(BLUE HOSE and YELLOW HOSE bow deeply.)

If their verdict be favorable, she shall ride through the streets of the city on a white palfrey, garlanded with flowers. She will be crowned, the populace will cheer her, and she will reign by our side, attending to the domestic affairs of the realm, while we give our time to weightier matters. This of course you all understand is a time of great anxiety for the Lady Violetta. She will appear worried—(To CHANCELLOR) The palfrey is in readiness, we suppose.

CHANCELLOR. It is, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Garlanded with flowers?

CHANCELLOR. With roses, Your Majesty.

KNAVE (bowing). The Lady Violetta prefers violets, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Let there be a few violets put in with the roses—er—We are ready for the ceremony to commence. We confess to a slight nervousness unbecoming to one of our station. The Lady Violetta, though trying at times, we have found—er—shall we say—er—satisfying?

KNAVE (bowing). Intoxicating, Your Majesty?

CHANCELLOR (shortly). His Majesty means nothing of the sort.

POMPDEBILE. No, of course not—er—The mule—Is that—did you—?

CHANCELLOR (in a grieved tone). This is hardly necessary. Have I ever neglected or forgotten any of your commands, Your Majesty?

POMPDEBILE. You have, often. However, don't be insulted. It takes a great deal of our time and it is most uninteresting.

CHANCELLOR (indignantly). I resign, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Your thirty-seventh resignation will be accepted to-morrow. Just now it is our wish to begin at once. The anxiety that no doubt gathered in the breast of each of the seven successive Pompdebiles before us seems to have concentrated in ours. Already the people are clamoring at the gates of the palace to know the decision. Begin. Let the Pages be summoned.

KNAVE (bowing). Beg pardon, Your Majesty; before summoning the Pages, should not the Lady Violetta be here?

POMPDEBILE. She should, and is, we presume, on the other side of that door—waiting breathlessly.

(THE KNAVE quietly opens the door and closes it.)

KNAVE (bowing). She is not, Your Majesty, on the other side of that door waiting breathlessly. In fact, to speak plainly, she is not on the other side of that door at all.

POMPDEBILE. Can that be true? Where are her ladies?

KNAVE. They are all there, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Summon one of them.

(THE KNAVE goes out, shutting the door. He returns, following URSULA, who, very much frightened, throws herself at the KING'S feet.)

POMPDEBILE. Where is your mistress?

URSULA. She has gone, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Gone! Where has she gone?

URSULA. I do not know, Your Majesty. She was with us a while ago, waiting there, as you commanded.

POMPDEBILE. Yes, and then—speak.

URSULA. Then she started out and forbade us to go with her.

POMPDEBILE. The thought of possible divorce from us was more than she could bear. Did she say anything before she left?

URSULA (trembling). Yes, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. What was it? She may have gone to self-destruction. What was it?

URSULA. She said—

POMPDEBILE. Speak, woman, speak.

URSULA. She said that Your Majesty—

POMPDEBILE. A farewell message! Go on.

URSULA (gasping). That Your Majesty was "pokey" and that she didn't intend to stay there any longer.

POMPDEBILE (roaring). Pokey!!

URSULA. Yes, Your Majesty, and she bade me call her when you came, but we can't find her, Your Majesty.

(The PASTRY COOKS whisper. URSULA is in tears.)

CHANCELLOR. This should not be countenanced, Your Majesty. The word "pokey" cannot be found in the dictionary. It is the most flagrant disrespect to use a word that is not in the dictionary in connection with a king.

POMPDEBILE. We are quite aware of that, Chancellor, and although we may appear calm on the surface, inwardly we are swelling, swelling, with rage and indignation.

KNAVE (looking out the window). I see the Lady Violetta in the garden. (He goes to the door and holds it open, bowing.) The Lady Violetta is at the door, Your Majesty.

(Enter the LADY VIOLETTA, her purple train over her arm. She has been running.)

VIOLETTA. Am I late? I just remembered and came as fast as I could. I bumped into a sentry and he fell down. I didn't. That's strange, isn't it? I suppose it's because he stands in one position so long he—Why, Pompy dear, what's the matter? Oh, oh! (Walking closer) Your feelings are hurt!

POMPDEBILE. Don't call us Pompy. It doesn't seem to matter to you whether you are divorced or not.

VIOLETTA (anxiously). Is that why your feelings are hurt?

POMPDEBILE. Our feelings are not hurt, not at all.

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they are, Pompdebile dear. I know, because they are connected with your eyebrows. When your feelings go down, up go your eyebrows, and when your feelings go up, they go down—always.

POMPDEBILE (severely). Where have you been?

VIOLETTA. I, just now?

POMPDEBILE. Just now, when you should have been outside that door waiting breathlessly.

VIOLETTA. I was in the garden. Really, Pompy, you couldn't expect me to stay all day in that ridiculous pantry; and as for being breathless, it's quite impossible to be it unless one has been jumping or something.

POMPDEBILE. What were you doing in the garden?

VIOLETTA (laughing). Oh, it was too funny. I must tell you. I found a goat there who had a beard just like the Chancellor's—really it was quite remarkable, the resemblance—in other ways too. I took him by the horns and I looked deep into his eyes, and I said, "Chancellor, if you try to influence Pompy—"

POMPDEBILE (shouting). Don't call us Pompy.

VIOLETTA. Excuse me, Pomp—

(Checking herself.)

KNAVE. And yet I think I remember hearing of an emperor, a great emperor, named Pompey.

POMPDEBILE. We know him not. Begin at once; the people are clamoring at the gates. Bring the ingredients.

(The PASTRY COOKS open the door, and, single file, six little boys march in, bearing large jars labeled butter, salt, flour, pepper, cinnamon, and milk. The COOKS place a table and a large bowl and a pan in front of the LADY VIOLETTA and give her a spoon. The six little boys stand three on each side.)

VIOLETTA. Oh, what darling little ingredients. May I have an apron, please?

(URSULA puts a silk apron, embroidered with red hearts, on the LADY VIOLETTA.)

BLUE HOSE. We were unable to find a little boy to carry the pepper, My Lady. They all would sneeze in such a disturbing way.

VIOLETTA. This is a perfectly controlled little boy. He hasn't sneezed once.

YELLOW HOSE. That, if it please Your Ladyship, is not a little boy.

VIOLETTA. Oh! How nice! Perhaps she will help me.

CHANCELLOR (severely). You are allowed no help, Lady Violetta.

VIOLETTA. Oh, Chancellor, how cruel of you. (She takes up the spoon, bowing.) Your Majesty, Lords and Ladies of the court, I propose to make (impressively) raspberry tarts.

BLUE HOSE. Heaven be kind to us!

YELLOW HOSE (suddenly agitated). Your Majesty, I implore your forgiveness. There is no raspberry jam in the palace.

POMPDEBILE What! Who is responsible for this carelessness?

BLUE HOSE. I gave the order to the grocer, but it didn't come. (Aside) I knew something like this would happen. I knew it.

VIOLETTA (untying her apron). Then, Pompdebile, I'm very sorry—we shall have to postpone it.

CHANCELLOR. If I may be allowed to suggest, Lady Violetta can prepare something else.

KNAVE. The law distinctly says that the Queen-elect has the privilege of choosing the dish which she prefers to prepare.

VIOLETTA. Dear Pompdebile, let's give it up. It's such a silly law! Why should a great splendid ruler like you follow it just because one of your ancestors, who wasn't half as nice as you are, or one bit wiser, said to do it? Dearest Pompdebile, please.

POMPDEBILE. We are inclined to think that there may be something in what the Lady Violetta says.

CHANCELLOR. I can no longer remain silent. It is due to that brilliant law of Pompdebile the First, justly called the Great, that all members of our male sex are well fed, and, as a natural consequence, happy.

KNAVE. The happiness of a set of moles who never knew the sunlight.

POMPDEBILE. If we made an effort, we could think of a new law—just as wise. It only requires effort.

CHANCELLOR. But the constitution. We can't touch the constitution.

POMPDEBILE (starting up). We shall destroy the constitution!

CHANCELLOR. The people are clamoring at the gates!

POMPDEBILE. Oh, I forgot them. No, it has been carried too far. We shall have to go on. Proceed.

VIOLETTA. Without the raspberry jam?

POMPDEBILE (to KNAVE). Go you, and procure some. I will give a hundred golden guineas for it.

(The little boy who holds the cinnamon pot comes forward.)

BOY. Please, Your Majesty, I have some.

POMPDEBILE. You! Where?

BOY. In my pocket. If someone would please hold my cinnamon jar—I could get it.

(UBSULA takes it. The boy struggles with his pocket and finally, triumphantly, pulls out a small jar.)

There!

VIOLETTA. How clever of you! Do you always do that?

BOY. What—eat raspberry jam?

VIOLETTA. No, supply the exact article needed from your pocket.

BOY. I eat it for my lunch. Please give me the hundred guineas.

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes—Chancellor—if I may trouble you.

(Holding out her hand.)

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, this is an outrage! Are you going to allow this?

POMPDEBILE (sadly). Yes, Chancellor. We have such an impulsive nature!

(The LADY VIOLETTA receives the money.)

VIOLETTA. Thank you. (She gives it to the boy.) Now we are ready to begin. Milk, please. (The boy who holds the milk jar comes forward and kneels.) I take some of this milk and beat it well.

YELLOW HOSE (in a whisper). Beat it—milk!

VIOLETTA. Then I put in two tablespoonfuls of salt, taking great care that it falls exactly in the middle of the bowl. (To the little boy) Thank you, dear. Now the flour, no, the pepper, and then—one pound of butter. I hope that it is good butter, or the whole thing will be quite spoiled.

BLUE HOSE. This is the most astonishing thing I have ever witnessed.

YELLOW HOSE. I don't understand it.

