Skip to main content

Full text of "Poems and plays"

See other formats 


UNIVERSITY  FARM 


TS5SZ5 
VIZ  5 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 

BY 

PERCY  MACKAYE 
PLAYS 


WORKS  BY  PERCY  MACKAYE 

DRAMAS 

THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS.     A  COMEDY. 
JEANNE   D'ARC.     A  TRAGEDY. 
SAPPHO   AND  PHAON.     A  TRAGEDY. 
FENRIS   THE   WOLF.     A  TRAGEDY. 
A    GARLAND    TO    SYLVIA.      A    DRAMATIC 

REVERIE. 
THE     SCARECROW.      A    TRAGEDY    OF    THE 

LUDICROUS. 

YANKEE   FANTASIES.     FIVE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS. 
MATER.     AN  AMERICAN  STUDY  IN  COMEDY. 
ANTI-MATRIMONY.     A  SATIRICAL  COMEDY. 
TO-MORROW.     A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS. 
A  THOUSAND  YEARS  AGO.     A  ROMANCE  OP 

THE  ORIENT. 
THE   IMMIGRANTS.     A  LYRIC  DRAMA. 

MA8Q UES 

SAINT  LOUIS.     A  Civic  MASQUE. 
SANCTUARY.     A  BIRD  MASQUE. 
THE   NEW   CITIZENSHIP.     A  Civic  RITUAL. 
CALIBAN.     A  SHAKESPEARE  MASQUE. 

POEMS 

THE   SISTINE   EVE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
URIEL,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
LINCOLN.     A  CENTENARY  ODE. 
THE   PRESENT  HOUR. 

ESSAYS 

THE   PLAYHOUSE   AND  THE   PLAY. 
THE   CIVIC   THEATRE. 
A  SUBSTITUTE  FOR  WAR. 

AT  ALL  BOOKSELLERS 


POEMS  AND  PLAYS 

BY 

PERCY  MACKAYE 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 


VOLUME  II 
PLAYS 

/  C' 

\V  LIBRARY 

Nein  fgorfe 

THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1916 

A II  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  1906,  1907,  1908, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Copyright  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  and  in  all  countries  of  the  copyright  union. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Including  rights  of  translation  into  foreign  languages  including  the  Scandinavian. 
Published  April,  1916. 


SPECIAL  NOTICE 

ALL  DRAMATIC  AND  PLATFORM  RIGHTS  IN  THESE  COLLECTED  PLAYS  ARE  RE 
SERVED  BY  THE  AUTHOR,  AND  ARE  FULLY  PROTECTED  BY  COPYRIGHT.  No  per 
formance  —  PROFESSIONAL  OR  AMATEUR  —  AND  no  public  reading  OF  ANY  OF 
THESE  PLAYS  MAY  BE  GIVEN  without  the  written  permission  of  the  author  and 
the  payment  of  royalty.  To  OBTAIN  SUCH  PERMISSION,  COMMUNICATION  SHOULD 
BE  SENT  DIRECT  TO  THE  AUTHOR,  IN  CARE  OF  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY,  66 
FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK  CITY. 


J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


NOTE   FOR  THIS   EDITION 

Of  the  author's  separately  published  dramatic  works, 
the  five  plays  included  in  this  volume  have  been  selected 
to  represent,  in  verse  and  prose,  his  dramatic  work  in 
comedy,  tragedy,  and  satire,  on  themes  historical  and 
modern. 


£723 


CONTENTS 

THE  CANTERBURY   PILGRIMS 

JEANNE   D'ARC 

SAPPHO   AND    PHAON 

THE   SCARECROW 

MATER 


The    Canterbury    Pilgrims 


THE    CANTERBURY   PILGRIMS 

A  COMEDY 


3In 


"  O  KINDLY  Muse  !  let  not  my  weak  tongue  falter 
In  telling  of  this  goodly  company, 
Of  their  old  piety  and  of  their  glee ; 
But  let  a  portion  of  ethereal  dew 
Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 
My  soul ;  that  I  may  dare,  in  wayfaring, 
To  stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing." 

[KEATS:  Endymion.'] 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 


I.  CHARACTERS  BASED  ON  "  THE  CANTERBURY  TALES." 

MEN 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER,  Poet  at  King  Richard's  Court,  and  Knight  of  the 

Shire  for  Kent. 

The  KNIGHT  (Dan  Roderigo  d'Algezir}. 
The  SQUIRE  (Aubrey},  his  son. 
The  YEOMAN,  his  servant. 
The  MONK. 
The  FRIAR  (Huberd}. 
The  MERCHANT. 
The  CLERK. 
The  MAN-OF-LAW. 
The  FRANKLIN. 
The  HABERDASHER,   1 
The  CARPENTER, 

The  WEAVER,  Members  of  a  Guild. 

The  DYER, 
The  TAPICER, 
The  COOK  (Roger  Hoggi). 
The  SHIPMAN  (Jack}. 
The  DOCTOR. 
The  PARSON  (Jankin). 
The  PLOUGHMAN. 
The  MILLER  (Bob  or  Robin). 
The  MANCIPLE. 
The  REEVE. 
The  SUMMONER. 
The  PARDONER. 

vii 


viii  DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

The  HOST  (Herry  Bailey}. 
The  CANON'S  YEOMAN. 
JOANNES,    > 

MARCUS,     \  The  Prioress's  Priests. 
PAULUS,     J 

WOMEN 

The  WIFE  OF  BATH  (Alisoun}. 
The  PRIORESS  (Madame  Eglantine}. 
A  NUN,  her  attendant. 
MISTRESS  BAII,EY,  of  the  Tabard  Inn. 

II.  CHARACTERS  NOT  BASED  ON  "THE  CANTERBURY  TALES." 

MEN 

RICHARD  II,  King  of  England. 

JOHN  OF  GAUNT,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  uncle  of  the  King,  brother-in-law 

of  Chaucer,  and  patron  of  Wycliffe. 
The  DUKE  OF  GLOUCESTER,  his  brother. 
DE  VERE,  Duke  of  Ireland,  Richard's  favourite. 
The  ARCHBISHOP  of  CANTERBURY. 

JOHN  WYCLIFFE,  the  religious  reformer,  founder  of  the  "  Lollards." 
BOTTLEJOHN,  Host  of  the  One  Nine-pin  inn,  at  Bob-up-and-down. 
His  PRENTICES  (Ned  and  Dick}. 
A  KITCHEN -BOY. 
A  VENDER  OF  RELICS. 
ANOTHER  VENDER. 
A  BLACK  FRIAR. 
A  GREY  FRIAR. 

A  PRIEST  OF  CANTERBURY  CATHEDRAL. 
HERALDS. 
CHOIR-BOYS. 

WOMEN 

JOHANNA,  Marchioness  of  Kent. 
CANTERBURY  BROOCH-GIRLS. 
SERVING-MAIDS. 

NOTE.  —  Those  designated  as  Alisoun's  "  Swains  "  are  the  Friar,  Cook,  Shipman, 
Miller,  Manciple,  Summoner,  Pardoner. 


ACT    FIRST 

| 

*  BIFEL  that,  in  that  seson  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Caunterbury,  with  ful  devout  corage, 
At  night  was  come  in-to  that  hostelrye 
Wei  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  companye 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  y-falle 
In  felawshipe,  and  pilgrims  were  they  alle, 
That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde." 


ACT   I 

TIME:  April  i6th,  1387.     Late  afternoon. 

SCENE:    The  Tabard   Inn  at  Southwark,  near 
London. 

When  the  scene  opens,  about  half  of  the  PILGRIMS  have 
arrived;  the  others  come  in  during  the  first  part 
of  the  act.  Those  already  arrived  are  the  MILLER, 
SHIPMAN,  COOK,  PARSON,  PLOUGHMAN,  FRANKLIN,  DOC 
TOR,  FRIAR,  HABERDASHER,  CARPENTER,  WEAVER,  DYER, 
TAPICER,  CLERK,  and  CHAUCER. 

At  rise  of  curtain,  the  HOST  is  just  moving  to  receive  the 
KNIGHT,  SQUIRE,  and  YEOMAN  at  the  door,  back. 
Chaucer  sits  with  a  big  volume  on  his  knee  in  the 
corner  by  the  fireplace,  left;  right  front,  the  Miller 
and  the  Cook  are  wrestling,  while  those  near  look  on. 

COOK 
Now,  masters,  see  a  miller  eat  bran ! 

MILLER 

Corpus ! 
I'd  liever  wrastle  with  a  butterfly. 

SHIPMAN 

Tackle  him  aft. 

FRANKLIN 

Grip,  mon. 

\They  clutch  each  other.'] 
B  i 


2  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

A  SERVING-MAID 
[Aside  to  Friar. ~\ 

A  diamond  pin  ? 

FRIAR 
[Lisps  slightly, ,] 

One  of  thy  glances  stick^d  through  my  heart ! 
[  Offers  her  the  pin.'] 

SERVING-MAID 
The  Master  is  not  looking  now. 

FRIAR 

A  bargain  ? 

[Maid  nods,  takes  the  pin,  and  hurries  off  to  serve  at  table. 
Friar  follows. ~\ 

HOST 
Welcome,  Sir  Knight ! 

KNIGHT 
Is  this  the  Tabard  Inn  ? 

HOST 
[Points  through  the  open  door  to  his  swinging  sign.~\ 

Lo  yonder,  sir,  is  Herry  Bailey's  shirt 

Flappeth  in  the  wind ;  and  this  is  Herry  himself. 

[Claps  his  hands  for  a  serving-boy. ~\ 
Knave ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  3 

WEAVER 

\_Pounds   on  the  table  with   a  jug,  while   Carpenter  tosses 

dice.~\ 

Ale,  here  !     Ale  ! 

\_A  shout  from  the  pilgrims,  front."] 

MILLER 
{Throwing  the  Cook.'] 

Down ! 
SHIPMAN 

Jolly  chuck ! 

COOK 
[Getting  to  his  feet  with  a  bloody  nose  and  fisting. ~\ 

'Sblood!     Thou- 

FRANKLIN 

Hold,  Master  Cook,  sith  thou  hast  licked  the  platter, 
Go  now  and  wash  the  gravy  off  thy  nose. 
Look  to  him,  doctor. 

DOCTOR 
Here! 

FRANKLIN 
\To  the  Miller^ 

And  thou  shalt  eat 
A  sop  of  wine  with  me.     By  God,  thy  hand ! 


4  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PARSON 

\_To  Ploughman,  drawing  him  awayJ] 
He  sweareth  like  Sathanas.     Come  ! 

PLOUGHMAN 

Toot,  brother ! 
A  little  swearing  saveth  from  the  gallows. 

MILLER 

[Laughing  at  the  Cook^\ 
His  nose  is  like  a  tart. 

CLERK 
\_To  Chaucer,  feasting  his  eyes  on  his  book.~\ 

Grant  pardon,  sir. 
In  vanitate  humanorum  rerum, 
F  the  world's  uproar,  'tis  sweet  to  find  a  scholar. 

CHAUCER 

A  book's  a  mistress  all  the  world  may  love 
And  none  be  jilted. 

CLERK 

Then  am  I  in  love. 
What  is  the  book  ? 

CHAUCER 

A  medley,  like  its  master, 
Containing  many  divers  characters, 
Bound  in  one  hide.     Whoso  shall  read  it  through 
He  shall  behold  Troilus  and  Launcelot 
Sighing  in  Caesar's  face,  and  Scaramouche 
Painting  with  grins  the  back  of  Aristotle. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  5 

CLERK 
[Sparkling.] 
What !  —  Aristotle  ? 

CHAUCER 
[Rising,  hands  him  the  volume.~\ 

I  prithee  look  it  through. 

CLERK 

Grammercy  —  somewhat  farther  from  the  piping. 

\_Draws  farther  away  from  the  Squire,  who  is  beginning  to 
play  a  few  strains  on  his  flute,  in  front  of  the  fire.  ~\ 

MAN   OF   LAW 
[Entering  with  MERCHANT.] 
For  this  recognisance  — 

MERCHANT 

The  ship  was  wrecked. 

MAN   OF   LAW 

Depardieux !     Then  your  property  is  flotsam 
And  liable  to  salvage.     Therefore  you 
Will  need  me  as  your  man  of  law. 

KNIGHT 
[To  Chaucer. ~\ 

I  knew 

You  were  a  soldier  by  your  bearing,  sir. 
You  were  at  Cressy  ? 


6  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

CHAUCER 

Nay,  Sir  Knight,  I  played 

With  tin  swords  then.     Though  I  have  often  fought 
At  Frenchmen's  heels,  I  was  but  six  years  old 
When  our  Black  Edward  won  his  spurs. 

KNIGHT 

Runs  time 
So  swiftly  ?  —  One  and  forty  years  ago ! 

HOST 
\_To  a  serving-maid^\ 

Belive,  wench ! 

FRIAR 

[Stealing  a  kiss  from  her^\ 
In  principio  — 

HOST 

What's  here  ? 

MAID 

The  gentle  friar ! 

HOST 

Gentle  flower-de-luce ! 
[Makes  after  Friar,  who  dodges  behind  MISTRESS  BAILEY.] 

MISTRESS   BAILEY 

\Shrewis  hly.~\ 

Hold,  goodman  Herry !     'Tis  a  friend  of  mine. 
[Host  retires  ;  Friar  mocks 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

KNIGHT 

I  am  returning  from  the  Holy  Land 
And  go  to  pay  my  vows  at  Canterbury. 
This  is  my  son. 

CHAUCER 

Go  you  to  Canterbury 
As  well,  Sir  Squire  ? 

[The  Squire,  putting  down  his  flute ',  sighs  deeply. ~] 

KNIGHT 

My  son,  the  gentleman 
Accosts  thee! 

SQUIRE 

Noble  gentleman  —  Ah  me ! 
\_He  turns  away.~\ 

CHAUCER 
\_Follows  him.~] 

My  dearest  heart  and  best  beloved  foe, 
Why  liketh  you  to  do  me  all  this  woe  ? 
What  have  I  done  that  grieveth  you,  or  said, 
Save  that  I  love  and  serve  you,  high  and  low? 
And  whilst  I  live  I  will  do  ever  so. 
Wherefore,  my  sweet,  do  not  that  I  be  dead ; 
For  good  and  fair  and  gentle  as  ye  be, 
It  were  great  wonder  if  but  that  ye  had 
A  thousand  thousand  servants,  good  and  bad : 
The  most  unworthiest  servant  —  I  am  he ! 


8  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

SQUIRE 

Sir,  by  my  lady's  grace,  you  are  a  poet 
And  lover,  like  myself.     We  shall  be  brothers. 
But  pardon,  sir,  those  verses  are  not  yours. 
Dan  Chaucer  wrote  them.    Ah,  sir,  know  you  Chaucer  ? 

CHAUCER 

Twelve  stone  of  him  ! 

SQUIRE 

Would  /  did  !     Is  he  not 
An  amorous  divinity  ?     Looks  he 
Like  pale  Leander,  or  some  ancient  god  ? 

CHAUCER 

Sooth,  he  is  like  old  Bacchus  round  the  middle. 

SQUIRE 

How  acts  he  when  in  love  ?     What  feathers  wears  he  ? 

Doth  he  sigh  oft  ?     What  lady  doth  he  serve  ? 

Oh! 

\At  a  smile  from  Chaucer,  he  starts  back  and  looks  at  him 
in  awe ;  then  hurries  to  the  Knight.  Chaucer  walks 
among  the  pilgrims,  talking  with  them  severally^ 

MILLER 
{To  Franklin.'} 
Ten  gallon  ale ?     God's  arms!     I  take  thee. 

MAN  OF  LAW 

What's 
The  wager  ? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  9 

FRANKLIN 

Yonder  door ;  this  miller  here 
Shall  break  it,  at  a  running,  with  his  head. 
The  door  is  oak.     The  stakes  ten  gallon  ale. 

SHIPMAN 

Ho,  then,  I  bet  the  miller  shall  be  drunk. 

MERCHANT 

What  bet? 

SHIPMAN 

Twelve  crown  upon  the  miller. 

MERCHANT 

Done. 

[At  the  door  appears  the  PRIORESS,  accompanied  by  a  NUN 
and  her  three  PRIESTS,  one  of  whom,  JOANNES,  carries  a 
little  pup.  The  Host  hurries  up  with  a  reverence.~\ 

HOST 

Welcome,  my  lady  dear.     Vouchsafe  to  enter 
Poor  Kerry  Bailey's  inn. 

PRIORESS 

Merci. 

HOST 
[To  a  setving-boy^\ 

Knave,  show 

My  lady  Prioress  to  the  blue  chamber 
Where  His  Majesty,  King  Richard,  slept. 


10  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 

Joannes, 

Mark,  Paulus,  stay !  have  you  the  little  hound 
Safe  ? 

JOANNES 

Yes,  my  lady. 

PRIORESS 

Carry  him  before, 
But  carefully. 

MILLER 
\_To  Yeoman.~\ 
Here,  nut-head,  hold  my  hood. 

YEOMAN 

Wilt  try  bareheaded  ? 

FRIAR 
'Mass! 

FRANKLIN 

Ho,  for  a  skull ! 

Miller,  thou  art  as  tough  a  knot  as  e'er 
The  Devil  tied.     By  God,  mine  ale  is  spilled. 

[  The  priests  and  Prioress  have  just  reached  the  door,  left 
front,  which  the  Miller  is  preparing  to  ram.~\ 

PLOUGHMAN 

The  door  is  locked. 

JOANNES 

But,  sir,  the  Prioress  — 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  1 1 

SHIPMAN 

Heigh  !     Clear  the  decks  ! 

[The  Miller,  with  clenched  fists,  and  head  doubled  over,  runs 
for  the  door.~\ 

YEOMAN 

Harrow ! 

PARSON 

Run,  Robin. 

GUILD-MEN 
[Rise  from  their  diceJ] 

Ho! 

[  With  a  crash,  the  Miller's  head  strikes  the  door  and  splits 
it.  At  the  shock,  he  rebounds  against  Joannes,  and 
reaching  to  save  himself  from  falling,  seizes  the  puppy, .] 

MILLER 

A  twenty  devils ! 

GUILD-MEN 

\_All  but  the  Weaver,  clambering  over  the  table.~] 
Come  on ! 

PLOUGHMAN 
[To  the  Miller, .] 

What  aileth  thee  ? 

MILLER 

The  priest  hath  bit  my  hand. 


12  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOANNES 

Sweet  sir,  the  puppy  — 
It  was  the  puppy,  sir. 

MILLER 

Wring  me  its  neck. 

PRIORESS 

Alas,  Joannes  —  help  ! 

MILLER 

By  Corpus  bones ! 
Give  me  the  cur. 

PRIORESS 

St.  Loy  !     Will  no  one  help  ? 

CHAUCER 

Madame,  what  may  I  do  ? 

PRIORESS 

My  little  hound  — 

The  churl  —  My  little  hound  !     The  churl  will  hurt  it. 
If  you  would  fetch  to  me  my  little  hound  — 

CHAUCER 

Madame,  I'd  fetch  you  Cerberus  from  hell. 

MILLER 

Lo,  masters  !     See  a  dog's  neck  wrung  ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  13 

CHAUCER 

[Breaking  through  the  crowd,  seizes  the  Miller  by  the  throat.'] 

Which  dog's  ? 

MILLER 

Leave   go  !  —  'Sdeath  !     Take   the   whelp,   a   devil's 
name. 

CHAUCER 

Kneel !     Ask  grace  of  this  lady  here. 

MILLER 

\_Sullenly.~] 

What  lady  ? 

CHAUCER 

Of  her  whom  gentles  call  St.  Charity 
In  every  place  and  time.  — 

[Turns  then  towards  Prioress. ,] 

What  other  name 

This  lady  bears,  I  have  not  yet  been  honoured 
With  knowing.  —  Kneel ! 

MILLER 
[Morosely;  kneels."] 

Lady,  I  axe  your  pardon. 

CHAUCER 
Madame,  your  little  hound  is  safe. 


14  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 

[Nestles  the  little  hound  with  tender  effusiveness  ;  then  turns 
shyly  to  Chaucer.~\ 

Merci  ! 
My  name  is  Madame  Eglantine. 

\_Hurries  out,  left^\ 


CHAUCER 
[Aside.] 

Hold,  Geoffrey  ! 

Yon  beastie's  quaking  side  thumped  not  as  thine 
Thumps  now.     And  wilt  thou  ape  a  little  hound  ? 
Ah,  Madame  Eglantine,  unless  ye  .be 
To  me,  as  well  as  him,  St.  Charity  ! 

FRANKLIN 

Who  is  the  man  ? 

MILLER 

The  Devil,  by  his  eye. 

They  say  King  Richard  hath  to  court  a  wrastler 
Can  grip  ten  men.     I  guess  that  he  be  him. 

COOK 
Ho  !  milksop  of  a  miller  ! 

MILLER 
[Seizing  him.~\ 

Say  it  twice  ; 
What? 

COOK 

Nay,  thou  art  a  bull  at  bucking  doors. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  15 

FRANKLIN 

Let  ribs  be  hoops  for  twenty  gallon  ale 
And  stop  your  wind-bags.     Come. 

MILLER 

[  With  a  grin,  follows  the  Franklin.~\ 

By  Corpus  bones ! 

SHIPMAN 

Twelve  crown. 

MERCHANT 

Twelve,  say  you  ?     See  my  man  of  law. 

WEAVER 

[Springs  to  his  feet.~\ 
The  throw  is  mine! 

DYER 

A  lie !     When  we  were  away 
You  changed  the  dice ! 

WEAVER 

My  throw  was  cinq  and  three. 

DYER 
A  lie !     Have  it  in  your  gullet ! 

[Draws  his  knife.     They  fight.~\ 

CARPENTER 

Part  them ! 

TAPICER 

Back! 


16  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

HOST 

Harrow  !     Dick  Weaver,  hold  !     Fie,  Master  Dyer, 
Here's  not  a  dyeing  stablishment ;  we  want 
No  crimson  cloth  —  Clap  hands  now  :     Knave,  more 
ale. 

CHAUCER 
[71?  the  Doctor.'} 

If  then,  as  by  hypothesis,  this  cook 
Hath  broke  his  nose,  it  follows  first  that  we 
Must  calculate  the  ascendent  of  his  image. 

DOCTOR 

Precisely  !     Pray  proceed.     I  am  fortunate 
To  have  met  a  fellow-doctor  at  this  inn. 

CHAUCER 

Next,  treating  him  by  magic  natural, 
Provide  him  well  with  old  authorities, 
As  Esculapius,  Diescorides, 
Damascien,  Constantinus,  Averrois, 
Hippocrates,  Serapion,  Razis, 
Bernardus,  Galienus,  Gilbertinus  — 

DOCTOR 

But,  sir,  the  fellow  cannot  read  — 

CHAUCER 

Why,  true ; 

Then  there  remains  but  one  sure  remedy, 
Thus :  bid  him,  fasting,  when  the  moon  is  wane, 
And  Venus  rises  in  the  house  of  Pisces, 
To  rub  it  nine  times  with  a  herring's  tail. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  17 

DOCTOR 
Yea,  Pisces  is  a  fish.  —  I  thank  you,  sir. 

\_He  hurries  off  to  the  Cook,  whose  nose  he  has  patched.~\ 

HOST 

\_To  the  Reeve,  who  enfers.~] 
God  save   thee,   Osewold !     What's  o'clock  ?     Thou 

look'st 
As  puckered  as  a  pear  at  Candlemas. 

REEVE 

There  be  too  many  folk  i'  the  world ;  and  none 
Is  ripe  till  he  be  rotten. 

[Sits  at  table.~\ 

Penny 'orth  ale ! 

SQUIRE 
My  lord,  father ! 

KNIGHT 
Well,  son  ? 

SQUIRE 
[Looking  at  Chaucer. ~\ 

Sir,  saw  you  ever 

So  knightly,  sweet,  and  sovereign  a  man, 
With  eyes  so  glad  and  shrewdly  innocent  ? 
O,  when  I  laid  my  hand  in  his,  and  looked 
Into  his  eyes,  meseemed  I  rode  on  horse 
Into  the  April  open  fields,  and  heard 
The  larks  upsinging  in  the  sun.     Sir,  have 
You  guessed  who  'tis  ? 


18  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

KNIGHT 

To  judge  him  by  his  speech, 
Some  valiant  officer. 

SQUIRE 
Nay,  /  have  guessed. 

\_A  merry  jingling  of  bells  outside.     Enter  the  Monk,  holding 
up  a  dead  swan.~\ 

MONK 

Soft !     Handle  not  the  fat  swan.     Give  it  me. 
Bailey,  I'll  learn  thy  cook  to  turn  a  spit. 

t  [Exit,  right.     Enter,  left,  Joannes."] 

CHAUCER 
{To  Ploughman.^ 

Aye,  man,  but  weather  is  the  ploughman's  wife 
To  take  for  worse  or  better.     If  thy  loam 
Be  thin,  and  little  snow,  which  is  the  best 
Manure,  then  thou  must  dung  thy  furrows  twice 
'Twixt  Michelmas  and  March. 

PLOUGHMAN 

Aye,  but  — 

JOANNES 

Sir  Knight, 
This  letter  .  .  . 

CHAUCER 
What !  from  whom  ? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  19 

PLOUGHMAN 

Toot !     Canst  thou  read,  mon  ? 

JOANNES 
This  letter,  sir,  my  Lady  Prioress  — 

CHAUCER 

From  Madame  Eglantine?     Waits  she  an  answer? 

JOANNES 

So  please  you,  sir. 

CHAUCER 

Sweet  saints ! 
[Takes  the  letter  and  reads,  aside. ~\ 

PLOUGHMAN 
[  Watches  Chaucer  curiously^. 

Aye,  'e  can  read  it. 

[Outside,  is  heard  the  distant  voice  of  the  Wife  of  Bath 
(ALISOUN)  ,  joined  in  chorus  by  the  PARDONER,  MANCIPLE, 
and  SUMMONER,  singing.'] 

ALISOUN 

When  folk  o'  Faerie 

Are  laughing  in  the  laund, 

And  the  nix  pipes  low  in  the  miller's  pond, 
Come  hither,  love,  to  me. 

[  Chorus.'] 

With  doe  and  with  dove, 
Come  back  to  your  love. 
Come  hither,  love,  to  me. 


20  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

CHAUCER ' 

[Reading  the  Prioress's  letter,  as  the  song  outside  sounds 
nearer. ~\ 

"Monsieur  Tinconnu  Chevalier  — 

These  greetings  shall  apprise  you  that  the  little 
hound  is  convalescent,  and  now  suffereth  from  noth 
ing  save  a  sore  necessity  for  nourishment.  Where 
fore,  being  cast  in  holy  pilgrimage  upon  this  revelous 
inn,  I  appeal  once  more,  gentil  monsieur,  to  your  hon 
ourable  chivalry,  of  which  I  beseech  you  this  favour,  to 
wit ;  that  you  shall  see  prepared  and  delivered  into  the 
hands  of  Joannes,  my  priest,  a  recipe  as  follows :  — 

One  ounce  of  wastel-bread,  toasted  a  pleasant 

brown ; 

One  little  cup  of  fresh  milk ; 
Soak  the  former  in  the  latter,  till  the  sand-glass 

shall  be  run  half  out ; 
Then  sprinkle  sparingly  with   sweet  root  of 

beet,  rubbed  fine. 

Serve  neatly. 

MADAME  EGLANTINE." 

SHIPMAN 

\_At  the  door,  to  Friar,  who  is  starting  to  flirt  with  a  third 
serving-maid.^ 

Hist !     Who's  yon  jolly  Nancy  riding  here, 
With  them  three  tapsters  tooting  up  behind  ? 

FRIAR 

By  sweet  St.  Cuthbert ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  21 

SHIPMAN 

Ha !  ye  ken  the  wench. 

FRIAR 

The  wench  ?     Oho  !     Thou  sayest  well.     List,  sir ; 

List,  gentle  Mariner !     Thy  wench  hath  been 

A  five  times  wedded  and  five  hundred  woo'd ; 

Hath  rode  alone  to  sweet  Jerusalem 

And  back  more  oft  than  Dick-the-Lion's-Heart; 

And  in  her  right  ear  she  is  deaf  as  stone, 

Because,  she  saith,  that  once  with  her  right  ear 

She  listened  to  a  lusty  Saracen. 

She  was  not  born  a-yesterday,  yet,  by 

The  merry  mass,  when  she  comes  in  the  door, 

She  maketh  sweet-sixteen  as  stale  as  dough. 

SHIPMAN 

She  looks  a  jolly  Malkin.     What's  her  name? 

FRIAR 

Dame  Alisoun,  a  cloth-maker  of  Bath. 

CHAUCER 

[Reading. ~\ 
"  P.S.     Let  not  the  under-side  be  toasted  as  brown  as 

the  upper. 
P. P.S.     The  milk  should  not  be  skimmed." 

[Laughs  to  himself. ~\ 

"  A  little  cup  of  milk  and  wastel-bread  !  " 
Haha  !  —  A  gentle  heroine  for  a  tale  ! 
My  heart  is  lost. 


22  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

\_To  Joannes,  who  is  trembling  at  the  Miller. ~\ 

What,  fellow,  art  thou  scared  ? 
Come  with  me  to  the  kitchen. 

JOANNES 
\_Follows  timidly.~\ 

Ben'cite !     [Exeunt.] 

[Outside  the  song,  "  Come  hither,  Love,"  bursts  into  chorus. 
Enter  the  WIFE  OF  BATH,  astride  a  small  white  ass, 
which  is  fancifully  caparisoned  like  a  fairy  creature. 
Spurs  jingle  on  the  Wife's  boots,  and  on  her  head  is  a 
great  round  hat.  Followed  by  the  SUMMONER,  PARDONER, 
and  MANCIPLE,  she  rides  into  the  middle  of  the  floor  and 
reins  up.~\ 

ALISOUN 

Whoa-oop  !  —  God  save  this  merry  company ! 

[A  commotion. ~\ 

By  God,  I  ween  ye  ken  not  what  I  am : 
I  am  the  jolly  elf-queen,  and  this  is 
My  milk-white  doe,  whereon  I  ride  as  light 
As  Robin  Good-boy  on  a  bumble-bee ; 
[Indicating  the  ass's  ears] 

These  be  his  wings.  - 

And  lo  —  my  retinue ! 
These  here  be  choir-boys  from  Fairy-land. 
Come,  Pardoner,  toot  up  my  praise  anon. 

PARDONER  AND  ALISOUN  [sing] 

When  sap  runs  in  the  tree, 

And  the  huntsman  sings  "  Halloo  !  " 

And  the  greenwood  saith  :  "  Peewit !  Cuckoo  !  " 

Come  hither,  love,  to  me. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  23 

SWAINS  AND  ALISOUN 

With  turtle  and  plover, 
Come  back  to  your  lover. 
Come  hither,  love,  to  me. 

ALISOUN 

Now,  lads,  the  chorus  ! 

[The  Swains  and  Alisoun,  joined  by  several  other  pilgrims, 
repeat  chorus.~\ 

MILLER 
Nails  and  blood  !     Again  ! 

FRIAR 

Encore ! 

ALISOUN 

Nay  lads,  the  song  hath  dried  my  whistle. 
The  first  that  fetches  me  a  merry  jug 
Shall  kiss  my  lily-white  hand. 
{The  Swains,  with  a  shout,  scramble  to  get  ale  of  the  tapster^ 

SWAINS 

Here,  ale  here !  ale ! 

HOST 

Slow,  masters  !     Turtle  wins  the  rabbit  race. 

MILLER 

[_  Offers  his  tankard,  tipsily.~\ 
Give's  thy  hand,  girl. 


24  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
Thou  art  drunk  !     Tis  empty. 

MILLER 

Well,  'tis  a  jug.     Ye  said  "  a  merry  jug." 

ALISOUN 

Pardee  !    I'll  keep  my  word.    • 

V 

MILLER 

[Grinning,  raises  his  face  to  her.~] 
A  kiss  ? 


ALISOUN 

A  smack 
\_Flings  the  tankard  at  his  head.~\ 


Harrow ! 


MILLER 
[Dodging  if."] 

THE  OTHER   SWAINS 

[Pell-mell.] 
Here  !  here  !    Take  mine  ! 


FRIAR 

Drink,  sweet  Queen  Mab ! 

[Re-enter  Chaucer  and  Joannes.     Chaucer  carries  in  his 
hand  a  crock.~\ 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  2$ 

ALISOUN 
\To  the  Friar.'} 

What,  Huberd,  are  ye  there  ?     Ye  are  too  late, 
All  o'  ye !     The  elf-queen  spies  her  Oberon. 
[  Wheeling  the  ass  to  confront  Chaucer '.] 

By  God,  sir,  you're  the  figure  of  a  man 
For  me.  —  Give  me  thy  name. 

CHAUCER 

Your  Majesty, 

This  is  most  sudden.     Dare  I  hope  you  would 
Have  me  bestow  my  humble  name  upon  you  ? 

ALISOUN 

Make  it  a  swap,  mon.     Mine  is  Alisoun, 
And  lads  they  ken  me  as  the  Wife  of  Bath ! 

CHAUCER 

My  name  is  Geoffrey.     When  the  moon  is  full, 
I  am  an  elf  and  skip  upon  the  green ; 
By  my  circumference  fairy-rings  are  drawn, 
And  lasses  ken  me  as  the  Elvish  Knight. 

SQUIRE 
[Aside.] 
Father,  'tis  he  —  the  poet  laureate ! 

KNIGHT 

Brother-in-law  to  John  of  Gaunt  ? 


26  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

SQUIRE 

The  same. 

SHIPMAN 

[Offers  his  mug  again. ~\ 
Take  this,  old  girl. 

ALISOUN 

The  devil  take  a  tar. 
[Snatches  the  crock  from  Chaucer's  hand.~] 
I'll  take  a  swig  from  Geoffrey's.  —  Holy  Virgin! 
What  pap  is  this  here  ?     Milk  and  wastel-bread  ? 

CHAUCER 

Nay,  'tis  a  kind  of  brew  concocted  from 
The  milky  way,  to  nurse  unmarried  maids. 

ALISOUN 

[Hands  it  back  quickly '.] 
Saints !     None  o'  that  for  me. 

CHAUCER 
\_Aside  to  Joanne s^\ 

Bear  it  to  your  mistress. 

ALISOUN 

\_Aside.~] 
Mistress  ?     Aha  !  —  A  woman  in  the  case. 

[Aloud.'} 

Give  us  your  hand,  Sir  Knight  o'  the  Wastel-bread, 
And  help  me  light  adown.  — 

What !     Are  ye  afeared 
To  take  me  in  your  arms  ? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  27 

CHAUCER 

Sweet  Alisoun, 

Thou  art  a  vision  of  the  ruddy  Venus 
Bright  pommelled  on  the  unspotted  Pegasus, 
And  I  am  Ganymede,  thy  stable  boy. 
{He  helps  her  to  alight.'} 

ALISOUN 
Well  swung  !     What  think  ye  of  my  jolly  heft  ? 

CHAUCER 

Thou  art  a  very  dandelion  seed 
And  I  thy  zephyr. 

MILLER 

\_To  the  Swains. ,] 
'Sblood  !     He  steals  our  wench. 

SQUIRE 

[Approaching  Chaucer  diffidently,  speaks  under  his  breath.~\ 
Great  Master  Chaucer. 

CHAUCER 

Hush !     Speak  not  my  name. 
{Takes  the  Squire  aside.'] 

ALISOUN 

Halloa  !  what's  struck  this  jolly  company  ? 
Ye're  flat  as  stale  ale.     Master  Summoner,  what's 
The  matter  now  ?     Ye  should  be  glad  at  heart 
To  wear  so  merry  a  bonfire  in  your  face. 


28  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

SUMMONER 
Was  it  for  this  I  sang,  "  Come  hither,  Love  "  ? 

COOK 

Aye,  was  it  for  this  ? 

ALISOUN 

What,  Roger  Hogge,  yourself  ? 
How  long,  bird,  have  you  worn  a  gallows-warrant 
Upon  your  nose  ? 

{The  others  hootJ] 

COOK 

As  long,  Dame  Alisoun, 
As  you  have  had  a  hogshead  for  a  sweetheart. 

ALISOUN 

Geoffrey,  ye  mean  ?     Ho  !     Are  ye  jealous  there  ? 
\To  the  Shipman.~\ 

Jack,  too,  and  hast  a  wife  to. home  at  Dartmouth  ? 
Hark,  lads !     This  Jealousy  is  but  a  ninny  ; 
For  though  there  be  a  nine-and-twenty  stars, 
Yet  Jealousy  stares  only  at  the  moon. 
Lo !  I  myself  have  made  a  vow  'twixt  here 
And  holy  Thomas'  shrine  to  twig  a  husband ; 
But  if  I  like  this  fellow  Geoffrey,  can't 
I  like  ye  all  ?     By  God,  give  me  your  fists ; 
And  I  will  tip  ye  a  secret. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  29 

\_Mysteriously. ~\ 

I  am  deef ! 

Ye  ken  all  great  folks  have  some  great  defect : 
Cupid  is  blind  and  Alisoun  is  deef ; 
But  Cupid  —  he  can  wink  the  t'other  eye, 
And  Alis  —  she  can  ope  the  t'other  ear. 

FRIAR 
Sweet  Alis,  which  is  deaf  ? 

ALISOUN 

I  said,  the  t'other. 

FRIAR 

Nay,  but  which  ear,  the  right  or  left  ? 

ALISOUN 

Love,  if 

Ye  guess  the  right  ye  won't  be  left :  how's  that  ? 
So,  fellows,  ye  can  knock  at  either  door ; 
And  while  Tom  standeth  scraping  the  front  mat, 
By  God  then,  Dick,  go  rap  at  the  side  porch ; 
The  t'other  door  is  locked ;  I  say  not  which. 

[Laughing  and  boxing  their  ears  as  they  try,  in  turn,  to  whis 
per  to  her,  she  leads  them  to  the  ale-barrel,  where  they 
drink, .] 

FRIAR 

Sweet  brethren,  drink  with  me  to  t'other  ear ! 
ALISOUN 

Here's  pot-luck  to  you  all,  lads ! 


30  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PARDONER 

[  Who  has  spread  out  his  relics  in  another  part  of  the  room.~\ 

Pardons !  pardons ! 

Offer  your  nobles  now ;  spoons,  brooches,  rings : 
Radix  malorum  est  cupiditas. 

CHAUCER 
\_Aside  to  Squire .] 

Pray,  speak  no  word  of  who  I  am.     I  ride 
To  Canterbury  now,  to  bid  farewell 
My  kinsman,  John  of  Gaunt.     But  on  the  road, 
I  travel  here  incognito. 

SQUIRE 

But,  sir, 

At  least,  beseech  you,  let  me  guard  your  person ; 
So  mean  an  inn,  such  raw  folk,  must  offend 
King  Richard's  royal  poet. 

CHAUCER 

Not  so,  lad. 

To  live  a  king  with  kings,  a  clod  with  clods, 
To  be  at  heart  a  bird  of  every  feather, 
A  fellow  of  the  finch  as  well  as  the  lark, 
The  equal  of  each,  brother  of  every  man : 
That  is  to  be  a  poet,  and  to  blow 
Apollo's  pipe  with  every  breath  you  breathe. 
Therefore,  sweet  boy,  don't  label  me  again 
In  this  good  company. 

SQUIRE 

I  will  not,  sir  — 
[Aside.] 
A  god  !     A  very  god ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  31 

PARDONER 

Here's  relics  !  pardons  ! 

Offer  your  nobles  now ;  spoons,  brooches,  rings  ! 
Lordings,  step  up !     Pardons  from  Rome  all  hot. 
\_A  crowd  gathers  round  him .] 

PARSON 

[Lifting  a  relic.'] 
What's  this? 

PARDONER 

That,  master,  is  the  shoulder-bone 
Of  a  sheep  once  slaughtered  by  a  holy  Jew. 
Take  heed,  lordings,  take  heed !     What  man  is  here 
That  hath  to  home  a  well  ? 

SEVERAL 

I!  I! 

PARDONER 

Pay  heed ! 

Let  any  man  take  this  same  shoulder-bone 
And  chuck  it  in  his  well,  and  if  he  own 
A  cow,  or  calf,  or  ass,  which  hath  the  pox, 
Take  water  from  that  well,  and  wash  its  tongue. 
Presto  !     It  shall  be  well  again. 

•PLOUGHMAN 
{To  the  Parson^ 

By  Mary, 
I'll  try  it  on  Mol. 


32  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PARDONER 

Hark,  lordings,  what  I  say ! 
If  also  the  goodman  that  owns  the  beasts 
Shall,  fasting,  before  cock-crow,  drink  three  draughts 
Of  that  same  well,  his  store  shall  multiply. 

PARSON 

My  word ! 

FRANKLIN 

Nay,  that's  worth  while. 

PARDONER 

List  what  I  say  ! 

Also,  if  any  wife  shall  boil  a  broth 
Of  this  same  bone,  it  healeth  jealousy. 

ALISOUN 

Ho !  give  it  me !     And  every  fellow  here 
Shall  suck  the  marrow-bone. 

PARDONER 

What  will  you  offer  ? 

ALISOUN 
\_Throws  a  kiss.~\ 
That's  all  ye  get  o'  me. 

PARSON 

I'll  give  a  florin. 

PARDONER 

Done,  Master  Parson.     Listen,  lordings,  list ! 

This  is  a  piece  o'  the  sail  St.  Peter  had 

When  he  walked  on  the  sea ;  and  lo !  this  cloth  — 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  33 

ALISOUN 
A  pillow-case ! 

PARDONER 

This  is  the  Virgin's  veil. 
And  in  this  crystal  glass  behold  — 

ALISOUN 

Pig!s  bones ! 

[Slaps  Chaucer  on  the  shoulder.~\ 
What,  Geoffrey  lad  !     Which  will  ye  liever  kiss, 
A  dead  saint's  bones,  or  a  live  lass  —  her  lips  ? 
[Enter,  Z.,  the  Prioress. ,] 

CHAUCER 

Why,  Alisoun,  I  say  all  flesh  is  grave-clothes, 
And  lips  the  flowers  that  blossom  o'er  our  bones ; 
God  planted  'em  to  bloom  in  laughter's  sunshine 
And  April  kissing-showers. 

[Laughing,  he  kisses  Alisoun  and  faces  the  Prioress."] 

St.  Charity ! 

ALISOUN 

Haha !     That  time  I  had  thee  on  the  rump. 
[She  calls  the  Friar  aside,  R.~] 

PRIORESS 
[Starting  to  go.~] 
Je  vous  demande  pardong,  Monsieur. 


34  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

CHAUCER 

Madame, 
Qu'est  ce  que  je  puis  faire  pour  elle  ? 

PRIORESS 

Rien,  rien. 

CHAUCER 

Madame,  mais  si  vous  saviez  comme  je  meurs 
De  vous  servir  — 

PRIORESS 

You  speak  patois,  Monsieur; 
/  studied  French  in  Stratf ord-at-the-Bowe. 

CHAUCER 
Your  accent  is  adorably  —  unique. 

PRIORESS 

[/$•  about  to  melt,  but  sees  Alisoun.~] 
And  you  a  gentilhomme  —  at  least  I  thought  so 
Whenas  you  saved  my  little  hound  —  Ah,  sir ! 

CHAUCER 

Adam  was  our  first  father :  I'm  her  brother. 

PRIORESS 

You  meant  no  more  ? 

CHAUCER 

Her  brother  and  your  servant, 
Madame.     And  for  the  rest,  I  ride  to  Canterbury : 
I  will  absolve  me  at  St.  Thomas'  shrine. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  35 

PRIORESS 
\_Eagerly.~] 
Go  you  to  Canterbury  ? 

CHAUCER 

With  the  rest. 

PRIORESS 

Oh  !     I  am  glad  —  that  is,  I  came  to  ask  you. 
Know  you,  Monsieur,  where  lies  upon  the  way 
A  little  thorp  men  call  Bob-up-and-down  ? 

CHAUCER 

Right  well  —  we  pass  it  on  the  road. 

PRIORESS 

We  do  ? 
Merci. 

[Going.'] 

MILLER 

[Amid  uproar,  drinks  to  Alisoun.~] 
Lend  me  thy  t'other  ear. 

[Startled,  the  Prioress  returns  to  Chaucer.     Behind  them, 
the  Friar,  at  a  sign  from  Alisoun,  listens  unobserved.~\ 

PRIORESS 

You  see  — 

I  expect  to  meet  my  brother  on  the  road. 
He  is  returning  from  the  Holy  Land ; 
I  am  to  meet  him  at  the  One  Nine-pin, 
A  tavern  at  Bob-up-and-down.     But  — 


36  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

CHAUCER 

But? 

PRIORESS 

I  have  not  seen  him  since  I  was  a  child. 
I  have  forgotten  how  he  looks. 

CHAUCER 

He  is 

Returning  from  the  Holy  Land  ? 

PRIORESS 

And  has 

His  son  with  him,  for  squire.     He  is  a  knight. 

CHAUCER 

[Aside,  looking  at  the  Knight  and  Squire, .] 
A  son  —  his  squire  ?     Good  Lord  ! 

PRIORESS 

And  so,  Monsieur, 

I'm  boldened  by  your  courtesy  to  ask 
Your  help  to  find  him  at  Bob-up-and-down, 
Till  which  —  your  kind  protection  on  the  road. 
\_More  uproar,  R.~\ 

CHAUCER 
But  — 

PRIORESS 

Have  I  asked  too  much  ? 

CHAUCER 

.  Madame,  I  am  honoured 

\_Hesita  tingly .  ] 
How,  then,  am  I  to  recognise  your  brother? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  37 

PRIORESS 

He  wears  a  ring,  on  which  is  charactered 
The  letter  "A,"  and  after,  writ,  in  Latin, 
The  same  inscription  as  is  fashioned  here 
Upon  my  brooch.     I  may  not  take  it  off, 
For  I  did  promise  him  to  wear  it  always. 
But  look,  sir,  here's  the  motto.     Can  you  read  it  ? 
{She  extends  her  hand,  from  the  bracelet  of  which  dangles  a 
brooch ;     The  Friar  draws  nearer, .] 

CHAUCER 
I  thank  you. 

{Reads.] 

"  Amor  vincit  omnia." 

{Looking  at  her.~\ 
"  Love  conquers  all." 

PRIORESS 

C'est  juste,  Monsieur.     Adieu  ! 

{Exit,  Z.] 

FRIAR 

{Making  off  to  Alisoun^\ 
Hist !  "  Amor  vincit  omnia,"  Sweet  Alis  ! 
{After  talking  aside  with  Alisoun  he  goes  to  the  Knight.  ] 

CHAUCER 

{Aside,  looking  at  the  Knight  and  Squire.'] 
A  morning's  canter  to  Bob-up-and-down  ! 
"Till  which  —  my  kind  protection  on  the  road." 
When  last  they  met,  she  was  a  little  child ; 
Besides,  I  will  make  verses  for  his  son. 


38  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

A  morning's  canter  —  time,  the  month  of  April  — 
Place,  Merry  England  —  Why  not  Lord  Protector 
Geoffrey  ?     Her  brother  !     What's  a  suit  of  armor? 
Nay !     "  Amor  vincit  omnia." 

\Turns  away.~\ 

FRIAR 
\_To  the  Knight,  whose  finger-ring  he  examines."} 

How  quaint,  sir! 
A  crowned  "A"  and  underneath  a  motto. 

KNIGHT 
Quite  so. 

FRIAR 

Merci ! 

\_Returns  quickly  to  AlisounJ] 

ALISOUN 
Her  brother  —  the  One  Nine-pin  ? 

FRIAR 

To-morrow. 

ALISOUN 

Good. 

FRIAR 

Sweet  Alisoun  —  my  pay  ? 

ALISOUN 

Saith  holy  Brother  Huberd  ?     Love's  reward 
Is  service. 

[Aside,  eyeing  Chaucer,  who  passes  her.~\ 

Corpus  Venus  !     What  a  figure  ! 
I'll  woo  him.     Ay ;  but  first  to  rid  me  of 
These  other  fellows. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  39 

{To  the  Friar. ~\ 

Hist! 

In  Peggy's  stall  — 

Peggy's  my  milk-white  doe  —  in  Peggy's  stall, 
Thou' It  find  another  jolly  beggar,  waits 
To  dun  me. 

FRIAR 

Ho  !     A  rendezvous  ? 

ALISOUN 

A  trysting. 

Go,  for  my  love,  and  play  the  wench  for  me, 
And  nab  him  by  the  ears  until  I  come. 

FRIAR 
St.  Cupid,  I  am  game.     In  Peggy's  stall  ? 

[Exit.] 

\_Alisottn  whispers  aside  individually  to  the  Shipman  and 
Manciple,  who  exeunt  at  different' doors. ~\ 

CARPENTER 

Sack  ?     Sack  in  the  cellarage  ? 

WEAVER 

Come  on,  let's  tap  it. 

\_Exeunt  with  a  number  of  others .] 

SUMMONER 

[At  table,  trying  to  risej] 
Qu  —  questio  quid  juris  ? 

COOK 

Now  he's  drunk 
You'll  get  no  more  from  him  but  "  hie,  hac,  hoc." 


40  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

{Aside  to  the  Miller^ 
And  hold  him  till  I  come. 

MILLER 

In  Peggy's  stall  ? 

His  ears  shall  be  an  ell  long  !  —  Pull  his  ears  ! 
[Exit.] 

CLERK 

[Dazedly  to  Chaucer,  returning  him  his  book.~\ 
I  thank  you,  sir.     Is  this  the  Tabard  Inn  ? 
So  then  I'm  back  again.     Such  mighty  voyages 
The  mind  sails  in  a  book  ! 

\_He  walks  slowly  forth  into  the  air.     Chaucer  sits  again  by 
the  fireplace,  with  the  book  on  his  knees.  ~\ 

ALISOUN 
{Aside  to  the  Cook.'} 

Hold  fast,  and  wait. 

COOK 
In  Peggy's  stall  ? 

ALISOUN 

Aye. 

COOK 

Ears  for  nose,  Bob  Miller. 


CHAUCER 
[Aside.] 

In  Peggy's  stall, 
"  Love  conquers  all." 

{Except  for  the  drunken  Summoner,  Alisoun  and  Chaucer 
are  now  alone.] 


THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  41 

ALISOUN 

\_To  the  Summoner,  lifting  his  head  from  the  table. "\ 
Ho,  cockerel !     Perk  up  thy  bill. 

SUMMONER 

Quid  juris  ? 
ALISOUN 

Cluck !     Cluck !      How  pretty   Red-comb  chucketh. 

Hark! 
[Throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck,  she  whispers  in  his  ear.~\ 

SUMMONER 

A  pax !     What  did  a'  say  ?     A  pax  upon  him. 
A'  said  a'd  pull  my  ears  —  in  Peggy's  stall  ? 
By  questio  !    a  brimstone-cherub  —  me ! 

[Rising.] 

Quid  juris  !     Blood  shall  spurt.     By  quid  !     His  nose 
Shall  have  a  pax.     By  nails  !     A  bloody  quid  ! 
[Seizing  up  from  the  table  a  round  loaf  for  a  shield  and  a 
long  loaf  for  a  sword,  he  reels  out.~\ 

ALISOUN 
[Laughing."] 

So,  Peggy,  they  shall  woo  thy  lily-white  hoof, 
While  Alisoun  doth  keep  her  rendezvous. 

[  Comes  over  to  Chaucer •.] 
Ho,  candle !     Come  out  from  thy  bushel. 

CHAUCER 
r 'Peering  over  the  edge  of  his  book.~\ 

Nay, 
Tis  a  dark  world  to  shine  in ;  I  will  read. 


42  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

A  book !  Toot !  My  fifth  husband  was  a  clerk  ; 
He  catched  more  learning  on  his  head  than  in  it. 
What  is't  about  ? 

CHAUCER 

The  wickedness  of  woman. 

ALISOUN 

A  man,  then,  wrote  it.     If  you  men  will  write, 
We  wives  will  keep  ye  busy.     Read's  a  snack. 

CHAUCER 

\_Pretending  to  read.~\ 

"  Whoso  that  builds  his  mansion  all  of  mallows, 
Whoso  that  spurs  his  blind  horse  over  the  fallows, 
Whoso  that  lets  his  wife  seek  shrines  and  hallows, 
Is  worthy  to  be  hanged  on  the  gallows.", 

ALISOUN 
Chuck  that  to  another  dog.     My  man  is  dead. 

CHAUCER 
\_Impertu  rbably^\ 

"  A  lovely  woman,  chaste,  is  like  a  rose  ; 
Unchaste,  a  ring  of  gold  in  a  sow's  nose." 

ALISOUN 

Lo,  what  a  pretty  preaching  pardoner ! 
"  Offer  your  nobles  now  ;  spoons,  brooches,  rings  !  " 
Cork  up  thy  froth,  a  devil's  name !     Come,  play. 


THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  43 

CHAUCER 

"  Better  it  is  to  dwell  high  on  the  roof 
Than  down  i'  the  house  where  woman  wields  reproof." 
O  what  a  list  of  ladies  !     What  a  world ! 
Hark,  Alisoun  !  and  after  thou  hast  heard, 
Repent,  and  cease  to  be  a  woman.     Hark ! 
"  Who  first  obeyed  the  snake's  advice,  to  thieve 
The  apple  from  God's  Eden  ?  —  Mother  Eve." 

ALISOUN 
That's  Adam's  whopper.     He  stole  it  and  hid  in's 

throat : 
Feel  o'  your  own  ;  the  apple  sticks  there  yet. 

CHAUCER 
[Dramatically.  ] 

"  Who  from  great  Samson's  brow  hath  slyly  shorn 
His  strength  ?     Delila,  answer  to  thy  scorn. 
O  Hercules !     What  woman-shaped  chimaera 
Gave  thee  the  poisoned  cloak  ?     Thy  Deianira. 
O  pate  of  Socrates !     Who  from  the  steepy 
Housetop  upset  the  slop-pail?     Thy  Xantippe  ! 
Yea,  speeding  her  lover  through  the  dark  finestra, 
Who  hath  her  husband  slain,  but  Clytemnestra ! 
Thou,  too,  O  Cleopatra — " 

ALISOUN 
[Tearing  a  page  out  of  the  book,  boxes  Chaucer  on  the  cheek.^ 

Hold  thy  gab ! 
A  devil  fetch  thy  drasty  book ! 


44  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

CHAUCER 

Hold,  hold, 
Dame  Alls!  gentle  Alisoun  — 

[Recovers  the  torn  page. ~\ 

ALISOUN 

Hoot-toot ! 

Are  ye  so  dainty  with  a  dirty  parchment 
And  so  slipshod  to  smirch  our  reputations  ? 
You    men !      God's    arms !      What   ken    ye   of   true 

women  ? 

You  stuff  one  doll  and  name  it  Modesty, 
And  bid  her  mince  and  giggle,  hang  her  head 
And  ogle  in  her  sleeve ;  another  poppet 
You  make  of  snow  and  name  St.  Innocence : 
She  sits  by  moonlight  in  a  silver  night-gown 
And  sighs  love-Latin  in  a  nunnery. 
By  Corpus  bones  !  is  not  a  mare  a  horse  ? 
A  woman  is  but  man ;  and  both  one  beast  — 
A  lusty  animal,  for  field  or  harness. 
But  no  !  ye  sanctify  a  squeamish  mule  ; 
And  when  an  honest  wench,  that  speaks  her  mind, 
Meets  a  fine  lad  and  slaps  him  on  the  buttock, 
And  says  out  plat :  "  Thou  art  a  man  :  I  love  thee  —  " 
She  is  a  sinner,  and  your  doll  a  saint. 

CHAUCER 

Alis,  thou  speak' st  like  one  in  jealousy. 

ALISOUN 

Why,  Geoffrey,  so  I  am.     To  tell  thee  flat, 
I'm  jealous  of  thy  Lady  Prioress. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  45 

CHAUCER 
Peace,  dame.     Speak  not  her  name  with  mine. 

ALISOUN 

Aye,  go  it, 

Miss  Innocence  and  Master  Modesty  ! 
How's  that  ? 

CHAUCER 

Dame  Alisoun,  it  is  enough. 

ALISOUN 

Why,  then,  it  is  enough.     Come,  lad  ;  clap  hands. 
I  am  a  bud  of  old  experience, 

Whom  frost  ne'er  yet  hath  nipped.  In  love,  I've  danced 
The  waltz  and  minuet.     Therefore,  sweet  Geoffrey, 
This  Prioress  wears  a  brooch  upon  her  wrist. 

CHAUCER 
Well,  what  of  that  ? 

ALISOUN 

Yea,  "  What  of  that  ?  "     Good  soul ! 
She  stops  to-morrow  at  Bob-up-and-down. 

CHAUCER 

How  knowest  thou  ? 

ALISOUN 

Nay,  t'other  ear  is  wise. 
At  the  One  Nine-pin  she  shall  meet  — 

CHAUCER 

Her  brother. 


46  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
What  wilt  thou  bet  she  goes  to  meet  her  brother  ? 

CHAUCER 
Why,  anything. 

ALISOUN 

Hear  that !     As  though  a  veil 
Were  perfect  warrant  of  virginity. 
What  wilt  thou  bet  she  goeth  not  to  meet 
Her  leman  —  aye,  her  lover  ? 

CHAUCER 

Thou  art  daft. 
ALISOUN 

Lo,  subtle  man !     He  robs  a  poor  wife's  wits 
To  insure  his  lady's  honour. 

CHAUCER 

Tush,  tush,  dame. 

The  very  brooch  she  wears,  her  brother  gave  her, 
For  whose  sake  she  hath  even  promised  never 
To  take  it  off. 

ALISOUN 
Wilt  bet  me  ? 

CHAUCER 

Bet  away ! 

ALISOUN 

Ho,  then,  it  is  a  bet,  and  this  the  stakes  : 

If  that  my  Lady  Prioress  shall  give 

Yon  brooch  of  gold  from  off  her  pretty  wrist, 

Unto  the  man  whom  she  expects  to  meet^ 

And  that  same  man  prove  not  to  be  her  brother, 

Then  thou  shalt  marry  me  at  Canterbury. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  47 

CHAUCER 

A  twenty  of  thee,  dame.     But  if  thou  lose 
The  stakes,  then  thou  shalt  kneel  a-down  and  kiss 
Yon  brooch  of  gold  upon  her  pretty  wrist, 
And  pray  the  saints  to  heal  thy  jealousy. 

ALISOUN 
Aye,  man,  it  is  a  bet ;  and  here's  my  fist. 

CHAUCER 

And  here's  mine,  Alis ;  thou  art  a  good  fellow. 

\_An  uproar  outside.~\ 
What  row  is  this  ? 

ALISOUN 

Here  comes  my  rendezvous. 

[Enter  in  tumult,  the  Friar,  Miller,  Cook,  Shipman,  Sum- 
moner,  and  Manciple,  holding  fast  to  one  another's  ears. 
They  call  out,  partly  in  chorus.~\ 

FRIAR 

He's  nabbed,  sweet  Alisoun. 

MILLER 

Here  is  the  lousel. 

SUMMONER 
I've  got  his  quids. 

COOK 

I  stalled  him. 

ALISOUN 

Hang  fast,  hold  him ! 
Ho  !  fetch  him  down.    \_Laughing.~]    O  Geoffrey,  here's 

a  wooing ! 

CHAUCER 

Yea  ;  "  Amor  vincit  omnia." 


48  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALL  THE  SWAINS 

Here  he  is ! 

ALISOUN 

Leave  go. 

\_They  let  go  ears.~] 

Where  is  the  knave  ? 

ALL 

[Pointing  at  one  another. ~\ 
There. 

ALISOUN 

Which  one  ? 

ALL 

[Pointing  at  one  another. ~\ 

Him 
ALISOUN 

So,  so !     Hath  Peggy  jilted  all  of  ye, 
That  took  such  pains  to  grow  you  asses'  ears  ? 
Fie  !     Peg's  a  jade  —  come  back  to  Alisoun  ; 
She'll  learn  ye  the  true  dance  of  love. 

ALL 

The  devil ! 

CHAUCER 

Nay,  Robin  Huberd,  Roger  —  lads,  chirk  up. 
These  be  the  thorny  steps  of  Purgatory 
That  lead  ye  to  your  Beatrice  of  Bath. 
When  ye  attain  unto  her  t'other  ear  — 
[They  groan. ~] 

FRIAR 

We  have  attained  unto  it. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  49 

ALISOUN 
{To  Chaucer.'} 

Go  thy  ways ! 
{Draws  them  aside.~\ 

Come  here,  sweethearts  !     Hark  !     I  have  made  a  bet 
With  goodman  Geoffrey  yonder.     Him  as  helps 
Me  best  to  win  my  bet,  by  God !  he  shall 
Make  merry  for  my  marriage.     Come,  which  fellow 
Will  help  me  ? 

ALL 

I! 

ALISOUN 

The  best  shall  make  me  bride. 
{A  kitchen-boy  blows  a  horn.~\ 

BOY 

{Shouts.] 

Meat! 

{Servants  enter  with  steaming  trenchers  ;  the  other  pilgrims 
come  in  and  seat  themselves  at  the  table.  The  Prioress 
stands  hesitating.  Chaucer  goes  to  meet  her.  ~\ 

HOST 

{Rises  on  a  bench^\ 
Lordings,  who  goes  to  Canterbury  ? 

ALL 

I! 

CHAUCER 

[  Offers  his  arm  to  the  Prioress?^ 
Madame,  will  you  vouchsafe  to  me  the  honour? 


50  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 

[  With  a  stately  courtesy. ~\ 
Merci. 

ALISOUN 

[Imitating  the  Prioress,  takes  his  other  arm.~\ 
Merci ! 

[  Chaucer  escorts  them  both  to  the  table,  where  he  sits  between 
them.'} 

HOST 

Lordings !     Now  hearkneth  to  a  merry  game. 
To-morrow  when  you  canter  by  the  way 
It  is  no  mirth  to  ride  dumb  as  a  stone. 
I  say  —  let  every  fellow  tell  a  tale 
To  short  the  time,  and  him  as  tells  the  best 
You'll  give  a  supper  here  when  ye  return. 
Lo  !   I  myself  will  ride  with  you  and  judge. 
If  ye  assent,  hold  up  your  hands. 

ALL 

Aye !     Aye ! 

HOST 

To-morrow  then  to  Canterbury ! 

ALL 

To  Canterbury ! 

[Amid  the  babbling  din  of  eating,  drinking,  and  laughter, 
Alisoun  leans  across    Chaucer's  trencher  towards   the 

Prior ess.~\ 

ALISOUN 

Who  is  the  lean  wench,  Geoffrey  ? 

PRIORESS 

By  St.  Loy ! 
Explicit  pars  prima. 


ACT   SECOND 

"  WHAN  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  sote 
The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the  rote, 
And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  licour, 
Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour ; 
Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne, 
And  smale  fowles  maken  melodye, 
That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  ye, 
(So  pricketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages)  : 
Then  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages." 


ACT    II 

TIME:  April  igth.     The  afternoon. 

SCENE  :  Garden  of  the  One  Nine-pin  inn  at 
the  little  hamlet  of  Bob-up-and-down,  en 
route  to  Canterbury. 

Right,  the  inn,  with  door  opening  into  garden.  Back,  a  wall 
about  chin-high  in  which  is  a  wicket  gate.  The  wall  is 
newly  greened  over  with  honeysuckle  and  rose-vines, 
which  are  just  beginning  to  blossom.  Left,  an  arbour 
of  the  same.  Right  front,  a  rough  table  and  chair. 
Behind  the  garden  wall  runs  the  highway,  beyond  which 
stretches  a  quiet  rolling  landscape,  dotted  with  English 
elms  and  hedgerows. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  the  scene  is  empty.  There  is  no  sound 
except  the  singing  of  birds,  and  the  hum  of  a  loom  inside 
the  inn.  Then,  away  to  the  left,  is  heard  a  bagpipe  playing. 
It  draws  nearer.  Behind  the  wall,  then,  against  the  green 
background  of  Spring,  pass,  in  pageant,  the  CANTERBURY 
PILGRIMS  on  horseback.  Among  the  last,  astride  her 
ambler,  rides  the  WIFE  OF  BATH,  telling  her  tale,  in  the 
group  with  CHAUCER  and  the  PRIORESS.  Behind  her 
follow  the  Swains,  the  MILLER  playing  the  bagpipe. 
Last  rides  the  REEVE. 

Behind  the  scene,  they  are  heard  to  stop  at  the  inn  and  call 
for  hostlers.  The  bustle  of  arrival,  horses  led  across  a 
stone  court,  laughter  and  abuse,  —  these  sounds  are  suf- 
53 


54  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ficiently  remote  to  add  to  the  reigning  sense  of  pleasant 
quietness  in  the  garden.  Through  the  door  of  the  inn 
enters  CHAUCER,  alone;  in  his  hand,  some  parchments. 
He  enters  with  an  abandon  of  glad-heartedness,  half 
reading  from  his  parchments. 

CHAUCER 

"  When  that  April  with  his  sunny  showers 
Hath  from  the  drought  of  March  the  dreamy  powers 
Awaked,  and  steeped  the  world  in  such  sweet  wine 
As  doth  engender  blossoms  of  the  vine ; 
When  merry  Zephirus,  with  his  soft  breath, 
In  every  hedge  and  heath  inspireth 
The  tender  greening  shoots,  and  the  young  Sun 
Hath  half  his  course  within  the  Ram  y-run, 
And  little  birds  all  day  make  melody 
That,  all  night  long,  sleep  with  an  open  ee, 
(So  Nature  stirs  'em  with  delicious  rages) 
Then  folk  they  long  to  go  on  pilgrimages  —  " 

SQUIRE 

\_Comes  from  the  inn.~\ 
Dan  Chaucer !     Master  Chaucer  ! 

CHAUCER 

Signorino  ! 
SQUIRE 

Sir,  what  a  ride !     Was  ever  such  a  ride 
As  ours  from  London  ?     Hillsides  newly  greened, 
Brooks  splashing  silver  in  the  small,  sweet  grass, 
Pelt  gusts  of  rain  dark'ning  the  hills,  and  then 
Wide  swallowed  up  in  sunshine !     And  to  feel 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  55 

My  snorting  jennet  stamp  the  oozy  turf 

Under  my  stirrup,  whilst  from  overhead 

Sonnets  shook  down  from  every  bough.     Oh,  sir, 

Rode  Caesar  such  a  triumph  from  his  wars 

When  Rome's  high  walls  were  garlanded  with  girls  ? 

CHAUCER 

Boy,  let  me  hug  thee ! 

SQUIRE 

Noble  sir ! 

CHAUCER 

\_Embracing  him.~\ 

A  hug! 

Spring  makes  us  youths  together.     On  such  a  day 
Old  age  is  fuddled  and  time's  weights  run  down. 

Hark  f 

\_A  cuckoo  sounds  ;  they  listen.~\ 

The  meadow  is  the  cuckoo's  clock,  and  strikes 
The  hour  at  every  minute ;  larks  run  up 
And  ring  its  golden  chimes  against  the  sun. 

SQUIRE 

Sir,  only  lovers  count  the  time  in  heaven. 
Are  you  in  love,  too  ? 

CHAUCER 

Over  head  and  heart, 

SQUIRE 
Since  long  ? 

CHAUCER 
These  forty  years. 


56  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

SQUIRE 

Nay,  is  your  mistress 
So  old? 

CHAUCER 

She's  still  kind. 

SQUIRE 

Kind,  yet  old  !     Nay,  what's 
Her  name  ? 

CHAUCER 
Hush,  she  will  hear  thee. 

SQUIRE 

Hear  me  ? 

CHAUCER 
\_Afysteriousfy.~] 

Hush! 

Mine  own  true  mistress  is  sweet  Out-of-doors. 
No  Whitsun  lassie  wears  so  green  a  kirtle, 
Nor  sings  so  clear,  nor  smiles  with  such  blue  eyes, 
As  bonny  April,  winking  tears  away. 
Not  flowers  o'  silk  upon  an  empress'  sleeve 
Can  match  the  broidery  of  an  English  field. 
No  lap  of  amorous  lady  in  the  land 
Welcomes  her  gallant,  as  sweet  Mistress  Earth 
Her  lover.     Let  Eneas  have  his  Dido ! 
Daffydowndilly  is  the  dame  for  me. 


Joannes ! 


PRIORESS 
[Within.] 


THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  57 

SQUIRE 

You  are  happy,  sir,  to  have 
Your  mistress  always  by  you.     Mine's  afar 
Turning  the  Italian  roses  pale  with  envy. 

CHAUCER 

She  dwells  in  Italy  ? 

SQUIRE 

In  Padua. 

CHAUCER 

In  Padua  ?     Why,  there  I  knew  Dan  Petrarch, 
Whose  sonnets  make  the  world  love-sick  for  Laura. 

SQUIRE 

Would  I  could  make  it  sigh  once  for  my  lady ! 
Sir,  will  you  help  me  ? 

CHAUCER 
Gladly  ;  what's  her  name  ? 

SQUIRE 

Alas  !     Her  name  is  not  poetical : 
Johanna !     Who  can  sonnetize  Johanna  ? 

CHAUCER 

Invent  her  one  to  please  you. 

SQUIRE 

Euphranasia  — 
How  like  you  Euphranasia,  sir  ? 


$8  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

FRIAR 
[Aside,  popping  his  head  from  behind  the  wall.~] 

Qui  la  ? 
[Dodges  down  again. ~] 

PRIORESS 
[  Within,  singing.~\ 

Laudate,  pueri,  Dominum  ;  laudate  nomen  Domini ! 
Nay,  Paulus,  I  will  sing  :  'tis  pretty  weather. 

SQUIRE 
Euridice  or  Helena  ? 

PRIORESS 
[Sings  within .] 

A  solis   ortu   usque    ad   occasum,    laudabile   nomen 
Domini. 

SQUIRE 
Or,  Thisbe  ? 

CHAUCER 

\_Lifting  a  sprig  of  honeysuckle  on  the  wall.~\ 
Nay,  boy,  this  spray  shall  name  her. 

[The  Friar  peeps  over  the  wall  again. ~] 

SQUIRE 

Eglantine ! 

Music  itself !     Methinks  I  have  an  aunt 
Named  Eglantine.     What  matter  ?  —  Eglantine  ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  59 

CHAUCER 

I'll  match  that  name  against  the  Muses  nine. 
[Takes  out  his  parchments] 

SQUIRE 
What!  verses? 

CHAUCER 

Scraps  of  prologue  to  a  book 
I  think  to  call  "The  Canterbury  Tales." 
Good  boy,  leave  me  a  bit  ;  I  have  the  fit 
To  rhyme  for  a  time  thy  Donna  Eglantine. 
Come  back  at  chapel-bell,  or  send  someone 
To  fetch  the  verses. 

SQUIRE 

Sir,  I  will. 

[Exi 


FRIAR 

Me  voila  ! 
[Exit  right,  behind  wall.] 

CHAUCER 

[Reading  from  one  of  his  parchments,  crosses  over  by  the 
arbour] 

"  There  was  also  a  nun,  a  prioress, 

That  of  her  smiling  was  full  simple  and  coy  ; 

The  greatest  oath  she  swore  was  '  by  St.  Loy  !  ' 

And  she  was  cleped  Madame  Eglantine  ; 

Full  daintily  she  sung  the  psalms  divine  ; 

And  French  she  spake  (St.  Patrick  taught  her  how), 

After  the  school  of  Stratford-at-the-Bowe. 


60  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

Full  prettily  her  wimple  pinched  was, 

Her  nose  piquante ;  her  eyes  as  grey  as  glass ; 

Her  mouth  full  small,  and  thereto  soft  and  red ; 

In  very  sooth  she  had  a  fair  forehead  ; 

And  dangling  from  her  dainty  wristlet  small, 

A  brooch  of  gold  she  wore,  and  therewithal 

Upon  it  there  was  writ  a  crowned  A, 

And  after  — 

\_Enter,  right,  the  Prioress,  carrying  her  little  hound.     Chau 
cer  sees  her.~\ 

Amor  vincit  omnia." 
\_He  enters  the  arbour.~\ 

PRIORESS 

Joannes,  stay  indoors  and  tell  your  beads. 
[To  her  little  hound.'} 

Jacquette,  ma  petite,  it  is  a  pretty  day. 

See  you  those  clouds  ?     They  are  St.  Agnes'  sheep ; 

She  hath  washed  their  wool  all  white  and  turned  'em 

loose 

To  play  on  heaven's  warm  hillside.     Smell  that  rose  ? 
Sweet — sweet!  n'est  ce  pas,  ma  petite?     Hast  ever 

heard 
The  Romance  of  the  Rose  ? 

CHAUCER 
{Aside.'} 

Saints ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  6l 

PRIORESS 

Tis  a  tale 

As  lovely  as  the  flower,  —  writ  all  in  verses 
Dan  Chaucer  made  at  court.      Hush,  hush,  don't  tell : 
I've  read  it.     Ah!  Jacquette  !  Jacquette  !  Jacquette  ! 
When  Mary  was  a  girl  in  Joseph's  garden, 
Were  there  such  pretty  days  in  Palestine  ? 
\_Picks  a  rose.~\ 

CHAUCER 

Gods  !  must  I  hand  her  over  —  to  a  brother ! 
Alas !  the  sands  of  dreams,  how  fast  they  slip 
Till  Geoffrey  lose  his  Lord-protectorship. 

PRIORESS 

[Plucking  the  rose's  petals  till  the  last  petal  falls. ~\ 
Pater  noster  (our  Father),  qui  es  in  ccelis  (which  art 
in  heaven),  sanctificetur  nomen  tuum  (hallowed  be  thy 
name).    Adveniat  regnum  tuum  (thy  kingdom  come) ; 
fiat  voluntas  tua  —  thy  will  be  done  ! 

CHAUCER 

Amen  !     I  must  resign  ! 

\_He  is  about  to  step  out  from  the  arbour  and  discover  him 
self,  but  pauses  as  the  Prioress  continues.] 

PRIORESS 

Alas !     We  must  go  seek  my  brother  and  so 
Quit  the  protection  of  this  noble  stranger. 
You  know,  Jacquette,  we  must  be  fond  of  him. 
He  saved  your  life  —  we  mustn't  forget  that. 


62  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

And  though  the  wastel-bread  was  underdone, 
He  was  most  kind  at  table,  and  inquired 
After  your  health,  petite.     And  though  he  kissed 
The  ale-wife  —  oui,  ma  pauvre  Jacquette  !  —  yet  he 
Is  contrite,  and  will  seek  St.  Thomas'  shrine 
For  absolution. 

CHAUCER 

Forgive  us  our  trespasses ! 

PRIORESS 

He  was  so  courteous,  too,  upon  the  road 
I'm  sure  he  is  a  gentleman.     Indeed, 
I  hope  my  brother  proves  as  true  a  knight, 
When  he  arrives. 

CHAUCER 

Deliver  us  from  temptation  ! 
\_A  shout  from  the  pilgrims  within .] 

PRIORESS 

Would  he  were  here  now.  —  Nay,  I  mean — the  other. 
This  April  day  flowed  sweet  as  a  clear  brook 
Till  these  hoarse  frogs  jumped  in  to  rile  its  silver. 

SWAINS  . 
[Sing,  within.~\ 
The  Wife  of  Bath 

She's  a  good  fellow, 
A  maiden  mellow 
Of  Aftermath. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  63 

PRIORESS 
Vite,  vite,  ma  petite. 

[She  has  fens  to  the  arbour,  where  Chaucer  quickly  pretends  to 
be  absorbed  in  writing.  As  she  is  withdrawing  hastily, 
however,  he  turns  round. ~\ 

Monsieur,  excusez  moi ! 

CHAUCER 

Madame,  the  fault  is  mine ;  I  crave  your  pardon. 

PRIORESS 
What  fault,  Monsieur  ? 

CHAUCER 
[Breaks  a  spray  from  the  arbour  and  hands  it  to  her.~\ 

I  trespass  in  your  bower. 
Permettez. 

PRIORESS 

Honeysuckle  ? 

CHAUCER 

So  'tis  called ; 
But  poets,  lady,  name  it  —  eglantine. 

PRIORESS 

M'sieur ! 

CHAUCER 

May  I  remain  and  call  it  so  ? 


64  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 
M'sieur  —  this  is  Jacquette,  my  little  hound. 

[  Chaucer  takes  the  pup  ;  they  retire  farther  into  the  arbour, 
as  the  WIFE  OF  BATH  enters  from  the  inn.  She  is  accom 
panied  by  the  FRIAR,  MILLER,  COOK,  SUMMONER,  PAR 
DONER,  MANCIPLE,  and  SHIPMAN,  who  enter  singing.  They 
lift  her  upon  the  table,  and  form  a  circle  round  her.~] 

SWAINS 

The  Wife  of  Bath 

She's  a  good  fellow, 

A  maiden  mellow 
Of  Aftermath. 

She  cuts  a  swath 

Through  sere-and-yellow ; 
No  weeping  willow 

Bestrews  her  path. 

Her  voice  in  wrath 

Is  a  bullock's  bellow  ; 

For  every  good  fellow 
Eyes  she  hath. 

She's  a  good  fellow, 
The  Wife  of  Bath  ! 

ALISOUN 

Sweethearts,  your  lungs  can  blow  the  buck's  horn.  — 

Robin, 
Ye  sing  like  a  bittern  bumbling  in  the  mire. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  6$ 

MILLER 

By  Corpus,  'twas  a  love-toot. 

FRIAR 

Prithee,  sweet  dame, 
Finish  your  tale. 

ALL 

Finish  the  tale. 
\^Other  pilgrims  enter  from  the  inn.~\ 

ALISOUN 

Shut  up,  lads.     Sure,  my  wits  are  gone  blackberrying. 
Where  was  I  ? 

FRIAR 

Where  King  Arthur's  knight  came  home, 
You  said,  and  -*• 

ALISOUN 

Will  you  let  me  say  it  then  ? 

FRIAR 

Sweet  dame,  you  said  — 

ALISOUN 

A  friar  and  a  fly 

Will  fall  in  every  dish,  that's  what  I  said. 
Lads,  will  ye  hear  this  church-bell  ring,  or  me  ? 

ALL 
You  —  you  — 

SUMMONER 

I'll  muffle  his  clapper. 


66  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

Hark  my  tale : 

This  knight  rode  home  a-whistlin'  to  himself, 
Right  up  the  castle-hall,  where  all  the  lords 
And  ladies  sat.     "  Your  majesties,"  quoth  he, 
"  Though  I  be  hanged,  this  is  my  true  reply : 
Women  desire  to  do  their  own  sweet  wills." 

{The  Swains  dap.~\ 

"  Ho  !  "  cried  King  Arthur,  "  that's  the  best  I've  heard 
Since  I  was  first  henpecked  by  Guinevere. 
Depart !     Thy  neck  is  free  !  " 

But  at  that  word, 

Up  sprang  an  old  wife,  sitting  by  the  fire, 
And  says  :    "  Merci,  your  Majesty,  'twas  I 
That  taught  this  answer  to  the  knight ;  and  he 
Hath  sworn  to  do  the  next  thing  I  require. 
Therefore,  sweet  knight,  before  this  court  I  pray 
That  ye  will  take  me  to  your  wedded  wife. 
Have  I  said  false  ?  " 

"  Nay,  bury  me,"  quoth  he. 
"Then  I  will  be  thy  love." 

"  My  love  ?  "  quoth  he. 
"  Nay,  my  damnation  !  " 

"  Take  your  wife  to  church," 
Cries  out  the  King,  "  and  look  ye  treat  her  well, 
Or  you  shall  hang." 

MILLER 

Ho !     What  a  roast ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  67 

PRIORESS 

[  Aside.'] 

Poor  man ! 

ALISOUN 

The  knight  he  spake  no  word,  but  forth  he  takes 
His  grizzly  bride  to  church,  and  after  dark 
He  leads  her  home.     "Alas!  sweet  husband  mine, 
What    troubleth    you?"     quoth    she.       "Nothing," 

quoth  he. 

"  Perchance  that  I  am  old  ? "  "  Nay,  nay,"  quoth  he. 
"Ugly  and  old,"  quoth  she,  "cures  jealousy." 
"  It  doth  indeed,"  quoth  he.  "  What  then  ?  "  quoth  she. 
"  Are  ye  content  ?  "     "  More  than  content,"  quoth  he ; 
"  And  will  ye  let  me  do  my  own  sweet  will 
In  everything  ?  "     "  In  everything,"  quoth  he, 
"  My  lady  and  my  love,  do  as  you  please." 
"Why,  then,  so  please  me,  strike  a  light,"  quoth  she. 
And  when  the  knight  had  lit  the  candle,  lo ! 
His  grizzly  bride  —  she  was  the  Fairy  Queen. 
[Loud  acclamation^ 

PRIORESS 

\Aside.~] 
Praise  heaven ! 

FRIAR 

\_Into  whose  arms  Alisoun  jumps. ~\ 
Bravo,  Queen  Mab,  it  was  thyself. 

COOK 

I'll  bet 
The  knight  was  her  fifth  husband. 


68  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

Welcome  the  sixth ! 
God  made  me  the  King  Solomon  of  wives. 

SHIPMAN 

[  To  the  Miller,  who  begins  to  play  his  pipes. ~\ 
God  save  thee,  Robin !     Bust  thy  pigskin. 

ALISOUN 

Aye! 
Let's  have  an  elf  dance.     Come  ! 

\_To  the  Summoner.~\ 

Thy  arm,  sweet  Puck ! 

BOTTLEJOHN 

\_To  Herry  Bailey ',  who  is  looking  on.~] 
Tarry  ye  all  to-night  ? 

HOST 

Aye,  till  to-morrow. 

BOTTLEJOHN 
'Twill  be  a  pinch  for  room. 

HOST 
\_Laughs.~] 

But  not  for  reckonings. 

\_The  Miller,  sifting  on  the  wall,  plays  his  bagpipe,  while 
Alisoun  dances  with  her  Swains,  each  of  whom  is  jealous 
of  the  rest.  Chaucer  and  the  Prioress  still  remain  out 
of  sight  in  the  arbour.  As  the  music  grows  merrier, 
the  Prioress  begins  to  click  the  beads  of  her  rosary 
rhythmic  ally. ~\ 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  69 

CHAUCER 
Why  do  you  tell  your  beads,  Madame  ? 

PRIORESS 

To  keep 
The  fairies  from  my  feet. 

CHAUCER 

The  fairies  ? 

PRIORESS 

Yes, 

The  bagpipe  sets  them  free.      I  feel  them  twitch  me. 

CHAUCER 

Why  drive  them  away  ? 

PRIORESS 
Monsieur ! 

CHAUCER 

See  you  the  birds  ? 
St.  Francis  taught  that  we  should  learn  of  them. 

PRIORESS 
What  do  they  ? 

CHAUCER 

Sing,  and  dance  from  bough  to  bough. 
The  Muses  sing ;  and  St.  Cecilia  danced. 

PRIORESS 

Think  you  she  danced,  sir,  of  her  own  sweet  will  ? 


70  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

CHAUCER 
Nay,  not  in  April !     In  April,  'tis  God's  will. 

PRIORESS 

Monsieur  — 

[  Gives  Chaucer  her  hand  shyly. ~\ 

'tis  April. 

[  They  dance,  in  stately  fashion,  within  the  arbour.  Forget 
ting  themselves  in  the  dance,  however,  they  come  a  little 
too  far  forward;  Alisoun  spies  them,  and  clapping  her 
hands,  the  music  stops.~\ 

ALISOUN 

Caught !     Ho,  turtle-doves  ! 
Come  forth,  Sir  Elvish  Knight,  Sir  Oberon ! 
Fetch  forth  thy  veiled  nymph,  that  trips  so  fair. 
[  Chaucer  steps  forth  from  the  arbour.     The  Prioress,  within, 
seizes  up  her  little  hound  from  a  settle  and  hides  her 

face.-}    ^ 

ALL 

Hail! 

CHAUCER 

Silence,  loons  !     And  thou,  wife,  hold  thy  tongue 
And  know  thy  betters.     As  for  you,  ye  lummocks, 
You  need  be  proud  as  water  in  a  ditch 
To  glass  this  lady's  image  even  in  your  eyes, 
So,  look  ye  muddy  not  her  sandal-tips. 
Begone  !     And  mind  when  next  you  laugh  the  same, 
That  all  the  saints,  to  whom  you  bumpkins  pray, 
Dance  with  the  Virgin  round  the  throne  of  God. 
Begone,  and  do  your  reverences. 
[Some  of  the  pilgrims  retire ;  others  remain  staring  and  bow 

as  the  Prioress,  veiled,  crosses  over  to  the  inn  door  with 

her  little  hound.~\ 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  71 

ALISOUN 

{To  the  Cook.'] 

Hist,  Roger! 

What  is  the  man  ? 

COOK 


No  cheap  dough. 

PRIORESS 


O  Jacquette  ! 


ALISOUN 

{Approaches  Chaucer  tentatively^ 
God  save  thee,  man  !     I  ken  not  who  thou  art, 
But  him's  can  curry  down  a  ticklish  mare 
Like  me,  he  hath  a  backbone  in  his  bolster  ; 
I  love  thee  better  for  't.  —  Ay,  gang  thy  gait  ; 
But,  bully  Geoffrey,  mind,  we  have  a  bet  : 
Yea,  if  I  fry  thee  not  in  thine  own  grease 
And  cry  thee  tit  for  tat,  call  me  a  man. 
Man  lives  for  wit,  but  woman  lives  by  it.  — 
These  dancing  virgins  ! 

{Exit,  followed  by  Friar.  ~\ 

CHAUCER 

Clods  and  bumpkins  all 

MILLER 

{Gets  in  Chaucer's  way  defiantly.  ~\ 
Sir  Oberon  — 

CHAUCER 

Stand  by  ! 


/2  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

MILLER 

Lord  Rim- Ram- Ruff  ! 
He  plays  the  courtier. 

\JBitterty.] 

Harkee,  Monsieur  Courtier, 
"When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman  ?  " 

CHAUCER 

Why,  Monsieur  Snake ;  he  cherished  the  family  tree 
As  the  apple  of  his  eye.     In  view  of  which, 
Go  drink  a  pot  of  cider. 

[Throws  the  Miller  a  coin.~] 

MILLER 
\_Ducking.~\ 

'Save  your  Worship  ! 
\_Exitwith  Swains. ~\ 

CHAUCER 

[Solus.] 

"  When  Adam  delved  "  — who  was  court-poet  then  ? 
Adam.     Who  was  Bob  Clodhopper  ?     Why,  Adam. 
Which,  then,  in  that  close  body  politic 
Perked  high  his  chin?     Which  doffed  and  ducked 

the  knee  ? 

Which  tanned  and  sweat  in  the  lean  furrow  ?    Which 
Spat  on  the  spade  —  and  wore  it  in  his  crest  ? 
Which  was  the  real  Adam  ?     Sly  Dame  Clay, 
If  paradox  died  not  in  Genesis, 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  73 

Let  me  not  fancy  Richard's  laureate 

Alone's  incognito.     Incognito 

Are  all  that  pass  in  nature's  pilgrimage, 

For  thou,  with  loamy  masks  and  flesh-tint  veils, 

Dost  make  us,  in  this  timeless  carnival, 

Thy  dupes  and  dancers,  ushering  the  courtier 

To  kiss  beneath  thy  glove  the  goose-girl's  hand, 

Or  snub,  behind  the  poor  familiar  rogue 

And  clown,  some  god  that  hides  in  Momus'  mask. 

Nay,  but  not  she  —  my  gentle  Prioress  ! 

Though  all  the  rest,  in  born  disguisements,  be 

Basted  and  togg'd  with  huge  discrepancy, 

She  wears  the  proper  habit  of  her  soul. 

Dear  God !  how  harmony  like  hers  unchains 

Delight  from  the  lugg'd  body  of  Desire 

To  sing  toward  heaven  like  the  meadow-lark, 

Till,  with  her  parting,  it  drops  dumb  again 

In  the  old  quag  of  flesh. 

Flesh,  Geoffrey  !     Fie ! 

What  need  to  guard  from  sight  the  poet  in  thee 
When  nature  thus  hath  hoop'd  and  wadded  him 
With  barracoons  of  paunch  ?     What  say,  thou  tun  ? 
Will  Eglantine  mistake  thee  for  Apollo, 
Thou  jewel  in  the  bloated  toad ;  thou  bagpipe 
Puff'd  by  the  Muse;  thou  demijohn  of  nectar; 
Thou  grape  of  Hebe,  over-ripe  with  rhyme ; 
Thou  lump  of  Clio,  mountain  of  Terpsichore ; 
Diogenes,  that  talkest  in  thy  tub ! 
Fie,  Mother  Earth  !  —  Cling  not  about  my  waist 
As  if  I  were  a  weanling  sphere.     Fall  off ! 
Ye  gods !  that  kneaded  this  incongruous  dough 


74  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

With  lyric  leaven,  sweat  me  to  a  rake-handle 
Or  let  the  Muse  grow  fat  ! 


FRIAR 

[Outside,  sings.  ~\ 
Ye  pouting  wenches,  pretty  wives, 

That  itch  at  weddings,  fairs,  and  wakes, 
For  trothal-rings  and  kissing-cakes, 
For  wristlets,  pins,  and  pearled  knives, 

Hither  trip  it  ! 

To  peep  i'  the  friar's  farsed  tippet, 
Who  gently  for  sweet  sinners'  sakes  — 
\_Enter  the  Friar  and  AZisoun.] 

ALISOUN 
Hush! 

[  Going  to  the  cellar-door,  she  opens  it  and  ponders  •.] 

FRIAR 
Ben'cite  ! 

(Thus  singeth  he.) 
Bene  —  benedicite  ! 

ALISOUN       . 

Hold  thy  cock-crow  !     My  wit's  working. 

FRIAR 

Nay, 
Thy  jealousy,  sweet  dame. 

\_Sings.-] 

Ye  lasses  jilted,  lovers  drooped, 
Rose-lip  — 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  75 

ALISOUN 

Shut  up ! 

FRIAR 
[Sings  on.~\ 

Rose-lip,  White-brow,  Blue-eye,  Brown-tress, 
Confide  your  pretty  hearts  !     Confess 
To  the  pleasant  friar :  trust  not  Cupid  — 

ALISOUN 

By  Peter ! 
I  have  the  plan  ! 

FRIAR 

[Sings.'] 
Love  is  a  liar, 

But  lovers  love  the  pleasant  friar, 
Who,  making  of  their  burdens  less — 
[Here  he  approaches  Alisoun  caressingly,  and  deftly  steals  a 
gold  pin  from  her  head-dress •.] 

ALISOUN 

[Laughing  to  her  self. ~\ 
Ha !  that  shall  win  my  bet ! 
What,  Huberd! 

FRIAR 
[Secreting  the  pin.~\ 

Ben'cite ! 

(Thus  singeth  he.) 
Bene  —  benedicite ! 

ALISOUN 
Wilt  thou  hear  my  plan  ? 


76  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

FRIAR 

Fair  Alls, 
I  would  console  thy  jealousy. 

\ 
ALISOUN 

Me  jealous ! 
Blest  be  thy  breech !     Who  of  ? 

FRIAR 
[Imitating  Chaucer  in  his  former  speech.~\ 

"  And,  thou,  wife,  hold 
Thy  tongue  and  know  thy  betters." 

ALISOUN 

Ho !  my  betters? 

That  little  snipper-snapper  of  a  saint 
He  praised  for  dancing  ring-around-the-rose-tree, 
When   honest  wives  are  damned  for  showing  their 

ankles  ? 

A  fig  for  her  !  —  What,  him  !  a  walking  hay-cock 
That  woos  a  knitting-needle  of  a  nun  ! 
And  me !  that  when  I  was  to  home  in  Bath 
Walked  into  kirk  before  the  beadle's  wife  : 
My  betters  ?     Wait  until  I  win  my  bet ! 

FRIAR 

What  bet  ? 

ALISOUN 
Canst  thou  be  mum  ? 

FRIAR 

Dame,  I  have  been 
A  bishop's  valet,  a  nun's  confidant, 
A  wife's  confessor,  a  maid's  notary  ; 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  77 

As  coroner,  I've  sat  in  Cheapside  inns 

When  more  than  wine  flowed.     This  breast  can  be 

dark 
As  Pharaoh's  chamber  in  the  pyramids. 

ALISOUN 

List  then :  Ye  wot  I  made  a  bet  last  night 
With  Geoffrey.     This  was  it :  Dame  Eglantine, 
Here  at  this  inn,  expects  to  meet  her  brother  - 

FRIAR 
You  mean  —  Dan  Roderigo. 

ALISOUN 

Aye ;  but  as 

She  hath  not  seen  him  since  she  was  a  child, 
She  hath  not  recognised  him.     He,  ye  ken, 
Doth  wear  a  ring  wi'  a  Latin  posy  in't. 

FRIAR 

I  know;  'tis  "Amor  vincit  omnia," 
The  same  as  on  her  brooch. 

ALISOUN 

There  hangs  my  bet. 

For  if  Dame  Eglantine  shall  give  yon  brooch 
Into  the  hands  of  any  but  her  brother, 
Then  Geoffrey  marries  me  at  Canterbury. 

FRIAR 

Diable !     Marries  thee  ? 


78  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

What  then,  dear  friend  ? 

Wouldst  thou  forswear  thy  celibate  sweet  vows 
To  buckle  on  a  wife  ? 

FRIAR 

Nay,  dame,  a  sister. 

ALISOUN 

A  sister  of  St.  Venus'  house  ?     Go  pray  ! 
A  husband  is  my  holy  pilgrimage, 
And  Geoffrey  is  my  shrine. 

FRIAR 

Et  moi  ? 

ALISOUN 

"Etmoi?" 

Thou  art  a  jolly  incubus.     Thou  shalt 
Help  me  to  catch  my  bird. 

\_Enter  the  Miller  by  the  wicket  gate '.] 

FRIAR 

Et  done  ? 

ALISOUN 

"Etdonc?" 
Why,  then,  I'll  give  a  farthing  to  the  friars. 

FRIAR 
Nay,  dame,  the  coin  of  Cupid  is  a  kiss. 

[Pleading.] 
One  kiss  pour  moi.  —  At  Canterbury  —  un  baiser ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  79 

MILLER 

[Seizing  the  Friar.~\ 
One  pasty,  eh  ?  thou  shorn  ape  ! 

FRIAR 

[Screams. ~\ 

Alisoun  ! 

MILLER 

By  Corpus  bones,  I'll  baste  thee  ! 

ALISOUN 

Let  him  be ! 
Shame  !     Wouldst  thou  violate  a  modest  friar  ? 

MILLER 

He  asked  thee  for  a  — 

ALISOUN 

Baiser.     Baiser  means 
In  Latin  tongue  a  blessing.     Not  so,  Huberd  ? 

FRIAR 

Dame,  from  thy  lips,  it  meaneth  Paradise. 

MILLER 
\_Imitating  him.~\ 

Doth  it  in  thooth,  thweet  thir  ?  —  Thou  lisping  jay  ! 
Thou  lousy  petticoats ! 

ALISOUN 
[Suddenly  embracing  the  Miller ;  whispers  to  him.'} 

Whist !    Robin,  thou 

Art  just  in  the  nick.     I  haye  a  plan.     Run  fast; 
Fetch  here  the  other  lads,  and  bring  a  gag. 


80  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

MILLER 
A  gag  ?     For  him  ? 

ALISOUN 
Run  quick. 

MILLER 

[Going.] 

By  Corpus  arms ! 

FRIAR 

[Taunting.] 

Mealy  miller,  moth-miller, 

Fly  away ! 

If  Dame  Butterfly  doth  say  thee  nay, 
Go  and  court  a  caterpillar  ! 

MILLER 

[Laughing,  shakes  his  fist, ,] 
Ha,  ha !     By  Corpus  bones  ! 

[Exit  at  gate] 

ALISOUN 

Now,  bird ;  the  plot. 

I've  sent  him  for  a  gag. 

FRIAR 

A  gag  ?     What  for  ? 

ALISOUN 

To  win  my  bet,  of  course.     Tis  for  this  knight. 

FRIAR 

Thou  wilt  not  gag  a  knight  —  the  Prioress* 
Brother ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  8 1 

ALISOUN 

Hast  thou  forgot  I  bet  with  Geoffrey 
The  man  that  wears  the  ring  will  prove  to  be 
Dame  Virtue's  lover  ? 

FRIAR 

He  that  wears  the  ring  ? 
Methinks  I  smell :   but  who's  your  man  ? 

ALISOUN 

Sweet  owl, 

The  sunlight  hurts  thine  eyes,  thou  starest  too  hard. 
[Blindfolding  his  eyes  with  her  hands,  she  whirls  him  thrict 

round.~\ 
Behold  him. 

FRIAR 

\_Dizzify.~\ 
Where  ? 
\_Alisoun  slaps  her  own  shoulder^\ 

What,  thou  ?     O  ecce  homo  ! 
Thou  wilt  enact  the  lover  and  the  knight 
And  woo  Dame  Eglantine  ? 

ALISOUN 

Who  else  ?     Forsooth, 
I  am  a  shapely  crusader.     This  leg 
Hath  strode  a  palfrey  thrice  to  Palestine. 
I've  won  my  spurs. 

FRIAR 

Thou  wit  of  Aristotle. 
O  Helen  of  Troy  !     O  Amazon  !     I  catch  : 
Thou  gaggest  the  real  knight  and  bear'st  him  off 
Where  thou  mayst  steal  his  ring  and  togs. 


82  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

And  borrow 

A  false  beard  from  thy  tippet.     Thou  shalt  be 
My  valet,  and  retouch  the  Wife  of  Bath 
To  play  the  Devil  in  the  Mystery. 

FRIAR 

But  where'll  be  thy  boudoir  ? 

ALISOUN 

The  cellar  yonder. 

Bob  Miller  and  the  other  lads  shall  gag 
And  tie  him  there. 

FRIAR 

Why,  this  is  merrier  than 
Nine  wenches  ducking  in  a  Hallow-een  bowl. 

\_Doubling  over  with   laughter,  he   almost  knocks  against 
Chaucer,  who  enters,  left,  meditative. ~\ 

Whist !    Geoffrey !     Come  away. 

CHAUCER 

\Readsfrom  a  parch ment.~\ 
"April,  May, 

Cannot  stay ; 

We  be  pilgrims  —  so  are  they, 
And  our  shrine, 
Far  away —  " 

\_A  bell  sounds  outside  ;   Chaucer  pauses,  and  draws  out  a 
pocket  sun-dial \] 

The  chapel  bell ! 

Four,  by  my  cylinder.     My  signorino 
Will  claim  his  verses  ! 

[Reads  on^\ 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  83 

"  And  our  shrine, 

Far  away, 

Is  the  heart  of  Eglantine/' 
[Pauses  and  writes.~\ 

ALISOUN 
[Aside  to  Friar. ~\ 

Eglantine  !     What's  this  ? 
FRIAR 

Love  verses.     He  hath  writ  them  for  the  Squire 
To  give  unto  his  lady-love  Johanna. 

ALISOUN 
But  he  said  "  Eglantine." 

FRIAR 

Aye,  dame ;  he  dubs 
Her  Eglantine  to  be  poetical. 

ALISOUN 

A  poet !     Him  ? 

FRIAR 

Why  not  ?     Jack  Straw  himself 
Could  ring  a  rhyme,  God  wot,  till  his  neck  was  wrung. 

CHAUCER 

[Reads.] 

"  Eglantine, 

O  to  be 

There  with  thee, 

Over  sea, 

In  olive-shaded  Italy." 

Too   rough.     "Shaded"    is   harsh.      H'm !    "Olive- 
silvered." 
"In  olive-silvered  Italy."  —  That's  better. 


84  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

FRIAR 

\To  Alisoun.~] 
Hide  there ! 

ALISOUN 

What  now  ? 

FRIAR 

Watch. 
[The Friar  approaches  Chaucer  obsequiously^ 

CHAUCER 
[Reads.] 

"  There  to  pray 
At  thy  shrine  —  " 

FRIAR 

Benedicite ! 
The  blissful  martyr  save  you,  sir. 

CHAUCER 

And  you. 
FRIAR 

The  gentle  Squire  sent  me  for  — 

CHAUCER 

His  verses  ? 
They  are  just  finished. 

\_Folds  them  up.~\ 

FRIAR 

Sir,  you  see,  he  hailed  me 
Passing  upon  the  road.     He  lies  out  yonder 
Along  a  brookside,  sighing  for  his  lady. 

CHAUCER 

\_Handing  the  parchment  to  the  FriarJ] 
Bid  him  despatch  her  these.     Here,  wait ;  this  spray 
Of  eglantine  goes  with  them. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  85 

FRIAR 

Save  you,  sir. 

[The  Friar  starts  for  the  wicket  gate.  Chaucer,  absent- 
minded,  passes  on  to  the  inn  door.  As  he  does  so,  the. 
Friar,  treading  tip- toe  behind  him,  steals  another  parch 
ment,  which  is  sticking  from  his  pouch. ~\ 

CHAUCER 

"  April,  May, 

Cannot  stay ; 

We  be  pilgrims  —  so  are  they." 
'[JSM] 

FRIAR 

[Stands  holding  the  second  parchment,  from  which  he  reads. ~\ 
"  There  was  also  a  nun,  a  prioress, 
That  of  her  smiling  was  full  simple  and  coy ; 
The  greatest  oath  she  swore  —  " 

Blessed  be  larceny ! 

This  rhyme  is  slicker  to  have  up  my  sleeve 
Than  five  aces  of  trumps. 

ALISOUN 
[Joining  him.~] 

What's  up  ? 

FRIAR 

List,  dame ! 

Of  human  hearts  I  am  an  alchemist. 
To  stir  them  in  the  crucible  of  love 
Is  all  my  research  and  experiment ; 
And  but  to  find  a  new  amalgam  makes 
My  mouth  to  water  like  a  dilettante's. 


86  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
Well  ? 

FRIAR 

Geoffrey  wrote  these  verses  for  the  Squire 
To  give  his  lady ;  therefore,  /  will  give  them 
To  Eglantine,  and  watch  the  tertium  quid ; 
That  is  to  say,  whether  the  resultant  be 
A  mantling  coleur  rose,  or  —  an  explosion. 

ALISOUN 

What's  in  the  verses  ?     Nay,  man,  read  'em  out ; 
I  am  no  clerk. 

FRIAR 

/  am  a  master-reader. 
"  Sigh,  Spring,  sigh, 

Repine 

Amid  the  moon-kissed  eglantine, 
For  so  do  I." 
\Thc  Friar  sighs. ~\ 

ALISOUN 
No  more  o*  that. 

FRIAR 

Sweet  Alis,  'tis  the  art. 

When  I  look  thus,  —  'tis  moonlight.     When  I  sigh 
Thus,  —  'tis  a  zephyr  wooing  apple  blossoms. 

ALISOUN 
Wooing  a  sick  goat !     Read  ahead. 

FRIAR 

Ahem! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  87 

\Rcads.~\ 

"April,  May, 
Cannot  —  " 

[Enter,  from  the  inn,  the  Knight;  from  the  wicket  gate,  the 
Swains,  with  ropes  and  a  gag.~^ 

ALISOUN 

Quit ;  here's  our  knight.     Go  find  the  Prioress. 
And  when  you've  given  her  the  verses,  join 
Me  and  the  other  fellows  in  the  cellar. 

[Jerking  her  thumb  at  the  J£night.~\ 
He'll  be  with  us. 

FRIAR 

Thy  valet  comprehends. 

KNIGHT 
[To  Friar.~\ 
Good  fellow,  have  you  seen  my  son,  the  Squire  ? 

FRIAR 
My  lord,  that  dame  can  tell  you. 

[Throwing  a  kiss  to  Alisoun.~\ 

Au  revoir ! 

[  Then  throwing  another  to  the  Miller,  he  sings  as  he  skips  out.~\ 
Ma  douce  gazelle, 
Ma  gazelle  belle, 
Bon  soir! 

MILLER 

[To  the  Shipman.'] 
Quick  !     Head  him  off,  Jack  ! 

[Exit  Friar  into  inn.~\ 


88  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

Let  him  go. 
[To  the  Miller.-] 

Thine 

MILLER 

But  — 

ALISOUN 

Shh! 

[Draws  him  aside  and  whispers] 
Art  thou  afeard  ? 


MILLER 

Nay,  dame,  but  'tis 
A  lord.     Mayhap  we'd  catch  the  whipping-post. 

ALISOUN 

But  mayhap  me  along  with  it,  sweet  Bob. 
[They  whisper  aside.  ~\ 

KNIGHT 

This  woman  tell  me  of  my  son  !     Tis  strange. 

ALISOUN 
[Aside  to  Miller] 
Ye  ken  ! 

MILLER 

Aye,  aye. 

[Looking  pleased,  he  speaks  to  the  others  aside.  During  the 
following  scene,  all  of  them  approach  the  Knight  cau 
tiously  with  the  ropes  and  gag,  while  Alisoun,  distracting 
the  Knight,  warns  or  urges  them  in  pantomime.~\ 

KNIGHT 

Good  woman,  have  you  seen  — 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  89 

ALISOUN 

And  do  mine  eyes  behold  him  once  again  ? 
O  sir !     The  blissful  saints  requite  you,  sir ! 

KNIGHT 
For  what,  good  dame  ? 

ALISOUN 

His  voice !     That  I  should  hear 
His  voice  once  more !     The  vision  bursts  again 
Upon  my  brain :  the  swords,  the  sweated  horse, 
The  lifted  battle-mace,  and  then  his  arms, 
His  arms  around  me  —  saved! 

{Falling  at  his  feet.'} 

Oh,  can  it  be  ? 

KNIGHT 

Madame,  arise.     We  met  last  night,  methinks, 
At  Master  Bailey's  inn,  in  Southwark,  but 
Never  before. 

ALISOUN 
[.Rising.'} 

Hold!     Gallop  not  so  fast, 
Ye  steeds  of  Memory !  —  Was  it  perchance 
A  lonely  damsel  by  the  Coal  Black  Sea, 
Forsaken  save  by  him ;  or  was  it  by 
The  walls  of  old  Granada,  at  the  siege, 
When,  dazzled  by  the  white  star  of  my  beauty, 
He  raised  his  cross  to  smite  the  lustful  Moor, 
And  cried,  "  Don  Roderigo  dies  for  thee  !  " 

KNIGHT 
[To  the  Miller^ 
The  woman  is  ill.     You  had  best  call  a  leach. 


90  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

Call  no  one,  sir.     Forgive  my  sentiment. 
Small  wonder  is  it,  though  the  lordly  falcon 
Forget  the  dove  he  succoured  from  the  crows. 
But  ah  !  how  can  the  tender  dove  conceal 
The  flutterings  of  her  snow-white  breast  to  meet 
Her  lord  once  more  ? 

KNIGHT 
[Going.] 
Madame,  I  wish  you  better. 

ALISOUN 

Dear  lord,  when  last  we  met  at  Algezir  — 

KNIGHT 

Pray  to  the  Virgin! 

ALISOUN 

Sweet  lord !  — 

KNIGHT 

By  St.  George, 
I  know  you  not. 

ALISOUN 

Alas !     Alas !     The  faithless  ! 
Was  this  the  chivalry  ye  promised  me 
That  night  ye  kissed  me  by  the  soldan's  tent  ? 

KNIGHT 

Off  me,  thou  wife  of  Satan ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  91 

ALISOUN 

Heard  ye  that  ? 
Lads,  to  the  rescue  ! 

KNIGHT 
Sorcery ! 

[The  Miller  and  Alisoun  gag  the  Knight,  while  the  others 
assist  in  binding  him.] 

ALISOUN 

Quick,  Roger! 
Take  off   his   finger-ring.     Mum,  sweethearts !     In, 

now ! 

[Exeunt  omnes,  carrying  the  Knight  into  the  inn  cellar^ 

[Enter  the  Squire  and  Johanna.     Passing  along  behind  the 

wall,  they  enter  the  garden  by  the  wicket  gate I\ 

SQUIRE 

Lady,  I  cannot  yet  believe  my  eyes 
That  you  are  here,  and  not  in  Padua. 

JOHANNA 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  your  voice  discredit  mine, 
And  yet  I  pray  you,  sir,  believe  in  me ; 
I  would  not  prove  a  rich  Lombardian  dream 
To  be  more  fair  —  even  than  I  am. 


SQUIRE 

You  could  not. 

JOHANNA 

Grazie ! 


Q2  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

SQUIRE 

For  you  authenticise  yourself 
With  beauty's  passport.     This  alone  is  you ; 
But  how  come  hither  ? 

JOHANNA 

Like  the  Spring,  because 
I  heard  the  snows  had  thawed  in  Merry  England. 

SQUIRE 

As  ever,  you're  fellow-travellers,  dear  lady ; 
I  might  have  guessed  it  from  the  little  birds, 
Your  gossipy  outriders.     But  with  what 
Less  winged  chaperones  came  you  ? 

JOHANNA 

Nay,  with  none ! 

Some  flighty  ladies  of  King  Richard's  court 

That  oped  their  beaks  —  but  not  like  nightingales  — 

To  prate  of  love.     For  my  part  when  I  saw  them 

This  morning  trot  away  toward  Canterbury 

With  that  dull  Gaunt  and  silly  Duke  of  Ireland, 

I  sighed  "sweet  riddance."    True,  the  king  is  different, 

But  he  is  married. 

SQUIRE 
You  are  not  alone  ? 

JOHANNA 

No,  sir.     I  travel  with  a  world-stormed  priest, 
Whom  all  who  love  him  call  "  Good  Master  Wycliffe  " ; 
And  those  who  love  him  not,  "  Old  Nick,"  for  writing 
The  gospels  in  dear  English. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  93 

SQUIRE 

You  —  a  Lollard  ! 

JOHANNA 

Wait  till  you  know  him.     He  rides  now  to  assist 
High  mass  at  the  Cathedral,  for  Duke  John 
Who  sails  to  claim  his  kingdom  in  Castile. 
But  I  ride  with  him,  not  so  much  to  absolve 
My  sins,  —  which  frankly,  since  they  are  so  few 
And  serviceable,  I  hate  to  part  with  —  as 
I  go  to  look  on  one  shall  grace  that  service  — 
The  man  I  best  admire. 

SQUIRE 

Sweet  lady,  whom  ? 

JOHANNA 

Dan  Chaucer  —  laureate  of  chivalry. 

SQUIRE    „ 

Chaucer !     Why  he  - 

[Checks  himself."] 
Alas! 

JOHANNA 

Scarce  do  I  wonder 

To  see  you  bite  your  lip  at  that  great  name : 
You,  sir,  who  once,  unless  my  memory  fail, 
Did  promise  me  some  verses  of  your  own. 

SQUIRE 
Nay,  you  shall  have  them. 


94  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 

What  ?     The  verses  ? 

SQUIRE 

Yes. 

JOHANNA 

Prithee,  what  are  they  ?     Rondeaux,  amoretti, 
Ballads  ?     Why   did   you    send   them   not  ?      Odes  ? 

Sonnets  ? 
Which  ? 

SQUIRE 
Nay,  I  know  not. 

JOHANNA 

Know  not  ? 

SQUIRE 

Not  as  yet. 

JOHANNA 

Know  not  as  yet ! 

SQUIRE 

I  mean  —  O  Donna  mine ! 
I  have  a  friend,  whotn  but  to  call  my  friend 
Sets  all  my  thoughts  on  fire,  and  makes  the  world 
A  pent-up  secret  burning  to  be  told. 
Whose  slave  to  be,  I  would  roll  Sisyphus'  stone ; 
Whom  to  clasp  hands  withal,  I'd  fight  Apollyon; 
For  whom  but  to  be  Pythias,  I  would  die. 

JOHANNA 

What  amorous  Platonics  !     Pythias  ? 

Sure,  Troilus  were  an  apter  choice.     Well,  sir, 

Who  is  this  paragon  ? 

[Aside.] 

Heaven  send  her  freckles. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  95 

SQUIRE 

Nay,  if  it  were  allowed  me  but  to  name  — 
If  you  could  guess  the  Olympian  pedigree  — 

[Enter  Chaucer  from  the  inn."] 
Ah !     Here  he  comes  ! 

JOHANNA 

Pray,  sir,  who  comes  ? 

SQUIRE 

My  friend. 

CHAUCER 

\_Scanning  the  ground.] 
I  would  not  for  good  twenty  pound  have  lost  it. 

JOHANNA 
Is  this  your  Damon  ? 

SQUIRE 

Lady,  'tis  my  friend. 

CHAUCER 
\To  himself^ 

If  Madame  Eglantine  should  find  it,  read  it ! 
Nay,  not  for  forty  pound. 

SQUIRE 

He  does  not  see  us. 
May  I  present  him  ? 

JOHANNA 
\_Nods  carelessly,  then  aside.~\ 

Saints  !     Must  I  essay 
To  circumvent  a  rival  of  such  scope  ? 


96  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

SQUIRE 
Great  sir ! 

JOHANNA 

"  Great  sir  "  's  a  proper  epithet. 

SQUIRE 

\Touching  Chaucer's  sleeve '.] 
I  prithee  — 

CHAUCER 

Ah,  boy,  well  met !    Did  I  perchance  — 

[Seeing  Joha  nna .  ] 
Pardon ! 

SQUIRE 
\Whispers  to  Chaucer,  then  aloud  to  Johanna .] 

Permit  me  to  present  to  you  — 
Lady  Johanna,  Marchioness  of  Kent  — 
This  gentleman,  my  friend. 

JOHANNA 
\_Bows  slightly '.] 

A  nameless  knight  ? 

SQUIRE 

\_Embarrassed.  ] 
His  name  —  ah  ! 

CHAUCER 

Master  Geoffrey,  and  your  servant, 

JOHANNA 
\_To  Chaucer.'] 
We  saw  you  searching.     Was  it  for  a  sur-name  ? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  97 

SQUIRE 

Have  you  lost  something  ?     Let  us  help  you  find  it 
A  purse  ? 

JOHANNA 

I  trust  your  loss  was  not  in  pounds. 

CHAUCER 

Sooth,  I  have  lost  what  fair  your  ladyship 
Could  least,  methinks,  supply  —  a  piece  of  wit 
Without  a  tongue ;  that  is,  a  piece  of  parchment 
Writ  o'er  with  verses. 

SQUIRE 

Verses  !     Sir,  a  word. 
\_Draws  Chaucer  aside  to  the  arbour  and  whispers .] 

JOHANNA 
A  clever  rogue  !     He'd  make  an  apt  court-fool. 

CHAUCER 
[Aside  to  Squire.'} 

No ;  these  lost  verses  were  a  mere  description  — 
To  fit  my  prologue  —  of  a  dainty  nun, 
Poking  some  gentle  mirth  at  her ;  of  use 
To  none  save  me ;  but  faith !  I  grudge  'em  dearly, 

SQUIRE 
Did  you  find  time  to  write  —  the  other  verses  ? 

CHAUCER 

The  others  ? 

SQUIRE 

To  my  lady. 


98  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 


Did  not  you  like  them  ? 


CHAUCER 

Those  you  sent  for  ? 


SQUIRE 

I  ?     I  sent  for  none,  sir. 

JOHANNA 


Still  whispering  ?  Faith  !  Hath  my  Aubrey  lost 
Both  heart  and  manners  to  this  tavern  rhymester  ? 
I  will  not  have  it. 

SQUIRE 

{To  Chaucer.  .] 

But  I  sent  no  friar  ! 

CHAUCER 

He  took  your  mistress's  verses,  saying  you 
Had  sent  for  them  by  him. 

JOHANNA 

Excuse  me,  sirs  : 

That  arbour-seat  has  room  for  two  to  sit, 
Providing  we  choose  wisely  from  us  three. 

CHAUCER 

Your  choice  is  fate. 

SQUIRE 
\_Aside  to  Chaucer  as  they  enter  the  arbour.~] 

The  friar  must  have  stolen  them. 

{Johanna  and  the  Squire  sit  ;  Chaucer  stands  talking  with 
them,  his  back  toward  the  arbour's  entrance.'} 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  99 

\_Enter,  right,  from  inn,  the  Prioress  and  Friar,  the  former 
reading  a  parchment.^ 

PRIORESS 
The  verse  is  very  beautiful. 

FRIAR 

Is't  not 

Enough  to  make  the  Muse  weep  amber  ?     Zipp  ! 
Tis  honey'd  moonbeams  stored  in  lachrymals. 

PRIORESS 
{Reads  ^ 

"  Eglantine, 
O  to  be 
There  with  thee, 

Over  sea, 
In  olive-silvered  Italy." 

But,  gentle  friar,  why  in  Italy 
When  I'm  in  England  ? 

FRIAR 

Dame,  'tis  poetry. 
In  poetry,  all  ladies  have  blue  eyes 
And  live  in  Italy. 

PRIORESS 

And  is  this  truly 
For  me  ? 

FRIAR 

He  bade  me  give  it  with  this  spray 


100  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 

[  Taking  the  sprig  of  eglantine^ 
He  is  so  chivalrous  !     But  I  must  finish. 
"In  olive-silvered  Italy. 

There  to  pray 
At  thy  shrine, 
There  to  lay 
This  green  spray 
Of  our  English  eglantine. 
At  thy  feet. 

Lady  mine, 
Then  wouldst  thou  say  : 

'  Pilgrim  sweet 

In  Padua, 

Take  it;  it  is  thine.'" 
Is  Padua  short  for  Bob-up-and-down  ? 

FRIAR 

Yes,  dame. 


And  now  to  watch  my  experiment 
Precipitate  rose-colour. 

PRIORESS 

\_Sighs.-] 

Almost  finished  ! 


"  Say  not  nay  ! 
Fairest,  dearest,  far  away; 
Donna  Eglantine." 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  ioi 

FRIAR 

Alas,  Madame,  I  did  but  do  my  duty. 
He  bade  me  bring  them. 

PRIORESS 

From  my  heart,  I  thank  you, 
They're  very  beautiful. 

FRIAR 

But  amorous, 
I  fear ;  they  are  A?w-verses. 

PRIORESS 

Are  they  ?     Sure, 
I  thought  them  sweet.     He  is  so  chivalrous. 

FRIAR 

\_Aside,  takes  out  his  stolen  parchment^ 
Soft,  then,  I'll  try  the  other.     This  should  bring 
The  explosion. 

[Rattles  the  parchment^ 

PRIORESS 

\_Eagerly,  laying  the  first  parchment  on  the  table '.] 
Did  he  send  more  verses  ? 

FRIAR 

Nay, 

He  sent  no  more,  though  from  his  pouch  there  fell 
This  parchment ;  but  methinks  he  would  desire  you 
Not  to  peruse  it. 

{Turning  as  if  to  leave,  he  discovers  the  three  conversing  in 
the  arbour  ^ 


102  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 
Me! 

FRIAR 

Yes,  dame,  for  it 
Describes  you. 

PRIORESS 

How? 

FRIAR 

Alas  !     In  different  vein 
From  the  other. 

PRIORESS 

Different  ? 

[Demanding  if  with  a  gesture.] 
Quickly ! 

FRIAR 

'Tis  my  duty. 
[Hands  her  the  manuscript.'] 

PRIORESS 

{Snatching  it;  reads] 
"  There  was  also  a  nun,  a  prioress, 
That  of  her  smiling  was  full  simple  and  coy ; 
The  greatest  oath  she  swore  was  '  by  St.  Loy ! '  " 
O  ciel !     O  quel  outrage  ! 

[While  she  reads  on  to  herself,  changing  visibly  to  pique  and 
tears,  the  Friar,  purloining  the  first  parchment  from 
the  table,  trips  over  to  the  arbours  entrance  and  bows.~\ 

FRIAR 

Diner  est  servi ! 

Messieurs,  you  are  awaited  by  a  lady. 
[Runs  off.'} 


THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  103 

CHAUCER 
[To  Squire^ 
Quick  !    Catch  him  ! 

JOHANNA 
\_To  Squire. ~\ 
Stay!     "A  lady?" 

[Pursued,  the  Friar  drops  his  parchment,  and,  as  the  Squire 
stops  to  pick  it  up,  escapes  at  the  garden  gate.~\ 

PRIORESS 
[Holding  her  parchment,  confronts  Chaucer •.] 

Stay,  Monsieur. 
[Reads.] 

"And  French  she  spake  (St.  Patrick  taught  her  how!)" 
You  hear,  Monsieur  —  "  St.  Patrick  taught  her  how  !  " 
Oh,  where  is  my  Jacquette ! 

SQUIRE 
[Joyfully  ;  glancing  at  the  other  parchment. ~\ 

These  are  the  verses  ! 
[Hands  the  parchment  eagerly  to  Johanna] 

CHAUCER 
Madame,  be  calm.     I  will  explain. 

PRIORESS 

Non,  non. 

JOHANNA 
[Reads.] 
"  Eglantine, 

O  to  be 
There  with  thee — " 

[To  Squire. ~\ 
Wrote  you  these  verses,  sir  ?     Who's  Eglantine  ? 


104  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

SQUIRE 
Why,  lady,  she  — 

PRIORESS 
[To  Chaucer. ~\ 
How  could  you  write  them  ? 

CHAUCER 

Patience, 
Dear  Madame  Eglantine  — 

JOHANNA 

Ha !  Eglantine ! 

CHAUCER 

[To  Prioress,  distracted.] 
Which  verses  do  you  mean  ?     I  wrote  them  not 

To  you ! 

PRIORESS 

What,  not  to  me  ?     Those  gracious  lines, 

So  exquisite  ? 

CHAUCER 

Good  God ! 

SQUIRE 
[To  Johanna. ~] 

Upon  my  truth, 
These  verses  are  for  you.     Let  me  explain  — 

JOHANNA 

Nay,  let  your  friend. 

[Showing  her  parchment  to  Chaucer."] 

Sir,  did  you  write  these  verses  ? 

CHAUCER 

I  did! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  105 

PRIORESS 

[Showing  her  parchment^ 
And  these,  Monsieur  ? 

CHAUCER 

I  did. 
JOHANNA 

And  pray 
To  whom  did  you  write  these  ? 

CHAUCER 

To  you. 

JOHANNA 

O  Heaven ! 

PRIORESS 

To  her ! 

\_Unseen,  save  by  the  audience,  the  cellar  door  is  opened,  part 
way,  and  Alisoun  peers  out,  dressed  in  the  Knight's 
clothes,  but  still  without  a  make-up.  She  winks  to 
Huberd,  whose  head  bobs  up  a  moment  from  behind 

the  wall.'] 

SQUIRE 

\_To  Johanna. ,] 
Sweet  mistress  — 

JOHANNA 

I  demand  to  know 
Who  is  this  rhyming  man  ?     Who  was  his  father  ? 

CHAUCER 

My  father  was  a  vintner,  dame,  in  London. 

PRIORESS 

A  vintner  ? 

SQUIRE 

[  With  pleading  deprecation."] 
Sir  — 


106  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 
Small  marvel  that  his  son 

Should  be  a  cask. 

ALISOUN 

[Aside,  jubilantly. ~\ 
God  save  my  betters ! 

JOHANNA 
{To  Squire. ~\ 

"If 

You  could  but  guess  the  Olympian  pedigree  —  " 
Saints  !     Take  me  to  my  guardian,  sir. 

PRIORESS 
[To  Chaucer.] 

Ah !  bring 

Me  to  my  brother  !     O  Monsieur !     How  false ! 

FRIAR 
[From  behind  the  wall,  sings. ~\ 

Love  is  a  liar, 

But  lovers  love  the  pleasant  friar, 
Who,  making  of  their  burdens  less  — 

CHAUCER  AND   SQUIRE 
That  friar  ! 

FRIAR 

[Popping  his  head  above  the  wall  with  a  mock  gesture  of  bene 
diction,  sings."] 

Ben'cite ! 

(Thus  singeth  he.) 
Bene  —  benedicite  ! 

Explicit  pars  secunda. 


ACT   THIRD 

WITE  ye  nat  wher  ther  stant  a  litel  toun 
Which  that  y-cleped  is  Bob-up-and-doun; 
Under  the  Blee,  in  Gaunt  erbury  weye  ?" 


ACT   III 

TIME  :  Evening  of  the  same  day. 

SCENE:  The  hall  of  the  One  Nine-pin. 

At  the  opening  of  the  act  all  the  PILGRIMS  are  on  the  stage, 
except  the  following :  MILLER,  SHIPMAN,  COOK,  MANCIPLE, 
SUMMONER,  KNIGHT,  ALISOUN,  CHAUCER,  and  WYCLIFFE. 

Owing  to  the  overcrowding  of  the  little  inn,  the  hall  is 
arranged,  for  the  night,  as  a  common  sleeping-room. 
Up  stage,  right,  is  a  great  canopied  bedstead,  with  steps 
to  climb  into  it.  Along  the  right  wall  are  truckle-beds. 
As  the  curtain  rises,  a  clear  bell  is  heard  ringing  outside, 
slow  and  musical.  By  the  light  of  a  single  torch,  the 
Pilgrims  are  seen,  some  putting  on  their  cloaks  and 
hoods,  some  peering  from  behind  the  bed-curtains,  others 
taking  links  from  a  tap-boy,  who  distributes  them.  These, 
as  they  are  lit,  throw  an  ever  stronger  light  upon  the 
grouped  faces  and  contrasted  garbs  of  the  company. 
The  PARSON  is  just  waking  the  PLOUGHMAN,  who  drowses 
on  a  truckle-bed. 

PARSON 
Up,  brother ;  yon's  the  chapel  bell. 

PLOUGHMAN 

It  rings 

For  thee ;  thou  art  the  parson,  Jankin. 

109 


1 10  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PARSON 

Nay, 

The  preacher  will  be  Wycliffe,  old  good  Master 
De  Wycliffe. 

MERCHANT 

Old  good  Master  Weak-liver ! 

PARSON 

[Turns  angrily. ~\ 
Sir! 

MAN-OF-LAW 

Old  good  Master  Black-sheep  ! 

PARSON 

{Turns. ~\ 

Sir! 
MONK 

Old  Nick ! 

PARSON 
[Turns.] 
Whom  name  you  thus  ? 

MONK 

Your  preacher.     Faugh  !     The  pope 
Hath  bann'd  him  with  five  bulls  for  heresy. 

PLOUGHMAN 

The  old  man  hath  a  good  grip,  if  he  can 
Hold  five  bulls  by  the  horns. 

MAN-OF-LAW 
[Aside  to  Priest^ 

An  ignoramus ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  m 

BOTTLEJOHN 

Dick,  fetch  a  pint  of  moist  ale  from  the  cellar 
For  Master  Bailey  here. 

\_Aside.~\ 

A  small  pint,  mind, 
And  notch  his  tally. 

DICK 

\_Takes  a  stick  from  wall,  notches  if  with  his  knife,  and  shows 
it  to  Bottlejohn.~\ 

Sixpence,  sir,  three  farthings. 

[Dick  then  goes  to  the  cellar  door.  As  he  opens  it,  he  is 
grabbed  within  by  the  Miller,  handed  breathlessly  to  the 
Shipman,  who  claps  his  hands  over  the  boy's  mouth,  and 
disappears  with  him  below.  The  door  then  is  closed, 
but  at  intervals  it  opens  and  the  Miller's  head  is  seen 
cautiously  to  emerge. ~\ 

MERCHANT 

This  Wycliffe's  gab  hath  hurt  good  trade.    Twas  him, 
Six  year  ago,  whose  preaching  made  the  poor  folk 
March  up  to  London-town  with  Wat  the  Tyler, 
And  burn  the  gentry's  houses. 

DYER 

Served  'em  right ! 

PLOUGHMAN 
God  save  Wat  Tyler  ! 

MONK 
Peasant !     Spit  upon  thee  ! 

PARSON 
Thou  son  of  Antichrist ! 


112  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

MONK 

Thou  unhang'd  Lollard ! 

BOTTLEJOHN 

Sst !  Sst !  Good  masters !  Pray,  sweet  lordings, 
here 

Comes  Master  Wycliffe. 

[Enter,  in  conversation,  WYCLIFFE  and  CH AUGER,  followed  by 
JOHANNA,  who  seeks  to  draw  WYCLIFFE  away.  The  Pil 
grims  greet  the  last,  some  with  shouts  of  welcome,  others 
with  hisses. ~\ 

WYCLIFFE 

[To  Chaucer. ,] 

Certes,  sir,  it  may 

Be  as  you  say.  —  Good  folk  !  good  children !  —  Yet 
To  me  this  England  is  a  gorgeous  tabard, 
Blazon'd  with  shining  arms  and  kingly  shields  ; 
A  cloth  of  gold,  blood-dyed  with  heraldries 
Of  knightly  joustings,  presbyterial  pomps, 
And  red-wine  revellings ;  cunningly,  i'  the  fringe, 
Chaced  round  with  little  lutes  and  ladies'  Cupids 
To  snuggle  the  horse-hair  lining.     This  brave  shirt, 
This  inward-goading  cloth  of  gaiety, 
The  poor,  starved  peasant  wears  on  his  bare  back  — • 
A  ghost,  that  plays  the  bridegroom  with's  despair. 

PLOUGHMAN 

[Amongst  sneers  and  applause."] 
Right! 

WYCLIFFE 

[To  Chaucer.'] 
Friend,  how  seems  it  thee  ? 


THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  113 

CHAUCER 

Sir,  with  your  pardon, 

To  me,  our  England  is  still  "  Merry  England  !  " 
Which  nature  cirqued  with  its  green  wall  of  seas 
To  be  her  home  and  hearth-stone ;  where  no  slave, 
Though  e'er  he  crept  in  her  lap,  was  nursed  of  her ; 
But  the  least  peasant,  bow'd  in  lonely  fief, 
Might  claim  his  free  share  in  her  dower  of  grace ; 
The  hush,  pied  daisy  for's  society, 
The  o'erbubbling  birds  for  mirth,  the  silly  sheep 
For  innocence.  —  Mirth,  friendship,  innocence  : 
Where  nature  grants  these  three,  what's  left  for  envy  ? 
These  three,  sir,  serve  for  my  theology. 

MAN-OF-LAW 

Parf oi !     What  is  this  man  —  a  Papist  ?     Is't 
Some  courtier  ? 

FRANKLIN 

Naw !     He  rings  true  Lollard,  him. 
They're  friends. 

PARDONER 

[Sni/s.-] 
They  say  it  is  a  London  vintner. 

WYCLIFFE 

[Aside,  to  Johanna,  indicating  Chaucer. ,] 
Not  speak  with  him  ? 

JOHANNA 
On  no  account. 

WYCLIFFE 

But  — 


114  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 

Tis 

A  villain.     Pray,  sir,  come  to  chapel. 

[She  hurries  Wycliffe  toward  the  door,  where  she  is  accosted, 
beseechingly,  by  the  Squire.~] 

SQUIRE 

Mistress ! 

JOHANNA 

Am  I  beset  ? 

j  [Indicating  Chaucer. ~\ 

Join  your  conspirator, 
Signore ! 

[She  siveeps  out.~\ 

SQUIRE 

[Following^ 

Grace,  Madonna,  grace ! 
[Enter,  right,  Eglantine,  with  her  priests. ~\ 

CHAUCER 
[Aside,  sees  her.~] 

My  lady ! 
PARSON 

\_To  Ploughman^ 

Quick,  mon,  and  light  the  way  for  Master  Wycliffe. 
[Exeunt.~\ 

MERCHANT 

[To  Man-of-Law.~] 
Go  you  ? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  115 

MAN-OF-LAW 
\_Smiles  ironically.] 

Hein  ?    When  an  ass  comes  out  of  Oxford, 
His  braying  charms  great  ears. 
[Lower.] 

They  say  he  hath 
A  patron  in  John  Gaunt. 

[They  go  out.] 

BOTTLEJOHN 
[Calls.-] 

Dick  !     Drat  thee,  Dick ! 
Ned,  fetch  Dick  from  the  cellar  with  that  ale 
For  Master  Bailey. 

NED 

[  Goes  slowly. ] 
Can  I  'ave  a  candle  ? 
[The  Host  gives  him  such  a  look  that  he  hastens  on.~\ 

BOTTLEJOHN 

[To  Bailey. ~\ 
These  'prentices ! 

BAILEY 

Haw!  Haw! 

MONK 
[To  Pardoner.] 

Come,  we'll  go  twit  him. 
[Exeunt  toward  chapel] 

[As  Ned  is  about  to  open  the  cellar  door,  a  black  face  looks 
out  at  him] 


Il6  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

NED 

\_Running  back.~\ 
Ow  !  Ow  !     A  devil's  head  !     I  seed  a  spook  ! 

BOTTLEJOHN 

[Seizing  a  ladle,  drives  him  back.~\ 
Scat !     And  the  devil  swallow  thee  !     Skedaddle  ! 
Feared  o'  the  dark  ! 

NED 
[Goes  whimpering.'} 

'E'll  drub  me  wi'  his  thigh-bones. 

[Opening  the  door,  he  feels  his  way  down.     As  the  door 
doses,  a  faint  scream  comes  from  within.~\ 

CHAUCER 

[To  Prioress,  who,  preceded  by  her  three  priests,  is  about  to 
go  out.~\ 

Madame,  goes  she  to  chapel  ? 

PRIORESS 

Paul,  Joannes, 

Keep  close. 

CHAUCER 

Si  chere  Madame  —  if  dear  my  lady 
Would  vouchsafe  but  a  moment,  till  — 

PRIORESS 
[Pausing,  but  not  looking  at  Chaucer.~\ 

Eh  bien  ? 

CHAUCER 
[  Confused^} 
The  night  is  very  beautiful. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  117 

PRIORESS 

Joannes ! 

CHAUCER 
That  is  —  I  bring  you  tidings  of  your  brother. 

JOANNES 
What  would  Madame  ? 

CHAUCER 

The  moon — 

PRIORESS 
\_To  Joanne s.~] 

Go,  go — to  chapel. 

JOANNES 

But  will  Madame  — 

PRIORESS 
Va!  Va!  — 
[Exeunt priests  ;  she  turns  shyly  to  Chaucer.~] 

Alors,  Monsieur, 
Vous  dites  mon  f  rere  ?  — 

CHAUCER 
Your  brother — 
[Aside,  as  they  go  out.~\ 

Drown  her  brother ! 

WEAVER 

[To  Dyer.'} 
Come  on  ! 

[Exeunt  omnes.~\ 


Il8  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

BOTTLEJOHN 
[Blowing  out  a  candle^ 
This  preaching  saveth  tallow. 

[Calls.-] 

Dick! 
Ned  !     Slow  knaves  ! 

[Exit  right.'] 

[Cautiously ,  the  cellar  door  is  opened,  and  enter  the  Mil 
ler.  He  whistles  softly ;  some  one  within  whistles  in 
answer."] 

MILLER 

Be  all  gagged  below  there  ? 

