MRS. M. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair. I am ashamed for the cause! Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you!—pay your respects! [Aside to her.

SIR A. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected on the worth of this gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my alliance. Now, Jack, speak to her.

[Aside to him.

CAPT. A. What the devil shall I do? [Aside.]—You see, sir, she won't even look at me while you are here. I knew she wouldn't!—I told you so.—Let me entreat you, sir, to leave us together!

MRS. M. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece is very small. Turn round, Lydia, I blush for you! [Aside to her.

SIR A. Why don't you begin, Jack? Zounds! sirrah! why don't you speak? [Aside to him.

CAPT. A. Hem! hem! Madam—hem! [CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE attempts to speak, then returns to SIR ANTHONY.] 'Faith! sir, I am so confounded!—and so—so confused! I told you I should be so, sir,—I knew it. The—the tremor of my passion entirely takes away my presence of mind.

SIR A. But it don't take away your voice, does it? Go up, and speak to her directly!

CAPT. A. [draws near LYDIA]. [Aside.] Now heaven send she may be too sullen to look round! I must disguise my voice.—Will not Miss Languish lend an ear to the mild accents of true love? Will not—

SIR A. Why don't you speak out?—not stand croaking like a frog in a quinsey!

CAPT. A. The—the—excess of my awe, and my—my modesty quite choke me!

SIR A. Ah! your modesty again! Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would favor us with something more than a side-front.

[MRS. MALAPROP seems to chide LYDIA.

CAPT. A. So! all will out, I see! [Goes up to LYDIA, speaks softly.] Be not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all surprise at present.

LYD. [aside]. Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice!—[Looks round by degrees, then starts up.] Is this possible!—my Beverley! how can this be?—my Beverley!

CAPT. A. Ah! 'tis all over! [Aside.

SIR A. Beverley!—the devil—Beverley! What can the girl mean? This is my son, Jack Absolute.

MRS. M. For shame! for shame!—your head runs so on that fellow, that you have him always in your eyes! beg Captain Absolute's pardon, directly.

LYD. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley!

SIR A. Zounds, the girl's mad!—her brain's turned by reading!

MRS. M. O' my conscience, I believe so!—what do you mean by Beverley?—you saw Captain Absolute before to-day, there he is: your husband that shall be.

LYD. With all my soul, ma'am—when I refuse my Beverley—

SIR A. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!—or has this fellow been playing us a rogue's trick? Come here, sirrah, who the devil are you?

CAPT. A. 'Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; but I'll endeavor to recollect.

SIR A. Are you my son, or not?—answer for your mother, you dog, if you won't for me.

CAPT. A. Ye powers of impudence, befriend me!—[Aside.]—Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am your wife's son; Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most respectful admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate nephew. I need not tell my Lydia that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing the singular generosity of her temper, assumed that name, and a station, which has proved a test of the most disinterested love, which he now hopes to enjoy, in a more elevated character.

LYD. So!—there will be no elopement after all!

SIR A. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent fellow! To do you justice, I think I never saw a piece of more consummate assurance! Well, I am glad you are not the dull insensible varlet you pretend to be, however! I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you dog—I am. So, this was your penitence, your duty, and obedience! Ah! you dissembling villain! Come, we must leave them together, Mrs. Malaprop; they long to fly into each other's arms. I warrant! Come, Mrs. Malaprop, we'll not disturb their tenderness; theirs is the time of life for happiness! [Sings.] Youth's the season made for joy—hey! odds life! I'm in such spirits! Permit me, ma'am.

[Gives his hand to MRS. MALAPROP. Exit singing, and handing her off. Exit CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE with LYDIA in the opposite direction.



BEAU BRUMMELL

BLANCHARD JERROLD

ACT I, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Beau Brummell, a fastidious aristocrat with luxurious tastes and a depleted fortune; Isidore, his valet; Mr. Fotherby, his aspiring young protege.

SCENE: A handsome apartment in Brummell's house, Calais, France. Isidore discovered, in chair, looking over his master's toilette table.

ISIDORE. Twenty shirts a week, twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs, to say nothing of thirty cravats and twelve waistcoats—indeed, for people that cannot pay their servants! Well, he owes me just six thousand three hundred and thirty-seven francs, ten sous. [Picks up paper.] Ah, I see, I'm in the list. It costs something to have the honor of serving Mr. Brummell—to be chamberlain to His Majesty, the King of Calais! But he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be in their debt; still, much as I esteem the honor, I can't afford it any longer, nor can the laundress, nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred francs a year for washing! Three clean shirts a day, three cravats! Boots blacked, soles and all, and with such varnish! But then he has such exquisite taste! why, he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to enter his club, because the candidate's boots were polished with bad blacking. I wonder whether the king will do anything for him? It is Mr. Brummell's dressing hour, and here he comes.

[Enter BRUMMELL, letter in hand. ISIDORE busies himself piling cravats upon the side of dressing table, and wheels chair to the mirror. BRUMMELL throws himself in the chair before the glass, examines the cravats and throws two or three of them away.

BRUMMELL. Isidore, take those dusters away; the chambermaid has forgotten them. [Re-reads the letter.] Strange girl this; the only thing I know against her is that she takes soup twice. It's the old story. Her father wants her to marry a fellow who can keep her, and she wants to have a young fellow who can't. Well, the young fellow who can't is the more interesting of the two. I must ask the father to dinner I suppose—it's a deuced bore; but it will put him under a heavy obligation. I must make excuses to Ballarat and Gill. Isidore, when I'm dressed take my compliments to Mr. Davis, and tell him I shall be happy to see him at dinner to-day.

ISID. Very well, sir. [Aside.] To Davis, a retired fellow from the city! This is a tumble!—I am sorry to trouble you, sir, but——

BRUM. I can't talk to you to-day, Isidore. Give me a cravat.

ISID. [handing one]. I am a poor man, and six thousand francs——

BRUM. I understand, Isidore. We'll see—we'll see; don't disturb me. Zounds! man, haven't you been long enough with me to know that these are not moments when I can speak or listen? [Bell rings.] If that be Mr. Fotherby, show him in. [Exit ISIDORE.] I intend to form that young fellow—there's stuff in him. I've noticed that he uses my blacking. [Enter FOTHERBY followed by ISIDORE.] How d'e do, Fotherby?

FOTHERBY. This admittance is an honor, indeed, sir!

BRUM. My dear fellow, why, what do you call those things upon your feet?

FOTHER. Things on my feet! Shoes, to be sure!

BRUM. Shoes! I thought they were slippers!

FOTHER. You prefer boots then, sir, doubtless?

BRUM. Well, let me see. Humph! Isidore, which do I prefer, boots or shoes?

ISID. The Hessian was always your favorite, sir, in London.

BRUM. Right, Isidore—so it was. By-the-bye, I have asked Davis here to-day. It was a great sacrifice; but as you and the young lady want to have the old gentleman melted, I resigned myself. I hope he'll keep his knife out of his mouth.

FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful to you, sir. He wanted Helen to become old Armand's wife next week.

BRUM. I think he's right; and but for one circumstance, I should be on Armand's side of the question.

FOTHER. And this circumstance?

BRUM. The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing that serves him for a waistcoat—an instrument that, he says, has been in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. And now let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you are dressed in execrable taste—all black and white, like a magpie. Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. Everything should fit without a fault. You can't tell what this has cost me—but then it is a coat—while that thing you wear—I really don't know what we can call it.

FOTHER. Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way.

BRUM. Really, my good young friend, you surprise me. Don't you know that you take medicine—you take a walk—you take a liberty—but you drink tea! My dear Fotherby, never be bearer of such a dreadful message again. Isidore! has my Paris wig arrived? Any card or letter?

