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in the original text.
Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
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Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations
in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
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as a heading at the beginning of the act. The full page act numbers
have been removed from this edition as being redundant.
THE SCARECROW
[Illustration]
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
SAN FRANCISCO
Macmillan & CO., LIMITED
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
THE SCARECROW
OR
THE GLASS OF TRUTH
_A Tragedy of the Ludicrous_
BY
PERCY MACKAYE
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1911
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1908,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1908. Reprinted February,
1911.
This play has been copyrighted and published simultaneously in the
United States and Great Britain. All acting rights, both professional
and amateur, are reserved in the United States, Great Britain, and
countries of the Copyright Union, by Percy MacKaye. Performances
forbidden and right of representation reserved. Application for the
right of performing this piece must be made to The McMillan Company.
Any piracy or infringement will be prosecuted in accordance with the
penalties provided by the United States Statutes:—
“Sec. 4966.—Any person publicly performing or representing any
dramatic or musical composition, for which copyright has been obtained,
without the consent of the proprietor of the said dramatic or musical
composition, or his heirs or assigns, shall be liable for damages
therefor, such damages in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not
less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every
subsequent performance, as to the Court shall appear to be just. If the
unlawful performance and representation be wilful and for profit, such
person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction
be imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year.” U. S. Revised
Statutes, Title 60, Chap. 3.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
To
MY MOTHER
IN MEMORY OF AUSPICIOUS
“COUNTINGS OF THE CROWS”
BY OLD NEW ENGLAND CORN-FIELDS
PREFACE
But for a fantasy of Nathaniel Hawthorne, this play, of course, would
never have been written. In “Mosses from an Old Manse,” the _Moralized
Legend_ “Feathertop” relates, in some twenty pages of its author’s
inimitable style, how Mother Rigby, a reputed witch of old New England
days, converted a corn-patch scarecrow into the semblance of a fine
gentleman of the period; how she despatched this semblance to “play
its part in the great world, where not one man in a hundred, she
affirmed, was gifted with more real substance than itself”; how there
the scarecrow, while paying court to pretty Polly Gookin, the rosy,
simpering daughter of Justice Gookin, discovered its own image in a
looking-glass, returned to Mother Rigby’s cottage, and dissolved into
its original elements.
My indebtedness, therefore, to this source, in undertaking the
present play, goes without saying. Yet it would not be true, either
to Hawthorne’s work or my own, to classify “The Scarecrow” as a
dramatization of “Feathertop.” Were it intended to be such, the many
radical departures from the conception and the treatment of Hawthorne
which are evident in the present work would have to be regarded as so
many unwarrantable liberties taken with its original material; the
function of the play itself would, in such case, become purely
formal,—translative of a narrative to its appropriate dramatic
form,—and as such, however interesting and commendable an effort,
would have lost all _raison d’être_ for the writer.
But such, I may say, has not been my intention. My aim has been quite
otherwise. Starting with the same basic theme, I have sought to
elaborate it, by my own treatment, to a different and more inclusive
issue.
Without particularizing here the full substance of Hawthorne’s
consummate sketch, which is available to every reader, the divergence I
refer to may be summed up briefly.
The scarecrow Feathertop of Hawthorne is the imaginative epitome
or symbol of human charlatanism, with special emphasis upon the
coxcombry of fashionable society. In his essential superficiality he
is characterized as a fop, “strangely self-satisfied,” with “nobby
little nose thrust into the air.” “And many a fine gentleman,” says
Mother Rigby, “has a pumpkin-head as well as my scarecrow.” His hollow
semblance is the shallowness of a “well-digested conventionalism, which
had incorporated itself thoroughly with his substance and transformed
him into a work of art.” “But the clothes in this case were to be the
making of the man,” and so Mother Rigby, after fitting him out in a
suit of embroidered finery, endows him as a finishing touch “with a
great deal of brass, which she applied to his forehead, thus making it
yellower than before. ‘With that brass alone,’ quoth she, ‘thou canst
pay thy way all over the earth.’”
Similarly, the other characters are sketched by Hawthorne in accord
with this general conception. Pretty Polly Gookin, “tossing her
head and managing her fan” before the mirror, views therein “an
unsubstantial little maid that reflected every gesture and did all the
foolish things that Polly did, but without making her ashamed of them.
In short, it was the fault of pretty Polly’s ability, rather than her
will, if she failed to be as complete an artifice as the illustrious
Feathertop himself.”
Thus the _Moralized Legend_ reveals itself as a satire upon a
restricted artificial phase of society. As such, it runs its brief
course, with all the poetic charm and fanciful suggestiveness
of our great New Englander’s prose style, to its appropriate
_dénouement_,—the disintegration of its hero.
“‘My poor, dear, pretty Feathertop,’ quoth Mother Rigby, with a rueful
glance at the relics of her ill-fated contrivance, ‘there are thousands
upon thousands of coxcombs and charlatans in the world made up of just
such a jumble of worn-out, forgotten, and good-for-nothing trash as he
was, yet they live in fair repute and never see themselves for what
they are. And why should my poor puppet be the only one to know himself
and perish for it?’”
Coxcombry and charlatanism, then, are the butt of Hawthorne’s satire in
his _Legend_. The nature of his theme, however, is susceptible of an
application far less restricted, a development far more universal, than
such satire. This wider issue once or twice in his sketch he seems to
have touched upon, only immediately to ignore again. Thus, in the very
last paragraph, Mother Rigby exclaims: “Poor Feathertop! I could easily
give him another chance and send him forth again to-morrow. But no!
_His feelings are too tender—his sensibilities too deep._”
In these words, spoken in irony, Hawthorne ends his narrative with an
undeveloped aspect of his theme, which constitutes the starting-point
of the conception of my play: the aspect, namely, of the essential
_tragedy of the ludicrous_; an aspect which, in its development,
inevitably predicates for my play a divergent treatment and a different
conclusion. The element of human sympathy is here substituted for that
of irony, as criterion of the common absurdity of mankind.
