•» '■•'\^
SIR PAUL PINDAR AND
OTHER PLAYS.
SIR PAUL PINDAR
AND OTHER PLAYS.
BY
HARRY NEVILLE MAUGHAM.
LONDON : GKANT RICHARDS.
6oZ^
A a
CHISWICK PRESS: — CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
PREFACE.
A PLAY, as is often said, exists for the theatre,
and I feel that some apology is due for a book
containing five long pieces.
My defence would be that the drama is to-
day in a transition stage, and that progress can
only be attained by continued effort and ex-
periment in the most beautiful but most difficult
of all the arts.
H. N. M.
CONTENTS.
I. Sir Paul Pindar.
II. The Mastery of Men.
III. The Landslip.
IV. The Husband of Poverty.
V. The Old and the New.
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
B
THE PERSONS.
James I., King of England.
Sir Paul Pindar, Merchant and ex-Ambassador to Constantinople.
Count Gondomar, Spanish Ambassador to England.
Sir William Cockaigne, a Merchant.
Lawrence Eyton, a poor Gentleman.
Tobias Wheeler, Secretary to Sir Paul.
William Toomes, Cashier.
Ralph Strangeways, Agent at Bilbao.
Dick Pindar, Son to Elizabeth Pindar.
Elizabeth Pindar, Widow of Sir Paul's Brother.
Dorothy Speight, Sister to Elizabeth.
' !- Daughters to Elizabeth.
Anne, J ^
Children, Attendants on the King, Secretary to Gondomar, etc.
Scene: London, 1621.
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
A COMEDY.
ACT I.
The scene, which is the same throughout the play, shows
a lofty room in SiR Paul's mansion in Bishops-
gate Street, Without. To the right is a chimney-
piece of canned oak and stone, adorned by a bas-
relief of Hercules and Atlas, supporting an egg-
shaped globe ; belozv this are tablets illustrating a
stag-hunt, the sides being formed by grotesque
figures in Elizabethan dress. To the left is a large
Damascus cabinet, six feet high. The back of the
stage has a bay window with three divisions, the
middle being the larger of them. On the floor are
Turkey carpets of great value ; the ceiling is covered
with panelled ornamentations, and in the centre are
the Pindar arms, azure, a chevron argent between
three lions' heads erased ermine, crowned or. The
room is furnished according to the period ; on the
walls pictures of the Venetian school ; doors right
and left. As the curtain rises ELIZABETH is
reading to BRIDGET attd Anne.
Elizab?:th. "And as the kin^ lay in his cabin in
the ship, he fell in a slumbering, and dreamed a mar-
vellous dream : him seemed that a dreadful dragon did
drown much of his people, and he came flying out of
the west, and his head was enamelled with a/.ure, anrl
3
.S7A' PAUL PINDAR.
his shoulders shone as gold, his belly like mails of a
marvellous hue, his tail full of tatters, his feet full of
fine sable, and his claws like fine gold ; and an
hideous flame of fire flew out of his mouth "
Bridget. [Interrupting.'] I do not like that story.
Elizabeth. Why do you not like it, Bridget?
When I was your age I dearly loved stories about
knights and giants and dragons. Why do you not
like it?
Bridget. I saw the dragon at Bartholomew Fair
and he was only stuffed with straw.
Elizabeth. I should have been frightened in my
younger days, whatever he was stuffed with. But we
live in new times, I suppose.
Anne, Mother, is Sir William Cockaigne coming
to-day ?
Elizabeth. I do not know, dear.
Anne. Because if he is I must have a riband in
my hair.
Elizabeth. What is the world coming to, when
children talk thus ?
Dorothy. [Without.'] Elizabeth, where are you,
you deaf old thing ?
Elizabeth. Here's your aunt Dorothy.
Dorothy is heard coming upstairs, and enters with
her hands full of parcels.
Dorothy. Take my things, Elizabeth, there's a
dear. That 's the butter ; I made it myself, because
they laughed at me for a town miss ; that's the
lavender water, but you would have bought it as good
or better at the apothecary ; and this pretty nosegay
is for the babes from Alice. Now give your aunt a
kiss, dears, and tell me all the news, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth. How blithe you look, sweet Dorothy.
Dorothy. 'Tis all very well for cousin Paul to
send me down to Sevenoaks to drink warm milk and
ACT I.
smell the peach blossoms, but it 's dull enough, in all
conscience.
Elizabeth. You know that you were looking pale
and worn, and you would not take my remedies.
Dorothy. Thank you. The simples which the
old women used to make in King Harry's time ! Give
me bark from Peru, or limes from the Indies, when
my blood is in rebellion.
Elizabeth. You never think of the poor men who
have to go out on the pitiless seas to serve these new-
fangled notions.
Dorothy. It is right for men to go abroad and
meet rough weather. But what 's the news ?
Elizabeth. There has been trouble about the
apprentices.
Dorothy. There always is trouble about the
apprentices.
Elizabeth. This is a greater matter than has been
hitherto.
Enter TOBIAS with a book.
But Tobias will tell you better than I can,
Tobias. I rejoice to see that you have returned
from your sojourn in the country. Is there anything
of which you stand in need ?
Dorothy. Yes, Tobias, a brave young gallant to
tell me that my dress is pretty.
Tobias. I am no gallant, and I never think of
earthly things on the Sabbath.
Dorothy. My mirror tells me all I want to know.
I suppose I can look at myself in the glass without
asking your leave.
Elizabeth. Do not be unkind to poor Tobias.
Tobias. I desire nothing but your good.
Dorothy. I wish you would go about it in a
plcasantcr way. You should be more like the other
lads.
Tobias. Do you desire mc to jf)in in their thought-
5
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
less pastimes and unseemly riot ? In these last few
days their conduct has gravely imperilled the public
safety.
Dorothy. [Sitting down.'] Tell me all about it, at
once. Why was I not here ? I dearly love a bit of a
scuffle.
Tobias. As far as I know, matters happened in
this wise. It was about a week ago that the Spanish
ambassador was passing down Fenchurch Street in
his litter, whereupon an apprentice, standing by his
master's door, cries out, " There goes the devil to
shear his'swine." This was repeated by one 'prentice
to the other, till one of the ambassador's company
overhearing, said that the knaves should see Bridewell
ere long for their mirth. " What," quoth the 'prentice
nearest him, " shall we go to Bridewell for such a dog
as thou .'' " And he gave him a buffet in the face, and
struck up his heels.
Dorothy. There's a brave English lad. Go on,
Tobias.
Tobias. I regret the violence ; though I cannot
condemn what is just anger against the servants of the
church of Babylon. But to continue, complaint was
made to the Lord Mayor, and sentence was given out
that those concerned should be whipped from Aldgate
through London ; but when the day came a great
number of boisterous youths, headed by some young
lawyers from the Inns, came up Fetter Lane to
Temple Bar, beat the marshalmen, and let the culprits
go free.
Dorothy. Men are beginning to show some
spirit.
Tobias. As soon as the king heard of the matter,
he took post from Theobalds to London, and went to
the Guildhall, where he rated the Mayor and Alder-
man soundly, threatened to put a garrison in the city,
and take away our charter and sword.
Dorothy. Let him come and do it.
Tobias. Thus it came to pass yesterday that the
6
ACT /.
'prentices were whipped, with the Sheriffs and a hun-
dred halberdiers attending the cart, every constable
in his precinct, every householder standing to arms at
his door ; the watch continued
Enter TOOMES with DiCK.
TOOMES. Sweet Mistress Dorothy, fair flower of
the noble city, welcome to you.
Dorothy. [Curtseying.'] Thank you. Master
Toomes. [Kissing DiCK.] Have you been a good boy,
Dicky?
Toomes. Have you heard what brawls we have
had?
Dorothy. Tobias was but now telling me.
Toomes. I took Master Dick this morning to hear
the proclamation read, that no man, so much as by a
look, is to express any irreverence to ambassadors or
strangers.
Dorothy. All this that Prince Charles may marry
a Popish princess !
Toomes. While the proclamation was reading, a
man in the crowd trod upon a Spaniard's foot, where-
upon the Spaniard boxed his ears, and the fellow took
it patiently. But it was not so in the Exchange,
where we presently went, eh, Master Dick ?
Dick. Marry, no. I was talking to my friend,
Lawrence Eyton, when a Spaniard brushed by him,
and Lawrence gave him a wrench round and threw
him down. The ambassador's secretary, too !
ToiJlAS. [Aside.] Lawrence Eyton. I wonder
Dorothy. [Anxioits/y.] What came of it ?
Toomes. Fortunately the crowd opened and some
gentlemen pushed Dicky's friend away. Thus far we
have the advantage.
Dorothy. No one knew his name ?
Toomes. No one except ourselves.
Tobias. Do you know the gentleman ?
Dorothy. [Cou/uscr/.] 1 have met him.
7
S/K PAUL PINDAR.
Dick. He fought in the Low Countries last year. A
regular swashbuckler
TOOMES. Hark to him, a lad of ten.
Dick. Do not you tell anyone about it, Toby.
Tobias. My name is Tobias, if you please.
Dick. If I choose to call you Toby, your name is
Toby. If you mislike it, come on.
Elizabeth. Dicky!
TooMES. He 's a roaring boy, he is, if ever there
there was one ; loves bull-baiting and cock-fighting
as other children love barley sugar.
Elizabeth. Yes, but he ought not to speak dis-
courteously. And go and wash your hands, dear.
The children from over the way are coming in.
Take the little ones down into the garden, good
Toomes, while I go and get them out some dainties.
[Exit Elizabeth, /o//ozaed by Dick express-
ing contempt for Tobias, and ToOMES
with the children. TOBIAS pretends to
continue reading his book.
Dorothy. I am waiting for you to say something
to entertain me.
Tobias. If I had anything to say to you, it
would not be of that nature. It is no business of
mine, but I am not content to see you attired so
gaily.
Dorothy. You are not bound to look at me.
Tobias. It was not so long ago that you asked me
to tell you your faults.
Dorothy. I am sure I never said any such thing.
Besides, you had not turned Puritan then.
Tobias. If I wish to seek a sober way of life, do
you blame me?
Dorothy. Why is it those who cry at vanities in
dress are the chief gainers by what they affect to
despise ? There is not a shop where they sell laces or
feathers which has not a mealy-mouthed Puritan
master,
Tobias. They do not force you to buy.
8
ACT I.
Dorothy. Yes, they do, when they make nice
things. Women are pretty creatures and must have
pretty clothes, and men have to pay for our good
looks with their sorrow. For whatever you pretend
to think, your hearts are bound to go pit-a-pat when
we turn our thoughts to man-baiting.
Tobias. I know it, but such temptations do not
move me.
Dorothy. If you put yourself on a pedestal, take
care not to fall off.
Tobias. You are young and wayward, but I mean
to be your friend, and if you have bestowed your
affections on one who is unworthy of them
Dorothy. What right have you even to think of
the way in which I give my affection ?
Tobias. I know that I am only a poor kinsman of
Sir Paul Pindar's
Dorothy. That is not fair. Were you a rich man
I should be friends with you or not, just as I
pleased.
Tobias. Your manner has altered to me of late.
Dorothy. I was not aware of it. \A noise without?^
Who can that be ?
Sir Paul. [ Without?^ 'Tis a kind thought of your
majesty to come and see my house.
Dorothy. It is the king! I must go and tell
Elizabeth. \Dropping her shoe as she rims out.^ My
shoe, quick, Tobias.
[lixit with Tobias as Sir Paul enters.
King Jamks. \^Oti the staircase.^ You have honest
walls to your house, Sir Paul Pindar. The wind
blows so strong through my palace at Kensington
that I canna lie warm in my bed.
Enter KiNG Jamp:S, attended.
Sir Paul. I would have wished to give your
majesty befitting welcome, but as the householder
9 ^-
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
says in the East, and with full sincerity, everything
here is at your majesty's disposal.
King Jamks. Dinna tempt me, Sir Paul. Per-
adventure I might take a fancy to the diamond you
lend me for my galas. [ leaking a magnificent diamond
from his hat.'] Put it away in your strong box.
Sir Paul. \Ope71ing the cabinet.] This is where my
diamond has its nest.
King James. A curious, fantastical piece of work.
No great contrivance for the securing of it, but the
more subtle the lock, the easier 'tis to undo.
Sir Paul. My diamond is known to all the
jewellers in Holland. Moreover, the lock, though
simple enough, is a secret one.
King James. And you know how to keep a secret
if ever man did. The Great Bashaw could not
wheedle him. [^Giving the diamond with a sigh.] Pliny
tells us that in value the diamond exceeds all other
stones, and that its use was confined to kings, and
to very few among them. Whence had ye the bril-
liant ?
Sir Paul. It was brought to Venice by a merchant
who traded to Grand Cairo
King James. Whither it may have come from the
Tartars in the times of Kubla Khan. [Musingly.]
Every rare diamond hath its history.
Sir Paul. Doubtless this one has seen strange
sights, but all I know of it is that it is called the
Bachelor's Diamond.
King James. 'Tis a valuable charm against the
feckless conceit of women.
Sir Paul. I wonder if it has kept me single.
King James. What said you was its worth in
money ?
Sir Paul. It has been estimated at thirty-five
thousand pounds. [Locking it zip.
King James. I cannot afford such a treasure, but
the merchants of the city can. 'Tis easy with you,
for however scarce money may be, your wares grow
10
ACT I.
dearer and dearer. I have said as much in the book
I wrote for my son, baby Charles.
Sir Paul. Then, sire, may I be permitted to offer
you the diamond at any price it may please your
majesty to mention.
King James. Put the key in your pocket. I could
not buy ihe bauble unless ye lent me the money to
pay for it. But 'tis not only the merchants I rail at ;
I have had to part with my Chancellor Bacon, a man
of erudition and ready wit, though a puir philosopher,
judged beside others that have written in our time.
[He waits for a cojnpliment, then continues testily l\ By
my saule, I know not where to bestow the great seal,
for as for my lawyers, I think they be all knaves.
A scamper is heard on the stairs, and BRIDGET, Anne,
and other children run in.
Bridget. Uncle Paul, uncle Paul.
Sir Paul. These are my sister's children, sire; I
trust their unceremonious approach will be attributed
to their eager loyalty.
Enter ELIZABETH and DOROTHY,
My dear brother's widow and her sister.
King James, These be your bairns, madam ?
Elizabeth. Children, makeobeisance to hismajesty.
This is Bridget, often a bad child, but she came through
her teething beautifully. Anne is the stronger of the
two, I think, but she sometimes screams o' nights.
This is Prudence Scrymgeour, — take your thumb out
of your mouth, child ; these are Mistress Barton's
little ones ; we had hoped to .see their mother, but she
lay in last Thursday of her ninth.
King James. That's a good loyalty, to give mc
honest subjects. Will you not marry ye. Sir Paul ?
Sir Paul, I know not where to seek a wife, unless
I send the town -crier round.
1 1
S/R PAUL PINDAR.
Enter DiCK, followed by TOOMES and Tobias 7vith
Servants. From these ELIZABETH takes wine and
cakes and watts on the KiNG.
King James. What have you been doing, child,
that your eyes are sparkHng so bright ?
Bridget. Playing.
King James. Play me a sweet pretty game. \^To
Sir Paul.] I love to see my subjects delighting
themselves with honest mirth. What will you play
me, catch, round, or forfeit? Come, what do you
know to please your king ?
Anne. We can play " Oats and beans and barley."
King James. We'll not let the Puritans brow-beat
us with their sour discontent. There 's no law, human
pr divine, against joy and laughter.
The Children. [Singing.'\
Oats and beans and barley grow,
Oats and beans and barley grow,
Do you or I or anyone know
How oats and beans and barley grow ?
First the farmer sows his seed.
Then he stands and takes his ease,
Stamps his foot and clasps his hands,
And turns him round to view the land.
Waiting for a partner, waiting for a partner,
Open the ring and let me in.
So now you're married you must obey,
You must be true to all you say,
You must be kind, you must be good.
And help your wife to chop the wood,
Yo-ho, Yo-ho.
King James. [Taking Bridget in his arms.]
Thank you, dear. When you're an old woman, tell
your grandchildren that King Jamie kissed you.
What else do you ken of games ?
Bridget. " Poor Mary sits a-weeping." Uncle
12
ACT I.
Paul plays that with us, though it ought to be a little
girl.
King James. Uncle Paul shall play it now. Get
into the circle, Sir Paul Pindar, Knight.
Anne. You must look sorry, and cry.
The Children. {^Singirig?^^
Poor Mary sits a-weeping, a-weeping, a-weeping,
Poor Mary sits a-weeping on a bright summer's day.
Poor Mary, what are you weeping for, weeping for, weeping for?
Poor Mary, what are you weeping for on a bright summer's day ?
Sir Paul.
I'm weeping for a sweetheart, a sweetheart, a sweetheart,
I'm weeping for a sweetheart on a bright summer's day.
The Children.
Pray, Mary, choose your lover, your lover, your lover.
Pray, Mary, choose your lover on a bright summer's day.
Now you're married, I wish you joy,
First a girl and then a boy,
Seven years after, son and daughter,
Pray young couple, kiss together.
Kiss her once, kiss her twice,
Kiss her three times over.
[ The windows grow red with the sunset.
King James. What a comical, ludicrous sight he
looks. Thank you, little one.s. What a comical
Is this your household, Sir Paul ?
Sir Paul. My treasurer, William Toomes. Tobias
Wheeler, a kinsman and writer in my counting-house.
King James. And this braw lad?
Sir Paul. My nephew, Dick.
King James. What do you mean to be?
Dick. A pirate.
King James. What saith he?
Toomes. A .soldier, your majesty.
King James. \C,ood-huviouredly^ Nay, nay. Your
13
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
king's motto is " Blessed are the peace-makers." No
man gains by war except that he that hath not where-
withal to live in peace. I would admit that there
are disputable doubts in the question. When we
were in the making, child, 'tis true that by the exer-
cise of arms we learnt chivalry, and other knightly
notions ; nay, in days not long gone by, our wars
with the French did weld us into one people, and
against the invader I trow that the sturdy yeoman
and bustling 'prentice would take up their weapons
and deal a mighty blow on any foolish-pated monarch
that thought to set foot on these shores. I will not
tell you, child, the names of those learned men who
have shown the evils of war to a people that lives in a
land where nature is not lavish of her gifts, and all
must be won of her by industry. Thus, child, re-
member my words and ponder over them. If there is
any flaw in my syllogism, I stand open to correction,
but if, as some think and say, your king is one that
hath the wisdom of Solomon without his errors, then,
child, it will be for your welfare to follow his counsels.
There, boy, I did not mean to frighten you.
Dick. [Aside to DOROTHY.] He's such an ugly old
man.
King James. [To create a diversion.'] You will live
snug here, Sir Paul. How long is it that you are
returned to England ?
Sir Paul. 'Tis a year and more.
King James. Are ye content to be back among
our gray dales and heaths after the palazzos of Venice
and the minarets of Istamboul ?
Sir Paul. Do those that have sojourned abroad
find their own country poor in seeming? To me the
day when I set foot in England again will ever be
most memorable. We had sped over from France in
the moonlight with a fair breeze, and 'twas the dawn
when we veered up by Hastings. The birds were
twittering, singing English songs, and the boatmen
welcomed us with ringing English oaths. The newly-
14
ACT I.
wed landlady of the inn was up to meet the
packet
King James. Newly-wed lies late.
Sir Paul. It was her third husband. She put on
the table the lordliest chine of beef and the best small
beer that I have ever made acquaintance with, and we
set forth with our stomachs armoured against the keen
free breezes of this weather-beaten isle. The sun
shone merrily as we urged our horses over the downs
beside the London road, and the game was leaping
as we came by the forest of ancient oaks. Thence the
way turned, and we enjoyed to see the churches with
towers on the hills, with steeples in the vales, those
staunch sentinels of our charitable faith ; we wondered
what old-mannered gentleman dwelt in the demesnes
half seen through the opening parks, builded and
planted in the late queen's reign ; or we sighed for
the decay of the diamond-patterned walls that Harry
Tudor loved. How calm a spirit was that which sat
by the pastures and lands of finest arable worth, that
smiled in the bright running of frequent streams and
gave good-morrow from the lips of waggoner or plough-
man ; and to me the gibbet chains creaked not venge-
fully, and the poor scarecrows hanging there seemed
even in death to have something of an English pride.
But when the noon following we came into the city by
the Lud Gate, to one who had for years seen nothing
of women but bundles like sheeted ghosts, what a
vision were the comely persons, rosy cheeks and
laughing eyes of the ladies of high or low degree, and
I said to myself in a pleasant glow of merriment, wise
were our ancestors to call Britain the storehouse of
treasure, a palace of pleasure, and the home of brave
men and fair women. Thinking on this, it came in
upon my mind that I was to share in this kindly good-
fellowship, and that above all I had the most ample
satisfaction in coming home to know that in the lands
foreign I had done good service for my country and
my king.
15
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
King Jamks. A heart full honest and in no way
tampered with ! Every land hath its good and its
bad, but the maist of those that gang abroad forget the
virtues of their own folk and put on the vices of the
people amongst whom they happen. I have made
thee a knight, and when I have further need of siller,
thou shalt have my leave to furnish it.
Sir Paul. Shall I offer silver to my king when I
have gold and precious stones ?
King James. I was but jesting ; but dinna ye
shame your king by your generosity. Rest ye assured
of my good favour.
Sir Paul. Your majesty has indeed been gracious
to me and mine. [A Page brings a book to the KING.
King James. I had well nigh forgot ; this is my
treatise, " A Counterblast to Tobacco."
Sir Paul. I shall peruse it with all care and
diligence.
King James. If I asked the devil to supper, I
would give him a dish of pork and a pipe of tobacco.
[In a low voice.'] In that matter of the custom dues you
wish to treat for, if my council put the rent too high,
let me know thereof. I'll beat them down, if you'll
make it worth my while. [To Elizabeth.] Dame,
good sleep to you. [As he goes, to SiR Paul.] Poor
Mary ! what a ludicrous comical sight ye were !
[He waves his hand ; all bow or curtsey ; the
children run downstairs^ crying, " God
save the King" which is answered from
without. Sir Paul conducts the KING
with great ceremony. DOROTHY, DiCK,
and Tobias remain.
Dorothy. [Aside.] Never even to look at my
dress !
Tobias. [Aside.] I trust he be not numbered among
the sons of Belial.
Dick. [Aside.] When I'm a pirate I'll take him
prisoner and hold him to ransom.
i6
ACT I.
Enter ELIZABETH and TOOMES.
Elizabeth. Oh that we had had time to make
better provision !
ToOMES. I was trembling for that diamond. Sir
Paul has the spirit of a child for giving away ; if it
had not been for me, it 's long since that he would
have lost all he has.
Enter SiR PAUL.
Sir Paul. Bed-time, bed-time. No prayers on
Sundays, you know that very well. \To ELIZABETH.]
Good night, dear ; good night, Dicky ; good night,
Tobias. And Dicky, leave your thoughts of soldier-
ing till you are a man.
ToOMES. And you take care that the king doesn't
get your diamond.
Sir Paul. The diamond 's safe there for to-night,
at least. What are you thinking of, Dicky? Run
along, now, run along. Good night, Dorothy.
Dorothy. I shall go to bed when I please.
[Exeunt all except SiR PAUL and DOROTHY.
Sir Paul. I am going to smoke a pipe. Pll be all
the more loyal to the king for it.
Dorothy. What was it that I had to say ?
Sir Paul. Did they use you well in the country?
[Aside.] The fairest shepherdess that ever sang her
song. Well, cousin Dorothy?
Dorothy. Please to remember that I am sister to
your sister-in-law. I call you cousin Paul because it
is my will to do so, but you may not call me cousin. I
remember, these poor flowers ! You cannot keep them
here to perish in your plague of smoke. ,
[She puts them outside the window.
Sir Paul. [Aside.] Why do the flowers look so
fair in her hands ?
17 D
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
Dorothy. Good-night, cousin Paul. Are not you
going to kiss mc ? Very well, guardian. \^Exit.
Sir Paul. [A/o^e.] She treats me like a great-
uncle. [He sits down,'] I could read the mind of the
grand Turk, but not a simple girl's.
Re-enter DOROTHY.
Dorothy. [Aside.'] He has net moved them ;
Lawrence will see the signal ! There !
[Kisses Sir Paul on the forehead and runs
out.
Sir Paul. The sweet, candid nature ! I am sure
there is not a secret thought under that pure white
brow. Now for a pipe before I go to bed.
Enter TOOMES, with a basin and napkin.
TOOMES. A little supper, master?
Sir Paul. No thank you, William.
ToOMES. An &a/>er.] I have his name
here ; it is
Lawrence. For that matter, Sir Paul, I may as
well admit that I struck the Spaniard. I am not
afraid to own it. If he desires satisfaction, he can
have it in any way he pleases.
Officer. After that. Sir Paul, I have no alterna-
tive.
Dorothy. [T^ Sir Paul.] Cousin, save him !
GONDOMAR. [Odservi\(^.] There is an alternative.
I do not know, sir, whether in any way you stand in
loco parentis to this young man.
Sir Paul. He is betrothed to a lady of my family.
GONDOMAR. My sense of chivalry would make me
overlook the offence if it were my own, but I have to
be just, as it concerns a member of my household.
You will permit me to confer with my secretary.
49 "
S/R PAUL PINDAR.
Dorothy. [To Sir Paul.] What will they do to
Lawrence ?
Sir Paul. Put him in the Tower, I suppose.
Dorothy. The Tower !
Sir Paul, That's nothing; all the best families
have lodged there. But it would ruin the boy's future
at court. Don't be afraid ; they won't cut his head
off.
Gondomar. [ With a malicious smile.l My secretary
will accept Sir Paul Pindar's apology for his young
friend's offence.
\^The Secretary makes a gesture of triumph.
Sir Paul. {^Controlling himself.'] My apology !
[Aside.] I'll do it for Dorothy's sake. [ With dignity.]
Count Gondomar, I am old enough to be the gentle-
man's father ; what does he wish me to say ?
Lawrence. I shall not permit you to humiliate
yourself for me.
Dorothy. Thank you, Lawrence. {Aside.] If he
hadn't said that I would have taken cousin Paul. I
was falling in love with him at the rate of a hundred
kisses a minute.
Lawrence. I wonder that these gentlemen can
derive any satisfaction from words.
Gondomar. Sir, you forget our Spanish pride.
Sir Paul. {Calmly and nobly.] We do not forget
it, and it was not so long ago that it sailed out to con-
quer us, with a result which left us well content. I
would be the first to admit the grandeur of Spain in
enterprise and action, but the virtue of the pride
which led her to the discovery of new worlds has been
made null by the tyranny which that pomp of power
has become. For the consciousness of mastery gives
no right to oppress, but compels the duty of mercy
and goodwill towards those whom we have overcome.
Step by step in the past we have met you as we shall
meet you again, and even as Spanish pride never has
been, so will it never be a match for British fortitude.
Gondomar. {Hiding his pique.] I was proposing an
SO
ACT III.
accommodation, I did not wish to discuss a rivalry in
which I am very sure my illustrious friend, his Majesty
King James, has no part.
Sir Paul. [Aside.] He's nobbled the king. We
know that well enough.
Lawrence. I shall go with the officer. I do not
ask any forbearance.
GONDOMAR. [To Dorothy.] I shall see that the
gentleman is dealt with most leniently ; but for the
sake of the form
[Dorothy turns her back on him and goes to
La\vrence.
Sir Paul. [Ainused?[ The little minx.
The Officer. Are you ready, sir?
Sir Paul. [Suddenly?^ I'll do it ; I'll do it. I can't
ask to speak to him alone, unfortunately. [To GONDO-
MAR.] Count, before you take an irrevocable decision,
I think it would be well for you to read this letter,
from which you will see [weighing his words] that
there can be no charge against my friend.
GONDOMAR. [Suspiciously^ I should be greatly
surprised
Sir Paul. I shall take it as an act of courtesy if
you will read it.
GONDOMAR. [Reading the letter!] Sir Paul, I am
greatly obliged to you. This communication explains
everything. [He hesitates, then gives the letter to his
Secretary.] With Sir Paul Pindar's permission, this
shall be filed in our archives.
Sir Paul. [Reluctantly.] By all means.
GONDOMAR. [To the Officer.] Sir, I am happy to
inform you that I shall not require any further assist-
ance. I have acquired the certitude that there can
be no charge against Mr. Lawrence Eyton.
[Exit Officer with watch.
Lawrence. [To Sir Paul.] I am quite ready to
apologize now.
Sir Paul. You young rogue, I have proved con-
clusively that you had nothing to do with the matter.
51
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
GoNDOMAR. [ To Lawrence.] You will permit me
to congratulate you, sir. [^He whispers to his Secretary.]
Now, Sir Paul.
[^The Secretary bows to SiR PAUL, but passes
Lawrence angrily and exit.
Sir Paul. Now, children, run away.
Dorothy. I must give you a kiss first. I won't
be denied. {Exit with LAWRENCE.
Gondomar. Sir Paul Pindar, I understand why
you were so much envied at Constantinople. You
observed that it was necessary for the protection of
my honour to make the letter in a measure public by
handing it to my secretary ?
Sir Paul. No one could suggest that Count Gon-
domar would accept
Gondomar. Or Sir Paul Pindar offer
Sir Paul. Any excuse other than a proper one.
[Aside.] All the same, I bribed him with my bit of
news.
Gondomar. I hope I can rely on the accuracy of
your correspondent. The news comes very
Sir Paul. A ship can sail from the Peninsula in
six days with a favourable wind. To-day is the
9th of April. His Majesty King Philip the Third died
on the 31st of March. I can assure you that not even
at the court do they have such speedy news of im-
portant events as we merchants of the city. In the
ordinary course I should have communicated the
news to the king. But perhaps your excellency
wishes to take certain dispositions
[Pointing to a chair.
Gondomar. [Sitting down.] I am well aware that
the decease of my august master will give my enemies
an opportunity to endeavour to supplant my in-
fluence. My secretary, who under a modest exterior
hides a supreme knowledge of court intrigue, will
travel day and night to Madrid. I am particularly
obliged for the news, as I have the issue of my task
in England to defend. Since we understand each
52
\
ACT III.
other so well, let me ask Sir Paul Pindar's support for
a project beneficial to the future of both countries,
the alliance of Prince Charles of England to the
Infanta of Spain.
Sir Paul. The parliament will never consent.
GONDOMAR. If I could get the parliament to pro-
test, I should be sure of King James.
Sir Paul. Do you think it wise to set a king and
the representatives of his people at variance ?
Enter TOOMES hurriedly.
TOOMES. The king is outside in a great turmoil,
saying, " They're murdering the Spanish ambassador !"
Enter KING jAMES alone. Exit ToOMES.
King James. My dear Count Gondomar, you're
safe and sound, and not murthered, you're not mur-
thered ? The Lord be praised. I heard at the
Mansion House that an armed mob had insulted you,
and you had been compelled to take refuge in Sir
Paul's house.
Gondomar. Most kind and noble sovereign, your
solicitude touches me deeply. The wisdom of your
recent measures has obviated all my difficulties. My
visit to Sir Paul Pindar was one of the most friendly
nature.
King James. I am right glad to hear it. \To Sir
Paul.] Don't let that diamond go.
Sir Paul. [Ruefully.'] No chance of that, sire.
Gondomar. Your Majesty will permit me to speak
on an urgent matter in Sir Paul's presence. Owing
to the facilities he has for acquiring speedy informa-
tion, he can always verify news of importance. I have
to inform your Majesty that my august master, Philip
the Third, died in his palace on the 31st of March
last.
53
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
Sir Paul. \_lHa good-Jiu))iouredaside.\ He's turned
the tables on me with a vengeance.
King James. Count Gondomar, I deplore the loss
to Spain and to myself. How got you the news so
quick ?
Gondomar. A ship can sail from the Peninsula in
six days with a fair wind. To-day is the 9th of
April.
King James. You, Sir Paul, who boast of your
means of information, you cannot do this for me.
Sir Paul. I fear I cannot compete with his
excellency.
King James. There were portents and wonders that
predicted the demise of a great personage.
Gondomar. His Majesty's last wish was that the
union of England and Spain might grow closer and
closer.
Sir Paul. [Aside.] That 's a downright
King James. Time slips away before our purposes
are achieved.
Gondomar. But Spain remains the arbiter of the
fortunes of Europe, with no power to match her but
that of England. Your Majesty remembers that King
Philip the Second, of glorious memory, had to do
with the greatest Christian princes, and maintained
wars in France, Germany, the Low Countries, Hungary,
and against the Turks, and found an adversary worthy
of his steel in England alone. Notwithstanding these
contests, Spain lost not one jot of her territories ; and
if the two great powers — there are but two — were
joined by a tie of affection in the persons of their
rulers, Spain and England would give laws to the
whole of Christendom.
King James. Yes, yes. [C/ndedded/j/.] What say
you to that, Sir Paul ?
Sir Paul. What advantage is there in giving laws
to the whole world ? It is hard enough to rule our own
household, let alone that of others. I see this plain
writ in history, that the longing for universal dominion
54
ACT III.
is the will-o'-the-wisp which leads to ruin. I have
faith that if your Majesty desires to conquer new
territories it will be to make the races thereof free
and not subject. Your Majesty is sure of the love of
your people, what other alliance is necessary? It was
but the other day that your subjects gave signal
proof of their devotion and loyalty.
King James. After I had consented to reform the
monopolies ! But it is true that for the first time in
my reign there was an admirable concord between us.
\Musing^ I, myself, did shed tears, and told them I
was at length happy, having been eighteen years en-
throned in the kingdom, and having lived to see my-
self enthroned in my people's hearts. They're a dour
proud race and hard to rule, but when I'm gone, please
God, they'll not say I was a bad king.
Sir Paul. Sire, this moment of good understanding
is the one in which the links of affection may be
forged indissolubly. We are past the days when the
stubbornness of the ruled needed an iron hand ; 'tis
by the patient wisdom of the king and the loyalty of
his advisers that the commonweal is established and
the nation made one body. Thus, sire, you will sit
enthroned with Peace holding the laurel over your
head. Commerce showering her gifts before you,
Prudence, Safety, and Quiet smiling near, and Liberty
soaring up into the sky to trumpet forth your praise.
GONDOMAR. Sir Paul Pindar has a sturdy faith in
the goodness of men in general. My fear is that a
mild king makes an ungrateful people.
Sir Paul. I believe that there's a general goodness
in the breed, unless years of oppression and falseness
have branded it out. If we could look clearly on the
crystal of destiny we should see whether your philo-
sophy or mine be the wiser.
King James. Sir Paul, you're a gude man. [//^
starts and bends forward with outstretched hand.'] But
what means this pi[jc ?
Sir Paul. Let mc not think I have offended your
55
SIR PAUL PINDAR.
Majesty. [Asiif^.] That miserable bit of clay may
have prevented the good mind I was gaining him to.
— I repeat once more that if ever the day came, which
God forbid, I would give myself freely for your Majesty.
To-day I would only speak such warnings as are
prompted by my loyalty.
King James. {Breaking the pipe.'] I thank you, Sir
Paul, but the king rules alone. [Aside.] I'll ask Steenie
if he thinks it would be good to have him on the
council.
GONDOMAR. I fear that even the worthiest subjects
of your Majesty do not appreciate the state-craft and
the incredible harmony of wisdom and tact in which
King James is eminent, above all Christian princes.
Sir Paul. [Aside.] 'Tis ever so, our enemies have
a thousand weapons, our friends have one, truth.
King James. I must get back to Westminster to
give directions for the court mourning.
Enter DOROTHY and LAWRENCE.
Sir Paul. I will ask your Majesty's favour for
these young people
King James. Lovers, I trow. I have as keen an
eye for them as for witch-finding.
\_The King speaks to them while GONDOMAR
draws SiR PAUL aside.
GONDOMAR. [Affably^ Would you like to know
who informed me of the name of my secretary's
assailant ?
Sir Paul. I can guess.
GONDOMAR. I should have no compunction in
telling you.
Sir Paul. I shall convict him out of his own
mouth.
GONDOMAR. You will excuse the use I made of
your information ?
Sir Paul. I am very well content, your excellency,
56
ACT III.
for every triumph you have with his Majesty does but
bring the conclusion nearer.
GONDOMAR. What conclusion, may I ask?
Sir Paul. The recoil of over-subtlety. The very
finesse and skill you are so rich in will destroy your
projects.
GoNDOMAR. Did you not find subtlety of use at
the court of the Grand Signior ?
Sir Paul. I will tell you the whole secret of my
success. If a man has a long beard the Turks rever-
ence him and call him wise. I let my beard grow.
My sister made me cut it off when I came home, but
it had served its purpose.
Gondomar. Sir Paul, if I were not a Spaniard I
should wish to be an Englishman.
Sir Paul. If I were not an Englishman, I should
wish to be one.
King James. Then I bid you, besides these counsels
in matters of custom, likewise every day to read
prayers to your household, especially reading and
expounding the morning and evening lesson from
the sacred book. For now that it is translated into
the vulgar tongue and generally accessible, we have
no excuse for perversity, seeing that the river of
sacred truth is disencumbered of the weeds of ancient
verbiage or unscholarly ignorance. It hath always
been an observance with me to read my chapter
every morning to keep me out of harm's way, for it is
likely that the people will imitate the king in good,
but it is sure that they will follow him in evil. Thus
my good wishes go with my sage admonestations,
and fare ye well. Come, Gondomar.
{^Exit the King with GoNDOMAR, SiR Paul
showing the way.
Dorothy. If we had to be judged by our words
alone and not by our actions too, how much easier it
would be.
57
.S7A' PAUL PINDAR.
Enter EhlZATiV.Tn with Bridckt atid A^NE, /o//ozi'ed
by TOOMES.
TOOMES. Have they gone ? Humph, nothing seems
to be missing.
Dorothy. What have you been doing, Bridget
dear?
Bridget. Playing all by myself.
Elizabeth. Where is Dicky ? \^A sob is heard out-
side. Elizabeth runs to the door and brings DiCK m.]
My poor dear child, what have you done to your hand ?
Enter SiR PAUL with COCKAIGNE.
Sir Paul. I am afraid you'll have a poor dinner.
What is it, Dicky ?
Elizabeth. Has he been fighting? He won't tell
what it is.
Dick. I've been a bad boy, and uncle Paul wouldn't
give me a whipping, so I made the monkey bite me
instead.
Elizabeth. What did you do that was naughty ?
Sir Paul. Mamma isn't to know. Dicky and I
are the best of friends now.
Dick. [/« a whisper."] Have you found it ?
Sir Paul. [Patting his head.] Don't be troubled,
boy. It will turn up.
Cockaigne. [To Toomes.] People talk of the
flavour of ham as if there were not a thousand flavours
in a good ham.
