Fortune and Men's Eyes: Drama in One Act: by Josephine Preston Peabody J 3531 13 F6 17 oy 1 Samuel French : Publisher 28-30 West Thirty-eighth St. : New York LONDON Samuel French, Ltd. 26 Southampton Street, Strand PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS Fortune and Men's Eyes: Drama in One Act: by Joseph! ne Preston. Peabody Samuel French : Publisher 28-30 West Thirty-eighth St. : New York LONDON Samuel French, Ltd. 26 Southampton Street, Strand -1j)6 5^v r W Oopyrig'ht, 1917, by Josephine Preston Feabodj' Caution. — This play is fully protected under the Copyright laws of the United States and is subject to royahy when produced by amateurs or professionals. AppHcatiens for the right to produce " Fortune and Men's Eyes " should be made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th St.. New York. ©OLD 47201 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED m 21 1917 FOREWORD. Some apology is due from anyone who would make use of our Shakespeare as a Person of the Play. In this instance, the play came into being as an act of devotion, rather than a free-will dramatic scheme. For a long season, the writer had brooded over Shakespere's Sonnets, and their further revelation of the understanding heart that remains a treasure to mankind. The scars upon a great mind, of grief and disillu- sion; a false friend, a bitter, disenchanting lady; self-contempt, isolation, doubt outpoured; — these are realities, and the twenty-ninth Sonnet is the sum of them. Of the many theories that offer historical basis for the human story, the one which identifies the Friend with Willian Herbert, and the Dark Lady with Mary Fytton, seemed at least not improbable. It should be needless to say that we do not sup- pose the daily talk of great poets to partake of their " manner," as the gods grant them speech for the gods and heroes of their own works. The play tries to show The Player a.t close range, on a sordid afternoon in South London, when noth- ing would go right; and the best beloved of all poets felt himself, in his hour of dejection and self-con- tempt, deep " In disgrace with fortune and men's eyes." JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY. Cambridge, March, 19 17. THE TWENTY-NINTH SONNET. When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. Haply I think on thee, and then my state. Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate ; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. WH.LIAM SHAKESPEARE. CHARACTERS. William Herbert.. .Son of the Earl of Pembroke Simeon Dyer A Puritan Tobias Host of " The Bear and The Angel " Wat Burrow A bear-ward Dickon A little boy, son of Tobias Chiffin A ballad-monger A Prentice A Player. . .Master Wni. Shakespeare of the Lord Chamberlain's Company Mistress Mary Fytton A maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth Mistress Annie Hughes Also of the Court Taverners and Prentices Time: — An autumn afternoon in the year 1599, A. D. Place : — South London. FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES Scene: — Interior of " The Bear and the Angel," in South London. At hack, the center entrance gives on a short alley-walk which joins the street beyond at a right angle. To right and left of this doorway there are casements. Front, to the right, a door opens on the inn- garden; a second door right, towards the hack, leading to a tap-room. Opposite this, left, a door leading into a buttery. Left, opposite the garden-door, a large chimney-place with a smoiddering zvood-fire. A few seats; a lantern (unlighted) in a corner. In the foreground to the right, a long and narrow table with several mugs of ale upon it, also a lute. At one end of the table Wat Burrow is fin- ishing his ale and holding forth to the Prentice {zvho thrums the lute) and a group of tavern- ers, some smoking. At the further end of the table Simeon Dyer observes all with grave curiosity. Tobias, the host, and Dickon draw near. Prentice {singing). — What do I give for the Pope and his riches! Ts my ale and my Sunday breeches; Ts an old master, Ts a young lass. And we'll eat green goose, come Martinmas 7 8 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. Sing Rowdy Dowdy, Look ye don't crowd me: I's a good club, — So let me pass! Dickon. — x\gain ! again ! Prentice. — Sing Rowdy — Wat {finishing his beer). — Swallow it down. Sling all such froth and follow me to the Bear ! They stay for me, lined up to see us pass From end to end o' the alley. Ho ! You doubt ? From Lambeth to the Bridge ! Prentices. — ) Tis so; ay. Taverners,— \ Come, follow ! Come. Wat.— Greg's stuck his ears With nosegays, and his chain is wound about Like any May-pole. What? I tell ye, boys, Ye have seen no such bear, a Bear o' Bears, Fit to bite off the prophet, in the show. With seventy such boys. (Pulling Dickon's ear.) Bears, say you, bears? Why, Rursus Major, as your scholars tell, A royal bear, the greatest in his day. The sport of Alexander, unto Nick — Was a ewe-lamb dyed black, no worse, no worse ! To-morrow come and see him with the dogs ; He'll not give way, — not he ! Dickon. — To-morrow's Thursday! To-morrow's Thursday! FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES 9 Prentice. — Will ye lead by here? Tobias. — Ay, that would be a sight. Wat, man, this way! Wat.— Ho, would you squinch us? Why, there be a press O' gentry by this tide to measure Nick And lay their wagers, at a blink of him. Against to-morrow ! Why, the stairs be full. To-morrow you shall see the Bridge a-creak, The river — dry with barges, — London gape, Gape ! While the Borough buzzes like a hive With all their worships ! Sirs, the fame o' Nick Has so pluckt out the gentry by the sleeve, 'Tis said the Queen would see him. Tobias. — ) Ay, 'tis grand. Dickon. — ) O-oh, the Queen? Prentice. — How now ? What man art thou to lead a bear, Drink all ; drink to the Queen ! Tobias. — Ay, now. Wat.— To her ! — You, boy, put by this saying with your pint: " The Queen, her high and glorious maj- esty ! " Simeon (gravely). — Long live the Queen! Wat.— Maker of golden laws For baitings ! She that cherishes the Borough And shines upon our pastimes. By the mass ! Thank her for the crowd to-morrow. But for her, lo FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. We were a homesick handful of brave souls That love the royal sport. These mouthing players, These hookers, would 'a' spoiled us of our beer — Prentice. — Lying by to catch the gentry at the stairs, — All pressing towards Bear Alley — Wat.— To run 'em in At stage-plays and show-fooleries on the way; Stage-plays, with their tart-nonsense and their flags. Their " Tamerlanes " and " Humors " and what not ! My life on't, there v/as not a man of us But fared his Lent, by reason of their fatness, And on a holiday ate not at all ! Tobias (solemnly). — Tis so; 'tis so. Wat.— But when she heard it told How lean our sport was grown, she damns stage-plays O' Thursday. So: Nick gets his turn to growl ! Prentice. — As well as any player. (With a dumb show of ranting among the tavern- ers.) Wat.— Players? — Hang them! I know 'em, L I've been with 'em. ... I was As sweet a gentlewoman, in my voice. As any of your finches that sings small. Tobias. — 'Twas high. FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. ii {Enter The Player, followed by Chiffin, the bal- lad-monger. He looks worn and tired.) Wat {lingering at the table). — I say, I've played. . . . There's not one man Of all the gang — save one . . . Ay, there be one I grant you, now! ... He used me in right sort; A man worth better trades. {Seeing The Player) — Lord love you, sir! Why, this is you indeed. Tis a lon^ day, sir, Since I clapped eyes on you. But even now Your name was on my tongue, as pat as ale! You see me off. We bait to-morrow, sir; Will you come seer Nick's fresh, and every soul As hot to see the fight, as 'tv/ere to be, Man Daniel, baited with the lions ! Tobias. — Sir, 'Tis high . . . 