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ORIGINAL PLAYS

BY

W. S. GILBERT.

New York:
SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, & CO.
1876.

Stereotyped and printed by
Rand, Avery, and Company,
117 Franklin Street,
Boston.

[NOTE.]

The Story upon which ‘The Palace of Truth’ is founded is probably as old as the ‘Arabian Nights.’ ‘The Princess’ is a respectful parody of Mr. Tennyson’s exquisite poem. It has been generally held, I believe, that if a dramatist uses the mere outline of an existing story for dramatic purposes, he is at liberty to describe his play as “original.”

W. S. GILBERT.

London, Nov. 18, 1875.

[CONTENTS.]

THE WICKED WORLD:

An Original Fairy Comedy,

IN THREE ACTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE: IN FAIRY LAND.

⁂ The action is comprised within the space of twenty-four hours.

PROLOGUE.

Spoken by Mr. Buckstone.

The Author begs you’ll kind attention pay

While I explain the object of his play.

You have been taught, no doubt, by those professing

To understand the thing, that Love’s a blessing:

Well, he intends to teach you the reverse—

That Love is not a blessing, but a curse!

But pray do not suppose it’s his intent

To do without this vital element—

His drama would be in a pretty mess!

With quite as fair a prospect of success,

Might a dispensing chemist in his den

Endeavor to dispense with oxygen.

Too powerful an agent to pooh-pooh,

There will be Love enough I warrant you:

But as the aim of every play’s to show

That Love’s essential to all men below,

He uses it to prove, to all who doubt it,

How well all men—but he—can do without it.

To prove his case (a poor one, I admit),

He begs that with him you will kindly flit

To a pure fairy-land that’s all his own,

Where mortal love is utterly unknown.

Whose beings, spotless as new-fallen snow,

Know nothing of the Wicked World below.

These gentle sons and daughters of the air,

Safe, in their eyrie, from temptation’s snare,

Have yet one little fault I must confess—

An overweening sense of righteousness.

As perfect silence, undisturbed for years,

Will breed at length a humming in the ears,

So from their very purity within

Arise the promptings of their only sin.

Forgive them! No? Perhaps you will relent

When you appreciate their punishment!

But prithee be not led too far away,

By the hack author of a mere stage-play:

It’s easy to affect this cynic tone,

But, let me ask you, had the world ne’er known

Such Love as you, and I, and he, must mean—

Pray where would you, or I, or he, have been?

THE WICKED WORLD.

ACT I.

Scene—Fairy Land. A beautiful, but fanciful landscape, which is supposed to lie on the upper side of a cloud. The cloud is suspended over the earth, a portion of which (representing “a bird’s-eye view” of a mediæval city), is seen, far below, through a rent or gap in the cloud.

As the curtain rises Zayda is discovered standing in a thoughtful attitude, contemplating the world at her feet. To her enters Darine.

Dar. My sister, Zayda, thou art deep in thought,

What quaint conjecture fills thy busy brain?

Zay. Oh! sister, it’s my old and favorite theme—

That wonderful and very wicked world

That rolls in silent cycles at our feet!

Dar. In truth a fruitful source of wonderment!

Zay. Fruitful indeed—a harvest without end!

The world—the wicked world! the wondrous world!

I love to sit alone and gaze on it,

And let my fancy wander through its towns,

Float on its seas and rivers—interchange

Communion with its strange inhabitants:

People its cities with fantastic shapes,

Fierce, wild, barbaric forms—all head and tail,

With monstrous horns, and blear and bloodshot eyes,

As all should have who deal in wickedness!

Enter Phyllon.

Oh, Phyllon! picture to thyself a town

Peopled with men and women! At each turn,

Men—wicked men—then, farther on, more men,

Then women—then again more men—more men—

Men, women, everywhere—all ripe for crime,

All ghastly in the lurid light of sin!

Enter Selene.

Phyl. In truth, dear sister, if man’s face and form

Were a true index to his character,

He were a hideous thing to look upon;

But man, alas! is formed as we are formed.

False from the first, he comes into the world

Bearing a smiling lie upon his face,

That he may cheat ere he can use his tongue.

Zay. Oh! I have heard these things, but heed them not.

I like to picture him as he should be,

Unsightly and unclean. I like to pair

Misshapen bodies with misshapen minds.

Sel. Dost thou not know that every soul on earth

Hath in our ranks his outward counterpart?

Dar. His outward counterpart!

Sel.Tis even so;

Yes, on that world—that very wicked world—

Thou—I—and all who dwell in fairy land,

May find a parallel identity:

A perfect counterpart in outward form;

So perfect that, if it were possible

To place us by these earthly counterparts,

No man on earth, no fairy in the clouds,

Could tell which was the fairy—which the man!

Zay. Is there no shade of difference?

Phyl.Yes, one;

For we are absolutely free from sin,

While all our representatives on earth

Are stained with every kind of infamy.

Dar. Are all our counterparts so steeped in sin?

Phyl. All, in a greater or a less degree.

Zay. What, even mine?

Phyl.Alas!

Zay.Oh, no—not mine!

Phyl. All men and women sin.

Dar.I wonder what

My counterpart is doing now?

Sel.Don’t ask.

No doubt, some fearful sin!

Dar.And what are sins?

Sel. Evils of which we hardly know the names.

There’s vanity—a quaint, fantastic vice,

Whereby a mortal takes much credit for

The beauty of his face and form, and claims

As much applause for loveliness as though

He had designed himself! Then jealousy—

A universal passion—one that claims

An absolute monopoly of love,

Based on the reasonable principle

That no one merits other people’s love

So much as—every soul on earth by turns!

Envy—that grieves at other men’s success,

As though success, however placed, were not

A contribution to one common fund!

Ambition, too, the vice of clever men

Who seek to rise at others’ cost; nor heed

Whose wings they cripple, so that they may soar.

Malice—the helpless vice of helpless fools,

Who, as they can not rise, hold others down,

That they, by contrast, may appear to soar.

Hatred and avarice, untruthfulness,

Murder and rapine, theft, profanity—

Sins so incredible, so mean, so vast,

Our nature stands appalled when it attempts

To grasp their terrible significance.

Such are the vices of that wicked world!

Enter Ethais, Locrine, Neodie, Leila, and other Fairies.

Eth. My brothers, sisters, Lutin has returned,

After a long delay, from yonder earth:

The first of all our race who has set foot

Upon that wicked world. See! he is here!

Enter Lutin.

Sel. Good welcome, Lutin, back to fairy land!

So thou hast been to earth?

Lut.I have indeed!

Sel. What hast thou seen there?

Lut. Better not inquire.

It is a very, very wicked world!

I went, obedient to our King’s command,

To meet him in mid-earth. He bade me go

And send both Ethais and Phyllon there.

Eth. Down to mid-earth?

Lut.Down to mid-earth at once.

He hath some gift, some priceless privilege

With which he would endow our fairy world;

And he hath chosen Phyllon and thyself

To bear his bounty to this home of ours.

Zay. Another boon? Why, brother Ethais,

What can our monarch give that we have not?

Eth. In truth, I can not say—’twould seem that we

Had reached the sum of fairy happiness!

Sel. But then we thought the same, before our King

Endowed us with the gift of melody;

And now, how tame our fairy life would seem

Were melody to perish from our land!

Phyl. Well said, Selene. Come, then, let’s away, (going)

And on our journey through the outer world

We will take note of its inhabitants,

And bring you fair account of all we see.

Farewell, dear sisters!

[Exeunt Phyllon and Ethais.

Sel.Brothers, fare-you-well.

(To Lutin.)And thou hast really met a living man?

Lut. I have indeed—and living women too!

Zay. And thou hast heard them speak, and seen their ways,

And didst thou understand them when they spake?

Lut. I understand that what I understood

No fairy being ought to understand.

I see that almost every thing I saw

Is utterly improper to be seen.

Don’t ask for details—I’ve returned to you

With outraged senses and with shattered nerves,

I burn with blushes of indignant shame.

Read my experiences in my face,

My tongue shall wither ere it tell the tale.

It is a very, very wicked world!

Dar. But surely man can summon death at will;

Why should he live when he at will can die?

Lut. Why, that’s the most inexplicable thing.

I’ve seen upon that inconsistent globe—

With swords and daggers hanging at their sides,

With drowning seas and rivers at their feet,

With deadly poison in their very grasp,

And every implement of death at hand—

Men live—and live—and seem to like to live!

[Exit Lutin.

Dar. How strangely inconsistent!

Sel.Not at all.

With all their misery, with all their sin,

With all the elements of wretchedness

That teem on that unholy world of theirs,

They have one great and ever glorious gift,

That compensates for all they have to bear—

The gift of Love! Not as we use the word,

To signify mere tranquil brotherhood;

But in some sense that is unknown to us.

Their love bears like relation to our own,

That the fierce beauty of the noonday sun

Bears to the calm of a soft summer’s eve.

It nerves the wearied mortal with hot life,

And bathes his soul in hazy happiness.

The richest man is poor who hath it not,

And he who hath it laughs at poverty.

It hath no conqueror. When death himself

Has worked his very worst, this love of theirs

Lives still upon the loved one’s memory.

It is a strange enchantment, which invests

The most unlovely things with loveliness.

The maiden, fascinated by this spell,

Sees every thing as she would have it be:

Her squalid cot becomes a princely home;

Its stunted shrubs are groves of stately elms;

The weedy brook that trickles past her door

Is a broad river fringed with drooping trees;

And of all marvels the most marvelous,

The coarse unholy man who rules her love

Is a bright being—pure as we are pure;

Wise in his folly—blameless in his sin;

The incarnation of a perfect soul;

A great and ever glorious demi-god!

Dar. Why, what have we in all our fairy land

To bear comparison with such a gift?

Zay. Oh! for one hour of such a love as that;

O’er all things paramount! Why, after all,

That wicked world is the true fairy land!

Loc. Why, who can wonder that poor erring man

Clings to the world, all poisoned though it be,

When on it grows this glorious antidote?

Zay. And may we never love as mortals love?

Sel. No; that can never be. Of earthly things

This love of theirs ranks as the earthiest.

’Tis necessary to man’s mode of life;

He could not bear his load of misery

But for the sweet enchantment at his heart

That tells him that he bears no load at all.

We do not need it in our perfect land.

Moreover, there’s this gulf ’twixt it and us:

Only a mortal can inspire such love;

And mortal foot can never touch our land.

Zay. But—is that so?

Sel. (surprised).Of course.

Zay.Yet I have heard

That we’ve a half-forgotten law which says,

That when a fairy quits his fairy home

To visit earth, those whom he leaves behind

May summon from the wicked world below

That absent fairy’s mortal counterpart;

And that that mortal counterpart may stay

In fairy land and fill the fairy’s place

Till he return. Is there not some such law?

Sel. And if there be, wouldst put that law in force?(horrified).

Zay. No; not for all the love of all the world!(equally horrified).

Sel. A man in fairy land! Most horrible!

He would exhale the poison of his soul,

And we should even be as mortals are,

Hating as man hates!

Dar. (enthusiastically). Loving as man loves!

(Sel. looks reproachfully).

Too horrible! Still—

Sel.Well!

Dar.I see a trace

Of wisdom lurking in this ancient law.

Sel. Where lurks this wisdom, then? I see it not.

Dar. (with emphasis). Man is a shameless being, steeped in sins

At which our stainless nature stands appalled;

Yet, sister, if we took this loathsome soul

From yonder seething gulf of infamy—

E’en but for one short day—and let him see

The beauty of our pure, unspotted lives,

He might return to his unhappy world,

And trumpet forth the strange intelligence:

“Those men alone are happy who are good.”

Then would the world immediately repent,

And sin and wickedness be known no more!

Loc. Association with so foul a thing

As man must needs be unendurable

To souls as pure and sinless as our own:

Yet, sister dear, it has occurred to me,

That his foul deeds, perchance, proceed from this—

That we have kept ourselves too much aloof,

And left him to his blind and wayward will.

Zay. Man is every thing detestable—

Base in his nature, base in thought and deed,

Loathsome beyond all things that creep and crawl!

Still, sister, I must own I’ve sometimes thought

That we who shape the fortunes of mankind,

And grant such wishes as are free from harm,

Might possibly fulfill our generous task

With surer satisfaction to himself

Had we some notion what these wishes were!

Neo. We give him every thing but good advice,

And that which most he needs do we withhold.

Dar. Oh! terrible, dear sister, to reflect,

That to our cold and culpable neglect,

The folly of the world is chargeable!

Sel. To our neglect!

Zay.It may in truth be so.

Lei. In very truth I’m sure that it is so.

Sel. Oh! horrible! It shall be so no more.

A light breaks over me! Their sin is ours!

But there—’tis easy still to make amends.

A mortal shall behold our blameless state,

And learn the beauties of a sinless life!

Come, let us summon mortal Ethais.

Dar. But—

Sel.Not a word—I am resolved to this.

Neo. But sister—

Sel.Well?

Neo. (timidly).Why summon only one?

Sel. Why summon more?

Neo.The world’s incredulous;

Let two be brought into our blameless land,

Then should their wondrous story be received

With ridicule or incredulity,

One could corroborate the other.

Dar.Yes—

Phyllon has gone with Ethais. Let us call

The mortal counterpart of Phyllon too—

Sel. Two mortals—two unhappy men of sin

In this untainted spot!

Loc.Well, sister dear,

Two Heralds of the Truth will spread that Truth

At the least twice as rapidly as one.

Sel. Two miserable men! Why, one alone

Will bring enough pollution in his wake,

To taint our happy land from end to end!

Zay. Then, sister, two won’t make the matter worse!

Sel. There’s truth in that. (After a pause.)

The two shall come to us.

We have deserved this fearful punishment;

Our power, I think, is limited to two?

Lei. Unfortunately.

Sel.Yes—more might be done

Had each of us a pupil to herself.

Now then to summon them. But, sisters all,

Show no repugnance to these wretched men;

Remember that, all odious though they be,

They are our guests; in common courtesy

Subdue your natural antipathies;

Be very gentle with them, bear with them,

Be kind, forbearing, tender, pitiful.

Receive them with that gentle sister love,

That forms the essence of our fairyhood;

Let no side-thought of their unholy lives

Intrude itself upon your charity;

Treat them as though they were what they will be

When they have seen how we shall be to them.

What is the form?

Dar.Two roses newly plucked

Should each in turn be cast upon the earth;

Then, as each rose is thrown, pronounce the name

Of him whose mortal self it typifies.

Here are two roses plucked from yonder tree.

Sel. (taking them). Well then, fair rose, I name thee Ethais!—

Go, send thy mortal namesake to our cloud; (throws rose to earth).

’Tis done; conceal yourselves till they appear!

The fairies conceal themselves. Hurried music; to which enter Sir Ethais and Sir Phyllon, hurriedly, over the edge of cloud, as if impelled by some invisible and irresistible power from below. Sir Ethais and Sir Phyllon have their swords drawn. They are dressed as barbaric knights, and, while bearing a facial resemblance to their fairy counterparts, present as strong a contrast as possible in their costume and demeanor.

Sir Eth. Why, help, help, help!

Sir Phy.The devil seize us all!

Why, what strange land is this? How came we here?

Sir Eth. How came we here? Why, who can answer that

So well as thou?

Sir Phy.As I?

Sir Eth.Yes, cur; as thou!

This is some devil’s game of thy design,

To scare me from the task I set myself

When we crossed swords.

Sir Phy.I use no sorcery.

A whirlwind bore me to this cursed spot;

But whence it came I neither know nor care.

Sir Eth. There—gag thy lying tongue; it matters not,

Or here or there we’ll fight our quarrel out.

Come! call thy devils; let them wait at hand

And when I’ve done with thee I’ll do with them.

(They fight. The fairies watch the combat unobserved with great interest.)

Dar. What are they doing?

Sel.It’s some game of skill.

It’s very pretty.

Dar.Very. (Knights pause.) Oh, they’ve stopped.

Phy. Come, come—on guard. (Fight resumed.)

Zay.Now they begin again.

Eth. (Sees fairies, who have gradually surrounded them.)

Hold! we are overlooked. (Ethais, who has turned for a moment in saying this, is severely wounded by Phyllon.)

Sel.You may proceed.

We like it much.

Dar.You do it very well—

Begin again.

Eth.Black curses on that thrust!

I am disabled. Ladies, bind my wound;

And if it please you still to see us fight,

We’ll fight for those bright eyes and cherry lips

Till one or both of us shall bite the dust.

Phy. Hold! call a truce till we return to earth—

Here are bright eyes enough for both of us.

Eth. I don’t know that! Well, there—till we return. (Shaking hands.)

But once again on earth, we will take up

Our argument where it was broken off,

And let thy devils whirl me where they may,

I’ll reach conclusion and corollary.

Dar. (looking at Phyllon). Oh, fairyhood!

How wonderfully like our Phyllon!

Sel. (looking at Ethais).Yes.

And see—how strangely like our Ethais.

Thou hast a gallant carriage, gentle knight. (Sighing.)

Zay. How very, very like our Ethais.

Eth. It’s little wonder that I’m like myself;

Why, I am he.

Sel.No, not our Ethais. (Sighing.)

Eth. In truth, I am the Ethais of all

Who are as gentle and as fair as thou.

Sel. That’s bravely said; thou hast a silver tongue;

Why! what can gods be like if these be men.

(During this dialogue, Darine shows by her manner that she takes great interest in Ethais.)

Say, dost thou come from earth or heaven?

Eth. (gallantly putting his arm round them).

I think I’ve come from earth to heaven.

Sel. (to Darine with delight). Oh! didst thou hear?

He comes from earth to heaven! No, Ethais,

We are but fairies—this, our native home.

Our fairy-land rests on a cloud which floats

Hither and thither, as the breezes will;

At times a mighty city’s at our feet,

At times a golden plain, and then the sea,

Dotted with ships and rocks and sunny isles.

We see the world; yet saving that it is

A very wicked world, we know it not—

We hold no converse with its denizens;

But on the lands o’er which our island hangs,

We shed fair gifts of plenty and of peace—

Health and contentment—charity—goodwill;

Drop tears of love upon the thirsty earth,

And shower fair waters on the growing grain.

This is our mission.

Eth.’Tis a goodly one!

I’d give my sword—ay, and my sword-arm too,

If thou wouldst anchor for a year or so

O’er yonder home of mine. But tell me, now,

Does every cloud that hovers o’er our heads

Bear in its bosom such a wealth of love?

Sel. Alas! Sir Ethais, we are too few

To work the good that we could wish to work.

Thou hast seen black and angry thunder-clouds

That spit their evil fire at flocks and herds,

And shake with burly laughter as they watch

The trembling shepherds count their shriveled dead?

These are our enemies, sir knight, and thine.

They sow the seeds of pestilence and death—

May heaven preserve thee from their influence!

Eth. Amen to that!

Phy.But tell us, gentle maid,

Why have you summoned us?

Sel.Because we seek

To teach you truths that now ye wot not of;

Because we know that you are very frail,

Poor, blind, weak, wayward mortals—willing reeds,

Swayed right and left by every tempting wind;

And we are pure, and very, very brave,

Having no taste for trivial solaces (taking Ethais’ hand);

Scorning such idle joys as we have heard

Appeal most strongly to such men as you;

And we have cherished earnest hope that we,

By the example of our sacred lives,

May teach you to abjure such empty joys,

May send you back to earth, pure, childlike men,

To teach your mothers, sisters, and your wives,

And those perchance (sighing) who are to be your wives!

That there are fairy maidens in the clouds,

Whose gentle mode of thought and mode of life

They would do well to imitate. We would

That every maid on earth were such as we!

(Placing her arms round his neck).

Eth. In truth we would that every maiden were,—

(Aside) Except our mothers, sisters, and our wives!

Sel. If you will be our pupils, you must give

Some token of submission to our will,

No doubt you have some form of fealty?

Eth. When man desires to show profound respect—

To indicate most forcibly his own

Inferiority, he always puts

His arm round the respected object’s waist,

And drawing her (or him) towards him, thus,

Places a very long and tender kiss

On his (or her) face—as the case may be.

Sel. That form is not in vogue in fairy land;

Still, as it holds on earth, no doubt ’twill have

Far greater weight with you poor sons of earth,

Than any formula we could impose.

Phy. Its weight is overpowering. (About to kiss.)

Sel.But stay!

We would not wrest this homage from you, sir;

Or give it willingly, or not at all.

Eth. Most willingly, fair maid, we give it you.

Sel. Good! Then proceed.

(Eth. kisses Sel. and Phyl. kisses Zay.)

Eth.There! does it not convey

A pleasant sense of influence?

Sel.It does.

Some earthly forms seem rational enough.

Why Ethais, what ails thee? (Ethais staggers.)

Eth.Why, I’m faint

From loss of blood. My wound—here, take this scarf,

And bind it round my arm—so—have a care!

There, that will do till I return to earth;

Then, Lutin, who’s a fairly skillful leech,

Shall doctor it.

Sel. (amazed).Didst thou say Lutin?

Eth.Yes,

He is my squire—a poor, half-witted churl,

Enter Lutin unobserved.

Who shudders at the rustling of a leaf;

A strange, odd, faithful, loving, timid knave;

More dog than man, and, like a well-thrashed hound,

He loves his master’s voice, and dreads it, too.

Why, here he is! (In intense astonishment.)

Lut.Who is this insolent,

A mortal here in fairy land?

Loc.Yes, two!

Lut. Oh, this is outrage!

Eth. (crossing to him).Why, thou scurvy knave,

How cam’st thou here? Thou didst not come with us!

What is the meaning of this masquerade? [Alluding to Lutin’s dress.

Be off at once; if I could use my arm,

I’d whip thee for this freak, but as it is,

I’ll hand thee over to that wife of thine;

Her hand is heavier than mine. (To Sel.) This churl

(So rumor saith) is mated to a shrew;

A handsome, ranting, jealous, clacking shrew;

And he, by means of this tom-fool disguise,

Has ’scaped his home to play the truant here;

Lut. Who are these men?

Sel.The mortal counterparts

Of Ethais and Phyllon. Look at them! (Crosses to Lutin.)

Dost thou not love them?

Lut. (indignantly).No!

Sel.How very strange!

Why we all loved them from the very first.

Lut. Is this indeed the truth?

Dar.It is indeed.

Obedient to our queen’s command, we have

Subdued our natural antipathies.

Zay. They are our guests, all odious though they be,

(Takes Phyllon’s hand.)

And we must bid them welcome to our home,

As if e’en now they were what they will be

When they have seen what we shall be to them. (Kissing his hand.)

Lut. Be warned in time, and send these mortals hence;

Why, don’t you see that in each word they speak,

They breathe of love?

Sel. (enthusiastically).They do!

Lut.Why Love’s the germ

Of every sin that stalks upon the earth:

The brawler fights for love—the drunkard drinks

To toast the girl who loves him, or to drown

Remembrance of the girl who loves him not!

The miser hoards his gold to purchase love.

The liar lies to gain, or wealth, or love;

And if for wealth, it is to purchase love.

The very footpad nerves his coward arm

To stealthy deeds of shame by pondering on

The tipsy kisses of some tavern wench!

Be not deceived—this love is but the seed;

The branching tree that springs from it is Hate!

Dar. (to Eth.) Nay, heed him not. There is a legend here—

An idle tale, that man is infamous,

And he believes it. So, indeed, did we,

Till we beheld you, gallant gentlemen!

Lut. Why, they are raving! Let me go at once

And join my brothers at our monarch’s court;

While they are here this is no place for me.

Zay. (eagerly to Sel.) Let him depart; then we can summon here

His mortal counterpart. (Fairies delighted; Selene expresses indignant surprise, Zayda changes her manner), a poor frail man

No doubt, who stands in very sorest need

Of such good counsel as we can afford.

Sel. Thou speakest wisely. Lutin, get thee gone.

Eth. Be off at once.

Phy.Begone, thou scurvy knave!

Thy wife shall hear of this—she’ll punish thee.

Lut. Oh, moral plague! oh, walking pestilence!

Oh, incarnation of uncleanliness!

You call me knave! Why, hark ye men of sin.

You’ve kings and queens upon that world of yours,

To whom you crawl in apt humility;

Well, sir, there’s not an emperor on earth

Who would not kiss the dust I tread upon,

And I’m the meanest here. Good day to you.

[Exit Lutin.

Eth. (following him angrily, is restrained by Selene).

The fellow’s crazed—heed not his rhapsodies,

Thou dost not credit him?

Sel.And if I do,

What matters it? Be all he says thou art,

And I will worship thee for being so;

Thou art my faith—whate’er my Ethais does

Is ever hallowed by his doing it;

Thy moral law is mine—for thou art mine:

Rob, and I’ll scoff at honor; kill—I’ll kill;

Be perjured, and I’ll swear by perjury;

Ay, be thou false to me, and I’ll proclaim

That man forsworn who loves but one alone!

My soul is thine—whate’er my faith may be,

I’ll be its herald; if thou hast no faith,

I’ll be the high priest of thine unbelief!

Thy wisdom’s mine; thy folly’s thine—

Eth.Hush! hush!

Why this is madness!

Sel.Yes, for this is Love!

Selene kneels at Ethais’ feet.

ACT II.

Scene, same as Act I.

[Darine, Zayda, Leila, Locrine, other Fairies, and Neodie discovered anxiously watching the entrance to Selene’s bower.]

Dar. Still, still Selene watches Ethais!

For six long hours has she detained the knight

Within the dark recesses of her bower,

Under pretense that his unhappy wound

Demands her unremitting watchfulness!

(Indignantly.) This, fairies, is our queen!—the sinless soul

To whose immaculate pre-eminence

We pure and perfect maidens of the air

Accord our voluntary reverence!

Zay. Her conduct is an outrage on her sex!

Was it for this that we proposed to her

That we should bring these mortals to our land?

Is this the way to teach this erring man

The moral beauties of a spotless life?

To teach him truths that now he wots not of?

Surely this knight might well have learnt on earth

Such moral truths as she is teaching him.

Enter Selene from bower, Darine retires up.

Lei. At last she comes! (to Selene). We are well pleased to find

That, after such a lengthy vigil, thou

Canst tear thyself away from Ethais!

Sel. Yes, dearest sister, he is calmer now.

(To Zay.) Oh! this has been a fearful night for him;

Not for one moment have I left his side!

Zay. Poor Ethais! Believe us, sister dear,

He has our heartfelt pity.

Sel.All night long

He tossed and raved in wild delirium;

Shouting for arms, and, as it seemed to me,

Fighting his fight with Phyllon o’er again,

At length, as morning broke, he fell asleep,

And slept in peace till half an hour ago.

I watched him through the long and troubled night,

Fanning the fever from his throbbing brow,

Till he awoke. At first he gazed on me

In silent wonderment; then, suddenly

Seizing my hand, he pressed it to his lips,

And swore that I had saved him from the grave—

Mark that—the grave! I—I had saved his life!

He told me that he loved me—loved me well;

That I was fairer than the maids of earth—

That I had holy angel-eyes, that rained

A gentle pity on his stubborn heart—

(He called it stubborn, for he knew it not);

That I was fairer, in his worldly eyes,

Than all the maids on earth or in the clouds!

(Darine, who has listened with intense anxiety to this speech, goes off silently, but in an agony of grief.)

Zay. (spitefully). Could any words more eloquently show

The recklessness of his delirium?

Sel. (surprised). Nay, he was conscious then.

Neo. (very kindly).Of course he was!

No doubt, Selene, thou hast gained his love.

Be happy in it, dearest sister; but

In thy proud triumph, love, pray recollect

He had not seen us!

Zay.Thou hast wisely done

To keep him from our sight. Cage thou thy bird,

Or he may fly to fairer homes than thine.

Sel. (amazed). What mean you, sisters? Nay, turn not away—

What have I done?

Loc. (very spitefully).Indeed we do not know;

But, lest we should affect his love for thee,

We will at once withdraw.

[Exit Locrine, bowing ironically.

Lei. (with freezing politeness).Good-day to you!

Neo. Good-day!

Zay.Good-day. Remember—cage thy bird!

[Exit.

Sel. How strangely are my sisters changed to me!

Have I done wrong? No, no, I’m sure of that.

The knight was sorely stricken—he had died

But for my willing care. Oh! earthly love,

Thou mighty minister of good or ill,

Is it for good or ill that thou art here?

Art thou an element of happiness,

Or an unwieldy talisman that I,

In heedlessness, have turned against myself?

“He had not seen them,”—so my sister spake;

Yes, truly, there are fairer forms than mine.

He shall not see them! Oh! I am unjust.