The scarecrow Feathertop is ridiculous, as the emblem of a superficial
fop; the scarecrow Ravensbane is pitiful, as the emblem of human bathos.
Compared with our own ideas of human perfection, what human rubbish
we are! Of what incongruous elements are we constructed by time and
inheritance wherewith to realize the reasonableness, the power, the
altruism, of our dreams! What absurdity is our highest consummation!
Yet the sense of our common deficiency is, after all, our salvation.
_There_ is one reality which is a basic hope for the realization of
those dreams. This sense is human sympathy, which is, it would seem, a
more searching critic of human frailty than satire. It is the growth
of this sense which dowers with dignity and reality the hollowest and
most ludicrous of mankind, and becomes in such a fundamental grace of
character. In a recent critical interpretation of Cervantes’ great
work, Professor G. E. Woodberry writes: “A madman has no character; but
it is the character of Don Quixote that at last draws the knight out of
all his degradations and makes him triumph in the heart of the reader.”
And he continues: “Modern dismay begins in the thought that here is not
the abnormality of an individual, but the madness of the soul in its
own nature.”
If for “madness” in this quotation I may be permitted to substitute
_ludicrousness_ (or _incongruity_), a more felicitous expression of my
meaning, as applied to Ravensbane in this play, would be difficult to
devise.
From what has been said, it will, I trust, be the more clearly
apparent why “The Scarecrow” cannot with any appropriateness be deemed
a dramatization of “Feathertop,” and why its manifold divergencies from
the latter in treatment and motive cannot with any just significance
be considered as liberties taken with an original source. Dickon, for
example, whose name in the _Legend_ is but a momentary invocation
in the mouth of Mother Rigby, becomes in my play not merely the
characterized visible associate of Goody Rickby (“Blacksmith Bess”),
but the necessary foil of sceptical irony to the human growth of the
scarecrow. So, too, for reasons of the play’s different intent, Goody
Rickby herself is differentiated from Mother Rigby; and Rachel Merton
has no motive, of character or artistic design, in common with pretty,
affected Polly Gookin.
My indebtedness to the New England master in literature is, needless
to say, gratefully acknowledged; but it is fitting, I think, to
distinguish clearly between the aim and the scope of “Feathertop” and
that of the play in hand, as much in deference to the work of Hawthorne
as in comprehension of the spirit of my own.
P. M-K.
CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE,
December, 1907.
Program of the play as first performed in
New York, Jan. 17, 1911, at the Garrick Theatre
CHARLES FROHMAN, MANAGER
HENRY B. HARRIS PRESENTS
EDMUND BREESE
—AS—
THE DEVIL
—IN—
THE SCARECROW
A FANTASTIC ROMANCE BY PERCY MACKAYE
CHARACTERS
(NOTE—The following characters are named is the order in
which they first appear)
BLACKSMITH BESS (Goody Rickby) ALICE FISCHER
DICKON, a Yankee Improvisation of
the Prince of Darkness EDMUND BREESE
RACHEL MERTON, niece of the Justice FOLA LA FOLLETTE
RICHARD TALBOT EARLE BROWNE
JUSTICE GILEAD MERTON BRIGHAM ROYCE
LORD RAVENSBANE (The Scarecrow) FRANK REICHER
MISTRESS CYNTHIA MERTON,
sister of the Justice MRS. FELIX MORRIS
MICAH, a servant HAROLD M. CHESHIRE
CAPTAIN BUGBY, the Governor’s secretary REGAN HUGHSTON
MINISTER DODGE CLIFFORD LEIGH
MISTRESS DODGE, his wife ELEANOR SHELDON
REV. MASTER RAND, of Harvard College WILLIAM LEVIS
REV. MASTER TODD, of Harvard College HARRY LILLFORD
SIR CHARLES REDDINGTON, Lieutenant Governor H. J. CARVILL
MISTRESS REDDINGTON } { ZENAIDEE WILLIAMS
} his daughters {
AMELIA REDDINGTON } { GEORGIA DVORAK
TIME—About 1690 PLACE—A town in Massachusetts
ACT I.—The Blacksmith Shop of “Blacksmith Bess.” Dawn.
ACTS II., III., and IV.—Justice Merton’s Parlor.
Morning, afternoon, and evening.
Produced under the direction of Edgar Selwyn
Incidental and entre’act music by Robert Hood Bowers
The portrait of Justice Merton, as a young man,
by John W. Alexander
Scenery designed and painted by H. Robert Law
Costumes by Darian, from designs by Byron Nestor
All of the music composed especially for this production,
by ROBERT HOOD BOWERS
OVERTURE—Devil’s Motif; Hymn; Love Motif;
Ravensbane’s Minuet, etc.
FIRST ENTRE’ACT—Ravensbane goes a-wooing.
He is instructed in the art by the Devil.
He aspires to Rachel’s hand.
SECOND ENTRE’ACT—The challenge to the duel.
The squire sends his second, the town dandy,
to wait upon Ravensbane.
THIRD ENTRE’ACT—Ravensbane’s crow song with
its tragic ending. His despair.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
JUSTICE GILEAD MERTON.
GOODY RICKBY (“_Blacksmith Bess_”).
LORD RAVENSBANE (“_Marquis of Oxford, Baron of Wittenberg,
Elector of Worms, and Count of Cordova_”),
_their hypothetical son_.
DICKON, _a Yankee improvisation of the Prince of Darkness_.
RACHEL MERTON, _niece of the Justice_.
MISTRESS CYNTHIA MERTON, _sister of the Justice_.
RICHARD TALBOT, _Esquire_, _betrothed to Rachel_.
SIR CHARLES REDDINGTON, _Lieutenant Governor_.
MISTRESS REDDINGTON }
} _his daughters_.
AMELIA REDDINGTON }
CAPTAIN BUGBY, _the Governor’s Secretary_.
MINISTER DODGE.
MISTRESS DODGE, _his wife_.
REV. MASTER RAND, _of Harvard College_.
REV. MASTER TODD, _of Harvard College_.
