Skip to main content

Full text of "Three plays for Puritans: The devil's disciple, Cæsar and Cleopatra, & Captain Brassbound's conversion"

See other formats 


U^f* 


[«• 


Lpi£^&^ 


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. 

B 


<=>.A^^i/.ry^:ne/yi^  .->r> 


'('i.i/.i^^S-C-.'rM^rfU/iA. 


7:^ 


urq<yiin€ 


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. 


^ 


\: 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

rO— ^      202  Main  Library 

.OAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2                       ; 

3 

4 

5                               ( 

b 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

',  -monrh  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

6-month  loons  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  dote 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

Kccm.  JUK03V 

ifiM  9  3  7003 

NOV  1  0  20 

)3 

FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
12/80        BERKELEY,  CA  94720 

®s 


U   C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CD55EtbmD 


} 


,  ,■  ^. , V  ,{ : 


m 


n