Hath he not told me that I have his love?

There is no treachery in those brave eyes:

There is no falsehood in that gallant heart!

But still—he had not seen them. Oh, for shame!

Can love and doubt reign ever side by side?

No, Ethais, love is the death of doubt.

I love thee, Ethais, and doubt thee not!

Still it were better that he saw but me.

(Ethais has entered unperceived from bower and overheard the last three lines. He is very pale and weak, and his arm is in a sling.)

Eth. Selene, I am weak—give me thine hand.

Sel. My love, thou shouldst not yet have left thy couch!

Come—thou hast need of rest.

Eth.No, let me stay.

The air revives me—I am strong again.

And so, thou trustest me?

Sel.In truth I do! (Sits by his side.)

Although I can not tell thee whence proceeds

This strange, irrational belief in thee—

Thee, whom I hardly know.

Eth.Is that so strange?

I see no marvel!

Sel.Nay, my love, reflect,

I am a woman, and thou art a man;

Well, thou art comely—so, in truth, am I;

We meet and love each other—that’s to say,

I am prepared to give up all I have,

My home, my very fairyhood for thee;

Thou to surrender riches, honor, life,

To please the fleeting fancies of my will.

And why?

Because I see in thee, or thou in me,

Astounding virtue, brilliant intellect,

Great self-denial, venerable years,

Rare scholarship, or godly talent? No!

Because, forsooth, we’re comely specimens—

Not of our own, but Nature’s industry!

Eth. The face is the true index of the mind,

A ready formula, whereby to read

The lesson of a lifetime in a glance.

Sel. (in wonder). Then, Ethais, is perfect comeliness

Always identified with moral worth?

Eth. The comeliest man is the most virtuous—

That’s an unfailing rule.

Sel.Then, Ethais,

There is no holier man on earth than thou!

My sisters, Ethais, are sadly changed

By the strange power that emanates from thee.

They love thee as I love thee!

Eth. (aside).Do they so!

I’faith they shall not love their love in vain!

Sel. I tell thee this that thou mayst shun them, lest

By crafty scheme and subtly planned device,

They steal thee from thy mistress unawares.

Eth. (laughing). No fear of that! Laugh all their schemes to scorn,

Treat them with the contempt such jades deserve.

I do not seek them.

Sel.Does the miser treat

The thief who seeks his treasure with contempt,

Because his treasure does not seek the thief?

No, Ethais, I’ll hide my gold away!

Take thou this ring—it is a pledge of love (giving him a ring).

Wear it until thy love fades from thy soul.

Eth. ’Twill never fade while thou art true to me.

Sel. (amazed). Are women ever false to such as thou?

Eth. Are women ever true? Well, not to me.

(Aside.) Nor I to them; and so we square accounts!

Sel. Then thou hast been deceived?

Eth.A dozen times.

Sel. How terrible!

Eth.Yes, terrible indeed!

Ah, my Selene, picture to thyself

A man—linked for his life to one he loves.

She is his world—she is the breath he breathes;

In his fond eyes the type of purity.

Well, she is false—all women are—and then

Come tidings of his shame, the damning words,

“I love another, I have cheated thee.”

At first it can not be, it is a dream;

And when by slow procession, step by step,

He sees in it the waking from a dream,

His heavy heart stands still—he dies a death,

A momentary death—to wake again

Into a furious life of hot revenge;

His hand against all men; his maddened tongue

Calling down curses on his cheated self;

On him who stole her love, on all but her

Who has called down this crowning curse on him!

To find her love a lie, her kiss a jest,

Her cherished bywords a cold mockery—

Oh, there are words

For other agonies, but none for this!

Sel. And thou hast suffered this?

Eth. (bitterly).I have indeed!

Sel. And how long does this bitter anguish last?

Eth. Well, in a very serious case, all night!

Next day a fairer face, a nobler form,

A purer heart, a gentler maidenhood,

Will set him dreaming as he dreamt before

Until the time for waking comes again;

And so the round of love runs through our lives!

Sel. But these are earthly maidens, Ethais—

My love is purer than a mortal’s love.

Eth. Thine is no mortal love if it be pure.

Sel. (horrified). Then, mortal Ethais, what love is thine?

Eth. (taken aback). I spake of women—men are otherwise.

Sel. Man’s love is pure, invariably?

Eth.Pure?

Pure as thine own!

Sel.Poor, trusting, cheated souls!

[Exeunt together into bower.

Enter Darine, who has overheard the last few lines.

Dar. She leads him willingly into her bower!

Oh! I could curse the eyes that meet his eyes,

The hand that touches his hand, and the lips

That press his lips! And why? I can not tell!

Some unknown fury rages in my soul,

A mean and miserable hate of all,[Enter Phyllon unobserved.

Who interpose between my love and me!

What devil doth possess me?

Phy.Jealousy!

Dar. Perhaps—what matters how the fiend is called?

Phy. But wherefore art thou jealous? Tell me, now,

Have I done aught to cause this jealousy?

Dar. Thou! Dost thou love me?

Phy.Love thee? Tenderly!

I love all pretty girls, on principle.

Dar. But is thy love an all-possessing love?

Mad, reckless, unrestrained, infuriate,

Holding thy heart within its iron grasp,

And pressing passion from its very core?

Phy. (surprised). Oh, yes!

Dar.Alas! poor stricken, love-sick knight!

Phyllon, my love is such a love as thine,

But it is not for thee! Oh, nerve thyself,

I have ill tidings for thee, gentle knight!

I love thee not!

Phy.Indeed?

Dar.Is it not strange?

Phy. Most unaccountable.

Dar. (disappointed).But tell me, now.

Art thou not sorely vexed?

Phy. (quietly).Unspeakably.

Dar. But thou’lt forgive me? Tell me Phyllon, now,

That I am pardoned!

Phy.That, indeed, thou art.

Dar. (hurt). Phyllon, hadst thou despised my proffered love,

I’d not have pardoned thee!

Phy.No, women don’t.

Dar. (impatiently). But dost thou understand? I love thee not.

I, whom thou lovest, Phyllon, love thee not—

Nay, more, I love another—Ethais!

Thou hast a rival, and a favored one.

Dost thou not hear me?

Phy. (surprised).Yes; I’m deeply pained.

Dar. (delighted). Thou art?

Phy. Of course. What wouldst thou have me do?

Dar. Do? Hurl thyself headlong to yonder earth,

And end at once a life of agony!

Phy. Why should I!

Dar.Why? Because I love thee not!

Why if I loved and found my love despised,

The universe should ring with my laments;

And were I mortal, Phyllon, as thou art,

I would destroy myself!

Phy.Ha! ha! If all

Heartbroken lovers took that course, the world

Would be depopulated in a week!

And so thou lovest Ethais?

Dar. (enthusiastically).I do!

Phy. But still (I may be wrong) it seems to me

He’s taken with Selene—

Dar. (furiously).Name her not!

He feigns a love he does not feel, because

She is our queen. He dares not anger her!

Phy. But art thou sure of this?

Dar. (bitterly).Oh! am I sure!

Look in these eyes—they do not burn for thee;

Behold this form—that thou shalt never clasp—

Gaze on these lips—thou shalt not press them, sir!

And tell me, now, that Ethais loves me not!

Oh! had I but the power to heal his wound,

And free him from her hated company!

Phy. Were Lutin here, he would assist thy plan.

Dar. Lutin?

Phy.His henchman, and a cunning leech;

He has a charm—a potent talisman—

A panacea that will heal all wounds;

Fetch him, and Ethais is healed again.

Dar. (aside). The gods have heard me!

(Aloud, suddenly). Oh; insensate knight,

Thou counselest me how to gain his love;

And yet thou lovest me?

Phy.Oh, pardon me,

That was ten minutes since—an age ago!

[Exit.

Dar. Here comes the miserable, mincing jade,

With a fair speech upon her lying lips,

To meet the sister whom her base-born arts

Have robbed of more than life! Oh, hypocrite!

Enter Selene from bower.

Sel. Darine!

Dar. (changing her manner). My sister—my beloved one,

Why, thou art sad; thine eyes are dim with tears!

Say, what hath brought thee grief?

Sel. (with great joy).Darine, my own.

Thou dost not shun me, then?

Dar. (aside).Oh, hypocrite!

(Aloud.) Shun thee, my own Selene? No—not I!

Sel. Bless thee for that! I feared to meet thy face,

For all my loved companions turned from me

With scornful jest and bitter mockery.

Thou—thou—Darine, alone art true to me!

Dar. True to Selene while Selene breathes!

Come—tell me all thy woes.

Sel.My Ethais—

He whom I love so fondly—he is ill,

And I am powerless to heal his wound.

Darine, my love may die!

Dar.What can be done?

Oh, I would give my fairyhood to save

The man thou lovest so—my dearly loved!

But stay, the counterpart of Lutin is

At once his henchman and his cunning leech;

Lutin has left our sphere, (plucking rose from tree)

cast this to earth, (giving it)

And summon mortal Lutin to his aid.

He hath a charm to heal thy lover’s wound.

Sel. Kind Heaven reward thee for thy ready wit,

My sister, thou hast saved both him and me!

My darling sister! (Embracing her.)

Dar. (aside).Oh, thou hypocrite!

Sel. Fair rose, I name thee Lutin, go to earth,

And hither send the mortal counterpart

Of him whose name thou hast, and may the gods

Prosper thy mission! Kiss me, dear Darine, (kissing her)

For thou hast saved my Ethais for me!

[Exit Selene.

Dar. No, not for thee, good sister, for myself!

[Exit Darine.

(Hurried music. Enter Mortal Lutin over edge of precipice, staggering on the stage as if violently impelled from below.)

Lut. What ho! help! help! Where am I? Not on earth,

For I remember that a friendly cloud

Enveloped me, and whirled me through the air,

Just as my fair, but able-bodied, wife,

Began to lay my staff about my ears!

[Enter Neodie, Leila, Locrine, and others.

Can this be death, and has she killed me? (Sees them) Well,

If I be dead, and if this be the place

In which I’m doomed to expiate my sins,

Taking my sins all round, I’m bound to say

It might have been considerably worse!

Loc. (approaching him with great delight).

Why, this is Lutin’s mortal counterpart!

Neo. How quaint! How gloriously rugged?

Lei.Yes!

Such character and such expression!

All. (admiring him).Yes!

Lut. By some mistake my soul has missed its way,

And slipped into Mahomet’s Paradise!

Neo. No, this is fairy-land. See, there’s the earth

From which we summoned thee. These are the clouds.

Thou art not angry with us?

Lut.Angry? No!

I’m very well up here!

Loc.Then thou shalt stay!

Neo. Oh, tell me, are there many men on earth

As fair and pleasant to the eye as thou?

Lut. Not many, though I have met one or two

Who run me pretty close.

Neo.Tell us their names.

Lut. Well, let me see, Sir Phyllon has been thought

A personable man; then Ethais

He’s fairly well.

Neo.But these are handsome men—

We love thee for thy rugged homely face;

Oh, we are sated with mere comeliness,

We have so much of that up here! (rises) I love

A homely face!

Lut.I quite agree with you.

What do a dozen handsome men imply?

A dozen faces cast in the same mold,

A dozen mouths all lip for lip the same.

A dozen noses all of equal length?

But take twelve plain men, and the element

Of picturesque variety steps in,

You get at once unlooked-for hill and dale—

Odd curves and unexpected points of light,

Pleasant surprises—quaintly broken lines;

All very pleasant, whether seen upon

The face of nature or the face of man.

[Enter Zayda.

Loc. But stay—thou shouldst be faint, for lack of food!

Neo. Nay, let me minister unto his wants!

Zay. Then go, beloved sisters, gather fruits.

And bring them here to him. Such frugal fare

Will have a daintier flavor than its own

When served by such fair hands! (Kissing them.)

[Exeunt Locrine, Neodie, and others.

Zay. (suddenly).We are alone!

One word of caution—shun my sisters all!

Lut. Are all those lovely girls your sisters?

Zay.Yes

Rejoice that they are not thine own.

Lut.I do.

I very much prefer them as they are!

You’re a fine family.

Zay.Fair to the eye;

But take good heed—they are not what they seem!

Locrine, the fair, the beautiful Locrine,

Is the embodiment of avarice!

She seeks your gold.

Lut.I’m much obliged to her;

I’ll give her half she finds and thank her too!

Zay. Darine is vain beyond comparison;

Neodie is much older than she looks;

Camilla hath defective intellect;

Ena’s a bitter shrew; Colombe’s a thief;

And, last and worst of all—I blush to own,

Our queen Selene hath a tongue that stabs—

A traitor-tongue, that serves no better end

Than wag a woman’s character away!

Lut. I’ve stumbled into pretty company!

It seems you fairies have your faults!

Zay.Alas!

All but myself. My soul is in my face;

I—only I—am what I seem to be;

I—only I—am worthy to be loved;

(confidentially). If thou wilt love me I will dower thee

With wealth untold, long years and happy life,

Thou gallant churl—thou highly polished boor—

Thou pleasant knave—thou strange epitome

Of all that’s rugged, quaint and picturesque!

Lut. You don’t take long in coming to the point.

Zay. Forgive my clumsy and ill chosen words;

We gentle, simple fairies never loved

Until to-day.

Lut.And when you do begin,

You fairies make up for the time you’ve lost!

(The Fairies enter with fruit. He sits up. They group about him.)

Neo. Hast thou a wife?

Lut.Well, yes—that is—down there—

Up here I am a bachelor—as yet.

Zay. (offended). As yet! Be good enough to recollect

That we are good, and pure, and maidenly—

So prithee guard that errant tongue of thine.

Loc. And does she love thee?

Lut.Humph—we do fall out—

We did to-day.

Neo.And how came that about? (All anxious to know.)

Lut. Why thus—to tell the truth—between ourselves—

There was a lady in the case.

Zay. (apart, much shocked).Hush—hush—

Confine thyself to matters that relate

To thine own sex. Thy master, Ethais—

He fought with Phyllon—what was that about? (Crossing to Lutin.)

Lut. Oh, it’s the old, old story!

Loc.Tell it.

Lut.Well,

There was a lady in the case!

Zay.Then, stop—

Go on to something else—Where wast thou born?

Lut. Why, in Bulgaria—some years ago—

(whispering) There was a lady in that case!

Zay. (severely).It seems

There is a lady, sir, in every case.

Lut. In all these cases they do interfere!

Enter Darine unobserved.

Loc. And, Lutin, is thy wife as fair as thou?

Lut. I thought her pretty till I looked on thee.

Zay. Her hair?

Lut.Is bright—but not as bright as thine.

Loc. Her figure?

Lut.Neat and graceful of its kind,

But lacks thy pleasant plumpness. Then, besides,

She has a long loud tongue, and uses it—

A stout and heavy hand—and uses that;

And large expressive eyes—and uses them!

Zay. And does she know that thou art here with us?

Lut. No—that’s the joke! No—that’s the best of it!

The gods forbid she ever should know that!

She is so plaguey jealous!

Loc.Is she so?

How is the lady called?

Lut.Her name’s Darine.

Dar. (coming forward). So I have found thee, Lutin.

Lut. (aghast).Can it be?

My wife!

Zay.Thy wife? This is Darine!

Lut.I know!

(They detain him). Be quiet—don’t—oblige me—let me go!

Do not suppose, my love, that these bold girls

Are friends of mine.

Dar.Come, I would speak with thee—

Lut. Allow me to explain.

Dar.Attend to me.

Say, dost thou love thy master, Ethais?

Lut. My master? Yes, most surely!

Dar. (earnestly).So do I!

Madly, unreasonably, recklessly. (Lutin much taken aback)

Love him with all the passion of a heart

That love has never kindled till to-day!

Thou, only thou, canst help me, noble sir.

The gods, the gods have sent thee to my aid!

Lut. Have they? In doing so the gods have not

Displayed their usual talent for intrigue.

O, thou abandoned woman!

Dar.Hear me, sir!

My Ethais is wounded in the arm,

Thou hast a remedy of wondrous power,

A charmèd remedy. Give it to me,

That I may work his cure.

Lut.Upon my soul,

Cure him for thee! This is a cool request!

Dar. But why not heal thy master’s wound?

Lut.Because,

Under the circumstances, I prefer

My master wounded to my master well,

For when he’s well, he’s very well indeed!

(Aside) But stay—here is an essence that will drown

His soul in sleep till I awaken him (taking bottle from pocket).

Shall I? I will! He’ll be much safer so!

(Aloud) There, take the charm, and heal thy Ethais!

Dar. A thousand thanks! Now he indeed is mine!

Lut. Oh! this is inconceivable! Come here (Fairies advance),

D’ ye see these maidens, madam? Hitherto

Thou hast been jealous, but without good cause;

But now I’ll give thee cause for jealousy;

I’ll pass my time with them—d’ye hear? with them—

They’re very pleasant, unaffected girls;

I like them very much, and they like me—

I’ll play the very devil with their hearts,

And let them play the very deuce with mine!

Dar. Do so; I’ll not detain thee from thy loves—

See how impatiently they wait for thee;

Go—while the happy hours away with them.

Lut. Is this thy jealousy, abandoned girl?

Dar. (surprised). Jealous of thee? Good sir, I love thee not!

Lut. You don’t!

Dar.No, no—I love Sir Ethais;

And when I’ve healed his wound, sheer gratitude

Will wake his soul to love!

Lut.If he drinks that

Sheer gratitude won’t wake him. After all (looking at Fairies who are endeavoring to persuade him to accompany them.)

Six pretty Zaydas to one Ethais—

He fast asleep, and they all wide awake,

Egad, I’ve six to one the best of that!

[Exeunt Lutin and Fairies.

Dar. He comes! At last I shall behold my love!

[Enter Ethais from bower.

(Tenderly.) How fares Sir Ethais?

Eth.Why grievously.

I am no leech, and can not dress my wound,

I’m sick and faint from pain and loss of blood.

Dar. (aside). How shall I work my end? I have a plan!

Oh, powers of impudence defend me now!

(Aloud). Sir Ethais, if Phyllon’s words be true,

Thy wound is but a scratch.

Eth.A scratch, forsooth!

The devil’s nails could hardly scratch so deep.

Dar. He says—I don’t believe him—but he says

That thou hast magnified its character,

Because thou fearest to renew the fight.

He says thou art a coward!

Eth. (furiously).By my blood,

He shall atone for that! Did he say this

To thee?

Dar.Ay, sir, to me—a minute since.

Eth. Oh, Phyllon! Coward? Why, a dozen times

We two have fought our battles side by side;

And I’m to quail and blanch, forsooth, because

We two, at last, are fighting face to face?

Oh, curses on the wound! Were Lutin here,

My sword-arm soon would be in gear again.

Dar. Lutin is here.

Eth. (amazed).Here? Lutin?

Dar.Yes. Behold! (Shows flask.)

I have obtained this precious charm from him.

Now, knight, to prove thy mettle!

Eth. (furiously).Give it me—

Give me the flask!

Dar.One moment, Ethais.

This flask is precious, and it hath a price.

Eth. Name thou thy price, and I will give it thee.

Take money, jewels, armor, all I have,

So that thou leavest me one trusty sword!

Dar. No, Ethais, I do not want thy wealth,

I want thy love—yes, Ethais, thy love;

That priceless love that thou hast lavished on

My worthless sister.

Eth.On Selene?

Dar.Yes,

Thou lovest her—and dost thou think that I

Will save thy life for her?

Eth.Selene? Bah!

True, she is fair. Well, thou art also fair.

What does it matter—her fair face or thine?

What matters either face—or hers or thine—

When weighed against this outrage on my fame?

Dar. Give me this ring, and thou shalt have the charm.

Eth. ’Tis thine. And now, Sir Phyllon, take good heed!

Enter Selene from bower.

Sel. Darine! Thou here, alone with Ethais!

No, no. I will not doubt—

Dar.Doubt whom thou wilt!

Thou hypocrite! thou shameless hypocrite!

Thou wretched victim of thine own designs.

Sel. Darine, what dost thou mean?

Enter Fairies.

Dar.Doubt all of us,

For we are false to thee as thou to us.

I am as thou hast made me, hypocrite!

Sel. Thou art to me as thou hast ever been,

Most dearly loved of all these dearly loved.

Dar. Away! Thou art the source of all our ill;

For though we counseled thee to do the deed

That brought this blight upon our innocence,

’Twas but a test, and thou hast bent to it!

Zay. Oh, miserable woman, get thee hence!

Thou art no queen of ours!

Loc.Away with her!

Down with the traitress queen!
(Selene turns from one to another—all turn away from her.)

Sel.So let it be.

Yes, thou hast rightly said—I had a trust.

I have forsaken it. Through my default,

The taint of earth has fallen on our land.

Mine was the sin—be mine the punishment.

Well-loved Darine, take thou this diadem:

Wear it more worthily than I. (Places her coronet on Darine.)

Behold

How royally it rests upon her brow!

My gentle sisterhood, behold your queen! (Fairies bow.)

Let her fair face and form untainted yet

By the iniquity of my default,

Recall the loved Darine of yesterday—

The gentle, loving, maidenly Darine—

Who would have been that loved Darine to-day,

But for my erring deed. Oh, shame on me!

Thou art as I have made thee. Who am I

That I should judge my sister? I am loved;

But had I lost that love, should I have borne

My loss more patiently than thou? Alas!

Thou, I, and all, are now as mortals are.

Dar. So may I fall if I forsake my trust.

Thy punishment is just. Thou wast a queen—

What art thou now?

Sel.I have a kingdom yet!

I have a kingdom here—in Ethais’ heart.

A kingdom? Nay, a world—my world—my world!

A world where all is pure, and good, and brave;

A world of noble thought and noble deed;

A world of brave and gentle chivalry;

A very goodly and right gallant world;—

This is my kingdom—for I am its queen!

Dar. Thou art no queen of his, for he is mine.

Aye, by the token that thou gavest him (shows ring),

Thou fond and foolish maiden!

Sel. (Looking at it).No, no, no!

It is a counterfeit—no, no, Darine!

The punishments of Heaven are merciful. (Takes Ethais’s hand to kiss it; she sees that the ring is not there.)

Oh, Ethais!

Is that the ring with which I plighted thee?

Eth. Ay, that’s the bauble. I have naught to say.

Sel. (To Dar.) It fell from him—where didst thou find it, speak?

Eth. I sold it for a charm that I might have

An arm to flog a lying cur withal;

A traitor devil, whose false breath had blurred

My knightly honor, dearer to my heart

Than any love of woman—hers or thine!

I had no choice—my honor was at stake.

Sel. Thine honor! Thou dost well to speak of that.

Can devils take the face and form of gods?

Are truth and treachery so near akin

That one can wear the other’s countenance?

Are all men such as thou? Or art thou not

Of thine accursed race the most accursed?

Why, honorable sir, thou art a knight

That wars with womankind! Thy panoply

A goodly form, smooth tongue, and fair false face.

Thy shield a lie; thy weapon an embrace;

The emblem of thy skill a broken heart!

Thine is a gallant calling, Ethais—

Thou manly knight—thou soul of chivalry—

Thou most discreet and prudent warrior!

(He approaches her.) Away, and touch me not! My nature’s gone.

May Heaven rain down her fury on thy soul!

May every fiber in that perjured heart

Quiver with love for one who loves thee not!

May thine untrammeled soul at last be caught,

And fixed and chained and riveted to one

Who, with the love of heaven upon her lips,

Carries the hate of hell within her heart!

Thou phantom of the truth—thou mimic god—

Thou traitor to thine own unhappy soul—

Thou base apostate to the lovely faith,

That thou hast preached with such false eloquence,

I am thine enemy! (To her sisters.) Look on your work,

My gentle sisters. (They look in horror.) Are ye not content?

Behold! I am a devil, like yourselves!

ACT III.

Scene, same as Acts I. and II.

Lutin discovered sitting, in deep dejection. Zayda is at his feet trying to arouse him. Ethais is lying insensible at entrance to bower, covered with a mantle.

Zay. Come, Lutin, speak to me—for hours in vain

I’ve sought to wean thee from thine inner self;

I’ve sung in vain to thee—thou wilt not sing—

Lut. I can not sing.

Zay.Or dance?

Lut.I do not dance.

Zay. Then let us float on yonder silver stream (they rise),

Or plunge headlong into its mossy depths,

And wander, hand in hand, from grot to grot;

Or, if thou wilt, I’ll whirl thee through the air,

And light with thee on yon tall pinnacle.

Come, Lutin—take my hand, and we’ll away!

Lut. Don’t be ridiculous! I do not fly!

You’re very good—you mean it well, I know—

But I’ve no taste for such alarming joys.

I can’t help thinking of my lost Darine,

She was so much too good for me, and now

I am so much too good for her!

Zay.Alas!

Dost thou love her?

Lut.I can’t help loving her.

Zay. Dismiss the worthless creature from thy thoughts.

I know her well—she don’t deserve thy love!

She always was a very wicked girl.

Lut. Wicked? The best of women!

Zay. (maliciously).So she seemed.

Lut. She had her faults, I know.

Zay.She hath a soul

In which hypocrisy, intemperance,

Hate, envy, vanity, untruthfulness

Run riot at their will!

Lut. (astonished).You don’t say so?

I’d no idea of this—(weeping)

Zay.As for her crimes—

Lut. Tell me the worse at once!

Zay.The worst? No, that

Would be too cruel—but—bigamy’s the best!

Lut. What! Bigamy! Has she two husbands, then?

Zay. Two? Half-a-dozen!

Lut.What!

Zay.Why even now

She seeks to add a seventh to her list!

Sir Ethais—

Lut.Ah, there I’ve thwarted her.

Enter Darine, who goes to Ethais. She overhears what follows.

I have a potion that will heal his wounds;

She begged it of me, but I cheated her,

And put into her hands a sleeping draught.

By this time he’s as helpless as the dead,

And she may shout until she wakes the dead,

Before she wakes him!

(Darine comes forward. Exit Zayda, in terror.)

Dar. (down).Why, thou envious churl—

Thou wanton trifler with the purest fire

That ever burnt in love-sick woman’s breast,

Why hast thou done this thing?

Lut.She does not quail

Beneath her injured Lutin’s outraged eye, (she goes up to Ethais)

But calmly asks him why he’s done this thing!

Dar. Say, is he dead? Come—answer quickly!

Lut.Well,

He’s dead to all intents and purposes.

Dar. How has he injured thee?

Lut.He hasn’t as yet;

And I’ll take care he don’t!

Dar.Oh, misery!

In half-an-hour my brothers will be here;

In half-an-hour he must return to earth! (Referring to Ethais)

Awake, insensate knight—arouse thee, dolt!

I—I, Darine, am waiting here for thee.

Dost thou not hear me? Ethais, awake!

Lut. Oh—shout away!

Dar.Oh! I will be revenged!

(To Lutin). I know not why thou wagest bitter war

Against my unoffending happiness;

But I will thwart thy schemes. Sir Phyllon comes! [Enter Phyllon.

Come hither, Phyllon—come to me, fair knight!

Say, dost thou love me still?

Phy.Indeed I do!

Dar. (To Lutin.) Thou hearest him—he loves me!

(To Phyll.) Tenderly?

Phy. Most tenderly! (Embracing her.)

Dar.He loves most tenderly!

He is awake!

Lut.Yes, much too wide awake!

Disreputable woman, let him be!

Unhand this lady!

Dar.Why, thou selfish knave,

May I love nobody on earth but thee?

Lut. Of course you may not!

Dar. Go, sir, get thee gone!

There are fair maids enough awaiting thee;

I do not interfere ’twixt thee and them.

Lut. Well no, to do you justice, you do not!

I do not want them. I’m a married man!

What married man cares twopence for intrigues

At which his wife connives?

Phy.Is this thy wife?

Lut. I blush to say she is!

Dar. (amazed).I am thy wife!

Oh, monstrous! Stay, there has been some mistake,

Some dreadful error! See, I’ve found a clew!

No doubt I am her fairy prototype,

In face resembling her, but that is all.

Lut. Then thou art not my wife?

Dar.Not I, indeed! (Lutin kisses her.)

I am a fairy. Be thou reassured;

Thy wife is on the earth (kisses her again)—Give me the charm

To cure my Ethais, and sit thee down (he gives it to her),

And I will send for Zayda and Locrine,

And thou shalt talk of love to both of them.

Lut. Well no—upon the whole—I’d rather not.

(Darine administers the potion to Ethais, who gradually revives.)