'tis high. Wat.— We show him in the street With dogs and all, ay, now, if you will see. The Player. — Why, so I will. A show, and I not there ? Bear it out bravely, Wat. High fortune, man ! Commend me to thy bear. {Drinks and passes him the cup.) Wat.— Lord love you, sir ! 'Twas ever so you gave a man godspeed. . . . 12 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES And yet your spirits flag; you look but palely. I'll take your kindness, thank ye. {Turning away.) In good time ! Come after me and Nick, now. Folio v/ all ; Come boys, come, pack ! {Exit Wat, still descanting. Exe^int most of the taverners, with the Prentice. Simeon Dyer draws near The Player, regarding him gravely. Chiffin sells ballads to those who go out. Dickon is about to follow them, zuhen Tobias holds him by the ear.) Tobias. — What ? Not so fast, you there ! Who gave you holiday? Bide by the inn; — Tend on our gentry. {Exit after the crowd.) Chiffin. — Ballads, gentlemen? Ballads, new ballads? Simeon {to The Player). — With your pardon sir, I am gratified to note your abstinence From this deplorable fond merriment Of baiting of a bear. The Player. — Your friendship then, Takes pleasure in the heaviness of my legb Save I am weary, I would see the bear. Nay, rest you happy; malt shall comfort us. Simeon. — You do mistake me. I am— - Chiffin. — Ballad, sir? FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 13 " How a Young Spark would Woo a Tanner's Wife, And She Sings Sweet in Turn." vSi M EG N ( indignan t). — Abandoned poet! CiiiFFiN {indignant) . — Vm no such thing! — An honest ballad, sir. No poetry at all. The Playei^. — Good, sell thy wares, Chiffin.— " A Ballad of a Virtuous Country-Maid, Forswears the Follies of the Flaunting Town " — And tends her geese all day, and weds a vicar. Simeon. — A godlier tale, in sooth. But speak, my man; If she be virtuous, and the tale a true one, Can she not do't in prose? The Player. — Beseech her, man. 'Tis scandal she should use a measure so. For no more sin than dealing out false measure. Was Dame Sapphira slain. Simeon. — You are with me, sir ; Although methinks you do mistake the sense O' that you have read. . . . This jigging, jog- trot rime. This ring-me-round, debaseth mind and matter, To make the reason giddy — Chiffin (to The Player).— Ballad, sir? " Hear All ! " A fine brave ballad of a Fish New catched off Dover ; nay, a one-eyed fish. With teeth in double rows ! 14 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. The Player. — Nay, nay, go to! CiiiFFiN ( eloquenth) . — " My Fortune's Folly," then ; or '' The True Tale Of an angry Gull ; " or '* Cherries Like Me Best." *' Black Sheep, or Flow a Cut- Purse Robbed His Mother;" ''The Prentice and the Dell!" . . . "Plays Play not Fair," Or how a gentlezv Oman's heart was took By a player, that was king in a stage-play. . . . " The Merry Salutation," — ** How a Spark Would Woo a Tanner's Wife ! "— " The Dire- ful Fish "— Cock's passion, sir ! not buy a cleanly ballad Of the great fish, late ta'en off Dover coast, Having two heads and teeth in double rows? Salt fish catched in fresh water? . . . 'Od's my life ! What if, or salt or fresh? A prodigy ! A ballad like " Hear All ! " — And me and mine, Five children and a wife would bait the devil, May lap the water out o' Lambeth Marsh Before he'll buy a ballad ! Aly poor wife, That lies a-weeping for a tansy-cake ! Body o' me, shall I smack ale again? The Player. — Why, here's persuasion; logic, arguments. Nay, not the ballad. Read for thine own joy. I doubt not but it stretches, honest length. From Maid Lane to the Bridge and so across. But for thy lengtth of thirst — {Giving him a coin.) That touches near. FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 15 Chaffin {apart). — A vagrom player, would not buy a tale O' the Great Fish with the twy rows o' teeth ! Learn you to read ! {Exit.) Simeon. — Thou seemst, sir, from that I have overheard, A man, as one should grant, beyond thy calling. I would I might assure thee of the way. To urge thee quit this painted infamy. — There may be time, seeing thou art still young, To pluck thee from the burning. How are ye 'stroyed. Ye foolish grasshoppers ! Cut off, forgotten. When moth and rust corrupt your flaunting shows, 1 he earth shall have no memory of 5^oar name ! Dickon. - Pray you, v/hat's yours ? Simeon. — I am called Simeon Dyer. (There is the sudden uproar of a crowd in the^. distance. It continues at intervals for some time.) . Hey, lads? \ Some noise beyond : Come, cud- Prentices.- j gels, come! ' Come on, come on, Pm for it {Exeunt all hut The Player, Simeon, and Dickon.) Simeon. — Something untoward, without : or is it rather The tumult of some uproar incident To this vicinity? The Player. — It is an uproar JMost incident to bears. Dickon. — I would I knew ! i6 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. The Player (holding him off at arm's length). — Hey, boy ? We would have tidings of the bear : Go thou, I'll be thy surety. Mark him well. Omit no fact ; I would have all of it : What manner o' bear he is, — how bears him- self; Number and pattern of ears, and eyes what hue; His voice and fashion o' coat. Nay, come not back. Till thou hast all. — Skip, sirrah ! {Exit Dickon) Simeon. — Think, fair sir. Take this new word of mine to be a seed Of thought in that neglected garden-plot. Thy mind, thy worthier part. Na}^, think ! The Player. — Why, so ; Thou hast some right, friend; now and then it serves. Sometimes I have thought, and even now, sometimes. ... I think. Simeon (benevolently). — Heaven ripen thought unto an harvest ! (Exit) (The Player alone, rises, stretches his arms, and paces the floor zvearily.) The Player. — Some quiet now. . . . Why should I thirst for it. Alone with the one man of all living men I have least cause to honor ! . . She is too false At last, to keep a spaniel's loyalty. I do believe it. And by my own soul, FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 17 She shall not have me, what remains of me That may be beaten back into the ranks. I will not look upon her. . . . Bitter Sweet. This fever that torments me day by day — Call it not love, — this servitude, this spell That haunts me like a sick man's fantasy, With pleading of her eyes, her voice, her eyes — It shall not have me. I am too much stained : Cut, God or no God, yet I do not live And have to bear my ov/n soul company. To have to stoop so low. She looks on Herbert. Oh, I have seen ! But he, — he must withstand her! For my sake, yes, for my sake ! — Fll not doubt . . . His honor ; nor the love he hath to me ; — As Jonathon to David. — Fll not doubt. He knows what I have suffered, — suffer still — Although I love her not. Her ways, her ways. It is her ways that eat into the heart, With beauty more than Beauty ; and her voice, That silvers o'er the meaning of her speech Like moonshine on black waters. Ah, un- coil ! . . . He's the sure morning after this dark dream ; Wide daylight and west wind, of a lad's love; With all his golden pride, for my dull hours. Still climbing sunward. Sinks all love in him! And cleanse me of this cursed, fell distrust That marks the pestilence. "" Fair, kind, and true." Lad, lad. How could I turn from friendliness To worship such false gods? . . . *' Fair, kind, and true." And yet, if She were true, — i8 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. To me, though false to all things else; — one truth, So one truth lived — . One truth ! O beggared soul, — Foul Lazarus, so starved it can make shift To feed on crumbs of honor ! — Am I this ? (Enter Anne Hughes. She has been running, in