outside the shelter of the fiord, and is beginning to pitch a
little in the long sea rollers. MRS. WANGEL is discovered groping
her way cautiously up the companion in the darkness._
MRS. WANGEL.
This motion is very disagreeable--[_The vessel gives a very heavy
lurch_]--_most_ disagreeable! I wonder if I could speak to The
Stranger now? Hilda said I ought to wait till we were out at sea. Oh!
[_The vessel gives another lurch._]
A STEWARD.
[_Passing._] Did you call?
MRS. WANGEL.
No--er--that is, yes. Will you send Mr. Johnston to me.
STEWARD.
There's no one of that name among the passengers, Madam.
MRS. WANGEL.
[_Fretfully._] Mr. Johnston isn't a passenger. Mr. Johnston is the
second mate. [_The vessel lurches again._] Oh, oh!
STEWARD.
[_Looking suspiciously at her._] But the second mate's name is Brown.
MRS. WANGEL.
[_Under her breath._] Another _alias_! [_Aloud._] It's the same person.
Will you ask him to come to me?
STEWARD.
Very well, Madam. [_To himself._] Queer, that! Wants to see the second
mate, and don't remember his name. But, there, what can you expect on
these excursion steamers!
[_Exit._
MRS. WANGEL.
[_As the boat gets further out to sea and begins to roll heavily._]
This is horrible. I begin to think I don't like the sea at all. I
feel positively ill. And I always thought the motion would be so
exhilarating. It doesn't exhilarate _me_ in the least. I wish Johnston
would come--or Brown, I mean Brown. Perhaps he could find somewhere for
me to lie down.
[_BROWN--or JOHNSTON--accompanied by the STEWARD,
comes up the hatchway. He is the same
disreputable looking seaman whose
acquaintance the reader of "The Lady from
the Sea" has already made._
STEWARD.
This is the lady. [_Indicating MRS. WANGEL._]
BROWN.
[_In his most nautical manner._] I know that you swob. Haven't I eyes?
Get out. [_Exit STEWARD._] Well, woman, what do you want?
MRS. WANGEL.
[_Faintly, too much overcome by the rolling of the vessel to resent his
roughness._] I--I have come to you.
BROWN.
So I see.
MRS. WANGEL
Don't you want me, Alfred?
BROWN.
My name isn't Alfred. It's John.
MRS. WANGEL.
[_Plaintively._] It _used_ to be Alfred.
BROWN.
Well, now it's John.
MRS. WANGEL.
Are you--glad to see me?
BROWN.
[_Briskly._] Not a bit. Never was so sorry to see a woman in my life.
MRS. WANGEL.
[_In horror._] But you came for me. You said you wanted me.
BROWN.
I know I did. Thought old Quangle-Wangle would buy me off if I put the
screw on. He didn't see it. Stingy old cuss!
MRS. WANGEL.
[_Appalled at this way of speaking of her husband._] But you never
asked Dr. Wangel for anything?
BROWN.
No fear. Too old a hand for that. He'd have put me in prison for trying
to extort money.
MRS. WANGEL.
How could you expect him to give you money if you didn't ask for it?
BROWN.
I didn't suppose he was an absolute fool. When a man has a crazy wife
he can't be such a born natural as to suppose that another man really
wants her to go away with him. He wants the price of a drink. That's
what _he_ wants. But old Quangle-Wangle was too clever for me. He
wouldn't part.
MRS. WANGEL.
Wouldn't part husband and wife, you mean?
BROWN.
No, I don't, and you know I don't. Wouldn't part with the dibs; that's
what _I_ mean.
MRS. WANGEL.
[_As the vessel gives a big roll._] Oh, I'm going to be very ill
indeed. Why did I think I should like the sea?
BROWN.
Why, indeed? _I_ don't know. Dash me if I do. Mad, I suppose.
MRS. WANGEL.
What am I to do now?
BROWN.
Go back to old Quangle, if he'll take you. He's fool enough, I dare say.
MRS. WANGEL.
But I can't. We're out at sea. I can't get back now. I think I'm going
to die.
[_She sinks upon a seat._
BROWN.
Die? You won't die. No such luck. You're going to be sea-sick, you are.
Where's your cabin?
MRS. WANGEL.
[_Feebly._] I don't know.
BROWN.
Where's your luggage? Hand me over your keys.
MRS. WANGEL.
I haven't any luggage.
BROWN.
Bilked again, s'help me! And not so much as a half a sovereign on you,
I suppose?
MRS. WANGEL.