Enter Ralph Strangeways.
Sir Paul. Welcome. This is Ralph Strangeways,
my new agent at Venice.
58
ACT III.
Enter Man-servant 'cvith a dish of roast beef stuck with
rosemary, and other Servants with dishes.
[Sniffing.'] Why, William Toomes, you do your
marketing in fine style.
Toomes. In honour of the day. Don't you know
it 's your birthday ?
Sir Paul. So it is, I'm fifty-four to-day.
Enter Tobias, who starts back in seeing LAWRENCE
with Dorothy.
Tobias, where have you been all this morning ?
Tobias. I have not stirred away from my desk.
Sir Paul. That is untrue. I am grieved to see
that beginning as an eavesdropper, you become a
sneak, and end as a liar. Look at those happy lovers,
let that be your punishment.
Tobias. I loved Dorothy too well ; I thought I
was acting for her good.
Sir Paul. That is no excuse. If you had loved
her truly you would have done all you could to
shield the man she loved. Tell me not that you are
a Puritan ; I know the sect. I know they are punct-
ilious in honour, and pure in thought as in deed.
But you thought to have the pride of an austere life,
without seeing that you were full of conceit and false-
ness.
Dorothy. You've fallen off your pedestal, best
pick up the remnants of yourself and take them away.
It's your cowardly conduct towards Lawrence that
makes me despise you.
Tobias. Have I done wrong? Am I cast out
from this happy home ? I declare that I tried to do
right. Why is it so ea.sy for you, who are careless of
religion, and so hard for me, who have watched with-
out ceasing?
Dick. \Strclrhi)ig nut his hnnd.A I'm sorry for ynn,
Tobias.
59
.SYA' PAUL PINDAR.
Sir Paul. [Aside.'] The lad has learnt his lesson.
Tobias. Thank you, Master Dick. Perhaps you've
saved a drowning man by saying that.
\_He gives a last despairing look at DOROTHY
and exit.
Sir 1'aul. Cockaigne, I ought not to have dropped
you in to this business.
COCKAIGNK. The fellow's put me quite in the
dumps. Hare is melancholy meat, but 'tis nothing
to the taste of Puritan.
ToOME.S. Never mind, I've ordered the waits from
Southwark. [Aside to SiR PAUL.] We'll make it up
to you for the loss of that diamond.
Dorothy. What have you got in your hand,
Bridget ?
Bridget. Somesing I found in the garden.
Lawrence. I do believe it 's the
\X>OROT MY puts her hand on his mouth.
Dorothy. Aren't you going to say anything to
uncle Paul ? [Bridget zualks icp to SiR PAUL.
Bridget. Is it your birfday?
Sir Paul. Yes, sweet coz.
Bridget. Shall I give you a p'esent ? Shut your
eyes.
[She takes his hand and puts the diamond
there and closes his hand over it and seals
it with a kiss.
Sir Paul. May I look now? Good gracious me,
it 's the diamond. Dicky, look at what your sister
Bridget has given me.
Dorothy. We all wish you many happy returns of
the day. Sir Paul Pindar.
[ The Waits strike up the air of"^ Summer is
y-comen in " as the curtain falls .
Dyinchurch., 1898.
6n
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
THE PERSONS.
Hatasu, Queen of Egypt.
Tehutimes II., King, cousin to
Hatasu.
Tehutimes, Prince Royal, brother
to the King.
Meri, wife to the Prince.
Nesesta, Governor of Thebes.
Pakhar, Chief Scribe.
Senpoer, Physician to the Prince.
Phanres, a Captain.
Urtasen, Royal Nurse.
Nefert, a Lady in waiting.
A Doctor,a Chamberlain, Steward,
Harper.
Soldiers, Ladies, Courtiers, Slaves.
Scene : Thebes. Date, b.c. 1600 {area).
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
A TRAGEDY.
PROLOGUE.
The Queen's bedchamber. Night. The OUEEN sits
alone.
Hatasu.
FOR the anger of a lioness ;
The venom-striking tooth of basilisk ;
The puny dagger of the scorpion tribe :
Nay, women have them all ! There 's power to sting
Where there is gall to hate. These days together
1 lash my pride with a flail bound of the scorns
Thrown at me ; for the chance-sped words of malice
Have cut my heart so deep, that, like a child
Playing about the temple portals, I
Can put my finger in to see how deep
The iron went. Tehutimes, my king
And husband, shall I learn to loathe my.self
Because you are a weakling ? Where 's my boast
To be my father's child ; do I forget
That he, the conqueror of men, allowed
Me su/.crain rule while yet he lived ? Jiut you,
The crowned ape and zany, curb me in.
To make me subject ! Once on a dull day
In very weariness I spurned myself,
And in a meek abasement fawned on you :
I never drank so deep of self-disgust ;
There was some pleasure in your vexed surprise
To find my mocking bitterness coine back
63
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Increased an hundred-fold ! All things are mine,
Divine inheritance of the Sun-God's life,
Of Ra, whose largess makes the springtime glad ; —
Many do envy me to see the sceptre
That I hold in my hand ; but why am I
Thus meanly mated ? Is my nature cold ?
There is no man in Egypt, there 's the pity.
To make me cry with joy of passionate tears,
" Thou art my master." For this puppet king
Who has twice times a woman's vanity
And not by half the bravery of a man —
Yet stay, are men so masterful and brave ?
Where is their warrant ? I begin to live
In unconsidered possibilities ;
Where all seemed clear, all now is to be read.
Sometimes to ask a question is to have
Its answer ; what is the mastery of men ?
There 's woman of all kinds, and the she-lion
Is worthier than the jackass ; we are beasts
As for our bodies, and I kinship hold.
Though feminine, to some more royal breed,
The leopard or the eagle, while he is kin
Unto the meaner sort. Women and men
Are spoused against their natures, and the strong
Would have assertion, save that among mortals
There is repression that the forest-free
And generous brutes would scorn. Would I were king.
To rule this people with inspiring power,
Send pioneers into untravelled seas,
Teach life's monotony to give delight
Year in, year out to all, and fire the land
With pageants of a high magnificence
To know its greatness and in peace excel
The splendour of its warlike memories.
And at the ending of my earthly music
To know my name graven eternally
Upon the land's fair forehead in great works
Won for my subjects, offered to the gods ! —
Would 1 were king !
64
PROLOGUE.
Enter TehvTIMES II.
Tehutimes II.
What stench of sultry heat ;
Whining of cats and omens in the air.
Could I but sleep as my young brother yonder.
Where are your women ?
Hatasu.
Gone to rest this while.
Tehutimes II.
You huddle them away ere I return
Hatasu.
I will call them up for you.
Tehutimes II.
No, let them snore.
You are flushed to-night and fair, that clinging robe
Is eloquent in your praise. 'Tis verily true,
You are the finest wench and rarest morsel
Of all the comeliness that walks my town
Hatasu.
Then sell me in the market.
Tehutimes II.
By Osiris
I would be rid of your vexatious temper,
I had rather have a scorpion for my wife !
Hatasu.
Strange, but I thought of scorpions, they can sting
With deathly purpose.
Tehutimes II.
What was it I said ?
— Like you my bracelets ?
Hatasu.
You are not a woman,
To have your gauds admired.
65 K
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Tehutimes II.
Be not so bitter ;
I have to sit with my ministers all day
To hear their long reports, or the priests lead me
To their interminable ceremonies,
Making my life a burden ; at the night
I might enjoy relief of joyous laughter.
With wine and song.
Hatasu.
How do I stop your way ?
Tehutimes II.
Your cold clear eye dismays me, and I go
To seek a welcome
Hatasu.
Where, 'twere best not said.
Tehutimes II.
I bear a dagger on me.
Hatasu.
Do you hold
Your person precious ?
Tehutimes II.
If I were to die,
On an ill-omened day, the boy, my brother,
Would take the throne ; you would not gain advantage,
Although 'twould pleasure you. But I consider
My life for my own sake. I greatly fear
The eye of death, I quake to think of it.
Why was this terror sent to mar our lives?
Hatasu.
That fools might sooner come to lasting silence.
Tehutimes II.
I thank the gods I am no fool. — But listen,
I have a plea to make.
66
PROLOGUE.
Hatasu.
Kings should command.
Tehutimes II.
There is a fair slave of Phoenicia,
Whom, with some other useful merchandise,
I bought of Pakhar, — this bracelet was a part.
The woman lacks not grace and should attend you
As chamberwoman
Hatasu.
To spy out my thoughts ;
Or with deceitful art to make me fair
Decking me out as plaything of desire ;
And when you grew aweary of queen
The maid would serve your longings ! Do you dare
To think this foulness ?
Of all your jibes.
Tehutimes II.
You exceed the worst
Hatasu.
How sweet a thing is truth.
Tehutimes II.
Then if it were my thought, is there no custom-
Hatasu.
Of all the dotard tyrannies among us
The lewdest rake is custom I
Tehutimes II.
Happy custom !
Yea, if I chose to have a loyal servant.
For yours arc bought already, if I chose
To take the fair Phoenician to my arms —
You will have none of mc, and yet are jealous !-
Nay, made you wait on her to deck her out
For my delight
6;
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Hatasu.
O king, you shame yourself,
Not me, in speaking thus. But I must think
Upon this insult.
Teiiutimes II.
Are you the crown of Egypt ?
Are you the master here or I ? What say you,
Would you be king ? Answer.
Hatasu.
I would be king !
Tehutimes II.
Hear her, a woman ! This time the laugh is mine.
I will have you know that you are but my chattel.
And you must learn to fear me.
Hatasu.
Learn to fear you ?
Tehutimes II.
Why look you so intent ?
Hatasu.
I will be king. \^Stabs him.
How well a blow relieves the tortured heart ! [He falls.
Osiris, mighty warder of the dead,
I have slain a man. A sorry .soul it is
That comes to thee, I do acquit myself;
If justice dwells among the gods they too
Will purge me of the guilt. The ages made.
But a moment slew this man. I feel no pity.
Save as to think he had a corporal joy
Like other living bodies. That is fled.
He is carrion now. Did he deserve the blow ?
The mightiest hate is but a whispered word
In death's enormous silence. Tehutimes!
How easily he died. I draw rich breath,
A gentle warmth is in the palms of my hands ;
6Z
PROLOGUE,
By right of battle I have won my crown,
I looked him in the eyes. Ho there, without !
No secrecy, for all must know this deed.
Etiter Urtasen.
The king is stricken sore. [Asz'de.] Why do I lie ?
Yet how to tell the truth ? Send for the doctor,
The chamberlain ; stand not there like a fool,
It is a fever.
Urtasen.
Fever, O my queen.
From which there never is a wakening.
I have seen many deaths, for I am old.
Do you not see ?
Hatasu.
Surely, I struck the blow.
Urtasen.
My child, what have you done .-* Let us make haste
To get from hence — I have a charm to save you
Hatasu.
Myself is magical in hidden powers
Did I require them. Stay, old Urtasen ;
You once did bear me on your bounteous breast ;
Will you refuse me now ?
Urtasen.
Shall I obey
To your unmaking .''
Hatasu.
liring the household here,
I'll buy or charm them to obedience,
Urtasen.
You stand full royally and without fear
09
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Beside this dreadful deed. Forgive my speech,
I do your bidding.
[Taking the dagger from hcr^ she hides it,
and exit.
HATASU.
Is this horrible ?
A man's life more or less when pestilence
Reaps thousands in a night and warfare hurls
Armies to swift destruction ! What are we
Amid the ebb and flow, the centuries
That tread upon each other's heels ? O Life,
If thou hast once looked up unto the skies
And breathed the keen, sweet odour of the dawn,
If thou hast taken to thy lips the cup
That holds the wine of the mystery of being.
Thou goest down into sepulchral night
Nor all unsatisfied. Thou speechless form,
Already making ferment of corruption,
I must now neither hate nor pity thee ;
Spirit that journeyest to the ebon gate
And hall of reckoning, thy flight has passed
Beyond all earthly powers : thus fare thee well !
Enter Pakhar with the DOCTOR, the CHAMBERLAIN
and Urtasen.
Urtasen.
Cover the face and lay him on the bed.
Hatasu.
Hearken, my lords, nor think me bereft of reason,
Nor lacking in the sense of what is due
Unto the king, myself, the state and people,
Till you have heard. I speak in briefest wise ;
The king is dead, I slew him. I declare
I killed my husband for a foul affront,
A thing unbearable, not to be borne.
That goes beyond the telling.
70
PROLOGUE.
The Doctor.
He is dead,
The heart was pierced.
Hatasu.
My fame is in your hands,
I killed my husband for a foul affront,
A thing unbearable, not to be borne.
That goes beyond
Tehutimes. [ Without:\
Tehutimes, my brother.
URTASEN.
It is the child who cries in sleep.
Hatasu.
In sleep }
Or did he wake, and, waking, see and hear }
Wait. No ; I have no quarrel with the child. {Exit.
Pakhar.
This may consolidate us in our seats
Or throw us down ; 'twere best to follow her
Where'er she leads.
Hatasu. {Without:\
Dear child, your brother sleeps,
You must not wake him, do not be afraid ;
You would not have him think you fear the dark !
The Chamberlain.
We cannot set her on a throne whose steps
Are stained with royal blood.
The Doctor.
She could not look
Into the eyes of childhood if her heart
Had no justification
The Chamijerlain.
In the law
71
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
The throne comes to the young Tchutimes ;
I will go warn the soldiery.
Pakhar.
Speak not
Of murder then, it is not profitable
To be a queen's accuser.
The Chamberlain.
That is wise,
I will but say the king is sick to death.
[Aside.'] If she were queen, my place would not be
sure. [Exit.
Pakhar.
I drew the fangs from this man's eagerness
Urtasen.
The queen does not forget her friends, good Pakhar.
Pakhar.
Nor her enemies. This was the bracelet
I bargained to his Majesty this noon.
Urtasen. [Covering tlte dody.]
Rob the living if you will, but not the dead !
EnUr Hatasu.
Hatasu.
My lords, I am resolved to take the crown ;
My blood is elder, for my husband was
Cousin to the royal blood, but I drew life
Of the untainted spring of sovereignty.
Pakhar.
With loyal joy, O queen, we bow to you.
Be well assured of our firm resolution
To put this strange and dreadful accident
Out of our memories, our dreams, our prayers !
72
PROLOGUE.
Hatasu.
Your honest loyalty shall have reward.
Observe, I made no plea. I charge you, Pakhar,
With all things needful. First, bring me the captains,
But use no bribe, the event 's too great for that.
You, doctor, get your colleagues to avouch
The sudden deadliness of this disease,
And find a name to hide it. {Exit the DOCTOR.
Pakhar.
The chamberlain
Is gone — not to proclaim the royal death,
I warded that — but to get the young prince aid.
Hatasu.
Maut is your friend ?
Pakhar.
I stand indebted to him
For what I am and for what I possess.
Hatasu.
Send slaves to lure him to some secret place,
Hack off his hands, cut out his lying tongue ;
His wealth is yours.
Pakhar.
His wealth, most generous queen
Hatasu.
The Prince Tchutimes must be conveyed
Swiftly into the marshy land of Buto,
Send gold to soothe the priestly conscience there -
Pakhar.
Or relics coveted
Hatasu.
Twcre better — go. \Rxit Pakhar.
71 L
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Urtasen.
VVouldst thou not be a beggar with h'ght heart
To have the king alive and this undone ?
HATASU.
No, for I challenged him to have his crown,
And in my person will I ever challenge
The mastery of men. Too long the woman
Was wanton, plaything, slave. I have rebelled
And I am free. In what do men excel us?
Are their wits nimbler? Have they bravery
To wait, or greater steadfastness or cunning?
There is none to conquer me : I can but reign.
I am like unto the Lady of the Storms,
Who planteth ruin where she goeth, she
That on the countenances of the gods
Cast shadow of fear. My presence and my pride
Shall hold the land ; I will be terrible
As never king was. If there is a man
Who will not kiss my knee, let him make answer
By earth-compelling wonders and exploits
To meet the crested wave of the defiance
Wherewith I challenge the mastery of men.
Urtasen.
Long have I lived, but never heard such words.
Enter Soldiers.
Hatasu.
Most noble captains, by a dread mischance
Of fell contagion the king has died ;
The doctors of the palace now confer
To learn if treachery has crossed our threshold ;
Meanwhile it is your duty to enforce
Stern discipline of order, while I, in pity
For this poor orphaned land, which needs strong rule,
Will cast aside my womanhood to be
74
PROLOGUE.
Your king. Seek me the sceptre and the crown,
The diadem and the beard, for here before you
I say the trappings of authority
Are mine from this day forth. Open the doors,
And let the priests come with their offerings.
\^Exit as the Priests enter.
Hymn of the Dead.
Osiris, Osiris,
King of eternity, weigher of righteousness, judge of the dead,
Osiris, Osiris,
O thou that givest comfort to the perfected souls,
Open the way to this soul that entereth.
[ The Priests take up the body on a bier and
carry it out. Pakhar enters with the
Chamberlain.
The Chamberlain.
The hounds he loved were baying piteously
When I went by their kennels.
Pakhar.
His sole mourners.
But since we must not wait to fill the throne,
I will support the prince by all right means ;
Let us bring him to the people.
The Chamberlain.
Can I trust you?
Pakhar.
Whom else? All that I am I owe to you.
\Exit with the Chamberlain as Hatasu
enters, in man's apparel, wearing the
crown and beard.
Hatasu.
I am your king to lead you in array
Of battle as of old. Have you forgotten
My great unconqucrcd father?
75
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
A Captain.
Nay, O queen.
Hatasu.
Then be my warriors, and with one accord
Give me your fealty.
Captains.
Long live the King !
Enter the DOCTOR.
Hatasu.
You have conferred ?
The Doctor.
The body has been laid
In the Hall of Vermilion, where the priests will watch
Until the skilled embalmers come to do
Their hateful work. The end was natural.
Hatasu.
'Twas strange that he should die thus suddenly ;
The doctor's words relieve me of the dread
That poison or a coward blow had sought
The lofty mark. I freely breathe again.
Think me not tearless that I do not grieve ;
'Tis that I need my fullest strength of will.
Enter Pakhar.
Pakhar. [Aside to the QUEEN.]
I have enticed the chamberlain away ;
In half an hour with your own eyes you shall
Behold his powerlessness.
Hatasu. [Aside to him.]
Why are you pale ?
76
PROLOGUE.
PakHAR. \^Aside to the QUEEN.]
He cursed the gold. The Prince Tehutimes
Has left the palace with a trusty troop ;
I saw them speed their swiftly-pacing camels
Upon the northward way.
Hatasu. \^Aloud:\
My preparations
To insure the safety of the infant Prince
Have all been taken ; and my couriers ride
Toward the outpost towns to warn them lest
Any our tributaries cast their yoke ;
And I will curb the evildoers' rage
Here in great Thebes. I will instruct my subjects
To know my power ; but I will 'stablish him
Who is at one with me ; the land shall grow
Till the earth's confines are our boundaries ;
I will hold festival with my chosen warriors,
There shall be joy in the palace and song in the
temples,
For the living gods shall be full of delight in my time.
All.
Long live the King !
Hatasu.
I thank you for your love,
I thank you all. Now leave me, I will sleep.
Urtasen. \Astonished^
I will go fetch her ladies to the queen.
Hatasu.
Henceforth I must not have them to attend me,
Nor shall you call me aught at all but king.
No soft -eyed maidens shall my pillow set,
But warriors armed stand by my couch till day.
\Excuiit.
77
ACT I.
Twelve years have passed.
TJie entrance of tJie avenue of sphinxes leading to the
temple built by Hatasu to the Goddess Hathor
under the sandstone cliff on the west side of the
Nile.
The Women of the Sacred College descend the
steps and meet the Priests of Amen, who bear the
sacred barque of the Sun.
Hymn of the Priests of Amen.
Prince of precious Araby,
Master of the flaming sky,
Sire and son and lord of kings,
And establisher of things !
Strong in valour, lord of storms,
God of many wondrous forms,
Eldest born of early dew,
Sweet in scent and fair in hue I
King of health and shining light.
Lord of knowledge and of might.
Mystic of a hidden shrine,
Prince of joy and love divine !
May thy light upon us rest,
Be thy peace in every breast,
May in us thy strength be shown.
Everlasting, only one !
Grant that I may behold
Thy dawn at every day,
When, radiant hawk of gold,
Thou risest on thy way ;
When on the holy mountain rests
Thy disk to light our hearts and eyes,
And waves with gorgeous-lustred crests
Break in the river of the skies ;
78
ACT I.
And Horus, flushing, every limb
With flowers entwined, grows softly warm,
And gods of roseate aspect hymn
Thy life-renewing form.
At noontide of thy strength, how bright art thou above,
While fainting reed and flower droop in thy piercing love.
The cattle pant by the water-mill ;
The fair expanses of the sky
To a passionate pallor thrill ;
And the sycamore breathes heavily.
Thus to the place that thou lovest thou comest once more.
And takest thy boat all night by the hidden shore ;
Through hundreds of thousands of years untold
Thou comest and goest, past and to be,
But that is a moment of time to hold
In the hand of thee.
Thou art the Lord of the palm-trees, the Nile obeys thy will,
All the sweet things of the daylight with glory thou dost fill.
Thou watchest the sleep of the peoples and makest the grain to
grow,
Thou hidest the gold in the mountains and biddest the ocean
flow.
Thou givest to men their petitions, and hearest the prayer that
calls.
Thou helpest the weak with the mighty, and stayest the step
that falls.
The spirits of the lands in joy acclaim
Thy wonder-working fire and crystal name ;
When thou risest mortals live,
And every voice thy praise doth give ;
Thee never-changing order does embrace
At morn and eve to glorify thy face ;
And to thy favouring glances turn
The generations yet unborn.
Hail ! king of wonder, lord of joys and fears.
Who sittest in the boat of countless years ;
Thou secret pilgrim of llic south and norlli.
Praised in thy going as thy coming forth ;
O perfect sou! and sacred flower, lord of eternity,
Hail, hail to tlice I
79
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
IV/iik tJie hymn is being sung, enter the procession of
Hatasu, with Soldiers of the Bodyguard, Fan-
bearer, and Quiver-bearer.
Hatasu, ivith the staff and crow 71 of a kingy
carried in her throne-chair, luith Children throw-
ing flowers, afid Captives fo//owing.
Procession of the PRINCESS Meri and her
Attendants.
Prince Tehutimes enters at the head of
his Officers, followed by Senpoer, Nesesta,
Courtiers and Ladies waving palm branches.
Front without a noise of the people cheering.
Hatasu.
I, the King Hatasu, the Lord of Egypt,
Who take my tributes from the north and south,
To all the peoples who drink milk of life
From the rich breasts of the Egyptian mother,
Hathor the bountiful. The heart of me
Is sweet with joy ; I am the glorious-crowned
And splendid-sceptred daughter of Amen,
And nursling of fair Hathor ; I am great,
And daily do exceed my own exceeding,
And brighter grow. I was a gentle maid.
But when my consort, falling sick, did die,
I took the royal sceptre in my hand.
And now I walk a proud and mighty king.
My palaces were bare and void of scents ;
Behold, I bade my envoy to the land.
The gracious land of Pouhnt, and he returned
With gold and precious gums and polished woods ;
Thus did I deck my palace to my liking.
And in this temple the fair-limning priests
Pictured the great event, eternally.
The neighbours of that fragrant land of Pouhnt
Did seek her treasures, and I turned my face.
Toward their vile and murky treacheries.
And in my wrath the rebels were consumed.
80
ACT L
Are these the cai)tives ? Take them from my face,
And bear them into penal slavery,
To make their spirits clean and teach their minds
Wisdom to know me great, unconquerable,
The King of Egypt. But toward my people
My heart is warm ; this day shall be for each.
A great festivity and thanksgiving.
Let wine be given them to fire their hearts ;
Dames of the court, pelt cakes and comfits down,
Jewels and laces with your sweetest smiles ;
And let all lift adoring hands to heaven,
Wave scarf and pennon, and with one strong cry
Most jubilantly cheer to the old Nile,
" Amen and Hathor, Egypt and the King ! "
\A general cheering zoitJiout. TJie Captives
are led away.
Tehutimes.
I, Prince Tehutimes, on the queen's command.
Took ship and sailed into the utmost south ;
And crushed the hostile peoples. Many were slain.
Prisoners we made three hundred, eighty and four ;
We took much treasure, jewels, spice and stuffs
Now offered in the temples. Of our men
But three were slain, and one of sickness died,
All received burial. As shall be made known.
My troops fought most courageously. Phanres,
The captain, was by my side in all I did.
Hatasu.
Your deed wears fairer garb than does your speech.
Is that the roll of honour of the war ?
Take it as read, and make reward to each
According to his rank. [Murmurs.
When all is said
It was but petty warfare. Tell me now.
For perfect bravery of light-hearted valour,
Punctual obedience and readiness.
Solicitude and aid unto his fellows,
Whom do you soldiers offer to the king ?
S[ M
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Soldiers.
The Prince Tehutimes — our valiant leader, —
He won our battles by that way of his.
He laughed at perils. He was ever first.
Hatasu.
What says the Captain Phanres ?
PHANRES.
I, O king,
I say I saw the Prince Tehutimes,
The youngest of us, take his troops to battle
As a lion with fierce eye, who leaves his den
And stalks into the valley ; like a hawk
He hovered o'er his foes and with one swoop
Defeated them ; or like a bull he went
With whetted horns, gored them and hurled aside.
Hidden or seen he was as terrible,
And like that fiery star whose beams disperse
The morning dew, he came, he smote the lands,
And all men trembled at the fear of him.
Tehutimes.
The Prince Tehutimes fought as a prince.
And did not overstep his valorous birth.
But, if a task achieved in loyalty
Deserves reward, I have a plea to make
To the queen's ear, which is, that my dear brother,
Her husband when he was upon this earth.
May have the funeral rites which are his due,
And that the usual honours may be shown,
And all things needful to his holy shade
Be given, which for many following years
He does await, unhonoured and forgot.
Hatasu.
My Lord Nesesta, I would mark this place
With some memorial of my triumphing.
Tehutimes.
The queen does grant my plea ?
82
ACT I.
Hatasu.
I will not hear it,
Nor anything thereof. You do forget
I brought you out of banishment from Buto,
Gave you to wife the loveliest of my court,
The Lady Meri, sent you forth to wage
My battles in my name.
TEHUTIMES.
My bounden duty
Bids me plead for my brother.
Hatasu.
Must I reprove you ?
Tehutimes.
Till in set words you do I may not cease.
Hatasu.
Then I refuse your prayer thus finally.
[March of the Soldiers. Music.
Thy flower of peace is blossomed full and fair,
And we are throned upon its perfumed heart,
Sweet Hathor of delight. Upon a day.
Not long agone in love's eternity,
I gave two obelisks of Mahet stone,
With golden caps upon them, to the god,
The ruler of the sun's fair-shining barque,
Amen of Thebes, I gave to peerless Hathor
This temple, where her well-adoring servants
Sing learned litanies and pious praise
And make sweet festival. Now 'tis my mind
That in this spot there may be edified
My royal image, that the future years
May know my glory and my name may dwell
To the undying ages. Let a stone
Of great proportions even now be brought
And set before me, to be dedicated
As the foundation of my monument.
83
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Nesesta.
Taskmaster, set your porters to the work.
Hatasu.
How pass the time until the stone is found ?
Bring me that soldier, Taout, the huge of limb.
I love to see a man who holds himself
As conscious of brute strength. Think what a pride
Must marvel in the arm that feels the sword
Beat out the brains of foemen in the fight,
As does the labourer thresh the ears of corn ! —
He shall dance before me with his comrades here.
[ War dance of spearmen and bowmen.
Tehutimes. \To Meri.]
My beauteous wife, my sweetest victory
In this auspicious day is to behold
How you excel in loveliness and grace.
Beyond all others. I shall gladly take
The sweet occasion of home-bringing peace
To study you more fondly, and inquire
How you have spent this year of solitude.
Meri.
I am your wife ; you do not doubt my love?
Tehutimes.
Nay ; I am somewhat of a stranger now,
And if I seem to lack in gentleness
Or fair attention, I would have you teach me-
Meri.
Is this a veiled rebuke ? 'Tis true I lived
In joy your absence during ; was I to weep,
To brood in solitary lamentations?
Are you grown jealous of my mirthful friends,
The young Nesesta or — the wizened Pakhar?
84
ACT I.
Tehutimes.
Teach them to be my friends. That which some take
For pride in me is but the recluse nature ;
And yet a few days must I be alone
For ascertainment of most serious duties.
But when I have redeemed some ancient debts,
My pride and hope shall be in your desires ;
Thus will we lovingly live and in our chair
Sit hand in hand till we come to the haven.
Here is the Lord Nesesta. Take my wife,
I pray you, my Lord Governor of Thebes,
To view the treasure, and do this for me,
Being my wife's true friend, be also mine.
Nesesta.
I am greatly honoured
Tehutimes.
All the honour is mine.
Nesesta. [Aside.]
ad less gentle thougl
I crave a flower from fair Meri's hands.
Would that he had less gentle thoughts of me : —
Meri.
Which will }-ou have, the lily or the lotus?
Of this, the story says, a god was born.
And that might give a maiden burial.
Nesesta.
Than flowers more fair, when do you next go forth
To your lily bower by the lotus pond ?
Meri. [IVtVi a look.]
To-night.
[Exit with Nesesta.
Hatasu. [Zf? Tehutimes.]
You stand alone amid the general laughter.
Plotting, my cousin ?
85
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
T EH U TIMES.
Yes.
Hatasu.
I like you for it,
For since that lion's head was brought to me,
As token of your boyish prowess, I
Have found you brave. But, do not dare to think
That you can ever pretend against my power ;
Wait till my death, but do not seek for yours.
Your men have told me how you slew the chief ;
I would that I had seen you fight that day.
Tehutimes.
He met me as not unworthy of my sword.
Hatasu. [Going.]
You shall give us full account of your emprise.
Tehutimes. {Aside.']
Thus ere I killed the chieftain by the sea,
At the last pause, before the blow was struck.
We not ungently looked upon each other.
Senpoer. [Td? Tehutimes.]
I came to chide you for your words, my prince.
In your own interest you should not speak
Of the dead king. It is not wise or useful.
Our fault in youth is that we magnify
The needs of honour and forget the claims
Of our advancement. Have I said too much ?
Tehutimes.
Your words are wise and kind.
Senpoer.
Which means, dear prince,
You will not follow them ? When I was young
I leant upon the counsel of my elders ;
86
ACT I.
Being mature, I see the ends of youth
Are oft best served by rashness. I will swear
If you resolve to topple down the queen
Tehutimes.
My good Senpoer, you are talking treason.
Senpoer.
When we sped back across the purple seas,
And in the dewless nights our rowers sang
The low sweet ditties of the older world,
You lay upon the deck beneath the stars.
Silent for hours together, but your thoughts —
There is this unseen influence of the mind —
We felt were at the weaving of great plans
And preparations
Tehutimes.
Hark, they bring the stone
With an impossible celerity
Were it not for the queen's august command
And wondrously inspiring will. What joy
It should be to have true obedience !
Senpoer.
My prince, you shall command me as you please.
Tehutimes.
Then my command is — sup with me to-night.
But see, old Pakhar hither glides to sift us.
Senpoer.
We smell his cunning, are we not forewarned ?
Tehutimes.
Men know their adversaries' skill in games.
But they lose notwithstanding.
SENPOEK.
Admirable !
Yours is a worUlly knowledge beyond your years.
Many have wi.sdom, will, or bravery,
He who has each is thrice invincible.
87
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Teiiutimks.
No man avails, though all the qualities
Are mot in him, unless he will submit
His purposes to the eternal laws ;
For this I hold, that in our life's turmoil
The man, the hour, the means must come together
To make the deed ; thus must we calmly wait
Without anticipation or impatience,
Only not hindering, till that harmony
Of finite and of infinite obtains.
And this is sure, that when its fate is come,
Greatness, however loudly 'tis acclaimed.
Is but a wave that loftier leaps to break,
Dispersed in twitching fingers of spent foam.
\_The Porters enter, dragging a huge stone
attd singing a refrain.
Refrain.
Build, men of Egypt,
Build, men of Egypt,
Houses for yourselves,
Temples for the gods.
Hatasu.
To Hathor, bountiful and beautiful,
The lady of the land of sycamores,
And regent of the west, I dedicate
This fair beginning. I but spoke my wish
To have an image of my person made.
When straightway came a stone and bowed and stood
Eager to do the service. Hark to the cheer
Of many voices mingled into one !
My breath of life is in the people's praise.
There 's music in their huge confederate cry
That 's worthy of a king. Here will I stand
Immortal in the semblance of my form,
Beneath these deathless hills, for in your love
This moment is eternity of life.
And in this spot my name shall never die.
88
ACT I.
Song.
Hail to the King of Peace !
Who brightly stands as the sun-god fair
When he comes in the boat of the rising day
With a fair wind.
Hail to the King of Peace !
Whose throne is set on a floor of flowers,
Who drinks the sweet wine of adoration,
The cup of life.
[Exeunt
89 N
ACT II.
The royal tomb. Tehutimes descends with Senpoer
and Piianres.
Tehutimes.
I AM as one who has begun to live,
For mine own eyes shall see what through long years
My thought mistrusted in their testimony.
What know I of my brother ? That I loved him
Because his smile was ever kind to me,
That by his years he was a father to me,
And taught me even as a little child
To draw a tiny bow and wield a spear.
He died, and I was taken to the North,
Robbed of my royal place and put among
Austerest priests, scarce like to mortal men.
Who, lost in studying eternity,
Forgot the earth they walked on. I with them
Lost hold of earthly ties, and walked in peace
Among the awful gods, till being bidden
Unto the court, I by my truthful speech
And serious demeanour won respect,
And almost came at last to love the queen,
Save that my brother's shade seemed near to me,
And whispered warnings haunted all the air,
And something fearful in the brightest hours
Did ever come between the queen and me.
Senpoer.
You led us to a squalid haunt of thieves
And there held whispered parley with their chief;
Now you have brought us here to rob a tomb :
90
ACT II.
Thus far I followed you, but fain would know
The why and wherefore
TEHUTIMES.
You are free to leave us.
Phanres.
The discipline of war is stay or die.
Tehutimes.
No doubt, but since we are in peaceful guise
He may go from us. Friend, this is an errand
Of utter peril.
SENPOER.
Prince, I stand reproved.
Tehutimes.
Stay with me, for I need you. We came hither
Nowise to desecrate my brother's corse.
But to his honouring. Why should we fear
That which our very persons must become ?
Dead men lived once, and living men must die,
'Tis the whole story of our human kin.
— Hold up the torch, Senpoer, that I may see.
Senpoer.
Here is the mention of the dead king's name.
Tehutimes.
Is this how thou art honoured ? It is well.
The unnatural neglect which did refuse
To carve for thee a king's sarcophagus
Eases my task of one thing difficult.
Senpoer.
Let me undo the wrappings ; your rude hands
Might touch the body, Phanres. What was that ?
Tehutimes.
The night owl screeching like a spirit unhoused,
91
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Senpoer.
Lift up the body, Phanres. Gently, gently.
[They open the mummy case and begin to
unwind the wrappings.
Tehutimes.
How sound thou sleepest and how desolate,
Save for a little scent to honour thee !
Thy feet are nursed in I sis' gentle breast,
Here is the sacred ark, the mystic boat,
And here thy name, thy fame, thy offerings,
Thy hair, thy face. O fair and perfect yet,
Dear brother, thou dost sleep. — What now, Senpoer ?
Senpoer.
Osiris, help us ! The skin is soft and white :
How died the king then of malignant fever ?
How else came he to die ?
Tehutimes.
I bid you look
Upon the body and inform yourself
What was his death.
Senpoer.
This scarab wrought of gold.
Hiding the heart, hides also destiny,
Perhaps a royal crime, perhaps our fate :
Will you remove it ?
Tehutimes.
'Tis my weary years
Of silence and self-continent awaiting
Remove it
Senpoer.
These are wounds, deadly, unhealed,
Not by his hand inflicted, for each blow
Was itself mortal.
92
ACT II.
Tehutimes.
Then mine eyes saw true ;
Henceforth farewell to pity.
Phanres.
Vengeance !
Senpoer.
Vengeance ! —
What will you do ?
Phanres.
The prince requires no counsel.
Tehutimes.
Save of the gods. — Friends of my perilous fate,
I will go up into the night to read
Myself once more, though often have I traced
Each possibility of my resolve.
I wish to be alone a little space,
While there is time, to sanctify my soul
To universal justice ere I go
To seek revenge. Good Phanres, take my cloak ;
'Tis colder in the tomb than on the earth. [Exii.
Senpoer.
It seems to me an hour since you spoke last.
Phanres.
I have not anything to say to you.
Senpoer.
Speech oftcntime brings matter of discourse ;
What god do you best worship ?
Phanres.
By my faith,
My god is he whose arrows fly afar,
My temple is the fortress I besiege.
My altar is a burly battering-ram ;
War 's my religion, and my only vow
95
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Faithful obedience to my general.
You know it, having served in the campaign.
Senpoer.
I know you showed severity to me,
Though I was body physician to the prince.
Phanres.
Doctors and scribes are the worst scourge of camps.
Senpoer.
Speak we of other matters. I am glad
To be returned to Thebes, which of all cities
Phanres.
Is the worst fortified I ever knew.
Senpoer.
But the most pleasant, merry, frolicsome
And curious for the student of the book
Of human folly.
Phanres.
Sloth and silly talk !
Senpoer.
My worthy man-at-arms and carcass-lover,
Do you not see how useless it would be
If, of the gathering of the nations' plenty
In Egypt's hands, no man's enjoyment grew ?
In war you find your pleasure, but admit
The polished wisdom of the stay-at-home
Who lets you battle for him.
Phanres.
That sounds coward ;
Each man should take his share.
Senpoer.
Why should I fight ?
94
ACT 11.
Armies go forth that I may hate my ease,
Temples are built for my appreciation,
And mighty works achieve themselves that I
May pass my judgment on them. He who sits
Apart from the tumultuous flow of life,
And with a wise, fine smile considers how
Man is as foolish as the brown-backed beetle,
The patient emblem of eternity,
Which, having laid its egg in a pinch of earth,
Contentedly dies ; he who beholds the past
Devour the present almost before 'tis sped.
He is the truest hero of the land
And master of his life.
Phanres.
Peace, you old babbler !
Senpoer.
I marvel at your stubborn ignorance ;
Weapons of keen-edged laughter cannot probe
That skull of yours, for like an ox you need
The hammer to abash you.
Phanres.
Like the ox !
Mark this, Senpoer, we are on duty here.
Else we would have a quarrel
Senpoer.