evident terror, and stands against the closed door looking about her.) Anne. — Are you the inn-keeper? (TiiE Player turns and bo7vs courteously.) Nay, sir, your pardon. I saw you not . . . And yet your face, me- thinks, — But — yes, Em sure. . . . But where's the inn-keeper ? I know not where I am, nor where to go ! The Player. — Madam, it is my fortune that I may Procure you service. {Going towards the door) {The uproar sounds nearer.) Anne. — Nay ! what if the bear — The Player. — The bear? Anne. — The door ! The bear is broken loose. Did you not hear? I scarce could make my way Through that rank crowd, in search of some safe place. FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 19 You smile, sir! But you had not seen the bear, — Nor I, this morning ! Pray you, hear me out, — For surely you are gentler than the place. I came ... I came by water ... to the Garden, Alone, . . . from bravery, to see the show And tell of it hereafter at the Court ! There's one of us makes count of all such 'scapes, — ('Tis Mistress Fytton). She will ever tell The sport it is to see the people's games Among themselves, — to go incognita, — And take all, as it is not for the Queen, Gallants and rabble ! But by Banbury Cross, I am of tamer mettle ! — All alone. Among ten thousand noisy watermen; And then the foul ways leading from the Stair ; And then ... no friends I knew, nay, not a face. And my dear nose beset, and my pomander Lost in the rout, — or else a cut-purse had it : And then the bear breaks loose ! Oh, 'tis a day Full of vexations, nay, and dangers too. I would I had been slower to outdo The pranks of Mary Fytton. . . . You know her, sir? The Player. — If one of my plain calling may be said To know a maid-of -honor. (More lightly) And yet more : — My heart has cause to know the lady's face. Anne (blankly). — Why, so it is. . . . Is't not a marvel, sir. The way she hath? Truly, her voice is good. . . . And yet, — but oh, she charms ; I hear it said. A winsome gentlevv^oman, of a wit, too. 20 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. We are great fellows ; she tells nie all she does ; And, sooth, I listen till my ears be like To grow, for wonder. Whence my 'scape, to- day ! Oh, she hath daring for the pastimes here; I would — change looks with her, to have her spirit ! Indeed, they say she charms Some-one, by this. The Player. — Some one. ... Anne. — Hast heard? Why, sure my Lord of Herbert, Ay, Pembroke's son. But there I doubt, — I doubt. He is an eagle will not stoop for less Than kingly prey. No bird-lime takes him. The Player. — He hath shown many favors to us players. Herbert. . . . Anne. — Ah, now I have you ! The Player. — Surely, gracious madam; My duty; . . . what beside? Anne. — This face of yours. 'Twas in some play, belike. (Apart) . . . I took him for A man it should advantage me to know ! And he's a proper man enough. . . . Ay me ! (When she speaks to him again if is zvith encourag- ing condescension.) Surely you've been at Whitehall, Master Player ? FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 21 The Player {bowing). — So. Anne. — And how oft? And when? The Player. — Last Christmas tide; And Twelfth Day eve, perchance. Your mem- ory Freshens a dusty past. . . . The hubbub's over. Shall I look forth and fmd some trusty boy To attend you to the river? Anne. — I thank you, sir. {He goes to the door and steps out into the alley, looking up and down. The noise in the dis- tance springs up again.) {Apart demurely) 'Tis not past sufferance. Marry, I could stay Some moments longer, till the streets be safe. Sir, sir ! The Player {returning). — Command me, madam. Anne. — I will wait A little longer, lest I meet once more That ruffian mob, or any of the dogs. These sports are better seen from balconies. The Play^er. — Will you step hither ? There's an arbored walk Sheltered and safe. Should they come by again, You may see all, an't like you, and be hid. Anne. — A garden there? Come, you shall show it me. (They go out into the garden on the right, leaving 22 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. the door shut. Enter immediately, in great haste, Mary Fytton and William Herbert, followed by Dickon, who looks about and seeing no one, goes to setting things in order.) Mary. — Quick, quick! . . . She must have seen me. Those big eyes, Hov/ could they miss me, peering as she was For some famihar face? She would have known, Even before my mask was jostled off In that wild rabble . . . bears and bearish men ! Herbert. — Why would you have me bring you ? Mary. — (Gaily) Why? Ah, why! Sooth, once I had a reason : nov\^ 'tis lost, — Lost ! Lost ! Call out the bell-man. Dickon (seriously). — Shall I so? Herbert. — Nay, nay; that were a merriment indeed. To cry us through the streets ! (To Mary) You riddling charm. Mary. — A riddle yet? You almost love me, then. Herbert. — Almost ? Mary. — Because you cannot understand. Alas, when all's unriddled, the charm goes. Herbert. — Come, you're not melancholy? Mary. — Nay, are you? But should Nan Hughes have seen us, and spoiled all — FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 23 Herbert. — How could she so ? Mary. — I know not . . . Yet I know If she had met us, she could steal To-day, Golden To-day ! Herbert. — A kiss ; and so forget her. Mary. — Hush, hush, — the tavern-boy there. {To Dickon) Tell me, boy, — {To Herbert) Some errand, now; a roc's Strike thy wit. Herbert. — What is't you miss ? Why, so. The lady's lost A very curious reason, wrought about W^ith diverse broidery. Mary. — Nay, 'twas a mask. Herbert. — A mask, arch-wit? Why will you mock your- self And all your fine deceits? Your mask, your reason, Your reason with a m.ask ! Mary. — You are too merry. {To Dickon) A mask it is, and m.uuler finely wrought With little amber points all hung like bells. I lost it as I came, somewhere. . . . Herbert. — Somewhere Between the Paris Gardens and the Bridge. Mary. — Or below Bridge, — or haply in the Thames ! 24 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. Herbert. — No matter where, so you do bring it back. Fly, Mercury! Here's feathers for thy heels. (Giving coin) Mary (aside). — Weights, weights! (Exit Dickon) (Herbert looks about him, opens the door of the tap-room, grozvs troubled. She watches him with dissatisfaction, seeming to warm her feet by the fire meanzvhile.) Herbert (apart). — I know this place. We used to come Together, he and I . . . Mary (apart). — Forgot again. O the capricious tides, the hateful calms, And the too eager ship that would be gone Adventuring against uncertain winds, For some new, utmost sight of Happy Isles ! Becalmed, — becalmed . . . But I will break this calm. (She sees the lute on the table, crosses and takes it up, running her fingers over the strings very softly. She sits.) Herbert. — Ah, mermaid, is it you? Mary. — Did you sail far? Herbert. — Not I ; no, sooth. (Crossing to her) Mermaid, I would not think. But you — Mary. — I think not. I remember nothing. FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 25 There's nothing in the world but you and me; All else is dust. Thou shalt not question me ; Or if, — but as a sphinx in woman-shape: And if thou fail at answer, I shall turn, And rend thy heart and cast thee from the cliff. {She leans her head hack to kiss him.) So perish all who guess not what I am ! . . . Oh, but I know you : you are April-Days. Nothing is sure, but all so beautiful ! {^She runs her finger up the strings, one by one, and listens, speaking to the lute.) Is it not so ? Come, answer. Is it true ? Speak, sweeting, since I love thee best of late, And have forsook my virginals for thee. All's beautiful indeed and all unsure? ''Ay'' . . . (Did you hear?) He's fair and faithless? " Ay." {Speaking with the lute) Herbert. — Poor oracle, with only one reply! — Wherein 'tis unlike thee. Mary. — Could he love aught So well as his own image in the brook, Having once seen it? Herbert. — Ay! Mary. — The lute saith " No!' . . . O dullard! Here were tidings, would you mark. What said I ? Oracle, coidd he love aught So dear as his own image in the brook, Having once looked? . . . No, truly. 