[_Feeling limply in her pocket._] No. I must have left my purse at home.
BROWN.
Well, I'm----!
[_He looks sourly at her._
MRS. WANGEL.
[_Growing frightened._] What are you going to do with me?
BROWN.
Do with you? Send you back to Quangle by the first steamer, of course.
You'll have to work your passage back as stewardess. Heaven help the
passengers!
[_He stalks to the hatchway and disappears. MRS.
WANGEL, with a groan, resigns herself to
sea-sickness._
_Curtain._
Cæsar and Cleopatra.
_It might have been thought that Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra"
rather than Mr. Bernard Shaw's "Cæsar and Cleopatra" demanded a
dramatic sequel, but as Mr. Shaw has pointed out repeatedly that he
is the greater dramatist of the two, his play has been chosen in
preference to Shakespeare's. A prefatory essay proving--at great
length--that the dialogue of this sequel is true to life, and is in
fact substantially a reproduction of what was spoken in the year B.C.
31, has been omitted for lack of space._
OCTAVIAN AND CLEOPATRA.
SCENE.--_An extravagantly furnished apartment in the Palace at
Alexandria. CLEOPATRA is discovered seated upon her throne. She is
dressed with mournful splendour, as befits a queen who has been
defeated at Actium and has suffered a recent bereavement. Her face
is as attractive as a liberal use of cosmetics can make it, and her
whole appearance is that of a middle-aged and rather dissipated
member of the corps de ballet who has gone into half-mourning
because the manager has reduced her salary. CHARMIAN, a pretty,
shrewish-looking damsel, is in attendance on her._
CLEOPATRA.
[_Nervously._] Am I looking my best, Charmian?
CHARMIAN.
[_Sulkily._] Your majesty is looking as well as _I_ can make you. If
you are not satisfied you had better get another maid.
CLEOPATRA.
[_Looking at herself in hand mirror._] Silly child! Of course I am
satisfied. I think you are wonderful.
CHARMIAN.
[_Mollified._] Yes. I think I've not done so badly.
CLEOPATRA.
Of course, with Antony not even buried yet, it would hardly have done
for me to be _too_ magnificent.
CHARMIAN.
[_Decidedly_]. Most unsuitable.
CLEOPATRA.
As it is, I think we've arrived at a rather successful blend of
splendour and sorrow, suggesting at once the afflicted widow and the
queen who is open to consolation.
CHARMIAN.
That is certainly the impression we intended to convey. By the way,
when does Cæsar arrive?
CLEOPATRA.
Octavian? Almost at once.
CHARMIAN.
His first visit, isn't it?
CLEOPATRA.
Yes. So much depends on a first impression. [_Looks at mirror again._]
I think we shall captivate him.
CHARMIAN.
[_Dubiously._] He's not very impressionable, I hear.
CLEOPATRA.
No. But I shall manage it. Think how completely I fascinated Julius.
CHARMIAN.
His uncle? I'm afraid that's hardly a reason why you should prove
equally attractive to the nephew.
CLEOPATRA.
My dear child, why not?
CHARMIAN.
Well--the lapse of time, you know. That was seventeen years ago.
CLEOPATRA.
So long? I am really very well preserved.
CHARMIAN
Considering the wear and tear.
CLEOPATRA.
My good Charmian, how crudely you put things. I declare I've a good
mind to have you executed.
CHARMIAN.
[_Tranquilly._] Your majesty will hardly do that. I am the only person
in Egypt who really understands the secret of your majesty's complexion.
CLEOPATRA.
That's true. But you ought to be more tactful.
CHARMIAN.
[_Tossing her head._] You can't expect me to display tact when my wages
haven't been paid since the battle of Actium.
CLEOPATRA.
Poor child! Never mind, when Octavian is at my feet you shall be paid
[_meaningly_] in full! Will that satisfy you?
CHARMIAN.
I'd much rather have something on account.
CLEOPATRA.
I wish you wouldn't vex me in this way just when it's so important that
I should look my best. You know how unbecoming temper is to a woman
when she is ... well, over thirty [_beginning to cry_].
CHARMIAN.
There, there! I'm sorry I said anything to hurt you. Don't cry, for
Heaven's sake, or that rouge will run. Then I shall have to go all
over you again. Dry your eyes, there's a good creature. [_CLEOPATRA
does so obediently._] I declare you're all in streaks. Come here, and
let me put you straight.
[_CLEOPATRA goes to CHARMIAN, who produces powder-puff etc.,
and repairs the ravages of emotion._
CLEOPATRA.