As you please,
I neither fear nor love you.
Phanres.
Then be silent.
Senpoer.
I have heard praise of silence very often,
But cannot see its merit. To launch forth
In speech is generous, to listen thinking
95
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
" I could have said that better " is to have
A miser's envy for another's wealth.
Phanres.
A miser loves his own and envies no man's.
Senpoer.
'Tis not ill said, good captain. Not ill said :
" A miser loves his own and envies no man's ; "
I mean to put it in my book of maxims,
Culled most from speech of men who rarely think,
For, as in you, I find the homely mind
Thinks little, but when it has knit itself
Thinks sometimes to good purpose.
Phanres.
Who goes there ?
Senpoer.
You are grown timorous. [ Voices without
Are we betrayed ?
Phanres.
I have no arms, I can but hide my face ;
I would have died in battle like a man !
\Puts tlie mantle on his head.
Pakhar and Slaves enter silently while Hatasu in a
blaze of light appears at t/ie head of the steps,
Hatasu.
See who the traitors are
Pakhar.
One hides his face,
His rich and princely cloak
Hatasu.
I thought as much ;
Who else is there ?
96
ACT II.
Pakhar.
Senpoer, the physician.
Hatasu.
This their conspiracy !
Pakhar,
Prince, show your face.
Hatasu.
Nay, let him keep it hid for very shame.
What make they here ?
Pakhar.
Treason and sacrilege !
They have unrolled the wrappings of the dead,
The king, your royal husband
Hatasu.
'Tis enough.
Crime ever will devise its punishment :
Bind me the prince as though he, too, were dead.
With the long sinuous roll and lay him in
His brother's place.
Pakhar.
He will not show himself.
Hatasu.
Then bind him shamefully with his craven hands
Shielding his cowed and impotent defeat,
That all the shades in the sad underworld
May jeer at him when his similar goes down
Among them.
[Phanres throws himself down on his face
Pakhar.
Bind him even as he lies,
Scarcely a man.
Senpoer.
In pity, spare his shame.
97 O
THE MASTERY OF 31 EN.
Pakiiar.
What 's shame to one who is about to die ?
Hatasu.
A vah'ant man's humiliated pride
To fail in act. Hark ye, Tehutimes,
Your plan was bold in its simplicity,
But I, with searching eyes, have found you out.
I warned you never to pretend against me ;
Like others have you lost the cockle-shell
In which you sailed to meet the stormy pride
Wherewith I have challenged the mastery of men.
Senpoer. [T^Phanres.]
Farewell, farewell ; your death is as your life.
Hatasu.
Do not your work too well, I wish the traitor
To think a little on the advantages
I heaped on him. He would not call me king, —
Let him recall it.
About the head.
Pakhar.
Loosen the bandages
Hatasu.
Now for the fat physician.
Senpoer.
I am not fat.
Hatasu.
Ye gods, who laugh at us,
Behold this man who is about to end.
Clinging for comfort to his vanity.
Senpoer.
I plotted treason, but I am not fat.
Hatasu.
You will not be when you have starved a while.
98
ACT IT.
Pakhar.
Bind him and gag him.
HatASU.
Nay, I am more cruel :
Senpoer, you shall talk yourself to death.
SENPOER.
I shall not speak much gentleness of you.
Hatasu.
Thus might a gnat cry ere one crushes it.
Senpoer.
But since each man condemned has one plea granted,
It would be an amusement to my thoughts
To know how we were found.
[Hatasu makes a sign to Pakhar, who goes
out with the Slaves.
Hatasu.
Frankly and freely
I answer you. But first will you reply
Where you did go to-night ? You will not speak.
Then I will tell you. When the prince resolved
To do his puny, half-considered treason.
He went to the haunt where thieves do congregate,
To find the leader of the cutpurse crew
And learn of him how tombs are robbed. He entered
With no disguise, as if his lofty pride
Took not pollution from base colloquies.
Or with a fellow-feeling, as about
To be himself a felon. Thus your prince
Sat in the recking cellar of the thieves.
Who, pausing, open-mouthed, forgot to drink
Their yellow beer ; and lentil soup and dates,
Or cakes of sesame untasted stood.
While my police of spies leered knowingly
To think a prince of presence so austere
Should pamper curiosity to come
Among those common lives.
99
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Sentoer.
Vouchsafe me this,
Your spies instructed you ?
Hatasu.
Not they ; your master
Showed cunning in his plain straightforwardness :
I saw with my own eyes.
Senpoer. ,
By magic spells ?
Hatasu.
Did you not mark the painted courtezan
Whom Taout the huge of limb and muchly drunk
Bore in his arms ?
Senpoer.
A well-made wench that danced
As wildly as the winds on stormy days,
Foul-mouthed was she and ravenously ate
Disgusting food offered by hands begrimed :
One of the meaner flowers of the filth
Hatasu.
'Twas I.
Senpoer.
'Tis time that honest men should seek their tombs.
Hatasu.
How little do you move me, poor bound mass
Of maxims learnt from caution and the rules
Of wizened prudery. I am a law
Unto myself; what reason has our doing
Save the desire that prompts it ? I would live
A thousand lives, as does the mutable,
The eager thrill and stir of rich red blood
Empassion me ; for I am all I know,
I am man, woman, beast, reptile, and flower,
I am the fire, I am the limpid wave,
lOO
ACT IL
I am the breath of spring, and morning dew,
But while I can be virginal and sweet,
Yet there are pulses in me that declare
A kinship with the vile and low that is
Beauty in making. In this fleeting hour
Between the two eternal silences,
Guarded by the grim yawning janitors,
The lions of the Past and the To-be,
I cry " I live ! I live ! " and with my hands
Snatch at all passions, marvels, and delights,
To the last gasp of the attainable.
I am the human-flower that has its roots
In the disdained earth of vulgar lives,
But from that rank luxuriance I draw
The sap which I transmute to vermeil hues,
And the fair miracle of flesh and blood
Which leans to ravishment of every wind ;
Thus may men's hearts grow glad that of the travail,
The hunger and the fret of sordid griefs,
One work of wonder takes its bounteous bloom
With all the world well lost to fashion me, \Exit.
Senpoer.
A brawling slut or most enchanting queen.
Who knows ? What grace she has in cruelty !
Yet some day shall she come to fearful pause,
Retributory death. I shall die calm.
Marking each symptom of my starved decline ;
To know the cause alleviates the pang.
Darkness and silence ; nothing moves, the air
Is stifled in the gloom. O Phanres, Phanres !
He cannot hear me unto consolation.
Is he dead already ? How long shall I survive?
Tehutimcs is free who brought us here ;
Will he be found ? will he be overthrown ?
Would that rejoice me ? Mean grows life indeed
When gripped by fate. It was his scheme, not ours.
I'll call them back and give my secret up —
Pakhar, Pakhar ! Most honourable Pakhar,
lOI
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Bring back the queen to hear my full confession.
They are gone ; shame only waits to hear my words.
" What 's shame to one who is about to die ? "
I will curse the queen. I have no names of garbage
Enough for her ! I curse Tehutimes,
I curse the gods ! Phanres, do you not hear?
for a voice to suffer with me. Phanres !
What thinks he? His is torture greater yet
Than mine ; but I had wit to love my life.
What 's that ? The hiss of waking serpent, or does
The spirit of the dead king pass over me ?
1 fear death and the dark mysterious dogs,
The fiery forms, the open mouths and eyes !
Who comes, what comes ?
Enter Teiiutimes.
Tehutimes.
Why did you close the door ?
Senpoer.
Spirit, be merciful
Tehutimes.
But what say you ?
Where is your torch ? I cannot see the steps.
Waken, Senpoer !
Senpoer.
I came here, O king,
To do thee honour
Tehutimes.
Here 's a mystery.
What is this light that shines upon my hand ?
It is that jewels shine even in darkness !
But you are bound and skilfully
Senpoer.
My prince !
102
ACT II.
Tehutimes. [Cutting the rope with his dagger^
This passeth understanding. Calm your soul.
SENPOER.
Phanres.
Tehutimes.
Where is he ?
Senpoer.
Bound — the living death !
Tehutimes.
If he be dead ! Swift ! if he still have life
[ They open the mummy case, and free the head
and chest fi'om the bandages.
Senpoer.
His face is black.
Tehutimes.
I will not have him die.
Tehuti, master of dread incantation,
Grant that the soul of Phanres in Osiris
Come back to him from vvheresoe'er it be.
Eye of Horus, shine unto its guiding,
Let not this man as yet lie down in death.
I pray for this, I threaten not, I promise not,
But in your will I will that this may hap.
Advance in peace, your sceptres in your hands,
Come ye in triumph ; grant this soul to me.
\^Pausing.
I take your hand, O Phanres, and I say,
" Live for your master."
Senpoer.
Hush, it seems he sighed,
'Twas faint and like a dying man's last breath.
Phanres. {Wearily?^
It was the season of the night, the pools
Were ruffled by the mystic waterfowl,
Long was the journey !
J 03
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Tehutimes.
Phanres.
Phanres.
Who are you ?
Tehutimes.
This, Phanres, is the earth of living men.
Phanres.
Have I been dreaming?
Tehutimes.
Tell me, now he Hves-
Senpoer.
The queen was the base courtezan who danced
Before us and the thieves
Tehutimes.
She stoops to that ?
how I pity her ! — She followed us ?
Senpoer.
With slaves. She mocked me as they bound me here.
Tehutimes.
1 must go seek my soldiers, ere the queen
Disarms them and sends bands to search for me.
Senpoer.
She thinks you dead. Phanres concealed his face,
And in the royal cloak
Tehutimes.
Died in my stead
In princely wise ! Friend, you have done a deed
Of silence which eternal gratitude
Shall praise not silently.
104
ACT IT.
Senpoer.
What had you done
Had you been here ?
Tehutimes.
I live because I went
To prove myself by purifying prayer,
This too was foreordained. Are you made whole ?
P HAN res.
Astonished, but alive. Death flies you, prince,
As hunger disappears in fruitful lands.
Tehutimes.
Phanres, Senpoer, you shall be the pillars
Wherewith I'll build mine everlasting throne.
Senpoer.
Not I ; I cursed you in my agony.
Tehutimes.
'Tis true I had not calculated chance,
Which when we come to one spot separate,
Will often bring our foe, and at the time
Against all reason.
Phanres.
If we had been armed !
Tehutimes.
This accident was our most sure defence.
Vengeance, my right and the long-waiting years
Arc met in mc, and though the gods themselves
Stood in my path, my purpose would prevail.
Follow mc now, my friends, where I shall lead you.
[/A' takes the body in his anus.
There is exulting joy to mark the track
The lion leaves. I have hunted everything
That lives to show its fierceness, but ne'er yet
I lad such a quarry. Oh ! decoy 's the word !
105 P
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Wc will draw the false king with the real king,
And woe betide me if of this day's hunting
I do not get my prey and carry home
The wondrous-marked skin and curving claws,
Which are the royal mantle and the crown.
{Exeunt^ Tehutimes bearing the mummy of
the dead khig.
106
ACT III.
The Garden of the Palace. Nesesta lies at Meri's
feet.
Meri.
My lord is pensive.
Nesesta.
'Tis to think upon
The mutability of men's affairs :
The proud acclaim of triumph yesterday
Brought that Tehutimes to condemnation
In treasonable shame,
Meri.
The selfsame chance
Gives us unto each other openly
To sate our longings.
Nesesta.
How can I forget
That you and I made mock of his last hours
With our transgressions ? Love with us last night
Made merry, while with him stern death
Meri.
Speak not
That cold discomfiting word !
Nesesta.
I am a man
Who loves to look his fellows in the face.
Henceforth I must confess that in my youth
I acted knavishly.
ro7
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Meri.
I tempted you.
Nesesta.
You tempt ? Sweet one, the soil was in my love.
Meri.
How am I tarnished ? Are mine eyes less bright ;
My mouth less languishingly sweet to kiss ?
You pity him ? He was most hard to me.
I am but a pretty child that loves to nestle
In strong protecting arms. A woman weak,
Vain, frivolous, yet constant in my love,
I ask no more than kindly admiration,
Some petting in your leisure, pretty gifts.
And not too stern a love.
Nesesta.
The fault was mine,
I tempted you ; my jewel and my flower !
And though I have done villainy for you.
Or though my name were ever to be vile,
I would love you body and soul. Oh, look not so,
You madden me with passion
Meri.
Have my looks
Such empire over you ?
Nesesta.
When I consider
The queen commanded me to marry you,
I am like a poor man who falls asleep
Weary of life and wakes to find beside him n
Assurance of great wealth. You are to me
The woman of all women.
Meri.
You love me thus ?
1 08
ACT III.
Xesesta.
O fairer than the almond blossoms pale,
Thou flower of marjoram, thou milk-white pearl
And scent of springtime, there is nought to win
On earth save love of married hands and lips,
The hands we thrill for and the lips we love ;
Though all things else shall end for evermore
This must survive.
Meri.
O be not silent yet,
But tell me what dear wonders you prepare
For one thus much admired.
NESESTA.
There shall be sought
The skilled embroiderers to make the stuffs
To deck your body ; on your feet shall be
Slippers of gold, and you shall take your way
O'er silver traceries to a throne inlaid
With stones more rare than rubies ; at your call
Fair damsels, bearing lotus red or blue.
Shall wait anticipating each desire,
While pages in bright garments and all young,
All joyful in their service, sing you fair
Upon their harps ; myself shall sit beside you
With eyes divinely wondering to look
On so much loveliness ; our life shall pass
As fragrant incense rising to the sun.
That with a thousand wreaths is blown away
And taken to the gossamer soft clouds
Which voyage over the celestial Nile.
Meri.
Behold the maids approach to deck me out.
Enter Nefert.
Nefert.
What robe will please your highness for the banquet?
109
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Meri.
Iking me the finest, that my new-wed lord
May see me fair attired among the flowers.
[Exit Nefert with t}ie Ladies.
Nesesta.
Your fancy is as lovely as your grace.
Enter Nefert and the Ladies bearing dresses.
Nefert.
Here is the ceremonial robe of state.
Meri.
Put it upon me. Does it please Nesesta ?
Nesesta.
Now Meri stands a queen with gems and gold.
Meri.
I would not be too much a queen to-night.
Nefert.
Here is the blue one with the broidery.
Nesesta.
With shadowed eyes and brooding holy looks
You are wistful as a priestess by the shrine
Meri.
Give me the simple gown of fine wrought linen
And set a single lotus in my hair —
Nay, I'll not wear it ; 'tis my bridal night.
My lord, what I will wear for you is this,
Made like the pictures of the gown wherewith
The famous daughter of the Memphian king,
Who owed great sums for his high pyramid,
Bewitched her lovers and got gold to buy
Her father's debts. How now, Nefert, you blush?
What says my lord ?
no
ACT III.
Nesesta.
Be not so beautiful,
Have pity on my heart.
Meri.
Take out the rest.
That is my choice which my dear love approves.
The gentle thought ! Let me give you this sash,
Girding it round you ; you are slim enough
Even to wear a woman's garments. Nay,
Thus will I have my lover finely garbed
And dainty as I am.
Enter \{K1\^\i, followed by Pakhar and attended.
Hatasu.
Oh, I am weary !
The Lord of the Nomes, the Captain of the Ships,
The Watcher of the Nile, the Steward of Grains,
Have brought me to despair. More wise are you,
My new-paired nestlings, to rejoice yourselves
With pretty dalliance. Go on and kiss ;
I am not terrible save to my foes :
Your marriage banquet is the funeral feast
I purpose for the traitor. Pakhar, bid them
Set my pavilion here that we may have
The flowers to wait upon our feast to-night.
Dismiss the guards : our foes are all forgotten —
Keep Taut to stand beside me. Let the people
Have largess to make merry that the Hathors
May be adored by every man and maid
To celebrate this marriage.
Nesesta.
To the king
We proffer grateful thanks.
Hatasu.
l^c not flcccivcd :
1 1 1
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
'Ti.s not for love of you, but hate of one
Who bit the hand that fed him — am I harsh?
You know my temper 's scornful and impatient,
I mean less than I say, more than I do.
There, leave me. {Exeunt all except Hatasu.
Ah, why does this vain regret
Whisper low in my blood ? He was a whelp
Of lion race, and no wise like his brother :
His forthright stratagem proved bravery,
Silent he died. Long since I said good-bye
To the fool's cowardice men call remorse.
But there was shame to bind him with brute arms,
Sullen assent of slaves. I should have laughed
And bid him try himself against my power,
Then won him by some subtle feminine wile,
Or finding him not to be tamed or caught —
What think I — can I say it — made him master ?
woman's nature, through the flight of years,
Amid all fret, discomfiture, or pain.
After all victory wishing to be weak,
And meekly bending to the jingling harness
Of the man's tyranny ! If for an hour
1 could be woman and subdue myself
To the real masterful, not make-believe.
My heart would be discumbered of a weight
Of empty longing. Only in disguise
Can I forget myself and crouch a slave
In haunts of vilest shame. There was a day
When I was mild and good as that dear child,
Who looks on me with wondering eyes. Nefert,
Why linger you so near ?
Nefert.
The sun is setting,
The dews begin to fall.
Hatasu.
Child, take this jewel,
It will please you more than me.
I 12
ACT in.
Nefert.
See how it shines
Against the failing light.
Hatasu.
How fast it dies,
And the bright sun, that took his course sublime,
Leans on his staff and shakes his flying hairs.
And like an old man totters to his rest.
O sorrow of the night, that hides from us
The fair horizons of our active power,
That sets its lamps on heaven's canopy-
To show a crowd of petty combatants,
The sow, the river-horse, the crocodile,
That do beset the mildly radiant path
Of the pale eye of the moon ! What is their might
Compared unto my golden-bearded sire.
Father of growth and love and loveliness,
The lord of light energic and divine ?
Why should there be this darkness ? I would have
Continual life, and strife that is not broken
By intermissions of deceitful calm!
Give me the fervent passion of the noon.
The stirring of the river and the skies.
The laughter of the flowers ! And still will we
Make mimic day beneath the sallow moon.
And shock her unimpassioned pale content '
With angry revels all the conquered night.
[Exit with Nefert. The Steward enters
and directs Slaves as they arrange the
pavilion.
Thk Steward.
Spangled with stars as is the heaven above
The ceiling hangs ; set here the festal throne
Amid the blossoms. Decorate the pond
With lights to shine in double radiance,
As though the water-lilies were afire ;
A lamp to every pillar, and between
"3 Q
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Stand harps and well-voiced instruments whose mouths
Shall <;ive their song as touched by unseen hands,
While in the grove the players' descant soft
Effects this fair conceit. Hang up your garlands,
That the cool air, the breath and balm of night
May waft sweet perfume on the royal hair ;
Dispose the wines and pour the vintages
Of many years in cups of fretted gold.
The newer wines in fragile glass ; ye girls,
Take merry but submissive attitudes.
Be noiseless in your steps, attend, foresee
Each royal need. I am well satisfied.
Enter Courtiers and Ladies, who stand in silence to
receive Meri, Nesesta, and Pakhar.
Nesesta.
This will incense her, as I fear ; she loves
Manly severity
Pakhar.
Behold, she comes.
A woman !
Meri.
Enter Hatasu.
Hatasu.
Yes, my gentle well-wishers,
I saw the bride displaying her fine robes.
And grew like woman jealous. I resolved
To wear the garments many years unused,
And put my beard in my pocket.
Meri.
Lovely one !
114
ACT TIL
Hatasu.
At least I will be woman for this night,
Win me who can. I fear I shall grow vain
To feel these teasing ringlets on my neck
And to wear broidered shoes. The fair device
Of flowers and stuffs : I thank you, master steward.
Pakhar.
His majesty is served if he will dine
Hatasu.
A woman, nay, a woman ; call me she ;
There 's devilment in women, men are fools —
Saving your grace, Nesesta. What a night ;
I almost do begin to love the moon !
Pakhar.
It dropped its finest fire when wise Tehuti
Played chequers with it for the year's lost days.
Hatasu.
And thus you gained five days of interest.
Pakhar.
But thus my debtors won five days' delay.
Hatasu.
Carouse we well ; we will eat everything
And drain my royal cellars. Then we'll go
To mar the worthy townsmen's beauty sleep ;
We'll tie ten thousand cats by the tails together
And send them spitting, swearing down the streets ;
We'll throw stones at the dogs, scratch off the paint
From the priests' doors, set all the boats adrift
Along the riverside, come back and feast
And execute some varlets for our sins.
I ever think of deeds of cruelty
Among my flowers here. Taut, give me the cup ; —
Mine be a maiden's malice, nothing more
Upon this bridal night.
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Nesesta.
Unto the queen
And to my bride I drink
HATASU.
Whose was this work
To separate the lovers ? That is better ;
I will not part your yearnings. Shall I give you
Counsels for kisses ?
Meri.
'Tis a merriment
We drink with our mother's milk, O queen.
HATASU.
Think not so, child, some women's ways of love
Are slaughter and destruction, some are full
Of tearful sighs, and some of smiling mirth ;
But love we all according to our natures.
Nesesta.
Could I but kiss your sunny neck, my love.
Meri.
Be not afraid of what the music bids.
Hatasu.
Old Pakhar, there are other things than wealth.
Is that your thought ?
Pakhar.
Once on a time I loved.
Hatasu.
You loved ! Ho, stay the music ! 'Tis confessed
That Pakhar once did love ; we all have known him
These many, many years, he knows our secrets
Mine certainly he knows. Now on a night
Of sighs melodious in sweet music wove
We learn that Pakhar loves
ACT III.
Pakhar.
And loveth still.
Hatasu.
Which of us is it ? Is it one of us,
Some farmer's wife, a dancer or a slave ?
A secret irritates me, speak it forth —
Whoe'er it be. By Hathor I'll stand bound
You shall not any way be prejudiced
By your declaral — save it be Nefert,
Who only may be loved by honest men.
Give him some wine to make his tongue wag free :
I touch the cup.
Pakhar.
The tale may entertain you.
{Calling a Slave and giving him a key.
Nefert.
It seems he keeps her under lock and key.
Pakhar.
You shall behold the lady of my heart,
But, waiting, let us speak of love itself
What is this folly of the sense, this longing
To give our pride even to be trampled on.
This strange illusion and forgetfulness,
What is this love ?
Hatasu.
Heaven's spark that breaks in flame
Fanned by the winds of desire.
Meri.
Delight to find
Comeliness in an ugly world.
NESESTA.
The joy
To win what others lack.
117
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Hatasu.
Nefert, what say you ?
Nefert.
The gentler thoughts meeting their noblest dream.
Pakhar.
I ween you come the nearest to the truth :
Love is to give the lower for the higher —
'Tis thus my bargains go.
Nefert.
Love is no bargain.
Pakhar.
Life is nought but a buying and a selling,
We pay a price for all that we possess ;
Some give their bodies, some their peace of mind,
Some sell the heavens for gifts of earth, and some
Their hopes upon the earth to have their heaven,
Our thoughts and gifts are but commodities
With wisdom for the balance.
Nesesta.
I give all
For the fair one I love.
Hatasu.
Some win all
By giving nothing
Pakhar.
Till their debt falls due.
But to come back to love
Nesesta.
You love but gold.
Pakhar.
What else is there that has eternity
Of loveliness ? What else of precious things
ii8
ACT III.
Comes through the fire unharmed? We slay a man
With scarce a pin-prick, but divide the gold,
It has not lost its worth. The flesh of life
Has aches and pains, a never certain bloom,
The fairest eyes that ever tempted men
Must fade in death as do the rainbow scales
Of fishes on dry land. It is but earth
You passion for, and corporeal joys
Are but an empty boast.
Hatasu.
The miser's creed !
Pakhar.
The gods when they grow old, we well do know,
For it is written in most ancient books.
Are in their limbs transformed to precious metals ;
Their bones to silver change, their flesh to gold,
Their hair to lazyl stone. How should this be
Unless the gods themselves held honour due
To the unstained, imperishable, pure
And gentle gold ?
Hatasu.
Your argument must fall ;
If gold could be endued with mortal form
It might be worshipped.
Pakhar.
Presently my slaves
Shall bring the golden lady of my love
For you to see.
Hatasu.
I low tall is she, I pray ?
Mkri.
How is her head attired ?
NEI'EKT.
Is her voice kind ?
119
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Pakhar.
She is but half your height, resplendent queen,
Her locks are neat, she has no voice at all.
A figure of the finest molten gold,
Within a golden world she sits in peace,
For at her feet I pour my wealth acquired,
And with a smile immutable she waits,
But never satisfied ; her jewelled eyes
With golden lights reflect mine avarice ;
I often speak to her while on her neck
I hang some gaud the hunger of ten towns
Has paid for, or the rarest harvesting
Of the sea's depths. I bring my wealth to her,
We have no secrets, and when I am dead
The lady shall be guardian of my tomb,
And testimony of my life's desire.
Hatasu.
You do not fear royal cupidity ?
Pakhar.
How can I fear the queen I faithful serve ?
Then as for private theft, I cheerfully
Pay tribute to the captain of the thieves,
A pleasant fellow.
Meri.
Your slave does not return.
Hatasu.
It matters not, I feel no jealousy
For Pakhar's best beloved. Serve us full cups,
Let each one choose a dame delectable
And kiss long love to Meri and Ne.sesta.
Enter a Slave, ivho falls at Vakuar's feet.
Pakhar.
Get up and speak.
120
ACT IIL
Slave.
My lord, the treasure's gone ;
The house is empty, not a servant left.
Hatasu.
The golden lady 's fled away, I know.
O fickle woman !
Meri.
You should never trust us.
My treasure gone
Pakiiar.
Nesesta.
His pallor 's horrible.
Pakiiar.
Your merriment inclines me to believe
I see it all, you laugh at my expense.
What gentleman has bribed the slave to tell
This idle tale ?
Hatasu.
But we are innocent ;
Albeit we laugh, albeit we laugh, laugh, laugh.
\Aside to Courtiers.] Your secret is well kept among
you, sirs.
Go, man, and see yourself.
Pakiiar.
I have no fear ;
As well a man might try to steal the town
As take my treasure.
Hatasu.
You can flog your slave.
O Pakhar, Pakhar, I would give my kingdom
To see you robbed of all that you possess.
But I forget, the hours are speeding on,
And the fond lovers' looks are sick with gazing
121 R
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Upon each other's youth ; bring them their chairs
And on a flower-strewn path carry them down
To where their barge awaits to bear them home.
Meri.
Farewell, sweet queen, most beautiful and kind.
Hatasu.
To you farewell ; love ere the hour is gone.
[Exeunt Meri and Nesesta with their
train.
My heart is sick, sing me the Sad Remembrance.
[To Nefert.] Child, get to bed and sleep your inno-
cent dream. [Exit Nefert.
Song of the Harper.
I have done with the will of men and the gods' command,
I have taken my journey toward the silent land.
The god of day uprises and shines and falls.
But 1 am far from the weight of earthly thralls.
Once is the breath of dawn upon our faces,
But all that are born of women go down to their places.
What is the use of friends, the worth of power ?
For the strong and the weak are equal in death's stern hour.
Set before thy face the wine-cup with song,
Leave all thought of sorrow and laugh at wrong,
Till thou goest from men's and the gods' command,
And takest thy journey toward the silent land.
Hatasu.
Sweet music makes me long to suffer pain.
Is it that I require some happening
New and unthought of? What is it I ask ?
When all the meat is eaten and the wine
Palls on the palate, who remains content ?
A murrain on your song, we'll live for ever ;
Bring in the death's-head, crown his brow with flowers,
Pour libations, call silver-footed dancers.
122
ACT III.
Mine enemies are slain, my friends rejoice,
Henceforth we will live free. Taout, wreathe your head,
I am as comely as the courtezan
You danced with yesternight in the thieves' kitchen.
Egypt shall dance and sing while I do live,
And what comes after, let it come, I care not.
I have sipped the cup of life half-heartedly.
Now will I take it up in my two hands
And drink, drink, drink, while I dance down to death,
[The Maidens dance before the QUEEN till a
clash of arms is heard.
Enter Tehutimes with Phanres and SenpoER ;
SoXdxer^ follotving t/i£)n bear on high the mummy of
tlie dead king. TEHUTIMES comes forward with
drawn sivord.
Tehutimes.
This is the King of Egypt ; let none move !
And do ye, by your loyalty to me,
O warriors, whom I led in battle oft
Against our enemies, attend my words
Till I make clear what secret ways undid
The king my brother, and why my true sword
Has cut the shackles of a false allegiance
To the usurping queen. Take off the cloak.
These are the wounds that drank my brother's life
Upon that fatal night, when the parched town
Tossed in uneasy dreams beneath the pall
Of the midsummer heat, and all was still
Save the guards' regular challenge at the gate
Of the king's palace, where in the royal chamber
Might be beheld this grievous sight : the queen,
With certain of her household and her doctor, —
All dead but one, they were but three or four, —
Gathered about the body of the king
Upon a couch reposed. The breast was bare,
And from its ghostly whiteness did exude
1^3
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
The dark, black stream of blood. The doctor knelt,
And said, " The king is dead." Then all was still.
It seemed a sudden frenzy took the queen
Of joy or fear that shook her, and her eye
Was terrible a moment ; then it shone
With meek and noble quiet to confront
The inquisition of their looks. She paused
For breath and said, " My fame is in your hands.
I killed my husband for a foul affront,
A thing unbearable, not to be borne.
That goes beyond the telling." They were silent,
Not hostile, fearful rather for themselves, —
" A thing unbearable, not to be borne ! "
She raised her voice as one affirming truth,
And I, whose chamber was the one beside,
Did call my brother's name. Do you remember? —
She hearing, made the sign of silence to them.
And came to me. They must have heard her say,
" Dear child, your brother sleeps ; be not afraid :
You would not have him think you fear the dark I "
I told her not that by a fateful chance
I had awoken at the sound of anger,
Had heard a sudden blow, a deadly fall,
Had watched her watching till her servants came ;
For as a child I scarcely understood.
And how should she suspect that I had seen ? —
She bent and kissed me, kissed me and returned,
She knew that accident had saved her crown ;
Her truth seemed manifest, for who would look
Into the eyes of childhood when attaint
With murderous hate ? And they, it would appear.
Assured her of their love, and resolution
To put the strange and dreadful accident
Out of their memories, their dreams, their prayers, —
Thus it was said the king had died of fever,
And at the dawn the people mourned his death.
Hatasu.
Soldiers of Egypt
124
ACT III.
Tehutimes.
Would you make defence?
Take then that silent hand and speak to them.
Hatasu.
That w'ill I. Looking in those sightless eyes,
And with my living flesh upon that dust,
And holding in my hand that buried hand,
And with the gods on high to write my words,
And all the people waiting on my voice,
And all my glory witness of my truth,
I say, I truly say — I slew the king.
Tehutimes.
Being too proud for falsehood, you shall bear
The punishment of death in royal wise.
[Soldiers surround the QUEEN.
PHANRES.
Taout, why were you not in camp to-night ?
Well, take your weapons, but to-morrow come
To remember me to have you soundly flogged.
Pakiiak.
Then it was true.
Tehutimes.
In our authority
Using the dead king's power, we took from you
What ne'er was yours. You slew the chamberlain
And took his wealth, and to your increment
The people starved.
Hatasu.
Where is your wife this while,
Tehutimes, where is your wife this while?
A Voice.
At noon she wed Nesesta in the temple.
Tehutimes.
She thought mc dead. She ditl not mourn me long.
12^
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Pakiiar.
Give back my gold, I earned it honestly.
Hatasu.
Perhaps before your death she had preferred
The pleasant-voiced Nesesta.
Tehutimes.
Is this true ?
Your silence proves it.
Hatasu.
Had you watched your wife,
Instead of playing at conspiracy.
You had been wise. Who was it that we bound
And left to die — I wonder?
Tehutimes.
It was Phanres,
Whom in your folly
Hatasu.
But you lose your wife —
My words displease you ?
Tehutimes.
Words are feminine.
But deeds are male.
Hatasu.
Then in foul treachery
Must men be honoured henceforth, for your deeds
Are cunning and most base ingratitude.
Think you the people will not rise for me
Tehutimes.
Phanres, I have considered of my plan.
Before he hears and brings his vassals out
I go to break Nesesta on my knee.
Meanwhile I give the queen into your charge,
126
ACT III.
Permit her waiting-women if you will,
But slit her throat if any succour comes ;
'Tis my express command. Put ye the king,
My brother, on his wonted throne, to sit
As master here in Thebes, until at dawn
We lay him to his long-invoked rest
With due observances and splendid rites.
Set ye him here, pour wine into his cup,
And let fresh torches burn before his face,
That his lone ghost, long time a wanderer,
May have good cheer of dedicated foods.
As when he was on earth, and go we out
In seemly mirth as though he were alive
And we guests leaving him to pleasant thoughts
Of men's familiar joys and peaceful years.
[^He takes the crown from the QuEEN aftd
sets it on the brows of the dead king.
Pakhar.
I am a poor old man ; give me my gold.
[Exeunt omnes, leaving tJie mummy of the
king enthroned.
127
ACT IV.
A court in the south wing of the great Temple^ with
tfte statues of Amenhotep, Tehutimes /., and
Tehutimes II. Night.
Hymn of the Priests of Osiris.
Thus saith Osiris : O land of the sceptre and crown,
I am the holy knot within the tamarisk tree ;
I am the gods, I am yesterday, and of name unknown,
The paths are before my face of all eternity.
I am the lord of the hall of perfect right and truth,
Whence go the victorious souls on pure and radiant wings,
Over the sapphire furrows to plains of immortal youth,
Beholding shining sights and hearing joyful things.
Fear foUoweth after me, the might of me must endure,
I have vanquished the hate of my foes, and all their efforts
cease.
My words are never failing, I am pure, I am pure, I am pure.
And she who gathered my bones, embraceth me in peace.
There is a hall where hearts are weighed,
Anubis stands beside the scales,
Tehuti with ink of black and red
Marks if the mortal wins or fails ;
The gods sit by in solemn state,
And the Devourer does await.
Thou that comest to me, open thy heart and confess.
Hast thou for love of me rejected thy wickedness ?
Hast thou snatched its food from the mouth of the child ;
Lived by the ways of lust or eaten of things defiled ?
Hast thou cursed the gods, or mocked the sun's bright beam ;
Or quenched the flame in its fulness, or turned the running
stream ?
Hast thou done deed of murder or caused men death to wage ;
Or made waste of the ploughed land, or hast burned in rage .''
128
ACT IV.
Be thy heart found holy and Horus honour thee,
To bring thee to my presence, my deathless crown to see.
Thou who hast shown the beggar grace,
And given to those that hunger bread,
Made sacrifice on sacred days,
And offerings to the holy dead ;
Who hast obeyed the will of men.
And ne'er accused with lying mouth,
Thee will I wash from any stain
In the sweet waters of the south.
And when thou art in the amaranth bowers,
Thou shalt say, " The name of me
Is, I dwell among the flowers
By the olive-tree."
And to thee the gods shall say,
" Pass thou gladly on thy way."
Thy life is ever renewed, thou canst glide down an emerald ray,
In the place of living waters, the garden of blossoms stray ;
Thou canst perch like a bird in the boughs of the trees thou
plantedst of yore.
Or breathe the freshness of air in the shade of the sycamore ;
Descend to the dim abode of thine old mortality,
And sit by the silent heart that once was the warmth of thee.
Thus going out by day thou shalt have celestial wine.
Then skim back o'er the waters, and vault into the boat divine.
And join the mystic sailors to hoist the wonderful sails,
Or watch the youthful Horus who steers through the fear of the
gales.
Thou may'st take up arms with the God who fights till his serpent
foes
Are trodden like flames under foot, and at peace the pure lake
flows.
Thus saith Osiris, Silence am I
And the gods of earth and sky ;
I open the inner door of heaven,
For in me all sins are forgiven ;
My name unveiled shall heal all harm,
My power is of eternal calm.
I bless the gods that round mc stand.
All men arc mine and in my hand ;
Behold I make an end of pain,
And I shall never die again.
[lixeunt Priests of Osiris.
129 S
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Enter HxTXSV!, guarded by Phanres and his Soldiers,
and attended /y/ Nefert otdy.
HATASU.
Thus are we laughed to scorn. Fallen so low !
Am I a simpleton, or disabused
By greater wits than mine? He kept this curse
Deep-buried in his heart these many moons,
Choosing his time to fling it in my face,
And thus my power is utterly thrown down,
While I am left by the forgetful tide
Of my past splendour to contemptuous fate,
And like a dead rat rotting on the shore.
Nefert.
Poor queen, betrayed, betrayed 1
Hatasu.
O night, O death,
Must I go down into the pathless land,
The western land of sleep and heavy shadows.
Forgetful of my lovers and my feasts,
And with no light or passion or desire.
To calm the old earth-hunger and love-thirst.
O idiot death ! This is an evil dream.
Call me your queen, Nefert ; I'll close my eyes
And waken in my power.
Nefert.
Betrayed, betrayed !
Hatasu.
You should have humoured me. I am a child
Who puts the pieces of its broken toy
Together for a moment to believe
It is not broken.
Nefert.
The prince will never dare
To do you hurt.
130
ACT IV.
Hatasu.
He has dared much already.
P HAN RES.
Well, let her enter.
Enter Urtasen.
Hatasu.
What ? Old Urtasen.
How came you here ?
Urtasen.
It seems I am permitted
To attend your majesty. Oh, grievous day,
As I have never seen, albeit my years
Be many on me. Surely never yet
A queen was brought to such a fearful pass.
And you, child of my bosom — do you laugh ?
Hatasu.
My dear old nurse, though I should die this minute
I could not help it. Come, give me a kiss,
Urtasen. [In a low voice.]
Come close to me, and put your hand in mine.
The amulet you hold was of your father,
Entrusted to me by severest vows
To use it for you. By the wondrous spell
Of the mysterious words it bears upon it
You charm the sky, the earth, the stars of night,
The mountains and the streams ; you know the birds,
And talk with serpents, while the fishes come
Obedient to your look ; you can perceive
The bright appearances of Ra himself.
The inmost chambers of the heavenly house ;
And naming Anubis, Sit, and Tchuti,
You have the greater gods at beck and call,
'J"o nullify your foes.
131
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Hatasu.
Old Urtasen,
There is more valour in your shrivelled breast,
More observation in your wrinkled eyes,
More steadfastness in your old palsied hand.
Than all these boastful warriors !
Urtasen.
Little one !
Now shall you see me make a pleasant jest.
Good gentleman, will you oppress your queen ?
Is there no loyal gentleness in you ?
You have your manly strength to save the queen ;
If you can free her, you will live for her ;
l^ut if she dies you can but die with her
If you are men. Nay, they are hard as stones.
But though I'm old, I mean to have my vengeance.
Your purposes henceforth will never prosper
If I have any lore to your undoing.