ISID. No cards, sir. The wig arrived by the diligence.

BRUN. Is the wig fit to put on?

ISID. I have been examining it, and, as the times go, I think it will do. There is one of the side locks not quite to my taste.

BRUM. Ah! a mat, no doubt—a door-mat! [Exit ISIDORE. To FOTHERBY.] You see what a gentleman may be reduced to! It's the most fortunate thing in the world that I never fell in love!

FOTHER. But were you never in love?—never engaged?

BRUM. Engaged?—why, yes, something of the kind; but I discovered that the lady positively ate cabbage, and so I broke it off.

FOTHER. And so, sir, you will persuade the old gentleman to postpone Helen's marriage with Armand—while I——

BRUM. My dear young friend, I will tell the old gentleman to do so—you must see that I could not possibly think of persuading a person who grows onions in his garden——

FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful——

BRUM. For three weeks exactly—from which time you, at all events, will begin to wish that I had confined my attention to my own particular affairs. But the world is ungrateful. I once waved my hand to a saddler's son from White's window. Well, sir, I owed him five hundred pounds, and he had afterwards the assurance to ask me for it.

FOTHER. You astonish me!

BRUM. Positive fact. So be cautious, young man, and in your way through life—if you wave your hand to such a fellow, let it be over a stamped receipt.

FOTHER. I shall follow your counsel most scrupulously.

BRUM. There, sir, never let me see you again in those gloves! These, sir, [showing his] are the only gloves for a gentleman. Pray leave me—I can't bear the sight of them. Meantime, tell your betrothed that I shall do everything in my power to secure your unhappiness. I have already spoken to Lord Ballarat about you. I told him you were the laziest fellow and the best dresser in the town—in fact, cut out by nature to serve the government. Good-bye—I shall ask you to dine with me some of these days—but not yet awhile—you must work up to that. And now, Fotherby, to show you how deep an interest I take in your welfare, you shall give me your arm to the ramparts. [Exeunt.

ACT II, SCENE III

CHARACTERS: Brummell; Isidore; Fotherby; Nurse; another Old Woman; Landlord; Waiter.

SCENE: Brummell's lodgings in a miserable apartment house at Caen, France. Eight years have elapsed. With no means of livelihood and pursued by creditors, Brummell is now reduced to abject poverty, broken health, and a deranged mind. He is thrown among people of low rank and is subjected to many indignities; but to the last he clings to his fastidious tastes and is a gentleman among imaginary aristocrats.

OLD NURSE. in high Norman cap, discovered seated in arm chair, mending stockings; another WOMAN near her.

NURSE. Yes, my dear, clean out of his mind—that's what he's gone.

OLD WOMAN. Deary me!

NURSE. Aye, and there be folks as says he was once as neat and tidy as a new sixpence. Now he's as dirty as a George the First halfpenny!

OLD W. Deary me!

NURSE. Aye, child, and he knew lords and dooks—and such like—now it's anybody as'll give him a dinner. It's time they did something with him—for put up with his going's on any longer, I cannot! A nuss's is a horrid life, ain't it, child?

OLD W. 'Orrid—deary me! So this very afternoon that's comin', he's to go?

NURSE. Aye, child—the landlord's goin' to offer to take him for a walk, which'll please him—and then take him off to see if the nuns'll have charity upon him—if not, there's nothing but the street. He wouldn't go if he know'd it—still he hasn't a copper coin—he's as cunning as any fox. Have a little drop of somethin' comfortable, child!

OLD W. Deary me!—at this time of day—but I do feel a sinking!

NURSE. It'll do you a world of good. [Getting bottle—a knock.] Lawk! what an awkward hour for people to call! [Knock again.]

OLD W. Deary me! Perhaps it's Mr. Brummell.

NURSE. Not it! It's more than he dare do, to knock twice like that. It's his old man-servant, come to take off that there dirty screen. [Opens door.]

Enter BRUMMELL—muddy—supported by ISIDORE

BRUM. Isidore, give me my dressing gown!

ISID. Dressing gown! that's good—why I never put my own on nowadays!

BRUM. [talking to himself]. That screen mustn't go—nor the duchess's armchair. [Turning to NURSE.] Mind that, nurse, whatever happens to me, this chair and the screen remain. Ha! ha! what would Ballarat say, if——

NURSE. There, never mind them folks. Pull your coat off, and put your dressing gown on, do!

BRUM. Dear me! I hope the ices will be better—the punch I've seen to! The duchess shall sit here.

NURSE [to OLD WOMAN]. That's how he goes on nearly every day. The high folks he knew have turned his head. Sometimes he makes one of the waiters announce a lot of folks, as never come, while he, like an old fool, bows to nobody, and hands nothing to that old chair.

OLD W. What work it must give you.

NURSE [to BRUMMELL]. There, take that muddy coat off, nobody's coming to-day.

BRUM. Leave the room and see that everything is ready.

NURSE. Drat it. [Rings the bell.] I must have the waiter up. He'll soon manage him.

BRUM. [rising, totters forward, and arranges his shabby dress]. Well, now I'm ready! Hark! I think I hear the first carriage. Sir Harry, no doubt.

Enter WAITER

NURSE. Just see to this old man—make him change his coat, for I can't.

WAITER. Well, this is the last of it. Master says he may sleep in the streets, but he doesn't stay here another night if he knows it. They won't have him at the asylum without money, and he hasn't a rap.

NURSE. Nor a stick; for there's little enough left to pay my poor wages.

WAITER [to BRUMMELL]. Come, off with the coat!

BRUM. My good fellow, leave it me to-night. I've a few friends coming. Hush! there's the first arrival. Pray, my good sir, see to my guests.

WAITER. Well, let's humor the old blade once more—he'll be in the streets to-morrow.

NURSE [to OLD WOMAN]. Just notice this tomfoolery, child.

OLD W. Deary me! it almost frightens me. See how pleased he is.

WAITER. Sir Harry Gill!

BRUM. [advancing ceremoniously, and holding out his hand, and coming down, as though talking to somebody at his side]. My dear Harry, I'm delighted to see you. Were you at the opera last night?

NURSE [to OLD WOMAN]. Did you ever hear the like of it?

WAITER. Here goes again! [Goes as before to door, and throws it open.] Lord Ballarat!

BRUM. [advancing as before, and receiving imaginary visitor]. My good fellow, I'm sorry I missed you at the club the other night; but I went into the duchess's box, and——

WAITER. I must stop this. The duchess always comes last, and then he's satisfied. [Throwing open the door, and calling pompously.] Her Highness the Duchess of Canterbury.

BRUM. [totters to door, bowing very profoundly, and handing the imaginary duchess to his armchair—leans over the chair, and bows frequently as he talks]. Your highness is too good! This is indeed an honor. Permit me the satisfaction of handing you to your seat. And is the duke well? And little Nutmeg—is his ear better? Poor little fellow! I hope you will allow me to give him a charming little collar I have for him.

WAITER. There, that'll do! [To BRUMMELL.] Come, now, they're all gone—take your coat off.

BRUM. [starting, and falling into chair]. Yes, gone—gone—true—they're gone! [WAITER helps him to take his coat off.] Give me my cap! [NURSE puts his old velvet cap on.]

WAITER. [going]. Call me up again, nurse, if he won't mind you. Do you hear what I say, Mr. Brummell?

BRUM. Yes—yes—I'll be very good, nurse—I'll be very good.

WAITER. Well, it will be a lucky day when we get rid of this business! [Exit.

OLD W. But think of the poor creature turned into the streets! He'd die upon the nighest door-step!

