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THREE PLAYS FOR PURI- 
 TANS • BY BERNARD SHAW 
 BEING THE THIRD VOLUME 
 OF HIS COLLECTED PLAYS 
 
 i 
 
 BRENTANO'S • NEW YORK 
 MCMVI 
 

 NGRESS 
 
 Two Ooi 
 
 JUN 3 igo6 
 
 m M CopyrieW Entry „ 
 
 
 Copyright, 1900, by Herbert S. Stone $ Co, 
 Copyright, 1906, by Brentano's 
 
 THE TROW PRESS • NE"W YORE 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACES 
 
 Why for Puritans ? . vii 
 
 On Diabolonian Ethics xxi 
 
 Better than Shakespear ? xxviii 
 
 NOTE xxxix 
 
 THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 1 
 
 A Melodrama 
 Notes 80 
 
 C^SAR AND CLEOPATRA . . ' 87 
 
 A Page of History 
 Notes 198 
 
 CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S CONVERSION . 209 
 A Play of Adventure 
 Notes .♦ 295 
 
m 
 
 '•< 
 
PREFACE 
 
 WHY FOR PURITANS? 
 
 Since I gave my Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant, to the world 
 two years ago, many things have happened to me. I had then 
 just entered on the fourth year of my activity as a- critic of the 
 London theatres. They very nearly killed me. I had sur- 
 vived seven years of London's music, four or five years of Lon- 
 don's pictures, and about as much of its current literature, 
 wrestling critically with them with all my force and skill. Af- 
 ter that, the criticism of the theatre came to me as a huge relief 
 in point of bodily exertion. The difference between the leisure 
 of a Persian cat and the labor of a cockney cab horse is not 
 greater than the difference between the official weekly or fort- 
 nightly playgoings of the theatre critic and the restless daily 
 rushing to and fro of the music critic, from the stroke of three 
 in the afternoon, when the concerts begin, to the stroke of 
 twelve at night, when the opera ends. The pictures were 
 nearly as bad. An Alpinist once, noticing the massive soles 
 of my boots, asked me whether I climbed mountains. No, I 
 replied : these boots are for the hard floors of the London gal- 
 leries. Yet I once dealt with music and pictures together in 
 the spare time of an active young revolutionist, and wrote plays 
 and books and other toilsome things into the bargain. But 
 the theatre struck me down like the veriest weakling. I sank 
 under it like a baby fed on starch. My very bones began to 
 perish, so that I had to get them planed and gouged by ac- 
 complished surgeons. I fell from heights and broke my limbs 
 in pieces. The doctors said : This man has not eaten meat for 
 twenty years: he must eat it or die. I said: This man has 
 
viii Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 been going to the London theatres for three years; and the soul 
 of him has become inane and is feeding unnaturally on his 
 body. And I was right. I did not change my diet; but I 
 had myself carried up into a mountain where there was no 
 theatre; and there I began to revive. Too weak to work, I 
 wrote books and plays; hence the second and third plays in 
 this volume. And now I am stronger than I have been at 
 any moment since my feet first carried me as a critic across 
 the fatal threshold of a London playhouse. 
 
 Why was this ? What is the matter with the theatre, that a 
 strong man can die of it? Well, the answer will make a long 
 story; but it must be told. And, to begin, why have I just 
 called the theatre a playhouse? The well-fed Englishman, 
 though he lives and dies a schoolboy, cannot play. He can- 
 not even play cricket or football: he has to work at them: 
 that is why he beats the foreigner who plays at them. To 
 him playing means playing the fool. He can hunt and 
 shoot and travel and fight; he can, when special holiday 
 festivity is suggested to him, eat and drink, dice and drab, 
 smoke and lounge. But play he cannot. The moment you 
 make his theatre a place of amusement instead of a place of 
 edification, you make it, not a real playhouse, but a place of 
 excitement for the sportsman and the sensualist. 
 
 However, this well-fed grown-up-schoolboy Englishman 
 counts for little in the modern metropolitan audience. In 
 the long lines of waiting playgoers fining the pavements out- 
 side our fashionable theatres every evening, the men are only 
 the currants in the dumpling. Women are in the majority; 
 and women and men alike belong to that least robust of all our 
 social classes, the class which earns from eighteen to thirty 
 shillings a week in sedentary employment, and lives in a dull 
 lodging or with its intolerably prosaic families. These people 
 preserve the innocence of the theatre: they have neither the 
 philosopher's impatience to get to realities (reality being the 
 one thing they want to escape from), nor the longing of the 
 sportsman for violent action, nor the fullfed, experienced, dis- 
 illusioned sensuality of the rich man, whether he be gentleman 
 
Preface ix 
 
 or sporting publican. They read a good deal, and are at home 
 in the fool's paradise of popular romance. They love the 
 pretty man and the pretty woman, and will have both of them 
 fashionably dressed and exquisitely idle, posing against back- 
 grounds of drawingroom and dainty garden; in love, but senti- 
 mentally, romantically; always ladylike and gentlemanlike. 
 Jejunely insipid, all this, to the stalls, which are paid for (when 
 they are paid for) by people who have their own dresses and 
 drawingrooms, and know them to be a mere masquerade be- 
 hind which there is nothing romantic, and little that is interest- 
 ing to most of the masqueraders except the clandestine play of 
 natural licentiousness. 
 
 The stalls cannot be fully understood without taking into 
 account the absence of the rich evangelical English merchant 
 and his family, and the presence of the rich Jewish merchant 
 and his family. I can see no validity whatever in the view 
 that the influence of the rich Jews on the theatre is any worse 
 than the influence of the rich of any other race. Other quali- 
 ties being equal, men become rich in commerce in proportion 
 to the intensity and exclusiveness of their desire for money. It 
 may be a misfortune that the purchasing power of men who 
 value money above art, philosophy, and the welfare of the 
 whole community, should enable them to influence the theatre 
 (and everything else in the market) ; but there is no reason to 
 suppose that their influence is any nobler when they imagine 
 themselves Christians than when they know themselves Jews. 
 All that can fairly be said of the Jewish influence on the thea- 
 tre is that it is exotic, and is not only a customer's influence but 
 a financier's influence: so much so, that the way is smoothest 
 for those plays and those performers that appeal specially to 
 the Jewish taste. English influence on the theatre, as far as 
 the stalls are concerned, does not exist, because the rich pur- 
 chasing-powerful Englishman prefers politics and church- 
 going: his soul is too stubborn to be purged by an avowed 
 make-believe. When he wants sensuality he practices it; he 
 does not play with voluptuous or romantic ideas. From the 
 play of ideas — and the drama can never be anything more — 
 
x Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 he demands edification, and will not pay for anything else in 
 that arena. Consequently the box office will never become an 
 English influence until the theatre turns from the drama of 
 romance and sensuality to the drama of edification. 
 
 Turning from the stalls to the whole auditorium, consider 
 what is implied by the fact that the prices (all much too high, 
 by the way) range from half a guinea to a shilling, the ages 
 from eighteen to eighty, whilst every age, and nearly every 
 price, represents a different taste. Is it not clear that this 
 diversity in the audience makes it impossible to gratify every 
 one of its units by the same luxury, since in that domain of 
 infinite caprice, one man's meat is another man's poison, one 
 age's longing another age's loathing? And yet that is just 
 what the theatres kept trying to do almost all the time I was 
 doomed to attend them. On the other hand, to interest people 
 of divers ages, classes, and temperaments, by some generally 
 momentous subject of thought, as the politicians and preachers 
 do, would seem the most obvious course in the world. And yet 
 the theatres avoided that as a ruinous eccentricity. Their wise- 
 acres persisted in assuming that all men have the same tastes, 
 fancies, and qualities of passion; that no two have the same 
 interests; and that most playgoers have no interests at all. 
 This being precisely contrary to the obvious facts, it followed 
 that the majority of the plays produced were failures, recog- 
 nizable as such before the end of the first act by the very wise- 
 acres aforementioned, who, quite incapable of understanding 
 the lesson, would thereupon set to work to obtain and produce 
 a play applying their theory still more strictly, with propor- 
 tionately more disastrous results. The sums of money I saw 
 thus transferred from the pockets of theatrical speculators and 
 syndicates to those of wigmakers, costumiers, scene painters, 
 carpenters, doorkeepers, actors, theatre landlords, and all the 
 other people for whose exclusive benefit most London theatres 
 seem to exist, would have kept a theatre devoted exclusively to 
 the highest drama open all the year round. If the Browning 
 and Shelley Societies were fools, as the wiseacres said they 
 were, for producing Strafford, Colombe's Birthday, and The 
 
Preface xi 
 
 Cenci; if the Independent Theatre, the New Century Theatre, 
 and the Stage Society are impracticable faddists for producing 
 the plays of Ibsen and Maeterlinck, then what epithet is con- 
 temptuous enough for the people who produce the would-be 
 popular plays ? 
 
 The actor-managers were far more successful, because they 
 produced plays that at least pleased themselves, whereas the 
 others, w,ith a false theory of how to please everybody, pro- 
 duced plays that pleased nobody. But their occasional per- 
 sonal successes in voluptuous plays, and, in any case, their 
 careful concealment of failure, confirmed the prevalent error, 
 which was only exposed fully when the plays had to stand or fall 
 openly by their own merits. Even Shakespear was played 
 with his brains cut out. In 1896, when Sir Henry Irving was 
 disabled by an accident at a moment when Miss Ellen Terry 
 was too ill to appear, the theatre had to be closed after a brief 
 attempt to rely on the attraction of a Shakespearean play per- 
 formed by the stock company. This may have been Shake- 
 spear's fault: indeed Sir Henry later on complained that he 
 had lost a princely sum by Shakespear. But Shakespear 's 
 reply to this, if he were able to make it, would be that the 
 princely sum was spent, not on his dramatic poetry, but on a 
 gorgeous stage ritualism superimposed on reckless mutilations 
 of his text, the whole being addressed to a public as to which 
 nothing is certain except that its natural bias is towards rever- 
 ence for Shakespear and dislike and distrust of ritualism. No 
 doubt the Lyceum ritual appealed to a far more cultivated 
 sensuousness and imaginativeness than the musical farces in 
 which our stage Abbots of Misrule pontificated (with the same 
 financially disastrous result) ; but in both there was the same 
 intentional brainlessness, founded on the same theory that 
 the public did not want brains, did not want to think, did not 
 want anything but pleasure at the theatre. Unfortunately, 
 this theory happens to be true of a certain section of the public. 
 This section, being courted by the theatres, went to them and 
 drove the other people out. It then discovered, as any expert 
 could have foreseen, that the theatre cannot compete in mere 
 
xii Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 pleasuremongering either with the other arts or with matter-of- 
 fact gallantry. Stage pictures are the worst pictures, stage 
 music the worst music, stage scenery the worst scenery within 
 reach of the Londoner. The leading lady or gentleman may be 
 as tempting to the admirer in the pit as the dishes in a cookship 
 window are to the penniless tramp on the pavement; but people 
 do not, I presume, go to the theatre to be merely tantalized. 
 
 The breakdown on the last point was conclusive. For when 
 the managers tried to put their principle of pleasing everybody 
 into practice, Necessity, ever ironical towards Folly, had driven 
 them to seek a universal pleasure to appeal to. And since 
 many have no ear for music or eye for color, the search for 
 universality inevitably flung the managers back on the instinct 
 of sex as the avenue to all hearts. Of course the appeal was a 
 vapid failure. Speaking for my own sex, I can say that the 
 leading lady was not to everybody's taste : her pretty face often 
 became ugly when she tried to make it expressive; her voice 
 lost its charm (if it ever had any) when she had nothing sincere 
 to say; and the stalls, from racial prejudice, were apt to insist 
 on more Rebecca and less Rowena than the pit cared for. It 
 may seem strange, even monstrous, that a man should feel a 
 constant attachment to the hideous witches in Macbeth, and 
 yet yawn at the prospect of spending another evening in the 
 contemplation of a beauteous young leading lady with volup- 
 tuous contours and longlashed eyes, painted and dressed to 
 perfection in the latest fashions. But that is just what hap- 
 pened to me in the theatre. 
 
 I did not find that matters were improved by the lady pre- 
 tending to be "a woman with a past," violently oversexed, or 
 the play being called a problem play, even when the manager, 
 and sometimes, I suspect, the very author, firmly believed the 
 word problem to be the latest euphemism for what Justice 
 Shallow called a bona roba, and certainly would not either 
 of them have staked a farthing on the interest of a genuine 
 problem. In fact these so-called problem plays invariably 
 depended for their dramatic interest on foregone conclusions 
 of the most heart-wearying conventionality concerning sexual 
 
Preface xiii 
 
 molality. The authors had no problematic views: all they 
 wanted was to capture some of the fascination of Ibsen. It 
 seemed to them that most of Ibsen's heroines were naughty 
 ladies. And they tried to produce Ibsen plays by making 
 their heroines naughty. But they took great care to make 
 them pretty and expensively dressed. Thus the pseudo-Ibsen 
 play was nothing but the ordinary sensuous ritual of the 
 stage become as frankly pornographic as good manners 
 allowed. 
 
 I found that the whole business of stage sensuousness, 
 whether as Lyceum Shakespear, musical farce, or sham Ibsen, 
 finally disgusted me, not because I was Pharisaical, or intoler- 
 antly refined, but because I was bored; and boredom is a 
 condition which makes men as susceptible to disgust and 
 irritation as headache makes them to noise and glare. Being 
 a man, I have my share of the masculine silliness and vulgarity 
 on the subject of sex which so astonishes women, to whom 
 sex is a serious matter. I am not an Archbishop, and do not 
 pretend to pass my life on one plane or in one mood, and that 
 the highest: on the contrary, I am, I protest, as accessible to 
 the humors of the Rogue's Comedy or the Rake's Progress as 
 to the pious decencies of The Sign of The Cross. Thus Fal- 
 staff, coarser than any of the men in our loosest plays, does not 
 bore me: Doll Tearsheet, more abandoned than any of the 
 women, does not shock me: I think that Romeo and Juliet 
 would be a poorer play if it were robbed of the solitary frag- 
 ment it has preserved for us of the conversation of the husband 
 of Juliet's nurse. No: my disgust was not mere thinskinned 
 prudery. When my moral sense revolted, as it often did to the 
 very fibres, it was invariably at the nauseous compliances of 
 the theatre with conventional virtue. If I despised the musical 
 farces, it was because they never had the courage of their vices. 
 With all their labored efforts to keep up an understanding of 
 furtive naughtiness between the low comedian on the stage and 
 the drunken undergraduate in the stalls, they insisted all the 
 time on their virtue and patriotism and loyalty as pitifully as a 
 poor girl of the pavement will pretend to be a clergyman's 
 
XIV 
 
 Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 daughter. True, I may have been offended when a manager, 
 catering for me with coarse frankness as a slave-dealer caters 
 for a Pasha, invited me to forget the common bond of human- 
 ity between me and his company by demanding nothing from 
 them but a gloatably voluptuous appearance. But this ex- 
 treme is never reached at our better theatres. The shop 
 assistants, the typists, the clerks, who, as I have said, preserve 
 the innocence of the theatre, would not dare to let themselves 
 be pleased by it. Even if they did, they would not get it from 
 the managers, who, when they are brought to the only logical 
 conclusion from their principle of making the theatre a temple 
 of pleasure, indignantly refuse to change the dramatic profes- 
 sion for Mrs. Warren's. For that is what all this demand for 
 pleasure at the theatre finally comes to; and the answer to it is, 
 not that people ought not to desire sensuous pleasure (they 
 cannot help it), but that the theatre cannot give it to them, 
 even to the extent permitted by the honor and conscience of the 
 best managers, because a theatre is so far from being a pleasant 
 or even a comfortable place that only by making us forget our- 
 selves can it prevent us from realizing its inconveniences. A 
 play that does not do this for the pleasureseeker allows him to 
 discover that he has chosen a disagreeable and expensive way 
 of spending an evening. He wants to drink, to smoke, to 
 change the spectacle, to get rid of the middle-aged actor and 
 actress who are boring him, and to see shapely young dancing 
 girls and acrobats doing more amusing things in a more plastic 
 manner. In short, he wants the music hall; and he goes there, 
 leaving the managers astonished at this unexpected but quite 
 inevitable result of the attempt to please him. Whereas, had 
 he been enthralled by the play, even with horror, instead of 
 himself enthralling with the dread of his displeasure the man- 
 ager, the author and the actors, all had been well. And so 
 we must conclude that the theatre is a place which people can 
 only endure when they forget themselves: that is, when their 
 attention is entirely captured, their interest thoroughly roused, 
 their sympathies raised to the eagerest readiness, and their sel- 
 fishness utterly annihilated. Imagine, then, the result of con- 
 
Preface xv 
 
 ducting theatres on the principle of appealing exclusively to 
 the instinct of self-gratification in people without power of 
 attention, without interests, without sympathy, in short, with- 
 out brains or heart. That is how they were conducted whilst I 
 was writing about them; and that is how they nearly killed me. 
 Yet the managers mean well. Their self-respect is in excess 
 rather than in defect; for they are in full reaction against the 
 Bohemianism of past generations of actors, and so bent on 
 compelling social recognition by a blameless respectability, 
 that the drama, neglected in the struggle, is only just beginning 
 to stir feebly after standing stock-still in England from Robert- 
 son's time in the sixties until the first actor was knighted in the 
 nineties. The manager may not want good plays; but he does 
 not want bad plays: he wants nice plays. Nice plays, with 
 nice dresses, nice drawingrooms, and nice people, are indis- 
 pensable : to be ungenteel is worse than to fail. I use the word 
 ungenteel purposely ; for the stage presents life on thirty pounds 
 a day, not as it is, but as it is conceived by the earners of thirty 
 shillings a week. The real thing would shock the audience 
 exactly as the manners of the public school and university 
 shock a Board of Guardians. In just the same way, the plays 
 which constitute the genuine aristocracy of modern dramatic 
 literature shock the reverence for gentility which governs our 
 theatres to-day. For instance, the objection to Ibsen is not 
 really an objection to his philosophy : it is a protest against the 
 fact that his characters do not behave as ladies and gentlemen 
 are popularly supposed to behave. If you adore Hedda Gabler 
 in real life, if you envy her and feel that nothing but your 
 poverty prevents you from being as exquisite a creature, if you 
 know that the accident of matrimony (say with an officer of 
 the guards who falls in love with you across the counter whilst 
 you are reckoning the words in his telegram) may at any mo- 
 ment put you in her place, Ibsen's exposure of the worthless- 
 ness and meanness of her life is cruel and blasphemous to you. 
 This point of view is not caught by the clever ladies of Hedda's 
 own class, who recognize the portrait, applaud its painter, and 
 think the fuss against Ibsen means nothing more than the con- 
 
xvi Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 ventional disapproval of her discussions of a menage a trois 
 with Judge Brack. A little experience of popular plays would 
 soon convince these clever ladies that a heroine that atones in 
 the last act by committing suicide may do all the things that 
 Hedda only talked about, without a word of remonstrance 
 from the press or the public. It is not murder, not adultery, 
 not rapine that is objected to: quite the contrary. It is an un- 
 ladylike attitude towards life : in other words, a disparagement 
 of the social ideals of the poorer middle class and of the vast 
 reinforcements it has had from the working class during the 
 last twenty years. Let but the attitude of the author be gen- 
 tlemanlike, and his heroines may do what they please. Mrs. 
 Tanqueray was received with delight by the public: Saint 
 Teresa would have been hissed off the same stage for her con- 
 tempt for the ideal represented by a carriage, a fashionable 
 dressmaker, and a dozen servants. 
 
 Here, then, is a pretty problem for the manager. He is 
 convinced that plays must depend for their dramatic force on 
 appeals to the sex instinct: and yet he owes it to his own newly 
 conquered social position that they shall be perfectly genteel 
 plays, fit for churchgoers. The sex instinct must therefore 
 proceed upon genteel assumptions. Impossible! you will 
 exclaim. But you are wrong: nothing is more astonishing 
 than the extent to which, in real life, the sex instinct does so 
 proceed, even when the consequence is its lifelong starvation. 
 Few of us have vitality enough to make any of our instincts 
 imperious : we can be made to live on pretences, as the master- 
 ful minority well know. But the timid majority, if it rules 
 nowhere else, at least rules in the theatre: fitly enough too, 
 because on the stage pretence is all that can exist. Life has 
 its realities behind its shows: the theatre has nothing but its 
 shows. But can the theatre make a show of lovers' endear- 
 ments ? A thousand times no : perish the thought of such un- 
 ladylike, ungentlemanlike exhibitions. You can have fights, 
 rescues, conflagrations, trials at law, avalanches, murders and 
 executions all directly simulated on the stage if you will. But 
 any such realistic treatment of the incidents of sex is quite out 
 
Preface xvii 
 
 of the question. The singer, the dramatic dancer, the ex- 
 quisite declaimer of impassioned poesy, the rare artist who, 
 bringing something of the art of all three to the ordinary work 
 of the theatre, can enthral an audience by the expression of 
 dramatic feeling alone, may take love for a theme on the stage; 
 but the prosaic walking gentlemen of our fashionable theatres, 
 realistically simulating the incidents of life, cannot touch it 
 without indecorum. 
 
 Can any dilemma be more complete ? Love is assumed to 
 be the only theme that touches all your audience infallibly, 
 young and old, rich and poor. And yet love is the one subject 
 that the drawingroom drama dare not present. 
 
 Out of this dilemma, which is a very old one, has come the 
 romantic play : that is, the play in which love is carefully kept 
 off the stage, whilst it is alleged as the motive of all the actions 
 presented to the audience. The result is to me, at least, an 
 intolerable perversion of human conduct. There are two 
 classes of stories that seem to me to be not only fundamentally 
 false but sordidly base. One is the pseudo-religious story, in 
 which the hero or heroine does good on strictly commercial 
 grounds, reluctantly exercising a little virtue on earth in consid- 
 eration of receiving in return an exorbitant payment in heaven : 
 much as if an odalisque were to allow a cadi to whip her for a 
 couple of millions in gold. The other is the romance in which 
 the hero, also rigidly commercial, will do nothing except for 
 the sake of the heroine. Surely this is as depressing as it is 
 unreal. Compare with it the treatment of love, frankly in- 
 decent according to our notions, in oriental fiction. In The 
 Arabian Nights we have a series of stories, some of them very 
 good ones, in which no sort of decorum is observed. The 
 result is that they are infinitely more instructive and enjoyable 
 than our romances, because love is treated in them as naturally 
 as any other passion. There is no cast iron convention as to 
 its effects; no false association of general depravity of char- 
 acter with its corporealities or of general elevation with its 
 sentimentalities; no pretence that a man or woman cannot be 
 courageous and kind and friendly unless infatuatedly in love 
 
xviii Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 with somebody (is no poet manly enough to sing The Old 
 Maids of England ?) : rather, indeed, an insistence on the blind- 
 ing and narrowing power of lovesickness to make princely 
 heroes unhappy and unfortunate. These tales expose, fur- 
 ther, the delusion that the interest of this most capricious, most 
 transient, most easily baffled of all instincts, is inexhaustible, 
 and that the field of the English romancer has been cruelly 
 narrowed by the restrictions under which he is permitted to 
 deal with it. The Arabian storyteller, relieved of all such 
 restrictions, heaps character on character, adventure on ad- 
 venture, marvel on marvel; whilst the English novelist, like the 
 starving tramp who can think of nothing but his hunger, seems 
 to be unable to escape from the obsession of sex, and will re- 
 write the very gospels because the originals are not written in 
 the sensuously ecstatic style. At the instance of Martin Luther 
 we long ago gave up imposing celibacy on our priests; but we 
 still impose it on our art, with the very undesirable and un- 
 expected result that no editor, publisher, or manager, will new 
 accept a story or produce a play without "love interest" in it. 
 Take, for a recent example, Mr. H. G. Wells's War of Two 
 Worlds, a tale of the invasion of the earth by the inhabitants of 
 the planet Mars: a capital story, not to be laid down until 
 finished. Love interest is impossible on its scientific plane: 
 nothing could be more impertinent and irritating. Yet Mr. 
 Wells has had to pretend that the hero is in love with a young 
 lady manufactured for the purpose, and to imply that it is on 
 her account alone that he feels concerned about the apparently 
 inevitable destruction of the human race by the Martians. An- 
 other example. An American novelist, recently deceased, 
 made a hit some years ago by compiling a Bostonian Utopia 
 from the prospectuses of the little bands of devout Communists 
 who have from time to time, since the days of Fourier and 
 Owen, tried to establish millennial colonies outside our com- 
 mercial civilization. Even in this economic Utopia we find 
 the inevitable love affair. The hero, waking up in a distant 
 future from a miraculous sleep, meets a Boston young lady, 
 provided expressly for him to fall in love with. Women have 
 
Preface xix 
 
 by that time given up wearing skirts; but she, to spare his deli- 
 cacy, gets one but of a museum of antiquities to wear in his 
 presence until he is hardened to the customs of the new age. 
 When I came to that touching incident, I became as Paolo and 
 Francesca : " in that book I read no more." I will not multiply 
 examples : if such unendurable follies occur in the sort of story 
 made by working out a meteorologic or economic hypothesis, 
 the extent to which it is carried in sentimental romances needs 
 no expatiation. 
 
 The worst of it is that since man's intellectual consciousness 
 of himself is derived from the descriptions of him in books, a 
 persistent misrepresentation of humanity in literature gets 
 finally accepted and acted upon. If every mirror reflected our 
 noses twice their natural size, we should live and die in the faith 
 that we were all Punches; and we should scout a true mirror as 
 the work of a fool, madman, or jester. Nay, I believe we 
 should, by Lamarckian adaptation, enlarge our noses to the 
 admired size; for I have noticed that when a certain type of 
 feature appears in painting and is admired as beautiful, it 
 presently becomes common in nature; so that the Beatrices and 
 Francescas in the picture galleries of one generation, to whom 
 minor poets address verses entitled To My Lady, come to life 
 as the parlormaids and waitresses of the next. If the con- 
 ventions of romance are only insisted on long enough and uni- 
 formly enough (a condition guaranteed by the uniformity of 
 human folly and vanity), then, for the huge School Board 
 taught masses who read romance and nothing else, these con- 
 ventions will become the laws of personal honor. Jealousy, 
 which is either an egotistical meanness or a specific mania, 
 will become obligatory; and ruin, ostracism, breaking up of 
 homes, duelling, murder, suicide and infanticide will be 
 produced (often have been produced, in fact) by incidents 
 which, if left to the operation of natural and right* feeling, 
 would produce nothing worse than an hour's soon-forgotten 
 fuss. Men will be slain needlessly on the field of battle be- 
 cause officers conceive it to be their first duty to make romantic 
 exhibitions of conspicuous gallantry. The squire who has 
 
xx Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 never spared an hour from the hunting field to do a little pub- 
 lic work on a parish council will be cheered as a patriot because 
 he is willing to kill and be killed for the sake of conferring him- 
 self as an institution on other countries. In the courts cases 
 will be argued, not on juridical but on romantic principles; 
 and vindictive damages and vindictive sentences, with the ac- 
 ceptance of nonsensical, and the repudiation or suppression of 
 sensible testimony, will destroy the very sense of law. Kaisers, 
 generals, judges, and prime ministers will set the example of 
 playing to the gallery. Finally the people, now that their Board 
 School literacy enables every penman to play on their romantic 
 illusions, will be led by the nose far more completely than they 
 ever were by playing on their former ignorance and superstition. 
 Nay, why should I say will be ? they are. Ten years of cheap 
 reading have changed the English from the most stolid nation 
 in Europe to the most theatrical and hysterical. 
 
 Is it clear now, why the theatre was insufferable to me; why 
 it left its black mark on my bones as it has left its black mark 
 on the character of the nation; why I call the Puritans to rescue 
 it again as they rescued it before when its foolish pursuit of 
 pleasure sunk it in "profaneness and immorality " ? I have, 
 I think, always been a Puritan in my attitude towards Art. I 
 am as fond of fine music and handsome building as Milton was, 
 or Cromwell, or Bunyan; but if I found that they were becom- 
 ing the instruments of a systematic idolatry of sensuousness, I 
 would hold it good statesmanship to blow every cathedral in 
 the world to pieces with dynamite, organ and all, without the 
 least heed to the screams of the art critics and cultured volupt- 
 uaries. And when I see that the nineteenth century has 
 crowned the idolatry of Art with the deification of Love, so 
 that every poet is supposed to have pierced to the holy of holies 
 when he has announced that Love is the Supreme, or' the 
 Enough, or the All, I feel that Art was safer in the hands of the 
 most fanatical of Cromwell's major generals than it will be if 
 ever it gets into mine. The pleasures of the senses I can sym- 
 pathize with and share; but the substitution of sensuous 
 ecstasy for intellectual activity and honesty is the very devil. 
 
Preface 
 
 xxi 
 
 It has already brought us to Flogging Bills in Parliament, and, 
 by reaction, to androgynous heroes on the stage; and if the 
 infection spreads until the democratic attitude becomes thor- 
 oughly Romanticist, the country will become unbearable for 
 all realists, Philistine or Platonic. When it comes to that, the 
 brute force of the strong-minded Bismarckian man of action, 
 impatient of humbug, will combine with the subtlety and 
 spiritual energy of the man of thought whom shams cannot 
 illude or interest. That combination will be on one side; and 
 Romanticism will be on the other. In which event, so much 
 the worse for Romanticism, which will come down even if it 
 has to drag Democracy down with it. For all institutions have 
 in the long run to live by the nature of things, and not by im- 
 agination. 
 
 ON DIABOLONIAN ETHICS 
 
 There is a foolish opinion prevalent that an author should 
 allow his works to speak for themselves, and that he who 
 appends and prefixes explanations to them is likely to be as 
 bad an artist as the painter cited by Cervantes, who wrote 
 under his picture This is a Cock, lest there should be any 
 mistake about it. The pat retort to this thoughtless compari • 
 son is that the painter invariably does so label his picture. 
 What is a Royal Academy catalogue but a series of statements 
 that This is the Vale of Rest, This is The School of Athens, 
 This is Chill October, This is The Prince of Wales, and so 
 on ? The reason most dramatists do not publish their plays 
 with prefaces is that they cannot write them, the business of 
 intellectually conscious philosopher and skilled critic being no 
 part of the playwright's craft. Naturally, making a virtue of 
 their incapacity, they either repudiate prefaces as shameful, or 
 else, with a modest air, request some popular critic to supply 
 one, as much as to say, Were I to tell the truth about myself I 
 must needs seem vainglorious : were I to tell less than the truth 
 I should do myself an injustice and deceive my readers. As to 
 
xxii Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 the critic thus called in from the outside, what can he do but 
 imply that his friend's transcendent ability as a dramatist is 
 surpassed only by his beautiful nature as a man ? Now what 
 I say is, why should I get another man to praise me when I can 
 praise myself? I have no disabilities to plead: produce me 
 your best critic, and I will criticize his head off. As to phi- 
 losophy, I taught my critics the little they know in my Quintes- 
 sence of Ibsenism; and now they turn their guns — the guns I 
 loaded for them — on me, and proclaim that I write as if man- 
 kind had intellect without will, or heart, as they call it. In- 
 grates : who was it that directed your attention to the dis- 
 tinction between Will and Intellect ? Not Schopenhauer, I 
 think, but Shaw. 
 
 Again, they tell me that So-and-So, who does not write 
 prefaces, is no charlatan. Well, I am. I first caught the ear 
 of the British public on a cart in Hyde Park, to the blaring of 
 brass bands, and this not at all as a reluctant sacrifice of my 
 instinct of privacy to political necessity, but because, like all 
 dramatists and mimes of genuine vocation, I am a natural-born 
 mountebank. I am well aware that the ordinary British 
 citizen requires a profession of shame from all mountebanks by 
 way of homage to the sanctity of the ignoble private life to 
 which he is condemned by his incapacity for public life. Thus 
 Shakespear, after proclaiming that Not marble nor the gilded 
 monuments of Princes should outlive his powerful rhyme, 
 would apologise, in the approved taste, for making himself a 
 motley to the view; and the British citizen has ever since quoted 
 the apology and ignored the fanfare. When an actress writes 
 her memoirs, she impresses on you in every chapter how cruelly 
 it tried her feelings to exhibit her person to the public gaze; but 
 she does not forget to decorate the book with a dozen portraits 
 of herself. I really cannot respond to this demand for mock- 
 modesty. I am ashamed neither of my work nor of the way it 
 is done. I like explaining its merits to the huge majority who 
 don't know good work from bad. It does them good; and it 
 does me good, curing me of nervousness, laziness, and snob- 
 bishness. I write prefaces as Dry den did, and treatises as 
 
Preface xxiii 
 
 Wagner, because I can; and I would give half a dozen of 
 Shakespear's plays for one of the prefaces he ought to have 
 written. I leave the delicacies of retirement to those who are 
 gentlemen first and literary workmen afterwards. The cart 
 and trumpet for me. 
 
 This is all very well; but the trumpet is an instrument that 
 grows on one; and sometimes my blasts have been so strident 
 that even those who are most annoyed by them have mistaken 
 the novelty of my shamelessness for novelty in my plays and 
 opinions. Take, for instance, the first play in this volume, 
 entitled The Devil's Disciple. It does not contain a single 
 even passably novel incident. Every old patron of the Adelphi 
 pit would, were he not beglamored in a way presently to be 
 explained, recognize the reading of the will, the oppressed 
 orphan finding a protector, the arrest, the heroic sacrifice, the 
 court martial, the scaffold, the reprieve at the last moment, as 
 he recognizes beefsteak pudding on the bill of fare at his 
 restaurant. Yet when the play was produced in 1897 in New 
 York by Mr. Richard Mansfield, with a success that proves 
 either that the melodrama was built on very safe old lines, or 
 that the American public is composed exclusively of men of 
 genius, the critics, though one said one thing and another an- 
 other as to the play's merits, yet all agreed that it was novel — 
 original, as they put it — to the verge of audacious eccentricity. 
 
 Now this, if it applies to the incidents, plot, construction, 
 and general professional and technical qualities of the play, is 
 nonsense; for the truth is, I am in these matters a very old- 
 fashioned playwright. When a good deal of the same talk, 
 both hostile and friendly, was provoked by my last volume of 
 plays, Mr. Robert Buchanan, a dramatist who knows what I 
 know and remembers what I remember of the history of the 
 stage, pointed out that the stage tricks by which I gave the 
 younger generation of playgoers an exquisite sense of quaint 
 unexpectedness, had done duty years ago in Cool as a Cucum- 
 ber, Used Up, and many forgotten farces and comedies of the 
 Byron-Robertson school, in which the imperturbably impu- 
 dent comedian, afterwards shelved by the reaction to brainless 
 
xxiv Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 sentimentality, was a stock figure. It is always so more or less : 
 the novelties of one generation are only the resuscitated 
 fashions of the generation before last. 
 
 But the stage tricks of The Devil's Disciple are not, like 
 some of those of Arms and the Man, the forgotten ones of the 
 sixties, but the hackneyed ones of our own time. Why, then, 
 were they not recognized? Partly, no doubt, because of my 
 trumpet and cartwheel declamation. The critics were the 
 victims of the long course of hypnotic suggestion by which 
 G.B.S. the journalist manufactured an unconventional repu- 
 tation for Bernard Shaw the author. In England as elsewhere 
 the spontaneous recognition of really original work begins with 
 a mere handful of people, and propagates itself so slowly that it 
 has become a commonplace to say that genius, demanding 
 bread, is given a stone after its possessor's death. The remedy 
 for this is sedulous advertisement. Accordingly, I have ad- 
 vertised myself so well that I find myself, whilst still in middle 
 life, almost as legendary a person as the Flying Dutchman. 
 Critics, like other people, see what they look for, not what is 
 actually before them. In my plays they look for my legendary 
 qualities, and find originality and brilliancy in my most hack- 
 neyed claptraps. Were I to republish Buckstone's Wreck 
 Ashore as my latest comedy, it would be hailed as a masterpiece 
 of perverse paradox and scintillating satire. Not, of course, 
 by the really able critics — for example, you, my friend, now 
 reading this sentence. The illusion that makes you think me 
 so original is far subtler than that. The Devil's Disciple has, 
 in truth, a genuine novelty in it. Only, that novelty is not any 
 invention of my own, but simply the novelty of the advanced 
 thought of my day. As such, it will assuredly lose its gloss 
 with the lapse of time, and leave the Devil's Disciple exposed as 
 the threadbare popular melodrama it technically is. 
 
 Let me explain (for, as Mr. A. B. Walkley has pointed out in 
 his disquisitions on Frames of Mind, I am nothing if not ex- 
 planatory) . Dick Dudgeon, the devil's disciple, is a Puritan 
 of the Puritans. He is brought up in a household where the 
 Puritan religion has died, and become, in its corruption, an 
 
Preface xxv 
 
 excuse for his mother's master passion of hatred in all its 
 phases of cruelty and envy. This corruption has already been 
 dramatized for us by Charles Dickens in his picture of the 
 Clennam household in Little Dorrit: Mrs. Dudgeon being a 
 replica of Mrs. Clennam with certain circumstantial variations, 
 and perhaps a touch of the same author's Mrs. Gargery in 
 Great Expectations. In such a home the young Puritan finds 
 himself starved of religion, which is the most clamorous need 
 of his nature. With all his mother's indomitable selffulness, 
 but with Pity instead of Hatred as his master passion, he pities 
 the devil; takes his side; and champions him, like a true Cove- 
 nanter, against the world. He thus becomes, like all genuinely 
 religious men, a reprobate and an outcast. Once this is under- 
 stood, the play becomes straightforwardly simple. The Dia- 
 bolonian position is new to the London playgoer of today, but 
 not to lovers of serious literature. From Prometheus to the 
 Wagnerian Siegfried, some enemy of the gods, unterrified 
 champion of those oppressed by them, has always towered 
 among the heroes of the loftiest poetry. Our newest idol, the 
 Overman, celebrating the death of godhead, may be younger 
 than the hills; but he is as old as the shepherds. Two and a 
 half centuries ago our greatest English dramatizer of life, John 
 Bunyan, ended one of his stories with the remark that there is a 
 way to hell even from the gates of heaven, and so led us to the 
 equally true proposition that there is a way to heaven even 
 from the gates of hell. A century ago William Blake was, like 
 Dick Dudgeon, an avowed Diabolonian: he called his angels 
 devils and his devils angels. His devil is a Redeemer. Let 
 those who have praised my originality in conceiving Dick 
 Dudgeon's strange religion read Blake's Marriage of Heaven 
 and Hell; and I shall be fortunate if they do not rail at me for 
 a plagiarist. But they need not go back to Blake and Bunyan. 
 Have they not heard the recent fuss about Nietzsche and his 
 Good and Evil Turned Inside Out ? Mr. Robert Buchanan 
 has actually written a long poem of which the Devil is the 
 merciful hero, which poem was in my hands before a word of 
 The Devil's Disciple was written. There never was a play 
 
xxvi Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 more certain to be written than The Devil's Disciple at the end 
 of the nineteenth century. The age was visibly pregnant with it. 
 
 I grieve to have to add that my old friends and colleagues 
 the London critics for the most part shewed no sort of connois- 
 seurship either in Puritanism or in Diabolonianism when the 
 play was performed for a few weeks at a suburban theatre 
 (Kennington) in October 1899 by Mr. Murray Carson. They 
 took Mrs. Dudgeon at her own valuation as a religious woman 
 because she was detestably disagreeable. And they took Dick 
 as a blackguard, on her authority, because he was neither 
 detestable nor disagreeable. But they presently found them- 
 selves in a dilemma. Why should a blackguard save another 
 man's life, and that man no friend of his, at the risk of his own ? 
 Clearly, said the critic, because he is redeemed by love. 
 All wicked heroes are, on the stage : that is the romantic meta- 
 physic. Unfortunately for this explanation (which I do not 
 profess to understand) it turned out in the third act that Dick 
 was a Puritan in this respect also : a man impassioned only for 
 saving grace, and not to be led or turned by wife or mother, 
 Church or State, pride of life or lust of the flesh. In the lovely 
 home of the courageous, affectionate, practical minister who 
 marries a pretty wife twenty years younger than himself, and 
 turns soldier in an instant to save the man who has saved him, 
 Dick looks round and understands the charm and the peace 
 and the sanctity, but knows that such material comforts are 
 not for him. When the woman nursed in that atmosphere falls 
 in love with him and concludes (like the critics, who somehow 
 always agree with my sentimental heroines) that he risked his 
 life for her sake, he tells her the obvious truth that he would 
 have done as much for any stranger — that the law of his own 
 nature, and no interest nor lust whatsoever, forbad him to cry 
 out that the hangman's noose should be taken off his neck only 
 to be put on another man's. 
 
 But then, said the critics, where is the motive? Why did 
 Dick save Anderson? On the stage, it appears, people do 
 things for reasons. Off the stage they don't: that is why your 
 penny-in-the-slot heroes, who only work when you drop a 
 
Preface xxvii 
 
 motive into them, are so oppressively automatic and uninter- 
 esting. The saving of life at the risk of the saver's own is not 
 a common thing; but modern populations are so vast that even 
 the most uncommon things are recorded once a week or of- 
 tener. Not one of my critics but has seen a hundred times 
 in his paper how some policeman or fireman or nursemaid 
 has received a medal, or the compliments of a magistrate, or 
 perhaps a public funeral, for risking his or her life to save 
 another's. Has he ever seen it added that the saved was the 
 husband of the woman the saver loved, or was that woman 
 herself, or was even known to the saver as much as by sight ? 
 Never. When we want to read of the deeds that are done for 
 love, whither do we turn? To the murder column; and there 
 we are rarely disappointed. 
 
 Need I repeat that the theatre critic's professional routine 
 so discourages any association between real life and the stage, 
 that he soon loses the natural habit of referring to the one to 
 explain the other? The critic who discovered a romantic 
 motive for Dick's sacrifice was no mere literary dreamer, but a 
 clever barrister. He pointed out that Dick Dudgeon clearly did 
 adore Mrs. Anderson; that it was for her sake that he offered 
 his life to save her beloved husband; and that his explicit denial 
 of his passion was the splendid mendacity of a gentleman 
 whose respect for a married woman, and duty to her absent 
 husband, sealed his passion-palpitating lips. From the 
 moment that this fatally plausible explanation was launched, 
 my play became my critic's play, not mine. Thenceforth Dick 
 Dudgeon every night confirmed the critic by stealing behind 
 Judith, and mutely attesting his passion by surreptitiously 
 imprinting a heartbroken kiss on a stray lock of her hair whilst 
 he uttered the barren denial. As for me, I was just then wan- 
 dering about the streets of Constantinople, unaware of all these 
 doings. When I returned all was over. My personal rela- 
 tions with the critic and the actor forbad me to curse them. I 
 had not even a chance of publicly forgiving them. They 
 meant well by me; but if they ever write a play, may I be there 
 to explain ! 
 
xxviii Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 BETTER THAN SHAKESPEAR, 
 
 As to the other plays in this volume, the application of my 
 title is less obvious, since neither Julius Csesar, Cleopatra nor 
 Lady Cecily Waynflete have any external political connection 
 with Puritanism. The very name of Cleopatra suggests at 
 once a tragedy of Circe, with the horrible difference that 
 whereas the ancient myth rightly represents Circe as turning 
 heroes into hogs, the modern romantic convention would repre- 
 sent her as turning hogs into heroes. Shakespear 's Antony and 
 Cleopatra must needs be as intolerable to the true Puritan as it 
 is vaguely distressing to the ordinary healthy citizen, because, 
 after giving a faithful picture of the soldier broken down by 
 debauchery, and the typical wanton in whose arms such men 
 perish, Shakespear finally strains all his huge command of 
 rhetoric and stage pathos to give a theatrical sublimity to the 
 wretched end of the business, and to persuade foolish spec- 
 tators that the world was well lost by the twain. Such false- 
 hood is not to be borne except by the real Cleopatras and 
 Antonys (they are to be found in every public house) who 
 would no doubt be glad enough to be transfigured by some poet 
 as immortal lovers. Woe to the poet who stoops to such folly! 
 The lot of the man who sees life truly and thinks about it 
 romantically is Despair. How well we know the cries of that 
 despair! Vanity of vanities, all is vanity! moans the Preacher, 
 when fife has at last taught him that Nature will not dance 
 to his moralist-made tunes. Thackeray, scores of centuries 
 later, is still baying the moon in the same terms. Out, out, 
 brief candle! cries Shakespear, in his tragedy of the modern 
 literary man as murderer and witch consulter. Surely the 
 time is past for patience with writers who, having to choose 
 between giving up life in despair and discarding the trumpery 
 moral kitchen scales in which they try to weigh the universe, 
 superstitiously stick to the scales, and spend the rest of the 
 lives they pretend to despise in breaking men's spirits. But 
 
Preface xxix 
 
 even in pessimism there is a choice between intellectual hon- 
 esty and dishonesty. Hogarth drew the rake and the harlot 
 without glorifying their end. Swift, accepting our system of 
 morals and religion, delivered the inevitable verdict of that 
 system on us through the mouth of the king of Brobdingnag, 
 and described man as the Yahoo, shocking his superior the 
 horse by his every action. Strindberg, the only living genuine 
 Shakespearean dramatist, shows that the female Yahoo, meas- 
 ured by romantic standards, is viler than her male dupe and 
 slave. I respect these resolute tragi-comedians : they are logi- 
 cal and faithful : they force you to face the fact that you must 
 either accept their conclusions as valid (in which case it is cow- 
 ardly to continue living) or admit that your way of judging 
 conduct is absurd. But when your Shakespears and Thack- 
 eray s huddle up the matter at the end by killing somebody and 
 covering your eyes with the undertaker's handkerchief, duly 
 onioned with some pathetic phrase, as The flight of angels 
 sing thee to thy rest, or Adsum, or the like, I have no respect 
 for them at all : such maudlin tricks may impose on tea-drunk- 
 ards, not on me. 
 
 Besides, I have a technical objection to making sexual in- 
 fatuation a tragic theme. Experience proves that it is only 
 effective in the comic spirit. We can bear to see Mrs. Quickly 
 pawning her plate for love of Falstaff , but not Antony running 
 away from the battle of Actium for love of Cleopatra. Let 
 realism have its demonstration, comedy its criticism, or even 
 bawdry its horselaugh at the expense of sexual infatuation, if it 
 must; but to ask us to subject our souls to its ruinous glamor, 
 to worship it, deify it, and imply that it alone makes our life 
 worth living, is nothing but folly gone mad erotically — a thing 
 compared to which Falstaff's unbeglamored drinking and 
 drabbing is respectable and rightminded. Whoever, then, 
 expects to find Cleopatra a Circe and Csesar a hog in these 
 pages, had better lay down my book and be spared a disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 In Caesar, I have used another character with which Shake- 
 spear has been beforehand. But Shakespear,who knew human 
 
xxx Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 weakness so well, never knew human strength of the Caesa- 
 rian type. His Caesar is an admitted failure; his Lear is a 
 masterpiece. The tragedy of disillusion and doubt, of the 
 agonized struggle for a foothold on the quicksand made by an 
 acute observation striving to verify its vain attribution of 
 morality and respectability to Nature, of the faithless will and 
 the keen eyes that the faithless will is too weak to blind; all this 
 will give you a Hamlet or a Macbeth, and win you great ap- 
 plause from literary gentlemen; but it will not give you a Julius 
 Caesar. Caesar was not in Shakespear, nor in the epoch, now 
 fast waning, which he inaugurated. It cost Shakespear no 
 pang to write Caesar down for the merely technical purpose of 
 writing Brutus up. And what a Brutus ! A perfect Girondin, 
 mirrored in Shakespear's art two hundred years before the 
 real thing came to maturity and talked and stalked and had 
 its head duly cut off by the coarser Antonys and Octaviuses of 
 its time, who at least knew the difference between life and 
 rhetoric. 
 
 It will be said that these remarks can bear no other con- 
 struction than an offer of my Caesar to the public as an im- 
 provement on Shakespear's. And in fact, that is their precise 
 purport. But here let me give a friendly warning to those 
 scribes who have so often exclaimed against my criticisms of 
 Shakespear as blasphemies against a hitherto unquestioned 
 Perfection and Infallibility. Such criticisms are no more new 
 than the creed of my Diabolonian Puritan or my revival of the 
 humors of Cool as a Cucumber. Too much surprise at them 
 betrays an acquaintance with Shakespear criticism so limited 
 as not to include even the prefaces of Dr. Johnson and the 
 utterances of Napoleon. I have merely repeated in the dialect 
 of my own time and in the light of its philosophy what they said 
 in the dialect and light of theirs. Do not be misled by the 
 Shakespear fanciers who, ever since his own time, have de- 
 lighted in his plays just as they might have delighted in a par- 
 ticular breed of pigeons if they had never learnt to read. His 
 genuine critics, from Ben Jonson to Mr. Frank Harris, have 
 always kept as far on this side idolatry as I. 
 
Preface xxxi 
 
 As to our ordinary uncritical citizens, they have been slowly 
 trudging forward these three centuries to the point which 
 Shakespear reached at a bound in Elizabeth's time. Today 
 most of them have arrived there or thereabouts, with the result 
 that his plays are at last beginning to be performed as he wrote 
 them; and the long line of disgraceful farces, melodramas, and 
 stage pageants which actor-managers, from Garrick and 
 Cibber to our own contemporaries, have hacked out of his 
 plays as peasants have hacked huts out of the Coliseum, are 
 beginning to vanish from the stage. It is a significant fact 
 that the mutilators of Shakespear, who never could be persuad- 
 ed that Shakespear knew his business better than they, have 
 ever been the most fanatical of his worshippers. The late 
 Augustin Daly thought no price too extravagant for an addition 
 to his collection of Shakespear relics ; but in arranging Shake- 
 spear's plays for the stage he proceeded on the assumption that 
 Shakespear was a botcher and he an artist. I am far too good 
 a Shakespearean ever to forgive Sir Henry Irving for producing 
 a version of King Lear so mutilated that the numerous critics 
 who had never read the play could not follow the story of 
 Gloster. Both these idolaters of the Bard must have thought 
 Mr. Forbes Robertson mad because he restored Fortinbras to 
 the stage and played as much of Hamlet as there was time for 
 instead of as little. And the instant success of the experiment 
 probably altered their minds no further than to make them 
 think the public mad. Mr. Benson actually gives the play 
 complete at two sittings, causing the aforesaid numerous 
 critics to remark with naive surprise that Polonius is a com- 
 plete and interesting character. It was the age of gross igno- 
 rance of Shakespear and incapacity for his works that pro- 
 duced the indiscriminate eulogies with which we are familiar. 
 It was the revival of genuine criticism of those works that 
 coincided with the movement for giving genuine instead of 
 spurious and silly representations of his plays. So much for 
 Bardolatry ! 
 
 It does not follow, however, that the right to criticize 
 Shakespear involves the power of writing better plays. And 
 
xxxii Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 in fact — do not be surprised at my modesty — I do not profess 
 to write better plays. The writing of practicable stage plays 
 does not present an infinite scope to human talent; and the 
 dramatists who magnify its difficulties are humbugs. The 
 summit of their art has been attained again and again. No 
 man will ever write a better tragedy than Lear, a "better comedy 
 than Le Festin de Pierre or Peer Gynt, a better opera than Don 
 Giovanni, a better music drama than The Nibelung's Ring, or, 
 for the matter of that, better fashionable plays and melodramas 
 than are now being turned out by writers whom nobody 
 dreams of mocking with the word immortal. It is the phi- 
 losophy, the outlook on life, that changes, not the craft of the 
 playwright. A generation that is thoroughly moralized and 
 patriotized, that conceives virtuous indignation as spiritually 
 nutritious, that murders the murderer and robs the thief, that 
 grovels before all sorts of ideals, social, military, ecclesiastical, 
 royal and divine, may be, from my point of view, steeped in 
 error; but it need not want for as good plays as the hand of man 
 can produce. Only, those plays will be neither written nor 
 relished by men in whose philosophy guilt and innocence, and 
 consequently revenge and idolatry, have no meaning. Such 
 men must rewrite all the old plays in terms of their own phi- 
 losophy; and that is why, as Mr. Stuart-Glennie has pointed 
 out, there can be no new drama without a new philosophy. To 
 which I may add that there can be no Shakespear or Goethe 
 without one either, nor two Shakespears in one philosophic 
 epoch, since, as I have said, the first great comer in that epoch 
 reaps the whole harvest and reduces those who come after to 
 the rank of mere gleaners, or, worse than that, fools who go 
 laboriously through all the motions of the reaper and binder in 
 an empty field. What is the use of writing plays or painting 
 frescoes if you have nothing more to say or shew than was 
 said and shewn by Shakespear, Michael Angelo, and Raphael? 
 If these had not seen things differently, for better or worse, 
 from the dramatic poets of the Townley mysteries, or from 
 Giotto, they could not have produced their works: no, not 
 though their skill of pen and hand had been double what it 
 
Preface xxxiii 
 
 was. After them there was no need (and need alone nerves 
 men to face the persecution in the teeth of which new art is 
 brought to birth) to redo the already done, until in due time, 
 when their philosophy wore itself out, a new race of nineteenth 
 century poets and critics, from Byron to William Morris, be- 
 gan, first to speak coldly of Shakespear and Raphael, and then 
 to rediscover, in the medieval art which these Renascence 
 masters had superseded, certain forgotten elements which 
 were germinating again for the new harvest. What is more, 
 they began to discover that the technical skill of the masters 
 was by no means superlative. Indeed, I defy anyone to prove 
 that the great epoch makers in fine art have owed their position 
 to their technical skill. It is true that when we search for 
 examples of a prodigious command of language and of graphic 
 line, we can think of nobody better than Shakespear and 
 Michael Angelo. But both of them laid their arts waste for 
 centuries by leading later artists to seek greatness in copy- 
 ing their technique. The technique was acquired, refined on, 
 and surpassed over and over again; but the supremacy of the 
 two great exemplars remained undisputed. As a matter of 
 easily observable fact, every generation produces men of ex- 
 traordinary special faculty, artistic, mathematical, and linguis- 
 tic, who for lack of new ideas, or indeed of any ideas worth 
 mentioning, achieve no distinction outside music halls and 
 class rooms, although they can do things easily that the great 
 epoch makers did clumsily or not at all. The contempt of the 
 academic pedant for the original artist is often founded on a 
 genuine superiority of technical knowledge and aptitude; he 
 is sometimes a better anatomical draughtsman than Raphael, 
 a better hand at triple counterpoint than Beethoven, a better 
 versifier than Byron. Nay, this is true not merely of pedants, 
 but of men who have produced works of art of some note. If 
 technical facility were the secret of greatness in art, Mr. Swin- 
 burne would be greater than Browning and Byron rolled into 
 one, Stevenson greater than Scott or Dickens, Mendelssohn 
 than Wagner, Maclise than Madox Brown. Besides, new 
 ideas make their technique as water makes its channel; and 
 
xxxiv Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 the technician without ideas is as useless as the canal con- 
 structor without water, though he may do very skilfully what 
 the Mississippi does very rudely. To clinch the argument, 
 you have only to observe that the epoch maker himself has 
 generally begun working professionally before his new ideas 
 have mastered him sufficiently to insist on constant expression 
 by his art. In such cases you are compelled to admit that 
 if he had by chance died earlier, his greatness would have 
 remained unachieved, although his technical qualifications 
 would have been well enough established. The early imita- 
 tive works of great men are usually conspicuously inferior to 
 the best works of their forerunners. Imagine Wagner dying 
 after composing Rienzi, or Shelley after Zastrozzi! Would 
 any competent critic then have rated Wagner's technical 
 aptitude as high as Rossini's, Spontini's, or Meyerbeer's; or 
 Shelley's as high as Moore's ? Turn the problem another way : 
 does anyone suppose that if Shakespear had conceived Goethe's 
 or Ibsen's ideas, he would have expressed them any worse than 
 Goethe or Ibsen ? Human faculty being what it is, is it likely 
 that in our time any advance, except in external conditions, will 
 take place in the arts of expression sufficient to enable an au- 
 thor, without making himself ridiculous, to undertake to say 
 what he has to say better than Homer or Shakespear? But 
 the humblest author, and much more a rather arrogant one like 
 myself, may profess to have something to say by this time that 
 neither Homer nor Shakespear said. And the playgoer may 
 reasonably ask to have historical events and persons presented 
 to him in the light of his own time, even though Homer and 
 Shakespear have already shewn them in the light of their time. 
 For example, Homer presented Achilles and Ajax as heroes to 
 the world in the Iliads. In due time came Shakespear, who 
 said, virtually: I really cannot accept this selfish hound and 
 this brawny brute as great men merely because Homer flat- 
 tered them in playing to the Greek gallery. Consequently we 
 have, in Troilus and Cressida, the verdict of Shakespear's 
 epoch (our own) on the pair. This did not in the least involve any 
 pretence on Shakespear's part to be a greater poet than Homer. 
 
Preface xxxv 
 
 When Shakespear in turn came to deal with Henry V and 
 Julius Caesar, he did so according to his own essentially 
 knightly conception of a great statesman-commander. But 
 in the XIX century comes the German historian Mommsen, 
 who also takes Caesar for his hero, and explains the immense 
 difference in scope between the perfect knight Vercingetorix 
 and his great conqueror Julius Caesar. In this country, Car- 
 lyle, with his vein of peasant inspiration, apprehended the sort 
 of greatness that places the true hero of history so far beyond 
 the mere preux chevalier, whose fanatical personal honor, 
 gallantry and self-sacrifice, are founded on a passion for death 
 born of inability to bear the weight of a life that will not grant 
 ideal conditions to the liver. This one ray of perception be- 
 came Carlyle's whole stock-in-trade; and it sufficed to make a 
 literary master of him. In due time, when Mommsen is an old 
 man, and Carlyle dead, come I, and dramatize the by-this- 
 time familiar distinction in Arms and the Man, with its 
 comedic conflict between the knightly Bulgarian and the 
 Mommsenite Swiss captain. Whereupon a great many play- 
 goers who have not yet read Shakespear, much less Mommsen 
 and Carlyle, raise a shriek of concern for their knightly ideal 
 as if nobody had ever questioned its sufficiency since the middle 
 ages. Let them thank me for educating them so far. And 
 let them allow me to set forth Caesar in the same modern light, 
 taking the same liberty with Shakespear as he with Homer, 
 and with no thought of pretending to express the Mommsenite 
 view of Caesar any better than Shakespear expressed a view 
 which was not even Plutarchian, and must, I fear, be referred 
 to the tradition in stage conquerors established by Marlowe's 
 Tamerlane as much as to even the chivalrous conception of 
 heroism dramatized in Henry V. 
 
 For my own part, I can avouch that such powers cf inven- 
 tion, humor and stage ingenuity as I have been able to exercise 
 in Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant, and in these Three Plays 
 for Puritans, availed me not at all until I saw the old facts in a 
 new light. Technically, I do not find myself able to proceed 
 otherwise than as former playwrights have done. True, my 
 
xxxvi Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 plays have the latest mechanical improvements: the action 
 is not carried on by impossible soliloquy s and asides; and my 
 people get on and off the stage without requiring four doors to 
 a room which in real life would have only one. But my stories 
 are the old stories; my characters are the familiar harlequin 
 and columbine, clown and pantaloon (note the harlequin's 
 leap in the third act of Caesar and Cleopatra) ; my stage tricks 
 and suspenses and thrills and jests are the ones in vogue when 
 I was a boy, by which time my grandfather was tired of them. 
 To the young people who make their acquaintance for the first 
 time in my plays, they may be as novel as Cyrano's nose to 
 those who have never seen Punch; whilst to older playgoers 
 the unexpectedness of my attempt to substitute natural history 
 for conventional ethics and romantic logic may so transfigure 
 the eternal stage puppets and their inevitable dilemmas as to 
 make their identification impossible for the moment. If so, 
 so much the better for me: I shall perhaps enjoy a few years of 
 immortality. But the whirligig of time will soon bring my 
 audiences to my own point of view; and then the next Shake- 
 spear that comes along will turn these petty tentatives of mine 
 into masterpieces final for their epoch. By that time my 
 twentieth century characteristics will pass unnoticed as a matter 
 of course, whilst the eighteenth century artificiality that marks 
 the work of every literary Irishman of my generation will seem 
 antiquated and silly. It is a dangerous thing to be hailed at 
 once, as a few rash admirers have hailed me, as above all 
 things original: what the world calls originality is only an 
 unaccustomed method of tickling it. Meyerbeer seemed pro- 
 digiously original to the Parisians when he first burst on them. 
 To-day, he is only the crow who followed Beethoven's plough. 
 I am a crow who have followed many ploughs. No doubt I 
 seem prodigiously clever to those who have never hopped, 
 hungry and curious, across the fields of philosophy, politics and 
 art. Karl Marx said of Stuart Mill that his eminence was due 
 to the flatness of the surrounding country. In these days of 
 Board Schools, universal reading, cheap newspapers, and the 
 inevitable ensuing demand for notabilities of all sorts, literary, 
 
Preface xxxvii 
 
 military, political and fashionable, to write paragraphs about, 
 that sort of eminence is within the reach of very moderate 
 ability. Reputations are cheap nowadays. Even were they 
 dear, it would still be impossible for any public-spirited citizen 
 of the world to hope that his reputation might endure; for this 
 would be to hope that the flood of general enlightenment may 
 never rise above his miserable high-water mark. I hate to 
 think that Shakespear has lasted 300 years, though he got no 
 further than Koheleth the Preacher, who died many centuries 
 before him; or that Plato, more than 2,000 years old, is still 
 ahead of our voters. We must hurry on: we must get rid of 
 reputations : they are weeds in the soil of ignorance. Cultivate 
 that soil, and they will flower more beautifully, but only as 
 annuals. If this preface will at all help to get rid of mine, the 
 writing of it will have been well worth the pains. 
 
 Surrey, 1900. 
 
NOTE 
 
 Bernard Shaw has never made the slightest attempt to 
 write popular work, and he long since ceased trying to adapt 
 himself to what the Public seemed to desire. 
 
 He first won distinct success as a musical critic. Some day 
 his work in that line will be collected into a volume and found 
 to be a sound and permanent contribution to musical literature. 
 He toiled for years as a writer of dramatic notes on affairs 
 theatrical in London; as he says in this volume, he nearly 
 died of it. But the literature of the Drama is richer by a 
 series of papers on actors and acting in the closing days of the 
 nineteenth century that will peradventure long outlast most 
 of the plays mentioned, or the memory of many of the players 
 who "strutted and fretted" in them! These have been col- 
 lected and are to be published immediately. 
 
 Prior to this, and while trying to find himself, he incident- 
 ally wrote a few novels. Those in control of the literary out- 
 put of twenty-five years ago did all they could, seemingly, to 
 prove these novels quite impossible; a verdict cheerfully ac- 
 cepted by their author! Some of these stories refuse to die, 
 and others after a sleep of twenty years arise as fresh as if just 
 from the press. And the critics of that period ? Their mouths 
 are stopped with dust! 
 
 He found his real vocation while writing of the Theatre. 
 Not seeing on the stage what he deemed vital he undertakes to 
 supply this lack. Again the critics rise up and denounce his 
 presumption. By this time, however, he had acquired a sin- 
 cere, and gradually increasing following; many of whom had 
 faithfully waited years; they knew him as 
 
 " A man that fortune's buffets and rewards 
 Hath ta'en with equal thanks." 
 
xl Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 When the mutable many hailed him as a discovery the 
 faithful regretted, but felt certain he would survive the test. 
 It proved a severe blow. The "faithful" bent their heads 
 to the blast and still waited; smiling a little at those who 
 would read subtle meanings into simple phrases; laughing at 
 others who shrieked for the Author to come out of ambush 
 and say what he really did mean! Calling him a clown, and 
 a jester with cap and bells; but, 
 
 " They could not see the bitter smile 
 Behind the painted grin he wore." 
 
 Naturally they did not know the uselessness of explaining to 
 those who read no deeper than their eyebrows. 
 
 Now that the turmoil has abated, the platformer. ever ready 
 to seize upon the Public's passing whim, has told all he does 
 not know about Shaw; the dust settled, one gets a clearer per- 
 spective, and finds him standing pretty firmly after all. His 
 experience has completely reversed the old theory that books 
 of plays do not interest. That they are actable is a self-evident 
 fact. One of them which had been in the repertory of a dis- 
 tinguished actor for ten years, and became stamped with his 
 marked personality, is the means of saving the season for 
 another popular player. 
 
 In the volume here presented will be found some of Mr. 
 Shaw's ripest and most characteristic work. The first play, 
 The Devil's Disciple, is a wonderful study in temperament. 
 The author's notes tell you where he found some of the things 
 it contains, but he does not say just where he found that re- 
 ligious fiend of a mother. To credit her in part to Charles 
 Dickens does not quite satisfy. She could have existed in 
 New England only. Those who were so fortunate as to see 
 this play 1 given by Mr. Richard Mansfield and his excellent 
 company may cherish a most satisfying dramatic memory. 
 
 Caesar and Cleopatra has never as yet been produced on 
 the stage; perhaps could not be, but mighty good reading it 
 makes, and some day its theatrical possibilities may be dem- 
 onstrated. 
 
Note xli 
 
 As for that glorious comedy, Captain Brassbound's Con- 
 version, Shaw has done nothing merrier, or more actable. 
 From time to time rumors have floated about that this play 
 was in preparation; but the rumors died unjustified. Tradi- 
 tion says the author had hoped Miss Ellen Terry might essay 
 the part of Lady Cicely Waynflete, the only woman in the 
 play, and one deeply regrets this hope has never been realized. 
 
 Hereafter Bernard Shaw is a literary force to be reckoned 
 with. His most sincere adherents are quite willing to let the 
 public judge him by his ability to entertain. 
 
 V. S. 
 
 New York, April, 1906. ' 
 
THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 
 
 LONDON, 1897 
 
THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 At the most wretched hour between a black night and a wintry 
 morning in the year 1777, Mrs. Dudgeon, of New Hampshire, 
 is sitting up in the kitchen and general dwelling room of her 
 farm house on the outskirts of the town of Websterbridge. She 
 is not a prepossessing woman. No woman looks her best after 
 sitting up all night; and Mrs. Dudgeon's face, even at its best, is 
 grimly trenched by the channels into which the barren forms and 
 observances of a dead Puritanism can pen a bitter temper and a 
 fierce pride. She is an elderly matron who has worked hard 
 and got nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her 
 sordid home, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and 
 respectability among her neighbors, to whom drink and debauch- 
 ery are still so much more tempting than religion and rectitude, 
 that they conceive goodness simply as self-denial. This con- 
 ception is easily extended to others-denial, and finally generalized 
 as covering anything disagreeable. So Mrs. Dudgeon, being 
 exceedingly disagreeable, is held to be exceedingly good. Short 
 of flat felony, she enjoys complete license except for amiable 
 weaknesses of any sort, and is consequently, without knowing it, 
 the- most licentious woman in the parish on the strength of never 
 having broken the seventh commandment or missed a Sunday at 
 the Presbyterian church. 
 
 The year 1777 is the one in which the passions roused by the 
 breaking-off of the American colonies from England, more by 
 their own weight than their own will, boiled up to shooting point, 
 the shooting being idealized to the English mind as suppression 
 of rebellion and maintenance of British dominion, and to the 
 
 3 
 
4 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 American as defence of liberty, resistance to tyranny, and self- 
 sacrifice on the altar of the Rights of Man. Into the merits of 
 these idealizations it is not here necessary to inquire: suffice it to 
 say, without 'prejudice, that they have convinced both Americans 
 and English that the most high minded course for them to pursue 
 is to kill as many of one another as possible, and that military 
 operations to that end are in full swing, morally supported by 
 confident requests from the clergy of both sides for the blessing of 
 God on their arms. 
 
 Under such circumstances many other women besides this 
 disagreeable Mrs. Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night 
 waiting for news. Like her, too, they fall asleep towards morn- 
 ing at the risk of nodding themselves into the kitchen fire. Mrs. 
 Dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over her head, and her feet on a 
 broad fender of iron laths, the step of the domestic altar of the 
 fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its hinged arm above 
 the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. The plain kitchen table is 
 opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a candle on it in a tin sconce. 
 Her chair, like all the others in the room, is uncushioned and 
 unpointed; but as it has a round railed back and a seat con- 
 ventionally moulded to the sitter's curves, it is comparatively a 
 chair of state. The room has three doors, one on the same side 
 as the fireplace, near the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, 
 at the opposite end of the opposite wall, leading to the scullery 
 and washhouse; and the housedoor, with its latch, heavy lock, 
 and clumsy wooden bar, in the front wall, between the window in 
 its middle and the corner next the bedroom door. Between the 
 door and the ivindow a rack of pegs suggests to the deductive 
 observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are no 
 hats or coats on them. On the other side of the window the clock 
 hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, black iron weights, 
 and brass pendulum. Between the clock and the corner, a big 
 cupboard, locked, stands on a dwarf dresser full of common 
 crockery. 
 
 On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the 
 corner, a shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against 
 the wall. An inspection of its stridulous surface shews that 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 5 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon is not alone. A girl of sixteen or seventeen has 
 fallen asleep on it. She is a wild, timid looking creature with 
 black hair and tanned skin. Her frock, a scanty garment, is 
 rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by no means scrupulously 
 clean. It hangs on her with a freedom which, taken with her 
 brown legs and bare feet, suggests no great stock of under- 
 clothing. 
 
 Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough 
 to wake the sleepers. Then knocking, which disturbs Mrs. 
 Dudgeon a little. Finally the latch is tried, whereupon she 
 springs up at once. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon {threateningly). Well, why don't you open 
 the door? (She sees that the girl is asleep, and immediately 
 raises a clamor of heartfelt vexation.) Well, dear, dear me! 
 Now this is — (shaking her) wake up, wake up : do you hear? 
 
 The Girl (sitting up) . What is it ? 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. Wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, 
 you unfeeling sinful girl, falling asleep like that, and your 
 father hardly cold in his grave. 
 
 The Girl (half asleep still). I didn't mean to. I dropped 
 off 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (cutting her short). Oh yes, you've plenty 
 of excuses, I daresay. Dropped off! (Fiercely, as the knocking 
 recommences.) Why don't you get up and let your uncle in ? 
 after me waiting up all night for him ! (She pushes her rudely 
 off the sofa.) There: I'll open the door: much good you are 
 to wait up. Go and mend that fire a bit. 
 
 The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log 
 on. Mrs. Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into 
 the stuffy kitchen a little of the freshness and a great deal of the 
 chill of the dawn, also her second son Christy, a fattish, stupid, 
 fairhaired, roundfaced man of about 22, muffled in a plaid shawl 
 and grey overcoat. He hurries, shivering, to the fire, leaving 
 Mrs. Dudgeon to shut the door. 
 
 Christy (at the fire). F — f — f! but it is cold. (Seeing 
 the girl, and staring lumpishly at her.) Why, who are you ? 
 
6 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 The Girl {shyly). Essie. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. Oh, you may well ask. (To Essie.) Go 
 to your room, child, and lie down, since you haven't feeling 
 enough to keep you awake. Your history isn't fit for your own 
 ears to hear. 
 
 Essie. I 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (peremptorily). Don't answer me, Miss; 
 but shew your obedience by doing what I tell you. (Essie, 
 almost in tears, crosses the room to the door near the sofa.) And 
 don't forget your prayers. (Essie goes out.) She'd have gone to 
 bed last night just as if nothing had happened if I'd let her. 
 
 Christy (phlegmatically) . Well, she can't be expected to 
 feel Uncle Peter's death like one of the family. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. What are you talking about, child ? Isn't 
 she his daughter — the punishment of his wickedness and 
 shame? (She assaults her chair by sitting down.) 
 
 Christy (staring). Uncle Peter's daughter! 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. Why else should she be here? D'ye 
 think I've not had enough trouble and care put upon me bring- 
 ing up my own girls, let alone you and your good-for-nothing 
 brother, without having your uncle's bastards 
 
 Christy (interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at 
 the door by which Essie went out). Sh! She may hear you. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (raising her voice) . Let her hear me. Peo- 
 ple who fear God don't fear to give the devil's work its right 
 name. (Christy, soullessly indifferent to the strife of Good and 
 Evil, stares at the fire, warming himself) Well, how long are 
 you going to stare there like a stuck pig ? What news have you 
 for me? 
 
 Christy (taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack 
 to hang them up). The minister is to break the news to you. 
 He'll be here presently. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. Break what news ? 
 
 Christy (standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his 
 hat up, though he is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speak- 
 ing xoith callous placidity, considering the nature of the an- 
 nouncement). Father's dead too. 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 7 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (stupent). Your father! 
 
 Christy (sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming him- 
 self again, attending much more to the fire than to his mother). 
 Well, it's not my fault. When we got to Nevinstown we found 
 him ill in bed. He didn't know us at first. The minister 
 sat up with him and sent me away. He died in the night. 
 
 Mfs. Dudgeon (bursting into dry angry tears). Well, I do 
 think this is hard on me — very hard on me. His brother, that 
 was a dLgrace to us all his life, gets hanged on the public gal- 
 lows as a rebel; and your father, instead of staying at home 
 where his duty was, with his own family, goes after him and 
 dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. After sending this 
 girl to me to take care of, too! (She plucks her shawl vexedly 
 over her ears.) It's sinful, so it is; downright sinful. 
 
 Christy (with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause) . I 
 think it's going to be a fine morning, after all. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (railing at him). A fine morning! And 
 your father newly dead! Where's your feelings, child? 
 
 Christy (obstinately). Well, I didn't mean any harm. I 
 suppose a man may make a remark about the weather even 
 if his father's dead. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (bitterly). A nice comfort my children are 
 tome! One son a fool, and the other a lost sinner that's 
 left his home to live with smugglers and gypsies and villains, 
 the scum of the earth ! 
 
 Someone knocks., 
 
 Christy (without moving). That's the minister. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (sharply) . Well, aren't you going to let Mr. 
 Anderson in ? 
 
 Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs. Dudgeon buries 
 her face in her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be overcome 
 with grief. Christy opens the door, and admits the minister, 
 Anthony Anderson, a shrewd, genial, ready Presbyterian divine 
 of about 50, with something of the authority of his profession in 
 his bearing. But it is an altogether secular authority, sweetened 
 by a conciliatory, sensible manner not at all suggestive of a quite 
 thoroughgoing other-worldliness. He is a strong, healthy man. 
 
8 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 too, with a thick, sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful mouth 
 cuts into somewhat fleshy corners. No doubt an excellent par- 
 son, but still a man capable of making the most of this world, and 
 perhaps a little apologetically conscious of getting on better 
 with it than a sound Presbyterian ought. 
 
 Anderson (to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs. Dudgeon 
 whilst he takes off his cloak) . Have you told her ? 
 
 Christy. She made me. (He shuts the door; yawns; and 
 loafs across to the sofa, where he sits down and presently drops 
 off to sleep.) 
 
 Anderson looks compassionately at Mrs. Dudgeon. Then he 
 hangs his cloak and hat on the rack. Mrs. Dudgeon dries her 
 eyes and looks up at him. 
 
 Anderson. Sister : the Lord has laid his hand very heavily 
 upon you. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (with intensely recalcitrant resignation). 
 It's His will, I suppose; and I must bow to it. But I do think 
 it hard. What call had Timothy to go to Springtown, and 
 remind everybody that he belonged to a man that was being 
 hanged ? — and (spitefully) that deserved it, if ever a man did. 
 
 Ajstderson (gently). They were brothers, Mrs. Dudgeon. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. Timothy never acknowledged him as his 
 brother after we were married: he had too much respect for 
 me to insult me with such a brother. Would such a selfish 
 wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to see Timothy hanged, 
 do you think? Not thirty yards, not he. However, I must 
 bear my cross as best I may : least said is soonest mended. 
 
 Anderson (very grave, coming down to the fire to stand with 
 his back to it) . Your eldest son was present at the execution, 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (disagreeably surprised). Richard? 
 
 Anderson (nodding). Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (vindictively). Let it be a warning to him. 
 He may end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless — 
 (she suddenly stops; her voice fails; and she asks, with evident 
 dread) Did Timothy see him? 
 
 Anderson. Yes. 
 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 9 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon {holding her breath). Well? 
 
 Anderson. He only saw him in the crowd: they did not 
 speak. (Mrs. Dudgeon, greatly relieved, exhales the pent up 
 breath and sits at her ease again.) Your husband was greatly 
 touched and impressed by his brother's awful death. (Mrs. 
 Dudgeon sneers. Anderson breaks off to demand with some 
 indignation) Well, wasn't it only natural, Mrs. Dudgeon ? He 
 softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. He sent 
 for him to come to see him. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (her alarm renewed). Sent for Richard! 
 
 Anderson. Yes; but Richard would not come. He sent 
 his father a message; but I'm sorry to say it was a wicked mes- 
 sage — an awful message. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. What was it? 
 
 Anderson. That he would stand by his wicked uncle, 
 and stand against his good parents, in this world and the next. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (implacably). He will be punished for it. 
 He will be punished for it — in both worlds. 
 