26 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. (With sudden abandon) Nor can I! Herbert. — leave this game of words, you thousand- tongued. Sing, sing to me. So shall I be all Amours Forever ; — or at least till you be still ! . . . 1 used to wonder he should be thy slave :- I wonder now no more. Your ways are won- ders; You have a charm to make a man forget His past and yours, and everything but you. Mary (speaking with her eyes on his face). — " When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white" — How now? Herbert. — How now ! That song . . . thou w41t sing that? Mary. — Marry, what mars the song? Herbert. — Have you forgot Who made it? Mary. — Soft, what idleness So fine? — So rude? And bid me sing! You get but si- lence ; Or, if I sing, — beshrew me, it shall be A dole of song, a little starveling breath As near to silence as a song can be. {She sings under-breath, fantastically.) Say how many kisses he Lent and lost twixt you and m.ef " Can I tell when they begun? " Nay, but this were prodigal: Let us learn to count withal. FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 27 Since no ending is to spending, Sum our riches, one by one. " You shall keep the reckoning, Count each kiss zvhile I do sing." Herbert. — Oh, not these Httle wounds. You vex my heart ; Heal it again with singing, — come, sweet, come. Into the garden ! None shall trouble us. This place has memories and conscience too : Drown all, my mermaid. AVind them in your hair And drown them, drown them all. (He swings open the garden-door for her. At the same moment Anne's voice is heard approach- ing.) Anne {without). — Some music there? Herbert. — Perdition ! Quick, — behind me, love. {Swinging the door shut again, and looking through the crack.) Mary. — 'Tis she — Nan Hughes, 'tis she! Hov/ came she here? By heaven, She crosses us to-day. Nan Hughes lights here In a Bank tavern ! Nay, I'll not be seen. ■ Sooner or later it must mean the wreck Of both . . . should the Queen know. Herbert. — The spite of chance ! She talks with some one in the arbor there . . . Whose face I see not. Come, here's doors at least. 28 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. {They cross hastily. Mary opens the door on the left and looks within.) Mary. — Too thick. ... I shall be penned. But guard you this And tell me when they're gone. Stay, stay; — mend all. If she have seen me, — swear it was not I. Heaven speed her hence, with her new body- guard ! {Exit, closing door. Herbert looks out into the garden. ) Herbert. — By all accursed chances, — none but he ! {Retires up to stand beside the door, looking out of casement. Reenter from the garden, Anne, followed by The Player,) Anne. — No, 'twas some maagic in my ears, I think. There's no one here. {Seeing Herbert) But yes, there's some one here: — The innkeeper. Are you — Saint Catherine's ruff! My Lord of Herbert. Sir, 3^ou could not look More opportune. But for this gentleman — Herbert {bowing). — My friend, this long time since, — Anne. — Marry, your friend? The Player {regarding Herbert searchingly). — This long time since. Anne. — Nay, is it so, indeed? FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 29 {To Herbert) My day's fulfilled of blunders ! O sweet sir, How can I tell you? But I'll tell you all, If you'll but bear me escort from this place Where none of us belongs. Yours is the first Familiar face I've seen this afternoon ! Herbert {apart). — A sweet assurance. {Aloud) But you seek . . . you need Some rest — some cheer, some — will you step within? {Pointing to the tap-room) The tavern seems deserted, but — Anne. — Not here ! I've been here quite an hour. Come, citywards, To Whitehall ! I have had enough of bears To quench my longing till next Whitsuntide. Down to the river, pray you. Herbert. — Sooth, at once ? Anne. — At once, at once ! {To The Player) I crave your pardon, sir, For sundering your friendships. I've heard say Some woman ever crosses 'twixt two men. To their confusion. You shall drink amends Some other day. I must be safely home. The Player {half reassured). — It joys me that your trials have found an end; And for the rest, I wish you prosperous voy- age; Which needs not, with such halcyon weather toward. Herbert {apart). — It cuts : and yet he knows not. Can it pass ? {To him) Let us mieet soon. I have — I knov/ not what 30 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. To say — nay, no import ; but chance has parted Our several ways too long. To leave you thus, Without a word — Anne. — (Pettishly) You are in haste, my lord ! By the true faith, here are two friends indeed ! Two lovers crossed: and I, — 'tis I that bar them! Pray tarry, sir. I doubt not I may light Upon some link-boy to attend me home, Or else a drunken prentice with a club, Or that patched keeper strolling from the Gar- den With all his dogs along; or failing them, A pony with a monkey on his back, Or, failing that, a bear! Some escort, sure, Such as the Borough offers ! I shall look Part of a pageant from the Lady Fair, And boast for three full moons, " Such sights I saw ! " Truly, 'tis nev/ to me : but I doubt not I shall trick out a mind for strange adventure. As high as — Mistress Fytton ! Herbert. — Say no more, Dear lady ! I entreat you pardon me The lameness of my wit. I'm stark adream; You lighted here so suddenly, unlooked for Vision in Bankside ! Let me hasten you. . . . Now that I see I dream not. It grows late. Anne. — And can you grant me such a length of time ? Herbert. — Length ? Say Illusion ! Time ? Alas, 'twill be Only a poor half -hour, (loudly) a poor half- hour ! (Apart) Could she hear that, I wonder? FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 31 The Player (bowing over Anne's hand). — Not so, madam; A little gold of largess, fallen to me By chance. Herbert {to him). — A word with you — {Apart) O, I am gagged! Anne ( to The Player). — You go with us, sir? {He moves towards door with them.) Tpie Player. — No, I do but play Your inn-keeper. Herbert {apart, despairingly). — The eagle is gone blind. {Exeunt all three, leaving the doors open. They are seen to go down the walk together. At the street they pause, The Player bowing slowly, then turning back towards the inn; Anne hold- ing Herbert's arm. Within, the door on the left opens slightly, then Mary appears.) Mary.— 'Tis true. My ears caught silence, if no more. They're gone. . . . {She conies out of her hiding-place and opens the left-hand casement to see Anne disappearing with Herbert.) She takes him with her ! He'll return ? Gone, gone, without a word; and I was caged, — And deaf as wxU. O, spite of everything ! She's so unlike. . . . How long shall I be here 32 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. To wait and wonder ? He with her — with her ! (The Player, having come slowly hack to the door, hears her voice. Mary darts towards the en- trance to look after Herbert and Anne. She sees him and recoils. She falls hack step hy step, while he stands with his hands upon the door-posts, impassive.) You! . . . The Player. — Yes. . . . {After a pause) And you. Mary.— Do you not ask me why Fm here? The Player. — I am not wont to shun the truth; But yet I think the reason you could give Were too uncomely. Mary.