee. The pilum passes zuhizzing over his head and falls harmless.
Apollodorus^ with a cry of triumph^ springs up and attach the
sentinel, who draws his sword and defends himself crying^ Ho
there, guard. Help !
Cleopatra, half frightened, half delighted, takes refuge near
the palace, where the porters are squatting among the bales.
The boatman, alarfned, hurries down the steps out of harm's
way, but stops, with his head just visible above the edge of the
quay, to watch the fght. The sentinel is handicapped by his fear
of an attack in the rear from Ftatateeta. His swordsmanship,
which is of a rough and ready sort, is heavily taxed, as he has
occasionally to strike at her to keep her off between a blow and
a guard with Apollodorus. The centurion returns with several
soldiers. Apollodorus springs back towards Cleopatra as this
reinforcement confronts him.
CENTURION \coming to the sentinePs right hand^ What is
this ? What now ?
SENTINEL \^panting^ I could do well enough by myself if
it werent for the old woman. Keep her off me : that is all
the help I need.
CENTURION. Make your report, soldier. What has hap-
pened ?
FTATATEETA. Ceuturion : he would have slain the
Queen.
SENTINEL \_bluntly^ I would, sooner than let her pass.
She wanted to take boat, and go — so she said — to the
lighthouse. I stopped her, as I was ordered to ; and she set
this fellow on me. \^He goes to pick up his pilum and returns
to his place with it].
CENTURION [turning to Cleopatra] Cleopatra : I am loth to
offend you; but without Cassar's express order we dare not
let you pass beyond the Roman lines.
APOLLODORUS. Well, Ccnturiou ; and has not the light-
L
146 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
house been within the Roman lines since Caesar landed
there ?
CLEOPATRA. Yes, yes. Answer that, if you can.
CENTURION [to Apollodorus\ As for you, Apollodorus, you
may thank the gods that you are not nailed to the palace
door with a pilum for your meddling.
APOLLODORUS \urbanelf\ My military friend, I was not
born to be slain by so ugly a weapon. When I fall, it will
be [holding up his szvord] by this white queen of arms, the
only weapon fit for an artist. And now that you are con-
vinced that we do not want to go beyond the lines, let me
finish killing your sentinel and depart with the Queen.
CENTURION [as the sentinel makes an angry demo?istration~\
Peace there. Cleopatra : I must abide by my orders, and
not by the subtleties of this Sicilian. You must withdraw
into the palace and examine your carpets there.
CLEOPATRA [pouting'] I will not : I am the Queen. Caesar
does not speak to me as you do. Have Caesar's centurions
changed manners with his scullions ?
CENTURION [sulkily'\ I do my duty. That is enough for
me.
APOLLODORUS. Majcsty : when a stupid man is doing
something he is ashamed of, he always declares that it is
his duty.
CENTURION [angry] Apollodorus —
APOLLODORUS [interrupting him with defiant elegance] I will
make amends for that insult with my sword at fitting time
and place. Who says artist, says duellist. [To Cleopatra]
Hear my counsel, star of the east. Until word comes to
these soldiers from Caesar himself, you are a prisoner. Let
me go to him with a message from you, and a present ; and
before the sun has stooped halfway to the arms of the sea,
I will bring you back Caesar's order of release.
CENTURION [sneering at him] And you will sell the Queen
the present, no doubt.
APOLLODORUS. Ccnturiou: the Oueen shall have from me,
without payment, as the unforced tribute of Sicilian taste
Act III Cassar and Cleopatra 147
to Eg)'ptian beauty, the richest of these carpets for her
present to Cassar.
CLEOPATRA {exultatitly^ to the centurion'] Now you see
what an ignorant common creature you are !
CENTURION [^curtly] Well, a fool and his wares are soon
parted. \_He turns to his men\ Two more men to this post
here ; and see that no one leaves the palace but this man
and his merchandize. If he draws his sword again inside
the lines, kill him. To your posts. March.
He goes out^ leaving two auxiliary sentinels with the other.
APOLLODORus [with poHte goodfellowship] My friends : will
you not enter the palace and bury our quarrel in a bowl of
wine? [He takes out his purse^ jingling the coins in it]. The
Queen has presents for you all.
SENTINEL [very sulky] You heard our orders. Get about
your business.
FIRST AUXILIARY. Ycs : you ought to know better. Off
with you.
SECOND AUXILIARY [looking longingly at the purse — this
sentinel is a hooknosed man, unlike his comrade, who is squab
faced] Do not tantalize a poor man.
APOLLODORUS \to Clcopatra] Pearl of Queens : the cen-
turion is at hand; and the Roman soldier is incorruptible
when his officer is looking. I must carry your word to Caesar.
CLEOPATRA [who has been meditating among the carpets] Are
these carpets very heavy ?
APOLLODORUS. It matters not how heavy. There are
plenty of porters.
CLEOPATRA. How do they put the carpets into boats ?
Do they throw them down ?
APOLLODORUS. Not iuto Small boats, majesty. It would
sink them.
CLEOPATRA. Not into that man's boat, for instance ?
[pointing to the boatman].
APOLLODORUS. No. Too Small.
CLEOPATRA. But you Can take a carpet to Cssar in it if
I send one ?
148 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
APOLLODORus. Assurcdlv.
CLEOPATRA. And you will have it carried gently down
the steps and take great care of it?
APOLLODORUS. Depend on me.
CLEOPATRA. Great, gr e a t carc .?
APOLLODORUS. More than of my own body.
CLEOPATRA. You will promisc me not to let the porters
drop it or throw it about ?
APOLLODORUS. Place the most delicate glass goblet in the
palace in the heart of the roll, Oueen ; and if it be broken,
my head shall pay for it.
CLEOPATRA. Good. Comc, Ftatateeta. \Ftatateeta comes
to her. Apollodorus offers to squire them into the palace']. No,
Apollodorus, you must not come. I will choose a carpet for
myself. You must wait here. \_S he runs into the palace].
APOLLODORUS [to tide porters] Follow this lady [indicating
Ftatateeta] ; and obey her.
The porters rise and take up their bales.
FTATATEETA \addressing the porters as if they were vermin]
This way. And take your shoes off before you put your feet
on those stairs.
She goes in, followed by the porters with the carpets. Mean-
while Apollodorus goes to the edge of the quay and looks out over
the harbor. The sentinels keep their eyes on him malignantly.
APOLLODORUS [addressing the senti?iel] My friend —
SENTINEL [rudely] Silence there.
FIRST AUXILIARY. Shut your muzzle, you.
SECOND AUXILIARY [in a half whisper, glancing apprehen-
sively towards the north end of the quay] Cant you wait a
bit.?
APOLLODORUS. Patieucc, worthy three -headed donkey.
[They mutter ferociously ; but he is not at all intimidated].
Listen : were you set here to watch me, or to watch the
Egyptians ?
SENTINEL. We know our duty.
APOLLODORUS. Then why dont you do it ? There is some-
thing going on over there [pointing southwestward to the mole].
Act III Cassar and Cleopatra 149
SENTINEL [sulkily] I do not need to be told what to do
by the like of you.
APOLLODORus. Blockhead. [He begins shouting] Ho there,
Centurion. Hoiho !
SENTINEL. Curse your meddling. [Shouting] Hoiho!
Alarm ! Alarm !
FIRST AND SECOND AUXILIARIES. Alarm ! alarm ! Hoiho !
The Centurion comes rmining in with his guard.
CENTURION. What now? Has the old woman attacked
you again? [Seeing Apollodorus] Are you here still?
APOLLODORUS [pointing as before] See there. The Egyp-
tians are moving. They are going to recapture the Pharos.
They will attack by sea and land : by land along the great
mole ; by sea from the west harbor. Stir yourselves, my
military friends : the hunt is up. [A clangor of trumpets from
several points along the quay]. Aha! I told you so.
CENTURION [quickly] The two extra men pass the alarm
to the south posts. One man keep guard here. The rest
with me — quick.
The two auxiliary sentinels run off to the south. The cen-
turion and his guard run off northward; and ifnmediately after-
wards the bucina sounds. The four porters come from the palace
carrying a carpet, followed by Ftatateeta.
SENTINEL [handling his pilum apprehensively] You again !
[ The porters stop].
FTATATEETA. Peacc, Roman fellow : you are now single-
handed. Apollodorus : this carpet is Cleopatra's present to
Caesar. It has rolled up in it ten precious goblets of the
thinnest Iberian crystal, and a hundred eggs of the sacred
blue pigeon. On your honor, let not one of them be broken.
APOLLODORUS. On my head bc it ! [To the porters] Into
the boat with them carefully.
The porters carry the carpet to the steps.
FIRST PORTER [looking down at the boat] Beware what you
do, sir. Those eggs of which the lady speaks must weigh
more than a pound apiece. This boat is too small for such
a load.
150 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
BOATMAN [excitedly rushing up the steps] Oh thou injur-
ious porter! Oh thou unnatural son of a she-camel! [To
Apollodorus] My boat, sir, hath often carried five men.
Shall it not carry your lordship and a bale of pigeons' eggs?
[To the porter] Thou mangey dromedary, the gods shall pun-
ish thee for this envious wickedness.
FIRST PORTER [stoHdly] I cauuot quit this bale now to
beat thee ; but another day I will lie in wait for thee.
APOLLODORUS [going between them] Peace there. If the
boat were but a single plank, I would get to Caesar on it.
FTATATEETA [anxiouslf] In the name of the gods, Apollo-
dorus, run no risks with that bale.
APOLLODORUS. Fcar not, thou venerable grotesque : I
guess its great worth. [To the porters] Down with it, I say ;
and gently ; or ye shall eat nothing but stick for ten days.
The boatman goes down the steps ^ followed by the porters with
the bale: Ftatateeta and Apollodorus watching from the edge.
APOLLODORUS. Gently, my sons, my children — [with sud-
den alarm] gently, ye dogs. Lay it level in the stern — so
— tis well.
FTATATEETA [screaming down at one of the porters] Do not
step on it, do not step on it. Oh thou brute beast !
FIRST PORTER [ascending] Be not excited, mistress : all is
well.
FTATATEETA [panting] All well ! Oh, thou hast given my
heart a turn ! [She clutches her side, gasping].
The four porters have now come up and are waiting at the
stair head to be paid.
APOLLODORUS. Here, ye hungry ones. [He gives money to
the first porter, who holds it in his hand to shew to the others.
They crowd greedily to see how much it is, quite prepared,
after the Eastern fashion, to protest to heaven against their
patron^ s stinginess. But his liberality overpowers them].
FIRST PORTER. O bounteous prince !
SECOND PORTER. O lord of the bazaar !
THIRD PORTER. O favored of the gods !
FOURTH PORTER. O father to all the porters of the market!
Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 1 5 1
SENTINEL [enviously, threatening the?n fiercely with his pilum]
Hence, dogs : ofF. Out of this. [They fy before him north-
ward along the quay'].
APOLLODORUs. Farcwell, Ftatateeta. 1 shall be at the
lighthouse before the Egyptians. [He descends the steps].
FTATATEETA. The gods Speed thee and protect my nurs-
ling!
The sentry returns from chasing the porters and looks down
at the boat, standing near the stairhead lest Ftatateeta should
attempt to escape.
APOLLODORUS [from beneath, as the boat moves off] Fare-
well, valiant pilum pitcher.
SENTINEL. Farewell, shopkeeper.
APOLLODORUS. Ha, ha! Pull, thou brave boatman, pull.
Soho-o-o-o-o 1 [He begins to sing in barcarolle measure to the
rhythm of the oars]
My heart, my heart, spread out thy wings :
Shake off thy heavy load of love —
Give me the oars, O son of a snail.
SENTINEL [threateni?2g Ftatateeta] Now mistress : back to
your henhouse. In with you.
FTATATEETA [falling on her knees and stretching her hands
over the waters] Gods of the seas, bear her safely to the
shore 1
SENTINEL. Bear who safely? What do you mean?
FTATATEETA [looking darkly at him] Gods of Egypt and of
Vengeance, let this Roman fool be beaten like a dog by
his captain for suffering her to be taken over the waters.
SENTINEL. Accursed one: is she then in the boat? [He
calls over the sea] Hoiho, there, boatman I Hoiho !
APOLLODORUS [singing in the distance]
My heart, my heart, be whole and free :
Love is thine only enemy.
Meanwhile Rufo, the ?norning s fighting done, sits munch-
ing dates on a faggot of brushwood outside the door of the light-
house, which tozvers gigantic to the clouds on his left. Hif
152 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
helmet^ full of dates ^is between his knees; and a leathern bottle
of wine is by his side. Behind him the great stone pedestal of
the lighthouse is slmt in from the open sea by a lozv stone para-
pet, with a couple of steps in the middle to the broad copirig. A
huge chain with a hook hangs dozen from the lighthouse crane
above his head. Faggots like the one l:e sits on lie beneath it
ready to be drawn up to feed the beacon.
C^sar is standing on the step at the parapet looking out
anxiously, evidently ill at ease. Britannus comes out of th?e
lighthouse door.
RUFio. Well, my British islander. Have you been up to
the top ?
BRITANNUS. I have. I reckon it at 200 feet high.
RUFIO. Anybody up there ?
BRITANNUS. One elderly Tyrian to work the crane ;
and his son, a well conducted youth of 14.
RUFio \looking at the chai?i] What ! An old man and a
boy work that ! Twenty men, you mean.
BRITANNUS. Two Only, I assure you. They have counter-
weights, and a machine with boiling water in it which I
do not understand : it is not of British design. They use
it to haul up barrels of oil and faggots to burn in the brazier
on the roof.
RUFIO. But —
BRITANNUS. Excusc me : I came down because there are
messengers coming along the mole to us from the island.
I must see what their business is. \^He hurries out past the
lighthouse'].
c^sAR [^coming away from the parapet, shivering and out of
sorts] Rufio : this has been a mad expedition. We shall
be beaten. I wish I knew how our men are getting on
with that barricade across the great mole.
RUFIO [^angrily] Must I leave my food and go starving to
bring you a report ?
CiESAR [soothing him nervously] No, Rufio, no. Eat, my
son, eat. [He takes another turn, Rufio chewing dates mean-
while]. The Egyptians cannot be such fools as not to storm
Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 153
the barricade and swoop down on us here before it is
finished. It is the first time I have ever run an avoidable
risk. I should not have come to Egypt.
RUFio. An hour ago you were all for victory.
c^SAR \jipologettcallf\ Yes : I was a fool — rash, Rufio
— boyish.
RUFIO. Boyish ! Not a bit of it. Here \offeri7ig him a
handful of date s\.
c^SAR. What are these for?
RUFIO. To eat, Thats whats the matter with you.
When a man comes to your age, he runs down before his
midday meal. Eat and drink ; and then have another look
at our chances.
CiESAR [taking the dates'] My age ! [He shakes his head
and bites a date]. Yes, Rufio : I am an old man — worn
out now — true, quite true. [He gives way to melancholy
contemplation, and eats another date], Achillas is still in his
prime : Ptolemy is a boy. [He eats another date, and plucks up
a little]. Well, every dog has his day ; and I have had mine :
I cannot complain. [With sudden cheerfulness] These dates
are not bad, Rufio. [Britajinus returns, greatly excited, with
a leathern bag. Casaris himself again in a moment]. What now }
BRiTANNUs [triu?nphantly] Our brave Rhodian mariners
have captured a treasure. There ! [He throws the bag dozvn at
Casar'^s feet]. Our enemies are delivered into our hands.
c^SAR. In that bag?
BRITANNUS. Wait till you hear, Cassar. This bag con-
tains all the letters which have passed between Pompey's
party and the army of occupation here.
c-<5:sAR. Well ?
BRITANNUS [impatient of C^sar^s slowness to grasp the
situation] Well, we shall now know who your foes are.
The name of every man who has plotted against you since
you crossed the Rubicon may be in these papers, for all we
know.
CESAR. Put them in the fire.
BRITANNUS. Put them — [he gasps] ! ! ! !
1 54 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
ciESAR. In the fire. Would you have me waste the next
three years of my life in proscribing and condemning men
who will be my friends when I have proved that my
friendship is worth more than Pompey's was — than Cato's
is. O incorrigible British islander : am I a bull dog, to seek
quarrels merely to shew how stubborn my jaws are?
BRiTANNUS. But your honor — the honor of Rome —
CJESAR. I do not make human sacrifices to my honor, as
your Druids do. Since you will not burn these, at least I
can drown them. [He picks up the bag and throws it over the
parapet into the sea],
BRITANNUS. CsEsar : this is mere eccentricity. Are
traitors to be allowed to go free for the sake of a paradox ?
RUFio [rising] Caesar : when the islander has finished
preaching, call me again. I am going to have a look at the
boiling water machine. [He goes into the lighthouse'].
BRITANNUS [zuith genuine feeling] O Caesar, my great
master, if I could but persuade you to regard life seriously,
as men do in my country !
c^SAR. Do they truly do so, Britannus ?
BRITANNUS. Have you not been there? Have you not
seen them ? What Briton speaks as you do in your moments
of levity? What Briton neglects to attend the services at
the sacred grove ? What Briton wears clothes of many
colors as you do, instead of plain blue, as all solid, well
esteemed men should? These are moral questions with us.
c^SAR. Well, well, my friend : some day I shall settle
down and have a blue toga, perhaps. Meanwhile, I must
get on as best I can in my flippant Roman way. [Apollo-
dor us comes past the lighthouse]. What now ?
BRITANNUS [tuming quickly^ and challenging the stranger
with official haughtiness] What is this ? Who are you ? How
did you come here ?
APOLLODORUS. Calm yourself, my friend : I am not
going to eat you. I have come by boat, from Alexandria,
with precious gifts for Ceesar.
c^SAR. From Alexandria !
Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 155
BRiTANNUs [sez/ffe/y] That is Cassar, sir.
RUFio [appearing at the lighthouse door] Whats the matter
now?
APOLLODORus. Hail, great Caesar ! I am Apollodorus the
Sicilian, an artist.
BRITANNUS. An artist ! Why have they admitted this
vagabond ?
c^SAR. Peace, man. Apollodorus is a famous patrician
amateur.
BRITANNUS {discoTicerted] I crave the gentleman's pardon.
\To Caesar] I understood him to say that he was a profes-
sional. [Somewhat out of countenance^ he allows Apollodorus to
approach desar, changing places with him. Rufio, after look-
ing Apollodorus up and down with marked disparagement^ goes
to the other side of the platform].
c^SAR. You are welcome, Apollodorus. What is your
business?
APOLLODORUS. First, to deliver to you a present from the
Queen of Queens.
CiESAR. Who is that ?
APOLLODORUS. Clcopatra of Egypt.
C-ffiSAR [taking him into his confidence in his most winning
fnanner] Apollodorus : this is no time for playing with
presents. Pray you, go back to the Queen, and tell her
that if all goes well I shall return to the palace this evening.
APOLLODORUS. Caesar : I cannot return. As I approached
the lighthouse, some fool threw a great leathern bag into
the sea. It broke the nose of my boat ; and I had hardly
time to get myself and my charge to the shore before the
poor little cockleshell sank.
CESAR. I am sorry, Apollodorus. The fool shall be re-
buked. Well, well : what have you brought me ? The
Queen will be hurt if I do not look at it.
RUFio. Have we time to waste on this trumpery ? The
Queen is only a child.
CiESAR. Just so : that is why we must not disappoint
her. What is the present, Apollodorus?
156 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
APOLLODORUs. Ca:sar : it is a Persian carpet — a beauty !
And in it arc — so I am told — pigeons' eggs and crystal
goblets and fragile precious things. I dare not for my
head have it carried up that narrow ladder from the cause-
way.
RUFio. Swing it up by the crane, then. We will send
the eggs to the cook ; drink our wine from the goblets ;
and the carpet will make a bed for Caesar.
APOLLODORUS. The crane ! Cassar : I have sworn to
tender this bale of carpet as I tender my own life.
c^SAR \cl:eerfully'\ Then let them swing you up at the
same time ; and if the chain breaks, you and the pigeons'
eggs will perish together. \He goes to the chain and looks up
along it, examining it curiously'].
APOLLODORUS \_to Britannus] Is Caesar serious ?
BRiTANNus. His manner is frivolous because he is an
Italian ; but he means what he says.
APOLLODORUS. Scrious or not, he spake well. .Give me a
squad of soldiers to work the crane.
ERiTANNUs. Lcave the crane to me. Go and await the
descent of the chain.
APOLLODORUS. Good. You will presently see me there
[turning to them all and pointing zvith an eloquent gesture to the
sky above the parapet] rising like the sun with my treasure.
He goes back the way he came. Britannus goes into the
lighthouse.
RUFio {ill-humoredly] Are you really going to wait here
for this foolery, Caesar?
Ci^sAR {backing away from the crane as it gives signs of
working] Why not?
RUFIO. The Eg}'ptians will let you know why not if they
have the sense to make a rush from the shore end of the
mole before our barricade is finished. And here we are
waiting like children to see a carpet full of pigeons' eggs.
The chain rattles^ and is drawn up high eriough to clear the
parapet. It then swings round out of sight behind the lighthouse.
c^SAR. Fear not, my son Rufio. When the first Egyptian
Act III Cassar and Cleopatra 1 57
takes his first step along the mole, the alarm will sound ;
and we two will reach the barricade from our end before
the Egyptians reach it from their end — we two, Rufio : J,
the old man, and you, his biggest boy. And the old man
will be there first. So peace ; and give me some more dates.
APOLLODORUS \_from the causeway below'] Soho, haul away.
So -ho -0-0-0! [ The chai?i is drawn up and comes round again
from behind the lighthouse. Apollodorus is swinging in the air
with his bale of carpet at the end of it. He breaks into song as
he soars above the parapet]
Aloft, aloft, behold the blue
That never shone in woman's eyes —
Easy there : stop her. \^H.e ceases to rise]. Further round !
[The chain comes forward above the platfor??i].
RUFIO [calling up] Lower away there. [ The chain and its
load begin to descend],
APOLLODORUS [calling up] Gently — slowly — mind the
eggs.
RUFio [calli?ig up] Easy there — slowly — slowly.
Apollodorus and the bale are deposited safely on the flags in
the middle of the platform. Rufio and Caesar help Apollodorus
to cast off the chain from the bale.
RUFio. Haul up.
The chain rises clear of their heads zvith a rattle. Brit an-
nus cofnes from the lighthouse and helps them to uncord the
carpet.
APOLLODORUS [when the cords are loose] Stand off, my
friends : let C^Esar see. [He throws the carpet open].
RUFio. Nothing but a heap of shawls. Where are the
pigeons' eggs?
APOLLODORUS. Approach, Caesar ; and search for them
among the shawls.
RUFIO [drawing his sword] Ha, treachery ! Keep back,
Caesar : I saw the shawl move : there is something alive
there.
BRiTANNUs [drawing his sword] It is a serpent.
158 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
APOLLODORUS. Darcs Csesar thrust his hand into the sack
where the serpent moves?
RUFio [turning on him] Treacherous dog —
Ci^SAR. Peace. Put up your swords. Apollodorus : your
serpent seems to breathe very regularly. [He thrusts his
hand under the shawls and draws out a hare arm]. This is a
pretty little snake.
RUFio [drawing out the other arm] Let us have the rest of
you.
They pull Cleopatra up by the wrists into a sitting position.
Britannus, scandalized, sheathes his sword with a drive of
protest.
CLEOPATRA [g^isping] Oh, I'm smothered. Oh, Caesar, a
man stood on me in the boat ; and a great sack of some-
thing fell upon me out of the sky ; and then the boat sank ;
and then I was swung up into the air and bumped down.
c^SAR [petting her as she rises and takes refuge on his
breast] Well, never mind : here you are safe and sound at
last.
RUFIO. Ay; and now that she is here, what are we to
do with her ?
BRiTANNUS. She cannot stay here, Caesar, without the
companionship of some matron.
CLEOPATRA [jealously, to Caesar, who is obviously perplexed]
Arnt you glad to see me ?
cjESA^. Yes, yes; / am very glad. But Rufio is very
angry; and Britannus is shocked.
CLEOPATRA [contemptuously] You can have their heads cut
off, can you not.^
CJESAR. They would not be so useful with their heads
cut off as they are now, my sea bird.
RUFIO [to Cleopatra] We shall have to go away presently
and cut some of your Egyptians' heads off. How will you
like being left here with the chance of being captured by
that little brother of yours if we are beaten ?
CLEOPATRA. But you mustnt leave me alone. Caesar :
you will not leave me alone, will you ?
Act III Cassar and Cleopatra i 59
RUFio. What ! not when the trumpet sounds and all our
lives depend on Caesar's being at the barricade before the
Egyptians reach it? Eh?
CLEOPATRA. Let them lose their lives : they are only
soldiers.
C-ffiSAR [grave/y] Cleopatra : when that trumpet sounds,
we must take every man his life in his hand, and throw it
in the face of Death. And of my soldiers who have trusted
me there is not one whose hand I shall not hold more
sacred than your head. [C/eopatra is overzv helmed. Her eyes
fill with tears]. Apollodorus : you must take her back to the
palace.
APOLLODORUS. Am I a dolphin, Cassar, to cross the seas
with young ladies on my back ? My boat is sunk : all
yours are either at the barricade or have returned to the
city. I will hail one if I can : that is all I can do. [He
goes back to the causeway].
CLEOPATRA [struggling with her tears'] It does not matter.
I will not go back. Nobody cares for me.
c^SAR. Cleopatra —
CLEOPATRA. You waut mc to be killed.
c^SAR [still more gravely] My poor child : your life
matters little here to anyone but yourself. [She gives way
altogether at this^ casting herself down on the faggots weeping.
Suddenly a great tumult is heard in the distance, bucinas and
trumpets sounding through a storm of shouting. Britannus
rushes to the parapet and looks along the mole. Casar and
Rufio turn to one another with quick intelligence].
c^SAR. Come, Rufio.
CLEOPATRA [scrambling to her knees and clinging to him]
No, no. Do not leave me, Caesar. [He snatches his skirt
from her clutch]. Oh !
BRITANNUS [from the parapet] Cassar : we are cut off.
The Egyptians have landed from the west harbor between
us and the barricade ! ! !
RUFIO [running to see] Curses ! It is true. Wc are caught
like rats in a trap.
i6o Three Plays for Puritans Act III
c^SAR \ruthfully\ Rufio, Rufio : my men at the barri-
cade are between the sea party and the shore party. I have
murdered them.
RUFIO {coming backfro?n the parapet to Ccesar^s right hand'\
Ay : that comes of fooling with this girl here.
APOLLODORUS \comi?ig up quickly fro?n the causezaay] Look
over the parapet, Caesar.
c^SAR. We have looked, my friend. We must defend
ourselves here.
APOLLODORUS. I havc thrown the ladder into the sea.
They cannot get in without it.
RUFIO. Ay; and we cannot get out. Have you thought
of that ?
APOLLODORUS. Not get out ! Why not ? You have ships
in the east harbor.
BRiTANNUs [hopcfully^ at the parapet'] The Rhodian galleys
are standing in towards us already. \_C^sar quickly joins
Br it annus at the parapet],
RUFIO \to Apollodorus^ i?npatiently] And by what road
are we to walk to the galleys, pray?
APOLLODORUS \with gay, defiant rhetoric] By the road that
leads everywhere — the diamond path of the sun and
moon. Have you never seen the child's shadow play of
The Broken Bridge ? '*Ducks and geese with ease get over"
— eh ? \He throws away his cloak and cap, and hinds his
sword on his back].
RUFIO. What are you talking about?
APOLLODORUS. I will shew you. \Calling to Britannus]
How far off is the nearest galley?
BRITANNUS. Fifty fathom.
c^SAR. No, no : they are further off than they seem in
this clear air to your British eyes. Nearly quarter of a mile,
Apollodorus.
APOLLODORUS. Good. Defend yourselves here until I
send you a boat from that galley.
RUFIO. Have you wings, perhaps ?
APOLLODORUS. Water wings, soldier. Behold !
Act III Cassar and Cleopatra 1 6 1
He runs up the steps between Casar and Britannus to the
coping of the parapet ; springs into the air ; and plunges head
foremost into the sea.
c^SAR \like a schoolboy — wildly excited'] Bravo, bravo !
[Throwing off Ins cloak] By Jupiter, I will do that too.
RUFio \_seizing hi??i] You are mad. You shall not.
CiESAR. Why not? Can I not swim as well as he?
RUFio [frantic] Can an old fool dive and swim like a
young one ? He is twenty-five and you are fifty.
c^SAR [breaking loose from Rufio] Old ! ! !
BRITANNUS [shocked] Rufio : you forget yourself.
CiESAR. I will race you to the galley for a week's pay,
father Rufio.
CLEOPATRA. But me ! me ! ! me ! ! ! what is to become
of m e ?
CiESAR. I will carry you on my back to the galley like
a dolphin. Rufio : when you see me rise to the surface,
throw her in : I will answer for her. And then in with
you after her, both of you.
CLEOPATRA. No, no, NO. I shall be drowned.
BRITANNUS. Cscsar : I am a man and a Briton, not a fish.
I must have a boat. I cannot swim.
CLEOPATRA. Neither can 1.
CiESAR [to Britannus] Stay here, then, alone, until I
recapture the lighthouse : 1 will not forget you. Now,
Rufio.
RUFIO. You have made up your mind to this folly?
c^SAR. The Egyptians have made it up for me. What
else is there to do? And mind where you jump : I do not
want to get your fourteen stone in the small of my back as
I come up. [He runs up the steps and stands on the coping].
BRITANNUS [anxiously] One last word, Cassar. Do not
let yourself be seen in the fashionable part of Alexandria
until you have changed your clothes.
CJESAR [calling over the sea] Ho, Apollodorus : [/v poi?its
skyward and quotes the barcarolle]
The white upon the blue above —
M
1 62 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
APOLLODORUs \swmmitig in the distance]
Is purple on the green below —
c^SAR [exultantly'] Aha ! [He plunges into the sea].
CLEOPATRA [running excitedly to the steps] Oh, let me see.
He will be drowned [Rujio seizes her] — Ah — ah — ah —
ah ! [He pitches her screaming into the sea. Rujio and Brit an-
nus roar with laughter].
RUFio [looking down after her] He has got her. [To
Britannus] Hold the fort, Briton. Cassar will not forget
you. [He springs off].
BRITANNUS [running to the steps to watch them as they swim]
All safe, Rufio ?
RUFIO [swimming] All safe.
CiESAR [swim?ning further off] Take refuge up there by
the beacon ; and pile the fuel on the trap door, Britannus.
BRITANNUS [calling in reply] I will first do so, and then
commend myself to my country's gods. [A sound of cheering
from the sea. Britannus gives full vent to his excitement]. The
boat has reached him : Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!
ACT IV
Cleopatra^ s sousing in the east harbor of Alexandria was in
October 48 B.C. In March 47 she is passing the afternoon in
her boudoir in the palace., among a bevy of her ladies., listening
to a slave girl who is playing the harp in the middle of the room,.
The harpist'' s master, an old musician., with a lined face., promi-
nent brows., white beard., moustache and eyebrows twisted and
horned at the ends., and a consciously keen and pretentious ex-
pression., is squatting on the floor close to her on her right.,
watching her performance. Ftatateeta is in attendance near
the door, in front of a group of female slaves. Except the harp
player all are seated : Cleopatra in a chair opposite the door on
the other side of the room ; the rest on the ground. Cleopatra's
ladies are all young, the most conspicuous being Charmian and
Iras, her favorites. Charmian is a hatchet faced, terra cotta
colored little goblin, swift in her movements, and neatly finished
at the hands and feet. Iras is a plump, goodnatured creature,
rather fatuous, with a profusion of red hair, and a tendency to
giggle on the slightest provocation.
CLEOPATRA. Can I —
FTATATEETA [insokntly, to the player"] Peace, thou ! The
Queen speaks. [The player stops],
CLEOPATRA \to the old musician] I want to learn to play
the harp with my own hands. Caesar loves music. Can
you teach me I
MUSICIAN. Assuredly I and no one else can teach the
1 64 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
queen. Have I not discovered the lost method of the
ancient Egyptians, who could make a pyramid tremble by
touching a bass string? All the other teachers are quacks:
I have exposed them repeatedly.
CLEOPATRA. Good : you shall teach me. How long will
it take?
MUSICIAN. Not very long : only four years. Your
Majesty must first become proficient in the philosophy of
Pythagoras.
CLEOPATRA. Has she [indicating the slaved become pro-
ficient in the philosophy of Pythagoras?
MUSICIAN. Oh, she is but a slave. She learns as a dog
learns.
CLEOPATRA. Well, then, I will learn as a dog learns ; for
she plays better than you. You shall give me a lesson every
day for a fortnight. \_The musician hastily scrambles to his
feet and bows profoundly']. After that, whenever I strike a
false note you shall be flogged ; and if I strike so many
that there is not time to flog you, you shall be thrown into
the Nile to feed the crocodiles. Give the girl a piece of
gold ; and send them away.
MUSICIAN [much taken aback] But true art will not be
thus forced.
FTATATEETA \pushing him out] What is this ? Answering
the Queen, forsooth. Out with you.
He is pushed out by Ftatateeta, the girl following with her
harp, amid the laughter of the ladies and slaves.
CLEOPATRA. Now, Can any of you amuse me ? Have you
any stories or any news ?
IRAS. Ftatateeta —
CLEOPATRA. Oh, Ftatateeta, Ftatateeta, always Ftatateeta.
Some new tale to set me against her.
IRAS. No : this time Ftatateeta has been virtuous. [All
the ladies laugh — not the slaves]. Pothinus has been trying
to bribe her to let him speak with you.
CLEOPATRA \wrathfully] Ha ! you all sell audiences with
me, as if I saw whom you please, and not whom I please.
Act IV Cassar and Cleopatra 165
I should like to know how much of her gold piece that
harp girl will have to give up before she leaves the
palace.
IRAS. We can easily find out that for you.
The ladies laugh.
CLEOPATRA \frowning\ You laugh ; but take care, take
care. I will find out some day how to make myself served
as Csesar is served.
CHARMiAN. Old hooknose ! \They laugh again\
CLEOPATRA {revoltcd^ Silence. Charmian : do not you
be a silly little Egyptian fool. Do you know why I allow
you all to chatter impertinently just as you please, instead
of treating you as Ftatateeta would treat you if she were
Queen t
CHARMIAN. Because you try to imitate Caesar in every-
thing ; and he lets everybody say what they please to him.