 Anderson. That is not in our hands, Mrs. Dudgeon. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. Did I say it was, Mr. Anderson. We 
 are told that the wicked shall be punished. Why should we 
 do our duty and keep God's law if there is to be no difference 
 made between us and those who follow their own likings and 
 dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their Maker's word ? 
 
 Anderson. Well, Richard's earthly father has been mer- 
 ciful to him; and his heavenly judge is the father of us all. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (forgetting herself). Richard's earthly 
 father was a softheaded 
 
 Anderson (shocked). Oh! 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (with a touch of shame). Well, I am Rich- 
 ard's mother. If I am against him who has any right to be 
 for him? (Trying to conciliate him.) Won't you sit down, 
 Mr. Anderson? I should have asked you before; but I'm so 
 troubled. 
 
 Anderson. Thank you. (He takes a chair from beside the 
 fireplace, and turns it so that he can sit comfortably at the fire. 
 When he is seated he adds, in the tone of a man who knows that 
 
10 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 he is opening a difficult subject) Has Christy told you about 
 the new will ? 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon {all her fears returning). The new will! 
 Did Timothy — ? (She breaks off, gasping, unable to complete 
 the question.) 
 
 Anderson. Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (white with intense rage). And you let him 
 rob me? 
 
 Anderson. I had no power to prevent him giving what 
 was his to his own son. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. He had nothing of his own. His money 
 was the money I brought him as my marriage portion. It 
 was for me to deal with my own money and my own son. 
 He dare not have done it if I had been with him; and well he 
 knew it. That was why he stole away like a thief to take 
 advantage of the law to rob me by making a new will behind 
 my back. The more shame on you, Mr. Anderson, — you, 
 a minister of the gospel — to act as his accomplice in such a 
 crime. 
 
 Anderson (rising). I will take no offence at what you 
 say in the first bitterness of your grief. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (contemptuously). Grief! 
 
 Anderson. Well, of your disappointment, if you can find 
 it in your heart to think that the better word. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. My heart! My heart! And since when, 
 pray, have you begun to hold up our hearts as trustworthy 
 guides for us ? 
 
 Anderson (rather guiltily) . I — er 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (vehemently) . Don't lie, Mr. Anderson. We 
 are told that the heart of man is deceitful above all things, 
 and desperately wicked. My heart belonged, not to Timothy, 
 but to that poor wretched brother of his that has just ended his 
 days with a rope round his neck — aye, to Peter Dudgeon. You 
 know it: old Eli Hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you suc- 
 ceeded, though you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, told 
 it you when he gave over our souls into your charge. He 
 warned me and strengthened me against my heart, and made 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 11 
 
 me marry a Godfearing man — as he thought. What else but 
 that discipline has made me the woman I am ? And you, you 
 who followed your heart in your marriage, you talk to me of 
 what I find in my heart. Go home to your pretty wife, man; 
 and leave me to my prayers. (She turns from him and leans 
 with her elbows on the table, brooding over her wrongs and taking 
 no further notice of him.) 
 
 Anderson (willing enough to escape). The Lord forbid 
 that I should come between you and the source of all comfort! 
 (He goes to the rack for his coat and hat.) 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (without looking at him). The Lord will 
 know what to forbid and what to allow without your help. 
 
 Anderson. And whom to forgive, I hope — Eli Hawkins 
 and myself, if we have ever set up our preaching against His 
 law. (He fastens his cloak, and is now ready to go.) Just one 
 word — on necessary business, Mrs. Dudgeon. There is the 
 reading of the will to be gone through; and Richard has a 
 right to be present. He is in the town; but he has the grace to 
 say that he does not want to force himself in here. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. He shall come here. Does he expect us 
 to leave his father's house for his convenience ? Let them all 
 come, and come quickly, and go quickly. They shall not make 
 the will an excuse to shirk half their day's work. I shall be 
 ready, never fear. 
 
 Anderson (coming back a step or two). Mrs. Dudgeon: 
 I used to have some little influence with you. When did I lose 
 it? 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (still without turning to him). When you 
 married for love. Now you're answered. 
 
 Anderson. Yes : I am answered. (He goes out, musing.) 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (to herself, thinking of her husband). Thief! 
 Thief!! (She shakes herself angrily out of the chair; throws 
 back the shawl from her head; and sets to work to prepare the 
 room for the reading of the will, beginning by replacing Ander- 
 son's chair against the wall, and pushing back her own to the 
 window. Then she calls, in her hard, driving, wrathful way) 
 Christy. (No answer: he is fast asleep.) Christy. (She 
 
12 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 shakes him roughly) Get up out of that; and be ashamed of 
 yourself — sleeping, and your father dead! (She returns to the 
 table; puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the 
 table drawer a red table cloth which she spreads.) 
 
 Christy (rising reluctantly) . Well, do you suppose we are 
 never going to sleep until we are out of mourning ? 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. I want none of your sulks. Here: help 
 me to set this table. (They place the table in the middle of the 
 room, with Christy's end towards the fireplace and Mrs. Dud- 
 geon s towards the sofa. Christy drops the table as soon as 
 possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to make the 
 final adjustments of its position.) We shall have the minister 
 back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the will 
 before you have done toasting yourself. Go and wake that 
 girl ; and then light the stove in the shed : you can't have your 
 breakfast here. And mind you wash yourself, and make your- 
 self fit to receive the company. (She punctuates these orders 
 by going to the cupboard; unlocking it; and producing a de- 
 canter of wine, which has no doubt stood there untouched since 
 the last state occasion in the family, and some glasses, which she 
 sets on the table. Also two green ware plates, on one of which 
 she puts a barmbrack with a knife beside it. On the other she 
 shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting back one or two, and 
 counting the rest.) Now mind: there are ten biscuits there: 
 let there be ten there when I come back after dressing myself. 
 And keep your ringers off the raisins in that cake. And tell 
 Essie the same. I suppose I can trust you to bring in the case 
 of stuffed birds without breaking the glass? (She replaces 
 the tin in the cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the key 
 carefully.) 
 
 Christy (lingering at the fire). You'd better put the ink- 
 stand instead, for the lawyer. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. That's no answer to make to me, sir. 
 Go and do as you're told. (Christy turns sullenly to obey.) 
 Stop: take down that shutter before you go, and let the day- 
 light in: you can't expect me to do all the heavy work of the 
 house with a great heavy lout like you idling about. 
 
Agt I The Devil's Disciple 13 
 
 Christy takes the window bar out of its clamps, and puts it 
 aside; then opens the shutter, shewing the grey morning. Mrs. 
 Dudgeon takes the sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the 
 candle; extinguishes the snuff by pinching it with her fingers, 
 first licking them for the purpose; and replaces the sconce on the 
 shelf. 
 
 Christy (looking through the window). Here's the minis- 
 ter's wife. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (displeased). What! Is she coming here? 
 
 Christy. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. What does she want troubling me at this 
 hour, before I'm properly dressed to receive people? 
 
 Christy. You'd better ask her. 
 
 Mrs . Dudgeon (threateningly) . You'd better keep a civil 
 tongue in your head. (He goes sulkily towards the door. She 
 comes after him, plying him with instructions.) Tell that 
 girl to come to me as soon as she's had her breakfast. And 
 tell her to make herself fit to be seen before the people. 
 (Christy goes out and slams the door in her face.) Nice 
 manners, that! (Someone knocks at the house door: she turns 
 and cries inhospitably.) Come in. (Judith Anderson, the 
 minister's wife, comes in. Judith is more than twenty years 
 younger than her husband, though she will never be as young 
 as he in vitality. She is pretty and proper and ladylike, and 
 has been admired and petted into an opinion of herself suffi- 
 ciently favorable to give her a self-assurance which serves her 
 instead of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, and in 
 her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by 
 dreams. Even her little self-complacency is pretty, like a 
 child's vanity. Rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic 
 observer who knows how rough a place the world is. One 
 feels, on the whole, that Anderson might have chosen worse, 
 and that she, needing protection, could not have chosen better.) 
 Oh, it's you, is it, Mrs. Anderson? 
 
 Judith (very politely — almost patronizingly) . Yes. Can I 
 do anything for you, Mrs. Dudgeon? Can I help to get the 
 place ready before they come to read the will? 
 
14 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon {stiffly). Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, my 
 house is always ready for anyone to come into. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson (with complacent amiability). Yes, indeed 
 it is. Perhaps you had rather I did not intrude on you just 
 now. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. Oh, one more or less will make no 
 difference this morning, Mrs. Anderson. Now that you're 
 here, you'd better stay. If you wouldn't mind shutting the 
 door! (Judith smiles, implying "How stupid of meV and 
 shuts it with an exasperating air o) doing something pretty 
 and becoming.) That's better. I must go and tidy myself 
 a bit. I suppose you don't mind stopping here to receive 
 anyone that comes until I'm ready. 
 
 Judith (graciously giving her leave). Oh yes, certainly. 
 Leave them to me, -Mrs. Dudgeon; and take your time. 
 (She hangs her cloak and bonnet on the rack.) 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (half sneering). I thought that would be 
 more in your way than getting the house ready. (Essie 
 comes back.) Oh, here you are! (Severely) Come here: 
 let me see you. (Essie timidly goes to her. Mrs. Dudgeon 
 takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to inspect 
 the results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself — results 
 which shew little practice and less conviction.) Mm! That's 
 what you call doing your hair properly, I suppose. It's easy 
 to see what you are, and how you were brought up. (She 
 throws her arms away, and goes on, peremptorily.) Now you 
 listen to me and do as you're told. You sit down there in the 
 corner by the fire; and when the company comes don't dare to 
 speak until you're spoken to. (Essie creeps away to the fire- 
 place?) Your father's people had better see you and know 
 you're there: they're as much bound to keep you from starva- 
 tion as I am. At any rate they might help. But let me have 
 no chattering and making free with them, as if you were their 
 equal. Do you hear? 
 
 Essie. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. Well, then go and do as you're told. 
 (Essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 15 
 
 from the door.) Never mind her, Mrs. Anderson: you know 
 who she is and what she is. If she gives you any trouble, 
 just tell me; and I'll settle accounts with her. (Mrs. Dudgeon 
 goes into the bedroom, shutting the door sharply behind her as 
 if even it had to be made to do its duty with a ruthless hand.) 
 
 Judith (patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and wine 
 on the table more becomingly). You must not mind if your 
 aunt is strict with you. She is a very good woman, and desires 
 your good too. 
 
 Essie (in listless misery). Yes. 
 
 Judith (annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled 
 and edified, and to appreciate the kindly condescension of the 
 remark). You are not going to be sullen, I hope, Essie. 
 
 Essie. No. 
 
 Judith. That's a good girl ! (She places a couple of chairs 
 at the table with their backs to the window, with a pleasant 
 sense of being a more thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs. Dud- 
 geon.) Do you know any of your father's relatives ? 
 
 Essie. No. They wouldn't have anything to do with him : 
 they were too religious. Father used to talk about Dick 
 Dudgeon; but I never saw him. 
 
 Judith (ostentatiously shocked). Dick Dudgeon! Essie: 
 do you wish to be a really respectable and grateful girl, and 
 to make a place for yourself here by steady good conduct ? 
 
 Essie (very half-heartedly). Yes. 
 
 Judith. Then you must never mention the name of 
 Richard Dudgeon — never even think about him. He is a 
 bad man. 
 
 Essie. What has he done ? 
 
 Judith. You must not ask questions about him, Essie. 
 You are too young to know what it is to be a bad man. But 
 he is a smuggler; and he lives with gypsies; and he has no 
 love for his mother and his family; and he wrestles and plays 
 games on Sunday instead of going to church. Never let him 
 into your presence, if you can help it, Essie; and try to keep 
 yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such 
 men. 
 
16 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 Essie. Yes. 
 
 Judith (again displeased). I am afraid you say Yes and 
 No without thinking very deeply. 
 
 Essie. Yes. At least I mean 
 
 Judith (severely). What do you mean? 
 
 Essie (almost crying). Only — my father was a smuggler; 
 and — (Someone knocks.) 
 
 Judith. They are beginning to come. Now remember 
 your aunt's directions, Essie; and be a good girl. (Christy 
 comes back with the stand of stuffed birds under a glass case, 
 and an inkstand, which he places on the table.) Good morn- 
 ing, Mr. Dudgeon. Will you open the door, please: the 
 people have come. 
 
 Christy. Good morning. (He opens the house door.) 
 
 The morning is now fairly bright and warm; and Anderson, 
 who is the first to enter, has left his cloak at home. He is ac- 
 companied by Lawyer Hawkins, a brisk, middleaged man in 
 brown riding gaiters and yellow breeches, looking as much squire 
 as solicitor. He and Anderson are allowed precedence as rep- 
 resenting the learned professions. After them comes the family, 
 headed by the senior uncle, William Dudgeon, a large, shapeless 
 man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. His clothes 
 are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a prosperous 
 man. The junior uncle, Titus Dudgeon, is a wiry little terrier 
 of a man, with an immense and visibly purse-proud wife, both 
 free from the cares of the William household. 
 
 Hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair 
 nearest the sofa, Christy having left the inkstand there. He 
 puts his hat on the floor beside him, and produces the will. 
 Uncle William comes to the fire and stands on the hearth warm- 
 ing his coat tails, leaving Mrs. William derelict near the door. 
 Uncle Titus, who is the lady's man of the family, rescues her 
 by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing her to the sofa, 
 where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his 
 brother's. Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word 
 with Judith. 
 
 Judith. She will be here in a moment. Ask them to 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 17 
 
 wait. (She taps at the bedroom door. Receiving an answer 
 from within, she opens it and passes through.) 
 
 Anderson (taking his place at the table at the opposite end 
 to Hawkins). Our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a 
 moment. Are we all here ? 
 
 Christy (at the house door, which he has just shut). All 
 except Dick. 
 
 The callousness with which Christy names the reprobate jars 
 on the moral sense of the family. Uncle William shakes his 
 head slowly and repeatedly. Mrs. Titus catches her breath 
 convulsively through her nose. Her husband speaks. 
 
 Uncle Titus. Well, I hope he will have the grace not to 
 come. I hope so. 
 
 The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who goes 
 to the windotv and posts himself there, looking out. Hatvkins 
 smiles secretively as if he knew something that would change 
 their tune if they knew it. Anderson is uneasy: the love of 
 solemn family councils, especially funereal ones, is not in his 
 nature. Judith appears at the bedroom door. 
 
 Judith (with gentle impressiveness) . Friends, Mrs. Dud- 
 geon. (She takes the chair from beside the fireplace; and 
 places it for Mrs. Dudgeon, who comes from the bedroom in 
 black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes. All rise, except 
 Essie. Mrs. Titus and Mrs. William produce equally clean 
 handkerchiefs and weep. It is an affecting moment.) 
 
 Uncle William. Would it comfort you, sister, if we were 
 to offer up a prayer ? 
 
 Uncle Titus. Or sing a hymn? 
 
 Anderson (rather hastily). I have been with our sister 
 this morning already, friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing. 
 
 All (except Essie). Amen. 
 
 They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs. 
 Dudgecm's chair. 
 
 Judith (to Essie). Essie: did you say Amen? 
 
 Essie (scaredly). No. 
 
 Judith. Then say it, like a good girl. 
 
 Essie. Amen. 
 
18 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 Uncle William {encouragingly) . That's right : that's right. 
 We know who you are; but we are willing to be kind to you 
 if you are a good girl and deserve it. We are all equal before 
 the Throne. 
 
 This republican sentiment does not please the women, who 
 are convinced that the Throne is precisely the place where their 
 superiority, often questioned in this world, will be recognized 
 and rewarded. 
 
 Christy (at the window). Here's Dick. 
 
 Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie, with a 
 gleam of interest breaking through her misery, looks up. Christy 
 grins and gapes expectantly at the door. The rest are petri- 
 fied with the intensity of their sense of Virtue menaced with 
 outrage by the approach of flaunting Vice. The reprobate 
 appears in the doorway, graced beyond his alleged merits by 
 the morning sunlight. He is certainly the best looking mem- 
 ber of the family; but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his 
 manner defiant and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. 
 Only, his forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary stead- 
 fastness; and his eyes are the eyes of a fanatic. 
 
 Richard (on the threshold, taking off his hat). Ladies and 
 gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. (With 
 this comprehensive insult, he throws his hat to Christy with a 
 suddenness that makes him jump like a negligent wicket keeper, 
 and comes into the middle of the room, where he turns and 
 deliberately surveys the company.) How happy you all look! 
 how glad to see me! (He turns towards Mrs. Dudgeon s chair; 
 and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her 
 look of undisguised hatred.) Well, mother: keeping up ap- 
 pearances as usual ? that's right, that's right. (Judith point- 
 edly moves away from his neighborhood to the other side of the 
 kitchen, holding her skirt instinctively as if to save it from con- 
 tamination. Uncle Titus promptly marks his approval of her 
 action by rising from the sofa, and placing a chair for her to sit 
 down upon) What! Uncle William! I haven't seen you 
 since you gave up drinking. (Poor Uncle William, shamed, 
 would protest; but Richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 19 
 
 adding) you have given it up, haven't you ? {releasing him with 
 a playful push) of course you have : quite right too : you over- 
 did it. (He turns away from Uncle William and makes for the 
 sofa.) And now, where is that upright horsedealer Uncle 
 Titus ? Uncle Titus : come forth. (He comes upon him hold- 
 ing the chair as Judith sits down.) As usual, looking after the 
 ladies. 
 
 Uncle Titus (indignantly). Be ashamed of yourself, 
 sir 
 
 Richard (interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of 
 him) . I am : I am ; but I am proud of my uncle — proud of all 
 my relatives — (again surveying them) who could look at them 
 and not be proud and joyful? (Uncle Titus, overborne, re- 
 sumes his seat on the sofa. Richard turns to the table.) Ah, 
 Mr. Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding them. 
 Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the 
 mark. Come! (with a spring he seats himself on the table 
 and takes up the decanter) clink a glass with me, Pastor, for the 
 sake of old times. 
 
 Anderson. You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do 
 not drink before dinner. 
 
 Richard. You will, some day, Pastor: Uncle William 
 used to drink before breakfast. Come: it will give your ser- 
 mons unction. (He smells the wine and makes a wry face.) 
 But do not begin on my mother's company sherry. I stole 
 some when I was six years old; and I have been a temperate 
 man ever since. (He puts the decanter down and changes the 
 subject.) So I hear you are married, Pastor, and that your wife 
 has a most ungodly allowance of good looks. 
 
 Anderson (quietly indicating Judith). Sir: you are in the 
 presence of my wife. (Judith rises and stands with stony pro- 
 priety.) 
 
 Richard (quickly slipping down from the table with instinc- 
 tive good manners). Your servant, madam : no offence. (He 
 looks at her earnestly.) You deserve your reputation; but I'm 
 sorry to see by your expression that you're a good woman. 
 (She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant 
 
20 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 sympathy from his relatives. Anderson, sensible enough to know 
 that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man 
 who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains perfectly 
 goodhumored.) All the same, Pastor, I respect you more than 
 I did before. By the way, did I hear, or did I not, that our 
 late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was a father ? 
 
 Uncle Titus. He had only one irregular child, sir. 
 
 Richard. Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I 
 blush for you, Uncle Titus. 
 
 Anderson. Mr. Dudgeon you are in the presence of your 
 mother and her grief. 
 
 Richard. It touches me profoundly, Pastor. By the way, 
 what has become of the irregular child ? 
 
 Anderson (pointing to Essie). There, sir, listening to you. 
 
 Richard (shocked into sincerity). What! Why the devil 
 didn't you tell me that before? Children suffer enough in 
 this house without — (He hurries remorsefully to Essie.) Come, 
 little cousin! never mind me: it was not meant to hurt you. 
 (She looks up gratefully at him. Her tearstained face affects 
 him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of wrath) Who 
 has been making her cry? Who has been ill-treating her? 
 By God 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (rising and confronting him). Silence your 
 blasphemous tongue. I will bear no more of this. Leave my 
 house. 
 
 Richard. How do you know it's your house until the will 
 is read? (They look at one another for a moment with intense 
 hatred; and then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair. Rich- 
 ard goes boldly up past Anderson to the window, where he takes 
 the railed chair in his hand.) Ladies and gentlemen: as the 
 eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head of this 
 household, I bid you welcome. By your leave, Minister An- 
 derson: by your leave, Lawyer Hawkins. The head of the 
 table for the head of the family. (He places the chair at the 
 table between the minister and the attorney; sits down between 
 them; and addresses the assembly with a presidential air.) We 
 meet on a melancholy occasion : a father dead ! an uncle actu- 
 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 21 
 
 ally hanged, and probably damned. (He shakes his head de- 
 ploringly. The relatives freeze with horror.) That's right: 
 pull your longest faces (his voice suddenly sweetens gravely as 
 his glance lights on Essie) provided only there is hope in the 
 eyes of the child. (Briskly.) Now then, Lawyer Hawkins: 
 business, business. Get on with the will, man. 
 
 Titus. Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr. 
 Hawkins. 
 
 Hawkins (very politely and willingly). Mr. Dudgeon 
 means no offence, I feel sure. I will not keep you one second, 
 Mr. Dudgeon. Just while I get my glasses — (he jumbles for 
 them. The Dudgeons look at one another with misgiving). 
 
 Richard. Aha! They notice your civility, Mr. Hawkins. 
 They are prepared for the worst. A glass of wine to clear 
 your voice before you begin. (He pours out one for him and 
 hands it; then pours one for himself.) 
 
 Hawkins. Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon. Your good health, 
 sir. 
 
 Richard. Yours, sir. (With the glass half way to his lips, 
 he checks himself, giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds, 
 ivith quaint intensity.) Will anyone oblige me with a glass of 
 water ? 
 
 Essie, who has been hanging on his every word and movement, 
 rises stealthily and slips out behind Mrs. Dudgeon through the 
 bedroom door, returning presently with a jug and going out of 
 the house as quietly as possible. 
 
 Hawkins. The will is not exactly in proper legal phrase- 
 ology. 
 
 Richard. No: my father died without the consolations of 
 the law. 
 
 Hawkins. Good again, Mr. Dudgeon, good again. (Pre- 
 paring to read) Are you ready, sir ? 
 
 Richard. Ready, aye ready. For what we are about to 
 receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Go ahead. 
 
 Hawkins (reading). "This is the last will and testament 
 of me Timothy Dudgeon on my deathbed at Nevinstown on the 
 road from Springtown to Websterbridge on this twenty-fourth 
 
22 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 day of September, one thousand seven hundred and seventy 
 seven. I hereby revoke all former wills made by me and 
 declare that I am of sound mind and know well what I am 
 doing and that this is my real will according to my own wish 
 and affections." 
 
 Richard (glancing at his mother). Aha! 
 
 Hawkins (shaking his head) . Bad phraseology, sir, wrong 
 phraseology. "I give and bequeath a hundred pounds to my 
 younger son Christopher Dudgeon, fifty pounds to be paid to 
 him on the day of his marriage to Sarah Wilkins if she will have 
 him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of his children up to 
 the number of five." 
 
 Richard. How if she won't have him ? 
 
 Christy. She will if I have fifty pounds. 
 
 Richard. Good, my brother. Proceed. 
 
 Hawkins. "I give and bequeath to my wife Annie Dud- 
 geon, born Annie Primrose" — you see he did not know the 
 law, Mr. Dudgeon : your mother was not born Annie : she was 
 christened so — "an annuity of fifty -two pounds a year for life 
 (Mrs. Dudgeon, with all eyes on her, holds herself convulsively 
 rigid) to be paid out of the interest on her own money" — 
 there's a way to put it, Mr. Dudgeon ! Her own money ! 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. A very good way to put God's truth. It 
 was every penny my own. Fifty-two pounds a year! 
 
 Hawkins. "And I recommend her for her goodness and 
 piety to the forgiving care of her children, having stood be- 
 tween them and her as far as I could to the best of my ability." 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon. And this is my reward ! (raging inwardly) 
 You know what I think, Mr. Anderson: you know the word 
 I gave to it. 
 
 Anderson. It cannot be helped, Mrs. Dudgeon. We 
 must take what comes to us. (To Hawkins.) Go on, sir. 
 
 Hawkins. "I give and bequeath my house at Webster- 
 bridge with the land belonging to it and all the rest of my prop- 
 erty soever to my eldest son and heir, Richard Dudgeon." 
 
 Richard. Oho ! The fatted calf, Minister, the fatted calf. 
 
 Hawkins, "On these conditions " 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 23 
 
 Richard. The devil! Are there conditions? 
 
 Hawkins. " To wit: first, that he shall not let my brother 
 Peter's natural child starve or be driven by want to an evil 
 life." 
 
 Richard (emphatically, striking his fist on the table). 
 Agreed. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at Essie, misses 
 her and looks quickly round to see where she has moved to; then, 
 seeing that she has left the room without leave, closes her lips 
 vengefully. 
 
 Hawkins. "Second, that he shall be a good friend to my 
 old horse Jim" — (again shaking his head) he should have 
 written James, sir. 
 
 Richard. James shall live in clover. Go on. 
 
 Hawkins. — "and keep my deaf farm laborer Prodger 
 Feston in his service." 
 
 Richard. Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday. 
 
 Hawkins. "Third, that he make Christy a present on his 
 marriage out of the ornaments in the best room." 
 
 Richard (holding up the stuffed birds). Here you are, 
 Christy. 
 
 Christy (disappointed). I'd rather have the China pea- 
 cocks. 
 
 Richard. You shall have both. (Christy is greatly 
 pleased.) Go on. 
 
 Hawkins. " Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace 
 with his mother as far as she will consent to it." 
 
 Richard (dubiously). Hm! Anything more, Mr. Haw- 
 kins? 
 
 Hawkins (solemnly). "Finally I give and bequeath my 
 soul into my Maker's hands, humbly asking forgiveness for 
 all my sins and mistakes, and hoping that he will so guide my 
 son that it may not be said that I have done wrong in trusting 
 to him rather than to others in the perplexity of my last hour 
 in this strange place." 
 
 Anderson. Amen. 
 
 The Uncles and Aunts. Amen. 
 
24 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 Richard. My mother does not say Amen. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon {rising, unable to give up her propeHy with- 
 out a struggle). Mr. Hawkins: is that a proper will? Re- 
 member, I have his rightful, legal will, drawn up by yourself, 
 leaving all to me. 
 
 Hawkins. This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded 
 will, Mrs. Dudgeon; though (turning politely to Richard) it 
 contains in my judgment an excellent disposal of his property. 
 
 Anderson (interposing before Mrs. Dudgeon can retort). 
 That is not what you are asked, Mr. Hawkins. Is it a legal 
 will? 
 
 Hawkins. The courts will sustain it against the other. 
 
 Anderson. But why, if the other is more lawfully worded ? 
 
 Hawkins. Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim 
 of a man — and that man the eldest son — against any woman, 
 if they can. I warned you, Mrs. Dudgeon, when you got me 
 to draw that other will, that it was not a wise will, and that 
 though you might make him sign it, he would never be easy 
 until he revoked it. But you wouldn't take advice; and now 
 Mr. Richard is cock of the walk. (He takes his hat from tlie 
 floor; rises; and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles.) 
 
 This is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. Anderson 
 takes his hat from the rack and joins Uncle William at the fire. 
 Uncle Titus fetches Judith her things from the rack. The three 
 on the sofa rise and chat with Hawkins. Mrs. Dudgeon, now 
 an intruder in her own house, stands erect, crushed by the weight 
 of the law on women, accepting it, as she has been trained to 
 accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs of the greatness of the 
 power that inflicts them, and of her own wormlike insignificance. 
 For at this time, remember, Mary W ollstonecraft is as yet only a 
 girl of eighteen, and her Vindication of the Rights of Women is 
 still fourteen years off. Mrs. Dudgeon is rescued from her 
 apathy by Essie, who comes back with the jug full of water. She 
 is taking it to Richard when Mrs. Dudgeon stops her. 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon (threatening her). Where have you been? 
 (Essie, appalled, tries to answer, but cannot.) How dare you 
 go out by yourself after the orders I gave you ? 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 25 
 
 Essie. He asked for a drink — (she stops, her tongue cleav- 
 ing to her palate with terror). 
 
 Judith (with gentler severity). Who asked for a drink? 
 (Essie, speechless, points to Richard.) 
 
 Richard. What! I! 
 
 Judith (shocked). Oh Essie, Essie! 
 
 Richard. I believe I did. (He takes a glass and holds it 
 to Essie to be filled. Her hand shakes.) WTiat! afraid of me? 
 
 Essie (quickly). No. I — (She pours out the water.) 
 
 Richard (tasting it). Ah, you've been up the street to the 
 market gate spring to get that. (He takes a draught.) Deli- 
 cious! Thank you. (Unfortunately, at this moment he 
 chances to catch sight of Judith's face, which expresses the most 
 prudish disapproval of his evident attraction for Essie, who is 
 devouring him with her grateful eyes. His mocking expression 
 returns instantly. He puts down the glass; deliberately winds 
 his arm round Essie's shoulders; and brings her into the middle 
 of the company. Mrs. Dudgean being in Essie's way as they 
 come past the table, he says) By your leave, mother (and com- 
 pels her to make way for them) . What do they call you ? Bes- 
 sie? 
 
 Essie. Essie. 
 
 Richard. Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie? 
 
 Essie (greatly disappointed that he, of all people, should 
 begin at her in this way) Yes. (She looks doubtfully at 
 Judith.) I think so. I mean I — I hope so. 
 
 Richard. Essie: did you ever hear of a person called the 
 devil? 
 
 Anderson (revolted). Shame on you, sir, with a mere 
 child 
 
 Richard. By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with 
 your sermons : do not you interrupt mine. (To Essie.) Do you 
 know what they call me, Essie ? 
 
 Essie. Dick. 
 
 Richard (amused: patting her on the shoulder). Yes, Dick; 
 but something else too. They call me the Devil's Disciple. 
 
 Essie. Why do you let them? 
 
26 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 Richard {seriously). Because it's true. I was brought up 
 in the other service; but I knew from the first that the Devil 
 was my natural master and captain and friend. I saw that 
 he was in the right, and that the world cringed to his con- 
 queror only through fear. I prayed secretly to him; and he 
 comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in 
 this house of children's tears. I promised him my soul, and 
 swore an oath that I would stand up for him in this world and 
 stand by him in the next. {Solemnly) That promise and that 
 oath made a man of me. From this day this house is his home ; 
 and no child shall cry in it: this hearth is his altar; and no soul 
 shall ever cower over it in the dark evenings and be afraid. 
 Now {turning forcibly on the rest) which of you good men will 
 take this child and rescue her from the house of the devil ? 
 
 Judith {coming to Essie and throwing a 'protecting arm 
 about her). I will. You should be burnt alive. 
 
 Essie. But I don't want to. {She shrinks back, leaving 
 Richard and Judith face to face.) 
 
 Richard {to Judith). Actually doesn't want to, most virt- 
 uous lady! 
 
 Uncle Titus. Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The 
 law 
 
 Richard {turning threateningly on him). Have a care, 
 you. In an hour from this there will be no law here but mar- 
 tial law. I passed the soldiers within six miles on my way 
 here : before noon Major Swindon's gallows for rebels will be 
 up in the market place. 
 
 Anderson {calmly). What have We to fear from that, sir? 
 
 Richard. More than you think. He hanged the wrong 
 man at Springtown: he thought Uncle Peter was respectable, 
 because the Dudgeons had a good name. But his next ex- 
 ample will be the best man in the town to whom he can bring 
 home a rebellious word. Well, we're all rebels; and you know 
 it. 
 
 All the Men {except Anderson). No, no, no! 
 
 Richard. Yes, you are. You haven't damned King 
 George up hill and down dale as I have; but you've prayed for 
 
Act I The Devil's Disciple 27 
 
 his defeat; and you, Anthony Anderson, have conducted the 
 service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of pistols. 
 They mayn't hang me, perhaps; because the moral effect of 
 the Devil's Disciple dancing on nothing wouldn't help them. 
 But a Minister! {Judith, dismayed, clings to Anderson) or a 
 lawyer! {Hawkins smiles like a man able to take care of himself) 
 or an upright horsedealer! {Uncle Titus snarls at him in rage 
 and terror) or a reformed drunkard {Uncle William, utterly un- 
 nerved, moans and wobbles with fear) eh? Would that shew 
 that King George meant business — ha ? 
 
 Anderson {perfectly self-possessed) . Come, my dear : he is 
 only trying to frighten you. There is no danger. {He takes 
 her out of the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow him, 
 except Essie, who remains near Richard.) 
 
 Richabd {boisterously derisive). Now then: how many of 
 you will stay with me; run up the American flag on the devil's 
 house; and make a fight for freedom? {They scramble out, 
 Christy among them, hustling one another in their haste.) Ha 
 ha ! Long live the devil ! ( To Mrs. Dudgeon, who is following 
 them) What, mother ! are you off too ? 
 
 Mrs. Dudgeon {deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as 
 if she had received a deathblow). My curse on you! My dy- 
 ing curse! {She goes out.) 
 
 Richard {calling after her). It will bring me luck. Ha 
 ha ha! 
 
 Essie {anxiously). Mayn't I stay? 
 
 Richard {turning to her). What! Have they forgotten to 
 save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies ? Oh 
 yes : you may stay. {He turns excitedly away again and shakes 
 his fist after them. His left fist, also clenched, hangs down. 
 Essie seizes it and kisses it, her tears falling on it. He starts 
 and looks at it.) Tears! The devil's baptism! {She falls on 
 her knees, sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to raise her, 
 saying) Oh yes, you may cry that way, Essie, if you like. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
act n 
 
 Minister Anderson's house is in the main street of Webster- 
 bridge, not far from the town hall. To the eye of the eighteenth 
 century New Englander, it is much grander than the plain 
 farmhouse of the Dudgeons; but it is so plain itself that a 
 modern house agent would let both at about the same rent. The 
 chief dwelling room has the same sort of kitchen fireplace, with 
 boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable iron griddle socketed 
 to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad fender, on which 
 stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. The door, between 
 the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels, fingerplates nor 
 handles: it is made of plain boards-, and fastens with a latch. 
 The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of Amer- 
 ican cloth, chapped at the corners by draping. The tea service 
 on it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, 
 with milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough to contain 
 nearly a quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the 
 table, a wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square 
 half pound block of butter in a crock. The big oak press facing 
 the fire from the opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, 
 not for ornament; and the minister's house coat hangs on a peg 
 from its door, shewing that he is out; for when he is in, it is his 
 best coat that hangs there. His big riding boots stand beside the 
 press, evidently in their usual place, and rather proud of them- 
 selves. In fact, the evolution of the minister's kitchen, dining 
 room and drawing room into three separate apartments has not 
 yet taken place; and so, from the point of view of our pampered 
 period, he is no better off than the Dudgeons. 
 
 But there is a difference, for all that. To begin with, Mrs. 
 Anderson is a pleas anter person to live with than Mrs. Dudgeon. 
 To which Mrs. Dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that 
 Mrs. Anderson has no children to look after; no poultry, pigs 
 
 28 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 29 
 
 nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not directly dependent 
 on harvests and prices at fairs; an affectionate husband who is a 
 tower of strength to her: in short, that life is as easy at the min- 
 ister's house as it is hard at the farm. This is true; but to ex- 
 plain a fact is not to alter it; and however little credit Mrs. An- 
 derson may deserve for making her home happier, she has 
 ceHainly succeeded in doing it. The outward and visible signs 
 of her superior social pretensions are, a drugget on the floor, a 
 plaster ceiling between the timbers, and chairs which, though not 
 upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are repre- 
 sented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, a 
 copperplate of Raphael's St. Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo 
 presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of 
 miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, 
 and, at the corners, ttvo large cowrie shells. A pretty feature of 
 the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, 
 with little red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve 
 as a blind. There is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near 
 the press, has a railed back and is long enough to accommodate 
 two people easily. On the whole, it is rather the sort of room 
 that the nineteenth century has ended in struggling to get back 
 to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and his disciples in 
 domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman would have 
 tolerated it fifty years ago. 
 
 The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for 
 the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window 
 in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless 
 downpour of rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith 
 comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, 
 and sets them on the table. Her self-conscious airs of the morning 
 are gone: she is anxious and frightened. She goes to the window 
 and peers into the street. The first thing she sees there is her 
 husband, hurrying home through the rain. She gives a little 
 gasp of relief, not very far removed from a sob, and turns to the 
 door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak. 
 
 Judith (running to him). Oh, here you are at last, at last! 
 (She attempts to embrace him.) 
 
30 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 Anderson (keeping her off). Take care, my love: I'm wet. 
 Wait till I get my cloak off. (He places a chair with its back 
 to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his 
 hat and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands 
 outstretched to Judith.) Now! (She flies into his arms.) I 
 am not late, am I? The town clock struck the quarter as I 
 came in at the front door. And the town clock is always fast. 
 
 Judith. I'm sure it's slow this evening. I'm so glad 
 you're back. 
 
 Anderson (taking her more closely in his arms). Anxious, 
 my dear. 
 
 Judith. A little. 
 
 Anderson. Why, you've been crying. 
 
 Judith. Only a little. Never mind : it's all over now. (A 
 bugle call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror and re- 
 treats to the long seat, listening.) What's that? 
 
 Anderson (following her tenderly to the seat and making her 
 sit down with him). Only King George, my dear. He's 
 returning to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting 
 ready for tea, or booting or saddling or something. Soldiers 
 don't ring the bell or call over the banisters when they want 
 anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the whole 
 town. 
 
 Judith. Do you think there is really any danger? 
 
 Anderson. Not the least in the world. 
 
 Judith. You say that to comfort me, not because you be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 Anderson. My dear : in this world there is always danger 
 for those who are afraid of it. There's a danger that the 
 house will catch fire in the night; but we shan't sleep any the 
 less soundly for that. 
 
 Judith. Yes, I know what you always say; and you're 
 quite right. Oh, quite right: I know it. But — I suppose I'm 
 not brave: that's all. My heart shrinks every time I think of 
 the soldiers. 
 
 Anderson. Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the 
 worse for costing a little pain. 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 31 
 
 Judith. Yes, I suppose so. (Embracing him again.) Oh 
 how brave you are, my dear! (With tears in her eyes.) Well, 
 I'll be brave too: you shan't be ashamed of your wife. 
 
 Anderson. That's right. Now you make me happy. 
 Well, well! (He rises and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his 
 shoes.) I called on Richard Dudgeon on my way back; but 
 he wasn't in. 
 
 Judith (rising in consternation) . You called on that man ! 
 
 Anderson (reassuring her) . Oh, nothing happened, dearie. 
 He was out. 
 
 Judith (almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal humil- 
 iation to her). But why did you go there? 
 
 Anderson (gravely). Well, it is all the talk that Major 
 Swindon is going to do what he did in Springtown — make an 
 example of some notorious rebel, as he calls us. He pounced 
 on Peter Dudgeon as the worst character there; and it is the 
 general belief that he will pounce on Richard as the worst 
 here. 
 
 Judith. But Richard said 
 
 Anderson (goodhumoredly cutting her short). Pooh! 
 Richard said! He said what he thought would frighten you 
 and frighten me, my dear. He said what perhaps (God for- 
 give him!) he would like to believe. It's a terrible thing to 
 think of what death must mean for a man like that. I felt 
 that I must warn him. I left a message for him. 
 
 Judith (querulously). What message? 
 
 Anderson. Only that I should be glad to see him for a 
 moment on a matter of importance to himself; and that if he 
 would look in here when he was passing he would be welcome. 
 
 Judith (aghast). You asked that man to come here! 
 
 Anderson. I did. 
 
 Judith (sinking on the seat and clasping her hands). I 
 hope he won't come ! Oh, I pray that he may not come ! 
 
 Anderson. Why ? Don't you want him to be warned ? 
 
 Judith. He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it 
 wrong to hate a blasphemer and a villain? I do hate him? 
 I can't get him out of my mind : I know he will bring harm 
 
32 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 with him. He insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted his 
 mother. 
 
 Anderson {quaintly). Well, dear, let's forgive him; and 
 then it won't matter. 
 
 Judith. Oh, I know it's wrong to hate anybody; 
 but 
 
 Anderson {going over to her with humorous tenderness). 
 Come, dear, you're not so wicked as you think. The worst 
 sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be 
 indifferent to them : that's the essence of inhumanity. After all, 
 my dear, if you watch people carefully, you'll be surprised to 
 find how like hate is to love. {She starts, strangely touched — 
 even appalled. He is amused at her.) Yes: I'm quite in 
 earnest. Think of how some of our married friends worry one 
 another, tax one another, are jealous of one another, can't bear 
 to let one another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers 
 and slave-owners than lovers. Think of those very same peo- 
 ple with their enemies, scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, deter- 
 mined to be independent of one another, careful of how they 
 speak of one another — pooh ! haven't you often thought that if 
 they only knew it, they were better friends to their enemies 
 than to their own husbands and wives? Come: depend on it, 
 my dear, you are really fonder of Richard than you are of me, 
 if you only knew it. Eh ? 
 
 Judith. Oh, don't say that: don't say that, Tony, even in 
 jest. You don't know what a horrible feeling it gives me. 
 
 Anderson {laughing). Well, well: never mind, pet. He's 
 a bad man ; and you hate him as he deserves. And you're going 
 to make the tea, aren't you ? 
 
 Judith {remorsefully). Oh yes, I forgot. I've been keep- 
 ing you waiting all this time. {She goes to the fire and puts on 
 the kettle.) 
 
 Anderson {going to the press and taking his coat off) . Have 
 you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat? 
 
 Judith. Yes, dear. {She goes to the table, and sets about 
 putting the tea into the teapot from the caddy.) 
 
 Anderson {as he changes his coat for the older one hanging 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 33 
 
 on the press, and replaces it by the one he has just taken off). Did 
 anyone call when I was out ? 
 
 Judith. No, only — (someone knocks at the door. With a 
 start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to the 
 further end of the table with the tea caddy and spoon in her 
 hands, exclaiming) Who's that ? 
 
 Anderson (going to her and patting her encouragingly on 
 the shoulder). All right, pet, all right. He won't eat you, 
 whoever he is. (She tries to smile, and nearly makes herself cry. 
 He goes to the door and opens it. Richard is there, without 
 overcoat or cloak.) You might have raised the latch and come 
 in, Mr. Dudgeon. Nobody stands on much ceremony with us. 
 (Hospitably.) Come in. (Richard comes in carelessly and 
 stands at the table, looking round the room with a slight pucker of 
 his nose at the mezzotinted divine on the wall. Judith keeps her 
 eyes on the tea caddy.) Is it still raining ? (He shuts the door.) 
 
 Richard. Raining like the very (his eye catches Judith's 
 as she looks quickly and haughtily up) — I beg your pardon; 
 but (shewing that his coat is wet) you see ! 
 
 Anderson. Take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire 
 a while : my wife will excuse your shirtsleeves. Judith : put in 
 another spoonful of tea for Mr. Dudgeon. 
 
 Richard (eyeing him cynically). The magic of property, 
 Pastor! Are even you civil to me now that I have succeeded 
 to my father's estate ? 
 
 Judith throws down the spoon indignantly. 
 
 Anderson (quite unruffled, and helping Richard off with his 
 coat). I think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality, you 
 cannot have so bad an opinion of it. Sit down. (With the 
 coat in his hand, he points to the railed seat. Richard, in his 
 shirtsleeves, looks at him half quarrelsomely for a moment; then, 
 with a nod, acknowledges that the minister has got the better of 
 him, and sits down on the seat. Anderson pushes his cloak into 
 a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and hangs Richard's 
 coat on the back in its place.) 
 
 Richard. I come, sir, on your own invitation. You left 
 word you had something important to tell me. 
 
34 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 Anderson. I have a warning which it is my duty to give 
 you. 
 
 Richard {quickly rising) . You want to preach to me. Ex- 
 cuse me: I prefer a walk in the rain. {He makes for his coat.) 
 
 Anderson {stopping him). Don't be alarmed, sir; I am no 
 great preacher. You are quite safe. {Richard smiles in spite 
 of himself. His glance softens: he even makes a gesture of 
 excuse. Anderson, seeing that he has tamed him, now addresses 
 him earnestly.) Mr. Dudgeon: you are in danger in this town. 
 
 Richard. What danger? 
 
 Anderson. Your uncle's danger. Major Swindon's gal- 
 lows. 
 
 Richard. It is you who are in danger. I warned 
 you 
 
 Anderson {interrupting him goodhumoredly but authori- 
 tatively). Yes, yes, Mr. Dudgeon; but they do not think so in 
 the town. And even if I were in danger, I have duties here 
 which I must not forsake. But you are a free man. Why 
 should you run any risk ? 
 
 Richard. Do you think I should be any great loss, Min- 
 ister ? 
 
 Anderson. I think that a man's life is worth saving, who- 
 ever it belongs to. {Richard makes him an ironical bow. An- 
 derson returns the bow humorously) Come: you'll have a cup 
 of tea, to prevent you catching cold ? 
 
 Richard. I observe that Mrs. Anderson is not quite so 
 pressing as you are, Pastor. 
 
 Judith {almost stifled with resentment, which she has been 
 expecting her husband to share and express for her at every 
 insult of Richard's). Ydu are welcome for my husband's sake. 
 {She brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on the hob.) 
 
 Richard. I know I am not welcome for my own, madam. 
 {He rises.) But I think I will not break bread here, Minister. 
 
 Anderson {cheerily). Give me a good reason for that. 
 
 Richard. Because there is something in you that I re- 
 spect, and that makes me desire to have you for my enemy. 
 
 Anderson. That's well said. On those terms, sir, I will 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 35 
 
 accept your enmity or any man's. Judith: Mr. Dudgeon will 
 stay to tea. Sit down: it will take a few minutes to draw by 
 the fire. (Richard glances at him with a troubled face; then sits 
 down with his head bent, to hide a convulsive swelling of his 
 throat.) I was just saying to my wife, Mr. Dudgeon, that 
 enmity — (she grasps his hand and looks imploringly at him, 
 doing both with an intensity that checks him at once) Well, 
 well, I mustn't tell you, I see; but it was nothing that need 
 leave us worse friend — enemies, I mean. Judith is a great 
 enemy of yours. 
 
 Richard. If all my enemies were like Mrs. Anderson, I 
 should be the best Christian in America. 
 
 Anderson (gratified, patting her hand). You hear that, 
 Judith ? Mr. Dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment. 
 
 The latch is lifted from without. 
 
 Judith (starting). Who is that? 
 
 Christy comes in. 
 
 Christy (stopping and staring at Richard). Oh, are you 
 here? 
 
 Richard. Yes. Begone, you fool: Mrs. Anderson doesn't 
 want the whole family to tea at once. 
 
 Christy (coming further in). Mother's very ill. 
 
 Richard. Well, does she want to see me? 
 
 Christy. No. 
 
 Richard. I thought not. 
 
 Christy. She wants to see the minister — at once. 
 
 Judith (to Anderson). Oh, not before you've had some 
 tea. 
 
 Anderson. I shall enjoy it more when I come back, 
 dear. (He is about to take up his cloak.) 
 
 Christy. The rain's over. 
 
 Anderson (dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from 
 the fender). Where is your mother, Christy? 
 
 Christy. At Uncle Titus's. 
 
 Anderson. Have you fetched the doctor? 
 
 Christy. No : she didn't tell me to. 
 
 Anderson. Go on there at once: I'll overtake you on his 
 
36 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 doorstep. (Christy turns to go.) Wait a moment. Your 
 brother must be anxious to know the particulars. 
 
 Richard. Psha! not I : he doesn't know; and I don't care. 
 (Violently.) Be off, you oaf. (Christy runs out. Richard 
 adds, a little shamefacedly) We shall know soon enough. 
 
 Anderson. Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the 
 news myself. Judith: will you give Mr. Dudgeon his tea, 
 and keep him here until I return ? 
 
 Judith (white and trembling). Must I 
 
 Anderson (taking her hands and interrupting her to cover 
 her agitation). My dear: I can depend on you? 
 
 Judith (ivith a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust). Yes. 
 
 Anderson (pressing her hand against his cheek). You 
 will not mind two old people like us, Mr. Dudgeon. (Going.) 
 I shall not say good evening: you will be here when I come 
 back. (He goes out.) 
 
 They watch him pass 'the window, and then look at each 
 other dumbly, quite disconcerted. Richard, noting the quiver 
 of her lips, is the first to pull himself together. 
 
 Richard. Mrs. Anderson: I am perfectly aware of the 
 nature of your sentiments towards me. I shall not intrude 
 on you. Good evening. (Again he starts for the fireplace to 
 get his coat.) 
 
 Judith (getting between him and the coat). No, no. Don't 
 go: please don't go. 
 
 Richard (roughly). Why? You don't want me here. 
 
 Judith. Yes, I — (wringing her hands in despair) Oh, 
 if I tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me. 
 
 Richard (indignantly). Torment! What right have you 
 to say that ? Do you expect me to stay after that ? 
 
 Judith. I want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him 
 like an angry child) it is not because I like you. 
 
 Richard. Indeed! 
 
 Judith. Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me 
 about that. I hate and dread you; and my husband knows 
 it. If you are not here when he comes back, he will believe 
 that I disobeyed him and drove you away. 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 37 
 
 Richard {ironically) . Whereas, of course, you have really 
 been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that I only 
 want to go away out of mere contrariness, eh? 
 
 Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into 
 tears. 
 
 Richard. Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don't do that. 
 {Putting his hand to his breast as if to a wound) He wrung 
 my heart by being a man. Need you tear it by being a 
 woman? Has he not raised you above my insults, like him- 
 self? {She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, look- 
 ing at him with a scared curiosity.) There: that's right. 
 {Sympathetically.) You're better now, aren't you ? {He puts 
 his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises 
 haughtily, and stares at him defiantly. He at once drops into 
 his usual sardonic tone.) Ah, that's better. You are your- 
 self again: so is Richard. Well, shall we go to tea like a 
 quiet respectable couple, and wait for your husband's re- 
 turn? 
 
 Judith {rather ashamed of herself). If you please. I — I 
 am sorry to have been so foolish. {She stoops to take up the 
 plate of toast from the fender.) 
 
 Richard. I am sorry, for your sake, that I am — what 
 I am. Allow me. {He takes the plate from her and goes with 
 it to the table.) 
 
 Judith {following with the teapot). Will you sit down? 
 {He sits down at the end of the table nearest the press. There 
 is a plate and knife laid there. The other plate is laid near it; 
 but Judith stays at the opposite end of the table, next the fire, 
 and takes her place there, drawing the tray towards her.) Do 
 you take sugar? 
 
 Richard. No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you some 
 toast. {He puts some on the second plate, and hands it to her, 
 with the knife. The action shews quietly how well he knows 
 that she has avoided her usual place so as to be as far from him 
 as possible.) 
 
 Judith {consciously). Thanks. {She gives him his tea.) 
 Won't you help yourself? 
 
38 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 Richard. Thanks. (He puts a piece of toast on his own 
 plate; and she pours out tea for herself.) 
 
 Judith (observing that he tastes nothing). Don't you like 
 it? You are not eating anything. 
 
 Richard. Neither are you. 
 
 Judith (nervously). I never care much for my tea. 
 Please don't mind me. 
 
 Richard (looking dreamily round). I am thinking. It is 
 all so strange to me. I can see the beauty and peace of this 
 home : I think I have never been more at rest in my life than 
 at this moment; and yet I know quite well I could never 
 live here. It's not in my nature, I suppose, to be domesti- 
 cated. But it's very beautiful: it's almost holy. (He muses 
 a moment, and then laughs softly.) 
 
 Judith (quickly). Why do you laugh? 
 
 Richard. I was thinking that if any stranger came in here 
 now, he would take us for man and wife. 
 
 Judith (taking offence). You mean, I suppose, that you 
 are more my age than he is. 
 
 Richard (staring at this unexpected turn). I never thought 
 of such a thing. (Sardonic again.) I see there is another 
 side to domestic joy. 
 
 Judith (angrily). I would rather have a husband whom 
 everybody respects than — than 
 
 Richard. Than the devil's disciple. You are right; but 
 I daresay your love helps him to be a good man, just as your 
 hate helps me to be a bad one. 
 
 Judith. My husband has been very good to you. He 
 has forgiven you for insulting him, and is trying to save you. 
 Can you not forgive him for being so much better than you 
 are? How dare you belittle him by putting yourself in his 
 place ? 
 
 Richard. Did I? 
 
 Judith. Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came 
 in they would take us for man and — (she stops, terror-stricken, 
 as a squad of soldiers tramps past the window) The English 
 soldiers! Oh, what do they 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 39 
 
 Richard {listening). Sh! 
 
 A Voice {outside). Halt! Four outside: two in with me. 
 
 Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at 
 Richard, who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his 
 tea when the latch goes up with a sharp click, and an English 
 sergeant walks into the room with two privates, who post them- 
 selves at the door. He comes promptly to the table between 
 them. 
 
 The Sergeant. Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! 
 Anthony Anderson: I arrest you in King George's name as 
 a rebel. 
 
 Judith {pointing at Richard). But that is not — {He looks 
 up quickly at her, with a face of iron. She stops her mouth 
 hastily with the hand she has raised to indicate him, and stands 
 staring affrightedly .) 
 
 The Sergeant. Come, Parson; put your coat on and come 
 along. 
 
 Richard. Yes: I'll come. {He rises and takes a step 
 towards his own coat; then recollects himself, and, with his back 
 to the sergeant, moves his gaze slowly round the room without 
 turning his head until he sees Anderson's black coat hanging up 
 on the press. He goes composedly to it; takes it doivn; and puts 
 it on. The idea of himself as a parson tickles him: he looks 
 down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then smiles slyly at 
 Judith, whose white face shews him that what she is painfully 
 struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its 
 horror. He turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with 
 a pair of handcuffs hidden behind him, and says lightly) Did 
 you ever arrest a man of my cloth before, Sergeant? 
 
 The Sergeant {instinctively respectful, half to the black 
 coat, half to Richard's good breeding). Well, no sir. At least, 
 only an army chaplain. {Shewing the handcuffs.) I'm sorry, 
 sir; but duty 
 
 Richard. Just so, Sergeant. Well, I'm not ashamed of 
 them: thank you kindly for the apology. {He holds out his 
 hands.) 
 
 Sergeant {not availing himself of the offer). One gentle- 
 
40 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 man to another, sir. Wouldn't you like to say a word to your 
 missis, sir, before you go ? 
 
 Richard (smiling). Oh, we shall meet again before — 
 eh ? (Meaning " before you hang me. ") 
 
 Sergeant (loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness). Oh, of 
 course, of course. No call for the lady to distress herself. 
 Still — (in a lower voice, intended for Richard alone) your last 
 chance, sir. 
 
 They look at one another significantly for a moment. Then 
 Richard exhales a deep breath and turns towards Judith. 
 
 Richard (very distinctly). My love. (She looks at him, 
 pitiably pale, and tries to answer, but cannot — tries also to come 
 to him, but cannot trust herself to stand without the support of 
 the table.) This gallant gentleman is good enough to allow 
 us a moment of leavetaking. (The sergeant retires delicately 
 and joins his men near the door.) He is trying to spare you the 
 truth; but you had better know it. Are you listening to me? 
 (She signifies assent.) Do you understand that I am going to 
 my death? (She signifies that she understands.) Remember, 
 you must find our friend who was with us just now. Do you 
 understand? (She signifies yes.) See that you get him safely 
 out of harm's way. Don't for your life let him know of my 
 danger; but if he finds it out, tell him that he cannot save me: 
 they would hang him; and they would not spare me. And tell 
 him that I am steadfast in my religion as he is in his, and 
 that he may depend on me to the death. (He turns to go, and 
 meets the eye of the sergeant, who looks a little suspicious. He 
 considers a moment, and then, turning roguishly to Judith with 
 something of a smile breaking through his earnestness, says) 
 And now, my dear, I am afraid the sergeant will not believe 
 that you love me like a wife unless you give one kiss before 
 I go. 
 
 He approaches her and holds out his arms. She quits the 
 table and almost falls into them. 
 
 Judith (the words choking her). I ought to — it's mur- 
 der 
 
 Richard. No: only a kiss (softly to her) for his sake. 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 41 
 
 Judith. I can't. You must- 
 
 Richard (folding her in his arms with an impulse of com- 
 passion for her distress) . My poor girl ! 
 
 Judith, with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him; 
 kisses him; and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the 
 ground as if the kiss had killed her. 
 
 Richard (going quickly to the sergeant). Now, Sergeant: 
 quick, before she comes to. The handcuffs. (He puts out his 
 hands.) 
 
 Sergeant (pocketing them) . Never mind, sir : I'll trust you. 
 You're a game one. You ought to a bin a soldier, sir. Be- 
 tween them two, please. (The soldiers place themselves one 
 before Richard and one behind him. The sergeant opens the 
 door.) 
 
 Richard (taking a last look round him). Goodbye, wife: 
 goodbye, home. Muffle the drums, and quick march ! 
 
 The sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. They 
 file out quickly. ************* 
 * When Anderson returns from Mrs. Dudgeon's he is aston- 
 ished to find the room apparently empty and almost in darkness 
 except for the glow from the fire; for one of the candles has burnt 
 out, and the other is at its last flicker. 
 
 Anderson. Why, what on earth — ? (Calling) Judith, 
 Judith! (He listens: there is no answer.) Hm! (He goes 
 to the cupboard; takes a candle from the drawer; lights it at the 
 flicker of the expiring one on the table; and looks wonderingly at 
 the untasted meal by its light. Then he sticks it in the candle- 
 stick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, much puzzled. 
 This action causes him to look at the floor for the first time; and 
 there he sees Judith lying motionless with her eyes closed. He 
 runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her head.) Judith. 
 
 Judith (waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of 
 exhaustion after suffering). Yes. Did you call? What's the 
 matter ? 
 
 Anderson. I've just come in and found you lying here with 
 the candles burnt out and the tea poured out and cold. What 
 has happened ? 
 
42 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 Judith (still astray). I don't know. Have I been asleep? 
 I suppose — (she stops blankly) I don't know. 
 
 Anderson (groaning) . Heaven forgive me, I left you alone 
 with that scoundrel. (Judith remembers. With an agonized 
 cry, she clutches his shoulders and drags herself to her feet as 
 he rises with her. He clasps her tenderly in his arms.) My 
 poor pet! 
 
 Judith (frantically clinging to him). What shall I do? 
 Oh my God, what shall I do ? 
 
 Anderson. Never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: 
 it was my fault. Come : you're safe now; and you're not hurt, 
 are you ? (He takes his arms from her to see whether she can 
 stand.) There: that's right, that's right. If only you are not 
 hurt, nothing else matters. 
 
 Judith. No, no, no: I'm not hurt. 
 
 Anderson. Thank Heaven for that ! Come now : (leading 
 her to the railed seat and making her sit down beside him) sit 
 down and rest: you can tell me about it to-morrow. Or (mis- 
 understanding her distress) you shall not tell me at all if it wor- 
 ries you. There, there! (Cheerfully.) I'll make you some 
 fresh tea: that will set you up again. (He goes to the table, and 
 empties the teapot into the slop bowl.) 
 
 Judith (in a strained tone). Tony. 
 
 Anderson. Yes, dear ? 
 
 Judith. Do you think we are only in a dream now? 
 
 Anderson (glancing round at her for a moment with a pang 
 of anxiety, though he goes on steadily and cheerfully putting 
 fresh tea into the pot). Perhaps so, pet. But you may as well 
 dream a cup of tea when you're about it. 
 
 Judith. Oh, stop, stop. You don't know — (Distracted 
 she buries her face in her knotted hands.) 
 
 Anderson (breaking down and coming to her). My dear, 
 what is it ? I can't bear it any longer : you must tell me. It 
 was all my fault : I was mad to trust him. 
 
 Judith. No : don't say that. You mustn't say that. He 
 — oh no, no: I can't. Tony: don't speak tome. Take my 
 hands — both my hands. (He takes them, wondering.) Make 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 43 
 
 me think of you, not of him. There's danger, frightful dan- 
 ger; but it is your danger; and I can't keep thinking of it: I 
 can't, I can't: my mind goes back to his danger. He must be 
 saved — no: you must be saved: you, you, you. (She springs 
 up as if to do something or go somewhere, exclaiming) Oh, 
 Heaven help me ! 
 
 Anderson (keeping his seat and holding her hands with 
 resolute composure). Calmly, calmly, my pet. You're quite 
 distracted. 
 
 Judith. I may well be. I don't know what to do. I don't 
 know what to do. (Tearing her hands away.) I must save 
 him. (Anderson rises in alarm as she runs wildly to the door. 
 It is opened in her face by Essie, who hurries in full of anxiety. 
 The surprise is so disagreeable to Judith that it brings her to 
 her senses. Her tone is sharp and angry as she demands) 
 What do you want ? 
 
 Essie. I was to come to you. 
 
 Anderson. Who told you to ? 
 
 Essie (staring at him, as if his presence astonished her). 
 Are you here ? 
 
 Judith. Of course. Don't be foolish, child. 
 
 Anderson. Gently, dearest: you'll frighten her. (Going 
 between them.) Come here, Essie. (She comes to him.) Who 
 sent you ? 
 
 Essie. Dick. He sent me word by a soldier. I was to 
 come here at once and do whatever Mrs. Anderson told me. 
 
 Anderson (enlightened). A soldier! Ah, I see it all now! 
 They have arrested Richard. (Judith makes a gesture of 
 despair.) 
 
 Essie. No. I asked the soldier. Dick's safe. But the 
 soldier said you had been taken. 
 
 Anderson. I! (Bewildered, he turns to Judith for an 
 explanation.) 
 
 Judith (coaxingly). All right, dear: I understand. (To 
 Essie.) Thank you, Essie, for coming; but I don't need you 
 now. You may go home. 
 
 Essie (suspicious). Are you sure Dick has not been 
 
44 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 touched ? Perhaps he told the soldier to say it was the min- 
 ister. (Anxiously.) Mrs. Anderson : do you think it can have 
 been that? 
 
 Anderson. Tell her the truth if it is so, Judith. She 
 will learn it from the first neighbor she meets in the street. 
 (Judith turns away and covers her eyes with her hands!) 
 
 Essie (wailing). But what will they do to him ? Oh, what 
 will they do to him ? Will they hang him ? (Judith shudders 
 convulsively, and throws herself into the chair in which Richard 
 sat at the tea table.) 
 
 Anderson (patting Essie's shoulder and trying to comfort 
 her). I hope not. I hope not. Perhaps if you're very quiet 
 and patient, we may be able to help him in some way. 
 
 Essie. Yes — help him — yes, yes, yes. I'll be good. 
 
 Anderson. I must go to him at once, Judith. 
 
 Judith (springing up). Oh no. You must go away — far 
 away, to some place of safety. 
 
 Anderson. Pooh! 
 
 Judith (passionately). Do you want to kill me? Do you 
 think I can bear to live for days and days with every knock 
 at the door — every footstep — giving me a spasm of terror? 
 to lie awake for nights and nights in an agony of dread, listen- 
 ing for them to come and arrest you ? 
 
 Anderson. Do you think it would be better to know that 
 I had run away from my post at the first sign of danger ? 
 
 Judith (bitterly). Oh, you won't go. I know it. You'll 
 stay; and I shall go mad. 
 
 Anderson. My dear, your duty 
 
 Judith (fiercely). What do I care about my duty? 
 
 Anderson (shocked). Judith! 
 
 Judith. I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty. 
 My duty is to get you away, to save you, to leave him to his 
 fate. (Essie utters a cry of distress and sinks on the chair at the 
 fire, sobbing silently.) My instinct is the same as hers — to 
 save him above all things, though it would be so much better 
 for him to die! so much greater! But I know you will take 
 your own way as he took it. I have no power. (She sits down 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 45 
 
 sullenly on the railed seat.) I'm only a woman : I can do noth- 
 ing but sit here and suffer. Only, tell him I tried to save you 
 — that I did my best to save you. 
 
 Anderson. My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking more 
 of his own danger than of mine. 
 
 Judith. Stop; or I shall hate you. 
 
 Anderson {remonstrating). Come, come, come! How 
 am I to leave you if you talk like this ! You are quite out of 
 your senses. {He turns to Essie.) Essie. 
 
 Essie {eagerly rising and drying her eyes). Yes? 
 
 Anderson. Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: 
 Mrs. Anderson is not well. {Essie looks doubtful.) Never 
 fear: I'll come to you presently; and I'll go to Dick. 
 
 Essie. You are sure you will go to him ? {Whispering.) 
 You won't let her prevent you ? 
 
 Anderson {smiling). No, no: it's all right. All right. 
 {She goes.) That's a good girl. {He closes the door, and 
 returns to Judith.) 
 
 Judith {seated — rigid). You are going to your death. 
 
 Anderson {quaintly). Then I shall go in my best coat, 
 dear. {He turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat.) 
 Where — ? {He stares at the empty nail for a moment; then 
 looks quickly round to the fire; strides across to it; and lifts 
 Richard's coat.) Why, my dear, it seems that he has gone in 
 my best coat. 
 
 Judith {still motionless). Yes. 
 
 Anderson. Did the soldiers make a mistake ? 
 
 Judith. Yes: they made a mistake. 
 
 Anderson. He might have told them. Poor fellow, he 
 was too upset, I suppose. 
 
 Judith. Yes: he might have told them. So might I. 
 
 Anderson. Well, it's all very puzzling — almost funny. 
 It's curious how these little things strike us even in the most — 
 {he breaks off and begins putting on Richard's coat) I'd bet- 
 ter take him his own coat. I know what he'll say — {imitating 
 Richard's sardonic manner) "Anxious about my soul, Pas- 
 tor, and also about your best coat." Eh ? 
 
46 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 Judith. Yes, that is just what he will say to you. (Va- 
 cantly.) It doesn't matter: I shall never see either of you 
 again. 
 
 Anderson (rallying her). Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (He sits 
 down beside her.) Is this how you keep your promise that I 
 shan't be ashamed of my brave wife ? 
 
 Judith. No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my 
 promises to him : why should I keep my promises to you ? 
 
 Anderson. Don't speak so strangely, my love. It sounds 
 insincere to me. (She looks unutterable reproach at him.) Yes, 
 dear, nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is talking 
 nonsense. Just nonsense. (Her face darkens into dumb ob- 
 stinacy. She stares straight before her, and does not look at him 
 again, absorbed in Richard's fate. He scans her face; sees that 
 his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up, making no 
 further effort to conceal his anxiety.) I wish I knew what has 
 frightened you so. Was there a struggle ? Did he fight? 
 
 Judith. No. He smiled. 
 
 Anderson. Did he realise his danger, do you think? 
 
 Judith. He realised yours. 
 
 Anderson. Mine! 
 
 Judith (monotonously). He said, "See that you get him 
 safely out of harm's way." I promised: I can't keep my 
 promise. He said, "Don't for your life let him know of my 
 danger." I've told you of it. He said that if you found it out, 
 you could not save him — that they will hang him and not spare 
 you. 
 
 Anderson (rising in generous indignation) . And you think 
 that I will let a man with that much good in him die like a dog, 
 when a few words might make him die like a Christian ? I'm 
 ashamed of you, Judith. 
 
 Judith. He will be steadfast in his religion as you are 
 in yours; and you may depend on him to the death. He 
 said so. 
 
 Anderson. God forgive him! What else did he say? 
 
 Judith. He said goodbye. 
 
 Anderson (fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern). 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 47 
 
 Poor fellow, poor fellow! You said goodbye to him in all 
 kindness and charity, Judith, I hope. 
 
 Judith. I kissed him. 
 
 Anderson. What! Judith! 
 
 Judith. Are you angry? 
 
 Anderson. No, no. You were right: you were right. 
 Poor fellow, poor fellow! {Greatly distressed.) To be hanged 
 like that at his age ! And then did they take him away ? 
 
 Judith {wearily). Then you were here: that's the next 
 thing I remember. I suppose I fainted. Now bid me good- 
 bye, Tony. Perhaps I shall faint again. I wish I could die. 
 
 Anderson. No, no, my dear: you must pull yourself to- 
 gether and be sensible. I am in no danger — not the least in 
 the world. 
 
 Judith {solemnly). You are going to your death, Tony — 
 your sure death, if God will let innocent men be murdered. 
 They will not let you see him : they will arrest you the moment 
 you give your name. It was for you the soldiers came. 
 
 Anderson {thunderstruck). For me!!! {His fists clinch; 
 his neck thickens; his face reddens; the fleshy purses under his 
 eyes become injected with hot blood; the man of peace vanishes, 
 transfigured into a choleric and formidable man of war. Still, 
 she does not come otd of her absorption to look at him: her eyes 
 are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of Richard's stead- 
 fastness.) 
 
 Judith. He took your place : he is dying to save you. That 
 is why he went in your coat. That is why I kissed him. 
 
 Anderson {exploding). Blood an' owns! {His voice is 
 rough and dominant, his gesture full of brute energy.) Here! 
 Essie, Essie! 
 
 Essie {running in). Yes. 
 
 Anderson {impetuously). Off with you as hard as you can 
 run, to the inn. Tell them to saddle the fastest and strongest 
 horse they have {Judith rises breathless, and stares at him in- 
 credulously) — the chestnut mare, if she's fresh — without a 
 moment's delay. Go into the stable yard and tell the black 
 man there that I'll give him a silver dollar if the horse is waiting 
 
48 The Devil's Disciple Act II 
 
 for me when I come, and that I am close on your heels. Away 
 with you. (His energy sends Essie flying from the room. He 
 "pounces on his riding boots; rushes with them to the chair at the 
 -fire; and begins 'pulling them on.) 
 
 Judith (unable to believe such a thing of him). You are not 
 going to him! 
 
 Anderson (busy with the boots). Going to him! What 
 good would that do ? (Growling to himself as he gets the first 
 boot on with a wrench) I'll go to them, so I will. (To Judith 
 peremptorily) Get me the pistols : I want them. And money, 
 money: I want money — all the money in the house. (He 
 stoops over the other boot, grumbling) A great satisfaction it 
 would be to him to have my company on the gallows. (He 
 pulls on the boot.) 
 
 Judith. You are deserting him, then? 
 
 Anderson. Hold your tongue, woman; and get me the 
 pistols. (She goes to the press and takes from it a leather belt 
 with two pistols, a powder horn, and a bag of bullets attached to 
 it. She throws it on the table. Then she unlocks a drawer in 
 the press and takes out a purse. Anderson grabs the belt and 
 buckles it on, saying) If they took him for me in my coat, 
 perhaps they'll take me for him in his. (Hitching the belt into 
 its place) Do I look like him ? 
 
 Judith (turning with the purse in her hand). Horribly un- 
 like him. 
 
 Anderson (snatching the purse from her and emptying it on 
 the table). Hm! We shall see. 
 
 Judith (sitting down helplessly). Is it of any use to pray, 
 do you think, Tony ? 
 
 Anderson (counting the money). Pray! Can we pray 
 Swindon's rope off Richard's neck ? 
 
 Judith. God may soften Major Swindon's heart. 
 
 Anderson (contemptuously — pocketing a handful of money). 
 Let him, then. I am not God ; and I must go to work another 
 way. (Judith gasps at the blasphemy. He throws the purse 
 on the table.) Keep that. I've taken 25 dollars. 
 
 Judith. Have you forgotten even that you are a minister? 
 
Act II The Devil's Disciple 49 
 
 Anderson. Minister be — faugh! My hat: where's my 
 hat? (He snatches up hat and cloak, and pids both on in hot 
 haste.) Now listen, you. If you can get a word with him by 
 preteoding you're his wife, tell him to hold his tongue until 
 morning : that will give me all the start I need. 
 
 Judith (solemnly). You may depend on him to the death. 
 
 Anderson. You're a fool, a fool, Judith (for a moment 
 checking the torrent o) his haste, and speaking with something 
 of his old quiet and impressive conviction). You don't know 
 the man you're married to. (Essie returns. He swoops at her 
 at once.) Well : is the horse ready ? 
 
 Essie (breathless). It will be ready when you come. 
 
 Anderson. Good. (He makes for the door.) 
 
 Judith (rising and stretching out her arms after him invol- 
 untarily). Won't you say goodbye ? 
 
 Anderson. And waste another half minute ! Psha! (He 
 rushes out like an avalanche.) 
 
 Essie (hurrying to Judith). He has gone to save Richard, 
 hasn't he ? 
 
 Judith. To save Richard! No: Richard has saved him. 
 He has gone to save himself. Richard must die. 
 
 Essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding her 
 face. Judith, withoid heeding her, looks rigidly straight in 
 front of her, at the vision of Richard, dying. 
 
 end of act n. 
 
ACT III 
 
 Early next morning the sergeant, at the British headquarters 
 in the Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled 
 waiting room, and invites Judith to enter. She has had a bad 
 night, probably a rather delirious one; for even in the reality of 
 the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes back at moments when her 
 attention is not strongly held. 
 
 The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is 
 sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fine 
 figure of a man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels 
 specially qualified, in a respectful way, to console her. 
 
 Sergeant. You can have a quiet word with him here, 
 mum. 
 
 Judith. Shall I have long to wait ? 
 
 Sergeant. No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in the 
 Bridewell for the night; and he's just been brought over here 
 for the court martial. Don't fret, mum: he slep like a child, 
 and has made a rare good breakfast. 
 
 Judith {incredulously). He is in good spirits! 
 
 Sergeant. Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to see 
 him last night; and he won seventeen shillings off him at spoil 
 five. He spent it among us like the gentleman he is. Duty's 
 duty, mum, of course; but you're among friends here. {The 
 tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard approaching.) There: I 
 think he's coming. {Richard comes in, without a sign of care 
 or captivity in his bearing. The sergeant nods to the two sol- 
 diers, and shews them the key of the room in his hand. They 
 withdraw.) Your good lady, sir. 
 
 Richard {going to her). What! My wife. My adored 
 one. {He takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish 
 
 50 
 
Act III The Devil's Diciple 51 
 
 gallantry) How long do you allow a brokenhearted husband 
 for leave-taking, Sergeant? 
 
 Sergeant. As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb 
 you till the court sits. 
 
 Richard. But it has struck the hour. 
 
 Sergeant. So it has, sir; but there's a delay. General 
 Burgoyne's just arrived — Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, 
 sir — and he won't have done finding fault with everything this 
 side of half past. I know him, sir: I served with him in Por- 
 tugal. You may count on twenty minutes, sir; and by your 
 leave I won't waste any more of them. {He goes out, locking 
 the door. Richard immediately drops his raffish manner and 
 turns to Judith ivith considerate sincerity) 
 
 Richard. Mrs. Anderson: this visit is very kind of you. 
 And how are you after last night ? I had to leave you before 
 you recovered; but I sent word to Essie to go and look after 
 you. Did she understand the message ? 
 
 Judith {breathless and urgent). Oh, don't think of me: I 
 haven't come here to talk about myself. Are they going to — 
 to — {meaning "to hang you") ? 
 
 Richard {whimsically). At noon, punctually. At least, 
 that was when they disposed of Uncle Peter. {She shudders.) 
 Is your husband safe ? Is he on the wing ? 
 
 Judith. He is no longer my husband. 
 
 Richard {opening his eyes wide). Eh! 
 
 Judith. I disobeyed you. I told him everything. I ex- 
 pected him to come here and save you. I wanted him to come 
 here and save you. He ran away instead. 
 
 Richard. Well, that's what I meant him to do. What 
 good would his staying have done ? They'd only have hanged 
 us both. 
 
 Judith {with reproachful earnestness). Richard Dudgeon: 
 on your honour, what would you have done in his place ? 
 
 Richard. Exactly what he has done, of course. 
 
 Judith. Oh, why will you not be simple with me — honest 
 and straightf orward ? If you are so selfish as that, why did 
 you let them take you last night? 
 
52 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 Richard (gaily). Upon my life, Mrs. Anderson, I don't 
 know. I've been asking myself that question ever since; and 
 I can find no manner of reason for acting as I did. 
 
 Judith. You know you did it for his sake, believing he 
 was a more worthy man than yourself. 
 
 Richard (laughing). Oho! No: that's a very pretty 
 reason, I must say; but I'm not so modest as that. No: it 
 wasn't for his sake. 
 
 Judith (after a "pause, during which she looks shamefacedly 
 at him, blushing 'painfully). Was it for my sake? 
 
 Richard (gallantly). Well, you had a hand in it. It must 
 have been a little for your sake. You let them take me, at all 
 events. 
 
 Judith. Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself 
 that all night ? Your death will be at my door. (Impulsively, 
 she gives him her hand, and adds, with intense earnestness) 
 If I could save you as you saved him, I would do it, no matter 
 how cruel the death was. 
 
 Richard (holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her 
 almost at arm's length). I am very sure I shouldn't let you. 
 
 Judith. Don't you see that I can save you? 
 
 Richard. How? By changing clothes with me, eh? 
 
 Judith (disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it). 
 Don't (meaning "Don't jest"). No: by telling the Court 
 who you really are. 
 
 Richard (frowning). No use: they wouldn't spare me; 
 and it would spoil half of his chance of escaping. They are 
 determined to cow us by making an example of somebody on 
 that gallows to-day. Well, let us cow them by showing that we 
 can stand by one another to the death. That is the only force 
 that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic and make 
 America a nation. 
 
