(_Checking herself._)
KNAVE. And yet I think I remember hearing of an emperor, a great
emperor, named Pompey.
POMPDEBILE. We know him not. Begin at once; the people are
clamoring at the gates. Bring the ingredients.
(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _open the door, and, single file, six little
boys march in, bearing large jars labeled butter, salt, flour,
pepper, cinnamon, and milk. The_ COOKS _place a table and a large
bowl and a pan in front of the_ LADY VIOLETTA _and give her a
spoon. The six little boys stand three on each side._)
VIOLETTA. Oh, what darling little ingredients. May I have an
apron, please?
(URSULA _puts a silk apron, embroidered with red hearts, on the_
LADY VIOLETTA.)
BLUE HOSE. We were unable to find a little boy to carry the
pepper, My Lady. They all _would_ sneeze in such a disturbing
way.
VIOLETTA. This is a perfectly controlled little boy. He hasn't
sneezed once.
YELLOW HOSE. That, if it please Your Ladyship, is not a little
boy.
VIOLETTA. Oh! How nice! Perhaps she will help me.
CHANCELLOR (_severely_). You are allowed no help, Lady Violetta.
VIOLETTA. Oh, Chancellor, how cruel of you. (_She takes up the
spoon, bowing._) Your Majesty, Lords and Ladies of the court, I
propose to make (_impressively_) raspberry tarts.
BLUE HOSE. Heaven be kind to us!
YELLOW HOSE (_suddenly agitated_). Your Majesty, I implore your
forgiveness. There is no raspberry jam in the palace.
POMPDEBILE What! Who is responsible for this carelessness?
BLUE HOSE. I gave the order to the grocer, but it didn't come.
(_Aside_) I knew something like this would happen. I knew it.
VIOLETTA (_untying her apron_). Then, Pompdebile, I'm very
sorry--we shall have to postpone it.
CHANCELLOR. If I may be allowed to suggest, Lady Violetta can
prepare something else.
KNAVE. The law distinctly says that the Queen-elect has the
privilege of choosing the dish which she prefers to prepare.
VIOLETTA. Dear Pompdebile, let's give it up. It's such a silly
law! Why should a great splendid ruler like you follow it just
because one of your ancestors, who wasn't half as nice as you
are, or one bit wiser, said to do it? Dearest Pompdebile, please.
POMPDEBILE. We are inclined to think that there may be something
in what the Lady Violetta says.
CHANCELLOR. I can no longer remain silent. It is due to that
brilliant law of Pompdebile the First, justly called the Great,
that all members of our male sex are well fed, and, as a natural
consequence, happy.
KNAVE. The happiness of a set of moles who never knew the
sunlight.
POMPDEBILE. If we made an effort, we could think of a new
law--just as wise. It only requires effort.
CHANCELLOR. But the constitution. We can't touch the
constitution.
POMPDEBILE (_starting up_). We shall destroy the constitution!
CHANCELLOR. The people are clamoring at the gates!
POMPDEBILE. Oh, I forgot them. No, it has been carried too far.
We shall have to go on. Proceed.
VIOLETTA. Without the raspberry jam?
POMPDEBILE (_to_ KNAVE). Go you, and procure some. I will give a
hundred golden guineas for it.
(_The little boy who holds the cinnamon pot comes forward._)
BOY. Please, Your Majesty, I have some.
POMPDEBILE. You! Where?
BOY. In my pocket. If someone would please hold my cinnamon
jar--I could get it.
(UBSULA _takes it. The boy struggles with his pocket and finally,
triumphantly, pulls out a small jar._)
There!
VIOLETTA. How clever of you! Do you always do that?
BOY. What--eat raspberry jam?
VIOLETTA. No, supply the exact article needed from your pocket.
BOY. I eat it for my lunch. Please give me the hundred guineas.
VIOLETTA. Oh, yes--Chancellor--if I may trouble you.
(_Holding out her hand._)
CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, this is an outrage! Are you going to
allow this?
POMPDEBILE (_sadly_). Yes, Chancellor. We have such an impulsive
nature!