VIOLETTA (stirring). I find that the butter is not very good. It makes a great difference. I shall have to use more pepper to counteract it. That's better. (She pours in pepper. The boy with the pepper pot sneezes violently.) Oh, oh, dear! Lend him your handkerchief, Chancellor. Knave, will you? (YELLOW HOSE silences the boy's sneezes with the KNAVE'S handkerchief.) I think that they are going to turn out very well. Aren't you glad, Chancellor? You shall have one if you will be glad and smile nicely—a little brown tart with raspberry jam in the middle. Now for a dash of vinegar.

COOKS (in horror). Vinegar! Great Goslings! Vinegar!

VIOLETTA (stops stirring). Vinegar will make them crumbly. Do you like them crumbly, Pompdebile, darling? They are really for you, you know, since I am trying, by this example, to show all the wives how to please all the husbands.

POMPDEBILE. Remember that they are to go in the museum with the tests of the previous Queens.

VIOLETTA (thoughtfully). Oh, yes, I had forgotten that. Under the circumstances, I shall omit the vinegar. We don't want them too crumbly. They would fall about and catch the dust so frightfully. The museum-keeper would never forgive me in years to come. Now I dip them by the spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nice little boy's raspberry jam—I'm sorry I have to use it all, but you may lick the spoon—put them in the oven, slam the door. Now, my Lord Pompy, the fire will do the rest.

(She curtsies before the KING.)

POMPDEBILE. It gave us great pleasure to see the ease with which you performed your task. You must have been practising for weeks. This relieves, somewhat, the anxiety under which we have been suffering and makes us think that we would enjoy a game of checkers once more. How long a time will it take for your creation to be thoroughly done, so that it may be tested?

VIOLETTA (considering). About twenty minutes, Pompy.

POMPDEBILE (to HERALD). Inform the people. Come, we will retire. (To KNAVE) Let no one enter until the Lady Violetta commands.

(All exit, left, except the KNAVE. He stands in deep thought, his chin in hand—then exits slowly, right. The room is empty. The cuckoo clock strikes. Presently both right and left doors open stealthily. Enter LADY VIOLETTA at one door, the KNAVE at the other, backward, looking down the passage. They turn suddenly and see each other.)

VIOLETTA (tearfully). O Knave, I can't cook! Anything—anything at all, not even a baked potato.

KNAVE. So I rather concluded, My Lady, a few minutes ago.

VIOLETTA (pleadingly). Don't you think it might just happen that they turned out all right? (Whispering) Take them out of the oven. Let's look.

KNAVE. That's what I intended to do before you came in. It's possible that a miracle has occurred.

(He tries the door of the oven.)

VIOLETTA. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my handkerchief.

KNAVE. The gods forbid, My Lady.

(He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings out the pan, which he puts on the table softly.)

VIOLETTA (with a look of horror) How queer! They've melted or something. See, they are quite soft and runny. Do you think that they will be good for anything, Knave?

KNAVE. For paste, My Lady, perhaps.

VIOLETTA. Oh, dear. Isn't it dreadful!

KNAVE. It is.

VIOLETTA (beginning to cry). I don't want to be banished, especially on a mule—

KNAVE. Don't cry, My Lady. It's very—upsetting.

VIOLETTA. I would make a delightful queen. The fetes that I would give—under the starlight, with soft music stealing from the shadows, fetes all perfume and deep mystery, where the young—like you and me, Knave—would find the glowing flowers of youth ready to be gathered in all their dewy freshness!

KNAVE. Ah!

VIOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouldn't I make a pretty picture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with flowers, followed by the cheers of the populace—Long live Queen Violetta, long live Queen Violetta! Those abominable tarts!

KNAVE. I'm afraid that Her Ladyship is vain.

VIOLETTA. I am indeed. Isn't it fortunate?

KNAVE. Fortunate?

VIOLETTA. Well, I mean it would be fortunate if I were going to be queen. They get so much flattery. The queens who don't adore it as I do must be bored to death. Poor things! I'm never so happy as when I am being flattered. It makes me feel all warm and purry. That is another reason why I feel sure I was made to be a queen.

KNAVE (looking ruefully at the pan). You will never be queen, My Lady, unless we can think of something quickly, some plan—

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, dear Knave, please think of a plan at once. Banished people, I suppose, have to comb their own hair, put on their shoes, and button themselves up the back. I have never performed these estimable and worthy tasks, Knave. I don't know how; I don't even know how to scent my bath. I haven't the least idea what makes it smell deliciously of violets. I only know that it always does smell deliciously of violets because I wish it that way. I should be miserable; save me, Knave, please.

KNAVE. My mind is unhappily a blank, Your Majesty.

VIOLETTA. It's very unjust. Indeed, it's unjust! No other queen in the world has to understand cooking; even the Queen of Spades doesn't. Why should the Queen of Hearts, of all people!

KNAVE. Perhaps it is because—I have heard a proverb: "The way to the heart is through the—"

VIOLETTA (angrily, stamping her foot). Don't repeat that hateful proverb! Nothing can make me more angry. I feel like crying when I hear it, too. Now see, I'm crying. You made me.

KNAVE. Why does that proverb make you cry, My Lady?

VIOLETTA. Oh, because it is such a stupid proverb and so silly, because it's true in most cases, and because—I don't know why.

KNAVE. We are a set of moles here. One might also say that we are a set of mules. How can moles or mules either be expected to understand the point of view of a Bird of Paradise when she—

VIOLETTA. Bird of Paradise! Do you mean me?

KNAVE (bowing). I do, My Lady, figuratively speaking.

VIOLETTA (drying her eyes). How very pretty of you! Do you know, I think that you would make a splendid chancellor.

KNAVE. Her Ladyship is vain, as I remarked before.

VIOLETTA (coldly). As I remarked before, how fortunate. Have you anything to suggest—a plan?

KNAVE. If only there were time my wife could teach you. Her figure is squat, round, her nose is clumsy, and her eyes stumble over it; but her cooking, ah—(He blows a kiss) it is a thing to dream about. She cooks as naturally as the angels sing. The delicate flavors of her concoctions float over the palate like the perfumes of a thousand flowers. True, her temper, it is anything but sweet—However, I am conceded by many to be the most happily married man in the kingdom.

VIOLETTA (sadly). Yes. That's all they care about here. One may be, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every other way, but if one can't cook nobody loves one at all.

KNAVE. Beasts! My higher nature cries out at them for holding such views. Fools! Swine! But my lower nature whispers that perhaps after all they are not far from right, and as my lower nature is the only one that ever gets any encouragement—

VIOLETTA. Then you think that there is nothing to be done—I shall have to be banished?

KNAVE. I'm afraid—Wait, I have an idea! (Excitedly) Dulcinea, my wife—her name is Dulcinea—made known to me this morning, very forcibly—Yes, I remember, I'm sure—Yes, she was going to bake this very morning some raspberry tarts—a dish in which she particularly excels—If I could only procure some of them and bring them here!

VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, dearest, sweetest Knave, could you, I mean, would you? Is there time? The court will return.

(They tiptoe to the door and listen stealthily.)

KNAVE. I shall run as fast as I can. Don't let anyone come in until I get back, if you can help it.

(He jumps on the table, ready to go out the window.)

VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, how clever of you to think of it. It is the custom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen at her coronation. I shall ask that you be made Chancellor.

KNAVE (turning back). Oh, please don't, My Lady, I implore you.

VIOLETTA. Why not?

KNAVE. It would give me social position, My Lady, and that I would rather die than possess. Oh, how we argue about that, my wife and I! Dulcinea wishes to climb, and the higher she climbs, the less she cooks. Should you have me made Chancellor, she would never wield a spoon again.

VIOLETTA (pursing her lips). But it doesn't seem fair, exactly. Think of how much I shall be indebted to her. If she enjoys social position, I might as well give her some. We have lots and lots of it lying around.

KNAVE. She wouldn't, My Lady, she wouldn't enjoy it. Dulcinea is a true genius, you understand, and the happiness of a genius lies solely in using his gift. If she didn't cook she would be miserable, although she might not be aware of it, I'm perfectly sure.

VIOLETTA. Then I shall take all social position away from you. You shall rank below the scullery maids. Do you like that better? Hurry, please.

KNAVE. Thank you, My Lady; it will suit me perfectly.

(He goes out with the tarts. VIOLETTA listens anxiously for a minute; then she takes her skirt between the tips of her fingers and practises in pantomime her anticipated ride on the palfrey. She bows, smiles, kisses her hand, until suddenly she remembers the mule standing outside the gates of the palace. That thought saddens her, so she curls up in POMPDEBILE'S throne and cries softly, wiping away her tears with a lace handkerchief. There is a knock. She flies to the door and holds it shut.)

VIOLETTA (breathlessly). Who is there?

CHANCELLOR. It is I, Lady Violetta. The King wishes to return.

VIOLETTA (alarmed). Return! Does he? But the tarts are not done. They are not done at all!

CHANCELLOR. You said they would be ready in twenty minutes. His Majesty is impatient.

VIOLETTA. Did you play a game of checkers with him, Chancellor?

CHANCELLOR. Yes.

VIOLETTA. And did you beat him?

CHANCELLOR (shortly). I did not.

VIOLETTA (laughing). How sweet of you! Would you mind doing it again just for me? Or would it be too great a strain on you to keep from beating him twice in succession?

CHANCELLOR. I shall tell the King that you refuse admission.

(VIOLETTA runs to the window to see if the KNAVE is in sight. The CHANCELLOR returns and knocks.)

CHANCELLOR. The King wishes to come in.

VIOLETTA. But the checkers!

CHANCELLOR. The Knights of the Checker Board have taken them away.

VIOLETTA. But the tarts aren't done, really.

CHANCELLOR. You said twenty minutes.

VIOLETTA. No, I didn't—at least, I said twenty minutes for them to get good and warm and another twenty minutes for them to become brown. That makes forty—don't you remember?

CHANCELLOR. I shall carry your message to His Majesty.

(VIOLETTA again runs to the window and peers anxiously up the road.)