Quick, quick! They're coming. I hear them. I'm glad he's so early. Only
a quarter of an hour after his time. [_Proudly_] That shows how eager
he is to see me! I feel that this is going to be another of my triumphs.
[_CHARMIAN puts the finishing touch to the QUEEN just as CÆSAR
enters. She then hastily conceals powder-puff, etc.,
behind her. CLEOPATRA has no time to return to the
throne, and stands rather awkwardly with CHARMIAN to
receive her visitors. These prove to be OCTAVIAN, a
pale, dyspeptic-looking young man of about thirty;
AGRIPPA, a bluff, thickset, red-faced warrior past
middle age, and a guard of Roman soldiers._
OCTAVIAN.
[_Looking round the gorgeous apartment with much disgust, and speaking
in a soft, weary voice._] Ugh! Bad taste, very bad taste all this.
AGRIPPA.
You know what these barbarians are. [_To the two women._] Kindly inform
the Queen Cæsar is here.
CLEOPATRA.
[_Advancing._] _I_ am the Queen. How do you do?
AGRIPPA.
You! Nonsense!
CLEOPATRA.
[_Archly._] Oh, yes, I am.
OCTAVIAN.
[_With gentle melancholy._] Dear, dear, another illusion gone!
CLEOPATRA.
Illusion?
OCTAVIAN.
Your beauty, you know; your grace, your charm. I had heard so
much of them. So had Agrippa. Let me introduce you, by the way.
Agrippa--Cleopatra. [_Wearily._] As I was saying, it is _most_
disappointing.
AGRIPPA.
[_Gruffly._] Not what _I_ expected at all!
[_CHARMIAN giggles furtively._
CLEOPATRA.
[_Puzzled._] You--don't admire me?
OCTAVIAN.
[_Gently._] Admire you? My dear lady!
CLEOPATRA.
[_Bridling._] Antony was of a different opinion.
AGRIPPA.
[_Bluntly._] Antony was a fool.
OCTAVIAN.
Hush, my dear Agrippa! You hurt her feelings.
[_AGRIPPA shrugs his shoulders and crosses to CHARMIAN,
with whom he begins a vigorous flirtation._
CLEOPATRA.
[_Angrily._] Never mind my feelings.
OCTAVIAN.
Frankly then, dear lady, we are not impressed. We came here prepared
for a beautiful temptress, a dazzling siren whom I must resist or
perish, something seductive, enticing. And what do we find?
CLEOPATRA.
[_Furious._] Well, what _do_ you find.
OCTAVIAN.
[_In his gentlest voice._] Dear lady, don't let us pursue this painful
subject. Probably we had not allowed for the flight of time. Suffice it
that our poor hopes are unrealised. [_Looking round_] But I don't see
Cæsarion.
CLEOPATRA.
[_Sullenly._] My son is not here.
OCTAVIAN.
Another disappointment.
CLEOPATRA.
You wished to speak to him?
OCTAVIAN.
Yes. They talk of him as a son of Julius, don't they?
CLEOPATRA.
He _is_ a son of Julius.
OCTAVIAN.
A sort of relation of mine, then? I must really make his acquaintance.
Can you give me his address?
CLEOPATRA.
[_Sulkily._] No. If you want him, you will have to find him for
yourself.
OCTAVIAN.
[_Blandly._] I shall find him, dearest Queen. You need be under no
apprehensions about that.
CLEOPATRA.
Brute!
OCTAVIAN.
Eh?
CLEOPATRA.
Nothing. I was only thinking.
OCTAVIAN.
Never think _aloud_, dear lady. It's a dangerous habit.
CLEOPATRA.
[_Impatiently._] Is there anything further you want with me?
OCTAVIAN.
[_Affably._] Nothing, thank you, nothing. At least, nothing just now.
CLEOPATRA.
You would like to see me later?
OCTAVIAN.
[_Gentler than a sucking dove._] In a few weeks, perhaps. The Triumph,
you know. The sovereign people throwing up their caps and hallooing.
The Procession up the Sacred Way, with the headsman at the end of it
all. [_Yawning slightly._] The usual thing.
CLEOPATRA.
[_Losing her temper._] Oh, you're not a man at all! You're a block, a
stone! You have no blood in your veins. You're not like Antony.
OCTAVIAN.
No, dear lady, I'm not like Antony. If I were, I shouldn't have beaten
him at Actium.
CLEOPATRA.
I won't stay to be baited in this way. I won't! I won't!
[_Goes towards door._
OCTAVIAN.