(_The_ LADY VIOLETTA _receives the money._)
VIOLETTA. Thank you. (_She gives it to the boy._) Now we are ready
to begin. Milk, please. (_The boy who holds the milk jar comes
forward and kneels._) I take some of this milk and beat it well.
YELLOW HOSE (_in a whisper_). _Beat_ it--milk!
VIOLETTA. Then I put in two tablespoonfuls of salt, taking great
care that it falls exactly in the middle of the bowl. (_To the
little boy_) Thank you, dear. Now the flour, no, the pepper, and
then--one pound of butter. I hope that it is good butter, or the
whole thing will be quite spoiled.
BLUE HOSE. This is the most astonishing thing I have ever
witnessed.
YELLOW HOSE. I don't understand it.
VIOLETTA (_stirring_). I find that the butter is _not_ very
good. It makes a great difference. I shall have to use more
pepper to counteract it. That's better. (_She pours in pepper. The
boy with the pepper pot sneezes violently._) Oh, oh, dear! Lend
him your handkerchief, Chancellor. Knave, will you? (YELLOW HOSE
_silences the boy's sneezes with the_ KNAVE'S _handkerchief._) I
think that they are going to turn out very well. Aren't you glad,
Chancellor? You shall have one if you will be glad and smile
nicely--a little brown tart with raspberry jam in the middle. Now
for a dash of vinegar.
COOKS (_in horror_). Vinegar! Great Goslings! Vinegar!
VIOLETTA (_stops stirring_). Vinegar will make them crumbly. Do you
like them crumbly, Pompdebile, darling? They are really for you,
you know, since I am trying, by this example, to show all the
wives how to please all the husbands.
POMPDEBILE. Remember that they are to go in the museum with the
tests of the previous Queens.
VIOLETTA (_thoughtfully_). Oh, yes, I had forgotten that. Under the
circumstances, I shall omit the vinegar. We don't want them too
crumbly. They would fall about and catch the dust so frightfully.
The museum-keeper would never forgive me in years to come. Now I
dip them by the spoonful on this pan; fill them with the nice
little boy's raspberry jam--I'm sorry I have to use it all, but
you may lick the spoon--put them in the oven, slam the door. Now,
my Lord Pompy, the fire will do the rest.
(_She curtsies before the_ KING.)
POMPDEBILE. It gave us great pleasure to see the ease with which
you performed your task. You must have been practising for weeks.
This relieves, somewhat, the anxiety under which we have been
suffering and makes us think that we would enjoy a game of
checkers once more. How long a time will it take for your
creation to be thoroughly done, so that it may be tested?
VIOLETTA (_considering_). About twenty minutes, Pompy.
POMPDEBILE (_to_ HERALD). Inform the people. Come, we will retire.
(_To_ KNAVE) Let no one enter until the Lady Violetta commands.
(_All exit, left, except the_ KNAVE. _He stands in deep thought, his
chin in hand--then exits slowly, right. The room is empty. The
cuckoo clock strikes. Presently both right and left doors open
stealthily. Enter_ LADY VIOLETTA _at one door, the_ KNAVE _at the
other, backward, looking down the passage. They turn suddenly and
see each other._)
VIOLETTA (_tearfully_). O Knave, I can't cook! Anything--anything
at all, not even a baked potato.
KNAVE. So I rather concluded, My Lady, a few minutes ago.
VIOLETTA (_pleadingly_). Don't you think it might just happen that
they turned out all right? (_Whispering_) Take them out of the
oven. Let's look.
KNAVE. That's what I intended to do before you came in. It's
possible that a miracle has occurred.
(_He tries the door of the oven._)
VIOLETTA. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my handkerchief.
KNAVE. The gods forbid, My Lady.
(_He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings out
the pan, which he puts on the table softly._)
VIOLETTA (_with a look of horror_) How queer! They've melted or
something. See, they are quite soft and runny. Do you think that
they will be good for anything, Knave?
KNAVE. For paste, My Lady, perhaps.
VIOLETTA. Oh, dear. Isn't it dreadful!
KNAVE. It is.