SHIPMAN 

[His  head  appearing^] 

Aye, 

All's  tight  beneath  the  hatches.     Is  the  deck  clear  ? 
^[Miller  nods;  Shipman  disappears  for  an  instant.     Then  the 
Miller  bows  lowJ] 

MILLER 

This  way,  your  lordship  — 

COOK 
[Appearing  with  Shipman. ,] 

'Save  your  Worship! 

[Enter  SUMMONER,  MANCIPLE,  and  HUBERD,  the  latter  dis 
guise  das  a  chimney-sweep.  Lastly,  ALISOUN  in  the  dress 
of  the  Knight.'] 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  119 

ALL  THE   SWAINS 

Hail, 
Dan  Roderigo  ! 

ALISOUN 

[  While  the  Swains  assist  in  adjusting  her  disguised] 
Good  my  squires  and  henchmen, 
I  thank    you.  —     Roger,   sweetheart,   lace  my  boot 

there.  — 

Our  journey  hath  been  perilous  and  dark  — 
Bob,  chuck,  how  sits  my  doublet  ?  —  but  praise  Mary, 
I  am  preserved  to  greet  my  virgin  sister ;  — 
God  send  she  like  the  flavour  of  my  beard 
Better  than  me. 

FRIAR 

Let  me  amend  it,  sweet ! 
[Kisses  her.~\ 

ALISOUN 

Avaunt,  vile  chimney-sweep!     Beshrew  thee,  Huberd 
Love,  wouldst  thou  swap  complexions  ? 
[Looks  in  a  pewter  plate,  while  the  Cook  holds  a  candle, .] 

Thy  smut  nose 

Hath  blotched  the  lily  pallor  of  my  brow 
Like  a  crushed  violet.     Some  powder,  quick, 
And  touch  it  off. 

FRIAR 

[From  his  robe  and  cowl,  which  the  Shipman  holds,  extracts 
a  rabbifs  foot  and  touches  up  Alisourts  face,  while  the 
Manciple  helps  her  on  with  a  scarlet-lined  mantle.~\ 

Sweet  love,  how  liketh  you 
This  cloak  I  stole  ? 


120  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
'Twill  serve. 

FRIAR 

\B  owing. ~\ 

Your  valet  is 
Your  abject  Ethiop  slave. 

MILLER 
\_Kicks  him.~\ 

Your  nincumpoop ! 

Scarecat !     Thou  blacks  thy  friar's  skin  to  save  it, 
Lest  the  fat  vintner  and  the  young  squire  catch  thee 
And  flay  it  off. 

FRIAR 

Even  so. 

SUMMONER 

By  quid,  let's  blab,  then. 
He  kissed  her,  and  we'll  blab. 

COOK,  MANCIPLE,  AND   SHIPMAN 

Aye! 

ALISOUN 

Wo  betide  ye, 

Then  !     Down  !     Kneel  down  —  the  batch  of  ye  — 

and  swear, 

As  ye  have  hopes  to  win  this  lily-white  hand, 
Ye  will  be  brothers,  till  I  win  my  bet. 
Out  with  your  oaths,  now.     Kiss  my  foot  and  say, 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  12 1 

By  Venus's  lip, 
And  Alis's  hip, 
I  swear  to  keep 
This  fellowship! 

ALL 

\_Severally  trying  to  kiss  her  extended 'foot.~] 
By  Venus's  lip, 
And  Alis's  hip, 
I  swear  to  keep  — 

BOTTLEJOHN 

[Calls  outside^\ 
Ned !     Dick ! 

ALISOUN 

[In  low  voice,  to  Swains. ~\ 
Get  out !     Back  to  your  cellar  ;  guard 
The  knight  and  the  two  knaves.     Whoever  enters 
Gag  'em  and  tie. 

BOTTLEJOHN 
[Entering. ,] 

Dick !     Ned  !      The  devil  take 
All  'prentices ! 

ALISOUN 

[Retaining  Friar. ,] 
Hist! 
[Staying  the  Miller.'} 

Bob! 
[To  the  others^ 

Go!  Go! 


122  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

BOTTLE  JOHN 

I  wonder 
Was  it  a  spook  he  saw !     'Tis  dark. 

[  Takes  up  an  unlit  can  die, .] 

ALISOUN 

Mind,  when  he  strikes 
A  light,  I  am  the  devil,  and  your  feet 
Are  hoofs. 

BOTTLEJOHN 

Folk  say  they  dwell  in  cellars. 

FRIAR 

Soft! 

I'll  sprinkle  a  pinch  of  this  sal  volatile 
F  the  candle  flame. 

BOTTLEJOHN 
[Lights  candle.~\ 

I'll  take  my  crucifix. 

\_He  is  about  to  go  toward  the  priedieu,  when  the  Friar 
thrusts  his  hand  over  the  candle  flame.  A  vivid  flash  of 
light  reveals  his  black  face  to  Bottlejohn.~\ 

FRIAR 

Succubus !     Incubus ! 
Praestare  omnibus ! 

BOTTLEJOHN 

[Drops  the  candle,  which  goes  out.~\ 
Help! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  123 

ALISOUN 
Silence ! 

[  On  the  hearth  the  Friar  lights  a  dull  red  flame,  which  throws* 
a  flickering  glow  about  the  room.~\ 

BOTTLEJOHN 
\To  Alisoun.'} 

O !  what  art  thou  ?     Dost  thou  laugh  ? 
What  is  thy  name  ? 

ALISOUN 

My  name  is  Lucifer. 

These  be  my  urchins,  Belial  and  Moloch. 
Salaam !     Salaam ! 

FRIAR  AND  MILLER 
[Salaaming. ~\ 
Hail,  Mephistophilis ! 

ALISOUN 
\To  Host.~\ 
What  thing  art  thou  ?  —  Duck  ! 

BOTTLEJOHN 
\_Ducks  as  the  Miller  pricks  him  with  a  dirk.~\ 

I  be  Bottle]  ohn, 
The  host  o'  the  One  Nine-pin. 

ALISOUN 

Bottlejohn, 

Thee  and  thy  One  Nine-pin  I  damn.     For  know, 
Thy  cellar  is  the  attic  over  hell, 


124  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

And  hath  been  leaking  bad  ale  through  my  ceiling 
This  seven  year,  and  made  a  puddle  deep 
As  Proserpina's  garter  in  her  bridal 
Chamber,  where  thy  two  knaves  — 

BOTTLEJOHN 

What !  Ned  and  Dick  ? 

ALISOUN 

Came  plumping  through  head-downwards  into  hell 
Like  bullfrogs  in  a  tarn. 

MILLER 

And  drowned  !  and  drowned  ! 
Shalt  thou  in  thine  own  ale. 

[Leads  him  toward  cellar •.] 

BOTTLEJOHN 

O  Virgin ! 

FRIAR 
\_At  door,  back.~\ 

Whist ! 
One  comes. 

BOTTLEJOHN 

Help!  help! 

ALISOUN 
\To  Miller^ 

Quick,  Belial,  lug  thine  ass 
Into  his  stall.     Instruct  him  with  thy  whittle 
What  manner  devils  we  are,  and  when  I  clap 
My  hands  thus  and  cry  "  Host !  "  then  lead  him  forth. 

[Exeunt  Miller  and  Bottlejohn  into  cellar.      To  Friar.~] 
Meantime,  my  pixy,  hide  we  here. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  125 

FRIAR 

Sweet  lord  — 

[They   hide   in   the   cupboard.     Enter,   left,    Chaucer  and 
Prioress. ~\ 

PRIORESS 

Parlez  tou jours,  Monsieur  ! 

Parlez  tou  jours ! 

CHAUCER 

How  silver  falls  the  night ! 

The  hills  lie  down  like  sheep ;  the  young  frog  flutes ; 
The  yellow-ammer,  from  his  coppice,  pipes 
Drowsy  rehearsals  of  his  matin-song ; 
The  latest  swallow  dips  behind  the  stack. 
What  beauty  dreams  in  silence !     The  white  stars, 
Like  folded  daisies  in  a  summer  field, 
Sleep  in  their  dew,  and  by  yon  primrose  gap 
In  darkness'  hedge,  St.  Ruth  hath  dropped  her  sickle. 

PRIORESS 

Nay,  yonder's  the  new  moon. 

CHAUCER 

But  here's  St.  Ruth, 

Whose  pity  hath  reprieved  a  vintner's  son. 
Your  nephew's  verses  — 

PRIORESS 

Pray  speak  not  of  them  ; 
That  wicked  Friar  Huberd  was  to  blame. 

But  now  — 

[Turning  to  the  casement.~\ 

The  moon,  Monsieur  ;  parlez,  Monsieur  J 


126  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

CHAUCER 

[Aside.] 
"  Parlez,  Monsieur."     How  shall  I  trust  myself? 

[Aloud] 

I  may  not,  dear  Madame.     If  I  should  speak, 
My  heart  would  run  in  passages  too  sweet 
For  this  cloy'd  planet. 

PRIORESS 
\_Pointing  through  casement  to  the  sky.~\ 

Mais  —  parlez,  Monsieur. 

CHAUCER 

Yea,  if  perchance  there  were  some  other  star  — 

PRIORESS 

Some  other  star  — 

CHAUCER 

Some  star  unsurfeited, 

Some  blessed  star,  where  hot  and  lyric  youth 
Pours  not  swift  torment  in  the  veins  of  age ; 
Where  Passion  —  gorgeous  cenobite  —  blurs  not 
With  fumid  incense  of  his  own  hot  breath 
The  hallow'd  eyes  of  sweet  Philosophy ; 
Where  body  battens  not  upon  the  soul, 
But  both  are  Reason's  angels,  and  Love's  self  — 
Pontifical  in  daisy-chains  —  doth  hold 
High  mass  at  nature's  May-pole ;  —  if  such  star 
There  were  in  all  God's  heaven,  and  such  indeed 
Were  ours,  there  would  I  speak  and  utter,  not 
"  Dear  Eglantine,  I  love  you,"  but  "  We  love." 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  127 

PRIORESS 
Monsieur,  'tis  true. 

CHAUCER 

The  simple  truth,  once  said, 
Is  very  sweet,  Madame. 

PRIORESS 

Merci,  Monsieur. 

ALISOUN 

Whist,  Huberd  ;  are  they  gone  ? 

FRIAR 

Nay. 

ALISOUN 

Did  be  kiss  her? 

Bones  !     Are  they  dumb  ! 

FRIAR 

Art  jealous,  dame  ? 

ALISOUN 

Shut  up ! 
CHAUCER 

\_At  the  window.~\ 
Some  other  star !     Choose,  lady,  which  is  ours  ? 

PRIORESS 

Yonder  cool  star  that  hides  its  winking  light 
Like  a  maid  that  weeps  —  but  not  for  heaviness. 

CHAUCER 

Ha !  If  I  were  Prometheus  now,  I'd  filch  it 
From  out  the  seventh  crystal  sphere  for  you 
And  'close  it  in  this  locket. 

[Seizes  her  hand.~\ 


128  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 

Nay,  that  holds 
My  brother's  hair. 

CHAUCER 

\_Dropping  her  hand,  looks  away  into  the  night.~\ 
We  dream. 

PRIORESS 

Of  what,  Monsieur  ? 

CHAUCER 

We  dream  that  we  are  back  in  Eden  garden 
And  that  the  gates  are  shut  —  and  sin  outside. 

PRIORESS 

Why,  such  in  truth  is  love. 

CHAUCER 

Yes,  such  in  truth 

But  not  in  fact,  dear  lady.     Such  sweet  truth 
Grows  only  on  God's  tree ;  we  may  behold 
And  crave  immortally,  but  may  not  pluck  it 
Without    the    angel's    scourge.  — "  When    Adam 

delved  "  - 

Aye,  then  he  dragged  both  heaven  and  earth  and  hell 
Along  with  him.  —  O  God  !  this  suzerain  mansion 
Where  saints  and  crown'd  philosophers  discourse 
Familiarly  together  as  thy  guests  — 
This  ample  palace  of  poesie,  the  mind  — 
Hath  trap-doors  sunk  into  a  murky  vault, 
Where  passion's  serfs  lie  sprawling, 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  129 

PRIORESS 

I  am  afraid ! 

CHAUCER 

Forgive  me,  O  sweet  lady  !     I  seem  not 
All  that  I  am. 

PRIORESS 

[Timidly.] 

What  are  you  ? 

CHAUCER 

Do  you  ask  ? 

Why,  then,  for  this  dull,  English  bulk,  'tis  true 
A  London  vintner  gat  it ;  but  for  this 
My  moving  soul,  I  do  believe  it  is 
Some  changeling  sprite,  the  bastard  of  a  god, 
Sprung  from  Pan's  loins  and  white  Diana's  side, 
That,  like  a  fawn,  I  fain  must  laugh  and  love 
Where  the  sap  runs  ;  yet,  like  an  anchorite, 
Pore  on  the  viewless  beauty  of  a  book  : 
Not  more  enamoured  (when  the  sun  is  out) 
O'  the  convent  rose,  than  of  the  hoyden  milkweed 
Bold  in  my  path.     Life,  in  whatever  cup, 
To  me  is  a  love-potion.     In  one  breath, 
My  heart  hath  pealed  the  chimes  above  St.  Paul's 
And  rung  an  alewife's  laughter. 

ALISOUN 
[Aside  to  the  Friar. ~\ 

Bless  his  heart 
And  waistband  !     Heard  ye  that  ? 

K 


130  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 
[  Who  has  listened,  lost.'} 

To  hear  you  speak 
Is  sweeter  than  the.  psalter.     Do  not  stop. 

CHAUCER 
[Aside,  smiling.~\ 

Dear  Lady  Dreams !  — 

[Aloud.'] 

Hark  !    Footsteps  from  the  chapel. 
[Goes  to  the  door.~\ 

It  is  your  nephew  and  his  lady-love. 
Let's  step  aside  before  I  introduce  you, 
And  profit  by  these  pangs  of  "  lyric  youth." 
[  Chaucer  and  the  Prioress  step  aside,  as  enter,  left,  Johanna 
and  the  Squire.'] 

SQUIRE 
Stay! 

JOHANNA 

Leave  me ! 

SQUIRE 
Hear  me ! 

JOHANNA 

Is  the  house  of  prayer 
No  sanctuary  that  you  drag  me  from  it  ? 

SQUIRE 

Donna,  the  cloudy-pillar'd  dome  o'  the  air 
Alone  can  roof  a  lover's  house  of  prayer. 

JOHANNA 

More  verses  ?     Send  'em  to  your  lady  nun. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  131 

SQUIRE 

O  heartless  bosom  !     Cold  concave  of  pity  ! 
Whet  thy  disdain  upon  the  heart-shaped  stone 
Lodged,  like  a  ruby,  in  that  marble  breast, 
And  slay  me  with  the  onyx  of  thine  eye. 

JOHANNA 
Pray,  did  your  Geoffrey  write  that  ? 

SQUIRE 

Do  not  scorn  him. 

He  named  you  "  Eglantine  "  because  "  Johanna  " 
Was  not  euphonious. 

JOHANNA 

Because  "Johanna" 
Was  not  — 

SQUIRE 

Euphonious.     But  "  Eglantine  "  — 

JOHANNA 

But  "  Eglantine  "  was  all  symphonious. 
"  Johanna  "  —  ha  ?  —  was  not  mellifluous 
Enough  to  woo  me !     So  a  honeysuckle, 
An  eglantine,  must  be  my  proxy  —  ha  ? 
Go  !  go  !     Hide  in  the  night  —  Go  !     Kill  thyself ! 

SQUIRE 
[At  the  door.~\ 

O  sky !  thy  noon  was  a  broad,  glorious  mirror, 
Which  now  hath  fallen  from  its  frame^  and  shattered  ; 
And  little  stars,  like  points  of  glass,  they  prick  me 
That  gather  back  my  grains  of  crushed  joy. 


132  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 
[At  the  window.'] 

O  starry  night !  thou  art  Fortune's  playing-card, 
All  bright  emboss'd  with  little  shining  hearts 
That  dash  our  own  with  destiny.     Oh,  false ! 

[Turns. ~\ 
Go  !  —  to  your  Eglantine  ! 

SQUIRE 

Johanna  ! 

CHAUCER 

[Speaks  from  the  darkness^ 
Hide,  Cleopatra,  thy  Egyptian  hair ! 

JOHANNA 

Hark! 

CHAUCER 

Esther,  let  melt  thy  meekness  as  the  snow.  — 

JOHANNA 

[Draws  nearer  to  Squire. ~\ 
What  is  't? 

CHAUCER 

Hide,  Ariadne,  all  thy  beauties  bare ! 

SQUIRE 
Who  speaks  ? 

CHAUCER 

Penelope  and  Marcia  Cato, 

Drown  all  your  wifely  virtues  in  the  Po.  — 

JOHANNA 

Good  Aubrey,  strike  a  light 


THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  133 

CHAUCER 

Isold  and  Helen,  veil  your  starlit  eyes  — 
Johanna  comes,  that  doth  you  jeopardise  ! 

[The  Squire  lights  a  candle,  revealing  Chaucer. ~\ 

JOHANNA 

O  monster  !     It  is  he. 
[Chaucer  takes  the  candle  from  the  Squire's  hand,  and, 

holding  it  high,  approaches  Johanna,  thereby  throwing 

the  Prioress  into  his  own  shadow.~\ 

SQUIRE 
Nay,  gentle  sir! 

CHAUCER 

Laodamia,  Hero,  and  Dido, 
And  Phyllis,  dying  for  thy  Demophon, 
And  Canace,  betroth'd  of  Cambalo, — 
Polixena,  that  made  for  love  such  moan, 
Let  envy  gnaw  your  beauties  to  the  bone ; 
Yea,  Hypermnestra,  swoon  in  envious  sighs  — 
Johanna  comes,  that  doth  you  jeopardise ! 

JOHANNA 

Oh,  thank  you  —  both.     Squire,  I  congratulate 
Your  cunning  chivalry  on  luring  me 
From  church  to  bait  me  in  this  bear-trap. 

SQUIRE 

Lady, 
Upon  my  honour  — 

[To  Chaucer.'} 

Good  sir  — 


134  THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

\_To  Johanna .] 

Nay,  fear  nothing. 
Indeed,  if  you  but  knew  — 

JOHANNA 
[Catching  sight  of  Prioress. ~] 

If  I  but  knew  ! 
St.  Ann  !     I  know  too  much. 

SQUIRE 

You  would  be  proud 

To  have  him  rhyme  your  name.     Sir,  I  protest 
Had  I  conceived  how  fair  "Johanna"  sounds 
In  verse  — 

CHAUCER 

[Sternly.] 

Hold,  signorino  !     Was  it  thus 
You  bade  me  sonnetise  your  Eglantine  ? 
You  said  yourself  — 

SQUIRE 

In  sooth,  that  "  Eglantine  " 
Is  sweeter. 

JOHANNA 

Ugh! 

CHAUCER 

There  you  were  false.     For  know 
As  ocean-shells  give  back  the  mermaid's  sigh, 
The  conches  of  a  lover's  ears  should  hold 
Eternal  murmurs  of  his  mistress'  name. 
" Johanna"  should  have  been  thy  conjure-word 
To  raise  all  spirits;  thy  muses'  nom  de plume ; 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  135 

"  Johanna  "  should  have  learnt  thy  brook  to  purl, 
Thy  pine  to  sorrow,  and  thy  lark  to  soar ; 
And  nightingales,  forswearing  Tereus'  name, 
Have  charmed  thy  wakeful  midnight  with  "Johanna." 

JOHANNA 
{To  Chaucer.'} 

Roland  of  Champions  !     Ringrazio  ! 
Now,  pray,  what  says  the  other  lady  ? 

SQUIRE 

The  other  ? 

JOHANNA 
\_To  Prioress. ,] 
Dame  Eglantine,  your  most  obsequious. 

PRIORESS 

Votre  servante.  —  I  also,  Mademoiselle, 
Have  been  at  court. 

JOHANNA 

Does  not  Madame  applaud,  then, 
This  vintner's  courtly  eloquence  ? 

PRIORESS 

I  think 

Monsieur  will  soon  explain  how  this  good  youth 
And  I  are  dearly  tied  unto  each  other. 

SQUIRE 
What !     I  —  and  you,  Madame  ? 


136  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 

It  seems  the  trap 
Hath  caught  the  hunters. 

\_Aside.~] 

Oh,  my  heart ! 

SQUIRE 

I  swear 

I  do  not  know  this  lady. 

JOHANNA 

What !  you  swear ! 

[Aside. ~} 
Not  perjury? 

SQUIRE 

I  swear  that  we  are  strangers ; 
Of  no  relationship,  and  least  of  love. 

JOHANNA 

Oh,  Aubrey,  is  this  true  ? 

SQUIRE 

Why,  Mistress  — 

CHAUCER 

\Aside  to  Squire, ,~\ 

Soft! 
Walk  with  this  nun  a  moment. 

SQUIRE 

Sir? 

CHAUCER 

Dost  trust  me  ? 

SQUIRE 

Yes,  but  — 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  137 

CHAUCER 

[Indicating  Johanna^ 
I'll  reconcile  her. 

[Aside  to  Prioress.'] 

Tell  him  all, 
Madame.     Leave  us  alone  a  moment. 

SQUIRE 

But  — 

CHAUCER 
[Aloud.] 
I  will  not  play  the  hypocrite. 

PRIORESS 
[  To  Squire,  as  they  go  out] 

Dear  Aubrey  — 

JOHANNA 

"  Dear  Aubrey  !  "  Gone  !  gone !  and  with  her.    O  base 
Conspiracy  !  —  To  leave  me  ! 

\_To  Chaucer. ,] 

Stand  aside! 

CHAUCER 
Nay,  do  not  follow. 

JOHANNA 

I  ?     I  follow  her? 

Follow  the  lost  Francesca  into  Limbo ! 
She's  damned.     I  seek  my  ward,  De  Wycliffe. 

CHAUCER 

Stay ! 

JOHANNA 

St.  Winifred  !     You'll  force  —  ? 

CHAUCER 

Donna,  my  heart 
Bleeds  tears  for  you. 


138  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 
Stand  by ! 

CHAUCER 

That  one  so  young, 
So  seeming  virtuous  — 

JOHANNA 

"  So  seeming  "  —  thanks ! 

CHAUCER 

As  this  young  squire  should,  at  one  look  from  his  — 
Should,  at  one  look,  forsake  your  ladyship 
For  his  —  alas  !     But  such  is  man  !     The  bonds 
Which  nature  forges  chain  us  to  the  flesh, 
Though  angels  pry  the  links. 

JOHANNA 

The  bonds  which  nature  ?  — 

CHAUCER 

Yes,  nature  :  'tis  not  love.     Had  it  been  love, 
Would  he  have  turned,  even  in  his  vows  of  truth, 
And  left  you  with  his  —  ah  !  it  chokes  me.     Nay, 
Go,  go,  great  marchioness,  seek  out  your  ward ; 
I  crave  your  pardon. 
\_Bowing,  he  steps  aside.    Johanna,  passing  disdainfully  to 

the  door,  there  pauses,  and  turns  to  Chaucer,  as  though 

he  had  spoken .] 

JOHANNA 

Well  ? 
\Chanctr  retires  righfJ] 

'Tis  very  dark. 
[Returning.] 
I  will  wait  here. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  139 

CHAUCER 

In  sadness,  honoured  lady, 
I  take  my  leave. 

\_He  goes  to  the  door ;  Johanna  rises  uneasily. ~\ 

Yet  I  beseech  your  grace 

Will  never  hint  to  that  poor  youth,  my  friend, 
The  secret  I  let  slip. 

JOHANNA 

[Asuk.] 

"  Let  slip  !  "     The  booby !  - 
He  thinks  he's  told  me  who  she  is.     Soft !  now 
I'll  worm  it  out. 

[Aloud.'] 

Wait ;   if  I  promise  never 
To  hint  the  thing  we  know  —  you  understand. 

CHAUCER 

That's  it. 

JOHANNA 

One  moment,  Master  Geoffrey.     I 
Have  rallied  you  somewhat  on  your  paternal 
Vintage. 

CHAUCER 

To  be  hit  by  your  Grace's  wit 
Is  to  die  smiling. 

JOHANNA 
[Aside.] 

How  the  big  fish  bites ! 
\_Aloud,  effusively '.] 

But  you'll  forgive  me  ?     'Tis  my  nature,  those 
To  banter  whom  I  best  adore. 


140  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

\_Detaching  a  knot  of  ribbon  from  her  gown,  she  offers  it  to 
Chaucer. ~\ 

Pray,  sir,  — 

CHAUCER 

For  me  ?  —  A  love-knot !     By  your  Grace's  favours 
I  am  bewildered. 

JOHANNA 

Keep  it  as  a  pledge  — 

For  you  are  Aubrey's  friend,  my  Aubrey's  friend  — 
As  pledge  that  I  will  never,  so  help  me  Heaven, 
Reveal  to  him  my  knowledge  of  his  secret, 
How  Eglantine  is  his  —  oh,  word  it  for  me, 
For  I  am  heartsick. 


CHAUCER 

Trust  me,  honoured  lady, 
You  have  done  bravely.     For  did  he  suspect 
That  I  have  even  whispered  to  you  how 
That  nun,  whose  sensuous  name  he  bade  me  rhyme 
In  verses  meant  for  you,  that  Prioress, 
Whose  cloistral  hand  even  now,  lock'd  in  his  palm, 
Leads  here  your  Aubrey,  how  that  vestal  maid 
Hath  lived  for  months,  nay  years,  your  lover's — oh! 


JOHANNA 

[Seizes  Chaucer's  arm.~] 
His  what  f     In  God's  name,  speak  it !     His  — 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  141 

CHAUCER 

His  aunt ! 
\_Blows  out  the  candle] 

JOHANNA 

His  aunt  ? 

CHAJCER 

\_Going  off  in  the  dark.~\ 
O  shire  of  Kent !  thou  shire  of  Kent ! 
To  sit  with  thee  in  parliament 
Doth  not  content 
Me,  verayment, 

Like  laughing  at  lovers  after  Lent. 
Haha !     Hahaha ! 

[Exit.] 

Ho  !     Shire  of  Kent ! 

JOHANNA 

So  —  Kent  ?     He  mocks  my  title,  doth  he  ? 
O  gall !     If  he  have  made  a  fool  of  me  — 
Yet,  if  he've  made  a  fool  of  me,  O  sweet, 
Sweet  gall ! 

SQUIRE 

[Outwit.] 

Johanna ! 

JOHANNA 

Aubrey ! 

SQUIRE 
[Returning  with  Prioress] 

He  hath  told  thee? 


142  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 
Nay,  hath  he  told  me  true  ? 

SQUIRE 

This  is  my  aunt, 
Dame  Eglantine,  my  father's  sister. 

ALISOUN 

[Aside.] 

Death ! 

We  must  be  quick. 

FRIAR 
[Aside.] 

I'll  win  thy  wager  for  thee. 
[Exit  Friar  at  door,  front  left.~\ 

PRIORESS 

[Extending  her  hand  to  Johanna] 
My  nephew  tells  me  you  and  he  — 

JOHANNA 

Madame, 

I  blush  to  think  of  my  late  rudeness ;  'twas 
My  jealousy.     Yet  you  should  pardon  it; 
For  you  that  wear  St.  Chastity's  safe  veil 
Can  never  know  how  blind  St.  Cupid  plagues 
The  eyes  of  worldlings. 

PRIORESS 

No? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  143 

SQUIRE 

Love,  you  forgive  me  ? 

\_Reenter  Chaucer.~\ 

JOHANNA 

Forgive  you  ?     By  my  heart  —  I'll  think  about  it. 
Here  comes  our  fool.    Come  hither,  What's-your-name. 

CHAUCER 

[  Coming  forward  with  the  love-knot.~\ 
Your  Grace's  secret-monger. 

JOHANNA 

Tut !    tut ! 
[Embarrassed,  motions  him  to  put  it  away '.] 

Rhymester, 

If  thou  wilt  come  to  court,  I'll  have  thee  made 
Court-fool. 

SQUIRE 

[Aside.] 

O  mistress,  hush ! 

JOHANNA 

A  cask  of  thy 

Diameter  should  keep  King  Richard  drunk 
With  laughter  for  a  twelvemonth.     Cask,  I  swear  it, 
Thou  shalt  be  made  court-fool. 

SQUIRE 
[Aside  to  Chaucer.] 

She  doth  not  mean  it 


144  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 
\_Aside  to  Squire. ~\ 
Nephew,  I  cannot  quite  approve  your  choice. 

JOHANNA 

Nay,  keep  my  knot ;  my  favour  is  renewed. 
I'll  sue  the  king  myself  at  Canterbury 
To  swaddle  thee  in  motley. 

[  Chaucer  laughs  aside, .] 

—  Well,  no  thanks  ? 

CHAUCER 

Lady,  pray  God  I  live  to  see  that  day. 

JOHANNA 

Amen.     Now,  Aubrey,  where's  your  father  ?     Let's 
Make  merry  all  together. 

PRIORESS 

True,  my  brother ; 
Went  he  to  chapel  ? 

SQUIRE 

Ladies,  I  am  'shamed 
To  make  confession  of  my  selfishness : 
To-day,  all  day,  in  the  sweet  day  and  night 
Of  my  own  thoughts  I  have  been  wandering. 
I  have  not  seen  my  father  since  this  morning. 
I'll  go  and  seek  him  now. 

CHAUCER 

Nay,  boy,  remain. 

Doubtless  he's  gone  to  chapel.     I  will  find  him 
And  bring  him  to  you  here.     First,  though,  let  me 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  145 

Anticipate  my  fool's  prerogative 

And  play  the  father  to  another's  bairns, 

This  vixen  girl  and  boy. 

[  With  an  affectionate  smile  he  draws  Johanna  and  Aubrey 
together  and  kisses  them.~\ 

God  bless  'em  both  ! 

PRIORESS 

[Aside.] 
St.  Loy  !     No  more  ? 

JOHANNA 

Dear  fool,  thou'rt  not  so  old. 
Come  now,  how  old  ? 

CHAUCER 

Ah,  lass,  my  crop  is  rowen. 
When  grey  hairs  creep  like  yarrow  into  clover, 
Farewell,  green  June  !     Thy  growing  days  be  over. 

[Aside.] 
Bewitching  Eglantine  ! 


PRIORESS 
[At  the  casement,  aside] 

Some  other  star  ! 

[Aloud.] 
Nephew  ! 

[The  Squire  and  Johanna  stand  absorbed  in    their  own 
whisperings.  ~\ 

Nephew  ! 


146  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

SQUIRE 
Madame ! 


PRIORESS 

I  pray  you,  tell 

Your  father,  when  he  comes,  I  am  retired 
A  moment  to  my  room. 

SQUIRE 

I  will,  Madame. 
\_Exit  Prioress,  right '.J 
My  lady,  we're  alone. 

JOHANNA 

Alas,  then  come, 
Sit  and  be  sad. 

[She  sits  in  the  niche  by  the  fireplace ^\ 

SQUIRE 

Sad  ?     Must  I  wear  a  mask,  then  ? 
Mistress !     Mistress,  masks  fall  away  from  love 
Like  husks  from  buds  in  April.     By  love's  light 
Lovers  can  look  through  mountains  to  their  joy 
As  through  these  black  beams  I  see  heaven.     Nay, 
Hear  me !     When  I  have  won  my  spurs  — 

FRIAR 

[Sings  within.~\ 
What,  ho  !     What,  ho ! 
Dan  Cupido ! 
A  spurless  knight  usurps  thy  halls.  — 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  147 

JOHANNA 

What's  that  ? 

SQUIRE 
The  friar !     Tis  his  voice. 

FRIAR 

[Sings  within .] 
Thy  fortress  falls, 
And  all  her  rosed  charms  — 

JOHANNA 

Is't  in  the  cellar  ? 

SQUIRE 

Or  the  wall  ? 

[They  look  up  the  chimney '.] 

FRIAR 

[Sings  within.'] 
To  arms,  Dan  Cupido  !     To  arms, 

Dan  Cupido ! 

[With  a  rush  of  soot,  he  falls  into  the  fireplace. ~\ 

Bon  soir ! 

JOHANNA 

'Od's  fiends  ! 

SQUIRE 

[Seizing  Friar,  drags  himforth^\ 
Sneak  thief,  at  last  I  have  thee  —  What ! 
A  chimney-sweep  ? 


148  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

FRIAR 
Did  scare  the  ladykin  ? 

SQUIRE 

Was't  thou  that  sung  ? 

FRIAR 

Sung-la  ? 

JOHANNA 
[Brushing  herself  qp.'] 

My  taffeta ! 

SQUIRE 
Sing !     Didst  thou  sing  ? 

FRIAR 

Oh,  sing !     You  mean  the  friar,  sir. 

SQUIRE 
\_Peremptorily.  ] 
Where  ? 

FRIAR 

In  the  cellar.     He's  a-hiding,  sir. 

SQUIRE 
I  warrant  him.     Here  — 

[  Gives  Friar  a  coin.~\ 

Come,  show  me  the  scoundrel 


A  noble ! 


FRIAR 
[Examining  coin.~\ 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  149 

[Sings.] 
Oh,  rare 
Sweet  miller, 
Lady-killer, 
Not  there,  not  there ! 

SQUIRE 

[Eyeing  Friar  with  suspicion^ 
What  ? 

\_The  Miller  slips  stealthily  from  the  cellar  door  and  joins 
Alisoun  in  the  cupboard.~\ 

FRIAR 

Was't  so  he  sung,  sir? 

SQUIRE 

Yes. 

JOHANNA 
\_Still  brushing  her  gown.~\ 

Ruined ! 

FRIAR 

Sir,  follow,  sir.     I  know  him  well. 
A  begging  friar  ? 

SQUIRE 

Yes.  —  One  moment,  Mistress. — 
I'll  flay  the  beggar.     Now ! 

FRIAR 

\_The  Friar  opens  cellar  door ;    Squire  snatches  his  candle 
and  precedes  himJ] 

A  sneaking  friar  — 
A  noble  !  —  a  swindling,  skulking,  lying  friar. 


150  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

\_Aside  to  Bob  Miller,  who  joins  him  from  the  cupboard.~\ 
O  rare  Bob-up-and-down ! 

\_Exeunt;  Alisoun  leaves  the  cupboard  and  exit  stealthily  at 
door,  left  front. ~\ 

JOHANNA 

Stay ;  are  they  gone  ? 
Mass!    mass!     I'm   spotted   worse   than   ink.     And 

kneel 

In  Canterbury  kirk  in  such  a  gown ! 
I'll  eat  it  first.     Oh,  Lord  !  Lord,  now  who  comes  ? 
\_Enter,  left  back,  the  Canoris  Yeoman  and  the  Carpenter ; 
after  whom  the  Wife  of  Bath,  disguised.~\ 

ALISOUN 

Good  fellow,  you  there,  can  you  propagate 
Unto  my  vision  —  a  young  prioress  ? 

CANON'S  YEOMAN 

No,  sir,  I  cannot. 

ALISOUN 

Or  a  marchioness  ? 
[  The  pilgrims  pass  on.~] 

JOHANNA 

[Aside.] 
A  marchioness ! 

ALISOUN 

[  Twirling  her  sword-scabbard.~\ 
Hum !     Hum  ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  151 

CARPENTER 

How  went  the  sermon  ? 

CANON'S  YEOMAN 

God's  blood  !     Old  Wycliffe  hammered  the  pope  flat. 
The  pulpit  rang  like  a  hot  anvil. 

CARPENTER 

Aye, 
There'll  be  skulls  cracked  yet. 

[Exeunt  right.~\ 

ALISOUN 
[To  Johanna. ,] 

Amorous  Minerva ! 

JOHANNA 

Signer ! 

[Aside.] 

My  left  sleeve's  clean. 

ALISOUN 

I  have  a  son, 

Whose  aunt  — 

JOHANNA 

Are  you  the  Knight  of  Algezir  ? 

ALISOUN 
I  am  —  Dan  Roderigo  d' Algezir. 

JOHANNA 

My  Aubrey's  father. 

ALISOUN 

Bones  !     Are  you  Johanna  ? 


152  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 

[Aside.] 
Bones ! 

ALISOUN 

Corpus  arms  !  it  sticks  me  to  the  heart 
To  gaze  on  your  sweet  face,  my  dear. 

JOHANNA 

\_Aside.~] 

My  dear ! 

ALISOUN 

Ah  !  the  fat  rogue  !     He  said  your  face  was  worth 
Unbuckling  an  off  eye  to  pop  it  in ; 
But  such  a  pretty  finch  ! 

JOHANNA 

Finch  !     Sir,  perhaps 
You  are  deceived  in  me.  —  Who  sent  you  here  ? 

ALISOUN 

Yon  chum  of  that  sweet  spindle-shanks,  my  son  — 
Yon  rhymester,  Master  Geoffrey. 

JOHANNA 

Yes  ;  'twas  he. 
[Aside.'] 

Saints  !  is  this  Aubrey's  father  ? 

[Aloud.'] 

Doubtless,  sir, 
There's  no  mistake.     Your  sister  left  you  word  — 


THE   CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  153 

ALISOUN 

0  villain  !     Aye,  though  I  ha'  bred  him  !     What 
Though  'tis  my  own  son  —  villain  !     God's  teeth ! 

JOHANNA 

Sir! 

ALISOUN 
Your  pardon,  dainty  dame.     Before  I  speak 

1  do  not  rinse  my  mouth  in  oleander. 

I  am  a  blunt  knight.     Nay,  I  cannot  sigh 

A  simoon  hot  with  sonnets  like  my  son. 

I  am  a  blunt  knight  who,  on  Satan's  heel, 

Hath  rode  it  and  strode  it,  wenched  it,  wived  it,  and 

knived  it, 

Booted  and  footed  't,  till  —  by  Venus'  shoestring, 
I  be  a  blunt  and  rough  but  honest  soldier. 

JOHANNA 

Signore,  I  believe  it. 

ALISOUN 

Blunt's  the  word,  then ; 
And  here's  the  blunt  point.     You're  deceived. 

JOHANNA 

By  whom  ? 

ALISOUN 

By  Aubrey. 

JOHANNA    . 

What ! 

ALISOUN 

Aye,  by  my  smiling  son 
Wi'  the  pretty  curls.     Where  is  he  now  ? 


154  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 

Why,  he  — 

He's  gone  to  find  the  friar. 

ALISOUN 

Aye. 


JOHANNA 

Good  Heaven ! 
Can  he  have  harmed  him  ? 


ALISOUN 

Who  —  the  friar  ?     The  friar's 
His  pal  —  his  pal ;  and  so  is  Geoffrey ;  aye, 
And  that  lascivious,  Latin-singing  nun  — 

JOHANNA 

What!  Eglantine? 

ALISOUN 

Yes,  she  ;  those  four !    Child,  child, 
Wouldst  not   believe  it,   how  they've    sneaked    and 

schemed, 

Plotted  my  life,  aye,  for  my  money.     But 
'Twas  lust,  lust  egged  him  on.     Oh  God  !  my  son ! 
And  'twas  a  cherub  'fore  this  Geoffrey  warped  him ! 

JOHANNA 
\To  herself.'} 

They  whispered  here :    and   there  she    said   "  Dear 
Aubrey." 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  155 

ALISOUN 

And  their  disguises  ;  oh,  you'd  not  believe  it ! 
That  devil  friar  plays  the  chimney-sweep. 
And  — 

JOHANNA 

Chimney-sweep !  'Twas  he,  then,  sung  ?  Oh,  come ; 
Help! 

ALISOUN 

Where  ? 

JOHANNA 

They're  in  the  cellar, 

• 

ALISOUN 

Like  enough ; 
They're  plotting,  plotting.      God's  wounds!     Tis  a 

trap. 

Where  be  they  all  ?     Geoffrey  to  send  me  here  — 
My  son  to  leave  you  with  the  friar — Ha! 
They're  with  that  sly,  deceptive  Prioress ; 
'Tis  she  — 

JOHANNA 

Why,  she's  your  sister. 

ALISOUN 
\_As  if  taken  back.~\ 

What  —  my  sister  ! 
Is  she  the  Prioress  ?     She  Eglantine  ? 

JOHANNA 

Yes,  yes ;  and  she,  too,  left  upon  a  pretext. 
Sir  Roderigo,  say,  what  shall  we  do  ? 


156  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
My  sister  —  and  my  son  ! 

JOHANNA 

[Calls.'] 

Aubrey  !  —  no  answer  ? 

Aubrey ! 

ALISOUN 

My  son  and  sister ! 

JOHANNA 

Oh,  poor  soldier ! 

« 

ALISOUN 

Oh,  monstrous  brood,  hatched  in  a  vampire's  nest ! 
But  I  will  be  revenged.     Go  to  your  room ; 
Lock  fast  the  door ;  but  when  I  call,  "  A  brooch, 
A  brooch !  "  come  forth  and  raise  the  house. 

JOHANNA 

Why  "brooch"? 

ALISOUN 

A  watchword.     Quick ;   go  !     I  hear  footsteps.     Go  ! 

[  Urges  her  toward  door,  right  back.~] 
Blunt  is  the  word ;  your  presence  dangers  me  — 
Your  room.     No,  no,  I  fear  not. 

JOHANNA 

Poor  Sir  Roderick ! 

[Exit;  Alisoun  shuts  door ;  voices  outside,  left.~\ 

ALISOUN 
A  miss  is  as  good's  a  mile. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  157 

REEVE 
[  Outside.'} 

Where  went  your  knight  ? 
[Enter  Reeve,  Doctor,  and  Chaucer.'} 

CHAUCER 
To  chapel. 

REEVE 

Na,  na,  na ;  I  saw  him  not. 

CHAUCER 
[To  Doc  tor. ~\ 
Nor  you  ? 

DOCTOR 
A  knight,  say  you,  from  the  Holy  Land  ? 

CHAUCER 

Yes,  a  crusader. 

DOCTOR 

[Points  at  AlisounJ] 
Is  that  he  ? 

CHAUCER 

Ah,  thank  you ; 

[Starts  forward,  but  sees  he  is  mistaken.'} 
Nay,  'tis  another  man. 

DOCTOR 
Good  even,  sir. 

REEVE 
[To  Doctor.'} 

'Twas  the  first  time  I  heard  the  devil  preach 
In  chapel. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

DOCTOR      - 
Wycliffe  ? 

REEVE 


Curse  him  and  his  Lollards  !    • 
[Exeunt,  right  front.'} 

CHAUCER 

\_Follows  them  to  door,  and  calls.} 
Aubrey  ! 

ALISOUN 

[  Claps  her  hands.} 
Host! 

CHAUCER 
Signorino  ! 

ALISOUN 

Host  here  ! 

[Enter  from  cellar  the  Miller  and  Bottlejohn.  As  the 
door  is  closing,  the  chink  is  filled  with  the  faces  of  the 
Swains,  threatening  Bottlejohn.} 

MILLER 
[His  dagger  drawn,  aside  to  Bottlejohn.~} 

Mum! 
Quick  !    Be  thy  ribs  good  whetstones  ? 

BOTTLEJOHN 
[Ducking  to  Alisoun.~} 

Here,  sweet  lording. 
ALISOUN 

Thou'rt  slow. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  159 

MILLER 
[Aside.] 
Ribs! 

BOTTLEJOHN 

Slow,  sweet  lording. 
ALISOUN 

Tell  me,  host, 

Hast  thou  residing  in  this  hostelry 
A  gentle  prioress  ? 

CHAUCER 
[Aside] 

What  ? 

MILLER 

[Aside  to  Bottlejohn,  sharpening  his  dagger  on  an  ale-mug] 

Whetstones ! 

BOTTLEJOHN 

Aye, 

Sweet  lording. 

ALISOUN 

Good  ;  go  tell  her  that  her  brother 
Awaits  her  here. 

CHAUCER 

[Aside.'] 
Her  brother ! 
[Draws  nearer."] 

HOST 

Aye,  sweet  lording 

[Starts  for  door,  right  back,  Miller  following] 


160  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
Her  brother,  say  —  Dan  Roderigo. 

BOTTLEJOHN 

Aye, 
Sweet  lording. 

MILLER 

Host,  hast  thou  a  whetstone  in 
Thy  pocket? 

BOTTLEJOHN 

Aye,  sweet  lording. 

MILLER 
[  Winking  at  Alisoun.~\ 

11  Aye,  sweet  lording." 
[Exeunt  Bottlejohn  and  Miller. ~\ 
\_Alisoun  ignores  Chaucer's  presence. ~\ 

CHAUCER 
\_Approaching  her.~] 

Your  pardon,  sir,  I  trespass.     By  your  cross 
You  come  — 

ALISOUN 
From  Palestine.     Well  met.     You,  friend  ? 

CHAUCER 

Nay,  I'm  a  door-mouse,  sir  ;  a  doze-at-home. 
My  home's  near  by  at  Greenwich.    You  have  friends — 
Friends  at  the  inn  ? 

ALISOUN 

A  friend,  sir ;  a  fair  friend  ; 
By  Jupiter,  a  sweet  friend. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  161 

CHAUCER 

Ah! 

ALISOUN 

A  sister. 
She  is  a  nun. 

CHAUCER 

Good  God ! 

ALISOUN 

A  prioress. 

CHAUCER 

It  cannot  be ! 

ALISOUN 

Signer ! 

CHAUCER 

Her  name  ?     Her  name  ? 

ALISOUN 

What's  that  to  you  —  her  name  ? 

CHAUCER 
[Disconcerted."] 

It  may  be  — 

ALISOUN 

Ah! 
Perhaps  you  know  her  —  what  ?     'Tis  Eglantine. 

CHAUCER 

Impossible  !  —  Sir,  pardon  me  ;  I  must 
Have  made  some  strange  mistake. 

M 


162  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

Nay,  friend  ;  I  guess 
'Tis  I  have  made  the  blunder. 

CHAUCER 

You,  sir  ? 

ALISOUN 

Sooth, 

I  might  as  well  stick  both  feet  in  the  mire 
And  wade  across  my  blushes.     We  old  lads 
With  beards,  who  sees  our  blushes,  what  ?     So,  then, 
This  prioress,  she  is  not  just  my  sister. 


CHAUCER 

No? 

ALISOUN 

No. 

CHAUCER 
What  then  ? 


ALISOUN 

Vous  savez  bien,  these  nuns, 
When   they  would  have   a   friend,  they  clepe   him 

"  brother." 

Especially  on  holy  pilgrimage 
It  hath  a  proper  sound :  "  My  brother  meets  me  ; 
My  brother  is  a  knight."     You  cannot  blame  'em ; 
'Tis  more  discreet ;  we  men  must  humour  'em. 
Therefore  this  little  honeysuckle  nun 
Doth  take  delight  to  call  me  brother. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  163 

CHAUCER 

Liar! 

\_As  Chaucer  lifts  his  hand  about  to  strike  Alisoun,  she  raises 
hers  to  guard ;  seizing  it,  he  beholds  her  ring.~\ 

What !  —  "  Amor  vincit  omnia."    -  Even  her  ! 
ALISOUN 

Take  back  your  lie  ! 

CHAUCER 

That  ring  —  tell  me  —  that  ring  ! 

ALISOUN 

St.  Madrian  !     It  is  my  love-ring.     She, 

My  sweet  nun,  gave  it  me.     She  wears  a  brooch 

To  match  it,  on  her  wrist. 

\_Enter,  right,  Bottlejohn  and  Miller •.] 

BOTTLEJOHN 

The  Prioress, 

Sweet  lording. 

\_Enter  the  Prioress .] 

PRIORESS 

Brother !     Welcome,  brother  ! 

CHAUCER 

No! 

God!     God!     I'll  not  believe  it.     Aubrey!     Aubrey) 
[Exit,  left.-] 


164  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
My  pretty  virgin  sister  ! 

PRIORESS 
[  Gives  her  hand,  reticently. ,] 

Roderigo  ! 

[Looking  after  ChaucerJ] 
He  need  not,  sure,  have  gone. 

ALISOUN 

Put  up  thy  chin, 

My  snow-white  dove.     Aha,  but  thou  art  grown ! 
The  silver  slip  o'  girlhood  that  I  kissed 
Good-by  when  I  set  out  for  Palestine 
Hath  mellowed  into  golden  womanhood. 
Give  me  thy  lips. 

PRIORESS 

Nay,  brother,  nay  ;  my  vows ! 
I  may  not  kiss  a  man. 

ALISOUN 

Toot !  never  fear,  then ; 

Thou  shalt  not  break  thy  vows  against  my  beard. 
What,  I'm  thy  brother  ;  come  ! 

PRIORESS 

Adieu,  mon  frere. 
ALISOUN 

Soft,  soft,  my  startled  fawn.     You  need  not  jump 

Because  your  brother  is  a  true  crusader. 

Or  didst  thou  fancy  I  was  cut  in  stone, 

With  my  cold  gauntlets  crossed  above  my  breast, 

Like  a  dumb,  marble  knight  upon  a  tomb  ? 

Art  not  thou  glad  to  see  me,  sister  ? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  165 

PRIORESS 

Yes, 

Mon  frere.     Forgive  me,  I  had  thought  —      You  see, 
My  nephew  —  'tis  a  pretty  mannered  youth ; 
You're  not  alike,  are  you  ? 

ALISOUN 
{Laughing^ 

By  Peter's  toe, 

I  hope  not.     Saints  deliver  me  from  being 
A  new-hatched  chicken's  feather. 

PRIORESS 

What !  your  son  ? 

ALISOUN 

Next,  thou'll  be  wishing  I  were  like  that  fellow 
That   fetched   me  here  —  yon  what's-his-name,   yon 
Geoffrey. 

PRIORESS 

Why,  'tis  a  noble  gentleman. 

\_Enter,  from  cellar  door,  Summoner,  Shipman,  Cook,  Friar, 
and  Manciple  ;  they  look  on.~\ 

ALISOUN 

Hoho! 

Your  noble  gentleman  !     Why,  harkee,  sweet ; 
He  told  me  he's  betrothed  to  an  ale-wife. 

PRIORESS 
He  told  you  —  when  ? 


166  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

Just  now,  coming  from  chapel 

PRIORESS 

Her  name  ? 

ALISOUN 
[Ruminating,  winks  at  the  Swains.~] 

What  was  her  name,  now  ?  —  Alisoun, 
The  Wife  of  Bath,  they  call  her. 

PRIORESS 

O  gran  Dieu ! 

That  person  ! 

ALISOUN 

Person  !     God  wot,  'twas  not  so 
Your  Geoffrey  called  her.     "  Alisoun,"  quoth  he  ; 
"  My  lily  Alisoun,  my  fresh  wild-rose, 
My  cowslip  in  the  slough  of  womankind, 
Bright  Alisoun  shall  be  my  bride." 

PRIORESS 
[Throwing  herself  into  Alisoun' s  arms.'] 

Mon  frere ! 
Oh,  keep  me  safe,  mon  frere ! 

[She  hides  herface.~\ 

MILLER 
[Laughing.] 

By  Corpus  bones ! 

SUMMONER 

Look! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  167 

SHIPMAN 
Hold  me  up ! 

BOTTLEJOHN 
[  Whispers^ 
Lady,  beware ! 

MILLER 

Mum ! 

PRIORESS 

What 
Are  these  ? 

ALISOUN 

Begone,  you  varlets ! 

COOK 

\_Bowing.~] 

Yes,  sweet  lord. 

SUMMONER 

We  know  our  betters. 

[They  withdraw  a  little.'] 

ALISOUN 

Come,  what  cheer,  my  girl  ? 
Hath  that  churl  Geoffrey  wronged  thee  ? 

PRIORESS 

No,  no,  no ! 

ALISOUN 

Nay,  if  the  churl  hath  wronged  thee,  by  this  locket — 

PRIORESS 

Swear  not  by  that.     He  swore  by  that. 


168  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 

O  vile! 

He  swore  by  this  —  the  brooch  that  holds  my  hair, 
Thy  brother's  hair  ? 

PRIORESS 

But,  Roderigo  — 

ALISOUN 

What! 

Give't  here !     Or  maybe  thou  hast  promised  it 
To  him  ? 

PRIORESS 
No,  no,  mon  frere.     Here,  take  it  —  keep  it. 

ALISOUN 
So !     By  this  brooch  — 

[Aside] 

Now,  lads,  learn  how  to  woo  ! 
Now,  by  this  golden  brooch  of  Eglantine, 
And  by  this  little,  slender  wrist  of  pearl, 
Where  once  it  hung ;  and  by  the  limpid  eyes 
Of  Eglantine,  and  by  her  ripe,  red  mouth, 
Yea,  by  the  warm  white  doves  which  are  her  breasts 
And  flutter  at  the  heart  of  Eglantine, 
I  swear  I  will  be  ever  Eglantine's 
And  lacerate  the  foes  of  Eglantine. 

PRIORESS 
Brother,  such  words  — 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  169 

ALISOUN 

Call  me  not  brother,  sweet ; 
A  brother's  blood  is  lukewarm  in  his  limbs, 
But  mine  for  thee  is  lightning.     Look  at  me ! 
Was  Jove  a  finer  figure  of  a  man 
Than  me  ?     Had  Agamemnon  such  an  arm, 
Or  Hector  such  a  leg  ? 

PRIORESS 

Forbear !  Forbear ! 

ALISOUN 

Alack,  she  scorns  me.     Stay,  Venus  of  virgins ! 
Why  dost  thou  wimple  all  the  lovely  dawn 
Of  thy  young  body  in  this  veil  of  night  ? 
Why  wilt  thou  cork  thy  sweetness  up,  and,  like 
A  mummy,  wrapped  in  rose  and  ivory, 
Store  all  thy  beauty  till  the  judgment-day? 
God  did  not  paint  thee  on  a  window-glass. 
Step  down  from  thy  cold  chapel,  rosy  saint, 
And  take  thy  true-knight  in  thine  arms. 

PRIORESS 

Help!  help! 

BOTTLEJOHN 

Pray,  lady,  pray !     It  is  Satanas !     They 
Be  devils  all ! 

ALISOUN 

Love  —  Eglantine  —  I  kneel. 


I/O  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PRIORESS 
Joannes !     Marcus ! 

{Seizing  her  crucifix.~\ 
Tibi,  Domine ! 

[Enter,  right,  Joannes,  Marcus,  and  Paulus.  They  are 
immediately  driven  back  by  the  Summoner,  Shipman, 
and  Cook.~\ 

JOANNES 
Madame. 

SHIPMAN 

Come  on ! 

PRIORESS 

Help  !     Save  me ! 
[Enter  Chaucer,  left.'} 

ALISOUN 

[To  Prioress, .] 

Lovely  nymph, 
Come  to  my  arms  — 

CHAUCER 

[To  Alisoun,  with  his  sword  drawn.~\ 
Embrace  me. 

PRIORESS 
[Goes  to  his  protection, .] 

Cher  monsieur ! 
ALISOUN 

God  save  you,  Master  Geoffrey. 

CHAUCER 

Draw! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  171 

FRIAR 
[Aside.] 

Lord!   Lord! 
The  pot  boils.     Now  to  add  the  salt  and  pepper. 

\_Exit  down  cellar. ~\ 

\_Enter,  left  back,  in  quick  succession,  all  the  pilgrims,  return 
ing  with  their  links  from  chapel .] 

PRIORESS 

[To  Chaucer^ 
Monsieur  — 

CHAUCER 
{To  Alisoun.~] 
Draw! 

PRIORESS 

Do  not  fight,  Monsieur  ! 

CHAUCER 
Wilt  draw,  I  say  ? 

ALISOUN 

Draw  what  ?     Draw  you  ?     Merci, 
I'm  not  a  dray-horse. 

CHAUCER 

Is  this  man  your  brother  ? 

PRIORESS 

Oh,  sir,  I  know  not ;  but  he  hath  insulted  — 

CHAUCER 

Insulted  you  ?     Enough.     By  all  the  devils, 
Defend  yourself  ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 
ALISOUN 


To  arms  then,  sweet  Achilles. 

[They  fight.     Re-enter  right,  Shipman,  Summoner,  and  Cook. 
They  rush  to  Aliso  tin's  aid.'] 

SHIPMAN 
Boardside  the  fat  churl. 

PILGRIMS 

Come  !     A  fight  ! 

FRANKLIN 

[Entering.] 

Who  are  they  ? 

MERCHANT 

A  Lollard  and  Papist. 

PRIORESS 

Stay  them  !     Stop  them  ! 

PILGRIMS 

Down  with  the  Papists  ! 

PRIORESS 

Oh,  St.  Loy  ! 

CHAUCER 
[To  the  crowd.] 

Stand  off  ! 

PILGRIMS 

Down  with  the  Lollards  ! 

[They  close  in  and  fight  confusedly  with  staves.] 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  173 

ALISOUN 
[Holding  up  the  locket.~\ 

Hold  !    A  brooch  !    A  brooch  ! 

CHAUCER 

I'll  make  thee  yield  it,  ruffian. 

[From  the  cellar  enter  the  Friar  and  the  Squire,  the  latter 
sword  in  hand,  fragments  of  cut  ropes  still  clinging  to 
him.'] 

SQUIRE 
\_To  Chaucer — plunging  at  Alisoun.~\ 

Sir,  I'm  with  you. 
[ En ter,  right,  Johanna.~\ 

ALISOUN 
[To  Squire.'] 
Unnatural  son ! 

JOHANNA 

Help! 
[Throws  herself  between  them.~\ 

Brave  Sir  Roderick ! 
[To  Squire. ~\ 
Shame !     Shame  !     Your  father's  blood  ? 

SQUIRE 

You,  lady  ? 

[Enter,  left,  Wydiffe.~\ 


WYCLIFFE 
[To  the  pilgrims^ 


Peace  ! 


174  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

CHAUCER 
You,  marchioness  !     What  does  this  mean  ? 

ALISOUN 

{Stripping  off  her  beard  and  wig —  her  own  hair  falling 
over  her  shoulders  —  snatches  a  warming-pan  from  the 
chimney,  and  confronts  Chaucer.~] 

Sweet  Geoffrey, 
It  means  this  pan  shall  warm  our  wedding  sheets. 

MILLER 

What  devil ! 

CHAUCER 

Alisoun  !  —  My  bet  is  lost. 

FRANKLIN 

The  Wife  of  Bath  ! 

{The pilgrims  crowd  round  and  laugh^\ 

JOHANNA 

{Turning  away^\ 

Impostors ! 

ALISOUN 
{To  Chaucer. ~\ 

Come,  sweet  chuck, 
And  kiss  the  brooch  that  hath  betrothed  our  hearts. 

PRIORESS 

M'sieur,  is  this  true  ? 

{_As  Chaucer  turns  to  the  Prioress  in  a  kind  of  blank  dismay, 

enter,  from  the  cellar,  swathed  in  a  long  gown,  the  real 

Knight  and  the  Friar. ~\ 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  175 

KNIGHT 

{To  Friar.'} 

Where  ? 

\_Friar  points  to  Prioress  ;  he  advances."] 
Eglantine ! 

PRIORESS 
[Aghast  at  this  apparition,  runs  to  the  pried ieu.~\ 

No  more ! 

CHAUCER 

[Struck,  at  a  flash,  by  this  medley  of  incongruities,  bursts  into 
laughter,  and  seizing  an  ale  mug,  lifts  it  high.~] 

Alis,  I  drink  to  thee  and  woman's  wit. 
FRIAR 

God  save  the  vintner  and  the  Wife  of  Bath  ! 

PILGRIMS . 

[Shout] 
God  save  the  vintner  and  the  Wife  of  Bath ! 

ALISOUN 
\_Sharing  the  ale  mug  with  Chaucer.~\ 

Sweetheart ! 

Explicit  pars  tertia. 


ACT   FOURTH 

"  AND  specially,  from  every  shires  ende 
Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 
The  holy  blisful  martyr  for  to  seke, 
That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seke." 


ACT   IV 

TIME:  The  next  day. 

SCENE:  Before  the  west  front  of  Canterbury 
Cathedral,  gorgeously  decorated  with  tap 
estries,  hatchments,  and  cloth  of  gold. 
Grouped  nearby  are  temporary  booths  of 
venders,  gaily  trimmed. 

Many  pilgrims  are  assembled ;  others  keep  arriving  from 
different  directions,  talking,  praying,  and  sight-seeing. 
At  the  Cathedral  door  a  Priest  blesses,  with  a  sprengel, 
those  who  enter. 

FIRST  VENDER 

Relics !     Souvenirs ! 

SECOND   VENDER 

Blood  of  the  blissful  martyr ! 

A   BLACK   FRIAR 
{To  Bailey,  the  Host.'} 
A  guide,  Sir  Hosteler  ? 

HOST 
Be  off! 

SECOND   VENDER 
{To  the  Guild-men^ 

Ampulles  ? 
179 


180  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

WEAVER 

What  are  they  ? 

SECOND   VENDER 

Leaden  bottles ;  look ! 

DYER 

What's  in  'em  ? 

SECOND   VENDER 

Drops  from  the  holy  well :  St.  Thomas'  well, 
That  turned  four  times  to  blood  and  once  to  milk ; 
Good  for  the  humours,  gout,  and  falling-sickness. 

WEAVER 

\_Buys  some.~\ 
Here. 

SECOND   VENDER 

Eightpence. 

[The  Guild-men  buy,  and  arrange  the  leaden  vials  in  their 

hats."] 

FIRST  VENDER 

Vernicles  !     St.  Peter's  keys ! 

CARPENTER 

[Examining  a  purchase. ,] 
What's  written  on  this  brooch,  sir  ? 

CLERK 

"  Caput  Thomse." 

PLOUGHMAN 

[Staring  at  a  statue  in  a  niche  of  the  Cathedral."] 
Is  he  alive  ? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  181 

FRANKLIN 

Naw;  he's  just  petrified. 

BLACK   FRIAR 
{To  Merchant.] 
A  guide,  sir  ? 

MERCHANT 

No. 

BLACK   FRIAR 

Show  you  the  spot,  sir,  where 
The  four  knights  murdered  Becket,  in  the  year 
Eleven  hundred  seventy,  at  dusk, 
The  twenty-ninth  day  of  December  — 

A  GREY   FRIAR 

Nay,  sir, 

I'll  show  you  the  true  statue  of  the  Virgin 
That  talked  to  holy  Thomas  when  he  prayed. 

BLACK   FRIAR 

St.  George's  arm,  sir !     Come  ;  I'll  let  you  kiss  it. 

GREY   FRIAR 

This  way ;  the  tomb  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince. 
[Both  seize  Merchant  and  tug  him] 

MERCHANT 
{Struggling] 
Mine  host ! 

HOST 

[  Coming  up] 
Pack  off! 


1  82  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

PARSON 

[To  Ploughman.'] 
What  May-day  queen  comes  here  ? 

[Outside,  left,  are  heard  girls'  voices  singing;  enter,  dressed 
richly  and  gaily,  CHAUCER,  surrounded  by  a  bevy  of  Can 
terbury  brooch-girls,  who  have  wreathed  him  with  flowers 
and  long  ribbons,  by  which  they  pull  him  ;  plying  him 
with  their  wares,  while  he  attempts  to  talk  aside  with 
the  Man-of-Law,  who  accompanies  him.~\ 

CANTERBURY   GIRLS 


High  and  low, 
Low  and  high, 
Be  they  merry, 

Be  they  glum, 

When  they  come 
To  Canterbury, 

Canterbury, 

Canterbury, 
Some  low, 
Some  high, 
Canterbury  brooches  buy. 

CHAUCER 

Sweet  ladies  —  nay,  sweet  Canterbury  muses, 
Not  Hercules  amid  the  Lydian  nymphs 
Was  ravished  by  more  dulcet  harmonies. 

[To  Man-of-Law.  ~\ 
You  sergeants-of-the-law  are  subtle  men. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  183 

MAN-OF-LAW 

We  have  a  knack  —  a  knack,  sir. 

A   GIRL 

Pull  his  sleeve. 

ANOTHER 

They  say  you  are  a  bridegroom.     Is  it  true,  sir? 

CHAUCER 
Your  Canterbury  skies  rain  compliments. 

\_To  Man- of- Law. ~\ 
Pray !  — 

MAN-OF-LAW 

\_Takingmoneyfrom  Chaucer, .] 
If  you  insist,  my  lord. 

CHAUCER 

Nay,  not  "  my  lord." 
How  stands  the  case  ? 

MAN-OF-LAW 

You  say  this  wife  hath  been 
Some  eight  times  wedded  ? 

CHAUCER 

Five  times. 

A  GIRL 

Stop  their  gossip, 
He's  talking  business. 

ALL  THE  GIRLS 

Brooches !     Souvenirs ! 


How  much  ? 


CHAUCER 
[Examining  their  wares.'} 


1 84  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

A  GIRL 
This  ?     Two-pence. 

MAN-OF-LAW 

Five  times  —  five  times.     Well ! 

CHAUCER 

\_To  Man-of-Law,  giving  more  money. ~\ 
Prithee  — 

MAN-OF-LAW 

If  you  insist. 

A  GIRL 
\_To  Chaucer. ~\ 

Mine  for  a  penny. 

MAN-OF-LAW 

Why,  then,  the  case  stands  thus :  By  English  law, 
No  woman  may  be  wedded  but  five  times. 
By  law,  sir,  a  sixth  husband  is  proscribed. 

CHAUCER 

You'll  vouch  for  that  ?     By  law  ? 

MAN-OF-LAW 

Sir,  I  will  quote 
You  precedents  from  William  Conqueror. 

CHAUCER 

Alas,  my  nuptials !     And  I  would  have  made 
So  neat  a  bridegroom  ! 

A  GIRL 

Come,  sir,  will  you  buy  ? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  185 

ANOTHER 
Take  mine ! 

ALL  THE   GIRLS 

Mine  !  Mine  !  Mine  ! 

CHAUCER 

Nay,  fresh  goddesses. 
Your  graces  are  more  heavenly  souvenirs ! 
Sell  to  me  your  glances 
For  a  poet's  fancies  ! 
\_To  a  girl  with  yellow  hair.~] 
You,  Midas'  daughter,  how  much  for  this  gold  ? 

THE  GIRL 

'Tis  not  for  sale,  sir. 

CHAUCER 
\_To  another^ 

How  much  for  that  rose  ? 

THE  GIRL 

What  rose  ? 

CHAUCER 

Your  smile. 

THE   GIRL 

Gratis  —  for  you,  sir. 

\_Enter  Alisoun,  attired  gorgeously  as  a  bride. ~] 
ALL  THE   GIRLS 

Oh-h! 

CHAUCER 
How  much,  Olympians,  for  your  nectar'd  lips  ? 

ALL  THE   GIRLS 

A  kiss  !     A  kiss  ! 


I 

1 86  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
Hold  !     Give  the  bride  first  licks. 

ALL  THE  GIRLS 

The  bride ! 

ALISOUN 

\_After  kissing  Chaucer. ,] 
Now,  lasses,  take  your  turns. 

A   GIRL 

The  shrew ! 

ALISOUN 

Lo !    what  a  pot  of  honey  I  have  won 
To  lure  the  village  butterflies.     Come,  pretties, 
Sip,  sip,  and  die  o'  jealousy. 

A   GIRL 
\To  Chaucer •.] 

Who  is 
This  woman  ? 

CHAUCER 

Nymphs,  this  is  the  gentle  Thisbe 
That  wooed  and  won  me.  Judge  then,  goddesses, 
How  I  must  weep  to  lose  her. 

ALISOUN 

Lose  me,  love  ? 

Nay,  honey-pot,  I  am  too  stuck  on  thee. 
Thy  bosom  is  my  hive,  and  I  queen-bee. 

A  GIRL 
I'd  rather  lose  my  heart  to  a  ripe  pumpkin. 

ANOTHER 

Or  a  green  gourd. 

[  They  go  off,  in  piqued  laughter.'} 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  187 

ALISOUN 
[  Calls  after  them.'] 

What  devil  doth  it  matter 
Whether  he  be  a  pumpkin  or  a  rose, 
So  be  that  he  rings  sound.  —  Give  me  the  man 
That  keeps  his  old  bark  grafted  with  new  buds 
And  lops  away  the  dead  wood  from  his  trunk, 
And  I  will  hug  him  like  the  mistletoe. 
Geoffrey,  thou  art  the  man. 

CHAUCER 

\_As  Alisoun  is  about  to  embrace  him,  turns  to  the  Man-of- 
Law.~\ 

Cold-blooded  knave! 

The  flower  of  women  and  the  wit  of  wives  — 
Yet  I  must  lose  her ! 

MAN-OF-LAW 

Blame  not  me,  sir ;  blame 
The  law. 

CHAUCER 

O  heartless  knave ! 

MAN-OF-LAW 

By  English  law, 
No  woman  may  be  wedded  but  five  times. 

ALISOUN 
What's  that  ? 

CHAUCER 

But  is  there  no  exception  ? 

MAN-OF-LAW 

None. 
By  law,  sir,  a  sixth  husband  is  proscribed. 


1 88  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
Hey,  what !     What  devil  ?     Say't  again.     I'm  deef . 

MAN-OF-LAW 

By  law,  dame,  a  sixth  husband  is  proscribed. 
ALISOUN 

Prescribed  ?     Ho,  then,  art  thou  a  doctor  ? 

MAN-OF-LAW 

No, 

I  am  a  sergeant-of-the-law.  —  "  Proscribed  " 
Is  to  say,  dame,  "inhibited,"  "forbidden." 

ALISOUN 

How !  you  forbid  me  to  take  Geoffrey  here 
For  my  sixth  husband  ? 

CHAUCER 

Nay,  the  law  forbids  it. 

ALISOUN 

Pish  !     What's  the  fine  ? 

MAN-OF-LAW 

To  hang,  dame,  by  the  neck 
Till  thou  art  dead. 

ALISOUN 

Aye,  man,  by  Geoffrey's  neck. 
Get  out ! 

CHAUCER 

Canst  quote  the  law  ? 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  189 

MAN-OF-LAW 

The  statute,  sir,  — 

The  forty-ninth  doom  of  King  Richard  —  saith  : 
"One  woman  to  five  men  sufficeth,"  or 
"Quid  tibi  placet  mihi  placet,"  sir. 

ALISOUN 
Hog-gibberish  ! 

CHAUCER 

[Aside.] 

Nay,  'tis  a  man-of-law. 
But  soft  !  we'll  bribe  him. 

ALISOUN 


Do,  duck. 

CHAUCER 

Sergeant  —  hist  ! 

[  Whispers  aside  and  gives  htm  money,  as  if  covertly.     Then 
aloud.  ~\ 

This  statute,  is  there  no  appeal  from  it  ? 

MAN-OF-LAW 

A  special  dispensation  from  the  king  ; 
That's  all,  sir. 

ALISOUN 

Break  his  head  ! 

CHAUCER 

Nay,  Alis,  here's 

Good  news.     The  king  himself  is  here  to-day 
In  Canterbury.     I  will  beg  him  grant 
This  special  dispensation  for  our  marriage. 


190  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

ALISOUN 
Thou  —  ask  the  king  ? 

CHAUCER 
Why  not  ? 

ALISOUN 

Give  me  a  vintner 
For  cheek  !    Sweet  duck,  I  do  believe  thou  lov'st  me. 

\_Enter  the  Miller,  with  the  other  Swains. ,] 

CHAUCER 
I  am  unworthy,  love,  to  match  thy  wit. 

MILLER 

Thou  art  unworthy,  fool,  to  latch  her  shoe. 

CHAUCER 

Even  so. 

MILLER 

Thou  likes  to  play  the  gentleman ; 
Come,  then  ;  I'll  duel  you. 

CHAUCER 

Good  Bob,  I  love  thee. 

MILLER 

Come  :  knives  or  fists  ? 

CHAUCER 

Kind  Bob,  thou  shalt  this  day 
Shed  tears  and  vow  I  love  thee. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  191 

MILLER 

Wilt  not  fight? 
Then  — 

ALISOUN 

[Intercepting  a  blow  at  Chaucer. ~\ 
Hold  there,  Robin  Sweetheart,  art  thou  jealous  ? 

MILLER 

Aye,  dame. 

ALISOUN 

What  for  ? 

MILLER 
\_To  Swains. .] 

She  axes  me  what  for ! 
Axe  her,  who  gagged  the  Knight  ? 

SHIPMAN 

Who  tied  the  Squire  ? 
MANCIPLE 

Who  watched  in  the  wet  cellar  ? 

SUMMONER 

Tied  thy  doublet  ? 
FRIAR 
Who  stole  thy  scarlet  cloak  ? 

COOK 

Who  kissed  thy  toe  ? 
MILLER 

Axe  her,  what  made  us  do  all  this  ?     Mayhap 
To  get  our  backs  flayed  —  what?     Mayhap  to  make 
Our  wench  a  wedding  with  this  vintner  here  ? 


IQ2  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

SHIPMAN 
Revenge ! 

FRIAR 

Remember  Peggy's  stall. 
\_They  surround  Chaucer  threateningly^} 

COOK 

Vile  tub ! 

PRIORESS 
{Entering,  left.'} 
O  Roderigo,  help  him  ! 

KNIGHT 

Whom  ?     That  churl ! 

SQUIRE 

Father,  let  me ! 

KNIGHT 

You  are  deceived  in  him. 

SQUIRE 
But,  sir,  these  are  the  rogues  that  bound  you. 

KNIGHT 

He 

Is  one  of  them.     They  are  beneath  our  notice. 

MANCIPLE 


Death  to  the  vintner  ! 


SUMMONER 
Hit  him ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  193 

ALISOUN 

Stand  away  ! 

CHAUCER 

[As  Alisoun,  with  her  fists,  keeps  them  at  bay.~\ 

Happy,  bridegroom,  be  thy  stars 

When  thy  Venus  turns  to  Mars  ! 

\_Enter  heralds.~\ 

HERALDS 
Make  way !     Room  for  King  Richard  !     Way !     The 

King! 

CLERK 

[In  the  crowd.~\ 
Shall  we  see  Chaucer  now  ? 

PARSON 

He's  sure  to  come. 

[  The  heralds  force  back  all  the  pilgrims,  except  those  of  high 
degree,  showing,  at  the  great  door  of  the  Cathedral, 
a  procession  of  priests  and  choir-boys  about  to  emerge. ~\ 

PRIEST 

Peace,  folk !   Stop  wrangling.  Kneel !  His  Reverence, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  meets  the  King. 

PRIORESS 
\To  Squire. ~\ 
Chaucer,  you  say  ? 

SQUIRE 

A  little  patience  more. 

\_A  silence  falls  on  the  pilgrims  as,  within  the  Cathedral, 
choir-boys  begin  to  chant  a  hymn.  Issuing  from  the 


194  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

door  and  forming  against  one  side  of  the  massed,  kneel 
ing  pilgrims,  enters  a  procession,  headed  by  splendid- 
vested  priests,  carrying  pictured  banners  of  St.  Thomas 
and  his  shrine,  followed  by  choir-boys,  and  lastly,  by 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  with  regalia.~] 

THE   PROCESSION 
\_Sings.~] 

"  Tu,  per  Thomae  sanguinem 

Quern  pro  te  impendit, 

Fac  nos,  Christe,  scandere 

Quo  Thomas  ascendit. 

\_Chants.~] 

Gloria  et  honore  coronasti  eum  Domine 
Et  constituisti  eum  supra  opera  manuum  tuarum 
Ut  ejus  meritis  et  precibus  a  Gehennae  incendiis 
liberemur." 

[At  the  climax  of  the  chant,  as  the  Archbishop  appears  in 
the  doorway,  the  chimes  of  the  Cathedral  peal  forth  from 
high  above  the  kneeling  crowd ;  cheers,  beginning  from 
the  right,  swell  to  a  tumult,  and  as  the  people  rise,  enter, 
right,  King  Richard  on  horseback,  the  Dukes  of  Lancaster, 
Gloucester,  and  Ireland  on  ponies,  and  their  train, 
among  whom  are  Wycliffe  and  Johanna  on  foot.  Six 
mules,  laden  with  offerings,  bring  up  the  rear.  The 
shouts  of  "God  save  the  King!"  "God  save  John 
Gaunt!  "  etc.,  continue  till  the  King  and  nobles  descend 
from  their  steeds.~\ 

PILGRIMS 
God  save  King  Richard  ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  195 

KING   RICHARD 

Thanks,  good  gaffers,  thanks  ! 
\To  John  of  Gaunt.'] 

Sweet  Uncle  Jack,  thou  hast  a  spanking  pony. 
Take  her  to  Spain  with  you,  and  all  the  Dons 
Will  kiss  her  fetlock.  N'est  ce  pas,  bel  ami  ? 

DE  VERE 

They  will,  my  Dick.     Par  charity  !     Haha  ! 

ARCHBISHOP 
[Saluting  gravely."] 
God  save  your  Majesty  ! 

KING   RICHARD 

God  save  you,  too  ! 

Your  Reverence  is  looking  in  fine  feather. 
Here  are  some  trinkets  for  the  holy  martyr. 
These  mules  bear  spices  from  Arabia ; 
These  —  tapers  ;  and  these  —  Persian  tapestries. 
Here's  a  neat  statue  of  myself  in  gold  ; 
And  so,  and  so,  so.  — 

\_To  the  Duke  of  Gloucester.'} 

Pretty  Uncle  Tom, 

I  wish  my  ruffs  were  puckered  like  your  brows. 
Dost  thou  pick  faults,  eh  ?  in  my  Paris  gown  ? 

GLOUCESTER 

My  liege,  this  is  the  shrine  of  holy  Becket. 


196  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

KING   RICHARD 

Lord,  save  our  souls  ! 

\ToDe  Vere.~\ 

Lend  me  a  looking-glass. 

DE  VERE 

\Takes  one  from  his  sleeve .] 
Ha  !    Dick,  par  charity  ! 

[Richard  and  De  Vere  look  in  the  glass  and  make  faces  in 
imitation  of  Gloucester  and  the  others.~\ 

PARSON 
\_In  the  crowd  to  the  Clerk.~\ 

Vender's  the  Duke 
Of  Lancaster  :  John  Gaunt. 

CHAUCER 

[  Who  has  been  held  back  with  the  crowd  by  the  heralds, 
pushes  through, and  hastening  forward, kneels  to  Johanna, 
who  is  talking  with  Wycliffe^\ 

A  boon  !  a  boon  ! 

JOHANNA 

[To  Wycliffe^ 
Protect  me,  sir ! 

CHAUCER 
\_Holds  up  Johanna's  love-knot^\ 

Lady,  once  more,  your  pledge  ! 

JOHANNA 

Unmannered  loon ! 

A  HERALD 

[Seizes  Chaucer  roughly  by  the  shoulder. ~\ 
Get  back ! 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  197 

JOHN  OF  GAUNT 

What,  brother  Geoffrey ! 

CHAUCER 

Well  met,  old  friend  ! 

[  They  embrace^ 

KING  RICHARD 

God's  eyes  !     Our  laureate. 
Halloa  there,  Chaucer  ! 

JOHANNA 

Chaucer ! 

ALISOUN 

Chaucer ! 

PRIORESS 

Chaucer ! 
[  Chaucer  bows  to  the  King.~\ 

SQUIRE 

[To  Knight.'} 
Father,  I  said  so. 

GAUNT 

You  are  late,  my  poet. 
What  make  you  here  ? 

CHAUCER 

Blunders,  your  Grace. 

GAUNT 

How,  blunders  ? 

CHAUCER 

Taxing  the  memory  of  a  gracious  lady. 


198  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

JOHANNA 

Signer,  the  place  of  fool  I  should  have  sued 
For  you,  hath  been  already  filled  —  by  me. 
I  crave  your  pardon. 

CHAUCER 

And  I  kiss  your  hand. 

KING   RICHARD 

Ho,  Chaucer ! 

ALISOUN 

[Struggling  with  a  herald.} 
Let  me  out ! 

CHAUCER 

Your  Majesty  ? 

KING  RICHARD 

When  April  comes,  there's  not  a  man  in  England 
But  thinks  on  thee  and  love.  While  thou  art  England's 
And  England  Richard's,  thou  art  Richard's  own. 
\_As  the  Xing  embraces  Chaucer,  Alisoun  breaks  away  from 
the  herald.} 

ALISOUN 

Hold  up,  your  Majesty !     The  man  is  mine. 

KING    RICHARD 
What's  this  ? 

CHAUCER 

My  liege  —  another  blunder. 
[  Chaucer  whispers  aside  to  the  Man-of-Law.~] 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  199 

KING    RICHARD 

So? 

The  blunder  was  not  God's  in  making  her. 

ALISOUN 
The  man  is  mine. 

KING    RICHARD 

What,  Geoffrey,  art  thou  tripped  ? 
Have  love  and  April  overflowed  thy  verse 
To  fill  thy  veins  ? 

CHAUCER 

Your  Majesty  — 

MAN-OF-LAW 
[Aside  to  John  of  Gaunf.~] 

Dan  Chaucer 
Bid  me  explain  to  you  — 

{They  talk  aside. ~\ 

CHAUCER 

Your  Majesty, 

This  is  that  fair-reputed  fay,  Queen  Mab, 
Who,  having  met  amid  the  woods  of  Kent, 
Hath  so  enamoured  me,  as  you  have  said, 
With  love  and  April,  that  —  to  speak  it  short  — 
We  are  betrothed. 

KING   RICHARD 

Betrothed ! 

DE  VERE 

Par  charity ! 


200  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

MILLER 

\_To  a  herald,  who  restrains  him.~\ 
Leave  go ! 

GAUNT 

[Aside  to  Man-of-Law.~\ 
A  miller  ? 

MAN-OF-LAW 

[Aside.'} 
Yes,  that  fellow  there. 

ALISOUN 

[Nudging  Chaucer.~\ 
Speak  on,  sweet  chuck. 

CHAUCER 

"  Betrothed,"  your  Majesty  : 

'Tis  a  sweet  word  which  lovers'  law  hath  hallow'd, 
But  which  your  law,  King  Richard,  hath  envenom'd. 
"  No  woman  may  be  wedded  but  five  times  :  " 
Thus  saith  the  law. 

KING   RICHARD 

What!   Where? 

GAUNT 

[Laughingly  aside.~\ 

My  liege  ! 
[They  whisper. ~\ 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  2OI 

CHAUCER 

And  so, 

Because  this  queen  of  wives  hath  scarce  been  knit 
Five  times  in  wedlock,  therefore  —  saith  the  law  — 
Our  bosoms  must  be  sundered. 

MILLER 

\_In  the  crowd.~\ 

God  be  praised  ! 

CHAUCER 

But  knowing,  King,  how  nobly  wit  and  mercy 
Are  mixed  in  your  complexion,  I  presume 
To  ask  your  greatness  to  outleap  your  laws 
And  grant,  by  special  dispensation,  to 
This  woman  —  a  sixth  husband. 

KING   RICHARD 

By  my  fay,  sir, 
You  ask  too  much.     My  laws  are  sacred. 

[Aside  to  John  of  Gaunt,  who  whispers  him.~\ 

Hein  ? 

ALISOUN 

Dig  him  again  there,  Geoffrey. 

CHAUCER 

King,  have  grace ! 

KING  RICHARD 

The  Duke  of  Lancaster  advises  me 
There  may  be  one  exception. 


202  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

[Aside.] 

What  ?     What's  that  ? 
[Aloud] 

But  only  one.     My  law  is  sacred.  —  Woman, 

I  grant  to  thee  the  right  to  wed  once  more 

On  one  condition.     Mark  it ;  thy  sixth  husband 

Must  be  a  miller.  —  Herald,  sound  the  verdict. 

[As  the  herald  blares  his  trumpet,  Alisoun  shakes  her  fist 

at  Chaucer,  who  eyes  her  slily ;    then  both  burst  into 

laughter] 

HERALD 

If  any  miller  here  desire  this  woman, 
Now  let  him  claim  her. 

MILLER 
[Rushes  up] 

Here,  by  Corpus  bones  ! 

ALISOUN 

Thou  sweet  pig's  eye  !     I  take  thee. 

[Extending  her  hand  to  Chaucer] 

Geoffrey,  quits ! 

CHAUCER 

Quits,  Alisoun  ! 

FRIAR 

[Bobbing  up  between  them] 
Et  moi  ? 

ALISOUN 

Et  toi. 
[Kisses  him] 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  203 

MILLER 

[  Grabbing  him.~] 

Hold,  friar ! 

That  pays  thee  to  perform  the  ceremony. 

KING   RICHARD 
[Seated,  to  Chaucer.~\ 

Come  now,  our  prodigal  Ulysses  !     Tell  us ; 
What  dark  adventures  have  befallen  thee  since 
Thou  settest  forth  from  Priam-Bailey's  castle  ? 
What  inland  Circe  witched  our  laureate 
To  mask  his  Muse  among  this  porkish  rabble  ? 

CHAUCER 

My  liege,  may  I  have  leave  to  tell  you  bluntly  ? 

KING   RICHARD 
Carte  blanche,  carte  blanche,  mon  cher.     I'll  be  as 

mute 
As  e'er  King  Alcinous  i'  the  Odyssey. 

CHAUCER 

My  Muse  went  masked,  King   Richard,  from  your 

court 
To  learn  a  roadside  rhyme.     Shall  I  repeat  it  ? 

KING   RICHARD 

Carte  blanche,  j'ai  dit.     Say  on! 

CHAUCER 

Your  Majesty, 

"  When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span, 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman  ?  " 


204  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

MILLER 
By  Corpus  bones ! 

KING  RICHARD 

[Starts  up.~\ 
Mort  Dieu ! 

CHAUCER 

"  Carte  blanche,"  my  liege  ! 
Six  years  ago  in  London,  when  the  mob 
Roared  round  your  stirrups,  Wat  the  Tyler  laid 
His  hand  upon  your  bridle.     "  Sacrilege  !  " 
Cried  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  Wat  Tyler  fell 

Dead. 

[The  crowd  murmurs. ,] 

GLOUCESTER 

\_To  Richard,  remonstratingly^\ 
Nephew! 
[  The  Kingy  sitting  again,  motions  Gloucester  silence  ^\ 

CHAUCER 

Whereat  you,  your  Majesty  — 
God  save  you,  a  mere  boy,  a  gallant  boy  — 
Cried  out :  "  Good  fellows,  have  you  lost  your  captain  ? 
I  am  your  King,  and  I  will  be  your  captain." 

{The pilgrims  cheer. ,] 

Have  you  forgotten  how  they  cheered  ?     Then  hark  ! 
Once  more  that  "  porkish  rabble  "  you  shall  hear 
Make  music  sweeter  than  your  laureate's  odes. 

{Turning  to  the  crowd.~\ 

Pilgrims  and  friends,  deep-hearted  Englishmen, 
This  is  your  King  who  called  himself  your  captain. 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  2O$ 

PILGRIMS 


God  save  the  King  ! 

CHAUCER 

My  liege,  my  dear  young  liege, 
Are  these  the  dull  grunts  of  the  swinish  herd, 
Or  are  they  singing  hearts  of  Englishmen  ? 
Where  is  the  gentleman,  whose  ermined  throat 
Shall  strain  a  nobler  shout  ?    "  When  Adam  delved  "  — 
Sire,  Adam's  sons  are  delving  still,  and  he 
Who  scorns  to  set  his  boot-heel  to  the  spade 
Is  but  a  bastard. 

KING   RICHARD 
\_Jumps  up  again.~\ 
'Swounds  ! 

PILGRIMS 

God  save  Dan  Chaucer  ! 

KING   RICHARD 

\_To  Chaucer.  ,] 

Give  me  thy  hand.    God's  eyes  !    These  knaves  cheer 

you 
Louder  than  me.     Go  tell  the  churls  I  love  'em. 

CHAUCER 
\_To  the  pilgrims.  ~\ 

His  Majesty  bids  me  present  you  all 
Before  him,  as  his  fellow  Englishmen. 


206  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

KING   RICHARD 

\_As  the  pilgrims  appro  ach.~\ 
Fellows,  God  bless  you  ! 

{To  Chaucer^ 
Thanks. 

\Snatching  away  his  looking-glass  from  the  hand  of  De  Vere, 
who  is  making  a  comic  face  at  Chaucer,  he  smashes  it 
upon  the  ground. ~\ 

DE  VERE 

Sweet  Dick ! 

ARCHBISHOP 

My  liege, 
The  holy  canopy  is  being  raised. 

\_A  medley  of  sweet  bells  is  heard  from  within  the  Cathc  }ral. 
The  pilgrims  crowd  about  Chaucer  ^\ 

CHAUCER 

Give  me  your  hands,  my  friends.     You  hear  the  bells 
Which  call  us  to  the  holy  martyr's  shrine. 
Give  me  your  hands,  dear  friends  ;  and  so  farewell : 
You,  honest  parson  —  sly  Bob  —  testy  Jack  — 
Gentle  Sir  Knight  —  bold  Roger —  Master  Franklin  — 
All,  all  of  you  !  —  Call  me  your  vintner  still, 
And  I  will  brew  you  such  a  vintage  as 
Not  all  the  saps  that  mount  to  nature's  sun 
Can  match  in  April  magic.     They  who  drink  it  — 
Yes,  though  it  be  after  a  thousand  years, 
When  this  our  shrine,  which  like  the  Pleiades 
Now  glitters,  shall  be  bare  and  rased  stone, 
And  this  fresh  pageant  mildewed  history  — 


THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS  2O/ 

Yet  they  who  drink  the  vintage  I  will  brew 

Shall  wake,  and  see  a  vision,  in  their  wine, 

Of  Canterbury  and  our  pilgrimage : 

These  very  faces,  with  the  blood  in  them, 

Laughter  and  love  and  tang  of  life  in  them, 

These  moving  limbs,  this  rout,  this  majesty ! 

For  by  that  resurrection  of  the  Muse, 

Shall  you,  sweet  friends,  re-met  in  timeless  Spring, 

Pace  on  through  time  upon  eternal  lines 

And  ride  with  Chaucer  in  his  pilgrimage. 

\A  deep  bell  sounds^ 

ARCHBISHOP 
My  liege,  St.  Thomas  will  receive  his  pilgrims. 

\_The  King,  lords,  and  people,  forming  in  procession,  begin 
to  move  toward  the  entrance  of  the  Cathedral."] 

CHAUCER 
\_To  Prioress, ,] 
Madame,  will  you  walk  in  with  me  ? 

PRIORESS 

Monsieur, 
If  you  will  offer  this  at  Thomas'  shrine. 

CHAUCER 

Your  brooch ! 

PRIORESS 

Our  brooch. 


208  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

CHAUCER 

When  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

PRIORESS 

Do  you  forget  our  star  ? 

CHAUCER 

Forget  our  star ! 

Not  while  the  memory  of  beauty  pains 
And  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

[  The  heralds  blare  their  trumpets ;  the  priests  swing  their 
censers;  the  choir-boys,  slowly  entering  the  Cathedral, 
chant  their  hymn  to  St.  Thomas,  in  which  all  the  pil 
grims  join.  Just  as  Chaucer  and  the  Prioress  are  about 
to  enter,  the  curtain  falls.'} 

Explicit  pars  quarta. 
FINIS. 


C 
H 


i 
J 


-« 


!                           ( 

01 

.*-> 

o 

'> 

-  1 

'|o 
?? 

I 

-  .  p 

d 

r  '4- 

c 

ft 

•  ' 

(J 

-2 

'>       i 

v 

'4>       ir 

1    £ 

E" 

J 

<•* 

J° 

J 

o 

*f{ 
$( 

u 

i 


ADDENDA 

i.  The  accompanying  reproduction  of  the  original 
Hymn  to  St.  Thomas,  of  which  the  last  verse  only  is 
sung  by  the  pilgrims  in  Act  IV,  is  authentic  in  words 
and  music. 

The  author  is  sincerely  indebted  to  Professor 
Kittredge,  of  Harvard  University,  for  tracing  and 
securing,  through  the  various  courtesies  of  Mr. 
Albert  Matthews  (of  Boston),  Mr.  Frank  Kidson  (of 
Leeds),  Mr.  J.  E.  Matthew  (of  S.  Hampstead,  London), 
and  Mr.  Wilson  (of  the  British  Museum  Library), 
a  copy  of  this  almost  inaccessible  document. 

The  words  are  taken  from  Vol.  13,  p.  240,  of 
Dreves'  "Collection  of  Sequences  and  Latin  Hymns." 
The  music  is  copied  from  the  "  Sarum  Antiphonal " 
of  1519. 

In  regard  to  the  music,  Mr.  Wilson  writes  :  "  Each 
of  these  Antiphons  (i.e.  each  verse  of  the  hymn)  is 
sung  once  before,  and  once  after,  each  psalm.  Here 
there  are  five ;  and  at  the  end  of  each  is  the  catch 
word  of  the  psalm.  The  first  is  '  Dominus  regnavit  '; 
the  second,  'Jubilate,'  and  so  on." 

Mr.  J.  E.  Matthew  writes :  "  The  catchword  is  not 
sufficient,  in  every  case,  to  identify  the  psalm,  but  I 
have  indicated  all  the  psalms  having  such  beginnings.1 

JTJie  psalms,  as  indicated  by  Mr.  Matthew,  are  as  follows:    Be 
ginning   Deus   regnavit,   xxiii,   xcix ;   Jubilate,  c,  Ixvi ;    Deus,  Deus, 
meus,   xxii,   Ixiii ;      Benedicite,   The    Song   of    the   Three    Children  ? 
(Apocrypha.)     Laudate,  cxiii,  cxvii,  cxxxiv,  cxlvii,  cxlviii. 
P  209 


210  THE  CANTERBURY  PILGRIMS 

The  lines  '  Gloria  et  honore  coronasti,'  etc.  (part,  of 
course,  of  the  8th  Psalm :  *  Thou  hast  crowned  him 
with  glory  and  honour '),  form  no  part  of  the  service 
in  the  '  Sarum  Antiphonal.'  ' 

2.  For  valuable  information  and  advice  regarding 
the  chronology  of  the  "  Canterbury  Tales  "  as  affect 
ing  this  play,  the  author  also  gives  sincere  thanks  to 
his  friend,  Mr.  John  S.  P.  Tatlock,  of  the  University 
of  Michigan. 

3.  The  following  dates  will  reveal  certain  anach 
ronisms  in  the  text  of  his  play,  which  the  writer,  for 
dramatic  purposes,  has  ignored  :  — 

Oct.  i,  1386:  Chaucer  was  elected  Knight  of  the 
Shire  for  Kent,  which  office  he  still  held  in 
April,  1387. 

Dec.  31,  1384:  Wycliffe  died. 

1386:  John  of  Gaunt  left  England  for  Castile. 

4.  According  to  Chaucer  scholars,  the  third  wife 
of  John  of  Gaunt  was  probably  a  sister  of  Chaucer's 
wife.     Upon  this  probability,  though  it  could  not  have 
been  a  fact  until  after   1387,  the  author  bases  his 
dramatic   license  of   referring   to  Chaucer   and   the 
Duke  of  Lancaster  as  brothers-in-law. 

PERCY   MACK A YE. 
NEW  YORK,  March,  1903. 


JEANNE   D'ARC 


JEANNE  D'ARC 

A  TRAGEDY 


AUGUSTUS    SAINT-GAUDENS 

IN  GRATEFUL   REMEMBRANCE 

OF    RARE    INCENTIVES 

TO  THIS  WORK 


CHARACTERS 

AT   DOMREMY 

"JACQUES   D'ARC,  father  of  Jeanne. 

*PIERRE   D'ARC,  brother  of  Jeanne,  courting  Mengette. 

SEIGNEUR   PIERRE   DE   BOURLEMENT,  proprietor  of 
"  The  Ladies*  Tree." 

COLIN,  courting  Jeanne. 

GERARD,  home  from  the  English  wars,  betrothed  to  Hauviette. 

GERARDIN,  a  Burgundian  villager,  courting  Isabellette. 
*PERRIN,  bell-ringer  of  Domremy. 

*JEANNE   D'ARC  (« Jeannette"),  the  Maid. 
HAUVIETTE,  her  girlfriend. 
ISABELLETTE,  a  peasant  girl. 
MENGETTE,  a  peasant  girl. 

*ST.   MICHAEL. 

*ST.    MARGARET   AND   ST.    CATHERINE. 
THE   « LADIES   OF   LORRAINE,"  i.e.   the  Fairies  of  the 
Tree. 

IN  FRANCE 

"CHARLES  VII,  King  of  France. 
*JEAN,  DUC  D'ALEN£ ON,  his  cousin. 
"SEIGNEUR   DE   LA  TREMOUILLE,  his  favorite. 
"REGNAULT   DE   CHARTRES,  Archbishop  of  Rheims. 
RENE   DE   BOULIGNY,  Receiver-General  of  France. 

vii 


viii  CHARACTERS 

VENDOME,  the  Kings  Chamberlain. 
*DUNOIS,  French  Commander  at  Orleans. 
*MARSHAL   LA   HIRE. 

*JEAN    DE   METZ,  of  Jeanne 'j  escort  to  the  King. 
*BERTRAND    DE   POULANGY,  of  the  same. 
*PASQUEREL,  St.  Augustine  Friar,  JeannJs  Confessor. 

PIGACHON,  Franciscan  Friar. 

MASTER   SEGUIN,  Dominican  of  Poitiers. 

BROTHER   RICHARD,  a  Mendicant  Friar. 
"LOUIS    DE   CONTES,  Jeanne's  Page,  a  boy. 
*PIERRE   CAUCHON,  Bishop  of  Beauvais. 
*NICOLAS    LOISELEUR,  of  the  Inquisition. 

FLAW,  Governor  of  Compiegne. 

A  TAILOR. 

A   BOOTMAKER. 
"JOHN  GRIS,  an  English  gentleman. 

ADAM   GOODSPEED,  an  English  yeoman. 

AN   ENGLISH    HERALD. 

"-CATHERINE   DE   LA   ROCHELLE,  ^  Ladies      of     King 
DIANE,  I      Charleys  Court  at 

ATHENIE,  J      Chinon. 

AT  ROUEN  (Only) 

BROTHER   MARTIN   LADVENU,  a  Monk. 
CAPTAIN   OF   THE    ENGLISH   GUARD. 
THREE   ENGLISH    GUARDS. 
THE  VOICE   OF   THE  JUDGE'S  CLERK. 

SERVANTS,  POPULACE,  PRIESTS,  FRIARS,  COURTIERS, 
%  PEASANTS,  SOLDIERS. 

NOTE.  —  Characters  marked  with  a  star  take  part  in  more  than  one  act. 


SCENES 

ACT   I 

"  The  Ladies1  Tree"  near  Domremy ;  Springtime,  1428. 

ACT   II 

The  Castle  of  King  Charles  VII,  at  Chinon  ;  March  8, 1429. 

ACT   III 

A  meadow  outside  the    Walls  of  Orleans;    the  attack  on   the 
Tournelles ;  May  7,  1429. 

ACT   IV 

SCENE  I.  Jeanne '.$•  camp  before  the  Walls  of  Troyes,  en  route 
for  Rheims ;  night  of  July  5,  1429. 

SCENE  II.  A  street  in  Rheims,  seen  from  an  old  wall  of  the 
city ;  Coronation  Pageant  of  King  Charles  ;  Sun 
day,  July  /7,  1429. 

ACT   V 
Jeanne"* s  prison  at  Rouen ;  May  30,  1431. 


ACT   I 


ACT   I 

SCENE  :  "  The  Ladies'  Tree "  near  Domremy. 

Springtime  of  1428  ;  a  holiday  gathering  of  young  folk  from 
the  hamlet. 

The  trunk  of  the  great  beech  tree,  rising  toward  the  back  of 
the  scene,  left  centre,  spreads  its  branches  (left}  to  a 
group  of  white  birches,  in  the  half  concealment  of  which 
stands  a  stone  bench.  From  beneath  the  branches  of  the 
beech  (on  the  right),  one  looks  away  to  the  outskirts 
of  a  little  French  thatched  village,  more  gitessed  than 
seen,  in  the  not-far  distance.  Almost  touching  the  tree- 
bole  (on  the  left)  stands  a  shrine,  with  a  painted  image 
of  the  Virgin. 

Near  this,  leaning  against  the  tree,  sits  a  young  man  (GERARD), 
dressed — in  part — as  a  soldier,  one  arm  and  his 
breast  being  bandaged.  He  watches  the  boys  and  girls 
dancing  a  country  round,  in  which  the  latter  carry  gar 
lands.  On  the  edge  of  the  dance  (left)  sits  a  placia 
group  of  old  women  knitting. 

The  Boys  and  Girls,  taking  respective  parts  in  voice  ana 
pantomime,  sing  as  they  dance. 


2  JEANNE  &ARC 

In  green  Lorraine,  by  our  Lady's  well, 

(Rose  in  flower.) 
I  picked  a  rose  for  a  damosel ; 

(Weave  your  garlands !) 
I  bended  low  my  knee, 

Comme  gi  ! 
She  maked  courtesy, 

Comme  $a  ! 
Vivo  la  roso  et  r amour ! 

In  green  Lorraine,  by  our  Lady's  spring, 

(Rose  in  the  hour.) 
I  dropt  within  the  rose  p.  ring, 

(Fetch  your  garlands !) 
And  gave  it  her  sweetly ; 
Comme  gi  ! 
She  looked  long  on  me, 

Comme  $a  ! 
Vivo  la  roso  et  r  amour ! 

In  green  Lorraine,  by  our  Lady's  shrine, 

(Rose  in  bower.) 
Ring  and  rose  she  named  mine ; 

(Hang  your  garlands !) 
I  threw  her  kisses  three, 
Comme  $i  ! 
She  tossed  them  back  to  me, 

Comme  ga  ! 
Vivo  la  roso  et  f  amour  ! 

\_With  a  finale  of  tossed  kisses  and  dropt  curtsies,  the  lasses 
'give  their  garlands  to  the  lads,  who  hang  them  on  the 


JEANNE  D'ARC  3 

trunk  of  the  beech  tree,  after  which  all  scatter,  laughing 
and  talking,  into  groups — cracking  nuts,  love-making, 
playing  games.  In  one  group  (right),  playing  knuckle- 
done  on  the  grass,  is  JEANNE  D'ARC,  inconspicuous 
amongst  the  others.~\ 

ISABELLETTE 
[To  Gerardin^ 

Mine  hangs  too  high ;  they'll  have  to  stand  tip-toe 
To  reach  it. 

GERARDIN 

Who? 

ISABELLETTE 

The  Ladies  of  Lorraine. 
GERARDIN 

But  who  — 

ISABELLETTE 

Hush,  Gerardin  ;  some  call  them  ladies, 
Some,  fairies ;  but  my  granny  says  that  they 
Long  time  ago  were  queens  in  old  Provence 
Who  fell  in  love  with  their  own  troubadours, 
And  so  were  banished  by  their  jealous  kings 
Far  northward  to  Lorraine ;  and  here,  because 
They  sorrowed  with  so  piteous  melody, 
Singing  the  dear  songs  of  their  lovers  dead, 
They  won  the  fairy's  hospitality. 

GERARDIN 

And  so  these  garlands  are  for  them  ? 


4  JEANNE  PARC 

ISABELLETTE 

Of  course  ! 

HAUVIETTE 

\_Dancing  before  Gerard  and  hugging  him^\ 
Lon  Ion,  la  la,  deri  dera ! 

GERARD 

[  With  a  twinge,  smiling  up  at  her."\ 
My  arm ! 

HAUVIETTE 

My  poor  Gerard  !  —  did  she  forget  his  wounds  ? 
Ah,  naughty  gargon,  what's  he  good  for  now  ? 
Look,  Perrin,  how  they've  hacked  my  fine  sweet  boy  — 
The  English  fiends ! 

GERARD 

Burgundians,  they  were. 

HAUVIETTE 
\_To  Perrin.'} 

'Tis  six  o'  one  !     They've  chopped  him  up  so  fine 
I'm  going  to  serve  him  on  a  silver  dish 
With  lettuce  hearts  and  little  parsley  leaves  — 
Ragotit  Gerard,  avec  les  petite s  tetes  Anglaises, 

[She  laughs  merrily. ~\ 

PERRIN 

[Aside.'] 

Don't,  don't,  Hauviette  ;  you  know  he  may  not  live. 


JEANNE  PARC 

HAUVIETTE 
[Impetuously^ 

Gerard,  sweetheart !     I  love  thee  ! 
[She  weeps.~\ 


GERARD 
[Caressing  her."] 

Little  swallow ! 

MENGETTE 
[To  Isabellette.~\ 
Jeannette  is  on  her  knees. 

ISABELLETTE 

Telling  her  beads  ? 

MENGETTE 
No,  playing  knucklebone  there  with  the  boys. 

ISABELLETTE 

She's  brought  her  knitting  with  her ;  think  of  it ! 
MENGETTE 

Colin  will  get  a  good  wife. 

ISABELLETTE 
[Turning  up  her  nose.~\ 

Colin?  — Pfui! 

PIERRE  D'ARC 

[Uncovering  his  face  by  the  tree,  shouts^\ 
Time ! 
[Hunts  for  others  who  are  playing  hide-and-seek  with  him.~] 


6  JEANNE  PARC 

TWO  GIRLS 
\_Dancing  together.~\ 
Asusee !     Asuse"e ! 

GERARD 

Hauviette  — 

HAUVIETTE 

[  Opening  her  lunch  basket.~\ 
My  fine  boy  must  not  talk ;  'tis  bad  for  him0 

GERARD 
I  think  — 

HAUVIETTE 

\_Thrusting  it  into  his  mouth^ 
A  raisin ! 

GERARD 
But  — 

HAUVIETTE 

An  almond ! 

GERARD 

You  — 

HAUVIETTE 

Crack  it ! 

GERARD 
I  — 

HAUVIETTE 

Bite !  —  a  cookie. 


JEANNE  PARC  7 

GERARD 
[Incoherently^ 

Wish  — 

HAUVIETTE 

A  kiss,  then ! 
[Kisses  him  on  the  mouth.'} 

PERRIN 

[  Cracking  nuts  with  a  stone.~\ 
Heigh,  Gerardin  !     See  here  — this  walnut. 

GERARDIN 
[Flirting  with  Isabellette.~\ 

Hein  ? 

PERRIN 

This  here's  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  —  his  skull. 

[Smashes  the  nut  loudly.  The  others  laugh  and  jeer  good- 
naturedly  at  Gerardin,  whose  proffered  arm  Isabelletti 
taking,  sticks  out  her  tongue  at  them.~\ 

GERARD 

[Laughing  back  at  Perrin.~\ 
Seigneur  the  Duke  hath  brains. 

COLIN 
[Thrusting  a  walnut  between  his  jaws .] 

I  crack  'em  —  so! 

GERARD 

[Half  rising  toward  Gerardin.~\ 
Is  he  there  —  ? 


8  JEANNE  PARC 

HAUVIETTE 

[Standing  between  them."] 
Hush! 

GERARD 

•      Burgundian  ? 

HAUVIETTE 
[Caressing  him.~\ 

Now,  now, 
If  you're  not  quiet  — 

GERARD 
[Sinking  back."] 
Curse  him ! 

PIERRE   D'ARC 

[  Creeping  stealthily  behind  Mengette,  claps  his  hand  over  her 

ey€sJ] 

Name  me ! 

MENGETTE 

Pierre ! 

[Springing  loose.~\ 

Be  still !     Here  comes  the  Sieur  de  Bourlement. 
[  General  commotion  ;  all  who  are  seated —  save  Gerard — 
get  to  their  feet.~\ 

GERARDIN 
[Shrugs  defiantly  and  makes  a  face  off  right."] 

Who? 

ISABELLETTE 

[Horror-struck  to  GerardinJ] 
My  dear,  he  owns  the  Ladies'  Tree,  and  half 
The  land  of  Domremy. 


JEANNE  PARC  9 

THE   OLD  WOMEN 
[  Under  their  breaths. ~\ 

Seigneur  de  Bourlement ! 

[Enter,  right,  DE  BOURLEMENT.  He  strolls  in  dreamily ;  in 
one  hand  a  book  ;  in  the  other,  a  walking-stick,  which  he 
twirls.~\ 

DE   BOURLEMENT 

{^Abstractedly. ~\ 
Good-morrow,  dears,  good-morrow. 

ALL 
[Scatteredly,  with  bobs  and  curtsies.  ~\ 

Save  Seigneur ! 

DE  BOURLEMENT 

[After  a  pause,  during  which  he  reads. ~\ 
Now,  now,  my  pretties,  do  not  stand  and  stare. 
And  why  are  not  you  dancing  ?     When  I  saw 
You  lassies  twinkling  on  the  grass,  methought 
The  little  marguerites  had  learned  to  run. 
[Twirling  his   cane  he  drops  it.    Jeanne  springs  forward 
and  lifts  it.'] 

JEANNE 
Seigneur  —  your  walking-stick. 

DE  BOURLEMENT 

My  wand,  Jeannette ! 
This  is  the  month  of  May  and  I  am  Merlin. 

[  Waving  his  stick.~\ 
Ask  what  you  will,  my  lads :  'tis  granted  you. 


10  JEANNE  PARC 

COLIN 

\_Awkward  and  loud.~\ 
I  want  Jeannette. 

\The  others  giggle. ~\ 

DE  BOURLEMENT 

I  grant  thee,  swain  —  to  want  her. 
\_The  others  laugh  tentatively.'} 
Love,  Springtime,  laughter  —  c  est  la  poesie  I 

COLIN 

Nay  — 

DE  BOURLEMENT 
[Sniffing  the  air.~\ 

Smell,  boy !     Smell  this  day  !  and  mark  what  myth 
Still  lurks  i'  the  nostril :  'tis  a  charmed  grotto 
Where  sleeps  a  nymph,  to  whom  a  thousand  flowers 
Make  odorous  minstrelsy :  and  for  her  love 
The  tender  lyric  of  the  fleur-de-lys, 
The  blue-bell's  clear  chanson,  the  daisy's  ballad, 
Yea,  and  the  languorous  rondel  of  the  rose  — 
Are  all  respired.  —  \_B owing. ~\     Encore  la  poesie  ! 

COLIN 
I  want  to  wed  her. 

DE  BOURLEMENT 

Shepherd,  hast  thou  never 
Taken  a  little  walk  toward  sunset  time 
Along  the  fields  ?     One  pauses  now  and  then 
To  squint  the  lids,  and  watch  against  the  west 
The  cowslip-colour'd  light  steam  from  the  flocks 


JEANNE  PARC  1 1 

To  float  in  haloes  'gainst  the  quiet  clouds ; 

One  sniffs  the  spearmint  by  the  river's  brink, 

And  waits  for  dusk-fall,  and  the  twittering 

Of  swallows  overhead,  and  underneath 

The  nibbling  sound  of  half-distinguished  sheep, 

The  neatherd's  whistle  and  the  colley's  bark, 

The  vesper  bell,  and  with  that  —  voices  of  angels. 

JEANNE 

[Having  listened  rapt.  ] 
Amen ! 

GERARD 

[  Who  has  heard  de  Bourlement  with  impatient  scorn,  tries 
to  rise.'] 

And  what  of  France,  Seigneur  ? 
[Hauviette,  frightened,  claps  her  hand  over  his  mouth.] 

DE   BOURLEMENT 
[After  scrutiny  of  mild  surprise.] 

In  France 
The  dew  that  fills  the  lily's  cup  is  song. 

GERARD 

Song  cannot  make  us  men  in  France,  Seigneur, 
Nor  drive  the  English  bloodhounds  from  our  homes. 

HAUVIETTE 
Pardon  !     Oh,  sir,  he's  very  ill. 

DE  BOURLEMENT 

Poor  boy ! 

I  wish  him  better.     Come,  my  dears.     To-day 
Is  Sunday  of  the  Wells.     Let  see  which  one 
Shall  win  the  foot-race  to  the  holy  well. 


12  JEANNE  PARC 

THE  YOUNG   FOLK 

The  race !     Outre  ! 

\They  crowd  about  de  Bourlementl\ 

PERRIN 
\Seizing  Pierre .] 

Come  to  the  starting  line. 

[Preceded  by  de  Bourlement  with  his  cane,  and  followed  in 
the  rear  by  the  old  knitting-women,  exeunt  behind  the 
birches  all  but  Gerard  and  Hauviette^\ 

GERARD 

\_Gloomily,  as  Hauviette  bends  over  himJ\ 
Fly  with  them,  bonny  swallow  ;  don't  wait  here 
Beating  your  slender  wings  about  my  eyes. 
You  cannot  blind  me,  dear  ;  I  see  it  well 
That  I  am  through  with  life. 

HAUVIETTE 

Tu-whit !  to-whoo ! 

His  bonny  swallow  will  peck  out  those  eyes, 
If  they  stare  so. 

GERARD 

Nay,  leave ! 

HAUVIETTE 

I  will  not  hop 


One  inch  from  him. 


VOICES 

\_Shout  outside.] 
Outre  I 


JEANNE  PARC  13 

HAUVIETTE 
[Jumping  up.} 

Ah,  hear  them  now ! 
Tis  the  beginning. 

GERARD 
[Sinking  back] 
And  the  ending. 

HAUVIETTE 
[Running  to  the  edge  of  the  scene. ~\ 

Oh! 

Pierre  d'Arc  has  stuck  a  rose  in  Mengette's  hair. 
She  pulled  it  out,  but  he  has  put  it  back. 
Now  they've  all  toed  the  line ;  there's  five  of  'em : 
Perrin,  Mengette,  Pierre  d'Arc,  Jeannette,  and  Colin. 
Jeannette's  between  her  brother  and  her  sweetheart. 

A  VOICE 

[Calls  outside,  with  singing  intonation.] 
Make  ready  ! 

HAUVIETTE 

[Coming  back  to  Gerard] 
That's  the  Sieur  de  Bourlement.  —  Listen  ! 

THE  VOICE 

Prepare !  — Depart ! 

HAUVIETTE 
[Rushing  back  to  the  edge  of  scene] 

Now  !  Now  they're  off ! 


14  JEANNE  PARC 

[Hauviette  holds  herself  tensely  with  clenched  hands.  From 
outside  there  come  shouts  of  "  Perrin  !  Pierre  !  Jean 
nette  !"  etc.,  presently,  in  the  distance,  sounding  only 
one  name,  "  feannette"] 

Run!  Run! 

Perrin's  ahead.  —  Ha  !  —  Now  !  —  [Shouts']  —  Jean- 
nette  !  Jeannette  ! 

Jeannette  is  winding  him.  —  Faster,  Jeannette  ! 

Ah,  now  they're  hid  behind  the  willows.  —  Peste  ! 

I  cannot  see. 

GERARD 

Run  after  them. 

HAUVIETTE 


I  won't  ! 

Sacre"  Maria  !     Hark  !     Jeannette  —  she's  won  ! 
Thou  wretched  boy  !     Why  ever  did  you  fight 
Those  English  ogres  ?     Now  thou  art  a  stump  ; 
Can't   race,  can't  dance,    can't   play.     O    saints  !  to 

have 

A  sweetheart  half  i'  the  grave  !  —  Darling  Gerard, 
Forgive  her  !     Please  forgive  her  ! 

GERARD 
[Caressing  her,  where  she  snuggles  close  to  him.'] 

There,  there,  there  ! 

[  While  Gerard  and  Hauviette  are  absorbed  in  each  other 
thus,  boughs  of  the  shrubbery  part  noiselessly,  and  Jeanne 
breaks  upon  the  scene,  panting  and  flushed  from  running. 
Not  seeing  the  lovers  beneath  the  beech  tree,  she  seats 
herself  on  the  stone  bench,  braids  her  hair,  which  has  flown 


JEANNE  PARC  15 

loose  in  the  race,  takes  out  her  knitting,  but  lets  it  fall 
beside  her,  fixing  her  eyes  dreamily  on  the  air.  Gerard 
meantime  has  been  playfully  humming  to  Hauviettc.^ 

My  sweetheart's  a  swallow  : 
Her  sprite's 
On  wing; 

Oh,  might  I  follow 
Her  flights, 
I'd  bring 

Back  from  Heaven  the  heart  of  Spring. 

\_Hauviette,  spying  Jeanne,  turns   Gerard's  head  and  points. 

Voices  in  the  distance  call  "  Jeannette  1 '"] 

Jeannette  !  —  What  is  she  doing  ? 

HAUVIETTE 

Hiding  from  'em ; 
Always  she's  stealing  off  alone. 

\_Speaking  lower'J] 

They  say 
She  talks  with  God. 

[Mischievously^ 

Let's  ask  her. 

GERARD 

Don't! 

HAUVIETTE 

[Bursting  suddenly  upon  Jeannel\ 

Hallo ! 

JEANNE 

{Springs  up,  startled^ 
Ha !  bon  gre"  Dieu  ! 

\Coming  to  herself .] 

No  one  but  thee,  Hauviette  ? 


16  JEANNE  &ARC 

HAUVIETTE 

Me  and  Gerard.  —  What  made  you  leave  the  race  ? 

JEANNE 

[Smiling.] 
'Twas  finished. 

HAUVIETTE 

But  you  won  the  prize. 

JEANNE 

[Shrugging.] 

Just  that ! 

The  Jack-o'-ninnies  fetched  a  crown  of  laurel 
To  set  upon  my  head.     [Laughing]  Ha  !  but  St.  John  ! 
I  cut  away  into  the  underwood 
And  put  'em  off  my  track. 

HAUVIETTE 

[Seeing  Isabellette  appear  through  the  birches] 
Look  sharp,  then. 

ISABELLETTE 
[Seeing  Jeanne,  shouts  back] 

Found ! 
GERARDIN'S  VOICE 

[From  without] 
Where  is  she? 

ISABELLETTE 

Here. 

[Enter  Gerardin] 

But  hush! 
[  With  wicked  sanctimony] 

We  must  not  spoil 
Mamselle's  devotions. 


JEANNE  PARC  17 

GERARDIN 

[Making  a  mock  bow  to  Jeanne. ~\ 

Pray,  Mamselle,  forgive 
My  rude  intrusion. 

JEANNE 
[Returning  a  mock  curtsy. ~\ 

Nay,  you're  welcome,  sir. 
God  puts  a  sweet  root  in  the  little  pig's  path, 
So  we're  well  met. 

GERARDIN 
[Baulked.'] 

Hein  ?     Am  I  root  or  pig  ? 
[Enter  Colin  with  a  wreath  of  green  leaves.] 

COLIN 
Here  is  thy  crown,  Jeannette. 

ISABELLETTE 

Pish  !  not  that  one ! 

Run  to  the  window  of  the  kirk,  and  fetch 
Yon  little  halo  made  of  painted  glass  — 
Sky-blue  and  gold ;  she  left  it  by  mistake 
Last  time  she  prayed  there. 

HAUVIETTE 

Run,  thou  dunderhead ! 
How  shall  we  get  to  Heaven  without  Jeannette  ? 

ISABELLETTE 

Yon  keys,  that  dangle  at  her  waist,  unlock 
St.  Peter's  wicket. 
c 


1 8  JEANNE  PARC 

COLIN 
Na ;  I  will  not  go. 

HAUVIETTE 
[To  habe.llette] 
I  dare  you  steal  'em. 

[Makes  a  dash  at  Jeanne's  keys.] 

JEANNE 
[Catching  Hauviet&s  hand  powerfully  with  her  left,  laughs. ~\ 

If  you  poke  more  fun 
I'll  have  your  noses  all !     One,  two,  three,  four ! 

{Snatching  at  their  faces  with   her  right  hand,  she  criss 
crosses  the  thumb,  child-fashion.'] 
Now  you'll  not  hold  'em  in  the  air  so  high. 

HAUVIETTE 
[Shaking  Jeanne.] 
Wicked  Jeannette !     She  won't  be  teased. 

ISABELLETTE 
{To  Jeanne.] 

But  tell! 
What  made  you  run  away  alone  ? 

JEANNE 
[Diffidently] 

To  listen. 

ISABELLETTE 

Listen !  —  for  what  ? 


JEANNE  PARC  19 

GERARDIN 

What  did  you  hear  ? 

JEANNE 
[  Very  quietly. ~\ 

Let's  go. 
\_As  she  moves  away,  the  others  exchange  nods  and  shrugs.] 

COLIN 

Eh  !  what  said  I  —  'twas  them  !    They  be  her  friends 
And  keep  her  company. 

JEANNE 
[Turns  wonderingly.~\ 

Who  are  my  friends  ? 

COLIN 

The  lady  wood-folk  :  I  ha'  seen  'em  with  'ee 
Many's  the  chance  at  sundown. 

ISABELLETTE 

Seen  them  with  her? 

HAUVIETTE 

What  —  speaking  ? 

COLIN 
Like  as  though. 

ISABELLETTE 

At  sundown  ? 


COLIN 
[Nodding.] 


Darkish. 


20  JEANNE  PARC 

HAUVIETTE 

Where  ? 

COLIN 

Here,  beside  their  tree. 

JEANNE 

Thou  art  wrong,  Colin 

'Tis  well  to  know  that  since  the  good  priest  read 
The  gospel  of  St.  John  beneath  these  boughs, 
There  are  no  fairies  more  in  Domremy. 

ISABELLETTE 

O  pf ui ! 

HAUVIETTE 
[To  Jeanne. ,] 
You  don't  believe  ?  —  But  Colin  saw ! 

JEANNE 

Saw  moonshine !  —  I  believe  my  own  good  eyes 
And  ears.     /  never  saw  nor  heard  them. 

COLIN 

Eh! 

Thy  father  saith  how  folk  what's  spoken  to 
By  fairies  knoweth  naught  of  it ;  but  getteth 
Gifties  most  wonderful. 

ISABELLETTE 

Aha  !     That's  why 
He  wants  to  marry  thee,  Jeannette. 

COLIN 

[Eagerly.] 

Aye,  that's ! 
[  Voices  shout  outside,  amidst  laughter] 


JEANNE  PARC  21 

GERARDIN 

Hark  there  !    Come  on !   We're  missing  all  the  game. 

HAUVIETTE 
[  Clasping  her  hands.] 
Ah  me !  if  only  I  could  go ! 

ISABELLETTE 
\Pulling  Hauvie  tie*  s  sleeve  as  she  passes] 

Come,  too ! 
PU£J 

[As  Gerardin  is  hastening  out,  Gerard  —  with  a  great 
effort  —  lifting  his  sword  in  its  scabbard,  flings  it 
clattering  in  front  of  Gerardin,  who  starts  back] 

GERARD 
[Bitterly] 
Burgundian  ! 

GERARDIN 
You  dropt  this  sword  ? 

GERARD 

I  flung  it 
In  challenge,  sir. 

GERARDIN 

Bah  !     I'm  no  corpse-killer. 
[Exit] 

HAUVIETTE 
\_Exasperated.  ] 
Stupid  Gerard ! 


22  JEANNE  PARC 

JEANNE 
\_Bending  over  Gerard ;  to  HauvietteJ] 

Fetch  him  some  water;  go. 
Fil  stay  with  him. 

[  Voices  shout  outside.~\ 

HAUVIETTE 
[Calling  gayly.~] 
I'm  coming ! 
[Tossing  Gerard  a  kiss.~\ 

Silly  boy ! 

[Pulling  Colin   after  her,  exit  Hauviette.    Jeanne,  lifting 
Gerard}s  sword  reverently,  places  it  by  the  tree.~\ 

GERARD 
\_Amazed.~\ 
My  sword  —  your  lips  have  touched  it ! 

JEANNE 

God  himself 
Hath  fought  with  it  for  France. 

GERARD 

/  fought  with  it ! 

JEANNE 

And  God  did  clasp  His  fingers  over  thine 
Along  the  hilt.     Whoso  hath  fought  for  France 
Hath  fought  for  Him. 

GERARD 

Jeannette  !  you  knew,  then,  why 
I  flung  it  there !     You  knew  ? 


JEANNE  PARC  23 

JEANNE 

Full  well,  my  friend. 

GERARD 
None  other  knew. 

JEANNE 

None  here  besides  hath  been 
Into  the  battle. 

GERARD 

Never  you  have  been. 

JEANNE 

Ah  me,  Gerard,  so  often  have  I  gone 
Amongst  the  armed  men,  methinks  I  scarce 
Have  stayed  at  home. 

GERARD 

You  saw  the  fighting  ?     When  i 

JEANNE 

Between  the  shearing  and  the  shearing. 

GERARD 

Where? 

JEANNE 

Out  there  —  beyond  :  in  the  wide  land  beyond ! 
And  there  were  thousands  flashing  in  the  sun 
Beneath  dark  walls  and  mighty  battlements, 
And  all  their  shining  limbs  were  stiff  with  steel ; 
And  rank  by  rank  they  rattled  as  they  marched, 
But  each  half  hid  his  neighbour  with  his  shield 
Like  soldiers  in  the  chapel-window  glass ; 


24  JEANNE  PARC 

And  I  rode  with  them,  clad  in  silver  mail 
From  heel  to  head,  upon  a  snow-white  horse, 
And  all  my  oriflammes  were  painted  fair 
With  lilies  and  the  Rising  of  our  Lord ; 
For  we  were  marching,  midst  the  roar  of  bells, 
Towards  a  great  cathedral. 

GERARD 

But  you  dreamed ! 

JEANNE 
[  Changing^ 

Once  in  the  midnight,  when  I  saw  them  sleeping 
After  the  battle,  in  the  still  moonshine 
Their  linked  armour  lay  beside  them,  sloughed 
Like  adder  skins ;  and  where  the  living  slept, 
Their  bright  breaths  rose  like  candle  mist,  but  on 
The  dead  the  dews  fell. 

GERARD 

How  saw  you  these  sights  ? 

JEANNE 

Sometimes  I  see  them  very  small  and  bright, 

As  if  they  were  inlaid  in  smooth  enamel 

Like  wish-stones  in  my  godfather's  thumb-ring. 

Sometimes  I  gaze  at  them  as  through  clear  water, 

That  moves  between  us,  blurring  the  deep  colours 

With  skeins  of  silver  when  the  wind  blows.     Ah ! 

But  tell  me  of  the  wars  which  you  have  seen. 

I  have  great  pity  for  the  land  of  France. 

Tell  me  —  for  you  have  fought  —  what  of  the  wars  ? 


JEANNE  PARC  2$ 

VOICES 

[Outside,  amid  laughter.] 
Vivo  la  roso  ! 

GERARD 
[  Glooming.~\ 

Will  you  not  go  —  play  ? 

JEANNE 
[  Smiling.~] 
Now  think  ye  they  are  sighing  for  me  ? 

[Adjusting  his  cloak  as  a  back  restJ] 

Move 
A  little ;  so  is  better  ? 

GERARD 

It  is  better. 
You  asked  —  what  of  the  wars  ? 

JEANNE 

Thou  art  still  in  pain 

GERARD 

Not  now ;  my  body's  pain  is  strangely  numb,  — 
What  of  the  wars  ?     Thou  knowest  the  bitter  news  : 
The  English  are  flooded  up  like  the  North  Sea 
Over  the  fields  of  France,  where  all  the  land 
Southward  to  Orleans  drowns  with  them,  and  all 
The  men  of  France,  like  moles  and  field-mice,  creep 
Under  the  bloodied  furrows. 

JEANNE 

Orleans  stands ! 

GERARD 

Yes ;  stands  like  a  strong  headland  in  their  tide 
And  will  not  crumble.     Orleans  only  stands 


26  JEANNE  PARC 

Between  the  English  army  and  King  Charles. 
Yet  soon  must  also  Orleans  fall,  and  then  — 
What  hope  then  for  the  King  ? 

JEANNE 

God  fights  for  him. 

GERARD 

They  say  that  he  is  poor  and  hath  few  friends, 
And  daily  those  desert  him,  taunting  him 
That  he  hath  never  been  crowned. 

JEANNE 

He.shall  be  crowned. 

GERARD 

And  Burgundy  the  Duke,  the  one  strong  man 
Whose  right  arm  should  have  struck  for  France,  now 

fights 

For  England  and  the  taste  of  English  gold.  — 
O  God !     Jeannette,  if  thou  hadst  fought  for  France, 
Now  mightest  thou  feel  what  'tis  of  bitterness 
To  close  my  eyes  and  go  down  in  the  dark, 
Knowing  that  even  this  dust  of  me  must  change 
Into  a  little  heap  of  English  earth. 


JEANNE 

Gerard  !  —  and  you  must  die  ? 


GERARD 

Last  night,  the  doctor 

Went  from  my  door  to  Jacques-the-gravedigger's  ; 
To-day  they  fetched  me  here  with  garlands. 


JEANNE  PARC  2? 

[Rising  slowly  to  her  feet,  Jeanne  holds  in  her  left  hand 
Gerard's  sword,  and  raising  her  right  as  one  taking  a 
martial  oath,  speaks  with  dreamy  fervour.~\ 

JEANNE 

Listen  ! 

Between  Coussy  and  Vaucouleurs  there  lives 
A  girl,  that,  ere  the  year  is  gone,  shall  save 
The  land  of  France,  and  consecrate  King  Charles. 

GERARD 

A  girl !  — between  Coussy  and  Vaucouleurs? 
That's  here  in  Domremy. 

JEANNE 

Have  you  not  heard 

How  long  ago  'twas  spoken,  "  Out  of  Lorraine, 
Beside  the  Ladies'  Tree,  shall  come  a  maid  — 
Saviour  of  France  "  ? 

GERARD 

This  is  the  Ladies'  Tree ! 

JEANNE 

And  truly  was  it  spoken.  —  I  am  the  Maid. 

GERARD 

Jeannette  ! 

JEANNE 

It  hath  been  told  me. 

GERARD 

Who  hath  told  ? 


28  JEANNE  &ARC 

JEANNE 

The  Lord  hath  sent  His  angel,  even  St.  Michael, 
To  me,  Jeannette. 

GERARD 

Thou  hast  beheld  him  ? 

JEANNE 

Yes. 

GERARD 

And  heard  him  speak  ? 

JEANNE 

Often. 

GERARD 

When  was  this  ? 

JEANNE 

First 

Four  years  ago.     '  Twas  in  my  father's  garden  ; 
I  was  then  but  thirteen ;  I  heard  his  voice. 
It  was  mid-day,  in  summer ;  I  was  frightened. 
I  had  not  fasted  on  the  day  before. 
A  little  to  my  right,  towards  the  church, 
I  heard  it ;  on  one  side  there  shone  a  light. 

GERARD 

What !  —  in  the  noon  time  ? 

JEANNE 

Yes ;  a  burning  light. 
It  dazzled  me ;  and  then  I  saw  his  face. 

GERARD 

Alone  ? 


JEANNE  &ARC  29 

JEANNE 

It  was  surrounded  all  with  angels, 
That  glittered  like  the  little  poplar  leaves 
Behind  our  barn. 

GERARD 

You  saw  them  bodily  ? 

JEANNE 

I  saw  them  with  these  eyes  as  clearly  as 

I  see  you  there.     Just  then  the  mass  bell  rung, 

And  then  St.  Michael  spoke. 

GERARD 

Mind  you  what  words  ? 

JEANNE 

He  said :  "  Jeanne  d'Arc,  thy  Lord  hath  chosen  thee 
To  save  the  land  of  France.     When  I  am  gone, 
St.  Catherine  will  come  and  Margaret, 
His  saints,  to  counsel  thee." 

GERARD 

More  did  he  say  ? 

JEANNE 

"  Be  good  and  wait,"  he  said ;  and  then  once  more 
"  Be  a  good  girl,  Jeannette,"  he  said  ;  and  so 
He  and  his  angels  went  away,  and  I 
Wept,  for  I  would  have  liked  to  go  with  them. 

GERARD 

St.  Catherine  and  Margaret  —  they  came  ? 

JEANNE 

Often  they  come. 


30  JEANNE  D^ARC 

GERARD 

You  have  seen  them  also  ? 

JEANNE 

Yes; 

But  oftenest  I  hear  them  speak ;  I  call  them 
"  My  Voices,"  and  I  hear  them  when  the  bells 
Are  ringing  —  more  at  Matins  and  at  Vespers 
Than  other  hours.     At  first  they  counselled  me 
But  to  be  good,  and  to  prepare  myself 
Against  St.  Michael's  coming.     But  of  late 
They  have  forewarned  me  I  must  go  to  raise 
The  siege  of  Orleans  and  have  crowned  the  Dauphin. 

GERARD 
{Ardently^ 
For  what,  then,  dost  thou  wait,  Jeannette  ? 

JEANNE 

St.  Michael, 
His  coming. 

GERARD 

Ah  !  and  will  he  come  again 
Before  —  I  go  ? 

JEANNE 

My  Voices  warn  me  oft 
That  he  at  any  moment  may  appear 
And  bid  me  go  unto  Chinon,  the  Castle 
Of  Charles  the  Dauphin,  and  make  known  to  him 
My  mission  from  our  Lord. 

GERARD 

He  will  believe ! 
Jeannette,  he  will  believe,  as  I !  —  O  France, 


JEANNE  D^ARC  31 

Out  of  Lorraine  hath  come  the  Lord  His  maid 
To  succour  thee  in  thy  death  peril ! 

JACQUES  D'ARC 
[His  voice  heard  outside  —  left} 

Colin  ! 
JEANNE 

My  father  !     Tell  him  not.     I  have  not  leave 
To  tell  yet  what  I  know.     You  I  have  told, 
For  you  must  soon  go  hence  before  my  saints, 
And  will  explain  my  trespass. 

GERARD 

I  will  tell  them 

How  you  revealed  their  secret  to  one  dead 
And  made  him  happy. 

JEANNE 
\Watching  her  father  approach  outside.} 

He  would  grieve,  besides, 
And  rage,  and  would  not  let  me  leave  him. 
\_Enter  Jacques  d'  Arc  and  Colin.} 

Hush! 

JACQUES 
[To  Colin} 
Round  up  the  sheep  with  me. 

COLIN 
[Follows  slowly} 

Where  keepst  thy  dog  ? 

JACQUES 
Suckleth  her  whelps  at  home.     Hark  yonder  !  Yon's 


32  JEANNE  D^ARC 

The  bell-wether,  hath  jumped  the  pound.  — Good  e'en, 
Jeannette.     Aye,  knitting,  hein? 

JEANNE 

God  give  good  e'en. 

JACQUES 

What  for  not  making  holiday  ?     'Tis  Sabbath  ; 
Seigneur  himself  walks  yon  with  the  young  folk; 
And  Colin  there  clapt  to  't  with  another  sweetheart,  — 
Ah,  Colin  ? 

COLIN 
[Jerking  his  thumb  at  Jeanne  and  Gerard.~\ 

She  would  browse  with  the  lame  sheep. 

JACQUES 
[To  Jeanne. ~\ 

What  for  with  him  ? 

GERARD 

She  asked  me  of  the  wars. 

JACQUES 

The   wars  ?     Hark   here,    lass.     Drop   that   gabble ; 

drop  't, 

I  warn  thee,  down  the  nighest  well  and  bury  't. 
No  maid  o'  mine  shall  gossip  o'  the  wars 
With  any  man.  —  And  hast  forgot  my  dream, 
Jeannette  ? 

JEANNE 

No. 

JACQUES 

Ofttime  dreams  be  perilous. 
I  saw  thee  in  my  dream  fighting  for  France, 
And  thou  wert  bleeding  at  the  breast.     May  God 


JEANNE  D  'ARC  33 

Forgi'e  't  me  ! —  Ere  thou  went  to  war,  Jeannette, 
I'd  have  thy  brothers  drown  thee. 