I will torment you with deceptive dreams.
And harass you with voice and apparition ;
I will make semblances of you in wax.
And give you as a prey to deadly sickness,
Pierce you with knives, and melt you by the fire,
Estrange you from your loves, and make your wives
Engender monsters ; — I'll be even with you.
\^To the Queen.] Good-bye, my child, your magic
cannot fail.
Hatasu.
Take her with you.
Nefert.
Queen, give me leave to stay.
Hatasu.
Nay, child, this combat only is begun.
You have not flinched among these ugly swords !
Go from me now, it is my last command.
[Exit Urtasen with Neeert, who drops a
lotus at Pi ianres' feet.
132
ACT IF.
See, under the sad frowning eyes of death
The game of love is played. [To Phanres.] Pick up
your flower.
Phanres. [Ast'c^^.]
I would the prince had chosen another gaoler.
Hatasu.
Calm is the night and silent are the heavens
Which nurse the echoes of the loud applause
Of what I was. Grave deity of the moon,
Thy lamp is bright ; I see thee sit and smooth
Thy great papyrus out to write a tale
Such as the story-tellers wondrous weave
At hush of sunset to the motley crowd
Beside the banks of Nile. There is a queen
Who wears a beard, a prince who brings to light
The mummy of her husband, and bids the queen
Prepare for death ; when, lo ! an ancient nurse
Bears her an army of gods in her old hand ;
And what must next befall ? I will not use
My power as yet, but give mine enemies
A little further time. We live our hour.
Then the full page is rolled and put aside ;
But thou, eternal writer, dost go on
To enumerate the sorrows of the world,
The hope, the hate, the strife, and the despair
That we call Kgypt. — Oh, the little lasting
Of all we do ! how pitiable a jest,
And transient as the winds upon the hills.
That passcth to the land that loveth silence !
Is that a cry of victory on the air?
/in/cr Sentoer.
Phanres.
What news liavc you ?
133
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Senpoer.
I have seen wondrous things ;
First let me wipe away the beads of horror,
And in this torchlii^ht comfort fearsome eyes.
The prince rode with a band of thirty men,
The rest he left to guard old Pakhar's gold.
A band of thirty men we were, I say,
Who swiftly rode to the landing-stage that lies
Beside the Willow-Plot. Here we found boats,
And getting into two of them, pushed off,
One with command to skirt the opposite bank,
While ours went by a hidden marshy place
Below the river bend. Then sent the prince
One of his men to get him clay ; 'twas brought.
And while the sky took colour and the moon
Rose bright above the mirror of the waters.
We saw the prince intent upon the work
Of fashioning a crocodile ; he made
The scaly back, the intersecting teeth,
The curving tail, the cumbrous webbed legs,
The air-holes, and the eyes, and each man watched.
Waiting to know the purpose. When his work
Was done he weighed it in his hand, and pricked
His arm and took a drop of blood therefrom.
Rubbed it across the snout, sprinkled the clay
With water from the Nile, and murmuring low
An incantation, cast it in the stream.
Thereon around us from the darkling flood
Black crocodilian forms were seen to rise.
Clacking great jaws, who followed in our wake
As we pulled on. The prince bent o'er the stern
And washed his hands as careless of the peril ;
Then came the sound of music on our ears,
And in the distance rose Nesesta's barge.
The oars slowly toiling against the stream,
With many a flashing torch proudly displayed.
Like a bird into a net ; we heard them hail
Our friends with merry cries, and when they were
'Twixt us and them we in a trice had turned,
134
ACT IV.
And like an arrow swooping down we caught
The barge amidships. In the after-part
The lovers lay in love-dreams full possessed,
" 'Tis I, Tehutimes," the prince cried out,
And leaping boat to barge he caught Nesesta.
Then gripping him in unrelenting hands
He wrestled with him — both of them were strong ;
The servants on each side paused in their blows
To see the fearful issue ; all about
Were glistening eyes expectant of a prey.
While this seemed long in happening we waited
Till, with slow gathered strength of will and limb,
The prince broke down resistance, lifted up
Into the air and from him threw Nesesta
Amid the madly leaping fateful mouths ;
And though such beasts prefer to drown their food,
The body had been torn and wrenched asunder
Or ever his shriek had died upon the night.
And ere the prince let fall his lifted hands,
Nesesta now was nothing but a name.
Hatasu.
His life was like a woman's, delicate,
This was his end. Where is the Princess Meri ?
SENPOER.
They bring her here in bonds.
Hatasu.
What hold you there ?
Senpoer.
This is the written warrant of your death,
Signed in the dead king's name, as you may see
If you will read it. 'Tis a curious thing
That I have lived to write these words ; I mused
As the pen formed the letters of the deed
Your blood must copy, of the various slights
You put upon mc, not long since. No doubt
The sting of satire is the truth of it,
13s
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
And I am but a babbling, fat, old man.
But now that some might wish to pay scorn back
I will not do it, but this I shall say,
You would not be content and for a time
Had glory beyond thought ; you hastened on.
Forgetful that the only gift of life
Is in indifference and quietude,
And the enticing calm of prudent joy.
HATASU.
Is that your worldly wisdom ? I would rather
Be the most woeful slave in the dark mines,
Who keeps some generous folly in his soul,
Than live by your mean prudence. We, who have
The throb of passionate hearts, the frantic strife
Of o'erbounding natures, still do hold
Amid our last abasement a rich joy
Exceeding lifetimes of the quiet lot.
Now leave me, sir, I cannot wish you ill.
Senpoer. [Aside.]
That maxim shall be written in my book ;
Unless, as well may be, she cheats us yet.
Enter Soldiers wz't/i Meri and others bearing treasure^
Y AKHKK following' them.
Meri.
Why did you make me play my husband false ?
Hatasu.
I used you for my anger, nothing more ;
It was not for my pleasure that you chose
To break your marriage vow with foul deceit.
Meri.
I feared the prince
136
ACT IV.
Hatasu.
Your husband treated you
With fond respect, and had you striven to be
Aught but a perfumed puppet and a show
Of gaudy raiment, you had known his worth,
And sat upon the throne admired and loved,
In the sweet honour of a pure embrace.
Meri.
Oh ! blame me not, but intercede for me.
Hatasu.
I plead not for myself Spoke I for you,
It were to do with you in the same way
As vulgar folk ; you know the punishment ?
They cut their noses off! How I despise
Those who go merrily to snatch the flower
Of stolen joy, but who do weep and whine
If it does sting their fingers any whit.
Enter an Officer hurriedly.
Officer.
I fear the prince has met an ambuscade.
There 's fighting by the entrance of the gates.
PlIANRES.
Where left you him ?
Officer.
He went into the palace
With but a handful of his retinue.
Hear you the clash of arms ?
PlIANRES.
Take all the men
You can and go.
'37
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Officer.
Will you not lead them, captain ?
Phanres.
There 's fighting and I may not be of it ;
I dare not disobey. [^Exit Officer.
HATASU.
The end 's not come.
Phanres.
For you, whatever haps, the end is sure.
Pakhar.
'Tis rescue to my gold.
Hatasu.
I saw you not.
I hope to live to see your gold devoured.
Phanres.
To cut a woman's throat is butcher's business.
Hatasu.
The battle-cry comes nearer.
Phanres.
Close your ranks.
A Voice. [ Without.]
queen we come to rescue you ! to rescue !
Phanres.
The first who breaks in here brings you your death.
\^A great commotion withouty the Soldiers
appear with Tehutimes at their head.
Hatasu.
At last I see a man to rule in Egypt.
Phanres.
Speak not to him, the battle fever is on him.
1 shall not need to slay you in cold blood.
138
ACT IV.
Hatasu.
The serpent on his diadem spat fire,
He was no pale and melancholy boy,
But a bright warrior driving death's white steeds.
Tehutimes. {Recovering himself.^
I would not slay the people whom I mean
To rule with gentleness. We here are set
Impregnably ; but like a beaten dog
The mob is ready to spring at our throats.
Throw them this gold ; it is a harmless weapon.
[Soldiers begin to take up the bags. Pakiiar
rushes to t/ievi, but is withheld.
Pakhar.
Ruffians and thieves ; help, they are robbing me !
Hatasu.
If you are calm, you yet may make your terms.
Pakhar.
This IS too great a blow for me to bear.
Long of attainment, full of thorns and briers
Of envious hate, thyself my consolation,
My treasure, mine no more.
PlIANRES.
Make haste, my men.
Senpoer.
There 's ominous low growls without again.
Pakhar.
Thou wouldst have been possessed by alien hands
After my death, but for that brief enjoyment
I clutched thee closer. O my wealth, my wealth,
Thou wert the paps of woman, thou the smile
Of soft ingenuous love, my virgin gold.
Sir, leave me but a bag and send me hence.
139
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Senpoer.
There 's curses, but some laughter in the crowd.
Pakhar.
You are bleeding me to death ; my blood was gold.
Tehutimes.
This is the punishment of ancient wrongs.
Hatasu.
Maut cursed the gold ; at last the curse comes true.
Pakhar. [ Taking up a statuette^
Is that your catch ? \He begins to laugh.
Tehutimes.
The last is for you, men,
Divide it fair.
The People. [ With a great cry without^
Long live Tehutimes !
Pakhar.
Who will buy fish ? Fine fish, fresh fish to sell !
Senpoer.
It was often rumoured he began with that.
Pakhar.
Fine fish, fresh fish to sell !
Tehutimes.
The man is mad.
Senpoer.
Let him not go ; the people mean to tear him.
Tehutimes.
In secret take him out.
Pakhar.
Fine fish, fresh fish ! \Exit.
140
ACT IV.
Meri.
Spare, spare my beauty the disfigurement
Tehutimes.
I would rather end than mar beauty once loved.
Bear her away ; away from me I say,
Burn her adultery with chastening fire
And strew her ashes on the river wave.
[Meri is led out weeping.
That wailing cry takes with it all my youth,
Though 'tis not tears nor sobs will soften me ;
I know not if am I alone in this,
But the least treachery does kill my love,
I thought I loved her better, but it seems
I only loved the innocence in her.
What is it then ?
An Officer.
The people seek their homes,
There being rumour that the queen is dead.
Tehutimes.
The final word of so much deadly hate
Must now be spoken. For what you have done
I thank you from my heart, comrades in arms.
\Exeunt the Soldiers except Phanres and
Senpoer.
[ To PllANRES.] The soldier Taout and eight good men
were killed ;
Thus Taout escaped a flogging.
Phanres.
Had I fought,
How little would a week of flogging seem.
Tehutimes.
Phanres, you fought for mc, for you obeyed.
Senpoer, you must not linger. Well I know
This is the deadliest peril of them all.
[Exeunt PllANRES and SeNPOER.
141
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
A Soldier enters bearing a silver cup, which Tehu-
TIMES takes and sets down on the base of one of the
sphinxes. Exit Soldier.
Is there aught that thou wouldst say before thy end ?
Hatasu.
I am not accustomed to stand criminal.
Tehutimes.
Didst thou not treacherously slay my brother ?
Hatasu.
'Tis true I killed thy brother secretly,
But I, thou knowest well, would have preferred
An open challenge ; for my heart is true,
Holding the rule of honour. Do you smile ?
And yet it was because the king did nurse
The same contempt that he did fall. He was
No perfect husband, yet I did obey
His foolish follies in my own despite ;
For he was weak, I strong. I loathed him most,
Oh, how I hated him, because he played
Against me with the weapons of a woman,
Mocking deceit, and smiling treachery.
And all the wiles. If any man must fight us,
It should be with his weapons, and not ours.
He did outwit my counsels with the snares
That I disdained to use ; he laughed at me
If ever I was generous or sincere ;
And only for the baser use of love
Would sometimes whimper over me and make
A vulgar pastime of me, who am known
To have the greatest, purest, noblest blood
That ever ran for Egypt in my veins.
There 's other griefs that I could bring against him
That might be told to women, but in chief
1 found a greater manhood in my heart,
142
ACT IV.
And could not suffer that the ancient throne
Should be the seat of any but a man.
There was no room for him ; I took the place,
The sceptre, and the beard that mark the king.
Tehutimes.
Now hast thou any plea of shame or fear ?
Hatasu.
Tehutimes, I love thee.
Tehutimes.
Thou dost say
Hatasu.
Thou art the master whom I seek so long,
The conqueror of my too prosperous pride.
The surf-beat haven after stormless seas,
The dear disaster ending foolish calm.
How noble in thy scorn, how whole a man
Thou standest ! Is it from the frequent chase
Of snarling beasts thou tak'st that steadfast air
Of mastery ? There 's something wild in me
Which needs a hunter in the level field,
And not the net or trap ; and thou art come
To cut in twain my heart which yearns to thee.
For such are thy caresses.
Tehutimes.
Dost thou dare
Hatasu.
Hating thy brother for his paltry nature.
Shall I not love thee for thy manliness ?
Love docs not need equality of years,
Nor time, nor fitting circumstance of life,
But at the door of death or perilous chance.
Or in our lofty or low degree wc cry.
This is my spirit's dear appointed friend.
I never knew in life th' abandonment
143
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
To perfect bliss, although I gave myself
And longed to find my master. Out upon it,
There were no men in Egypt in my day !
Tehutimes.
That is thy fault, for greatness breedeth greatness.
Hatasu.
I dote upon thy certainty of speech,
For thou hast deeds to back it. Thou, my love,
Shalt have proud heartaches in the after years
To think thou wast my chosen. Stay thy scorn !
Nor ween one moment 'tis for my poor life,
Given me as a morsel of stale food
Is thrown to a beggar, that I plead with thee.
For, were I conquered, dost thou think my pride
Would let me live an hour thy prisoner ?
But if thou lovest me I would best like
To die upon this moment ; for 'tis said
The gods are jealous that they cannot love ;
And when poor mortals do, 'tis by the rule
To kiss and part for ever.
Tehutimes.
Hear me now,
'Tis fate that is thy executioner.
Fate and thy crime. But ere we part to-night
I also have some words to make to thee,
Because I know the greatness of thy reign
Demands its due of me. I have been wronged.
Cruelly wronged, both in my right to rule,
And in my utter faith in womanhood ;
The wrongers — one my wife, who being small
In spirit had no right of me save death,
Which by my order she shall undergo
In mental vacancy. Thy wrong to me
Is complicated in the tangled skein
Of human lives. I will speak simple truth ;
My brother, this when I beheld his face
144
ACT IV.
Spoke of itself, was an inferior soul
To thee. This granted, I religiously
Declare if thou hadst honoured him in death
With decent prayers, I had not raised a finger
To take my throne.
Hatasu."
I would have cast his body
To rot upon the hills.
Tehutimes.
It is this hate
That weakened thee, and sapped thy former strength,
And blurred thy vision so that, once the pure,
Thou didst descend to pleasures basely vile —
couldst thou know the tears I wept for thee
When I knew this. Thou who hadst sent thy ships
Unto the utmost south, hadst made the name
Of Egypt powerful on distant shores,
Who hadst adorned this splendid capital
With worthy monuments
Hatasu.
'Twas loneliness ;
Thou too shalt sit upon a throne and feel
The solitude of kings.
Tehutimes.
To be alone
Is to be with the gods.
Hatasu.
My spirit starved ;
1 did my mean things nobly.
Tehutimes.
Wc arc noble,
When, having every possibility,
Wc put base things aside.
Hatasu.
Thou art a man.
'15 U
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
TE I III TIMES.
This further angered me unto the strife,
Thy life was as a challenge unto men.
HATASU.
Must women ever be caressed as slaves?
Teiiutimes.
If woman came to rule, yet wise were they
To shame their men to rise to be the masters !
Hatasu.
The mastery of men rings true in thee.
Man is the ponderable earth that sits
In rugged pride and sullen brooding thirst ;
While woman like the mobile water runs
With rippling waves to make him glad for her.
I love thee, yea, I love thee.
Tehutimes.
Strange, oh strange !
Is this a fantasy of foul desire.
Or the rebound of love from its betrayal.
Or a false gleam of pity ? I am glad.
But I neither spare myself nor thee, and though
Thou wert a place of shade and rest, most sweet
Amid infinities of sand, and I
Could only quench eternal thirst in thee,
I say I would not. These effigies of kings
In stone-hewn immobility of strength
Speak to me of the permanence of will
And contemplation of eternity,
Whereon right power is based.
Hatasu.
But thou art strong,
Thou art very strong, and now my womanhood
Is of its weakness very sweet to me.
I cannot plead with thee ; do as thou wilt.
146
ACT IV.
Give me the cup, and from thy cruel hands
I'll take it and will pledge thee in the draught ;
The fragrance of thy body and thy youth,
Thy manhood is invincible o'er me.
But have I need to die ? I had forgot ;
So dear is the obsession of kind love.
[ Throwing down the en p.
We will together reign, and I will be
The most enchanting servant of thy love,
And laugh to see thy courtiers' open sneers
At my infatuation. Now, behold,
Thou hast no need to strive against me more.
For I am even mistress of the gods,
And with a perfect spell of wondrous speech
I charm the sky, the earth, the stars of night,
The mountains and the streams ; I know the birds,
1 talk with serpents, and the fishes come
Obedient to my look ; and I perceive
The bright appearances of Ra himself,
The innermost chambers of the heavenly house.
Thus by the words upon this amulet
I bind Anubis, weigher of the dead,
Blood-losing Seti, spirit of the mountains,
Tehuti, father of dread incantation.
\^Lightning. On the highest points of the
temple are seen the gods: Seti zvith a
fantastic face and flapping ears, Anubis
as a jackal, and Tehjcti with the head of
an ibis ; they bear weapons in their hands
and wait the bidding of the QUEEN.
Teiiuti.mes.
1 call ujjon Osiris,
Lord of eternity, and of the everlasting,
Weigher of righteousness, and judge of the dead,
I call upon Osiris !
I later of evil, and friend of things holy,
He that doth purify, and he that avengeth,
I call upon Osiris.
147
THE MASTERY OF MEN.
Hatasu.
Call not upon the god who rules the dead,
But come into the heaven of my arms ;
Our boat is launched upon the shining river,
The earth's green banks are decked for festival,
The mighty ones rejoice to see us come.
What matter if the torrents roar beneath ?
Tehutimes.
By my body the dross of earth, my power of foresight,
By mine instincts of knowledge, my glory to worship,
By my resolve for control, my will to perform,
By my heart to love, my spirit of yearning.
By my self as apart, and my soul to be won,
I call thee, I call thee, Osiris, Osiris, Osiris.
Hatasu.
What is that low monotonous sweet song ?
Tehutimes.
This death-cold gloom that rises from the ground !
Hatasu.
The gods who serve me are themselves afraid.
Tehutimes.
Even if the days are done, my soul is calm.
Hatasu.
Thou art harmonious with infinity
And hast perpetual light to guide thy steps ;
In pride I shield myself and in this thought,
That once I stood mastered by thy dear eyes.
I am a child that goes to bed, and soon
I shall cry myself to sleep ; the whole day long.
So fair it seemed as it would never end,
The merry sunbeams danced and lured me on ;
I yet believe my soul was innocent
148
ACT IV.
Though I picked poison flowers and oft peered in
On rooms uncouth. Give me thy warm young hand.
Tehutimes.
I cannot see thee ; darkness drives me back.
Hatasu.
Thou still canst hear.?
Tehutimes.
I still can hear thy voice.
Hatasu.
I scarcely know myself; I am grown old ;
Love is a mockery of long ago.
The fountains are dried up, the earth is bare,
The stars totter feebly into their graves,
I come, I come, Osiris, to thy halls.
[ IV/it/e the Queen speaks the gods are hidden
by a darkness, from which appears the
form of Osiris : tJie body of gold, the head
of blue, with an emerald light encircling
him. He tlwice lets fall his flail, and
Hatasu sinks to the ground. The gods
disappear, the waning moon pales, and in
ilu twilight before the dawn Tehutimes
is seen leaning over the body of the dead
Queen.
Tehutimes.
Dead, art thou ? Do I live? And am I king?
And have I lost thee, lost thee, lost thee, lost thee ?
'Twill be a weary world. This is man's life.
To win the highest bound, the utmost wish.
And find his only happiness foregone.
Karnaky 1895 ; London, 1899.
'49
THE LANDSLIP.
THE PERSONS
GOODHEART, a Farmer.
RUDGE, a Wheelwright.
Sneak, a Pedlar.
Grace, Wife to Goodheart.
A Baby, Felons escaped.
Scene : A farm near Sandgate, 1665.
THE LANDSLIP.
A DRAMA.
TJie stage shows the interior of the farm. To the right,
a rough woollen curtain drawn from the door to
the side, hiding the bed ; to the left, a large fire-
place, and by it a table with stools ; in the centre,
door and a small window.
Night. GOODH EART having read prayers stands
at the top of the table putting the markers in the
Bible ; Sneak rises, rubbing his knees ; RuDGE
is still praying, with his face to the back of the
chair. GRACE hieelijig in front of her chair with
her baby, rises, and sits warming her hands at the
glowing embers. Finally, RuDGE rises and turns
to GOODHEART.
GOODIIEART. {Closing the book.] Thus day by day
we come nearer to our share in the fulfihncnt of the
eternal promises. The year has fallen into the autumn,
the warmth of the sun has declined into the cool of
the eve, and while the benison of the breath of night
brings us the balm of such few roses as remain, peace
won of prayer falls upon our heads and shall attend
us in our sleep. The world is full of blessing, and the
seasons are perfected by their changes ; toil brings
hunger, and food satisfies our need ; we look up to the
heavens and find love abounding, we build on the
earth and it U()hol(ls our habitations ; each and every
thing lias its birth aiirl its increase, every creature
its master aiul its servant ; man in his faith is in
15s X
THE LANDSLIP.
vincible ; it needs must be that we have a good liking
for our gracious Creator.
RUDGE. Friend Goodheart, think you that we are
even worthy to love our Creator? Is not fear, abase-
ment, and trembHng a better habit of mind ? Let us
not tempt the Lord.
Goodheart. To beh'eve that the divine will pro-
ceeds by the rule of love and gentleness, is that to
tempt Him ?
RUDGE. I fear that our carnal fancy makes us
desire a kind of indulgence which we little deserve.
Grace. If you begin to talk again we shall get no
sleep to-night. I know you, you grave old things.
RUDGE. Is it not better to watch and make ready?
I am ashamed to sleep so much ; we are estranged
from our holy duties in the night.
Goodheart. Does not sleep give a respite to
sorrow and bring fortitude to the weary ?
RUDGE. They alone grow weary who are burdened
by worldly cares.
Goodheart. Man, man, would you have us live
in a wilderness, without comfort or society ?
Rudge. Did not the God of Abraham bring His
people into the desert of a set purpose to speak com-
fortably to them ? Think you the day of sorrow shall
not come to us also } \^Preparing to go.
Grace. Kiss baby, good Master Rudge.
Rudge. You err in immoderate love of your child.
If you will so pamper it, the day will come when you
will be able to deny it nothing ; yea, you will seek for
it anything its whining appetite craves or its gadding
senses desire. For sin within us all is as the &^^ of the
cockatrice, which by too warm a love is hatched into
the viper. Those filthy scarecrow villains that were
to-day led through the village must, I surmise, have
had doting mothers, and thus they have come to the
ignominy of chains and the horror of transportation to
a distant land.
Grace. Poor fellows !
^54
THE LANDSLIP.
RUDGE. Do you pity them ?
Grace. Our pity is all they can hope for.
RUDGE. If you could speak with them but one
minute, you would be of another way of thinking.
Grace. There 's no man so bad but you can touch
his heart. It hurts me to see them chained like brute
beasts.
RUDGE. They deserve their punishment. Any of
us, if we walk not straight, may come to that pass ;
who knows that this child — And, oh, sinful neglect ! —
the babe is not christened yet. \^He tui-ns to Sneak.]
Do you, young man, chasten your spirit, for I see in
you an inclination to levity. Come you to-morrow to
my house, and in exchange for such of your wares as
are not a snare to the soul, I will give you certain
excellent works of piety and meditation. \^To GOOD-
HEART.] Good-night, friend, and I speak it to you
as a friend, beware lest you become a stumbling-block
to yourself I fear for you, for verily you enjoy your
pride of life to such excess that often you do seem to
be drunken with the love of God. Beware, lest the
tempter get your erring feet into his stocks ! \^Exit.
Sneak. [Ijiiitatin^.'] Beware lest the tempter get
your erring feet into his stocks !
GOODHEART. Sneak, none of your fooling. Master
Rudge is a good man, and my friend.
Sneak. {^Sanctimojiiously.'] I was only saying what
he said to edify myself [To GRACE.] Shall I help
you, good mistress ?
Grace. \Putti71g things away.] No, thank you, my
lad.
Sneak. No one has a lighter hand with cakes than
you have. Mistress Goodheart.
Grace. You shall take some with you to-morrow.
Goodheart. Now, Sneak, go to the barn ; make
no smoke of tobacco there.
Sneak. I'll not, sir; I would not disobey one so
kind, so good.
Goor)MEART. [Sitting doiun.'] Good night to }ou !
•55
THE LANDSLIP.
Sneak. And to )'ou, sir, and your good housewife
and the dear Httle child. \Exit.
Grace, \Yawning^ Well, Sneak's his name, and
Sneak 's his nature; I'm glad he'll be gone to-morrow.
GoODHEART. And all the week past you looked
out for him to come with that riband.
Grace. Did you see the look old Rudge gave it
when he came in ?
\_Coming to the fire, singing to the child.
" Warm, gollies, warm,
The boys are gone to plough ;
If you mean to warm your golls,
Warm them now."
Goodheart. Fair and meek you look with your
child, sweet wife.
Grace. {Kneeling by him.'] Isn't she a pretty little
imp ! Kiss dada.
Goodheart. A month old and not christened yet !
Surely we must bear her to the font next Sunday.
{Abruptly. 1 I can't bear to think of Rudge alone and
childless.
Grace. Why doesn't he marry? I've no patience
with single men ! There 's lots of things that he
bothers his old head about would be simple and easy
if he had a wife to care for. Do not you sit late with
your books, husband. [ To the child.] He isn't happy
unless mummy's arm is round his neck while he sleeps.
Goodheart. I had thought to search for a name
for our child to-night.
Grace. You've a learned head ; you would look for
a name in books. Not but what I'm proud of your
learning, and I often peep into your friends and spell
out a line for myself.
Goodheart. {Opening a book.] Call her Andro-
mache, shall we?
Grace. That 's a name for a king's daughter.
Goodheart. It was in old Dan Homer's day.
Grace. I like simple, good names, win.some and
156
THE LA AW SLIP.
sweet as the field-flowers, or Bible names, if you must
have a long one.
GOODHEART. Rudge would have it so.
Grace. Bother the old scarecrow. I did not mean
that, and I always say a kind word for him in my
prayers. Husband, you'll not love poor Grace less
because she has no book-learning ?
GOODHEART. By my troth coin, no. If you but
knew what cart-loads of books there be in the world,
and I only with the reading of a baker's dozen !
Grace. But you're a wise man, Goodheart, and
too good for a farmer by a long chalk. {Rising.^ So
I'll to bed'; perhaps I'll dream of the name to-night.
[Exit.
Goodheart. Drunken with the love of God? What!
I have wife and child, work and a home, faith of spirit
and strength of limb, and I am not to thank the Giver I
There is peculiar blessing on our house. Misfortune
is to those that hate the commandments, but to those
that live in the light of the law no harm shall come,
their lives shall be prosperity, and their end peace.
[ The shovel falls in the f replace.'] I have heard say
that when aught falls at night it has been falling for
hours. What was I thinking of? Does the name of a
child alter her destined course in life ? A name may
make us proud or silly, and parents are responsible.
In that as in many things. Even we, says Master
Rudge, may come to be evil-doers. How can that
be ? I feel no sinful thought ; no rebellion in me ;
what temptation can come to a simple farmer ? To
give bad measure, or chaffcd-up wheat, that is too soon
found out and custom lost. I see a special kindness
to me in that ; temptation never yet has been thrown
in my way. My father was an upright man, and if the
sins of the fathers go down to the children, hf)w much
more docs their goodness. We have our bit of land,
good land, our own ; others are driven by the winds
on the stormy sea.s, but we sit .secure by the ingle-
nook, clothed with all our needs, and contented with
'57
THE LANDSLIP.
our lives. Wc serve in our lowly place and punish-
ment comes not on our heads. There 's the shovel
falling again. What was I thinking of? — [^ sharp
wrcnc/iing- sound is heard.] Are they firing cannon ?
[As he speaks, a great part of the front of the house has
disappeared. Under t/u: shattered roof is seen a bit of
garden and road ; beyond, to the right, some cottages, to
the left a glimpse of moonlit sea.] Yes, things that have
been falling— [//,? turtis.] Great God, the land has
slipped ! My wife, my child ! [He runs to the curtain
and pauses in dismay?^ Hast Thou spared them, O
Thou that didst create us all ? [He looks in.] Sleeping !
[Sneak is heard zvithout : " The end o' the
world 's come ! O God, forgive me !
The end o' the world ! O God, forgive
me ! I stole that coat. There wasn't
much in the pockets. O God, forgive
me ! " GOODHEART goes out and returns
ivith Sneak, silencing him.
Sneak. The day of judgment!
GooDHEART. Not yet. Sneak, and if it were, I fear
you're little fit for it. [Shaking hiin.] Be silent, or
you'll wake them in there. Are you hearty now ? Then
wait while I look round to see if there is any instant
peril. [Exit ; Sneak stands trembling till he returns^
There 's no great harm done. I was in dread of the
house toppling over our ears. That was the worst
wall, and it went. 'Tis better that the weak should
be broken down, and the strong put in its place. How
did all this come about ? Was I standing here ? It
seems ages ago.
Sneak. What 's that light out yonder t
GoODHEART. The Five Elm Farm is afire. The
peril of fire might have come on us too ; I grieve for
them. Nay, I must go and help them. [Aside.] Sneak
will keep watch for me. I trow he'll steal nothing to-
night. [Aloud.] I shall go in aid to the neighbours.
I hope and trust that the land will not give again.
Sneak, I leave you here ; be vigilant, and at the least
158
THE LANDSLIP.
sign awake my wife. It is better that she sleep now,
\Sighing\ there will be heavy work for us to-morrow.
Sneak. Can it be witchcraft ?
GOODHEART. I'll not believe that such evils are
permitted ; though parson swears to their being true.
Sneak. Think of the cost of making all this good.
It is a great trial.
Goodheart. a great trial, friend Sneak ; but it is
not for the hurting of my house that I will give up
my belief in the love of God. \_Exit.
Sneak. [Through his teeth.l He doesn't seem to
care much. Gone to help the neighbours, is he,
leaving me here ? I hate your open-hearted fellow
who trusts to others. \^He looks to see ?/GoODHEART
is gone.'] What right has he to put temptation in my
way? If I should take any trifle, it's not me that
does it, it's him. Why should he lie soft and warm,
while I be shivering in the barn ? And the beggarly
supper they gave me, with a bucketful of prayers to
wash it down. [He goes to the cupboard?}^ No, I know
one better than that. [He goes to the chest ; GRACE is
heard to speak some words in her sleep. Sneak goes
and looks in.] Just a little peep! He wanted me to
watch. That's flesh for a king. Rot me, but I'd
like — I'd like — All women are bad in their hearts.
She gave me a look or two. Why didn't the roof
come down on her goodman and smash him ? She'd
'a' been a widow. [He opens the curtain further.
Grace. [ Within^ Is that you, dada?
Sneak. [Aside^^ I'm all of a tremble. I wish I
hadn't said nothing. Though who wouldn't do the
same in my jjlace? And she's a dainty morsel.
Grace. [IVithin.] Do you want mc, dada?
Sneak. Poor Mistress Goodheart, how can I tell
you ? Your poor husband is dead.
Grace. [Appearing half-dressed.] It's a lie! I
don't believe it. What have you done with liiin ?
Mercy on us, what has come about ! Oh, my baby !
[She runs in and appears ivith the child. She has a
159
A
77/ E LANDSLIP.
shazvl round lier^ Goodheart, Goodheart ! Quick,
he 's buried under that wall ! We must save him !
Hush! Was that a groan? Here, take the child;
I'll find him if all the hill has fallen.
Sneak. [ Whinmg.'\ Poor man, he 's dead.
Grace. It isn't true ; I see the lie in your looks.
Sneak. There 's others as good as he is.
Grace. No, there's none. Why look you so at
me? Give me my child.
Sneak. Hands off. Sneak 's his name and Sneak 's
his nature, is it ?
Grace. I never meant that, Master Sneak. Good
Master Sneak, give me my baby.
Sneak. Do you go in there, and lie down, and I'll
bring your baby. You know what I mean. \^She
^ives a start of surprise, and clenches her fist to strike
him.'] No blows, now, no tantrums. I'll have what I
want, or \Taking out a knife] I'll rip the child up.
Grace. You can't be as bad as that.
Sneak. Who knows the world isn't going to end ?
I don't care what I do.
Grace. You devil ! You came here and ate our
bread and knelt with us, you did. And the earth-
quake came, and our house tottered, but stood firm.
And my husband went to help the neighbours, for
sure. And you try to tamper with me, though God 's
very near to-night, as His wrath has come upon us.
\^He brandishes the knife.] Oh, sir, don't hurt the
child. Have pity !
Sneak. Have pity on yourself. And be quick
about it. [^The child cries.] Hold your caterwauling,
you little wretch. I hate nothing worse than the cry
of a child. I'd drown them all like blind kittens, and
push them down with my finger. I've been sneak
and toady all my life, but I'm lord and master here.
You're a bit scraggy in the neck ; but we have to
take what comes in our way, and be thankful.
Grace. Aren't you afraid that God will punish
you ?
I Go
THE LANDSLIP.
Sneak. I'm cleverer than most. I shall always
have time to repent.
Grace. You can't play fast and loose with the
angels.
Sneak. What's that to you? Now look at me;
I'm not so ugly.
Grace. [ With a forced laiigh.'] I always liked your
looks.
Sneak. I've got a harelip, but I'm as well-looking
as most. And I've got soft ways with women. I could
tie a kerchief round your head to make you pass for a
lady. We pedlars know what women are, and what they
like. I have a bit of finery in my pack as is twenty
times better nor that riband I got you. It won't cost
you nothing. What 's the good of your giving your best
to those as don't know .-' I could kiss you on your
lips to take your breath away. I'd pamper your
appetite. So Sneak aren't such a bad one, after all.
[ With a leer.'] You'll like me when you know me
better.
Grace. [Aside.] I feel sick. {To Sneak.] You
have a way with you.
Sneak. None of that. I'm sharp to-night. I know
you're strong enough to strangle me. But Sneak 's
no fool, so don't think it. I'm going to tie your hands.
Bring me that bit of rope.
[Grace goes ayid throws it to him, at the same
time catching up a Jicavy mallet and
facing him.
Grace. Touch the child if you dare. No, you
won't do it. I know you.
Sneak. Do you, then? Here, take your whelp.
\S he catches it from his hand.] You know what I'm
going to do. I'll go to your husband, and tell him
that you asked mc, I will. P'r'aps he'll believe mc,
p'r'aps he won't ; but they're never quite sure. [Jle
goes to the opening.] And I'll let the neighbours hear
of the nasty drab you arc, and they're bound to believe.
Good-night, drab, I'm going
1 6 1 Y
THE LANDSLIP.
\A confused noise without. SNEAK runs out,
but is met by a body of ten or twelve men,
the foremost of whom strikes Sneak on
the head with a crozvbar. S N E AK staggers
back to the threshold, and falls dead, a
white patch mingled with blood shou'ing
on his skull. Meanwhile the Felons enter.
First Felon. Cracked like an eggshell !
Second Felon. There 's a woman there, Squire.
First Felon. Dame, it was not my intent to kill
your mate. But we want food, and money. No crying ;
you know who we are.
Grace. Felons, but not felon like the man you've
slain. I've no tears for him. That was not my goodman ;
it was the pedlar. My husband was gone to help the
neighbours, and left the fellow to guard my babe and
me. I think he was took mad ; he tried to do what
you, however bad you be, would never try. Take all
you want; I give it you cheerful and kind. Here, my
lad \^To one of them\ help me to set the table. You
shall fare like the king on his visitation.
First Felon. The filthy villain ! I've found a
worse man than myself; yes, you may laugh, my
friends, but it 's true. Dame, rest you at ease ; we
are not for you to serve.
Second Felon. There's a pretty bit of meat in
the larder.
First Felon. Nothing shall be touched here.
Hands off, Slimey.
Grace. You'll not go like this. What do I care
where you come from ? There 's many walking with
their heads high have done worse things than you.
Why, lad, let me look at your arm ; you've a festering
sore. I've got the stuff for that — an ointment which
my old grandmother taught me to make. Slimey,
do they call you ?
First Felon. Why are you thus kind to us ?
Grace. I am sorry for you. I can't bear to see
men hurt ; for though they look burly and strong, and
162
THE LANDSLIP.
aren't soft like we women, they're tender frail bodies
all the same.
First Felon. We have our deserts. There are
thousands more rotting in the prisons. Where I was
first the jailer put his swine in among us. Often he
snarled out, as he rattled his keys, " A good hog is
more to me than vermin like you."
Grace. Oh, but it 's cruel to speak bitter to men
as have punishment to bear.
First Felon. In Virginia we should work under
the lash with the negroes. They will fling the black
men in our teeth — if they take us. We're bad enough,
but they make us worse. Jails worse than the kennel
in the street, and foul language that stings us even,
though we're thick-skinned enough. But what care
I ? They never broke my pride.
Second Felon. No, he was always the gentleman
— [Aside] — even in the pillory.
Third Felon. Let's have a look at the child,
an' it please you.
Grace. Hold the light, then.
[The Felons crowd rounds looking at the
child in the mother's arms. The First
Felon stands apart. For a considerable
time no word is spoken.
When I was a tiny mite I often wondered what
mother could find in the face of my little sister to
look on it so long and so loving, but it 's strange
the thoughts that come into my head while I sit
here quiet-like with my child. It's often of the way-
farers I think, the poor lone ones without hearth
or home, that walk on the dreary roads, over the
snow or in the rain, and I grow as sorry as can be
to think I can't bring them in to sit by the fire,
welcome for once in their lives. Then I sigh for the
wicked who arc doing themselves no good by the
evil they do to others ; they be a rabble rout, even
though they have silver buckles on their shoes, they
are found out in the end ; but if there 's punishment
'63
THE LANDSLIP.
for the bad, there 's pity for them too. Don't think I
fret myself, but I sometimes drop a tear for such as
lie sick with fever, or are maimed in a limb ; some-
times I seem to see the soldiers after a battle, their
wounds growing black in the sun, and though it's
give and take, war is a sorry sight in Christian lands.