— Nay; — The Player. — If it were truth. . . . If it were truth! Although that likelihood Scarce threatens. Mary. — — So. Condemned without a trial. The Player. — O, speak the lie now. Let there be no chanct For my unsightly love, bound head and foot, Stark, full of woimds and horrible, to find Escape from out its charnel-house; — to rise Unwelcome, before eyes that had forgot. And say it died not truly. It should die. Play no imposture; leave it, — it is dead. I have been weak, in that I tried to pour The wine through plague-struck veins. It came to life FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 33 Over and over, drew sharp breath again In torture such as't may be to be born, If a poor babe could tell. Over and over, I tell you, it has suffered resurrection, Cheating its pain with hope, only to die, Over and over; — die more deaths than men The meanest, most forlorn, are made to die By tyranny or nature. . . . Now I see all Clear. And I say, it shall not rise again. I am as safe from you as I were dead. I know you. Mary.— Herbert — The Player. — Do not touch his name. Leave that; I saw. Mary. — You saw? Nay, what? The Player. — The whole Clear story. — Not at first. While you were hid, I took some comfort, drop by drop, and minute By minute. ( Dullard ! ) Yet there was a maze Of circumstance that showed even then to me, Perplext and strange. You here, unravel it. All's clear: you are the clevv^ (Turning away) Mary (going to the casement) — (Apart) Caged, caged! Does he know all? Why were those walls so dense ? (To him) Nan Hughes hath seized the time to tune your mind To som^e light gossip. Say, how came she here? The Player. — All emulation, thinking to match you In high adventure : — liked it not, poor lady ! And is gone home, attended. 34 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. {Reenter Dickon.) Dickon {to Mary). — They be lost! — Thy mask and muffler; — 'tis no help to search. Some hooker Vv^ould 'a' swallowed 'em, be sure. As the whale swallows Jonas, in the sliow. Mary.— 'Tis nought: I care not. Dickon {looking at the fire). — Hey, it wants a log. {While he mends the fire, hiininiing, The Player stands by him taking thought. Mary speaks apart, going to casement again to look out.) Mary {apart). — I will have what he knows. To cast me off : — Not thus, not thus. Peace, I can blind him yet. Or he'll despise me. Nay, I will not be Thrust out at door like this. I will not go But by mine own free will. There is no power Can say what he might do to ruin us, To win Will Herbert from me,— almost mine. And I all his, all his — O April-Days ! — Well, friendship against love? I know v/ho wins. He is grown dread. . . . But yet he is a man. {Exit Dickon into tap-room^) {To The Player, suavely.) Well, headsman? {He does not turn) Mind your office: I am judged. Guilty, was it not so? . . . What is to do, Do quickly. . . . Do you wait for some re- prieve? FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 35 Guilty, you said. Nay, do you turn your face To give me some small leeway of escape ? And yet, I will not go. {Coming down slowly.) Well, headsman? . . . You ask not why I came here. Clouded Brow, Will you not ask me why I stay ? No word ? blind, come lead the blind ! For I, I too Lack sight and every sense to linger here And make me an intruder, where I once Was welcome, oh m.ost welcome, as I dreamed ! Look on me, then. I do confess, I have Too often preened my feathers in the sun. And thought to rule a little, by my wit. 1 have been spendthrift with men's offerings To use them like a nosegay, — tear apart. Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, until I found the heart all bare, the curious heart I longed to see, for once, and cast away. And so, at first, with you. . . . Ah, now I think You're wise. There's nought so fair, so . . . curious. So precious-rare to find, as honesty. 'Twas all a child's play then; a counting-off Of petals. Now I know. . . . But ask me why I come unheralded, and in a mist Of circmnstance and strangeness. Listen, love, — Well then, dead love, if you will have it so. I have been cunning, cruel, — what you will : And yet the days of late have seemed too long Even for summer ! Something called me here. And so I flung my pride away and came, — A very woman for my foolishness ! — To say once more, — to say . . . 36 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. The Player. — No, I'll not ask. What lacks? I need no more; you have done well. 'Tis rare. There is no man I ever saw But you could school him. Women should be players. You are sovran in the art : feigning and truth Are so commingled in you. Sure, to you Nature's a simpleton hath never seen Her own face in the well ! Is there aught else, To ask of my poor calling? Mary.— I have deserved it In other days. Hear how I can be meek. — I am come back ; a foot-worn runaway, Like any braggart boy. Let me sit down. And take Love's horn-book in my hands again, And learn from the beginning; — by the rod. If you will scourge me, love! Come, come, forgive. I am not wont to sue : and yet to-day I am your suppliant, I am your servant. Your link-boy, yes, your minstrel: so, — wilt hear? {Takes lip the lute, and gives a last look out of the casement.) The tumult in the street is all apart With the discordant past. The hour that is, Shall be the only thing in all the world. {Apart) I will be safe. He'll not win Her- bert from me ! {Crossing to him.) Will you have music, good my lord? FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 37 The Player {catching the lute from her). — Not that, Not that! By heaven, you shall not. . . . Nevermore. Mary. — So . . . But you speak at last. You are, for- sooth, A man. And you shall use me as my due : — A woman, not the wind about your ears; A v/oman, whom you loved. The Player {half -apart, still holding the lute). — Why were you not That beauty that you seemed? . . . But had you been, 'Tis true, you would have had no word for me, — No looks of love. Mary.— The man reproaches me? The Player. — Not I— not I. . . . Will Herbert, what am I To lay this broken trust to you ? — To you. Young, free, and tempted : April on his way. Whom all hands reach for, and this woman here Had set her heart upon! Mary. — {With sudden fury) What fantasy! Surely he must have been from town of late, To see the gude-folk ! And hov/ fare they, sir? Reverend yeoman, say, how thrive the sheep? What did the harvest yield you? — Did you count The cabbage heads? and find how like . . . nay, nay ! But our gude-wife, did she bid in the neighbors To prove them that her husband was no myth ? Some Puritan preacher, nay, some journeyman, 38 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. To make you sup the sweeter with long pray- ers? This were a rare conversion, by my soul ! From sonnets unto sermons: — eminent! The Player. — Oh, yes, your scorn bites truly: sermons next. There is so much to say. But it must be learned ; And I require hard schooling, dream too much On what I would men were, — but women most. I need the cudgel of the task-master To make me con the truth. Yes, blind, you called me, And 'tis my shame I bandaged mine own eyes And held them dark. Now, bv the grace of God, Or haply because the devil ttries too far, I tear the blindfold off, and I see all. I see you as you are ; and in your heart The secret love sprung up for one I loved, A reckless boy who has trodden on my soul — But that's a thing apart, concerns not you. I know that you will stake your heaven and earth To fool me, — fool us both. Mary {with some interest). — Why were you not So stern a long time since? You're not so v/ise As I have heard them sa}^ The Player {standing by the chimney). — Wise? Oh, not I. Who was so witless as to call me wise? Sure he had never bade me a good-day And seen me take the cheer ! . . . I was your fool Too long. ... I am no longer anything. Speak: what are you? Mary {after a pause). — The foolishest of women: FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 39 A heart that should have been adventurer On the high seas ; a seeker in new lands, To dare all and to lose. But I was made A woman. Oh, you see ; — could you see all ! What if I say . . . the truth is not so far, (Watching him.) Yet farther than you dream. If I confess . . . He charmed my fancy . . . for the moment, — ay The shine of his fortunes too, the veiy name Of Pembroke? . . . Dear my judge, — ah, clouded brow And darkened fortune, be not black to me ! I'd try for my escape; the window's wide, No one forbids, and yet I stay — I stay. Oh, I was niggard, once, mikind — I know, Untrusty: loved, unloved you, day by day: A little and a little, — why, I knew not. And more, and wondered why; — then not at all !