NURSE. Can't be helped—out he goes to-night and no mistake! I'll nuss him no longer—and the landlord wants the room. The men are comin' to whitewash it at sunrise to-morrow.

OLD W. Deary me! Well—good-day!

NURSE. Good-day, child. You'll find me at home to-morrow. Good-bye! [Exit OLD WOMAN.

BRUM. [tottering to an old bureau, sits before it]. Dinner at four. Nurse, nurse! my glass and razors—come!

NURSE. Drat the old man! [Gives him glass, etc.]

Enter LANDLORD, followed by WAITER

Now he's completely done up!

BRUM. [politely to LANDLORD]. Good morning, monsieur, delighted to see——

LANDLORD. Hang your compliments—I want no more of them.

BRUM. My good sir, you surprise me!

LAND. [to WAITER]. Get his rubbish together—for out he goes, and no mistake. [To BRUMMELL.] Now, Mr. Brummell, can you pay me—or can't you—or won't you?

BRUM. Dear, dear me! We'll talk about it.

LAND. No, we won't. I'll have it—or out you bundle this minute.

BRUM. [rising]. Sir, I am a gentleman—a poor one, it is true; and this hand, fleshless as it is—is strong enough to chastise a man who forgets it! [BRUMMELL falls back in chair exhausted.]

LAND. [to WAITER]. Now for it—out with him! [LANDLORD and WAITER rush forward, and are about to seize BRUMMELL.]

Enter FOTHERBY

FOTHER. [pushing back LANDLORD and WAITER]. Put your hands on the old man at your peril.

LAND. Do you know that you are in my house, sir?—stand back!

FOTHER. Do you know that you are in my rooms, sir? [Throws paper to him.] I think you will find that regular. Leave the room.

NURSE [aside]. Wonders'll never cease. But the old fool'll spile all again—you'll see.

LAND. [aside to Waiter]. He's paid missus the rent—there's luck! [Exit.

WAITER. A pretty bit of business I've done for myself. Not a sou for the waiter, I'll bet. [Exit.

FOTHER. [advancing to BRUMMELL]. My dear Mr. Brummell.

BRUM. Really, you have the advantage of me.

FOTHER. You surely remember me, Mr. Brummell. [To NURSE.] The good sisters will take care of him for the rest of his days. I must take him to them. Is he always so, my good woman?

NURSE. Poor dear, good, kind old gentleman, not allays. He takes on so at times.

BRUM. Don't know you in the least. [Imagines he sees Ballarat.] Ballarat! dear old boy! Tut! tut! Ballarat! Well, this is kind. But I can't be seen in this state.

FOTHER. No. Here you are among friends, my good sir. [Leading him out.] This way, Mr. Brummell, I come from Lord Ballarat.

BRUM. Well—be it so. Ballarat—mind—when you return to England let them know that, even in this squalor—to his last hour in the world—Brummell—poor Brummell was a gentleman still. I am ready—I am ready.

[Exit FOTHERBY, leading BRUMMELL, the NURSE following.



THE SET OF TURQUOISE

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

ACT I, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Count of Lara, a poor nobleman; Beatrice, his wife Miriam, a maid, who personates a page.

SCENE: Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the garden.

LARA. The third moon of our marriage, Beatrice! It hangs in the still twilight, large and full, Like a ripe orange.

BEATRICE. Like an orange? yes, But not so red, Count. Then it has no stem. Now, as 'tis hidden by those drifts of cloud, With one thin edge just glimmering through the dark, 'Tis like some strange, rich jewel of the east, In the cleft side of a mountain. And that reminds me—speaking of jewels—love, There is a set of turquoise at Malan's, Ear-drops and bracelets and a necklace—ah! If they were mine.

LARA. And so they should be, dear, Were I Aladdin, and had slaves o' the lamp To fetch me ingots. Why, then, Beatrice, All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours, Although your hand is heavy now with gems That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness. Oh! so you pout! Why make that full-blown rose Into a bud again?

BEATRICE. You love me not.

LARA. A coquette's song.

BEATRICE. I sing it.

LARA. A poor song.

BEATRICE. You love me not, or love me over-much, Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear! You do not deck me as becomes our state, For fear my grandeur should besiege the eyes Of Monte, Clari, Marcus, and the rest— A precious set! You're jealous, sir!

LARA. Not I. I love you.

BEATRICE. Why, that is as easy said As any three short words; takes no more breath To say, "I hate you." What, sir, have I lived Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife, And do not know your follies? I will wager (If I could trap his countship into this!) The rarest kisses I know how to give Against the turquoise, that within a month You'll grow so jealous—and without a cause, Or with a reason thin as window glass— That you will ache to kill me!

LARA. Will you so? And I—let us clasp hands and kiss on it.

BEATRICE. Clasp hands, Sir Trustful; but not kiss—nay, nay! I will not pay my forfeit till I lose.

LARA. And I'll not lose the forfeit.

BEATRICE. We shall see.

[Exit BEATRICE.

LARA. She has as many fancies as the wind Which now, like slumber, lies 'mong spicy isles, Then suddenly blows white furrows in the sea! Lovely and dangerous is my leopardess. To-day, low-lying at my feet; to-morrow, With great eyes flashing, threatening doleful death— With strokes like velvet! She's no common clay, But fire and dew and marble. I'll not throw So rare a wonder in the lap o' the world! Jealous? I am not jealous—though they say Some sorts of love breed jealousy. And yet, I would I had not wagered; it implies Doubt. If I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile And let the cool air fan me. 'Twas not wise. 'Tis only Folly with its cap and bells Can jest with sad things. She seemed earnest, too. What if, to pique me, she should overstep The pale of modesty, and give bold eyes (I could not bear that, nay, not even that!) To Marc or Claudian? Why, such things have been And no sin dreamed of. I will watch her close. There, now, I wrong her.

Yet if she, To win the turquoise of me, if she should— O cursed jewels! Would that they were hung About the glistening neck of some mermaid A thousand fathoms underneath the sea!

[A PAGE crosses the garden.

That page again! 'Tis twice within the week The supple-waisted, pretty-ankled knave Has crossed my garden at this self-same hour, Trolling a canzonetta with an air As if he owned the villa. Why, the fop! He might have doffed his bonnet as he passed. I'll teach him better if he comes again. What does he at the villa? O! perchance He comes in the evening when his master's out, To lisp soft romance in the ready ear Of Beatrice's dressing-maid; but then She has one lover. Now I think she's two: This gaudy popinjay would make the third, And that's too many for an honest girl! I'll ask the Countess—no, I'll not do that; She'd laugh at me; and vow by the Madonna This varlet was some noble in disguise, Seeking her favor. Then I'd let the light Of heaven through his doublet—I would—yes, That is, I would, were I a jealous man: But then I'm not.

When he comes out again I'll stop him, question him, and know the truth. I cannot sit in the garden of a night But he glides by me in his jaunty dress, Like a fantastic phantom!—never looks To the right nor left, but passes gayly on, As if I were a statue. Soft, he comes! I'll make him speak, or kill him; then, indeed, It were unreasonable to ask it. Soh! I'll speak him gently at the first, and then—

The PAGE enters by a gate in the villa-garden, and walks past the COUNT.

Ho! pretty page, who owns you?

PAGE. No one now. Once Signor Juan, but I am his no more.

LARA. What, then, you stole from him?

PAGE. O! no, sir, no. He had so many intrigues on his hands, There was no sleep for me nor night nor day. Such carrying of love-favors and pink notes! He's gone abroad now, to break other hearts And so I left him.

LARA. A frank knave.

PAGE. To-night I've done his latest bidding—

LARA. As you should—

PAGE. A duty wed with pleasure—'twas to take A message to a countess all forlorn, In yonder villa.