CLEOPATRA. No ; but bccausc I asked him one day why
he did so; and he said "Let your women talk; and you
will learn something from them." What have I to learn
from them.? I said. "What they are," said he; and oh!
you should have seen his eye as he said it. You would have
curled up, you shallow things. \Thej laugh. She turns
fiercely on Iras]. At whom are you laughing — at me or at
Caesar?
IRAS. At Caesar. ^
CLEOPATRA. If you wcre not a fool, you woura laugh at
me ; and if you were not a coward you would not be afraid
to tell me so. [Ftatateeta returns]. Ftatateeta : they tell
me that Pothinus has offered you a bribe to admit him to
my presence.
FTATATEETA [protesting] Now by my father's gods —
CLEOPATRA [cutting her short despotically] Have I not told
you not to deny things.? You would spend the day calling
your father's gods to witness to your virtues if I let you.
Go take the bribe ; and bring in Pothinus. [Ftatateeta is
about to reply]. Dont answer me. Go.
Ftatateeta goes out ; and Cleopatra rises and begins to prowl
1 66 Three Plays for Puritans Act iv
to and fro betzveen her chair and tl:e door, meditating. All rise
and stand.
IRAS \as she reluctantly rises] Heigho ! I wish Cassar were
back in Rome.
CLEOPATRA [threateningly] It will be a bad day for you
all when he goes. Oh, if I were not ashamed to let him
see that I am as cruel at heart as my father, I would make
you repent that speech ! Why do you wish him away .''
CHARMiAN. He makes you so terribly prosy and serious
and learned and philosophical. It is worse than being
religious, at our ages. [The ladies laugh].
CLEOPATRA. Ccasc that endless cackling, will you. Hold
your tongues.
CHARMIAN [zvith vicck resignation] Well, well : we must
try to live up to Caesar.
They laugh again. Cleopatra rages silently as she continues
to prowl to and fro. Ftatateeta comes back with Pothinus,
who halts on the threshold.
FTATATEETA [at the door] Pothinus craves the ear of the —
CLEOPATRA. There, there : that will do : let him come
In. [She resumes her seat. All sit down except Pothinus., who
advances to the middle of the room. Ftatateeta takes her former
place.] Well, Pothinus : what is the latest news from your
rebel friends ?
POTHINUS [haughtily] I am no friend of rebellion. And
a prisoner does not receive news.
CLEOPATRA. You are no more a prisoner than I am —
than Cassar Is. These six months we have been besieged
in this palace by my subjects. You are allowed to walk
on the beach among the soldiers. Can I go further myself,
or can Caesar.?
POTHINUS. You are but a child, Cleopatra, and do not
understand these matters.
The ladies laugh. Cleopatra looks inscrutably at hi?n.
CHARMIAN. I see you do not know the latest news,
Pothinus.
POTHINUS. What is that ?
Act IV Cassar and Cleopatra 167
CHARMiAN. That Cleopatra is no longer a child. Shall
I tell you how to grow much older, and much, much
wiser in one day ?
poTHiNus. I should prefer to grow wiser without grow-
ing older.
CHARMIAN. Well, go up to the top of the lighthouse ;
and get somebody to take you by the hair and throw you
into the sea. \_The ladies laugF\.
CLEOPATRA. She is right, Pothinus : you will come to
the shore with much conceit washed out of you. \The ladies
laugh. Cleopatra rises impatiently]. Begone, all of you. I
will speak with Pothinus alone. Drive them out, Ftatateeta.
yrhey run out laughing. Ftatateeta shuts the door on them].
What are you waiting for?
FTATATEETA. It is not meet that the Queen remain alone
with —
CLEOPATRA [interrupting her] Ftatateeta : must I sacrifice
you to your father's gods to teach you that / am Queen of
Egypt, and not you ?
FTATATEETA [indignantly] You are like the rest of them.
You want to be what these Romans call a New Woman.
[Sh?e goes out, bajiging the door].
CLEOPATRA [sitting down again] Now, Pothinus : why did
you bribe Ftatateeta to bring you hither?
POTHINUS [studying h^er gravely] Cleopatra : what they
tell me is true. You are changed.
CLEOPATRA. Do you spcak with Caesar every day for six
months : and you will be changed.
POTHINUS. It is the common talk that you are infatuated
with this old man ?
CLEOPATRA. Infatuated? What does that mean? Made
foolish, is it not? Oh no : I wish I were.
POTHINUS. You wish you were made foolish ! How so ?
CLEOPATRA. When I was foolish, I did what I liked,
except when Ftatateeta beat me; and even then I cheated
her and did it by stealth. Now that Caesar has made me
wise, it is no use my liking or disliking : I do what must
1 68 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
be done, and have no time to attend to myself. That is not
happiness ; but it is greatness. If Cassar were gone, I think
I could govern the Egyptians ; for what Caesar is to me, I
am to the fools around me.
poTHiNus [looking hard at l:er\ Cleopatra : this may be
the vanity of youth.
CLEOPATRA. No, no ! it is not that I am so clever, but
that the others are so stupid.
POTHINUS \musinglf\ Truly, that is the great secret.
CLEOPATRA. Well, now tell me what you came to say?
POTHit^us [em I? arrassed] I! Nothing.
CLEOPATRA. Nothing !
POTHINUS. At least — to beg for my liberty: that is all.
CLEOPATRA. For that you would have knelt to Caesar.
No, Pothinus : you came with some plan that depended
on Cleopatra being a little nursery kitten. Now that
Cleopatra is a Queen, the plan is upset.
POTHINUS [bowing kis head submissively'] It is so.
CLEOPATRA [exultant'] Aha !
POTHINUS [raising his eyes keenly to hers] Is Cleopatra then
indeed a Queen, and no longer Cesar's prisoner and slave?
CLEOPATRA. Pothinus : we are all Caesar's slaves — all we
in this land of Egypt — whether we will or no. And she
who is wise enough to know this will reign when Caesar
departs.
POTHINUS. You harp on Csesar's departure.
CLEOPATRA. What if I do ?
POTHINUS. Does he not love you ?
CLEOPATRA. Lovc me ! Pothinus : Cssar loves no one.
Who are those we love ? Only those whom we do not
hate : all people are strangers and enemies to us except
those we love. But it is not so with Caesar. He has no
hatred in him : he makes friends with everyone as he does
with dogs and children. His kindness to me is a wonder :
neither mother, father, nor nurse have ever taken so much
care for me, or thrown open their thoughts to me so
freely.
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 169
POTHiNUS. Well : is not this love?
CLEOPATRA. What ! whcii he will do as much, for the
first girl he meets on his way back to Rome? Ask his
slave, Britannus : he has been just as good to him. Nay,
ask his very horse ! His kindness is not for anything in
me : it is in his own nature.
POTHINUS. But how can you be sure that he does not
love you as men love women ?
CLEOPATRA. Because I cannot make him jealous. I have
tried.
POTHINUS. Hm ! Perhaps I should have asked, then, do
you love him?
CLEOPATRA. Can one love a god? Besides, I love another
Roman : one whom I saw long before Csesar — no god,
but a man — one who can love and hate — one whom I
can hurt and who would hurt me.
POTHINUS. Does Caesar know this?
CLEOPATRA. YcS.
POTHINUS. And he is not angry?
CLEOPATRA. He promiscs to send him to Egypt to please
me !
POTHINUS. I do not understand this man.
CLEOPATRA \with supcrb contempt'] You understand
Caesar! How could you? \_Proudly'] I do — by instinct.
POTHINUS [deferentially, after a moment's thought] Your
Majesty caused me to be admitted to-day. What message
has the Queen for me?
CLEOPATRA. This. You think that by making my
brother king, you will rule in Egypt, because you are his
guardian and he is a little silly.
POTHINUS. The Oueen is pleased to say so.
CLEOPATRA. The Oucen is pleased to say this also. That
Cassar will eat up you, and Achillas, and my brother, as a
cat eats up mice ; and that he will put on this land of Egypt
as a shepherd puts on his garment. And when he has done
that, he will return to Rome, and leave Cleopatra here as
his viceroy.
170 Three Plays for Puritans Act iv
POTHINUS \breaking out wrathfullj\ That he will never
do. We have a thousand men to his ten ; and we will
drive him and his beggarly legions into the sea.
CLEOPATRA \with scom, getting up to go'] You rant like
any common fellow. Go, then, and marshal your thousands ;
and make haste ; for Mithridates of Pergamos is at hand
with reinforcements for Caesar. Caesar has held you at bay
with two legions : we shall see what he will do with twenty.
POTHINUS. Cleopatra —
CLEOPATRA. Enough, enough : Caesar has spoiled me for
talking to weak things like you. \^She goes out. Pothinus,
with a gesture of rage ^ is follozving, when Ft at ate eta enters and
stops him].
POTHINUS. Let me go forth from this hateful place.
FTATATEETA. What angers you ?
POTHINUS. The curse of all the gods of Egypt be upon
her ! She has sold her country to the Roman, that she
may buy it back from him with her kisses.
FTATATEETA. Fool : did she not tell you that she would
have Caesar gone r
POTHINUS. You listened?
FTATATEETA. I took carc that some honest woman should
be at hand whilst you were with her.
POTHINUS. Now by the gods —
FTATATEETA. Enough of your gods ! Csesar's gods are all
powerful here. It is no use you coming to Cleopatra:
you are only an Egyptian. She will not listen to any of
her own race : she treats us all as children.
POTHINUS. May she perish for it !
FTATATEETA [ha/e/u//y] May your tongue wither for that
wish! Go! send for Lucius Septimius, the slayer of Pom-
pey. He is a Roman : may be she will listen to him. Be-
gone !
POTHINUS [dark/y] I know to whom I must go now.
FTATATEETA [suspiciously] To whom, then ?
POTHINUS. To a greater Roman than Lucius. And mark
this, mistress. You thought, before Caesar came, that Egypt
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 171
should presently be ruled by you and your crew in the
name of Cleopatra. I set myself against it —
VTATATEKTh [interrupting him — wrangling\ Ay; that it
might beruled byyou and yourcrewin the name of Ptolemy.
poTHiNus. Better me, or even you, than a woman with
a Roman heart ; and that is what Cleopatra is now become.
Whilst I live, she shall never rule. So guide yourself
accordingly. \He goes out].
It is by this time drawing on to dinner time. The table is
laid on the roof of the palace ; and thither Rufio is now climbing,
ushered by a majestic palace official, wand of office in hand,
and follozued by a slave carrying an inlaid stool. After
many stairs they emerge at last into a massive colonnade on the
roof. Light curtains are drawn between the columns on the
north and east to soften the westering sun. The official leads
Rufio to one of these shaded sections. A cord for pulling the
curtains apart hangs down between the pillars.
THE OFFICIAL \bowing\ The Roman commander will
await Caesar here.
The slave sets down the stool near the southernmost column,
and slips out through the curtains.
RUFIO {sitting down, a little blown] Pouf ! That was a
climb. How high have we come ?
THE OFFICIAL. We are on the palace roof, O Beloved
of Victory !
RUFIO. Good ! the Beloved of Victory has no more
stairs to get up.
A second official enters from the opposite end, walking
backwards.
THE SECOND OFFICIAL. Ca^sar approaches.
Casar, fresh from the bath, clad in a new tunic of purple
silk, comes in, beaming and festive, followed by tzvo slaves
carrying a light couch, which is hardly more than an elaborately
designed bench. They place it near the northmost of the two
curtained columns. When this is done they slip out through the
curtains; and the two officials, formally bowing, follow them.
Rufio rises to receive Casar.
1 72 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
ciESAR [^comifig over to him'\ Why, Rufio ! \_Surveying his
dress with a?i air of admiri?ig astonishment'] A new baldric k !
A new golden pommel to your sword ! And you have had
your hair cut! But not your beard — ? impossible!
[//<? sniffs at Rufio' s beard]. Yes, perfumed, by Jupiter
Olympus !
RUFIO \_grozvling'] Well : is it to please myself?
c^SAR [affectionately] No, my son Rufio, but to please
me — to celebrate my birthday.
RUFIO [contemptuously] Your birthday ! You always have
a birthday when there is a pretty girl to be flattered or an
ambassador to be conciliated. We had seven of them in
ten months last year.
CiESAR [contritely] It is true, Rufio ! I shall never break
myself of these petty deceits.
RUFIO. Who is to dine with us — besides Cleopatra?
c-ssAR. Apollodorus the Sicilian.
RUFIO. That popinjay !
c^SAR. Come ! the popinjay is an amusing dog — tells
a story; sings a song; and saves us the trouble of flattering
the Queen. What does she care for old politicians and
camp-fed bears like us ? No : Apollodorus is good com-
pany, Rufio, good company.
RUFIO. Well, he can swim a bit and fence a bit : he
might be worse, if he only knew how to hold his tongue.
c^SAR. The gods forbid he should ever learn ! Oh, this
military life ! this tedious, brutal life of action ! That is
the worst of us Romans : we are mere doers and drudgers :
a swarm of bees turned into men. Give me a good talker
— one with wit and imagination enough to live without
continually doing something !
RUFIO. Ay ! a nice time he would have of it with you
when dinner was over ! Have you noticed that I am before
my time ?
C.KSAR. Aha ! I thought that meant something. What
IS It
RUFIO. Can we be overheard here?
Act IV Ccesar and Cleopatra 173
c^SAR. Our privacy invites eavesdropping. I can
remedy that. [^He claps Ms hands twice. The curtains are
drawn, revealing the roof garden with a banqueting table set
across in the middle for four persons, one at each end, and two
side by side. The side next Ccesar and Rufio is blocked with
golden wine vessels and basins. A gorgeous major-domo is
superintending the laying of the table by a staff of slaves. The
colonnade goes round the garden at both sides to the further end,
where a gap in it, like a great gateway, leaves the view open
to the sky beyond the western edge of the roof, except in the
middle, where a life size image of Ra, seated on a huge plinth,
towers up, with hawk head and crown of asp and disk. His
altar, which stands at his feet, is a single white stone\ Now
everybody can see us, nobody will think of listening to us.
\He sits down on the bench left by the two slaves'],
RUFio [sitting down on his stool'] Pothinus wants to speak
to you. I advise you to see him : there is some plotting
going on here among the women.
c^SAR. Who is Pothinus ?
RUFio. The fellow with hair like squirrel's fur — the
little King's bear leader, whom you kept prisoner.
c^sAR [annoyed] And has he not escaped ?
RUFIO. No.
c^sAR [rising imperiously] Why not ? You have been
guarding this man instead of watching the enemy. Have
I not told you always to let prisoners escape unless there
are special orders to the contrary? Are there not enough
mouths to be fed without him?
RUFIO. Yes ; and if you would have a little sense and
let me cut his throat, you would save his rations. Anyhow,
he wont escape. Three sentries have told him they would
put a pilum through him if they saw him again. What
more can they do ? He prefers to stay and spy on us. So
would I if I had to do with generals subject to fits of
clemency.
c^SAR [resuming his seat, argued dozen] Hm ! And so he
wants to see me.
174 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
RUFio. Ay. I have brought him with me. He is wait-
ing there [jerking his thumb over Im shoulder'\ under
guard.
c^SAR. And you want me to see him ?
RUFIO \ob5tinatel'f\ I dont want anything. I daresay you
will do what you like. Dont put it on to me.
C-ffiSAR \with an air of doing it expressly to indulge Rufio\
Well, well : let us have him.
RUFio \calling'\ Ho there, guard ! Release your man and
send him up. [Beckoning\. Come along !
Pothinus enters and stops mistrustfully between the two^
looking from one to the other.
c^SAR [graciously^ Ah, Pothinus ! You are welcome.
And what is the news this afternoon ?
POTHINUS. C^sar : I come to warn you of a danger, and
to make you an oiFer.
c^SAR. Never mind the danger. Make the offer.
RUFIO. Never mind the oifer. Whats the danger ?
POTHINUS. Cassar : you think that Cleopatra is devoted
to you.
c^SAR [gravely\ My friend : I already know what 1
think. Come to your offer.
POTHINUS. I will deal plainly. I know not by what
Strange gods you have been enabled to defend a palace and
a few yards of beach against a city and an army. Since we
cut you off from Lake Mareotis, and you dug wells in the
salt sea sand and brought up buckets of fresh water from
them, we have known that your gods are irresistible, and
that you are a worker of miracles. I no longer threaten
you —
RUFIO [sarcastically'] Very handsome of you, indeed.
POTHINUS. So be it : you are the master. Our gods sent
the north west winds to keep you in our hands ; but you
have been too strong for them.
CiESAR [gently urging him to come to the point] Yes, yes,
my friend. But what then ?
RUFIO. Spit it out, man. What have you to say?
Act IV Cassar and Cleopatra 175
POTHINUS. I have to say that you have a traitress in your
camp. Cleopatra —
THE MAjoR-DOMo [at the table, announcing] The Queen !
[Caesar and Rujio rise].
RUFio [aside to Pothinus] You should have spat it out
sooner, you fool. Now it is too late.
Cleopatra, in gorgeous raiment, enters in state through the
gap in the colonnade, and comes down past the image of Ra and
past the table to Ccesar, Her retinue, headed by Ftatateeta,
joins the staff at the table. Ceesar gives Cleopatra his seat,
which she takes.
CLEOPATRA [quickly, seeing Pothinus] What is he doing
here ?
Ci5:sAR [seating himself beside her, in the most amiable of
tempers] Just going to tell me something about you. You
shall hear it. Proceed, Pothinus.
POTHINUS [disconcerted] Caesar — [he stammers],
c^SAR. Well, out with it.
POTHINUS. What I have to say is for your ear, not for
the Queen's.
CLEOPATRA [with subducd ferocitf] There are means of
making you speak. Take care.
POTHINUS [defiantly] Cassar does not employ those means.
CJESAR. My friend : when a man has anything to tell in
this world, the difficulty is not to make him tell it, but to
prevent him from telling it too often. Let me celebrate
my birthday by setting you free. Farewell : we shall not
meet again.
CLEOPATRA [angrily] Cassar : this mercy is foolish.
POTHINUS [to Ceesar] Will you not give me a private
audience ? Your life may depend on it. [Ceesar rises loftily].
RUFIO [aside to Pothinus] Ass ! Now we shall have some
heroics.
c^SAR [oratorically] Pothinus —
RUFIO [interrupting him] Cassar : the dinner will spoil if
you begin preaching your favourite sermon about life and
death.
176 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
CLEOPATRA [priggishly'] Peace, Rufio. I desire to hear
Cxsar.
RUFIO [If/unt/y] Your Majesty has heard it before. You
repeated it to Apollodorus last week ; and he thought it
was all your own. [Ct^sar^s dignity collapses. Much tickled^
he sits down again and looks roguishly at Cleopatra^ who is
furious. Rufio calls as before'\ Ho there, guard ! Pass the
prisoner out. He is released. \To Pothinus'\ Now ofF witli
you. You have lost your chance.
poTHiNUs \_his temper overcoming his prudence'\ I will
speak.
CiESAR [to Cleopatra'] You see. Torture would not have
wrung a word from him.
POTHINUS. Caesar: you have taught Cleopatra the arts
by which the Romans govern the world.
CJESAR. Alas ! they cannot even govern themselves.
What then ?
POTHINUS. What then? Are you so besotted with her
beauty that you do not see that she is impatient to reign
in Egypt alone, and that her heart is set on your departure ?
CLEOPATRA [^rising] Liar !
CiESAR [shocked] What ! Protestations ! Contradictions !
CLEOPATRA [ashamed^ hut trembling with suppressed rage]
No. I do not deign to contradict. Let him talk. [She sits
down again].
POTHINUS. From her own lips I have heard it. You are
to be her catspaw : you are to tear the crown from her
brother's head and set it on her own, delivering us all into
her hand — delivering yourself also. And then Caesar can
return to Rome, or depart through the gate of death, which
is nearer and surer.
CJESAR [calmly] Well, my friend ; and is not this very
natural ?
POTHINUS [astonished] Natural ! Then you do not resent
treachery?
CJESAR. Resent ! O thou foolish Egyptian, what have I
to do with resentment? Do I resent the wind when it
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 177
chiils me, or the night when it makes me stumble in the
darkness? Shall I resent youth when it turns from age,
and ambition when it turns from servitude? To tell me
such a story as this is but to tell me that the sun will rise
to-morrow.
CLEOPATRA [unabk to contain herself ^^ But it is false —
false. I swear it.
c^SAR. It is true, though you swore it a thousand times,
and believed all you swore. \^She is convulsed with emotion.
To screen her, he rises and takes Pothinus to Rujio, saying]
Come, Rufio : let us see Pothinus past the guard. I have
a word to say to him. [Jside to them] We must give the
Queen a moment to recover herself. \_Aloud] Come. [He
takes Pothinus and Rufio out with him, conversing with them
meanwhile]. Tell your friends, Pothinus, that they must
not think I am opposed to a reasonable settlement of the
country's affairs — {They pass out of hearing].
CLEOPATRA \in a stifled whisper] Ftatateeta, Ftatateeta.
FTATATEETA [hurrjing to her from the table and petting her]
Peace, child : be comforted —
CLEOPATRA [interrupting her] Can they hear us ?
FTATATEETA. No, dear heart, no.
CLEOPATRA. Listen to me. If he leaves the Palace alive,
never see my face again.
FTATATEETA. He ? Poth
CLEOPATRA [striking her on the mouth] Strike his life out
as I strike his name from your lips. Dash him down from
the wall. Break him on the stones. Kill, kill, kill
him.
FTATATEETA [shewing all her teeth] The dog shall perish.
CLEOPATRA. Fail in this, and you go out from before me
for ever.
FTATATEETA [resolutclf] So be it. You shall not see my
face until his eyes are darkened.
Ccesar comes back, with Apolhdorus, exquisitely dressed,
and Rufio.
CLEOPATRA [to Ftatateeta] Come soon — soon. [Ftatateeta
N
178 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
turns her meaning eyes for a moment on her mistress; then goes
grimly away past Ra and out. Cleopatra runs like a gazelle
to C^sar] So you have come back to me, Cassar. [Caress-
ingly] I thought you were angry. Welcome, Apollodorus.
[She gives him her hand to kiss, with her other arm about Caesar],
APOLLODORUS. Clcopatra grows more womanly beautiful
from week to week.
CLEOPATRA. Truth, Apollodorus ?
APOLLODORUS. Far, far short of the truth ! Friend Rufio
threw a pearl into the sea : Caesar fished up a diamond.
c^SAR. Caesar fished up a touch of rheumatism, my
friend. Come: to dinner! to dinner ! [They move towards
the table].
CLEOPATRA [skipping like a young fawn] Yes, to dinner.
I have ordered such a dinner for you, Caesar !
c^SAR. Ay ? What are we to have ?
CLEOPATRA. Pcacocks' brains.
c^SAR [as if his mouth watered] Peacocks' brains, Apol-
lodorus !
APOLLODORUS. Not for mc. I prefer nightingales' tongues.
[He goes to one of the two covers set side by side],
CLEOPATRA. Roast boar, Rufio !
RUFio [gluttonously] Good! [He goes to the seat next
Jp olio dor us, on his left].
ciESAR [looking at his seat, which is at the end of the table,
to Ra^s left hand] What has become of my leathern cushion ?
CLEOPATRA [at the opposite end] 1 have got new ones for
you.
THE MAJOR-DOMO. Thcse cushions, Caesar, are of Maltese
gauze, stuffed with rose leaves.
CiESAR. Rose leaves ! Am I a caterpillar ? [He throws
the cushions away and seats hifnself on the leather mattress
underneath].
CLEOPATRA. What E shamc ! My new cushions !
THE MAjoR-DOMo [at C^sar^s elbow] What shall we serve
to whet Csesar's appetite ?
ciESAR. What have you got ?
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 179
THE MAJOR-DOMO. Sca hedgehogs, black and white sea
acorns, sea nettles, beccaficoes, purple shellfish —
CiESAR. Any oysters ?
THE MAJOR-DOMO. Assurcdly.
c^sAR. British oysters?
THE MAJOR-DOMO [asse^iti/ig] British oysters, Cassar.
c^sAR. Oysters, then. [The Major-Domo signs to a slave
at each order ; and the slave goes out to execute it\ I have
been in Britain — that western land of romance — the last
piece of earth on the edge of the ocean that surrounds the
world. I went there in search of its famous pearls. The
British pearl was a fable ; but in searching for it I found
the British oyster.
APOLLODORUs. All posterity wiU bless you for it. \To the
Major-Domo'] Sea hedgehogs for me.
RUFio. Is there nothing solid to begin with?
THE MAJOR-DOMO. Fieldfares with asparagus —
CLEOPATRA [interrupting'] Fattened fowls ! have some fat-
tened fowls, Rufio.
RUFIO. Ay, that will do.
CLEOPATRA [greedily] Fieldfares for me.
THE MAJOR-DOMO. Cssar will deign to choose his wine ?
Sicilian, Lesbian, Chian —
RUFio [contemptuously] All Greek.
APOLLODORUS. Who would drink Roman wine when he
could get Greek ? Try the Lesbian, Csesar.
CiESAR. Bring me my barley water.
RUFIO [with intense disgust] Ugh! Bring me my Faler-
nian. [The Falernian is presently brought to him],
CLEOPATRA [pouting] It is waste of time giving you
dinners, Caesar. My scullions would not condescend to
your diet.
c^SAR [relenting] Well, well : let us try the Lesbian.
[The Major-Domo Jills desar^s goblet ; then Cleopatra's and
Apohodorus' s]. But when I return to Rome, I will make
laws against these extravagances. I will even get the laws
carried out.
i8o Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
CLEOPATRA \_coaxif2gly'\ Never mind. To-day you arc to
be like other people : idle, luxurious, and kind. \_She
stretches ker hand to him along the table'].
c^SAR. Well, for once I will sacrifice my comfort —
[^kissing her hand] there ! \_He takes a draught of win e\ Now
are you satisfied?
CLEOPATRA. And you no longer believe that I long for
your departure for Rome ?
c^SAR. I no longer believe anything. My brains are
asleep. Besides, who knows whether I shall return to
Rome ?
RUFio \alarmed] How ? Eh ? What ?
c^sAR. What has Rome to shew me that 1 have not
seen already? One year of Rome is like another, except
that I grow older, whilst the crowd in the Appian Way is
always the same age.
APOLLODORUS. It is no better here in Egypt. The old
men, when they are tired of life, say " We have seen
everything except the source of the Nile."
c^SAR \his imagination catching fire] And why not see
that? Cleopatra: will you come with me and track the
flood to its cradle in the heart of the regions of mystery?
Shall we leave Rome behind us — Rome, that has achieved
greatness only to learn how greatness destroys nations
of men who are not great ! Shall I make you a new
kingdom, and build you a holy city there in the great
unknown ?
CLEOPATRA \rapturouslj] Yes, yes. You shall.
RUFio. Ay : now he will conquer Africa with two
legions before we come to the roast boar.
APOLLODORUS. Come : no scoffing. This is a noble
scheme : in it Caesar is no longer merely the conquering
soldier, but the creative poet-artist. Let us name the holy
city, and consecrate it with Lesbian wine.
c^SAR. Cleopatra shall name it herself.
CLEOPATRA. It shall be called Caesar's Gift to his Be-
loved.
Act IV C^sar and Cleopatra 1 8 1
APOLLODORUs. No, HO. Something vaster than that —
something universal, like the starry firmament.
CiESAR \^prosauallj\ Why not simply The Cradle of the
Nile ?
CLEOPATRA. No I the Nile is my ancestor; and he is a
god. Oh ! I have thought of something. The Nile shall
name it himself. Let us call upon him. \To the Major-
Domo] Send for him. [7^^ three men stare at one another;
but the Major-Domo goes out as if he had received the most
matter-of-fact order\ And \to the retinue'\ away with you
all.
The retinue withdraws, making obeisance.
A priest enters, carrying a miniature sphinx with a tiny
tripod before it. A morsel of incense is smoking in the tripod.
The priest comes to the table and places the image in
the middle of it. The light begins to change to the magenta
purple of the Egyptian sunset, as if the god had brought a
strange colored shadow with him. The three ?nen are determined
not to be impressed; but they feel curious in spite of themselves.
CiESAR. What hocus-pocus is this?
CLEOPATRA. You shall see. And it is not hocus-pocus.
To do it properly, we should kill something to please him ;
but perhaps he will answer Cassar without that if we spill
some wine to him.
APOLLODORUS [tuming his head to look up over his shoulder
at Ra^ Why not appeal to our hawkheaded friend here?
CLEOPATRA [nervously] Sh ! He will hear you and be
angry.
RUFio [ phlegmatically] The source of the Nile is out of
his district, I expect.
CLEOPATRA. No : I will have my city named by nobody
but my dear little sphinx, because it was in its arms that
Caesar found me asleep. [She languishes at Casar ; then
turns curtly to the priest']. Go. I am a priestess, and have
power to take your charge from you. [The priest makes a
reverence and goes out\ Now let us call on the Nile all
together. Perhaps he will rap on the table.
1 82 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
CiESAR. What ! table rapping ! Are such superstitions
still believed in this year 707 of the Republic ?
CLEOPATRA. It is no superstition : our priests learn lots
of things from the tables. Is it not so, Apollodorus?
APOLLODORUs. Yes : I profess myself a converted man.
When Cleopatra is priestess, Apollodorus is devotee. Pro-
pose the conjuration.
CLEOPATRA. You must say with me "Send us thy voice,
Father Nile."
ALL FOUR [holding their glasses together before the idol'\
Send us thy voice. Father Nile.
The death cry of a man in tnortal terror and agony answers
th:em. Appalled^ the men set down their glasses^ and listen.
Silence. The purple deepens in the sky. Ccesar^ glancing at
Cleopatra, catches her pouring out her wine before the god, with
gleaming eyes, and mute assurances of gratitude and worship.
Apollodorus springs up and runs to the edge of the roof to peer
down and listen.
c^sAR \looking piercingly at Cleopatra"] What was that?
CLEOPATRA [/>^/^^/^/?/^'] Nothing. They are beating some
slave,
CJESAR. Nothing !
RUFio. A man with a knife in him, I'll swear.
CESAR [rising'] A murder !
APOLLODORUS [at the back, waving his hand for silence] S-sh !
Silence. Did you hear that?
CiESAR. Another cry ?
APOLLODORUS [returning to the table] No, a thud. Some-
thing fell on the beach, I think.
RUFIO [grifnly, as he rises] Something with bones in it,
eh?
c^SAR [shuddering] Hush, hush, Rufio. [He leaves the
table and returns to the colonnade : Rufio following at his left
elbow, and Apollodorus at the other side].
CLEOPATRA [///// in her place at the table] Will you leave
me, Cassar? Apollodorus: are you going?
APOLLODORUS. Faith, dearest gueen, my appetite is gone.
Act IV C^sar and Cleopatra 183
CiESAR. Go down to the courtyard, Apollodorus ; and
find out what has happened.
Apollodorus nods and goes out, making for the staircase by
zuhich Rujio ascended.
CLEOPATRA. Your soldicrs have killed somebody, perhaps.
What does it matter?
The murmur of a crowd rises from the beach below. Ccesar
and Rufio look at one another.
CiESAR. This must be seen to. \He is about to follow
Apollodorus when Rufio stops him with a hand on his arm as
Ftatateeta comes back by the far end of the roof with dragging
steps, a drowsy satiety in her eyes and in the corners of the
bloodhound lips. For a moment Casar suspects that she is
drunk with wine. Not so Rufio: he knows well the red vintage
that has inebriated her].
RUFIO [in a low tone] There is some mischief between
those two.
FTATATEETA. The Quccn looks again on the face of her
servant.
Cleopatra looks at her for a mo7nent with an exultant re-
fection of her murderous expression. Then she flings her arms
round her ; kisses her repeatedly and savagely ; and tears off
her jewels and heaps them on her. The two men turn from the
spectacle to look at one another. Ftatateeta drags herself sleepily
to the altar; kneels before Ra ; and remains there in prayer,
desar goes to Cleopatra, leaving Rufio in the colonnade.
CiESAR \with searching earnestness] Cleopatra : what has
happened ?
CLEOPATRA [in mortal dread of him, but with her utmost
cajolery] Nothing, dearest Cassar. [With sickly sweetness,
her voice almost failing] Nothing. I am innocent. [She
approaches him affectionately]. Dear Cassar : are you angry
with me? Why do you look at me so? I have been here
with you all the time. How can I know what has hap-
pened ?
c^SAR [refect ively] That is true.
CLEOPATRA [greatly relieved, trying to caress him] Of
184 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
course it is true. [He does not respond to the caress]. You
know it is true, Rufio.
The murmur zvithout suddenly swells to a roar and sub-
sides,
RUFio. I shall know presently. \He makes for the altar
in the burly trot that serves him for a stride^ and touches
Ftatateeta on the shoulder]. Now, mistress : I shall want
you. [He orders her, with a gesture, to go before him].
FTATATEETA [rising and glowering at him] My place is
with the Queen.
CLEOPATRA. She has done no harm, Rufio.
CiESAR [to Rufio] Let her stay.
RUFio [sitting down on the altar] Very well. Then my
place is here too ; and you can see what is the matter for
yourself. The city is in a pretty uproar, it seems.
CJESAR [tv it h grave displeasure] Rufio : there is a time for
obedience.
RUFIO. And there is a time for obstinacy. [He folds his
arfns doggedly].
ciESAR [to Cleopatra] Send her aWay.
CLEOPATRA [zuhining in her eagerness to propitiate him] Yes,
I will. I will do whatever you ask me, Cassar, always, be-
cause I love you. Ftatateeta : go away.
FTATATEETA. The guccn's word is my will. I shall be
at hand for the Queen's call. [She goes out past Ra, as she
came].
RUFIO [following her] Remember, Cassar, your body-
guard also is within call. [He follows her out],
Cleopatra, presuming upon Cesar's submission to Rufio,
leaves the table and sits down on the bench in the colonnade.
CLEOPATRA. Why do you allow Rufio to treat you so ?
You should teach him his place.
CJESAR. Teach him to be my enemy, and to hide his
thoughts from me as you are now hiding yours.
CLEOPATRA [her fears returning] Why do you say that,
Caesar? Indeed, indeed, I am not hiding anything. You
are wrong to treat me like this. [She stifies a sob]. I am
Act IV O^sar and Cleopatra 185
only a child ; and you turn into stone because you think
some one has been killed. I cannot bear it. \^S he purposely
breaks down and weeps. He looks at her with profound sadness
and complete coldness. She looks up to see what effect she is
producing. Seeing that he is unmo-ued^ she sits up, pretending
to struggle with her emotion and to put it bravely away']. But
there : I know you hate tears : you shall not be troubled
with them. I know you are not angry, but only sad ; only
I am so silly, I cannot help being hurt when you speak
coldly. Of course you are quite right : it is dreadful to
think of anyone being killed or even hurt; and I hope
nothing really serious has — [ler voice dies away under his
contemptuous penetration].
c^sAR. What has frightened you into this ? What have
you done? [^ trumpet sounds on the beach below]. Aha!
that sounds like the answer.