I don't know why I ponder these things when I'm
alone with my babe, but if I were a great queen and
had a son that was to be a king, I would send out
my messengers to all the poor weary ones, the broken
and the sick men, the foolish and the bad, everyone
that was faint for love and comfort : and they should
all come in, and by my child's innocence they should
be made whole, and there would be no more tears or
weeping, nor any need for theft or shame.
Third Felon. \_Halfto himself l\ It's a boy.
\Aside.
Second Felon. No, it's a girl.
Grace. You're right. It takes a man to make a
girl, they say. Your mothers held you like this once.
\A groan from the First Felon.] There now, I've
hurt him.
Third Felon. Nothing you can say will hurt us.
Second Felon. You can see what the Squire is —
gentle blood in him, must be. He killed a man. None
of us have done so much.
Grace. I thought for killing
Second Felon. No, they don't hang able-bodied
men. They want slaves for the plantations.
Grace. You look merry enough, my lad.
Second Felon. I don't mind much ; never had
no home, nor no father. But I only stole once, mind
you.
Grace. It's a hard world to those that make a
slip — 'tis like those that fall in a crowd of people,
there 's no chance for them, for the more they try to
get up, the more they are trodden down.
First Felon. No, there 's good and bad. I'm bad,
and I know it ; the evil 's too strong in me. Even as a
164
THE LANDSLIP.
boy I hated peace and quiet ; I was always the dare-
devil. I can't bear the soft, sleek ways of the fat
burgess with his close fist and his " God have pity on
the poor ! " Why do some have purple and fine linen,
while others starve ? What 's justice if you weigh it
by a true scale ? Who knows what we are ? The
king's in authority, and my right is wrong to him.
He can pick or choose what he wants, send men to be
killed and take their goods. If I were king I should
do the same. Let it be fight to the bitter end. The
man who gave witness at my trial, a good man you
would call him, he'll soon learn it, to his cost, that
hatred strikes home, for it 's kill or be killed, condemn
or be condemned. I condemn him.
Grace. \Covimg dose to hiin^ Why don't you kill
my baby, then ?
First Felon. You've shown us pity ; if any of
yours did me a wrong I would forgive it for this
night's sake.
Grace. Then if you'll be true to what you say to-
night, you'll not touch this man nor ever another. How
do I know that he that gave the witness against you
was none of mine. I've thousands of kinsfolk scattered
over the land. My father was one of seventeen
children, so there 's no knowing where my cousins be.
Then this little girl will want a husband when she
grows up, and it 's so hard for us poor girls to get
wooers, that I'll not have one chance taken away, no,
not out of the whole wide world. But you won't kill
that man ; I'm sure you won't. My husband always
says that I have such a way with me that I can per-
suade him into anything. Give me your hand on it,
forget and forgive.
First Felon. Do you know what wc are? If I
had been told I should speak to any living soul to-
night with two free arms, why, their lives would not
have been worth a handful of sand.
Grace. Then the pride in you is gone, and you'll
do what I want.
165
THE LANDSLIP.
First Felon. Don't ask me that ; don't ask it me.
The thought of revenge has kept me alive ; it 's been
hope to me, patience and free air.
Grace. But you'll give it up to please me.
First Felon. He sent me to misery without a
thought. I say this, however bad I am, I have not
deserved what I have suffered, what I may yet suffer.
Grace. Perhaps he has a wife and a child.
First Felon. What matters that if the world is
bad?
Grace. If it's a bad world, don't let you or me
make it any worse.
First Felon. What neither chains, nor the long
lonely hours in the prison darkness, nor shame, nor
frost, nor hunger have done, your pity has done.
Let it pass ; I've killed one man to-night, and done a
good deed ; let that go ransom for my hate of the
other. If the prayer of sinful, sorrowful men like us
may avail, God bless you! \To one of the Felons.]
We must go on again ; they are sounding their horns
as if for a wild-beast hunt.
Felons. God bless you, mistress !
First Felon. [Aside.] Take up the carcass ; we'll
throw it into the ravine. [Exit.
Third Felon. You'll not tell which way we
go?
Grace. Not I. Here, Slimey, take the ointment.
Second Felon. Good-bye again. [They go out.
Grace. Good-bye. There may be better times.
Good-bye. They're nothing but a parcel of schoolboys.
I know what I should do with them ! Oh, it 's so
silent — I won't give way ; I can have a good cry
to-morrow. There's many things I might think of;
or shall I sing, " London Bridge is broken down ? " I
wonder if anything has come by old Rudge ; the more
he gets sorrow, the more he seems to like it, unless it
touches his purse. Dear me, it's little enough we
shall have to put in our stocking when we've made the
damage good.
1 66
THE LANDSLIP.
GOODHEART. [ WitJwut^ Oh, my poor wife ! Have
those evil men passed here ? I dare not go in.
RUDGE. \\Vithout^ What matters it whether we
live or die ?
Grace. If he had come a few moments before !
Poor dear, he 's more frightened for me than I for him.
\^She creeps to the seat by the fire and croons
her lullaby.
"Warm, gollies, warm,
The boys are gone to plough ;
If you mean to warm your goUs,
Warm them now."
GoODHEART enters with RUDGE.
RUDGE. Have you no thanks to Him that spared
your wife and child ?
[GoODHEART motions him away.
Grace. You met no one as you came along?
GoODHEART. No one. But you are pale as with
a great fear. Where's the pedlar?
Grace. His body I know not, his soul in hell.
GoODHEART. What have you to speak so ?
Grace. I can't tell you, and I can't keep silence.
How long have you been gone ?
GOODHEART. I do not know. I went to help the
neighbours in their trouble. I left Sneak to keep
watch over you.
Grace. You had better have put a wolf in the
farmyard. Oh, the villain !
GoODHEART. Has he stolen aught from the house?
Grace. No ; but he tried to tamper with mc, and in
his cunning he got the child from me, and threatened
to hurt it. I snatched up a mallet, and would have
beaten him to a jelly, I would, but he turned tail and
made off, and the felons came in, and one of them
cracked his skull for him.
[ She begins to laugh and cry.
167
THE LANDSLIP.
RUDGE Thus one evil thing slays another. Do
you forgive him ?
Grace. No.
GoODHEART. Be calm, dear wife, be calm. But
tell me, — these felons, — how many were they ?
Grace. Eight or nine, I think. They didn't hurt
me. It was as a lord speaking to a lady that they
were by me. I offered them of our best, but they took
nothing, and went away quiet as lambs. God bless
their poor hearts, and give them a free road. Hus-
band, don't take on.
Goodheart. The perils of the night !
RUDGE. This is a bitter lesson to your pride of joy.
Now learn to live in fear and trembling.
GOODIIEART. Yes, henceforward I shall know fear.
This world is a pit of horror and destruction ; the
earth is as brittle as glass, and cracks under our steps ;
there's no friendship, none, for the man who sleeps
under your roof is waiting to deceive you. What are
our bodies but charnel-houses full of plagues and
aches ; we rot before each other's eyes ; the sea is a
ravening lion, howling for wreckage ; the sun is burnt
out and can't warm us ; we can't walk, or breathe, or
speak, or think, but it 's deadly to us, either sin or
suffering, shame or remorse, and up above One sits,
with the angels singing, and not a murmur of pity
comes down to the poor wayfarers below.
RUDGE. He died for us.
Goodheart. I tell you that no suffering could
make up for the terror that every man that lives has
on his back. The weight is too heavy for aught else
to be put in the other scale.
RUDGE. This is blasphemy.
Goodheart. No, 'tis a poor man's cry of bewilder-
ment. I do not understand what I have seen to-nigfht.
When the land gave way and my wall fell down, I
said, It is the will of heaven. When I saw my neigh-
bours burnt out of house and hearth, I said, Be it they,
be it I, we are men to bear our troubles. But that
1 68
THE LANDSLIP.
iniquity incredible should exist in man, that there is
no more pity for the good than the bad, I cannot
live with. \Raising his hands^ I say it not in blame,
O Lord of Love and Mercy, but I bring before Thee
our woes and anguish, and it is my desire to under-
stand, that we may be stablished in safety and glorify
Thy works all our lives long. But how may we stand
amid so many fears ? Oh, how may we foretell them ?
where shall we find a refuge ?
RUDGE. From predetermined sorrow, from everlast-
ing wrath ?
GOODHEART. For there be evil men and deadly
days, and this creation overwhelms us with mystery
and dread, but the heavens are silent. Very strong
are the winds and the waves, and the rocks and earth
crush us down, and the beasts of prey are cunning
exceedingly, and the rains, as of malice aforethought,
hinder the harvest. We labour in ignorance, though
eager to be wise, and we see the deaths of others
and cannot succour them.
RuDGE. Where the tree falls, there let it lie, how
terrible !
GoODiiEART. We cannot pray as we would, for our
flesh is coward ; we are weak, weak, weak, but the
tempter and the spoiler are very strong. Yea, we who
should have a wages of security, we are without strength
and go stumbling in the darkness. In sorrow I speak
it, do Thou hear it in pity; all things I can bear, believe,
or wait for, save the wonder that goodness is folly. Be
Thou cruel, that for our sins ; but this is unendurable,
that God should let be in the heart of one of His
servants — yea, I must speak it — the doubt that God
is God. \T he child cries.
Grace, \I lushing the child.] There, dada, you've
woken her up, and she 's been sleeping .so sweet. You
must be more careful. There, tiny-toes ; there, chubby-
face.
Goodheart. [hi astojiishmcnt.'] Heard you that
child's cry?
169 Z
THE LANDSLIP.
Ruof.E. She does well, even in her ignorance, to
bewail the sin that Adam brought upon us all.
GOODHEART. [/;/ a chastened voice.] Do you not
understand ? It is no miracle that a child should
cry, but that cry of weakness has made me strong.
Is it not wonderful that we have the power of life
and death over other creatures ? Weak as we are,
others cling to our skirts, and are wholly dependent
on us. When ships are lost at sea, the mother
with the suckling child has no fear, mariners have
told me. Strong men turn pale, and their teeth
chatter, but those who have to protect others are them-
selves protected. Yea, our refuge in this world is,
that there are others weaker than we. How could we
face the horrors and the mysteries, which brush men
away as though they were flics, how could we think of
duty or love, except that, though we be infinitely weak,
others have need of us to be greatly strong ? This
child, our offspring, see how delicately made it is, how
soft is its skin, what tiny perfections are its hands ; it is
our child. He who gave it breath of life, gave also
perfume to the flowers, and wings to the storms. He
made the mountains terrible, and permitted punish-
ment and awful disease ; being all-powerful. He is a
Lord of fear, but being all-gracious, He is still the Lord
of love. Thus, though the whirlwind of His wrath
and the sword of His decree would spare none for
their sins, yet He saved the world by a little child in
its mother's arms, to whom all mankind came as felons
escaped from prison. — Friend Rudge, let me see you
kiss the child, as my wife bade you do after supper,
for if I am to fear with you, you must learn to love
with us,
RUDGE. Of a truth my heart has been sorely proved
this night. [He /hisses the child.
Grace. And now that you know how soft and
warm little babies are to kiss, do you be quick and
marry a wife and get yourself a child of your own.
I'll be bound you've a hole in your stocking, old
170
THE LA ^W SLIP.
Rudge ; if it 's only for the sake of the h'nen I'd wish
you a wife. I say, the more marriages the better ; for
when you men see the poor little brats, so innocent
and helpless, and yet loving all the same, as far as
their tiny hearts can, it makes you braver and better,
it do indeed.
GOODHEART. All things come in due time. When I
came to Farmer Tempest's, I found friend Rudge com-
forting fair Margaret ; and we'll ring the wedding bells
over them before they are much older. Wife, give me
the child. See you, after this night of sorrow and of
doubt, the sun rises over the eternal seas. We are but
frail creatures, yet in our love we can go hand in hand,
some guiding, some being holpen, to whatever the day
may bring forth. But this forenoon, before we do
aught else, we will go to God's house and thank Him
reverently for His sparing of us, and make a fervent
protestation of our humility and patience for all He
shall put upon us. And we will bring our child to the
font of baptism, in memory of this night calling her by
the name Mercy, for Mercy is the reconciler between
Love and Fear. \Exetint.
Paris, 1898.
171
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
" Perch' io non procedar troppo chiuso,
Francesco e Poverta per questi amanti
Trendi oramai nel mio parlar diffuse."
Dante.
Brothers of the first Order founded by Francis.
THE PERSONS.
Francis of Assisi.
PiETRO Di Bernardone, his Father.
Bishop of Assist,
Elias,
Bernard,
Juniper,
Leo,
Sylvester,
Giles,
Conrad,
Nicholas, J- Friends of Francis' youth.
Joachim,
Consuls, Magistrates of Assisi.
Cecco, a pipe-player.
A Peasant, a Soldier.
)
Clare, as a young maiden, afterwards as Superior of the second Order
founded by Francis.
Pica, Mother to Francis.
GlACOMA DE Settesoli, of the Lay Order founded by Francis.
A Poor Woman.
Brothers and Sisters of the Orders, Angelo (second son to Pietro),
Citizens of Assisi, Children, Attendant on Clare, a Doctor, sons
of Giacoma and her retinue, a Novice, Nuns, sons of Cecco,
Confessor to the Bishop of Assisi, Captain and Guard, Marauders,
Foresters.
Scene : Assisi and places near.
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
A DRAMA OF THE LIFE OF
FRANCIS OF ASSISI.
ACT I.
TJie Piazza before the Cathedral. A tavern to the right,
with tables set without ; to the left the Bishop's
ho2cse, with his arms over the door. NICHOLAS
leaving the Cathedral gives alms to a beggar, and
bows to Joachim and Conrad, who return the
courtesy.
Nicholas.
Good-morrow, Joachim, and to your friend.
Surely we knew you, sir, before the wars ?
Joachim.
Surely we knew him, gentle Nicholas !
Nicholas.
Certes, 'tis Conrad ! Here 's my hand and heart.
Conrad.
And mine ; I well remember Nicholas.
Nichol.\s.
'Tis well that friends should meet in hostile times ;
Let's drink a cup to further amity.
JOACllI.M.
We are delighted.
Nicholas.
Host, a flask k){ w inc.
175
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Conrad.
How often, wandering, I've longed to drink
The mellow wine of Umbria's fertile plains !
Joachim.
There is no vintage of its worth abroad.
Nicholas.
That 's true, but e'en our wine 's a bitter draught
When treachery has pressed with stealthy feet
The sicklied grape. [The Host brings wine.
But here 's a four years' growth
That sunned itself in an untainted air.
Here 's love to friends and death to traitors' souls.
[ They drink.
Conrad.
It angers me to think I was away
Nicholas,
Rejoice that you were so ; your noble heart
Had burst to see the town in its distress.
Myself, I took a wound, which painfully eased
The passion of my blood, and Joachim,
Taken in bonds to proud Perugia,
Was happier with true foes than faithless friends.
Conrad.
The nobles of the town
Nicholas.
Our noble rulers,
Who fought against us with our enemies,
And made their victory an easy thing !
Conrad.
And how bears up the town in its disgrace ?
Nicholas.
Sadly. The most considered citizens
Creep out abashed amid our humbled streets,
176
ACT L
The crowd holds sullen silence, old wives weep,
Our maidens are less fair and stay at home,
The moonlit nights that erst were glad with song
And bands of lovers singing to their dears,
Are sad and voiceless ; songs and love are dead ;
And to our great distress, young Bernardone,
Our little king of laughter and good looks,
Who had the smartest dress and sleekest curls.
Who won more loves and made more riotry
Than any of us, though we plume ourselves
As not deficient in accomplishments,
Knew more of horseflesh, and could play a sword
Better than any of these ignoble nobles,
He, our example, envy, and delight,
Has caught the general mildew and grown mean.
Conrad.
What! Francis Bernardone?
Nicholas.
Even so.
Joachim.
What 's more, he 's caused his courage to be doubted.
Conrad.
Francis a coward ? But we loved him so !
Nicholas.
Here is the tale. It is not pleasant hearing.
Let's fill our glasses first. Here's to our loves
No doubt you've won a many travelling.
When wc had peace and were rclea.sed from bonds,
A company of gentlemen resolved
To take up arms with Gauthier de lirienne,
A cavalier who bore the Papal arms,
Among them I'Vancis, who, in fine array,
His page's buckler set upon his arm,
Started with the aijjjlauded cavalcade.
Singing of chivalry, and to his father,
177 A A
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
A fine old man who never spoiled his pranks,
Saying, " I'll win my knighthood in the wars ;
You'll be as proud as you've been good to me ; "
And the old man was all aglow with joy
To see his son among the crested knights,
And all admired to see their kind farewell.
Thus Francis rode away to win his spurs ;
But scarcely had he reached Spoleto's towers,
When, angered at the jests of worthier men,
Who had less brave array but stouter hearts,
Or for a touch of sickness, as some say.
Perhaps the sudden colic known as fear,
He leaves the troop — I'm telling you a fact —
And seeks in coward haste his safer home.
Joachim.
Remember he avers a vision seen.
Conrad.
He had no pluck, I take it, for the war ;
He was a sad impostor.
Nicholas.
Mark the sequel.
His father's justly angered, and he flies
For fear of whipping to protecting priests.
Makes loud profession of a penitent mind,
Pulling long faces, taking desolate paths.
Talking with beggars, kissing lepers' hands.
Conrad.
Faugh ! 'tis a filthy sight to see the fellow
Turning a saint for very cowardice.
Joachim.
The saints were often sinners in their youth.
Nicholas.
I love the saints who hallowed ancient days.
But they by heaven's will and their pure lives
178
ACT I.
Became the objects of our veneration.
Our warlike days have Httle need of saints ;
And if such wonders could be seen to-day,
Christ has the choice of many a goodly man.
The saints were true, and loved their natal towns,
And often brought the angels to their aid ;
The saints were sensible, and would observe
Love for their lowly kind progenitors ;
The saints would help the clean and honest poor.
And not the lepers who show Heaven's wrath.
But what is this ? The coward fool again !
Enter FRANCIS in rags, followed by Children.
Children.
Pazso, pazzo !
Nicholas.
Watch him awhile : this was our Francis once.
First Child.
Good-morrow, fool, may I hold your cloak for you ?
Francis.
Poor child, you're thinly clad for such a season.
Second Child.
Give us a soldo for holy charity.
Francis.
Here is my blessing, I have nothing else.
Third Child.
Will you .sell us a drop of your sweat, Scr Francesco ?
Francis.
All that I have is long-time sold to God.
Fir.st Child.
Will you sing us a song then ?
179
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Children.
Yes, a song from the fool ! Hush, hush !
Francis.
I'll sing for you, if ye will list to hear.
{SingsJ] There was a knight of Bethlehem,
Whose wealth was tears and sorrows ;
His men-at-arms were little lambs.
His trumpeters were sparrows ;
His castle was a wooden cross,
Whereon he hung so high ;
His helmet was a crown of thorns
Whose crest did touch the sky.
Children.
Pazzo, pazzo ! Oh, what a fine song ! Well sung, fool.
First Child.
Your song is most beautiful. Here is your wreath.
[ Throws mud on him.
Conrad.
How now, young knaves, ye do disturb the streets.
\Cuffs them.
Joachim.
Get hence.
Francis.
J pray you suffer them awhile.
Nicholas.
We do remember you were once a friend.
\Strikes a boy, who cries.
Francis.
Poor child ! I pray you do not smite my friends.
Nicholas.
Get hence, or you'll have something fit for tears ;
[Exeunt Children.
Stay here, I tell you, Francis.
1 80
ACT I.
Francis.
I obey,
If you will hit your anger out on me.
Conrad.
Blows you'll not have of us, but pity, yes,
Francis.
I thank you, pity well befits my past.
Nicholas,
Ah ! stay that whine and hearken to our love.
Once you were of us ; never will you be
As then, but still you may redeem yourself
Repent your sins, if you would be a priest.
But do the thing with righteous decency.
Here, take this wine, you tremble with the cold.
Francis.
I thank you.
Nicholas.
What, he gives it to a beggar?
Francis.
I am refreshed, my limbs were somewhat chilled.
[Nicholas rises.
Conrad,
Patience ! Do you remember me?
Francis.
I do.
And once I smote you, and I pray you now
To beat me heartily. Here is a stick.
[ Takiyig the beggars staff.
Why do you weep ?
Conrad.
Poor friend ! I weep for you.
Francis.
1 Ihank you for those tears ; Pll wec[) for you.
i8i
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Joachim.
Indeed we waste our words.
Francis.
Indeed you do.
You shall not take me back unto your prison :
The festering chains of richly wove attire,
The unsubstantial banquets of fat food,
The long dark hours of lust, the turning wheel
Of hate that breaks the bodies of our love.
I will no longer make my sorry jest,
Mocked by the tyrant prince Iniquity,
Nor will I dance before him in his halls.
I have undone the curse and broke my bonds.
The Children return with a volley of stones and take
flighty zvhile Clare enters with an Attendant.
Clare.
Poor man ! a stone has struck him and he bleeds.
Francis.
How sweet the word of pity from a child !
Nicholas.
It is the Lady Clare, child of the Sciffi.
Conrad.
She is a maid a man would fight to win.
Clare.
Friend, take my handkerchief. Dear governess,
Have we no alms to give him ?
Francis.
Come not near ;
'Tis not for innocence to touch my hand.
Joachim.
He means no evil, but his mind's obscured.
182
ACT I.
Clare.
His looks are gentle and his eyes are sad ;
If he will come unto my father's house
He shall be cared for. Come, my gentle nurse.
{Exit zuith Attendant.
Nicholas.
Poor Francis, you're not fit for holy life ;
Even a simple girl can stir your blood.
Francis.
And if my heart were full of noisome thoughts,
Were it not stronger reason for my lust
To seek the yoke of sternest discipline ?
It matters little what you think of me,
For till my heart is innocent as that child's,
It will not be the heart that I must make it.
childhood tenderly compassionate,
Could I but imitate thine instant love
That knows nor rank nor shame nor outward seeming,
That feigns not friendship nor dissembles hate,
But sweetly gives itself in charity !
Joachim.
He talks as if he were an old, old man.
Francis.
1 have lived a long, long life away from God.
Enter Pica.
Pica.
Francis, my son, Francis, my dearest child,
Your father knows your sojourn in the town,
And even now comes on with armed men.
He says you stole some goods and took their price
For your own uses. Fly without delay.
183
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Francis.
Dear, cherished mother, do not grieve for me,
For from the deep, dark dungeon where I lie
I see the light of my deliverance.
Pica.
Why did you take the money ? Well you know-
But fly, I hear them come.
Francis.
You bid me fly,
But, mother mine, this is my wedding day.
Nicholas.
And even to his mother insolent !
Pica.
Alas ! It is too late.
Enter PlETRO, with Angelo, Consuls, Captain, and
the Guard, Citizens.
PlETRO.
See how he stands,
The son of honourable citizens.
Who toiled with all the love that parents know
To make his place a fine and worthy one !
Long dangerous journeys did I undertake.
And long time was my Pica left alone.
For this our child, and often did we speak,
My wife and I, beside his little bed
In whispers of his future. See him smile.
I'm no choleric father, feared and shunned ;
I nurtured him with grave, restrained love,
Forgave his follies and extravagance,
Perhaps was proud of them, as fathers are.
I would have had him carry on my business ;
He wished to take up arms ; I acquiesced,
184
ACT I.
And bought him an equipment for the wars.
You know how long he followed with the flag.
Citizens.
He is justly angry. — He ought to have been more
severe.
PlETRO.
Hear me and judge me. Even cowardice
I could forgive, because he was my son :
But when he comes in shameful mockery,
Talks of his sins, and tries to play the saint.
Shunning our sights as though we were his lepers,
Reproves me for my pride, my avarice,
I who had only pinched to win him wealth,
And with his boasted vows of poverty
Steals from my goods and dissipates my store,
Casts to the winds the patience of long years,
Estranges his own mother from her spouse, —
That was the term to fatherly forbearance.
Citizens.
The trouble wouldn't have happened if Pietro
hadn't sent his son among gentlemen. — My sons don't
give me any trouble.
PlETRO.
A taste of jail will do the caitiff good.
Observe, I shame my name to win him back.
When he has cooled his heels in yonder prison,
I'll send him out into the world again.
Now, consuls, do your work.
Francis.
One word, I pray.
Pica.
Francis, be silent to your fnther's wrath.
Francis.
Mother, be sure, if ever filial love
Was wanting in my heart, it is not now,
185 R R
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
When I must go an orphan. I have been
A thankless son, selfish, undutiful ;
He should not much miss me, who never made
Any return. His anger is most just.
He saved and thought for me, and all I gave
Was black ingratitude and cowardice.
Citizens.
There, he confesses his fault.
Francis.
Let me continue. You, O father dear,
Were ever worthy and most generous,
And yet the worst of fathers ; ofttimes love
Does grievous harm because it will not see
Its gifts are less of helps than hindrances.
Your love paternal offers wealth and ease,
Consideration, honour and a home ;
You only ask me for a little grandson
To sit upon your knee, and then content
You will descend to take your just repose.
PlETRO.
And why should not this be ?
Francis.
I do not know
Why heaven parts us, why our private lives
Should be dissevered, why I should stand thus,
A misery to myself and scorn to others ;
Why these things are, I do not understand.
Only I know those things will never be.
Consul.
Francis, consider well your father's love.
Francis.
I have considered it and find it wanting.
1 86
ACT I.
Citizens.
Shame on you, Francis. — He goes too far. — Who
would have thought him so cold in heart. — He deserves
whipping.
Consul.
We make you prisoner, young Bernardone.
Francis.
You cannot.
Consul.
Cannot ! Captain, do your duty.
Francis.
I plead the benefit of clergy.
PlETRO.
Ho!
You think the Bishop will look kindly on
Your heartlessness.
Consul.
How do you ground your plea ?
Francis.
I am a clerk.
Consul. \_Aside?[
Perhaps that 's fortunate.
These private quarrels only make us foes. —
My man, go in, present my humble duty.
And ask his lordship if he can receive me.
\Exit one of the Guard.
PlETRO.
Once it was thought a son would tell his father
When he a clerk became, but then that was
In the old days long past when we were young.
Captain.
You press too far. Get back. The Bishop comes.
187
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Enter the BISHOP with his Confessor.
The Bishop.
Peace be with you, my friends ; what have we here ?
Consul.
Pictro Bernardone has accused
His son Francesco of a certain theft.
The accused has pleaded benefit of clergy :
If your kind lordship thinks the plea is good,
We only wish to put him in your hands.
The Bishop.
'Tis of our knowledge that he is a clerk.
Consul.
Then is our office ended, good my lord.
The Bishop.
Do you uphold your accusation, sir ?
You look disturbed, and we would counsel you
To wait on your decision till the morrow ;
Meanwhile your son shall be in our safe hands.
PiETRO. [Kneeling before the BiSHOP with PiCA.]
My lord bishop, we accuse not our son of , thieving
aught from us, save himself. We wish to have him
back to our love ; your lordship sees he is in piteous
plight. Bid him, we pray you, come back to us. We
are good simple folk, Pica and I ; God gave us a
son, shall that son take God's gift from us ? We are
old folk, we have worked late and risen early for our
children's good ; they should not leave us in our old
age. When your lordship took holy orders, we are
sure you did not disdain your parents ; he hates us,
and takes our savings to give to his beggar com-
panions. Your lordship knows we have done acts of
charity ; we gave fifty crowns to the poor when your
lordship came to the see, and ten yearly to the parish
i88
ACT I.
church, latterly increased to fifteen, and much alms
to our poorer neighbours. Francis is very young, my
lord ; I have perhaps been hard on him. If you will
give him a good counsel, he will return and be a good
lad. See you, he weeps.
Citizens.
Pietro has been a good father. — We all swear to that,
my lord. — Francis will be a good son again. — Let his
lordship speak.
The Bishop.
Your son came lately to us to request
Our counsel in this matter, and with tears
Lamented of his life and of the hurt
His father's love would take of his withdrawal
Into the straighter road. We feel your grief.
You are not the first father who has grieved
Because a son has left his earthly home
To seek a heavenly. There we weep with you.
But we must needs rejoice to find a lamb
Come young into the fold, and with your tears
Our gladness must conflict. Come hither, Francis.
The day is come for you to justify
The vows of a conversion which began
In some extravagance. In your brief years
You have done much of evil, little good,
And it was time that you grew wise to see
The error of your ways. We had preferred
More modest change of mind, but as it seems
Your heart requires this mode of penitence.
We do not blame it, only we require
To be assured of its continuing.
Two paths are set before you for your choice,
And each is good, though one is holier ;
Be wise to choose, that when the choice is made,
It may be final, not to be revoked ;
And that your steady footsteps still may walk
The road you have determined on to-day.
189
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Francis.
This is a great event for me,
A serious and a solemn occasion ;
It is my bridal day.
There is my mother who bore me,
There the font of my baptism,
These my fellow-citizens,
You, my lord, the priest,
This is my wedding garment.
Citizens.
His speech is strange. — Has he offended Heaven ?
— He is mad.
Francis.
I strangely won the maiden of my choice.
You all remember how I proved a coward ;
'Twas when I went to fight
With Gauthier de Brienne.
All that day I sang of feats of arms ;
When the night came I could not sleep
For thinking of this Gauthier de Brienne,
Hoping that I should die for him
In some terrific fight.
As I fought and fell for him,
Smiling with dying lips to have his praise,
Another knight came to me :
In the dim early hours
I saw him stand beside my bed.
About his gentle face a coif de mailles
Such as no earthly armourer
Has for mightiest prince devised !
His hauberk was a beauteous marvel,
But not brighter anywise
Than his stockings of mail and golden spurs.
Over all
A surcoat of white sarcenet,
Whereon a cross did shine !
He bore a fair cross-hilted sword,
190
ACT I.
A blazoned shield hung on his back :
Thus was my knight arrayed.
Citizens.
Who was the knight came to him? — He speaks as
in a dream.
Francis.
I felt this knight did love me well, and said,
" What can I do for thee ? "
He looked intent into my eyes and said,
" Thou must be of my troop."
" Kind knight," I said, " I serve
With Gauthier de Brienne ;
If I desert this gallant cause
A coward I shall prove."
The knight looked again on me,
" Then be my coward," he replied.
He came and sat upon the bed,
But I still obstinate,
" With my Gauthier de Brienne
A pair of spurs I'll win."
" Of me thou shalt have scorn
As thy grave sins well deserve.
Hunger and blows and hate.
The meanest place of all."
The knight so fairly said this word.
That I replied, " I almost find it wise
To serve with thee."
He leant on me and sighed.
I took his hand to comfort him,
And saw a wound thereon as of a nail.
\_T he people eross themselves.
I knelt to him
And said, " O knight, thy coward I will be ! "
Hearken awhile.
The knight then told me of his wars,
Told me of his ancestral home,
Showcfl me his shield,
Charged with the emblems of his passion.
191
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
And promised me not spurs, but wings,
If well I fought ;
And further promised me a bride —
Her name is Poverty.
And now my bridal day is come ;
Here are my parents, my friends ;
The children have thrown flowers ;
Hark to the wedding bells !
[ The bells ring fro7n the tower.
' Citizens.
Didn't think 'a could talk like that.— A father
should not hamper a wise son.
The Bishop.
Thus you do choose to walk the straighter road.
Francis.
And I am now husband to Poverty.
PlETRO.
Go then your way ; I have another son.
Come hither, Angelo ; forgive your father
Who has preferred ingratitude to love ; —
And that reminds me, I must have that straight.
Francis, my lord, — I will not say my son, —
I fear will seek to have his lawful share
Of my inheritance when I am gone.
And thus would cheat my son, my only son
Who's true to me ; if Francis is sincere,
Let him renounce his heirship unto me.
Citizens.
He won't give up his rights. — Not he !
The Bishop.
The father's plea is just. What do you say ?
Francis.
Before your lordship I renounce my share
192
ACT I.
In all the goods of Messer Bernardone,
Whom once I father called ; and for the earnest,
Here are the only things of his I have,
Useless cerements ; this last frail garment thin,
I ask to keep till I can get another.
[//(? throws off his clot Jus.
Pica.
Poor child, he'll take his death.
Francis.
Farewell, poor rags !
Henceforward I shall wear a brighter garment.
The Bishop.
I weep for joy to see you do this thing ;
Come to my heart and let me shelter you.
Juniper.
My lord, here 's my cloak for him. A mean one
enough, but willingly given.
Francis.
I thank you, friend.
Citizens.
Well done, cobbler. He will be a saint next.
Juniper.
I'll break the head of any man as tries to fool me.
Francis.
Tell mc, what is your name .■*
Juniper.
Juniper.
Francis.
Who knows but I may need you for a .staff?
\To a Painter.] My friend, have you a brush of paint
to spare ?
{Paints a cross on the back of the tunic,
193 C C
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
I thank you. My equipment is complete.
I will go forth with my wounded knight,
He has such sad eyes,
He died for me,
I am his coward.
Thus I go forth.
I shall come back
To announce his victories.
He takes the world captive ;
Surely this little town ;
The walls crumble before him ;
I see the streets filled with smiling prisoners,
Showering flowers and glad tears ;
These bring the city's allegiance.
Those pay tribute to the saints.
And there upon the mountain snows.
Our gentle conqueror
And peerless knight,
Christ our King.
I am the herald of the great King,
I am the herald of the great King,
I am the herald of the great King.
{^Exit. PlETRO stoops down and takes away
the clothes amid a silence.
194
ACT II.
A terrace by the ruined Chapel of the Carceri. A
shrine of the Madonna. A rude well, rocks, shrubs,
and the springlit hillside. JUNIPER alone.
Juniper.
Brother Bernard to visit a sick woman, Elias to
confer with the Bishop of Assisi, Sylvester to say the
office of the Porziuncula, Brother Juniper to mend
shoes and cook for the brethren. There 's no dis-
puting it, I have the humblest work to-day. Brother
Juniper, pride is a sin. There can be pride in humility.
I've caught you again in your wicked pride. Two
paternosters and an ave for that. Insensate, shocking,
Satanic pride ! I'll give you a gloria too.
Now, shall I cook first, or cobble first ? Cobbling 's
my trade, cooking 's my pleasure. Then let me do
my work first, as it irks me. No, for then I shall be
looking forward to my cooking. Then cook first.
No, for the brothers would have cold dinners. So I'll
e'en cobble first and put a touch to Father Francis's
new sandals. Now to work. It 's strange that a silly
cobbler like me should join the brothers. A boozing,
godless, melancholy cobbler, who thought a good shoe
better than all the relics going. Then that gentle young
man
Enter a Peasant.
Good morning, my friend.
Peasant.
Morning, father. Is Father Francis within ?
'95
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Juniper.
No ; he 's on the hillside praying. There, is he not
beautiful ? What humility ! What unction ! It is a fine
season for prayers, is the spring. Now, what for you ?
Peasant.
I brought some firewood for the brothers.
\Gives a bundle of sticks.
Juniper.
You good, charitable soul. These logs will become
prayers. But, lord 'a' mercy, you're half naked.
Peasant.
Never mind that, father. I do have aches in my
back from the cold, and all sorts of pains this bleak
weather.
Juniper.
These spring days are cold. Would I could give
thee my tunic ! Father Francis has laid me under
obedience not to give it away, or any part of my habit.
But if you will take it off my back I will not resist
you. Say nought, my son. Bless you, bless you,
and good-bye.
Peasant.
Well, it 's worth eight soldi. — The Madonna keep
you, dear father. \Exit.
Juniper.
How much lighter I feel ! I shall catch cold ; so
much the better. A sinful creature like me should not
be so strong and well, while the other brothers have
so many dolours.
Enter Elias.
Ah ! Brother Elias, how you have sped !
196
ACT II.
Elias.
I have good news to tell. The Bishop thinks
The proper time is come for us to ask
The Holy Father's sanction for our vows.
Juniper.
The Holy Father ? He won't see simple brothers
like us.
Elias.
Be not disturbed, good brother Juniper ;
Live in your peaceful manner ; this is work
For wiser heads. Is Francis in his cell ?
Juniper.
Father Francis is out on the hillside. \Exit Elias.]
I hope no evil will come of this.
Enter a poor Woman.
Woman.
Alms, for the love of God, my father. We are
perished for want of food. My man has hurt his hand
and cannot work. My little baby is sick.
Juniper.
Poor thing, I am so sorry. I have nothing. Stay.
Wait a while. There should be something on the
altar. [Exit, and returns with a bit of hanging!\
These bells are a superfluity. Oh, thank me not.
Kiss your baby for me. I'll ask Brother Bernard to
go and see your husband. Poor thing ! poor thing !
\^Exit Woman.] I wonder if I did wrong in giving
away the bells. Father PVancis told me to give
nothing without his pcrmi.ssion. That is his voice,
and alack for it, I have done that which I was told
not to do. \IIe hides himself.
197
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Enter Francis and Elias.
Francis.
Are we not powerful and recognized ?
A quiet monk in a retired cell
Might rule the world by prayer and never know
Himself to be a king ; the worth of us
Is not in human praise, however high ;
Deeds find their level. Look upon the trees
Sitting in majesty, with vernal crowns
Upon their heads : they ask not to be known ;
'Tis not the forester who ticks them off
Who makes their stately height, but patient days
Of leaning to the sun, and peaceful nights
Of dewy sleep and unambitious dreams.
Thus let us grow ; we may be honest beams
To build the house of faith, or gird the ships
That breast the wearing of the stormy seas.
[Juniper sneezes and ¥ KKT finding him
hidden brings him out.
Who gave you leave to sneeze on such a fine spring
day ? Where is your tunic ?
Juniper.
A good man took it off my back and went away
with it.
Francis.
You remember what I did tell you ?
Juniper.
Yes.
Francis.
And what else have you given away ?
Nothing.
Nothing at all ?
Juniper.
Francis.
198
ACT II.
Juniper.
Nothing except certain little silver bells on a hang-
ing of the grand altar. I gave them to a poor woman
who had great need of them. Her husband has hurt
his hand and cannot work ; her little baby is sick.
Francis.
You did well to help her. I commend you for
your charity. But you have been disobedient, and
for that I must give you a sound correction.
Juniper.
Dear Father Francis, I will first call the brothers, if
I may ; nothing is better for me than to have a good
humiliation before them. [Rings tJie bell.'] Brother
John, Brother John, come and see Juniper properly
corrected. Brother Masseo, Brother Ruffino, Brother
Leo, come quickly. Brother Juniper has been dis-
obedient ; come and see him punished. Brother
Sylvester, Brother Giles, come and hear Father
Francis speak of obedience. Father, you must give
me a sound correction of hard words to soften my
wicked heart.
Enter the Brothers.
Giles.
Is Juniper in trouble again?
Francis.
Giles, will you fetch me my new tunic ?
[Exit Giles.
Leo.
