THE YOUNG MAN. Thank you. It was utterly beyond my power. (To the Agent)—Will you kindly take hold of me and move me over there? (The Agent propels him away from the girl.) Thank you. At this distance I can perhaps say farewell in a seemly and innocuous manner.

THE AGENT. Young man, you will not say farewell to that young lady for ten days-and perhaps never!

THE YOUNG WOMAN. What!

THE AGENT. They have arranged it all.

THE YOUNG MAN. Who have arranged what?

THE AGENT. Your aunt, Miss Brooke—and (to the young woman) your uncle, Mr. Egerton—

The young people turn and stare at each other in amazement.

THE YOUNG MAN. Egerton! Are you Helen Egerton?

HELEN. And are you George Brooke?

THE AGENT. Your aunt and uncle have just discovered each other up at the house, and they have arranged for you all to take dinner together tonight, and then go to a ten-day house-party at Mr. Egerton's place on Long Island. (Grimly) The reason of all this will be plain to you. They want you two to get married.

GEORGE. Then we're done for! We'll have to get married now whether we want to or not!

HELEN. What! Just to please them? I shan't do it!

GEORGE. (gloomily) You don't know my Aunt Maria.

HELEN. And Tubby will try to bully me, I suppose. But I won't do it—no matter what he says!

THE AGENT. Pardon what may seem an impertinence, Miss; but is it really true that you don't want to marry this young man?

HELEN. (flaming) I suppose because you saw me in his arms—! Oh, I want to, all right, but—

THE AGENT. (mildly) Then what seems to be the trouble?

HELEN. I—oh, you explain to him, George.

She goes to the bench and sits down.

GEORGE. Well, it's this way. As you may have deduced from what you saw, we are madly in love with each other—

HELEN. (from the bench) But I'm not madly in love with municipal ownership. That's the chief difficulty.

GEORGE. No, the chief difficulty is that I refuse to entertain even a platonic affection for the tango.

HELEN. (irritably) I told you the tango had gone out long ago!

GEORGE. Well, then, the maxixe.

HELEN. Stupid!

GEORGE. And there you have it! No doubt it seems ridiculous to you.

THE AGENT. (gravely) Not at all, my boy. I've known marriage to go to smash on far less than that. When you come to think of it, a taste for dancing and a taste for municipal ownership stand at the two ends of the earth away from each other. They represent two different ways of taking life. And if two people who live in the same house can't agree on those two things, they'd disagree on a hundred things that came up every day. And what's the use for two different kinds of beings to try to live together? It doesn't work, no matter how much, love there is between them.

GEORGE. (rushing up to him in surprise and gratification, and shaking his hand warmly) Then you're on our side! You'll help us not to get married!

THE AGENT. Your aunt is very set on it—and your uncle, too, Miss!

HELEN. We must find some way to get out of it, or they'll have us cooped up together in that house before we know it. (Rising and coming over to the Agent) Can't you think up some scheme?

THE AGENT. Perhaps I can, and perhaps I can't. I'm a bachelor myself, Miss, and that means that I've thought up many a scheme to get out of marriage myself.

HELEN. (outraged) You old scoundrel!

THE AGENT. Oh, it's not so bad as you may think, Miss. I've always gone through the marriage ceremony to please them. But that's not what I call marriage.

GEORGE. Then what do you call marriage?

HELEN. Yes, I'd like to know!

THE AGENT. Marriage, my young friends, is an iniquitous arrangement devised by the Devil himself for driving all the love out of the hearts of lovers. They start out as much in love with each other as you two are today, and they end by being as sick of the sight of each other as you two will be five years hence if I don't find a way of saving you alive out of the Devil's own trap. It's not lack of love that's the trouble with marriage—it's marriage itself. And when I say marriage, I don't mean promising to love, honour, and obey, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health till death do you part—that's only human nature to wish and to attempt. And it might be done if it weren't for the iniquitous arrangement of marriage.

GEORGE. (puzzled) But what is the iniquitous arrangement?

THE AGENT. Ah, that's the trouble! If I tell you, you won't believe me. You'll go ahead and try it out, and find out what all the unhappy ones have found out before you. Listen to me, my children. Did you ever go on a picnic? (He looks from one to the other—they stand astonished and silent.) Of course you have. Every one has. There is an instinct in us which makes us go back to the ways of our savage ancestors—to gather about a fire in the forest, to cook meat on a pointed stick, and eat it with our fingers. But how many books would you write, young man, if you had to go back to the campfire every day for your lunch? And how many new dances would you invent if you lived eternally in the picnic stage of civilization? No! the picnic is incompatible with everyday living. As incompatible as marriage.

GEORGE. But—

HELEN. But—

THE AGENT. Marriage is the nest-building instinct, turned by the Devil himself into an institution to hold the human soul in chains. The whole story of marriage is told in the old riddle: "Why do birds in their nests agree? Because if they don't, they'll fall out." That's it. Marriage is a nest so small that there is no room in it for disagreement. Now it may be all right for birds to agree, but human beings are not built that way. They disagree, and home becomes a little hell. Or else they do agree, at the expense of the soul's freedom stifled in one or both.

HELEN. Yes, but tell me—

GEORGE. Ssh!

THE AGENT. Yet there is the nest-building instinct. You feel it, both of you. If you don't now, you will as soon as you are married. If you are fools, you will try to live all your lives in a love-nest; and you will imprison your souls within it, and the Devil will laugh.

HELEN. (to George) I am beginning to be afraid of him.

GEORGE. So am I.

THE AGENT. If you are wise, you will build yourselves a little nest secretly in the woods, away from civilization, and you will run away together to that nest whenever you are in the mood. A nest so small that it will hold only two beings and one thought—the thought of love. And then you will come back refreshed to civilization, where every soul is different from every other soul—you will let each other alone, forget each other, and do your own work in peace. Do you understand?

HELEN. He means we should occupy separate sides of the house, I think. Or else that we should live apart and only see each other on week-ends. I'm not sure which.

THE AGENT. (passionately) I mean that you should not stifle love with civilization, nor encumber civilization with love. What have they to do with each other? You think you want a fellow student of economics. You are wrong. You think you want a dancing partner. You are mistaken. You want a revelation of the glory of the universe.

HELEN. (to George, confidentially) It's blithering nonsense, of course. But it was something like that—a while ago.

GEORGE. (bewilderedly) Yes; when we knew it was our first kiss and thought it was to be our last.

THE AGENT. (fiercely) A kiss is always the first kiss and the last—or it is nothing.

HELEN. (conclusively) He's quite mad.

GEORGE. Absolutely.

THE AGENT. Mad? Of course I am mad. But—

He turns suddenly, and subsides as a man in a, guard's uniform enters.

THE GUARD. Ah, here you are! Thought you'd given us the slip, did you? (To the others) Escaped from the Asylum, he did, a week ago, and got a job here. We've been huntin' him high and low. Come along now!

GEORGE. (recovering with difficulty the power of speech) What—what's the matter with him?

THE GUARD. Matter with him? He went crazy, he did, readin' the works of Bernard Shaw. And if he wasn't in the insane asylum he'd be in jail. He's a bigamist, he is. He married fourteen women. But none of 'em would go on the witness stand against him. Said he was an ideal husband, they did. Fourteen of 'em! But otherwise he's perfectly harmless.

THE AGENT. (pleasantly) Perfectly harmless! Yes, perfectly harmless!

He is led out.

HELEN. That explains it all!

GEORGE. Yes—and yet I feel there was something in what he was saying.

HELEN. Well—are we going to get married or not? We've got to decide that before we face my uncle and your aunt.

GEORGE. Of course we'll get married. You have your work and I mine, and—

HELEN. Well, if we do, then you can't have that sunny south room for a study. I want it for the nursery.

GEORGE. The nursery!

HELEN. Yes; babies, you know!

GEORGE. Good heavens!



A LONG TIME AGO

A TRAGIC FANTASY



TO BROR NORDFELDT



"A Long Time Ago" was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, in 1917, with the following cast:

The Old Woman .............. Miriam Kiper The Fool.................... Duncan MacDougal The Queen................... Ida Rauh The Sailor.................. George Cram Cook The Prince.................. Pendleton King

_The courtyard of a palace. On one side, broad steps, and a door, leading to the palace. On the other, steps leading downward. At the back, a rose-arbour, and in front of it a wide seat.

On the steps before the door a fool is sitting, plucking at a musical instrument. On the lower steps stands an old woman, richly dressed_.

THE OLD WOMAN. Why do you sit there, fool, and twang at that harp? There's no occasion for making music. Nobody has been winning any battles. How long has it been since a great fight was heard of?

THE FOOL. If there had been a battle, old woman, they would have had to get some one besides myself to celebrate the winning of it. I do not like fighting.

THE OLD WOMAN. What does a scrawny little weakling like you know of fighting, and why should you have an opinion?

THE FOOL. The days of fighting are over, and a good thing it is, too. Four kingdoms we have about us, that in the bloody old days we would be for ever marching against, and they against us, killing and burning and destroying the crops till a quiet man would be sick to think of it. But that's all past. Twenty years we have been at peace with them, and that's ever since the young queen was born, and I hope it may last as long as she lives.

THE OLD WOMAN. There's no stopping a fool when he starts to talk. But it is right you are that the good old days are gone. Those were the days of great heroes, like the father of her that is now Queen. They were fine men that stood beside him, and one was my own man. I said to him, "This is the time a brave man is sure to be killed. If you come back to me, I'll always think you were a coward." He died along with a thousand of the best men in the kingdom fighting around the King. That was a great day. Four kingdoms at once we fought, and beat them to their knees. Glad enough they were to make peace with the child of that dead king.

THE FOOL. Spare me, woman. I've heard that old story often enough. What do you suppose all that fighting was for, if it wasn't to put an end to quarrelling for all time? If the old King was alive now, he'd sit in his palace and drink his ale and listen to music, and when he saw the young men giving kisses to the young women under the trees he'd be glad enough. But you still go cawing for blood, like an old crow.

THE OLD WOMAN. I'll not talk to such a one. You can see with your own eyes that our enemies are strong and prosperous. We let them into the kingdom with their silks and their satins and their jewels to sell. They walk about the city here and laugh to themselves, thinking how they will spoil and destroy everything soon. It may be this year, it may be next year. If the old King were alive, he'd never have let them get half so strong. He would have kept them in fear of us, and trained up a fine band of heroes, too, making raids on them once in a while. There's the city that shoves itself right up against our borders—I can see our men coming home from the spoiling of it, all red with spilt wine and blood. . . .