 Judith (impatiently). Oh, what does all that matter? 
 
 Richard (laughing). True: what does it matter? what 
 does anything matter? You see, men have these strange 
 notions, Mrs. Anderson; and women see the folly of them. 
 
 Judith. Women have to lose those they love through them. 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 53 
 
 Richard. They can easily get fresh lovers. 
 
 Judith (revolted). Oh! (Vehemently) Do you realise 
 that you are going to kill yourself ? 
 
 Richard. The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs. 
 Anderson. Don't be concerned: no woman will lose her lover 
 through my death. (Smiling) Bless you, nobody cares for 
 me. Have you heard that my mother is dead ? 
 
 Judith. Dead! 
 
 Richard. Of heart disease — in the night. Her last word 
 to me was her curse: I don't think I could have borne her 
 blessing. My other relatives will not grieve much on my ac- 
 count. Essie will cry for a day or two; but I have provided 
 for her: I made my own will last night. 
 
 Judith (stonily, after a moment's silence). And I! 
 
 Richard (surprised). You? 
 
 Judith. Yes, I. Am I not to care at all ? 
 
 Richard (gaily and bluntly). Not a scrap. Oh, you ex- 
 pressed your feelings towards me very frankly yesterday. 
 What happened may have softened you for the moment; but 
 believe me, Mrs. Anderson, you don't like a bone in my skin 
 or a hair on my head. I shall be as good a riddance at 12 to- 
 day as I should have been at 12 yesterday. 
 
 Judith (her voice trembling). What can I do to shew you 
 that you are mistaken ? 
 
 Richard. Don't trouble. I'll give you credit for liking me 
 a little better than you did. All I say is that my death will not 
 break your heart. 
 
 Judith (almost in a whisper). How do you know? (She 
 puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him.) 
 
 Richard (amazed — divining the truth). Mrs. Anderson!!! 
 (The bell of the town clock strikes the quarter. He collects him- 
 self, and removes her hands, saying rather coldly) Excuse me: 
 they will be here for me presently. It is too late. 
 
 Judith. It is not too late. Call me as witness: they will 
 never kill you when they know how heroically you have acted. 
 
 Richard (with some scorn). Indeed! But if I don't go 
 through with it, where will the heroism be? I shall simply 
 
54 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 have tricked them; and they'll hang me for that like a dog. 
 Serve me right too! 
 
 Judith (ivildly). Oh, I believe you w a n t to die. 
 
 Richard (obstinately). No I don't: 
 
 Judith. Then why not try to save yourself? I implore 
 you — listen. You said just now that you saved him for my 
 sake — yes (clutching him as he recoils with a gesture of denial) 
 a little for my sake. Well, save yourself for my sake. And I 
 will go with you to the end of the world. 
 
 Richard (taking her by the wrists and holding her a little way 
 from him, looking steadily at her). Judith. 
 
 Judith (breathless — delighted at the name). Yes. 
 
 Richard. If I said — to please you — that I did what I did 
 ever so little for your sake, I lied as men always lie to women. 
 You know how much I have lived with worthless men — aye, 
 and worthless women too. Well, they could all rise to some 
 sort of goodness and kindness when they were in love. ( The word 
 love comes from him with true Puritan scorn.) That has taught 
 me to set very little store by the goodness that only comes out 
 red hot. What I did last night, I did in cold blood, caring not 
 half so much for your husband, or (ruthlessly) for you (she 
 droops, stricken) as I do for myself. I bad no motive and no 
 interest: all I can tell you is that when it came to the point 
 whether I would take my neck out of the noose and put an- 
 other man's into it, I could not do it. I don't know why not: 
 I see myself as a fool for my pains; but I could not and I can- 
 not. I have been brought up standing by the law of my own 
 nature; and I may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. 
 (She has slowly raised her head and is now looking full at him.) 
 I should have done the same for any other man in the town, or 
 any other man's wife. (Releasing her.) Do you understand 
 that? 
 
 Judith. Yes: you mean that you do not love me. 
 
 Richard (revolted — with fierce contempt). Is that all it 
 means to you? 
 
 Judith. What more — what worse — can it mean to me? 
 (The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her 
 
Act in The Devil's Disciple 55 
 
 heart.) Oh, one moment more. (She throws herself on her 
 knees.) I pray to you- 
 
 Richard. Hush! (Calling) Come in. (The sergeant un- 
 locks the door and opens it. The guard is with him.) 
 
 Sergeant (coming in). Time's up, sir. 
 
 Richard. Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. (He 
 attempts to raise her.) 
 
 Judith (clinging to him). Only one thing more — I entreat, 
 I implore you. Let me be present in the court. I have seen 
 Major Swindon: he said I should be allowed if you asked it. 
 You will ask it. It is my last request: I shall never ask you 
 anything again. (She clasps his knee.) I beg and pray it 
 of you. 
 
 Richard. If I do, will you be silent ? 
 
 Judith. Yes. 
 
 Richard. You will keep faith ? 
 
 Judith. I will keep — (She breaks down, sobbing.) 
 
 Richard (taking her arm to lift her). Just — her other 
 arm, Sergeant. 
 
 They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two 
 men. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court 
 martial. It is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the 
 middle under a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon cur- 
 tains with the royal monogram G. R. In front of the chair is 
 a table, also draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy inkstand, 
 and writing materials on it. Several chairs are set at the table. 
 The door is at the right hand of the occupant of the chair of 
 state when it has an occupant: at present it is empty. Major 
 Swindon, a pale, sandy haired, very conscientious looking man 
 of about 45, sits at the end of the table with his back to the door, 
 writing. He is alone until the sergeant announces the General 
 in a subdued manner which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny 
 has been making his presence felt rather heavily. 
 
 Sergeant. The General, sir. 
 
 Swindon rises hastily. The General comes in. the sergeant 
 goes out. General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. 
 
56 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 He is a man of fashion, gallant enough to have made a dis- 
 tinguished marriage by an elopement, witty enough to write 
 successful comedies, aristocratically -connected enough to have 
 had opportunities of high military distinction. His eyes, large, 
 brilliant, apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remark- 
 able feature: without them his fine nose and small mouth would 
 suggest rather more fastidiousness and less force than go to 
 the making of a first rate general. Just now the eyes are angry 
 and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense. 
 
 Burgoyne. Major Swindon, I presume. 
 
 Swindon. Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not. 
 {They bow to one another ceremoniously.) I am glad to have 
 the support of your presence this morning. It is not particu- 
 larly lively business, hanging this poor devil of a minister. 
 
 Burgoyne {throwing himself into Swindon's chair). No, 
 sir, it is not. It is making too much of the fellow to execute 
 him: what more could you have done if he had been a member 
 of the Church of England? Martyrdom, sir, is what these 
 people like: it is the only way in which a man can become 
 famous without ability. However, you have committed us to 
 hanging him : and the sooner he is hanged the better. 
 
 Swindon. We have arranged it for 12 o'clock. Nothing 
 remains to be done except to try him. 
 
 Burgoyne {looking at him with suppressed anger). Noth- 
 ing — except to save our own necks, perhaps. Have you heard 
 the news from Springtown? 
 
 Swindon. Nothing special. The latest reports are sat- 
 isfactory. 
 
 Burgoyne {rising in amazement). Satisfactory, sir! Sat- 
 isfactory ! ! {He stares at him for a moment, and then adds, with 
 grim intensity) I am glad you take that view of them. 
 
 Swindon {puzzled). Do I understand that in your opin- 
 ion 
 
 Burgoyne. I do not express my opinion. I never stoop 
 to that habit of profane language which unfortunately coarsens 
 our profession. If I did, sir, perhaps I should be able to ex- 
 press my opinion of the news from Springtown — the news 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 57 
 
 which you (severely) have apparently not heard. How 
 soon do you get news from your supports here ? — in the course 
 of a month, eh ? 
 
 Swindon (turning sulky). I suppose the reports have 
 been taken to you, sir, instead of to me. Is there anything 
 serious ? 
 
 Burgoyne (taking a report from his pocket and holding it 
 up). Springtown's in the hands of the rebels. (He throws the 
 report on the table.) 
 
 Swindon (aghast). Since yesterday! 
 
 Burgoyne. Since two o'clock this morning. Perhaps 
 w e shall be in their hands before two o'clock to-morrow morn- 
 ing. Have you thought of that? 
 
 Swindon (confidently). As to that, General, the British 
 soldier will give a good account of himself. 
 
 Burgoyne (bitterly). And therefore, I suppose, sir, the 
 British officer need not know his business : the British soldier 
 will get him out of all his blunders with the bayonet. In 
 future, sir, I must ask you to be a little less generous with the 
 blood of your men, and a little more generous with your own 
 brains. 
 
 Swindon. I am sorry I cannot pretend to your intellectual 
 eminence, sir. I can only do my best, and rely on the devotion 
 of my countrymen. 
 
 Burgoyne (suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic). May I 
 ask are you writing a melodrama, Major Swindon ? 
 
 Swindon (flushing). No, sir. 
 
 Burgoyne. What a pity! What a pity! (Dropping his 
 sarcastic tone and facing him suddenly and seriously) Do you 
 at all realize, sir, that we have nothing standing between us 
 and destruction but our own bluff and the sheepishness of 
 these colonists? They are men of the same English stock as 
 ourselves: six to one of us (repeating it emphatically), six to 
 one, sir; and nearly half our troops are Hessians, Brunswick- 
 ers, German dragoons, and Indians with scalping knives. 
 These are the countrymen on whose devotion you rely ! Sup- 
 pose the colonists find a leader! Suppose the news from 
 
58 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 Sprkigtown should turn out to mean that they have already 
 found a leader! What shall we do then? Eh? 
 
 Swtndon {sullenly). Our duty, sir, I presume. 
 
 Burgoyne {again sarcastic — giving him up as a fool). 
 Quite so, quite so. Thank you, Major Swindon, thank you. 
 Now you've settled the question, sir — thrown a flood of light 
 on the situation. What a comfort to me to feel that I have at 
 my side so devoted and able an officer to support me in this 
 emergency! I think, sir, it will probably relieve both our 
 feelings if we proceed to hang this dissenter without further 
 delay (he strikes the bell), especially as I am debarred by my 
 principles from the customary military vent for my feelings. 
 (The sergeant appears.) Bring your man in. 
 
 Sergeant. Yes, sir. 
 
 Burgoyne. And mention to any officer you may meet 
 that the court cannot wait any longer for him. 
 
 Swindon (keeping his temper with difficulty). The staff is 
 perfectly ready, sir. They have been waiting your conven- 
 ience for fully half an hour. Perfectly ready, sir. 
 
 Burgoyne (blandly). So am I. (Several officers come in 
 and take their seats. One of them sits at the end of the table 
 furthest from the door, and acts throughout as clerk to the court, 
 making notes of the proceedings. The uniforms are those of 
 the 9th, 20th, 21st, 2Uh, ¥tth, 53rd, and 62nd British Infantry. 
 One officer is a Major General of the Royal Artillery. There 
 are also German officers of the Hessian Rifles, and of German 
 dragoon and Brunswicker regiments.) Oh, good morning, 
 gentlemen. Sorry to disturb you, I am sure. Very good of 
 you to spare us a few moments. 
 
 Swindon. Will you preside, sir? 
 
 Burgoyne (becoming additionally polished, lofty, sarcastic 
 and urbane now that he is in public). No, sir: I feel my own 
 deficiencies too keenly to presume so far. If you will kindly 
 allow me, I will sit at the feet of Gamaliel. (He takes the 
 chair at the end of the table next the door, and motions Swindon 
 to the chair of state, waiting for him to be seated before sitting 
 down himself.) 
 
Act III The Devils Disciple 59 
 
 Swindon {greatly annoyed). As you please, sir. I am only 
 trying to do my duty under excessively trying circumstances. 
 (He takes his place in the chair of state.) 
 
 Burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment, 
 sits down and begins to read the report with knitted brows and 
 careworn looks, reflecting on his desperate situation and Swin- 
 don s uselessness. Richard is brought in. Judith walks be- 
 side him. Two soldiers precede and two follow him, with the 
 sergeant in command. They cross the room to the wall opposite 
 the door; but when Richard has just passed before the chair of 
 state the sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and posts 
 himself behind him, at his elbow. Judith stands timidly at 
 the wall. The four soldiers place themselves in a squad near 
 her. 
 
 Burgoyne (looking up and seeing Judith). Who is that 
 woman ? 
 
 Sergeant. Prisoner's wife, sir. 
 
 Swindon (nervously). She begged me to allow her to be 
 present; and I thought 
 
 Burgoyne (completing the sentence for him ironically) . You 
 thought it would be a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite so. 
 (Blandly) Give the lady a chair; and make her thoroughly 
 comfortable. 
 
 The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard. 
 
 Judith. Thank you, sir. (She sits down after an awe- 
 stricken curtsy to Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a digni- 
 fied bend of his head?) 
 
 Swindon (to Richard, sharply). Your name, sir? 
 
 Richard (affable, but obstinate). Come: you don't mean 
 to say that you've brought me here without knowing who 
 I am? 
 
 Swindon. As a matter of form, sir, give your name. 
 
 Richard. As a matter of form then, my name is Anthony 
 Anderson, Presbyterian minister in this town. 
 
 Burgoyne (interested). Indeed! Pray, Mr. Anderson, 
 what do you gentlemen believe ? 
 
 Richard. I shall be happy to explain if time is allowed me. 
 
60 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 I cannot undertake to complete your conversion in less than 
 a fortnight. 
 
 Swindon (snubbing him). We are not here to discuss your 
 views. 
 
 Burgoyne (with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate Swin- 
 don). I stand rebuked. 
 
 Swindon (embarrassed). Oh, not you, I as 
 
 Burgoyne. Don't mention it. (To Richard, very politely) 
 Any political views, Mr. Anderson ? 
 
 Richard. I understand that that is just what we are here to 
 find out. 
 
 Swindon (severely). Do you mean to deny that you are a 
 rebel ? 
 
 Richard. I am an American, sir. 
 
 Swindon. What do you expect me to think of that speech, 
 Mr. Anderson? 
 
 Richard. I never expect a soldier to think, sir. 
 
 Burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort, which almost 
 reconciles him to the loss of America. 
 
 Swindon (whitening with anger). I advise you not to be 
 insolent, prisoner. 
 
 Richard. You can't help yourself, General. When you 
 make up your mind to hang a man, you put yourself at a dis- 
 advantage with him. Why should I be civil to you ? I may 
 as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. 
 
 Swindon. You have no right to assume that the court has 
 made up its mind without a fair trial. And you will please 
 not address me as General. I am Major Swindon. 
 
 Richard. A thousand pardons. I thought I had the 
 honor of addressing Gentlemanly Johnny. 
 
 Sensation among the officers. The s&rgeant has a narrow 
 escape from a guffaw. 
 
 Burgoyne (with extreme suavity). I believe I am Gentle- 
 manly Johnny, sir, at your service. My more intimate 
 friends call me General Burgoyne. (Richard bows with per- 
 fect politeness.) You will understand, sir, I hope, since you 
 seem to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit in spite of 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 61 
 
 your calling, that if we should have the misfortune to hang you, 
 we shall do so as a mere matter of political necessity and 
 military duty, without any personal ill-feeling. 
 
 Richard. Oh, quite so. That makes all the difference in 
 the world, of course. 
 
 They all smile in spite of themselves; and some of the younger 
 officers burst out laughing. 
 
 Judith (her dread and horror deepening at every one of these 
 jests and compliments). How can you? 
 
 Richard. You promised to be silent. 
 
 Burgoyne (to Judith, with studied courtesy). Believe me, 
 madam, your husband is placing us under the greatest obliga- 
 tion by taking this very disagreeable business so thoroughly 
 in the spirit of a gentleman. Sergeant: give Mr. Anderson a 
 chair. (The sergeant does so. Richard sits down.) Now, 
 Major Swindon: we are waiting for you. 
 
 Swindon. You are aware, I presume, Mr. Anderson, of 
 your obligations as a subject of His Majesty King George the 
 Third. 
 
 Richard. I am aware, sir, that His Majesty King George 
 the Third is about to hang me because I object to Lord North's 
 robbing me. 
 
 Swindon. That is a treasonable speech, sir. 
 
 Richard (briefly). Yes. I meant it to be. 
 
 Burgoyne (strongly deprecating this line of defence, but 
 still polite). Don't you think, Mr. Anderson, that this is 
 rather — if you will excuse the word — a vulgar line to take? 
 Why should you cry out robbery because of a stamp duty and 
 a tea duty and so forth ? After all, it is the essence of your 
 position as a gentleman that you pay with a good grace. 
 
 Richard. It is not the money, General. But to be swin- 
 dled by a pig-headed lunatic like King George 
 
 Swindon (scandalised). Chut, sir — silence! 
 
 Sergeant (in stentorian tones, greatly shocked). Silence! 
 
 Burgoyne (unruffled). Ah, that is another point of view. 
 My position does not allow of my going into that, except in 
 private. But (shrugging his shoulders) of course, Mr. Ander- 
 
62 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 son, if you are determined to be hanged {Judith flinches), 
 there's nothing more to be said. An unusual taste! however 
 (with a final shrug) ! 
 
 Swindon (to Burgoyne). Shall we call witnesses? 
 
 Richard. What need is there of witnesses ? If the towns- 
 people here had listened to me, you would have found the 
 streets barricaded, the houses loopholed, and the people in 
 arms to hold the town against you to the last man. But you 
 arrived, unfortunately, before we had got out of the talking 
 stage; and then it was too late. 
 
 Swindon (severely). Well, sir, we shall teach you and your 
 townspeople a lesson they will not forget. Have you anything 
 more to say? 
 
 Richard. I think you might have the decency to treat 
 me as a prisoner of war, and shoot me like a man instead of 
 hanging me like a dog. 
 
 Burgoyne (sympathetically). Now there, Mr. Anderson, 
 you talk like a civilian, if you will excuse my saying so. Have 
 you any idea of the average marksmanship of the army of 
 His Majesty King George the Third? If we make you 
 up a firing party, what will happen? Half of them will 
 miss you: the rest will make a mess of the business and 
 leave you to the provo-marshal's pistol. Whereas we can 
 hang you in a perfectly workmanlike and agreeable way. 
 (Kindly) Let me persuade you to be hanged, Mr. Anderson ? 
 
 Judith (sick with horror). My God! 
 
 Richard (to Judith). Your promise! (To Burgoyne) 
 Thank you, General: that view of the case did not occur to 
 me before. To oblige you, I withdraw my objection to the 
 rope. Hang me, by all means. 
 
 Burgoyne (smoothly). Will 12 o'clock suit you, Mr. 
 Anderson ? 
 
 Richard. I shall be at your disposal then, General. 
 
 Burgoyne (rising). Nothing more to be said, gentlemen. 
 (They all rise.) 
 
 Judith (rushing to the table). Oh, you are not going to 
 murder a man like that, without a proper trial — without 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 63 
 
 thinking of what you are doing — without — (She cannot find 
 words.) 
 
 Richard. Is this how you keep your promise? 
 
 Judith. If I am not to speak, you must. Defend your- 
 self: save yourself: tell them the truth. 
 
 Richard (worriedly). I have told them truth enough to 
 hang me ten times over. If you say another word you will 
 risk other lives; but you will not save mine. 
 
 Burgoyne. My good lady, our only desire is to save un- 
 pleasantness. What satisfaction would it give you to have 
 a solemn fuss made, with my friend Swindon in a black cap 
 and so forth? I am sure we are greatly indebted to the 
 admirable tact and gentlemanly feeling shewn by your hus- 
 band. 
 
 Judith (throwing the words in his face). Oh, you are 
 mad. Is it nothing to you what wicked thing you do if only 
 you do it like a gentleman? Is it nothing to you whether 
 you are a murderer or not, if only you murder in a red coat? 
 (Desperately) You shall not hang him: that man is not my 
 husband. 
 
 The officers look at one another, and whisper: some of the 
 Germans asking their neighbors to explain what the woman 
 has said. Burgoyne, who has been visibly shaken by Judith's 
 reproach, recovers himself promptly at this new development. 
 Richard meanwhile raises his voice above the buzz. 
 
 Richard. I appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to 
 this. She will not believe that she cannot save me. Break 
 up the court. 
 
 Burgoyne (in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores 
 silence at once). One moment, Mr. Anderson. One moment, 
 gentlemen. (He resumes his seat. Sivindon and the officers 
 follow his example.) Let me understand you clearly, madam. 
 Do you mean that this gentleman is not your husband, or 
 merely — I wish to put this with all delicacy — that you are not 
 his wife ? 
 
 Judith. I don't know what you mean. I say that he is 
 not my husband — that my husband has escaped. This man 
 
64 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 took his place to save him. Ask anyone in the town — send 
 out into the street for the first person you find there, and 
 bring him in as a witness. He will tell you that the prisoner 
 is not Anthony Anderson. 
 
 Burgoyne {quietly, as before). Sergeant. 
 
 Sergeant. Yes sir. 
 
 Burgoyne. Go out into the street and bring in the first 
 townsman you see there. 
 
 Sergeant {making for the door). Yes sir. 
 
 Burgoyne {as the sergeant passes). The first clean, sober 
 townsman you see. 
 
 Sergeant. Yes sir. {He goes out.) 
 
 Burgoyne. Sit down, Mr. Anderson — if I may call you 
 so for the present. {Richard sits down.) Sit down, madam, 
 whilst we wait. Give the lady a newspaper. 
 
 Richard {indignantly). Shame! 
 
 Burgoyne {keenly, ivith a half smile). If you are not her 
 husband, sir, the case is not a serious one — for her. {Richard 
 bites his lip, silenced.) 
 
 Judith {to Richard, as she returns to her seat). I couldn't 
 help it. {He shakes his head. She sits down.) 
 
 Burgoyne. You will understand of course, Mr. Ander- 
 son, that you must not build on this little incident. We are 
 bound to make an example of somebody. 
 
 Richard. I quite understand. I suppose there's no use 
 in my explaining. 
 
 Burgoyne. I think we should prefer independent testi- 
 mony, if you don't mind. 
 
 The sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand, returns 
 conducting Christy, who is much scared. 
 
 Sergeant {giving Burgoyne the packet). Dispatches, sir. 
 Delivered by a corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard 
 riding, sir. 
 
 Burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes 
 absorbed in them. They are so serious as to take his attention 
 completely from the court martial. 
 
 Sergeant {to Christy). Now then. Attention; and take 
 
Act III The Devils Disciple 65 
 
 your hat off. (He posts himself in charge of Christy, who 
 stands on Burgoyne's side of the court.) 
 
 Richard (in his usual bullying tone to Christy). Don't be 
 frightened, you fool : you're only wanted as a witness. They're 
 not going to hang you. 
 
 Swindon. What's your name ? 
 
 Christy. Christy. 
 
 Richard (impatiently) . Christopher Dudgeon, you blatant 
 idiot. Give your full name. 
 
 Swindon. Be silent, prisoner. You must not prompt 
 the witness. 
 
 Richard. Very well. But I warn you you'll get nothing 
 out of him unless you shake it out of him. He has been too 
 well brought up by a pious mother to have any sense or man- 
 hood left in him. 
 
 Burgoyne (springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a 
 startling voice). Where is the man who brought these? 
 
 Sergeant. In the guard-room, sir. 
 
 Burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers ex- 
 changing looks. 
 
 Swindon (to Christy). Do you know Anthony Anderson, 
 the Presbyterian minister? 
 
 Christy. Of course I do. (Implying that Swindon must be 
 an ass not to know it.) 
 
 Swindon. Is he here ? 
 
 Christy (staring round). I don't know. 
 
 Swindon. Do you see him ? 
 
 Christy. No. 
 
 Swindon. You seem to know the prisoner? 
 
 Christy. Do you mean Dick ? 
 
 Swindon. Which is Dick ? 
 
 Christy (pointing to Richard). Him. 
 
 Swindon. What is his name ? 
 
 Christy. Dick. 
 
 Richard. Answer properly, you jumping jackass. What 
 do they know about Dick ? 
 
 Christy. Well, you are Dick, ain't you ? What am I to say ? 
 
66 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 Swindon. Address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be 
 silent. Tell us who the prisoner is. 
 
 Christy. He's my brother Dick — Richard — Richard 
 Dudgeon. 
 
 Swindon. Your brother! 
 
 Christy. Yes. 
 
 Swindon. You are sure he is not Anderson. 
 
 Christy. Who ? 
 
 Richard (exasperatedly) . Me, me, me, you 
 
 Swindon. Silence, sir. 
 
 Sergeant (shouting). Silence. 
 
 Richard (impatiently). Yah! (To Christy) He wants 
 to know am I Minister Anderson. Tell him, and stop grin- 
 ning like a zany. 
 
 Christy (grinning more than ever) . You Pastor Anderson ! 
 (To Swindon) Why, Mr. Anderson's a minister — a very 
 good man; and Dick's a bad character: the respectable 
 people won't speak to him. He's the bad brother: I'm the 
 good one. (The officers laugh outright. The soldiers grin.) 
 
 Swindon. Who arrested this man? 
 
 Sergeant. I did, sir. I found him in the minister's 
 house, sitting at tea with the lady with his coat off, quite at 
 home. If he isn't married to her, he ought to be. 
 
 Swindon. Did he answer to the minister's name? 
 
 Sergeant. Yes sir, but not to a minister's nature. You 
 ask the chaplain, sir. 
 
 Swindon (to Richard, threateningly). So, sir, you have 
 attempted to cheat us. And your name is Richard Dudgeon? 
 
 Richard. You've found it out at last, have you ? 
 
 Swindon. Dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh ? 
 
 Richard. Yes: Peter Dudgeon, whom you murdered, 
 was my uncle. 
 
 Swindon. Hm! (He compresses his lips, and looks at 
 Richard with vindictive gravity.) 
 
 Christy. Are they going to hang you, Dick ? 
 
 Richard. Yes. Get out: they've done with you. 
 
 Christy. And I may keep the china peacocks ? 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 67 
 
 Richard (jumping up). Get out. Get out, you blither- 
 ing baboon, you. (Christy flies, panicstricken.) 
 
 Swindon (rising — all rise). Since you have taken the 
 minister's place, Richard Dudgeon, you shall go through 
 with it. The execution will take place at 12 o'clock as 
 arranged; and unless Anderson surrenders before then you 
 shall take his place on the gallows. Sergeant: take your man 
 out. 
 
 Judith (distracted). No, no 
 
 Swindon (fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties). 
 Take that woman away. 
 
 Richard (springing across the table with a tiger-like bound, 
 and seizing Swindon by the throat). You infernal scoun- 
 drel 
 
 The sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the soldiers 
 from the other. They seize Richard and drag him back to his 
 place. Swindon, who has been thrown supine on the table, 
 rises, arranging his stock. He is about to speak, when he is 
 anticipated by Burgoyne, who has just appeared at the door 
 with two papers in his hand: a white letter and a blue dispatch. 
 
 Burgoyne (advancing to the table, elaborately cool). What 
 is this? What's happening? Mr. Anderson: I'm astonished 
 at you. 
 
 Richard. I am sorry I disturbed you, General. I merely 
 wanted to strangle your understrapper there. (Breaking out 
 violently at Swindon) Why do you raise the devil in me by 
 bullying the woman like that? You oatmeal faced dog, I'd 
 twist your cursed head off with the greatest satisfaction. (He 
 puts out his hands to the sergeant) Here: handcuff me, will 
 you; or I'll not undertake to keep my fingers off him. 
 
 The sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to 
 Burgoyne for instructions. 
 
 Burgoyne. Have you addressed profane language to the 
 lady, Major Swindon? 
 
 Swindon (very angry). No, sir, certainly not. That 
 question should not have been put to me. I ordered the 
 woman to be removed, as she was disorderly; and the fellow 
 
68 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 sprang at me. Put away those handcuffs. I am perfectly 
 able to take care of myself. 
 
 Richard. Now you talk like a man, I have no quarrel 
 with you. 
 
 Burgoyne. Mr. Anderson 
 
 Swindon. His name is Dudgeon, sir, Richard Dudgeon. 
 He is an impostor. 
 
 Burgoyne {brusquely). Nonsense, sir; you hanged Dud- 
 geon at Springtown. 
 
 Richard. It was my uncle, General. 
 
 Burgoyne. Oh, your uncle. {To Swindon, handsomely) 
 I beg your pardon, Major Swindon. {Swindon acknowledges 
 the apology stiffly. Burgoyne turns to Richard) We are 
 somewhat unfortunate in our relations with your family. 
 Well, Mr. Dudgeon, what I wanted to ask you is this: Who 
 is {reading the name from the letter) William Maindeck Par- 
 shotter ? 
 
 Richard. He is the Mayor of Springtown. 
 
 Burgoyne. Is William — Maindeck and so on — a man 
 of his word? 
 
 Richard. Is he selling you anything? 
 
 Burgoyne. No. 
 
 Richard. Then you may depend on him. 
 
 Burgoyne. Thank you, Mr. — 'm Dudgeon. By the 
 way, since you are not Mr. Anderson, do we still — eh, Major 
 Swindon? {meaning ^ do we still hang him?") 
 
 Richard. The arrangements are unaltered, General. 
 
 Burgoyne. Ah, indeed. I am sorry. Good morning, 
 Mr. Dudgeon. Good morning, madam. 
 
 Richard {interrupting Judith almost fiercely as she is 
 about to make some wild appeal, and taking her arm resolutely) . 
 Not one word more. Come. 
 
 She looks imploringly at him, but is overborne by his deter- 
 mination. They are marched out by the four soldiers: the 
 sergeant, very sulky, walking between Swindon and Richard, 
 whom he watches as if he were a dangerous animal. 
 
 Burgoyne. Gentlemen: we need not detain you. Major 
 
 :■ 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 69 
 
 Swindon: a word with you. (The officers go out. Burgoyne 
 waits with unruffled serenity until the last of them disappears. 
 Then he becomes very grave, and addresses Swindon for the 
 first time without his title.) Swindon: do you know what 
 this is (shewing him the letter) ? 
 
 Swindon. What? 
 
 Burgoyne. A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of 
 their militia to come here and arrange terms with us. 
 
 Swindon. Oh, they are giving in. 
 
 Burgoyne. They add that they are sending the man who 
 raised Springtown last night and drove us out; so that we 
 may know that we are dealing with an officer of import- 
 ance. 
 
 Swindon. Pooh! 
 
 Burgoyne. He will be fully empowered to arrange the 
 terms of — guess what. 
 
 Swindon. Their surrender, I hope. 
 
 Burgoyne. No: our evacuation of the town. They offer 
 us just six hours to clear out. 
 
 Swindon. What monstrous impudence! 
 
 Burgoyne. What shall we do, eh ? 
 
 vSwindon. March on Springtown and strike a decisive 
 blow at once. 
 
 Burgoyne (quietly). Hm! (Turning to the door) Come 
 to the adjutant's office. 
 
 Swindon. What for? 
 
 Burgoyne. To write out that safe-conduct. (He puts 
 his hand to the door knob to open it.) 
 
 Swindon (who has not budged). General Burgoyne. 
 
 Burgoyne (returning). Sir? 
 
 Swindon. It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not 
 consider the threats of a mob of rebellious tradesmen a suffi- 
 cient reason for our giving way. 
 
 Burgoyne (imperturbable). Suppose I resign my com- 
 mand to you, what will you do ? 
 
 Swindon. I will undertake to do what we have marched 
 south from Boston to do, and what General Howe has marched 
 
70 The Devil's Disciple Act I 
 
 north from New York to do: effect a junction at Albany ai 
 wipe out the rebel army with our united forces. 
 
 Burgoyne {enigmatically). And will you wipe out our er 
 mies in London, too ? 
 
 Swindon. In London! What enemies? 
 
 Burgoyne {forcibly). Jobbery and snobbery, incomj I 
 tence and Red Tape. {He holds up the dispatch and ad 
 with despair in his face and voice) I have just learnt, sir, tl 
 General Howe is still in New York. 
 
 Swindon {thunderstruck). Good God! He has disobeyed 
 orders ! 
 
 Burgoyne {with sardonic calm). He has received no or- 
 ders, sir. Some gentleman in London forgot to dispatch 
 them: he was leaving town for his holiday, I believe. To 
 avoid upsetting his arrangements, England will lose her Amer- 
 ican colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at Saratoga 
 with 5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable posi- 
 tion. 
 
 Swindon {appalled). Impossible! 
 
 Burgoyne {coldly). I beg your pardon! 
 
 Swindon. I can't believe it! What will History say ? 
 
 Burgoyne. History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: 
 we must send the safe-conduct. {He goes out.) 
 
 Swindon {following distractedly) . My God, my God! We 
 shall be wiped out. 
 
 As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. 
 The gallows which hangs there permanently for the terror of 
 evildoers, with such minor advertizers and examples of crime as 
 the pillory, the whipping post, and the stocks, has a new rope 
 attached, with the noose hitched up to one of the uprights, out of 
 reach of the boys. Its ladder, too, has been brought out and 
 placed in position by the town beadle, who stands by to guard it 
 from unauthorized climbing. The Websterbridge townsfolk 
 are present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has spread 
 that it is the devil's disciple and not the minister that the Conti- 
 nentals {so they call Burgoyne s forces) are about to hang: con- 
 sequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as 
 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 71 
 
 to its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take 
 'place without a struggle. There is even some fear of a disap- 
 pointment as midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle 
 with the ladder remains the only sign of preparation. But at 
 last reassuring shouts of Here they come: Here they are, are 
 heard; and a company of soldiers with fixed bayonets, half Brit- 
 ish infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly into the middle of the 
 market place, driving the crowd to the sides. 
 
 Sergeant. Halt. Front. Dress. (The soldiers change 
 their column into a square enclosing the gallotvs, their petty 
 officers, energetically led by the sergeant, hustling the per- 
 sons who find themselves inside the square out at the corners.) 
 Now then! Out of it with you: out of it. Some o' you'll 
 get strung up yourselves presently. Form that square there, 
 will you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin' German to 
 them: talk to their toes with the butt ends of your muskets: 
 they'll understand that. Get out of it, will you ? (He comes 
 upon Judith, standing near the gallows.) Now then : y o u ' v e 
 no call here. 
 
 Judith. May I not stay ? What harm am I doing ? 
 
 Sergeant. I want none of your argufying. You ought to 
 be ashamed of yourself, running to see a man hanged that's 
 not your husband. And he's no better than yourself. I told 
 my major he was a gentleman; and then he goes and tries to 
 strangle him, and calls his blessed Majesty a lunatic. So out 
 of it with you, double quick. 
 
 Judith. Will you take these two silver dollars and let me 
 stay? 
 
 The sergeant, without an instant's hesitation, looks quickly 
 and furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his 
 pocket. Then he raises his voice in virtuous indignation. 
 
 Sergeant. M e take money in the execution of my 
 duty! Certainly not. Now I'll tell you what I'll do, to teach 
 you to corrupt the King's officer. I'll put you under arrest 
 until the execution's over. You just stand there; and don't 
 let me see you as much as move from that spot until you're let. 
 (With a swift wink at her he points to the corner of the' square 
 
72 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 behind the gallows on his right, and turns noisily away, shout- 
 ing) Now then dress up and keep 'em back, will you ? 
 
 Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the townsfolk; 
 and the sound of a military band, playing the Dead March from 
 Saul, is heard. The crowd becomes quiet at once; and the ser- 
 geant and petty officers, hurrying to the back of the square, with 
 a few whispered orders and some stealthy hustling cause it to 
 open and admit the funeral procession, which is protected from 
 the crowd by a double file of soldiers. First come Burgoyne and 
 Swindon, who, on entering the square, glance with distaste at 
 the gallows, and avoid passing under it by wheeling a little to 
 the right and stationing themselves on that side. Then Mr. 
 Brudenell, the chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book 
 open in his hand, walking beside Richard, wlw is moody and 
 disorderly. He walks doggedly through the gallows frame- 
 work, and posts himself a little in front of it. Behind him comes 
 the executioner, a stalwart soldier in his shirtsleeves. Follow- 
 ing him, two soldiers haul a light military waggon. Finally 
 comes the band, which posts itself at the back of the square, and 
 finishes the Dead March. Judith, watching Richard painfully, 
 steals down to the gallows, and stands leaning against its right 
 post. During the conversation which follows, the two soldiers 
 place the cart under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which 
 point backwards. The executioner takes a set of steps from the 
 cart and places it ready for the prisoner to mount. Then he 
 climbs the tall ladder which stands against the gallows, and cuts 
 the string by which the rope is hitched up; so that the noose 
 drops dangling over the cart, into which he steps as he descends. 
 
 Richard {with suppressed impatience, to Brudenell). Look 
 here, sir : this is no place for a man of your profession. Hadn't 
 you better go away ? 
 
 Swindon. I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense 
 of decency left, to listen to the ministrations of the chaplain, 
 and pay due heed to the solemnity of the occasion. 
 
 The Chaplain {gently reproving Richard). Try to control 
 yourself, and submit to the divine will. {He lifts his book to 
 proceed with the service.) 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 73 
 
 Richard. Answer for your own will, sir, and those of your 
 accomplices here (indicating Burgoyne and Swindon) : I see 
 little divinity about them or you. You talk to me of Chris- 
 tianity when you are in the act of hanging your enemies. Was 
 there ever such blasphemous nonsense! (To Swindon, more 
 rudely) You've got up the solemnity of the occasion, as you 
 call it, to impress the people with your own dignity — Handel's 
 music and a clergyman to make murder look like piety! Do 
 you suppose I am going to help you? You've asked me to 
 choose the rope because you don't know your own trade well 
 enough to shoot me properly. Well, hang away and have 
 done with it. 
 
 Swindon (to the chaplain). Can you do nothing with him, 
 Mr. Brudenell ? 
 
 Chaplain. I will try, sir. (Beginning to read) Man 
 that is born of woman hath 
 
 Richard (fixing his eyes on him). "Thou shalt not kill." 
 
 The book drops in BrudenelVs hands. 
 
 Chaplain (confessing his embarrassment). What am I to 
 say, Mr. Dudgeon? 
 
 Richard. Let me alone, man, can't you ? 
 
 Burgoyne (with extreme urbanity). I think, Mr. Brude- 
 nell, that as the usual professional observations seem to strike 
 Mr. Dudgeon as incongruous under the circumstances, you 
 had better omit them until — er — until Mr. Dudgeon can no 
 longer be inconvenienced by them. (Brudenell, with a shrug, 
 shuts his book and retires behind the gallows.) You seem in 
 a hurry, Mr. Dudgeon. 
 
 Richard (with the horror of death upon him). Do you 
 think this is a pleasant sort of thing to be kept waiting for? 
 You've made up your mind to commit murder : well, do it and 
 have done with it. 
 
 Burgoyne. Mr. Dudgeon: we are only doing this 
 
 Richard. Because you're paid to do it. 
 
 Swindon. You insolent — (He swallows his rage.) 
 
 Burgoyne (with much charm of manner). Ah, I am really 
 sorry that you should think that, Mr. Dudgeon. If you knew 
 
74 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 what my commission cost me, and what my pay is, you would 
 think better of me. I should be glad to part from you on 
 friendly terms. 
 
 Richard. Hark ye, General Burgoyne. If you think that 
 I like being hanged, you're mistaken. I don't like it; and I 
 don't mean to pretend that I do. And if you think I'm obliged 
 to you for hanging me in a gentlemanly way, you're wrong 
 there too. I take the whole business in devilish bad part; and 
 the only satisfaction I have in it is that you'll feel a good deal 
 meaner than I'lr* look when it's over. (He turns away, and is 
 striding to the cart when Judith advances and interposes with 
 her arms stretched out to him. Richard, feeling that a very 
 little will upset his self-possession, shrinks from her, crying) 
 What are you doing here? This is no place for you. (She 
 makes a gesture as if to touch him. He recoils impatiently.) 
 No: go away, go away; you'll unnerve me. Take her away, 
 will you ? 
 
 Judith. Won't you bid me good-bye ? 
 
 Richard (allowing her to take his hand). Oh good-bye, 
 good-bye. Now go — go — quickly. (She clings to his hand — 
 will not be put off with so cold a last farewell — at last, as he tries 
 to disengage himself, throws herself on his breast in agony.) 
 
 Swindon (angrily to the sergeant, who, alarmed at Judith's 
 movement, has come from the back of the square to pull her back, 
 and stopped irresolutely on finding that he is too late). How is 
 this ? Why is she inside the lines ? 
 
 Sergeant (guiltily). I dunno, sir. She's that artful — 
 can't keep her away. 
 
 Burgoyne. You were bribed. 
 
 Sergeant (protesting). No, sir 
 
 Swindon (severely). Fall back. (He obeys.) 
 
 Richard (imploringly to those around him, and finally to 
 Burgoyne, as the least stolid of them). Take her away. Do 
 you think I want a woman near me now ? 
 
 Burgoyne (going to Judith and taking her hand). Here, 
 madam: you had better keep inside the lines; but stand here 
 behind us; and don't look. 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 75 
 
 Richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases him 
 and turns to Burgoyne, flies for refuge to the cart and mounts into 
 it. The executioner takes off his coat and pinions him. 
 
 Judith (resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand 
 away). No: I must stay. I won't look. (She goes to the 
 right of the gallows. She tries to look at Richard, but turns away 
 with a frightful shudder, and falls on her knees in prayer. Bru- 
 denell comes towards her from the back of the square.) 
 
 Burgoyne (nodding approvingly as she kneels). Ah, quite 
 so. Do not disturb her, Mr. Brudenell: that will do very 
 nicely. (Brudenell nods also, and withdraws a little, watching 
 her sympathetically. Burgoyne resumes his former position, 
 and takes out a handsome gold chronometer.) Now then, are 
 those preparations made? We must not detain Mr. Dud- 
 geon. 
 
 By this time Richard's hands are bound behind him; and 
 the noose is round his neck. The two soldiers take the shaft of 
 the waggon, ready to pull it away. The executioner, standing in 
 the cart behind Richard, makes a sign to the sergeant. 
 
 Sergeant (to Burgoyne). Ready, sir. 
 
 Burgoyne. Have you anything more to say, Mr. Dud- 
 geon ? It wants two minutes of twelve still. 
 
 Richard (in the strong voice of a man who has conquered 
 the bitterness of death). Your watch is two minutes slow by 
 the town clock, which I can see from here, General. (The 
 town clock strikes the first stroke of twelve. Involuntarily the 
 people flinch at the sound, and a subdued groan breaks from 
 them.) Amen! my life for the world's future! 
 
 Anderson (shouting as he rushes into the market place). 
 Amen; and stop the execution. (He bursts through the line of 
 soldiers opposite Burgoyne, and rushes, panting, to the gallows.) 
 I am Anthony Anderson, the man you want. 
 
 The crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears. Judith, 
 half rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like one whose 
 dearest prayer has been granted. 
 
 Swindon. Indeed. Then you are just in time to take 
 your place on the gallows. Arrest him. 
 
76 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize 
 Anderson. 
 
 Anderson (thrusting a paper under Swindon 9 s nose). 
 There's my safe-conduct, sir. 
 
 Swindon (taken aback). Safe-conduct! Are you ! 
 
 Anderson (emphatically). I am. (The two soldiers take 
 him by the elbows.) Tell these men to take their hands 
 off me. 
 
 Swindon (to the men). Let him go. 
 
 Sergeant. Fall back. 
 
 The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise a 
 cheer; and begin to exchange exultant looks, with a presentiment 
 of triumph as they see their Pastor speaking with their enemies 
 in the gate. 
 
 Anderson (exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing 
 his perspiring brow with his handkerchief). Thank God, I 
 was in time! 
 
 Burgoyne (calm as ever, and still watch in hand). Ample 
 time, sir. Plenty of time. I should never dream of hanging 
 any gentleman by an American clock. (He puts up his ivatch.) 
 
 Anderson. Yes: we are some minutes ahead of you al- 
 ready, General. Now tell them to take the rope from the neck 
 of that American citizen. 
 
 Burgoyne (to the executioner in the cart — very politely). 
 Kindly undo Mr. Dudgeon. 
 
 The executioner takes the rope from Richard's neck, unties 
 his hands, and helps him on with his coat. 
 
 Judith (stealing timidly to Anderson). Tony. 
 
 Anderson (putting his arm round her shoulders and banter- 
 ing her affectionately). Well, what do you think of your hus- 
 band, n o w , eh ? — eh ? ? — eh ? ? ? 
 
 Judith. I am ashamed— (She hides her face against his 
 breast.) 
 
 Burgoyne (to Swindon). You look disappointed, Major 
 Swindon. 
 
 Swindon. You look defeated, General Burgoyne. 
 
 Burgoyne. I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be glad 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 77 
 
 of it. (Richard jumps down from the car, Brudenell offering 
 his hand to help him, and runs to Anderson, whose left hand he 
 shakes heartily, the right being occupied by Judith.) By the 
 way, Mr. Anderson, I do not quite understand. The safe- 
 conduct was for a commander of the militia. I understand 
 you are a — (he looks as pointedly as his good manners permit 
 at the riding boots, the pistols, and Richard's coat, and adds) 
 a clergyman. 
 
 Anderson (between Judith and Richard). Sir: it is in the 
 hour of trial that a man finds his true profession. This fool- 
 ish young man (placing his hand on Richard's shoulder) boast- 
 ed himself the Devil's Disciple; but when the hour of trial 
 came to him, he found that it was his destiny to suffer and be 
 faithful to the death. I thought myself a decent minister of 
 the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial came to me, I 
 found that it was my destiny to be a man of action and that my 
 place was amid the thunder of the captains and the shouting. 
 So I am starting life at fifty as Captain Anthony Anderson of 
 the Springtown militia; and the Devil's Disciple here will start 
 presently as the Reverend Richard Dudgeon, and wag his pow 
 in my old pulpit, and give good advice to this silly sentimental 
 little wife of mine (putting his other hand on her shoulder. She 
 steals a glance at Richard to see how the prospect pleases him). 
 Your mother told me, Richard, that I should never have chosen 
 Judith if I'd been born for the ministry. I am afraid she was 
 right; so, by your leave, you may keep my coat and I'll keep 
 yours. 
 
 Richard. Minister — I should say Captain. I have be- 
 haved like a fool. 
 
 Judith. Like a hero. 
 
 Richard. Much the same thing, perhaps. (With some 
 bitterness towards himself) But no: if I had been any good, 
 I should have done for you what you did for me, instead of 
 making a vain sacrifice. 
 
 Anderson. Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make 
 a world — saints as well as soldiers. (Turning to Burgoyne) 
 And now, General, time presses; and America is in a hurry. 
 
78 The Devil's Disciple Act III 
 
 Have you realized that though you may occupy towns and win 
 battles, you cannot conquer a nation? 
 
 Burgoyne. My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot 
 have an aristocracy. Come and settle the matter at my 
 quarters. 
 
 Anderson. At your service, sir. (To Richard) See 
 Judith home for me, will you, my boy ? (He hands her over 
 to him.) Now General. (He goes busily up the market place 
 towards the Town Hall, leaving Judith and Richard together. 
 Burgoyne follows him a step or two; then checks himself and 
 turns to Richard.) 
 
 Burgoyne. Oh, by the way, Mr. Dudgeon, I shall be 
 glad to see you at lunch at half-past one. (He pauses a 
 moment, and adds, with politely veiled slyness) Bring Mrs. 
 Anderson, if she will be so good. (To Swindon, who is 
 fuming) Take it quietly, Major Swindon: your friend the 
 British soldier can stand up to anything except the British 
 War Office. (He follows Anderson.) 
 
 Sergeant (to Swindon). What orders, sir? 
 
 Swindon (savagely). Orders! What use are orders now? 
 There's no army. Back to quarters; and be d — (He turns 
 on his heel and goes.) 
 
 Sergeant (pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea 
 of defeat). 'Tention. Now then: cock up your chins, and 
 shew 'em you don't care a damn for 'em. Slope arms! Fours! 
 Wheel! Quick march! 
 
 The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band 
 strikes up British Grenadiers; and the sergeant, Brudenell, 
 and the English troops march off defiantly to their quarters. 
 The townsfolk press in behind, and follow them up the market, 
 jeering at them; and the town band, a very pnmitive affair, 
 brings up the rear, playing Yankee Doodle. Essie, who comes 
 in with them, runs to Richard. 
 
 Essie. Oh, Dick! 
 
 Richard (good-humor edly, but wilfully). Now, now: 
 come, come! I don't mind being hanged; but I will not be 
 cried over. 
 
Act III The Devil's Disciple 79 
 
 > Essie. No, I promise. I'll be good. (She tries to restrain 
 her tears, but cannot.) I — I want to see where the soldiers 
 are going to. (She goes a little way up the market, pretending 
 to look after the crowd.) 
 
 Judith. Promise me you will never tell him. 
 
 Richard. Don't be afraid. 
 
 They shake hands on it. 
 
 Essie (calling to them). They're coming back. They want 
 you. 
 
 Jubilation in the market. The townsfolk surge back again 
 in wild enthusiasm with their band, and hoist Richard on their 
 shoulders, cheering him. 
 
 curtain. 
 
NOTES TO THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 
 
 BURGOYNE 
 
 General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play for 
 the first time (as far as I am aware) on the English stage, is 
 not a conventional stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as 
 it is in the nature of stage portraits to be. His objection to 
 profane swearing is not borrowed from Mr. Gilbert's H. M. S. 
 Pinafore: it is taken from the Code of Instructions drawn 
 up by himself for his officers when he introduced Light Horse 
 into the English army. His opinion that English soldiers 
 should be treated as thinking beings was no doubt as un- 
 welcome to the military authorities of his time, when nothing 
 was thought of ordering a soldier a thousand lashes, as it will 
 be to those modern victims of the flagellation neurosis who 
 are so anxious to revive that discredited sport. His military 
 reports are very clever as criticisms, and are humane and en- 
 lightened within certain aristocratic limits, best illustrated 
 perhaps by his declaration, which now sounds so curious, 
 that he should blush to ask for promotion on any other ground 
 than that of family influence. As a parliamentary candidate, 
 Burgoyne took our common expression "fighting an election" 
 so very literally that he led his supporters to the poll at Preston 
 in 1768 with a loaded pistol in each hand, and won the. seat, 
 though he was fined £1,000, and denounced by Junius, for 
 the pistols. 
 
 It is only within quite recent years that any general recog- 
 nition has become possible for the feeling that led Burgoyne, 
 a professed enemy of oppression in India and elsewhere, to 
 accept his American command when so many other officers 
 threw up their commissions rather than serve in a civil war 
 
 80 
 
Notes 81 
 
 against the Colonies. His biographer De Fonblanque, writ- 
 ing in 1876, evidently regarded his position as indefensible. 
 Nowadays, it is sufficient to say that Burgoyne was an Im- 
 perialist. He sympathized with the colonists; but when they 
 proposed as a remedy the disruption of the Empire, he re- 
 garded that as a step backward in civilization. As he put it 
 to the House of Commons, " while we remember that we are 
 contending against brothers and fellow subjects, we must 
 also remember that we are contending in this crisis for the 
 fate of the British Empire." Eightyfour years after his 
 defeat, his republican conquerors themselves engaged in a 
 civil war for the integrity of their Union. In 1885 the Whigs 
 who represented the anti-Burgoyne tradition of American 
 Independence in English politics, abandoned Gladstone and 
 made common cause with their political opponents in defence 
 of the Union between England and Ireland. Only the other 
 day England sent 200,000 men into the field south of the 
 equator to fight out the question whether South Africa should 
 develop as a Federation of British Colonies or as an inde- 
 pendent Afrikander United States. In all these cases the 
 Unionists who were detached from their parties were called 
 renegades, as Burgoyne was. That, of course, is only one 
 of the unfortunate consequences of the fact that mankind, 
 being for the most part incapable of politics, accepts vitu- 
 peration as an easy and congenial substitute. Whether Bur- 
 goyne or Washington, Lincoln or Davis, Gladstone or Bright, 
 Mr. Chamberlain or Mr. Leonard Courtney was in the right 
 will never be settled, because it will never be possible to 
 prove that the government of the victor has been better for 
 mankind than the government of the vanquished would have 
 been. It is true that the victors have no doubt on the point; 
 but to the dramatist, that certainty of theirs is only part of 
 the human comedy. The American Unionist is often a Sep- 
 aratist as to Ireland; the English Unionist often sympathizes 
 with the Polish Home Ruler; and both English and American 
 Unionists are apt to be Disruptionists as regards that Imperial 
 Ancient of Days, the Empire of China. Both are Unionists 
 
82 The Devil's Disciple 
 
 concerning Canada, but with a difference as to the precise 
 application to it of the Monroe doctrine. As for me, the 
 dramatist, I smile, and lead the conversation back to Bur- 
 goyne. 
 
 Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga made him that occa- 
 sionally necessary part of our British system, a scapegoat. 
 The explanation of his defeat given in the play (p. 76) is 
 founded on a passage quoted by De Fonblanque from Fitz- 
 maurice's Life of Lord Shelburne, as follows: "Lord George 
 Germain, having among other peculiarities a particular dis- 
 like to be put out of his way on any occasion, had arranged 
 to call at his office on his way to the country to sign the dis- 
 patches; but as those addressed to Howe had not been fair- 
 copied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his projected 
 visit to Kent, they were not signed then and were forgotten on 
 his return home." These were the dispatches instructing 
 Sir William Howe, who was in New York, to effect a junction 
 at Albany with Burgoyne, who had marched from Boston 
 for that purpose. Burgoyne got as far as Saratoga, where, 
 failing the expected reinforcement, he was hopelessly out- 
 numbered, and his officers picked off, Boer fashion, by the 
 American farmer-sharpshooters. His own collar was pierced 
 by a bullet. The publicity of his defeat, however, was more 
 than compensated at home by the fact that Lord George's 
 trip to Kent had not been interfered with, and that nobody 
 knew about the oversight of the dispatch. The policy of the 
 English Government and Court for the next two years was 
 simply concealment of Germain's neglect. Burgoyne's de- 
 mand for an inquiry was defeated in the House of Commons 
 by the court party; and when he at last obtained a committee, 
 the king got rid of it by a prorogation. When Burgoyne 
 realized what had happened about the instructions to Howe 
 (the scene in which I have represented him as learning it 
 before Saratoga is not historical: the truth did not dawn on 
 him until many months afterwards) the king actually took 
 advantage of his being a prisoner of war in England on parole, 
 and ordered him to return to America into captivity. Bur- 
 
Notes 83 
 
 goyne immediately resigned all his appointments; and this 
 practically closed his military career, though he was after- 
 wards made Commander of the Forces in Ireland for the pur- 
 pose of banishing him from parliament. 
 
 The episode illustrates the curious perversion of the English 
 sense of honor when the privileges and prestige of the aris- 
 tocracy are at stake. Mr. Frank Harris said, after the dis- 
 astrous battle of Modder River, that the English, having 
 lost America a century ago because they preferred George 
 III, were quite prepared to lose South Africa to-day because 
 they preferred aristocratic commanders to successful ones. 
 Horace Walpole, when the parliamentary recess came at a 
 critical period of the War of Independence, said that the 
 Lords could not be expected to lose their pheasant shooting 
 for the sake of America. In the working class, which, like 
 all classes, has its own official aristocracy, there is the same 
 reluctance to discredit an institution or to "do a man out of 
 his job." At bottom, of course, this apparently shameless 
 sacrifice of great public interests to petty personal ones, is 
 simply the preference of the ordinary man for the things he 
 can feel and understand to the things that are beyond his ca- 
 pacity. It is stupidity, not dishonesty. 
 
 Burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. Not 
 only was he thrown over, in spite of his high character and 
 distinguished services, to screen a court favorite who had 
 actually been cashiered for cowardice and misconduct in the 
 field fifteen years before; but his peculiar critical tempera- 
 ment and talent, artistic, satirical, rather histrionic, and his 
 fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit and humanity, 
 were just the qualities to make him disliked by stupid people 
 because of their dread of ironic criticism. Long after his 
 death, Thackeray, who had an intense sense of human 
 character, but was typically stupid in valuing and interpret- 
 ing it, instinctively sneered at him and exulted in his de- 
 feat. That sneer represents the common English attitude 
 towards the Burgoyne type. Every instance in which the 
 critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (for both 
 
84 The Devil's Disciple 
 
 temperaments have their genius) "muddles through all right," 
 is popular in England. But Burgoyne's failure was not the 
 work of his own temperament, but of the stupid temperament. 
 What man could do under the circumstances he did, and did 
 handsomely and loftily. He fell, and his ideal empire was 
 dismembered, not through his own misconduct, but because 
 Sir George Germain overestimated the importance of his 
 Kentish holiday, and underestimated the difficulty of con- 
 quering those remote and inferior creatures, the colonists. 
 And King George and the rest of the nation agreed, on the 
 whole, with Germain. It is a significant point that in America, 
 where Burgoyne was an enemy and an invader, he was ad- 
 mired and praised. The climate there is no doubt more 
 favorable to intellectual vivacity. 
 
 I have described Burgoyne's temperament as rather his- 
 trionic; and the reader will have observed that the Burgoyne 
 of the Devil's Disciple is a man who plays his part in life, 
 and makes all its points, in the manner of a born high come- 
 dian. If he had been killed at Saratoga, with all his comedies 
 unwritten, and his plan for turning As You Like It into a 
 Beggar's Opera unconceived, I should still have painted the 
 same picture of him on the strength of his reply to the articles 
 of capitulation proposed to him by his American conqueror 
 General Gates. Here they are: 
 
 Proposition. Answer. 
 
 1. General Burgoyne's army Lieut.-General Burgoyne's 
 being reduced by repeated de- army, however reduced, will 
 feats, by desertion, sickness, never admit that their retreat 
 etc., their provisions exhausted, is cut off while they have arms 
 their military horses, tents and in their hands. 
 
 baggage taken or destroyed, 
 their retreat cut off, and their 
 camp invested, they can only be 
 allowed to surrender as prisoners 
 of war. 
 
 2. The officers and soldiers Noted, 
 may keep the baggage belonging 
 
 to them. The Generals of the 
 United States never permit indi- 
 viduals to be pillaged. 
 
Notes 
 
 3. The troops under his Ex- 
 cellency General Burgoyne will 
 be conducted by the most con- 
 venient route to New England, 
 marching by easy marches, and 
 sufficiently provided for by the 
 way. 
 
 4. The officers will be ad- 
 mitted on parole and will be 
 treated with the liberality cus- 
 tomary in such cases, so long as 
 they, by proper behaviour, con- 
 tinue to deserve it; but those 
 who are apprehended having 
 broke their parole, as some Brit- 
 ish officers have done, must ex- 
 pect to be close confined. 
 
 5. All public stores, artillery, 
 arms, ammunition, carriages, 
 horses, etc., etc., must be deliv- 
 ered to commissaries appointed 
 to receive them. 
 
 6. These terms being agreed 
 to and signed, the troops under 
 his Excellency's, General Bur- 
 goyne's command, may be drawn 
 up in their encampments, where 
 they will be ordered to ground 
 their arms, and may thereupon 
 be marched to the river-side on 
 their way to Bennington. 
 
 Agreed. 
 
 There being no officer in this 
 army under, or capable of being 
 under, the description of break- 
 ing parole, this article needs no 
 
 All public stores may be deliv- 
 ered, arms excepted. 
 
 This article is inadmissible in 
 any extremity. Sooner than this 
 army will consent to ground 
 their arms in their encampments, 
 they will rush on the enemy de- 
 termined to take no quarter. 
 
 And, later on, "If General Gates does not mean to recede 
 from the 6th article, the treaty ends at once: the army will to 
 a man proceed to any act of desperation sooner than submit 
 to that article." 
 
 Here you have the man at his Burgoynest. Need I add 
 that he had his own way; and that when the actual ceremony 
 of surrender came, he would have played poor General Gates 
 off the stage, had not that commander risen to the occasion 
 by handing him back his sword. 
 
 In connection with the reference to Indians with scalping 
 knives, who, with the troops hired from Germany, made up 
 about half Burgoyne 's force, I may mention that Burgoyne 
 offered two of them a reward to guide a Miss McCrea, be- 
 trothed to one of the English officers, into the English lines, 
 
86 The Devil's Disciple 
 
 The two braves quarrelled about the reward; and the more 
 sensitive of them, as a protest against the unfairness of the 
 other, tomahawked the young lady. The usual retaliations 
 were proposed under the popular titles of justice and so forth ; 
 but as the tribe of the slayer would certainly have followed 
 suit by a massacre of whites on the Canadian frontier, Bur- 
 goyne was compelled to forgive the crime, to the intense dis- 
 gust of indignant Christendom. 
 
 BRUDENELL 
 
 Brudenell is also a real person. At least an artillery 
 chaplain of that name distinguished himself at Saratoga by 
 reading the burial service over Major Fraser under fire, and 
 by a quite readable adventure, chronicled by Burgoyne, with 
 Lady Harriet Ackland. Lady Harriet's husband achieved 
 the remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of his adversary, 
 in a duel. He overbalanced himself in the heat of his swords- 
 manship, and fell with his head against a pebble. Lady 
 Harriet then married the warrior chaplain, who, like Anthony 
 Anderson in the play, seems to have mistaken his natural 
 profession. 
 
 The rest of the Devil's Disciple may have actually occurred, 
 like most stories invented by dramatists; but I cannot pro- 
 duce any documents. Major Swindon's name is invented; 
 but the man, of course, is real. There are dozens of him 
 extant to this day. 
 
 i 
 
C.ESAR AND CLEOPATRA 
 IX 
 

CiESAR AND CLEOPATRA 
 
 ACT I 
 
 An October night on the Syrian border of Egypt towards 
 the end of the XXXIII Dynasty, in the year 706 by Roman 
 computation, afterwards reckoned by Christian computation as 
 48 B.C. A great radiance of silver fire, the dawn of a moonlit 
 night, is rising in the east. The stars and the cloudless sky are 
 our own contemporaries, nineteen and a half centuries younger 
 than ice know them; but you would not guess that from their ap- 
 pearance. Below them are two notable drawbacks of civiliza- 
 tion: a palace, and soldiers. The palace, an old, low, Syrian 
 building of whitened mud, is not so ugly as Buckingham Palace; 
 and the officers in the courtyard are more highly civilized than 
 modern English officers: for example, they do not dig up the 
 corpses of their dead enemies arid mutilate them, as we dug up 
 Cromwell and the Mahdi. They are in two groups: one intent 
 on the gambling of their captain Belzanor, a warrior of fifty, 
 who, with his spear on the ground beside his knee, is stooping to 
 throw dice with a sly-looking young Persian recruit; the other 
 gathered about a guardsman who has just finished telling a 
 naughty story (still current in English barracks) at which they 
 are laughing uproariously. They are about a dozen in number, 
 all highly aristocratic young Egyptian guardsmen, handsomely 
 equipped with weapons and armor, very unEnglish in point of 
 not being ashamed of and uncomfortable in their professional 
 dress; on the contrary, rather ostentatiously and arrogantly war- 
 like, as valuing themselves on their military caste. 
 
 Belzanor is a typical veteran, tough and wilful; prompt, 
 capable and crafty where brute force will serve; helpless and 
 
 89 
 
90 Csesar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 boyish when it will not: an effective sergeant, an incompetent 
 general, a deplorable dictator. Would, if influentially connected, 
 be employed in the two last capacities by a modern European 
 State on the strength of his success in the first. Is rather to be 
 pitied just now in view of the fact that Julius Casar is invading 
 his country. Not knowing this, is intent on his game with the 
 Persian, whom, as a foreigner, he considers quite capable of 
 cheating him. 
 
 His subalterns are mostly handsome young fellows whose 
 interest in the game and the story symbolizes toith tolerable com- 
 pleteness the main interests in life of which they are conscious. 
 Their spears are leaning against the walls, or lying on the 
 ground ready to their hands. The corner of the courtyard forms 
 a triangle of which one side is the front of the palace, with a 
 doorway, the other a wall with a gateway. The storytellers are 
 on the palace side: the gamblers, on the gateway side. Close to 
 the gateway, against the wall, is a stone block high enough to 
 enable a Nubian sentinel, standing on it, to look over the wall. 
 The yard is lighted by a torch stuck in the wall. As the 
 laughter from the group round the storyteller dies away, the 
 kneeling Persian, winning the throw, snatches up the stake 
 from the ground. 
 
 Belzanor. By Apis, Persian, thy gods are good to thee. 
 
 The Persian. Try yet again, O captain. Double or quits! 
 
 Belzanor. No more. I am not in the vein. 
 
 The Sentinel {poising his javelin as he peers over the wall). 
 Stand. Who goes there ? 
 
 They all start, listening. A strange voice replies from without. 
 
 Voice. The bearer of evil tidings. 
 
 Belzanor {calling to the sentry). Pass him. 
 
 The Sentinel {grounding his javelin). Draw near, O 
 bearer of evil tidings. 
 
 Belzanor {pocketing the dice and picking up his spear). 
 Let us receive this man with honor. He bears evil tidings. 
 
 The guardsmen seize their spears and gather about the gate, 
 leaving a way through for the new comer. 
 
Act I Ceesar and Cleopatra 91 
 
 Persian (rising from his knee). Are evil tidings, then, so 
 honorable ? 
 
 Belzanor. O barbarous Persian, hear my instruction. 
 In Egypt the bearer of good tidings is sacrificed to the gods as 
 a thank offering; but no god will accept the blood of the mes- 
 senger of evil. When we have good tidings, we are careful to 
 send them in the mouth of the cheapest slave we can find. 
 Evil tidings are borne by young noblemen who desire to bring 
 themselves into notice. (They join the rest at the gate.) 
 
 The Sentinel. Pass, O young captain; and bow the head 
 in the House of the Queen. 
 
 Voice. Go anoint thy javelin with fat of swine, O Black- 
 amoor; for before morning the Romans will make thee eat it 
 to the very butt. 
 
 The owner of the voice, a fairhaired dandy, dressed in a 
 different fashion to that affected by the guardsmen, but no less 
 extravagantly, comes through the gateway laughing. He is 
 somewhat battlestained; and his left forearm, bandaged, comes 
 through a torn sleeve. In his right hand he carries a Roman 
 sword in its sheath. He swaggers down the courtyard, the Per- 
 sian on his right, Belzanor on his left, and the guardsmen crowd- 
 ing down behind, him. 
 
 Belzanor. Who art thou that laughest in the House of 
 Cleopatra the Queen, and in the teeth of Belzanor, the captain 
 of her guard ? 
 
 The New Comer. I am Bel Affris, descended from the 
 gods. 
 
 Belzanor (ceremoniously). Hail, cousin! 
 
 All (except the Persian). Hail, cousin! 
 
 Persian. All the Queen's guards are descended from the 
 gods, O stranger, save myself. I am Persian, and descended 
 from many kings. 
 
 Bel Affris (to the guardsmen). Hail, cousins! (To the 
 Persian, condescendingly) Hail, mortal! 
 
 Belzanor. You have been in battle, Bel Affris; and you 
 are a soldier among soldiers. You will not let the Queen's 
 women have the first of your tidings. 
 
92 Caesar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 Bel Affris. I have no tidings, except that we shall have 
 our throats cut presently, women, soldiers, and all. 
 
 Persian (to Belzanor). I told you so. 
 
 The Sentinel (who has been listening). Woe, alas! 
 
 Bel Affris (calling to him). Peace, peace, poor Ethiop: 
 destiny is with the gods who painted thee black. (To Belza- 
 nor) What has this mortal (indicating the Persian) told you ? 
 
 Belzanor. He says that the Roman Julius Caesar, who 
 has landed on our shores with a handful of followers, will make 
 himself master of Egypt. He is afraid of the Roman soldiers. 
 (The guardsmen laugh with boisterous scorn.) Peasants, 
 brought up to scare crows and follow the plough. Sons of 
 smiths and mHlers and tanners! And we nobles, consecrated 
 to arms, descended from the gods! 
 
 Persian. Belzanor: the gods are not always good to their 
 poor relations. 
 
 Belzanor (hotly, to the Persian). Man to man, are we 
 worse than the slaves of Caesar ? 
 
 Bel Affris (stepping between them). Listen, cousin. Man 
 to man, we Egyptians are as gods above the Romans. 
 
 The Guardsmen (exultingly) . Aha! 
 
 Bel Affris. But this Csesar does not pit man against man : 
 he throws a legion at you where you are weakest as he throws a 
 stone from a catapult; and that legion is as a man with one 
 head, a thousand arms, and no religion. I have fought against 
 them; and I know. 
 
 Belzanor (derisively). Were you frightened, cousin? 
 
 The guardsmen roar with laughter, their eyes sparkling at the 
 wit of their captain. 
 
 Bel Affris. No, cousin; but I was beaten. They were 
 frightened (perhaps) ; but they scattered us like chaff. 
 
 The guardsmen, much damped, utter a growl of contemptuous 
 disgust. 
 
 Belzanor. Could you not die ? 
 
 Bel Affris. No: that was too easy to be worthy of a de- 
 scendant of the gods. Besides, there was no time : all was over 
 in a moment. The attack came just where we least expected it. 
 
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 93 
 
 Belzanor. That shews that the Romans are cowards. 
 
 Bel Affris. They care nothing about cowardice, these 
 Romans : they fight to win. The pride and honor of war are 
 nothing to them. 
 
 Persian. Tell us the tale of the battle. What befell ? 
 
 The Guardsmen {gathering eagerly round Bel Affris) . Ay : 
 the tale of the battle. 
 
 Bel Affris. Know then, that I am a novice in the guard 
 of the temple of Ra in Memphis, serving neither Cleopatra nor 
 her brother Ptolemy, but only the high gods. We went a 
 journey to inquire of Ptolemy why he had driven Cleopatra 
 into Syria, and how we of Egypt should deal with the Roman 
 Pompey, newly come to our snores after his defeat by Csesar 
 at Pharsalia. What, think ye, did we learn? Even that 
 Csesar is coming also in hot pursuit of his foe, and that Ptolemy 
 has slain Pompey, whose severed head he holds in readiness to 
 present to the conqueror. (Sensation among the guardsmen.) 
 Nay, more: we found that Csesar is already come; for we had 
 not made half a day's journey on our way back when we came 
 upon a city rabble flying from his legions, whose landing they 
 had gone out to withstand. 
 
 Belzanor. And ye, the temple guard! did ye not with- 
 stand these legions ? 
 
 Bel Affris. What man could, that we did. But there 
 came the sound of a trumpet whose voice was as the cursing 
 of a black mountain. Then saw we a moving wall of shields 
 coming towards us. You know how the heart burns when you 
 charge a fortified wall; but how if the fortified wall were to 
 charge you? 
 
 The Persian (exulting in having told them so). Did I not 
 say it? 
 
 Bel Affris. When the wall came nigh, it changed into 
 a fine of men — common fellows enough, with helmets, leather 
 tunics, and breastplates. Every man of them flung his jave- 
 lin: the one that came my way drove through my shield as 
 through a papyrus — lo there ! (he points to the bandage on his 
 left arm) and would have gone through my neck had I not 
 
94 Caesar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 stooped. They were charging at the double then, and were 
 upon us with short swords almost as soon as their javelins. 
 When a man is close to you with such a sword, you can do 
 nothing with our weapons : they are all too long. 
 
 The Persian. What did you do ? 
 
 Bel Affris. Doubled my fist and smote my Roman on the 
 sharpness of his jaw. He was but mortal after all: he lay 
 down in a stupor; and I took his sword and laid it on. (Draw- 
 ing the sword) Lo! a Roman sword with Roman blood 
 on it! 
 
 The Guardsmen (approvingly). Good! (They take the 
 sword and hand it round, examining it curiously.) 
 
 The Persian. And your men? 
 
 Bel Affris. Fled. Scattered like sheep. 
 
 Belzanor (furiously). The cowardly slaves ! Leaving the 
 descendants of the gods to be butchered! 
 
 Bel Affris (with acid coolness). The descendants of the 
 gods did not stay to be butchered, cousin. The battle was not 
 to the strong; but the race was to the swift. The Romans, 
 who have no chariots, sent a cloud of horsemen in pursuit, and 
 slew multitudes. Then our high priest's captain rallied a 
 dozen descendants of the gods and exhorted us to die fighting. 
 I said to myself: surely it is safer to stand than to lose my 
 breath and be stabbed in the back; so I joined our captain and 
 stood. Then the Romans treated us with respect; for no man 
 attacks a lion when the field is full of sheep, except for the pride 
 and honor of war, of which these Romans know nothing. So 
 we escaped with our lives; and I am come to warn you that you 
 must open your gates to Caesar; for his advance guard is scarce 
 an hour behind me; and not an Egyptian warrior is left stand- 
 ing between you and his legions. 
 
 The Sentinel. Woe, alas! (He throws down his javelin 
 and flies into the palace.) 
 
 Belzanor. Nail him to the door, quick! (The guardsmen 
 rush for him with their spears; but he is too quick for them.) 
 Now this news will run through the palace like fire through 
 stubble. 
 
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 95 
 
 Bel Affris. What shall we do to save the women from 
 the Romans? 
 
 Belzanor. Why not kill them ? 
 
 Persian. Because we should have to pay blood money for 
 some of them. Better let the Romans kill them: it is cheaper. 
 
 Belzanor {awestruck at his brain "power). O subtle one! 
 O serpent! 
 
 Bel Affris. But your Queen ? 
 
 Belzanor. True: we must carry off Cleopatra. 
 
 Bel Affris. Will ye not await her command ? 
 
 Belzanor. Command! a girl of sixteen! Not we. At 
 Memphis ye deem her a Queen : here we know better. I will 
 take her on the crupper of my horse. When we soldiers have 
 carried her out of Caesar's reach, then the priests and the nurses 
 and the rest of them can pretend she is a queen again, and put 
 their commands into her mouth. 
 
 Persian. Listen to me, Belzanor. 
 
 Belzanor. Speak, O subtle beyond thy years. 
 
 The Persian. Cleopatra's brother Ptolemy is at war with 
 her. Let us sell her to him. 
 
 The Guardsmen. O subtle one! O serpent! 
 
 Belzanor. We dare not. We are descended from the 
 gods; but Cleopatra is descended from the river Nile; and the 
 lands of our fathers will grow no grain if the Nile rises not to 
 Water them. Without our father's gifts we should live the lives 
 of dogs. 
 
 Persian. It is true: the Queen's guard cannot live on its 
 pay. But hear me further, O ye kinsmen of Osiris. 
 
 The Guardsmen. Speak, O subtle one. Hear the serpent 
 begotten! 
 
 Persian. Have I heretofore spoken truly to you of Caesar, 
 when you thought I mocked you ? 
 
 Guardsmen. Truly, truly. 
 
 Belzanor {reluctantly admitting it). So Bel Affris says. 
 
 Persian. Hear more of him, then. This Caesar is a 
 great lover of women : he makes them his friends and coun- 
 sellors. 
 
96 Caesar and Cleopatra Act 1 
 
 Belzanor. Faugh ! This rule of women will be the ruin of 
 Egypt. 
 
 The Persian. Let it rather be the ruin of Rome! Caesar 
 grows old now : he is past fifty and full of labors and battles. 
 He is too old for the young women; and the old women are 
 too wise to worship him. 
 
 Bel Affris. Take heed, Persian. Caesar is by this time 
 almost within earshot. 
 
 Persian. Cleopatra is not yet a woman: neither is she 
 wise. But she already troubles men's wisdom. 
 
 Belzanor. Ay: that is because she is descended from the 
 river Nile and a black kitten of the sacred White Cat. What 
 then? 
 
 Persian. Why, sell her secretly to Ptolemy, and then offer 
 ourselves to Caesar as volunteers to fight for the overthrow of 
 her brother and the rescue of our Queen, the Great Grand- 
 daughter of the Nile. 
 
 The Guardsmen. O serpent! 
 
 Persian. He will listen to us if we come with her picture in 
 our mouths. He will conquer and kill her brother, and reign 
 in Egypt with Cleopatra for his Queen. And we shall be her 
 guard. 
 
 Guardsmen. O subtlest of all the serpents! O admira- 
 tion! O wisdom! 
 
 Bel "Affris. He will also have arrived before you have 
 done talking, O word spinner. 
 
 Belzanor. That is true. (An affrighted uproar in the 
 palace interrupts him.) Quick: the flight has begun: guard 
 the door. (They rush to the door and form a cordon before it 
 with their spears. A mob of women-servants and nurses surges 
 out. Those in front recoil from the spears, screaming to those 
 behind to keep back. Belzanor's voice dominates the dis- 
 turbance as he shouts) Back there. In again, unprofitable 
 cattle. 
 
 The Guardsmen. Back, unprofitable cattle. 
 
 Belzanor. Send us out Ftatateeta, the Queen's chief 
 
Act I Csesar and Cleopatra 97 
 
 The Women (calling into the palace). Ftatateeta, Ftata- 
 teeta. Come, come. Speak to Belzanor. 
 
 A Woman. Oh, keep back. You are thrusting me on the 
 spearheads. 
 