I have reformed, Darine, and had I not,

I don’t think I could talk to them of love

With all the eloquence the theme deserves,

In the distracting company of one,

Who, if she’s not in point of fact my wife,

Is so uncomfortably like my wife,

That she may be my wife for aught I know;

And more than that, I can’t stand tamely by

And notice with uninterested gaze

A lady, who’s so very like my wife,

Hanging on everybody’s neck but mine.

Don’t send for Zayda—I’m a married man!

[Exit.

Dar. He wakes! He lives—my own, own Ethais!

Eth. (awaking). Why—where am I? Have I then been asleep?

Dar. Indeed thou hast! See, thou must soon return

To yonder earth—I’ve much to say to thee.

Eth. But how came I to sleep? I recollect!

Thou gavest me a potion, and I—(Sees Phyllon)

Ha! (Flies at his throat.)

So I’m a cur, Sir Liar, and my wound

Is but a scratch which I have magnified

That I might shun the terrors of thy sword!

Phy. Hands off, thou drunken madman! Set me free.

I never said these things!

Eth.Thou craven cur,

Dost thou then fear to reap before my face

The crop that thou hast sown behind my back?

Thy life shall pay for this!

Phy. (contemptuously).I am not wont

To weigh the words I speak to such as thou.

No need to taint thine honor with a lie.

Why, Ethais, the truth is black enough;

I know thee as a brawling tavern bully,

A hollow friend—a cruel unsparing foe—

A reckless perjurer—a reprobate—

The curse of woman and the scourge of man! (Shaking him off.)

Is not the truth enough, that I should grudge

The one brute-virtue of thy satyr-soul—

The instinct courage of a hungry dog!

Eth. (with suppressed fury).

I’ll place these charges to the long account

That I’ve to settle when we go below!

(To Dar.) Didst thou not tell me he had said these things?

Dar. I did, indeed!

Phy.And by what warrant, pray?

Dar. It was an artifice to gain thy love. (To Ethais.)

Has man monopoly of lover’s lies?

Forgive me, Phyllon—

Phy.Bah? Release my hand,

Thou shameless woman—I have done with thee.

[Exit Phyl.

Dar. Oh! Ethais, be not enraged with me—

Think of my love—

Eth.The devil take thy love—

I’ll none of it! Begone! See, hither comes

The woman that thy bitter lie hath wronged.

Hast thou the heart to stand before her?

Dar.No!

[Exit.

Enter Selene from bower.

Sel. Thou here? and with Darine!

Eth.Stay, hear me out!

It’s true I’ve trifled with thy love, but then

Thy love is not as mortal woman’s love.

I did not know that it would move thee thus?

Sel. Thou didst not know!

Art thou so dull that thou canst understand

No pain that is not wreaked upon thy frame?

Hast thou no knowledge of the form of woe

That comes of cheated hopes and trampled hearts?

To find thy love a lie, thy kiss a jest,

The bywords of thy love a mockery?

Oh, there are words

For other agonies, but none for this!

Eth. Nay, hear me! I have wronged thee bitterly—

I will atone for all!

Sel.Thou shalt atone;

I’ll be the curse of thy remaining years!

Harkye, Sir Knight, I’ll yield my fairyhood

That I may go to yonder earth, and join

The whispering sisterhood of hidden hate.

The busy band who bear within their lips

The deadliest weapon of earth’s armory:

A blighting tongue—a woman’s blighting tongue!

I will so deftly wield this talisman

To twist and turn and torture good to ill,

That were it in thee to amend thy ways,

Turn anchorite, and yield to holy deeds

Of peace and prayer, goodwill and charity,

Thy holiness should seem an infamy,

Thy peace a war, thy charity a theft,

Thy calm a fury, and thy prayer a curse!

Eth. Stay thine unholy tongue—go thou to earth,

And learn that that which thou hast undergone—

All women undergo.

Sel.Am I as they?

I am immortal. Can a few brief years

Of bitter shame and bitter sorrow weigh

Against an immortality of woe?

A mortal’s love is framed to last a life.

But my love to outlive eternity,

Blind mortal, as Eternity to Time—

So is my wrong to theirs!

Enter Locrine.

Loc.Selene, see,

Through the far distant air, with rapid flight,

Our absent brothers wing their way to us;[Enter Zayda and Lutin.

These mortals must return to their own earth!

Lut. Now by my head, but this is welcome news!

Zay. (horrified). Return to earth? No, Lutin; no, not yet.

Life without Lutin! what can that be worth?

Lut. I can not tell you for I never tried.

[Enter Darine and Phyllon struggling.

Nay, seek not to detain me; I have had

Enough of fairy love—I seek my wife.

Phy. Come, Ethais; to earth, to earth again!

Dar. (releasing him). Ay, go, and take thy fellow man with thee
(Lutin and Phyllon descend.)

We want but this to crown our misery!

Ethais, about to follow him, is detained by Selene.

Sel. (suddenly) No! no! Thou shalt not go, thou shalt not go!

My hope—my shattered hope; but still, my hope!

My love—my blighted love; but still, my love!

My life—my ruined life; but still my life!

Forgive me, Ethais: thou hast withdrawn

The very core and substance of thy love.

No matter! give me but the empty husk,

And it will stay the famine of my heart.

I’ll work and toil for thee—I’ll be thy slave,

Thine humble, silent, and submissive slave;

I’ll come but at thy beck—I will not speak,

But at thy word—my Ethais! my love!

(furiously) Nay, but I’ll hold thee back! I have the strength

Of fifty women! See, thou canst not go! (with passionate triumph.)

Nay, but I’ll wrest thy love away from thee,

And fetter it in bondage to my heart.

I will be one with thee; I’ll cling to thee,

And thou shalt take me to that world of thine.

Eth. Take thee to earth? I love the earth too well

To curse it with another termagant.

We have enough of them! Release me, fool!

Man hath no appetite for proffered love!

Away from me, I go to that good world

Where women are not devils till they die!

[Throws off Selene, who falls senseless. He leaps through cloud, and descends. As Ethais disappears, the fairies, who have grouped themselves about the stage in attitudes of despair, gradually seem to wake as from a dream.]

Sel. Where am I? Zayda! Neodie! Darine!

Oh, sisters, I am waking from a dream—

A fearful dream—a dream of evil thoughts,

Of mortal passion and of mortal hate,

I thought that Ethais and Phyllon too

Had gone to mid-earth—

Zay.Nay, it was no dream,

A sad and sorrowful reality!

Yes, we have suffered much—but, Heaven be praised,

These mortal souls have gone to their own earth,

And taken with them the bad influence

That spread like an infection through our ranks.

See! we are as we were! (Embracing her.)

Sel.Darine! Darine!

My well-beloved sister—speak to me!

Dar. I dare not speak to thee—I have no words—

I am ashamed.

Sel.Oh, sister, let that shame

Sit heavily on all—for all have sinned.

Oh, let us lay this lesson to our hearts;

Let us achieve our work with humbled souls,

Free from the folly of self-righteousness.

Behold, is there so wide a gulf between

The humbled wretch who, being tempted, falls,

And that good man who rears an honored head

Because temptation hath not come to him?

Shall we, from our enforced security,

Deal mercilessly with poor mortal man,

Who struggles, single-handed, to defend

The demon-leaguered fortress of his soul?

Shall we not rather (seeing how we fell)

Give double honor to the champion, who

Throughout his mortal peril, holds his own,

E’en though

His walls be somewhat battered in the fight?

Oh let us lay this lesson to our hearts!

Enter Lutin, followed by Ethais and Phyllon, as fairies.

Lut. Your brothers have returned.

Sel. (embracing Ethais).My Ethais!

Eth. Selene—sisters all—rejoice with us,

We bear the promise of a priceless gift,

A source of new and endless happiness! (All eager to know.)

Take every radiant blessing that adorns

Our happy land, and all will pale before

The luster of this precious privilege.

It is—that we may love as mortals love!

Sel. (eagerly). No, no—not that—no Ethais—not that!

It is a deadly snare—beware of it!

Such love is for mankind, and not for us;

It is the very essence of the earth,

A mortal emblem, bringing in its train

The direst passions of its antitype.

No, Ethais—we will not have this love;

Let us glide through our immortality

Upon the placid lake of sister-love,

Nor tempt the angry billows of a sea,

Which, though it carry us to unknown lands,

Is so beset with rocks and hidden shoals,

That we may perish ere our vessel reach

The unsafe haven of its distant shore.

No, Ethais—we will not have this love!

PYGMALION AND GALATEA:

An Original Mythological Comedy,

IN THREE ACTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE: PYGMALION’S STUDIO.

⁂ The action is comprised within the space of twenty-four hours.

PYGMALION AND GALATEA.

ACT I.

Scene: PYGMALION’S STUDIO.

[Several classical statues are placed about the room; at the back a temple or cabinet containing a statue of Galatea, before which curtains are drawn concealing the statue from the audience.]

[Mimos, a slave, is discovered at work on a half finished statue. To him enters Agesimos.]

Ages. (haughtily). Good day. Is this Pygmalion’s studio?

Mim. (bowing). It is.

Ages.Are you Pygmalion?

Mim.Oh, no;

I am his slave.

Ages.And has Pygmalion slaves!

A sculptor with a slave to wait on him:

A slave to fetch and carry—come and go—

And p’raps a whip to thrash him if he don’t!

What’s the world coming to?

Mim.What is your will?

Ages. This: Chrysos will receive Pygmalion

At half-past three to-day; so bid him come.

Mim. And are you Chrysos, sir?

Ages. (disconcerted).Well, no I’m not.

That is, not altogether: I’m, in fact,

His slave.

Mim. (relieved). His slave!

Ages. (very proudly).My name’s Agesimos!

Mim. And has Agesimos a master then,

To bid him fetch and carry—come and go—

And wield a whip to thrash him if he don’t?

What’s the world coming to!

Ages.Poor purblind fool!

I’d sooner tie the sandals of my lord,

Than own five hundred thousand such as you.

Whip! why Agesimos would rather far

Be whipped by Chrysos seven times a day,

Than whip you hence to the Acropolis;

What say you now?

Mim.Why, that upon one point

Agesimos and I are quite agreed.

And who is Chrysos?

Ages.Hear the slave, ye gods!

He knows not Chrysos!

Mim.Verily, not I.

Ages. He is the chiefest man in Athens, sir;

The father of the arts—a nobleman

Of princely liberality and taste,

On whom five hundred starved Pygmalions

May batten if they will.

Enter Pygmalion.

Pyg.Who is this man?

Ages. I’m Chrysos’s slave—my name’s Agesimos.

Chrysos has heard of you: he understands

That you have talent, and he condescends

To bid you call on him. But take good care

How you offend him: he can make or mar.

Pyg. Your master’s slave reflects his insolence!

Tell him from me that, though I’m poor enough,

I am an artist and a gentleman.

He should not reckon Art among his slaves:

She rules the world—so let him wait on her.

Ages. This is a sculptor!

Pyg. (furiously).And an angry one!

Begone, and take my message to your lord.

[Exit Agesimos.

Insolent Hound!

Enter Cynisca.

Cyn.Pygmalion, what’s amiss?

Pyg. Chrysos has sent his slave to render me

The customary tribute paid by wealth

To mere intelligence.

Cyn.Pygmalion!

Brooding on the chartered insolence

Of a mere slave! Dismiss the thought at once.

Come, take thy chisel; thou hast work to do

Ere thy wife-model takes her leave to-day;

In half-an-hour I must be on the road

To Athens. Half-an-hour remains to thee—

Come—make the most of it—I’ll pose myself;

Say—will that do?

Pyg.I can not work to-day.

My hand’s uncertain—I must rest awhile.

Cyn. Then rest and gaze upon thy masterpiece,

’Twill reconcile thee to thyself—Behold!
(Draws curtain and discovers statue of Galatea.)

Pyg. Yes—for in gazing on my handiwork,

I gaze on heaven’s handiwork—thyself!

Cyn. And yet, although it be thy masterpiece,

It has the fault thy patrons find with all

Thy many statues.

Pyg.What then do they say?

Cyn. They say Pygmalion’s statues have one head—

That head, Cynisca’s.

Pyg.So then it’s a fault

To reproduce an hundred thousand fold,

For the advantage of mankind at large,

The happiness the gods have given me!

Well, when I find a fairer head than thine

I’ll give my patrons some variety.

Cyn. I would not have thee find another head

That seemed as fair to thee for all the world!

We’ll have no stranger models if you please,

I’ll be your model, sir, as heretofore,

So reproduce me at your will; and yet

It were sheer vanity in me to think

That this fair stone recalls Cynisca’s face!

Pyg. Cynisca’s face in every line!

Cyn.No, no!

Those outlines softened, angles smoothed away,

The eyebrows arched, the head more truly poised,

The forehead ten years smoother than mine own,

Tell rather of Cynisca as she was

When, in the silent groves of Artemis,

Pygmalion told his love ten years ago:

And then the placid brow, the sweet sad lips,

The gentle head down-bent resignedly,

Proclaim that this is not Pygmalion’s wife,

Who laughs and frowns, but knows no meed between.

I am no longer as that statue is! (Closes curtains.)

Pyg. Why here’s ingratitude, to slander Time,

Who in his hurried course has passed thee by!

Or is it that Cynisca won’t allow

That Time could pass her by, and never pause

To print a kiss upon so fair a face?

Enter Myrine.

Myr. Pygmalion; I have news.

Pyg.My sister, speak.

Myr. (bashfully). Send Mimos hence.

Pyg. (signs to Mimos).Now we are quite alone.

Myr. Leucippe—

Cyn.Well!

Myr. (to Pyg.)He was thy schoolfellow,

And thou and he are brothers save in blood;

He loves my brother as a brother.

Pyg.Yes,

I’m sure of that; but is that all thy news?

There’s more to come!

Myr. (bashfully).He loves thy sister too.

Pyg. Why this is news, Myrine—kiss me girl.

I’m more than happy at thy happiness,

There is no better fellow in the world!

Cyn. But tell us all about it, dear. How came

The awkward, bashful, burly warrior,

To nerve himself to this confession?

Leucippe appears at door.

Myr.Why—

He’s here—and he shall tell thee how it was.

Leuc. In truth I hardly know! I’m new at it;

I’m but a soldier. Could I fight my way

Into a maiden’s heart, why well and good;

I’d get there, somehow. But to talk and sigh,

And whisper pretty things—I can’t do that!

I tried it, but I stammered, blushed, and failed.

Myrine laughed at me—but, bless her heart,

She knew my meaning, and she pulled me through!

Myr. I don’t know how, Pygmalion, but I did.

He stammered, as he tells you, and I laughed;

And then I felt so sorry, when I saw

The great, big, brave Leucippe look so like

A beaten schoolboy—that I think I cried.

And then—I quite forget what happened next,

Till, by some means, we, who had always been

So cold and formal, distant and polite,

Found ourselves—

Leuc.Each upon the other’s neck!

You are not angry? (offering his hand).

Pyg. (taking it).Angry? overjoyed!

I wish I had been there, unseen, to see;

No sight could give me greater happiness!

Leuc. What! say you so? Why then, Myrine, girl,

We’ll reproduce it for his benefit. (They embrace.)

See here, Pygmalion, here’s a group for thee!

Come, fetch thy clay, and set to work on it,

I’ll promise thee thy models will not tire!

Cyn. How now, Leucippe, where’s the schoolboy blush

That used to coat thy face at sight of her?

Leuc. The coating was but thin, we’ve rubbed it off! (Kisses Myrine.)

Pyg. Take care of him, Myrine; thou hast not

The safeguard that protects her. (Indicating Cynisca.)

Myr.What is that?

Cyn. It’s a strange story. Many years ago

I was a holy nymph of Artemis,

Pledged to eternal maidenhood!

Leuc.Indeed!

Myr. How terrible!

Cyn.It seemed not so to me;

For weeks and weeks I pondered steadfastly

Upon the nature of that serious step

Before I took it—lay awake at night,

Looking upon it from this point and that,

And I at length determined that the vow,

Which to Myrine seems so terrible,

Was one that I, at all events, could keep.

Myr. How old wast thou, Cynisca?

Cyn.I was ten!

Well—in due course, I reached eleven, still

I saw no reason to regret the step;

Twelve—thirteen—fourteen saw me still unchanged;

At fifteen, it occurred to me one day

That marriage was a necessary ill,

Inflicted by the gods to punish us,

And to evade it were impiety;

At sixteen the idea became more fixed;

At seventeen I was convinced of it!

Pyg. In the mean time she’d seen Pygmalion.

Myr. And you confided all your doubts to him?

Cyn. I did, and he indorsed them—so we laid

The case before my mistress Artemis;

No need to tell the arguments we used,

Suffice it that they brought about our end.

And Artemis, her icy steadfastness

Thawed by the ardor of Cynisca’s prayers,

Replied, “Go, girl, and wed Pygmalion;

“But mark my words, whichever one of you,

“Or he or she, shall falsify the vow

“Of perfect conjugal fidelity—

“The wronged one, he or she, shall have the power

“To call down blindness on the backslider,

“And sightless shall the truant mate remain

“Until expressly pardoned by the other.”

Leuc. It’s fortunate such powers as thine are not

In universal use; for if they were,

One-half the husbands and one-half the wives

Would be as blind as night; the other half,

Having their eyes, would use them—on each other!

Mimos enters, and gives Pygmalion a scroll, which he reads.

Myr. But then, the power of calling down this doom

Remains with thee. Thou wouldst not burden him

With such a curse as utter sightlessness,

However grievously he might offend?

Cyn. I love Pygmalion for his faithfulness;

The act that robs him of that quality

Will rob him of the love that springs from it.

Myr. But sightlessness—it is so terrible!

Cyn. And faithlessness—it is so terrible!

I take my temper from Pygmalion;

While he is god-like—he’s a god to me,

And should he turn to devil, I’ll turn with him;

I know no half-moods, I am love or hate!

Myr. (to Leuc.) What do you say to that?

Leuc.Why, on the whole

I’m glad you’re not a nymph of Artemis!

[Exeunt Myrine and Leucippe.

Pyg. I’ve brought him to his senses. Presently

My patron Chrysos will be here to earn

Some thousand drachmas.

Cyn.How, my love, to earn?

He is a man of unexampled wealth,

And follows no profession.

Pyg.Yes, he does;

He is a patron of the Arts, and makes

A handsome income by his patronage.

Cyn. How so?

Pyg.He is an ignorant buffoon,

But purses hold a higher rank than brains,

And he is rich; wherever Chrysos buys,

The world of smaller fools comes following,

And men are glad to sell their work to him

At half its proper price, that they may say,

“Chrysos has purchased handiwork of ours.”

He is a fashion, and he knows it well

In buying sculpture; he appraises it

As he’d appraise a master-mason’s work—

So much for marble, and so much for time,

So much for working tools—but still he buys,

And so he is a patron of the Arts!

Cyn. To think that heaven-born Art should be the slave

Of such as he!

Pyg.Well, wealth is heaven-born too.

I work for wealth.

Cyn.Thou workest, love, for fame.

Pyg. And fame brings wealth. The thought’s contemptible,

But I can do no more than work for wealth.

Cyn. Such words from one whose noble work it is

To call the senseless marble into life!

Pyg. Life! Dost thou call that life? (Indicating statue of Galatea.)

Cyn.It all but breathes!

Pyg. (bitterly). 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. (Indicating Galatea.)

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;

If thoughts of love should haply crowd on thee,

There stands my other self; tell them to her;

She’ll listen well. (He makes a movement of impatience.)

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—(draws curtains) There, 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. (Kisses him, and 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—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. Pygmalion!

Pyg.Who called?

Gal.Pygmalion!

[Pyg. 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 for ever, 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 hundred 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 this is 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 consciousness;

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 surrounding 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 by 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 to him.)

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 may live!

Gal. (after a pause). I’m glad I am a woman.

Pyg.So am I. (They sit.)

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 deed or word gave Galatea pain.

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

Pyg. There are, indeed!

Gal.And other women?

Pyg. (taken aback).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 work I know thou lovest me.

Pyg. Indeed, I love thee! (Embraces her.)

Gal.With what kind of love?

Pyg. I love thee (recollecting himself and releasing her)

as a sculptor loves his work!

(aside.) There is a 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 can not 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! (Hands her a mirror.)

Gal. How beautiful! I’m 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 beheld 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 other 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. (disappointed). 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 I’m lovelier than she.

And am I better?

Pyg.That I do not know.

Gal. Then she has faults?

Pyg.But 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. (after a pause). 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. (dryly). 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 can not 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 can not fathom it!

Pyg. (aside). Let me be brave, and put an end to this.

(aloud). Come, Galatea—till my wife returns,

My sister shall provide thee with a home;

Her house is close at hand.

Gal. (astonished and alarmed).Send me not hence,

Pygmalion—let me stay;

Pyg.It may not be.

Come, Galatea, we shall meet again.

Gal. (resignedly). 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!

[During this speech Pygmalion has shown symptoms of irresolution; at its conclusion he takes her in his arms, and embraces her passionately.]

ACT II.

Scene: Same as Act I.

[Pygmalion discovered at work on an unfinished statue.]

Pyg. To-morrow my Cynisca comes to me;

Would that she had never departed hence!

It took a miracle to make me false,

And even then I was but false in thought;

A less exacting wife might be appeased

By that reflection. But Pygmalion

Must be immaculate in every thought,

Even though Heaven’s armaments be ranged

Against the fortress of his constancy!

Enter Myrine, in great excitement.

Myr. Pygmalion!

Pyg.Myrine!

Myr.Touch me not,

Thou hast deceived me, and deceived thy wife!

Who is the woman thou didst send to me

To share my roof last night?

Pyg.Be pacified;

Judge neither of us hastily; in truth

She is pure, as innocent as thou.

Myr. Oh, miserable man—confess the truth!

Disguise not that of which she boasts aloud!

Pyg. Of what then does she boast?

Myr.To all I say

She answers with one parrot-like reply,

“I love Pygmalion”—and when incensed

I tell her that thou hast a cheated wife,

She only says, “I love Pygmalion,

I and my life are his, and his alone!”

Who is this shameless woman, sir? Confess!

Pyg. Myrine, I will tell thee all. The gods,

To punish my expressed impiety,

Have worked a miracle, and brought to life

My statue Galatea!

Myr. (incredulously). Marvelous,

If it be true!

Pyg.It’s absolutely true.

(Myrine opens the curtains and sees the pedestal empty.)

Myr. The statue’s gone! (Galatea appears at door.)

Pyg.The statue’s at the door!

Gal. At last we meet? Oh! my Pygmalion!

What strange, strange things have happened since we met.

Pyg. Why, what has happened to thee?

Gal.Fearful things!

(To Myr.) I went with thee into thine house—

Myr.Well, well.

Gal. And then I sat alone and wept—and wept

A long, long time for my Pygmalion.

Then by degrees, by tedious degrees,

The light—the glorious light!—the god-sent light!

I saw it sink—sink—sink—behind the world!

Then I grew cold—cold—as I used to be,

Before my loved Pygmalion gave me life.

Then came the fearful thought that, by degrees,

I was returning into stone again!

How bitterly I wept and prayed aloud

That it might not be so! “Spare me, ye gods!

Spare me,” I cried, “for my Pygmalion.

A little longer for Pygmalion!

Oh, take me not so early from my love;

Oh, let me see him once—but once again!”

But no—they heard me not, for they are good,

And had they heard, must needs have pitied me;

They had not seen thee, and they did not know

The happiness that I must leave behind.

I fell upon thy couch (To Myrine); my eyelids closed;

My senses faded from me one by one;

I knew no more until I found myself,

After a strange dark interval of time,

Once more upon my hated pedestal,

A statue—motionless—insensible;

And then I saw the glorious gods come down!

Down to this room! the air was filled with them!

They came and looked upon Pygmalion,

And, looking on him, kissed him one by one,

And said, in tones that spoke to me of life,

“We can not take her from such happiness!

Live, Galatea, for his love!” And then

The glorious light that I had lost came back—

There was Myrine’s room, there was her couch,

There was the sun in heaven; and the birds

Sang once more in the great green waving trees,

As I had heard them sing—I lived once more

To look on him I love!

Myr.’Twas but a dream!

Once every day this death occurs to us,

Till thou and I and all who dwell on earth

Shall sleep to wake no more!

Gal.To wake no more?

Pyg. That time must come—may be not yet awhile—

Still it must come, and we shall all return

To the cold earth from which we quarried thee.

Gal. See how the promises of new-born life

Fade from the bright hope-picture, one by one!

Love for Pygmalion, a blighting sin;

His love a shame that he must hide away;

Sleep, stone-like senseless sleep, our natural state;

And life a passing vision born thereof!

How the bright promises fade one by one!

Myr. Why there are many men whom thou may’st love;

But not Pygmalion—he has a wife.

Gal. Does no one love him?

Myr.Certainly—I do.

He is my brother.

Gal.Did he give thee life?

Myr. Why no; but then—

Gal.He did not give thee life,

And yet thou lovest him! And why not I

Who owe my very being to his love?

Pyg. Well, thou may’st love me—as a father.

Myr.Yes;

He is thy father, for he gave thee life.

Gal. Well, as thou wilt; it is enough to know

That I may love thee. Wilt thou love me too?

Pyg. Yes, as a daughter; there, that’s understood.

Gal. Then I am satisfied.

Myr. (aside).Indeed I hope

Cynisca also will be satisfied!

[Exit Myrine.

Gal. (To Pyg.) Thou art not going from me?

Pyg.For a while.

Gal. Oh, take me with thee; leave me not alone

With these cold emblems of my former self! (Alluding to statues.)

I dare not look on them!

Pyg.Leucippe comes,

And he shall comfort thee till I return;

I’ll not be long!

Gal.Leucippe! Who’s he?

Pyg. A valiant soldier.

Gal.What is that?

Pyg.A man,

Who’s hired to kill his country’s enemies.

Gal. (horrified). A paid assassin!

Pyg. (annoyed).Well, that’s rather strong.

There spoke the thoroughly untutored mind;

So coarse a sentiment might fairly pass

With mere Arcadians—a cultured state

Holds soldiers at a higher estimate.

In Athens—which is highly civilized—

The soldier’s social rank is in itself

Almost a patent of nobility.

Gal. He kills! And he is paid to kill!

Pyg.No doubt.

But then he kills to save his countrymen.

Gal. Whether his countrymen be right or wrong?

Pyg. He don’t go into that—it’s quite enough

That there are enemies for him to kill:

He goes and kills them when his orders come.

Gal. How terrible! Why, my Pygmalion,

How many dreadful things thou teachest me!

Thou tellest me of death—that hideous doom

That all must fill; and having told me this—

Here is a man, whose business is to kill:

To filch from other men the priceless boon

That thou hast given me—the boon of life—

And thou defendest him!

Pyg.I have no time

To make these matters clear—but here he comes,

Talk to him—thou wilt find him kind and good,

Despite his terrible profession.

Gal. (in great terror).No!

I’ll not be left with him, Pygmalion. Stay!

He is a murderer!

Pyg.Ridiculous!

Why, Galatea, he will harm thee not:

He is as good as brave. I’ll not be long,

I’ll soon return. Farewell!

[Exit.

Gal.I will obey,

Since thou desirest it; but to be left

Alone with one whose mission is to kill!

Oh, it is terrible!

Enter Leucippe, with a Fawn that he has shot.

Leuc.A splendid shot,

And one that I shall never make again!

Gal. Monster! Approach me not! (Shrinking into corner.)

Leuc.Why, who is this?

Nay, I’ll not hurt thee, maiden!

Gal.Spare me, sir!

I have not done thy country any wrong!

I am no enemy!

Leuc.I’ll swear to that!

Were Athens’ enemies as fair as thou,

She’d never be at loss for warriors.

Gal. Oh miserable man, repent! repent!

Ere the stern marble claim you once again.

Leuc. I don’t quite understand—

Gal.Remember, sir,

The sculptor who designed you, little thought

That when he prayed the gods to give you life,

He turned a monster loose upon the world!

See, there is blood upon those cruel hands!

Oh touch me not!

Leuc. (aside).Poor crazy little girl!

Why—there’s no cause for fear—I’ll harm thee not—

As for the blood, this will account for it (showing Fawn).

Gal. What’s that?

Leuc.A little fawn.

Gal.It does not move!

Leuc. No, for I wounded her.

Gal.Oh, horrible!

Leuc. Poor little thing! ’Twas almost accident;

I lay upon my back beneath a tree,

Whistling the lazy hours away—when lo!

I saw her bounding through a distant glade;

My bow was handy; in sheer wantonness

I aimed an arrow at her, and let fly,

Believing that at near a hundred yards

So small a being would be safe enough,

But, strange to tell, I hit her. Here she is;

She moves—poor little lady! Ah, she’s dead!