CHANCELLOR (knocking loudly). The King commands you to open the door.

VIOLETTA. Commands! Tell him—Is he there—with you?

CHANCELLOR. His Majesty is at the door.

VIOLETTA. Pompy, I think you are rude, very rude indeed. I don't see how you can be so rude—to command me, your own Violetta who loves you so. (She again looks in vain for the KNAVE.) Oh, dear! (Wringing her hands) Where can he be!

POMPDEBILE (outside). This is nonsense. Don't you see how worried we are? It is a compliment to you—

VIOLETTA. Well, come in; I don't care—only I'm sure they are not finished.

(She opens the door for the KING, the CHANCELLOR, and the two PASTRY COOKS. The KING walks to his throne. He finds LADY VIOLETTA'S lace handkerchief on it.)

POMPDEBILE (holding up handkerchief). What is this?

VIOLETTA. Oh, that's my handkerchief.

POMPDEBILE. It is very damp. Can it be that you are anxious, that you are afraid?

VIOLETTA. How silly, Pompy. I washed my hands, as one always does after cooking; (to the PASTRY COOKS) doesn't one? But there was no towel, so I used my handkerchief instead of my petticoat, which is made of chiffon and is very perishable.

CHANCELLOR. Is the Lady Violetta ready to produce her work?

VIOLETTA. I don't understand what you mean by work, Chancellor. Oh, the tarts! (Nervously) They were quite simple—quite simple to make—no work at all—A little imagination is all one needs for such things, just imagination. You agree with me, don't you, Pompy, that imagination will work wonders—will do almost anything, in fact? I remember—

POMPDEBILE. The Pastry Cooks will remove the tarts from the oven.

VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy! They are not finished or cooked, or whatever one calls it. They are not. The last five minutes is of the greatest importance. Please don't let them touch them! Please—

POMPDEBILE. There, there, my dear Violetta, calm yourself. If you wish, they will put them back again. There can be no harm in looking at them. Come, I will hold your hand.

VIOLETTA. That will help a great deal, Pompy, your holding my hand.

(She scrambles up on the throne beside the KING.)

CHANCELLOR (in horror). On the throne, Your Majesty?

POMPDEBILE. Of course not, Chancellor. We regret that you are not yet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear. In a little while—

VIOLETTA (coming down). Oh, I see. May I sit here, Chancellor, in this seemingly humble position at his feet? Of course, I can't really be humble when he is holding my hand and enjoying it so much.

POMPDEBILE. Violetta! (To the PASTRY COOKS) Sample the tarts. This suspense is unbearable!

(The KING'S voice is husky with excitement. The two PASTRY COOKS, after bowing with great ceremony to the KING, to each other, to the CHANCELLOR—for this is the most important moment of their lives by far—walk to the oven door and open it, impressively. They fall back in astonishment so great that they lose their balance, but they quickly scramble to their feet again).

YELLOW HOSE. Your Majesty, there are no tarts there!

BLUE HOSE. Your Majesty, the tarts have gone!

VIOLETTA (clasping her hands). Gone! Oh, where could they have gone?

POMPDEBILB (coming down from throne). That is impossible.

PASTRY COOKS (greatly excited). You see, you see, the oven is empty as a drum.

POMPDEBILE (to VIOLETTA). Did you go out of this room?

VIOLETTA (wailing). Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to powder my nose before the mirror in the pantry. (To PASTRY COOKS) When one cooks one becomes so disheveled, doesn't one? But if I had thought for one little minute—

POMPDEBILE (interrupting). The tarts have been stolen!

VIOLETTA (with a shriek, throwing herself on a chair). Stolen! Oh, I shall faint; help me. Oh, oh, to think that any one would take my delicious little, my dear little tarts. My salts. Oh! Oh!

(PASTRY COOKS run to the door and call.)

YELLOW HOSE. Salts! Bring the Lady Violetta's salts.

BLUE HOSE. The Lady Violetta has fainted!

(URSULA enters hurriedly bearing a smelling-bottle.)

URSULA. Here, here—What has happened? Oh, My Lady, my sweet mistress!

POMPDEBILE. Some wretch has stolen the tarts.

(LADY VIOLETTA moans.)

URSULA. Bring some water. I will take off her headdress and bathe her forehead.

VIOLETTA (sitting up). I feel better now. Where am I? What is the matter? I remember. Oh, my poor tarts!

(She buries her face in her hands.)

CHANCELLOR (suspiciously). Your Majesty, this is very strange.

URSULA (excitedly). I know, Your Majesty. It was the Knave. One of the Queen's women, who was walking in the garden, saw the Knave jump out of this window with a tray in his hand. It was the Knave.

VIOLETTA. Oh, I don't think it was he. I don't, really.

POMPDEBILE. The scoundrel. Of course it was he. We shall banish him for this or have him beheaded.

CHANCELLOR. It should have been done long ago, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. You are right.

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty will never listen to me.

POMPDEBILE. We do listen to you. Be quiet.

VIOLETTA. What are you going to do, Pompy, dear?

POMPDEBILE. Herald, issue a proclamation at once. Let it be known all over the Kingdom that I desire that the Knave be brought here dead or alive. Send the royal detectives and policemen in every direction.

CHANCELLOR. Excellent; just what I should have advised had Your Majesty listened to me.

POMPDEBILE (in a rage). Be quiet. (Exit HERALD.) I never have a brilliant thought but you claim it. It is insufferable!

(The HERALDS can be heard in the distance.)

CHANCELLOR. I resign.

POMPDEBILE. Good. We accept your thirty-eighth resignation at once.

CHANCELLOR. You did me the honor to appoint me as your Chancellor, Your Majesty, yet never, never do you give me an opportunity to chancel. That is my only grievance. You must admit, Your Majesty, that as your advisers advise you, as your dressers dress you, as your hunters hunt, as your bakers bake, your Chancellor should be allowed to chancel. However, I will be just—as I have been with you so long; before I leave you, I will give you a month's notice.

POMPDEBILE. That isn't necessary.

CHANCELLOR (referring to the constitution hanging at his belt). It's in the constitution.

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet.

VIOLETTA. Well, I think as things have turned out so—so unfortunately, I shall change my gown. (To URSULA) Put out my cloth of silver with the moonstones. It is always a relief to change one's gown. May I have my handkerchief, Pompy? Rather a pretty one, isn't it, Pompy? Of course you don't object to my calling you Pompy now. When I'm in trouble it's a comfort, like holding your hand.

POMPDEBILE (magnanimously). You may hold our hand too, Violetta.

VIOLETTA (fervently). Oh, how good you are, how sympathetic! But you see it's impossible just now, as I have to change my gown—unless you will come with me while I change.

CHANCELLOR (in a voice charged with inexpressible horror). Your Majesty!

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet! You have been discharged! (He starts to descend, when a HERALD bursts through the door in a state of great excitement. He kneels before POMPDEBILE.)

HERALD. We have found him; we have found him, Your Majesty. In fact,I found him all by myself! He was sitting under the shrubbery eating a tart. I stumbled over one of his legs and fell. "How easy it is to send man and all his pride into the dust," he said, and then—I saw him!

POMPDEBILE. Eating a tart! Eating a tart, did you say? The scoundrel! Bring him here immediately.

(The HERALD rushes out and returns with the KNAVE, followed by the six little PAGES. The KNAVE carries a tray of tarts in his hand.)

POMPDEBILE (almost speechless with rage). How dare you—you—you—

KNAVE (bowing). Knave, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. You Knave, you shall be punished for this.

CHANCELLOR. Behead him, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Yes, behead him at once.

VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy, not that! It is not severe enough.

POMPDEBILE. Not severe enough, to cut off a man's head! Really, Violetta—

VIOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been beheaded, one's consciousness that one has been beheaded comes off too. It is inevitable. And then, what does it matter, when one doesn't know? Let us think of something really cruel—really fiendish. I have it—deprive him of social position for the rest of his life—force him to remain a mere knave, forever.

POMPDEBILE. You are right.

KNAVE. Terrible as this punishment is, I admit that I deserve it, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. What prompted you to commit this dastardly crime?

KNAVE. All my life I have had a craving for tarts of any kind. There is something in my nature that demands tarts—something in my constitution that cries out for them—and I obey my constitution as rigidly as does the Chancellor seek to obey his. I was in the garden reading, as is my habit, when a delicate odor floated to my nostrils, a persuasive odor, a seductive, light brown, flaky odor, an odor so enticing, so suggestive of tarts fit for the gods—- that I could stand it no longer. It was stronger than I. With one gesture I threw reputation, my chances for future happiness, to the winds, and leaped through the window. The odor led me to the oven; I seized a tart, and, eating it, experienced the one perfect moment of my existence. After having eaten that one tart, my craving for other tarts has disappeared. I shall live with the memory of that first tart before me forever, or die content, having tasted true perfection.

POMPDEBILE. M-m-m, how extraordinary! Let him be beaten fifteen strokes on the back. Now, Pastry Cooks to the Royal Household, we await your decision!

(The COOKS bow as before; then each selects a tart from the tray on the table, lifts it high, then puts it in his mouth. An expression of absolute ecstasy and beatitude comes over their faces. They clasp hands, then fall on each other's necks, weeping.)

POMPDEBILE (impatiently). What on earth is the matter?

YELLOW HOSE. Excuse our emotion. It is because we have at last encountered a true genius, a great master, or rather mistress, of our art.

(They bow to VIOLETTA.)

POMPDEBILE. They are good, then?

BLUE HOSE (his eyes to heaven). Good! They are angelic!

POMPDEBILE. Give one of the tarts to us. We would sample it.

(The PASTRY COOKS hand the tray to the KING, who selects a tart and eats it.)

POMPDEBILE (to VIOLETTA). My dear, they are marvels! marvels! (He comes down from the throne and leads VIOLETTA up to the dais.) Your throne, my dear.

VIOLETTA (sitting down, with a sigh). I'm glad it's such a comfortable one.