CLEOPATRA \sinking back trembling on the bench and cover-
ing her face with her hands] I have not betrayed you,
Cassar : I swear it.
CiESAR. I know that. I have not trusted you. \He turns
from her, and is about to go out when Apollodorus and
Britannus drag in Lucius Septimius to him. Rufio follows.
Ccesar shudders]. Again, Pompey's murderer!
RUFIO. The town has gone mad, I think. They are for
tearing the palace down and driving us into the sea straight
away. We laid hold of this renegade in clearing them out
of the courtyard.
c-SESAR. Release him. {They let go his arms.] What has
offended the citizens, Lucius Septimius?
LUCIUS. What did you expect, Caesar? Pothinus was a
favorite of theirs.
c^SAR. What has happened to Pothinus? I set him
free, here, not half an hour ago. Did they not pass him out ?
LUCIUS. Ay, through the gallery arch sixty feet above
ground, with three inches of steel in his ribs. He is as
dead as Pompey. We are quits now, as to killing — you
and I,
1 86 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
c-flESAR [shekel] Assassinated ! — our prisoner, our guest !
[He turns reproachfully on Rufio'] Rufio —
RUFio [emphatically — anticipating the quest ion^^ Whoever
did it was a wise man and a friend of yours [Cleopatra if
greatly emboldened^-, but none of us had a hand in it. So
it is no use to frown at me. [Casar turns and looks at Cleo-
patra'].
CLEOPATRA [violently — rising] He was slain by order of
the Queen of Egypt. I am not Julius Caesar the dreamer,
who allows every slave to insult him. Rufio has said I did
well : now the others shall judge me too. [She turns to the
others.] This Pothinus sought to make me conspire with
him to betray Caesar to Achillas and Ptolemy. I refused ;
and he cursed me and came privily to Caesar to accuse me
of his own treachery. I caught him in the act ; and he in-
sulted me — me, the Oueen ! to my face. Caesar would not
avenge me : he spoke him fair and set him free. Was I
right to avenge myself? Speak, Lucius.
LUCIUS. I do not gainsay it. But you will get little
thanks from Caesar for it.
CLEOPATRA, Spcak, Apollodorus. Was I wrong?
APOLLODORus. I have only one word of blame, most
beautiful. You should have called upon me, your knight;
and in fair duel I should have slain the slanderer.
CLEOPATRA [passionately] I will be judged by your very
slave, Csesar. Britannus : speak. Was I wrong?
BRiTANNUs. Were treachery, falsehood, and disloyalty
left unpunished, society must become like an arena full of
wild beasts, tearing one another to pieces. Caesar is in the
wrong.
c^sAR [with quiet bitterness] And so the verdict is against
me, it seems.
CLEOPATRA [vehe77ie7itly] Listen to me, Caesar. If one
man in all Alexandria can be found to say that I did wrong,
1 swear to have myself crucified on the door of the palace
by my own slaves.
CiESAR. If one man in all the world can be found, now
Act IV Cassar and Cleopatra 187
or forever, to know that you did wrong, that man will
have either to conquer the world as I have, or be crucified
by it. \The uproar in the streets again reaches them\ Do you
hear? These knockers at your gate are also believers in
vengeance and in stabbing. You have slain their leader :
it is right that they shall slay you. If you doubt it, ask
your four counsellors here. And then in the name of that
right \_l:e emphasizes the word with great scorn'] shall I not
slay them for murdering their Queen, and be slain in my
turn by their countrymen as the invader of their father-
land? Can Rome do less then than slay these slayers, too,
to shew the world how Rome avenges her sons and her
honor. And so, to the end of history, murder shall breed
murder, always in the name of right and honor and peace,
until the gods are tired of blood and create a race that can
understand. [Fierce uproar. Cleopatra becomes white with
terror]. Hearken, you who must not be insulted. Go near
enough to catch their words : you will find them bitterer
than the tongue of Pothinus. [Loftily^ wrapping himself up
in an impenetrable dignity] Let the Queen of Egypt now give
her orders for vengeance, and take her measures for de-
fence ; for she has renounced Csesar. [He turns to go].
CLEOPATRA [terrified, running to him and falling on her knees]
You will not desert me, Caesar. You will defend the palace.
CiESAR. You have taken the powers of life and death
upon you. I am only a dreamer.
CLEOPATRA. But they will kill me.
CiESAR. And why not ?
CLEOPATRA. In pity —
CiESAR. Pity! What! has it come to this so suddenly, that
nothing can save you now but pity? Diu it save Pothinus?
Bhe rises, wringing her hands, and goes back to the bench in
despair. Apollodorus shews his sympathy with her by quietly
posting himself behind the bench. The sky has by this ti?ne
' become the most vivid purple, and soon begins to change to a
glowing pale orange, against which the colonnade and the great
image shew darkUer and darklier.
1 88 Three Plays for Puritans Act iv
RUFio. Caesar : enough of preaching. The enemy is at
the gate.
c^SAR \turnmg on him and givitig way to his wrath'] Ay;
and what has held him baffled at the gate all these months ?
Was it my folly, as you deem it, or your wisdom } In this
Egyptian Red Sea of blood, whose hand has held all your
heads above the waves? {Turning on Cleopatra] And yet,
when Caesar says to such an one, "Friend, go free," you,
clinging for your little life to my sword, dare steal out and
stab him in the back ? And you, soldiers and gentlemen,
and honest servants as you forget that you are, applaud this
assassination, and say " Caesar is in the wrong." By the
gods, I am tempted to open my hand and let you all sink
into the flood.
CLEOPATRA \with a ray of cunnijig hope] But, Caesar, if you
do, you will perish yourself.
Casar^s eyes blaze.
RUFio {greatly alarmed] Now, by great Jove, you filthy
little Egyptian rat, that is the very word to make him walk
out alone into the city and leave us here to be cut to pieces.
{Desperately^ to Casar] Will you desert us because we are
a parcel of fools ? I mean no harm by killing : I do it as a
dog kills a cat, by instinct. We are all dogs at your heels ;
but we have served you faithfully.
CiESAR {relenting] Alas, Rufio, my son, my son : as dogs
we are like to perish now in the streets.
APOLLODORUS {at his post behind Cleopatrds seat] Caesar :
what you say has an Olympian ring in it : it must be right ;
for it is fine art. But I am still on the side of Cleopatra.
If we must die, she shall not want the devotion of a man's
heart nor the strength of a man's arm.
CLEOPATRA {sobbing] But I dont want to die.
c^SAR {sadly] Oh, ignoble, ignoble !
LUCIUS {coming forward between Caesar and Cleopatra]
Hearken to me, Cssar. It may be ignoble ; but I also mean
to live as long as I can.
CJESAR. Well, my friend, you are likely to outlive C^sar.
Act IV Cassar and Cleopatra 189
Is it any magic of mine, think you, that has kept your
army and this whole city at bay for so long? Yesterday,
what quarrel had they with me that they should risk their
lives against me? But today we have flung them down
their hero, murdered ; and now every man of them is set
upon clearing out this nest of assassins — for such we are
and no more. Take courage then ; and sharpen your
sword. Pompey's head has fallen ; and Caesar's head is ripe.
APOLLODORus. Does Caesar despair?
c^SAR [with infinite pride] He who has never hoped can
never despair. Cassar, in good or bad fortune, looks his fate
in the face.
LUCIUS. Look it in the face, then ; and it will smile as
it always has on Caesar.
c^SAR [with involuntary haughtiness] Do you presume to
encourage me?
LUCIUS. I offer you my services. I will change sides if
you will have me.
c^sAR [suddenly corning down to earth again, and looking
sharply at him, divining that there is something behind the offer]
What! At this point?
LUCIUS [firrnly] At this point.
RUFio. Do you suppose Caesar is mad, to trust you ?
LUCIUS. I do not ask him to trust me until he is vic-
torious. I ask for my life, and for a command in Cassar's
army. And since Caesar is a fair dealer, I will pay in
advance.
c^sAR. Pay ! How ?
LUCIUS. With a piece of good news for you.
Ccssar divines the nezvs in a fiash.
RUFIO. What news ?
CiESAR [with an elate and buoyant energy which makes Cleo-
patra sit up and stare] What news ! What news, did you
say, my son Rufio ? The relief has arrived : what other
news remains for us? Is it not so, Lucius Septimius?
Mithridates of Pergamos is on the march.
LUCIUS. He has taken Pelusium.
1 90 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
CiESAR \_delighted'\ Lucius Septimius : you are henceforth
my officer. Rufio : the Egyptians must have sent every
soldier from the city to prevent Mithridates crossing the
Nile. There is nothing in the streets now but mob — mob !
LUCIUS. It is so. Mithridates is marching by the great
road to Memphis to cross above the Delta. Achillas will
fight him there.
c^SAR [^// audacity'] Achillas shall fight Cssar there.
See, Rufio. \^He runs to the table; snatches a napkin; and
draws apian on it with his finger dipped in wine, whilst Rufio and
Lucius Septimius crowd about him to watch, all looking closely,
for the light is now almost gone]. Here is the palace [point-
ing to his plan] : here is the theatre. You [to Rufio] take
twenty men and pretend to go by that street [pointing it
out] ; and whilst they are stoning you, out go the cohorts
by this and this. My streets are right, are they, Lucius ?
LUCIUS. Ay, that is the fig market —
c/ESAR [too much excited to listen to him] I saw them the
day we arrived. Good ! [He throws the napkin on the table,
and comes down again into the colonnade]. Away, Britannus :
tell Petronius that within an hour half our forces must take
ship for the western lake. See to my horse and armor.
[Britannus runs out.] With the rest, / shall march round
the lake and up the Nile to meet Mithridates. Away,
Lucius ; and give the word.
Lucius hurries out after Britannus.
RUFIO. Come : this is something like business.
c^sAR [buoyantly] Is it not, my only son ? [He claps his
hands. The slaves hurry in to the table.] No more of this
mawkish revelling: away with all this stuff: shut it out of
my sight and be off with you. [The slaves begin to remove
the table; and the curtains are drawn, shutting in the colon-
nade]. You understand about the streets, Rufio?
RUFIO. Ay, I think I do. I will get through them, at all
events.
The bucina sounds busily in the courtyard beneath.
CiESAR. Come, then : we must talk to the troops and
Act IV Cassar and Cleopatra 191
hearten them. You down to the beach : I to the courtyard
[He makes for the staircase].
CLEOPATRA \rising froTti her seat, where she has been quite
neglected all this time, and stretching out her hands timidly to
him] Caesar.
c^SAR [turning] Eh?
CLEOPATRA. Havc you forgotten me ?
CiESAR [indulgently] I am busy now, my child, busy.
When I return your affairs shall be settled. Farewell ; and
be good and patient.
He goes, preoccupied and quite indifferent. She stands with
clenched fists, in speechless rage and humiliation.
RUFio. That game is played and lost, Cleopatra. The
woman always gets the worst of it.
CLEOPATRA [haughtHf] Go. Follow your master.
RUFio [in her ear, with rough familiarity] A word first.
Tell your executioner that if Pothinus had been properly
killed — in the throat — he would not have called out.
Your man bungled his work.
CLEOPATRA [enigmatically] How do you know it was a
man?
RUFIO [startled, and puzzled] It was not you : you were
with us when it happened. [She turns her back scornfully on
him. He shakes his head, and draws the curtains to go out. It
is now a magnificent moonlit night. The table has been re-
moved. Ftatateeta is seen in the light of the moon and stars,
again in prayer before the white altar-stone of Ra. Rufio starts ;
closes the curtains again softly; and says in a low voice to Cleo-
patra] Was it she ? with her own hand?
CLEOPATRA [threateningly] Whoever it was, let my
enemies beware of her. Look to it, Rufio, you who dare
make the ^ueen of Egypt a fool before Caesar.
RUFIO [looking grimly at her] I will look to it, Cleopatra.
[He nods in confirmation of the promise, and slips out through
the curtains, loosening his sword in its sheath as he goes].
ROMAN SOLDIERS [in the courtyard below] Hail, Caesar !
Hail, hail !
192 Three Plays for Puritans Act IV
Cleopatra listens. The bucina sounds again^ followed by
several trumpets.
CLEOPATRA [wringing her hands and calling] Ftatateeta.
Ftatateeta. It is dark ; and I am alone. Come to me.
[Silencel Ftatateeta. [Louder] Ftatateeta. [Silence. In a
panic she snatches the cord and pulls the curtains apart].
Ftatateeta is lyi?ig dead on the altar of Ra, with her throat
cut. Her blood deluges the white stone.
ACT V
High noon. Festival and militar;^ pageant on the esplanade
before the palace. In the east harbor Ccesars galley^ so gor-
geously decorated that it seems to be rigged with flowers^ is
alongside the quay, close to the steps Apollo dor us descended when
he embarked with the carpet. A Roman guard is posted there in
charge of a gangway, whence a red floorcloth is laid down the
middle of the esplanade, turning off to the north opposite the
central gate in the palace front, which shuts in the esplanade on
the south side. The broad steps of the gate, crowded with Cleo-
patra s ladies, all in their gayest attire, are like a flower garden.
The facade is lined by her guard, officered by the same gallants
to whom Bel Affris announced the coming of Casar six months
before in the old palace on the Syrian border. The north side
is lined by Roman soldiers, with the townsfolk on tiptoe behind
them, peering over their heads at the cleared esplanade, in which
the officers stroll about, chatting. Among these are Belzanor and
the Persian; also the centurion, vinewood cudgel in hand, battle
worn, thick-booted, and much outshone, both socially and decora-
tively, by the Egyptian officers.
Apollodorus makes his way through the townsfolk and calls
to the officers from behind the Roman line.
APOLLODORUS. Hullo ! May I pass ?
CENTURION. Pass ApollodoFUS the Sicilian there! [The
soldiers let him through'].
BELZANOR. Is Caesar at hand .?
194 Three Plays for Puritans Act V
APOLLODORUs. Not yet. He is still in the market place.
I could not stand any more of the roaring of the soldiers !
After half an hour of the enthusiasm of an army, one feels
the need of a little sea air.
PERSIAN. Tell us the news. Hath he slain the priests?
APOLLODORUS. Not hc. Theymet him in the market place
with ashes on their heads and their gods in their hands. They
placed the gods at his feet. The only one that was worth
looking at was Apis : a miracle of gold and ivory work. By
my advice he offered the chief priest two talents for it.
BELZANOR [appalled^ Apis the all-knowing for two talents !
What said the chief Priest?
APOLLODORUS. Hc invokcd the mercy of Apis, and asked
for five.
BELZANOR. There will be famine and tempest in the land
for this.
PERSIAN. Pooh ! Why did not Apis cause Caesar to be
vanquished by Achillas ? Any fresh news from the war,
Apollodorus ?
APOLLODORUS. The little King Ptolemy was drowned.
BELZANOR. Drowned ! How?
APOLLODORUS. With the rest of them. Csesar attacked
them from three sides at once and swept them into the
Nile. Ptolemy's barge sank.
BELZANOR. A marvcllous man, this Csesar ! Will he come
soon, think you ?
APOLLODORUS. He was settling the Jewish question when
I left.
J flourish of trumpets from the norths and commotion among
the townsfolk^ announces the approach of Casar.
PERSIAN. He has made short work of them. Here he
comes. \He hurries to his post in front of the Egyptian lines'],
BELZANOR ^following him] Ho there ! Caesar comes.
The soldiers stand at attention, and dress their lines. Apollo-
dorus goes to the Egyptian line.
CENTURION \_hurrying to the gangway guard] Attention
there ! Caesar comes.
Act V Cassar and Cleopatra 195
Ccesar arrives in state with Rufio: Britannus following.
The soldiers receive him with enthusiastic shouting.
Q.i£.'s>k^. I see my ship awaits me. The hour of Csesar's
farewell to Egypt has arrived. And now, Rufio, what
remains to be done before I go?
RUFIO \at his left hand'\ You have not yet appointed a
Roman governor for this province.
c^SAR [looking whimsically at him, but speaking with perfect
gravity] What say you to Mithridates of Pergamos, my
reliever and rescuer, the great son of Eupator?
RUFIO. Why, that you will want him elsewhere. Do you
forget that you have some three or four armies to conquer
on your way home ?
CiESAR. Indeed ! Well, what say you to yourself?
RUFIO [incredulously] I ! la governor ! What are you
dreaming of? Do you not know that I am only the son of
a freed man?
c^sAR [affectionately] Has not Caesar called you his son ?
[Calling to the whole assembly] Peace awhile there; and
hear me.
THE ROMAN SOLDIERS. Hear Csesar.
c^SAR. Hear the service, quality, rank and name of the
Roman governor. By service, Caesar's shield ; by quality,
Cassar's friend ; by rank, a Roman soldier. [The Roman
soldiers give a triumphant shout]. By name, Rufio. [They
shout again],
RUFIO [kissing Ctesar^s hand] Ay : I am Caesar's shield ;
but of what use shall I be when I am no longer on Cassar's
arm ? Well, no matter — [He becomes husky, and turns away
to recover himself].
CiESAR. Where is that British Islander of mine ?
BRITANNUS [coming forward on desar^s right hand] Here,
Cassar.
CiESAR. Who bade you, pray, thrust yourself into the
battle of the Delta, uttering the barbarous cries of your
native land, and affirming yourself a match for any four of
the Egyptians, to whom you applied unseemly epithets ?
196 Three Plays for Puritans Act V
BRiTANNus. Cxs^T I I aslc you to cxcusc the language that
escaped me in the heat of the moment.
CiESAR. And how did you, who cannot swim, cross the
canal with us when we stormed the camp?
BRITANNUS. Cassar : I clung to the tail of your horse.
c^SAR. These are not the deeds of a slave, Britannicus,
but of a free man.
BRITANNUS. CaEsar : I was born free.
c^sAR. But they call you Caesar's slave.
BRITANNUS. Only as Ccesar's slave have I found real
freedom.
c^SAR [moz^ed] Well said. Ungrateful that I am, I was
about to set you free ; but now I will not part from you
for a million talents. [He claps him friendly on the shoulder.
Brit annus ^ gratified^ hut a trifle shamefaced, takes his hand
and kisses it sheepishly'].
BELZANOR \_to the Persian] This Roman knows how to
make men serve him.
PERSIAN. Ay : men too humble to become dangerous
rivals to him.
BELZANOR. O subtle onc ! O cynic !
CiESAR [seeing Apollodorus in the Egyptian corner., and
calling to him] Apollodorus : 1 leave the art of Egypt in
your charge. Remember : Rome loves art and will en-
courage it ungrudgingly.
APOLLODORUS. I Understand, Caesar. Rome will produce
no art itself; but it will buy up and take away whatever
the other nations produce.
c-iESAR. What ! Rome produce no art ! Is peace not an
art? is war not an art? is government not an art? is
civilization not an art ? All these we give you in exchange
for a few ornaments. You will have the best of the
bargain. [Turning to Rufio] And now, what else have I
to do before I embark? [Trying to recollect] There is
something I cannot remember : what can it be? Well,
well : it must remain undone : we must not waste this
favorable wind. Farewell, Rufio.
ActV Cssar and Cleopatra 197
RUFio. Caesar : I am loth to let you go to Rome with-
out your shield. There are too many daggers there.
c^SAR. It matters not : I shall finish my life's work on
my way back ; and then I shall have lived long enough.
Besides : I have always disliked the idea of dying : I had
rather be killed. Farewell.
RUFio \zvith a sigh, raising his hands and giving Ctesar up
as incorrigible^ Farewell. \^They shake hands'].
c^sAR [waving his hand to Apollodorus] Farewell, ApoUo-
dorus, and my friends, all of you. Aboard !
The gangway is run out from the quay to the ship. As
Caesar moves towards it, Cleopatra, cold and tragic, cunningly
dressed in black, without ornaments or decoration of any kind,
and thus making a striking fgure among the brilliantly dressed
bevy of ladies as she passes through it, comes from the palace
and stands on the steps. Casar does not see her until she speaks.
CLEOPATRA. Has Cleopatra no part in this leavetaking?
c^SAR {enlightened] Ah, I knew there was something.
[To Rufio] How could you let me forget her, Rufio?
[Hastening to her] Had I gone without seeing you, I should
never have forgiven myself. [He takes her ha?ids, and brings
her into the middle of the esplanade. She submits stonily]. Is
this mourning for me ?
CLEOPATRA. No.
c^sAR [remorsefully] Ah, that was thoughtless of me !
It is for your brother.
CLEOPATRA. No.
CiESAR. For whom, then ?
CLEOPATRA. Ask the Roman governor whom you have
left us.
c^sAR. Rufio ?
CLEOPATRA. Yes : Rufio. [She points at him with deadly
scor?i]. He who is to rule here in Cassar's name, in Caesar's
way, according to Caesar's boasted laws of life.
c^sAR [dubiously] He is to rule as he can, Cleopatra.
He has taken the work upon him, and will do it in his
own way.
198 Three Plays for Puritans Act V
CLEOPATRA. Not in your way, then ?
CiESAR [puzz/ed] What do you mean by my way?
CLEOPATRA. Without punlshment. Without revenge.
Without judgment.
CJESAK \_approvi?igly'] Ay : that is the right way, the great
way, the only possible way in the end. [^To Rujio\ Believe
it, Rufio, if you can.
RUFio. Why, I believe it, Caesar. You have convinced
me of it long ago. But look you. You are sailing for
Numidia to-day. Now tell me : if you meet a hungry lion
there, you will not punish it for wanting to eat you ?
CiESAR [wondering what he is driving at] No.
RUFio. Nor revenge upon it the blood of those it has
already eaten.
c.a:sAR. No.
RUFIO. Nor judge it for its guiltiness.
CJESAR. No.
RUFIO. What, then, will you do to save your life from it?
c^SAR [promptly] Kill it, man, without malice, just as it
would kill me. What does this parable of the lion mean ?
RUFIO. Why, Cleopatra had a tigress that killed men at
her bidding. I thought she might bid it kill you some day.
Well, had I not been Caesar's pupil, what pious things
might I not have done to that tigress ! I might have
punished it. I might have revenged Pothinus on it.
c^SAR [interjects] Pothinus !
RUFIO [continuing] I might have judged it. But I put
all these follies behind me ; and, without malice, only cut
its throat. And that is why Cleopatra comes to you in
mourning.
CLEOPATRA [vehement/y] He has shed the blood of my
servant Ftatateeta. On your head be it as upon his, Cssar,
if you hold him free of it.
c^SAR [energetically] On my head be it, then ; for it was
well done. Rufio : had you set yourself in the seat of the
judge, and with hateful ceremonies and appeals to the gods
handed that woman over to some hired executioner to be
Act V Cassar and Cleopatra 199
slain before the people in the name of justice, never again
would I have touched your hand without a shudder. But
this was natural slaying : I feel no horror at it.
Rujio^ satisfied^ nods at Cleopatra^ mutely inviting her to
mark that.
CLEOPATRA \pettish and childish in her impotence'] No : not
when a Roman slays an Egyptian. All the world will now
see how unjust and corrupt C^sar is.
c^SAR [taking her hands coaxingly] Come : do not be
angry with me. I am sorry for that poor Totateeta. [She
laughs in spite of herself]. Aha! you are laughing. Does
that mean reconciliation?
CLEOPATRA [angry with herself for laughing] No, n o, NO ! !
But it is so ridiculous to hear you call her Totateeta.
CiESAR. What ! As much a child as ever, Cleopatra !
Have I not made a woman of you after all ?
CLEOPATRA. Oh, it is you who are a great baby : you
make me seem silly because you will not behave seriously.
But you have treated me badly ; and I do not forgive you.
c^sAR. Bid me farewell.
CLEOPATRA. I will UOt.
CiESAR [coaxing] I will send you a beautiful present from
Rome.
CLEOPATRA [proudly] Beauty from Rome to Egypt indeed!
What can Rome give me that Egypt cannot give me?
APOLLODORUS. That is true, Caesar. If the present is
to be really beautiful, I shall have to buy it for you in
Alexandria.
c-ff;sAR. You are forgetting the treasures for which Rome
is most famous, my friend. You cannot buy them in
Alexandria.
APOLLODORUS. What are they, Caesar?
CiESAR. Her sons. Come, Cleopatra : forgive me and
bid me farewell ; and I will send you a man, R-oman from
head to heel and Roman of the noblest ; not old and ripe
for the knife; not lean in the arms and cold in the heart;
not hiding a bald head under his conqueror's laurels ; not
200 Three Plays for Puritans Act V
stooped with the weight of the world on his shoulders ;
but brisk and fresh, strong and young, hoping in the
morning, fighting in the day, and revelling in the evening.
Will you take such an one in exchange for Cassar?
CLEOPATRA \_palpitating] His name, his name r
Ci^sAR. Shall it be Mark Antony? \^She throws herself
into his arms].
RUFio. You are a bad hand at a bargain, mistress, if you
will swop Caesar for Antony.
c-ff:sAR. So now you are satisfied.
CLEOPATRA. You will not forget.
c-ssAR. I will not forget. Farewell : I do not think we
shall meet again. Farewell. [He kisses her on the forehead.
She is much affected and begins to sniff. He embarks].
THE ROMAN SOLDIERS [as he sets his foot on the gangzvay]
Hail, Cassar ; and farewell !
He reaches the ship and returns Rufio's wave of the hand.
APOLLODORUS \to Ckopatrd] No tears, dearest gueen ;
they stab your servant to the heart. He will return some
day.
CLEOPATRA. I hope not. But I cant help crying, all the
same. [She waves her handkercl:ief to Ccesar; and the sinp
begins to move].
THE ROMAN SOLDIERS \drazving their swords and raisi?ig
them in the air] Hail, Cassar !
NOTES TO Ci^SAR AND CLEOPATRA
Cleopatra's Cure for Baldness.
For the sake of conciseness in a hurried situation I have
made Cleopatra recommend rum. This, 1 am afraid, is an
anachronism : the only real one in the play. To balance
it, I give a couple of the remedies she actually believed in.
They are quoted by Galen from Cleopatra's book on
Cosmetic.
" For bald patches, powder red sulphuret of arsenic and
take it up with oak gum, as much as it will bear. Put on
a rag and apply, having soaped the place well first. I have
mixed the above with a foam of nitre, and it worked well."
Several other receipts follow, ending with : "The fol-
lowing is the best of all, acting for fallen hairs, when
applied with oil or pomatum ; acts also for falling off of
eyelashes or for people getting bald all over. It is wonder-
ful. Of domestic mice burnt, one part; of vine rag burnt,
one part ; of horse's teeth burnt, one part ; of bear's grease
one; of deer's marrow one; of reed bark one. To be
pounded when dry, and mixed with plenty of honey til
it gets the consistency of honey ; then the bear's grease and
marrow to be mixed (when melted), the medicine to be put
in a brass flask, and the bald part rubbed til it sprouts."
Concerning these ingredients, my fellow- dramatist
Gilbert Murray, who, as a Professor of Greek, has applied
to classical antiquity the methods of high scholarship (my
202 Cassar and Cleopatra
own method is pure divination), writes to me as follows :
" Some of this I dont understand, and possibly Galen did
not, as he quotes your heroine's own language. Foam of
nitre is, I think, something like soapsuds. Reed bark is an
odd expression. It might mean the outside membrane of
a reed : I do not know what it ought to be called. In the
burnt mice receipt I take it that you first mixed the solid
powders with honey, and then added the grease. I expect
Cleopatra preferred it because in most of the others you
have to lacerate the skin, prick it, or rub it till it bleeds. I
do not know what vine rag is. I translate literally."
Apparent Anachronisms.
The only way to write a play which shall convey to the
general public an impression of antiquity is to make the
characters speak blank verse and abstain from reference to
steam, telegraphy, or any of the material conditions of their
existence. The more ignorant men are, the more con-
vinced are they that their little parish and their little
chapel is an apex to which civilization and philosophy has
painfully struggled up the pyramid of time from a desert
of savagery. Savagery, they think, became barbarism ;
barbarism became ancient civilization ; ancient civiliza-
tion became Pauline Christianity; Pauline Christianity
became Roman Catholicism ; Roman Catholicism became
the Dark Ages ; and the Dark Ages were finally enlightened
by the Protestant instincts of the English race. The whole
process is summed up as Progress with a capital P. And
any elderly gentleman of Progressive temperament will
testify that the improvement since he was a boy is enormous.
Now if we count the generations of Progressive elderly
gentlemen since, say, Plato, and add together the successive
enormous improvements to which each of them has testified,
it will strike us at once as an unaccountable fact that the
world, instead of having been improved in 6"] generations
out of all recognition, presents, on the whole, a rather less
Notes 203
dignified appearance in Ibsen's Enemy of the People than
in Plato's Republic. And in truth, the period of time
covered by history is far too short to allow of any per-
ceptible progress in the popular sense of Evolution of the
Human Species. The notion that there has been any such
Progress since Caesar's time (less than 20 centuries) is too
absurd for discussion. All the savagery, barbarism, dark
ages and the rest of it of which we have any record as exist-
ing in the past, exists at the present moment. A British
carpenter or stonemason may point out that he gets twice
as much money for his labor as his father did in the same
trade, and that his suburban house, with its bath, its cottage
piano, its drawingroom suite, and its album of photographs,
would have shamed the plainness of his grandmother's. But
the descendants of feudal barons, living in squalid lodgings
on a salary of fifteen shillings a week instead of in castles
on princely revenues, do not congratulate the world on
the change. Such changes, in fact, are not to the point.
It has been known, as far back as our records go, that man
running wild in the woods is different from man kennelled
in a city slum ; that a dog seems to understand a shepherd
better than a hewer of wood and drawer of water can
understand an astronomer ; and that breeding, gentle
nurture and luxurious food and shelter will produce a kind
of man with whom the common laborer is socially incom-
patible. The same thing is true of horses and dogs. Now
there is clearly room for great changes in the world by
increasing the percentage of individuals who are carefully
bred and gently nurtured, even to finally making the most
of every man and woman born. But that possibility existed
in the days of the Hittites as much as it does today. It
does not give the slightest real support to the common
assumption that the civilized contemporaries of the Hittites
were unlike their civilized descendants today.
This would appear the tritest commonplace if it were not
that the ordinary citizen's ignorance of the past combines
with his idealization of the present to mislead and flatter
204 C^sar and Cleopatra
him. Our latest book on the new railway across Asia
describes the dulness of the Siberian farmer and the
vulgar pursepride of the Siberian man of business without
the least consciousness that the string of contemptuous
instances given might have been saved by writing simply
" Farmers and provincial plutocrats in Siberia are exactly
what they are in England." The latest professor descant-
ing on the civilization of the Western Empire in the fifth
century feels bound to assume, in the teeth of his own
researches, that the Christian was one sort of animal and
the Pagan another. It might as well be assumed, as indeed
it generally is assumed by implication, that a murder com-
mitted with a poisoned arrow is different from a murder
committed with a Mauser rifle. All such notions are
illusions. Go back to the first syllable of recorded time,
and there you will find your Christian and your Pagan,
your yokel and your poet, helot and hero, Don Ouixote
and Sancho, Tamino and Papageno, Newton and bushman
unable to count eleven, all alive and contemporaneous,
and all convinced that they are the heirs of all the ages
and the privileged recipients of the truth (all others dam-
nable heresies), just as you have them today, flourishing in
countries each of which is the bravest and best that ever
sprang at Heaven's command from out the azure main.
Again, there is the illusion of "increased command over
Nature," meaning that cotton is cheap and that ten miles
of country road on a bicycle have replaced four on foot.
But even if man's increased command over Nature included
any increased command over himself (the only sort of
command relevant to his evolution into a higher being),
the fact remains that it is only by running away from the
increased command over Nature to country places where
Nature is still in primitive command over Man that he can
recover from the efi^ects of the smoke, the stench, the foul
air, the overcrowding, the racket, the ugliness, the dirt
which the cheap cotton costs us. If manufacturing activity
means Progress, the town must be more advanced than the
Notes 205
country ; and the field laborers and village artizans of
today must be much less changed from the servants of
Job than the proletariat of modern London from the pro-
letariat of Caesar's Rome. Yet the cockney proletarian is
so inferior to the village laborer that it is only by steady
recruiting from the country that London is kept alive. This
does not seem as if the change since Job's time were Pro-
gress in the popular sense : quite the reverse. The common
stock of discoveries in physics has accumulated a little :
that is all.
One more illustration. Is the Englishman prepared to
admit that the American is his superior as a human being ?
I ask this question because the scarcity of labor in America
relatively to the demand for it has led to a development of
machinery there, and a consequent " increase of command
over Nature " which makes many of our English methods
appear almost medieval to the up-to-date Chicagoan. This
means that the American has an advantage over the
Englishman of exactly the same nature that the English-
man has over the contemporaries of Cicero. Is the English-
man prepared to draw the same conclusion in both cases ?
I think not. The American, of course, will draw it cheer-
fully; but I must then ask him whether, since a modern
negro has a greater " command over Nature " than Wash-
ington had, we are also to accept the conclusion, involved
in his former one, that humanity has progressed from
Washington to lh.t Jin de siecle negro.
Finally, I would point out that if life is crowned by its
success and devotion in industrial organization and inge-
nuity, we had better worship the ant and the bee (as
moralists urge us to do in our childhood), and humble
ourselves before the arrogance of the birds of Aristophanes.
My reason then for ignoring the popular conception of
Progress in Caesar and Cleopatra is that there is no reason
to suppose that any Progress has taken place since their
time. But even if I shared the popular delusion, I do not
see that I could have made any essential difference in the
2o6 Cassar and Cleopatra
play. I can only imitate humanity as I know it. Nobody
knows whether Shakespear thought that ancient Athenian
joiners, weavers, or bellows menders were any different
from Elizabethan ones ; but it is quite certain that he
could not have made them so, unless, indeed, he had
played the literary man and made Quince say, not " Is all
our company here ? " but " Bottom : was not that Socrates
that passed us at the Piraeus with Glaucon and Pole-
marchus on his way to the house of Kephalus." And
so on.
Cleopatra.