MICAH, _a servant of the Justice_.
TIME.—_Late Seventeenth Century._
PLACE.—_A town in Massachusetts._
ACT I
_The interior of a blacksmith shop. Right centre, a
forge. Left, a loft, from which are hanging dried
cornstalks, hay, and the yellow ears of cattle-corn.
Back centre, a wide double door, closed when the
curtain rises. Through this door—when later it is
opened—is visible a New England landscape in the late
springtime: a distant wood; stone walls, high elms, a
well-sweep; and, in the near foreground, a ploughed
field, from which the green shoots of early corn are
just appearing. The blackened walls of the shop are
covered with a miscellaneous collection of old iron,
horseshoes, cart wheels, etc., the usual appurtenances
of a smithy. In the right-hand corner, however, is an
array of things quite out of keeping with the shop
proper: musical instruments, puppets, tall clocks, and
fantastical junk. Conspicuous amongst these articles
is a large standing mirror, framed grotesquely in old
gold and curtained by a dull stuff, embroidered with
peaked caps and crescent moons._
_Just before the scene opens, a hammer is heard
ringing briskly upon steel. As the curtain rises
there is discovered, standing at the anvil in the
flickering light of a bright flame from the forge, a
woman—powerful, ruddy, proud with a certain masterful
beauty, white-haired (as though prematurely),
bare-armed to the elbows, clad in a dark skirt (above
her ankles), a loose blouse, open at the throat; a
leathern apron and a workman’s cap. The woman is_
GOODY RICKBY. _On the anvil she is shaping
a piece of iron. Beside her stands a framework of iron
formed like the ribs and backbone of a man. For a few
moments she continues to ply her hammer, amid a shower
of sparks, till suddenly the flame on the forge dies down._
GOODY RICKBY
Dickon! More flame.
A VOICE
[_Above her._]
Yea, Goody.
[_The flame in the forge spurts up high and suddenly._]
GOODY RICKBY
Nay, not so fierce.
THE VOICE
[_At her side._]
_Votre pardon, madame._
[_The flame subsides._]
Is that better?
GOODY RICKBY
That will do.
[_With her tongs, she thrusts the iron into the flame;
it turns white-hot._]
Quick work; nothing like brimstone for the smithy trade.
[_At the anvil, she begins to weld the iron rib
on to the framework._]
There, my beauty! We’ll make a stout set of ribs for you.
I’ll see to it this year that I have a scarecrow can outstand
all the nor’easters that blow. I’ve no notion to lose my
corn-crop this summer.
[_Outside, the faint cawings of crows are heard. Putting
down her tongs and hammer, Goody Rickby strides to the
double door, and flinging it wide open, lets in the
gray light of dawn. She looks out over the fields and
shakes her fist._]
So ye’re up before me and the sun, are ye?
[_Squinting against the light._]
There’s one! Nay, two. Aha!
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth—
Good! This time we’ll have the laugh on our side.
[_She returns to the forge, where again the fire has died out._]
Dickon! Fire! Come, come, where be thy wits?
THE VOICE
[_Sleepily from the forge._]
’Tis early, dame.
GOODY RICKBY
The more need—
[_Takes up her tongs._]
THE VOICE
[_Screams._]
Ow!
GOODY RICKBY
Ha! Have I got thee?
[_From the blackness of the forge she pulls out with her
tongs, by the right ear, the figure of a devil, horned
and tailed. In general aspect, though he resembles
a mediæval familiar demon, yet the suggestions of a
goatish beard, a shrewdly humorous smile, and (when
he speaks) the slightest of nasal drawls, remotely
simulate a species of Yankee rustic._
_Goody Rickby substitutes her fingers for the tongs._]
Now, Dickon!
DICKON
_Deus!_ I haven’t been nabbed like that since St.
Dunstan tweaked my nose. Well, sweet Goody?
GOODY RICKBY
The bellows!
DICKON
[_Going slowly to the forge._]
Why, ’tis hardly dawn yet. Honest folks are still abed.
It makes a long day.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Working, while Dickon plies the bellows._]
Aye, for your black pets, the crows, to work in.
That’s why I’m at it early. You heard ’em. We must
have this scarecrow of ours out in the field at his
post before sunrise.
[_Finishing._]
So, there! Now, Dickon boy, I want that you should—
DICKON
[_Whipping out a note-book and writing._]
Wait! Another one! “I want that you should—”
GOODY RICKBY
What’s that you’re writing?
DICKON
The phrase, Goody dear; the construction. Your New England
dialect is hard for a poor cosmopolitan devil. What with _ut_
clauses in English and Latinized subjunctives—You want that I
should—Well?
GOODY RICKBY
Make a masterpiece. I’ve made the frame strong, so as to
stand the weather; _you_ must make the body lifelike so
as to fool the crows. Last year I stuck up a poor sham and
after a day they saw through it. This time, we must make ’em
think it’s a real human crittur.
DICKON
To fool the philosophers is my specialty, but the crows—hm!
GOODY RICKBY
Pooh! That staggers thee!
DICKON
Madame Rickby, prod not the quick of my genius.
I am Phidias, I am Raphael, I am the Lord God!—
You shall see—
[_Demands with a gesture._]
Yonder broomstick.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Fetching him a broom from the corner._]
Good boy!
DICKON
[_Straddling the handle._]
Haha! gee up! my Salem mare.
[_Then, pseudo-philosophically._]
A broomstick—that’s for imagination!
[_He begins to construct the scarecrow, while Goody Rickby,
assisting, brings the constructive parts from various
nooks and corners._]
We are all pretty artists, to be sure, Bessie. Phidias, he
sculptures the gods; Raphael, he paints the angels; the Lord
God, he creates Adam; and Dickon—fetch me the poker—aha!