VIOLETTA (_beginning to cry_). I don't want to be banished,
especially on a mule--
KNAVE. Don't cry, My Lady. It's very--upsetting.
VIOLETTA. I would make a delightful queen. The fêtes that I would
give--under the starlight, with soft music stealing from the
shadows, fêtes all perfume and deep mystery, where the young--like
you and me, Knave--would find the glowing flowers of youth ready
to be gathered in all their dewy freshness!
KNAVE. Ah!
VIOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouldn't I make a pretty
picture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with flowers,
followed by the cheers of the populace--Long live Queen Violetta,
long live Queen Violetta! Those _abominable_ tarts!
KNAVE. I'm afraid that Her Ladyship is vain.
VIOLETTA. I am indeed. Isn't it fortunate?
KNAVE. Fortunate?
VIOLETTA. Well, I mean it would be fortunate if I were going to
be queen. They get so much flattery. The queens who don't adore
it as I do must be bored to death. Poor things! I'm never so
happy as when I am being flattered. It makes me feel all warm and
purry. That is another reason why I feel sure I was _made_
to be a queen.
KNAVE (_looking ruefully at the pan_). You will never be queen, My
Lady, unless we can think of something quickly, some plan--
VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, dear Knave, please think of a plan at once.
Banished people, I suppose, have to comb their own hair, put on
their shoes, and button themselves up the back. I have never
performed these estimable and worthy tasks, Knave. I don't know
how; I don't even know how to scent my bath. I haven't the least
idea what makes it smell deliciously of violets. I only know that
it always _does_ smell deliciously of violets because I wish
it that way. I should be miserable; save me, Knave, please.
KNAVE. My mind is unhappily a blank, Your Majesty.
VIOLETTA. It's very unjust. Indeed, it's unjust! No other queen
in the world has to understand cooking; even the Queen of Spades
doesn't. Why should the Queen of Hearts, of all people!
KNAVE. Perhaps it is because--I have heard a proverb: "The way to
the heart is through the--"
VIOLETTA (_angrily, stamping her foot_). Don't repeat that hateful
proverb! Nothing can make me more angry. I feel like crying when
I hear it, too. Now see, I'm crying. You made me.
KNAVE. Why does that proverb make you cry, My Lady?
VIOLETTA. Oh, because it is such a stupid proverb and so silly,
because it's true in most cases, and because--I don't know why.
KNAVE. We are a set of moles here. One might also say that we are
a set of mules. How can moles or mules either be expected to
understand the point of view of a Bird of Paradise when she--
VIOLETTA. Bird of Paradise! Do you mean me?
KNAVE (_bowing_). I do, My Lady, figuratively speaking.
VIOLETTA (_drying her eyes_). How very pretty of you! Do you know,
I think that you would make a splendid chancellor.
KNAVE. Her Ladyship is vain, as I remarked before.
VIOLETTA (_coldly_). As I remarked before, how fortunate. Have you
anything to suggest--a plan?
KNAVE. If only there were time my wife could teach you. Her
figure is squat, round, her nose is clumsy, and her eyes stumble
over it; but her cooking, ah--(_He blows a kiss_) it is a thing to
dream about. She cooks as naturally as the angels sing. The
delicate flavors of her concoctions float over the palate like
the perfumes of a thousand flowers. True, her temper, it is
anything but sweet--However, I am conceded by many to be the most
happily married man in the kingdom.
VIOLETTA (_sadly_). Yes. That's all they care about here. One may
be, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every other way, but if
one can't cook nobody loves one at all.
KNAVE. Beasts! My higher nature cries out at them for holding
such views. Fools! Swine! But my lower nature whispers that
perhaps after all they are not far from right, and as my lower
nature is the only one that ever gets any encouragement--
VIOLETTA. Then you think that there is nothing to be done--I
shall have to be banished?
KNAVE. I'm afraid--Wait, I have an idea! (_Excitedly_) Dulcinea, my
wife--her name is Dulcinea--made known to me this morning, very
forcibly--Yes, I remember, I'm sure--Yes, she was going to bake
this very morning some raspberry tarts--a dish in which she
particularly excels--If I could only procure some of them and
bring them here!
VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, dearest, sweetest Knave, could you, I mean,
would you? Is there time? The court will return.
(_They tiptoe to the door and listen stealthily._)
KNAVE. I shall run as fast as I can. Don't let anyone come in
until I get back, if you can help it.
(_He jumps on the table, ready to go out the window._)
VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, how clever of you to think of it. It is the
custom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen at her
coronation. I shall ask that you be made Chancellor.
KNAVE (_turning back_). Oh, please don't, My Lady, I implore you.
VIOLETTA. Why not?
KNAVE. It would give me social position, My Lady, and that I
would rather die than possess. Oh, how we argue about that, my
wife and I! Dulcinea wishes to climb, and the higher she climbs,
the less she cooks. Should you have me made Chancellor, she would
never wield a spoon again.
VIOLETTA (_pursing her lips_). But it doesn't seem fair, exactly.
Think of how much I shall be indebted to her. If she enjoys
social position, I might as well give her some. We have lots and
lots of it lying around.
KNAVE. She wouldn't, My Lady, she wouldn't enjoy it. Dulcinea is
a true genius, you understand, and the happiness of a genius lies
solely in using his gift. If she didn't cook she would be
miserable, although she might not be aware of it, I'm perfectly
sure.
VIOLETTA. Then I shall take all social position away from you.
You shall rank below the scullery maids. Do you like that better?
Hurry, please.
KNAVE. Thank you, My Lady; it will suit me perfectly.
(_He goes out with the tarts._ VIOLETTA _listens anxiously for a
minute; then she takes her skirt between the tips of her fingers
and practises in pantomime her anticipated ride on the palfrey.
She bows, smiles, kisses her hand, until suddenly she remembers
the mule standing outside the gates of the palace. That thought
saddens her, so she curls up in_ POMPDEBILE'S _throne and cries
softly, wiping away her tears with a lace handkerchief. There is
a knock. She flies to the door and holds it shut._)
VIOLETTA (_breathlessly_). Who is there?
CHANCELLOR. It is I, Lady Violetta. The King wishes to return.
VIOLETTA (_alarmed_). Return! Does he? But the tarts are not done.
They are not done at all!
CHANCELLOR. You said they would be ready in twenty minutes. His
Majesty is impatient.
VIOLETTA. Did you play a game of checkers with him, Chancellor?
CHANCELLOR. Yes.
VIOLETTA. And did you beat him?
CHANCELLOR (_shortly_). I did not.
VIOLETTA (_laughing_). How sweet of you! Would you mind doing it
again just for me? Or would it be too great a strain on you to
keep from beating him twice in succession?
CHANCELLOR. I shall tell the King that you refuse admission.
(VIOLETTA _runs to the window to see if the_ KNAVE _is in sight. The_
CHANCELLOR _returns and knocks._)
CHANCELLOR. The King wishes to come in.
VIOLETTA. But the checkers!
CHANCELLOR. The Knights of the Checker Board have taken them
away.
VIOLETTA. But the tarts aren't done, really.
CHANCELLOR. You said twenty minutes.
VIOLETTA. No, I didn't--at least, I said twenty minutes for them
to get good and warm and another twenty minutes for them to
become brown. That makes forty--don't you remember?
CHANCELLOR. I shall carry your message to His Majesty.
(VIOLETTA _again runs to the window and peers anxiously up the
road._)
CHANCELLOR (_knocking loudly_). The King commands you to open the
door.
VIOLETTA. Commands! Tell him--Is he there--with you?
CHANCELLOR. His Majesty is at the door.
VIOLETTA. Pompy, I think you are rude, very rude indeed. I don't
see how you can be so rude--to command me, your own Violetta who
loves you so. (_She again looks in vain for the_ KNAVE.) Oh, dear!
(_Wringing her hands_) Where can he be!
POMPDEBILE (_outside_). This is nonsense. Don't you see how worried
we are? It is a compliment to you--
VIOLETTA. Well, come in; I don't care--only I'm sure they are not
finished.