THE FOOL. You're a disgusting old woman. If I hear any more of that talk, I'm likely to slap the face of you, even if you are the Queen's nurse. Go away before you spoil my afternoon.

THE OLD WOMAN. I could speak to the Queen and have you beaten, do you know that?

THE FOOL. Woman, go away. I do not want to be bothered by the old and the garrulous. I am composing a love-song.

THE OLD WOMAN. Has any one ever loved you, I would like to know? Now if it were that young prince who is staying with us, he would have some right to make love-songs—if what they say is true, that every woman he meets on his journey falls in love with him. Even our own Queen, I am thinking. But only three days does he stay in any place, and then he is up and gone on his long journey that nobody understands the reason or the end of, from the east to the west. He is too wise to be held by such toys as love.

THE FOOL. Then he is more a fool than I.

THE OLD WOMAN. Who should know about love, if not a man who has been loved by many women and by great queens? But you, what do you know about it?

THE FOOL. The trouble with the old is that they forget so many things. I am sorry for you, woman. You think yourself wise, but the fool that sits at the Queen's doorstep and looks at her as she passes, and she never seeing him at all, is wiser than you.

THE OLD WOMAN. I have wasted enough words with you. I will go away and sit in the sun and think of the days when there were heroes.

She goes.

THE FOOL. And I will make a song about love. I will make a song about the love that is too high for pride and too deep for shame.

The door has opened, and the young Queen stands looking down at him.

THE QUEEN. What is that, fool? What are the words you are saying?

THE FOOL. (kneeling) I was speaking of a love that is too high for pride and too deep for shame.

THE QUEEN. And whose love is that, fool?

THE FOOL. It is the love of all who really love, and it is the only love worth making a song about.

THE QUEEN. (smiling) And how do you come to be so wise as to know about such things?

THE FOOL. I know because I am a fool.

THE QUEEN. I am well answered. And you are not the only fool in the world, I am thinking. But tell me, fool, have you seen any of the Prince's men here?

THE FOOL. No, but I have heard that the ship is being got ready for sailing. . . .

THE QUEEN. (rebukingly) I did not ask you that. (She is about to go, but turns back, and gives him a piece of money.) This is for you to buy wine with and get drunken. You are not amusing when you are sober. (She starts to go, but turns again.) Fool, do you believe in magic?

THE FOOL. I have heard that the old wizard who lives in a cave down by the shore is able to rouse storms and keep vessels from sailing.....

THE QUEEN. (looking at him, for a moment fixedly) I have a great mind to have you poisoned. Here, take this, and remember that I said to be drunken.

She gives him another piece of money, and goes off by way of the rose-trellised passage-way. A sailor comes up the steps.

THE SAILOR. Fool, where is the Prince?

THE FOOL. I do not know, sailor, but I can tell you what I think.

THE SAILOR. What difference does it make what you think? I have a message to deliver to him.

THE FOOL. I think that the Queen has sung him to sleep, and that he has not yet awakened.

THE SAILOR. It is likely enough. But I have been sent by the captain, and I must see him.

THE FOOL. You look hot.

THE SAILOR. I am so hot and thirsty that I could drink a barrelful of wine. It is well enough for the Prince to lie about and eat and drink and be sung to by pretty women, but we sailors have work to do. This business of staying only three days in each port disgusts me. No sooner do we get ashore than we have to go back on board again. I saw a girl yesterday, a beauty, and not afraid of a man. There must be many like that here, but what good does it do me? I spent all my money on her, and now I can't even get a drink. It's a shame.

THE FOOL. Would you like a drink?

THE SAILOR. Fool, don't make a mock of my thirst, or I'll twist your neck.

THE FOOL. Look at this. (Shows him a coin.)

THE SAILOR. What a piece of luck! Is it real money? Where did you get it?

THE FOOL. Your prince gave it to me, and said I was to treat any of his sailors that I came across.

THE SAILOR. Then it's all right. Why didn't you say so before? Come along. If you were as thirsty as I am—!

They go down the steps. The door opens, and the Prince comes out. He looks up and down.

THE PRINCE. And now begins again my long journey from the east to the west. . . .

The old woman appears.

THE OLD WOMAN. Well, have you waked at last?

THE PRINCE. You are a bitter-tongued old woman. But for all that, I think you are my friend. Perhaps the only friend I have here.

THE OLD WOMAN. You are right. For all that you sleep your holiday away, you are a brave man. And I am the only one in this kingdom that thinks well of bravery. The rest want to smother it with kisses.

THE PRINCE. True enough. I feel that already I am becoming soft. Never before have I been unwilling to leave a city—

THE OLD WOMAN. Or a Queen. . . .

THE PRINCE. I must go on board ship. Is it ready, I wonder? The captain promised to send word to me. . . .

THE OLD WOMAN. Yes, it is time you went, before they have made a lapdog of you.

THE PRINCE. You speak very freely. Are you not afraid of the Queen?

THE OLD WOMAN. She does not know what she is doing. She has grown up in a base time of peace, and she does not understand that it is not a man's business to sleep and drink wine and exchange kisses with pretty queens. She would turn you from your purpose—

THE PRINCE. My purpose? What do you know of my purpose?

THE OLD WOMAN. I have not guessed your secret. But I know that you are not merely taking a pleasure journey. I have seen heroes, and you have the eyes of one. The end of all this journeying from the east to the west is something great and terrible—and I will not have you turned aside.

THE PRINCE. Something great and terrible....Yes....

THE OLD WOMAN. You have the look of one who does not care for rest or peace or the love of a woman for more than a day. But there is a weakness in you, too. If you would go, go quickly.

THE PRINCE. I wonder why the sailor does not come. It looks like a storm.

The sky has become ominously dark.

THE OLD WOMAN. Would a storm hold you back?

THE PRINCE. Is that what you think of me, old woman?

THE OLD WOMAN. Well, we shall see what stuff you are made of....

She shuffles off. The Queen enters.

THE QUEEN. (coming up to him, tenderly) When did you wake?

THE PRINCE. Did you think your voice had enough magic in it to make me sleep till you returned? We have just time to say farewell.

THE QUEEN. There is a storm coming up. Do you see how black the sky is?

THE PRINCE. I am not afraid of storms.

THE QUEEN. Of course you are not afraid of storms. Did you think you had to prove your bravery?

THE PRINCE. The three days are over.

THE QUEEN. And how quickly!

THE PRINCE. I told you I could stay only three days.

THE QUEEN. I thought you were a king, and could do whatever you chose....

THE PRINCE. I have chosen to stay only three days.

THE QUEEN. In what way have I offended you?

THE PRINCE. I made my choice long ago, before I knew you.

THE QUEEN. And now you are afraid to change your mind?

THE PRINCE. Do you think a brave man changes his mind for pleasure's sake?

THE QUEEN. Forgive me. If it is your happiness to go on, to what end I do not know, I will let you. I do not wish to make you unhappy. But I would give you something to take with you, one more flower of my garden, an unfading rose that shall be like a bright memory of me in your heart always. Will you take it?

She leads him back into the palace. The sailor enters, supported by the fool.

THE SAILOR. (drunkenly) Where—where is my Prince? I have a message for him.

THE FOOL. So you said. But you haven't finished telling me about that girl. Her eyes were blue, you said.

THE SAILOR. Blue, yes. If I said blue, then blue it was. Or maybe green, or grey. Maybe I'm. thinking of the hussy back in the last port we stopped at. It's all the same. Reminds me of a little song. Shall I sing you a little song?

THE FOOL. Another song? Sing away then.

THE SAILOR. First another drink from this flagon. Ah! Now I'm ready. I've often been complimented on my voice. (Sings)

We'll go no more a-roving-

No, that's not the one. Let me see. Ah, now I've got it. Listen. (Sings)

Blue eyes, grey eyes, green-and-gold eyes, Eyes that question, doubt, deny, Sudden-flashing, cold, hard, bold eyes, Here's your answer: I am I!

Not for you, and not for any, Came I into this man's town— Barkeep, here's my golden penny, Come who will and drink it down!

I'm not one to lend and borrow, I'm not one to overstay— I shall go alone tomorrow Whistling, as I came today.

Leave my sword alone, you hussy! There is blood upon the blade— Dragon-slaying is a messy Sort of trade. Put back the blade!

Take my knee and—O you darling! A man forgets how sweet you are! Snarling dragons—flowing flagons— Devil take the morning star!

THE FOOL. Bravo!

THE SAILOR. And there you are! If I do say it myself, I have as good a time as the Prince does. One girl's as nice as another—and maybe nicer, at that. What's a Queen? Can she kiss better than any other girl? I've wondered a bit about it. And the conclusion I've come to is... the conclusion I've come to...

THE FOOL. The conclusion you've come to is—?

THE SAILOR. Right you are. Give me that flagon. That's the stuff. What was I saying? The conclusion I've come to is that the Prince can't have any more fun in three days than any other man. Queen or no Queen. Am I right? Tell me, am I right?

THE FOOL. I wouldn't contradict you....

THE SAILOR. No. Of course you wouldn't. You're a good fellow. You're my friend. Where's that flagon? Ah! And now it's your turn to sing. Sing that little song you sang a while ago. That was a good one. You sing almost as well as I do.

THE FOOL. (chants)

In this harsh world and old Why must we cherish Fires that grow not cold In hearts that perish?

With the strong floods of hate I cleansed my bosom, But springeth soon and late The fiery blossom.

What though some lying tale The mind dissembles? The scarlet lip turns pale, The strong hand trembles....

THE SAILOR. No, no, not that one! That one hasn't any tune to it, and it isn't about girls. It's no song at all. I meant the one—you know— about the young widow. How did it go? (He swigs from the flagon.) But I mustn't forget the Prince. Where's that Prince?

THE FOOL. Oh, yes, the Prince. Of course. We mustn't forget the Prince. Come along with me. (He leads the sailor off through the rose-arbour. The door of the palace opens, disclosing the Prince and the Queen.)

He clasps her hands and then descends the steps.

THE QUEEN. Wait!

She runs down, and tenderly embraces him.

