SCENE I.--The drawing-room of the HUBBARDS before Fame and Prosperity

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

FIRST PLAYS

THE DAY'S PLAY

THE HOLIDAY ROUND

ONCE A WEEK

ONCE ON A TIME

NOT THAT IT MATTERS

IF I MAY

MR. PIM

THE SUNNY SIDE

SECOND PLAYS

by A.A. MILNE

New York

ALFRED A. KNOPF

Printed in Great Britain by

R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.

To

D.M.

SO LITTLE IN RETURN FOR SO MUCH

CONTENTS

MAKE-BELIEVE

MR. PIM PASSES BY

THE CAMBERLEY TRIANGLE

THE ROMANTIC AGE

THE STEPMOTHER

INTRODUCTION

Encouraged by the reviewer who announced that the Introduction to my

previous collection of plays was the best part of the book, I venture

to introduce this collection in a similar manner. But I shall be

careful not to overdo it this time, in the hope that I may win from my

critic some such tribute as, "Mr. Milne has certainly improved as a

dramatist, in that his plays are now slightly better than his

Introduction."

Since, then, I am trying to make this preface as distasteful as

possible, in order that the plays may shine out the more pleasantly, I

shall begin (how better?) with an attack on the dramatic critics. I

will relate a little conversation which took place, shortly after the

publication of "First Plays," between myself and a very much more

eminent dramatist.

EMINENT DRAMATIST (kindly) Your book seems to have been well reviewed.

MYSELF (ungratefully). Not bad--by those who reviewed it. But I doubt

if it was noticed by more than three regular dramatic critics. And

considering that two of the plays in it had never been produced--

EMINENT DRAMATIST (amused by my innocence). My dear fellow, _you_

needn't complain. I published an unproduced play a little while ago,

and it didn't get a single notice from anybody.

Now I hope that, however slightly the conversations in the plays which

follow may move the dramatic critic, he will at least be disturbed by

this little dialogue. All of us who are interested in the theatre are

accustomed to read, and sometimes to make, ridiculous accusations

against the Theatrical Manager. We condemn the mercenary fellow

because he will not risk a loss of two or three thousand pounds on the

intellectual masterpiece of a promising young dramatist, preferring to

put on some contemptible but popular rubbish which is certain to fill

his theatre. But now we see that the dramatic critic, that stern

upholder of the best interests of the British Drama, will not himself

risk six shillings (and perhaps two or three hours of his time) in

order to read the intellectual masterpiece of the promising young

dramatist, and so to be able to tell us with authority whether the

Manager really _is_ refusing masterpieces or no. He will not

risk six shillings in order to encourage that promising young

dramatist--discouraged enough already, poor devil, in his hopes of

fame and fortune--by telling him that he _is_ right, and that his

plays are worth something, or (alternatively) to prevent him from

wasting any more of his youth upon an art-form to which he is not

suited. No, he will not risk his shillings; but he will write an

important (and, let us hope, well-rewarded) article, informing us that

the British Drama is going to the dogs, and that no promising young

dramatist is ever given a fair chance.

Absurd, isn't it?

Let us consider this young dramatist for a moment, and ask ourselves

why he goes on writing his masterpieces. I give three reasons--in

their order of importance.

(1) The pleasure of writing; or, more accurately, the hell of not

writing. He gets this anyhow.

(2) The appreciation of his peers; his hope of immortality; the

criticism of the experts; fame, publicity, notoriety, swank,

_réclame_--call it what you will. But it is obvious that he cannot

have it unless the masterpiece is given to the world, either by

manager or publisher.

(3) Money. If the masterpiece is published only, very little; if

produced, possibly a great deal.

As I say, he gets his first reward anyhow. But let us be honest with

ourselves. How many of us would write our masterpieces on a desert

island, with no possibility of being rescued? Well, perhaps all of us;

for we should feel that, even if not rescued ourselves, our

manuscripts--written on bark with a burnt stick--clutched in a

skeleton hand--might be recovered later by some literary sea-captain.