[_Gallantly._] Farewell, then. We shall meet again. Agrippa, the Queen
is going.
AGRIPPA.
[_Breaking off in the midst of his flirtation._] Eh? Oh, good-bye.
CLEOPATRA.
[_Stamping her foot._] Charmian!
[_Exit._
[_CHARMIAN jumps up, kisses her hand to AGRIPPA and
follows her mistress out._
AGRIPPA.
[_Looking after her._] That's a pretty little minx.
OCTAVIAN.
[_Who has seated himself wearily on the throne._] Is she? I didn't
notice ... Cæsarion's fled.
AGRIPPA.
So I supposed.
OCTAVIAN.
It's a great nuisance. We must find him. Will you see about it?
AGRIPPA.
If you wish it. What shall I do with him?
OCTAVIAN.
[_In his tired voice._] Better put him to death. It will save a lot of
trouble in the end.
AGRIPPA.
But the boy's your own cousin.
OCTAVIAN.
Yes. I have always disliked my relations.
AGRIPPA.
[_Admiringly._] I begin to think you _are_ a genius, Cæsar, after all.
OCTAVIAN.
I _am_. Much good it does me! I'd give my genius for your digestion any
day.
[_Leans back on throne and closes his eyes._
[_Enter CHARMIAN hurriedly, looking pale and dishevelled._
CHARMIAN.
Help! Help! The Queen is dying!
OCTAVIAN.
[_Irritably, opening his eyes._] Stop that noise, girl! You make my
head ache.
CHARMIAN.
She is dying, I tell you! She has taken poison!
[_Exit, squealing._
AGRIPPA.
Poison, by Jove! Confound it, she mustn't do that, must she?
[_Is about to follow CHARMIAN._
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
"I'd give my genius for your digestion any day."]
OCTAVIAN.
Why not? It seems to me an excellent arrangement. Very thoughtful of
her. Very thoughtful and considerate.
AGRIPPA.
But we want her for that Triumph of yours.
OCTAVIAN.
Never mind. After all, what _is_ a Triumph? Disagreeable for her. A
bore for us. Let her die now, by all means, if she prefers it.
AGRIPPA.
[_Impatiently._] Don't _you_ try and be magnanimous too. Leave that to
your uncle. He did it better.
OCTAVIAN.
[_Wearily._] My dear Agrippa, how stupid you are! What possible use
can a quite plain and middle-aged lady be in a triumphal procession?
If Cleopatra were still attractive I should say, "Save her, by all
means." As she isn't, [_yawning_] I think we may let her die her own
way without being charged with excessive magnanimity.
AGRIPPA.
[_Regretfully._] Still I _should_ have liked to have seen her brought
to Rome.
OCTAVIAN.
Ah! I shall be quite contented to see her comfortably in her coffin
in Egypt. We'll let her be buried beside Antony. It will gratify the
Egyptians, and it won't hurt us. See to it, there's a good fellow.
[_Exit AGRIPPA. OCTAVIAN leans back, and falls asleep
on the throne._
_Curtain._
The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith.
_A DRAMATIC PROLOGUE._
_Those persons who have seen Mrs. Patrick Campbell's magnificent
performance in "The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith" will have probably gone
away with a quite false impression of the gentleman with whom Agnes
Ebbsmith spent her eight years of married life. "For the first twelve
months," she declares bitterly in the first act, "he treated me like
a woman in a harem, for the rest of the time like a beast of burden."
This is not quite just to poor Ebbsmith, who was a good sort of fellow
in his commonplace way, and it is manifestly unfair that the audience
should have no opportunity of hearing his side of the question. An
attempt is made to remedy this injustice in the following Prologue,
which all fair-minded persons are entreated to read before seeing Mr.
Pinero's very clever play._
THE UNFORTUNATE MR. EBBSMITH.
SCENE.--_The dining-room of the EBBSMITHS' house in West
Kensington. AGNES and her husband are at breakfast. They have been
married seven years. She looks much as we see her in the early acts
of the play--gaunt, pale, badly dressed. He is a careworn man with
hair slightly grey at the temples, an anxious forehead and sad
eyes. He is glancing through the "Standard" in the intervals of
eating his bacon. She is absorbed in the "Morning Screamer," one of
the more violent Socialist-Radical organs of that day. Presently
Ebbsmith looks up._
EBBSMITH.
You won't forget, Agnes, that we are expecting people to dinner
to-night?
AGNES.
[_Putting down her paper with an air of patient endurance._] Eh?
EBBSMITH.