 A huge grim woman, her face covered with a network of 
 tiny wrinkles, and her eyes old, large, and wise; sinewy handed, 
 very tall, very strong; with the mouth of a bloodhound and the 
 jaws of a bulldog, appears on the threshold. She is dressed' 
 like a person of consequence in the palace, and confronts the 
 guardsmen insolently. 
 
 Ftatateeta. Make way for the Queen's chief nurse. 
 
 Belzanor (with solemn arrogance). Ftatateeta: I am Bel- 
 zanor, the captain of the Queen's guard, descended from the 
 gods. 
 
 Ftatateeta (retorting his arrogance with interest). Bel- 
 zanor: I am Ftatateeta, the Queen's chief nurse; and your 
 divine ancestors were proud to be painted on the wall in the 
 pyramids of the kings whom my fathers served. 
 
 The women laugh triumphantly. 
 
 Belzanor (with grim humor). Ftatateeta: daughter of a 
 long-tongued, swivel-eyed chameleon, the Romans are at 
 hand. (A cry of terror from the women: they would fly but 
 for the spears.) Not even the descendants of the gods can 
 resist them; for they have each man seven arms, each carrying 
 seven spears. The blood in their veins is boiling quicksilver; 
 and their wives become mothers in three hours, and are slain 
 and eaten the next day. 
 
 A shudder of horror from the women. Ftatateeta, despising 
 them and scorning the soldiers, pushes her way through the 
 crowd and confronts the spear points undismayed. 
 
 Ftatateeta. Then fly and save yourselves, O cowardly 
 sons of the cheap clay gods that are sold to fish porters; and 
 leave us to shift for ourselves. 
 
 Belzanor. Not until you have first done our bidding, O 
 terror of manhood. Bring out Cleopatra the Queen to us 
 and then go whither you will. 
 
 Ftatateeta (with a derisive laugh). Now I know why 
 
98 Caesar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 the gods have taken her out of our hands. {The guardsmen 
 start and look at one another.) Know, thou foolish soldier, 
 that the Queen has been missing since an hour past sun down. 
 
 Belzanor {furiously). Hag: you have hidden her to sell 
 to Caesar or her brother. {He grasps her by the left wrist, 
 and drags her, helped by a few of the guard, to the middle of 
 the courtyard, where, as they fling her on her knees, he draws 
 a murderous looking knife.) Where is she? Where is she? 
 or — {He threatens to cut her throat.) 
 
 Ftatateeta {savagely). Touch me, dog; and the Nile 
 will not rise on your fields for seven times seven years of 
 famine. 
 
 Belzanor {frightened, but desperate). I will sacrifice: I 
 will pay. Or stay. {To the Persian) You, O subtle one: 
 your father's lands lie far from the Nile. Slay her. 
 
 Persian {threatening her with his knife). Persia has but 
 one god; yet he loves the blood of old women. Where is 
 Cleopatra ? 
 
 Ftatateeta. Persian: as Osiris fives, I do not know. 
 I chid her for bringing evil days upon us by talking to the 
 sacred cats of the priests, and carrying them in her arms. 
 I told her she would be left alone here when the Romans 
 came as a punishment for her disobedience. And now she 
 is gone — run away — hidden. I speak the truth. I call 
 Osiris to witness 
 
 The Women {protesting officiously). She speaks the truth, 
 Belzanor. 
 
 Belzanor. You have frightened the child: she is hiding. 
 Search — quick — into the palace — search every corner. 
 
 The guards, led by Belzanor, shoulder their way into the 
 palace through the flying crowd of women, who escape through 
 the courtyard gate. 
 
 Ftatateeta {screaming). Sacrilege! Men in the Queen's 
 chambers! Sa — {Her voice dies away as the Persian puts 
 his knife to her throat.) 
 
 Bel Affris {laying a hand on Ftatateeta y 's left shoulder). 
 Forbear her yet a moment, Persian. {To Ftatateeta, very 
 
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 99 
 
 significantly) Mother: your gods are asleep or away hunt- 
 ing; and the sword is at your throat. Bring us to where the 
 Queen is hid, and you shall live. 
 
 Ftatateeta (contemptuously). Who shall stay the sword 
 in the hand of a fool, if the high gods put it there? Listen 
 to me, ye young men without understanding. Cleopatra 
 fears me; but she fears the Romans more. There is but one 
 power greater in her eyes than the wrath of the Queen's 
 nurse and the cruelty of Caesar; and that is the power of the 
 Sphinx that sits in the desert watching the way to the sea. 
 What she would have it know, she tells into the ears of the 
 sacred cats; and on her birthday she sacrifices to it and decks 
 it with poppies. Go ye therefore into the desert and seek 
 Cleopatra in the shadow of the Sphinx; and on your heads 
 see to it that no harm comes to her. 
 
 Bel Affris (to the Persian). May we believe this, O subtle 
 
 one 
 
 Persian. Which way come the Romans? 
 
 Bel Affris. Over the desert, from the sea, by this very 
 SphiDX. 
 
 Persian (to Ftatateeta). O mother of guile! O aspic's 
 tongue! You have made up this tale so that we two may go 
 into the desert and perish on the spears of the Romans. 
 (Lifting his knife) Taste death. 
 
 Ftatateeta. Not from thee, baby. (She snatches his 
 ankle from under him and flies stooping along the palace wall, 
 vanishing in the darkness within its precinct. Bel Affris 
 roars with laughter as the Persian tumbles. The guardsmen 
 rush out of the palace with Belzanor and a mob of fugitives, 
 mostly carrying bundles.) 
 
 Persian. Have you found Cleopatra? 
 
 Belzanor. She is gone. We have searched every corner. 
 
 The Nubian Sentinel (appearing at the door of the palace). 
 Woe! Alas! Fly, fly! 
 
 Belzanor. What is the matter now? 
 
 The Nubian Sentinel. The sacred white cat has been 
 stolen. 
 
100 Cassar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 All. Woe! Woe! {General 'panic. They all fly with 
 cries of consternation. The torch is thrown down and extin- 
 guished in the rush. Darkness. The noise of the fugitives 
 dies away. Dead silence. Suspense. Then the blackness 
 and stillness breaks softly into silver mist and strange airs as 
 the windswept harp of Memnon plays at the dawning of the 
 moon. It rises full over the desert; and a vast horizon comes 
 into relief, broken by a huge shape which soon reveals itself 
 in the spreading radiance as a Sphinx pedestalled on the 
 sands. The light still clears, until the upraised eyes of the 
 image are distinguished looking straight forward and upward 
 in infinite fearless vigil, and a mass of color between its great 
 paws defines itself as a heap of red poppies on which a girl 
 lies motionless, her silken vest heaving gently and regularly 
 with the breathing of a dreamless sleeper, and her braided hair 
 glittering in a shapof moonlight like a bird's wing. 
 
 Suddenly there comes from afar a vaguely fearful sound (it 
 might be the bellow of a Minotaur softened by great distance) and 
 Memnon s music stops. Silence: then a few faint high-ringing 
 trumpet notes. Then silence again. Then a man comes from 
 the south with stealing steps, ravished by the mystery of the 
 night, all wonder, and halts, lost in contemplation, opposite the 
 left flank of the Sphinx, whose bosom, with its burden, is hidden 
 from him by its massive shoulder) 
 
 The Man. Hail, Sphinx: salutation from Julius Csesar! 
 I have wandered in many lands, seeking the lost regions 
 from which my birth into this world exiled me, and the com- 
 pany of creatures such as I myself. I have found flocks and 
 pastures, men and cities, but no other Csesar, no air native to 
 me, no man kindred to me, none who can do my day's deed, 
 and think my night's thought. In the little world yonder, 
 Sphinx, my place is as high as yours in this great desert; only I 
 wander, and you sit still; I conquer, and you endure; I work 
 and wonder, you watch and wait; I look up and am dazzled, 
 look down and am darkened, look round and am puzzled, 
 whilst your eyes never turn from looking out — out of the 
 
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 101 
 
 world — to the lost region — the home from which we have 
 strayed. Sphinx, you and I, strangers to the race of men, are 
 no strangers to one another : have I not been conscious of you 
 and of this place since I was born? Rome is a madman's 
 dream : this is my Reality. These starry lamps of yours I have 
 seen from afar in Gaul, in Britain, in Spain, in Thessaly, sig- 
 nalling great secrets to some eternal sentinel below, whose post I 
 never could find. And here at last is their sentinel — an image 
 of the constant and immortal part of my life, silent, full of 
 thoughts, alone in the silver desert. Sphinx, Sphinx: I have 
 climbed mountains at night to hear in the distance the stealthy 
 footfall of the winds that chase your sands in forbidden play — 
 our invisible children, O Sphinx, laughing in whispers. My 
 way hither was the way of destiny; for I am he of whose genius 
 you are the symbol : part brute, part woman, and part God — 
 nothing of man in me at all. Have I read your riddle, Sphinx ? 
 
 The Girl (who has wakened, and peeped cautiously from 
 her nest to see who is speaking). Old gentleman. 
 
 Cesar (starting violently, and clutching his sword). Im- 
 mortal gods! 
 
 The Girl. Old gentleman: don't run away. 
 
 Cesar (stupefied). "Old gentleman: don't run away!!!" 
 This! to Julius Caesar! 
 
 The Girl (urgently). Old gentleman. 
 
 Cesar. Sphinx: you presume on your centuries. I am 
 younger than you, though your voice is but a girl's voice 
 as yet. 
 
 The Girl. Climb up here, quickly; or the Romans will 
 come and eat you. 
 
 Cesar (running forward past the Sphinx's shoulder, and see- 
 ing her). A child at its breast! a divine child! 
 
 The Girl. Come up quickly. You must get up at its 
 side and creep round. 
 
 Cesar (amazed). Who are you? 
 
 The Girl. Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt. 
 
 Cesar. Queen of the Gypsies, you mean. 
 
 Cleopatra. You must not be disrespectful to me, or the 
 
102 Csesar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 Sphinx will let the Romans eat you. Come up. It is quite 
 cosy here. 
 
 Cesar (to himself). What a dream! What a magnificent 
 dream ! Only let me not wake, and I will conquer ten conti- 
 nents to pay for dreaming it out to the end. (He climbs to the 
 Sphinx's flank, and presently reappears to her on the pedestal, 
 stepping round its right shoulder.) 
 
 Cleopatra. Take care. That's right. Now sit down: 
 you may have its other paw. (She seats herself comfortably on 
 its left paw.) It is very powerful and will protect us; but 
 (shivering, and with plaintive loneliness) it would not take any 
 notice of me or keep me company. I am glad you have come : 
 I was very lonely. Did you happen to see a white cat any- 
 where ? 
 
 Cesar (sitting slowly down on the right paw in extreme won- 
 derment). Have you lost one? 
 
 Cleopatra. Yes: the sacred white cat: is it not dreadful? 
 I brought him here to sacrifice him to the Sphinx; but when we 
 got a little way from the city a black cat called him, and he 
 jumped out of my arms and ran away to it. Do you think that 
 the black cat can have been my great-great-great-grand- 
 mother ? 
 
 Cesar (staring at her). Your great-great-great-grand- 
 mother! Well, why not ? Nothing would surprise me on this 
 night of nights. 
 
 Cleopatra. I think it must have been. My great-grand- 
 mother's great-grandmother was a black kitten of the sacred 
 white cat; and the river Nile made her his seventh wife. That 
 is why my hair is so wavy. And I always want to be let do as 
 I like, no matter whether it is the will of the gods or not: that 
 is because my blood is made with Nile water. 
 
 Cesa.r. What are you doing here at this time of night? 
 Do you five here ? 
 
 Cleopatra. Of course not: I am the Queen; and I shall 
 live in the palace at Alexandria when I have killed my brother, 
 who drove me out of it. When I am old enough I shall do just 
 what I like. I shall be able to poison the slaves and see them 
 
Act I Csesar and Cleopatra 103 
 
 wriggle, and pretend to Ftatateeta that she is going to be put 
 into the fiery furnace. 
 
 CiESAK. Hm! Meanwhile why are you not at home and 
 in bed? 
 
 Cleopatra. Because the Romans are coming to eat us all. 
 You are not at home and in bed either. 
 
 Cesar (with conviction). Yes I am. I live in a tent; and 
 I am now in that tent, fast asleep and dreaming. Do you sup- 
 pose that I believe you are real, you impossible little dream 
 witch ? 
 
 Cleopatra (giggling and leaning trustfully towards him). 
 You are a funny old gentleman. I like you. 
 
 C^SAR. Ah, that spoils the dream. Why don't you dream 
 that I am young ? 
 
 Cleopatra. I wish you were ; only I think I should be more 
 afraid of you. I like men, especially young men with round 
 strong arms; but I am afraid of them. You are old and rather 
 thin and stringy; but you have a nice voice; and I like to have 
 somebody to talk to, though I think you are a little mad. It is 
 the moon that makes you talk to yourself in that silly way. 
 
 Cesar. What! you heard that, did you ? I was saying my 
 prayers to the great Sphinx. 
 
 Cleopatra. But this isn't the great Sphinx. 
 
 C^sar (much disappointed, looking up at the statue). What! 
 
 Cleopatra. This is only a dear little kitten of the Sphinx. 
 Why, the great Sphinx is so big that it has a temple between 
 its paws. This is my pet Sphinx. Tell me : do you think the 
 Romans have any sorcerers who could take us away from the 
 Sphinx by magic ? 
 
 Cesar. Why? Are you afraid of the Romans? 
 
 Cleopatra (very seriously). Oh, they would eat us if they 
 caught us. They are barbarians. Their chief is called Julius 
 Caesar. His father was a tiger and his mother a burning 
 mountain; and his nose is like an elephant's trunk. (Casar 
 involuntarily rubs his nose.) They all have long noses, and 
 ivory tusks, and little tails, and seven arms with a hundred 
 arrows in each; and they live on human flesh. 
 
 
104 Caesar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 Cesar. Would you like me to show you a real Roman? 
 
 Cleopatra (terrified). No. You are frightening me. 
 
 Caesar. No matter: this is only a dream 
 
 Cleopatra {excitedly). It is not a dream: it is not a 
 dream. See, see. (She plucks a pin from her hair and jabs it 
 repeatedly into his arm.) 
 
 Caesar. Ffff — Stop. (Wrathjully) How dare you? 
 
 Cleopatra (abashed). You said you were dreaming. 
 (Whimpering) I only wanted to shew you 
 
 Ces ar (gently) . Come, come : don't cry. A queen mustn't 
 cry. (He rubs his arm, wondering at the reality of the smart.) 
 Am I awake? (He strikes his hand against the Sphinx to test 
 its solidity. It feels so real that he begins to be alarmed, and 
 says perplexedly) Yes, I — (quite panicstricken) no: impos- 
 sible: madness, madness! (Desperately) Back to camp — 
 to camp. (He rises to spring down from the pedestal.) 
 
 Cleopatra (flinging her arms in terror round him). No: 
 you shan't leave me. No, no, no: don't go. I'm afraid — 
 afraid of the Romans. 
 
 Caesar (as the conviction that he is really awake forces 
 itself on him). Cleopatra: can you see my face well? 
 
 Cleopatra. Yes. It is so white in the moonlight. 
 
 Cesar. Are you sure it is the moonlight that makes me 
 look whiter than an Egyptian? (Grimly) Do you notice 
 that I have a rather long nose ? 
 
 Cleopatra (recoiling, paralyzed by a terrible suspicion). 
 Oh! 
 
 Cesar. It is a Roman nose, Cleopatra. 
 
 Cleopatra. Ah ! (With a piercing scream she springs up; 
 darts round the left shoulder of the Sphinx; scrambles down 
 to the sand; and falls on her knees in frantic supplication, 
 shrieking) Bite him in two, Sphinx: bite him in two. I 
 meant to sacrifice the white cat — I did indeed — I (Casar, 
 who has slipped down from the pedestal, touches her on the 
 shoulder) Ah! (She buries her head in her arms.) 
 
 Cesar. Cleopatra: shall I teach you a way to prevent 
 Caesar from eating you ? 
 
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 105 
 
 Cleopatra {clinging to him piteously). Oh do, do, do. 
 I will steal Ftatateeta's jewels and give them to you. I will 
 make the river Nile water your lands twice a year. 
 
 Cesar. Peace, peace, my child. Your gods are afraid 
 of the Romans: you see the Sphinx dare not bite me, nor 
 prevent me carrying you off to Julius Caesar. 
 
 Cleopatra (in pleading murmurings) . You won't, you 
 won't. You said you wouldn't. 
 
 Cesar. Caesar never eats women. 
 
 Cleopatra (springing up full of hope). What! 
 
 Caesar (impressively). But he eats girls (she relapses) and 
 cats. Now you are a silly little girl; and you are descended 
 from the black kitten. You are both a girl and a cat. 
 
 Cleopatra (trembling). And will he eat me? 
 
 C^jsar. Yes; unless you make him believe that you are a 
 woman. 
 
 Cleopatra. Oh, you must get a sorcerer to make a 
 woman of me. Are you a sorcerer? 
 
 Cesar. Perhaps. But it will take a long time; and this 
 very night you must stand face to face with Caesar in the 
 palace of your fathers. 
 
 Cleopatra. No, no. I daren't. 
 
 Cesar. Whatever dread may be in your soul — however 
 terrible Caesar may be to you — you must confront him as 
 a brave woman and a great queen; and you must feel no 
 fear. If your hand shakes: if your voice quavers; then — 
 night and death! (She moans.) But if he thinks you worthy 
 to rule, he will set you on the throne by his side and make 
 you the real ruler of Egypt. 
 
 Cleopatra (despairingly). No: he will find me out: he 
 will find me out. 
 
 Cesar (rather mournfully). He is easily deceived by 
 women. Their eyes dazzle him; and he sees them not as 
 they are, but as he wishes them to appear to him. 
 
 Cleopatra (hopefully). Then we will cheat him. I will 
 put on Ftatateeta's head-dress; and he will think me quite 
 an old woman. 
 
106 Caesar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 Cesar. If you do that he will eat you at one mouthful. 
 
 Cleopatra. But I will give him a cake with my magic 
 opal and seven hairs of the white cat baked in it; and 
 
 Cesar (abruptly). Pah! you are a little fool. He will 
 eat your cake and you too. (He turns contemptuously from her.) 
 
 Cleopatra (running after him and clinging to him). Oh, 
 please, please! I will do whatever you tell me. I will 
 be good! I will be your slave. (Again the terrible bellowing 
 note sounds across the desert, now closer at hand. It is the 
 bucina, the Roman war trumpet.) 
 
 Cesar. Hark! 
 
 Cleopatra (trembling). What was that? 
 
 Cesar. Caesar's voice. 
 
 Cleopatra (pulling at his hand). Let us run away. 
 Come. Oh, come. 
 
 Cesar. You are safe with me until you stand on your 
 throne to receive Caesar. Now lead me thither. 
 
 Cleopatra (only too glad to get away). I will, I will. 
 (Again the bucina.) Oh, come, come, come: the gods are 
 angry. Do you feel the earth shaking? 
 
 Cesar. It is the tread of Caesar's legions. 
 
 Cleopatra (drawing him away). This way, quickly. 
 And let us look for the white cat as we go. It is he that has 
 turned you into a Roman. 
 
 Caesar. Incorrigible, oh, incorrigible! Away! (He fol- 
 lows her, the bucina sounding louder as they steal across the 
 desert. The moonlight wanes: the horizon again shows black 
 against the sky, broken only by the fantastic silhouette of the 
 Sphinx. The sky itself vanishes in darkness, from which 
 there is no relief until the gleam of a distant torch falls on 
 great Egyptian pillars supporting the roof of a majestic corri- 
 dor. At the further end of this corridor a Nubian slave ap- 
 pears carrying the torch. Casar, still led by Cleopatra, follows 
 him. They come down the corridor, Cossar peering keenly 
 about at the strange architecture, and at the pillar shadows 
 between which, as the passing torch makes them hurry noise- 
 lessly backwards, figures of men with wings and hawks' heads 9 
 
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 107 
 
 and vast black marble cats, seem to flit in and out of ambush. 
 Further along, the wall turns a corner and makes a spacious 
 transept in which Ccesar sees, on his right, a throne, and 
 behind the throne a door. On each side of the throne is a 
 slender pillar with a lamp on it.) 
 
 Caesar. What place is this? 
 
 Cleopatra. This is where I sit on the throne when I am 
 allowed to wear my crown and robes. (The slave holds his 
 torch to shew the throne.) 
 
 Cesar. Order the slave to light the lamps. 
 
 Cleopatra (shyly). Do you think I may? 
 
 Caesar. Of course. You are the Queen. (She hesitates.) 
 Go on. 
 
 Cleopatra (timidly, to the slave). Light all the lamps. 
 
 Ftatateeta (suddenly coming from behind the throne). 
 Stop. (The slave stops. She turns sternly to Cleopatra, who 
 quails like a naughty child.) Who is this you have with you; 
 and how dare you order the lamps to be lighted without my 
 permission? (Cleopatra is dumb with apprehension.) 
 
 Cesar. Who is she? 
 
 Cleopatra. Ftatateeta. 
 
 Ftatateeta (arrogantly). Chief nurse to 
 
 Caesar (cutting her short). I speak to the Queen. Be 
 silent. (To Cleopatra) Is this how your servants know 
 their places? Send her away; and do you (to the slave) do as 
 the Queen has bidden. (The slave lights the lamps. Mean- 
 while Cleopatra stands hesitating, afraid of Ftatateeta.) You 
 are the Queen: send her away. 
 
 Cleopatra (cajoling). Ftatateeta, dear: you must go 
 away — just for a little. 
 
 C/esar. You are not commanding her to go away: you 
 are begging her. You are no Queen. You will be eaten. 
 Farewell. (He turns to go.) 
 
 Cleopatra (clutching him). No, no, no. Don't leave 
 me. 
 
 Cesar. A Roman does not stay with queens who are 
 afraid of their slaves. 
 
108 Csesar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 Cleopatra. I am not afraid. Indeed I am not afraid. 
 
 Ftatateeta. We shall see who is afraid here. (Mena- 
 cingly) Cleopatra 
 
 CLesar. On your knees, woman : am I also a child that you 
 dare trifle with me ? (He points to the floor at Cleopatra's feet. 
 Ftatateeta, half cowed, half savage, hesitates. Caesar calls to 
 the Nubian) Slave. (The Nubian comes to him) Can you 
 cut off a head ? ( The Nubian nods and grins ecstatically, show- 
 ing all his teeth. Cwsar takes his sword by the scabbard, ready 
 to offer the hilt to the Nubian, and turns again to Ftatateeta, re- 
 peating his gesture.) Have you remembered yourself, mistress ? 
 
 Ftatateeta, crushed, kneels before Cleopatra, who can hardly 
 believe her eyes. 
 
 Ftatateeta (hoarsely). O Queen, forget not thy servant 
 in the days of thy greatness. 
 
 Cleopatra (blazing with excitement). Go. Begone. Go 
 away. (Ftatateeta rises with stooped head, and moves back- 
 wards towards the door. Cleopatra watches her submission 
 eagerly, almost clapping her hands, which are trembling. Sud- 
 denly she cries) Give me something to beat her with. (She 
 snatches a snake-skin from the throne and dashes after Ftata- 
 teeta, whirling it like a scourge in the air. Ccesar makes a 
 bound and manages to catch her and hold her while Ftatateeta 
 escapes) 
 
 Gesar. You scratch, kitten, do you ? 
 
 Cleopatra (breaking from him). I will beat somebody. 
 I will beat him. (She attacks the slave.) There, there, 
 there ! ( The slave flies for his life up the corridor and vanishes. 
 She throws the snake-skin away and jumps on the step of the 
 throne with her arms waving, crying) I am a real Queen at 
 last — a real, real Queen! Cleopatra the Queen! (Caisar 
 shakes his head dubiously, the advantage of the change seeming 
 open to question from the point of view of the general welfare of 
 Egypt. She turns and looks at him exultantly. Then she 
 jumps down from the step, runs to him, and flings her arms 
 round him rapturously, crying) Oh, I love you for making me 
 a Queen. 
 
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 109 
 
 Cesar. But queens love only kings. 
 
 Cleopatra. I will make all the men I love kings. I will 
 make you a king. I will have many young kings, with round, 
 strong arms; and when I am tired of them I will whip them to 
 death; but you shall always be my king: my nice, kind, wise, 
 good old king. 
 
 Cesar. Oh, my wrinkles, my wrinkles! And my child's 
 heart! You will be the most dangerous of all Caesar's con- 
 quests. 
 
 Cleopatra (appalled). Caesar! I forgot Caesar. (Anx- 
 iously) You will tell him that I am a Queen, will you not ? — 
 a real Queen. Listen! (stealthily coaxing him) let us run away 
 and hide until Csesar is gone. 
 
 Cesar. If you fear Caesar, you are no true Queen; and 
 though you were to hide beneath a pyramid, he would go 
 straight to it and lift it with one hand. And then — ! (He 
 chops his teeth together.) 
 
 Cleopatra (trembling). Oh! 
 
 Cesar. Be afraid if you dare. (The note of the bucina 
 resounds again in the distance. She moans with fear. Casar 
 exults in it, exclaiming) Aha! Caesar approaches the throne 
 of Cleopatra. Come: take your place. (He takes her hand 
 and leads her to the throne. She is too downcast to speak.) Ho, 
 there, Teetatota. How do you call your slaves ? 
 
 Cleopatra (spiritlessly, as she sinks on the throne and cowers 
 there, shaking). Clap your hands. 
 
 He claps his hands. Ftatateeta returns. 
 
 Caesar. Bring the Queen's robes, and her crown, and her 
 women; and prepare her. 
 
 Cleopatra (eagerly — recovering herself a little). Yes, the 
 crown, Ftatateeta: I shall wear the crown. 
 
 Ftatateeta. For whom must the Queen put on her state ? 
 
 Cesar. For a citizen of Rome. A king of kings, Tota- 
 teeta. 
 
 Cleopatra (stamping at her). How dare you ask ques- 
 tions ? Go and do as you are told. (Ftatateeta goes out with 
 a grim smile. Cleopatra goes on eagerly, to Ccesar) Caesar 
 
110 Caesar and Cleopatra Act I 
 
 will know that I am a Queen when he sees my crown and 
 robes, will he not? 
 
 Caesar. No. How shall he know that you are not a slave 
 dressed up in the Queen's ornaments? 
 
 Cleopatra. You must tell him. 
 
 Cesar. He will not ask me. He will know Cleopatra by 
 her pride, her courage, her majesty, and her beauty. (She 
 looks very doubtful.) Are you trembling? 
 
 Cleopatra (shivering with dread). No, I — I — (in a very 
 sickly voice) No. 
 
 Ftatateeta and three women come in with the regalia. 
 
 Ftatateeta. Of all the Queen's women, these three alone 
 are left. The rest are fled. (They begin to deck Cleopatra, 
 who submits, pale and motionless.) 
 
 Caesar. Good, good. Three are enough. Poor Caesar 
 generally has to dress himself. 
 
 Ftatateeta (contemptuously). The Queen of Egypt is not 
 a Roman barbarian. (To Cleopatra) Be brave, my nurs- 
 ling. Hold up your head before this stranger. 
 
 Cesar (admiring Cleopatra, and placing the crown on her 
 head). Is it sweet or bitter to be a Queen, Cleopatra ? 
 
 Cleopatra. Bitter. 
 
 Cesar. Cast out fear ; and you will conquer Csesar . Tota : 
 are the Romans at hand ? 
 
 Ftatateeta. They are at hand; and the guard has fled. 
 
 The Women (wailing subduedly). Woe to us! 
 
 The Nubian comes running down the hall. 
 
 Nubian. The Romans are in the courtyard. (He bolts 
 through the door. With a shriek, the women fly after him. 
 Ftatateeta s jaw expresses savage resolution: she does not budge. 
 Cleopatra can hardly restrain herself from following them. 
 Casar grips her ivrist, and looks steadfastly at her. She stands 
 like a martyr.) 
 
 Caesar. The Queen must face Csesar alone. Answer 
 "So be it." 
 
 Cleopatra (white) . So be it. 
 
 C^sar (releasing her). Good. 
 
Act I Caesar and Cleopatra 111 
 
 A tramp and tumult of armed men is heard. Cleopatra's 
 terror increases. The bucina sounds close at hand, followed by 
 a formidable clangor of trumpets. This is too much for Cleo- 
 patra: she utters a cry and darts towards the door. Ftatateeta 
 stops her ruthlessly. 
 
 Ftatateeta. You are my nursling. You have said "So 
 be it"; and if you die for it, you must make the Queen's word 
 good. (She hands Cleopatra to C&sar, who takes her back, 
 almost beside herself with apprehension, to the throne.) 
 
 CiESAR. Now, if you quail — ! (He seats himself on the 
 throne.) 
 
 She stands on the step, all but unconscious, waiting for death. 
 The Roman soldiers troop in tumultuously through the corridor, 
 headed by their ensign with his eagle, and their bucinator, a burly 
 fellow with his instrument coiled round his body, its brazen bell 
 shaped like the head of a howling wolf. When they reach the 
 transept, they stare in amazement at the throne; dress into or- 
 dered rank opposite it; draw their swords and lift them in the 
 air with a shout of Hail, Csesar. Cleopatra turns and 
 stares wildly at Casar; grasps the situation; and, with a great 
 sob of relief, falls into his arms. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
act n 
 
 Alexandria. A hall on the first floor of the Palace, ending 
 in a loggia approached by two steps. Through the arches o] 
 the loggia the Mediterranean can be seen, bright in the morning 
 sun. The clean lofty walls, painted with a procession of the 
 Egyptian theocracy, presented in profile as flat ornament, 
 and the absence of mirrors, sham perspectives, stuffy upholstery 
 and textiles, make the place handsome, wholesome, simple 
 and cool, or, as a rich English manufacturer would express 
 it, poor, bare, ridiculous and unhomely. For Tottenham 
 Court Road civilization is to this Egyptian civilization as 
 glass bead and tattoo civilization is to Tottenham Court Road. 
 
 The young king Ptolemy Dionysus (aged ten) is at the top 
 of the steps, on his way in through the loggia, led by his guar- 
 dian Pothinus, who has him by the hand. The court is as- 
 sembled to receive him. It is made up of men and women 
 (some of the women being officials) of various complexions and 
 races, mostly Egyptian; some of them, comparatively fair, 
 from lower Egypt; some, much darker, from upper Egypt; 
 with a few Greeks and Jews. Prominent in a group on 
 Ptolemy's right hand is Theodotus, Ptolemy's tutor. Another 
 group, on Ptolemy's left, is headed by Achillas, the general of 
 Ptolemy's troops. Theodotus is a little old man, whose features 
 are as cramped and wizened as his limbs, except his tall straight 
 forehead, which occupies more space than all the rest of his 
 face. He maintains an air of magpie keenness and pro- 
 fundity, listening to what the others say with the sarcastic 
 vigilance of a philosopher listening to the exercises of his dis- 
 ciples. Achillas is a tall handsome man of thirty-five, with a 
 fine black beard curled like the coat of a poodle. Apparently 
 not a clever man, but distinguished and dignified. Pothinus 
 
 112 
 
Act n Caesar and Cleopatra 113 
 
 is a vigorous man of fifty, a eunuch, passionate, energetic and 
 quick witted, but of common mind and character; impatient 
 and unable to control his temper. He has fine tawny hair, 
 like fur. Ptolemy, the King, looks much older than an Eng- 
 lish boy of ten; but he has the childish air, the habit of being 
 in leading strings, the mixture of impotence and petulance, 
 the appearance of being excessively washed, combed and 
 dressed by other hands, which is exhibited by court-bred princes 
 of all ages. 
 
 All receive the King with reverences. He comes down the 
 steps to a chair of state which stands a little to his right, the 
 only seat in the hall. Taking his place before it, he looks 
 nervously for instructions to Pothinus, who places himself at 
 his left hand. 
 
 Pothinus. The King of Egypt has a word to speak. 
 
 Theodotus (in a squeak which he makes impressive by 
 sheer self-opinionativeness). Peace for the King's word! 
 
 Ptolemy (without any vocal inflexions: he is evidently 
 repeating a lesson). Take notice of this all of you. I am 
 the firstborn son of Auletes the Flute Blower who was your 
 King. My sister Berenice drove him from his throne and 
 reigned in his stead but — but (he hesitates) 
 
 Pothinus (stealthily prompting) — but the gods would not 
 suffer 
 
 Ptolemy. Yes — the gods would not suffer — not suffer — 
 (he stops; then, crestfallen) I forget what the gods would 
 not suffer. 
 
 Theodotus. Let Pothinus, the King's guardian, speak 
 for the King. 
 
 Pothinus (suppressing his impatience with difficulty). The 
 King wished to say that the gods would not suffer the im- 
 piety of his sister to go unpunished. 
 
 Ptolemy (liastily). Yes: I remember the rest of it. (He 
 resumes his monotone.) Therefore the gods sent a stranger, 
 one Mark Antony, a Roman captain of horsemen, across the 
 sands of the desert and he set my father again upon the 
 
114 Caesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 throne. And my father took Berenice my sister and struck 
 her head off. And now that my father is dead yet another 
 of his daughters, my sister Cleopatra, would snatch the king- 
 dom from me and reign in my place. But the gods would 
 not suffer (Pothinus coughs admonitorily) — the gods — the gods 
 would not suffer 
 
 Pothinus (prompting) — will not maintain 
 
 Ptolemy. Oh yes — will not maintain such iniquity, they 
 will give her head to the axe even as her sister's. But with 
 the help of the witch Ftatateeta she hath cast a spell on the 
 Roman Julius Csesar to make him uphold her false pretence 
 to rule in Egypt. Take notice then that I will not suffer — 
 that I will not suffer — (pettishly, to Pothinus) What is it 
 that I will not suffer ? 
 
 Pothinus (suddenly exploding with all the force and em- 
 phasis of political passion). The King will not suffer a 
 foreigner to take from him the throne of our Egypt. (A 
 shout of applause.) Tell the King, Achillas, how many 
 soldiers and horsemen follow the Roman? 
 
 Theodotus. Let the King's general speak! 
 
 Achillas. But two Roman legions, O King. Three 
 thousand soldiers and scarce a thousand horsemen. 
 
 The court breaks into derisive laughter; and a great chatter- 
 ing begins, amid which Rufio, a Roman officer, appears in 
 the loggia. He is a burly, black-bearded man of middle age, 
 very blunt, prompt and rough, with small clear eyes, and 
 plump nose and cheeks, which, however, like the rest of his 
 flesh, are in ironhard condition. 
 
 Rufio (from the steps). Peace, ho! (The laughter and 
 chatter cease abruptly.) Csesar approaches. 
 
 Theodotus (with much presence of mind). The King 
 permits the Roman commander to enter! 
 
 Casar, plainly dressed, but wearing an oak wreath to con- 
 ceal his baldness, enters from the loggia, attended by Britannus, 
 his secretary, a Briton, about forty, tall, solemn, and already 
 slightly bald, with a heavy, drooping, hazel- m colored moustache 
 trained so as to lose its ends in a pair of trim whiskers. He 
 
Act II Csesar and Cleopatra 115 
 
 is carefully dressed in blue, with portfolio, inkhorn, and reed 
 pen at his girdle, His serious air and sense of the importance 
 of the business in hand is in marked contrast to the kindly 
 interest of Coesar, who looks at the scene, which is new to 
 him, with the frank curiosity of a child, and then turns to 
 the King's chair: Britannus and Rufio posting themselves 
 near the steps at the other side. 
 
 Cesar (looking at Pothinus and Ptolemy). Which is the 
 King? the man or the boy? 
 
 Pothinus . I am Pothinus, the guardian of my lord the King. 
 
 Cesar (patting Ptolemy kindly on the shoulder). So you 
 are the. King. Dull work at your age, eh? (To Pothi?ius) 
 Your servant, Pothinus. (He turns away unconcernedly and 
 comes slowly along the middle of the hall, looking from side to 
 side at the courtiers until he reaches Achillas.) And this 
 gentleman ? 
 
 Theodotus. Achillas, the King's general. 
 
 Cesar (to Achillas, very friendly). A general, eh? I am 
 a general myself. But I began too old, too old. Health and 
 many victories, Achillas! 
 
 Achillas. As the gods will, Caesar. 
 
 Cesar (turning to Theodotus). And you, sir, are ? 
 
 Theodotus. Theodotus, the King's tutor. 
 
 Cesar. You teach men how to be kings, Theodotus. 
 That is very clever of you. (Looking at the gods on the walls 
 as he turns away from Theodotus and goes up again to Po- 
 thinus). And this place? 
 
 Pothinus. The council chamber of the chancellors of 
 the King's treasury, Caesar. 
 
 Caesar. Ah ! that reminds me. I want some money. 
 
 Pothinus. The King's treasury is poor, Caesar. 
 
 Cesar. Yes : I notice that there is but one chair in it. 
 
 Rufio (shouting gruffly). Bring a chair there, some of you, 
 for Caesar. 
 
 Ptolemy (rising shyly to offer his chair). Caesar 
 
 Cesar (kindly). No, no, my boy: that is your chair of 
 state. Sit down. 
 
 
116 Caesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 He makes Ptolemy sit down again. Meanwhile Rufio, look- 
 ing about him, sees in the nearest corner an image of the god Ra, 
 represented as a seated man with the head of a hawk. Before 
 the image is a bronze tripod, about as large as a three-legged 
 stool, with a stick of incense burning on it. Rufio, with Roman 
 resourcefulness and indifference to foreign superstitions, prompt- 
 ly seizes the tripod; shakes off the incense; blows away the ash; 
 and dumps it down behind C&sar, nearly in the middle of the 
 hall. 
 
 Rufio. Sit on that, Caesar. 
 
 A shiver runs through the court, followed by a hissing whis- 
 per of Sacrilege! 
 
 Cesar {seating himself). Now, Pothinus, to business. I 
 am badly in want of money. 
 
 Britannus (disapproving of these informal expressions). 
 My master would say that there is a lawful debt due to Rome 
 by Egypt, contracted by the King's deceased father to the 
 Triumvirate; and that it is Caesar's duty to his country to re- 
 quire immediate payment. 
 
 Cesar (blandly). Ah, I forgot. I have not made my 
 companions known here. Pothinus: this is Britannus, my 
 secretary. He is an islander from the western end of the world, 
 a day's voyage from Gaul. (Britannus bows stiffly.) This 
 gentleman is Rufio, my comrade in arms. (Rufio nods.) Po- 
 thinus: I want 1,600 talents. 
 
 The courtiers, appalled, murmur loudly, and Theodotus and 
 Achillas appeal mutely to one another against so monstrous a 
 demand. 
 
 Pothinus (aghast). Forty million sesterces! Impossible. 
 There is not so much money in the King's treasury. 
 
 Cesar (encouragingly). Only sixteen hundred talents, 
 Pothinus. Why count it in sesterces? A sestertius is only 
 worth a loaf of bread. 
 
 Pothinus. And a talent is worth a racehorse. I say it is 
 impossible. We have been at strife here, because the King's 
 sister Cleopatra falsely claims his throne. The King's taxes 
 have not been collected for a whole year. 
 
Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 117 
 
 Cesar. Yes they have, Pothinus. My officers have been 
 collecting them all the morning. (Renewed whisper and sen- 
 sation, not without some stifled laughter, among the courtiers.) 
 
 Rufio (bluntly). You must pay, Pothinus. Why waste 
 words ? You are getting off cheaply enough. 
 
 Pothinus {bitterly). Is it possible that Caesar, the con- 
 queror of the world, has time to occupy himself with such a 
 trifle as our taxes ? 
 
 Caesar. My friend: taxes are the chief business of a con- 
 queror of the world. 
 
 Pothinus. Then take warning, Caesar. This day, the 
 treasures of the temples and the gold of the King's treasury 
 shall be sent to the mint to be melted down for our ransom in 
 the sight of the people. They shall see us sitting under bare 
 walls and drinking from wooden cups. And their wrath be 
 on your head, Caesar, if you force us to this sacrilege! 
 
 Cesar. Do not fear, Pothinus: the people know how well 
 wine tastes in wooden cups. In return for your bounty, I will 
 settle this dispute about the throne for you, if you will. What 
 say you ? 
 
 Pothinus. If I say no, will that hinder you ? 
 
 Rufio (defiantly). No. 
 
 Cesar. You say the matter has been at issue for a year, 
 Pothinus. May I have ten minutes at it? 
 
 Pothinus. You will do your pleasure, doubtless. 
 
 Caesar. Good! But first, let us have Cleopatra here. 
 
 Theodotus. She is not in Alexandria : she is fled into Syria. 
 
 Cesar. I think not. (To Rufio) Call Totateeta. 
 
 Rufio (calling). Ho there, Teetatota. 
 
 Ftatateeta enters the loggia, and stands arrogantly at the top of 
 the steps. 
 
 Ftatateeta. Who pronounces the name of Ftatateeta, 
 the Queen's chief nurse ? 
 
 Cesar. Nobody can pronounce it, Tota, except yourself. 
 Where is your mistress? 
 
 Cleopatra, who is hiding behind Ftatateeta, peeps out at them, 
 laughing. Ccesar rises. 
 
118 Ceesar and Cleopatra Act n 
 
 Cesar. Will the Queen favor us with her presence for a 
 moment ? 
 
 Cleopatra {pushing Ftatateeta aside and standing haughtily 
 on the brink of the steps). Am I to behave like a Queen? 
 
 C^sar. Yes. 
 
 Cleopatra immediately comes down to the chair of state; seizes 
 Ptolemy and drags him out of his seat; then takes his place in 
 the chair. Ftatateeta seats herself on the step of the loggia, and 
 sits there, watching the scene with sybilline intensity. 
 
 Ptolemy {mortified, and struggling with his tears). Caesar: 
 this is how she treats me always. If I am a ldng why is she 
 allowed to take everything from me ? 
 
 Cleopatra. You are not to be King, you little cry-baby. 
 You are to be eaten by the Romans. 
 
 Cesar {touched by Ptolemy's distress). Come here, my boy, 
 and stand by me. 
 
 Ptolemy goes over to Ceesar, who, resuming his seat on the 
 tripod, takes the boifs hand to encourage him. Cleopatra, furi- 
 ously jealous, rises and glares at them. 
 
 Cleopatra {with flaming cheeks). Take your throne: I 
 don't want it. {She flings away from the chair, and approaches 
 Ptolemy, who shrinks from her.) Go this instant and sit down 
 in your place. 
 
 C^sar. Go, Ptolemy. Always take a throne when it is 
 offered to you. 
 
 Rtjfio. I hope you will have the good sense to follow your 
 own advice when we return to Rome, Csesar. 
 
 Ptolemy slowly goes back to the throne, giving Cleopatra a 
 wide berth, in evident fear of her hands. She takes his place 
 beside C&sar. 
 
 Cesar. Pothinus 
 
 Cleopatra {interrupting him). Are you not going to speak 
 to me? 
 
 C^sar. Be quiet. Open your mouth again before I give 
 you leave; and you shall be eaten. 
 
 Cleopatra. I am not afraid. A queen must not be afraid. 
 Eat my husband there, if you like: h e is afraid. 
 
Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 119 
 
 Cesar (starting) . Your husband ! What do you mean ? 
 
 Cleopatra (pointing to Ptolemy). That little thing. 
 
 The two Romans and the Briton stare at one another in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 Theodotus. Caesar: you are a stranger here, and not con- 
 versant with our laws. The kings and queens of Egypt may 
 not marry except with their own royal blood. Ptolemy and 
 Cleopatra are born king and consort just as they are born 
 brother and sister. 
 
 Britannus (shocked). Caesar: this is not proper. 
 
 Theodotus (outraged). How! 
 
 Cesar (recovering his self-possession). Pardon him, 
 Theodotus: he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of 
 his tribe and island are the laws of nature. 
 
 Britannus. On the contrary, Caesar, it is these Egyptians 
 who are barbarians; and you do wrong to encourage them. 
 I say it is a scandal. 
 
 Cesar. Scandal or not, my friend, it opens the gate of 
 peace. (He rises and addresses Pothinus seriously) Pothi- 
 nus: hear what I propose. 
 
 Rufio. Hear Caesar there. 
 
 Cesar. Ptolemy and Cleopatra shall reign jointly in 
 Egypt- 
 
 Achillas. What of the King's younger brother and 
 Cleopatra's younger sister? 
 
 Rufio (explaining). There is another little Ptolemy, 
 Caesar: so they tell me. 
 
 Caesar. Well, the little Ptolemy can marry the other 
 sister; and we will make them both a present of Cyprus. 
 
 Pothinus (impatiently). Cyprus is of no use to anybody. 
 
 Cesar. No matter: you shall have it for the sake of 
 peace. 
 
 Britannus (unconsciously anticipating a later statesman). 
 Peace with honor, Pothinus. 
 
 Pothinus (mutinously). Caesar: be honest. The money 
 you demand is the price of our freedom. Take it; and leave 
 us to settle our own affairs. 
 
120 Csesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 The Bolder Courtiers (encouraged by Pothinus's tone 
 and Casars quietness). Yes, yes. Egypt for the Egyptians! 
 
 The conference now becomes an altercation, the Egyptians 
 becoming more and more heated. Casar remains unruffled; 
 but Rufio grows fiercer and doggeder, and Britannus haughtily 
 indignant. 
 
 Rufio (contemptuously). Egypt for the Egyptians! Do 
 you forget that there is a Roman army of occupation here, 
 left by Aulus Gabinius when he set up your toy king for you ? 
 
 Achillas (suddenly asserting himself). And now under my 
 command. / am the Roman general here, Csesar. 
 
 Caesar (tickled by the humor of the situation). And also 
 the Egyptian general, eh? 
 
 Pothinus (triumphantly). That is so, Csesar. 
 
 G/ESAR (to Achillas). So you can make war on the Egyp- 
 tians in the name of Rome, and on the Romans — on me, if 
 necessary — in the name of Egypt? 
 
 Achillas. That is so, Csesar. 
 
 Caesar. And which side are you on at present, if I may 
 presume to ask, general ? 
 
 Achillas. On the side of the right and of the gods. 
 
 Caesar. Hm ! How many men have you ? 
 
 Achillas. That will appear when I take the field. 
 
 Rufio (truculently). Are your men Romans? If not, it 
 matters not how many there are, provided you are no stronger 
 than 500 to ten. 
 
 Pothinus. It is useless to try to bluff us, Rufio. Csesar 
 has been defeated before and may be defeated again. A few 
 weeks ago Csesar was flying for his life before Pompey: a 
 few months hence he may be flying for his life before Cato 
 and Juba of Numidia, the African King. 
 
 Achillas (following up Pothinus* s speech menacingly). 
 What can you do with 4,000 men? 
 
 Theodotus (following up Achillas' 's speech with a raucous 
 squeak). And without money? Away with you. 
 
 All the Courtiers (shouting fiercely and crowding towards 
 Casar). Away with you. Egypt for the Egyptians! Begone. 
 
Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 121 
 
 Rufio bites his beard, too angry to speak. Ccesar sits as 
 comfortably as if he were at breakfast, and the cat were clam- 
 oring for a piece of Finnan-haddie. 
 
 Cleopatra. Why do you let them talk to you like lhat, 
 Caesar? Are you afraid? 
 
 Cesar. Why, my dear, what they say is quite true. 
 
 Cleopatra. But if you go away, I shall not be Queen. 
 
 Caesar. I shall not go away until you are Queen. 
 
 Pothinus. Achillas: if you are not a fool, you will take 
 that girl whilst she is under your hand. 
 
 Rufio (daring them). Why not take Caesar as well, 
 Achillas ? 
 
 Pothinus (retorting the defiance with interest). Well said, 
 Rufio. Why not? 
 
 Rufio. Try, Achillas. (Calling) Guard there. 
 
 The loggia immediately fills with Ccesar's soldiers, who 
 stand, sword in hand, at the top of the steps, waiting the word 
 to charge from their centurion, who carries a cudgel. For a 
 moment the Egyptians face them proudly: then they retire 
 sullenly to their former places. 
 
 Britannus. You are Caesar's prisoners, all of you. 
 
 Cesar (benevolently). Oh no, no, no. By no means. 
 Caesar's guests, gentlemen. 
 
 Cleopatra. Won't you cut their heads off? 
 
 Cesar. What! Cut off your brother's head? 
 
 Cleopatra. Why not ? He would cut off mine, if he got 
 the chance. Wouldn't you, Ptolemy? 
 
 Ptolemy (pale and obstinate). I would. I will, too, when 
 I grow up. 
 
 Cleopatra is rent by a struggle between her newly-acquired 
 dignity as a queen, and a strong impulse to put out her tongue 
 at him. She takes no part in the scene which follows, but 
 watches it with curiosity and wonder, fidgeting with the rest- 
 lessness of a child, and sitting down on Ccesar s tripod when 
 he rises. 
 
 Pothinus. Caesar: if you attempt to detain us 
 
 Rufio. He will succeed, Egyptian: make up your mind 
 
122 Ceesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 to that. We hold the palace, the beach, and the eastern 
 harbor. The road to Rome is open; and you shall travel it 
 if Csesar chooses. 
 
 Cesar {courteously). I could do no less, Pothinus, to 
 secure the retreat of my own soldiers. I am accountable for 
 every life among them. But you are free to go. So are 
 all here, and in the palace. 
 
 Rufio {aghast at this clemency). What! Renegades and 
 all? 
 
 Cesar {softening the expression). Roman army of occu- 
 pation and all, Rufio. 
 
 Pothinus {desperately). Then I make a last appeal to 
 Caesar's justice. I shall call a witness to prove that but for 
 us, the Roman army of occupation, led by the greatest soldier 
 in the world, would now have Csesar at its mercy. {Calling 
 through the loggia) Ho, there, Lucius Septimius {Caisar 
 starts, deeply moved) : if my voice can reach you, come forth 
 and testify before Csesar. 
 
 Cesar {shrinking). No, no. 
 
 Theodotus. Yes, I say. Let the military tribune bear 
 witness. 
 
 Lucius Septimius, a clean shaven, trim athlete of about 40, 
 with symmetrical features, resolute mouth, and handsome, 
 thin Roman nose, in the dress of a Roman officer, comes in 
 through the loggia and confronts Ccesar, who hides his face 
 with his robe for a moment; then, mastering himself, drops it, 
 and confronts the tribune with dignity, 
 
 Pothinus. Bear witness, Lucius Septimius. Csesar came 
 hither in pursuit of his foe. Did we shelter his foe ? 
 
 Lucius. As Pompey's foot touched the Egyptian shore, 
 his head fell by the stroke of my sword. 
 
 Theodotus {with viperish relish). Under the eyes of his 
 wife and child! Remember that, Caesar! They saw it from 
 the ship he had just left. We have given you a full and 
 sweet measure of vengeance. 
 
 Cesar {with horror). Vengeance! 
 
 Pothinus. Our first gift to you, as your galley came 
 
Act II Cgesar and Cleopatra 123 
 
 into the roadstead, was the head of your rival for the empire 
 of the world. Bear witness, Lucius Septimius: is it not so? 
 
 Lucius. It is so. With this hand, that slew Pompey, I 
 placed his head at the feet of Cassar. 
 
 Caesar. Murderer! So would you have slain Caesar, had 
 Pompey been victorious at Pharsalia. 
 
 Lucius. Woe to the vanquished, Caesar! When I served 
 Pompey, I slew as good men as he, only because he con- 
 quered them. His turn came at last. 
 
 Theodotus (flatteringly). The deed was not yours, 
 Ceesar, but ours — nay, mine; for it was done by my counsel. 
 Thanks to us, you keep your reputation for clemency, and 
 have your vengeance too. 
 
 Caesar. Vengeance! Vengeance!! Oh, if I could stoop to 
 vengeance, what would I not exact from you as the price of this 
 murdered man's blood. (They shrink back, appalled and dis- 
 concerted.) Was he not my son-in-law, my ancient friend, for 
 20 years the master of great Rome, for 30 years the compeller of 
 victory? Did not I, as a Roman, share his glory? Was the 
 Fate that forced us to fight for the mastery of the world, of our 
 making ? Am I Julius Caesar, or am I a wolf, that you fling to 
 me the grey head of the old soldier, the laurelled conqueror, the 
 mighty Roman, treacherously struck down by this callous 
 ruffian, and then claim my gratitude for it! (To Lucius Sep- 
 timius) Begone : you fill me with horror. 
 
 Lucius (cold and undaunted). Pshaw! you have seen sev- 
 ered heads before, Caesar, and severed right hands too, I think; 
 some thousands of them, in Gaul, after you vanquished Ver- 
 cingetorix. Did you spare him, with all your clemency ? Was 
 that vengeance ? 
 
 C^sar. No, by the gods! would that it had been! Ven- 
 geance at least is human. No, I say: those severed right 
 hands, and the brave Vercingetorix basely strangled in a vault 
 beneath the Capitol, were (with shuddering satire) a wise sever- 
 ity, a necessary protection to the commonwealth, a duty of 
 statesmanship — follies and fictions ten times bloodier than 
 honest vengeance! What a fool was I then! To think that 
 
124 Caesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 men's lives should be at the mercy of such fools ! {Humbly) 
 Lucius Septimius, pardon me : why should the slayer of Vercin- 
 getorix rebuke the slayer of Pompey ? You are free to go with 
 the rest. Or stay if you will : I will find a place for you in my 
 service. 
 
 Lucius. The odds are against you, Csesar. I go. (He 
 turns to go out through the loggia.) 
 
 Rufio (full of wrath at seeing his prey escaping). That 
 means that he is a Republican. 
 
 Lucius (turning defiantly on the loggia steps). And what 
 are you ? 
 
 Rufio. A Caesarian, like all Csesar's soldiers. 
 
 Cesar (courteously). Lucius: believe me, Csesar is no 
 Caesarian. Were Rome a true republic, then were Csesar the 
 first of Republicans. But you have made your choice. Fare- 
 well. 
 
 Lucius. Farewell. Come, Achillas, whilst there is yet 
 time. 
 
 Casar, seeing that Rufio' 's temper threatens to get the worse of 
 him, puts his hand on his shoulder and brings him down the 
 hall out of harm's way, Britannus accompanying them and 
 posting himself on Ccesar's right hand. This movement 
 brings the three in a little group to the place occupied by Achillas, 
 who moves haughtily away and joins Theodotus on the other 
 side. Lucius Septimius goes out through the soldiers in the 
 loggia. Pothinus, Theodotus and Achillas follow him with the 
 courtiers, very mistrustful of the soldiers, who close up in their 
 rear and go out after them, keeping them moving without much 
 ceremony. The King is left in his chair, piteous, obstinate, with 
 twitching face and fingers. During these movements Rufio 
 maintains an energetic grumbling, as follows: — 
 
 Rufio (as Lucius departs). Do you suppose he would let 
 us go if he had our heads in his hands ? 
 
 Cesar. I have no right to suppose that his ways are any 
 baser than mine. 
 
 Rufio. Psha! 
 
 Cesar. Rufio: if I take Lucius Septimius for my model, 
 
Act II Ceesar and Cleopatra 125 
 
 and become exactly like him, ceasing to be Caesar, will you 
 serve me still ? 
 
 Britannus. Caesar: this is not good sense. Your duty to 
 Rome demands that her enemies should be prevented from 
 doing further mischief. (Ccesar, whose delight in the moral 
 eye-to-business of his British secretary is inexhaustible, smiles 
 indulgently.) 
 
 Rufio. It is no use talking to him, Britannus: you may 
 save your breath to cool your porridge. But mark this, Caesar. 
 Clemency is very well for you; but what is it for your soldiers, 
 who have to fight to-morrow the men you spared yesterday? 
 You may give what orders you please; but I tell you that your 
 next victory will be a massacre, thanks to your clemency. 7, 
 for one, will take no prisoners. I will kill my enemies in the 
 field; and then you can preach as much clemency as you 
 please : I shall never have to fight them again. And now, with 
 your leave, I will see these gentry off the premises. (He turns 
 to go.) 
 
 Cesar (turning also and seeing Ptolemy). What! have 
 they left the boy alone! Oh shame, shame! 
 
 Rufio (taking Ptolemy's hand and making him rise) . Come, 
 your majesty ! 
 
 Ptolemy (to Coesar, drawing away his hand from Rufio). 
 Is he turning me out of my palace? 
 
 Rufio (grimly). You are welcome to stay if you wish. 
 
 Caesar (kindly). Go, my boy. I will not harm you; but 
 you will be safer away, among your friends. Here you are in 
 the lion's mouth. 
 
 Ptolemy (turning to go). It is not the lion I fear, but 
 (looking at Rufio) the jackal. (He goes out through the 
 loggia.) 
 
 Cesar (laughing approvingly). Brave boy! 
 
 Cleopatra (jealous of Casar's approbation, calling after 
 Ptolemy). Little silly. You think that very clever. 
 
 Caesar. Britannus : attend the King. Give him in charge 
 to that Pothinus fellow. (Britannus goes out after Ptolemy.) 
 
 Rufio (pointing to Cleopatra). And this piece of goods? 
 
126 Cassar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 What is to be done with her? However, I suppose I may 
 leave that to you. (He goes out through the loggia.) 
 
 Cleopatra (flushing suddenly and turning on C&sar) . Did 
 you mean me to go with the rest ? 
 
 Cesar (a little preoccupied, goes with a sigh to Ptolemy's 
 chair, whilst she waits for his answer with red cheeks and 
 clenched fists). You are free to do just as you please, Cleo- 
 patra. 
 
 Cleopatra. Then you do not care whether I stay or not? 
 
 Cesar (smiling). Of course I had rather you stayed. 
 
 Cleopatra. Much, much rather ? 
 
 Cesar (nodding). Much, much rather. 
 
 Cleopatra. Then I consent to stay, because I am asked. 
 But I do not want to, mind. 
 
 Caesar. That is quite understood. (Calling) Tota- 
 teeta. 
 
 Ftatateeta, still seated, turns her eyes on him with a sinister 
 expression, but does not move. 
 
 Cleopatra (with a splutter of laughter). Her name is not 
 Totateeta: it is Ftatateeta. (Calling) Ftatateeta. (Ftata- 
 teeta instantly rises and comes to Cleopatra.) 
 
 Cesar (stumbling over the name). Tfatafeeta will forgive 
 the erring tongue of a Roman. Tota: the Queen will hold her 
 state here in Alexandria. Engage women to attend upon her; 
 and do all that is needful. 
 
 Ftatateeta. Am I then the mistress of the Queen's house- 
 hold? 
 
 Cleopatra (sharply). No: I am the mistress of the 
 Queen's household. Go and do as you are told, or I will have 
 you thrown into the Nile this very afternoon, to poison the poor 
 crocodiles. 
 
 Cesar (shocked). Oh no, no. 
 
 Cleopatra. Oh yes, yes. You are very sentimental, 
 Caesar; but you are clever; and if you do as I tell you, you will 
 soon learn to govern. 
 
 Casar, quite dumbfounded by this impertinence, turns in his 
 chair and stares at her. 
 
Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 127 
 
 Ftatateeta, smiling grimly, and showing a splendid set of 
 teeth, goes, leaving them alone together. 
 
 Cesar. Cleopatra: I really think I must eat you, after all. 
 
 Cleopatra (kneeling beside him and looking at him with 
 eager interest, half real, half affected to shew how intelligent she 
 is). You must not talk to me now as if I were a child. 
 
 Cesar. You have been growing up since the Sphinx in- 
 troduced us the other night; and you think you know more 
 than I do already. 
 
 Cleopatra (taken down, and anxious to justify herself). No: 
 that would be very silly of me : of course I know that. But — 
 (suddenly) are you angry with me ? 
 
 Cesar. No. 
 
 Cleopatra (only half believing him). Then why are you 
 so thoughtful? 
 
 Cesar (rising). I have work to do, Cleopatra. 
 
 Cleopatra (drawing back) . Work! (Offended) You are tired 
 of talking to me; and that is your excuse to get away from me. 
 
 C^sar (sitting down again to appease her). Well, well: 
 another minute. But then — work! 
 
 Cleopatra. Work! what nonsense! You must remem- 
 ber that you are a king now: I have made you one. Kings 
 don't work. 
 
 Cesar. Oh! Who told you that, little kitten? Eh? 
 
 Cleopatra. My father was King of Egypt; and he never 
 worked. But he was a great king, and cut off my sister's 
 head because she rebelled against him and took the throne 
 from him. 
 
 Caesar. Well; and how did he get his throne back again? 
 
 Cleopatra (eagerly, her eyes lighting up). I will tell you. 
 A beautiful young man, with strong round arms, came over 
 the desert with many horsemen, and slew my sister's hus- 
 band and gave my father back his throne. (Wistfully) I 
 was only twelve then. Oh, I wish he would come again, 
 now that I am a queen. I would make him my husband. 
 
 Cesar. It might be managed, perhaps; for it was I who 
 sent that beautiful young man to help your father. 
 
128 Csesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 Cleopatra (enraptured). You know him! 
 
 Cesar (nodding). I do. 
 
 Cleopatra. Has he come with you? (Ccesar shakes his 
 head: she is cruelly disappointed.) Oh, I wish he had, I wish 
 he had. If only I were a little older; so that he might not 
 think me a mere kitten, as you do! But perhaps that is 
 because you are old. He is many, many years younger 
 than you, is he not? 
 
 Caesar (as if swallowing a pill). He is somewhat younger. 
 
 Cleopatra. Would he be my husband, do you think, if 
 I asked him ? 
 
 Cesar. Very likely. 
 
 Cleopatra. But I should not like to ask him. Could 
 you not persuade him to ask me — without knowing that I 
 wanted him to? 
 
 Caesar (touched by her innocence of the beautiful young 
 mans character). My poor child! 
 
 Cleopatra. Why do you say that as if you were sorry 
 for me? Does he love anyone else? 
 
 Cesar. I am afraid so. 
 
 Cleopatra (tearfully). Then I shall not be his first 
 love. 
 
 Caesar. Not quite the first. He is greatly admired by 
 women. 
 
 Cleopatra. I wish I could be the first. But if he loves 
 me, I will make him kill all the rest. Tell me: is he still 
 beautiful? Do his strong round arms shine in the sun like 
 marble ? 
 
 Caesar. He is in excellent condition — considering how 
 much he eats and drinks. 
 
 Cleopatra. Oh, you must not say common, earthly 
 things about him; for I love him. He is a god. 
 
 Cesar. He is a great captain of horsemen, and swifter 
 of foot than any other Roman. 
 
 Cleopatra. What is his real name? 
 
 Cesar (puzzled). His real name? 
 
 Cleopatra. Yes. I always call him Horns, because 
 
Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 129 
 
 Horus is the most beautiful of our gods. But I want to know 
 his real name. 
 
 Caesar. His name is Mark Antony. 
 
 Cleopatra (musically). Mark Antony, Mark Antony, 
 Mark Antony! What a beautiful name! (She throws her 
 arms round Cwsar's neck.) Oh, how I love you for sending 
 him to help my father! Did you love my father very much? 
 
 Caesar. No, my child; but your father, as you say, never 
 worked. I always work. So when he lost his crown he had 
 to promise me 16,000 talents to get it back for him. 
 
 Cleopatra. Did he ever pay you? 
 
 Cesar. Not in full. 
 
 Cleopatra. He was quite right: it was too dear. The 
 whole world is not worth 16,000 talents. 
 
 Cesar. That is perhaps true, Cleopatra. Those Egyp- 
 tians who work paid as much of it as he could drag from 
 them. The rest is still due. But as I most likely shall not 
 get it, I must go back to my work. So you must run away 
 for a little and send my secretary to me. 
 
 Cleopatra (coaxing). No: I want to stay and hear you 
 talk about Mark Antony. 
 
 Cesar. But if I do not get to work, Pothinus and the 
 rest of them will cut us off from the harbor; and then the 
 way from Rome will be blocked. 
 
 Cleopatra. No matter: I don't want you to go back to 
 Rome. 
 
 Cesar. But you want Mark Antony to come from it. 
 
 Cleopatra (springing up). Oh yes, yes, yes : I forgot. Go 
 quickly and work, Caesar; and keep the way over the sea open 
 for my Mark Antony. (She runs out through the loggia, 
 kissing her hand to Mark Antony across the sea.) 
 
 Cesar (going briskly up the middle of the hall to the loggia 
 steps). Ho, Britannus. (He is startled by the entry of a 
 wounded Roman soldier, who confronts him from the upper 
 step.) What now? 
 
 Soldier (pointing to his bandaged head). This, Caesar; 
 and two of my comrades killed in the market place. 
 
130 Caesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 Cesar (quiet, but attending). Ay. Why? 
 
 Soldier. There is an army come to Alexandria, calling 
 itself the Roman army. 
 
 Cesar. The Roman army of occupation. Ay? 
 
 Soldier. Commanded by one Achillas. 
 
 Cesar. Well? 
 
 Soldier. The citizens rose against us when the army 
 entered the gates. I was with two others in the market place 
 when the news came. They set upon us. I cut my way out; 
 and here I am. 
 
 Caesar. Good. I am glad to see you alive. (Rufio enters 
 the loggia hastily, passing behind the soldier to look out through 
 one of the arches at the quay beneath.) Rufio, we are besieged. 
 
 Rufio. What! Already? 
 
 Cesar. Now or to-morrow: what does it matter? We 
 shall be besieged. 
 
 Britannus runs in. 
 
 Britannus. Caesar 
 
 Cesar (anticipating him). Yes: I know. (Rufio and 
 Britannus come down the hall from the loggia at opposite sides, 
 past Ccesar, who waits for a moment near the step to say to 
 the soldier) Comrade: give the word to turn out on the 
 beach and stand by the boats. Get your wound attended 
 to. Go. (The soldier hurries out. Ccesar comes down the 
 hall between Rufio and Britannus) Rufio: we have some 
 ships in the west harbor. Burn them. 
 
 Rufio (staring). Burn them!! 
 
 Cesar. Take every boat we have in the east harbor, 
 and seize the Pharos — that island with the lighthouse. Leave 
 half our men behind to hold the beach and the quay out- 
 side this palace : that is the way home. 
 
 Rufio (disapproving strongly). Are we to give up the city? 
 
 Cesar. We have not got it, Rufio. This palace we have; 
 and — what is that building next door ? 
 
 Rufio. The theatre. 
 
 C^sar. We will have that too: it commands the strand. 
 For the rest, Egypt for the Egyptians! 
 
Act II Caesar and Cleopatra 131 
 
 Rufio. Well, you know best, I suppose. Is that all? 
 
 Cesar. That is all. Are those ships burnt yet ? 
 
 Rufio. Be easy: I shall waste no more time. (He runs 
 out.) 
 
 Britanntjs. Caesar: Pothinus demands speech of you. 
 In my opinion he needs a lesson. His manner is most in- 
 solent. 
 
 Cesar. Where is he? 
 
 Britanntjs. He waits without. 
 
 Cesar. Ho there! admit Pothinus. 
 
 Pothinus appears in the loggia, and comes down the hall 
 very haughtily to C&sar's left hand. 
 
 C^sar. Well, Pothinus? 
 
 Pothinus. I have brought you our ultimatum, Csesar. 
 
 Cesar. Ultimatum! The door was open: you should 
 have gone out through it before you declared war. You are 
 my prisoner now. (He goes to the chair and loosens his toga.) 
 
 Pothinus (scornfully) . I your prisoner! Do you know 
 that you are in Alexandria, and that King Ptolemy, with 
 an army outnumbering your little troop a hundred to one, 
 is in possession of Alexandria ? 
 
 Caesar (unconcernedly taking off his toga and throwing it 
 on the chair). Well, my friend, get out if you can. And 
 tell your friends not to kill any more Romans in the market 
 place. Otherwise my soldiers, who do not share my cele- 
 brated clemency, will probably kill you. Britannus: pass 
 the word to the guard; and fetch my armor. (Britannus 
 runs out. Rufio returns.) Well? 
 
 Rufio (pointing from the loggia to a cloud of smoke drifting 
 over the harbor). See there! (Pothinus runs eagerly up the 
 steps to look out.) 
 
 Cesar. What, ablaze already! Impossible! 
 
 Rufio. Yes, five good ships, and a barge laden with oil 
 grappled to each. But it is not my doing: the Egyptians have 
 saved me the trouble. They have captured the west harbor. 
 
 Cesar (anxiously). And the east harbor? The light- 
 house, Rufio? 
 
132 Caesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 Rufio (with a sudden splutter of raging ill usage, coming 
 down to Coosar and scolding him). Can I embark a legion in 
 five minutes ? The first cohort is already on the beach. We 
 can do no more. If you want faster work, come and do it 
 yourself ? 
 
 Caesar (soothing him). Good, good. Patience, Rufio, 
 patience. 
 
 Rufio. Patience! Who is impatient here, you or I? 
 Would I be here, if I could not oversee them from that bal- 
 cony ? 
 
 Caesar. Forgive me, Rufio; and (anxiously) hurry them 
 as much as 
 
 He is interrupted by an outcry as of an old man in the ex- 
 tremity of misfortune. It draws near rapidly; and Theodotus 
 rushes in, tearing his hair, and squeaking the most lamentable 
 exclamations. Rufio steps back to stare at him, amazed at his 
 frantic condition. Pothinus turns to listen. 
 
 Theodotus (on the steps, with uplifted arms). Horror 
 unspeakable! Woe, alas! Help! 
 
 Rufio. What now ? 
 
 Caesar (frowning). Who is slain? 
 
 Theodotus. Slain! Oh, worse than the death of ten 
 thousand men! Loss irreparable to mankind! 
 
 Rufio. What has happened, man? 
 
 Theodotus (rushing down the hall between them). The 
 fire has spread from your ships. The first of the seven won- 
 ders of the world perishes. The library of Alexandria is in 
 flames. 
 
 Rufio. Psha! (Quite relieved, he goes up to the loggia 
 and watches the preparations of the troops on the beach.) 
 
 C^sar. Is that all? 
 
 Theodotus (unable to believe his senses). All! Csesar: will 
 you go down to posterity as a barbarous soldier too ignorant 
 to know the value of books ? 
 
 Caesar. Theodotus: I am an author myself; and I tell 
 you it is better that the Egyptians should live their lives than 
 dream them away with the help of books. 
 
Act II Cassar and Cleopatra 133 
 
 Theodotus (kneeling, with genuine literary emotion: the 
 'passion of the pedant). Cassar: once in ten generations of 
 men, the world gains an immortal book. 
 
 Cesar (inflexible). If it did not flatter mankind, the 
 common executioner would burn it. 
 
 Theodotus. Without history, death would lay you be- 
 side your meanest soldier. 
 
 Cesar. Death will do that in any case. I ask no better 
 grave. 
 
 Theodotus. What is burning there is the memory of 
 mankind. 
 
 Caesar. A shameful memory. Let it burn. 
 
 Theodotus (wildly). Will you destroy the past? 
 
 C^sar. Ay, and build the future with its ruins. (Theo- 
 dotus, in despair, strikes himself on the temples with his fists.) 
 But harken, Theodotus, teacher of kings: you who valued 
 Pompey's head no more than a shepherd values an onion, 
 and who now kneel to me, with tears in your old eyes, to 
 plead for a few sheepskins scrawled with errors. I cannot 
 spare you a man or a bucket of water just now ; but you shall 
 pass freely out of the palace. Now, away with you to Achillas ; 
 and borrow his legions to put out the fire. (He hurries him 
 to the steps.) 
 
 Pothinus (significantly). You understand, Theodotus: I 
 remain a prisoner. 
 
 Theodotus. A prisoner! 
 
 C<esar. Will you stay to talk whilst the memory of man- 
 kind is burning? (Calling through the loggia) Ho there! 
 Pass Theodotus out. (To Theodotus) Away with you. 
 
 Theodotus (to Pothinus). I must go to save the library. 
 (He hurries out.) 
 
 C-^sar. Follow him to the gate, Pothinus. Bid him urge 
 your people to kill no more of my soldiers, for your sake. 
 
 Pothinus. My life will cost you dear if you take it, 
 Caesar. (He goes out after Theodotus.) 
 
 Rufio, absorbed in watching the embarkation, does not notice 
 the departure of the two Egyptians. 
 
134 Caesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 Rufio {shouting from the loggia to the beach). All ready, 
 there ? 
 
 A Centurion (from below). All ready. We wait for 
 Caesar. 
 
 C^sar. Tell them Caesar is coming — the rogues! (Call- 
 ing) Britannicus. (This magniloquent version of his secre- 
 tary's name is one of Casar's jokes. In later years it would 
 have meant, quite seriously and officially, Conqueror of Britain.) 
 
 Rufio (calling down). Push off, all except the longboat. 
 Stand by it to embark, Caesar's guard there'. (He leaves the 
 balcony and comes down into the hall.) Where are those 
 Egyptians? Is this more clemency? Have you let them 
 go? 
 
 Caesar (chuckling). I have let Theodotus go to save the 
 library. We must respect literature, Rufio. 
 
 Rufio (raging). Folly on folly's head! I believe if you 
 could bring back all the dead of Spain, Gaul and Thessaly 
 to life, you would do it that we might have the trouble of 
 righting them over again. 
 
 Caesar. Might not the gods destroy the world if their 
 only thought were to be at peace next year? (Rufio, out of 
 all patience, turns away in anger. Ccesar suddenly grips his 
 sleeve, and adds slyly in his ear) Besides, my friend: every 
 Egyptian we imprison means imprisoning two Roman sol- 
 diers to guard him. Eh? 
 
 Rufio. Agh! I might have known there was some fox's 
 trick behind your fine talking. (He gets away from Ccesar 
 with an ill-humored shrug, and goes to the balcony for another 
 look at the preparations; finally goes out.) 
 
 Cesar. Is Britannus asleep? I sent him for my armor 
 an hour ago. (Calling) Britannicus, thou British islander. 
 Britannicus ! 
 
 Cleopatra runs in through the loggia with Ccesar' s helmet 
 and sword, snatched from Britannus, who follows her with a 
 cuirass and greaves. They come down to Ccesar, she to his 
 left hand, Britannus to his right. 
 
 Cleopatra. I am going to dress you, Caesar. Sit down. 
 
Act II Ceesar and Cleopatra 135 
 
 (He obeys.) These Roman helmets are so becoming! (She 
 takes off his wreath.) Oh! (She bursts out laughing at him.) 
 
 Cesar. What are you laughing at? 
 
 Cleopatra. You're bald (beginning with a big B, and 
 ending with a splutter). 
 
 Cesar (almost annoyed). Cleopatra! (He rises, for the 
 convenience of Britannus, who puts the cuirass on him.) 
 
 Cleopatra. So that is why you wear the wreath — to 
 hide it. 
 
 Britannus. Peace, Egyptian: they are the bays of the 
 conqueror. (He buckles the cuirass.) 
 
 Cleopatra. Peace, thou: islander! (To Casar) You 
 should rub your head with strong spirits of sugar, Caesar. 
 That will make it grow. 
 
 Cesar (with a wry face). Cleopatra: do you like to be 
 reminded that you are very young? 
 
 Cleopatra (pouting). No. 
 
 Caesar (sitting down again, and setting out his leg for 
 Britannus, who kneels to put on his greaves). Neither do I 
 like to be reminded that I am — middle aged. Let me give 
 you ten of my superfluous years. That will make you 26, 
 and leave me only — no matter. Is it a bargain? 
 
 Cleopatra. Agreed. 26, mind. (She puts the helmet on 
 him.) Oh! How nice! You look only about 50 in it! 
 
 Britannus (looking up severely at Cleopatra). You must 
 not speak in this manner to Csesar. 
 
 Cleopatra. Is it true that when Caesar caught you on 
 that island, you were painted all over blue ? 
 
 Britannus. Blue is the color worn by all Britons of good 
 standing. In war we stain our bodies blue; so that though 
 our enemies may strip us of our clothes and our lives, they 
 cannot strip us of our respectability. (He rises.) 
 
 Cleopatra (with Casar's sword). Let me hang this on. 
 Now you look splendid. Have they made any statues of 
 you in Rome? 
 
 Cesar. Yes, many statues. 
 
 Cleopatra. You must send for one and give it to me. 
 
136 Caesar and Cleopatra Act II 
 
 Rufio (coming back into the loggia, more impatient than 
 ever). Now Caesar: have you done talking? The moment 
 your foot is aboard there will be no holding our men back: 
 the boats will race one another for the lighthouse. 
 
 Caesar (drawing his sword and trying the edge). Is this 
 well set to-day, Britannicus? At Pharsalia it was as blunt as 
 a barrel-hoop. 
 
 Britannus. It will split one of the Egyptian's hairs 
 to-day, Caesar. I have set it myself. 
 
 Cleopatra (suddenly throwing her arms in terror round 
 Ccesar). Oh, vou are not reallv going into battle to be 
 kiUed? 
 
 Cesar. No, Cleopatra. No man goes to battle to be 
 killed. 
 
 Cleopatra. But they d o get killed. My sister's husband 
 was killed in battle. You must not go. Let h i m go (point- 
 ing to Rufio. They all laugh at her). Oh* please, please 
 don't go. What will happen to m e if you never come back? 
 
 Caesar (gravely). Are you afraid? 
 
 Cleopatra (shrinking). No. 
 