— Drank up the dew from out your very heart. Like the extortionate sun, to leave you parched ; Till, with as little grace, I flung all back In gusts of angry rain ! I have been cruel. But the spell works; yea, love, the spell, the spell Fed by your fasting, by your subtlety Past ail men's knowledge. . . . There is some- thing rare About you that I long to flee and cannot: — Some mastery . . . that's more my will than I. (She laughs softly. He listens, looking straight ahead, not at her, motionless, but suffering evi- dently. She watches his face and speaks with 40 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. greater intensity. Here she crosses nearer and falls on her knees.) Ah, look : you shall believe, you shall believe. Will you put by your Music? Was I that? Your Music, — very Music? . . . Listen, then, Turn not so blank a face. Thou hast my love. I'll tell thee so, till thought itself shall tire And fall a-dreaming like a weary child; . . . Only to dream of you, and in its sleep To murmur You. . . . Ah, look at me, love, lord . . . Whom queens would honor. Read these eyes you praised. That pitied, once, — that plead for pity now. But look ! You shall not turn from me — The Player. — Eyes, eyes ! — The darkness hides so much. Mary. — He'll not believe. . . . What can I do ? What more, — what more, you . . . man? I bruise my heart here, at an iron gate. . . . {She regards him gloomily without rising.) Yet there is one thing more. . . . You'll take me, now — My meaning. You were right. For once I say it. There is a glory of discovery {Ironically) To the black heart . . . because it may be known But once, — but once. ... I wonder men will hide Their motives all so close. If they could guess, — FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 41 It is so new to feel the open day Look in on all one's hidings, at the end. {She shrugs her shoulders, rises, and stands off, regarding him fixedly.) So. . . . You were right. The first was all a lie: A lie, and for a purpose Now, — And why, I know not, — but 'tis true, at last, I do believe ... I love you. — Look at me ! (He stands by the fireside against the chimney- piece. She crosses to him with passionate ap- peal, holding out her arms. He turns his eyes and looks at her with a rigid scrutiny. She endures it for a second, then wavers; makes an effort, unable to look away, to lift her arms towards his neck; they falter and fall at her side. The two stand spell-bound by mutual recognition. Then she speaks in a strained voice.) Mary. — Oh, let me go! {She turns her head with an effort, — gathers her cloak about her; hesitates with averted eyes, then hastens out as if from some terror.) (The Player is alone beside the chimney-piece. The street outside is darkening with twilight through the casements and upper door. There is a sound of rough-throated singing that comes 42 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. by and is softened with distance. It breaks the spell) The Player. — So; it is over . . . now. {He looks into the fire.) Fair, kind, and true. — And true. — My golden friend ! Both . . . both, together. . . . He was ill at ease. But that he should betray me with a kiss ! By this preposterous world ... I am in need. Shall there be no faith left? Nothing but names ? Then he's a fool who steers his life by such. Why not the body- com fort of this herd Of creatures huddled here to keep them warm ? — Trying to drown out with enforced laughter The query of the winds . . . unanswered winds That scourge the soul with a perpetual doubt. What holds me? — Bah, that were a Cause, in- deed! To prove your soul one truth, by being it, — Against the foul dishonor of the world ! How else prove aught? . . . I talk into the air. And at my feet, my honor full of wounds. Honor? Whose honor? For I knew my sin. And she . . . had none. There's nothing to avenge. {He speaks with more and more passion, too dis- traught to notice interuptions. Enter Dickon, with a tallow-dip. He regards The Player FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 43 zvith half-open mouth from the corner; then stands by the casement, leaning up against it and yawning now and then.) I had no right : that I could call her mine So none should steal her from me, and die for't. There's nothing to avenge . . . Brave beg- gary ! How fit to lodge m.e in this home of Shows, With all the ruffian life, the empty mirth. The gross imposture of humanity, Strutting in virtues it knows not to wear, Knave in a stolen garment — all the same — Until it grows enamored of a life It was not born to, — falls a-dream, poor cheat, In the midst of its native shams, — the thieves and bears And ballad-mongers all ! ... Of such am I. {Reenter Tobias and one or two taverners. Tobias regards The Player, who does not notice any one, — then leads off Dickon hy the ear. Ex- eunt into the tap-room. The Player goes to the casement, pushes it wide and looks out at the sky.) Is there nought else? ... I could make shift to bind My heart up and put on my mail again. To cheat myself and death with one fight more. If I could think there were some worldly use For bitter wisdom. But I'm no general, That my own hand-to-hand with evil days Should cheer my doubting thousands. . . . I'm no more Than one man lost among a multitude ; And in the end dust swallows them — and me, 44 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. And the good sweat that won our victories. Who sees? Or seeing, cares? Who follows on? Then why should my dishonor trouble me, Or broken faith in him? What is it suffers f And why? Now that the moon is turned to blood. {He turns towards the door with involuntary long- ing, and seems to listen.) No . . . no, he will not come. Well, I have nought To do but pluck from me my bitter heart, And breathe without it. {Reenter Dickon with a tankard and a cup. He sets them down on a small table; this he pushes toward The Player, who turns at the noise.) . . . So. It is for me? Dickon. — Ay, on the score! I had good sight o' the bear. Look, here's a sprig was stuck on him with pitch ; — {Rubbing a little green sprig on his sleeve.) I caught it up, — from Lambeth marsh, belike. Such grow there, and I've seen thee cherish such. The Player. — Give us thy posy. {He comes back to the fire and sits in the chair near by. Dickon gets out the iron lantern from the corner.) FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES 45 Dickon (whistling). — Hey ! It wants a light. (The Player seems to listen once more, his face turned towards the door. He lifts his hand as if to hush Dickon, lets it fall, and looks back at the fire. Dickon regards him zuith shy long- ing and drazvs nearer.) Dickon. — Thou wilt be always minding of the fire . . Wilt thou not ? The Player. — Dickon. — It likes me. too The Player. — So? Dickon. — Ay^ . . . I v/ould I knew what thou art thinking on When thou dost mind the fire. . . . The Player. — Wouldst thou? Dickon. — Ay {Sound of footsteps outside. A group approachei the door.) Oh, here he is, come back ! The Player {rising zvith passionate eagerness) . — Brave lad — brave lad ! Dickon {singing). — Hang out your lant horns, trim your lights To save your days from knavish nights! {He plunges zvith his lantern, through the doorway, 46 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES stumbling against Wat Burrow zvho enters, a sorry figure, the worse for wear.) Wat (sourly). — Be the times soft, that you must try to cleave Why through my ribs as tho' 1 was the moon ? — And you the man-wi'-the-lanthorn, or his dog?