(_She opens the door for the_ KING, the CHANCELLOR, _and the two_
PASTRY COOKS. _The_ KING _walks to his throne. He finds_ LADY
VIOLETTA'S _lace handkerchief on it._)
POMPDEBILE (_holding up handkerchief_). What is this?
VIOLETTA. Oh, that's my handkerchief.
POMPDEBILE. It is very damp. Can it be that you are anxious, that
you are afraid?
VIOLETTA. How silly, Pompy. I washed my hands, as one always does
after cooking; (_to the_ PASTRY COOKS) doesn't one? But there was
no towel, so I used my handkerchief instead of my petticoat,
which is made of chiffon and is very perishable.
CHANCELLOR. Is the Lady Violetta ready to produce her work?
VIOLETTA. I don't understand what you mean by work, Chancellor.
Oh, the tarts! (_Nervously_) They were quite simple--quite simple
to make--no work at all--A little imagination is all one needs
for such things, just imagination. You agree with me, don't you,
Pompy, that imagination will work wonders--will do almost
anything, in fact? I remember--
POMPDEBILE. The Pastry Cooks will remove the tarts from the oven.
VIOLETTA. Oh, _no_, Pompy! They are not finished or cooked,
or whatever one calls it. They are not. The last five minutes is
of the greatest importance. Please don't let them touch them!
_Please_--
POMPDEBILE. There, there, my dear Violetta, calm yourself. If you
wish, they will put them back again. There can be no harm in
looking at them. Come, I will hold your hand.
VIOLETTA. That will help a great deal, Pompy, your holding my
hand.
(_She scrambles up on the throne beside the_ KING.)
CHANCELLOR (_in horror_). On the throne, Your Majesty?
POMPDEBILE. Of course not, Chancellor. We regret that you are not
yet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear. In a little while--
VIOLETTA (_coming down_). Oh, I see. May I sit here, Chancellor, in
this seemingly humble position at his feet? Of course, I can't
_really_ be humble when he is holding my hand and enjoying
it so much.
POMPDEBILE. Violetta! (_To the_ PASTRY COOKS) Sample the tarts.
This suspense is unbearable!
(_The_ KING'S _voice is husky with excitement. The two_ PASTRY COOKS,
_after bowing with great ceremony to the_ KING, _to each other, to
the_ CHANCELLOR--_for this is the most important moment of their
lives by far--walk to the oven door and open it, impressively.
They fall back in astonishment so great that they lose their
balance, but they quickly scramble to their feet again_).
YELLOW HOSE. Your Majesty, there are no tarts there!
BLUE HOSE. Your Majesty, the tarts have gone!
VIOLETTA (_clasping her hands_). Gone! Oh, where could they have
gone?
POMPDEBILB (_coming down from throne_). That is impossible.
PASTRY COOKS (_greatly excited_). You see, you see, the oven is
empty as a drum.
POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). Did you go out of this room?
VIOLETTA (_wailing_). Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to powder my
nose before the mirror in the pantry. (_To_ PASTRY COOKS) When one
cooks one becomes so disheveled, doesn't one? But if I had
thought for one little minute--
POMPDEBILE (_interrupting_). The tarts have been stolen!
VIOLETTA (_with a shriek, throwing herself on a chair_). Stolen!
Oh, I shall faint; help me. Oh, oh, to think that any one would
take my delicious little, my dear little tarts. My salts. Oh! Oh!
(PASTRY COOKS _run to the door and call._)
YELLOW HOSE. Salts! Bring the Lady Violetta's salts.
BLUE HOSE. The Lady Violetta has fainted!
(URSULA _enters hurriedly bearing a smelling-bottle._)
URSULA. Here, here--What has happened? Oh, My Lady, my sweet
mistress!
POMPDEBILE. Some wretch has stolen the tarts.
(LADY VIOLETTA _moans._)
URSULA. Bring some water. I will take off her headdress and bathe
her forehead.
VIOLETTA (_sitting up_). I feel better now. Where am I? What is the
matter? I remember. Oh, my poor tarts!
(_She buries her face in her hands._)
CHANCELLOR (_suspiciously_). Your Majesty, this is very strange.