 Caesar (with quiet authority). Go to the balcony; and 
 you shall see us take the Pharos. You must learn to look on 
 battles. Go. (She goes, downcast, and looks out from the 
 balcony.) That is well. Now, Rufio. March. 
 
 Cleopatra (suddenly clapping her hands). Oh, you will 
 not be able to go! 
 
 Cesar. Why? What now? 
 
 Cleopatra. They are drying up the harbor with buckets 
 — a multitude of soldiers — over there (pointing out across 
 the sea to her left) — they are dipping up the water. 
 
 Rufio (hastening to look) . It is true. The Egyptian army ! 
 Crawling over the edge of the west harbor like locusts. (With 
 sudden anger he strides down to Coesar.) This is your accursed 
 clemency, Caesar. Theodotus has brought them. 
 
 Cesar (delighted at his own cleverness). I meant him to, 
 Rufio. They have come to put out the fire. The library 
 will keep them busy whilst we seize the lighthouse. Eh? 
 
Act II Csesar and Cleopatra 137 
 
 (He rushes out buoyantly through the loggia, followed by 
 Britannus.) 
 
 Rufio (disgustedly). More foxing! Agh! (He rushes 
 off. A shout from the soldiers announces the appearance of 
 Cwsar below.) 
 
 Centurion (below). All aboard. Give way there. (An- 
 other shout.) 
 
 Cleopatra (waving her scarf through the loggia arch). 
 Goodbye, goodbye, dear Csesar. Come back safe. Good- 
 bye! 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
ACT III 
 
 The edge of the quay in front of the palace, looking out 
 west over the east harbor of Alexandria to Pharos island, just 
 off the end. of which, and connected with it by a narrow mole, 
 is the famous lighthouse, a gigantic square tower of white 
 marble diminishing in size storey by storey to the top, on which 
 stands a cresset beacon. The island is joined to the main land 
 by the Heptastadium, a great mole or causeway five miles long 
 bounding the harbor on the south. 
 
 In the middle of the quay a Roman sentinel stands on guard, 
 pilum in hand, looking out to the lighthouse with strained 
 attention, his left hand shading his eyes. The pilum is a 
 stout wooden shaft 4§ feet long, with an iron spit about three 
 feet long fixed in it. The sentinel is so absorbed that he does 
 not notice the approach from the north end of the quay of four 
 Egyptian market porters carrying rolls of carpet, preceded by 
 Ftatateeta and Apollodorus the Sicilian. Apollodorus is a 
 dashing young man of about 24, handsome and debonair, 
 dressed with deliberate cestheticism in the most delicate purples 
 and dove greys, with ornaments of bronze, oxydized silver, 
 and stones of jade and agate. His sword, designed as care- 
 fully as a medieval cross, has a blued blade showing through 
 an openwork scabbard of purple leather and filagree. The 
 porters, conducted by Ftatateeta, pass along the quay behind 
 the sentinel to the steps of the palace, where they pat down 
 their bales and squat on the ground. Apollodorus does not 
 pass along with them: he halts, amused by the preoccupation of 
 the sentinel. 
 
 Apollodorus (calling to the sentinel). Who goes there, 
 eh? 
 
 138 
 
Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 139 
 
 Sentinel (starting violently and turning with his pilum at 
 the charge, revealing himself as a small, wiry, sandy-haired, 
 conscientious young man with an elderly face). What's this? 
 Stand. Who are you? . 
 
 Apollodorus. I am Apollodorus the Sicilian. Why, 
 man, what are you dreaming of? Since I came through the 
 lines beyond the theatre there, I have brought my caravan 
 past three sentinels, all so busy staring at the lighthouse that 
 not one of them challenged me. Is this Roman discipline? 
 
 Sentinel. We are not here to watch the land but the 
 sea. Csesar has just landed on the Pharos. (Looking at 
 Ftatateeta) What have you here? Who is this piece of 
 Egyptian crockery ? 
 
 Ftatateeta. Apollodorus: rebuke this Roman dog; and 
 bid him bridle his tongue in the presence of Ftatateeta, the 
 mistress of the Queen's household. 
 
 Apollodorus. My friend: this is a great lady, who 
 stands high with Csesar. 
 
 Sentinel (not at all impressed, pointing to the carpets). 
 And what is all this truck? 
 
 Apollodorus. Carpets for the furnishing of the Queen's 
 apartments in the palace. I have picked them from the best 
 carpets in the world; and the Queen shall choose the best of 
 my choosing. 
 
 Sentinel. So you are the carpet merchant? 
 
 Apollodorus (hurt). My friend: I am a patrician. 
 
 Sentinel. A patrician! A patrician keeping a shop in- 
 stead of following arms! 
 
 Apollodorus. I do not keep a shop. Mine is a temple 
 of the arts. I am a worshipper of beauty. My calling is to 
 choose beautiful things for beautiful Queens. My motto is 
 Art for Art's sake. 
 
 Sentinel. That is not the password. 
 
 Apollodorus. It is a universal password. 
 
 Sentinel. I know nothing about universal passwords. 
 Either give me the password for the day or get back to your 
 shop. 
 
140 Caesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 Ftatateeta, roused by his hostile tone, steals towards the edge 
 of the quay with the step of a panther, and gets behind him. 
 
 Apollodorus. How if I do neither? 
 
 Sentinel. Then I will drive this pilum through you. 
 
 Apollodorus. At your service, my friend. (He draws 
 his sword, and springs to his guard with unruffled grace.) 
 
 Ftatateeta (suddenly seizing the sentinel's arms from 
 behind). Thrust your knife into the dog's throat, Apollo- 
 dorus. (The chivalrous Apollodorus laughingly shakes his 
 head; breaks ground away from the sentinel towards the palace; 
 and lowers his point.) 
 
 Sentinel (struggling vainly). Curse on you! Let me go. 
 Help ho! 
 
 Ftatateeta (lifting him from the ground). Stab the little 
 Roman reptile. Spit him on your sword. 
 
 A couple of Roman soldiers, with a centurion, come running 
 along the edge of the quay from the north end. They rescue 
 their comrade, and throw off Ftatateeta, who is sent reeling 
 away on the left hand of the sentinel. 
 
 Centurion (an unattractive man of fifty, short in his 
 speech and manners, with a vine wood cudgel in his hand). 
 How now? What is all this? 
 
 Ftatateeta (to Apollodorus). Why did you not stab him? 
 There was time! 
 
 Apollodorus. Centurion: I am here by order of the 
 Queen to 
 
 Centurion (interrupting him). The Queen! Yes, yes: 
 (to the sentinel) pass him in. Pass all these bazaar people 
 in to the Queen, with their goods. But mind you pass no one 
 out that you have not passed in — not even the Queen her- 
 self. 
 
 Sentinel. This old woman is dangerous : she is as strong 
 as three men. She wanted the merchant to stab me. 
 
 Apollodorus. Centurion : I am not a merchant. lama 
 patrician and a votary of art. 
 
 Centurion. Is the woman your wife? 
 
 Apollodorus (horrified). No, no! (Correcting himself 
 
Act III Csesar and Cleopatra 141 
 
 politely) Not that the lady is not a striking figure in her 
 own way. But {emphatically) she is n o t my wife. 
 
 Ftatateeta (to the Centurion). Roman: I am Ftatateeta, 
 the mistress of the Queen's household. 
 
 Centurion. Keep your hands off our men, mistress; or 
 I will have you pitched into the harbor, though you were as 
 strong as ten men. (To his men) To your posts: march! 
 (He returns with his men the way they came.) 
 
 Ftatateeta (looking malignantly after him). We shall see 
 whom Isis loves best: her servant Ftatateeta or a dog of a 
 Roman. 
 
 Sentinel (to Apollodorus, with a wave of his pilum towards 
 the palace). Pass in there; and keep your distance. (Turn- 
 ing to Ftatateeta) Come within a yard of me, you old croco- 
 dile; and I will give you this (the pilum) in your jaws. 
 
 Cleopatra (calling from the palace). Ftatateeta, Ftata- 
 teeta. 
 
 Ftatateeta (looking up, scandalized). Go from the win- 
 dow, go from the window. There are men here. 
 
 Cleopatra. I am coming down. 
 
 Ftatateeta (distracted). No, no. What are you dream- 
 ing of? O ye gods, ye gods! Apollodorus: bid your men 
 pick up your bales; and in with me quickly. 
 
 Apollodorus. Obey the mistress of the Queen's house- 
 hold. 
 
 Ftatateeta (impatiently, as the porters stoop to lift the 
 bales). Quick, quick: she will be out upon us. (Cleopatra 
 comes from the palace and runs across the quay to Ftatateeta.) 
 Oh that ever I was born ! 
 
 Cleopatra (eagerly). Ftatateeta: I have thought of some- 
 thing. I want a boat — at once. 
 
 Ftatateeta. A boat! NoT^lio: you cannot. Apollo- 
 dorus: speak to the Queen. 
 
 Apollodorus (gallantly). Beautiful queen: I am Apollo- 
 dorus the Sicilian, your servant, from the bazaar. I have 
 brought you the three most beautiful Persian carpets in the 
 world to choose from. 
 
142 Caesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 Cleopatra. I have no time for carpets to-day. Get me 
 a boat. 
 
 Ftatateeta. What whim is this ? You cannot go on the 
 water except in the royal barge. 
 
 Apollodorus. Royalty, Ftatateeta, lies not in the 
 barge but in the Queen. (To Cleopatra) The touch of 
 your majesty's foot on the gunwale of the meanest boat 
 in the harbor will make it royal. (He turns to the harbor 
 and calls seaward) Ho there, boatman! Pull in to the 
 steps. 
 
 Cleopatra. Apollodorus: you are my perfect knight; 
 and I will always buy my carpets through you. (Apollodorus 
 bows joyously. An oar appears above the quay; and the boat- 
 man, a bullet-headed, vivacious, grinning fellow, burnt almost 
 black by the sun, comes up a flight of steps from the water on 
 the sentinel's right, oar in hand, and waits at the top.) Can 
 you row, Apollodorus? 
 
 Apollodorus. My oars shall be your majesty's wings. 
 Whither shall I row my Queen? 
 
 Cleopatra. To the lighthouse. Come. (She makes for 
 the steps.) 
 
 Sentinel (opposing her with his pilum at the charge). 
 Stand. You cannot pass. 
 
 Cleopatra (flushing angrily). How dare you? Do you 
 know that I am the Queen ? 
 
 Sentinel. I have my orders. You cannot pass. 
 
 Cleopatra. I will make Caesar have you killed if you do 
 not obey me. 
 
 Sentinel. He will do worse to me if I disobey my officer. 
 Stand back. 
 
 Cleopatra. Ftatateeta: strangle him. 
 
 Sentinel (alarmed — looking apprehensively at Ftatateeta, 
 and brandishing his pilum). Keep off, there. 
 
 Cleopatra (running to Apollodorus). Apollodorus: make 
 your slaves help us. 
 
 Apollodorus. I shall not need their help, lady. (He 
 draws his sword.) Now, soldier: choose which weapon you 
 
Act III Csesar and Cleopatra 143 
 
 will defend yourself with. Shall it be sword against pilum, 
 or sword against sword? 
 
 Sentinel. Roman against Sicilian, curse you. Take that. 
 (He hurls his pilum at Apollodorus, who drops expertly on one 
 knee. The pilum passes whizzing over his head and falls 
 harmless. Apollodorus, with a cry of triumph, springs up and 
 attacks the sentinel, who draws his sword and defends himself, 
 crying) Ho there, guard. Help! 
 
 Cleopatra, half frightened, half delighted, takes refuge 
 near the palace, where the porters are squatting among the 
 bales. The boatman, alarmed, hurries down the steps out of 
 harm's way, but stops, with his head just visible above the 
 edge of the quay, to watch the fight. The -sentinel is handi- 
 capped by his fear of an attack in the rear from Ftatateeta. 
 His swordsmanship, which is of a rough and ready sort, is 
 heavily taxed, as he has occasionally to strike at her to keep 
 her off between a blow and a guard with Apollodorus. The 
 Centurion returns with several soldiers. Apollodorus springs 
 back towards Cleopatra as this reinforcement confronts him. 
 
 Centurion (coming to the sentinel's right hand). What 
 is this? What now? 
 
 Sentinel (panting). I could do well enough by myself if 
 it weren't for the old woman. Keep her off me: that is all 
 the help I need. 
 
 Centurion. Make your report, soldier. What has hap- 
 pened ? 
 
 Ftatateeta. Centurion: he would have slain the Queen. 
 
 Sentinel (bluntly). I would, sooner than let her pass. 
 She wanted to take boat, and go — so she said — to the light- 
 house. I stopped her, as I was ordered to; and she set this 
 fellow on me. (He goes to pick up his pilum and returns to 
 his place with it.) 
 
 Centurion (turning to Cleopatra). Cleopatra: I am loth 
 to offend you; but without Caesar's express order we dare not 
 let you pass beyond the Roman lines. 
 
 Apollodorus. Well, Centurion; and has not the light- 
 house been within the Roman lines since Csesar landed there ? 
 
144 Ceesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 Cleopatra. Yes, yes. Answer that, if you can. 
 
 Centurion (to Apollodorus). As for you, Apollodorus, 
 you may thank the gods that you are not nailed to the palace 
 door with a pilum for your meddling. 
 
 Apollodorus (urbanely). My military friend, I was not 
 born to be slain by so ugly a weapon. When I fall, it will 
 be (holding up his sword) by this white queen of arms, the 
 only weapon fit for an artist. And now that you are con- 
 vinced that we do not want to go beyond the lines, let me 
 finish killing your sentinel and depart with the Queen. 
 
 Centurion (as the sentinel makes an angry demonstration). 
 Peace there. Cleopatra. I must abide by my orders, and 
 not by the subtleties of this Sicilian. You must withdraw 
 into the palace and examine your carpets there. 
 
 Cleopatra (pouting). I will not: I am the Queen. Caesar 
 does not speak to me as you do. Have Caesar's centurions 
 changed manners with his scullions? 
 
 Centurion (sulkily). I do my duty. That is enough for 
 me. 
 
 Apollodorus. Majesty: when a stupid man is doing 
 something he is ashamed of, he always declares that it is his 
 duty. 
 
 Centurion (angry). Apollodorus 
 
 Apollodorus (interrupting him with defiant elegance). I 
 will make amends for that insult with my sword at fitting 
 time and place. Who says artist, says duellist. (To Cleo- 
 patra) Hear my counsel, star of the east. Until word comes 
 to these soldiers from Caesar himself, you are a prisoner. 
 Let me go to him with a message from you, and a present; 
 and before the sun has stooped half way to the arms of the sea, 
 I will bring you back Caesar's order of release. 
 
 Centurion (sneering at him). And you will sell the 
 Queen the present, no doubt. 
 
 Apollodorus. Centurion: the Queen shall have from me, 
 without payment, as the unforced tribute of Sicilian taste to 
 Egyptian beauty, the richest of these carpets for her present 
 to Caesar. 
 
Act III Csesar and Cleopatra 145 
 
 Cleopatra {exultantly, to the Centurion). Now you see 
 what an ignorant common creature you are! 
 
 Centurion {curtly). Well, a fool and his wares are soon 
 parted. {He turns to his men). Two more men to this post 
 here; and see that no one leaves the palace but this man and 
 his merchandize. If he draws his sword again inside the 
 lines, kill him. To your posts. March. 
 
 He goes out, leaving two auxiliary sentinels with the other. 
 
 Apollodorus {with 'polite good] ellow ship). My friends: 
 will you not enter the palace and bury our quarrel in a bowl 
 of wine? {He takes out his purse, jingling the coins in it.) 
 The Queen has presents for you all. 
 
 Sentinel {very sulky). You heard our orders. Get about 
 your business. 
 
 First Auxiliary. Yes: you ought to know better. Off 
 with you. 
 
 Second Auxiliary {looking longingly at the purse — this 
 sentinel is a hooknosed man, unlike his comrade, who is squab 
 faced). Do not tantalize a poor man. 
 
 Apollodorus {to Cleopatra). Pearl of Queens: the Cen- 
 turion is at hand; and the Roman soldier is incorruptible 
 when his officer is looking. I must carry your word to 
 Csesar. 
 
 Cleopatra {who has been meditating among the carpets). 
 Are these carpets very heavy? 
 
 Apollodorus. It matters not how heavy. There are 
 plenty of porters. 
 
 Cleopatra. How do they put the carpets into boats ? Do 
 they throw them down? 
 
 Apollodorus. Not into small boats, majesty. It would 
 sink them. 
 
 Cleopatra. Not into that man's boat, for instance? 
 {Pointing to the boatman.) 
 
 Apollodorus. No. Too small. 
 
 Cleopatra. But you can take a carpet to Csesar in it if 
 I send one? 
 
 Apollodorus. Assuredly. 
 
146 Caesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 Cleopatra. And you will have it carried gently down the 
 steps and take great care of it? 
 
 Apollodorus. Depend on me. 
 
 Cleopatra. Great, great care ? 
 
 Apollodorus. More than of my own body. 
 
 Cleopatra. You will promise me not to let the porters 
 drop it or throw it about? 
 
 Apollodorus. Place the most delicate glass goblet in the 
 palace in the heart of the roll, Queen; and if it be broken, 
 my head shall pay for it. 
 
 Cleopatra. Good. Come, Ftatateeta. (Ftatateeta comes 
 to her. Apollodorus offers to squire them into the palace.) No, 
 Apollodorus, you must not come. I will choose a carpet for 
 myself. You must wait here. (She runs into the palace.) 
 
 Apollodorus (to the porters). Follow this lady (indicating 
 Ftatateeta); and obey her. 
 
 The porters rise and take up their bales. 
 
 Ftatateeta (addressing the porters as if they were vermin). 
 This way. And take your shoes off before you put your feet 
 on those stairs. 
 
 She goes in, followed by the porters with the carpets. Mean- 
 while Apollodorus goes to the edge of the quay and looks out 
 over the harbor. The sentinels keep their eyes on him malig- 
 nantly. 
 
 Apollodorus (addressing the sentinel). My friend 
 
 Sentinel (rudely). Silence there. 
 
 First Auxiliary. Shut your muzzle, you. 
 
 Second Auxiliary (in a half whisper, glancing apprehen- 
 sively towards the north end of the quay) . Can't you wait a bit ? 
 
 Apollodorus. Patience, worthy three-headed donkey. 
 (They mutter ferociously; but he is not at all intimidated.) 
 Listen : were you set here to watch me, or to watch the Egyp- 
 tians ? 
 
 Sentinel. We know our duty. 
 
 Apollodorus. Then why don't you do it? There is 
 something going on over there. (Pointing southwestward to 
 the mole.) 
 
Act III Ceesar and Cleopatra 147 
 
 Sentinel {sulkily). I do not need to be told what to do 
 by the like of you. 
 
 Apollodortjs. Blockhead. (He begins shouting) Ho 
 there, Centurion. Hoiho! 
 
 Sentinel. Curse your meddling. (Shouting) Hoiho! 
 Alarm! Alarm! . 
 
 First and Second Auxiliaries. Alarm! alarm! Hoiho! 
 
 The Centurion comes running in with his guard. 
 
 Centurion. What now? Has the old woman attacked 
 you again ? (Seeing Apollodorus) Are you here still ? 
 
 Apollodorus (pointing as before). See there. The Egyp- 
 tians are moving. They are going to recapture the Pharos. 
 They will attack by sea and land: by land along the great 
 mole; by sea from the west harbor. Stir yourselves, my 
 military friends : the hunt is up. (A clangor of trumpets from 
 several points along the quay.) Aha! I told you so. 
 
 Centurion (quickly). The two extra men pass the alarm 
 to the south posts. One man keep guard here. The rest 
 with me — quick. 
 
 The two auxiliary sentinels run off to the south. The 
 Centurion and his guard run off northward; and immediately 
 afterwards the bucina sounds. The four porters come from 
 the palace carrying a carpet, followed by Ftatateeta. 
 
 Sentinel (handling his pilum apprehensively). You 
 again! (The porters stop.) 
 
 Ftatateeta. Peace, Roman fellow: you are now single- 
 handed. Apollodorus: this carpet is Cleopatra's present to 
 Caesar. It has rolled up in it ten precious goblets of the 
 thinnest Iberian crystal, and a hundred eggs of the sacred 
 blue pigeon. On your honor, let not one of them be broken. 
 
 Apollodorus. On my head be it. (To the porters) Into 
 the boat with them carefully. 
 
 The porters carry the carpet to the steps. 
 
 First Porter (looking down at the boat). Beware what 
 you do, sir. Those eggs of which the lady speaks must 
 weigh more than a pound apiece* This boat is too small for 
 such a load. 
 
148 Ceesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 Boatman (excitedly rushing up the steps). Oh thou inju- 
 rious porter! Oh thou unnatural son of a she-camel! (To 
 Apollodorus) My boat, sir, hath often carried five men. 
 Shall it not carry your lordship and a bale of pigeons' eggs? 
 (To the porter) Thru mangey dromedary, the gods shall punish 
 thee for this envious wickedness. 
 
 First Porter (stolidly). I cannot quit this bale now to 
 beat thee; but another day I will lie in wait for thee. 
 
 Apollodorus (going between them). Peace there. If the 
 boat were but a single plank, I would get to Caesar on it. 
 
 Ftatateeta (anxiously) . In the name of the gods, Apollo- 
 dorus, run no risks with that bale. 
 
 Apollodorus. Fear not, thou venerable grotesque: I 
 guess its great worth. (To the porters) Down with it, I say; 
 and gently; or ye shall eat nothing but stick for ten days. 
 
 The boatman goes down the steps, followed by the porters 
 with the bale: Ftatateeta and Apollodorus watching from the 
 edge. 
 
 Apollodorus. Gently, my sons, my children — (with sud- 
 den alarm) gently, ye dogs. Lay it level in the stern — so — 
 'tis well. 
 
 Ftatateeta (screaming down at one of the porters). Do 
 not step on it, do not step on it. Oh thou brute beast! 
 
 First Porter (ascending). Be not excited, mistress: all 
 is well. 
 
 Ftatateeta (panting). All well! Oh, thou hast given 
 my heart a turn! (She clutches her side, gasping.) 
 
 The four porters have now come up and are waiting at the 
 stairhead to be paid. 
 
 Apollodorus. Here, ye hungry ones. (He gives money 
 to the first porter, who holds it in his hand to shew to the others. 
 They crowd greedily to see how much it is, quite prepared, 
 after the Eastern fashion, to protest to heaven against their 
 patron's stinginess. But his liberality overpowers them.) 
 
 First Porter. O bounteous prince! 
 
 Second Porter. O lord of the bazaar! 
 
 Third Porter. O favored of the gods! 
 
Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 149 
 
 Fourth Porter. O father to all the porters of the market! 
 
 Sentinel (enviously, threatening them fiercely with his 
 pilum). Hence, dogs: off. Out of this. (They fly before 
 him northward along the quay.) 
 
 Apollodorus. Farewell, Ftatateeta. I shall be at the 
 lighthouse before the Egyptians. (He descends the steps.) 
 
 Ftatateeta. The gods speed thee and protect my nursling ! 
 
 The sentry returns from chasing the porters and looks down 
 at the boat, standing near the stairhead lest Ftatateeta should 
 attempt to escape. 
 
 Apollodorus (from beneath, as the boat moves off). Fare- 
 well, valiant pilum pitcher. 
 
 Sentinel. Farewell, shopkeeper. 
 
 Apollodorus. Ha, ha! Pull, thou brave boatman, pull. 
 Soho-o-o-o-o! (He begins to sing in barcarolle measure to 
 the rhythm of the oars) 
 
 My heart, my heart, spread out thy wings: 
 Shake off thy heavy load of love — 
 
 Give me the oars, O son of a snail. 
 
 Sentinel (threatening Ftatateeta). Now mistress: back 
 to your henhouse. In with you. 
 
 Ftatateeta (falling on her knees and stretching her hands 
 over the waters). Gods of the seas, bear her safely to the 
 shore! 
 
 Sentinel. Bear who safely ? What do you mean ? 
 
 Ftatateeta (looking darkly at him). Gods of Egypt and 
 of Vengeance, let this Roman fool be beaten like a dog by his 
 captain for suffering her to be taken over the waters. 
 
 Sentinel. Accursed one: is she then in the boat? (He 
 calls over the sea) Hoiho, there, boatman ! Hoiho ! 
 
 Apollodorus (singing in the distance). 
 
 My heart, my heart, be whole and free: 
 Love is thine only enemy. 
 
 Meanwhile Ruflo, the morning's fighting done, sits munch- 
 ing dates on a faggot of brushwood outside the door of the 
 
150 Caesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 lighthouse, which towers gigantic to the clouds on his left. 
 His helmet, full of dates, is between his knees; and a leathern 
 bottle of wine is by his side. Behind him the great stone ped- 
 estal of the lighthouse is shut in from the open sea by a low 
 stone parapet, with a couple of steps in the middle to the broad 
 coping. A huge chain with a hook hangs down from the 
 lighthouse crane above his head. Faggots like the one he sits 
 on lie beneath it ready to be drawn up to feed the beacon. 
 
 Ccesar is standing on the step at the parapet looking out 
 anxiously, evidently ill at ease. Britannus comes out of the 
 lighthouse door. 
 
 Rufio. Well, my British islander. Have you been up to 
 the top? 
 
 Britannus. I have. I reckon it at 200 feet high. 
 
 Rufio. Anybody up there? 
 
 Britannus. One elderly Tyrian to work the crane; and 
 his son, a well conducted youth of 14. 
 
 Rufio {looking at the chain). What! An old man and a 
 boy work that! Twenty men, you mean. 
 
 Britannus. Two only, I assure you. They have coun- 
 terweights, and a machine with boiling water in it which I do 
 not understand: it is not of British design. They use it to 
 haul up barrels of oil and faggots to burn in the brazier on 
 the roof. 
 
 Rufio. But 
 
 Britannus. Excuse me: I came down because there are 
 messengers coming along the mole to us from the island. I 
 must see what their business is. {He hurries out past the 
 lighthouse.) 
 
 Caesar {coming away from the parapet, shivering and out 
 of sorts). Rufio: this has been a mad expedition. We shall 
 be beaten. I wish I knew how our men are getting on with 
 that barricade across the great mole. 
 
 Rufio {angrily). Must I leave my food and go starving 
 to bring you a report ? 
 
 Cesar {soothing him nervously). No, Rufio, no. Eat, my 
 son, eat. {He takes another turn, Rufio chewing dates mean- 
 
Act III Csesar and Cleopatra 151 
 
 while.) The Egyptians cannot be such fools as not to storm 
 the barricade and swoop down on us here before it is finished. 
 It is the first time I have ever run an avoidable risk. I 
 should not have come to Egypt. 
 
 Rufio. An hour ago you were all for victory. 
 
 Cesar (apologetically). Yes: I was a fool — rash, Rufio — 
 boyish. 
 
 Rufio. Boyish! Not a bit of it. Here. (Offering him a 
 handful of dates.) 
 
 Cesar. What are these for? 
 
 Rufio. To eat. That's what's the matter with you. 
 When a man comes to your age, he runs down before his 
 midday meal. Eat and drink; and then have another look 
 at our chances. 
 
 Caesar (taking the dates). My age! (He shakes his head 
 and bites a date.) Yes, Rufio: I am an old man — worn out 
 now — true, quite true. (He gives way to melancholy con- 
 templation, and eats another date.) Achillas is still in his 
 prime: Ptolemy is a boy. (He eats another date, and plucks 
 up a little.) Well, every dog has his day; and I have had 
 mine: I cannot complain. (With sudden cheerfulness) These 
 dates are not bad, Rufio. (Britannus returns, greatly excited, 
 with a leathern bag. Cossar is himself again in a moment.) 
 What now? 
 
 Britannus (triumphantly). Our brave Rhodian mariners 
 have captured a treasure. There! (He throivs the bag down 
 at Ccesar's feet.) Our enemies are delivered into our hands. 
 
 Cesar. In that bag? 
 
 Britannus. Wait till you hear, Caesar. This bag con- 
 tains all the letters which have passed between Pompey's 
 party and the army of occupation here. 
 
 Cesar. Well? 
 
 Britannus (impatient of Ccesar's slowness to grasp the 
 situation). Well, we shall now know who your foes are. 
 The name of every man who has plotted against you since you 
 crossed the Rubicon may be in these papers, for all we know. 
 
 Cesar. Put them in the fire. 
 
152 Ceesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 Britannus. Put them — (he gasps) VM 
 
 Caesar. In the fire. Would you have me waste the next 
 three years of my life in proscribing and condemning men 
 who will be my friends when I have proved that my friend- 
 ship is worth more than Pompey's was — than Cato's is. O 
 incorrigible British islander: am I a bull dog, to seek quarrels 
 merely to shew how stubborn my jaws are? 
 
 Britannus. But your honor — the honor of Rome 
 
 Caesar. I do not make human sacrifices to my honor, as 
 your Druids do. Since you will not burn these, at least I can 
 drown them. (He picks up the bag and throws it over the 
 parapet into the sea.) 
 
 Britannus. Caesar: this is mere eccentricity. Are traitors 
 to be allowed to go free for the sake of a paradox? 
 
 Rufio (rising). Csesar: when the islander has finished 
 preaching, call me again. I am going to have a look at the 
 boiling water machine. (He goes into the lighthouse.) 
 
 Britannus (with genuine feeling). O Csesar, my great 
 master, if I could but persuade you to regard life seriously, 
 as men do in my country! 
 
 Caesar. Do they truly do so, Britannus? 
 
 Britannus. Have you not been there? Have you not 
 seen them ? What Briton speaks as you do in your moments 
 of levity ? What Briton neglects to attend the services at the 
 sacred grove ? What Briton wears clothes of many colors as 
 you do, instead of plain blue, as all solid, well esteemed men 
 should? These are moral questions with us. 
 
 Cesar. Well, well, my friend: some day I shall settle 
 down and have a blue toga, perhaps. Meanwhile, I must 
 get on as best I can in my flippant Roman way. (Apollo- 
 dorus comes past the lighthouse) What now ? 
 
 Britannus (turning quickly, and challenging the stranger 
 with official haughtiness). What is this? Who are you? 
 How did you come here? 
 
 Apollodorus. Calm yourself, my friend: I am not going 
 to eat you. I have come by boat, from Alexandria, with 
 precious gifts for Ceesar. 
 
Act III Csesar and Cleopatra 153 
 
 C<esar. From Alexandria! 
 
 Britannus (severely). That is Csesar, sir. 
 
 Rufio (appearing at the lighthouse door). What's the 
 matter now ? 
 
 Apollodorus. Hail, great Csesar! I am Apollodorus the 
 Sicilian, an artist. 
 
 Britannus. An artist! Why have they admitted this 
 vagabond ? 
 
 Caesar. Peace, man. Apollodorus is a famous patrician 
 amateur 
 
 Britannus (disconcerted). I crave the gentleman's par- 
 don. (To Ccesar) I understood him to say that he was a 
 professional. (Somewhat out of countenance, he allows 
 Apollodorus to approach Ccesar, changing places with him. 
 Rufio, after looking Apollodorus up and down with marked 
 disparagement, goes to the other side of the platform.) 
 
 CLesar. You are welcome, Apollodorus. What is your 
 business ? 
 
 Apollodorus. First, to deliver to you a present from the 
 Queen of Queens. 
 
 Caesar. Who is that? 
 
 Apollodorus. Cleopatra of Egypt. 
 
 Caesar (taking him into his confidence in his most winning 
 manner). Apollodorus: this is no time for playing with 
 presents. Pray you, go back to the Queen, and tell 
 her that if all goes well I shall return to the palace this 
 evening. 
 
 Apollodorus. Csesar: I cannot return. As I approached 
 the lighthouse, some fool threw a great leathern bag into the 
 sea. It broke the nose of my boat; and I had hardly time to 
 get myself and my charge to the shore before the poor little 
 cockleshell sank. 
 
 Cesar. I am sorry, Apollodorus. The fool shall be re- 
 buked. Well, well: what have you brought me? The 
 Queen will be hurt if I do not look at it. 
 
 Rufio. Have we time to waste on this trumpery? The 
 Queen is only a child. 
 
154 Csesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 Cesar. Just so : that is why we must not disappoint her. 
 What is the present, Apollodorus ? 
 
 Apollodortjs. Caesar: it is a Persian carpet — a beauty! 
 And in it are — so I am told — pigeons' eggs and crystal gob- 
 lets and fragile precious things. I dare not for my head 
 have it carried up that narrow ladder from the causeway. 
 
 Rufio. Swing it up by the crane, then. We will send 
 the eggs to the cook; drink our wine from the goblets; and 
 the carpet will make a bed for Caesar. 
 
 Apollodorus. The crane! Caesar: I have sworn to 
 tender this bale of carpet as I tender my own life. 
 
 Cesar (cheerfully). Then let them swing you up at the 
 same time; and if the chain breaks, you and the pigeons' 
 eggs will perish together. (He goes to the chain and looks up 
 along it, examining it curiously.) 
 
 Apollodorus (to Britannus). Is Caesar serious? 
 
 Britannus. His manner is frivolous because he is an 
 Italian; but he means what he says. 
 
 Apollodorus. Serious or not, he spake well. Give me 
 a squad of soldiers to work the crane. 
 
 Britannus. Leave the crane to me. Go and await the 
 descent of the chain. 
 
 Apollodorus. Good. You will presently see me there 
 (turning to them all and pointing with an eloquent gesture 
 to the shy above the parapet) rising like the sun with my 
 treasure. 
 
 He goes back the way he came. Britannus goes into the 
 lighthouse. 
 
 Rufio (ill-humoredly). Are you really going to wait here 
 for this foolery, Caesar? 
 
 Caesar (backing away from the crane as it gives signs of 
 working). Why not? 
 
 Rufio. The Egyptians will let you know why not if they 
 have the sense to make a rush from the shore end of the mole 
 before our barricade is finished. And here we are waiting 
 like children to see a carpet full of pigeons' eggs. 
 
 The chain rattles, and is drawn up high enough to clear 
 
Act III Csesar and Cleopatra 155 
 
 the parapet. It then swings round out of sight behind the 
 lighthouse. 
 
 Caesar. Fear not, my son Rufio. When the first Egyptian 
 takes his first step along the mole, the alarm will sound; and 
 we two will reach the barricade from our end before the 
 Egyptians reach it from their end — we two, Rufio : I, the old 
 man, and you, his biggest boy. And the old man will be there 
 first. So peace; and give me some more dates. 
 
 Apollodorus (from the causeway below). Soho, haul 
 away. So-ho-o-o-o ! ( The chain is drawn up and comes round 
 again from behind the lighthouse. Apollodorus is swinging in 
 the air with his bale of carpet at the end of it. He breaks into 
 song as he soars above the parapet) 
 
 Aloft, aloft, behold the blue 
 
 That never shone in woman's eyes — ■ 
 
 Easy there: stop her. (He ceases to rise.) Further round.' 
 (The chain comes forward above the platform.) 
 
 Rufio (calling up). Lower away there. (The chain and 
 its load begin to descend.) 
 
 Apollodorus (calling up). Gently — slowly — mind the eggs. 
 
 Rufio (calling up). Easy there — slowly — slowly. 
 
 Apollodorus and the bale are deposited safely on the flags in 
 the middle of the platform. Rufio and C&sar help Apollodorus 
 to cast off the chain from the bale. 
 
 Rufio. Haul up. 
 
 The chain rises clear of their heads with a rattle. Britannus 
 comes from the lighthouse and helps them to uncord the carpet. 
 
 Apollodorus (when the cords are loose). Stand off, my 
 friends: let Csesar see. (He throws the carpet open.) 
 
 Rufio. Nothing but a heap of shawls. Where are the 
 pigeons' eggs? 
 
 Apollodorus. Approach, Caesar; and search for them 
 among the shawls. 
 
 Rufio (drawing his sword). Ha, treachery! Keep back, 
 Caesar: I saw the shawl move: there is something alive there. 
 
 Britannus (drawing his sword). It is a serpent. 
 
156 Csesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 Apollodorus. Dares Csesar thrust his hand into the sack 
 where the serpent moves? 
 
 Rufio (turning on him). Treacherous dog 
 
 Cesar. Peace. Put up your swords. Apollodorus : your 
 serpent seems to breathe very regularly. (He thrusts his 
 hand under the shawls and draws out a bare arm.) This is a 
 pretty little snake. 
 
 Rufio (drawing out the other arm). Let us have the rest 
 of you. 
 
 They pull Cleopatra up by the wrists into a sitting position. 
 Britannus, scandalized, sheathes his sword with a drive o) 
 protest. 
 
 Cleopatra (gasping). Oh, I'm smothered. Oh, Csesar; 
 a man stood on me in the boat; and a great sack of something 
 fell upon me out of the sky; and then the boat sank, and 
 then I was swung up into the air and bumped down. 
 
 Cesar (petting her as she rises and takes refuge on his 
 breast). Well, never mind: here you are safe and sound at 
 last. 
 
 Rufio. Ay; and now that she is here, what are we to do 
 with her? 
 
 Britannus. She cannot stay here, Csesar, without the 
 companionship of some matron. 
 
 Cleopatra (jealously, to Caesar, who is obviously per- 
 plexed). Aren't you glad to see me? 
 
 Cesar. Yes, yes; / am very glad. But Rufio is very 
 angry; and Britannus is shocked. 
 
 Cleopatra (contemptuously). You can have their heads 
 cut off, can you not ? 
 
 Cesar. They would not be so useful with their heads cut 
 off as they are now, my sea bird. 
 
 Rufio (to Cleopatra). We shall have to go away presently 
 and cut some of your Egyptians' heads off. How will you 
 like being left here with the chance of being captured by that 
 little brother of yours if we are beaten ? 
 
 Cleopatra. But you mustn't leave me alone. Caesar 
 you will not leave me alone, will you ? 
 
Act III Caesar and Cleopatra 157 
 
 Rufio. What! not when the trumpet sounds and all our 
 lives depend on Caesar's being at the barricade before the 
 Egyptians reach it? Eh? 
 
 Cleopatra. . Let them lose their lives : they are only soldiers . 
 
 Cesar {gravely). Cleopatra: when that trumpet sounds, 
 we must take every man his life in his hand, and throw it in 
 the face of Death. And of my soldiers who have trusted 
 me there is not one whose hand I shall not hold more sacred 
 than your head. {Cleopatra is overwhelmed. Her eyes fill 
 with tears.) Apollodorus: you must take her back to the 
 palace. 
 
 Apollodorus. Am I a dolphin, Caesar, to cross the seas 
 with young ladies on my back? My boat is sunk: all yours 
 are either at the barricade or have returned to the city. I 
 will hail one if I can: that is all I can do. {He goes back to 
 the causeway.) 
 
 Cleopatra {struggling with her tears). It does not mat- 
 ter. I will not go back. Nobody cares for me. 
 
 Cesar. Cleopatra 
 
 Cleopatra. You want me to be killed. 
 
 C^sar {still more gravely). My poor child: your life 
 matters little here to anyone but yourself. {She gives way 
 altogether at this, casting herself down on the faggots weeping. 
 Suddenly a great tumult is heard in the distance, bucinas and 
 trumpets sounding through a storm of shouting. Britannus 
 rushes to the parapet and looks along the mole. C&sar and 
 Rufio turn to one another with quick intelligence.) 
 
 Cesar. Come, Rufio. 
 
 Cleopatra {scrambling to her knees and clinging to him). 
 No, no. Do not leave me, Caesar. {He snatches his skirt 
 from her clutch.) Oh! 
 
 Britannus {from the parapet). Caesar: we are cut off. 
 The Egyptians have landed from the west harbor between 
 us and the barricade!!! 
 
 Rufio {running to see). Curses! It is true. We are 
 caught like rats in a trap. 
 
 Caesar {ruthfully). Rufio, Rufio: my men at the barricade 
 
158 Csesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 are between the sea party and the shore party. I have mur- 
 dered them. 
 
 Rufio (coming back from the parapet to Ccesar's right 
 hand). Ay: that comes of fooling with this girl here. 
 
 Apollodorus (coming up quickly from the causeway). 
 Look over the parapet, Caesar. 
 
 Caesar. We have looked, my friend. We must defend 
 ourselves here. 
 
 Apollodorus. I have thrown the ladder into the sea. 
 They cannot get in without it. 
 
 Rtjfio. Ay; and we cannot get out. Have you thought 
 of that? 
 
 Apollodorus. Not get out! Why not? You have ships 
 in the east harbor. 
 
 Britannus (hopefully, at the parapet). The Rhodian gal- 
 leys are standing in towards us already. (Ccesar quickly 
 joins Britannus at the parapet.) 
 
 Rufio (to Apollodorus, impatiently). And by what road 
 are we to walk to the galleys, pray? 
 
 Apollodorus (with gay, defiant rhetoric). By the road 
 that leads everywhere — the diamond path of the sun and 
 moon. Have you never seen the child's shadow play of The 
 Broken Bridge? "Ducks and geese with ease get over" — eh? 
 (He throws away his cloak and cap, and binds his sword on 
 his back.) 
 
 Rufio. What are you talking about? 
 
 Apollodorus. I will shew you. (Calling to Britannus) 
 How far off is the nearest galley ? 
 
 Britannus. Fifty fathom. 
 
 Cesar. No, no: they are further off than they seem in 
 this clear air to your British eyes. Nearly quarter of a mile, 
 Apollodorus. 
 
 Apollodorus. Good. Defend yourselves here until I 
 send you a boat from that galley. 
 
 Rufio. Have you wings, perhaps? 
 
 Apollodorus. Water wings, soldier. Behold! 
 
 He runs up the steps between C&sar and Britannus to the 
 
Act III Csesar and Cleopatra 159 
 
 coping of the parapet; springs into the air; and plunges head 
 foremost into the sea. 
 
 Caesar (like a schoolboy — wildly excited). Bravo, bravo! 
 (Throwing off his cloak) By Jupiter, I will do that too. 
 
 Rufio (seizing him). You are mad. You shall not. 
 
 Cesar. Why not ? Can I not swim as well as he ? 
 
 Rufio (frantic). Can an old fool dive and swim like a 
 young one? He is twenty-five and you are fifty. 
 
 Caesar (breaking loose from Rufio) . Old ! ! ! 
 
 Britannus (shocked). Rufio: you forget yourself. 
 
 Cesar. I will race you to the galley for a week's pay, 
 father Rufio. 
 
 Cleopatra. But me ! me ! ! me ! ! ! what is to become of m e ? 
 
 Cesar. I will carry you on my back to the galley like a 
 dolphin. Rufio: when you see me rise to the surface, throw 
 her in : I will answer for her. And then in with you after her, 
 both of you. 
 
 Cleopatra. No, no, NO. I shall be drowned. 
 
 Britannus. Csesar: I am a man and a Briton, not a fish. 
 I must have a boat. I cannot swim. 
 
 Cleopatra. Neither can I. 
 
 Cesar (to Britannus). Stay here, then, alone, until I 
 recapture the lighthouse: I will not forget you. Now, Rufio. 
 
 Rufio. You have made up your mind to this folly? 
 
 Cesar. The Egyptians have made it up for me. What 
 else is there to do? And mind where you jump: I do not 
 want to get your fourteen stone in the small of my back as I 
 come up. (He runs up the steps and stands on the coping.) 
 
 Britannus (anxiously). One last word, Caesar. Do not 
 let yourself be seen in the fashionable part of Alexandria 
 until you have changed your clothes. 
 
 Caesar (calling over the sea). Ho, Apollodorus: (he points 
 skyward and quotes the barcarolle) 
 
 The white upon the blue above — 
 
 Apollodorus (swimming in the distance) 
 
 Is purple on the green below — 
 
160 Caesar and Cleopatra Act III 
 
 CAESAR {exultantly). Aha! {He 'plunges into the sea.) 
 
 Cleopatra {running excitedly to the steps). Oh, let me 
 see. He will be drowned. {Rufio seizes her.) Ah — ah — 
 ah — ah! {He pitches her screaming into the sea. Rufio and 
 Britannus roar with laughter.) 
 
 Rufio {looking down after her). He has got her. {To 
 Britannus) Hold the fort, Briton. Csesar will not forget 
 you. {He springs off.) 
 
 Britannus {running to the steps to watch them as they 
 swim). All safe, Rufio? 
 
 Rufio {swimming). All safe. 
 
 Cesar {swimming further off). Take refuge up there by 
 the beacon; and pile the fuel on the trap door, Britannus. 
 
 Britannus {calling in reply). I will first do so, and then 
 commend myself to my country's gods. {A sound of cheering 
 from the sea. Britannus gives full vent to his excitement) 
 The boat has reached him: Hip, hip, hip, hurrah! 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
ACT IV 
 
 Cleopatra's sousing in the east harbor oj Alexandria was 
 in October 48 B. C. In March 47 she is passing the after- 
 noon in her boudoir in the palace, among a bevy of her ladies, 
 listening to a slave girl who is playing the harp in the middle 
 of the room. The harpist's master, an old musician, with a 
 lined face, prominent brows, white beard, moustache and eye- 
 brows twisted and homed at the ends, and a consciously keen 
 and pretentious expression, is squatting on the floor close to 
 her on her right, watching her performance. Ftatateeta is in 
 attendance near the door, in front of a group of female slaves. 
 Except the harp player all are seated: Cleopatra in a chair 
 opposite the door on the other side of the room; the rest on the 
 ground. Cleopatra's ladies are all young, the most conspicuous 
 being Charmian and Iras, her favorites. Charmian is a 
 hatchet faced, terra cotta colored little goblin, swift in her 
 movements, and neatly finished at the hands and feet. Iras 
 is a plump, goodnatured creature, rather fatuous, with a pro- 
 fusion of red hair, and a tendency to giggle on the slightest 
 provocation. 
 
 Cleopatra. Can I 
 
 Ftatateeta (insolently, to the player). Peace, thou! The 
 Queen speaks. (The player stops.) 
 
 Cleopatra (to the old musician). I want to learn to play 
 the harp with my own hands. Caesar loves music. Can you 
 teach me ? 
 
 Musician. Assuredly I and no one else can teach the 
 Queen. Have I not discovered the lost method of the an- 
 cient Egyptians, who could make a pyramid tremble by 
 touching a bass string? All the other teachers are quacks: 
 I have exposed them repeatedly. 
 
 161 
 
162 Caesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Cleopatra. Good: you shall teach me. How long will 
 it take ? 
 
 Musician. Not very long: only four years. Your Maj- 
 esty must first become proficient in the philosophy of Pythag- 
 oras. 
 
 Cleopatra. Has she (indicating the slave) become pro- 
 ficient in the philosophy of Pythagoras? 
 
 Musician. Oh, she is but a slave. She learns as a dog 
 learns. 
 
 Cleopatra. Well, then, I will learn as a dog learns; for 
 she plays better than you. You shall give me a lesson every 
 day for a fortnight. (The musician hastily scrambles to his 
 feet and bows profoundly.) After that, whenever I strike a 
 false note you shall be flogged; and if I strike so many that 
 there is not time to flog you, you shall be thrown into the Nile 
 to feed the crocodiles. Give the girl a piece of gold; and send 
 them away. 
 
 Musician (much taken aback). But true art will not be 
 thus forced. 
 
 Ftatateeta (pushing him out). What is this? Answer- 
 ing the Queen, forsooth. Out with you. 
 
 He is pushed out by Ftatateeta, the girl following with her 
 harp, amid the laughter of the ladies and slaves. 
 
 Cleopatra. Now, can any of you amuse me? Have 
 you any stories or any news ? 
 
 Iras. Ftatateeta 
 
 Cleopatra. Oh, Ftatateeta, Ftatateeta, always Ftata- 
 teeta. Some new tale to set me against her. 
 
 Iras. No: this time Ftatateeta has been virtuous. (All 
 the- ladies laugh — not the slaves.) Pothinus has been trying 
 to bribe her to let him speak with you. 
 
 Cleopatra (wrathfully) . Ha! you all sell audiences with 
 me, as if I saw whom you please, and not whom I please. I 
 should like to know how much of her gold piece that harp 
 girl will have to give up before she leaves the palace. 
 
 Iras. We can easily find out that for you. 
 
 The ladies laugh. 
 
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 163 
 
 Cleopatra {frowning). You laugh; but take care, take 
 care. I will find out some day how to make myself served 
 as Caesar is served. 
 
 Charmian. Old hooknose! {They laugh again.) 
 
 Cleopatra {revolted). Silence. Charmian: do not you 
 be a silly little Egyptian fool. Do you know why I allow 
 you all to chatter impertinently just as you please, instead 
 of treating you as Ftatateeta would treat you if she were 
 Queen ? 
 
 Charmian. Because you try to imitate Caesar in every- 
 thing; and he lets everybody say what they please to him. 
 
 Cleopatra. No; but because I asked him one day why 
 he did so; and he said "Let your women talk; and you will 
 learn something from them." What have I to learn from 
 them? I said. "What they are," said he; and oh! you 
 should have seen his eye as he said it. You would have 
 curled up, you shallow things. {They laugh. She turns 
 fiercely on Iras) At whom are you laughing — at me or at 
 Caesar ? 
 
 Iras. At Caesar. 
 
 Cleopatra. If you were not a fool, you would laugh at 
 me; and if you were not a coward you would not be afraid 
 to tell me so. {Ftatateeta returns.) Ftatateeta: they tell me 
 that Pothinus has offered you a bribe to admit him to my 
 presence. 
 
 Ftatateeta {protesting). Now by my father's gods 
 
 Cleopatra {cutting her short despotically). Have I not 
 told you not to deny things? You would spend the day 
 calling your father's gods to witness to your virtues if I let 
 you. Go take the bribe; and bring in Pothinus. {Ftatateeta 
 is about to reply.) Don't answer me. Go. 
 
 Ftatateeta goes out; and Cleopatra rises and begins to prowl 
 to and fro between her chair and the door, meditating. All 
 rise and stand. 
 
 Iras {as she reluctantly rises). Heigho! I wish Caesar 
 were back in Rome. 
 
 Cleopatra {threateningly). It will be a bad day for you 
 
164 Caesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 all when he goes. Oh, if I were not ashamed to let him see 
 that I am as cruel at heart as my father, I would make you 
 repent that speech! Why do you wish him away? 
 
 Charmian. He makes you so terribly prosy and serious 
 and learned and philosophical. It is worse than being re- 
 ligious, at our ages. {The ladies laugh.) 
 
 Cleopatra. Cease that endless cackling, will you. Hold 
 your tongues. 
 
 Charmian {with mock resignation). Well, well: we must 
 try to live up to Caesar. 
 
 They laugh again. Cleopatra rages silently as she continues 
 to prowl to and fro. Ftatateeta comes back with Pothinus, 
 who halts on the threshold. 
 
 Ftatateeta {at the door). Pothinus craves the ear of the 
 
 Cleopatra. There, there: that will do: let him come in. 
 {She resumes her seat. All sit down except Pothinus, who 
 advances to the middle of the room. Ftatateeta takes her for- 
 mer place.) Well, Pothinus: what is the latest news from 
 your rebel friends? 
 
 Pothinus {haughtily). I am no friend of rebellion. And 
 a prisoner does not receive news. 
 
 Cleopatra. You are no more a prisoner than I am — 
 than Csesar is. These six months we have been besieged in 
 this palace by my subjects. You are allowed to walk on the 
 beach among the soldiers. Can I go further myself, or can 
 Caesar ? 
 
 Pothinus. You are but a child, Cleopatra, and do not 
 understand these matters. 
 
 The ladies laugh. Cleopatra looks inscrutably at him. 
 
 Charmian. I see you do not know the latest news, Pothinus. 
 
 Pothinus. What is that? 
 
 Charmian. That Cleopatra is no longer a child. Shall 
 I tell you how to grow much older, and much, much wiser 
 in one day? 
 
 Pothinus. I should prefer to grow wiser without growing 
 older. 
 
 Charmian. Well, go up to the top of the lighthouse; and 
 
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 165 
 
 get somebody to take you by the hair and throw you into the 
 sea. (The ladies laugh.) 
 
 Cleopatra. She is right, Pothinus: you will come to the 
 shore with much conceit washed out of you. (The ladies 
 laugh. Cleopatra rises impatiently.) Begone, all of you. I 
 will speak with Pothinus alone. Drive them out, Ftatateeta. 
 (They run out laughing. Ftatateeta shuts the door on them.) 
 What are you waiting for ? 
 
 Ftatateeta. It is not meet that the Queen remain alone 
 with 
 
 Cleopatra (interrupting her). Ftatateeta: must I sacri- 
 fice you to your father's gods to teach you that / am Queen of 
 Egypt, and not you ? 
 
 Ftatateeta (indignantly). You are like the rest of them. 
 You want to be what these Romans call a New Woman. 
 (She goes out, banging the door.) 
 
 Cleopatra (sitting down again). Now, Pothinus: why 
 did you bribe Ftatateeta to bring you hither ? 
 
 Pothinus (studying her gravely). Cleopatra: what they 
 tell me is true. You are changed. 
 
 Cleopatra. Do you speak with Caesar every day for six 
 months: and you will be changed. 
 
 Pothinus. It is the common talk that you are infatuated 
 with this old man. 
 
 Cleopatra. Infatuated? What does that mean? Made 
 foolish, is it not? Oh no: I wish I were. 
 
 Pothinus. You wish you were made foolish! How so? 
 
 Cleopatra. When I was foolish, I did what I liked, 
 except when Ftatateeta beat me; and even then I cheated 
 her and did it by stealth. Now that Caesar has made me 
 wise, it is no use my liking or disliking; I do what must be 
 done, and have no time to attend to myself. That is not 
 happiness; but it is greatness. If Caesar were gone, I think 
 I could govern the Egyptians; for what Caesar is to me, I am 
 to the fools around me. 
 
 Pothinus (looking hard at her). Cleopatra: this may be 
 the vanity of youth. 
 
166 Cassar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Cleopatra. No, no: it is not that I am so clever, but 
 that the others are so stupid. 
 
 Pothinus {musingly). Truly, that is the great secret. 
 
 Cleopatra. Well, now tell me what you came to say? 
 
 Pothinus {embarrassed). I! Nothing. 
 
 Cleopatra. Nothing! 
 
 Pothinus. At least — to beg for my liberty: that is all. 
 
 Cleopatra. For that you would have knelt to Caesar. 
 No, Pothinus: you came with some plan that depended on 
 Cleopatra being a little nursery kitten. Now that Cleopatra 
 is a Queen, the plan is upset. 
 
 Pothinus {bowing his head submissively). It is so. 
 
 Cleopatra {exultant). Aha! 
 
 Pothinus {raising his eyes keenly to hers). Is Cleopatra 
 then indeed a Queen, and no longer Caesar's prisoner and slave ? 
 
 Cleopatra. Pothinus: we are all Caesar's slaves — all we 
 in this land of Egypt — whether we will or no. And she who 
 is wise enough to know this will reign when Caesar departs. 
 
 Pothinus. You harp on Caesar's departure. 
 
 Cleopatra. What if I do? 
 
 Pothinus. Does he not love you? 
 
 Cleopatra. Love me! Pothinus: Caesar loves no one. 
 Who are those we love? Only those whom we do not hate: 
 all people are strangers and enemies to us except those we 
 love. But it is not so with Caesar. He has no hatred in 
 him: he makes friends with everyone as he does with dogs 
 and children. His kindness to me is a wonder: neither 
 mother, father, nor nurse have ever taken so much care for 
 me, or thrown open their thoughts to me so freely. 
 
 Pothinus. Well: is not this love? 
 
 Cleopatra. What! When he will do as much for the 
 first girl he meets on his way back to Rome ? Ask his slave, 
 Britannus: he has been just as good to him. Nay, ask his 
 very horse ! His kindness is not for anything in m e : it is in 
 his own nature. 
 
 Pothinus. But how can you be sure that he does not love 
 you as men love women? 
 
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 167 
 
 Cleopatra. Because I cannot make him jealous. I have 
 tried. 
 
 Pothinus. Hm! Perhaps I should have asked, then, do 
 you love him? 
 
 Cleopatra. Can one love a god ? Besides, I love another 
 Roman: one whom I saw long before Caesar — no god, but a 
 man — one who can love and hate — one whom I can hurt and 
 who would hurt me. 
 
 Pothinus. Does Caesar know this? 
 
 Cleopatra. Yes. 
 
 Pothinus. And he is not angry. 
 
 Cleopatra. He promises to send him to Egypt to please 
 me! 
 
 Pothinus. I do not understand this man? 
 
 Cleopatra {with superb contempt). You understand 
 Caesar! How could you? (Proudly) I do — by instinct. 
 
 Pothinus (deferentially, after a moment's thought). Your 
 Majesty caused me to be admitted to-day. What message 
 has the Queen for me? 
 
 Cleopatra. This. You think that by making my brother 
 king, you will rule in Egypt, because you are his guardian 
 and he is a little silly. 
 
 Pothinus. The Queen is pleased to say so. 
 
 Cleopatra. The Queen is pleased to say this also. That 
 Caesar will eat up you, and Achillas, and my brother, as a 
 cat eats up mice; and that he will put on this land of Egypt 
 as a shepherd puts on his garment. And when he has done 
 that, he will return to Rome, and leave Cleopatra here as his 
 viceroy. 
 
 Pothinus (breaking out wrathfully). That he will never 
 do. We have a thousand men to his ten; and we will drive 
 him and his beggarly legions into the sea. 
 
 Cleopatra (with scorn, getting up to go). You rant like 
 any common fellow. Go, then, and marshal your thousands; 
 and make haste; for Mithridates of Pergamos is at hand with 
 reinforcements for Caesar. Caesar has held you at bay with 
 two legions: we shall see what he will do with twenty. 
 
168 Caesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Pothintjs. Cleopatra- 
 
 Cleopatra. Enough, enough: Caesar has spoiled me for 
 talking to weak things like you. (She goes out. Pothinus, 
 with a gesture o) rage, is following, when Ftatateeta enters and 
 stops him.) 
 
 Pothinus. Let me go forth from this hateful place. 
 
 Ftatateeta. What angers you? 
 
 Pothinus. The curse of all the gods of Egypt be upon 
 her! She has sold her country to the Roman, that she may 
 buy it back from him with her kisses. 
 
 Ftatateeta. Fool: did she not tell you that she would 
 have Caesar gone? 
 
 Pothinus. You listened? 
 
 Ftatateeta. I took care that some honest woman should 
 be at hand whilst you were with her. 
 
 Pothinus. Now by the gods 
 
 Ftatateeta. Enough of your gods ! Caesar's gods are all 
 powerful here. It is no use you coming to Cleopatra : you 
 are only an Egyptian. She will not listen to any of her own 
 race: she treats us all as children. 
 
 Pothinus. May she perish for it! 
 
 Ftatateeta (hatefully). May your tongue wither for that 
 wish! Go! send for Lucius Septimius, the slayer of Pompey. 
 He is a Roman: may be she will listen to him. Begone! 
 
 Pothinus (darkly). I know to whom I must go now. 
 
 Ftatateeta (suspiciously). To whom, then? 
 
 Pothinus. To a greater Roman than Lucius. And mark 
 this, mistress. You thought, before Caesar came, that Egypt 
 should presently be ruled by you and your crew in the name 
 of Cleopatra. I set myself against it 
 
 Ftatateeta (interrupting him — wrangling). Ay; that it 
 might be ruled by you and your crew in the name of Ptol- 
 emy. 
 
 Pothinus. Better me, or even you, than a woman with 
 a Roman heart; and that is what Cleopatra is now become. 
 Whilst I live, she shall never rule. So guide yourself ac- 
 cordingly. (He goes out.) 
 
Act IV Csesar and Cleopatra 169 
 
 It is by this time drawing on to dinner time. The table is 
 laid on the roof of the palace; and thither Rufio is now climb- 
 ing, ushered by a majestic 'palace official, wand of office in 
 hand, and followed by a slave carrying an inlaid stool. After 
 many stairs they emerge at last into a massive colonnade on 
 the roof. Light curtains are drawn between the columns on 
 the north and east to soften the westering sun. The official 
 leads Rufio to one of these shaded sections. A cord for pulling 
 the curtains apart hangs down between the pillars. 
 
 The Official (bowing). The Roman commander will 
 await Caesar here. 
 
 The slave sets down the stool near the southernmost column, 
 and slips out through the curtains. 
 
 Rufio (sitting down, a little blown). Pouf! That was a 
 climb. How high have we come? 
 
 The Official. We are on the palace roof, O Beloved of 
 Victory! 
 
 Rufio. Good! the Beloved of Victory has no more stairs 
 to get up. 
 
 A second official enters from the opposite end, walking 
 backwards. 
 
 The Second Official. Csesar approaches. 
 
 Ccesar, fresh from the bath, clad in a new tunic of purple 
 silk, comes in, beaming and festive, followed by two slaves 
 carrying a light couch, which is hardly more than an elabo- 
 rately designed bench. They place it near the northmost of the 
 two curtained columns. When this is done they slip out 
 through the curtains; and the two officials, formally bowing, 
 follow them. Rufio rises to receive Ccesar. 
 
 Cesar (coming over to him). Why, Rufio! (Surveying his 
 dress with an air of admiring astonishment) A new baldrick! 
 A new golden pommel to your sword! And you have had 
 your hair cut! But not your beard — ? impossible! (He 
 sniffs at Rufio 's beard.) Yes, perfumed, by Jupiter Olympus! 
 
 Rufio (growling). Well: is it to please myself? 
 
 Cesar (affectionately). No, my son Rufio, but to please 
 me — to celebrate my birthday. 
 
170 Cassar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Rufio (contemptuously). Your birthday! You always 
 have a birthday when there is a pretty girl to be flattered or an 
 ambassador to be conciliated. We had seven of them in ten 
 months last year. 
 
 Cesar (contritely). It is true, Rufio! I shall never break 
 myself of these petty deceits. 
 
 Rufio. Who is to dine with us — besides Cleopatra? 
 
 Caesar. Apollodorus the Sicilian. 
 
 Rufio. That popinjay! 
 
 Cesar. Come! the popinjay is an amusing dog — tells a 
 story; sings a song; and saves us the trouble of flattering the 
 Queen. What does she care for old politicians and camp- 
 fed bears like us? No: Apollodorus is good company, Rufio, 
 good company. 
 
 Rufio. Well, he can swim a bit and fence a bit: he might 
 be worse, if he only knew how to hold his tongue. 
 
 Caesar. The gods forbid he should ever learn! Oh, this 
 military life! this tedious, brutal life of action! That is the 
 worst of us Romans: we are mere doers and drudgers: a 
 swarm of bees turned into men. Give me a good talker — 
 one with wit and imagination enough to live without con- 
 tinually doing something! 
 
 Rufio. Ay! a nice time he would have of it with you 
 when dinner was over! Have you noticed that I am before 
 my time? 
 
 C^sar. Aha! I thought that meant something. What 
 is it? 
 
 Rufio. Can we be overheard here? 
 
 Cesar. Our privacy invites eavesdropping. I can rem- 
 edy that. (He claps his hands twice. The curtains are 
 drawn, revealing the roof garden with a banqueting table set 
 across in the middle for four persons, one at each end, and two 
 side by side. The side next Casar and Rufio is blocked with 
 golden wine vessels and basins. A gorgeous major-domo is 
 superintending the laying of the table by a staff of slaves. The 
 colonnade goes round the garden at both sides to the further 
 end, where a gap in it, like a great gateway, leaves the view 
 
Act IV Csesar and Cleopatra 171 
 
 open to the sky beyond the western edge of the roof, except in 
 the middle, where a life size image of Ra, seated on a huge 
 plinth, towers up, with hawk head and crown of asp and disk. 
 His altar, which stands at his feet, is a single white stone.) 
 Now everybody can see us, nobody will think of listening to 
 us. (He sits down on the bench left by the two slaves.) 
 
 Rufio (sitting down on his stool) . Pothinus wants to speak 
 to you. I advise you to see him: there is some plotting going 
 on here among the women. 
 
 Cesar. Who is Pothinus? 
 
 Rufio. The fellow with hair like squirrel's fur — the little 
 King's bear leader, whom you kept prisoner. 
 
 Caesar (annoyed). And has he not escaped? 
 
 Rufio. No. 
 
 Cesar (rising imperiously). Why not? You have been 
 guarding this man instead of watching the enemy. Have I 
 not told you always to let prisoners escape unless there are 
 special orders to the contrary ? Are there not enough mouths 
 to be fed without him? 
 
 Rufio. Yes; and if you would have a little sense and let 
 me cut his throat, you would save his rations. Anyhow, he 
 won't escape. Three sentries have told him they would 
 put a pilum through him if they saw him again. What 
 more can they do ? He prefers to stay and spy on us. So 
 would I if I had to do with generals subject to fits of 
 clemency. 
 
 Cesar (resuming his seat, argued down). Hm! And so 
 he wants to see me. 
 
 Rufio. Ay. I have brought him with me. He is waiting 
 there (jerking his thumb over his shoulder) under guard. 
 
 Cesar. And you want me to see him? 
 
 Rufio (obstinately). I don't want anything. I daresay 
 you will do what you like. Don't put it on to me. 
 
 Cesar (with an air of doing it expressly to indulge Rufio). 
 Well, well: let us have him. 
 
 Rufio (calling). Ho there, guard! Release your man and 
 send him up. (Beckoning) Come along! 
 
172 Caesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Pothinus enters and stops mistrustfully between the two, 
 looking from one to the other. 
 
 Cesar (graciously). Ah, Pothinus! You are welcome. 
 And what is the news this afternoon? 
 
 Pothinus. Caesar: I come to warn you of a danger, and 
 to make you an offer. 
 
 Caesar. Never mind the danger. Make the offer. 
 
 Rufio. Never mind the offer. What's the danger? 
 
 Pothinus. Caesar: you think that Cleopatra is devoted 
 to you. 
 
 Caesar (gravely). My friend : I already know what I think. 
 Come to your offer. 
 
 Pothinus. I will deal plainly. I know not by what 
 strange gods you have been enabled to defend a palace and 
 a few yards of beach against a city and an army. Since we 
 cut you off from Lake Mareotis, and you dug wells in the 
 salt sea sand and brought up buckets of fresh water from 
 them, we have known that your gods are irresistible, and that 
 you are a worker of miracles. I no longer threaten you 
 
 Rufio (sarcastically). Very handsome of you, indeed. 
 
 Pothinus. So be it: you are the master. Our gods sent 
 the north west winds to keep you in our hands; but you have 
 been too strong for them. 
 
 Caesar (gently urging him to come to the point). Yes, yes, 
 my friend. But what then? 
 
 Rufio. Spit it out, man. What have you to say? 
 
 Pothinus. I have to say that you have a traitress in your 
 camp. Cleopatra 
 
 The Major-Domo (at the table, announcing). The Queen! 
 (Casar and Rufio rise.) 
 
 Rufio (aside to Pothinus). You should have spat it out 
 sooner, you fool. Now it is too late. 
 
 Cleopatra, in gorgeous raiment, enters in state through the 
 gap in the colonnade, and comes down past the image of Ra 
 and past the table to Casar. Her retinue, headed by Ftata- 
 teeta, joins the staff at the table. C&sar gives Cleopatra his 
 seat, which she takes. 
 
Act IV Csesar and Cleopatra 173 
 
 Cleopatra (quickly, seeing Pothinus). What is h e doing 
 here? 
 
 Cesar {seating himself beside her, in the most amiable of 
 tempers). Just going to tell me something about you. You 
 shall hear it. Proceed, Pothinus. 
 
 Pothinus (disconcerted). Csesar — (He stammers.) 
 
 Cesar. Well, out with it. 
 
 Pothinus. What I have to say is for your ear, not for 
 the Queen's. 
 
 Cleopatra (with subdued ferocity). There are means of 
 making you speak. Take care. 
 
 Pothinus (defiantly) . Csesar does not employ those means. 
 
 Cesar. My friend: when a man has anything to tell in 
 this world, the difficulty is not to make him tell it, but to 
 prevent him from telling it too often. Let me celebrate my 
 birthday by setting you free. Farewell: we shall not meet 
 again. 
 
 Cleopatra (angrily). Caesar: this mercy is foolish. 
 
 Pothinus (to Cazsar). Will you not give me a private 
 audience? Your life may depend on it. (Cwsar rises loftily.) 
 
 Rufio (aside to Pothinus). Ass! Now we shall have some 
 heroics. 
 
 C^sar (oratorically). Pothinus 
 
 Rufio (interrupting him). Csesar: the dinner will spoil if 
 you begin preaching your favourite sermon about life and 
 death. 
 
 Cleopatra (priggishly). Peace, Rufio. I desire to hear 
 Csesar. 
 
 Rufio (bluntly). Your Majesty has heard it before. You 
 repeated it to Apollodorus last week; and he thought it was 
 all your own. (Cmsar's dignity collapses. Much tickled, he 
 sits down again and looks roguishly at Cleopatra, who is 
 furious. Rufio calls as before) Ho there, guard! Pass the 
 prisoner out. He is released. (To Pothinus) Now off with 
 you. You have lost your chance. 
 
 Pothinus (his temper overcoming his prudence). I w i 1 1 
 speak. 
 
174 Caesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Caesar (to Cleopatra). You see. Torture would not have 
 wrung a word from him. 
 
 Pothinus. Caesar: you have taught Cleopatra the arts by 
 which the Romans govern the world. 
 
 Cesar. Alas! they cannot even govern themselves. What 
 then? 
 
 Pothinus. What then? Are you so besotted with her 
 beauty that you do not see that she is impatient to reign in 
 Egypt alone, and that her heart is set on your departure? 
 
 Cleopatra (rising). Liar! 
 
 Cesar (shocked). What! Protestations! Contradictions! 
 
 Cleopatra (ashamed, but trembling with suppressed rage). 
 No. I do not deign to contradict. Let him talk. (She sits 
 down again.) 
 
 Pothinus. From her own lips I have heard it. You are 
 to be her catspaw : you are to tear the crown from her broth- 
 er's head and set it on her own, delivering us all into her 
 hand — delivering yourself also. And then Caesar can return 
 to Rome, or depart through the gate of death, which is nearer 
 and surer. 
 
 Caesar (calmly). Well, my friend; and is not this very 
 natural ? 
 
 Pothinus (astonished). Natural! Then you do not resent 
 treachery ? 
 
 Cesar. Resent! O thou foolish Egyptian, what have I 
 to do with resentment? Do I resent the wind when it chills 
 me, or the night when it makes me stumble in the darkness ? 
 Shall I resent youth when it turns from age, and ambition 
 when it turns from servitude? To tell me such a story as 
 this is but to tell me that the sun will rise to-morrow. 
 
 Cleopatra (unable >o contain herself). But it is false — 
 false. I swear it. 
 
 Cesar. It is true, though you swore it a thousand times, 
 and believed all you swore. (She is convulsed with emotion. 
 To screen her, he rises and takes Pothinus to Rufio, saying) 
 Come, Rufio: let us see Pothinus past the guard. I have a 
 word to say to him. (Aside to them) We must give the 
 
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 175 
 
 Queen a moment to recover herself. (Aloud) Come. (He 
 takes Pothinus and Rufio out with him, conversing ivith them 
 meanwhile.) Tell your friends, Pothinus, that they must 
 not think I am opposed to a reasonable settlement of the 
 country's affairs — (They pass out of hearing.) 
 
 Cleopatra (in a stifled ivhisper). Ftatateeta, Ftatateeta. 
 
 Ftatateeta (hurrying to her from the table and petting 
 her). Peace, child: be comforted 
 
 Cleopatra (interrupting her). Can they hear us? 
 
 Ftatateeta. No, dear heart, no. 
 
 Cleopatra. Listen to me. If he leaves the Palace alive, 
 never see my face again. 
 
 Ftatateeta. He ? Poth 
 
 Cleopatra (striking her on the mouth). Strike his life out 
 as I strike his name from your lips. Dash him down from 
 the wall. Break him on the stones. Kill, kill, kill him. 
 
 Ftatateeta (shewing all her teeth). The dog shall perish. 
 
 Cleopatra. Fail in this, and you go out from before me 
 for ever. 
 
 Ftatateeta (resolutely). So be it. You shall not see my 
 face until his eyes are darkened. 
 
 C&sar comes back, with Apollodorus, exquisitely dressed, 
 and Rufio. 
 
 Cleopatra (to Ftatateeta). Come soon — soon. (Ftatateeta 
 turns her meaning eyes for a moment on her mistress; then 
 goes grimly away past Ra and out. Cleopatra runs like a 
 gazelle to Caesar) So you have come back to me, Caesar. 
 (Caressingly) I thought you were angry. Welcome, Apollo- 
 dorus. (She gives him her hand to kiss, with her other arm 
 about Casar.) 
 
 Apollodorus. Cleopatra grows more womanly beautiful 
 from week to week. 
 
 Cleopatra. Truth, Apollodorus? 
 
 Apollodorus. Far, far short of the truth! Friend Rufio 
 threw a pearl into the sea: Caesar fished up a diamond. 
 
 Cesar. Caesar fished up a touch of rheumatism, my friend. 
 Come: to dinner! to dinner! (They move towards the table.) 
 
176 Csesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Cleopatra (skipping like a young fawn). Yes, to dinner. 
 I have ordered sucha dinner for you, Caesar! 
 
 Cesar. Ay? What are we to have? 
 
 Cleopatra. Peacocks' brains. 
 
 Caesar (as if his mouth watered). Peacocks' brains, 
 Apollodorus ! 
 
 Apollodorus. Not for me. I prefer nightingales' tongues. 
 (He goes to one of the two covers set side by side.) 
 
 Cleopatra. Roast boar, Rufio! 
 
 Rufio (gluttonously). Good! (He goes to the seat next 
 Apollodorus, on his left.) 
 
 Caesar (looking at his seat, which is at the end of the table, 
 to Ra's left hand). What has become of my leathern cushion? 
 
 Cleopatra (at the opposite end). I have got new ones for 
 you. 
 
 The Major-Domo. These cushions, Caesar, are of Maltese 
 gauze, stuffed with rose leaves. 
 
 Cesar. Rose leaves! Am I a caterpillar? (He throws 
 the cushions away and seats himself on the leather mattress 
 underneath.) 
 
 Cleopatra. What a shame! My new cushions! 
 
 The Major-Domo (at Ccesar's elbow). What shall we 
 serve to whet Caesar's appetite? 
 
 Cesar. What have you got? 
 
 The Major-Domo. Sea hedgehogs, black and white sea 
 acorns, sea nettles, beccaficoes, purple shellfish 
 
 Cesar. Any oysters? 
 
 The Major-Domo. Assuredly. 
 
 C^sar. British oysters ? 
 
 The Major-Domo (assenting). British oysters, Caesar. 
 
 Cesar. Oysters, then. (The Major-Domo signs to a 
 slave at each order; and the slave goes out to execute it.) I 
 have been in Britain — that western land of romance — the 
 last piece of earth on the edge of the ocean that surrounds 
 the world. I went there in search of its famous pearls. The 
 British pearl was a fable; but in searching for it I found the 
 British oyster. 
 
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 177 
 
 Apollodorus. All posterity will bless you for it. (To the 
 Major-Domo) Sea hedgehogs for me. 
 
 Rufio. Is there nothing solid to begin with? 
 
 The Major-Domo. Fieldfares with asparagus 
 
 Cleopatra (interrupting). Fattened fowls! have some 
 fattened fowls, Rufio. 
 
 Rufio. Ay, that will do. 
 
 Cleopatra (greedily). Fieldfares for me. 
 
 The Major-Domo. Csesar will deign to choose his wine? 
 Sicilian, Lesbian, Chian 
 
 Rufio (contemptuously). All Greek. 
 
 Apollodorus. Who would drink Roman wine when he 
 could get Greek? Try the Lesbian, Csesar. 
 
 Caesar. Bring me my barley water. 
 
 Rufio (with intense disgust) . Ugh ! Bring m e my Fal- 
 ernian. (The Falernian is presently brought to him.) 
 
 Cleopatra (pouting). It is waste of time giving you 
 dinners, Csesar. My scullions would not condescend to your 
 diet. 
 
 Cesar (relenting). Well, well: let us try the Lesbian. 
 (The Major-Domo fills Ccesar's goblet; then Cleopatra *s and 
 Apollodorus' s.) But when I return to Rome, I will make 
 laws against these extravagances. I will even get the laws 
 carried out. 
 
 Cleopatra (coaxingly). Never mind. To-day you are 
 to be like other people: idle, luxurious, and kind. (She 
 stretches her hand to him along the table.) 
 
 Cesar. Well, for once I will sacrifice my comfort — 
 (kissing her hand) there! (He takes a draught of wine.) 
 Now are you satisfied? 
 
 Cleopatra. And you no longer believe that I long for 
 your departure for Rome? 
 
 Cesar. I no longer believe anything. My brains are 
 asleep. Besides, who knows whether I shall return to Rome? 
 
 Rufio (alarmed). How? Eh? What? 
 
 Cesar. What has Rome to shew me that I have not 
 seen already? One year of Rome is like another, except 
 
178 Csesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 that I grow older, whilst the crowd in the Appian Way is 
 always the same age. 
 
 Apollodortjs. It is no better here in Egypt. The old 
 men, when they are tired of life, say "We have seen every- 
 thing except the source of the Nile." 
 