\_Turns  away,  speaking  to  Colm.~\ 

Where's  thy  staff? 
COLIN 

Over  against  the  sheep-pound. 

[There  run   in   Hauviette,  Mengette,   Pierre,  Ferrin,  and 
Others.] 
PERRIN 

Fetch  Gerard  ! 

JACQUES 
{To  Colin.'} 

Come  !  —  Wait  for  me,  Jeannette ;  we'll  home  with  'ee. 
\_Exeunt Jacques  and  Colin,  right.~\ 

HAUVIETTE 

Gerard,  Gerard,  three  kisses  !     Then  up,  up  ! 

GERARD 

Where  is  the  swallow  flying  ! 

HAUVIETTE 

With  the  flock 
Of  course. 

MENGETTE 
You're  coming  with  us  ? 

PIERRE 

To  be  cured. 

HAUVIETTE 

We're  going  to  the  well  of  thorns  ;  Seigneur 
Is  waiting  for  us.     'Tis  a  sacred  well, 

D 


34  JEANNE  D^ARC 

And  filled  with  holy  water  to  the  brim ; 
And  when  you  drink  of  it,  you  will  be  cured. 

PIERRE 

Make  him  a  chair. 

SEVERAL  OTHERS 

A  chair ! 

[Pierre  and  another  lad  by  interlacing  their  hands  form  a  seat 
into  which  Gerard  is  raised.~\ 

PERRIN 

Now  up  with  him  ! 

\_Lifted  by  the  two  lads,  Gerard  is  carried  off,  surrounded  by 
the  others  shouting.'] 

GERARD 

\_From  his  chair  of  hands] 
Good-by,  Jeannette ;  I'm  going  to  be  cured. 

JEANNE 

[  Waves  to  him.] 
Adieu,  Gerard  ! 

THE  OTHERS 
[  Going  out.~] 
Outre!     Gerard!  Gerard! 

JEANNE 

\_To  Perrin,  as  he  is  leaving  with  the  others.] 

Perrin  ! 

\_Perrin  pauses  and  looks  at  Jeanne,  who  shakes  her  finger 
at  him  with  a  grave  smile.  He  drops  his  eyes,  con 
fused.] 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  3  5 

PERRIN 

But  'tisn't  late. 

JEANNE 

The  sky's  all  pink 
And  gold  behind  the  bell-tower. 

\_Turninghim  toward  the  shrine.~\ 

Naughty  Perrin  ! 

What  will  Our  Lady  say,  who  leaneth  there 
And  listeneth  for  her  Vesper  bell,  and  heareth 
Perrin  at  play. 

PERRIN 

I  cannot  ring  just  yet. 
The  others  — 

JEANNE 
[  Thrusting  her  knitting  into  his  hands •.] 

Here's  a  mitten  ;  'tis  of  wool. 
I'll  knit  thee  its  fellow  before  Michaelmas 
If  thou  wilt  run  fast  to  the  kirk,  and  ring 
The  bell. 

PERRIN 

Our  Lady  shall  not  scold,  then.  —  Mind, 
Thou'lt  knit  me  t'other  mitten  ? 

JEANNE 

I  have  promised. 

[Perrin  runs  off  toward  Domremy.  Jeanne,  going  slowly  to 
the  Ladies'  Tree,  leans  against  the  trunk,  and  stands 
looking  westward  toward  the  town.  As  she  does  so, 
there  rises  — faint  but  dose  by,  through  the  falling  twi 
light —  a  music  of  sweet  voices,  singing  to  the  old  French 
ballad-melody  these  words,  softly  distinguishable^ 


36  JEANNE  D^ARC 

THE  TWILIGHT  VOICES 
Derrier'  chez  mon  pere, 

(Vole,  vole,  mon  cceur  vole  !) 
Derrier'  chez  mon  pere 

Y'a  un  pommier  doux  : 
Tout  doux  —  et  iou  ! 
Tout  doux  —  et  iou  ! 
Y'a  un  pommier  doux. 

Trois  belles  princesses 

(Vole,  vole,  mon  cceur,  vole  !) 
Trois  belles  princesses 
Sont  assis  dessous : 

Tout  doux  —  et  iou  ! 
Tout  doux  — et  iou ! 
Sont  assis  dessous. 

Ca  dit  la  premiere,  vole,  etc. 
Je  crois  qu'il  fait  jour. 

Ca  dit  la  seconde  —  etc. 

i 

J'entends  le  tambour. 

[Jeanne,  pensive,  does  not  hear  the  melody,  nor  observe  how 
near  her,  from  amid  the  obscurity  of  the  birch  trees,  there 
emerge  the  shadowy  forms  of  the  LADIES  OF  LORRAINE. 
Each  of  these  peers  forth  from  her  own  bush  or  birch  or 
flowering  shrub,  to  which  her  garb  —  with  its  long  green 
veil  and  flowing  forest  gown  —  approximates  in  tone  and 
design^  Each  wears  a  crown  and  has  an  air  at  once 
queenly  and  sylvanJ] 

1  Thus  the  veil  of  the  Lady  of  the  Flowering  Thorn  is  embroidered 
all  with  thorn  blossoms;  the  gown  of  the  Lady  of  the  Aspen  twinkles 
and  shivers  with  little  leaves. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  37 

THE   LADIES  OF   LORRAINE 

[  Continuing^ 

Ca  dit  la  troisieme  —  etc. 
C'est  mon  ami  doux. 

II  va-t-a  la  guerre  —  etc. 
Combattre  pour  nous. 

[Ceasing,  none  of  the  Ladies  entirely  dissociates  herself 
from  her  bush  or  tree,  but  peering  forward,  all  together, 
they  lift  from  their  brows,  and  hold  aloft  with  their  right 
hands,  their  crowns  and  fillets  and  therewith  lay  a  spell 
upon  Jeanne,  who  —  outwardly  oblivious  of  their  pres 
ence — yet  is  felt  to  soliloquize  under  their  influence,  not 
beginning  to  speak  until  they  appear,  and  ceasing  simul 
taneous  with  their  abrupt  departure. ,] 

JEANNE 

[By  the  Ladies'  Tree.'] 

How  happily  doth  all  the  world  go  home  ! 
The  bee  hath  left  the  shutting  marguerite 
To  dust  his  wings  at  Pierrot's  garden-door 
And  hum  all  night  to  drowsy  chanticleer ; 
The  rooks  are  whirling  to  the  nested  eaves.  — 
Thou  little  darling  town  of  Domremy, 
Good  night !     Thou  winkest  with  thy  lids  of  vines, 
And  layest  down  within  the  golden  stream 
Thy  yellow  thatches  and  thy  poplars  pale ; 
And  thou,  too,  art  upgathered  in  home-fields ; 
But  thy  Jeannette  must  pass  away  from  thee. 
For  He  who  once  disdained  not  to  stay 
His  wandering  star  o'er  tiny  Bethlehem 
Hath,  in  His  love  of  France,  sent  unto  thee 


38  JEANNE  D^ ARC 

His  shining  messengers  to  fetch  thy  Maid. 

0  little  town,  hush  still  thy  breath  and  hark ! 
Amid  thy  narrow  streets  are  angels  arming, 
And  o'er  thy  steeping-stones  immortal  feet 
Are  bearing  light  the  undying  fleur-de-lis ; 
And  from  thy  roofs  clear  horns-of-Paradise 

Are  blowing  wide  unto  the  zenith  :   Hearken  !  — • 

Who  shall  withstand  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  or  who 

Defy  His  power  ?     The  horses  of  the  Lord 

Are  neighing,  terrible  ;  His  chariots 

Of  thunder  crash  in  darkness,  and  the  voice 

Calleth  of  His  Archangel  from  the  battle  : 

''Vive  la  France !     Victoire  !     La  France  sauvee  ! ' 

JACQUES  D'ARC 

[Outside.] 
Along !     Along ! 

\_The  Ladies  vanish  in  the  foliage.  Jeanne  stands  as  in  a 
trance.  Enter  right  Jacques,  grasping  by  the  wrist 
Colin,  who  holds  back,  quaking.~\ 

Where  be  they  ?     Show  me  where  ? 

COLIN 

Na,  na;    I'll   not  come   nigh   her.     They   be   gone 
Inside. 

JACQUES 

Inside  o'  what? 

COLIN 

The  bark  and  roots  : 

1  saw  them  yonder  lifting  o'  their  veils. 

JACQUES 
Where? 


JEANNE  D^ARC  39 

[  Colin  points.~\ 
Those  be  birches. 

COLIN 

Ladies  were  they  then, 
And  peered  and  peeped  at  her. 

JACQUES 

At  who  ? 

COLIN 

Jeannette ; 
I'll  not  come  nigh  her. 

JACQUES 
[  Visibly  affected,  yet  will  not  show  it  to  Colin.~] 

Pfah !     Thou  hast  such  visions 
As  Pertelote,  our  hen  :  spyeth  the  moon, 
And  cackleth  she  hath  laid  our  Lord  an  egg.  — 
Jeannette  o'  mine,  come  hither. 

JEANNE 

[Breaking  from  her  revery,  goes  impetuously  to  his  arms."] 

Papa  Jacques ! 

JACQUES 

[Embracing  her  tenderly,  looks  toward  the  birches.^ 
Th'  art  a  good  lass,  Jeannette.     I  spake  thee  harsh 
Awhile  since. 

JEANNE 

Will  I  scold  thee  for  it  now  ? 

JACQUES 

A  good  lass  was  thou  always; — but  some  stubborn. 

JEANNE 

Like  Papa  Jacques  ? 

[Kisses  him.~\ 


40  JEANNE  D^ARC 

JACQUES 

Aye,  Jacques  d'Arc  hath  a  will. 
Th'  art  come  short-cut  thereby  !     But  hark'ee,  girl ! 
Shut  mouth  catches  no  flies.  —  I'll  have  thee  speak 
No  more  o'  the  wars.  —  What  say  ?     I'll  have  thee  be 
Like  other  village  maid-folk  —  light  o'  heart, 
Merry  to  love.  —  Eh,  not  ? —  I'll  have  thee  wed, 
And  keep  thy  goodman's  sheep-farm  next  to  mine. 
Come  now  :  What  say  to  Colin  ? 

JEANNE 

'Tis  a  good  lad. 
JACQUES 

St.  John  !     'Tis  a  good  answer.     Once  again  ! 
What  say  to  speak  him  troth  now  —  man  and  maid  ? 

JEANNE 

I  may  not  speak  my  troth  to  any  man. 

JACQUES 

May  not!     May  not !     Who's  thy  new  master,  sith 
Thy  father  died  ?     Who  hath  forbade  thee  speak  ? 
Well,  well;  let  be  !     Thou  needst  not  speak  thy  troth. 
Look :  yonder,  Colin  holds  his  sheep-staff  out 
Toward  thee  ;  take  it,  lass,  and  nothing  spoke  — 
In  token  of  thy  trothal. 

{Jeanne,  gazing  apparently  at   Colin,    clasps  suddenly  her 
hands  in  awe,  and  makes  a  humble  reverenced] 

JEANNE 

Monseigneur ! 
Thy  maid  is  ready. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  41 

JACQUES 
[  Who  has  turned  away.~\ 

Take  't  and  come  along. 

JEANNE 
[To  Jacques.] 

What  is  that  which  you  see  held  forth  to  me  ? 
JACQUES 

Seest  well  thyself  'tis  Colin 's  staff.      What  for 

Art  staring  ? 

JEANNE 

"Tis  exceeding  beautiful 
In  glory  and  in  power ;  its  handle  gleams 
Bright  as  the  cross  of  jewels  at  the  mass, 
And  oh,  its  sheath  is  like  an  altar-candle. 
[In  the  distance  a  bell  begins  to  ring  slowly.    Jacques  bows 
his  head.     Colin,  awed  by  Jeanne's  words  and  expres 
sion,  thrusts  the  staff  upright  in  the  earth  and  steps 
back  a  pace  from  it,  superstitiously  .~\ 

JACQUES 

[Crossing  himself. ~\ 
The  Vespers. 

JEANNE 

[Sinking  to  her  knees.'} 
Monseigneur ! 

[At  this  moment  in  the  air  beside  Colin  appears  the  glorified 
form  of  ST.  MICHAEL.  Shepherd  and  Archangel  stand 
contrasted,  yet  alike  in  posture,  looking  toward  Jeanne.] 

JACQUES 

Up,  lass !     What  aileth  ? 
Wilt  take  the  sheep-crook  ? 


42  JEANNE  D  ^ 

JEANNE 

Wilt  thou  have  me  take 
What  in  the  turf  stands  yonder  ? 

JACQUES 

In  God's  name  ! 

JEANNE 

In  God's  name,  then,  I  take  it. 

[Reaching  out,  she  pauses  and  draws  back  —  her  face  lifted 
to  St.  Michael's — as,   in  the  cadence  of   the  bell,  he 

speaks.  ] 

ST.  MICHAEL 

[Slowly  extending  his  hand.~\ 

Jeanne  the  Maid, 

Behold  the  staff  I  bring  thee  is  my  sword. 
[Lightly  laying  his  hand  upon  the  staff,  instantaneously  his 
touch  transforms  it  to  a  perpendicular  sword,  its  point 
piercing  the  turf,  its  cross-formed  handle  and  its  sheath 
glowing  with  variegated  fire '.] 

Take  it  in  vow  of  thy  virginity, 

And  to  perform  the  bidding  of  thy  Lord  — 

That  thou,  in  armour  girded  as  a  man 

Shalt  go  to  raise  at  Orleans  the  great  siege, 

And  after,  crown  the  Dauphin,  Charles  of  France, 

Anointed  King  at  Rheims. 

COLIN 
[Pointing.'] 

The  crook,  Jeannette ! 
Take  it  in  troth. 

ST.  MICHAEL 

[Pointing.'] 
Take  it  in  troth,  Jeanne  d'Arc. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  43 

JEANNE 

In  God  His  name,  I  take  it  as  from  Him 
To  whom  my  vow  is  given. 

[Extending  her  hand,  Jeanne  touches  the  sword ;  then  bows 
her  head  as  St.  Michael  disappears^ 

JACQUES 

So  ;  she  hath  touched 

Thy  staff  in  trothal,  lad.     Now  home  with  ye 
Together. 

COLIN 

Come,  Jeannette. 

JEANNE 

First,  I  will  pray. 

JACQUES 
[Aside  to  Colin.~\ 
The  Vespers  !  —  Come  along.  —  She'll  follow  us. 

COLIN 

[Going  out,  sings. ,] 
Sith  for  Charity 

My  love  her  troth  me  gave, 
My  troth  hath  she 

I  her  have. 

[Exit  Colin.  Jacques,  looking  back  at  Jeanne,  crosses  him 
self,  muttering,  and  exit.  Twilight  deepens.  Blending 
with  the  tones  of  the  chapel  bell  are  heard  two  Voicesl\ 

THE  FIRST  VOICE 

Jeanne  d'Arc! 

JEANNE 
[Calling^ 
St.  Margaret ! 


44  JEANNE  D^ARC 

THE  SECOND  VOICE 

Jeanne  la  Pucelle ! 

JEANNE 

St.  Catherine ! 

THE  TWO  VOICES 
Daughter  of  God,  go  forth  ! 

[Jeanne,  on  the  turf,  kneels  before  the  cross  of  the  shining 
sword.      Vespers  continue  to  ring.] 


ACT   II 


ACT   II 

SCENE  :  The  Castle  of  Chinon.     March  8,  1429. 

An  audience-hall,  sparsely  furnished  with  an  indigent  mag 
nificence. 

The  chief  entrance  at  back  is  in  the  centre.  On  the  right  of 
this  an  ornate  clock,  with  chimes.  On  the  left,  high  in 
the  wall,  a  stained-glass  window  depicts  the  Emperor 
Charlemagne,  with  the  shield  of  France,  holding  a 
crown.  Against  the  left  wall,  a  throne-chair  with 
canopy;  in  the  right  wall,  a  fireplace  with  chimney-seat. 
At  the  oblique  angle  of  the  right  and  back  walls,  a  stair 
way  descends  from  a  colonnade,  partly  visible  without. 

The  scene,  opening,  discovers  KING  CHARLES  seated  on  an 
arm  of  the  throne-chair,  with  one  foot  on  the  seat,  the 
other  crossed  over  his  knee.  Round  his  neck,  behind, 
is  hung  a  placard,  lettered  in  red  and  gold  : 

LE  ROI 
DAGOBERT 

C'EST    MOI 

/ 

He  is  surrounded  by  LADIES  of  the  Court,  who  are  merrily 
shouting  a  song,  whilst  they  watch  the  royal  TAILOR, 
who  bends  assiduously  over  the  King's  crossed  leg,  ply 
ing  his  thread  and  needle.  Beside  him  stands  his  spool- 
and-shears  basket. 

Apart  from  these,  at  a  table  near  the  fire,  are  seated  LA 
TREMOUILLE  and  DE  CHARTRES.  The  former  is  busily 
engaged  in  looking  over  a  pile  of  parchments.  From 
time  to  time  he  is  approached  with  great  reverence  by 
servants  and  courtiers. 

45 


46  JEANNE  D^ARC 

THE   LADIES 

[Sing  to  the  old  ballad-tune. ~\ 
'Twas  good  King  Dagobert 
His  breeches  wrong-side-out  did  wear. 
Quoth  his  Master  of  Stitches  : 
"Your  Majesty's  breeches, 
To  put  it  mild  strongly, 
Are  put  on  well  wrongly." 
"  Eh  bien  !  "  the  King  he  cried, 
"Just  wait  and  I'll  turn  'em  right  side." 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
\_To  VENDOME,  the  Chamberlain.^ 
This  seal  to  the  Receiver-General ; 
These  parchments  to  the  Treasurer  of  War. 

THE   LADIES 

God  save  King  Dagobert ! 

THE  TAILOR 

Good  Majesty 
Doth  wear  the  seam  outside. 

CHARLES 

Why  not,  old  Stitches  ? 
I'll  set  the  fashion  so ;  I  am  chafed  too  long 
With  wearing  o'  the  seamy-side  within. 

CATHERINE 
\_Aside  to  DIANE.] 

Still  munching  the  old  cud  of  melancholy  — 
His  mother. 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  47 

DIANE 
Why  his  mother  ? 

CATHERINE 

Shh !     They  say 


She  called  him  — 

DIANE 
Hein  ? 

CATHERINE 

They  spell  it  with  a  "b.'r 

ATHENIE 

Imperial  Dagobert,  permit  thy  slave 
To  be  thy  needle-woman. 

CATHERINE 

Nay,  let  me ; 
My  silk  is  threaded. 

DIANE 

Twere  a  thousand  pities 
To  wholly  sheathe  so  glorious  a  sword  ! 
\_Touching  the  King's  leg.~\ 

Is  it  of  gold  ? 

CHARLES 

Ah,  lady,  would  it  were, 
And  I  would  lend  it  out  at  usury 
To  line  your  purse  withal. — Alas,  madame, 
'Tis  a  poor  limb  charr'd  with  celestial  fire. 
[  Waves  her  back.] 

CATHERINE 

Ladies,  we  may  not  look.     We  must  content 
Our  souls  with  incense  of  the  burning  thigh. 


48  JEANNE  D^ARC 

DE   CHARTRES 

\_To  La  Tremouille,  amid  the  Ladies1  laughter. ~\ 
Is  it  possible  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

They  are  his  only  pair ; 

The  rest  he  pawned  this  morning.     These  being  torn, 
He  calls  the  tailor  and  commands  the  ladies 
To  acclaim  him  as  King  Dagobert. 

DE   CHARTRES 

What  for? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

For  novelty.     One  day  he'll  hang  himself 
For  novelty. 

THE  TAILOR 

Your  Majesty  is  mended. 

CHARLES 

Approach,  mesdames,  and  view  the  royal  patch. 

ATHENIE 

But  where  ? 

CATHERINE 

I  cannot  see  it. 

CHARLES 

Even  so ! 

Your  patch  is  virtue's  own  epitome, 
The  smooth'd-up  leak  in  honour's  water-mark, 
The  small  fig-leaf  that  shadows  Paradise, 
The  tiny  seal  of  time  and  turpitude. 
Which  for  to  prove,  sweet  dames,  bethink  you  how 
The  great  Achilles  —  he  who  fought  and  sulked 


JEANNE  D^ARC  49 

Outside  the  walls  of  Troy  —  was  once  a  babe, 
(Babes  will  occur,  mesdames !)  and  had  a  mother 
(The  best  of  us  have  mothers,  though  not  all 
Be  goddesses).     His  mother  was  called  Thetis, 
And  when  she  dipped  him  in  the  immortal  wave, 
She  held  him  by  the  heel  —  thus  —  thumb  and  ringer, 
That  ever  afterward  upon  the  heel 
He  wore  a  patch  —  a  little  viewless  patch, 
Whereby  he  came  to  dust.     The  moral's  plain : 
A  little  patch  is  greater  than  a  god, 
And  therefore  this  your  prince,  poor  Dagobert, 
Doth  kiss  his  hands  to  you  and  abdicate 
In  lieu  of  one  more  royal  lord  —  King  Patch. 
Acclaim  him ! 

\_Stepping  down,  Charles  mounts  the  Tailor  upon  the  throne, 
on  the  seat  of  which  he  stands,  in  alarmed  confusion, .] 

THE  TAILOR 

Majesty  !  —  Sweet  ladies ! 

THE   LADIES 

Hail! 

CHARLES 

Behold  the  man  who  mendeth  Alexander, 
And  ravelleth  up  the  rended  Caesar's  wounds : 
Lo !  moth  corrupteth  us,  and  mildew  stains, 
Diana  frays  her  moon-white  taffeta, 
Yea,  Phoebus  sullieth  his  golden  hose, 
Fate  makes  or  mars  us,  but  King  Patch  doth  mend  ! 

BOULIGNY 

\_ffavtngjust  entered,  claps  his  palm. ~\ 
Par  excellence,  a  Cicero  ! 


50  -  JEANNE  D^ARC 

CHARLES 
\_Bowing.  ] 

Your  servant, 
Bouligny  !  —  now  to  crown  him,  ladies. 

THE  LADIES 

Crown  him ! 

[  Catherine  snatches  up  the  work-basket  and,  inverting,  lifts 
it  —  dangling  with  spools,  bobbins,  and  shears  —  tow 
ard  the  Tailor.'] 

THE  TAILOR 

Dames !     Gentle  dames  ! 

CATHERINE 

[Thrusting  the  basket  over  his  head."] 
A  crown  ! 

DIANE 
[forcing  a  yardstick  into  his  hand.] 

A  sceptre ! 

THE  TAILOR 
[From  within  the  basket] 

Virgin ! 
ALL 

Long  live  King  Patch  ! 

[The  Tailor,  extricating  himself,  giggling  and  grinning  a 
scared  smile,  bobs  and  kisses  his  palm  to  Charles  and 
the  Ladies,  who  shout  with  laughter.] 

THE  TAILOR 

Pardon  and  compliments ! 
Pardon,  mesdames,  seigneurs,  and  compliments ! 


JEANNE  D 'ARC  51 

\_At  the  height  of  this  royal  mockery,  there  enters  from  the  col 
onnade,  D'ALENCON  —  a  quiet,  contrasting  figure.  He 
is  scribbling  on  a  parchment  and  pauses.  Glancing 
from  the  throne-chair  scene,  he  turns  to  where  La  Tre- 
mouille  and  De  Chartres  are  talking  together  apart, 
and  silently  approaches  them.~\ 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
{Pointing  at  the  Tailor.'] 
Behold  the  King  of  France  enthroned. 

DE  CHARTRES 

You  mean 
That  we  must  strive  to  keep  him  thus. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

I  mean 

That  he  who  holds  a  mortgage  on- a  king 
May  keep  the  sceptre  for  security 
During  the  debt's  outstanding. 

DE  CHARTRES 

How  the  sceptre  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
The    power,   De    Chartres ;  like   yonder    Knave    of 

Spools 

Charles  wields  the  royal  yardstick,  but  the  King 
Of  France  —  the  man  that  reigns  —  c'est  moi ! 

DE  CHARTRES 
And  I  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

[Graciously. ~\ 
My  privy  council. 


52  JEANNE  D-> ARC 

[Suddenly;  over  his  shoulder  observing  D*  Alen$on.~\ 

Ah,  D'Alen$on  !  - 
Poeticizing  ? 

D'ALENgON 

Yes  ;  I  am  composing 
A  rondel  on  the  weather,  called  "  It  rains." 

\De  Chartres  and  La  Tremouille  glance  at  each  other  quizzi 
cally.  With  a  studious  look  D'Alen$on  turns  away,  and 
takes  from  the  fireplace  a  bookJ\ 

THE  COURT  LADIES 

A  speech  !     A  coronation  speech  ! 

THE  TAILOR 

Mesdames, 

Seigneurs,  and  compliments  !     If  Majesty 
Would  pay  to  me  my  wage,  and  let  me  go. 

CHARLES 

Thy  wage,  pardieu  !     O  heart  of  emery  ! 
Sharpen  your  needles  in  him,  ladies.     Wage ! 
Wage  for  a  patch  ! 

THE  TAILOR 

Nay,  Majesty,  a  year  — 
One  year,  last  Candlemas,  'tis  overdue. 

CHARLES 

Hark  to  the  bobbin  buzz  !     What,  take  thy  wages ! 

Wilt  bear  'em  on  thy  back  ?     A  twelvemonth,  here  ! 

One  month  —  two  —  three  —  four  ! 

\_Snatching  from  him  the  yardstick,  Charles  thwacks  the 
Tailor  down  from  the  throne,  whence  he  runs,  pursued 
by  the  Ladies,  who  prick  his  sides  with  their  needles.] 


JEANNE  D^ARC  53 

THE  TAILOR 
[Running  off.~\ 

Charity,  mesdames  ! 


CHARLES 

[Pauses,  laughing,  and  greets  D*Alen$on,  who,  over  his  book, 
has  been  looking  keenly  on.~\ 

What  think  you  of  our  royal  sport,  D'Alen^on  ? 

D'ALENCON 

No  king,  sire,  could  more  quaintly  lose  his  kingdom. 

[Charles,  ceasing  his  laughter  with  a  conscious  look,  vaguely 
ashamed,  hesitates,  then  follows  D'Alen$on,  who  has 
turned  away,  and  —  walking  aside  with  him  —  grows 
strangely  serious.  .] 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[To  De  Chartres.~\ 
Behold  my  Rome  and  Rubicon. 

DE  CHARTRES 

What  —  yonder  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

That  man  is  in  my  way  ;  he  must  be  crossed 
Before  the  King  is  mine. 

DE  CHARTRES 

That  bookworm  duke  ! 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

His  influence  grows. 

DE  CHARTRES 

Nay,  hardly  with  the  King  ! 


54  JEANNE  D^ARC 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

De  Chartres,  you  know  not  Charles;  he's  like  a  tree- 
frog 

That  takes  the  colour  of  the  bark  it  clings  to. 
Watch  how  demure  he  holds  the  young  duke's  sleeve 
And  alters  to  the  dim  scholastic  hue 
Of  vellum  and  antique  philosophy  ; 
As  quickly  would  he  turn  blood-colour,  if 
The  duke  should  flush  with  feeling. 

DE  CHARTRES 

Feeling !     Flush  ? 

Why,  'tis  a  rhyming  clerk !  —  a  duke  of  parchment ! 
The  mere  illumination  of  a  man 
Stuck  in  life's  margin  to  adorn  the  text. 
He  feels  for  naught  this  side  the  Fall  of  Troy. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

You  have  forgot  "  It  rains  "  ? 

DE  CHARTRES 

A  foolish  pun ! 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

About  my 'self ' :  that  theme,  at  least,  is  new 
Since  Troy  fell.     No  ;  I  do  not  trust  him.  —  You 
Were  best  to  interrupt  their  tete-a-tete. 

VENDOME 

\_At  the  door,  announces  to  Charles. ~\ 
His  Majesty's  bootmaker! 

CHARLES 

Show  him  here. 


JEANNE  D^ ARC  55 

DE  CHARTRES 

[As   Charles  turns    momentarily  toward   Venddme,  touches 
D'Alenqon's  volume  and  speaks  to  himJ] 

Who  wrote  the  book  ? 

D'ALENCON 

Pierre  Lombard,  pupil  once 
Of  Abelard,  who  sang  to  Heloise. 

DE  CHARTRES 

\_Frowning  suspicion.^ 
Is  it  godly  ? 

D'ALEN£ON 

That  your  reverence  may  judge  : 
The  writer  plucks  a  hair  out  of  his  head, 
Splits  it  in  two,  and  names  the  one  half  Faith 
The  other,  Heresy.     The  first  he  dyes 
Pure  gold,  the  other  pitch-black,  and  both  he  nails 
As  index-fingers  on  the  Church's  apse, 
And  points  one   hair   toward    Heaven,  the   other  - 
elsewhere. 

DE  CHARTRES 
I  do  not  comprehend. 

D'ALENgON 
[Closing  the  book  with  a  dry  smile.] 

Neither  do  I  ! 
[Exit  D'Aknson,  right. ~\ 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

[To  De  Chartres,  who  returns  pensively  to  him.~\ 
What  think  you  now  ? 


56  JEANNE  D^ARC 

DE   CHARTRES 

I  think  he  thinks  too  much. 

\_Enter  the    BOOTMAKER,  a    big    raw  fellow,    in    leather. 
He  takes  a  pair  of  boots  from  his  apron.~\ 

BOOTMAKER 

Complete,  sire. 

CHARLES 

Let  me  see  them. 
\_The  Bootmaker  hands  him  one.~] 

Catherine, 
What  say  you  to  the  cut  ? 

CATHERINE 

Perfection,  Charles ! 

Your  Majesty  shall  walk  like  Puss-in-Boots 
When  he  proclaimed  the  Marquis  of  Carabbas. 

CHARLES 

[  With  sudden  ennui,  comparing  the  boot  with  his  lower  leg.~\ 
Perchance  'twill  serve  to  hide  Achilles'  heel  ? 

[To  the  Bootmaker.'} 
Show  me  the  mate. 

BOOTMAKER 

Six  livres,  twenty  sous. 

CHARLES 

The  mate,  I  said. 

BOOTMAKER 

[Stolidly,  thrusting  the  mate  under  his  arm.~\ 
Six  livres,  twenty  sous. 

CHARLES 

Ah  ?     Charge  it  on  account.     I'll  take  the  pair. 


JEANNE  D  ->ARC  5  7 

BOOTMAKER 
[Inflexible.'} 
A  bird  in  the  hand  makes  supper  in  the  pot. 

CHARLES 

God's  death  !     Am  I  the  King  ?     Set  down  the  boot 
And  go  ! 

BOOTMAKER 
[Backing  to  the  door,  stands  sullenly,  swinging  the  one  boot 

by  its  s  traps. ] 
Six  livres,  twenty  sous. 

CHARLES 
[Hurling  the  other  boot  after  him.~\ 

Go  dun 

The  devil  for  it ! 

BOOTMAKER 

[Picking  up  the  boot,  eyes  it  over,  spits  on  his  apron,  and 
with  that  rubs  the  toe  of  the  boot  carefully. ~\ 

Five  and  twenty  sous  ! 

[Exit  slowly,  a  boot  in  each  hand.  Charles,  having 
watched  him  go,  turns  in  a  pet  of  frenzy  and,  flinging 
down  upon  the  throne  footstool,  speaks  hoarsely  to  him 
self,  weeping.~\ 

CHARLES 

Am  I  the  King  ?     God,  God  !     Am  I  the  King  ? 

DE  CHARTRES 
[Amused,  to  La  Tremouil/e.~] 
Have  you  no  smiles  for  this  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[  Yawning. ~\ 

Tis  too  familiar. 


58  JEANNE  D^ARC 

CATHERINE 
[Approaching  La  Tremouille,  obsequiously. \ 

The  little  King  of  Chinon  hath  caught  the  sulks, 
Sieur  La  Tremouille. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
I'm  busy. 

CATHERINE 

Pardon  — 

[With    an   ingratiatory   lifting  of  the   brows   and  a   low 
reverence^ 

-  Sire  ? 

\_La  Tremouille  smiles  slightly  and  looks  down  again  at 
his  papers.  As  De  Chartres,  however,  leaves  the  table 
to  speak  with  Bouligny,  La  Tremouille  calls  Catherine 
with  his  eyes,  and  speaks  to  her  intimately,  watching 
with  her  the  King  and  smilingl\ 

ATHENIE 

\_To  LA  HIRE,  who  enters. ~\ 
Marshal,  hast  heard  what  ails  the  King's  game-cocks  ? 

LA   HIRE 

No,  dame. 

ATHENIE 

'Tis  said  that  they  have  shed  their  spurs, 
And  strut  amongst  the  hens  i'  the  castle-yard 

\_Flaps  her  sleeves  like  a  cock's  wings. ~\ 
Crying  :    "  King  Noodle-Nothing-Do  !       Chez  nous  !  " 

[La  Hire  turns  away  with  a  grim  ace.  ~\ 


JEANNE  D^ARC  59 

DIANE 
\To  a  Lady.] 

No  wonder  the  King's  figure  is  god-like. 
They  say  his  lady  mother  had  a  steward 
Shaped  like  Apollo. 

CHARLES 
[From  the  foots  to  ol.~\ 

Ladies,  I  have  the  ear-ache. 

DIANE 
Beseech  you,  sire,  what  may  we  do  to  soothe  it  ? 

CHARLES 

Bring  here  those  honey-flasks  of  calumny 
And  pour  them  in  my  ears.     Perchance  'twill  stop 
This  piping  noise  within. 

ATHENIE 

What  piping  noise, 
Your  Majesty  ? 

CHARLES 

A  lute  within  my  head : 
A  slender  lute  carven  with  fleur-de-lis, 
And  at  the  tip  a  crown  of  fleur-de-lis, 
And  on  the  stops  a  lady's  fingers  lying, 
And  on  the  mouth-piece  are  a  lady's  lips, 
And  when  they  breathe,  there  opes  a  tiny  rift 
Within  the  fibre,  and  the  hollow  thing 
Pipes  a  shrill  hellish  whistle  — 

[Leaping  up.  ] 

A  mere  rift, 
A  little,  little  rent !  — 


60  JEANNE  D^ARC 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Nine  thousand  francs ! 

CHARLES 
What's  that? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[  With  a  side  smile  at  Catherine.~\ 

The  "  little  rent "  you  owe  me,  Charles 
A  trifle,  as  you  say,  and  soon  patched  up. 

CHARLES 

My  George  !     Thou  hast  a  heart  of  gold  !  —  But  you 
Must  reimburse  yourself  o'  the  treasury. 
Bouligny  ! 

BOULIGNY 

Sire! 

CHARLES 

How  much  in  the  general  fund  ? 

BOULIGNY 

Eleven  francs,  five  sous,  your  Majesty. 

CHARLES 

Saint  dieu  !  no  more  than  that  ? 

BOULIGNY 

Sieur  La  Tremouille 
Hath  authorized  to-day  another  loan 
From  his  estates. 

CHARLES 
\EmbracingLa  Tremouille .~\ 

My  dear,  thou  art  mine  angel ! 

LA    TREMOUILLE 

Tut,  Charlie  !     Go  and  play. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  6l 

CHARLES 

Nay,  by  my  honour, 

But  you  shall  reap  your  master's  gratitude. 
When  we  have  raised  our  arm  imperial 
And  flogged  with  steel  these  spindling  English  — 

\The  room  bursts  into  a  titter ;  Charles  pauses  disconcerted. 
La  Tremouille,  badly  concealing  a  smile,  raises  an 
admonishing  forefinger  to  the  Ladies,  who  burst  into 
louder  laughter.  Charles,  covering  his  face,  turns 
precipitately  and  is  rushing  from  the  room  when,  in 
the  doorway  (back)  he  encounters  D'A/en^on,  entering. 
The  latter  has  evidently  just  been  concerned  with  the 
frayed  edges  of  his  scroll  of  parchment,  but  now  —  tak 
ing  in  the  situation  at  a  glance  —  he  bows  to  the  King 
with  simple  reverence. ~\ 

D'ALENCON 

Sire, 

You  are  generous  to  cover  my  confusion. 
Yet  if  these  gentles  choose  to  laugh  at  me  — 

CHARLES 

{Bewildered^ 
At  you  / 

D'ALENCON 

Why,  they  are  right.     You  spoke  of  war, 
Of  frays  where   brave  men  break  their   limbs  and 

lances, 

When  lo  !  —  I  enter,  mending  of  a  parchment. 
Should  not  they  laugh  ?     'Tis  such  as  I,  my  King, 
Such  dog-eared  captains  skulking  in  their  books, 
Such  Frenchmen,  idling  in  satiric  ease 
While  France  lies  struck  and  bleeding  —  such  who 

bring 


62  JEANNE  D^ARC 

Your  Majesty's  dear  reign  dishonour.     Thanks, 
Friends  of  Chinon !     Thanks  for  your  keen  rebuke. 
I  know  what  you  would  say  :    Here  stands  our  King, 
Our  sacred  liege,  namesake  of  Charlemagne, 
And  we,  who  take  our  dignities  from  him, 
And  only  shine  because  we  are  his  servants, 
Much  it  becomes  us  now,  in  his  great  need, 
To  be  no  more  his  gossips,  chamberlains 
And  poetasters  — 

[  Tearing  his  parchment.  ] 

but  his  soldiers.     Pray, 
Sieur  La  Tremouille,  throw  this  in  the  fire  : 
This  is  that  little  rondel  on  the  weather. 
[  With  emotion,  he  offers  his  hand  to  La  Tremouille,  who 
refuses  it  icily, .] 

LA   TREMOUILLE 

Your  fire  will  scarce  prevent  its  raining  still, 
If  Heaven  so  wills  it,  sir. 

D'ALENCON 
[At  first  feels  the  repulse  keenly,  then  speaks  in  quiet  disdain^ 

True,  if  Heaven  wills  it. 

{Turning  to  the  hearth,  D'Alenc,on   throws  the  parchment 
into  the  flames. ~\ 

CHARLES 

[  Giving  him  his  hand,  diffidently^ 
D'Alengon  —  thanks ! 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
\To  De  Chartres.~\ 

Our  scrimmage  now  is  on. 
Let  see  which  wins. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  63 

ATHENIE 

The  duke  was  warm. 

CATHERINE 

La !     Let 

Our  little  King  still  dream  his  name  is  France. 
Sure,  he  will  soon  believe  this  milking-maid 
Who  comes  to  crown  him. 

ATHENIE 

Milking-maid  ? 

CATHERINE 

Why,  she 

Who  rode  in  town  the  eve  of  yesterday, 
The  soldier-shepherdess,  — Jeanne  la  Pucelle, 
The  people  call  her. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

The  dear  people  love 
To  label  any  peasant  drab  a  "virgin," 
And  every  charlatan  a  "  shepherdess." 

LA  HIRE 

Tonnerre  de  dieu !     What  man  hath  seen  the  face 

Of  Jeanne  the  Maid  and  named  her  charlatan  ? 

Her  face  —  God's  eyes!     When  I    am  cooked   and 

damn'd, 

And  devils  twirl  me  on  a  spit  in  hell, 
I'll  think  upon  that  face  and  have  redemption. 

D'ALEN£ON 

[  Who  has  listened  with  eager  interest^ 
Then  you  have  seen  her  ? 


64  JEANNE  D-'ARC 

LA  HIRE 

Once,  and  ever  since 

My  fingers  have  been  itching  at  my  sword 
To  crack  an  English  skull  and  win  her  smile. 

DIANE 

0  miracles  !     Monsieur  the  Growler  speaks 
In  praise  of  women. 

CATHERINE 

Ah,  my  love,  but  think 
How  man's  gear  doth  become  the  maiden  shape. 

LA  HIRE 

[To  La  Tremouille.'] 
And  if  she  be  not  white  as  maidenhood, 

1  will  —  before  these  ladies  and  your  Grace  — 
Pluck  out  mine  eye-teeth. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Save  them,  sir ;  'tis  plain 
She  hath  already  plucked  your  wisdom  out. 

[Deliberately.'] 
I  do  not  love  this  Jeanne. 

LA  HIRE 
[Bowing.] 

I  do,  Seigneur. 

ATHENIE 

[  With  awe,  aside  to  Diane.] 
He'd  better  have  drunk  poison  than  said  that. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  65 

D'ALEN£ON 

Marshal  La  Hire,  your  hand  !     Fame  hath  described 

you  — 

Your  pardon  !  —  as  a  rake-hell,  hydrophobious 
Gascon,  who  bites  at  all  men  — 

\Glancing  at  La  Tremouille.~\ 

even  favourites. 

I  pray,  sir,  as  the  fire  regales  the  hearth-mouse, 
Grant  me  your  friendship. 

LA  HIRE 
[Giving his  hand.~\ 

Sir,  you  have  it  —  hot. 

D'ALENgON 

This  Jeanne  the  Maid,  you  think  she  is  —  inspired? 

LA  HIRE 

No,  sir !  —  I  know  it. 

D'ALENgON 

\With  a  faint,  indulgent  smile, ,] 
This  will  interest 
His  Majesty:  pray,  will  you  tell  him  more? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

[  Watching  D'Alen^on  escort  La  Hire  to  Charles  I\ 
By  God,  the  man  usurps  me. 

DE  CHARTRES 

But  I  thought 

You  laid  an  ambush  for  this  charlatan 
To  keep  her  from  the  King. 


66  JEANNE  D^ARC 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

The  plan  failed.     Now 

She  is  quartered  here  within  the  castle  tower. 
The  doctors  of  Poitiers  are  with  her  there, 
Cross-questioning  her  faith  and  sanity. 

DE   CHARTRES 

Will,  then,  the  King  receive  her  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

He  must  not. 

No ;  from  this  castle's  tower  she  must  depart 
Back  to  Lorraine. 

[Indicating  D"*Alen$on  and  La  Hirel\ 

These  babblers  must  be  hushed, 
And  Jeanne's  reception  foiled.     Such  sparks  make 

flames. 

Already  she  hath  kindled  the  people ;  soon 
She  might  inflame  the  King  himself  to  action  ; 
Then — follow    me!      If    France   should  whip    the 

English, 
Charles  would  be  solvent. 

DE  CHARTRES 

And  you  really  fear 
Lest  one  weak  girl  shall  overturn  the  world  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

One  should  fear  nothing ;  what  one  knows  is  this  : 
4  Well  for  oneself  is  well  enough  for  the  world.' 
In  short,  at  present  all  is  well  for  me. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  67 

D'ALENCON 

\To  Vendome,  who  has  entered  and  spoken  with  him.'] 
Bring  here  the  men  ;  they  shall  be  very  welcome. 

LA   HIRE 

Our  livers  are  too  fat,  your  Majesty. 
We  Frenchmen  are  a  herd  of  potted  geese, 
A  pate  de  fois  gras  to  cram  the  bellies 
Of  British  mongrels. 

CHARLES 

Still,  sir, — 

LA   HIRE 

Ventre  dti  diable  ! 

Flanders,  Artois,  Champagne,  and  Picardy, 
Normandy  —  gobbled,  all  of  'em  !     And  now 
Talbot,  the  English  mastiff,  with  his  whelps, 
Squats  on  his  haunch  and  howls  at  Orleans'  gate, 
And  Scales  and  Suffolk  bark  around  the  walls. 
God's  bones  !  and  what  do  we  ?     Seize  up  our  cudgels 
And  drive  the  curs  back  to  their  island-kennel  ? 
Nay,  sire,  we  scare  'em  off  with  nursery-songs. 

CHARLES 

You  speak  your  mind  a  little  harshly,  Marshal  ? 

LA   HIRE 

I  keep  but  one  about  me,  sire,  and  that 

Is  likely  to  go  off  in  people's  noses 

Like  this  new  brand  of  snuff  called  gunpowder. 

[To  a  servant  who  has  come  to  him  from  La  Tremouille.~] 

His  grace  would  wish  to  speak  with  me  ? — Delighted! 

\_He  follows  the  servant  to  La  Tremouille,  who  speaks  aside 

to  him.~\ 


68  JEANNE  D^ARC 

CHARLES 

[  Utterly  dejected  by  La  Hire's  words. ~\ 
What  can  I  do,  D'Alengon  ?     I  am  pawned 
And  patched  and  mortgaged  to  my  finger-nails. 
The  very  turnspits  in  the  kitchen  whistle 
For  wages  at  me,  and  I  bid  them  whistle. 
What  can  I  do  but  play  at  King  ? 

D'ALENCON 

A  change 

Of  policy  would  bring  you  instant  funds. 
Your  people  would  recover  your  lost  cities, 
If  you  would  captain  them. 

CHARLES 

My  people  !     Ah  ! 

'Tis  God  alone  could  make  this  people  mine, 
By  consecrated  rite  and  taintless  seed 
From  sire  to  royal  son.     I  had  a  mother, 
Who  left  me  for  her  royal  legacy 
A  monstrous  doubt  in  a  tiny  syllable : 
Legitimate  or  ^/legitimate  ?  — 
Cure  me  that  ill,  and  I  will  conquer  Europe. 

D'ALENCON 

Boethius  saith,  there  is  one  antidote 
To  being  born  ;  that  is  —  philosophy. 

LA   HIRE 

[To  La  Tremouille^ 

Excuse  me,  sir  !     This  silence  is  too  golden 
For  me  to  keep  it  by  me.     I  have  heard, 


JEANNE  D^ARC  69 

When  I  was  hatched,  the  mid-wife  split  my  tongue 
And  had  me  suckled  by  a  certain  jackdaw, 
That  was  the  village  wet-nurse.  —  Who  can  vouch 
For  all  one  hears  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Silence  must  come  to  all : 
To  some  a  little  sooner.  —  I  have  said. 

LA  HIRE 

\_Bow  ing ^\ 

As  soon  as  God  shall  have  your  Grace's  permit, 
I  shall  be  ready !     (Lower)     Yet  I  warn  your  Grace, 
Bury  me  not  too  shallow  under  sod, 
Lest,  where  the  stink  is,  other  jackdaws  scratch 
And  cause  your  Grace's  nose  embarrassment. 
\_Reenter  Venddme,  followed  by  DE  METZ  andDE  POULANGY, 
whom  he  escorts  to  D'Alengon  and  Charles.] 

D'ALEN^ON 

Your  name  ? 

DE   METZ 

Mine :  Jean  de  Metz,  servant  of  France. 

D'ALEN£ON 

And  yours  ? 

DE   POULANGY 
Bertrand  de  Poulangy. 

D'ALEN£ON 

[To  both.~\ 

Your  master  ? 

DE   METZ 

Robert  de  Baudricourt  of  Vaucouleurs. 


70  JEANNE  D^ARC 

CHARLES 

He  sent  you  to  conduct  this  shepherdess 
Here  to  our  castle  ? 

DE   METZ 

And  beseech  you,  King, 
To  give  her  audience. 

D'ALENCON 

You  travelled  shrewdly 
To  escape  the  English  and  Burgundians. 
They  hold  the  river-bridges  and  the  fords. 

DE   METZ 

We  escaped  by  miracle  :  at  black  of  night, 
We  swam  our  horses  through  the  swollen  streams ; 
At  dawn,  we  couched  in  hiding ;  at  our  side 
She  slept  all  day  in  armour ;  and  we  prayed. 
It  was  the  Maid  who  brought  us  safely  here. 

D'ALENCON 

Nay,  but  you  say  you  were  in  hiding. 

DE    METZ 

Yet 
It  was  the  Maid  ;  she  said  it  should  be  so. 

D'ALENCON 

Can  she,  then,  prophesy  ? 

DE  METZ 

She  is  from  God. 

D'ALENCON 
[Smiling."] 
You  told  us  —  from  Lorraine  ! 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  7 1 

DE   METZ 

Even  so  from  God. 

Out  of  Lorraine,  beside  the  Ladies'  Tree, 
Shall  come  a  maid  —  saviour  of  France. 

CHARLES 

What's  that  ? 

D'ALENCON 

A  legend  old  as  Merlin. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[  Who  has  approached.~\ 

And  as  heathen. 
[To  De  Metz  and  De  Poulangy^ 
You  are  dismissed. 

DE    METZ 
[To  Charles.'] 
Beseech  your  Majesty 
To  grant  her  audience ! 

DE  POULANGY 

She  is  from  God. 

DE  CHARTRES 
That  shall  the  judgment  of  the  Church  decide. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

The  door  is  open. 

DE   METZ 
\Supplicatingly.  ] 
Gracious  King! 

CHARLES 

But  George  — 


72  JEANNE  D  ^ 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Don't  fear ;  the  beggars  shall  not  plague  thee,  boy. 

CHARLES 

Nay,  by  St.  Denis  !  but  they  plague  me  not. 
A  March-mad  peasant-wench  will  pass  the  time. 
I'll  see  the  lass. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
Good-nature  kills  thee,  Charles. 
[Dismissing  De  Metz  and  De  Poulangy  with  a  gesture."] 
His  Majesty  regrets  — 

D'ALENCON 

His  Majesty 
Regrets  he  might  not  sooner  speak  with  her. 

[To  the  Chamberlain^ 

Vendome,  go  with  these  men,  and  tell  the  Maid 
The  King  will  see  her  now. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

\_Eying  D'Alen$on  with  shrewd  defiance."] 
Sir,  is  this  wise  ? 

D'ALENgON 

Whether  'tis  wise,  your  Grace,  depends  perhaps 
Whether  one  holds  a  first  or  second  mortgage. 
Foreclosure  of  a  second  might  be  folly. 
\_A  slight  pause, .] 

LA   TREMOUILLE 

What's  this  —  a  parable  ? 


JEANNE  D' 'ARC  73 

D'ALENgON 

Why,  what  you  please  ; 
Call  it  a  hook  and  line.     I  knew  a  man 
Who  turned  fish-monger  of  an  Easter  eve. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[  With  a  piqued  smile  and  shrug.~\ 
Nonsense  prevails! 

[As  De  Metz  and  De  Poulangy  go  out,  he  turns  aside  to  De 
ChartresJ] 

The  devil  fetch  this  duke  ! 
I  would  I  knew  what  he  hath  loaned  to  Charles. 

CHARLES 

[Pensively.']  , 

"  Out  of  Lorraine,  beside  the  Ladies'  Tree, 
Shall  come  a  maid  —  saviour  of  France."  —  D'Alen- 

^on  ! 

What  if  this  wench,  green  from  her  vines  and  cheeses, 
Her  sheep-shears  and  her  spindle,  should  dispel 
My  sovereign  doubt.  —  Nay,  listen  !     If  she  be 
From  God  indeed,  and  I  be  truly  King, 
She  should  detect  my  royal  sanctity 
Under  what  guise  soever ;  ought  she  not  ? 

D'ALENgON 

There  are  some  powers  of  nature  little  known. 
But  what  may  be  your  plan  ? 

CHARLES 

I  say,  unless 

She  be  a  charlatan,  or  I  base-born, 
She'll  recognize  me  by  her  holy  vision 
As  King  amongst  a  thousand. 


74  JEANNE  D'ARC 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
\Eager lyl\ 

That  must  follow, 
Of  course. 

D'ALENCON 

I  think  it  follows  not ;  but,  sire, 
What  means  of  testing  — 

CHARLES 

This!     She  comes  but  newly 
From  far  Lorraine,  hath  never  seen  my  face, 
Nor  heard  my  voice,  nor  set  foot  in  this  hall. 
Good  !     You  and  I,  D'Alengon,  shall  change  cloaks, 
You  shall  be  King  —  she  hath  not  seen  thee  ? 

D'ALENCON 

Never. 

CHARLES 

Good!     I  will  be  D'Alengon  and  stand  here 
One  of  the  court,  subordinate,  whilst  you 
Sit  yonder  on  the  throne-chair  —  Charles  of  France. 
Then  let  her  enter. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Bravo,  Charles  !     A  plot 
Of  genius  ! 

CHARLES 

Nay,  a  pleasant  ruse. 

D'ALENCON 

But  if 

She  fail  to  uncloak  the  counterfeit  ?     Such  slips 
Are  common  to  the  best  of  us. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  75 

CHARLES 

At  least 

We  shall  have  killed  an  hour  in  a  new  way, 
And  one  less  hoax  to  trouble  us. 

VENDOME 
[Announces  at  the  door.~\ 

The  Maid ! 

The  reverend  masters  are  conducting  her 
Here  to  your  Majesty. 

CHARLES 

Be  quick,  D'Alengon ! 

[As  Charles,  stripping  off  his  outer  garment,  reaches  it  to 
D ^  Alen$on,  La  Tremouille  beckons  Venddme  to  himself ^\ 

D'ALENCON 
[Hesitating.'] 
You  wish  it,  sire  ? 

CHARLES 

At  once. 

[  They  exchange  cloaks,  but  the  placard  of  King  Dagobert  is 
discarded  to  a  servant."] 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[To  Vendome,  indicating  to  him  the  fact  of  the  exchange. ~\ 

You  understand. 
[Exit  Venddme.~] 

[With  an  exultant  smile,  to  De  Chartres.~\ 
This  whim  of  Charles's  relieves  us  of  much  pains. 
Look  where  he  prays  to  the  glass  emperor. 
[La  Tremouille  points  at  Charles,  who  —  wearing  D*  Alen- 
Sorfs    cloak  of  dun  —  stands    beneath  the    window  of 
stained  glass,  and  supplicates  it,  apart.] 


76  JEANNE  D"1  ARC 

CHARLES 

Thou,  Charlemagne,  dead  sire  and  mighty  saint ! 

If  in  my  veins  thy  hallowed  blood  still  runs, 

Let  through  this  mean  disguise  thy  royal  spirit  shine, 

And  make,  in  me,  thy  race  and  honour  manifest. 

[D'Alenc,on,  wearing  Charles's  royal  cloak,  sits  on  the  throne. 
All  those  present  range  themselves  as  his  subjects,  some 
standing  near,  others  closing  about  Charles,  where  he 
stands  (right  centre). 

Reenter  then,  at  back,  Vendome,  followed  by  DOCTORS 
of  the  Church ;  these  by  De  Metz  and  De  Poulangy, 
who  stand  by  the  door ;  last  enters  Jeanne,  dressed  as  a 
man.  The  Doctors,  exchanging  with  Vendome  a  hardly 
detectable  look  of  understanding,  approach  D '  Alenc,on, 
make  their  obeisances,  and  stand  away.  Venddme, 
motioning  then  to  Jeanne,  moves  forward  to  conduct  her 
to  D'Alenc,on  as  king,  but  pauses  as  she  does  not  follow. 
Standing  in  the  doorway,  Jeanne,  lifting  her  face  in 
tensely  toward  the  stained-glass  window,  seems  to  listen. 
At  the  same  moment,  while  the  eyes  of  all  are  centred 
upon  Jeanne,  there  emerges  from  the  great  fireplace, 
where  logs  are  burning,  and  stands  upon  the  hearth 
with  flaming  wings,  St.  Michael,  who  gazes  also  at 
Jeanne.  The  only  sound  or  other  motion  in  the  hall 
is  caused  by  the  Court-fool,  who,  springing  up  from  the 
throne-footstool  to  whisper  of  the  Maid  in  D'Alen$on's 
ear,  sets  thereby  the  bells  on  his  cap  to  tinkling  silverly. 
Simultaneously,  the  voice  of  St.  Catherine  speaks,  as 
from  mid- air. .] 

THE  VOICE 

Daughter  of  God,  choose  boldly. 

[Glancing  slowly  through  the  hall,  the  eyes  of  Jeanne  meet 
those  of  St.  Michael,  who  points  with  his  hand  at 


JEANNE  D^ARC  77 

Charles,  then  turns  and  disappears  within  the  smoke 
and  glow  of  the  fireplace.  Moving  then  with  decision, 
Jeanne  follows  Vendome,  but  oblivious  of  D'Alen$on, 
passes  on  straight  to  Charles,  before  whom  she  kneels 
down.~\ 

JEANNE 

Gentle  Dauphin, 

My  name  is  Jeanne  the  Maid,  and  I  am  come 
To  bring  you  tidings  from  the  King  of  Heaven 
That  He  by  means  of  me  shall  consecrate 
And  crown  you  King  at  Rheims. 

\The  hall  remains  silent  and  awed.      Charles  is    visibly 
moved.'] 

CHARLES 

I  am  not  the  King. 

JEANNE 

Truly  you  are  the  Dauphin  —  Charles  of  France, 
Who  shall  be  King  when  God  anointeth  you 
In  His  cathedral. 

D'ALEN£ON 

By  my  fay,  young  maid, 
Thou  dost  not  flatter  us  with  homage.  Rise 
And  stand  before  us.  We  are  Charles  of  France. 

JEANNE 

I  rise,  Seigneur,  but  not  unto  the  King. 
You  are  not  Charles  of  France. 

DE  CHARTRES 
\With  emotion,  aside  to  La  Tremouille^ 

This  troubles  me. 


78  JEANNE  D^ARC 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

[Caustically.'} 
We  have  been  tricked  somewhere. 

4 

D'ALBNgON 

'Tis  plain,  good  Jeanne, 

That  thou  art  wandered  in  some  winter's  tale, 
Wherein  lese-majeste  to  fairy-princes 
Doth  little  matter.     You  are  smiling  ?     What 
Do  we  remind  you  on  ? 

JEANNE 

[Meeting  his  mood."] 

In  truth,  Seigneur, 

At  home  in  Domremy  where  I  was  born 
There  lives  an  old  good-wife,  who  used  to  tell 
How  Master  Donkey  wore  King  Lion's  mane. 

LA  HIRE 

[Exploding  in  laughter. ~\ 
Tonnerre ! 

JEANNE 

[Changing  instantly^ 
Nay,  honourable  lords,  and  you 
Fair  gentlewomen,  truly  am  I  come 
Into  your  midst  —  a  sheep-maid  dull  and  rude. 
Pass  on  !     Of  that  no  more.     But  which  of  you 
Hath  cunning  to  deceive  the  sight  of  God  ? 
Or  which  would  speak  a  lie  unto  his  Lord  ? 
My  Lord  hath  sent  me  here,  His  messenger, 
But  He  hath  girt  me  with  a  thousand  more 
Whose  eyes  are  many  as  the  nesting  birds 


JEANNE  D'  'ARC  79 

And  voices  as  cicadas  in  the  summer. 
Lo  !  in  this  hall  they  hover  o'er  you  now, 
But  your  dissembling  eyes  send  up  a  mist 
To  obscure  their  shining  wings.     O  gentles,  mock 
No  more,  but  show  God  your  true  faces  1 
\_A  pause,  filled  with  the  various  pantomime  of  uneasiness, 
admiration,    and    wonder.     All   look  for  decision    to 


D'ALENCON 
[Rising  abruptly,  comes  down.~] 

Maid, 
I  lied  to  you.     I  am  the  Duke  d'Alen^on. 

JEANNE 

Dearer  to  France  as  duke  than  King,  Seigneur. 
[She  extends  to  him  her  hand  —  strong,  peasantly,   with  a 

frank  smile.     He  takes  it,  amazed,  and  unconsciously 

continues  to  hold  /'/.] 

CHARLES 

[Exultant,  seizes  La  Tremouille's  shoulder.  ~\ 
She  knew  me,  George  !     Unswervingly,  at  once, 
In  spite  of  all  our  cunning.  — 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Hm! 

CHARLES 

She  knew  me  ; 
George  !  but  you  saw. 

LA   TREMOUILLE 

These  charlatans  are  shrewd 

CHARLES 

What?  —  What! 


80  JEANNE  D^ARC 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
I  cannot  say. 

CHARLES 

But  you  beheld, 
Behold ! 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

It  may  be.  —  I  have  heard  —  who  knows 
What  hidden  conspirator  —  Satan  perhaps. 

CHARLES 

Satan ! 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Why  not  ? 

CHARLES 
[Aside,  imploringly.] 

D'Alengon,  question  her ! 

What  deem  you  of  this  proof  ?     What  is  this  maid  ? 
[D'Alengon,  having  started  at  being  addressed,  has  released 
Jeanne's  hand.] 

D'ALENgON 

I  know  not,  sire.  —  'Tis  that  which  fascinates  me. 

{Looking  again  at  Jeanne  with  his  former  friendly  puzzled 
look,  he  hesitates,  then  speaks,  embarrassed.  Through 
out  the  following  brief  scene  —  stirred  by  mingled  mysti 
fication  and  admiration  of  the  peasant  girl — he,  in  his 
questioning,  halts  occasionally  ;  in  which  gaps  La  Tre- 
mouille  steps  shrewdly  in.~\ 

D'ALENgON 
Jeanne  d' Arc,  you    have  well  stood  —  or  seemed  to 

stand  — 

Our  playful  ruse  —  his  Majesty's  and  mine  — 
To  test  your  boasted  powers. 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  8 1 

JEANNE 

[Simply.  ] 

I  have  no  powers 
To  boast,  Seigneur. 

D'ALEN£ON 

You  have  been  catechised 
Already  by  these  reverend  Doctors  here  ? 

JEANNE 

Since  dawn  they  have  not  ceased  to  question  me. 

D'ALENgON 

What  is  your  verdict  thus  far,  Master  Seguin  ? 

SEGUIN 
Your  Grace,  we  find  no  fault  in  her. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
{Aside  to  De  Chartres.~\ 

Come,  come  ; 
Now  you  are  needed. 

DE  CHARTRES 
[Aside,  moved  with  confusion^ 
I  believe  in  her. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Our  privy  council  fails  us  now  ? 

DE  CHARTRES 

Her  face ! 


Pardieu ! 

G 


LA  TREMOUILLE 
\Addly.~\ 


82  JEANNE  D^ARC 

D'ALENgON 
\To  Jeanne, .] 

What  is  this  boon  which  you  have  come 
To  beg  his  Majesty  ? 

JEANNE 

I  beg,  Seigneur, 

A  troop  of  the  good  fighting-men  of  France, 
That  I  may  lead  them,  by  the  help  of  God, 
To  drive  from  France  the  wicked  Englishmen 
That  'siege  his  town  of  Orleans. 

LA  HIRE 
\_Stridingback  and  forth. .] 

Sacre  bleu! 
Boil  'em  in  peppermint. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[To  Jeanne,  intervening,  as  D'Alen^on  gazes  in  admiration.^ 

Most  excellent ! 

That  thou,  a  shepherd  lass,  shouldst  leave  thy  wool 
To  instruct  our  captains  in  the  craft  of  war. 

JEANNE 

My  Lord  hath  willed  it  so. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Who  is  thy  lord  ? 

JEANNE 

The  King  of  Heaven  that  is  the  King  of  France 
Till  He  shall  crown  the  Dauphin. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  83 

D'ALEN£ON 
[To  La  Tremouille.} 

Sir,  your  pardon  : 

/  am  now  catechiser.  —  Slowly,  Jeanne  : 
If  God  hath  willed  to  bring  deliverance 
To  France,  then  soldiers  are  superfluous. 
Why  do  you  ask  for  soldiers  ? 

JEANNE 

En  nom  Dt ! 

The  soldiers  are  to  fight,  and  God  to  give 
The  victory. 

[Murmurs  of  approbation.  ] 

D'ALEN£ON 

You  do  not  then  believe 
In  God  His  power  ? 

JEANNE 
[Gravely."] 
Better  than  you,  Seigneur. 

D'ALEN£ON 

[At  first  amused,  then  strangely  moved  by  this  character- 
reading  drops  again  the  thread  of  his  questioning  in  self- 
revery.~\ 

Better  than  I ! 

[He  continues  to  watch  and  listen  to  Jeanne,  absorbed  in  her 
as  in  some  problem  unsolved.] 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
You  have  observed,  my  friends, 
The  circling  orbit  of  these  arguments, 


84  JEANNE  PARC 

That  veer  like  swallows  round  a  chimney  hole. 
Clearly  we  must  await  some  valid  sign 
Before  we  trust  this  maid. 

JEANNE 

My  noble  masters ! 

I  come  not  to  Chinon  to  show  you  signs, 
But  give  me  those  good  fighters,  and  for  sign 
I  will  deliver  Orleans. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Have  you,  then, 
No  other  sign  to  show  ? 

JEANNE 

I  have,  indeed, 

A  sign  —  but  not  for  you.     It  may  be  seen 
By  one  alone,  my  Dauphin. 

CHARLES 

Me !     By  me  ? 

JEANNE 

O  gentle  Dauphin,  by  the  love  you  bear 

To  France,  and  by  the  love  of  France  for  you, 

Hear  me  —  but  not  with  these. 

CHARLES 
[To  all.~\ 

Leave  us  alone. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

[Aside.'] 

Remember,  Charles,  what  black  confederate 
Instructs  this  man-maid. 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  g  5 

CHARLES 

Let  the  court  withdraw. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[Dryly,  to  Charles.'} 

I  stay,  my  dear  ! 

JEANNE 

[  Very  quietly,  standing  with  her  eyes  focussed  far. ~\ 
The  Seigneur  will  withdraw. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

[Drawing  away  after  the  others  toward  the  stairway,  over 
takes  De  Chartres,  aside.~\ 

She  is  possessed. 

DE   CHARTRES 

By  angels. 

D'ALENgON 
[  Withdrawing  last  with  La  Hire.~\ 

Friend  La  Hire, 

How  much  of  miracle,  think  you,  do  we 
Ignore  in  simple  nature  ? 

\_Charles  is  now  left  alone  with  Jeanne,  beyond  the  others" 
hearing.] 

CHARLES 

Shepherdess, 
How  knewest  thou  it  was  I,  among  the  many  ? 

JEANNE 

My  Voices  said,  "  Choose  boldly,"  and  I  knew. 

CHARLES 

What  voices,  Jeanne  ? 


86  JEANNE  D^ARC 

JEANNE 

You  must  believe  in  me 
To  hear  them. 

CHARLES 

Tell  me  ;  is  it  known  of  them 
Or  thee  —  this  doubt  which  is  my  stain  and  cancer  ? 

JEANNE 

That  doubt  is  as  the  darkness  of  the  blind 
Which  is  not. 

CHARLES 
\_Feveris  hly.~\ 
Is  not  ?     Oh,  give  me  the  sign  ! 

JEANNE 

You  must  believe  before  you  may  behold. 

CHARLES 

Look  in  my  eyes,  Jeanne ;  I  begin  to  see. 

JEANNE 

My  Dauphin  must  believe  ;  he  shall  believe, 

CHARLES 

[Sinking to  his  knees, ,] 
The  crown ! 

JEANNE 
[Intense.'] 
Believe ! 

CHARLES 

He  lifts  it. 

[The  clock  begins  to  chime.     In  the  same  instant,  the  sun 
lit  form  of  the  Emperor  in  the  stained  glass  is  seen  to 


JEANNE  D^ARC  8/ 

turn  toward  the  King —  where  he  gazes  at  him  past  the 
face  of  Jeanne  —  and  to  hold  out  aloft  the  glowing  crown 
of  fleur-de-lis.  From  the  colonnade,  the  persons  of  the 
court  look  on,  whisper  together,  pointing  at  the  King, 
where  apparently  he  is  kneeling,  struck  with  adoration, 
at  the  feet  of  Jeanne.  D'  Alenc,  on,  standing  fonvard  from 
the  rest  of  the  court,  is  intent  upon  Jeanne,  as,  with  the 
inward  light  of  a  vision  mirrored,  her  face  looks  down 
on  the  King  with  a  mighty  intensity. ~\ 

THE    EMPEROR   IN   THE   STAINED    GLASS 
\_Speaks  with  the  voice  of  St.  Michael.'} 

Charles  the  Seventh ! 
Inheritor  of  France,  legitimate 
By  birth  — 

CHARLES 
[Murmurs.] 
Legitimate ! 

THE   EMPEROR 

Behold  the  crown  — 

The  crown  of  Charlemagne  —  which  thou  shalt  wear 
At  Rheims.     This  is  the  Maid,  whom  God  hath  sent 
To  bring  thy  land  and  thee  deliverance. 

\_As  the  chiming  ceases,  so  the  vision.     Charles  —  his  hands 
clasped —  rises  wildly  to  his  feet.] 

CHARLES 

Charlemagne  !     Charlemagne  !     Thy  blood  is  vindi 
cated. 
My  lords,  this  is  the  Maid  of  God ! 


88  JEANNE  D^ARC 

JEANNE 

[Staggering  slightly  as  withfaintness,  moves  toward  D' Alen- 
£on,  who  comes  to  her  side.~\ 

I  am  tired ; 
Thy  shoulder,  friend  ! 

CHARLES 

\Kneels  again,  his  arms  upraised  to  the  stained  glass. ~] 
Charlemagne  ! 

D'ALENCON 

[As  Jeanne   rests  her  forehead  on  his  shoulder,  speaks  to 
himself  dreamily '.] 

Why,  'tis  a  child  ! 


ACT   III 


JEANNE  D^ARC  89 


ACT   III 

SCENE  :  A  Meadow  before  the  Walls  of  Orleans. 
May  7,  1429. 

In  the  near  background  (occupying  a  large  part  of  the  scene} 
a  green  knoll  overlooks  the  not  distant  river  Loire 
flowing  toward  the  right,  and  a  part  of  the  city  wall, 
which  sweeps  beyond  view,  left.  On  this  knoll  are  dis 
covered  Franciscan  friars  grouped  about  an  altar,  be 
side  which  floats  a  white  painted  banner,  sprinkled  with 
fleur-de-lis?  One  of  these  friars,  PIGACHON,  is  dressed 
half  in  armour,  his  cassock  —  worn  over  a  steel  corslet — 
being  tucked  up,  thus  revealing  his  legs  encased  in  steel. 
On  the  left  of  the  scene  are  women,  old  men,  and  priests 
of  Orleans.  The  foreground  and  the  rest  of  the  adjacent 
meadow  are  thronged  with  French  officers  and  soldiery. 
In  the  midst  of  the  latter  (centre],  Jeanne  d'Arc — in 
full  armour —  is  dictating  a  letter,  which  PASQUEREL,  her 
confessor,  transcribes  on  a  parchment. 


1  On  one  side  of  this  banner  (which,  authentically,  was  Jeanne's 
personal  standard)  is  depicted  —  on  the  ground  of  fleur-de-lis  —  Christ 
in  Glory,  holding  the  world  and  giving  His  benediction  to  a  lily,  held  by 
one  of  two  angels,  who  are  kneeling  at  each  side;  on  the  other  side 
the  figure  of  the  Virgin  and  a  shield  with  the  arms  of  France,  sup 
ported  by  two  angels. 

The  friars  also  have  in  their  charge  two  smaller  banners,  viz. :  one 
a  pennon,  on  which  is  represented  the  Annunciation;  the  other,  a 
banneret,  adorned  with  the  Crucifixion. 


90  JEANNE  D^ARC 

JEANNE 

"  King  of  England  ;  and  you,  Duke  of  Bedford, 
who  call  yourself  Regent  of  the  Kingdom  of  France  ; 
you,  William  De  la  Pole,  Earl  of  Suffolk ;  John,  Lord 
Talbot ;  and  you,  Thomas  Lord  Scales,  Lieutenants 
of  the  same  duke ;  make  satisfaction  to  the  King  of 
Heaven ;  give  up  to  the  Maid,  who  is  sent  hither  by 
God,  the  keys  of  all  the  good  towns  in  France,  which 
ye  have  taken.  And  as  for  you,  archers,  companions- 
in-arms,  gentlemen,  and  others  who  are  before  this 
town  of  Orleans,  get  you  home  to  your  own  country 
by  God  His  command ;  and  if  this  be  not  done,  then 
once  more  will  we  come  upon  you  with  so  great  an 
ha,  ha  !  as  shall  be  remembered  these  thousand  years. 
Answer  now  if  ye  will  make  peace  in  this  city  of 
Orleans,  which  if  ye  do  not,  ye  may  be  reminded  on, 
to  your  much  hurt. 

Jhesus  Maria — Jehanne  la  Pucelle." 
Good  Pasquerel,  I  know  not  A  nor  B ; 
Where  shall  I  make  my  cross  ? 
PASQUEREL 

Here,  Angelique. 

{Jeanne  makes  her  cross  on  the  parchment,  which  she  then 
rolls  tight  and  ties  to  an  arrow.~\ 

JEANNE 

De  Metz,  ride  to  the  bridge  and  shoot  this  arrow 
Across  the  Loire  into  the  English  lines.  — 
Wait,  aim  it  toward  the  tower  of  the  Tournelles 
Into  the  conning-shaft  where  Suffolk  stands. 

DE  METZ 
And  if  they  make  no  answer  ? 


JEANNE  D-> ARC  91 

JEANNE 

We  have  fought 

Since  daybreak.     We  can  fight  again  till  dark  ; 
And  after  that  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow. 
\_Exit  De  Metz,  with  the  arrow,  amid  shouts  of  the  people 
and  soldiers .] 

DUNOIS 

Your  words  are  brave,  Pucelle,  and  they  are  holy ; 
But  holy  words  are  weak  against  stone  walls. 
The  English  fortress  is  too  strong  for  us. 

LA  HIRE 

Now  by  the  hang'd  thieves  of  Gethsemane  ! 

JEANNE 

{Sternly.'} 
Gascon  ! 

LA  HIRE 

Forgive,  my  captain  :  by  my  stick  ! 
I  swear  to  God  I  swore  but  by  my  stick. 
You  said  a  man  might  curse  upon  his  stick. 

JEANNE 

You  do  well  to  bethink  you,  Marshal ;  mind, 
Who  spits  'gainst  Heaven,  it  falleth  on  his  head. 

[Pulling  his  ear  with  her  hand.~\ 
But  thou  art  my  brave  Growler  for  all  that ! 

\_Jeanne  passes  to  speak  earnestly  to  other  officers.~\ 

LA  HIRE 

Now  by  my  stick,  Dunois,  without  offence, 
Thou  Rest  in  thy  windpipe  and  thy  gorge 


92  JEANNE  D'ARC 

To  say  the  English  walls  are  made  of  stone ; 
And  if  the  Maid  of  God  shall  say  the  word, 
By  supper-time  we'll  roll  'em  out  as  flat 
As  apple-jacks,  with  English  blood  for  syrup. 

DUNOIS 

Truly  the  Maid  of  God  hath  wrought  strange  things 
Yet  there  be  bounds  - 

LA  HIRE 

Eight  days  !     Eight  days  !  Dunois, 
Since  she  set  foot  in  Orleans,  and  look  now ! 
The  enemy  that  hemmed  you  in  a  web 
Of  twenty  fortresses  now  holds  but  one. 

DUNOIS 
But  that  one  —  the  Tournelles  ! 

LA  HIRE 

And  think  ye,  then, 

That  she  who  turns  French  poodles  into  lions, 
And  changes  British  mastiffs  into  hares, 
Will  find  it  difficult  to  change  yon  tower 
Into  a  sugar-loaf  ?     I  tell  thee,  man, 
She  is  from  God,  and  doth  whatso  she  will. 

JEANNE 

\_To  D'Alen$on,  who  in  his  armour  stands  reading.~\ 
A  book,  my  knight  ?    And  your  good  sword  yet  hot  ? 

D'ALEN^ON 

The  war-horse,  Jeanne,  still  craves  his  manger-oats.  — 

My  book  is  a  little  island  in  the  battle, 

And  I  am  moored  alongside  in  this  lull 

To  barter  with  strange  natives  —  deeds,  for  dreams 

Of  deeds. 


JEANNE  D^ARC  93 

JEANNE 

Is  it  the  holy  gospel  ? 

D'ALENCON 

No. 

JEANNE 

Whereof,  then,  do  you  read  ? 

D'ALENCON 

Of  you,  Madonna ! 

When  you  were  virgin-queen  of  Attica, 
And  all  your  maiden  Amazons  in  arms 
Hailed  you  "  Hippolyta." 

JEANNE 

[Putting  from  him  the  book,  hands  him  his  sword  with  a 
friendly  smile, ,] 

This  is  your  sword, 

My  bonny  duke ;  and  this  dear  ground  is  France. 
I  know  naught  of  your  queens  and  "anticas." 

A  PRIEST 
[/«  the  crowd.~\ 
Jeanne !     Jeanne  the  Maid ! 

JEANNE 

Who  calls  me  ? 

THE  PRIEST 

Speak  to  us  — 
What  of  the  battle  ? 

SEVERAL  VOICES 

Tell  us  !     Speak  to  us  ! 


94  JEANNE  D^ARC 

JEANNE 

Good  folk,  you  hearts  of  Orleans,  holy  fathers  \ 
What  would  you  that  I  tell  you  ? 

SEVERAL   VOICES 

Prophesy ! 

JEANNE 

Ah,  friends,  if  you  would  hear  of  bloody  stars, 

Of  sun-dogs,  and  of  mare's  tails  in  the  dawn, 

Go  to  your  gossips  and  your  weather-wives ; 

'Tis  ours  to  fight  and  God's  to  prophesy. 

Yet  what  our  Lord  hath  spoken  by  His  Saints 

To  m.e,  I  speak  to  you  again  :  be  glad, 

For  not  in  vain,  good  men,  have  you  stood  strong 

And  shared  your  loaves  of  famine,  crumb  by  crumb, 

To  man  your  walls  against  our  wicked  foe ; 

And  not  in  vain,  mothers  of  Orleans,  you 

Have  rocked  your  cradles  by  the  cannon's  side 

To  bring  your  sons  and  husbands  ease  of  sleep ; 

For  you  have  kept  this  city  for  your  Lord, 

Which  is  the  King  of  Heaven,  and  He  hath  come 

To  recompense  you  now.     Therefore,  return 

Within  your  gates  again,  and  when  you  hear, 

Thrice  blown,  upon  this  horn,  God's  warning  blast, 

Then  ring  your  bells  for  France  and  victory. 

\To  her  page  ^\ 
Louis,  the  horn  ! 

[Louis  DE  CONTES  blows  the  horn  once.~\ 

So  shall  you  know  His  sign. 
\_The people  depart  with  gestures  of  benediction  and  hope.~\ 


JEANNE  D^ARC  95 

D'ALENgON 

[Standing  with  La  Hire,  near  Jeanne.  ~\ 
A  child !  and  her  clear  eyes,  upturned  to  Heaven, 
Shall  influence  the  stars  of  all  the  ages. 

\_Clutching  his  companion's  arm.~\ 
La  Hire  !    We  are  living  now,  can  watch,  can  serve  her ! 

LA   HIRE 

Aye,  folk  that  live  in  other  times  are  damned. 
[An  altar  bell  sounds.^ 

PIGACHON 
\_To  Jeanne^ 
The  Vespers,  Angelique. 

JEANNE 

Soldiers,  the  Mass ! 

And  let  all  you  that  have  confessed  yourselves 
This  day,  kneel  down,  and  let  the  rest  depart 
Until  confession. 

\_All  kneel,  save  some  few,  who  depart,  abashed.     Among 
these  is  D'Altnqon,  whom  Jeanne  stays  wistfully. ~\ 

You,  my  duke  ? 

D'ALEN£ON 

I  am 

A  tardy  Christian,  Jeanne. 

JEANNE 

I  pray  you  kneel 

Beside  me.     My  good  Pasquerel  will  hear  you. 
\_D"*  Alenc,on  kneels  beside  Jeanne  and  Pasquerel ;  Pigachon 
among  the  friars  is  about  to  conduct  the  service  at  the 


96  JEANNE  D-* ARC 

altar,  when  De  Metis  voice  is  heard  calling  (off  right}, 
and  he  enters,  followed  immediately  by  an  English  Her 
ald,  who,  bearing  himself  defiant,  holds  in  his  hand  a 
parchment^ 

DE   METZ 
Jeanne  !  —  Maid  of  God  ! 

THE   ENGLISH    HERALD 

Where  is  the  whore  of  France  ? 
\_The  kneeling  soldiers  start  up  in  turbulence^ 

SOLDIERS 
La  Mort !     La  Mort  ! 

JEANNE 
[Keeping  them  back.~\ 

Peace  !     Let  the  herald  speak  ; 
His  privilege  is  sacred.     ( To  D1  Alenc,on)     Stop  them. 

HERALD 

Where 
Is  she  who  calls  herself  the  Maid  of  God  ? 

JEANNE 
I  am  the  Maid. 

HERALD 

[Speaking,  but  at  times  referring  with  his  eyes  to  the  parch 
ment^ 

Thus  saith  my  Lord,  the  King 
Of  England,  by  his  servant  Suffolk,  Captain 
Before  the  walls  of  Orleans  :  Whore  of  France  — 

D'ALEN£ON 

Death !  — 


JEANNE  D^ARC  97 

JEANNE 
\Clings  to  him.~\ 

Stay !     He  speaks  not  for  himself,  but  Suffolk  ; 
His  cloth  is  holy. 

D'ALEN£ON 
{Bitterly^ 
Holy! 

HERALD 

Courtesan 

Of  him  who  shames  the  blood  of  Charlemagne, 
Consort  of  Satan,  which  hast  ta'en  the  limbs 
And  outward  seeming  of  a  peasant  wench 
To  execute  thy  damned  sorceries 
On  England's  sons,  to  please  thy  paramour  — 

JEANNE 

\To  the  soldiers,  who  grow  more  clamorous^ 
Yet  patience,  gardens  ! 

HERA.LD 

Thou  unvirgin  thing, 

Which  art  vaingloried  in  the  garb  of  man  ; 
Thou  impudent,  thou  subtle,  thou  unclean  — 

JEANNE 

[Choking  back  the  fears.] 
No,  no  !     Thou  hast  forgot  what  thou  shouldst  say  ! 

HERALD 

Thus  fling  we  back  thy  poison'd  script  unread, 
And  therewith  this  defiance  :  Work  thy  worst, 
And  with  the  hand  of  strange  paralysis 


98  JEANNE  D  ^ 

Strike  numb  with  fear  our  noble  English  host ; 
Yet  shall  we  still  resist  thee  with  our  souls, 
And  in  the  day  when  Christ  shall  let  thee  fall 
Within  our  power,  then  shalt  thou  make  amends 
In  fire  for  all  thy  witchcraft,  and  in  fire 
Shall  thy  unhallow'd  spirit  return  to  hell. 

D'ALENgON 

Hold,  gentlemen  !     Wait  yet  if  he  have  done 
This  "holy  privilege"  of  infamy. 

HERALD 
Sir,  I  am  done. 

\_D'Alen$on,  taking  the  little  pennon  of  the  Annunciation 
from  a  friar,  hands  it  to  the  Her  aid. ~\ 

D'ALENgON 

Take,  then,  this  back  with  you 
In  token  who  it  is  whom  you  profane. 
Lock  it  within  your  fortress'  strongest  tower, 
And  tell  your  masters  that  a  simple  maid 
Of  France  shall  fetch  it  home,  this  night,  to  Orleans. 
\Exit  Herald  with  pennon.     The  soldiers  mutter  applause 
and  execrations^ 

JEANNE 

\_Hiding  her  face,  turns  to  D ]AZen$on.~\ 
What  have  I  done  that  they  should  name  me  so  ? 

LA  HIRE 

Par  mon  baton  !     We'll  answer  them  in  blood. 

DUNOIS 
Your  places,  officers ! 


JEANNE  D-^ARC  99 

JEANNE 
\_Starts  to  Pigachon  and  the  soldier s.~\ 

The  psalm  !     Your  psalm  ! 

\Pigachon  and  the  friars  raise  the  chant  of  the  hymn  of 
Charlemagne.  This  is  immediately  taken  up  by  all  the 
soldiers,  who,  under  its  influence,  pass  out  in  solemn  en 
thusiasm,  led  by  D'Alenc,on  and  Jeanne,  the  latter  carry 
ing  in  her  hand  the  banneret  with  the  Crucifixion.] 

ALL 

Veni  creator  spirit  us ^ 
Mentes  tuortim  visita, 
Imple  supema  gratia 
Quce  tu  creasti  pectora. 

\There  now  remain  behind  only  Pasquerel  and  the  Franciscan 
friars,  grouped  around  Jeanne's  standard  of  the  fleur- 
de-lis.  These  continue  the  chant  in  a  low  tone,  as  the 
voices  of  the  soldiers  grow  fainter  in  the  distance^ 

FRIARS 

Qu  i  pa  raclitus  dicer  is 
Donum  Dei  altissimi 
Fons  vivus,  ignis,  caritas 
Et  spiritalis  unctio. 

Hostem  repellas  longius 
Pacemque  dones  protinus, 
Ductore  sic  te  pravio 
Vitemus  omne  noxium. 

\_During  the  last  verses  Pasquerel,  having  examined  the 
banner  critically,  fetches  a  copper  box,  opens  it,  lays  out 
some  sewing  and  painting  materials,  lowers  the  banner, 


1 00  JEANNE  D  ^ 

and  bends  over  it  solicitously.  With  the  last  words  of 
the  chant,  a  serene  quiet  falls  upon  the  knoll,  save  when, 
from  time  to  time,  contrasting  sounds  of  the  distant 
battle  interrupt,  or  fill  the  pauses  of  the  conversation 
between  Pasquerel  and  Pigachonl\ 

PASQUEREL 

Reach  me  my  palette  yonder,  Pigachon. 
Our  Lord  hath  something  scathed  his  brow  and  lip 
F  the  last  melee,  and  one  of  his  white  lilies 
Is  smirched  with  river-slime.     Take  you  my  needle 
And  hem  this  ravell'd  edge,  whilst  I  retouch 
The  Saviour's  robe  and  face. 

PIGACHON 

The  crimson  silk 
Or  white  ? 

PASQUEREL 

The  white  is  better  for  the  hem. 
Now  for  our  Lord,  what  say  you  ?  —  to  the  lip 
A  touch  of  Garence  rose?     I  much  prefer 
Myself,  for  blush  and  richness  of  the  blood, 
A  Garence  rose  dorfe  to  cinnabar  ; 
Yet  thereof  Master  Fra  Angelico 
Of  Florence  might  be  critical. 

PIGACHON 
[Threading  his  needle.'] 

May  be. 

PASQUEREL 

Well,  masters  think  not  two  alike. 
[  Giving  a  touchl\ 

Voila  ! 


JEANNE  D^ARC  IOI 

[Silence,  and  the  distant  battle.~\ 
Saw  you  the  mauve  and  pink  geraniums 
In  Brother  Michel's  hot-bed  ? 

PIGACHON 

Wonderful ! 

PASQUEREL 

He  waters  them  at  prime  and  curfew. 

PIGACHON 

Ha! 

[Silence  again ;  the  two  friars  work  on.~\ 

PASQUEREL 

[Sudden  ly.~\ 

I  have  it,  Pigachon  !  It  comes  to  me  ! 
To  touch  this  lily's  petal-tips  with  rose 
In  token  that  it  bleeds. 

PIGACHON 

Why  does  it  bleed  ? 

PASQUEREL 

But  thou  art  mule-brain'd,  Pigachon.     Know,  then, 
It  bleeds  for  sorrow  of  its  little  sisters, 
The  fleur-de-lis  of  France,  because  they  lie 
Bleeding  and  trampled  by  the  fiends  of  England. 

PIGACHON 

Ah! 

PASQUEREL 

Yet  perchance  the  Maid  might  disapprove. 

PIGACHON 

May  be. 


102  JEANNE  D^ ARC 

PASQUEREL 

[Sighs.-] 

Well,  well ;  I  will  not  make  it  bleed. 
[Enter,  amid  louder  cries  from  the  battle,  Louis  de   Conies 
with  two  men,  fettered. ,] 

LOUIS 
Your  name  ? 

THE  FIRST   MAN 

John  Gris,  Knight  to  the  King  of  England. 

LOUIS 
Yours  ? 

THE  OTHER 

Adam  Goodspeed,  yeoman. 

LOUIS 

John  Gris,  Knight, 

And  Adam  Goodspeed,  yeoman,  you  are  bound 

As  prisoners  to  Louis,  called  De  Contes, 

Page  to  God's  maiden  Jeanne,  called  La  Pucelle. 

GRIS 

Sith  God  hath  dropped  us  in  the  Devil's  clutch, 
His  will  be  done. 

GOODSPEED 

Amen. 

PASQUEREL 

[Springing  up  from    his    paints,   stares   off  scene   (right), 
appalled.'} 

O  dolorosa ! 

[Enter  D'Alen$on,  supporting  Jeanne,  and  followed  by  La 
Hire  and  a  group  of  soldiers .] 


JEANNE  D 'ARC  103 

D'ALEN£ON 

Go  back,  La  Hire  :  let  not  this  thing  be  known. 
\_Exeunt  La  Hire  and  soldiersJ} 

JEANNE 
Where  is  my  standard  ?    Rest  me  here. 

D'ALEN£ON 

The  gates 
Are  but  a  little  farther. 

JEANNE 

In  God's  name 

I  will  not  leave  the  field.  — My  standard  ! 
\_She  sinks  down  beside  //.] 

D'ALEN£ON 

\_To  Louis. ,] 

Run! 
Fetch  from  the  town  a  litter. 

\To  PasquereL~\ 

Have  you  oil  ? 

Prepare  a  heated  compress  for  the  wound ; 
She  is  stricken  and  may  die. 

\_Louisy  after  fastening  his  prisoners  to  a  log  (left),  departs 
with  a  friar.  Pasquerel,  after  lighting  a  charcoal 
brazier,  begins  with  D'Alenc,orfs  help  to  tear  and  fold  a 

bandage. ~\ 

JEANNE 

\_Faintly.~\ 

Good  Pigachon ! 

PIGACHON 

You  called  me,  Angelique  ? 


104  JEANNE  D-> ARC 

JEANNE 

Go  to  my  men 
And  tell  them  I  am  well. 

PIGACHON 
\_Dubious. ~\ 

A  lie  ? 

JEANNE 

A  little, 

A  white  lie  :  God  will  make  of  it  a  star 
To  shine  on  Orleans  when  she  is  delivered. 

PIGACHON 

I  go. 

[Exit  right.} 

PASQUEREL 
[Looking  after  him.} 
Would  /  might  tell  a  lie  for  her ! 

JEANNE 

No,  dear  my  bonny  duke,  you  shall  not  touch ; 
I'll  pluck  it  out  myself. 

D'ALENCON 

Thou  must  not,  Jeanne  ; 
The  barb  hath  sunken  deep  ;   thou  art  but  a  girl. 

JEANNE 

I  am  a  soldier.  —  Think  you  it  will  bleed  ? 
Ah,  Heaven,  if  it  should  bleed ! 

D'ALENCON 
[As  Jeanne,  turning  away,  clutches  at  her  side '.] 

What  dost  thou  ? 


JEANNE  D 'ARC  105 

JEANNE 

See, 

There  is  the  arrow.     I  will  keep  my  eyes 
A  little  shut  — 

D'ALEN£ON 

She's  dying,  Pasquerel ; 

She's  torn  the  arrow  forth  with  her  own  hand. 
Help  me  to  bear  her  to  the  city  gate. 

PASQUEREL 

She  said  beside  her  standard. 

D'ALEN£ON 

But,  thou  sot 

Of  superstition,  she  is  dying.     Are 
Her  wishes  dearer  to  thee  than  her  life  ? 

PASQUEREL 

She  is  from  God. 

D'ALEN£ON 
O  idiotic  phrase! 

We  soldiers  babble  it  like  paraquets, 
And  let  a  child  — this  brave  and  dreamy  girl  — 
Die  in  the  sacrifice  for  us  —  for  us  ! 
Jeanne,  thou  must  live  —  Jeanne  !    Though  all  France 

shall  find 
Perdition,  thou  must  live ! 


She  lives  for  France. 


PASQUEREL 

Unholy  words ! 


D'ALEN£ON 
[Eagerly,  as  Jeanne  lifts  her  head.~\ 

She  lives  ;  it  is  enough  ! 


106  JEANNE  D^ARC 

JEANNE 

\Faintly  to  D'Alen<;on.'\ 
Good  neighbour,  say  to  him  I  had  to  come. 

D'ALEN£ON 
To  whom  ? 

JEANNE 

My  father.     You  will  tell  him  ? 

D'ALENgON 

Truly. 

JEANNE 

You  know,  we  have  two  fathers ;  one's  in  heaven. 
We  must  obey  the  greater.  —  Was  he  angry  ? 

D'ALENgON 

I  think  he  was  not  angry. 

JEANNE 

That  is  strange  ; 

His  scowl  is  terrible,  and  yet  he  loves  us  : 
My  brother  Pierre  and  me  the  most,  I  think. 
What  did  he  do  the  day  I  went  away  ? 

D'ALENgON 

Dost  thou  not  know  me,  Jeanne  ? 

JEANNE 

I  know  thee  well. 

Thou  art  the  face  that  comes  to  my  closed  eyes, 
And  in  the  darkness  there  I  speak  to  it.  — 
I  knew  my  mother  she  would  understand, 
For  often  I  told  her  how  my  Voices  said 
That  I  must  crown  the  King,  and  she  would  smile, 
But  always  Papa  Jacques  he  scowled. 


JEANNE  D'ARC  IO? 

D'ALENCON 

Now  gently  ; 

Rest  back  upon  my  arm  ;  this  is  thy  friend 
D'Alengon.  —  So! 

\Pasquerel  and  D'Alen$on  put  upon  her  the  compress .] 

JEANNE 

My  mother  hurts  me  here. 
They  said  it  was  an  arrow  in  my  side, 
But  I  knew  well  it  was  the  homesickness, 
And  so  I  plucked  it  out,  and  gave  't  to  him 
My  Lord,  because  it  had  no  business  there. 

D'ALENCON 

To  me  you  gave  it,  Jeanne,  not  to  your  Lord. 

JEANNE 

And  are  you  not  His  knight  whom  God  hath  sent 
To  be  my  shield  in  battle  ?  —  Verily 
I  leaned  upon  your  shoulder  at  Chinon 
When  I  was  weary  and  the  world  grew  dim.  — 
Thou  art  D'Alen^on  and  my  bonny  duke. 

\_Reenter  (left)  Louis  and  the  friar  with  a  litter.] 

D'ALENgON 

I  am  your  servant,  and  must  bear  you  now 
Back  to  the  town. 

DISTANT  CRIES 

La  Puce  lie!     Au  sec  ours  ! 

JEANNE 

You  hear !     I  cannot  go.     They  call  for  me. 
Fetch  me  my  horse. 


108  JEANNE  PARC 

D'ALENgON 
Madonna,  you  may  die. 

JEANNE 

I  may  not  die  before  I  have  performed 
My  Lord's  cornmandment ;  they  have  told  me  so. 

D'ALENgON 

Who  told  ? 

JEANNE 

My  Voices. 

D'ALENgON 

Jeanne,  for  love  of  France 
And  truth  and  thy  dear  soul,  lose  not  thy  life 
For  vanities  and  whisperings  of  the  air. 

JEANNE 

Know  you  whereof  you  speak  ? 

D'ALENgON 

I  speak  of  nothing, 
For  they  are  naught. 

JEANNE 

My  holy  counsel  —  naught ! 

D'ALENgON 

Do  not  believe  them,  Jeanne.     They  are  delusions. 
Forgive  me !     I  must  speak  the  truth  to  save 
Thy  life. 

JEANNE 

If  this  were  true,  O  better  death ! 
But  listen ! 

\The  Franciscans  about  the  altar  are  beginning  to  move  it 
from  the  knoll  to  the  level  ground  (on  the  left)I\ 


JEANNE  D'ARC  IOg 

D'ALENCON 
\Persuadingly,  bending  near  her.] 

Come  now  with  me.     Be  a  good  girl. 

JEANNE 

Listen,  my  duke. 

D'ALENCON 

'Tis  but  a  friar,  bearing 
The  altar  bell. 

A  VOICE 

[Speaks  with  the  bell,  which  sounds  momentarily  as  the  friar 
moves  if.] 

Daughter  of  God,  be  strong. 

JEANNE 

[Gazing-  before  her  into  PasquereFs  lighted  brazier :] 
It  is  her  voice  ;  it  is  St.  Catherine. 
See  in  the  little  flames  how  small  she  shines 
And  flutters  like  a  moth  mid  peonies. 
But  holy  saints  fear  not  to  singe  their  wings 
In  fire.     You  see,  she  is  not  frightened. 

PASQUEREL 
[Sinks,  murmuring,  to  his  knees] 

Pater, 
Sanctum  sit  nomen  tuitm. 

GOODSPEED 
\To  Gris] 

Turn  thine  eyes 
Away  !     The  witch  beginneth  her  hell  charms. 

JEANNE 

[Rising  to  her  feet] 
Thou  dear  St.  Catherine,  I  will  be  strong ! 


1 10  JEANNE  D  ^ 

PASQUEREL 
{To  ZyAlen$on.] 
And  will  you  now  believe  ? 

D'ALENCON 

This  is  a  strength 

Unnatural,  a  fever  from  the  wound. 
Jeanne  — 

JEANNE 

Look,  D' Alengon,  look,  they  leave  the  bridge ! 
Our  men  have  turned.     Alas  !    They  are  beaten  back. 
[Enter  La  Hire,  beside  himself ^\ 

LA  HIRE 
[Raising  both  arms  to  heaven."] 

Lord  God,  I  pray  Thee,  do  Thou  for  La  Hire 
What  he  would  do  for  Thee,  if  he  were  God, 
And  Thou,  God,  wert  La  Hire ! 

D'ALENCON 

What  news,  and  quickly  ! 

LA  HIRE 

News  for  the  rats  and  skunks  of  Europe  !     News 
For  dancing  apes  and  Master  Rigadoons  ! 
Dunois  himself  hath  bade  our  men  retreat, 
And  me,  La  Hire,  to  tell  it ! 

CRIES 
[Outside  (right), .] 

To  the  gates ! 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  1 1 1 

JEANNE 

[Looking  toward  the  battle '.] 
Dunois,  Dunois,  thou  hast  offended  me. 

CRIES 

[Outside.] 

The  gates  ! 

D'ALEN£ON 

Our  men  —  they  come.  —  Jeanne,  you  will  fall. 
Stay  !  —  I  will  rally  them. 

JEANNE 

[  Climbing  faintly  the  knoll,   as    DJAlen$on  comes  to    her 
support^ 

Still  be  my  shield. 
[Enter  Dunois  and  the  French  soldiery,  in  rout.~\ 

CRIES 
The  gates  of  Orleans ! 

JEANNE 

[From  the  knoll,  speaking  from  D ^Alen$ori }s   arms,  which 

uphold  her,  stays  the  rout.~\ 

Halt! 

CRIES 

The  Maid  !     The  Maid  ! 

JEANNE 

Who  hath  commanded  you  this  thing  ? 

DUNOIS 

Jeanne  d'Arc, 
The  English  fortress  is  impregnable. 


1 1 2  JEANNE  D  ^ 

JEANNE 

Dunois,  heaven's  fortress  is  impregnable 
By  souls  of  gentlemen  who  turn  their  backs. 

DUNOIS 

You  fell ;  we  saw  how  you  were  wounded,  Maid. 

JEANNE 

And  ye  beheld  not  One  who  did  not  fall : 
Shame,  captains  of  France  !     Have  ye  not  heard 
"  Better  a  dog's  head  than  a  lion's  tail  "  ? 
Back  to  the  bridge  and  show  your  teeth  again  ! 
Back  to  the  bridge  and  show  to  God  your  eyes ! 

SOLDIERS 

Back  to  the  bridge  ! 

JEANNE 

My  banner,  dear  my  duke ! 
Come,  we  will  go  together,  hand  in  hand.  — 
Children  of  France,  behold  your  fleur-de-lis  ! 
Thou,  Louis,  stay,  and  when  thou  shalt  have  seen 
This  banner  touch  the  English  walls  —  thy  horn ! 
Blow  it  at  Orleans'  gate  :  the  siege  is  raised ! 
Follow  your  lilies  now,  brave  boys  of  France ! 
Your  lilies  !     Christ  the  Lord  doth  captain  you. 
Ten  thousand  of  his  host  surround  us.     See  ! 
The  sun  goes  down  through  archings  of  their  wingss 
The  river  burns  and  eddies  with  their  swords. 
Work,  work,  and  God  will  work  !    Follow  the  lilies 
And  shoot  your  arrows  straight.  — Jhesus-Maria  ! 


JEANNE  D' "ARC  113 

SOLDIERS 

J he  s  us -Maria  !  —  St.  Denis  !     La  France  ! 
\_Exeunt  all  but  Louis  de  Contes,  in  the  foreground  (right), 
and  the  two  English  prisoners  tied,  on  the  left,  below  the 
knoll.     The  Franciscans  have  been  led  away  by  Pas- 
querel  toward  the  town,  carrying  with  them  the  altar. ,] 

GRIS 

I  looked  long  in  her  face.     Gentle  it  seemed 
And  beautiful. 

GOODSPEED 

So  did  the  serpent's  seem 
In  Adam's  garden.  Oh,  the  fiend  is  wise, 
And  in  a  witch's  face  most  damned  fair. 

GRIS 
Indeed,  the  spell  of  her  is  strange  upon  me. 

[To  Louis.] 
Where  is  her  banner  now  ? 

LOUIS 

I  cannot  see ; 

The  low  sun  hurts  my  eyes ;  which  way  I  look 
It  stares  me  like  a  monstrous  waning  moon 
Winked  on  the  blood-red  clouds  of  rolling  dust. 

GOODSPEED 

More  like  it  be  the  many-headed  face 
Of  Satan  mocking  us. 


The  Maid  !    The  Maid  ! 


LOUIS 

The  lilies,  there ! 


1 14  JEANNE  D  ^ 

GRIS 
What !  do  we  drive  her  back  ? 

LOUIS 
She  drives  you  from   the   bridge.     Her  armour!  — 

Now  — 

Oh,  she  is  blown  about  and  fluttered  o'er 
By  clouds  of  little  golden  butterflies, 
And  where  she  thrusts  her  lilied  banner  through, 
She  glitters  double  —  in  the  air  and  river. 

GOODSPEED 

Her  fiends  are  blown  up  from  the  underworld 
To  succour  her. 

GRIS 
[/dueling.'] 

This  spell  upon  me ! 

LOUIS 

Ah! 

They  hurl  you  from  the  drawbridge.     Christ !     You 

drown. 

Yonder  her  banner  and  the  fleur-de-lis  ! 
The  Maid  hath  touched  the  walls.     Vive  la  France  ! 

[Rushing  up  the  knoll,  Louis  turns  toward  Orleans  and 
winds  his  horn  three  times.  In  an  instant,  from  the 
left,  a  clamour  of  horns  and  shouts  and  bells  reply. 
Away,  on  the  right,  the  iron  din  of  the  battle  is  still 
heard.  Behind  the  knoWs  outline  burns  the  bright  red 
of  sunset ;  against  that,  raising  his  horn,  stands  out 
the  tense,  lithe  silhouette  of  the  little  pagej\ 


ACT   IV 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  \  1 5 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  I :  Before  the  walls  of  Troyes.     July  5, 
1429.     Night. 

On  the  left  (up  'scene),  partly  surrounded  by  cypress  trees, 
the  entrance  of  a  pavilion-like  tent  (extending  off  scene, 
left]  is  closed  by  a  mediceval  tapestry.  At  centre,  beneath 
the  trees,  stand  two  benches  of  wood,  one  higher  than 
the  other.  On  the  right,  a  stack  of  arms,  and  behind 
that  vague  otitlines  of  a  camp.  Throughout  the  scene's 
action,  from  time  to  time,  officers  and  guards  of  the 
French  army  pass  by,  or  are  visible  in  their  battle-gear, 
as  portions  of  the  scene.  After  the  rising  of  the  moon, 
the  walls  and  towers  of  the  town  are  dimly  visible  in 
the  background. 

Enter,  right,  La  Tremouille  and  CAUCHON,  the  latter  in  the 
garb  of  a  layman. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

That  is  her  tent ;  those  reddish  stars,  that  move, 

Are  sentries  on  the  city  ramparts.     Troyes 

Still  shuts  its  gates  against  the  Maid,  the  last 

To  stand  between  Charles  and  his  crown  at  Rheims. 

CAUCHON 

He  will  be  crowned  ? 

LA   TREMOUILLE 

We  hope  yet  to  prevent. 
You  heard  me  speak  of  Brother  Richard,  here, 


1 16  JEANNE  D^ARC 

Staying  in  Troyes.     He  is  a  preaching  friar, 

A  kind  of  mendicant  Demosthenes 

Who  holds  the  keys  of  power  between  his  teeth, 

And  locks  or  opes  the  city  with  his  tongue. 

To-night  he  is  coming  to  interview  the  Maid 

To  ascertain  whether  she  be  from  God. 

On  that  the  town's  surrender  will  depend. 

CAUCHON 

So  then  —  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

^* 

I  think  I  have  forestalled  the  Maid. 
A  certain  Catherine  de  la  Rochelle  — 
But  never  mind.     Our  point  is  this  :  that  you 
Stand  ready,  when  I  will,  to  yield  Jeanne  d'Arc 
Into  the  English  hands,  to  burn  for  witchcraft. 

CAUCHON 

To  burn  by  course  of  law. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[Smiling. ~\ 

By  law,  of  course  ! 
[Enter  at  back  De  Chartres,  followed  by  FLAW.] 

DE   CHARTRES 
[Investigating  with  a  torchl\ 
Your  Grace  ? 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

[To  Cauchon.] 
Ah,  'tis  our  man. 

[To  De   Chartres.~\ 

You've  brought  him  ? 


JEANNE  D  ''ARC  1 1 7 

DE  CHARTRES 
\_Revealing  FlavyJ\ 

There. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Here  is  our  honest  bishop  from  Beauvais, 
Pierre  Cauchon. 

CAUCHON 

\Indicating  his  disguise.'] 
Ex  officio,  my  lords  ! 

DE  CHARTRES 

Your  secret  shall  be  safe  with  us.  —  This,  sirs, 

Is  Marshal  Flavy. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[71?  Flavy ^ 
From  Compiegne  ? 

FLAW 

I  am 

Commander  at  Compiegne. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
[71?  De  Chartres.'] 

He  knows  the  plan  ? 

FLAVY 

I  am  to  ask  the  help  immediate 

Of  Jeanne  the  Maid  against  the  enemy 

That  threaten  my  city. 

DE  CHARTRES 

I  explained  to  him 
How  this  good  friend  (indicates  Cauchon}  will  see  to 

it  that  the  English 

Shall  know  the  proper  moment  to  attack 
And  lure  the  Maid  to  fight  outside  the  walls. 


1 1 8  JEANNE  D  ^ 

FLAW 

A  few  French  troopers  will  pass  out  with  her, 
And  then  —  I  am  to  pull  the  drawbridge  up. 

CAUCHON 

She  shall  be  treated  by  us  justly,  sirs, 
By  process  of  the  law  for  heretics. 

DE  CHARTRES 
She  is  coming  :   I  will  go. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

What !  not  afraid 
To  catch  a  second  ague  ? 

DE  CHARTRES 

In  her  presence 

All  policy  deserts  me,  I  grow  blind ; 
Once  was  enough. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Wait ;  we  will  go  along 

With  you  and  fetch  the  King  and  Brother  Richard. 
\_Exeunt  La  Tremouille,  De  Chartres,  Cauchon,  and  Flavy 

(right). 

Enter,  at  left  (down  scene],  Jeanne.  She  is  closely  followed 
by  a  group  of  various  persons, — women,  artisans,  gentle 
folk, —  some  of  whom,  drawing  near,  touch  her  cloak, 
try  to  kiss  her  handsj] 

SEVERAL  VOICES 

Holy  !  holy  !     Hear  us,  Maid  of  God  ! 

JEANNE 

Good  souls,  what  would  ye  ask  of  Jeanne  the  Maid  ? 


JEANNE  D  'ARC  1 1 9 

A  WOMAN 

[Holding  out  a  swaddled  bundle^\ 
My  babe  is  dead.  Her  little  body's  cold. 
Oh,  resurrect  her ! 

JEANNE 

{Tenderly^ 
Was  thy  child  baptized  ? 

THE  WOMAN 

Yes,  Angelique. 

JEANNE 

Then  do  not  cry  for  her, 
For  she  is  playing  now  at  Mary's  knee. 

ANOTHER  WOMAN 

Mine's  newly  born.     Be  godmother  to  him, 
That  he  may  prosper. 

JEANNE 
Let  his  name  be  Charles. 

A   COURTIER 
[Reaching  out  his  palm.'] 
My  fortune,  Maid  !     When  shall  my  luck  change  ? 

JEANNE 

If 

Your  luck  be  lame,  rub  it  with  elbow-grease. 

A  KNIGHT 

Jeanne  d' Arc,  my  master  sendeth  me  — 

JEANNE 

Who  is 

Your  master  ? 


120  JEANNE  D^ARC 

THE   KNIGHT 

Tis  a  nobleman  of  France, 
And  prays  you  tell  him  which  of  the  two  popes 
Of  Rome  or  Avignon  he  should  obey. 

JEANNE 

Tell  him  with  God  there  is  no  politics ; 

Let  him  serve  God.  —  Why  do  you  touch  your  rings 

To  mine,  good  people  ? 

AN  ARTISAN 

To  be  sanctified. 

JEANNE 

Oh,  do  not  touch  my  hands.     But  if  ye  seek 
Blessing,  go  home  and  kiss  the  old  tired  hands 
Of  your  good  mothers  that  have  toiled  for  you ; 
Come  not  to  me ;  good  night,  friends,  and  adieu  ! 
\The  people   depart ;   Jeanne   stands    with   hands   clasped. 

Enter  from  the  tent  Louis  de  Contes ;  seeing  her  thus, 

he  kneels  before  her,  worshipful.'] 
What  shall  I  do  ?  —  Ah,  Monseigneur  in  heaven, 
Protect  me  from  their  prayers  !     Let  not  this  folk 
Commit  idolatry  because  of  me, 
Nor  touch  this  body  as  a  saintly  thing. 
Guard  me,  you  dear  and  gracious  Voices  !  —  Still 
Why  do  I  think  on  what  my  duke  he  said : 
"  Do  not  believe  them,  Jeanne  !     They  are  delusions." 

[Shuddering."] 

Dear  God,  let  me  forget,  for  I  am  tired ; 
Let  Thy  work  be  fulfilled  and  take  me  home. 
[Seeing  Louis  on  his  knees,  she  drops  impetuously  beside  him.'] 
No,  no  !     Not  thou,  my  Louis  ! 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  1 2 1 

LOUIS 

Angelique, 
Why  do  you  weep  ? 

\_Enter  D'Alen$on  through  the  cypresses  behind  them.~\ 
JEANNE 

The  night  —  how  great  it  is  ! 
And  we  —  how  little  and  how  weak  we  are ! 
That  star  is  shining  down  on  Domremy 
Between  the  pear-tree  boughs.     I  had  not  dreamed 
How  that  the  world  would  be  so  great  and  wide. 

LOUIS 

They  say  it  reacheth  even  beyond  Rome, 
Though  I  was  never  there. 

JEANNE 

It  matters  not ; 

It  lieth  all  within  Our  Lady's  arms.  — 
Tell  me,  my  Louis,  hast  thou  never  played 

At  knucklebone  ? 

•    LOUIS 

You  will  not  play  with  me ! 

JEANNE 

And  may  I  not  ? 

LOUIS 

But  you  — 

JEANNE 

Sometimes  we  play 
With  pebbles  ;  here  are  some. 

LOUIS 

But  you !     From  you 


122  JEANNE  D^ARC 

The  English  fled  at  Orleans,  and  to  you 

The  angels  speak  and  the  bright  saints  come  down ! 

JEANNE 

[Rising,  drops  the  pebbles  slowly  from  her  hand.~\ 
It  seemed  but  yesterday  :  in  dear  Lorraine 
There  was  a  lass  with  a  red  petticoat, 
And  she  was  called  "  Jeannette." 

D'ALEN£ON 
\_Coming-forward,  impetuous.'] 

Madonna ! 
JEANNE 

[Starts,  then  goes  to  him.~\ 

Thou ! 
[  Turning  backl\ 

Ah,  me  !     I  saw  it.     Why  did  you  stand  there  ? 

D'ALENgON 

Where,  then  ? 

JEANNE 

Behind  you  !     Over  my  left  shoulder 
I  saw  it  rising,  pale. 

D'ALENgON 
[  Glancing  off  rightJ\ 
The  moon ! 

JEANNE 

'Tis  full. 
What  bad  news  have  you  brought  me  ? 

D'ALENgON 

I? 
JEANNE 

The  King ! 
What  of  the  King  ? 


JEANNE  D  ''ARC  1 2 3 

D'ALEN£ON 

The  King  is  well. 

JEANNE 

But  thou  ? 
Thou  art  in  pain,  my  duke. 

D'ALEN£ON 
[Looking  at  her.~] 

It  is  not  pain, 

JEANNE 
[To  Louis.] 

Go  in  and  sleep.     When  I  have  need  of  thee, 
I'll  call. 

LOUJ6 

I  will  nap  lightly,  Angelique. 
[Exit  into  tent.~\ 

JEANNE 

Now,  now,  my  good  knight,  speak  out  plain  :   what 

news  ? 
I  cannot  bear  the  sadness  in  your  eyes. 

D'ALEN£ON 

There  is  a  sadness  which  belies  its  name 
And  grows  immeasurably  dear  to  joy. 
The  King  — 

JEANNE 

Ah! 

D'ALEN£ON 

He  is  coming  here  to-night 
To  speak  with  you. 


1 24  JEANNE  D  ^ 

JEANNE 

More  counsels  ?     In  God's  name, 
Let  us  not  hold  so  long  and  many  parleys 
But  march  short-cut  to  Rheims. 

D'ALENgON 

This 'town  of  Troyes 
Holds  for  the  English  still. 

JEANNE 

It  will  surrender. 

D'ALENgON 

We  have  no  engines  for  the  siege. 

JEANNE 

I  have  sent 

For  Brother  Richard.     He  will  open  the  gates 
To-morrow ;  the  day  after,  we  shall  march 
Straight  on  to  Rheims. 

D'ALENgON 

Charles  will  not  march  to  Rheims 

JEANNE 

What  shall  prevent  ? 

D'ALENgON 

A  vision  from  the  Lord. 

JEANNE 

D' Alengon  !  hath  the  King  beheld  a  vision  ? 

D'ALENgON 

I  did  not  say  the  King. 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  1 2  5 

JEANNE 

Who,  then  ? 
D'ALEN£ON 

A  woman. 

JEANNE 

O  bonny  duke,  why  art  thou  strange  with  me  ? 
Be  not  like  all  the  rest,  careful  and  slow. 
Speak  to  me  bold  and  plain. 

D'ALEN£ON 

Forgive  me,  Jeanne, 
My  soul,  too,  is  infected  with  this  air 
And  breathes  of  weakness,  innuendo,  doubt ; 
But  now,  like  thee,  I  will  be  bold  and  brief. 
The  woman  Catherine  de  La  Rochelle 
Hath  duped  the  Dauphin  to  believe  in  her 
That  she  hath  seen  a  vision  out  of  heaven, 
Declaring  thee  and  all  thy  Voices  false. 

JEANNE 
\_Scornfitlly.~] 

Ha,  by  St.  John  !     And  doth  she  think  to  fool 
My  King  with  fi,  fok,  fum  ? 

D'ALENgON 

The  King  believes. 

JEANNE 
\Ardentiy. ~\ 

Of  course  my  King  believes. 


1 26  JEANNE  D  ^ 

D'ALENCON 
\_Slowly.~\ 

In  Catherine. 

\_A  pause :  from  off  right  come  distant  sounds  of  laughter., 
and  a  flickering  glow.~\ 

THE   VOICE   OF  CHARLES 

Walk  near  us  in  the  torch  light. 

D'ALENCON 

They  are  coming. 

Madonna,  do  not  let  that  scornful  fire 
Die  from  your  face.     For  such  apostasy 
There's  a  divine  contempt  which  makes  us  strong 
To  suffer  and  retaliate.     Take  heart ! 
What  matters  it  though  this  half-minded  prince 
Goes  begging  for  his  crown.  —  Dost  thou  not  hear  me  ? 

JEANNE 

To  build  and  build  and  build  on  running  sands  — 
How  terrible  it  must  be  to  be  God  ! 

[Reaching  to  D'Alenc^on  her  two  hands.~\ 
Think  you  I  shall  be  strong  enough,  my  duke  ? 

D'ALENCON 

Oh,  I  will  give  more  than  the  world  can  take, 
And  fill  the  gap  of.  this  ingratitude 
With  burning  recompense.     Lean  thou  henceforth 
On  me  —  on  me . — 

THE  VOICE  OF  CHARLES 
[Amid  murmured  conversation.] 
Enchantress ! 


JEANNE  D^ARC  12? 

JEANNE 

'Tis  my  King. 

Say  I  will  welcome  him  within  my  tent  — 
And  Catherine.     This  shall  be  overcome. 

D'ALEN£ON 

But  not  alone  !     Let  me  stand  with  thee,  Jeanne. 

JEANNE 

Always  you  are  with  me.     When  I  close  my  eyes, 
You  lean  against  a  pillar  of  the  dark 
And  pore  upon  a  book.     You  do  not  speak, 
And  yet  I  know  whom  you  are  reading  of  — 
A  certain  queen  —  her  name  is  hard  to  learn. 

D'ALEN£ON 

Hippolyta ! 

JEANNE 
A  maiden-queen,  you  said. 

D'ALEN£ON 
In  Attica. 

JEANNE 

I  know  not  where  ;  good  night ! 
Come  not ;  this  good  fight  will  I  make  alone. 

[  With  a  quick  pressure  of  D'Alen<;on'>s  hand,  exit  Jeanne 
into  her  tentJ] 

D'ALEN£ON 
"Always   you   are  with    me." —  Did  she  say  those 

words, 

Or  am  I  dizzy  with  this  incense  of  her  ? 
"  Say  I  will  welcome  him  with  Catherine." 


128  JEANNE  D^ARC 

What  will  she  do  ?    Well,  I  can  but  obey. 
"  Always  you  are  with  me  !  "  Always,  always  !  Here  — 
On  the  air,  this  moonlight,  everywhere  —  her  face 
Encounters  mine  in  glory. 

\Enter  Charles  and  CATHERINE  attended  by   torch-bearers 
and  followed  by  La  Tremouille,  BROTHER  RICHARD,  and 


CHARLES 
\To  Catherine,  holding  her  hand  and  gazing  at  herl\ 

Even  your  shadow 

Steals  splendour  from  the  moonlight  —  less  a  shadow 
Than  some  bright  spirit's  reflection. 

\He  kisses  her  finger  -s.] 
D'ALENCON 

God  !    Can  that 

Which  leads  him  captive  be  akin  to  this 
Which  hallows  me  with  beauty  ? 

CATHERINE 

Charles  is  kind 
To  flatter  his  old  comrade  of  Chinon. 

CHARLES 

Chinon  !  how  our  life-star  hath  changed  since  then  ! 

Aye,  Dagobert  is  dead,  and  poor  King  Patch 

Is  now  a  prince  of  Europe,  thanks  to  —  thanks 

To  God's  aid  and  Saint  Charlemagne,  and  now 

Henceforth  to  you,  sweet  seeress.     Tell  me,  Kate, 

Of  this  white  lady  in  the  cloth-of-gold 

That  comes  to  you  :  when  did  you  see  her  last  ? 


JEANNE  D^ ARC  129 

CATHERINE 

To-night :  her  limbs  were  lovely  as  first  snow, 

And  with  her  hand  she  touched  me  and  said,  "  Rise, 

And  seek  your  King,  and  go  forth  in  the  land, 

And  let  the  royal  trumpeters  ride  first 

And  blow  nine  blasts  before  you  in  each  town, 

And  lo !  all  buried  and  concealed  gold 

In  France  shall  straight  be  gathered  to  your  feet 

In  piles  of  glory.     Give  all  to  your  King, 

But  tell  him  to  beware  the  town  of  Rheims, 

For  if  he  enters  there,  my  power  is  spent. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Note  that,  your  Majesty  :  the  town  of  Rheims ! 
The  vision  warns  you  to  turn  back  from  Rheims. 

CHARLES 

We'll  make  this  known  to  Jeanne  and  change  our  plans 
Accordingly. 

[To  D'Aknfon.] 

She's  here? 

D'ALENCON 

There,  in  her  tent, 
And  she  hath  bade  me  say  — 
[Pauses.} 

CHARLES 

What? 

D'ALENCON 
[Barely  restraining  his  emotion. ,] 

Nothing,  sire. 
[Exit  swiftly  (right).] 

K 


1 30  JEANNE  D  ^ 

CHARLES 

[Looking  after  D*Alenc,on    in  surprise,  turns  to   Catherine 
and  the  others.] 

We  will  go  in  ;  you  also,  gentlemen. 

[As  he  is  about  to  enter  the  tent,  the  tapestry  is  opened  from 
within  by  Jeanne,  who  stands  in  the  entrance] 

JEANNE 
My  Dauphin  and  the  Lady  Catherine 

Are  welcome. 

CHARLES 

[Coldly] 

'Tis  some  time,  Maid,  since  we  met, 
And  there  are  solemn  matters  to  impart. 
Come,  Catherine. 

[Exit  Charles  into  the  tent] 

CATHERINE 
[Aside  to  La  Tremouille,  as  she  follows  Charles] 

Why  do  you  make  me  face  her  ! 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

[Aside] 
Tis  but  a  moment ;  play  the  game  well  now. 

[Exit  Catherine.     La  Tremouille  speaks  to  Jeanne] 
This  is  Commander  Flavy  of  Compiegne, 

JEANNE 

I  pray  you  enter,  sir. 

LA  TREMCrJILLE 

This,  Brother  Richard 
Of  Troyes. 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  1 3 1 

^Brother  Richard,  approaching  slow,  and  suspicious,  makes 
constantly  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  scatters  before  him 
liquid  from  a  vial.'] 

JEANNE 

What  is  he  sprinkling  ? 
LA  TREMOUILLE 

Holy  water. 

JEANNE 

More  boldly,  sir ;  I  shall  not  fly  away. 

BROTHER   RICHARD 
How  know  I  yet  whether  thou  art  from  God  ? 

JEANNE 

Enter  and  learn.  —  Come  in,  Sieur  La  Tremouille  ; 
The  room  is  small  to  hold  both  you  and  me, 
But  skilful  driver  turns  in  a  sharp  space. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 
\_Pausing  beside  her.  ] 
'Tis  you  or  I,  Jeanne. 

JEANNE 

You  or  God,  Seigneur. 

[They  go  in  together,  the  tapestry  closing  behind  them.     Enter 
(right)  D'Alen$on  and  La  Hirel\ 

D'ALENCON 

'Tis  shame  enough,  La  Hire,  immortal  shame, 
That  she  who  hath  for  us  her  toil,  her  visions 
Given  in  service,  should  be  snared  about 
By  webs  of  this  arch-spider,  La  Tremouille, 
To  struggle  and  to  suffer  ;  yet  'tis  worst 
That  he  —  that  he,  whom  from  a  mockery 


1 3  2  JEANNE  D  ^ 

She  hath  made  emperor,  could  so  relapse 
As  to  install  this  heinous  substitute, 
Rochelle. 

LA    HIRE 

Not  Catherine  ?     Kate  of  Chinon ! 

D'ALENgON 
\_Bitterly.~\ 

She,  too,  hath  visions  —  in  Tremouille's  brain  — 
Impugning  those  of  Jeanne  ;  and  Charles,  her  dupe, 
Treats  her  with  amorous  credulity, 
Half  gallant  and  half  gudgeon. 

LA   HIRE 

This  would  make 
The  little  flowers  of  Saint  Francis  swear. 

D'ALENgON 

If  they  had  but  devised  some  common  sham  ! 

But  to  pry  inward  to  her  maiden  soul 

And  steal  that  delicate  and  fairy  stuff 

The  visionary  fabric  of  a  child, 

Whose  dreams  of  saint  and  seraphim  take  on 

The  sureness  of  reality  —  to  make 

Of  that,  I  say,  a  tawdry  counterfeit 

To  ordain  the  humbug  of  a  courtesan  — > 

No,  it  is  monstrous  ! 

LA   HIRE 

Peste  !  less  metaphysic, 
And  say  what's  to  be  done.     Where  is  she  ? 


JEANNE  D^ARC  133 

D'ALENgON 

There  ; 
The  King  and  Catherine  are  with  her. 

LA   HIRE 

Well, 
Trust  her  to  make  a  charlatan  turn  feather, 

D'ALEN£ON 

There  is  the  pity  of  it !     How  may  she, 
Unconscious  child,  disprove  in  Catherine 
The  nature  of  illusions  which  her  own 
Imagination  shares  ?  —  God  spare  her  that ! 
For  there's  no  pang,  'mongst  all  our  mortal  hurts, 
Sharp  as  the  vivisection  of  a  dream. 

LA   HIRE 

I  love  thee,  friend  D'Alengon,  but  thy  mouth 

Is  stuffed  too  full  of  parchment.     Pray,  disgorge  ; 

What  means  all  this  ? 

D'ALEN£ON 

No  matter.    (Broodingly)    Once  at  Orleans 
I  spake  harsh  truth  to  her  myself.     God  knows 
I  said  it  but  to  save  her. 

LA   HIRE 

By  my  stick, 
What  shall  we  do  ?     Go  in  there  and  smash  pates  ? 

D'ALEN£ON 

That  would  be  madness. 

LA   HIRE 

What  the  devil,  then  ? 


1 34  JEANNE  D  ^ 

D'ALENgON 

This  :  I  am  strong  in  money  and  estates 
And  have  a  certain  influence  with  Charles 
Which  I  have  never  yet  used  :  if  he  disowns 
Jeanne  d'Arc,  then  I  will  offer  her  my  hand 
In  marriage. 

LA   HIRE 

Thou!  thou  —  to  the  Maid  of  God  ! 

D'ALEN£ON 

No,  to  the  maid  of  Domremy  —  "  Jeannette." 

This  is  no  time  for  superstitious  cant ; 

I  must  now  serve  her  and  be  practical. 

I  am  a  duke  and  she  is  peasant-born ; 

I,  as  her  husband,  would  uphold  her  power ; 

If  she  reject  me  —  mine  alone  the  pain. 

.  LA  HIRE 

Dost  thou  not  fear  the  wrath  of  God  for  this  ? 

D'ALEN£ON 

There  is  no  God  for  me  but  human  love, 
Nor  vision  save  the  true  vouch  of  mine  eyes, 
And  human  love  and  true  vouch  of  mine  eyes 
Compel  me  to  this  act. 

LA    HIRE 

How  long  hast  thou 
Run  daft  ? 

D'ALENgON 

Jeanne  !  Jeanne  !  thou  shalt  not  stand  alone. 

LA    HIRE 
\To  himself.'} 
Fala !     This  comes  of  poesie  and  parchment ! 


JEANNE  D-'ARC  135 

[Hastening  after  D^Alenc^on,   where   he   has  gone  toward 

Jeanne's  pavilion.~\ 

Look  ye,  my  duke,  walk  this  way  to  my  tent 
And  reassure  me  that  thou  be  not  mad. 

D'ALENCON 

Indeed,  for  love  of  her,  perhaps  I  am. 

[Exeunt  at  back,  La  Hire  drawing  D^Alen^on  away  from 
the  tent,  from  which  —  after  a  brief  pause  —  Charles 
bursts  forth,  followed' by  Catherine  and  soon  afterward 
by  La  Tremouille,  who,  standing  at  the  entrance  of  the 
tent  watching  them,  twists  the  tapestry  with  his  fingers  J\ 

CATHERINE 

Charles  !     Charles,  my  King !     Forgive  me. 
CHARLES 

To  forgive 

Is  simple  :  to  obtain  forgiveness  —  where 
'Mongst  all  my  fellow-men  may  I  now  look 
To  be  forgiven. 

CATHERINE 
I  am  penitent. 

CHARLES 

Why,  so  am  I ;  yet  surely  as  that  moon 
Shall  wane,  so  surely  shall  we  lapse  again. 
Such  creatures,  Kate-,  as  you  and  I  are  changelings, 
Filched  out  of  hell  by  Satan's  forefinger 
And  smuggled  into  clouts  of  human  kind 
To  mock  at  God  the  Father. 

CATHERINE 

Mine  the  sin ; 
I  lied  to  you. 


1 36  JEANNE  D  ^ 

CHARLES 

Hush  !     /  lied  to  myself. 

Who  made  me  King  of  France  ?     Whose  vision  smote 
The  clutch  of  England's  armies  from  my  throne  ?  — 
\To  his  torch-bearers, .] 

Go  on  !  put  out  those  lights,  and  if  you  can 

Put  out  those  stars !  and  thou,  dear  Maid  of  God, 

Let  me  forget  how  basely  I  forgot. 

[Exit  with  torch-bearers.    La  Tremouille  comes  to  Catherine, 
where  she  stands  trembling.'] 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Have  we  been  drugged  with  wine  ? 
[Points  to  the  tent.~\ 

What  happened  there  ? 

I  saw  you  speak  to  Jeanne,  Jeanne  look  at  you. 
What  was  it  she  did  ? 

CATHERINE 

I  know  not  what  she  did, 
But  what  she  is  shone  through  her  as  a  lamp 
Into  my  wretched  heart,  and  made  me  weep 
To  know  myself.  —  Pray,  lead  me  to  my  tent. 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Defeat  once  more ;  defeat !     By  Hercules ! 
For  strategy  to  outwit  the  lords  of  Rome 
Commend  me  to  a  sheep-girl  from  Lorraine  ! 

\_Exit  with  Catherine.     Within  the  tent  is  heard  the  voice  of 
Brother  Richard.'] 


JEANNE  D  ''ARC  1 37 

BROTHER  RICHARD 

The  city's  gates  shall  open  to  the  King. 

\_Enter  from  the  tent  Louis,  who  holds  aside  the  tapestry, 
staggering  with  sleepiness.  As  Brother  Richard  passes 
out,  he  pauses  and  looks  back  within;  then  turns,  moved, 
to  Louis. .] 

Child,  thou  art  hallowed  to  be  her  page. 
\Exit  toward  the  ramparts.] 

LOUIS 
\Drowsily. ~\ 

I  dreamt  I  was  awake  and  marching  —  marching  — 
{Sinking  upon  the  near  bench,  he  is   overcome  by  slumber. 
Enter  Jeanne  and  Flavy  from  the  /<?#/.] 

JEANNE 

I  promise  you,  Commander,  I  will  aid 
Your  brave  folk  in  their  need.     Bid  them  take  heart ! 
As  soon  as  I  have  crowned  my  King  at  Rheims, 
I  will  go  to  help  the  good  town  of  Compiegne. 

FLAVY 

Your  coming  shall  be  rarely  welcomed,  Maid. 
[Exit  (right).-] 

'  JEANNE 

All  will  be  over  soon  —  my  King  be  crowned  ! 
Louis,  come  forth  !     We'll  sleep  under  the  sky ; 
The  night  is  hot,  it  stifles  there  within  — 
Louis ! 

[Discovering  him."] 
Ah,  weary  boy !     Thou  art  still  marching 


1 3  8  JEANNE  D  ''ARC 

Toward  Rheims.  —  Wait  but  a  moment,  little  Louis, 

Under  our  lids  I'll  overtake  thee  there. 

\She  lies  down  in  her  armour  on  the  next  bench  and  falls 
asleep  in  the  moonlight.  Enter  at  back,  D'Alen$on  and 
La  Hire.  Seeing  Jeanne ,  they  pause,  speaking  together 

in  low  tones.] 

LA  HIRE 

Not  if  thy  love  were  whiter  and  more  chaste 
Than  Abelard's  for  his  dead  Heloise  — 
No,  friend  D'Alen^on ! 

D'ALENgON 

Will  you  answer  me  ? 
A  thousand  common  drudges,  artisans, 
Peasants  and  townsfolk  daily  flock  to  her 
And  kiss  that  hand  in  homage.  —  Am  then  I 
Less  worthy  ? 

LA   HIRE 

They  have  faith  in  her.     They  seek 
Salvation. 

D'ALEN£ON 

For  themselves  !     I  seek  it  for  her. 
This  maid  is  holy  by  simplicity 
And  not  by  miracle.     She  is  a  brave 
And  gentle  girl,  no  more.  —  How  noble  she  sleeps ! 
By  Heaven,  I  will  keep  vigil  here  to-night. 
I  love  her.     Do  you  trust  my  honour  ?  —  Leave  me. 

LA   HIRE 
[  Giving  his  hand.~] 

Good  night,  friend ;  but  beware  the  Lord  His  angels. 
[Exit.] 


JEANNE  D  ''ARC  1 39 

D'ALENgON 

When  did  such  maidenhood  sleep  in  the  moon 
Before  ?     Or  such  a  soldier  dream  in  armour  ? 
The  camp  is  silent  and  this  summer  night, 
But  all  the  dark  is  sown  with  dragon's  teeth 
That  with  the  dawning  shall  spring  up  in  steel 
To  rage  and  stab  again.  —  What  martial  seed, 
Dropt  in  the  April  lap  of  green  Lorraine 
By  angels  sacking  hell  from  Sinai's  mount, 
Bourgeoned  this  armed  girl  to  captain  us  ? 
Here  sleeps  in  silver  the  strong  virgin  —  France. 
She    murmurs:    What   was    that? — Dear    God,    my 

name ! 
"  D'Alengon !  "  —  Jeanne!  Jeanne,  leave  thy  dreams 

ajar 
And  let  me  through  to  thee  —  so,  with  a  kiss. 

[As  he  springs  to  kiss  her  hand,  he  is  caused  to  stagger  back 
by  a  dazzling,  intervening  splendour,  out  of  which  there 
takes  shape  the  winged  form  of  St.  Michael,  holding  his 
sword  drawnl\ 

Thou  burnest  me,  beloved  ;  I  grow  blind  ; 

My  brain  is  stung  with  fire.     Where  are  thou  snatched 

In  flame  away  from  me  ?  —  Ah  !  —  stand  not  there 

Between  us !     Merely  would  I  bend  to  touch 

Her  still  hand  with  my  lips  and  then  begone, 

And  yet  are  you  implacable  ?  —  Stern  Saint, 

Vision,  or  flaming  Minister  of  Heaven, 

Hallucination,  or  Apocalypse, 

Whatso  you  are  that,  beautiful,  take  on 

The  likeness  of  imagination,  why  — 

Why  do  you  stand  between  us  ? 


140  JEANNE  D^ARC 

[  With  his  sword  St.  Michael  strikes  D'Alenc,onJ] 

Monseigneur ! 

At  last  the  knowledge  and  the  sin  of  it, 
The  sinning  and  the  beauty  !  —  Lord,  I  go. 
For  thou  art  bridegroom  to  the  Maid  of  God, 
And  she  who  lieth  there  is  thy  betrothed, 
And  I,  that  dared  to  love,  have  sinned.     Adieu, 
Bright  sentinel !     Thine  is  the  vigil  now, 
The  midnight  and  the  Maid  inviolate. 