THE PRINCE. Farewell.

THE QUEEN. Must you go?

THE PRINCE. I shall remember you always.

THE QUEEN. (bitterly) I suppose that is enough. . . .

They come down the steps together.

THE PRINCE. What is that you say?

THE QUEEN. I say that it is enough that you should think of me sometimes on your long journey from the east to the west. To be remembered—that is the portion of women.

THE PRINCE. You knew what manner of man I was, and that I would not be detained. Why, if you must have the taste of kisses on your lips always, did you not turn to some man of your own land, who would not stray from your side? Why did you give your love to one you had never seen before, and will never see again? I did not ask that you love me. What you gave, I took.

THE QUEEN. I regret nothing that I have given. But I am sorry for you, because you do not understand.

THE PRINCE. It may be that I do not understand. But I know that I may not stay longer in this place. Would you ask me to do otherwise?

THE QUEEN. I would not ask you, no. If you understood, I would have no need of asking. If all things in your life have not changed colour and significance—if I have been to you but as a harlot to one of your sailors,—then leave me.

THE PRINCE. (confusedly) It is not true that nothing has changed. My mind is in a turmoil. I am dizzy, I cannot see. I have almost forgotten why I set my heart on this journey. You have bewitched me, and that is why I fear you. If I stay here with you any longer, I shall forget everything. I must go.

THE QUEEN. (her arms about him) You have forgotten the meaning of your journey. You will not go.

THE PENCE. I am going. . . .

But he allows himself to be led to the arbour seat.

THE QUEEN. It is too late. You are mine, now, mine for ever. It was for this that you came hither—I am the meaning of your journey. It was ordained that you love me. You must not think of anything else.

THE PRINCE. Why have you done this to me? Are you a witch? I am afraid of you!

He rises.

THE QUEEN. I will teach you strange and terrible secrets.

THE PRINCE. I fear you and yet I trust you. What will come of this I do not know. But I care for nothing. Nothing in the world means anything to me now except you. Why is it that I seem to hate you?

He seizes her and holds her fiercely.

THE QUEEN. That is because you love me at last.

THE PRINCE. I could kill you.

THE QUEEN. You seek in vain to escape love.

The sailor staggers in, sees the Prince, and stops.

THE SAILOR. I am bidden to tell you—

THE PRINCE. Be off!—What is it you say?

The Queen stands still, with her hands over her face.

THE SAILOR. The ship is ready.

THE PRINCE. Go!

The sailor walks away.

THE QUEEN. (looking after him) A word, and you have forgotten me already. A moment ago I thought you loved me. Now I am nothing to you.

THE PRINCE. The ship—

THE QUEEN. It is ready to sail. They are waiting for you. Why do you not go?

THE PRINCE. I am sorry. But it is as you say. The ship is ready to sail. I must go.

THE QUEEN. Go quickly.

THE PRINCE. Farewell, then.

THE QUEEN. No, stay. (She throws herself at his feet, and clasps his knees.) See, I beg you to stay. I have no shame left. I beg you. Stay even though you despise me. Stay even though you hate me. I do not care. I will be your slave, your bondwoman. I cannot let you go.

She puts her head in her hands, and weeps.

THE PRINCE. (looking down at her) I am sorry. (After a pause) Farewell.

He touches her lightly on the shoulder, and, looking toward the sea, leaves her. She rises, and watches him with a stony face until he goes.

The fool enters.

THE QUEEN. Are you drunken, fool, as I bade you be?

THE FOOL. I am drunken, yes, but not with wine. I am drunken with bitterness. With the bitterness of love.

THE QUEEN. Of love, fool?

THE FOOL. With the bitterness of love. It will amuse you, and so I will tell you what I mean. It is you that I love.

THE QUEEN. Life grows almost interesting once more. But are you not afraid that I will have you whipped?

THE FOOL. You would have had me whipped a week ago if I had told you this. But now you will not. Now you know what it is to love. . . .

THE QUEEN. My secrets are on a fool's tongue. But what does it matter? Go on.

THE FOOL. Why did I try to keep the man you love from going away? In the hope that one day I should see you kissing him in the garden, and thus I would be spared the trouble of killing myself. In a word, I am a fool. But I have tried to help you. Why did you not keep him?

THE QUEEN. I have been asking that question of my own heart, fool. I would that I had not come to him a virgin and a Queen, but a light woman skilled in all the ways of love. Then perhaps I could have held him. But now he is gone, and the world is black.

THE FOOL. It is not the world, it is your heart that is black. And it is black with hatred. . . .

THE QUEEN. I think you understand, fool. I would set fire to this palace which the King my father built, I would burn it down tonight, save that it would not make light enough to take away the blackness from my heart.

The sailor again, staggering.

THE QUEEN. What, has the ship not gone?

THE SAILOR. Gone, and left me behind. Gone, and left me. . . .

THE FOOL. Here is still wine in the flagon.

THE SAILOR. Good. Good. Give it to me.

THE QUEEN. (to the fool) First bring it to me. (She takes off a ring, and dips it in the wine. To the fool)—I have spoken lightly of poisoning today. Now I think I will try it. I would like to see a man die. It will ease me a little. Come!

The sailor comes and takes it from her hands, while the fool stares fascinated.

THE QUEEN. How does it taste?

THE SAILOR. (suddenly straightening up, no longer drunk) Bitter. What was in it?

THE QUEEN. The bitterness of my heart. It will kill you.

THE SAILOR. I have been poisoned. (He puts his hand to his side.) I am dying. But first—!

He draws a short sword, and runs at her. The fool starts up, but the Queen motions him away, and waits. When the sailor is almost upon her, he stops, throws up his hands, drops his sword, and falls in a heap.

THE QUEEN. (after a moment, going up, and touching the body with her foot) Dead. So that is what it is like?

THE FOOL. (trembling) Do you find it so interesting?

THE QUEEN. No—my heart is already aching with its emptiness again.... What shall I do?

THE FOOL. You might poison me, too. I think I would die in a more original manner than that silly sailor. Yes, I would seize you in my arms and kiss you before I died.

THE QUEEN. That would be amusing. But it is a pity to waste kisses on a dying man. And besides, you are the only one in my kingdom who understands me. I must have you alive to talk to.

THE FOOL. There are strange stories about the kisses of queens.

THE QUEEN. Tell them to me.

THE FOOL. There is an old saying that three kisses bestowed by a queen upon a fool will make a hero of him.

THE QUEEN. That might be interesting. I think I will try it. Come to me, do not be afraid. This day I have given my kisses to a man who thought no more of them than that dead sailor there of the kisses of a harlot. What, must you kneel? Well, then, upon your forehead.

She kisses him upon the forehead as he kneels.

He slowly rises, and as he rises he takes on dignity. His fool's cap is dropped aside, he picks up the dead sailor's sword and girds it on him.

THE QUEEN. Ah, it is true. There is magic in it. You are handsome, too. I am not sorry to have kissed you.

The old woman comes in.

THE QUEEN. Well, what is the news? The ship has sailed, has it not?

THE OLD WOMAN. Straight into the sunset. (She sees the dead man, and looks at the Queen and at the fool.) Who killed him?

THE QUEEN. I killed him. He was left behind, and I do not like to have strangers about.

THE OLD WOMAN. It is a good omen. I have not seen a dead man for twenty years, save those that died of sickness and old age. When shall we have the good old times when men killed each other with swords? I feel that it is coming. When shall we fall upon the four kingdoms, and tear them to pieces?

THE QUEEN. Ah, that is an idea. That would be something to do.

THE FOOL. Hush your croakings, old woman, and tell us the news that you have come with.

THE OLD WOMAN. How do you know that I come with news? Where is your cap, fool?

THE FOOL. Speak, or be gone.

THE QUEEN. Beware of this man, for I have been making a hero out of him.

THE OLD WOMAN. Are you mad?

THE QUEEN. Yes, I am mad, so beware of me, too, and tell your news,

THE OLD WOMAN. (tamed) It is only that a boat has been seen to put out from the ship, and is coming back to shore.

THE QUEEN. It is doubtless a present for me. The Prince has bethought himself to pay me for my kindness to him. Go, and give orders that any men who are in the boat are to be brought to me, with their hands tied behind them, that I may decide what punishment to inflict upon them. Let it be understood that we do not like strangers in this kingdom.

THE OLD WOMAN. (grimly) It shall be as you say.

She goes out.

THE QUEEN. And now I must finish my quaint task. It pleases me to be kissing fools. I think it is becoming a habit of mine. Come to this garden bench, where he and I sat together, and I will kiss you upon the mouth, as I kissed him. Does it hurt you for me to say that? Good. (They sit down.) You are the only one in the kingdom who understands me. Lift up your head. (She kisses him. He lifts his head proudly, and sits beside her like a king.) You are silent. Why do you not say something appropriate?

THE FOOL. What I have to say will be with my sword, and your enemies will be the ones to hear it.

THE QUEEN. Ah, I forgot, it is a hero I am making out of you, and all a hero can do is fight. That is a stupid thing. I am sorry now that I kissed you.

THE FOOL. You will not be sorry when I have destroyed your enemies.

THE QUEEN. Now you are beginning to talk like my old nurse. It is well enough to fight, but it should be for amusement, and not with such seriousness. I have only succeeded in making you dull. You were better as a fool.

The Prince enters, with his hands tied behind him, conducted by some soldiers.

THE PRINCE. (Indignantly) Why am I treated in this fashion?

THE QUEEN. So it is you?

She looks at him quietly.

THE PRINCE. (haughtily) Order that these bonds be taken from my wrists.

THE QUEEN. We do not like strangers in this country. You were tied by my command, and brought here that I might decide what punishment to mete out to you. Look, this was one of your men. (Pointing to the dead body) Carry it away.

The soldiers carry off the body.

THE PRINCE. Are you mad?

THE QUEEN. So it would seem. (To the fool) Now cut his bonds.

THE FOOL. He is a brave man, and does not deserve to be treated in this manner.

THE PRINCE. Who are you that you should plead for me? Have I not seen you with a fool's cap?

THE FOOL. And now you see me with a sword.

He cuts the Prince's bonds.

THE PRINCE. Leave us. I wish to speak with the Queen.

THE QUEEN. (to the fool) No, stay. (To the Prince) It is not necessary for you to speak. You wish to tell me that the kisses you had from me were so sweet that you would like to buy some more, and are willing to put off your journey for a while.