Gal. Oh, horrible! oh, miserable man!

What have you done?—(Takes Fawn into her arms)—

Why, you have murdered her!

Poor little thing! I know not what thou art;

Thy form is strange to me; but thou hadst life,

And he has robbed thee of it! (Gives it back to Leuc.)

Get you hence!

Ere vengeance overtake you!

Leuc.Well, in truth,

I have some apprehension on that score.

It was Myrine’s—though I knew it not!

’Twould pain her much to know that it is dead;

So keep the matter carefully from her

Until I can replace it.

[Exit Leucippe with Fawn.

Gal.Get you hence;

I have no compact with a murderer!

Enter Myrine.

Myr. Why, Galatea, what has frightened thee?

Gal. Myrine, I have that to say to thee

That thou must nerve thyself to hear. That man—

The man thou lovest—is a murderer!

Myr. Poor little maid! Pygmalion, ere he left,

Told me that by that name thou didst describe

The bravest soldier that our country owns!

He’s no assassin, he’s a warrior.

Gal. Then what is an assassin?

Myr.One who wars

Only with weak, defenseless creatures. One

Whose calling is to murder unawares.

My brave Leucippe is no murderer.

Gal. Thy brave Leucippe is no longer brave,

He is a mere assassin by thy showing.

I saw him with his victim in his arms,

His wicked hands dyed crimson with her blood!

There she lay, cold and stark—her gentle eyes

Glazed with the film of death. She moved but once,

She turned her head to him and tried to speak,

But ere she could articulate a word

Her head fell helplessly, and she was dead!

Myr. Why, you are raving, girl! Who told you this?

Gal. He owned it; and he gloried in the deed.

He told me how, in arrant wantonness,

He drew his bow, and smote her to the heart!

Myr. Leucippe did all this! Impossible!

You must be dreaming!

Gal.On my life, it’s true.

See, here’s a handkerchief which still is stained

With her life-blood—I stanched it with my hand.

Myr. Who was his victim?

Gal.Nay—I can not tell.

Her form was strange to me—but here he comes;

Oh, hide me from that wicked murderer!

Enter Leucippe.

Myr. Leucippe, can this dreadful tale be true?

Leuc. (to Gal., aside).

Thou should have kept my secret. See, poor girl,

How it distresses her. (To Myr.) It’s true enough,

But Galatea should have kept it close,

I knew that it would pain thee grievously.

Myr. Some devil must have turned Leucippe’s brain!

You did all this?

Leuc.Undoubtedly I did.

I saw my victim dancing happily

Across my field of view—I took my bow,

And, at the distance of a hundred yards,

I sent an arrow right into her heart.

There are few soldiers who could do as much.

Myr. Indeed, I hope that there are very few.

Oh, miserable man!

Leuc.That’s rather hard.

Congratulate me rather on my aim,

Of which I have some reason now to boast;

As for my victim—why, one more or less,

What does it matter? There are plenty left!

And then reflect—indeed, I never thought

That I should hit her at so long a range;

My aim was truer than I thought it was,

And the poor little lady’s dead!

Myr.Alas!

This is the calmness of insanity.

What shall we do? Go, hide yourself away—

Leuc. But—

Myr.Not a word—I will not hear thy voice,

I will not look upon thy face again;

Begone!

Gal.Go, sir, or I’ll alarm the house!

Leuc. Well, this is sensibility, indeed!

Well, they are women—women judge these things

By some disjointed logic of their own,

That is not given to man to understand.

I’m off to Athens—when your reason comes

Send for me, if you will. Till then, farewell.

[Exit angrily.

Myr. Oh, this must be a dream, and I shall wake

To happiness once more!

Gal.A dream! no doubt!

We both are dreaming, and we dream the same!

But by what sign, Myrine, can we tell

Whether we dream or wake?

Myr.There are some things

Too terrible for truth, and this is one.

Enter Pygmalion, with Fawn.

Pyg. Why, what’s the matter with Leucippe, girl?

I saw him leave the house and mount his horse

With every show of anger.

Myr.He is mad,

And he hath done a deed I dare not name.

Did he say aught to thee before he left?

Pyg. Yes; when I asked him what had angered him

He threw me this (showing Fawn).

Gal. (in extreme of horror)—His victim! take it hence!

I can not look at it!

Myr.Why, what is this?

Gal. The being he destroyed in wantonness;

He robbed it of the life the gods had given.

Oh! take it hence, I dare not look on death!

Myr. Why, was this all he killed?

Gal. (astonished).All!!! And enough!

Myr. Why, girl—thou must be mad! Pygmalion—

She told me he had murdered somebody,

But knew not whom!

Pyg.The girl will drive us mad!

Bid them prepare my horse—I’ll bring him back.

[Exit Myrine.

Gal. Have I done wrong? Indeed, I did not know:

Thou art not angry with me?

Pyg.Yes, I am;

I’m more than angry with thee—not content

With publishing thine unmasked love for me,

Thou hast estranged Leucippe from his love

Through thine unwarrantable foolishness.

Enter Mimos.

Mim. Sir, Chrysos and his lady are without.

Pyg. I can not see them now. Stay—show them in.

[Exit Mimos.

(To Gal.) Go, wait in there. I’ll join thee very soon.

[Exit Galatea.

Enter Daphne.

Daph. Where is Pygmalion?

Pyg.Pygmalion’s here.

Daph. We called upon you many months ago,

But you were not at home—so being here,

We looked around us and we saw the stone

You keep so carefully behind that veil.

Pyg. That was a most outrageous liberty.

Daph. Sir! Do you know me?

Pyg.You are Chrysos’ wife.

Has Chrysos come with you?

Daph.He waits without.

I am his herald to prepare you for

The honor he confers. Be civil, sir,

And he may buy that statue; if he does

Your fortune’s made!

Pyg. (to Mimos).You’d better send him in.

[Exit Mimos.

Enter Chrysos.

Chry. Well—is the young man’s mind prepared?

Daph.It is;

He seems quite calm. Give money for the stone,

I’ve heard that it is far beyond all price,

But run it down; abuse it ere you buy.

Chry. (to Pyg.) Where is the statue that I saw last year?

Pyg. Sir—it’s unfinished—it’s a clumsy thing.

I am ashamed of it.

Chry.It isn’t good.

There’s want of tone; it’s much too hard and thin;

Then the half distances are very crude—

Oh—very crude indeed—then it lacks air,

And wind and motion, massive light and shade;

It’s very roughly scumbled; on my soul

The scumbling’s damnable!

Daph. (aside to him).Bethink yourself!

That’s said of painting—this is sculpture!

Chry.Eh?

It’s the same thing, the principle’s the same;

Now for its price. Let’s see—what will it weigh?

Daph. A ton, or thereabouts.

Chry.Suppose we say

A thousand drachmas?

Pyg.No, no, no, my lord!

The work is very crude and thin, and then

Remember, sir, the scumbling—

Chry.Damnable!

But never mind, although the thing is poor,

’Twill serve to hold a candle in my hall.

Pyg. Excuse me, sir; poor though that statue be,

I value it beyond all price.

Chry.Pooh, pooh!

I give a thousand drachmas for a stone

Which in the rough would not fetch half that sum!

Daph. Why bless my soul, young man, are you aware

We gave but fifteen hundred not long since

For an Apollo twice as big as that?

Pyg. But pardon me, a sculptor does not test

The beauty of a figure by its bulk.

Chry. Ah! then she does.

Daph.Young man, you’d best take care,

You are offending Chrysos!

[Exit.

Chry.And his wife. (going.)

Pyg. I can not stay to enter into that

Sir, once for all, the statue’s not for sale.

[Exit.

Chry. Sir, once for all, I will not be denied;

Confound it—if a patron of the arts

Is thus to be dictated to by art,

What comes of that art patron’s patronage?

He must be taught a lesson—where’s the stone?

(Goes to pedestal and opens curtains.)

It’s gone! (Enter Galatea, he stares at her in astonishment.)

Hallo! What’s this?

Gal.Are you unwell?

Chry. Oh, no—I fancied just at first—pooh, pooh!

Ridiculous. (Aside). And yet it’s very like!

(Aloud). I know your face, haven’t I seen you in—

In—in (puzzling himself).

Gal.In marble? Very probably.

Chry. Oh, now I understand. Why this must be

Pygmalion’s model! Yes, of course it is.

A very bold-faced woman, I’ll be bound.

These models always are. I’ll speak with her.

Come hither, maiden.

Gal. (who has been examining him in great wonder).

Tell, me, what are you?

Chry. What am I?

Gal.Yes, I mean, are you a man?

Chry. Well, yes; I’m told so.

Gal.Then believe them not,

They’ve been deceiving you.

Chry.The deuce they have!

Gal. A man is very tall, and straight, and strong,

With big brave eyes, fair face, and tender voice.

I’ve seen one.

Chry.Have you?

Gal.Yes, you are no man.

Chry. Does the young person take me for a woman?

Gal. A woman? No; a woman’s soft and weak,

And fair, and exquisitely beautiful.

I am a woman; you are not like me.

Chry. The gods forbid that I should be like you,

And farm my features at so much an hour!

Gal. And yet I like you, for you make me laugh;

You are so round and red, your eyes so small,

Your mouth so large, your face so seared with lines,

And then you are so little and so fat!

Chry. (aside). This is a most extraordinary girl.

Gal. Oh, stay—I understand—Pygmalion’s skill

Is the result of long experience.

The individual who modeled you

Was a beginner very probably?

Chry. (puzzled). No. I have seven elder brothers. Strange

That one so young should be so very bold.

Gal. This is not boldness, it is innocence;

Pygmalion says so, and he ought to know.

Chry. No doubt, but I was not born yesterday. (Sits.)

Gal. Indeed!—I was. (He beckons her to sit beside him.)

How awkwardly you sit.

Chry. I’m not aware that there is any thing

Extraordinary in my sitting down.

The nature of the seated attitude

Does not leave scope for much variety.

Gal. I never saw Pygmalion sit like that.

Chry. Don’t he sit down like other men?

Gal.Of course!

He always puts his arm around my waist.

Chry. The deuce he does! Artistic reprobate!

Gal. But you do not. Perhaps you don’t know how?

Chry. Oh yes; I do know how!

Gal.Well, do it then!

Chry. It’s a strange whim, but I will humor her.

You’re sure it’s innocence? (Does so.)

Gal.Of course it is.

I tell you I was born but yesterday.

Chry. Who is your mother?

Gal.Mother! what is that?

I never had one. I’m Pygmalion’s child;

Have people usually mothers?

Chry.Well,

That is the rule.

Gal. But then Pygmalion

Is cleverer than most men.

Chry.Yes, I’ve heard

That he has powers denied to other men,

And I’m beginning to believe it!

Enter Daphne.

Daph.Why

What’s this? (Chrysos quickly moves away from Gal.)

Chry.My wife!

Daph.Can I believe my eyes? (Gal. rises.)

Chry. No!

Daph.Who’s this woman? Why, how very like—

Chry. Like what?

Daph.That statue that we wished to buy.

The self-same face, the self-same drapery,

In every detail it’s identical.

Why, one would almost think Pygmalion,

By some strange means, had brought the thing to life,

So marvelous her likeness to that stone!

Chry. (aside.) A very good idea, and one that I

May well improve upon. It’s rather rash,

But desperate ills need desperate remedies.

Now for a good one. Daphne, calm yourself.

You know the statue that we spoke of? Well,

The gods have worked a miracle on it,

And it has come to life. Behold it here!

Daph. Bah! Do you think me mad?

Gal.His tale is true.

I was a cold unfeeling block of stone,

Inanimate—insensible—until

Pygmalion, by the ardor of his prayers,

Kindled the spark of life within my frame,

And made me what I am!

Chry. (aside to Gal.)That’s very good;

Go on and keep it up.

Daph.You brazen girl,

I am his wife!

Gal.His wife? (To Chrysos.) Then get you hence.

I may not love you when your wife is here.

Daph. Why, what unknown audacity is this?

Chry. It’s the audacity of innocence:

Don’t judge her by the rules that govern you,

She was born yesterday, and you were not!

Enter Mimos.

Mim. My lord, Pygmalion’s here.

Chry. (aside).He’ll ruin all.

Daph. (to Mimos). Who is this woman?

Chry.Why, I’ve told you, she—

Daph. Stop, not a word! I’ll have it from his lips!

Gal. Why ask him when I tell you—?

Daph.Hold your tongue!

(To Mimos.) Who is this woman? If you tell a lie

I’ll have you whipped.

Mim.Oh, I shall tell no lie!

That is a statue that has come to life.

Chry. (Aside to Mimos).

I’m very much obliged to you! (Gives him money.)

Enter Myrine.

Myr.What’s this?

Is any thing the matter?

Daph.Certainly.

This woman—

Myr.Is a statue come to life.

Chry. I’m very much obliged to you!

Enter Pygmalion.

Pyg.How now Chrysos?

Chry. The statue!—

Daph.Stop!

Chry.Let me explain.

The statue that I purchased—

Daph.Let me speak.

Chrysos—this girl, Myrine, and your slave,

Have all agreed to tell me she is—

Pyg. The statue, Galatea, come to life?

Undoubtedly she is!

Chry.It seems to me,

I’m very much obliged to every one!

Enter Cynisca.

Cyn. Pygmalion, my love!

Pyg.Cynisca here!

Cyn. And even earlier than hoped to be.

(Aside). Why, who are these? (Aloud.) I beg your pardon, sir,

I thought my husband was alone.

Daph. (maliciously).No doubt.

I also thought my husband was alone:

We wives are too confiding.

Cyn. (aside to Pygmalion). Who are these?

Pyg. Why, this is Chrysos, this is Daphne. They

Have come—

Daph.On very different errands, sir.

Chrysos has come to see this brazen girl:

I have come after Chrysos—

Chry.As you keep

So strictly to the sequence of events

Add this—Pygmalion came after you!

Cyn. Who is this lady (alluding to Galatea)? Why, impossible!

Daph. Oh, not at all!

Cyn. (turning to pedestal).And yet the statue’s gone!

Pyg. Cynisca, miracles have taken place;

The gods have given Galatea life!

Cyn. Oh, marvelous! Is this indeed the form

That my Pygmalion fashioned with his hands?

Pyg. Indeed it is.

Cyn.Why, let me look at her!

Yes, it’s the same fair face—the same fair form;

Clad in the same fair folds of drapery!

Gal. And dost thou know me then?

Cyn. Hear her! she speaks!

Our Galatea speaks aloud! Know thee?

Why I have sat for hours, and watched thee grow;

Sat—motionless as thou—wrapped in his work,

Save only that in very ecstasy

I hurried ever and anon to kiss

The glorious hands that made thee all thou art!

Come—let me kiss thee with a sister’s love (kisses her).

See, she can kiss!

Daph.Yes, I’ll be bound she can!

Cyn. Why, my Pygmalion, where is the joy

That ought to animate that face of thine,

Now that the gods have crowned thy wondrous skill?

Chry. (aside to Pyg.)

Stick to our story; bold-faced though she be,

She’s very young, and may perhaps repent;

It’s terrible to have to tell a lie,

But if it must be told—why, tell it well!

Cyn. I see it all. I have returned too soon.

Daph. No, I’m afraid you have returned too late!

Cynisca, never leave that man again,

Or leave him altogether!

Cyn. (astonished).Why, what’s this?

Gal. Oh, madam, bear with him, and blame him not;

Judge him not hastily; in every word,

In every thought he has obeyed thy wish.

Thou badst him speak to me as unto thee;

And he and I have sat as lovingly

As if thou hadst been present to behold

How faithfully thy wishes were obeyed!

Cyn. Pygmalion! What is this?

Pyg. (to Gal.)Go, get thee hence;

Thou shouldst not see the fearful consequence

That must attend those heedless words of thine!

Gal. Judge him not hastily, he’s not like this

When he and I are sitting here alone.

He has two voices, and two faces, madam,

One for the world, and one for him and me!

Cyn. Thy wife against thine eyes! those are the stakes!

Well, thou hast played thy game, and thou hast lost!

Pyg. Cynisca, hear me! In a cursed hour

I prayed for power to give that statue life.

My impious prayer aroused the outraged gods,

They are my judges, leave me in their hands;

I have been false to them, but not to thee!

Spare me!

Cyn.Oh, pitiful adventurer!

He dares to lose, but does not dare to pay!

Come, be a man! See, I am brave enough,

And I have more to bear than thou! Behold!

I am alone, thou hast thy statue bride!

Oh, Artemis, my mistress, hear me now,

Ere I remember how I love that man,

And in that memory forget my shame!

If he in deed or thought hath been untrue,

Be just and let him pay the penalty!

(Pygmalion, with an exclamation, covers his eyes with his hands.)

Gal. Cynisca, pity him!

Cyn. I know no pity, woman; for the act

That thawed thee into flesh has hardened me

Into the cursed stone from which thou cam’st.

We have changed places; from this moment forth

Be thou the wife and I the senseless stone!

(Thrusts Galatea from her.)

ACT III.

Scene: Same as Acts I. and II.

Enter Daphne.

Daph. It seems Pygmalion has the fearful gift

Of bringing stone to life. I’ll question him

And ascertain how far that power extends.

Enter Myrine, weeping.

Myrine—and in tears! Why, what’s amiss?

Myr. Oh, we were all so happy yesterday,

And now, within twelve miserable hours,

A blight has fallen upon all of us.

Pygmalion is blind as death itself,

Cynisca leaves his home this very day,

And my Leucippe hath deserted me!

I shall go mad with all this weight of grief!

Daph. All this is Galatea’s work?

Myr.Yes, all.

Daph. But can’t you stop her? Shut the creature up,

Dispose of her, or break her? Won’t she chip?

Myr. No, I’m afraid not.

Daph.Ah, were I his wife,

I’d spoil her beauty! There’d be little chance

Of finding him and her alone again!

Myr. There’s little need to take precautions now,

For he, alas! is blind!

Daph.Blind! What of that?

Man has five senses; if he loses one

The vital energy on which it fed

Goes to intensify the other four.

He had five arrows in his quiver; well,

He has shot one away, and four remain.

My dear, an enemy is not disarmed

Because he’s lost one arrow out of five!

Myr. The punishment he undergoes might well

Content his wife!

Daph.A happy woman, that!

Myr. Cynisca happy?

Daph.To be sure she is;

She has the power to punish faithlessness,

And she has used it on her faithless spouse.

Had I Cynisca’s privilege, I swear

I’d never let my Chrysos rest in peace,

Until he warranted my using it!

Pygmalion’s wronged her, and she’s punished him.

What more could woman want?

Enter Cynisca.

Cyn.What more? Why, this!

The power to tame my tongue to speak the words

That would restore him to his former self!

The power to quell the fierce, unruly soul

That battles with my miserable heart!

The power to say, “Oh, my Pygmalion,

My love is thine to hold or cast away,

Do with it as thou wilt; it can not die!”

I’d barter half my miserable life

For power to say these few true words to him!

Myr. Why, then there’s hope for him?

Cyn.There’s none indeed!

This day I’ll leave his home and hide away

Where I can brood upon my shame. I’ll fan

The smoldering fire of jealousy until

It bursts into an all-devouring flame,

And pray that I may perish in its glow!

Daph. That’s bravely said, Cynisca! Never fear;

Pygmalion will give thee wherewithal

To nurture it.

Cyn. (passionately).I need not wherewithal!

I carry wherewithal within my heart!

Oh, I can conjure up the scene at will

When he and she sit lovingly alone.

I know too well the devilish art he works,

And how his guilty passion shapes itself.

I follow him through every twist and turn

By which he wormed himself into my heart;

I hear him breathing to the guilty girl

The fond familiar nothings of our love;

I hear him whispering into her ear

The tenderness that he rehearsed on me.

I follow him through all his well-known moods—

Now fierce and passionate, now fanciful;

And ever tuning his accursed tongue

To chime in with the passion at her heart:

Oh, never fear that I shall starve the flame!

When jealousy takes shelter in my heart,

It does not die for lack of sustenance!

Daph. Come to my home, and thou shalt feed it there;

We’ll play at widows, and we’ll pass our time

Railing against the perfidy of man.

Cyn. But Chrysos?—

Daph.Chrysos? Oh, you won’t see him.

Cyn. How so?

Daph.How so? I’ve turned him out of doors!

Why, does the girl consider jealousy

Her unassailable prerogative?

Thou hast thy vengeance on Pygmalion—

He can no longer feast upon thy face.

Well, Chrysos can no longer feast on mine!

I can’t put out his eyes (I wish I could!)

But I can shut them out, and that I’ve done.

Cyn. I thank you, madam, and I’ll go with you.

Myr. No, no; thou shalt not leave Pygmalion;

He will not live if thou desertest him.

Add nothing to his pain—this second blow

Might well complete the work thou hast begun!

Cyn. Nay, let me go—I must not see his face;

For if I look on him I may relent.

Detain me not, Myrine—fare thee well!

[Exit Cynisca, Myrine follows her.

Daph. Well, there’ll be pretty scenes in Athens now

That statues may be vivified at will. (Chrysos enters unobserved.)

Why, I have daughters—all of them of age—

What chance is there for plain young women, now

That every man may take a block of stone

And carve a family to suit his tastes?

Chry. If every woman were a Daphne, man

Would never care to look on sculptured stone!

Oh, Daphne!

Daph.Monster—get you hence, away!

I’ll hold no converse with you, get you gone.

(Aside) If I’d Cynisca’s tongue I’d wither him!

(Imitating Cynisca) “Oh, I can conjure up the scene at will

“Where you and she sit lovingly alone!

“Oh, never fear that I will starve the flame:

“When jealousy takes shelter in my heart,

“It does not die for lack of sustenance!”

Chry. I’m sure of that! your hospitality

Is world-renowned. Extend it, love, to me!

Oh, take me home again!

Daph.Home? no, not I!

Why I’ve a gallery of goddesses,

Fifty at least—half-dressed bacchantes, too—

Dryads and water-nymphs of every kind;

Suppose I find, when I go home to-day,

That they’ve all taken it into their heads

To come to life—what would become of them,

Or me, with Chrysos in the house? No—no,

They’re bad enough in marble—but in flesh!!!

I’ll sell the bold-faced hussies one and all,

But till I’ve sold them, Chrysos stops outside!

Chry. What have I done?

Daph.What have you not done sir?

Chry. I can not tell you—it would take too long!

Daph. I saw you sitting with that marble minx,

Your arm pressed lovingly around her waist.

Explain that Chrysos.

Chry.It explains itself:

I am a zealous patron of the arts.

And I am very fond of statuary.

Daph. Bah—I’ve artistic tastes as well as you.

But still, you never saw me sitting with

My arms around a stone Apollo’s waist!

As for this “statue”—could I see her now,

I’d test your taste for fragments!

Chry.Spare the girl,

She’s very young and very innocent;

She claims your pity.

Daph.Does she?

Chry.Yes, she does.

If I saw Daphne sitting with her arm

Round an Apollo, I should pity him.

Daph. (relenting). Would you?

Chry.I should, upon my word, I should.

Daph. Well, Chrysos, thou art pardoned. After all

The circumstances were exceptional.

Chry. (aside). Unhappily, they were!

Daph.Come home, but mind

I’ll sell my gallery of goddesses;

No good can come of animating stone.

Chry. Oh, pardon me—why every soul on earth

Sprang from the stones Deucalion threw behind.

Daph. But then Deucalion only threw the stones,

He left it to the gods to fashion them.

Chry. (aside—looking at her). And we who’ve seen the work the gods turn out,

Would rather leave it to Pygmalion!

Daph. (taking Chrysos’ arm, who is looking at a statue of Venus.)

Come along, do!

[Exeunt.

Enter Myrine, in great distress.

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.

Oh, 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. (wildly). 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.

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 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 anguish.)

Gal. (with an effort.) But then, this woman, Galatea—

Pyg.Well?

Gal. Thy love for her is dead?

Pyg.I had no love.

Gal. Thou hadst no love?

Pyg.No love. At first, in truth,

In mad amazement at the miracle

That crowned 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! (Kisses his forehead.)

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?

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. (bitterly). Upon this worthy world, thou sayest well,

The woman shall be seen of thee no more. (Takes Cynisca’s hand and leads her to Pyg.)

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

(She substitutes Cynisca, 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 Myrine and Leucippe.

Leu. Pygmalion! Thou hast thine eyes again!

Come—this is happiness indeed!

Pyg.And thou!

Myrine has recalled thee?

Leu.No, I came,

But more in sorrow than in penitence;

For I’ve a hardened and a blood-stained heart!

I thought she would denounce me to the law,

But time, I found, had worked a wondrous change;

The very girl, who half-a-day ago

Had cursed me for a ruthless murderer,

Not only pardoned me my infamy,

But absolutely hugged me with delight,

When she, with hungry and unpitying eyes,

Beheld my victim—at the kitchen fire!

The little cannibal!

Enter Galatea.

Pyg.Away from me,

Woman or statue! Thou the only blight

That ever fell upon my love—begone,

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 steps of pedestal.)

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. (amazed). Cynisca! Is this so?

Cyn.In truth it is!

Gal. (behind curtain). Farewell, Pygmalion! Farewell! Farewell!

(Pygmalion rushes to the veil and tears it away, discovering Galatea as a statue on the pedestal, as in Act I.)

CHARITY:

A Play,

IN FOUR ACTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACTS I. AND II.
BOUDOIR IN MRS. VAN BRUGH’S COUNTRY HOUSE.

ACT III.
ROOM IN MR. SMAILEY’S HOUSE.

ACT IV.
LIBRARY AT DR. ATHELNEY’S.

[A few days’ interval between each Act.]

CHARITY.

ACT I.

Scene: A pretty boudoir in Mrs. Van Brugh’s country-house.

Eve discovered with Frederick; Frederick on chair, Eve on footstool.

Fred. (dictating to Eve, who writes in a memorandum book at his feet). Let me see. Three hundred oranges, six hundred buns, thirty gallons of tea, twelve large plum cakes. So much for the school-children’s bodies. As for their minds—

Eve. Oh, we’ve taken great care of their minds. In the first place, the amateur minstrels from Locroft are coming, with some lovely part songs.

Fred. Part songs. Come, that’s well. Dr. Watts?

Eve. Oh dear, no. Doctors Moore and Burgess!—Much jollier. (He shakes his head gravely.) Then we have a magic lantern. Here are the views. (Handing them.)

Fred. (examining them). A person on horseback, galloping at full speed. Here he is again. Probably the flight of Xerxes.

Eve. No—the flight of John Gilpin.

Fred. Very trivial, Eve dear; very trivial.

Eve. Oh, but it will amuse them much more than the flight of Xerxes.

Fred. (gravely). My dear Eve, is this giddiness quite consistent with the nature of the good work before us?

Eve. Mayn’t one be good and jolly too?

Fred. Scarcely. Grave work should be undertaken gravely, and with a sense of responsibility.

Eve. But I don’t call a school feast grave work.

Fred. All work is grave when one has regard to the issues that may come of it. This school feast, trivial as it may seem to you—this matter of buns and big plum cakes—may be productive, for instance, of much—of much—

Eve. Indigestion? That’s grave indeed! (He seems annoyed.) There, I’m very sorry I teased you, dear old boy; but you look at every thing from such a serious point of view.

Fred. Am I too serious? Perhaps I am. And yet in my quiet undemonstrative way I am very happy.

Eve. If you are not happy dear, who should be?

Fred. Yes, Eve, who indeed! (Kisses her.)

Eve. I did not mean that. There is very little in me to make such a man as you happy, unless it be the prospect of making me as good and earnest as yourself—a poor prospect, I’m afraid, for I’m a very silly little girl.

Fred. At least I will try.

Eve. Begin now; tell me of my faults.

Fred. No, no; that would be a very ungrateful task.

Eve. Oh, if you neglect all tasks that are not pleasant, you are too like me to allow of my hoping to learn any thing of you.

Fred. Very aptly put, Eve. Well then, you are too giddy, and too apt to laugh when you should sigh.

Eve. Oh, but I am naturally rather—jolly. Mamma has taught me to be so. Mamma’s views are so entirely opposed to yours.

Fred. Yes; I am deeply sorry for it. If it were not so, perhaps Mrs. Van Brugh would like me better.

Eve. Mamma does like you, dear. She thinks you are very grave and precise and methodical, but I am sure she likes you—or why did she consent to our engagement?

Fred. Because she loves you so well that she has the heart to thwart you in nothing. She is an admirable woman—good, kind—charitable beyond measure—beloved, honored, and courted by all——

Eve. The best woman in the world!