[_Mildly._] I was saying, dear, if you will give me your attention for
a moment, that I hoped you would not forget that Sir Myles Jawkins and
his wife and the Spencers and the Thorntons were dining here to-night.
AGNES.
[_Contemptuously._] You seem very anxious that I should remember that
_Lady_ Jawkins is honouring us with her company!
EBBSMITH.
I only meant that I hoped you had told Jane about dinner. Last time the
Jawkinses came you may recollect that you had omitted to order anything
for them to eat, and when they arrived there was nothing in the house
but some soup, a little cold mutton and a rice-pudding.
AGNES.
Very well [_returns to her paper._]
EBBSMITH.
Thank you. And, Agnes, if you could manage to be dressed in time to
receive them I should be very much obliged.
AGNES.
I?
EBBSMITH.
Of course. I suppose you will be here to entertain our guests?
AGNES.
_Your_ guests, you mean.
EBBSMITH.
My dear Agnes, surely my guests are your guests also.
AGNES.
[_Breaking out._] As long as the present unjust and oppressive marriage
laws remain in force----
EBBSMITH.
[_Interrupting._] I don't think we need go into the question of the
alteration of the marriage laws.
AGNES.
Ah, yes. You always refuse to listen to my arguments on that subject.
You know they are unanswerable.
EBBSMITH.
[_Patiently._] I only meant that there would hardly be time to discuss
the matter at breakfast.
AGNES.
[_Vehemently._] A paltry evasion!
EBBSMITH.
Still, I assume that you will be here to receive our guests--my guests
if you prefer it--to-night?
AGNES.
Do you make a point of always being at home to receive _my_ guests?
EBBSMITH.
Those Anarchist people whom you are constantly asking to tea? Certainly
not.
AGNES.
[_With triumphant logic._] Then may I ask why I should be at home to
receive the Jawkinses?
EBBSMITH.
My dear, you surely realise that the cases are hardly parallel. The
only time I was present at one of your Revolutionary tea-parties the
guests consisted of a Hyde Park orator who dropped his h's, a cobbler
who had turned Socialist by way of increasing his importance in the
eyes of the community, three ladies who were either living apart from
their husbands or living with the husbands of other ladies, and a
Polish refugee who had been convicted, quite justly, of murder. You
cannot pretend to compare the Jawkinses with such people.
AGNES.
Indeed, I can. [_Rhetorically._] In a properly organized Society----
EBBSMITH.
[_Testily._] I really can't stop to re-organize Society now. I am due
at my chambers in half-an-hour.
AGNES.
[_Sullenly._] As you decline to listen to what I have to say, I may as
well tell you at once that I shall _not_ be at home to dinner to-night.
EBBSMITH.
[_Controlling his temper with an effort._] May I ask your reason?
AGNES.
Because I have to be at the meeting of the Anti-marriage Association.
EBBSMITH.
Can't you send an excuse?
AGNES.
Send an excuse! Throw up a meeting called to discuss an important
Public question because _you_ have asked a few barristers and their
wives to dine! You must be mad.
EBBSMITH.
Well, I must put them off, I suppose. What night next week will suit
you to meet them? Thursday?
AGNES.
On Thursday I am addressing a meeting of the Society for the
Encouragement of Divorce.
EBBSMITH.
Friday?
AGNES.
[_Coldly._] Friday, as you know, is the weekly meeting of the Agamists'
League.
EBBSMITH.
Saturday?
AGNES.
On Saturday I am speaking on Free Union for the People at Battersea.
EBBSMITH.
Can you suggest an evening?
AGNES.
[_Firmly._] No. I think the time has come to make a stand against the
convention which demands that a wife should preside at her husband's
dinner-parties. It is an absurdity. Away with it!
EBBSMITH.
[_Alarmed._] But, Agnes! Think what you are doing. You don't want to
offend these people. Spencer and Thornton are useful men to know,
and Jawkins puts a lot of work in my way.
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
"Friday, you know, is the meeting of the Agamists' League."]
AGNES.
[_With magnificent scorn._] How like a man! And so _I_ am to be civil
to this Jawkins person because he "puts a lot of work in your way!"
EBBSMITH.
[_Meekly._] Well, you know, my dear, I have to make an income somehow.
AGNES.
I would sooner starve than resort to such truckling!
EBBSMITH.
[_Gloomily._] We are likely to do that, sooner or later, in any case.
AGNES.
What do you mean?
EBBSMITH.
[_Diffidently._] Your--ahem!--somewhat subversive tenets, my love, are
not precisely calculated to improve my professional prospects.