If Brother Juniper is to have a correction I pray
you give me half his punishment.
Francis.
My sons, it is well that you should hear what
Brother Juniper has done. He has cut off" the silver
199
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
bells from the hanging of the altar to give to a poor
woman whose child was sick. — What a noise the
birds make ! it is as if they wished to join our
colloquy.
Enter Giles.
I cannot hear myself speak. I pray you stay a
moment while I speak to them.
'Tis well ye praise your Maker, little birds ;
Praise Him in every hour and every place !
He gave you winged liberty to fly
In this illimitable gracious air ;
And for yourselves and for your offspring small
A twofold and a threefold garment wove,
Albeit ye neither spin nor sew. He sent,
When all the world was ocean, in His rage,
Two of your ancestors into the ark,
That little birds might still be glad to sing
He feeds you though you neither sow nor reap ;
He gives you founts and rivers for your thirst.
Mountains and valleys for to shelter you.
And trees wherein ye make your simple nests.
Be sure your Maker loves you very well,
Who gives such bounties to you. Little sisters,
I pray you hold ingratitude afar,
And study always to adore the Lord.
Juniper.
They are quite silent.
Leo,
How they open their beaks and stretch their necks !
Juniper.
See them flap their wings.
Leo.
They bow their heads to the ground.
200
ACT 11.
Francis.
What a multitude they make ! There is a swallow.
Leo.
What a sapient sparrow !
Francis.
They are so familiar.
Dear Lord, we thank Thee for Thy little birds.
\^M^akcs the sign of the cross.
Fly away, little sisters.
Elias.
They go all ways, east, west, south and north.
So will this order go by Heaven's will.
Francls.
As little birds, and still possessing nothing,
Save wings to go where'er He wishes us.
Flying on tender providential airs.
And singing loud the glories of our Master.
Juniper.
Father Francis, }ou have forgotten my correction.
Francis.
Put on this tunic, Brother Juniper.
Juniper.
It is your fine new tunic, Father Francis ; 'tis much
too good for me ; give me your old one. I desire to
be humiliated,
Francis.
I have corrected you till I am quite hoarse, dear
brother. What can I more? Give me a little water.
[Leo brings him water from the zvell.
Juniper.
Oh ! what a wicked man I am. He is quite hoarse
20I li i>
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY
with weariness. I must find a remedy, I must find a
remedy. [£^// JUNIPER.
Francis.
I would I had a forest of such Junipers !
Tell me, is Brother Bernard yet returned ?
Here is our brother as we speak of him.
Enter BERNARD.
How goes our patient ?
Bernard.
She is better now.
Francis.
You are not weary, Brother Bernard ?
Bernard.
No,
If you have aught of work for me to do.
\Exeimt the Brothers.
Francis.
Come, then, I have another task for you.
Enter Juniper.
Yes, Juniper?
Juniper.
Father, I have considered the remedy for your
hoarseness, and have found this hasty-pudding for
you. I pray you eat of it ; it will ease your throat
and chest.
Francis.
I thank you, my son, but have you cooked for the
brethren ?
Juniper.
No.
202
ACT II.
Francis.
Then I pray you do your cooking, for the brothers
are hungry.
Juniper.
I pray you eat of my hasty-pudding at once ; it will
do you good.
Francis.
We will eat it together, then. \^He sits doivn, and
they both begm to eat the hasty-pudding.'] My throat
feels easier.
Juniper.
I knew it would be so ; I was certain of it.
Francis.
Now I will leave you ; I must confer with Brother
Bernard.
[Exeunt Francis rt'w,?/ Bernard. The silence
is broken by the ivater trickling from the
pail into the well.
Juniper.
Yes, O water! thou mayest trickle down, drop by
drop, but there 's more thankful tears in my heart
than ever water came out of thy well.
Enter CLARE, alone.
Clare.
Is P'ather Francis to be seen ?
Juniper.
I will send him to you, sweet lady. I would I
knew why she is come hither, and alone. Hut
curiosity is a sin. \Exit JUNIPKK.
Clare.
To thee these flowers, O Virgin mother mild !
203
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Enter Francis.
Francis.
The Lady Clare is welcome.
Clare.
You do know
My name, kind father ?
Francis.
More, I do await you.
Clare.
Then may I plainly speak. Your life and words
Have moved my heart, and if I might avail
To serve the holy cause of Poverty,
I wish to know how I may dedicate
Myself to it, and what the mode and rule
You would ordain, and what novitiate.
Francis.
Fair maiden, you mistake. There is no rule
Nor any making of a preparation
To follow Poverty. All goodly deeds
Come of themselves in us. The mighty sun
Asks not command to rise, nor does the wind
Wait for the word to blow, nor do the streams
Pause ere they dance into the thirsty plains,
Nor do the flowers inquire before they bloom :
There is a time for each, and unto you
There is no need save God's necessity.
Clare.
I am an ignorant and simple maid.
Francis.
That is a merit in the works of God ;
What knowledge has the bird that sings His praise ?
204
ACT IT.
Clare.
To sing to God and tend upon His poor
Might be a woman's part.
Francis.
Would she forego
The child that woman ever longs to bear ?
Clare.
The Holy Mother once did bear a babe,
There is no need that other babes should be.
Francis.
Could she prolong her prayers the whole night
through ?
Clare.
Out of her weakness would her prayers grow strong.
Francis.
She could not leave the dear familiar hearth?
Clare.
Can she forget the Heaven that is her home ?
Francis.
Is there a maid who loves not rich attire ?
Clare.
What finer vesture than humility ?
Francis.
The food of high-bred maids is delicate.
Clare.
But mean it is to sacramental bread !
Oh, tempt mc not, my father, with these things,
For they arc little by my great desire.
It will be hard to meet my sire's regrets.
But else I have no fear except the Lord's.
205
Tim HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Francis.
And well I know it, and this day for me
Is hallowed by a woman's promises ;
Long hours of springtide calm have made me bold,
And I have prayed to have a blessing shown
Upon the brothers' holy strife, and thou
Art come, the certain answer to our prayers.
Enter BERNARD and Elias.
Brothers, this is our Sister Clare, who will take to
herself other sisters, and in St. Damien's live, following
Holy Poverty.
206
ACT III.
The court of the Convent of St. Damien^s. ClarE sits
alone on a stone seat shaded by an olive tree ; to the
left a road passing down into the valley.
Clare.
The years go softly by and do not change
My girlish gladness in my quiet life ;
This Poverty is a kind elder sister,
Who rules me by her love, and not her years,
For she is firm and wins obedience,
And she is merry when my thoughts are dull,
And in her homely aspect she is fair ;
Her eyes of grey are kind, and if her robe
Be bound with thorns, 'tis very white and pure.
Enter Conrad.
Conrad !
Conrad.
Yes, Conrad come again to you,
Conrad who loves you still.
Clare.
Hush, hush, my friend.
Do you not see that I have taken vows ?
Conrad.
And well that simple hood becomes your face!
Clare.
I beg you to excuse
207
.THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Conrad.
My pretty Clare,
'Tis but a clay that I have been at home —
We have been fighting by Pistoia's walls —
And hearing that your heart was still to win,
For you have not yet made your final vow
In an established order, no, nor will,
If a man's strenuous love can move your mind
From this fantastic life — and all do know
I loved you very dearly, and went forth
And made your name resound above the din
Of battle and the praise of other ladies ;
And I have won much honour for your scarf,
And bear on me the spurs my prowess won,
And I have found you, and before your feet
I put the loving prayer and worth of me,
Conrad the cavalier of Castelfior.
Clare.
I am the bride of Christ.
Conrad,
Whose name be praised,
But never did that dear and stainless Lord,
Who holds all mortals in His fealty,
Intend to separate well-seeming loves.
If you were in a consecrated house
I would not proffer the least plaint to you.
For my heart would be slain, and I would go
Beneath the gloomy portals of despair
And die a monk.
Clare.
I cannot speak with you.
Conrad.
I am no famous knight, but at the least
A decent gentleman of stainless honour
Should counsel you more wisely and more well
Than a mean scabby beggar, dressed in rags,
208
ACT III.
A recreant squire who tries to pilfer pity
By breaking of an honest father's heart,
And shunning the more noble cares of war.
Clare.
Be careful how you speak of one who is
The father of whatever 's good in me.
Conrad.
But till he came you had some thought for me.
Do you remember how we led the dance
At old Count Adrian's house, and you were kind.
And friendly were your eyes, until there sneaked
This tatterling Francis in — fair is your wrath ! —
With his pale face and whining frantic tale,
To build anew St. Damien's ancient house,
And all the women in their silks and laces
Clustered about this wretched mendicant.
And when he went your eyes did follow him,
Grown sad and pensive, and aloof from me ?
Clare.
What woman could withhold her interest ?
He brought with him his bride, sweet Poverty.
Conrad.
But I do love you, and the day is fair,
And sweet it is returned from battlefields
To look on you, and in this summer noon,
When all things are afire and mildly give
Their bodies to increase, will not your heart
Admit the kindly general law that bids
The man and maiden love? My gentle Clare,
Resolve to love mc, come away with me,
Come to your noble father and declare
A troth to me, and on the joyous morrow
We will be wed amid our friends and .servants,
And to my castle will I bear you home,
And there attended as your worth befits,
You shall be loved and honoured over more.
209 L li
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Clare.
If I could break a vow I hold divine,
How could I give a promise of my life?
If I have hearkened to you, understand,
'Tis only for my pity that your task
Should prove all fruitless. Let me counsel you ;
There 's many a dainty maid who would be glad
To have your homage.
Conrad.
It is you I love.
Clare.
A love impossible.
Conrad.
I've played the lover
Sleekly to-day, the next time that I come
I'll show the man.
Clare.
That seems to veil a threat !
If you had loved the Clare who was your friend,
You never would have spoken in such wise.
Conrad.
But I must have you to my love, sweet Clare,
And I am strong and resolute of will.
Clare.
And thus you let your passion rule your mind !
Conrad.
I am acknowledged strong by all my friends,
And if I ever yet did set my mind
On anything, it always fell to me ;
This is a love that I do more desire
Than aught which ever did determine me.
And if I cannot win you worthily,
I'll get you basely.
2IO
ACT III.
Clare.
May Christ pardon you !
Conrad.
I've said my say. I will retire, sweet Clare ;
Yet in the pauses of your evening prayers,
Think you a little of your wedding robe.
\^Exit Conrad.
Clare.
Tears ? yes, a few — pity perhaps for him
Whose honour is perverted by false love,
And for myself, who shrink and suffer pain
As does a rose leaf when it 's rudely touched.
There ; I am strong again. 'Twere better not
Tell Francis of this thing, for many cares
Are on him, and our chivalric sweet saint
Would be much hurt therein. Ah ! Conrad, Conrad,
The cavalier Conrad of Castelfior,
You think that women love the show of strength,
The clanking of the steel, the swelling throat,
The waving of the hand ? Were I in the world
I'd make a school for lovers, and instruct them
That a calm bearing well reposed on power,
And a sweet deference to the gentler will,
A pure devotion and a tender care.
Show the true way to win a woman's heart.
Enter PICA as a nun.
Dear mother of our Francis !
Pica.
Pretty pet,
How young you look to-day!
Clare.
To be the head
Of a grave sisterhood !
21 I
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Pica.
But you have wept
Some tears this afternoon ? Show me your face.
Clare.
Here is my face. {Puts back her hood.
Pica.
Why did they cut your hair?
I am sure the dear good God who spun its gold
Did never mean it to be maimed like this ;
Know you that I have saved a tress of it,
And tied it with the pretty childish curls
Of Francis.
Clare.
But what would he say to that ?
Pica.
I often think — if I may say such things —
My little Francis might have married you.
I know that he was humble by your side,
But he would have achieved an equal place
And won you for his bride — your two young hearts
So kindly do accord, and when ye speak
There is a charming silence in the air,
And when ye stand together, you so meek
And he so brave, it is no little pity
Ye may not kiss and swear a lasting troth.
Clare.
Dear friend, you must not say
Pica.
What is there wrong ?
Clare.
We are too poor for any thoughts of love.
Pica.
Well, let the young live, and the old wait.
212
ACT in.
Enter Francis and Bernard.
Francis.
Peace be to the ruler of St. Damien's ! Mother
dear!
Clare.
You came so quietly we did not hear you. Will
you sit with us ? We are working awhile after the
meditation.
Francis.
It 's mighty pleasant under your olive tree.
Clare.
Whence come you, brothers ?
Bernard.
From Gubbio.
Clare.
So soon away after your return from Rome ? —
Know you, Francis, whom you have missed ?
Francis.
The Lady Giacoma ?
Clare.
Yes, she left us three days ago.
Francis.
Ah ! the kind friend ! How the brothers love her.
Clare.
She wellnigh stole Juniper from them.
Bernard.
Sister Pica, have you heard that Francis has made
an exemplary conversion of a wolf that ravaged the
town of Gubbio ?
Clare.
We know that he founded an order among the
birds.
213
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Francis.
Fear not, Sister Pica, the wolf had a kind heart. I
was once a wolf myself and prowled at night. But
how are the doves we left with you, Sister Clare ?
Clare.
Oh, they are quite of us now ; they are so familiar
that they wake us up for matins.
Francis.
Dear sister, ever watching tenderly ?
Pica.
A mother's love is silent, dear my son.
Bernard.
The sun is wellnigh set.
Francis. {To Pica.]
I would speak with you, and then we will continue
our journey.
Clare,
Yet first I pray you take a little supper ;
You know you are not strong, the nights are cold.
Francis.
Thanks, Sister Clare, we have no need to eat.
Clare.
He still refuses — though it were not much
To let us show the hospitality
Of serving him. Well, let the favour go ;
Yet I had wished to have this little joy.
Bernard.
Francis, you do appear severe in this ;
She merely wishes once to eat with you.
Did Sister Clare a greater grace request,
It were your duty to accord it her.
214
ACT III.
Francis.
You think, then, I should grant her this request ?
Bernard.
'Tis meet you gratify her in this thing.
Francis.
Then, child, we are right glad to be your guests.
Clare.
That is our good, kind Francis ; I am glad.
Our cakes are famous, he will eat of them.
Come, sister. [Clare and FiCA go out.
Francis.
Sweet are scents of tender spring,
But not more sweet than women when they're true
And meek and holy ; were it not for them
This sinful world had perished long ago.
[Clare and PiC.V bring bread and cakes,
water, and olives, and set them on the
ground.
Francis. \^Saying grace."]
We eat and drink to Thy glory, most dear Lord !
Bernard.
Amen.
Francis.
I often think the hour wherein we eat
Is very edifying ; in this bread
Most kindly sweet monitions do abide.
l^Breaks bread and puts it on the grou)id.
The house and hearth where ancient people d\\ clt
Fall to decay; little remains to us
Of all that was familiar to them,
Save that the bread they ate with lowly thanks
Was of a corn no different to that
Which grows from the same earth to the same sun ;
The water that they drank was of the spring
-'5
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
That flows to-day. Thus in our daily bread
We eat with our forefathers, and arc met
With the old time.
[Raises bread to his mouth, but lays it down
untasted.
Our speeches and our dress,
The days and nights, are various with the climes ;
Only at noon and at the set of sun.
However that may rise or this may fall,
The unnumbered dwellers of the whole wide earth
Eat bread, drink water, some in nature's make,
And others with absurd contrivances
Of their pure savours into foolish tastes,
But bread and water still. There is in this
A kind communion with our fellow-men,
Where'er they be ; and tender is the thought
Of the foregathering of young and old,
Father and wife and child and serving-man,
To satisfy the hunger earned of toil.
\Putting aside tlie bread.
Yet there 's in this another sacredness.
Because our gentle Lord ate earthly food.
Knew earthly hunger. Often at the eve.
In the sun-wasted, grace-abounding plains,
He and His dear disciples sat together,
Engrossed in wondrous conversations.
And holy jests, and solemn silences.
Thus when we eat we are with good men past,
And good men living, and undying Heaven.
\Says g7'ace.
We are most thankful to Thee, O Lord, for this
banquet, and do bless Thy name.
Clare.
But you have eaten nothing.
Francis.
Truly ? I hunger no more.
216
ACT III.
Bernard,
And I also am filled ; such nourishment there is in
moral considerations.
Francis.
Sister Pica, will you walk with me ?
{^Exeunt Francis and Pica.
Clare.
Brother Bernard, you should take better care of
our Francis. He still has his cough ; he looks pale.
These journeys are easy to you, but perilous to him.
See that he sleeps not in open places, let him not
walk too long, make him eat at proper hours. You
must teach the brothers to think more of him.
Bernard.
But, Sister Clare, he is their treasure.
Clare.
Then let them learn wisdom from a woman tt> pre-
serve their treasure.
Bernard.
You forget that other people besides yourself do
love him.
Clare.
If you love him well, you can care for him better.
You promise me. Brother Bernard ?
Bernard.
I promise you, Sister Clafe.
Enter FRANCIS and Pic A.
Francis.
Sister Pica, will )'ou never forget earthly bonds }
Pica.
My son, love will find us in the cloister. Do what
we will, say what wc will, h)vc will come home.
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Enter Cecco with his two sons.
Cecco.
Father Francis and Sister Clare !
Francis.
" Piping fresh and piping clear ? " Namesake, if
thou grovvest so thin thou'lt pine away.
Cecco.
He, he !
Francis.
And how 's Mina and the baby ?
Cecco.
Rarely, Father Francis. And, Father Francis, I
won't be denied. When I heard that beast Jacopo
was in jail — bad luck to him for his bad pipe-playing !
— I said to myself, I'll give Father Francis a double
penny.
Francis.
I'll take it if thou'lt do something for me. This
very night thou art to go to the jail window and call
for Jacopo, and be reconciled to him. Oh, so you
won't ? [Cecco shakes his head.'] You need not come
to pipe to me again, Cecco.
Cecco.
He'll think I come a-mocking.
Francis.
Then give him this double soldo from me. Yes,
you'll do it to please Sister Clare.
Clare.
You play so much better than Jacopo, you ought
to be generous.
218
ACT III.
Cecco.
'Tis hard on a man that he may not hate his
enemies.
Francis.
'Tis sweet to a man that he can love them. Friend
Cecco, I, too, mean to be thy rival. \_He picks 7ip a bit
of wood and a stick.'] I'll play on the viol to ye.
Here 's for a dance. \^He dances, and is followed by
Cecco.] Come, Bernard, dance with us.
[Francis takes Cecco by the waist,
Cecco.
Ah ! Father Francis, have mercy on a fat man.
Francis.
One fling more ; to it, Cecco, to it, Cecco ; I am
spent. [Tkey sit down exhausted.
Cecco.
Had you taken to pipe-playing, father, there would
have been little chance for us.
Francis.
Nay, friend Cecco, each man to his task.
Clare.
Now dies the day, while soft religious bells
Make it a requiem ; the .sounds of toil
Have ceased upon the plain, and all the herds
Secure are housed. The gnarled olives grey,
The pale ascetics of the tribe of trees.
Take cloaks of mist and sleep ; the runnel waters
Subdue their babble, and the wayside flowers
Nestle upon their grassy pillows green.
Enter Elias.
Im
Clare.
And you are satisfied with what is done ?
Francis.
Alas for me ! My children disobey
The simple rule I gave them ; they begin
To build them monasteries, and make store
Of worldly goods. They look on me
More as a relic now than as a man :
A paring of my nails, a scrap of hair,
Almost my breaths are envied, and my end
Is eagerly foretold and waited for.
And, finally, of the unearthly signs
I took upon the Mount Alvernia,
They, if my resolution were not firm,
Would make a peepshow for the gaping crowd.
Clare.
Many a vain report has come to me
238
ACT V.
Of this event, and I as yet misknow
What it portends, and how it may read.
Francis.
I may not tell you, even you, my friend.
That I do on me bear the ultimate seals,
The marks of nails upon my hands and feet,
A wound as of a lance within my side.
This must suffice you ; more I may not tell.
Clare.
It is enough to know you bear these signs.
Francis.
The final seals.
Clare.
Then I am satisfied.
Francis.
The brothers are not satisfied, and give
The story, as in vain imagining
They think it should have come to pass, as if
Aught holy could be known to those who have
Deserted Poverty. They are my fruits —
Perhaps the blossom always is most fair,
And fruit to go into the use of men
Must lose the delicate scent and soft-flushed hue
That was so lovely and so promising,
And such a pleasure to the father tree.
Ah ! when the tree is old, and worn, and sick.
And trembles on the ground, and feels the cold
Creep into his sad body, it is hard
To know his fruit h.ilf-rottcd on the bough,
And that his best is fallen from his reach,
Forgetful even to ingratitude,
l^ut ever in such case there will remain
One cluster that is worthy of his pride
And reconciles him to his near decay.
239
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Clare,
I was powerless to help you as I would,
Francis.
Yet have you ever helped me since we parted.
Has the time been very weary with you, Clare ?
Clare.
Most have I suffered for your suffering ;
Yet was my courage holpen and upheld,
I had your mother for my consolation ;
She, ere we knew it, knew we loved each other,
And till she died, was as a mother to me ;
And in the daily round monotonous.
And with some sternness for my weaker moods,
And for the knowledge that I fought with you,
My tears were dried, and in my chastened heart
My love for you was to my love for Christ,
A lowly servitor ; it was the earth
Wherein the bright eternal lily bloomed.
Francis,
But you, sweet, are a saint, a blessed saint,
Clare.
Was there this need for us to be apart ?
Francis.
I am a man, and could not bear to look
Daily upon the woman that you are.
Could not have heard you speak nor seen you move,
Could not have come to you nor gone from you
Without such great devouring pangs of heart.
That to keep from you was my only course ;
Whether by fuller knowledge and your aid
I might have made my passion serviceable
And pure as yours, I know not ; I must think
This pain of absence excellent and kind
And useful. In th' unrolling of my years
240
ACT V.
I chiefly bless the pains ; I see, I see
They were the sign-posts and directing spears
To the desired land. I thank my God
That He has thought me worthy to be foiled,
Mocked, tempted, snared, deceived.
Oh, take me, scourge me, shame me, dearest Lord !
Cast me out upon the thorniest seas,
Whelm me in fiery-mouthed rocks,
Whatsoe'er thou wilt I'll suffer.
Born, living, dying, dead,
Perinde ad cadaver. [He sinks down.
Clare.
And much you have endured, alone, unloved !
Francis.
And yet to me your love has been repose
And cheer and refuge ! I can leave my task,
I know that one will ever faithful be,
And gathered into your remembering heart
My purposes shall prosper and go on,
And not be lost. I will not give to you
Any direction for the sisters here.
Your love will teach you. Love is very wise ;
Before we speak he hears, and ere he sees
Has understood ! Your love completes my life
And soothes my end, and in my love of you
You will be sheltered and accompanied ;
'Tis but a little while we meet again.
And now to say farewell.
Clare.
To say farewell ?
Francis.
Yet 'tis not parting, for my soul shall watch
You in your lonely life and single task.
Clare.
Is all hope gone ? The end so very near ?
241 1 I
y
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Francis.
'Twas but my hope to see }'ou and to die
At home, that made the careful angel pause.
Clare.
May I not nurse you for your last dear days,
And do my little for you, tender heart ?
Francis.
I, loved by you, shall have you near to me.
But were you present there are evil thoughts —
Clare.
It is not God who separates us now ;
'Tis those for whom you gave up all your days.
Francis.
I still have the affection of the few
Who following first will love me to the last.
Clare.
Only I would some woman's hand might tend you.
Could you not send to our friend Giacoma ?
Francis.
Pray then for her and she will surely come.
Farewell, farewell.
Clare.
Give me some little thing
That you have borne upon you for remembrance.
Francis.
I will enjoin on them to bring to you
This cross that lay upon my dying breast.
Clare.
Your love is very tender. Ever kind
You were to me, O father of my faith !
My thoughts have never wavered from your side.
And ever will I keep you in my heart,
242
ACT V.
Your gentleness, your laughter, your commands,
Your wishes spoken and your purposes,
The love you gave to me, dear heart, dear heart !
Francis.
Weep not, my child ! consider me as dead ;
My love, 'tis only for a little while ;
Now I am dead I lose so many pains ;
I could not long go on to bear the load,
And death released me. And for you, my love,
I could not kiss you as I longed to do,
But ere I went I left a kiss for you,
[He kisses the crucifix on the wall.
Upon the feet of our Lord crucified.
Thus at the throne of love our lips had met ;
[He puts his hand on her head as she bends
to kiss the crucifix.
Our earthly love denied was given to God,
And taken up into His pitying bosom
Became a treasure safely kept for us,
Till when you come and Love be all in all.
[He falls in a swoon.
Scene 2. A tiiming in the road in front of Assisi.
A procession : FRANCIS borne on a litter by his
Monks ; Citizens and Soldiers, and Children fol-
lowing.
Francis.
Here set me down, I have to say farewell.
I should have thou^^ht the partings I have taken
These latter days had emptied out the vials
Of tears, and none remained to me to give
To skies or trees or stones which once were dear ;
Yet now I see thy youthful face, Assisi,
And pass thy pleasant lands, I seem to feel
As though I left a friend. O, little town,
Set high ujjon thy hill, and guarded well
\\y th' ck'f)hantinc big Subasio,
243
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
And by the stream Tupino, many times
Have I come up to thee, and paused to mark
How much of good strong walls and gardens fair
And blessed churches were in thee ! Thy ways
Go everywhere, into the sunny plain.
And on the mighty mountains, for thou hast
Sweet habitable spots for gentle work,
And lonely places meet for solemn prayers ;
Thou art the brightest gem of Italy,
For Umbria is Italy's best plain,
And thou the plain's most stately precious town,
And Umbria's brightest star. Oh, could I now
Put my two arms about thy neck and press
A kiss upon thy forehead ! Thus I bless thee.
May all thy citizens be brave and kind.
Thy women fair and true, as ever yet
They have been found, and may thy city stand
Set far above decay, and rage, and wrath.
Or vile oppression ; may thy streets and rooms
Be full of heavenly songs and goodly joy.
And thou still holy, bountiful, and free !
My brothers, I have in this moment found my place
of burial. There on the Mount of Hell lay my bones,
beneath the gibbets, that the poor felons may have a
comforter. Now go on.
The People.
Behold the Saint, behold the Saint !
Francis.
I do implore you, say not that. It hurts me. Take
me hence. \The procession passes.
244
ACT V.
Scene 3. The hut of Francis adjoining the Porziun-
cula. The Brothers stand without. Sylvester
conies out with the sacrament, and m answer to a
mute inquiry shakes his head. Klias follows him.
Elias.
Keep him within, I pray you. He desires
To issue, and I fear his fevered brain
May make him play some folly ere he dies.
[Ca//s a Soldier.
What is your news ?
Soldier.
I went as I was bid,
And told them that we would not let them come,
As we desired to keep our saints ourselves,
And would have no one sniffing round their bones.
Elias.
Foligno then should give no further trouble.
Have you set watches in the several towns ?
Soldier.
I have had full reports. There is some talk.
But no one seems to know the end 's so near.
Elias.
I thank you ; here's your pay and something more ;
Keep a good watch, and at the slightest sign
Come straight to mc.
Soldier.
I surely will, my father ;
Give mc your blessing.
Klias.
Eh? Is that the doctor?
245
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
Good-day to you, I pray you come at once.
[Elias and the Doctor go in. Voices are
heard ; the Brothers press forwai'd to
listen. The Doctor comes out.
Francis. [ Within:\
Let me go out into the pleasant day.
I pray you let me rise. Be not so hard.
I'm very ill ; you should be kind to me.
[ They bring him out.
What joy to die upon the flower-sweet grass !
Sit by me, brothers ; there 's no need to kneel.
The solemn offices of death are done.
How the birds fly ! I soon shall have my wings.
What is the time of day ? The sun 's too bright.
Bernard.
'Tis almost at the setting of the sun.
Francis.
I thought 'twas noon — I — I am rather hoarse.
Have you no hasty-pudding, Juniper?
Juniper.
If a thousand lives of mine would make one hasty-
pudding, you should have it.
Francis.
Take off" my clothes ; I wish to leave my vows
As I came into them, without a rag
Or anything that I can call my own.
Elias.
Have you not had enough of poverty ?
Francis.
That 's true ; perhaps I have been somewhat stern.
Poor brother body, I have hurted thee
Too much, perhaps, for thou wast sick and frail,
Yet never didst complain, but meekly took
246
ACT V.
All my imperious spirit set on thee ;
Now comes thy rest and kind deliverance.
I pray you set my brother body free,
And take away these clothes that hamper him.
\^Tkejf take off his tunic.
Sister Death,
I see thee hovering.
Long I waited for thee.
Bernard, art thou there? Leo and Juniper and
Sylvester ? I wish all to love Brother Bernard. I
commend him to you to love and to honour as you
have me ; let all the brothers take counsel of him
even as they have with me. Brother Leo, I bless
thee, my little lamb of God ! Brother Sylvester, my
father and priest ! Brother Juniper, kiss me. Elias,
seek not to act too much against my intention. [Elias
'weeps?\ Oh, I know thou lovest me ; yet do I fear for
thee and these.
Bernard.
Bless also all thy brothers near and far.
Francis.
I bless them wheresoever they may be.
And also those who shall be of our vows
In the late years unto the ages' ends.
Would I could see them and commune with them.
And lay my hands on their devoted heads !
Who is it comes ? Let them approach, Elias.
Enter the Lady Giacoma with her Children and
Retinue.
Giacoma.
Warned by a dream, my father, I have come
To nurse thy dying days, and have thy blessing.
Francis.
I am vcr\' glad.
247
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY.
GlACOMA.
Tomaso, bring a little water here.
\She props him up.
There, he is easier. Let me cool your brow. —
Is this the way you nurse your dying father?
Francis.
Giacoma, stay in Assisi and help these poor orphan
brothers.
Giacoma.
Your wish has ever been my law, and now
This doubly so ; be satisfied, dear friend,
The brothers shall not be uncomforted.
Francis.
Then two women are true to me — you and Clare.
Giacoma.
I will tell her you did speak of her.
Francis.
Do you tell her, and say that, dying, I blessed her.
Give her this little cross when I am dead. \He sleeps,
Giacoma.
Hush ! He will sleep awhile.
Elias.
I would he were more reverent of death,
And met it waking with a sinner's fear.
Bernard.
A saint lies dying there. Disturb him not.
Elias.
[ To the younger Brothers.] Stand not a-gaping ; get
ye back a space.
Francis. [/« delirium.']
And there shineth the sun divinely manifest,
248
ACT V.
While azure break the heavens
Above the sombre clouds !
The trees with golden leaves are amorously clothed,
Celestial grow the rocks,
The hillside blooms a single flower.
And peace encamps upon the solemn vales.
And see, the Holy Seraph comes o'er the tree tops
sailing,
My love to Him increasing, as he comes slowly, slowly,
He has the wondrous image of a god crucified.
Upon his head two wings ;
Two covering his body and two outstretched for
flight.
He truly bears. —
Ecstatic vision, union mysterious !
On me those wounds are sealed.
Bernard.
He dreameth of the sacred Stigmata.
Elias.
His mind's astray, let him be taken in.
Juniper.
Come not near, Elias, at your peril.
Francis.
Thou givest me calm seas to sail upon,
And peace is on the waters, and the sail
By gale of love is filled to bear us back
To the delightful land of Italy.
Nay, Captain, do not curse the infidel,
Even the dogs eat of the crumbs that fall ;
And I have seen the Holy Sepulchre.
Elias.
He must be stayed.
Bernard.
But these are precious words.
249 K K
THE HUSBAND OF POVERTY,
Francis.
I know I shall become a mighty prince ! \He awakes.
Is to-day Thursday ?
GlACOMA.
Yes.
Francis.
Brother Leo, read to me.
Leo.
What shall I read to you ?
Francis.
" Ante diem festum Paschae."
Leo. {Reading^
"Ante diem festum Paschae, sciens lesus quiavenit hora ejus
ut transeat ex hoc mundo ad patrem : cum dilexisset suos, qui
erant in mundo, in finem dilexit eos. Et coena facta, cum dia-
bolus iam misisset in cor ut traderet eum Judas Simonis
Iscariotae, sciens quia omnia dedit ei Pater in manus, quia a
Deo exiuit, et ad Deum vadit : surgit et ponit vestimenta sua :
et cum accepisset Hnteum, praecinxit se. Deinde mittit aquam
in peluim, et cepit lauare pedes discipulorum "
Francis.
The sun is almost set ;
Sing, birds and fly,
I soon shall fly and sing with you.
Sister Death,
Mild art thou ;
Come soon.
Sing me the song I made.
Bernard.
I cannot hear.
Francis.
Sing me my song of praise.
GlACOMA.
" Sing me my song of praise."
250
ACT V.
Bernard.
Brothers, let us sing the song of praise. Come, be
brave.
[T^ie Brothers stand up and sing, first in low
voice, then with power.
" Most High, most powerful and gentle Lord,
Thine be praise, glory and power, with all blessing.
And to Thee alone.
" Be praised, O Lord, with all Thy works,
And specially for sir brother sun,
Who is Thy day and splendour,
And radiant witness.
" Be praised, O Lord, for sister moon and the stars,
In heaven Thou mad'st them wondrous, bright and fair ;
Be praised, O Lord, for brother wind,
And the clouds, and the good and every other weather.
*' Be praised, O Lord, for our lowly sister water,
So useful, and humble and chaste ;
And for brother fire who lightens darkness,
Who is fair, jocund, robust, and strong.
" Be praised, O Lord, for mother earth
Who nourishes us in her government,
Diversely bearing fruit and herb
And many-coloured flowers.
" Be praised, O Lord, for our Sister Death."
Francls. [Starting up.]
And for our bride Poverty.
[He falls back and dies. The Brothers cease
singing arzd gather round. The song
is contijuied by unseen spirits.
" Be praised, O Lord, for those who forgive.
And for love of Thee bear tribulation and pain ;
BlessM be those who persevere in pcare ;
By Thee, O Lord, shall they be crowned."
Assist, 1894 ; London, 1896.
25F
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
" Sunt lacrimae rerum."
THE PERSONS.
James Brereton, of Thirlby.
Herbert, his son.
Arthur Brereton, the Vicar, James's brother.
Thomas Wantage, M.P.
Edgar Ainsworth.
Ben Macdonald.
Courtland Gibson.
Peter Wantage, a boy from Harrow.
Russell, the butler.
Alicia Brereton, Sister to James.
Mrs. Wantage, Mother to Eleanor and Peter.
Eleanor Wantage, ^engaged to Herbert.
Servants, Maids.
Scene : Thirlby Hall, an estate in the Midlands.
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
A SKETCH FOR A COMEDY.
ACT I.
The scene, which is the same throughout the play, shows
a hall in an old house of the Jacobean style. In
the centre, behind, when the doors are open, is the
anteroom leading to the porch ; by these doors, when
closed, are seen luindows. To the left, back, is a
door leading to the library, on the left,fonvard, the
staircase. To the right, back, a door leading to the
dining-room ; on the right, forward, is a large oak
overmantel and fireplace, by which is an enormous
punch-bowl. The hall is partly furnished as if
used for a smoking-room. High up on the walls
are pictures, and between tJiem antlers of deer and
horns of elk and buffalo. There are Christinas
decorations and mistletoe.
The door of the dining-room is open, and the
sound of men's laughter is heard. HERBERT enters
and stands by the fire, thinking. The room is lit
by the flames.
Herbert. Home again ! \Looking round the room."]
Ben 's right. I'm too sensitive.
Enter RussELL.
Rus.SELL. Oh, I didn't see you, Mister Bertie.
\Exit into the dining-room and returns with a lamp.']
The master says you're missing something, sir.
Hf:rbkrt. Why, Russell, I'm enjoying myself in
my own way.
255
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Russell. Home again after four years, sir. We're
powerful glad of it, too. Oh, it did my heart good when
I brought in the plum-pudding all a-blazing, and you
said, " Don't singe your whiskers, Russell," and I says,
" Don't you be so cheeky, Master Bertie." Didn't the
Master laugh, too ! Just as in the old days.
Herbert. You got me out of many a scrape, then.
Did I ever pay you that eighteenpence, Russell ?
You bought off the applewoman for me.
Russell. She was in a rare to-do. But you paid
me, sir, right enough, and a bit over.
Herbert. " More than oweth, Brereton bestoweth."
Eh, Russell ?
Russell. Yes, Master Bertie — Mister Bertie, I
should say. I was so glad you got here in time for
dinner. Master was fretted terrible. In the days
when Master used to come down from Lunnon, there
was only one train a day, but it came in punctual.
Herbert. What one might call the "constant
service of the antique world."
Enter James Brereton.
Mr. Brereton. Look here, Russell, you go off to
your pantry. It 's not fair to have first talk with
Master Bertie. I haven't had a moment. Train
behind time, of course. That 's how things go now ;
you're always in a hurry and you're always late.
[Exit Russell.
Herbert. Dear old dad !
Mr. Brereton. I don't know what they'll say of
me in there. I made them a sort of lame apology, and
Tommy said, " A father's feelings ! " Now, if there
ever was a Spartan father, it 's me.
Herbert. Still that dear old dress coat !
Mr. Brereton. Don't you like it? Let's have a
look at you. You're a man, now, Bertie. \^Standing by
the fireplace with his arm round him. '\ The grand tour
and that sort of thing. Then marry and settle down ;
256
ACT I.
bury your old father ; Parliament and a peerage.
You've got the brains, boy. I'm an old clodhopper.
What did you do in Paris ? Ha ! usual thing.
Embassy balls and behind the scenes at the Opera.
Herbert. They don't give any more balls at the
Embassy ; and there 's no good music at the Opera
now.
Mr. Brereton. Not even behind the scenes?
Well then, Vienna. I was there in sixty-five ; — the
year Gladiateur won the Derby; I made a pot of
money, I remember ; pretty women in Vienna, and
gambling, too, if you know where to go for it, but
that 's all Monte Carlo now. Rome, did you like
Rome ? I took your dear mother there for our honey-
moon ; Arthur stayed with us and made us go and
hear an oratorio. Hear any music down there ?
[Humming-.] O luce di quesf anima.
Herbert. I went to Baireuth.
Mr. Brereton. Wagner and all that : glorified
German band. I forgot, you like the Germans. Fine
bits on the Rhine.
Herbert. I was in Munich and Hamburg mostly.
You see, dad, if I am to sit in the House, a knowledge
of municipal government is very important.
Mr. Brereton. Oh, aye. Get any shooting there ?
Herbert. My dear father, I haven't got time to
shoot.
Mr. Brereton. [ With surprise?^ I never thought
a son of mine would say that.
Herbert. Pm awfully sorr}\ Of course we'll walk
over the coverts together ; though Pll never shoot as
you do. Do you remember that woodcock you knocked
over at sixty yards ?