Fred. But she does not understand me. Well, time will work a change, and I must be content to wait.

Enter Servant.

Servant. Mr. Edward Athelney, miss, is in the drawing room.

Eve. Dear me, how tiresome.

Fred. (calmly). Miss Van Brugh is not at home.

Eve. (astonished). Oh, Frederick, I am![Exit Servant.

Fred. Well, yes, of course in one sense you certainly are. But being engaged upon a good work, with which an interruption would seriously interfere, you may be said—metaphorically, of course, and for the purposes of this particular case—to be, to a certain extent, out.

Eve. (puzzled). I am quite sure I am at home, dear, in every possible sense of the word. You don’t dislike Edward, do you?

Fred. You know very well that I dislike no one.

Eve. I’m sure of that. You love all men.

Fred. No doubt, Eve, I love all men. But you will understand that I love some men less than others; and, although I love Edward Athelney very much indeed, I love him, perhaps, less than anybody else in the world.

Eve. But this is quite astonishing! Has Ted Athelney a fault? What is it? Come, sir, name one fault if you can. And mind, he’s my big brother, or as good, so be careful.

Fred. “Frater nascitur non fit.”

Eve. Oh!

Fred. I don’t believe in your amateur brother. With every desire to confine himself to the duties of the character he undertakes, he is nevertheless apt to overlook the exact point where the brother ends and the lover begins.

Eve. (puzzled). The lover!

Fred. The brother by birth keeps well within bounds, but the amateur treads so often on the border line that in time it becomes obliterated and the functions merge.

Eve. Ted Athelney a lover of mine! Oh, that’s too absurd. Ted Athelney—that great, clumsy, middle-aged, awkward, good-natured, apple-faced man, a lover of anybody’s, and least of all, of mine! Why he’s forty! Oh, it’s shocking—it’s horrible! I won’t hear any thing so dreadful of any one I love so much.

Fred. You admit that you love him?

Eve. Oh, yes, I love him—but I don’t love him. (Nestling against Fred.) Don’t you understand the difference?

Fred. I don’t like his calling you Eve.

Eve. Why you wouldn’t have him—oh, you never could want Ted Athelney to call me Miss Van Brugh?

Fred. Then he kisses you.

Eve. Of course he does, dear. Kisses me? So does mamma!

Fred. No doubt, but there’s some difference.

Eve. A difference! What difference?

Fred. This, if no other: that I object to the one, and don’t object to the other. (Turns away.)

Eve. (disappointed). Then I’m not to kiss Ted Athelney any more.

Enter Ted Athelney.

Ted. Well, Eve, old lady, here I am, back again—well and hearty.

Eve. Ted, stand back; I’m not to kiss you.

Ted. Eh? Why not?

Eve. It’s wrong. Isn’t it? (To Fred.)

Fred. I’m sorry you think it necessary to ask the question.

Eve. There, Ted. Only think of the wrong we’ve been doing for years and years, and never knew it!

Ted. But who told you it was wrong. Not conscience, I’ll be sworn.

Eve. No; that’s the worst of it. There’s something wrong with my conscience; it doesn’t seem to be up to its work. From some motive—mistaken politeness, perhaps—it declines to assert itself. Awful, isn’t it?

Ted. Come, something’s happened during my absence in town; tell me what it is.

Eve. Something of a tremendous nature has happened! Ted Athelney, I mustn’t call you Ted Athelney any longer!

Ted. What?

Eve. And I mustn’t let you kiss me, because I’m going to be married.

Ted. Married! (Starting.)

Eve. Yes.

Ted. To—? (Indicating Frederick.)

Eve. Yes. (He is much agitated.) Won’t you tell me that you are glad to hear it?

Ted. (after a pause). Yes, Eve, I’m glad of any thing that makes you happy. It has come upon me very suddenly. I never thought of your getting married. I was a great ass, for it must have come about some time or other, and why not now? and it must have been to some fellow, and why not Fred Smailey? God bless you, Eve. I must get it well into my mind before I can talk about it, and mine is a mind that takes a good deal of getting at. I hope and believe that you will be happy. (She retires.)
Fred, old man——

(Goes to Fred; takes his hand and tries to speak, but in vain.)

Enter Mrs. Van Brugh.

Mrs. V. B. Well, I’ve done for myself now; go away from me; I’m a pariah, an outcast; don’t, for goodness’ sake, be seen talking with me.

Eve. Why, mamma, dear, what on earth have you been doing?

Mrs. V. B. Doing? Listen and shudder! I’ve put a Dissenter into my almshouses! (Sits at table.)

Fred. (rising). A Dissenter?

Mrs. V. B. A real live Dissenter. Isn’t it awful!

Fred. No, awful is too strong a term; but I think it was a very, very sad mistake.

Mrs. V. B. A thousand thanks for your toleration—I shall never forget it. The village is outraged—they have stood my eccentricities long enough. It was bad enough when I put a Roman Catholic in, but in consideration of the almshouses being my own they were good enough to swallow the Roman Catholic. Then came a Jew—well, the village was merciful, and with a few wry faces they swallowed even the Jew. But a Dissenter! The line must be drawn somewhere, and High and Low Church are agreed that it must be drawn at Dissenters. The churchwardens look the other way when I pass. The clerk’s religious zeal causes him to turn into the “Red Cow,” rather than touch his hat to me, and even the dirty little boys run after me shouting “No Popery” at the top of their voices, though I’m sure I don’t see how it applies.

Fred. But, my dear Mrs. Van Brugh, you mean well I’m sure—but a Jew, a Catholic, and a Dissenter!—is there no such thing as a starving Churchman to be found?

Mrs. V. B. There are but too many starving men of all denominations, but while I’m hunting out the Churchman, the Jew, the Catholic and the Dissenter will perish, and that would never do, would it?

Fred. That is the Christianity of impulse. I would feed him that belonged to my own church, and if he did not belong to it, I would not feed him at all.

Mrs. V. B. That is the Christianity of Religious Politics. As to these poor people, they will shake down and agree very well in time. Nothing is so conducive to toleration as the knowledge that one’s bread depends upon it. It applies to all conditions of life, from almshouses to Happy Families. Where are you going?

Eve. We are going down to the school to see the cakes and oranges and decorations——

Fred. (seriously). And to impress upon the children the danger of introducing inharmonious elements into their little almshouses.

Mrs. V. B. Well, I hope you’ll be more successful with them than with me. Their case is much more critical than mine, I assure you. (Exeunt Eve and Fred. Mrs. Van Brugh sees Edward, who is sitting at back, with his head between his hands.) Why, who’s this? Edward Athelney, returned at last to his disconsolate village? Go away, sir—don’t come near me—you’re a reprobate—you’ve been in London ten days and nobody to look after you. Give an account of yourself. It’s awful to think of the villainy a thoroughly badly disposed young man can get through in ten days in London, if I’m not there to look after him—come, sir, all your crimes, please, in alphabetical order—now then, A—Arson. Any arson? No? Quite sure? Come now, that’s something—Then we go to Burglary? Bigamy? No Bigamy? Come, it’s not as bad as I thought.—Why (seeing that he looks very wretched), what on earth is the matter—why, my poor Ted—what is distressing you? I never saw you look so wretched in my life!

Ted. Oh! Mrs. Van Brugh, I’m awfully unhappy!

Mrs. V. B. My poor old friend—tell me all about it.

Ted. It’s soon told—Mrs. Van Brugh, you have a daughter, who’s the best and loveliest girl I ever saw in my life.

Mrs. V. B. (pause). My poor Edward!

Ted. Did—did you know that I—that I was like this?

Mrs. V. B. No! no! no!

Ted. Nor I, it came on me like a thunderclap—my love for that little girl has grown as imperceptibly as my age has grown—I’ve taken no note of either till now—when I rub my eyes and find that I love her dearly, and that I’m eight-and-thirty!

Mrs. V. B. But, surely you know—you must have heard——

Ted. Yes, yes, I’ve just heard—Fred Smailey’s a lucky fellow, and he deserves his luck.

Mrs. V. B. Perhaps. I don’t know. I don’t like Fred Smailey.

Ted. (amazed). You don’t like Smailey?

Mrs. V. B. No, I don’t, and I’m afraid I show it. My dear old friend, it would have made me very happy to have seen you married to Eve, but he was first in the field, and she loves him. At first I wouldn’t hear of it—but she fell ill—might have died—well I’m her mother, and I love her, and I gave in. I know nothing against him.

Ted. Oh, Fred Smailey’s a good fellow, a thorough good fellow. You do him an injustice, indeed you do; I never knew a man with such a sense of gratitude—it’s perfectly astonishing. Remember how he gave me that splendid colly, when I pulled him out of the ice, last February, and how in return for my lending him money to pay his college debts, he got his father to let me shoot over Rushout—no—no—if Fred Smailey has a fault, he’s too good for this world.

Mrs. V. B. Is he?—at all events he’s too solemn.

Ted. Here’s the dad coming—he mustn’t see me like this. Good-by, Mrs. Van Brugh. You won’t speak of this to any one, I know—not that I’ve reason to be ashamed of it, but it’ll pain Eve and Fred too. I’ll bear up, never fear, and Eve shall never know—after all, her happiness is the great end, and, so that it’s brought about, what matter whether Fred or I do it, so that it’s done. It’s Fred’s job, not mine—better luck for him, worse luck for me.[Exit.

Mrs. V. B. Poor fellow! There goes a heart of gold with a head of cotton-wool! Oh, Eve, Eve, my dear, I’m very sad for you! Is it head or heart that makes the best husband? Better that baby-hearted simpleton than the sharpest Smailey that ever stepped! I’m very unjust. Heaven knows that I, of all women in this world, should be slow to judge. But my dislike to that man, to his family, to every thing that relates to him, is intuitive. However, the mischief, if mischief there be, is done; I’ll make the best of it.

Enter Dr. Athelney, very hurriedly.

Dr. A. My dear Mrs. Van Brugh, I come without a moment’s loss of time, to thank you in my late curate Twemlow’s name for your great kindness in presenting him to the Crabthorpe living. He has a wife and four children, and is nearly mad with joy and gratitude. I’ve brought you his letter.

Mrs. V. B. I won’t read it, doctor. I can’t bear gratitude; it makes my eyes red. Take it away. I am only too glad to have helped a struggling and deserving man. Now, I’m very glad you’ve come, because I want to consult you on a business matter of some importance.

Dr. A. My dear Mrs. Van Brugh, I have been the intellectual head of this village for fifty-three years, and nobody ever yet paid me the compliment of consulting me on a matter of business.

Mrs. V. B. Then I’ve no doubt I’m going to hit upon a neglected mine of commercial sagacity!

Dr. A. It’s very possible. I was second wrangler of my year.

Mrs. V. B. I told you last night of Eve’s engagement. Well, old Mr. Smailey has sent me a note to say that he will call on me to-morrow week to talk over the settlement I propose to make on the occasion of my darling’s marriage with his son. Now, doctor, look as wise as you can, and tell me what I ought to do.

Dr. A. Well, in such a case I should be very worldly. I think, my dear, I should prepare a nice little luncheon, with a bottle of that Amontillado, and then, having got him quietly and cosily tête-à-tête, I should ask him what he proposes to do.

Mrs. V. B. Very good indeed, doctor. Upon my word, for a colonial bishop-elect, that’s not bad. But, unfortunately, I’ve already ascertained that he proposes to do nothing. All his money is tied up.

Dr. A. Oh, is it indeed? Bless me! Tied up, is it? And may I ask, what do you understand by that expression?

Mrs. V. B. Well, in round terms, it’s his, but he mustn’t spend it. Do you understand?

Dr. A. Oh, yes. When I was a boy my uncle gave me a guinea on those terms.

Mrs. V. B. Now come, doctor dear, the young people look to me, and, when one is looked to, one should be equal to the emergency. What would you advise me to do?

Dr. A. Your property is not, I suppose, tied up?

Mrs. V. B. No; it is quite unfettered, and consists principally of long leaseholds and funded property, left me by my godfather, and a small sum of money acquired by Captain Van Brugh on his first marriage.

Dr. A. His first marriage! Bless me, I never knew he had been married before.

Mrs. V. B. Yes (much agitated), a most unhappy match. She—she left him under discreditable circumstances—went to Australia—resumed her maiden name, and, under that name, died in Melbourne.

Dr. A. And when did this unhappy lady die?

Mrs. V. B. (still agitated). Oh! years ago—It’s a terrible story. I don’t like to think of it—I can’t bear to talk of it.

Dr. A. (aside). What a blundering old savage I am! If there is a pitfall open, ten to one I tumble into it! (Aloud.) I have always understood that where marriage settlements of any consideration are concerned, it is customary to employ a solicitor. I can’t quote my authority, but, I feel sure that I am right.

Mrs. V. B. Old Mr. Smailey is an executor under Captain Van Brugh’s will, and his solicitor has always acted for me.

Dr. A. His solicitor! what, that queer little red-faced fellow who accompanies him everywhere?

Mrs. V. B. No. Ha! ha! ha! I suppose Mr. Fitz Partington is a junior partner, or head clerk, or something of the kind—at all events, his name doesn’t appear in the firm.

Dr. A. Well, leave it to me, Mrs. Van Brugh, and I’ll write to my brother, the Vice-Chancellor, who will tell us what to do. Now I’m off. (Noise without.) Why—what’s this? Bless me, Mrs. Van Brugh, what is the cause of this commotion?

(Noise heard without, as of people struggling with a woman, who rudely expostulates with them.)

Mrs. V. B. Why, what in the world is the matter?

Enter three or four Servant Men with Ruth Tredgett in custody. She is wild-looking and dishevelled, as if she had been struggling violently.

Groom. We’ve got her, ma’am. Don’t be afraid. (To Ruth.) Stand quiet, you jade, will yer? Woa, there! We’ve got her, sir, but we’ve had a desperate hard job to do it.

Dr. A. What has been done?

Groom. She’s knocked two teeth clean out of my head, sir, and give notice to quit to a dozen more.

Dr. A. We will hear your grievance presently. What has this woman done that she is brought here?

All. Done, sir, why——

But. (with dignity to the others). If you please! (To Mrs. Van Brugh) Ma’am, Edwards found this here woman creepin’ out of my pantry, ma’am, on all fours.

Dr. A. On what?

But. On her hands and knees, like a quadruped, sir.

Dr. A. Have you searched her?

But. (shocked). No, sir, I have not searched her.

Dr. A. Well, well, I mean has she been searched?

But. (with dignity). I put my hand in her pocket, sir, and I looked under her shawl.

Dr. A. Well, you didn’t search her, but you put your hand in her pocket, and you looked under her shawl. What did you find there?

But. A decanter of sherry, sir. (Producing it.)

Dr. A. (to Mrs. V. B.) Your sherry, Mrs. Van Brugh?

But. Our sherry, Dr. Athelney.

Dr. A. Well, you hear what this man says; did you take this wine?

Ruth. Ay, I took it, sure enough.

Dr. A. Why did you take it?

Ruth. Why, to drink, of course. Why should I take it?

Dr. A. You shouldn’t take it.

Ruth. Don’t you never take wine?

Dr. A. Not other people’s wine—except, of course, with their permission.

Ruth. Maybe you’ve got a cellar of your own.

Dr. A. Maybe I have.

Ruth. Well, maybe I haven’t. That’s my answer.

Dr. A. Now, what are we to do with her?

Mrs. V. B. Leave her to me. Dr. Athelney, please remain here with me. Every one else, except the woman, leave the room.

But. She’s a desperate character, ma’am; it took six of us, including me, to bring her here.

Mrs. V. B. Never mind. Dr. Athelney and I will see her alone. Take your hands from her and go.

But. Hadn’t we better keep within hearing? If help was wanted——

Mrs. V. B. No help will be wanted. I am in earnest. Go. Shut the door. (The Servants reluctantly depart.)

Ruth. You’re a cool hand, missis; ain’t you afeard on me?

Mrs. V. B. Not at all. Why should I be afraid of you? I mean you no harm.

Ruth. Who’s he?

Mrs. V. B. Dr. Athelney, a clergyman and a magistrate.

Ruth. Beak, is he? Well, let him make out the committal. Where’s it to be? Sessions?

Mrs. V. B. We have no wish to prosecute you. We wish to help you to arrive at a sense of right and wrong.

Ruth. Can’t it be done without a parson? I dunno much good o’ parsons. I’d rather it was done without a parson.

Dr. A. (kindly). Don’t think of me as a clergyman, if that calling is distasteful to you. Perhaps some day we may succeed in overcoming your prejudice. In the mean time, think of me only as a harmless old gentleman, who is willing and able to help you to earn your living respectably, if you desire to do so.

Ruth. Ah, I’ve come across the likes o’ you afore now. Three weeks agone comes a parson, as it might be you. “I’ve come to help you, poor fallen creetur,” says he; “I’ve come to tell you blessed truths, poor miserable outcast,” says he. “Read that, wretched lost sheep,” says he. “I’ll call again in a month and see how you feel,” says he. A month! Heugh! When I was bad with fever the doctor come every day. He never come no more. There’s ladies come odd times. I call to mind one—come in a carriage she did. Same story—poor, miserable, lost one—wretched abandoned fellow-creetur, and that. She called me a brand from the burnin’, and wanted to stretch out a hand to save me, she did. Well, she stretched it out, and I thought she meant it (for I was green then), and, fool-like, I took it, and kissed it. She screeched as though I’d bit her!

Mrs. V. B. Will you take my hand?

Ruth. (astonished). Do you know what I am?

Mrs. V. B. Yes; I know well what you are. You are a woman who wants help, and I a woman who will help you. (Taking her hand).

Ruth. (much moved). Thankee, missis! you’ve spoke fair to me. I’ve had no one speak like that to me for many a long year. Thankee, missis. (Struggling with tears.) Don’t mind me. (Throws her apron over her face and sobs.) They will come odd times!

Mrs. V. B. Will you tell me your name?

Ruth. Ruth Tredgett. I come from Cambridge.

Dr. A. Born there?

Ruth. I dunno as I was born there, but I come from there.

Dr. A. What are you?

Ruth. I s’pose I’m a thief. I s’pose I’m what gentlefolk thinks is wus than a thief. God help me! I s’pose I’m as bad as I can be. (Weeping.)

Mrs. V. B. Are your parents alive?

Ruth. No, I never had no father—my mother was such as me. See here, lady. Wot’s to become of a gal whose mother was such as me? Mother! Why, I could swear afore I could walk!

Dr. A. But were you not brought up to any calling?

Ruth. Yes, sir, I were; I were brought up to be a thief. Every soul as I knowed was a thief, and the best thief was the best thought on. Maybe a kid not long born ought to have knowed better. I dunno, I must ha’ been born bad, for it seemed right enough to me. Well, it was in prison and out o’ prison—three months here and six months there—till I was sixteen. I sometimes thinks as if they’d bin half as ready to show me how to go right as they was to punish me for goin’ wrong, I might have took the right turnin’ and stuck to it afore this. At sixteen I got seven year for shopliftin’, and was sent out to Port Philip. I soon got a ticket and tried service and needlework, but no one wouldn’t have me; and I got sick and tired of it all, and began to think o’ putting a end to it, when I met a smooth-spoken chap—a gentleman, if you please—as wanted to save me from the danger afore me. Well, wot odds? He was a psalm-singing villain, and he soon left me. No need to tell the rest—to such as you it can’t be told. I’m ’most as bad as I can be—as bad as I can be!

Mrs. V. B. I think not; I think not. What do you say, Doctor?

Dr. A. (struggling with his tears). Say, ma’am? I say that you, Ruth Tredgett, have been a most discreditable person, and you ought to be heartily ashamed of yourself, Ruth Tredgett; and as a clergyman of the Church of England I feel bound to tell you that—that your life has been—has been what God knows it couldn’t well have helped being under the circumstances.

Mrs. V. B. Ruth Tredgett, I am very, very sorry for you. If you are willing to leave this unhappy course of life I will provide you with the means of earning your living honestly.

Ruth. Honestly! Why, lady, I’m too fur gone for that!

Mrs. V. B. I hope not. I have assisted many, very many such women as yourself, and I have seldom found my efforts wasted.

Ruth. But you—a lady, high-born, high-bred, beautiful, rich, good—(In amazement.)

Mrs. V. B. Hush. (Rises.) No matter what I am. (With emotion.) Who shall say what the very best of us might not have been but for the accident of education and good example? Tell me, Ruth Tredgett, will you accept my offer?

Ruth. (kneels at her feet and looks up into her face). I will!

ACT II.

Scene: same as in Act I.

Enter Mr. Smailey and Servant.

Mr. S. (very gently). Will you have the goodness to tell Mrs. Van Brugh that Mr. Smailey is here to see her, by appointment?

Serv. Mr. Smailey, sir? Yes, sir. (Going.)

Enter Mr. Fitz Partington.

Fitz. (stopping Servant). And his solicitor.

Mr. S. (with mild sternness). You have followed me again, sir?

Fitz. Followed you again, sir; according to contract.

Mr. S. There is no contract between us that entitles you to dog my footsteps as though you were hunting down a thief.

Fitz. Hunting down a thief? Oh, yes. To enable me to assist you in blighting the character of the best and loveliest woman that ever shed a light upon a private detective’s thorny path, I am to have the free run of your house and papers; I am to accompany you wherever you go, and you are to introduce me everywhere as your solicitor.

Mr. S. Sir, you are not in the least like a solicitor. You are a ridiculously dressed person. You are like nothing in the world but what you are—a private detective. I desire to press hardly on no fellow-creature, but you are a spy! that base and utterably abject thing—a spy!

Fitz. Mr. Smailey, when you complain that you find my society irksome, you have my profoundest sympathy; I find it so myself. When you revile my profession, my sentiments are entirely in accord, for I have the very poorest opinion of it. But when you imply that I don’t look the character I undertake to represent, why then, sir, you touch the private detective on the most sensitive part of his moral anatomy. I’m not a blameless character, but if I undertook to personate the Archbishop of Canterbury I believe I should look the part, and my conversation would be found to be in keeping with the character.

Mr. S. Pray, silence; oh, pray, pray, silence. You shock me inexpressibly. It is most painful to me to have to resort to your assistance. My son, my dear son, has engaged himself to marry Mrs. Van Brugh’s daughter. I have lately had reason to believe that there is something discreditable in Mrs. Van Brugh’s marriage relations, though I do not know its precise nature. You tell me that you have a certain clew to this flaw, though you decline to tell me what it is until your proofs are matured. Well, sir, the Smaileys are a very old and very famous family. Caius Smaileius came over with Julius Cæsar; his descendants have borne an untarnished scutcheon for eighteen hundred years. In its interest I am bound to employ you, and upon your own most exacting terms, though I can not think of your contemptible calling without a feeling of the most profound abhorrence.

Fitz. Sir, I am heartily ashamed of it.

Mr. S. You are a professional impostor; a hired lie.

Fitz. It is too true. I not only lie myself, but I am the cause of lying in others.

Mr. S. For the lies that have to be told in accounting for you I hold you entirely responsible. I wish that to be understood. I wash my hands of them altogether, and, when I think of the deep, deliberate, and utterly indefensible falsehoods that I have had to utter on your behalf, I tremble for your future—I tremble for your future.

Fitz. Unselfish man.

Mr. S. As for the preposterous terms you have dictated——

Fitz. Terms! I have insured to myself the unbroken enjoyment of your desirable society for six weeks, and believe me, when I say that if I had been acquainted with the inexpressible charms of the most fascinating woman that ever shed a light upon the private detective’s thorny path, I wouldn’t have undertaken the job, no, not even for a lifetime of your society!

Enter Mrs. Van Brugh.

Mrs. V. B. Good morning, Mr. Smailey. I am sorry to have kept you waiting. (Aside) That absurd little man with him again. (Aloud) Good morning, Mr.——

Fitz. Fitz Partington.

Mrs. V. B. Fitz Partington, of course.

Fitz. (aside). She might remember my name. I can’t conceive any circumstances under which I could forget hers!

Mr. S. Mr. Fitz Partington is entirely in my confidence. I brought him, because I believed that his familiarity with legal forms might assist us in our interview. You can speak without reserve before Mr. Fitz Partington. (Aside to Fitz.) A lie, sir! Another lie, from first to last!

Mrs. V. B. I suppose the facts will come before Mr. Fitz Partington when they are decided on. The steps by which they are arrived at will only bore him. I’m sure Mr. Partington won’t be angry with me, when I ask him to amuse himself in the next room until preliminaries are arranged.

Fitz. Mrs. Van Brugh, I have made it a part of my moral code to step without hesitation into any apartment you may think fit to indicate.[Exit.

Mrs. V. B. Now, Mr. Smailey, about these settlements. I will tell you at once what I propose to do. My income is, as you know, a very large one—much larger than any one would suppose who judges from the quietness of my mode of life. I am an odd woman, and I spend my money in my own way. I have very many claims upon it, and, although I wish to deal handsomely with my darling Eve, I must not disappoint those who have counted upon me for some years past. To come to the point, I propose to settle my Buckinghamshire farm upon her, on the usual terms of a marriage settlement. I don’t know the technical expression—but on the usual terms.

Mr. S. The Buckinghamshire farm, yes. Thank you. I forget whether that is the leasehold or the freehold farm, for you have two.

Mrs. V. B. You mustn’t ask me. Your solicitor knows. It’s worth £500 a year, and that, I suppose, is the main point.

Mr. S. Not altogether; the difference in value may be prodigious. Have you a copy of the will?

Mrs. V. B. No. I never saw the will.

Mr. S. Never saw the will? I think I have a copy of it at home—with your permission, I will go and fetch it, and the matter can be decided at once.

Mrs. V. B. Do, by all means. I only know that my property is all my own, and that I can do what I like with it; and I assure you, Mr. Smailey, I avail myself of the privilege.

Mr. S. You do indeed. And that reminds me, Mrs. Van Brugh, that I am anxious to speak to you on another topic—a topic of a singularly painful character. I will endeavor, Mrs. Van Brugh, to approach it as delicately as possible.

Mrs. V. B. Indeed! (Alarmed.) You rouse my curiosity, Mr. Smailey. Does it—does it refer in any way to myself?

Mr. S. Directly to yourself.

Mrs. V. B. (much alarmed). May I ask in what way?

Mr. S. As I said before, it is a most difficult subject to approach, and I would willingly spare you. Give me a moment to think how I can best put it to you.

Mrs. V. B. Pray have no hesitation in telling me what it is. (With half-disguised emotion.) Does it—does it refer in any way to my—to my past life, for instance? (With affected cheerfulness.)

Mr. S. It does refer to incidents in your past life. To many incidents in general, and to one incident in particular.

Mrs. V. B. For Heaven’s sake, sir, be explicit. Speak out, I implore you. (With suppressed agitation.)

Mr. S. You seem strangely agitated, Mrs. Van Brugh.

Mrs. V. B. No, no; I am ill and nervous to-day. Your manner is rather alarming. (With affected cheerfulness.) You know I’m a very bad hand at guessing riddles, Mr. Smailey. Come, what is it? I give it up. (He hesitates.) Why have you any hesitation in telling me?

Mr. S. Because it involves a particularly delicate moral point. (She is much agitated.) God bless me, you seem very much alarmed.

Mrs. V. B. (with determination). Mr. Smailey, once and for all, I insist upon knowing what it is.

Mr. S. Well, then, to be quite plain with you, it is currently reported in the village that you have taken a miserable woman from the streets and established her in the character of a respectable workwoman within a hundred yards of this spot. (Mrs. Van Brugh, whose agitation and alarm have been intense, is greatly relieved.) Moreover, I have been informed that you have, for some years past, been in the habit of searching out women of bad character who profess penitence, with the view of enabling them to earn their living in the society of blameless Christians.

Mrs. V. B. I have.

Mr. S. I tell you at once that I am loath to believe this thing.

Mrs. V. B. (with indignant surprise). Why are you loath to believe this thing?

Mr. S. Why? (Rises.) Because its audacity, its want of principle, and, above all, its unspeakable indelicacy, shock me beyond the power of expression.

Mrs. V. B. Mr. Smailey, is it possible that you are speaking deliberately? Think of any blameless woman whom you love and honor, and who is loved and honored of all. Think of the shivering outcast whose presence is contamination, whose touch is horror unspeakable, whose very existence is an unholy stain on God’s earth. Woman—loved, honored, courted by all. Woman—shunned, loathed, and unutterably despised, but still—Woman. I do not plead for those whose advantages of example and education render their fall ten thousand times more culpable. Let others speak for such as they. (With a broken voice.)—It may be that something is to be said, even for them. I plead for those who have had the world against them from the first—who with blunted weapons and untutored hands have fought society single-handed, and fallen in the unequal fight. God help them!