[Exit  D*Alen$on  among  the  cypresses.  A  minute  now  passes 
before  the  curtain  falls.  Various  night  sounds  steal  upon 
the  scene  ;  distant  torches  flicker  out ;  and  the  murmurs 
and  motions  of  a  great  army,  camped,  are  suggested  to  the 
audience's  imagination,  ivhile  Jeanne —  the  virgin- cap 
tain  of  that  host —  lies  sleeping,  moonlit,  in  her  armour, 
guarded  by  the  sentinel  archangel,  vigilant-eye d.~\ 


SCENE  II:  A  Street  in  Rheims.     July  17,  1429. 

The  street  itself  is  hidden  behind  an  old,  half -ruined  wall  of 
the  city,  over  the  irregular  top  of  which  are  visible  the 
upper  windows,  balconies,  and  gables  of  the  houses  oppo 
site,  from  which  the  inmates  are  seen  watching  the 
crowds  below,  invisible  to  the  audience.  The  foreground 
of  the  scene  consists  partly  of  the  wall  itself,  partly  of 
an  embankment  (with  a  crooked,  elevated  foot-path, 
conducted  by  stone  steps  to  different  heights],  which 
slopes  upward  to  the  walFs  edge.  On  the  left,  at  a 
breach  in  the  wall,  is  a  wide  ruined  gate,  admitting  in 
gress  from  the  street  on  to  the  lower  foreground  left 


JEANNE  D^ARC  I4I 

where  the  path  starts  to  ascend  the  slope  of  the  embank 
ment.  Seated  on  the  wall,  or  peering  over  it  (where 
they  stand  on  the  embankment  foreground),  and  filling 
the  gateway,  are  varicoloured  groups  of  persons. 
Among  these  (right)  are  Pierre  Cauchon  and  NICOLAS 
LOISELEUR,  in  the  dress  of  artisans  ;  near  the  gateway, 
amid  a  group  .of  peasants,  Jacques  d?Arc,  Perrin,  Pierre 
d^Arc,  and  Mengette.  High  in  a  seat  of  vantage  on 
the  wall,  a  PRIEST  is  looked  up  to  by  the  people  near 
by,  as  a  presiding  authority. 

The  following  dialogue  is  spoken  —  with  varying  intervals 
of  pantomime  —  during  partial  lulls  in  the  hubbub  of 
the  hidden  populace  in  the  street,  and  the  reflex  of  that 
among  the  groups  of  the  foreground. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  there  resound  from  the  left  a  fanfare 
and  a  vast,  distant  shout. 
• 
A   CITIZEN 

Those  trumpets,  father  ? 

THE  PRIEST 
[On  the  wall] 

Now  the  King  receives 
His  crown  in  the  cathedral,  and  the  people 
Acclaim  the  Maid  of  God. 

PERRIN 

[To  Pierre  and  Mengette.'} 

Why  were  we  late  ! 
They  say  Jeannette  stands  next  the  King  himself, 

MENGETTE 
And  all  in  armour ! 


1 42  JEANNE  D^ARC 

PIERRE 

If  she  goes  right  by ! 
And  if  she  never  sees  us  ! 

JACQUES   D'ARC 

Fret  thee  not ; 

I  ha'  fetched  from  home  a  clinkle  in  my  pouch 
To  catch  thy  sister's  ear. 

PIERRE  AND   MENGETTE 
What  is  it  ? 

JACQUES 
\Mysteriously^\ 

Look! 

\_Shows  a  string  of  little  pewter  sheep  bells '.] 

• 

LOISELEUR 
{To  Cauchon.} 

Your  Reverence'  disguise  is  masterly. 

CAUCHON 
Thanks,  Nicolas  ;  and  yours  ! 

A  WOMAN 
{To  Mengette.] 

From  Domremy? 

Aye,  that's  the  town  the  King  hath  freed  from  tax 
Because  the  Maid  would  ask  no  other  boon. 

MENGETTE 

[Anticipating  her  triumphant  effect  with  blushes  of  pleasure  I 
I  am  her  neighbour  and  her  brother's  wife  ! 


JEANNE  D^ARC  143 

CAUCHON 
\To  Loiseleurl\ 

Yes,  much  at  stake  !   My  kind  friend  Winchester 
Hath  promised  me  the  archbishopric  of  Rouen  — 
When  she  is  ashes. 

LOISELEUR 

That  should  not  be  long. 
She  goes  hence  to  help  Flavy  at  Compiegne. 
At  Compiegne  there  will  be  a  witch  for  sale. 

CAUCHON 

Aye,  Flavy  knows  the  smell  of  English  gold  — 
[Looking  from  the  wall.~\ 

How  proud  her  pageant  rides  !     The  dust  rolls  up 
Like  smoke  before  her. 


LOISELEUR 

Soon  it  shall 

CAUCHON 

Look  where  she  comes  ! 


LOISELEUR 

Who  looketh  where  she  goes  ? 

\_The  pageant  has  begun  to  enter.  Above  the  wall  are  visible 
the  lances  and  halberds  of  the  marching  soldiers,  their 
standards  and  the  floats  of  the  pageant.  From  the  left, 
after  the  passing  of  several  displays  and  devices,  the 
tumult  and  hosannahs  roar  and  swell  to  a  rhythmic, 
ptzan-like  acclaim  upon  the  entrance  (as  yet  unseen  by  the 
audience)  of  Charles  and  Jeanne  '.] 


144  JEANNE  D  ^ 

THE  PEOPLE 

Noel !  Noel !  Noel !  The  Maid  of  God  ! 

[As  this  royal  portion  of  the  pageant  passes  beneath  the 
central  groups  in  the  foreground,  Jacques  d' Arc  at  the 
gateway  takes  from  his  pouch  the  little  pewter  bells,  and, 
raising,  tinkles  them  in  the  uproar.  As  he  does  so,  the 
throng  in  the  breach  itself  are  swayed  inward  and 
aside  by  a  commotion  from  the  street  without,  and  Jeanne 
and  the  King  appear  in  the  gateway  on  horseback,  their 
immediate  followers  —  La  Tremouille,  De  Chartres, 
D'Alen$on,  La  Hire  —  being  visible  behind  them.~] 

JEANNE 

[Reining  her  horse.~\ 
My  King  ! 

CHARLES 

[Halting  the  procession,   turns   solicitously  to  Jeanne    who, 
not  yet  seeing  Jacques  d'Arc  and  his  bells,  is  listening 
with  a  bewildered  look  of  pleasurel\ 
What  is  it,  Maid  ? 

JEANNE 

The  sheep  ! 

JACQUES   D'ARC 
[Breaking  from  the  crowd  and  going  to  her.~\ 

Jeannette ! 

JEANNE 

Ah  !  —  Papa  Jacques  ! 

PIERRE,  MENGETTE,  AND  PERRIN 

Jeannette!  Jeannette! 


JEANNE  D\4RC  145 

JACQUES 
[At  her  horse's  side.'] 

My  lass ! 
JEANNE 

[Kissing  his  hands  where  he  raises  them  to  her.~\ 
And  art  not  angry  with  me  ? 

JACQUES 

God  is  good. 

Thou  hast  served  Him  long,  lass.     Come  now  home 
with  me  ! 

CHARLES 

This  is  thy  father  ? 

JEANNE 

May  I  go  with  him? 
[Showing  the  bellsl\ 

See,  he  hath  fetched  me  these  from  home. 
[  Waving  her  hand.~\ 

Mengette ! 
Perrin  !  —  I  did  not  knit  the  other  mitten  ! 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Sire  — 

JEANNE 

{Turning  quickly  I\ 

May  I  go  ?     My  vow  to  God  is  kept, 
And  nothing  now  prevents  — 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

Your  promise,  Maid. 
Compiegne  — 

JEANNE 

I  had  forgot ! 


1 46  JEANNE  D  ^ 

LA  TREMOUILLE 

\To  the  Procession^ 

Go  on. 

JEANNE 

\To  the  group  with  her  father^ 

Adieu  ! 

I  must  go  to  serve  my  good  friends  at  Compiegne. 

JACQUES 
Thy  mother !  —  waiteth  for  thee. 

JEANNE 
[Tossing  to  Jacques  the  steel  gauntlet  from  her  right  handl\ 

Show  her  this, 

And  tell  her  I  would  rather  spin  at  home, 
But  for  a  web  begun  God  sendeth  thread 
And  I  must  spin  for  France. 

\The  Procession  begins  to  move;  the  crowd  sways  between 
Jeanne  and  her  father,  who  stands,  with  bowed  head, 
holding  the  gauntletJ] 

MENGETTE 

\Lifted  from  her  feet  by  Pierre,  tears  off  her  head-dress  and 
waves  it  above  the  peopled  heads.~] 

Jeannette ! 

\Jeanne,  turning  her  horse  and  looking  straight  on,  holds 
in  her  left  hand  her  banner ;  in  her  right  —  close  to  her 
ear —  the  string  of  clinking  bells,  to  the  others  inaudible 
through  the  cries  of  "  Noel !  "  and  the  thunder  of  the 
cathedral  chimesl\ 

JEANNE 

The  sheep  ! 


ACT   V 


JEANNE  D  iARC  147 


ACT   V 

SCENE  :    Jeanne's  Prison  at   Rouen.     May  30, 

I431- 

A  dim  room,  with  only  one  small,  barred  window  (at  back) 
very  high  up.  Doors,  right  (down  stage]  and  left  (up 
stage].  Massive  stone  pillars  sustain  the  ceiling.  In 
conspicuous  in  the  obscurity  of  the  right  upper  corner 
stands  a  narrow  cage,  with  irons  for  the  occupant's 
neck  and  hands. 

As  the  scene  opens,  a  group  of  persons  in  black  ecclesiastical 
gowns  is  seen  passing  slowly  across  the  prison  chamber, 
from  the  door  of  an  inner  room  (right)  to  the  otiter 
door  (left).  Among  them  are  Pierre  Cauchon  and 
Nicolas  Loiseleur.  They  are  followed  by  John  Gris, 
BROTHER  MARTIN  LADVENU,  and  the  CAPTAIN  OF  THE 
ENGLISH  GUARD.  In  the  background  loiter  THREE 
SOLDIERS  OF  THE  GUARD,  coarse  types  of  men-at-arms. 

CAUCHON 
What  think  you,  Nicolas  ? 

LOISELEUR 

Her  spirit  fails  • 
I  fear  she  will  not  last. 

CAUCHON 

That  will  not  do  ! 

She  cost  too  dear  a  penny  at  Compiegne 
For  us  to  let  her  now  escape  the  fire 
And  pass  like  any  Christian  soul. 


1 48  JEANNE  D  ''ARC 

LOISELEUR 

'Twere  pity. 
CAUCHON 

And  this  long  trial  which  hath  lately  closed 
To  end  in  farce !  —  Besides,  the  folk  of  Rouen, 
That  weep  around  this  prison  on  their  knees, 
Will  say  we  murdered  her.     Whereas,  i'  the  fire, 
Not  merely  shall  we  brand  her  heretic 
And  witch,  but  we  shall  tarnish  with  her  shame 
The  crown  of  Charles,  which  this  said  witch  put  on 
him. 

LOISELEUR 

Then,  too,  your  Reverence'  archbishopric 
So  nearly  earned ! 

CAUCHON 

Hush  ;  nothing  of  that  now. 
We  must  make  haste.  —  Captain,  a  word  with  you. 

[As    Cauchon   takes  the   Captain  of  the  Guard  aside,  John 
Gris  speaks  to  Brother  Mar 'tin .] 

GRIS 

I  was  her  prisoner  at  Orleans  once, 
And  now  her  keeper  !    Would  to  God  again 
I  were  her  prisoner,  and  she  once  more 
In  that  proud  freedom.  —  When  did  she  begin 
To  doubt  her  Voices  ? 

BROTHER   MARTIN 

After  the  great  lapse, 
When  she  recanted  all  in  the  open  square, 
Seeing  the  executioner's  black  cart 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  1 49 

Awaiting  her.     Since  then,  though  she  hath  now 

Resumed  her  man's  garb  which  she  then  put  off, 

And  docilely  affirms  her  faith,  yet  she 

Is  shaken  in  her  soul,    for  now  no  more 

She  sees  her  visions,  hears  no  more  her  Voices. 

GRIS 

To  what  doth  she  ascribe  this  ? 

BROTHER  MARTIN 

I  know  not. 

A  year  of  darkness  and  imprisonment, 
And  slow,  sharp  probings  of  the  Inquisition 
Have  weighed  on  her  bold  spirit.     This  I  know  : 
That  many  an  age  your  English  hearts  shall  bleed 
To  hear  the  story  which  doth  end  this  hour. 

GRIS 

[Drawing  closer to  Brother  Mar  tin. ~\ 
Where  stays  your  Paris  monk  ? 

BROTHER  MARTIN 

[Secretively  looking  toward  Cauchon.~\ 

The  duke  is  still  here  ; 

Three  days  I  have  concealed  him  in  my  cell, 
But  still  have  found  no  means  to  bring  him  to  her. 

GRIS 
Means  must  be  found.     I'll  call  the  guard  away. 

CAUCHON 

Thou,  Brother  Martin,  come  with  us ;  let  stole 
And  Eucharist  be  brought  for  her  last  rites. 


150  JEANNE  D^  ARC 

\To  the  Captain.} 
You  have  your  orders,  sir. 

\To  the  Inquisitors^ 

Come,  gentle  masters, 

This  noon  we'll  lunch  with  long-earned  appetites. 
\_Exeunt  (left)  Cauchon,  Loiseleur,  Brother  Martin,  and  tJie 
Doctors   of  the  Inquisition.     At  the    door,  John    Gris 
stops  and  speaks  to  the  Captain  of  the  Guard.] 

GRIS 

The  orders  of  my  lord  the  Bishop  you 
Will  execute  with  gentleness.     Remember 
That  you  are  Englishmen  and  she  a  maid. 


THE   CAPTAIN 

\To  the  Gtiardsl\ 

Remember,  too,  my  lads,  how  this  same  "  Maid  " 
By  damned  arts  hath  sent  ten  thousand  souls 
Of  Englishmen  to  hell. 

FIRST  GUARD 

Comes  now  her  turn, 

THE  CAPTAIN 

Fetch  here  the  prisoner  and  put  on  her 

The  garb  of  heresy. 

\_Exeunt  guards  into  the  inner  room,  whence  they  return 
immediately,  dragging  Jeanne,  one  of  whose  feet  is  tied 
to  a  heavy  log.  From  this  they  unchain  her.  She  is 
dressed  still  as  a  man,  in  a  worn,  dull-coloured  garb.  In 
aspect  she  is  very  pale,  and  of  a  spiritual  emaciation. 
from  the  cage  in  the  corner,  the  Captain  has  brought  a 


JEANNE  D  'ARC  1 5 1 

long  white  tunic  and  a  mitre-shaped  cap,  which  he  hands 
to  one  of  the  guards,  who  prepares  to  put  them  upon 
Jeanne.~\ 

JEANNE 

Will  it  be  now  ? 

THE  CAPTAIN 

Aye,  and  forever  after. 

SECOND   GUARD 

There  be  piled 

Kindlings  in  Rouen  Square.     After  the  Bishop 
Hath  spoke  his  sermon,  there  shall  be  a  bonfire. 

THIRD   GUARD 
They  say  the  Square  is  packed. 

FIRST  GUARD 
[To  Jeanne,  lifting  the  tunic.'] 

Come ! 

JEANNE 

'Tis  for  me  ? 
What  are  these,  sir  ? 

FIRST   GUARD 

The  wedding  cap  and  gown 
That  old  Dame  Inquisition  gives  her  daughters 
When  they  go  to  the  Devil. 

SECOND  GUARD 

He'll  make  her  a  brave 
House-warming  — 

\Saluting  Jeanne  derisively. ~\ 
Hail  to  's  doxy  ! 


1 5  2  JEANNE  D  ^ 

THIRD   GUARD 

Hail  her  cap ! 

[Taking  it  from  her  head,  for  Jeanne  to  see,  he  holds  it  aloft 
while  the  other  guards,  severally  bowing  and  doffing  be 
fore  it,  read  the  words  which  are  blazoned  on  its  sur- 

face.] 

THE  GUARDS 

Apostate  !  —  Heretic  !  —  Idolatress  ! 

\_Reenter  Brother  Martin,  with  candles  and  stole.  He 
stands  in  the  doorway ;  behind  him  appears  another 
cowled  figure,  which  withdraws  when  the  Captain 
speaks^ 

BROTHER  MARTIN 

I  bring  the  last  rites  for  the  prisoner. 

THE   CAPTAIN 

Whom  hast  thou  with  thee  there  ? 

BROTHER   MARTIN 

A  monk  from  Paris. 
[Enter  abruptly,  in  the  doorway,  John  Gris.] 

GRIS 
Captain,  your  guard  is  wanted  in  the  court! 

THE  CAPTAIN 

[To  the  guards] 

Come  !  —  Jeanne,  by  order  of  my  lord  the  Bishop, 
Thou  hast  four  minutes  wherein  to  confess 
And  gear  thy  soul  whither  it  goes.  —  Hear'st  thou  ? 

JEANNE 

I  hear  thee,  godon. 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  1 5  3 

THE  CAPTAIN 
[To  Brother  Martin^ 
The  executioner 

Is  waiting  in  the  court.     When  you  shall  hear 
His  bell-cart  tolling,  come  away. 

[Exeunt  the  Captain,  John  Gris,  and  the  guards,  the  third 
guard  handing  the  mitre-cap  to  Brother  Martin,  who 
sets  it  and  the  candles  on  the  floor  of  the  cell.  During 
the  time  in  which  the  door  remains  open,  sounds  of  dis 
tant  chanting  come  from  without^ 

JEANNE 

What  voices 
Are  those  ? 

BROTHER  MARTIN 

Priests  chanting  for  thy  soul.  —  My  child, 
I  will  return  at  once  and  bring  thee  comfort. 

[Exit  (left).-] 

JEANNE 

They  are  not  priests  :  that  is  the  Judge's  Clerk 
Reading  the  questions  in  the  Justice  Hall ; 
Day  after  day  they  lead  me  down  to  answer. 
Do  not  you  hear  ?     Those  are  the  accusations, 
And  there  are  seventy.     He's  crying  them 
Aloud  in  the  open  court.     He  will  not  cease ; 
And  all  the  masters'  gowns  are  turned  to  grey.  — 
Cease  !     I  have  heard  all,  my  lords  !     Pray,  bid  him 

cease. 

[From  behind  the  blank  wall  which  Jeanne,  clad  in  her 
white  tunic,  thus  supplicates  with  outstretched  arms, 
there  rises,  articulate,  out  of  the  far-heard  chanting  of 
the  monks,  and  becomes  loud  enough  for  clearness  —  a 
monotonous,  droning  voice.'] 


1 54  JEANNE  D  ^ 

THE  VOICE 

And  first,  according  to  Divine  Law,  as  according 
to  Canon  and  Civil  Law,  it  is  to  you  the  Bishop,  as 
Judge  Ordinary,  and  to  you  the  Deputy,  as  Inquisi 
tor  of  the  Faith,  that  it  appertaineth  to  drive  away, 
destroy,  and  cut  out  from  the  roots  in  your  Diocese, 
and  in  all  the  kingdom  of  France,  heresies,  witch 
crafts,  superstitions  ;  to  punish  and  amend  all  those 
who  act  against  our  Faith  :  to  wit,  sorcerers,  diviners, 
invokers  of  demons,  their  abettors  and  accomplices. 
And  your  power  as  to  this  exists  against  all  lay  persons, 
whatever  be  their  estate,  sex,  quality,  and  preeminence; 
in  regard  to  all  you  are  competent  judges. 

What  have  you  to  say  to  this  Article  ? 

JEANNE 
Pass  on ! 

[The  Voice  resumes  with  the  same  intoning  monotony.  Before 
it  is  done  speaking,  there  softly  re'enters  (left)  Brother 
Martin,  followed  by  D'Alenc^on.  The  latter  is  dressed 
in  a  robe  and  cowl  similar  to  the  monk's,  but  these  are 
but  thrown  loosely  over  his  usual  garb.  Jeanne  neither 
hears  nor  sees  theml\ 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CLERK 

But  it  is  time  to  instruct  you  more  fully,  my  lords 
and  judges,  on  the  offences,  excesses,  crimes,  and  mis 
demeanours  committed  by  the  accused,  Jeanne  d' Arc, 
in  many  and  diverse  places.  In  her  childhood  she 
was  not  instructed  in  the  beliefs  and  principles  of  our 
Faith ;  but  by  certain  old  women  she  was  initiated 
in  the  science  of  witchcraft,  divination,  superstitious 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  1 5  5 

doings,  and  magical  arts  —  so  much  so  that,  in  these 
interrogations  before  you,  touching  her  visions  and 
the  apparitions  of  fairies,  she  hath  confessed  that  even 
now  she  doth  not  know  if  these  fairies  were  evil  spirits 
or  not. 

What  have  you  to  say  to  this  Accusation  ? 

JEANNE 

I  have  answered  you  before.     As  for  the  fairies, 
I  know  not  what  they  are.     But  for  my  teaching 
I  was  brought  up  to  say  my  Creed,  and  do 
Whatso  a  good  child  ought. 

D'ALENCON 

Whom  speaks  she  to  ? 

BROTHER  MARTIN 

Some  phantom  of  her  fever ; 
For  pale  hallucinations  come  to  her, 
No  more  her  sacred  visions  ;  random  voices  — 
The  memories  of  her  late  torture-trial  — 
Not  now  her  saints.     Oft,  as  I  told  you,  she 
Will  call  your  name. 

D'ALENCON 
Oh,  that  she  call  it  now ! 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CLERK 

Of  Robert  de  Baudricourt  Jeanne  asked  to  have 
made  for  her  a  man's  dress  and  armour  appropriate. 
These  garments  and  armour  being  furnished,  Jeanne, 
rejecting  and  abandoning  women's  clothing,  her  hair 
cut  around  like  a  young  coxcomb,  took  tunic,  doublet, 


1 56  JEANNE  D  'ARC 

surcoat,  close-cut  cap,  buskins,  spurs,  sword,  lance, 
and  other  arms  in  fashion  of  a  man,  affirming  that  in 
this  she  was  executing  the  order  of  God  as  had  been 
prescribed  to  her  by  God's  messenger. 
[Jeanne  makes  toward  the  wall  a  gesture  of  pathetic  affir 
mation^ 

D'ALENCON 
Surely  she  hears  some  voice !  —  Is  she  so  ill  ? 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CLERK 

What  have  you  to  say  to  this  Accusation  ? 

JEANNE 
Pass  on  !     It  is  so. 

D'ALENCON 

Jeanne  !      What  is  so  ? 

BROTHER  MARTIN 

She  wanders. 

Speak  to  her  ;  but  remember  you  yourself 
Are  under  doom  —  an  escaped  prisoner ; 
Speak  not  too  loud. 

D'ALENCON 

Nay,  let  them  find  me.     Death 
Comes  equitably  now  with  her ;  and  though 
I  am  powerless  to  save  her,  yet  'tis  sweet 
Not  to  survive. 

BROTHER   MARTIN 

Your  will,  then,  is  to  be 
Discovered  and  to  perish  ? 

D'ALENgON 

Here. 


JEANNE  D  ^ARC  1  5  7 

BROTHER   MARTIN 

If  I 

Consent,  it  is  because  she  needs  you  :  you, 
Who  first  instilled  her  doubts,  must  extirpate  them. 
Farewell  ;  though  she  shall  think  yru  but  a  dream, 
Yet  speak  !  —  I  will  confess  her  —  at  the  flames. 


D'ALENCON 

The  flames  !  —  O  Christ  !  how  dare  I  speak  to  her  ? 

\_Leaningfaintly  against  one  of  the  stone  pillars,  D^Alen^on 
struggles  for  self-possession^\ 

THE  VOICE   OF  THE   CLERK 
[Gradually  sounding  more  remote.  ~\ 

Obstinate  in  her  presumption,  Jeanne  hath  said, 
proclaimed,  and  published  that  she  recognized  and 
discerned  the  voices  of  Archangels,  Angels,  and 
Saints  ;  and  she  hath  affirmed  that  she  knoweth  how 
to  distinguish  their  voices  as  of  such  ;  she  hath  not 
feared  to  proclaim  that  St.  Michael,  Archangel  of 
God,  did  himself  come  to  her  ;  also  that  by  revelation 
of  Saints  the  crown  of  Charles  the  King  was  shown 
to  him  through  her.  All  these  are  lies  imagined  by 
Jeanne  at  the  instigation  of  the  Devil,  or  suggested 
by  demons  in  deceitful  apparitions,  to  make  sport  of 
her  curiosity  —  she  who  would  search  secrets  beyond 
her  capacity  and  condition. 

What  have  you  to  say  to  this  Accusation  ? 

JEANNE 

What  should  I  say,  my  lords  ?  —  Yes,  they  were  lies  ! 


1 5 8  JEANNE  D^ARC 

My  Voices  lied  to  me,  my  friendly  visions, 

That  brought  to  me  all  holy  signs  of  heaven, 

They  lied  —  they  lied  !  for  look,  my  masters  :  now  — 

Now  I  am  brought  before  you  in  this  hall, 

And  you  command  me  to  reveal  you  proofs 

That  what  I  saw  was  holy ;  now  I  call 

On  those  bright  saints  to  be  my  witnesses  — 

They  come  not,  answer  not !     Ah,  truly  ye 

Condemn  me  ;  I  was  tempted  :  demons  were  they, 

And  have  deserted  me,  deluded  me. 

D'ALENgON 

Do  not  believe  them,  Jeanne ! 

JEANNE 

You  hear  him,  judges. 

Even  so  he  spake  at  Orleans,  and  I  chid  him. 
My  duke  forewarned  me  well,  yet  I  believed. 

D'ALEN£ON 

Child,  look  on  me.     The  latest  moment,  Jeanne, 
Yet  I  am  here  :  I  too  was  prisoner, 
Knew  naught  of  this  ;  but  when  I  heard,  escaped, 
And  now  I  am  come  to  witness  to  the  truth. 

JEANNE 

My  lords,  you  hear !     Even  he  is  come,  a  witness, 
Before  you. 

D'ALENgON 

Not  a  witness  before  them,  — 

Your  dread,  grey  judges,  —  but  before  those  saints 
And  thy  dear  soul  to  attest  their  faith  in  you 
And  yours  in  them. 


JEANNE  D  "'ARC  1 59 

JEANNE 

How  pale  thou  art,  my  friend. 
You  must  not  sorrow  now  to  speak  against  me. 
You  bade  me  doubt  those  visions,  yet  I  kept 
My  faith  ;  the  blame  was  mine.     Well  I  remember 
You  warned  me  then  they  were  but  "  vanities 
And  whisperings  of  the  air." 

D'ALEN£ON 

I  knew  not  then  — 

JEANNE 

How  France  should  sell  me  to  the  English  !  No  ! 
Pass  on  ;  'tis  over.  —  Will  you  address  the  court  ? 

D'ALENgON 

Here  is  no  court  nor  trial-chamber,  Jeanne. 
Feel  here —  D'Alengon's  hand  ;  this  is  your  prison, 
Where  in  a  little  moment  Death  shall  enter 
And  lead  us  both  away.     I  cannot  bar 
His  coming,  child,  but  I  can  make  it  happy 
If  this  swift  prayer  can  move  your  soul  to  hear. 

JEANNE 

To  me  you  pray  ?     To  me  ?  —  They  used  to  pray 
To  me  at  Rheims,  and  all  the  chimes  were  ringing. 

\In  the  distance  a  harsh  tolling  resounds,  and  ceases.~\ 
Hark  !  they  have  begun  again. 

D'ALENgON 

That  knelling  bids 

Me  speak,  nor  hesitate.     Jeanne,  what  I  say 
Is  heaven  and  hell  and  life  and  death :  I  love  you, 
How  —  you  shall  know  and  understand.     At  first 


160  JEANNE  D^ARC 

I,  now  your  anchorite,  burned  high  for  you 

With  man's  desire.     Ere  yet  you  came  to  France, 

I  caught  afar  the  pastoral  breath  of  you, 

And  sudden,  when  you'd  come,  you  rose  for  me 

Amidst  our  army's  spears  —  a  martial  Ruth, 

Bright  from  those  rustled  battle-sheaves  of  men, 

And  drew  me,  soul-bound.  —  'I  will  love  this  child,' 

I  vowed,  'and  win  her  love,  for  'tis  in  sooth 

A  simple  child,  whose  quick,  religious  heart 

And  pied  imagination  fill  for  her 

The  air  with  painted  angels,  speaking  saints 

And  bell-toned  voices.     Who  that  lives  would  not 

Follow  her  eyes  to  Orleans  and  to  Rheims?' 

And  so,  a  pagan  in  your  holy  war, 

I  followed  you.     At  last  we  camped  by  Troyes. 

There  in  the  moon,  after  the  weary  day, 

While  pale  in  armour  you  lay  slumbering, 

I  kept  my  vigil.     Suddenly,  your  lips 

Murmured  "  D'Alen^on."     Ah  !  I  leapt  to  kiss 

Your    sleeping    hand  —  Jeanne !     Jeanne  !     it    rose 

between  us 
And  smote  me  back  ! 

JEANNE 

My  hand  ? 
D'ALEN£ON 

No,  his. 

JEANNE 

What  smote  thee  ? 

D'ALEN£ON 

The  mystery  of  you,  the  holiness, 


JEANNE  D^ARC  1 6 1 

For  these  —  a  blazing,  keen,  and  two-edged  sword  — 

That  silent  angel,  radiant  in  wrath, 

Did  smite  me  with  ;  and  lo !  with  blinded  eyes 

I  saw  thee  —  what  thou  art :  the  Maid  of  God. 

Angel,  or  saint,  or  guardian  wraith  —  that  blow 

Made  me  to  pray,  to  tremble,  and  believe. 

I,  who  did  boast  to  riddle  a  child's  heart, 

Was  humbled  and  was  glad. 

\_The  knelling  resounds  again.] 

JEANNE 
\_Lis  tening.~\ 

Is  it  the  cart? 
I  am  afraid.     Art  thou  to  go  with  me  ? 

D'ALEN£ON 
[Gently. ~\ 

Of  course ;  and  all  your  visions  wait  for  you 
To  call  them.     Child,  let  not  my  sceptic  love 
Lead  your  weak  spirit  to  the  world's  dark  sill 
Thus  stricken  —  blinded,  groping  for  its  saints 
Believe!  you  who  have  made  me  to  believe. 

JEANNE 

Why  have  they  then  forsook  me  —  those  sweet  saints 
That  used  to  come  —  at  least,  methought  they  came. 
Why  do  I  not  behold  them  any  more  ? 

D'ALEN£ON 

Because  —  remember  what  you  told  the  King! 
You  must  believe  before  you  may  behold  ! 
But  I  —  I  wronged  your  faith.     Those  noxious  seeds 
Of  doubt  I  sowed  in  freedom  —  here,  in  darkness, 


1 62  JEANNE  D  ''ARC 

Prison,  and  pain,  your  black  Inquisitors 

Have  fostered  for  their  ends.     They  are  your  demons, 

That  have  deluded  you  with  sophistries  ; 

And  if  they  ask  for  proof,  say  to  them  this : 

Orleans  is  not  a  lie  ;  the  gates  of  Troyes 

Are  not  delusions  ;  no  !  Rheims  stands  in  stone; 

France  —  France  is  saved,  and  Charles  the  King  is 

crowned  ! 
Who  hath  done  this  but  God  and  Jeanne,  His  Maid  ? 

JEANNE 

Art  thou  a  dream  comest  to  tell  me  this  ? 
Or  art  my  knight  —  my  bonny  duke  ? 

D'ALEN£ON 

Madonna ! 

JEANNE 

It  doth  not  matter  !  —  Though  a  thousand  miles, 

And  clouds  and  towers  and  darkness  are  between  us, 

Still  are  you  with  me,  absent,  like  a  star. 

Thou  only  knewest  me,  thou  only  knowest, 

Save  God,  and  thou  hast  brought  me  back  to  Him. 

Look  down,  St.  Michael !    Once  again  I  wear 

Thine  armour :  Lord,  I  dread  no  more  the  flames. 

Lean  down,  St.  Catherine,  St.  Margaret ! 

See,  now  I  am  your  true  girl  —  take  my  soul 

And  tell  me  you  forgive,  for  I  believe  ; 

Tell  me  you  are  true,  and  all  my  sin  a  dream  ! 

^Outside  as  the  slow,  harsh  knelling  resounds  closely,  high  in 
the  dim,  barred  window  appear,  in  splendour,  the  faces 
(and,  in  part,  the  forms)  of  St.  Michael,  St.  Catherine, 
and  St.  Margaret,  who  look  down  upon  Jeanne.] 


JEANNE  D  ^AR C  163 

THE    FEMALE    SAINTS 
[Simultaneous  with  the  bell.~\ 
Thy  pain  —  it  is  a  dream. 

JEANNE 

\_With  a  cry  of  passionate  joy ."] 

My  duke  —  they  hear  ! 

Behold  they  are  come  again  !     I  see  their  faces, 
I  hear  their  voices  ! 

D'ALENCON 

[Kneeling  beside  her  with  bowed  head,  kissing  the  edge  of  her 
white  robe,  speaks  to  himself ^\ 

Would  to  God  might  I ! 

[The  door  (leff]  is  thrown  open.  In  the  passageway  are 
heard  heavy  approaching  footsteps  and  a  murmur  as  of 
many  people.  Jeanne,  standing,  gazes  up  at  the  grated 
window  —  her  face  lit  with  a  lost  rapture .] 

THE  VOICE  OF  BROTHER  MARTIN 

[From  outside.'] 
The  executioner. 

ST.  MICHAEL 
[Jfis  voice  sounding  with  the  approaching  belll\ 

Be  not  afraid. 

[Away  on   the  left,    voices   of  men    are   heard   chanting: 
"  Kyrie  eleison  !   Christe  eleison  /  "] 

FINIS 


ADDENDA 

In  Act  I,  the  refrain  of  the  opening  song  is  dialectical. 
In  Act  III,  the  letter  dictated  by  Jeanne  to  the  English 
is  authentic;  in  the  same  act,  the  hymn,  Veni,  Creator 
Spiritus,  known  as  the  Hymn  of  Charlemagne,  was 
historically  sung  by  Jeanne  and  the  French  before 
battle.  In  Act  V,  the  words  spoken  by  the  Voice  of 
the  Clerk  are  transcribed  directly  from  the  translation 
of  the  Seventy  Articles,  prepared  by  the  Promoter 
d'Estivet,  which  formed  the  Accusation  of  Jeanne's 
Trial  in  Ordinary  —  published  in  the  Appendix  of  the 
volume  of  Original  Documents  on  Jeanne  d'  Arc, 
edited  by  T.  Douglas  Murray,  New  York,  McClure, 
Phillips,  &  Co.,  1902. 

The  author's  sincere  acknowledgments  are  due  to 
Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell  for  her  friendly  interest  in  hav 
ing  specifically  directed  his  attention  to  the  above 
illuminating  book,  which  has  constituted  the  chief  in 
forming  source,  and  a  large  inspiration,  to  his  work. 

The  music  of  the  play  —  incidental,  as  well  as 
lyrical  —  has  been  composed  by  Mr.  F.  S.  Converse, 
and  may  be  had  in  published  form. 

The  cover  design  and  the  scene  illustrations  of  the 
present  volume  were  drawn  by  Mr.  Barry  Faulkner. 

The  acting  rights  of  the  play,  in  America  and 
England,  are  owned  by  Mr.  E.  H.  Sothern  and  Miss 
Julia  Marlowe. 

PERCY  MACKAYE. 

CORNISH,  N.H.  September,  1906. 


SAPPHO   AND    PHAON 


SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

A  TRAGEDY 


SET  FORTH  WITH  A  PROLOGUE,  INDUCTION. 
PRELUDE,  INTERLUDES,  AND  EPILOGUE 


TO  MARION 

crvv  /u-ot  TTti/e,   <ruvry/?a,   truvepa, 


PREFATORY    NOTE 

As  the  manuscript  of  this  play  is  in  press,  the 
report  comes  from  Italy  that  the  momentous  project 
of  Professor  Charles  Waldstein,  of  Cambridge,  Eng 
land,  for  the  excavation  of  Herculaneum  is  once 
more  —  after  some  years  of  vicissitude  —  in  suspense. 

Whether  that  incomparable  undertaking,  mysteri 
ous  with  the  promise  of  hidden  beauty  and  human 
revelation,  shall  be  destined  to  fulfilment,  remains  for 
the  civilizations,  and  preeminently  for  the  Italian 
government,  to  determine. 

In  so  far  as  some  of  its  potential  aspects  have  been 
inspirational  to  the  inductive  portions  of  this  play, 
the  author  desires  to  extend  his  grateful  acknowledg 
ments  to  Professor  Waldstein  for  having  provided 
him  with  frequent  authentic  information  regarding 
the  Herculaneum  project,  and  to  express  his  hope 
that  the  conception  of  that  project  —  one  of  the 
noblest  modern  uses  of  the  imagination  —  may  yet 
attain  to  its  legitimate  aim  and  acclamation. 

The  writer  wishes,  also,  to  express  his  sincere 
appreciation  to  Professor  Francis  W.  Kelsey,  of  the 
University  of  Michigan  (translator  of  Mau's  "  Pom 
peii  "),  for  criticism  of  archaeological  details  in  the 
Prologue  and  Induction ;  to  Robert  Eames  Faulkner, 
of  Keene,  New  Hampshire,  for  his  fine  instigations 
to  the  knowledge  of  those  alluring  Sapphic  Fragments, 
which  breathe  to-day  the  passionate  presence  of 
Sappho  herself ;  to  Barry  Faulkner,  for  the  cover 
design  of  this  volume. 

The  stage  rights  of  the  play,  in  America,  are  owned 
by  Mr.  Harrison  Grey  Fiske,  for  Madame  Bertha 
Kalich. 

P.   M-K. 

CORNISH,  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 
March,  1907. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 

I.    OF  THE  PROLOGUE 

*MEDBERY,  an  American  "j  Archaeologists  engaged    in 

PIETRA   DI    SELVA,  an  Italian  \     the  excavation  at  Hercu- 
DR.    ZWEIFEL,  a  German  J      laneum. 

ITALIAN   LABOURERS. 

II.  OF  THE  INDUCTION 

*ACTIUS,  a  Pompeian  player  (enacting  Phaon  in  the  Tragedy}. 
SOREX,  a  pantomimist,  from  Pompeii  (enacting  Hercules  in 

the  Interludes  of  the  Tragedy}. 
HERACLIUS,    training-master    (Choregus)    of  the    players, 

mimes,   and  pantomimists   at    Varius"*  private   theatre  in 

Herculaneum. 
VARIUS,  the  Roman  dramatic  poet,  author  (suppositionally) 

of  the  Tragedy. 

Q.   HORATIUS  FLACCUS  (Horace),  the  Roman  Satirist. 
P.    VERGILIUS   MARO    (Virgil),  the  poet  of  the   Georgics 

and  Eclogues. 
*N^EVOLEIA,  a  mime  (enacting  Sappho  in  the  Tragedy). 

III.  OF  THE  PRELUDE 

PROLOGUS  (announcing  Varius'1  Tragedy  before  the  Hercula 
neum  curtain). 

Varius,  Horace,  Virgil,  Mczcenas,  Pollio,  Guests  of  Varius, 
Citizens  of  Herculaneum  (all  as  mutes). 


xii  DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

IV.    OF  THE  TRAGEDY 

(Conceived  as  being  performed  on  the  stage  of  Varius1  theatre.) 
*PHAON,  a  public  slave  and  fisherman  of  Mitylenc  in  Lesbos. 

ALC^EUS,  the  Greek  lyric  poet,  a  noble  of  Mitylene. 

PITTACUS,  tyrant  of  Mitylene. 

BION,  a  child. 

PRIEST   OF   POSEIDON  (mute). 
*SAPPHO,  the  Lesbian  poetess. 

ANACTORIA,  one  of  her  girl-disciples. 

ATTHIS,  another. 

THALASSA,  a  slave  woman  of  the  sea-beach. 

V.  OF  THE  INTERLUDES 
See  Appendix. 

VI.  OF  THE  EPILOGUE 
*MEDBERY. 

THE   ITALIAN   LABOURERS. 

*  Medbery,  Actius,  and  Phaon  are  impersonated  by  one  and  the  same 
modern  actor;  Naevoleia  and  Sappho,  by  one  and  the  same  modern 
actress. 


TIME  AND  PLACE  OF  ACTION  xiii 


TIME   AND   PLACE   OF   ACTION 

OF  THE  PROLOGUE  :  The  near  (7)  future.  — A  subterranean  exca 
vation,  beneath  the  modern  Italian  town  of  Resina,  the  ancient 
site  of  Herculaneum.  The  scene  represents  a  shallow,  semi- 
ruinous  chamber,  anciently  used  as  the  Players'1  Quarters 
(behind  the  stage  wall)  of  the  private  theatre  of  Varius,  in 
Herculaneum. 
OF  THE  INDUCTION  :  About  B.C.  25.  —  The  same  spot,  in  its  state 

of  original  use  and  adornment. 

OF  THE  PRELUDE  AND  INTERLUDES  :  About  B.C.  25.  —  The  fore- 
stage  or  orchestra,  in  front  of  the  closed  curtain  of  Varius'1 
theatre. 

OF  THE  TRAGEDY  (conceived  as  being  enacted  B.C.  25,  on  the 
stage  of  Varius1  theatre)  :  About  600  B.C.  —  The  scene,  which 
remains  the  same  throughout,  represents  a  high  promontory, 
overlooking  the  ^Egean  Sea,  near  Mitylene  in  Lesbos ;  the 
temple  of  Aphrodite  and  Poseidon,  exterior. 

ACT  I.  —  A  day  in  Spring-,  late  afternoon  and 

sunset. 

ACT  II.  —  The  moonlit  night  of  the  same. 
ACT  III.  —  The  next  morning',  earliest  dawn  until 

sunrise. 

OF  THE  EPILOGUE  :  The  same  scene  as  the  Prologue ;  one  hour 
later. 


EXPLANATION   OF  DIAGRAM 

INDUCTION  SCENE   (Projected} 
a    Modern  audience. 
b    Bronze  bench  (from  which  Horace,  Virgil,  and  Varius  watch  rehearsal  of  the 

Tragedy). 
d    Door,  blocked  by  back  of  ancient  scenery  (viz.  :  the  painted  drop  depicting  the 

jEgean  Sea). 

e    Exit  to  dressing  rooms  of  ancient  players. 
f   Footlights  of  modern  theatre. 
•m     Modern  curtain. 

/    Table  of  stone  (at  which  Actius  makes  up  as  Phaon). 
v    Door  to  passageway  leading  to  the  villa  of  Varius. 
•w     Dividing  wall  between  Herculaneum  stage  and  players'  quarters. 


GROUND   PLAN   OF  TRAGEDY 

A  Modern  audience. 

B  Marble  altar  and  base. 

C  Caryatid  of  bronze   (defining  proscenium   opening  of  Herculaneum 

Stage). 

D  Door  of  temple. 

E  Exit  aisle. 

F  Footlights  of  modern  theatre. 

H  Herculaneum  curtain  (disappearing  through  slit  in  floor  of  ancient 

stage). 

M  Modern  curtain. 

O  Orchestra  of  modern  theatre. 

P  Pillar  of  colonnade  in  front  of  temple. 

S  Stage  of  Herculaneum  theatre. 

T  Tier  of  seats  in  Herculaneum  theatre. 

X  Steps  ascending  to  ancient  stage  from  Herculaneum  orchestra  space. 

Y  Separate  seat  of  sculptured  marble. 

Z  Row  of  seats  in  modern  theatre. 


xiv 


©       ®       © 


H- 


GROUND   PLAN    OF   TRAGEDY 

WITH   IMAGINARY  PROJECTION   OF  INDUCTION   SCENE. 


Ex  noto  fictum  carmen  sequar,  ut  sibi  qiiivis 
speret  idem,  sudet  multum  frustraque  laboret 

ausus  idem, 

—  HORACE  :    De  Arte  Poetica. 


THE    PROLOGUE 

"  Tutt'  altro  del  mi  chiama, 
Addio,  Addio!" 


THE   PROLOGUE 

Before  the  curtain  rises,  voices  of  men  are  heard  singing  in 
harmony.  During  their  song  the  scene  is  disclosed,  re 
vealing  a  subterranean  excavation,  in  the  left  portion  of 
which  Labourers,  with  picks  and  mattocks,  are  digging, 
slowly  and  carefully,  the  blackish  earth.  In  the  obscurity 
of  the  right  exit,  stands  a  mule  with  a  drag-cart,  into 
which  the  workmen,  from  time  to  time,  shovel  the  sifted 
tufa-dust  and  debris. 

By  the  light  of  electric  torches,  the  place  is  seen  to  be  a 
shallow,  oblong  room,  the  semi-ruinous  walls  of  which 
are  painted,  in  Pompeian  style  and  colouring,  with  dim- 
hued frescoes} 

At  the  back  of  the  scene  are  three  door-spaces ;  the  two  at 
left  and  right  are  boarded  up  with  new  timbers ;  the  one 
at  the  centre  is  closed  by  a  gate  of  iron-grating,  through 
which  —  in  the  darkness  beyond  —  are  barely  visible 
Roman  pillars  and,  behind  those,  what  appear  to  be  the 
circle-formed  tiers  of  stone  seats. 

1  NOTE.  —  Of  these  frescoes  the  centre  one  depicts  several  figures 
in  players'  masks  —  evidently  a  mythological  scene  from  Old  Roman 
Comedy,  wherein  a  grotesque,  bearded  demigod,  in  woman's  chlamys, 
seated  with  a  spindle,  is  spinning  wool,  while  a  nymph,  garbed  in  a 
lion's  skin,  bends  beside  him,  with  her  attendant  nymphs  grouped 
about  her.  From  a  green  coppice  near  by  a  satyr  looks  on,  grinning 
slyly,  surrounded  by  fauns  with  sylvan  pipes. 

3 


4  SAPPHO   AND  PHAON 

In  the  right  and  the  left  wall,  respectively,  is  a  door-space,  but 
of  that  on  the  left  only  the  upper  portion  is  visible  above 
the  mound  of  earth  which  the  workmen  are  digging 
out ;  that  on  the  right  is  partly  concealed  by  a  pillar  of 
tufa  (rising  to  the  ceiling]  which,  on  that  side,  frames 
the  scene,  thereby  causing  it  to  be  several  feet  narrower 
than  the  actual  proscenium-opening  of  the  modern 
theatre.  The  ceiling  consists  also  of  vaulted  tufa. 

Near  the  back  wall,  centre,  is  a  stone  table  with  sculptured 
front  solid  to  the  ground.  Beside  this,  half  reclined 
with  his  elbows  upon  it,  bending  near  his  torch  over  a 
papyrus  scroll,  is  a  young  man,  in  a  workman 's  blouse. 
His  eager  face,  bare  save  for  a  light  moustache,  is  intent 
upon  the  partly  unwound  papyrus  before  him. 

At  the  left,  among  the  excavators,  overseeing  their  digging, 
stands  a  man  with  dark  hair  and  moustache,  evidently 
an  Italian.  Near  him  stands  a  short,  stout,  bearded 
man  with  eye-glasses,  clothed  in  an  ill-fitting  frock  coat. 
He  also  watches  the  workmen  narrowly  as  they  pick, 
sift,  and  shovel  the  hard  black  soil. 

THE   LABOURERS 
\As  they  work,  singing  to  the  popular  melody I\ 

"  Addio  mia  bella  Napoli, 

Addio,  addio  ! 
La  tua  soave  immagine 

Chi  mai,  chi  mai  scordar  potra ! 

"  Del  ciel  1'  azzurro  fulgido, 

La  placida  marina, 
Qual  core  non  inebbria, 

Non  bea,  non  bea  di  volutta ! 


THE  PROLOGUE  5 

"In  tela  terra  e  1'  aura 

Favellano  d'  amore  ; 
Te  sola  al  mio  dolore 

Conforto  io  sognero.  —  Oh  ! 

"  Addio  mia  bella  Napoli, 

Addio,  addio ! 
Addio  care  memorie 

Del  tempo  ah  !  che  pass6  ! 

"  Tutt'  altro  ciel  mi  chiama  —  " 

THE   ITALIAN 

[Raising  his  hand,  stops  them  in  their  songJ] 
Basta ! 

[Signing  to  the  head-workman  to  pass  him  an  object  which 
the  latter  has  just  dtig  out,  he  takes  it  in  his  hand  and 
examines  it,  then  passes  it  to  the  man  in  the  frock  coat. 
At  the  ceasing  of  the  song,  the  younger  man  in  the  blouse 
has  glanced  up  from  the  table,  and  now,  starting  to  his 
feet,  speaks  to  him  of  the  frock  coat^\ 

THE   MAN   IN  THE  BLOUSE 
What's  your  new  find,  Zweifel  ? 


ZWEIFEL 

A  bronze  box. 


What  is  it  ? 


THE  MAN   IN  THE  BLOUSE 
[  Coming  over  to  him.  ] 


6  SAPPHO  AND   PHAON 

ZWEIFEL 

If  you  mean  by  that,  Medbery,  what  was  its  use 
in  ancient  Herculaneum,  that  remains  to  be  deter 
mined  later  — 

\_Handing  him  the  box  gingerly,  with  a  wry  look  over  his  eye 
glasses.^ 

scientifically,  not  poetically  ! 

MEDBERY 

You  forget,  Doctor,  that  this  science  of  ours  is 
poetry. 

[  Taking  the  box  to  the  table,  he  opens  it  with  care,  the  Italian 
looking  over  his  shoulder. ~\ 

Small  ivory  compartments  ;  here  are  vials  ;  dust  of 
different  colours  ;  is  this  chalk,  di  Selva  ? 

DI  SELVA 

\_Examining  the  dust.~\ 
It  may  once  have  been  paint. 

MEDBERY 

[Eagerly.] 

Paint !     Let  me  look  again. 

\_Di  Selva  is  called  aside  by  the  head-workman,  whom  he 
confers  with  and  quietly  directs  concerning  the  work  of 
the  labourers.  Medbery  continues  speaking  half  to  him 
self,  half  to  ZweifeL} 

Here  are  hairs  —  crumbling  already  in  the  air ; 
these  carved  handles  must  have  been  brushes.  And 
what  are  these  letters  on  the  lid  ?  Great  Scott !  this 
proves  it  all.  Do  you  know  what  this  was,  Doctor  ? 


THE  PROLOGUE  7 

ZWEIFEL 

I  see  it  is  —  a  box. 

MEDBERY 

I  see  it  was  —  a  make-up  box. 

ZWEIFEL 
A  what  ? 

MEDBERY 

A  box  for  holding  the  make-up  paints  of  an  ancient 
Roman  actor —  one  of  those  players  who  used  this 
place  where  we  are  as  a  dressing-room  for  their  per 
formances  on  the  stage  yonder. 

ZWEIFEL 

As  usual,  my  young  friend,  jumping  at  conclusions 
and  landing  in  premises  !  Evidence,  sir  ;  what's  your 
proof  ? 

MEDBERY 

Well,  let  me  sum  it  up  a  little.  We  have  now 
tunnelled  into  these  bowels  of  Vesuvius  for  several 
thousand  metres;  last  month  we  finished  excavating 
the  interior  of  the  theatre  there  —  the  cavea,  the 
orchestra,  and  the  stage.  We  discovered  that  it  was 
built  originally  with  a  roof,  though  evidently  that  was 
destroyed  by  the  earthquake  of  '63,  previous  to  the 
final  eruption  that  covered  Herculaneum. 

ZWEIFEL 
I  am  in  no  need  of  a  Baedeker,  sir.     Your  proofs ! 


8  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

MEDBERY 

Pardon  me.  To-day  we  are  just  completing  the 
excavation  of  this  apartment  behind  the  stage-wall. 
We  have  made  here  many  pertinent  findings  —  this 
charred  mask,  for  instance ;  that  bronze  hand-mirror, 
now  crusted  over ;  those  spears,  evidently  for  stage  use 
as  properties ;  all  prove,  it  would  seem,  that  we  are 
standing  in  what  was  once  the  Players'  Quarters  of  this 
ancient  theatre. 

ZWEIFEL 

Perhaps.  [Pointing  right. ~]  That  doorway  also 
leads  to  more  such  rooms. 

MEDBERY 
Doubtless  for  the  mimes  and  pantomimists. 

ZWEIFEL 
[Shrugging.] 
"  Doubtless  "  —  what  a  word  !     Well  ? 

MEDBERY 

Well,  Zweifel  [pointing  left],  that  doorway,  which 
we  are  just  unearthing  there,  opens,  as  you  know, 
into  a  marble  passage,  leading  about  thirty  yards 
northeast  into  the  dining-room  of  a  palatial  villa. 
That  villa,  by  the  inscriptions  there,  was  once  the 
seaside  winter  residence  of  Varius,  the  dramatic  poet 
of  Rome,  in  the  reign  of  Augustus  Caesar. 

ZWEIFEL 

Please !  I  am  not  a  tourist.  What  has  all  this  to 
do  with  our  bronze  box  ? 


THE  PROLOGUE  9 

MEDBERY 

[Pointing  to  the  tid.~\ 
Do  you  see  those  letters  raised  in  the  metal  ? 

ZWEIFEL 

\_Reading.~\ 
CU.  A.  A.  — Well? 

MEDBERY 

C.  Ummidius  Actius  Anicetus. 

ZWEIFEL 

What,  the  actor  whose  name  is  scratched  on  the 
walls  in  Pompeii  ? 

MEDBERY • 

Known  as  Actius.  He  was  popular  there,  as  you 
know.  But  he  acted  also  at  Herculaneum ;  he  made 
up  his  face  two  thousand  years  ago  here  in  this  room, 
with  paint  from  this  box. 

ZWEIFEL 
[  With  irritation.'} 

Are  you  an  archaeologist,  or  an  actor  yourself? 
When  and  where  did  you  get  this  specific  knowledge  ? 

MEDBERY 

Last  night  \_tapping  his  papyrus  scroll^  from  this. 
I  sat  up  till  daylight  deciphering  these  few  lines  of  it. 

ZWEIFEL 

Ah !  One  of  the  manuscripts  we  discovered  in 
the  library  of  the  villa. 


10  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

MEDBERY 

It  is,  as  you  see,  charred  by  the  tufa,  and  ticklish 
to  unwind  without  breaking ;  but  look  here  for  my 
pains.  May  I  translate  to  you  this  bit  I've  un 
wound  ? 

ZWEIFEL 
\_Stolidly.~\ 
I  should  be  interested. 

MEDBERY 

Listen,  then  \_reading  from  the  scroll~\  :  "  Here  is 
written  a  Tragedy  called  Sappho  and  Phaon,  conceived 
in  verse  by  Varius  the  poet.  It  was  first  performed 
on  the  eve  of  the  vernal  equinox,  in  the  ninth  consul 
ship  of  Caesar  Augustus  "  — 

ZWEIFEL 

B.C.  25. 

MEDBERY 
[  Continuing^ 

—  "  being  enacted  upon  the  stage  of  the  aforesaid 
Varius's  private  theatre  in  Herculaneum,  in  the 
presence  of  P.  Vergilius  Maro  and  Q.  Horatius 
Flaccus,  poets  " — 

DI   SELVA 

[  Who  has  approached  and  listened.~\ 
Virgil  and  Horace  ! 

MEDBERY 
[Continuing.] 

— "  and  other  illustrious  guests,  his  friends,  from 
Rome  and  elsewhere." 


THE  PROLOGUE  II 

ZWEIFEL 
[Fidgeting] 
Very  interesting ;  but  what  of  this  Actius  — 

MEDBERY 

So  much,  you  see,  is  written  by  the  scribe.  Now 
follows  a  note  by  a  different  hand  in  the  margin. 
[Reading.]  "  On  the  above  occasion,  the  parts  of 
Sappho  and  of  Phaon  were  enacted,  respectively,  by 
Naevoleia,  the  mime,  and  C.  Ummidius  Actius 
Anicetus,  the  popular  player,  who  consented  to  come 
from  Pompeii  to  act  with  her,  because  he  loved  the 
wench.  These  players,  in  their  disguises,  used  not 
masks  but  face-paint,  after  the  early  fashion  of  the 
renowned  Roscius ;  but  customary  masks  were  used 
in  the  pantomine  Hercules  and  the  Sphynx,  which 
was  enacted  in  the  Interludes  by  Sorex,  the  panto- 
mimist.  The  Tragedy  was  well  received  by  friendly 
auditors,  but  has  seldom  been  repeated  before  the 
multitude,  the  poet  having  taken  certain  liberties 
with  his  theme  and  verse  unfamiliar  to  this  time  and 
people.  The  present  manuscript  was  used  as  a 
prompter's  copy,  and  is  the  property  of  me, 
Heraclius,  Choregus  of  the  private  players  of  Varius, 
my  master." 

DI   SELVA 

[Seizing  Medbery's  hand] 
My  boy,  I  congratulate  you.     A  rare  find  ! 

MEDBERY 
I  think  so.     What  do  you  say,  Zweifel  ? 


12  SAPPHO  AND   PHAON- 

ZWEIFEL 

We  must  be  very  cautious,  young  man.     In   the 
first  place,  perhaps  your  translation  —  excuse  me  !  - 
may  be  flavoured  a  little  with  your  favourite  extract  — 
imagination. 

MEDBERY 

\Glancing  at  di  Selva.~\ 
Thank  you. 

ZWEIFEL 

In  the  second  place,  it  is  very  doubtful  if  we  should 
put  trust  in  an  authority  so  manifestly  at  variance 
with  the  accepted  facts  of  ancient  histrionic  art. 
How,  for  example,  if  your  player  Actius,  in  defiance 
of  tradition,  had  used  face-paint  from  this  box  —  how 
do  you  explain  the  existence  here  of  this  actor's 

mask  ? 

\_Zweifel points  to  the  charred  mask^\ 

MEDBERY 
{Lifting  */.] 

Why,  you  see  for  yourself ;  this  doubtless  was 
Hercules  in  the  pantomime  here  referred  to. 

ZWEIFEL 

\_Puckering  his  mouth.~\ 

"  Doubtless  ! "  It'  is  always  "  doubtless"  —  except 
to  scientists.  In  the  next  place,  sir,  how  are  we  to 
account  for  the  lapse  of  time  between  the  date  of  this 
manuscript  and  the  eruption  of  Vesuvius  in  79? 


THE  PROLOGUE  13 

Furthermore,  as  to  this  illustrious  audience  of  yours, 
—  these  poets  —  these  Virgils  and  Horaces  —  I  must 
first  see  with  my  eyes  — 

\_He  reaches  for  the  manuscript;  but  Medbery,  retaining  it, 
raises  his  hand  mysteriously,  as  in  warning.^ 

MEDBERY 
Hush! 

ZWEIFEL 

Sir? 

MEDBERY 
Hark,  Herr  Doctor  ! 

[A  few  of  the  workmen,  now  just  departing  with  their  torches 
—  leading  with  them  the  mule  and  the  drag-cart — leave 
the  scene  more  dim.  At  the  same  time,  a  faint  rumbling 
sound,  echoing  through  the  excavation,  grows  ever 
perceptibly  louderJ] 

Do  you  not  hear  ? 

ZWEIFEL 

Hear  what  ? 

MEDBERY 

[  With  a  swift  smile  toward  di  SelvaJ] 
Ah,  Zweifel,  we  must  be  cautious  —  very  cautious 
—in  these  excavations.     We  must  not  offend  this 
antique  world. 

ZWEIFEL 

Offend  what  ? 

MEDBERY 

We  must  not  forget  the  prerogatives  of  these 
ancient  citizens  in  their  Limbo  ;  their  shades  flitted 
to  and  fro  in  the  dimness  forever ;  they  never  died. 


14  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ZWEIFEL 
What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ? 

MEDBERY 

Mean  ? 

\Tiptoeing  to  the  iron  grating  and  opening  it,  he  peers  into  the 
dark  theatre,  while  the  rumbling  sound  increases  to  a 
hollow,  nmrmurous  thunder.~\ 

Listen  again  !  This  lost  world  under  the  lava  — 
'tis  not  like  ours  up  there  in  the  daylight.  Here  in 
the  dark,  these  Herculaneans  —  they  have  had  no  need 
of  eye-glasses,  nay,  for  twice  these  thousand  years. 
And  if  we  hunt  them  only  with  our  eyes  we  shall 
never  quarry  them.  Yet  if  we  doubt  them  they  will 
only  mock  us  the  more, —  like  that!  Herr  Doctor! 
do  you  hear  them  now  ?  They  have  heard  you  — 
those  departed  poets,  those  Horaces  and  Virgils,  those 
Maecenases  and  Pollios,  those  dead  illustrious  guests 
of  Varius !  Hark,  they  are  mocking  you,  Doctor ! 
They  are  mocking,  for  look  there  in  the  dark  :  they 
have  risen  in  their  seats  —  that  ancient  audience  ; 
they  are  applauding  their  poet's  play  —  Sappho 
and  Phaon ;  they  are  rolling  their  applause  over 
your  head,  Herr  Zweifel,  in  thunder  and  in  ashes  — 
ashes  of  reprehension  ! 

ZWEIFEL 
\_Exasperated^\ 

Ashes  of  stratification  !  Very  true,  young  man. 
Your  nerves  are  deranged  by  insomnia.  That  rum 
bling  is  the  noise  of  carriage  wheels  on  the  road 


THE  PROLOGUE  15 

to  Resina  above  us  —  precisely  twenty-two  and  a 
half  metres  up  there  in  a  plumb  line  through  the 
tufa  bed  —  which  reminds  me  that  I  ordered  a  car 
riage  for  Naples  at  noon.  [Taking out  his  watch.~\ 
Twelve  o'clock  —  just;  and  lunch-time.  —  Are  you 
coming,  gentlemen  ? 

DI  SELVA 

In  a  moment.  I'll  bring  the  men  along  for  their 
hour  of  sunshine. 

ZWEIFEL 

\To  Medbery.'} 

By  the  way,  my  Romanticist,  I  am  going  to  the 
theatre  to-night  in  Naples  to  see  young  Salvini  in 
CEdiptts.  Will  you  come  in  my  carriage  and  join 
me  ? 

MEDBERY 

Many  thanks,  Doctor,  but  you  see  I  am  just  now 
allured  by  an  older  player  of  tragedy  —  this  Actius, 
whose  r61e  was  Phaon. 

ZWEIFEL 

May  you  enjoy  him  —  in  papyrus,  sir.  I  advise 
you  to  join  his  profession. 

MEDBERY 
[Abstractedly^ 

His  profession  was  not  as  honoured  in  Herculaneum 
as  Salvini's  is  in  Naples. 


1 6  SAPPHO  AND   PHAON 

ZWEIFEL 

[Lighting  a  cigar,  departs,  speaking  to  di  Selva  as  he  goes."] 
Don't  forget  to  lock  the  gates ;  we  must  keep  out 
the  thieves  and  Cook's  tourists. 
[Exit,  right. ,] 

DI  SELVA 
\_Locking  the  grated  iron  gate.~\ 

This   find   of   yours    will    arouse    great    interest, 
Medbery. 

MEDBERY 

I  believe  so,  but  it  is  all  thanks  to  you,  my  dear 
di  Selva  ;  thanks,  too,  to  your  King  of  Italy,  who  has 
had  the  greatness  of  initiative  to  gather  all  the 
modern  civilizations  of  the  world  harmoniously  to 
this  aspiring  task:  the  excavation  of  Herculaneum.  I 
remember  well,  some  years  ago,  —  it  was  about  1906  or 
'07  —  how  deeply  you  were  discouraged.  You  had  laid 
your  electrifying  plan  before  the  heads  of  the  Nations 
-  to  restore  together  their  common  heritage  ;  they 
responded  generously,  but  soon  delay  and  complica 
tion  and  controversy  set  in  darkly.  The  people  were 
apathetic  —  blindfold.  Apathetic,  good  God  !  Here 
was  one  spot  —  one  only  in  all  the  soil  of  Europe  — 
where  the  Goth  had  never  pillaged,  the  Saracen  had 
never  burned,  the  insensate  Christian  centuries  had 
never  ravaged  —  the  art,  the  loveliness,  the  knowledge 
of  the  ancient  world.  And  this  one  spot  was  saved 
from  these  ravages  of  man  by  Nature  herself  —  saved 
by  fire,  by  the  cataclysm  of  Vesuvius.  Two  thou- 


THE  PROLOGUE  17 

sand  years  in  lava  and  oblivion !  and  you  said  to  the 
Nations,  Look !  —  Hellas,  Alexandria,  Rome,  the 
Augustan  Age,  they  are  not  burned,  not  crumbled ; 
their  marbles,  their  pillars,  their  papyri,  exist  now 
and  here,  they  are  yours  to-day  —  yours,  and  for 
what?  Why,  for  a  pick  and  a  shovel  and  a  penny 
and  a  heart  of  desire  from  every  man  of  you.  - 
Apathetic  !  Why,  where  was  even  a  drunken  miner 
buried  alive  in  the  earth  by  a  crumbled  shaft,  but  his 
fellows  and  townsmen  would  dig  for  him — dig  till 
they  fell  from  the  foul  gases  a  mile  underground; 
and  will  not  man  —  all  the  nations  of  mankind  —  dig 
a  hundred  feet  to  restore  the  sun  to  Sophocles  and 
Sappho  and  Menander  ? 

Ah,  yes,  but  they  will, — they  have,  thank  God! 
Man  has  heard  at  last  their  muffled  cry  through  the 
lava  —  their  prayer  to  live  again  !  And  we  are  here 
now,  because  of  you,  my  friend.  And  this  scroll  is 
but  one,  the  poor  first  of  a  thousand  others,  whose 
titles  you  and  I  have  seen,  and  whose  words  shall 
sound  among  the  nations  within  the  year.  And 
that  Apollo  of  Praxiteles,  which  we  dug  out  last  week, 
stands  sunlit  now  in  the  Naples  Museum,  because 
long  since  you  dreamed  of  him  in  darkness  —  the 
god  in  the  pumice  stone. 

DI  SELVA 

[To  Medbery,  who  has  taken  his  hands  and  pressed  them.~\ 
It  is  pleasant,  my  friend,  to  see  our  dreams  come 
true.      But  now  the   men   need  their   lunch.      Are 
you  coming  ? 


1 8  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOAT 

MEDBERY 

No.      {Unwinds  the  papyrus  scroll.}     I   will  stay 
here  {smiling}  —  and  lunch  with  Naevoleia. 

DI  SELVA 

Well,  we'll  return  in  an  hour. 

{Laughing  back  as  he  goes.} 
Good  appetite  !     Addio  ! 

{Exit  at  right.  The  Labourers,  having  taken  up  their  lunch- 
pails,  follow  him,  resuming  their  singing,  which  grows 
fainter  and  dies  away  through  the  excavations} 

THE  LABOURERS 

Di  bacie  d'armonia 

E  1'  aura  tua  ripiena, 
O  magica  Sirena 

Fedel,  f  edele  a  te  saro  ! 

Al  mio_  pensier  piu  teneri 

Ritornano  gl'  instanti 
Le  gioje  e  le  memorie 

Di  miei  f  elici  di  —  oh  ! 

Addio,  mia  bella  Napoli, 

Addio,  addio  ! 
Addio  care  memorie 

Del  tempo  ah  !  che  fuggi ! 


THE  PROLOGUE  19 

MEDBERY 

\Stands  alone  in  the  dimness —  his  one  torch  still  gleaming 
by  the  table.\ 

I  wonder  was  she  pretty  —  "Naevoleia,  the  mime!" 
Yes,  yes,  I  can  see  her  :  there  she  stood  and  looked 
— a  little  wickedly? — at  Actius  here  :  Actius  glanc 
ing  at  his  scroll^  "  who-consented  to  come  from  Pompeii 
to  act  with  her,  because  he  loved  the  wench."  The 
wench,  pnellulam,  dubious  word  for  a  lady !  But 
then  the  player  folk  were  outcasts —  despicable  in  the 
world's  eye :  poor  vermin  !  And  still  they  loved,  like 
us  ;  laughed  —  like  us;  and  died  —  all  poor  vermin  ! 
[  Going  slowly  to  the  table,  lays  down  the  scroll,  and  gazes 
at  the  bronze  box^\ 

Iteration — reiteration!  —  how  this  underworld  re 
echoes  the  word,  forever !  Exit ;  enter ;  exeunt 
omnes  —  forever. 

\Sitting  behind  the  table  and  the  broad  mirror,  crusted  with 
verdigris,  he  toys  with  the  ancient  brushes.~\ 

Actius,  you  sat  here;  your  eyes  looked  out  of  that 
mirror;  this  dust  was  your  paint.  You  dipped  your 
brush  there  —  so  fashion  ;  touched  your  face  —  was  it 
so,  like  that  ?  No,  this  art  was  a  bit  strange  to  you. 
Sorex,  your  friend  in  the  next  room,  perhaps  he  could 
help  you.  Why  not  ?  "  Sorex  !  "  you  called,  "  come 
help  me."  What  was  that  ?  The  girl-mimes  were 
laughing  ?  He  couldn't  have  heard  you  ?  Nay,  call 
him  louder,  then  !  * 

\_End  of  the  Prologue, ,] 

1  Here,  without  pausing,  the  modern  actor,  who  plays  Medbery, 
continues  to  speak  the  words  of  the  Induction. 


THE    INDUCTION 

Animse  quales  neque  candidiores 
Terra  tulit,  neque  queis  me  sit  devinctior  alter. 

HORACE:  Sat.  V;  Bk.  I. 

Odi  profanum  vulgus  et  arceo. 

HORACE:  Ode\\  Bk.  III. 

Acti,  amor  populi,  cito  redi. 

Inscription  on  a  Pompeian  Wall. 


THE   INDUCTION 

[From  the  right  is  heard  soft  laughter. ~\ 

Sorex  !     Hai,  Sorex,  there  !     My  wick 
Is  low.     Fetch  here  another  light 
And  hurry  up.     I'm  late  ;  the  play 
Will  soon  begin.     You  louse,  I  say ! 
Quit  pinching  of  the  girls  and  help 
Me  paint  my  face. 

\_From  the  door  on  the  right  there  enters  —  carrying  a  hand 
lamp  —  an  antique  figure,  whose  head  and  face  are 
concealed  by  a  grotesque  bearded  mask.  The  lamp,  illu 
mining  the  scene,  reveals  the  same  room  as  that  of  the 
Prologue,  now  perfectly  renovated,  devoid  of  tufa  or  sign 
of  ruin,  its  wall-frescoes  undimmed,  its  furnishings  freshly 
bright.  Various  belongings  of  actors  and  stage  proper 
ties  are  hung,  or  scattered  about.  Partly  concealed  be 
hind  the  stone  table  and  the  hand  mirror  (in  the  spot 
where  Medbery  before  was  sitting)  sits  a  man  in 
Roman  garb.  Him  the  entering  figure  in  the  mask 
addresses  with  a  kind  of  salaam. ~\ 

THE   MASKED   ONE 

Great  Actius' 
Obedient  insect ! 

23 


24  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ACTIUS 

[Looking  up,  reveals  a  smooth-shaven  face  partly  made  up.~\ 
What's  the  mask  ? 

THE   MASKED   ONE 

I'm  Hercules,  in  the  pantomime 
We  play  to-night. 

ACTIUS 

I  envy  you. 

By  Caesar,  this  new-fangled  art 
Of  painting  your  own  skin  —  'tis  one 
Too  fine  for  me.  —  Look  at  my  face. 
How  goes  it  now  ? 

THE   MASKED  ONE 
You're  exquisite. 

ACTIUS 

You're  impudent !  —  They  tell  me,  though, 
Roscius  himself  did  often  act 
Without  a  mask. 

THE   MASKED   ONE 

\_Hovering  round  him,  begins  to  take  the  brushes  and  touch 
his  face.  ~\ 

Who  told  you  so  ? 


THE  INDUCTION-  2$ 


ACTIUS 

Our  poet,  the  lord  Varius, 

Who  wrote  the  tragedy,  in  which 

I  play  this  role  of  Phaon.     Well, 

He  ought  to  know  ;  the  emperor 

Paid  him  a  million  sesterces 

For  his  last  play.     I  would  I  had 

A  thousand  of  'em ! 


Buy  with  'em  ? 


THE  MASKED  ONE 

What  would  you 


ACTIUS 

Buy  !     Hark,  Sorex  ;  keep 
This  in  your  mask ;  I'd  buy  back  what 
I've  lost  —  a  wench.     I  am  in  love. 

THE   MASKED  ONE 

[Titters :] 
In  love !  —  with  whom  ? 

ACTIUS 

With  Naevoleia, 

That  plays  the  part  of  Sappho  to 
My  Phaon.     'Tis  the  sweetest  wench, 
The  vilest  slut,  the  dearest  drab, 
The  loveliest  mercenary  minx 
In  Herculaneum.  —  Look  out ! 
What  are  you  doing  ? 


26  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON" 

THE   MASKED   ONE 
Lift  your  chin ; 
I'll  finish  you. 

[  Turning  him  to  the  mirror,  the  Masked  One  plies  the  paint 
and  brushes,  and  proceeds  —  without  his  perceiving  it — 
to  make  up  his  face  in  the  most  grotesque  lines  and 
colours^ 

ACTIUS 
\_Liftingfrom  the  table  some  tiny  figures  of  bronze. "\ 

New  swear  me,  up 
And  down,  and  blue  and  black,  upon 
These  Lares  and  Penates,  not 
To  whisper  what  I  say  to  her 
Or  any  breathing  soul. 

THE  MASKED  ONE 
\_Touching  the  bronze  figures. ~\ 
'Tis  sworn ! 

ACTIUS 

Friend  Sorex,  Naevoleia  has 
Deceived  me.     Ten  denarii 
Per  day  she  has  received  from  me 
This  seven  months  and  been  content,      » 
And  hung  upon  my  eyes  with  love, 
And  I  have  worshipped  her.     By  Styx ! 
Now  comes  along  this  Myrmillo, 
The  gladiator — he  that  made 
Such  big  noise  in  the  amphitheatre 
Killing  your  Pugnax  —  well,  he  offers 


THE  INDUCTION  2? 

A  twenty  to  my  ten,  and  she 
Takes  him,  and  fools  me.  — Jove  !     She  thinks 
I  do  not  know  it.     But  to-day 
I  wrote  a  note,  signed  Myrmillo, 
Asking  a  tryst;  and,  as  you  know, 
She  sent  an  answer,  by  that  note 
Which  you  did  bring  to  me  instead 
'Of  Myrmillo.     The  answer  said 
She'd  come  to  night.  —  Ha  !  have  a  care, 
You  pinched  me  !  —  I  will  show  the  wench 
She  shall  not  make  me  ludicrous 
To  my  own  face. 

THE  MASKED   ONE 

[  Whirling  him  round,  thrusts  his  painted  face  against  the 
mirror.^ 

Look  at  it,  then  ! 

[Running  toward  the  door,  right,  the  Masked  One  is  pursued 
by  Actius,  who  catches  up  a  lyre  that  lies  near.] 

ACTIUS 

[Striking  with  it.~\ 
You  dog  of  Hades  - 

[  The  other,  removing  the  mask  of  Hercules,  turns  and  re 
veals  to  Ac  tins  the  face  of  a  girl  laughing  at  himJ\ 

Naevoleia ! 

N^VOLEIA 

Well,  love,  how  do  you  like  yourself  ? 


23  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ACTIUS 

\Rubbing  the  paint  off  with  his  garment.] 
I  swear  — 

N^VOLEIA 

Nay,  Acti,  keep  your  face  ; 
Don't  let  it  fall ;  it  makes  a  lovely 
Fool. 

ACTIUS 

But  you  changed  your  voice  ! 

N^EVOLEIA 

Let's  hope 

I  am  an  artist,  though  I  be 
A  mercenary  slut. 

ACTIUS 

Sweet  love, 
You  have  not  heard  yet  — 

N^EVOLEIA 

How  you  forged 
A  note,  signed  Myrmillo  ! 

ACTIUS 

But  you 
Replied  to  it. 

N^VOLEIA 
O  hypocrite ! 

ACTIUS 
Nay,  Sorex  brought  your  answer. 


THE  INDUCTION  29 

N^VOLEIA 

Worse 

Than  worst !  — To  steal  a  note,  and  then 
Upbraid  me  for  your  robbery  ! 

ACTIUS 
But  Naevoleia  — 

N^VOLEIA 

[Raging,  thrusts  the  mask  of  Hercules  into  the  hands  of 
Actius  (now  bewildered} .  ] 

Sorex !      Sorex ! 

[Enter,  right,  SOREX,  carrying  several  masks  of  comedy. 
N<zvoleia  rushes  to  himJ\ 

Take  me  away  from  him. 

SOREX 

What's  up  ? 
I'm  hunting  for  my  mask. 

N.EVOLEIA 
[Pointing  at  Actius.~\ 

'Tis  there. 

[  Crying  on  Sorex's  shoulder.  ] 
O  save  me  from  his  slander ! 

SOREX 

Wench, 

That's  right,  wench ;  weep  thy  heart  on  me. 
I'd  rather  feel  thy  tears  than  take 
A  shower  in  the  tepidarium. 


30  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

N^VOLEIA 

[Turning  upon  Actitis.~\ 
Reviler !  forger  !  —  Tell  him,  darling 
Sorex,  what  'tis  to  be  a  loyal 
Lover ! 

SOREX 

Nay,  he's  no  gentleman 
That  is  no  lover.     Look  at  me  : 
In  all  Pompeii,  where  I  was  born, 
Lives  not  another  lover,  with 
A  score  like  mine  for  loyalty. 
Offhand,  'twixt  my  two  thumbs,  I'll  name  ye 
A  dozen  wenches,  who  will  be 
My  witnesses,  how  I  to  each 
Have  been  a  gentleman  —  that  is, 
Within  the  meaning  of  the  word. 
There's  Januaria,  Vitalis, 
Doris,  Lalage,  Damalis, 
Amaryllis,  Florentina, 
Hecla,  Romula,  Quieta  — 

ACTIUS 

[Stopping  his  mouth  with  his  hand.~] 
Shut  up  thy  brothel,  fool ! 

SOREX 

[Escaping,  squares  at  him.'] 
By  Venus, 

Come  call  me  fool  in  the  forum  ! 

[Ncevoleia,  drawing  back,  points  to  the  door,  left,  —  the  same 
which  in  the  Prologue  was  partly  concealed  and  blocked 
by  tufa,  —  where  HERACLIUS  has  just  entered.] 


THE  INDUCTION  3! 

N^EVOLEIA 

Hush! 

HERACLIUS 

[Raising  his  staff  toward  them.~\ 
Players ! 

SOREX 

\Ducking  behind  Navoleia^\ 
Lay  low  !     Here's  the  Choregus. 

HERACLIUS 

[Approaches,  threatening  to  strike.] 
Less  noise  !  — Your  master  Varius 
Has  heard  you  in  the  villa.     He 
Is  risen  from  the  dining  couch, 
And  now  is  bringing  here  his  guests 
To  show  them  through  his  theatre. 

ACTIUS 
And  has  our  master  guests  ? 

HERACLIUS 

1  Tis  well 

For  you  to  know  it.     Play  your  best 

To-night.     He  hath  from  Rome  invited 

Horatius,  the  satirist, 

And  from  Neapolis  another 

Poet,  Virgilius  —  both  friends 

Of  his  and  Caesar's.     They  are  come 

To  criticise  his  play,  this  first 


32  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Performance.     In  the  audience 

There  will  be  other  guests  —  the  great 

Maecenas,  and  the  tragicist 

Lord  Pollio,  and  many  friends 

From  Herculaneum,  Pompeii, 

And  Baiae.  —  Look  you  know  your  lines. 

[Handing  Actius   a  scroll —  the  same  as  that  in  the  Pro 
logue^ 

Here  is  the  prompter's  manuscript ; 
Glance  over  it  again. 

\To  Sorex,  indicating  the  masks  which  Ncevoleia  is  amusing 
herself  by  trying  on.~\ 

These  masks 
Are  ready  for  the  pantomime  ? 

SOREX 
[Showing  them  sever  ally  I\ 

I  wear  these  two,  my  master.     This 

Is  Hercules  Dejected,  when 

I  sit  a-spinning  lamb's  wool ;  that 

Is  Hercules  Triumphant,  where 

I  go  to  woo  the  Sphinx  ;  this  coy 

Maiden  is  Omphale,  and  this 

Her  man-slave,  Servus  ;  this,  one  here 

Is  old  Silenus  —  would  I  had 

A  face  like  that ! 

HERACLIUS 

Where  are  the  fauns  ? 
All  dressed  ? 


THE  INDUCTION  33 

SOREX 

[  Whistles] 

The  mimes  are  here,  sir. 

[As  he  whistles  a  second  time,  there  storm  in  from  the  right 
a  troupe  of  mimes,  garbed  as  fauns,  in  various  stages 
of  dress  and  make-up.  Heraclius  checks  them.'] 

HERACLIUS 

Back! 
Not  now  !     Go  back. 

[The  mimes,  shoving  and  pulling  one  another  in  laughter, 
return  through  the  door,  which  closes  after  them.  At 
the  same  moment  appear,  in  the  left  doonvay, 
VARIUS,  HORACE,  and  VIRGIL.  Seeing  these,  Heraclius 
signs  to  Actius,  Nczvoleia,  and  Sorex  to  draw  back 
—  up  scene,  right.  ] 

Your  masters!     Quiet! 

\_Himself  stepping  slightly  forward,  Heraclius  bows  low,  and 
stands  waiting  deferentially.  Horace  enters,  talking 
volubly.  Both  he  and  Varius,  in  their  mutual  chaffing, 
address  their  remarks  to  Virgil,  who  stands  absent- 
mindedly  between  them.] 

HORACE 

[Saluting  Varius  with  his  gesture] 
Hail  to  mine  host  Preceptor  of 
Gastronomy  !  —  I  say,  my  Virgil, 
Let  no  man  lightly  claim  the  art 
Of  giving  banquets,  till  he  hath 
Deduced  the  subtle  theory 
Of  tastes. 


34  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

VARIUS 
[Laughing.] 

Will  nothing  stop  him  ? 

HORACE 

Lo! 

With  waxing  moons  the  slippery  shellfish 

Waxes,  but  not  in  every  sea 

Alike.     Peloris  from  the  Lake 

Lucrine  is  far  more  exquisite 

Than  Baian  murex ;  at  Circeii 

Ripens  the  lush,  lascivious  oyster, 

The  urchin  at  Misenum  ;  but 

At  proud  Tarentum  breeds  the  ample 

Voluptuous  scallop. 

VARIUS 

By  the  star 
Of  Julius  !     Must  we  stand  this  ? 

HORACE 

If 

Beneath  a  cloudless  sky  you  set 
Your  Massic  wine,  the  thickish  motes 
Will  vanish  on  the  breeze  of  night 
And  with  them  every  heady  fume, 
But  if  'tis  strained  through  linen  cloth, 
Its  flavour's  lost  forever  !  —  He 
Who  mixes  Surrentine  with  dregs 
Of  casks  Falernian,  may  clear 
The  sediment  with  pigeon's  eggs, 
Whose  sticky  yolks,  being  heavier, 


THE  INDUCTION  35 

Fall  to  the  bottom.     O  forget  not 

Your  appetizers  —  Afric  snails 

And  roasted  shrimps  with  lettuce  —  shrimps 

That  swim  upon  the  stomach  — 

VARIUS 

This, 

Mind  you,  is  Horace  —  frugal  Horace, 
Who  boasts  he  only  chews  a  cud 
Of  sorrel  on  his  Sabine  farm. 

HORACE 

[Smiling,  nudges  Varius.~\ 
He  has  not  heard  us. 

[Speaking  suddenly  and  loud.~\ 
Virgil ! 

VIRGIL 
\_Starting.~\ 

Ah? 
HORACE 

What's  that  you  said  ? 

VIRGIL 
[Speaks  slowly  and  with  a  slight  sttitterl\ 

I  said  —  Did  I 

Say  anything  ?     I  think  the  view 
Behind  your  villa,  Varius, 
Is  beautiful :  Vesuvius 
Raising  its  quiet  dome  of  green 
Above  us  in  the  blue  ;  below  us 
The  red  roofs  of  Pompeii,  and 
The  sea  —  a  blazing  shield. 


36  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

HORACE 

Ye  Muses  ! 

Send  me  a  lung  complaint  and  lack 
Of  appetite,  so  I  may  live 
On  scenery  instead  of  shrimps, 
Like  this  your  virgin,  Virgil  ! 

[Laughing,   he   embraces    Virgil,  while     Varius,    who   has 
called  Heraclius  to  him  and  spoken  aside,  now  turns  to 


VARIUS 

If 

You'll  deign  to  turn  your  thoughts  from  dinner 
Upon  my  tragedy,  I'd  like 
Your  judgments  on  these  rascals  here 
In  a  brief  scene,  before  the  play 
Begins. 

HORACE 

What  is  the  scene  ? 

VARIUS 

The  one 

I  spoke  to  you  about  at  dinner, 
In  the  first  act,  where  Sappho  helps 
Phaon  to  mend  his  net. 

HORACE 

This  is 
Your  Phaon  ? 

VARIUS 

This  is  Actius, 
The  player. 


THE  INDUCTION  37 

HORACE 
\_As  N&voleia  approaches  with  Actius^\ 

And  your  Sappho  —  what, 
A  woman  ? 

VARIUS 

Yes,  she  was  a  mime, 

But  showed  such  gifts  as  made  me  grant  her 
This  trial.  —  Nay,  I  told  you  this 
Would  be  a  play  with  innovations  !  — 
Shall  they  begin  ? 

HORACE 

Surely. 

VIRGIL 

I  pray  you. 
[  On  a  bronze  bench,  left,  Horace  and  Virgil  seat  themselves} 

VARIUS 

Imagine,  then,  a  net  suspended 
Here,  and  the  temple  yonder. 

\Takingfrom  Actitts  the  scroll  of "papyrus .] 

Now ; 

The  cue  is  :    « I  will  mend  it. "  —  "  You !  » 

\Varius  sits  between  the  two  poets,  there  watching  with  them 
the  two  players,  who  —  changing  now  their  mien  and 
expression  —  assume  their  rdles  of  Sappho  and  Phaon} 

N^VOLEIA 
\_As  Sappho.} 
To  mend  is  woman's  task. 


38  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ACTIUS 
[As  Phaon.] 

Are  you  a  woman  ? 

N^VOLEIA 

Perhaps  I  am  what  women  yearn  to  be  — 
Man. 

ACTIUS 

Did  you  grow  here  in  the  temple  ? 

N^VOLEIA 

Where 

I  grew,  or  in  what  garden  by  the  spray 
Or  wave-lit  cave  my  spirit's  seed  was  sown, 
Surely,  'tis  thou  who  knowest:  for  methinks 
Thou  also  grewest  there. 

ACTIUS 

It  may  be  so. 

N^VOLEIA 

Stood  we  not  then  as  now  ?  and  raised  as  now 
The  net  between  us  ? 

ACTIUS 
[Strangely.] 

Somewhat  I  remember. 

N^iVOLEIA 

And  even  as  now  thine  eyes  shone  through  the  meshes, 
And  mine  in  thine  :  was  it  not  always  so  ? 


THE  INDUCTION  39 

ACTIUS 
[Relapsing  to  indifference,  turns  as  to  tie  the  strands  of  the 

imaginary  net.~\ 
'Tis  broken. 

N^VOLEIA 

Ah,  but  shall  be  mended ;  I 
Will  tie  the  fibres. 

HORACE 
[Interrupting.  ] 

One  moment :  Fellow,  in  what  parts 
Hast  thou  been  wont  to  act  ? 

ACTIUS 

In  all 
That  meet  the  people's  favour. 

HORACE 
[  With  a  wry  face ^\ 

Ha! 
I  feared  as  much  ;  what  parts,  for  instance  ? 

ACTIUS 

In  comedy  I've  played  Dossenus 
The  knave,  Bucco  the  bumpkin,  Maccus 
The  clown,  and  Pappus,  the  old  dotard. 
In  tragedy,  Orestes,  Ajax, 
Achilles,  Agamemnon,  Creon, 
And  CEdipus ;  besides,  in  plays 
By  Livius  Andronicus,  some 
Odd  score  of  parts  — 


40  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

HORACE 

Too  versatile 

To  please  the  Muse  ;  for  Tragedy, 
Though  she  will  mix  with  grinning  satyrs, 
Still  does  so  with  such  sweet  aloofness 
As  when  an  honest  matron  dances 
To  keep  a  festival.     Play  not 
To  please  your  people,  but  your  poet. 

VARIUS 
[Smiling.'] 

Nay,  Horace  !     If  you'll  let  him  please 
Me,  let  him  please  the  people. 

HORACE 

Fie 
Upon  you!     Let  us  watch  'em  farther. 

N^VOLEIA 

[To  Actius,  resuming  her  impersonationJ\ 
You  are  a  boatman. 

ACTIUS 

Yes. 

N^VOLEIA 

Go  you  alone  upon  the  water  ? 

ACTIUS 

Yes. 

N^VOLEIA 

When  you  are  all  alone,  are  you  afraid  ? 


THE  INDUCTION  41 

ACTIUS 
No. 

N^VOLEIA 

Put  you  ever  far  to  sea  ? 

ACTIUS 

Sometimes. 

N^EVOLEIA 

And  have  you  never  rowed  to  the  mainland  ? 

ACTIUS 

Oft. 

N^VOLEIA 

By  tempest  ? 

ACTIUS 

Once. 

N^lVOLEIA 

A  storm  at  twilight  ? 

ACTIUS 

Once. 

N^VOLEIA 

Oh,  is  it  true,  then,  what  the  sea-wives  tell  ? 
Was  she  a  goddess  ? 

ACTIUS 

Long  ago :  'twas  long 
Ago  !     I  was  a  boy,  and  that's  all  dark. 

N^EVOLEIA 

And  have  you  never  seen  her  since  she  sprang 
Burning,  upon  the  sands  of  Lydia  ? 


42  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ACTIUS 

[Momentarily  ardentl\ 
Sometimes  methought  —  I  know  not. 


N^VOLEIA 

Still  you  dreamed 
You  saw. 

ACTIUS 

How  knowest  thou  ? 


N^VOLEIA 

Tell  me  your  dreams. 

ACTIUS 
\*<&\ 

Oft  ere  the  day,  while  all  the  slaves  are  sleeping, 
I  and  my  boat  put  out  on  the  black  water ; 
Under  us  there  and  over  us  the  stars  sing 

Songs  of  that  silence. 
Soon  then  the  sullen,  brazen-horned  oxen 
Rise  in  the  east,  and  slowly  with  their  wind-ploughs 
Break  in  the  acres  of  the  broad  ^gean 

Furrows  of  fire. 

So,  many  a  time  there,  as  I  leaned  to  watch  them 
Yoked  in  their  glory,  sudden  'gainst  the  sunrise 
Seemed  that  there  stood  a  maiden  —  a  bright  shadow. 

N^EVOLEIA 

Ah  !     You  beheld  her  ! 


THE  INDUCTION-  43 

HORACE 

[Applauding  with  Virgil.'] 
Well  done  and  aptly  !     By  Apollo, 
My  Varius,  is  not  this  strange 
That  player-vermin  such  as  these, 
Who  live  in  tavern-holes  and  swill 
Sour  wine  and  soup  of  peas,  and  sit 
Carousing  with  their  harlots,  should 
Thus  animate  your  poetry 
With  power  and  truth  ? 

ACTIUS 
[Stepping  forward.  ] 

Is  that  so  strange  ? 

HORACE 

[Turns  to  the  others  with  a  look  of  amused  surprise  I\ 
What's  this  ? 

ACTIUS 

Is  it  permitted,  masters, 
For  vermin  to  discourse  ? 

HORACE 
[  Touching  his  forehead  meaningly  ',  glances  with  inquiry  at 


A  crack  ? 

VARIUS 

[Nodding,  amused,  at  Horace,  speaks  genially  to  Actius.~\ 
Speak,  rascal,  what  you  will. 


44  SAPPHO  AND   PHAON 

ACTIUS 

My  lord 

Horatius  has  deemed  it  strange 

That  we,  who  live  in  tavern-holes 

And  swill  sour  wine,  should  still  be  artists, 

With  souls  to  imbue  a  poet's  lines 

With  animate  power.     For  this  he  has 

Been  gracious  to  applaud  us,  as 

Good  players.     I  would  ask  of  him, 

What  is  a  player  ?     Is  he  not 

A  man  who  imitates  his  kind, 

That  is  —  mankind  ?     But  what,  my  masters, 

Is  man  ? 

HORACE 

By  Socrates  !     The  rogue 
Hath  grazed  in  Athens,  and  been  groomed 
By  schoolmasters. 

ACTIUS 

Man  —  is  not  he 
An  animal  who  imitates 
Also  his  kind  ?     Why,  then,  a  player 
Is  man  epitomized,  an  ape 
Of  glorious  hypocrisy, 
Magnificent,  because  alone 
He  shows  the  counterfeit  his  image, 
The  hypocrite  —  himself.     No  schism 
Exists,  my  lord,  between  yourself 
And  me  but  this  :  you  are  by  nature, 
Skilless,  what  I  am  by  vocation, 
More  perfected.  —  You  patch,  you  bungle, 


THE  INDUCTION 

Where  I  excel.     Horatius  is 
Your  part  upon  life's  play-bill,  but 
You  blur  with  that,  and  imitate, 
Most  pitifully,  twenty  others 
All  in  an  hour.  —  My  part  to-night 
Is  Phaon,  whom  my  master  there 
Conceived  in  nubibus ;  'tis  true 
I  too  may  botch  and  fail  to  draw 
The  finer  shades,  but  when  I  do, 
My  art's  at  fault,  not  I ;  my  aim 
Is  single  and  declared  :  to  be 
Phaon  to-night,  to-morrow  Maccus 
The  clown,  the  next  day  CEdipus 
The  tyrant,  but  while  each  shall  last, 
To  be  at  least  an  honest  player 
And  live  the  part  I  play.  —  I  beg 
A  moment  still !     You  spoke  just  now 
Of  Athens  and  of  schoolmasters, 
The  name  of  Socrates  you  made 
An  oath,  as  he  had  been  a  god 
Like  Caesar,  yet  you  —  you  that  hold 
In  reverence  these  philosophers, 
See  how  you  scorn  and  satirize 
Their  temple  of  philosophy  — 
The  Theatre. 

HORACE 

Scorn  ! 

ACT1US 

Not  your  plays, 
O  poets  !     No,  but  us,  that  are 


45 


46  .  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Your  instruments  of  flesh  and  blood, 

Us  players,  in  whose  living  eyes 

And  limbs  your  wan  scripts  flush  to  life 

And  flash  their  passionate  response 

From  the  eyes  of  your  breathing  audience.  — 

My  lord  Horatius,  let  me 

Reverse  your  question  :  Is  not  this 

Strange  —  yea,  too  strange  !  —  that  we  who  thus 

Give  radiant  reality 

To  your  pale  visions,  are  ourselves 

Despised,  and  by  your  cult  cast  off 

In  shame,  to  share  our  dogs  of  wine 

With  harlots,  in  a  tavern-hole  ? 

HORACE 

[After  a  brief  silence,  rising.'] 
Player,  we  have  deserved  this,  yet 
I'll  hope  you  still  may  deem  me  more 
A  Roman  than  I  seemed.     My  father 
Was  born  a  slave  and  earned  his  oats 
At  public  auctions ; 

[Indicating   Virgil.~\ 

his  kept  bees 

In  Mantua.     I  trust  we  all 
Are  Roman  gentlemen  —  all  four. 

[Horace,    Virgil,  and    Varius,  in  turn,  take  Actius'  hand, 
and  press  it  cordially.'} 

VIRGIL 

The  cocks  will  cackle  at  the  swan 
Until  they  see  him  swim  —  good  friend. 


THE  INDUCTION  47 

ACTIUS 

[Deeply  moved.~\ 

My  masters,  you  have  lifted  up 
My  heart  and  stopped  my  tongue. 

VARIUS 
\_As  music  sounds  from  withinJ] 

The  flutes ! 

Our  friends  are  gathering  in  front 
To  see  the  play.     Maecenas  there 
'Waits  us  with  Pollio.     Come,  lads, 
And  lacerate  my  tragedy. 

HORACE 

"  Sappho  and  Phaon  !  "     You  have  been 
Bold  in  your  subject  —  to  portray 
The  eternal  maiden  and  her  lover. 

VARIUS 

The  subject  made  me  bold,  to  dare 
What  Sappho  did  herself  aspire  — 
To  make  her  love  live  on,  and  be 
Perpetual  as  Spring,  that  comes 
Newly  to  generations  new. 

[Lifting,  then  laying  the  papyrus  scroll  on  the  table. ~\ 
And  if  to-night  these  thoughts  of  mine, 
Sculptured  alive  in  Actius 
And  Naevoleia  here,  shall  move 
To  pity  spirits  such  as  yours  — 
There's  my  ambition  and  reward. 


48  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

VIRGIL 

[Opening  a  door — up,  left — which  discloses  the  back  of  a 
set  scene  on  the  stage  of  Varius'  theatre, ,] 

Is  this  the  way  ? 

VARIUS 

No  ;  that  door's  blocked 
By  scenery. 
[Opening,  at  centre,  another  door  which  discloses  a  wide  dark 

space  —  dimly  lit.~\ 
This  one  will  lead  us 
Through  to  the  orchestra,  across 
The  stage. 

VIRGIL 

[Closing  his  door.~\ 
Who  did  your  scenery  ? 

HORACE 

Our  shepherd  of  the  Eclogues  still 
Pipes  of  the  scenery  ! 

VARIUS 

'Twas  painted 

For  me  by  Auceps,  a  disciple 
Of  Tadius,  the  master.     He 
Has  pictured  the  y£gean  shore 
At  Lesbos  with  a  brush  not  dipped, 
Methinks,  in  common  paint-pots. 

[  Waving  Horace  and  Virgil  to  precede  him.~\ 

Pray! 
[Turning  to  the  Choregus.~\ 

Look  that  your  pantomimists  be 
Masked  for  the  Interludes. 


THE  INDUCTION"  49 

HORACE 
[Pausing  in  his  departure,  raises  both  hands  in  depre cation. ~\ 

Dumb  play 

Between  the  acts  of  tragedy  ?  — 
Worse  than  a  curtain-show  at  Rome 

VARIUS 
[Smiling,  waves  him  in.~\ 

Wait  till  you  see  before  you  scoff. 
This  way. 

\_The  door  closes.  Actius,  still  moved  by  his  talk  with  the 
poets,  having  gone  to  the  table,  sits  and  begins  to  put  on 
the  light  beard  of  Phaon,  not  noticing  Sorex  and  Ncz- 
voleia,  whom  the  Choregus,  going  out,  has  left  behind 
him  in  the  upper  right  corner.  N&voleia  now,  tiptoe 
ing  behind  Actius,  kisses  him  suddenly  and  runs  awav, 
right.  Starting  up,  Actius  looks  after  her  passionately. .] 

ACTIUS 
Wilt  thou  forgive  me,  witch  ? 

N.EVOLEIA 

[Throwing  him  kisses. ~\ 
Forever  and  aye. 

[Turning  to  Sorex,  snuggles  close  to  him,  and,  glancing  slyly 
back  at  Actius  whispers,  aside.~\ 

Sweet  Hercules, 
Where  is  the  house  of  Myrmillo  ? 


50  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SOREX 

[Goes  with  Ncevoleia,  giggling  as  she  winks  at  him.~\ 
What,  wench  ?    Nay,  wench  !  —  Ho,  wench  of  Venus  ! 

[Exeunt.  Actius  sits  again  moodily  and  swiftly  completes 
the  make-up  of  his  beard,  as  the  laughter  of  players  and 
girl  mimes  resounds  from  the  room  which  Ncevoleia 
and  Sorex  have  just  entered.  Rising  then  with  the 
manuscript,  he  lifts,  from  among  other  stage-properties 
near  him,  a  spear  and,  holding  it  in  one  hand,  walks 
twice  back  and  forth,  conning  the  manuscript  of  the 
play  held  in  his  other  hand.~\ 

ACTIUS 
[To  himself. ~\ 
That  passage  in  the  second  act ! 

[The  sounds  of  laughter  are  renewed,  and  Navoleia's  voice 
is  heard  above  the  others ;  but  Actius  does  not  now 
notice  the  sounds.  Pausing  in  his  motion,  he  lays  down 
the  spear  and  murmurs  his  part  of  Phaon  aloud,  gradu 
ally  growing  articulate^ 

Nevermore 

Shall  you  be  sovereign  of  your  maiden  will 
Or  single  in  your  fate.     Not  here  with  priest 
And  song,  but  with  a  spear,  you  have  betrothed  me. 

[Raising    the  weapon  above  him,  he  smiles  up  at  it  —  as 
the  voice  of  Ncevoleia,  outside,  sings  to  Sorex 's  laughter J\ 

N^VOLEIA 
Januaria,  Vitalis, 
Doris,  Lalage,  Damalis  — 


THE  INDUCTION  5 1 

ACTIUS 
[  Oblivious^ 

0  thou,  my  spear,  thou  singest  in  my  hand. 

Thou  art  my  power  and  manhood.     Face  to  face 

Thou  pittest  me  in  combat  with  the  gods, 

And  raising  thee,  my  mind  is  raised  up 

Confronting  heaven,  till  from  those  clouds  of  fire 

This  slavish  world  grows  dim,  and  all  that  sways  it  — 

The  tyrant's  hate,  the  galley-master's  goad, 

The  sordid  trader's  dreams  of  avarice  - 

Dwindle  to  impotence.     Thine  is  the  war 

Which  shall  not  end  with  time  —  war  with  those  gods 

Which  made  men's  misery. 

THE  VOICE  OF  N^EVOLEIA 

{Singing.'} 

Amaryllis,  Florentina, 
Hecla,  Romula,  Quieta  — 

\Actius  —  his  spirit  completely  lost  and  merged  in  the  part 
of  Phaon  —  slowly  lowers  his  spear  as,  to  the  laughter 
of  the  players  within,  the  curtain  falls •.] 

[End  of  the  Induction.] 


THE    PRELUDE 


tu,  quid  ego  et  populus  mecum  desideret,  audi. 
si  plausoris  eges  aulaea  manentis  et  usque 
sessuri,  donee  cantor  <  vos  plaudite '  dicat, 
aetatis  cuiusque  notandi  sunt  tibi  mores, 
mobilibusque  decor  naturis  dandus  et  annis. 

—  HORACE  :  De  Arte  Poetica. 


sic  priscae  motumque  et  luxuriem  addidit  arti 
tibicen  traxitque  vagus  per  pulpita  vestem. 


—  Idem. 


THE   PRELUDE 

To  the  music  of  flutes  within,  the  modern  curtain 
rises,  disclosing  to  the  spectator's  view  the  interior  of 
Varius'  private  theatre  in  Herculaneum  —  namely, 
that  segment  of  it  which  includes  the  ancient  stage, 
orchestra  space  [the  outer  curve  of  which  coincides 
with  the  curve  of  the  modern  footlights],  and  the  first 
four  tiers  of  the  cavea,  or  auditorium,  —  the  said  tiers 
being  actually  represented,  on  either  side,  only  as  far  as 
the  marble  coping  of  a  first  aisle,  which  runs  approxi 
mately  parallel  to  the  modern  footlights  and  disap 
pears  behind  the  [modern]  '  wings '  l  on  either  side. 

On  the  left  side,  the  tiers  of  this  auditorium  are 
provided  with  separate,  sculptured  seats  of  marble  ; 
on  the  right,  however,  the  first  tier  consists  of  a 
curved  marble  bench,2  the  curve  of  which  defines 
the  edge  of  the  orchestra  space  on  that  side. 

Thus  the  modern  audience  is  seated,  as  it  were, 
within  the  omitted  [but  imagined]  segment  of 
Varius' Theatre,  facing — together  with  the  Hercu- 
lanean  audience  —  the  ancient  stage. 

1  These  [modern]  'wings'  depict,  or  suggest  by  the  customary  per 
spective  of  stage  scenery,  the  interior  constructive  outlines  of  Varius' 
Theatre. 

2  This   bench  —  since  no  Herculanean   spectators  are  ever  visible 
on  the  right  side  —  is,  later,  used  by  the  characters  in  the  Tragedy. 

55 


56  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

This  ancient  stage  consists  of  a  shallow  platform, 
raised  about  two  feet  above  the  orchestra  space,  and 
connected  therewith  by  broad,  wide  steps  of  stone. 

[At  left  and  at  right,  in  front  of  the  stage,  is  an 
exit  aisle.] 

At  the  rise  of  the  modern  curtain,  however,  the 
ancient  stage  itself  is  not  visible,  being  shut  from 
view  by  the  Herculaneum  curtain.1 

The  Herculaneum  curtain  itself  is  painted  to 
represent  the  street  exterior  of  a  house,  in  the  Pom- 
peian  style.  In  the  centre,  set  in  a  lintel  frame,  is 
depicted  a  wide,  squat  door,  the  stage  platform  form 
ing  its  sill,  to  which  the  broad  stone  steps  [aforesaid] 
lead  up  from  the  orchestra  space. 

Above  the  squat  doorway  is  a  window  casement. 
Both  door  and  window  are  not  merely  painted  on  the 
curtain,  but  are  devised  to  open  and  close  practically 
when  needed.2 

The  top  of  the  curtain  is  designed  as  an  over  jutting 
tiled  roof. 

Curtain  and  theatre  are  tinted  and  adorned  with 

1  This,  being  constructed  on  the  principle   of  all    Roman  theatre 
curtains,   is  not  let  down  from  above,  but,  fastened  to  a  top  rod,  is 
drawn  upward  [by  pulleys  behind  the  scenes]  through  a  narrow  slit  in 
the  floor  of  the  stage  platform,  close  to  its  outer  edge.     Through  this 
slit  it  stretches  its  expanse  upward  from  the  stage's  edge  to  a  height  at 
which  the  curtain's  top  is  just  visible,  and  extends  laterally,  on  the  right, 
to  a  bronze  caryatid  [which  forms  the  proscenium  frame  of  the  ancient 
stage  on  that  side],  and  on  the  left  disappears  behind  the  [modern] 
'wings.' 

2  In  such  case,  when  the  door  is  open,  a  temporary  back  set-piece 
within  —  painted  to    represent   a   hallway  —  conceals  from   view   the 
Herculaneum  stage  itself,  with  its  [Greek  scene]  setting  of  the  Tragedy. 


THE  PRELUDE  57 

the  pseudo-Orient  richness  of  the  early  Augustan 
age. 

In  the  centre  of  the  orchestra  space,  raised  one 
step  above  its  level,  stands  a  low  marble  altar,  sculp 
tured  with  emblems  of  the  sea.  Upon  this  stands 
fixed  a  slim  tripod  of  bronze. 

Before  this  curtain,  then,  when  the  scene  opens, 
are  discovered  groups  of  Herculanean  citizens  and 
guests  of  Varius,  in  festal  Roman  garments. 
Amongst  them  are  Pollio  and  Maecenas,  the  latter 
magnificently  yet  delicately  wreathed  and  garbed. 

To  the  piping  of  the  two  Flutists  [who  stand,  at  left 
and  right,  at  the  edge  of  the  scene] ,  all  of  these  persons 
make  their  way,  in  laughter  and  conversation,  from 
the  right  exit  aisle  across  the  orchestra  space  to  the 
seats  of  the  cavea  on  the  left.  Here,  passing  between 
the  marble  seats  and  mounting  the  tiers  to  their  places, 
they  disappear  from  view  within  the  wings,  whence 
their  flickering  shadows,  cast  down  by  torches  above, 
and  the  humming  sound  of  their  conversation,  give 
token  of  their  presence  in  the  theatre. 

This  humming  sound  is  suddenly  increased  to  a 
murmurous  roar,  upon  the  entrance  —  through  the 
door  in  the  curtain — of  Varius,  Horace,  and  Virgil. 

These,  as  they  descend  the  broad  steps  to  the 
orchestra  space,  are  hailed  from  the  [hidden]  tiers  of 
the  cavea  by  cries  of  "  Varius  !  Horatius  !  Vergilius  !  " 
and  greetings,  blended  and  indistinguishable,  in  Latin. 

Varius  and  the-  two  poets  return  these  greetings 
with  smiles  and  gestures  of  friendship,  and  approach 
the  first  seats  of  the  cavea.  There,  looking  up, 


58  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Varius  waves  his  hand,  calls,  "  Maecenas  !  Pollio  !  " 
enters  the  cavea,  and,  mounting  with  his  companions, 
passes  also  to  a  tier  beyond  view. 

At  this  moment,  in  the  curtain-doorway,  clad  in 
simple  Greek  garment  and  wreath  of  gold,  appears 
PROLOGUS,  preceded  by  two  slaves.  To  one  of  the 
slaves  he  hands  a  lighted  taper,  to  the  other  a  bronze 
disk  with  incense  powder.  Descending  the  steps 
with  these,  the  slaves  approach  the  altar,  on  the 
bronze  tripod  of  which  the  one  slave  places  his  disk, 
and  the  other  ignites  the  incense.  Each  then  departs 
at  either  side  aisle.  Meantime,  upon  the  entrance  of 
Prologus,  each  of  the  Flutists  —  his  flute  discarded  — 
gives  blast  to  a  mellow,  antique  horn,  the  sound 
whereof  silences  the  Herculaneum  audience.  Simul 
taneously  Prologus  raises  his  arms,  as  in  invocation, 
toward  the  pale  blue  wreaths  of  smoke  that  float 
upward  from  the  tripod. 

PROLOGUS 

To  Caesar  where  he  sits  in  Rome  our  Emperor, 
Remembrance  !  and  through  him  unto  the  mightier 

gods 

Be  incense  evermore !  —  The  gods  alone  discern 
What  darkly  man  imagines ;  his  pale  future's  dawn 
And  twilit  past  alike  to  them  are  noonday.     We, 
Therefore,  who  meet  this  hour,  expectant  to  behold 
Long-perished  Sappho  and  her  antique  age  awake 
To  life,  ourselves  are  ancients  of  a  time  unborn, 
Shadow-enactors  of  an  audience  of  shades, 
And  as  this  little  smoke  of  incense,  so  are  we 


THE  PRELUDE  59 

On  the  altar  of  the  immortals.  —  What  are  they  ?  — 

Ourselves 

That  were,  ourselves  that  will  be  ever  :  Ancestry, 
Posterity  —  they  are  the  gods,  of  whom  we  are 
Both  seed  and  loins  :  one  race,  one  lineage  of  love, 
One  continuity  of  passion  and  of  pain ; 
And  unto  them  this  fleeting  breath  and  smoke  of  us 
Goes  up  in  prayer.  —  Vale  !     Our  tragedy  begins  ; 
And  if   the  play  shall   please,  —  Shadows,   applaud 

yourselves  ! 

{Exit  within  the  curtain-door,  which  closes^ 

Slowly  then  the  curtain  itself  descends  and  disappears,  dis 
closing  the  scene  of  the  Tragedy. 

\_End  of  the  Prelude^ 


THE   TRAGEDY 

/cat  irodrn^  Kal  /u,ao/uuu   .   .    . 
dAAa  ?rav  ToA./xarov.   .   .   . 

—  Sapphonis  Fragmenta. 

B^  8'  a,K€a>v  Trapa  ^tva 

dvo-Yts. 

-Iliad,  I. 


ACT   I 

SCENE:  A  high  promontory,   overlooking   the 
^Egean  sea,  sprinkled  with  isles. 

On  the  left,  pillars  of  a  Doric  temple  form  a  colonnade 
which,  stretching  away  left,  disappears  behind  tall 
cypresses.  Behind  these  columns,  tapestries  of  dark 
azure  hide  the  whole  wall  of  the  temple,  concealing  the 
doorway.  Against  the  background,  the  contours  of  the 
pillars  themselves  rise  vast  and  chaste  into  the  ob 
scurity  of  foliage  —  their  capitals  lost  among  ancient 
boughs. 

Near  the  centre  of  the  scene,  at  back,  against  the  side  wall  of 
the  temple,  built  on  a  raised  and  jutting  rock  and  ap 
proached  by  steps  from  the  colonnade,  stands  an  altar 
of  yellow  marble,  in  which  is  sculptured  a  flying 
dove. 

Below  this  altar  of  Aphrodite,  the  foreground  on  the  right 
juts  upward  to  it  in  contours  of  the  bare,  weathered 
rock  of  the  promontory ;  in  this,  a  worn  crevice,  near 
the  centre  of  the  scene,  indicates  the  beginning  of  a 
sheer  cliff-path,  which  descends  the  precipice  to  the 
unseen  beach,  the  far  sound  of  whose  breakers,  in 
ceaseless  cadence,  rising  murmurous  from  below,  catches 
the  ear  in  pauses  of  the  action.  Near  the  cliff-path,  a 
fire-urn,  upheld  by  sculptured  Nereids.  On  the  right, 
the  seascape  is  defined  by  a  grove  of  olive  trees,  which 
grow  near  to  the  foreground. 
63 


64  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

On  the  edge  of  this  grove,  chiselled  in  colossal  proportions 
out  of  yellow  marble,  rises  a  statue  of  Aphrodite,  con 
ceived  with  the  naive,  pre-classic  simplicity  of  an  age  still 
half  Homeric. 

Similarly,  on  the  left,  a  statue  of  Poseidon.  These  images  do 
not  obtrude  themselves,  but  partly  withdrawn  in  foliage, 
their  large  presences  overshadow  in  silence  the  action 
of  the  Tragedy. 

As  this  scene  is  disclosed  to  view,  voices  of  women  are 
heard  singing  in  unison  within  the  temple. 


THE  VOICES 

Builders,  build  the  roof-beam  high : 

Hymenceon  ! 
More  than  mortal  comes  the  man  ; 

Hymenceon  ! 

But  the  maiden  like  a  maid, 
Rose-pale,  rose-red, 

Kala,  O  Chariessa  ! 

[From  the  temple  appears  ANACTORIA.  She  looks  away, 
right,  then  turning  to  depart,  left,  encounters  ATTHIS 
entering^ 

ANACTORIA 
So  late  ? 

ATTHIS 

O  Anactoria ! 


Our  lady 
Sappho  hath  bade  me  look  for  thee.  —  Not  weeping ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  65 

ATTHIS 

He  hath  not  come !     My  eyes  are  water-blind 
With  staring  on  the  sea,  in  hopes  to  espy 
His  scarlet  sail  slope  from  the  mainland.     Still 
No  sign  —  no  little  gleam  —  of  Larichus. 

ANACTORIA 

Thou  happy  Atthis ! 

ATTHIS 

Happy  ?     But  to-morrow  — 

ANACTORIA 

To-morrow  you  shall  wed  with  Sappho's  brother, 
And  win  for  sister  the  bright  Lesbian  Muse, 
Who  hath  herself  composed  your  bridal-hymn, 
And  he  that  is  Poseidon's  cup-bearer 
Shall  be  your  husband. 

ATTHIS 

Shall  I  not,  then,  weep 

Because  he  does  not  come  ?     Three  days  ago 
He  sailed  for  Lydia,  to  fetch  me  home 
Pearls  for  our  bridal.     Qh,  I  want  not  pearls, 
Nor  any  gift  but  Larichus,  his  love. 

ANACTORIA 

Why,  he  will  come.     To-night  the  moon  is  full, 
The  JEgean  calm.  —  What's  this  ? 


66  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ATTHIS 

I  had  forgot. 

As  I  climbed  up  from  Mitylene  here, 
I  met  Alcaeus,  and  he  gave  me  this 
To  bring  — 

ANACTORIA 

Alcaeus  ?     Give  it  me  ! 
[She  snatches  a  vase  from  Atthis^\ 

Dear  gods, 

Let  not  this  trembling  quake  the  promontory 
And  topple  temple  and  all  into  the  waves. 
Daylight  and  dark  !  —  Alccetis  sends  me  this. 

ATTHIS 

\_Gazes  away,  sighing. ~\ 
O  little  clouds,  why  are  ye  shaped  like  sails  ? 

ANACTORIA 

Fresh  from  his  hands  —  himself  the  potter!     Here's 
A  painted  vine,  and  under  the  ripe  grapes 
A  dove  hath  wove  her  nest  among  the  verses. 
Verses  and  vase  —  poem  and  painter  —  mine  ! 
[She  kisses  the  verse  and  reads. ~\ 

1  The  sea-god  breathes  hk'  heart  in  the  sea-shell, 
And  leaves  it  on  the  sands,  to  syllable 

One  sound  forever. 

O  maid  of  Lesbos,  murmuring  one  name 
Within  this  vase,  thy  lover's  lips  have  vowed 

Passion  eternal.' 


THE  TRAGEDY  67 

[  With  sudden  abandon,  she  springs  to  Atthis  and  embraces 

her.~] 

My  Atthis,  thou  hast  brought  to  me  in  this 
More  precious  medicine  than  ever  healed 
Fever  and  ague. 

ATTHIS 

I? 

ANACTORIA 

You  do  not  guess ; 

Of  late  I  have  been  damned  with  jealousy 
That  almost  made  me  hate  him. 


ATTHIS 
[Appalled.} 


Larichus  ? 


ANACTORIA 

No,  no,  you  doting  bride  :     Alcaeus.     Quick, 
What  said  he  when  he  bade  you  bring  me  this  ? 

ATTHIS 

But  that  is  not  for  you.  —  Ah  !  twist  me  not ! 
Thou  hurtest  my  arm. 

ANACTORIA 

Speak,  then  ! 

ATTHIS 

What  should  I  say  ? 

ANACTORIA 
Whom  is  this  for  ? 


68  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ATTHIS 
For  Sappho. 

ANACTORIA 
[Loosing  Atthis,  with  a  cry.~\ 

She  it  was ! 
[Sinks  crouching  upon  the  steps.'] 


Atthis ! 


ALGOUS 
[  Calls  outside.'] 


ATTHIS 

\_To  Anactoria.~] 

My  friend  !     I  did  not  guess.  —  Forgive  ! 
[Enter,   left,   ALGOUS.      He  addresses  Atthis,  who  stands 
before  Anactoria.~] 

ALGOUS 

Hath  Sappho  seen  it?     Hast  thou  shown  it  her? 
What  did  she  say  ? 

ANACTORIA 

\Holding  the  vase,  rises.'] 

Your  lady's  in  the  temple, 
Training  the  chorus  of  her  girl-disciples. 
This  votive  urn  of  incense  from  your  lips 
Hath  not  yet  breathed  in  her  delicate  ear 
"Passion  eternal!" 


THE  TRAGEDY  69 


Came  you  with  this  ? 


ALGOUS 
By  Hephaestus,  how 


ANACTORIA 

Oh,  by  Alcaeus,  how 

Came  this  to  you  :  this  mad,  this  hollow  love  ? 
Look  !     "  Maid  of  Lesbos,  murmuring  one  name 
Within  this  vase,  thy  lover's  lips  "   —  And  are 
Sappho  and  Anactoria  one  name  ? 
How  ardent  hast  thou  murmured  that  one  name 
Up  at  my  casement:  "  Anactoria  !  " 
Now  hers  to  her  !     No  other  eyes  but  Sappho's 
Had  done  it!  —  Atthis,  that  it  should  be  she 
Whom  best  I  love,  our  mistress  and  our  muse, 
Hath  drawn  him  from  me  !     So  she  draws  the  world, 
Day,  evening,  and  the  dawn,  to  wait  on  her  — 
Maiden  and  man,  like  an  immortal. 

ALGOUS 

So 
Love  draws  us  all. 

ANACTORIA 

Not  all  !     To  some  of  us 
Love  beacons  like  a  star. 

ALGOUS 


A  shooting-star  ! 
That  nightly  fills  anew  his  fiery  quiver  ! 


70  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ANACTORIA 

And  this  is  thou  —  Alcaeus  !     O  this  air 
Goes  black  and  red  between  us.     Fare  you  well ; 
But  when  your  Sappho  comes  here  from  the  singing, 
Take  her  your  gift  — 

{From  the  height  of  the  steps,  she  flings  the  vase  at  his  feet, 
dashing  it  in  piece s.~\ 

and  when  you  lift  it  up, 
Tell  her  it  is  the  heart  of  her  girl-friend. 
{Exit,  right.-} 

ALCEUS 
\_To  Atthis.~\ 
Nothing  of  this  to  Sappho  ! 

ATTHIS 

Dost  thou  deem 
Others  as  false  as  thou  art  ?     She  shall  know. 

ALC^US 

{Springing  up  the  steps.~\ 
But  Atthis  — 

[Exit  Atthis  within  the  temple^ 

If  she  tells  her ! 
{Watching persons  approach,  he  starts  violently. ~\ 

Pittacus ! 

{Enter,  left,    PITTACUS,  followed  by  a  soldier,  to   whom  he 
speaks. ~\ 


THE  TRAGEDY  /I 

PITTACUS 

Say  to  the  citizens,  I  will  not  hold 
Council  to-day.     The  sea-wind  blows  too  sweet 
Of  lentisk  and  of  samphire  for  my  thoughts 
To  brood  on  war ;  the  eyes  of  Sappho  are 
A  mightier  tyranny  than  Mitylene.  — 
Wait ;  it  were  wiser  to  omit  that  last. 
[Exit  the  so  Idler  ^\ 

ALGOUS 

O  seven  wise  men  of  the  world  in  one ! 
Most  civic  lover  —  to  omit  that  last ! 

PITTACUS 
Greeting,  Alcaeus ! 

ALC^EUS 

Pittacus  is  gone 

To  smell  the  south  wind.     Therefore,  citizens, 
Adjourn  the  council !     It  were  wiser  not 
Allude  to  tyranny  and  Sappho's  eyes, 
For  Pittacus,  elected  by  the  people, 
Must  keep  one  eye  or  two  for  votes.     Enough, 
He  hath  a  nose  enamoured  of  the  south  wind ! 
What  was  that  odorous  phrase  ?  —  Lentisk  and  sam 
phire  ! 

PITTACUS 
Alcaeus  still  is  young. 

ALQEUS 

And  Pittacus  a  lover ! 
What  says  Archilochus : 
"  Lovers  that  stink  of  leeks 
Put  samphire  in  their  songs" 


j2  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PITTACUS 

In  temper  temperance, 
My  friend. 

ALOEUS 

In  lack  of  sense 
Sententiousness,  O  sage ! 
How  is  philosophy 
Selling  per  pound  ?     I  mean 
Without  the  fat,  of  course. 

PITTACUS 

Is  not  this  feud  too  old 
For  us  to  blow  up  fire 
In  the  ashes  ? 

ALGOUS 

'Tis  as  old 

As  when  you,  gutter-tyrant, 
Imprisoned  me  —  a  noble 
And  knight  of  Lesbos. 

PITTACUS 

For 

Sedition.     Yet  it  seems 
You  now  go  free. 

ALCEUS 
Bright  gods, 

Witness  this  gentle  tyrant ! 
Look  where  the  shouting  people 
Crown  him  with  garlic  leaves ; 


THE  TRAGEDY  73 

For  he  hath  freed  from  prison 

Alcaeus  the  seditious ! 

Hail  him  Magnanimous, 

And  grant  him  in  the  Assembly  — 

A  thousand  extra  votes  ! 

PITTACUS 

Sir,  you  go  far. 

ALGOUS 
Nay,  grant  him 
For  that  great-minded  deed, 
Fair  Sappho's  admiration ! 

PITTACUS 

Insolence ! 

ALGOUS 

Hypocrite ! 

PITTACUS 

\Raising  his  staff. ~\ 
Go! 

ALC/EUS 

Sniggling  demagogue ! 

\Enter,  right,  PHAON — his  shoulders  stooped  beneath  a  burden 
of  drift-wood.  Moving  toward  the  temple,  his  path  lies 
between  Aktzus  and  Pittacus.~\ 

PITTACUS 

Thou,  swollen-up  with  words 
And  bitter  wind,  presumptuous 
Fop  — 


74  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS 

Mule  of  Mitylene, 
Bray  !  Let  the  temple  fillies 
Hark  to  thy  hee-haw. 

PITTACUS 
Zeus, 
Chastise  this  man ! 

[Striking  at  Alcceus,  who  springs  back,  the  staff  of  Pittacus 
falls  and  breaks  upon  Phaon,  who  receives  the  blow  with 
mute  passivity  and  passes  on  to  the  temple.     Pittacus 
slowly  lets  fall  the  pieces  of  his  staff. ~\ 

Eternal  Zeus,  thy  hand 

Hath  interposed  this  slave.     Look  where  he  goes, 
Alcaeus ;  dumb,  submissive,  yet  my  blow 
Fell  undeserved. 

ALCEUS 
A  pack-beast ! 

PITTACUS 

True ;  and  yet 

His  silence  hath  a  peace  majestical, 
His  unresistingness,  an  awe  !     'Tis  we 
That,  by  comparison,  are  petty  :  we 
That  for  a  snarling  ideality 
Yelp  at  each  other  like  Actaeon's  dogs 
To  tear  our  master  —  our  own  self-command. 
Ah,  passionless  indifference  !     That  we 
Might  rather  live  like  yonder  sea-drudge,  callous 
To  quickening  beauty,  and  incapable 
Of  joy  or  anguish  of  imagination, 
Than  thus  in  bondage  of  enamour'd  pain 


THE  TRAGEDY  75 

For  that  immortal  being,  Sappho,  rage 

Vituperate  and  scorn  each  other,  clutch'd 

Mind  against  mind,  man  against  man,  to  possess  her. 

ALC^EUS 
\_Cynic  ally. ~\ 
Still  you  remain  to  rage. 

PITTACUS 

No ;  fare  you  well, 
Alcseus:  go  you  in  to  Sappho  first 
And  I  will  come  hereafter.     Better  were  it  — 
Far  better  than  this  venom'd  wrangling  — there 
From  Aphrodite's  rock  into  the  sea  • 
For  us  to  adventure  the  Leucadian  leap  : 
That  leap  which  brings  to  passionate  lovers  —  death, 
Or  from  the  goddess,  ultimate  repose. 
\_He  passes  from    the   scene,  right.    Alc&us   stands  for   a 
moment,  moved  by  his  words.      Within  the  temple  voices 
once  more  lift  up  the  Sapphic  hymn.     Then  from  the 
temple  emerge,  singing,  the  GIRL-DISCIPLES  of  Sappho, 
and  pass,  left,  away  toward  Mitylene.     SAPPHO  herself, 
followed  at  a  little  distance  by  Atthis,  comes  slowly  down 
the  steps,  twining  a  fillet  of  violets,  lost  in  the  music. 
Seeing  her,  Alcceus  approaches,  passionate,  but  pauses  — 
abashed  by  her  presence^ 

THE  GIRL-DISCIPLES 

Gath'rers,  what  have  ye  forgot 

Hymenceon  ! 
Blushing  ripe  on  the  end  of  the  bough  ? 

Hymenczon  ! 


76  SAPPHO  AND   PHAON 

Ripe  now,  but  ye  may  not  reach, 
For  the  bride  is  won,  and  the  groom  is  strong. 
Kala,  O  Chariessa  ! 

{Exeunt^ 


ALGOUS 

Lady  of  violets  and  reverie, 
Sappho  —  I  long  to  speak,  but  shame  restrains  me. 

SAPPHO 

Alcaeus,  had  your  thoughts  been  beautiful, 
Nor  any  double-speech  upon  your  tongue, 
Shame  would  not  turn  away  your  eyes  from  mine  ; 
You  would  have  spoken  simply  to  me  now. 


It  is  not  simple  to  say  beautifully 
What  I  would  say.  —  Hast  thou,  in  Mitylene, 
Watched  the  young  market-maidens  weaving  fillets 
Of  wild  flowers  ?     Know  you  what  men  say  'tis  sign  of  ? 

SAPPHO 
Is  it  a  sign  ? 

ALGOUS 

That  all  such  are  in  love. 
Truly  they  are  but  country  maids,  and  yet 
Persephone  herself  was  such  a  girl 
Weaving  her  wild-flowers  when  dark  Pluto  plucked  her. 
Lady,  you  too  are  weaving  :  may  I  ask 
For  whom  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  jj 

SAPPHO 

[Holding  out  the  fillet.'} 
And  if  I  answered  —  for  Alcaeus  ? 

ALCyEUS 
[Ardent.'} 
Sappho ! 

SAPPHO 

[  Withholding  the  fillet.'} 
And  if  I  gave  this  —  to  another ! 

[Stooping,  she  lifts  a  fragment  of  the  broken  vase  and 'reads .] 
"  Within  this  vase  thy  lover's  lips  have  vowed"  — 
The  vow  itself  is  cracked  :  how  came  it  broken  ? 

ALCEUS 
[Bitterly.} 
Atthis  hath  told  thee  ! 

SAPPHO 

Anactoria 
Is  dear  to  me. 

ALGOUS 

But  she  should  understand  : 
I  loved  her,  and  I  love  her  now  no  more. 
Well,  if  for  this  she  weeps,  let  her  revile 
The  god,  not  me.  —  Can  I  constrain  a  god  ? 
Tether  him  ?      Clip  his  wings  ?     Say  'come'  or  'go'  ? 
Love  is  a  voyager,  and  like  the  wind 
That  shakes  awhile  the  summer  woods  with  music 
Moves  on,  to  stir  the  hearts  of  unknown  bowers. 


78  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON" 

SAPPHO 

O  love  in  man  !     How  then  in  woman  ?     What 
If  Anactoria  had  scorned  Alcaeus  ? 
Is  there  a  god  and  eke  a  goddess  Love  : 
The  one  all  vagrant,  lawless,  unrestrained, 
Self-seeking  ardour?      The  other  —  all  compassion'd 
Submissive  constancy  ?     How  would  it  fare 
With  us,  Alcaeus,  had  you  won  my  love 
And  I  should  prove  untrue  ? 

\From  the  right,  Anactoria  enters  and  rejoins  Atthis  at  the 
steps  of  the  shrine.  There,  while  Atthis  seeks  gently  to 
distract  her,  she  keeps  her  eyes  fixed  in  passionate  brood 
ing  upon  Sappho  and  Alcceus.  The  latter  is  about  to 
reply  to  Sappho,  when  she  stays  him  with  a  smile  and 
gesture^ 

It  matters  not. 

Love  is  indeed  goddess  and  god,  and  man 
And  woman,  and  the  world !     What  shall  it  boot 
To  argue  with  the  shy  anemone, 
Or  reason  with  the  rose  ?  —  This  air  is  spring, 
And  on  this  isle  of  flowers  we  all  are  lovers. 


ALGOUS 

Ah,  then  you  love  me,  Sappho  ! 

SAPPHO 

By  what  token  ? 

ALGOUS 

Even  by  this  speech  of  thine. 


THE  TRAGEDY  79 

SAPPHO 

Eyes  are  the  tongues 

Of  lovers,  and  their  speech  is  light,  not  sound, 
Therefore  you  know  not  Love's  infallible 
Tokens. 

ALGOUS 

But  tell  me ! 

SAPPHO 

Grant  it  then  —  I  love  you  : 
Then,  were  it  so,  what  need  had  you  to  ask  ? 
For  should  I  see  you  but  a  little  instant, 
Then  is  my  voice  choked  and  my  tongue  is  broken ; 
Under  my  flesh  quick  fire  runs  flame  and  quivers ; 
My  eyes  look  blank  on  darkness ;  sounds  of  roaring 
Sing  in  mine  ears ;  chiller  than  death  the  frore  dews 
Dan  ken  my  limbs,  and  pale  as  grass  in  autumn, 

I  tremble. 

\_Smiling.~\ 

Are  the  tokens  manifest  ? 

[From  the  temple  reenters  Phaon  without  his  burden.  As 
Sappho  turns  her  face  archly  from  Alcceus,  her  eyes  fall 
upon  the  slave,  who,  oblivious,  with  dreamy  gaze  fixed 
upon  the  sea,  approaches  and  passes  her  by,  silent  as  a 
sleep-walker.  Following  his  figure  unconsciously  with 
her  look,  Sappho  —  with  rapid  gradation  changing  in 
mood  and  aspect  —  begins  to  show  visibly  the  tokens  she 
has  been  describing,  till  overwhelming  faintness  closes 
her  eyes.~\ 


80  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS 

Why  do  you  mock  me,  lady  ?     Pain  of  hope, 
Pain  of  desire  are  punishment  enough, 
Without  your  irony.  —  Gods,  thou  art  pale  ! 
What  is  it,  Sappho?    Ha!  thou  hast  not  mocked  me! 
You  tremble  :     Nay,  poor  fool,  me  —  happy  fool ! 
Now,  now  I  understand. 

SAPPHO 
[Faintly.] 

Not  now. 

ALGOUS 

[With  lowered  voice] 

I  know; 

Eyes  only  speak,  and  yours  are  eloquent ; 
They  follow  yonder  slave  to  where  she  stands 
Watching  us  there.  —  Her  jealousy  is  mad  ; 
Let  it  not  move  thee  ;  it  can  touch  us  not ; 
And  what  are  we  to  Anactoria 
That  —  lean  on  me  ! 

[He   reaches   to  support  Sappho,    whose   eyes   have ,  closed. 
Exit  Phaon,  right.] 

SAPPHO 
Later  —  to-night. 


ALGOUS 

But  Sappho  — 


THE  TRAGEDY  8 1 

SAPPHO 
Under  the  stars  to-night ;  here,  by  the  temple  — 

[Slowly,  looking  away  right^\ 
When  there  are  no  slaves  passing. 

ALGOUS 
[Kissing  her  robe.'] 

Till  to-night ! 

\_He  departs  by  the  colonnade,  exultant.  Sappho  stands  silent, 
shaken  by  deep  breaths  of  a  great  emotion.  Anactoria, 
whose  eyes  have  never  left  Sappho's  face,  seeing  her  now 
alone,  leaves  Atthis  who  seeks  fearfully  to  detain  her  by 
catching  at  a  lyre  which  Anactoria  carries  rigidly  in  her 
arm.~\ 

ATTHIS 

Wait ;  let  me  play  to  thee  ! 

[Unheeding,  Anactoria  approaches  Sappho  and  comes  very 
close,  before  Sappho,  opening  her  arms  with  a  glad  start, 
embraces  herJ\ 

SAPPHO 

My  'Toria. 

[Allowing  Sappho  to  draw  her  face  close  to  hers,  Anactoria 
speaks   then   in   a    tense,  low  voice.     Before   she   has 
finished  speaking,  she  springs  loose,  with  a  spurning 
gesture, .] 

ANACTORIA 

Oh,  that  I  were  a  beast  on  the  wild  hills, 
And  I  had  borne  thee  to  my  twilight  lair 
Alive,  and  there  had  bitten  thee  to  death, 
And  dabbled  all  thy  beauty  in  the  dew  — 
And  he  to  look  upon  it ! 


82  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 
'Toria ! 