Mr. Brereton. Difficult birds to shoot, but if you
do touch 'cm, down they come.
Herbert. You know, dad, I felt a bit down in the
mouth just now. Coming home, I find you all talk-
ing of the same things as we used to talk about — or,
which I u.sed to H.stcn to. Pvc been living a different
257 L I.
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
life, and I can't always take up the thread. During
the last four years I have been forming opinions for
myself.
Mr. Brereton. [Looking tip suddenly.'] You stand
by the queen, Herbert?
Herijert. I hope I shall never fail in that.
Mr. Brereton. You still .say your prayers, and
read a chapter every night?
Herbert. I promised the Mater I would. But one
may do the same thing in a different way.
Mr. Brereton. Oh, well, Tom Paine and James
Stuart Mill, and that sort of thing. Measles of dis-
belief, I call it. — It 's Christmas Eve to-night ; it brings
us together, it makes us kind to each other, it reminds
us of those we kept it with, those who are dead, but
whom we love still. If you're going to give up the
old faith, boy, think long what you lose with it. There,
I'm jawing you as if you were going off to Eton. —
I say, you met young Ainsworth at Cambridge ?
Herbert. Of course, he brought me a letter from
you. He was only a freshman, and I was in my
third year.
Mr. Brereton. He's a son of a very old friend of
mine. I want you to give him a hand. I think you'll
like him, Herbert.
Herbert. Unfortunately, what I know about him
isn't to his credit.
Mr. Brereton. A bit wild, eh?
Herbert, He belonged to the foul-mouthed and
fast-mannered set. — But I'm paining you.
Mr. Brereton. Oh, it's nothing. Men oughtn't
to behave like cads, but they do.
Herbert. He used to brag about his adventures.
I don't like to give another man away, but, with young
girls about, you must be on your guard.
Mr. Brereton. Be on my guard ?
Herbert. But don't let's talk about it. You're
the soul of honour, and it only distresses you.
258
ACT I.
Enter Mr. WANTAGE.
Mr. Wantage. " Then the youthful Telemachus
gave his parent an account of his travels and of the
moral improvement which the study of diverse civiliza-
tions "
Mr. BreretON. \^Rising^ You shut up, Tommy,
or I won't lend you my fives' ball.
Mr. W^antage. Telemachus, I appeal to you.
Years and years ago I was your governor's fag at
Eton ; is this slavery, mingled with insult, to con-
tinue till I carry my grey hairs There, Herbert
thinks it amusing.
Mr. Brereton, Go and call the others in, Tommy.
Mr. Wantage. All right, James, you wait till I
get a study of my own. \^At the diniiig-room doori]
Come along to the punch-bowl.
Enter the Rev. Arthur Brereton, Edgar
AiNSwoRTH, Ben Macdonald.
Herbert. Do you smoke, Ainsworth ?
The Vicar. I can only say, Dr. Macdonald, that
I am distressed at what you think about the spread
of indifference among young men. I hope that you
are misinformed.
Herbert. Look here, Ben, I'm not going to have
you bullying my uncle.
Ben. Your uncle has been bullying me.
The Vicar. I was merely pointing out the scope
and influence of the O.xford movement. When I was
at Oriel
Herbert. And tlicn Ben called }'ou a reactionary
cleric ?
The Vicar. No; but [vii/dly] I think he wanted
to.
Mr. Brereton. You're a French Revolution man,
eh ? Want to introduce the guillotine ?
259
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Ben. No, sir. But the fact is, we have to make a
stand against exaggerated spiritual ideas. We are
fighting an uphill fight, but we mean to win and put
matters on a proper basis of hygienic morality.
Edgar. That means cutting off a fellow's drinks.
Ben. No, it doesn't ; in our system we would cut
off the drinker.
Mr. Wantage. Guillotine ?
Ben. Lethal chamber.
The Vicar. Come, come ; we are punished for our
sins.
Ben. Just where we differ. It is the children of
the sots who suffer ; you allow the hereditary taint to
be handed on, and then when it blossoms in crime
you punish the children for their fathers' misdeeds.
Mr. Wantage. How about personal liberty?
Ben. Personal liberty must begin by public
morality.
Mr. Brereton. You can't make men moral by act
of Parliament.
Herbert. We want to go to the roots of things.
Mr. Brereton. You've become a damned Radical.
Herbert. Not yet ; I am wavering.
Mr. Brereton. All agog to pull down the house
that your fathers built up with so much love ; that we
lived in years together
The Vicar. Good-bye to the old associations, to
the old reverence
Mr. Brereton. That's the cry to-day!
Ben. The old association with dirt and disease, the
old reverence for crime and bad sanitation.
Mr. Brereton. You are going on tinkering with
the old teapot till there 's hardly a bit of the original
Britannia metal in it.
Ben. That 's why we want to get an entirely new one-
Mr. Wantage. What are your proposals then }
Mr. Brereton. Yes, you lay them before the
Government, Tommy.
Ben. We want to treat our state as an organic
260
ACT I.
body, and not as a ship or a machine. We want
social laws to be renewed according to the conditions
every twenty-five j-ears ; a renewal throughout, as
opinion changes.
Mr. Wantage. Pleasant for the legislator !
Ben. Of course we sha'n't have the amateur legis-
lator who sits on the head of the nation and crows of
its grand old institutions.
Mr. Brereton. That's one for you, Tommy.
Ben. We want practical men, and men who make
politics a profession and an art. We shall catch our
politician young, train him logically, feed him on
statistics, and ask him to work scientifically ?
The Vicar. [ With a snif.] Scientifically.
Ben. Yes, we know there is a constant ratio be-
tween the price of food and the average of suicides.
We know the link between starvation and over-pro-
duction. Very well, we avoid over-production by the
diffusion of statistics in the labour centres
Herbert. And especially we do away with idle
people.
Mr. Brereton. Very well, young gentleman. I
am an idle person ; how about the servants, and
grooms, and gardeners, and gamekeepers I employ ;
and the people growing wine for me, and — and — you
throw them all into the workhouse.
Ben. That is where parasites belong. The modern
disease is liver, private and public. Over-eating and
insufficient exercise give a man a bad liver — your
idle class is the liver of a bloated England.
Edgar. If you want to do away with pleasure
Ben. The only pleasure in life is health. As a
doctor I know no enemy but disease. I worship
health ; I know that it is easily attainable, liut w c
shall never have it unless we obey its laws. The fact
is, the original sin in all of us is want of common .sense.
Mr. Brereton. [To his Brother.] No, Arthur, no.
If you begin about original sin, we shall spend a very
dull evening. Now look here, you >oung fellows, I
261
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
don't object to what you want so much. I suppose
England is capable of minor improvements, though
I'm well enough contented with it. Ikit if there's
anything wrong, it 's your damned Radicalism has
brought it about. In my young days England was
merry England, there was air to breathe, and — and — •
no barbed wire.
Herbert. From the point of view of the farmer
who doesn't hunt, I support barbed wire.
Mr. Brereton. Bertie !
Herbert. I'm sorry I said that, governor, but
Mr Brereton. If I had said such a thing to my
father — though there wasn't such a devil's invention
in his time. You young scoundrels, you've done away
with everything fine and gentlemanly. My son says
he hasn't time to shoot, nor to hunt, I suppose.
Don't like horses — afraid of 'em ? You crowd the
people into your dirty filthy towns, with gin-shops and
music-halls. You won't go to church, because you're
out on your bicycles. Bicycles ! You've killed agricul-
ture ; there 's not a ploughman who can cut a straight
furrow now. Your man 's rotten from the plough's tail
to the highest in the land, and that is because you've
given up sowing and reaping, which meant if you
sowed oats you got oats, while with your greasy
machines you can make any nasty thing you please
out of any filthy material you choose to put in.
Mr. Wantage. Hear, hear.
Mr. Brereton. You can't have a plate of home-
grown mutton now, and if you do, the younger genera-
tion hasn't the appetite to tackle it. Read the " Pick-
wick Papers " and see how well they did themselves
in those days.
Ben. The result of the Pickwickian period of
guzzling has been to leave us a permanent legacy of
dyspepsia and pessimism.
Mr. Brereton. The workman can't get an honest
glass of beer ; and it's not only adulteration in things
to eat and drink ; it 's adulteration in ideas. You
262
ACT /.
listen to me ; I've seen the namby-pamby business
growing. " The effeminacy of the luxurious Asiatic,"
Gibbon calls it, if I remember right ; that 's how
your young man feels, with his trips to Paris and his
Wagner music, and his Italian pictures — what's the
the fellow's name, eh, who talks about 'em ?
Herbert. Ruskin.
Mr. Brereton. Yes, this Mr. Ruskin, who wants
you to have long hair and wear velvet coats.
Herbert. I'm sure old Ruskin never said any-
thing of that sort.
Mr. Brereton. Well, it doesn't matter. Only I'm
grieved to see the young fellows talking about Art
and that sort of thing. Art ! Fiddlestick ! I say it 's
all your beastly towns, and want of fresh air. We
worked for you in our day, kept up the colonies and
the Empire, fought the Indian Mutiny — your Uncle
Charles died at Delhi, Herbert. We smashed the
Russians at Inkerman, and stood by Disraeli at the
Congress. But ever since Dizzy died, you've made up
your minds to make a clean sweep of high farming
and personal bravery, and good breeding and port
wine, and the established church and everything
that 's decent and gentlemanly. Where 's my pipe ?
Enter Peter, who stands on the bottom of the
staircase.
Mr. Wantage. What is it, Peter?
Peter. The Mater says if you don't come up into
the drawing-room the coffee will be quite cold. Miss
Brereton says, you needn't come, as far as she's con-
cerned, because she supposes " they must have their
smoke, the pcx^r dears," and Eleanor says she doesn't
mind, because Herbert's a bigger prig than ever, and
as for his new friend
Mr. 'Wantage. Peter, Peter.
[ The ladies are heard coming down the stair-
case. '
263
THE OLD AND THE NEW,
Enter MRS. WANTAGE, ALICIA Brereton, and
Eleanor.
Ben. [7^<7 Peter.] What does your sister say about
me ?
Peter. She says she wouldn't trust you to swing a
cat round the corner.
Mr. Brereton. Eleanor, I want you. You're
fond of argument. You come and tackle these young
iconoclasts. They want to pull down everything.
Herbert. Let's have some coffee before we begin
again.
[Russell comes from upstairs with coffee and
goes out. They break tip into small
groups, James Brereton talking to
Ben Macdonald, Edgar to Eleanor,
Herbert to Miss Brereton and
Mr. Wantage, Arthur Brereton
to Mrs. Wantage and Peter.
Mr. Brereton. It is a great pleasure to welcome
you to Thirlby, Mr. — er — Dr. Macdonald. You were
in Germany with my boy, eh ?
Ben. Frankfort, Munich, Cologne.
Mr. Brereton. Oh yes, Frankfort sausage, Munich
beer, Cologne cathedral. All equally famous.
Edgar. I do like the way you've done your hair,
Miss Wantage.
Eleanor. You needn't pay me compliments, Mr.
Ainsworth. I'm not considered pretty.
Edgar. Oh, I think
Eleanor. No you don't. I'm neat and clean, I
suppose, and I've got a healthy brown complexion,
and that's about all. Tell me, what was the argu-
ment about ?
Edgar. I wasn't listening much. I wanted to slip
off and talk to you.
Eleanor. You're quite a flirt, Mr. Ainsworth. I
must ask some nice girls to meet you at Wantage
Place.
264,
ACT I.
Edgar. I think girls are frauds.
Herbert. Then, my dear aunt, it was rather a
pity you didn't give me any introductions to your old
admirers in Rome.
Miss Brereton. I don't think they would have
interested you, Herbert
Herbert. Are you so sure, dear? When I was a
boy and you were in Rome, I often used to spend the
whole evening looking at that lamp-shade the governor
brought back years before.
Mr. Wantage. The Coliseum in tissue paper?
Herbert. Yes. I used to dream of the wonderful
aunt who wore a mantilla on her head, and had Italian
princes at her feet and walked in the Coliseum by
moonlight. Do write your autobiography, aunt
Alicia,
Miss Brereton. My dear Bertie, I think you can
imagine it all.
Herbert. I take much more interest in my father's
love affairs and in yours
Miss Brereton. Than you do in your own?
Mr. Wantage. Come, Bertie, you've been engaged
to Eleanor four years now, I shall have to ask you
what your intentions are.
Herbert. I think we're both of us glad we weren't
married — then. I wasn't ready for it. I know it
would make you and my father happy. \_After a little
thought.'] I think the nut-brown maid is even prettier
than she was.
Mr. Wantage. Don't tell her that ; you know she
will have it that she 's a fright.
Mrs. Wantage. I wrote to the head master about
it, in fact, went to sec him. He said he had never had
a boy with such strange ideas.
I'ETKR. Why, mother, I only wrote to you to tell
you that although 1 had nothing to complain of, I
didn't think life wfirth living.
Mrs. Wantage. I don't understand it ; he 's a very
good boy. Can you advise mc ?
265 M M
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
The Vicar. I am afraid I cannot, Mrs. Wantage
He is too young to have spiritual difficulties. Perhaps
it is a matter of pocket money.
Mrs. Wantage. Not at all ; his father gave him
five pounds when he was last leaving home, but he
came to me and said boys in his form only had two
pounds, and he couldn't take so much.
The Vicar. Refuses pocket money. I fear that a
general atmosphere of distrust and sadness is in the
air. It can only be the result of the spread of liberal
thought. Peter, you have been reading some foolish
book.
Peter. No, sir ; I am not old enough to consider
religion yet. When I am, I shall go into it impartially.
Edgar. Of course it is very good of Mr. Brereton
to give me an invite here. He is my trustee and
guardian ; always sends my allowance on the day.
No breach of trust about Mr. Brereton.
Eleanor. I believe Mr. Brereton and most of our
neighbours are fairly honest.
Edgar. Oh, Mr. Brereton is all right.
Mr. Brereton. Yes ; a vegetarian, and that sort
of thing.
Ben. Do you know that Solomon was a vegetarian,
Mr. Brereton ?
Mr. Brereton. No; why? [Ben whispers^ Dashed
good, dashed good. We'll have a glass of port on the
strength of that. I say, Bertie, do you remember
Bin No. 3? yfaking out his keys.'] Think you can get
us a bottle ? Don't trust it to Russell. [Exit Herbert
by dining-room.'] Do come and sit round the fire.
Let 's have a ghost story.
Mr. Wantage. Ghost story, James? You don't
understand these young people. They sometimes
condescend to snap-dragon.
Peter. [Scornfully.] I see father wants to kiss
mother under the mistletoe.
Mr. Wantage:. That's a happy idea. Clara, my
love [Kissing her.
266
ACT I.
Enter Herbert, carrying the port very carefully.
Miss Brereton. ^To Eleanor.] Don't you think
you could spare a little one for yo\xx fianc^ ?
Eleanor. If there's anything I loathe and detest
it 's sentiment,
Ben. [Sotto voce.] That's the new woman all over.
Herbert. You haven't been away from home and
felt its want, Eleanor. Whatever new things we
invent, there is a charm of old-world sweetness which
we sha'n't improve on.
Miss Brereton. Now, Eleanor.
Eleanor. I think that's the most idiotic speech I've
ever heard in my life.
Mr. Brereton. Yah ! You've got a kiss for me
all the same ?
Eleanor. Of course I have, you dear old chap.
[S/ie kisses him.
Ben. In medicine I belong to the new school, but
when there is any kissing to be done it 's quite different.
\_Taking off his pince-nez.'] I must kiss somebody.
Peter. \^In a whisper.] Miss Brereton is unattached.
Ben. Miss Brereton, may I have the honour of con-
ducting you to the mistletoe ?
Miss Brereton. Really, Dr. Macdonald
Ben. The old customs are falling into desuetude ;
with your permission I shall most respectfully kiss
your hand. [He does so.
Herbert. Ben, how dare you trifle with my aunt's
affections ?
Eleanor. You bad old thing, flirting with young
men.
Mi.ss Brereton. You needn't think we leave it
all to you, my dear.
Mr. Brereton. We've kissed everybody, haven't
we? Now we'll have the port. I say, young Ains-
worth, I thought you were a ladies' man.
FIdgar. Oh, when I mash the girls
267
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Mr. Brereton. Milk e tre ! Well, even Don
Juan never found a better preparation for a glass of
old port than a nice kiss. Tommy, get the cork-
screw and glasses.
\Thcy arrange themselves in a semi-circle
round the fireplace.
Edgar. Let me make myself useful.
Mr. Wantage. No, Mr. Ainsworth, I have to fag
still.
Herbert. {To Edgar.] I think you'll like this
port, Ainsworth. I don't believe there 's a bottle up
at Cambridge like it.
Edgar. Aren't the ladies going to have any }
Mr. Brereton. What, women drink port like that ?
No, sir.
Ben. What a curious thing. Do you notice, Mr.
Brereton, how much Herbert and Mr. Ainsworth are
alike ? The hair 's different and the eyes, but the
make of the face is just the same.
Mr. Brereton. yA7igrily?[ Alike ! Not a bit of it ;
I don't see it. They aren't alike. You may talk like
that after the port. Doctor, not before.
Miss Brereton. You see. Dr. Macdonald, we
can't allow that anybody exists who is like our
Herbert.
Eleanor. Mr. Ainsworth 's so much better looking
that comparisons are impossible.
Ben. Now that I look at them, there isn't any like-
ness.
Mr. Brereton. No, no. What were we talking
about — port? No, there's nobody like our Bertie.
You see him ride. Talk as you like, you young
devil, you aren't going to give up the life of a country
gentleman for this new-fangled social science you
wrote to me about.
Herbert. \_Stamiittg by him.l No more arguments,
daddy.
Mr. Brereton. I'm not going to argue ; all I
have to say is, what your forbears won for you it's
268
ACT I.
your duty to keep. You've got to lead ; the common
people won't let a gentleman be anything but a
gentleman. I'm not going to argue; but here's
Tommy, or as the world knows him, Thomas Wantage,
M.P. He's a model landlord with a model estate.
Why, they talked about my cottages down there in
the hollow and I improved them. W^e're always
doing what we can ; everybody can't be rich. Our
business is to set an example.
Mr. Wantage. James, you're worse when you
don't argue than when you do.
Mr. Brereton. Very well, I'll let 'em have their
say. Up with your helm, pour in your broadsides.
Nobody got anything to say ?
Peter. We don't approve of the House of
Commons.
Mr. Brereton. You'd better put up at the next
election against your father.
Ben. Mr. Wantage, junior, is quite right. The
system of representative government has broken
down.
Mr. Brereton. Mr. — er — Dr. Macdonald, what-
ever your political opinions are, never gulp your
port.
Ben. That's good advice, but the legislature gives
us such doctored politics that we have to gulp them.
All the business is done on the front benches, they
choose the bin, the other members water it down a
little, and we call that representation of the people.
Miss Brereton. How do you propose to
remedy it ?
Mr. Wantage. Government by newspaper ? Ugh !
Herhert. Wc propose to educate the nation.
The Vicar. That means secularism.
Mrs. Wantage. Must you talk about these
things ?
Eleanor. I think it's very interesting, mother.
Only the way they talk proves to me that there will
be no progress till women have a vote.
269
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Herbert. We support women members of Parlia-
ment, elected by women, to sit in the House only for
home affairs.
Mr. Brereton. There you are ! women members
of Parliament, women doctors, women barristers.
You'll have everything namby-pamby before you've
done.
Herbert. Not so, dear father. We've heard a
great deal about the new woman ; you're going to
hear something about the new man. The new woman
found she had a soul, the new man will learn that
he has duties. We know from science what the in-
fection of disease is, we shall come to see what the in-
fection of poverty is, England is like a richly dressed
man who has a pair of tattered shoes. But it's not
poverty that we think of so much ; a man can be a
man on an artisan's wage just as well as on a banker's
dividends. What we want is a brotherhood of
Englishmen to meet the envy of other nations, a
brotherhood of equal education, and, as far as can be,
equal chances of self-respect and happiness. The
day is gone for the gentleman of England to go kill-
ing foxes — imported from Germany now ; the time
has come for them to lead in the hunt for a swifter,
but a nobler kind of game.
Mr. Brereton. Wouldn't sound bad in the House,
eh, Tommy ? You little imp, I remember when you
were that high and had long curls.
The Vicar. You wish to attempt what the church
has been doing since the Reformation.
Herbert. My dear uncle Arthur, don't talk to
me about the Reformation. I happen to know some-
thing about it. As for the Church, I'm not going to
talk about religious matters — we know what you
haven't done. You in the muddle of parochial chat-
terings and the clash of petty sects to talk to us as if
you gave our country an ideal !
The Vicar. We invite everyone to join us.
Herbert. You invite everyone who has your own
2/0
ACT /.
currency of belief; as if you could say in business
that only cheques on one bank should be accepted.
A national church is a church for every man who
believes in peace and goodwill, who wishes to be
better and to make others happier. It is not a test
to exclude, it is a bond to hold together. Sink minor
differences, bring all men into the fold, let a man
believe as much or as little as is in him, as long as he
believes that there is something nobler than the
material part of the world. — I beg your pardon, I'm
spouting as if I was in a debating society.
Edgar. I don't like going to church, one can't
smoke there.
The Vicar. [Tart/y.] In London in the city, you
will find services at which business men are invited
to come, and to smoke their pipe or their cigarette.
[ T/ie noise of wheels is heard outside.
Mrs. Wantage. That must be the carriage.
Mr. Brereton. Don't go yet, dear Mrs. Wantage.
Let me ring and ask Russell to send your coachman
something out from the kitchen.
Mr. Wantage. We must go, James.
Mr. Brereton. There 's a pining young couple
here : they haven't had a word together.
Eleanor. I'll ride over and sec Herbert. You
needn't look so shocked, mother. We shall discuss
the question of whether we want to get married in
a practical way. If there's anything that ought to
be discussed sensibly, it 's marriage. Don't you think
so, Bertie?
Herbert. Yes, Eleanor.
Mr. Wantac;e. Anything more you want,
James ?
Mr. Brereton. No, Tommy, you can go off to
bed. [ The Indies (^o out.
Ben. a very good glass of port that, Mr. Brereton.
The only wine that I know that comes uj) to it was
some I'rclungisberg Cabinet, which I got in rather a
curious way. 1 was attending the I'rincess Wilhcimina
2; I
THE OLD AND THE NEW,
of Varnitz-Prelung for a nerve trouble, which simply
came from her blowing her nose too often.
Mr. Wantage. Come, now.
Ben. She had a very lovely hand and arm, which she
liked to show with her lace pocket-handkerchief. That
was all. I made her use cotton ones, and the nerve
trouble went away. She was so grateful she said, "Any-
thing I can do for you " I asked her Highness
for one bottle of the priceless vintage wine in the palace
cellars. She said, " Mon cher, you shall have a dozen."
Herbert. That's how you learnt to kiss ladies'
hands.
Mr. Brereton. Dr. Macdonald, I've taken rather
a fancy to you.
\^The ladies enter. Mrs. WANTAGE and
Eleanor with their wraps on. Mr.
Wantage,Peter ««<3^ ArthurBrere-
10'^ put on their coats.
Miss Brereton. I'll send it over to you to-morrow.
Mr. Brereton. Got your bonnets and shawls on ?
Good-bye, Clara; good-bye, Peter ; good-bye, Eleanor,
deary. Even without mistletoe, eh? [i^m/«^ ELEANOR
and patting her hair.'] I saw Bertie looking at these
sausage rolls. He wants a wife and I want a daughter.
The Vicar. Is my lantern ready ?
[Russell appears ivith a lantern, and opens
the doors in the ante-room, and then the
outer door. Exeunt Mr. and Mrs.
Wantage with Eleanor and Peter.
The carriage is heard departing.
Miss Brereton. Good-night, Arthur. Oh, it's
quite mild.
Mr, Brereton. Got your two coats on, Arthur?
The Vicar. Yes, I must take care of myself. Good
people are scarce.
Herbert. [Putting on his hat.] I'll see you over to
the Vicarage.
Miss Brereton. You'll come into my boudoir
before you go to bed, Herbert.
272
ACT I.
Herbert. Of course I will, aunt Alicia.
[Exit Arthur Brereton with Herbert.
Miss Brereton. Good-night, Dr. Macdonald.
Good-night, Mr. Ainsworth. Please ask Russell in case
there is anything you require. Good-night, James.
Mr. Brereton. [Handing her a candle.] Good-
night, Alicia. [Exit Miss Brereton.] You've been
rather quiet, Edgar?
Edgar. I don't like girls' gossip, Mr. Brereton.
Mr. Brereton. There's a sublimity, sir, of affec-
tion and self-sacrifice in women. And they manage
us when we least think it. You young fellows, think-
ing of the wives you're going to marry ! The old, old
story.
Ben. Marriage isn't very fashionable just now.
Edgar. By the way, I heard a yarn, rather a funny
yarn, round at the club the other night.
Ben. You tell stories at your club?
Edgar. Yes, and listen to 'em.
Ben. I call that the lowest depths of moral de-
gradation a man can sink to.
Mr. Brereton. I should have thought you be-
longed to a swell club. Doctor ?
Ben. I belong to several, and I shun them like the
plague.
Edgar. I get a better brandy and soda at my club
than I do anywhere else.
Ben. Probably too many of them. A man of your
age oughtn't to have a hand that shakes like that.
Mr. Brereton. [Laying his hand on Edgar's
shoulders.'] We all have our faults, and if you try to
make us too good, Doctor, it only ends by our being
worse than before. [ To Edgar.] You haven't had a
very happy life, boy ; but, as your father's old friend,
I shall sec that you have fair opportunities. It's the
least I can do.
[ While he is speaking, HERBERT has entered
noiselessly by the doors, which are afar.
He stands there looking.
273 N N
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Herbert. \^Aside.^ He is his son ! [/« a strained
voice.'] I've seen my uncle safe home.
Mr. Brereton. What a coddled old creature he
is ! But he does his work — fever or that sort of thing
don't stop him when he 's got to send a man out of
the world. You'll allow there's something in the old-
fashioned parson, Dr. Macdonald, great influence still !
Ben. Undoubtedly ; but the medical man is the
confessor of our age. And if you want a hero, the
quiet, patient man who is discovering the origin of
disease, who works in his laboratory day by day,
seems, to my humble opinion, the man we should
respect. He does his work without any other object
of obtaining influence or power than that which tends
to prolonging life.
Herbert. [Bitterly.] Life isn't such a pleasant
thing !
Mr. Brereton. I don't know, I don't know.
[A clock strikes twelve.
Carol {without).
The first Nowell the angel did say
Was to three poor shepherds in fields as they lay,
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,
In a cold winter's night that was so deep.
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,
Bom is the King of Israel.
274
ACT II.
Tlu afternoon of the last day of the year. HERBERT
sits at a tabic writing, while Ben MacdonaLD is
walking about, smoking a cigarette. HERBERT is
in riding breeches and gaiters and BEN in a blue
suit. Miss Brereton is working by a window.
Herbert. There we have our programme. National
religion, new land-tenure, reformed universities, rational
marriage laws, Married Men's Property Act. I think
a general proscription will be necessary before we can
pass our measures
Miss Bjiereton. You'll have to give us a severe
physic, certainly
Ben. Proscription, not prescription. Miss Brereton.
Herbert. I have two lists here, mine the Con-
servatives and Unionists, yours the Liberals. Shall
we prick them off now ?
Ben. Very well.
Herbert. I give you our leader without any
exchange.
Ben. Very well ; what punishment ?
Herbert. Make him consul at Nice. Do you give
mc Sir Antony Pringle?
Ben. You can have him if you like, but he 's so fat
that you'll find great difficulty in disposing of his
body.
Herbert. We'll make him Dramatic Censor, and
the dramatists will each take a bit of him away.
Miss Brereton. How ridiculous you arc!
Ben. Miss Brereton, you misunderstand. We are
governed by politicians who are very worthy men, and
275
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
well suited to the humbler walks of life, but they are
in no sense statesmen. Can you give me Cyril
Pen ny father ?
Herbert. Must you have him? He plays golf
very well.
Ben. We'll make him superintendent of national
dress reform. Will you have John Gaunt in exchange ?
Herbert. I'll make him Grand Inquisitor to guard
against the mutilation of English in the newspapers.
Ben. That 's a sure and terrible death.
Herbert. Very well, that will make room for our
triumvirate of strong men for foreign affairs. Home
affairs will be ruled by delegates from the banks,
the College of Physicians, the Law Society, and the
Council of Education and Art.
Ben. We shall have a reformed Academy, of course.
Lawyers and stockbrokers and doctors will be Govern-
ment officials The sale of liquor will be a state con-
cern, and
Enter EDGAR, sniffing.
Edgar. I've got such a beastly cold ; standing out
listening to those carols last night.
Ben. It wasn't that that gave it you.
Edgar. I'm sure I took enough whisky to keep
the cold out.
Ben. My young friend, whisky lowers the tempera-
ture of the body. If we only had scientific education !
Edgar. [ Sitting down, taking up the " Sporting
Life."'\ I say, you see Opoponax has had a strain. I
had a long bet on it for the Grand National
Ben. You're a racing man, are you ?
Edgar. Yes, a bit.
Herbert. If you want to ride while you're
here
Edgar. I — er — don't ride. By George, they had a
big bag at Belvoir.
Herbert. Would you like to shoot to-morrow?
276
ACT II.
Edgar. I — er — don't shoot. I wonder if Black-
heath will lick Richmond next Saturday.
Herbert. If you would like to play football
Edgar. I — er — don't play football.
Ben. [Scornfully looking at hivil\ This is the sort
of sporting man we turn out nowadays.
Herbert. [Hurriedly^ I daresay Ainsworth does
a lot of things very well.
[Miss Brereton is quietly examining HER-
BERT and Edgar.
Edgar. I say, could I have a brandy-and-soda ?
My throat's like a lime-kiln.
Ben. You come up to my room, I'll give you some-
thing better than alcohol.
Edgar. Oh, I don't care what it is. — Stings in my
nose, bites at my throat, chokes in my lungs, and
makes me hot and cold all over.
Ben. \_Chuckli7ig.'] Just the sort of cold I like to
see in somebody else. [Ben and Edgar ^^ out.
Miss Brereton. I do believe Dr. Macdonald likes
to see people ill.
Herbert. No, my dear aunt. He looks upon
ignorance of the laws of health as a sin, and he likes
to see people punished.
Miss Brereton. Herbert — did you have a talk
with your father to-day ? I thought he looked vexed
when he went out for his ride.
Herbert. Vexed? Oh, no.
Miss Brereton. Was your talk about this Mr.
Ainsworth ?
Herbert. Why do you ask ?
Miss Brereton. Because, my dear Herbert, you
seemed very much disturbed last night. I do not ask
for your confidence, but you have always given it me.
My dear boy, you d(j not think that a woman of my
experience is ignorant of matters which arc so plain ?
Herbert. You mean that you know who Ains-
worth is ?
Miss Brereton, I mean this, that if your father
277
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
has special reasons for asking him here, I do not think
you should trouble yourself in any way about it,
Herbert. Why is it that everything since I re-
turned here shows me the gulf in opinion and belief
which is opening between the elder generation and
ourselves ? It seems to me as if their ideals were too
lofty for them to reach, and that thus they fell farther
from them than we shall fall from ours. I am not
blaming, I do not say it in anger ; you've always been
my dear friend. Don't you see that the men before
us lived two lives, one of the bluff and sturdy kind,
the other of a different sort ? I tell you, my dear
aunt, there has always been an illegitimate child in
the past.
Miss BreretoN. \Coldlyi\ I don't like the word
" illegitimate."
Herbert. I don't like the fact. I'll give you a
test case. Supposing a family intruded on by a
natural son, and supposing the legitimate son found
it out. What would the latter's duty be ?
Miss Brereton. To leave the matter alone.
Herbert. I think truth is always the best thing.
My — that is, the legitimate son's business would be
to find out the facts and to see what he could do for
his brother. There is a link in blood, and though it
isn't pleasant, there 's a duty too. It 's not what
people call vice which I hate ; it 's concealment. If
we are no better than we should be, let 's admit it.
Miss Brereton. {Gathering up her work.'] I can't
discuss the matter with you in your present state of
mind, Herbert.
Herbert. If you won't help me, no one else can.
I'm not a strong man ; I have to have advice and en-
couragement. My dear aunt Alicia, I love my
father ; I wouldn't care if there were a hundred — well,
and it was after my mother died. I went to him this
morning ; he said, " My boy, you've never lied to me,
and I won't lie to you." He told me all about it. It
was in the crinoline period ; crinolines have a lot to
278
ACT 11.
answer for. The woman is dead — you put all the
blame on her, of course ; women always are pitiless
to their own sex ; he has educated the boy. The
question is, what is my duty ?
Miss Brereton. \More kindly^ Certainly not to
make a scandal. You must be kind to the boy.
Herbert. It 's so difficult to me ; he is all that I
despise. This has made me suffer. That was the
old school, never to think of consequences ! — I'm not
blaming my father, mind.
Miss Brereton. Do you think men are so much
better to-day ?
Herbert. I think they foresee, and foresight is
better than virtue. There are no excuses to-day, at
any rate.
Enter Ben.
Miss Brereton. How is your victim ?
Ben. My victim? I've left him upstairs. I can't
have him infecting the household with his germs.
Miss Brereton. \^Rising?\^ I haven't seen much of
the young man of the present day till now. I think I
prefer the courteous gentlemen I used to meet when I
was a girl. \Exit.
Ben. I haven't offended your aunt, have I ?
Herbert. I don't think she thought the reference
to germs quite proper. Hullo, there's Eleanor.
\He goes to the door, and in the anteroom meets
Eleanor, who is in a riding habit.
Eleanor. {Without.'] It's nice going over the
heath, though I don't like this mild weather.
Herbert. {Without, to a Groom.] Hi, Jenkins,
take Miss Wantage's pony.
Eleanor. No, I'll tic him up here. They'll only
be feeding him up in the stable.
279
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Enter ELEANOR with HERBERT.
Ben. How do you do, Miss Wantage?
Eleanor. Very well, thank you. Is your dad
riding, Herbert? — Will you oblige me by going for a
walk, Dr. Macdonald ? I have business to transact
with Herbert.
Ben. Where would you recommend me to go ?
Eleanor. That depends on your tastes, though
there's nothing to see. In spring the banks of the
roads are pretty with garlic, wood-sorrel, sweet cicely,
and red campion. In summer the valleys are sweet
with hawthorn and guelder roses. In autumn we have
hips and haws and the russet leaves of the bramble.
Herbert. Miss Wantage is a botanist.
Eleanor. You have not told me what your tastes
are.
Ben. Hygienic.
Eleanor. Then walk across the common, and
take care not to get your feet wet.
Ben. How long must I be away ?
Eleanor. I shall have done in ten minutes.
Ben. It cannot be very important business.
Eleanor. I may be a quarter of an hour.
[Ben puts on his coat and hat, and with a
bow, exit chuckling.
Herbert. Did you have a nice ride, Nelly ?
Eleanor. I haven't time for preliminary flourishes.
Sit down, Herbert. \_She stands by the mantelpiece.
Herbert. I am all attention.
Eleanor. Where shall we begin ? We were en-
gaged
Herbert. There is something earlier; we were
children together.
Eleanor. We used to make mud pies and pull
each other's hair.
Herbert. I never pulled your hair.
Eleanor. Let us come to more recent times. We
were engaged.
280
ACT II.
Herbert. We are still.
Eleanor. That is what we must consider. You
had come back from Trinity, looking rather nice
with your bit of a moustache, which I made you cut
off. I had just had my hair up and gone into long
gowns. At my first ball I was very frightened, and
I danced so badly. You asked me for a rose, and I
gave it you : I thought you the most fascinating
young man ! I had never met anybody else. Then
there was the fun of meeting you in my walks, and
the weather was so warm and nice, and the clouds so
big and white, and the sky so blue, — and you proposed
and I bashfully murmured " Yes."
Herbert. Those days are still sacred to me.
Eleanor. Then there was the consent of our
parents : easy enough ; and we were pawed over as if
nobody had ever got engaged before. Then we went
to Scarborough for the summer, and you came in a
straw hat and flannels. The charm was broken and
we quarrelled.
Herbert. You were very difficult to please.
Eleanor. In not going on worshipping you ?
Herbert. I don't mean that. In liking me one
month and snubbing me the next.
Eleanor. My dear boy, I never had loved you.
When we were walking over the dales in those bright
spring mornings, chasing butterflies and grubbing up
roots, I was never in love with you. I was in love
with youth, and nature, and the soft breeze, and the
old church, and — the hot lunch waiting for mc at
home. When I went somewhere else, without these
advantages, I thought you a stick, and so you were.
HerI{I:kt. I think you might observe the ordinary
conventions of pftlitencss.
Eleanor. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.
\Crossing licr nnns.\ One has to be very gentle to men.
Herbert. The rea.son why I complain is this —
women are prepared to be as rude as they like to us
now, but we must be the pink of proprict)' with thcin.
281 o
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Eleanor. Perhaps that is true. \Sitting doivn by
/ii)?i.'\ Let us talk seriously. What are your ideas
about marriage?
Herbert. I believe in comradeship, perfect con-
fidence, and equality.
Eleanor. Do you believe in love?
Herbert. Yes, I do; and I believe marriage
should be founded on it.
Eleanor. Do you believe in religion ?
Herbert. I don't think I can discuss that. It
should be a secret between a man and his Maker.
Eleanor. Then you do not believe in perfect con-
fidence in marriage ?
Herbert. I do not wish to unsettle your beliefs.
Eleanor. I haven't got any. Don't look surprised.
You think men can use their own judgment, and
women are to believe all they're told.
Herbert. Don't you believe anything, Eleanor?
Eleanor. Let me think. When I was a child of
ten or eleven I had already come to Agnostic con-
clusions. Some time after that, one day while I was
riding on the common, it flashed upon me that re-
ligion was a real thing ; I felt lightened in my mind,
as if a burden had slipped from me. Then, though I
believed, I used to ridicule religion, because I thought
it clever to do so. I read a great many books when
I was seventeen or eighteen, and when I thought I
loved you I thought I would be very good and bring
you back to the fold — you were very bitter then, do
you remember ? But when you had gone abroad, and
I went to London for my first season, the misery of
the poor and the indifference of the rich took it all
away from me.
Herbert, This is rather painful.
Eleanor. Disbelief in women is indecent, isn't it ?
Herbert. I think I hold to the old things more stead-
fastly and give them up with more sorrow than you do.
Eleanor. You haven't given them up.
Herbert. Perhaps not ; I seem to be coming back
282
ACT II.
to the simplicity of old beliefs. The suffering of the
best for the worst : that is the teaching of all history.