Mr. S. Mrs. Van Brugh, I have no desire to press hardly on any fellow-creature, but society, the grand arbiter in these matters, has decided that a woman who has once forfeited her moral position shall never regain it.

Mrs. V. B. Even though her repentance be sincere and beyond doubt?

Mr. S. Even so.

Mrs. V. B. Even though she fell unprotected, unadvised, perishing with want and chilled with despair?

Mr. S. Even so. For such a woman there is no excuse—for such a woman there is no pardon.

Mrs. V. B. You mean no pardon on earth?

Mr. S. Of course I mean no pardon on earth. What can I have to do with pardon elsewhere?

Mrs. V. B. Nothing. Mr. Smailey, when you have procured the will, I shall be ready to see you; but before you go let me tell you that I am inexpressibly shocked and pained at the terrible theory you have advanced. (He endeavors to speak.) Oh, understand me, I do not charge you with exceptional heartlessness. You represent the opinions of society, and society is fortunate in its mouthpiece. Heaven teaches that there is a pardon for every penitent. Earth teaches that there is one sin for which there is no pardon—when the sinner is a woman!

(Ruth has entered. She is quietly and decently dressed, and carries a parcel of needlework in her hand.)

Mr. S. (aside). Mrs. Van Brugh, pray be quiet; we are observed.

Mrs. V. B. By the subject of our conversation.[Exit Mrs. Van Brugh.

Ruth. I beg pardon—I thought the lady was alone. (Going.)

Mr. S. Stop, woman. (She turns and advances.) Don’t—don’t approach me—we have nothing in common. Listen at a distance. Mrs. Van Brugh has thought proper to place you on a pedestal that levels you, socially, with respectable Christians. In so doing, I consider that she has insulted respectable Christians. She thinks proper to suffer you to enter my presence. In so doing I consider that she has insulted me. I desire you to understand that when a woman of your stamp enters the presence of a Christian gentleman, she——

Ruth. (who has been looking at him in wonder during this speech). Smailey! That’s never you! (Mr. S. falls back in his chair.)

Ruth. Ay, Smailey, it’s Ruth Tredgett.

Mr. S. (very confused). I did not know whom I was speaking to.

Ruth. But you knowed what you was speakin’ to, Jonas Smailey. Go on. I’m kinder curous to hear what you’ve got to say about a woman o’ my stamp. I’m kinder curous to hear wot Jonas Smailey’s got to say about his own work.

Mr. S. We meet in a strange way after so many years.

Ruth. Yes; we do meet in a strange way. Seems to me it’s suthin’ of a topsy-turvy way. But it’s a topsy-turvy world, ain’t it?

Mr. S. (recovering himself with bland dignity). I have no desire to press hardly on any fellow-creature——

Ruth. (quietly). Come, that’s kind, anyhow.

Mr. S. Perhaps, after all, you were not entirely to blame.

Ruth. Well, p’raps not.

Mr. S. Perhaps I myself was not altogether without reproach in the matter. But in my case allowance should, in common charity, be made for follies that arise from extreme youth and—and inexperience. I was barely forty then.

Ruth. And I was just sixteen. Well, I forgive you, along o’ your youth, as I hope to be forgiven along o’ my childhood.

Mr. S. (rises). The tone you adopt is in the worst possible taste. The misguided lady who has taken upon herself, most wickedly, to foist you upon society, has committed a fraud, which——

Ruth. Stop there, Smailey! You’re getting on dangerous ground. Best leave that lady alone. She’s a bit chipped off heaven—she’s good right through. She’s—she’s—I’m slow at findin’ words that mean goodness. My words run mostly the other way, wus luck. If I had to tell o’ you, Smailey, they’d come handy and strong. I can’t find words that mean her!

Mr. S. I have no wish to be hard on you, but it is a fraud, and——

Ruth. Fraud? Fraud’s a bad word to come from you, Smailey. I’d ha’ thought you’d ha’ fought shy o’ that word, for the rest o’ your days.

Mr. S. (taken aback). I don’t know what you refer to.

Ruth. I’m referrin’ to Martha Vane of Melbourne. What, yer recklect Martha Vane, do yer?

Mr. S. Martha Vane! Yes, I remember Vane. Pooh! There is nothing to connect me with that matter.

Ruth. Nothing? I’ve writin’ of yours which is fourteen year, if it’s a day.

Mr. S. And do you mean to say that you would be guilty of such inhumanity—such devilish inhumanity (I use the word “devilish” in its religious sense) as to bring up an act of youthful folly—guilt if you will—against me now that I have achieved wealth, reputation, and social position?

Ruth. No, you’re safe, Smailey. Bring it up agin yer now? Why, you may have repented, who knows? You was a bad lot, sure enough, but that’s twenty years agone, and you may ha’ repented.

Mr. S. I have; I’m an altered person—I—I—will make it well worth your while to give me up that writing you refer to. I will pay you very handsomely for it.

Ruth. Pay! no; I ain’t on that lay. I’m square now. I’m a ’spectable woman. I only takes money wot I earns. It comes slow, but it comes comfortable.

Mr. S. Your sentiments do you credit. I confess I did not look for such delicacy of feeling in you; it exalts one’s idea of human nature. I am thankful for any thing that exalts one’s idea of human nature. Thank you, Tredgett. Give me these papers.

Ruth. No; I’m ’spectable, but I ain’t a fool. I’ll keep ’em, case I want ’em.

Mr. S. As you please. Remember, Tredgett, I am a person of influence here, and a county magistrate——

Ruth. What, d’you sit at quarter sessions?

Mr. S. Certainly.

Ruth. And sentence poor prigs?

Mr. S. Yes. Why do you ask?

Ruth. Nothing; go on—it’s all topsy-turvy!

Mr. S. I shall be happy if I can serve you in any way. I shall always be glad to hear that you are doing well, and I feel certain that the admirable lady who has so kindly taken you in hand will have no reason to regret her charity. It is easy to fall, and hard to rise again—Heaven bless those who extend a helping hand. I am very glad indeed that we have met. I’ve no wish to press hardly on any fellow-creature.[Exit.

Ruth. Jonas Smailey! Smailey here! Things come about queerly. I seed him last at t’other end o’ the world, and to meet him here! Who’s that? (Fitz Partington has entered unobserved on tiptoe, and tapped her on the shoulder.)

Fitz. Come here. (Taking out note-book.) Your name’s Ruth Tredgett?

Ruth. (surprised). Ay.

Fitz. What are you?

Ruth. A ’spectable woman. Wot are you?

Fitz. A detective.

Ruth. (falling back horrified). Wot’s it for?

Fitz. Nothing. You ain’t wanted, but your address is.

Ruth. I’m living at Barker’s in the village.

Fitz. Present occupation?

Ruth. Needlewoman.

Fitz. Late occupation?

Ruth. Tramp. There’s nothin’ agin me?

Fitz. Nothing against you, every thing for you; even this half-crown.

Ruth. I don’t like p’leece money. I never took none yet, I ain’t a goin’ to begin now. I wish yer good day. I don’t like p’leece money.[Exit.

Fitz. I’m not a policeman, I’m a private detective; but we won’t split hairs. (Pockets coin.) I thought Smailey was my man, now I’m sure of it. Ha! ha! Now, Smailey has a game. The question is, what is it? He says it’s his scutcheon, but that is Walker, because his father was a wig-maker. However, it’s quite clear that, whatever his game may be, it is my duty to put that inestimable woman on her guard.

Enter Mrs. Van Brugh.

Mrs. V. B. Has not Mr. Smailey returned?

Fitz. No, ma’am, he has not. (He shows traces of emotion.)

Mrs. V. B. Mr. Fitz Partington, is any thing the matter?

Fitz. Ma’am, you have come upon me in a moment of professional conscientiousness. Avail yourself of it, for such moments are rare and fleeting. Beware of Smailey.

Mrs. V. B. What in the world do you mean?

Fitz. I mean that he is endeavoring to prove that—that you were not legally married to Captain Van Brugh.

Mrs. V. B. (intensely agitated). Mr. Fitz Partington, you can not be aware of the full import of your words. What can be Mr. Smailey’s motive for making these preposterous inquiries?

Fitz. That’s just what I want to get at. In a general way it’s sure to be something dirty. Perhaps he thinks that the property you inherit from Captain Van Brugh isn’t legally yours, and, therefore, can’t be settled by you on your daughter.

Mrs. V. B. But I inherited very little indeed from Captain Van Brugh. The bulk of my property was left me by my godfather.

Fitz. Then I’m wrong. But does Smailey know this?

Mrs. V. B. Know it! Why, of course he knows it. He’s my godfather’s nephew, and next-of-kin.

Fitz. What! His next-of-kin? Next-of-kin is a fruitful expression. I see a whole plantation of motives cropping out of “next-of-kin.” Have you a copy of the will?

Mrs. V. B. No. But Mr. Smailey has—indeed he has gone to fetch it.

Fitz. Can you tell me the terms of the legacy?

Mrs. V. B. No, not precisely. I have never seen the will. My solicitor has told me its purport in general terms.

Fitz. Are you referred to in that will by your married or maiden name?

Mrs. V. B. Oh, by my maiden name.

Fitz. You are sure of that?

Mrs. V. B. Quite sure. At least, I feel quite sure. I can’t be absolutely certain, but—oh, yes; I am sure of it.

Fitz. What was the date of the will?

Mrs. V. B. 1856.

Fitz. What was the year of your marriage?

Mrs. V. B. (after a pause). 1856.

Fitz. My dear Mrs. Van Brugh, this is most important. The news of your marriage might or might not have reached the testator in Australia. If there is any flaw in your marriage, and if you are described in that will as Captain Van Brugh’s wife, every penny you possess will revert to Smailey. Now, Smailey is a scoundrel.

Mrs. V. B. Mr. Fitz Partington, pray explain yourself.

Fitz. In the full conviction that what I am going to say will be treated as confidential, I will explain myself. I’m after Smailey. Smailey will soon be wanted.

Mrs. V. B. This is scarcely an explanation.

Fitz. Scarcely an explanation. Twenty years ago, when in Australia, Smailey forged a burial-certificate to get some trust-funds into his possession. The job was given to our house to investigate, only six weeks ago. Two days after, who should come to us for a detective to inquire into your affairs but Smailey, so we put the two jobs together, and I’m doing ’em both.

Mrs. V. B. But how is it that a gentleman in your profession——

Fitz. A gentleman! Mrs. Van Brugh, for reasons that will go down with me to the tomb, I am humbly and hopelessly anxious to stand high in your good opinion. Appreciate my disinterestedness, when I voluntarily tell you that which will blight me in your estimation for ever. You think I’m an eminent solicitor. I ain’t; I’m the insignificant minion of a Private Inquiry Office.

Mrs. V. B. But you were introduced to me as a solicitor.

Fitz. It is a tantalizing feature of my contemptible calling, that I am continually being introduced as somebody I should particularly like to be. In the course of the last twelve months, I’ve been a Spanish Hidalgo, a Colonel of Hussars, an Ashantee Nobleman, and a Bishop of the Greek Church. What was the date of your marriage?

Mrs. V. B. Some time in February, ’56 (with hesitation).

Fitz. Day?

Mrs. V. B. The—the 30th.

Fitz. The 30th? Try again. Never more than twenty-nine days in February—seldom that.

Mrs. V. B. I forget the exact date.

Fitz. Where were you married, and by whom?

Mrs. V. B. By—by (after some hesitation)—Sir, by your own admission you are a mere spy. How am I to know that you are not asking these questions with a view to using them against me?

Fitz. (much hurt). Ma’am, may you never know the depth of the wound you have inflicted. It will canker, ma’am, but don’t be alarmed, it shall not inconvenience you, for I will remove it from your sight. When we meet again, you will find me in the assumed character of a person who has not had his best feelings harrowed up for a considerable time. It will be a difficult assumption, ma’am, but I will do my best to sustain the fiction.[Exit.

Mrs. V. B. At last! at last my punishment is at hand. And Eve—great heavens, what will become of her? Eve—who loves and honors me—Eve, my child! I mustn’t think of that. It will madden me. I shall want all my head for what is to come! If news of this—marriage of mine (with a bitter laugh) had reached my godfather, he would have described me in his will as Captain Van Brugh’s wife, and then I am lost, and Eve is lost. Oh, why don’t that man come. This suspense is terrible. At last! He’s here!

Enter Eve and Fred with Dr. Athelney.

Eve. Mr. Smailey has returned with the will. Frederick has been explaining to me the difference between freehold and leasehold, and you don’t know how anxious I am to know which it is.

Fred. Eve, Eve, this is very mercenary.

Enter Smailey.

Mr. S. Mrs. Van Brugh, I am most happy to tell you that it is every thing that could be wished. My dear Mrs. Van Brugh, the Buckinghamshire farm is freehold. Here is the clause which refers to it: (Reads very deliberately.) After giving you Westland Park, the Blackfriars estate, and the two reversions, the testator goes on to say, “And I further will and bequeathe all that messuage known as Goldacre Farm, together with all out-houses, ways, watercourses, trees, commonable rights, easements and appurtenances, and all the estate and rights of the said Richard Goldacre in and to the same, unto and to the use of the said Catherine Ellen, wife of Richard Van Brugh, Esq., a captain in the Royal Navy, her heirs and assigns forever.”

(Mrs. Van Brugh falls senseless into a chair, her daughter bending over her.)

ACT III.

Scene: Morning room in Smailey’s house. Door at back, giving on to a pretty garden.

Frederick discovered sealing a letter.

Fred. “Your eternally attached Frederick.” If there was any flaw in Mrs. Van Brugh’s marriage, as my father seems to suspect—and his suspicions are corroborated by her astonishing behavior on his reading her godfather’s will—then Mrs. Van Brugh is penniless—and Eve is penniless too. Poor little lady. I’m afraid I shall have to cry off. I’m sorry for the poor child, because I’m sure she is fond of me. I’m sorry for myself, because I’m sure I’m fond of her. But when a man proposes to marry, he must not allow himself to be misled by his affections. As far as Eve is concerned I see no difficulty. She is a tender-hearted and sensitive little thing, heaven bless her, and can be easily shaken off. But my poor old father; how indignant he will be if I dare to suggest what he would consider a dishonorable course! Why, if he thought me capable of breaking a solemn engagement for a mercenary motive, he’d disown me! No, I must rest my excuse on a surer ground. I must touch his sense of family pride. I must remind him of the blight that would fall on our race, if I intermarried with a tainted family. A really good man does a deal of harm in the world. One has to stoop to so much dirty dissimulation before one can meet him on equal terms.

Enter Mr. Smailey.

Mr. S.} Frederick, I want to speak seriously—

Fred.} Father, I want to speak seriously——

Mr. S. Eh?

Fred. I beg your pardon.

Mr. S. I was about to say that I want to speak to you on a most serious and important matter.

Fred. Dear me, that’s very odd! Do you know I was about to say the very same thing! I am most anxious to speak to you on a most serious and most important matter. Excuse me for one moment, while I give this note to Robins.

Mr. S. Whom are you writing to?

Fred. To my darling, of course?[Exit.

Mr. S. To his darling! Poor lad! He’s a noble fellow! No mercenary thought in connection with the girl has ever entered his head! But he must never marry her. Every thing points to the fact that Mrs. Van Brugh’s marriage was illegal, and, if so, her daughter is portionless. Thank Heaven! his sense of moral rectitude is so high that when he knows that her mother’s conduct is open to suspicion he may feel bound to dissociate himself from her. Ah, it is a pleasant and a goodly thing when a parent finds that the strict principles he has instilled into his offspring are bearing golden fruit on which they both may feed!

Enter Frederick.

Mr. S. (aside).} How shall I break it to him?

Fred. (aside).} How shall I begin?

Fred. Now I’m at your disposal.

Mr. S. Frederick, my dear lad, this life of ours is made up of hopes frustrated, and cherished schemes brought to nothing.

Fred. Very true. A man who places himself under the sweet dominion of his conscience, must not count on the fulfillment of even his most innocent intentions.

Mr. S. Unforeseen circumstances occasionally arise that render it almost criminal to carry out an otherwise laudable purpose.

Fred. For instance: a discovery that a contemplated act would, if carried out, bring dishonor on a long line of ancestors.

Mr. S. Or give an implied sanction to a discreditable, if not an immoral, relationship. Events might occur which would justify him in breaking the most solemn pledge.

Fred. Justify him! I can conceive a state of things under which he would be morally bound to cast his most sacred obligations to the wind.

Mr. S. My dear boy!

Fred. My dear father! (They shake hands.)

Mr. S. Now Fred, this is what I was coming to, my boy. We are the last descendants of a very noble family.

Fred. So I have often heard you say. And that reminds me to mention a matter, upon which I have long desired to talk to you——

Mr. S. (interrupting). I am free to admit that I am proud of my ancestry.

Fred. My dear father, the safe-keeping of their honor is my dearest aim. And, talking of my ancestors’ honor, reminds me——

Mr. S. (interrupting). If Caius Smaileius heard that one of his race was about to marry, for instance, into a tainted family, I believe the doughty old Roman would turn in his tumulus!

Fred. What you say about a tainted family is so true, that I venture——

Mr. S. My dear Fred, it’s no use beating about the bush. The girl you are engaged to—as good a girl as ever lived, is (there is no use in disguising it) a member of a tainted family. (Fred turns from Smailey.) It is therefore my duty to urge upon you, as the last of our line, the propriety, the necessity, of releasing Eve from her engagement. (Frederick appears hurt and indignant.) I know I am asking much, very much, of you. I know how tenderly you love the girl; but a flaw, my dear Fred, and you a Smailey! My boy, it is impossible.

Fred. (in affected indignation). Am I to understand that you require me to surrender my darling Eve. Never! With all possible respect for your authority—Never!

Mr. S. But, Fred, remember, my boy, remember, her mother has committed a faux pas of some kind.

Fred. It would certainly seem so; but I have given my word, and it is my duty to keep it.

Mr. S. What is duty to the living compared with duty to the dead. Think what your ancestors have done for you. And are we to neglect our duty to them, because they can do no more for us? Oh! shame, shame!

Fred. (with apparent reluctance). There is much truth in what you say, still——

Mr. S. To marry into such a family as hers, now that we know the truth, would be, as it were, to countenance her guilt.

Fred. I can not deny it. Nevertheless, I——

Mr. S. Would it be just—would it be moral to do this?

Fred. No, no; I see it now.

Mr. S. Show yourself to be a man of moral courage. As for what the world will say, do the right thing, my boy, and let them say what they please.

Fred. (after a pause). Father, you are right. As a moral man I have no alternative but to comply with your wish. At any cost it must be done—at any cost it shall be done!

Mr. S. That’s right, my dear, dear boy; and you shall find that you have lost little by your determination. And now that that’s settled, let us enter into your affairs. What was it that you wanted to speak to me so seriously about just now?

Fred. I? Oh, dear no.

Mr. S. But surely, you said——

Fred. Oh, to be sure! I—oh, it’s not of the least consequence.

Mr. S. Something about poor little Eve, wasn’t it?

Fred. Yes; about poor little Eve. How little do we know what five minutes may bring forth! I was actually going to consult you about fixing a day for our wedding. (Wiping his eyes.)

Mr. S. My poor boy, you have behaved nobly. You are a true Smailey.

Fred. (taking his hand). I hope it is not presumptuous in me, but I sometimes think I am.

Mr. S. I have wounded you deeply. Let me compensate you by telling you a more pleasant piece of news. I have discovered Fitz Partington’s clew.

Fred. Indeed! I am rejoiced to hear it.

Mr. S. Yes. Mrs. Van Brugh told me on Tuesday that she had never actually seen her godfather’s will. So I felt it to be my duty to make an excuse for reading aloud that part of the will in which she is particularly described. I did so, and she fainted. Now, my dear Fred, what does this point to?

Fred. I should say bigamy.

Mr. S. You would say bigamy, and so should I. I suggested this to Fitz Partington, and he seemed amazed at my penetration. We laid our heads together, and, at his suggestion, I drew up this advertisement. (Hands MS. advertisement, which he has taken from table-drawer.)

Fred. (reads). £50 Reward. This sum will be paid for a true copy of the burial certificate of the first wife of the late Captain Van Brugh, R.N. She is known to have died at Melbourne within the last eight years. Are you sure Fitz Partington is acting straightforwardly with you?

Mr. S. Why should he do otherwise?

Fred. £50 is a large sum.

Mr. S. A large sum? If I can only establish the fact that the first Mrs. Van Brugh died within the last eight years, every penny of this so-called Mrs. Van Brugh’s income—£8,000 a year at least—reverts to me.

Fred. Then, dear me——

Mr. S. Eh?

Fred. Poor Eve will lose her settlement!

Mr. S. True; quite true. Dear me, I never thought of that. Poor Eve!

Fred. Poor, poor Eve!

Enter Ruth.

Ruth. I’ve brought this note from my lady.

Mr. S. Oh! There may be an answer. Stay.

Ruth. (quietly). Yes; I’ll stay.

Mr. S. (reads note). Oh! Mrs. Van Brugh writes to say that she wishes to see me this afternoon—alone. (Sits down to write.)

Fred. Alone! Oh, then—then perhaps I’d better withdraw. (With affected emotion.)

Ruth. Ay, perhaps you better had.

(She follows him with her eyes as he goes to the door. He seems uneasy. Then exit.)

Mr. S. There is the answer. (Finishing note.)

Ruth. Smailey; wot’s wrong about my lady?

Mr. S. Wrong?

Ruth. Ay, there’s ruin comin’ to her, and she knows it. She’s been queer-like these two days. I’ve come upon her cryin’ odd times, and she’s as white as death. Wot is it, Smailey?

Mr. S. Probably a head-ache. I’m not a doctor.

Ruth. I am. It’s no head-ache—it’s heart-ache. It’s ruin.

Mr. S. It is ruin; to her wealth, and her good name.

Ruth. Her good name? Why, you’re never goin’ to meddle wi’ that.

Mr. S. You are deceived in your mistress. (Rises.) I will tell you what she has been——

Ruth. Stop! I won’t hear it, Smailey, I won’t hear it. Let bygones go by: no odds what she has been; think wot she is; think wot you’ve been. As I’ve dealt fair wi’ you, deal you fair wi’ her. Take wot’s yourn, but don’t take no more.

Mr. S. My rights and her good name are bound up together, I can not claim the one without destroying the other. I only want what the law will give me, if I commence proceedings.

Ruth. (changing her tone). If you commence proceedings, wot the law will give you is fourteen year, take my word for it. I’ve spoke fair, and no good’s come of it, so I’ll speak foul. Look here, Smailey, you’ve put a plot afoot to ruin my lady. Now my lady’s got a dog, Smailey, and that dog won’t stand no plots. Do you hear that, Smailey. Stir hand or foot to harm that pure and spotless creature, and sure as my lady’s dog has a set of fangs she’ll fix them in your throat.

Mr. S. This is hard. This is very hard. Even Mrs. Van Brugh would herself at once admit the justice of my claim.

Ruth. Well, wait till she does.

Mr. S. (after a pause). There is a good deal of sound common sense in what you say, Tredgett. Still, if—if Mrs. Van Brugh should at any time make a statement of her own free will, you will surely allow me to profit by it?

Ruth. Wotever my lady does of her own free will is angels’ doin’, and is right accordin’.

Mr. S. (aside). Then I think I see my way. (Aloud.) Well, Ruth, on that understanding you have my promise.

Ruth. Promise? Your promise? Smailey, don’t you meddle with things you don’t understand. Promises are ticklish goods in your hands. They’re temptin’ things to break, and you was always easy tempted. No, no; don’t you promise. I’ll promise this time, Smailey. I’ll promise.[Exit Ruth.

Mr. S. A sin, an early sin—a sin committed twenty years ago, brought up against me now that I am an honest man, and a regular church-goer! I am absolutely bound hand and foot by it—and to what end? For the protection of a woman who has committed Heaven knows what offense against morality. If this crime were to be proved against me, what on earth would become of me? For years I have endeavored to atone for my sin against society by treating wrong-doers brought before me with the strictest and most unflinching severity. Would Society be grateful for this—Would it even take heed of it? No; my atonement would go for nothing—absolutely nothing. Ah! this is a merciless world, and one in which penitence is taken no account of. But have a care, Mrs. Van Brugh, I’ll bide my time. You shall yet see that a sin against morality is not to be wiped out by a few years of sentimental self-denial!

Enter Eve and Fred.

Fred. Father, I met Mrs. Van Brugh and my darling on their way here, so I turned back with them.

Mr. S. My dear Eve. (Kisses her. Enter Mrs. Van Brugh.) Mrs. Van Brugh, I am very pleased to see you. Pray sit down. You look pale; I am afraid you are tired.

Mrs. V. B. No, I have not been very well lately.

Eve. Mamma wished to come alone, as she wants to speak to you on business, but I wouldn’t hear of that, as she is really very far from well, so I’ve brought her to you, Mr. Smailey; and now I’m going to take a turn in the garden with Fred. Dr. Athelney is waiting for us in the arbor.

Fred. If the arbor were a consecrated arbor, and I had a license in my pocket, we might take a turn—in the garden—that would surprise our dear friends.

Eve. What, without a wedding-dress and bridesmaids, and bouquets and presents, and a breakfast? My dear Fred, it wouldn’t be legal![Exeunt Eve and Fred into the garden.

Mrs. V. B. (after a pause). Mr. Smailey, I come to you in great distress. On Tuesday last, a circumstance occurred, no matter what it was, that induced me to believe that there was a flaw—a vital flaw—in my title to all I possess. Mr. Smailey, I haven’t a shilling in the world.

Mr. S. A shilling! My very dear lady, you haven’t a penny.

Mrs. V. B. What! Do you know this?

Mr. S. Mrs. Van Brugh, I will be candid with you. The Smaileys are a very, very old and very famous family. No suspicion of a bar sinister has ever shadowed their escutcheon. My son is betrothed to your daughter, and I have reason to believe that you are not entitled to the name you bear. Therefore, in his interests, and in those of his slumbering ancestors, I have taken steps to ascertain the truth.

Mrs. V. B. (much agitated). What do you hope to prove?

Mr. S. That when you went through the form of marriage with the late Captain Van Brugh you knew that his first wife was still alive.

Mrs. V. B. (wildly). No, no, no! Mr. Smailey, it is bad enough, but not so bad as that. Oh, Mr. Smailey, dismiss that fearful thought from your mind, and I will tell you the truth I came here to tell. It’s a bitter, bitter truth, but not so bad as you would make it out to be.

Mr. S. What is the truth? (Sternly.)

Mrs. V. B. I—I—when I met Captain Van Brugh—I was very young, and my mother was dead—and— (Bursts into tears and sobs wildly, laying her head on the table.)

Mr. S. What is the truth?

Mrs. V. B. Oh, man, man, can’t you read it in these tears? Is there not shame enough in my face, that you want it in shameful words. Read what you see before you, and as you are a man with a heart, keep my secret; oh, keep my unhappy secret!

Mr. S. What! am I to understand that you never even went through the form of marriage with Captain Van Brugh?

Mrs. V. B. (under her breath). Never!

Mr. S. (after a pause). I decline to believe you. I had hoped that it was barely possible you were the unconscious dupe of a reckless scamp. I now believe that you were well aware of the crime you were committing, and you take this step to avoid its legal consequences.

Mrs. V. B. (with forced calmness). Mr. Smailey, I have, perhaps, no right to be indignant at this insult; but you are mistaken—utterly mistaken. Have you no pity, no sympathy? See, every thing I possess is legally yours; I leave your presence penniless. Commence an action against me, and I will quietly yield up every thing before the case comes into court; but, if you love your son, spare me the shame, the intolerable shame, of a public exposure!

Mr. S. I will spare you nothing; neither will I take the step you suggest, nor any other step to dispossess you. In this matter I am passive; I leave you to act as conscience may prompt you. But understand that I will be a party to no concealment, no subterfuge. On these terms, and on no other, will I consent to take this property.

Mrs. V. B. (wildly). What am I to do? I can not keep it, and I have no one to advise me!

Mr. S. I will advise you. You have sinned, and must make atonement. There are witnesses at hand, let them hear the truth: whatever the truth may be, let them hear it.

Mrs. V. B. What witnesses?

Mr. S. Dr. Athelney, my dear son, Ruth Tredgett, and your daughter.