Cleopatra was only sixteen when Caesar went to
Egypt ; but in Egypt sixteen is a riper age than it is in
England. The childishness I have ascribed to her, as far
as it is childishness of character and not lack of experience,
is not a matter of years. It may be observed in our own
climate at the present day in many women of fifty. It is a
mistake to suppose that the difference between wisdom and
folly has anything to do with the difi'erence between phy-
sical age and physical youth. Some women are younger at
seventy than most women at seventeen.
It must be borne in mind, too, that Cleopatra was a
queen, and was therefore not the typical Greek-cultured,
educated Egyptian lady of her time. To represent her by
any such type would be as absurd as to represent George
IV by a type founded on the attainments of Sir Isaac
Newton. It is true that an ordinarily well educated Alex-
andrian girl of her time would no more have believed
bogey stories about the Romans than the daughter of a
modern Oxford professor would believe them about the
Germans (though, by the way, it is possible to talk great
nonsense at Oxford about foreigners when we are at war
with them). But I do not feel bound to believe that
Cleopatra was well educated. Her father, the illustrious
Flute Blower, was not at all a parent of the Oxford pro-
fessor type. And Cleopatra was a chip of the old block.
Notes 207
Britannus.
1 find among those who have read this play in manu-
script a strong conviction that an ancient Briton could not
possibly have been like a modern one. I see no reason to
adopt this curious view. It is true that the Roman and
Norman conquests must have fcr a time disturbed the
normal British type produced by the climate. But Britannus,
born before these events, represents the unadulterated
Briton who fought Caesar and impressed Roman observers
much as we should expect the ancestors of Mr Podsnap
to impress the cultivated Italians of their time.
I am told that it is not scientific to treat national char-
acter as a product of climate. This only shews the wide
difference between common knowledge and the intellectual
game called science. We have men of exactly the same
stock, and speaking the same language, growing in Great
Britain, in Ireland, and in America. The result is three
of the most distinctly marked nationalities under the sun.
Racial characteristics are quite another matter. The
difference between a Jew and a Gentile has nothing to do
with the difference between an Englishman and a German.
The characteristics of Britannus are local characteristics,
not race characteristics. In an ancient Briton they would,
I take it, be exaggerated, since modern Britain, disforested,
drained, urbanified and consequently cosmopolized, is
presumably less characteristically British than Caesar's
Britain.
And again I ask does anyone who, in the light of a
competent knowledge of his own age, has studied history
from contemporary documents, believe that d'] generations
of promiscuous marriage have made any appreciable differ-
ence in the human fauna of these isles? Certainly I do
not.
2o8 Cassar and Cleopatra
Julius Cassar.
As to Caesar himself, I have purposely avoided the usual
anachronism of going to Caesar's books, and concluding
that the style is the man. That is only true of authors
who have the specific literary genius, and have practised
long enough to attain complete self-expression in letters.
It is not true even on these conditions in an age when
literature is conceived as a game of style, and not as a
vehicle of self-expression by the author. Now Cssar was
an amateur stylist writing books of travel and campaign
histories in a style so impersonal that the authenticity of the
later volumes is disputed. They reveal some of his qualities
just as the Voyage of a Naturalist Round the World
reveals some of Darwin's, without expressing his private
personality. An Englishman reading them would say that
Csesar was a man of great common sense and good taste,
meaning thereby a man without originality or moral
courage.
In exhibiting Cssar as a much more various person than
the historian of the Gallic wars, I hope I have not suc-
cumbed unconsciously to the dramatic illusion to which
all great men owe part of their reputation and some the
whole of it. I admit that reputations gained in war are
specially questionable. Able civilians taking up the pro-
fession of arms, like Cassar and Cromwell, in middle age,
have snatched all its laurels from opponent commanders
bred to it, apparently because capable persons engaged in
military pursuits are so scarce that the existence of two of
them at the same time in the same hemisphere is extremely
rare. The capacity of any conqueror is therefore more likely
than not to be an illusion produced by the incapacity of his
adversary. At all events, Caesar might have won his battles
without being wiser than Charles XII or Nelson or Joan
of Arc, who were, like most modern "self-made" mill-
ionaires, half-witted geniuses, enjoying the worship accorded
Notes ±6g
by all races to certain forms of insanity. But Caesar's
victories were only advertisements for an eminence that
would never have become popular without them. Csesar
is greater off the battle field than on it. Nelson off his
quarterdeck was so quaintly out of the question that when
his head was injured at the battle of the Nile, and his con-
duct became for some years openly scandalous, the difference
was not important enough to be noticed. It may, however,
be said that peace hath her illusory reputations no less than
war. And it is certainly true that in civil life mere capacity
forwork — the powerof killing a dozen secretaries under you,
so to speak, as a life-or-death courier kills horses — enables
men with common ideas and superstitions to distance all
competitors in the strife of political ambition. It was this
power of work that astonished Cicero as the most prodigious
of Caesar's gifts, as it astonished later observers in Napoleon
before it wore him out. How if Cssar were nothing but
a Nelson and a Gladstone combined ! a prodigy of vitality
without any special quality of mind ! nay, with ideas
that were worn out before he was born, as Nelson's and
Gladstone's were ! I have considered that possibility too,
and rejected it. I cannot cite all the stories about Cssar
which seem to me to shew that he was genuinely original ;
but let me at least point out that I have been careful to
attribute nothing but originality to him. Originality gives
a man an air of frankness, generosity, and magnanimity by
enabling him to estimate the value of truth, money, or
success in any particular instance quite independently of
convention and moral generalization. He therefore will
not, in the ordinary Treasury bench fashion, tell a lie
which everybody knows to be a lie (and consequently
expects him as a matter of good taste to tell). His lies
are not found out : they pass for candors. He under-
stands the paradox of money, and gives it away when he
can get most for it : in other words, when its value is least,
which is just when a common man tries hardest to get it.
He knows that the real moment of success is not the
2IO C^sar and Cleopatra
moment apparent to the crowd. Hence, in order to pro-
duce an impression of complete disinterestedness and
magnanimity, he has only to act with entire selfishness ;
and this is perhaps the only sense in which a man can be
said to be naturally great. It is in this sense that I have
represented Caesar as great. Having virtue, he has no need
of goodness. He is neither forgiving, frank, nor generous,
because a man who is too great to resent has nothing to
forgive ; a man who says things that other people are afraid
to say need be no more frank than Bismarck was j and
there is no generosity in giving things you do not want to
people of whom you intend to make use. This distinction
between virtue and goodness is not understood in England :
hence the poverty of our drama in heroes. Our stage
attempts at them are mere goody-goodies. Goodness, in
its popular British sense of self-denial, implies that man is
vicious by nature, and that supreme goodness is supreme
martyrdom. Not sharing that pious opinion, I have not
given countenance to it in any of my plays. In this I
follow the precedent of the ancient myths, which repre-
sent the hero as vanquishing his enemies, not in fair fight,
but with enchanted sword, superequine horse and magical
invulnerability, the possession of which, from the vulgar
moralistic point of view, robs his exploits of any merit
whatever.
As to Caesar's sense of humor, there is no more reason
to assume that he lacked it than to assume that he was deaf
or blind. It is said that on the occasion of his assassination
by a conspiracy of moralists (it is always your moralist who
makes assassination a duty, on the scaffold or off it), he
defended himself until the good Brutus struck him, when
he exclaimed "What! you too, Brutus!" and disdained
further fight. If this be true, he must have been an incor-
rigible comedian. But even if we waive this story, or
accept the traditional sentimental interpretation of it, there
is still abundant evidence of his lightheartedness and
adventurousness. Indeed it is clear from his whole history
Notes 2 1 1
that what has been called his ambition was an instinct for
exploration. He had much more of Columbus and Franklin
in him than of Henry V.
However, nobody need deny Caesar a share, at least, of
the qualities I have attributed to him. All men, much
more Julius Caesars, possess all qualities in some degree.
The really interesting question is whether I am right in
assuming that the way to produce an impression of great-
ness is by exhibiting a man, not as mortifying his nature
by doing his duty, in the manner which our system of put-
ting little men into great positions (not having enough
great men in our influential families to go round) forces us
to inculcate, but as simply doing what he naturally wants
to do. For this raises the question whether our world has
not been wrong in its moral theory for the last 2,500 years
or so. It must be a constant puzzle to many of us that the
Christian era, so excellent in its intentions, should have
been practically such a very discreditable episode in the
history of the race. I doubt if this is altogether due to
the vulgar and sanguinary sensationalism of our religious
legends, with their substitution of gross physical torments
and public executions for the passion of humanity. Islam,
substituting voluptuousness for torment (a merely super-
ficial difference, it is true) has done no better. It may have
been the failure of Christianity to emancipate itself from
expiatory theories of moral responsibility, guilt, innocence,
reward, punishment, and the rest of it, that baffled its
intention of changing the world. But these are bound up
in all philosophies of creation as opposed to cosmism.
They may therefore be regarded as the price we pay
for popular religion.
CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S
CONVERSION
X
HlNDHEAD, 1899.
CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S
CONVERSION
ACT I
On the heights overlooking the harbor of Mogador, a seaport
on the west coast of Morocco, the missionary, in the coolness of
the late afterfioon, is following the precept of Fo It aire by culti-
vating his garden. He is an elderly Scotchman, spiritually a
little weatherbeaten, as having to navigate his creed in strange
waters crowded with other craft, but still a convinced son of
the Free Church and the North African Mission, with a faith-
ful brown eye, and a peaceful soul. Physically a wiry small-
knit man, well tanned, clean shaven, with delicate resolute
features and a twinkle of mild humor. He wears the sun helmet
and pagri, the neutral-tinted spectacles, and the white canvas
Spanish sand shoes of the modern Scotch missionary ; but instead
of a cheap tourisfs suit from Glasgow, a grey flannel shirt with
white collar, a green sailor knot tie with a cheap pin in it, he
wears a suit of clean white linen, acceptable in color, if not in
cut, to the Moorish mind.
The view from the garden includes much Atlantic Ocean
and a long stretch of sandy coast to the south, swept by the north
east trade wind, and scantily nourishing a few stunted pepper
trees, mangy palms, and tamarisks. The prospect ends, as fur
as the land is concerned, in little hills that come nearly to the
sea : rudiments, these, of the Atlas Mountains. The missionary,
having had daily opportunities of looking at this seascape for
2 1 6 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
thirty years or so, pays no heed to it, being absorbed in trimming
a huge red geranium bush, to English eyes unnaturally big,
which, with a dusty smilax or two, is the sole product of his pet
fiower-bed. He is sitting to his work on a Moorish stool. In
the middle of the garden there is a pleasant seat in the
shade of a tamarisk tree. The house is in the south west
corner of the garden, and the geranium bush in the north east
corner.
At the garden-door of the house there appears presently a
man who is clearly no barbarian, being in fact a less agreeable
product peculiar to modern commercial civilization. His frame
and flesh are those of an ill-nourished lad of seventeen; but his
age is inscrutable : only the absence of any sign of grey in his
mud colored hair suggests that he is at all events probably under
forty, without prejudice to the possibility of his being under
twenty. A Londoner would recognize him at once as an extreme
but hardy specimen of the abortion produced by nurture in a city
slum. His utterance, affectedly pumped and hearty, and natu-
rally vulgar and nasal, is ready and fluent: nature, a Board
School education, and some kerbstone practice having made him
a bit of an orator. His dialect, apart from its base nasal
delivery, is not unlike that of smart London society in its
tendency to replace diphthongs by vowels {sometimes rather
prettily') and to shuflie all the traditional vowel pronunciations.
He pronounces ow as ah, and i as aw, using the ordinary ow for
0, i for a, a for U, and e for a, with this reservation, that
when any vowel is followed by an r, he signifles its presence,
not by pronouncing the r, which he never does under these cir-
cumstances, but by prolonging and modifying the vowel, some-
times even to the extreme degree of pronouncing it properly. As
to his yol for I [a compendious delivery of the provincial eh-al),
and other metropolitan refinements, amazing to all but cock-
neys, they cannot be indicated, save in the above imperfect
manner, without the aid of a phonetic alphabet. He is dressed
in somebody else's very second best as a coastguardsman, and
gives himself the airs of a stage tar with suflicient success to
pass as a possible fish porter of bad character in casual employ-
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 217
ment during busy times at Billingsgate, His manne?- shews an
earnest disposition to ingratiate himself with the missionary, prob-
ably for some dishonest purpose.
THE MAN. Awtenoon, Mr Renkin. \The missionary sits
up quickly, and turns, resigning hifnself dutifully to the inter-
ruption\ Yr honor's eolth.
RANKIN \reservedly~\ Good afternoon, Mr Drink wotter.
DRiNKWATER. Youre not best pleased to be hinterrapted
in yr bit o gawdnin baw the lawk o me, gavner.
RANKIN. A missionary knows nothing of leks of that soart,
or of disleks either, Mr Drinkwotter. What can I do for ye r
DRINKWATER [heartily'] Nathink, gavner. Awve brort
noos fer yer.
RANKIN. Well, sit ye doon.
DRINKWATER. Aw thcnk yr honor. [He sits down on the
seat under the tree and composes himself for conversation],
Hever ear o Jadge Ellam ?
RANKIN. Sir Howrrd Hallam ?
DRINKWATER. Thcts im — cngincst jadge in Hingland !
— awlus gives the ket wen its robbry with voylence, bless
is awt. Aw sy nathink agin im : awm all fer lor mawseolf,
aw em.
RANKIN. Well ?
DRINKWATER. Hevcr ear of is sist-in-lor : Lidy Sisly Wine-
fleet?
RANKIN. Do ye mean the celebrated leddy — the traveller ?
DRINKWATER. Yuss : should think aw doo. Walked
acrost Harfricar with nathink but a little dawg, and wrowt
abaht it in the Dily Mile [the Daily Mail, a popular London
newspaper], she did.
RANKIN. Is she Sir Howrrd Hallam's sister-in-law?
DRINKWATER. Decccascd wawfe's sister : yuss : thets wot
she is.
RANKIN. Well, what about them ?
DRINKWATER. Wot abaht them ! Waw, theyre eah.
Lannid aht of a steam yacht in Mogador awber not twenty
minnits agow. Gorn to the British cornsl's. E'll send em
2 1 8 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
orn to you : e ynt got naowheres to put em. Sor em awr
{^hire) a Harab an two Krooboys to kerry their laggige.
Thort awd cam an teoll yer.
RANKIN. Thank you. Its verra kind of you, Mr Drink-
vvotter.
DRiNKWATER. Downt mention it, gavner. Lor bless
yer, wawnt it you as converted me? Wot was aw wen
aw cam eah but a pore lorst sinner? Downt aw ow y'a
turn fer thet ? Besawds, gavner, this Lidy Sisly Winefleet
mawt wornt to tike a walk crost Morocker — a rawd inter
the mahntns or sech lawk. Weoll, as you knaow, gavner,
thet cawnt be done eah withaht a hescort.
RANKIN. It's impoassible : th' would oall b' murrdered.
Morocco is not lek the rest of Africa.
DRINKWATER. No, gavncr : these eah Moors ez their
religion ; an it mikes em dinegerous. Hever convert a
Moor, gavner?
RANKIN \with a rueful smile] No.
DRINKWATER [sokmnly] Nor hever will, gavner.
RANKIN. I have been at work here for twenty-five years,
Mr Drinkwotter ; and you are my first and only convert.
DRINKWATER. Downt scem naow good, do it, gavner ?
RANKIN. I dont say that. I hope I have done some good.
They come to me for medicine when they are ill ; and
they call me the Christian who is not a thief. That is
something.
DRINKWATER. Their mawnds kennot rawse to Christien-
nity lawk hahrs ken, gavner: thets ah it is. Weoll, ez haw
was syin, if a hescort is wornted, there's maw friend and
commawnder Kepn Brarsbahnd of the schooner Thenks-
givin, an is crew, incloodin mawseolf, will see the lidy an
Jadge Ellam through henny little excursion in reason.
Yr honor mawt mention it.
RANKIN, I will certainly not propose anything so danger-
ous as an excursion.
DRINKWATER [^t'irtuously'] Naow, gavner, nor would I
awst you to. [Shaking his head] Naow, naow: it is dine-
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 2 1 9
gerous. But hall the more call for a hescort if they should
ev it hin their mawnds to gow.
RANKIN. I hope they wont.
DRiNKWATER. An SOW aw do too, gavner.
RANKIN \_pondering] Tis strange that they should come
to Mogador, of all places ; and to my house ! I once met
Sir Howrrd Hallam, years ago.
DRINKWATER [^/;^^z<?^] Naow ! didgcr ? Think o thet,
gavner ! Waw, sow aw did too. But it were a misunner-
stendin, thet wors. Lef the court withaht a stine on maw
kerrickter, aw did.
RANKIN [with some indignation\ I hope you dont think I
met Sir Howrrd in that way.
DRINKWATER. Mawt yeppu to the honestest, best meanin
pusson, aw do assure yer, gavner.
RANKIN. I would have you to know that I met him
privately, Mr Drinkwotter. His brother was a dear friend
of mine. Years ago. He went out to the West Indies.
DRINKWATER. The Wust Hiudies ! Jist acrost there,
tather sawd thet howcean [pointing seaward'\ \ Dear me !
We cams hin with vennity, an we deepawts in dawkness.
Downt we, gavner ?
RANKIN [pricking up his ears'\ Eh ? Have you been reading
that little book I gave you ?
DRINKWATER. Aw hev, et odd tawms. Very camfitn,
gavner. [He rises^ apprehensive lest further catechism should
find him u?iprepared\, Awll sy good awtenoon, gavner :
youre busy hexpectin o Sr Ahrd an Lidy Sisly, ynt yer?
[J bout to go'].
RANKIN [stopping him] No, stop : we're oalways ready for
travellers here. I have something else to say — a question
to ask you.
DRINKWATER [with misgiving^ which he masks by exaggera-
ting his hearty sailor mariner] An weollcome, yr honor.
RANKIN. Who is this Captain Brassbound ?
DRINKWATER [^^////i^] Kepu Brarsbahud ! E's — weoll,
e's maw Kcpn, gavner.
220 Three Plays for Puritans Act 1
RANKIN. Yes. Well?
DRiNKWATER [feebly'] Kcpn of the schooner Thenks-
givin, gavner.
RANKIN \_searchingly] Have ye ever haird of a bad
character in these seas called Black Paquito?
DRINKWATER [with a suddeTi radiance of complete enlighten-
ment] Aoh, nar aw tikes yer wiv me, yr honor. Nah
sammun es bin a teolln you thet Kepn Brarsbahnd an
Bleck Pakeetow is haw-dentically the sime pussn. Ynt
thet sow ?
RANKIN. That is so. [Drinkzvater slaps his knee triumph-
antly. The missionary proceeds determinedly] And the some-
one was a verra honest, straightforward man, as far as I
could judge.
DRINKWATER [embracing the implication] Course e wors,
gavner. Ev aw said a word agin him ? Ev aw nah?
RANKIN. But is Captain Brassbound Black Paquito
then ?
DRINKWATER. Waw, its the nime is blessed mather give
im at er knee, bless is little awt ! Ther ynt naow awm in
it. She were a Wust Hinjin — howver there agin, yer see
[pointing seaward] — leastwaws, naow she wornt : she were
a Brazilian, aw think ; an Pakeetow's Brazilian for a
bloomin little perrit — awskin yr pawdn for the word.
[Sentimentally] Lawk as a Hinglish lidy mawt call er little
boy Birdie.
RANKIN [jiot quite convinced] But why Black Paquito?
DRINKWATER [artkssly] Waw, the bird in its netral stite
bein green, an e evin bleck air, y' knaow —
RANKIN [cutting him short] I see. And now I will put
ye another question. What is Captain Brassbound, or
Paquito, or whatever he calls himself?
DRINKWATER [officiously] Brarsbahnd, gavner. Awlus calls
isseolf Brarsbahnd.
RANKIN. Well, Brassbound then. What is he ?
DRINKWATER [fervently] You awsks me wot e is, gavner?
RANKIN [frmly] I do.
Act 1 Captain Brassbound's Conversion 221
DRiNKWATER [wtth Hsing entkusiasTn] An shll aw teoll
yer wot e is, yr honor ?
RANKIN [not at all impressed^ If ye will be so good, Mr
Drinkwotter.
DRINKWATER \with Overwhelming conviction'\ Then awll
teoll you, gavner, wot he is. Ee's a Paffick Genlmn : thets
wot e is.
RANKIN \_gravelf\ Mr Drinkwotter : pairfection is an
attribute, not of West Coast captains, but of thr Maaker.
And there are gentlemen and gentlemen in the world,
espaecially in these latitudes. Which sort of gentleman
is he ?
DRINKWATER. Hinglish genlmn, gavncr. Hinglishspeakin;
Hinglish fawther ; West Hinjin plawnter; Hinglish true
blue breed. [Reflectively'] Tech o brahn from the mather,
preps, she bein Brazilian.
RANKIN. Now on your faith as a Christian, Felix Drink-
wotter, is Captain Brassbound a slaver or not?
DRINKWATER [suTprised into his natural cockney pertness]
Naow e ynt.
RANKIN. Are ye sure ?
DRINKWATER. Waw, a sHvcr is abaht the wanne thing in
the wy of a genlmn o fortn thet e ynt.
RANKIN. Ive haird that expression "gentleman of for-
tune " before, Mr Drinkwotter. It means pirate. Do ye
know that ?
DRINKWATER. Blcss yr awt, y' cawnt be a pawrit naradys.
Waw, the aw seas is wuss pleest nor Piccadilly Suckus. If
aw was to do orn thet there Hetlentic Howcean the things
aw did as a bwoy in the Worterleoo Rowd, awd ev maw air
cat afore aw could turn maw ed. Pawrit be blaowed ! —
awskink yr pawdn, gavner. Nah, jest to shaow you ah little
thet there striteforard man y' mide mention on knaowed
wot e was atorkin abaht : oo would you spowse was the
marster to wich Kepn Brarsbahnd served apprentice, as
yr mawt sy ?
RANKIN. I dont know.
2 22 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
DRiNKWATER. Gawdn, gavncr, Gawdn. Gawdn o Kaw-
toom — stetchcr stends in Trifawlgr Square to this dy.
Trined Bleck Pakeetow in smawshin hap the slive riders,
e did. Promist Gawdn e wouldnt never smaggle slives nor
gin, an [with suppressed aggravation'\ wownt, gavner, not
if we gows dahn on ahr bloomin bended knees to im to
do it.
RANKIN \jirilj\ And do ye go down on your bended
knees to him to do it?
DRiNKWATER \somewhat abashed^ Some of huz is hancon-
verted men, gavner ; an they sy : Yousmaggles wanne thing,
Kepn ; waw not hanathcr ?
RANKIN. Weve come to it at last. I thought so. Captain
Brassbound is a smuggler.
DRINKWATER. Wcoll, waw not ? Waw not, gavner t Ahrs
is a Free Tride nition. It gows agin us as Hinglishmen to
see these bloomin furriners settin ap their Castoms Ahses
and spheres o hinfluence and sich lawk hall owver Ar-
fricar. Daownt Harfricar belong as much to huz as to
them ? thets wot we sy. Ennywys, there ynt naow awm in
ahr business. All we daz is hescort, tourist hor com-
mercial. Cook's hexcursions to the Hatlas Mahntns : thets
hall it is. Waw, its spreadin civlawzytion, it is. Ynt it
nah?
RANKIN. You think Captain Brassbound's crew suffi-
ciently equipped for that, do you ?
DRINKWATER. Hcc - quipped ! Haw should think sow.
Lawtnin rawfles, twelve shots in the meggezine ! Go's to
storp us?
RANKIN. The most dangerous chieftain in these parts,
the Sheikh Sidi el Assif, has a new American machine
pistol which fires ten bullets without loadin ; and his rifle
has sixteen shots in the magazine.
DRINKWATER \indigna7itlj\ Yuss ; an the people that sells
sich things into the ends o' them eathen bleck niggers calls
theirseolves Christians ! Its a crool shime, sow it is.
RANKIN. If a man has the heart to pnll the trigger, it
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 223
matters little what color his hand is, Mr Drinkwotter.
Have ye anything else to say to me this afternoon ?
DRiNKWATER [nsiTig] Nathink, gavner, cept to wishycr
the bust o yolth, and a many corn verts. Awtenoon, gavner.
RANKIN. Good afternoon to ye, Mr Drinkwotter.
jis Drinkwater turns to go^ a Moorish porter comes from
the house with two Krooboys.
THE PORTER \_at the door^ addressing Ranking Bikouros
\Mor ocean for Epicurus^ a general Moorish name for the mis-
sionaries^ who are supposed by the Moors to have clwsen their
calling through a love of luxurious idleness'] : I have brought
to your house a Christian dog and his woman.
DRINKWATER. Thercs eathen menners fer yer! Calls Sr
Ahrd Ellam an Lidy Winefleet a Christian dorg and is
woman ! If ee ed you in the dorck et the Centl Crimnal,
youd fawnd aht oo was the dorg and oo was is marster,
pretty quick, you would.
RANKIN. Have you broat their boxes ?
THE PORTER. By Allah, two camel loads !
RANKIN. Have you been paid?
THE PORTER. Only one miserable dollar, Bikouros. I
have brought them to your house. They will pay you.
Give me something for bringing gold to your door.
DRINKWATER. Yah ! You oughter bin bawn a Christian,
you ought. You knaow too mach.
RANKIN. You have broat onnly trouble and expense to
my door, Hassan ; and you know it. Have I ever charged
your wife and children for my medicines?
HASSAN [philosophically] It is always permitted by the
Prophet to ask, Bikouros. [He goes cheerfully into the house
with the Krooboys],
DRINKWATER. Jist thort ecd trah it orn, e did. Hooman
nitre is the sime everywheres. Them eathens is jast lawk
you an' me, gavner.
A lady and gentleman^ both English^ come into the garden.
The gentleman, more than elderly^ is facing old age on compul-
sion, not resignedly. He is clean shaven, and has a brainy red-
224 Three Plays for Puritans Act 1
angular forehead^ a resolute nose with strongly go-ucrned nostrils,
and a tightly fastened down mouth which has evidently shut in
much temper and anger in its time. He has a habit of deliber-
ately assumed authority and dignity, but is trying to take life
more genially and easily in his character of tourist, which is
further borne out by his white hat and sumtnery racecourse attire.
The lady is between thirty and forty, tall, very goodlooking,
sympathetic, intelligent, tender and humorous, dressed with
cunning simplicity not as a businesslike, tailor made, gaitered
tourist, but as if she lived at the next cottage and had dropped
in for tea in blouse and flowered straw hat. A woman of great
vitality and hu7nanity, who begins a casual acquaintance at the
point usually attained by English people after thirty years'* ac-
quaintance when they are capable of reaching it at all. She
pounces genially on Drinkwater, who is smirking at her, hat in
hand, with an air of hearty welcome. The gentleman, on the
other hand, comes down the side of the garden next the house,
instinctively maintaining a distance between himself and the
others.
THE LADY \to Drinkwater~\ How dye do? Are you the
missionary?
DRINKWATER \modestly'\ Naow, lidy, aw will not deceive
you, thow the mistike his but netral. Awm wanne of the
missionary's good works, lidy — is first cornvert, a umble
British seaman — countrymen o yours, lidy, and of is
lawdship's. This eah is Mr Renkin, the bust worker in
the wust cowst vawnyawd. [Introducing the judge] Mr
Renkin : is lawdship Sr Ahrd Ellam. [He withdraws dis-
creetly into the house].
SIR HOWARD [to Rankin] I am sorry to intrude on you,
Mr Rankin ; but in the absence of a hotel there seems to
be no alternative.
LADY CICELY [beaming on him] Besides, we would so
much rather stay with you, if you will have us, Mr
Rankin.
SIR HOWARD [introduci?ig her] My sister-in-law. Lady
Cicely Waynflete, Mr Rankin.
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 225
RANKIN. I am glad to be of service to your leddyship.
You will be wishing to have some tea after your journey,
I'm thinking.
LADY CICELY. Thoughtful man that you are, Mr Rankin !
But weve had some already on board the yacht. And Ive
arranged everything with your servants ; so you must go on
gardening just as if we were not here.
SIR HOWARD. I am sorry to have to warn you, Mr Rankin,
that Lady Cicely, from travelling in Africa, has acquired a
habit of walking into people's houses and behaving as if
she were in her own.
LADY CICELY. But, my dear Howard, I assure you the
natives like it.
RANKIN [gallantly'] So do I.
LADY CICELY [^delighted] Oh, that is so nice of you, Mr
Rankin. This is a delicious country! And the people
seem so good ! They have such nice faces ! We had such
a handsome Moor to carry our luggage up ! And two
perfect pets of Krooboys ! Did you notice their faces,
Howard ?
SIR HOWARD. 1 did ; and I can confidently say, after a
long experience of faces of the worst type looking at me
from the dock, that I have never seen so entirely villainous
a trio as that Moor and the two Krooboys, to whom you
gave five dollars when they would have been perfectly
satisfied with one.
RANKIN [throwing up his hands'] Five dollars ! Tis easy to
see you are not Scotch, my leddy.
LADY CICELY. Oh, poor things, they must want it more
than we do ; and you know, Howard, that Mahometans
never spend money in drink.
RANKIN. Excuse mc a moment, my leddy. I have a
word in season to say to that same Moor. [He goes into the
house],
LADY CICELY [walking about the garden^ looking at the view
and at the flowers] I think this is a perfectly heavenly place.
Drinkwater returns from the house with a chair.
Q
226 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
DRiNKWATER [p/aciTig the chair for Sir Howard^ Awskink
yr pawdn for the libbety, Sr Ahrd.
SIR HOWARD \looking at him] I have seen you before
somewhere.
DRINKWATER. You cv, Sr Ahrd. But aw do assure yer
it were hall a mistike.
SIR HOWARD. As usual. [He sits down]. Wrongfully con-
victed, of course.
DRINKWATER [zvith sly delight] Naow, gavner. [Half
whisperings with an ineffable grin] Wrorngfully hacquittid!
SIR HOWARD. Indeed ! Thats the first case of the kind
I have ever met.
DRINKWATER. Lawd, Sr Ahrd, wot jagginses them jury-
men was ! You an me knaowed it too, didnt we ?
SIR HOWARD. I daresay we did. I am sorry to say I forget
the exact nature of the difficulty you were in. Can you
refresh my memory?
DRINKWATER. Owny the aw sperrits o youth, y' lawd-
ship. Worterleoo Rowd kice. Wot they calls Ooliganism.
SIR HOWARD. Oh ! You wcrc a Hooligan, were you \
LADY CICELY \^puzzled] A Hooligan !
DRINKWATER \deprecatinglj] Nime giv huz pore thortless
leds baw a gent on the Dily Chrornicle, lidy. [Rankin re-
turns. Drinkwater immediately withdraws^ stopping the mis-
sionary/or a moment near the threshold to say, touching his
forelock] AwU eng abaht within ile, gavner, hin kice aw
should be wornted. [He goes into the house with soft steps].
Lady Cicely sits down on the bench under the tamarisk.
Rankin takes his stool from the flowerbed and sits down on her
left. Sir Howard being on her right.
LADY CICELY. What a pleasant face your sailor friend
has, Mr Rankin ! He has been so frank and truthful with
us. You know I dont think anybody can pay me a greater
compliment than to be quite sincere with me at first sight.
Its the perfection of natural good manners.
SIR HOWARD. You must not suppose, Mr Rankin, that
my sister-in-law talks nonsense on purpose. She will
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 227
continue to believe in your friend until he steals her watch ;
and even then she will find excuses for him.
RANKIN [drily changing the subject'] And how have ye
been, Sir Howrrd, since our last meeting that morning
nigh forty year ago down at the docks in London ?
SIR HOWARD [greatly surprised^ pulling himself together]
Our last meeting ! Mr Rankin : have I been unfortunate
enough to forget an old acquaintance ?
RANKIN. Well, perhaps hardly an acquaintance, Sir
Howrrd. But I was a close friend of your brother Miles;
and when he sailed for Brazil I was one of the little party
that saw him off. You were one of the party also, if I'm
not mistaken. I took particular notice of you because you
were Miles's brother and I had never seen ye before. But
ye had no call to take notice of me.
SIR HOWARD [reflecting] Yes : there was a young friend
of my brother's who might well be you. But the name, as
I recollect it, was Leslie.
RANKIN. That was me, sir. My name is Leslie Rankin ;
and your brother and I were always Miles and Leslie to
one another.
SIR HOWARD [pluming himself a little] Ah! that explains
it. I can trust my memory still, Mr Rankin ; though some
people do complain that I am growing old.
RANKIN. And where may Miles be now. Sir Howard?
SIR HOWARD [abruptly] Dont you know that he is dead.''
RANKIN [much shocked] Never haird of it. Dear, dear : I
shall never see him again ; and I can scarcely bring his
face to mind after all these years. [With moistening eyes^
which at once touch Lady Cicelfs sympathy] I'm right sorry
— right sorry.
SIR HOWARD [decorously subduing his voice] Yes : he did
not live long : indeed, he never came back to England. It
must be nearly thirty years ago now that he died in the
West Indies on his property there.
RANKIN [surprised] His proaperty ! Miles with a proa-
perty !
228 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
SIR HOWARD. Yes : he became a planter, and did well
out there, Mr Rankin. The history of that property is a
very curious and interesting one — at least it is so to a
lawyer like myself.
RANKIN. I should be glad to hear it for Miles' sake,
though T am no lawyer, Sir Howrrd.
LADY CICELY. I never knew you had a brother, Howard?
SIR HOWARD [not fkased by this remark] Perhaps because
you never asked me. [Turning more blandly to Rankin] I
will tell you the story, Mr Rankin. When Miles died, he
left an estate in one of the West Indian islands. It was
in charge of an agent who was a sharpish fellow, with all
his wits about him. Now, sir, that man did a thing which
probably could hardly be done with impunity even here in
Morocco, under the most barbarous of surviving civilizations.
He quite simply took the estate for himself and kept it.
RANKIN. But how about the law?
SIR HOWARD. The law, sir, in that island, consisted
practically of the Attorney General and the Solicitor
General ; and these gentlemen were both retained by the
agent. Consequently there was no solicitor in the island
to take up the case against him.
RANKIN. Is such a thing possible today in the British
Empire ?
SIR HOWARD [calmly] Oh, quite. Quite.
LADY CICELY. But could not a firstrate solicitor have
been sent out from London ?
SIR HOWARD. No doubt, by paying him enough to com-
pensate him for giving up his London practice : that is,
rather more than there was any reasonable likelihood of
the estate proving worth.