LARA. [aside]. Why! that villa's mine! A message to a countess all forlorn? In yonder villa?

PAGE. Ay, sir. You can see The portico among the mulberries, Just to the left, there.

LARA. Ay, I see, I see. A pretty villa. And the lady's name?

PAGE. The lady's name, sir?

LARA. Ay, the lady's name.

PAGE. O! that's a secret which I cannot tell.

LARA. No? but you shall, though, or I'll strangle you! In my strong hands your slender neck would snap Like a fragile pipe-stem.

PAGE. You are choking me! O! loose your grasp, sir!

LARA. Then the name! the name!

PAGE. Countess of Lara.

LARA. Not her dressing-maid?

PAGE. No, no, I said the mistress, not the maid.

LARA. And then you lied. I never saw two eyes So wide and frank but they'd a pliant tongue To shape a lie for them. Say you are false! Tell me you lie, and I will make you rich, I'll stuff your cap with ducats twice a year.

PAGE. Well, then—I lie.

LARA. Ay, now you lie, indeed! I see it in the cunning of your eyes; Night cannot hide the Satan leering there. Only a little lingering fear of heaven Holds me from dirking you between the ribs!

PAGE. What would you have? I will say nothing, then.

LARA. Say everything, and end it! Here is gold. You brought a billet to the Countess—well? What said the billet?

PAGE. Take away your hand. And, by St. Mary, I will tell you all. There, now, I breathe. You will not harm me, sir? Stand six yards off, or I will not a word. It seems the Countess promised Signor Juan A set of turquoise—

LARA. Turquoise? Ha! that's well.

PAGE. Just so—wherewith my master was to pay Some gaming debts; but yester-night the cards Tumbled a golden mountain at his feet; And ere he sailed, this morning, Signor Juan Gave me a perfumed, amber-tinted note, For Countess Lara, which, with some adieus, Craved her remembrance morning, noon, and night; Her prayers while gone, her smiles when he returned; Then told his sudden fortune with the cards, And bade her keep the jewels. That is all.

LARA. All? Is that all? 'T has only cracked my heart! A heart, I know, of little, little worth— An ill-cut ruby, scarred and scratched before, But now quite broken! I have no heart, then; Men should not have, when they are wronged like this. Out of my sight, thou demon of bad news!

[Exit LARA.

PAGE. I did not think 't would work on him like that. How pale he grew! Alack! I fear some ill Will come of this. I'll to the Countess now, And warn her of his madness. [Exit PAGE.

ACT I, SCENE II

SCENE: Beatrice's chamber. Beatrice sits on a fauteuil in the attitude of listening.

BEATRICE. Hist! that's his step. Miriam, place the lights Farther away; keep you behind the screen, Breathing no louder than a lily does; For if you stir or laugh 'twill ruin all.

MIRIAM. Laugh! I am faint with terror.

BEATRICE. Then be still. Move not for worlds until I touch the bell, Then do the thing I told you. Hush! his step Sounds in the corridor, and I'm asleep!

LARA enters. He approaches within a few yards of BEATRICE, pauses, and looks at her.

LARA. Asleep!—and guilt can slumber! Guilt can lie Down-lidded and soft-breathed like innocence! Hath dreams as sweet as childhood's—who can tell? Were I an artist, and did wish to paint A devil to perfection, I'd not limn A horned monster, with a leprous skin, Red-hot from Pandemonium—not I. But with my delicatest tints, I'd paint A woman in the glamour of her youth, All garmented with loveliness and mystery! How fair she is! Her beauty glides between Me and my purpose, like a pleading angel.

[BEATRICE sighs.

Her dream's broke, like a bubble, in a sigh. She'll waken soon, and that—that must not be! I could not kill her if she looked at me. I loved her, loved her, by the saints, I did— I trust she prayed before she fell asleep!

BEATRICE [springing up]. So, you are come—your dagger in your hand? Your lips compressed and blanched, and your hair Tumbled wildly all about your eyes, Like a river-god's? O love, you frighten me! And you are trembling. Tell me what this means.

LARA. Oh! nothing, nothing—I did think to write A note to Juan, to Signor Juan, my friend (Your cousin and my honorable friend); But finding neither ink nor paper here, I thought to scratch it with my dagger's point Upon your bosom, Madam! That is all.

BEATRICE. You've lost your senses!

LARA. Madam, no, I've found 'em!

BEATRICE. Then lose them quickly, and be what you were.

LARA. I was a fool, a dupe—a happy dupe. You should have kept me in my ignorance; For wisdom makes us wretched, king and clown. Countess of Lara, you are false to me!

BEATRICE. Now, by the saints—

LARA. Now, by the saints, you are!

BEATRICE. Upon my honor—

LARA. On your honor? fie! Swear by the ocean's feathery froth, for that Is not so light a substance.

BEATRICE. Hear me, love!

LARA. Lie to that marble Io! I am sick To the heart with lying.

BEATRICE. You've the ear-ache, sir, Got with too much believing.

LARA. Beatrice, I came to kill you.

BEATRICE. Kiss me, Count, you mean!

LARA. If killing you be kissing you, why yes.

BEATRICE. Ho! come not near me with such threatening looks, Stand back there, if you love me, or have loved!

[As LARA advances, BEATRICE retreats to the table and rings a small hand-bell. MIRIAM, in the dress of a page, enters from behind the screen and steps between them.

LARA [starting back]. The Page? now, curse him! What? no! Miriam? Hold! 'twas at twilight, in the villa-garden, At dusk, too, on the road to Mantua; But here the light falls on you, man or maid! Stop now; my brain's bewildered. Stand you there, And let me touch you with incredulous hands! Wait till I come, nor vanish like a ghost. If this be Juan's page, why, where is Miriam? If this be Miriam, where's—by all the saints, I have been tricked!

MIRIAM [laughing]. By two saints, with your leave!

LARA. The happiest fool in Italy, for my age! And all the damning tales you fed me with, You Sprite of Twilight, Imp of the old Moon!—

MIRIAM [bowing]. Were arrant lies as ever woman told; And though not mine, I claim the price for them— This cap stuffed full of ducats twice a year!

LARA. A trap! a trap that only caught a fool! So thin a plot, I might have seen through it. I've lost my reason!

MIRIAM. And your ducats!

BEATRICE. And A certain set of turquoise at Malan's!



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

ACT II, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Hardcastle, hospitable and urbane, with a touch of humor in his nature; Marlow and Hastings who come from London to visit the Hardcastles; servants.

SCENE: Hardcastle's house. Young Marlow and Hastings have journeyed from London to the home of Mr. Hardcastle, an old family friend whom they have never seen. They are deceived into believing they are many miles from their destination when they really have arrived. They are told that Mr. Hardcastle's house is a public inn. This leads to much confusion. The genial Hardcastle is drilling his servants.

Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by DIGGORY and three or four awkward SERVANTS

MR. H. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without stirring from home?

ALL. Ay! ay!

MR. H. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frightened rabbits in a warren.

ALL. No! no!

MR. H. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show at the side table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead you! See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter.

DIGGORY. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill——

MR. H. You must not be so talkative, Diggory; you must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not think of eating.

DIG. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpossible.

[Exeunt.

Enter SERVANTS, showing in MARLOW and HASTINGS

SERV. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This way.

HAST. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room, and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking house; antique, but creditable.

MAR. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn.

HAST. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good side-board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the bill confoundedly.

MAR. Travelers, George, must pay in all places. The only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are fleeced and starved.

Enter HARDCASTLE

MR. H. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow? Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of.

MAR. [aside]. He has got our names from the servants already. [To HARDCASTLE.] We approve your caution and hospitality. [To HASTINGS.] I have been thinking, George, of changing our traveling dresses in the morning, I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine.