 CiESAR (his imagination catching fire). And why not see 
 that? Cleopatra: will you come with me and track the flood 
 to its cradle in the heart of the regions of mystery? Shall 
 we leave Rome behind us — Rome, that has achieved great- 
 ness only to learn how greatness destroys nations of men who 
 are not great! Shall I make you a new kingdom, and build 
 you a holy city there in the great unknown? 
 
 Cleopatra (rapturously). Yes, yes. You shall. 
 
 Rtjfto. Ay: now he will conquer Africa with two legions 
 before we come to the roast boar. 
 
 Apollodortjs. Come: no scoffing. This is a noble 
 scheme: in it Caesar is no longer merely the conquering sol- 
 dier, but the creative poet-artist. Let us name the holy city, 
 and consecrate it with Lesbian wine. 
 
 Cesar. Cleopatra shall name it herself. 
 
 Cleopatra. It shall be called Caesar's Gift to his Beloved. 
 
 Apollodortjs. No, no. Something vaster than that — 
 something universal, like the starry firmament. 
 
 Caesar (prosaically). Why not simply The Cradle of the 
 Nile? 
 
 Cleopatra. No: the Nile is my ancestor;" and he is a 
 god. Oh! I have thought of something. The Nile shall 
 name it himself. Let us call upon him. (To the Major- 
 Domo) Send for him. ( The three men stare at one another; 
 but the Major-Domo goes out as if he had received the most 
 matter-of-fact order.) And (to the retinue) away with you all. 
 
 The retinue withdraws, making obeisance. 
 
 A priest enters, carrying a miniature sphinx with a tiny 
 tripod before it. A morsel of incense is smoking in the tripod. 
 The priest comes to the table and places the image in the middle 
 of it. The light begins to change to the magenta purple of 
 the Egyptian sunset, as if the god had brought a strange colored 
 
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 179 
 
 shadow with him. The three men are determined not to be 
 impressed; but they feel curious in spite of themselves. 
 
 Caesar. What hocus-pocus is this? 
 
 Cleopatra. You shall see. And it is n o t hocus-pocus. 
 To do it properly, we should kill something to please him; 
 but perhaps he will answer Csesar without that if we spill 
 some wine to him. 
 
 Apollodorus (turning his head to look up over his shoulder 
 at Ra). Why not appeal to our hawkheaded friend here? 
 
 Cleopatra (nervously) . Sh ! He will hear you and be angry. 
 
 Rufio (phlegmatically) . The source of the Nile is out of 
 his district, I expect. 
 
 Cleopatra. No: I will have my city named by nobody 
 but my dear little sphinx, because it was in its arms that 
 Caesar found me asleep. (She languishes at Cmsar; then 
 turns curtly to the priest) Go. I am a priestess, and have 
 power to take your charge from you. (The priest makes a 
 reverence and goes out.) Now let us call on the Nile all 
 together. Perhaps he will rap on the table. 
 
 Caesar. What! table rapping! Are such superstitions 
 still believed in this year 707 of the Republic? 
 
 Cleopatra. It is no superstition: our priests learn lots 
 of things from the tables. Is it not so, Apollodorus? 
 
 Apollodorus. Yes: I profess myself a converted man. 
 When Cleopatra is priestess, Apollodorus is devotee. Pro- 
 pose the conjuration. 
 
 Cleopatra. You must say with me "Send us thy voice, 
 Father Nile." 
 
 All Four (holding their glasses together before the idol). 
 Send us thy voice, Father Nile. 
 
 The death cry of a man in mortal terror and agony answers 
 them. Appalled, the men set down their glasses, and listen. 
 Silence. The purple deepens in the sky. Coesar, glancing at 
 Cleopatra, catches her pouring out her wine before the god, 
 with gleaming eyes, and mute assurances of gratitude and 
 worship. Apollodorus springs up and runs to the edge of the 
 roof to peer down and listen. 
 
180 Caesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Cesar (looking piercingly at Cleopatra). What was that? 
 
 Cleopatra (petulantly). Nothing. They are beating 
 some slave. 
 
 Ces ar . Nothing ! 
 
 Rufio. A man with a knife in him, I'll swear. 
 
 Caesar (rising). A murder! 
 
 Apollodortjs (at the back, waving his hand for silence). 
 S-sh! Silence. Did you hear that? 
 
 Caesar. Another cry? 
 
 Apollodortjs (returning to the table). No, a thud. Some- 
 thing fell on the beach, I think. 
 
 Rufio (grimly, as he rises) . Something with bones in it, eh ? 
 
 Cesar (shuddering). Hush, hush, Rufio. (He leaves the 
 table and returns to the colonnade: Rufio following at his left 
 elbow, and Apollodorus at the other side.) 
 
 Cleopatra (still in her place at the table). Will you leave 
 me, Csesar? Apollodorus: are you going? 
 
 Apollodorus. Faith, dearest Queen, my appetite is gone. 
 
 Cesar. Go down to the courtyard, Apollodorus; and 
 find out what has happened. 
 
 Apollodorus nods and goes out, making for the staircase by 
 which Rufio ascended. 
 
 Cleopatra. Your soldiers have killed somebody, per- 
 haps. What does it matter? 
 
 The murmur of a crowd rises from the beach below. Ccesar 
 and Rufio look at one another. 
 
 Caesar. This must be seen to. (He is about to follow 
 Apollodorus when Rufio stops him with a hand on his arm as 
 Ftatateeta comes back by the far end of the roof, with dragging 
 steps, a drowsy satiety in her eyes and in the corners of the 
 bloodhound lips. For a moment Ccesar suspects that she is 
 drunk with wine. Not so Rufio: he knows well the red vintage 
 that has inebriated her.) 
 
 Rufio (in a low tone). There is some mischief between 
 those two. 
 
 Ftatateeta. The Queen looks again on the face of her 
 servant. 
 
Act IV Cassar and Cleopatra 181 
 
 Cleopatra looks at her for a moment with an exultant re- 
 flection of her murderous expression. Then she flings her 
 arms round her; kisses her repeatedly and savagely; and tears 
 off her jeivels and heaps them on her. The two men turn from 
 the spectacle to look at one another. Ftatateeta drags herself 
 sleepily to the altar; kneels before Ra; and remains there in 
 prayer. Ccesar goes to Cleopatra, leaving Rufio in the colon- 
 nade. 
 
 Cesar (with searching earnestness). Cleopatra: what has 
 happened ? 
 
 Cleopatra (in mortal dread of him, but with her utmost 
 cajolery). Nothing, dearest Caesar. (With sickly sweetness, 
 her voice almost failing) Nothing. I am innocent. (She 
 approaches him affectionately) Dear Csesar: are you angry 
 with me? Why do you look at me so? I have been here 
 with you all the time. How can I know what has happened ? 
 
 Cesar (reflectively). That is true. 
 
 Cleopatra (greatly relieved, trying to caress him). Of 
 course it is true. (He does not respond to the caress.) You 
 know it is true, Rufio. 
 
 The murmur without suddenly swells to a roar and sub- 
 sides. 
 
 Rufio. I shall know presently. (He makes for the altar 
 in the burly trot that serves him for a stride, and touches Ftata- 
 teeta on the shoulder.) Now, mistress: I shall want you. (He 
 orders her, with a gesture, to go before him.) 
 
 Ftatateeta (rising and glowering at him). My place is 
 with the Queen. 
 
 Cleopatra. She has done no harm, Rufio. 
 
 Cesar (to Rufio). Let her stay. 
 
 Rufio (sitting down on the altar). Very well. Then my 
 place is here too; and you can see what is the matter for 
 yourself. The city is in a pretty uproar, it seems. 
 
 Cesar (with grave displeasure). Rufio: there is a time for 
 obedience. 
 
 Rufio. And there is a time for obstinacy. (He folds his 
 arms doggedly.) 
 
182 Cassar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Cesar (to Cleopatra). Send her away. 
 
 Cleopatra (whining in her eagerness to propitiate him). 
 Yes, I will. I will do whatever you ask me, Caesar, always, 
 because I love you. Ftatateeta: go away. 
 
 Ftatateeta. The Queen's word is my will. I shall be 
 at hand for the Queen's call. (She goes out past Ra, as she 
 came.) 
 
 Rufio (following her). Remember, Caesar, your body- 
 guard also is within call. (He follows her out.) 
 
 Cleopatra, presuming upon Coesar's submission to Rufio, 
 leaves the table and sits down on the bench in the colonnade. 
 
 Cleopatra. Why do you allow Rufio to treat you so? 
 You should teach him his place. 
 
 Cesar. Teach him to be my enemy, and to hide his 
 thoughts from me as you are now hiding yours. 
 
 Cleopatra (her fears returning). Why do you say that, 
 Caesar? Indeed, indeed, I am not hiding anything. You 
 are wrong to treat me like this. (She stifles a sob.) I am 
 only a child ; and you turn into stone because you think some 
 one has been killed. I cannot bear it. (She purposely 
 breaks down and weeps. He looks at her with profound sad- 
 ness and complete coldness. She looks up to see what effect she 
 is producing. Seeing that he is unmoved, she sits up, pre- 
 tending to struggle with her emotion and to put it bravely away.) 
 But there: I know you hate tears: you shall not be troubled 
 with them. I know you are not angry, but only sad; only 
 I am so silly, I cannot help being hurt when you speak coldly. 
 Of course you are quite right: it is dreadful to think of any- 
 one being killed or even hurt; and I hope nothing really 
 serious has — (Her voice dies away under his contemptuous 
 penetration.) 
 
 Cesar. What has frightened you into this? What have 
 you done? (A trumpet sounds on the beach beloiv.) Aha! 
 that sounds like the answer. 
 
 Cleopatra (sinking back trembling on the bench and cov- 
 ering her face with her hands). I have not betrayed you, 
 Caesar: I swear it. 
 
Act v Caesar and Cleopatra 183 
 
 Cesar. I know that. I have not trusted you. (He turns 
 from her, and is about to go out when Apollodorus and Britan- 
 nus drag in Lucius Septimius to him. Rufio follows. C&sar 
 shudders.) Again, Pompey's murderer! 
 
 Rufio. The town has gone mad, I think. They are for 
 tearing the palace down and driving us into the sea straight 
 away. We laid hold of this renegade in clearing them out 
 of the courtyard. 
 
 Cesar. Release him. (They let go his arms.) What has 
 offended the citizens, Lucius Septimius? 
 
 Lucius. What did you expect, Caesar? Pothinus was a 
 favorite of theirs. 
 
 Cesar. What has happened to Pothinus ? I set him free, 
 here, not half an hour ago. Did they not pass him out? 
 
 Lucius. Ay, through the gallery arch sixty feet above 
 ground, with three inches of steel in his ribs. He is as dead 
 as Pompey. We are quits now, as to killing — you and I. 
 
 Cesar (shocked). Assassinated! — our prisoner, our guest! 
 (He turns reproachfully on Rufio) Rufio 
 
 Rufio (emphatically— anticipating the question). Whoever 
 did it was a wise man and a friend of yours (Cleopatra is 
 greatly emboldened) ; but none of u s had a hand in it. So 
 it is no use to frown at me. (Ccesar turns and looks at Cleo- 
 patra.) 
 
 Cleopatra (violently — rising). He was slain by order of 
 the Queen of Egypt. I am not Julius Caesar the dreamer, 
 who allows every slave to insult him. Rufio has said I did 
 well: now the others shall judge me too. (She turns to the 
 others) This Pothinus sought to make me conspire with 
 him to betray Csesar to Achillas and Ptolemy. I refused; 
 and he cursed me and came privily to Caesar to accuse me 
 of his own treachery. I caught him in the act; and he in- 
 sulted me— m e, the Queen ! to my face. Csesar would not 
 avenge me: he spoke him fair and set him free. Was I right 
 to avenge myself? Speak, Lucius. 
 
 Lucius. I do not gainsay it. But you will get little 
 thanks from Csesar for it. 
 
184 Caesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 Cleopatra. Speak, Apollodorus. Was I wrong? 
 
 Apollodorus. I have only one word of blame, most 
 beautiful. You should have called upon me, your knight; 
 and in fair duel I should have slain the slanderer. 
 
 Cleopatra (passionately). I will be judged by your very 
 slave, Caesar. Britannus: speak. Was I wrong? 
 
 Britain nits. Were treachery, falsehood, and disloyalty 
 left unpunished, society must become like an arena full of 
 wild beasts, tearing one another to pieces. Caesar is in the 
 wrong. 
 
 Caesar (with quiet bitterness). And so the verdict is against 
 me, it seems. 
 
 Cleopatra (vehemently). Listen to me, Caesar. If one 
 man in all Alexandria can be found to say that I did wrong, 
 I swear to have myself crucified on the door of the palace by 
 my own slaves. 
 
 Cesar. If one man in all the world can be found, now 
 or forever, to know that you did wrong, that man will 
 have either to conquer the world as I have, or be crucified 
 by it. (The uproar in the streets again reaches them.) Do 
 you hear? These knockers at your gate are also believers in 
 vengeance and in stabbing. You have slain their leader: it 
 is right that they shall slay you. If you doubt it, ask your 
 four counsellors here. And then in the name of that right 
 (he emphasizes the word with great scorn) shall I not slay 
 them for murdering their Queen, and be slain in my turn by 
 their countrymen as the invader of their fatherland? Can 
 Rome do less then than slay these slayers too, to shew the 
 world how Rome avenges her sons and her honor ? And so, 
 to the end of history, murder shall breed murder, always in 
 the name of right and honor and peace, until the gods are 
 tired of blood and create a race that can understand. (Fierce 
 uproar. Cleopatra becomes white with terror.) Hearken, you 
 who must not be insulted. Go near enough to catch their 
 words: you will find them bitterer than the tongue of Pothi- 
 nus. (Loftily wrapping himself up in an impenetrable dig- 
 nity.) Let the Queen of Egypt now give her orders for 
 
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 185 
 
 vengeance, and take her measures for defence; for she has 
 renounced Caesar. (He turns to go.) 
 
 Cleopatra (terrified, running to him and falling on her 
 knees) . You will not desert me, Csesar. You will defend the 
 palace. 
 
 Cesar. You have taken the powers of life and death 
 upon you. I am only a dreamer. 
 
 Cleopatra. But they will kill me. 
 
 Cesar. And why not? 
 
 Cleopatra. In pity 
 
 Cesar. Pity! What! has it come to this so suddenly, 
 that nothing can save you now but pity ? Did it save Pothi- 
 nus? 
 
 She rises, wringing her hands, and goes back to the bench 
 in despair. Apollodorus shews his sympathy with her by 
 quietly posting himself behind the bench. The sky has by this 
 time become the most vivid purple, and soon begins to change 
 to a glowing pale orange, against which the colonnade and the 
 great image show darktier and darklier. 
 
 Rufio. Csesar: enough of preaching. The enemy is at 
 the gate. 
 
 Cesar (turning on him and giving way to his wrath). Ay; 
 and what has held him baffled at the gate all these months? 
 Was it my folly, as you deem it, or your wisdom? In this 
 Egyptian Red Sea of blood, whose hand has held all your 
 heads above the waves? (Turning on Cleopatra) And yet, 
 when Caesar says to such an one, "Friend, go free," you, 
 clinging for your little life to my sword, dare steal out and 
 stab him in the back ? And you, soldiers and gentlemen, and 
 honest servants as you forget that you are, applaud this as- 
 sassination, and say "Caesar is in the wrong." By the gods, 
 I am tempted to open my hand and let you all sink into the 
 flood. 
 
 Cleopatra (with a ray of cunning hope). But, Caesar, if 
 you do, you will perish yourself. 
 
 C(Bsar y s eyes blaze. 
 
 Rufio (greatly alarmed). Now, by great Jove, you filthy 
 
186 Ceesar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 little Egyptian rat, that is the very word to make him walk 
 out alone into the city and leave us here to be cut to pieces. 
 (Desperately, to Cossar) Will you desert us because we are 
 a parcel of fools ? I mean no harm by killing: I do it as a dog 
 kills a cat, by instinct. We are all dogs at your heels; but we 
 have served you faithfully. 
 
 Cesar (relenting). Alas, Rufio, my son, my son: as dogs 
 we are like to perish now in the streets. 
 
 Apollodorus (at his post behind Cleopatra's seat). Caesar, 
 what you say has an Olympian ring in it: it must be right; 
 for it is fine art. But I am still on the side of Cleopatra. If 
 we must die, she shall not want the devotion of a man's heart 
 nor the strength of a man's arm. 
 
 Cleopatra (sobbing). But I don't want to die. 
 
 Caesar (sadly). Oh, ignoble, ignoble! 
 
 Lucius (coming forward between C&sar and Cleopatra). 
 Hearken to me, Caesar. It may be ignoble; but I also mean 
 to live as long as I can. 
 
 Caesar. Well, my friend, you are likely to outlive Caesar. 
 Is it any magic of mine, think you, that has kept your army 
 and this whole city at bay for so long? Yesterday, what 
 quarrel had they with me that they should risk their lives 
 against me ? But to-day we have flung them down their hero, 
 murdered; and now every man of them is set upon clearing 
 out this nest of assassins — for such we are and no more. 
 Take courage then; and sharpen your sword. Pompey's 
 head has fallen; and Caesar's head is ripe. 
 
 Apollodorus. Does Caesar despair? 
 
 Cesar (with infinite pride) . He who has never hoped can 
 never despair. Caesar, in good or bad fortune, looks his fate 
 in the face. 
 
 Lucius. Look it in the face, then; and it will smile as it 
 always has on Caesar. 
 
 Cesar (with involuntary haughtiness). Do you presume 
 to encourage me? 
 
 Lucius. I offer you my services. I will change sides if 
 you will have me. 
 
Act IV Caesar and Cleopatra 187 
 
 Caesar (suddenly coming down to earth again, and looking 
 sharply at him, divining that there is something behind the 
 offer). What! At this point? 
 
 Lucius (firmly). At this point. 
 
 Rufio. Do you suppose Caesar is mad, to trust you ? 
 
 Lucius. I do not ask him to trust me until he is victorious. 
 I ask for my life, and for a command in Caesar's army. And 
 since Caesar is a fair dealer, I will pay in advance. 
 
 Cesar. Pay! How? 
 
 Lucius. With a piece of good news for you. 
 
 Casar divines the neivs in a flash. 
 
 Rufio. What news? 
 
 Caesar (with an elate and buoyant energy which makes 
 Cleopatra sit up and stare). What news! What news, did 
 you say, my son Rufio? The relief has arrived: what other 
 news remains for us ? Is it not so, Lucius Septimius ? Mith- 
 ridates of Pergamos is on the march. 
 
 Lucius. He has taken Pelusium. 
 
 Cjesar (delighted). Lucius Septimius: you are henceforth 
 my officer. Rufio: the Egyptians must have sent every sol- 
 dier from the city to prevent Mithridates crossing the Nile. 
 There is nothing in the streets now but mob — mob! 
 
 Lucius. It is so. Mithridates is marching by the great 
 road to Memphis to cross above the Delta. Achillas will fight 
 him there. 
 
 Cesar (all audacity). Achillas shall fight Caesar there. 
 See, Rufio. (He runs to the table; snatches a napkin; and 
 draws a plan on it with his finger dipped in wine, whilst Rufio 
 and Lucius Septimius crowd about him to watch, all looking 
 closely, for the light is now almost gone.) Here is the palace 
 (pointing to his plan): here is the theatre. You (to Rufio) 
 take twenty men and pretend to go by t h a t street (pointing 
 it out); and whilst they are stoning you, out go the cohorts 
 by this and this. My streets are right, are they, Lucius? 
 
 Lucius. Ay, that is the fig market 
 
 C^sar (too much excited to listen to him). I saw them the 
 day we arrived. Good! (He throws the napkin on the table 
 
188 Cassar and Cleopatra Act IV 
 
 and comes down again into the colonnade.) Away, Britannus : 
 tell Petronius that within an hour half our forces must take 
 ship for the western lake. See to my horse and armor. 
 {Britannus runs out.) With the rest, I shall march round the 
 lake and up the Nile to meet Mithridates. Away, Lucius; 
 and give the word. 
 
 Lucius hurries out after Britannus. 
 
 Rufio. Come: this is something like business. 
 
 CiESAR {buoyantly). Is it not, my only son? {He claps 
 his hands. The slaves hurry in to the table.) No more of this 
 mawkish revelling: away with all this stuff: shut it out of my 
 sight and be off with you. {The slaves begin to remove the 
 table; and the curtains are drawn, shutting in the colonnade.) 
 You understand about the streets, Rufio? 
 
 Rufio. Ay, I think I do. I will get through them, at all 
 events. . 
 
 The bucina sounds busily in the couiiyard beneath. 
 
 Caesar. Come, then: we must talk to the troops and 
 hearten them. You down to the beach: I to the courtyard. 
 {He makes for the staircase.) 
 
 Cleopatra {rising from her seat, where she has been quite 
 neglected all this time, and stretching out her hands timidly to 
 him). Caesar. 
 
 Cesar {turning). Eh? 
 
 Cleopatra. Have you forgotten me? 
 
 C^sar {indulgently). I am busy now, my child, busy. 
 When I return your affairs shall be settled. Farewell; and be 
 good and patient. 
 
 He goes, preoccupied and quite indifferent. She stands with 
 clenched fists, in speechless rage and humiliation. 
 
 Rufio. That game is played and lost, Cleopatra. The 
 woman always gets the worst of it. 
 
 Cleopatra {haughtily). Go. Follow your master. 
 
 Rufio {in her ear, with rough familiarity). A word first. 
 Tell your executioner that if Pothinus had been properly 
 killed — i n the throa t — he would not have called out. 
 Your man bungled his work. 
 
Act IV Cgesar and Cleopatra 189 
 
 Cleopatra (enigmatically). How do you know it was a 
 man? 
 
 Rufio (startled, and puzzled). It was not you: you were 
 with us when it happened. (She turns her back scornfully on 
 him. He shakes his head, and draws the curtains to go out. 
 It is now a magnificent moonlit night. The table has been 
 removed. Ftatateeta is seen in the light of the moon and stars, 
 again in prayer before the white altar-stone of Ra. Rufio 
 starts; closes the curtains again softly; and says in a low voice 
 to Cleopatra) Was it she ? with her own hand ? 
 
 Cleopatra (threateningly). Whoever it was, let my ene- 
 mies beware of her. Look to it, Rufio, you who dare make 
 the Queen of Egypt a fool before Caesar. 
 
 Rufio (looking grimly at her). I will look to it, Cleo- 
 patra. (He nods in confirmation of the promise, and slips out 
 through the curtains, loosening his sword in its sheath as he 
 goes.) 
 
 Roman Soldiers (in the courtyard below). Hail, Caesar! 
 Hail, hail! 
 
 Cleopatra listens. The bucina sounds again, followed by 
 several trumpets. 
 
 Cleopatra (wringing her hands and calling). Ftatateeta. 
 Ftatateeta. It is dark; and I am alone. Come to me. 
 (Silence.) Ftatateeta. (Louder.) Ftatateeta. (Silence. In 
 a panic she snatches the cord and pulls the curtains apart.) 
 
 Ftatateeta is lying dead on the altar of Ra, with her throat 
 cut. Her blood deluges the white stone. 
 
 END OF ACT IV. 
 
ACT V 
 
 High noon. Festival and military pageant on the esplanade 
 before the palace. In the east harbor Ccesar's galley, so gor- 
 geously decorated that it seems to be rigged with flowers, is along- 
 side the quay, close to the steps Apollodorus descended when he 
 embarked with the carpet. A Roman guard is posted there in 
 charge of a gangway, whence a red floorcloth is laid down the 
 middle of the esplanade, turning off to the north opposite the 
 central gate in the palace front, which shuts in the esplanade on 
 the south side. The broad steps of the gate, crowded with Cleo- 
 patra's ladies, all in their gayest attire, are like a flower garden. 
 The facade is lined by her guard, officered by the same gallants to 
 whom Bel Affris announced the coming of Ccesar six months be- 
 fore in the old palace on the Syrian border. The north side is 
 lined by Roman soldiers, with the townsfolk on tiptoe behind 
 them, peering over their heads at the cleared esplanade, in which 
 the officers stroll about, chatting. Among these are Belzanor and 
 the Persian; also the Centurion, vinewood cudgel in hand, battle 
 worn, thick-booted, and much outshone, both socially and deco- 
 ratively, by the Egyptian officers. 
 
 Apollodorus makes his way through the townsfolk and calls to 
 the officers from behind the Roman line. 
 
 Apollodorus. Hullo! May I pass? 
 
 Centurion. Pass Apollodorus the Sicilian there! {The 
 soldiers let him through.) 
 
 Belzanor. Is Csesar at hand ? 
 
 Apollodorus. Not yet. He is still in the market place. 
 I could not stand any more of the roaring of the soldiers ! Af- 
 ter half an hour of the enthusiasm of an army, one feels the 
 need of a little sea air. 
 
 Persian. Tell us the news. Hath he slain the priests ? 
 190 
 
Act V Caesar and Cleopatra 191 
 
 Apollodorus. Not he. They met him in the market 
 place with ashes on their heads and their gods in their hands 
 They placed the gods at his feet. The only one that was worth 
 looking at was Apis : a miracle of gold and ivory work. By my 
 advice he offered the chief priest two talents for it. 
 
 Belzanor (appalled) . Apis the all-knowing for two talents ! 
 What said the chief priest ? 
 
 Apollodorus. He invoked the mercy of Apis, and asked 
 for five. 
 
 Belzanor. There will be famine and tempest in the land 
 for this. 
 
 Persian. Pooh! Why did not Apis cause Caesar to be 
 vanquished by Achillas? Any fresh news from the war, 
 Apollodorus ? 
 
 Apollodorus. The little King Ptolemy was drowned. 
 
 Belzanor. Drowned! How? 
 
 Apollodorus. With the rest of them. Caesar attacked 
 them from three sides at once and swept them into the Nile- 
 Ptolemy's barge sank. 
 
 Belzanor. A marvelous man, this Caesar! Will he come 
 soon, think you ? 
 
 Apollodorus. He was settling the Jewish question when 
 I left. 
 
 A flourish of trumpets from the north, and commotion among 
 the townsfolk, announces the approach of Ccesar. 
 
 Persian. He has made short work of them. Here he 
 comes. (He hurries to his post in front of the Egyptian lines.) 
 
 Belzanor (following him). Ho there! Caesar comes. 
 
 The soldiers stand at attention, and dress their lines. Apollo- 
 dorus goes to the Egyptian line. 
 
 Centurion (hurrying to the gangway guard). Attention 
 there! Caesar comes. 
 
 Ccesar arrives in state with Rufio: Britannus following. The 
 soldiers receive him with enthusiastic shouting. 
 
 Cesar. I see my ship awaits me. The hour of Caesar's 
 farewell to Egypt has arrived. And now, Rufio, what remains 
 to be done before I go ? 
 
192 Ceesar and Cleopatra Act V 
 
 Rufio (at his left hand). You have not yet appointed a 
 Roman governor for this province. 
 
 Caesar (looking whimsically at him, but speaking with perfect 
 gravity). What say you to Mithridates of Pergamos, my re- 
 liever and rescuer, the great son of Eupator ? 
 
 Rufio. Why, that you will want him elsewhere. Do you 
 forget that you have some three or four armies to conquer on 
 your way home ? 
 
 Cesar. Indeed ! Well, what say you to yourself ? 
 
 Rufio (incredulously). I! la governor! What are you 
 dreaming of? Do you not know that I am only the son of a 
 f reedman ? 
 
 Caesar (affectionately). Has not Caesar called you his son? 
 (Calling to the whole assembly) Peace awhile there; and hear 
 me. 
 
 The Roman Soldiers. Hear Caesar. 
 
 Caesar. Hear the service, quality, rank and name of the 
 Roman governor. By service, Caesar's shield; by quality, 
 Caesar's friend; by rank, a Roman soldier. (The Roman sol- 
 diers give a triumphant shout.) By name, Rufio. (They 
 shout again.) 
 
 Rufio (kissing Casar's hand). Ay: I am Caesar's shield; 
 but of what use shall I be when I am no longer on Caesar's arm ? 
 Well, no matter — (He becomes husky, and turns away to 
 recover himself.) 
 
 Cesar. Where is that British Islander of mine ? 
 
 Britannus (coming forward on Casar's right hand). Here, 
 Caesar. 
 
 Cesar. Who bade you, pray, thrust yourself into the battle 
 of the Delta, uttering the barbarous cries of your native land, 
 and affirming yourself a match for any four of the Egyptians, 
 to whom you applied unseemly epithets? 
 
 Britannus. Caesar: I ask you to excuse the language that 
 escaped me in the heat of the moment. 
 
 Cesar. And how did you, who cannot swim, cross the 
 canal with us when we stormed the camp ? 
 
 Britannus. Caesar: I clung to the tail of your horse. 
 
Act V Caesar and Cleopatra 193 
 
 Caesar. These are not the deeds of a slave, Britannicus, 
 but of a free man. 
 
 Britannus. Caesar: I was born free. 
 
 Caesar. But they call you Caesar's slave. 
 
 Britannus. Only as Caesar's slave have I found real free- 
 dom. 
 
 C^sar (moved). Well said. Ungrateful that I am, I was 
 about to set you free; but now I will not part from you for a 
 million talents. (He claps him friendly on the shoulder. Brit- 
 annus, gratified, but a trifle shamefaced, takes his hand and 
 kisses it sheepishly.) 
 
 Belzanor (to the Persian). This Roman knows how to 
 make men serve him. 
 
 Persian. Ay : men too humble to become dangerous rivals 
 to him. 
 
 Belzanor. O subtle one ! O cynic ! 
 
 Caesar (seeing Apollodorus in the Egyptian corner and call- 
 ing to him). Apollodorus: I leave the art of Egypt in your 
 charge. Remember : Rome loves art and will encourage it un- 
 grudgingly. 
 
 Apollodorus. I understand, Caesar. Rome will produce 
 no art itself; but it will buy up and take away whatever the 
 other nations produce. 
 
 Cesar. What! Rome produce no art! Is peace not an 
 art? is war not an art? is government not an art? is civiliza- 
 tion not an art ? All these we give you in exchange for a few 
 ornaments. You will have the best of the bargain. (Turning 
 to Rufio) And now, what else have I to do before I embark ? 
 (Trying to recollect) There is something I cannot remember: 
 what c a n it be ? Well, well : it must remain undone : we must 
 not waste this favorable wind. Farewell, Rufio. 
 
 Rufio. Caesar: I am loth to let you go to Rome without 
 your shield. There are too many daggers there. 
 
 Cesar. It matters not: I shall finish my life's work on 
 my way back; and then I shall have lived long enough. Be- 
 sides: I have always disliked the idea of dying: I had rather 
 be killed. Farewell. 
 
194 Caesar and Cleopatra Act V 
 
 Rufio (with a sigh, raising his hands and giving Caesar 
 up as incorrigible). Farewell. (They shake hands.) 
 
 Cesar (waving his hand to Apollodorus). Farewell, 
 Apollodorus, and my friends, all of you. Aboard! 
 
 The gangway is run out from the quay to the ship. As 
 Cossar moves towards it, Cleopatra, cold and tragic, cunningly 
 dressed in black, without ornaments or decoration of any kind, 
 and thus making a striking figure among the brilliantly dressed 
 bevy of ladies as she passes through it, comes from the palace 
 and stands on the steps. Cossar does not see her until she 
 speaks. 
 
 Cleopatra. Has Cleopatra no part in this leave taking? 
 
 Cesar (enlightened). Ah, I k n e w there was something. 
 ( To Rufio) How could you let me forget her, Rufio ? (Hast- 
 ening to her) Had I gone without seeing you, I should 
 never have forgiven myself. (He takes her hands, and brings 
 her into the middle of the esplanade. She submits stonily.) Is 
 this mourning for me ? 
 
 Cleopatra. No. 
 
 Cesar (remorsefully). Ah, that was thoughtless of me! 
 It is for your brother. 
 
 Cleopatra. No. 
 
 Cesar. For whom, then? 
 
 Cleopatra. Ask the Roman governor whom you have 
 left us. 
 
 Cesar. Rufio ? 
 
 Cleopatra. Yes: Rufio. (She points at him with deadly 
 scorn.) He who is to rule here in Caesar's name, in Caesar's 
 way, according to Caesar's boasted laws of life. 
 
 Caesar (dubiously). He is to rule as he can, Cleopatra. 
 He has taken the work upon him, and will do it in his own 
 way. 
 
 Cleopatra. Not in your way, then? 
 
 Cesar (puzzled). What do you mean by my way? 
 
 Cleopatra. Without punishment. Without revenge. 
 Without judgment. 
 
 Cesar (approvingly). Ay: that is the right way, the great 
 
Act V Caesar and Cleopatra 195 
 
 way, the only possible way in the end. (To Rufio) Believe 
 it, Rufio, if you can. 
 
 Rufio. Why, I believe it, Caesar. You have convinced 
 me of it long ago. But look you. You are sailing for 
 Numidia to-day. Now tell me: if you meet a hungry lion 
 there, you will not punish it for wanting to eat you ? 
 
 Cesar (wondering what he is driving at). No. 
 
 Rufio. Nor revenge upon it the blood of those it has 
 already eaten. 
 
 Cesar. No. 
 
 Rufio. Nor judge it for its guiltiness. 
 
 Caesar. No. 
 
 Rufio. What, then, will you do to save your life from it ? 
 
 Cesar (promptly). Kill it, man, without malice, just as 
 it would kill me. What does this parable of the lion mean? 
 
 Rufio. Why, Cleopatra had a tigress that killed men at 
 her bidding. I thought she might bid it kill you some day. 
 Well, had I not been Caesar's pupil, what pious things might 
 I not have done to that tigress? I might have punished it. 
 I might have revenged Pothinus on it. 
 
 CAESAR (interjects). Pothinus! 
 
 Rufio (continuing). I might have judged it. But I put 
 all these follies behind me; and, without malice, only cut its 
 throat. And that is why Cleopatra comes to you in mourn- 
 ing. 
 
 Cleopatra (vehemently). He has shed the blood of my 
 servant Ftatateeta. On your head be it as upon his, Caesar, 
 if you hold him free of it. 
 
 Cjesar (energetically). On my head be it, then; for it was 
 well done. Rufio: had you set yourself in the seat of the 
 judge, and with hateful ceremonies and appeals to the gods 
 handed that woman over to some hired executioner to be 
 slain before the people in the name of justice, never again 
 would I have touched your hand without a shudder. But 
 this was natural slaying: I feel no horror at it. 
 
 Rufio, satisfied, nods at Cleopatra, mutely inviting her to 
 mark that. 
 
196 Caesar and Cleopatra Act V 
 
 Cleopatra {'pettish and childish in her impotence). No: 
 not when a Roman slays an Egyptian. All the world will 
 now see how unjust and corrupt Caesar is. 
 
 Gesar (talcing her hands coaxingly). Come: do not be 
 angry with me. I am sorry for that poor Totateeta. (She 
 laughs in spite of herself.) Aha! you are laughing. Does 
 that mean reconciliation? 
 
 Cleopatra (angry with herself for laughing). No, no, 
 NO ! ! But it is so ridiculous to hear you call her Totateeta. 
 
 Caesar. What! As much a child as ever, Cleopatra! 
 Have I not made a woman of you after all? 
 
 Cleopatra. Oh, it is you who are a great baby: you 
 make me seem silly because you will not behave seriously. 
 But you have treated me badly; and I do not forgive you. 
 
 Caesar. Bid me farewell. 
 
 Cleopatra. I will not. 
 
 Caesar (coaxing). I will send you a beautiful present 
 from Rome. 
 
 Cleopatra (proudly). Beauty from Rome to Egypt 
 indeed ! What can Rome give m e that Egypt cannot give 
 me? 
 
 Apollodorus. That is true, Caesar. If the present is 
 to be really beautiful, I shall have to buy it for you in Alex- 
 andria. 
 
 Cesar. You are forgetting the treasures for which Rome 
 is most famous, my friend. You cannot buy them in 
 Alexandria. 
 
 Apollodorus. What are they, Caesar? 
 
 Cesar. Her sons. Come, Cleopatra: forgive me and 
 bid me farewell; and I will send you a man, Roman from 
 head to heel and Roman of the noblest; not old and ripe 
 for the knife; not lean in the arms and cold in the heart; not 
 hiding a bald head under his conqueror's laurels; not stooped 
 with the weight of the world on his shoulders; but brisk and 
 fresh, strong and young, hoping in the morning, fighting in 
 the day, and revelling in the evening. Will you take such an 
 one in exchange for Caesar? 
 
Act V Csesar and Cleopatra 197 
 
 Cleopatra (palpitating). His name, his name? 
 
 Caesar. Shall it be Mark Antony? (She throws herself 
 into his arms.) 
 
 Rufio. You are a bad hand at a bargain, mistress, if you 
 will swap Csesar for Antony. 
 
 Caesar. So now you are satisfied. 
 
 Cleopatra. You will not forget. 
 
 Cesar. I will not forget. Farewell: I do not think we 
 shall meet again. Farewell. (He kisses her on the forehead. 
 She is much affected and begins to sniff. He embarks.) 
 
 The Roman Soldiers (as he sets his foot on the gangway). 
 Hail, Csesar; and farewell! 
 
 He reaches the ship and returns Rufio's wave of the hand. 
 
 Apollodorus (to Cleopatra). No tears, dearest Queen: 
 they stab your servant to the heart. He will return some 
 day. 
 
 Cleopatra. I hope not. But I can't help crying, all the 
 same. (She waves her handkerchief to Cwsar; and the ship 
 begins to move.) 
 
 The Roman Soldiers (drawing their swords and raising 
 them in the air). Hail, Caesar! 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
NOTES TO CESAR AND CLEOPATRA 
 
 CLEOPATRA'S CURE FOR BALDNESS 
 
 For the sake of conciseness in a hurried situation I have 
 made Cleopatra recommend rum. This, I am afraid, is an 
 anachronism: the only real one in the play. To balance it, 
 I give a couple of the remedies she actually believed in. 
 They are quoted by Galen from Cleopatra's book on Cos- 
 metic. 
 
 "For bald patches, powder red sulphuret of arsenic and 
 take it up with oak gum, as much as it will bear. Put on 
 a rag and apply, having soaped the place well first. I have 
 mixed the above with a foam of nitre, and it worked well." 
 
 Several other receipts follow, ending with: "The following 
 is the best of all, acting for fallen hairs, when applied with oil 
 or pomatum; acts also for falling off of eyelashes or for people 
 getting bald all over. It is wonderful. Of domestic mice 
 burnt, one part; of vine rag burnt, one part; of horse's teeth 
 burnt, one part; of bear's grease one; of deer's marrow one; 
 of reed bark one. To be pounded when dry, and mixed with 
 plenty of honey til it gets the consistency of honey; then the 
 bear's grease and marrow to be mixed (when melted), the 
 medicine to be put in a brass flask, and the bald part rubbed 
 til it sprouts." 
 
 Concerning these ingredients, my fellow-dramatist, Gilbert 
 Murray, who, as a Professor of Greek, has applied to classical 
 antiquity the methods of high scholarship (my own method is 
 pure divination), writes to me as follows: "Some of this I don't 
 understand, and possibly Galen did not, as he quotes your 
 heroine's own language. Foam of nitre is, I think, some- 
 
 198 
 
Notes 199 
 
 thing like soapsuds. Reed bark is an odd expression. It 
 might mean the outside membrane of a reed: I do not know 
 what it ought to be called. In the burnt mice receipt I take 
 it that you first mixed the solid powders with honey, and then 
 added the grease. I expect Cleopatra preferred it because 
 in most of the others you have to lacerate the skin, prick it, or 
 rub it till it bleeds. I do not know what vine rag is. I trans- 
 late literally." 
 
 APPARENT ANACHRONISMS 
 
 The only way to write a play which shall convey to the 
 general public an impression of antiquity is to make the 
 characters speak blank verse and abstain from reference to 
 steam, telegraphy, or any of the material conditions of their 
 existence. The more ignorant men are, the more convinced are 
 they that their little parish and their little chapel is an apex 
 to which civilization and philosophy have painfully struggled 
 up the pyramid of time from a desert of savagery. Savagery, 
 they think, became barbarism; barbarism became ancient 
 civilization; ancient civilization became Pauline Christianity; 
 Pauline Christianity became Roman Catholicism; Roman 
 Catholicism became the Dark Ages; and the Dark Ages were 
 finally enlightened by the Protestant instincts of the English 
 race. The whole process is summed up as Progress with a 
 capital P. * And any elderly gentleman of Progressive tem- 
 perament will testify that the improvement since he was a boy 
 is enormous. 
 
 Now if we count the generations of Progressive elderly 
 gentlemen since, say, Plato, and add together the successive 
 enormous improvements to which each of them has testified, 
 it will strike us at once as an unaccountable fact that the 
 world, instead of having been improved in 67 generations out 
 of all recognition, presents, on the whole, a rather less dig- 
 nified appearance in Ibsen's Enemy of the People than in 
 Plato's Republic. And in truth, the period of time covered 
 
200 Ceesar and Cleopatra 
 
 by history is far too short to allow of any perceptible progress 
 in the popular sense of Evolution of the Human Species. 
 The notion that there has been any such Progress since 
 Caesar's time (less than 20 centuries) is too absurd for dis- 
 cussion. All the savagery, barbarism, dark ages and the 
 rest of it of which we have any record as existing in the past, 
 exists at the present moment. A British carpenter or stone- 
 mason may point out that he gets twice as much money for 
 his labor as his father did in the same trade, and that his 
 suburban house, with its bath, its cottage piano, its drawing- 
 room suite, and its album of photographs, would have shamed 
 the plainness of his grandmother's. But the descendants of 
 feudal barons, living in squalid lodgings on a salary of fifteen 
 shillings a week instead of in castles on princely revenues, do 
 not congratulate the world on the change. Such changes, in 
 fact, are not to the point. It has been known, as far back as 
 our records go, that man running wild in the woods is different 
 to man kennelled in a city slum ; that a dog seems to understand 
 a shepherd better than a hewer of wood and drawer of water 
 can understand an astronomer; and that breeding, gentle 
 nurture and luxurious food and shelter will produce a kind of 
 man with whom the common laborer is socially incompatible. 
 The same thing is true of horses and dogs. Now there is 
 clearly room for great changes in the world by increasing the 
 percentage of individuals who are carefully bred and gently 
 nurtured, even to finally making the most of every man and 
 woman born. But that possibility existed in the days of the 
 Hittites as much as it does to-day. It does not give the slight- 
 est real support to the common assumption that the civilized 
 contemporaries of the Hittites were unlike their civilized de- 
 scendants to-day. 
 
 This would appear the tritest commonplace if it were not 
 that the ordinary citizen's ignorance of the past combines 
 with his idealization of the present to mislead and flatter him. 
 Our latest book on the new railway across Asia describes the 
 dulness of the Siberian farmer and the vulgar pursepride of 
 the Siberian man of business without the least consciousness 
 
Notes 201 
 
 that the sting of contemptuous instances given might have 
 been saved by writing simply "Farmers and provincial pluto- 
 crats in Siberia are exactly what they are in England." The 
 latest professor descanting on the civilization of the Western 
 Empire in the fifth century feels bound to assume, in the teeth 
 of his own researches, that the Christian was one sort of ani- 
 mal and the Pagan another. It might as well be assumed, 
 as indeed it generally is assumed by implication, that a mur- 
 der committed with a poisoned arrow is different to a murder 
 committed with a Mauser rifle. All such notions are illusions. 
 Go back to the first syllable of recorded time, and there you 
 will find your Christian and your Pagan, your yokel and your 
 poet, helot and hero, Don Quixote and Sancho, Tamino and 
 Papageno, Newton and bushman unable to count eleven, all 
 alive and contemporaneous, and all convinced that they are 
 the heirs of all the ages and the privileged recipients of the 
 truth (all others damnable heresies), just as you have them 
 to-day, flourishing in countries each of which is the bravest 
 and best that ever sprang at Heaven's command from out 
 the azure main. 
 
 Again, there is the illusion of "increased command over 
 Nature," meaning that cotton is cheap and that ten miles 
 of country road on a bicycle have replaced four on foot. But 
 even if man's increased command over Nature included any 
 increased command over himself (the only sort of command 
 relevant to his evolution into a higher being), the fact remains 
 that it is only by running away from the increased command 
 over Nature to country places where Nature is still in prim- 
 itive command over Man that he can recover from the effects 
 of the smoke, the stench, the foul air, the overcrowding, the 
 racket, the ugliness, the dirt which the cheap cotton costs us. 
 If manufacturing activity means Progress, the town must 
 be more advanced than the country; and the field laborers 
 and village artizans of to-day must be much less changed 
 from the servants of Job than the proletariat of modern London 
 from the proletariat of Csesar's Rome. Yet the cockney pro- 
 letarian is so inferior to the village laborer that it is only by 
 
202 Caesar and Cleopatra 
 
 steady recruiting from the country that London is kept alive. 
 This does not seem as if the change since Job's time were Prog- 
 ress in the popular sense: quite the reverse. The common 
 stock of discoveries in physics has accumulated a little: that 
 is all. 
 
 One more illustration. Is the Englishman prepared to 
 admit that the American is his superior as a human being? 
 I ask this question because the scarcity of labor in America 
 relatively to the demand for it has led to a development of 
 machinery there, and a consequent "increase of command 
 over Nature" which makes many of our English methods 
 appear almost medieval to the up-to-date Chicagoan. This 
 means that the American has an advantage over the English- 
 man of exactly the same nature that the Englishman has 
 over the contemporaries of Cicero. Is the Englishman pre- 
 pared to draw the same conclusion in both cases? I think 
 not. The American, of course, will draw it cheerfully; but 
 I must then ask him whether, since a modern negro has a 
 greater "command over Nature" than Washington had, we 
 are also to accept the conclusion, involved in his former one, 
 that humanity has progressed from Washington to the fin de 
 siecle negro. 
 
 Finally, I would point out that if life is crowned by its 
 success and devotion in industrial organization and ingenuity, 
 we had better worship the ant and the bee (as moralists urge 
 us to do in our childhood), and humble ourselves before the 
 arrogance of the birds of Aristophanes. 
 
 My reason then for ignoring the popular conception of 
 Progress in Caesar and Cleopatra is that there is no reason 
 to suppose that any Progress has taken place since their time. 
 But even if I shared the popular delusion, I do not see that I 
 could have made any essential difference in the play. I can 
 only imitate humanity as I know it. Nobody knows whether 
 Shakespear thought that ancient Athenian joiners, weavers, 
 or bellows menders were any different from Elizabethan ones ; 
 but it is quite certain that he could not have made them so, 
 unless, indeed, he had played the literary man and made 
 
Notes 203 
 
 Quince say, not "Is all our company here?" but "Bottom: 
 was not that Socrates that passed us at the Piraeus with Glaucon 
 and Polemarchus on his way to the house of Kephalus." 
 And so on. 
 
 CLEOPATRA 
 
 Cleopatra was only sixteen when Caesar went to Egypt; 
 but in Egypt sixteen is a riper age than it is in England. The 
 childishness I have ascribed to her, as far as it is childishness 
 of character and not lack of experience, is not a matter of 
 years. It may be observed in our own climate at the present 
 day in many women of fifty. It is a mistake to suppose that 
 the difference between wisdom and folly has anything to do 
 with the difference between physical age and physical youth. 
 Some women are younger at seventy than most women at 
 seventeen. 
 
 It must be borne in mind, too, that Cleopatra was a queen, 
 and was therefore not the typical Greek-cultured, educated 
 Egyptian lady of her time. To represent her by any such 
 type would be as absurd as to represent George IV by a type 
 founded on the attainments of Sir Isaac Newton. It is true 
 that an ordinarily well educated Alexandrian girl of her time 
 would no more have believed bogey stories about the Romans 
 than the daughter of a modern Oxford professor would be- 
 lieve them about the Germans (though, by the way, it is 
 possible to talk great nonsense at Oxford about foreigners 
 when we are at war with them) . But I do not feel bound to 
 believe that Cleopatra was well educated. Her father, the 
 illustrious Flute Blower, was not at all a parent of the Oxford 
 professor type. And Cleopatra was a chip of the old block. 
 
 BRITANNUS 
 
 I find among those who have read this play in manuscript 
 a strong conviction that an ancient Briton could not possibly 
 have been like a modern one. I see no reason to adopt this 
 
204 Caesar and Cleopatra 
 
 curious view. It is true that the Roman and Norman con- 
 quests must have for a time disturbed the normal British 
 type produced by the climate. But Britannus, born before 
 these events, represents the unadulterated Briton who fought 
 Caesar and impressed Roman observers much as we should 
 expect the ancestors of Mr. Podsnap to impress the cultivated 
 Italians of their time. 
 
 I am told that it is not scientific to treat national character 
 as a product of climate. This only shews the wide difference 
 between common knowledge and the intellectual game called 
 science. We have men of exactly the same stock, and speak- 
 ing the same language, growing in Great Britain, in Ireland, 
 and in America. The result is three of the most distinctly 
 marked nationalities under the sun. Racial characteristics 
 are quite another matter. The difference between a Jew and 
 a Gentile has nothing to do with the difference between an 
 Englishman and a German. The characteristics of Britannus 
 are local characteristics, not race characteristics. In an an- 
 cient Briton they would, I take it, be exaggerated, since modern 
 Britain, disforested, drained, urbanified and consequently 
 cosmopolized, is presumably less characteristically British 
 than Caesar's Britain. 
 
 And again I ask does anyone who, in the light of a competent 
 knowledge of his own age, has studied history from contempo- 
 rary documents, believe that 67 generations of promiscuous 
 marriage have made any appreciable difference in the human 
 fauna of these isles? Certainly I do not. 
 
 JULIUS CESAR 
 
 As to Caesar himself, I have purposely avoided the usual 
 anachronism of going to Caesar's books, and concluding that 
 the style is the man. That is only true of authors who have 
 the specific literary genius, and have practised long enough 
 to attain complete self-expression in letters. It is not true 
 even on these conditions in an age when literature is conceived 
 
Notes 205 
 
 as a game of style, and not as a vehicle of self-expression by 
 the author. Now Caesar was an amateur stylist writing books 
 of travel and campaign histories in a style so impersonal that 
 the authenticity of the later volumes is disputed. They 
 reveal some of his qualities just as the Voyage of a Naturalist 
 Round the World reveals some of Darwin's, without express- 
 ing his private personality. An Englishman reading them 
 would say that Caesar was a man of great common sense and 
 good taste, meaning thereby a man without originality or 
 moral courage. 
 
 In exhibiting Caesar as a much more various person than 
 the historian of the Gallic wars, I hope I have not succumbed 
 unconsciously to the dramatic illusion to which all great men 
 owe part of their reputation and some the whole of it. I 
 admit that reputations gained in war are specially questionable. 
 Able civilians taking up the profession of arms, like Caesar 
 and Cromwell, in middle age, have snatched all its laurels 
 from opponent commanders bred to it, apparently because 
 capable persons engaged in military pursuits are so scarce that 
 the existence of two of them at the same time in the same hemi- 
 sphere is extremely rare. The capacity of any conqueror is 
 therefore more likely than not to be an illusion produced by 
 the incapacity of his adversary. At all events, Caesar might 
 have won his battles without being wiser than Charles XII 
 or Nelson or Joan of Arc, who were, like most modern "self- 
 made" millionaires, half-witted geniuses, enjoying the worship 
 accorded by all races to certain forms of insanity. But Caesar's 
 victories were only advertisements for an eminence that would 
 never have become popular without them. Caesar is greater off 
 .the battle field than on it. Nelson off his quarterdeck was 
 so quaintly out of the question that when his head was injured 
 at the battle of the Nile, and his conduct became for some 
 years openly scandalous, the difference was not important 
 enough to be noticed. It may, however, be said that peace 
 hath her illusory reputations no less than war. And it is 
 certainly true that in civil life mere capacity for work — the 
 power of killing a dozen secretaries under you, so to speak, 
 
206 Ceesar and Cleopatra 
 
 as a life-or-death courier kills horses — enables men with com- 
 mon ideas and superstitions to distance all competitors in the 
 strife of political ambition. It was this power of work that 
 astonished Cicero as the most prodigious of Caesar's gifts, 
 as it astonished later observers in Napoleon before it wore 
 him out. How if Caesar were nothing but a Nelson and a 
 Gladstone combined ! a prodigy of vitality without any special 
 quality of mind! nay, with ideas that were worn out before 
 he was born, as Nelson's and Gladstone's were! I have con- 
 sidered that possibility too, and rejected it. I cannot cite all 
 the stories about Caesar which seem to me to shew that he 
 was genuinely original; but let me at least point out that I 
 have been careful to attribute nothing but originality to him. 
 Originality gives a man an air of frankness, generosity, and 
 magnanimity by enabling him to estimate the value of truth, 
 money, or success in any particular instance quite indepen- 
 dently of convention and moral generalization. He therefore 
 will not, in the ordinary Treasury bench fashion, tell a lie 
 which everybody knows to be a He (and consequently expects 
 him as a matter of good taste to tell). His lies are not found 
 out: they pass for candors. He understands the paradox of 
 money, and gives it away when he can get most for it : in other 
 words, when its value is least, which is just when a common 
 man tries hardest to get it. He knows that the real moment 
 of success is not the moment apparent to the crowd. Hence, 
 in order to produce an impression of complete disinterested- 
 ness and magnanimity, he has only to act with entire selfish- 
 ness; and this is perhaps the only sense in which a man can be 
 said to be naturally great. It is in this sense that I have 
 represented Caesar as great. Having virtue, he has no need 
 of goodness. He is neither forgiving, frank, nor generous, 
 because a man who is too great to resent has nothing to forgive ; 
 a man who says things that other people are afraid to say need 
 be no more frank than Bismarck was; and there is no gener- 
 osity in giving things you do not want to people of whom you 
 intend to make use. This distinction between virtue and 
 goodness is not understood in England: hence the poverty 
 
Notes 207 
 
 of our drama in heroes. Our stage attempts at them are mere 
 goody-goodies. Goodness, in its popular British sense of self- 
 denial, implies that man is vicious by nature, and that supreme 
 goodness is supreme martyrdom. Not sharing that pious 
 opinion, I have not given countenance to it in any of my plays. 
 In this I follow the precedent of the ancient myths, which 
 represent the hero as vanquishing his enemies, not in fair fight, 
 but with enchanted sword, superequine horse and magical 
 invulnerability, the possession of which, from the vulgar 
 moralistic point of view, robs his exploits of any merit whatever. 
 
 As to Csesar's sense of humor, there is no more reason to 
 assume that he lacked it than to assume that he was deaf or 
 blind. It is said that on the occasion of his assassination by 
 a conspiracy of moralists (it is always your moralist who 
 makes assassination a duty, on the scaffold or off it), he de- 
 fended himself until the good Brutus struck him, when he 
 exclaimed "What! you too, Brutus!" and disdained further 
 fight. If this be true, he must have been an incorrigible 
 comedian. But even if we waive this story, or accept the 
 traditional sentimental interpretation of it, there is still abun- 
 dant evidence of his lightheadedness and adventurousness. 
 Indeed it is clear from his whole history that what has been 
 called his ambition was an instinct for exploration. He had 
 much more of Columbus and Franklin in him than of Henry V. 
 
 However, nobody need deny Caesar a share, at least, of 
 the qualities I have attributed to him. All men, much more 
 Julius Caesars, possess all qualities in some degree. The 
 really interesting question is whether I am right in assuming 
 that the way to produce an impression of greatness is by ex- 
 hibiting a man, not as mortifying his nature by doing his 
 duty, in the manner which our system of putting little men 
 into great positions (not having enough great men in our 
 influential families to go round) forces us to inculcate, but 
 as simply doing what he naturally wants to do. For this raises 
 the question whether our world has not been wrong in its 
 moral theory for the last 2,500 years or so. It must be a con- 
 stant puzzle to many of us that the Christian era, so excellent 
 
208 Caesar and Cleopatra 
 
 in its intentions, should have been practically such a very 
 discreditable episode in the history of the race. I doubt if 
 this is altogether due to the vulgar and sanguinary sensational- 
 ism of our religious legends, with their substitution of gross 
 physical torments and public executions for the passion of 
 humanity. Islam, substituting voluptuousness for torment 
 (a merely superficial difference, it is true) has done no better. 
 It may have been the failure of Christianity to emancipate 
 itself from expiatory theories of moral responsibility, guilt, 
 innocence, reward, punishment, and the rest of it, that baffled 
 its intention of changing the world. But these are bound up 
 in all philosophies of creation as opposed to cosmism. They 
 may therefore be regarded as the price we pay for popular 
 religion. 
 
CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S 
 CONVERSION 
 
 IX 
 
 HlNDHEAD, 1899 
 
ra 
 
 CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S 
 CONVERSION 
 
 ACT I 
 
 On the heights overlooking the harbor of Mogador, a sea- 
 port on the west coast of Morocco, the missionary, in the coolness 
 of the late afternoon, is following the precept of Voltaire by culti- 
 vating his garden. He is an elderly Scotchman, spiritually a 
 little weatherbeaten, as having to navigate his creed in strange 
 waters crowded with other craft, but still a convinced son of 
 the Free Church and the North African Mission, with a faith- 
 ful brown eye, and a peaceful soul. Physically a wiry small- 
 knit man, well tanned, clean shaven, with delicate resolute 
 features and a twinkle of mild humor. He wears the sun hel- 
 met and pagri, the neutral-tinted spectacles, and the white 
 canvas Spanish sand shoes of the modern Scotch missionary; 
 but instead of a cheap tourist's suit from Glasgow, a grey flannel 
 shirt with white collar, a green sailor knot tie with a cheap pin 
 in it, he wears a suit of clean white linen, acceptable in color, 
 if not in cut, to the Moorish mind. 
 
 The view from the garden includes much Atlantic Ocean and 
 a long stretch of sandy coast to the south, swept by the north 
 east trade wind, and scantily nourishing a few stunted pepper 
 trees, mangy palms, and tamarisks. The prospect ends, as 
 far as the land is concerned, in little hills that come nearly to 
 the sea: rudiments, these, of the Atlas Mountains. The mis- 
 sionary, having had daily opportunities of looking at this 
 seascape for thirty years or so, pays no heed to it, being ab- 
 sorbed in trimming a huge red geranium bush, to English 
 eyes unnaturally big, which, with a dusty smilax or two, is 
 the sole product of his pet flower-bed. He is sitting to his work 
 
 211 
 
212 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 on a Moorish stool. In the middle of the garden there is a 
 pleasant seat in the shade of a tamarisk tree. The house is in 
 the south west corner of the garden, and the geranium bush 
 in the north east corner. 
 
 At the garden-door of the house there appears presently a 
 man who is clearly no barbarian, being in fact a less agree- 
 able product peculiar to modern commercial civilization. His 
 frame and flesh are those of an ill-nourished lad of seventeen; 
 but his age is inscrutable: only the absence of any sign of grey 
 in his mud colored hair suggests that he is at all events prob- 
 ably under forty, without prejudice to the possibility of his 
 being under twenty. A Londoner would recognize him at 
 once as an extreme but hardy specimen of the abortion produced 
 by nature in a city slum. His utterance, affectedly pumped 
 and hearty, and naturally vulgar and nasal, is ready and 
 fluent: nature, a Board School education, and some kerbstone 
 practice having made him a bit of an orator. His dialect, 
 apart from its base nasal delivery, is not unlike that of smart 
 London society in its tendency to replace diphthongs by vowels 
 (sometimes rather prettily) and to shuffle all the traditional 
 vowel pronunciations. He pronounces ow as ah, and i as 
 aw, using the ordinary ow for o, i for a, a for u, and e for a, 
 with this reservation, that when any vowel is followed by an 
 r, he signifies its presence, not by pronouncing the r, which 
 he never does under these circumstances, but by prolonging 
 and modifying the vowel, sometimes even to the extreme de- 
 gree of pronouncing it properly. As to his yol for I (a com- 
 pendious delivery of the provincial eh-al), and other metropoli- 
 tan refinements, amazing to all but cockneys, they cannot be 
 indicated, save in the above imperfect manner, without the aid 
 of a phonetic alphabet. He is dressed in somebody else's very 
 second best as a coast-guardsman, and gives himself the airs of 
 a stage tar with sufficient success to pass as a possible fish 
 porter of bad character in casual employment during busy 
 times at Billingsgate. His manner shews an earnest dis- 
 position to ingratiate himself with the missionary, probably 
 for some dishonest purpose. 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 213 
 
 The Man. Awtenoon, Mr. Renkin. (The missionary 
 sits up quickly, and turns, resigning himself dutifully to the 
 interruption.) Yr honor's eolth. 
 
 Rankin (reservedly). Good afternoon, Mr. Drinkwotter. 
 
 Drinkwater. You're not best pleased to be hinterrapted 
 in yr bit o gawdnin baw the lawk o me, gavner. 
 
 Rankin. A missionary knows nothing of leks of that soart, 
 or of disleks either, Mr. Drinkwotter. What can I do for ye? 
 
 Drinkwater (heartily). Nathink, gavner. Awve brort 
 noos fer yer. 
 
 Rankin. Well, sit ye doon. 
 
 Drinkwater. Aw thenk yr honor. (He sits down on the 
 seat under the tree and composes himself for conversation.) 
 Hever ear o Jadge Ellam? 
 
 Rankin. Sir Howrrd Hallam? 
 
 Drinkwater. Thet's im — enginest jadge in Hingland! 
 — awlus gives the ket wen it's robbry with voylence, bless 
 is awt. Aw sy nathink agin im: awm all fer lor mawseolf, 
 aw em. 
 
 Rankin. Well ? 
 
 Drinkwater. Hever ear of is sist-in-lor: Lidy Sisly 
 Winefleet? 
 
 Rankin. Do ye mean the celebrated leddy — the traveller ? 
 
 Drinkwater. Yuss: should think aw doo. Walked 
 acrost Harfricar with nathink but a little dawg, and wrowt 
 abaht it in the Dily Mile (the Daily Mail, a popular London 
 newspaper) , she did. 
 
 Rankin. Is she Sir Howrrd Hallam's sister-in-law? 
 
 Drinkwater. Deeceased wawfe's sister: yuss: thet's wot 
 she is. 
 
 Rankin. Well, what about them? 
 
 Drinkwater. Wot abaht them! Waw, they're eah. 
 Lannid aht of a steam yacht in Mogador awber not twenty 
 minnits agow. Gorn to the British cornsl's. E'll send em 
 orn to you: e ynt got naowheres to put em. Sor em awr 
 (hire) a Harab an two Krooboys to kerry their laggige. 
 Thort awd cam an teoll yer. 
 
214 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 Rankin. Thank you. It's verra kind of you, Mr. Drink- 
 wotter. 
 
 Drinkwater. Down't mention it, gavner. Lor bless yer, 
 wawn't it you as converted me? Wot was aw wen aw cam 
 eah but a pore lorst sinner ? Down't aw ow y'a turn fer thet ? 
 Besawds, gavner, this Lidy Sisly Winefleet mawt wornt to 
 tike a walk crost Morocker — a rawd inter the mahntns or 
 sech lawk. Weoll, as you knaow, gavner, thet cawn't be 
 done eah withaht a hescort. 
 
 Rankin. It's impoassible: th' would oall b' murrdered. 
 Morocco is not lek the rest of Africa. 
 
 Drinkwater. No, gavner: these eah Moors ez their 
 religion; an it mikes em dinegerous. Hever convert a Moor, 
 gavner ? 
 
 Rankin (with a rueful smile). No. 
 
 Drinkwater (solemnly). Nor hever will, gavner. 
 
 Rankin. I have been at work here for twenty-five years, 
 Mr. Drinkwotter; and you are my first and only convert. 
 
 Drinkwater. Down't seem naow good, do it, gavner? 
 
 Rankin. I don't say that. I hope I have done some 
 good. They come to me for medicine when they are ill; and 
 they call me the Christian who is not a thief. That is 
 something. 
 
 Drinkwater. Their mawnds kennot rawse to Christi- 
 ennity lawk hahrs ken, gavner: thet's ah it is. Weoll, ez 
 haw was syin, if a hescort is wornted, there's maw friend 
 and commawnder Kepn Brarsbahnd of the schooner Thenks- 
 givin, an is crew, incloodin mawseolf, will see the lidy an 
 Jadge Ellam through henny little excursion in reason. Yr 
 honor mawt mention it. 
 
 Rankin. I will certainly not propose anything so dan- 
 gerous as an excursion. 
 
 Drinkwater (virtuously). Naow, gavner, nor would I 
 awst you to. (Shaking his head.) Naow, naow: it i s dine- 
 gerous. But hall the more call for a hescort if they should 
 ev it hin their mawnds to gow. 
 
 Rankin. I hope they won't. 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 215 
 
 Drinkwater. An sow aw do too, gavner. 
 
 Rankin (pondering). 'Tis strange that they should come 
 to Mogador, of all places; and to my house! I once met Sir 
 Howrrd Hallam, years ago. 
 
 Drinkwater (amazed). Naow! didger? Think o thet, 
 gavner! Waw, sow aw did too. But it were a misunner- 
 stendin, thet wors. Lef the court withaht a stine on maw 
 kerrickter, aw did. 
 
 Rankin (with some indignation). I hope you don't think 
 I met Sir Howrrd in that way. 
 
 Drinkwater. Mawt yeppn to the honestest, best meanin 
 pusson, aw do assure yer, gavner. 
 
 Rankin. I would have you to know that I met him pri- 
 vately, Mr. Drinkwotter. His brother was a dear friend of 
 mine. Years ago. He went out to the West Indies. 
 
 Drinkwater. The Wust Hindies! Jist acrost there, 
 tather sawd thet howcean (pointing seaward) ! Dear me! 
 We cams hin with vennity, an we deepawts in dawkness. 
 Down't we, gavner ? 
 
 Rankin (pricking up his ears). Eh? Have you been 
 reading that little book I gave you ? 
 
 Drinkwater. Aw hev, et odd tawms. Very camfitn, 
 gavner. (He rises, apprehensive lest further catechism should 
 -find him unprepared.) Awll sy good awtenoon, gavner: 
 you're busy hexpectin o Sr Ahrd an Lidy Sisly, ynt yer? 
 (About to go.) 
 
 Rankin (stopping him). No, stop: we're oalways ready 
 for travellers here. I have something else to say — a question 
 to ask you. 
 
 Drinkwater (with a misgiving, which he masks by exag- 
 gerating his hearty sailor manner). An weollcome, yr honor. 
 
 Rankin. Who is this Captain Brassbound? 
 
 Drinkwater (guiltily). Kepn Brarsbahnd! E's — weoll, 
 e's maw Kepn, gavner. 
 
 Rankin. Yes. Well ? 
 
 Drinkwater (feebly). Kepn of the schooner Thenks- 
 givin, gavner. 
 
216 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 Rankin (searchingly) . Have ye ever haird of a bad 
 character in these seas called Black Paquito? 
 
 Drinkwater (with a sudden radiance of complete enlight- 
 enment). Aoh, nar aw tikes yer wiv me, yr honor. Nah 
 sammun es bin a teolln you thet Kepn Brarsbahnd an Bleck 
 Pakeetow is haw-dentically the sime pussn. Ynt thet sow? 
 
 Rankin. That is so. (Drinkwater slaps his knee trium- 
 phantly. The missionary proceeds determinedly) And the 
 someone was a verra honest, straightforward man, as far as 
 I could judge. 
 
 Drinkwater (embracing the implication). Course e wors, 
 gavner : Ev aw said a word agin him ? Ev aw nah ? 
 
 Rankin. But is Captain Brassbound Black Paquito 
 then? 
 
 Drinkwater. Waw, it's the nime is blessed mather give 
 im at er knee, bless is little awt! Ther ynt naow awm in it. 
 She were a Wust Hinjin — howver there agin, yer see (point- 
 ing seaward) — leastwaws, naow she worn't: she were a 
 Brazilian, aw think; an Pakeetow 's Brazilian for a bloomin 
 little perrit — awskin yr pawdn for the word. (Sentimentally) 
 Lawk as a Hinglish lidy mawt call er little boy Birdie. 
 
 Rankin (not quite convinced) . But why Black Paquito ? 
 
 Drinkwater (artlessly). Waw, the bird in its netral stite 
 bein green, an e evin bleck air, y' knaow 
 
 Rankin (cutting him short). I see. And now I will put ye 
 another question. What is Captain Brassbound, or Pa- 
 quito, or whatever he calls himself? 
 
 Drinkwater (officiously). Brarsbahnd, gavner. Awlus 
 calls isseolf Brarsbahnd. 
 
 Rankin. Well, Brassbound, then. What is he? 
 
 Drinkwater (fervently). You awsks me wot e is, gavner? 
 
 Rankin (firmly). I do. 
 
 Drinkwater (with rising enthusiasm). An shll aw teoll 
 yer wot e is, yr honor? 
 
 Rankin (not at all impressed). If ye will be so good, Mr. 
 Drinkwotter. 
 
 Drinkwater (with overwhelming conviction). Then awll 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 217 
 
 teoll you, gavner, wot he is. Ee's a Paffick Genlmn: thet's 
 wot e is. 
 
 Rankin {gravely). Mr. Drinkwotter : pairfection is an 
 attribute, not of West Coast captains, but of thr Maaker. 
 And there are gentlemen and gentlemen in the world, espae- 
 cially in these latitudes. Which sort of gentleman is he? 
 
 Drinkwater. Hinglish genlmn, gavner. Hinglish speakin; 
 Hinglish fawther; West Hinjin plawnter; Hinglish true blue 
 breed. {Reflectively) Tech o brahn from the mather, preps, 
 she bein Brazilian. 
 
 Rankin. Now on your faith as a Christian, Felix Drink- 
 wotter, is Captain Brassbound a slaver or not? 
 
 Drinkwater {surprised into his natural cockney pertness). 
 Naow e ynt. 
 
 Rankin. Are ye s u r e ? 
 
 Drinkwater. Waw, a sliver is abaht the wanne thing in 
 the wy of a genlmn o fortn thet e y n t. 
 
 Rankin. I've haird that expression "gentleman of for- 
 tune" before, Mr. Drinkwotter. It means pirate. Do ye 
 know that? 
 
 Drinkwater. Bless y'r awt, y' cawnt be a pawrit naradys. 
 Waw, the aw seas is wuss pleest nor Piccadilly Suckus. If 
 aw was to do orn thet there Hetlentic Howcean the things 
 aw did as a bwoy in the Worterleoo Rowd, awd ev maw air 
 cat afore aw could turn maw ed. Pawrit be blaowed! — 
 awskink yr pawdn, gavner. Nah, jest to shaow you ah little 
 thet there striteforard man y' mide mention on knaowed 
 wot e was atorkin abaht : oo would you spowse was the mars- 
 ter to wich Kepn Brarsbahnd served apprentice, as yr 
 mawt sy? 
 
 Rankin. I don't know. 
 
 Drinkwater. Gawdn, gavner, Gawdn. Gawdn o Kaw- 
 toom — stetcher stends in Trifawlgr Square to this dy. Trined 
 Bleck Pakeetow in smawshin hap the slive riders, e did. 
 Promist Gawdn e wouldn't never smaggle slives nor gin, an 
 {with suppressed aggravation) w o w n ' t, gavner, not if we 
 gows dahn on ahr bloomin bended knees to im to do it. 
 
218 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 Rankin (drily). And do ye go down on your bended 
 knees to him to do it? 
 
 Drinkwater (somewhat abashed). Some of huz is hancon- 
 verted men, gavner; an they sy: You smaggles wanne thing, 
 Kepn; waw not hanather? 
 
 Rankin. We've come to it at last. I thought so. Captain 
 Brassbound is a smuggler. 
 
 Drinkwater. Weoll, waw not ? Waw not, gavner ? Ahrs 
 is a Free Tride nition. It gows agin us as Hinglishmen to 
 see these bloomin furriners settin ap their Castoms Ahses 
 and spheres o hinfluence and sich lawk hall owver Arfricar. 
 Daown't Harfricar belong as much to huz as to them ? thet's 
 wot we sy. Ennywys, there ynt naow awm in ahr business. 
 All we daz is hescort, tourist h o r commercial. Cook's 
 hexcursions to the Hatlas Mahntns: thet's hall it is. Waw, 
 it's spreadin civlawzytion, it is. Ynt it nah? 
 
 Rankin. You think Captain Brassbound's crew suffi- 
 ciently equipped for that, do you? 
 
 Drinkwater. Hee-quipped! Haw should think sow. 
 Lawtnin rawfles, twelve shots in the meggezine! Oo's to 
 storp us? 
 
 Rankin. The most dangerous chieftain in these parts, 
 the Sheikh Sidi el Assif, has a new American machine pistol 
 which fires ten bullets without loadin; and his rifle has six- 
 teen shots in the magazine. 
 
 Drinkwater (indignantly). Yuss; an the people that sells 
 sich things into the ends o' them eathen bleck niggers calls 
 theirseolves Christians! It's a crool shime, sow it is. 
 
 Rankin. If a man has the heart to pull the trigger, it 
 matters little what color his hand is, Mr. Drinkwotter. Have 
 ye anything else to say to me this afternoon? 
 
 Drinkwater (rising). Nathink, gavner, cept to wishyer 
 the bust o yolth, and a many cornverts. Awtenoon, gavner. 
 
 Rankin. Good afternoon to ye, Mr. Drinkwotter. 
 
 As Drinkwater turns to go, a Moorish porter comes from 
 the house with two Krooboys. 
 
 The Porter (at the door, addressing Rankin). Bikouros 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 219 
 
 (Moroccan for Epicurus, a general Moorish name for the mis- 
 sionaries, who are supposed by the Moors to have chosen their 
 calling through a love of luxurious idleness) : I have brought 
 to your house a Christian dog and his woman. 
 
 Drinkwater. There's eathen menners fer yer! Calls Sr 
 Ahrd Ellam an Lidy Winefleet a Christian dorg and is woman! 
 If ee ed you in the dorck et the Centl Crimnal, you'd fawnd 
 aht oo was the dorg and oo was is marster, pretty quick, you 
 would. 
 
 Rankin. Have you broat their boxes? 
 
 The Porter. By Allah, two camel loads! 
 
 Rankin. Have you been paid? 
 
 The Porter. Only one miserable dollar, Bikouros. I 
 have brought them to your house. They will pay you. Give 
 me something for bringing gold to your door. 
 
 Drinkwater. Yah! You oughter bin bawn a Christian, 
 you ought. You knaow too mach. 
 
 Rankin. You have broat onnly trouble and expense to my 
 door, Hassan; and you know it. Have I ever charged your 
 wife and children for my medicines ? 
 
 Hassan (philosophically). It is always permitted by the 
 Prophet to ask, Bikouros. (He goes cheerfully into the house 
 with the Krooboys.) 
 
 Drinkwater. Jist thort eed trah it orn, e did. Hooman 
 nitre is the sime everywheres. Them eathens is jast lawk you 
 an' me, gavner. 
 
 A lady and gentleman, both English, come into the garden. 
 The gentleman, more than elderly, is facing old age on compul- 
 sion, not resignedly. He is clean shaven, and has a brainy 
 rectangular forehead, a resolute nose with strongly governed 
 nostrils, and a tightly fastened down mouth which has evidently 
 shut in much temper and anger in its time. He has a habit 
 of deliberately assumed authority and dignity, but is trying to 
 take life more genially and easily in his character of tourist, 
 which is further borne out by his white hat and summery 
 racecourse attire. 
 
 The lady is between thirty and forty, tall, very goodloolcing, 
 
220 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 sympathetic, intelligent, tender and humorous, dressed with 
 cunning simplicity not as a businesslike, tailor made, gaitered 
 tourist, but as if she lived at the next cottage and had dropped 
 in for tea in blouse and flowered straw hat. A woman of great 
 vitality and humanity, who begins a casual acquaintance at the 
 point usually attained by English people after thirty years ac- 
 quaintance when they are capable of reaching it at all. She 
 pounces genially on Drinkwater, who is smirking at her, hat 
 in hand, with an air of hearty welcome. The gentleman, on 
 the other hand, comes down the side of the garden next the 
 house, instinctively maintaining a distance between himself 
 and the others. 
 
 The Lady (to Drinkwater). How dye do? Are you the 
 missionary ? 
 
 Drinkwater (modestly). Naow, lidy, aw will not deceive 
 you, thow the mistike his but netral. Awm wanne of the 
 missionary's good works, lidy — is first cornvert, a umble British 
 seaman — countrymen o yours, lidy, and of is lawdship's. 
 This eah is Mr. Renkin, the bust worker in the wust cowst 
 vawnyawd. (Introducing the judge) Mr. Renkin: is lawd- 
 ship Sr Ahrd Ellam. (He withdraws discreetly into the 
 house.) 
 
 Sir Howard (to Rankin). I am sorry to intrude on you, 
 Mr. Rankin; but in the absence of a hotel there seems to be 
 no alternative. 
 
 Lady Cicely (beaming on him). Besides, we would so 
 much rather stay with you, if you will have us, Mr. Rankin. 
 