ANACTORIA 

\_Wildly.~} 

Oh,  call  me  not  that  name  ;  it  is  too  dear. 
So  did  you  call  me  first  that  silver  night 
Below  your  orchard,  when  you  taught  me  first 
To  strike  this  plectron  on  this  lyre.  —  You  kissed  me 
And  cried  :  "  Well  played,  my  Toria  !  " 

SAPPHO 

And  so 
I'll  kiss  thee,  dear,  a  thousand  silver  nights. 

ANACTORIA 

\Holding  the  plectron  like  a  dagger et^\ 
Come  not  so  close  ;  I'll  scratch  thy  cheek  with  this, 
And  stencil  in  thy  blood  Alcaeus'  name, 
That  all  may  read  how  Sappho  loved  her  friend. 

SAPPHO 
[To  Atthis.~\ 

And  so  for  this  she  would  she  were  a  beast 
To  dabble  all  my  beauty  in  the  dew  ! 

\Turning  to  Anactoria  with  gentle  laughter.^ 
O  girl ! 

ANACTORIA 

I  heard  you  bid  him  come  to-night. 


THE  TRAGEDY  83 

SAPPHO 
I  said  to-night  ? 

ANACTORIA 

Wilt  thou  deny  it  ? 

SAPPHO 

Let 

Alcaeus  come  to-night,  then.     I  will  be 

Punctual  to  his  coming,  and  if  thou 

Hast  deemed  me  ever  a  wise  art-mistress,  trust  me 

To  teach  him  such  a  lesson  then  in  love 

As  he  shall  long  remember  —  for  thy  sake. 

Come,  wilt  thou  love  thine  old  friend — one  night  more  ? 

ANACTORIA 

[Going  to  her  and  embracing  her  knees. ~\ 
O  dear  and  mighty !     Thou  art  not  as  we. 

SAPPHO 

A  goddess  once  again  ?     No  cheeks,  eyes,  elbows 
To  be  restored  ?     Why,  truly,  then,  these  poets 
Are  wise  who  sing :  "  Hail,  Sappho,  thou  tenth  Muse ! " 
Therefore  rise  up,  sweet  mortal,  and  attend 
How  I  shall  prove  my  Musehood  by  a  song. 
[Taking  the  lyre  from  Anactorial\ 

Hand  me  the  plectron.  —  Atthis,  sit  with  us 
Here.     'Tis  a  Linus-song  for  vintagers 
To  chant  in  autumn.     Therefore,  'Toria, 
If  thou  wilt  weep,  weep  not  for  Cupid,  but 
Adonis.  —  Kiss  me  !     Now  this  will  I  sing 
Deftly  to  please  my  girl-friends. 


84  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

[Sappho  is  seated  on  the  marble  bench,  right;  Atthis  on  the 
ground  before  her.  Anactoria,  standing  beside  the 
bench,  turns  away  while  Sappho  sings  and,  overcome 
with  restrained  weeping,  steals  off  through  the  colonnade. 
Meantime,  from  the  right,  Pittacus  has  appeared  and 
stands  listening,  unseen .] 

What  shall  we  do,  Cytherea  ? 
Tender  Adonis  is  dying  ! 

What  shall  we  do  ? 
Rend,  rend  your  delicate  tunics, 
Rend,  rend  your  breasts,  O  my  maidens : 

Weep  —  Ailenu! 

[Looking  after  Anactoria.~\ 

Poor  jealousy  !  —  Run,  fetch  her  back  to  us, 
And  take  her  this. 

ATTHIS 
[Taking  the  lyre  from  Sappho. ~\ 

I  fear  she  will  not  come. 
[Exit.] 

PITTACUS 

[Approaches  Sappho  with  hesitating  deference, .] 
Clear  voice  of  Lesbos  — 

SAPPHO 
[Turning^ 

Lord  of  Mitylene ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  85 

PITTACUS 

Lady,  in  Athens,  the  last  time  I  met 
Solon,  the  tyrant,  he  was  in  his  garden, 
And  where  he  sat  the  almond-blossoms  fell 
On  his  white  hair.     He  had  thrown  his  parchments 

down 

And  looked  on  me  with  eyes  that  saw  me  not, 
For  near  him  stood  a  slender,  thrush-voiced  boy 
Gushing  a  song.     And  when  the  boy  had  ceased, 
"  Whose  song  was  that?  "  he  asked.     The  boy  said, 

"Sappho's:" 

And  Solon,  speaking  low,  said  :  "  Sing  that  only  ! 
So  that  I  may  not  die  before  I  learn  it." 


SAPPHO 

. 

Solon  was  wise ;    my  songs  are  beautiful. 


PITTACUS 

For  they  are  you.     Sappho,  I  also  am 

Tyrant  and  lawgiver.     My  function  'tis 

In  war  and  peace  to  engineer  this  isle, 

And  through  the  level  conduits  of  the  mind 

To  irrigate  the  state  with  the  still  waters 

Of  reason  ;    I  have  schooled  and  flogged  my  will 

With  the  iron  whips  of  Sparta ;    and  my  words 

Are  sown  abroad  for  wisdom  ;   yet  —  O  hear  me  ! 

Thy  voice  hath  loosed  in  me  a  thousand  streams 

That  overleap  their  banks,  and  inundate 

My  ordered  world  with  passion  ;    vain  it  is 

I  strive  to  dam  those  springs  ;    their  foaming  tides 


86  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Burst  into  glorious  laughter,  and  I  drown 
Rapturous  ;    vain  it  is  I  charge  my  soul  — 
This  love  is  madness,  peril  and  despair ! 
I  know  that  it  is  madness  —  yet  I  love  you. 

SAPPHO 

Are  you,  then,  mad?     Does  not  supreme  desire 
Beget  the  supreme  joy  ?     This  engineered, 
Wise-ordered  state  of  yours  —  when  you  have  cast 
Its  lovers  forth  on  some  bleak  lepers'  rock 
In  the  barren  sea  ;    when  you  have  builded  all 
Its  solemn  temples  of  serenity, 
And  sculptured  on  its  gates  your  city's  god  — 
The  massy  image  of  Indifference ; 
When  you  have  set  up  in  the  public  ways 
Fountains  of  running  reason,  where  cold  virgins 
And  silent  boys,  with  philosophic  beards, 
Fill  their  chaste  pitchers,  and  turn  dumbly  home 
To  tipple  with  their  grandsires  —  tell  me,  then  ! 
Will  you  not  fear,  some  day,  an  insurrection, 
When  those  same  boys  and  girls,  with  flying  hair 
And  eyes  aflame,  shall  drag  you  in  the  market 
And  cry  :    "  Our  lovers  !  Give  us  back  our  lovers  ! 
Give  us  our  mad  joys  and  our  loves  again ! " 

PITTACUS 

Sappho,  the  wild  bees  of  Persuasion  hive 
Between  your  lips.     Call  me  what  name  you  will : 
Sage  —  madman  ;  only  take  from  me  my  gift 
In  love. 


THE  TRAGEDY  8/ 


SAPPHO 
What  do  you  offer  ? 

PITTACUS 

Mitylene. 

SAPPHO 

As  mine  ? 

PITTACUS 

To  rule  with  me. 

SAPPHO 

Is  not  such  rather 
A  man's,  not  woman's  office  ? 

PITTACUS 

Yours  alone 

Of  women  !    See,  a  little  while  ago 
I  brought  this  staff  to  you  :  you  were  in  the  temple, 
And  here  I  met  Alcaeus  ;  here  for  you 
We  wrangled,  and  in  wrath  I  lifted  this 
And  left  it  —  so. 

SAPPHO 

Heigh  me  !     A  vase,  a  sceptre : 
And  now  both  dashed  in  pieces  at  my  feet ! 
Surely  this  Sappho  is  a  stony  image 
And  not  a  maid,  to  shatter  such  love-tokens. 
You  struck  Alcaeus  ? 

PITTACUS 

No,  by  chance  the  blow 
Fell  on  a  passing  slave. 


88  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 


You  said  —  a  slave  ? 


SAPPHO 

[Slowly.} 


PITTACUS 
A  sea-drudge 

With  drift-wood  for  Poseidon's 
Night-fire. 

SAPPHO 

[Breathing  quick. ~\ 
Give  me  the  pieces. 
His  flesh,  you  say  ? 

PITTACUS 

His  flesh  ? 
It  did  not  strike  Alcaeus  ! 

SAPPHO 

[Feeling  the  staff's  splintered  edge.} 

No,  but  his  bare  flesh  !     On 
His  shoulder  ? 


The  slave. 


PITTACUS 
It  struck  only 

SAPPHO 
[  Quivering} 
The  bright  blood  started 


THE  TRAGEDY  89 

PITTACUS 

There  sprang  no  blood,  dear  lady ;  the  staff  broke 
Against  the  fagots  on  the  fellow's  shoulder.  — 
All  for  mere  words  !     Alcaeus  had  but  gibed  me 
With  foolish  words.     Judge  now  if  I  have  need 
Of  you,  to  sway  the  staff  of  Mitylene. 

SAPPHO 

\_After  a  brief  pause. ~\ 

True,  Pittacus  ;  why  should  we  not  splice  these 
In  one,  and  wield  this  staff  together  ?     Grant 
I'm  but  a  slave,  being  but  woman ;  yet 
If  you,  that  are  the  maker  of  your  law, 
If  you  detect  in  me  this  civic  gift 
Surpassing  woman,  shall  you  not  then  leap 
This  breach  of  sex,  and  make  me  your  true  mate  — 
Greatly  your  wife  and  lover  ? 


PITTACUS 

Speak  with  pity 
Let  me  not  doubt  I  hear  this. 


SAPPHO 

Hear  it  well, 

For  I  would  reason,  too  :     A  slave,  I  said, 
But  —  turn  the  tables  !      You  are  now  the  slave 
(No  maid  as  I,  but  such  a  bondman,  say, 
As  that  same  drift-wood  bearer  whom  you  struck), 
And  I  am  maiden-tyrant  of  Mitylene, 
Over  all  Lesbos  lawgiver  of  love. 


90  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PITTACUS 

Even  as  thou  art ! 

SAPPHO 

Why  then,  you  poor  base  slave,' 
If  I  detect  in  your  sea-sinew'd  limbs 
Olympian  graces  moving,  if  I  see 
Far  in  your  cold  deep  eyes  daemonic  fire 
Outburning  the  eye-glance  of  a  faun  in  love, 
If  I  behold  in  you,  outcast,  my  kin 
Congenial  spirit,  may  I  not  reach  to  you 
My  tyrant's  staff,  and  raise  you  at  my  side  — 
No  more  a  thing  for  men  to  scorn,  but  now 
Greatly  my  lord  and  lover  ? 

PITTACUS 

What  would  .  .  .  ? 

SAPPHO 

Wait! 

Or  must  I  now  because  I  am  a  woman, 
Forego  the  tyrant's  great  prerogative  — 
To  make  mine  own  law  ? 

PITTACUS 

Sappho,  but  to  what 
Leads  this?     I  do  not  follow  you. 

SAPPHO 

It  leads 

To  the  Golden  Age.     If  you  would  get  my  love, 
Follow  me  there.  • 

\Turning  away,  Sappho  springs  to  the  steps  of  Aphrodite's 
shrine.} 


THE   TRAGEDY  91 

PITTACUS 

Have  you,  then,  only  mocked  me  ? 
Am  I  to  come  no  more  ? 

SAPPHO 
[Pausing.  ] 

Nay,  Pittacus, 
I  have  but  mocked  myself.     Come  when  you  will. 

PITTACUS 

To-night  ?     Under  these  olives  ? 

SAPPHO 

When  you  will ; 

And  so,  good-by  !     Oh,  you  have  given  me  thoughts 
To  make  the  woman  tremble  in  me. 

PITTACUS 

Sappho ! 

[  With  a  gesture  of  love  toward  her,  as  she  turns  again  to  the 
steps,  he  departs,  left.  Sappho,  having  mounted  to  the 
shrine,  prostrates  herself  before  it;  then  — facing  the 
sEgean,  seated,  her  arms  about  her  knees,  plastic,  silent 
— gazes  down  upon  the  waves.  From  the  colonnade 
Atthis  enters  and  searches  about  with  her  eyes.~\ 

ATTHIS 
Where  art  thou,  Sappho  ? 

[Discovering  her,  Atthis  ascends  the  steps^ 

Anactoria 

Is  wilful,  and  she  swears  she  will  not  come 
Again,  till  she  has  sought  Alcaeus  out 


92  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

And   dragged   him    to   thy    scorn. — Thou  hast  not 

heard  me. 

Sweet  mistress,  here  is  Atthis.     What  hath  happened 
That  like  an  image  thou  sittst  staring  ? 

SAPPHO 

\In  a  low  voice, ,] 

Hark! 
She  is  calling  me. 

ATTHIS 

Who  calls  ? 

SAPPHO 

My  mother. 

ATTHIS 

[Starting.] 

Sappho ! 

SAPPHO 

Dost  thou  not  hear  her  sob  and  sing  below  us  ? 
Her  hollow  lute  is  turquoise,  and  she  touches 
The  silver  strings  of  ever-roaring  reefs 
Far  off  to  sound  her  awful  lullaby  ; 
And  while  she  croons,  between  her  foaming  breasts  — 
Like  infants  at  their  milk  —  Hyperion  lies 
And  heaving  Triton  dreams.     Us  too,  us  mortals, 
She  suckles  there,  and  there  she  buries  us. 

ATTHIS 
What  new  hymn  art  thou  musing  ? 

SAPPHO 

Listen  again ! 

Oh,  such  a  sobbing  cry  did  Thetis  make 
That  night  she  rose  beside  the  blood-starr'd  beach 


THE  TRAGEDY  93 

Of  Troy,  to  her  great  son  Achilles,  ere 
He  died.     Me,  too,  she  calls  :     I  sink,  I  sink  ! 
Atthis,  I  have  heard  the  whirling  cliff-birds  scream, 
And  watched  my  breaths  burst  up  through  the  green 

wave 
In  moons  of  opal  fire. 

ATTHIS 

I  am  afraid ; 
Is  it  some  goddess  calls  thee  ? 

SAPPHO 

'Tis  the  sea, 

The  teeming,  terrible,  maternal  sea 
That  spawned  us  all.     She  calls  me  back  to  her, 
But  I  will  not  go.     Her  womb  hath  brought  me  forth 
A  child  defiant.     I  will  be  free  of  her  ! 
Her  ways  are  birth,  fecundity,  and  death, 
But  mine  are  beauty  and  immortal  love. 
Therefore  I  will  be  tyrant  of  myself  — 
Mine  own  law  will  I  be !     And  I  will  make 
Creatures  of  mind  and  melody,  whose  forms 
Are  wrought  of  loveliness  without  decay, 
And  wild  desire  without  satiety, 
And  joy  and  aspiration  without  death ; 
And  on  the  wings  of  those  shall  I,  I,  Sappho  ! 
Still  soar  and  sing  above  these  cliffs  of  Lesbos, 
Even  when  ten  thousand  blooms  of  men  and  maids 
Are  fallen  and  withered — there. 

\_Peering  below,  she  touches  Atthis^  arm  and  points. ~\ 

What  man  is  that? 


94  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ATTHIS 
Where  ? 


SAPPHO 

There,  beneath  us,  where  the  cliff-path  leaves 
The  beach.     See,  he  is  climbing  toward  our  faces. 

ATTHIS 

I  am  dizzy. 

SAPPHO 

He  is  clinging  to  the  rock 

Of  garnet,  where  the  sea-doves  build  their  nests. 
He  is  reaching  over  it.  —  Atthis,  he  will  fall ! 


ATTHIS 

I  see  him  now  —  a  fisherman  :  his  net 
Is  over  his  shoulder. 

SAPPHO 

He  hath  seized  it,  look  — 
A  young  dove  !     And  he  brings  it  in  the  net. 


ATTHIS 

A  slave. 

SAPPHO 

Know  you  his  name  ? 


ATTHIS 

His  name  is  Phaon. 


THE  TRAGEDY  95 

SAPPHO 

{Slowly.'} 

Phaon  !     And  so  'tis  Phaon !  and  forever 
'  Sappho  and  Phaon.' 

ATTHIS 

Dost  thou  muse  again  ? 

SAPPHO 

When  lovers'  names  are  born,  their  syllables 
Fall  like  the  snowflakes  of  Apollo's  tears, 
That  crystallize  in  song. 

\_Mur muring. ~\ 

-  Sappho  and  Phaon  ! 

ATTHIS 

Tis  not  a  slave  like  others.     You  have  heard 
What  the  old  sea-wives  whisper. 


SAPPHO 

No. 


ATTHIS 

Of  him 
And  Aphrodite  ? 

SAPPHO 
[Eagerly. ,] 
Nay,  what  do  they  whisper  ? 


96  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ATTHIS 

They  say  that  once,  when  Phaon  was  a  boy, 
One  twilight,  when  the  y£gean  was  uptorn 
By  mighty  wind  and  thunder,  and  the  fish-folk 
Prayed  in  their  harbours  —  at  the  tempest's  height, 
Appeared  upon  the  beach  an  old,  poor  woman 
And  begged  a  passage  to  the  mainland.     None 
Heard  her  but  scoffed  or  cursed  her ;  only  Phaon 
Unloosed  his  boat,  and  rowed  her  through  the  storm 
To  Lydia.     At  dawn,  when  he  returned, 
His  look  was  altered  and  he  spoke  strange  things ; 
How,  when  his  boat  reached  mainland,  the  poor  hag 
Had  cast  her  cloak  and  sprung,  with  burning  limbs, 
Upon  the  sands  —  a  goddess  !     Since  which  night 
(They  say)  he  hath  grown  up  indifferent 
To  all  his  kith  and  kind ;  to  laughter,  love, 
And  slave-girls  singing.  --'Tis  a  pretty  tale; 
Wouldst  thou  not  love  to  make  a  song  of  it  ? 

SAPPHO 

In  truth,  my  Atthis,  'tis  a  moving  tale, 
And  I  should  love  to  make  a  song  of  it. 
Leave  me ! 

ATTHIS 

Wilt  thou  compose  it  on  the  spot  ? 

Nay,  then  I'll  go  for  news  of  Larichus. 

[Atthis  departs  toward  Mitylene.  Sappho,  left  alone, 
descends  from  the  shrine  and  leans  against  one  of  the 
temple  pillars.  From  the  cliff-path,  Phaon  enters. 
About  him  is  flung  a  sea-net,  under  the  hanging  folds 
of  which  he  holds  in  his  hands,  enmeshed,  a  white  dove. 


THE  TRAGEDY  97 

Seeing  him,  Sappho  withdraws  into  the  temple  through 
the  tapestries,  from  between  which  she  soon  looks  forth 
again.  Slowly  Phaon  descends  the  broad  steps  and, 
sitting  upon  the  last,  extricates  the  dove  from  the  net. 
As  he  rises  with  it  in  his  hand  and  goes  toward  the 
altar  of  Poseidon,  Sappho  —  unseen  of  him  —  comes 
from  the  temple  and  descends  the  steps  behind  him. 
Having  reached  the  altar,  Phaon  is  about  to  lift  a  knife 
which  lies  upon  it,  when  Sappho  stays  his  arm.  Seeing 
her,  he  bends  low  in  a  subjected  manner  ^\ 

SAPPHO 
The  dove :  what  wouldst  thou  with  the  wild  thing  ? 


Kill  it. 


PHAON 
\Serenely^\ 

SAPPHO 
It  struggles.     See,  is  not  it  beautiful  ? 

PHAON 

I  know  not ;  you  have  spoken. 

SAPPHO 

But  for  whom 
Wilt  thou  then  kill  it,  bondman  ? 


PHAON 

For  Poseidon ; 
The  god  is  angry. 


98  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Oh,  not  for  Poseidon ! 
His  sacrifice  is  death ;  to  Aphrodite 
Give  it !     For  her  the  sacrifice  is  life. 
Give  it  to  me  and  I  will  dedicate  it 
Alive  to  Aphrodite,  for  it  is 
Her  sacred  bird.     Look,  I  will  give  thee  this  — 
My  bracelet  —  for  the  dove. 

PHAON 

[Taking,  as  at  a  command,  Sappho 'j  bracelet,  releases  the 
dove  into  her  hands.~\ 

Tis  yours. 

SAPPHO 

Her  shrine 
Is  yonder.     I  will  loose  it  to  her  there. 

[Starting for  the  shrine,  Sappho  treads  upon  the  net,  which 
Phaon  before  has  let  fall  beside  the  steps.  Pausing,  she 
looks  back  at  him,  where  he  stands  intent  upon  the. 
gleaming  bracelet  in  his  hand.  For  a  moment  she  con 
tinues  to  look  at  Phaon  thus,  then,  wrapping  the  dove  in 
her  filmy  scarf,  and  placing  it  with  her  flowers  on  the 
steps,  she  lifts  the  net  where  it  lies.~\ 

Thy  net  is  torn. 

PHAON 

I  climbed  here  from  the  beach. 
It  caught  on  the  cliff-rocks. 

SAPPHO 

I  will  mend  it. 


THE   TRAGEDY  99 

PHAON 

[For  the  first  time  gazing  at  her.~\ 

You! 

[Fastening  one  end  of  the  net — somewhat  more  than 
shoulder-high  —  to  the  tripod  on  the  altar,  Sappho 
secures  the  other  end  to  the  bronze  caryatid,  right.  Thus 
(the  net  cutting  the  foreground  obliquely  from  the  middle} 
her  face  is  separated  from  Phaoris  by  the  interlaced 
strands,  some  of  which  —  hanging  torn  —  leave  gaps  in 
the  fibre ^ 

SAPPHO 
To  mend  is  woman's  task. 

PHAON 

[/«  wonder, .] 

Are  you  a  woman  ? 

SAPPHO 

Perhaps  I  am  what  women  yearn  to  be  : 
Man. 

PHAON 

Did  you  grow  here  in  the  temple  ? 


SAPPHO 

Where 

I  grew,  or  in  what  garden  by  the  spray 
Or  wave-lit  cave  my  spirit's  seed  was  sown, 
Surely  'tis  thou  who  knowest :  for  methinks 
Thou  also  grewest  there. 


100  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

It  may  be  so. 

SAPPHO 

Stood  we  not  then  as  now  ?  and  raised  as  now 
The  net  between  us  ? 

PHAON 
[Strangely."] 
Somewhat  I  remember. 

SAPPHO 

And  even  as  now  thine  eyes  shone  through  the  meshes, 
And  mine  in  thine  :   was  it  not  always  so  ? 

PHAON 

[Indifferent,  begins  to  tie  strands  of  the  netl\ 
Tis  broken. 

SAPPHO 

Ah,  but  shall  be  mended  !     I 
Will  tie  the  fibres. 

\In  silence  now  for  a  little,  they  stand  mending  the  net: 
Phaon  before  it,  dumbly  engrossed  in  his  task ;  Sappho, 
from  behind,  thrusting  at  times  her  white  hand  or  arm 
through  a  gap  to  reach  for  a  strand,  and  keeping  her 
eyes  burningly  intent  upon  Phaon. ~\ 

You  are  a  boatman. 


PHAON 

Yes. 


THE  TRAGEDY  IOI 

SAPPHO 
Go  you  alone  upon  the  water  ? 

PHAON 

Yes. 

SAPPHO 

When  you  are  all  alone,  are  you  afraid  ? 

PHAON 

No. 

SAPPHO 

Put  you  ever  far  to  sea  ? 

PHAON 

Sometimes. 

SAPPHO 

And  have  you  never  rowed  to  the  mainland  ? 


PHAON 

Oft. 

SAPPHO 
By  tempest  ? 

PHAON 

Once. 

SAPPHO 

A  storm  at  twilight  ? 


PHAON 

Once. 


102  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Oh,  is  it  true,  then,  what  the  sea-wives  tell  ? 
Was  she  a  goddess  ? 


PHAON 


Long  ago  !    'twas  long 
Ago.     I  was  a  boy,  and  that's  all  dark. 


SAPPHO 

And  have  you  never  seen  her  since  she  sprang 
Burning,  upon  the  sands  of  Lydia  ? 

PHAON 

[Momentarily  ardent.^ 
Sometimes  methought — I  know  not. 


SAPPHO 

Still  you  dreamed 
You  saw. 


PHAON 
How  knowest  thou? 


SAPPHO 

Tell  me  your  dreams. 

[After  a  pause,  Phaon  —  with  a  rapt  smile  —  speaks. 
While  he  does  so,  Sappho  —  who  has  unwittingly  tied 
his  left  wrist  in  one  of  the  meshes  where  his  hand  rests 
—  comes  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  net,  and  draws 
near  to  himJ] 


THE  TRAGEDY  103 

PHAON 

Oft  ere  the  day,  while  all  the  slaves  are  sleeping, 
I  and  my  boat  put  out  on  the  black  water ; 
Under  us  there  and  over  us,  the  stars  sing 

Songs  of  that  silence. 
Soon  then  the  sullen,  brazen-horned  oxen 
Rise  in  the  east,  and  slowly  with  their  wind-ploughs 
Break  in  the  acres  of  the  broad  ^Egean 

Furrows  of  fire. 

So,  many  a  time  there,  as  I  leaned  to  watch  them 
Yoked  in  their  glory,  sudden  'gainst  the  sunrise 
Seemed  that  there  stood  a  maiden —  a  bright  shadow — 

SAPPHO 
Ah,  you  beheld  her ! 

\^From  the  colonnade,  behind  the  farthest  pillar,  Alcceus  and 
Anactoria  enter  and  pause.  Anactoria,  nearly  con 
cealed  by  the  pillar,  points  out  to  Alcceus  the  figures  (on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  net)  of  Phaon  and  Sappho, 
where,  standing  together,  they  are  visible  through  the 
meshes.  Alcceus'  face  darkens.  Sappho,  not  seeing 
them,  speaks  in  a  low,  impassioned  voice  to  Phaon .] 

Look  in  my  face.     What  were  her  features  like  — 
Hers,  that  bright  shadow  ? 


Have  tied  me  in  the  mesh. 


PHAON 

I  am  tangled  ;  you 


SAPPHO 

I  tied  you  ? 


104  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

Here- 
My  wrist. 

SAPPHO 

Did  I  do  this  ? 

PHAON 

You  see  —  the  noose. 

SAPPHO 

But  did  you  feel  me  tie  this  ? 

PHAON 

No. 

SAPPHO 
[Murmurs.'] 

'Twas  she ! 

Your  hand  is  fast ;  know  you  who  made  it  fast  ? 
'Twas  she:  her  fingers  drew  these  knots. 

PHAON 

Untie  them. 

[Afcteus,     darkly,     and     Anactoria,     radiant,     withdraw 
unseen.] 

SAPPHO 

Nay,  but  who  knows  what  wise,  unconscious  plot 
Her  deft,  strange  fingers  wove  to  trap  thee  ?     Thou 
Perchance  hast  trespassed  here  too  near  her  shrine, 
And,  having  stranded  thee  in  thine  own  net, 
She  now  is  loath  to  toss  thee  back  again 
In  the  sea,  to  thy  dumb  mermen. 


THE  TRAGEDY  105 

PHAON 
[  Working  with  his  right  hand.'] 

They  are  fine, 
These  knots. 

SAPPHO 

And  so  perchance,  for  chastisement, 
She  hath  contrived  this  noose  to  keep  thee  here 
In  speech  with  her,  till  thou  shalt  call  to  mind 
The  face,  and  name  the  name,  of  her  you  love. 

PHAON 
I  mind  it  well  —  her  face.     Unloose  me. 

SAPPHO 

Look! 

Is  it  a  dream-face  still  ?  —  A  shadow  ? 

PHAON 

No; 
'Tis  with  me  days  and  nights.     It  is  familiar. 

SAPPHO 

And  yours  to  her  familiar  as  these  nights 
And  days  —  and  yet  as  worshipful  and  strange. 

PHAON 
[Fascinated.] 
Untie  me. 

SAPPHO 

First,  her  name  !  You  may  not  slip 
Her  noose,  till  you  have  guessed  the  name  of  her 
You  love. 


IO6  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 
I  know  it  well. 

SAPPHO 
[Smiling.] 

Methinks  you  boast 

To  seem  more  skilled  than  she  in  guessing  yours. 
How  call  you  her  ? 

PHAON 
Thalassa. 

SAPPHO 
[After  a  pause.~\ 

What  is  that  ? 

PHAON 
Her  name. 

SAPPHO 

What's  she  ? 

PHAON 

A  slave. 

SAPPHO 

And  what  is  she 
To  you? 

PHAON 

She's  mine ;  maketh  my  fire. 

SAPPHO 

Ah! 


THE  TRAGEDY  107 

PHAON 


Loose  me. 


SAPPHO 

You  do  not  dwell  alone,  then  ? 


PHAON 

No. 

SAPPHO 

You  are  wed  ? 

PHAON 
We  are  slaves ;  slaves  are  not  wed. 

SAPPHO 

No  ;  but  you  love  her. 

PHAON 

Yes  ;  children  have  I  got  with  her  ;  the  bairn 
Is  stricken  of  the  fever. 

SAPPHO 
\_Seizing  the  knife,  cuts  the  meshes  of  the  netl\ 

Go ;  you  are  free. 
\Phaongoes,  silent.] 
Stay  ;  I  have  cut  your  wrist. 


PHAON 

A  scratch. 

SAPPHO 

It  bleeds. 


108  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

The  bairn  is  sick  and  I  must  sacrifice 
A  young  dove  to  our  lord  Poseidon.     Soon 
Its  mother  will  be  here,  to  pray  with  me 
For  the  babe's  life. 

SAPPHO 

Where  is  its  mother  now  ? 


PHAON 

She  is  gone  up  to  the  city,  to  the  house 
Of  Sappho  —  the  great  lady. 


SAPPHO 

Oh,  of  Sappho 
What  does  she  there  ? 


PHAON 

She  is  gone  to  the  slave-quarters 
With  crawfish  and  sea-tortoise  for  a  feast. 
Methinks  the  lady's  brother  shall  be  wed 
To-morrow. 

SAPPHO 

She  is  gone  to  the  slave-quarters.  — 
Let  see  thy  wrist.  —  The  house  of  Sappho  is 
A  slave's  house.  —  Ah,  the  blood ! 
[  Tearing  a  shred  from  her  garment,  she  binds  his  wrist.~\ 

I,  too,  have  heard 
Of  Sappho  —  the  great  slave. 


THE  TRAGEDY  109 

PHAON 

Nay,  'tis  a  noble 

Maiden  of  Lesbos.     At  Apollo's  feast 
Once,  in  the  crowd,  I  saw  her  fillet  pass 
Above  the  virgins'  heads  into  the  palace, 
And  all  the  people  shouted  :  lo  Sappho  ! 

SAPPHO 

Believe  it  not ;  the  people  were  deceived. 
I  know  her  well  and  she  was  born  in  chains  — 
A  weak  and  wretched  fellow-slave  of  thine, 
Whose  proudest  joy  were  but  to  bind  the  hurt 
Which  she  hath  given  thee,  even  as  I  do  now. 
Dost  thou  not  hear  me  ?     Whereon  dost  thou  gaze  ? 

PHAON 

[Looking  off,  left.'} 
She  is  coming. 

SAPPHO 

Phaon  !     Phaon ! 

PHAON 

[For  the  first  time  turning  upon    her  a  wild  unconscious 
look  of  love,  grasps  his  bound  wrist  tightly. ~\ 

Ah !  it  pains. 

\Enter  THALASSA,  bearing  a  willow  basket  of  strange  design. 
She  is  dishevelled  with  seaweed  and  her  long,  fair  hair, 
tinged  with  the  green  of  salt  ooze,  has  partly  slipped  its 
fillet  of  vari-coloured  shells.  She  moves  impassively  to 
Phaon,  and  speaks  in  a  low  monotonel\ 


110  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

THALASSA 

The  day's  dead ;  the  moon's  with  child  ; 
The  tide's  full.     I  saw  far  out 
A  shark's  fin.  —  Poseidon  calls. 
Hast  killed  it  ? 

PHAON 

{Pointing  toward  Sappho.'] 
She  bade  me  not. 

THALASSA 

[Turning  to  Sappho,  who  shrinks  from  her  behind  the  net, 
bows  herself  low  in  obeisance.  ~\ 

What  Sappho  forbiddeth  thee 
The  sea-god  hath  bidden  thee.  — 
The  babe  shall  have  sacrifice. 

PHAON 

[Looking  at  Sappho,  with  a  rush  of  thought^ 
'What,  Sappho'  —  ! 

THALASSA 

The  sea-dove  —  where 
Didst  hide  it  ? 

PHAON 

'Tis  there. 
[As  Thalassa  goes  toward  the  steps.~] 

'Tis  hers. 

She  bought  it ;  this  bracelet  gave 
To  save  its  life. 


THE  TRAGEDY  III 

THALASSA 

Give  it  me. 

[  Taking  the  bracelet  from  Phaon,  she  holds  it  against  the 
sunset,  turning  and  turning  it  in  the  light.] 

PHAON 

[Standing  at  a  distanced] 

And  are  you  Sappho  ?     Yet  did  speak  my  name, 
And  bind  my  wrist,  and  call  yourself  a  slave ' 

SAPPHO 

And  artthou  Phaon  ?     Phaon  for  whom  the  stars 
Sang,  and  the  brazen-horned  oxen  ploughed 
The  acres  of  the  sunrise  ?     Yet  thou  lovest  —  this  ? 

PHAON 

You  said  :  "  I  know  her  well,  and  she  was  born 
In  chains  —  a  fellow-slave !  "     What  did  you  mean  ? 

SAPPHO 

[Gazing,  curious  and  incredulous.] 
Thalassa  ! 

THALASSA 
[Slipping  the  bracelet  over  her  arm.~\ 

It  shineth  fine : 
See,  Phaon ! 

SAPPHO 

Thalassa,  where's 
Thy  home  ? 


112  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

THALASSA 

On  the  beach  we  sleep 
Together. 

SAPPHO 

What  dost  thou  for 
Thy  lover  ? 

THALASSA 

For  him  I  keep 
Food,  fire,  and  the  babe  and  boy. 

SAPPHO 

And  what  wilt  thou  do  to  make 
His  labour  and  name  to  grow 
Magnificent  over  the  isles  ? 

THALASSA 

[Returns  Sappho 's  enkindled  gaze  with  proud  serenity '.] 
More  bairns  will  I  bear  to  him. 

SAPPHO 

And  they  —  when  the  frost  of  death 
Hath  gathered  both  thee  and  him  — 
Shall  they  too  but  live  —  to  live  ? 
Be  born  still  to  bear  again 
Procreative  things  that  die  ? 

PHAON 

[Having  listened,  vaguely  fearful,  moves  now  between  the  two 
women,  and  draws  Thalassa,  protecting!}?. ~\ 

Cease,  cease  !  — Thalassa,  come  with  me.    Her  eyes  ! 
They  burn  us  through  the  net.     O  come  away  ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  113 

THALASSA 

\_As  she  goes  with  Phaon,  raises  her  arm  with  the  bracelet, 
for  Sappho  to  see.~\ 

This  gold  will  I  give  the  bairn 

To  play  with.  —  Keep  thou  the  dove. 

PHAON 

[  With  a  gesture  of  yearning  toward  Sappho,  departs  in  the 
falling  twilight t  his  voice  broken  with  pain.~] 

Thalassa! 

[Sappho,  through  the  net,  watching  them  together  till  they 
disappear,  seizes  then  the  net  before  her  and,  tearing  it 
down,  rends  once  the  meshes  with  her  hands, .] 

SAPPHO 

Aphrodite !     Aphrodite ! 
Now,  now  thy  net  is  torn,  thy  bird  is  free. 

[Springing  to  the  steps,  she  lifts  the  sea-dove  and  unwinds 
from  about  it  the  filmy  scarf.~] 

O  darling  bird,  which  art  my  beating  soul, 
That  Phaon  captured  on  these  wild  sea-cliffs, 
Mount  up,  mount  up  !  and  nestle  with  thy  wings 
Against  the  burning  chlamys  of  heaven's  queen 
There  where  her  breast  heaves  highest.  —  Say  to  her : 
"  Lady  of  love,  almighty  !     This  is  Sappho  — 
Her  spirit  —  whom  thou  madest  of  that  fire 
Which  sleeps  in  Phaon's  eyes.     Lo,  I  am  his, 
And  I  will  make  him  mine  !"  —  This  say  to  her, 
My  heart's  bird,  and  beseech  her,  if  she  hears 


114  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

My  prayer,  and  sanctioneth  my  passionate 
Resolve,  that  she  will  speed  thee  back  to  me 
In  token  she  approves.  —  Yet  should  she  not, 
Here  do  I  choose,  in  spite  of  sea  and  heaven, 
The  sanction  of  myself. 

[Releasing  the  sea-dove  ^\ 

Good-by,  sweet  bird  ! 

\_On  the  steps,  from  her  uplifted  hand,  she  looses  the  bird, 
which  takes  wing  into  the  sunset.  Immediately  Sappho 
springs  up  the  steps  and  goes  to  the  cliff ''s  edge.  There, 
standing  against  the  subdued  reflections  of  the  sEgean, 
she  follows  the  dove"1  s  far  flight  with  her  eyes.] 

\_Rising,  the  Herculaneum  curtain  shuts  off  the  scene.~\ 


Here  follows  the  Pantomime  of  the  First  Interlude. 
Vide  Appendix. 


ACT  II 


ACT  II 

Early  night  of  the  same  day.  The  temple  and  sea  gleam 
vaguely  under  the  moon.  Tapers  are  burning  beneath 
the  outstretched  stone  wings  of  the  dove  on  Aphro 
dite's  shrine,  and  the  urn  of  Poseidon  glows  with 
fire  —  a  signal  light  to  mariners.  Swinging  lamps 
twinkle  in  the  olive  grove.  On  the  edge  of  the  grove, 
alone,  stands  Pittacus  in  reverie.  From  all  sides  out 
of  the  night,  arise  the  soft  string-sounds  of  sweet  instru 
ments  and  the  music  of  far  laughter.  In  the  near 
distance  (from  the  left)  the  voice  of  Alcaus  sings. 

ALOEUS 
Wine,  dear  child,  and  truth 

And  youth  and  these  lips  of  thine ! 
Wine  from  the  crocus'  cup 

And  truth  from  the  poppy's  heart 

Drink  to  me 
While  I  think  of  thee ! 
Think  of  me 
While  I  drink,  drink 

Wine  and  youth 
And  truth  from  these  lips  of  thine. 

PITTACUS 

[Coming  slowly  down  the  steps. ~\ 

Tis  silent  now  —  that  song;  but  still  the  silver  shores 
Are  drench'd  with  dews  of  it ;  the  olive  groves  —  the 

air, 

117 


II 8  SAPPHO  AND   PHAON 

The  ever-rhythmic  waters  —  are  in  love.     Of  all 

I  only  and  the  white  stars  are  not  amorous. 

No  more  the  wine  of  thee,  dear  child :     the  truth  I 

drink ! 

And  drinking  that,  I  pass  from  madness  into  peace  : 
Peace  now,  yet  should  I  look  once  more  into  her  eyes, 
What  then  ? 

[Enter  from  the  grove  a  Figure,  clad  in  the  cloak  of  a  Greek 
soldier,  wearing  a  helmet  with  long  horse-hair  plume, 
a  gold  breastplate,  and  greaves  of  gold.  ~\ 


THE  FIGURE 
\_Approaching  Pittacus.~\ 
'Under  these  olives,'  lord  of  Mitylene ! 

PITTACUS 
\_Starting.~\ 
Her  brother,  Larichus. 

\_Turning  toward  the  Figure,  pauses  bewildered^ 
Not  Sappho  —  you ! 

SAPPHO 

'  Under  these  olives '  —  was  it  not  the  place  ? 
Well  met,  O  Pittacus ! 

PITTACUS 

In  such  a  garb  — 


THE  TRAGEDY  119 

SAPPHO 

The  wise  Athene  walked  at  Ilium 
Among  the  tetchy  Greeks.     The  arbiter 
Of  men  needs  govern  as  a  man.  —  Where  is 
Your  tyrant's  staff  ? 


PITTACUS 
\_Drawing  dack.~] 

Keep  from  me,  lest  again 
I  lose  the  tranquil  planet  of  my  peace. 
Let  me  depart  from  you. 

SAPPHO 

/  will  depart 
When  you  have  given  me  what  I  come  to  claim. 

PITTACUS 
All  but  my  quiet  soul. 

SAPPHO 

That  girdle  of  keys. 

PITTACUS 

[Feeling  at  his  side^\ 
They  are  the  city  keys. 


120  SAPPHO   AND   PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Which  one  of  them 
Unlocks  the  yoke-rings  of  the  public  slaves  ? 

\_Pittacus  loosens  one.~\ 
Give  me  that  one. 

[Reaching^  snatches  it  from  him  with  a  glad  sighJ] 

Now  keep  your  quiet  soul, 
Philosopher :  I  will  no  more  affray 
Your  sleep  with  my  alarms. 

[She  turns,  and  is  leaving.] 

PITTACUS 
[Unmanned  by  her  presence^ 

Yet  do  not  go ! 

SAPPHO 

Peace !     You  have  put  away  with  me  the  quest 
Of  happiness.     Yours  is  the  living  pall, 
The  aloof  and  frozen  place  of  listeners 
And  lookers-on  at  life.     But  mine  —  ah  !  mine 
The  fount  of  life  itself,  the  burning  spring 
Pierian  !  —  I  pity  you.     Farewell ! 
\Exit,  left.-] 

PITTACUS 

Farewell,  thou  burning  one  and  beautiful ! 
I  pity  thee,  for  thou  must  live  to  quench 
With  thine  own  tears  thine  elemental  fire. 
[Enter  Phaon,  right.~\ 


THE  TRAGEDY  121 


PHAON 

[  Groping  toward  the  altar,  moans  low.~\ 
Poseidon  !     O  Poseidon  ! 

PITTACUS 

Still  this  slave 
That  rises  in  my  path  to  baffle  me ! 

PHAON 
Ah  —  ah,  Poseidon  ! 

PITTACUS 
\_Drawing  near] 
Slave ! 

PHAON 
[Pausing,  speaks  confidingly.] 

Are  you  the  god  ? 

PITTACUS 
[Half  bitterly.] 

The  god !     I  have  deserved  thy  question,  slave. 
Before,  thy  silence  stung  me  —  now  thy  words. 

PHAON 

Lord,  lift  it  from  me ;  take  it  from  my  eyes ! 
Why  have  you  cast  its  dimness  over  me  ? 

PITTACUS 
What  wouldst  thou  have  me  lift  ? 


122  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON- 

PHAON 

It  closes  down. 
Stretch  forth  your  arm  and  draw  it  back  to  you. 

PITTACUS 

Look  near  :  canst  thou  not  see  me  ? 


PHAON 

None  I  see ! 

The  shore  is  gone  !     It  shutteth  out  the  stars, 
Thicker  and  colder ! 


PITTACUS 

What? 


PHAON 

The  fog !     The  fog ! 

It  shuts  between  us,  and  her  far  white  face 
Wanes  toward  me  like  the  lady  in  the  moon, 
And  now  between  the  meshes  I  can  see, 
Like  shrines,  her  two  eyes  burning. 


PITTACUS 

Even  this  one ! 

Is  there  none  then  too  low  ?  no  piece  of  clay 
But  passion  there  will  make  its  chrysalis 
And  kindle  the  worm  wings  ?     Rest,  thou  poor  churl ! 

\Exit  slowly  y  right.] 


THE  TRAGEDY  123 

PHAON 
[Descending  the  steps  supplicatinglyl\ 

Lord,  be  not  angry  !     Take  it  from  before 
My  face,  and  show  me  hers  !    Sweep  it  away, 
And  with  your  great  hand  show  again  the  stars. 

\_Enter  from  the  grove  Thalassa.  Slung  at  her  back,  is  a 
swaddled  babe.  At  her  side  is  a  little  boy  of  some  four 
or  five  years  —  his  sturdy,  sun-tanned  body  naked,  save 
for  wreathings  of  sea-weed  and  kelp,  partly  concealing 
his  torse  and  intertangling  the  oozy  locks  of  his  long 
hair.  The  child  carries  a  tortoise''  shell,  with  which  — 
sitting  upon  the  ground  —  he  plays.  Pausing  at  the 
top  of  the  steps,  Thalassa  unbinds  the  infant  from  her 
back  and  takes  it  in  her  arms.~\ 

THALASSA 

lo,  my  bairn  !  wakest  thou  ? 
Aye  drowseth  thy  bonny  head 
Low  !  burneth  thy  little  cheek 
That  erst  it  was  cold  as  ice. 
lo,  my  bairn !  droop  thee  not 
Away  from  thy  mother's  eyes ; 
Look  up  in  them. 

[Descending  the  steps,  Thalassa  reaches  the  swaddled  child 
toward  Phaon,  who  stands  by  the  altar,  his  face  from 
hers,  oblivious  —  staring  ahead  of  himJ\ 

Phaon,  take 

The  bairn  to  thee  :  might  it  smile 
To  lie  in  its  father's  arm 
And  feel  it  strong.  —  Phaon  ! 


124  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

\_Turning  about  vaguely  toward  her,  Phaon  takes  the  out- 
reached  burden  in  his  arms  and  holds  it,  rigid.  Thalassa 
then,  bending  over,  takes  from  her  arm  Sappho's  bracelet 
and  holds  it  dangling  over  the  infant."] 

So! 
Now  shall  my  bairnling  look  up  and  see  what  the 

Lady  of  Lesbos 
Hath  given  its  father  —  a  little  gold  dolphin  instead 

of  the  sea-dove 
For  bairnling  to  hold  in  its  fingers  and  play  with  and 

make  it  grow  strong.     Look  ! 
Its  eyes  are  the  green  little  stones  that  burn  in  the 

shallows  at  low-tide, 
And  it  bringeth  a  pearl  in  its  mouth  to  please  thee; 

aha  !    glint  thine  eye  now 
And  look  where  the  scales  of  it  shine  and  shine  in  my 

bairnling's  moon-beam, 
And  it  hath  a  slippery  silvery  tail  like  a  sea-maiden's. 

[Bending  over  closer."] 
Phaon  ! 

It  waketh  not.  Speak  to  it  once !  It  sleepeth  aye 
as  in  fire. 

[Snatching  the  babe  from  Phaon1  s  arm  and  nestling  it,  pas 
sionate^  she  drops  the  bracelet  on  the  groundJ] 

A  curse  on  the  bright  dark  Lady  of  Lesbos  !     A  curse 

on  her  shining 
Arm-ring !     Ah,  naught  it  availeth  the  fever.     Go ! 

Go  and  seek  thou 
A  victim  and  kill  it.     The  wave-god  is  angry !    worse 

is  the  bairn.  —  Go ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  125 

But  seek  first  the  house  of  Sappho  and  give  her  the 
gold  thing  back.  —  Go  ! 

\Phaon  moves  a  dazed  step,  then  remains  motionless.  Turn 
ing  away,  Thalassa,  her  face  bent  near  to  the  babe  in 
her  arms,  goes  slowly  up  the  steps.  ] 

Io,  my  bairn  !     Come  away. 

Now  under  the  holy  beam 

Thy  mother  will  pray  for  thee 

That  soon  thou  shalt  wake  and  smile. 

Io,  my  bairn !  droop  thee  not 

Away  from  thy  mother's  heart. 

[She  passes  into  the  temple.  The  little  boy  is  about  to  follow, 
but,  seeing  the  bracelet  at  Phaorts  feet,  he  runs  back,  and 
lifts  it  in  his  hand  to  his  father.] 

THE  CHILD 
Babbo ! 

PHAON 

Thy  voice  it  is  !     Bion,  thy  face  ! 
Methought  it  had  been  hers  till  thy  young  eyes 
Shone  through  her  misty  hair :  and  now  that  mist 
Fades  in  the  moon  away. 

[Smiling  at  the  child,  he  sits  on  the  altar  ste_ps  and  takes  him 
in  his  arms.~\ 

How  creptst  thou  here, 

Sand-snail  ?     Aye  stickest  to  thy  Babbo's  side 
Like  a  spar  of  drift-wood.     Ever  at  evening 
When  roweth  Babbo  weary  to  the  beach, 
Thou  springest  from  the  kelp,  climbest  his  knees, 


126  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Showest  thy  day's  sport.     Tighter,  tighter,  bairn, 

Thine  arms  about  me  !     Keep  thy  father  fast.  — 

Thou  little  piece  of  me,  grow  not  so  tall ! 

Taller  than  the  iris-reeds  that  water-maids 

Make  into  pipes  for  Pan  to  play  upon. 

Soon  too  shalt  thou  be  ripe  for  him  to  play. 

Nay,  whither  now  ?     What  new  sport  bringest  here 

To  show  me  ?  —  Tortoise  !     A  young  turtle's  shell  : 

And   was    thine    own    catch  ?      Flung    him    on   the 

back ! 

Brave  kill !  —  What  shineth  in  thy  fingers  there  ? 
Show  me  what  'tis. 

\_The  Child  lifts  to  him  again  the  dolphin-bracelet  of  Sappho. 
Phaon,  staring  at  it,  starts  to  his  feet  with  his  former 
gesture  of  passionate  groping?^ 

Poseidon  !     Ah,  Poseidon  ! 
Once    more,    once    more,    why    blurrest    thou    the 

world  ! 

Lift  it  away  !     Thy  mist  is  over  all. 
Show  me  the  path  to  her. 

[  With  wondering  eyes,  the  Child  takes  Phaon's  hand  as  if  to 
lead.'] 

'Tis  bitter  cold, 
And  is  thy  hand  so  small  and  warm  ?     Lead  on  — 

[Slowly  the  Child  leads  his  father  up  the  steps  toward  the 
colonnade^ 

'Tis  ticklish  walking  on  the  wet  weed-slime 

And   naught  but   cloud   to    lean    on  —      Lead    the 

way. 
Her  house  is  yonder  where  the  breakers  are. 


THE  TRAGEDY  127 

\Reentering  with  the  infant  from  the  temple,  Thalassa  steps 
forward  between  the  first  and  second  pillars.  There , 
taking  the  bracelet  from  the  boy's  hand,  she  draws  him 
with  her  away  from  his  father  and  returns  to  the 
temple  door.~\ 

THALASSA 

This  gold  will*/  give  to  her 
Back.     Go  thou  to  Sappho's  gate 
And  ask  of  what  hour  to-night 
She  cometh  to  the  temple.     We 
Shall  wait  thee  here.     Come  to  us ! 

[She  goes  into  the  temple  with  the  children.  Phaon  —  his 
face  lifted,  his  hand  feeling  before  him  — passes  slowly 
off  through  the  colonnade.] 

PHAON 

Poseidon,  —  thy  hand  again  ! 
[Exit.] 

\_The  voice  of  Alcceus  calls  outside  in  the  olive-grove] 

ALGOUS 

Boy !  —  lacchus  !  —  Boy  ! 

[Enter  Alcceus,  accompanied  by  an  Ethiopian  slave  boy, 
and  followed  by  Sappho,  disguised  as  before,  now 
carrying  a  spear.  Alcceus,  wreathed  with  grape  leaves, 
is  adorned  fantastically  as  a  Bacchanalian.  The  slave, 
likewise  draped  with  vines,  bears  upon  his  head  and 
shoulders  a  bulging  wine-sack  made  of  a  skin.  This 
(sinking  upon  one  knee)  he  supports  thus  as  upon  a 
salver  at  Alcceus'  side,  and  lifts  to  him,  from  beneath  it, 
a  shallow,  black-figured  drinking  cup.  ] 


128  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALCEUS 

Here,  here,  thou  sack-stool !     Down, 
And  hold  the  pigskin  for  the  bridegroom.     Wait ! 

[Addressing  the  cloaked  figure  of  Sappho. ~\ 
Hail,  Larichus  !  hail,  bridegroom  home  again  ! 
To  Dionysus  I  thy  welcome  pour.  —     „ 

The  cup  !  - 

[Filling  it  from  the  sack.~\ 

I  charge  thee,  bird  from  Lydia, 
When  Atthis  keeps  thy  house  in  Lesbos,  plant 
No  other  tree  before  the  vine !     And  so 
Sleep   long    and   make   your    nest   in   grape-leaves. 
Drink ! 

And  so  for  song : 

\_Singing.~] 

Wine,  dear  child,  and  truth  • 

And  youth  and  these  lips  — 

SAPPHO 

[Turning from  the  cup.~\ 
No  wine  for  me. 

ALGOUS 

No  bride  for  Larichus ! 

For  what  is  love  but  grape-juice  ?  brides,  but  grapes  ? 
And  lovers  —  wine-skins  !     Look  you  on  this  sack 
My  caryatid  here  is  holding — This 
Whilome  was  pig  and  grunted  in  the  bog 
For  water-nuts  and  mire :  a  sow's  first-born 
With  bristles,  Hyacinthus  of  the  herd  ! 

\_Pouringfrom  the  sack  and  drinking.  ] 


THE  TRAGEDY  129 

Behold  him  now  —  a  vessel  for  us  gods, 
Swelling  with  Cyprian  nectar.     O  translation  ! 
Yet  such  a  pig  was  Pittacus,  who  now 
Swelleth  with  love  of  Sappho. — 

\DrinkingI\ 

Nay,  but  we  — 

Before  we  fell  in  love,  were  we  not  swine 
Compared  to  this  we  are  ? 

[Patting  the  wine-sack.~\ 

•  I  say,  for  one, 

The  Arcadians  crunched  acorns  and  no  slander 
To  them  ;  and  as  for  me  — 

[Singing.] 

0  Ajax  was  a  king,  not  I ! 

1  fell  by  the  kiss  of  the  Cyprus-born  - 
And  though  Hebrus  be  the  most  plentiful  of  rivers 
yet  'tis  said :  from  nothing, 

[Inverting  his  empty  cupl\ 
nothing  cometh.     More,  boy ! 

SAPPHO 

Where's  Atthis  ? 

ALGOUS 

Where's  thy  sister  ?     Where's  the  song-dove  ? 
Where's  Sappho  ? 

SAPPHO 
[Starting^ 
You've  not  answered  me. 


130  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS 

All's  one ! 

I  say,  there  lives  a  kind  of  four-wing' d  Muse, 
Quadruple-eyed  and  double-filleted, 
Called  indiscriminately  Sappho  —  Atthis ; 
Find  one,  find  both  ;  for  they  be  always  arm 
And  neck  together.     Nay,  but  Larichus, 
Patience  and  wait!     As  I  am  drunk,  henceforth 
I  am  thy  brother :    Sappho  loveth  me. 

SAPPHO 

Since  when  ? 

ALGOUS 

By  Heracles,  I  know  not :  here 
To-day  upon  this  ground,  she  swooned  all  pale 
Because  another  loved  me  ;  and  she  bade 
Me  meet  her  here  to-night.  —  Good  lad,  thy  hand 
And  blessing  ! 

[Sappho  draws  slightly  away.~\ 
What! 

SAPPHO 

I  wish  you  joy  of  her. 

ALGOUS 

And  not  thy  hand  upon  it  ? 

SAPPHO 

To  be  honest, 
I  cannot  deem  you  happy. 


THE  TRAGEDY  131 

ALGOUS 

With  thy  sister ! 

SAPPHO 

These  sisters  are  not  all  they  seem  to  be. 

ALGOUS 

But  Sappho ! 

SAPPHO 
I  perhaps  know  her  too  well. 

ALGOUS 

And  doubt  she  loves  me  ? 

SAPPHO 

Nay,  far  otherwise. 
I  doubt  if  ever  she  saw  form  of  man, 
Or  maiden  either,  whom  —  being  beautiful  — 
She  hath  not  loved. 

ALGOUS 

But  not  with  passion  — 


SAPPHO 

All 

That  breathes  to  her  is  passion  ;  love  itself. 
All-passionate. 


132  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS 

Thou  goadest  me  with  thorns.  — 
This  evening  —  Nay,  why  should  I  tell  thee  this  ? 
And  yet  I  will :  —  At  sunset,  here  I  saw 
Thy  sister  speaking  with  a  public  slave. 


Ah 


SAPPHO 
[  Withdrawing.'} 


ALGOUS 

If  I  thought  —  but  I  will  tell  thee  more. 
Here  hung  a  net  suspended,  and  they  stood 
Together,  speaking  low — I  watched  them  yonder. 
The  slave  was  mending.     Somehow  he  had  got 
One  of  his  hands  entangled  in  the  mesh, 
And  she  —  I  could  not  plainly  watch  her  through 
The  net  —  methought  she  peered  into  his  face. 


SAPPHO 

Ah! 

ALGOUS 

So  I  left  them. 


No  more  ? 


SAPPHO 

Did  you  stay  to  see 


ALGOUS 

There  was  one  with  me. 


THE  TRAGEDY  133 

SAPPHO 

[Quickly. ~] 

Who? 

ALGOUS 

No  matter. 

But  him  —  that  slave  !    Sappho  to  speak  with  him 
On  the  temple  steps !  —  The  thought  hath  maddened 

me. 

Why  art  thou  silent  ?     Dost  thou  deem  it  nothing 
That  she  should  stoop  to  him  ? 


SAPPHO 

She  could  not  stoop 
To  him. 

ALGOUS 

By  heaven  !     I'd  have  his  vermin  heart 
Upon  a  spit  and  roast  it  —  were  it  so  ; 
But  I  am  drunk  to  think  it.  —  Boy,  I  pray  you 
When  next  you  meet  your  sister,  say  no  word 
Of  what  I  saw  ;  but  tactfully  you  might 
Whisper  some  praises  of  me.     Wait  a  little, 
I'll  run  and  find  her. 

\_To  the  wine- slave .] 

Come ! 
[Calling  back.~\ 

And  Atthis  too  ! 

I'll  tell  her  thou  art  waiting  here  to  clasp 
Her  neck  with  Lydian  pearls.     Ho  bride  and  groom ! 


134  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

[Nabbing   the   slave-boy  by  the  ear,    he   departs  with  him, 
singing.'} 

Fetch  me  a  Teian 

Goblet  of  gold  ! 
Life  is  a  cubit, 

Love  is  a  span. 

\_Exit.~] 

SAPPHO 
[After  a  pause, .] 

Soon  shall  the  moon  on  the  waters 
Sleep,  and  the  Pleiades ;  midnight 
Come  and  the  darkness  be  empty, 
I  in  the  silence  —  be  waiting. 
Phaon  !    Phaon  !  —  where  must  I 
Seek  thee  ?     Send  me  thine  omen  ! 
[Remotely  from    the    grove    sounds   the    voice    of  Alcceus, 

singing.'] 

ALC^EUS 
Love  me,  drink  with  me,  bloom  with  me,  die,  love ! 

Garlands  for  me  are  thine. 
Mad  when  I  am,  share  thou  of  my  madness, 

Wise,  be  thou  wise  with  me. 

[From  between  the  temple -tapes  tries  appears  Bion,  the  child. 
Running  to  the  grove,  he  lifts  from  the  ground  a  broken 
olive-bough,  with  lithe  green  shoots.  These  he  strips  of 
their  leaves  and  twines,  snake-like,  round  the  main  stem, 
which  he  flourishes  blithely  as  a  staff.  Discovering  then 
the  tortoise-shell  which  lies  near  the  steps,  he  runs  to 
pick  it  upl\ 


THE  TRAGEDY  135 

SAPPHO 

[  Watching  him.'] 
At  play  —  a  luck-child  !     Here's  my  happy  omen. 

[Taking  the  shell,  Bion  is  about  to  return  to  the  temple,  when, 
seeing  the  cloaked  Figure,  he  pauses  and  stares :] 

SAPPHO 

Well,  water-elf  ?     Upon  what  dolphin's  back 
Or  oily  bladder  rodest  thou  here  to  land  ? 
Why  dost  thou  pierce  me  with  those  sea-blue  eyes, 
As  though  they  saw  me  in  as  guileless  state 
As  thy  small  body  is?     Dost  thou  perchance 
See  through  this  manly  corselet  and  suspect 
This  strutting  Menelaus,  that  he  wears 
Within,  a  heart  more  coward-womanly 
Than  Paris  ?     Stare  not  so,  but  answer  me. 
Ah,  now  I  know  thou  art  a  water-boy, 
For  wave-sprites  all  are  dumb  to  mortals,  speak 
Only  to  mermaids  and  to  weedy  Triton, 
Their  father.    Come,  what  hast  thou  there  ? 

[The  boy  holds  out  the  tortoise-shell  and  as,  taking  it,  Sappho 
sits  upon  the  altar  steps  (at  the  right),  the  child  comes 
and  stands  near.~\ 

A  shell ! 

A  turtle's  house  !  — and  once  upon  a  time  — 

Sprite,  wilt  thou  hear  a  story  ? 

[The  child  nestles  close. ~\ 

Long  ago 

There  lived  another  turtle,  and  he  died 
And  left  his  shell-house  empty  by  the  waves, 


136  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

And  there  a  goddess  bore  a  little  boy 

Named  Hermes,  and  when  he  was  four  hours  old 

He  was  as  tall  as  thou  art, 

\_Playfully  twitching  his  branch  of  olive  J\ 
Nay,  methinks 

By  thy  caduceus,  boy,  thou  shouldst  be  he, 
And  I  that  goddess.  —  Play,  then  !     So  he  walked 
Beside  the  waves  and  found  the  empty  shell, 
(Like  this)  and  took  a  golden  thorn  — 

[Taking  from  under  the  helmet  a  hair-pin  of  gold.  ~\ 

like  this, 
And  turned  and  turned  the  thorn  —  like  this  —  and 

bored 

Nine  holes  in  either  side,  and  drew  through  them 
Nine  strings  — 

[Lifting  the  lyre  which  Alcceus  left  behind  on  the  groundl\ 
like  these,  and  so  he  made  the  shell 
T° 


\_Striking  the  lyre^ 
like  this,  and  sitting  in  the  spray 
He  sang  with  it  a  song  —  a  song  like  this  :  — 

[Singing.'] 
Hollow  shell,  horny  shell, 

Wake  from  slumber. 
Long  —  too  long  —  hast  thou  lain 
Deaf  and  silent. 

Where  the  pulse  blooms  in  gold  — 
Moon-  and  sun-rise  — 

Thou  didst  creep  slow  and  dumb, 
Seeing  nothing. 


THE  TRAGEDY  137 

Yet  above  thee  gleamed  and  swung 

Star  and  swallow, 
And  around  thee,  lost  in  song, 

Lovers  mingled. 

Horny  shell,  hear'st  thou  not 

What  I  murmur? 
Wake  !  my  breath  is  on  thee  warm. 

Wake  !  I  touch  thee. 
\_Throwing  away  the  lyre,  Sappho  starts  up,   and  clasping 

the  child  close,  speaks  passionately '.] 
Ah,  little  Hermes,  pray  for  me !     Thou  only 
Whose  dumb  child-cry  the  immortals  hearken,  go 
And  kneel  to  thy  grandsire,  the  great  Poseidon, 
And  tell  him  thou  didst  meet  with  a  bright  being, 
Nor  man  nor  woman,  but  a  spirit  both, 
That  bade  thee  intercede  for  him  —  for  her, 
That  all  the  wild  desire  of  this  wild  heart 
May  be  to-night  fulfilled.     Pray  him,  through  you, 
To  yield  my  love  to  me.     Run,  Hermes !  —  run  ! 
\The  Child,  with  eyes  of  wonder,  springs  up  the  steps  toward 
the  temple.    On  the  way,  seeing  the  lyre  lying  where  it 
has  been  thrown,  he  drops  the  tortoise-shell  and,  taking 
with  him  the  lyre,  runs  into  the  temple.     This  Sappho, 
having  turned  away  introspectively,  does  not  perceive. 
From  the  olives  now  the  voice  of  Atthis  calls.  —  Enter 
ing,  she  rushes  forward  with  outstretched  arms.] 

ATTHIS 
Larichus  —  Welcome  home,  my  Larichus  ! 

[^Shrinking  backl\ 
Ah  me,  what  are  you  ? 


138  SAPPHO  AND   PHAON 

SAPPHO 
[  With  a  smile.} 

Am  I,  then,  so  changed  ? 

ATTHIS 

Sappho  !   but  thou  art  cruel.     Where's  thy  brother  ? 
Alcaeus  said  he  waited  for  me  here. 

SAPPHO 

Myself  am  all  thy  lovers  that  are  here. 
Why  do  you  sob  ? 

ATTHIS 

[Throwing  herself  on  the  marble  bench.~\ 
He  never  will  return. 

SAPPHO 

[Leaning  over  herJ] 

I  loved  thee,  Atthis,  long  and  long  ago, 
Even  when  thou  wert  a  slight  and  graceless  child, 
And  should  I  let  this  soldier-brother  come 
And  steal  thee  now  away  ? 

ATTHIS 

He  does  not  come. 

Why  have  you  done  this  to  me  ?     Why  are  you 
Clad  in  his  armour  ?     Why  have  you  deceived 
Alcaeus,  and  now  me  ? 
[From  the  colonnade  Anactoria  enters,  in  moody  r every. ~\ 


THE  TRAGEDY  139 

SAPPHO 
\_Indicates  her  to   Atthis.~\ 

Come,  ask  of  her. 

[Going  toward  the  colonnade^ 
Toria  ! 

\Atthis  rises  slowly,  and  looks  after  her^\ 

ANACTORIA 

[Starting  from  her  thoughts,  looks  in  amazementl\ 
Is  it  you? 


My  promise  well  ? 


SAPPHO 
Have  I  not  kept 

ANACTORIA 
But- 

SAPPHO 

He  hath  been  here. 


ANACTORIA 

He! 

SAPPHO 

Alcaeus  :  his  love-lesson  hath  begun. 
Did  I  not  tell  thee  I  would  teach  him  well  ? 
Leaving  me  now,  he's  gone  to  look  for  me, 
And  looking  for  his  love,  he  is  to  find 
You. 


140  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ANACTORIA 

Me? 

SAPPHO 

There  in  the  temple  I  have  left 
My  violets.     Go  you  and  put  them  on 
And  come  again. 

[On  Anactoria?  s  face  slowly  there  dawns  a  light  of  passion 
ate  triumph .] 

ANACTORIA 

[Raising  her  clenched  hands.] 
Oh  !  this  is  wonderful ! 

[She  turns  and  goes  into  the  temple.     Atthis  comes  wonder- 
ingly  to  Sappho?^ 

ATTHIS 

And  is  it  for  her  sake  you  wear  this  garb  ? 

SAPPHO 

For  her  sake  ?     No  ;  not  all ;  nor  to  rebuke 
Alcseus,  all.     But  there  are  motives,  girl, 
To  guess  which  thou  wouldst  tremble,  for  thou  art 
What  thou  wert  born  — a  soft  bride  to  be  wooed, 
And  'Hymenaeon  !'  was  thy  cradle  song  ; 
But  I  —  Listen  yonder  ! 

[Distantly  the  deep  voices  of  men  are  heard,  lifting  a  rude  and 
intermittent  chant,  which  soon  recurs  —  wild  and  low  — 
more  near.] 


THE  TRAGEDY  141 

THE  VOICES 
Akoue,  Poseidon  ! 

SAPPHO 

Upward  from  the  shore 

The  men-slaves  and  the  beach-folk  now  are  bringing 
Their  offerings  here  to  the  sea-god,  for 
Fair  weather  on  the  morrow.  —  There  perhaps 
Among  them,  there  among  the  dark  sea-faces, 
Ruddy  with  wine  and  passion,  unaware 
My  lover  walks  —  a  dumb  and  dreamy  slave 
Yearning  for  liberation.      Therefore,  Atthis, 
I  have  put  on  this  garb,  that  as  a  man 
I  still  may  search  those  faces  of  the  night 
Till  I  shall  peer  within  that  bondman's  eyes 
And  set  his  spirit  free. 
\As  Atthis,  with  a  start  of  half  comprehension,  is  about  to 

speak.'] 

Hush  ;  do  not  guess, 

But  go  now  with  thy  servant  to  my  house 
And  wait  for  Larichus.  —  Fear  not  for  me. 

\Atthis  kisses  Sappho 'j  hand  and  goes  in  awe.] 
{Groups  of  sea-slaves  now  have  begun  to  enter  in  the  moon 
light  —  rough,  forbidding  presences  of  rude  physical 
power  and  superstition ;  some  are  wrapped  in  cloaks, 
others  are  almost  naked,  their  sun-darkened  flesh 
branded  with  symbols  of  their  owners ;  all  are  bare 
headed  and  without  weapons.  Bringing  in  their  hands 
their  sea-offerings, —  shells,  coral,  kelp,  and  other  simple 
tokens,  —  they  place  these  on  the  top  step  before  the  temple, 
and  moved  vaguely  —  now  some,  now  others  —  to  utter 


142  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

their  discontinuous  chant,  gather  upon  the  steps  and  before 
the  temple.  Thus,  for  a  minute  or  more,  there,  transpires 
only  pantomime.  Upon  the  entrance  of  the  slaves,  Sappho 
at  first  turns  instinctively  away  from  them,  and  draws 
her  cloak  more  closely  about  her.  Yearningly,  however, 
she  turns  back  and  moves  among  them  — silent,  search 
ing.  Now  she  joins  a  group  of  three  that  are  drinking 
from  a  stone  wine-jar,  scans  them,  and  turns  elsewhere 
to  one  who  is  laying  his  gift  of  coral  before  the  altar ; 
from  him  too  she  turns  and,  touching  a  stooping  form, 
peers  wistfully  an  instant  at  the  eyes  upraised  there  to 
hers,  then  moves  toward  other  forms  obscure  in  the 
shadow  s.~\ 

THE   SEA-SLAVES 
Ion,  Poseidon  ! 

\_At  this  cry  of  the  slaves,  the  tapestry  at  the  temple  door  parts, 
and  there  enters  —  clad  in  dark  purple  and  green  —  the 
PRIEST  OF  POSEIDON,  attended  by  two  Acolytes  (who 
gather  up  the  offerings].  The  Priest  raises  his  long 
trident  staff,  at  which  the  slaves  fall  upon  their  faces, 
prostrating  themselves  with  their  low  cry.~\ 

THE  SEA-SLAVES 
Chaire,  Poseidon  ! 

\_Sappho  alone  remains  standing,  at  once  wistful  and  impe 
rious.     The  Priest  motions  toward  her  with  his  staff, .] 

SAPPHO 

Biddest  thou  me  bow  down,  O  Silent  One  ? 
Not  with  these  abject  children  of  the  earth, 
Nor  to  thy  god.  —  Not  to  thy  pitiless 
God  of  the  generations,  pain  and  death, 


THE  TRAGEDY  143 

Whom  I  defy !     This  day  did  I  release 

Out  of  his  clutch  a  dove  of  sacrifice 

Despite  of  him  ;  and  of  these  nameless  slaves 

Bow'd  to  his  yoke,  one  —  one  will  I  set  free 

And  lift  as  an  immortal  at  my  side 

This  night,  in  scorn  of  thee  and  thy  Poseidon. 

Put  back  thy  trident :  that  is  powerless 

To  sway  me,  for  unseen  the  deathless  birds 

Of  Aphrodite  ward  me  with  their  wings 

Inviolably  free,  and  passionate 

To  dare.     Thy  god  is  not  my  god  ;  thy  law 

Is  not  my  law. 

\Turningfrom  the  temple  and  the  priest — who  remains  im 
passive,  majestically  mute  —  Sappho,  pursuing  her  search 
among  the  dark  forms,  passes  quickly  from  the  scene 
(right). 

[As  she  goes,  one  of  the  prostrate  slaves  on  the  temple  steps, 
who  has  partly  raised  himself  during  her  speech, 
rises  now  alone  and  gazes  after  her.  It  is  Phaon. 
Standing  erect  among  the  bowed  forms  of  his  fellow- 
slaves,  he  moves  a  few  steps  toward  the  place  of  Sappho's 
departure,  and  pauses.  The  trident  of  the  Priest  touches 
his  shoulder,  but  he  does  not  feel  it.  The  other  slaves 
rise  menacingly  and,  muttering,  are  about  to  force  him 
prostrate  before  the  Priest,  when  the  latter  intervenes  and 
motions  them  away.  They  depart  slowly,  uttering  their 
chant;  the  Priest  and  Acolytes  re'enter  the  temple.  All 
this  Phaon  neither  heeds  nor  sees.  Left  alone,  he  stands 
gazing  still  where  Sappho  has  departed —  in  his  face  the 
struggle  of  an  awaking  consciousness. 
[  Outside  from  the  colonnade,  some  one  whistles.  The  sound 
is  repeated.  Phaon  turns  absently  and  looks  back^\ 


144  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS 
[  Outside, ,] 
Here,  water-dog ! 
Stand  where  thou  art. 

[Entering."] 
Where  art  thou  skulking,  cur  ? 

PHAON 

[Bending.'] 

What  would  you,  lord  ? 

ALGOUS 

What  makest  at  this  hour 
Here  by  the  holy  temple  ? 

PHAON 

Seeking,  lord. 

ALGOUS 

What,  charity  ?     A  meal  of  maggots  ?     Some 
Goat's  entrails  by  the  altar?     What  wast  seeking? 

PHAON 
[Slow fy.~\ 
A  dream. 

ALGOUS 

[Bursting  into  shrill  laughter^] 
Ha  — ha,  Apollo  !  my  Apollo ! 
Behold  thy  Trojan  Kalchas  lives  again, 
Born  of  a  Lesbian  sea-bitch !     Lo,  a  dog 


THE  TRAGEDY  145 

Hath  sniffed  thine  altar  and  become  a  seer 

And  prophet !     Come,  my  dream-seeker,  canst  read 

The   flight  of   birds  ?     Look   there  —  those   moonlit 

doves  — 
What  mean  their  dreamy  circlings  ?     Prophesy ! 


PHAON 

[Looking  over  the  dim  sea,  where  for  a  moment  a  flutter  of 
doves  is  visible,  shrinks  back  super stitiously.  ] 

Death. 

ALGOUS 
\_His  shrill  derision  checked  by  a  sudden  awe.~] 

Here's  enough  of  this.     I,  too,  am  seeking. 
The  lady  Sappho  spoke  with  thee  to-day  — 
Answer  me,  churl :  what  said  she  ? 


PHAON 
[Slowly  straightening  to  his  erect  stature.  J 

She  will  tell. 

ALGOUS 

So  shalt  thou,  scavenger ; 

And  if  thou'd  'scape  the  knot-whip, 

Speak  quickly. 

PHAON 
I  have  spoken. 


146  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS 
\_About  to  burst  into  passion,  pauses  and  squints  maliciously '.] 

Oho,  an  avaricious 
Lick-bones ! 

[Taking  from  a  pouch,  hands  to  Phaon  a  coin.~\ 

An  itching  mongrel ! 
Here,  hound;  here's  for  thy  mange. 
Speak ;  we'll  not  tell  the  lady. 

[Phaon,  looking  from  the  coin  in  his  hand  to  AlccKus*  face, 
silently  tosses  the  coin  over  the  cliff.  Alcczus  starts 
passionately. ~] 

Slave,  thou  shalt  have  the  rack 
For  this ;  I'll  have  thy  master 
Flay  thee. 

PHAON 

I  have  no  master. 
I  am  a  public  slave ; 
The  city  owns  me. 

ALGOUS 

[Seizing   the  spear  which  Sappho   has   left  behind,  strikes 
with  it  at  Phaon. ,] 

Let 
The  city  burn  thy  carcass. 

PHAON 

[  Wresting  from  him  the  spear. ~\ 
Lord,  you  have  drunk  too  deep. 


THE   TRAGEDY  147 


ALGOUS 
Boy  —  lacchus  !     Ho,  boy!  here! 

\_Enter  the  Ethiopian  slave-boy '.] 
My  guards  !  run  to  my  garden 
And  fetch  them  thither.  —  Run  ! 
[Exit  the  slave  ^ 

By  heaven,  it  grows  now  plainer 
Why  Sappho  hath  not  met  me : 
She  hath  prepared  a  feast 
Of  tidbits  for  a  sea-dog, 
And  keeps  her  chamber. 


PHAON 

She 


Is  not  at  home. 


ALGOUS 

So  thou 
Hast  sought  her  there  ! 


PHAON 

I  left 
Lately  her  house. 

\_Reenter  Sappho,  now  without  her  helmet — her  dark  locks 
falling  about  her  breastplate  in  the  moonlight.  She 
stands  unobserved,  intense,  watching  the  two^\ 


148  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALC^US 

'Twas  so,  then ! 
Her  brother  said  so.     Faugh  ! 
Faugh  !  how  the  mad  night  reeks  it ! 
A  slave  !  —  O  Larichus, 
Thou  spakest  well:  These  sisters 
Are  not  all  that  they  seem  ! 
But  she  —  the  Muse! — to  turn 
Circe,  and  set  her  meshes 
To  catch  a  water-rat  — 
A  public,  prowling  slave  ! 


PHAON 

No  more ! 

ALGOUS 

But  this  is  Lesbos, 
Where  all  are  lovers  !     This 
Will  sing  most  musically 
Set  to  the  lyre :  how  Sappho, 
Enamour'd  of  the  sea-god, 
Invoked  the  slime,  to  yield 
As  substitute  — 

PHAON 

\_Approaching  near.~] 
No  more ! 


ALCEUS 
A  wharf-rat  for  her  lover. 


THE  TRAGEDY  149 

PHAON 

[Bursting  his  culminated  self-control,  strikes  with  clenched 
hand  Alc&us  to  the  ground,  where  he  lies  his  length, 
unconscious,  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  Ignoring  him  there, 
Phaon  lifts  his  face  with  an  exultant,  dreamy  smile, 
speaking  low.~\ 

Lord,  the  stars  ! 

Thy  stars  again  !  how  glorious  they  burn  ! 


At  last ! 


SAPPHO 
[  Coming  forward. ~\ 

PHAON 

[  Gazing  in  herface.~] 
Still  they  are  burning  there. 


SAPPHO 

At  last 

Thy  hand  is  lifted  and  thy  blow  is  fallen. 
Look !  at  thy  feet  he  bows,  alive  and  prone 
From  his  proud  pedestal :  this  lord  of  lords. 
Ha,  Aphrodite  !  in  this  man  of  men 
How  I  have  triumphed ! 


PHAON 

Are  you  not  the  same 

That  stood  amidst  us,  with  thy  helmet  plume, 
And  scorned  the  silent  god  ? 


150  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Wert  thou  so  near 
And  yet  I  found  thee  not  ? 

PHAON 

Your  spirit  found  me  ; 

Its  voice  awoke  me  'mongst  the  herded  slaves 
And  bade  me  rise  towards  you,  for  it  said  — 
*  One  —  one  will  I  set  free.' 


SAPPHO 

That  slave  is  freed ! 

There  lies  his  bondage  stricken  in  the  dust 
By  his  own  hand. 

PHAON  • 

{Bewildered.'} 
My  hand  ? 


SAPPHO 

Was  it  not  thine 

That  felled  him  yonder  ?     Was  it  not  thy  soul 
That  to  his  mockery  cried  out  "  No  more  !  " 
And  smote  him  mute  ? 


PHAON 

Thou  sayest  it  was  I : 
Speak  on!  —  Even  so  thou  spakest  by  the  net. 


THE  TRAGEDY  151 

SAPPHO 

Canst  thou  then  name  me  ? 

PHAON 

Sappho. 

SAPPHO 

Hush ;  he  breathes 
Less  hard ;  come  hither. 

[They  move  away  to  the  right. ~\ 

All  the  waning  time 
Of  all  the  stars  have  I  kept  watch  for  thee. 

PHAON 

And  I  have  groped  in  darkness  —  toward  thine  eyes. 

SAPPHO 

Who  shall  constrain  Apollo  'neath  the  sea 
When  he  uplifts  his  glad  brow  from  the  fens 
Aspiring  to  inevitable  noon  ? 
Who  shall  constrain  Phaon  a  slave  ? 

PHAON 

Speak  still ! 

SAPPHO 

Out  of  thy  dim  fens  hath  thy  godhead  dawned 
Insufferably  fair.     O  Phaon,  that 
Which  thou  hast  struck  already  from  thy  soul 
I  loose  now  from  thy  body. 

[  With  the  key  of  Pittacus,  Sappho  unfastens  the  bronze  yoke- 
ring  from  the  neck  of  Phaon,  and  takes  it  from  him  in 
her  hand.~\ 

Know  you  this  ? 


152  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

My  name-ring  'tis. 

SAPPHO 
\Reads  from  the  characters  in  the  metal.'] 

'  Phaon  of  Lesbos  —  slave.' 

PHAON 
[Pressing  his  hand  to  his  throatJ] 

How  light !  — how  light  and  strange  !     Methought  it 

was 
Even  myself,  a  part  of  me. 

SAPPHO 

Hear  how  it  falls  now  —  a  dead  thing 
Back  to  the  dust. 

[She  drops  the  bronze  ring,  which  falls  with  a  muffled  sound 
to  the  earth.  Watching  this,  Alcceus,  who  from  his 
swoon  has  awakened  and  listened  with  fierce  self-restraint, 
now,  unobserved,  crawls  on  the  ground  to  within  reach 
of  the  ring,  secures  it,  and  returns  silently,  while  Sappho 
continues  speaking  to  Phaon.~\ 

Never  shalt  thou,  cramped  again  in  thy  sea-sleep, 
Wake  at  its  twinge  in  thy  sinews ;  never  again  in  the 

noon-glare 
Feel  it  scorch  in  thy   flesh   familiar   shame,  nor  at 

bitter 
Sundown,  numbly,  in  winter,  lay  on  thy  drowsy  blood 

its 
Ache  long  accustomed. 


THE  TRAGEDY  153 

PHAON 

The   clutch    hath   loosened ;  the   fingers    of   bronze 

are 
Loosened. 

SAPPHO 

And  with  them  the  yoke  of  contumely, 
scorn  and  the  callous 
Scar  of  the  drift-wood. 


PHAON 

What  breath  filleth  my  body  with  fire  ? 
What  is  the  voice  of  this  cloud  that  speaketh  in  flame 
to  me  ? 

SAPPHO 

Hear  it! 
Phaon  of  Lesbos  is  dead. 


PHAON 

Ah! 

SAPPHO 

Phaon  of  Hellas  is  risen  ! 
Phaon   of  all   the  ./Eolian   isles  —  of   the  ages  that 

will  be 
Unto  the  Autumn  of  time :  Phaon,  the  f reedman  of 

Sappho. 


154  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALOEUS 

[Faintly  from  where  he  lies.'] 
Larichus ! 

[There  is  a  moment  of  silence,  without  motion.  Slowly  then 
Sappho  points  to  her  spear  on  the  ground,  speaking  to 
Phaon.~\ 

SAPPHO 

To  my  service,  bondslave :  bear 
My  spear  for  me. 

PHAON 

[Lifting  the  spear,  precedes  Sappho,  as  she  moves  to  go.~\ 
Forever ! 
[Exit  right.~\ 

ALGOUS 
[Half  raising  himself. ] 

Larichus ! 


Who  speaks  to  me  ? 


SAPPHO 
[Pausing.'] 


ALGOUS 
[Rising.] 

A  liar,  for  he  names 
You  Larichus :  a  liar  and  a  dupe 
Of  yours. 

SAPPHO 

Alcaeus,  you  have  listened  —  heard  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  155 

* 

ALGOUS 

Laughter  from  high  Olympus  have  I  heard  : 
'  Sappho  the  Rat-catcher  hath  speared  her  quarry !  ' 
Cries  blithe  Terpsichore.  —  You  shall  not  go  ; 
You  shall  not,  till  you  hear  me. 

\_Sappho,  who  has  started  away,  pauses  again  in  serene  con 
tempt,  and  looks  full  at  Alcceus.'] 

SAPPHO 

Well  ? 

ALGOUS 

Forgive 

The  wine-god  for  my  words.     But  that  is  past 
And  I  am  bitter  earnest.  —  Men  are  born, 
Not  made ;  and  what  is  bred  is  bred  in  soul 
And  brain  more  deep  than  sinews. 

SAPPHO 

Well  ? 

ALGOUS 

A  slave 
Shall  always  be  a  slave.     No  yoke  of  bronze 

Cast  off  can  liberate  him. 

SAPPHO 

Yet  a  slave 

Could  bid  Alcaeus  bow  and  eat  the  earth 
Even  at  his  feet. 

ALGOUS 

Beware  !     I  love  you. 


156  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 
Love  Phaon. 

ALGOUS 

He  — 

SAPPHO 


1  Can  I  constrain  a  god  ? 

Tether  him  ?     Clip  his  wings  ?     Say  come  or  go  ? 
Love  is  a  voyager  '  —  or  hath  this  Love 
Changed,  since  you  scoffed  at  Anactoria  ? 

ALGOUS 

You  have  upraised  him,  not  himself;  and  he 
Shall  fall  more  basely  from  your  height. 

SAPPHO 

Oh,  I 
Am  sure  of  him  as  of  this  liberal  air 

I  breathe.        [Reaching  upward  her  arms.] 

This  will  not  ever  fail,  nor  Phaon. 

ALGOUS 

[Fiercely,  staying  her  as  she  goes  again,  .] 
Keep  from  him  yet.     One  knowledge 
I  will  not  spare  you  now. 
Look  down  :  There  in  the  caverns 
Of  sea-weed  and  the  slime-ooze, 
The  tide  creatures  and  reptiles 
Seek  in  the  dark  their  mates 
And  spawn  their  generations. 


THE  TRAGEDY  157 

SAPPHO 

[Drawing  back.~\ 
The  Spring  is  universal. 

ALGOUS 
Even  as  the  Autumn. 

[Pointing  below.'} 

He 

Is  one  of  those.    His  mate 
And  brood  are  there.  —  Ha,  Sappho  ! 
You  did  not  know. 

SAPPHO 
\_Dreamily.~] 
I  knew. 

ALGOUS 

You  knew  that  Phaon  - 

SAPPHO 

Was  he  not  a  slave, 
And  now  —  no  more  ? 

ALGOUS 

Impossible  !     Art  thou 
Sappho  of  Mitylene  ? 

SAPPHO 

Do  you  dream 

I  am  not  she  ?  or  have,  you  never  known 
Sappho  ? 


158  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ALGOUS- 
You  are  gone  blind  with  passion. 


SAPPHO 

Blind 

Have  you  beheld  through  the  obscuring  world 
The  Beautiful  ?     There  comes  a  day,  Alcaeus, 
When  one  of  us,  that  for  a  million  years 
Have  gendered  in  the  sun,  looks  upward  in 
His  face,  and  in  the  features  there  discerns 
Our  own  divinity.     I  am  that  one ; 
And  so  the  stumbling  and  unconscious  ways 
Of  nature  are  no  longer  mine  :  her  currents, 
Self-foiled,  obstructed,  clogged,  I  sway  to  sure 
And  passionate  direction.     Thenceforth  I 
Am  pilgrim  and  not  pathway  :  destiny 
I  am,  no  more  the  clay  of  destiny. 


ALGOUS 
But  Phaon  — 

SAPPHO 

Have  you  felt  the  maker's  joy 
Who  out  of  clay  sculptures  Hyperion, 
Or  out  of  silence  shapes  heart-moving  song  ?  — 
That  is  my  joy  of  Phaon. 

ALGOUS 

You  are  fooled ; 
Yourself  are  Nature's  bondmaid. 


THE  TRAGEDY  159 

SAPPHO 

Little  minds 

Muddy  with  resolution.  —  Go  your  ways, 
Alcaeus,  for  I  go  now  to  my  lover  : 
Yea,  knowing  all  thy  knowledge  do  I  go, 
And  on  his  liberated  soul  I  stake 
My  hope  —  my  life. 

[Exit  right.'] 

ALCEUS 
[Springing  after  her,  then  pausing.~\ 

Sappho  !  —  Ah,  Muse  of  Vengeance  ! 
A  medicine  —  a  medicine  for  this  ! 

\_Liftingin  his  hand  the  bronze  yoke,  he  reads. ] 
'  Phaon  of  Lesbos  —  slave.' 

[As  he  stands  thus  desperately  intent,  Anactoria  enters  from 
the  temple,  wearing  the  violet-wreath  of  Sappho.  She 
walks  direct  to  him  and  looks  silently  in  his  face,  with 
fierce  pride  and  yearning.  At  her  presence,  he  starts  and 
smiles  faintly '.] 

Her  violets! 

ANACTORIA 

She  sent  them  to  you  —  so. 

ALGOUS 
[His  look  turning  back  from  her  to  the  yoke  of  bronze^ 

Put  them  away 
From  you. 


160  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

ANACTORIA 

To  one  who  hath  herself  been  put 
Away,  they  should  be  fitting. 

ALGEUS 

[  Watching  some  one  approach.~\ 

Pittacus  ! 
[Enter  in  meditation  Pittacus.     Alcaus  —  his  face  lighting 

with  sudden  exultation  —  turns  to  his  companion  with 

a  gesture  of  passionate  deference."] 
Incomparable  Anactoria, 
Beloved !  all  those  damned  subtle  chains 
Of  Sappho  thou  hast  struck  away.     Once  more 
My  vows  and  I  are  thine.  —  Hail,  Pittacus  ! 
Your  boon  and  blessing  !     A  betrothal  boon 
On  us,  two  foolish  lovers  reconciled. 

ANACTORIA 

[Utterly  bewildered.] 
Alcaeus ! 

PITTACUS 

You  and  Anactoria  1 

ALGOUS 

Will  you  deny  true  love  its  whims,  and  heap 
Embarrassment  on  her,  who  trembles  there  ? 
Enough  she  chooses  me,  your  rival  once 
And  now  your  craving  friend.      'Twas  you  who  said 
'  Forgiveness  better  is  than  punishment.' 
Therefore  a  boon,  to  prove  it ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  l6l 

PITTACUS 

What  have  I 
Would  please  you  ? 

ALOEUS 

A  mere  nothing,  yet  my  heart 
Is  set  upon  it.     You,  my  lord,  are  Tyrant 
Of  Mitylene,  and  as  such  'tis  you 
Who  own  the  public  slaves.  —  A  lover's  whim, 
My  lord  !  —  You  will  remember  how  to-day 
You  struck  one  of  these  slaves  —  a  fellow  passing 
With  drift-wood. 

PITTACUS 
Yes. 

ALGOUS 

The  blame  was  mine.     I  can't 
Forget  his  face.     By  heaven,  I  will  requite 
That  fellow.     I  would  have  him  feel  to-night 
As  glad  as  I  am.     Sir  —  a  foolish  boon  ! 
Give  him  to  me  to  be  my  body-slave. 


ANACTORIA 

No,  no! 


ALGOUS 

[Reaching  his  arm  toward  her.] 
Dear  love ! 


1 62  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PITTACUS 

How  deep  is  wine —  and  truth ! 
This  spinning  world,  'tis  but  a  street-boy's  top, 
And  each  must  whip  his  own. 

[Passing  onl\ 

The  slave  is  yours. 

ANACTORIA 
{Starting  after.] 
You  do  not  understand. 

ALGOUS 
[Staying  her.~\ 

'Tis  you,  sweet  girl, 
Who  have  not  guessed  my  purpose. 


ANACTORIA 

[  Trembling.] 


Tell  me. 


PITTACUS 

[From  the  colonnade J} 

Friends, 

If  you  shall  chance  to  meet  with  Sappho,  say 
That  Pittacus,  her  friend,  hath  sailed  for  Sparta. 
[Exit.'} 

ANACTORIA 

[Feverishly. ~\ 
What  would  you  do  with  Phaon  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  163 

ALCEUS 
\_Kissing  her  hand,  which  she  withdraws^ 

Can't  you  guess  ? 

Love,  I  have  purchased  him  to  wait  on  you 
In  public,  when  the  girl-disciples  meet 
And  Sappho  leads  the  singing. 

.       ANACTORIA 
[  Gazing  at  him,  fascinated.~\ 

Horrible! 
ALCEUS 

And  at  the  festivals,  amid  the  mirth 
And  fluttered  laughter  of  the  maidens,  Phaon 
Shall  bear  the  wine-sack  in,  and  pass  the  cakes 
To  Sappho,  where  she  sits  beside  you.  —  Come ; 
Vender's  my  black  knave  lacchus.     He  is  running 
Up  from  my  garden.     We'll  go  meet  him. 

ANACTORIA 

\_Following  impotent^ 

Why? 

ALGOUS 

[Seizing  her  arm  and  raising  the  yoke-ring  in  his  other  handJ] 
Why  do  the  robins  fly  to  meet  the  spring  ? 

\_Exeunt,  left.'] 

\_Enter,  right,  Sappho  and  Phaon.  Each  has  a  hand  upon 
the  horizontal  spear  between  them,  and —  until  Sappho 
releases  —  they  speak  across  it,  lifting  or  lowering  it  in 
their  mutual persuasion.~\ 


1 64  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 
Tis  mine. 

PHAON 
Tis  mine. 


In  servitude. 


SAPPHO 

You  must  not  bear  it  more 


PHAON 
{Pleadingly^ 
In  service  now ! 


SAPPHO 

Even  now  ? 

Yielded  so  soon,  and  all  my  victory 
Reversed  ?  —  Nay,  be  it  mine  in  the  pursuit, 
For  I  have  been  your  huntress. 


PHAON 

Him  you  sought 

You  have  transformed.     O  Spirit,  Woman, 
Whatso  you  are,  the  war-cry  of  your  love 
Shouts  in  my  blood  and  tingles  in  my  brain 
For  action  and  for  freedom  and  for  life. 
Let  me  go  armed  to-night — your  conqueror. 
Into  my  hands  —  the  spear! 


THE  TRAGEDY  165 

SAPPHO 

A  little  while 

Be  conquered  yet ;  a  little  breathing-space 
Fear  me  —  lest  I  shall  fear. 

PHAON 

For  what  ? 

SAPPHO  YQU  are 

Awakened  to  me  from  your  torpid  lair 
So  newly  masterful.     My  sudden  wound 
Of  liberty  hath  quickened  into  power 
Till  now,  imperious,  you  turn  at  bay 
And  wrestle  with  me. 

PHAON 
{Smiling.'} 
Yield,  then. 

SAPPHO  O  not  yet! 

Still  let  me  be  Diana  —  thou,  my  stag, 
And  through  the  April  uplands  of  the  world 
Flee  on,  on,  burning  backward  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  forever  kindled. 

PHAON 

Not  that  free 
And  lordly  animal  — 

[Setting  his  foot  upon  Eton's  tortoise-shell  beside  him.~\ 

Look  there,  the  thing 
Which  you  awakened  into  ecstasy 
Of  being  —  me,  this  soul  you  gaze  upon. 


1 66  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 
\Lookingfrom  the  shell  to  Phaorfsface?\ 

My  playmate  Hermes  —  grown  to  manhood  :  even     • 
So  might  he  glance  and  smile. 

PHAON 

Hermes  —  what's  he  ? 

SAPPHO 

A  little  child  I  love.  —  My  Phaon,  share 
This  weapon  with  me.     Make  not  of  me  yet 
A  woman  only.     Comrades  let  us  be, 
Or  children  bargaining  their  captaincy  — 
Agamemnon  and  his  brother,  hand  in  hand 
Against  the  Trojans. 

PHAON 

Childhood  never  trafficked 

Rapture  like  yours.     You  would  not  what  you  ask. 
{Lifting  high  the  spear,  to  which  Sappho's  hand  still  dings.'] 
Relinquish ! 

SAPPHO 

Not  —  playfellow  ? 

PHAON 

No. 

SAPPHO 
[Releases  her  grasp,  half  'fearfully. ,] 

My  peer,  then ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  167 

PHAON 

No,  but  your  lord  and  lover !     Nevermore 

Shall  you  be  sovereign  of  your  maiden  will 

Or  single  .in  your  fate.     Not  here  with  priest 

And  song,  but  with  a  spear,  you  have  betrothed  me. 

\_Raising  the  weapon  above  him,  and  smiling  up  at  it.~\ 

O  thou  my  spear,  thou  singest  in  my  hand. 

Thou  art  my  power  and  manhood.     Face  to  face 

Thou  pittest  me  in  combat  with  the  gods, 

And  raising  thee,  my  mind  is  raised  up 

Confronting  heaven,  till  from  those  clouds  of  fire 

This  slavish  world  grows  dim,  and  all  that  sways  it  — 

The  tyrant's  hate,  the  galley-master's  goad, 

The  sordid  trader's  dreams  of  avarice  — 

Dwindle  to  impotence.     Thine  is  the  war 

Which  shall  not  end  with  time  —  war  with  those  gods 

That  made  men's  misery. 

[To  Sappho.'} 

Beloved,  know 

What  you  have  quickened,  and  if  you  would  hear 
The  chant  of  life  my  lips  can  never  sing, 
Hark,  hark  now  to  the  hymning  of  this  steel ! 

\_From  the  cliff  he  hurls  the  spear  into  the  night.~\ 
There  flies  the  first :  ten  thousand  will  I  fling 
Because  of  you. 

SAPPHO 

[Going  to  his  arms.] 
My  lover ! 


1 68  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON" 

[Then,  as  Phaon  embraces  her,  she  draws  back  wistful,  and 
peers  in  the  moonlight  after  the  fallen  spearl\ 

If  its  dart, 
Falling,  should  strike  a  dove ! 


PHAON 

Turn  not  away. 

Where  are  your  thoughts  deep  wandered  in  the  night, 
Or  what,  love,  do  they  hear  ? 

[  Where  they  stand  silent,  from  below  the  faint  roar  of  the  surf 
and  a  far  love-song  are  dreamily  distinguishable.^ 


SAPPHO 
\_Turning  to  him.~\ 

'  The  chant  of  life  ! ' 

Listen !     Your  lifted  spear  hath  been  a  signal 
For  that  world-music.     Even  as  the  master 
Lifteth  his  staff  and  all  the  temple-choir 

Raise  their  clear  chanting, 

So  hath  it  waked  those  wild-sweet  ocean  murmurs 
Yonder  —  Thou     hearest    with    me  !  —  where    the 
•     -crickets 
Melt  with  that  human  lover  and  the  night-bird 

Over  Mitylene. 

PHAON 

These  are  but  thou ;  and  thoughts  of  thee  are  music. 


THE  TRAGEDY  169 

SAPPHO 

Nay,  but  look  also  !     On  the  glassy  sea-floor, 
White  as  the  moonbeam,  how  it  rises  ghostly 
There ! 

PHAON 
'Tis  a  fog-bank. 

SAPPHO 

Yes,  but  the  cloud  is  carved :  against  the  night  sky, 
Trembling,  u  vfts  the  pearl  horns  of  a  lyre 
Curved,  and  a  hand  that  holds  a  mighty  plectron 
Plays  to  Orion ! 

PHAON 

Nay,  'tis  a  ship  I  see  :  her  prow  is  curving 
Up  from  the  cloudy  billows,  and  her  captain, 
Standing  upon  it,  where  the  bending  oarsmen 

Churn  the  bright  star-foam, 

Points  to  the  world  beneath  them  —  all  its  kingdoms 
Kindling  with  men,  and  to  his  one  companion 
Speaks  in  the  silence  :     '  All  this  will  I  conquer, 

Sappho ! ' 

SAPPHO 
My  master  ! 
\_Enter,  from  the  colonnade,  Anactoria.~\ 

ANACTORIA 

[  Wildly.'] 
He  is  coming  :  go  !    Go  in  the  temple  ! 


SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Who 

Is  coming,  Toria  ? 

ANACTORIA 

Alcaeus !     Oh, 

Mad  was  I  for  his  love,  and  blind  with  dread 
Of  you.     I  did  not  dream  his  horrible 
Vengeance.     Go  in  the  temple. 

SAPPHO 

Why? 

ANACTORIA 

In  there 
Is  sanctuary.  ^  phaon-^ 

He  can  take  thee  not 


PHAON 

Take  me  ? 

ANACTORIA 

Thou  art  his  body-slave,  his  flesh, 
His  chattels.     Pittacus  hath  granted  him 
Thee  and  thy  freedom.     He  is  coming  now 
To  seize  thee. 

PHAON 

[As  Sappho,  with  a  cry,  goes  to  him.~\ 
I  will  greet  him. 


THE  TRAGEDY  171 

ANACTORIA 

Nay,  he  brings 
His  guards  —  two  score  of  spearmen. 

SAPPHO 

\To  Phaon.~\ 

Come  with  me ; 

My  house  will  shelter  us. 

0 

ANACTORIA 

You  can  not  leave ; 
The  ways  are  held,  his  men  surround  this  place. 

SAPPHO 
[Tensely.] 
Is  there  no  path  unknown  to  them  ? 

PHAON 

This  one. 

SAPPHO 

The  cliff-path,  ah  !     Quick,  Phaon  :  we  will  go 
Here. 

PHAON 

You  would  dare  this  with  me  ? 


SAPPHO 

Am  I  not 
Yours? 

PHAON 

You  will  go  ? 


SAPPHO  AND   PHAON 


SAPPHO 

Even  to  the  underworld  ! 

PHAON 

Against  the  Tyrant's  will  ? 

j      • 

SAPPHO 

Against  the  gods'. 

PHAON 

[Moves  with  swift  decision.'] 
Come,  then ;  my  boat  is  there. 

ANACTORIA 

[Imploringly,  to  Sappho.'] 

Stay  !  —  there  is  death. 

Your  brother  is  returned.     Stay  in  the  temple 
Till  I  can  bring  him  here. 

SAPPHO 

Not  Larichus. 

At  dawn  he  brings  his  bride.     They  must  not  know 
This  thing.  [Imperiously.] 

Go  :  keep  it  from  them  —  for  my  sake. 

ANACTORIA 

[Goes] 

For  thy  sake  would  that  I  had  killed  myself  ! 
[Exit,  left.} 


THE  TRAGEDY  173 

SAPPHO 
[To  Phaon.~\ 
Look  there :  what  gleams  among  the  olives  ? 

PHAON 

Spears. 
They  are  coming. 

SAPPHO 

\_In  dread,  protectingly.~\ 
Phaon ! 


PHAON 

See,  the  path  falls  sheer 
Into  the  wave  —  my  arms  your  only  staff. 

\_Swingingfrom  the  cliff,  Phaon  takes  footing  upon  the  jutted 
path  below,  his  face  and  shoulder  only  visible  as  he 
reaches  upward  to  Sappho 's  support.~\ 

Still  do  you  dare  ? 

SAPPHO 

We  must  dare  all  to  be 
Ourselves.  —  Your  arms,  love  !  —  Now  to  the  world's 

end, 
The  islands  of  the  Cyclops  in  the  seas ! 

\_Sappho  and  Phaon  disappear  below  the  cliff.  As  they  do  so 
there  is  heard  the  low  rattle  of  greaves  and,  emerging 
on  the  edges  of  the  scene,  the  points  of  spear-heads  glisten. 
Simultaneously,  from  the  temple,  comes  forth  Thalassa  — 
her  babe  at  her  breast  — followed  by  Bion,  who  carries 
in  his  hands  the  lyre.~\ 


174  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

THALASSA 
{Searching  with  her  eycs.~\ 

He  tarrieth  long  away  — 
Too  long  for  the  fever  ;  yet 
At  last  will  he  come  to  me. 

[Stooping  in  the  shadow  of  the  pillar,  she  sits  on  the  lowest 
step  leading  to  the  shrine.  There,  while  the  little  boy,  in 
his  garb  of  sea-weed,  wanders  in  the  moonlight,  thrum 
ming  the  strings  of  the  lyre  with  low,  monotonous 
cadence,  Thalassa  clutches  her  babe  close,  and  sway 
ing  her  body  with  a  strange  rhythm,  suckles  the  fever- 
stricken  child.  From  there,  as  she  sings,  her  voice  floats 
mournfully  in  the  night.'} 

Hesper,  Hesper, 

Eleleu ! 

Lord  of  evening,  thou  that  bringest 
All  that  lovely  Morning  scattered  — 

Eleleu !     Eleleu ! 

Lord,  the  sheep,  the  goat  thou  bringest, 
The  child  to  its  mother. 

Eleleu  ! 
\_Slowly  the  Herculaneum  curtain  shuts  off  the  scene. ~\ 


Here  follows  the  Pantomime  of  the  Second  Interlude. 
Vide  Appendix. 


ACT   III 


ACT   III 

Earliest  daybreak  is  beginning  to  struggle  faintly  with  the 
light  of  the  low  moon,  muffled  now  by  masses  of  slowly 
indrif ting  fog  from  the  sea,  in  the  background.  Against 
this,  stand  out  vaguely  the  outlines  of  the  temple,  uncer 
tain  shadows  of  which  are  cast  upon  the  fog  by  the  glow 
of  the  still  blazing  urn.  Beside  this  urn,  white-haired, 
clad  in  his  dark-flowing  purple  and  green,  stands  the 
Priest  of  Poseidon,  replenishing  it  with  fagots.  All  is 
silent,  and  the  last  of  the  swinging  lamps  in  the  olive 
grove  flickers  out. 

As  the  Priest,  leaning  wearily  on  his  trident-staff,  moves 
slowly  from  the  urn,  there  enters  to  him,  from  the  temple, 
Phaon.  About  him  is  thrown  a  rough  fisher 's  cloak. 
He  greets  the  Priest  in  a  low  voice  and  points  back  to 
the  temple. 

PHAON 

Father,  she  rests ;  the  holy  vestals  fetch  her  there 
Garments  and  warmth. — Ah,  blessed  was  thy  beacon  ! 

Calm 

All  night  it  gazed  upon  us  like  a  parent's  eye 
Guiding  us  home  to  refuge,  when  the  lamps  of  heaven 
Themselves  were  swallowed  up  with  black,  insuffer 
able 

Fog.  Father,  speak !  What  is  this  portent  ?  And 
this  pang 

N  177 


1 78  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Of  cold  and  clutching  cloud  —  what  meaneth  it,  that 

never 

Since  I  was  child,  can  I  remember  like  to  this  ? 
Yet  first  methought  I  dreamed  it :  all  last  evening 
Darkly  it  hung  with  mist  my  mind;  but  now  that  fog, 
Which  rolled  .and  gathered  in  imagination,  look  ! 
This  air  and  actual  world  are  palled  and  numb  with 

it. 
Oh,  if  this  thing  be  more  than  earthly,  tell ! 

\_The  Priest  turns  away.] 

Forgive, 

I  had  forgot  thy  vow  of  silence  to  the  god. 
Yet  answer  me  in  sign :  is  it  Poseidon's  anger  ? 

\The  Priest  nods  assent I\ 

Yet   wherefore   is   he   angry  ?      Hath   some   mortal 

broken 
His  law  ? 

\_The  Priest,  nodding  once  more  assent,  moves  past  Phaon] 
Stay,  father  !  —  Who  ?     Who  hath  offended  him  ? 

[  The  Priest  gazes  sadly  into  Phaon' s  face,  then,  giving  no 
further  sign,  passes  iuto  the  temple.  Phaon  starts,  with 
a  low  cry  offear.~\ 

Ah  me,  Poseidon,  lord !     /  have  offended  thee. 

\_Going  to  the  altar,  Phaon  prostrates  himself  to  the  earth 
and  remains  there,  bowed.  After  a  brief  pause  enter 
from  the  temple  Sappho,  clad  in  the  white  garment  of  a 
vestal.  Seeing  Phaon,  she  comes  down  furtively  and 
stands  beside  him.  For  a  moment  Phaon  does  not  see 
her.  Then  as  with  a  shiver  she  touches  Ms  shoulder, 
he  leaps  up  beside  her,  ardent.~\ 


THE  TRAGEDY  179 

Once  more ! 

[Pausing,  he  draws  back  in  awe.~\ 
How  art  thou  changed !     Scarce  would  I  dream 


Tis  thou. 


SAPPHO 

The  virgins  they  have  clothed  me. 


PHAON 

Why 
Have  you  come  forth  into  the  cold  ? 


SAPPHO 

How  long 

Until  the  day  ? 

PHAON 

Already  it  grows  dawn; 

Were  it  clear,  the  cedars  would  be  burning  black 
Along  the  yellow  hill-sky.     You  are  chilled : 
Still  you  are  trembling  from  the  sea-damp.  —  Here ! 

[Taking  his  cloak  from  his  shoulders,  he  throws  it  about 

her.-] 


SAPPHO 
It  may  be  that ;  it  may  be  so. 


PHAON 

Come  in 
And  warm  thee. 


180  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Phaon,  no  ;  'tis  not  the  night 
Hath  deadened  so  my  heart ;  hardly  it  beats. 
'Tis  not  the  chill,  the  faintness  and  the  fog. 

PHAON 

What  is  it,  Sappho  ? 

SAPPHO 
[Turning  to  him,  impetuous •.] 

Ah  !  why  are  we  here  ? 

Wherefore  have  you  returned  and  brought  me  back  ? 
Why  are  we  not  still  there  —  out  there  alone 
Together  in  thy  little  groping  boat, 
Lost,  rudderless,  amid  the  unimagin'd 
Glooms  of  the  gray  ^Egean  !     Over  us  — 
No  wider  than  the  space  betwixt  our  faces  — 
The  fog  had  built  a  tent,  and  shut  away 
Sky,  shore,  and  men  and  temples,  yet  our  eyes 
Had  lighted  there  an  inward  universe 
More  vast,  wherein  our  hearts  stood  still,  and  breathed 
The  awful  passion  of  the  breathing  tide. 
Ah,  why  did  you  turn  back  ? 

PHAON 
{Hesitant^ 

You  would  have  perished ; 
Twice  in  my  arms  you  fainted  with  the  cold. 

SAPPHO 

Not  with  the  cold  —  with  ecstasy  of  fire  ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  l8l 

PHAON 

[Uneasily,  veiling  his  deeper  reason.} 
This  holy  beacon  gleamed  our  only  sign 
Of  haven ;  'twas  the  god  who  summoned  us.  — 
Food,  warmth,  and  life  were  here  for  you. 

SAPPHO 

And  fear ! 
Portent  and  fear. 

PHAON 

What  fear? 

SAPPHO 

Unspeakable! 
[To  herself.] 

Whilst  we  returned,  methought  I  heard  again 
The  croon  of  that  eternal  cradle-song, 
And  — all  of  mist  —  the  awful  Mother  rose, 
Outreaching  on  the  air  her  vacant  arms. 

[  Wildly,  to  Phaon^ 

O  better  to  have  died  together  there 
Than  here  —  to  separate. 

PHAON 

That  will  not  be. 

SAPPHO 
Phaon,  they  will  find  you  here.     Come  to  the  boat 

Once  more. 

[Taking  hold  of  him  as  togo.~\ 

Come  back  with  me. 


182  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

\_Putting  her  hand  away.~] 

You  know  not  yet 
The  mightiest  cause  of  my  return. 

SAPPHO 

The  fog, 
You  said.     But  see — the  dawn  !     The  fog  will  lift. 

PHAON 

The  fog  will  never  lift  —  if  we  go  yet. 

SAPPHO 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

PHAON 

\_Hisface  taking  on  a  look  of  superstitious  fear,  his  body  — 
slowly — a  slave -like  bearing,  he  half  whispers  myste 
riously.^ 

Sappho,  I  know  the  fog ; 

Since  boyhood  I  have  known.      This  is  not  fog. 
This  is  the  wrath  and  darkness  of  the  god  : 
/  have  offended  him. 

SAPPHO 

Look  not  like  that ! 

PHAON 

The  dove  T  should  have  killed  for  him  —  it  lives; 
You  took  it  from  me,  but  it  was  Poseidon's. 
Therefore  I  have  returned  to  appease  his  anger. 


THE  TRAGEDY  183 

SAPPHO 

Phaon,  drift  not  away  !     In  pity  of 
Our  love,  drift  not  away. 

PHAON 

This  will  nottift 
Till  I  have  sacrificed. 

[Going.] 

Wait  but  a  little 
And  I  will  find  a  victim. 

SAPPHO 
[  With  imperious  appeal.~\ 

Do  you  say 

This  —  you,  that  for  our  liberty  defied 
With  me  fate  and  the  gods  ? 

PHAON 

That  blasphemy 

Hath  raised  this  cloud.     The  sea-god  demands  death, 
And  I  must  sacrifice. 

SAPPHO 

Stoop  not  to  this  ! 

Our  wills  are  their  own  Providence,  and  shape 
The  mandates  of  the  immortals  to  their  ends. 


PHAON 
Wait :  I  will  not  be  long. 


1 84  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

[Following.'] 

It  must  not  be. 

Phaon,  this  thought  itself  is  bondage.     Think  : 
To  you  I  yielded  as  my  guiding  star, 
And  now  if  you  shall  fall,  our  heaven  and  we 
Shall  have  one  darkness.     Be  once  more  thyself  — 
Master  of  life. 

[From  off  the  scene,  left,  is  heard  the  low  thrumming  of  a 
stringed  instrument.     Phaon  stops  to  listen.'] 

PHAON 
What  sound  is  that  ? 

SAPPHO 

{After  a  pause.'} 

Alcaeus, 

His  lyre  it  is  ;  the  tone  of  it  I  know.  — 
Come  back,  or  he  will  seize  you.     Phaon  ! 

PHAON 
\_Raising  his  clasped  hands,  exultant^\ 

Lord! 
Thy  victim  !     Thou  hast  sent  him  to  my  hands. 

SAPPHO 

You  know  him  not :  his  guards  are  with  him  there 
To  do  his  vengeance.     He  will  violate 
The  temple  in  the  dark,  and  murder  you. 

\Phaon  hastens  to  the  altar.~\ 
What  would  you  do  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  185 

PHAON 
[Seizing  the  knife  of  ritual.~\ 

He  conies  for  sacrifice ; 
The  god,  not  I,  hath  summoned  him. 
[  Calling  into  the  mist.~\ 


Alcaeus 


Phaon,  be  silent. 


SAPPHO 
[Imploring.  ] 


PHAON 
[Mounting  the  steps  toward  the  colonnade. ~\ 

Mockest  thou  me,  Alcaeus  ? 
Makest  thou  me  thy  slave  to  tinkling  strings 
And  thrum  of  music  ? 

SAPPHO 

[Clinging  to  him.~] 
Hush. 


PHAON 
[Putting  her  away.~\ 

Come,  take  me ;  here 
Ami. 

SAPPHO 
[Numbly. ] 
The  star  is  fallen. 


1 86  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 
\To  Sappho^ 

Fear  no  more ; 

I  have  but  drawn  him  on.     Now  will  I  be 
Silent  —  and  sure. 

[  Crouching  behind  the  second  pillar,  he  holds  the  long  knife 
drawn  and,  waiting,  murmurs  to  Sappho,  who  stands 
pale  and  spellbound.~\ 

Soon  shall  the  fog  be  lifted. 

[The  low  thrumming  sounds  draw  near  and  nearer,  along 
the  colonnade,  until  suddenly  Phaon,  listening,  springs 
forward  and  strikes  blindly  behind  the  pillar  in  the 
obscurity^ 

Thy  blood  upon  me  ! 

[He  leaps  back.'] 

A  CHILD'S  VOICE 

[Cries  in  the  dimness.~\ 

Babbo! 

[From  behind  the  pillar,  Bion,  the  child,  with  arms  out 
stretched  to  Phaon,  staggers  forward  and  falls,  dropping 
from  his  hands  a  lyre.  Phaon,  staring  for  an  instant, 
turns  away  his  face  toward  Sappho,  and  points  to  the 
earth  behind  him.'] 


PHAON 

What  is  there  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  187 

SAPPHO 

[Kneeling,  raises  the  lyre  and  looks  upon  the  boy.~\ 
The  lyre  I  played.     Ah,  little  Hermes,  thou ! 
Lift  up  thy  head,  my  luck-boy.     Tis  thy  friend,  dear, 
The  goddess. 

PHAON 

[Turning  supers  titiously^ 
Ha! 

SAPPHO 

The  blood  !     His  heart's  still. 
[Rising  fiercely  toward  Phaon.~\ 

Have  murdered  him  —  my  elf,  my  intercessor  ! 
Blindly  you  struck  this  blow  in  your  own  darkness 
And  killed  him  —  innocent.     Look  !     I  accuse  you  ! 
His  blood  is  on  you. 

PHAON 

[  Who  has  looked,  speechless,  upon   the  body,  sinks  upon  his 
knees  beside  //.] 

Bion,  my  son ! 

SAPPHO 

\  Shrinking  back.~\  TT.    f 

His  father! 

[There  is  an  utter  silence.     Sappho,  gazing  at  the  two,  mur 
murs  to  herself  in  awe.] 

And  if  the  dove  had  died,  the  child  had  lived. 

[  With  impulsive  tenderness,  she  moves  to  speak  to  Phaon,  but 

over  his  bowed  form,  her  utterance  fails.     At  last  she 

half  whispers  to  hirnJ] 

Phaon,  I  did  not  know.  —  Phaon  ! 


1 88  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

PHAON 

[  Oblivious,  touches  the  child's  tumbled  hair] 

Shalt  grow 
No  taller  now  among  the  iris-reeds. 

SAPPHO 

Mine  is  this  deed,  not  yours.     My  sorrow  shall 
Be  ransom  for  you. 

PHAON 

[Rises  slowly. ~\ 

What  hast  thou  for  me  ? 

Thou  which  hast  taken  him  !  —  O  moi  !     Thalassa  ! 
[He  rushes  into  the  temple  J\ 

SAPPHO 

[  Wildly,  following  him] 
No,  no  —  not  her  !     Not  now  to  her ! 

[From  off  the  scene,  left,  is  heard  a  low  crooning  sound —  the 
voice  of  Thalassa.] 

THALASSA 

Eleu! 
[Sappho,  at  the  temple  door,  pauses,  clutching  the  tapestry '.] 

Where  art  thou,  my  Bion  ?     Dim 
The  way  is ;  I  hear  thy  shell 
No  more ;  strike  it  louder. 


THE  TRAGEDY  189 

\Thalassa  enters,  bearing  in  her  arms  the  babel\ 

Didst 

Thou  meet  with  thy  Babbo  ?     We 
Have  followed  thy  music  far, 
Yet  nowhere  we  found  him  in 
The  night.     Speak  :  where  art  thou  ?  —  Ah, 
Thou'st  wearied,  and  laid  thee  down 
Asleep. 

SAPPHO 

[Stepping  forward,  with  compassion,  intercepts  Thalassa's 
gaze  from  the  body.} 

Come  no  nearer.     Go 
In  peace. 

THALASSA 
The  bright  lady ! 

[Starting  toward  Sappho,  she  holds  out  to  her  the  swaddled 
babe.-} 

Feel, 

'Tis  cold  now :  will  drink  no  more 
Its  mother's  milk. 

\_Takingfrom  her  bosom  the  dolphin-bracelet^} 

Look,  'tis  here  — 
Thine  arm- ring,  the  shining  curse 
Thou  gavest  to  Phaon  ;  take 
The  gold  thing !     Ah,  take  it  back 
That  so  may  my  little  one 
Be  warm  now,  and  drink  again. 


1 90  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON- 


Tis  cold  ? 


SAPPHO 
[Trembling^ 


THALASSA 
{Fiercely. ~\ 

Nay,  shalt  touch  it  not ! 
'Tis  mine,  mine  !     Take  thou  the  gold 
And  give  me  its  smile  again. 


SAPPHO 
[Slowly   taking  the  bracelet  from    Thalassa,  peers   at  the 

infant 's  face  and  draws  away.~\ 
Ah  me! 

THALASSA 
[Looking  from  Sappho  to  the  child  with  an  eager  hope.~\ 

Thou  hast  ta'en  it  back 
At  last !     Still  why  keepest  thou 
The  warmth  of  it  ?     Mine  it  is  — 
Not  thine  —  the  babe.     Give  it  me 
In  my  arm  alive  ! 

SAPPHO 

[Anguished,  turns  upon  Thalassa.~\ 

What  am  I 

To  thee  ?     Or  what  art  thou 
Or  this  to  me  ?  —  Not  I, 
Not  I  it  was  who  chilled  its  little  heart. 
I  say  it  was  not  I. 


THE  TRAGEDY  191 

[Thalassa,  heedless  and  unhearivg,  watches  only  the  child's 
face,  while  from  her  own  the  light  of  hope  goes  slowly  out.~\ 

Phaon  I  took  from  thee, 

Phaon  I  freed,  because  his  soul  is  mine 

And  mine  his  own  ;  and  these  — 

These  little  lifeless  ones  —  I  would  have  given 

Joy  of  their  days  ;  but  now 

This  double  bolt  from  heaven,  this  aimless  death 

Hath  snatched  them,  as  the  lightning  slayeth   the 

sheep. — 
O  say  not  it  was  I ! 

THALASSA 

It  stirs  not ;  it  nestles  not. 
Perchance  yet  the  sacrifice 
Shall  make  it  to  breathe  again. 

[Moving  toward  the  templet] 
Its  father  will  know.  — 

SAPPHO 
[Placing herself "in  her  path. ~\ 

Not  there  ! 

Go  to  thy  kin  on  the  beaches, 
Bearing  thy  sorrow.     Go  quickly 
Lest  it  shall  be  too  late. 

THALASSA 

[Smiling  wanly,  murmurs  to  the  infant.^ 
Nestling ! 


IQ2  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Hear  me  !     I  plead  to  you.      Passionate 
Slave  imperturbable  !     Sibyl  — 
Sphynx  of  maternity  !     Hear  me 
Now  ;  I  am  humble. 

THALASSA 

Eleu! 

Nine  moons  was  I  blithe  of  it, 
Awaiting  the  cry  of  it ; 
Ah,  glad  was  the  glimpse  of  it 
And  soft  were  the  fingers ;  warm 
It  clung  to  me. 

SAPPHO 
[Terribly.'] 

Leave  me  :  I  fear  you. 
You,  of  all  beings,  alone  I 
Fear.     On  the  waters  I  feared  you. 
Even  as  he  rowed  us  to  freedom, 
Out  of  the  drip  of  his  oars,  you 
Sang  to  him.     Out  of  the  fog-bank, 
Fog-born,  the  fate  of  you  rose,  and 
Drew  us  to  shore  again.     But  though, 
Sibyl,  I  feared  you,  yet  now  I 
Challenge.      Not  so  shall  that  vision 
Blast,  which  I  witnessed  with  Phaon 
Here  —  No,  not  so  shall  the  coil  of 
Circumstance  strangle  us  !     /,  not 
You,  am  his  destiny.  —  Prove  us  ! 

\_Reenter  Phaon  from  the  temple '.] 


THE  TRAGEDY  193 


THALASSA 
\_Going  to  him.~\ 

Look,  Babbo  :  'tis  gone  away, 
Hath  left  my  arms. 

PHAON 
\_Looking  on  the  infant.] 

Both ! 
[  Gazing  away  to  the  sea.~\ 

The  night 
Is  lifting  now. 

THALASSA 

Phaon,  hast 
Thou  sacrificed  ? 

PHAON 

[Pointing  where  Bion  liesj] 
There :  'tis  done. 


THALASSA 

\Turning  swiftly  to  the  body,  stoops  near."] 
Poseidon  !     Poseidon !     Ah  ! 

[  Crouching  over  the  body,  she  moans  low  and  lays  the  infant 
beside  //.] 

Io  !  io !     Sleep  with  him. 

[6^  bows  prostrate  over  the  children^ 


194  SAPPHO  AND  PHAOTT 

PHAON 

[  With  sullen  fierceness,  slave- like,  approaches  Sappho :] 
Goddess,  be  merciful  —  thou  that  hast  maddened  me  ! 

Thou  that  in  longing 
Infinite  yearnest   for   life,    be   appeased   now.     For 

thee — for  thee  this 
Sacrifice !    Look,  we  have  made  our  offering.     There 

is  our  life-blood  : 
Warm  is  it  still,  and  the  opened  hearts  have  yielded 

their  happy 
Spirits  to  thee.    Be  appeased  ! 

SAPPHO 

Phaon,  do  you  not  know  me? 

PHAON 
Long  have  I  known  thee  —  too  long.     First  in  my 

boyhood  I  saw  thee. 
Thou  from  the  awful  immortals  earnest  in  storm,  and 

thy  beauty 
Blinded  the  day  ;  and  the  slave-folk  warned  me,  but 

I  would  not  heed  their 
Counsel.     I  loved  thee.     Ah,  why  —  why  now  again 

in  thy  vengeance 
Hast  thou  returned  here  to  curse  me  ?     Thou,  not 

Poseidon,  hast  spread  these 
Meshes  of  cloud  to  entangle  me  in  this  murder. 

SAPPHO 
[  Cries  aloud^\ 

No,  Phaon ! 


THE  TRAGEDY  195 

PHAON 

Kneel,  Thalassa,  bow  down !  Bow  down  to  the 
Lady  of  Heaven ; 

Pray  thou  with  me. 

{To  Sappho^ 

O  remove  thy  scourge  from  us, 
most  wretched  slaves. 

THALASSA 
\_Bowing  down  with  Phaon  before  Sappho .] 

Bright 
Lady,  give  us  our  bairns  again  ! 

SAPPHO 

Kneel  not !    No  Lady  of  Heaven  — 

Sappho  am  I,  and  a  mortal  wretched  as  ye  are :  a 
woman 

Born  from  the  pang  of  a  mother  like  thee,  Thalassa 
—  a  woman 

Passionate,  seeking  the  love  of  the  man  that  loveth 
her.  Phaon, 

Phaon  !  Remember  you  not  this  place  in  the  sun 
set,  —  the  brightening 

Moon  on  the  ^Egean,  the  falling  cliff-path  below  us, 
the  crying 

Sea-birds  —  my  hand  on  thy  shoulder?  I  am  Sappho 
—  that  Sappho  ! 

PHAON 

[Dreamily^ 

Glorious  there  was  your  face  as  you  leaned  to  me. 


196  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

SAPPHO 

Hast  thou  forgotten 
How,  with   our  hands  on  my  spear  between  us,  we 

wrestled  for  mastery 

Here  ?  —  How   you    pleaded   and,   lordly,   bade   me 
relinquish,  and  conquered  ? 

PHAON 

Over  your  golden  breastplate  glooming,  your  hair  like 

the  tempest 
Darkened. 

SAPPHO 

[Moving  gradually  nearer  the  cliff,  while  Phaon  follows  — 
hesitant,  fascinated^ 

You  lifted  it  high  —  the    spear  —  and  gazed 

on  it,  raising 
Upward  your  glowing  mind  to  it,  crying  aloud  'gainst 

the  heaven 
War  on  the  tyrant  gods  that  make  men's  slavery. 


PHAON 

Starlight 
Shone  in  your  smile. 


SAPPHO 

How  you  towered,  god 
like  yourself,  —  yea,  as  even 

Now  !  —  and  the  spear  in  your  hand  grew  divine  —  a 
fiery  symbol. 


THE  TRAGEDY  197 

PHAON 
Yours  was  that  fire. 

SAPPHO 

Then  you  hurled  it  into  the 
mystery  —  hurled  it 
Singing  —  and  turned  to  me. 

[Exulting,  as  Phaon  —  ardent —  reaches  toward  hcr.~\ 
So! 

PHAON 

Beloved ! 

SAPPHO 

Thou  art  restored  to  me ! 
[Springing  to  the  cliff- path. ,] 
Come,  then  :  Our  vision  has  triumphed. 

THALASSA 
[  Calling  low.~] 

Babbo ! 

PHAON 

[Pausing  wildly,  with  instant  revolution  lapses  to  his  slave's 
posture. ~] 

Ha  !  thou  art  tempting 
Me  to  thy  power  again. 

[Going  to  Thalassa,  who  still  is  bowed,  stricken,  over  the 
bodies.~] 

Thalassa,  come  to  me  ! 


198  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

THALASSA 

\_Lifts  her  craving  face  to  his.~\ 

Give  them 
Back  to  me,  Babbo. 

PHAON 

[Starting,] 

Babbo  !  —  Hark,  they  are  calling  it :  "  Babbo  !  " 
"  Father  !  "     From  yonder  they  call   to  me,    lifting 

their  little  arms  hither 
Out  of  the  dark  of  Hades.  —  Cease  now,  my  Bion !  I 

hear  thee, 
Yea,  and  will  bring  ye  both  home  again. 

[Raising  Thalassa  to  him.~\ 

Mother  of  them,  thou  my  slave-mate, 

Come  with  me  !  I  —  thou  and  I  —  shall  draw  them 
again  to  us  —  call  their 

Flitting  ghosts  back  into  flesh  and  blood  —  warm 
again  in  our  arms.  Come, 

Come  to  the  beach  with  me :  far,  far  in  the  salty- 
weed  caverns, 

There  will  I  give  thee  them  back,  and  make  repara 
tion  ;  there  shalt  thou 

Bear  to  me  children  —  alive,  bright-eyed  avengers  of 
me,  their 

Father,  —  this  murder.  Thalassa,  lift  up  yon  little 
body, 

And  I  will  bear  in  my  son  unto  the  temple. 


THE  TRAGEDY  199 

[Lifting  the  dead  boy  in  his  arms,  he  goes  with  the  slave- 
woman^  who  carries  the  infant  child.  At  the  door  of  the 
temple,  where  their  eyes  meet  across  the  dead  forms  of 
their  children,  Phaon  gives  to  her  a  yearning  look  of  ten 
derness,  and  they  enter  the  temple. 

From  her  place  by  the  cliff  whence  she  has  watched  without 
moving,  Sappho  calls  with  anguished  appeal. ,] 

SAPPHO 

Thalassa ! 

[The  colours  of  sunrise  begin  now  to  flood  the  scene.  Away 
on  the  left  are  heard  the  voices  of  men  and  maidens 
singing.] 

THE  VOICES 
Gath'rers,  what  have  ye  forgot, 

Hymenceon  ! 
Blushing  ripe  on  the  end  of  the  bough  ? 

Hymenceon  ! 

Ripe  now,  but  ye  may  not  reach  — 
For  the  bride  is  won,  and  the  groom  is  strong  : 

Kala,  O  Chariessa  ! 

SAPPHO 
\_Murmurs.~] 

The  epithalamium  !  —  and  so  the  end  ! 
[Slowly,  with  aspect  of  succumbed  despair,  Sappho  moves  to 
ward  the  steps  of  Aphrodite's  shrine.  As  she  does  so,  the 
Priest  of  Poseidon  comes  from  the  temple  to  the  first  pillar 
and,  raising  there  his  trident  toward  the  sunrise,  stands 
awaiting  the  approaching  singers,  whose  flutes  and  lyres 
sound  nearer. 


200  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

Art  thou  then  come  once  more,  O  Silent  One  ? 

[Sinking  at  his  feet?[ 

God  of  the  generations,  pain,  and  death, 
I  bow  to  thee.  —  Not  for  love's  sake  is  love's 
Fierce  happiness,  but  for  the  after-race. 
Yet,  thou  eternal  Watcher  of  the  tides, 
Knowing  their  passions,  tell  me !    Why  must  we 
Rapturous  beings  of  the  spray  and  storm 
That,  chanting,  beat  our  hearts  against  thy  shores 
Of  aspiration  —  ebb  ?  ebb  and  return 
Into  the  songless  deep  ?     Are  we  no  more 
Than  foam  upon  thy  garment  ?  —  flying  spume 
Caught  on  thy  trident's  horn,  to  flash  the  sun 
An  instant  —  and  expire  ?     Are  we  no  more  ? 
Reveal  to  me !     Break  once  thine  infinite 
Vow  of  secretiveness,  and  whisper  it 
Soft.     I  will  keep  thy  secret. 
[Rising.] 

Thou  wilt  not ! 

Thou  wilt  divulge  it  —  never.     Fare  you  well ! 
[She  rushes  up  the  steps  to  the  jutting  shrine. ~\ 

Another  wave  has  broken  at  your  feet 
And,  moaning,  wanes  into  oblivion. 
But  not  its  radiance !     That  flashes  back 
Into  the  Morning,  and  shall  flame  again 
Over  a  myriad  waves.     That  flame  am  I, 
Nor  thou,  Poseidon,  shalt  extinguish  me. 
My  spirit  is  thy  changeling,  and  returns 
To  her,  who  glows  beyond  the  stars  of  birth  — 
To  her,  who  is  herself  time's  passion-star. 


THE  TRAGEDY  2OI 

\_Turningto  the  edge  of  the  rock,  Sappho  calls  upward  into  the 
breaking  mists,  through  which  the  full  glory  of  morning 
ruddies  her  white  robe  with  its  splendour.~\ 

Beautiful  Sister,  goddess  of  desire, 
Come  to  me  !     Clasp  me  in  your  wings  of  sunrise 
Burning,  for  see  !  I  go  forth  to  you  burning 
Still.  —  Aphrodite ! 

[She  leaps  into  the  fog  and  disappears. 

As  she  vanishes,  there  enters,  through  the  colonnade,  singing, 
the  bridal  procession  of  youths  and  girl-disciples,  accom 
panying  Atthis,  who  holds,  smiling,  the  hand  of  a  youth 
in  gold  armour.  As  these  reach  and  pass  the  silent  form 
of  the  Priest,  the  fog — increasing  from  the  sea  —  rolls 
over  the  scene.~\ 

VOICES   OF  THE  SINGERS 

Like  the  stars  about  the  moon 

Hymenceon  ! 
When  her  orbed  smile  she  shows, 

Hymen&on  ! 

Lovers,  yield  to  her  your  light ; 
She  is  single  in  the  night. 

Kala,  O  Charles sa  ! 

[  With  ever-increasing  obscurity  the  fog  closes  down,  until — 
as  the  last  of  the  men  and  maidens  pass  into  the  veiled 
temple  —  the  scene  is  involved  in  darkness  entire,  save 
where,  beside  his  pillar,  the  brooding  Priest  of  Poseidon  is 
vaguely  visible. 

Gradually,  then,  on  the  foggy  texture  of  this  obscurity,  the  out 
lines  of  another  scene  become  apparent ;  and  while  the 
female  voices  within  the  temple  die  away,  and  the  male 


202  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

voices,  blending,  pass  without  cessation  into  a  song  of 
different  melody  in  Italian,  the  Brooding  Figure  is  itself 
obscured,  and  there  stands  now,  beside  the  lava  pillar  of 
the  excavation  —  the  archceologist,  Medbery.  Simulta 
neously  the  dimness  is  pierced  by  the  rays  of  approaching 
torches,  and  enter — through  the  right  door  of  the 
Prologue-scene  —  the  Neapolitan  Labourers,  singing.~\ 

Tutt'  altro  ciel  mi  chiama, 

Addio !     Addio ! 
Ma  questo  cor  ti  brama, 

E  il  cor,  il  cor  ti  lascero! 

Di  bacie  d'  armonia 

E  1'  aura  tua  ripiena, 
O  magica  Sirena 

Fedel,  f  edele  a  te  saro !  .  .  . 

Addio,  O  care  memorie 
Del  tempo,  ah  !  che  fuggi ! 

{Having  placed  their  torches,  and  with  their  picks  begun  to 
strike  the  lava  with  muffled  reverberation,  one  of  the 
Labourers  stoops  and  lifts,  from  the  newly  dug  debris,  a 
curved  object,  which  he  hands  to  the  pensive  archceolo- 
gist.  The  others  pause  in  their  lazy  digging,  and  look 
at  himJ] 

MEDBERY 
[Taking  it  in  his  hand.~\ 

A  lyre  of  tortoise-shell!  How  long  it  has  lain 
silent  in  the  heart  of  Time  !  Ah,  no  —  this  was  no 
dream.  Here  Sappho  dreams  —  buried,  but  not  dead. 