MR. H. [putting chairs and tables in order in background]. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house.

HAST. I fancy, George, you're right; the first blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold.

MR. H. Mr. Marlow—Mr. Hastings—gentlemen—pray be under no restraint in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please here.

MAR. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a retreat.

MR. H. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the garrison—

MAR. Aye, and we'll summon your garrison, old boy.

MR. H. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men—

HAST. What a strange fellow is this!

MR. H. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men—

MAR. Well, but suppose—

MR. H. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him—you must have heard of George Brooks—I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So—

MAR. What, my good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigor.

MR. H. Punch, sir?

MAR. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know.

MR. H. Here's a cup, sir.

MAR. [aside]. So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only let us have just what he pleases.

MR. H. I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. [Drinks.]

MAR. [aside]. A very impudent fellow, this! but he's a character, and I'll humor him a little. [Aloud.] Sir, my service to you. [Drinks.]

HAST. [aside]. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets that he's an inn-keeper before he has learned to be a gentleman.

MAR. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose?

MR. H. No, sir; I have long given that work over.

HAST. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find?

MR. H. Why, no, sir; there was a time, indeed, when I fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding myself every day grow more angry, and the government no better, I left it to mend itself. Sir, my service to you. [Drinks.]

HAST. So that, with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with receiving your friends within, amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bustling life of it.

MR. H. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlor.

MAR. And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in Westminster Hall.

MR. H. Aye, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy.

MAR. [aside]. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an inn-keeper's philosophy.

HAST. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every quarter. If you find their reason manageable you attack it with your philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher.

MR. H. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hear.

MAR. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost time to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper?

MR. H. For supper, sir? Was ever such a request made to a man in his own house?

MAR. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you.

MR. H. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. Why, really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them.

MAR. You do, do you?

MR. H. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe they are in actual consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen.

MAR. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy council. It's a way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No offense, I hope, sir.

MR. H. O, no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't know how; our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we send for her she might scold us all out of the house.

HAST. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favor. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare.

MAR. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too.

MR. H. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper—I believe it's drawn out. Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Gunthorp. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it.

Enter ROGER, with a bill of fare

HAST. [aside]. All upon the high ropes! His uncle a colonel—we shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the bill of fare. [Exit ROGER.

MAR. What's here? For the first course, for the second course, for the dessert! The devil, sir! do you think we have brought down the whole joiner's company, or the corporation of Bedford? two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do.

HAST. But let's hear it.

MAR. "For the first course at the top, a pig's face and prune sauce."

HAST. Out with your pig, I say.

MAR. Out with your prune sauce, say I.

MR. H. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with prune sauce, is very good eating. But, gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen?

MAR. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and luggage properly taken care of.

MR. H. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step.

MAR. Leave that to you? I protest, sir. You must excuse me, I always look to these things myself.

MR. H. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head.

MAR. You see I'm resolved on it. [Aside.] A very troublesome fellow this as ever I met with.

MR. H. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you.

[Exeunt MARLOW and HASTINGS.

[Aside.] This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned impudence. What could my old friend Sir Charles Marlow mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town! To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue!

[Exit HARDCASTLE.



PYGMALION AND GALATEA

W. S. GILBERT

ACT I, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Pygmalion, an Athenian sculptor; Cynisca, his wife; Galatea, an animated statue.

SCENE: Pygmalion's studio; several classical statues are placed about the room; at the back a cabinet containing a statue of Galatea, before which curtains are drawn concealing the statue.

PYG. It all but breathes—therefore it talks aloud! It all but moves—therefore it walks and runs! It all but lives, and therefore it is life! No, no, my love, the thing is cold, dull stone, Shaped to a certain form, but still dull stone, The lifeless, senseless mockery of life. The gods make life, I can make only death! Why, my Cynisca, though I stand so well, The merest cut-throat, when he plies his trade, Makes better death than I with all my skill!

CYN. Hush, my Pygmalion! the gods are good, And they have made thee nearer unto them Than other men; this is ingratitude!

PYG. Not so; has not a monarch's second son More cause for anger that he lacks a throne Than he whose lot is cast in slavery?

CYN. Not much more cause, perhaps, but more excuse. Now I must go.

PYG. So soon, and for so long?

CYN. One day, 'twill quickly pass away!

PYG. With those who measure time, by almanacs, no doubt, But not with him who knows no days save those Born of the sunlight of Cynisca's eyes; It will be night with me till she returns.

CYN. Then sleep it through, Pygmalion! But stay, Thou shalt not pass the weary hours alone; Now mark thou this—while I'm away from thee, There stands my only representative; [Withdrawing curtains. She is my proxy, and I charge you, sir, Be faithful unto her as unto me! Into her quietly attentive ear Pour all thy treasures of hyperbole, And give thy nimble tongue full license, lest Disuse should rust its glib machinery; [Advancing. If thoughts of love should haply crowd on thee, There stands my other self, tell them to her, She'll listen well; nay, that's ungenerous, For she is I, yet lovelier than I, And hath no temper, sir, and hath no tongue; Thou hast thy license—make good use of it. Already I'm half jealous—there!

[Draws curtain concealing statue.

It's gone. The thing is but a statue after all, And I am safe in leaving thee with her; Farewell, Pygmalion, till I return. [Exit.

PYG. "The thing is but a statue after all!" Cynisca little thought that in those words She touched the key-note of my discontent. True, I have powers denied to other men; Give me a block of senseless marble—Well, I'm a magician, and it rests with me To say what kernel lies within its shell; It shall contain a man, a woman, a child, A dozen men and women if I will. So far the gods and I run neck and neck, Nay, so far I can beat them at their trade; I am no bungler—all the men I make Are straight limbed fellows, each magnificent In the perfection of his manly grace; I make no crook-backs; all my men are gods, My women, goddesses, in outward form. But there's my tether—I can go so far, And go no farther—at that point I stop, To curse the bonds that hold me sternly back. To curse the arrogance of those proud gods, Who say, "Thou shalt be greatest among men, And yet infinitesimally small!"

GALATEA [from behind curtain]. Pygmalion!

PYG. Who called?

GAL. Pygmalion!

[PYGMALION tears away curtain and, discovers GALATEA alive.

PYG. Ye gods! It lives!

GAL. Pygmalion!

PYG. It speaks! I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes!

GAL. Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion; Give me thy hand—both hands—how soft and warm! Whence came I? [Descends.

PYG. Why, from yonder pedestal.

GAL. That pedestal! Ah, yes, I recollect. There was a time when it was part of me.

PYG. That time has passed forever, thou art now A living, breathing woman, excellent In every attribute of womankind.

GAL. Where am I, then?

PYG. Why, born into the world By miracle.

GAL. Is this the world?

PYG. It is.

GAL. This room?

PYG. This room is portion of a house; The house stands in a grove, the grove itself Is one of many, many thousand groves In Athens.

GAL. And is Athens then the world?

PYG. To an Athenian—Yes—

GAL. And I am one?

PYG. By birth and parentage, not by descent.

GAL. But how came I to be?

PYG. Well—let me see. Oh—you were quarried in Pentelicus; I modeled you in clay—my artisans Then roughed you out in marble—I, in turn, Brought my artistic skill to bear on you, And made you what you are—in all but life— The gods completed what I had begun, And gave the only gift I could not give.

GAL. Then is this life?

PYG. It is.