(As it might be, Conrad.) But how many of us would write masterpieces

if we had to burn them immediately afterwards, or if we were alone

upon the world, the last survivors of a new flood? Could we bear to

write? Could we bear not to write? It is not fair to ask us. But we

can admit this much without reserve; it is the second reward which

tears at us, and, lacking it, we should lose courage.

So when the promising young dramatist has his play refused by the

Managers--after what weeks, months, years of hope and fear,

uncertainty and bitter disappointment--he has this great consolation:

"Anyway, I can always publish it." Perhaps, after a dozen refusals, a

Manager offers to put on his play, on condition that he alters the

obviously right (and unhappy) ending into the obviously foolish, but

happy, ending which will charm the public. Does he, the artist,

succumb? How easy to tell himself that he must get his play before the

public somehow, and that, even if it is not _his_ play now, yet the

first two acts are as he wrote them, and that, if only to feel the

thrill of the audience at that great scene between the Burglar and the

Bishop (his creations!) he must deaden his conscience to the absurdity

of a happy ending. But does he succumb? No. Heroically he tells

himself: "Anyway, I can publish it; and I'm certain that the critics

will agree with me that----" But the critics are too busy to bother

about him. They are busy informing the world that the British Drama is

going to the dogs, and that no promising young dramatist ever gets a

fair chance.

Let me say here that I am airing no personal grievance. I doubt if any

dramatist has less right to feel aggrieved against the critics, the

managers, the public, the world, than I; and whatever right I have I

renounce, in return for the good things which I have received from

them. But I do not renounce the grievance of our craft. I say that, in

the case of all dramatists, it is the business of the dramatic critics

to review their unacted plays when published. Some of them do; most of

them do not. It is ridiculous for those who do not to pretend that

they take any real interest in the British Drama. But I say "review,"

not "praise." Let them damn, by all means, if the plays are unworthy;

and, by damning, do so much of justice to the Managers who refused

them.

We can now pass on safely to the plays in this volume.

We begin with a children's play. The difficulty in the way of writing

a children's play is that Barrie was born too soon. Many people must

have felt the same about Shakespeare. We who came later have no

chance. What fun to have been Adam, and to have had the whole world of

plots and jokes and stories at one's disposal. Possibly, however, one

would never have thought of the things. Of course, there are still

others to come after us, but our works are not immortal, and they will

plagiarise us without protest. Yet I have hopes of _Make-Believe_, for

it had the honour of inaugurating Mr. Nigel Playfair's management at

the Lyric, Hammersmith. It is possible that the historians will

remember this, long after they have forgotten my plays; more likely

(alas!) that their history will be dated A.D. (After Drinkwater) and

that the honour will be given to "Abraham Lincoln." I like to think

that in this event my ghost will haunt them. _Make-Believe_ appeared

with a Prologue by the Manager, lyrics by C.E. Burton, and music by

Georges Dorlay. As the title-page states that this book is, in the

language of children's competitions, "my own unaided work," I print

the play with a new Prologue, and without the charming lyrics. But the

reader is told when he may burst into an improvisation of his own,

though I warn him that he will not make such a good show of it as did

my collaborators.

_Mr. Pim Passes By_ appeared at several theatres. Let us admit

cheerfully that it was a success--in spite of the warning of an

important gentleman in the theatrical world, who told me, while I was

writing it, that the public wouldn't stand any talk of bigamy, and

suggested that George and Olivia should be engaged only, not married.

(Hence the line, "Bigamy! . . . It _is_ an ugly word," in the Second

Act.) But, of course, nobody sees more clearly than I how largely its

success was due to Mr. Dion Boucicault and Miss Irene Vanbrugh.