THE  EPILOGUE  203 

Here  we  shall  find  her  asleep  in  the  arms  of  her  lover 
—  the  Antique   World: — And  /  shall  awaken  her! 
Labourers,  to  your  work  !    Your  picks  are  ready  ;  the 
lava  crumbles.     Scavate!     Dig  —  dig  ! 

\_As    the   Labourers   resume  their  labour  and  their  song\ 

THE   MODERN   CURTAIN    FALLS. 


APPENDIX 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  INTERLUDES 
[PANTOMIME] 

verum  ita  risores,  ita  commendare  dicaces 
conveniet  Satyros,  ita  vertere  seria  ludo. 

—  HORACE  :  De  Arte  Poetica. 

segnius  inritant  animos  demissa  per  aurem 
quam  quae  sunt  oculis  subiecta  fidelibus  et  quae 
ipse  sibi  tradit  spectator. 

—  Idem. 


FIRST  AND  SECOND  INTERLUDES 


CHARACTERS 

PANTOMIMUS1  —  announcing   the   Pantomime,    "Hercules  and 
the  Sphinx"  before  the  Herculaneum  Audience. 

VARIUS,1    HORACE,1    VlRGIL,1    MAECENAS,1    POLLIO,1    ES    Mutes 

HERCULES,  the  demigod 

SILENUS,  the  satyr 

SERVUS,  a  slave 

OMPHALE,    a    Nymph    (after 

ward  disguised  as 

the  Sphinx) 

BOY-MIMES,  as   Fauns   (after-  Unmasked  characters 

J"  ,Z,l 

GIRL-MIMES,  as  Nymphs  (after- 

ward  as  Psyches) 


Masked  Characters 

in  the  Pantomime ; 

Mutes 


L 


1  Appears  only  in  First  Interlude. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE 

PERFORMED  BEFORE  THE   HERCULANEUM  CURTAIN  BETWEEN 

ACT   I    AND   ACT   II    OF   THE   TRAGEDY. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE 

No  sooner  has  the  curtain  closed  than  from  their 
hidden  seats  the  Herculaneum  audience  burst  into 
murmurous  applause,  mingled  with  the  cries  of  "Vivat! 
Vale,  Varius  !  Plaudite  !  "  At  this,  Horace,  Virgil, 
Varius,  Maecenas,  and  Pollio  appear  from  their  places 
[which,  during  the  Act  of  the  Tragedy,  they  have  oc 
cupied  in  a  row  beyond  sight]  and  take  seats  in  the 
first  row  of  marble  chairs. 

Here  they  are  greeted  again  by  the  Herculaneum 
audience,  whom  Varius,  rising,  salutes,  and  is  about 
to  address  when  enters,  through  the  door  in  the  cur 
tain,  PANTOMIMUS,  a  parti-coloured  figure,  garbed 
antiquely  as  a  harlequin,  wreathed  and  masked.1 

Perceiving  his  entrance,  Varius  makes  a  gesture  to 
the  audience  indicative  that  he  cannot  then  respond 
to  their  applause,  and  with  that  sits  down  to  watch 
the  ensuing  action. 

Behind  Pantomimus,  enter  [on  either  side  of  him] 
two  little  Pantomimi,  half  his  height,  exactly  re 
sembling  him  in  every  particular.  These,  as  with  a 
skipping  step  and  motion  Pantomimus  speaks  his 
Introduction,  imitate  in  dumb  show  his  every  move 
ment  of  wand  and  gesture,  and  this  with  such 
simultaneousness,  that  they  appear  like  his  twin- 
images  in  miniature  projected  beside  him. 

1  In  one  band,  Pantomimus  carries  a  wand  resembling  a  caduceus, 
but  differing  from  that  of  Mercury  in  that  the  heads  of  the  twining 
snakes  are  carved  as  little  masks  of  comedy,  and  the  tip  of  the  wand, 
to  which  the  flying  wings  are  affixed,  is  the  shining  disk  of  a  mirror, 
into  which  at  times  Pantomimus  peers  quaintly  at  his  reflection. 

211 


212  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON" 

Pantomimus  makes  his  entrance  with  suddenness 
and,  raising  his  caduceus  for  silence,  speaks  his  first 
four  lines  from  the  top  of  the  steps.  Descending 
then  to  the  centre  of  the  orchestra  space,  he  recites 
the  remainder,  with  agile  gestures,  to  the  low,  quick- 
thrummed  accompaniment  of  a  harpist  [within  the 
wings] . 

PANTOMIMUS 

Salve, 
Herculaneans ! 

Hush: 

Pantomimus  I  ! 
Behold  my  palace : 

Up  that  slit 

Through  the  floor 
I  plucked  it.  —  Ecce  ! 

So  you  see 
How  thin  a  wall 
Divides  the  wise 

From  the  fools. 

T'other  side 
Melpomene, 
The  tragic  Muse, 

Weaves  the  plot ; 

This  side  now 
(Behind  her  back) 
I  pull  her  play 

Wrong-side-out. 

Thus  in  the  seams 
Shall  we  reversed 
View  the  design, 

And  so  discern 

How  the  crease 
In  Grandeur's  scowl 
Is  but  a  grin 

Up-side-down. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE  21$ 

Therefore,  as  critic 

Who  would  test 

Tragedy, 

Between  the  curtains 
I  slip  a  mask  on, 

Catch  the  Muse, 

Gag  her  mouth, 
Skew  up  her  eyebrows, 
And  thus  ask  pardon  : 

"  O  Olympic 

Lady,  if  so 
Grotesque  a  greeting 

Mar  and  tarnish 
Your  chaste  complexion, 
Then  am  I  certain 

You're  no  sky-born 

Goddess,  but  merely 
A  painted  drab. 
So,  lords,  a  masquerade  I  leave  you  : 

A  hero,  and 

A  riddle  and 

A  heroine  — 

THE   SPHINX  AND   HERCULES  :    the  riddle 

To  find  the  tragic  Muse.  —  Heaven  help  you  ! 
[Exit,  with  Pantomimi^  within  the  curtain  door."] 

Enter  at  left  aisle  and  at  right  \_as  in  the  Prelude~\ 
the  two  Flutists,  whose  playing  outside  has  accom 
panied  the  speech  of  Pantomimus.  These,  now 
visible,  accompany  the  ensuing  pantomime,  with  flute 
and  harp.  With  these,  enter  two  slaves  [functionaries 
of  the  theatre]  bearing  two  stage-properties,  which  they 
place  on  either  side,  near  the  wings  :  that  of  the  right- 
hand  one  represents  a  squat  pillar,  on  top  of  which  is 
the  sitting  figure  of  a  bronze  Sphinx  :  that  of  the  left- 
hand  —  a  set-piece  of  foliage  and  shrubbery.  Exeunt. 


214  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 


Enter  then,  at  left,  the  first  of  the  Pantomimists  — 
Servus,  a  house-slave,  masked  as  such.  He  places  at 
the  foot  of  the  steps,  centre,  a  low  seat  and,  beside  it, 
a  heap  of  wool  and  spinning  materials.  There  he 
prostrates  himself  toward  the  left  entrance,  as  enter 
there  —  dancing  to  harp  music  —  a  group  of  young 
girl-mimes  [without  masks],  dressed  as  Nymphs  and 
carrying  distaffs. 

In  the  midst  of  these  —  preceded  by  most  of  them 
—  enter  Hercules,  in  grotesque  mask,  which  depicts 
a  comic-dejected  expression.  He  is  wadded  after  the 
manner  of  the  comic  histrionic  vase-figures  of  an 
tiquity,  and  walks  downcast.  Instead  of  his  legen 
dary  lion's  skin,  there  hangs  from  his  shoulder  the 
woolly  pelt  of  a  sheep ;  in  place  of  his  knotted  club, 
his  hand  holds  a  huge  distaff ;  and  for  the  rest  he  is 
dressed  like  a  Greek  woman. 

He  is  accompanied  by  Omphale,  masked  as  a 
beautiful  and  amorous  nymph.  Over  her  shoulders 
she  wears  his  lion's  skin ;  in  one  hand  she  holds  his 
massive  club  ;  with  the  other  she  caresses  him. 

With  coquetting  wiles,  the  Nymphs  in  their  danc 
ing  draw  the  two  toward  the  centre,  where  they  sit 
beside  the  wool  —  Hercules,  with  heavy  sighs,  begin 
ning  to  spin,  while  Omphale,  posing  in  the  lion's 
skin,  approves  his  labour.  Here  the  Nymphs,  re 
clined  about  them  on  the  steps  and  the  ground, 
execute  a  rhythmic  dance  with  their  arms  and  dis 
taffs,  singing  to  their  movement :  — 


FIRST  INTERLUDE  215 

Angustam  amice  pauperiem  pati 
robustus  acri  militia  puer 
condiscat  et  Parthos  feroces 

vexet  eques  metuendus  hasta 
vitamque  sub  divo  et  trepidis  agat 
in  rebus,     ilium  ex  moenibus  hosticis 
matrona  bellantis  tyranni 

prospiciens  et  adulta  virgo 
suspiret,  eheu,  ne  rudis  agminum 
sponsus  lacessat  regius  asperum 
tactu  leonem,  quern  cruenta 
per  medias  rapit  ira  caedes.1 

At  the  culmination  of  this,  Hercules,  who  has  been 
repelling  the  attentions  of  Omphale,  at  first  with 
feeble  ennui,  but  afterwards  with  increasing  determi 
nation,  now  rises  in  grandiose  disgust,  and  —  snatching 
from  her  his  lion's  skin  and  club  —  repudiates  her  and 
the  Nymphs. 

Flinging  down  the  sheep's  pelt  and  setting  his  foot 
upon  it,  he  breaks  his  distaff  in  pieces  and,  threaten 
ing  Omphale,  drives  the  Nymphs  off  the  scene,  left 
[During  this  excitement,  Servus  —  who  has  been 
standing  aside  —  seizes  the  heap  of  wool,  and  exit 
with  it  in  flight.]  Turning  then  to  the  image 
of  the  Sphinx,  Hercules  expresses  in  dumb  show  how, 
lured  by  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx,  he  aspires  to  fight 
and  conquer  the  world  for  her  sake.  Laying  his  club 
and  lion 's  skin  devoutly  at  the  foot  of  the  column,  he 

i  Horace:  Ode  II  of  Book  III. 

The  literal  translation  (by  A.  H.  Bryce)  is  as  follows :  — 
"  Let  youth,  made  strong  by  active  war,  learn  to  endure  privation 
in  a  happy  mood ;  let  him  as  horseman  bold  with  dreaded  spear  harass 
the  daring  Mede,  and  spend  his  life  in  open  air,  and  midst  alarms  of 
foes.  Let  wife  and  daughter  of  the  warring  king,  as  from  the  hostile 
walls  they  look,  heave  many  a  sigh,  alas  !  lest  princely  spouse,  untried 
in  war,  provoke  the  lion,  dangerous  to  stir,  whom  bloodthirsty  anger 
hurries  on  through  thickest  of  the  fight." 


216  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

kneels,  embraces  it,  and  raises  then  his  arms  in  suppli 
cation  to  the  Sphinx. 

Thus  kneeling,  he  is  watched  furtively  at  a  distance 
by  Omphale,  who,  at  his  outburst,  has  run  to  the  edge 
of  the  foliage,  right.  Hercules,  rising,  puts  on  his 
lion's  skin,  and  brandishing  his  club  heroicly  for  the 
benefit  of  the  immovable  Sphinx,  goes  off,  left. 

Immediately  Omphale  seizes  from  among  the  fo 
liage  a  sylvan  pipe,  and  blows  on  it  a  brief,  appealing 
ditty.  At  this,  from  behind  the  foliage,  run  out  boy- 
mimes,  in  the  guise  of  Fauns  ;  she  gesticulates  to  them 
beseechingly.  They  run  back  and  presently  return, 
dancing  to  pipe-music,  accompanying  and  leading  a 
goat,  astride  of  which  sits  Silenus,  an  old  grotesque 
Satyr,  in  mask. 

Omphale  greets  him  joyfully  and  helps  him  down 
from  the  goat.  She  then  describes  to  him  in  panto 
mime  the  late  outburst  of  Hercules  —  his  breaking  the 
spindle,  his  enamoration  for  the  Sphinx,  etc.,  and 
prays  his  aid  and  advice. 

Silenus  pauses  an  instant  in  philosophical  absorp 
tion,  then  gives  a  leap  and  skip.  Omphale,  seeing 
that  he  has  hit  on  some  plan,  expresses  her  pleasure 
and  inquires  what  his  plan  may  be.  Silenus  bids  her 
call  a  slave.  Omphale  claps  her  hands  toward  the 
left  entrance.  Servus  enters.  Silenus  signs  to  him. 
Servus  goes  back  and  returns  immediately,  rolling  in 
a  wine-cask,  from  which  he  fills  an  antique  beaker. 
From  this  Silenus  sips  and  approves.  He  then  points 
to  the  Sphinx  and  asks  if  it  be  that  of  which  Hercules 
is  enamoured.  Omphale  assents.  Silenus  then  directs 
Servus  to  lift  the  Sphinx  down  from  the  pillar.  Ser 
vus  does  so,  revealing  its  hollow  interior  as  he  carries 
it.  Silenus,  drawing  Omphale's  attention  to  this  fact 
of  its  hollowness,  opens  the  door  in  the  curtain,  and 
commands  Servus  to  bear  the  Sphinx  within.  Servus 
does  so.  Silenus,  then,  pointing  to  the  window  above 


FIRST  INTERLUDE 


the  door,  whispers  in  the  ear  of  Omphale,  who,  de 
lighted,  enters  the  door  after  Servus.  Silenus  closes 
the  door  as  Hercules  reenters,  left. 

The  hero  has  discarded  his  woman's  garb,  and 
comes  forward  now  dressed  as  a  man,  with  lion's  skin 
and  club  —  his  mask  changed  to  one  of  an  exultant 
and  martial  expression. 

Silenus  greets  him  with  obsequious  and  cunning 
servility  and  offers  him  wine.  Hercules,  with  good- 
natured  hauteur,  condescends  to  accept  the  cup  which 
he  offers.  While  he  is  drinking,  the  window  above 
in  the  curtain  opens,  and  Omphale  thrusts  her  head 
out,  revealing  [within]  beside  her  own,  the  Sphinx's 
head.  Silenus  secretively  motions  her  to  be  cautious. 
Seeing  his  gesture,  Hercules  looks  up,  but  not  swiftly 
enough  to  detect  Omphale,  who  withdraws.  Again 
looking  forth,  as  he  turns  to  drink  again,  Omphale 
mocks  Hercules  below,  dropping  wisps  of  wool  on 
his  head,  the  source  of  which,  however,  Hercules  fails 
to  detect.  Silenus  explains  that  the  wool  is  really 
feathers,  which  fell  from  a  bird  flying  overhead. 

Hercules  now,  under  the  sly  persuasions  of  the  old 
Satyr,  grows  more  pleased  with  the  wine,  drinks 
finally  from  the  spigot  of  the  cask,  and  becomes  drunk 
—  as  he  becomes  so,  expressing  to  Silenus,  with  in 
creasing  familiarity  and  descriptive  force,  all  the 
mighty  exploits  he  intends  to  accomplish  in  the  ser 
vice  of  the  incomparable  Sphinx,  whose  living  proto 
type  he  declares  he  will  immediately  set  forth  in 
search  of. 

Starting  now,  humorously  drunk,  to  depart  [right] 
he  is  detained  by  Silenus,  who  points  upward  to  the 
window,  where  now  the  blank,  immovable  face  of  the 
Sphinx  looks  forth  at  the  sky.  Hercules,  bewildered, 
asks  Silenus  if  it  is  really  the  Sphinx  herself  and 
alive  ?  Silenus  assents  and  proves  his  assertion  by 
pointing  to  the  deserted  pedestal.  At  this,  Hercules 


2l8  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

addresses  the  Sphinx,  with  impassioned  gestures. 
The  Sphinx  remains  immovable.  Hercules  becomes 
discouraged.  Silenus  then  puts  a  pipe  in  his  hand, 
and  tells  him  to  play  it.  He  does  so,  and  is  rewarded 
by  a  slow,  preternatural  look  from  the  Sphinx.  At 
this  he  plays  more  vociferously  and,  surrounded 
by  the  little  piping  Fauns,  performs  a  serenade  be 
neath  the  casement,  while  Silenus,  looking  on  from  a 
distance,  rubs  his  hands  with  sly  delight. 

The  serenade  ends  by  Hercules,  on  his  knees,  im 
ploring  the  Sphinx  to  come  down  The  Sphinx  at 
length  consents  and  the  casement  closes.  Silenus 
calls  his  Fauns  away  to  the  edge  of  the  foliage,  and 
Hercules  goes  to  the  door. 

For  a  moment  nothing  happens  and  Hercules 
knocks  on  the  steps  impatiently  with  his  club.  Then 
the  door  opens  and  enter  the  Sphinx — dressed  be 
low  in  the  Greek  garments  of  Omphale,  but  from  the 
waist  upward  consisting  of  the  sitting  image  of  the 
Sphinx,  beneath  whose  closed  wings  the  arms  of 
Omphale  are  thrust  through  and  have  place  for  mo 
tion. 

The  Sphinx,  its  tail  swinging  behind,  descends  the 
steps,  reticent  and  impassive,  attended  by  Hercules, 
drunk  and  enamoured. 

Then  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  to  the  accompaniment 
from  the  foliage  of  the  piping  Fauns,  who  play  softly 
a  variation  of  the  serenade  theme,  Hercules  woos  the 
Sphinx,  who,  at  the  proper  moment,  succumbs  to  his 
entreaties.  After  embracing  him  amorously,  she  ex 
tends  her  hand  to  him.  He  seizes  it  to  kiss  ;  she 
withdraws  it  and  signifies  that  he  must  put  a  ring  on 
the  ring-finger.  Hercules  hunts  about  him  in  vain 
for  a  ring.  Calling  then  Silenus  and  the  Fauns,  he 
explains  to  them  the  situation. 

Silenus  declares  that  there  will  be  no  difficulty  ;  his 
Fauns  will  forge  him  a  ring  with  which  to  wed  the 


FIRST  INTERLUDE  219 

Sphinx.  At  this  joyful  information,  Hercules,  the 
Sphinx,  and  Silenus  express  their  feelings  in  a  dance l 
with  the  Fauns,  at  the  climax  of  which  the  Fauns 
escort  the  three  masked  characters  to  the  door  in  the 
curtain,  through  which  they  pass  and  disappear, 
while  the  Fauns,  dividing  into  two  groups,  dance  off 
and  exeunt  at  either  side.  Simultaneously  the  two 
theatre  slaves  remove  the  stage  properties. 


Varius,  Maecenas,  and  Pollio,  rising  now  in  laughter, 
pass  again  to  places  beyond  sight  in  the  Herculaneum 
audience,  followed  thither  by  Horace  and  Virgil,  talk 
ing  together. 

The  theatre  slaves  then  pass  silently  across  and  the 
lights  shine  dimmer.  After  a  pause,  the  Herculaneum 
curtain  is  lowered,  discovering  again  Lesbos  —  the 
scene  of  the  Tragedy. 

Explicit  Inter 'Indium  Primum 

1  Before  the  commencement  of  this  dance,  Servus  has  entered  and 
removed  the  low  seat  and  wine-cask. 


SECOND    INTERLUDE1 

THE  theatre  of  Varius  remains  in  dimness,  and  its 
audience  in  silence.  A  shaft  of  pale  light  falls  upon 
the  altar  [centre],  out  of  the  top  of  which  [where  be 
fore  was  the  tripod]  are  seen  to  be  growing  lilies, 
harebells  and  vari-coloured  wild  flowers. 

At  the  same  time,  an  elfin  dance-music  is  heard  off 
scene,  and  enter  [left]  to  the  sound  of  harps,  the  girl- 
mimes  in  guise  of  Psyches,  with  little  wings.  In-and- 
out  of  the  shadows  of  the  shaft  of  moonlight,  these 
trip  a  light-footed  dance,  the  motif  of  which  is  the 
finding  and  plucking  of  flowers.  At  times  they  run, 
at  times  they  stoop,  at  times  they  pause  and  weave. 
Toward  the  end  of  their  dance,  they  espy  the  grow 
ing  lilies  on  the  altar  and,  encircling  it,  pluck  away 
the  flowers  till  the  marble  is  bare.  Weaving  these 
into  ropes,  they  dance  off  the  scene,  right. 

These  have  already  gone  when  enter  [left]  the  boy- 
mimes,  guised  as  Cupids,  the  one-half  carrying  long 
golden  sledge-hammers,  the  other  half  holding  tongs 
and  great  pincers  made  of  gold.  As  they  enter, 
there  rises  out  of  the  top  of  the  altar  an  anvil,  glow 
ing  red-hot,  upon  which  gleams  a  great  gold  ring. 
Coming  forward,  as  before  the  Psyches  danced  their 
measures  simulative  of  the  plucking  of  flowers,  so 
now  the  Cupids  carrying  their  gleaming  sledge 
hammers  and  tongs  —  their  wrists  and  ankles  fas 
tened  with  golden  cymbals  —  execute  a  dance,  the 

1  This  Interlude,  like  the  First,  occupies  approximately  the  time  of 
a  usual  entr'acte. 

223 


224  SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 

motif  of  which  is  the  hammering  and  forging  of  rings 
upon  viewless  anvils  —  at  the  strokes  of  their  play- 
labour  clashing  their  cymbals  together  to  the  music 
of  flutes  and  strings.  Similarly  toward  the  end  of 
their  dance,  having  discovered  the  anvil  glowing 
upon  the  altar,  they  encircle  it,  and  half  of  them 
seizing  the  great  ring  with  their  pincers,  the  other 
half  ply  upon  it  their  golden  hammers,  in  rhythm  with 
the  music. 

Finally  their  leader,  lifting  the  ring  with  his  tongs, 
bears  it  away  [left]  and  is  followed  off  the  scene  by 
the  others,  dancing. 

At  this  moment  the  door  in  the  curtain  opens,  and 
enter  Silenus  in  the  vestments  of  a  priest,  followed 
by  Hercules  and  the  Sphinx  fantastically  garlanded 
as  bridegroom  and  bride,  —  their  steps  lighted  by 
Servus,  whose  torch  illuminates  the  scene. 

Silenus  leads  the  way  down  the  steps  straight  to 
the  altar,  coming  round  to  the  other  side  of  which  he 
turns  his  back  and  faces  Hercules  and  the  Sphinx, 
who  stand  facing  him  on  the  other  side.  At  the 
same  time  reenter,  from  right  and  left,  the  leaders 
of  the  girl-mimes  and  boy-mimes,  who — ,at  either 
side  of  the  altar  —  proffer  to  Silenus  respectively  a 
rope  of  flowers  and  a  small  gold  ring.  Laying  the 
flowers  on  the  altar,  Silenus  bestows  his  benediction 
upon  Hercules  and  the  Sphinx,  to  the  former  of 
whom  he  extends  the  ring.  Hercules  takes  it  and  as 
the  Sphinx  extends  her  left  hand,  he  slips  upon  her 
ring-finger  the  gold  ring. 

Instantly  a  clash  of  cymbals  is  heard  from  the  left, 
and  a  clapping  of  palms  from  the  right,  and  reenter 
—  dancing — the  Cupids  and  Psyches,  who  encircle 
the  scene  just  as  Servus  removes  from  the  bride  the 
great  mask  of  the  Sphinx,  thereby  revealing  her  to 
the  astounded  Hercules  —  as  Omphale,  who  em 
braces  him,  exulting  in  her  ring. 


SECOND  INTERLUDE  225 

With  gestures  of  comic  resignation,  Hercules  at 
the  side  of  Omphale  follows  Silenus,  accompanied  by 
the  Cupids  and  Psyches  in  procession,  to  the  door 
in  the  curtain,  wherein  all  pass  and  disappear  to 
the  jubilant  cymbal-clashings  of  the  Cupids  and  the 
flower-rope-wreathings  of  the  Psyches.  The  door 
closes,  the  music  sounds  more  faintly  and  dies  away. 

For  a  moment  all  is  blackness  and  silence ;  then 
the  Herculaneum  curtain,  descending,  reveals  again 
the  temple  in  Lesbos. 

Explicit  Interludium  Secundum. 


THE  SCARECROW 


THE  SCARECROW 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  LUDICROUS 


MY   MOTHER 

IN  MEMORY  OF   AUSPICIOUS 

"  COUNTINGS   OF   THE   CROWS  " 

BY   OLD   NEW  ENGLAND   CORN-FIELDS 


PREFACE 

BUT  for  a  fantasy  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  this 
play,  of  course,  would  never  have  been  written.  In 
"  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,"  the  Moralized  Legend 
"  Feathertop  "  relates,  in  some  twenty  pages  of  its 
author's  inimitable  style,  how  Mother  Rigby,  a  re 
puted  witch  of  old  New  England  days,  converted  a 
corn-patch  scarecrow  into  the  semblance  of  a  fine 
gentleman  of  the  period;  how  she  despatched  this 
semblance  to  "  play  its  part  in  the  great  world,  where 
not  one  man  in  a  hundred,  she  affirmed,  was  gifted 
with  more  real  substance  than  itself  "  ;  how  there  the 
scarecrow,  while  paying  court  to  pretty  Polly  Gookin, 
the  rosy,  simpering  daughter  of  Justice  Gookin,  dis 
covered  its  own  image  in  a  looking-glass,  returned 
to  Mother  Rigby 's  cottage,  and  dissolved  into  its 
original  elements. 

My  indebtedness,  therefore,  to  this  source,  in 
undertaking  the  present  play,  goes  without  saying. 
Yet  it  would  not  be  true,  either  to  Hawthorne's  work 
or  my  own,  to  classify  "  The  Scarecrow  "  as  a  drama 
tization  of  "  Feathertop."  Were  it  intended  to  be 
such,  the  many  radical  departures  from  the  concep 
tion  and  the  treatment  of  Hawthorne  which  are  evi 
dent  in  the  present  work  would  have  to  be  regarded 
as  so  many  unwarrantable  liberties  taken  with  its 


x  PREFACE 

original  material;  the  function  of  the  play  itself 
would,  in  such  case,  become  purely  formal,  —  trans- 
lative  of  a  narrative  to  its  appropriate  dramatic  form, 
—  and  as  such,  however  interesting  and  commendable 
an  effort,  would  have  lost  all  raison  d'etre  for  the 
writer. 

But  such,  I  may  say,  has  not  been  my  intention. 
My  aim  has  been  quite  otherwise.  Starting  with  the 
same  basic  theme,  I  have  sought  to  elaborate  it,  by 
my  own  treatment,  to  a  different  and  more  inclusive 
issue. 

Without  particularizing  here  the  full  substance  of 
Hawthorne's  consummate  sketch,  which  is  available 
to  every  reader,  the  divergence  I  refer  to  may  be 
summed  up  briefly. 

The  scarecrow  Feathertop  of  Hawthorne  is  the 
imaginative  epitome  or  symbol  of  human  charlatanism, 
with  special  emphasis  upon  the  coxcombry  of  fashion 
able  society.  In  his  essential  superficiality  he  is 
characterized  as  a  fop,  "  strangely  self-satisfied,"  with 
"  nobby  little  nose  thrust  into  the  air."  "  And  many 
a  fine  gentleman,"  says  Mother  Rigby,  "  has  a  pump 
kin-head  as  well  as  my  scarecrow."  His  hollow 
semblance  is  the  shallowness  of  a  "  well-digested 
conventionalism,  which  had  incorporated  itself  thor 
oughly  with  his  substance  and  transformed  him  into 
a  work  of  art."  "  But  the  clothes  in  this  case  were 
to  be  the  making  of  the  man,"  and  so  Mother  Rigby, 
after  fitting  him  out  in  a  suit  of  embroidered  finery, 
endows  him  as  a  finishing  touch  "  with  a  great  deal 
of  brass,  which  she  applied  to  his  forehead,  thus 


PREFACE  xi 

making  it  yellower  than  before.  '  With  that  brass 
alone,'  quoth  she,  '  thou  canst  pay  thy  way  all  over 
the  earth.' " 

Similarly,  the  other  characters  are  sketched  by 
Hawthorne  in  accord  with  this  general  conception. 
Pretty  Polly  Gookin,  "  tossing  her  head  and  manag 
ing  her  fan"  before  the  mirror,  views  therein  "an 
unsubstantial  little  maid  that  reflected  every  gesture 
and  did  all  the  foolish  things  that  Polly  did,  but 
without  making  her  ashamed  of  them.  In  short,  it 
was  the  fault  of  pretty  Polly's  ability,  rather  than  her 
will,  if  she  failed  to  be  as  complete  an  artifice  as 
the  illustrious  Feathertop  himself." 

Thus  the  Moralized  Legend  reveals  itself  as  a  satire 
upon  a  restricted  artificial  phase  of  society.  As  such, 
it  runs  its  brief  course,  with  all  the  poetic  charm  and 
fanciful  suggestiveness  of  our  great  New  Englander's 
prose  style,  to  its  appropriate  denouement,  —  the  dis 
integration  of  its  hero. 

" '  My  poor,  dear,  pretty  Feathertop,'  quoth  Mother 
Rigby,  with  a  rueful  glance  at  the  relics  of  her  ill- 
fated  contrivance,  '  there  are  thousands  upon  thou 
sands  of  coxcombs  and  charlatans  in  the  world  made 
up  of  just  such  a  jumble  of  worn-out,  forgotten,  and 
good-for-nothing  trash  as  he  was,  yet  they  live  in 
fair  repute  and  never  see  themselves  for  what  they 
are.  And  why  should  my  poor  puppet  be  the  only 
one  to  know  himself  and  perish  for  it  ? '  ' 

Coxcombry  and  charlatanism,  then,  are  the  butt 
of  Hawthorne's  satire  in  his  Legend.  The  nature 
of  his  theme,  however,  is  susceptible  of  an  application 


xii  PREFACE 

far  less  restricted,  a  development  far  more  universal, 
than  such  satire.  This  wider  issue  once  or  twice  in 
his  sketch  he  seems  to  have  touched  upon,  only 
immediately  to  ignore  again.  Thus,  in  the  very  last 
paragraph,  Mother  Rigby  exclaims :  "  Poor  Feather- 
top  !  I  could  easily  give  him  another  chance  and  send 
him  forth  again  to-morrow.  But  no !  His  feelings 
are  too  tender — his  sensibilities  too  deep." 

In  these  words,  spoken  in  irony,  Hawthorne  ends 
his  narrative  with  an  undeveloped  aspect  of  his 
theme,  which  constitutes  the  starting-point  of  the  con 
ception  of  my  play :  the  aspect,  namely,  of  the  essen 
tial  tragedy  of  the  ludicrous ;  an  aspect  which,  in 
its  development,  inevitably  predicates  for  my  play 
a  divergent  treatment  and  a  different  conclusion. 
The  element  of  human  sympathy  is  here  substituted 
for  that  of  irony,  as  criterion  of  the  common  absurdity 
of  mankind. 

The  scarecrow  Feathertop  is  ridiculous,  as  the 
emblem  of  a  superficial  fop ;  the  scarecrow  Ravens- 
bane  is  pitiful,  as  the  emblem  of  human  bathos. 

Compared  with  our  own  ideas  of  human  perfection, 
what  human  rubbish  we  are !  Of  what  incongruous 
elements  are  we  constructed  by  time  and  inheritance 
wherewith  to  realize  the  reasonableness,  the  power, 
the  altruism,  of  our  dreams !  What  absurdity  is  our 
highest  consummation !  Yet  the  sense  of  our  com 
mon  deficiency  is,  after  all,  our  salvation.  There  is 
one  reality  which  is  a  basic  hope  for  the  realization 
of  those  dreams.  This  sense  is  human  sympathy, 
which  is,  it  would  seem,  a  more  searching  critic  of 


PREFACE  xiii 

human  frailty  than  satire.  It  is  the  growth  of  this 
sense  which  dowers  with  dignity  and  reality  the 
hollowest  and  most  ludicrous  of  mankind,  and  be 
comes  in  such  a  fundamental  grace  of  character. 

In  a  recent  critical  interpretation  of  Cervantes' 
great  work,  Professor  G.  E.  Woodberry  writes :  "  A 
madman  has  no  character;  but  it  is  the  character  of 
Don  Quixote  that  at  last  draws  the  knight  out  of  all 
his  degradations  and  makes  him  triumph  in  the  heart 
of  the  reader."  And  he  continues:  "  Modern  dismay 
begins  in  the  thought  that  here  is  not  the  abnormality 
of  an  individual,  but  the  madness  of  the  soul  in  its 
own  nature." 

If  for  "  madness  "  in  this  quotation  I  may  be  per 
mitted  to  substitute  ludicrousness  (or  incongruity}, 
a  more  felicitous  expression  of  my  meaning,  as 
applied  to  Ravensbane  in  this  play,  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  devise. 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  will,  I  trust,  be  the 
more  clearly  apparent  why  "  The  Scarecrow  "  cannot 
with  any  appropriateness  be  deemed  a  dramatization 
of  "  Feathertop,"  and  why  its  manifold  divergencies 
from  the  latter  in  treatment  and  motive  cannot  with 
any  just  significance  be  considered  as  liberties  taken 
with  an  original  source.  Dickon,  for  example,  whose 
name  in  the  Legend  is  but  a  momentary  invocation 
in  the  mouth  of  Mother  Rigby,  becomes  in  my  play 
not  merely  the  characterized  visible  associate  of 
Goody  Rickby  ("Blacksmith  Bess"),  but  the  neces 
sary  foil  of  sceptical  irony  to  the  human  growth  of 
the  scarecrow.  So,  too,  for  reasons  of  the  play's 


xiv  PREFACE 

different  intent,  Goody  Rickby  herself  is  differen 
tiated  from  Mother  Rigby ;  and  Rachel  Merton  has 
no  motive,  of  character  or  artistic  design,  in  common 
with  pretty,  affected  Polly  Gookin. 

My  indebtedness  to  the  New  England  master  in 
literature  is,  needless  to  say,  gratefully  acknow 
ledged  ;  but  it  is  fitting,  I  think,  to  distinguish  clearly 
between  the  aim  and  the  scope  of  "  Feathertop  "  and 
that  of  the  play  in  hand,  as  much  in  deference  to 
the  work  of  Hawthorne  as  in  comprehension  of  the 
spirit  of  my  own. 

P.   M-K. 

CORNISH,  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 
December,  1907. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 

JUSTICE   GILEAD   MERTON. 
GOODY    RICKEY  (" Blacksmith  Bess"}. 

LORD   RAVENSBANE  (  «  Marquis  of  Oxford,  Baron  of  Wit 
tenberg,  Elector  of  Worms,  and  Count  of  Cordova  "),  their 

hypothetical  son. 
i 
DICKON,  a  Yankee  improvisation  of  the  Prince  of  Darkness. 

RACHEL   MERTON,  niece  of  the  Justice. 

MISTRESS   CYNTHIA   MERTON,  sister  of  the  Justice. 

RICHARD   TALBOT,  Esquire,  betrothed  to  Rachel. 

SIR   CHARLES   REDDINGTON,  Lieutenant  Governor. 

MISTRESS   REDDINGTON)  . 

\  his  daughters. 

AMELIA   REDDINGTON      J 

CAPTAIN    BUGBY,  the  Governors  Secretary. 

MINISTER   DODGE. 

MISTRESS   DODGE,  his  wife. 

REV.    MASTER   RAND,  of  Harvard  College. 

REV.    MASTER  TODD,  of  Harvard  College, 

MIC  AH,  a  servant  of  the  Justice . 


TIME.  —  Late  Seventeenth  Century. 
PLACE.  —  A  town  in  Massachusetts. 


XV 


ACT   I 


ACT    I 

The  interior  of  a  blacksmith  shop.  Right  centre,  a  forge. 
Lefty  a  loft,  from  which  are  hanging  dried  cornstalks, 
hay,  and  the  yellow  ears  of  cattle-corn.  Back  centre, 
a  wide  double  door,  closed  when  the  curtain  rises. 
Through  this  door —  when  later  it  is  opened —  is  visible 
a  New  England  landscape  in  the  late  springtime :  a 
distant  wood;  stone  walls,  high  elms,  a  well-sweep  ;  and, 
in  the  near  foreground,  a  ploughed  field,  from  which  the 
green  shoots  of  early  corn  are  just  appearing.  The 
blackened  walls  of  the  shop  are  covered  with  a  miscel 
laneous  collection  of  old  iron,  horseshoes,  cart  wheels, 
etc.,  the  usual  appurtenances  of  a  smithy.  In  the  right- 
hand  corner,  however,  is  an  array  of  things  quite  out  of 
keeping  with  the  shop  proper:  musical  instruments, 
puppets,  tall  clocks,  and  fantastical  junk.  Conspicuous 
amongst  these  articles  is  a  large  standing  mirror, 
framed  grotesquely  in  old  gold  and  curtained  by  a  dull 
stuff,  embroidered  with  peaked  caps  and  crescent  moons. 

Just  before  the  scene  opens,  a  hammer  is  heard  ringing 
briskly  upon  steel.  As  the  curtain  rises  there  is  dis 
covered,  standing  at  the  anvil  in  the  flickering  light  of 
a  bright  flame  from  the  forge,  a  woman — powerful, 
ruddy,  proud  with  a  certain  masterful  beauty,  white- 
haired  (as  though  prematurely),  bare-armed  to  the  elbows, 
clad  in  a  dark  skirt  (above  her  ankles),  a  loose  blouse, 
open  at  the  throat ;  a  leathern  apron  and  a  workman's 
cap.  The  woman  is  GOODY  RICKEY.  On  the  anvil 
she  is  shaping  a  piece  of  iron.  Beside  her  stands  a 
3 


4  THE  SCARECROW 

framework  of  iron  formed  like  the  ribs  and  backbone 
of  a  man.  For  a  few  moments  she  continues  to  ply  her 
hammer,  amid  a  shower  of  sparks,  till  suddenly  the 

flame  on  the  forge  dies  down. 

GOODY  RICKEY 
Dickon !     More  flame. 

A  VOICE 

[Above  her.~\ 
Yea,  Goody. 

[The  flame  in  the  forge  spurts  up  high  and  suddenly. ~\ 
GOODY   RICKEY 

Nay,  not  so  fierce. 

THE  VOICE 
[At  her  side.~\ 
Votre  pardon,  madame. 

[The  flame  subsides."] 
Is  that  better  ? 

GOODY   RICKEY 

That  will  do. 

\_With  her  tongs,  she  thrusts  the  iron  into  the  flame ;  it  turns 
white-hot '.] 

Quick  work ;  nothing  like  brimstone  for  the  smithy 
trade. 

[At  the  anvil,  she  begins  to  weld  the  iron  rib  on   to  the 
framework^ 

There,  my  beauty  !     We'll  make  a  stout  set  of  ribs 
for  you.     I'll  see  to  it  this  year  that  I  have  a  scare- 


THE   SCARECROW  5 

crow  can  outstand  all  the  nor'easters  that  blow.     I've 
no  notion  to  lose  my  corn-crop  this  summer. 

[  Outside,  the  faint  cawings  of  crows  are  heard.  Putting 
down  her  tongs  and  hammer,  Goody  Rickby  strides  to 
the  double  door,  and  flinging  it  wide  open,  lets  in  the 
gray  light  of  dawn.  She  looks  out  over  the  fields  and 
shakes  her  fist.  ~\ 

So  ye're  up  before  me  and  the  sun,  are  ye? 

[Squinting  against  the  light^\ 
There's  one  !     Nay,  two.     Aha ! 

One  for  sorrow, 
Two  for  mirth  — 

Good !     This  time  we'll  have  the  laugh  on  our  side. 
[She  returns  to  the  forge,  where  again  the  fire  has  died  out.'] 
Dickon  !     Fire  !    Come,  come,  where  be  thy  wits  ? 

THE  VOICE 

[Sleepily  from  the  forge. ~\ 
'Tis  early,  dame. 

GOODY   RICKBY 

The  more  need  — 

[Takes  up  her  tongs .] 

THE  VOICE 

[Screams. ~\ 
Ow! 

GOODY   RICKBY 

Ha  !     Have  I  got  thee  ? 


6  THE  SCARECROW 

[From  the  blackness  of  the  forge  she  pulls  out  with  her 
tongs,  by  the  right  ear,  the  figure  of  a  devil,  horned  and 
tailed.  In  general  aspect,  though  he  resembles  a  medie 
val  familiar  demon,  yet  the  suggestions  of  a  goatish 
beard,  a  shrewdly  humorous  smile,  and  (when  he 
speaks]  the  slightest  of  nasal  drawls,  remotely  simulate 
a  species  of  Yankee  rustic. 

Goody  Rickby  substitutes  her  fingers  for  the  tongs.~\ 

Now,  Dickon ! 

DICKON 

Deus !  I  haven't  been  nabbed  like  that  since  St. 
Dunstan  tweaked  my  nose.     Well,  sweet  Goody  ? 

GOODY  RICKBY 
The  bellows ! 

DICKON 

[  Going  slowly  to  the  forge.  ~\ 

Why,  'tis  hardly  dawn  yet.     Honest  folks  are  still 
abed.     It  makes  a  long  day. 

GOODY   RICKBY 

[  Working,  while  Dickon  plies  the  bellows^ 
Aye,  for  your  black  pets,  the  crows,   to  work  in. 
That's  why  I'm  at  it  early.     You  heard    'em.     We 
must  have  this  scarecrow  of  ours  out  in  the  field  at 
his  post  before  sunrise. 

[Finishing.] 

So,   there!      Now,    Dickon   boy,    I    want   that  you 
should  — 

DICKON 

[  Whipping  out  a  note-book  and  writing.~\ 
Wait!    Another  one!    "I  want  that  you  should — " 


THE   SCARECROW-  *] 

GOODY   RICKEY 
What's  that  you're  writing? 

DICKON 

The  phrase,  Goody  dear ;  the  construction.  Your 
New  England  dialect  is  hard  for  a  poor  cosmopolitan 
devil.  What  with  ut  clauses  in  English  and  Latin 
ized  subjunctives —  You  want  that  I  should  — 
Well? 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Make  a  masterpiece.  I've  made  the  frame  strong, 
so  as  to  stand  the  weather;  you  must  make  the  body 
lifelike  so  as  to  fool  the  crows.  Last  year  I  stuck  up 
a  poor  sham  and  after  a  day  they  saw  through  it. 
This  time,  we  must  make  'em  think  it's  a  real  human 

crittur. 

DICKON 

To  fool  the  philosophers  is  my  specialty,  but  the 

crows  —  hm ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Pooh  !     That  staggers  thee  ! 

DICKON 

Madame  Rickby,  prod  not  the  quick  of  my  genius. 
I  am  Phidias,  I  am  Raphael,  I  am  the  Lord  God  !  — 
You  shall  see  — 

{Demands  with  a  gesturel\ 
Yonder  broom-stick. 

GOODY   RICKBY 

{Fetching  him  a  broom  from  the  corner.~\ 
Good  boy ! 


8  THE  SCARECROW 

DICKON 

{Straddling  the  handle.] 
Haha !  gee  up  !  my  Salem  mare. 

[  Then,  pseudo-philosophically] 
A  broomstick  —  that's  for  imagination  ! 

\_He  begins  to  construct  the  scarecrow,  while  Goody  Rickby, 
assisting,  brings  the  constructive  parts  from  various 
nooks  and  corners.] 

We  are  all  pretty  artists,  to  be  sure,  Bessie.  Phid 
ias,  he  sculptures  the  gods ;  Raphael,  he  paints  the 
angels ;  the  Lord  God,  he  creates  Adam  ;  and  Dickon 
—  fetch  me  the  poker  —  aha  !  Dickon  !  What  doth 
Dickon  ?  He  nullifies  'em  all ;  he  endows  the  Scare 
crow  !  —  A  poker :  here's  his  conscience.  There's  two 
fine  legs  to  walk  on,  —  imagination  and  conscience. 
Yonder  flails  now !  The  ideal  —  the  beau  ictial, 
dame  —  that's  what  we  artists  seek.  The  apotheosis 
of  scarecrows !  And  pray,  what's  a  scarecrow  ? 
Why,  the  antithesis  of  Adam.  — "  Let  there  be 
candles!."  quoth  the  Lord  God,  sitting  in  the  dark. 
"Let  there  be  candle-extinguishers,"  saith  Dickon. 
"  I  am  made  in  the  image  of  my  maker,"  quoth 
Adam.  "  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass,"  saith  Good 
man  Scarecrow. 

[Taking  two  implements  from  Goody  Rickby.~\ 

Fine !  fine !  here  are  flails  —  one  for  wit,  t'other 
for  satire.  Sapristi !  with  two  such  arms,  my  lad, 
how  thou  wilt  work  thy  way  in  the  world ! 


THE  SCARECROW  9 

GOODY   RICKEY 

You   talk  as  if  you  were  making  a  real  mortal, 

Dickon. 

DICKON 

To  fool  a  crow,  Goody,  I  must  fashion  a  crittur 
that  will  first  deceive  a  man. 

GOODY   RICKEY 

He'll  scarce  do  that  without  a  head. 
[Pointing  to  the  loft.'} 

What  think  ye  of   yonder   Jack-o'-lantern?     Twas 
made  last  Hallowe'en. 

DICKON 

Rare,  my  Psyche!     We  shall  collaborate.     Here! 

[Running  up  the  ladder,  he  tosses  down  a  yellow  hollowed 
pumpkin  to  Goody  Rickby,  who  catches  it.  Then 
rummaging  forth  an  armful  of  cornstalks,  ears,  tassels, 
dried  squashes,  gourds,  beets,  etc.,  he  descends  and 
throws  them  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.~\ 

Whist!  the  anatomy. 

GOODY  RICKEY 

[Placing  the  pumpkin  on  the  shoulders."} 
Look! 

DICKON 

O  Johannes  Baptista !  What  wouldst  thou  have 
given  for  such  a  head  !  I  helped  Salome  to  cut  his 
off,  dame,  and  it  looked  not  half  so  appetizing  on  her 
charger.  Tut !  Copernicus  wore  once  such  a  pump- 


IO  THE   SCARECROW 

kin,  but   it  is   rotten.     Look   at   his   golden   smile* 
Hail,  Phoebus  Apollo ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 

'Tis  the  finest  scarecrow  in  town. 

DICKON 

Nay,  poor  soul,  'tis  but  a  skeleton  yet.     He  must 
have  a  man's  heart  in  him. 

\_Picking  a  big  red  beet  from  among  the  cornstalks,  he  places 
it  under  the  left  side  of  the  ribs] 

Hush  !     Dost  thou  hear  it  beat  ? 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Thou  merry  rogue! 

DICKON 

Now  for  the  lungs  of  him. 
[Snatching  a  small  pair  of  bellows  from  a  peg  on  the  wall .] 

That's  for  eloquence  !     He'll  preach  the  black  knaves 
a  sermon  on  theft.     And  now  — 

[Here,  with  Goody  Rickby's  help,  he  stuffs  the  framework 
with  the  gourds,  corn,  etc.,  from  the  loft,  weaving  the 
husks  about  the  legs  and  arms.~\ 

here  goes  for  digestion  and  inherited  instincts  !     More 
corn,  Goody.     Now  he'll  fight  for  his  own  flesh  and 

blood ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 

[Laughing.] 
Dickon,  I  am  proud  of  thee. 


THE  SCARECROW  II 

DICKON 
Wait  till  you  see  his  peruke. 

[Seizing  a  feather  duster  made  of  crow's  feather s.~\ 
Void  !     Scalps  of  the  enemy ! 

[Pulling  them  apart,  he  arranges  the  feathers  on  the  pump 
kin,  like  a  gentleman's  wig.~\ 

A  rare  conqueror ! 

GOODY  RICKEY 
Oh,  you  beauty  ! 

DICKON 

And  now  a  bit  of  comfort  for  dark  days  and  stormy 
nights. 

[Taking  a  piece  of  corn-cob  with  the  kernels  on  it,  Dickon 
makes  a  pipe,  which  he  puts  into  the  scarecrow's 
mouth. .] 

So  !  There,  Goody  !  I  tell  thee,  with  yonder  brand- 
new  coat  and  breeches  of  mine  —  those  there  in  my 
cupboard  !  —  we'll  make  him  a  lad  to  be  proud  of. 

[  Taking  the  clothes,  which  Goody  Rickby  brings  —  a  pair  of 
fine  scarlet  breeches  and  a  gold-embroidered  coat  with 
ruffles  of  lace  —  he  puts  them  upon  the  scarecrow.  Then, 
eying  it  like  a  connoisseur,  makes  a  few  finishing 
touches^ 

Why,  dame,  he'll  be  a  son  to  thee. 

GOODY   RICKBY 

A  son  ?     Ay,  if  I  had  but  a  son ! 


12  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 

Why,  here  you  have  him. 

[To  the  scarecrow.'} 

Thou  wilt  scare  the  crows  off  thy  mother's  corn 
field —  won't  my  pretty?  And  send  'em  all  over 
t'other  side  the  wall  —  to  her  dear  neighbour's,  the 
Justice  Gilead  Merton's. 

> 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Justice  Merton!  Nay,  if  they'd  only  peck  his 
eyes  out,  instead  of  his  corn. 

DICKON 
[Grinning. ,] 

Yet  the  Justice  was  a  dear  friend  of  "  Blacksmith 
Bess." 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Ay,  "  Blacksmith  Bess  !  "  If  I  hadn't  had  a  good 
stout  arm  when  he  cast  me  off  with  the  babe,  I  might 
have  starved  for  all  his  worship  cared. 

DICKON 

True,  Bessie ;  'twas  a  scurvy  trick  he  played  on 
thee  —  and  on  me,  that  took  such  pains  to  bring  you 
together  —  to  steal  a  young  maid's  heart  — 

GOODY   RICKEY 

And  then  toss  it  away  like  a  bad  penny  to  the  gut 
ter  !  And  the  child  —  to  die  ! 

[Lifting  her  hammer  in  rage.] 


THE   SCARECROW  13 

Ha  !  if  I  could  get  the  worshipful  Justice  Gilead  into 
my  power  again  — 

[Drops  the  hammer  sullenly  on  the  anvil. ,] 

But  no !  I  shall  beat  my  life  away  on  this  anvil, 
whilst  my  justice  clinks  his  gold,  and  drinks  his  port 
to  a  fat  old  age.  Justice !  Ha  — justice  of  God  ! 

DICKON 

Whist,  dame  !     Talk  of  angels  and  hear  the  rustle 

of  their  relatives. 

GOODY   RICKEY 

\_Turning,  watches  outside  a  girl's  figure.  approaching.} 

His  niece  —  Rachel  Merton!  What  can  she  want 
so  early  ?  Nay,  I  mind  me ;  'tis  the  mirror.  She's 
a  maid  after  our  own  hearts,  boy,  —  no  Sabbath -go-to- 
meeting  airs  about  her  !  She  hath  read  the  books  of 
the  magi  from  cover  to  cover,  and  paid  me  good 
guineas  for  'em,  though  her  uncle  knows  naught  on't. 
Besides,  she's  in  love,  Dickon. 

DICKON 

[Indicating  the  scarecrow} 
Ah  ?     With  him  ?     Is  it  a  rendezvous? 

GOODY   RICKEY 

[With  a  laugh.} 

Pff !     Begone  ! 

DICKON 

[Shakes  his  finger  at  the  scarecrow} 
Thou  naughty  rogue ! 


14  THE  SCARECROW 

[Then,  still  smiling  slyly,  with  his  head  placed  confidentially 
next  to  the  scarecrow"* 's  ear,  as  if  whispering,  and  with 
his  hand  pointing  to  the  maiden  outside,  Dickon  fades 
away  into  air.  RACHEL  enters,  nervous  and  hesitant. 
Goody  Rickby  makes  her  a  courtesy,  which  she  acknow 
ledges  by  a  nod,  half  absent-minded.~\  • 

GOODY   RICKBY 

Mistress  Rachel  Merton —  so  early  !     I  hope  your 
uncle,  our  worshipful  Justice,  is  not  ill  ? 

RACHEL 

No,  my  uncle  is  quite  well.     The  early  morning 
suits  me  best  for  a  walk.     You  are  —  quite  alone  ? 

GOODY   RICKBY 

Quite  alone,  mistress.     [Bitterly. ~\     Oh,  folks  don't 
call  on  Goody  Rickby  —  except  on  business. 

RACHEL 

[Absently,  looking  round  in  the  dim  shop.~\ 
Yes  —  you  must  be  busy.     Is  it  —  is  it  here  ? 

GOODY  RICKBY 

You  mean  the  — 

RACHEL 

[Starting  back,  with  a  cryJ] 
Ah  !  who's  that  ? 

GOODY  RICKBY 

[Chuckling.] 
Fear  not,  mistress;  'tis  nothing  but  a  scarecrow. 


THE   SCARECROW  15 

I'm  going  to  put  him  in  my  corn-field  yonder.     The 
crows  are  so  pesky  this  year. 

RACHEL 

[Draws  her  skirts  away  with  a  shiver.~\ 
How  loathsome! 

GOODY   RICKEY 

[  Vastly  pleased.'} 
He'll  do ! 

RACHEL 

Ah,  here  !  — This  is  the  mirror  ? 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Yea,  mistress,  and  a  wonderful  glass  it  is,  as  I  told 
you.  I  wouldn't  sell  it  to  most  comers,  but  seeing 
how  you  and  Master  Talbot  - 

RACHEL 

Yes  ;  that  will  do. 

GOODY  RICKEY 

You  see,  if  the  town  folks  guessed  what  it  was, 
well —  You've  heard  tell  of  the  gibbets  on  Salem 
hill  ?  There's  not  many  in  New  England  like  you, 
Mistress  Rachel.  You  know  enough  to  approve 
some  miracles  —  outside  the  Scriptures. 

RACHEL 

You  are  quite  sure  the  glass  will  do  all  you  say  ? 
It  —  never  fails  ? 


1 6  THE  SCARECROW 

GOODY  RICKEY 

Ay,  now,  mistress,  how  could  it  ?  'Tis  the  glass 
of  truth  —  {insinuatingly}  the  glass  of  true  lovers. 
It  shows  folks  just  as  they  are ;  no  shams,  no  var 
nish.  If  your  sweetheart  be  false,  the  glass  will  re 
veal  it.  If  a  wolf  should  dress  himself  in  a  white 
sheep's  wool,  this  glass  would  reflect  the  black  beast 
inside  it. 

RACHEL 

But  what  of  the  sins  of  the  soul,  Goody  ?  Vanity, 
hypocrisy,  and  —  and  inconstancy  ?  Will  it  surely 
reveal  them  ? 

GOODY  RICKEY 

I  have  told  you,  my  young  lady.  If  it  doth  not  as 
I  say,  bring  it  back  and  get  your  money  again.  Trust 
me,  sweeting,  'tis  your  only  mouse-trap  for  a  man. 
Why,  an  old  dame  hath  eyes  in  her  heart  yet.  If 
your  lover  be  false,  this  glass  shall  pluck  his  fine 
feathers ! 

RACHEL 

[  With  aloofness.'} 

'Tis  no  question  of  that.  I  wish  the  glass  to  —  to 
amuse  me. 

GOODY   RICKEY 
[Laughing.] 

Why,  then,  it  shall  amuse  you.  Try  it  on  some  of 
your  neighbours. 

RACHEL 

You  ask  a  large  price  for  it. 


TJfE   SCARECROW  If 

GOODY   RICKEY 
[Shrugs.] 

I  run  risks.     Besides,  where  will  you  get  another  ? 

RACHEL 

That  is  true.  Here,  I  will  buy  it.  That  is  the 
sum  you  mentioned,  I  believe  ? 

[She  hands   a  purse  to    Goody  Rickby,  who  opens  it  and 
counts  over  some  coins.~\ 

GOODY  RICKBY 

Let  see;  let  see. 

RACHEL 

Well? 

GOODY   RICKBY 

Good:  'tis  good.  Folks  call  me  a  witch,  mistress. 
Well  —  harkee  —  a  witch's  word  is  as  good  as  a 
justice's  gold.  The  glass  is  yours  —  with  my  bless 
ing. 

RACHEL 

Spare  yourself  that,  dame.  But  the  glass  :  how 
am  I  to  get  it?  How  will  you  send  it  to  me  — 

quietly  ? 

GOODY   RICKBY 

Trust  me  for  that.  I've  a  willing  lad  that  helps 
me  with  such  errands ;  a  neighbour  o'  mine. 

\_CalZs.~] 
Ebenezer ! 

RACHEL 

[Startled.^ 

What !  is  he  here  ? 
c 


1 8  THE   SCARECROW 

GOODY   RICKEY 

In  the  hay-loft  The  boy's  an  orphan ;  he  sleeps 
there  o'  times.  Ebenezer! 

\_A  raw,  dishevelled  country  boy  appears  in  the  loft,  slides 
down  the  ladder,  and  shuffles  up  sleepily  I\ 

THE  BOY 

Evenin*. 

RACHEL 

\_Drawing  Goody  Rickby  aside.~\ 

You  understand ;  I  desire  no  comment  about  this 
purchase. 

GOODY   RICKBY 

Nor  I,  mistress,  be  sure. 

RACHEL 

Is  he  —  ? 

GOODY   RICKBY 

[Tapping  her  forehead  significantly^ 
Trust  his  wits  who  hath  no  wit ;  he's  mum. 

RACHEL 

Oh! 

THE  BOY 

[  Gaping.'} 
Job? 

GOODY   RICKBY 

Yea,  rum  pie-head !  His  job  this  morning  is  to 
bear  yonder  glass  to  the  house  of  Justice  Merton  — 
the  big  one  on  the  hill ;  to  the  side  door.  Mind,  no 
gabbing.  Doth  he  catch  ? 


THE   SCARECROW  1 9 

THE   BOY 

\_Nodding  and  grinning.~\ 
'E  swallows. 

RACHEL 

But  is  the  boy  strong  enough  ? 

GOODY  RICKEY 
Him? 

\_Pointing  to  the  anvilJ\ 
Ebenezer ! 

[  The  boy  spits  on  his  palms,  takes  hold  of  the  anvil,  lifts  it, 
drops  it  again,  sits  on  it,  and  grins  at  the  door,  just  as 
Richard  Talbot  appears  there,  from  outside .] 

RACHEL 

Gracious ! 

GOODY   RICKBY 

Trust  him.     He'll  carry  the  glass  for  you. 

RACHEL 

I  will   return   home  at   once,  then.     Let   him  go 
quietly  to  the  side  door,  and  wait  for  me. 
Good  morning. 

\_Turning,  she  confronts  Richard.~\ 
RICHARD 

Good  morning. 

RACHEL 

Richard  !  —  Squire  Talbot,  you  —  you  are  abroad 
early. 


2O  THE   SCARECROW 

RICHARD 

As  early  as  Mistress  Rachel.  Is  it  pardonable? 
I  caught  sight  of  you  walking  in  this  direction,  so  I 
thought  it  wise  to  follow,  lest  — 

[Looks  hard  at  Goody  Rickby.~\ 
RACHEL 

Very  kind.  Thanks.  I've  done  my  errand. 
Well ;  we  can  return  together. 

[To  Goody  Rickby.~] 
You  will  make  sure  that  I  receive  the  —  the  article. 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Trust  me,  mistress. 

[  Courtesying.^ 
Squire  Talbot !  the  honour,  sir ! 

RICHARD 

[Bluntly,  looking  from  one  to  the  other.~\ 
What  article  ? 

[Rachel  ignores  the  question  and  starts  to  pass  out.     Rich 
ard  frowns  at  Goody  Rickay,  who  stammers. ,] 

GOODY    RICKEY 
Begging  your  pardon,  sir  ? 


THE   SCARECROW  21 

RICHARD 

What  article  ?    I  said. 

\_After  a  short,  embarrassed  pause :  more  sternly. ~\ 

Well  ? 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Oh,  the  article !  Yonder  old  glass,  to  be  sure,  sir. 
A  quaint  piece,  your  honour. 

RICHARD 

Rachel,  you  haven't  come  here  at  sunrise  to  buy 
—  that  thing  ? 

RACHEL 

Verily,  "that  thing"  and  at  sunrise.  A  pretty 
time  for  a  pretty  purchase.  Are  you  coming  ? 

RICHARD 
\_In  a  low  voice. ~\ 

More  witchcraft  nonsense  ?  Do  you  realize  this  is 
serious  ? 

RACHEL 

Oh,  of  course.  You  know  I  am  desperately  mysti 
cal,  so  pray  let  us  not  discuss  it.  Good-by. 

RICHARD 

Rachel,  just  a  moment.  If  you  want  a  mirror,  you 
shall  have  the  prettiest  one  in  New  England.  Or  I 
will  import  you  one  from  London.  Only  —  I  beg  of 
you  —  don't  buy  stolen  goods. 


22  THE   SCARECROW 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Stolen  goods? 

RACHEL 

[Aside  to  Richard.~\ 
Don't!  don't! 

RICHARD 

At  least,  articles  under  suspicion. 
[To  Goody  Rickby^\ 

Can  you  account  for  this  mirror  —  how  you  came 
by  it  ? 

GOODY    RICKEY 

I'll  show  ye  !     I'll  show  ye  !     Stolen  —  ha ! 

RICHARD 

Come,  old  swindler,  keep  your  mirror,  and  give 
this  lady  back  her  money. 

GOODY   RICKEY 

I'll  damn  ye  both,  I  will !  —  Stolen  ! 

RACHEL 

[Imploringly^ 
Will  you  come  ? 

RICHARD 

Look  you,  old  Rickby ;  this  is  not  the  first  time. 
Charm  all  the  broomsticks  in  town,  if  you  like ; 
bewitch  all  the  tables  and  saucepans  and  mirrors  you 
please  ;  but  gull  no  more  money  out  of  young  girls. 


THE   SCARECROW  2$ 

Mind  you !  We're  not  so  enterprising  in  this  town 
as  at  Salem ;  but  —  it  may  come  to  it !  So  look 
sharp  !  I'm  not  blind  to  what's  going  on  here. 

GOODY  RICKEY 

Not  blind,  Master  Puritan  ?  Oho  !  You  can  see 
through  all  my  counterfeits,  can  ye  ?  So  !  you  would 
scrape  all  the  wonder  out'n  the  world,  as  I've  scraped 
all  the  meat  out'n  my  punkin-head  yonder !  Aha ! 
wait  and  see !  Afore  sundown,  I'll  send  ye  a  nut  to 
crack,  shall  make  your  orthodox  jaws  ache.  Your 
servant,  Master  Deuteronomy ! 

RICHARD 
[To  Rachel,  who  has  seized  his  arm.~\ 

We'll  go. 

[Exeunt  Richard  and  RacheL~\ 

GOODY   RICKEY 
[Calls  shrilly  after  them.'} 

Trot  away,  pretty  team ;  toss  your  heads.  I'll  un 
hitch  ye  and  take  off  your  blinders. 

THE  SLOUCHING   BOY 

[Capering  and  grimacing  in  front  of  the  mirror,  shrieks  with 

laugh  ter.~\ 
Ohoho ! 


24  THE   SCARECROW 

GOODY   RICKEY 
[Returning,  savagely."] 

Yes,  yes,  my  fine  lover!  I'll  pay  thee  for  "stolen 
goods"  -  —  I'll  pay  thee. 

[Screams. ~\ 
Dickon !     Stop  laughing. 

THE   BOY 
O  Lord  !     O  Lord  ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 
What  tickles  thy  mirth  now  ? 

THE   BOY 

For  to  think  as  the  soul  of  an  orphan  innocent, 
what  lives  in  a  hay-loft,  should  wear  horns. 

\_On  looking  into  the  mirror,  the  spectator  perceives  therein 
that  the  reflection  of  the  slouching  boy  is  the  horned 
demon  figure  of  Dickon,  who  performs  the  same  antics 
in  pantomime  within  the  glass  as  the  boy  does  without.~\ 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Yea ;  'tis  a  wise  devil  that  knows  his  own  face  in 
the  glass.  But  hark  now  !  Thou  must  find  me  a  rival 
for  this  cock-squire,  —  dost  hear  ?  A  rival,  that  shall 
steal  away  the  heart  of  his  Mistress  Rachel. 

DICKON 
And  take  her  to  church  ? 


THE   SCARECROW  2$ 

GOODY   RICKEY 
To  church  or  to  Hell.     All's  one. 

DICKON 
A  rival ! 

\_Pointing  at  the  glass. ~\ 

How  would  lie  serve  —  in  there  ?  Dear  Ebenezer  ! 
Fancy  the  deacons  in  the  vestry,  Goody,  and  her 
uncle,  the  Justice,  when  they  saw  him  escorting  the 
bride  to  the  altar,  with  his  tail  round  her  waist ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Tut,  tut !  Think  it  over  in  earnest,  and  meantime 
take  her  the  glass.  Wait,  we'd  best  fold  it  up  small, 
so  as  not  to  attract  notice  on  the  road. 

\Dickont  who  has  already  drawn  the  curtains  over  the  glass, 
grasps  one  side  of  the  large  frame,  Goody  Rickby  the 
other.'} 

Now ! 

\_Pushing  their  shoulders  against  the  two  sides,  the  frame 
disappears  and  Dickon  holds  in  his  hand  a  mirror 
about  a  foot  square ',  of  the  same  design. ,] 

So !     Be  off  !     And  mind,  a  rival  for  Richard  ! 

DICKON 

For  Richard  a  rival, 
Dear  Goody  Rickby 
Wants  Dickon's  connival : 
Lord  !     What  can  the  trick  be  ? 


26  THE   SCARECROW 

\_To  the  scarecrow. ~\ 
By-by,  Sonny ;  take  care  of  thy  mother. 

[Dickon  slouches  out  with  the  glass,  whistling.'] 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Mother!  Yea,  if  only  I  had  a  son  —  the  Jus 
tice  Merton's  and  mine !  If  the  brat  had  but  lived 
now  to  remind  him  of  those  merry  days,  which 
he  has  forgotten.  Zooks,  wouldn't  I  put  a  spoke 
in  his  wheel !  But  no  such  luck  for  me  !  No  such 
luck! 

[As  she  goes  to  the  forge,  the  stout  figure  of  a  man  appears  in 
the  doorway  behind  her.  Under  one  arm  he  carries  a 
large  book,  in  the  other  hand  a  gold-headed  cane.  He 
hesitates,  embarrassed.'] 

THE  MAN 
Permit  me,  Madam. 

GOODY  RICKEY 

[  Turning."] 
Ah,  him  !  —  Justice  Merton  ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

[Removing  his  hat,  steps  over  the  sill,  and  lays  his  great  book 
on  the  table  ;  then  with  a  supercilious  look,  he  puts  his 
hat  firmly  on  again.'] 

Permit  me,  dame. 


THE   SCARECROW  2? 

GOODY   RICKEY 


You 


[  With  confused,  affected  hauteur,  the  Justice  shifts  from  foot 
to  foot,  flourishing  his  cane.  As  he  speaks,  Goody 
Rickby,  with  a  shrewd,  painful  expression,  draws 
slowly  backward  toward  the  door  left,  which  opens  into 
an  inner  room.  Reaching  it,  she  opens  it  part  ivay, 
stands  facing  him,  and  listens^ 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

I  have  had  the  honour  —  permit  me  —  to  entertain 
suspicions ;  to  rise  early,  to  follow  my  niece,  to  meet 
just  now  Squire  Talbot,  an  excellent  young  gentle 
man  of  wealth,  if  not  of  fashion  ;  to  hear  his  remarks 
concerning  —  hem  !  —  you,  dame  !  to  call  here  — 
permit  me  —  to  express  myself  and  inquire  — 

GOODY   RICKBY 
Concerning  your  waistcoat  ? 

\_Turningquickly,  she  snatches  an  article  of  apparel  which 
hangs  on  the  inner  side  of  the  door,  and  holds  it  upJ\ 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Starting,  crimsonJ\ 
Woman ! 

GOODY   RICKBY 

You  left  it  behind  —  the  last  time. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

I  have  not  the  honour  to  remember  — 


28  THE   SCARECROW 

GOODY   RICKEY 
The  one  I  embroidered  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

'Tis  a  matter  — 

GOODY   RICKEY 
Of  some  two  and  twenty  years. 

[Stretching  out  the  narrow  width  of  the  waistcoat.~\ 
Will  you  try  it  on  now,  dearie  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Unconscionable!       Un-un-unconscionable  witch! 

GOODY   RICKEY 
Witchling  —  thou  used  to  say. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Pah!  pah!  I  forget  myself.  Pride,  permit  me, 
goeth  before  a  fall.  As  a  magistrate,  Rickby,  I  have 
already  borne  with  you  long  !  The  last  straw,  how 
ever,  breaks  the  camel's  back. 

GOODY   RICKBY 

Poor  camel ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

You  have  soiled,  you  have  smirched,  the  virgin 
reputation  of  my  niece.  You  have  inveigled  her 
into  notions  of  witchcraft ;  already  the  neighbours 
are  beginning  to.  talk.  'Tis  a  long  lane  which  hath 
no  turning,  saith  the  Lord.  Permit  me  —  as  a  witch, 
thou  art  judged.  Thou  shalt  hang. 


THE  SCARECROW  29 

A   VOICE 

[Behind  him^\ 
And  me  too  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
[Turns  about  and  s fares.] 

I  beg  pardon. 

THE  VOICE 

[In  front  of  him. "\ 
Not  at  all. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Did  —  did  somebody  speak  ? 

THE  VOICE 

Don't  you  recognize  my  voice  ?  Still  and  small, 
you  know.  If  you  will  kindly  let  me  out,  we  can 
chat. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Turning  fiercely  on  Goody  Rickey.] 

These  are  thy  sorceries.  But  I  fear  them  not. 
The  righteous  man  walketh  with  God. 

[Going  to  the  book  which  lies  on  the  table. ~\ 

Satan,    I   ban    thee !      I    will    read   from    the    Holy 
Scriptures ! 

[Unclasping  the  Bible,  he  flings  open  the  ponderous  covers. 
—  Dickon  steps  forth  in  smoke.  ~\ 

DICKON 
Thanks ;  it  was  stuffy  in  there. 


3O  THE   SCARECROW 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[  Clasping  his  hands.  ~\ 
Dickon  ! 

DICKON 

\_Moving  a  step  nearer  on  the 
Hillo,  Gilly  !     Hillo,  Bess  ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Dickon  !     No  !     No  ! 


DICKON 

Do  ye  mind  Auld    Lang  Syne  —  the  chorus  that 
night,  Gilly  ? 

[.Sings.-] 

Gil-ead,  Gil-ead,  Gil-ead 

Merton, 
He  was  a  silly  head,  silly  head, 

Certain, 
When  he  forgot  to  steal  a  bed- 

Curtain  ! 

Encore,  now  ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

No,  no,  be  merciful!     I  will  not  harm  her;    she 
shall  not  hang  :  I  swear,  I  swear  it  ! 

\_Dickon  disappears^ 

I  swear  —  ah  !  Is  he  gone  ?  Witchcraft  !  Witch 
craft!  I  have  witnessed  it.  'Tis  proved  on  thee, 
slut.  I  swear  it  :  thou  shalt  hang. 

[Exit  wildly  '.] 


THE   SCARECROW  31 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Ay,  Gilead  !     I  shall  hang  on  !     Ahaha  !     Dickon, 
thou  angel !     Ah,  Satan  !     Satan  !     For  a  son  now ! 

DICKON 
\_Redppea  ring.  ] 
Videlicet,  in  law  —  a  bastard.     N'est  ce  pas  f 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Yea,  in  law  and  in  justice,  I  should-a  had  one  now. 
Worse  luck  that  he  died. 

DICKON 
One  and  twenty  years  ago  ? 

[Goody  Rickby  nods.~\ 

Good ;  he  should  be  of  age  now.     One  and  twenty  — 
a  pretty  age,  too,  for  a  rival.     Haha  !  —  For  arrival  ? 

—  Marry,  he  shall  arrive,  then  ;  arrive  and  marry  and 
inherit  his  patrimony  —  all  on  his  birthday  !     Come, 

to  work ! 

GOODY  RICKBY 

What  rant  is  this  ? 

DICKON 

Yet,  Dickon,  it  pains  me  to  perform  such  an  an 
achronism.     All  this  Mediaevalism  in  Massachusetts ! 

—  These  old-fashioned  flames  and  alchemic  accom 
paniments,  when  I've  tried  so  hard  to    be  a  native 
American  product ;    it  jars.      But   che  vuole !      I'm 
naturally  middle-aged.     I  haven't  been  really  myself, 
let  me  think,  —  since  1492  ! 


32  THE  SCARECROW 

GOODY   RICKEY 
What  art  thou  mooning  about  ? 

DICKON 
\Stitt  impenetrable .] 

There  was  my  old  friend  in  Germany,  Dr.  Johann 
Faustus ;  he  was  nigh  such  a  bag  of  old  rubbish  when 
I  made  him  over.  Ain't  it  trite !  No,  you  can't 
teach  an  old  dog  like  me  new  tricks.  Still,  a  scare 
crow !  that's  decidedly  local  color.  Come  then;  a 
Yankee  masterpiece ! 

[Seizing  Goody  Rickby  by  the  arm,  and  placing  her  before  the 
scarecrow,  he  makes  a  bow  and  wave  of  introduction.~\ 

Behold,  madam,  your  son  —  illegitimate ;  the  fu 
ture  affianced  of  Mistress  Rachel  Merton,  the  heir- 
elect,  through  matrimony,  of  Merton  House,  —  Gilead 
Merton  second  ;  Lord  Ravensbane  !  Your  lordship 
—  your  mother. 

'  GOODY   RICKBY 

Dickon !     Can  you  do  it  ? 

DICKON 
I  can  —  try. 

GOODY  RICKBY 

You  will  create  him  for  me  ?  — 

[  Wickedly. ~\ 
and  for  Gilead ! 

DICKON 

I  will  —  for  a  kiss. 


THE   SCARECROW  33 

GOODY   RICKEY 

\_About  to  embrace  him.~\ 
Dickon ! 

DICKON 
\_Dodging  her.~\ 
Later.     Now,  the  waistcoat. 

GOODY  RICKEY 
\Handing  //.] 

Rare!  rare!  He  shall  go  wooing  in't  —  like  his 
father. 

DICKON 

\_Shifting  the  scarecrow's  go  Id- trimmed  coat,   slips   on    the 
embroidered  waistcoat  and  replaces  the  coat.~] 

Stand  still,  Jack !  So,  my  macaroni.  Perfecto  ! 
Stay  —  a  walking-stick ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 
[  Wrenching  a  spoke  out  of  an  old  rickety  wheel.] 

Here :  the  spoke  for  Gilead.  He  used  to  take  me 
to  drive  in  the  chaise  it  came  out  of. 

DICKON 

\_Placing  the  spoke  as  a  cane,  in  the  scarecrow's  sleeve,  views 
him  with  satisfaction^] 

Sic  !  There,  Jacky  !  Filius  fit  non  nascitur.  —  Sam 
Hill !  My  Latin  is  stale.  "  In  the  beginning,  was 
the —  gourd  !  "  Of  these  thy  modest  ingredients  may 
thy  spirit  smack  ! 


34  THE  SCARECROW 

[Making  various  mystic  passes  with  his  hands,  Dickon  in 
tones,  now  deep  and  solemn,  now  with  fanciful  shrill 
rapidity,  this  incantation :] 

Flail,  flip ; 
Broom,  sweep ; 

Sic  itur  ! 
Cornstalk 
And  turnip,  talk ! 

Turn  crittur ! 

Pulse,  beet ; 
Gourd,  eat ; 

Ave  Hellas  ! 
Poker  and  punkin, 
Stir  the  old  junk  in : 

Breathe,  bellows ! 

Corn-cob, 

And  crow's  feather, 
End  the  job : 

Jumble  the  rest  o'  the  rubbish  together ; 
Dovetail  and  tune  'em. 
E  pluribus  ununt  ! 

\The  scarecrow  remains  stock  still.~\ 

The  devil!  Have  I  lost  the  hang  of  it?  Ah! 
Hullo !  He's  dropped  his  pipe.  What's  a  dandy 
without  his  'baccy  ! 

[Restoring  the  corn-cob  pipe  to  the  scarecrow's  mouth.'] 

'Tis  the  life  and  breath  of  him.  So ;  hand  me  yon 
hazel  switch,  Goody. 


THE  SCARECROW  35 

[  Waving  //.] 
Presto! 

Brighten,  coal, 

I'  the  dusk  between  us ! 
Whiten,  soul ! 
Propinqtiit  Venus! 

\A  whiff* of  smoke  puffs  from  the  scarecrow^  s  ptpe.~\ 
Sic  !  Sic  I  Jacobus  ! 

[Another  whiff. ~\ 
Bravo  ! 

\The  whiffs  grow  more  rapid  and  the  thing  trembles  ^\ 

GOODY  RICKEY 
Puff !  puff,  manny,  for  thy  life ! 

DICKON 
Fiat,  fcetus  !  —  Huzza  !     Nock  einmal!     Go  it ! 

\_Clouds  of  smoke  issue  from  the  pipe,  half  fill  the  shop,  and 
envelop  the  creature,  who  staggers.*^ 

GOODY  RICKEY 
See  !     See  his  eyes  ! 

*  Here  the  living  actor,  through  a  trap,  concealed  by  the  smoke, 
will  substitute  himself  for  the  elegantly  clad  effigy.  His  make-up,  of 
course,  will  approximate  to  the  latter,  but  the  grotesque  contours  of  his 
expression  gradually,  throughout  the  remainder  of  the  act,  become 
refined  and  sublimated  till,  at  the  finale,  they  are  of  a  lordly  and 
distinguished  caste. 


36  THE  SCARECROW 

DICKON 

\_Beckoning  with  one  finger •.] 

Vent,  fili  !    Vent  !  Take  'ee  first  step,  bambino  !  — 
Toddle  ! 

\The  Scarecrow  makes  a  stiff  lurch  forward  and  falls  side- 
wise  against  the  anvil,  propped  half -re  dining  against 
which  he  leans  rigid,  emitting  fainter  puffs  of  smoke  in 
gasps] 

GOODY   RICKEY 

[Screams."] 
Have  a  care !     He's  fallen. 

DICKON 

Well  done,  Punkin  Jack !     Thou  shalt  be  knighted 
for  that ! 

[Striking  him  on  the  shoulder  with  the  hazel  rod.~] 
Rise,  Lord  Ravensbane ! 

[The  Scarecrow  totters  to  his  feet,  and  makes  a  forlorn  rec 
tilinear  salutation.] 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Look  !  He  bows.  —  He  flaps  his  flails  at  thee.     He 
smiles  like  a  tik-doo-loo-roo  ! 

DICKON 

[  With  a  profound  reverence,  backing  away] 
Will  his  lordship  deign  to  follow  his  tutor  ? 
\_With  hitches  and  jerks,  the  Scarecrow  follows  Dickon.] 


THE  SCARECROW  37 

GOODY  RICKEY 

O  Lord  !  Lord  !  the  style  o'  the  broomstick ! 

DICKON 

[Holding  ready  a  high-backed  chair.] 
Will  his  lordship  be  seated  and  rest  himself? 

[Awkwardly  the  Scarecrow  half  falls  into  the  chair;  his 
head  sinks  sideways,  and  his  pipe  falls  out.  Dickon 
snatches  it  up  instantly  and  restores  it  to  his  mouth.] 

Puff!  Puff,  puer;  'tis  thy  life. 

[The  Scarecrow  puffs  again.] 
Is  his  lordship's  tobacco  refreshing  ? 

GOODY  RICKEY 

Look  now !     The  red  colour  in  his  cheeks.     The 
beet-juice  is  pumping,  oho  ! 

DICKON 

[Offering  his  arm.] 

Your  lordship  will  deign  to  receive  an  audience  ? 
[The  Scarecrow  takes  his  arm  and  rises.] 

The    Marchioness  of   Rickby,  your   lady   mother, 
entreats  leave  to  present  herself. 


My  son1 


GOODY   RICKEY 
[  Courtesying  low.] 


38  THE  SCARECROW 

DICKON 

\_Holding  the  pipe,  and  waving  the  hazel  rod."\ 
Dicite  !     Speak ! 

\_The   Scarecrow,  blowing  out  his  last  mouthful  of  smoke, 
opens  his  mouth,  gasps,  gurgles,  and  is  silent^ 

In  principio  erat  verbum  !     Accost  thy  mother  ! 

\_The  Scarecrow,  clutching  at  his  side  in  a  struggle  for  co 
herence ',  fixes  a  pathetic  look  of  pain  on  Goody  RickbyJ] 

THE  SCARECROW 

Mother ! 

GOODY  RICKEY 

[  With  a  scream  of  hysterical  laughter,  seizes  both  Dickon's 
hands  and  dances  him  about  the  forge^\ 

O  Beelzebub !     I  shall  die  ! 

DICKON 
Thou  hast  thy  son. 

\_Dickon  whispers  in  the  Scarecrow's  ear,  shakes  his  finger, 
and  exit.~\ 

GOODY  RICKEY 

He  called  me  "  mother."     Again,  boy,  again. 

THE   SCARECROW 

From  the  bottom  of  my  heart  —  mother. 

GOODY  RICKEY 
"  The  bottom  of  his  heart "  —  Nay,  thou  killest  me. 


THE  SCARECROW  39 

THE  SCARECROW 
Permit  me,  madam ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Gilead  !    Gilead  himself  !    Waistcoat,  "  permit  me," 
and  all :  thy  father  over  again,  I  tell  thee. 

THE  SCARECROW 
[  With  a  slight  stammer. ~\ 

It  gives  me  —  I  assure  you  —  lady  —  the  deepest 
happiness. 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Just  so  the  old  hypocrite  spoke  when  I  said  I'd  have 
him.     But  thou  hast  a  sweeter  deference,  my  son. 

\_Reenter  Dickon;   he  is  dressed  all  in  black,  save  for  a 
white  stock,  —  a  suit  of  plain  elegance.] 

DICKON 
Now,  my  lord,  your  tutor  is  ready. 

THE  SCARECROW 
[To  Goody  Rickey.] 

I  have  the  honour  —  permit  me  —  to  wish  you  — 
good  morning. 

\_Bows  and  takes  a  step  after  Dickon,  who,  taking  a  three- 
cornered  cocked  hat  from  a  peg,  goes  toward  the  door.~\ 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Whoa  !     Whoa,  Jack !     Whither  away  ? 


40  THE  SCARECROW 

DICKON 

[Presenting  the  hat.~\ 
Deign  to  reply,  sir. 

THE   SCARECROW 

I  go  —  with  my  tutor  —  Master  Dickonson  —  to 
pay  my  respects  —  to  his  worship  —  the  Justice  — 
Merton — to  solicit  —  the  hand  —  of  his  daughter — • 
the  fair  Mistress  —  Rachel. 

[  With  another  bow^\ 
Permit  me. 

GOODY  RICKEY 

Permit  ye  ?  God  speed  ye  !  Thou  must  teach  him 
his  tricks,  Dickon. 

DICKON 

Trust  me,  Goody.  Between  here  and  Justice  Mer- 
ton's,  I  will  play  the  mother-hen,  and  I  promise  thee, 
our  bantling  shall  be  as  stuffed  with  compliments  as 
a  callow  chick  with  caterpillars. 

\_As  he  throws  open  the  big  doors,  the  cawing  of  crowds  is 
heard  again.~\ 

Hark !  your  lordship's  retainers  acclaim  you  on  your 
birthday.  They  bid  you  welcome  to  your  majority. 
Listen !  "  Long  live  Lord  Ravensbane  !  Caw  !  " 

GOODY  RICKEY 

Look!    Count  'em,  Dickon. 


THE   SCARECROW  41 

One  for  sorrow, 
Two  for  mirth, 
Three  for  a  wedding, 
Four  for  a  birth  — 

Four  on  'em !  So !  Good  luck  on  thy  birthday ! 
And  see !  There's  three  on  'em  flying  into  the  Jus 
tice's  field. 

—  Flight  o'  the  crows 
Tells  how  the  wind  blows  !  — 

A  wedding  !  Get  ye  gone.  Wed  the  girl,  and  sting 
the  Justice.  Bless  ye,  my  son  ! 

THE   SCARECROW 
[  With  a  profound  reverence] 

Mother  —  believe  me  —  to  be  —  your  ladyship's  — 
most  devoted  —  and  obedient  —  son. 

DICKON 

\_Prompting  him  aloud.] 
Ravensbane. 

THE   SCARECROW 

[Donning  his  hat,  lifts  his  head  in  hauteur,  shakes  his  lace 
ruffle  over  his  hand,  turns  his  shoulder,  nods  slightly, 
and  speaks  for  the  first  time  with  complete  mastery  of 
his  voice.~] 

Hm !  Ravensbane ! 

[With  one  hand  in  the  arm  of  Dickon,  the  other  twirling  his 
cane  (the  converted  chaise-spoke),  wreathed  in  halos  of 
smoke  from  his  pipe,  the  fantastical  figure  hitches  ele 
gantly  forth  into  the  daylight,  amid  louder  acclamations 
of  the  crows.~\ 


ACT   II 


ACT    II 

The  same  morning.  Justice  Merton's  parlour,  furnished  and 
designed  in  the  style  of  the  early  colonial  period.  On 
the  right  wall,  hangs  a  portrait  of  the  Justice  as  a  young 
man ;  on  the  left  wall,  an  old-fashioned  looking-glass. 
At  the  right  of  the  room  stands  the  Glass  of  Truth, 
draped —  as  in  the  blacksmith  shop  —  with  the  strange, 
embroidered  curtain. 

In  front  of  it  are  discovered  RACHEL  and  RICHARD  ;  Rachel 
is  about  to  draw  the  curtain. 

RACHEL 

Now  !  Are  you  willing  ? 

RICHARD 

So  you  suspect  me  of  dark,  villainous  practices  ? 

RACHEL 
No,  no,  foolish  Dick. 

RICHARD 

Still,  I  am  to  be  tested;  is  that  it? 

RACHEL 

That's  it. 

RICHARD 

As  your  true  lover. 

45 


46  •     THE   SCARECROW 

RACHEL 

Well,  yes. 

RICHARD 

Why,  of  course,  then,  I  consent.  A  true  lover 
always  consents  to  the  follies  of  his  lady-love. 

RACHEL t 

Thank  you,  Dick ;  I  trust  the  glass  will  sustain 
your  character.  Now  ;  when  I  draw  the  curtain  — 

RICHARD 

[Staying  her  hand.~\ 
What  if  I  be  false  ? 

RACHEL 

Then,  sir,  the  glass  will  reflect  you  as  the  subtle 
fox  that  you  are. 

RICHARD 

And  you  —  as  the  goose  ? 

RACHEL 

Very  likely.  Ah  !  but,  Richard  dear,  we  mustn't 
laugh.  It  may  prove  very  serious.  You  do  not 
guess  —  you  do  not  dream  all  the  mysteries  — 

RICHARD 

[Shaking  his  head,  with  a  grave  smile. ,] 

You  pluck  at  too  many  mysteries;  sometime  they 
may  burn  your  fingers.  Remember  our  first  mother 
Eve! 


THE   SCARECROW  47 

RACHEL 

But  this  is  the  glass  of  truth;  and  Goody  Rickby 
told  me  — 

RICHARD 

Rickby,  forsooth! 

RACHEL 

Nay,  come ;  let's  have  it  over. 

\_She  draws    the    curtain,    covers    her  eyes,   steps  back    by 
Richard's  side,  looks  at  the  glass,   and  gives  a  joyous 

**i 

Ah  !  there  you  are,  dear !  There  we  are,  both  of  us  — 
just  as  we  have  always  seemed  to  each  other,  true. 
'Tis  proved.  Isn't  it  wonderful  ? 

RICHARD 

Miraculous !  That  a  mirror  bought  in  a  black 
smith  shop,  before  sunrise,  for  twenty  pounds,  should 
prove  to  be  actually  —  a  mirror ! 

RACHEL 
Richard,  I'm  so  happy. 

[Enter  JUSTICE  MERTON  and  MISTRESS  MERTON.] 

RICHARD 
\_Embracing  her.~\ 

Happy,  art  thou,  sweet  goose?  Why,  then,  God 
bless  Goody  Rickby. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
Strange  words  from  you,  Squire  Talbot. 


48  THE   SCARECROW 

[Rachel  and  Richard  part  quickly ;  Rachel  draws  the  cur 
tain  over  the  mirror  ;  Richard  stands  stiffly. .] 

RICHARD 

Justice  Merton!     Why,  sir,  the  old  witch  is  more 
innocent,  perhaps,  than  I  represented  her. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

A  witch,  believe  me,  is  never  innocent. 

[Taking  their  hands,   he  brings  them    together  and  kisses 
Rachel  on  the  forehead.~\ 

Permit  me,  young  lovers.     I  was  once  young  myself, 
young  and  amorous. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

\_In  a  low  voice.~\ 
Verily! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

My  fair  niece,  my  worthy  young  man,  beware  of 

witchcraft. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

And  Goody  Rickby,  too,  brother  ? 
JUSTICE  MERTON 

That  woman  shall  answer  for  her  deeds.     She  is 
proscribed. 

RACHEL 

Proscribed  ?     What  is  that  ? 

MISTRESS   MERTON 
[Examining  the  mirror. ~\ 
What  is  this? 


THE   SCARECROW  49 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

She  shall  hang. 

RACHEL 

Uncle,  no!    Not  merely  because  of  my  purchase 
this  morning. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Your  purchase? 

MISTRESS   MERTON 
[Printing  to  the  mirror.] 
That,  I  suppose. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

What !  you  purchased  that  mirror  of   her  ?     You 
brought  it  here  ? 

RACHEL 

No,  the  boy  brought  it;  I  found  it  here  when  I 
returned. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

What !    From  her  !    You  purchased  it  ?    From  her 
shop  ?     From  her  infamous  den,  into  my  parlour  ! 

[To  Mistress  Merton.~\ 
Call  the  servant. 

[Himself  calling.'] 

Micah  !      This  instant,  this  instant  —  away  with  it! 
Micah ! 

RACHEL 

Uncle  Gilead,  I  bought  — 


50  THE  SCARECROW 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Micah,  I  say  !     Where  is  the  man  ? 

RACHEL 
Listen,  Uncle.     I  bought  it  with  my  own  money. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Thine  own  money !  Wilt  have  the  neighbours 
gossip  ?  Wilt  have  me,  thyself,  my  house,  suspected 
of  complicity  with  witches  ? 

[Enter  MICAH.  1 
Micah,  take  this  away. 

MICAH 
Yes,  sir;  but,  sir  — 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Out  of  my  house  ! 

MICAH 
There  be  visitors. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Away  with  — 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

[Touching  his  arm.~\ 
Gilead ! 

MICAH 

Visitors,  sir;  gentry. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Ah! 


THE  SCARECROW  51 

MICAH 
Shall  I  show  them  in,  sir  ? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
Visitors  !     In  the  morning  ?     Who  are  they  ? 

MICAH 

Strangers,  sir.  I  should  judge  they  be  very  high 
gentry ;  lords,  sir. 

ALL 
Lords ! 

MICAH 

At  least,  one  on  'em,  sir.  The  other  —  the  dark 
gentleman  —  told  me  they  left  their  horses  at  the  inn, 
sir. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 
Hark! 

[The  faces  of  all  wear  suddenly  a  startled  expression^ 
Where  is  that  unearthly  sound  ? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
\JListtning.~\ 

Is  it  in  the  cellar  ? 

MICAH 

Tis  just  the  dog  howling,  madam.  When  he  spied 
the  gentry  he  turned  tail  and  run  below. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 
Oh,  the  dog ! 


52  THE   SCARECROW 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Show   the   gentlemen   here,    Micah.     Don't   keep 

them  waiting. 

[Exit  MICAH.] 
A  lord ! 

\_To  Rachel.'] 

We  shall  talk  of  this  matter  later.  —  A  lord  ! 

[Turning  to  the  small  glass  on  the  wall,  he  arranges  his 
peruke  and  attire] 

RACHEL 
[To  Richard.] 

What  a  fortunate  interruption  !     But,  dear  Dick ! 
I  wish  we  needn't  meet  these  strangers  now. 

RICHARD 

Would  you  really  rather  we  were  alone  together  ? 
[They  chat  aside,  absorbed  in  each  other. ,] 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Think  of  it,  Cynthia,  a  lord ! 

MISTRESS  MERTON 

[Dusting  the  furniture  hastily  with  her  handkerchief.] 
And  such  dust ! 

RACHEL 
[To  Richard] 

You  know,  dear,  we  need  only  be  introduced,  and 
then  we  can  steal  away  together. 
[Reenter  MICAH.] 


THE   SCARECROW  53 

MICAH 
[Announcing.] 

Lord  Ravensbane:  Marquis  of  Oxford,  Baron  of 
Wittenberg,  Elector  of  Worms,  and  Count  of  Cordova  ; 
Master  Dickonson. 

[Enter  RAVENSBANE  and  DICKON.] 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Gentlemen,  permit  me,  you  are  excessively  wel 
come.  I  am  deeply  gratified  to  meet  — 

DICKON 
Lord  Ravensbane,  of  the  Rookeries,  Somersetshire. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Lord  Ravensbane  —  his  lordship's  most  truly 
honoured. 

RAVENSBANE 

Truly  honoured. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
[  Turning  to  Dickon] 

His  lordship's  —  ? 

DICKON 
Tutor. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

[  Checking  his  effusiveness.] 
Ah,  so ! 

DICKON 

Justice  Merton,  I  believe. 


54  THE  SCARECROW 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Of  Merton  House.  —  May  I  present  —  permit  me, 
your  lordship  —  my  sister,  Mistress  Merton. 

RAVENSBANE 

Mistress  Merton. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
And  my  —  and  my  — 

[Under  his  breath. ~\ 
Rachel! 

\_Rachel  remains  with  a  bored  expression  behind  Richard.~\ 

— my  young  neighbour,  Squire  Talbot,  Squire  Rich 
ard  Talbot  of  —  of  — 

RICHARD 

Of  nowhere,  sir. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Nods.-] 
Nowhere. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

And  permit  me,   Lord  Ravensbane,  my  niece  — 
Mistress  Rachel  Merton. 

RAVENSBANE 
\Bows  low.~\ 
Mistress  Rachel  Merton. 

RACHEL 
[  Courtesies^ 
Lord  Ravensbane. 


THE   SCARECROW  55 

\_As  they  raise  their  heads,  their  eyes  meet  and  are  fascinated. 
Dickon  just  then  takes  Ravensbane1  s  pipe  and  fills  it] 

RAVENSBANE 

Mistress  Rachel! 

RACHEL 
Your  lordship ! 

[Dickon  returns  the  pipe.] 
MISTRESS   MERTON 

A  pipe  !     Gilead  !  —  in  the  parlour ! 

\_Justice  Me  r ton  frowns  silence.] 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Your  lordship  —  ahem !  —  has  just  arrived  in  town? 

DICKON 
From  London,  via  New  Amsterdam. 

RICHARD 
[Aside.-] 
Is  he  staring  at  you  ?     Are  you  ill,  Rachel  ? 

RACHEL 

{Indifferently.] 
What? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
Lord  Ravensbane  honours  my  humble  roof. 


56  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 

\_Touches  Ravensbane's  arm.~\ 
Your  lordship  —  "  roof." 

RAVENSBANE 
[Starting,  turns  to  Merton.~\ 

Nay,  sir,  the  roof  of  my  father's  oldest  friend  be 
stows  generous  hospitality  upon  his  only  son. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Only  son  —  ah,  yes !     Your  father  — 

RAVENSBANE 

My  father,  I  trust,  sir,  has  never  forgotten  the 
intimate  companionship,  the  touching  devotion,  the 
unceasing  solicitude  for  his  happiness  which  you, 
sir,  manifested  to  him  in  the  days  of  his  youth. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Really,  your  lordship,  the — the  slight  favours  which 
—  hem!  some  years  ago,  I  was  privileged  to  show 
your  illustrious  father  — 

RAVENSBANE 

Permit  me !  —  Because,  however,  of  his  present 
infirmities  —  for  I  regret  to  say  that  my  father  is 
suffering  a  temporary  aberration  of  mind  — 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

You  distress  me ! 


THE   SCARECROW  57 

RAVENSBANE 

My  lady  mother  has  charged  me  with  a  double 
mission  here  in  New  England.  On  my  quitting  my 
home,  sir,  to  explore  the  wideness  and  the  mystery 
of  this  world,  my  mother  bade  me  be  sure  to  call 
upon  his  worship,  the  Justice  Merton  ;  and  deliver 
to  him,  first,  my  father's  remembrances  ;  and  sec 
ondly,  my  mother's  epistle. 

DICKON 

\_Handing  to  Justice  Merton  a  sealed  document^ 
Her  ladyship's  letter,  sir. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Examining  the  seal  with   awe,  speaks  aside   to  Mistress 
Merton.^ 

Cynthia !  —  a  crested  seal ! 

DICKON 
His  lordship's  crest,  sir  :  rooks  rampant. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
[Embarrassed^  breaks  the  seal.~\ 

Permit  me. 

RACHEL 

[Looking  at  Ravensbane.~\ 

Have  you  noticed  his  bearing,  Richard :  what  per 
sonal  distinction  !  what  inbred  nobility  !  Every  inch 
a  true  lord ! 


58  THE   SCARECROW 

RICHARD 

He  may  be  a  lord,  my  dear,  but  he  walks  like  a 
broomstick. 

RACHEL 

How  dare  you  ! 

[  Turns  abruptly  away  ;  as  she  does  so,  a  fold  of  her  gown 
catches  in  a  chair.'] 

DICKON 

{To  Justice  Merton.~\ 
A  word,  sir. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Glancing  up  from  the  letter.] 
I  am  astonished  —  overpowered  ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Mistress  Rachel  —  permit  me. 

[Stooging,  he  extricates  the  fold  of  her  gown.  ~\ 

RACHEL 
Oh,  thank  you. 

[They  go  aside  together^ 

RICHARD 
[To  Mistress  Merton.~\ 

So  Lord  Ravensbane  and  his  family  are  old  friends 
of  yours  ? 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

\Monosyllabically.  ] 
I  never  heard  the  name  before,  Richard. 


THE   SCARECROW  59 

RICHARD 

Why !  but  I  thought  that  your  brother,  the  Jus 
tice  — 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

The  Justice  is  reticent. 

RICHARD 

Ah! 

MISTRESS   MERTON 
Especially  concerning  his  youth. 

RICHARD 

Ah! 

RAVENSBANE 
\_To  Rachel,  taking  her  hand  after  a  whisper  from  Dickon.} 

Believe  me,  sweet  lady,  it  will  give  me  the  deepest 
pleasure. 

RACHEL 

Can  you  really  tell  fortunes  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

More  than  that;  I  can  bestow  them. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
[To  Dickon.} 

But  is  her  ladyship  really  serious  ?     An  offer  of 
marriage ! 

DICKON 

Pray  read  it  again,  sir. 


6O  THE   SCARECROW 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
[Reads.] 

"To  the  Worshipful,  the  Justice  Gilead  Merton, 

"Merton  House. 
"My  Honourable  Friend  and  Benefactor  : 

"  With  these  brief  lines  I  commend  to  you  our 
son  "  —  our  son  ! 

DICKON 

She  speaks  likewise  for  his  young  lordship's 
father,  sir. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Ah !  of  course. 

[Reads.] 

"  In  a  strange  land,  I  intrust  him  to  you  as  to  a 
father."  Honoured,  believe  me  !  "  I  have  only  to 
add  my  earnest  hope  that  the  natural  gifts,  graces, 
and  inherited  fortune  "  —  ah  —  ! 

DICKON 
Twenty  thousand  pounds  —  on  his  father's  demise. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Ah  !  —  "fortune  of  this  young  scion  of  nobility  will 
so  propitiate  the  heart  of  your  niece,  Mistress  Rachel 
Merton,  as  to  cause  her  to  accept  his  proffered  hand 
in  matrimony;"  —  but — but — but  Squire  Talbot  is 
betrothed  to  —  well,  well,  we  shall  see  ;  —  "in  matri 
mony,  and  thus  cement  the  early  bonds  of  interest 
and  affection  between  your  honoured  self  and  his 


THE   SCARECROW  6 1 

lordship's  father ;  not  to  mention,  dear  sir,  your  wor 
ship's  ever  grateful  and  obedient  admirer, 

"  ELIZABETH, 

"  Marchioness  of  R." 

Of  R. !  of  R. !  Will  you  believe  me,  my  dear  sir, 
so  long  is  it  since  my  travels  in  England  —  I  visited  at 
so  many — hem!  noble  estates  —  permit  me,  it  is  so 
awkward,  but  — 

DICKON 
[  With  his  peculiar  intonation  of  Act  /.] 

Not  at  all. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

[Sfarting.~\ 

I — I  confess,  sir,  my  youthful  memory  fails  me. 
Will  you  be  so  very  obliging;  this — this  Marchioness 
of  R.  — ? 

DICKON 

[Enjoying  his  discomfiture.~\ 
Yes? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
The  R,  I  presume,  stands  for  — 

DICKON 
Rickby. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Calls.-] 
Dickon,  my  pipe ! 

[Dickon  glides  away  to  fill  Ravensbane*  s  pipe.~\ 


62  THE   SCARECROW 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

\Stands  bewildered  and  horror-struck.] 
Great  God  !  — Thou  inexorable  Judge  ! 

RICHARD 

\To  Mistress  Merton,  scowling  at  Ravensbane  and  Rachell\ 
Are  these  court  manners,  in  London? 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Don't  ask  me,  Richard. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Dejectedly  to  Rachel,  as  Dickon  is  refilling  his  pipe.] 
Alas !     Mistress  Rachel  is  cruel. 

RACHEL 

I? — cruel,  your  lordship  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Your  own  white  hand  has  written  it. 
[Lifting  her  palm. ~\ 

See,  these  lines:    Rejection!    you  will  reject  one 
who  loves  you  dearly. 

RACHEL 

Fie,  your  lordship !     Be  not  cast  down  at  fortune- 
telling.     Let  me  tell  yours,  may  I  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

[Rapturously  holding  his  palm  for  her  to  examine] 
Ah!     Permit  me. 


THE   SCARECROW  .  63 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
\Murmurs,  in  terrible  agitation^ 
Dickon  !     Can  it  be  Dickon  ? 

RACHEL 

Why,  Lord  Ravensbane,  your  pulse.  Really,  if  I 
am  cruel,  you  are  quite  heartless.  I  declare  I  can't 
feel  your  heart  beat  at  all. 

RAVENSBANE 

Ah !  mistress,  that  is  because  I  have  just  lost  it. 

RACHEL 

[Archly.] 
Where  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

[Faintly.] 
Dickon,  my  pipe ! 

RACHEL 

Alas  !  my  lord,  are  you  ill  ? 

DICKON 
[Restoring  the  lighted  pipe  to  Ravensbane,  speaks  aside] 

Pardon  me,  sweet  young  lady,  I  must  confide  to 
you  that  his  lordship's  heart  is  peculiarly  responsive 
to  his  emotions.  When  he  feels  very  ardently,  it 
quite  stops.  Hence  the  use  of  his  pipe. 

RACHEL 

Oh  !     Is  smoking,  then,  necessary  for  his  heart  ? 


64  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 

Absolutely  —  to  equilibrate  the  valvular  palpita 
tions.  Without  his  pipe  —  should  his  lordship  expe 
rience,  for  instance,  the  emotion  of  love  —  he  might 
die. 

RACHEL 

You  alarm  me ! 

DICKON 

But  this  is  for  you  only,  Mistress  Rachel.  We 
may  confide  in  you? 

RACHEL 
Oh,  utterly,  sir. 

DICKON 

His  lordship,  you  know,  is  so  sensitive. 

RAVENSBANE 
[To  Rachel.'} 

You  have  given  it  back  to  me.  Why  did  not  you 
keep  it  ? 

RACHEL 

What,  my  lord  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

My  heart. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[To  Dickon.} 
Permit  me,  one  moment ;  I  did  not  catch  your  name. 

DICKON 
My  name  ?     Dickonson. 


THE   SCARECROW  65 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
[  With  a  gasp  of  reliej f.] 
Ah,  Dickonson  !     Thank  you.     I  mistook  the  word. 

DICKON 
A  compound,  your  worship. 

[With  a  malignant  smile. "\ 
Dickon- 

\_Then  jerking  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  at  Ravensbane^\ 

son ! 

\BowingI\ 

Both  at  your  service. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

If  —  if  you  can  show  pity  —  speak  low. 

DICKON 
As  hell,  your  worship  ? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Is  he  —  he  there  ? 

DICKON 

Bessie's  brat ;  yes ;  it  didn't  die,  after  all,  poor 
suckling !  Dickon  weaned  it.  Saved  it  for  balm  of 
Gilead.  Raised  it  for  joyful  home-coming.  Prodi 
gal's  return  !  Twenty-first  birthday  !  Happy  son  ! 
Happy  father ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

My  —  son  ! 


66  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 

Felicitations ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
I  will  not  believe  it. 

DICKON 
Truth  is  hard  fare. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

{Faintly^ 
What  —  what  do  you  want  ? 

DICKON 
Only  the  happiness  of  your  dear  ones. 

{Indicating  Rachel  and  Ravensbane^\ 
The  union  of  these  young  hearts  and  hands. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

What !  he  will  dare  —  an  illegitimate  — 

DICKON 
Fie,  fie,  Gilly  !     Why,  the  brat  is  a  lord  now. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Oh,  the  disgrace !     Spare  me  that,  Dickon. 

RICHARD 

[In  a  low  voice  to  Rachel,  who  is  talking  in  a  fascinated 
manner  to  Ravensbane^\ 

Are  you  mad  ? 


THE   SCARECROW  67 

RACHEL 
{Indifferently^ 
What  is  the  matter  ? 

[Laughing,  to  Ravensbane^\ 
Oh,  your  lordship  is  too  witty ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

[To  Dickon.} 
After  all,  I  was  young  then. 

DICKON 
Quite  so. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

And  she  is  innocent ;  she  is  already  betrothed. 

DICKON 
Twiddle-twaddle !     Look  at  her  eyes  now  ! 

[Rachel  is  still  telling  Ravensbane's  fortune ;  and  they  are 
manifestly  absorbed  in  each  other.~\ 

'Tis  a  brilliant  match ;  besides,  her  ladyship's  heart 
is  set  upon  it. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Her  ladyship  —  ? 

DICKON 

The  Marchioness  of  Rickby. 


I  had  forgotten. 


JUSTICE   MERTON 
[Glowering.] 


68  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 

Her  ladyship  has  never  forgotten.  So,  you  see, 
your  worship's  alternatives  are  most  simple.  Alter 
native  one :  advance  his  lordship's  suit  with  your 
niece  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  save  all  scandal. 
Alternative  two  :  impede  his  lordship's  suit,  and  — 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Don't,  Dickon!  don't  reveal  the  truth;  not  dis 
grace  now ! 

DICKON 

Good  ;  we  are  agreed,  then  ? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

I  have  no  choice. 

DICKON 

[Cheerfully.'] 
Why,  true;  we  ignored  that,  didn't  we? 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

\Appro  aching.~\ 
This  young  lord  —     Why,  Gilead,  are  you  ill  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[  With  a  great  effort,  commands  himself ^\ 
Not  in  the  least. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Rachel's  deportment,  my  dear  brother  — 


THE  SCARECROW  69 


RACHEL 

I  am  really  at  a  loss.     Your  lordship's  hand  is  so 

very  peculiar. 

RAVENSBANE 

Ah !     Peculiar. 

RACHEL 

This,  now,  is  the  line  of  life. 

RAVENSBANE 

Of  life,  yes  ? 

RACHEL 

But  it  begins  so  abruptly,  and  see !  it  breaks  off 
and  ends  nowhere.  And  just  so  here  with  this  line 
—  the  line  of  —  of  love. 

RAVENSBANE 

Of  love.     So  ;  it  breaks  ? 

RACHEL 

Yes. 

RAVENSBANE 

Ah,  then,  that  must  be  the  heart  line. 

RACHEL 

I  am  afraid  your  lordship  is  very  fickle. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

[Horrified."} 
I  tell  you,  Gilead,  they  are  fortune-telling ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Tush !     Tush ! 


7O  THE  SCARECROW 

MISTRESS  MERTON 
Tush  ?     "  Tush  "  to  me  ?     Tush  ! 

\Richard,  who  has  been  stifling  his  feelings  at  Rachel's  re 
buff  ,  and  has  stood  fidgeting  at  a  civil  distance  from 
her,  now  walks  up  to  Justice  Merton.] 

RICHARD 

Intolerable!     Do  you  approve  of   this,  sir?     Are 
Lord  Ravensbane's  credentials  satisfactory  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
Eminently,  eminently. 

RICHARD 

Ah  !     So  her  ladyship's  letter  is  — 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Charming;  charming. 

RICHARD 

To  be  sure ;    old  friends,  when  they  are  lords,  it 
makes  such  a  difference. 

DICKON 

True  friends  —  old  friends  ; 
New  friends  —  cold  friends. 

N'est  ce  pas,  your  worship  ? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Indeed,  Master  Dickonson  ;  indeed ! 


THE   SCARECROW 


\_To   Richard,   as   Dickon  goes   toward  Ravensbane    and 
Rachel.'} 

What   happiness  to  encounter  the  manners   of   the 

nobility  ! 

RICHARD 

If  you  approve  them,  sir,  it  is  sufficient.     This  is 

your  house. 

[He  turns  away.~\ 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Your  lordship  will,  I  trust,  make  my  house  your 

home. 

RAVENSBANE 
My  home,  sir. 

RACHEL 

[To  Dickon,  who  has  spoken  to  her.~\ 

Really  ? 

\_ToJustice  Merton.~\ 

Why,  uncle,  what  is  this  Master  Dickonson  tells 

us? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

What!     What!  he  has  revealed  — 

RACHEL 

Yes,  indeed.     Why  did  you  never  tell  us  ? 
JUSTICE   MERTON 

Rachel  !     Rachel  ! 

MISTRESS  MERTON 
You  are  moved,  brother. 


72  THE  SCARECROW 

RACHEL 
\_Laughingly  to  Ravensbane.] 

My  uncle  is  doubtless  astonished  to  find  you  so 
grown. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Laughingly  to  Justice  Merton^\ 
I  am  doubtless  astonished,  sir,  to  be  so  grown. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

\To  Dickon^ 
You  have  — 

DICKON 

Remarked,    sir,    that     your    worship    had    often 
dandled  his  lordship  —  as  an  infant. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
[Smiling  lugubriously.] 
Quite  so  —  as  an  infant  merely. 

RACHEL 

How  interesting !     Then  you  must  have  seen  his 
lordship's  home  in  England. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

As  you  say. 

RACHEL 
\_To  Ravensbane.~\ 

Do  describe  it  to  us.     We  are   so   isolated   here 
from   the   grand   world.     Do   you   know,    I   always 


THE  SCARECROW  73 

imagine  England  to  be  an  enchanted  isle,  like  one  of 
the  old  Hesperides,  teeming  with  fruits  of  solid  gold. 

RAVENSBANE 

Ah,  yes !  my  mother  raises  them. 

RACHEL 

Fruits  of  gold  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Round  like  the  rising  sun.  She  calls  them  —  ah ! 
punkins. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

"  Punkins ! " 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
[Aside,  grinding  his  teeth^\ 
Scoundrel !     Scoundrel ! 

RACHEL 

[Laughing.'} 
Your  lordship  pokes  fun  at  us. 

DICKON 

His  lordship  is  an  artist  in  words,  mistress.  I 
have  noticed  that  in  whatever  country  he  is  travel 
ling,  he  tinges  his  vocabulary  with  the  local  idiom. 
His  lordship  means,  of  course,  not  pumpkins,  but 
pomegranates. 

RACHEL 

We  forgive  him.  But,  your  lordship,  please  be 
serious  and  describe  to  us  your  hall. 


74  THE  SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 

Quite  serious:  the  hall.     Yes,  yes;  in  the  middle 
burns  a  great  fire  —  on  a  black  —  ah  !  —  black  altar. 

DICKON 

A  Druidical  heirloom.     His  lordship's  mother  col 
lects  antiques. 

RACHEL 

How  fascinating ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Quite  fascinating !      On  the  walls  hang  pieces  of 
iron. 

DICKON 

Trophies  of  Saxon  warfare. 

RAVENSBANE 

And  rusty  horseshoes. 

GENERAL   MURMURS 

Horseshoes ! 

DICKON 

Presents  from  the  German  emperor.     They  were 
worn  by  the  steeds  of  Charlemagne. 

RAVENSBANE 

Quite  so ;  and  broken  cart-wheels. 

DICKON 
Reliques  of  British  chariots. 


THE  SCARECROW  75 

RACHEL 

How  mediaeval  it  must  be  ! 

[  To  Justice  Merlon.] 
And  to  think  you  never  described  it  to  us ! 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

True,  brother ;  you  have  been  singularly  reticent. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Permit  me ;  it  is  impossible  to  report  all  one  sees 
on  one's  travels. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Evidently. 

RACHEL 

But  surely  your  lordship's  mother  has  other  diver- 
sions  besides  collecting  antiques.  I  have  heard  that 
in  England  ladies  followed  the  hounds ;  and  some 
times  — 

\_Looking  at  her  aunt  and  lowering  her  voice. ~\ 

they  even  dance. 

RAVENSBANE 

Dance  —  ah,  yes;  my  lady  mother  dances  about 
the  —  the  altar ;  she  swings  high  a  hammer. 

DICKON 

Your  lordship,  your  lordship !  Pray,  sir,  check 
this  vein  of  poetry.  Lord  Ravensbane  symbolizes  as 
a  hammer  and  altar  a  golf-stick  and  tee  —  a  Scottish 


76  THE   SCARECROW 

game,  which  her   ladyship   plays  on   her   Highland 
estates. 

RICHARD 

{To  Mistress  Merton.~\ 
What  do  you  think  of  this  ? 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

[  With  a  scandalized  look  toward  her  brother] 
He  said  to  me  "tush." 

RICHARD 

\_To  Justice  Merton,  indicating  Dickon] 
Who  is  this  magpie  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Hisses  in  fury. ,] 
Satan ! 

RICHARD 

I  beg  pardon ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Satan,  sir — makes  you  jealous. 

RICHARD 

{Bows  stiffly] 
Good  morning. 

[  Walking  up  to  Ravensbane] 

Lord  Ravensbane,  I  have  a  rustic  colonial  question 
to  ask.  Is  it  the  latest  fashion  to  smoke  incessantly 
in  ladies'  parlours,  or  is  it  —  mediaeval  ? 


THE   SCARECROW  77 

DICKON 

His  lordship's  health,  sir,  necessitates  — 

RICHARD 

I  addressed  his  lordship. 

RAVENSBANE 

In  the  matter  of  fashions,  sir  — 

\_Hands  his  pipe  to  be  refilled.~\ 
My  pipe,  Dickon! 

[  While  Dickon  holds  his  pipe  —  somewhat  longer  than  usual 
—  Ravensbane,  with  his  mouth  open  as  if  about  to  speak, 
relapses  into  a  vacant  stare.~\ 

DICKON 

[As  he  lights  the  pipe  for  Ravens  bane,  speaks  suavely  and 
low  as  if  not  to  be  overheard  by  him.~\ 

Pardon  me.  The  fact  is,  my  young  pupil  is  sensi 
tive;  the  wound  from  his  latest  duel  is  not  quite 
healed;  you 'observe  a  slight  lameness,  an  occasional 
absence  of  mind. 

RACHEL 

A  wound  —  in  a  real  duel  ? 

RICHARD 

Necessitates  his  smoking  !     A  valid  reason ! 

DICKON 
[Aside.] 

You,  mistress,  know  the  true  reason  — his  lordship's 
heart. 


78  THE  SCARECROW 

RACHEL 

Believe  me,  sir  — 

RICHARD 

[To  Ravensbane,  who  is  still  staring  vacantly  into  space. ~\ 
Well,  well,  your  lordship. 

\_Ravensbane pays  no  attention^ 
You  were  saying  —  ? 

[Dickon  returns  the  pipe.  ~\ 
in  the  matter  of  fashions,  sir — ? 

RAVENSBANE 

[Regaining  slowly  a  look  of  intelligence,  draws  himself  up 

with  affronted  hauteur. ,] 
Permit  me ! 

[Puffs  several  wreaths  of  smoke  into  the  air.~\ 
I  am  the  fashions. 

RICHARD 

[Going.'] 
Insufferable  ! 

\_He pauses  at  the  door.~\ 

MISTRESS  MERTON 
[To  Justice  Merton.~\ 
Well  —  what  do  you  think  of  that? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Spoken  like  King  Charles  himself. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Brother !  brother  !  is  there  nothing  wrong  here  ? 


THE  SCARECROW  79 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Wrong,   •  Cynthia !      Manifestly     you     are    quite 
ignorant  of  the  manners  of  the  great. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Oh,  Gilead ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Where  are  you  going  ? 

MISTRESS  MERTON 
To  my  room. 

[Murmurs,  as  she  hurries  out^\ 
Dear  !  dear  !  if  it  should  be  that  again  ! 

[Dickon    and  Justice  Merton  withdraw  to  a  corner  of  the 

room.~\ 

RACHEL 
[To  Ravensbane.^ 

I  —  object   to   the   smoke  ?     Why,    I   think   it   is 
charming. 

RICHARD 

[  Who   has  returned  from   the  door,  speaks   in  a  low,  con 
strained  voice, ,] 
Rachel ! 

RACHEL 
Oh !  —  you  ? 

RICHARD 

You  take  quickly  to  European  fashions. 

RACHEL 

Yes  ?     To  what  one  in  particular  ? 


80  THE  SCARECROW 

RICHARD 

Two ;  smoking  and  flirtation. 

RACHEL 

Jealous  ? 

RICHARD 

Of  an  idiot?  I  hope  not.  Manners  differ,  how 
ever.  Your  confidences  to  his  lordship  have  evi 
dently  not  included  —  your  relation  to  me. 

RACHEL 

Oh,  our  relations ! 

RICHARD 

Of  course,  since  you  wish  him  to  continue  in  igno 
rance  — 

RACHEL 

Not  at  all.  He  shall  know  at  once.  Lord  Ravens- 
bane  ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Fair  mistress ! 

RICHARD 

Rachel,  stop  !     I  did  not  mean  — 

RACHEL 

{To  RavensbaneJ] 

My  uncle  did  not  introduce  to  you  with  sufficient 
elaboration  this  gentleman.  Will  you  allow  me  to  do 
so  now  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

I  adore  Mistress  Rachel's  elaborations. 


THE   SCARECROW  8  1 

RACHEL 

Lord  Raven  sbane,  I  beg  to  present  Squire  Talbot, 
my  betrothed. 

RAVENSBANE 

Betrothed  !     Is  it  - 

[Noticing  Richard's  frown."] 
is  it  pleasant  ? 

RACHEL 
[To  Richard.} 
Are  you  satisfied  ? 

RICHARD 

[Trembling  with  feeling.'] 
More  than  satisfied. 


RAVENSBANE 
[Looking  after  him.~\ 
Ah  !     Betrothed  is  not  pleasant. 

RACHEL 

Not  always. 

RAVENSBANE 
[Anxiously.'] 
Mistress  Rachel  is  not  pleased  ? 

RACHEL 

[Biting  her  lip,  looks  after  Richard.] 
With  him. 


82  THE   SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 

Mistress  Rachel  will  smile  again  ? 

RACHEL 

Soon. 

RAVENSBANE 
{Ardent.] 

Ah!  if  she  would  only  smile  once  more!  What 
can  Lord  Ravensbane  do  to  make  her  smile  ?  See  1 
will  you  puff  my  pipe  ?  It  is  very  pleasant. 

[Offering  the pipe.~\ 

RACHEL 

[Smiting.] 

Shall  I  try? 

[Takes  hold  of  it  mischievously.] 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

\_In  a  great  voice. ] 
Rachel ! 

RACHEL 

Why,  uncle ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

[From  where  he  has  been  conversing  in  a  corner  with  Dickon, 
approaches  now  and  speaks  suavely  to  Ravensbane] 

Permit  me,  your  lordship  —  Rachel,  you  will  kindly 
withdraw  for  a  few  moments ;  I  desire  to  confer  with 
Lord  Ravensbane  concerning  his  mother's — her  lady 
ship's  letter ; 


THE  SCARECROW  83 

\_Obsequiously  to  Dickon. ,] 

—  that  is,  if  you  think,  sir,  that  your  noble  pupil  is 
not  too  fatigued. 

DICKON 

Not  at  all ;  I  think  his  lordship  will  listen  to  you 
with  much  pleasure. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Bowing  to  Justice  Merton,  but  looking  at  Rachel.] 
With  much  pleasure. 

DICKON 

And  in  the  meantime,  if  Mistress  Rachel  will  allow 
me,  I  will  assist  her  in  writing  those  invitations  which 
your  worship  desires  to  send  in  her  name. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Invitations  —  from  my  niece  ? 

DICKON 

To  his  Excellency,  the  Lieutenant  Governor;  to 
your  friends,  the  Reverend  Masters  at  Harvard  Col 
lege,  etc.,  etc. ;  in  brief,  to  all  your  worship's  select 
social  acquaintance  in  the  vicinity  —  to  meet  his 
lordship.  It  was  so  thoughtful  in  you  to  suggest  it, 
sir,  and  believe  me,  his  lordship  appreciates  your 
courtesy  in  arranging  the  reception  in  his  honour  for 
this  afternoon. 

RACHEL 
[To  Justice  Merton.] 

This  afternoon  !  Are  we  really  to  give  his  lord 
ship  a  reception  this  afternoon  ? 


84  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 

Your  uncle  has  already  given  me  the  list  of 
guests ;  so  considerate  !  Permit  me  to  act  as  your 
scribe,  Mistress  Rachel. 

RACHEL 

With  pleasure. 

\To  Justice  Merton.] 
And  will  it  be  here,  uncle  ? 

DICKON 

[Looking  at  him  narrowly.~\ 
Your  worship  said  here,  I  believe  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
Quite  so,  sir ;  quite  so,  quite  so. 

DICKON 
\_Aside  to  Justice  Merton.~\ 

I  advise  nothing  rash,  Gilly ;  the  brat  has  a  weak 
heart. 

RACHEL 

This  way,  Master  Dickonson,  to  the  study. 

DICKON 

\_A s  he  goes  with  RacheL~\ 
I  will  write  and  you  sign  ? 

RACHEL 
Thank  you. 


THE   SCARECROW  85 

DICKON 

[Aside,  as  he  passes  Ravensbane.~\ 
Remember,  Jack  !     Puff,  puff  ! 

RACHEL 

[  To  Ravensbane,  who  stretches  out  his  hand  to  her  with  a 
gesture  of  entreaty  to  stay.] 

Your  lordship  is  to  be  my  guest. 

\Courtesying] 
Till  we  meet  again! 

DICKON 
[To  Rachel.] 
May  I  sharpen  your  quill  ? 

[Exeunt J\ 

RAVENSBANE 
[Faintly,  looking  after  her.] 
Till  —  we  —  meet  —  again ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
[Low  and  vehement  to  Ravensbane.] 
Impostor ! 

RAVENSBANE 
[Still  staring  at  the  door] 
She  is  gone. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

You  at  least  shall  not  play  the  lord  and  master  to 
my  face. 


86  THE  SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 

Quite  —  gone ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

I  know  with  whom  I  have  to  deal.  If  I  be  any 
judge  of  my  own  flesh  and  blood  —  permit  me  —  you 
shall  quail  before  me. 

RAVENSBANE 
[Dejectedly.] 

She  did  not  smile  — 

[  Joyously. ,]       < 
She  smiled ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Affected  rogue  !  I  know  thee.  I  know  thy  feigned 
pauses,  thy  assumed  vagaries.  Speak ;  how  much  do 
you  want  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Betrothed,  —  he  went  away.  That  was  good. 
And  then  —  she  did  not  smile :  that  was  not  good. 
But  then  —  she  smiled  !  Ah  !  that  was  good. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Come  back,  coward,  and  face  me. 

RAVENSBANE 

First,  the  great  sun  shone  over  the  corn-fields,  the 
grass  was  green  ;  the  black  wings  rose  and  flew 
before  me  ;  then  the  door  opened  —  and  she  looked 
at  me. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Speak,  I  say  !  What  sum  ?  What  treasure  do  you 
hope  to  bleed  from  me  ? 


THE  SCARECROW  87 

RAVENSBANE 

[Ecstatically^ 
Ah !    Mistress  Rachel ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Her !  Scoundrel,  if  thou  dost  name  her  again,  my 
innocent  —  my  sweet  maid  !  If  thou  dost  —  thou 
godless  spawn  of  temptation  —  mark  you,  I  will  put 
an  end  — 

[Reaching  for  a  pistol  that  rests  in  a  rack  on  the  wall,  —  the 
intervening  form  of  Dickon  suddenly  appears,  pockets 
the  pistol,  and  exit.  ~\ 

DICKON 
I  beg  pardon  ;  I  forgot  something. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Sinking  info  a  chair. ~] 
God  is  just. 

[He  holds  his  head  in  his  hands  and  weeps."] 

RAVENSBANE 

[For  the  first  time,  since  Rachel's  departure,  observes  Merton.~\ 
Permit  me,  sir,  are  you  ill  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Recoiling^ 
What  art  thou  ? 

RAVENSBANE 
[  Monotonously.  ] 

I  am  Lord  Ravensbane:  Marquis  of  Oxford,  Baron 
of  Wittenberg,  Elector  of  Worms,  and  — 


88  THE   SCARECROW 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

And  my  son  ! 

[Covers  his  face  again.] 

RAVENSBANE 
[Solicitously] 
Shall  I  call  Dickon  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Yea,  for  thou  art  my  son.  The  deed  once  done  is 
never  done,  the  past  is  the  present. 

RAVENSBANE 

[  Walking  softly  toward  the  door,  calls.] 
Dickon ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
[Starting  up] 

No,  do  not  call  him.  Stay,  and  be  merciful.  Tell 
me  :  I  hate  thee  not ;  thou  wast  innocent.  Tell  me  ! 
—  I  thought  thou  hadst  died  as  a  babe.  — Where  has 
Dickon,  our  tyrant,  kept  thee  these  twenty  years  ? 

RAVENSBANE 
[With  gentle  courtesy] 
Master  Dickonson  is  my  tutor. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

And  why  has  thy  mother  —  Ah,  I  know  well ;  I 
deserve  all.  But  yet,  it  must  not  be  published  now ! 
I  am  a  justice  now,  an  honoured  citizen  —  and  my 


THE   SCARECROW  89 

young  niece —  Thy  mother  will  not  demand  so 
much;  she  will  be  considerate;  she  will  ask  some 
gold,  of  course,  but  she  will  show  pity ! 

RAVENSBANE 

My  mother  is  the  Marchioness  of  Rickby. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Yes,  yes  ;  'twas  well  planned,  a  clever  trick.  'Twas 
skilful  of  her.  But  surely  thy  mother  gave  thee 
commands  to  — 

RAVENSBANE 

My  mother  gave  me  her  blessing. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Ah,  'tis  well  then.  Young  man,  my  son,  I  too  will 
give  thee  my  blessing,  if  thou  wilt  but  go  —  go  in 
stantly  —  go  with  half  my  fortune,  go  away  forever, 
and  leave  my  reputation  unstained. 

RAVENSBANE 

Go  away? 

\Startingfor  the  study  door.] 

Ah,  sir,  with  much  pleasure. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

You  will  go  ?  You  will  leave  me  my  honour  —  and 
my  Rachel  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Rachel  ?  Rachel  is  yours  ?  No,  no,  Mistress  Ra 
chel  is  mine.  We  are  ours. 


90  THE   SCARECROW 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Pleadingly.] 
Consider  the  disgrace. 

RAVENSBANE 

No,  no ;  I   have  seen  her  eyes,  they  are  mine ;  I 
have  seen  her  smiles,  they  are  mine ;  she  is  mine ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Consider,  one  moment  consider  —  you,  an  illegiti 
mate  —  and  she  —  oh,  think  what  thou  art ! 

RAVENSBANE 

[Monotonously,  puffing  smoke  at  the  end.~\ 

I  am  Lord  Ravensbane  :  Marquis  of  Oxford,  Baron 
of  Wittenberg,  Elector  of  Worms,  and  Count  — 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

\_Wrenching  the  pipe  from  Ravensbane' s  hand  and  lips .] 
Devil's  child  !     Boor  !     Buffoon  ! 

[Flinging  the  pipe  away.~\ 

I  will  stand  thy  insults  no  longer.     If  thou  hast  no 
heart  — 

RAVENSBANE 

[Putting  his  hand  to  his  side,  staggers."] 
Ah  !  my  heart ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Hypocrite !     Thou  canst  not  fool  me.     I  am  thy 
father. 


THE   SCARECROW  91 

RAVENSBANE 

[Faintly,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  him  for  support. ,] 
Father ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Stand  away.  Thou  mayst  break  thy  heart  and 
mine  and  the  devil's,  but  thou  shalt  not  break 
Rachel's. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Faintly.] 

Mistress  Rachel  is  mine  — 
\He  staggers  again,  and  falls,  half  reclining,  upon  a  chair] 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Good  God !     Can  it  be  —  his  heart  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

[More  faintly,  beginning  to  change  expression.] 
Her  eyes  are  mine;  her  smiles  are  mine. 
[His  eyes  close] 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[  With  agitated  swiftness,  feels  and  listens  at  Ravensbane"1  s 

side.] 

Not  a  motion ;  not  a  sound !  Yea,  God,  Thou  art 
good!  'Tis  his  heart.  He  is — ah!  he  is  my  son. 
Judge  Almighty,  if  he  should  die  now ;  may  I  not  be 
still  a  moment  more  and  make  sure.  No,  no,  my  son 
—  he  is  changing. 


Q2  THE  SCARECROW 

\_Calls.~\ 

Help  !    Help  !    Rachel !    Master  Dickonson  !    Help  ! 
Richard  !     Cynthia  !     Come  hither ! 

\_Enter  Dickon  and  RacheL~\ 

RACHEL 

Uncle ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Bring  wine.     Lord  Ravensbane  has  fainted. 

RACHEL 

Oh! 

[Turning  swiftly  to  go.] 
Micah,  wine. 

DICKON 

[Detaining  her] 

Stay !     His  pipe  !     Where  is  his  lordship's  pipe  ? 

RACHEL 

Oh,  terrible ! 
[Enter,  at  different  doors,  Mistress  Merton  and  Richard] 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

What's  the  matter  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[To  Rachel.] 
He  threw  it  away.     He  is  worse.     Bring  the  wine, 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Look !    How  strange  he  appears ! 


THE  SCARECROW  93 

RACHEL 
[Searching  distractedly.'] 

The  pipe  !     His  lordship's  pipe  !    It  is  lost,  Master 
Dickonson. 

DICKON 

[Stooping,    as   if  searching,  with  his.  back  turned,   having 
picked  up  the  pipe,  is  filling  and  lighting  it.~\ 

It   must   be   found.     This   is   a  heart  attack,  my 
friends ;  his  lordship's  life  depends  on  the  nicotine. 

[Deftly  he  places  the  pipe  in  Rachel's  way.~] 

RACHEL 
Thank  God !     Here  it  is. 

[  Carrying  it  to  the  prostrate  form  of  Ravensbane,  she  lifts 
his  head  and  is  about  to  put  the  pipe  in  his  mouth.'} 

Shall  I  —shall  I  put  it  in  ? 

RICHARD 
No !  not  you. 

RACHEL 

Sir! 

RICHARD 

Let  his  tutor  perform  that  office. 

RACHEL 

[Lifting  Lord  Ravensbane' s  head  again."] 
Here,  my  lord. 


94  THE  SCARECROW 

RICHARD  AND  JUSTICE   MERTON 

{Together] 
Rachel ! 

RACHEL 

You,  too,  uncle  ? 

DICKON 

Pardon  me,  Mistress  Rachel;  give  the  pipe  at 
once.  Only  a  token  of  true  affection  can  revive  his 
lordship  now. 

RICHARD 

\_As  Rachel  puts  the  pipe  to  Ravensbane's  lips.~\ 
I  forbid  it,  Rachel. 

RACHEL 

[  Watching  only  Ravensbane.~\ 
My  lord  —  my  lord  ! 

MISTRESS   MERTON 
Give  him  air ;  unbutton  his  coat. 

\_Rachel  unbuttons   Ravensbane's   coat,    revealing  the   em 
broidered  waistcoat] 

Ah,  heavens  !     What  do  I  see  ? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
[Looks,  blanches,  and  signs  silence  to  Mistress  Merton] 

Cynthia ! 

DICKON 

See  !  He  puffs  —  he  revives.  He  is  coming  to 
himself. 


THE  SCARECROW  95 

MISTRESS   MERTON 
[Aside  to  Justice  Merton,  with  deep  tensity  I\ 

That   waistcoat!    that   waistcoat!      Brother,   hast 
thou  never  seen  it  before  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Never,  my  sister. 

RACHEL 

\_As  Ravensbane  rises  to  his  feet.~\ 
At  last ! 

DICKON 

Look !  he  is  restored. 

RACHEL 

God  be  thanked ! 

DICKON 

My  lord,  Mistress  Rachel  has  saved  your  life. 

RAVENSBANE 
{Taking  Rachel's  hand.] 
Mistress  Rachel  is  mine ;  we  are  ours. 

RICHARD 

Dare  to  repeat  that. 

RAVENSBANE 
\_Looking  at  RacheL~\ 
Her  eyes  are  mine. 

RICHARD 

\_Flinging  his  glove  in  his  face.~] 
And   that,   sir,  is   yours.     I   believe   such   is   the 


96  THE   SCARECROW 

proper  fashion  in  England.  If  your  lordship's  last 
duelling  wound  is  sufficiently  healed,  perhaps  you 
will  deign  a  reply. 

RACHEL 

Richard  !     Your  lordship  ! 

RAVENSBANE 

\Stoops  t  picks  up  the  glove,  pockets  if,  bows  to  Rachel,  and 

steps  close  to  Richard.~\ 
Permit  me ! 

[He  blows  a  puff  of  smoke  full  in  Richard's  face."] 


ACT   III 


ACT   III 

The  same  day.     Late  afternoon.    The  same  scene  as  Act  II. 

RAVENSBANE  and  DICKON  discovered  at  table,  on  which  are 
lying  hvo  flails.  Ravensbane  is  dressed  in  a  costume 
which,  composed  of  silk  and  jewels,  subtly  approximates 
in  design  to  that  of  his  original  grosser  composition. 
So  artfully,  however,  is  this  contrived  that,  to  one  igno 
rant  of  his  origin,  his  dress  would  appear  to  be  merely 
an  odd  personal  whimsy ;  whereas,  to  one  initiated,  it 
would  stamp  him  grotesquely  as  the  apotheosis  of 
scarecrows. 