GAL. And not long since I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone, That was the first dull gleam of conscience; I became conscious of a chilly self, A cold immovable identity, I knew that I was stone, and knew no more; Then, by an imperceptible advance, Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen—darkly and imperfectly—yet seen— The walls surrounded me, and I, alone, That pedestal—that curtain—then a voice That called on Galatea! At that word, Which seemed to shake my marble to the core, That which was dim before, came evident. Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless—seemed to resolve themselves Into a language I could understand; I felt my frame pervaded with a glow That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; Its cold hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved—I lived! Lived in the ecstasy of new born life; Lived in the love of him that fashioned me; Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope, Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved themselves Into one word, that word, Pygmalion! [Kneels.

PYG. I have no words to tell thee of my joy, O woman—perfect in thy loveliness.

GAL. What is that word? Am I a woman?

PYG. Yes.

GAL. Art thou a woman?

PYG. No, I am a man.

GAL. What is a man?

PYG. A being strongly framed, To wait on woman, and protect her from All ills that strength and courage can avert; To work and toil for her, that she may rest; To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh; To fight and die for her, that she might live!

GAL. I'm glad I am a woman. [He leads her down.

PYG. So am I.

GAL. That I escape the pains thou hast to bear?

PYG. That I may undergo those pains for thee.

GAL. With whom then wouldst thou fight?

PYG. With any man Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain.

GAL. Then there are other men in this strange world?

PYG. There are indeed.

GAL. And other women?

PYG. Yes; Though for the moment I'd forgotten it; Yes, other women.

GAL. And for all of these Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep and fight?

PYG. It is man's duty, if he's called upon, To fight for all; he works for those he loves.

GAL. Then by thy works I know thou lovest me.

PYG. Indeed, I love thee!

GAL. With what kind of love?

PYG. I love thee as a sculptor does his work! [Aside.] There is diplomacy in that reply.

GAL. My love is different in kind to thine; I am no sculptor, and I've done no work, Yet I do love thee; say—what love is mine?

PYG. Tell me its symptoms—then I'll answer thee.

GAL. Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come. A sense that I am made by thee for thee, That I've no will that is not wholly thine, That I've no thought, no hope, no enterprise, That does not own thee as its sovereign; That I have life, that I may live for thee, That I am thine—that thou and I are one! What kind of love is that?

PYG. A kind of love That I shall run some risk in dealing with.

GAL. And why, Pygmalion?

PYG. Such love as thine A man may not receive, except indeed From one who is, or is to be, his wife.

GAL. Then I will be thy wife.

PYG. That may not be; I have a wife—the gods allow but one.

GAL. Why did the gods then send me here to thee?

PYG. I cannot say—unless to punish me For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer! I prayed that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer, And now I see the fearful consequence That must attend it!

GAL. Yet thou lovest me?

PYG. Who could look on that face and stifle love?

GAL. Then I am beautiful?

PYG. Indeed thou art.

GAL. I wish that I could look upon myself, But that's impossible.

PYG. Not so indeed, This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold!

GAL. How beautiful! I am very glad to know That both our tastes agree so perfectly; Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think That aught could be more beautiful than thou, Till I behold myself. Believe me, love, I could look in this mirror all day long. So I'm a woman.

PYG. There's no doubt of that!

GAL. Oh happy maid to be so passing fair! And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze, At will, upon so beautiful a face.

PYG. Hush! Galatea—in thine innocence Thou sayest things that others would reprove.

GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong To think that one is exquisitely fair?

PYG. Well, Galatea, it's a sentiment That every woman shares with thee; They think it—but they keep it to themselves.

GAL. And is thy wife as beautiful as I?

PYG. No, Galatea, for in forming thee I took her features—lovely in themselves— And in the marble made them lovelier still.

GAL. Oh! then I'm not original?

PYG. Well—no— That is—thou hast indeed a prototype, But though in stone thou didst resemble her, In life, the difference is manifest.

GAL. I'm very glad that I am lovelier than she. And am I better?

PYG. That I do not know.

GAL. Then she has faults.

PYG. Very few indeed; Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show That she and I are of one common kin. I love her all the better for such faults.

GAL. Tell me some faults and I'll commit them now.

PYG. There is no hurry; they will come in time; Though for that matter, it's a grievous sin To sit as lovingly as we sit now.

GAL. Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk As we are sitting, be indeed a sin, Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love, Is this great fault that I'm committing now The kind of fault that only serves to show That thou and I are of one common kin?

PYG. Indeed, I'm very much afraid it is.

GAL. And dost thou love me better for such fault?

PYG. Where is the mortal that could answer "no"?

GAL. Why, then I'm satisfied, Pygmalion; Thy wife and I can start on equal terms. She loves thee?

PYG. Very much.

GAL. I'm glad of that. I like thy wife.

PYG. And why?

GAL. Our tastes agree. We love Pygmalion well, and what is more, Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife; I'm sure we shall agree.

PYG. [aside.] I doubt it much.

GAL. Is she within?

PYG. No, she is not within.

GAL. But she'll come back?

PYG. Oh, yes, she will come back.

GAL. How pleased she'll be to know when she returns, That there was some one here to fill her place.

PYG. Yes, I should say she'd be extremely pleased.

GAL. Why, there is something in thy voice which says That thou art jesting. Is it possible To say one thing and mean another?

PYG. Yes, It's sometimes done.

GAL. How very wonderful! So clever!

PYG. And so very useful.

GAL. Yes. Teach me the art.

PYG. The art will come in time. My wife will not be pleased; there—that's the truth.

GAL. I do not think that I shall like thy wife. Tell me more of her.

PYG. Well—

GAL. What did she say When last she left thee?

PYG. Humph! Well, let me see; Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife,— Her solitary representative; She feared I should be lonely till she came. And counseled me, if thoughts of love should come, To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont To speak to her.

GAL. That's right.

PYG. But when she spoke Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood, Which makes a difference.

GAL. It's a strange world; A woman loves her husband very much, And cannot brook that I should love him too; She fears he will be lonely till she comes, And will not let me cheer his loneliness; She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone, And when that stone is brought to life—be dumb! It's a strange world, I cannot fathom it.

PYG. [aside]. Let me be brave and put an end to this. Come Galatea—till my wife returns, My sister shall provide thee with a home; Her house is close at hand.

GAL. Send me not hence Pygmalion; let me stay.

PYG. It may not be. Come, Galatea, we shall meet again.

GAL. Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion! But we shall meet again?—and very soon?

PYG. Yes, very soon.

GAL. And when thy wife returns, She'll let me stay with thee?

PYG. I do not know. [Aside]. Why should I hide the truth from her [aloud] alas! I may not see thee then.

GAL. Pygmalion! What fearful words are these?

PYG. The bitter truth. I may not love thee; I must send thee hence.

GAL. Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love! Was it for this that heaven gave me life? Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see, I am thy work, thou hast created me; The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine! Thine! only, and unalterably thine! This is the thought with which my soul is charged. Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love, That thou hast love for her alone. Alas! I do not know these things; I only know That heaven has sent me here to be with thee. Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife, Of vows that thou wilt love but her. Alas! I do not know these things; I only know That heaven, who sent me here, has given me One all absorbing duty to discharge— To love thee, and to make thee love again.

[PYGMALION takes her in his arms, and embraces her passionately.]

ACT III, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Pygmalion; Myrine, his sister; Cynisca, his wife; Galatea.

SCENE: Pygmalion's studio.

Enter MYRINE

MYR. Pygmalion's heard that he must lose his wife, And swears, by all the gods that reign above, He will not live if she deserts him now! What—what is to be done?

Enter GALATEA

GAL. Myrine here! Where is Pygmalion?

MYR. Oh, wretched girl! Art thou not satisfied with all the ill Thy heedlessness has worked, that thou art come To gaze upon thy victim's misery? Well, thou hast come in time!

GAL. What dost thou mean?