POMPDEBILE. Knave, we forgive your offense. The temptation was very great. There are things that mere human nature cannot be expected to resist. Another tart, Cooks, and yet another!

CHANCELLOR. But, Your Majesty, don't eat them all. They must go to the museum with the dishes of the previous Queens of Hearts.

YELLOW HOSE. A museum—those tarts! As well lock a rose in a money-box!

CHANCELLOR. But the constitution commands it. How else can we commemorate, for future generations, this event?

KNAVE. An Your Majesty, please, I will commemorate it in a rhyme.

POMPDEBILE. How can a mere rhyme serve to keep this affair in the minds of the people?

KNAVE. It is the only way to keep it in the minds of the people. No event is truly deathless unless its monument be built in rhyme. Consider that fall which, though insignificant in itself, became the most famous of all history, because someone happened to put it into rhyme. The crash of it sounded through centuries and will vibrate for generations to come.

VIOLETTA. You mean the fall of the Holy Roman Empire?

KNAVE. No, Madam, I refer to the fall of Humpty Dumpty.

POMPDEBILE. Well, make your rhyme. In the meantime let us celebrate. You may all have one tart. (The PASTRY COOKS pass the tarts. To VIOLETTA) Are you willing, dear, to ride the white palfrey garlanded with flowers through the streets of the city?

VIOLETTA. Willing! I have been practising for days!

POMPDEBILE. The people, I suppose, are still clamoring at the gates.

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they must clamor. I want them to. Herald, tell them that to every man I shall toss a flower, to every woman a shining gold piece, but to the babies I shall throw only kisses, thousands of them, like little winged birds. Kisses and gold and roses! They will surely love me then!

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, I protest. Of what possible use to the people—?

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet. The Queen may scatter what she pleases.

KNAVE. My rhyme is ready, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Repeat it.

KNAVE.

The Queen of Hearts She made some tarts All on a summer's day. The Knave of Hearts He stole those tarts And took them quite away.

The King of Hearts Called for those tarts And beat the Knave full sore. The Knave of Hearts Brought back the tarts And vowed he'd sin no more.

VIOLETTA (earnestly). My dear Knave, how wonderful of you! You shall be Poet Laureate. A Poet Laureate has no social position, has he?

KNAVE. It depends, Your Majesty, upon whether or not he chooses to be more laureate than poet.

VIOLETTA (rising, her eyes closed in ecstasy). Your Majesty! Those words go to my head—like wine!

KNAVE. Long live Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta!

(The trumpets sound.)

HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta!

VIOLETTA (excitedly). Vee-oletta, please!

HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Vee-oletta—

(The KING and QUEEN show themselves at the door—and the people can be heard clamoring outside.)

[CURTAIN]



FAME AND THE POET[1]

Lord Dunsany

[Footnote 1: Reprinted from the Atlantic Monthly for June, 1919, by special permission of Lord Dunsany and the editors of the Atlantic Monthly.]

SCENE: The Poet's rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screen in a corner.

TIME: February 30th.

CHARACTERS

HARRY DE REVES.—A Poet.

(This name, though of course of French origin, has become anglicized and is pronounced DE REEVES.)

DICK PRATTLE.—A Lieutenant-Major of the Royal Horse Marines.

FAME.

(The POET is sitting at a table, writing. Enter DICK PRATTLE.)

PRATTLE. Hullo, Harry.

DE REVES. Hullo, Dick. Good Lord, where are you from?

PRATTLE (casually). The ends of the Earth.

DE REVES. Well, I'm damned!

PRATTLE. Thought I'd drop in and see how you were getting on.

DE REVES. Well, that's splendid. What are you doing in London?

PRATTLE. Well, I wanted to see if I could get one or two decent ties to wear,—you can get nothing out there,—then I thought I'd have a look and see how London was getting on.

DE REVES. Splendid! How's everybody?

PRATTLE. All going strong.

DE REVES. That's good.

PRATTLE. (seeing paper and ink). But what are you doing?

DE REVES. Writing.

PRATTLE. Writing? I didn't know you wrote.

DE REVES. Yes, I've taken to it rather.

PRATTLE. I say—writing's no good. What do you write?

DE REVES. Oh, poetry.

PRATTLE. Poetry? Good Lord!

DE REVES. Yes, that sort of thing, you know.

PRATTLE. Good Lord! Do you make any money by it?

DE REVES. No. Hardly any.

PRATTLE. I say—why don't you chuck it?

DE REVES. Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like my stuff, rather. That's why I go on.

PRATTLE. I'd chuck it if there's no money in it.

DE REVES. Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it? You'd hardly approve of poetry if there was money in it.

PRATTLE. Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry as I can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, only—

DE REVES. Only what?

PRATTLE. Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense in betting, somehow.

DE REVES. Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what an earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus—

PRATTLE. What's Pegasus?

DE REVES. Oh, the winged horse of poets.

PRATTLE. I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you?

DE REVES. In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. They all represent some large truth to turn us. An emblem like Pegasus is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner would be to you.

PRATTLE. I say. (Give me a cigarette. Thanks.) What? Then you'd believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind of birds?

DE REVES. Yes. Yes. In all of them.

PRATTLE. Good Lord!

DE REVES. You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you?

PRATTLE. Yes, of course; but what has—

DE REVES. Four million people or so made him Lord Mayor, didn't they? And he represents to them the wealth and dignity and tradition of—

PRATTLE. Yes; but, I say, what has all this—

DE REVES. Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him Lord Mayor, and so he is one....

PRATTLE. Well, of course he is.

DE REVES. In the same way Pan has been made what he is by millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions.

PRATTLE. (rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughing and looking at the POET in a kind of assumed wonder). I say.... I say.... You old heathen ... but Good Lord....

(He bumps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a little.)

DE REVES. Look out! Look out!

PRATTLE. What? What's the matter?

DE REVES. The screen!

PRATTLE. Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right.

(He is about to go round behind it.)

DE REVES. No, don't go round there.

PRATTLE. What? Why not?

DE REVES. Oh, you wouldn't understand.

PRATTLE. Wouldn't understand? Why, what have you got?

DE REVES. Oh, one of those things.... You wouldn't understand.

PRATTLE. Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look. (The POET walks toward PRATTLE and the screen. He protests no further. PRATTLE looks round the corner of the screen.) An altar.

DE REVES. (removing the screen altogether). That is all. What do you make of it?

(An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is revealed. Papers litter the floor all about it.)

PRATTLE. I say—you always were an untidy devil.

DE REVES. Well, what do you make of it?

PRATTLE. It reminds me of your room at Eton.

DE REVES. My room at Eton?

PRATTLE. Yes, you always had papers all over your floor.

DE REVES. Oh, yes—

PRATTLE. And what are these?

DE REVES. All these are poems; and this is my altar to Fame.

PRATTLE. To Fame?

DE REVES. The same that Homer knew.

PRATTLE. Good Lord!

DE REVES. Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young. She came late at the best of times, now scarcely ever.

PRATTLE. But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you think there really is such a person?

DE REVES. I offer all my songs to her.

PRATTLE. But you don't mean you think you could actually see Fame?

DE REVES. We poets personify abstract things, and not poets only but sculptors and painters too. All the great things of the world are those abstract things.

PRATTLE. But what I mean is they're not really there, like you or me.

DE REVES. To us these things are more real than men, they outlive generations, they watch the passing of Kingdoms: we go by them like dust; they are still here, unmoved, unsmiling.

PRATTLE. But, but, you can't think that you could see Fame, you don't expect to see it.

DE REVES. Not to me. Never to me. She of the golden trumpet and Greek dress will never appear to me.... We all have our dreams.

PRATTLE. I say—what have you been doing all day?

DE REVES. I? Oh, only writing a sonnet.

PRATTLE. Is it a long one?

DE REVES. Not very.

PRATTLE. About how long is it?

DE REVES. About fourteen lines.

PRATTLE (impressively). I tell you what it is.

DE REVES. Yes?

PRATTLE. I tell you what. You've been overworking yourself. I once got like that on board the Sandhurst, working for the passing-out exam. I got so bad that I could have seen anything.

DE REVES. Seen anything?

PRATTLE. Lord, yes: horned pigs, snakes with wings, anything, one of your winged horses even. They gave me some stuff called bromide for it. You take a rest.

DE REVES. But my dear fellow, you don't understand at all. I merely said that abstract things are to a poet as near and real and visible as one of your bookmakers or barmaids.

PRATTLE. I know. You take a rest.

DE REVES. Well, perhaps I will. I'd come with you to that musical comedy you're going to see, only I'm a bit tired after writing this; it's a tedious job. I'll come another night.

PRATTLE. How do you know I'm going to see a musical comedy?

DE REVES. Well, where would you go? Hamlet's on at the Lord Chamberlain's. You're not going there.

PBATTLE. Do I look like it?

DE REVES. No.

PRATTLE. Well, you're quite right. I'm going to see "The Girl from Bedlam." So long. I must push off now. It's getting late. You take a rest. Don't add another line to that sonnet; fourteen's quite enough. You take a rest. Don't have any dinner to-night, just rest. I was like that once myself. So long.

DE REVES. So long.

(Exit PRATTLE. DE REVES returns to his table and sits down.)

Good old Dick. He's the same as ever. Lord, how time passes.

(He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alterations.)

Well, that's finished. I can't do any more to it.

(He rises and goes to the screen; he draws back part of it and goes up to the altar. He is about to place his sonnet reverently at the foot of the altar amongst his other verses.)

No, I will not put it there. This one is worthy of the altar.

(He places the sonnet upon the altar itself.)

If that sonnet does not give me Fame, nothing that I have done before will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do.

(He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the table. Twilight is coming on. He sits with his elbow on the table, his head on his hand, or however the actor pleases.)