Mrs. V. B. (wildly). No, no; not before Eve. You can not mean that I am to say this before Eve. Think, Mr. Smailey, what you are asking me to do. I am her mother!

Mr. S. I desire to press hardly on no fellow-creature, but it is meet that she should know the truth. Indeed, as a principle, truth can not be too widely known.

Mrs. V. B. But she knows nothing of this miserable matter. She believes, as others believe, that I was married abroad and that my husband died soon after.

Mr. S. A mother seeking to deceive her own child!

Mrs. V. B. Take every penny I possess, but for Eve’s sake spare me this intolerable shame. I will sign any deed you please that will convey my property to you, but leave me the love and honor of my darling child.

Mr. S. I decline to place myself in the invidious position of one who takes steps to dispossess a helpless lady; I also decline to be a party to any deception. If you refuse to make the public admission I require, you may keep your ill-gotten wealth.

Mrs. V. B. Keep it! Why I am here, of my own free will, to surrender into your hands my wealth, and with it my good name!

Mr. S. I feel it to be my duty to remind you that you have as little right to the one as to the other.

Mrs. V. B. What shall I do—What shall I do? If I refuse to publish my sin, this man will make it known to the whole world.

Mr. S. No; there you wrong me. That would be an unmanly act indeed, Miss Brandreth.

Mrs. V. B. Miss Brandreth!

Mr. S. That, I presume, is your name. Pardon me, but now that I know the truth, I could not conscientiously call you Mrs. Van Brugh. It would be a lie. For the future I shall call you Miss Brandreth, but—I shall systematically withhold my reasons for so doing.

Mrs. V. B. Mr. Smailey, think what you are compelling me to do. I have sinned, and for many years I have unceasingly endeavored to atone for that sin. Blessed with an ample fortune, I have devoted four-fifths of it to the rescue of the unhappiest among unhappy women. In my search for them I have waded, year after year, through the foulest depths of misery and disgrace, with ears and eyes outraged at every turn. In the face of galling rebuke and insult unspeakable, in the face of cold ridicule and insolent misconstruction, I have held on to the task I set myself, and through the mercy of heaven—the infinite mercy of heaven—I have succeeded. I have no desire to speak of these things, and to no other man would I utter them. But you talk to me of atonement; and have I not atoned? Oh! have I not atoned?

Mr. S. See how the deeds and words of these last years show in the fierce light you have just thrown upon them. You have lost no opportunity of rebuking my hardness of heart because I can not pardon an act of immorality. See from what a foul and muddy source your own forgiveness springs. You have taunted me with my severity towards wrong-doers. See from what an interested motive your own leniency arises. You have publicly assailed my want of charity. Had I the control of another man’s income my charities might perhaps outvie your own. In one word, if you retain your social position, you are morally an impostor. If you retain my property, you are morally——

Mrs. V. B. (interrupting him). Enough! You have spoken, and I know you now. I can see through those cold hard eyes down into the cold hard heart from which they take their tone. I read there the stony creed, “A woman who has once fallen shall never rise again.” So let it be. You are strong—for you have the world on your side. I am weak—for I am alone. If I am to die this moral death, it shall be by my own hand. They shall hear the truth. (Eve and Frederick have appeared at the door; she turns and sees them; they are followed by Dr. Athelney and Edward.) Come here, Eve; come here, Dr. Athelney; all of you come here. (Eve comes forward and kneels at her mother’s feet.) Eve, my darling, my pet—Eve dear, kiss me. Kiss me again and again—my child, my child! Kiss me now, for you may never kiss me again. Dr. Athelney, you love me, I know. Edward, my dear old friend, listen while I tell you what manner of woman you have loved——

Ruth. (rushing forward). No, no, mistress, you mustn’t say it, don’t, don’t speak it; for the love of mercy don’t speak it. As I’m a sinful woman, it’ll be worse than death to me.

Mrs. V. B. I must go on to the end. Do you know on what kind of thing you have lavished the treasure of your love? You have lavished it on a fallen woman—an unhappy creature, who has committed that one sin for which on earth there is no atonement—no forgiveness. You think of me as Captain Brugh’s widow; God forgive me, I never was his wife!

(Ruth recoils from her with an exclamation of horror. Eve falls senseless into Edward’s arms. Smailey and Frederick watch the group from a corner of the stage.)

ACT IV.

Scene: Library at Dr. Athelney’s.

Mrs. Van Brugh discovered seated, reading letters.

Mrs. V. B. “The Rev. Mr. Twemlow presents his compliments to Mrs. Van Brugh, and begs to return her annual subscription of fifty guineas to the Fund for providing Shelter for the Homeless Poor. He does not feel justified, under the circumstances, in accepting any aid from Mrs. Van Brugh on their behalf. With respect to the living to which Mrs. Van Brugh has recently presented Mr. Twemlow, he desires that she may understand that, if he consents to retain it, it is because he feels that it affords him a more extended sphere of spiritual usefulness than the curacy he has hitherto held.” (Opens another letter.) “We, the aged occupants of the Locroft Almshouses, are humbly pained and respectfully shocked at the disclosures that have recently been made with reference to Miss Brandreth’s relations with the late Captain Van Brugh. We trust that it is unnecessary for us to add that, if it were not that the Almshouses pass at once from Miss Brandreth’s hands into those of an upright and stainless Christian, whom it is an honor respectfully to know and a satisfaction humbly to profit by, we would not have consented to occupy them for another day; we would rather have worked for our living. Signed.” (Opens another letter.)

“Honored Madam,

“We shall feel greatly flattered and obliged if you will kindly afford us a sitting for your photograph at your earliest convenience.

“We are, Honored Madam,
“With much esteem,
“Most respectfully yours,
“Scumley & Ripp.”

When these people address me, I am degraded indeed! My name a word of reproach in every household in the country; my story a thing to be whispered and hinted at, but not to be openly discussed, by reason of its very shame. My years of atonement held to be mere evidences of skillfully sustained hypocrisy. Myself a confessed counterfeit, a base and worthless imposition, a living fraud on the immaculate beings with whom I dared to surround myself. And Ruth—Ruth, to whom my heart opened—even Ruth has left me. Poor blind, wayward woman, you are of the world, worldly; your idol is shattered, and there is the end. So let it be; it is meet that such as I should be alone!

Enter Eve, who has overheard the last few lines. She approaches her mother quietly, and places her arms round her neck.

Eve. Mamma, you have many kind friends left to you; Dr. Athelney, who has given you a home; Edward and myself.

Mrs. V. B. A daughter’s love comes of honor. Can that love live without the honor that gives it sustenance?

Eve. Mamma, I am very young, and I know little of the world and its ways. Will you forgive me if I speak foolishly? Dear mamma, I think my love for you began with my life. It was born with me, and came of no other cause than that you are my mother. As I brought it with me into the world, so I believe I shall take it with me out of the world. Do you understand me? I mean, that if I had no other reason for loving than that you are my mother, I should still love you, for I am your child.

Mrs. V. B. A child to whom I have given a life that is worse than death; a life that brings with it a curse that will be flung in your teeth by all who know you, and first of all, and above all, by him who was to have married you.

Eve. No, no; your bitter sorrow has made you unjust. Remember, he loves me. I do not know why he loves me, but whatever he saw in me to love is there still. I am not changed, and why should he change? I trust his heart as I trust my own.

Mrs. V. B. Eve, I know the world too well. That man will visit my fault upon you. He will renounce you now, my poor child, and the world will say he is right.

Eve. I will believe this when I hear it from his own lips.

Mrs. V. B. You will hear it to-day. It is part of the punishment of women who sin as I have sinned, that those who are dearest to them shall suffer with them. See how I am punished. I have placed a mark of shame on you whom I love beyond all on earth. I have inflicted a lasting injury on you whom I would have died to serve. I have cursed you whom I would have blessed. I have degraded you whom I would have exalted. Eve, my darling—out of my sin has come your love for me. I have no claim to that love. I have cheated you into honoring me; for that honor comes of my sin. I do not ask for love—I do not ask for honor. Humbled, unworthy, and spirit-broken, I plead to you for pardon—only for pardon. (Kneels to Eve.)

Eve. Pardon! My mother—my gentle-hearted mother. There is no thought in my mind but of the perfect woman of the past eighteen years. The luster of those years fills my world. I can see nothing else; I will see nothing else. As you have always been to me, so shall you always be—the type of gentle charity, tender helpfulness, brave, large-hearted womanly sympathy. When the bright light of those bygone years pales in my eyes, then let me suffer ten times the sorrow of to-day, for indeed I shall have deserved it. (She rises and they embrace.)

Enter Fitz Partington cautiously, l.

Mrs. V. B. Mr. Fitz Partington?

Fitz. Yes, but don’t be alarmed. If it is open to a person in my debased position to be regarded as a friend, regard me as one.

Mrs. V. B. Mr. Fitz Partington, I did you an injustice when I saw you last—I doubted you. Will you forgive me? (Holding out her hand.)

Fitz. (much affected, takes it). Ma’am, this is the most unprofessional moment of my career. No one ever apologized to me before. It is very unmanning. It is like having a tooth out. I hope no one will ever apologize to me again.

Eve. Have you brought us any news, Mr. Fitz Partington? I am sure you are here for some kind purpose.

Fitz. It is my fate to appear continually before you in the character of the Mysterious Warner of penny romance. Mrs. Van Brugh, once more, beware of Smailey. That abject man is going at you again.

Mrs. V. B. Has he not done with me yet? Can I be poorer than I am—or more unhappy—or more despised?

Fitz. He proposes to make you so, but he will be sold.

Eve. But with what motive does he do this?

Fitz. Revenge. To adapt the words of the poet to Smailey’s frame of mind, “Revenge is sweet, especially on women.”

Mrs. V. B. Revenge on me! Through him, whom I have never injured, I have lost my home, my fortune, and my good name, and he seeks revenge on me?

Fitz. Mrs. Van Brugh, if it is a source of pain to you to know that your friends have cut you, it may console you to know, that in their strict impartiality they have also cut him. He is hooted in the streets. His windows are a public cockshy. Nobody is at home to him, and though he is at home to everybody, it is to no purpose. The very tradesmen refuse to supply him. He is a desolate, and a hungry being, and nobody calls on him except the taxes.

Eve. I fear, Mr. Fitz Partington, that you may yourself have suffered from your association with this man.

Fitz. (to Eve). I? I believe you! Why I go about in fear of my life. Not only am I deprived of the necessaries of existence, but I have become the very focus of public execration. I couldn’t be more unpopular if I had come down to stand for the borough.

Eve. But, Mr. Fitz Partington, how in heaven’s name does he propose to injure my mother? What can he do to her, that he has not already done?

Fitz. He is advertising for the present Mrs. Van Brugh’s marriage certificate, and the late Mrs. Van Brugh’s burial certificate, with a view to a prosecution for bigamy.

Eve. Mamma, mamma, do you hear this? (Crosses to her.)

Mrs. V. B. Yes, I hear it. I knew that he had conceived this monstrous idea, but I have already assured him there is no ground for his suspicion. I have told him (after a pause, and with much shame) the truth.

Fitz. Yes, but he don’t believe you. Read that. (Hands newspaper to Eve, who gives it to Mrs. Van Brugh, pointing out advertisement.) Such is the snake-like and foxy character of that unparalleled old Pharisee, that he don’t believe you. Why, I am a professional skeptic at two guineas a day, and even I believe you.

Mrs. V. B. (who has been reading the advertisement). This is most shameful. This is monstrous beyond expression. I have borne my terrible punishment to this point patiently, and without undue murmur, but I will bear no more. Let that man know this. He has roused me at last, and I will meet him face to face. Let him know that, helpless and friendless as he believes me to be; crushed as I am under the weight of the fearful revelation he has extorted from me; shunned as I am, and despised even by those whom all despise but I, I am yet strong in this, that I have nothing more to lose. He has made me desperate, and let him beware. There are men in these days as hot in the defense of an insulted woman as in the days gone by, and he shall have a legion of them about his ears. I have been punished enough. I will be punished no further.

Eve. But who could have put this monstrous scheme into his head? What demon could have suggested it to him?

Fitz. I suggested it to him, but I ain’t a demon.

Eve and Mrs. V. B. You!

Fitz. I—I drew up the advertisement, put it in, and paid for it. It’s a dodge, I’ve put him on a wrong scent.

Mrs. V. B. How am I to understand this?

Fitz. That’s just it; you are not to understand—at present. You are to do me justice to believe that, when you do understand it, you will like it very much. I’ve put him on a wrong scent, and if I’m not very much mistaken, it will have the effect of taking him in his own toils. For the present it is enough to tell you that his advertisement has been answered, and that the person who answered it is to meet him here this afternoon.

Mrs. V. B. Here? Why does he come to me?

Fitz. Because he conceives, with some reason, that you are not likely to go to him. But don’t be alarmed, I shall accompany him, as per usual.[Exit Fitz Partington.

Mrs. V. B. (covering her face). Oh, the shame of it! Oh, the shame of it! To know that my terrible story is the common gossip of every plow-boy in the village; to feel that there is not a flighty servant-girl who does not gather her skirts about her as she passes me; to be certain when women cross the road it is to escape the contamination of my presence; and when they meet me face to face, it is that they may toss their head and tell each other that they knew it from the first! Oh, the shame of it! Oh, the shame of it!

Eve. But Mr. Smailey can do nothing. His wicked schemes must recoil upon himself. We will leave Locroft; we will leave this fearful place. Dr. Athelney sails in a fortnight, and he has made arrangements that we may accompany him. There, in a new world, with new friends and new duties, we shall forget all that is bitter in the past, and gather new stores of happiness from the future that is before us. (They embrace.)

Enter Dr. Athelney, L. D. Crosses to Eve.

Dr. A. Mrs. Van Brugh; Eve, my dear, prepare yourself for a surprise. This morning, Mrs. Van Brugh and I were discussing Frederick Smailey’s probable course of action. That very good or very bad young man is at this moment crossing the lawn with my son, Ted. He is coming with the view, no doubt, of setting all future discussion on that point at rest. Let us suspend judgment on that admirable or detestable lad until he has explained himself.

Eve. I knew he would come; I was sure of it. Mamma, dear, I told you he loved me, I told you he would come.

Enter Fred and Ted Athelney, arm-in-arm.

Fred. Eve!

Eve. (running to him). Fred, my dear Fred! (He embraces her.)

Ted. Here he is, I was sure of him; Eve and I were both sure of him. We knew him, Eve, didn’t we?

Fred. Edward came to me, Mrs. Van Brugh, and told me that—that you doubted me. (Much affected.)

Ted. Yes, I told him that. Don’t be angry with me, but when Fred Smailey’s honor is at stake, Ted Athelney doesn’t beat about the bush. I went straight to him and told him at once how the land lay. “Fred,” said I, “Eve knows you, and I know you, but the others don’t. Come over with me and show them what you really are. Show them that you are the brave, straight-hearted, thorough-going fellow I know you to be.” He didn’t give me time to say it twice.

Fred. Mrs. Van Brugh, will you take my hand? (Shakes her hand. Crosses to Dr. A., then shakes his hand.) Dr. Athelney, my very dear friend, this is very, very kind of you. You are too noble-hearted a man to confound the son with the father.

Dr. A. I hope and trust, sir, that I have done you an injustice. (Goes up.)

Fred. Mrs. Van Brugh, I know not how to express my opinion of my father’s behavior in terms that would be consistent with my duty as a son. I am most painfully situated. Permit me to content myself with offering you my deepest and most respectful sympathy.

Mrs. V. B. Mr. Smailey, you speak very kindly.

Ted. And he means kindly, mind that. I’ll stake my life he means kindly.

Fred. Thank you, Edward; thank you very heartily. My father, Mrs. Van Brugh, is, I have learnt, a very hard man; a good man, a truly good man, but a very hard one. He is unaccountably incensed against you; I have pleaded for you, but, alas, in vain. I have implored him to allow you, at least, to continue to occupy the cottage which is endeared to me by so many happy recollections, dear Eve, but in vain. (He takes Eve’s hand.) He—he answered me harshly for the first time in his life. (Much moved.)

Ted. My very dear fellow, heaven bless you for that.

Fred. Under these circumstances I said to myself, How can I lighten this intolerable burden to them? If not to Mrs. Van Brugh, at least to Eve. I lay awake all last night, thinking it over, and at last—at last I saw my way.

Ted. (to Dr. A.). Trust Fred Smailey to find the right thing to do.

Fred. I said to myself, Here is an amiable and blameless young lady placed, through no fault of her own, in the painful position of being engaged to a member of a family which has done her and her mother a fearful and irreparable injury. Association with such a family must be, to her, a source of inconceivable distress. To a sensitive and high-minded girl, such as I know my darling to be, an alliance with such a family must be simply insupportable. Deeply as I love her, and because I love her deeply, I will fight with the great love that is within me; I will act as becomes a man of honor; I will at once, and of my own free will, release her from this engagement. Eve, my dear Eve, you are free. (Eve faints in Mrs. Van Brugh’s arms.)

Mrs. V. B. My darling! My poor, poor darling!

Dr. A. (C.) Sir, I have been a clergyman of the Church of England for five-and-forty years, and, until to-day, I have never regretted the restrictions that my calling has imposed upon me. My hands, sir, are tied. Ted, my boy, these remarks do not apply to you.

Ted. (crosses to Fred Smailey). You infernal villain! You unutterably mean and sneaking villain! (Seizing him.)

Mrs. V. B. Edward! Edward!

Ted. Don’t stop me, or I shall kill him. Look there, you miserable hound (pointing to Eve), look there! Do you see the work that your infernal heart has done? Why, you miserable cur, she loved you! You trembling hypocrite, she loved you! Eve loved you—loved you! Look at her, man, and if your devil’s heart don’t beat the harder for the sight, it hasn’t a beat left in it!

Mrs. V. B. Dr. Athelney, pray, pray stop him.

Dr. A. Stop him? No, certainly not. I’m too fond of plain truth, and I hear it too seldom to stop it when I do hear it. Go on with your remarks, my boy, if you’ve any thing else to say.

Enter Smailey, followed by Fitz Partington, l.

Mr. S. When your son has quite finished shaking my son, perhaps you will kindly devote a little attention to me.

Fred. Edward, I sincerely hope you may live to apologize for this. (Offers to shake hands; Ted refuses.)

Dr. A. Mr. Smailey, I must tell you that your presence here is an act of audacity for which I was not prepared.

Mr. S. I fear that the surprise of my appearance here is but the first of a series of surprises in store for you.

Fitz. And I am convinced of it.

Dr. A. Leave my house, sir! (To Smailey.)

Mr. S. Nay, nay. I am here in the discharge of a high public duty, and I propose to remain. Come, Dr. Athelney, is this quite considerate? Is this quite as it should be? You are a minister of the Church, about to be invested with the very highest Colonial functions. In affording shelter to this unhappy person, have you not allowed your sympathy for her misfortunes to blind you to the fact that you are a clergyman?

Dr. A. Sir, I never had my duty as a clergyman so strongly before my eyes as when I placed my home at the disposal of this admirable lady. And, believe me, sir, I never felt so strongly disposed to forget my duty as a clergyman as I do at this moment. My hands are tied. Ted, my boy, these remarks do not apply to you.

Ted. Mr. Smailey, if you’ll come with me, I’ll see you out.

Fitz. (to Ted). See him out? Nonsense. Hear him out. He’s worth listening to, I can tell you.

Mr. S. Miss Brandreth (to Mrs. Van Brugh), when you denied having ever gone through the form of marriage with Captain Van Brugh, I considered it my duty, as a magistrate accustomed to deal with evidence, to disbelieve you. At the suggestion of my solicitor (aside, to Fitz) A lie, sir, for you are no solicitor; heaven forgive you! (Aloud.) At his suggestion I advertised for the burial certificate of the late Mrs. Van Brugh. That advertisement has been answered.

Fitz. That advertisement has been answered.

Mr. S. The person who answered it is at this moment waiting without.

Fitz. Waiting without.

Mr. S. And, with or without your permission, shall be introduced.

Fitz. Shall be introduced.

Mr. S. Mr. Fitz Partington shall introduce him.

Fitz. It ain’t a him, it’s a her. (Opens door, and discovers Ruth.)

Mrs. V. B. Ruth Tredgett!

Ruth. Ay, missis, ’tain’t no other.

Mr. S. What does this mean? Is this a hoax? (Indignantly, to Fitz Partington.)

Fitz. Is this a hoax? (Appealing to the others).

Mr. S. What does this woman want here?

Fitz. Woman, what do you want here?

Ruth. Want to help you agin her. (Indicating Mrs. Van Brugh.)

Mrs. V. B. Oh, Ruth, Ruth!

Mr. S. Do you mean this, Tredgett? (Crosses to Ruth.)

Ruth. Ay, I mean it, Smailey. It’s justice; and justice must be done. It was done agin me, years ago, and why not agin her now?

Mr. S. Dr. Athelney, this poor woman is an example to you. She has learned her mistress’s true character.

Ruth. Ay, I have. I have learned my missis’s true character.

Mrs. V. B. Ruth, how have I injured you, that even you turn against me? I loved you, Ruth!

Ruth. (with some emotion). You ha’n’t injured me, but I’m a ’spectable woman. You’ve made me ’spectable, and you must bide the consequence. (To Mr. Smailey)—You want the burial-ticket of Captain Van Brugh’s dead wife?

Mr. S. Yes; I have offered £50 for it.

Ruth. Gi’ us the money.

Mr. S. Why?

Ruth. I’ve got the paper.

Mr. S. How? How did you get it?

Ruth. No odds how. I’ve got it.

Mr. S. Give it to me, and you shall be paid.

Ruth. Nay, I must ha’ the brass first.

Mr. S. As soon as I’ve verified it you shall be paid.

Ruth. Maybe you’ll take some time over it. I must ha’ the brass.

Mr. S. (giving her a bank note). There is the money, but mind, if you are deceiving me, there is a constable outside.

Ruth. No fear. (Tears up the note.)

Mr. S. You fool, what have you done! Give me the paper.

Ruth. I’ll give it to him. (Indicating Fitz Partington, who has come between them.)

Fitz. (takes paper and reads). “St. Andrew’s Church, Port Philip, 17 July, 1858.”

Mr. S. ’58! Why, she died in ’69—I know she died in ’69. This is some forgery—we shall want the constable yet.

Fitz. This is some forgery. We shall want the constable yet. (Reads.) “This is to certify that on the above date I read the burial service over the remains of Martha Vane, of Port Philip.” (Smailey sinks into a chair.)

Dr. A. Martha Vane!

Mrs. V. B. That was her maiden name, the name under which she passed when she left her husband.

Mr. S. (much confused). This is not what I advertised for.

Fitz. No, but it’s what I advertised for.

Mr. S. You? What have you to do with this?

Fitz. I was engaged to trace this forgery to you at the time when you engaged me to undermine the character of this inestimable lady. In strict compliance with the terms of our contract, you have allowed me the free run of all your books, papers, and memoranda, and I am much obliged to you.

Fred. (who has heard this with the greatest concern). Father! Tell them that it’s a lie.

Fitz. It ain’t a lie. The case is only too clear. Tredgett and he were both in it, but she turns Queen’s evidence. Mr. Smailey, I desire to press hardly on no fellow-creature, but your own policeman is without, and he will be happy to walk off with you whenever you find it convenient to be arrested. (About to touch Smailey on shoulder.)

Fred. Father, tell them that it’s a lie. (To Fitz.) Keep your hands off him,—stand back—it’s a lie, I tell you. Stand back, or I shall do you a mischief. Father, whatever others believe of you, I believe you to be the best and truest man on earth. For my sake, for the sake of my belief, tell them that it’s a lie. For the love of God, tell them it’s a lie.

Mr. S. I have nothing to say, my boy; I have lied enough.

Fred. But they will take you away! Great heaven, think what will follow!

Mr. S. I care not what may follow. Whatever punishment may be in store for me, will be as nothing compared to the bitter shame of my degradation in the eyes of my poor boy, whom I have loved. He will desert me now! And what matters the rest—what matters the rest?

Fred. Father, I swear that where you are, there will I be to the end.

Mr. S. Heaven bless you for that.

Fred. Whatever you may have been—whatever I may have been—I am your son, and I love you; and I will be with you—to the end!

Mr. S. And the end is at hand.

Fitz. And the end is at hand.

[Exeunt Frederick Smailey, followed by Fitz Partington. Eve stretches out her arms towards Frederick as he goes, but he does not see her.

Ruth. (who, during the preceding dialogue, has been kneeling at Mrs. Van Brugh’s feet.). Mistress, my good and kind mistress, I had that paper in safe keeping miles away, I walked day and night to fetch it. It was hard to leave you in your sorrow, but none other could have got it. My mistress, my pure and perfect mistress, my angel from heaven, we will never part again.

Mrs. V. B. We will never part again, Ruth. Under the guidance of our loving friend, we will sail to the new land, where, humbly as becomes penitents, cheerfully as becomes those who have hope, earnestly as becomes those who speak out of the fullness of their experience, we will teach lessons of loving kindness, patience, faith, forbearance, hope, and charity.

Dr. A. “And the greatest of these is CHARITY.”

THE PRINCESS:

A Whimsical Allegory.

(Being a Respectful Perversion of Mr. Tennyson’s Poem.)

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Undergraduates, Soldiers, Courtiers, Pages, &c.

THE PRINCESS.

Scene First.

King Hildebrand, discovered seated, in gloomy mood—Florian and other Courtiers discovered looking off through telescopes—Cyril standing by the King.

Hilde. See you no sign of Gama?

Flori.None, my liege.

Hilde. It’s very odd indeed! If Gama fails

To put in an appearance at our court,

Before the sun has set in yonder west,

And fails to bring the Princess Ida here—

To whom our son Hilarion was betrothed

At the extremely early age of one—

There’s war between King Gama and ourself.

(Aside to Cyril) Oh Cyril, how I dread this interview!

It’s twenty years since he and I have met.

He was a twisted monster—all awry,

As though Dame Nature, angry with her work,

Had crumbled it in fitful petulance!

Cyril. But, sir, a twisted and ungainly trunk,

Often bears goodly fruit—perhaps he was

A kind, well-spoken gentleman?

Hilde.Oh, no—

For, adder-like, his sting lay in his tongue!

His bitter insolence still rankles here,

Although a score of years have come and gone!

His outer man, gnarled, knotted as it was,

Seemed to his cruel and cynical within,

Hyperion to a Saturday Review!

Cyril. Oh, bear with him—he is an old, old man.

Old men are fretful—peevish, as we know.

A worm will sometimes turn—so will the milk

Of human kindness, if it’s kept too long.

Flori. (looking through glass). But stay, my liege; o’er yonder mountain’s brow

Comes a small body bearing Gama’s arms;

And, now I look more closely at it, sir,

I see attached to it King Gama’s legs;

From which I gather this corollary—

That that small body must be Gama’s own!

Hilde. Ha! Is the Princess with him?

Flori.Well, my liege,

Unless her ladyship is six feet high,

And wears moustachios, too, and smokes cigars,

And rides en cavalier, in coat of mail,

I do not think she is.

Hilde. (excited).Come, bustle there!

For Gama, place the richest robes we have!

For Gama, place the coarsest prison dress!

For Gama, let our best spare bed be aired!

For Gama, let our deepest dungeon yawn!

For Gama, lay the costliest banquet out!

For Gama, place cold water and dry bread!

For as King Gama brings the Princess here,

Or brings her not, so shall King Gama have—

Much more than every thing—much less than

nothing!

Enter Prince Hilarion.

Hilar. Well father, is there news for me, at last?

Hilde. My son, King Gama’s host is now in sight:

Prepare to meet the fascinating bride

To whom you were betrothed so long ago.

Why, how you sigh!

Hilar.My liege, I’m much afraid

The Princess Ida has not come with him.

Hilde. And why?

Hilar.I’ve heard she has forsworn the world,

And, with a band of women, shut herself

Within a lonely country house, and there

Devotes herself to stern philosophies.

Hilde. Then, I should say, the loss of such a wife

Is one to which a reasonable man

Would easily be reconciled.

Hilar.Oh no—

Or I am not a reasonable man.

She is my wife: has been for twenty years.

Hilde. That’s true—you were a baby in long clothes

When you gained Ida’s heart and she gained yours.

Hilar. Yes—I remember—each of us was won!

I think I see her now! (looking through telescope).

Hilde.Ha! let me look!

Hilar. In my mind’s eye, I mean—a blushing bride—

All bib and tucker—frill and furbelow!

How exquisite she looked as she was borne

Recumbent in the monthly nurse’s arms!