Dickon! What doth Dickon? He nullifies ’em all; he endows the
Scarecrow!—A poker: here’s his conscience. There’s two fine
legs to walk on,—imagination and conscience. Yonder flails
now! The ideal—the _beau idéal_, dame—that’s what we artists
seek. The apotheosis of scarecrows! And pray, what’s a
scarecrow? Why, the antithesis of Adam.—“Let there be
candles!” quoth the Lord God, sitting in the dark. “Let there
be candle-extinguishers,” saith Dickon. “I am made in the
image of my maker,” quoth Adam. “Look at yourself in the
glass,” saith Goodman Scarecrow.
[_Taking two implements from Goody Rickby._]
Fine! fine! here are flails—one for wit, t’other for
satire. _Sapristi!_ I with two such arms, my lad, how thou
wilt work thy way in the world!
GOODY RICKBY
You talk as if you were making a real mortal, Dickon.
DICKON
To fool a crow, Goody, I must fashion a crittur
that will first deceive a man.
GOODY RICKBY
He’ll scarce do that without a head.
[_Pointing to the loft._]
What think ye of yonder Jack-o’-lantern? ’Twas
made last Hallowe’en.
DICKON
Rare, my Psyche! We shall collaborate. Here!
[_Running up the ladder, he tosses down a yellow
hollowed pumpkin to Goody Rickby, who catches it.
Then rummaging forth an armful of cornstalks, ears,
tassels, dried squashes, gourds, beets, etc., he
descends and throws them in a heap on the floor._]
Whist! the anatomy.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Placing the pumpkin on the shoulders._]
Look!
DICKON
_O Johannes Baptista!_ What wouldst thou have given for
such a head! I helped Salome to cut his off, dame, and it
looked not half so appetizing on her charger. Tut! Copernicus
wore once such a pumpkin, but it is rotten. Look at his golden
smile! Hail, Phœbus Apollo!
GOODY RICKBY
’Tis the finest scarecrow in town.
DICKON
Nay, poor soul, ’tis but a skeleton yet. He must
have a man’s heart in him.
[_Picking a big red beet from among the cornstalks,
he places it under the left side of the ribs._]
Hush! Dost thou hear it _beat_?
GOODY RICKBY
Thou merry rogue!
DICKON
Now for the lungs of him.
[_Snatching a small pair of bellows from a peg on the wall._]
That’s for eloquence! He’ll preach the black knaves a sermon
on theft. And now—
[_Here, with Goody Rickby’s help, he stuffs the framework
with the gourds, corn, etc., from the loft, weaving the
husks about the legs and arms._]
here goes for digestion and inherited instincts! More corn,
Goody. Now he’ll fight for his own flesh and blood!
GOODY RICKBY
[_Laughing._]
Dickon, I am proud of thee.
DICKON
Wait till you see his peruke.
[_Seizing a feather duster made of crow’s feathers._]
_Voici!_ Scalps of the enemy!
[_Pulling them apart, he arranges the feathers on the
pumpkin, like a gentleman’s wig._]
A rare conqueror!
GOODY RICKBY
Oh, you beauty!
DICKON
And now a bit of comfort for dark days and stormy nights.
[_Taking a piece of corn-cob with the kernels on
it, Dickon makes a pipe, which he puts into the
scarecrow’s mouth._]
So! There, Goody! I tell thee, with yonder brand-new coat
and breeches of mine—those there in my cupboard!—we’ll make
him a lad to be proud of.
[_Taking the clothes, which Goody Rickby brings—a pair
of fine scarlet breeches and a gold-embroidered coat
with ruffles of lace—he puts them upon the scarecrow.
Then, eying it like a connoisseur, makes a few
finishing touches._]
Why, dame, he’ll be a son to thee.
GOODY RICKBY
A son? Ay, if I had but a son!
DICKON
Why, here you have him.
[_To the scarecrow._]
Thou wilt scare the crows off thy mother’s corn-field—
won’t my pretty? And send ’em all over t’other side the
wall—to her dear neighbour’s, the Justice Gilead Merton’s.
GOODY RICKBY
Justice Merton! Nay, if they’d only peck his eyes out,
instead of his corn.
DICKON
[_Grinning._]
Yet the Justice was a dear friend of “Blacksmith Bess.”
GOODY RICKBY
Ay, “Blacksmith Bess!” If I hadn’t had a good stout arm when
he cast me off with the babe, I might have starved for all his
worship cared.
DICKON
True, Bessie; ’twas a scurvy trick he played on thee—and on
me, that took such pains to bring you together—to steal a
young maid’s heart—
GOODY RICKBY
And then toss it away like a bad penny to the gutter! And
the child—to die!
[_Lifting her hammer in rage._]
Ha! if I could get the worshipful Justice Gilead into my
power again—
[_Drops the hammer sullenly on the anvil._]
But no! I shall beat my life away on this anvil, whilst my
justice clinks his gold, and drinks his port to a fat old age.
Justice! Ha—justice of God!
DICKON
Whist, dame! Talk of angels and hear the rustle of their
relatives.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Turning, watches outside a girl’s figure approaching._]
His niece—Rachel Merton! What can she want so early? Nay, I
mind me; ’tis the mirror. She’s a maid after our own hearts,
boy,—no Sabbath-go-to-meeting airs about _her_! She hath
read the books of the _magi_ from cover to cover, and
paid me good guineas for ’em, though her uncle knows naught
on’t. Besides, she’s in love, Dickon.
DICKON
[_Indicating the scarecrow._]
Ah? With _him_? Is it a rendezvous?
GOODY RICKBY
[_With a laugh._]
Pff! Begone!
DICKON
[_Shakes his finger at the scarecrow._]
Thou naughty rogue!
[_Then, still smiling slyly, with his head placed
confidentially next to the scarecrow’s ear, as if
whispering, and with his hand pointing to the maiden
outside, Dickon fades away into air._ RACHEL
_enters, nervous and hesitant. Goody Rickby makes her
a courtesy, which she acknowledges by a nod, half
absent-minded._]
GOODY RICKBY
Mistress Rachel Merton—so early! I hope your uncle, our
worshipful Justice, is not ill?
RACHEL
No, my uncle is quite well. The early morning suits me
best for a walk. You are—quite alone?