RANKIN. Then the estate was lost?
SIR HOWARD. Not permanently. It is in my hands at
present.
RANKIN. Then how did ye get it back?
SIR HOWARD [with Crafty enjoyment of his own cunning]
By hoisting the rogue with his own petard. I had to leave
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 229
matters as they were for many years ; for I had my own
position in the world to make. But at last I made it. In
the course of a holiday trip to the West Indies, I found
that this dishonest agent had left the island, and placed the
estate in the hands of an agent of his own, whom he was
foolish enough to pay very badly. I put the case before
that agent ; and he decided to treat the estate as my pro-
perty. The robber now found himself in exactly the same
position he had formerly forced me into. Nobody in the
island would act against me, least of all the Attorney and
Solicitpr General, who appreciated my influence at the
Colonial Office. And so I got the estate back. " The
mills of the gods grind slowly," Mr Rankin; "but they
grind exceeding small."
LADY CICELY. Now I supposc if I'd donc such a clever
thing in England, youd have sent me to prison.
SIR HOWARD. Probably, unless you had taken care to
keep outside the law against conspiracy. Whenever you
wish to do anything against the law. Cicely, always consult
a good solicitor first.
LADY CICELY. So I do. But supposc your agent takes it
into his head to give the estate back to his wicked old
employer !
SIR HOWARD. I heartily wish he would.
RANKIN \_openeyed^ You wish he would ! !
SIR HOWARD. Yes. A few years ago the collapse of the
West Indian sugar industry converted the income of the
estate into an annual loss of about ^^150 a year. If I cant
sell it soon, I shall simply abandon it — unless you, Mr
Rankin, would like to take it as a present.
RANKIN \^/dug/.n?ig] I thank your lordship : we have estates
enough of that sort in Scotland. Youre setting with your
back to the sun, Leddy Ceecily, and losing something worth
looking at. See there. \^He rises and -points seaward, where
the rapid twilight of the latitude has begun'].
LADY CICELY [getting up to look and uttering a cry of ad-
miration] Oh, how lovely !
230 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
SIR HOWARD [^/so risi?ig\ What are those hills over there
to the southeast?
RANKIN. They are the outposts, so to speak, of the Atlas
Mountains.
LADY CICELY. The Atlas Mountains ! Where Shelley's
witch lived! We'll make an excursion to them tomorrow,
Howard.
RANKIN. Thats impoassible, my leddy. The natives are
verra dangerous.
LADY CICELY. Why? Has any explorer been shooting
them ?
RANKIN. No. But every man of them believes he will
go to Heaven if he kills an unbeliever.
LADY CICELY. Bless you, dear Mr Rankin, the people
in England believe that they will go to heaven if they give
all their property to the poor. But they dont do it. I'm
not a bit afraid of that.
RANKIN. But they are not accustomed to see women
going about unveiled.
LADY CICELY. I always get on best with people when
they can see my face.
SIR HOWARD. Cicely : you are talking great nonsense ;
and you know it. These people have no laws to restrain
them, which means, in plain English, that they are habitual
thieves and murderers.
RANKIN. Nay, nay : not exactly that. Sir Howrrd.
LADY CICELY [indignantly'] Of course not. You always
think, Howard, that nothing prevents people killing each
other but the fear of your hanging them for it. But what
nonsense that is ! And how wicked ! If these people werent
here for some good purpose, they wouldnt have been made,
would they, Mr Rankin ?
RANKIN. That is a point, certainly, Leddy Ccecily.
SIR HOWARD. Oh, if you are going to talk theology —
LADY CICELY. Well, why not ? theology is as respectable
as law, I should think. Besides, I'm only talking common-
sense. Why do people get killed by savages? Because
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 231
instead of being polite to them, and saying How dye do ?
like me, people aim pistols at them. Ive been among
savages — cannibals and all sorts. Everybody said theyd
kill me. But when I met them, I said Howdyedo? and
they were quite nice. The kings always wanted to marry
me.
SIR HOWARD. That does not seem to me to make you
any safer here, Cicely. You shall certainly not stir a step
beyond the protection of the consul, if I can help it, with-
out a strong escort.
LADY CICELY. I dont Want an escort.
SIR HOWARD. I do. And I suppose you will expect me
to accompany you.
RANKIN. Tis not safe, Leddy Ceecily. Really and truly,
tis not safe. The tribes are verra fierce ; and there are
cities here that no Christian has ever set foot in. If you
go without being well protected, the first chief you meet
will seize you and send you back again to prevent his
followers murdering you.
LADY CICELY. Oh, how nicc of him, Mr Rankin !
RANKIN. He would not do it for your sake, Leddy
Ceecily, but for his own. The Sultan would get into
trouble with England if you were killed ; and the Sultan
would kill the chief to pacify the English government.
LADY CICELY. But I always go everywhere. I know the
people here wont touch me. They have such nice faces
and such pretty scenery.
SIR HOWARD [to Rankin^ Sitting dowu again re 5ignedlf\ You
can imagine how much use there is in talking to a woman
who admires the faces of the ruffians who infest these ports,
Mr Rankin. Can anything be done in the way of an
escort?
RANKIN. There is a certain Captain Brassbound here
who trades along the coast, and occasionally escorts parties
of merchants on journeys into the interior. I understand
that he served under Gordon in the Soudan.
SIR HOWARD. That sounds promising. But I should like
232 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
to know a little more about him before I trust myself in
his hands.
RANKIN. I quite agree with you, Sir Howrrd. I'll send
Felix Drinkwotter for him. [//«? claps his hands. An Arab
boy appears at the house door']. Muley: is sailor man here.?
[Mu/ey nods]. Tell sailor man bring captain. [Mu/ey nods
and goes].
SIR HOWARD. Who is Drinkwater ?
RANKIN. His agent, or mate : I dont rightly know which.
LADY CICELY. Oh, if he has a mate named Felix Drink-
water, it must be quite a respectable crew. It is such a
nice name.
RANKIN. You saw him here just now. He is a convert
of mine.
LADY CICELY \delighted] That nice truthful sailor !
SIR HOWARD \horrified] What ! The Hooligan !
RANKIN ^pWLxled] HooHgan ? No, my lord : he is an
Englishman.
SIR HOWARD. My dear Mr Rankin, this man was tried
before me on a charge of street ruffianism.
RANKIN. So he told me. He was badly broat up, I am
afraid. But he is now a converted man.
LADY CICELY. Of course he is. His telling you so frankly
proves it. You know, really, Howard, all those poor people
whom you try are more sinned against than sinning. If
you would only talk to them in a friendly way instead of
passing cruel sentences on them, you would find them
quite nice to you. \Indignantly] I wont have this poor
man trampled on merely because his mother brought him
up as a Hooligan. I am sure nobody could be nicer than
he was when he spoke to us.
SIR HOWARD. In short, we are to have an escort of
Hooligans commanded by a filibuster. Very well, very
well. You will most likely admire all their faces ; and I
have no doubt at all that they will admire yours.
Drinkwater comes from the house with an Italian dressed
in a much worn suit of blue serge., a dilapidated Alpine hat.
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 233
and boots laced with scraps of twine. He remains near the
door, whilst Drinkwater comes forward between Sir Howard
and Lady Cicely.
DRINKWATER. Yr honor's scrvaiit. \_To the Italian'] Mawt-
zow : is lawdship Sr Ahrd Ellam [Marzo touches his hat\
Er lidyship Lidy Winefleet \Marxo touches his hat]. Haw-
tellian shipmite, lidy. Hahr chef.
LADY CICELY \_noadiiig affably to Marzo] Howdyedo .? I
love Italy. What part of it were you born in ?
DRINKWATER. Womt bawn in Hitly at all, lidy. Bawn
in Ettn Gawdn [Hatton Garden]. Hawce barrer an street
pianner Hawtellian, lidy: thets wot e is. Kepn Brars-
bahnd's respects to yr honors; an e awites yr com-
mawnds.
RANKIN. Shall we go indoors to see him?
SIR HOWARD. I think we had better have a look at him
by daylight.
RANKIN. Then we must lose no time : the dark is soon
down in this latitude. [To Drinkwater] Will ye ask him
to step out here to us, Mr Drinkwotter?
DRINKWATER. Rawt you aw, gavner. \He goes officiously
into the house].
Lady Cicely and Rankin sit down as before to receive the
Captain. The light is by this time waning rapidly., the dark-
ness creeping west into the orange crimson.
LADY CICELY \whispering] Dont you feel rather creepy,
Mr Rankin? I wonder what he'll be like.
RANKIN. I misdoubt me he will not answer, your leddy-
ship.
There is a scuffAng noise in the house; and Drinkwater
shoots out through the doorway across the garden with every
appearance of having been violently kicked. Marzo immediately
hurries down the garden on Sir Howard'' s right out of the
neighborhood of the doorway.
DRINKWATER [trying to put a cheerful air on much mortif ca-
tion and bodily anguish] Narsty step to thet ere door — tripped
me hap, it did. [Raisi?ig his voice and narrowly escaping a
234 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
squeak of pain] Kepn Brarsbahnd. [He gets as far from the
house as possible^ on Rankings left. Rankin rises to receive his
guest].
Jn olive complexioned man with dark southern eyes and hair
comes from the house. Age about 36. Handsome features^ but
joyless; dark eyebrozvs drawn towards one another; mouth set
grimly ; nostrils large and strained: a face set to one tragic
purpose. A man of few words, fewer gestures, and much sig-
nificance. On the whole, interesting, and even attractive, but
not friendly. He stands for a moment, saturnine in the ruddy
light, to see who is present, looking in a singular and rather
deadly way at Sir Howard; then with some surprise and un-
easiness at Lady Cicely. Finally he comes down into the middle
of the garden, and confronts Rankin, who has been staring at
him in consternation from the moment of his entrance, and con-
tinues to do so in so marked a way that the glow in Brassbound's
eyes deepens as he begins to take offence.
BRASSBOUND. Well, sir, have you stared your fill at me?
RANKIN [recovering himself with a start] I ask your pardon
for my bad manners, Captain Brassbound. Ye are extra-
ordinair lek an auld college friend of mine, whose face I
said not ten minutes gone that I could no longer bring to
mind. It was as if he had come from the grave to remind
me of it.
BRASSBOUND. Why have you sent for me ?
RANKIN. We have a matter of business with ye, Captain.
BRASSBOUND. Who are "we"?
RANKIN. This is Sir Howrrd Hallam, who will be well
known to ye as one of Her Majesty's judges.
BRASSBOUND [tuming the singular look again on Sir Howard]
The friend of the widow ! the protector of the fatherless !
SIR HOWARD [startled] I did not know I was so favorably
spoken of in these parts, Captain Brassbound. We want
an escort for a trip into the mountains.
BRASSBOUND [ignoring this announcement] Who is the lady ?
RANKIN. Lady Ceecily Waynflete, his lordship's sister-
in-law.
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 235
LADY CICELY. Howdyedo, Captain Biassbound? \_He bows
gravely"].
SIR HOWARD [a little impatient of these questions^ which
strike him as somewhat impertinent] Let us come to business,
if you please. We are thinking of making a short excursion
to see the country about here. Can you provide us with
an escort of respectable, trustworthy men ?
BRASSBOUND. No.
DRiNKWATER \in Strong remonstrance] Nah, nah, nah !
Nah look eah, Kepn, y' knaow —
BRASSBOUND [between his teeth] Hold your tongue.
DRINKWATER [abjcctly] Yuss, Kepn.
RANKIN. I understood it was your business to provide
escorts, Captain Brassbound.
BRASSBOUND. You wcre rightly informed. That is my
business.
LADY CICELY. Then why wont you do it for us ?
BRASSBOUND. You are not content with an escort. You
want respectable, trustworthy men. You should have
brought a division of London policemen with you. My
men are neither respectable nor trustworthy.
DRINKWATER \unable to contain himself] Nah, nah, look
eah, Kepn. If you want to be moddist, be moddist on
your aown accahnt, nort on mawn.
BRASSBOUND. You sce what my men are like. That
rascal [indicating Marzo] would cut a throat for a dollar if
he had courage enough.
MARZO. I not understand. I no spik Englis.
BRASSBOUND. This thing [pointing to Drinkwater] is the
greatest liar, thief, drunkard, and rapscallion on the west
coast.
DRINKWATER [affecting an ironic indifference] Gow orn,
gow orn. Sr Ahrd ez erd witnesses to maw kerrickter
afoah. E knaows ah mech to blieve of em.
LADY CICELY. Captain Brassbound : I have heard all that
before about the blacks ; and I found them very nice people
when they were properly treated.
236 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
DRiNKWATER SjhuckUng: tkc Italian is also grinning] Nah,
Kepn, nah ! Owp yr prahd o y'seolf nah.
BRASSBOUND. I quitc Understand the proper treatment for
him, madam. If he opens his mouth again without my
leave, I will break every bone in his skin.
LADY CICELY [//? her most sunnily matter-of-fact way] Does
Captain Brassbound always treat you like this, Mr Drink-
water ?
Drinkzvater hesitates, and looks apprehensively at the
Captain.
BRASSBOUND. Answer, you dog, when the lady orders
you. \To Lady Cicely] Do not address him as Mr Drink-
water, madam : he is accustomed to be called Brandyfaced
Jack.
DRINKWATER [indignantly] Eah, aw sy ! nah look eah,
Kepn: maw nime is Drinkworter. You awsk em et Sin
Jorn's in the Worterleoo Rowd. Orn maw grenfawther's
tombstown, it is.
BRASSBOUND. It will be on your own tombstone, pre-
sently, if you cannot hold your tongue. [Turning to the
others] Let us understand one another, if you please. An
escort here, or anywhere where there are no regular dis-
ciplined forces, is what its captain makes it. If I under-
take this business, / shall be your escort. I may require a
dozen men, just as I may require a dozen horses. Some of
the horses will be vicious ; so will all the men. If either
horse or man tries any of his viciousness on me, so much
the worse for him ; but it will make no difference to you.
I will order my men to behave themselves before the lady ;
and they shall obey their orders. But the lady will please
understand that I take my own way with them and suffer
no interference.
LADY CICELY. Captain Brassbound : I dont want an
escort at all. It will simply get us all into danger ; and
I shall have the trouble of getting it out again. Thats
what escorts always do. But since Sir Howard prefers an
escort, I think you had better stay at home and let me take
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 237
charge of it. I know your men will get on perfectly well
if theyre properly treated.
DRiNKWATER \zvith CTithusiasm'] Feed aht o yr and, lidy,
we would.
BRASSBOUND [wlth sardoTiic assent] Good. I agree. [To
Drinkzvater] You shall go without me.
DRINKWATER [terrified] Eah ! Wot are you a syin orn ?
We cawnt gow withaht yer. [To Ladj Cicely] Naow, lidy :
it wouldnt be for yr hown good, Yer cawnt hexpect a lot
o poor honeddikited men lawk huz to ran ahrseolvs into
dineger withaht naow Kepn to teoll us wot to do. Naow,
lidy : hoonawted we stend : deevawdid we fall.
LADY CICELY. Oh, if you prefer your captain, have him
by all means. Do you like to be treated as he treats you.?
DRINKWATER [zoith a sniik of vanity] Weoll, lidy : y'
cawnt deenaw that e's a Paffick Genlmn. Bit hawbitrairy,
preps; but hin a genlmn you looks for sich. It tikes a
hawbitrairy wanne to knock aht them eathen Shikes, aw
teoll yer.
BRASSBOUND. Thats cnough. Go.
DRINKWATER. Weoll, aw was hownly a teolln the lidy
thet — [A threatening movement from Brass bound cuts him
short. He flies for his life into the house, followed by the
Italian].
BRASSBOUND. Your ladyship sees. These men serve me
by their own free choice. If they are dissatisfied, they go.
If / am dissatisfied, they go. They take care that I am not
dissatisfied.
SIR HOWARD [who has listened with approval and growing
confidence] Captain Brassbound : you are the man I want.
If your terms are at all reasonable, I will accept your ser-
vices if we decide to make an excursion. You do not
object, Cicely, I hope.
LADY CICELY. Oh no. After all, those men must really
like you. Captain Brassbound. I feel sure you have a kind
heart. You have such nice eyes.
SIR HOWARD [scandalized] My dear Cicely : you really
238 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
must restrain your expressions of confidence in people's
eyes and faces. [To Brassbourid] Now, about terms, Cap-
tain?
BRASSBOUND. Where do you propose to go?
SIR HOWARD. I hardly know. Where can we go, Mr
Rankin?
RANKIN. Take my advice. Sir Howrrd. Dont go far.
BRASSBOUND. I Can take you to Meskala, from which you
can see the Atlas Mountains. From Meskala I can take
you to an ancient castle in the hills, where you can put up
as long as you please. The customary charge is half a
dollar a man per day and his food. / charge double.
SIR HOWARD. I suppose you answer for your men being
sturdy fellows, who will stand to their guns if necessary.
BRASSBOUND. I Can answer for their being more afraid
of me than of the Moors.
LADY CICELY. That doesnt matter in the least, Howard.
The important thing, Captain Brassbound, is : first, that we
should have as few men as possible, because men give such
a lot of trouble travelling. And then, they must have good
lungs and not be always catching cold. Above all, their
clothes must be of good wearing material. Otherwise I
shall be nursing and stitching and mending all the way;
and it will be trouble enough, I assure you, to keep them
washed and fed without that.
BRASSBOUND \_haughtily^ My men, madam, are not child-
ren in the nursery.
LADY CICELY [with Unanswerable conviction'] Captain
Brassbound: all men are children in the nursery. I see
that you dont notice things. That poor Italian had only
one proper bootlace : the other was a bit of string. And I
am sure from Mr Drinkwater's complexion that he ought
to have some medicine.
BRASSBOUND [outwafdly determined not to be trifled with :
inwardly puzzled and rather daunted] Madam : if you want
an escort, I can provide you with an escort. If you want
a Sunday School treat, I can not provide it.
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 239
LADY CICELY [with swcct melaticholy'] Ah, dont you wish
you could, Captain ? Oh, if 1 could only shew you my
children from Waynflete Sunday School ! The darlings
would love this place, with all the camels and black men.
I'm sure you would enjoy having them here, Captain
Brassbound; and it would be such an education for your
men ! \_Bras5b0und stares at her with drying Ups\.
SIR HOWARD. Cicely : when you have quite done talking
nonsense to Captain Brassbound, we can proceed to make
some definite arrangement with him.
LADY CICELY. But it's arranged already. We'll start at
eight o'clock tomorrow morning, if you please. Captain.
Never mind about the Italian : I have a big box of clothes
with me for my brother in Rome ; and there are some
bootlaces in it. Now go home to bed and dont fuss your-
self. All you have to do is to bring your men round ;
and I'll see to the rest. Men are always so nervous
about moving. Goodnight. \^Bhe offers him her hand. Sur-
prised, he pulls off his cap for the first time. Some scruple
prevents him from taking her hand at once. He hesitates;
then turns to Sir Howard and addresses him with warning
earnest?iess\
BRASSBOUND. Sir Howard Hallam : I advise you not to
attempt this expedition.
SIR HOWARD. Indeed ! Why ?
BRASSBOUND. You are safe here. I warn you, in those
hills there is a justice that is not the justice of your courts
in England. If you have wronged a man, you may meet
that man there. If you have wronged a woman, you may
meet her son there. The justice of those hills is the justice
of vengeance.
SIR HOWARD \^fai?itly amused^ You are superstitious, Cap-
tain. Most sailors are, I notice. However, I have complete
confidence in your escort.
BRASSBOUND \almost threateningly'] Take care. The
avenger may be one of the escort.
SIR HOWARD. I have already met the only member of
240 Three Plays for Puritans Act I
your escort who might have borne a grudge against me,
Captain ; and he was acquitted.
BRASSBOUND. You are fated to come, then ?
SIR HOWARD [^smiling] It seems so.
BRASSBOUND. On your head be it ! [To Lady Cicely,
accepting her hand at last] Goodnight.
He goes. It is by this time starry night.
ACT II
Midday. A room in a Moorish castle. A divan seat runs
round the dilapidated adobe walls, which are partly painted,
partly faced with zuhite tiles patterned in green and yellow. The
ceiling is made up of little squares, painted in bright colors, with
gilded edges, and ornamented with gilt knobs. On the cement
floor are mattings, sheepskins, and leathern cushions with geo-
metrical patterns on them. There is a tiny Moorish table in the
middle; and at it a huge saddle, with saddle cloths of various
colors, shewing that the room is used by foreigners accustomed
to chairs. Anyone sitting at the table in this seat would have
the chief en.rance, a large horseshoe arch, on his left, and
another saddle seat between him and the arch; whilst, if suscept-
ible to draughts, he would probably catch cold from a little
Moorish door in the wall behind him to his right.
Two or three of Brassbound's men, overcome by the midday
heat, sprawl supine on the fioor, with their reefer coats under
their heads, their knees uplifted, and their calves laid comfort-
ably on the divan. Those who wear shirts have them open at
the throat for greater coolness. Some have jerseys. All wear
boots and belts, and have guns ready to their hands. One of
them, lying with his head against the second saddle seat, wears
what was once a fashionable white English yachting suit. He
is evidently a pleasantly worthless young English gentleman gone
to the bad, but retaining sufficient self-respect to shave carefully
and brush his hair, which is wearing thin, and does not seem to
have been luxuriant even in its best days.
^42 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
The silence is broken only by the snores of the young gentle-
man^ whose mouth has fallen open^ until a few distant shots half
waken him. He shuts his mouth convulsively^ and opens his
eyes sleepily. A door is violently kicked outside ; and the voice
of Drinkwater is heard raising urgent alarm.
DRiNKWATER. Wot ow ! Wikc ap thcrc, will yr. Wike
ap. \He rushes in through the horseshoe arch, hot and excited,
and runs round, kicking the sleepers\ Nah then. Git ap.
Git ap, will yr, Kiddy Redbrook. \He gives the young
gentleman a rude shove\
REDBROOK [sitting up] Stow that, will you. Whats amiss }
DRINKWATER [disgusted] Wots amiss ! Didnt eah naow
fawrin, I spowse.
REDBROOK. No.
DRINKWATER [sneering] Naow. Thort it sifer nort,
didnt yr ?
REDBROOK [with crisp intelligence] What ! You re running
away, are you ? [He springs up, cryi?ig] Look alive, Johnnies :
there's danger. Brandyfaced Jack's on the run. [They
spring up hastily, grasping their guns].
DRINKWATER. Dinegcr ! Yuss : should think there wors
dineger. It's hoM^er, thow, as it mowstly his baw the
tawm youre awike. [They relapse into lassitude]} Waw
wasnt you on the look-aht to give us a end? Bin hattecked
baw the Benny Seeras [Beni Siras], we ev, an ed to rawd
for it pretty strite, too, aw teoll yr. Mawtzow is it : the
bullet glawnst all rahnd is bloomin brisket. Brarsbahnd
e dropt the Shike's oss at six unnern fifty yawds. [Bustling
them about] Nah then : git the plice ready for the British
herristorcracy, Lawd Ellam an Lidy Wineflete ?
REDBROOK. Lady faint, eh?
DRINKWATER. Fynt ! Not lawkly. Wornted to gow an
talk to the Benny Seeras: blaow me if she didnt! Harskt
huz wot we was frahtnd of. Tyin ap Mawtzow's wound,
she is, like a bloomin orspittle nass. [Sir Howard, with a
copious pagri on his white hat, enters through the horseshoe
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 243
arch^ followed by a couple of men supporting the wounded
Marzo^ who^ weeping and terrorstricken by the prospect of
death and of subsequent torments for which he is conscious
of having eminently qualified himself has his coat off and a
bandage round his chest. One of his supporters is a black-
bearded^ thickset^ slow^ middle-aged man with an air of damaged
respectability^ named — as it afterwards appears — Johnson.
Lady Cicely walks beside Marzo. Redbrook, a little shamefaced,
crosses the room to the opposite wall as far away as possible from
the visitors. Drinkwater turns and receives them with jocular
ceremony']. Weolcome to Brarsbahnd Cawstl, Sr Ahrd an
lidy. This eah is the corfee and commercial room.
Sir Howard goes to the table and sits on the saddle, rather
exhausted. Lady Cicely comes to Drinkwater.
LADY CICELY. Where is Marzo's bed.?
DRINKWATER. Is bed, Hdy ? Weoll : e ynt petickler, lidy.
E ez is chawce of henny flegstown agin thet wall.
They deposit Marzo on tl:e flags against the wall close to the
liule door. He groans. Johnson phlegmatic ally leaves him and
joins Red brook.
LADY CICELY. But you cant leave him there in that state.
DRINKWATER. Ow : c's hall lawt. \_S trolling up callously
to Marzo] Youre hall rawt, ynt yer, Mawtzow.? [Marzo
whimpers]. Corse y'aw.
LADY CICELY \to Sir Howard] Did you ever see such a
helpless lot of poor creatures ? [She makes for the little
door],
DRINKWATER. Eah ! [He runs to the door and places him-
self before it]. Where mawt yr lidyship be gowin .?
LADY CICELY. I'm going through every room in this
castle to find a proper place to put that man. And now
I'll tell you where youre going. Youre going to get some
water for Marzo, who is very thirsty. And then, when Ive
chosen a room for him, youre going to make a bed for him
there.
DRINKWATER [sarcastically] Ow ! Henny ather little
suvvice .'' Mike yrseolf at owm, y' knaow, lidy.
244 Three Plays for Puritans Act ii
LADY CICELY [cofistderately^ Dont go if youd rather not,
Mr Drinkwater. Perhaps youre too tired. \_Turni?!g to the
archwaf\ I'll ask Captain Brassbound : he wont mind.
DRINKWATER. {terrified^ running after her and getting be-
tzveen her and the arclP\ Naovv, naovv ! Naovv, lidy : downt
you gow disturbin the kepn. Awll see to it.
LADY CICELY [graz'e/yl I was sure you would, Mr Drink-
water. You have such a kind face. [She turns back and goes
out through the small door].
DRINK.WATER [looki/ig after her] Garn !
SIR HOWARD \to Drinkzvater] Will you ask one of your
friends to show me to my room whilst you are getting the
water ?
DRINKWATER [insokntlf] Yr room ! Ow : this ynt good
enaf fr yr, ynt it ? [Ferociously] Oo a you orderin abaht, ih ?
SIR HOWARD [rising quietly^ and taking refuge betzueen Red-
brook and Johnson, whom he addresses] Can you find me a
more private room than this?
JOHNSON [shaking his head] Ive no orders. You must wait
til the capn comes, sir.
DRINKWATER [follozving Sir Howard] Yuss ; an whawl
youre witin, yll tike your horders from me : see ?
JOHNSON [with slow severity^ to Drinkwater] Look here :
do you see three genlmen talkin to one another here, civil
and private, eh ?
DRINKWATER [chapfalkn] No offence, Miste Jornsn —
JOHNSON [o7ninously] Ay; but there is offence. Wheres
your manners, you guttersnipe? [Turning to Sir Howard]
Thats the curse o this kind o life, sir : you got to associate
with all sorts. My father, sir, was Capn Johnson o Hull
— owned his own schooner, sir. We're mostly gentlemen
here, sir, as youll find, except the poor ignorant foreigner
and that there scum of the submerged tenth. [Contemp-
tuously talking at Drinkwater] He aint nobody's son: he's
only a offspring o coster folk or such.
DRINKWATER [bursting into tears] Clawss feelin ! thets
wot it is : clawss feelin ! Wot are yer, arter all, bat a
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 245
bloomin gang o wust cowst cazhls {casual ward paupers^^:
{Johnson is scandalized; and there is a general thrill of indig-
nation\ Better ev naow fembly, an rawse aht of it, lawk
me, than ev a specble one and disgrice it, lawk you.
JOHNSON. Brandyfaced Jack : I name you for conduct
and language unbecoming to a gentleman. Those who
agree will signify the same in the usual manner.
ALL \vehementl-{\ Aye.
DRINKWATER \wildlf\ NaOW.
JOHNSON. Felix Drinkwater : are you goin out, or are you
goin to wait til youre chucked out ? You can cry in the pass-
age. If you give any trouble, youll have something to cry for.
They' make a threatening movement towards Drinkwater .
DRINKWATER [whimpering'] You lee me alown : awm
gowin. There's n'maw true demmecrettick feelin eah
than there is in the owl bloomin M division of Noontn
Corzwy coppers [Newington Causeway policemen].
As he slinks away in tears towards the arch, Brassbound
enters. Drinkwater promptly shelters himself on the captain's
left hand, the others retreating to the opposite side as Brass-
bound advances to the middle of the room. Sir Howard retires
behind them and seats himself on the divan, much fatigued.
BRASSBOUND [to Drinkwate?'] What are you snivelling at?
DRINKWATER. You awsk the wust cowst herristorcracy.
They fawnds maw cornduck hanbecammin to a genlmn.
Brassbound is about to ask Johnson for an explanation, when
Lady Cicely returns through the little door, and comes between
Brassbound and Drinkzvater.
LADY CICELY \to Drinkwater] Have you fetched the
water?
DRINKWATER. Yuss : nah you begin orn me. [He weeps
afresh].
LADY CICELY [surprised] Oh ! This wont do, Mr Drink-
water. If you cry, I cant let you nurse your friend.
DRINKWATER [frantic] Thetll brike maw awt, wownt it
nah ? [With a lamentable sob, he throws hirnself down on the
divan, raging like an angry child].
246 Three Plays for Puritans Act il
LADY CICELY \after co7ite7nplating him i?i astonishment for a
moment'] Captain Brassbound : are there any charwomen in
the Atlas Mountains?
BRASSBOUND. Thcrc are people here who will work if
you pay them, as there are elsewhere.
LADY CICELY. This castle is very romantic. Captain ; but
it hasnt had a spring cleaning since the Prophet lived in it.
Theres only one room I can put that wounded man into.
Its the only one that has a bed in it : the second room on
the right out of that passage.
BRASSBOUND \haughtilj\ That is my room, madam.
LADY CICELY \reliel'ed^^ Oh, thats all right. It would
have been so awkward if I had had to ask one of your men
to turn out. You wont mind, I know. \^All the men stare
at her. Even Drinkzvater forgets his sorrows in his stupefac-
tion'].
BRASSBOUND. Pray, madam, have you made any arrange-
ments for my accommodation?
LADY CICELY [reassuring/y] Yes : you can have my room
instead, wherever it may be : I'm sure you chose me a nice
one. I must be near my patient ; and I dont mind rough-
ing it. Now I must have Marzo moved very carefully.
Where is that truly gentlemanly Mr Johnson ? — oh, there
you are, Mr Johnson. [She runs to Johnson^ past Brass-
liound, who has to step back hastily out of her way with every
expression frozen out of Ins face except one of extreme and i?i-
dignant dumbfoundedness]. Will you ask your strong friend
to help you with Marzo : strong people are always so
gentle.
JOHNSON. Let me introdooce Mr Redbrook. Your lady-
ship may know his father, the very Rev. Dean Redbrook.
\He goes to Marzo].
REDBROOK. Happy to oblige you. Lady Cicely.
LADY CICELY [shaking hands] Howdyedo ? Of course I
knew your father — Dunham, wasnt it? Were you ever
called —
REDBROOK. The kid? Yes.
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 247
LADY CICELY. But why
REDBROOK [anticipating the rest of the question'] Cards and
drink, Lady Sis. [He follows Johnson to the patient. Lady
Cicely goes too]. Now, Count Marzo. [Marzo groans as
Johnson and Red brook raise him].
LADY CICELY. Now thcyrc not hurting you, Marzo.
They couldnt be more gentle.
MARZO. Drink.
LADY CICELY. I'll get you some water myself. Your
friend Mr Drink water was too overcome — take care of the
corner — thats it — the second door on the right. [She goes
out with Marzo and his bearers through the little door].
BRASSBOUND [stUl Staring] Well, I am damned !
DRiNKWATER [getting Up] Wcoll, blimey !
BRASSBOUND [tur?iing irritably on him] What did you say?
DRiNKWATER. Weoll, wot did yer sy yrseolf, kepn ? Fust
tawm aw yever see y' afride of ennybody. [The others laugh].
BRASSBOUND. Afraid !
DRINKWATER [maliciously] She's took y'bed from hander
yr for a bloomin penny hawcemen. If y' ynt afride, lets
eah yer speak ap to er wen she cams bawck agin.
BRASSBOUND [to Sir Howard] I wish you to understand,
Sir Howard, that in this castle, it is / who give orders, and
no one else. Will you be good enough to let Lady Cicely
Waynflete know that.
SIR HOWARD [sitting up on the divan and pulling himself
together] You will have ample opportunity for speaking to
Lady Cicely yourself when she returns. [Drinkwater
chuckles ; and the rest grin].
BRASSBOUND. My manners are rough, Sir Howard. I
have no wish to frighten the lady.
SIR HOWARD. Captain Brassbound : if you can frighten
Lady Cicely, you will confer a great obligation on her
family. If she had any sense of danger, perhaps she would
keep out of it.
BRASSBOUND. Well, sir, if she were ten Lady Cicelys,
she must consult me while she is here.
248 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
DRiNKWATER. Thcts rawt, Iccpn. Lets eah you steblish
yr hawthority. \_Brassbound turns impatiently on him: he
retreats remonstrating] Nah, nah, nah !
SIR HOWARD. If you fccl at all nervous, Captain Brass-
bound, I will mention the matter with pleasure.
BRASSBOUND. Nervous, sir ! no. Nervousness is not in
my line. You will find me perfectly capable of saying
what I want to say — with considerable emphasis, if
necessary. [^Sir Howard assents with a polite but incredulous
nod].
DRINKWATER. Eah, cah !
Lady Cicely returns with Johnson and Redhrook. She
carries a jar.
LADY CICELY [stopping between the door and the arch] Now
for the water. Where is it ?
REDBROOK. Thcrc's a well in the courtyard. I'll come
and work the bucket.
LADY CICELY. So good of you, Mr Kidbrook. \Bhe makes
for the horseshoe arch, followed by Redbrook],
DRINKWATER. Nah, Kepu Brarsbahnd : you got sathink
to sy to the lidy, ynt yr ?
LADY CICELY [stopping] I'll come back to hear it pre-
sently. Captain. And oh, while I remember it, [coming
forward between Brassbound and Drinkwater] do please tell
me, Captain, if I interfere with your arrangements in any
way. If I disturb you the least bit in the world, stop me
at once. You have all the responsibility ; and your com-
fort and your authority must be the first thing. Youll tell
me, wont you ?