Well, well. Fancy seeing Dick again. Well, Dick enjoys his life, so he's no fool. What was that he said? "There's no money in poetry. You'd better chuck it." Ten years' work and what have I to show for it? The admiration of men who care for poetry, and how many of them are there? There's a bigger demand for smoked glasses to look at eclipses of the sun. Why should Fame come to me? Haven't I given up my days for her? That is enough to keep her away. I am a poet; that is enough reason for her to slight me. Proud and aloof and cold as marble, what does Fame care for us? Yes, Dick is right. It's a poor game chasing illusions, hunting the intangible, pursuing dreams. Dreams? Why, we are ourselves dreams. (He leans back in his chair.)

We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

(He is silent for a while. Suddenly he lifts his head)

My room at Eton, Dick said. An untidy mess.

(As he lifts his head and says these words, twilight gives place to broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author of the play may have been mistaken, and the whole thing may have been no more than a poet's dream.)

So it was, and it's an untidy mess there (looking at screen) too. Dick's right. I'll tidy it up. I'll burn the whole damned heap. (He advances impetuously toward the screen) Every damned poem that I was ever fool enough to waste my time on.

(He pushes back the screen. FAME in a Greek dress with a long golden trumpet in her hand is seen standing motionless on the altar like a marble goddess.)

So ... you have come!

(For a while he stands thunderstruck. Then he approaches the altar.)

Divine fair lady, you have come.

(He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from the altar and into the centre of the stage. At whatever moment the actor finds it most convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnet that he had placed on the altar. He now offers it to FAME.)

This is my sonnet. Is it well done?

(FAME takes it, reads it in silence, while the POET watches her rapturously.)

FAME. You're a bit of all right.

DE REVES. What?

FAME. Some poet.

DE REVES. I—I—scarcely ... understand.

FAME. You're IT.

DE REVES. But ... it is not possible ... are you she that knew Homer?

FAME. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard.

DE REVES. O Heavens!

(FAME walks beautifully to the window. She opens it and puts her head out.)

FAME (in a voice with which a woman in an upper story would cry for help if the house was well alight). Hi! Hi! Boys! Hi! Say, folks! Hi!

(The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard. FAME blows her trumpet.)

FAME. Hi, he's a poet. (Quickly, over her shoulder.) What's your name?

DE REVES. De Reves.

FAME. His name's de Reves.

DE REVES. Harry de Reves.

FAME. His pals call him Harry.

THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

FAME. Say, what's your favourite color?

DE REVES. I ... I ... I don't quite understand.

FAME. Well, which do you like best, green or blue?

DE REVES. Oh—er—blue. (She blows her trumpet out of the window.) No—er—I think green.

FAME. Green is his favourite colour.

THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

FAME. 'Ere, tell us something. They want to know all about yer.

DE REVES; Wouldn't you perhaps ... would they care to hear my sonnet, if you would—er....

FAME (picking up quill). Here, what's this?

DE REVES. Oh, that's my pen.

FAME (after another blast on her trumpet). He writes with a quill. (Cheers from THE CROWD.)

FAME (going to a cupboard). Here, what have you got in here?

DE REVES. Oh ... er ... those are my breakfast things.

FAME (finding a dirty plate). What have yer had on this one?

DE REVES (mournfully). Oh, eggs and bacon.

FAME (at the window). He has eggs and bacon for breakfast.

THE CROWD. Hip hip hip hooray! Hip hip hip hooray! Hip hip hip hooray!

FAME. Hi, and what's this?

DE REVES (miserably). Oh, a golf stick.

FAME. He's a man's man! He's a virile man! He's a manly man!

(Wild cheers from THE CROWD, this time only from women's voices.)

DE REVES. Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This is terrible.

(FAME gives another peal on her horn. She is about to speak.)

DE REVES (solemnly and mournfully). One moment, one moment....

FAME. Well, out with it.

DE REVES. For ten years, divine lady, I have worshipped you, offering all my songs ... I find ... I find I am not worthy....

FAME. Oh, you're all right.

DE REVES. No, no, I am not worthy. It cannot be. It cannot possibly be. Others deserve you more. I must say it! I cannot possibly love you. Others are worthy. You will find others. But I, no, no, no. It cannot be. It cannot be. Oh, pardon me, but it must not.

(Meanwhile FAME has been lighting one of his cigarettes. She sits in a comfortable chair, leans right back, and puts her feet right up on the table amongst the poet's papers.)

Oh, I fear I offend you. But—it cannot be.

FAME. Oh, that's all right, old bird; no offence. I ain't going to leave you.

DE REVES. But—but—but—I do not understand.

FAME. I've come to stay, I have.

(She blows a puff of smoke through her trumpet.)

[CURTAIN]



THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE[1]

Beulah Marie Dix

SCENE: In the cheerless hour before the dawn of a wet spring morning five gentlemen-troopers of the broken Royalist army, fagged and outworn with three long days of siege, are holding, with what strength and courage are left them, the Gatehouse of the Bridge of Cashala, which is the key to the road that leads into Connaught. The upper chamber of the Gatehouse, in which they make their stand, is a narrow, dim-lit apartment, built of stone. At one side is a small fireplace, and beside it a narrow, barred door, which leads to the stairhead. At the end of the room, gained by a single raised step, are three slit-like windows, breast-high, designed, as now used, for defense in time of war. The room is meagrely furnished, with a table on which are powder-flask, touch-box, etc., for charging guns, a stool or two, and an open keg of powder. The whole look of the place, bare and martial, but depressed, bespeaks a losing fight. On the hearth the ashes of a fire are white, and on the chimneypiece a brace of candles are guttering out.

The five men who hold the Gatehouse wear much soiled and torn military dress. They are pale, powder-begrimed, sunken-eyed, with every mark of weariness of body and soul. Their leader, JOHN TALBOT, is standing at one of the shot-windows, with piece presented, looking forth. He is in his mid-twenties, of Norman-Irish blood, and distinctly of a finer, more nervous type than his companions. He has been wounded, and bears his left hand wrapped in a bloody rag. DICK FENTON, a typical, careless young English swashbuckler, sits by the table, charging a musket, and singing beneath his breath as he does so. He, too, has been wounded, and bears a bandage about his knee. Upon the floor (at right) KIT NEWCOMBE lies in the sleep of utter exhaustion. He is an English lad, in his teens, a mere tired, haggard child, with his head rudely bandaged. On a stool by the hearth sits MYLES BUTLER, a man of JOHN TALBOT'S own years, but a slower, heavier, almost sullen type. Beside him kneels PHELIMY DRISCOLL, a nervous, dark Irish lad, of one and twenty. He is resting his injured arm across BUTLER'S knee, and BUTLER is roughly bandaging the hurt.

For a moment there is a weary, heavy silence, in which the words of the song which FENTON sings are audible. It is the doleful old strain of "the hanging-tune."

[Footnote 1: Included by permission of the author and of Messrs. Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume Allison's Lad and Other Martial Interludes. (1910).]

FENTON (singing).

Fortune, my foe, why dost thou frown on me, And will thy favors never greater be? Wilt thou, I say, forever breed me pain, And wilt thou not restore my joys again?

BUTLER (shifting DRISCOLL'S arm, none too tenderly). More to the light!

DRISCOLL (catching breath with pain). Ah! Softly, Myles!

JOHN TALBOT (leaning forward tensely). Ah!

FENTON. Jack! Jack Talbot! What is it that you see?

JOHN TALBOT (with the anger of a man whose nerves are strained almost beyond endurance). What should I see but Cromwell's watch-fires along the boreen? What else should I see, and the night as black as the mouth of hell? What else should I see, and a pest choke your throat with your fool's questions, Dick Fenton!

(Resumes his watch.)

FENTON (as who should say: "I thank you!"). God 'a' mercy—Captain Talbot!

(Resumes his singing.)

DRISCOLL. God's love! I bade ye have a care, Myles Butler.

BUTLEK (tying the last bandage). It's a stout heart you have in you, Phelimy Driscoll—you to be crying out for a scratch. It's better you would have been, you and the like of you, to be stopping at home with your mother.

(Rises and takes up his musket from the corner by the fireplace.)

DRISCOLL. You—you dare—you call me—coward? Ye black liar! I'll lesson ye! I'll—

(Tries to rise, but in the effort sways weakly forward and rests with his head upon the stool which BUTLER has quitted.)

BUTLER. A'Heaven's name, ha' done with that hanging tune! Ha' done, Dick Fenton! We're not yet at the gallows' foot.

(Joins JOHN TALBOT at the shot-windows.)

FENTON. Nay, Myles, for us 'tis like to be nothing half so merry as the gallows.

BUTLER. Hold your fool's tongue!

NEWCOMBE (crying out in his sleep). Oh! Oh!

JOHN TALBOT. What was that?

FENTON. 'Twas naught but young Newcombe that cried out in the clutch of a nightmare.

BUTLER. 'Tis time Kit Newcombe rose and stood his watch.

JOHN TALBOT (leaving the window). Nay, 'tis only a boy. Let him sleep while he can! Let him sleep!

BUTLER. Turn and turn at the watch, 'tis but fair. Stir yonder sluggard awake, Dick!

FENTON. Aye. (Starts to rise.)

JOHN TALBOT. Who gives commands here? Sit you down, Fenton! To your place, Myles Butler!

BUTLER. Captain of the Gate! D'ye mark the high tone of him, Dick?

JOHN TALBOT (tying a fresh bandage about his hand). You're out there, Myles. There is but one Captain of the Gate of Connaught—he who set me here—my cousin, Hugh Talbot.

BUTLER (muttering). Aye, and it's a deal you'll need to be growing, ere you fill Hugh Talbot's shoes.

JOHN TALBOT. And that's a true word! But 'twas Hugh Talbot's will that I should command, here at the Bridge of Cashala. And as long as breath is in me I—

DRISCOLL (raising his head heavily). Water! Water! Myles! Dick! Will ye give me to drink, lads? Jack Talbot! I'm choked wi' thirst.

JOHN TALBOT. There's never a drop of water left us, Phelimy, lad.

FENTON. Owen Bourke drained the last of it, God rest him!