GOODY RICKBY
Quite alone, mistress. [_Bitterly._] Oh, folks don’t
call on Goody Rickby—except on business.
RACHEL
[_Absently, looking round in the dim shop._]
Yes—you must be busy. Is it—is it here?
GOODY RICKBY
You mean the—
RACHEL
[_Starting back, with a cry._]
Ah! who’s that?
GOODY RICKBY
[_Chuckling._]
Fear not, mistress; ’tis nothing but a scarecrow.
I’m going to put him in my corn-field yonder. The crows are
so pesky this year.
RACHEL
[_Draws her skirts away with a shiver._]
How loathsome!
GOODY RICKBY
[_Vastly pleased._]
He’ll do!
RACHEL
Ah, here!—This is _the_ mirror?
GOODY RICKBY
Yea, mistress, and a wonderful glass it is, as I told you.
I wouldn’t sell it to most comers, but seeing how you and
Master Talbot—
RACHEL
Yes; that will do.
GOODY RICKBY
You see, if the town folks guessed what it was, well—You’ve
heard tell of the gibbets on Salem hill? There’s not many in
New England like you, Mistress Rachel. You know enough to
approve some miracles—outside the Scriptures.
RACHEL
You are quite sure the glass will do all you say? It—never
fails?
GOODY RICKBY
Ay, now, mistress, how could it? ’Tis the glass of
truth—[_insinuatingly_] the glass of true lovers. It
shows folks just as they are; no shams, no varnish. If your
sweetheart be false, the glass will reveal it. If a wolf
should dress himself in a white sheep’s wool, this glass would
reflect the black beast inside it.
RACHEL
But what of the sins of the soul, Goody? Vanity, hypocrisy,
and—and inconstancy? Will it surely reveal them?
GOODY RICKBY
I have told you, my young lady. If it doth not as I say,
bring it back and get your money again. Trust me, sweeting,
’tis your only mouse-trap for a man. Why, an old dame hath
eyes in her heart yet. If your lover be false, this glass
shall pluck his fine feathers!
RACHEL
[_With aloofness_.]
’Tis no question of that. I wish the glass to—to amuse me.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Laughing_.]
Why, then, it shall amuse you. Try it on some of your
neighbours.
RACHEL
You ask a large price for it.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Shrugs._]
I run risks. Besides, where will you get another?
RACHEL
That is true. Here, I will buy it. That is the
sum you mentioned, I believe?
[_She hands a purse to Goody Rickby who opens it and
counts over some coins._]
GOODY RICKBY
Let see; let see.
RACHEL
Well?
GOODY RICKBY
Good: ’tis good. Folks call me a witch, mistress.
Well—harkee—a witch’s word is as good as a justice’s gold.
The glass is yours—with my blessing.
RACHEL
Spare yourself that, dame. But the glass: how am I to get
it? How will you send it to me—quietly?
GOODY RICKBY
Trust me for that. I’ve a willing lad that helps me with
such errands; a neighbour o’ mine.
[_Calls._]
Ebenezer!
RACHEL
[_Startled._]
What! is he here?
GOODY RICKBY
In the hay-loft. The boy’s an orphan; he sleeps there o’
times. Ebenezer!
[_A raw, dishevelled country boy appears in the loft,
slides down the ladder, and shuffles up sleepily._]
THE BOY
Evenin’.
RACHEL
[_Drawing Goody Rickby aside._]
You understand; I desire no comment about this purchase.
GOODY RICKBY
Nor I, mistress, be sure.
RACHEL
Is he—?
GOODY RICKBY
[_Tapping her forehead significantly._]
Trust his wits who hath no wit; he’s mum.
RACHEL
Oh!
THE BOY
[_Gaping._]
Job?
GOODY RICKBY
Yea, rumple-head! His job this morning is to bear yonder
glass to the house of Justice Merton—the big one on the hill;
to the side door. Mind, no gabbing. Doth he catch?
THE BOY
[_Nodding and grinning._]
’E swallows.
RACHEL
But is the boy strong enough?
GOODY RICKBY
Him?
[_Pointing to the anvil._]
Ebenezer!
[_The boy spits on his palms, takes hold of the anvil,
lifts it, drops it again, sits on it, and grins at
the door, just as Richard Talbot appears there, from
outside._]
RACHEL
Gracious!
GOODY RICKBY
Trust him. He’ll carry the glass for you.
RACHEL
I will return home at once, then. Let him go quietly to the
side door, and wait for me. Good morning.
[_Turning, she confronts Richard._]
RICHARD
Good morning.
RACHEL
Richard!—Squire Talbot, you—you are abroad early.
RICHARD
As early as Mistress Rachel. Is it pardonable?
I caught sight of you walking in this direction, so
I thought it wise to follow, lest—
[_Looks hard at Goody Rickby._]
RACHEL
Very kind. Thanks. I’ve done my errand.
Well; we can return together.
[_To Goody Rickby._]
You will make sure that I receive the—the article.
GOODY RICKBY
Trust me, mistress.
[_Courtesying._]
Squire Talbot! the honour, sir!
RICHARD
[_Bluntly, looking from one to the other._]
What article?
[_Rachel ignores the question and starts to pass out.
Richard frowns at Goody Rickby, who stammers._]
GOODY RICKBY
Begging your pardon, sir?
RICHARD
What article? I said.
[_After a short, embarrassed pause: more sternly._]
Well?
GOODY RICKBY
Oh, the article! Yonder old glass, to be sure, sir.
A quaint piece, your honour.
RICHARD
Rachel, you haven’t come here at sunrise to buy—that thing?
RACHEL
Verily, “that thing” and at sunrise. A pretty time for a
pretty purchase. Are you coming?
RICHARD
[_In a low voice._]
More witchcraft nonsense? Do you realize this is serious?
RACHEL
Oh, of course. You know I am desperately mystical,
so pray let us not discuss it. Good-by.
RICHARD
Rachel, just a moment. If you want a mirror, you
shall have the prettiest one in New England. Or I will
import you one from London. Only—I beg of you—don’t
buy stolen goods.