BRASSBOUND [awkwardly, quite beaten] Pray do as you
please, madam.
LADY CICELY. Thank you. Thats so like you, Captain.
Thank you. Now, Mr Redbrook ! Show me the way to
the well. [She follows Redbrook out through the arch].
DRINKWATER. Yah ! Yah ! Shime ! Beat baw a woman !
JOHNSON [coming forward on Brassbound' s right] What's
wrong now 1
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 249
DRINK WATER [with an air of disappointment and disillu5ion'\
Dovvnt awsk me, Miste Jornsn. The kepn's naow clawss
arter all.
BRASSBOUND \a little shamefacedly'] What has she been
fixing up in there, Johnson ?
JOHNSON. Well : Marzo's in your bed. Lady wants to
make a kitchen of the Sheikh's audience chamber, and to
put me and the Kid handy in his bedroom in case Marzo
gets erysipelas and breaks out violent. From what I can
make out, she means to make herself matron of this insti-
tution. I spose its all right, isnt it ?
DRiNKWATER. Yuss, an hordcr huz abaht as if we was
keb tahts ! An the kepn afride to talk bawck at er !
Lady Cicely returns with Redhrook. She carries the jar
full of water.
LADY CICELY \putting down the jar, and coming between
Brassbound and Drinkwater as before] And now, Captain,
before I go to poor Marzo, what have you to say to me ?
BRASSBOUND. I ! Nothing.
DRINKWATER. Downt fank it, gavner. Be a men !
LADY CICELY [looking at Drinkwater, puzzled] Mr Drink-
water said you had.
BRASSBOUND [recovering himself] It was only this. That
fellow there [pointing to Drinkwater] is subject to fits of
insolence. If he is impertinent to your ladyship, or dis-
obedient, you have my authority to order him as many
kicks as you think good for him ; and I will see that he
gets them.
DRINKWATER [lifting Up his voice in protest] Nah, nah —
LADY CICELY. Oh, 1 couldnt think of such a thing,
Captain Brassbound. I am sure it would hurt Mr Drink-
water.
DRINKWATER [lachrymoscly] Lidy's hinkyp'ble o sich
bawbrous usage.
LADY CICELY. But there's one thing I should like, if
Mr Drinkwater wont mind my mentioning it. It's so
important if he's to attend on Marzo.
250 Three Plays for Puritans Act il
BRASSBOUND. What is that ?
LADY CICELY. Well — you wont mind, Mr Drinkwater,
will you ?
DRINKWATER \_su5piciously'] Wot is it ?
LADY CICELY. Thcfc would bc SO much less danger of
erysipelas if you would be so good as to take a bath.
DRINKWATER \_aghast'] A bawth !
BRASSBOUND [in toncs of command^ Stand by, all hands.
\They stand bf\. Take that man and wash him. [With a
roar of laughter they seize him].
DRINKWATER [in an agony of protest] Naow, naow. Look
eah —
BRASSBOUND [ruthlessly] In cold water.
DRINKWATER [shrieking] Na-a-a-a-ow. Aw cawnt, aw
teol yer. Naow. Aw sy, look eah. Naow, naow, naow,
naow, naow, NAOW ! ! !
He is dragged away through the arch in a whirlwind of
laughter^ protests and tears.
LADY CICELY. I'm afraid he isnt used to it, poor fellow ;
but really it will do him good. Captain Brassbound.
Now I must be off to my patient. [Bhe takes up her jar
and goes out by the little door, leaving Brassbound and Sir
Howard alone together].
SIR HOWARD [rising] And now. Captain Brass —
BRASSBOUND [cutting him short with a fierce contempt that
astonishes him] I will attend to you presently. [Calling]
Johnson. Send me Johnson there. And Osman. [He pulls
off his coat and throws it on the table, standing at his ease in
his blue jersey].
SIR HOWARD [after a inomejitary flush of anger, with a con-
trolled force that compels Brassbound^ s attention in spite of
himself] You seem to be in a strong position with refer-
ence to these men of yours.
BRASSBOUND. I am in a strong position with reference to
everyone in this castle.
SIR HOWARD [politely but threateningly] I have just been
noticing that you think so. I do not agree with you. Her
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 251
Majesty's Government, Captain Brassbound, has a strong
arm and a long arm. If anything disagreeable happens to
me or to my sister-in-law, that arm will be stretched out.
If that happens you will not be in a strong position. Ex-
cuse my reminding you of it.
BRASSBOUND [grim/y] Much good may it do you ! \John~
son comes in through the arch']. Where is Osman, the Sheikh's
messenger? I want him too.
JOHNSON. Coming, Captain. He had a prayer to finish.
Osman, a tall, skinny, whiteclad, elderly Moor, appears in
the archway.
BRASSBOUND. Osman AH [Osman comes forward between
Brassbound and 'Johnson] : you have seen this unbeliever
[indicating Sir Howard] come in with us ?
osMAN. Yea, and the shameless one with the naked face,
who flattered my countenance and offered me her hand.
JOHNSON. Yes ; and you took it too, Johnny, didnt you r
BRASSBOUND. Take horse, then ; and ride fast to your
master the Sheikh Sidi el Assif —
OSMAN [proudly] Kinsman to the Prophet.
BRASSBOUND. Tell him what you have seen here. That
is all. Johnson : give him a dollar ^ and note the hour of
his going, that his master may know how fast he rides.
osMAN. The believer's word shall prevail with Allah
and his servant Sidi el Assif.
BRASSBOUND. Off with you.
osMAN. Make good thy master's word ere I go out from
his presence, O Johnson el Hull.
JOHNSON. He wants the dollar,
Brassbound gives Ostnan a coin.
OSMAN [bowing] Allah will make hell easy for the friend
of Sidi el Assif and his servant. [He goes nut through the
arch].
BRASSBOUND [to Johnson] Keep the men out of this until
the Sheikh comes. I have business to talk over. When he
does come, we must keep together all : Sidi el Assif's
natural instinct will be to cut every Christian throat here.
252 Three Plays for Puritans Act 11
JOHNSON. We look to you, Captain, to square him, since
you invited him over.
BRASSBOUND. You caii depend on me ; and you know it,
1 think.
]OHr<so^ [p/:/egmatka//y] Yes: we know it. [He is goi^g
out when Sir Howard specks'].
SIR HOWARD. You know also, Mr Johnson, I hope, that
you can depend on me.
JOHNSON [turni?ig] On you, sir?
SIR HOWARD. Yes : on me. If my throat is cut, the
Sultan of Morocco may send Sidi's head with a hundred
thousand dollars blood-money to the Colonial Office ; but
it will not be enough to save his kingdom — any more than
it would save your life, if your Captain here did the same
thing.
JOHNSON [struck] Is that so. Captain .?
BRASSBOUND. I know the gentleman's value — better
perhaps than he knows it himself. I shall not lose sight
of it.
Johnson nods gravely, and is going out when Lady Cicely
returns softly by the little door and calls to him in a whisper.
She has taken off her travelling things and put on an apron.
At her chatelaine is a case of sewing materials.
LADY CICELY. Mr Johnson. [He turns]. Ive got Marzo
to sleep. Would you mind asking the gentlcnen not to
make a noise under his window in the courtyard.
JOHNSON. Right, maam. [He goes out].
Lady Cicely sits down at the tiny table, and begins stitching
at a sling bandage for Marzo* s arm. Brassbound walks up
and down on her right, muttering to himself so ominously that
Sir Howard quietly gets out of his way by crossing to the other
side and sitting down on the second saddle seat.
SIR HOWARD. Are you yet able to attend to me for a
moment, Captain Brassbound?
BRASSBOUND [stUl Walking about] What do you want ?
SIR HOWARD. Well, I am afraid I want a little privacy,
and, if you will allow me to say so, a little civility. I am
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 253
greatly obliged to you for bringing us safely off today
when we were attacked. So far, you have carried out your
contract. But since we have been your guests here, your
tone and that of the worst of your men has changed — in-
tentionally changed, I think.
BRASSBOUND [stopptng abruptly and fiijiging tke announce-
ment at him] You are not my guest : you are my prisoner.
SIR HOWARD. Prisoner !
Lady Cicely, after a single glance up, continues stitching,
apparently quite unconcerned.
BRASSBOUND. I wamcd you. You should have taken my
warning.
SIR HOWARD [immediately taking the tone of cold disgust for
moral delinquency'] Am I to understand, then, that you are
a brigand? Is this a matter of ransom ?
BRASSBOUND [with unaccountabk intensity] All the wealth
of England shall not ransom you.
SIR HOWARD. Then what do you expect to gain by this?
BRASSBOUND. Justicc on a thief and a murderer.
Lady Cicely lays down her work and looks up anxiously.
SIR HOWARD [deeply outraged, rising with venerable dignity]
Sir : do you apply those terms to me ?
BRASSBOUND. I do. [He turns to Lady Cicely, and adds,
pointing contemptuously to Sir Howard] Look at him. You
would not take this virtuously indignant gentleman for the
uncle of a brigand, would you ?
Sir Howard starts. The shock is too much for him: he sits
down again, looking very old; and his hands tremble; but his
eyes and mouth are intrepid^ resolute, and angry.
LADY CICELY. Uucle ! What do you mean ?
BRASSBOUND. Has hc ucvcr told you about my mother?
this fellow who puts on ermine and scarlet and calls him-
self Justice.
SIR HOWARD [almost voiceless] You are the son of that
woman !
BRASSBOUND [fercefy] " That woman ! " [He makes a
movement as if to rush at Sir Howard].
254 Three Plays for Puritans Act ii
LADY CICELY [rising quickly and putting her hand on his
arm] Take care. You mustnt strike an old man.
BRASSBOUND [raging] He did not spare my mother —
"that woman," he calls her — because of her sex. I will
not spare him because of his age. [Lowering his tone to one
of sullen vindictiveness] But I am not going to strike him.
[Lady Cicely releases him^ and sits down, much perplexed.
Brassbound co?itinues, with an evil glance at Sir Howard] I
shall do no more than justice.
SIR HOWARD [recoverijig his voice and vigor] Justice ! 1
think you mean vengeance, disguised as justice by your
passions.
BRASSBOUND. To many and many a poor wretch in the
dock you have brought vengeance in that disguise — the
vengeance of society, disguised as justice by its passions.
Now the justice you have outraged meets you disguised as
vengeance. How do you like it ?
SIR HOWARD. I shall mcct it, I trust, as becomes an^
innocent man and an upright judge. What do you charge
against me ?
BRASSBOUND. I charge you with the death of my mother
and the theft of my inheritance.
SIR HOWARD. As to your inheritance, sir, it was yours
whenever you came forward to claim it. Three minutes
ago I did not know of your existence. I affirm that most
solemnly. I never knew — never dreamt — that my brother
Miles left a son. As to your mother, her case was a hard
one — perhaps the hardest that has come within even my
experience. I mentioned it, as such, to Mr Rankin, the
missionary, the evening we met you. As to her death, you
know — you must know — that she died in her native
country, years after our last meeting. Perhaps you were
too young to know that she could hardly have expected to
live long.
BRASSBOUND. You mcau that she drank.
SIR HOWARD. / did not say so. I do not think she was
always accountable for what she did.
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 255
BRASSBOUND. Ycs : shc was mad too ; and whether drink
drove her to madness or madness drove her to drink matters
little. The question is, who drove her to both?
SIR HOWARD. I presume the dishonest agent who seized
her estate did. I repeat, it was a hard case — a frightful
injustice. But it could not be remedied.
BRASSBOUND. You told her so. When she would not take
that false answer you drove her from your doors. When
she exposed you in the street and threatened to take with
her own hands the redress the law denied her, you had her
imprisoned, and forced her to write you an apology and
leave the country to regain her liberty and save herself
from a lunatic asylum. And when she was gone, and dead,
and forgotten, you found for yourself the remedy you could
not find for her. You recovered the estate easily enough
then, robber and rascal that you are. Did he tell the mis-
sionary that. Lady Cicely, eh?
LADY CICELY [sympathetically'] Poor woman ! [ To Sir
Howard] Couldnt you have helped her, Howard ?
SIR HOWARD. No. This man may be ignorant enough to
suppose that when I was a struggling barrister I could do
everything I did when I was Attorney General. You know
better. There is some excuse for his mother. She was an
uneducated Brazilian, knowing nothing of English society,
and driven mad by injustice.
BRASSBOUND. Your defence —
SIR HOWARD [interrupting him determinedly] I do not de-
fend myself. I call on you to obey the law.
BRASSBOUND. I intend to do so. The law of the Atlas
Mountains Is administered by the Sheikh Sidi el Assif. He
will be here within an hour. He is a judge, like yourself.
You can talk law to him. He will give you both the law
and the prophets.
SIR HOWARD. Does he know what the power of England is ?
BRASSBOUND. He kuows that the Mahdi killed my master
Gordon, and that the Mahdi died in his bed and went to
paradise.
256 Three Plays for Puritans Actil
SIR HOWARD. Then he knows also that England's venge-
ance was on the Mahdi's track.
BRASSBOUND. Ay, on the track of the railway from the
Cape to Cairo .^ Who are you, that a nation should go to
war for you .^ If you are missing, what will your news-
papers say."* A foolhardy tourist! What will your learned
friends at the bar say? That it was time for you to make
room for younger and better men. You a national hero!
You had better find a goldfield in the Atlas Mountains.
Then all the governments of Europe will rush to your
rescue. Until then, take care of yourself; for you are
going to see at last the hypocrisy in the sanctimonious
speech of the judge who is sentencing you, instead of the
despair in the white face of the wretch you are recom-
mending to the mercy of your god.
SIR HOWARD [^deeply and personally offended by this slight to
kis profession^ and for the first time throwing away his assumed
dignity and rising to approach Brassbound with his fists
clenched; so that Lady Cicely lifts one eye from her work to
assure herself that the table is between them'] I have no more
to say to you, sir. I am not afraid of you, nor of any bandit
with whcm you may be in league. As to your property, it
is ready for you as soon as you come to your senses and
claim it as your father's heir. Commit a crime, and you
will become an outlaw, and not only lose the property,
but shut the doors of civilization against yourself for ever.
BRASSBOUND. I will not scll my mother's revenge for ten
properties.
LADY CICELY [placidly'] Besides, really, Howard, as the
property now costs ^150 a year to keep up instead of
bringing in anything, I am afraid it would not be of much
use to him. \_Brass bound stands amazed at this revelation].
SIR HOWARD [taken aback] I must say. Cicely, I think
you might have chosen a more suitable moment to mention
that fact.
BRASSBOUND [with disgust] Agh! Trickster! Lawyer!
Even the price you offer for your life is to be paid in false
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 257
coin. \_Calling] Hallo there ! Johnson ! Redbrook ! Some
of you there ! \_To Sir Howard^ You ask for a little privacy :
you shall have it. I will not endure the company of such
a fellow.
SIR HOWARD [very angry, and full of the crustiest plucky
You insult me, sir. You are a rascal. You are a rascal.
Johnson, Redbrook, and a few others come in through the
arch.
BRASSBOUND. Take this man away.
JOHNSON. Where are we to put him ?
BRASSBOUND. Put him where you please so long as you
can find him when he is wanted.
SIR HOWARD. You will be laid by the heels yet, my
friend.
REDBROOK \with chcerful tact] Tut tut, Sir Howard :
whats the use of talking back? Come along: we'll make
you comfortable.
Sir Hozvard goes out through the arch between Johnson and
Redbrook, muttering wrathfull"^. The rest, except Brassbound
and Lady Cicely, follow.
Brassbound walks up and down the room, nursing his in-
dignation. In doing so he unconsciously enters upon an unequal
contest with Lady Cicely, who sits quietly stitching. It soon
becomes clear that a tranquil woman can go on sezving longer
than an angry man can go on fuming. Further, it begins to
dawn on Brassbound's wrath-blurred perception that Lady Cicely
has at some unnoticed stage in the proceedings finished Marzo's
bandage, and is now stitching a coat. He stops ; glances at his
shirtsleeves; finally realizes the situation.
BRASSBOUND. What are you doing there, madam ?
LADY CICELY. Mending your coat. Captain Brassbound.
BRASSBOUND. I havc no recollection of asking you to take
that trouble.
LADY CICELY. No : I dont suppose you even knew it was
torn. Some men are born untidy. You cannot very well
receive Sidi el — what's his name.? — with your sleeve half
out.
s
2^S Three Plays for Puritans Act 11
BRASSBOUND [discoNcertSi^] I — I dont know how it got
torn.
LADY CICELY. You should not get virtuously indignant
with people. It bursts clothes more than anything else,
Mr Hallam.
BRASSBOUND \_fiushing quickly'] I beg you will not call me
Mr Hallam. I hate the name.
LADY CICELY. Black Paquito is your pet name, isnt it?
BRASSBOUND [^huffily] I am not usually called so to my
face.
LADY CICELY [turning the coat a little] I'm so sorry. [She
takes another piece of thread and puts it into her needle , looking
placidly and reflectively upward meanwhile]. Do you know,
you are wonderfully like your uncle.
BRASSBOUND. Damnation !
LADY CICELY. Eh ?
BRASSBOUND. If I thought my veins contained a drop of
his black blood, I would drain them empty with my knife.
I have no relations. I had a mother : that was all.
LADY CICELY [unconvinced] I daresay you have your
mother's complexion. But didnt you notice Sir Howard's
temper, his doggedness, his high spirit : above all, his belief
in ruling people by force, as you rule your men ; and in
revenge and punishment, just as you want to revenge your
mother ? Didnt you recognize yourself in that ?
BRASSBOUND [star tied] Myself! — in that!
LADY CICELY [returning to the tailoring question as if her
last remark were of no consequence whatever] Did this sleeve
catch you at all under the arm ? Perhaps I had better make
it a little easier for you.
BRASSBOUND [irritably] Let my coat alone. It will do
very well as it is. Put it down.
LADY CICELY. Oh, dont ask me to sit doing nothing. It
bores me so.
BRASSBOUND. In Hcavcn's name then, do what you like !
Only dont worry me with it.
LADY CICELY. I'm SO sorry. All the Hallams are irritable.
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 259
BRASSBOUND [^penni?ig up his fury 'with difficulty'] As I have
already said, that remark has no application to me.
LADY CICELY \resuming her stitching] Thats so funny !
They all hate to be told that they are like one another.
BRASSBOUND \with the beginnings of despair in his voice]
Why did you come here ? My trap was laid for him, not
for you. Do you know the danger you are in ?
LADY CICELY. There's always a danger of something or
other. Do you think its worth bothering about?
BRASSBOUND [scolding her] Do I think ! Do you think
my coat's worth mending?
LADY CICELY [prosaica/Iy] Oh yes : its not so far gone as
that.
BRASSBOUND. Havc you any feeling? Or are you a
fool ?
LADY CICELY. I'm afraid I'm a dreadful fool. But I cant
help it. I was made so, I suppose.
BRASSBOUND. Perhaps you dont realize that your friend
my good uncle will be pretty fortunate if he is allowed to
live out his life as a slave with a set of chains on him ?
LADY CICELY. Oh, I dont know about that, Mr H — I
mean Captain Brassbound. Men are always thinking that
they are going to do something grandly wicked to their
enemies ; but when it comes to the point, really bad men
are just as rare as really good ones.
BRASSBOUND. You forget that I am like my uncle, accord-
ing to you. Have you any doubt as to the reality of his
badness ?
LADY CICELY. Bless me ! your uncle Howard is one of
the most harmless of men — much nicer than most pro-
fessional people. Of course he does dreadful things as a
judge ; but then if you take a man and pay him ^^5,000 a
year to be wicked, and praise him for it, and have police-
men and courts and laws and juries to drive him into it so
that he cant help doing it, what can you expect? Sir
Howard's all right when he's left to himself. We caught
a burglar one night at Waynflete when he was staying with
26o Three Plays for Puritans Act II
us; and I insisted on his locking the poor man up, until
the police came, in a room with a window opening on the
lawn. The man came back next day and said he must
return to a life of crime unless I gave him a job in the
garden ; and I did. It was much more sensible than giving
him ten years penal servitude : Howard admitted it. So
you see he's not a bit bad really.
BRASSBOUND. Hc had a fellow feeling for the thief, know-
ing he was a thief himself. Do you forget that he sent
my mother to prison ?
LADY CICELY [so/t/y] Were you very fond of your poor
mother, and always very good to her?
BRASSBOUND \ratker taken aback'\ I was not worse than
other sons, I suppose.
LADY CICELY [openi'Mg her eyes very widely'] Oh ! Was
that all?
BRASSBOUND \_exculpating himself, full of gloomy remem-
brances'] You dont understand. It was not always possible
to be very tender with my mother. She had unfortunately
a very violent temper; and she — she —
LADY CICELY. Ycs : SO you told Howard. [With genuine
pity for him] You must have had a very unhappy childhood.
BRASSBOUND [grimly] Hell. That was what my child-
hood was. Hell.
LADY CICELY. Do you think she would really have killed
Howard, as she threatened, if he hadnt sent her to prison?
BRASSBOUND [breaking out again, with a growing sense of
being jnorally trapped] What if she did? Why did he rob
her? Why did he not help her to get the estate, as he got
it for himself afterwards ?
LADY CICELY. He says he couldnt, you know. But per-
haps the real reason was that he didnt like her. You know,
dont you, that if you dont like people you think of all the
reasons for not helping them, and if you like them you
think of all the opposite reasons.
BRASSBOUND. But his duty as a brother!
LADY CICELY. Are you going to do your duty as a nephew ?
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 261
BRASSBOUND. Dont quibble with me. I am going to do
my duty as a son ; and you know it.
LADY CICELY. But I should havc thought that the time
for that was in your mother's lifetime, when you could
have been kind and forbearing with her. Hurting your
uncle wont do her any good, you know.
BRASSBOUND. It will tcach other scoundrels to respect
widows and orphans. Do you forget that there is such a
thing as justice ?
LADY CICELY [gaily shaking out the Jinished coat] Oh, if
you are going to dress yourself in ermine and call your-
self Justice, I give you up. You are just your uncle over
again ; only he gets ^^5,000 a year for it, and you do it
for nothing. [She holds the coat up to see whether any further
repairs are needed],
BRASSBOUND [sulkHy] You twist my words very cleverly.
But no man or woman has ever changed me.
LADY CICELY. Dear me ! That must be very nice for the
people you deal with, because they can always depend on
you ; but isnt it rather inconvenient for yourself when you
change your mind?
BRASSBOUND. I ncvcr change my mind.
LADY CICELY [rising with the coat in her hands] Oh ! Oh ! !
Nothing will ever persuade me that you are as pigheaded
as that.
BRASSBOUND [offcndcd] Pigheaded !
LADY CICELY [with quick, caressing apology] No, no, no.
I didnt mean that. Firm ! Unalterable ! Resolute ! Iron-
willed ! Stonewall Jackson ! Thats the idea, isnt it?
BRASSBOUND [hopclessly] You are laughing at me.
LADY CICELY. No : trembling, I assure you. Now will
you try this on for me : I'm so afraid I have made it too
tight under the arm. [She holds it behind him].
BRASSBOUND [obeying mechanically] You take me for a fool,
I think. [He misses the sleeve].
LADY CICELY. No : all men look foolish when they are
feeling for their sleeves —
262 Three Plays for Puritans Act ii
BRASSBOUND. Agh ! [He turns and snatches the coat from
her; tl^en puts it on himself and buttons the lowest button\
LADY CICELY \J)orrified'\ Stop. No. You must never
pull a coat at the skirts, Captain Brassbound : it spoils the
sit of it. Allow me. [She pulls the lapels of his coat vigor-
ously forward^ Put back your shoulders. [He frowns^ but
obeys\ Thats better. [She buttons the top button^. Now
button the rest from the top down. Does it catch you at
all under the arm ?
BRASSBOUND [fniscrably — all resistance beaten outofhi??i\ No.
LADY CICELY. Thats right. Now before I go back to
poor Marzo, say thankyou to me for mending your jacket,
like a nice polite sailor.
BRASSBOUND [sitting down at the table in great agitation"]
Damn you ! you have belittled my whole life to me. [He
bows his head on his hands, convulsed],
LADY CICELY [quite understanding, and putting her hand
kindly on his shoulder] Oh no. I am sure you have done
lots of kind things and brave things, if you could only
recollect them. With Gordon for instance t Nobody can
belittle that.
He looks up at her for a moment; then kisses her hand.
She presses his and turns away with her eyes so wet that she sees
Drinkwater, coming in through the arch just then, with a
prisfnatic halo round him. Even when she sees hi?n clearly, she
hardly recognizes him ; for he is ludicrously clean and smoothly
brushed; and his hair, formerly mud color, is now a lively red.
DRiNKWATER. Look cah, kcpn. [Brassbound springs up
and recovers himself quickly], Eahs the bloomin Shike jest
appeahd on the orawzn wiv abaht fifty men. Thyll be
eah insawd o ten minnits, they will.
LADY CICELY. The Sheikh !
BRASSBOUND. Sidi cl Assif and fifty men! [To Lady
Cicely] You were too late : I gave you up my vengeance
when it was no longer in my hand. [To Drinkwater] Call
all hands to stand by and shut the gates. Then all here to
me for orders ; and bring the prisoner.
Actll Captain Brassbound's Conversion 263
DRiNKWATER. Rawt, kepn. [He runs out\.
LADY CICELY. Is there really any danger for Howard?
BRASSBOUND. Yes. Danger for all of us unless I keep to
my bargain with this fanatic.
LADY CICELY. What bargain?
BRASSBOUND. I pay him so much a head for every party
I escort through to the interior. In return he protects me
and lets my caravans alone. But I have sworn an oath to
him to take only Jews and true believers — no Christians,
you understand.
LADY CICELY. Then why did you take us ?
BRASSBOUND. I took my uncle on purpose — and sent
word to Sidi that he was here.
LADY CICELY. Well, thats a pretty kettle of fish, isnt it ?
BRASSBOUND. I will 4o what I can to save him — and
you. But I fear my repentance has come too late, as re-
pentance usually does.
LADY CICELY \cheerfullj\ Well, I must go and look after
Marzo, at all events, [hhe goes out through the little door.
Johnson^ Redbrook and the rest come in through the arch, with
Sir Howard, still very crusty and determined. He keeps close
to Johnson, who comes to Brassbound^s right, Redbrook taking
the other side].
BRASSBOUND. Wherc's Drinkwater?
JOHNSON. On the lookout. Look here, Capn : we dont
half like this job. The gentleman has been talking to us
a bit; and we think that he is a gentleman, and talks
straight sense.
REDBROOK. Righto, Brother Johnson. [To Brassbound]
Wont do, governor. Not good enough.
BRASSBOUND [fercely] Mutiny, eh?
REDBROOK. Not at all, governor. Dont talk Tommy rot
with Brother Sidi only five minutes gallop off. Cant hand
over an Englishman to a nigger to have his throat cut.
BRASSBOUND [unexpectedly acquiescing] Very good. You
know, I suppose, that if you break my bargain with Sidi,
youll have to defend this place and fight for your lives in
264 Three Plays for Puritans Act ll
five minutes. That cant be done without discipline : you
know that too. I'll take my part with the rest under what-
ever leader you arc willing to obey. So choose your captain
and look sharp about it. \^Murmurs of surprise and discontent'].
VOICES. No, no. Brassbound must command.
BRASSBOUND. Yourc Wasting your five minutes. Try
Johnson.
JOHNSON. No. I havnt the head for it.
BRASSBOUND. Well, Rcdbrook.
REDBROOK. Not this Johnnv, thank you. Havnt character
enough.
BRASSBOUND. Well, thcrc's Sir Howard Hallam for you !
He has character enough.
A VOICE. He's too old.
ALL. No, no. Brassbound, Brassbound.
JOHNSON. Theres nobody but you. Captain.
REDBROOK. The mutiny's over, governor. You win,
hands down.
BRASSBOUND {tuming on them'] Now listen, you, all of you.
If I am to command here, I am going to do what I like,
not what you like. I'll give this gentleman here to Sidi or
to the devil if I choose. I'll not be intimidated or talked
back to. Is that understood?
REDBROOK \diplomaticallj] He's offered a present of five
hundred quid if he gets safe back to Mogador, governor.
Excuse my mentioning it.
SIR HOWARD. Myself and Lady Cicely.
BRASSBOUND. What! A judge compound a felony ! You
greenhorns, he is more likely to send you all to penal
servitude if you are fools enough to give him the chance.
VOICES. So he would. Whew! \Murmurs of conviction].
REDBROOK. Righto, govcmor. Thats the ace of trumps.
BRASSBOUND \to Sir Howard] Now, have you any other
card to play ? Any other bribe ? Any other threat } Quick.
Time presses.
SIR HOWARD. My life is in the hands of Providence. Do
your worst.
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 265
BRASSBOUND. Or iTiy best. I still have that choice.
DRiNKWATER \runmng i?i] Look eah, kepn. Eahs anather
lot cammin from the sahth heast. Hunnerds of em, this
tavvm. The owl dezzit is lawk a bloomin Awd Pawk
demonstrition. Aw blieve its the Kidy from Kintorfy.
[General alarm. All lock to Brassbound\
BRASSBOUND [eagerly^ The Cadi ! How far off?
DRINKWATER. Matter o two mawl.
BRASSBOUND. We're saved. Open the gates to the Sheikh.
[They stare at kim\ Look alive there.
DRINKWATER [appalled, almost in tears'] Naow, naow.
Lissn, kepn [pointing to Sir Howard] : e'll give huz fawv
unnerd red uns. [To the others] Ynt yer spowk to im,
Miste Jornsn — Pvliste Redbrook —
BRASSBOUND [cutting him short] Now then, do you under-
stand plain English? Johnson and Redbrook: take what
men you want and open the gates to the Sheikh. Let
him come straight to me. Look alive, will you.
JOHNSON. Ay ay, sir.
REDBROOK. Righto, govcmor.
They hurry out, with a few others. Drinkzvater stares
after them, dumbfounded by their obedience.
BRASSBOUND [taking out a pistol] You wanted to sell me
to my prisoner, did you, you dog.
DRINKWATER [falling on his knees with a yell] Naow !
[Brassbound turns on hi?n as if to kick him. He scrambles away
and takes refuge behind Sir Howard].
BRASSBOUND. Sir Howard Hallam : you have one chance
left. The Cadi of Kintafi stands superior to the Sheikh as
the responsible governor of the whole province. It is the
Cadi who will be sacrificed by the Sultan if England de-
mands satisfaction for any injury to you. If we can hold
the Sheikh in parley until the Cadi arrives, you may
frighten the Cadi into forcing the Sheikh to release you.
The Cadi's coming is a lucky chance for you.
SIR HOWARD. If it were a real chance, you would not
tell me of it. Dont try to play cat and mouse with me, man.
266 Three Plays for Puritans Act II
DRiNKWATER [dside to Sir Hozvardy as Brassbound turns
contemptuously^ away to the other side of the room'] It ynt mach
of a chawnst, Sr Ahrd. But if there was a ganbowt in
Mogador Awbr, awd put a bit on it, aw would.
Johnson, Redbrook, and the others return, rather mistrust-
fully ushering in Sidi el Assif attended by Osman and a troop
of Arabs. Brassbound'' s ?nen keep together on the archway side,
backing their captain. Sidi s followers cross the room behind
the table and assemble near Sir Howard, who stands his ground.
Drinkwater runs across to Brassbound and stands at his elbow
as he turns to face Sidi.
Sidi el Assif, clad in spotless white, is a nobly handsome
Arab, hardly thirty, with fine eyes, bronzed co?nplexion, and
instinctively dignified carriage. He places himself between the
two groups, with Osman in attendance at his right hand.
osMAN \_ pointing out Sir Howard] This is the infidel
Cadi. \_Sir Howard bows to Sidi, but, being an infidel, receives
only the haughtiest stare in acknowledgement]. This [pointing
to Brassbound] is Brassbound the Franguestani captain, the
servant of Sidi.
DRINKWATER {/lot to be outdone, points out the Sheikh and
Osman to Brassbound] This eah is the Commawnder of the
Fythful an is Vizzeer Hosman.
SIDI. Where is the woman ?
OSMAN. The shameless one is not here.
BRASSBOUND. Sidi el Assif, kinsman of the Prophet : you
are welcome.
REDBROOK \with much aplomb] There is no majesty and
no might save in Allah, the Glorious, the Great I
DRINKWATER. Eah, eah !
OSMAN \to Sidi] The servant of the captain makes his
profession of faith as a true believer.
SIDI. It is well.
BRASSBOUND \aside to Redbrook] Where did you pick that
up ?
REDBROOK \aside to Brassbound] Captain Burton's Arabian
Nights — copy in the library of the National Liberal Club.
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 267
LADY CICELY \calling without] Mr Drinkvvater. Come
and help me with Marzo. [^The Sheikh pricks up his ears.
His nostrils and eyes expand].
osMAN. The shameless one !
BRASSBOUND [^to Drinkzuater, seizing him by the collar and
slinging him towards the door] Off with you.
Drinkwater goes out through the little door.
OSMAN. Shall we hide her face before she enters t
SIDI. No.
Lady Cicely^ who has resumed her travelling equipment^ and
has her hat slung across her arm, comes through the little door
supporting Marzo, who is very white, but able to get about.
Drinkwater has his other arm. Redbrook hastens to relieve
Lady Cicely of Marzo, taking him into the group behind
Brass bound. Lady Cicely comes forward betzveen Brassbound
and the Sheikh, to whom she turns affably.
LADY CICELY [proffering her hand] Sidi el Assif, isnt it ?
How dye do ? \^He recoils, blushing somewhat].
OSMAN [scandalized] Woman : touch not the kinsman of
the Prophet.
LADY CICELY. Oh, I see. I'm being presented at court.
Very good. [She makes a presentation curtsey].
REDBROOK. Sidi cl Assif : this is one of the mighty
women Sheikhs of Franguestan. She goes unveiled among
Kings ; and only princes may touch her hand.
LADY CICELY. Allah upoD thee, Sidi el Assif ! Be a good
little Sheikh, and shake hands.
SIDI [timidly touching her hand] Now this is a wonderful
thing, and worthy to be chronicled with the story of
Solomon and the Oueen of Sheba. Is it not so, Osman
Ali?
OSMAN. Allah upon thee, master ! it is so.
siDi. Brassbound Ali : the oath of a just man fulfils itself
without many words. The infidel Cadi, thy captive, falls
to my share.