MYR. Why, this is what I mean; he will not live, Now that Cynisca has deserted him. O, girl, his blood will be upon thy head!

GAL. Pygmalion will not live! Pygmalion die! And I, alas, the miserable cause! Oh, what is to be done?

MYR. I do not know. And yet there is one chance, but one alone; I'll see Cynisca, and prevail on her To meet Pygmalion but once again.

GAL. But should she come too late? He may not live Till she returns.

MYR. I'll send him now to thee, And tell him that his wife awaits him here. He'll take thee for Cynisca; when he speaks Answer thou him as if thou wast his wife.

GAL. Yes, yes, I understand.

MYR. Then I'll be gone. The gods assist thee in this artifice! [Exit MYRINE.

GAL. The gods will help me, for the gods are good. [Kneels.] Oh, heaven, in this great grief I turn to thee, Teach me to speak to him, as, ere I lived, Cynisca spake to him. Oh, let my voice Be to Pygmalion as Cynisca's voice, And he will live—for her and not for me— Yet he will live. I am the fountain head

Enter PYGMALION, unobserved, led in by MYRINE

Of all the horrors that surround him now, And it is fit that I should suffer this; Grant this, my first appeal—I do not ask Pygmalion's love; I ask Pygmalion's life.

[PYGMALION utters an exclamation of joy. She rushes to him and seizes his hand.

Pygmalion!

PYG. I have no words in which To tell the joy with which I heard that prayer. Oh, take me to thine arms, my dearly loved! And teach me once again how much I risked In risking such a heaven-sent love as thine.

GAL. [believing that he refers to her]. Pygmalion! my love! Pygmalion! Once more those words! again! say them again! Tell me that thou forgivest me the ill That I unwittingly have worked on thee!

PYG. Forgive thee? Why, my wife, I did not dare To ask thy pardon, and thou askest mine. The compact with thy mistress, Artemis, Gave thee a heaven-sent right to punish me. I've learnt to take whate'er the gods may send.

[GALATEA, at first delighted, learns in the course of this speech that PYGMALION takes her for CYNISCA, and expresses extreme horror.

GAL. [with an effort]. But then, this woman, Galatea—

PYG. Well?

GAL. Thy love for her is dead?

PYG. I had no love. A miracle Did crown my handiwork, and brought to life The fair creation of my sculptor's skill, I yielded to her god-sent influence, For I had worshiped her before she lived Because she called Cynisca's face to me; But when she lived—that love died—word by word.

GAL. That is well said; thou dost not love her then? She is no more to thee than senseless stone?

PYG. Speak not of her, Cynisca, for I swear

Enter CYNISCA, unobserved

The unhewn marble of Pentelicus Hath charms for me, which she, in all her glow Of womanly perfection, could not match.

GAL. I'm very glad to hear that this is so. Thou art forgiven!

PYG. Thou hast pardoned me, And though the law of Artemis declared Thy pardon should restore to me the light Thine anger took away, I would be blind, I would not have mine eyes lest they should rest On her who caused me all this bitterness!

GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion, 'twere better thus; If thou couldst look on Galatea now, Thy love for her, perchance, might come again.

PYG. No, no.

GAL. They say that she endureth pains That mock the power of words.

PYG. It should be so.

GAL. Hast thou no pity for her? [CYNISCA comes down.

PYG. No, not I. The ill that she hath worked on thee, on me, And on Myrine, surely were enough To make us curse the hour that gave her life. She is not fit to live upon this world!

GAL. Upon this worthy world, thou sayest well. The woman shall be seen of thee no more.

[Takes CYNISCA'S hand and leads her to PYGMALION.]

What wouldst thou with her now? Thou hast thy wife!

[She substitutes CYNISCA in her place, and retires, weeping. CYNISCA takes him to her arms and kisses him. He recovers his sight.

PYG. Cynisca! see! the light of day is mine! Once more I look upon thy well loved face!

Enter GALATEA

MYR. Pygmalion! See—Galatea's here! [GALATEA kneels.

PYG. Away from me, Woman or statue! Thou the only blight That ever fell upon my love—begone,

[CYNISCA comforts her.

For thou hast been the curse of all who fell Within the compass of thy waywardness!

CYN. No, no; recall those words, Pygmalion, Thou knowest not all.

GAL. Nay, let me go from him; That curse—his curse still ringing in mine ears, For life is bitterer to me than death. [She mounts the pedestal. Farewell, Pygmalion, I am not fit To live upon this world—this worthy world. Farewell, Pygmalion. Farewell, farewell!

[The curtains conceal her.

CYN. Thou art unjust to her as I to thee! Hers was the voice that pardoned thee—not mine. I knew no pity till she taught it me. I heard the words she spoke, and little thought That they would find an echo in my heart; But so it was. I took them for mine own, And asking for thy pardon, pardoned thee!

PYG. Cynisca! Is this so?

CYN. In truth it is.

GAL. [behind curtain]: Farewell, Pygmalion! Farewell—farewell!

[PYGMALION tears away the curtain, discovering GALATEA as a statue.



INDEX OF AUTHORS

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 478.

Angell, James B., 220.

Anonymous, 89, 92, 349, 353, 354, 380, 386, 395, 404.

Arnold, Edwin, 110.

Barham, R. H., 54.

Beecher, Henry Ward, 208, 215.

Bell, H. G., 431.

Beveridge, Albert J., 217.

Blaine, James Gillespie, 237.

Bossuet, Jacques Benigne, 169.

Bright, John, 218, 222.

Brooks, Katherine R., 125.

Browning, Robert, 21.

Bryan, William Jennings, 231.

Bryant, William Cullen, 132.

Burke, Edmund, 175, 178, 182.

Burns, Robert, 129.

Burroughs, John, 53.

Byron, Lord, 147.

Cable, George W., 77.

Campbell, Thomas, 157.

Carlyle, Thomas, 156.

Castelar, Emilio, 258.

Channing, William E., 302.

Chatham, William Pitt, Earl of, 171, 173.

Chrysostom, Saint-John, 165, 167.

Cicero, Marcus Tullius, 162.

Cockran, Bourke, 314.

Cooke, Edmund Vance, 52.

Coolidge, Susan, 42.

Corwin, Thomas, 278.

Crawford, F. Marion, 139.

Curtis, George William, 273, 275.

Delano, Myra S., 37.

Demosthenes, 159.

Dickens, Charles, 15, 103.

Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 325, 327, 389.

Dunne, Finley Peter, 337.

Edwards, Harry Stillwell, 340.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 148.

Everett, Edward, 312.

Field, Eugene, 76.

Flagg, Edmund, 304.

Garfield, James A., 260.

Gilbert, W. S., 493.

Gillilan, S. W., 137, 343.

Gladstone, William E., 222, 255.

Goldsmith, Oliver, 486.

Grady, Henry W., 249, 283, 284.

Graves, John Temple, 246.

Hamilton, Alexander, 196.

Harris, Joel Chandler, 335, 370.

Hay, John, 59, 124, 261, 362.

Hemans, Felicia, 151.

Henry, Daniel, 12, 130.

Henry, Patrick, 193, 292.

Hoar, George F., 309.

Holmes, Oliver W., 145.

Howe, Julia Ward, 225.

Hugo, Victor, 345, 400.

Hunt, Leigh, 57.

Ingalls, John J., 235.

Ingelow, Jean, 47, 101.

Ingersoll, Robert G., 279, 315.

Irving, Washington, 449.

Jenkins, Lucy Dean, 366.

Jerome, Jerome K., 354.

Jerrold, Blanchard, 468.

King, Ben F., 357, 379.

Kingsley, Charles, 102.

Kipling, Rudyard, 155, 368.