Dickon  is  sitting  in  a  pedagogical  attitude ;  Ravensbane 
stands  near  him,  making  a  profound  bow  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

RAVENSBANE 

Believe  me,  ladies,  with  the  true  sincerity  of  the 

heart. 

DICKON 

Inflection  a  little  more  lachrymose,  please :  "  The 
true  sincerity  of  the  heart." 

RAVENSBANE 

Believe  me,  ladies,  with  the   true  sincerity  of  the 

heart. 

DICKON 

Prettily,  prettily !     Next ! 
99 


IOO  THE   SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 
[Changing  his  mien,  as  if  addressing  another  person.'] 

Verily,  sir,  as  that  prince  of  poets,  the  immortal 
Virgil,  has  remarked : 

"  Adeo  in  teneris  consuescere  multum  est." 

DICKON 

Hm !     Act  up  to  the  sentiment. 

RAVENSBANE 

Verily,  sir,  as  that  prince  — 

DICKON 

No,  no ;  basta  !    The  next. 

RAVENSBANE 
[  With  another  change  to  courtly  manner.'] 

Trust   me,   your    Excellency,    I    will    inform    his 
Majesty  of  your  courtesy. 

DICKON 

His  Majesty  more  emphatic.     Remember!     You 
must  impress  all  of  the  guests  this  afternoon. 

RAVENSBANE 

His  Majesty  of  your  courtesy. 

DICKON 

Delicious  !     O  thou  exquisite  flower  of  love  !    How 
thy  natal  composites  have  burst  in  bloom  :  The  pump- 


THE  SCARECROW  IOI 

kin  in  thee  to  a  golden  collarette ;  thy  mop  of  crow's 
wings  to  these  raven  locks ;  thy  broomstick  to  a 
lordly  limp ;  thy  corn-silk  to  these  pale-tinted  tassels. 
Verily  in  the  gallery  of  scarecrows,  thou  art  the 
Apollo  Belvedere!  But  continue,  Cobby  dear:  the 
retort  now  to  the  challenge. 

RAVENSBANE 
[  With  a  superb  air."] 
The  second,  I  believe. 

DICKON 
Quite  so,  my  lord. 

RAVENSBANE 

Sir!  The  local  person  whom  you  represent  has 
done  himself  the  honour  of  submitting  to  me  a  chal 
lenge  to  mortal  combat.  Sir!  Since  the  remotest 
times  of  my  feudal  ancestors,  in  such  affairs  of 
honour,  choice  of  weapons  has  ever  been  the  prerog 
ative  of  the  challenged.  Sir !  This  right  of  etiquette 
must  be  observed.  Nevertheless,  believe  me,  I  have 
no  selfish  desire  that  my  superior  attainments  in  this 
art  should  assume  advantage  over  my  challenger's 
ignorance.  I  have,  therefore,  chosen  those  combative 
utensils  most  appropriate  both  to  his  own  humble 
origin  and  to  local  tradition.  Permit  me,  sir,  to 
reveal  my  choice. 

[Pointing  grandly  to  the  table •.] 
There  are  my  weapons ! 


102  THE  SCARECROW 

DICKON 

[  Clapping  his  hands, ,] 

My  darling  homunculus !  Thou  shouldst  have 
acted  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher ! 

RAVENSBANE 

There  are  my  weapons ! 

DICKON 

I  could  watch  thy  histrionics  till  midnight.  But 
thou  art  tired,  poor  Jacky ;  two  hours'  rehearsal  is 
fatiguing  to  your  lordship. 

RAVENSBANE 

Mistress  Rachel  —  I  may  see  her  now  ? 

DICKON 

Romeo !  Romeo !  Was  ever  such  an  amorous 
puppet  show ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Mistress  Rachel ! 

DICKON 

Wait ;  let  me  think !  Thou  art  wound  up  now, 
my  pretty  apparatus,  for  at  least  six  and  thirty  hours. 
The  wooden  angel  Gabriel  that  trumpets  the  hours 
on  the  big  clock  in  Venice  is  not  a  more  punctual 
manikin  than  thou  with  my  speeches.  Thou  shouldst 
run,  therefore,  — 


THE  SCARECROW  1 03 

RAVENSBANE 
\_Frowning  darkly  at  Dickon.~\ 

Stop  talking ;    permit  me !     A  tutor  should  know 
his  place. 

DICKON 

[Rubbing  his  handsJ] 
Nay,  your  lordship  is  beyond  comparison 

RAVENSBANE 
[In  a  terrible  voice.~\ 
She  will  come  ?     I  shall  see  her  ? 
[Enter  MICAH.] 

MICAH 
Pardon,  my  lord. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Turning joyfully  to  Micah.~\ 
Is  it  she  ? 

MICAH 

Captain  Bugby,  my  lord,  the  Governor's  secretary. 

DICKON 
Good.     Squire  Talbot's  second.     Show  him  in. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Flinging  despairingly  into  a  chair •.] 
Ah!  ah! 


IO4  THE   SCARECROW 

MICAH 

[Lifting  the  flails  from  the  tabled} 
Beg  pardon,  sir ;  shall  I  remove  — 

DICKON 
Drop  them ;  go. 

MICAH 

But,  sir  — 

DICKON 

Go,  thou  slave ! 

[Exit  Micah] 

RAVENSBANE 
\_In  childlike  despair.} 
She  will  not  come !     I  shall  not  see  her ! 

DICKON 

[Handing  him  a  book.~\ 
Here,  my  lord  ;  read.     You  must  be  found  reading. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Flinging  the  book  into  the  fireplace. ~\ 
She  does  not  come ! 

DICKON 

Fie,  fie,  Jack;  thou  must  not  be  breaking  thy 
Dickon's  apron-strings  with  a  will  of  thine  own. 
Come! 

RAVENSBANE 

Mistress  Rachel. 


THE   SCARECROW  IO5 

DICKON 

Be  good,  boy,  and  thou  shalt  see  her  soon. 

RAVENSBANE 
'  [Brightening.^ 
I  shall  see  her  ? 

[Enter  CAPTAIN  BUGBY.] 

DICKON 
Your  lordship  was  saying  —  Oh  !  Captain  Bugby  ? 

CAPTAIN   BUGBY 
[Nervous  and  awed.~\ 

Captain    Bugby,   sir,  ah !    at   Lord    Ravensbane's 
service  —  ah ! 

DICKON 

I  am  Master  Dickonson,  his  lordship's  tutor. 
CAPTAIN   BUGBY 

Happy,  sir. 

DICKON 

[To  Ravensbane^\ 

My    lord,    this    gentleman    waits   upon    you   from 

Squire  Talbot. 

[To  Captain  Bugby. ~\ 

In    regard   to   the    challenge    of   this    morning,   I 
presume  ? 

CAPTAIN   BUGBY 

The  affair,  ah  !  the  affair  of  this  morning,  sir. 


IO6  THE  SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 

\_With  his  former  superb  air — to  Captain  Bugby.~\ 
The  second,  I  believe  ? 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 
Quite  so,  my  lord. 

RAVENSBANE 

Sir  !  the  local  person  whom  you  represent  has  done 
himself  the  honour  of  submitting  to  me  a  challenge 
to  mortal  combat.  Sir  !  Since  the  remotest  times  of 
my  feudal  ancestors,  in  such  affairs  of  honour,  choice 
of  weapons  has  ever  been  the  prerogative  of  the 
challenged.  Sir!  this  right  of  etiquette  must  be 
observed. 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Indeed,  yes,  my  lord. 

DICKON 
Pray  do  not  interrupt. 

\_To  Ravensbane.~\ 
Your  lordship  :  "  observed." 

RAVENSBANE 

—  observed.  Nevertheless,  believe  me,  I  have  no 
selfish  desire  that  my  superior  attainments  in  this  art 
should  assume  advantage  over  my  challenger's  igno 
rance.  I  have,  therefore,  chosen  those  combative 
utensils  most  appropriate  both  to  his  own  humble 


THE   SCARECROW  1 07 

origin  and  to  local  tradition.    Permit  me,  sir,  to  reveal 

my  choice. 

[Pointing  to  the  table.~\ 

There  are  my  weapons  ! 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 
[Looking,  bewildered.] 
These,  my  lord  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Those. 

CAPTAIN   BUGBY 

But  these  are  —  are  flails. 

RAVENSBANE 

Flails. 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 
Flails,  my  lord  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

There  are  my  weapons. 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Lord  Ravensbane  —  I  —  ah  !  express  myself  ill  — 
Do  I  understand  that  your  lordship  and  Squire 
Talbot  — 

RAVENSBANE 

Exactly. 

CAPTAIN   BUGBY 

But  your  lordship  —  flails  ! 


108  THE   SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 

My  adversary  should  be  deft  in  their  use.     He  has 
doubtless  wielded  them  frequently  on  his  barn  floor. 

CAPTAIN   BUGBY 

Ahaha  !     I  understand  now.     Your  lordship  —  ah  ! 
is  a  wit.     Haha  !     Flails  ! 

DICKON 
His  lordship's  satire  is  poignant. 

CAPTAIN   BUGBY 

Indeed,  sir,  so   keen   that   I   must   apologize   for 
laughing  at  my  principal's  expense. 

\_Soberly  to  Ravens -bane. ,] 

My  lord,  if  you  will  deign  to  speak  one  moment 
seriously  — 

RAVENSBANE 

Seriously  ? 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

I  will  take  pleasure  in  informing  Squire  Talbot 
—  ah  !  as  to  your  real  preference  for  — 

RAVENSBANE 

For  flails,  sir.     I  have,  permit  me,  nothing  further 
to  say.     Flails  are  final. 

*    [Turns  aivay  haughtily. ~\ 
CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Must   I    really   report   to   Squire  Talbot  —  ah !  — 
flails  ? 


THE   SCARECROW  1  09 

DICKON 

Lord  Ravensbane's  will  is  inflexible. 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

And  his  wit,  sir,  incomparable.  I  am  sorry  for  the 
Squire,  but  'twill  be  the  greatest  joke  in  years.  Ah  ! 
will  you  tell  me  —  is  it  — 

[Indicating  Ravens  banJ  's  smoking.~\ 
is  it  the  latest  fashion  ? 

DICKON 
Lord  Ravensbane  is  always  the  latest. 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Obliged  servant,  sir.  Aha  !  Such  a  joke  as  —  O 
lord!  flails! 


DICKON 
\_Returning  to  Ravensbane,  .] 

Bravo,  my  pumpky  dear  !  That  squelches  the  jeal 
ous  betrothed.  Now  nothing  remains  but  for  you  to 
continue  to  dazzle  the  enamoured  Rachel,  and  so  pre 
sent  yourself  to  the  Justice  as  a  pseudo-son-nephew-in- 

law. 

RAVENSBANE 

I  may  go  to  Mistress  Rachel  ? 

DICKON 

She  will  come  to  you.  She  is  reading  now  a  poem 
from  you,  which  I  left  on  her  dressing-table. 


1 10  THE  SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 

She  is  reading  a  poem  from  me  ? 

DICKON 

With  your  pardon,  my  lord,  I  penned  it  for  you. 
I  am  something  of  a  poetaster.  Indeed,  I  flatter  my 
self  that  I  have  dictated  some  of  the  finest  lines  in 
literature. 

RAVENSBANE 

Dickon  !     She  will  come  ? 

DICKON 

She  comes ! 

\_Enter  RACHEL,  reading  from  a  piece  of  paper. ~\ 

Hush  !     Step  aside  ;  step  aside  first.     Let  her  read 

it. 

\_Dickon  draws  Ravensbane  back^\ 

RACHEL 
Once  more, 

[Reads.] 

"To  Mistress  R ,  enchantress: 

If  faith  in  witchcraft  be  a  sin, 

Alas  !  what  peril  he  is  in 

Who  plights  his  faith  and  love  in  thee, 

Sweetest  maid  of  sorcery. 

If  witchcraft  be  a  whirling  brain, 

A  roving  eye,  a  heart  of  pain, 

Whose  wound  no  thread  of  fate  can  stitch, 

How  hast  thou  conjured,  cruel  witch, 


THE   SCARECROW  III 

With  the  brain,  eye,  heart,  and  total  mortal  residue 
of  thine  enamoured 

JACK  LANTHORNE, 

[LORD  R ."] 

DICKON 

Now  to  leave  the  turtles  alone. 
[Exit.] 


RACHEL 

"To  Mistress  R ,  enchantress: 

If  faith  in  witchcraft  be  —  " 

"To  Mistress  R ."     R!     It  must  be.     R- 

must  mean  — 

RAVENSBANE 
[  With  passionate  deference. ~\ 


Rachel ! 

RACHEL 

Ah  !     How  you  surprised  me,  my  lord. 

RAVENSBANE 

You  are  come  again ;  you  are  come  again. 

RACHEL 

Has  anything  happened  ?     Tell  me,  my  lord.     Has 
Squire  Talbot  been  here? 

RAVENSBANE 

No,  Mistress  Rachel  ;  not  here. 


1 1 2  THE   SCARE  CK  O  W 

RACHEL 

And  you  have  not  —  Oh,  my  lord,  I  have  been  in 
such  terror.  But  you  are  safe.  —  You  have  not 
fought  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

No,  Mistress  Rachel ;  not  fought. 

RACHEL 

Thank  God  for  that !  But  you  will  promise  me  — 
promise  me  that  there  shall  be  —  no  —  duel ! 

RAVENSBANE 

I  promise  Mistress  Rachel  there  shall  be  no  duel. 

RACHEL 

Your  lordship  is  so  good.  You  do  not  know  how 
gratefully  happy  I  am. 

RAVENSBANE 

I  know  I  am  only  a  thing  to  make  Mistress 
Rachel  happy.  Ah  !  look  at  me  once  more.  When 
you  look  at  me,  I  live. 

RACHEL 

It  is  strange  indeed,  my  lord,  how  the  familiar 
world,  the  daylight,  the  heavens  themselves  have 
changed  since  your  arrival. 

RAVENSBANE 

This  is  the  world ;  this  is  the  light ;  this  is  the 
heavens  themselves.  Mistress  Rachel  is  looking  at 
me. 


THE   SCARECROW  113 

RACHEL 

For  me,  it  is  less  strange  perhaps.  I  never  saw  a 
real  lord  before.  But  you,  my  lord,  must  have  seen 
so  many,  many  girls  in  the  great  world. 

RAVENSBANE 

No,  no ;  never. 

RACHEL 

No  other  girls  before  to-day,  my  lord ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Before  to-day  ?  I  do  not  know  ;  I  do  not  care.  I 
was  not  here.  To-day  I  was  born  —  in  your  eyes. 
Ah  !  my  brain  whirls  ! 

RACHEL 
[Smiling.'] 

"  If  witchcraft  be  a  whirling  brain, 
A  roving  eye,  a  heart  of  pain,  —  " 

\_In  a  whisper. ,] 
My  lord,  do  you  really  believe  in  witchcraft  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

With  all  my  heart. 

RACHEL 

And  approve  of  it  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

With  all  my  soul. 

RACHEL 

So  do  I  —  that  is,  innocent  witchcraft ;  not  to 
harm  anybody,  you  know,  but  just  to  feel  all  the 


114  THE   SCARECROW" 

dark  mystery  and  the  trembling  excitement  —  the 
way  you  feel  when  you  blow  out  your  candle  all 
alone  in  your  bedroom  and  watch  the  little  smoke 
fade  away  in  the  moonshine. 

RAVENSBANE 

Fade  away  in  the  moonshine ! 

RACHEL 

Oh,  but  we  mustn't  speak  of  it.  In  a  town  like 
this,  all  such  mysticism  is  considered  damnable. 
But  your  lordship  understands  and  approves  ?  I  am 
so  glad  !  Have  you  read  the  "  Philosophical  Con 
siderations  "  of  Glanville,  the  "  Saducisinus  Trium- 
phatus"  and  the  "  Presignifications  of  Dreams"? 
What  kind  of  witchcraft,  my  lord,  do  you  believe  in  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

In  all  yours. 

RACHEL 

Nay,  your  lordship  must  not  take  me  for  a  real 
witch.  I  can  only  tell  fortunes,  you  know  —  like 

this  morning. 

RAVENSBANE 

I  know  ;  you  told  how  my  heart  would  break. 

RACHEL 

Oh,  that's  palmistry,  and  that  isn't  always  certain. 
But  the  surest  way  to  prophesy  —  do  you  know 

what  it  is  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Tell  me. 


THE   SCARECROW  1 15 

RACHEL 

To  count  the  crows.     Do  you  know  how  ? 
One  for  sorrow  — 

RAVENSBANE 

Ha,  yes  !  —  Two  for  mirth  ! 

RACHEL 
Three  for  a  wedding  — 

RAVENSBANE 
Four  for  a  birth  — 

RACHEL 

And  five  for  the  happiest  thing  on  earth ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Mistress  Rachel,  come  !  Let  us  go  and  count  five 
crows. 

RACHEL 

[Delightedly^ 

Why,  my  lord,  how  did  you  ever  learn  it  ?  I  got  it 
from  an  old  goody  here  in  town  —  a  real  witch-wife. 
If  you  will  promise  not  to  tell  a  secret,  I  will  show 
you.  —  But  you  must  promise  ! 

RAVENSBANE 

I  promise. 

RACHEL 

Come,  then.  I  will  show  you  a  real  piece  of  witch 
craft  that  I  bought  from  her  this  morning  —  the 
glass  of  truth.  There !  Behind  that  curtain.  If 


Il6  THE   SCARECROW 

you  look  in,  you  will  see —     But  come;  I  will  show 
you. 

[They  put  their  hands  on  the  cords  of  the  curtain, .] 
Just  pull  that  string,  and  —  ah  ! 

DICKON 

[Stepping  out  through  the  curtain. ~\ 
Your  pipe,  my  lord  ? 

RACHEL 
Master  Dickonson,  how  you  frightened  me ! 

DICKON 

So  excessively  sorry  !  I  was  observing  the  por 
trait  of  your  uncle.  I  believe  you  were  showing  his 
lordship  — 

RACHEL 

[Turning  hurriedly  away.~\ 
Oh,  nothing  ;  nothing  at  all. 

RAVENSBANE 
{Sternly  to  Dickon.'} 
Why  do  you  come  ? 

DICKON 
[Handing  back  Ravensbane's  pipe  fitted.] 

Allow  me. 

[Aside.'] 

Tis  high  time  you  came  to  the  point,  Jack ;  'tis 


THE   SCARECROW  1 1/ 

near  your  lordship's  reception.     Woo  and  win,  boy ; 
woo  and  win. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Haughtily.] 
Leave  me. 

DICKON 
Your  lordship's  humble,  very  humble. 

\_Exit.~] 

RACHEL 

{Shivering.] 

Oh  !  he  is  gone.  My  dear  lord,  why  do  you  keep 
this  man  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

I  —  keep  this  man  ? 

RACHEL 

I  cannot  —  pardon  my  rudeness  —  I  cannot  en 
dure  him. 

RAVENSBANE 

You  do  not  like  him  ?  Ah,  then,  I  do  not  like  him 
also.  We  will  send  him  away  —  you  and  I. 

RACHEL 

You,  my  lord,  of  course ;  but  I  — 

RAVENSBANE 

You  will  be  Dickon  !  You  will  be  with  me  always 
and  light  my  pipe.  And  I  will  live  for  you,  and 
fight  for  you,  and  kill  your  betrothed ! 


Il8  THE   SCARECROW 

RACHEL 

[Drawing  away.~\ 
No,  no ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Ah  !  but  your  eyes  say  "  yes.  Mistress  Rachel 
leaves  me;  but  Rachel  in  her  eyes  remains.  Is  it 

not  so  ? 

RACHEL 

What  can  I  say,  my  lord !  It  is  true  that  since 
my  eyes  met  yours,  a  new  passion  has  entered  into 
my  soul.  I  have  felt  —  your  lordship  will  laugh  at 
me  —  I  have  felt  an  inexpressible  longing  —  but  'tis 
so  impertinent,  my  lord,  so  absurd  in  me,  a  mere  girl, 
and  you  a  nobleman  of  power  —  yet  I  have  felt  it 
irresistibly,  my  dear  lord,  —  a  longing  to  help  you. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  you  —  so  sorry  for  you  !  I  pity 
you  deeply.  —  Forgive  me ;  forgive  me,  my  lord  ! 

RAVENSBANE 
It  is  enough. 

RACHEL 

Indeed,  indeed,  'tis  so  rude  of  me,  —  'tis  so  un 
reasonable. 

RAVENSBANE 

It  is  enough.  I  grow  —  I  grow  —  I  grow  !  I  am 
a  plant ;  you  give  it  rain  and  sun.  I  am  a  flower ;  you 
give  it  light  and  dew ;  I  am  a  soul,  you  give  it  love 
and  speech.  I  grow.  Towards  you  —  towards  you 
I  grow ! 

RACHEL 

My  lord,  I  do  not  understand  it,  how  so  poor  and 


THE   SCARECROW  I IQ 

mere  a  girl  as  I  can  have  helped  you.     Yet  I  do  be 
lieve  it  is  so  ;  for  I  feel  it  so.    What  can  I  do  for  you  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Do  not  leave  me.     Be  mine.     Let  me  be  yours. 

RACHEL 

Ah  !  but,  my  lord  —  do  I  love  you  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

•  What  is  "  I  love  you  "  ?  Is  it  a  kiss,  a  sigh,  an 
embrace  ?  Ah  !  then,  you  do  not  love  me.  —  "  I  love 
you  ":  is  it  to  nourish,  to  nestle,  to  lift  up,  to  smile 
upon,  to  make  greater  —  a  worm  ?  Ah  !  then,  you 
love  me. 

[Enter  RICHARD  at  left  back,  unobserved."] 

RACHEL 

Do  not  speak  so  of  yourself,  my  lord ;  nor  exalt  me 
so  falsely. 

RAVENSBANE 

Be  mine. 

RACHEL 

A  great  glory  has  descended  upon  this  day. 

RAVENSBANE 

Be  mine. 

RACHEL 

Could  I  but  be  sure  that  this  glory  is  love  —  Oh, 

then  ! 

[Turns  toward  Ravensbane^\ 


I2O  THE   SCARECROW 

RICHARD 

\_Stepping  between  them^\ 
It  is  not  love ;  it  is  witchcraft. 

RACHEL 
Who  are  you  ?  —  Richard  ? 

RICHARD 

You  have  indeed  forgotten  me  ?  Would  to  God, 
Rachel,  I  could  forget  you. 

RAVENSBANE 

Sir,  permit  me  — 

RICHARD 

Silence ! 

[To  Rachel^ 

Against  my  will,  I  am  a  convert  to  your  own  mys 
ticism  ;  for  nothing  less  than  damnable  illusion  could 
so  instantly  wean  your  heart  from  me  to  —  this.  I 
do  not  pretend  to  understand  it ;  but  that  it  is  witch 
craft  I  am  convinced ;  and  I  will  save  you  from  it. 

RACHEL 

Go ;  please  go. 

RAVENSBANE 

Permit  me,  sir ;  you  have  not  replied  yet  to  flails ! 

RICHARD 
Permit  me,  sir. 

[Taking  something  from  his  coat.~\ 
My  answer  is  —  bare  cob  ! 

[Holding  out  a  shelled  corn- cob. ~\ 


THE   SCARECROW  121 

Thresh  this,  sir,  for  your  antagonist.     'Tis  the  only 
one  worthy  your  lordship.    . 

[Tosses  it  contemptuously  towards  him.~\ 

RAVENSBANE 
Upon  my  honour,  as  a  man  — 

RICHARD 

As  a  man  forsooth!  Were  you  indeed  a  man, 
Lord  Ravensbane,  I  would  have  accepted  your 
weapons,  and  flailed  you  out  of  New  England.  But 
it  is  not  my  custom  to  chastise  runagates  from 
asylums,  or  to  banter  further  words  with  a  natural 

and  a  ninny. 

RACHEL 

Squire  Talbot !     Will  you  leave  my  uncle's  house  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

One  moment,  mistress  :  —  I  did  not  wholly  catch  the 
import  of  this  gentleman's  speech,  but  I  fancy  I  have 
insulted  him  by  my  reply  to  his  challenge.  One  in 
sult  may  perhaps  be  remedied  by  another.  Sir,  per 
mit  me  to  call  you  a  ninny,  and  to  offer  you  — 

\_Drawing  his  sword  and  offering  it.~\ 
swords. 

RICHARD 

Thanks  ;  I  reject  the  offer. 

RAVENSBANE 

\_Turning  away  despondently^ 
He  rejects  it.     Well! 


122  THE  SCARECROW 

RACHEL 
[To  Richard.] 
And  now  will  you  leave  ? 

RICHARD 

At  once.  But  one  word  more.  Rachel  —  Rachel, 
have  you  forgotten  this  morning  and  the  glass  of 
truth  ? 

RACHEL 

[Coldly.'] 

No. 

RICHARD 

Call  it  a  fancy  now  if  you  will.  I  scoffed  at  it ; 
yes.  Yet  you  believed  it.  I  loved  you  truly,  you 
said.  Well,  have  I  changed  ? 

RACHEL 

Yes. 

RICHARD 

Will  you  test  me  again  —  in  the  glass  ? 
RACHEL 

No.     Go ;  leave  us. 

RICHARD 

I  will  go.     I  have  still  a  word  with  your  aunt. 

RAVENSBANE 
[To  Richard] 

I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  You  said  just  now  that 
had  I  been  a  man  — 


THE   SCARECROW  12$ 

RICHARD 

I  say,  Lord  Ravensbane,  that  the  straight  fibre  of 
a  true  man  never  warps  the  love  of  a  woman.  As 
for  yourself,  you  have  my  contempt  and  pity.  Pray 
to  God,  sir,  pray  to  God  to  make  you  a  man. 

[Exit,  right.] 

RACHEL 
Oh  !  it  is  intolerable  ! 

[To  Ravensbane. ~\ 

My  dear  lord,  I  do  believe  in  my  heart  that  I  love 
you,  and  if  so,  I  will  with  gratitude  be  your  wife. 
But,  my  lord,  strange  glamours,  strange  darknesses 
reel,  and  bewilder  my  mind.  I  must  be  alone;  I 
must  think  and  decide.  Will  you  give  me  this 
tassel ? 

RAVENSBANE 

[Unfastening  a  silk  tassel  from  his  coat  and  giving  it  to  her.} 
Oh,  take  it. 

RACHEL 

If  I  decide  that  I  love  you,  that  I  will  be  your  wife 
—  I   will   wear   it   this    afternoon  at   the   reception. 

Good-by . 

[Exit,  right.} 

RAVENSBANE 

Mistress  Rachel !  — 

[So/us.} 


.  124  THE   SCARECROW 

God,  are  you  here  ?  Dear  God,  I  pray  to  you  — 
make  me  to  be  a  man  ! 

[Exit,  /«?//.] 

DICKON 
[Appearing  in  the  centre  of  the  room?[ 

Poor  Jacky!  Thou  shouldst  'a'  prayed  to  t'other 
one. 

[He    disappears.      Enter,    right,   RICHARD   and    MISTRESS 
MERTON.] 

MISTRESS   MERTON 
[Pointing  to  the  wall.~\ 
That  is  the  portrait. 

RICHARD 
Indeed  !     The  design  is  very  like. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

'Tis  more  than  like,  Richard ;  'tis  the  very  same. 
Two  and  twenty  years  ago  she  embroidered  it  for 
him,  and  he  would  insist  on  wearing  it  for  the  por 
trait  he  was  then  sitting  for. 

RICHARD 

That  same  Goody  Rickby  ! 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

A  pretty  girl !  —  and  a  wild  young  man  was  my 
brother.  The  truth  comes  hard  to  tell  thee,  Richard ; 


THE   SCARECROW  12$ 

But  he  was  wild,  Gilead  was  wild.  He  told  me  the 
babe  had  died.  But  God  worketh  His  own  righteous 
ness.  Only  —  he  must  be  saved  now ;  Rachel  must 
be  saved ;  we  must  all  be  saved. 

RICHARD 

You  feel  sure  —  very  sure,  Mistress  Merton  ? 
MISTRESS   MERTON 

Yea,  that  waistcoat;  'tis  the  very  one,  I  know  it 
too  well.  And  you  see  it  accounts  for  all,  —  this 
silly  impostor  lord ;  my  brother's  strange  patronage 
of  him ;  the  blackmail  of  this  Master  Dickonson  — 

RICHARD 

But  who  is  he  ? 

MISTRESS  MERTON 

Nay,  heaven  knows !  Some  old  crony  perchance 
of  Gilead's  youth ;  some  confederate  of  this  woman 

Rickby. 

.    RICHARD 

O  God !  —  And  Rachel  sacrificed  to  these  im 
postors  ;  to  an  illegitimate  —  your  brother  would 

allow  it ! 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Ah !  but  think  of  his  own  reputation,  Richard. 
He  a  justice  —  the  family  honour! 

RICHARD 

'Tis  enough.  Well,  and  I  must  see  this  Goody 
Rickby,  you  think? 


126  THE   SCARECROW 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

At  once  —  at  once.     My  brother  has  invited  guests 
for  this  afternoon  to  meet  "  his  lordship  "  !     Return, 
if   possible,  before   they  come.     She   dwells   at  the 
blacksmith  shop  — you  must  buy  her  off.     Oh,  gold 
will  buy  her ;  'tis  the  gold  they're  after  —  all  of  them ; 
have  her  recall  both  these  persons. 
[  Giving  a  purse. .] 
Take  her  that,  Richard,  and  promise  her  more. 

RICHARD 
[Proudly.] 

Keep  it,  Mistress  Merton.     I  have  enough  gold,  me- 
thinks,  for  my  future  wife's  honour ;  or  if  not,  I  will 

earn  it. 

[2&fc] 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Richard !     Ah,  the  dear  lad,  he  should  have  taken 

it. 

[Enter  MICAH.] 

MICAH 

The  minister  and   his  wife  have  turned   into  the 

gate,  madam. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

The  guests  !     Is  it  so  late  ? 

MICAH 

Four  o'clock,  madam. 

[Going  to  the  table.] 
Shall  I  remove  these  ? 


THE   SCARECROW  127 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Flails !  Flails  in  the  parlour  ?  Of  course,  remove 
them. 

MICAH 

[At  the  door.} 

Madam,  in  all  my  past  years  of  service  at  Merton 
House,  I  never  waited  upon  a  lord  till  to-day. 
Madam,  in  all  my  future  years  of  service  at  Merton 
House,  I  trust  I  may  never  wait  upon  a  lord  again. 

MISTRESS   MERTON 
Micah,  mind  the  knocker. 

MICAH 

Yes,  madam. 

[Exit  at  left  back.     Sounds  of  a  brass  knocker  outside^ 

MISTRESS  MERTON 
Rachel !     Rachel ! 
[Exit,  right.     Enter,  left,  JUSTICE  MERTON  and  DICKON.] 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

So  you  are  contented  with  nothing  less  than  the 
sacrifice  of  my  niece  ? 

DICKON 
Such  a  delightful  room  ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Are  you  merciless  ? 


128  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 

And  such  a  living  portrait  of  your  worship !  The 
waistcoat  is  so  beautifully  executed. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

If  I  pay  him  ten  thousand  pounds  — 
[Enter  MICAH.] 

MICAH 

Minister  Dodge,  your  worship ;  and  Mistress 
Dodge. 

[Exit.     Enter  the  MINISTER  and  his  WIFE.] 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Stepping  forward  to  receive  them] 

Believe  me,  this  is  a  great  privilege.  —  Madam  ! 

[Bowing.] 

MINISTER  DODGE 
[Taking  his  hand] 

The  privilege  is  ours,  Justice ;  to  enter  a  righteous 
man's  house  is  to  stand,  as  it  were,  on  God's  threshold. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[Nervously] 

Amen,  amen.  Permit  me  —  ah !  Lord  Ravens- 
bane,  my  young  guest  of  honour,  will  be  here  directly 
—  permit  me  to  present  his  lordship's  tutor,  Master 


THE   SCARECROW  I2Q 

Dickonson ;  The  Reverend  Master  Dodge,  Mistress 
Dodge. 

MINISTER   DODGE 
\_Offering  his  hand] 
Master  Dickonson,  sir  — 

DICKON 

[Barely  touching  the  minister's  fingers,  bows  charmingly  to 
his  wife.~\ 

Madam,  of  all  professions  in  the  world,  your  hus 
band's  most  allures  me. 

MISTRESS  DODGE 

'Tis  a  worthy  one,  sir. 

DICKON 

Ah !  Mistress  Dodge,  and  so  arduous  —  especially 
for  a  minister's  wife. 

\He  leads  her  to  a  chair.~\ 

MISTRESS   DODGE 

[Accepting  the  chair.] 
Thank  you. 

MINISTER   DODGE 
Lord  Ravensbane  comes  from  abroad  ? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
From  London. 

MINISTER   DODGE 

An  old  friend  of  yours,  I  understand. 

K 


130  THE  SCARECROW 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

From  London,  yes.  Did  I  say  from  London? 
Quite  so ;  from  London. 

[Enter  MICAH.] 
MICAH 

Captain  Bugby,  the  Governor's  secretary. 

[Exit.  Enter  CAPTAIN  BUGBY.  He  walks  with  a  slight 
lameness^  and  holds  daintily  in  his  hand  a  pipe,  from 
which  he  puffs  with  dandy  deliberation^ 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Justice  Merton,  your  very  humble  servant. 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Believe  me,  Captain  Bugby. 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 
[Profusely.} 

Ah,  Master  Dickonson !  my  dear  friend  Master 
Dickonson  —  this  is  indeed  —  ah!  How  is  his  lord 
ship  since  —  aha !  but  discretion  !  Mistress  Dodge 
—  her  servant !  Ah  !  yes, 

[Indicating  his  pipe  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction?^ 

the  latest,  I  assure  you;  the  very  latest  from  London. 
Ask  Master  Dickonson. 

MINISTER  DODGE 
[Looking  at  Captain  Bugby^\ 
These  will  hatch  out  in  the  springtime. 


THE   SCARECROW  131 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

{Confidentially  to  Dickon .] 

But  really,  my  good  friend,  may  not  I  venture  to 
inquire  how  his  lordship  —  ah !  has  been  in  health 
since  the  —  ah  !  since  — 

DICKON 
{Impressively^ 
Oh  !  quite,  quite  ! 

[Enter  MISTRESS  MERTON;    she  joins  Justice   Merton  and 
Minister  Dodge^\ 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

You  know,  I  informed  Squire  Talbot  of  his  lord 
ship's  epigrammatic  retort  —  his  retort  of  —  shh  !  ha 
haha !  Oh,  that  reply  was  a  stiletto ;  'twas  sharper 
than  a  sword-thrust,  I  assure  you.  To  have  con 
ceived  it  —  'twas  inspiration ;  but  to  have  expressed 
it  — oh!  'twas  genius.  Hush!  "Flails!"  Oh! 
It  sticks  me  now  in  the  ribs.  I  shall  die  with  con 
cealing  it. 

MINISTER  DODGE 
\To  Mistress  Merton.~\ 

'Tis  true,  mistress;  but  if  there  were  more  like 
your  brother  in  the  parish,  the  conscience  of  the 
community  would  be  clearer. 

[Enter  MICAH.] 


132  THE   SCARECROW 

MICAH 

The  Reverend  Master  Rand  of  Harvard  College ; 
the  Reverend  Master  Todd  of  Harvard  College. 

\_Exit.     Enter  two  elderly,  straight-backed  divines.~\ 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
[Greeting  them.'] 

Permit  me,  gentlemen ;  this  is  fortunate  —  before 
your  return  to  Cambridge. 

\JHe  conducts  them  to  Mistress  Merton  and  Minister  Dodge, 
centre.  Seated  left,  Dickon  is  ingratiating  himself 
with  Mistress  Dodge;  Captain  Bugby,  laughed  at  by 
both  parties,  is  received  by  neither.  ~\ 

CAPTAIN   BUGBY 
\_Puffing  smoke  toward  the  ceiling.~\ 

Really,  I  cannot  understand  what  keeps  his  Ex 
cellency,  the  Lieutenant  Governor,  so  long.  He  has 
two  such  charming  daughters,  Master  Dickonson  — 

DICKON 
\_To  Mistress  Dodge.~] 

Yes,  yes  ;  such  suspicious  women  with  their  charms 
are  an  insult  to  the  virtuous  ladies  of  the  parish. 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

How,  sir  ! 

MISTRESS   DODGE 

And  to  think  that  she  should  actually  shoe  horses 
herself ! 


THE  SCARECROW  133 

DICKON 

It  is  too  hard,  dear  Mistress  Dodge ;  too  hard ! 

MISTRESS   DODGE 

You  are  so  appreciative,  Master  Dickonson. 

CAPTAIN   BUGBY 

[Piqued,  walks  another  way.~\ 
Well! 

REV.    MASTER   RAND 
\_To  Justice  Merton.~\ 

It  would  not  be  countenanced  in  the  college  yard, 
sir. 

REV.    MASTER  TODD 

A  pipe  !     Nay,  mores  inhibitae  ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Tis  most   unfortunate,  gentlemen ;    but   I  under 
stand  'tis  the  new  vogue  in  London. 

\_Enter  MICAH.] 

MICAH 

His    Excellency,    Sir    Charles    Reddington,    Lieu 
tenant  Governor ;  the  Mistress  Reddingtons. 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

At  last! 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

{Aside  ^ 
Micah. 

{Micah  goes  to  her.     Enter  SIR   CHARLES,  MISTRESS  RED 
DINGTON,  and  AMELIA  REDDINGTON.] 


134  THE   SCARECROW 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Your  Excellency,  this  is  indeed  a  distinguished 
honour. 

SIR   CHARLES 
[Shaking  hands.~\ 
Fine  weather,  Merton.     Where's  your  young  lord  ? 

THE  TWO   GIRLS 

[  Courtesying.~\ 
Justice  Merton,  Mistress  Merton. 

MICAH 

\To  Mistress  Merton,  as  he  is  going  out,  right.~\ 
I  will  speak  to  them,  madam. 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Oh,  my  dear  Mistress  Reddington !  Charming 
Mistress  Amelia  !  You  are  so  very  late,  but  you 
shall  hear  —  hush  ! 

MISTRESS   REDDINGTON 

[Noticing  his  pipe .] 

„• 
Why,  what  is  this,  Captain  ? 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Oh,  the  latest,  I  assure  you,  the  very  latest.  Wait 
till  you  see  his  lordship. 


THE   SCARECROW  135 

AMELIA 

What !  isn't  he  here  ?  • 

[Laughing.] 
La,  Captain  !     Do  look  at  the  man ! 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Oh,  he's  coming  directly.  Quite  the  mode  — 
what  ?  Ah  !  but,  ladies,  you  shall  hear. 

[He  talks  to  them  aside,  where  they  titter.~\ 

SIR  CHARLES 
[To  Dickon^ 
What  say  ?     Travelling  for  his  health  ? 

DICKON 

Partially,  your  Excellency ;  but  my  young  pupil  and 
master  is  a  singularly  affectionate  nature. 

THE  TWO  GIRLS 
[To  Captain  Bugby.~\ 
What!  flails  — really! 

[They  btirst  into  laughter  among  themselves^ 

i  DICKON 

He  has  journeyed  here  to  Massachusetts  peculiarly 
to  pay  this  visit  to  Justice  Merton  —  his  father's 
dearest  friend. 

SIR   CHARLES 

Ah  !  knew  him  abroad,  eh  ? 


136  THE  SCARECROW 

DICKON 

In  Rome,  your  Excellency. 

MISTRESS  DODGE 
\_To  Justice  Merton.~\ 
Why,  I  thought  it  was  in  London. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

London,  true,  quite  so ;  we  made  a  trip  together  to 
Lisbon  —  ah  !  Rome. 

DICKON 

Paris,  was  it  not,  sir  ? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
\_In  great  distress. ~\ 

Paris,  Paris,  very  true  ;  I  am  —  I  am  —  sometimes 
I  am  — 

\_Enfer  MICAH,  right.] 

MICAH 

\_Announces. ~\ 
Lord  Ravensbane. 

\_Enter  right,  RAVENSBANE  with  RACHEL.] 

JUSTICE   MERT6N 
[  With  a  gasp  of  re 'lief.  ~\ 
Ah  !  his  lordship  is  arrived. 

[Murmurs  of  "  his  lordship  "  and  a  flutter  among  the  girls 
and  Captain 


THE   SCARECROW  137 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Look  !  —  Now ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
Welcome,  my  lord ! 

{To  Sir  Charles.'} 
Permit  me,  your  Excellency,  to  introduce  — 

RAVENSBANE 

Permit  me ;  Mistress  Rachel  will  introduce  — 

RACHEL 
\_Courte sying.~\ 

Sir  Charles,  allow  me  to  present  my  friend,  Lord 

Ravensbane. 

MISTRESS   REDDINGTON 

[Aside  to  Amelia.'} 
Her  friend — did  you  hear? 

SIR    CHARLES 

Mistress  Rachel,  I  see  you  are  as  pretty  as  ever. 
Lord  Ravensbane,  your  hand,  sir. 

RAVENSBANE 

Trust   me,    your    Excellency,    I    will    inform    his 
Majesty  of  your  courtesy. 

.  .  '  «•  CAPTAIN   BUGBY 

[  Watching  Ravensbane  with  chagrin.] 
On  my  life  !  he's  lost  his  limp. 


138  THE   SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 

[Apart  to  Rachel^ 
"  A  great  glory  has  descended  upon  this  day." 

RACHEL 

[Shyly.-] 
My  lord ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Be  sure  —  O  mistress,  be  sure  —  that  this  glory  is 
love. 

SIR  CHARLES 

[  Watching  the  two,  whispers  a  loud  aside  to  Justice  Merton.~\ 
Hoho  !  is  it  congratulations  for  your  niece  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Not  —  not  precisely. 

DICKON 

[Aside  to  Justice  Merton.~\ 
Why  so,  Gilly  ? 

SIR   CHARLES 

My  daughters,  Fanny  and  Amelia  —  Lord  Ravens- 
bane. 

THE  TWO    GIRLS 

\_Courtesying.~] 
Your  lordship ! 

SIR  CHARLES 

Good  girls,  but  silly. 

THE  TWO   GIRLS 

Papa ! 


THE   SCARECROW  139 

RAVENSBANE 

Believe  me,  ladies,  with  the  true  sincerity  of  the 

heart. 

MISTRESS  REDDINGTON 

Isn't  he  perfection  ! 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 
What  said  I  ? 

AMELIA 
[Giggling.] 
I  can't  help  thinking  of  flails. 

MISTRESS   REDDINGTON 

Poor  Squire  Talbot!    We  must   be   nice   to    him 
now. 

AMELIA 

Oh,  especially  now  ! 

RAVENSBANE 

[Whom  Rachel  continues   to   introduce   to   the  guests;    to 
Master 


Verily,  sir,  as  that  prince  of  poets,  the  immortal 
Virgil,  has  remarked  : 

"  Adeo  in  teneris  consuescere  multum  est." 

DICKON 
Just  a  word,  your  worship. 


JUSTICE  MERTON 
[  Going  with  him.] 


Intolerable ! 


140  THE   SCARECROW 

REV.    MASTER  TODD 

His  lordship  is  evidently  a  university  man. 

REV.    MASTER   RAND 

Evidently  most  accomplished. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
\_Aside  to  Dickon .] 

A  song  !  Why,  it  is  beyond  all  bounds  of  custom 
and  decorum. 

DICKON 

Believe  me,  there  is  no  such  flatterer  to  win  the 
maiden  heart  as  music. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

And  here ;  in  this  presence  !    Never ! 

DICKON 

Nevertheless,  it  will  amuse  me  vastly,  and  you  will 
announce  it. 

RAVENSBANE 
\To  Minister  Dodge.} 

My  opinion  is  simple  :  In  such  matters  of  church 
government,  I  am  inclined  toward  the  leniency  of 
that  excellent  master,  the  Rev.  John  Wise,  rather  than 
the  righteous  obduracy  of  the  Rev.  Cotton  Mather. 


THE   SCARECROW  141 

MINISTER  DODGE 
Why,  there,  sir,  I  agree  with  you. 

[Aside  to  his  wife.~] 
How  extremely  well  informed ! 

MISTRESS  DODGE 
And  so  young,  too ! 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
[  With  hesitant  embarrassment,  which  he  seeks  to  conceal.'] 

Your  Excellency  and  friends,  I  have  great  pleasure 
in  announcing  his  lordship's  condescension  in  con 
senting  to  regale  our  present  company — with  a  song. 

SEVERAL  VOICES 
\_In  various  degrees  of  amazement  and  curiosity.'] 

A  song ! 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

Gilead !     What  is  this  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

The  selection  is  a  German  ballad  —  a  particular 
favourite  at  the  court  of  Prussia,  where  his  lordship  last 
rendered  it.  His  tutor  has  made  a  translation  which 
is  entitled:  "The  Prognostication  of  the  Crows,"  and 
I  am  requested  to  remind  you  that  in  the  ancient 
heathen  mythology  of  Germany,  the  crow  or  raven, 
was  the  fateful  bird  of  the  God  Woden. 


142  THE   SCARECROW 

CAPTAIN   BUGBY 
'  How  prodigiously  novel  ! 

MINISTER  DODGE 


Unparalleled  ! 

SIR   CHARLES 

A  ballad  !  Come  now,  that  sounds  like  old  Eng 
land  again.  Let's  have  it.  Will  his  lordship  sing 
without  music  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Master  Dickonson,  hem  !  has  been  —  persuaded  — 
to  accompany  his  lordship  on  the  virginals. 

AMELIA 

How  delightful! 

REV.   MASTER   RAND 

\_Aside  to  Todd.~] 
Shall  we  remain  ? 

REV.    MASTER  TODD 

We  must. 

RAVENSBANE      - 
\To  Rachel^ 
My  tassel,  dear  mistress  ;  you  do  not  wear  it  ? 

RACHEL 

My  heart  still  wavers,  my  lord.  But  whilst  you 
sing,  I  will  decide. 


THE   SCARECROW  143 

RAVENSBANE 

Whilst  I  sing  ?     My  fate,  then,  is  waiting  at  the 
end  of  a  song  ? 

RACHEL 

At  the  end  of  a  song. 

DICKON 

[Touches  Ravensbane's  arm.~\ 
Your  lordship. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Starting,  turns  to  the  company^ 
Permit  me. 

[Dickon  sits,  facing  left,  at  the  virginals.  At  first,  his  fingers 
in  playing  give  sound  only  to  the  soft  tinkling  notes  of 
that  ancient  instrument ;  but  gradually,  strange  notes 
and  harmonies  of  an  aerial  orchestra  mingle  with,  and 
at  length  drown,  the  virginals.  The  final  chorus  is 
produced  solely  by  fantastic  symphonic  cawings,  as  of 
countless  crows,  in  harsh  but  musical  accord.  During 
the  song  Richard  enters.  Dickon's  music,  however,  does 
not  cease  but  fills  the  intervals  betiveen  the  verses.  To 
his  accompaniment,  amid  the  whispered  and  gradually 
increasing  wonder,  resentment,  and  dismay  of  the  assem 
bled  guests,  Ravensbane,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Rachel^ 
sings. ~\ 

Baron  von  Rabenstod  arose  ; 

(The  golden  sun  was  rising) 
Before  him  flew  a  flock  of  crows  : 

Sing  heigh  !    Sing  heigh  !  Sing  heigh  !   Sing  — 


144  THE   SCARECROW 

"  111  speed,  ill  speed  thee,  baron-wight , 

111  speed  thy  palfrey  pawing  ! 
Blithe  is  the  morn  but  black  the  night 

That  hears  a  raven's  cawing." 

[  Chorus '.] 
Caw  !     Caw  !     Caw  ! 

MISTRESS  DODGE 
[  Whispers  to  her  husband.~\ 
Did  you  hear  them  ? 

MINISTER  DODGE 

Hush! 

AMELIA 

\_Sotto  voce.~\ 
What  can  it  be  ? 

CAPTAIN  BUGBY 

Oh,  the  latest,  be  sure. 

DICKON 

You  note,  my  friends,  the  accompanying  harmonics  ; 
they  are  an  intrinsic  part  of  the  ballad,  and  may  not 
be  omitted. 

RAVESNBANE 

[Sings.'] 

The  baron  recked  not  a  pin; 

(For  the  golden  sun  was  rising) 
He  rode  to  woo,  he  rode  to  win ; 

Sing  heigh  !    Sing  heigh  !    Sing  heigh  !    Sing  — 


THE   SCARECROW  145 

He  rode  into  his  prince's  hall 

Through  knights  and  damsels  flow'ry  : 

"  Thy  daughter,  prince,  I  bid  thee  call ; 
I  claim  her  hand  and  dowry." 

\_Enter  Richard.   Mistress  Merton  seizes  his  arm  nervously."] 
MISTRESS   MERTON 

[AsMe.] 

Well  ? 

RICHARD 

Gold  will  not  buy  her.     She  defies  us. 

SIR   CHARLES 
\To  Captain  Bugby.} 
This  gentleman's  playing  is  rather  ventriloquistical. 

CAPTAIN.  BUGBY 

Quite,  as  it  were. 

REV.    MASTER  TODD 
This  smells  unholy. 

REV.    MASTER   RAND 

[To  Todd] 
Shall  we  leave? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

\Sternly  to  Richard,  who  has  attempted  to   talk  with  him 

aside. ~\ 
Not  now. 


146  THE   SCARECROW 

RICHARD 

Pardon  me — it  must  be  now. 


JUSTICE   MERTON 
Squire  Talbot  — 

RICHARD 
[  Very  low.} 
Sir  —  I  come  from  Goody  Rickby. 


JUSTICE   MERTON 

Hush! 

[They  go  apart. ,] 


RAVENSBANE 

[Sings.} 

"  What  cock  is  this,  with  crest  so  high, 

That  crows  with  such  a  pother?" 
"  Baron  von  Rabenstod  am  I ; 

Methinks  we  know  each  other." 
"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  dear  guest  of  mine, 

So  long  why  didst  thou  tarry  ? 
Now,  for  the  sake  of  auld  lang  syne, 

My  daughter  thou  shalt  marry." 

.    JUSTICE  MERTON 

[To  Richard.} 
Spare  me,  I  am  helpless. 


THE   SCARECROW  147 

RICHARD 

What !  you  will  sacrifice  her  ? 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

What  can  I  do  ? 

RICHARD 

Tell  her  the  truth  at  least. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 
Never,  Richard,  no,  no,  never  that ! 

AMELIA 
[To  Bugby.'} 
And  he  kept  right  on  smoking! 

MINISTER   DODGE 

[  Who,  with  Rand  and  Todd,  has  risen  uneasily. ~\ 
This  smacks  of  witchcraft. 

REV.    MASTER   RAND 

The  Justice  seems  moved. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Sings.'] 

The  bride  is  brought,  the  priest  as  well  ; 

(The  golden  sun  was  passing) 
They  stood  beside  the  altar  rail ; 

Sing  ah  !     Sing  ah  !     Sing  ah  !     Sing  — 


148  THE   SCARECROW 

"  Woman,  with  this  ring  I  thee  wed." 
What  makes  his  voice  so  awing? 

The  baron  by  the  bride  is  dead : 
Outside  the  crows  were  cawing. 

Chorus. 

[  Which  grows  tumultuous,  seeming  to  fill  the  room  with  the 
invisible  birds '.] 

Caw!     Caw!     Caw! 

\The  guests  rise  in  confusion.     Dickon  still  plays  delightedly, 
and  the  strange  music  continues^ 

MINISTER   DODGE 

This  is  no  longer  godly. — Justice  Merton! 

RICHARD 
\To  Justice  Merton^\ 

I  told  you,  sir,  that  witchcraft,  like  murder,  will  out 
If  you  want  further  proof,  I  believe  I  can  provide  it. 

MINISTER  DODGE 

Justice  Merton,  sir! 

RAVENSBANE 

[  To  Rachel,  who  holds  his  tassel  in  her  hand^\ 
Ah  !  and  you  have  my  tassel ! 

RACHEL 

See  !     I   will  wear  it  now.      You   yourself   shall 
fasten  it. 


THE   SCARECROW  149 

RAVENSBANE 

Rachel !     Mistress  ! 

RACHEL 
My  dear  lord  ! 

[As  Ravensbane  is  placing  the  silken  tassel  on  Rachel's  breast 
to  fasten  it  there,  Richard,  by  the  mirror,  pulls  the  cur 
tain  back.~\ 

RICHARD 

Lovers  !     This  is  the  glass  of  truth.     Behold  your 
selves  ! 

RACHEL 

[Looking  into  the  glass,  screams  and  turns  her  gaze  fearfully 
upon  Ravensbane^\ 

Ah!     Do  not  look  ! 

DICKON 

[  Who,  having  turned  round  from  the  virginals,  has  leapt 
forward,  now  turns  back  again,  biting  his  finger.~\ 

Too  late ! 

\_In  the  glass  are  reflected  the  figures  of  Rachel  and  Ravensbane 
—  Rachel  just  as  she  herself  appears,  but  Ravensbane 
in  his  essential  form  of  a  scarecrow,  in  every  movement 
reflecting  Ravensbane 's  motions.  The  thing  in  the  glass- 
is  about  to  pin  a  wisp  of  corn-silk  on  the  mirrored  breast 
of  the  maiden.  ~\ 

RAVENSBANE 

What  is  there  ? 

RACHEL 

[Looking  again,  starts  away  from  Ravensbane .] 
Leave  me  !     Leave  me  !  —  Richard  ! 


150  THE   SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 

[Gazing  at  the  glass,  clings  to  Rachel  as  though  to  protect  her.~\ 
Help  her !     See  !     It  is  seizing  her. 

RACHEL 
Richard ! 

\_She  faints  in  Richard's  armsJ] 

RAVENSBANE 

Fear  not,  mistress,  I  will  kill  the  thing. 

[Drawing  his  sword,  he  rushes  at  the  glass.  Within,  the 
scarecrow,  with  a  drawn  wheel-spoke,  approaches  him 
at  equal  speed.  They  come  face  to  face  and  recoil.^ 

Ah  !  ah  !  fear'st  thou  me  ?  What  art  thou  ?  Why, 
'tis  a  glass.  Thou  mockest  me  ?  Look,  look,  mis 
tress,  it  mocks  me  !  O  God,  no  !  no  !  Take  it  away. 
Dear  God,  do  not  look  !  —  It  is  I ! 

ALL 

[Rushing  to  the  doors.] 
Witchcraft !     Witchcraft ! 

[As  Ravensbane  stands  frantically  confronting  his  abject  re 
flection,  struck  in  a  like  posture  of  despair,  the  curtain 
falls.] 


ACT    IV 


ACT   IV 

The  same.  Night.  The  moon,  shining  in  broadly  at  the 
window,  discovers  RAVENSBANE  alone,  prostrate  before 
the  mirror.  Raised  on  one  arm  to  a  half -sitting  posture, 
he  gazes  fixedly  at  the  vaguely  seen  image  of  the  scare 
crow  prostrate  in  the  glass. 

RAVENSBANE 

All  have  left  me  —  but  not  thou.  Rachel  has  left 
me ;  her  eyes  have  turned  away  from  me  ;  she  is 
gone.  And  with  her,  the  great  light  itself  from 
heaven  has  drawn  her  glorious  skirts,  contemptuous, 
from  me  —  and  they  are  gone  together.  Dickon,  he 
too  has  left  me  —  but  not  thou.  All  that  I  loved,  all 
that  loved  me,  have  left  me.  A  thousand  ages  —  a 
thousand  ages  ago,  they  went  away ;  and  thou  and  I 
have  gazed  upon  each  other's  desertedness.  Speak ! 
and  be  pitiful !  If  thou  art  I,  inscrutable  image,  if 
thou  dost  feel  these  pangs  thine  own,  show  then  self- 
mercy  ;  speak  !  What  art  thou  ?  What  am  I  ?  Why 
are  we  here  ?  How  comes  it  that  we  feel  and  guess 
and  suffer?  Nay,  though  thou  answer  not  these 
doubts,  yet  mock  them,  mock  them  aloud,  even  as 
there,  monstrous,  thou  counterfeitest  mine  actions. 
Speak,  abject  enigma  !  — Ah  !  with  what  vacant  horror 
it  looks  out  and  yearns  toward  me.  Peace  to  thee ! 


154  THE  SCARECROW 

Thou  poor  delirious  mute,  prisoned  in  glass  and 
moonlight,  peace !  Thou  canst  not  escape  thy  gaol, 
nor  I  break  in  to  thee.  Poor  shadow,  thou  — 

\Recoiling  wildly. ~\ 

Stand  back,  inanity !  Thrust  not  thy  mawkish  face 
in  pity  toward  me.  Ape  and  idiot !  Scarecrow  !  — 
to  console  me  !  Haha  !  —  A  flail  and  broomstick  !  a 
cob,  a  gourd  and  pumpkin,  to  fuse  and  sublimate 
themselves  into  a  mage-philosopher,  who  puffeth 
metaphysics  from  a  pipe  and  discourseth  sweet  phi 
lanthropy  to  itself  —  itself,  God  !  Dost  Thou  hear  ? 
Itself !  For  even  such  am  I  —  I  whom  Thou  madest 
to  love  Rachel.  Why,  God  —  haha  !  dost  Thou  dwell 
in  this  thing  ?  Is  it  Thou  that  peerest  forth  at  me  — 
from  me  ?  Why,  hark  then  ;  Thou  shalt  listen,  and 
answer  —  if  Thou  canst.  Hark  then,  Spirit  of  life  ! 
Between  the  rise  and  setting  of  a  sun,  I  have  walked 
in  this  world  of  Thine.  I  have  gazed  upon  it,  I  have 
peered  within  it,  I  have  grown  enamoured,  enamoured 
of  it.  I  have  been  thrilled  with  wonder,  I  have  been 
calmed  with  knowledge,  I  have  been  exalted  with 
sympathy.  I  have  trembled  with  joy  and  passion. 
Power,  beauty,  love  have  ravished  me.  Infinity  it 
self,  like  a  dream,  has  blazed  before  me  with  the 
certitude  of  prophecy ;  and  I  have  cried,  "  This 
world,  the  heavens,  time  itself,  are  mine  to  conquer," 
and  I  have  thrust  forth  mine  arm  to  wear  Thy  shield 
forever  —  and  lo  !  for  my  shield  Thou  reachest  me  a 
mirror  —  and  whisperest :  "  Know  thyself !  Thou  art 
—  a  scarecrow :  a  tinkling  clod,  a  rigmarole  of  dust, 


THE   SCARECROW  155 

a  lump  of  ordure,  contemptible,  superfluous,  inane  ! '' 
Haha!  Hahaha!  And  with  such  scarecrows  Thou 
dost  people  a  planet!  O  ludicrous!  Monstrous!  Ludi 
crous  !  At  least,  I  thank  Thee,  God !  at  least, 
this  breathing  bathos  can  laugh  at  itself.  At  least 
this  hotch-potch  nobleman  of  stubble  is  enough  of 
an  epicure  to  turn  his  own  gorge.  Thou  hast  vouch 
safed  to  me,  Spirit,  —  hahaha  !  —  to  know  myself. 
Mine,  mine  is  the  consummation  of  man —  even  self- 
contempt  ! 

[Pointing  in  the  glass  with  an  agony  of  derision.] 
Scarecrow  !     Scarecrow  !     Scarecrow  ! 

THE  IMAGE  IN  THE  GLASS 

\More  and  more  faintly '.] 
Scarecrow  !     Scarecrow  !     Scarecrow  ! 

\Ravensbane  throws  himself  prone  upon  the  floor,  beneath  the 
window,  sobbing.  There  is  a  pause  of  silence,  and  the 
moon  shines  brighter.  —  Slowly  then  Ravensbane,  getting 
to  his  knees,  looks  out  into  the  night.'] 

RAVENSBANE 

What  face  are  you,  high  up  through  the  twinkling 
leaves  ?  Why  do  you  smile  upon  me  with  such  white 
beneficence  ?  Or  why  do  you  place  your  viewless 
hand  upon  my  brow,  and  say,  "  Be  comforted  "  ?  Do 
you  not,  like  all  the  rest,  turn,  aghast,  your  eyes  away 
from  me  —  me,  abject  enormity,  grovelling  at  your 
feet  ?  Gracious  being,  do  you  not  fear  —  despise  me  ? 
To  you  alone  am  I  not  hateful  —  unredeemed? 


156  THE   SCARECROW 

0  white  peace  of  the  world,  beneath  your  gaze  the 
clouds  glow  silver,  and  the  herded  cattle,  slumbering 
far  afield,  crouch  —  beautiful.    The  slough  shines  lus 
trous  as  a  bridal  veil.    Beautiful  face,  you  are  Rachel's, 
and  you  have  changed  the  world.     Nothing  is  mean, 
but  you  have  made  it  miraculous ;  nothing  is  loath 
some,  nothing  ludicrous,  but  you  have  converted  it  to 
loveliness,  that  even  this  shadow  of  a  mockery  my 
self,  cast  by  your  light,  gives  me  the  dear  assurance 

1  am  a  man.     Yea,  more,  that  I  too,  steeped  in  your 
universal  light,  am  beautiful.     For  you  are  Rachel, 
and  you  love  me.     You  are  Rachel  in  the  sky,  and 
the  might  of  your  serene  loveliness  has  transformed 
me.     Rachel,  mistress,  mother,   beautiful   spirit,  out 
of  my  suffering  you  have  brought  forth  my  soul.     I 
am  saved  ! 

THE   IMAGE   IN  THE  GLASS 
A  very  pretty  sophistry. 
\_The  moonlight  grows  dimmer,  as  at  the  passing  of  a  cloudl\ 

RAVENSBANE 

Ah  !  what  voice  has  snatched  you  from  me  ? 

THE   IMAGE 
A  most  poetified  pumpkin  ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Thing  !  dost  thou  speak  at  last  ?     My  soul  abhors 
thee. 

THE  IMAGE 
I  am  thy  soul. 


THE   SCARECROW 
RAVENSBANE 

Thou  liest. 

THE  IMAGE 

Our  Daddy  Dickon  and  our  mother  Rickby  begot 
and  conceived  us  at  sunrise,  in  a  Jack-o'-lantern. 

RAVENSBANE 

Thou  liest,  torturing  illusion.  Thou  art  but  a  phan 
tom  in  a  glass. 

THE  IMAGE 

Why,  very  true.  So  art  thou.  We  are  a  pretty 
phantom  in  a  glass. 

RAVENSBANE 

It  is  a  lie.  I  am  no  longer  thou.  I  feel  it ;  I  am 
a  man. 

THE  IMAGE 

And  prithee,  what's  a  man  ?     Man's  but  a  mirror, 
Wherein  the  imps  and  angels  play  charades, 
Make  faces,  mope,  and  pull  each  other's  hair  — 
Till  crack !  the  sly  urchin  Death  shivers  the  glass, 
And  the  bare  coffin  boards  show  underneath. 

RAVENSBANE 

Yea !  if  it  be  so,  thou  coggery  !  if  both  of  us  be  in 
deed  but  illusions,  why,  now  let  us  end  together.  But 
if  it  be  not  so,  then  let  me  for  evermore  be  free  of 
thee.  Now  is  the  test  —  the  glass  ! 

\_Springing  to  the  fireplace ',  he  seizes  an  iron  cross-piece  from 
the  andirons.~\ 


158  THE  SCARECROW 

I'll  play  your  urchin  Death  and  shatter  it.  Let 
see  what  shall  survive  ! 

\_He  rushes  to  strike  the  glass  with  the  iron.     DICKON  steps 
out  of  the  mirror,  closing  the  curtain .J 

DICKON 
I  wouldn't,  really ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Dickon  !  dear  Dickon  !  is  it  you  ? 

DICKON 
Yes,  Jacky  !  it's  dear  Dickon,  and  I  really  wouldn't. 

RAVENSBANE 

Wouldn't  what,  Dickon  ? 

DICKON 

Sweep  the  cobwebs  off  the  sky  with  thine  aspiring 
broomstick.  When  a  man  questions  fate,  'tis  bad  di 
gestion.  When  a  scarecrow  does  it,  'tis  bad  taste. 

RAVENSBANE 

At  last,  you  will  tell  me  the  truth,  Dickon !  Am  I 
then  —  that  thing  ? 

DICKON 

You  mustn't  be  so  sceptical.  Of  course  you're 
that  thing. 

RAVENSBANE 

Ah  me  despicable  !  Rachel,  why  didst  thou  ever 
look  upon  me  ? 


THE   SCARECROW  159 

DICKON 

I  fear,  cobby,  thou.  hast  never  studied  woman's 
heart  and  hero-worship.  Take  thyself  now.  I  re 
marked  to  Goody  Bess,  thy  mother,  this  morning,  as 
I  was  chucking  her  thy  pate  from  the  hay-loft,  that 
thou  wouldst  make  a  Mark  Antony  or  an  Alexander 
before  night. 

RAVENSBANE 

Thou,  then,  didst  create  me ! 

DICKON 
[Bowing,  ] 

Appreciate  the  honour.  Your  lordship  was  de 
signed  for  a  corn-field ;  but  I  discerned  nobler  poten 
tialities  :  the  courts  of  Europe  and  Justice  Merton's 
salon.  In  brief,  your  lordship's  origins  were  pas 
toral,  like  King  David's. 

RAVENSBANE 

Cease !  cease !  in  pity's  name.  You  do  not  know 
the  agony  of  being  ridiculous. 

DICKON 

Nay,  Jacky,  all  mortals  are  ridiculous.  Like  you, 
they  were  rummaged  out  of  the  muck ;  and  like  you, 
they  shall  return  to  the  dunghill.  I  advise  'em,  like 
you,  to  enjoy  the  interim,  and  smoke. 

RAVENSBANE 

This  pipe,  this  ludicrous  pipe  that  I  forever  set 
to  my  lips  and  puff  !  Why  must  I,  Dickon  ?  Why  ? 


160  THE  SCARECROW 

DICKON 

To  avoid  extinction  —  merely.  You  see,  'tis  just  as 
your  fellow  in  there 

[Pointing  to  the  glass. ,] 

explained.  You  yourself  are  the  subtlest  of  mirrors, 
polished  out  of  pumpkin  and  pipe-smoke.  Into  this 
mirror  the  fair  Mistress  Rachel  has  projected  her 
lovely  image,  and  thus  provided  you  with  what  men 
call  a  soul. 

RAVENSBANE 

Ah!  then,  I  have  a  soul  —  the  truth  of  me?  Mis 
tress  Rachel  has  indeed  made  me  a  man  ? 

DICKON 

Don't  flatter  thyself,  cobby.  Break  thy  pipe,  and 
whiff  —  soul,  Mistress  Rachel,  man,  truth,  and  this 
pretty  world  itself,  go  up  in  the  last  smoke. 

RAVENSBANE 

No,  no  !  not  Mistress  Rachel  —  for  she  is  beautiful ; 
and  the  images  of  beauty  are  immutable.  She  told 

me  so. 

DICKON 

What  a  Platonic  young  lady  !  Nevertheless,  believe 
me,  Mistress  Rachel  exists  for  your  lordship  merely 
in  your  lordship's  pipe-bowl. 

RAVENSBANE 

Wretched,  niggling  caricature  that  I  am  r  All  is 
lost  to  me  —  all ! 


THE   SCARECROW  l6l 

DICKON 

"  Paradise  Lost  "  again  !  Always  blaming  it  on  me. 
There's  that  gaunt  fellow  in  England  has  lately  wrote 
a  parody  on  me  when  I  was  in  the  apple  business. 

RAVENSBANE 

[Falling  on  his  knees  and  bowing  his  headJ] 
O  God  !  I  am  so  contemptible  ! 

[Enter,  at  door  back,  GOODY  RICKEY  ;  her  blacksmith  garb 
is  hidden  under  a  dingy  black  mantle  with  peaked  hood^\ 

DICKON 

Good  verse,  too,  for  a  parody ! 
[Ruminating,  raises  one  arm  rhetorically  above  RavensbaneJ] 

"  Farewell,  happy  fields 

Where  joy  forever  dwells!     Hail,  horrors;  hail, 
Infernal  world !  and  thou,  profoundest  Hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor." 

GOODY   RICKEY 

[Seizing  his  arm.~\ 
Dickon ! 

DICKON 

Hullo  !     You,  Bess  ! 

GOODY   RICKBY 

There's  not  a  minute  to  lose.  Justice  Merton  and 
the  neighbours  have  ended  their  conference  at  Min 
ister  Dodge's,  and  are  returning  here. 


1 62  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 

What !  coming  back  in  the  dark  ?     They  ran  away 
in  the  daylight  as  if  the  ghosts  were  after  'em. 

GOODY   RICKEY 
\At  the  window. ~] 
I  see  their  lanterns  down  the  road. 

DICKON 

Well,  let  'em  come.     We're  ready. 

GOODY   RICKEY 

But  thou  toldst  me  they  had  discovered  — 

DICKON 

A  scarecrow   in   a   mirror.     Well?     The  glass   is 
bewitched ;  that's  all. 

GOODY   RICKEY 

All?     Witchcraft  is  hanging  —  that's  all!     Come, 
how  shall  the  mirror  help  us  ? 

DICKON 

'Tis  very  simple.     The  glass  is  bewitched.     Mistress 
Rachel  —  mind  you  —  shall  admit  it.     She  bought  it 

of  you. 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Yea,  of  me ;  'twill  be  me  they'll  hang. 

DICKON 

Good !    then  the  glass    is    bewitched.     The   glass 
bewitches  the  room ;  for  witchcraft  is  catching  and 


THE   SCARECROW  163 

spreads  like  the  small-pox.  Ergo,  the  distorted  image 
of  Lord  Ravensbane ;  ergo,  the  magical  accompani 
ments  of  the  ballad ;  ergo,  the  excited  fancies  of  all 
the  persons  in  the  room.  Ergo,  the  glass  must  needs 
be  destroyed,  and  the  room  thoroughly  disinfected  by 
the  Holy  Scriptures.  Ergo,  Master  Dickonson  him 
self  reads  the  Bible  aloud,  the  guests  apologize  and 
go  home,  the  Justice  squirms  again  in  his  merry  dead 
past,  and  his  fair  niece  is  wed  to  the  pumpkin. 

RAVENSBANE 

Hideous !     Hideous ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Your  grateful  servant,  Devil !  But  the  mirror  was 
bought  of  me  —  of  me,  the  witch.  Wilt  thou  be  my 
hangman,  Dickon  ? 

DICKON 

Wilt  thou  give  me  a  kiss,  Goody  ?  When  did  ever 
thy  Dickon  desert  thee  ? 

GOODY   RICKEY 
But  how,  boy,  wilt  thou  — 

DICKON 

Trust  me,  and  thy  son.  When  the  Justice's  niece 
is  thy  daughter-in-law,  all  will  be  safe.  For  the  Jus 
tice  will  cherish  his  niece's  family. 

GOODY   RICKEY 
But  when  he  knows  — 


1 64  THE   SCARECROW 


DICKON 

But  he  shall  not  know.  How  can  he  ?  When  the 
glass  is  denounced  as  fraudulent,  how  will  he,  or  any 
person,  ever  know  that  we  made  this  fellow  out  of 
rubbish  ?  Who,  forsooth,  but  a  poet  —  or  a  devil  — 
would  believe  it  ?  You  mustn't  credit  men  with  our 
imaginations,  my  dear. 

RAVENSBANE 

Mockery !     Always  mockery  ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 

Then  thou  wilt  pull  me  through  this  safe  ? 

DICKON 

As  I  adore  thee  —  and  my  own  reputation. 

GOODY   RICKEY 
[.Hurrying  awayJ] 
Till  we  meet,  then,  boy. 

DICKON 

Stay,  marchioness —  his  lordship  ! 

GOODY   RICKEY 
[Turning.] 

His  lordship's  pardon !  How  fares  "  the  bottom  of 
thy  heart,"  my  son  ? 

DICKON 
My  lord  —  your  lady  mother. 


7 HE   SCARECROW  165 

RAVENSBANE 

Begone,  woman. 

GOODY  RICKEY 
[  Courtesying,  laughs  shrilly.] 
Your  servant  —  my  son  ! 

[About  to  depart.] 

RAVENSBANE 

Ye  lie  !     Both  of  you !     Ye  lie  —  I  was  born   of 
Rachel. 

DICKON 

Tut,  tut,  Jacky ;  you  mustn't  mix  up  mothers  and 
prospective  wives  at  your  age.     It's  fatal. 

GOODY  RICKEY 

[Excitedly] 
They're  coming ! 

[Exit] 

DICKON 

[Calling  after  her] 

Fear  not ;  if  thou  shouldst  be  followed,  I  will  over 
take  thee. 

RAVENSBANE 

She  is  coming ;  Rachel  is  coming,  and  I  may  not 
look  upon  her ! 

DICKON 

Eh  ?     Why  not  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

I  am  a  monster. 


1 66  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 

And  born  of  her  -      Fie !  fie  ! 

RAVENSBANE 

O  God !  I  know  not ;  I  mock  myself ;  I  know 
not  what  to  think.  But  this  I  know,  I  love  Rachel. 
I  love  her,  I  love  her. 

DICKON 
And  shalt  have  her. 

RAVENSBANE 

Have  her,  Dickon  ? 

v 

DICKON 
For  lover  and  wife. 

RAVENSBANE 

For  wife  ? 

DICKON 

For  wife  and  all.     Thou  hast  but  to  obey. 

RAVENSBANE 

Ah  !  who  will  do  this  for  me  ? 

DICKON 
I! 

RAVENSBANE 

Dickon  !      Wilt   make   me   a   man  —  a   man   and 

worthy  of  her? 

DICKON 

Fiddlededee !  I  make  over  no  masterpieces.  Thy 
mistress  shall  be  Cinderella,  and  drive  to  her  palace 
with  her  gilded  pumpkin. 


THE   SCARECROW 
RAVENSBANE 

It  is  the  end. 

DICKON 

What !     You'll  not  ? 

RAVENSBANE 
Never. 

DICKON 

Harkee,  manikin.     Hast  thou  learned  to  suffer  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

\Wringing  his  hands .] 
OGod! 

DICKON 

/  taught  thee.     Shall  I  teach  thee  further  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Thou  canst  not. 

DICKON 

Cannot  —  ha!      What   if    I    should    teach    Rachel 
too? 

RAVENSBANE 

Rachel !  —  Ah  !  now  I  know  thee. 

DICKON 

[Bowing.] 

Flattered. 

RAVENSBANE 

Devil !     Thou  wouldst  not  torment  Rachel  ? 

DICKON 
Not  if  my  lord  - 


168  THE   SCARECROW 

RAVENSBANE 

Speak !     What  must  I  do  ? 

DICKON 

Not  speak.     Be  silent,  my  lord,  and  acquiesce  to 
all  I  say. 

RAVENSBANE 

I  will  be  silent. 

DICKON 

And  acquiesce  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

I  will  be  silent. 

\_Enter  MINISTER  DODGE,  accompanied  by  SIR  CHARLES  RED- 
DINGTON,  CAPTAIN  BUGBY,  the  REV.  MASTERS  RAND  and 
TODD,  and  followed  by  JUSTICE  MERTON,  RICHARD,  MIS 
TRESS  MERTON,  and  RACHEL.  Richard  and  Rachel  stand 
somewhat  apart,  Rachel  drawing  close  to  Richard  and 
hiding  her  face.  All  wear  their  outer  wraps,  and  two 
or  three  hold  lanterns,  which,  save  the  moon,  throw  the 
only  light  upon  the  scene.  All  enter  solemn  and  silent.~\ 

MINISTER   DODGE 

Lord,  be  Thou  present  with  us,  in  this  unholy  spot. 

SEVERAL  MEN'S  VOICES 

Amen. 

DICKON 


Friends !     Have   you   seized   her  ?     Is   she   made 

MINISTER   DODGE 


prisoner  ? 


Stand  from  us. 


THE   SCARECROW  169 

DICKON 

Sir,  the  witch  !     Surely  you  did  not  let  her  escape  ? 

ALL 

The  witch ! 

DICKON 

A  dame  in  a  peaked  hood.  She  has  but  now  fled 
the  house.  She  called  herself  —  Goody  Rickby. 

ALL 

Goody  Rickby ! 

MISTRESS  MERTON 
She  here ! 

DICKON 

Yea,  mistress,  and  hath  confessed  all  the  damnable 
art,  by  which  all  of  us  have  lately  been  so  terrorized, 
and  his  lordship,  my  poor  master,  so  maligned  and 
victimized. 

RICHARD 
Victimized ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

What  confessed  she  ? 

MINISTER   DODGE 

What  said  she  ? 

DICKON 

This :  It  appeareth  that,  for  some  time  past,  she 
hath  cherished  revengeful  thoughts  against  our  hon 
oured  host,  Justice  Merton. 


170  THE   SCARECROW 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

Sir !     What  cause  —  what  cause  — 

DICKON 

Inasmuch  as  your  worship  hath  ever  so  right 
eously  condemned  her  damnable  faults,  and  threat 
ened  them  punishment. 

MINISTER  DODGE 

Yea  — well? 

DICKON 

Thus,  in  revenge,  she  bewitched  yonder  mirror, 
and  this  very  morning  unlawfully  inveigled  this  sweet 
young  lady  into  purchasing  it. 

SIR   CHARLES 

Mistress  Rachel! 

MINISTER   DODGE 

[To  Rachel.'} 
Didst  thou  purchase  that  glass  ? 

RACHEL 

\_In  a  low  voice. ,] 
Yes. 

MINISTER   DODGE 

From  Goody  Rickby  ? 

RACHEL 

Yes. 

RICHARD 
Sir  —  the  blame  was  mine. 


.  THE  SCARECROW  I/ 1 

RACHEL 

[  Clinging  to  him^\ 
O  Richard ! 

DICKON 

Pardon,  my  friends.  The  fault  rests  upon  no  one 
here.  The  witch  alone  is  to  blame.  Her  black  art 
inveigled  this  innocent  maid  into  purchasing  the 
glass ;  her  black  art  bewitched  this  room  and  all  that 
it  contained  —  even  to  these  innocent  virginals,  on 
which  I  played. 

MINISTER  DODGE 

Verily,  this  would  seem  to  account  —  but  the  image ; 
the  damnable  image  in  the  glass  ? 

DICKON 

A  familiar  devil  of  hers  —  a  sly  imp,  it  seems,  who 
wears  to  mortal  eyes  the  shape  of  a  scarecrow. 
'Twas  he,  by  means  of  whom  she  bedevilled  this 
glass,  by  making  it  his  habitat.  When,  therefore, 
she  learned  that  honour  and  happiness  were  yours, 
Justice  Merton,  in  the  prospect  of  Lord  Ravensbane 
as  your  nephew-in-law,  she  commanded  this  devil  to 
reveal  himself  in  the  glass  as  my  lord's  own  image, 
that  thus  she  might  wreck  your  family  felicity. 

MINISTER  DODGE 

Infamous ! 

DICKON 

Indeed,  sir,  it  was  this  very  devil  whom  but  now 
she  stole  here  to  consult  withal,  when  she  encoun- 


1/2  THE  SCARECROW 

tered  me,  attendant  here  upon  my  poor  prostrate 
lord,  and  —  held  by  the  wrath  in  my  eye  —  con 
fessed  it  all. 

SIR   CHARLES 

Thunder  and  brimstone !  Where  is  this  accursed 
hag? 

DICKON 

Alas — gone,  gone!     If  you  had  but  stopped  her. 

MINISTER   DODGE 

I  know  her  den  —  the  blacksmith  shop. 

SIR  CHARLES 

[Starting.] 
Which  way  ? 

MINISTER   DODGE 

To  the  left. 

SIR  CHARLES 

Go  on,  there. 

MINISTER   DODGE 

My  honoured  friend,  we  shall  return  and  officially 
destroy  this  fatal  glass.  But  first,  we  must  secure 
the  witch.  Heaven  shield,  with  her  guilt,  the  inno 
cent ! 

THE   MEN 

\_As  they  hurry  out.~\ 
Amen. 

SIR   CHARLES 

[  Outside.] 
Go  on ! 

[Exeunt  all  but  Richard,  Rachel,  Justice  Merton,  Mistress 
Merton,  Dickon,  and  Ravensbane.~\ 


THE  SCARECROW  1/3 

DICKON 

[  To  Justice  Merton,  who  has  importuned  him,  aside. ~\ 
And  reveal  thy  youthful  escapades  to  Rachel  ? 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

God  help  me  !  no. 

DICKON 

So  then,  dear  friends,  this  strange  incident  is 
happily  elucidated.  The  pain  and  contumely  have 
fallen  most  heavily  upon  my  dear  lord  and  master, 
but  you  are  witnesses,  even  now,  of  his  silent  and 
Christian  forgiveness  of  your  suspicions.  Bygones, 
therefore,  be  bygones.  The  future  brightens  —  with 
orange-blossoms  !  Hymen  and  Felicity  stand  with 
us  here  ready  to  unite  two  amorous  and  bashful 
lovers.  His  lordship  is  reticent;  yet  to  you  alone, 
of  all  beautiful  ladies,  Mistress  Rachel  — 

RAVENSBANE 

\_In  a  mighty  voice. ~\ 
Silence ! 

DICKON 

My  lord  would  — 

RAVENSBANE 

Silence  !     Dare  not  to  speak  to  her  ! 

DICKON 
[Biting  his  lip.~\ 
My  babe  is  weaned. 


1/4  THE   SCARECROW 

RACHEL 

{Still  at  Richard's  side.'] 
Oh,  my  lord,  if  I  have  made  you  suffer  — 

RICHARD 

\_Appealingly.'} 
Rachel ! 

RAVENSBANE 
[Approaching  her,  raises  one  arm  to  screen  his  face.~\ 

Gracious  lady !  let  fall  your  eyes ;  look  not  upon 
me.  If  I  have  dared  remain  in  your  presence,  if  I 
dare  now  speak  once  more  to  you,  'tis  because  I 
would  have  you  know  —  O  forgive  me  !  —  that  I  love 
you. 

RICHARD 

Sir !  This  lady  has  renewed  her  promise  to  be  my 
wife. 

RAVENSBANE 

Your  wife,  or  not,  I  love  her. 

RICHARD 

Zounds ! 

RAVENSBANE 

Forbear,  and  hear  me !  For  one  wonderful  day  I 
have  gazed  upon  this,  your  world.  The  sun  has 
kindled  me  and  the  moon  has  blessed  me.  A  million 
forms  —  of  trees,  of  stones,  of  stars,  of  men,  of  com 
mon  things  —  have  swum  like  motes  before  my  eyes  ; 
but  one  alone  was  wholly  beautiful.  That  form  was 
Rachel :  to  her  alone  I  was  not  ludicrous ;  to  her  I 


THE   SCARECROW  I?$ 

also  was  beautiful.  Therefore,  I  love  her.  You  talk 
to  me  of  mothers,  mistresses,  lovers,  and  wives  and 
sisters,  and  you  say  men  love  these.  What  is  love  ? 
The  sun's  enkindling  and  the  moon's  quiescence  ; 
the  night  and  day  of  the  world  —  the  all  of  life,  the 
all  which  must  include  both  you  and  me  and  God,  of 
whom  you  dream.  Well  then,  I  love  you,  Rachel. 
What  shall  prevent  me  ?  Mistress,  mother,  wife  — 
thou  art  all  to  me  ! 

RICHARD 

My  lord,  I  can  only  reply  for  Mistress  Rachel, 
that  you  speak  like  one  who  does  not  understand  this 
world. 

RAVENSBANE 

O  God  !  Sir,  and  do  you  ?  If  so,  tell  me  —  tell 
me  before  it  be  too  late  —  why,  in  this  world,  such 
a  thing  as  /  can  love  and  talk  of  love.  Why,  in  this 
world,  a  true  man  and  woman,  like  you  and  your 
betrothed,  can  look  upon  this  counterfeit  and  be 
deceived. 

RACHEL   AND    RICHARD 

Counterfeit  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Me  —  on  me  —  the  ignominy  of  the  earth,  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  angels  ! 

RACHEL 

Why,  my  lord.     Are  you  not  — 

RAVENSBANE 

No. 


iy6  THE   SCARECROW 

JUSTICE   MERTON 
\_To   Ravensbane^\ 
Forbear !     Not  to  her  — 

DICKON 
My  lord  forgets. 

RACHEL 

Are  you  not  Lord  Ravensbane  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Marquis  of  Oxford,  Baron  of  Wittenberg,  Elector 
of  Worms,  and  Count  of  Cordova  ?  No,  I  am  not 
Lord  Ravensbane.  I  am  Lord  Scarecrow! 

\He  bursts  into  laughter '.] 

RACHEL 

[Shrinking  back.~\ 
Ah  me ! 

RAVENSBANE 

A  nobleman  of  husks,  bewitched  from  a  pumpkin. 

RACHEL 

The  image  in  the  glass  was  true  ? 

RAVENSBANE 

Yes,  true.  It  is  the  glass  of  truth — thank  God! 
Thank  God  for  you,  dear. 

JUSTICE  MERTON 

Richard !  Go  for  the  minister ;  this  proof  of 
witchcraft  needs  be  known. 

[Richard  does  not 


THE   SCARECROW  177 

DICKON 

My  lord,  this  grotesque  absurdity  must  end. 

RAVENSBANE 

True,  Dickon !  This  grotesque  absurdity  must 
end.  The  laugher  and  the  laughing-stock,  man  and 
the  worm,  possess  at  least  one  dignity  in  common: 
both  must  die. 

DICKON 
[Speaking  low.  ] 
Remember !  if  you  dare  —  Rachel  shall  suffer  for  it. 

RAVENSBANE 

You  lie.     She  is  above  your  power. 

DICKON 

Still,  thou  darest  not  — 

RAVENSBANE 

Fool,  I  dare. 

[Turning  to  Rachel.~\ 

Mistress,  this  pipe  is  I.  This  intermittent  smoke 
holds,  in  its  nebula,  Venus,  Mars,  the  world.  If  I 
should  break  it — Chaos  and  the  dark!  And  this  of 
me  that  now  stands  up  will  sink  jumbled  upon  the 
floor  —  a  scarecrow.  See  !  I  break  it. 

[He  breaks  the  pipe  in  his  hands,  and  flings  the  pieces 
at  Dickon's  feet  in  defiance ;  then  turns,  agonized,  to 
Rachel.~\ 

Oh,  Rachel,  could  I  have  been  a  man  — ! 

N 


I  78  THE   SCARECROW 

DICKON 
\_Picking  up  the  pieces  of  pipe,  turns  to  RachelJ] 

Mademoiselle,  I  felicitate  you ;  you  have  outwitted 
the  devil. 

[Kissing  his  fingers  to  her,  he  disappears^ 

MISTRESS   MERTON 

[Seizing  the  Jus  tic e^  s  arm  infright^\ 
Satan ! 

JUSTICE   MERTON 

[  Whispers. ~\ 
Gone ! 

RACHEL 

Richard  !  Richard  !  support  him. 

RICHARD 

[Sustaining  Ravensbane,  who  sways."] 
He  is  fainting.     A  chair ! 

RACHEL 

[Placing  a   chair,   helps   Richard  to   support  Ravensbane 
toward  it.~\ 

How  pale  ;  but  yet  no  change. 

RICHARD 

His  heart,  perhaps. 

RACHEL 

Oh,  Dick,  if  it  should  be  some  strange  mistake ! 
Look !  he  is  noble  still.  My  lord !  my  lord !  the 
glass  — 


THE   SCARECROW 

[She  draws  the  curtain  of  the  mirror,  just  opposite  which 
Ravensbane  has  sunk  into  the  chair.  At  her  cry,  he 
starts  up  faintly  and  gazes  at  his  reflection,  which  is 
seen  to  be  a  normal  image  of  himself. ~\ 

RAVENSBANE 
Who  is  it  ? 

RACHEL 

Yourself,  my  lord  —  'tis  the  glass  of  truth. 

RAVENSBANE 

[His  face  lighting  with  an  exalted  joy,  starts  to  his  feet,  erect, 

before  the  glass. ,] 
A  man ! 

[He  falls  back  into  the  arms  of  the  two  lovers '.] 

Rachel ! 

{He  dies.~\ 

RACHEL 

Richard,   I   am    afraid.     Was   it  a  chimera,   or  a 
hero  ? 


FINIS 


MATER 


MATER 

AN  AMERICAN  STUDY  IN  COMEDY 


CHARACTERS 

MATILDA   DEAN  ("Mater"}. 
MICHAEL   DEAN,  her  son 
MARY   DEAN,  her  daughter. 
ARTHUR   CULLEN. 
RUDOLPH    VERBECK. 


TIME.  —  To-day. 

PLACE.  —  A  City  in  Eastern  United  States. 


SCENE 
LIVING-ROOM  IN  THE  DEANS'  HOUSE 

ACT    I.  — MORNING. 

ACT   II.  —  A  FEW  DAYS  LATER:  AFTERNOON. 

ACT  III.  —  MIDNIGHT. 


FOREWORD 

THE  acting  rights  of  this  play  are  owned  by  Mr. 
Henry  Miller,  under  whose  direction  it  was  first  pro 
duced  in  San  Francisco,  at  the  Van  Ness  Theatre, 
August  3,  1908,  and  in  New  York,  at  the  Savoy 
Theatre,  September  25,  1908. 

The  music  to  Mater's  song  in  the  play  has  been 
composed  by  Professor  George  W.  Chadwick,  Direc 
tor  of  the  Boston  Conservatory  of  Music,  and  may 
be  had,  arranged  for  the  piano,  in  published  form. 

P.  M-K. 

CORNISH,  NEW  HAMPSHIRE, 
September,  1908. 


ACT   I 


ACT    I 

The  living-room  in  the  Deans'1  house,  simply  furnished,  with 
an  atmosphere  of  books,  pictures,  music  and  domesticity. 
In  color,  the  prevailing  tones  are  harmonious  browns. 
The  walls  are  panelled  high  with  oak,  above  which  they 
are  covered  with  a  soft  brocade  of  unobtrusive  design. 
In  the  back  wall,  at  centre,  hung  with  long  curtains,  a 
large  casement  window,  with  deep,  cushioned  seat,  looks 
out  upon  the  tops  of  fruit  trees  toward  neighboring  city 
houses.  On  both  sides  of  the  window  are  book-cases. 
Near  the  right  wall,  at  back,  the  room  opens,  by  a  cur 
tained  doorway,  into  a  hall,  where  the  newel-post  and 
descending  balustrade  of  a  stairway  are  visible.  In  the 
left  wall,  between  doors,  is  a  fireplace,  above  which  is 
hung  the  large  oil  portrait  \Jiead  and  busf\  of  a  middle- 
aged  man  —  a  face  of  strong  character  and  vitality. 

Against  the  right  wall,  a  divan,  below  which  a  door  opens 
dnto  a  closet  with  shelves.  At  right,  a  baby -grand  piano, 
with  ruddy  brown  case ;  at  left,  an  ample  table,  on 
which  —  amid  newspapers,  books,  sewing  materials  and 
manuscripts  —  stands  a  telephone  instrument. 

At  this  table  are  seated  MARY  DEAN  and  RUDOLF  VERBECK. 
Mary,  who  is  dressed  in  black  and  wears  rimless  spec 
tacles,  is  a  handsome  girl  of  strong  features,  dark  hair 
and  intense  eyes.  She  is  reading  aloud  from  a  thick 
volume.  Rudolf,  a  Dutch- American  type  of  young 
man,  is  gazing  at  her  with  a  look  of  forced  concentra 
tion  and  unforced  affection. 
3 


4  MATER 

MARY 

[Reads.} 

"  To  destroy  human  egotism  is  impossible.  There 
fore  let  us  direct  it  so  as  to  make  it  serve  the  ends  of 
society  instead  of  subverting  them.  Now  there  is 
reason  to  believe  that  society,  through  organization, 
can  be  converted  into  a  great  happiness-producing 
mechanism,  and  that  self-interest  can  be  utilized  to 
drive  it.  Thus  we  shall  not  have  to  essay  the  hope 
less  task  of  destroying  egotism  in  man,  but  by  simply 
diverting  its  channel  from  competition  to  coopera 
tion,  convert  it  into  a  mighty  power  for  the  good  — 
instead  of  the  harm  —  of  mankind." 

RUDOLF 
Mary  !     That's  the  point. 

MARY 

What  ? 

RUDOLF 
Egotism.     It's  for  our  good,  you  know. 

MARY 

To  be  sure ;  if  it's  rightly  diverted. 

RUDOLF 

* 

That's  what  I  mean.  You  see,  it's  self-interest 
that  makes  me  ask  it. 

MARY 
Ask  what  ? 

RUDOLF 
When  are  we  going  to  be  married  ? 


MATER  5 

MARY 

Rudolf  Verbeck,  you're  incorrigible !  You  have 
as  much  power  of  generalization  as  a  June  bug. 

RUDOLF 

Just  the  same,  your  brother's  book  there  gives  me 
the  lead. 

MARY 

Your  sense  of  proportion  is  crude,  my  dear.  My 
brother's  book  is  concerned  with  the  great  interests 
of  society ;  and  compared  to  such,  I  assure  you,  our 
engagement  and  marriage  are  of  very  trifling  con 
cern. 

RUDOLF 

Oh,  but  I  say  !     I  ain't  trifling. 

MARY 

[Her  teeth  on  edge.'] 

Please !  Whatever  you  are,  or  aren't,  don't  say 
airit. 

RUDOLF 

I  know,  but  when  a  fellow's  in  love  — 

MARY 

Not  that!  I've  told  you  —  this  is  the  tenth  time 
at  least  —  you  are  never  to  mention  that  to  me  again 
till  after  Michael  is  elected. 

RUDOLF 

But  what  if  he  ain't  —  isn't  elected  ? 


6  MA  TER 

MARY 

Then  I  shall  devote  myself  solely  to  him  until  he 
is.  Michael  is  the  youngest  man  ever  nominated  for 
the  legislature ;  if  he  fails  of  election  now,  he  must 
run  again.  He  is  needed  in  the  nation.  He  must 
be  a  force  to  shape  its  chaos,  to  stem  its  corruption. 
But  you  know  he  is  far  from  well.  The  launching 
of  his  life-work  must  be  my  first  concern  —  and 
yours,  if  you  care  for  me.  You  —  you  do  care  for 

me  ? 

RUDOLF 

Care  !     You  know,  girl,  I  love  — 

MARY 

[Holding  the  volume  in  temptingly."] 
Love  me  —  love  my  brother's  book  !     Read,  please. 
My  glasses  are  dusty. 

\_She  fakes  off  her  spectacles  and  wipes  them.     He  takes  the 
book  and  reads  vaguely  ^\ 

RUDOLF 

"  Common  Sense  and  the  Common  Weal :  by 
Michael  Dean." 

MARY 

You  needn't  read  the  cover.  I  stopped  on  page 
78.' 

RUDOLF 

[Hastening  to  find  the  place '.] 
Good. 

[Reads  quickly.'] 

"  The  social  structure  I  propose  may  conveniently 
be  expounded  under  eight  topics  : 


MA TER  7 

First,  Public  ownership  of  the  means  of  produc 
tion,  retention  of  the  wage  system  and  abolition  of 
profit. 

Second,  Organization  of  a  system  of  distribution, 
whereby  supply  and  demand  in  products  may  be 
adjusted. 

Third,  Organization  of  a  national  labor  exchange, 
whereby  supply  and  demand  in  labor  may  be  ad 
justed." - 

Adjusted  —  say,  Mary! 

MARY 

What? 

RUDOLF 

You  will  adjust  it  all  right  —  if  we  elect  him  ? 
[Mary  snatches  the  book  from  him  and  turns  away.~\ 
I  was  only  talking  of  supply  and  demand ! 

MARY 

If  you  say  one  word  more  of  it,  I  won't  speak  to 
you  for  a  week. 

[Relentlessly  returning  him  the  book.~\ 
Now,  take  in  what  you  read. 

RUDOLF 
[Reads  on  gropingly. ,] 

"Fourth,  Organization  of  an  inspection  system, 
whereby  the  quality  of  products  may  be  retained  at 
a  definite  standard. 

Fifth,  Application  of  labor  to  production. 


8  MATER 

.    Sixth,  Organization  of  invention. 
Seventh,  Old  age  insurance. 
Eighth,  Reform  of  Education." 

MARY 

—  Rudolfo  !  To  think  when  he's  elected,  Michael 
will  be  a  living  factor  in  all  this.  And  the  campaign 
is  going  on  gloriously. 

RUDOLF 

I  wish  to-morrow  was  election  day. 

MARY 

Do  you  remember,  in  the  settlement  work,  down 
there  in  the  slums,  how  they  shouted  for  him  that 
first  meeting;  and  when  they  saw  him  — 

RUDOLF 

I  remember  when  I  first  saw  you  there,  addressing 
the  Mothers  and  Daughters'  Club,  and  starting  a 
campaign  of  clean  clothes.  How  in  thunder  did  you 
ever  cut  and  stitch  that  mountain  of  pinafores  ? 

MARY 

Oh,  Mater  attends  to  that  for  me.  She's  just 
domestic  and  practical,  you  know.  I'm  concerned 
with  the  large  principles  and  statistics.  I'm  a  very 
humble  disciple  of  my  great  brother. 

RUDOLF 

I  thought  your  mother's  trump  cards  were  books 
and  pianos  and  such. 


MA TER  9 

MARY 

I  suppose  you  mean  dabbling  in  lyrics  and  poets 
and  such  light  stuff  ?  Yes,  Mater  mixes  that  up  with 
her  housekeeping.  She's  an  outlandish  little  person 
—  of  course,  very  nice  and  dear  and  useful  —  but 
when  it  comes  to  serious  things  —  Oh,  quite  beyond 
her  depth  !  Politics,  sociology,  for  instance  —  she 
hasn't  the  first  ray  of  comprehension. 

RUDOLF 

Never  mind — you  have!  And  I  know  the  poor 
dirty  people  love  you  for  what  you  are  doing  for  'em. 

MARY 

Oh,  it's  Michael  they  love.  And  they  look  to  him 
as  a  new  young  prophet  —  a  prophet  of  reason  and 
joy.  And  it  isn't  only  the  poor  —  it's  the  overworked 
men  everywhere,  eager  to  see  a  way  out  of  forced 
labor  into  free  life.  Do  you  know  what  they  call 
this  book?  The  busy-man's  Bible.  Ah,  when 
Michael  is  elected,  Rudolf,  do  you  know  the  first 
thing  we  must  do  ? 

\_Rudolf,  leaping  up  impetuous,  kisses  her.      Mary  springs 
from  him  and  looks  back  wrathfully^\ 

The  last  time,  the  very  last !  I  vow  it.  Now  I 
won't  speak  to  you  again  till  after  election  day. 

RUDOLF 

[  Calling  heaven  to  witness^ 
And  I  never  said  a  word ! 


10  MATER 

\_Enter  MICHAEL  DEAN,  lower  left.  He  is  without  his  coat — 
in  his  shirt  sleeves.  With  both  hands  clasped  behind 
his  head,  he  strides  across  the  room,  and  paces  back  and 
forth,  oblivious  of  Mary  and  Rudolf. 

Mary  pauses  in  her  own  mood  of  anger,  which  evaporates 
as  she  watches  him  with  eager  attention  and  some  little 

awe.'] 

RUDOLF 

\_Not  observing  Michael —  beseechingly. ~\ 
Mary  !     Forget   it  —  please  !      I   won't  make   an 
other  — 

[Mary  raises  her  hand  to  Rudolf  in  stern  warning  of  silence 
—  looking  at  Michael,  who  in  his  pacings  comes  to  a 
standstill  in  front  of  her,  riveting  an  abstracted  gaze 
upon  her  face  as  if  it  were  far  away.~\ 

MARY 
Is  it  finished,  Michael  ?     All  thought  out  ? 

MICHAEL 
\_Looks  at  her,  vaguely  quizzical,  biting  the  edge  of  his  thumb. ~\ 

Eh? 

MARY 

I  have  just  been  reading  your  "  Common  Sense" 
with  Rudolf.  I  wish  in  your  next  campaign  speech 
you  would  sum  up  that  splendid  chapter  on  Liberty. 

MICHAEL 

Liberty,  my  dear  sir  !     Where  did  you  find  it  ? 

MARY 

\Pointing  to  the  book.~\ 
Why,  there.  —  You're  not  ill  again  ? 


MA TER  I I 

MICHAEL 

\_Impatiently  ^\ 
What,  what  ? 

MARY 

I'm  not  your  dear  sir,  you  know. 

MICHAEL 

[Drawing  a  deep  breath,  smiles  faintly  I\ 
Hello,  sisterkin  !  —  I  was  thinking  of  that  fellow 
Cullen. 

MARY 

Cullen  ! 

[  With  a  touch  of  embarrassment^ 
What  Mr.  Cullen  ? 

MICHAEL 
The  Honorable  Arthur ! 

MARY 

Honorable  ? 

MICHAEL 

Of    the   Ancient    and    Honorable    Fraternity    of 
Grafters  —  Grand  Master !  —  Hello,  Verbeck. 
[Gives  Rudolf  his  hand.~\ 

RUDOLF 

[  Waving  the  volume  in  his  other  hand.~\ 
Say  !     It's  real  meat. 

MICHAEL 

Have  you  tried  to  digest  it  ? 


12  MATER 

MARY 

You  mean  the  notorious  Cullen  of  the  legislature  ? 

MICHAEL 

To  whose  brotherhood  I  am  now  aspiring.    Heaven 
forgive  —  one  of  us  ! 

RUDOLF 

\With  vague  alarm. ~\ 
•Brotherhood  ?     You  — 

MICHAEL 

If  you  elect  me,  Rudolf. 

RUDOLF 

Oh,  that's  what  you  mean.     Well,  that's  what  I'm 
living  for. 

[  With  a  beseeching  look  toward  Mary,  who  keeps  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room.~\ 

—  Ask  Mary. 

MARY 

Is  he  in  your  way  ? 

MICHAEL 

\_Absorbed  again. "\ 
Who? 

MARY 

[Hesitatingly.'] 
Mr.  Cullen.     Is  he  obstructing  you  politically  ? 

MICHAEL 

That's  the  question.     The  Honorable  Arthur  has 
been  singularly  affable  to  me  —  lately. 


MATER  13 

RUDOLF 

[Looking  anxiously  at  Mary.~\ 
Lately  ?     More  than  usual  ? 

MICHAEL 

So  I've  noticed.  And  I  don't  like  it,  for  I  don't 
trust  him.  He  has  risen  in  life  by  what  his  friends 
call  a  sense  of  humor,  and  that,  if  I'm  not  mistaken, 
is  the  liveliest  endowment  of  the  Devil.  I'd  rather 
face  a  rhinoceros  than  an  ineradicable  smile.  — That 
reminds  me  —  he's  to  call  me  up  this  morning  on  a 
matter  of  business. 

MARY 

He's  for  you  in  the  election  ? 

MICHAEL 

So  he  explained  —  with  his  smile.  His  influence 
is  to  go  my  way  —  for  my  father  the  Senator's  sake. 

MARY 
Did  Mr.  Cullen  know  father  ? 

MICHAEL 

Only  by  reputation  —  far  off.  Our  father,  I  'm  sure, 
never  knew  Cullen. 

[Looking  up  at  the  portrait  on  the  wall.~\ 

There  was  a  man,  thank  God,  and  a  magician  !  He 
knew  how  to  pipe  the  rats  from  their  nests  in  the  na 
tion,  and  to  purge  the  temple  of  the  state  without 
fouling  his  own  fingers.  Give  me  to  be  like  him. 


14  MATER 

I 

—  Mary,  does  it  seem  possible  that  he  has  gone 
from  us  :  one  year  ago  to-day  ! 

MARY 

But  you  live  on  —  to  finish  his  work. 

MICHAEL 

Finish  ?     It  has  no  end. 

RUDOLF 

Yes,  old  fellow.  When  you're  in  office,  there'll  be 
something  doing ! 

MICHAEL 

Something  doing  !  So  what  will  be  doing  —  Eh  ? 
—  when  I'm  in  office  ? 

RUDOLF 

Something  big,  that's  sure. 

MICHAEL 

"  Big,"  and  "  something."  Just  what  doesn't  mat 
ter,  I  suppose,  so  long  as  it's  big  ? 

RUDOLF 

I  mean  you'll  keep  things  busy. 

MICHAEL 

"Busy"  —  of  course!  Big,  Busy,  Barnum  and 
Bailey  —  all  with  a  B !  Get  into  the  circus,  states 
men,  three  rings  and  a  loop-the-loop — and  keep  the 
public  guessing ! 


MATER  15 

By  Heaven,  Verbeck,  I  believe  there  are  no  more 
dangerous  citizens  than  just  such  good  fools  as  you. 
You  pay  for  your  seat  at  the  show  —  Bang!  goes 
the  clown's  head  through  the  hoop.  Spin!  goes  your 
hat  in  the  air,  and  "Hurrah!"  you  bawl;  "Even  so 
God  created  the  world  and  the  solar  system." 

\_He  begins  to  pace  back  and  forth  again  and  speaks  with 
vehement  swiftness.^ 

"  Something  doing."  It's  the  quack  showman's 
motto  of  the  age !  Under  that  banner,  we  harvest 
a  million  acres  of  wheat  to  fill  a  hundred  millions  of 
mouths,  and  we  rear  up  the  mouths  to  be  filled  with 
the  wheat.  Under  that  banner,  we  move  a  continent 
of  freight  cars  to  consume  steel  rails,  and  we  disem 
bowel  the  continent  for  steel  to  move  the  freight  cars. 
Under  that  banner,  we  fell  mountains  of  forest  to 
feed  a  myriad  presses  with  Sunday  editions,  and  we 
set  up  a  myriad  presses  to  devour  the  wood-pulp. 
"  Something  doing  !  "  Motion,  my  friend.  Motion  is 
the  God  of  such  as  you,  and  so  far  as  you  can,  you 
make  yourselves  in  his  image. 

He's  a  glorious  Titan  —  your  Motion!  His  brow 
is  of  gold  and  his  bowels  of  brass ;  his  biceps  of  iron 
and  his  thighs  of  silver.  His  beard  is  black  smoke. 
His  heart  is  pure  steel.  Within  his  head  he  has  a 
billion  wheels,  and  when  he  opens  his  mouth  to  speak 
through  his  beard,  the  clang  of  his  voice  is  the  noise 
thereof. 

Look  in  the  morning  above  the  cities,  and  you  shall 
see  his  hair  obscuring  the  day,  and  his  eyes  like  arc 


1 6  MATER 

lights.  In  the  palm  of  one  hand  he  holds  the  great 
god  Pan  —  no  taller  than  a  pigmy;  and  in  the  other 
fist  he  clutches  a  worm  called  Man.  "  Behold  me  !  " 
he  cries  to  the  heavens ;  "  even  from  this  worm  have 
I  arisen,  and  even  to  this  stature  have  I  grown  be 
yond  this  pigmy.  Behold  me,  you  sun  and  moon ! 
Am  I  not  Busy?  Am  I  not  Big?  I  am  the  Lord  of 
Hosts  —  I  am  Prosperity  !  I  am  — 

MATER* 
\_Entering •.] 
Button !  Button  !     Who's  got  the  button  ? 

MICHAEL 

[  Glaring  desperately  as  she  approaches  with  his  coat.~\ 
Mater,  Mater,  how  you  do  interrupt ! 

MATER 

Boy,  you  carried  off  the  button  in  your  pocket. 
\_Feels  in  his  pockets  and  finds  it.~\ 

MICHAEL 
Damn  the  button ! 

MATER 

Shh  !  Remember  this  afternoon !  You  can't  ad 
dress  the  Reform  Club  with  a  whole  heart  — and 
one  button  missing. 

*She  appears  in  the  doorway,  —  lower  left — holding  Michael's 
coat,  a  needle  and  thread.  Upon  her  blond,  wavy  hair  is  a  wreath 
of  daffodils,  and  she  wears  a  fresh  becoming  gown  of  yellow  and  buff. 


MATER  ij 

MICHAEL 

I  can  address  the  universe  in  my  night-shirt,  if  I 
like.     Give  me  the  coat. 

MATER 

[Helping  him  on  with  it.~\ 
Of  course  ;  put  it  on.     That's  much  better. 
[He  starts  to  walk  away.      Catching  her  needle  and  thread 
through  the  front  of  his  coat,  she  begins  to  sew  on  the 
button.~\ 

Now  go  right  ahead,  dear.     I  can  listen  beautifully 
while  I  sew. 

MICHAEL 

[  Gloomily '.] 
Here's  a  prophet  in  his  own  country ! 

MARY 

[Approaching  Mater,  looks  particularly  hard  at  her  wreath, 

speaking  sternly  I\ 
How  could  you,  mother! 

MATER 

[Sewing,   as   Michael —  his  hands   in   his  pockets  —  turns 

away.~\ 
I  cant —  very  well. 

RUDOLF 

You  sized  me  up  pretty  small,  Dean. 

MICHAEL 

Did  I  ?     Forgive  me  ;  I'm  tired, 
c 


1 8  MA TER 

MATER 

\_With  a  glance  of  solicitude ^\ 
Tired,  boy  ? 
{She  sits  on  a  chair  beside  Michael,  sewing  on  the  button^ 

RUDOLF 

That's  all  right  But  I  didn't  catch  your  drift,  just. 
Next  time  I  start  something  doing,  how  am  I  to  know 
whether  it's  right  or  wrong  ? 

MICHAEL 

The  only  test  of  right  and  wrong  is  common  sense. 

MATER 

So  it  is,  dear.     There's  my  own  philosopher. 

RUDOLF 

Well,  then,  ain't  it  common  sense  for  us  Americans 
to  develop  our  national  resources  ? 

MICHAEL 

Yes,  so  long  as  we,  as  a  nation,  develop  them  to 
the  one  common-sense  end. 

RUDOLF 

What's  that? 

MICHAEL 

National  happiness;  nothing  else. 

RUDOLF 
Why,  of  course.     That's  why  we're  all  in  business. 


MATER  19 

MICHAEL 

Is  it?  I  think  not.  You're  in  business  —  for  busi 
ness  ;  nothing  else.  You  see  to  the  end  of  your  nose 
and  then  your  eyes  cross.  So  the  huge  world  of  busi 
ness,  in  which  you  are  an  atom,  careens  in  a  vast 
orbit  of  itself  —  chasing  forever  the  end  of  existence, 
as  a  kitten  the  end  of  its  tail. 

RUDOLF 

Hmm  !  I  don't  see  it.  Why,  man,  nothing  can 
stop  us  from  going  it,  just  like  we  are  —  only  more 
so.  It's  Destiny ;  and  I  say,  it's  great.  Don't  you  ? 

MICHAEL 

What's  great  ? 

RUDOLF 

Just  being  America.  And  since  it's  great,  why 
then  —  wheat  and  steel,  people  and  towns,  the  more 
the  merrier. 

MICHAEL 

The  more  indeed  —  if  it  be  the  merrier.  But  no 
more  —  if  it  be  not  the  merrier.  The  need  of  our 
country  to-day  is  not  more  towns,  but  happier  towns  ; 
not  more  men,  but  happier  men ;  not  life  itself,  unless 
it  be  life  worth  living. 

RUDOLF 

Oh,  come,  Dean.  You  know  you  want  America 
to  be  the  greatest  nation  on  the  globe. 

MICHAEL 

I  do  !  I  want  America  to  be  the  Hercules  —  not 
the  megatherium  —  of  the  nations. 


2Q  MA  TER 

RUDOLF 

The  mega  —  which  ? 

MATER 

\Rising,  and  putting  aside  her  sewing  materials.  ~\ 
Now,  baby  boy,  you're  a  poet. 

MICHAEL 
[  With  a  gesture  of  chagrin,  sits  in  the  chair  she  has  just 


Then  let  me  be  exiled.  Poets  !  Your  old  friend 
Plato  had  one  good  idea,  —  he  banished  all  poets  from 
his  Republic.  The  whole  pack  of  'em  have  been 
bitten  with  mad  words  and  got  the  logomania.  They 
should  be  muzzled. 

[Mater  comes  behind  the  chair  and,  while  he  continues  talk 
ing,  hovers  over  him,  smoothes  his  coat  collar,  takes 
some  threads  off  his  shoulder,  sleeks  his  hair  with  her 
hands  and,  taking  her  scissors,  snips  some  wry  locks 
over  his  ears.  ] 

Whenever  the  times  are  in  gloom  or  panic,  each 
breed  has  his  own  bark:  Inalienable  Rights!  —  Return 
to  Nature  !  —  The  Truth  of  Beauty  !  —  The  Point  of 
View  !  —  The  Voice  of  Conscience  !  —  You  may  hear 
them  baying  in  chorus,  tenor  and  basso,  from  stump 
and  bar  and  inkpot  and  pulpit  —  these  moon-dogs  of 
the  nation  —  while  the  people  run  to  and  fro,  crying 
"  Saved  !  "  But  none  yet  ever  has  voiced  the  excel 
lent  salvation  of  Common  sense.  [Leaping  upJ] 
—  What  on  earth  are  you  doing,  Mater  ? 


MA TER  2 I 

MATER 

[Standing  beside  the  empty  chair,  clicks  her  shears  and  bows 
toward  Mary,  with  the  urbanity  of  a  hairdresser. ~\ 

Next! 

MARY 

Oh,  this  is  too  bad.     You  keep  spoiling  it  all. 

MATER 
[  Trilling  her  r's  a  la  Frangais.] 

Ah,  Madame,  but  with  a  pretty  pompadour  and  a 
little  rat's  nest  inside,  n'est  ce pas? 

[She  rumples  Mary^s  hair  with  her  fingers.~\ 

MARY 

[Escaping from  her.~\ 
Mother,  why  haven't  you  a  little  maturity  ? 

MATER 

[Pensively. ~\ 

I  suppose  I  gave  birth  to  it  all,  dear,  when  you 
were  born. 

MARY 

If  only  you  wouldn't  break  in  on  serious  discus 
sions.     You  know  you  know  nothing  of  politics.  - 
Where   are   those  infants'  clothes  for  the  Orphans' 
Home  ? 

MATER 

The  little  night-gowns  ?     They're  loves  !     I've  fin 
ished  them. 


22  MATER 

MARY 

Pack  them  up,  please.     I  promised  them  for  the 
Alliance  meeting  this  afternoon. 

MATER 

\_Going  to  the  closet.~\ 
I'll  show  them  to  you. 

[Opening  the  closet  door,  she  lifts  some  heaped  articles  of 
apparel,  and  lays  them  in  a  basket^\ 

MICHAEL 

[  Gazing  before  him,  ostensibly  speaking  to  Mary.~\ 
Yes !      The    orchards    of    Reason    are   ripening : 
already  the   people   have  begun   to    pluck.     Out  of 
their   sufferings,   surely,  very  surely,  rises  the  sane 
revolution  of  joy. 

[  With  a  great  breath.~] 

And  I  shall  be  one  of  the  Orchard-keepers !     One 
of  the  vindicators  of  philosophy  ! 

MATER 

\_Approachingwith  her  basket,  filled  with  baby- clothes,  smiles 

quaintly  at  MichaelJ] 

"  How  charming  is  divine  philosophy  ! 
Not  harsh  and  crabbed  as  dull  fools  suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute  - 

[Turning  and  presenting  the  basket.~\ 
Mary,  here  are  your  nighties. 

MARY 

[Starting  away.~\ 
They're  not  mine  ! 


MATER  23 

MATER 

Really  ? 

[Holding  up  a  tiny  night-gown  with  drawers] 
Rudolf,  are  they  yours  ? 

MARY 

[Exasperated.  ] 
Mater  ! 

[Snatching  the  nightie] 

That's  simply  —  impossible! 

MATER 

There !     I  knew  it. 
[Bubbling  with  mirth,  she  puts  back  the  basket  in  the  closet.~\ 

RUDOLF 

[Explaining,  with  obtuse  earnestness.'] 
She  means,  they're  for  the  Orphan  Asylum. 

MATER 

[Beckoning  to  Rudolf,  looks  at  Mary  and  Michael.  The 
former  has  joined  her  brother  at  the  large  table,  where 
he  has  spread  some  manuscripts.  Beyond  them  hangs 
the  portrait  of  the  Senator] 

Rudolf,  look  at  them  —  both.     Can  you  see  them  — 
distinctly  ? 

RUDOLF 

[Mystified.] 
See  them  ? 

MATER 

Those  two  —  in  a  rosy  cloud  there. 


24  MATER 

RUDOLF 

You  mean  — 

MATER 

The  future  presidents  of  the  United  States  and 
Vassar  College  !  Tell  me  :  Can  you  guess  where  I 
ever  got  them  ? 

RUDOLF 

You  mean  — 

MATER 

Not  so  loud!  They  are  fairies  —  out  of  Mother 
Goose.  /  was  the  goose.  I  lived  in  an  old  little  barn 
yard,  under  a  hill.  Oh,  it  was  ages  ago  ! 

RUDOLF 
Do  you  mean  — 

MATER 
[Nodding  mysteriously^ 

'Way  back  in  New  England  —  on  the  sunshiny  side 
of  the  hill.  One  lone,  little,  yellow-feather,  sunny- 
weather  goose,  with  a  sky-blue  puddle  for  a  hand-glass. 
That  was  me!  Do  you  want  to  know  how  it  all 
happened  ? 

—  In  a  storm!  'Twas  spring  o'  the  year,  just  at 
equinox,  when  the  winds  ruffle  your  feathers  till  they 
show  the  white.  That's  why  I  turned  tail  for  home. 
But  before  I  could  reach  my  hand-glass,  there  he 
stood  !  Tall  —  black  —  terrible  —  his  head  high  in 
the  thunder,  his  beautiful  eyes  in  the  darkness  — 
black,  an  ink-black  swan  ! 


MATER  25 

RUDOLF 

\_In  a  low  voice,  looking  toward  the  portrait^ 
You  mean  — 

MATER 

[Nods  with  a  reminiscent  smile.'] 

Him.  —  My  dear,  fancy  it !  I  had  never  seen  even 
a  gander  before.  And  now,  in  a  glare  of  lightning 
—  that  wonderful  swan-dragon  !  For  his  feathers  in 
the  dark  were  fiery  scales  ;  his  crest  was  like  purple 
iris ;  his  eyes  were  far  up  and  starry ;  and  when  he 
struck  at  the  storm  with  his  flashing  beak,  the  sky  was 
all  fire.  —  Just  a  clap  of  thunder,  and  the  hillside  was 
far  away.  On  his  great  black  wings  he  bore  me  high 
over  the  world,  and  we  lighted,  at  break  of  day,  on  the 
golden  dome  of  a  Capitol.  —  Heigho,  Mother  Goose  ! 
Mother  Goose  !  In  the  shadow  of  the  golden  dome 
she  hatched  two  chicks,  and  —  will  you  believe  me  ? 
—  All  their  goosequills  were  ink-black. 

MICHAEL 

[Tugging  with  his  teeth  at  his  pen-holder. ~\ 
Double  damnation  on  this  pen  ! 

MATER 
\To  Rudolf .~\ 
Hush  !     He's  pulling  one  out  with  his  beak. 

MICHAEL 

First  it's  busted  and  now  it's  rusted  in. 
\_Flinging  it  to  the  floor  and  rising.~\ 


26  MATER 

How  many  times,  Mater,  have  I  asked  you  to  keep 
a  clean  new  pen  on  my  desk ! 

MATER 

Dear  swan-boy,  I  thought  — 

.      MICHAEL 

But  you  didn't  do  it.     I  want  one  ready  —  always 
ready. 

MATER 

[  Whimsically. ~\ 
Boy? 

MICHAEL 

I    know,    Mater,    but  bad    pens  are  used  only  in 
Purgatory. 

MATER 

\_Going  closer  to  him."] 
Don't  you  like  daffodils  ?  —  Smell ! 

MICHAEL 

[Looks  down  at  the  wreath.] 
What  ?    Where  did  you  get  them,  this  time  of  year  ? 

MATER 

You  know,  that  pleasant  gentleman  —  what's  his 
name  ? 

[Mary,  in  precipitate  haste,  reaches  over  and  pulls  Mater's 
gown.     Mater  turns  to  her.~\ 

Anything  wrong  with  my  skirt  ? 

\Mary,  glancing  toward  Rudolf,  makes  to  Mater  indescribable 
faces  of  cautionary  silence,  which  she  ignores •.] 


MATER  27 

Oh,  of  course ;  you  remember  it,  Mary,  —  Mr. 
Lucky,  or  Sullen,  or  — 

RUDOLF 

[Starting.] 
Who? 

MARY 

I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  mother. 
And  I  don't  think  it  can  be  of  any  great  conse 
quence. 

MATER 

Of  course  not.     The  only  question  of  great  conse 
quence  in  all  the  world  at  this  minute  is  —  remem 
ber  it ! 
[She  pauses,  raising  one  monitory  finger  as  in  grave  portent] 

MICHAEL 

[Interested.] 
What  ? 

MATER 

[With  a  ripple  of  laughter,  throws  herself  into  his  arms] 
Do  you  love  me  ? 

MICHAEL 
[Returning  her  hug.~\ 

Ha,  little  Mater !  You  are  good  for  nothing  but 
sewing  and  singing  — 

MATER 

[Playfully.] 
And  silliness ! 

MICHAEL 

And  silliness. 


28  MATER 

MATER 

And  soap-bubble  castles  ! 

MICHAEL 

And  chateaus  in  Spain  ! 

MATER 

[Wistfuify.] 

And  nothing  else  ? 

MICHAEL 

And  nothing  else.     But  I  like  you  better  than  — 

MATER 

[Quickly.] 
Politics  ? 

MICHAEL 

Better  even  than  politics  ! 

MATER 

I  don't  believe  it.     Prove  it. 

MICHAEL 

[Shrugs.-] 
How? 

MATER 

You  are  all  worn  out.  This  pen-holder  is  my  witness. 
Come  with  me  for  a  lark  in  the  country  —  for  one 
week. 

MICHAEL 

In  the  country  —  this  week !  And  every  day  a 
campaign  speech  till  election ! 


MA  TER  29 

MATER 

So  :  "  Better  than  politics  !  "  — perjurer ! 

MICHAEL 

Besides,  you  don't  understand.     If  you  want  me  to 
be  well,  if  that's  what  you're  after  — 

MATER 
[Passionately.] 
It's  all  I'm  after. 

MICHAEL 

There's  one  sure  road  to  that. 

MATER 

Tell  me. 

MICHAEL 

I  must  be  elected. 

[  With  deep  vehemence.  ] 
I  must  be  elected  ! 

MATER 
[Troubled^ 
And  if  you  shouldn't  be  ? 

MICHAEL 

Then  I  will  not  rest,  day  or  night,  till  I  am.  —  Not 
if  I  die  for  it ! 

MATER 

Don't,  Michael. 

MICHAEL 
I  know  the  goal,  I  know  the  path,  for  our  people. 


30  MA TER 

I  have  pointed  out  the  goal  as  a  writer ;  I  must  help 
to  shape  the  path  as  a  representative ! 

MATER 
[Quietly.-] 
I  know.  —  You  are  like  him. 

MICHAEL 

Tell  me  that  I  am,  Mater.     It  heartens  me. 

MATER 

I  have  a  little  picture  of  him,  just  at  your  age. 

MICHAEL 

At  my  age  ? 

MATER 

[Lifting  from  the  table  a  little  gold-framed  mirror  holds 
it  close  to  Michael"1  s  face  .~\ 

Look. 

MICHAEL          .  *- 

So  like  as  that  ? 

[Mater hides  her  face  against  him.~\ 

I  thank  God  for  it.  The  world  shall  meet  him 
again  —  in  me.  Little  Mater,  there  is' a  vow  I  want 
to  make  aloud,  and  I  want  you  and  Mary  to  make 
it  with  me,  here  by  his  portrait,  as  I  remember 
him. 

MATER 
[Starting  back  with  a  frightened  lookl\ 

I  don't  like  vows. 

MICHAEL 

[Slowly.'} 
You  don't  like  vows  ? 


MA TER  3 I 

MATER 

Good   people   never  keep  them.       That  is,   they 
oughtn't. 

MICHAEL 

Oughtn't ! 

MATER 

I  mean,  they  needn't.     You  see,  it  mortgages  the 
future  with  the  past 

MICHAEL 

My  future  is  in  endless  debt  to  his  past. 

MATER 

Don't  say  that,  boy.     He —  he  wouldn't  like  it. 

MICHAEL 

Have  you  forgotten  what  day  it  is  ?     What  anni 
versary  ? 

MATER 

Oh,  I  hate  anniversaries. 

MICHAEL 

But  to-day  —  the  reminder  of  — 

MATER 

Not  of  that !    He  was  never  that.    He  was  life.    He 
was  always  life. 

MICHAEL 

That's  my  vow — our  vow,  Mater.     Come! 


32  MA  TER 

MATER 
{Hesitant.'} 
I'd  rather  —  will  it  please  you  ? 

MICHAEL 

[  With  startled  sadness.~\ 
Will  it  not  —  you  ? 

MATER 
{Cheerfully. ~\ 
Oh,  very  much  indeed  ! 

{To  Mary,  drawing  her  affectionately."} 
Come,  my  other  swan  !• 

[Hugging  them  both^\ 
Dear,  incredible  twins ! 

MARY 

[  With  an  impulsive  caress '.] 
Liebes  Miitterchen ! 

MICHAEL 

{Looking  up  at  the  portrait,  speaks  simply '.] 
Father,  one  year  ago  the  vision  fell  from  your 
eyes,  the  power  from  your  hand.  To-day  I  take  up 
both  and  restore  them  to  you  in  myself.  And  my 
self  I  dedicate,  as  you  dedicated  yourself,  to  our 
country's  leadership.  The  way  is  open  at  last.  In 
this  campaign  my  career  begins  —  without  fetters  and 
without  deceit.  Uncompromisingly  I  will  walk  in 
your  clean  path,  uncompromisingly  these  women 
will  help  me  in  this  vow. 

{Turning  with  emotion  to  Mater  and  Mary .] 


MATER  33 

Won't  you  ? 

[ Mater  and  Mary  go  to  him  affectionately.  As  they  do  so  the 
telephone  on  the  desk  before  them  rings.  Michael  sits  and 
lifts  the  receiver] 

Oh,  it's  you,  Cullen.     Good  morning. 

MATER 
Why,  it's  that  delightful  — 

MARY 

Hush,  mother! 

MICHAEL 
[At  the  telephone.] 

What's  that  ?     Yes,  I  can  see  you.     You'd  like  me 
to  decide  to-day.     Well,  what's  the  proposition  ? 

\_A  pause.     MichaeFs  brow  suddenly  knits,  and  with  his  right 
hand  he  crushes  some  papers  on  the  table.~\ 

—  Four  thousand  dollars.  And  you  want  me  —  Con 
sidering  the  what  ?  —  Oh,  the  great  consequences.  A 
trifle,  of  course  !  —  You  will  explain  ?  I  think,  sir, 
it  will  be  necessary.  —  The  sooner  the  better.  —  An 
alternative,  you  say.  What  is  it  ?  —  I  see  ;  you  will 
explain.  —  Yes,  she  is  at  home.  What  of  it  ? 

RUDOLF 
{Starting] 
Who's  at  home  ? 

\_MatersmilesatMary.     Mary  turns  away. ] 
D 


34  MATER 

MICHAEL 

-What?     I   don't  catch    it.      Oh,  very  well.  —  In 
quarter  of  an  hour ;  all  right. 

\_He  hangs  up  the  receiver.'] 

MATER 

Be  careful ;  you're  crumpling  your  nice  manu 
scripts. 

\_Michael  rises  and  lets  the  crushed  papers  slip  scattering  from 
his  hand.~\ 

MICHAEL 

I  see.  They  will  initiate  me  —  behind  closed  doors. 
I  shall  be  a  knight  of  their  secret  order  —  one  of  the 
mighty  oligarchs  of  our  democracy.  God !  It  was 
almost  mine,  I  had  almost  touched  it,  and  now  — 
contamination !  contamination  ! 

\_He  staggers  and  sinks  into  a  chair, .] 

MATER 

\Bendingover  him.~\ 
Boy,  what  is  it  ? 

[ Mary  and  Rudolf  come  near  on  either  side] 

MARY 

\To  Rudolf] 
Some  brandy. 

MICHAEL 

[  With  a  gesture] 
No. 

MATER 

Your  work  is  wearing  you  out,  dear. 


MATER  35 

MICHAEL 

[Looking  at  the  three. ~\ 
My  work  is  stopped  —  for  the  present. 

MATER 

Thank  heaven ! 

MICHAEL 

I  am  not  to  be  elected. 

MARY 

Michael ! 

RUDOLF 

Gad! 

MICHAEL 

Not  this  year. 

[Rising.] 

But  I  will  be  elected  at  last ! 

MATER 

What   has   happened  ?     What   did  that  charming 
Mr.  Cullen  want  of  you  ? 

MICHAEL 

A  little  matter  of  four  thousand  dollars. 

MARY 

For  what  ? 

MICHAEL 

To  make  a  very  old  mare  go. 

MARY 
A  mare ! 


36  MA  TER 

MICHAEL 

You  never  heard  of  the  all-party  mascot  ?  Why, 
she's  an  old  stager.  She  helped  to  pull  the  Congres 
sional  coach  in  pioneer  days,  and  to-day  she  is 
hitched  to  the  campaign  band-wagon.  Her  off  eye 
winks ;  three  legs  of  her  are  black,  and  all  four  are 
game.  But  she's  a  live  old  mare  yet,  is  old  Bribery. 

MATER 

[  Who  has  been  counting  on  her  fingers."] 
Four  thousand  you  said  ?     That's  not  so  much. 

MICHAEL 

Considering  the  great  consequences  —  a  trifle  ! 

MATER 
{Jubilantly.] 
Don't  worry,  boy.     I've  got  it. 

MICHAEL 

[Darkly.] 
What? 

MATER 
I've  got  — 

[Aware  of  his  contracting  brows~\ 
—  an  idea,     /will  see  Mr.  Cullen. 

MICHAEL 

See  Cullen?— You! 


MATER  37 

MATER 

Woman  to  man,  you  know. 

MICHAEL 

What  in  nonsense  do  you  mean  by  woman  to  man  ? 

MATER 

Oh,  just  Eve  and  Adam  and  all  that. 

MICHAEL 

Mater,    are   you   daft  —  or   aren't 'you   grown-up 
yet? 

MATER 

Forty-four  next   month,  my  dear.     Is    Mr.   Cullen 
coming  this  morning? 

MICHAEL 
He  is.     What  can  you  have  to  say  to  him  ? 

MATER 

I  shall  say  to  him  that  you  have  nervous  dyspepsia, 
and  he  must  elect  you  immediately. 

MICHAEL 

And  for  this  you'll  hand  him  a  cheque  for  four 
thousand  dollars  ? 

MATER 
[  With  naivete^ 

Not  all  in  a  cheque.     The  money's  mostly  in  Sav 
ings  Banks. 


38  MA TER 

MICHAEL 

[Blankly.'} 

And  you  were  married  to  father  for  twenty-six 
years ! 

[He  walks  away.~] 

MATER 

And,  my  dear,  while  he  was  in  the  Senate,  I  helped 
him  out  of  many  such  pickles. 

MICHAEL 

[  Turning  fiercely. ~\ 

Mater!  Not  like  this !  You  never  paid  money  for 
father  in  a  case  like  this  ! 

MATER 

No ;  he  never  would  let  me.  That's  just  the  way 
he  would  scowl.  But  then  I  contrived  somehow,  and 
it  always  came  out  all  right. 

MICHAEL 

Somehow  !     What  do  you  mean  ? 

MATER 

Why,  your  father,  you  know,  could  see  only  one 
right  thing  at. a  time;  but  I  always  manage  to  see 
several  points  of  view. 

MICHAEL 

Points  of  view  are  perdition. 


MATER  39 

MATER 

So  he  told  me. 

MICHAEL 

A  given  act  must  be  right  or  wrong  ;  not  both. 

MATER 

Common  sense  or  nonsense,  of  course  !     So  when 
ever  I  found  some  necessary  little  compromise  — 

MICHAEL 

Compromise  !  —  And  father  knew  of  this  ? 

MATER 

\_Startled  at  his  voice.~] 

Oh,  never  at  the  time.     I  always  told  him  after 
wards,  and  then  we'd  make  up. 

MICHAEL 

This  is   terrible.     "  Afterwards  !  "     How  could  he 
make  up  !     I  can't  bear  it. 

[  Going  toward  the  door,  lower  left.  ] 

Let  me  know  when  Cullen  arrives.     And  here  — 

[Indicating  some  newspaper  clippings  on  the  tablel\ 

Please  attend  to  these.     Come,   Mary ;  I   must  talk 
with  you  —  upstairs. 

[Pausing  at  the  door,  which  Mary  opens.~\ 

Mater,    one   thing    you    must    promise   me    now : 
Never  to  meddle   in   my  career  without   my  knowl- 


4O  MA  TER 

edge.  I  ask  your  loving  help  ;  but  not  your  loving 
subterfuge.  Promise  me,  once  and  forever,  never 
to  deceive  me  in  this. 

MATER 
Boy,  I  promise  you,  work-bells  and  kirk-bells ! 

MICHAEL 
[Pointing  to  the  portrait."] 

Remember  our  vow  —  there.     I    will    see    Cullen 
when  he  comes. 

[Exeunt  MICHAEL  and  MARY.] 

MATER 

[Looks  after  them,  humming  low  and  tapping  with  her  footJ\ 

Dear,  dear  !     Dear,  dear  ! 

[She  bursts  into  soft  laughter.     Rudolf  approaches  and  looks 
at  her  with  earnest  perplexity '.] 

RUDOLF 
Mrs.  Dean  — 

MATER 
[Starting.} 

Nonsense,  Rudolf.     Call  me  Mater.     You'll  be  my 
son  in  a  jiffy. 

[As  she  talks  with  Rudolf,  Mater  moves  lightly  about  the 
room.  Picking  up  the  crumpled  sheets  of  manuscript, 
she  smoothes  them  out,  puts  a  new  pen  in  the  holder,  ex 
amines  the  packet  of  clippings  and  places  them  in  an 
open  scrap-book  on  the  table.'] 


MATER  41 

RUDOLF 

Thanks,  Mrs.  —  Mater.  But  that's  just  what  keeps 
me  guessing.  This  morning,  Mary  told  me  right  here 
that  compared  to  this  book 

\_Slamming  down  Michael's  volume  on  the  tablel\ 

and  her  brother's  career,  our  marriage  was   a  very 
trifling  concern. 

MATER 

Did  she  say  that  ?     Oh,  delicious  ! 

RUDOLF 

Delicious !  She  said  that  her  work  is  to  make  hu 
manity  in  America  — 

MATER 

Of  course  it  is.  Her  work  is  to  get  married  to  you, 
and  make  American  sons  and  daughters. 