 Sir Howard (introducing her). My sister-in-law, Lady 
 Cicely Waynflete, Mr. Rankin. 
 
 Rankin. I am glad to be of service to your leddyship. 
 You will be wishing to have some tea after your journey, 
 I'm thinking. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Thoughtful man that you are, Mr. Rankin! 
 But we've had some already on board the yacht. And I've 
 arranged everything with your servants; so you must go on 
 gardening just as if we were not here. 
 
 Sir Howard. I am sorry to have to warn you, Mr. Rankin, 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 221 
 
 that Lady Cicely, from travelling in Africa, has acquired a 
 habit of walking into people's houses and behaving as if she 
 were in her own. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But, my dear Howard, I assure you the 
 natives like it. 
 
 Rankin {gallantly). So do I. 
 
 Lady Cicely {delighted). Oh, that is so nice of you, Mr. 
 Rankin. This is a delicious country! And the people seem 
 so good! They have such nice faces! We had such a hand- 
 some Moor to carry our luggage up! And two perfect pets 
 of Krooboys ! Did you notice their faces, Howard ? 
 
 Sir Howard. I did; and I can confidently say, after a 
 long experience of faces of the worst type looking at me from 
 the dock, that I have never seen so entirely villainous a trio 
 as that Moor and the two Krooboys, to whom you gave five 
 dollars when they would have been perfectly satisfied with one. 
 
 Rankin {throwing up his hands). Five dollars! 'Tis easy 
 to see you are not Scotch, my leddy. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, poor things, they must want it more 
 than we do; and you know, Howard, that Mahometans 
 never spend money in drink. 
 
 Rankin. Excuse me a moment, my leddy. I have a word 
 in season to say to that same Moor. {He goes into the house.) 
 
 Lady Cicely {walking about the garden, looking at the 
 view and at the flowers). I think this is a perfectly heavenly 
 place. 
 
 Drinkwater returns from the house with a chair. 
 
 Drinkwater {placing the chair for Sir Howard). Awskink 
 yr pawdn for the hbbety, Sr Ahrd. 
 
 Sir Howard {looking at him). I have seen you before 
 somewhere. 
 
 Drinkwater. You ev, Sr Ahrd. But aw do assure yer 
 it were hall a mistike. 
 
 Sir Howard. As usual. {He sits down.) Wrongfully 
 convicted, of course. 
 
 Drinkwater {with sly delight). Naow, gavner. {Half 
 whispering, with an ineffable grin) Wrorngfully hacquittid! 
 
222 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 Sir Howard. Indeed! That's the first case of the'kind I 
 have ever met. 
 
 Drinkwater. Lawd, Sr Ahrd, wot jagginses them jury- 
 men was ! You an me knaowed it too, didn't we ? 
 
 Sir Howard. I daresay we did. I am sorry to say I 
 forget the exact nature of the difficulty you were in. Can 
 you refresh my memory ? 
 
 Drinkwater. Owny the aw sperrits o youth, y' lawd- 
 ship. Worterleoo Rowd kice. Wot they calls Ooliganism. 
 
 Sir Howard. Oh! You were a Hooligan, were you? 
 
 Lady Cicely (puzzled). A Hooligan! 
 
 Drinkwater (deprecatingly) . Nime giv huz pore thortless 
 leds baw a gent on the Dily Chrornicle, lidy. (Rankin 
 returns. Drinkwater immediately withdraws, stopping the 
 missionary for a moment near the threshold to say, touching 
 his forelock) Awll eng abaht within ile, gavner, hin kice aw 
 should be wornted. (He goes into the house with soft steps.) 
 
 Lady Cicely sits down on the bench under the tamarisk. 
 Rankin takes his stool from the flowerbed and sits down on her 
 left, Sir Howard being on her right. 
 
 Lady Cicely. What a pleasant face your sailor friend 
 has, Mr. Rankin! He has been so frank and truthful with 
 us. You know I don't think anybody can pay me a greater 
 compliment than to be quite sincere with me at first sight. 
 It's the perfection of natural good manners. 
 
 Sir Howard. You must not suppose, Mr. Rankin, that 
 my sister-in-law talks nonsense on purpose. She will con- 
 tinue to believe in your friend until he steals her watch; and 
 even then she will find excuses for him. 
 
 Rankin (drily changing the subject). And how have ye 
 been, Sir Howrrd, since our last meeting that morning nigh 
 forty year ago down at the docks in London ? 
 
 Sir Howard (greatly surprised, pulling himself together). 
 Our last meeting! Mr. Rankin: have I been unfortunate 
 enough to forget an old acquaintance ? 
 
 Rankin. Well, perhaps hardly an acquaintance, Sir 
 Howrrd. But I was a close friend of your brother Miles; 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 223 
 
 and when he sailed for Brazil I was one of the little party 
 that saw him off. You were one of the party also, if I'm 
 not mistaken. I took particular notice of you because you 
 were Miles 's brother and I had never seen ye before. But 
 ye had no call to take notice of me. 
 
 Sir Howard (reflecting). Yes: there was a young friend 
 of my brother's who might well be you. But the name, as I 
 recollect it, was Leslie. 
 
 Rankin. That was me, sir. My name is Leslie Rankin; 
 and your brother and I were always Miles and Leslie to one 
 another. 
 
 Sir Howard (pluming himself a little). Ah! that explains 
 it. I can trust my memory still, Mr. Rankin; though some 
 people do complain that I am growing old. 
 
 Rankin. And where may Miles be now, Sir Howard? 
 
 Sir Howard (abruptly). Don't you know that he is dead ? 
 
 Rankin (much shocked). Never haird of it. Dear, dear: I 
 shall never see him again; and I can scarcely bring his face 
 to mind after all these years. (With moistening eyes, which 
 at once touch Lady Cicely's sympathy) I'm right sorry — 
 right sorry. 
 
 Sir Howard (decorously subduing his voice). Yes: he did 
 not live long: indeed, he never came back to England. It 
 must be nearly thirty years ago now that he died in the West 
 Indies Qn his property there. 
 
 Rankin (surprised). His proaperty! Miles with a proap- 
 erty ! 
 
 Sir Howard. Yes: he became a planter, and did well out 
 there, Mr. Rankin. The history of that property is a very 
 curious and interesting one — at least it is so to a lawyer like 
 myself. 
 
 Rankin. I should be glad to hear it for Miles's sake, 
 though I am no lawyer, Sir Howrrd. 
 
 Lady Cicely. I never knew you had a brother, Howard. 
 
 Sir Howard (not pleased by this remark). Perhaps be- 
 cause you never asked me. ( Turning more blandly to Rankin) 
 I will tell vou the storv, Mr. Rankin. When Miles died, he 
 
224 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 left an estate in one of the West Indian islands. It was in 
 charge of an agent who was a sharpish fellow, with all his 
 wits about him. Now, sir, that man did a thing which prob- 
 ably could hardly be done with impunity even here in Morocco, 
 under the most barbarous of surviving civilizations. He 
 quite simply took the estate for himself and kept it. 
 
 Rankin. But how about the law? 
 
 Sir Howard. The law, sir, in that island, consisted 
 practically of the Attorney General and the Solicitor General; 
 and these gentlemen were both retained by the agent. Con- 
 sequently there was no solicitor in the island to take up the 
 case against him. 
 
 Rankin. Is such a thing possible to-day in the British 
 Empire ? 
 
 Sir Howard {calmly). Oh, quite. Quite. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But could not a firstrate solicitor have been 
 sent out from London? 
 
 Sir Howard. No doubt, by paying him enough to com- 
 pensate him for giving up his London practice: that is, rather 
 more than there was any reasonable likelihood of the estate 
 proving worth. 
 
 Rankin. Then the estate was lost ? 
 
 Sir Howard. Not permanently. It is in my hands at 
 present. 
 
 Rankin. Then how did ye get it back ? 
 
 Sir Howard {with crafty enjoyment of his own cunning). 
 By hoisting the rogue with his own petard. I had to leave 
 matters as they were for many years; for I had my own posi- 
 tion in the world to make. But at last I made it. In the 
 course of a holiday trip to the West Indies, I found that this 
 dishonest agent had left the island, and placed the estate in the 
 hands of an agent of his own, whom he was foolish enough to 
 pay very badly. I put the case before that agent; and he 
 decided to treat the estate as my property. The robber now 
 found himself in exactly the same position he had formerly 
 forced me into. Nobody in the island would act against me, 
 least of all the Attorney and Solicitor General, who appre- 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 225 
 
 ciated my influence at the Colonial Office. And so I got the 
 estate back. "The mills of the gods grind slowly," Mr. 
 Rankin; "but they grind exceeding small." 
 
 Lady Cicely. Now I suppose if I'd done such a clever 
 thing in England, you'd have sent me to prison. 
 
 Sir Howard. Probably, unless you had taken care to 
 keep outside the law against conspiracy. Whenever you 
 wish to do anything against the law, Cicely, always consult 
 a good solicitor first. 
 
 Lady Cicely. So I do. But suppose your agent takes it 
 into his head to give the estate back to his wicked old em- 
 ployer! 
 
 Sir Howard. I heartily wish he would. 
 
 Rankin (openeyed). You wish he w o u 1 d ! ! 
 
 Sir Howard. Yes. A few years ago the collapse of the 
 West Indian sugar industry converted the income of the 
 estate into an annual loss of about £150 a year. If I can't 
 sell it soon, I shall simply abandon it — unless you, Mr. Rankin, 
 would like to take it as a present. 
 
 Rankin (laughing) . I thank your lordship : we have estates 
 enough of that sort in Scotland. You're setting with your 
 back to the sun, Leddy Ceecily, and losing something worth 
 looking at. See there. (He rises and points seaward, where 
 the rapid twilight of the latitude has begun.) 
 
 Lady Cicely (getting up to look and uttering a cry of 
 admiration). Oh, how lovely! 
 
 Sir Howard (or/50 rising). What are those hills over there 
 to the southeast? 
 
 Rankin. They are the outposts, so to speak, of the Atlas 
 Mountains. 
 
 Lady Cicely. The Atlas Mountains! Where Shelley's 
 witch lived! We'll make an excursion to them to-morrow, 
 Howard. 
 
 Rankin. That's impoassible, my leddy. The natives are 
 verra dangerous. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Why? Has any explorer been shooting 
 them? 
 
226 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 Rankin. No. But every man of them believes he will 
 go to heaven if he kills an unbeliever. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Bless you, dear Mr. Rankin, the people 
 in England believe that they will go to heaven if they give all 
 their property to the poor. But they don't do it. I'm not a 
 bit afraid of that. 
 
 Rankin. But they are not accustomed to see women going 
 about unveiled. 
 
 Lady Cicely. I always get on best with people when they 
 can see my face. 
 
 Sir Howard. Cicely: you are talking great nonsense; 
 and you know it. These people have no laws to restrain 
 them, which means, in plain English, that they are habitual 
 thieves and murderers. 
 
 Rankin. Nay, nay: not exactly that, Sir Howrrd. 
 
 Lady Cicely {indignantly). Of course not. You always 
 think, Howard, that nothing prevents people killing each 
 other but the fear of your hanging them for it. But what 
 nonsense that is ! And how wicked ! If these people weren't 
 here for some good purpose, they wouldn't have been made, 
 would they, Mr. Rankin? 
 
 Rankin. That is a point, certainly, Leddy Ceecily. 
 
 Sir Howard. Oh, if you are going to talk theology 
 
 Lady Cicely. Well, why not? theology is as respectable 
 as law, I should think. Besides, I'm only talking common- 
 sense. Why do people get killed by savages? Because 
 instead of being polite to them, and saying Howdyedo? like 
 me, people aim pistols at them. I've been among savages — 
 cannibals and all sorts. Everybody said they'd kill me. But 
 when I met them, I said Howdyedo? and they were quite 
 nice. The kings always wanted to marry me. 
 
 Sir Howard. That does not seem to me to make you any 
 safer here, Cicely. You shall certainly not stir a step beyond the 
 protection of the consul, if I can help it, without a strong escort. 
 
 Lady Cicely. I don't want an escort. 
 
 Sir Howard. I do. And I suppose you will expect me 
 to accompany you. 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 227 
 
 Rankin. 'Tis not safe, Leddy Ceecily. Really and truly, 
 'tis not safe. The tribes are verra fierce; and there are cities 
 here that no Christian has ever set foot in. If you go with- 
 out being well protected, the first chief you meet will seize 
 you and send you back again to prevent his followers mur- 
 dering you. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, how nice of him, Mr. Rankin! 
 
 Rankin. He would not do it for your sake, Leddy Ceecily, 
 but for his own. The Sultan would get into trouble with 
 England if you were killed; and the Sultan would kill the chief 
 to pacify the English government. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But I always go everywhere. I k n o w the 
 people here won't touch me. They have such nice faces and 
 such pretty scenery. 
 
 Sir Howard (to Rankin, sitting down again resignedly). 
 You can imagine how much use there is in talking to a woman 
 who admires the faces of the ruffians who infest these ports, 
 Mr. Rankin. Can anything be done in the way of an escort ? 
 
 Rankin. There is a certain Captain Brassbound here who 
 trades along the coast, and occasionally escorts parties of 
 merchants on journeys into the interior. I understand that 
 he served under Gordon in the Soudan. 
 
 Sir Howard. That sounds promising. But I should like 
 to know a little more about him before I trust myself in his 
 hands. 
 
 Rankin. I quite agree with you, Sir Howrrd. I'll send 
 Felix Drinkwotter for him. (He claps his hands. An Arab 
 boy appears at the house door.) Muley: is sailor man here? 
 (Muley nods.) Tell sailor man bring captain. (Muley nods 
 and goes.) 
 
 Sir Howard. Who is Drinkwater? 
 
 Rankin. His agent, or mate: I don't rightly know which. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, if he has a mate named Felix Drink- 
 water, it must be quite a respectable crew. It is such a 
 nice name. 
 
 Rankin. You saw him here just now. He is a convert 
 of mine. 
 
228 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 Lady Cicely {delighted). That nice truthful sailor! 
 
 Sir Howard (horrified). What! The Hooligan! 
 
 Rankin (puzzled). Hooligan? No, my lord: he is an 
 Englishman. 
 
 Sir Howard. My dear Mr. Rankin, this man was tried 
 before me on a charge of street ruffianism. 
 
 Rankin. So he told me. He was badly broat up, I am 
 afraid. But he is now a converted man. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Of course he is. His telling you so frankly 
 proves it. You know, really, Howard, all those poor people 
 whom you try are more sinned against than sinning. If you 
 would only talk to them in a friendly way instead of passing 
 cruel sentences on them, you would find them quite nice to 
 you. (Indignantly) I won't have this poor man trampled on 
 merely because his mother brought him up as a Hooligan. 
 I am sure nobody could be nicer than he was when he spoke 
 to us. 
 
 Sir Howard. In short, we are to have an escort of Hooli- 
 gans commanded by a filibuster. Very well, very well. You 
 will most likely admire all their faces; and I have no doubt 
 at all that they will admire yours. 
 
 Drinkwater comes from the house with an Italian dressed 
 in a much worn suit of blue serge, a dilapidated Alpine hat, 
 and boots laced with scraps of twine. He remains near the 
 door, whilst Drinkwater comes forward between Sir Howard 
 and Lady Cicely. 
 
 Drinkwater. Yr honor's servant. (To the Italian) 
 Mawtzow: is lawdship Sr Ahrd Ellam. (Marzo touches his 
 hat.) Er Lidyship Lidy Winefleet. (Marzo touches his hat.) 
 Hawtellian shipmite, lidy. Hahr chef. 
 
 Lady Cicely (nodding affably to Marzo). Howdyedo? I 
 love Italy. What part of it were you born in? 
 
 Drinkwater. Worn't bawn in Hitly at all, lidy. Bawn 
 in Ettn Gawdn (Hatton Garden). Hawce barrer an street 
 pianner Hawtellian, lidy : thet's wot e is. Kepn Brarsbahnd's 
 respects to yr honors; an e awites yr commawnds. 
 
 Rankin. Shall we go indoors to see him? 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 229 
 
 Sir Howard. I think we had better have a look at him 
 by daylight. 
 
 Rankin. Then we must lose no time: the dark is soon 
 down in this latitude. (To Drinkwater) Will ye ask him to 
 step out here to us, Mr. Drinkwotter? 
 
 Drinkwater. Rawt you aw, gavner. ( He goes officiously 
 into the house.) 
 
 Lady Cicely and Rankin sit down as before to receive the 
 Captain. The light is by this time waning rapidly, the dark- 
 ness creeping west into the orange crimson. 
 
 Lady Cicely (whispering). Don't you feel rather creepy, 
 Mr. Rankin ? I wonder what he'll be like. 
 
 Rankin. I misdoubt me he will not answer, your leddy- 
 ship. 
 
 There is a scuffling noise in the house; and Drinkwater 
 shoots out through the doorway across the garden with every 
 appearance of having been violently kicked. Marzo immedi- 
 ately hurries down the garden on Sir Howard's right out of 
 the neighborhood of the doorway. 
 
 Drinkwater (trying to put a cheerful air on much mortifica- 
 tion and bodily anguish). Narsty step to thet ere door — 
 tripped me hap, it did. (Raising his voice and narrowly 
 escaping a squeak of pain) Kepn Brarsbahnd. (He gets as 
 far from the house as possible, on Rankin's left. Rankin 
 rises to receive his guest.) 
 
 An olive complexioned man with dark southern eyes and 
 hair comes from the house. Age about 36. Handsome features, 
 but joyless; dark eyebrows drawn towards one another; mouth 
 set grimly; nostrils large and strained: a face set to one tragic 
 purpose. A man of few words, fewer gestures, and much 
 significance. On the whole, interesting, and even attractive, 
 but not friendly. He stands for a moment, saturnine in the 
 ruddy light, to see who is present, looking in a singular and 
 rather deadly way at Sir Howard; then with some surprise 
 and uneasiness at Lady Cicely. Finally he comes down into 
 the middle of the garden, and confronts Rankin, who has been 
 staring at him in consternation from the moment of his en- 
 
230 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 trance, and continues to do so in so marked a way that the gloiv 
 in Brassbound's eyes deepens as he begins to take offence. 
 
 Brassbound. Well, sir, have you stared your fill at me? 
 
 Rankest (recovering himself with a start). I ask your par- 
 don for my bad manners, Captain Brassbound. Ye are 
 extraordinair lek an auld college friend of mine, whose face 
 I said not ten minutes gone that I could no longer bring to 
 mind. It was as if he had come from the grave to remind 
 me of it. 
 
 Brassbound. Why have you sent for me? 
 
 Rankin. We have a matter of business with ye, Captain. 
 
 Brassbound. Who are "we"? 
 
 Rankin. This is Sir Howrrd Hallam, who will be well 
 known to ye as one of Her Majesty's judges. 
 
 Brassbound (turning the singular look again on Sir 
 Howard). The friend of the widow! the protector of the 
 fatherless ! 
 
 Sir Howard (startled) . I did not know I was so favorably 
 spoken of in these parts, Captain Brassbound. We want an 
 escort for a trip into the mountains. 
 
 Brassbound (ignoring this announcement). Who is the lady ? 
 
 Rankin. Lady Ceecily Waynflete, his lordship's sister- 
 in-law. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Howdy edo, Captain Brassbound? (He 
 bows gravely.) 
 
 Sir Howard (a little impatient of these questions, which 
 strike him as somewhat impertinent). Let us come to business, 
 if you please. We are thinking of making a short excursion 
 to see the country about here. Can you provide us with an 
 escort of respectable, trustworthy men? 
 
 Brassbound. No. 
 
 Drinkwater (in strong remonstrance). Nah, nah, nah! 
 Nah look eah, Kepn, y' knaow 
 
 Brassbound (between his teeth). Hold your tongue. 
 
 Drinkwater (abjectly). Yuss, Kepn. 
 
 Rankin. I understood it was your business to provide 
 escorts, Captain Brassbound. 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 231 
 
 Brassbound. You were rightly informed. That i s my 
 business. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Then why won't you do it for us ? 
 
 Brassbound. You are not content with an escort. You 
 want respectable, trustworthy men. You should have brought 
 a division of London policemen with you. My men are 
 neither respectable nor trustworthy. 
 
 Drinkwater {unable to contain himself). Nah, nah, look 
 eah, Kepn. If you want to be moddist, be moddist on your 
 aown accahnt, nort on mawn. 
 
 Brassbound. You see what my men are like. That 
 rascal (indicating Marzo) would cut a throat for a dollar if 
 he had courage enough. 
 
 Marzo. I not understand. I no spik Englis. 
 
 Brassbound. This thing ('pointing to Drinkwater) is the 
 greatest liar, thief, drunkard, and rapscallion on the west 
 coast. 
 
 Drinkwater (affecting an ironic indifference). Gow orn, 
 gow orn. Sr Ahrd ez erd witnesses to maw kerrickter afoah. 
 E knaows ah mech to believe of em. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Captain Brassbound : I have heard all that 
 before about the blacks; and I found them very nice people 
 when they were properly treated. 
 
 Drinkwater (chuckling : the Italian is also grinning) . Nah, 
 Kepn, nah ! Owp yr prahd o y 'seolf nah. 
 
 Brassbound. I quite understand the proper treatment for 
 him, madam. If he opens his mouth again without my 
 leave, I will break every bone in his skin. 
 
 Lady Cicely (in her most sunnily matter-of-fact tvay). 
 Does Captain Brassbound always treat you like this, Mr. 
 Drinkwater ? 
 
 Drinkwater hesitates, and looks apprehensively at the 
 Captain. 
 
 Brassbound. Answer, you dog, when the lady orders 
 you. (To Lady Cicehj) Do not address him as Mr. Drink- 
 water, madam: he is accustomed to be called Brandyfaced 
 Jack. 
 
232 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 Drinkwater (indignantly). Eah, aw sy! nah look eah, 
 Kepn: maw nime is Drinkworter. You awsk em et Sin 
 Jorn's in the Worterleoo Rowd. Orn maw grenfawther's 
 tombstown, it is. 
 
 Brassbound. It will be on your own tombstone, pres- 
 ently, if you cannot hold your tongue. (Turning to the others) 
 Let us understand one another, if you please. An escort here, 
 or anywhere where there are no regular disciplined forces, is 
 what its captain makes it. If I undertake this business, / 
 shall be your escort. I may require a dozen men, just as I 
 may require a dozen horses. Some of the horses will be vi- 
 cious; so will all the men. If either horse or man tries any of 
 his viciousness on me, so much the worse for him; but it will 
 make no difference to you. I will order my men to behave 
 themselves before the lady; and they shall obey their orders. 
 But the lady will please understand that I take my own way 
 with them and suffer no interference. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Captain Brassbound: I don't want an 
 escort at all. It will simply get us all into danger; and I shall 
 have the trouble of getting it out again. That's what escorts 
 always do. But since Sir Howard prefers an escort, I think 
 you had better stay at home and let me take charge of it. I 
 know your men will get on perfectly well if they're properly 
 treated. 
 
 Drinkwater (with enthusiasm). Feed aht o yr and, lidy, 
 we would. 
 
 Brassbound (with sardonic assent). Good. I agree. (To 
 Drinkwater) You shall go without me. 
 
 Drinkwater (terrified). Eah! Wot are you a syin orn? 
 We cawn't gow withaht yer. (To Lady Cicely) Naow, lidy: 
 it wouldn't be for yr hown good. Yer cawn't hexpect a lot 
 o poor honeddikited men lawk huz to ran ahrseolvs into 
 dineger withaht naow Kepn to teoll us wot to do. Naow, 
 lidy: hoonawted we stend: deevawdid we fall. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, if you prefer your captain, have him 
 by all means. Do you 1 i k e to be treated as he treats you? 
 
 Drinkwater (with a smile of vanity). Weoll, lidy: y' 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound's Conversion 233 
 
 cawn't deenaw that e's a Paffick Genlmn. Bit hawbitrairy, 
 preps; but hin a genlmn you looks for sich. It tikes a hawbi- 
 trairy wanne to knock aht them eathen Shikes, aw teoll yer. 
 
 Brassbound. That's enough. Go. 
 
 Drinkwater. Weoll, aw was hownly a teolln the lidy 
 thet — (A threatening movement from Brassbound cuts him 
 short. He flies for his life into the house, followed by the 
 Italian.) 
 
 Brassbound. Your ladyship sees. These men serve me 
 by their own free choice. If they are dissatisfied, they go. 
 If / am dissatisfied, they go. They take care that I am not 
 dissatisfied. 
 
 Sir Howard {who has listened with approval and growing 
 confidence). Captain Brassbound: you are the man I want. 
 If your terms are at all reasonable, I will accept your services 
 if we decide to make an excursion. You do not object, 
 Cicely, I hope. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh no. After all, those men must really 
 like you, Captain Brassbound. I feel sure you have a kind 
 heart. You have such nice eyes. 
 
 Sir Howard (scandalized). My dear Cicely: you really 
 must restrain your expressions of confidence in people's eyes 
 and faces. (To Brassbound) Now, about terms, Captain? 
 
 Brassbound. Where do you propose to go? 
 
 Sir Howard. I hardly know. Where can we go, Mr. 
 Rankin ? 
 
 Rankin. Take my advice, Sir Howrrd. Don't go far. 
 
 Brassbound. I can take you to Meskala, from which you 
 can see the Atlas Mountains. From Meskala I can take you 
 to an ancient castle in the hills, where you can put up as long 
 as you please. The customary charge is half a dollar a man 
 per day and his food. I charge double. 
 
 Sir Howard. I suppose you answer for your men being 
 sturdy fellows, who will stand to their guns if necessary. 
 
 Brassbound. I can answer for their being more afraid of 
 me than of the Moors. 
 
 Lady Cicely. That doesn't matter in the least, Howard. 
 
234 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act I 
 
 The important thing, Captain Brassbound, is: first, that we 
 should have as few men as possible, because men give such a 
 lot of trouble travelling. And then, they must have good 
 lungs and not be always catching cold. Above all, their 
 clothes must be of good wearing material. Otherwise I shall 
 be nursing and stitching and mending all the way; and it will 
 be trouble enough, I assure you, to keep them washed and fed 
 without that. 
 
 Brassbound {haughtily). My men, madam, are not 
 children in the nursery. 
 
 Lady Cicely (with unanswerable conviction). Captain 
 Brassbound : a 1 1 men are children in the nursery. I see that 
 you don't notice things. That poor Italian had only one 
 proper bootlace: the other was a bit of string. And I am 
 sure from Mr. Drinkwater's complexion that he ought to 
 have some medicine. 
 
 Brassbound (outwardly determined not to be trifled with: 
 inwardly puzzled and rather daunted). Madam: if you want 
 an escort, I can provide you with an escort. If you want a 
 Sunday School treat, I can not provide it. 
 
 Lady Cicely (with sweet melancholy). Ah, don't you wish 
 you could, Captain ? Oh, if I could only shew you my children 
 from Waynflete Sunday School! The darlings would love 
 this place, with all the camels and black men. I'm sure you 
 would enjoy having them here, Captain Brassbound; and it 
 would be such an education for your men! (Brassbound 
 stares at her with drying lips.) 
 
 Sir Howard. Cicely: when you have quite done talking 
 nonsense to Captain Brassbound, we can proceed to make 
 some definite arrangement with him. 
 
 £ady Cicely. But it's arranged already. We'll start at 
 eight o'clock to-morrow morning, if you please, Captain. 
 Never mind about the Italian : I have a big box of clothes with 
 me for my brother in Rome; and there are some bootlaces in 
 it. Now go home to bed and don't fuss yourself. All you 
 have to do is to bring your men round; and I'll see to the rest. 
 Men are always so nervous about moving. Goodnight. (She 
 
Act I Captain Brassbound s Conversion 235 
 
 offers him her hand. Surprised, he pulls off his cap for the 
 first time. Some scruple prevents him from taking her hand at 
 once. He hesitates; then turns to Sir Howard and addresses 
 him with warning earnestness.) 
 
 Brassbound. Sir Howard Hallam: I advise you not to 
 attempt this expedition. 
 
 Sir Howard. Indeed! Why? 
 
 Brassbound. You are safe here. I warn you, in those 
 hills there is a justice that is not the justice of your courts in 
 England. If you have wronged a man, you may meet that 
 man there. If you have wronged a woman, you may meet 
 her son there. The justice of those hills is the justice of 
 vengeance. 
 
 Sir Howard (faintly amused). You are superstitious, 
 Captain. Most sailors are, I notice. However, I have com- 
 plete confidence in your escort. 
 
 Brassbound (almost threateningly). Take care. The 
 avenger may be one of the escort. 
 
 Sir Howard. I have already met the only member of 
 your escort who might have borne a grudge against me, 
 Captain; and he was acquitted. 
 
 Brassbound. You are fated to come, then? 
 
 Sir Howard (smiling). It seems so. 
 
 Brassbound. On your head be it! (To Lady Cicely, 
 accepting her hand at laM) Goodnight. 
 
 He goes. It is by this time starry night. 
 
 end of act i. 
 
ACT II 
 
 Midday. A room in a Moorish castle. A divan seat runs 
 round the dilapidated adobe walls, which are partly painted, 
 partly faced with white tiles patterned in green and yellow. 
 The ceiling is made up of little squares, painted in bright 
 colors, with gilded edges, and ornamented with gilt knobs. 
 On the cement floor are mattings, sheepskins, and leathern 
 cushions with geometrical patterns on them. There is a tiny 
 Moorish table in the middle; and at it a huge saddle, with 
 saddle cloths of various colors, shewing that the room is used 
 by foreigners accustomed to chairs. Anyone sitting at the table 
 in this seat would have the chief entrance, a large horseshoe 
 arch, on his left, and another saddle seat between him and 
 the arch; whilst, if susceptible to draughts, he would probably 
 catch cold from a little Moorish door in the wall behind him 
 to his right. 
 
 Two or three of Brassbound's men, overcome by the midday 
 heat, sprawl supine on the floor, with their reefer coats under 
 their heads, their knees uplifted, and their calves laid comfort- 
 ably on the divan. Those who wear shirts have them open 
 at the throat for greater coolness. Some have jerseys. All 
 wear boots and belts, and have guns ready to their hands. One 
 of them, lying with his head against the second saddle seat, 
 wears what was once a fashionable white English yachting 
 suit. He is evidently a pleasantly worthless young English 
 gentleman gone to the bad, but retaining sufficient self-respect 
 to shave carefully and brush his hair, which is wearing thin, 
 and does not seem to have been luxuriant even in its best days. 
 
 The silence is broken only by the snores of the young gentle- 
 man, whose mouth has fallen open, until a few distant shots 
 half waken him. He shuts his mouth convulsively, and opens 
 
 236 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 237 
 
 his eyes sleepily. A door is violently kicked outside; and the 
 voice of Drinkwater is heard raising urgent alarm. 
 
 Drinkwater. Wot ow! Wike ap there, will yr. Wike 
 ap. (He rushes in through the horseshoe arch, hot and ex- 
 cited, and runs round, kicking the sleepers) Nah then. Git 
 ap. Git ap, will yr, Kiddy Redbrook. (He gives the young 
 gentleman a rude shove.) 
 
 Redbrook (sitting up). Stow that, will you. What's 
 amiss ? 
 
 Drinkwater (disgusted). Wot 's amiss! Didn't eah naow 
 fawrin, I spowse. 
 
 Redbrook. No. 
 
 Drinkwater (sneering). Naow. Thort it sifer nort, 
 didn't yr? 
 
 Redbrook (with crisp intelligence) . What! You're running 
 away, are you ? (He springs up, crying) Look alive, Johnnies : 
 there's danger. Brandyfaced Jack's on the run. (They 
 spring up hastily, grasping their guns.) 
 
 Drinkwater. Dineger! Yuss: should think there wors 
 dineger. It's howver, thow, as it mowstly his baw the tawm 
 you're awike. (They relapse into lassitude.) Waw wasn't 
 you on the look-aht to give us a end? Bin hattecked baw 
 the Benny Seeras (Beni Siras), we ev, an ed to rawd for it 
 pretty strite, too, aw teoll yr. Mawtzow is it: the bullet 
 glawnst all rahnd is bloomin brisket. Brarsbahnd e dropt 
 the Shike's oss at six unnern fifty yawds. (Bustling them 
 about) Nah then: git the plice ready for the British herris- 
 torcracy, Lawd Ellam and Lidy Wineflete. 
 
 Redbrook. Lady faint, eh? 
 
 Drinkwater. Fynt! Not lawkly. Wornted to gow an 
 talk to the Benny Seeras: blaow me if she didn't! Harskt 
 huz wot we was frahtnd of. Tyin ap Mawtzow 's wound, 
 she is, like a bloomin orspittle nass. (Sir Howard, with a 
 copious pagri on his white hat, enters through the horseshoe 
 arch, followed by a couple of men supporting the wounded 
 Marzo, who, weeping and terrorstricken by the prospect of 
 death and of subsequent torments for which he is conscious of 
 
238 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 having eminently qualified himself, has his coat off and a 
 bandage round his chest. One of his supporters is a black- 
 bearded, thickset, slow, middle-aged man with an air of damaged 
 respectability, named — as it afterwards appears — Johnson. 
 Lady Cicely walks beside Marzo. Redbrook, a little shame- 
 faced, crosses the room to the opposite wall as far away as pos- 
 sible from the visitors. Drinkwater turns and receives them 
 with jocular ceremony.) Weolcome to Brarsbahnd Cawstl, 
 Sr Ahrd an lidy. This eah is the corfee and commercial room. 
 
 Sir Howard goes to the table and sits on the saddle, rather 
 exhausted. Lady Cicely comes to Drinkwater. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Where is Marzo's bed? 
 
 Drinkwater. Is bed, lidy ? Weoll : e ynt petickler, lidy. 
 E ez is chawce of henny flegstown agin thet wall. 
 
 They deposit Marzo on the flags against the wall close to 
 the little door. He groans. Johnson phlegmatically leaves 
 him and joins Redbrook. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But you can't leave him there in that state. 
 
 Drinkwater. Ow: e's hall rawt. (Strolling up callously 
 to Marzo) You're hall rawt, ynt yer, Mawtzow? (Marzo 
 whimpers.) Corse y'aw. 
 
 Lady Cicely (to Sir Howard). Did you ever see such a 
 helpless lot of poor creatures? (She makes for the little 
 door.) 
 
 Drinkwater. Eah! (He runs to the door and places him- 
 self before it.) Where mawt yr lidy ship be go win? 
 
 Lady Cicely. I'm going through every room in this castle 
 to find a proper place to put that man. And now I'll tell 
 you where you're going. You're going to get some water 
 for Marzo, who is very thirsty. And then, when I've chosen 
 a room for him, you're going to make a bed for him there. 
 
 Drinkwater (sarcastically). Ow! Henny ather little 
 suwice ? Mike yrseolf at owm, y' knaow, lidy. 
 
 Lady Cicely (considerately). Don't go if you'd rather not, 
 Mr. Drinkwater. Perhaps you're too tired. (Turning to the 
 archway) I'll ask Captain Brassbound: he won't mind. 
 
 Drinkwater (terrified, running after her and getting be- 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 239 
 
 tween her and the arch). Naow, naow! Naow, lidy: down't 
 you gow disturbin the Kepn. Awll see to it. 
 
 Lady Cicely {gravely). I was sure you would, Mr. Drink- 
 water. You have such a kind face. (She turns back and goes 
 out through the small door.) 
 
 Drinkwater (looking after her). Garn! 
 
 Sir Howard (to Drinkwater). Will you ask one of your 
 friends to show me to my room whilst you are getting the 
 water ? 
 
 Drinkwater (insolently). Yr room! Ow: this ynt good 
 enaf fr yr, ynt it ? (Ferociously) Oo a you orderin abaht, ih ? 
 
 Sir Howard (rising quietly, and taking refuge between 
 Redbrook and Johnson, whom he addresses). Can you find me 
 a more private room than this? 
 
 Johnson (shaking his head). I've no orders. You must 
 wait til the capn comes, sir. 
 
 Drinkwater (following Sir Hoivard). Yuss; an whawl 
 you're witin, yll tike your horders from me: see? 
 
 Johnson (with slow severity, to Drinkwater). Look here: 
 do you see three genlmen talkin to one another here, civil 
 and private, eh ? 
 
 Drinkwater (chapf alien). No offence, Miste Jornsn 
 
 Johnson (ominously). Ay; but there is offence. Where's 
 your manners, you guttersnipe? (Turning to Sir Howard) 
 That's the curse o this kind o life, sir: you got to associate 
 with all sorts. My father, sir, was Capn Johnson o Hull — 
 owned his own schooner, sir. We're mostly gentlemen here, 
 sir, as you'll find, except the poor ignorant foreigner and 
 that there scum of the submerged tenth. (Contemptuously 
 talking at Drinkwater) He ain't nobody's son: he's only 
 a offspring o coster folk or such. 
 
 Drinkwater (bursting into tears). Clawss feelin! thet's 
 wot it is: clawss feelin! Wot are yer, arter all, bat a bloomin 
 gang o wust cowst cazhls (casual ward paupers) ? (Johnson 
 is scandalized; and there is a general thrill of indignation.) 
 Better ev naow fembly, an rawse aht of it, lawk me, than ev 
 a specble one and disgrice it, lawk you. 
 
240 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 Johnson. Brandyfaced Jack: I name you for conduct 
 and language unbecoming to a gentleman. Those who agree 
 will signify the same in the usual manner. 
 
 All {vehemently). Aye. 
 
 Drinkwater {wildly). Naow. 
 
 Johnson. Felix Drinkwater: are you goin out, or are you 
 goin to wait til you're chucked out? You can cry in the 
 passage. If you give any trouble, you'll have something to 
 cry for. 
 
 They make a threatening movement towards Drinkwater. 
 
 Drinkwater {whimpering). You lee me alown: awm 
 gowin. There's n'maw true demmecrettick feelin eah than 
 there is in the owl bloomin M division of Noontn Corzwy 
 coppers {Newington Causeway 'policemen). 
 
 As he slinks away in tears towards the arch, Brassbound 
 enters. Drinkwater promptly shelters himself on the captain s 
 left hand, the others retreating to the opposite side as Brass- 
 bound advances to the middle of the room. Sir Howard retires 
 behind them and seats himself on the divan, much fatigued. 
 
 Brassbound {to Drinkwater). What are you snivelling at? 
 
 Drinkwater. You awsk the wust cowst herristorcracy. 
 They fawnds maw cornduck hanbecammin to a genlmn. 
 
 Brassbound is about to ask Johnson for an explanation, when 
 Lady Cicely returns through the little door, and comes between 
 Brassbound and Drinkwater. 
 
 Lady Cicely {to Drinkwater). Have you fetched the 
 water ? 
 
 Drinkwater. Yuss : nah you begin orn me. {He weeps 
 afresh.) 
 
 Lady Cicely {surprised). Oh! This won't do, Mr. 
 Drinkwater. If you cry, I can't let you nurse your friend. 
 
 Drinkwater {frantic). Thet'll brike maw awt, wown't it 
 nah? {With a lamentable sob, he throws himself down on the 
 divan, raging like an angry child.) 
 
 Lady Cicely {after contemplating him in astonishment for a 
 moment). Captain Brassbound: are there any charwomen in 
 the Atlas Mountains? 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 241 
 
 Brassbound. There are people here who will work if you 
 pay them, as there are elsewhere. 
 
 Lady Cicely. This castle is very romantic, Captain; but 
 it hasn't had a spring cleaning since the Prophet lived in it. 
 There's only one room I can put that wounded man into. It's 
 the only one that has a bed in it: the second room on the right 
 out of that passage. 
 
 Brassbound {haughtily). That is my room, madam. 
 
 Lady Cicely {relieved). Oh, that's all right. It would 
 have been so awkward if I had had to ask one of your men 
 to turn out. You won't mind, I know. {All the men stare 
 at her. Even Drinkwater forgets his sorrows in his stupefaction.) 
 
 Brassbound. Pray, madam, have you made any arrange- 
 ments for my accommodation? 
 
 Lady Cicely {reassuringly). Yes: you can have my room 
 instead, wherever it may be: I'm sure you chose me a nice 
 one. I must be near my patient; and I don't mind roughing 
 it. Now I must have Marzo moved very carefully. Where 
 is that truly gentlemanly Mr. Johnson? — oh, there you are, 
 Mr. Johnson. {She runs to Johnson, past Brassbound, who 
 has to step back hastily out of her way with every expression 
 frozen out of his face except one of extreme and indignant dumb- 
 foundedness.) Will you ask your strong friend to help you 
 with Marzo : strong people are always so gentle. 
 
 Johnson. Let me introdooce Mr. Redbrook. Your lady- 
 ship may know his father, the very Rev. Dean Redbrook. {He 
 goes to Marzo.) 
 
 Redbrook. Happy to oblige you, Lady Cicely. 
 
 Lady Cicely {shaking hands). Howdy edo? Of course I 
 knew your father — Dunham, wasn't it? Were you ever 
 called 
 
 Redbrook. The kid? Yes. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But why 
 
 Redbrook {anticipating the rest of the question). Cards 
 and drink, Lady Sis. {He follows Johnson to the patient. 
 Lady Cicely goes too.) Now, Count Marzo. {Marzo groans 
 as Johnson and Redbrook raise him.) 
 
242 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 Lady Cicely. Now they're not hurting you, Marzo. 
 They couldn't be more gentle. 
 
 Marzo. Drink. 
 
 Lady Cicely. I'll get you some water myself. Your 
 friend Mr. Drinkwater was too overcome — take care of the 
 corner — that's it — the second door on the right. (She goes 
 out with Marzo and his bearers through the little door.) 
 
 Brassbound (still staring). Well, lam damned! 
 
 Drinkwater (getting up). Weoll, blimey! 
 
 Brassbound (turning irritably on him). What did you 
 say? 
 
 Drinkwater. Weoll, wot did yer sy yrseolf, kepn? 
 Fust tawm aw yever see y' afride of ennybody. (The others 
 laugh.) 
 
 Brassbound. Afraid! 
 
 Drinkwater (maliciously). She's took y' bed from hander 
 yr for a bloomin penny hawcemen. If y' ynt afride, let's eah 
 yer speak ap to er wen she cams bawck agin. 
 
 Brassbound (to Sir Howard). I wish you to understand, 
 Sir Howard, that in this castle, it is / who give orders, and no 
 one else. Will you be good enough to let Lady Cicely Wayn- 
 flete know that. 
 
 Sir Howard (sitting up on the divan and pulling himself 
 together). You will have ample opportunity for speaking to 
 Lady Cicely yourself when she returns. (Drinkwater chuck- 
 les; and the rest grin.) 
 
 Brassbound. My manners are rough, Sir Howard. I 
 have no wish to frighten the lady. 
 
 Sir Howard. Captain Brassbound: if you can frighten 
 Lady Cicely, you will confer a great obligation on her family. 
 If she had any sense of danger, perhaps she would keep out 
 of it. 
 
 Brassbound. Well, sir, if she were ten Lady Cicelys, she 
 must consult me while she is here. 
 
 Drinkwater. Thet's rawt, kepn. Let's eah you steblish 
 yr hawthority. (Brassbound turns impatiently on him: he 
 retreats remonstrating) Nah, nah, nah! 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 243 
 
 Sir Howard. If you feel at all nervous, Captain Brass- 
 bound, I will mention the matter with pleasure. 
 
 Brassbound. Nervous, sir! no. Nervousness is not in 
 my line. You will find me perfectly capable of saying what 
 I want to say — with considerable emphasis, if necessary. 
 (Sir Howard assents with a polite but incredulous nod.) 
 
 Drinkwater. Eah, eah! 
 
 Lady Cicely returns with Johnson and RedbrooJc. She 
 carries a jar. 
 
 Lady Cicely (stopping between the door and the arch). 
 Now for the water. Where is it? 
 
 Redbrook. There's a well in the courtyard. I'll come 
 and work the bucket. 
 
 Lady Cicely. So good of you, Mr. Kidbrook. (She makes 
 for the horseshoe arch, followed by RedbrooJc.) 
 
 Drinkwater. Nan, Kepn Brarsbahnd: you got sathink 
 to sy to the lidy, ynt yr ? 
 
 Lady Cicely (stopping). I'll come back to hear it pres- 
 ently, Captain. And oh, while I remember it (coming 
 forward between Brassbound and Drinkwater), do please tell 
 me, Captain, if I interfere with your arrangements in any way. 
 If I disturb you the least bit in the world, stop me at once. 
 You have all the responsibility; and your comfort and your 
 authority must be the first thing. You'll tell me, won't you ? 
 
 Brassbound (awkwardly, quite beaten). Pray do as you 
 please, madam. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Thank you. That's so like you, Captain. 
 Thank you. Now, Mr. Redbrook! Show me the way to the 
 well. (She follows Redbrook out through the arch.) 
 
 Drinkwater. Yah! Yah! Shime! Beat baw a woman! 
 
 Johnson (coming forward on Brassbound's right). What's 
 wrong now ? 
 
 Drinkwater (with an air of disappointment and disillu- 
 sion). Down't awsk me, Miste Jornsn. The kepn's naow 
 clawss arter all. 
 
 Brassbound (a little shamefacedly). What has she been 
 fixing up in there, Johnson ? 
 
244 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 Johnson. Well: Marzo's in your bed. Lady wants to 
 make a kitchen of the Sheikh's audience chamber, and to 
 put me and the Kid handy in his bedroom in case Marzo gets 
 erysipelas and breaks out violent. From what I can make 
 out, she means to make herself matron of this institution. 
 I spose it's all right, isn't it? 
 
 Drinkwater. Yuss, an horder huz abaht as if we was 
 keb tahts! An the kepn afride to talk bawck at er! 
 
 Lady Cicely returns with Redbrook. She carries the jar 
 full of water. 
 
 Lady Cicely (putting down the jar, and coming between 
 Brassbound and Drinkwater as before). And now, Captain, 
 before I go to poor Marzo, what have you to say to me ? 
 
 Brassbound. I! Nothing. 
 
 Drinkwater. Down't fank it, gavner. Be a men! 
 
 Lady Cicely {looking at Drinkwater, puzzled). Mr. 
 Drinkwater said you had. 
 
 Brassbound (recovering himself) . It was only this. That 
 fellow there (pointing to Drinkwater) is subject to fits of 
 insolence. If he is impertinent to your ladyship, or diso- 
 bedient, you have my authority to order him as many kicks 
 as you think good for him; and I will see that he gets them. 
 
 Drinkwater (lifting up his voice in protest) . Nah, nah 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, I couldn't think of such a thing, 
 Captain Brassbound. I am sure it would hurt Mr. Drink- 
 water. 
 
 Drinkwater (lachrymosely). Lidy's hinkyp'ble o sich 
 bawbrous usage. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But there's one thing I should like, if 
 Mr. Drinkwater won't mind my mentioning it. It's so im- 
 portant if he's to attend on Marzo. 
 
 Brassbound. What is that? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Well — you won't mind, Mr. Drinkwater, 
 will you? 
 
 Drinkwater (suspiciously). Wot is it? 
 
 Lady Cicely. There would be so much less danger of 
 erysipelas if you would be so good as to take a bath. 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 245 
 
 Drinkwater (aghast). A bawth! 
 
 Brassbound (in tones of command). Stand by, all hands. 
 (They stand by.) Take that man and wash him. (With a 
 roar of laughter they seize him.) 
 
 Drinkwater (in an agony of protest). Naow, naow. 
 Look eah 
 
 Brassbound (ruthlessly). In cold water. 
 
 Drinkwater (shrieking). Na-a-a-a-ow. Aw cawn't, aw 
 teol yer. Naow. Aw sy, look eah. Naow, naow, naow, 
 naow, naow, NAOW!!! 
 
 He is dragged away through the arch in a whirlwind of 
 laughter, protects and tears. 
 
 Lady Cicely. I'm afraid he isn't used to it, poor fellow; 
 but r e a 1 1 y it will do him good, Captain Brassbound. Now 
 I must be off to my patient. (She takes up her jar and goes 
 out by the little door, leaving Brassbound and Sir Howard 
 alone together.) 
 
 Sir Howard (rising). And now, Captain Brass 
 
 Brassbound (cutting him short ivith a fierce contempt that 
 astonishes him). I will attend to you presently. (Calling) 
 Johnson. Send me Johnson there. And Osman. (He pulls 
 off his coat and throws it on the table, standing at his ease in 
 his blue jersey.) 
 
 Sir Howard (after a momentary flush of anger, with a 
 controlled force that compels Brassbound's attention in spite 
 of himself). You seem to be in a strong position with refer- 
 ence to these men of yours. 
 
 Brassbound. I am in a strong position with reference to 
 everyone in this castle. 
 
 Sir Howard (politely but threateningly). I have just been 
 noticing that you think so. I do not agree with you. Her 
 Majesty's Government, Captain Brassbound, has a strong 
 arm and a long arm. If anything disagreeable happens to 
 me or to my sister-in-law, that arm will be stretched out. If 
 that happens you will not be in a strong position. Excuse 
 my reminding you of it. 
 
 Brassbound (grimly) . Much good may it do you ! (John- 
 
246 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 son comes in through the arch.) Where is Osman, the Sheikh's 
 messenger ? I want him too. 
 
 Johnson. Coming, Captain. He had a prayer to finish. 
 
 Osman, a tall, skinny, ivhiteclad, elderly Moor, appears in 
 the archway. 
 
 Brassbound. Osman Ali (Osman comes forward between 
 Brassbound and Johnson)', you have seen this unbeliever 
 (indicating Sir Hoivard) come in with us ? 
 
 Osman. Yea, and the shameless one with the naked face, 
 who flattered my countenance and offered me her hand. 
 
 Johnson. Yes ; and you took it too, Johnny, didn't you ? 
 
 Brassbound. Take horse, then; and ride fast to your 
 master the Sheikh Sidi el Assif 
 
 Osman (proudly). Kinsman to the Prophet. 
 
 Brassbound. Tell him what you have seen here. That 
 is all. Johnson: give him a dollar; and note the hour of his 
 going, that his master may know how fast he rides. 
 
 Osman. The believer's word shall prevail with Allah and 
 his servant Sidi el Assif. 
 
 Brassbound. Off with you. 
 
 Osman. Make good thy master's word ere I go out from 
 his presence, O Johnson el Hull. 
 
 Johnson. He wants the dollar. 
 
 Brassbound gives Osman a coin. 
 
 Osman (bowing). Allah will make hell easy for the friend 
 of Sidi el Assif and his servant. (He goes out through the 
 arch.) 
 
 Brassbound (to Johnson). Keep the men out of this until 
 the Sheikh comes. I have business to talk over. When he 
 does come, we must keep together all: Sidi el Assif 's natural 
 instinct will be to cut every Christian throat here. 
 
 Johnson. We look to you, Captain, to square him, since 
 you invited him over. 
 
 Brassbound. You can depend on me; and you know it, 
 I think. 
 
 Johnson (phlegmatically) . Yes : we know it. (He is going 
 out when Sir Howard speaks.) 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 247 
 
 Sir Howard. You know also, Mr. Johnson, I hope, that 
 you can depend on me. 
 
 Johnson (turning). On you, sir? 
 
 Sir Howard. Yes: on me. If my throat is cut, the 
 Sultan of Morocco may send Sidi's head with a hundred thou- 
 sand dollars blood-money to the Colonial Office; but it will 
 not be enough to save his kingdom — any more than it would 
 save your life, if your Captain here did the same thing. 
 
 Johnson (struck). Is that so, Captain? 
 
 Brassbound. I know the gentleman's value — better per- 
 haps than he knows it himself. I shall not lose sight of it. 
 
 Johnson nods gravely, and is going out tvhen Lady Cicely 
 returns softly by the little door and calls to him in a whisper. 
 She has taken off her travelling things and put on an apron. 
 At her chatelaine is a case of sewing materials. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Mr. Johnson. (He turns.) I've got Marzo 
 to sleep. Would you mind asking the gentlemen not to make 
 a noise under his window in the courtyard. 
 
 Johnson. Right, maam. (He goes out.) 
 
 Lady Cicely sits down at the tiny table, and begins stitching 
 at a sling bandage for Marzo's arm. Brassbound walks up 
 and down on her right, muttering to himself so ominously thai 
 Sir Howard quietly gets out of his way by crossing to the other 
 side and sitting down on the second saddle seat. 
 
 Sir Howard. Are you yet able to attend to me for a 
 moment, Captain Brassbound? 
 
 Brassbound (still walking about). What do you want? 
 
 Sir Howard. Well, I am afraid I want a little privacy, 
 and, if you will allow me to say so, a little civility. I am 
 greatly obliged to you for bringing us safely off to-day when 
 we were attacked. So far, you have carried out your con- 
 tract. But since we have been your guests here, your tone 
 and that of the worst of your men has changed — intentionally 
 changed, I think. 
 
 Brassbound (stopping abruptly and flinging the announce- 
 ment at him). You are not my guest: you are my prisoner. 
 
 Sir Howard. Prisoner! 
 
248 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 Lady Cicely, after a single glance up, continues stitching, 
 apparently quite unconcerned. 
 
 Brassbound. I warned you. You should have taken my 
 Warning. 
 
 Sir Howard (immediately taking the tone of cold disgust 
 for moral delinquency). Am I to understand, then, that you 
 are a brigand? Is this a matter of ransom? 
 
 Brassbound (with unaccountable intensity) . All the wealth 
 of England shall not ransom you. 
 
 Sir Howard. Then what do you expect to gain by 
 this? 
 
 Brassbound. Justice on a thief and a murderer. 
 
 Lady Cicely lays down her work and looks up anxiously. 
 
 Sir Howard (deeply outraged, rising with venerable dig- 
 nity). Sir: do you apply those terms to me? 
 
 Brassbound. I do. (He turns to Lady Cicely, and adds, 
 pointing contemptuously to Sir Howard) Look at him. You 
 would not take this virtuously indignant gentleman for the 
 uncle of a brigand, would you ? 
 
 Sir Howard starts. The shock is too much for him: he sits 
 down again, looking very old; and his hands tremble; but his 
 eyes and mouth are intrepid, resolute, and angry. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Uncle! What do you mean? 
 
 Brassbound. Has he never told you about my mother? 
 this fellow who puts on ermine and scarlet and calls himself 
 Justice. 
 
 Sir Howard (almost voiceless). You are the son of that 
 woman! 
 
 Brassbound (fiercely). "That woman!" (He makes a 
 movement as if to rush at Sir Howard.) 
 
 Lady Cicely (rising quickly and putting her hand on his 
 arm). Take care. You mustn't strike an old man. 
 
 Brassbound (raging). He did not spare my mother — 
 "that woman," he calls her — because of her sex. I will not 
 spare him because of his age. (Lowering his tone to one of 
 sullen vindictiveness) But I am not going to strike him. 
 (Lady Cicely releases him, and sits down, much perplexed. 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 249 
 
 Brassbound continues, with an evil glance at Sir Howard) I 
 shall do no more than justice. 
 
 Sir Howard (recovering his voice and vigor). Justice! I 
 think you mean vengeance, disguised as justice by your pas- 
 sions. 
 
 Brassbound. To many and many a poor wretch in the 
 dock you have brought vengeance in that disguise — the 
 vengeance of society, disguised as justice by i t s passions. 
 Now the justice you have outraged meets you disguised as 
 vengeance. How do you like it? 
 
 Sir Howard. I shall meet it, I trust, as becomes an in- 
 nocent man and an upright judge. What do you charge 
 against me? 
 
 Brassbound. I charge you with the death of my mother 
 and the theft of my inheritance. 
 
 Sir Howard. As to your inheritance, sir, it was yours 
 whenever you came forward to claim it. Three minutes 
 ago I did not know of your existence. I affirm that most 
 solemnly. I never knew — never dreamt — that my brother 
 Miles left a son. As to your mother, her case was a hard one 
 — perhaps the hardest that has come within even my expe- 
 rience. I mentioned it, as such, to Mr. Rankin, the missionary, 
 the evening we met you. As to her death, you know — you 
 must know — that she died in her native country, years after 
 our last meeting. Perhaps you were too young to know that 
 she could hardly have expected to live long. 
 
 Brassbound. You mean that she drank. 
 
 Sir Howard. I did not say so. I do not think she was 
 always accountable for what she did. 
 
 Brassbound. Yes: she was mad too; and whether drink 
 drove her to madness or madness drove her to drink matters 
 little. The question is, who drove her to both? 
 
 Sir Howard. I presume the dishonest agent who seized 
 her estate did. I repeat, it was a hard case — a frightful in- 
 justice. But it could not be remedied. 
 
 Brassbound. You told her so. When she would not 
 take that false answer you drove her from your doors. When 
 
250 Captain BrassbouncTs Conversion Act II 
 
 she exposed you in the street and threatened to take with her 
 own hands the redress the law denied her, you had her im- 
 prisoned, and forced her to write you an apology and leave 
 the country to regain her liberty and save herself from a 
 lunatic asylum. And when she was gone, and dead, and 
 forgotten, you found for yourself the remedy you could not 
 find for her. You recovered the estate easily enough then, 
 robber and rascal that you are. Did he tell the missionary 
 that, Lady Cicely, eh? 
 
 Lady Cicely (sympathetically). Poor woman! (To Sir 
 Howard) Couldn't you have helped her, Howard ? 
 
 Sir Howard. No. This man may be ignorant enough to 
 suppose that when I was a struggling barrister I could do 
 everything I did when I was Attorney General. You know 
 better. There is some excuse for his mother. She was an 
 uneducated Brazilian, knowing nothing of English society, 
 and driven mad by injustice. 
 
 Brassbotjnd. Your defence 
 
 Sir Howard (interrupting him determinedly). I do not de- 
 fend myself. I call on you to obey the law. 
 
 Brassbotjnd. I intend to do so. The law of the Atlas 
 Mountains is administered by the Sheikh Sidi el Assif. He 
 will be here within an hour. He is a judge like yourself. 
 You can talk law to him. He will give you both the law and 
 the prophets. 
 
 Sir Howard. Does he know what the power of England 
 is? 
 
 Brassbotjnd. He knows that the Mahdi killed my master 
 Gordon, and that the Mahdi died in his bed and went to 
 paradise. 
 
 Sir Howard. Then he knows also that England's ven- 
 geance was on the Mahdi's track. 
 
 Brassbound. Ay, on the track of the railway from the 
 Cape to Cairo. Who are you, that a nation should go to war 
 for you ? If you are missing, what will your newspapers say ? 
 A foolhardy tourist. What will your learned friends at the 
 bar say ? That it was time for you to make room for younger 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 251 
 
 and better men. You a national hero ! You had better 
 find a goldfield in the Atlas Mountains. Then all the govern- 
 ments of Europe will rush to your rescue. Until then, take 
 care of yourself; for you are going to see at last the hypocrisy 
 in the sanctimonious speech of the judge who is sentencing 
 you, instead of the despair in the white face of the wretch you 
 are recommending to the mercy of your God. 
 
 Sir Howard (deeply and personally offended by this slight 
 to his profession, and for the first time throwing away his as- 
 sumed dignity and rising to approach Brassbound with his 
 fists clenched; so that Lady Cicely lifts one eye from her work 
 to assure herself that the table is between them). I have no 
 more to say to you, sir. I am not afraid of you, nor of any 
 bandit with whom you may be in league. As to your prop- 
 erty, it is ready for you as soon as you come to your senses 
 and claim it as your father's heir. Commit a crime, and you 
 will become an outlaw, and not only lose the property, but 
 shut the doors of civilization against yourself for ever. 
 
 Brassbound. I will not sell my mother's revenge for ten 
 properties. 
 
 Lady Cicely (placidly). Besides, really, Howard, as the 
 property now costs £150 a year to keep up instead of bringing 
 in anything, I am afraid it would not be of much use to him. 
 (Brassbound stands amazed at this revelation?) 
 
 Sir Howard (taken aback). I must say, Cicely, I think 
 you might have chosen a more suitable moment to mention 
 that fact. 
 
 Brassbound (with disgust). Agh! Trickster! Lawyer! 
 Even the price you offer for your life is to be paid in false 
 coin. (Calling) Hallo there! Johnson! Redbrook! Some 
 of you there! (To Sir Howard) You ask for a little privacy: 
 you shall have it. I will not endure the company of such a 
 fellow 
 
 Sir Howard (very angry, and full of the crustiest pluck). 
 You insult me, sir. You are a rascal. You are a rascal. 
 
 Johnson, Redbrook, and a few others come in through the 
 arch. 
 
252 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 Brassbound. Take this man away. 
 
 Johnson. Where are we to put him ? 
 
 Brassbound. Put him where you please so long as you 
 can find him when he is wanted. 
 
 Sir Howard. You will be laid by the heels yet, my friend. 
 
 Redbrook (with cheerful tact). Tut tut, Sir Howard: 
 what's the use of talking back? Come along: we'll make 
 you comfortable. 
 
 Sir Howard goes out through the arch between Johnson 
 and Redbrook, muttering wrathfully. The rest, except Brass- 
 bound and Lady Cicely, follow. 
 
 Brassbound walks up and down the room, nursing his in- 
 dignation. In doing so he unconsciously enters upon an unequal 
 contest with Lady Cicely, who sits quietly stitching. It soon 
 becomes clear that a tranquil woman can go on sewing longer 
 than an angry man can go on fuming. Further, it begins to 
 dawn on Brassbound'' s wrath-blurred perception that Lady 
 Cicely has at some unnoticed stage in the proceedings finished 
 Marzo's bandage, and is now stitching a coat. He stops; 
 glances at his shirtsleeves; finally realizes the situation. 
 
 Brassbound. What are you doing there, madam? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Mending your coat, Captain Brassbound. 
 
 Brassbound. I have no recollection of asking you to take 
 that trouble. 
 
 Lady Cicely. No : I don't suppose you even knew it was 
 torn. Some men are born untidy. You cannot very well 
 receive Sidi el — what's his name? — with your sleeve half out. 
 
 Brassbound (disconcerted). I — I don't know how it got 
 torn. 
 
 Lady Cicely. You should not get virtuously indignant 
 with people. It bursts clothes more than anything else, Mr. 
 Hallam. 
 
 Brassbound (flushing, quickly). I beg you will not call 
 me Mr. Hallam. I hate the name. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Black Paquito is your pet name, isn't it? 
 
 Brassbound (huffily). I am not usually called so to my 
 face. 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 253 
 
 Lady Cicely (turning the coat a little). I'm so sorry. 
 (She takes another piece of thread and puts it into her needle, 
 looking placidly and reflectively upward meanwhile.) Do you 
 know, you are wonderfully like your uncle. 
 
 Brassbound . Damnation ! 
 
 Lady Cicely. Eh? 
 
 Brassbound. If I thought my veins contained a drop of 
 his black blood, I would drain them empty with my knife. 
 I have no relations. I had a mother : that was all. 
 
 Lady Cicely (unconvinced). I daresay you have your 
 mother's complexion. But didn't you notice Sir Howard's 
 temper, his doggedness, his high spirit: above all, his belief 
 in ruling people by force, as you rule your men; and in re- 
 venge and punishment, just as you want to revenge your 
 mother ? Didn't you recognize yourself in that ? 
 
 Brassbound (startled). Myself! — in that! 
 
 Lady Cicely (returning to the tailoring question as i) her 
 last remark were of no consequence whatever). Did this sleeve 
 catch you at all under the arm ? Perhaps I had better make 
 it a little easier for you. 
 
 Brassbound (irritably). Let my coat alone. It will do 
 very well as it is. Put it down. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, don't ask me to sit doing nothing. It 
 bores me so. 
 
 Brassbound. In Heaven's name then, do what you like! 
 Only don't worry me with it. 
 
 Lady Cicely. I'm so sorry. All the Hallams are irri- 
 table. 
 
 Brassbound (penning up his fury with difficulty). As I 
 have already said, that remark has no application to me. 
 
 Lady Cicely (resuming her stitching). That's so funny! 
 They all hate to be told that they are like one another. 
 
 Brassbound (with the beginnings of despair in his voice). 
 Why did you come here ? My trap was laid for him, not for 
 you. Do you know the danger you are in ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. There's always a danger of something or 
 other. Do you think it's worth bothering about? 
 
254 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 Brassbound (scolding her). Do I think ! Do you think 
 my coat's worth mending? 
 
 Lady Cicely (prosaically). Oh yes: it's not so far gone as 
 that. 
 
 Brassbound. Have you any feeling ? Or are you a fool ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. I'm afraid I'm a dreadful fool. But I can't 
 help it. I was made so, I suppose. 
 
 Brassbound. Perhaps you don't realize that your friend 
 my good uncle will be pretty fortunate if he is allowed to 
 live out his life as a slave with a set of chains on him ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, I don't know about that, Mr. H — I 
 mean Captain Brassbound. Men are always thinking that 
 they are going to do something grandly wicked to their 
 enemies; but when it comes to the point, really bad men are 
 just as rare as really good ones. 
 
 Brassbound. You forget that I am like my uncle, according 
 to you. Have you any doubt as to the reality of h i s badness ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Bless me! your uncle Howard is one of 
 the most harmless of men — much nicer than most professional 
 people. Of course he does dreadful things as a judge; but 
 then if you take a man and pay him ^5,000 a year to be wicked, 
 and praise him for it, and have policemen and courts and laws 
 and juries to drive him into it so that he can't help doing it, 
 what can you expect? Sir Howard's all right when he's left 
 to himself. We caught a burglar one night at Waynflete 
 when he was staying with us; and I insisted on his locking 
 the poor man up, until the police came, in a room with a win- 
 dow opening on the lawn. The man came back next day and 
 said he must return to a life of crime unless I gave him a job 
 in the garden; and I did. It was much more sensible than 
 giving him ten years penal servitude: Howard admitted it. 
 So you see he's not a bit bad really. 
 
 Brassbound. He had a fellow feeling for a thief, knowing 
 he was a thief himself. Do you forget that he sent my mother 
 to prison? 
 
 Lady Cicely (softly). Were you very fond of your poor 
 mother, and always very good to her ? 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 255 
 
 Brassbound (rather taken aback). I was not worse than 
 other sons, I suppose. 
 
 Lady Cicely (opening her eyes very widely). Oh! Was 
 that all? 
 
 Brassbound (exculpating himself, full of gloomy remem- 
 brances). You don't understand. It was not always possible 
 to be very tender with my mother. She had unfortunately 
 a very violent temper; and she — she 
 
 Lady Cicely. Yes: so you told Howard. (With genuine 
 pity for him) You must have had a very unhappy childhood. 
 
 Brassbound (grimly). Hell. That was what my child- 
 hood was. Hell. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Do you think she would really have killed 
 Howard, as she threatened, if he hadn't sent her to prison ? 
 
 Brassbound (breaking out again, with a growing sense of 
 being morally trapped). What if she did? Why did he rob 
 her? Why did he not help her to get the estate, as he got it 
 for himself afterwards ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. He says he couldn't, you know. But per- 
 haps the real reason was that he didn't like her. You know, 
 don't you, that if you don't like people you think of all the 
 reasons for not helping them, and if you like them you think 
 of all the opposite reasons. 
 
 Brassbound . But his duty as a brother ! 
 
 Lady Cicely. Are you going to do your duty as a nephew ? 
 
 Brassbound. Don't quibble with me. I am going to do 
 my duty as a son; and you know it. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But I should have thought that the time 
 for that was in your mother's lifetime, when you could have 
 been kind and forbearing with her. Hurting your uncle won't 
 do her any good, you know. 
 
 Brassbound. It will teach other scoundrels to respect 
 widows and orphans. Do you forget that there is such a 
 thing as justice? 
 
 Lady Cicely (gaily shaking out the finished coat). Oh, if 
 you are going to dress yourself in ermine and call yourself 
 Justice, I give you up. You are just your uncle over again; 
 
256 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 only he gets £5,000 a year for it, and you do it for nothing. 
 (She holds the coat up to see whether any further repairs are 
 needed.) 
 
 Brassbound (sulkily). You twist my words very cleverly. 
 But no man or woman has ever changed me. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Dear me ! That must be very nice for the 
 people you deal with, because they can always depend on 
 you; but isn't it rather inconvenient for yourself when you 
 change your mind ? 
 
 Brassbound. I never change my mind. 
 
 Lady Cicely (rising with the coat in her hands). Oh! Oh!! 
 Nothing will ever persuade me that you are as pigheaded as 
 that. 
 
 Brassbound (offended). Pigheaded! 
 
 Lady Cicely (with quick, caressing apology). No, no, no. 
 I didn't mean that. Firm! Unalterable! Resolute! Iron- 
 willed! Stonewall Jackson! That's the idea, isn't it? 
 
 Brassbound (hopelessly). You are laughing at me. 
 
 Lady Cicely. No: trembling, I assure you. Now will 
 you try this on for me: I'm s o afraid I have made it too tight 
 under the arm. (She holds it behind him.) 
 
 Brassbound (obeying mechanically). You take me for a 
 fool I think. (He misses the sleeve.) 
 
 Lady Cicely. No: all men look foolish when they are 
 feeling for their sleeves 
 
 Brassbound. Agh! (He turns and snatches the coat from 
 her; then puts it on himself and buttons the lowest button.) 
 
 Lady Cicely (horrified). Stop. No. You must never 
 pull a coat at the skirts, Captain Brassbound: it spoils the 
 sit of it. Allow me. (She pidls the lappels of his coat vigor- 
 ously forward) Put back your shoulders. (He frowns, but 
 obeys.) That's better. (She buttons the top button.) Now 
 button the rest from the top down. Does it catch you at 
 all under the arm? 
 
 Brassbound (miserably — all resistance beaten out of him). 
 No. 
 
 Lady Cicely. That's right. Now before I go back to 
 
Act n Captain Brassbound's Conversion 257 
 
 poor Marzo, say thank you to me for mending your jacket, 
 like a nice polite sailor. 
 
 Brassbound (sitting down at the table in great agitation). 
 Damn you! you have belittled my whole life to me. (He 
 bows his head on his hands, convulsed.) 
 
 Lady Cicely (quite understanding, and putting her hand 
 kindly on his shoulder). Oh no. I am sure you have done 
 lots of kind things and brave things, if you could only recollect 
 them. With Gordon for instance? Nobody can belittle 
 that. 
 
 He looks up at her for a moment; then kisses her hand. 
 She presses his and turns away with her eyes so wet that she 
 sees Drinkwater, coming in through the arch just then, with 
 a prismatic halo round him. Even when she sees him clearly, 
 she hardly recognizes him; for he is ludicrously clean and 
 smoothly brushed; and his hair, formerly mud color, is now 
 a lively red. 
 
 Drinkwater. Look eah, kepn. (Brassbound springs up 
 and recovers himself quickly.) Eahs the bloomin Shike jest 
 appeahd on the orawzn wiv abaht fifty men. Thy '11 be eah 
 insawd o ten minnits, they will. 
 
 Lady Cicely. The Sheikh! 
 
 Brassbound. Sidi el Assif and fifty men! (To Lady 
 Cicely) You were too late: I gave you up my vengeance 
 when it was no longer in my hand. (To Drinkwater) Call 
 all hands to stand by and shut the gates. Then all here to 
 me for orders; and bring the prisoner. 
 
 Drinkwater. Rawt, kepn. (He runs out.) 
 
 Lady Cicely. Is there really any danger for Howard? 
 
 Brassbound. Yes. Danger for all of us unless I keep to 
 my bargain with this fanatic. 
 
 Lady Cicely. What bargain? 
 
 Brassbound. I pay him so much a head for every party 
 I escort through to the interior. In return he protects me 
 and lets my caravans alone. But I have sworn an oath to 
 him to take only Jews and true believers — no Christians, you 
 understand. 
 
258 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 Lady Cicely. Then why did you take us? 
 
 Brassbound. I took my uncle on purpose — and sent 
 word to Sidi that he was here. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Well, that's a pretty kettle of fish, isn't it ? 
 
 Brassbound. I will do what I can to save him — and you. 
 But I fear my repentance has come too late, as repentance 
 usually does. 
 
 Lady Cicely {cheerfully). Well, I must go and look after 
 Marzo, at all events. (She goes out through the little door. 
 Johnson, Redbrook and the rest come in through the arch, 
 with Sir Howard, still very crusty and determined. He keeps 
 close to Johnson, who comes to Brassbound's right, Redbrook 
 taking the other side.) 
 
 Brassbound. Where's Drinkwater? 
 
 Johnson. On the lookout. Look here, Capn: we don't 
 half like this job. The gentleman has been talking to us a bit; 
 and we think that he i s a gentleman, and talks straight sense. 
 
 Redbrook. Righto, Brother Johnson. (To Brassbound) 
 Won't do, governor. Not good enough. 
 
 Brassbound (fiercely). Mutiny, eh? 
 
 Redbrook. Not at all, governor. Don't talk Tommy rot 
 with Brother Sidi only five minutes gallop off. Can't hand 
 over an Englishman to a nigger to have his throat cut. 
 
 Brassbound (unexpectedly acquiescing). Very good. You 
 know, I suppose, that if you break my bargain with Sidi, 
 you'll have to defend this place and fight for your lives in 
 five minutes. That can't be done without discipline: you 
 know that too. I'll take my part with the rest under what- 
 ever leader you are willing to obey. So choose your captain 
 and look sharp about it. (Murmurs of surprise and discontent.) 
 
 Voices. No, no. Brassbound must command. 
 
 Brassbound. You're wasting your five minutes. Try 
 Johnson. 
 
 Johnson. No. I haven't the head for it. 
 
 Brassbound. Well, Redbrook. 
 
 Redbrook. Not this Johnny, thank you. Haven't char- 
 acter enough. 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 259 
 
 Brassbound. Well, there's Sir Howard Hallam for you! 
 He has character enough. 
 
 A Voice. He's too old. 
 
 All. No, no. Brassbound, Brassbound. 
 
 Johnson. There's nobody but you, Captain. 
 
 Redbrook. The mutiny's over, governor. You win, 
 hands down. 
 
 Brassbound (turning on them). Now listen, you, all of 
 you. If I am to command here, I am going to do what I like, 
 not what you like. I'll give this gentleman here to Sidi or 
 to the devil if I choose. I'll not be intimidated or talked 
 back to. Is that understood? 
 
 Redbrook (diplomatically). He's offered a present of five 
 hundred quid if he gets safe back to Mogador, governor. 
 Excuse my mentioning it. 
 
 Sir Howard. Myself and Lady Cicely. 
 
 Brassbound. What! A judge compound a felony! You 
 greenhorns, he is more likely to send you all to penal servi- 
 tude if you are fools enough to give him the chance. 
 
 Voices. So he would. Whew! (Murmurs of conviction.) 
 
 Redbrook. Righto, governor. That's the ace of trumps. 
 
 Brassbound (to Sir Howard). Now, have you any other 
 card to play? Any other bribe? Any other threat? Quick. 
 Time presses. 
 
 Sir Howard. My life is in the hands of Providence. Do 
 your worst. 
 
 Brassbound. Or my best. I still have that choice. 
 
 Drinkwater (running in). Look eah, kepn. Eah's 
 anather lot cammin from the sahth heast. Hunnerds of em, 
 this tawm. The owl dezzit is lawk a bloomin Awd Pawk 
 demonstrition. Aw blieve it's the Kidy from Kintorfy. (Gen- 
 eral alarm. All look to Brassbound.) 
 
 Brassbound (eagerly) . The Cadi ! How far off ? 
 
 Drinkwater. Matter o two mawl. 
 
 Brassbound. We're saved. Open the gates to the Sheikh. 
 
 Drinkwater (appalled, almost in tears). Naow, naow. 
 Lissn, kepn (pointing to Sir Howard): e'll give huz fawv 
 
260 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 imnerd red uns. (To the others) Ynt yer spowk to im, 
 Miste Jornsn — IVxiste Redbrook 
 
 Brassbound (cutting him short). Now then, do you un- 
 derstand plain English? Johnson and Redbrook: take 
 what men you want and open the gates to the Sheikh. Let 
 him come straight to me. Look alive, will you. 
 
 Johnson. Ay ay, sir. 
 
 Redbrook. Righto, governor. 
 
 They hurry out, with a few others. Drinkwater stares 
 after them, dumbfounded by their obedience. 
 
 Brassbound (taking out a pistol). You wanted to sell me 
 to my prisoner, did you, you dog. 
 
 Drinkwater (falling on his knees with a yell). Naow! 
 (Brassbound turns on him as if to kick him. He scrambles 
 away and takes refuge behind Sir Howard.) 
 
 Brassbound. Sir Howard Hallam: you have one chance 
 left. The Cadi of Kintafi stands superior to the Sheikh as 
 the responsible governor of the whole province. It is the 
 Cadi who will be sacrificed by the Sultan if England de- 
 mands satisfaction for any injury to you. If we can hold the 
 Sheikh in parley until the Cadi arrives, you may frighten the 
 Cadi into forcing the Sheikh to release you. The Cadi's 
 coming is a lucky chance for you. 
 
 Sir Howard. If it were a real chance, you would not 
 tell me of it. Don't try to play cat and mouse with me, man. 
 
 Drinkwater (aside to Sir Howard, as Brassbound turns 
 contemptuously away to the other side of the room). It ynt 
 mach of a chawnst, Sr Ahrd. But if there was a ganbowt in 
 Mogador Awbr, awd put a bit on it, aw would. 
 