GOODY RICKBY
Stolen goods?
RACHEL
[_Aside to Richard._]
Don’t! don’t!
RICHARD
At least, articles under suspicion.
[_To Goody Rickby._]
Can you account for this mirror—how you came by it?
GOODY RICKBY
I’ll show ye! I’ll show ye! Stolen—ha!
RICHARD
Come, old swindler, keep your mirror, and give
this lady back her money.
GOODY RICKBY
I’ll damn ye both, I will!—Stolen!
RACHEL
[_Imploringly._]
Will you come?
RICHARD
Look you, old Rickby; this is not the first time. Charm all
the broomsticks in town, if you like; bewitch all the tables
and saucepans and mirrors you please; but gull no more money
out of young girls. Mind you! We’re not so enterprising in
this town as at Salem; but—_it may come to it_! So look
sharp! I’m not blind to what’s going on here.
GOODY RICKBY
Not blind, Master Puritan? Oho! You can see through all my
counterfeits, can ye? So! you would scrape all the wonder
out’n the world, as I’ve scraped all the meat out’n my
punkin-head yonder! Aha! wait and see! Afore sundown, I’ll
send ye a nut to crack, shall make your orthodox jaws ache.
Your servant, Master Deuteronomy!
RICHARD
[_To Rachel, who has seized his arm._]
We’ll go.
[_Exeunt Richard and Rachel._]
GOODY RICKBY
[_Calls shrilly after them._]
Trot away, pretty team; toss your heads. I’ll unhitch ye and
take off your blinders.
THE SLOUCHING BOY
[_Capering and grimacing in front of the mirror,
shrieks with laughter._]
Ohoho!
GOODY RICKBY
[_Returning, savagely._]
Yes, yes, my fine lover! I’ll pay thee for “stolen
goods”—I’ll pay thee.
[_Screams._]
Dickon! Stop laughing.
THE BOY
O Lord! O Lord!
GOODY RICKBY
What tickles thy mirth now?
THE BOY
For to think as the soul of an orphan innocent,
what lives in a hay-loft, should wear horns.
[_On looking into the mirror, the spectator perceives
therein that the reflection of the slouching boy is
the horned demon figure of Dickon, who performs the
same antics in pantomime within the glass as the boy
does without._]
GOODY RICKBY
Yea; ’tis a wise devil that knows his own face in the glass.
But hark now! Thou must find me a rival for this
cock-squire,—dost hear? A rival, that shall steal away the
heart of his Mistress Rachel.
DICKON
And take her to church?
GOODY RICKBY
To church or to Hell. All’s one.
DICKON
A rival!
[_Pointing at the glass._]
How would _he_ serve—in there? Dear Ebenezer! Fancy
the deacons in the vestry, Goody, and her uncle, the Justice,
when they saw him escorting the bride to the altar, with his
tail round her waist!
GOODY RICKBY
Tut, tut! Think it over in earnest, and meantime take her
the glass. Wait, we’d best fold it up small, so as not to
attract notice on the road.
[_Dickon, who has already drawn the curtains over the
glass, grasps one side of the large frame, Goody
Rickby the other._]
Now!
[_Pushing their shoulders against the two sides, the frame
disappears and Dickon holds in his hand a mirror about
a foot square, of the same design._]
So! Be off! And mind, a rival for Richard!
DICKON
For Richard a rival,
Dear Goody Rickby
Wants Dickon’s connival:
Lord! What can the trick be?
[_To the scarecrow._]
By-by, Sonny; take care of thy mother.
[_Dickon slouches out with the glass, whistling._]
GOODY RICKBY
Mother! Yea, if only I had a son—the Justice Merton’s and
mine! If the brat had but lived now to remind him of those
merry days, which he has forgotten. Zooks, wouldn’t I put a
spoke in his wheel! But no such luck for me! No such luck!
[_As she goes to the forge, the stout figure of a man
appears in the doorway behind her. Under one arm he
carries a large book, in the other hand a gold-headed
cane. He hesitates, embarrassed._]
THE MAN
Permit me, Madam.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Turning._]
Ah, him!—Justice Merton!
JUSTICE MERTON
[_Removing his hat, steps over the sill, and lays his
great book on the table; then with a supercilious
look, he puts his hat firmly on again._]
Permit me, dame.
GOODY RICKBY
You!
[_With confused, affected hauteur, the Justice shifts from
foot to foot, flourishing his cane. As he speaks,
Goody Rickby, with a shrewd, painful expression, draws
slowly backward toward the door left, which opens into
an inner room. Reaching it, she opens it part way,
stands facing him, and listens._]
JUSTICE MERTON
I have had the honour—permit me—to entertain suspicions;
to rise early, to follow my niece, to meet just now Squire
Talbot, an excellent young gentleman of wealth, if not of
fashion; to hear his remarks concerning—hem!—you, dame! to
call here—permit me—to express myself and inquire—
GOODY RICKBY
Concerning your waistcoat?
[_Turning quickly, she snatches an article of apparel
which hangs on the inner side of the door, and holds
it up._]
JUSTICE MERTON
[_Starting, crimson._]
Woman!
GOODY RICKBY
You left it behind—the last time.
JUSTICE MERTON
I have not the honour to remember—
GOODY RICKBY
The one I embroidered?
JUSTICE MERTON
’Tis a matter—
GOODY RICKBY
Of some two and twenty years.
[_Stretching out the narrow width of the waistcoat._]
Will you try it on now, dearie?
JUSTICE MERTON
Unconscionable! Un-un-unconscionable witch!
GOODY RICKBY
Witchling—thou used to say.
JUSTICE MERTON
Pah! pah! I forget myself. Pride, permit me, goeth before a
fall. As a magistrate, Rickby, I have already borne with you
long! The last straw, however, breaks the camel’s back.
GOODY RICKBY
Poor camel!