I wish to be a good man ; I can't be so alone.
Eleanor. Then I am to come and prop you up
on either side, when you fall, like the policeman and
the drunken man in the pantomime.
Herbert. Has everyone learnt to talk in epigram
since I left England ? I liked you better four years
ago ; you are much prettier, but
Eleanor. Let us have no compliments, please.
We must marry with our eyes open. I see you
clearly enough
Herbert. I wish I could see myself.
Eleanor. You're modern enough ; " a lover of
half tones," as someone says. You find an aesthetic
charm in bygone ideas ; you won't look back to the
past, but you won't grasp forward to the future ; you
can't be happy in the present. I am sure you would
make a very bad husband.
Herbert. What you say is true. But you forget
this ; that out of the indecision and the wavering,
certainty will come. I'm in the slough of despond
now, but I shall work my way through to safe ground.
I am master of myself; it is only a matter now of
choosing what I mean to do. My dear girl, there 's
no need for us to get married. I do love you and
admire you ; I think your eyes are the loveliest in the
world — but love is only a part of life. Let us be
friends, as we can't be enemies
Eleanor. Husband and wife
Herbert. I don't know that husband and wife
must necessarily be enemies.
ELEANr)R. We shall consider our engagement as
broken off?
Herbert. It seems to me that it never existed.
Eleanor. I can't accept the responsibility of jilt-
ing you.
Herbert. There is no jilting. Marriage is merely
a contract ; a man brings love and protectirm
28.S
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Eleanor. As if any modern woman wanted pro-
tection !
Herbert. Let us cry off an agreement which we
never understood.
Eleanor. What will your father say ?
Herbert. I don't know. We cannot make our-
selves unhappy for life to spare my father's corns.
Eleanor. I think we are both very selfish people.
Herbert. That is the modern disease. We want
every pleasure and are not prepared to earn it by
self-denial ; we wish life's arena to be as smooth as a
billiard-table; for every pain we expect an anaesthetic.
We are too highly civilized, that is all. If you and I
had lived fifty years ago, we could have been happy,
and taken the ups and the downs together. As it is,
we shall soon have improved the human race out of
existence. Shall they bring some tea?
Eleanor. If you please. I'll send you back your
engagement ring to-morrow. I may be old-fashioned
enough to cry over it to-night.
Herbert. Eleanor
Enter MiSS Brereton.
Miss Brereton. Have you been having a nice
little chat, my dears }
Herbert. Charming.
Mlss Brereton. Nelly, are you sure that you
appreciate my nephew at his real worth }
Eleanor. I don't suppose that anybody ever could
appreciate your nephew. Your marvellous, your
handsome, your clever, your noble, your mag-
nanimous nephew !
Miss Brereton. [Putting her arm round her
zvaz'st.] Never mind, men are such poor creatures, that
when you get a nice one you ought to thank your
stars for it.
[Eleanor puts her head on Miss Brere-
ton 's shoulder and loughs.
284
AC7^ II.
Herbert. This is rather pleasant.
Eleanor. Why rather .^ Why not very, or not at
all — without equivocation ?
Enter Edgar.
Edgar. I'm tired of being all alone with my
germs.
Enter a Maid luith tea.
Eleanor. I'm not afraid of germs. Come along
and have tea.
Edgar. Is your Dr. Macdonald about ? [Relieved.']
What a deliverance !
Herbert. Why don't you like him ?
Edgar. Because he tramples on me.
Eleanor. You leave him to me ; I'll tame his
proud spirit.
Edgar. Still, those tabloids have done my cold
good. I want to get back to town in a day or two.
Herbert. Have you got to go back to chambers }
Edgar. Oh, I'm supposed to be reading with a
fellow in Lincoln's Inn. You catch me going there.
Eleanor. I'm sure you have a healthy aversion to
work of anv sort.
Edgar. I hate it. There are lots of people with
money, and I'm not going to slave for them. I shall
marry a rich girl, or go in for company promoting.
Herbert. Modernity ! [He sighs.
Eleanor. No, no sugar, thanks. I sympathize
with Mr. Ainsworth, If I was a man I should have
my fling. I'd have a high old time with the women.
Mls.S Bkerf.TON. Eh, dear ^
Eleanor. Perhaps it's lucky you didn't hear.
EDfiAR. I do get on pretty well with girls. Take
'em up the river on Sundays, you know.
Herbert. You are fond of rowing }
EDflAR. Oh, I let them pull the boat. Then, you
know, there arc some evenings when I go to two or
2«5
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
three music-halls. There 's an awfully good ballet at
the Empire just now.
Eleanor. It 's great fun at the Empire, isn't it ?
Herbert. You should take Miss Wantage to the
Empire some night, Ainsworth.
Miss Brereton. Really, Herbert, you mustn't put
such ideas into her head.
Eleanor. He saw I was just going to ask to be
taken.
Edgar. I'll take you any time
Eleanor. You must wait till I'm married.
Miss Brereton. Nelly, you are positively vulgar.
Edgar. You ought to pitch into me, Miss
Brereton.
Miss Brereton. I think you are like so many
young men, who do their very best to impress one
with their wickedness. I have met men who were
quite wicked
Herbert. Those Italian princes
Miss Brereton. Never mind who they were, dear.
One thing I know is, that we all of us get our deserts
in this world.
Edgar. [/« a tone of self-pity^ I haven't got any
people to care for
Herbert. Then you should make friends.
Edgar. I can't ; people don't seem to like me.
Herbert. I will be your friend.
Edgar. [ Wonderingly?^ Do you really mean it ?
Herbert. Yes.
Eleanor. He will give you long lectures, Mr.
Ainsworth.
Herbert. No I sha'n't. I shall teach him to ride.
Edgar. [Delighted.'] When ?
Herbert. Now.
Miss Brereton. There, Eleanor.
Herbert. I'll go and see what horses there are.
[Exit Herbert. Edgar goes and stands by
the staircase. ELEANOR furtively 2vipes
mvay a tear.
286
ACT II.
Miss Brereton. \To Eleanor.] I don't believe
anyone else would have done that with so much tact
and kindness.
Eleanor. [Half defiantly.'] I don't see how riding
is an antidote to music-halls.
Miss Brereton. Any exercise that needs self-
control and courage is a cure for want of manliness.
Eleanor. Aunt Alicia !
Herbert. [Without.'] What horse did the master
go out on, Jenkins .'
A Groom. [ Without.] Well, sir, it's a black thorough-
bred he bought not long ago. Gargoyle we calls 'im.
A handsome horse, sir. Star on 'is forehead and a
white stocking. A four-year old and a confirmed
rearer.
Herbert. The master will soon cure him of that.
Now, have >'ou a [His voice becomes ijiaudible.
Eleanor. You look pleased, Mr. Ainsworth.
Edgar. I think Brereton is a brick.
Herbert. [Looking in.] Come along, Ainsworth.
[Exit Edgar with Herbert.
Miss Brereton. That boy will make Herbert his
hero. Anyone who is with my nephew
Eleanor. I drink to your nephew — in milk and
water.
Enter RusSELL.
Russell. I thought you'd like a bit of this cake,
Miss Eleanor.
Eleanor. No thanks, Russell. My nature is plain,
like bread.
Russell. You may have been put in the oven with
the bread, but you'll be drawee! out uith the cakes.
Hkkbkkt. [Without.] Hold her, hold her ! Damn
the beast ! [Sound of hoofs without.
Miss Brerp:ton. Is Herbert hurt ?
Eleanor. [Running to the window.] No, unles.s
Herbert. [ Without?^ I'll just ririe out and sec.
287
THE OLD AND THE XEVV.
Eleanor. I'm afraid Mr. Brereton must have had
an accident. His horse has just galloped into the
stable.
Miss Brereton. No, no ; there is James, walking
by Herbert's horse.
Enter Edgar.
Edgar. I hope riding isn't off for the day. That
black horse looks rather vicious.
Miss Brereton. Poor James looks rather pale.
Eleanor, There is Dr. Macdonald. He is giving
him his arm. [They all go out.
Mr. Brereton. [Without.] Now, no flurry, please.
The horse got me off, but I've only sprained my wrist.
Enter Mr. Brereton, tvith Herbert and Ben
Macdonald, Miss Brereton, Eleanor and
Edgar.
Ben. Sit down, Mr. Brereton, you've had a slight
shock.
Miss Brereton. [To Russell,.] Go and get some
arnica and a bandage.
Russell. Is the master hurt?
Mr. Brereton. No fuss.
[He sits down in an arm-chair.
Ben. You've broken your arm, Mr. Brereton.
Mr. Brereton. I thought it stung up a bit. Will
you pack these women away and send for Dr. Gibson ?
Miss Brereton. It 's so very sudden.
Mr. Brereton. My dear Alicia, I didn't do it on
purpose. I thought that horse would get me over
some day.
Ben. Feel any other pain, sir?
Mr. Brereton. I'm bruised about the leg a bit.
I fell clear. Yes, yes.
Ben. He's fainted. Don't close that window. Will
you kindly all leave the room, except Herbert. There
288
ACT II.
is no danger. But he must be kept quiet till his
medical attendant comes.
Edgar. Can I go for the doctor ?
Herbert. Yes ; you know that red house just
beyond the vicarage. You'll find the doctor in.
[Exeunt EDGAR, MiSS BrERETON and ELEANOR.
Mr. Brereton. [Reviving.'] Fainted? Silly thing
to do.
Enter RusSELL.
Russell. Here's the arnica, sir.
Ben. Take it away, and don't come till you hear the
bell.
Russell. [Aside.] Hem ! Orders ! [Exit.
Ben. Now, Mr. Brereton, you mustn't move. I'll
just make you a bandage to ease the arm till your
surgeon comes.
Mr. Brereton. I'm really most obliged to you.
I don't mind the pain, but I oughtn't to have let that
horse get the better of me. I'm ashamed of myself
Herbert. There's no need for that, my dear
father. The horse threw you, but I'm going to teach
him manners.
Mr. Brereton. He 's never been ridden by any-
one but myself Well, go and do it, lad. Retrieve
your father's good name. [Exit Herbert.
A Groom. [ Without.] I wouldn't try it, sir, if I were
you.
Herbert. [Without.] Yes you would, Jenkins.
Father or son, it doesn't matter which, it sha'n't be
said that we couldn't ride anything with four legs and
a tail.
Ben. Fine fellow that boy of yours, sir.
Mr. Brereton. I should hope so. Where 's Nelly ?
go and get Nelly.
Ben. No, Mr. Brereton ; no society till jou'vc seen
the doctor.
Mr. Brereton. Di.scipline! Must talk, though.
You're not a hunting man ?
289 p p
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Ben. No ; I have no taste for sport.
Mr. Brereton. A man's got no call to do what
he doesn't like. I've seen many a man come a
cropper through forcing himself to ride. The Brereton
legs were made for it, and we like it. Ha !
Ben. You must have seen some good hunting in
the old days,
Mr. Brereton. I've seen some bad falls, and
funny ones too. Reminds me of a story about the
duke who came to grief at a fence, and the young
curate riding by shouted out, " Lie still, your grace,
and I'll clear you." The duke got up and said,
" That young man shall have first living in my gift ; if
he'd helped me he wouldn't have had my patronage,"
Hard-riding days! All gone now; and I'm pitched
on my nose. If I was a young man I'd be sorry for
the old fellows.
Enter CouRTLAND Gibson with Edgar.
Dr. Gibson. [Taking off his gloves."] Well, Mr.
Brereton, slight accident?
Mr. Brereton. Yes, Courtland. Let me introduce
you. Dr. Gibson — Dr. Macdonald.
Dr. Gibson. Have to thank you for this sling, sir?
I brought a round splint with me. Now, let 's have a
look at it. Yes, yes. Set it in the morning ; all
right in a month. Nothing internal ?
Mr. Brereton, Very thirsty.
Dr. Gibson, Thirsty? Brandy and water in two
minutes. Hurting you? Have to tie it up, you
know. Not as bad as dentist. How did it happen ?
Mr. Brereton. Gargoyle.
Dr. Gibson. I thought he would one of these days.
Rearer.
Mr. Brereton. You're rather pleased than other-
wise.
Dr. Gibson. I should have preferred a broken leg.
Surgically, of course. That's all right. No need to
290
ACT II.
go to bed, keep lively ; two glasses of port only, and
a light diet. Come in to-morrow Hullo.
Enter HERBERT.
Mr. Brereton. Got him under, Bertie? Reared
a bit, didn't he?
Herbert. Yes, I got him out into the open, and
then he reared straight up on end. I pulled my feet
out of the stirrups and jerked him clean backwards
w^ith the reins ; I slid off sideways, and he came down
flat on his back with a sort of sob, and broke the
cantle of the saddle. He lay on the ground a bit,
evidently perplexed, and when I got him on to his
legs again he was as quiet as a lamb. And do you
know, I don't believe that animal will ever rear again.
Mr. Brereton. That 's my boy. When the father
grows old, let the son go in and tackle what his father
couldn't. It 's all right ; I thought the young 'uns
were half-hearted and that sort of thing. They're
every bit as good as we were. The land shall be
theirs ; they'll go on in the right way. We've got to
grow old and make room for them. Herbert, child,
give me a kiss. I'm proud of you to-day.
Eleanor, \_At the library door.'] May we come in ?
2gT
ACT III.
The morning of New Years Day. Mr. BreretoN
sits in a big arm-chair by the writing-table ; by
his side is ELEANOR in a low chair.
Mr. Brereton. Don't let him sell the land, Nelly ;
don't let him sell the land.
Eleanor. Supposing we never get married ?
Mr. Brereton. You will, my dear, you will. You
will marry him ?
Eleanor. I am nearer to real love for Herbert
than I ever was.
Mr. Brereton. That's right, that's right. New
Year's Day ! How many more for me, I wonder. I
used to be glad when it came, now I'm sorry when the
old year 's past. I belong to the old years — you
young people belong to the new ones.
Eleanor. Don't get up.
Mr. Brereton. I'll be obedient, Nelly. Don't be
too hard on the old fogeys. We meant well. How
were we to know that things would alter so? It 's all
come with a rush ; railways and telegraphs and — not
caring about what we used to think so important.
They've given up the commination service, " cursed
be he who removeth his neighbour's landmark," and
that sort of thing ; the age is degenerate. I think
I'm hungry.
Eleanor. You've only just had breakfast.
Mr. Brereton. Em, a toothless old dog will de-
velop a great disposition for bones just before he dies.
Eleanor. I should think it very beastly of you to
die before I was married.
292
ACT III.
Mr. Brereton. Ho, ho, if you put it that way
Eleanor. I do put it that way.
Herbert enters utiperceived.
Mr. Brereton. I don't know that I should Hke to
live when everything I loved had decayed. When I
saw my dear old father in his last sleep I thought,
" He is happy, for he lies there, his work well done."
What a dignity death gives to us poor mortals !
When it was too late, I saw so much in my poor old
father which I had never appreciated. It always is too
late
Herbert. Not always, dad.
Mr. Brereton. You're there, are you?
Herbert. Don't think that we youngsters don't
appreciate what our fathers did for us.
Mr. Brereton. Letting us down easily!
Eleanor. He 's sucking up, as Peter says.
Herbert. How do you feel to-day?
Mr. Brereton. Don't worry, don't worry ; make
such a fuss about a broken bone ! No, don't go away.
I want you — to get me — " Peter Simple," yes, and
"Mr. Midshipman Easy" — and Hawker's "Instruc-
tion to Young Sportsmen." Hem, and Somervile,
get me Somervile's " Chase," and — " The Poetical
Works of Lord Byron." \Exit HERBERT.] Fond of
Byron, Nelly?
Eleanor. Not very.
Mr. Brereton. Wait till you've travelled. I wish
Tommy was here. How he used to laugh at Chucks
the bo'sun. That 's not Byron, that 's Marryat.
Enter HERBERT.
Got 'em. [Takitig up a book.] Hawker! [Mysteriously.']
All the old pictures ! Look here. " Approaching
wildfowl : preparative to the flowing tide." See ; the
man in punt with his guns on swivels and his boat-
man behind ; the game l>'ing out there in the marshes
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
by the sea — the " unsuspecting fowl " Hawker calls
'em ; the moon the size of a pea sailing up there in
the clouds, the reflection on the waves, the quiet head-
lands. Grand days, real sport !
Eleanor. How you must have loved that as a
child.
Mr. Brp:reton. That 's the book I learnt to read
in. I wouldn't go to a dame's school, so my father sent
me for a year to old Dr. Parbuckle. None of your
preparatory schools then, where the young men have
scent and that sort of thing. Old Parbuckle had had
money and hunted his own pack of hounds, and when
he'd run through everything he kept a school, and I
was a parlour boarder. He didn't know much of the
classics, and he brought us up on sporting books and
Fielding and Smollett. On sunshiny mornings when
I stood by his desk reading to him, he would burst
out in a fine old-fashioned sneeze, and the dog's-eared
book would be covered with a sort of pearly rain.
Crabbe, he was very fond of Crabbe, and Gifford, and
Rogers.
Herbert. I saw a Rogers' " Italy " just now.
Mr. Brereton. Let me have a look at Somervile.
Ha, ha ! " The origin of hunting. — The rude and
unpolished manner of the first hunters. — The grant
made by God to man of the beasts, etc. — The regular
manner of hunting first brought into this island by
the Normans. — The best hounds and best horses
bred here. — The advantage of this exercise to us
as islanders. — Address to gentlemen of estates "
Herbert, I'll read you this. I'd have rather written it
than have won the battle of Waterloo.
\S landing up and reading.
Ye vigorous youths,
That 's you, Bertie, —
by smiling fortune blest
With large demesnes, hereditary wealth,
That must mean Thirlby, —
294
ACT III.
Heaped copious by your wise forefathers' care,
That 's me, —
Hear and attend ! while I the means reveal
T' enjoy those pleasures, for the weak too strong,
That 's Dr. Macdonald, —
Too costly for the poor ; to rein the steed
Swift-stretching o'er the plain, to cheer the pack
Opening in concerts of harmonious joy,
But breathing death. What though the gripe severe
Of brazen-fisted Time, and slow disease
Creeping through ev'ry vein, and nerve unstrung.
Afflict my shattered frame,
That 's my broken arm, —
undaunted still,
Fix'd as a mountain ash, that braves the bolts
Of angry Jove ; though blasted, yet unfallen ;
Still can my soul in Fancy's mirror view
Deeds glorious once, recall the joyous scene,
In all its splendours deck'd, o'er the full bowl
Recount my triumphs past, urge others on
With hand and voice
What the devil 's the matter with me ?
[He foils in HERBERT'S arms.
Herbert. I ought not to have let him excite
himself. [Callifig up the staircase?^ Ben, my father's
fainted.
Enter Ben.
Ben. It *s not my case, Herbert. I would have
made him stay in bed.
Herbert. He looks very ill.
[Sprinkling him with water.
Ben. [Examining!] This is not a temporary faint-
ness. He must be carried up to his room.
Herbert. He has always slept in the library since
my mother died.
Ben. Then we will take him there, at once.
[They carry him out. The bell is heard to
ring.
295
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Russell enti^rs fyoj}i tJie dining-room, and admits
COURTLAND GiBSON.
Eleanor. Oh, Dr. Gibson, Mr. Brereton has fainted
again-
Dr. Gibson. Complications? I was hoping to set
the arm this morning.
Enter HERBERT.
Herbert. Will you come in at once ? Nelly, don't
let anyone know of this.
{Exit with the DOCTOR, while EDGAR enters.
Edgar. Hullo, Miss Wantage ! How did you get
over here ?
Eleanor. I walked over. You've just got up, I
suppose ?
Edgar. Yes. It 's only ten o'clock. I say
Eleanor. Well?
Edgar. I think Herbert Brereton is a jolly good
chap. Are you going to marry him }
Eleanor. If you ask me that again I'll box your
ears, or scrag your neck. I had lots of practice when
I was captain of my football team.
Edgar, You ought to marry him.
Eleanor. I suppose you mean well. Herbert is
your hero now ?
Edgar. He gave me a start in fencing last night.
You wouldn't think it, but he 's awfully strong. He 's
going to teach me riding, too. When I was making
up to you the other night
Eleanor. Were you making up to me ?
Edgar. I should rather think so — I didn't know
you were engaged to him.
Enter HERBERT and Ben.
How is your father ?
Herbert. Pretty well.
\He makes a sign to ElEANOR.
296
ACT III.
Eleanor. Mr. Ainsworth, come out into the garden
and take the air, as our host says.
Edgar. [To Herbert.] You don't mind, do you?
[Exit Eleanor and Edgar.
Herbert. Now, Ben, what is the matter with my
father ?
Ben. I can't go behind the back of his professional
man.
Herbert. Do doctors still stand on etiquette in
matters which may be of life and death ?
Enter Dr. Gibson.
Dr. Gibson. I have left Russell in the room. Mr.
Brereton is still insensible.
Herbert. To what do you attribute it?
Dr. Gibson. I fear the shock has been too much
for him, and that that, together with senile decay
Ben. Mr. Brereton shows no signs of senile decay.
Dr. Gibson. He is my patient, I believe.
Herbert. I must ask you to take Dr. Macdonald
into consultation with you.
Dr. Gibson. If you have so little confidence in
your father's medical man — medical adviser for the
last twenty years
Herbert. It is not a matter of lack of confidence,
but of the right of a patient's friends to ask for a con-
sultation.
Dr. Gib.SON. If you can trust Dr. Macdonald's
capacity, and his diplomas
Herbert. I have been attended by him myself
Dr. Gibson. You believe in the new schools? I
should have had nothing to say if you had called in a
local man of recognized ability, someone we know
Ben. It's true that I've practised abroad chiefly ;
but diseases are the same all the world over.
Dr. Gibscjn. Mr. lircrcton choo.ses to call you in ;
I have nothing to do but to take my leave. Mind, I
297 Q Q
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
wash my hands of responsibility if the patient's death
is accelerated.
Ben. I accept that responsibility. I don't believe
Mr. Brereton will die.
Dr. Gibson. I have my own opinion as to that. I
had grave doubts myself last night whether a man of
that age could stand such an accident
Herbert. You didn't warn us in any way.
Ben. You give up your case in the most extra-
ordinary manner. How old is Mr. Brereton ?
Herbert. My father is seventy-one,
Ben. There must be some local disturbance causing
his weakness.
Dr. Gibson. There is an unimportant bruise on the
leg and nothing else. However, I have nothing more
to say. Good-day, gentlemen. \Exit.
Ben. I shall pull your father through, even if only
to spite that pig-headed old fool.
\^Exit, as Miss Brereton enters.
Miss Brereton. Herbert, what has happened?
My maid says your father is dying.
Herbert. There 's no immediate danger, dear aunt;
he was talking to us, when
Miss Brereton. May I see him, Herbert?
Herbert. Go in at once if Dr. Macdonald lets
you. Don't ask me questions now, dear. I believe in
Macdonald.
{Exit Miss Brereton and enter Russell.
Russell. [/« a choked voice.] The master's very
bad, sir. But I didn't think to be turned out of his
room. Where 's Dr. Gibson ? Oh, sir, you aren't going
to let this foreign gentleman
Herbert. Russell, don't make a fool of yourself
I want you to go to the vicarage and tell my uncle to
come over. Don't frighten him about my father's state.
Russell. He 's not often in, in the morning.
Herbert. Then you must find out where he has
gone.
Russell. He's very busy now, since the curate
298
ACT III.
left. I thought it a pity, sir ; a young, cheery gentle-
man ; not as I defend him, sir, and he had to go.
Cricket on Sunday afternoons he wanted, sir, and in
one of his sermons he told us salvation was as easy as
" Open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what
God '11 send you." We didn't like it in the servants'
hall, though the master said the curate was a good
shot and it didn't matter.
Herbert. Make haste, my good man.
Russell. Yes, sir, I'm going. \Exit.
Ben comes to the door of the library and beckons
to Herbert.
Ben. He has revived. I've found the trouble.
Under what Dr. Gibson calls an unimportant bruise, a
clot of blood has been forming. The danger is that
some part of it should find its way to the heart. That
would be fatal. There is nothing to do but to keep
the patient quite quiet, and use cold lotions ; perhaps
massage later on. Otherwise the organs of the body
are thoroughly healthy.
Herbert. And owing to a small want of care my
father might have died.
Ben. That is what happens in so many cases. One
of the greatest advances of pathology has been to look
at no injury as unimportant. I imagine that the
danger will be over in an hour or two. If he had kept
on his legs much longer, the clot of blood would have
gone to the heart for a certainty.
Herbert. What am I to think, then?
Ben. That your father is in danger for the moment,
but that all that can be done will be clone. It is
possible that some tiny fragment of coagulated blood
caused the difficulty in the heart's action just now.
Herbert. Then my father's life depends on
Ben. All the factors : his ancestry, his own life,
and the local danger. When I crossed the Atlantic
last I remember wondering on the number of times
299
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
the screw would revolve before we came into port.
It is the same thing with a man's heart; there will be
winds and waves to be met, but in the end the heart
will have taken the blood in and sent it out just so
many times, no more, no less.
Herbert. Barring accidents to the machinery.
Ben. For that you must rely on your engineers.
\Exit Ben.
Herbert. That is the plain science of it, but when
it has to do with our loved ones, we cannot help wish-
ing that miracles were still possible. To be here,
unable to help, and to feel that a noble life depends
on a pin's head of blood, it makes one angry with
destiny. But that is the view of the savage. If truth
is ever to be worshipped in an acknowledgment of the
unalterable laws of nature, it must be by me now.
Enter MisS Brereton.
Miss Brereton. He wants Eleanor to come and
sit by him, and then he promises he will keep quiet.
[Herbert ^(?^j to the wmdow and beckons.
Eleanor enters with Edgar.
Herbert. Will you go and sit by my father, Nelly ?
[Exit Eleanor with Miss Brereton.
Edgar. I say, Brereton, I'm very sorry your
father 's ill. You're a fortunate man to have a father
whom you love and respect. I dare say you think me
a bit of a blackguard, but my father treated my mother
very badly, and I wasn't brought up as you've been.
Herbert. [ With a sigh.] Is that so ?
Edgar. My mother was a good woman, and she
would have done anything for me. My father de-
serted her. He was one of Mr. Brereton's college
friends ; he died abroad many years ago. I don't
know what I should have done if your governor
hadn't helped me.
Herbert. Did you ever see your father.'
300
ACT III.
Edgar. Don't you understand ? I'm an illegitimate
son. I'm sure of it. There was no marriage certificate
in my mother's papers. She never spoke of her
wedding. You're the first chap who 's ever taken
any interest in me ; I can talk to you about it.
Herbert. Does no one know it?
Edgar. No one except your father. People don't
know ; but somehow or other everyone is hard on me.
When one has a place to go to, or friends to help one
on, everybody is kind ; but if you're alone in the
world and have no support, they don't think you
worth while. People are cruel.
Herbert. Not cruel : careless.
Edgar. I'm only saying this to show you that if I
had had fairer chances I might have been different. But
I don't mind ; no one thinks of me, and they needn't.
I shall go my own way and get all the pleasure I can,
and if I make others suffer, why, I've been made to
suffer myself.
Herbert. Are you so sure that your father never
gave you any thought ?
Edgar. Isn't it plain enough? If he had had the
manliness to tell my mother his real name, it would
have been something. I wouldn't ever have worried
him. He left me four hundred a year, which is just
enough to keep me idle, and to help me to go to the
devil in a gentlemanly way.
Herbert. Did you ever ask my father to tell you
the name of — his college friend ?
Edgar. He asked me not to. It hardly matters
now. But if I could meet him and tell him what a
curse life has been to me ; if I could sec him weak,
broken down, and ashamed ; if I could feel that I
could hurt him, and call him the damned blackguard
that he is
Herbert. Not so loud. If you could see your
father, I believe you would forgive him. But it is
useless to discuss that. I'll do this for you : if Mr,
Brereton recovers — he has just been taken very ill,
301
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
and is in danger — I will ask him to tell me your
father's name, so that you may know it. I think
concealment is the worst part of such a matter.
There was a creed once that such things could be
glossed over ; someone has to bear the shame, let it
be the person who has caused it.
Edgar. I know what shame is, I was at the
Empire one night, walking about in the promenade,
and as I passed two chaps, one of them said to his
pal, " That man has a cad's face ; " the other chap
told him to shut up, and I couldn't do anything, but
I knew it was meant for me. Those words rang in my
brain for days and tortured me ; but they were true.
Herbert. It seems to me that the man who spoke
them would have proved his own title to being a
gentleman by keeping his thoughts to himself
Edgar. I never thought of that. All the same,
granting I am a cad, who made me one ?
Enter MiSS Brereton.
Miss Brereton. Herbert dear, your father wishes
you to give this packet of letters to Mr. Ainsworth.
He says you will know what it is, and he leaves it to
you whether you give it to him or not.
Herbert. He is better, then ?
Miss Brereton. I imagine that the crisis is passing.
But Dr. Macdonald saw that he was worrying about
something, and it is this. \Significantly^ The matter
is in your hands.
Herbert. For everyone concerned we must put an
end to secrecy. You must take this, Edgar, and
read it alone. All I can tell you is that I guessed the
truth not long ago.
Edgar. I am to know at last.
Herbert. Yes, and I am glad of it. \Exit Edgar.
Miss Brereton. The matter was left to you,
Herbert
Herbert. I have done what was right, though it
302
ACT IIL
cost me an effort. If my dear father dies, he will not
have this to answer for.
Miss Brereton. Do you wish your father to
acknowledge this boy to the world ?
Herbert. Edgar is not altogether a desirable
brother, is he ?
Miss Brereton. Or nephew either
Herbert. But we must make allowances. "More
than oweth, Brereton bestoweth," and we owe this
boy a great deal for what we have made him suffer.
Miss Brereton. Here is your uncle coming like
an old hen to make to make the usual fuss.
Herbert. You don't think much of my uncle, do
you ?
Miss Brereton. Even as children we always con-
sidered him the stupid one of the family.
Herbert. We have to remember that he has been
in a quiet village for twenty or thirty years, with a
sermon to write every week and dull people to look
after. There's a fragrance in a peaceful life; I like
the humdrum ideal and sober respect better than the
new school of " open your mouth and shut your eyes "
and penny-in-the-slot conversions. There 's a great
deal to be said for my uncle Arthur.
Miss Brereton. You always were a generous-
hearted boy, Herbert. I'm very fond of you, dear.
\^She kisses him and exit as the ViCAR enters.
The Vicar. They sent for me down to Widow
Margetson's. Your father has not expired ?
Herbert. My father hasn't got any intention of
expiring.
The Vicar. Thank heaven!
Herbert. Or Macdonaid's cold lotions.
Enter BEN.
Ben. Thank you, we're getting along nicely.
The Vicak. Is my brother in danger?
Ben. Yes and no.
303
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
The Vicar. Then I am just in time. Herbert, I
shall go in and read a few prayers
Ben. No.
The Vicar. I am well aware that you are bitterly
opposed to religion
Ben. It 's not that
The Vicar. Nevertheless, I have a duty to per-
form, and you shall not prevent me from invoking the
divine aid and forgiveness for a sick man.
Ben. No. Mr. Brereton's life depends on his being
kept quiet and taking a cheerful view. I can't allow
you to go in there and frighten him
The Vicar. My brother has always been a regular
churchgoer.
Ben. No doubt, but praying between services is just
as bad as drinking between meals.
The Vicar. You are irreverent, sir, and impolite.
Ben. I can't help it ; that is, I'm sorry if I was
rude, but my patient must be kept quiet.
The Vicar. He is at the point of death ?
Ben. That is what I cannot tell you, as I do not
know. Men are every day at the point of death ; the
marvel is that we live at all.
The Vicar. Herbert, have you so far gone away
from your belief, that you will allow your father to run
the risk of leaving this world without a last prayer for
mercy }
Herbert. My dear uncle, I believe that the general
Tightness or wrongness of a man's life is what he is
judged by. \^A ring at the bell. Exit Ben.
Enter Mrs. WANTAGE and Peter.
Mrs. Wantage. We only come to stay a moment.
They told us at the lodge that your father was
seriously ill.
Herbert. There has been a complication ; but we
shall know in a few hours
Peter. I hope it is nothing seriou.s. My father is
304
ACT III.
so devoted to Mr. Brereton. I don't entirely approve
of the joke about fai^ging : all the same
Herbert. What 's that you've got in that box ?
Peter. That 's my jerboa.
Mrs. Wantage. He loves all sorts of horrid little
animals.
Enter Ben, radiant.
Ben. He's very much better. Hullo, Herbert;
don't give way.
Herbert. Thanks.
Enter Mr. Wantage and Edgar.
Mr. Wantage. He's better, is he ? Do go in and
ask him if he wants Tommy.
[Exit Ben. Herbert stands aside with
Edgar.
Herbert. Shall I tell them now, Edgar?
Edgar. No ; for the sake of my mother's name.
Herbert. That is the Brereton blood !
Peter. {To his Father.] Marriage is a necessary
evil. I think Flleanor had better take Herbert for
better or worse.
Enter MiSS Brereton and ELEANOR, folloivcd by
Ben.
Miss Brereton. I think something ought to be
written to Mr. Gibson.
Herbert. Very well. \He sits down and writes.
Ben. I would prefer him to set the arm. I am not
so familiar with the hunting-field class of accident.
Herbert. Yes. Kr, cr, er, "and Dr. Macdonald
thinks it would be preferable for you to set the
arm. . . . your reputation as surgeon. Yours very
faithfully "
Miss Brereton. You can say yours faithfully to
305 i< k
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
a man ; never to a woman, because you're not faith-
ful — that would be a farce.
Ben. Your father wants to be wheeled out here,
Herbert.
Herbert. Is that not dangerous ?
Ben. Well, we must treat the patient and not the
disease.
Enter CouRTLAND Gibson.
Dr. Gibson. Herbert, I had to come back. I lost
my temper
Herbert. Read this, my dear doctor.
Eleanor. Dr. Macdonald, I — I would trust you
to swing a cat round the corner,
Ben. I'm very much gratified ; whenever you
need any service of that sort, I shall be only too
pleased. \Exit.
Enter BEl!i and RusSELL, wheeling in Mr. Brereton
in a chair. The Servants come in at the same
time.
Mr. Brereton. All here, are they? I'm not so ill
as you think, though. Where 's Nelly ? Yes, yes.
Russell, where are the keys of the plate ?
Russell. O sir, please don't take them from me.
Nelly. Do as you are told.
Mr. Brereton. Here are the keys, Bertie. I want
you all to understand that you are to take your orders
from Mr. Bertie.
[Herbert returns the keys to RussELL.
Herbert. My dear father
Mr. Brereton. Don't worry, now. I'm an old
fogey ; past my work. You'll let me sit in the
chimney-corner ?
Mr. Wantage. James, you are giving Herbert
great pain.
Mr. Brereton. He loves his old father
306
ACT in.
Herbert. And believes he 's as good a man as any /
in the county.
Russell. So we all say, sir.
Mr. Brereton. Where 's Edgar ? Is that all right
about
Edgar, Yes, Mr. Brereton, please don't say another
word.
Mr. Brereton. I've abdicated. King James is
dead. Long live King Herbert. Open some cham-
pagne. I will have a sip, doctor. What I was going
to say was this. I've not been a bad master to you,
if I've had my faults, take me in the lump, take me in
the lump. Now I'll give you Master Bertie and Miss
Nelly. That's right, that's right. Now I shall get
well. These young people ! I mustn't get in a temper.
But I won't have lunch till they've settled it. God
bless you, God bless you all.
[Russell wheels hhn out.
Peter. " Off with his head ! Now by Saint Paul,
I swear, I will not dine until I see the same."
[Herbert and Eleanor stand on opposite
sides of the room, while the rest go out
with some amusement .
Eleanor. Now we will discuss our business. What
is your objection to marrying me ?
Herbert. I have no objection, Eleanor.
Eleanor. I'm sorry for that, because we don't
start fair.
Herbert. You have an objection ? Why don't
you take Edgar ? He plea.ses you apparently.
Eleanor. Weak men have the attraction of
pity for women. I had to be courteous to him,
as he doesn't quite belong to our — standard, shall
I .say.'' [Herbert makes a gesture of disagree in en t.\
I know I've been rude to you ; I apologize for that.
Herbert. A man can't accept an apology from a
girl. Women are always right.
Eleanor. I don't agree ; you should be stern with
us when wc give ourselves air.s.
307
THE OLD AND THE NEW.
Herhert. I thought your independence only made
you prettier
Eleanor. My dear boy, think a minute. I'm not
pretty.
Herbert. [Afterthought.'] No; you're not.
Eleanor. I'm so glad you said that ; it takes
away the silly gush and slobber which used to be the
proper thing for lovers.
Herbert. One may love a plain face very
dearly.
Eleanor. Admire a face, not love it. Love is
companionship in thought and deed.
Herbert. It takes two people to make one love.
Can you and I do so ?
Eleanor. There are differences between us ; you
believe more than I do.
Herbert. A man always has the yearning for
things that once belonged to him ; but women give
themselves entirely to their new philosophy.
Eleanor. It's not possible to believe in the fairy-
tales.
Herbert. No. Modern life is a St. Christopher
fording a turbulent stream on a dark night, but with
no Christ-child in his arms.
Eleanor. How can we replace it ?
Herbert. By a new pity for our fellows. In the
towns as in the villages there is misery enough ; so
much as comes under our view we can help to alle-
viate. We cannot live for ourselves ; it is little that
we can do for others, but our only real happiness lies
there.
Eleanor. That will be our ideal !
Herbert. Then, after all, life itself has its claims.
We hand on our hopes from father to son ; life must
continue.
Eleanor. The world has grown very old.
Herbert. Do you think so ? The sun still warms
us, and the sky is blue — on fine mornings like this.
There is a pleasure in comparing experience with
308
ACT III.
youth, and age with maturity. If we look back on
our childish days, we aren't very old, we feel that we
were guided by the higher powers. Our fathers
brought us up, as we shall bring up our children.
That is the great event of the lives of men and
women, to know that they survive in their offspring.
That is the perennial youth of the world. The dead
lie quietly in their graves, they are not forgotten.
There is a link running from the bones at the yew
tree's foot to the child in its cradle ; therein is human
sympathy, and in the life that exists when the life
that it sprang from is gone, we have our hopes of
immortality.
Eleanor. You are crying, Herbert.
[//> takes her harids.
Herbert. I was thinking that our father's illness
had finally brought us together ; but the last few
days have made other things clear. It must often
happen that the father and the son come to a point
where one looks back to the past and the other
forward to the future. We shall have our parents with
us for many years, as I trust, but the field belongs to
us now, for our best endeavour. The old and the
new, the old and the new ! I pray that when our
time comes to rest on our oars, we may be found as
worthy of honour as our fathers were.
THE END.
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