BUTLER. 'Tis likely our clever new Captain of the Gate will hit on some shift to fill our empty casks.

(DRISCOLL rises heavily.)

JOHN TALBOT. Not the new Captain of the Gate. The old Captain of the Gate—Hugh Talbot. He'll be here this day—this hour, maybe.

FENTON. That tale grows something old, Jack Talbot.

JOHN TALBOT. He swore he'd bring us succor. He—

(DRISCOLL tries to unbar the exit door.)

Driscoll! Are you gone mad? Stand you back from that door!

(Thrusts DRISCOLL from the door.)

DRISCOLL (half delirious). Let me forth! The spring—'tis just below—there on the river-bank! Let me slip down to it—but a moment—and drink!

JOHN TALBOT. Cromwell's soldiers hold the spring.

DRISCOLL. I care not! Let me forth and drink! Let me forth!

JOHN TALBOT. 'T would be to your death.

BUTLER. And what will he get but his death if he stay here, Captain Talbot?

DRISCOLL (struggling with JOHN TALBOT). I'm choked! I'm choked, I tell ye! Let me go, Jack Talbot! Let me go!

NEWCOMBE (still half-asleep, rises to his knees, with a terrible cry, and his groping hands upthrust to guard his head). God's pity! No! no! no!

DRISCOLL (shocked into sanity, staggers back, crossing himself). God shield us!

BUTLER. Silence that whelp!

FENTON. Clear to the rebel camp they'll hear him!

JOHN TALBOT (catching NEWCOMBE by the shoulder). Newcombe! Kit Newcombe!

NEWCOMBE. Ah, God! Keep them from me! Keep them from me!

JOHN TALBOT. Ha' done! Ha' done!

NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not the butt of the muskets! Not that! Not that!

JOHN TALBOT (stifling NEWCOMBE'S outcry with a hand upon his mouth). Wake! You're dreaming!

DRISCOLL. 'Tis ill luck! 'Tis ill luck comes of such dreaming!

NEWCOMBE. Drogheda! I dreamed I was at Drogheda, where my brother—my brother—they beat out his brains—Cromwell's men—with their clubbed muskets—they—

(Clings shuddering to JOHN TALBOT.)

FENTON. English officers that serve amongst the Irish—'t is thus that Cromwell uses them!

BUTLER. English officers—aye, like ourselves!

JOHN TALBOT. Be quiet, Kit! You're far from Drogheda—here at the Bridge of Cashala.

BUTLER. Aye, safe in Cashala Gatehouse, with five hundred of Cromwell's men sitting down before it.

JOHN TALBOT. Keep your watch, Butler!

NEWCOMBE. You give orders? You still command, Jack? Where's Captain Talbot, then?

(Snatches up his sword and rises.)

BUTLER (quitting the window). Aye, where is Captain Talbot?

JOHN TALBOT. You say—

FENTON (rising). We all say it.

JOHN TALBOT. Even thou, Dick?

DRISCOLL. He does not come! Hugh Talbot does not come!

FENTON. He bade us hold the bridge one day. We've held it three days now.

BUTLER. And where is Hugh Talbot with the aid he promised?

JOHN TALBOT. He promised. He has never broken faith. He will bring us aid.

FENTON. Aye, if he be living!

DRISCOLL. Living? You mean that he—Och, he's dead! Hugh Talbot's dead! And we're destroyed! We're destroyed!

NEWCOMBE (cowering). The butt of the muskets!

FENTON. God!

(Deliberately BUTLER lays down his musket.)

JOHN TALBOT. Take up your piece!

BUTLER. Renounce me if I do!

FENTON. I stand with you, Myles Butler. Make terms for us, John Talbot, or, on my soul, we'll make them for ourselves.

JOHN TALBOT. Surrender?

NEWCOMBE. Will Cromwell spare us, an we yield ourselves now? Will he spare us? Will he—

FENTON. 'Tis our one chance.

NEWCOMBE. Give me that white rag!

(Crosses and snatches a bandage from chimneypiece.)

FENTON (drawing his ramrod). Here's a staff!

(Together FENTON and NEWCOMBE make ready a flag of truce.)

JOHN TALBOT (struggling with BUTLER and DRISCOLL). A black curse on you!

BUTLER. We'll not be butchered like oxen in the shambles!

JOHN TALBOT. Your oaths!

BUTLER. We'll not fight longer to be knocked on the head at the last.

NEWCOMBE. No! No! Not that! Out with the flag, Dick!

FENTON. A light here at the grating!

(NEWCOMBE turns to take a candle, obedient to FENTON'S order. At that moment, close at hand, a bugle sounds.)

JOHN TALBOT. Hark!

DRISCOLL. The bugle! They're upon us!

BUTLER (releasing his hold on JOHN TALBOT). What was that?

JOHN TALBOT. You swore to hold the bridge.

BUTLER. Swore to hold it one day. We've held it three days now.

FENTON. And the half of us are slain.

NEWCOMBE. And we've no water—and no food!

JOHN TALBOT (pointing to the powder-keg). We have powder in plenty.

DRISCOLL. We can't drink powder. Ah, for God's love, be swift, Dick Fenton! Be swift!

JOHN TALBOT. You shall not show that white flag!

(Starts toward FENTON, hand on sword.)

BUTLER (pinioning JOHN TALBOT). God's death! We shall! Help me here, Phelimy!

JOHN TALBOT. A summons to parley. What see you, Fenton?

FENTON (at the shot-window). Torches coming from the boreen, and a white flag beneath them. I can see the faces. (With a cry) Look, Jack! A'God's name! Look!

(JOHN TALBOT springs to the window.)

DRISCOLL. What is it you're seeing?

FENTON. It is—

JOHN TALBOT (turning from the window). 'Tis Hugh Talbot comes! 'Tis the Captain of the Gate!

BUTLER. With them? A prisoner?

JOHN TALBOT. No, no! No prisoner! He wears his sword.

(BUTLER snatches up his piece and resumes watch.)

FENTON. Then he'll have made terms with them! Terms!

NEWCOMBE (embracing DRISCOLL). Terms for us! Terms for us!

JOHN TALBOT. I told ye truth. He has come. Hugh Talbot has come.

(Goes to door.)

HUGH TALBOT (speaks outside). Open! I come alone, and in peace. Open unto me!

JOHN TALBOT. Who goes there?

HUGH TALBOT (outside). The Captain of the Gate!

(JOHN TALBOT unbars the door, and bars it again upon the entrance of HUGH TALBOT. The latter comes slowly into the room. He is a man in his late thirties, a tall, martial figure, clad in much-worn velvet and leather, with sword at side. The five salute him as he enters.)

HUGH TALBOT (halts and for a moment surveys his followers). Well, lads?

(The five stand trembling on the edge of a nervous break, unable for the moment to speak.)

NEWCOMBE. We thought—we thought—that you—that you—

(Breaks into childish sobbing.)

FENTON. What terms will they grant us, sir?

JOHN TALBOT. Sir, we have held the bridge.

HUGH TALBOT. You five—

JOHN TALBOT. Bourke is dead, sir, and Tregarris, and Langdale, and—and James Talbot, my brother.

DRISCOLL. And we've had no water, sir, these many hours.

HUGH TALBOT. So! You're wounded, Phelimy.

DRISCOLL. 'Tis not worth heeding, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. Kit! Kit! (At the voice NEWCOMBE pulls himself together.) A light here! Dick, you've your pouch under your hand?

FENTON. 'Tis here, sir.

(Offers his tobacco pouch.)

HUGH TALBOT (filling his pipe). Leave the window, Myles! They've promised us a half hour's truce—and Cromwell's a man of his word.

NEWCOMBE (bringing a lighted candle). He'll let us pass free now, sir, will he not?

HUGH TALBOT (lighting his pipe at the candle). You're not afraid, Kit?

NEWCOMBE. I? Faith, no, sir. No! Not now!

HUGH TALBOT. Sit ye down, Phelimy, lad! You look dead on your feet. Give me to see that arm! (As HUGH TALBOT starts toward DRISCOLL, his eye falls on the open keg of powder. He draws back hastily, covering his lighted pipe.) Jack Talbot! Who taught ye to leave your powder uncovered, where lighted match was laid?

BUTLER. My blame, sir.

(Covers the keg.)

JOHN TALBOT. We opened the keg, and then—

FENTON. Truth, we did not cover it again, being somewhat pressed for time.

(The five laugh, half hysterically.)

HUGH TALBOT (sitting by fire). And you never thought, maybe, that in that keg there was powder enough to blow the bridge of Cashala to hell?

JOHN TALBOT. It seemed a matter of small moment, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. Small moment! Powder enough, put case ye set it there, at the stairhead—d'ye follow me?—powder enough to make an end of Cashala Bridge for all time—aye, and of all within the Gatehouse. You never thought on that, eh?

JOHN TALBOT. We had so much to think on, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. I did suspect as much. So I came hither to recall the powder to your minds.

DRISCOLL. We thought—(BUTLER motions him to be silent.) We thought maybe you would not be coming at all, sir. Maybe you would be dead.

HUGH TALBOT. Well? What an if I had been dead? You had your orders. You did not dream of giving up the Bridge of Cashala—eh, Myles Butler?

BUTLER (after a moment). No, sir.

HUGH TALBOT. Nor you, Dick Fenton?

FENTON. Sir, I—No!

HUGH TALBOT (smoking throughout). Good lads! The wise heads were saying I was a stark fool to set you here at Cashala. But I said: I can be trusting the young riders that are learning their lessons in war from me. I'll be safe putting my honor into their hands. And I was right, wasn't I, Phelimy Driscoll?

DRISCOLL. Give us the chance, sir, and we'll be holding Cashala, even against the devil himself!

FENTON. Aye, well said!

HUGH TALBOT. Sure,'tis a passing good substitute for the devil sits yonder in Cromwell's tent.

NEWCOMBE (with a shudder). Cromwell!