THE PRINCE. I have given up my journey for ever. I know that the only thing that is real in all the world is love. You are scornful. But I have neither pride nor shame. I kneel at your feet, and beg you to forgive me for my folly.

He kneels.

THE QUEEN. It is a pretty speech. But you are too late. I have forgotten you. While they were tying your hands, I was kissing this man upon the mouth.

THE PRINCE. (springing up) It is a lie!

THE FOOL. Did you say that the Queen lies?

He draws his sword.

THE PRINCE. I do not fight with fools. (To the Queen) Send him away, and have him beaten.

THE QUEEN. Are you not willing to fight with him for me?

THE PRINCE. What do you mean?

THE QUEEN. I mean that I have a new appetite, the appetite for death. I have held myself too lightly, I have gone too willingly to the arms of a chance lover. Now there must be blood to sweeten the kisses.

THE PRINCE. Do you wish this fellow killed?

THE QUEEN. Or you. It makes no difference—not the least. What are my kisses, that I should be careful to whom they go?

THE PRINCE. You speak strangely, and I hardly know you. I have come back as a lover and not as a butcher.

THE QUEEN. My whim has changed—I am in the mood for butchers, now.

THE PRINCE. Say but one word to show that you still love me!

THE QUEEN. I have no word to say.

THE PRINCE. Doubt makes my sword heavy. . . .

THE FOOL. And have you nothing to say to me?

THE QUEEN. You remind me. Come. I must finish what I have begun.

She kisses him on the mouth—the third kiss.

THE PRINCE. (covering his eyes) It is I that am mad.

THE FOOL. Come, if you are not afraid.

They go out, the Prince giving one long look at the Queen, whose face remains hard.

It has become a dark twilight.

THE QUEEN. They told me that love was like this—but I laughed, and did not believe.

The old woman comes in.

THE QUEEN. I have sent him out to die.

THE OLD WOMAN. The fool?

THE QUEEN. No, no, no, my lover, my beloved. I tortured him and denied him, and sent him out to die.

THE OLD WOMAN. It is well enough. Death is among us again, and the old times have come back.

There are sounds of fighting, and the women wait in silence. Then the sounds cease, and slowly the soldiers bear in a dead body, which they lay on the steps. They affix torches to either side of the palace door, and go out.

THE FOOL. (going up to the Queen, and holding out his sword to her, hilt-foremost) I have done your bidding, and slain a brave man. Bid some one take this sword and slay me.

THE OLD WOMAN. What a faint heart you are! The fool's cap is on you still. Put back your sword in your scabbard. You will make a soldier yet.

THE QUEEN. You are a brave man. Put back your sword in your scabbard, and may it destroy all my enemies from this day forth.

THE FOOL. What shall I do?

THE QUEEN. I have created you, and now I must give you work to do. You can only fight. Very well, then. Take my soldiers, and lead them to the kingdom that thrusts its chief city against our kingdom's walls. There should be good fighting, and much spoil. When the soldiers have glutted themselves with wine and women, let the city be set on fire. I shall look every night for a light in the sky, and when it comes I shall know it is my bonfire. Perhaps it will light up my heart for a moment. When that is finished, I shall find you other bloody work. Go.

THE FOOL. I understand. You shall have your bonfire. Come, old woman, I want some of your advice.

THE OLD WOMAN. The good old days have come back. Ah, the smell of blood!

_They go out.

The queen looks over at the dead man lying on the steps between the torches, and gradually her face softens. She goes over slowly, and kneels by his side, gazing on him. She kisses his mouth, and then rises, goes slowly to the arbour, and sits down. She looks away, and her face becomes hard again.

A sound of trumpets and shouting, the menacing prelude of war, is heard outside_.



ENIGMA

A DOMESTIC CONVERSATION

To THEODORE DREISER

"Enigma" was first presented at the Liberal Club, New York City, in 1915.

A man and woman are sitting at a table, talking in bitter tones.

SHE. So that is what you think.

HE. Yes. For us to live together any longer would be an obscene joke. Let's end it while we still have some sanity and decency left.

SHE. Is that the best you can do in the way of sanity and decency—to talk like that?

HE. You'd like to cover it up with pretty words, wouldn't you? Well, we've had enough of that. I feel as though my face were covered with spider webs. I want to brush them off and get clean again.

SHE. It's not my fault you've got weak nerves. Why don't you try to behave like a gentleman, instead of a hysterical minor poet?

HE. A gentleman, Helen, would have strangled you years ago. It takes a man with crazy notions of freedom and generosity to be the fool that I've been.

SHE. I suppose you blame me for your ideas!

HE. I'm past blaming anybody, even myself. Helen, don't you realize that this has got to stop? We are cutting each other to pieces with knives.

SHE. You want me to go. . . .

HE. Or I'll go—it makes no difference. Only we've got to separate, definitely and for ever.

SHE. You really think there is no possibility—of our finding some way?... We might be able—to find some way.

HE. We found some way, Helen—twice before. And this is what it comes to. . . . There are limits to my capacity for self-delusion. This is the end.

SHE. Yes. Only—

HE. Only what?

SHE. It—it seems . . . such a pity. . . .

HE. Pity! The pity is this—that we should sit here and haggle about our hatred. That's all there's left between us.

SHE. (standing up) I won't haggle, Paul. If you think we should part, we shall this very night. But I don't want to part this way, Paul. I know I've hurt you. I want to be forgiven before I go.

HE. (standing up to face her) Can't we finish without another sentimental lie? I'm in no mood to act out a pretty scene with you.

SHE. That was unjust, Paul. You know I don't mean that. What I want is to make you understand, so you won't hate me.

HE. More explanations. I thought we had both got tired of them. I used to think it possible to heal a wound by words. But we ought to know better. They're like acid in it.

SHE. Please don't, Paul—This is the last time we shall ever hurt each other. Won't you listen to me?

HE. Go on.

He sits down wearily.

SHE. I know you hate me. You have a right to. Not just because I was faithless—but because I was cruel. I don't want to excuse myself—but I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't realize I was hurting you.

HE. We've gone over that a thousand times.

SHE. Yes. I've said that before. And you've answered me that that excuse might hold for the first time, but not for the second and the third. You've convicted me of deliberate cruelty on that. And I've never had anything to say. I couldn't say anything, because the truth was; too preposterous. It wasn't any use telling it before. But now I want you to know the real reason.

HE. A new reason, eh?

SHE. Something I've never confessed to you. Yes. It is true that I was cruel to you—deliberately. I did want to hurt you. And do you know why? I wanted to shatter that Olympian serenity of yours. You were too strong, too self-confident. You had the air of a being that nothing could hurt. You were like a god.

HE. That was a long time ago. Was I ever Olympian? I had forgotten it. You succeeded very well—you shattered it in me.

SHE. You are still Olympian. And I still hate you for it. I wish I could make you suffer now. But I have lost my power to do that.

HE. Aren't you contented with what you have done? It seems to me that I have suffered enough recently to satisfy even your ambitions.

SHE. No—or you couldn't talk like that. You sit there—making phrases. Oh, I have hurt you a little; but you will recover. You always recovered quickly. You are not human. If you were human, you would remember that we once were happy, and be a little sorry that all that is over. But you can't be sorry. You have made up your mind, and can think of nothing but that.

HE. That's an interesting—and novel—explanation.

SHE. I wonder if I can't make you understand. Paul—do you remember when we fell in love?

HE. Something of that sort must have happened to us.

SHE. No—it happened to me. It didn't happen to you. You made up your mind and walked in, with the air of a god on a holiday. It was I who fell—headlong, dizzy, blind. I didn't want to love you. It was a force too strong for me. It swept me into your arms. I prayed against it. I had to give myself to you, even though I knew you hardly cared. I had to—for my heart was no longer in my own breast. It was in your hands, to do what you liked with. You could have thrown it in the dust.

HE. This is all very romantic and exciting, but tell me—did I throw it in the dust?

SHE. It pleased you not to. You put it in your pocket. But don't you realize what it is to feel that another person has absolute power over you? No, for you have never felt that way. You have never been utterly dependent on another person for happiness. I was utterly dependent on you. It humiliated me, angered me. I rebelled against it, but it was no use. You see, my dear, I was in love with you. And you were free, and your heart was your own, and nobody could hurt you.

HE. Very fine—only it wasn't true, as you soon found out.

SHE. When I found it out, I could hardly believe it. It wasn't possible. Why, you had said a thousand times that you would not be jealous if I were in love with some one else, too. It was you who put the idea in my head. It seemed a part of your super-humanness.

HE. I did talk that way. But I wasn't a superman. I was only a damned fool.

SHE. And Paul, when I first realized that it might be hurting you—that you were human after all—I stopped. You know I stopped.

HE. Yes—that time.

SHE. Can't you understand? I stopped because I thought you were a person like myself, suffering like myself. It wasn't easy to stop. It tore me to pieces. But I suffered rather than let you suffer. But when I saw you recover your serenity in a day while the love that I had struck down in my heart for your sake cried out in a death agony for months, I felt again that you were superior, inhuman—and I hated you for it.

HE. Did I deceive you so well as that?

SHE. And when the next time came, I wanted to see if it was real, this godlike serenity of yours. I wanted to tear off the mask. I wanted to see you suffer as I had suffered. And that is why I was cruel to you the second time.

HE. And the third time—what about that?

She bursts into tears, and sinks to the floor, with her head on the chair, sheltered by her arms. Then she looks up.

SHE. Oh, I can't talk about that—I can't. It's too near.

HE. I beg your pardon. I don't wish to show an unseemly curiosity about your private affairs.

SHE. If you were human, you would know that there is a difference between one's last love and all that have gone before. I can talk about the others—but this one still hurts.

HE. I see. Should we chance to meet next year, you will tell me about it then. The joys of new love will have healed the pains of the old.

SHE. There will be no more joy or pain of love for me. You do not believe that. But that part of me which loves is dead. Do you think I have come through all this unhurt? No. I cannot hope any more, I cannot believe. There is nothing left for me. All I have left is regret for the happiness that you and I have spoiled between us. . . . Oh, Paul, why did you ever teach me your Olympian philosophy? Why did you make me think that we were gods and could do whatever we chose? If we had realized that we were only weak human beings, we might have saved our happiness!