RUDOLF 

She  won't  get  married,  she  says,  till  her  brother  is 
elected.  You  know  when  she  sets  her  teeth,  she 
hangs  on  hard. 

MATER 

I  know.  I  call  her  Molly  Mud-turtle ;  she  pokes 
so  in  her  slums,  and  snaps  when  you  pull  her  out. 

RUDOLF 

She  snapped  me  all  right  this  morning.  Said  she 
wouldn't  speak  to  me  again  till  after  election.  I 
wonder  !  That  political  fellow  on  the  telephone  — • 


42  MATER 

Michael   said  to   him :   "  She's  at  home."     Who  do 
they  call  she  ? 

MATER 

The  Ship,  stupid ! 

RUDOLF 

Ship! 

MATER 

Ship  of  State,  you  know.     Whenever  Michael  con 
verses  with  politicians,  he  talks  their  dialect. 

RUDOLF 

Say,  Mater,  you're  a  great  fixer.     Please  fix  it  up 
with  Mary  for  me,  won't  you  ? 

MATER 

Never  fear,  fond  lover ! 

When  fair  wind  blows 

The  weather-cock  crows. 
I'll  send  you  a  fair  wind. 

RUDOLF 

Well,  I  must  light  out. 

\_From  the  hall.~\ 

And  listen,   Mater,   he's  got  to  be  elected.     Fix 
that,  too. 

MATER 

[  Waving  to  himl\ 
That,  too. 

\Exit  RUDOLF  by  the  stair s.~\ 


MA TER  43 

[Bringing  a  pot  of  paste  to  the  table,  Mater  undoes  the 
packet  of  clippings  and  begins  to  arrange  some  in  the 
scrap-book. 

Enter   MARY,    left.      With   flashing    eyes,   she    approaches 
Mater,  looking  at  her  wreath.~] 

MARY 
Those  daffodils ! 

MATER 

What !     Are  they  wilting  ? 

MARY 
He  sent  them  to  me. 

MATER 
And  you  threw  them  away. 

MARY 

Of  course  I  threw  them  away.     You  think  I  care 

for  him  ? 

MATER 

Don't  you  ?     I  dote  on  him.     He  has  such  a  Uto 
pian  sense  of  humor.     So  foreign  to  our  family ! 

MARY 

Why,  he's  a  grafter — a  corrupt  villain  ! 

MATER 

Really  ?     Now  to  me,  my  dear,  his  smile  quite  dis 
infects  his  character. 

[Looking  in  the  hand-glass  at  her  wreathl\ 
Nonsense ;  they're  as  fresh  as  ever. 


44  MA  TER 

MARY 

You  surely  know  that  he's  Michael's  worst  enemy. 

MATER 

I  didn't  know  that  was  settled.  Then  it  is  par 
ticularly  important  I  should  like  him,  isn't  it  ? 

MARY 

Oh,  mother,  you  have  no  more  logic  than  an  in 
fant.  And  look  at  you  there  in  that  dress,  and  those 
daffodils !  I  don't  wonder  he  made  that  ridiculous 
mistake  when  he  met  you  and  me  at  the  Robinsons' 
dinner  party.  I'm  sure  I  really  feel  complimented. 

MATER 

I  knew  you  would,  Mary.  That's  why  I  appro 
priated  these  flowers  he  sent  here  addressed  to  "  Miss 
Dean."  They  just  suit  my  hair.  And  I  know  when 
I  tell  Rudolf  — 

MARY 
\_FlushingI\ 

If  you  dare !  Do  you  think  that  I  want  Rudolf  to 
know  that  Mr.  Cullen  mistook  me  for  your  mother? 

MATER 

Me  rather,  for  your  daughter,  my  dear.  I  don't 
remember  that  he  paid  you  any  attention,  except  to 
notice  your  spectacles  and  your  elderly  black  gown. 


MA TER  45 

MARY 

Elderly  !    I  declare  you  should  be  ashamed,  mother, 
Bunder  the  cirumstances  —  not  to  wear  mourning. 

MATER 

[With  deep  feeling,  simply.'} 
You  see,  dear,  I  hate  black  —  and  all  it  means. 

MARY 

No,  I  don't  see  anything  you  mean.  You  are  ab 
solutely  immature  and  provoking.  And  those  night 
gowns  —  mine  !  And  Rudolf  standing  right  by  ! 
Oh,  it's  too  much. 

MATER 

But,  my  dear,  they  were  darlings ! 

MARY 

[Shrilly,  stopping  her  earsJ] 

Be  quiet !  Since  you  can't  reason,  I  must  ask  you 
to  make  me  a  promise. 

MATER 
It's  my  pet  avocation,  child. 

MARY 

Don't  call  me  "  child  "  ;  it's  ridiculous.  You're 
just  a  spoilt  one  yourself.  Please  listen.  I'm  ashamed 
to  have  any  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Cullen.  Rudolf 
doesn't  know  I  went  to  that  dinner  party.  Michael's 
forgotten  it.  Now  promise  me,  mother,  you  will  never 
tell  either  one  of  them  that  I've  met  Mr.  Cullen. 


46  MA TER 

MATER 

[  Crossing  herself  solemnly  I\ 
Never  —  never  —  never ! 

MARY 

[Goes  impttuously  and  kisses  her} 
I  forgive  you.     Now  do  behave  ! 
[She  hurries  off,  left.} 

MATER 

[Affectionately.  } 
Twins !  twins  ! 

[She  laughs  to  herself;  then,  as  a  shade  passes  over  her  face, 
turns  slowly  and  walks  toward  the  piano-seat,  pausing 
an  instant  to  glance  up  at  the  portrait,} 

Michael  dear  ! 

[She  sits  at  the  piano,  touches  the  keys  and  sings} 

Long  ago,  in  the  young  moonlight, 

I  lost  my  heart  to  a  hero ; 
Strong  and  tender  and  stern  and  right, 
Darker  than  night, 

And  terribler  than  Nero. 

Heigh,  but  he  was  dear,  O ! 

And  there,  to  bind  our  fellowship, 

I  laughed  at  him  ;  and  a  moment  after, 

I  laughed  again  till  he  bit  his  lip  ; 
For  the  test  of  love  is  laughter. 

[As  she  sings  on,  the  door-bell  rings  below,  unheard  by  her.} 


MA TER  47 

"  Lord  and  master,  look  up  !  "  I  cried; 

"  I  wreathe  your  brow  with  a  laurel ! 
Gloom  and  wisdom  and  right  and  pride  — 
Cast  them  aside, 

And  kiss,  and  cure  our  quarrel. 

Never  mind  the  moral !  " 

Alas !  with  strange  and  saddened  eyes 

He  looked  on  me  ;  and  my  mirth  grew  dafter, 

To  feel  the  flush  of  his  dark  surprise ; 
For  the  zest  of  love  is  laughter. 

^  While  she  continues,  there  comes  up  the  stairway  into  the 
hall  a  handsome  man  of  early  middle  age.  He  enters, 
unnoticed  by  her  ;  softly  approaches  —  smiling  slightly 
—  until  he  stands  behind  the  piano-seatl\ 

Long  ago,  in  the  old  moonlight, 

I  lost  my  hero  and  lover ; 
Strong  and  tender  and  stern  and  right, 
Never  shall  night 

Nor  day  his  brow  uncover. 

Ah,  my  heart,  that  is  over ! 

Yet  still,  for  joy  of  the  fellowship 

That  bound  us  both  through  the  years  long  after, 
I  laugh  to  think  how  he  bit  his  lip ; 
For  the  test  of  love  — 
And  the  best  of  love  —  is  laughter. 

[Finishing,  Mater  remains  sitting  in  a  revery.  Behind  her, 
the  man  lightly  touches  the  flowers  on  her  hair.~] 


48  MA TER 

THE   MAN 

Was  it  a  fragrance,  or  a  song  ? 

MATER 

[Springing  up,  steps  back  in  startled  reserve^ 
Mr.  Cullen  ! 

CULLEN 

The  maid  told  me  to  walk  up,  Miss  Dean.     I  had 
no  right  to  listen,  but  the  daffodils  made  me  bold. 

MATER 

Oh,  the  daffodils ! 

CULLEN 

[Smiling.] 
You  see, 

"  I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud  — 

When  all  at  once  "  — 

It   is   gracious    of   you   to  wear   them  —  and  like 
that. 

MATER 

I  didn't  know  they  taught  Wordsworth  in  the  legis 
lature. 

CULLEN 

You  are  fond  of  yellow  ? 

MATER 

Very  ;  it's  so  becoming. 

CULLEN 

To  pure  gold ! 


MA TER  49 

MATER 

Oh,  you've  come  to  talk  business  ! 

CULLEN 

With  your  brother,  Miss  Dean. 

MATER 
\_Sta  rting.] 
My  brother  ?  —  To  be  sure  ! 

CULLEN 

{Taking  from  his  pocket  a  large  envelope, .] 
I  have  brought  him  some  papers  —  memoranda  in 
regard  to  the  election. 

MATER 

I  remember  now.  —  How  soon  is  he  to  be  elected  ? 

CULLEN 
\_Smiling.~] 

Well,  that  may  depend  upon  how  soon  he  is  willing 
to  receive  these  papers. 

MATER 

How  nice  of  you !     Then  it's  all  settled. 

CULLEN 

I  think  we  may  have  to  confer  —  first 

MATER 

Don't  trouble,  I'll  hand  them  to  him. 


5O  MATER 

CULLEN 

I'm  afraid  he  might  not  accept  them  — without  ex 
planation. 

MATER 
{_Cordially.~\ 
Mightn't  /  explain  that  you'd  like  him  to  ? 

CULLEN 

My  dear  Miss  Dean,  you  are  delightfully  apropos. 
I  really  think  you  might.  The  whole  matter,  you  see, 
is  comprised  in  —  in  what  one  might  call,  in  politics 
or  philosophy,  the  point  of  view. 

.    MATER 

Yes,  I've  heard  him  mention  that  phrase,  very 
earnestly. 

CULLEN 
\Twinkling.~\ 
Have  you  !     That  doesn't  sound  promising. 

MATER 

Really  ?    Why,  what  are  the  papers  ? 

CULLEN 

Let  me  be  perfectly  clear.  The  daughter  of  a 
Senator  will  doubtless  understand.  They  are  pledges 
from  certain  powerful  quarters  —  quite  informal 
pledges  —  of  votes  for  your  brother's  election,  pro 
vided  he  can  see  his  way  in  assisting  the  campaign 
fund  to  the  extent,  say,  of  four  thousand  dollars.  En- 


MA  TER  5 i 

tirely,  of  course,  for  necessary  expenses.    -A  simple 
business  proposition,  as  you  see.     Do  you  catch  the 

—  the  point  of  view  ? 

MATER 

Yes,  I  think,  as  you  say,  I  catch. 

CULLEN 
[Laughing.] 

Did  I  say  "  catch  "  ?  How  unnecessary  !  Well, 
and  do  you  think  you  can  persuade  your  brother  to— 
also  to  — 

MATER 

No,  I'm  certain  he  would  muff. 
[  Confidentially.] 

You  see  he's  much  younger  than  I. 
[  Cullen  lifts  his  eyebrows] 

And  he's  had  as  yet  so  little  knowledge  of  men  and 
real  life  from  the  practical  —  what  do  you  call  it  ?  — 
point  of  view. 

CULLEN 
On  my  word ! 

MATER 

And  besides  that 

[  With  maternal  confidingness] 

—  he's  so  tired!     You've  no  idea  what  insomnia!  — 
We  must  be  extremely  careful  not  to  let  him  think 
too  hard.     So,  you  see,  I'm  sure  we  had  better  not 
mention  the  papers  to  him  at  all. 


52  MATER 

CULLEN 

\Turning  toward  the  hall.~\ 

That's  a  pity.  I  was  looking  forward  so  much  to 
his  becoming  my  colleague  in  the  legislature. 

MATER 

[Following.] 

Oh,  you  needn't  let  anything  interfere  with  that. 

CULLEN 

[  Whose  eyes  have  constantly  watched  Mater  with  fascination.] 
These  papers,  believe  me,  are  the  obstacles,  not  I. 

MATER 

I  have  it,  then  !  Why  not  tear  them  up  and  stay 
to  lunch  ? 

CULLEN 

[  With  mingled  ardor  and  grandiloquence] 
Do  you  say  that  ?     You  ?  —  Dear  Miss  Dean,  say  it 
once  more,  and  I  will  tear  these  to  shreds  and  throw 
them  into  oblivion. 

MATER 

[Catching  her  breath.'] 
Gracious ! 

CULLEN 

[Checking  himself. ~\ 

You  see,  these  represent,  now,  a  matter  of  business 
between  business  men  ;  but  if,  instead,  all  this  were  — 
may  I  say  it,  dear  Miss  Dean —  were  in  one  family  — 


MATER  53 

MATER 
\_Playing  with  the  hand-glass  on  the  table.~\ 

Dear  me  ! 

CULLEN 

Between  brothers  — 

MATER 

Brothers  ! 
\_Her  mouth  twitching,  she  turns  the  glass  and  glances  at  her 

reflection.~\ 
That  is  an  idea. 

CULLEN 

Then,  you  see,  the  case  would  be  utterly  changed. 

MATER 

[  Glancing  up.~\ 
Oh,  utterly ! 

CULLEN 

Young  Dean  — that  is,  Michael —  and  I  would  then 
have  but  one  interest  and  ambition.  And  of  course 
there  would  be  no  need  for  even  mentioning  business 
between  us. 

MATER 

Of  course  not.     I  hadn't  thought  of  that  before  - 
really  ! 

CULLEN 

[Smiting  enthralled."] 

But  you'll  think  of  it  now,  and  —  invite  me  to 
lunch  again  ? 

[Looking  at  her,  he  lifts  the  large  envelope,  about  to  tear  /f 
She  stops  him  with  a  gesture^ 


54  MA TER 

MATER 

Just  a  minute  !     Mayn't  I  see  them  ? 

\_Cullen  shakes  his  head.~\ 

And  you  are  absolutely  sure  that  Michael's  election 
depends  on  the  papers  in  that  envelope  ? 

CULLEN 

On  pledges  which  they  informally  stand  for  —  ab 
solutely. 

MATER 

[Turning  away  her  head  to  hide  a  swift  frown  of  perplexity, 
pauses,  lifts  the  hand-glass  again,  smiles  wickedly,  crosses 
herself,  turns  backward  her  face  to  the  right,  looks  at 
Cullen  and  the  envelope,  and  reaches  back  (right]  her  left 
hand  across  her  shoulder  ^\ 

Please !       Over    my    right    shoulder !      Just    for 
luck  ? 

CULLEN 

[Again  shaking  his  head,  puts  the  envelope  inside  his  coat.~\ 
Not  these ;  but  something  else,  if  you  will  let  me. 

\_He  fumbles  in  his  outer  side  pocket. ~\ 
May  I  ask  what  you  are  smiling  about  ? 

MATER 

May  I  ask  you  the  same  ? 

CULLEN 

\JProducingfrom  his  pocket  a  tiny  box,  and  offering  it.~\ 
It's  such  a  little  thing  — 


MATER  55 

MATER 

[Meeting  his  glance] 
To  save  a  nation ! 

[Taking  the  box.] 
So  this  is  the  alternative  ? 

CULLEN 

And  in  presenting  it,  may  I  beseech  you  to  be  un 
equivocal —  and  ask  me  to  lunch  again  ? 

MATER 

Unequivocally,  this  is  called  —  "putting  the  ques 
tion,"  isn't  it  ? 

CULLEN 

[Ardently] 
Need  you  ask  ? 

MATER 

[Drawing  back  a  little] 

Well,  you  see  it's  so  long  —  since  the  last  time;  I'm 
afraid  I've  grown  rusty. 

CULLEN 

Gold  is  cruel,  but  it  never  rusts.  Dearest  young 
lady,  in  the  gleam  of  your  hair,  your  wreath,  your 
smile,  you  are  a  book  of  little  ironies  bound  in  gold, 
and  in  spite  of  being  your  butt,  my  heart  "  dances 
with  the  daffodils." 

MATER 

[  Opening  the  box] 
Why,  it's  a  thimble  ! 


56  MATER 

CULLEN 

And  gold  to  match  ! 

MATER 

[Delightedly^ 

My  dear  Mr.  Cullen,  it's  the  booby  prize  —  the  one 
we  drew  for  guessing  riddles  at  that  dinner  party. 

CULLEN 
You  and  I. 

MATER 

Yes,  we  were  partners.     It  fits  beautifully.     What 
glory  for  Michael's  socks  ! 

CULLEN 

I  told  you  I  would  have  it  inscribed. 

MATER 

How  good  of  you  to  remember! 

CULLEN 

How  could  I  forget  ?     Can  you  read  the  inscription  ? 

MATER 

[Examining  the  thimble."] 
M.  D.  &  A.  C.  Partners. 

How  interesting  !     Is  this  one  of  the  riddles  —  we 
didn't  guess  ? 

CULLEN 

The  letters,  of  course,  stand  for  you  and  me. 


MATER  57 

MATER 

Us? 

CULLEN 
The  initials  — 

MATER 

Wait.  You  mustn't  tell.  Let  me  guess:  M.  D. 
—  Marvellous  Deep,  that's  me  ;  &  A.  C.  —  Awfully 
Clever,  that's  you.  Right? 

CULLEN 
Wrong  !     You've  inverted  us. 

MATER 

Three  more  guesses  ! 

[She  proceeds  to  point  her  index  finger,  first  at  herself  and 
then  at  Cullen,  in  repetition^ 

M.  D.,  Mend  Darns  &  A.  C.,  Aid  Charity. 
Money  Deposited  &  Accounts  Credited. 
Make  Declarations  &  Accept  Consequences. 
Have  I  won  ? 

CULLEN 

Lost !     You  pointed  the  wrong  way. 

[Taking from  her  the  thimble, .] 
Matilda  Dean,  M.  D.  — 

MATER 

Doctor  of  Matrimony  ! 

CULLEN 
&  A.  C.,  Arthur  Cullen  — 


58  MATER 

MATER 

Author  of  Compliments ! 

[She  courtesies,  he  bows  and  both  laugh.} 

CULLEN 

You  have  saved  the  day  —  and  the  prize.     Now 
you  must  wear  it. 

MATER 

[^Holding  out  her  right  hand.} 
On  my  darning-finger  ? 

CULLEN 

No ;  the  left  hand  —  on  the  ring-finger. 
\_Mater  puts  out  her  left  hand,  but  draws  it  back  hastily 
behind  her.  In  the  same  moment,  Cullerfs  smile  dies  away.~\ 

I  beg  pardon. 

\_He  looks  at  her  quizzically.'} 

MATER 

[Quickly.} 
Oh,  not  at  all. 

\_After  a  pause. ~\ 

You  —  you  want  to  see  it  ? 

CULLEN 

I  believe  I  —  caught  a  glimpse. 

MATER 

\_Hesitatingly,  brings  her  left  hand  forward,  revealing  a  ring 
on  the  ring-finger, .] 

It's  quite  plain. 


MA TER  59 

CULLEN 
Quite  —  plain  gold. 

MATER 

You  don't  —  mind,  do  you  ? 
CULLEN 

Mind  ?     I  ? 

MATER 

I  mean,  because  of  the  finger.  You  see,  it's  a 
wedding-ring. 

CULLEN 

I  see. 

MATER 

You  see,  it  belonged  to  the  first  Mrs.  Dean  —  Mrs. 
Senator  Dean. 

CULLEN 

Oh !  —  Thank  you. 

MATER 

You  see,  Michael's  mother — well,  of  course,  I  can 
never  feel  quite  the  same  sentiment  toward  her  —  as 
he  does.  And  so,  my  own  mother  not  being  living  — 
you  understand  — 

CULLEN 
Oh,  entirely. 

MATER 

So,  you  see,  I  wear  her  ring  —  \htfirst  Mrs.  Dean's 
ring — from  a  kind  of  sentiment  —  a  very  natural 
kind  of  sentiment,  I  think. 


6O  MA  TER 

CULLEN 

Absolutely. 

MATER 

\_Na'ively.~\ 
You  think  so  ? 

CULLEN 

Of  course. 

MATER 

\_Anxiously '.] 
You're  relieved? 

CULLEN 

Enormously,  Miss  Dean. 

MATER 

\_Drawing  a  deep  breath .] 
So  am  I ! 

CULLEN 

Really  though,  you  gave  me  a  bad  minute. 

MATER 

{Absently.'} 
I'm  so  glad. 

CULLEN 
[Smiling.] 
I'm  afraid  you  are  wicked. 

MATER 
I  am,  I  am  ! 

CULLEN 

I  had  supposed  that  Michael  Dean  —  but  I  knew 
nothing  about  it.     I  knew  nothing,  you  see,   of  his 


MATER  6 1 

family,  till  that  happy  riddle  party,  when  I  met  you ; 
the  only  time  till  now.  I  didn't  know,  of  course,  that 
you  and  he  are  children  of  different  mothers. 

) 

MATER 

[  With  great  earnestness^ 

Oh,  but  we  are  —  honestly  we  are  !  —  What  makes 
you  look  at  me  like  that  ? 

CULLEN 
I  was  taking  my  turn. 

MATER 

At  what  ? 

CULLEN 
Miss  Matilda  Dean  :  her  Marvellous  Deepness. 

MATER 

Oh,  but  surely  Arthur  Cullen,  Esquire,  his  Awfully 
Cleverness  can  decipher  that. 

CULLEN 

Will  you  answer  me  downright  one  thing  ? 

MATER 

Ask  it  first. 

CULLEN 

Miss  Dean,  have  you  never  given  your  heart  to  a 
man? 


62  MA  TER 

MATER 

Downright  —  that's    difficult    to    answer.      Would 
you  call  yourself  a  man,  Mr.  Cullen  ? 

CULLEN 

[Fervently^ 
Do  you  mean  — 

MATER 

What  I  ask  ?  —  Of  course. 

CULLEN 
[  Constraining  himself ^\ 

Well,   for    argument,  yes ;    give    me    the   benefit. 
What,  then,  is  your  answer  ? 

MATER 

Then  my  answer  is  —  no. 

CULLEN 

Never  ? 

MATER 

With  one  limitation.     To  speak  downright  of  my 
heart,  —  long  ago  I  gave  it  to  a  dragon. 

CULLEN 
A  dragon ! 

MATER 

A  wonderful  black  swan,  made  of  fire  and  tempest 
and  tenderness.     And  he  devoured  it  in  flames. 


MATER  63 

CULLEN 

[  With  growing  emotion.'] 

And   where,    may    I    ask,    does    this   fiery    swan- 
dragon  live? 

MATER 

[Quietly.-} 
He  is  dead. 

CULLEN 

Fortunate  for  him,  Miss  Dean,  or  I  should  have 
been  tempted  to  become  his  Saint  George. 

MATER 

\JSrn  ilingfain  tlyl\ 
Fortunate  ior  you,  Mr.  Cullen. 

CULLEN 

0  undecipherable  lady !     You  are  just  muddling 
my  head  with  your  mythology.     Let  it  go  ! 

[Lifting  the  thimble. ~\ 

1  haven't  a  spark  of  curiosity ;  I  don't  care  a  hang 
where  you  may  have  hung  your  heart  before,  so  long 
as  you  don't  drive  me  to  the  gallows-tree  by  refusing 
me  this  thimbleful  of  hope. 

MATER 

Drive  you  where  ? 

CULLEN 

To    corruption,     Miss    Dean, — to   the    campaign 
fund  ;  and  your  brother  to  despair. 


64  MATER 

MATER 

My — {checking  herself .~\  Michael  to  despair  ?  If 
I  refuse  this  thimble  ? 

CULLEN 

Precisely.  He  will  lose  his  election,  and  I  shall 
lose  my  morals.  Think,  dear  Miss  Dean,  think  of 
the  double  salvation  that  lies  in  your  power. 

\_Holding  out  the  thimble,  he  steps  toward  her.  ] 

MATER 

Do  you  mean,  Mr.  Cullen,  that  you  would  intimi 
date  m^with  a  thimble  ? 

CULLEN 

Intimidate  !  —  Ah,  there  you  forget  again.  Are  we 
not  both  good  Hegelians  ?  Intimidation  and  love  are 
but  points  of  view. 

MATER 

Mr.  Cullen,  you  are  positively  medicinal !  If  only 
I  had  you  always  in  the  house,  I'd  consult  no  more 
specialists.  I'd  drop  you  every  morning,  by  lumps,  in 
Michael's  coffee. 

\_The  voice  of  Michael  calls  from  outside," Mater /"     She 
starts  for  the  door,  lower  left.~\ 

Goodness !  He  wants  me  now.  I  must  tell  him 
you're  here. 

CULLEN 

{Holding  it  out^\ 
The  thimble. 


MATER  65 

MATER 

What  shall  I  do  ? 

\_The  voice  sounds  again  impatiently^ 

CULLEN 

What's  that  he  called  you  ? 

MATER 

Me  ?  That  ?  Oh,  "  Mater !  "—  Short  for  Matilda, 
you  know.  He  always  called  me  that  as  a  little  boy, 
and  the  Senator  used  to  encourage  him.  He  thought 
it  sounded  so  pretty  and  maternal.  So  now,  you  see, 
it's  grown  habitual  with  him. 

[  With  anxiety  but  assumed  spontaneity^ 
—  Do  you  like  it  ? 

CULLEN 
Why,  it's  quite  charming,  but  quite  inappropriate. 

MATER 

\_Surprised  and  ruffled.~\ 
Nonsense  !     I  don't  agree  with  you. 

\_She  starts  for  the  door  again.~\ 

CULLEN 
Miss  Dean  —  the  thimble. 

MATER 

\_Pausing  —  her  matronly  feelings  still  pique  d.~\ 
It's   very   unfriendly  of  you.     If   you  think   me  a 
seminary  miss  — 


66  MA  TER 

CULLEN 
But,  dear  young  lady,  I  must  remind  you  — 

MATER 
{Tartly^ 
Oh,  I  don't  mean  the  thimble. 

CULLEN 

Won't  you  take  it  before  — 

MATER 

\_Taking  it  quickly '.] 

Of  course  I'll  take  it  —  and  hide  it.     That's  part  of 
the  game,  you  know. 

\_She  puts  it  in  her  girdle. ~\ 

CULLEN 

Remember  !     That  means  hope. 

MATER 

Not  in  the  least,  —  not  till  I  wear  it. 

CULLEN 

Don't  forget !     Whatever  service  in   the  world   I 
can  do  for  your  brother  — 

MATER 

But  I  did  forget.     Those  campaign  clippings ! 

\_She  goes  toward  the  table. ~\ 
He  will  gobble  me  up. 


MATER  67 

CULLEN 

I  beg  of  you.     Can  I  be  of  any  possible  use  ? 

MATER 

Why,    of   course   you  can.     Sit   down    and    paste 
these  in  quickly. 

\_ffe  sits  at  the  table  by  the  scrap-book.^ 

These  here,  those  there.     Exactly  like  that —  par 
allel.     Exactly,  mind  !     No  ;  you'll  have  to  sit  square 

to  do  it. 

[Adjusting  him.~\ 

So  !     Like  that.     Now,  don't  move  from  that  angle 
till  I  come  back  and  criticise.     If  you  do  — 

CULLEN 
\_Raising  his  hand,  as  in  oath-taking.~\ 

Geometrical  lady,  I  will  keep  parallel  —  though  I 

petrify  ! 

\_As  she  is  going,  she  places,  rather  conspicuously,  one  of  the 
clippings  beside  him  ;  then  hurries  away.  Cullen  calls 
after  her.~] 

And  the  thimble  ? 

MATER 

[At  the  door.~\ 

If  ever  you  see  it  on  my  darning-finger,  you  may 
have  hope. 

\_Exit,  in  low-voiced  laughter. ~\ 


68  MA  TER 

CULLEN 

\_Looks  after  her.~\ 
Hope,  bewitching  Hope ! 

\_He  turns  to  the  scrap-book,  takes  paste  brush  and  shears 
and  lifting  the  clipping  which  Mater  has  laid  down, 
glances  at  it  more  closely,  whistles  a  soft  whistle  and 
reads. ~\ 

"  A  striking  feature  of  the  present  campaign  has 
been  the  nomination  of  that  young  and  idealistic 
radical,  Michael  Dean,  son  of  the  late  lamented  Sen 
ator.  Whatever  opinions  may  be  held  in  regard 
to  his  epoch-making  work  '  Common  Sense  and  the 
Common  Weal/  it  is  pleasant,  at  least,  to  contrast 
the  straightforward  promise  of  this  young  man  with 
the  compromising  accomplishment  of  the  majority  of 
our  legislators ;  notably  with  the  activity  of  the  Hon 
orable  Arthur  Cullen,  whose  record  of  public  activity 
so  far  has  consisted  in  playing  astutely  that  game  of 
so-called  '  practical '  politics,  which  is  simply  another 
name  for  private  enterprise." 

[Looking  toward  the  door,  lower  left.~\ 

Well,  of  all  artistic  deviltry  —  ! 

MICHAEL 

\_His  voice  heard  outside '.] 
No,  you  will  wait,  please.     I  wish  to  see  him  alone. 

[  Cullen  closes  the  scrap-book  hastily.  MICHAEL  enters  and 
pauses  with  aloofness.  Cullen  starts  to  rise,  but  sits 
again  suddenly,  in  his  former  pose  of  angular  rigidity, ,] 


MATER  69 

MICHAEL 

Good  morning,  Mr.  Cullen. 

CULLEN 
Good  morning,  Dean. 

MICHAEL 

We  have  already  conversed  by  telephone. 

CULLEN 


you  ? 


Yes ;  very  pleasant  to  hear  your  voice.     How  are 
MICHAEL 


Very  curious. 

CULLEN 
Eh  ?     What's  curious  ? 

MICHAEL 
I  —  to  hear  you  explain. 

CULLEN 

Oh,  of  course !  Beg  pardon,  I  forgot.  The  fact 
is,  I've  an  ugly  touch  of  sciatica,  and  that  prevents 
me. 

\_He  cantor fs  his  face  for  an  instant.'] 

MICHAEL 

Prevents  you  from  explaining  ? 


^O  MA TER 

CULLEN 

No,  my  dear  fellow,  from  rising.  I  trust  I  have 
explained.  It  comes  and  goes  —  by  fits,  you  know. 

MICHAEL 

And  did  you  come  in  this  fit  to  consult  me  as  a 
doctor  ? 

CULLEN 

No,  don't  worry ;  I've  seen  the  doctor  already. 
I'm  prescribed  for.  Just  Hope !  And  no  moving, 
till  Hope  returns. 

[  Cullen,  still  sitting  rigid,  glances  uncomfortably  but  humor 
ously  toward  the  door,  left.  Michael  begins  to  pace 
with  nervous  strides.'} 

MICHAEL 

Mr.  Cullen,  this  afternoon  I  have  a  public  speech 
to  make.  My  time  is  brief.  You  will  kindly  leave 
these  prevarications  and  explain  your  business. 

CULLEN 

\_His  eyes  constantly  seeking  the  door.'] 
There's  really  no  great  hurry. 

\_Takingfrom  his  pocket  the  large  envelope^ 
I  have  brought  with  me  some    memoranda,  fore 
casts  of  your  election,  which   I   should   be   glad  to 
hand  you,  in  the  event  — 

MICHAEL 

In  the  event  of  my  handing  you  four  thousand 
dollars. 


MATER  fi 

CULLEN 

Toward  the  campaign  expenses. 

MICHAEL 

Thanks,  sir;  but  you  are  old  fashioned.  Since 
your  good  old  days,  you  forget  that  the  people  have 
been  to  school  —  politically.  The  A  B  C  of  public 
morality  forbids  any  candidate  to  provide  expenses 
for  his  own  campaign. 

CULLEN 

My  dear  Dean,  those  of  us  who  never  get  beyond 
their  A  B  C's  may  have  to  sit  always  in  the  back 
benches. 

MICHAEL 

And  those  of  us  who  forget  their  A  B  C's  may 
have  to  be  sent  even  farther  back. 

CULLEN 

[  With  a  grimace. ,] 
The  devil !  —  Pardon  my  sciatica. 

MICHAEL 
[Earnestly '.] 
Are  you  really  in  pain  ? 

CULLEN 
A  touch,  a  mere  touch. 

[Pocketing  the  envelope  again.~\ 

Let's  change  the  subject.  I  have  an  alternative 
to  propose. 


72  MA  TER 

MICHAEL 

So  you  mentioned. 

CULLEN 

A  pleasanter  solution  to  all  this.     Your  sister  — 

MICHAEL 

My  sister !     What  has  she  to  do  with  all  this  ? 

CULLEN 

It  occurred  to  me  when  I  first  met  her  — 

MICHAEL 

When  ?     I  didn't  know  you  had  ever  met. 

CULLEN 

Heaven  forgive  you,  then !  You  introduced  me 
yourself  at  the  Robinsons'  dinner. 

MICHAEL 

Did  I  ?    I  don't  remember.  —  Well,  the  alternative  ? 

CULLEN 

My  dear  Dean,  you  and  I  are  in  politics  —  probably 
for  keeps.  I  possess  large  influence  already  ;  you 
may  possess  it  sometime.  You  are,  of  course,  a 
genius,  but  — 

MICHAEL 

Skip  that. 

CULLEN 

In  short,  you  yourself  have  prompted  my  sug 
gestion.  In  your  incomparable  book,  you  will  re- 


MA TER  73 

member,  you  point  out  that  self-interest  is  the  most 
powerful  motive  of  humanity,  and  the  logical  one  to 
employ  for  attaining  the  ends  of  the  common  weal. 

MICHAEL 

In  brief,  what's  your  proposition? 

CULLEN 

Simply  this :  In  our  common  weal,  we  can  be  friends 
or  enemies.  For  our  common  weal,  therefore,  let 
self-interest  make  us  friends.  Now  it  so  happens 
that  I  am  unmarried,  and  you  have  a  sister  — 

MICHAEL 

Get  up ! 

CULLEN 

[Still  seated.'} 
What's  the  row  ? 

MICHAEL 

Take  yourself  out  of  here  ! 

CULLEN 

[In  smiling  consternation.'} 
I  wish  I  might,  but  Hope — bewitching  Hope  — 

has  deserted  me. 

MICHAEL 

Get  out  of  that  chair,  and  get  out  of  this  house ! 

CULLEN 

[Without  rising,  gesticulates  rigidly,    opens  the  scrap-book, 
peers  in,  and  dips  the  paste  brush  wildly '.] 

Great  heaven  !     They're  not  parallel  1 


74  MA  TER 

MICHAEL 

[About  to  seize  him  ] 
Thundering  hell,  I  say  — 

MATER 
[Bursting  in.~\ 

Found !     Found ! 

CULLEN 

\_Leaping  precipitously  from  his  chair. ,] 
Praise  God ! 

MATER 
\_Raising  her  right  handJ] 

Behold  it ! 

CULLEN 

[Rapturously^ 
On  the  darning-finger ! 

MICHAEL 

[  Glowering  at  CullenJ] 
What  game  are  you  at  now  ? 

MATER 

Hide  the  thimble!     I've  found  it.     See ! 

MICHAEL 
[To  Mater.} 
Have  you  run  mad  ? 

MATER 

[To  Cullen,  seating  herself.] 
Now  I  sit  and  you're  it ! 


MATER  75 

CULLEN 

[  Gazing  at  Mater's  finger.  ] 
Now  I'm  it  indeed,  —  it  forever ! 

MICHAEL 
This  is  beyond  me. 

CULLEN 

I  don't  wonder,  Dean.  You  see,  it  accounts  for 
my  extraordinary  sitting  capacity. 

MICHAEL 
I  see  —  nothing. 

MATER 

Of  course  you  do  !     We're  just  playing. 

MICHAEL 

Playing  what,  in  God's  name?  Oh,  less  smiles! 
less  smiles! 

CULLEN 

My  dear  fellow,  let  me  now  really  explain.  For 
give  me.  All  this  was  a  little  device  of  my  own  to 
test  you. 

MICHAEL 

Test  —  me! 

CULLEN 

Need  I  say  that  the  device  was  superfluous?  I 
congratulate  you  and  your  constituents  in  the  elec 
tion.  You  have  withstood  a  double  temptation,  like 
the  upright  man  you  are. 

[Taking  out  the  large  envelope, .] 


76  'MA  TER 

Dean,  I'm  proud  of  you,  and  I  take  great  pleasure 
in  handing  you  these  pledges  —  with  no  conditions 
whatsoever. 

MICHAEL 

But  the  four  thousand — 

CULLEN 

Mere  talk. 

MICHAEL 

And  the  alternative? 

CULLEN 

Utter  nonsense. 

MICHAEL 

\_Taking  the  envelope  mechanically.^ 
Very  wonderful!     Very  incredible!     Mater,  what 
do  you  know  of  all  this  ? 

MATER 

You  have  told  me  frequently,  Michael,  how  little  I 

know  of  politics. 

MICHAEL 

Have  you  done  what  is  right  unscrupulously? 

MATER 

Oh,  quite  unscrupulously. 

MICHAEL 

And  remembered  your  promise  ? 

MATER 

Of  course  I've  remembered  it. 


MATER  77 

MICHAEL 

Well,  sir,  I  accept  these  pledges — with  no  condi 
tions.  I  ask  pardon  for  my  excitement,  but  I  ask  no 
pardon  for  continuing  to  distrust  you.  And  until  you 
can  provide  me  with  some  less  fantastic  reason  for 
your  sudden  change  of  attitude  than  this  sudden  re 
lief  from  sciatica,  I  will  ask  you  to  leave  this  house 
immediately  and  permanently. 

[Crossing  fa  the  door,  lower  left,  Michael —  about  to  go  out — 
pauses  a  moment  on  the  threshold.] 

CULLEN 

Of  course,  Dean,  I  will  take  my  leave.  But  I  feel 
sure  that  when  you  come  to  look  at  my  sciatica  from 
a  different  point  of  view  — 

MICHAEL 
\_Exploding.~\ 

Point  of  view  again!  Points  of  view,  sir,  are 
points  of  the  devil's  horns.  They  sprout  as  fast  as 
they  moult.  Your  practical  politician  wears  them  for 
a  helmet  in  the  arena,  and  as  fast  as  his  antagonist 
blunts  one,  the  tip  o'  t'other  sharpens  and  gleams  in 

his  eyebrow. 

[  Thunderingl\ 

When  the  Cimmerian  Pluto,  sir,  vacated  his  throne 
to  a  sophist  — 

MATER 

\_Who  has  watched  Michael  with  a  glow  of  maternal  admira 
tion,  now  no  longer  containing  herself,  claps  her  hands 
with  delight '.] 

Isn't  he  a  poet!     Dear  Mr.  Cullen,  isn't  he  a  poet? 


78  MATER 

MICHAEL 

^Glaring  at  Mater  and  Cullen,  who  burst  simultaneously 
into  applause  and  laughter^\ 

Damnation ! 

\He  rushes  out,  slamming  the  door^\ 


ACT   II 


ACT    II 

A  few  days  later.     Afternoon. 

The  curtains  of  the  window  are  almost  closed,  admit 
ting  only  a  slit  of  light.  The  hallway  curtains  are 
also  drawn.  On  the  table  is  an  ironing-board ;  beneath 
it,  a  tablecloth  hangs  to  the  floor;  upon  it,  a  pressing- 
iron,  and  a  pair  of  black  trousers.  On  the  front 
edge  of  the  table,  a  glass,  half  filled  with  a  milky  liquid, 
stands  on  a  silver  tray,  on  which  is  also  a  teaspoon. 
Near  by,  a  small  pitcher.  In  various  parts  of  the  room 
are  vasesfilled  with  yellow  flowers. 

On  the  divan  (his  head  toward  the  audience)  lies  MICHAEL, 
with  a  dark  green  silk  neckerchief  laid  over  his  eyes. 
Owing  to  the  piled-up  pillows  and  the  shawl  which  cov 
ers  him,  his  form  is  hardly  discernible.  A  tall  folding- 
screen  shuts  off  the  divan  partly  from  the  rest  of  the  room, 
obstructing  the  meagre  light  that  comes  from  the  window. 
Near  the  head  of  the  divan,  seated  beside  the  pillows, 
MATER  is  stroking  Michael's  brow  and  hair  with  the 
lightest  of  touches.  In  her  dress  are  fastened  yellow 
cowslips. 

MATER 

[Singing.] 

Sleep,  dearie,  sleep ! 
I  saw  the  first  star  peep. 
As  soon  as  the  solemn  day  is  done, 
The  stars  and  dreams  begin  their  fun. 
G  81 


82  MATER 

Dearie  boy, 
Weary  boy,  sleep! 

[  Ceasing,  she  sits  motionless  for  a  moment,  watching  his 
breathing;  then  she  rises  quietly,  tiptoes  round  the 
screen  to  the  table,  lifts  the  pressing-iron,  tests  its  heat 
with  a  moistened  finger,  spreads  out  the  trousers  and 
begins  to  press  them. 

Michael  stirs  and  moans.  Mater  stops  and  looks  anxiously 
toward  him  ;  begins  then  softly  to  sing  again,  resuming 
her  work  as  she  does  so.~\ 

Hush  thee,  my  bonny,  thy  cradle  is  green, 
Father's  a  nobleman,  mother's  a  queen. 

[Enter  from  the  hall  MARY,  wearing  her  hat.  This  she  takes 
off,  goes  to  the  screen,  looks  at  Michael  and  speaks  low 
and 'feelingly '.] 

MARY 

How  long  has  he  been  asleep  ? 

MATER 

\_Answering  in  a  like  undertone^ 

Half  an  hour.  His  first  day-nap  for  a  fortnight. 
He's  been  over-working  so  terribly.  Thank  God 
election  day  is  here  at  last ! 

MARY 
What  did  the  doctor  say  ? 

MATER 

He  fears  nervous  prostration.  Said  everything 
would  depend  on  to-day  —  on  whether  he's  elected. 


MATER  83 

MARY 

\_Anxiously. ~\ 
Everything !     How  ? 

MATER 

My  dear,  he  said  if  Michael  should  be  beaten,  dis 
appointed  now  in  his  ambition,  he  might  be  "  down 
and  out  for  always  —  an  invalid."  Those  were  his 
very  words. 

MARY 

Don't  speak  them.  Poor  boy !  I  was  sure  that 
rally  last  night  would  be  the  last  straw.  It  did  up 
even  me.  And  now  I've  been  watching  round  the 
polls  all  morning  —  I'm  a  wreck  ! 

MATER 
\With  affectionate  banter. .] 

Dear  Mollykins !  You  do  look  rather  green  in  the 
gills. 

MARY 
[Irritated^ 

I  don't  either. —  How  absurd  of  you,  mother,  to  be 
doing  this  here ! 

MATER 

Ironing  ? 

MARY 
Trousers ! 

MATER 

I  hope  I  may  scratch  for  my  own  chick  and  child, 
and  still  keep  a  wing  over  him. 


84  MA  TER 

MARY 

Why  didn't  he  send  for  the  tailor  ? 

MATER 

Hush! 

[Beckoning  Maty  farther  from  the  screen.~\ 

So  he  did  !  And  do  you  think  I  would  allow  a 
tailor  with  nine  undisinfected  children  to  carry  off 
my  boy's  trousers,  and  he  lying  helpless  ?  Gracious, 
girl !  To  put  your  legs  into  measle-germs  and  chicken- 
pox —  I  hope  you'll  never  do  such  things. 

MARY 

I  wish  you  would  never  think  such  things  !  And  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  wear  such  things. 

MATER 

Cowslips  ?     I  love  cowslips. 

MARY 

Well,  if  that  Mr.  Cullen  is  such  a  ninny  as  to  send 
me  yellow  flowers  every  day  — 

MATER 

Oh,  but  he  doesn't.  He  sends  them  to  me —  Miss 
Dean,  you  know. 

MARY 

Then  you  ought  to  be  all  the  more  ashamed  to 
wear  them.  You  bowed  to  him  in  the  Park  yester 
day.  Really,  if  you're  not  more  careful,  he  may 
misunderstand  it. 


MATER  85 

MATER 

I  devoutly  hope  he  will. 

MARY 

Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  that? 

MATER 

Who  knows,  my  dear?     He's  so  devoted  —  and  he 
might  be  so  useful 

\_Glancing  toward  the  divan^\ 
to  Michael  boy.  — Would  it  surprise  you  ? 

MARY 

[  With  wide  eyes.~\ 
What  ? 

MATER 

\_Softfy  shaking  her.~] 
Stupid  !     Don't  you  see  ?     I  have  half  a  mind  to  — 

MARY 
To  what? 

MATER 
Run  for  the  legislature  myself. 

[At  Mary's  expression  of  dense  disgust,  she  breaks  into 
laughter,  which  she  instantly  stifles.~\ 

MARY 
Of  all  preposterous  things  — 


86  MA  TER 

MATER 

But  fascinating,  my  dear  !     It's  a  fascinating  art. 

MARY 

An  art ! 

MATER 

This  acting.  It's  such  fun,  and  so  ticklish  !  It's 
like  first  skating — there  are  so  many  ways  to  trip 
and  see  stars.  If  you  make  a  false  entrance,  miss  a 
cue  or  take  a  wrong  one,  lose  track  of  who  you  are, 
or  forget  how  to  improvise — bing  !  lights  out ;.  down 
comes  the  curtain  and  out  goes  your  reputation.  Ah,. 
but  it's  rare  sport  while  it  lasts.  We  must  take  to 
the  stage,  Mary,  you  and  I. 

MARY 

I  shall  take  to  my  bed,  mother,  directly.  I'm  worn 
out  listening  to  speeches. 

MATER 

Now  that's  sensible ;  have  a  good  nap. 

MARY 
I  have  just  written  this  letter  to  Rudolf. 

\_Handing  it.~\ 
Give  it  to  him  when  he  calls. 

\_Going.~] 

Dear  old  Rudolfo  !  He  always  does  call,  though  I 
never  see  him.  —  Read  it  if  you  like. 

MATER 

May  I  ? 


MATER  87 

MARY 

And  wake  me  up,  mind,  just  as  soon  as  the  first 
returns  come  in.  There  ought  to  be  some  "Extras" 
out  before  dark. 

[Yawning  wearily '.] 
Oh,  me  for  the  sand-man  ! 

MATER 

Sleep  tight. 

[Exit  MARY,  lower  left'} 

\_Mater  returns  to  the  divan,  gazes  anxiously  at  Michael, 
softly  adjusts  a  pillow,  goes  to  the  bay-window,  where 
she  draws  the  curtains  to-  a  narrower  slit,  by  the  light 
of  which  she  stands,  reading  Mary's  letter  with  flitting 
smiles.  From  the  hall,  RUDOLF  enters.  He  wears  his 
overcoat  and  holds  his  hat.  Dazed  for  a  moment  by  the 
darkened  room,  he  is  approached —  before  he  sees  her  — 
by  Mater,  who  claps  her  hand  over  his  lips,  points  to  the 
divan  and  draws  him  to  the  farther  corner  of  the  room.~\ 

Softly  —  or  your  life  ! 

RUDOLF 
How  is  she  ? 

MATER 

He,  you  mean.     He's  worse.     Will  he  be  elected  ? 

RUDOLF 
Sure  thing !     Great  weather  for  the  votes. 

MATER 

How  much  longer  to  wait  ? 


88  MATER 

RUDOLF 
The  polls  close  at  six.  - 

[  With  a  gasp,  dropping  his  hat  on  the  piano. ~\ 
Well,  I'll  be  ice-cream-soda'd  ! 

MATER 

[With  a  gesture  of  silence.  ~\ 
You'll  wake  him.     What's  the  matter  ? 
RUDOLFi 

[Pointing  at  Mater's  yoke.~\ 
Those  !  —  Cowslips,  ain't  they  ? 

MATER 

Yes. 

RUDOLF 

That  cinches  it.  I'm  damned  if  I  stand  it  any 
longer.  No,  Mater,  there's  no  use  joshing  me  ;  you 
got  those  from  Mary,  and  she  got  'em  from  that 
grafter. 

MATER 

Quiet ! 

RUDOLF 

I've  tracked  him,  I  tell  you,  every  day,  and  every 
day  to  that  same  damn  florist's  store. — Yellow,2 
every  time !  Daffodils,  primroses,  cowslips,  yellow 
lilies,  yellow  daisies,  yellow  roses  —  Oh,  he's  a  genu 
ine  yellow  dog ! 

1  The  dialogue  which  follows  between  them   is  carried  on  in  low 
tones,  rising  at  times  on  Rudolf's  part  to  a  higher  key,  at  which  times 
—  on  his  own  or  Mater's  initiative  —  he  checks  himself  abruptly,  and 
lowers  his  voice  again. 

2  Rudolf  pronounces  this  as  if  it  were  yuller. 


MA  TER  89 

MATER 

[Laughing  low.~\ 
Thoroughbred  yellow ! 

RUDOLF 

And  I  tracked  the  messenger  boy  here  to  the  front 
door.  Every  morning  he  rung  the  bell.  I  wish  I'd 
wrung  his  neck!  "For  Miss  Dean,"  says  he.  For 
Miss  Dean  ! 

MATER 

Well,  you  see  she  doesn't  wear  them  herself. 

RUDOLF 

How  do  7  know  ?  You  may  be  trying  to  let  me 
down  easy.  She  won't  see  me.  Just  because  I  kissed 
her !  I  can't  swallow  it. 

MATER 

Silly  !     She's  only  teasing. 

RUDOLF 

Teasing!  Well,  I  tell  her  straight,  then,  if  she 
thinks  she  can  shuffle  me  into  the  tricks  of  that 
blackleg  — 

MATER 

[Holding  up  the  letter^ 
What  will  you  give  for  this  ? 

RUDOLF 
[Snatching  it.~\ 
From  Mary  !     Bless  her  heart ! 


9o 


MATER 


\He  rushes  with  it  to  the  curtains  and  reads.  As  he  does  so 
the  door-bell  rings.  Mater  crosses  to  the  hallway  cur 
tains,  opens  them  a  little,  listens,  closes  them  quickly  and 
hastens  to  Rudolf. ~\ 

MATER 
I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me. 

RUDOLF 

[  With  joyous  explosion.'] 
Mater!     She's  a  cracker-jack.     Read  it. 

\_He  thrusts  the  letter  into  her  hands, ,] 
She  tells  me  to  come  round  right  after  midnight 
and  she'll  make  up.     Election  day  will  be  over  then, 
you  know. 

MATER 

What  did  I  tell  you  ? 

[Laying  the  letter  on  the  table.~\ 
Now,  what  will  you  do  for  met 

RUDOLF 
Anything!     Pickle  myself! 

\_Takes  up  the  pressing-iron^ 

MATER 
Well,  then,  since  you're  in  such  a  hurry  — • 

RUDOLF 
Who  said  that  I  — 


MATER  91 

MATER 

\_Edging  him  toward  the  door,  upper  left.'] 
Go    out   by   the   back   way  and   give   this   iron  to 
Nellie,  the  cook,  and  tell  her  please  — 

RUDOLF 
But,  hold  on  — 

MATER 

Here's  your  hat.     Tell  her  to  put  it  on  the  stove 

and  heat  it  immediately.     Be  quick. 

[Standing  in  the  doorway,  Rudolf —  his  Derby  hat  in  one 
hand,  the  iron  in  the  other — extends  his  arms.  Simul 
taneously,  the  hallway  curtains  part  quietly  and  CULLEN 
enters,  sees,  hears,  and  exits  precipitously,  unseen. ~\ 

RUDOLF 

Mater,  you're  a  darling  !     I'd  like  to  give  you  a 
hug.     Can  I  ? 

MATER 

Quoth  the  Big-sized  Bear  to  Goldy-locks ! 
\_She  hugs   him  playfully,  growling  in   bear-fashion;    then 
pushes  him  out.~\ 

Now  lively,  Rudolf,  give  it  to  the  cook. 

RUDOLF 
[Outside.] 

See  you  at  midnight. 

[ Mater  closes  the  door,  and  is  going  toward  the  screen,  when 
CULLEN  reenters  from  the  hall.  Mater  points  warn- 
ingly  toward  the  divan."] 


92  MATER 

MATER 

Asleep  !  — You  oughtn't  to  have  dared. 

CULLEN 
You  got  my  note  with  the  flowers  ? 

MATER 

Yellow  —  how  nice  of  you  to  remember  !  But  you 
know  he  has  forbidden  you  the  house.  If  he  should 
wake  — 

CULLEN 

Would  the  next  room  —  ? 

MATER 

Oh,  I  mustn't  leave  him.  You'd  better  come  to 
morrow. 

CULLEN 

[Slowly,  with  smiling  suspiciousness.~\ 
Mightn't  that  be  too  late  ? 

MATER 
Why? 

CULLEN 

May  I  glance  again  at  your  darning-finger  ? 

\_Mater  shows  //.] 
And  where,  may  I  ask,  is  the  — 

MATER 

It's  hid,  of  course.  —  How  queerly  you  smile  ! 


MATER  93 

CULLEN 
It's  a  queer  day  —  election  day. 

MATER 

[  With  an  obvious  sigh  of  relief  J\ 
It  will  soon  be  over. 

CULLEN 

Yes,  Miss  Dean  ;  but  it  up'/  over  JP*£ 

\_Looking  at  his  watch.~\ 

It's  not  quite  four  o'clock.     The  ballots  are  counted 
at    six.  —  Have   you   made    our   little  announcement 


—  to  him  ? 

MATER 
\_Ndively\ 
Dear  Mr.  Cullen,  he's  so  ill. 

CULLEN 

Dear  Miss  Dean,  —  may  I  call  you  Mater? 

MATER 

[Repressing  a  spring  of  laughter.] 
How  gracious  of  you  ! 

CULLEN 

You're  not  playing  with  me  ? 

MATER 

On  my  heart  !     It's  too  good  to  be  true.     I  was 
praying  you  would  come  to  call  me  —  that. 


94  MA  TER 

CULLEN 

Like  so  many  other  friends  of  yours  ? 

MATER 

Oh,  dear  no  !     Only  the  family. 

CULLEN 

Only  the  family ! 

[Glancing  at  the  door  where  Rudolf  lately  went  out] 
So! 

MATER 

That  is,  except  one,  of  course,  who  may  sometime — • 
[She pauses  in  sudden  embarrassment.] 

CULLEN 

[Intensely.] 
May  sometime  ? 

MATER 

[  Whispering  quickly '.] 
We're  talking  too  much. 

[She  hurries  on  tiptoe  to  the  divan,  motions  silence  to  Cullen, 
turns  her  back  on  him,  oblivious,  and  sings  low  beside 
Michael.] 

Hush-a-bye,  baby,  on  the  tree-top, 
When  the  wind  blows,  the  cradle  will  rock ; 
When  the  bough  breaks,  the  cradle  will  fall, 
And  down  will  come  baby,  cradle  and  all. 
[Cullen,  who  listens   captivated,  moves  impulsively   toward 

her] 


MA TER  95 

CULLEN 
Dearest  of  women  —  Damn  ! 

[Brushing  past  the  table,  he  strikes  the  ironing-board  and 
knocks  off  the  tray,  glass  and  teaspoon  from  its  edge. 
They  clatter  noisily  on  the  floor.  Michael  starts  from 
his  sleep.  Mater  turns  in  consternation  and  whispers, 
with  an  agitated  gesture '.] 
Go!  Go! 

[  Cullen  ducks  behind  the  table,  the  cloth  of  which  conceals 
him.     Michael  sits  up,  with  a  startled  lookJ] 

MICHAEL 
What's  the  matter  ? 

MATER 

[Picking  up  the  glass,  etc.~\ 
I  was  fixing  your  egg-nog,  dear,  and  it  spilled. 

MICHAEL 
[Testify. ] 

You  shouldn't  be  so  careless. 

\_He  rises,  pale  and  worn-looking,  in  his  dressing-gown  ;  rubs 
his  eyes,  and  lays  the  dark  silk  neckerchief  on  the  table.~\ 

MATER 
Does  the  light  still  hurt  ? 

MICHAEL 

Yes. 

MATER 

Did  tired  boy  have  a  nice  sleep  ? 


96  MA  TER 

MICHAEL 

No,  I  dreamed. 

MATER 

A  penny  for  a  dream  ! 

MICHAEL 

I  saw  Cullen  in  this  room  again  ;  I  was  sure  I  heard 
him  talking. 

MATER 

[Drawing  away.~\ 
You  were  sure  ? 

MICHAEL 

Positive  —  in  my  nightmare !  Mater,  I  have 
never  understood  that  morning,  —  that  hide-the- 
thimble  nonsense.  I  was  tninking  — 

MATER 

But  you  mustn't  think!  The  doctor  said  "  No." 
Come  upstairs  and  we'll  rest  again. 

MICHAEL 

\_Crossing  with  her  toward  the  door,  lower  left.~\ 
If  you  are  hiding  any  thimble  from  me  — 

MATER 

\_Appealingly.  ] 
Now,  boy ! 

MICHAEL 

I  said  if,  Mater.  Take  care !  Remember  your 
promise.  And  remember,  too,  that  never  am  I  to 
set  eyes  on  that  hypocrite  in  this  house  again. 


MA TER  97 

MATER 

Never,  dear, 

[  With  a  twinkling  glance  toward  the  tablecloth^ 
if  we  can  help  it.     So  now  come.     I've   instructed 
the  maid  that  you  cannot  see  anybody  at  all. 

MICHAEL 
Not  till  to-night. 

[  With  sudden  melancholy^ 

To-night  —  Mater !  What  if  the  ballots  go  against 
me  ? 

MATER 

But  they  can't !  My  funny-bone  aches,  and  bones 
are  prophetic.  —  You*,  are  to  be  elected  ! 

MICHAEL 

I'm  tired !  —  It's  all  the  finger  of  fate,  anyway. 

MATER 

Of  course  it  is.     And  Fate  wears  a  thimble. 

MICHAEL 

What's  th.at? 

MATER 

Fate  and  I,  my  dear,  are  old  cronies.  So  don't 
worry.  She  has  revealed  to  me  her  omens  and  they 
are  all  auspicious.  To-night's  the  new  moon,  and 
whenever  the  moon  is  new  — 

MICHAEL 

Nonsensical  little  noddle! 

\_Holding  her  temples  and  looking  in  her  eyes.~\ 
H 


98  MATER 

With  all  the  doting,  patient  love  it  contains,  I 
wouldn't  swap  it  for  a  thousand  moons  chock-full 

of  destiny.  — 

[Raising  his  forefinger.  ~\ 

So  long  as  it  never  fibs  ! 

MATER 

[  Uneasily  moving  to  the  door.~\ 
Now  we'll  come  ? 

MICHAEL 

No,  Mater  —  not  with  me.  I'm  going  to  my 
room  alone.  I  want  to  think  of  all  that's  coming 
—  to-night. 

MATER     4 

[With  affectionate  reproach^} 
But,  dearie,  — 

MICHAEL 

[  With  a  gesture  of  "finality '.] 
I  want  to  be  alone  —  utterly  alone. 
[Exit.} 

MATER 

[Looking  after  him  wistfully '.] 
He  mustn't  say  that. 

CULLEN  i 

[Rising  from  behind  the  tablecloth^} 
Compliments,  please  !     Didn't  I  take  my  medicine 
like  a  man  ? 

1  Throughout  the  ensuing  scene  between  Cullen  and  Mater,  the 
dialogue  is  to  be  so  rendered  by  the  actor  and  actress  that  beneath 


MA  TER 


99 


MATER 

[Turns  round  with  annoyance,  which  she  represses,  and  looks 
at  the  floor. ~\ 

You  did  indeed  !     And  my  rug  will  never  recover 
from  it.  — 

Dear,  dear,  what  a  spot !     And  it's  sinking  in. 

[Looking  hastily  round  her.~\ 
Please  fetch  me  something  to  — 

\_He  offers  his  handkerchief^ 
Oh,  thanks  ! 

[She  stoops  down  to  wipe  up  the  egg-nogJ\ 

CULLEN 
Don't. 

[Raising  her  and  kneeling  down  himself J\ 

Allow  me. 

MATER 

[Handing  him  the  small pitcher, ,] 

Here's  some  water.     Rub  hard.  —  You  need  more 

light. 

[She  goes  to  the  window  curtains  and  throws  them  back,  let 
ting  in  a  rush  of  sunshine.  ~\ 

the  humorous  outward  badinage  of  both,  the  more  serious  feelings  of 
each  are  made  evident :  On  Mater's  part,  her  absent-minded  thoughts 
of  Michael,  her  earnest  desire  to  play  her  part  skilfully  and  her  fears 
lest  Cullen  shall  suspect  her;  on  Cullen's  part,  a  serious  suspicion 
that  Mater  is  playing  with  him,  and  a  real  feeling  of  enamoration  for 
her. 


100  MATER 

CULLEN 

[  On  his  knees,  mopping."] 

Permit  me  to  certify  that  this  is  the  first  time  a 
handkerchief  of  mine  has  ever  been  wet  with  spilt 
milk. 

MATER 

[Flashing  at  him  a  look  of  relief. .] 
I  adore  you  for  that ! 

\_Cullen  gets  to  his  feet,  glowing.~\ 

For  now  I  know  I  am  saved.  You  wont  cry,  will 
you,  when  I  do  tell  you  — 

CULLEN 

[Quickly,  sobering.^ 

Please  !  —  Don't  tell  me.  We  mustn't  spill  any 
more  —  either  of  .us.  If  we  did,  you  might  cry,  dear 
Mater,  and  it  mustn't  come  to  that. 

MATER 

[  With  badinage. ~\ 
You're  too  delightful,  but  really  — 

CULLEN 

Pardon  me.  I  merely  want  to  remark  that  if  you 
imagine  our  little  game  of  hide-the-thimble  is  over,  you 
are  fundamentally  mistaken. 

I  repeat :  It  is  now  a  little  past  four  o'clock.  The 
election  ballots  are  counted  at  six.  Your  brother's 
warm  sentiments  toward  me  he  has  lately  rehearsed 
with  eloquence,  so  that,  in  estimating  my  chances 


MATER  101 

in  this  game,  I  realize  that  I  must  depend  on  your 
touching  devotion  to  him  and  his  future  career; 
though,  I  trust  deeply  that  some  tokens  of  my  own 
humble  devotion  — 

\_He  holds  out  comically  the  draggled  handkerchief. ~\ 

MATER 
\_In  true  consternation.~\ 

Good  heavens  !  Do  you  mean  that  the  voters' 
ballots  can  really  be  juggled  with  ? 

CULLEN 

There  again  !  "  Juggled  "  fails  to  hit  the  exact 
viewpoint.  In  advanced  mathematics,  dear  young 
lady,  there  are  two  distinct  divisions,  known  as  Pop 
ular  Arithmetic  and  Political  Arithmetic.  The  former 
is  theoretical ;  the  latter,  practical.  According,  for 
instance,  to  your  theoretical  arithmetic,  one  and  one 
make  two  ;  whereas,  according  to  my  practical  com 
putation,  — 

\_Looking  hard  at  her.~\ 

one  and  one  must  be  made  one,  otherwise  one  more 
must  be  eliminated  from  politics. 

MATER 
\_Dubiously.~\ 
.Before  to-morrow  ? 

CULLEN 
Before  six  o'clock  ;  say,  five-thirty. 


IO2  MATER 

MATER 

[Beginning  to  clear  off  the  table, .] 
Let  me  reckon  a  little. 

\_She  looks  about,  absent-mindedly, .] 
Your  arm,  please.     Carefully  ! 

[Holding  Michael's  trousers  by  the  creases,  she  lays  them  over 
Culleris  extended  left  arm.~\ 

CULLEN 
[Smiting.'] 
Only  think  how  practical  I  should  always  be ! 

MATER 

I've  forgotten  where  I  hid  it. 

\_As  she  takes  off  the  tablecloth  to  fold  it,  Mary's  letter  drops 
to  the  floor  unnoticed.~\ 

CULLEN 

If  you  should  ever  need  a  mop,  for  example,  or  a 
suit-hanger, 

[Mater  tosses  the  folded  cloth  across  his  right  shoulder ^\ 
or  a  clothes-rack  — 

MATER 

\_With  mental  decision.~\ 
I  remember  now.    It's  in  my  work-basket. 

[Standing  the  ironing-board  against  Cullen.~\ 
Now,  if  you'll  put  that  —  over  here. 

[Leading  the  way  to  the  closet,  which  she  opens. ~\ 
Inside ! 


X 


MATER  IO3 

CULLEN 

[Laden  with  ironing-board,  cloths  and  trousers,  follows  awk 
wardly.'] 

Or  an  auto-domestic  toting-machine  — 
\He  puts  the  things  in  the  closet] 


MATER 

[Seating  herself  at  the  table,  takes  from  the  work-basket  some 
socks,  a  darning  egg  and  the  gold  thimble.  ~\ 

The  whole  combination  outfit  delivered  free  of 
charge  when  I  exhibit  this  thimble  to  Michael !  As 
advertised  !  Is  that  the  offer  ? 

CULLEN 

[  Observing  the  thimble  with  pleasure.] 

Ha !  found  again  !  — You  will  also,  of  course,  inter 
pret  to  him  the  inscription. 

MATER 

Before  five-thirty  ? 

CULLEN 

[Smiling  shrewdly, .] 
Call  it  five. 

MATER 

Do  yours  wear  at  the  heel  or  the  toe,  Mr.  Cullen  ? 

CULLEN 

May  I  beseech  you  to  call  me  Arthur? 


104  MATER 

MATER 

[  With  decisiveness •.] 
Not  till  five-thirty  !  - 

[Humming  as  she  darns."^ 
Wear  at  the  heel, 
Spend  a  good  deal. 

Wear  at  the  toe, 
Spend  as  you  go. 
[Holding  up  the  undarned  sock.~\ 
Michael's  great  toe  is  invincible ! 

CULLEN 

Do  you  know,  dear  Mater,  when  I  behold  you  like 
this,  enshrined,  so  to  speak,  in  the  very  soul  of  do 
mesticity  — 

MATER 

\Darning.~] 

Wear  at  the  ball, 

Spend  not  at  all. 

CULLEN 

And  when  just  now  I  listened  to  you  crooning  that 
old  Yankee  tree-top  lullaby  — 

MATER 

There's  the  real  national  anthem  for  you ! 

CULLEN 

I  cannot  resist  thinking,  after  all,  how  aptly  your 
pretty  nickname  may  become  you  —  sometime. 


A 

MATER  IO5 

MATER 

{Singing. ~\ 

"  When  the  bough  breaks  the  cradle  will  fall, 
And  down  will  come  baby,  cradle  and  all."  — 

[  Glancing  up.~\ 
It's  so  delightfully  reassuring  to  the  baby,  don't 

you  think  ? 

CULLEN 

\_Dubiously.~] 
That  might  depend  on  the  baby. 

MATER 

[Reassuringly. ~\ 

But  you  see,  he's  bound  to  grow  up  a  genuine 
American  humorist.  He  will  have  learned  the  na 
tional  doxology  in  the  maternal  nest.  Whenever  the 
wind  blows,  he'll  be  sure  that  the  ^vorst  is  yet  to  come, 
and  he'll  compose  himself  accordingly,  with  smiles, 

to  slumber. 

\_Sht  glances  up  again  quickly. ~\ 

CULLEN 
Was  I  smiling  ? 

MATER 

You  should  have  been.  Anyway,  assumed  a  virtue, 
you  know  ;  for  I  absolutely  rely  on  your  turning  out  a 
humorist.  May  I  depend  on  you  ? 


I  will  try. 


CULLEN 
\_Smiling. ~\ 


IO6  MATER 

MATER 

That's  an  immense  relief. 

CULLEN 

Thank  you  for  that  faith  in  me.  And  to  prove  to 
you  how  fondly  I  aspire  to  deserve  it,  I  will  remind 
you  that  these  are  your  brother's  trousers,  in  which 
he  may  desire  to  incorporate  himself  sometime  before 
the  polls  close. 

MATER 

Forgive  me.  I've  been  so  busy  patching  the  heel  of 
Achilles,  I  forgot  the  arm  of  Paris.     It  must  be  tired. 
[Putting  down  her  darning  things,  rises. ~\ 

CULLEN 

In  the  service  of  the  golden  Helen  of  Troy  —  never ! 
[She  takes  the  trousers.      With  a  grimace,  he  pdinfully  re 
laxes  his  left  arm^\ 

MATER 

[  Watching  him.'] 

I  see  !     It  was  over  your  left.          , 
[  Going  with  the  trousers. ~\ 
I'll  take  these  to  my  tree-top. 

CULLEN 

And  I'll  wait  down  here  to  watch  how  the  wind 
blows. 

MATER 
[  Wickedly^ 
You  needn't  wait  —  if  you  hear  a  bough  breaking  ! 


MATER  ID/ 

\Exit  MATER.  Cullen  smilingly  seats  himself  by  the  fable, 
gradually  growing  pensive.  Mechanically  he  picks  up  a 
sheet  of  paper  and  an  envelope  from  the  floor  at  his 
feet,  and  is  about  to  lay  them  upon  the  table.  Glancing 
at  the  envelope,  he  brings  it  nearer  to  his  eyes.~\ 

CULLEN 
"  Rudolf  Verbeck,  Esquire":—  Rudolf  ! 

\_Ne  gives  a  glance  toward  the  door  of  Mater's  exit ;    then 
looks  at  the  sheet  of  paper. ~\ 

"  Dearest  Rudolf, 

\_Hesitating  an  instant,  he  reads  on.~\ 

"  I  have  treated  you  very  badly  these 
last  few  days.  I  am  so  sorry,  but  of  course  I  had  to 
keep  my  word.  You  know  I  told  you  I  would  not 
speak  to  you  again  till  after  election.  Now  the  great 
day  is  almost  over  and  Michael,  let  us  pray,  will  be 
elected,  to  the  discomfort  of  his  enemies  —  especially 
that  horrid  Mr.  Cullen.  Then  at  last  I  shall  be  free 
again  to  welcome  you.  I  shall  sit  up  to-night  till  after 
twelve.  If  you  will  call  in  at  midnight,  I  will  make 
up  for  my  long  silence. 

Your  devoted 

M.  D." 

\_Slowly  folding  up  the  sheet  of  paper,  he  puts  both  letter  and 
envelope  into  his pocket.~\ 

M.  D.  —  That  horrid  Mr.  Cullen  ! 

\_Enter,  from  the  hallway,  RUDOLF.     He  is  out  of  breath,  and 
hurries  ;  but  seeing  Cullen,  stops  short.'] 


108  MATER 

RUDOLF 

Jehosaphat !  ' 

CULLEN 

Mr.  Rudolf  Verbeck  ? 

RUDOLF 

You! 

CULLEN 

My  name,  sir,  is  Cullen. 

RUDOLF 

And  mine  is  Dennis  !      What  in  the  devil —     Oh, 
come  !     You  haven't  seen  her  ? 

CULLEN 

You  are  referring  perhaps  to  Miss  Dean  ? 
RUDOLF 

Has  she  been  here  with  you  ? 

CULLEN 

Ever  since  your  abrupt  departure,  till  a  moment 
ago. 

RUDOLF 

You're  a  liar  ! 

CULLEN 

Your  vocabulary,  sir,  and  your  inference  are  both 
in  error. 

RUDOLF 

I  tell  you,  it  wasn't  fifteen  minutes  ago  when  I  left 

that  — 

[Pauses."] 


MATER  109 

CULLEN 

When  you  left  that  iron  with  the  cook  ? 

RUDOLF 

What?  —  No!  Mater  wouldn't  do  that!  She 
hustle  me  off  so  that  you  —  my  God  !  Why,  I  was 
just  coming  back  to  get  that  — 

CULLEN 
Probably  you  mean  this  letter  you  forgot. 

[Rudolf  stares  at  the  letter.'} 

It  was  my  privilege  to  help  in  composing  it.  It 
has,  I  think  you'll  agree,  an  Homeric  style  of  pleas 
antry.  — 

"That   horrid   Mr.  Cullen."  —  Terse,  but   it   tells 

the  story. 

RUDOLF 

Wait  a  minute  !  You're  a  scientific  old  shark  and 
you  want  to  Fletcherize  me.  You  swiped  that  letter, 
and  you're  sponging  here  where  you  don't  belong. 
Miss  Dean  is  engaged  to  me,  and  you  know  it.  So 

clear  out  ! 

CULLEN 

She  has  never  shown  you  this? 

\_Takes  from  the  work-basket  the  thimble .] 

RUDOLF 
What's  that  ? 

CULLEN 

A  little  engagement  gift  of  mine.  She  has  just 
been  wearing  it  and  laid  it  down. 


HO  MATER 

RUDOLF 

[  Taking  it  disdainfully.] 
More  taffy ! 

CULLEN 

Have  you  read  the  inscription  ? 

RUDOLF 
M.  D.  &  A.  C.  Partners.  —  I'll  be  damned  ! 

\_Reenter   MATER.      She  starts  hastily  to  withdraw,  but  is 
aware  of  Rudolfs  eye  upon  her] 

MATER 
\_Coming  in. ~\ 
Gracious,  Rudolf  ! 

RUDOLF 

So  you're  surprised  to  see  me  back ! 

MATER 

I  really  didn't  intend  — 

RUDOLF 

You  didn't  intend  I  should  see  this  honorable 
gentleman !  Hustled  me  out  of  one  door  before  he 
should  come  in  t'other.  — Well,  I  gave  the  iron  to  the 
cook  all  right. 

MATER 

[Embarrassed] 
Thank  you. 


MA TER  1 1 1 

RUDOLF 

No,  Mater !  You  don't  mean  to  stand  there  and 
say  it's  true.  Him  !  Him  to  win  out,  and  me  to  get 
the  go-by  !  And  all  those  damn  yellow  flowers  — 

CULLEN 

Mr.  Verbeck  forgot  his  letter. 
\_Showing  it.~\ 

MATER 
^Appalled.'} 
Heaven  be  merciful ! 

RUDOLF 

And  you,  Mater !  You,  of  all  people  in  the  world, 
to  contrive  all  this  against  me ! 

MATER 

\_Looks  from  one  to  the  other  in   chaotic  perplexity ;  then 
raises  her  arms  as  in  supplication^ 

Melpomene  and  Pulcinello,  befriend  me  !  Shades 
of  Absurdity,  hallow  me  with  your  wings  !  If  ever 
scowling  eyebrow,  scornful  nostril  and  suspicious  lip 
have  been  the  altars  of  my  sacrifice,  by  these  now  I 
invoke  you.  Listen !  I  lift  up  your  hollow  reed  of 
praise.  Listen,  and  succor  your  priestess  on  this 
ultimate  verge  of  — 

\She  bursts  into  laughter^ 

Gentlemen,  I  give  up.  The  situation  is  too  per 
fect;  it  is  beyond  my  technique  —  Bien  !  Jest  finil 
You  must  hear  my  confession. 


112  MATER 

RUDOLF 

[In  utter  gloom,  glowers  at  Cullen,  who  wears  a  faint  sus 
picious  smile  of  discomfittire.~\ 

Thanks.  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more.  I  was 
always  slow  on  a  joke,  but  I  guess  I've  caught  the 
point  of  that  letter  all  right. 

\_Goes  toward  the  hall,  stops  and  looks  back  at  Cu!len.~] 
Congratulations  ! 

MATER. 
[  Uneasily. ,] 

You'll  call  in  again  about  midnight !  We'll  make 
a  Welsh  rarebit. 

RUDOLF 

Of  me  ?  —  Much  obliged  ! 

[Exit  down  the  stairsJ] 

MATER 

Poor,  dear,  dull  boy  !  —  Do  you  think  that  kind 
runs  to  suicide  ? 

CULLEN 
[  With  coolness.~\ 
You,  perhaps,  are  the  better  judge. 

MATER 

No,  I'm  sure  his  Dutch  ancestors  wouldn't  let  him. 
He  is  so  dense,  good  soul.  And  to  think  that  some 
day  he'll  be  married.  Lord,  what  children  they  will 
have  !  Well,  if  they're  born  in  Dutch  pants  and 
spectacles,  I'll  disown  'em. 


MA TER  113 

CULLEN 

\Twirling  his  watch- chain. ~\ 
I  beg  to  remind  you  — 

MATER 

Don't  do  that ;  you'll  get  it  full  of  kinks. 

CULLEN 
[Determinedly.] 
To  remind  you  once  more  — 

MATER 

There  !     How  good  of  you  !     I  knew  I'd  forgotten 
something  else. 

[  Going  to  the  book-shelves] 
These  verses —  I  must  read  them  to  you. 

CULLEN 

To  swap  poets  with  you  is  a  privilege.     But  now  I 
really  must  remind  you  — 

MATER 

Listen  !     /  am  the  poet. 

\_She  brings  a  sheet  of  paper] 
It's  mine. 

CULLEN 

Another  song  about  a  hero  ? 

i 


114  MATER 

MATER 

No;  a  campaign-hymn.  It's  a  surprise  for  Mi 
chael.  They're  going  to  serenade  him  with  it  to-night 
—  if  he's  elected. 

CULLEN 

I  am  happy  you  realize  that  he  must  be.  Which 
reminds  me  — 

MATER 

Don't  be  so  impatient.  I'll  read  it  to  you  directly. 
It's  to  be  sung  to  old  John  Brown's  tune. 

I  know  Michael  would  love  to  have  me  read  it  to 
you  —  \_Keenly~}  as  a  statesman. 

\_She  reads  from  the  manuscript,  gradually  losing  herself  in 
it  as  she  goes  on,  speaking  the  lines  toward  the  end  with 
fiery  rhythm.~\ 

They  have  strewn  the  burning  hearths  of  men  with 

darkness  and  with  mire, 
They  have  heaped  the  burning  hearts  of  men  with 

ashes  of  desire, 
Yet  from  out  those  hearts  and  hearths  still  leaps  the 

quick  eternal  fire 

Whose  flame  is  liberty. 

For  the  freedom  of  the  laborer  is  freedom  from  his 

toil, 

And  freedom  of  the  citizen  is  right  to  share  the  soil, 
And  the  freedom  of  our  country  is  the  loosing  of  the 

coil 

That  chokes  posterity. 


MATER  H5 

CULLEN 
[  Clapping  with  polite  applause. ~\ 

The  real  Dean  fire  and  storm-cloud  ;  I  never  ob 
served  the  family  resemblance  before. 

MATER 

[Flashing  upon  him  a  look  of  quick  scorn.~\ 
Listen  !  —  I'm  not  through. 

[She  reads  on,  merely  glancing  at  the  paper. ~\ 

Let  us  who  wage  our  devious  wars,  in  fastness  and  in 

fen, 
March  out  and  claim  our  birthright  in  the  common  sun 

again, 
And  the  battle  of  the  beasts  become  the  reasoning  of 

men, 

And  joy  our  harmony. 

For  the  vote  that  makes  a  man  free,  bringing  gladness 

to  his  bread, 
Is  mightier  than  the  mindless  gun  that  leaves  a  million 

dead ; 
And  common  sense  is  common  joy,  when  all  is  sung 

and  said, 

And  common  sense  shall  be! 

[Mater  stands  in  a  kind  of  martial  brown-study, quite  oblivious 
of  Cullen's  presence  J\ 

CULLEN 
Enigma,  I  have  solved  thee. 


Il6  MATER 

MATER 

Splendid  boy !  — 

{Eagerly.'} 

Do  you  think  it  will  please  him  ? 

[  With  a  sigh.-} 
Of  course,  though,  he  hates  all  poetif  ying ! 

CULLEN    • 

You  are  talking  against  time.  But  I  warn  you  it's 
in  vain.  — 

\_Pointing  overhead.'} 

When  you  carried  the  trousers  up  there,  you  did  not 
tell  your  brother. 

MATER 

How  do  you  know  ? 

CULLEN 

Because  I've  heard  no  breaking  of  furniture.  Now, 
therefore,  nothing  less  than  painful  necessity  forces 
me  to  reveal  to  you  —  my  universal  reputation.  I'm 
an  ugly  character,  —  an  unusually  ugly  political  char 
acter.  '  My  dearest  enemies  will  not  deny  that,  in 
whatever  venture  has  fallen  to  my  hands,  I  have 
never  failed  to  secure  the  goods.  In  my  present 
venture,  you  —  beloved  lady  —  are  the  goods. 

MATER 
Am  I  loot  or  merchandise  ? 

CULLEN 

I  trust  I  am  no  usurper.     Quid  pro  quo  is  my  coat 


MATER  1 1 7 

of  arms.     In   brief,   here   are  my  propositions   and 
deductions  :  First,  you  love  this  Verbeck. 

MATER 

Of  course ! 

CULLEN 

Second  :  you  are  engaged  to  marry  him. 

MATER 

Really ! 

CULLEN 

Third  :  in  the  unimpeded  course  of  human  events, 
you  would  doubtless  accompany  him  from  altar  to 
hearthstone  and  rear  up  a  disownable  number  of 
progeny  in  Dutch  pants  and  spectacles. 

MATER 

Upon  my  word  —  what  corollaries!  And  can  you 
compute  the  precise  number  by  this  magical  mathe 
matics  ? 

CULLEN 

Precisely  !  —  An  appropriate  number. 
MATER 

Like  the  number  of  good  votes  in  a  ballot-box  ? 

CULLEN 

You  follow  me  perfectly.  Which  brings  me  to  the 
fourth  and  last  proposition :  You  love  also  your 
brother. 

Hence,  we  may  cancel  the  first  three  items  and 


1 1 8  MA  TER 

dispense  with  Verbeck  altogether.  For  you  love 
your  brother  and  your  brother  loves  his  career.  But 
his  career  depends  on  the  calculations  of  Cullen. 
Now  Cullen  loves  you.  Therefore  you  love  in  Cullen 
your  brother's  career,  which  is  the  resultant  of 
Cullen's  love  for  you.  By  final  deduction,  therefore, 

you  love  Cullen. 

MATER 

Quod  erat  demonstrandum  ! 

CULLEN 
So  much  for  the  proof;  now  for  the  pudding! 

[  With  business-like  tone  and  directness^ 
You  will  kindly  inform  your  brother  at  once  that 
you  are  no  longer  engaged  to  Mr.  Verbeck,  but  to 
me.    In  plain  United  States,  what  do  you  say  to  that? 

MATER 

In  plain  United  States,  thafs  a  corker  ! 

CULLEN 

Miss  Dean,  that  won't  do.     I  wish  you  good  after 
noon. 

MATER 
It  isn't  five-thirty. 

CULLEN 
Good-by. 

[  Without  looking  back,  he  passes  into  the  hall  and  down  the 
stairs.  After  he  has  disappeared,  Mater  stands  still 
an  instant,  fingering  nervously  the  silk  neckerchief  of 
Michael  on  the  table.  Then  she  goes  to  the  stairway  and 
calls  softly.'} 


MATER  119 

MATER 

Mr.  Cullen  !     Mr.  Cullen  ! 

\A  longer  pause.  ~\ 

Arthur  — 

\_Under  her  breath .] 

Cullen,  Esquire  ! 

\_She  hurries  back  into  the  room.      Cullen  leaps  up  the  stair 
way  and  bursts  across  the  hall  into  the  room.~\ 

CULLEN 
Dearest  Mater ! 

MATER 

\_Raising  an  admonishing  hand.~\ 
Listen  !     When  I  cross  myself,  it's  a  sure  sign. 

CULLEN 
Of  what? 

MATER 

True  blue.      No  fibbing.     Now,  look. 
[She  slowly  crosses  herself.~\ 

I  hereby  renounce  and  cancel  all  intention,  promise 
and  desire  which  I  have  ever  uttered,  improvised  or 
felt,  to  marry  Rudolf  Verbeck.  Is  that  legal  ? 

CULLEN 
Desire  !     You  even  renounce  your  desire  ? 

MATER 

Perhaps  that's  an  illegal  word.  I  cannot  renounce, 
I  suppose,  what  I've  never  felt. 


120  MATER 

CULLEN 

Goldlocks,   you  cannot  fool  me  so,  —  not  since  I 
have  read  this  letter. 

[Showing  //.] 

But  I  believe  your  sign  of  true  blue,  and  so  I  must 
believe  you  have  utterly  renounced  him  —  for  me. 

MATER 

[Crossing  herself  again."] 
But  I  never  wrote  that  letter. 

CULLEN 

[Trying  to  stop  her  hand.~\ 
Don't !    Don't !     You're  fibbing. 

MATER 

[  Crossing  herself  faster  and faster, ,] 
If  that's  a  fib,  I'll  marry  you  whenever  you  please. 

CULLEN 

But  is  that  another  ? 

MATER 

Of  course  it  is.     For  I'll  never  marry  you. 

[As  Cullen  makes  a  desperate  gesture,  she  speaks  with  rip 
pling  rapidity  I\ 

That  is,  of  course,  if  it  isn't,  I  will.  —  To-morrow, 
if  you  like. 


MATER  121 

CULLEN 

Done  !  Fibbing  or  fibless,  you  are  the  most  fasci 
nating  woman  in  the  world,  and  fibbified  or  not,  I  adore 
the  very  sound  and  sight  of  you. 

MATER 

\With  a  dreamy  pause .] 
Poor  dear  Mr.  Cullen  —  don't ! 

CULLEN 

Don't  you  !  Don't  try  to  dash  me  now.  I  won't  be 
dashed. 

MATER 

Who  could  have  imagined  it ! 

CULLEN 
What,  that  I  - 

MATER 

No.  Me  !  I  have  a  new  symptom.  It's  awful !  I'm 
beginning  to  feel  sorry  for  you. 

CULLEN 

Pity,  saith  the  poet,  is  the  mother  of  love. 

MATER 

\_Quickly,  with  naive  relief. ~\ 

That's  it,  I  suppose.  That  makes  me  feel  better 
already.  Especially  as  you  ought  really  —  really  to 
have  some  one  to  look  after  you. 


122  MATER 

CULLEN 

[  With  amorous  cadence.~\ 
And  will  mfryou? 

MATER 
\_Mate  rnallyl\ 
Of  course  I  will. 

[Looking  intently  just  below  his  chin.~\ 
And  so,  from  the  first,  I  want  you  to  promise  me 

something. 

CULLEN 

With  all  my  heart. 

MATER 

No,  your  throat.  Promise  me  not  to  send  your 
collars  to  a  Chinese  laundry.  So  many  of  those 
coolies  have  tuberculosis,  and  you  know  how  they  — 
well,  how  they  —  you  know,  what  the  little  Tritons 
on  street  fountains  do. 

CULLEN 

[.Bursting  into  laughterJ] 
Oh,  wonderful ! 

MATER 

\_Momentarily  puffing  her  cheeks •.] 
Only  not  so  prettily  !      Promise  me  ? 

CULLEN 
Eternally ! 

[ Mater,  darting  to  the  piano,  strikes  the  first  chords  of  the 
song  "O/i,  Promise  Me!"  As  Cullen  springs  to  her 
side,  she  breaks  off  abruptly,  and  stares  straight  ahead 
of  her ^ 


MATER  123 

MATER 
Demon,  demon,  you're  at  it  again  ! 

CULLEN 
Is  it  quite  polite  to  call  me  demon? 

MATER 
Oh,  not  you. 

[Pointing  at  the  air  in  front  of  her.~\ 
Him! 

CULLEN 

Who? 

MATER 

[Darkfy.] 

My  familiar  slave  and  master. 

CULLEN 

\_Puzzled  at  her  expression. ~\ 
The  devil ! 

MATER 

Exactly !     All    the   bewitching    ladies   have   little 
devils   to   serve   them, 

[Sighing. ~\ 

whom    they    also    serve.      So    do    the    great    sages. 
Socrates  had   one ;  you  remember. 

CULLEN 

Is  that  a  guess  at  my  age  ? 

MATER 

Now  my  demon —      Do  you  want  to  know  what 
he's  like  ? 


124  MATER 

CULLEN 

I  must  know. 

MATER 

Usually  he's  a  faun  and  on  tiptoe  he  stands  about 

[Measuring  about  an  inch  with  her  fingers.] 
so  high,  though  sometimes  he  shoots  up  so  tall  that 
he  shakes  the  stars  from  his  curls.  He's  all  kinds 
of  artists  and  philosophers.  First,  a  musician ;  he 
has  composed  a  SympJwnie  Comique,  in  which  he 
plays  himself  ;  and  whenever  the  tender  violins  grow 
melancholy,  he  bleats  on  his  droll  bassoon  —  so  nearly 
off  the  key,  that  it  gives  you  shivers  of  fun  to  hear 
his  new-found  harmony.  Next,  a  painter ;  he  has  a 
color-box  called  Paradox,  with  brushes  of  lamb's  wool, 
and  with  these  he  will  retouch  a  middle-aged  Mamma 
to  pass  for  a  debutante  in  the  eyes  of  a  lover.  Then 
he's  a  biologist;  he  puts  fleas  in  men's  ears,  which 
they  can  never  scratch  out ;  and  bees  in  their  bon 
nets,  that  don't  sting  but  buzz  them  to  death ;  and 
lap-dog  puppies  on  the  sills  of  their  doors ;  where 
upon  he  cries,  "  Wolf !  wolf  !  "  and  howls  horridly 
with  laughter.  Most  of  all,  he's  a  Humanist.  He 
will  put  on  the  cloak  of  Erasmus,  the  cap  of  La  Fon 
taine  and  the  girdle  of  Gargantua,  and,  mounting  the 
rostrum  of  an  American  thimble,  harangue  the  na 
tion  through  the  eye  of  a  needle.  Oh,  he's  an  ador 
able  demon ! 

CULLEN 
So  this  is  your  guide  and  mentor  ? 


MATER  12$ 

MATER 

And  true  love !  To  be  honest,  I  know  he's  a  fib,  a 
tease  and  a  March-hare.  That's  why  I  introduced 
you.  You  will  appreciate  him.  He's  Michael's 
abomination.  Michael  can't  bear  to  hear  me  even 
mention  his  names. 

CULLEN 

Names  !     Has  he  more  than  one  ? 

MATER 

Lots !  Sometimes  I  call  him  Plato,  sometimes 
Punch ;  but  his  formal  family  title  is  Conscience. 

CULLEN 
\_Pas  sionately^\ 

You  captivating  girl!  Can  you  guess  how  you 
have  bewildered  — 

MATER 

No,  no  !     You  mustn't. 

\_She  starts  from  him  to  the  edge  of  the  piano,  where  she 
stands  with  a  look  half  frightened,  half  abstracted, 
while  he  speaks  to  her.~\ 

CULLEN 

You  must  let  me  stutter —  cry  out.  My  gladness 
hurts.  You've  burst  upon  me  sudden  and  strange, 
like  a  sharp  memory  —  a  dear  sickness  in  childhood, 
a  first  spring-day  in  the  country.  I  am  petulant  with 
the  joy  of  you,  faint  with  the  wonder.  I  don't  recog- 


126  MATER 

nize  even  my  voice,  my  words,  the  beautiful  world  in 
this  room. 

MATER 

How  could  I ! 

*  CULLEN 

Years,  cold  hard  years  of  gray  business  and  dull 
rascality  —  they're  brushed  to  the  horizon,  and  here 
you  are  blooming  instead ;  and  here  I  am  speaking 
once  more  the  heart  of  me  —  sharing  with  you  fancy 
and  beauty  and  love,  just  as  once  I  used  to  share 
them  in  college  days  with  my  books,  and  the  warm 
fields,  golden  with  young  cattle  and  the  sunset.  I 
don't  know  myself,  Mater;  you  have  made  me  all 
over. 

MATER 

Dear  me !     Dear  me  !     What  a  wretch  ! 

CULLEN 
Oh,  I  know;  I'm  a  chump  and  a  rascal. 

MATER 

Purgatory's  too  good ! 

CULLEN 

I  have  played  a  political  trick  and  I'm  forcing  you 
to  step  into  your  brother's  trap  to  save  him.  So  be 
it !  I  cannot,  I  will  not  lose  you.  Only  believe  me 
—  though  it's  a  rascal  that  catches  you,  it's  a  better 
fellow  will  keep  you.  Onc^  you  declare  yourself 
mine — I'll  lay  out  my  life  to  be  worthy  of  you. 


MATER  12? 

MATER 

Now  it's  all  up.     I  cannot  possibly  go  on. 

CULLEN 

You  can't  believe  me  ? 

MATER 

But  worse  yet,  I  ought  to  go  on  —  now.     You'd 
never  forgive  me. 

CULLEN 

Do  you  care  what  I'd  do  ? 

MATER 

But  worst  of  all,  I  must  go  on.     Oh,  I'll  never  for 
give  you. 

CULLEN 

For  what  blackest  of  my  sins  ? 

MATER 

Treachery.     I  deposited  all  my  faith  in  you,  and 
now  you  have  failed. 

CULLEN 

How  can  you  speak  so  ? 

MATER 

How  can  you  look  so  ?     I  told  you  to  be  a  humor 
ist,  and  you  said  you'd  try. 

CULLEN 

Dear  one,  all  that  nonsense  is  passed  away. 


I28  MATER 

MATER 
Sic  transit  gloria  ! 

[She  feels  for  her  handkerchief^ 

CULLEN 

\_Appealingly.~] 
Mater ! 

MATER 

No !     While  you  were  witty,  it  was  all  right. 

CULLEN 
Mater,  you're  not  crying  ? 

MATER 

Yes  —  probably  !     There  seems  to  be  no  end  to  it. 
Now  I'm  beginning  to  feel  sorry  for  myself. 

CULLEN 

You  are  an  angel. 

MATER 

You   don't  know  me.     I'm  a  desert.     But  Moses 
smote  the  rock,  and  whosoever  smiteth  the  rock  of 

my  self-pity  — 

CULLEN 

Please  ! 

MATER 

After  him  —  the  deluge  ! 

CULLEN 
[Dropping  beside  her,  snatches  her  hand.~\ 

Dearest  — 

[He  kisses  it.~\ 


MATER  129 

MATER 

\Starting  away.~^ 
Don't,  don't ! 

\_Enter  MICHAEL.     He  strides  toward  Cullen.~\ 

MICHAEL 
How  dare  you ! 

MATER 
Michael !     Be  careful !     There's  too  much  light. 

[She  springs  to  the  curtains  and  partly  draws  them,  obscuring 
the  room^\ 

MICHAEL 
\_To  Cullen.~\ 
Explain  again  !     Can  you  ? 

CULLEN 

\_Starting  to  his  feet.  ~\ 
Ask  her. 

MATER 

Shade  your  eyes,  boy.     Sit  down. 

MICHAEL 

[Ignoring  her.~\ 

First  you  try  to  taint  my  honor  in  the  nation,  and 
now  in  my  family. 

CULLEtf 

[Tense  and  quiet  J\ 
Ask  her. 
K 


130  MATER 

MICHAEL 

Did  he  sneak  in  the  window,  Mater?  Or  up  the 
back-stairs  ?  Look  out  for  your  silver  and  trinkets. 
We'd  better  search  him. 

MATER 

Don't  rack  your  voice  so,  dear.  And  your  poor 
head  !  Remember  what  the  doctor  — 

MICHAEL 

He  touched  you  ! 

MATER 

There,  there  !     Mr.  Cullen  was  just  telling  me  — 

MICHAEL 
[Staring  at  her.~\ 
What !  —  What ! 

MATER 

In  the  course  of  our  conversation  — 

MICHAEL 

You  received  him !  You  spoke  with  him  again 
after—  You've  lied  to  me  !  All  the  worse  for  him. 

MATER 

Michael ! 

MICHAEL 
\To  Cullen.'] 
Go,  or  I'll  put  you  out  with  my  own  hands. 


MA TER  i  3 1 

CULLEN 

[Imperturbably,  looking  from  his  watch  to  Mater, ,] 
Five  o'clock. 

[He  walks  slowly  toward  the  hall.  ] 

MICHAEL 
Faster ! 

[He  moves  toward  Cullen;  Mater  comes  between.'] 

MATER 

Don't!     Mr.    Cullen    has   just   asked   me-      Oh, 
Michael ! 

MICHAEL 

[Glaring.'] 
Quick ! 

MATER 
To  marry  him. 

MICHAEL 

[To  Cullen.~] 
You  infamous  — 

MATER 

Wait!     And  I  have  just — consented — with  con 
ditions. 

MICHAEL 

Consented ! 

[He  stares  at  Mater,  and  sways."] 
You're  stark  mad. 

MATER 

Oh,  no,  I'm  quite  calm.     See  ! 

[Looking  at  CullenJ] 
We  both  are. 


132  MATER 

MICHAEL 

Then  God  curse  him  and  you  and  all  of  us  !  Better. 
He'd  kill  you  in  your  calmness  and  me  —  me  in 
this  — 

MATER 

Boy  !     My  boy ! 

MICHAEL 

\Pointing  toward  the  portrait.] 
You  stood  here  with  me. 

MATER 

[  With  poignant  appeal] 
Please  don't ! 

MICHAEL 

You  stood  here  with  me.  You  stood  here  with  me. 
It  was  on  his  anniversary. 

MATER 

Stop  !     I  can't  bear  it.     I'll  explain  every  bit. 

MICHAEL 

Now   you'll   explain,    too !     He's    given    you   the 
plague.  —  Hide-the-thimble  !     That   was    the    game  ! 
-Go! 

[Driving  her  by  his  gesture  toward  the  hall] 
Go   with  him!     Hypocrites  —  hand  in   hand.     Your 
silly  head's  turned.  —  You're  a  thimble — a  vanity! 
Go  !     You're  empty,  empty,  empty  —  all  but  of  sin 
ning  ! 


MATER  133 


MATER 
[To  Cullen.} 

Come  !     He's  too  ill.  —  It's  killing  him. 
[They  hurry  off.~] 

MICHAEL 
Go,  go,  go,  go  ! 

[  Turning  with  a  hoarse  cry.~\ 
Father  ! 

[He  falls,  lying  near  the  portrait^ 


ACT  III 


ACT  III 

The  room  is  softly  lighted  by  electricity  through  burners  of 
amber-colored  glass.  The  bay-window  curtains  are 
partly  drawn,  as  at  the  end  of  Act  II.  Between  them 
glows  the  whiter  light  of  an  unseen  arc  lamp  outdoors. 

On  the  divan  sits  MICHAEL  —  his  head  in  his  hands.  Near 
him  stands  MARY.  From  outside  comes  the  clamor  of 
distant  horns  and  bells  and  shouting,  with  occasional 
detonations  of  fireworks. 

MARY 
Listen  now  !     They  are  nearer. 

MICHAEL 
[Looks  up  dully. ~\ 
You  found  me  here,  you  say,  —  on  the  divan  ? 

MARY 

I    found   you  sleeping  here.     I  overslept  myself. 
She  didn't  wake  me  from  my  nap,  of  course. 

MICHAEL 

Strange ! 

MARY 
\_Indicating  a  decanter  and  empty  wine-glass  on  the  table.~\ 

You    must  have  got  yourself  this  port,  after  you 
recovered  from  your  fainting. 


138  MATER 

MICHAEL 

And  I  drunk  that !     I  remember  nothing  of  it. 
\_He  rises.'] 

MARY 
Are  you  stronger  now  ? 

MICHAEL 

Much. 

MARY 

[Listening  with  excitement^ 
Just  hear  them  ! 

MICHAEL 

And  all  this  you've  been  telling  me  —  what  was  it  ? 

MARY 

The  flowers  he  sent  here  for  Miss  Dean  were  for 
her — not  me.  He  mistook  her  from  the  first  for 
your  sister ;  and  she  evidently  has  let  him  believe  it. 

MICHAEL 

[His  face  twitching^ 

Stop  !     Don't  speak  of  this  again.     It's  unbearable. 

\_Mary  pttts  her  hand  affectionately  on  his  shoulder.     They 

embrace  quickly  ;  then  he  puts  her  away  from  him. — 

With  the  noise  of  approaching  hotns  are  now  mingled 

the  strains  of  a  brass-band.~\ 

What  time  is  it  ? 

MARY 

Quarter  of  twelve.  The  committee  were  here,  and 
several  reporters. 


MA  TER  1 39 

MICHAEL 

I  can't  see  them. 

MARY 

I  told  them  to  come  back  in  an  hour. 
\The   shouting  voices   outside   break   irregularly   and  then 
harmoniously  into  the  tune  of  "John  Brown's  Body" 
Mary  rushes  to  the  bay-window  and  looks  out.~\ 

Such  crowds   in  the   street,  Michael !     They   are 
marching  here. 

MICHAEL 

I  have  dreamed  of  this  for  years  ! 

\_He  shuts  out  the  sounds  with  his  hands.~\ 

THE  VOICES  OUTSIDE 

[Singing  deeply  to  the  brazen  blare  of  the  instruments  and 
the  rhythm  of  marching.~\ 

They  have  strewn  the  burning  hearths  of  men  with 

darkness  and  with  mire, 
They  have  heaped  the  burning  hearts  of  men  with 

ashes  of  desire, 
Yet  from  out  those  hearts  and  hearths  still  leaps  the 

quick  eternal  fire 

Whose  flame  is  liberty. 

\_The  singing  ceases;  cries  of  " Dean  !  Dean!"  resound 
beneath  the  window  ;  Mary  makes  a  gesture  for  Michael 
to  come ;  he  sinks  into  a  chair,  still  stopping  his  ears. 
The  voices  take  up  the  song  again.'] 

For  the  freedom  of  the  laborer  is  freedom  from  his 

toil, 
And  freedom  of  the  citizen  is  right  to  share  the  soil, 


140  MATER 

And  the  freedom  of  our  country  is  the  loosing  of  the 
coil 

That  chokes  posterity. 

\_Cries  of  "  Dean  !  Speech  !  "  etc.,  and  the  cheering  grows 
more  insistent,  Mary  bends  over  Michael  with  an  ap 
pealing  look.  ] 

MICHAEL 

They  must  go  away. 

MARY 

They  won't,  till  you  speak  to  them.     Come ! 

MICHAEL 
[Rising  slowly.~\ 

All  right.  One  pang  is  no  worse  than  the  other. 
[He goes  to  the  casement  and  throws  it  open.  Mary  accom 
panies  him,  but  sits  far  back  in  the  corner  of  the  window- 
seat,  left.  The  cheering  becomes  wilder.  Just  as 
Michael  opens  the  window,  there  emerges  \_right]  from  be 
hind  the  heavy  folds  of  the  curtain,  MATER.  As  Mi 
chael  speaks  to  the  invisible  crowd  below,  she  stands  at 
the  edge  of  the  curtain,  watching  him  rapturously^ 

MICHAEL 

Citizens  : 

You  have  honored  me  by  electing  me  as  a  leader. 
Therefore  I  will  honor  you  by  leading  you  toward  the 
goal  I  promised.  That  goal  is  civic  liberty  —  the  self- 
interest  of  each  in  the  happiness  of  all.  Remember, 
citizens,  I  will  lead  you,  and  not  follow.  If  there  be 
some  of  you  who  later  shall  vacillate  or  hang  back, 


MATER  141 

they  shall  not  hinder  the  advancing  cause.  I  am 
now  a  captain  in  your  ranks ;  and  until  you  shall 
level  your  votes  at  me  again  and  bring  me  down,-  I 
will  remain  your  captain. 

\_He  turns  from  the  window  and  the  cheering  outside  bursts 
again  into  song,  gradually  diminishing  in  the  distance.~\ 

MATER 

[Coming  f 01  ward  impetuotisly\ 
My  boy !     My  glorious  boy  ! 

MICHAEL 

\Staring  at  her, ,] 
Mater ! 

MATER 

[Throwing  her  arms  about  him.~\ 
Elected !     At  last ! 

MICHAEL 
[Putting  her  back,  with  a  shudder."] 

At  last ! 

MATER 

Didn't  you  like  your  serenade  ? 
\_Gazes  an  instant,  then  turns  toward  Mary,  frightened. \ 

Is  he  worse  ? 

MARY 

[  With  fierceness.  ] 
Will  you  torture  him  now  ? 

MATER 

Torture ! 


142  MATER 

MARY 

So  that  was  why  you  wore  them  ! 

MATER 

[Smiting.  ] 
Yes.     Didn't  it  work  well ! 

MARY 
Oh,  it's  unspeakable  ! 

[She  rushes  from  the  room.~\ 

MATER 

[Bewildered.'] 
Hasn't  she  told  you  ?  —  The  absurd  mix-up  ? 

MICHAEL 

Mother  and  daughter  :  Yes.     She  has  told  me. 

MATER 

That's  good.     Then  the  play's  over.  — Well,  I'm 
waiting  for  bouquets. 

MICHAEL 

[  Smiling  painfully.  ] 
Of  daffodils  ? 

MATER 

Anything  yellow  and  becoming.     Wasn't  I  mon 
strously  clever  ? 

MICHAEL 
Monstrously,  monstrously  !  —  For  you  are  a  mother. 


MATER  143 

MATER 

And  fat  and  forty,  my  dear  !  To  impersonate 
your  own  progeny  in  the  sere  and  yellow,  when,  as 
Shakespeare  has  it,  "  The  heydey  in  the  blood  is  tame," 
and  so,  to  lure  your  delightsome  villain  lover  into  the 
secret  tower  of  your  family,  and  there  —  with  the 
blazing  edge  of  a  life-membership  ticket  —  to  blind 
him,  and  bind  him  body  and  soul, 'till  the  election  bells 
ring  out  "  Liberty  and  Life-work !  "  to  the  hero  — 
There's  the  imagination  of  Moliere  and  fat  finesse  oi 
Rachel! 

MICHAEL 

What  devil  has  sent  you  here  to  damn  me  like  this  ? 

MATER 

[Pausing,  as  if  struck.  ~\ 
Boysie  !     Don't  you  understand  ? 

MICHAEL 

Of  course  I  understand.  And  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  I  curse  God  for  understanding. 

MATER 

Forgive  me.  You're  weak  and  ill.  I  was  so  happy 
I'd  almost  forgot.  Forgive  me.  . 

MICHAEL 

You  come  to  me  now  —  now  to  ask  forgiveness  ? 
Don't  tempt  me  beyond  my  strength.  I  have  cursed 
God  and  myself  ;  don't  — 

MATER 

[Starting  to  leave, .] 
I'll  go,  dear.     Rest  awhile. 


144 


MATER 


MICHAEL 
\_Detaining  her.~\ 

No ;  but  you  shall  not  go.  Now  is  as  good  as  never. 
Perhaps  when  you  are  gone,  you  might  forget  to  ask 
again.  And  then  to  remind  you  —  I  myself  might 
forget  my  duty. 

MATER 

Duty! 

MICHAEL 

But  since  you  have  forgot  so  much  —  so  be  it ! 
You  hated  anniversaries,  you  told  me.  Now  I  know 
why.  But  you  love  your  old  poetry  and  superstitions. 
Listen,  then ! 

[The  dock  is  striking  twelve -.] 

Midnight :  At  this  hour,  your  forgotten  shall  re 
turn  again.     Once  before  you  showed  him  to.  me  in  a 
glass ;  now  I  show  him  to  you  in  the  flesh. 
[Imperiously. ~\ 

Look  at  me,  Mater.     Do  you  remember  now  f 

MATER 

[Pensively. ~\ 
All  but  the  name.    ' 

MICHAEL 

Must  I  speak  it  again  and  remind  you  how  sacred  a 
name — 

MATER 

[  With  gentle  reserve^ 
No,  boy ;  you  cannot  speak  it ;  for  not  even  you 


MATER  145 

ever  heard  ///tf/name  he  called  me  by,  and  I  will  never 
tell  you. 

MICHAEL 

I  stand  here  in  his  place  and  I  will  rebuke — • 

MATER 

\_With  moved  dignity. ~\ 
Your  mother !     Not  —  his  wife. 

MICHAEL 

And  if  it  be  necessary  — 

MATER 

[  Quiet  but  commanding.^ 

Take  care,  my  son  !     He  would  not  permit  you. 
[She  looks  toward  the  portrait.^ 

MICHAEL 

\No  longer  dictatorial,  but  appealingfy.~\ 
Look  there,  then,  Mater.     Look  well,  and  think  — 
think  of  your  wretched,  frivolous  falling-off — from 
such    honorable    manhood,    to    such    depravity  —  a 
scoundrel  — 

\_Materturns  away,  hiding  her  face  from  Michael.  In  the 
distance  the  shouts  and  music  and  bells  are  faintly  heard. 
Mater  listens,  bowing  her  head  convulsively^ 

Yes,  it  is  well  for  you  to  sob,  and  remember. 

MATER 

O  memorable  midnight!  Ever  on  this  night,  my 
Michael,  even  after  a  hundred  years,  when  your 
childrens'  children  shall  pass  by  my  forgotten  grave — 


146  MATER 

MICHAEL 

My  God  !     You  are  laughing  ! 

MATER 

Yes,  boy;  and  the  flowers  that  spring  from  me 
then  shall  titter  in  the  face  of  my  tombstone,  while 
the  little  honeysuckles  blow  election  horns,  and  the 
daffodils  laugh  till  their  petals  are  filled  with  tears. 

MICHAEL 

Oh,  you  are  as  light  as  those  petals,  and  your  tears 
are  as  un human.  Irredeemably  shallow  —  fickle, 
fickle  woman  !  A  butterfly  on  a  daffodil  —  and  so 
you  are  caught  in  his  fingers ;  by  a  common  hypo 
crite,  a  crooked  scoundrel,  a  political  rat  — 
[Seizing  her  wrist.~] 

Can  nothing  sacred  make  you  to  see  yourself  and 
him  for  what  — 

MATER 

Gently,  my  mad  prince  !  Mr.  Cullen  is  not  yet 
King  of  Denmark,  nor  even  a  rat  in  the  wall ;  and 
though  you  have  closeted  your  mother  to  show  to  her 
her  own  foolish  little  face,  please  don't  fancy  you 
'must  be  cruel  only  to  be  kind. 

MICHAEL 

Mater,  if  ever  I  should  go  mad,  it  would  be  an  in 
heritance  from  you. 

MATER 

"  O  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us  "  —  to  find 


MATER 


147 


out !     Now  lie  down,  dear.     How  did  my  port  wine 
agree  with  you  ? 

MICHAEL 

You  gave  it  to  me  ? 

MATER 

Yes,  you  were  a  little  — 

\TouchfS  her  forehead.~\ 

MICHAEL 

Where's  Cullen,  then  ? 

MATER 

So  you  will  let  me  explain.  —  I  don't  know  where 
Mr.  Cullen  is. 

MICHAEL 

But  you  went  together  — 

MATER 

As  far  as  the  front  hall.  Then  he  begged  to  come 
back  for  Welsh  rarebit,  and  I  returned  here  to  tuck 
you  up  comfily.  He  promised  not  to  go  near  the 
ballot-boxes. 

MICHAEL 

Ballot-boxes  ! 

MATER 

And  you  see  he  has  kept  his  word ;  for  I  have 
triumphed  and  you  have  been  elected. 

MICHAEL 

By  the  people.     How  does  that  concern  you  ? 


148  MATER 

MATER 

Me,  my  dear  ?     I  am  the  people.     I  elected  you. 

MICHAEL 

So  you  did  bribe  him  with  your  gold ! 

MATER 

Yes  ;  so  he  said.    "  Pure  gold,"  he  called  me.     He 
admires  my  hair. 

MICHAEL 
[Gasping.] 

What !     You  not  only  broke  your  word  to  me  — 
Mater  !     You  have  sold  yourself  ? 

MATER 

No  ;  I  have  sold  Mr.  Cullen  —  poor  man  ! 

[Slowly  and  distinctly.  J 

In  plain,  predigested  English  for  infants :    I  have 
fooled  him,  my  dear. 

MICHAEL 

[Gazes  an  instant,  then  bursts  forth  wildly '.] 
And  you  have  fooled  me  !     I  will  never  forgive  you. 

MATER 
For  my  necessary  little  subterfuge  ? 

MICHAEL 

Subterfuge,    in    my  life-work  !     Oh,  I'll  renounce 
my  election. 


MATER  149 

MATER 

And  desert  your  country,  for  a  fib  or  two  of  mine  ? 

MICHAEL 

A  fib  is  a  falsehood ;  and  falsehood  betw.een 
mother  and  son  is  unforgivable. 

MATER 

But  it's  right —  sometimes. 

MICHAEL 
No,  wrong  ;  unforgivably  wrong. 

MATER 

Come,  boy,  admit :    This  time  it  was  common  sense. 

MICHAEL 

Common  sense  ! 

MATER 

And  remember  you've  said  yourself :  Nothing  can 
be  wrong  when  it's  common  sense.  So  kiss  and 
make  up. 

MICHAEL 

Make  up  !  I  see  !  You'll  try  to  do  with  me  what 
you  did  with  father.  You'd  dissemble  first  —  and 
afterwards  you'd  make  up.  But  not  so  with  me  ! 
Don't  dream  it !  I  will  never  —  never  make  up  ! 

[Exit  impetuously,  lower  left.~\ 


150 


MATER 


MATER 

[Repressing  tears,  sinks  into  a  chairJ] 
The  deaf  old  tragedy  !     Heighde'me  ! 

[CULLEN  comes  up  the  stairs  and  enters.     He  carries  a  white 
•    tissue-paper  parcel,  which  he  lays  on  the  piano .] 

CULLEN 

Mater  ! 

MATER 

\_Rising  with  a  start.~] 
You  ?     Isn't  it  rather  late  —  for  you  ? 

CULLEN 

[Showing  his  watch.~\ 
It's  to-morrow. 

MATER 

[Shaking  her  head.~\ 
To-morrow  never  comes. 

CULLEN 
But  /  have  come,  to  ask  — 

MATER 

After  Michael?     He's  better.     He's  in  the  second 

stage  already. 

CULLEN 

The  real  fact  is  - 

MATER 

There  are  three,  you  know  —  in  the  masculine. 


MA  TER  I  5  i 

CULLEN 

Three  stages  ? 

MATER 

In  the  tragedy.  In  the  first  stage,  you  wake  up  — 
to  the  feminine  offence ;  in  the  second,  you  break  up 
—  well,  anything  ;  in  the  third,  you  make  up  —  every 
thing.  Wake  up,  Break  up,  Make  up :  there's  the 
trilogy  of  Man ! 

CULLEN 

My  dear  Mater,  as  for  me  — 

MATER 

Oh,  as  for  you,  you're  not  even  in  the  first  yet. 
You're  not  likely  to  wake  up  till  bed-time.  I've 
set. your  alarm  very  late. 

CULLEN 

May  I  get  in  a  word?  —  I've  brought  you  a  swap 
for  the  thimble. 

\_Handing  //.] 

MATER 

A  ring !  So  you've  sent  for  the  parson  —  hop, 
skip  and  jump  ? 

CULLEN 

Not  as  hasty  as  that.     This  is  merely  — 

MATER 

[Taking  the  ring.~\ 
A  moonstone ! 


152  MATER 

CULLEN 
\_Softiy.-\ 
In  souvenir. 

MATER 

The  stone  of  fickleness. 

CULLEN 

What? 

MATER 

What  a  lovely  surprise!  They  will  be  so  de 
lighted. 

CULLEN 
They  will? 

{The  knob  of  the  door — lower  left — turns  with  a  slight 
sound,  the  door  opens  a  crack,  and  Mary  coughs  osten 
tatiously  outside.~\ 

What's  that? 

MATER 

That's  just  the  click,  before  it  goes  off. 
[Enter  MARY.] 

MARY 
I  beg  your  pardon. 

MATER 

Come  in. 

MARY 

Didn't  Rudolf  say  he  would  come? 

MATER 

Yes,  dear;  he's  coming  in  for  a  Welsh  rarebit. 
And  look!  See  what  our  friend,  Mr.  Cullen,  has 
brought  to  you  and  Rudolf. 


MATER  153 

MARY 


For  us?     A  ring! 

CULLEN 
\_Fidgeting.~\ 
My  dear  Miss  Dean  — 

MATER 

In    souvenir  of    Michael's    election    and    the    an 
nouncement  of    your  engagement    to    Mr.  Verbeck. 

MARY 

[Drawing  herself  up.~\ 
Mother! 

\_A  pause  :  Mater,  with  rigid,  outstretched  hand  holding  the 
ring  toward  Mary,  does  not  stir  an  eye  lash.  ~\ 

CULLEN 
\_Barely  vocalizing  the  word.~] 

Mother? 

MATER 

[Relaxing."] 

You  remember  my  daughter,  whom    you    met   at 
the  Robinsons'  ? 

[  Cullen  bows  slightly.  ~\ 

At  the  riddle  party  ! 

CULLEN 

[Murmurs  faintly.  ] 
"Wake  up." 

\Enter  RUDOLF,  from  the  hall.'] 


1 54  MA  TER 

MATER 

[Still  holding  out  the  ring  toward  Mary.~\ 
Such  a  lovely  surprise  ! 

RUDOLF 

Hulloa!     So  I'm  just  in  time  for  the  ceremony. 

MARY 

[Going  to  him  eagerly.^ 
Rudolf  dear  !     You  got  my  letter  ? 

RUDOLF 
Sure,  I  got  it. 

[Looking  at  Cullen.~\ 
Ask  him. 

CULLEN 

{Mutters^ 
"  Break  up." 

MARY 
Ask  whom  ? 

RUDOLF 

Your  ring-partner  there  in  the  ceremony.  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  turn  up  for  the  betrothals,  so 
as  not  to  spoil  your  fun. 

MARY 

Betrothals ! 

CULLEN 

[  With  a  whimsical  expression,  takes  from  his  pocket  Mary's 
letter  and  lays  it  on  the  table  beside  Mater.~\ 

"Makeup?" 
[Mater,  taking  it,  speaks  to  Mary,  who  is  gazing  astounded.~\ 


MATER 


MATER 


155 


I  was  showing  Mr.  Cullen  your  beautiful  hand 
writing,  dear. 

MARY 

[Snatching  from  Mater  the  letter. ,] 
You  —  you  showed  him  ! 

RUDOLF 

[Lifts  the  thimble,  from  the  table  and  twirls  */.] 
First  it  was  a  thimble,  and  now  it's  a  ring. 

MARY 

Is  this  a  farce?  That's  mother's;  it  belongs  to  — 
to  them. 

RUDOLF 

[Beginning  to  read  from  it.~\ 
M.D.— 

MATER 

\Takingthe  thimble -.] 

Mother  Dean,  Doctor  of  Matrimony  !  —  It's  mine 
and  I  shall  keep  it  always.  Mr.  Cullen  helped  me 
win  it  —  as  a  booby  prize. 

CULLEN 
[Nodding.  ] 
Booby  !  —  It!     It  forever  ! 

RUDOLF 

I  say,  but  Mater  — 

[Mary  beckons  Rudolf  to  the  bay-window,  where  they  con 
verse  eagerly.^ 


156  MATER 

CULLEN 

"  Mater  !  "  —  Mater,  from  you  I  have  learned  my 
first  advanced  Latin  and  diplomacy. 

MATER 

Think  of  me,  then,  as  your  Alma  Mater. 
[Lifting  from  the  table  the  big  envelope^ 

Receive  your  diploma,  with  honorable  mention 
in  Politics,  and  go  forth  now  to  face  your  new 
world. 

\_She  hands  to  him  the  envelope.     He  takes  it  with  mingled 
pleasantry  and  emotion.~\ 

CULLEN 

My  world  !  You  have  made  it  over  new  so  fre 
quently  that  now  it's  all  nebulous  fire. 

MATER 

So  the  prize  graduate  always  feels  on  his  Com 
mencement. 

CULLEN 

Commencement !  —  May  I  then  hope  that  even 
still  —  or  must  I  be  hopeless  ? 

MATER 

Hopeless  of  what  ? 

CULLEN 

That  I  may  come  again  enchanted,  and  find  you  as 
before,  enchantress,  in  your  golden  garden,  with  your 
demon  — 


MATER  157 

MATER 

Always  !  Here  you  shall  find  Judy,  with  thimble 
and  needle,  still  fighting  the  battles  of  her  baby. 

CULLEN 

No,  but  Juliet  — 

MATER 

By  any  other  name  —  may  wear  a  thimble ! 

CULLEN 

Why,  it's  a  dream  —  ridiculous  !  You  —  you,  my 
Madonna  of  the  daffodils  — 

MATER 
All  madonnas  must  have  babes,  you  know. 

[With  happy  self-satisfaction.'] 

And  mine's  elected !  I'm  so  much  obliged  for 
your  faith  in  me. 

CULLEN 

And  I  for  yours. 

MATER 

[Triumphantly.} 
Oh,  but  you  were  transparent ! 

CULLEN 

[  With  assumed  naviete^\ 
Easy,  was  I  ? 

MATER 

As  easy  as  fibbing.  Though,  I  must  confess,  that 
when  you  threatened  me  with  ballot-boxes  at  the  last 
minute,  I  trembled. 


158  MATER 

CULLEN 

And  /  must  confess,  that  when  I  threatened  you 
with  those  ballot-boxes,  I  fibbed. 

MATER 
\_Bfankfy.] 

You  fibbed !     How  is  it  possible? 

CULLEN 

Well,  you  see,  it's  possible  for  an  expert  to  count 
two  thousand  votes  wrong  —  but  hardly  twenty- 
thousand  ! 

\_ffe  looks  at  her  with  shrewd  amusement.     She  frowns  an 
instant,  then  beams  upon  him.~\ 

MATER 

Mr.  Cullen,  I  love  you !  I've  done  you  an  in 
justice. 

\_She  holds  out  her  hand.     Starting  in  ardent  surprise,  he 
reaches  to  take  it.~\ 

You  are  a  humorist,  after  all. 

[  Cullen  checks  himelf,  smiles  at  her  smile,  bows  and  kisses 
the  tips  of  her  fingers. ~\ 

CULLEN 
I  tried  hard. 

MATER 

And  I  shall  always  depend  on  you.  And  Michael, 
I  trust,  will  continue  to  prosper  in  politics  ? 

CULLEN 

Michael  might  prosper  in  Hell,  with  such  a  mother. 


MATER  159 

MATER 

Such  a  devil  of  a  mother,  you  would  say  ? 

CULLEN 

I  can't  express  —  what  I  would  say. 

MARY 

[  Coming  forward  with  Rudolf.  ~\ 
Mother,  I  can't  make  it  out.     If  that  ring  — 

RUDOLF 
And  besides,  Mary's  been  telling  me  — 

MATER 

Ha  !  Rudolf  !     You  are  just  —  how  do  you  say  it  ? 
—  just  the  cheese  ! 

RUDOLF 
What  for  ? 

MATER 

For  the  Welsh  rarebit.     It's  in  the  kitchen.     Will 

you  ask  Nellie  — 

RUDOLF 


What,  again  ?     I'm  all  tangled  up. 

MATER 

[Putting  one  arm  through  his  and  the  other  around  Mary.~\ 
Now  this  is  what  I  call  a  true-lover's  knot. 


Mother ! 


MARY 
[Emba  rrassed.  ] 


l6o  MATER 

RUDOLF 

[  With  enthusiasm.'} 
She's  all  right,  Mary. 

MATER 

[  Waving  them  toward  the  door.~\ 
And  plenty  of  cheese  for  Mr.  Cullen  ! 

CULLEN 

I  regret !  I  regret !  I  would  give  my  career  to  re 
main,  but  destiny  forbids  —  and  dyspepsia. 

\Lifting  the  white  tissue-paper  parcel  from  the  piano I\ 

Machiavel  of  ladies,  within  your  realm  of  flowers, 
I  have  met  —  and  I  have  lost  —  my  better  half. 

MATER 

He  who  loses  —  even  half  of  himself  shall  find  a 

whole  kingdom. 

\Noticing  the  parcel.~\ 

What's  this  ? 

CULLEN 

The  white  flag.  Dearest  Mater,  —  "  short  for 
Matilda,"  —  with  this  I  surrender  the  field,  with  my 
filial  allegiance. 

[He  hands  her  the  parcel.  While  she  stands  unwrapping 
the  folds  of  paper,  he  goes  quietly  to  the  hall,  where  he 
pauses  —  her  back  being  toward  him.~\ 


MATER 
[Exclaiming  with  pleasure, .] 


Pansies 


MATER  161 

CULLEN 

You'll  supply  the  quotation. 

[He  goes  down  the  stairs.~\ 

MATER 
[Starting.'] 
Is  he  gone  ?  —  Finis  !     Farewell,  Romeo  ! 

MARY 

Mother,  I  feel  sure  there's  a  joke  somewhere  ;  I 
wish  I  could  see  the  point. 

MATER 
[Pensively '.] 
I've  lost  sight  of  it  myself,  dear  —  for  the  moment. 

MARY 

[Awkwardly  caressing  her."] 
Anyway — forgive  me. 

MATER 
You  darling ! 

[Mussing  Mary's  hair  and  taking  off  her  spectacles^] 
Such  eyes  —  behind  windows  ! 

[Pushing  her  toward  Rudolf."] 
Now  you  go  and  play  Juliet. 

Sir  Lover,  light  down  and    hunt  the  Rarebit  for 
your  lady-love. 

RUDOLF 
[At  the  door.] 
Come  on,  Mary. 


1 62  MATER 

MARY 

Rudolfo  ! 

\_They  go  out  together.  From  below  comes  the  sound  of  a 
door  closing.  Mater,  the  pansies  in  her  hands,  goes  to 
the  bay-window,  knocks  on  the  pane,  pushes  open  the 
casement  and  looks  down] 

MATER 

[  Waving  the  flowers.] 
Remember  about  your  laundry  ! 

[Tosses  two  or  three  pansies-  out.~\ 
For  thoughts  ! 

\_She  waves  again,  closes  the  casement,  comes  to  the  table  and 
drops  the  pansies  absent-mindedly.  Then  she  goes  slowly 
to  the  piano,  sits,  plays  and  sings  quietly.  While  she 
does  so,  Michael  opens  the  door,  upper  left,  and  stands 
on  the  sill,  in  inward  agitation] 

Long  ago  in  the  old  moonlight, 

I  lost  my  hero  and  lover ; 
Strong  and  tender  and  stern  and  right, 
Never  shall  night 

Nor  day  his  brow  uncover.  — 

Ah,  my  heart,  that  is  over  ! 

[MICHAEL  enters;  Mater  starts  up,  but  sits  'again,  as  he  makes 
a  moody  gesture  and  strides  darkly  across  the  room, 
struggling  with  himself.  Mater  resumes^ 

Yet  still,  for  joy  of  the  fellowship 

That  bound  us  both  through  the  years  long  after, 

I  laugh  to  think  how  he  bit  his  lip, 
For  the  test  of  love  — 
And  the  best  of  love  —  is  laughter. 


MATER 


163 


MICHAEL 
[Hoarsely. ,] 

Mater !     You're    right.       It's    common   sense.      I 
make  up. 

MATER 

\_Darting  to  his  arms.~\ 
Ah,  my  hero ! 

[Clinging  to  him,  she  looks  past  him —  smiling  through  tears 
—  toward  the  portrait^ 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


THE  WORKS  OF  PERCY  MACKAYE 

The  New  Citizenship 

Boards,  i6mo,  $  .50 

A  masque  or  "  ritual,"  as  the  author  calls  it,  which  presents  in  simple  and 
dramatic  form  the  dignity  and  importance  of  citizenship  in  the  United  States.  It 
is  well  suited  for  use  in  schools,  particularly  where  there  is  a  large  foreign 
element. 

A  Substitute  for  War 

Boards,  idmo^  $  .50 

It  is  one  of  the  few  peace  books  which  proposes  a  definite  and  positive  sub- 
stitute  for  war.  It  attracted  wide  attention  when  the  article  on  which  it  is  based 
was  printed  in  the  North  A  merican  Review. 


The  Present  Hour 

BY    PERCY    MACKAYE 

Author  of  "  The  Scarecrow,"  "  Sappho  and  Phaon,"  etc. 

•     Cloth, 


"  The  first  book  of  poetry,  coming  out  of  the  present  European  conflict,  to 
strike  home  with  conviction.  ...  '  School  '  is  perhaps  the  most  distinctly 
American  poem  of  the  present  time."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  There  is  much  that  is  fine,  vigorous,  picturesque  and  genuinely  imaginative 
in  this  collection  .  .  .  and  one  responds  to  the  deep  patriotism  of  it  with  a  sincere 
heart  throb  of  sympathy  ...  his  voice  is  one  of  the  few  to-day  worth  hearing." 

—  Bellman. 

"...  strikes  much  deeper  root  than  the  majority  of  the  work  upon  this  subject 
thus  far  produced."  —  N~.  Y.  Times. 

"  The  volume  as  a  whole  contains  Mr.  Mackaye's  best,  most  authentically 
inspired  poetry,  and  it  is  poetry  of  which  all  who  speak  the  English  tongue  may 
be  more  than  a  little  proud."  —  Cincinnati  Inquirer. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


THE  WORKS  OF  PERCY  MACKAYE 

Sistine  Eve,  and  Other  Poems 

A  New  Edition.     Cloth,  gilt  top,  121110,  $1.25 

"...  will  place  him  among  the  most  noteworthy  of  the  younger  school  of 
literary  producers."  —  Bellman. 

Jeanne  D'Arc 

Decorated  cloth,  gilt  top,  i2mo,  $1.25 

"  A  series  of  scenes  animated  at  times  by  a  sure,  direct,  and  simple  poetry, 
again  by  the  militant  fire,  and  finally  by  the  bitter  pathos  of  the  most  moving, 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful,  and  certainly  the  most  inexplicable  story  in  profane 
history."  —  Philadelphia  Ledger. 

A  Garland  to  Sylvia 

Cloth,  gilt  top,  I2mo,  $1.23 
"...  contains  much  charming  poetry."  —  New  York  Post. 

Sappho  and  Phaon 

Cloth,  decorated  covers,  gilt  top,  i2tno,  $1.25 

"  Mr.  Mackaye's  work  is  the  most  notable  addition  that  has  been  made  for 
many  years  to  American  dramatic  literature.  It  is  true  poetic  tragedy  .  .  . 
charged  with  happy  inspiration;  dignified,  eloquent,  passionate,  imaginative,  and 
thoroughly  human  in  its  emotions,  .  .  .  and  whether  considered  in  the  light  of 
literature  or  drama,  need  not  fear  comparison  with  anything  that  has  been  writ 
ten  by  Stephen  Phillips  or  John  Davidson.  .  .  .  Masterfully  written  with  deep 
pathos  and  unmistakable  poetic  power."  —  New  York  Evening  Post. 

The  Canterbury  Pilgrims 

Decorated  cloth,  ill.,  gilt  top,  I2mo,  $1.25 

"  This  is  a  comedy  in  four  acts,  —  a  comedy  in  the  higher  and  better  meaning 
of  the  term.  It  is  an  original  conception  worked  out  with  a  rare  degree  of  fresh 
ness  and  buoyancy,  and  it  may  honestly  be  called  a  play  of  unusual  interest  and 
unusual  literary  merit.  .  .  .  The  drama  might  well  be  called  a  character  por 
trait  of  Chaucer,  for  it  shows  him  forth  with  keen  discernment,  a  captivating 
figure  among  men,  an  intensely  human,  vigorous,  kindly  man.  ...  It  is  a 
moving,  vigorous  play  in  action.  Things  go  rapidly  and  happily,  and,  while 
'here  are  many  passages  of  real  poetry,  the  book  is  essentially  a  drama." 

—  St.  Paul  Dispatch. 


THE    MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


THE  WORKS  OF  PERCY  MACKAYE 

Mater :    An  American  Study  in  Comedy 

Cloth,  decorated  covers,  gilt  top,  i2mo,  $1.25 

"  Mr.  Mackaye's  Mater  is  a  thing  of  pure  delight.  It  is 
prose,  but  a  prose  filled  with  poetic  fire.  Only  a  poet  could 
have  conceived  and  written  a  play  in  which  the  elements  of 
seriousness  and  laughter  are  so  admirably  blended.  .  .  .  The 
dialogue  throughout  shows  Mr.  Mackaye  at  his  best;  there 
is  in  it  life  and  light,  quick  movement,  and  outpouring  of 
song."  —  Book  News  Monthly. 

Fenris,  the  Wolf 

Cloth,  decorated  covers,  gilt  top,  i2mo,  $1.25 

"  A  drama  that  shows  triple  greatness.  There  is  the  su 
preme  beauty  of  poetry,  the  perfect  sense  of  dramatic  propor 
tion,  and  nobility  of  purpose.  It  is  a  work  to  dream  over,  to 
make  one  see  glorious  pictures,  —  a  work  to  uplift  to  soul 
heights  through  its  marvellously  wrought  sense  appeal." 

—  Examiner. 

The  Scarecrow 

Cloth,  decorated  covers,  gilt  top,  i2mo,  $1.25 

"  A  "delightful  and  significant  piece  of  philosophical  satire ; 
...  a  drama  which  is  full  of  imagination,  and  well  worthy  a 
place  in  our  literature."  —  New  York  Mail. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


The  Complete  Poetical  Works  of 
Geoffrey  Chaucer 

Now  first  put  into  Modern  English  by 
JOHN    S.    P.    TATLOCK 

Author  of  "  The  Development  and  Chronology  of  Chaucer's 
Works,"  etc. 


PERCY    MACKAYE 

Author  of  "  The  Canterbury  Pilgrims,"  "  Jeanne  D'Arc,"  etc. 
New  and  cheaper  edition,  with  illustrations  in  black  and  white 

Cloth,  8vo,  $2.00  ;  leather,  boxed,  $j.oo 

The  publication  of  The  Modern  Reader's  Chaucer  is  a  pronounced  success. 
Presenting  as  it  does  the  stories  of  the  great  bard  in  language  that  twentieth  cen 
tury  readers  unversed  in  Old  English  can  understand  and  enjoy,  it  opens  up  a 
rich  store  of  fascinating  literature.  This  cheaper  edition  of  the  work  is  designed 
with  the  purpose  of  still  further  increasing  its  usefulness  It  departs  in  no  way 
from  the  original  except  in  the  matter  of  illustrations,  all  of  which  are  rendered 
in  black  and  white.  The  binding,  too,  is  simpler,  being  uniform  with  the  binding 
of  the  one  volume  edition  of  The  Modern  Reader's  Bible.  The  text  remains 
unchanged. 

"  The  version  not  only  maintains  the  spirit  and  color,  the  rich  humor  and  in 
sight  into  human  nature,  of  the  original,  but  is  of  itself  a  literary  delight." 

—  The  A  rgonaut. 

"Those  who  have  at  times  attempted  to  struggle  through  the  original  tex- 
with  the  aid  of  a  glossary,  will  welcome  this  new  form."  —  Graphic,  Los  A  ngeles. 

"  Chaucer  is  now  readable  by  hundreds  where  before  he  was  not  accessible  to 
dozens.  The  book  is  a  veritable  mine  of  good  stories.  .  .  .  The  volume  can 
be  heartily  recommended  to  all  lovers  of  the  lasting  and  the  permanent  in 
literature."  —  Kentucky  Post. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


JUL  0  4  2001 


12,000(11/95) 


It 

P-^V\&  \ 


Olf 

oi 

o: 


CO! 


as 


6722 

LIBRARY,  BRANCH  OF  THE  COLLEGE  OF  AGRICULTURE