JUSTICE MERTON
You have soiled, you have smirched, the virgin reputation of
my niece. You have inveigled her into notions of witchcraft;
already the neighbours are beginning to talk. ’Tis a long lane
which hath no turning, saith the Lord. Permit me—as a witch,
thou art judged. Thou shalt hang.
A VOICE
[_Behind him._]
And me too?
JUSTICE MERTON
[_Turns about and stares._]
I beg pardon.
THE VOICE
[_In front of him._]
Not at all.
JUSTICE MERTON
Did—did somebody speak?
THE VOICE
Don’t you recognize my voice? _Still and small_, you know.
If you will kindly let me out, we can chat.
JUSTICE MERTON
[_Turning fiercely on Goody Rickby._]
These are thy sorceries. But I fear them not.
The righteous man walketh with God.
[_Going to the book which lies on the table._]
Satan, I ban thee! I will read from the Holy Scriptures!
[_Unclasping the Bible, he flings open the ponderous
covers.—Dickon steps forth in smoke._]
DICKON
Thanks; it was stuffy in there.
JUSTICE MERTON
[_Clasping his hands._]
Dickon!
DICKON
[_Moving a step nearer on the table._]
Hillo, Gilly! Hillo, Bess!
JUSTICE MERTON
Dickon! No! No!
DICKON
Do ye mind Auld Lang Syne—the chorus that night, Gilly?
[_Sings._]
Gil-ead, Gil-ead, Gil-ead Merton,
He was a silly head, silly head, Certain,
When he forgot to steal a bed-Curtain!
_Encore_, now!
JUSTICE MERTON
No, no, be merciful! I will not harm her; she shall not
hang: I swear, I swear it!
[_Dickon disappears._]
I swear—ah! Is he gone? Witchcraft! Witchcraft! I have
witnessed it. ’Tis proved on thee, slut. I swear it: thou
shalt hang.
[_Exit wildly._]
GOODY RICKBY
Ay, Gilead! I shall hang _on_! Ahaha! Dickon, thou
angel! Ah, Satan! Satan! For a son now!
DICKON
[_Reappearing._]
_Videlicet_, in law—a bastard. _N’est ce pas?_
GOODY RICKBY
Yea, in law and in justice, I should-a had one now. Worse
luck that he died.
DICKON
One and twenty years ago?
[_Goody Rickby nods._]
Good; he should be of age now. One and twenty—a pretty age,
too, for a rival. Haha!—For arrival?—Marry, he shall arrive,
then; arrive and marry and inherit his patrimony—all on his
birthday! Come, to work!
GOODY RICKBY
What rant is this?
DICKON
Yet, Dickon, it pains me to perform such an anachronism. All
this Mediævalism in Massachusetts!—These old-fashioned flames
and alchemic accompaniments, when I’ve tried so hard to be a
native American product; it jars. But _che vuole_! I’m
naturally middle-aged. I haven’t been really myself, let me
think,—since 1492!
GOODY RICKBY
What art thou mooning about?
DICKON
[_Still impenetrable._]
There was my old friend in Germany, Dr. Johann Faustus; he
was nigh such a bag of old rubbish when I made him over. Ain’t
it trite! No, you can’t teach an old dog like me new tricks.
Still, a scarecrow! that’s decidedly local color. Come then; a
Yankee masterpiece!
[_Seizing Goody Rickby by the arm, and placing her before
the scarecrow, he makes a bow and wave of introduction._]
Behold, madam, your son—illegitimate; the future affianced
of Mistress Rachel Merton, the heir-elect, through matrimony,
of Merton House,—Gilead Merton second; Lord Ravensbane! Your
lordship—your mother.
GOODY RICKBY
Dickon! Can you do it?
DICKON
I can—try.
GOODY RICKBY
You will create him for me?—
[_Wickedly._]
and for Gilead!
DICKON
I will—for a kiss.
GOODY RICKBY
[_About to embrace him._]
Dickon!
DICKON
[_Dodging her._]
Later. Now, the waistcoat.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Handing it._]
Rare! rare! He shall go wooing in’t—like his father.
DICKON
[_Shifting the scarecrow’s gold-trimmed coat, slips on the
embroidered waistcoat and replaces the coat._]
Stand still, Jack! So, my macaroni. _Perfecto!_
Stay—a walking-stick!
GOODY RICKBY
[_Wrenching a spoke out of an old rickety wheel._]
Here: the spoke for Gilead. He used to take me to drive in
the chaise it came out of.
DICKON
[_Placing the spoke as a cane, in the scarecrow’s sleeve,
views him with satisfaction._]
_Sic!_ There, Jacky! _Filius fit non nascitur._—Sam
Hill! My Latin is stale. “In the beginning, was the—gourd!”
Of these thy modest ingredients may thy spirit smack!
[_Making various mystic passes with his hands, Dickon
intones, now deep and solemn, now with fanciful shrill
rapidity, this incantation_:]
Flail, flip;
Broom, sweep;
_Sic itur!_
Cornstalk
And turnip, talk!
Turn crittur!
Pulse, beet;
Gourd, eat;
_Ave_ Hellas!
Poker and punkin,
Stir the old junk in:
Breathe, bellows!
Corn-cob,
And crow’s feather,
End the job:
Jumble the rest o’ the rubbish together;
Dovetail and tune ’em.
_E pluribus unum!_
[_The scarecrow remains stock still._]
The devil! Have I lost the hang of it? Ah! Hullo! He’s
dropped his pipe. What’s a dandy without his ’baccy!
[_Restoring the corn-cob pipe to the scarecrow’s mouth._]
’Tis the life and breath of him. So; hand me yon hazel
switch, Goody.
[_Waving it._]
Presto!
Brighten, coal,
I’ the dusk between us!
Whiten, soul!
_Propinquit Venus!_
[_A whiff of smoke puffs from the scarecrow’s pipe._]
_Sic! Sic! Jacobus!_
[_Another whiff._]
Bravo!
[_The whiffs grow more rapid and the thing trembles._]
GOODY RICKBY
Puff! puff, manny, for thy life!