AGNES.
What have _I_ to do with _your_ prospects?
EBBSMITH.
The accounts of your meetings which appear in the newspapers are not
likely to encourage respectable solicitors to send me briefs.
AGNES.
[_Indifferently._] Indeed!
EBBSMITH.
Here's a report in to-day's _Standard_ of a meeting addressed by you
last night which would certainly not have that effect. Shall I read it
to you?
AGNES.
If you wish it.
EBBSMITH.
[_Reads._] "The meeting which was held in St. Luke's parish last night
under the auspices of the Polyandrous Club proved to be of an unusually
exciting description. The lecturer was Mrs. John Ebbsmith, wife of the
well-known barrister of that name." [_Breaking off._] Really, Agnes, I
think _my_ name need not have been dragged into the business.
AGNES.
Go on.
EBBSMITH.
"As soon as the doors were opened the place of meeting--the Iron Hall,
Carter Street--was filled with a compact body of roughs assembled from
the neighbouring streets, and there seemed every prospect of disorderly
scenes. The appearance of Mrs. Ebbsmith on the platform was greeted
with cheers and cries of 'Mad Agnes!'" Surely, my dear, you must
recognise that my professional reputation is endangered when my wife
is reported in the newspapers as addressing meetings in discreditable
parts of London, where her appearance is greeted with shouts of 'Mad
Agnes!'
AGNES.
Nonsense! Who is likely to read an obscure paragraph like that?
EBBSMITH.
Obscure paragraph! My dear Agnes, the _Standard_ has a leading
article on it. Listen to this:--"Mrs. Ebbsmith's crusade against the
institution of marriage is again attracting unfavourable attention.
Last night in St. Luke's she once more attempted to ventilate
her preposterous schemes ... crack-brained crusade ... bellowing
revolutionary nonsense on obscure platforms.... This absurd visionary,
whom her audiences not inappropriately nickname 'Mad Agnes'....
Ultimately the meeting had to be broken up by the police.... We cannot
understand how a man in Mr. Ebbsmith's position can allow himself to be
made ridiculous." [_Almost weeping._] I do think they might leave _my_
name out of it. In a leading article too!
AGNES.
Is there any more of the stuff?
EBBSMITH.
Another half column. Do, my dear, to oblige me, find some less
ostentatious method of making known your views on the subject of
marriage.
AGNES.
[_Anticipating a remark subsequently made by the DUKE OF ST.
OLPHERTS._] Unostentatious immodesty is not part of my programme.
EBBSMITH.
[_Humbly._] Could you not, for my sake, consent to take a less
_prominent_ part in the movement?
AGNES.
[_Enthusiastically._] But I want to be among the Leaders--the Leaders!
That will be my hour.
EBBSMITH.
[_Puzzled._] Your hour? I don't think I quite understand you.
AGNES.
There's only one hour in a woman's life--when she's defying her
husband, wrecking his happiness and blasting his prospects. That is her
hour! Let her make the most of every second of it!
EBBSMITH.
[_Wearily._] Well, my dear, when it's over, you'll have the
satisfaction of counting the departing footsteps of a ruined man.
AGNES.
Departing?
EBBSMITH.
Certainly. You and your crusade between them will have killed me. But I
must go now. I ought to be at my chambers in ten minutes, and I must go
round and make my excuses to Jawkins some time this morning. Tell Jane
not to bother about dinner to-night. I shall dine at the Club.
[_Exit._
_Curtain._
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.
_A DRAMATIZED VERSION._
_When it was announced recently in an English Daily Paper that a drama
founded upon Fitzgerald's version of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám had
been compounded in the United States, and would shortly be seen on the
stage, many people may have wondered how it was done. It was done as
follows_:--
OMAR AND OH MY.
SCENE.--_Courtyard of the deserted palace of JAMSHYD, canopied by
that inverted bowl commonly called the sky. To right, a tavern--not
deserted. To left, a potter's house. At back, the grave of BAHRÁM,
whence a sound of snoring proceeds. A wild ass stamps fitfully upon
it. It is four o'clock in the morning, and the "false dawn" shows
in the sky. In the centre of the stage stand a lion and a lizard,
eyeing each other mistrustfully._
LION.
Look here, do _you_ keep these courts, or do I?
LIZARD.
[_Resentfully._] I don't know. I believe we both keep them.
LION.
[_Sarcastically._] _Do_ you? Then I venture to differ from you.
LIZARD.
Perhaps you'd rather we took turns?