HE. (shaken) We tried to reckon with facts—I cannot blame myself for that. The facts of human nature: people do have love affairs within love affairs. I was not faithful to you. . . .

SHE. (rising to her feet) But you had the decency to be dishonest about it. You did not tell me the truth, in spite of all your theories. I might never have found out. You knew better than to shake my belief in our love. But I trusted your philosophy, and flaunted my lovers before you. I never realized—

HE. Be careful, my dear. You are contradicting yourself!

SHE. I know I am. I don't care. I no longer know what the truth is. I only know that I am filled with remorse for what has happened. Why did it happen? Why did we let it happen? Why didn't you stop me? . . . I want it back!

HE. But, Helen!

SHE. Yes—our old happiness.... Don't you remember, Paul, how beautiful everything was—? (She covers her face with her hands, and then looks up again.) Give it back to me, Paul!

HE. (torn with conflicting wishes) Do you really believe, Helen...?

SHE. I know we can be happy again. It was all ours, and we must have it once more, just as it was. (She holds out her hands.) Paul! Paul!

HE. (desperately) Let me think!

SHE. (scornfully) Oh, your thinking! I know! Think, then—think of all the times I've been cruel to you. Think of my wantonness—my wickedness—not of my poor, tormented attempts at happiness. My lovers, yes! Think hard, and save yourself from any more discomfort. . . . But no—you're in no danger. . . .

HE. What do you mean?

SHE. (laughing hysterically) You haven't believed what I've been saying all this while, have you?

HE. Almost.

SHE. Then don't. I've been lying.

HE. Again?

SHE. Again, yes.

HE. I suspected it.

SHE. (mockingly) Wise man!

HE. You don't love me, then?

SHE. Why should I? Do you want me to?

HE. I make no demands upon you. You know that.

SHE. You can get along without me?

HE. (coldly) Why not?

SHE. Good. Then I'll tell you the truth!

HE. That would be interesting!

SHE. I was afraid you did want me! And—I was sorry for you, Paul—I thought if you did, I would try to make things up to you, by starting over again—if you wanted to.

HE. So that was it. . . .

SHE. Yes, that was it. And so—

HE. (harshly) You needn't say any more. Will you go, or shall I?

SHE. (lightly) I'm going, Paul. But I think—since we may not meet this time next year—that I'd better tell you the secret of that third time. When you asked me a while ago, I cried, and said I couldn't talk about it. But I can now.

HE. You mean—

SHE. Yes. My last cruelty. I had a special reason for being cruel to you. Shan't I tell you?

HE. Just as you please.

SHE. My reason was this: I had learned what it is to love—and I knew that I had never loved you—never. I wanted to hurt you so much that you would leave me. I wanted to hurt you in such a way as to keep you from ever coming near me again. I was afraid that if you did forgive me and take me in your arms, you would feel me shudder, and see the terror and loathing in my eyes. I wanted—for even then I cared for you a little—to spare you that.

HE. (speaking with difficulty) Are you going?

SHE. (lifting from the table a desk calendar, and tearing a leaf from it, which she holds in front of him. Her voice is tender with an inexplicable regret.) Did you notice the date? It is the eighth of June. Do you remember what day that is? We used to celebrate it once a year. It is the day—(the leaf flutters to the table in front of him)—the day of our first kiss. . . .

He sits looking at her. For a moment it seems clear to him that they still love each other, and that a single word from him, a mere gesture, the holding out of his arms to her, will reunite them. And then he doubts. . . . She is watching him; she turns at last toward the door, hesitates, and then walks slowly out. When she has gone he takes up the torn leaf from the calendar, and holds it in his hands, looking at it with the air of a man confronted by an unsolvable enigma.



IBSEN REVISITED

A PIECE OF FOOLISHNESS

TO LOUIS UNTERMEYER

"Ibsen Revisited" was first produced at the Liberal Club, in 1914, with the following cast:

The Maid .......... Jo Gotsch The Stranger...... Floyd Dell

A middle-class interior. The parlour-maid is dusting the furniture.

THE MAID. Oh, how dull it is here! Nobody to talk to, nobody to flirt with. . . . Flirt! The men that come to this house don't even know the meaning of the word. I never worked in such a place. Life is just one long funeral. I wish something would happen. (A knock at the door.) Ah! if it were only in the old days, one might hope that that was a reporter. But nothing like that now!

She opens the door. A stranger enters.

THE STRANGER. Is—ah—Miss Gabler in?

THE MAID. You mean—Mrs. Lovberg?

THE STRANGER. Yes—but . . . I'm not mistaken, am I? Mrs. Lovberg is— or was—Hedda Gabler. Isn't that true?

THE MAID. Oh, yes, it's Hedda. But she prefers to be called by her husband's name. Did you wish to see her? She is busy just now.

THE STRANGER. Busy?

THE MAID. Yes—she is conducting her class in Modern Adolescence.

THE STRANGER. How like Hedda! Always experimenting with something or other! What is she teaching them?

THE MAID. She's teaching them what she calls "sex-unconsciousness."

THE STRANGER. Dear me! What is sex-unconsciousness?

THE MAID. I'm sure I don't know, sir.

THE STRANGER. Dear, delightful Hedda! Ever in pursuit of the new sensation!

THE MAID. You are an old friend of hers, I suppose?

THE STRANGER. Well, no, not exactly. The fact is—

THE MAID. You're not a reporter, are you? Hedda doesn't talk to reporters—any more.

THE STRANGER. No. I'm not a reporter.

THE MAID. What are you, then?

THE STRANGER. I am the representative of the International Ibsen Society. You know who Ibsen was, of course?

THE MAID. Yes—he was that nasty man who wrote plays about everybody's private affairs.

THE STRANGER. There is that point of view, of course. I'm sorry to intrude—

THE MAID. I should think you would be! Now that she and Lovberg are happily married—

THE STRANGER. That's precisely it. You see, we've just discovered that instead of committing suicide, as Ibsen made them do in the play, they eloped and were eventually married. You can't imagine how delighted we all are to discover that Hedda is still alive. As soon as we found that out, I was sent here immediately—

THE MAID. What did you think you would see?

THE STRANGER. See? I shall see a woman whose soul burns with an unquenchable flame of divine adventurousness. I shall see the most ardent, impatient, eager, restless, impetuous, and insatiably romantic woman in the world.

THE MAID. (pointing to the door) You mean—her?

THE STRANGER. Yes—why, there is the very sofa upon which she and Lovberg used to sit, in the old days, discussing his past. There he would sit and tell her of his escapades, his affairs, everything. Tell me, does she insist on Lovberg's being polygamous, whether he wants to or not?

THE MAID. Evidently you don't know the new Hedda. Or the new Lovberg either. The only thing they talk about is what they call "the monogamist ideal."

THE STRANGER. There is some mistake. I will find out when I see her. Surely she is still interested in adventure—the free life—vine- leaves—beauty—! I will remind her of her own past—

THE MAID. No you won't. She won't let you. She will tell you that too much attention is paid to such foolishness nowadays.

THE STRANGER. She! who was interested in nothing else! But then—what is she interested in, now?

THE MAID. In "co-operation."

THE STRANGER, Has she then turned into a mere sociologist? Oh, you are deceiving me!

THE MAID. If you don't believe me—I'll just open the door an inch, and you can hear her talking.

THE STRANGER. Oh, it cannot be true!

The maid quietly opens the door a little way. He listens.

A VOICE. (heard through the aperture) We must all learn to function socially. . . .

The maid shuts the door again.

THE MAID. Do you believe it now?

THE STRANGER. (sadly) It is too true!

THE MAID. Didn't I tell you?

THE STRANGER. So Hedda has become—a reformer!

THE MAID. Yes.

THE STRANGER. And Lovberg—what does he do?

THE MAID. He is rewriting his book—you know, the one Hedda burned up— for use as a text-book in the public schools. And Hedda is helping him.

THE STRANGER. No more adventure—no more beauty—the flame . . . gone out! My God!

He staggers toward the wall, where a pistol is hanging, and puts his hand on it.

THE MAID. Look out! That's Hedda's pistol. You never can tell when an old piece of junk like that is loaded.

THE STRANGER. Yes—I know. (He takes it down and aims it at his heart.) The old Hedda is gone. I cannot bear the new. It would be too—(The maid screams)—too dull.

He fires, and falls.

THE MAID. (going over and looking down at him) But—people don't do such things!



KING ARTHUR'S SOCKS

A COMEDY



To MAX EASTMAN



"King Arthur's Socks" was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, in 1916, with the following cast:

Guenevere Robinson...Edna James Vivien Smith.........Jane Burr Mary.................Augusta Gary Lancelot Jones.......Max Eastman

The living room of a summer cottage in Camelot, Maine. A pretty woman of between twenty-five and thirty-five is sitting in a big chair in the lamplight darning socks. She is Mrs. Arthur B. Robinson—or, to give her her own name, Guenevere. She is dressed in a light summer frock, and with her feet elevated on a settle there is revealed a glimpse of slender silk-clad ankles. It is a pleasant summer evening, and, one might wonder why so attractive a woman should be sitting at home darning her husband's socks, there being so many other interesting things to do in this world. The girl standing in the doorway, smiling amusedly, seems to wonder at it too. The girl's name is Vivien Smith.

VIVIEN. Hello, Gwen!

GUENEVERE. Hello, Vivien! Come in.

VIVIEN. I'm just passing by.

GUENEVERE. Come in and console me for a minute or two, anyway. I'm a widow at present.

VIVIEN. (enters and lounges against the mantelpiece) Arthur gone to New York again?

GUENEVERE. Yes, for over Sunday. And I'm lonely.

VIVIEN. You don't seem to mind. Think of a woman being that happy darning her husband's socks!

GUENEVERE. Stay here and talk to me—unless you've something else on. It's been ages since I've seen you.

VIVIEN. I'm afraid I have got something else on, Gwen—I'll give you one guess.

GUENEVERE. You can't pretend to be art-ing at this hour of the night.

VIVIEN. I could pretend, but I won't. No, Gwen dear, it's not the pursuit of art, it's the pursuit of a man.

GUENEVERE. Don't try to talk like a woman in a Shaw play. I don't like this rigmarole about "pursuit." Say you're in love, like a civilized human being. And take a cigarette, and tell me about it.