URSULA (_excitedly_). I know, Your Majesty. It was the Knave. One
of the Queen's women, who was walking in the garden, saw the
Knave jump out of this window with a tray in his hand. It was the
Knave.
VIOLETTA. Oh, I don't think it was he. I don't, really.
POMPDEBILE. The scoundrel. Of course it was he. We shall banish
him for this or have him _beheaded._
CHANCELLOR. It should have been done long ago, Your Majesty.
POMPDEBILE. You are right.
CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty will never listen to me.
POMPDEBILE. We _do_ listen to you. Be quiet.
VIOLETTA. What are you going to do, Pompy, dear?
POMPDEBILE. Herald, issue a proclamation at once. Let it be known
all over the Kingdom that I desire that the Knave be brought here
dead or alive. Send the royal detectives and policemen in every
direction.
CHANCELLOR. Excellent; just what I should have advised had Your
Majesty listened to me.
POMPDEBILE (_in a rage_). Be quiet. (_Exit_ HERALD.) I never have a
brilliant thought but you claim it. It is insufferable!
(_The_ HERALDS _can be heard in the distance._)
CHANCELLOR. I resign.
POMPDEBILE. Good. We accept your thirty-eighth resignation at
once.
CHANCELLOR. You did me the honor to appoint me as your
Chancellor, Your Majesty, yet never, never do you give me an
opportunity to chancel. That is my only grievance. You must
admit, Your Majesty, that as your advisers advise you, as your
dressers dress you, as your hunters hunt, as your bakers bake,
your Chancellor should be allowed to chancel. However, I will be
just--as I have been with you so long; before I leave you, I will
give you a month's notice.
POMPDEBILE. That isn't necessary.
CHANCELLOR (_referring to the constitution hanging at his belt_).
It's in the constitution.
POMPDEBILE. Be quiet.
VIOLETTA. Well, I think as things have turned out so--so
unfortunately, I shall change my gown. (_To_ URSULA) Put out my
cloth of silver with the moonstones. It is always a relief to
change one's gown. May I have my handkerchief, Pompy? Rather a
pretty one, isn't it, Pompy? Of course you don't object to my
calling you Pompy now. When I'm in trouble it's a comfort, like
holding your hand.
POMPDEBILE (_magnanimously_). You may hold our hand too, Violetta.
VIOLETTA (_fervently_). Oh, how good you are, how sympathetic! But
you see it's impossible just now, as I have to change my
gown--unless you will come with me while I change.
CHANCELLOR (_in a voice charged with inexpressible horror_). Your
Majesty!
POMPDEBILE. Be quiet! You have been discharged! (_He starts to
descend, when a_ HERALD _bursts through the door in a state of
great excitement. He kneels before_ POMPDEBILE.)
HERALD. We have found him; we have found him, Your Majesty. In
fact,_I_ found him all by myself! He was sitting under the
shrubbery eating a tart. I stumbled over one of his legs and
fell. "How easy it is to send man and all his pride into the
dust," he said, and then--I saw him!
POMPDEBILE. Eating a tart! Eating a tart, did you say? The
scoundrel! Bring him here immediately.
(_The_ HERALD _rushes out and returns with the_ KNAVE, _followed
by the six little_ PAGES. _The_ KNAVE _carries a tray of tarts in
his hand._)
POMPDEBILE (_almost speechless with rage_). How dare
you--you--you--
KNAVE (_bowing_). Knave, Your Majesty.
POMPDEBILE. You Knave, you shall be punished for this.
CHANCELLOR. Behead him, Your Majesty.
POMPDEBILE. Yes, behead him at once.
VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy, not that! It is not severe enough.
POMPDEBILE. Not severe enough, to cut off a man's head! Really,
Violetta--
VIOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been beheaded, one's
consciousness that one has been beheaded comes off too. It is
inevitable. And then, what does it matter, when one doesn't know?
Let us think of something really cruel--really fiendish. I have
it--deprive him of social position for the rest of his life--force
him to remain a mere knave, forever.
POMPDEBILE. You are right.