LION.
Oh, no, I wouldn't. I mean to have this job to myself.
[_He and the lizard close in mortal combat. After a
gallant struggle the latter is killed, and
the lion proceeds to eat him. Suddenly a
shadowy form issues from the grave at back
of stage._
LION.
Bahrám, by Jove! Confound that jackass!
[_Bolts remains of lizard and then bolts himself,
pursued by shadowy form._
WILD ASS.
They said I couldn't wake him. But I knew better! Hee-haw!
[_Exit in triumph._]
[_A sound in revelry becomes noticeable from the tavern.
A crowd gathers outside. The voice of OMAR,
rather tipsy, is heard._
OMAR.
When all the temple--hic!--is prepared within, why nods the lousy
worshipper outside?
[_A cock crows, and the sun rises._
CROWD.
[_Shouting in unison._] Open then the door. You know how little while
we have to stay. And, once departed, goodness only knows when we shall
get back again!
OMAR.
[_Opening the door and appearing unsteadily on the threshold._] You
can't come in. It's--hic--full.
[_Closes door again._
CROWD.
I say, what rot!
[_Exeunt, depressed._
NIGHTINGALE.
[_Jubilantly from tree._] Wine! Wine! Red wine!
ROSE.
[_From neighbouring bush, much shocked._] My dear, you don't know how
your passion for alcohol shocks me.
NIGHTINGALE.
Oh yes I do. But every morning brings a thousand roses. After all,
you're cheap. Jamshyd and I like our liquor, and plenty of it.
ROSE.
[_Shaking her head in disapproval._] I've heard he drank deep.
NIGHTINGALE.
Of course he did. You should have seen him when Hátim called to supper!
He simply went for it!
ROSE.
[_Blushing crimson._] How dreadful!
NIGHTINGALE.
[_Contemptuously._] I dare say. But you wouldn't be so red yourself if
some buried Cæsar didn't fertilize your roots. Why, even the hyacinth's
past isn't altogether creditable, and as for the grass--why, I could
tell you things about the grass that would scare the soul out of a
vegetable!
ROSE.
[_Annoyed._] I'm not a vegetable.
NIGHTINGALE.
Well, well, I can't stay to argue with you. I've but a little time to
flutter myself.
[_Exit on the wing._
[_Enter OMAR from tavern. He is by this time
magnificently intoxicated and is
leaning on the arm of a fascinating
SÁKI. He has a jug of wine in his
hand._
OMAR.
[_Trying to kiss her._] Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears to-day
of past regrets and future fears. To-morrow! Why to-morrow I may be----
SÁKI.
[_Interrupting._] I know what you're going to say. To-morrow you'll be
sober. But you won't. _I_ know you. Go home!
OMAR.
Home!--hic. What do I want with home? A book of verses underneath
the bough, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread--no, no bread, two jugs of
wine--and thou [_puts arm round her waist_] beside me singing like a
bulbul.
[_Sings uproariously._
For to-night we'll merry be!
For to-night----
SÁKI.
Fie! An old man like you!
OMAR.
Old! Thank goodness I _am_ old. When I was young I went to school and
heard the sages. Didn't learn much _there_! They said I came like water
and went like wind. Horrid chilly Band-of-Hope sort of doctrine. I know
better now.
[_Drinks from the jug in his hand._
SÁKI.
[_Watching him anxiously._] Take care. You'll spill it.
OMAR.
Never mind. It won't be wasted. All goes to quench some poor beggar's
thirst down there [_points below_]. Dare say he needs it--hic.
SÁKI.
[_Shocked._] How can you talk so!
OMAR.
[_Growing argumentative in his cups._] I must abjure the balm of life,
_I_ must! I must give up wine for fear of--hic--What is it I'm to fear?
Gout, I suppose. Not I!
[_Takes another drink._
SÁKI.
[_Trying to take jug from him._] There, there, you've had enough.
OMAR.
[_Fast losing coherence in his extreme intoxication._] I want to talk
to you about Thee and Me. That's what I want to talk about. [_Counting
on his fingers._] You see there's the Thee in Me and there's the Me in
Thee. That's myshticism, that is. Difficult word to say, mysticishm.
Must light lamp and see if I can't find it. Must be somewhere about.
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
"Myshticism, difficult word to say, mysticishm."]
SÁKI.
You're drunk, that's what you are. Disgracefully drunk.
OMAR.
Of course I'm drunk. I am to-day what I was yesterday, and to-morrow I
shall not be less. Kiss me.
SÁKI.