 Johnson, Redbrook, and the others return, rather mistrust- 
 fully ushering in Sidi el Assif, attended by Osman and a troop 
 of Arabs. Brassbound's men keep together on the archway 
 side, backing their captain. Sidis followers cross the room 
 behind the table and assemble near Sir Howard, who stands 
 his ground. Drinkwater runs across to Brassbound and 
 stands at his elbow as he turns to face Sidi. 
 
 Sidi el Assif, clad in spotless white, is a nobly handsome 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 261 
 
 Arab, hardly thirty, with fine eyes, bronzed complexion, and 
 instinctively dignified carriage. He places himself between the 
 two groups, with Osman in attendance at his right hand. 
 
 Osman (pointing out Sir Howard). This is the infidel 
 Cadi. (Sir Howard bows to Sidi, but, being an infidel, re- 
 ceives only the haughtiest stare in acknowledgement.) This 
 (pointing to Brassbound) is Brassbound the Franguestani 
 captain, the servant of Sidi. 
 
 Drinkwater (not to be outdone, points out the Sheikh and 
 Osman to Brassbound). This eah is the Commawnder of the 
 Fythful an is Vizzeer Hosman. 
 
 Sidi. Where is the woman? 
 
 Osman. The shameless one is not here. 
 
 Brassbound. Sidi el Assif, kinsman of the Prophet: you 
 are welcome. 
 
 Redbrook (with much aplomb). There is no majesty and 
 no might save in Allah, the Glorious, the Great! 
 
 Drinkwater. Eah, eah! 
 
 Osman (to Sidi). The servant of the captain makes his 
 profession of faith as a true believer. 
 
 Sidi. It is well. 
 
 Brassbound (aside to Redbrook). Where did you pick 
 that up? 
 
 Redbrook (aside to Brassbound). Captain Burton's Ara- 
 bian Nights — copy in the library of the National Liberal Club. 
 
 Lady Cicely (calling without). Mr. Drinkwater. Come 
 and help me with Marzo. (The Sheikh pricks up his ears. 
 His nostrils and eyes expand.) 
 
 Osman. The shameless one! 
 
 Brassbound (to Drinkwater, seizing him by the collar and 
 slinging him towards the door). Off with you. 
 
 Drinkwater goes out through the little door. 
 
 Osman. Shall we hide her face before she enters? 
 
 Sidi. No. 
 
 Lady Cicely, who has resumed her travelling equipment, 
 and has her hat slung across her arm, comes through the little 
 door supporting Marzo, who is very white, but able to get 
 
262 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act II 
 
 about. Drinkivater has his other arm. RedbrooJc hastens to 
 relieve Lady Cicely of Marzo, taking him into the group be- 
 hind Brassbound. Lady Cicely comes forward between Brass- 
 bound and the Sheikh, to whom she turns affably. 
 
 Lady Cicely {proffering her hand). Sidi el Assif, isn't it? 
 How dye do? (He recoils, blushing somewhat.) 
 
 Osman (scandalized). Woman; touch not the kinsman of 
 the Prophet. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, I see. I'm being presented at court. 
 Very good. (She makes a presentation curtsey.) 
 
 Redbrook. Sidi el Assif: this is one of the mighty women 
 Sheikhs of Franguestan. She goes unveiled among Kings; 
 and only princes may touch her hand. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Allah upon thee, Sidi el Assif! Be a good 
 little Sheikh, and shake hands. 
 
 Sidi (timidly touching her hand). Now this is a wonderful 
 thing, and worthy to be chronicled with the story of Solo- 
 mon and the Queen of Sheba. Is it not so, Osman Ali? 
 
 Osman. Allah upon thee, master! it is so. 
 
 Sidi. Brassbound Ali: the oath of a just man fulfils itself 
 without many words. The infidel Cadi, thy captive, falls 
 to my share. 
 
 Brassbound (firmly). It cannot be, Sidi el Assif. (Sidi's 
 brows contract gravely.) The price of his blood will be re- 
 quired of our lord the Sultan. I will take him to Morocco 
 and deliver him up there. 
 
 Sidi (impressively). Brassbound: I am in mine own house 
 and amid mine own people. I am the Sultan here. Con- 
 sider what you say; for when my word goes forth for life 
 or death, it may not be recalled. 
 
 Brassbound. Sidi el Assif: I will buy the man from you 
 at what price you choose to name; and if I do not pay faith- 
 fully, you shall take my head for his. 
 
 Sidi. It is well. You shall keep the man, and give me 
 the woman in payment. 
 
 Sir Howard and Brassbound (with the same impulse). 
 No, no. 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 263 
 
 Lady Cicely {eagerly). Yes, yes. Certainly, Mr. Sidi. 
 Certainly. 
 
 Sidi smiles gravely. 
 
 Sir Howard. Impossible. 
 
 Brassbotjnd. You don't know what you're doing. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, don't I ? I've not crossed Africa and 
 stayed with six cannibal chiefs for nothing. (To the Sheikh) 
 It's all right, Mr. Sidi: I shall be delighted. 
 
 Sir Howard. You are mad. Do you suppose this man 
 will treat you as a European gentleman would ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. No: he'll treat me like one of Nature's 
 gentlemen: look at his perfectly splendid face! (Addressing 
 Osman as if he were her oldest and most attached retainer) 
 Osman: be sure you choose me a good horse; and get a nice 
 strong camel for my luggage. 
 
 Osman, after a moment of stupefaction, hurries out. Lady 
 Cicely puts on her hat and pins it to her hair, the Sheikh gazing 
 at her during the process with timid admiration. 
 
 Drinkwater (chuckling). She'll mawch em all to church 
 next Sunder lawk a bloomin lot o' cherrity kids: you see if 
 she down't. 
 
 Lady Cicely (busily). Goodbye, Howard: don't be anx- 
 ious about me; and above all, don't bring a parcel of men with 
 guns to rescue me. I shall be all right now that I am getting 
 away from the escort. Captain Brassbound: I rely on you to 
 see that Sir Howard gets safe to Mogador. (Whispering) 
 Take your hand off that pistol. (He takes his hand out of his 
 pocket, reluctantly.) Goodbye. 
 
 A tumult without. They all turn apprehensively to the 
 arch. Osman rushes in. 
 
 Osman. The Cadi, the Cadi. He is in anger. His men 
 are upon us. Defend 
 
 The Cadi, a vigorous, fatfeatured, choleric, whitehaired 
 and bearded elder, rushes in, cudgel in hand, with an over- 
 whelming retinue, and silences Osman with a sounding 
 thwack. In a moment the back of the room is crowded with 
 his followers. The Sheikh retreats a little towards his men; 
 
264 Captain Brassbound' s Conversion Act II 
 
 and the Cadi comes impetuously forward between him and 
 Lady Cicely. 
 
 The Cadi. Now woe upon thee, Sidi el Assif, thou child 
 of mischief! 
 
 Sidi (sternly). Am I a dog, Muley Othman, that thou 
 speakest thus to me? 
 
 The Cadi. Wilt thou destroy thy country, and give us 
 all into the hands of them that set the sea on fire but yesterday 
 with their ships of war ? Where are the Franguestani captives ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Here we are, Cadi. How dye do? 
 
 The Cadi. Allah upon thee, thou moon at the full! 
 Where is thy kinsman, the Cadi of Franguestan? I am his 
 friend, his servant. I come on behalf of my master the 
 Sultan to do him honor, and to cast down his enemies. 
 
 Sir Howard. You are very good, I am sure. 
 
 Sidi (graver than ever). Muley Othman 
 
 The Cadi (fumbling in his breast). Peace, peace, thou 
 inconsiderate one. (He takes out a letter.) 
 
 Brassbound. Cadi 
 
 The Cadi. Oh thou dog, thou, thou accursed Brassbound, 
 son of a wanton : it is thou hast led Sidi el Assif into this wrong- 
 doing. Read this writing that thou hast brought upon me 
 from the commander of the warship. 
 
 Brassbound. Warship! (He takes the letter and opens it, 
 his men whispering to one another very low-spiritedly mean- 
 while.) 
 
 Redbrook. Warship! Whew! 
 
 Johnson. Gunboat, praps. 
 
 Drinkwater. Lawk bloomin Worterleoo buses, they are, 
 on this cowst. 
 
 Brassbound folds up the letter, looking glum. 
 
 Sir Howard (sharply). Well, sir, are we not to have the 
 benefit of that letter? Your men are waiting to hear it, I 
 think. 
 
 Brassbound. It is not a British ship. (Sir Howard's 
 face falls.) 
 
 Lady Cicely. What is it, then? 
 
Act II Captain Brassbound's Conversion 265 
 
 Brassbound. An American cruiser. The Santiago. 
 
 The Cadi (tearing his beard). Woe! alas! it is where they 
 set the sea on fire. 
 
 Sidi. Peace, Muley Othman: Allah is still above us. 
 
 Johnson. Would you mind readin it to us, capn? 
 
 Brassbound (grimly). Oh, I'll read it to you. " Mogador 
 Harbor. 26 Sept. 1899. Captain Hamlin Kearney, of the 
 cruiser Santiago, presents the compliments of the United 
 States to the Cadi Muley Othman el Kintafi, and announces 
 that he is coming to look for the two British travellers Sir 
 Howard Hallam and Lady Cicely Waynflete, in the Cadi's 
 jurisdiction. As the search will be conducted with machine 
 guns, the prompt return of the travellers to Mogador Harbor 
 will save much trouble to all parties." 
 
 The Cadi. As I live, O Cadi, and thou, moon of loveli- 
 ness, ye shall be led back to Mogador with honor. And thou, 
 accursed Brassbound, shalt go thither a prisoner in chains, 
 thou and thy people. (Brassbound and his men make a move- 
 ment to defend themselves.) Seize them. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, please don't fight. (Brassbound, seeing 
 that his men are hopelessly outnumbered, makes no resistance. 
 They are made prisoners by the Cadis followers.) 
 
 Sidi (attempting to draw his scimitar) . The woman is mine : 
 I will not forego her. (He is seized and overpowered after a 
 Homeric struggle.) 
 
 Sir Howard (drily). I told you you were not in a strong 
 position, Captain Brassbound. (Looking implacably at him) 
 You are laid by the heels, my friend, as I said you would be. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But I assure you 
 
 Brassbound (interrupting her). What have you to assure 
 him of? You persuaded me to spare him. Look at his face. 
 Will you be able to persuade him to spare me? 
 
 end of act II. 
 
ACT III 
 
 Torrid forenoon filtered through small Moorish windows 
 high up in the adobe walls of the largest room in Leslie Rankin's 
 house. A clean cool room, with the table (a Christian article) 
 set in the middle, a presidentially elbowed chair behind it, and 
 an inkstand and paper ready for the sitter. A couple of cheap 
 American chairs right and left of the table, facing the same way 
 as the presidential chair, give a judicial aspect to the arrange- 
 ment. Rankin is placing a little tray with a pig and some 
 glasses near the inkstand when Lady Cicely's voice is heard at 
 the door, which is behind him in the corner to his right. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Good morning. May I come in? 
 
 Rankin. Certainly. (She comes in to the nearest end of 
 the table. She has discarded all travelling equipment, and is 
 dressed exactly as she might be in Surrey on a very hot day.) 
 Sit ye doon, Leddy Ceecily. 
 
 Lady Cicely (sitting down). How nice you've made the 
 room for the inquiry! 
 
 Rankin (doubtfully). I could wish there were more chairs. 
 Yon American captain will preside in this; and that leaves 
 but one for Sir Howrrd and one for your leddy ship. I could 
 almost be tempted to call it a maircy that your friend that owns 
 the yacht has sprained his ankle and cannot come. I mis- 
 doubt me it will not look judeecial to have Captain Kearney's 
 officers squatting on the floor. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, they won't mind. What about the 
 prisoners ? 
 
 Rankin. They are to be broat here from the town gaol 
 presently. 
 
 Lady Cicely. And where is that silly old Cadi, and my 
 handsome Sheikh Sidi? I must see them before the inquiry, 
 
 266 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 267 
 
 or they'll give Captain Kearney quite a false impression of 
 what happened. 
 
 Rankin. But ye cannot see them. They decamped last 
 night, back to their castles in the Atlas. 
 
 Lady Cicely {delighted). No! 
 
 Rankin. Indeed and they did. The poor Cadi is so 
 tarrified by all he has haird of the destruction of the Spanish 
 fleet, that he daren't trust himself in the captain's hands. 
 (Looking reproachfully at her) On your journey back here, 
 ye seem to have frightened the poor man yourself, Leddy 
 Ceecily, by talking to him about the fanatical Chreestianity of 
 the Americans. Ye have largely yourself to thank if he's gone. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Allah be praised! W h a t a weight off our 
 minds, Mr. Rankin! 
 
 Rankin (puzzled). And why? Do ye not understand 
 how necessary their evidence is? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Their evidence! It would spoil every- 
 thing. They would perjure themselves out of pure spite 
 against poor Captain Brassbound. 
 
 Rankin (amazed). Do ye call him poor Captain Brass- 
 bound! Does not .your leddyship know that this Brassbound 
 is — Heaven forgive me for judging him! — a precious scoun- 
 drel ? Did ye not hear what Sir Howrrd told me on the yacht 
 last night ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. All a mistake, Mr. Rankin: all a mistake, 
 I assure you. You said just now, Heaven forgive you for 
 judging him! Well, that's just what the whole quarrel is 
 about. Captain Brassbound is just like you: he thinks we 
 have no right to judge one another; and as Sir Howard gets 
 £5,000 a year for doing nothing else but judging people, he 
 thinks poor Captain Brassbound a regular Anarchist. They 
 quarreled dreadfully at the castle. You mustn't mind what 
 Sir Howard says about him : you really mustn't. 
 
 Rankin. But his conduct 
 
 Lady Cicely. Perfectly saintly, Mr. Rankin. Worthy of 
 yourself in your best moments. He forgave Sir Howard, 
 and did all he could to save him. 
 
268 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 Rankin. Ye astoanish me, Leddy Ceecily. 
 
 Lady Cicely. And think of the temptation to behave 
 badly when he ha*d us all there helpless ! 
 
 Rankin. The temptation! ay: that's true. Ye're ower 
 bonny to be cast away among a parcel o lone, lawless men, 
 my leddy. 
 
 Lady Cicely {naively). Bless me, that's quite true; and I 
 never thought of it! Oh, after that you really must do all 
 you can to help Captain Brassbound. 
 
 Rankin (reservedly). No: I cannot say that, Leddy 
 Ceecily. I doubt he has imposed on your good nature and 
 sweet disposeetion. I had a crack with the Cadi as well as 
 with Sir Howrrd; and there is little question in my mind but 
 that Captain Brassbound is no better than a breegand. 
 
 Lady Cicely (apparently deeply impressed). I wonder 
 whether he can be, Mr. Rankin. If you think so, that's 
 heavily against him in my opinion, because you have more 
 knowledge of men than anyone else here. Perhaps I'm mis- 
 taken. I only thought you might like to help him as the son 
 of your old friend. 
 
 Rankin (startled). The son of my old friend! What 
 d'ye mean? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh! Didn't Sir Howard tell you that? 
 Why, Captain Brassbound turns out to be Sir Howard's 
 nephew, the son of the brother you knew. 
 
 Rankin (overwhelmed). I saw the likeness the night he 
 came here! It's true: it's true. Uncle and nephew! 
 
 Lady Cicely. Yes: that's why they quarrelled so. 
 
 Rankin (with a momentary sense of ill usage). I think 
 Sir Howrrd might have told me that. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Of course he ought to have told you. 
 You see he only tells one side of the story. That comes 
 from his training as a barrister. You mustn't think he's 
 naturally deceitful: if he'd been brought up as a clergyman, 
 he'd have told you the whole truth as a matter of course. 
 
 Rankin (too much perturbed to dwell on his grievance). 
 Leddy Ceecily: I must go to the prison and see the lad. He 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 269 
 
 may have been a bit wild; but I can't leave poor Miles 's son 
 unbefriended in a foreign gaol. 
 
 Lady Cicely (rising, radiant). Oh, how good of you! 
 You have a real kind heart of gold, Mr. Rankin. Now, be- 
 fore you go, shall we just put our heads together, and con- 
 sider how to give Miles 's son every chance — I mean of course 
 every chance that he ought to have. 
 
 Rankin (rather addled). I am so confused by this astoan- 
 ishing news 
 
 Lady Cicely. Yes, yes: of course you are. But don't 
 you think he would make a better impression on the American 
 captain if he were a little more respectably dressed ? 
 
 Rankin. Mebbe. But how can that be remedied here in*> 
 Mogador ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, I've thought of that. You know I'm 
 going back to England by way of Rome, Mr. Rankin; and 
 I'm bringing a portmanteau full of clothes for my brother 
 there : he's ambassador, you know, and has to be very 
 particular as to what he wears. I had the portmanteau 
 brought here this morning. Now would you mind taking 
 it to the prison, and smartening up Captain Brassbound a 
 little. Tell him he ought to do it to shew his respect for 
 me; and he will. It will be quite easy: there are two Kroo- 
 boys waiting to carry the portmanteau. You will: I know 
 you will. (She edges him to the door.) And do you think 
 there is time to get him shaved? 
 
 Rankin (succumbing, half bewildered). I'll do my best. 
 
 Lady Cicely. I know you will. (As he is going out) 
 Oh! one word, Mr. Rankin. (He comes back.) The Cadi 
 didn't know that Captain Brassbound was Sir Howard's 
 nephew, did he ? 
 
 Rankin. No. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Then he must have misunderstood every- 
 thing quite dreadfully. I'm afraid, Mr. Rankin — though 
 you know best, of course — that we are bound not to repeat 
 anything at the inquiry that the Cadi said. He didn't know, 
 you see. 
 
270 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act ni 
 
 Rankin (cannily). I take your point, Leddy Ceecily. It 
 alters the case. I shall certainly make no allusion to it. 
 
 Lady Cicely {magnanimously). Well, then, I won't either. 
 There! 
 
 They shake hands on it. Sir Howard comes in. 
 
 Sir Howard. Good morning, Mr. Rankin. I hope you 
 got home safely from the yacht last night. 
 
 Rankin. Quite safe, thank ye, Sir Howrrd. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Howard, he's in a hurry. Don't make 
 him stop to talk. 
 
 Sir Howard. Very good, very good. (He comes to the 
 table and takes Lady Cicely's chair.) 
 
 Rankin. Oo revoir, Leddy Ceecily. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Bless you, Mr. Rankin. (Rankin goes out. 
 She comes to the other end of the table, looking at Sir Howard 
 with a troubled, sorrowfully sympathetic air, bid unconsciously 
 making her right hand stalk about the table on the tips of its 
 fingers in a tentative stealthy way which would put Sir Howard 
 on his guard if he were in a suspicious frame of mind, which, 
 as it happens, he is not.) I'm so sorry for you, Howard, 
 about this unfortunate inquiry. 
 
 Sir Howard (swinging round on his chair, astonished). 
 Sorry for m e ! Why ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. It will look so dreadful. Your own 
 nephew, you know. 
 
 Sir Howard. Cicely: an English judge has no nephews, 
 no sons even, whenJbe has to carry out the law. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But then he oughtn't to have any property 
 either. People will never understand about the West Indian 
 Estate. They'll think you're the wicked uncle out of the 
 Babes in the Wood. (With a fresh gush of compassion) I'm 
 so s o sorry for you. 
 
 Sir Howard (rather stiffly). I really do not see how I 
 need your commiseration, Cicely. The woman was an im- 
 possible person, half mad, half drunk. Do you understand 
 what such a creature is when she has a grievance, and imagines 
 some innocent person to be the author of it? 
 
Act ni Captain Brassbound's Conversion 271 
 
 Lady Cicely {with a touch of impatience). Oh, quite. 
 That'll be made clear enough. I can see it all in the pa- 
 pers already: our half mad, half drunk sister-in-law, making 
 scenes with you in the street, with the police called in, and 
 prison and all the rest of it. The family will be furious. 
 (Sir Howard quails. She instantly follows up her advantage 
 with) Think of papa! 
 
 Sir Howard. I shall expect Lord Waynflete to look at 
 the matter as a reasonable man. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Do you think he's so greatly changed as 
 that, Howard? 
 
 Sir Howard (falling back on the fatalism of the deperson- 
 alized public man). My dear Cicely : there is no use discussing 
 the matter. It cannot be helped, however disagreeable it 
 may be. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Of course not. That's what's so dreadful. 
 Do you think people will understand? 
 
 Sir Howard. I really cannot say. Whether they do or 
 not, / cannot help it. 
 
 Lady Cicely. If you were anybody but a judge, it 
 wouldn't matter so much. But a judge mustn't even be 
 misunderstood. (Despairingly) Oh, it's dreadful, Howard: 
 it's terrible! What would poor Mary say if she were alive 
 now? 
 
 Sir Howard (with emotion). I don't think, Cicely, that 
 my dear wife would misunderstand me. 
 
 Lady Cicely. No: she'd know you mean well. And 
 when you came home and said, "Mary: I've just told all 
 the world that your sister-in-law was a police court criminal, 
 and that I sent her to prison; and your nephew is a brigand, 
 and I'm sending h i m to prison," she'd have thought it 
 must be all right because you did it. But you don't think she 
 would have liked it, any more than papa and the rest of 
 us, do you ? 
 
 Sir Howard (appalled). But what am I to do? Do you 
 ask me to compound a felony ? 
 
 Lady Cicely (sternly). Certainly not. I would not allow 
 
272 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 such a thing, even if you were wicked enough to attempt 
 it. No. What I say is, that you ought not to tell the story 
 yourself. 
 
 Sir Howard. Why? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Because everybody would say you are such 
 a clever lawyer you could make a poor simple sailor like 
 Captain Kearney believe anything. The proper thing for 
 you to do, Howard, is to let m e tell the exact truth. Then 
 you can simply say that you are bound to confirm me. No- 
 body can blame you for that. 
 
 Sir Howard (looking suspiciously at her). Cicely: you are 
 up to some devilment. 
 
 Lady Cicely (promptly washing her hands of his interests). 
 Oh, very well. Tell the story yourself, in your own clever 
 way. I only proposed to tell the exact truth. You call that 
 devilment. So it is, I daresay, from a lawyer's point of view. 
 
 Sir Howard. I hope you're not offended. 
 
 Lady Cicely (with the utmost goodhumor). My dear 
 Howard, not a bit. Of course you're right: you know how 
 these things ought to be done. I'll do exactly what you tell 
 me, and confirm everything you say. 
 
 Sir Howard (alarmed by the completeness of his victory). 
 Oh, my dear, you mustn't act in m y interest. You must 
 give your evidence with absolute impartiality. (She nods, 
 as if thoroughly impressed and reproved, and gazes at him with 
 the steadfast candor peculiar to liars who read novels. His 
 eyes turn to the ground; and his brow clouds perplexedly. He 
 rises; rubs his chin nervously with his forefinger; and adds) 
 I think, perhaps, on reflection, that there is something to be 
 said for your proposal to relieve me of the very painful duty 
 of telling what has occurred. 
 
 Lady Cicely (holding off). But you'd do it so very much 
 better. 
 
 Sir Howard. For that very reason, perhaps, it had better 
 come from you. 
 
 Lady Cicely (reluctantly). Well, if you'd rather. 
 
 Sir Howard. But mind, Cicely, the exact truth. 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 273 
 
 Lady Cicely (with conviction). The exact truth. (They 
 shake hands on it.) 
 
 Sir Howard (holding her hand). Fiat justitia: ruat 
 ccelum! 
 
 Lady Cicely. Let Justice be done, though the ceiling 
 fall. 
 
 An American bluejacket appears at the door. 
 
 Bluejacket. Captain Kearney's cawmpliments to Lady 
 Waynflete; and may he come in? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Yes. By all means. Where are the 
 prisoners ? 
 
 Bluejacket. Party gawn to the jail to fetch em, marm. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Thank you. I should like to be told when 
 they are coming, if I might. 
 
 Bluejacket. You shall so, marm. (He stands aside, 
 saluting, to admit his captain, and goes out.) 
 
 Captain Hamlin Kearney is a robustly built western Ameri- 
 can, with the keen, squeezed, wind beaten eyes and obstinately 
 enduring mouth of his profession. A curious ethnological spec- 
 imen, with all the nations of the old world at war in his veins, 
 he is developing artificially in the direction of sleekness and 
 culture under the restraints of an overwhelming dread of Euro- 
 pean criticism, and climatically in the direction of the indigenous 
 North American, who is already in possession of his hair, his 
 cheekbones, and the manlier instincts in him which the sea has 
 rescued from civilization. The world, pondering on the great 
 part of its own future which is in his hands, contemplates him 
 with wonder as to what the devil he will evolve into in another 
 century or two. Meanwhile he presents himself to Lady 
 Cicely as a blunt sailor who has something to say to her con- 
 cerning her conduct which he wishes to put politely, as becomes 
 an officer addressing a lady, but also with an emphatically 
 implied rebuke, as an American addressing an English person 
 who has taken a liberty. 
 
 Lady Cicely (as he enters). So glad you've come, Captain 
 Kearney. 
 
 Kearney (coming between Sir Howard and Lady Cicely). 
 
274 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 When we parted yesterday ahfternoon, Lady Waynflete, I 
 was unaware that in the course of your visit to my ship you 
 had entirely altered the sleeping arrangements of my stokers. 
 I thahnk you. As captain of the ship, I am customairily 
 cawnsulted before the orders of English visitors are carried 
 out; but as your alterations appear to cawndooce to the com- 
 fort of the men, I have not interfered with them. 
 
 Lady Cicely. How clever of you to find out! I believe 
 you know every bolt in that ship. 
 
 Kearney softens perceptibly. 
 
 Sir Howard. I am really very sorry that my sister-in-law 
 has taken so serious a liberty, Captain Kearney. It is a mania 
 of hers — simply a mania. Why did your men pay any atten- 
 tion to her? 
 
 Kearney {with gravely dissembled humor). Well, I ahsked 
 that question too. I said, Why did you obey that lady's 
 orders instead of waiting for mine? They said they didn't 
 see exactly how they could refuse. I ahsked whether they 
 cawnsidered that discipline. They said, Well, sir, will you 
 talk to the lady yourself next time ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. I'm so sorry. But you know, Captain, the 
 one thing that one misses on board a man-of-war is a woman. 
 
 Kearney. We often feel that deprivation verry keenly, 
 Lady Waynflete. 
 
 Lady Cicely. My uncle is first Lord of the Admiralty; 
 and I am always telling him what a scandal it is that an Eng- 
 lish captain should be forbidden to take his wife on board to 
 look after the ship. 
 
 Kearney. Stranger still, Lady Waynflete, he is not for- 
 bidden to take any other lady. Yours is an extraordinary 
 country — to an Amerrican. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But it's most serious, Captain. The poor 
 men go melancholy mad, and ram each other's ships and 
 do all sorts of things. 
 
 Sir Howard. Cicely: I beg you will not talk nonsense 
 to Captain Kearney. Your ideas on some subjects are really 
 hardly decorous. 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 275 
 
 Lady Cicely (to Kearney). That's what English people 
 are like, Captain Kearney. They won't hear of anything 
 concerning you poor sailors except Nelson and Trafalgar. 
 You understand me, don't you ? 
 
 Kearney (gallantly). I cawnsider that you have more 
 sense in your wedding ring finger than the British Ahdmiralty 
 has in its whole cawnstitootion, Lady Waynflete. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Of course I have. Sailors always under- 
 stand things. 
 
 The bluejacket reappears. 
 
 Bluejacket (to Lady Cicely). Prisoners coming up the 
 hill, marm. 
 
 Kearney (turning sharply on him). Who sent you in to 
 say that? 
 
 Bluejacket (calmly). British lady's orders, sir. (He 
 goes out, unruffled, leaving Kearney dumbfounded.) 
 
 Sir Howard (contemplating Kearney's expression with 
 dismay). I am really very sorry, Captain Kearney. I am 
 quite aware that Lady Cicely has no right whatever to give 
 orders to your men. 
 
 Lady Cicely. I didn't give orders: I just asked him. 
 He has such a nice face! Don't you think so, Captain 
 Kearney? (He gasps, speechless.) And now will you excuse 
 me a moment. I want to speak to somebody before the 
 inquiry begins. (She hurries out.) 
 
 Kearney. There is sertnly a wonderful chahm about the 
 British aristocracy, Sir Howard Hallam. Are they all like 
 that? (He takes the presidential chair.) 
 
 Sir Howard (resuming his seat on Kearney's right). 
 Fortunately not, Captain Kearney. Half a dozen such 
 women would make an end of law in England in six 
 months. 
 
 The bluejacket comes to the door again. 
 
 Bluejacket. All ready, sir. 
 
 Kearney. Verry good. I'm. waiting. 
 
 The bluejacket turns and intimates this to those without. 
 The officers of the Santiago enter. 
 
276 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 Sir Howard (rising and bobbing to them in a judicial man- 
 ner). Good morning, gentlemen. 
 
 They acknowledge the greeting rather shyly, bowing or 
 touching their caps, and stand in a group behind Kearney. 
 
 Kearney (to Sir Howard). You will be glahd to hear 
 that I have a verry good account of one of our prisoners from 
 our chahplain, who visited them in the gaol. He has ex- 
 pressed a wish to be cawn verted to Episcopalianism. 
 
 Sir Howard (drily). Yes, I think I know him. 
 
 Kearney. Bring in the prisoners. 
 
 Bluejacket (at the door). They are engaged with the 
 British lady, sir. Shall I ask her 
 
 Kearney (jumping up and exploding in storm piercing 
 tones). Bring in the prisoners. Tell the lady those are my 
 orders. Do you hear? Tell her so. (The bluejacket goes 
 out dubiously. The officers look at one another in mute com- 
 ment on the unaccountable pepperiness of their commander.) 
 
 Sir Howard (suavely). Mr. Rankin will be present, I 
 presume. 
 
 Kearney (angrily). Rahnkin! Who is Rahnkin? 
 
 Sir Howard. Our host the missionary. 
 
 Kearney (subsiding unwillingly). Oh! Rahnkin, is he? 
 He'd better look sharp or he'll be late. (Again exploding.) 
 What are they doing with those prisoners ? 
 
 Rankin hurries in, and takes his place near Sir Howard. 
 
 Sir Howard. This is Mr. Rankin, Captain Kearney. 
 
 Rankin. Excuse my delay, Captain Kearney. The leddy 
 sent me on an errand. (Kearney grunts.) I thoaght I should 
 be late. But the first thing I heard when I arrived was your 
 officer giving your compliments to Leddy Ceecily, and would 
 she kindly allow the prisoners to come in, as you were anxious 
 to see her again. Then I knew I was in time. 
 
 Kearney. Oh, that was it, was it? May I ask, sir, did 
 you notice any sign on Lady Waynflete's part of cawmplying 
 with that verry moderate request? 
 
 Lady Cicely (outside). Coming, coming. 
 
 The prisoners are brought in by a guard of armed bluejackets. 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 277 
 
 Drinkwater -first, again elaborately clean, and conveying by a 
 virtuous and steadfast smirk a cheerful confidence in his inno- 
 cence. Johnson solid and inexpressive, Redbrook unconcerned 
 and debonair, Marzo uneasy. These four form a little group to- 
 gether on the captain's left. The rest wait unintelligently on 
 Providence in a row against the wall on the same side, shep- 
 herded by the bluejackets. The first bluejacket, a petty officer, 
 posts himself on the captain's right, behind Rankin and Sir 
 Howard. Finally Brassbound appears with Lady Cicely on 
 his arm. He is in fashionable frock coat and trousers, spotless 
 collar and cuffs, and elegant boots. He carries a glossy tall 
 hat in his hand. To an unsophisticated eye, the change is 
 monstrous and appalling; and its effect on himself is so un- 
 manning that he is quite out of countenance — a shaven Samson. 
 Lady Cicely, however, is greatly pleased with it; and the rest 
 regard it as an unquestionable improvement. The officers fall 
 back gallantly to allow her to pass. Kearney rises to receive her, 
 and stares with some surprise at Brassbound as she stops at 
 the table on his left. Sir Howard rises punctiliously when 
 Kearney rises and sits when he sits. 
 
 Kearney. Is this another gentleman of your party, Lady 
 Waynflete? I presume I met you lahst night, sir, on board 
 the yacht. 
 
 Brassbound. No. I am your prisoner. My name is 
 Brassbound. 
 
 Drinkwater (officiously). Kepn Brarsbahnd, of the 
 schooner Thenksgiv 
 
 Redbrook (hastily). Shut up, you fool. (He elbows 
 Drinkwater into the background.) 
 
 Kearney (surprised and rather suspicious). Well, I hardly 
 understahnd this. However, if you are Captain Brassbound, 
 you can take your place with the rest. (Brassbound joins 
 Redbrook and Johnson. Kearney sits down again, after in- 
 viting Lady Cicely, with a solemn gesture, to take the vacant 
 chair.) Now let me see. You are a man of experience in these 
 matters, Sir Howard Hallam. If you had to conduct this 
 business, how would vou start? 
 
278 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 Lady Cicely. He'd call on the counsel for the prosecu- 
 tion, wouldn't you, Howard? 
 
 Sir Howard. But there is no counsel for the prosecution, 
 Cicely. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh yes there is. I'm counsel for the 
 prosecution. You mustn't let Sir Howard make a speech, 
 Captain Kearney: his doctors have positively forbidden any- 
 thing of that sort. Will you begin with me ? 
 
 Kearney. By your leave, Lady Waynflete, I think I will 
 just begin with myself. Sailor fashion will do as well here as 
 lawyer fashion. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Ever so much better, dear Captain 
 Kearney. (Silence. Kearney composes himself to speak. She 
 breaks out again) You look so nice as a judge! 
 
 A general smile. Drinkwater splutters into a half sup- 
 pressed laugh. 
 
 Redbrook (in a fierce whisper). Shut up, you fool, will 
 you ? (Again he pushes him back with a furtive kick.) 
 
 Sir Howard (remonstrating). Cicely! 
 
 Kearney (grimly keeping his countenance). Your lady- 
 ship's cawmpliments will be in order at a later stage. Captain 
 Brassbound: the position is this. My ship, the United States 
 cruiser Santiago, was spoken off Mogador lahst Thursday by 
 the yacht Redgauntlet. The owner of the aforesaid yacht, 
 who is not present through having sprained his ahnkle, gave 
 me sertn information. In cawnsequence of that information 
 the Santiago made the twenty knots to Mogador Harbor inside 
 of fifty-seven minutes. Before noon next day a messenger of 
 mine gave the Cadi of the district sertn information. In 
 cawnsequence of that information the Cadi stimulated him- 
 self to some ten knots an hour, and lodged you and your men 
 in Mogador jail at my disposal. The Cadi then went back 
 to his mountain f ahstnesses ; so we shall not have the pleasure 
 of his company here to-day. Do you follow me so far? 
 
 Brassbound. Yes. I know what you did and what the 
 Cadi did. The point is, why did you do it? 
 
 Kearney. With doo patience we shall come to that 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 279 
 
 presently. Mr. Rahnkin: will you kindly take up the par- 
 able? 
 
 Rankin. On the very day that Sir Howrrd and Lady 
 Cicely started on their excursion I was applied to for medi- 
 cine by a follower of the Sheikh Sidi el Assif . He told me I 
 should never see Sir Howrrd again, because his master knew 
 he was a Christian and would take him out of the hands of 
 Captain Brassbound. I hurried on board the yacht and told 
 the owner to scour the coast for a gunboat or cruiser to come 
 into the harbor and put persuasion on the authorities. (Sir 
 Howard turns and looks at Rankin with a sudden doubt of his 
 integrity as a witness.) 
 
 Kearney. But I understood from our chahplain that you 
 reported Captain Brassbound as in league with the Sheikh 
 to deliver Sir Howard up to him. 
 
 Rankin. That was my first hasty conclusion, Captain 
 Kearney. But it appears that the compact between them 
 was that Captain Brassbound should escort travellers under 
 the Sheikh's protection at a certain payment per head, pro- 
 vided none of them were Christians. As I understand it, 
 he tried to smuggle Sir Howrrd through under this com- 
 pact, and the Sheikh found him out. 
 
 Drinkwater. Rawt, gavner. Thet's jestahitwors. The 
 Kepn 
 
 Redbrook (again suppressing him). Shut up, you fool, I 
 tell you. 
 
 Sir Howard (to Rankin). May I ask have you had any 
 conversation with Lady Cicely on this subject? 
 
 Rankin (naively). Yes. (Sir Howard grunts emphati- 
 cally, as who should say "I thought so." Rankin continues, 
 addressing the court) May I say how sorry I am that there 
 are so few chairs, Captain and gentlemen. 
 
 Kearney (with genial American courtesy). Oh, that's 
 all right, Mr. Rahnkin. Well, I see no harm so far : it's human 
 fa wily, but not human crime. Now the counsel for the prose- 
 cution can proceed to prosecute. The floor is yours, Lady 
 Waynflete. 
 
280 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 Lady Cicely (rising). I can only tell you the exact 
 truth 
 
 Drinkwater (involuntarily). Naow, down't do thet, 
 lidy 
 
 Redbrook (as before). Shut up, you fool, will you? 
 
 Lady Cicely. We had a most delightful trip in the hills; 
 and Captain Brassbound's men could not have been nicer — 
 I must say that for them — until we saw a tribe of Arabs — 
 such nice looking men! — and then the poor things were 
 frightened. 
 
 Kearney. The Arabs? 
 
 Lady Cicely. No : Arabs are never frightened. The es- 
 cort, of course: escorts are always frightened. I wanted to 
 speak to the Arab chief; but Captain Brassbound cruelly 
 shot his horse; and the chief shot the Count; and then 
 
 Kearney. The Count! What Count? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Marzo. That's Marzo (pointing to Marzo, 
 ivho grins and touches his forehead). 
 
 Kearney (slightly overwhelmed by the unexpected profu- 
 sion of incident and character in her story). Well, what hap- 
 pened then? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Then the escort ran away — all escorts 
 do — and dragged me into the castle, which you really ought 
 to make them clean and whitewash thoroughly, Captain 
 Kearney. Then Captain Brassbound and Sir Howard 
 turned out to be related to one another (sensation)', and 
 then of course, there was a quarrel. The Hallams always 
 quarrel. 
 
 Sir Howard (rising to protest). Cicely! Captain Kearney: 
 this man told me 
 
 Lady Cicely (swiftly interrupting him). You mustn't say 
 what people told you : it's not evidence. (Sir Howard chokes 
 with indignation.) 
 
 Kearney (calmly) . Allow the lady to pro-ceed, Sir Howard 
 Hallam. 
 
 Sir Howard (recovering his self-control with a gulp, and 
 resuming his seat) . I beg your pardon, Captain Kearney. 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 281 
 
 Lady Cicely. Then Sidi came. 
 
 Kearney. Sidney! Who was Sidney? 
 
 Lady Cicely. No, Sidi. The Sheikh. Sidi el Assif. A 
 noble creature, with such a fine face! He fell in love with 
 me at first sight 
 
 Sir Howard (remonstrating). Cicely! 
 
 Lady Cicely. He did: you know he did. You told me 
 to tell the exact truth. 
 
 Kearney. I can readily believe it, madam. Proceed. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Well, that put the poor fellow into a most 
 cruel dilemma. You see, he could claim to carry off Sir 
 Howard, because Sir Howard is a Christian. But as I am 
 only a woman, he had no claim to me. 
 
 Kearney (somewhat sternly, suspecting Lady Cicely of 
 aristocratic atheism). But you are a Christian woman. 
 
 Lady Cicely. No: the Arabs don't count women. They 
 don't believe we have any souls. 
 
 Rankin. That is true, Captain: the poor benighted 
 creatures ! 
 
 Lady Cicely. Well, what was he to do? He wasn't in 
 love with Sir Howard; and he w a s in love with me. So he 
 naturally offered to swop Sir Howard for me. Don't you 
 think that was nice of him, Captain Kearney? 
 
 Kearney. I should have done the same myself, Lady 
 Waynflete. Proceed. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Captain Brassbound, I must say, was 
 nobleness itself, in spite of the quarrel between himself and 
 Sir Howard. He refused to give up either of us, and was on 
 the point of fighting for us when in came the Cadi with your 
 most amusing and delightful letter, captain, and bundled us 
 all back to Mogador after calling my poor Sidi the most 
 dreadful names, and putting all the blame on Captain Brass- 
 bound. So here we are. Now, Howard, isn't that the exact 
 truth, every word of it? 
 
 Sir Howard. It is the truth, Cicely, and nothing but the 
 truth. But the English law requires a witness to tell the 
 whole truth. 
 
282 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 Lady Cicely. What nonsense ! As if anybody ever knew 
 the whole truth about anything! (Sitting down, much hurt 
 and discouraged.) I'm sorry you wish Captain Kearney to 
 understand that I am an untruthful witness. 
 
 Sir Howard. No: but 
 
 Lady Cicely. Very well, then: please don't say things 
 that convey that impression. 
 
 Kearney. But Sir Howard told me yesterday that Cap- 
 tain Brassbound threatened to sell him into slavery. 
 
 Lady Cicely (springing up again). Did Sir Howard tell 
 you the things he said about Captain Brassbound's mother? 
 (Renewed sensation.) I told you they quarrelled, Captain 
 Kearney. I said so, didn't I? 
 
 Redbrook (crisply). Distinctly. (Drinkwater opens his 
 mouth to corroborate.) Shut up, you fool. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Of course I did. Now, Captain Kearney, 
 do y o u want me — does Sir Howard want me — does any- 
 body want me to go into the details of that shocking 
 family quarrel ? Am I to stand here in the absence of any 
 individual of my own sex and repeat the language of two 
 angry men ? 
 
 Kearney (rising impressively). The United States navy 
 will have no hahnd in offering any violence to the pure in- 
 stincts of womanhood. Lady Waynflete: I thahnk you for 
 the delicacy with which you have given your evidence. (Lady 
 Cicely beams on him gratefully and sits down triumphant.) 
 Captain Brassbound: I shall not hold you respawnsible for 
 what you may have said when the English bench addressed 
 you in the language of the English forecastle — (Sir Howard 
 is about to protest.) No, Sir Howard Hallam : excuse m e. 
 In moments of pahssion I have called a man that myself. 
 We are glahd to find real flesh and blood beneath the ermine 
 of the judge. We will all now drop a subject that should 
 never have been broached in a lady's presence. (He resumes 
 his seat, and adds, in a businesslike tone) Is there anything 
 further before we release these men? 
 
 Bluejacket. There are some dawcuments handed over 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 283 
 
 by the Cadi, sir. He reckoned they were sort of magic spells. 
 The chahplain ordered them to be reported to you and burnt, 
 with your leave, sir. 
 
 Kearney. What are they? 
 
 Bluejacket (reading from a list). Four books, torn and 
 dirty, made up of separate numbers, value each wawn penny, 
 and entitled Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber of London; 
 The Skeleton Horseman 
 
 Drinkwater (rushing forward in painful alarm and anx- 
 iety). It's maw lawbrary, gavner. Down't burn em. 
 
 Kearney. You'll be better without that sort of reading, 
 my man. 
 
 Drinkwater (in intense distress, appealing to Lady Cicely). 
 Down't let em burn em, lidy. They dassen't if you horder em 
 not to. (With desperate eloquence) Yer dunno wot them 
 books is to me. They took me aht of the sawdid reeyellities 
 of the Worterleoo Rowd. They formed maw mawnd: they 
 shaowed me sathink awgher than the squalor of a corster's 
 lawf- 
 
 Redbrook (collaring him). Oh shut up, you fool. Get 
 out. Hold your ton 
 
 Drinkwater (frantically breaking from him). Lidy, lidy: 
 sy a word for me. Ev a feelin awt. (His tears chohe him: 
 he clasps his hands in dumb entreaty.) 
 
 Lady Cicely (touched). Don't burn his books, Captain. 
 Let me give them back to him. 
 
 Kearney. The books will be handed over to the lady. 
 
 Drinkwater (in a small voice). Thenkyer, lidy. (He 
 retires among his comrades, snivelling subduedly.) 
 
 Redbrook (aside to him as he passes). You silly ass, you. 
 (Drinkwater sniffs and does not reply.) 
 
 Kearney. I suppose you and your men accept this lady's 
 account of what passed, Captain Brassbound. 
 
 Brassbound (gloomily). Yes. It is true — as far as it goes. 
 
 Kearney (impatiently) . Do you wawnt it to go any further ? 
 
 Marzo. She leave out something. Arab shoot me. She 
 nurse me. She cure me. 
 
284 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 Kearney. And who are you, pray? 
 
 Marzo (seized with a sanctimonious desire to demonstrate 
 his higher nature). Only dam thief . Dam liar. Dam rascal. 
 She no lady. 
 
 Johnson (revolted by the seeming insult to the English 
 peerage from a low Italian). What? What's that you say? 
 
 Marzo. No lady nurse dam rascal. Only saint. She 
 saint. She get me to heaven — get us all to heaven. We do 
 what we like now. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Indeed you will do nothing of the sort, 
 Marzo, unless you like to behave yourself very nicely indeed. 
 What hour did you say we were to lunch at, Captain Kearney ? 
 
 Kearney. You recall me to my dooty, Lady Waynfleet. 
 My barge will be ready to take off you and Sir Howard to the 
 Santiago at one o'clawk. (He rises.) Captain Brassbound: 
 this innquery has elicited no reason why I should detain you or 
 your men. I advise you to ahct as escort in future to heathens 
 exclusively. Mr. Rahnkin: I thahnk you in the name of the 
 United States for the hospitahlity you have extended to us to- 
 day; and I invite you to accompany me bahck to my ship 
 with a view to lunch at half -past one. Gentlemen: we will 
 wait on the governor of the gaol on our way to the harbor. 
 (He goes out, following his officers, and followed by the blue- 
 jackets and the petty officer.) 
 
 Sir Howard (to Lady Cicely). Cicely: in the course of 
 my professional career I have met with unscrupulous wit- 
 nesses, and, I am sorry to say, unscrupulous counsel also. 
 But the combination of unscrupulous witness and unscrupu- 
 lous counsel I have met to-day has taken away my breath. 
 You have made me your accomplice in defeating justice. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Yes : aren't you glad it's been defeated for 
 once? (She takes his arm to go out with him.) Captain 
 Brassbound: I will come back to say goodbye before I go. 
 (He nods gloomily. She goes out with Sir Howard, following 
 the Captain and his staff.) 
 
 Rankin (running to Brassbound and taking both his hands) . 
 I'm right glad ye're cleared. I'll come back and have a crack 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 285 
 
 with ye when yon lunch is over. God bless ye. {He goes 
 out quickly.) 
 
 Brassbound and his men, left by themselves in the room, 
 free and unobserved, go straight out of their senses. They 
 laugh; they dance; they embrace one another; they set to partners 
 and waltz clumsily; they shake hands repeatedly and maudlinly. 
 Three only retain some sort of self-possession. Marzo, proud 
 of having successfully thrust himself into a leading part in the 
 recent proceedings and made a dramatic speech, inflates his 
 chest, curls his scanty moustache, and throws himself into a 
 swaggering pose, chin up and right foot forward, despising the 
 emotional English barbarians around him. Brassbound^ 
 eyes and the working of his mouth shew that he is infected with 
 the general excitement; bid he bridles himself savagely. Red- 
 brook, trained to affect indifference, grins cynically; winks at 
 Brassbound; and finally relieves himself by assuming the 
 character of a circus ringmaster, flourishing an imaginary 
 whip and egging on the rest to wilder exertions. A climax is 
 reached when Drinkwater, let loose without a stain on his 
 character for the second time, is rapt by belief in his star into 
 an ecstasy in which, scorning all partnership, he becomes as it 
 were a whirling dervish, and executes so miracidous a clog 
 dance that the others gradually cease their slower antics to stare 
 at him. 
 
 Brassbound {tearing off his hat and striding forward as 
 Drinkwater collapses, exhausted, and is picked up by Red- 
 brook). Now to get rid of this respectable clobber and feel 
 like a man again. Stand by, all hands, to jump on the cap- 
 tain's tall hat. {He puts the hat down and prepares to jump 
 on it. The effect is startling, and takes him completely aback. 
 His followers, far from appreciating his iconoclasm, are 
 shocked into scandalized sobriety, except Redbrook, who is in- 
 tensely tickled by their prudery.) 
 
 Drinkwater. Naow, look eah, kepn: that ynt rawt. 
 Dror a lawn somewhere. 
 
 Johnson. I say nothin agen a bit of fun, Capn; but let's 
 be gentlemen. 
 
286 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 Redbrook. I suggest to you, Brassbound, that the clobber 
 belongs to Lady Sis. Ain't you going to give it back to her? 
 
 Brassbound (picking up the hat and brushing the dust off 
 it anxiously). That's true. I'm a fool. All the same, she 
 shall not see me again like this. (He pulls off the coat and 
 waistcoat together.) Does any man here know how to fold 
 up this sort of thing properly? 
 
 Redbrook. Allow me, governor. (He takes the coat and 
 waistcoat to the table, and folds them up.) 
 
 Brassbound (loosening his collar and the front of his shirt). 
 Brandyfaced Jack: you're looking at these studs. I know 
 what's in your mind. 
 
 Drinkwater (indignantly). Naow yer down't: nort a bit 
 on it. Wot's in maw mawnd is secrifawce, seolf-secrifawce. 
 
 Brassbound. If one brass pin of that lady's property is 
 missing, I'll hang you with my own hands at the gaff of 
 the Thanksgiving — and would, if she were lying under the 
 guns of all the fleets in Europe. (He pulls off the shirt and 
 stands in his blue jersey, with his hair ruffled. He passes his 
 hand, through it and, exclaims) Now I am half a man, at 
 any rate. 
 
 Redbrook. A horrible combination, governor: church- 
 warden from the waist down, and the rest pirate. Lady Sis 
 won't speak to you in it. 
 
 Brassbound. I'll change altogether. (He leaves the room 
 to get his own troupers.) 
 
 Redbrook (softly). Look here, Johnson, and gents gen- 
 erally. (They gather about him.) Spose she takes him back 
 to England! 
 
 Marzo (trying to repeat his success). Im! Im only dam 
 pirate. She saint, I tell you — no take any man nowhere. 
 
 Johnson (severely). Don't you be a ignorant and immoral 
 foreigner. (The rebuke is well received; and Marzo is hustled 
 into the background and extinguished.) She won't take him 
 for harm; but she might take him for good. And then where 
 should we be ? 
 
 Drinkwater. Brarsbahnd ynt the ownly kepn in the 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound 's Conversion 287 
 
 world. Wot mikes a kepn is brines an knollidge o lawf. It 
 ynt thet ther's naow sitch pusson : it's thet you dunno where 
 to look fr im. (The implication that he is such a person is so 
 intolerable that they receive it with a prolonged burst of booing.) 
 
 Brassbound (returning in his own clothes, getting into his 
 jacket as he comes). Stand by, all. (They start asunder 
 guiltily, and wait for orders.) Redbrook: you pack that clob- 
 ber in the lady's portmanteau, and put it aboard the yacht 
 for her. Johnson: you take all hands aboard the Thanks- 
 giving; look through the stores: weigh anchor; and make all 
 ready for sea. Then send Jack to wait for me at the slip 
 with a boat; and give me a gunfire for a signal. Lose no 
 time. 
 
 Johnson. Ay, ay, sir. All aboard, mates. 
 
 All. Ay, ay. (They rush out tumultuously .) 
 
 When they are gone, Brassbound sits down at the end of 
 the table, with his elbows on it and his head on his fists, gloomily 
 thinking. Then he takes from the breast pocket of his jacket 
 a leather case, from which he extracts a scrappy packet of 
 dirty letters and newspaper cuttings. These he throws on the 
 table. Next comes a photograph in a cheap frame. He 
 throws it down untenderly beside the papers; then folds his 
 arms, and is looking at it with grim distaste when Lady Cicely 
 enters. His back is towards her; and he does not hear her. 
 Perceiving this, she shuts the door loudly enough to attract his 
 attention. He staiis up. 
 
 Lady Cicely (coming to the opposite end of the table). So 
 you've taken off all my beautiful clothes! 
 
 Brassbound. Your brother's, you mean. A man should 
 wear his own clothes; and a man should tell his own lies. 
 I'm sorry you had to tell mine for me to-day. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, women spend half their lives telling 
 little lies for men, and sometimes big ones. We're used to 
 it. But mind! I don't admit that I told any to-day. 
 
 Brassbound. How did you square my uncle? 
 
 Lady Cicely. I don't understand the expression. 
 
 Brassbound. I mean 
 
288 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 Lady Cicely. I'm afraid we haven't time to go into what 
 you mean before lunch. I want to speak to you about your 
 future. May I? 
 
 Brassbound (darkening a little, but politely). Sit down, 
 (She sits down. So does he.) 
 
 Lady Cicely. What are your plans ? 
 
 Brassbound. I have no plans. You will hear a gun fired 
 in the harbor presently. That will mean that the Thanks- 
 giving's anchor's weighed and that she is waiting for her 
 captain to put out to sea. And her captain doesn't know 
 now whether to turn her head north or south. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Why not north for England? 
 
 Brassbound. Why not south for the Pole? 
 
 Lady Cicely. But you must do something with yourself. 
 
 Brassbound (settling himself with his fists and elbows 
 weightily on the table and looking straight and powerfidly at 
 her). Look you: when you and I first met, I was a man with 
 a purpose. I stood alone : I saddled no friend, woman or man, 
 with that purpose, because it was against law, against religion, 
 against my own credit and safety. But I believed in it; and 
 I stood alone for it, as a man should stand for his belief, against 
 law and religion as much as against wickedness and selfishness. 
 Whatever I may be, I am none of your fairweather sailors 
 that'll do nothing for their creed but go to Heaven for it. I 
 was ready to go to hell for mine. Perhaps you don't under- 
 stand that. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh bless you, yes. It's so very like a cer- 
 tain sort of man. 
 
 Brassbound. I daresay; but I've not met many of that 
 sort. Anyhow, that was what I was like. I don't say I was 
 happy in it; but I wasn't unhappy, because I wasn't drifting. 
 I was steering a course and had work in hand. Give a man 
 health and a course to steer; and he'll never stop to trouble 
 about whether he's happy or not. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Sometimes he won't even stop to trouble 
 about whether other people are happy or not. 
 
 Brassbound. I don't deny that: nothing makes a man so 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 289 
 
 selfish as work. But I was not self-seeking: it seemed to me 
 that I had put justice above self. I tell you life meant some- 
 thing to me then. Do you see that dirty little bundle of 
 scraps of paper? 
 
 Lady Cicely. What are they ? 
 
 Brassbound. Accounts cut out of newspapers. Speeches 
 made by my uncle at charitable dinners, or sentencing men 
 to death — pious, highminded speeches by a man who was 
 to me a thief and a murderer! To my mind they were more 
 weighty, more momentous, better revelations of the wicked- 
 ness of law and respectability than the book of the prophet 
 Amos. What are they now? (He quietly tears the news- 
 paper cuttings into little fragments and throws them away, 
 looking fixedly at her meanwhile.) 
 
 Lady Cicely. Well, that's a comfort, at all events. 
 
 Brassbound. Yes; but it's a part of my life gone: your 
 doing, remember. What have I left? See here! (He takes 
 up the letters) the letters my uncle wrote to my mother, with 
 her comments on their cold drawn insolence, their treachery 
 and cruelty. And the piteous letters she wrote to him later on, 
 returned unopened. Must they go too ? 
 
 Lady Cicely (uneasily). I can't ask you to destroy your 
 mother's letters. 
 
 Brassbound. Why not, now that you have taken the 
 meaning out of them? (He tears them.) Is that a comfort 
 too? 
 
 Lady Cicely. It's a little sad; but perhaps it is best so. 
 
 Brassbound. That leaves one relic: her portrait. (He 
 plucks the photograph out of its cheap case.) 
 
 Lady Cicely (with vivid curiosity). Oh, let me see. (He 
 hands it to her. Before she can control herself, her expres- 
 sion changes to one of unmistakable disappointment and re- 
 pulsion.) 
 
 Brassbound (with a single sardonic cachinnation) . Ha! 
 You expected something better than that. Well, you're right. 
 Her face does not look well opposite yours. 
 
 Lady Cicely (distressed). I said nothing. 
 
290 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 Brassbound. What could you say? (He takes bach the 
 portrait: she relinquishes it without a word. He looks at it; 
 shakes his head; and takes it quietly between his finger and 
 thumb to tear it.) 
 
 Lady Cicely (staying his hand). Oh, not your mother's 
 picture! 
 
 Brassbound. If that were your picture, would you like 
 your son to keep it for younger and better women to see ? 
 
 Lady Cicely (releasing his hand). Oh, you are dreadful! 
 Tear it, tear it. (She covers her eyes for a moment to shut 
 out the sight.) 
 
 Brassbound (tearing it quietly). You killed her for me 
 that day in the castle; and I am better without her. (He 
 throws away the fragments.) Now everything is gone. You 
 have taken the old meaning out of my life; but you have put 
 no new meaning into it. I can see that you have some clue 
 to the world that makes all its difficulties easy for you; but 
 I'm not clever enough to seize it. You've lamed me by shew- 
 ing me that I take life the wrong way when I'm left to 
 myself. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh no. Why do you say that? 
 
 Brassbound. What else can I say ? See what I've done! 
 My uncle is no worse a man than myself — better, most likely; 
 for he has a better head and a higher place. Well, I took him 
 for a villain out of a storybook. My mother would have 
 opened anybody else's eyes: she shut mine. I'm a stupider 
 man than Brandyfaced Jack even; for he got his romantic 
 nonsense out of his penny numbers and such like trash; but I 
 got just the same nonsense out of life and experience. (Shak- 
 ing his head) It was vulgar — v u 1 g a r . I see that now; 
 for you've opened my eyes to the past; but what good 
 is that for the future? What am I to do? Where am I 
 to go? 
 
 Lady Cicely. It's quite simple. Do whatever you like. 
 That's what I always do. 
 
 Brassbound. That answer is no good to me. What I 
 like is to have something to do; and I have nothing. You 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 291 
 
 might as well talk like the missionary and tell me to do my 
 duty. 
 
 Lady Cicely (quiclchj). Oh no thank you. I've had quite 
 enough of your duty, and Howard's duty. Where would 
 you both be now if I'd let you do it? 
 
 Brassbound. We'd have been somewhere, at all events. 
 It seems to me that now I am nowhere. 
 
 Lady Cicely. But aren't you coming back to England 
 with us? 
 
 Brassbound. What for? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Why, to make the most of your opportunities. 
 
 Brassbound. What opportunities? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Don't you understand that when you are 
 the nephew of a great bigwig, and have influential connexions, 
 and good friends among them, lots of things can be done for 
 you that are never done for ordinary ship captains? 
 
 Brassbound. Ah; but I'm not an aristocrat, you see. 
 And like most poor men, I'm proud. I don't like being 
 patronized. 
 
 Lady Cicely. What is the use of saying that? In my 
 world, which is now your world — o u r world — getting 
 patronage is the whole art of life. A man can't have a career 
 without it. 
 
 Brassbound. In my world a man can navigate a ship 
 and get his living by it. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, I see you're one of the Idealists — 
 the Impossibilists ! We have them, too, occasionally, in our 
 world. There's only one thing to be done with them. 
 
 Brassbound. What's that ? 
 
 Lady Cicely. Marry them straight off to some girl with 
 enough money for them, and plenty of sentiment. That's 
 their fate. 
 
 Brassbound. You've spoiled even that chance for me. 
 Do you think I could look at any ordinary woman after you ? 
 You seem to be able to make me do pretty well what you like; 
 but you can't make me marry anybody but yourself. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Do you know, Captain Paquito, that I've 
 
292 Captain Brassbound's Conversion Act III 
 
 married no less than seventeen men (Brassbound stares) to 
 other women. And they all opened the subject by saying 
 that they would never many anybody but me. 
 
 Brassbound. Then I shall be the first man you ever 
 found to stand to his word. 
 
 Lady Cicely (part pleased, part amused, part sympathetic). 
 Do you really want a wife ? 
 
 Brassbound. I want a commander. Don't undervalue 
 me: I am a good man when I have a good leader. I have 
 courage: I have determination: I'm not a drinker: I can 
 command a schooner and a shore party if I can't command 
 a ship or an army. When work is put upon me, I turn neither 
 to save my life nor to fill my pocket. Gordon trusted me; 
 and he never regretted it. If you trust me, you shan't regret 
 it. All the same, there's something wanting in me: I sup- 
 pose I'm stupid. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Oh, you're not stupid. 
 
 Brassbound. Yes I am. Since you saw me for the first 
 time in that garden, you've heard me say nothing clever. 
 And I've heard you say nothing that didn't make me laugh, 
 or make me feel friendly, as well as telling me what to think 
 and what to do. That's what I mean by real cleverness. 
 Well, I haven't got it. I can give an order when I know what 
 order to give. I can make men obey it, willing or unwilling. 
 But I'm stupid, I tell you: stupid. When there's no Gordon 
 to command me, I can't think of what to do. Left to my- 
 self, I've become half a brigand. I can kick that little gutter- 
 scrub Drinkwater; but I find myself doing what he puts into 
 my head because I can't think of anything else. WTien you 
 came, I took your orders as naturally as I took Gordon's, 
 though I little thought my next commander would be a woman. 
 I want to take service under you. And there's no way in 
 which that can be done except marrying you. Will you let me 
 doit? 
 
 Lady Cicely. I'm afraid you don't quite know how odd 
 a match it would be for me according to the ideas of English 
 society. 
 
Act III Captain Brassbound's Conversion 293 
 
 Brassbound. I care nothing about English society: let it 
 mind its own business. 
 
 Lady Cicely (rising, a little alarmed). Captain Paquito: 
 I am not in love with you. 
 
 Brassbound (also rising, with his gaze still steadfastly on 
 her) . I didn't suppose you were : the commander is not usually 
 in love with his subordinate. 
 
 Lady Cicely. Nor the subordinate with the commander. 
 
 Brassbound (assenting firmly). Nor the subordinate with 
 the commander. 
 
 Lady Cicely (learning jor the first time in her life what 
 terror is, as she finds that he is unconsciously mesmerizing her). 
 Oh, you are dangerous! 
 
 Brassbound. Come: are you in love with anybody else? 
 That's the question. 
 
 Lady Cicely (shaking her head). I have never been in love 
 with any real person; and I never shall. How could I manage 
 people if I had that mad little bit of self left in me? That's 
 my secret. 
 
 Brassbound. Then throw away the last bit of self. 
 Marry me. 
 
 Lady Cicely (vainly struggling to recall her wandering 
 will). Must I? 
 
 Brassbound. There is no must. You can. I ask you 
 to. My fate depends on it. 
 
 Lady Cicely. It's frightful; for I don't mean to — don't 
 wish to. 
 
 Brassbound. But you will. 
 
 Lady Cicely (quite lost, slowly stretches out her hand 
 to give it to him). I — (Gunfire from the Thanksgiving. 
 His eyes dilate. It ivakes her from her trance) What is 
 that? 
 
 Brassbound. It is farewell. Rescue for you — safety, 
 freedom! You were made to be something better than the 
 wife of Black Paquito. (He kneels and takes her hands) You 
 can do no more for me now: I have blundered somehow on 
 the secret of command at last (he kisses her hands): thanks 
 
294 Captain BrassbouncTs Conversion Act III 
 
 for that, and for a man's power and purpose restored and 
 righted. And farewell, farewell, farewell. 
 
 Lady Cicely (in a strange ecstasy, holding his hands as he 
 rises). Oh, farewell. With my heart's deepest feeling, fare- 
 well, farewell. 
 
 Brassbound. With my heart's noblest honor and triumph, 
 farewell. (He turns and flies.) 
 
 Lady Cicely. How glorious! how glorious! And what 
 an escape! 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
NOTES TO CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S 
 CONVERSION 
 
 SOURCES OF THE PLAY 
 
 I claim as a notable merit in the authorship of this play 
 that I have been intelligent enough to steal its scenery, its 
 surroundings, its atmosphere, its geography, its knowledge 
 of the east, its fascinating Cadis and Krooboys and Sheikhs 
 and mud castles from an excellent book of philosophic travel 
 and vivid adventure entitled Mogreb-el-Acksa (Morocco the 
 Most Holy) by Cunninghame Graham. My own first hand 
 knowledge of Morocco is based on a morning's walk through 
 Tangier, and a cursory observation of the coast through a 
 binocular from the deck of an Orient steamer, both later in 
 date than the writing of the play. 
 
 Cunninghame Graham is the hero of his own book; but 
 I have not made him the hero of my play, because so in- 
 credible a personage must have destroyed its likelihood — 
 such as it is. There are moments when I do not myself 
 believe in his existence. And yet he must be real; for I have 
 seen him with these eyes; and I am one of the few men living 
 who can decipher the curious alphabet in which he writes his 
 private letters. The man is on public record too. The 
 battle of Trafalgar Square, in which he personally and bodily 
 assailed civilization as represented by the concentrated mili- 
 tary and constabular forces of the capital of the world, can 
 scarcely be forgotten by the more discreet spectators, of 
 whom I was one. On that occasion civilization, qualita- 
 tively his inferior, was quantitatively so hugely in excess of 
 him that it put him in prison, but had not sense enough to 
 
 295 
 
296 Captain Brassbound's Conversion 
 
 keep him there. Yet his getting out of prison was as nothing 
 compared to his getting into the House of Commons. How 
 he did it I know not; but the thing certainly happened, some- 
 how. That he made pregnant utterances as a legislator may 
 be taken as proved by the keen philosophy of the travels 
 and tales he has since tossed to us; but the House, strong in 
 stupidity, did not understand him until in an inspired mo- 
 ment he voiced a universal impulse by bluntly damning its 
 hypocrisy. Of all the eloquence of that silly parliament, 
 there remains only one single damn. It has survived the 
 front bench speeches of the eighties as the word of Cervantes 
 survives the oraculations of the Dons and Deys who put him, 
 too, in prison. The shocked House demanded that he 
 should withdraw his cruel word. "I never withdraw," said 
 he; and I promptly stole the potent phrase for the sake of its 
 perfect style, and used it as a cockade for the Bulgarian hero 
 of Arms and the Man. The theft prospered; and I naturally 
 take the first opportunity of repeating it. In what other 
 Lepantos besides Trafalgar Square Cunninghame Graham 
 has fought, I cannot tell. He is a fascinating mystery to a 
 sedentary person like myself. The horse, a dangerous animal 
 whom, when I cannot avoid, I propitiate with apples and 
 sugar, he bestrides and dominates fearlessly, yet with a true 
 republican sense of the rights of the fourlegged fellowcreature 
 whose martyrdom, and man's shame therein, he has told most 
 powerfully in his Calvary, a tale with an edge that will cut 
 the soft cruel hearts and strike fire from the hard kind ones. 
 He handles the other lethal weapons as familiarly as the pen : 
 medieval sword and modern Mauser are to him as umbrellas 
 and kodaks are to me. His tales of adventure have the true 
 Cervantes touch of the man who has been there — so refresh- 
 ingly different from the scenes imagined by bloody-minded 
 clerks who escape from their servitude into literature to tell 
 us how men and cities are conceived in the counting house 
 and the volunteer corps. He is, I understand, a Spanish 
 hidalgo : hence the superbity of his portrait by Lavery (Velas- 
 quez being no longer available). He is, I know, a Scotch 
 
Notes 297 
 
 laird. How he contrives to be authentically the two things 
 at the same time is no more intelligible to me than the fact 
 that everything that has ever happened to him seems to have 
 happened in Paraguay or Texas instead of in Spain or Scot- 
 land. He is, I regret to add, an impenitent and unashamed 
 dandy: such boots, such a hat, would have dazzled D'Orsay 
 himself. With that hat he once saluted me in Regent St. 
 when I was walking with my mother. Her interest was in- 
 stantly kindled; and the following conversation ensued. 
 "Who is that?" "Cunninghame Graham." "Nonsense! 
 Cunninghame Graham is one of your Socialists: that man is 
 a gentleman." This is the punishment of vanity, a fault I have 
 myself always avoided, as I find conceit less troublesome and 
 much less expensive. Later on somebody told him of Taru- 
 dant, a city in Morocco in which no Christian had ever set 
 foot. Concluding at once that it must be an exceptionally 
 desirable place to live in, he took ship and horse; changed the 
 hat for a turban; and made straight for the sacred city, via 
 Mogador. How he fared, and how he fell into the hands of 
 the Cadi of Kintafi, who rightly held that there was more 
 danger to Islam in one Cunninghame Graham than in a 
 thousand Christians, may be learnt from his account of it in 
 Mogreb-el-Acksa, without which Captain Brassbound's Con- 
 version would never have been written. 
 
 I am equally guiltless of any exercise of invention concern- 
 ing the story of the West Indian estate which so very nearly 
 serves as a peg to hang Captain Brassbound. To Mr. 
 Frederick Jackson of Hindhead, who, against all his principles, 
 encourages and abets me in my career as a dramatist, I owe 
 my knowledge of those main facts of the case which became 
 public through an attempt to make the House of Commons 
 act on them. This being so, I must add that the character 
 of Captain Brassbound's mother, like the recovery of the estate 
 by the next heir, is an interpolation of my own. It is not, 
 however, an invention. One of the evils of the pretence that 
 our institutions represent abstract principles of justice instead 
 of being mere social scaffolding is that persons of a certain 
 
298 Captain Brassbound's Conversion 
 
 temperament take the pretence seriously, and when the law 
 is on the side of injustice, will not accept the situation, and 
 are driven mad by their vain struggle against it. Dickens has 
 drawn the type in his Man from Shropshire in Bleak House. 
 Most public men and all lawyers have been appealed to by 
 victims of this sense of injustice — the most unhelpable of 
 afflictions in a society like ours. 
 
 ENGLISH AND AMERICAN DIALECTS 
 
 The fact that English is spelt conventionally and not pho- 
 netically makes the art of recording speech almost impossible. 
 What is more, it places the modern dramatist, who writes for 
 America as well as England, in a most trying position. Take 
 for example my American captain and my English lady. 
 I have spelt the word conduce, as uttered by the American 
 captain, as cawndooce, to suggest (very roughly) the Ameri- 
 can pronunciation to English readers. Then why not spell 
 the same word, when uttered by Lady Cicely, as kerndewce, 
 to suggest the English pronunciation to American readers? 
 To this I have absolutely no defence: I can only plead that 
 an author who lives in England necessarily loses his conscious- 
 ness of the peculiarities of English speech, and sharpens his 
 consciousness of the points in which American speech differs 
 from it; so that it is more convenient to leave English peculiar- 
 ities to be recorded by American authors. I must, however, 
 most vehemently disclaim any intention of suggesting that 
 English pronunciation is authoritative and correct. My own 
 tongue is neither American English nor English English, but 
 Irish English; so I am as nearly impartial in the matter as it 
 is in human nature to be. Besides, there is no standard Eng- 
 lish pronunciation any more than there is an American one: 
 in England every county has its catchwords, just as no doubt 
 every state in the Union has. I cannot believe that the 
 pioneer American, for example, can spare time to learn that 
 last refinement of modern speech, the exquisite diphthong, 
 
Notes 299 
 
 a farfetched combination of the French eu and the English 
 e, with which a New Yorker pronounces such words as world, 
 bird &c. I have spent months without success in trying to 
 achieve glibness with it. 
 
 To Felix Drinkwater also I owe some apology for imply- 
 ing that all his vowel pronunciations are unfashionable. 
 They are very far from being so. As far as my social ex- 
 perience goes (and I have kept very mixed company) there 
 is no class in English society in which a good deal of Drink- 
 water pronunciation does not pass unchallenged save by the 
 expert phonetician. This is no mere rash and ignorant jibe 
 of my own at the expense of my English neighbors. Aca- 
 demic authority in the matter of English speech is represented 
 at present by Mr. Henry Sweet, of the University of Oxford, 
 whose Elementarbuch des gesprochenen Englisch, translated 
 into his native language for the use of British islanders as a 
 Primer of Spoken English, is the most accessible standard 
 work on the subject. In such words as plum, come, humbug, 
 up, gun, etc., Mr. Sweet's evidence is conclusive. Ladies 
 and gentlemen in Southern England pronounce them as plam, 
 kam, hambag, ap, gan, etc., exactly as Felix Drinkwater 
 does. I could not claim Mr. Sweet's authority if I dared to 
 whisper that such coster English as the rather pretty dahn 
 tahn for down town, or the decidedly ugly cowcow for cocoa 
 is current in very polite circles. The entire nation, costers and 
 all, would undoubtedly repudiate any such pronunciation as 
 vulgar. All the same, if I were to attempt to represent cur- 
 rent "smart" cockney speech as I have attempted to represent 
 Drinkwater *s, without the niceties of Mr. Sweet's Romic alpha- 
 bets, I am afraid I should often have to write dahn tahn and 
 cowcow as being at least nearer to the actual sound than down 
 town and cocoa. And this would give such offence that I 
 should have to leave the country; for nothing annoys a native 
 speaker of English more than a faithful setting down in 
 phonetic spelling of the sounds he utters. He imagines that 
 a departure from conventional spelling indicates a departure 
 from the correct standard English of good society. Alas! 
 
300 Captain Brassbound's Conversion 
 
 this correct standard English of good society is unknown to 
 phoneticians. It is only one of the many figments that be- 
 wilder our poor snobbish brains. No such thing exists; but 
 what does that matter to people trained from infancy to 
 make a point of honor of belief in abstractions and incredi- 
 bilities ? And so I am compelled to hide Lady Cicely's speech 
 under the veil of conventional orthography. 
 
 I need not shield Drinkwater, because he will never read 
 my book. So I have taken the liberty of making a special 
 example of him, as far as that can be done without a phonetic 
 alphabet, for the benefit of the mass of readers outside 
 London who still form their notions of cockney dialect on 
 Sam Weller. When I came to London in 1876, the Sam 
 Weller dialect had passed away so completely that I should 
 have given it up as a literary fiction if I had not discovered 
 it surviving in a Middlesex village, and heard of it from an 
 Essex one. Some time in the eighties the late Andrew Tuer 
 called attention in the Pall Mall Gazette to several peculiar- 
 ities of modern cockney, and to the obsolescence of the Dick- 
 ens dialect that was still being copied from book to book by 
 authors who never dreamt of using their ears, much less of 
 training them to listen. Then came Mr. Anstey's cockney 
 dialogues in Punch, a great advance, and Mr. Chevalier's 
 coster songs and patter. The Tompkins verses contributed 
 by Mr. Barry Pain to the London Daily Chronicle have also 
 done something to bring the literary convention for cockney 
 English up to date. But Tompkins sometimes perpetrates 
 horrible solecisms. He will pronounce face as fice, accurately 
 enough; but he will rhyme it quite impossibly to nice, which 
 Tompkins would pronounce as nawce : for example Mawl Enn 
 Rowd for Mile End Road. This aw for i, which I have 
 made Drinkwater use, is the latest stage of the old diph- 
 thongal oi, which Mr. Chevalier still uses. Irish, Scotch and 
 north country readers must remember that Drinkwater's rs 
 are absolutely unpronounced when they follow a vowel, 
 though they modify the vowel very considerably. Thus, 
 luggage is pronounced by him as laggige, but turn is not pro- 
 
Notes 301 
 
 nounced as tarn, but as teun with the eii sounded as in French. 
 The London r seems thoroughly understood in America, 
 with the result, however, that the use of the r by Artemus 
 Ward and other American dialect writers causes Irish people 
 to misread them grotesquely. I once saw the pronunciation 
 of malheureux represented in a cockney handbook by 
 mal-err-err : not at all a bad makeshift to instruct a Londoner, 
 but out of the question elsewhere in the British Isles. In 
 America, representations of English speech dwell too derisively 
 on the dropped or interpolated h. American writers have 
 apparently not noticed the fact that the south English h is not 
 the same as the never-dropped Irish and American h, and 
 that to ridicule an Englishman for dropping it is as absurd as 
 to ridicule the whole French and Italian nation for doing the 
 same. The American h, helped out by a general agreement 
 to pronounce wh as hw, is tempestuously audible, and can- 
 not be dropped without being immediately missed. The 
 London h is so comparatively quiet at all times, and so com- 
 pletely inaudible in wh, that it probably fell out of use simply 
 by escaping the ears of children learning to speak. However 
 that may be, it is kept alive only by the literate classes who 
 are reminded constantly of its existence by seeing it on paper. 
 Roughly speaking, I should say that in England he who 
 bothers about his hs is a fool, and he who ridicules a dropped 
 h a snob. As to the interpolated h, my experience as a Lon- 
 don vestryman has convinced me that it is often effective as a 
 means of emphasis, and that the London language would be 
 poorer without it. The objection to it is no more respectable 
 than the objection of a street boy to a black man or to a lady 
 in knickerbockers. 
 
 I have made only the most perfunctory attempt to repre- 
 sent the dialect of the missionary. There is no literary nota- 
 tion for the grave music of good Scotch. 
 
 Blackdown. 
 August 1900 
 
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