KNAVE. Terrible as this punishment is, I admit that I deserve it,
Your Majesty.
POMPDEBILE. What prompted you to commit this dastardly crime?
KNAVE. All my life I have had a craving for tarts of any kind.
There is something in my nature that demands tarts--something in
my constitution that cries out for them--and I obey my
constitution as rigidly as does the Chancellor seek to obey his.
I was in the garden reading, as is my habit, when a delicate odor
floated to my nostrils, a persuasive odor, a seductive, light
brown, flaky odor, an odor so enticing, so suggestive of tarts
fit for the gods--- that I could stand it no longer. It was
stronger than I. With one gesture I threw reputation, my chances
for future happiness, to the winds, and leaped through the
window. The odor led me to the oven; I seized a tart, and, eating
it, experienced the one perfect moment of my existence. After
having eaten that one tart, my craving for other tarts has
disappeared. I shall live with the memory of that first tart
before me forever, or die content, having tasted true perfection.
POMPDEBILE. M-m-m, how extraordinary! Let him be beaten fifteen
strokes on the back. Now, Pastry Cooks to the Royal Household, we
await your decision!
(_The_ COOKS _bow as before; then each selects a tart from the
tray on the table, lifts it high, then puts it in his mouth. An
expression of absolute ecstasy and beatitude comes over their
faces. They clasp hands, then fall on each other's necks,
weeping._)
POMPDEBILE (_impatiently_). What on earth is the matter?
YELLOW HOSE. Excuse our emotion. It is because we have at last
encountered a true genius, a great master, or rather mistress, of
our art.
(_They bow to_ VIOLETTA.)
POMPDEBILE. They are good, then?
BLUE HOSE (_his eyes to heaven_). Good! They are angelic!
POMPDEBILE. Give one of the tarts to us. We would sample it.
(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _hand the tray to the KING, who selects a
tart and eats it._)
POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). My dear, they are marvels! marvels!
(_He comes down from the throne and leads_ VIOLETTA _up to the
dais._) Your throne, my dear.
VIOLETTA (_sitting down, with a sigh_). I'm glad it's such a
comfortable one.
POMPDEBILE. Knave, we forgive your offense. The temptation was
very great. There are things that mere human nature cannot be
expected to resist. Another tart, Cooks, and yet another!
CHANCELLOR. But, Your Majesty, don't eat them all. They must go
to the museum with the dishes of the previous Queens of Hearts.
YELLOW HOSE. A museum--those tarts! As well lock a rose in a
money-box!
CHANCELLOR. But the constitution commands it. How else can we
commemorate, for future generations, this event?
KNAVE. An Your Majesty, please, I will commemorate it in a rhyme.
POMPDEBILE. How can a mere rhyme serve to keep this affair in the
minds of the people?
KNAVE. It is the only way to keep it in the minds of the people.
No event is truly deathless unless its monument be built in
rhyme. Consider that fall which, though insignificant in itself,
became the most famous of all history, because someone happened
to put it into rhyme. The crash of it sounded through centuries
and will vibrate for generations to come.
VIOLETTA. You mean the fall of the Holy Roman Empire?
KNAVE. No, Madam, I refer to the fall of Humpty Dumpty.
POMPDEBILE. Well, make your rhyme. In the meantime let us
celebrate. You may all have one tart. (_The_ PASTRY COOKS _pass
the tarts. To_ VIOLETTA) Are you willing, dear, to ride the white
palfrey garlanded with flowers through the streets of the city?
VIOLETTA. Willing! I have been practising for days!
POMPDEBILE. The people, I suppose, are still clamoring at the
gates.
VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they must clamor. I _want_ them to. Herald,
tell them that to every man I shall toss a flower, to every woman
a shining gold piece, but to the babies I shall throw only
kisses, thousands of them, like little winged birds. Kisses and
gold and roses! They will surely love me then!
CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, I protest. Of what possible use to the
people--?
POMPDEBILE. Be quiet. The Queen may scatter what she pleases.
KNAVE. My rhyme is ready, Your Majesty.
POMPDEBILE. Repeat it.