VIVIEN. (lighting a cigarette) I don't know whether I'm so civilized, at that. You know me, Gwen. When I paint, do I paint like a lady?—or like a savage! (She does, in fact, appear to be a very headstrong and reckless young woman.)

GUENEVERE. (mildly) Oh, be a savage all you want to, Gwen. But don't tell me you're going in for this modern free-love stuff, because I won't believe it. You're not that kind of fool, Vivien. (She darns placidly away.)

VIVIEN. No, I'm not. I'm not a fool at all, Gwen dear. I know exactly what I want—and it doesn't include being disowned by my family and having my picture in the morning papers. Free-love? Not at all. I want to be married.

GUENEVERE. Well, for heaven's sake, who is it?

VIVIEN. Is it possible that it's not being gossiped about? You really haven't heard?

GUENEVERE. Not a syllable.

VIVIEN. Then I shan't tell you.

GUENEVERE. But—why?

VIVIEN. Because you'll think I've a nerve to want him.

GUENEVERE. Nonsense. I don't know any male person in these parts who is good enough for you, Vivien.

VIVIEN. Thanks, darling. That's just what I think in my calmer moments. But mostly I'm so crazy about him that I'm almost humble. Can you imagine it?

GUENEVERE. Well, what's the matter, then? Doesn't he reciprocate? You don't look like the victim of a hopeless passion.

VIVIEN. Oh, he's in love with me all right. But he doesn't want to be. He says being in love interferes with his work.

GUENEVERE. What nonsense!

VIVIEN. Oh, I don't know about that! I think being in love with me would interfere with a man's work. I should hope so!

GUENEVERE. (primly) I don't interfere with Arthur's work.

VIVIEN. Arthur's a professor of philosophy. Besides, Arthur had written a book and settled down before he fell in love with you. I'm dealing with a man who has his work still to do. He thinks if he had about three years of peace and quiet and hard work, he'd put something big across. He put it up to me as a fellow-artist. I know just how he feels. I suppose I am very distracting!

GUENEVERE. Well, why don't you give him his three years?

VIVIEN. Gwen! What do you think I am? An altruist? A benefactor of humanity? Well, I'm not, I'm a woman. Three years? I've given him three hours, and threatened to marry a man back at home if he doesn't make up his mind before then.

GUENEVERE. Heavens, Vivien, you are a savage! Well, did it work?

VIVIEN. I don't know. The three hours aren't up yet. I'm going around to get my answer now. I must say the prospect isn't encouraging. He started to pack up to go to Boston. He says he won't be bullied.

GUENEVERE. But Vivien!

VIVIEN. Oh, don't condole with me yet, Gwen dear. It's twelve hours before that morning train, and I'm not through with him yet.

GUENEVERE. (curiously) What are you going to do?

VIVIEN. Nothing crude, Gwen dear. Oh, there's lots of things I can do. Cry, for instance. He's never seen a woman cry. Maybe you think I can't cry?

GUENEVERE. It's hard to imagine you crying.

VIVIEN. I never wanted anything badly enough to cry for it before. But I could cry my heart out for him. I've absolutely no pride left. Well— I'm going to have him, that's all. (She throws her cigarette into the grate, and starts to go.)

GUENEVERE. And what about his work? Suppose it's true—

VIVIEN. Suppose it is. Then his work will have to get along the best way it can. (She turns at the door.) Do I look like a loser?—or a winner!

GUENEVERE. I'll bet on you, Vivien.

VIVIEN. Thanks, darling. And bye-bye.

GUENEVERE. (stopping her) But Vivien—! I've been racking my brain to think who—? Do tell me!

VIVIEN. (in the doorway, defiantly) Well, if you must know—it's Lancelot Jones.

GUENEVERE. (springing up, amazed, incredulous and horrified) Oh, no, Vivien! Not Lancelot!

VIVIEN. Absolutely yes.

GUENEVERE. But—but he's married already!

VIVIEN. Oh, is that what's bothering you?

GUENEVERE. I should rather think it would bother you, Vivien!

VIVIEN. But it so happens that it doesn't. I'm not breaking up a marriage. There isn't any marriage there to break up. I know all about it. Lancelot told me. That marriage was ended long ago. It's simply that he has never got a divorce.

GUENEVERE. But—but if that's true, why hasn't he got a divorce?

VIVIEN. On purpose, Gwen—as a protection! Against love-sick females like me. Against getting married again. I told you he wanted to work.

GUENEVERE. But Vivien! If he hasn't got a divorce—

VIVIEN. He'll have to get one, that's all. It won't take long. And in the meantime we can be engaged.

GUENEVERE. A funny sort of engagement, Vivien—to a married man!

VIVIEN. I think you're very unkind, Gwen. It isn't funny at all. It's a nuisance. We'll have to wait at least a month! I think you might sympathize with me. I believe you're in love with him yourself.

GUENEVERE. (coldly) Vivien!

VIVIEN. (contritely) I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. But I do think he's so terribly nice—I don't see how any woman can help being in love with him. Well—I'm off to his studio, to learn my fate. Wish me luck, if you can!

She goes.

GUENEVERE. (looks after her, then drifts over to the mantel, leans against it staring out into space, and then murmurs)—Lancelot!

_She goes slowly back to her chair, sits still a moment, and then quietly resumes the darning of socks.

Enter, from the side door, Mary, the pretty servant girl, who fusses about at the back of the room_.

GUENEVERE. (absently) Going, Mary?

MARY. No, ma'am. I don't feel like going out tonight.

Something in her tone makes Guenevere turn.

GUENEVERE. (kindly) Why, Mary, what is the matter?

MARY. (struggling with her sobs) I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't help it—I wasn't going to say anything. But when you spoke to me—

GUENEVERE. (quietly) What is it, Mary?

MARY. I'm a wicked girl. (She sobs again.)

GUENEVERE. (after a moment's reflection.) Yes? Tell me about it.

MARY. Shall I tell you?

GUENEVERE. Yes. I think you'd better tell me.

MARY. I wanted to tell you. (She comes to Guenevere, and sinks beside her chair.) I wanted to tell you before Mr. Robinson came back. I couldn't tell you if he was here.

GUENEVERE. (smiling) My husband? Are you afraid of him, Mary?

MARY. Yes, ma'am.

GUENEVERE. (to herself) Poor Arthur! He does frighten people. He looks so—just.

MARY. That's what it is, ma'am. He always makes me think of my father.

GUENEVERE. Is your father a just man, too, Mary?

MARY. Yes, ma'am. He's that just I'd never dare breathe a word to him about what I've done. He'd put me out of the house.

GUENEVERE. (hesitating) Is it so bad, Mary, what you have done?

MARY. Yes, ma'am.

GUENEVERE. Do you—do you want to tell me who it is?

MARY. It's Mr. Jones, ma'am.

GUENEVERE. (reflectively) Jones? (Then, astoundedly)—Jones! (Incredulously)—You don't mean—! (Quietly)—Do you mean Mr. Lancelot Jones?

MARY. Yes, ma'am.

GUENEVERE. This is terrible! When did it happen?

MARY. It—it sort of happened last night, ma'am. It was this way—

GUENEVERE. No details, please!

MARY. No, ma'am. I just wanted to tell you how it was. You see, ma'am, I went to his studio—

GUENEVERE. (unable to bear it) Please, Mary, please!

MARY. Yes, ma'am.

GUENEVERE. I don't mean that I blame you. One can't help—falling in love....

MARY. No, you just can't help it, can you?

GUENEVERE. But Lancelot—Mr. Jones—should have behaved better than that....

MARY. Should he, ma'am?

GUENEVERE. He certainly should. I wouldn't have believed it of him. So that is why—Mary! Do you know—? But I'm not sure that I ought to tell you. Still, I don't see why I should protect him. Do you know that he is going away?

MARY. No, ma'am. Is he?

GUENEVERE. Yes. In the mo'rning. You must go to see him tonight. No, you can't do that....Oh, this is terrible!

MARY. I'm glad he's going away, Mrs. Robinson.

GUENEVERE. Are you?

MARY. Yes, ma'am.

GUENEVERE. Why?

MARY. Because I'd be so ashamed every time I saw him.

GUENEVERE. (looking at her with interest) Really? I didn't know people felt that way. Perhaps it's the right way to feel. But I didn't suppose anybody did. So you want him to go?

MARY. Yes, ma'am.

GUENEVERE. And you don't feel you've any claim on him?

MARY. No, ma'am. Why should I?

GUENEVERE. Well! I really don't know. But one is supposed to. Mary, you are a modern woman!

MARY. Am I?

GUENEVERE. One would think, after what happened—

MARY. That's just it, ma'am. If it had been anything else—But after what happened, I just want never to see him again. You see, ma'am, it was this way—

GUENEVERE. (gently) Is it necessary to tell me that, Mary? I know what happened.

MARY. But you don't, ma'am. That's just it. I've been trying to tell you what happened, ma'am.

GUENEVERE. Good heavens, was it so horrible! Well, go on, then. (She nerves herself to hear the worst.) What did happen?

MARY. Nothing, ma'am....

GUENEVERE. Nothing?

MARY. That's just it....

GUENEVERE. But I—I don't understand.

MARY. You said a while ago, Mrs. Robinson, that you couldn't help falling in love. It's true. I tried every way to stop, but I couldn't. So last night I—I went to his studio—

GUENEVERE. Yes?

MARY. I told you I was a wicked girl, Mrs. Robinson. You know I've a key to let myself in to clean up for him. So last night I just went in. He—he was asleep—

GUENEVERE. Yes?

MARY. I—shall I tell you, ma'am?

GUENEVERE. Yes. You must tell me, now.

MARY. And I—(She sits kneeling, looking straight ahead, and continues speaking, in a dead voice) I couldn't help it. I put my arms around him.

GUENEVERE. Yes?

MARY. And he put his arms around me, Mrs. Robinson, and kissed me. And I didn't care about anything else, then. I was glad. And then—

GUENEVERE. Yes?

MARY. And then he woke up—and he was angry at me. He swore at me. And then he laughed, and kissed me again, and put me out of the room.

GUENEVERE. Yes, yes. And that—that was all?

MARY. I came home. I thought I would have died. I knew I had been wicked. Oh, Mrs. Robinson—(She breaks down and sobs.)