BRASSBOUND [firmly] It cannot be, Sidi el Assif. [Sidi^s
brows contract gravely]. The price of his blood will be
268 Three Plays for Puritans Act ii
required of our lord the Sultan. I will take him to Morocco
and deliver him up there.
siDi [impressiz'ely'] Brassbound : I am in mine own house
and amid mine own people. / am the Sultan here. Con-
sider what you say ; for when my word goes forth for life
or death, it may not be recalled.
BRASSBOUND. Sidi cl Assif : I will buy the man from you
at what price you choose to name ; and if I do not pay
faithfully, you shall take my head for his.
siDi. It is well. You shall keep the man, and give me
the woman in payment.
SIR HOWARD AND BRASSBOUND \with the Same impulse] No, no.
LADY CICELY \eagerlf\ Yes, yes. Certainly, Mr Sidi.
Certainly.
Bidi smiles gravely.
SIR HOWARD. Impossible.
BRASSBOUND. You dont know what youre doing.
LADY CICELY. Oh, dont I ? Ive not crossed Africa and
stayed with six cannibal chiefs for nothing. \To the Sheikh^
It's all right, Mr Sidi : I shall be delighted.
SIR HOWARD. You are mad. Do you suppose this man
will treat you as a European gentleman would }
LADY CICELY. No : he'll treat me like one of Nature's
gentlemen : look at his perfectly splendid face ! [Address-
ing Osman as if he were her oldest and most attached retainer^
Osman : be sure you choose me a good horse ; and get a
nice strong camel for my luggage.
Osman^ after a moment of stupefaction^ hurries out. Lady
Cicely puts on her hat and pins it to her hair^ the Sheikh gazing
at her during the process with timid admiration.
DRiNKWATER {chuckUng'] She'll mawch em all to church
next Sunder lawk a bloomin lot o' cherrity kids : you see
if she downt.
LADY CICELY \busily^ Goodbyc, Howard : dont be
anxious about me ; and above all, dont bring a parcel of
men with guns to rescue me. I shall be all right now that
I am getting away from the escort. Captain Brassbound :
Act II Captain Brassbound^s Conversion 269
I rely on you to see that Sir Howard gets safe to Mogador.
[Whispering] Take your hand off that pistol. \_He takes his
hand out of his pocket, reluctantly]. Goodbye.
A tumult without. They all turn apprehensively to the arch.
Osman rushes in.
osMAN. The Cadi, the Cadi. He is in anger. His men
are upon us. Defend —
The Cadi, a vigorous, fatfeatured, choleric, whitehaired and
bearded elder, rushes in, cudgel in hand, with an overwhelming
retinue, and silences Osman with a sounding thwack. In a
moment the hack of the room is crowded with his followers.
The Sheikh retreats a little towards his men ; and the Cadi
comes impetuously forward between him and Lady Cicely.
THE CADI. Now woe upon thee, Sidi el Assif, thou child
of mischief!
siDi \jternly'\ Am I a dog, Muley Othman, that thou
speakest thus to me \
THE CADI. Wilt thou destroy thy country, and give us
all into the hands of them that set the sea on fire but
yesterday with their ships of war? Where are the Fran-
guestani captives ?
LADY CICELY. Here we are, Cadi. How dye do?
THE CADI. Allah upon thee, thou moon at the full !
Where is thy kinsman, the Cadi of Franguestan? I am his
friend, his servant. I come on behalf of my master the
Sultan to do him honor, and to cast down his enemies.
SIR HOWARD. You are very good, I am sure.
SIDI \graver than ever] Muley Othman —
THE CADI \_fumbling in his breast] Peace, peace, thou
inconsiderate one. \^He takes out a letter].
BRASSBOUND. Cadi —
THE CADI. Oh thou dog, thou, thou accursed Brassbound,
son of a wanton : it is thou hast led Sidi el Assif into this
wrongdoing. Read this writing that thou has brought upon
me from the commander of the warship.
BRASSBOUND. Warship ! \^He takes the letter and opens it,
his men whispering to one another very low-spiritedly ?neanwhile].
270 Three Plays for Puritans Act ii
REDBROOK. Warship ! Whew !
JOHNSON. Gunboat, praps.
DRiNKWATER. Lawlc bloomin Worterleoo buses, they
are, on this cowst.
Brassbound folds up the letter, looking glum.
SIR HOWARD \sharplf\ Well, sir, are we not to have the
benefit of that letter? Your men are waiting to hear it, I
think.
BRASSBOUND. It is not a British ship. \Sir Hozuard's face
falls].
LADY CICELY. What is it, then ?
BRASSBOUND. An American cruiser. The Santiago.
THE CADI [tearing his beard] Woe ! alas ! it is where they
set the sea on fire.
siDi. Peace, Muley Othman : Allah is still above us.
JOHNSON. Would you mind readin it to us, capn ?
BRASSBOUND [grimly] Oh, I'll read it to you. "Mogador
Harbor. 26 Sept 1899. Captain Hamlin Kearney, of the
cruiser Santiago, presents the compliments of the United
States to the Cadi Muley Othman el Kintafi, and announces
that he is coming to look for the two British travellers Sir
Howard Hallam and Lady Cicely Waynflete, in the Cadi's
jurisdiction. As the search will be conducted with machine
guns, the prompt return of the travellers to Mogador
Harbor will save much trouble to all parties."
THE CADI. As I live, O Cadi, and thou, moon of loveli-
ness, ye shall be led back to Mogador with honor. And
thou, accursed Brassbound, shalt go thither a prisoner in
chains, thou and thy people. [Brassbound and his men make
a movement to defend themselves]. Seize them.
LADY CICELY. Oh, plcasc dont fight. [Brassbound, seeing
that his men are hopelessly outnumbered, makes no resistance.
They are ?nade prisoners by the CadPs followers],
siDi [attempting to draw his scimitar] The woman is
mine : I will not forego her. [He is seized and overpowered
after a Homeric struggle].
SIR HOWARD [drily] 1 told you you were not in a strong
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 271
position, Captain Brassbound [Lookirzg implacabl"^ at kinf^
You are laid by the heels, my friend, as I said you would
be.
LADY CICELY. But I assure you —
BRASSBOUND [interrupting hr] What have you to assure
him of? You persuaded me to spare him. Look at his face.
Will you be able to persuade him to spare me ?
ACT III
Torrid forenoon filtered through small Moorish windows
high up in the adobe zvalls of the largest room in Leslie
Rankin's house. A clean cool room^ with the table {a Christian
article) set in the middle^ a presidentially elbowed chair behind
it, and an inkstand and paper ready for the sitter. A couple
of cheap American chairs right and left of the table, facing the
same way as the presidential chair, give a judicial aspect to the
arrangement. Rankin is placing a little tray with a jug and
some glasses near the inkstand when Lady Cicely's voice
is heard at the door, which is behind him in the corner to his
right.
LADY CICELY. Good niorning. May I come in ?
RANKIN. Certainly. \^She comes in to the nearest end of the
table. She has discarded all travelling equipment, and is
dressed exactly as she might be in Surrey on a very hot day].
Sit ye doon, Leddy Ceecily.
LADY CICELY [sitting down'] How nice youve made the
room for the inquiry !
RANKIN \_doubtfully'] I could wish there were more chairs.
Yon American captain will preside in this ; and that leaves
but one for Sir Howrrd and one for your leddyship. I
could almost be tempted to call it a maircy that your
friend that owns the yacht has sprained his ankle and
cannot come. I misdoubt me it will not look judeecial to
have Captain Kearney's officers squatting on the floor.
Actlll Captain Brassbound's Conversion 273
LADY CICELY. Oh, they wont mind. What about the
prisoners ?
RANKIN. They are to be broat here from the town gaol
presently.
LADY CICELY. And wherc is that silly old Cadi, and my
handsome Sheikh Sidi ? I must see them before the inquiry,
or theyll give Captain Kearney quite a false impression of
what happened.
RANKIN. But ye cannot see them. They decamped last
night, back to their castles in the Atlas.
LADY CICELY {delight ed^^ No !
RANKIN. Indeed and they did. The poor Cadi is so
tarrified by all he has haird of the destruction of the
Spanish fleet, that he darent trust himself in the captain's
hands. {Looking reproachfully at her] On your journey back
here, ye seem to have frightened the poor man yourself,
Leddy Ceecily, by talking to him about the fanatical
Chreestianity of the Americans. Ye have largely yourself
to thank if he's gone.
LADY CICELY. Allah bc praised ! What a weight off our
minds, Mr Rankin !
RANKIN {puzzled] And why? Do ye not understand
how necessary their evidence is ?
LADY CICELY. Their evidence! It would spoil every-
thing. They would perjure themselves out of pure spite
against poor Captain Brassbound.
RANKIN {amazed] Do ye call him poor Captain Brass-
bound ! Does not your leddyship know that this Brass-
bound is — Heaven forgive me for judging him! — a
precious scoundrel ? Did ye not hear what Sir Howrrd
told me on the yacht last night ?
LADY CICELY. All a mistake, Mr Rankin : all a mistake,
I assure you. You said just now. Heaven forgive you for
judging him ! Well, thats just what the whole quarrel is
about. Captain Brassbound is just like you : he thinks we
have no right to judge one another ; and as Sir Howard
gets ^^5,000 a year for doing nothing else but judging
T
2/4 Three Plays for Puritans Actiii
people, he thinks poor Captain Brassbound a regular
Anarchist. They quarrelled dreadfully at the castle. You
mustnt mind what Sir Howard says about him : you really
mustnt.
RANKIN. But his conduct —
LADY CICELY. Perfectly saintly, Mr Rankin. Worthy of
yourself in your best moments. He forgave Sir Howard,
and did all he could to save him.
RANKIN. Ye astoanish me, Leddy Ceecily.
LADY CICELY. And think of the temptation to behave
badly when he had us all there helpless !
RANKIN. The temptation ! ay : thats true. Yere ower
bonny to be cast away among a parcel o lone, lawless men,
my leddy.
LADY CICELY [nawe/y] Bless me, thats quite true ; and I
never thought of it ! Oh, after that you really must do all
you can to help Captain Brassbound.
RANKIN [reserved/y] No : I cannot say that, Leddy
Ceecily. I doubt he has imposed on your good nature and
sweet disposeetion. I had a crack with the Cadi as well
as with Sir Howrrd ; and there is little question in my
mind but that Captain Brassbound is no better than a
breegand.
LADY CICELY [apparently deeply ifnpressed'\ I wonder
whether he can be, Mr Rankin. If you think so, thats
heavily against him in my opinion, because you have more
knowledge of men than anyone else here. Perhaps I'm
mistaken. I only thought you might like to help him as
the son of your old friend.
RANKIN [startled'\ The son of my old friend! What
d'ye mean r
LADY CICELY. Oh ! Didnt Sir Howard tell you that ?
Why, Captain Brassbound turns out to be Sir Howard's
nephew, the son of the brother you knew.
RANKIN \_overw helmed'] I saw the likeness the night he
came here ! It's true : it's true. Uncle and nephew !
LADY CICELY. Ycs I thats why they quarrelled so.
Actlll Captain Brassbound's Conversion 275
RANKIN \zvith a tnomentary sense of ill usage'] I think Sir
Howrrd might have told me that.
LADY CICELY. Of couFse he ought to have told you.
You see he only tells one side of the story. That comes
from his training as a barrister. You mustnt think he's
naturally deceitful : if he'd been brought up as a clergyman,
he'd have told you the whole truth as a matter of course.
RANKIN [too much perturbed to dwell on his grievance]
Leddy Ceecily : I must go to the prison and see the lad.
He may have been a bit wild ; but I cant leave poor
Miles's son unbefriended in a foreign gaol.
LADY CICELY [rising, radiant] Oh, how good of you !
You have a real kind heart of gold, Mr Rankin. Now, be-
fore you go, shall we just put our heads together, and con-
sider how to give Miles's son every chance — I mean of
course every chance that he ought to have.
RANKIN [rather addled] I am so confused by this astoan-
ishing news —
LADY CICELY. Ycs, ycs : of course you are. But dont
you think he would make a better impression on the
American captain if he were a little more respectably
dressed ?
RANKIN. Mebbe. But how can that be remedied here
in Mogador?
LADY CICELY. Oh, Ivc thought of that. You know I'm
going back to England by way of Rome, Mr Rankin ; and
I'm bringing a portmanteau full of clothes for my brother
there : he's ambassador, you know, and has to be very
particular as to what he wears. I had the portmanteau
brought here this morning. Now would you mind taking
it to the prison, and smartening up Captain Brassbound a
little. Tell him he ought to do it to shew his respect for
me ; and he will. It will be quite easy : there are two
Krooboys waiting to carry the portmanteau. You will : I
know you will. [She edges him to the door]. And do you
think there is time to get him shaved?
RANKIN [succumbi7ig, half bewildered] I'll do my best.
2/6 Three Plays for Puritans Act III
LADY CICELY. I Icnow you vvill. [j4s he is going out]
Oh ! one word, Mr Rankin. [He comes back\ The Cadi
didnt know that Captain Brassbound was Sir Howard's
nephew, did he ?
RANKIN. No.
LADY CICELY. Then he must have misunderstood every-
thing quite dreadfully. I'm afraid, Mr Rankin — though
you know best, of course — that we are bound not to repeat
anything at the inquiry that the Cadi said. He didnt know,
you see.
RANKIN \cannilj\ I take your point, Leddy Ceecily.
It alters the case. I shall certainly make no allusion to it.
LADY CICELY [magTianimously'] Well, then, I wont either.
There !
They shake hands on it. Sir Howard comes in.
SIR HOWARD. Good moming, Mr Rankin. I hope you
got home safely from the yacht last night.
RANKIN. Quite safe, thank ye. Sir Howrrd.
LADY CICELY. Howard : he's in a hurry. Dont make him
stop to talk.
SIR HOWARD. Very good, very good. [He comes to the
table and takes Lady Cicely s chair].
RANKIN. Oo revoir, Leddy Ceecily.
LADY CICELY. Blcss you, Mr Rankin. [Rankin goes out. She
comes to the other end of the table, looking at Sir Howard with
a troubled, sorrowfully sympathetic air, but unconsciously making
her right hand stalk about the table on the tips of its fingers in
a tentative stealthy way which would put Sir Howard on his
guard if he were in a suspicious frame of mind, which, as it
happens, he is noi\. I'm so sorry for you, Howard, about
this unfortunate inquiry.
SIR HOWARD [swinging round on his chair, astonished] Sorry
for me! Why ?
LADY CICELY. It will look SO drcadful. Your own
nephew, you know.
SIR HOWARD. Cicely : an English judge has no nephews,
no sons even, when he has to carry out the law.
Actlli Captain Brassbound's Conversion 277
LADY CICELY. But then he oughtnt to have any property
either. People will never understand about the West
Indian Estate. Theyll think youre the wicked uncle out
of the Babes in the Wood. [With a fresh gush of compassion\
I'm so so sorry for you.
SIR HOWARD \rather stiffly] I really do not see how I
need your commiseration. Cicely. The woman was an im-
possible person, half mad, half drunk. Do you understand
what such a creature is when she has a grievance, and
imagines some innocent person to be the author of it.
LADY CICELY \with dtouch of impatience] Oh, quite. Th a 1 11
be made clear enough. I can see it all in the papers al-
ready : our half mad, half drunk sister-in-law, making
scenes with you in the street, with the police called in, and
prison and all the rest of it. The family will be furious.
[Sir Howard quails. She instantly follows up her advantage
with] Think of papa !
SIR HOWARD. I shall cxpcct Lord Waynflete to look at
the matter as a reasonable man.
LADY CICELY. Do you think he's so greatly changed as
that, Howard ?
SIR .HOWARD [falling back on the fatalism of the deper-
sonalized public ?nan] My dear Cicely : there is no use dis-
cussing the matter. It cannot be helped, however disagree-
able it may be.
LADY CICELY. Of coursc not. Thats whats so dreadful.
Do you think people will understand ?
SIR HOWARD. I really cannot say. Whether they do or
not, / cannot help it.
LADY CICELY. If you wcrc anybody but a judge, it
wouldnt matter so much. But a judge mustnt even be
misunderstood. [Despairingly] Oh, it's dreadful, Howard :
it's terrible ! What would poor Mary say if she wcrc alive
now ?
SIR HOWARD [zvith emotion] I dont think, Cicely, that my
dear wife would misunderstand mc.
LADY CICELY. No : shc'd know you mean well. And
278 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
when you came home and said, " Mary: Ive just told all
the world that your sister-in-law was a police court
criminal, and that I sent her to prison ; and your nephew
is a brigand, and I'm sending him to prison," she'd have
thought it must be all right because you did it. But you
dont think she would have liked it, any more than papa
and the rest of us, do you ?
SIR HOWARD \^appalled'\ But what am I to do ? Do you
ask me to compound a felony ?
LADY CICELY \_sternly^ Certainly not. I would not allow
such a thing, even if you were wicked enough to attempt
it. No. What I say is, that you ought not to tell the story
yourself.
SIR HOWARD. Why ?
LADY CICELY. Because everybody would say you are such
a clever lawyer you could make a poor simple sailor like
Captain Kearney believe anything. The proper thing for
you to do, Howard, is to let me tell the exact truth. Then
you can simply say that you are bound to confirm me.
Nobody can blame you for that.
SIR HOWARD [looking suspiciously at her\ Cicely : you are
up to some devilment.
LADY CICELY [promptly washing her hands of his interests']
Oh, very well. Tell the story yourself, in your own clever
way. I only proposed to tell the exact truth. You call
that devilment. So it is, I daresay, from a lawyer's point
of view.
SIR HOWARD. I hope youre not offended.
LADY CICELY [with the utmost goodhumor'] My dear
Howard, not a bit. Of course youre right : you know how
these things ought to be done. I'll do exactly what you
tell me, and confirm everything you say.
SIR HOWARD [alarmed by the completeness of his victory]
Oh, my dear, you mustnt act in my interest. You must
give your evidence with absolute impartiality. [She nods,
as if thoroughly impressed and reproved, and gazes at him with
the steadfast candor peculiar to liars who read novels. His eyes
Actili Captain Brassbound's Conversion 279
turn to the ground ; and his brow clouds perplexedly. He rises ;
rubs his chin nervously with his forefinger ; and adds] I think,
perhaps, on reflection, that there is something to be said
for your proposal to relieve me of the very painful duty of
telling what has occurred.
LADY CICELY [holding ofi'] But youd do it so very much
better.
SIR HOWARD. For that very reason, perhaps, it had better
come from you.
LADY CICELY [reluctantly] Well, if youd rather.
SIR HOWARD. But mind. Cicely, the exact truth.
LADY CICELY [with conviction] The exact truth. \_They
shake hands on it\
SIR HOWARD {holding her hand] Fiat justitia : ruat
coelum !
LADY CICELY. Let Justicc be done, though the ceiling
fall !
An American bluejacket appears at the door.
BLUEJACKET. Captain Kearney's cawmpliments to Lady
Waynflete ; and may he come in ?
LADY CICELY. Ycs. By all means. Where are the
prisoners ?
BLUEJACKET. Party gawn to the jail to fetch em, marm.
LADY CICELY. Thank you. I should like to be told when
they are coming, if I might.
BLUEJACKET. You shall SO, marm. \He stands aside,
saluting, to admit his captain, and goes out].
Captain Hamlin Kearney is a robustly built western
American, zuith the keen, squeezed, wind beaten eyes and obsti-
nately enduring mouth of his profession. A curious ethnological
specimen, with all the nations of the old world at war in his
veins, he is developing artificially in the direction of sleekness
and culture under the restraints of an overwhelming dread of
European criticism, and clijnatically in the direction of the in-
digenous North American, who is already in possession of his
hair, his cheekbones, and the manlier instincts in him which the
sea has rescued from civilization. The world, pondering on the
28o Three Plays for Puritans Actlll
great part of its ozvn future which is in his hands^ contemplates
kirn with wonder as to what the devil he will evohe into in
another century or two. Meanwhile h?e presents himself to Lady
Cicely as a blunt sailor who has something to say to her concern-
ing her conduct which he wishes to put politely, as becomes an
officer addressing a lady, but also with an emphatically implied
rebuke, as an American addressing an English person who has
taken a liberty.
LADY CICELY [tfj he enters'] So glad youve come, Captain
Kearney.
KEARNEY [coming between Sir Howard and Lady Cicely]
When we parted yesterday ahfternoon, Lady Waynflete, T
was unaware that in the course of your visit to my ship
you had entirely altered the sleeping arrangements of my
stokers. I thahnk you. As captain of the ship, I am custom-
airily cawnsulted before the orders of English visitors are
carried out ; but as your alterations appear to cawndoocc
to the comfort of the men, I have not interfered with them.
LADY CICELY. How clever of you to find out! I believe
you know every bolt in that ship.
Kearney softens perceptibly.
SIR HOWARD. I am really very sorry that my sister-in-law
has taken so serious a liberty, Captain Kearney. It is a
mania of hers — simply a mania. Why did your men pay
any attention to her ?
KEARNEY \with gravely dissembled humor] Well, I ahsked
that question too. I said, Why did you obey that lady's
orders instead of waiting for mine ? They said they didnt
see exactly how they could refuse. I ahsked whether they
cawnsidered that discipline. They said, Well, sir, will you
talk to the lady yourself next time ?
LADY CICELY. I'm SO sorry. But you know, Captain, the
one thing that one misses on board a man-of-war is a woman.
KEARNEY. We oftcn feel that deprivation verry keenly.
Lady Waynflete.
LADY CICELY. My unclc is first Lord of the Admiralty ;
and I am always telling him what a scandal it is that an
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 28 1
English captain should be forbidden to take his wife on
board to look after the ship.
KEARNEY. Stranger still, Lady Waynflete, he is not for-
bidden to take any other lady. Yours is an extraordinairy
country — to an Amerrican.
LADY CICELY. But it's most serious, Captain. The poor
men go melancholy mad, and ram each other's ships and
do all sorts of things.
SIR HOWARD. Cicely : I beg you will not talk nonsense
to Captain Kearney. Your ideas on some subjects are
really hardly decorous.
LADY CICELY [to Kearnej\ Thats what English people
are like, Captain Kearney. They wont hear of anything
concerning you poor sailors except Nelson and Trafalgar.
You understand me, dont you }
KEARNEY \^gaUant]f\ I cawnsider that you have more
sense in your wedding ring finger than the British Ahdmir-
alty has in its whole cawnstitootion. Lady Waynflete.
LADY CICELY. Of coursc I havc. Sailors always under-
stand things.
The bluejacket reappears.
BLUEJACKET \to Lady Cicelyl Prisoners coming up the
hill, marm.
KEARNEY \turning sharply on hi7?i\ Who sent you in to
say that ?
BLUEJACKET \calmly\ British lady's orders, sir. \He goes
out., unruffled^ leaving Kearney dumbfounded].
SIR HOWARD [^contemplating Kearney^s expression with dis-
may"] I am really very sorry, Captain Kearney. I am quite
aware that Lady Cicely has no right whatever to give orders
to your men.
LADY CICELY. I didnt give orders : I just asked him.
He has such a nice face ! Dont you think so. Captain
Kearney } [He gasps, speechless]. And now will you excuse
me a moment. I want to speak to somebody before the
inquiry begins. [She hurries out],
KEARNEY. There is sertnly a wonderful chahm about
282 Three Plays for Puritans Actin
the British aristocracy, Sir Howard Hallam. Arc they all
like that ? [He takes t/:e presidential chair].
SIR HOWARD [resuming his seat on Kearney's right] Fortu-
nately not, Captain Kearney. Half a dozen such women
would make an end of law in England in six months.
The bluejacket comes to the door again.
BLUEJACKET. All ready, sir.
KEARNEY. Vcrry good, /'m waiting.
The bluejacket turns and intimates this to those without.
The oj^cers of the Santiago enter.
SIR HOWARD [rising and bobbing to them in a judicial
manner] Good morning, gentlemen.
Thej acknowledge the greeting rather shyly^ bowing or
touching their caps^ and stand in a group behind Kearney.
KEARNEY [to Sir Howard] You will be glahd to hear that
I have a verry good account of one of our prisoners from
our chahplain, who visited them in the gaol. He has ex-
pressed a wish to be cawnverted to Episcopalianism.
SIR HOWARD [drily] Yes, I think I know him.
KEARNEY. Bring in the prisoners.
BLUEJACKET [at the door] They are engaged with the
British lady, sir. Shall I ask her —
KEARNEY [jumping up and exploding in storm piercing tones]
Bring in the prisoners. Tell the lady those arc my orders.
Do you hear ? Tell her so. [The bluejacket goes out dubiously.
The ojficers look at one another in mute comment on the un-
accountable pepperiness of their commander].
SIR HOWARD [suavely] Mr Rankin will be present, I presume.
KEARNEY [angrily] Rahnkin ! Who is Rahnkin ?
SIR HOWARD. Our host the missionary.
KEARNEY [subsiding unwillingly] Oh ! Rahnkin, is he ?
He'd better look sharp or he'll be late. [Jgain exploding]
What are they doing with those prisoners ?
Rankin hurries in, and takes his place near Sir Howard.
SIR HOWARD. This is Mr Rankin, Captain Kearney.
RANKIN. Excuse my delay. Captain Kearney. The leddy
sent me on an errand. [Kearney grunts]. I thoaght I should
Actill Captain Brassbound's Conversion 283
be late. But the first thing I heard when I arrived was
your officer giving your compliments to Leddy Ceecily,
and would she kindly allow the prisoners to come in, as
you were anxious to see her again. Then I knew I was in
time.
KEARNEY. Oil, that was it, was it ? May I ask, sir, did
you notice any sign on Lady Waynflete's part of cawmplying
with that verry moderate request.
LADY CICELY [outside] Coming, coming.
27)0 prisoners are brought in by a guard of armed blue-
jackets. Drinkzvater first, again elaborately clean, and con veying
by a virtuous and steadfast smirk a cheerful confidence in his
innocence. Johnson solid and inexpressive, Redbrook unconcerned
and debonair, Marzo uneasy. These four form a little group
together on the captain'' s left. The rest wait unintelligently on
Providence in a row against the wall on the same side, shep-
herded by the bluejackets. The first bluejacket, a petty ojficer,
posts himself on the captain's right, behind Rankin and Sir
Howard. Finally Brassbound appears with Lady Cicely on his
arm. He is in fashionable frock coat and trousers, spotless
collar and cuffs, and elegant boots. He carries a glossy tall
hat in his hand. To an unsophisticated eye, the change is mon-
strous and appalling ; and its effect on himself is so unmanning
that he is quite out of countenance — a shaven Samson. Lady
Cicely, however, is greatly pleased with it ; and the rest regard
it as an unquestionable improvement. The officers fall back
gallantly to allow her to pass. Kearney rises to receive her, and
stares with some surprise at Brassbound as she stops at the table
on his left. Sir Howard rises punctiliously when Kearney rises
and sits when he situ
KEARNEY. Is this another gentleman of your party, Lady
Waynflete ? I presume I met you lahst night, sir, on board
the yacht.
BRASSBOUND. No. I am your prisoner. My name is
Brassbound.
DRiNKWATER \_officiously'] Kcpn Brarsbahnd, of the schoouef
Thenksgiv —
284 Three Plays for Puritans Actlll
REDBROOK [J:astily'] Shut up, you fool. [^He eibozvs Drink-
water into the backgrou7id\
KEARNEY {^Surprised and rather suspicious\ Well, I hardly
understahnd this. However, if you are Captain Brassbound,
you can take your place with the rest. [Brassbound joins
Redbrook and Jo/mson. Kearney sits down again, ^fter inviting
Lady Cicely, with a solemn gesture, to take the vacant chair\
Now let me see. You are a man of experience in these
matters, Sir Howard Hallam. If you had to conduct this
business, how would you start ?
LADY CICELY. He'd Call on the counsel for the prosecu-
tion, wouldnt you, Howard ?
SIR HOWARD. But there is no counsel for the prosecution,
Cicely.
LADY CICELY. Oh ycs there is. I'm counsel for the
prosecution. You mustnt let Sir Howard make a speech.
Captain Kearney : his doctors have positively forbidden
anything of that sort. Will you begin with me ?
KEARNEY. By your leave. Lady Waynllete, I think I
will just begin wath myself. Sailor fashion will do as well
here as lawyer fashion.
LADY CICELY. Ever so much better, dear Captain Kear-
ney. \^Silence. Kearney cojnposes Inmself to speak. She breaks
out again]. You look so nice as a judge !
J general smile. Dri?ikwater splutters into a half suppressed
laugh.
REDBROOK [/;/ a fierce whisper] Shut up, you fool, will
you ? \_Again he pushes him back with a furtive kick].
SIR HOWARD [remonstrating] Cicely !
KEARNEY [grimly keeping his countenance] Your ladyship's
cawmpliments will be in order at a later stage. Captain
Brassbound : the position is this. My ship, the United
States cruiser Santiago, was spoken off Mogador lahst
Thursday by the yacht Redgauntlet. The owner of the
aforesaid yacht, who is not present through having sprained
his ahnkle, gave me sertn information. In cawnsequence
of that information the Santiago made the twenty knots to
Actill Captain Brassbound's Conversion 285
Mogador Harbor inside of fifty seven minutes. Before
noon next day a messenger of mine gave the Cadi of the
district sertn information. In cawnsequence of that
information the Cadi stimulated himself to some ten knots
an hour, and lodged you and your men in Mogador jail at
my disposal. The Cadi then went back to his mountain
fahstnesses ; so we shall not have the pleasure of his com-
pany here today. Do you follow me so far ?
BRASSBOUND. Yes. I know what you did and what the
Cadi did. The point is, why did you do it ?
KEARNEY. With doo paticncc we shall come to that
presently. Mr Rahnkin : will you kindly take up the
parable ?
RANKIN. On the very day that Sir Howrrd and Lady
Cicely started on their excursion I was applied to for
medicine by a follower of the Sheikh Sidi el Assif. He
told me I should never see Sir Howrrd again, because his
master knew he was a Christian and would take him out
of the hands of Captain Brassbound. I hurried on board
the yacht and told the owner to scour the coast for a gun-
boat or cruiser to come into the harbor and put persuasion
on the authorities. [Sir Howard turns and looks at Rankin
with a sudden doubt of his integrity as a witness'].
KEARNEY. But I undcrstood from our chahplain that you
reported Captain Brassbound as in league with the Sheikh
to deliver Sir Howard up to him.
RANKIN. That was my first hasty conclusion. Captain
Kearney. But it appears that the compact between them
was that Captain Brassbound should escort travellers under
the Sheikh's protection at a certain payment per head, pro-
vided none of them were Christians. As I understand it,
he tried to smuggle Sir Howrrd through under this com-
pact, and the Sheikh found him out.
DRiNKWATER. Rawt, gavncr. Thets jest ah it wors. The
Kepn —
REDBRooK [again suppressing him] Shut up, you fool, I
tell you.
286 Three Plays for Puritans Actiii
SIR HOWARD [to RankiTi] May I ask have you had any
conversation with Lady Cicely on this subject ?
RANKIN [fia'ively'] Yes. [Sir Howard gnmts emphatically^
as who should say " / thought soT Rankin continues^ addressing
the court'] May I say how sorry I am that there are so few
chairs, Captain and gentlemen.
KEARNEY [with genial American courtesy] Oh, thats all
right, Mr Rahnkin. Well, I see no harm so far : its human
fawlly, but not human crime. Now the counsel for the
prosecution can proceed to prosecute. The floor is yours.
Lady Waynflete.
LADY CICELY [rising] I can only tell you the exact
truth —
DRiNKWATER [involuntarily] Naow, downt do thet,
lidy —
REDBROOK [as before] Shut up, you fool, will you.
LADY CICELY. We had a most delightful trip in the
hills ; and Captain Brassbound's men could not have been
nicer — I must say that for them — until we saw a tribe
of Arabs — such nice looking men! — and then the poor
things were frightened.
KEARNEY. The Arabs ?
LADY CICELY. No : Arabs are ucvcr frightened. The escort,
of course : escorts are always frightened. I wanted to speak
to the Arab chief; but Captain Brassbound cruelly shot
his horse ; and the chief shot the Count ; and then —
KEARNEY. The Count ! What Count ?
LADY CICELY. Marzo. Thats Marzo [pointing to Marzo^
who grins and touches his forehead].
KEARNEY [sUghtly Overwhelmed by the unexpected profusion
of incident and character in her story] Well, what happened
then t
LADY CICELY. Then the escort ran away — all escorts
do — and dragged me into the castle, which you really
ought to make them clean and whitewash thoroughly,
Captain Kearney. Then Captain Brassbound and Sir
Howard turned out to be related to one another [Sensation] ;
Actill Captain Brassbound's Conversion 287
and then of course there was a quarrel. The Hallams
always quarrel.
SIR HOWARD [rising to protest\ Cicely ! Captain Kearney :
this man told me —
LADY CICELY [szviftly interrupting him] You mustnt say
what people told you : its not evidence. [Sir Howard
chokes with indignation].
KEARNEY [calmly] Allow the lady to pro-ceed, Sir
Howard Hallam.
SIR HOWARD [recovering his self-control with a gulp, and
resuming his seat] I beg your pardon. Captain Kearney.
LADY CICELY. Then Sidi came.
KEARNEY. Sidney ! Who was Sidney ?
LADY CICELY. No, Sidi. The Sheikh. Sidi el Assif. A
noble creature, with- such a fine face ! He fell in love with
me at first sight —
SIR HOWARD [remonstrating] Cicely !
LADY CICELY. He did : you know he did. You told me
to tell the exact truth.
KEARNEY. I Can readily believe it, madam. Proceed.
LADY CICELY. Well, that put the poor fellow into a most
cruel dilemma. You see, he could claim to carry ofi^ Sir
Howard, because Sir Howard is a Christian. But as I am
only a woman, he had no claim to me.
KEARNEY [somewhat sternly^ suspecting Lady Cicely of
aristocratic atheism] But you are a Christian woman.
LADY CICELY. No : the Arabs dont count women. They
dont believe we have any souls.
RANKIN. That is true, Captain : the poor benighted
creatures !
LADY CICELY. Well, what was he to do .'' He wasnt in
love with Sir Howard ; and he was in love with me. So he
naturally offered to swop Sir Howard for me. Dont you
think that was nice of him. Captain Kearney ?
KEARNEY. I should havc done the same myself, Lady
Waynflete. Proceed.
LADY CICELY. Captain Brassbound, I must say, was
288 Three Plays for Puritans Act in
nobleness itself, in spite of the quarrel between himself
and Sir Howard. He refused to give up either of us, and
was on the point of fighting for us when in came the Cadi
with your most amusing and delightful letter, captain, and
bundled us all back to Mogador after calling my poor Sidi
the most dreadful names, and putting all the blame on
Captain Brassbound. So here we are. Now, Howard, isnt
that the exact truth, every word of it ?