[_Boxing his ears._] I won't have it, I tell you. I'm a respectable
Sáki; and you're not to take liberties, or I'll leave you to find your
way home alone.
OMAR.
[_Becoming maudlin._] Don't leave me, my rose, my bullfinch--I mean
bulbul. You know how my road is beset with pitfall--hic!--and with gin.
SÁKI.
[_Disgusted._] Plenty of gin, _I_ know. You never can pass a
public-house.
OMAR.
[_Struck with the splendour of the idea._] I say--hic!--let's fling the
dust aside, and naked on the air of Heaven ride. It's shame not to do
it!
[_Flings off hat, and stamps on it by way of preliminary._
SÁKI.
[_Scandalised._] If you take anything else off I shall call the police.
[_Exit hurriedly._
OMAR.
[_Terrified._] Here, Sáki, come back. How am I to find my way
without you? [_A pause._] What's come to the girl? I only
spoke--hic--meta--phorically. Difficult word to say, meta--phorically!
[_Longer pause._] How am I to get home? Can't go 'lone. Must wait for
someone to come along. [_Peers tipsily about him._] Strange, isn't it,
that though lots of people go along here every day, not one returns to
tell me of the road! Very strange. S'pose must sleep here.... S'pose----
[_Rolls into ditch and falls asleep._
[_The curtain falls for a moment. When it rises again,
day is departing and it is growing dark. OMAR
is still in his ditch. The door of the
potter's house, to the left of the stage, is
open, the POTTER having betaken himself to
the tavern opposite, and the pots within are
arguing fiercely._
FIRST POT.
Don't tell me I was only made to be broken. I know better.
SECOND POT.
Even a peevish boy wouldn't break _me_! The Potter would whack him if
he did!
THIRD POT.
[_Of a more ungainly make._] Depends on what he drank out of you.
SECOND POT.
What's that you say, you lopsided object?
THIRD POT.
That's right. Sneer at me! 'Tisn't my fault if the potter's hand shook
when he made me. He was not sober.
FOURTH POT.
[_I think a Súfi pipkin._] It's all very well to talk about pot and
potter. What _I_ want to know is, what did the pot call the kettle?
THIRD POT.
[_Grumbling._] I believe my clay's too dry. That's what's the matter
with _me_!
[_The moon rises. A step is heard without._
SEVERAL POTS.
Hark, there's the potter! Can't you hear his boots creaking?
_Enter POTTER from tavern._
POTTER.
[_Crossly._] Shut up in there, or I'll break some of you.
[_The pots tremble and are silent._
POTTER.
[_Seeing Omar._] Hullo. Come out of that. You're in _my_ ditch. [_Lifts
him into sitting posture by the collar._]
OMAR.
[_Rubbing his eyes._] Eh! What's that? Oh, my head! my head! [_Clasps
it between his hands._]
POTTER.
Get up! You've been drinking.
OMAR.
[_Dazed at his penetration._] I wonder how you guessed that!
POTTER.
It's plain enough. You've been providing your fading life with liquor.
I can see that with half an eye.
OMAR.
I have, I have. I've drowned my glory in a shallow cup, and my head's
very bad.
POTTER.
You should take the pledge.
OMAR.
Oh! I've sworn to give up drink lots of times. [_Doubtfully._] But was
I sober when I swore? Tell me that.
POTTER.
[_Scratching his head._] Dunnow.
OMAR.
[_Staggering to his feet._] Would but the desert of the fountain yield
one glimpse! In more prosaic language, could you get me something to
drink? I'm rather star-scattered myself and the grass is wet.
[_POTTER goes to house and takes up third pot
at random._
THIRD POT.
[_Delighted._] Now he's going to fill me with the old familiar juice!
[_POTTER fills him with water and returns to OMAR._
THIRD POT.
[_Disgusted._] Water! Well, I'm dashed!
OMAR.
Many thanks, O Sáki. Here's to you. [_Drains beaker._] Ugh! don't think
much of your liquor. I wish the moon wouldn't look at me like that.
She's a beastly colour. Why doesn't she look the other way?
POTTER.
[_Sarcastically._] Wants to see _you_, I suppose.
OMAR.
[_Darkly._] Well, some day she won't. That's all. Farewell, O Sáki.
Yours is a joyous errand. But I wish you had put something stronger in
the glass. [_Handing it back to him._] Turn it down, there's a good
fellow.
[_Exit._
_Curtain._
THE END.
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.
End of Project Gutenberg's Mr. Punch's Dramatic Sequels, by St. John Hankin