DICKON
_Fiat, fœtus!_—Huzza! _Noch einmal!_ Go it!
[_Clouds of smoke issue from the pipe, half fill the shop,
and envelop the creature, who staggers._][A]
GOODY RICKBY
See! See his eyes!
DICKON
[_Beckoning with one finger._]
_Veni, fili! Veni!_ Take ’ee first step, _bambino_!—
Toddle!
[_The Scarecrow makes a stiff lurch forward and falls
sidewise against the anvil, propped half-reclining
against which he leans rigid, emitting fainter puffs
of smoke in gasps._]
GOODY RICKBY
[_Screams._]
Have a care! He’s fallen.
DICKON
Well done, Punkin Jack! Thou shalt be knighted for that!
[_Striking him on the shoulder with the hazel rod._]
Rise, Lord Ravensbane!
[_The Scarecrow totters to his feet, and
makes a forlorn rectilinear salutation._]
GOODY RICKBY
Look! He bows.—He flaps his flails at thee. He smiles like
a tik-doo-loo-roo!
DICKON
[_With a profound reverence, backing away._]
Will his lordship deign to follow his tutor?
[_With hitches and jerks, the Scarecrow follows Dickon._]
GOODY RICKBY
O Lord! Lord! the style o’ the broomstick!
DICKON
[_Holding ready a high-backed chair._]
Will his lordship be seated and rest himself?
[_Awkwardly the Scarecrow half falls into the chair; his
head sinks sideways, and his pipe falls out. Dickon
snatches it up instantly and restores it to his
mouth._]
Puff! Puff, _puer_; ’tis thy life.
[_The Scarecrow puffs again._]
Is his lordship’s tobacco refreshing?
GOODY RICKBY
Look now! The red colour in his cheeks. The beet-juice is
pumping, oho!
DICKON
[_Offering his arm._]
Your lordship will deign to receive an audience?
[_The Scarecrow takes his arm and rises._]
The Marchioness of Rickby, your lady mother, entreats leave
to present herself.
GOODY RICKBY
[_Courtesying low._]
My son!
DICKON
[_Holding the pipe, and waving the hazel rod._]
_Dicite!_ Speak!
[_The Scarecrow, blowing out his last mouthful of smoke,
opens his mouth, gasps, gurgles, and is silent._]
_In principio erat verbum!_ Accost thy mother!
[_The Scarecrow, clutching at his side in a struggle
for coherence, fixes a pathetic look of pain on
Goody Rickby._]
THE SCARECROW
Mother!
GOODY RICKBY
[_With a scream of hysterical laughter, seizes both
Dickon’s hands and dances him about the forge._]
O Beelzebub! I shall die!
DICKON
Thou hast thy son.
[_Dickon whispers in the Scarecrow’s ear, shakes his
finger, and exit._]
GOODY RICKBY
He called me “mother.” Again, boy, again.
THE SCARECROW
From the bottom of my heart—mother.
GOODY RICKBY
“The bottom of his heart”—Nay, thou killest me.
THE SCARECROW
Permit me, madam!
GOODY RICKBY
Gilead! Gilead himself! Waistcoat, “permit me,” and all: thy
father over again, I tell thee.
THE SCARECROW
[_With a slight stammer._]
It gives me—I assure you—lady—the deepest happiness.
GOODY RICKBY
Just so the old hypocrite spoke when I said I’d have him.
But thou hast a sweeter deference, my son.
[_Re-enter Dickon; he is dressed all in black, save for a
white stock,—a suit of plain elegance._]
DICKON
Now, my lord, your tutor is ready.
THE SCARECROW
[_To Goody Rickby._]
I have the honour—permit me—to wish you—good morning.
[_Bows and takes a step after Dickon, who, taking a
three-cornered cocked hat from a peg, goes toward
the door._]
GOODY RICKBY
Whoa! Whoa, Jack! Whither away?
DICKON
[_Presenting the hat._]
Deign to reply, sir.
THE SCARECROW
I go—with my tutor—Master Dickonson—to pay my
respects—to his worship—the Justice—Merton—to
solicit—the hand—of his daughter—the fair
Mistress—Rachel.
[_With another bow._]
Permit me.
GOODY RICKBY
Permit ye? God speed ye! Thou must teach him his tricks,
Dickon.
DICKON
Trust me, Goody. Between here and Justice Merton’s, I will
play the mother-hen, and I promise thee, our bantling shall be
as stuffed with compliments as a callow chick with
caterpillars.
[_As he throws open the big doors, the cawing of crows
is heard again._]
Hark! your lordship’s retainers acclaim you on your
birthday. They bid you welcome to your majority. Listen!
“Long live Lord Ravensbane! Caw!”
GOODY RICKBY
Look! Count ’em, Dickon.
One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a wedding,
Four for a birth—
Four on ’em! So! Good luck on thy birthday!
And see! There’s three on ’em flying into the
Justice’s field.
—Flight o’ the crows
Tells how the wind blows!—
A wedding! Get ye gone. Wed the girl, and sting
the Justice. Bless ye, my son!
THE SCARECROW
[_With a profound reverence._]
Mother—believe me—to be—your ladyship’s—
most devoted—and obedient—son.
DICKON
[_Prompting him aloud._]
Ravensbane.
THE SCARECROW
[_Donning his hat, lifts his head in hauteur, shakes his
lace ruffle over his hand, turns his shoulder, nods
slightly, and speaks for the first time with complete
mastery of his voice._]
Hm! Ravensbane!
[_With one hand in the arm of Dickon, the other twirling
his cane (the converted chaise-spoke), wreathed in
halos of smoke from his pipe, the fantastical figure
hitches elegantly forth into the daylight, amid louder
acclamations of the crows._]
[A] Here the living actor, through a trap, concealed by the smoke,
will substitute himself for the elegantly clad effigy. His make-up, of
course, will approximate to the latter, but the grotesque contours of
his expression gradually, throughout the remainder of the act, become
refined and sublimated till, at the _finale_, they are of a lordly and
distinguished caste.