SIR HOWARD. It is the truth. Cicely, and nothing but the
truth. But the English law requires a witness to tell the
whole truth.
LADY CICELY. What nonscnsc ! As if anybody ever knew
the whole truth about anything ! [Sitting down, much hurt
and discouraged^ I'm sorry you wish Captain Kearney to
understand that I am an untruthful witness.
SIR HOWARD. No: but —
LADY CICELY. Very well, then : please dont say things
that convey that impression.
KEARNEY. But Sir Howard told me yesterday that Captain
Brassbound threatened to sell him into slavery.
LADY CICELY [springing up again] Did Sir Howard tell
you the things he said about Captain Brassbound's mother?
[Renewed sensation], I told you they quarrelled. Captain
Kearney. I said so, didnt I ?
REDBROOK [crisplf] Distinctly. [Drinkwater opens his
mouth to corroborate]. Shut up, you fool.
LADY CICELY. Of coursc I did. Now, Captain Kearney,
do you want me — does Sir Howard want me — does
anybody want me to go into the details of that shocking
family quarrel ? Am I to stand here in the absence of any
individual of my own sex and repeat the language of two
angry men ?
KEARNEY [rising impressively] The United States navy
will have no hahnd in offering any violence to the pure
instincts of womanhood. Lady Waynflete-: I thahnk you
for the delicacy with which you have given your evidence.
[Lady Cicely b^ams on him gratefully and sits down triumphant].
Actlll Captain Brassbound's Conversion 289
Captain Brassbound : I shall not hold you respawnsible
for what you may have said when the English bench ad-
dressed you in the language of the English forecastle —
[Sir Howard is about to protest'] No, Sir Howard Hallam :
excuse me. In moments of pahssion I have called a man
that myself. We are all glahd to find real flesh and blood
beneath the ermine of the judge. We will now drop a
subject that should never have been broached in a lady's
presence. [He resumes his seat^ and adds^ in a businesslike
tone] Is there anything further before we release these men ?
BLUEJACKET. There are some dawcuments handed over
by the Cadi, sir. He reckoned they were sort of magic
spells. The chahplain ordered them to be reported to you
and burnt, with your leave, sir.
KEARNEY. What are they.?
BLUEJACKET [reading from a list] Four books, torn and
dirty, made up of separate numbers, value each wawn
penny, and entitled Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber of
London ; The Skeleton Horseman —
DRiNKWATER [r u s kin g for Ward in pain fill alarm and anxiety]
It's maw lawbrary, gavner. Downt burn em.
KEARNEY. Youll be better without that sort of reading,
my man.
DRINKWATER [in intense distress, appealing to Lady Cicely]
Downt let em burn em, lidy. They dassent if you horder
em not to. [With desperate eloquence] Yer dunno wot them
books is to me. They took me aht of the sawdid reeyelli-
ties of the Worterleoo Rowd. They formed maw mav/nd :
they shaowed me sathink awgher than the squalor of a
corster's lawf —
REDBRooK [collaring him] Oh shut up, you fool. Get out.
Hold your ton -
DRINKWATER [frantically breaking from him] Lidy, lidy :
sy a word for me. Ev a feelin awt. [His tears choke him:
he clasps his hands in dumb entreaty],
LADY CICELY [touchcd] Dout bum his books. Captain.
Let me give them back to him.
u
290 Three Plays for Puritans Actiii
KEARNEY. Thc books Will be handed over to the lady.
DRiNKWATER {jti a sTTiall voice\ Thenkyer, lidy. [^He retires
amofig his comrades^ snivelling subduedlf\.
REDBROOK \aside to him as he passes] You silly ass, you.
[Drinkzvater sniffs and does not reply].
KEARNEY. I suppose you and your men accept this lady's
account of what passed, Captain Brassbound.
BRASSBOUND [gloomily'] Yes. It is true — as far as it goes.
KEARNEY [impatiently] Do you wawnt it to go any further ?
MARZO. She leave out something. Arab shoot me. She
nurse me. She cure me.
KEARNEY. And who are you, pray ?
MARZO [seized with a sanctimonious desire to demonstrate
his higher nature] Only dam thief. Dam liar. Dam rascal.
She no lady.
JOHNSON [revolted by the seeming insult to the English peer-
age from a low Italian] What? Whats that you say?
MARZO. No lady nurse dam rascal. Only saint. She
saint. She get me to heaven — get us all to heaven. We
do what we like now.
LADY CICELY. Indeed you will do nothing of the sort,
Marzo, unless you like to behave yourself very nicely
indeed. What hour did you say we were to lunch at,
Captain Kearney?
KEARNEY. You rccall me to my dooty. Lady Waynflete.
My barge will be ready to take off you and Sir Howard to
the Santiago at one o'clawk. [He rises]. Captain Brass-
bound : this innquery has elicited no reason why I should
detain you or your men. I advise you to ahct as escort in
future to heathens exclusively. Mr Rahnkin : I thahnk
you in the name of the United States for the hospitahlity
you have extended to us today; and I invite you to accom-
pany me bahck to my ship with a view to lunch at half-
past-one. Gentlemen : we will wait on the governor of
the gaol on our way to the harbor. [He goes out, follow-
ing his officers, and followed by the bluejackets and the petty
officer].
Actiii Captain Brassbound's Conversion 291
SIR HOWARD [to Lady Cicely'] Cicely : in the course of
my professional career I have met with unscrupulous wit-
nesses, and, I am sorry to say, unscrupulous counsel also.
But the combination of unscrupulous witness and un-
scrupulous counsel I have met today has taken away my
breath. You have made me your accomplice in defeating
justice.
LADY CICELY. Ycs : arnt you glad it's been defeated for
once ? \_Ske takes his arm to go out with him]. Captain Brass-
bound : I will come back to say goodbye before I go. \_He
nods gloomily. She goes out with Sir Howard^ following the
Captain and his staff].
RANKIN [running to Brassbound and taking both his hands]
I'm right glad yere cleared. I'll come back and have a
crack with ye when yon lunch is over. God bless ye.
\He goes out quickly].
Brassbound and his men, left by themselves in the room, free
and unobserved, go straight out of their senses. They laugh;
they dance ; they embrace one another; they set to partners and
waltz clumsily ; they shake hands repeatedly and 7naudlinly.
Three only retain some sort of self-possession. Marzo, proud
of having successfully thrust himself into a leading part in the
recent proceedings and made a dramatic speech, infates his chest,
curls his scanty moustache, and throws himself into a swaggering
pose, chin up and right foot forward, despising the emotional
English barbarians around him. Brassbound's eyes and the
working of his mouth shew that he is infected with the general
excitement ; but he bridles himself savagely. Redbrook, trained
to affect indifference, grins cynically; winks at Brassbound;
and finally relieves himself by assuming the character of a circus
ringmaster, flourishing an imaginary whip and egging on the
rest to wilder exertions. A climax is reached when Drinkwater,
let loose without a stain on his character for the second time, is
rapt by belief in his star into an ecstasy in which, scorning all
partnership, he becomes as it were a whirling dervish, and
executes so miraculous a clog dance that the others gradually
cease their slower antics to stare at him.
292 Three Plays for Puritans Act ill
BRASSBOUND [tearing off his hat and striding forward as
Drinkwater collapses^ exhausted, and is picked up by Redbrook'\
Now to get rid of this respectable clobber and feel like a
man again. Stand by, all hands, to jump on the captain's
tall hat. [^He puts the hat down and prepares to jump on it.
The effect is startling, and takes him completely aback. His
followers, far from appreciating his iconoclasm, are shocked
into scandalized sobriety, except Redbrook, who is intensely
tickled by their prudery\
DRINKWATER. Naow, look cah, kepn : that ynt rawt.
Dror a lawn somewhere.
JOHNSON. I say nothin agen a bit of fun, Capn ; but lets
be gentlemen.
REDBROOK. I suggcst to you, Brassbound, that the clobber
belongs to Lady Sis. Aint you going to give it back to her?
BRASSBOUND [picking up the hat and brushing the dust off
it anxiously'] Thats true. I'm a fool. All the same, she
shall not see me again like this. [He pulls off the coat and
waistcoat together]. Does any man here know how to fold
up this sort of thing properly?
REDBROOK. Allow me, governor. [He takes the coat and
waistcoat to the table, and folds them up].
BRASSBOUND [loosening his collar and the front of his shirt]
Brandyfaced Jack : youre looking at these studs. I know
whats in your mind.
DRINKWATER [indignantly] Naow yer downt : nort a bit
on it. Wots in maw mawnd is secrifawce, seolf-secrifawce.
BRASSBOUND. If oue brass pin of that lady's propert)' is
missing, I'll hang you with my own hands at the gaff of
the Thanksgiving — and would, if she were lying under
the guns of all the fleets in Europe. [He pulls off the shirt
and stands in his blue jersey, with his hair ruffled. He passes
his hand through it and exclaims] Now I am half a man. at
any rate.
REDBROOK. A horriblc combination, governor : church-
warden from the waist down, and the rest pirate. Lady Sis
wont speak to you in it.
Actlll Captain Brassbound's Conversion 293
BRASSBouND. I'll change altogether. [He leaves the room
to get his own trousers].
REDBRooK [so/t/y] Look here, Johnson, and gents gener-
ally. [They gather about him]. Spose she takes him back
to England !
MARZo [trying to repeat his success] Im ! Im only dam
pirate. She saint, I tell you — no take any man nowhere.
JOHNSON [severely] Dont you be a ignorant and immoral
foreigner. [The rebuke is well received; and Marzo is
hustled into the background and extinguished]. She wont take
him for harm; but she might take him for good. And
then where should we be ?
DRiNKWATER. Brarsbahnd ynt the ownly kepn in the
world. Wot mikes a kepn is brines an knollidge o lawf.
It ynt thet thers naow sitch pusson : its thet you dunno
where to look fr im. [ The implication that he is such a person
is so intolerable that they receive it with a prolonged burst of
booing].
BRASSBOUND [returning in his ozvn clothes, getting into his
jacket as he comes]. S tand by, all . [ They start asunder guiltily^
and wait for orders]. Redbrook : you pack that clobber in
the lady's portmanteau, and put it aboard the yacht for
her. Johnson : you take all hands aboard the Thanksgiving ;
look through the stores ; weigh anchor ; and make all ready
for sea. Then send Jack to wait for me at the slip with a
boat; and give me a gunfire for a signal. Lose no time.
JOHNSON. Ay, ay, sir. All aboard, mates.
ALL. Ay, ay. [They rush out tumultuously].
When they are gone. Brass bound sits down at the end of the
table, with his elbows on it and his head on his fists, gloomily
thinking. Then he takes from the breast pocket of his jacket a
leather case, from which he extracts a scrappy packet of dirty
letters and newspaper cuttings. These he throws on the table.
Next comes a photograph in a cheap frame. He throws it down
untenderly beside the papers; then folds his arms, and is looking
at it with grim distaste when Lady Cicely enters. His back
is towards her ; and he does not hear her. Perceiving this.
294 Three Plays for Puritans Actlil
she shuts th:e door loudly e?iough to attract his attention. He
starts up.
LADY CICELY \co7ning to the opposite end of the table'\ So
youve taken off all my beautiful clothes !
BRASSBOUND. Your brother's, you mean. A man should
wear his own clothes ; and a man should tell his own lies.
I'm sorry you had to tell mine for mc today.
LADY CICELY. Oh, womcn spend half their lives telling
little lies for men, and sometimes big ones. We're used
to it. But mind ! I dont admit that I told any today.
BRASSBOUND. How did you square my uncle ?
LADY CICELY. I dout Understand the expression.
BRASSBOUND. I mean —
LADY CICELY. I'm afraid we havnt time to go into what
you mean before lunch. I want to speak to you about your
future. May I?
BRASSBOUND [darkening a little, but politely'] Sit down.
[She sits down. So does he].
LADY CICELY. What are your plans ?
BRASSBOUND. I havc no plans. You will hear a gun fired
in the harbor presently. That will mean that the Thanks-
giving's anchor's weighed and that she is waiting for her
captain to put out to sea. And her captain doesnt know
now whether to turn her head north or south.
LADY CICELY. Why not north for England?
BRASSBOUND. Why not south for the Pole ?
LADY CICELY. But you must do something with yourself?
BRASSBOUND [settling himself with his fists and elbows weight-
ily on the table and looking straight and powerfully at her] Look
you : when you and I first met, I was a man with a purpose.
I stood alone : I saddled no friend, woman or man, with
that purpose, because it was against law, against religion,
against ray own credit and safety. But I believed in it ;
and I stood alone for it, as a man should stand for his
belief, against law and religion as much as against wicked-
ness and selfishness. Whatever I may be, I am none of
your fairweather sailors thatll do nothing for their creed
Actiii Captain Brassbound's Conversion 295
but go to Heaven for it. I was ready to go to hell for
mine. Perhaps you dont understand that.
LADY CICELY. Oh bless you, yes. It's so very like a
certain sort of man.
BRASSBOUND. I daresay j but I've not met many of that
sort. Anyhow, that was what I was like. I dont say I
was happy in it ; but I wasnt unhappy, because I wasnt
drifting. I was steering a course and had work in hand.
Give a man health and a course to steer ; and he'll never
stop to trouble about whether he's happy or not.
LADY CICELY. Sometimcs he wont even stop to trouble
about whether other people are happy or not.
BRASSBOUND. I dont deny that : nothing makes a man so
selfish as work. But I was not self-seeking : it seemed to
me that I had put justice above self. I tell you life meant
something to me then. Do you see that dirty little bundle
of scraps of paper ?
LADY CICELY. What are they ?
BRASSBOUND. Accounts cut out of ncwspapcrs. Speeches
made by my uncle at charitable dinners, or sentencing men
to death — pious, highminded speeches by a man who was
to me a thief and a murderer ! To my mind they were
more weighty, more momentous, better revelations of the
wickedness of law and respectability than the book of the
prophet Amos. What are they now ? [^He quietly tears the
newspaper cuttings into little fragments and throws them away,
looking fixedly at her meanwhile'].
LADY CICELY. Well, thats a comfort, at all events.
BRASSBOUND. Yes ; but it's a part of my life gone : your
doing, remember. What have I left ? See here ! \_he takes
up the letters] the letters my uncle wrote to my mother,
with her comments on their cold drawn insolence, their
treachery and cruelty. And the piteous letters she wrote
to him later on, returned unopened. Must they go too ?
LADY CICELY [uneasHy] I cant ask you to destroy your
mother's letters.
BRASSBOUND. Why not, now that you have taken the
296 Three Plays for Puritans Actiil
meaning out of them ? \^He tears theni\. Is that a comfort
too ?
LADY CICELY. It's a little sad ; but perhaps it is best so.
BRASSBOUND. That leaves one relic : her portrait. \He
plucks the photograph out of its cheap case].
LADY CICELY [zuith vtvid curiosity] Oh, let me see. [He
hands it to l^er. Before she can control herself her expression
changes to one of unmistakeable disappointment and repulsion].
BRASSBOUND \with a single sardonic cachinnation] Ha !
You expected something better than that. Well, youre
right. Her face does not look well opposite yours.
LADY CICELY \distressed] I said nothing.
BRASSBOUND. What could you say ? \^He takes back the
portrait : she relinquishes it without a word. He looks at it ;
shakes his head ; and takes it quietly between his finger and
thumb to tear it].
LADY CICELY [staying his hand] Oh, not your mother's
picture !
BRASSBOUND. If that were your picture, would you like
your son to keep it for younger and better women to see ?
LADY CICELY [releasing his hand] Oh, you are dreadful !
Tear it, tear it. [She covers her eyes for a moment to shut out
the sight],
BRASSBOUND [tearing it quietly] You killed her for me
that day in the castle ; and I am better without her. [He
throws away the fragments]. Now everything is gone. You
have taken the old meaning out of my life ; but you have
put no new meaning into it. I can see that you have some
clue to the world that makes all its difficulties easy for
you ; but I'm not clever enough to seize it. Youve lamed
me by shewing me that I take life the wrong way when
I'm left to myself.
LADY CICELY. Oh no. Why do you say that ?
BRASSBOUND. What else can I say ? See what Ive done !
My uncle is no worse a man than myself — better, most
likely ; for he has a better head and a higher place. Well,
I took him for a villain out of a storybook. My mother
Actlll Captain Brassbound's Conversion 297
would have opened anyi^t^dy else's eyes : she shut mine.
I'm a stupider man than Brandyfaced Jack even ; for he
got his romantic nonsense out of his penny numbers and
such like trash ; but I got just the same nonsense out of
life and experience, \_8haking his had'] It was vulgar —
vulgar. I see that now ; for youve opened my eyes to the
past ; but what good is that for the future ? What am I to
do ? Where am I to go ?
LADY CICELY. It's quite simple. Do whatever you like.
Thats what I always do.
BRASSBOUND. That answer is no good to me. What I
like is to have something to do ; and I have nothing. You
might as well talk like the missionary and tell me to do my
duty.
LADY CICELY [^quickly] Oh no thank you. Ive had quite
enough of your duty, and Howard's duty. Where would
you both be now if I'd let you do it ?
BRASSBOUND. We'd have been somewhere, at all events.
It seems to me that now I am nowhere.
LADY CICELY. But amt you coming back to England
with us ?
BRASSBOUND. What for ?
LADY CICELY. Why, to make the most or your oppor-
tunities.
BRASSBOUND. What opportunities ?
LADY CICELY. Dont you understand that when you are
the nephew of a great bigwig, and have influential con-
nexions, and good friends among them, lots of things can
be done for you that are never done for ordinary ship
captains ?
BRASSBOUND. Ah ; but I'm not an aristocrat, you see.
And like most poor men, I'm proud. I dont like being
patronized.
LADY CICELY. What is the use of saying that ? In my
world, which is now your world — our world — getting
patronage is the whole art of life. A man cant have a
career without it.
298 Three Plays for Puritans Actiii
BRASSBOUND. In my world a man can navigate a ship and
get his living by it.
LADY CICELY. Oh, I sce youre one of the Idealists —
the Impossibilists ! We have them, too, occasionally, in
our world. There's only one thing to be done with them.
BRASSBOUND. Whats that ?
LADY CICELY. Marry them straight off to some girl with
enough money for them, and plenty of sentiment. Thats
their fate.
BRASSBOUND. Youve Spoiled even that chance for me.
Do you think I could look at any ordinary woman after
you r You seem to be able to make me do pretty well
what you like ; but you cant make me marry anybody but
yourself.
LADY CICELY. Do you know, Captain Paquito, that Ive
married no less than seventeen men [Brass bound stares'] to
other women. And they all opened the subject by saying
that they would never marry anybody but me.
BRASSBOUND. Then I shall be the first man you ever
found to stand to his word.
LADY CICELY \_part pleased, part amused, part sy?npatketic']
Do you really want a wife ?
BRASSBOUND. I Want E commander. Dont undervalue
me : I am a good man when I have a good leader. I have
courage : I have determination : I'm not a drinker : I
can command a schooner and a shore party if I cant com-
mand a ship or an army. When work is put upon me, I
turn neither to save my life nor to fill my pocket. Gordon
trusted me; and he never regretted it. If you trust me,
you shant regret it. All the same, theres something want-
ing in me : I suppose I'm stupid.
LADY CICELY. Oh, youre not stupid.
BRASSBOUND. Yes I am. Since you saw me for the first
time in that garden, youve heard me say nothing clever.
And Ive heard you say nothing that didnt make me laugh,
or make me feel friendly, as well as telling me what to think
and what to do. Thats what I mean by real cleverness.
Actlii Captain Brassbound's Conversion 299
Well, I havnt got it. I can give an order when I know
what order to give. I can make men obey it, willing or
unwilling. But I'm stupid, I tell you : stupid. When
theres no Gordon to command me, I cant think of what to
do. Left to myself, Ive become half a brigand. I can kick
that little gutterscrub Drinkwater ; but I find myself doing
what he puts into my head because I cant think of any-
thing else. When you came, I took your orders as natu-
rally as I took Gordon's, though I little thought my next
commander would be a woman. I want to take service
under you. And theres no way in which that can be done
except marrying you. Will you let me do it ?
LADY CICELY. I'm afraid you dont quite know how odd
a match it would be for me according to the ideas of Eng-
lish society.
BRASSBOUND. I carc nothing about English society : let
it mind its own business.
LADY CICELY [risings a little alarmed^ Captain Paquito :
I am not in love with you.
BRASSBOUND \also risings with his gaze still steadfastly on
hef\ I didnt suppose you were : the commander is not
usually in love with his subordinate.
LADY CICELY. Nor thc Subordinate with the com-
mander.
BRASSBOUND {asseuting jirmly\ Nor the subordinate with
the commander.
LADY CICELY \learmfig for the frst time in her life what
terror is^ as she finds that he is unconsciously mesmerizing her']
Oh, you are dangerous^!
BRASSBOUND. Come : are you in love with anybody else ?
Thats the question.
LADY CICELY [shaking her head] I have never been in
love with any real person ; and I never shall. How could
I manage people if I had that mad little bit of self left in
me ? Thats my secret.
BRASSBOUND. Then throw away the last bit of self.
Marry me.
300 Three Plays for Puritans Actlil
LADY CICELY \_vain/y struggling to recall her wandering
will'] Must I ?
BRASSBOUND. There is no must. You can. I ask you to.
My fate depends on it.
LADY CICELY. It's frightful J for I dont mean to — dont
wish to.
BRASSBOUND. But you will.
LADY CICELY \^quite lost, slowly stretches out her hand to give it
to hifu] I — \Gunfire from the Thanksgiving, His eyes dilate.
It wakes her from her trance] What is that ?
BRASSBOUND. It is farewcll. Rescue for you — safety,
freedom ! You were made to be something better than the
wife of Black Paquito. [//"<? kneels and takes her hands] You
can do no more for me now : I have blundered somehow
on the secret of command at last \he kisses /:er hands] :
thanks for that, and for a man's power and purpose restored
and righted. And farewell, farewell, farewell.
LADY CICELY [iTJ a Strange ecstasy, holding his hands as he
rises] Oh, farewell. With my heart's deepest feeling, fare-
well, farewell.
BRASSBOUND. With my heart's noblest honor and triumph,
farewell. \iie turns and flies],
LADY CICELY. How glorious ! how glorious I And what
an escape !
NOTES TO CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S
CONVERSION
Sources of the Play.
I claim as a notable merit in the authorship of this play
that I have been intelligent enough to steal its scenery, its
surroundings, its atmosphere, its geography, its knowledge
of the east, its fascinating Cadis and Krooboys and Sheikhs
and mud castles from an excellent book of philosophic
travel and vivid adventure entitled Mogreb - el - Acksa
(Morocco the Most Holy) by Cunninghame Graham..
My own first hand knowledge of Morocco is based on a
morning's walk through Tangier, and a cursory observation
of the coast through a binocular from the deck of an Orient
steamer, both later in date than the writing of the play.
Cunninghame Graham is the hero of his own book ; but
I have not made him the hero of my play, because so in-
credible a personage must have destroyed its likelihood —
such as it is. There are moments when I do not myself
believe in his existence. And yet he must be real ; for I
have seen him with these eyes; and I am one of the few men
living who can decipher the curious alphabet in which he
writes his private letters. The man is on public record too.
The battle of Trafalgar Square, in which he personally and
bodily assailed civilization as represented by the concen-
302 Captain Brassbound's Conversion
tratcd military and constabular forces of the capital of the
world, can scarcely be forgotten by the more discreet
spectators, of whom I was one. On that occasion civiliza-
tion, qualitatively his inferior, was quantitatively so hugely
in excess of him that it put him in prison, but had not sense
enough to keep him there. Yet his getting out of prison
was as nothing compared to his getting into the House
of Commons. How he did it I know not ; but the thing
certainly happened, somehow. That he made pregnant
utterances as a legislator may be taken as proved by the
keen philosophy of the travels and tales he has since
tossed to us ; but the House, strong in stupidity, did not
understand him until in an inspired moment he voiced a
universal impulse by bluntly damning its hypocrisy. Of
all the eloquence of that silly parliament, there remains
only one single damn. It has survived the front bench
speeches of the eighties as the word of Cervantes survives
the oraculations of the Dons and Deys who put him, too,
in prison. The shocked House demanded that he should
withdraw his cruel word. " I never withdraw," said he ;
and I promptly stole the potent phrase for the sake of its
perfect style, and used it as a cockade for the Bulgarian
hero of Arms and the Man. The theft prospered ; and I
naturally take the first opportunity of repeating it. In what
other Lepantos besides Trafalgar Square Cunninghame
Graham has fought, I cannot tell. He is a fascinating
mystery to a sedentary person like myself. The horse, a
dangerous animal whom, when I cannot avoid, I propitiate
with apples and sugar, he bestrides and dominates fear-
lessly, yet with a true republican sense of the rights of the
fourlegged fellowcreature whose martyrdom, and man's
shame therein, he has told most powerfully in his Calvary,
a tale with an edge that will cut the soft cruel hearts and
strike fire from the hard kind ones. He handles the other
lethal weapons as familiarly as the pen : medieval sword
and modern Mauser are to him as umbrellas and kodaks
are to me. His tales of adventure have the true Cer-
Notes 303
vantes touch of the man who has been there — so refresh-
ingly different from the scenes imagined by bloody-minded
clerks who escape from their servitude into literature to
tell us how men and cities are conceived in the counting
house and the volunteer corps. He is, I understand, a
Spanish hidalgo : hence the superbity of his portrait by
Lavery (Velasquez being no longer available). He is, I
know, a Scotch laird. How he contrives to be authentic-
ally the two things at the same time is no more intelligible
to me than the fact that everything that has ever happened
to him seems to have happened in Paraguay or Texas
instead of in Spain or Scotland. He is, I regret to add, an
impenitent and unashamed dandy : such boots, such a hat,
would have dazzled D'Orsay himself. With that hat he
once saluted me in Regent St. when I was walking with
my mother. Her interest was instantly kindled ; and the
following conversation ensued. " Who is that ? " " Cun-
ninghame Graham." "Nonsense ! Cunninghamc Graham is
one of your Socialists : that man is a gentleman." This is the
punishment of vanity, a fault I have myself always avoided,
as I find conceit less troublesome and much less expensive.
Later on somebody told him of Tarudant, a city in
Morocco in which no Christian had ever set foot. Con-
cluding at once that it must be an exceptionally desirable
place to live in, he took ship and horse ; changed the hat
for a turban ; and made straight for the sacred city, via
Mogador. How he fared, and how he fell into the hands
of the Cadi of Kintafi, who rightly held that there was
more danger to Islam in one Cunninghame Graham than
in a thousand Christians, may be learnt from his account
of it in Mogreb-el-Acksa, without which Captain Brass-
bound's Conversion would never have been written.
I am equally guiltless of any exercise of invention con-
cerning the story of the West Indian estate which so very
nearly serves as a peg to hang Captain Brassbound. To
Mr. Frederick Jackson of Hindhead, who, against all his
principles, encourages and abets me in my career as a
304 Captain Brassbound's Conversion
dramatist, I owe my knowledge of those main facts of the
case which became public through an attempt to make the
House of Commons act on them. This being so, I must
add that the character of Captain Brassbound's mother,
like the recovery of the estate by the next heir, is an in-
terpolation of my own. It is not, however, an invention.
One of the evils of the pretence that our institutions repre-
sent abstract principles of justice instead of being mere
social scaffolding is that persons ot a certain temperament
take the pretence seriously, and, when the law is on the
side of injustice, will not accepc the situation, and are
driven mad by their vain struggle against it. Dickens has
drawn the type in his Man from Shropshire in Bleak
House. Most public men and all lawyers have been ap-
pealed to by victims of this sense of injustice — the most
unhelpable of afflictions in a society like ours.
English and American Dialects.
The fact that English is spelt conventionally and not
phonetically makes the art of recording speech almost im-
possible. What is more, it places the modern dramatist,
who writes for America as well as England, in a most
trying position. Take for example my American captain
and my English lady. I have spelt the word conduce, as
uttered by the American captain, as cawndooce, to suggest
(very roughly) the American pronunciation to English
readers. Then why not spell the same word, when uttered
by Lady Cicely, as kerndewce, to suggest the English pro-
nunciation to American readers? To this I have absolutely
no defence : I can only plead that an author who lives in
England necessarily loses his consciousness of the peculiar-
ities of English speech, and sharpens his consciousness of
the points in which Am^.-'ican speech differs from it; so
that it is more canvenient to leave English peculiarities to
be recorded by American authors. I must, however, most
Notes 305
vehemently disclaim any intention of suggesting that English
pronunciation is authoritative and correct. My own tongue
is neither American English nor English English, but Irish
English ; so I am as nearly impartial in the matter as it is
in human nature to be. Besides, there is no standard English
pronunciation any more than there is an American one :
in England every county has its catchwords, just as no
doubt every State in the Union has. I cannot believe that
the pioneer American, for example, can spare time to learn
that last refinement of modern speech, the exquisite diph-
thong, a farfetched combination of the French eu and the
English e, with which a New Yorker pronounces such
words as world, bird &c. I have spent months without
success in trying to achieve glibness with it.
To Felix Drinkwater also I owe some apology for im-
plying that all his vowel pronunciations are unfashionable.
They are very far from being so. As far as my social
experience goes (and I have kept very mixed company)
there is no class in English society in which a good deal
of Drinkwater pronunciation does not pass unchallenged
save by the expert phonetician. This is no mere rash and
ignorant jibe of my own at the expense of my English
neighbors. Academic authority in the matter of English
speech is represented at present by Mr Henry Sweet,
of the University of Oxford, whose Elementarbuch des ge-
sprochenen Englisch, translated into his native language for
the use of British islanders as a Primer of Spoken English,
is the most accessible standard work on the subject. In
such words as plum, come, humbug, up, gun, etc., Mr
Sweet's evidence is conclusive. Ladies and gentlemen in
Southern England pronounce them as plam, kam, hambag,
ap, gan, etc., exactly as Felix Drinkwater does. I could
not claim Mr Sweet's authority if I dared to whisper that
such coster English as the rather pretty dahn tahn for
down town, or the decidedly ugly cowcsw for cocoa is
current in very polite circles. The entire nation, costers
and all, would undoubtedly repudiate any such pronuncia-
X
3o6 Captain Brassbound's Conversion
tion as vulgar. All the same, if I were to attempt to
represent current "smart" Cockney speech as I have
attempted to represent Drinkwater's, without the niceties
of Mr Sweet's Romic alphabets, I am afraid I should often
have to write dahn tahn and cowcow as being at least
nearer to the actual sound than down town and cocoa.
And this would give such offence that I should have to
leave the country ; for nothing annoys a native speaker of
English more than a faithful setting down in phonetic
spelling of the sounds he utters. He imagines that a
departure from conventional spelling indicates a departure
from the correct standard English of good society. Alas !
this correct standard English of good society is unknown
to phoneticians. It is only one of the many figments that
bewilder our poor snobbish brains. No such thing exists ;
but what does that matter to people trained from infancy
to make a point of honor of belief in abstractions and
incredibilities? And so I am compelled to hide Lady
Cicely's speech under the veil of conventional orthography.
I need not shield Drinkwater, because he will never
read my book. So I have taken the liberty of making a
special example of him, as far as that can be done without
a phonetic alphabet, for the benefit of the mass of readers
outside London who still form their notions of cockney
dialect on Sam Weller. When. I came to London in 1876,
the Sam Weller dialect had passed away so completely that
I should have given it up as a literary fiction if I had not
discovered it surviving in a Middlesex village, and heard of
it from an Essex one. Some time in the eighties the late
Andrew Tuer called attention in the Pall Mall Gazette to
several peculiarities of modern cockney, and to the obsoles-
cence of the Dickens dialect that was still being copied from
book to book by authors who never dreamt of using their
ears, much less of training them to listen. Then came Mr
Anstey's cockney dialogues in Punch, a great advance, and
Mr Chevalier's coster songs and patter. The Tompkins
verses contributed by Mr Barry Pain to the London Daily
Notes 307
Chronicle also did something to bring the literary con-
vention for cockney English up to date. But Tompkins
sometimes perpetrated horrible solecisms. He would pro-
nounce face as fice, accurately enough ; but he would rhyme
it quite impossibly to nice, which Tompkins would have
pronounced as nawce : for example Mawl Enn Rowd for
Mile End Road. This aw for i, which I have made Drink-
water use, is the latest stage of the old diphthongal oi, which
Mr Chevalier still uses. Irish, Scotch and north country
readers must remember that Drinkwater's rs are absolutely
unpronounced when they follow a vowel, though they
modify the vowel very considerably. Thus, though luggage
is pronounced by him as laggige, turn is not pronounced
as tarn, but as teun with the eu sounded as in French.
The London r seems thoroughly understood in America,
with the result, however, that the use of the r by Artemus
Ward and other American dialect writers causes Irish
people to misread them grotesquely. I once saw the pro-
nunciation of malheureux represented in a cockney
handbook by mal-err-err : not at all a bad makeshift to
instruct a Londoner, but out of the question elsewhere in
the British Isles. In America, representations of English
speech dwell too derisively on the dropped or interpolated
h. American writers have apparently not noticed the fact
that the south English h is not the same as the never-
dropped Irish and American h, and that to ridicule an
Englishman for dropping it is as absurd as to ridicule the
whole French and Italian nation for doing the same. The
American h, helped out by a general agreement to pro-
nounce wh as hw, is tempestuously audible, and cannot be
dropped without being immediately missed. The London
h is so comparatively quiet at all times, and so completely
inaudible in wh, that it probably fell out of use simply by
escaping the ears of children learning to speak. However
that may be, it is kept alive only by the literate classes
who are reminded constantly of its existence by seeing it
on paper. Roughly speaking, I should say that in England
3o8 Captain Brassbound's Conversion
he who bothers about his hs is a fool, and he who ridicules
a dropped h a snob. As to the interpolated h, my experience
as a London vestryman has convinced me that it is often
effective as a means of emphasis, and that the London
language would be poorer without it. The objection to it
is no more respectable than the objection of a street boy
to a black man or to a lady in knickerbockers.
I have made only the most perfunctory attempt to re-
present the dialect of the missionary. There is no literary
notation for the grave music of good Scotch.
Blackdown.
August 1900.
THE END
Printed by R. S: R. Ci.akk, Limited, Edinhurzh.
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