GUENEVERE. (patting her head) Poor child, it's all right. You aren't so wicked as you think. Oh, I'm so glad!

MARY. But it's jest the same, Mrs. Robinson. I wanted to be wicked.

GUENEVERE. Never mind, Mary. We all want to be wicked at times. But something always happens. It's all right. You're a good girl, Mary. There, stop crying!... Of course, of course! I might have known. Lancelot couldn't—and yet, I wonder.... Mary, stand up and let me look at you!

MARY. (obeying) Yes, ma'am.

GUENEVERE. (in a strange tone) You're a very good-looking girl, Mary.... So he laughed, and gave you a kiss, and led you to the door!... Well! Go to bed and think no more about it. It's all right.

MARY. Do you really think so, Mrs. Robinson? Isn't it the same thing if you want to be wicked—

GUENEVERE. You're talking like a professor of philosophy now, Mary. And you're a woman, and you ought to know better. No, it isn't the same thing, at all. Run along, child.

MARY. Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. Good night, ma'am.

She goes.

GUENEVERE. Good-night, Mary. (She returns to her darning. She smiles to herself, then becomes serious, stops work, and looks at the clock. Then she says)—Vivien! Vivien's tears! Poor Lancelot! Oh, well! (She shrugs her shoulders, and goes on working. Then suddenly she puts down her work, rises, and walks restlessly about the room.... There is a knock at the door. She turns and stares at the door. The knock is repeated. She is silent, motionless for a moment. Then she says, almost in a whisper)—Come!

A young man enters.

GUENEVERE. Lancelot!

LANCELOT. Guenevere! (They go up to each other, and he takes both her hands. They stand that way for a moment. Then he says lightly) —Darning King Arthur's socks, I see!

GUENEVERE. (releasing herself, and going back to her chair) Yes. Sit down.

LANCELOT. Where's his royal highness?

GUENEVERE. New York. Why don't you ever come to see us?

LANCELOT. (not answering) Charming domestic picture!

GUENEVERE. Don't be silly!

LANCELOT. I am going away.

GUENEVERE. Are you? I'm sorry. Don't you like our little village?

LANCELOT. Thought I'd stop in to say good-bye.

GUENEVERE. That's very sweet of you.

LANCELOT. (rising) I've got to go back and finish packing.

GUENEVERE. Not really?

LANCELOT. Going in the morning.

GUENEVERE. Why the haste? The summer's just begun. I hear you've been doing some awfully good things. I was going over to see them.

LANCELOT. Thanks. Sorry to disappoint you. But I've taken it into my head to leave.

GUENEVERE. You're not going tonight, anyway. Sit down and talk to me.

LANCELOT. All right. (He sits, constrainedly.) What shall I talk about?

GUENEVERE. (smiling) Your work.

LANCELOT. (impatiently) You're not interested in my work.

GUENEVERE. Your love-affairs, then.

LANCELOT. Don't want to.

GUENEVERE. Then read to me. There's some books on the table.

LANCELOT. (opening a serious-looking magazine) Here's an article on "The Concept of Happiness"—by Professor Arthur B. Robinson. Shall I read that?

GUENEVERE. I gather that you are not as fond of my husband as I am, Lancelot. But try to be nice to me, anyway. Read some poetry.

LANCELOT. (takes a book from the table, and reads)—

"It needs no maxims drawn from Socrates To tell me this is madness in my blood—"

He pauses. She looks up inquiringly. Presently he goes on reading—

"Nor does what wisdom I have learned from these Serve to abate my most unreasoned mood. What would I of you? What gift could you bring, That to await you in the common street Sets all my secret ecstasy a-wing Into wild regions of sublime retreat? And if you come, you will speak common words—"

He stops, and flings the book across the room. She looks up.

GUENEVERE. Don't you like it?

LANCELOT. (gloomily) Hell! That's too true.

GUENEVERE. Try something else.

LANCELOT. No—I can't read. (Guenevere bends to her darning.) Shall I go?

GUENEVERE. No.

LANCELOT. Do you enjoy seeing me suffer?

GUENEVERE. Does talking to me make you suffer?

LANCELOT. Yes.

GUENEVERE. I'm sorry.

LANCELOT. Then let me go.

GUENEVERE. No. Sit there and talk to me, like a rational human being.

LANCELOT. I'm not a rational human being. I'm a fool. A crazy fool.

GUENEVERE. (smiling at him) I like crazy fools.

LANCELOT. (desperately, rising as he speaks) I am going to be married.

GUENEVERE. (in a mocking simulation of surprise) What, again?

LANCELOT. Yes—again—and as soon as possible—to Vivien.

GUENEVERE. I congratulate you.

LANCELOT. I love her.

GUENEVERE. Naturally.

LANCELOT. She loves me.

GUENEVERE. I trust so.

LANCELOT. Then why should I be at this moment aching to kiss you? Tell me that?

GUENEVERE. (looking at him calmly) It does seem strange.

LANCELOT. It is absolutely insane! It's preposterous! It's contradictory!

GUENEVERE. Are you quite sure it's all true?

LANCELOT. Yes! I'm sure that I never would commit the rashness of matrimony again without being in love. Very much in love. And I'm equally sure that I would not stand here and tell you what a fool I am about you, if that weren't true. Do you think I want to be this way? It's too ridiculous—I didn't want to tell you. I wanted to go. You made me stay. Well, now you know what a blithering lunatic I am.

GUENEVERE. (quietly) It is lunacy, isn't it?

LANCELOT. Is it?

GUENEVERE. Sheer lunacy. In love with one woman, and wanting to kiss another. Disgraceful, in fact.

LANCELOT. I know what you think! You think I'm paying you an extremely caddish compliment—or else—

GUENEVERE. (earnestly, as she rises) No, I don't think that at all, Lancelot. I believe you when you say that about me. And I don't imagine for one moment that you're not really in love with Vivien. I know you are. I could pretend to myself that you weren't—just as you've tried to pretend to yourself sometimes, that I'm not really in love with Arthur. But you know I am—don't you?

LANCELOT. Yes. ...

GUENEVERE. Well, Lancelot, there are—two lunatics here. (He stares at her.) It's almost funny. I don't know why I'm telling you. But—

LANCELOT. You—!

GUENEVERE. Yes. I want to kiss you, too.

LANCELOT. But this won't do. As long as there was only one of us—

GUENEVERE. There's been two all along, Lancelot. I've more self-control than you—that's all. But I broke down tonight. I knew I oughtn't to tell you—now. But I knew I would.

LANCELOT. You, too!

They have unconsciously circled about to the opposite side of the room.

GUENEVERE. Oh, well, Lance, I fancy we aren't the only ones. It's a common human failing, no doubt. Lots of people must feel this way.

LANCELOT. What do they do about it?

GUENEVERE. Well, it all depends on what kind of people they are. Some of them go ahead and kiss. Others think of the consequences.

LANCELOT. Well, let's think of the consequences, then. What are they? I forget.

GUENEVERE. I don't. I'm keeping them very clearly in mind. In the first place—

LANCELOT. Yes?

GUENEVERE. What was it? Yes—in the first place, we would be sorry. And in the second place—

LANCELOT. In the second place—

GUENEVERE. In the second place—I forget what's in the second place. But in the third place we mustn't. Isn't that enough?

LANCELOT. Yes. I know we mustn't. But—I feel that we are going to.

GUENEVERE. Please don't say that.

LANCELOT. But isn't it true? Don't you feel that, too?

GUENEVERE. Yes.

LANCELOT. Then we're lost.

GUENEVERE. No. We must think!

LANCELOT. I can't think.

GUENEVERE. Try.

LANCELOT. It's no use. I can't even remember "in the first place," now.

GUENEVERE. Then—before we do remember—!

He takes her in his arms. They kiss each other—a long, long kiss.

LANCELOT. Sweetheart!

GUENEVERE. (holding him at arm's length) That was in the second place, Lancelot. If we kiss each other, we'll begin saying things like that—and perhaps believing them.

LANCELOT. What did I say?

GUENEVERE. Something very foolish.

LANCELOT. What, darling?

GUENEVERE. There, you did it again. Stop, or I shall be doing it, too. I want to, you know.

LANCELOT. Want what?

GUENEVERE. To call you darling, and believe I'm in love with you.

LANCELOT. Aren't you?

GUENEVERE. I mustn't be.

LANCELOT. But aren't you?

GUENEVERE. Oh, I—(She closes her eyes, and he draws her to him. Suddenly she frees herself.) No! Lancelot—no! I'm not in love with you. And you're not in love with me. We're just two wicked people who want to kiss each other.

LANCELOT. Wicked? I don't feel wicked. Do you?

GUENEVERE. No. I just feel natural. But it's the same thing. (He approaches her with outstretched arms. She retreats behind the chair.) No, no. Remember that I'm married.

LANCELOT. I don't care.

GUENEVERE. Then remember that you're engaged!

LANCELOT. Engaged?

GUENEVERE. Yes: to Vivien.

LANCELOT. (stopping short) So I am.

GUENEVERE. And you're in love with her.

LANCELOT. That's true.

GUENEVERE. You see now that you can't kiss me, don't you?

LANCELOT (dazedly) Yes.

GUENEVERE. Then thank heavens! for I was about to let you. And that's in the fifth place, Lancelot: if we kiss each other once, we're sure to do it again and again—and again. Now go over there and sit down, and we'll talk sanely and sensibly.

LANCELOT. (obeying) Heavens, what a moment! I'm not over it yet.

GUENEVERE. Neither am I. We're a pair of sillies, aren't we? I never thought I should ever behave in such a fashion.

LANCELOT. It was my fault. I shouldn't have started it.

GUENEVERE. I am as much to blame as you.

LANCELOT. I'm sorry.

GUENEVERE. Are you?

LANCELOT. I ought to be. But I'm not, exactly.

GUENEVERE. I'm not either, I'm ashamed to say.

LANCELOT. The truth is, I want to kiss you again.

GUENEVERE. And I... But do you call this talking sensibly?

LANCELOT. I suppose it isn't. Well, go ahead with your sixth place, then. Only, for heaven's sake try and say something that will really do some good!

GUENEVERE. Very well, Lancelot. Do you really want to elope with me?

LANCELOT. Very much.

GUENEVERE. That's not the right answer. You know perfectly well you want to do nothing of the sort. What! Scandalize everybody, and ruin my reputation, and break Vivien's heart?