— You bean! . . (Exit Dickon. Wat shambles in and sees The Player) Wiiat, you, sir, here? The Player. — Still here ; ay, Wat. ( While Wat crosses to the table and gets himself a chair, The Player looks at him as if zvith a new consciousness of the surroundings. After a time he sits as before. Reenter Dickon and curls up on the floor, at his feet with bashful devotion.) Wat.— O give me comfort, sir. This cursed day, — A wry, damned . . . noisome. . . . Ay, poor Nick, poor Nick! He's all to mend — Poor Nick ! He's sorely maimed, More than we'd baited him with forty dogs. 'Od's body ! Said I not, sir, he would fight ? Never before had he, in leading-chain, Walked out to take the air and show his coat. . . . 'Went to his noddle like some greenest gull's That's new come up to town. . . . The Pren- tices Squeaking along like Bedlam, he breaks loose And prances me a hey, — I dancing counter! FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 47 Then such a cawing 'mongst the women! Next, The chain did clatter and enrage him more; — You would 'a' sworn a bear grew on each link, And after each a prentice with a cudgel, — Leaving him scarce an eye ! So, howling all. We run a pretty pace . . . and Nick, poor Nick, He catches on a useless, stumbling fry That needed not be born,— and bites into him. And then . . . the Constable . . . And now, no show! TiiE Player. — Poor Wat ! . . . Thou wentest scattering mis- adventure Like comfits from thy horn of plenty, Wat. Wat. — Ay, thank your worship. You be best at com- fort. {He pours a mug of ale) No show to-morrow ! Minnow Constable. . . . I'm a jack-rabbit strung up by my heels For every knave to pinch as he goes by ! Alas, poor Nick, bear Nick ... oh, think on Nick. The Player. — With all his fortunes darkened for a day, — An4 the eye o' his reason, sweet intelligencer. Under a beggarly patch. ... I pledge thee, Nick! Wat.— Oh, you have seen hard times, sir, with us all. Your eye's lack-lustre, too, this day. What say you? No jesting. . . . What? I've heard of marvels there In the New Country. There would be a knop- hole For thee and me. There be few Constables 48 FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. And such unhallowed fry. . . . An thou wouldst lay Thy wit to mine — what is't we could not do? Wilt turn't about? {Leans towards him in cor- dial confidence) Nay, you there, sirrah boy, Leave us together; as 'tis said in the play, " Come, leave us, Boy ! " (Dickon does not move. He gives a sigh and leans his head against The Player's knee, his arms around his legs. He sleeps. The Player gazes sternly into the fire, while Wat rambles on, growing drowsy.) Wat.— The cub there snores good counsel. When all's done, What a bubble is ambition! . . . When all's done . . What's yet to do? . . . Why, sleep. . . . Yet even now I was on fire to see myself and you Off for the Colony, with Raleigh's men. I've been beholden to 'ee. . . . Why, for thee I could make shift to suffer plays o' Thursday. Thou'rt the best man among them, o' my w^ord. There's other trades and crafts and qualities ^ Could serve ... an thou wouldst lay thy wit to mine. Us two! ... us two! . . . The Player {apart, to the fire). — " Fair, kind and true." . . . Wat.— . . . Poor Nick! {He nods over his ale. There is muffled noise in the tap-room. Some one opens the door a second, letting in a stave of a song, then slams the door FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. 49 shut. The Player, who has turned, gloomily, starts to rise. Dickon moves in his sleep, and settles his cheek upon The Player's shoes. The Player looks down. Then he sits again, looking now at the fire, and now at the boy, whose hair he touches.) The Player. — So, Heavy-head. You bid me think my thought Twice over; keep me by, — a heavy heart, As ballast for thy dream. Well, I will watch . . . Like slandered Providence. Nay, I'll not be The prop to fail thy trust untenderly. After a troubled day. .... Nay, rest you here. Curtain THE WORLD'S BEST PLAYS BY CELEBRATED EUROPEAN AUTHORS A NEW SERIES OF AMATEUR PLAYS BY THE BEST AUTHORS, ANCIEI^T AND MODERN, ESPECIALLY TRANSLATED WITH HISTOIliCAL NOTES, SUG- GESTIONS FOR STAGING, Etc., FOR TKE USE OF SCHOOLS, COLLEtiES, AND DRAMATIC CLUES BARRETT H. CLARK GcsAeral Editor Author of "The Continental Drama of To-day," "Contempo- rary French Dramatists," translator and editor of "Three JNIodern Plays From the French." "Four Plays of the Free Theater," Hervieu's "The Labyrinth," etc., etc. V/ith the immensely increased demand for new plays for purposes of production by amateurs comes a correspondingly g-reat demand for a careful selection of those plays which can be easily and well presented by clubs and colleges. The plays in the present series have been chosen with regard to their intrinsic value as drama and literature, and at the same time to their adaptability to the needs and limitations of such org-anizations. The Series, under the personal supervision of Barrett H. Clark, instructor in the Department of Dramiatic Litera- ture at Chautauqua, New York, assistant stage manager and actor with Mrs. Fiske (season 1912-1913), now comprises forty-five volumes. Eventually there will be plays from ancient Greece and Rome, Spain, France, Russia, Germany, and the Scandinavian countries, representative of the best drama of ail ages and lands. 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Price 25 cents. Modesty. By Paul Hervieu. 2 males, 1 female. A delight- ful trifle by one of the most celebrated of modern dramatists. Price 25 cents. ■^■.aa o T. - »Ji .i r . Tnm ■»ri-> T-»nrT-»i i » t -m i n-»«- . r «r r» > ii . v» • r « r. »-. ■ » t . .- , « ? ■> i n im .i rt , : I'm Going! A comedy in one act. By Tristan Bernard. A delightful bit of comedy of obstinacy and reconciliation. 1 man, 1 woman. Price 25 cents. The Village (Le Village). A comedy in one act. By Octave Feuillet. The author here paints the picture of an elderly couple, and shows that they have not realized their happiness until it is on the point of being taken from them. 2 women, 2 men. Price, 25 cents. The Beneficent Bear. A comedy in three acts. By Goldoni. One of the best-known comedies of the Father of Italian Comedy. A costume piece laid in 18th century France, the principal character in which is a good-hearted, though gruff, old uncle. 4 men, 3 women. Price, 25 cents. Grammar ''La Grammaire). A farce in one act. By Lablche. An amusing and charming comedy by one of the greatest of 19th century French dramatists. 4 men, 1 woman. Price, 25 cents. The Two Cowards (Les Deux Timides). A comedy in one act. By Labiche. A very amusing and human little comedy, in which a strong-willed girl helps her father choose for her the man she wishes to marry. 2 women, 3 men. Price, 25 cents. Master Patelin, Solicitor. A comedy in three acts. Special version by Brueys. One of the most famous of early French farces. The setting and character belong to the late Middle Ages, The play is concerned with the ques- tionable dealings of a clever lawyer. 7 men, 2 women. Price, 25 cents. Crispin, His Master's Rival. A comedy in one act. By Le Sage. A famous comedy by the author of "Gil Bias," concerned with the pranks of two clever valets. 