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, he was slaying your brother at Drogheda, Kit, and a fine, gallant lad your brother was. And I'm thinking you're like him, Kit. Else I shouldn't be trusting you here at Cashala.

NEWCOMBE. I—I—Will they let us keep our swords?

HUGH TALBOT. Well, it's with yourselves it lies, whether you'll keep them or not.

FENTON. He means—we mean—on what terms, sir, do we surrender?

HUGH TALBOT. Surrender? Terms?

JOHN TALBOT. We thought, sir, from your coming under their white flag—perhaps you had made terms for us.

HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms?

NEWCOMBE. Captain!

(At a look from HUGH TALBOT he becomes silent, fighting for self-control.)

HUGH TALBOT. How could I make terms that you would hear to? Cashala Bridge is the gate of Connaught.

JOHN TALBOT. Yes.

HUGH TALBOT. Give Cromwell Cashala Bridge, and he'll be on the heels of our women and our little ones. At what price would ye be selling their safety?

DRISCOLL. Cromwell—when he takes us—when he takes us—

NEWCOMBE. He'll knock us on the head!

HUGH TALBOT. Yes. At the last. Your five lives against our people's safety. You'd not give up the bridge?

JOHN TALBOT. Five? Our five? But you—you are the sixth.

FENTON. You stay with us, Captain. And then we'll fight—you'll see how we shall fight.

HUGH TALBOT. I shall be seeing you fight, perhaps, but I cannot stay now at Cashala.

(Rises.)

DRISCOLL. Ye won't be staying with us?

BUTLER (laughing harshly). Now, on my soul! Is this your faith, Hugh Talbot? One liar I've followed, Charles Stuart, the son of a liar, and now a second liar—

JOHN TALBOT (catching BUTLER'S throat). A plague choke you!

HUGH TALBOT (stepping between JOHN TALBOT and BUTLER). Ha' done, Jack! Ha' done! What more, Myles Butler?

BUTLER. Tell us whither you go, when you turn your back on us that shall die at Cashala—you that come walking under the rebel flag—that swore to bring us aid—and have not brought it! Tell us whither you go now!

HUGH TALBOT. Well, I'm a shade doubtful, Myles, my lad, though hopeful of the best.

BUTLER. 'Tis to Cromwell you go—you that have made your peace with him—that have sold us—

DRISCOLL. Captain! A' God's name, what is it that you're meaning?

HUGH TALBOT. I mean that you shall hold the Bridge of Cashala—whatever happen to you—whatever happen to me—

FENTON. To you? Captain Talbot!

HUGH TALBOT. I am going unto Cromwell—as you said, Myles. I gave my promise.

DRISCOLL. Your promise?

JOHN TALBOT. We—have been very blind. So—they made you prisoner?

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Jack. When I tried to cut my way through to bring you aid. And they granted me this half hour on my parole to come unto you.

JOHN TALBOT. To come—

HUGH TALBOT. To counsel you to surrender. And I have given you counsel. Hold the bridge! Hold it! Whatever they do!

DRISCOLL. Captain! Captain Talbot! God of Heaven! If you go back—'tis killed you'll be among them!

HUGH TALBOT. A little sooner than you lads? Aye, true!

FENTON. They cannot! Even Cromwell—

HUGH TALBOT. Tut, tut, Dick! It's little ye know of Cromwell.

JOHN TALBOT. Then—you mean—

HUGH TALBOT. An you surrender Cashala, we may all six pass free. An you hold Cashala, they will hang me, here before your eyes.

(DRISCOLL gives a rattling cry.)

BUTLER. God forgive me!

HUGH TALBOT. You have your orders. Hold the bridge!

(Turns to door.)

JOHN TALBOT (barring his way). No, no! You shan't go forth!

FENTON. God's mercy, no!

HUGH TALBOT. Are you stark crazed?

FENTON. You shall stay with us.

JOHN TALBOT. What's your pledged word to men that know not honor?

HUGH TALBOT. My word. Unbar the door, Jack. Why, lad, we're traveling the same road.

FENTON. God! But we'll give them a good fight at the last. (Goes to the shot-window.) Take up your musket, Kit.

NEWCOMBB. But I—Captain! When you are gone, I—I—

HUGH TALBOT. I'll not be far. You'll hold the bridge?

JOHN TALBOT. Aye, sir.

BUTLER. We've powder enough—you said it, sir,—laid there at the stairhead, to blow the bridge to hell.

HUGH TALBOT. Aye, Myles, you've hit it!

(Holds out his hand.)

BUTLER. Not yet, sir!

HUGH TALBOT. Hereafter, then. God speed you, lads!

JOHN TALBOT. Speed you, sir! (All five stand at salute as HUGH TALBOT goes out. In the moment's silence upon his exit, JOHN TALBOT bars the door and turns to his comrades.) You have—Hugh Talbot's orders. Take your pieces! Driscoll! Newcombe!

(Obediently the two join FENTON at windows.) Butler!

BUTLER. Aye! We have Hugh Talbot's orders.

(Points to powder-keg.)

JOHN TALBOT. Are you meaning—

BUTLER. It's not I will be failing him now!

FENTON (at window). God! They waste no time.

JOHN TALBOT. Already—they have dared—

FENTON. Here—this moment—under our very eyes!

DRISCOLL. Christ Jesus!

(Goes back from the window, with his arm across his eyes, and falls on his knees in headlong prayer.)

JOHN TALBOT. Kit! Kit Newcombe!

(Motions him to window.)

NEWCOMBE. I cannot! I—

JOHN TALBOT. Look forth! Look! And remember—when you meet them—remember! (NEWCOMBE stands swaying, clutching at the grating of the window, as he looks forth.) Lads! (Motions to BUTLER and FENTON to carry the powder to the stairhead.) The time is short. His orders!

(DRISCOLL raises his head and gazes fixedly toward the centre of the room.)

FENTON. Yonder, at the stairhead.

BUTLER. Aye.

(FENTON and BUTLER carry the keg to the door.)

NEWCOMBE. Not that! Not that death! No! No!

JOHN TALBOT. Be silent! And look yonder! Driscoll! Fetch the light! Newcombe! Come! You have your places, all.

DRISCOLL. But, Captain! The sixth man—where will the sixth man be standing?

(There is a blank silence, in which the men look questioningly at DRISCOLL'S rapt face and at one another.)

JOHN TALBOT. Sixth?

FENTON. What sixth?

DRISCOLL. The blind eyes of ye! Yonder!

(Comes to the salute, even as, a few moments before, he has saluted HUGH TALBOT, living.

NEWCOMBE gives a smothered cry, as one who half sees, and takes courage. FENTON dazedly starts to salute. Outside a bugle sounds, and a voice, almost at the door, is heard to speak.)

VOICE OUTSIDE. For the last time: will you surrender you?

JOHN TALBOT (in a loud and confident voice). No! Not while our commander stands with us!

VOICE OUTSIDE. And who might your commander be?

JOHN TALBOT. Hugh Talbot, the Captain of the Gate! The light here, Phelimy.

(JOHN TALBOT bends to set the candle to the powder that shall destroy Cashala Gatehouse, and all within it. His mates are gathered round him, with steady, bright faces, for in the little space left vacant in their midst they know in that minute that HUGH TALBOT stands.)

[CURTAIN]



GETTYSBURG[1]

Percy MacKaye

SCENE: A woodshed, in the ell of a farm-house.

The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the apertures being slightly arched at the top. (In bad weather, these presumably may be closed by big double doors, which stand open now—swung back outward beyond sight.) Thus the nearer opening is the proscenium arch of the scene, under which the spectator looks through the shed to the background—a grassy yard, a road with great trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a green hillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large beams.

On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from the house kitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed into the barn. In the foreground, against the right wall, is a work-bench. On this are tools, a long, narrow, wooden box, and a small oil-stove, with steaming kettle upon it.

Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply is stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stovewood and kindlings mixed with small chips of the floor, which is piled deep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust.

Not far from this mounded pile, at right centre of the scene, stands a wooden armchair, in which LINK TADBOURNE, in his shirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted by the sunlight beyond, his sharp-drawn profile is that of an old man, with white hair cropped close, and gray moustache of a faded black hue at the outer edges. Between his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittled round by the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in his lap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden yoke and collar. Near him is a chopping-block.

In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the hum and floating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the old man murmurs in his sleep, clenching his hand. Slowly the hand relaxes again.

From the door, right, comes POLLY—a sweet-faced girl of seventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is dressed simply. In one hand she carries a man's wide-brimmed felt hat, over the other arm a blue coat. These she brings toward LINK. Seeing him asleep, she begins to tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on the chopping-block, goes to the bench, and trims the wick of the oil-stove, under the kettle. Then she returns and stands near LINK, surveying the shed.

On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a certain order in its chaos; some of the splittings have been piled in irregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of wood-dust and chips has been scooped, and the little mounds slope and rise like miniature valleys and hills. [2]

Taking up a hoe, POLLY—with careful steps—moves among the hollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, scraping and smoothing the little mounds with the hoe. As she does so, from far away, a bugle sounds.

[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1912, by Percy Mackaye. All rights reserved.]

[Footnote 2: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field annexed to the volume by Captain R.K. Beecham, entitled Gettysburg (A.C. McClurg, 1911).]

LINK (snapping his eyes wide open, sits up)

Hello! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly?

POLLY Just A kitten-nap, I guess.

(Laying the hoe down, she approaches)

The yoke done?

LINK (giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong)

Thar! When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug, I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to— (Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he holds the whittled thong next to it, comparing the two with expert eye) and "Haw" to him. Beech every time, Sir; beech or walnut. Hang me if I'd shake a whip at birch, for ox-yokes.—Polly, are ye thar?

POLLY Yes, Uncle Link.

LINK What's that I used to sing ye?

"Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on, Polly, put the kittle on—"

(Chuckling')

We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea!

POLLY The kettle's boilin'.