How the bride wept!—nor would be comforted

Until the hireling mother-for-the-nonce

Administered refreshment in the vestry.

And I remember feeling much annoyed

That she should weep at marrying with me;

“But then,” I thought, “these brides are all alike!

Cry on, young lady—brides are bound to cry.

You cry at marrying me? How much more cause

You’d have to cry if it were broken off!”

These were my thoughts—I kept them to myself,

For, at that age, I had not learnt to speak.

Hilde. Your memory is singularly good.

Hilar. Do you remember, too, the wedding feast—

Rolls steeped in milk, and other softened food,

Fit for our undeveloped little gums?

And talk of drink, I never shall forget,

How merrily we passed that nursing bottle!

A curly headed patriarch of three—

The Princess Ida’s uncle—then proposed

The happy couple’s health—the bridesmaids, then,

Fifteen in number—each six weeks of age,

Began to weep—the fifteen groomsmen, too

(The eldest of them eighteen months or so),

Wept also—then, remembering they were men,

Dashed from their eyes the unaccustomed brine!

We parted then—and since, for twenty years,

We have not met. It seems quite strange that she

Should have become a woman in the while!

She speaks a hundred languages I’m told.

Hilde. Your late mamma had mastered only one,

Yet she was never at a loss for words!

Hilar. But think how useful is a wife who can

Express her fancies in a hundred tongues.

Hilde. You will find one, of average length, enough.

Hilar. I’ve heard she hopes to make all women swear

That they’ll abjure, for aye, the tyrant Man!

She’s far before the age in which she lives!

Hilde. At all events she’s singular in that;

Most grown up ladies of our court give out

That they are several years behind their age!

Hilar. A woman thus endowed should have been born

A century hence, at least!

Hilde.The day will come

When you will most devoutly wish she had.

Enter Cyril.

Cyril. My liege, King Gama’s train is at the gate,

And prays admission.

Hilde.Cyril, show him in.

Though Princess Ida wore a Gorgon’s head,

He shall not tamper with King Hildebrand!

Flourish—Procession. Enter Cyril, Florian and Court, ushering King Gama, and one Attendant.

Gama. So this is Castle Hildebrand?—well, well—

Dame Rumor whispered that the place was grand;

She told me that your taste was exquisite—

Superb—unparalleled—

Hilde.Oh, really, king—

Gama. But she’s a liar! Why, how old you’ve grown!

Is this Hilarion?—why you’ve changed, too!

You were a singularly handsome child!

(to Cyril) Are you a courtier? Come, then, ply your trade!

Tell me some lies: how do you like your king?

Vile Rumor says he’s all but imbecile—

Now that’s not true!

Cyril.My lord, we love our king:

His wise remarks are valued by his court

As precious stones.

Gama.And for the self-same cause!

Like precious stones the wit of Hildebrand

Derives its value from its scarcity!

Come now, be honest, tell the truth for once,

Tell it of me! Come, come, I’ll harm you not!

This leg is crooked—this foot is ill-designed—

This shoulder wears a hump—come, out with it!

Look, here’s my face—now am I not the worst

Of Nature’s blunders?

Hilar.Nature never errs.

To those who know the workings of your mind,

Your face and figure, sir, suggest a book

Appropriately bound.

Gama.Why, harkye, sir!

How dare you bandy words with me?

Hilar.No need

To bandy aught that appertains to you.

Gama. (to Hildebrand). Do you permit this, king?

Hilde.We are in doubt

Whether to treat you as an honored guest,

Or as a traitor knave who plights his word

And breaks it!

Gama.If the casting vote’s with me

I give it for the former.

Hilde.We shall see:

By the terms of our contract, signed and sealed

You’re bound to-day to bring the Princess here

To join her spouse. Why is she not with you?

Gama. Why? Come, I’ll tell you, if you’ll answer this:

What think you of a wealthy purse-proud man

Who, when he calls upon a starving friend,

Pulls out his gold, and flourishes his notes,

And flashes diamonds in the pauper’s eyes—

What name have you for such an one?

Hilde.A snob!

Gama. Just so: King Hildebrand, I am no snob

The girl has beauty, virtue, learning, wit,

Grace, humor, wisdom, charity, and pluck.

Would it be kindly, think you, to parade

These brilliant qualities before your eyes?

Oh no, King Hildebrand, I am no snob!

Hilde. But hang it, man, the contract that we signed

Some twenty years ago—

Gama.Why, here’s good news!

(to Court) At last your king is going to redeem

His lengthy list of broken promises—

And very properly, as wise men should,

Begin at the beginning!

Hilde.Stop that tongue,

Or you shall lose the monkey head that holds it!

Oh, I’ll be even with you, yet, for this.

Gama. Bravo! Your king deprives me of my head,

That he and I may meet on equal terms!

Hilde. Of this anon—we’ll try the force of arms—

Where is she now?

Gama.In Castle Adamant—

One of my many country houses. There

She rules a woman’s University,

With full five hundred girls who learn of her.

Cyril. Five hundred girls! Five hundred ecstasies!

Gama. But no mere girls, my good young gentleman!

With all the college learning that you boast,

The youngest there will prove a match for you!

Cyril. With all my heart, if she’s the prettiest!

Fancy—five hundred matches—all alight!

That’s if I strike them, as I hope to do.

Gama. Despair your hope—their hearts are dead to man.

He who desires to gain their favor must

Be qualified to strike their teeming brains,

And not their hearts! They’re safety-matches, sir,

And they light only on the knowledge box,

So you’ve no chance!

Hilar.We’ll try, at all events.

I’ll take no soldiers, father, in my train—

Cyril and Florian here will go with me,

And we will storm them ere the week is out.

Gama. That’s brave! They’re only women—storm away!

Hilar. Oh, don’t mistake us, sir, we mean to storm

Their eyes and hearts, and not their citadel.

With sighs we’ll charge our mines and counter-mines,

Dance steps shall be our scaling ladders, with

Those croquêt mallets for our battering rams.

Fair flowers shall bear the only blades we wield,

Our eyes shall be our very deadliest darts,

And bon-bon crackers our artillery!

Gama. And so you think to conquer them with sighs?

My good young gentleman, a sigh, to them,

Is simply an exceptionally marked

Contraction of the intercostal muscles!

Croquêt is interesting only when

It illustrates familiar theories

Of incidental and reflecting angles.

Fair flowers, to them, are mere embodiments

Of calyx, pistil, stamina, and petal.

Expressive eyes would have their charm, no doubt—

Hilar. Of course!

Gama.But only, be it understood,

As illustrating theories of vision!

But here are letters—take them if you like—

Perhaps she’s tired of disobedience,

And may admit you.

Hilde.Good: Hilarion, go,

Take Florian and Cyril, as you say,

King Gama, we detain you pris’ner here,

As hostage for the safety of our son.

Gama. A prisoner? Why, what should I do here

At Castle Hildebrand? I am not mad!

Hilde. You can amuse yourself by fancying

That there’s an execution in our house,

And you’re the party in possession—or

That we are dead and you’ve succeeded us.

In short, suppose whatever state of things

Would offer you the greatest happiness;

Gama. (to Hilarion). You run a risk, my friend; so take good heed,

For no one knows her temper but myself:

(to King) Since her betrothal, king, until the day

When she abjured all male society,

I was the only man she ever saw!

Hilar. Oh, that explains the mystery at once,

And simplifies our task—come, Florian,

And we will show these maidens what they’ve lost.

[Exeunt Hilarion, Florian, and Cyril.

Scene Second

Enter Gobbo, with ladies’ robes on his arm.

Gobbo. More robes for undergraduates! I suppose

Some students are expected here to-day.

No girl without a robe may pass those gates!

They are so proud of these here caps and gowns,

They hardly like to take ’em off a-night!

They even wear (or so I’ve heard it said)

Night-caps and night-gowns when they go to bed!

[Exit into porter’s lodge.

Enter Hilarion, Cyril, and Florian.

Hilar. So, here’s the Princess Ida’s castle? Well,

They must be lovely girls if it requires

Such walls as these to keep intruders off!

Cyril. To keep men off is only half their charge,

And that the easier half. I much suspect

The object of these walls is not so much

To keep men off as keep the maidens in!

Hilar. Here lives the porter, Cyril. I’ll be bound

He’s quite as learned as the rest of them,

Half Newton and half Bacon! Here he comes.

Enter Gobbo from lodge.

Cyril. Half Bacon? No,—all Bacon I should say!

Gobbo. Now then, what is it?

Hilar.I’m a royal prince;

These gentlemen are followers of mine;

We hold King Gama’s letters, charging you

To bear us safely to the Council Hall,

In which the Princess Ida holds her state.

Gobbo. Ho! ho! ho! ho!

Hilar.How now?—you mock at us? (Draws sword.)

Gobbo. Mock you? Why, bless your heart and soul alive,

No man may place his foot within those walls;

It’s death to disobey our Princess, sir!

Flori. It’s double death to disobey your king! (draws.)

Cyril. It’s treble death to disobey ourselves! (draws.)

Gobbo. But, sirs, I am the only man alive

Who ever enters!

Flori.You?

Gobbo.Yes! Once a year

I am led through their ranks that they may see

What sort of thing’s a man! “See here!” she cries.

“See—this is what you lose in losing man!

This is a courtly knight—well born, well formed!”

(I’m comely, sirs; but, bless you, I’m no knight!)

“Look, girls,” she cries, “this is a courtly knight—

A type of all that’s beautiful in man!”

(aloud) And then they make me gibber, squeak, and mow;

Then, with much deference and mock courtesy,

They bow me to my duty at the gate!

Flor. Are there no males whatever in those walls?

Gobbo. None, gentlemen, excepting letter mails!

And they are driven (as males often are

In other large communities)—by women!

If you’ll believe me, gentlemen, I swear,

She’s so confoundedly particular,

She’ll scarcely suffer Dr. Watts’s hymns;

And all the animals she owns are “hers”!

The ladies rise at cockcrow every morn—

Hilar. Oh, then they have male poultry!

Gobbo.Not at all.

(confidentially.) The crowing’s done by an accomplished hen!

Cyril. And what are these? (Looking at robes in lodge.)

Gobbo.The academic robes,

Worn by the lady undergraduates

When they matriculate.

Hilar.I’ll try one on. (Does so.)

Why, see—I’m covered to the very toes!

Ha! I’ve a proposition!

Flori.State it then.

Hilar. Suppose we dress ourselves as girls, and claim

Admission to this University?

It is a thing we’ve often done at home

In amateur theatricals. You know

How well I play viragos in burlesque!

Flori. My Cleopatra, too—remember that!

Cyril. My Mrs. Bouncer, too, in ‘Box and Cox’!

Hilar. Wilt play the woman, then?

Cyril.Of course! What knight

Would hesitate to “take a woman’s part”?

Quartette.—Hilarion, Cyril, Florian, and Gobbo, as they dress themselves in women’s clothes.

“Les Trois Cousines” (La Perichole).

Flori.

If we are hailed with any query,

Say we are nice young ladies, three;

Who of the world terribly weary,

Enter a University.

Such lovely girls, ha, ha, ha, ha!

All.

Such lovely girls, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Cyril.

We will declare to them that lately,

We have been bored with suitors stately,

And we prefer young ladies greatly—

Sorry to say that that’s too true!

All.

Sorry to say that that’s too true!

Hilar.

We must take care when we are talking,

Never our manly tastes to show;

Hold up our dresses thus in walking,

Showing an inch of ankle—so!

All.

Showing an inch of ankle—so!

Such lovely girls, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Such lovely girls, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Gobbo. (in terror). But, gentlemen, observe—if you do this,

What’s to become of me?

Hilar.I do not know

What will become of you if we do this;

But I can read the fate in store for you

If you presume to interfere with us.

Now, porter, say to whom we should apply

To gain admission.

Gobbo. (in tears). Why, to Lady Blanche

Or Lady Psyche.

Flori.Which is prettier?

Gobbo. Well, I like Lady Blanche by far the best.

Flori. Then we declare for Lady Blanche at once.

Gobbo. You see, she’s more my age—the other one

Is young and pretty! (contemptuously).

Cyril.Bah! Then I retract;

We will be Psyche’s interesting charge!

So go and summon her. (Gobbo rings and then exit.)

Flori.But stop a bit,

What will your father think of such a scheme?

Cyril. Oh, he be—dashed!

Hilar.Extremely shocked I am!

Cyril. I meant my sire—

Hilar. I thought you meant your “dam”!

Enter Lady Psyche from gate, attended.

Psyche. Who summons us?

Hilar.Three would-be students, ma’am—

Three noble ladies, ma’am, of good estate,

Who wish to join this University (they courtesy).

Psyche. If, as you say, you wish to join our ranks,

And will conform with all our rules, ’tis well;

But understand—you must adapt yourselves

To all the regulations now in force,

In Princess Ida’s University.

Hilar. To all its rules, we cheerfully subscribe.

Flori. (aside to Hilarion). Here’s a catastrophe, Hilarion!

This is my sister! She’ll remember me,

Though years have passed since she and I have met!

Hilar. No matter, hide your face—she’ll know you not.

Psyche. You say you’re noblewomen—well, you’ll find

No sham degrees for noblewomen, here—

Or other cruel contrivances to draw

An arbitrary line ’twixt rich and poor,

No butteries, or other institutes,

To make poor students feed rich cooks—no tufts

To mark nobility; except such tufts

As indicate nobility of brain.

As to your fellow-students, mark me well—

There are five hundred maidens in these walls

All good, all learned, and all beautiful.

You must select your intimates from these;

They are prepared to love you; will you swear

You’ll do your best to love them in return?

Flori. Upon our words and honors, ma’am, we will!

Psyche. And will you swear that if, by any chance,

You’re thrown into a man’s society,

You’ll not allow your thoughts to stray from us,

But, at the earliest opportunity,

You’ll give up his society for ours?

Cyril. All this, dear madam, cheerfully we swear.

Psyche. But we go further: will you undertake

That you will never marry any man?

Flori. Indeed we never will!

Psyche.Consider well,—

You must prefer our maids to all mankind!

Hilar. To all mankind we much prefer your maids!

Cyril. We should be dolts, indeed, if we did not,

Seeing how fair—

Hilar. (aside to Cyril). Take care, that’s rather strong!

(aloud) We have seen men of wealth—ay, princes too—

Whose beauty has been so remarkable,

That half the maidens in our monarch’s court

Have pined away and died for love of them!

These men—Apollos in their manly grace,

Indeed in every thing (except in that

They wore a proper quantity of clothes)—

We think of with profound indifference,

But, when we see a woman who excels

In virtue, scholarship, and loveliness,

We long to lay our heads upon her breast,

And join our lives with hers!

Psyche.Why, that’s well said.

But have you left no lovers at your home,

Who may pursue you here?

Hilar.No, madam, none—

We’re homely ladies, as no doubt you see,

And we have never fished for lover’s love—

We smile at girls who deck themselves with gems,

False hair, and meretricious ornaments,

To chain the fleeting fancy of a man;

But do not imitate them. What we have

Of hair is all our own—our color, too,

Unladylike, but not unwomanly,

Is but the glow of rugged, boisterous health;

Our gait, untrammeled by the influence

Of high heeled boots, small waists, and Grecian bends,

May seem undignified—but then we walk

As Nature meant us to—and man has learnt

To reckon Nature an impertinence!

Psyche. I know how coldly men regard a girl,

Whose beauty is her poorest excellence;

But beauty goes for nothing in these walls.

You’ll find yourselves appreciated here:

If what you say is true, you’ll spend with us

A happy, happy time!

Cyril.If, as you say,

Five hundred lovely maidens wait within

To welcome us with smiles and open arms,

I think there’s very little doubt we shall!

[Exeunt into Castle.

Scene Third.

Ada. I shall be quite alone, dear, in my rooms,

So come and spend a long, long evening—do!

And bring your steam-engine!

Chloe.Oh, that I will!

And you shall show me all your nice new things—

That quadrant—and the anemometer;

And oh, that darling, darling dumpy-level

I’ve heard so much about!

Lydia.My love, I see

You’ve got another new theodolite.

(aside to Chloe) That’s the fifteenth this month! The one I use

Went out of fashion half a year ago!

Oh, I’ve a bit of scandal! What d’you think?

Melissa found a billet-doux, concealed

In that Egyptian mummy we unrolled

Last night. Just think of that!

Enter Melissa, from, bridge, running.

Melissa.I say, my dear,

I have such news for you! I’ve just been shown

The robe for doctors of divinity.

Oh, it’s the sweetest thing!—Magenta silk,

Trimmed with chinchilla, bouillonné behind,

Gored to the figure though; and on the skirt,

Two rows of Cluny lace as deep as that!

Chloe. Oh my! how lovely!

Melissa.Then the trencher cap

Is amber satin, trimmed with Cluny lace

And rows of pearls; and round the outer edge

The tiniest, tiniest rosebuds in the world!

Ada. (to Chloe). It’s much more lovely than the legal gown—

Green grenadine, with rûchings down the front,

That we shall wear.

Chloe. (pouting).I shall give up the law

And go into the church! I’ve always felt

A serious longing for a pastor’s life;

Besides, I’m dark, and look a fright in green!

Sacha. Take care, here’s Lady Blanche. How stern she looks!

Enter Lady Blanche, l., Girls study vigorously.

Blanche. Attention, ladies, while I read to you

The Princess Ida’s list of punishments:

The first is Sacharissa. She’s expelled.

All. Expelled!

Blanche.Expelled—because, although she knew

No man of any kind may see these halls,

She dared to bring a set of chessmen here!

Sacha. (in tears).

I meant no harm—they’re only men of wood!

Blanche. They’re men with whom you give each other mate—

And that’s enough! The next is Sylvia—

Sylvia.Oh!

Blanche. Sylvia is rusticated for a month

Because, in spite of all our college rules

Upon the point, she dared to put three rows

Of lace insertion round her graduate’s gown!

Phyllis will lose three terms, for yesterday,

When, looking through her drawing book, I found

A sketch of a perambulator!

All. (shocked).Oh!

Blanche. Double perambulator, shameless girl!

That’s all at present. Now, attention please,

Your principal, the Princess, comes to give

Her usual inaugural address,

To those young ladies who joined yesterday.

(March.—Enter the Princess, over bridge, attended by eight “daughters of the plow.” All courtesy profoundly.)

Princess. Women of Adamant—fair neophytes,

Who pant for the instruction we can give,

Attend, while I unfold a parable:

The elephant is stronger than the man,

Yet man subdues him. Why? The elephant

Is elephantine everywhere but here (tapping forehead),

And Man, who’s brain is to the elephant’s

As Woman’s brain to Man’s—that’s rule of three—

Conquers the foolish giant of the woods,

As Woman, in her turn, shall conquer Man.

In mathematics Woman leads the way!

The narrow-minded pedant still believes

That two and two make four! Why, we can prove—

We women, household drudges as we are—

That two and two make five—or three—or seven—

Or five-and-twenty, as the case demands!

Finance? Why, I’ve heard clever men declare,

Their bankers’ balance being overdrawn,

They don’t know where to turn for ready cash,

Yet willfully ignoring all the while

That remedy unfailing—draw a check!

Diplomacy? The wily diplomate

Is absolutely helpless in our hands:

He wheedles monarchs—Woman wheedles him!

Logic? Why, tyrant man himself admits

It’s waste of time to argue with a woman!

Then we excel in social qualities—

Though man professes that he holds our sex

In utter scorn, I’ll undertake to say

If you could read the secrets of his heart,

He’d rather be alone with one of you

Than with five hundred of his fellow-men!

In all things we excel. Believing this,

Five hundred maidens here have sworn to place

Their foot upon his neck. If we succeed,

We’ll treat him better than he treated us,

But if we fail—oh then let hope fail too!

Let no one care one penny how she looks!

Let red be worn with yellow—blue with green,

Crimson with scarlet—violet with blue!

Let all your things misfit, and you yourselves

At inconvenient moments come undone!

Let hair-pins lose their virtue; let the hook

Disdain the fascination of the eye,—

The bashful button modestly evade

The soft embraces of the button hole!

Let old associations all dissolve,

Let Swan secede from Edgar—Grant from Gask,

Sewell from Cross—Lewis from Allenby—

In other words, let Chaos come again!

Who lectures in the Upper Hall to-day?

Blanche. I, madam, on Abstract Philosophy.

There, I propose considering at length

Three points—the Is, the Might Be, and the Must.

Whether the Is, from being actual fact,

Is more important than the vague Might Be,

Or the Might Be, from taking wider scope,

Is, for that reason, greater than the Is,

And lastly, how the Is and Might Be stand

Compared with the inevitable Must.

Prin. The subject’s deep—how do you treat it, pray?

Blanche. Madam, I take three Possibilities,

And strike a balance then between the three,

As thus—the Princess Ida Is our head—

The Lady Psyche Might Be—Lady Blanche—

Neglected Blanche—inevitably Must.

Given these three hypotheses—to find

The actual betting against each of them!

Come, girls!

[Exeunt Lady Blanche and Students.

Prin. (looking after her).

Ambitious fool. And do you think you can

Provide this college with a head. Go, go!

Provide yourself with one—you want it more!

Enter Lady Psyche, over bridge, conducting Hilarion, Florian, and Cyril.

Lady P. Here is the Princess Ida’s favorite grove,

And here’s the Princess. (To Princess.) These are ladies three

Who join our College.

Hilar. (aside to Cyril). Gods! how beautiful!

Prin. What special study do you seek, my friend?

Hilar. (enraptured). Madam, I come that I may learn to live,

For, if I come not here, I die!

Prin. (laughing).Indeed?

Your case is desperate! We welcome you.

We meet at luncheon—until then, farewell!

[Exit Princess.

Flori. (aside to Hilarion).

When Psyche sees my face, I’m confident

She’ll recognize her brother Florian.

Let’s make a virtue of necessity,

And trust our secret to her gentle care. (Hilarion assents.)

(aloud) Psyche! Why don’t you know me——Florian?

(Psyche amazed.)

Psyche. Why, Florian!

Flori.My sister!

Psyche.Oh, my dear,

What are you doing here—and who are these?

Hilar. I am that Prince Hilarion to whom

Your Princess is betrothed—I come to claim

Her promised love—your brother Florian, here,

And Cyril—come to see me safely through.

Psyche. The Prince Hilarion!—Cyril too! How strange!

My earliest playfellows!

Hilar. (astonished).Why let me look!

Are you that learned little Psyche who

At school alarmed her mates because she called

A buttercup “ranunculus bulbosus”?

Cyril. Are you indeed that Lady Psyche, who

At children’s parties drove the conjurer wild,

Explaining all his tricks before he did them?

Hilar. Are you that learned little Psyche, who

At dinner parties brought into dessert

Would tackle visitors with “you don’t know

Who first determined longitude—I do—

Hipparchus ’twas, B.C. one sixty three!”

Are you indeed that little Psyche then?

Psyche. That small phenomenon in truth am I!

But gentlemen, ’tis death to enter here—

My vow will make me speak. What shall I do?

This palace is a rat trap—we the bait—

And you the foolish victims!

Cyril.Be it so—

A prisoned rat, before he dies the death,

Has liberty to nibble at the bait! (kisses her).

Psyche. Forbear, sir—pray—you know not what you do!

We have all promised to renounce mankind.

Hilar. But on what grounds do you, fair Psyche, base

This senseless resolution?

Psyche.Senseless? No!

It’s based upon the grand hypothesis

That as the Ape is undeveloped Man,

So Man is undeveloped Woman.

Hilar.Then,

This, of all others, is the place for us!

Enter Melissa unperceived, at back; she listens in astonishment.

If Man is only undeveloped Woman,

We men, if we work very hard indeed,

And do our utmost to improve ourselves—

May in good time be women! Though I own

Up to this point (as far as I’m aware)

The metamorphosis has not commenced.

Melissa. (coming down). Oh, Lady Psyche!—

Psyche. (startled). What—you heard us, then?

Oh, all is lost!

Melissa.Not so; I’ll breathe no word.

(Advancing in astonishment to Florian.)

How marvelously strange! And are you then,

Indeed, young men?

Flori.Well, yes—just now we are;

But hope, by dint of study, to become,

In course of time, young women!

Melissa. (eagerly).No! no! no!

Oh, don’t do that! Is this indeed a man?

I’ve often heard of them, but till this day

Never set eyes on one. They told me men

Were hideous, idiotic, and deformed!

They’re quite as beautiful as women are!

(patting Florian’s cheek)

Their cheeks have not that pulpy softness which

One gets so weary of in womankind!

Their features are more marked,—and oh! their chins

(feeling his chin)

How curious!

Flori.I fear it’s rather rough.

Melissa. Oh, don’t apologize—I like it so!

But I forgot; my mother, Lady Blanche,

Is coming—and her eyes are very keen—

She will detect you, sir!

Hilar.Oh, never fear!

We saw her ladyship an hour ago;

She seemed to have suspicions of our sex,

And showed us robes, and gave us needlework,

As though to test us. Well, we did the work

Like seamstresses—and named the various stuffs,

As if we’d spent a full apprenticeship

At Swan and Edgar’s!

Enter Lady Blanche. Exeunt the three Gentlemen with Lady Psyche.

Blanche. (aside to Melissa). Here, Melissa—hush!

Those are the three new students?

Melissa. (confused).Yes, they are—

They’re charming girls!

Blanche. (sarcastically).Particularly so!

So graceful, and so very womanly;

So skilled in all a girl’s accomplishments!

Melissa. (confused). Yes very skilled!

Blanche.You stupid little fool!

Awhile ago, I placed before their eyes,

Some Cluny lace—they called it Valenciennes—

Hemming is stitching—so at least they say—

A gusset is a gore—a tuck’s a flounce—

Merino’s cotton—linen’s calico—

Poplin is silk, and rep is corduroy!

I bade them hem a pocket handkerchief—

They placed their thimbles on their forefingers!

And set about their work as clumsily

As if they had been men, in girls’ disguise!

Melissa. (trembling).

You surely wrong them, Mother dear, for see—

(picking up a case from floor)

Here is an étui dropped by one of them—

Containing scissors, needles, and—

Blanche. (taking it from her, and opening it). Cigars!!!

Why these are men! And you knew this, you cat!

Melissa. Oh, spare them—they are gentlemen, indeed,

The Prince Hilarion—betrothed long since

To Princess Ida—with two trusted friends!

Consider, Mother, he’s her husband now!

And has been, twenty years! Consider, too, (insidiously)

You’re only second here—you should be first—

Assist the Prince’s plan, and when he gains

The Princess Ida’s hand, you will be first!

You will design the fashions—think of that!

And always serve out all the punishments!

The scheme is harmless, Mother—wink at it!

Blanche. The prospect’s tempting! Well, well, well, I’ll try—

Though I’ve not winked at any thing for years!

’Tis but one step towards my destiny—

The mighty Must! Inevitable Shall!

[Exit Lady Blanche.

Melissa. Saved for a while, at least!

Enter Florian.

Flori.Melissa here?

Melissa. Oh, sir, you must away from this at once,

My mother guessed your sex—it was my fault,

I blushed and stammered so, that she exclaimed:

“Can these be men” (then seeing this) “Why these—”

“Are men!” she would have added, but “are men”

Stuck in her throat! She keeps your secret, sir,

For reasons of her own; but fly from this,

And take me with you—that is—no, not that!

Flori. I’ll go—but not without you. (Bell.) Why, what’s that?

Melissa. The luncheon bell.

Flori.I’ll wait for luncheon, then.

See, here’s Hilarion with the stern Princess,

And Cyril with my sister Psyche, too.

Enter Cyril with Psyche, and Hilarion with Princess, Lady Blanche, also all the other Girls, over bridge, bearing luncheon, which is spread. They all sit down and eat, Cyril drinking freely.

Prin. You say you know the Court of Hildebrand?

There is a prince there—I forget his name.

Hilar. Hilarion?

Prin.Exactly. Is he well?

Hilar. If it is well to droop and pine and mope—

To sigh, “Oh, Ida! Ida!” all day long—

“Ida! my love! my life! Oh, come to me!”—

If it is well, I say, to do all this,

Then Prince Hilarion is very well.

Prin. He breathes our name? Well, it’s a common one!

And is the booby comely?

Hilar.Pretty well.

I’ve heard it said that if I dressed myself

In Prince Hilarion’s clothes (supposing this

Consorted with my maiden modesty),

I might be taken for Hilarion’s self.

But what is this to you or me, who think

Of all mankind with unconcealed contempt?

Prin. Contempt? Why, damsel, when I think of man,

Contempt is not the word!

Cyril. (getting tipsy).I’m sure of that;