18th century costumes and settings. 4 men, 3 women. Price 25 cents. The L-egacy. A comedy in one act. By Marivaux. A delicate high comedy of intrigue. Marivaux is one of the masters of old French comedy, and this play is full of deft touches of characterization. 2 women, 4 men. Price 25 cents. After the Honeymoon. A farce in one act. By Wolfgang Gyalui. A Hungarian farce full of brilliant dialogue and movement. 1 man, 1 woman. Price, 25 cents. A ClirSstmas Tale. A poetic play by Maurice Bouchor. A beautiful little miracle play of love and devotion, laid in 15th century Paris. 2 men, 2 women. Price. 25 cents. The Fairy (La Fee). A romantic comedy in one act. By Octave Feuillet Laid in a hut in Brittany, this little comedy is full of poetic charm and quiet humor. The element of the supernatural is introduced in order to drive home a strong lesson. 1 woman, 3 men. Price, 25 cents, Jean-3Iarie. A poetic play in one act. By Andre Theuriet. A pathetic play of Norman peasant life. 2 men, 1 woman. Price, 25 cents. The Rebonnd. A comedy in one act. By L. B. Picard. A clever comedy of intrigue, and a satire of social position. 2 women, 5 men. Price, 25 cents. Lysistrata. By Aristophanes. An acting version of this brilliant satire on Athenian foibles, v/ith strikingly modern features. 4 men, 5 women, 1 child. Chorus of old men and one of Greek matrons, about 15 in each. Text is accom- panied with full outline of an effective color scheme for costuming. Price 25 cents. The Twins. By Plautus. 7 males, 2 females. A Latin farce, upon which Shakespeare founded his Comedy of Errors. Price 25 cents. The House of Fourcliniiibault. By Emile Augier. 4 males, 4 females. In four acts. One of the g-reatest of recent French family dramas. Although the play is serious in tone, it contains touches which entitle it to a position among- the best comedies of manners of the times. Price 50 cents. The Doctor in Spite of Himself (Le Mededin malgre lui). By Moliere. 6 males, 3 females. A famous farce by the greatest of French dramatists. Sganarelle has to be beaten before he will acknowledge that he is a doctor, which he is not. He then ^vorks apparently miraculous cures. The play is a sharp satire on the medical profes- sion in the 17th Century. Price 25 cents. Bri^nol and His Daughter. By Alfred Capus. 5 males, 4 females. In three acts. The first comedy in English of the most sprightly and satirical of present-day French dramatists. Price 50 cents. Choosing a Career. By G. A. de Caillavet. Written by one of the authors of " Love Watches." A one-act farce of mistaken identity, full of humorous situations and bright lines. Price 25 cents. French Without a Master. By Tristan Bernard. 5 males, 2 females. A clever one-act farce by one of the most suc- cessful of French dramatists. It is concerned with the difficulties of a make-believe interpreter who does not know a word of French. Price 25 cents. Panurge's Sheep. A comedy in one act. By Meilhac and Halevy. A famous and often-acted little play based upon the obstinacy of a charming woman, who is finally induced to marry. 1 man, 2 women. Price, 25 cents. The Lavy-Sult (Der Prozess). A comedy in one act. By Roderich Benedix. A famous comedy by the well-known German dramatist — author of " The Obstinate Family," and " The Third Man." The play is full of amusing situ- ations and bright lines. 5 men. Price 25 cents. The Third Man. (Der Dritte). A comedy in one act. By Roderich Benedix. A highly amusing little comedy based upon the obstinacy of human beings, and proves the truth of the saying that "love finds a way." 3 women, 1 man. Price 25 cents. The Sicilian (Le Sicilien). A farce in two acts. By Moliere. One of the lighter comedies of intrigue. This play is laid in Sicily, and has to do with the capture of a beautiful Greek slave from her selfish and tyrannical master. 4 men, 3 women. Price 25 cents. Doctor Love (L' Amour Medicin). a farce in three acts by Moliere. An uproarious farce, satirizing the medical pro- fession. Through it runs the story of a young girl who pretends to be ill in order that she may marry the man she loves. 5 men, 4 women. Price 25 cents. The Affected Young Ladies (Les Precieuses ridicules). A comedy in one act by Moliere. The famous satire on intellectual and social affectation. Like most of Moliere's plays, the theme in this is strikingly modern. 3 women, 6 men. Price 25 cents. Crainquebille. A play in three scenes. By Anatole France. A delightful series of pictures of Parisian street life, by the author of "The Man Who Married a Dumb Wife." 12 men. 6 women. Price 25 cents. Rosalie. By Max Maurey. 1 male. 2 females. A "Grand Guig-nol" comedy in one act, full of verve and clever dialog-ue. Rosalie, the stubborn maid, leads her none too amiable master and mistress into uncomfortable compli- cations by refusing- to open the front door to a supposed g-uest of wealth and influence. Price 25 cents. The Art of Being Bored (Le Monde ou Ton s'ennuie). A comedy in three acts. By Edouard Pailleron. 11 males, 9 females. Probably the best-known and most frequently acted comedy of manners in the realm of nineteenth century French drama. It is replete with wit and comic situations. For nearly forty years it has held the stag-e, while countless imitators have endeavored to reproduce its freshness and charm. Price 25 cents. A Marriage Proposal. By Anton Tchekoff. 2 males, 1 female. A comedy in one act, by one of the greatest of modern Russian writers. This little farce is very popular in Russia, and satirizes the people of that country in an amusing manner. Price 25 cents. The Green Coat. By Alfred de Musset and Emile Augier. 3 males, 1 female. A slight and comic one-act character sketch of the life of Bohemian artists in Paris, written by one of France's greatest poets and one of her best-known dramatists. Price 25 cents. The Wager. By Giuseppe Giacosa. 4 males, 1 female. This one act poetic comedy, written by the most celebrated dramatist of modern Italy, was the author's first work. It treats of a wager made by a proud young page, who risks his life on the outcome of a g-ame of chess. Price 25 cents. Phormio. A Latin comedy. By Terence. 11 males, 2 females. An up-to-date version of the famous comedy. One of the masterpieces of Latin drama; the story of a father who returns to find that his son has married a slave girl. Phormio, the parasite-villain who causes the numerous comic complications, succeeds in unraveling the difficulties, and all ends happily. Price 25 cents. The L-ittle Shepherdess. A poetic comedy in one act. By Andre Rivoire. 1 male, 2 feinales. A charming pastore.l sketch by a v/ell-known French poet and dramatist. Played with success at the Comedie Francaise. Price 25 cents. The Boor. By Anton Tchekoff. 2 males, 1 female. A well- known one-act farce by the celebrated Russian master; it is concerned with Russian characters, and portrays with masterly skill the comic side of country life. Price 25 cents. The Black Pearl. By Victorien Sardou. 7 males, 3 females. One of Sardou's most famous comedies of intrigue. In three acts. A hovise has, it is thought, been robbed. But through skilful investigation it is found that the havoc wrought has been done by lightning". Price 25 cents. Charming L.eandre. By Theodore de Banville. 2 males, 1 female. In one act. The author of " Gringoire " is here seen in a poetic vein, yet the Frenchman's innate sense of humor recalls, in this satirical little play, the genius of Moliere. Price 25 cents. The Post-Script. By Emile Augier. 1 male, 2 females. Of this one-act comedy Professor Brander Matthews writes: "... one of the brightest and most brilliant little one-act comedies in any language, and to be warmly recommended to American readers." Price 25 cents. 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