LINK Wall, then, steep him good.

(POLLY takes from LINK the collar-thong, carries it to the work-bench, shoves it into the narrow end of the box, which she then closes tight and connects—by a piece of hose—to the spout of the kettle. At the farther end of the box, steam then emerges through a small hole.)

POLLY You're feelin' smart to-day.

LINK Smart!—Wall, if I could git a hull man to swap legs with me, mebbe I'd arn my keep. But this here settin' dead an' alive, without no legs, day in, day out, don't make an old hoss wuth his oats.

POLLY (cheerfully)

I guess you'll soon be walkin' round.

LINK Not if that doctor feller has his say: He says I can't never go agin this side o' Jordan; and looks like he's 'bout right.—Nine months to-morrer, Polly, gal, sence I had that stroke.

POLLY (pointing to the ox-yoke)

You're fitter sittin' than most folks standin'.

LINK (briskly)

Oh, they can't keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's my second natur' sence I was a boy.

(Again in the distance a bugle sounds. LINK starts.)

What's that?

POLLY Why, that's the army veterans down to the graveyard. This is Decoration mornin': you ain't forgot?

LINK So't is, so't is. Roger, your young man—ha! (chuckling) he come and axed me was I a-goin' to the cemetery. "Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?"

POLLY He meant—to decorate the graves.

LINK O' course; but I must take my little laugh. I told him I guessed I wa'n't persent'ble anyhow, my mustache and my boots wa'n't blacked this mornin'. I don't jest like t' talk about my legs.— Be you a-goin' to take your young school folks, Polly?

POLLY Dear no! I told my boys and girls to march up this way with the band. I said I'd be a-stayin' home and learnin' how to keep school in the woodpile here with you.

LINK (looking up at her proudly)

Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye!

POLLY (caressing him)

Schoolmaster, you, past seventy; that's smarter! I tell 'em I learn from you, so's I can teach my young folks what the study-books leave out.

LINK Sure ye don't want to jine the celebratin'?

POLLY No, sir! We're goin' to celebrate right here, and you're to teach me to keep school some more.

(She holds ready for him the blue coat and hat.)

LINK (looking up)

What's thar?

POLLY Your teachin' rig.

(She helps him on with it.)

LINK The old blue coat!— My, but I'd like to see the boys—(gazing at the hat) the Grand Old Army Boys! (dreamily) Yes, we was boys: jest boys! Polly, you tell your young folks, when they study the books, that we was nothin' else but boys jest fallin' in love, with best gals left t' home— the same as you; and when the shot was singin', we pulled their picters out, and prayed to them 'most morn'n the Almighty.

(LINK looks up suddenly—a strange light in his face. Again, to a far strain of music, the bugle sounds.)

Thar she blows Agin!

POLLY They're marchin' to the graves with flowers.

LINK My Godfrey!'t ain't so much thinkin' o' flowers and the young folks, their faces, and the blue line of old fellers marchin'—it's the music! that old brass voice a-callin'! Seems as though, legs or no legs, I'd have to up and foller to God-knows-whar, and holler—holler back to guns roarin' in the dark. No; durn it, no! I jest can't stan' the music.

POLLY (goes to the work-bench, where the box is steaming)

Uncle Link, you want that I should steam this longer?

LINK (absently)

Oh, A kittleful, a kittleful.

POLLY (coming over to him)

Now, then, I'm ready for school.—I hope I've drawed the map all right.

LINK Map? Oh, the map!

(Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods.)

Yes, thar she be: old Gettysburg!

POLLY I know the places—most.

LINK So, do ye? Good, now: whar's your marker?

POLLY (taking up the hoe)

Here.

LINK Willoughby Run: whar's that?

POLLY (pointing with the hoe toward the left of the woodpile)

That's farthest over next the barn door.

LINK My, how we fit the Johnnies thar, the fust mornin'! Jest behind them willers, acrost the Run, that's whar we captur'd Archer. My, my!

POLLY Over there—that's Seminary Ridge.

(She points to different heights and depressions, as LINK nods his approval.)

Peach Orchard, Devil's Den, Round Top, the Wheatfield—

LINK Lord, Lord, the Wheatfield!

POLLY (continuing)

Cemetery Hill, Little Round Top, Death Valley, and this here is Cemetery Ridge.

LINK (pointing to the little flag)

And colors flyin'! We kep 'em flyin' thar, too, all three days, From start to finish.

POLLY Have I learned 'em right?

LINK A number One, chick! Wait a mite: Culp's Hill: I don't jest spy Culp's Hill.

POLLY There wa'n't enough kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay east there, towards the kitchen.

LINK Let it go! That's whar us Yanks left our back door ajar and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep' it thar, too, till he got it squoze off by old Slocum. Let Culp's Hill lay for now.—Lend me your marker. (POLLY hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches with it and digs in the chips.) Death Valley needs some scoopin' deeper. So: smooth off them chips.

(POLLY does so with her foot.)

You better guess't was deep As hell, that second day, come sundown.—Here, (He hands back the hoe to her.) flat down the Wheatfield yonder.

(POLLY does so.)

God a'mighty! That Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter than any pancake what you ever cooked, Polly; and't wa'n't no maple syrup neither was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black, all over it, that nightfall.

POLLY Here's the road to Emmetsburg.

LINK No,'t 'ain't: this here's the pike to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin', after an all-night march, jest in the nick to save our second day. The Emmetsburg road's thar.—Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'?

POLLY At sunset, July second, sixty-three.

LINK (nodding, reminiscent)

The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun: she set a dozen times that afternoon, red-yeller as a punkin jack-o'-lantern, rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke till she clean busted, like the other bombs, behind the hills.

POLLY My! Wa'n't you never scart and wished you'd stayed t' home?

LINK Scart? Wall, I wonder! Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars. I heerd a feller onct, down to the store,— a dressy mister, span-new from the city— layin' the law down: "All this stars and stripes," says he, "and red and white and blue is rubbish, mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!" "I wan't' know!" says I. "In sixty-three, I knowed a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown I met him stumblin'—with two dead men's muskets for crutches—towards a bucket, full of ink—- water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell, he tuk the rest to wash his bullet-holes.—- Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick, with red and white and blue, tore'most t' tatters, a-danglin' from it. 'Be you color sergeant?' says I. 'Not me,' says Link; 'the sergeant's dead; but when he fell, he handed me this bit o' rubbish—red and white and blue.' And Link he laughed. 'What be you laughin' for?' says I. 'Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!'" says Link.

POLLY What did the span-new mister say to that?

LINK I didn't stop to listen. Them as never heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't guess what they be.

(Sitting up and blinking hard)

But this ain't keepin' school!

POLLY (quietly)

I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link.

LINK The second day, 'fore sunset.

(He takes the hoe and points with it.)

Yon's the Wheatfield. Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels. Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge behind 'em. Hancock—he's our general— he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose the Ridge, and lose the Ridge—lose God-and-all!— Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington, Abe Lincoln, and the White House in one bite!— So the Union, Polly—me and you and Roger, your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam—is all thar—growin' in that Wheatfield.

POLLY (smiling proudly)

And they're growin' still!

LINK Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls, thar comes the Johnnies, thick as grasshoppers: gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat-tops, and now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat, thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces, and grapplin' with hell-devils, and stink o' smoke, and stingin' smother, and—up thar through the dark— that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon lopsided, crackin' her red shell with thunder!

(In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial music of a brass band begins. Again LINK'S face twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment on, the sound and emotion of the brass music, slowly growing louder, permeates the scene.)

POLLY Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow the created world to act that awful?

LINK Now, I wonder!—Cast your eye along this hoe:

(He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron.)

Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?—That's the boy I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link," they call him, 'cause his legs is spry's a squirrel's.— Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day, keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him.

(Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe)

If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you. But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein' them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized Link as his livin' image, and so kep' him to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs, and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs, list'nin' to bugles—bugles—bugles, callin'.

(LINK clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music draws nearer. POLLY touches him soothingly.)

POLLY Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind'em.

LINK (relaxing under her touch)

No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct— onct we was boys, onct we was boys—with legs. But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle. Onct, though, he was: and all God's life a-snortin' outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin' outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds a-blowin' Glory Hallelujahs, like brass music, from his mouth.—But never mind! 'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now. Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin' gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.

(With smouldering fire)

But jest the same—

(His face convulses and he cries out, terribly—straining in his chair to rise.)

—for holy God, that band! Why don't they stop that band!

POLLY (going)

I'll run and tell them. Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back.

(Glancing back anxiously, POLLY disappears outside. The approaching band begins to play "John Brown's Body." LINK sits motionless, gripping his chair.)

LINK Set quiet! Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand, and Link—he kin set quiet.—God a'mighty, how kin he set, and them a-marchin' thar with old John Brown? Lord God, you ain't forgot the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin' home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown, a-singin' Glory to ye! Jest look down: thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge: don't say ye disremember them! And thar's the colors. Look, he's picked 'em up—the sergeant's blood splotched 'em some—but thar they be, still flyin'! Link done that: Link—the spry boy, what they call Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step, have ye?

(Again he cries out, beseechingly)

My God, why do You keep on marchin' and leave him settin' here? (To the music outside, the voices of children begin to sing the words of "John Brown's Body." At the sound, LINK'S face becomes transformed with emotion, his body shakes, and his shoulders heave and straighten.) No!—I—won't—set!

(Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and stands.)

Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line. Them voices—Lord, I guess you've brought along Your Sunday choir of young angel folks to help the boys out.

(Following the music with swaying arms)

Glory!—Never mind me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm goin' t' jine in, or bust!

(Joining with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously along the edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps—his one hand leaning on the hoe, his other reached as to unseen hands, that draw him—he totters toward the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so, his thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where the children's are singing it.)

"—a-mould'rin' in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave. John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave, But his soul goes—"

(Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries aloud, astounded) Lord, Lord, my legs! Whar did Ye git my legs?

(Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the little flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously.)