Kossuth, Louis, 250, 313.

Le Fanu, Joseph S., 113.

Lincoln, Abraham, 206, 241, 305, 307.

Lippard, George, 98.

Lodge, Henry Cabot, 226.

Longfellow, H. W., 8, 61.

Lover, Samuel, 364.

Lowell, James Russell, 152.

Lytton, Edward Bulwer, 25, 80.

Lytton, Robert Bulwer, 8, 423, 441.

McKinley, William, 251.

Mead, Edwin D., 294, 299, 318.

Mitchell, Agnes E., 391.

Moore, Thomas, 41.

Nadaud, Gustav, 13.

Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart, 330.

Phillips, Charles, 321.

Phillips, Wendell, 202, 239, 290, 296, 297.

Pierce, Etta W., 133.

Poe, Edgar Allan, 426.

Quincy, Josiah, 284.

Richards, Laura E., 414.

Riley, James Whitcomb, 323, 324, 359.

Robbins, R. D. C., 118.

Roosevelt, Theodore, 264, 280.

Savonarola, Girolamo, 228.

Saxe, John G., 384.

Scott, Walter, 123.

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 454.

Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 1.

Smith, F. Hopkinson, 375.

Stephens, Alexander H., 243.

Streeter, R. M., 387.

Sumner, Charles, 212, 248.

Taylor, Benjamin F., 373.

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 32, 67, 94, 146.

Thompson, Maurice, 138.

Togo, Admiral Heihaichiro, 242, 271.

Van Dyke, Henry, 72.

Verne, Jules, 408.

Weatherly, F. E., 328.

Webster, Daniel, 185, 188, 191, 199.

Whitman, Walt, 88.

Whittier, John G., 144, 149.

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 117.

Williams, Henry L., 437.



ANNOUNCEMENTS

BOOKS IN PUBLIC SPEAKING

By ROBERT I. FULTON, late of Ohio Wesleyan University, and THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD, University of Michigan

ESSENTIALS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING

(Second Edition)

This book shows the relation of intellect, feeling, and gesture to the elements of effective expression in oratorical and dramatic art. It treats the elements of expression in their simplest and most natural order, showing their application to the various sentiments and emotions, and provides exercises in the technic of voice and action. In illustration of the principles full selections as well as illustrative passages are given, together with the necessary explanation, xiv + 250 pages

BRITISH AND AMERICAN ELOQUENCE

Accounts of the lives and public careers of twenty-two noted British and American orators together with selections from their greatest speeches. The purpose is to point out by concrete example the abstract principles of public speaking which should guide the beginner. The book aims to select, adapt, and utilize in a single volume such helpful material as the student of public speaking can find elsewhere only in many separate volumes. 403 pages, illustrated

CHOICE READINGS FROM POPULAR AND STANDARD AUTHORS

The number, variety, and interest of the selections are noteworthy. They include prose and verse from a wide range of writers. Selections are grouped in fourteen divisions, according to the nature of the subject matter, xix + 729 pages

STANDARD SELECTIONS

Edited by ROBERT I. FULTON, THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD, and EDWIN P. TRUEBLOOD

The purpose of the book is to provide material in poetry and oratory that has never before appeared in books of this character, and to stimulate interest in the authors represented. Nearly two hundred selections of varying character are included. 510 pages

GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS

EXTEMPORE SPEAKING

By EDWIN DUBOIS SHURTER, Associate Professor of Public Speaking in the University of Texas

12mo, cloth, 178 pages

This manual provides an analysis of the art of extempore speaking, together with specific examples and exercises. It is distinctly modern in treatment, although drawing also from the rich fund of material in classical and modern literature.

MASTERPIECES OF MODERN ORATORY

By EDWIN DUBOIS SHURTER

12mo, cloth, 369 pages

These fifteen orations, edited with introductions and notes, are intended to furnish models for students of oratory, argumentation, and debate. The orators represented are Burke, Webster, Lincoln, Phillips, Curtis, Grady, Watterson, Daniel, Porter, Reed, Beveridge, Cockran, Schurz, Spalding, and Van Dyke.

VOCAL EXPRESSION IN SPEECH

By HENRY EVARTS GORDON, late Professor of Public Speaking in the University of Iowa

12mo, cloth, viii + 315 pages

A fresh and stimulating treatise on the fundamentals of public speaking from its cultural side, intended primarily for college classes but easily adaptable to high-school use. A thorough program of study is provided for speech melody, speech quality, speech rhythm, and speech dynamics, accompanied by several hundred illustrative selections.

GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS

BOOKS IN PUBLIC SPEAKING

THE MAKING OF ARGUMENTS

By JOHN HAYS GARDINER, late of Harvard University

A brief course in argumentation to meet the needs of the future average citizen rather than of the few who go on to law or political life. The examples used throughout the book and the exercises and questions suggested for argument are drawn from matters in which young people from eighteen to twenty-two have a natural, lively interest and which they argue about in real life. The aim of the book is to develop habits of analysis and effective presentation of facts which will serve the student in the practical concerns of later life. 290 pages

THE PRINCIPLES OF ARGUMENTATION

(Revised and Enlarged Edition)

By GEORGE P. BAKER, Harvard University, and H. B. HUNTINGTON, Brown University

This book holds an established place as one of the standard textbooks in the subject. Fundamental matters of analytical investigation, sifting of evidence, brief-drawing, and persuasive adaptation are clearly illustrated by numerous extracts and are made teachable by varied practical exercises. The book as a whole develops intellectual power and avoids that "predigested" argumentative material which enables a student easily to remember—and surely to forget—"how to argue." 677 pages

ORAL ENGLISH

By JOHN M. BREWER, Los Angeles State Normal School

This textbook treats oral English as a subject independent both of literature and of written composition. It furnishes the student brief directions, detailed exercises, and suggestive lists of topics of every-day interest which will provide material for doing with conscious direction of thought the things which unconsciously are done in the pursuit of every other study—arguing, explaining, and telling. It embodies the latest ideas in the teaching of this subject by substituting for imitation of masterpieces of eloquence a direct and effective way of speaking without unnecessary adornment, more fitted to be of practical use to men and women of to-day. 396 pages

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BOOKS IN PUBLIC SPEAKING

ELEMENTS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING

By HARRY GARFIELD HOUGHTON, University of Wisconsin xi + 333 pages

This textbook aims to teach the student,

First, how to organize his subject matter into clear and logical form for purposes of public utterance.

Second, how to cultivate his powers of expression so as to enable him to convey his ideas most effectively.

The book combines a definite amount of accurately expressed theory with a maximum of practice. Special emphasis has been laid upon clear and accurate thinking as the foundation for all expression, and each principle has been treated in its relation thereto.

The book, while intended primarily for college courses, will also prove valuable in classes in practical speaking in preparatory schools, as an aid in declamatory work (for this purpose Chapter II, The Conversational Mode, and Appendix II, Declamation, are particularly useful), and as a reference book.

THE BRIEF-MAKER'S NOTEBOOK

By WARREN C. SHAW, Dartmouth College vii + 240 pages, in Biflex Binder

"The Brief-Maker's Notebook" presents a logical system for analyzing debaters' propositions and supplies a blank form of brief based upon this system. It is devised to accomplish several aims:

1. To enable the debater to use a loose-leaf system of note-taking.

2. To help him to investigate details of his case without losing his grip upon the problem as a whole.

3. To enable him to write a brief directly from his notes without rearranging the material.

4. To crystallize his methods of analysis.

5. To apply the theory of argumentation in the preparation of a debate and to develop thoroughness and accuracy.

The material consists of sets of forty pages each. Each set is designed for the complete handling of one proposition.

GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS

THE END