LANCELOT. No—I don't suppose I really want to do any of those things.

GUENEVERE. Then do you want us to conduct a secret and vulgar intrigue?

LANCELOT. (hurt) Guenevere!

GUENEVERE. You realize, of course, that this madness of ours might last no longer than a month?

LANCELOT. (soberly) Perhaps.

GUENEVERE. Well, do you still want to kiss me?—Think what you are saying, Lancelot, for I may let you. And that kiss may be the beginning of the catastrophe. (She moves toward him.) Do you want a kiss that brings with it grief and fear and danger and heartbreak?

LANCELOT. No—

GUENEVERE. Then what do you want?

LANCELOT. I want—a kiss.

GUENEVERE. Never. If you had believed, for one your chance.

LANCELOT. Kiss me!

GUENEVERE. Never. If you had believed, for one moment, that it was worth the price of grief and heartbreak, I should have believed it too, and kissed you, and not cared what happened. I should have risked the love of my husband and the happiness of your sweetheart without a qualm. And who knows? It might have been worth it. An hour from now I shall be sure it wasn't; I shall be sure it was all blind, wicked folly. But now I am a little sorry. I wanted to gamble with fate. I wanted us to stake our two lives recklessly upon a kiss—and see what happened. And you couldn't. It wasn't a moment of beauty and terror to you. You didn't want to challenge fate. You just wanted to kiss me.... Go!

LANCELOT. (turning on her bitterly) You women! Because you are afraid, you accuse us of being cowards.

GUENEVERE. What do you mean?

LANCELOT. (brutally) You! You want a love-affair. Your common sense tells you it's folly. Your reason won't allow it. So you want your common sense to be overwhelmed, your reason lost. You want to be swept off your, feet. You want to be made to do something you don't approve of. You want to be wicked, and you want it to be some one else's fault. Tell me—isn't it true?

GUENEVERE. Yes, it is true—except for one thing, Lancelot. It's true that I wanted you to sweep me off my feet, to make me forget everything; it was wrong, it was foolish of me to want it, but I did. Only if you had done it, you wouldn't have been "to blame." I should have loved you for ever because you could do it. And now, because you couldn't I despise you. Now you know. ... Go.

LANCELOT. No, Guenevere, you don't despise me. You're angry with me and angry with yourself because you couldn't quite forget King Arthur. You are blaming me and I am blaming you, isn't it amusing?

GUENEVERE. You are right, Lancelot. It's my fault. Oh, I envy women who can dare to make fools of themselves who forget everything and don't care what they do! I suppose that's love—and I'm not up to it.

LANCELOT. You are different....

GUENEVERE. Different? Yes, I'm a coward. I'm not primitive enough. Despise me. You've a right to. And—please go.

LANCELOT. I'm afraid I'm not very primitive either, Gwen. I—

GUENEVERE. I'm afraid you're not, Lance. That's the trouble with us. We're civilized. Hopelessly civilized. We had a spark of the old barbaric flame—but it went out. We put it out—quenched it with conversation. No, Lancelot, we've talked our hour away. It's time for you to pack up. Good-bye. (He kisses her hand lingeringly.) You may kiss my lips if you like. There's not the slightest danger. We were unnecessarily alarmed about ourselves. We couldn't misbehave! ... Going?

LANCELOT. Damn you! Good-bye!

He goes.

GUENEVERE. Well, that did it. If he had stayed a moment longer—!

She flings up her arms in a wild gesture—then recovers herself, and goes to her chair, where she sits down and quietly resumes the darning of her husband's socks.



THE RIM OF THE WORLD

A FANTASY

To MARJORIE JONES

"The Rim of the World" was first produced by the Liberal Club, New York City, at Webster Hall, in 1915, with the following cast:

The Maid ......... Jo Gotsch The Gypsy ........ Floyd Dell The King.......... Edward Goodman The Princess...... Marjorie Jones

_Morning. A room in a palace, opening on a balcony. Through the arched broad window at the back is seen the sky, just beginning to be suffused with the rosy streakings of dawn. A large, wide heavy seat stands on a dais, with a low square stool beside it. A girl kneels on the stool, with her head and arms on the chair, dozing.

The dark figure of a man appears on the balcony. He puts a leg over the window-ledge and climbs in slowly.

A little noise wakes the girl. She stirs, looks round, jumps up, and starts to scream_.

THE MAN. Oh, not so loud!

THE GIRL. (finishes the scream in a subdued voice.)

THE MAN. That's better! But you ought to be more careful. You might wake somebody up.

THE GIRL. Who are you?

THE MAN. That's just what I was about to ask you—tell me, are you a Princess, or a maidservant?

THE GIRL. A Princess?—did you really think I might be a Princess?

THE MAN. Well, there are pretty Princesses. But I had rather you were a maidservant.

THE GIRL. Would you? Well, so I am!

THE MAN. Thank you, my dear. And what would you like me to be?

THE MAID. I'm afraid you're somebody not quite proper!

THE MAN. Right, my dear. You are a person of marvellous discernment. I am, in fact—

THE MAID. The king of the Gypsies!

THE GYPSY. How did you know?

THE GIRL. I guessed it!

THE GYPSY. H'm. You knew, I suppose, that our band has just encamped outside the city?

THE MAID. Yes.

THE GYPSY. And you have heard of the exploits of the Gypsy king. You know that there is no wall high enough to keep him out, no force of soldiers strong enough—

THE MAID. I know it by your eyes. They have the gypsy look in them.

THE GYPSY. Where have you ever seen gypsies before?

THE MAID. Never mind. But tell me—the wall around the palace is seventeen feet high—

THE GYPSY. True enough!

THE MAID. A guard of soldiers continually marches around it—

THE GYPSY. Very true!

THE MAID. And there are spikes on the top. How did you get over?

THE GYPSY. That is my secret. Would I be the gypsy king if everybody knew what I know?

THE MAID. Won't you tell me?

THE GYPSY. Women have asked me that many times. But I never tell. But, though I won't tell you how I entered, I don't mind telling you why.

THE MAID. Oh, I know that already!

THE GYPSY. You think, perhaps, that I am a thief as well as a housebreaker—that it is in the hope of royal treasure left unguarded that I have come here. ...

THE MAID. You have come here because you took a fancy to see what was on the other side of the wall. Isn't that it?

THE GYPSY. At last I have found some one in this stupid city who understands me. Young woman—

THE MAID. Yes?

THE GYPSY. You do not belong here. There is no one here who does things because they are foolish and interesting. Would you like to come away with me?

THE MAID. Oh, no. You must not think, because I understand you, that I approve of you. You see—

THE GYPSY. You don't approve of me?

THE MAID. No—but I like you. I can't help it. I always did like Gypsies. You see, I was brought up among them.

THE GYPSY. You a Gypsy child!

THE MAID. I suppose I was. Though I always preferred to imagine that I was some Princess that had been changed in the cradle and stolen away. When I was hardly more than a baby, I remember that I disapproved of their rough ways. I can still faintly remember the jolting of the wagons that kept me awake, and the smell of the soup in the big kettle over the fire.

THE GYPSY. It is a good smell.

THE MAID. But I did not think so! It smelled of garlic. And when I was six years old, I ran away. The tribe had encamped just outside the city here, and I wandered away from the tents, and entered the city-gate, and hid myself, and at night I came straight to the palace. The soldiers found me, and took me to the old king. He said that I should be the child of the palace. So they gave me white bread with butter on it, and put me to sleep between smooth white sheets.

THE GYPSY. Gypsy children cannot thrive when they are taken into cities. They turn away from white bread with butter on it, and remembering the good smell of the soup in the big kettle over the fire, they fall sick with hunger. As for you—

THE MAID. I thrived on the white bread with butter on it.

THE GYPSY. You were a little renegade. But I forgive you! And now to my business, I have come to see the King, and talk with him. We kings should become better acquainted, don't you think? I will ask him what he considers the proper price for telling fortunes, and find out what his ideas are on the subject of horse-trading. And no doubt he will ask me what I think about his coming marriage with the Princess of Basque. She is to arrive to-night, I believe, and be married tomorrow, to this King whom she has never seen!

THE MAID. Be careful, or you will awaken him. That is his bed-chamber, there.

THE GYPSY. Ah! Is he a light sleeper?

THE MAID. The King sleeps soundly, and awakens punctually every morning at six.

THE GYPSY. (with a glance at the sky) It is not quite six. Every morning, you say? And what then?

THE MAID. He goes for a walk at seven, and breakfasts at eight. Every morning.

THE GYPSY. Regularly?

THE MAID. The King is always on time to the moment.

THE GYPSY. Ah, one of those clockwork kings!

THE MAID. You must not make fun of him. He is a good king.

THE GYPSY. I have no doubt of it. And his regularity will be a great comfort to his queen. She will always know that she will get her kiss regularly, punctually, on the stroke of the clock. But—you say the King rises at six, and goes for a walk at seven. What does he do in the meantime?

THE MAID. First he comes here and has his morning drink. Then he is dressed for his walk.

THE GYPSY. And what is your part in these solemn proceedings?

THE MAID. I tie his slippers for him, and pour his drink.

THE GYPSY. It is a great honour! So great an honour that you come here before the sun is up to be ready for your duties. Do you entertain the King with conversation while he takes his morning drink?

THE MAID. No—the Gazetteer does that.

THE GYPSY. The Gazetteer—what is the Gazetteer?

THE MAID. The Gazetteer is a man whose duty it is to find out all that happens in the city each day, and recite it to the King the next morning.

THE GYPSY. Has the King as much curiosity as that? I would never have thought it.

THE MAID. It isn't curiosity. It's just a custom that has sprung up. All the merchants and well-to-do people hire a Gazetteer. It may be useful to them—but I think the King regards it more as a duty than a pleasure.

THE GYPSY. I remember now. They have something like it in the taverns. I foresee a great future for it....

THE MAID. And it seems to go with that new drink.

THE GYPSY. What new drink?

THE MAID. Why, the new drink from Arabia. It has a queer name. Ka-Fe.

THE GYPSY. Ka-Fe—and what is it like?

THE MAID. It is dark, and served hot with sugar and cream.

THE GYPSY. It sounds interesting. I would like to taste it. What is it most like—mead, perhaps, or wine, or that strong liquor distilled from juniper berries?