_The Romantic Age_ appeared first at the Comedy, and (like _Mr. Pim_)

found, in its need, a home at The Playhouse. Miss Gladys Cooper has a

charming way of withdrawing into a nursing home whenever I want a

theatre, but I beg her not to make a habit of it. My plays can be

spared so much more easily than she. By the way, a word about

Melisande. Many of the critics said that nobody behaved like that

nowadays. I am terrified at the thought of arguing with them, for they

can always reduce me to blushes with a scornful, "My dear man, you

_can't_ do that in a _play_!" And when they tell me to remember what

Strindberg said in '93 (if he were alive then; I really don't know) or

what Aristotle wrote in--no, I shan't even guess at Aristotle, well,

then, I want to burst into tears, my ignorance is so profound. So,

very humbly, I just say now that, when Melisande talks and behaves in

a certain way, I do not mean that a particular girl exists (Miss

Jones, of 999 Bedford Park) who talks and behaves like this, but I do

mean that there is a type of girl who, in her heart, secretly,

_thinks_ like this. If, from your great knowledge of the most secret

places of a young girl's heart, you tell me that there is no such

type, then I shall only smile. But if you inform me sternly that a

dramatist has no business to express an attitude in terms of an

actress, then you reduce me to blushes again. For I really know

nothing about play-writing, and I am only sustained by two beliefs.

The first is that rules are always made for the other people; the

second is that, if a play by me is not obviously by me, and as

obviously not by anybody else, then (obviously) I had no business to

write it.

Of the one-act plays, _The Camberley Triangle_ and _The Stepmother_,

nothing much need be said. The former was played at the Coliseum; the

latter, written for Miss Winifred Emery, was deemed by the management

too serious for that place of amusement. This, however, was to the

great advantage of the play, for now it has appeared only at Charity

_matinées_ with an "all-star" cast.

As before, the plays are printed in the order in which they were

written; in this case between October 1918 and June 1920. May the

reader get as much enjoyment from them as I had in their writing. But

no; that is plainly impossible.

A.A. MILNE.

MAKE-BELIEVE

A CHILDREN'S PLAY IN A PROLOGUE AND THREE ACTS

_Make-Believe_ was first produced at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith,

on December 24, 1918. The chief parts were played by Marjory Holman,

Jean Cadell, Rosa Lynd, Betty Chester, Roy Lennol, John Barclay,

Kinsey Peile, Stanley Drewitt, Ivan Berlyn, and Herbert

Marshall--several parts each.

MAKE-BELIEVE

PROLOGUE

The playroom of the HUBBARD FAMILY--nine of them. Counting MR. and

MRS. HUBBARD, we realize that there are eleven HUBBARDS in all, and

you would think that one at least of the two people we see in the room

would be a HUBBARD of sorts. But no. The tall manly figure is JAMES,

the HUBBARDS' butler, for the HUBBARDS are able to afford a butler

now. How different from the time when Old Mother Hubbard--called "old"

because she was at least twenty-two, and "mother" because she had a

passion for children--could not even find a bone for her faithful

terrier; but, of course, that was before HENRY went into work. Well,

the tall figure is JAMES, the butler, and the little one is ROSEMARY,

a friend of the HUBBARD FAMILY. ROSEMARY is going in for literature

this afternoon, as it's raining, and JAMES is making her quite

comfortable first with pens and ink and blotting-paper--always so

important when one wants to write. He has even thought of a stick of

violet sealing-wax; after that there can be no excuse.

ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. (She sits down.) If any one calls I am not

at home.

JAMES. Yes, Miss.

ROSEMARY. You may add that I am engaged in writing my

auto--autobiography.

JAMES. Yes, Miss.

ROSEMARY. It's what every one writes, isn't it, James?

JAMES. I believe so, Miss.

ROSEMARY. Thank you. (He goes to the door.) Oh, James?

JAMES. Yes, Miss?

ROSEMARY. What _is_ an autobiography?

JAMES. Well, I couldn't rightly say, Miss--not to explain it properly.

ROSEMARY (dismayed). Oh, James! . . . I thought you knew everything.

JAMES. In the ordinary way, yes, Miss, but every now and then----

ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. . . . How would it be to write a play instead? Very

easy work, they tell me.

ROSEMARY (nodding). Yes, that's much better. I'll write a play. Thank

you, James.

JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out.

(ROSEMARY bites her pen, and thinks deeply. At last the inspiration

comes.)

ROSEMARY (as she writes). Make-Believe. M-a-k-e hyphen B-e-l---- (she

stops and frowns) Now which way _is_ it? (She tries it on the

blotting-paper) _That_ looks wrong. (She tries it again) So does that.

Oh, dear! (She rings the bell . . . JAMES returns.)

JAMES. Yes, Miss?

ROSEMARY. James, I have decided to call my play Make-Believe.

JAMES. Yes, Miss.

ROSEMARY (carelessly). When you spell "believe," it is "i-e," isn't

it?

JAMES. Yes, Miss.

ROSEMARY. I thought at first it was "e-i."

JAMES. Now you mention it, I think it is, Miss.

ROSEMARY (reproachfully). Oh, James! Aren't you certain?

JAMES. M-a-k-e, make, B-e-l---- (He stops and scratches his whiskers.)

ROSEMARY. Yes. _I_ got as far as that.

JAMES. B-e-l----

ROSEMARY. You see, James, it spoils the play if you have an accident

to the very first word of it.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. B-e-l----I've noticed sometimes that if one writes a

word careless-like on the blotting-paper, and then looks at it with

the head on one side, there's a sort of instinct comes over one, as

makes one say (with a shake of the head) "Rotten." One can then write

it the other way more hopeful.

ROSEMARY. I've tried that.

JAMES. Then might I suggest, Miss, that you give it another name

altogether? As it might be, "Susan's Saturday Night," all easy words

to spell, or "Red Revenge," or----

ROSEMARY. I _must_ call it Make-Believe, because it's all of the play

I've thought of so far.

JAMES. Quite so, Miss. Then how would it be to spell it wrong on

purpose? It comes funnier that way sometimes.

ROSEMARY. Does it?

JAMES. Yes, Miss. Makes 'em laugh.

ROSEMARY. Oh! . . . Well, which _is_ the wrong way?

JAMES. Ah, there you've got me again, Miss.

ROSEMARY (inspired). I know what I'll do. I'll spell it "i-e"; and if

it's right, then I'm right, and if it's wrong, then I'm funny.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. That's the safest.

ROSEMARY. Thank you, James.

JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out.

ROSEMARY (writing). Make-Believe. A Christmas Entertainment---- (She

stops and thinks, and then shakes her head.) No, play--a Christmas

Play in three acts. Er---- (She is stuck.)

_Enter JAMES_.

JAMES. Beg pardon, Miss, but the Misses and Masters Hubbard are

without, and crave admittance.

ROSEMARY. All nine of them?

JAMES. Without having counted them, Miss, I should say that the

majority of them were present.

ROSEMARY. Did you say that I was not at home?

JAMES. Yes, Miss. They said that, this being their house, and you

being a visitor, if you _had_ been at home, then you wouldn't have

been here. Yumour on the part of Master Bertram, Miss.

ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting when you're writing a play.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. Perhaps they could help you with it. The more the

merrier, as you might say.

ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James. Admit them.

JAMES. Yes, Miss. (He opens the door and says very rapidly) The Misses

Ada, Caroline, Elsie, Gwendoline, and Isabel Hubbard, The Masters

Bertram, Dennis, Frank, and Harold Hubbard. (They come in.)

ROSEMARY. How do you do?

ADA. Rosemary, darling, what _are_ you doing?

BERTRAM. It's like your cheek, bagging our room.

CAROLINE (primly). Hush, Bertram. We ought always to be polite to our

visitors when they stay with us. I am sure, if Rosemary wants our

room----

DENNIS. Oh, chuck it!

ADA (at ROSEMARY'S shoulder). Oh, I say, she's writing a play!

(Uproar and turmoil, as they all rush at ROSEMARY.)

{ THE BOYS. Coo! I say, shove me into it. What's

{ it about? Bet it's awful rot.

{

{ THE GIRLS. Oh, Rosemary! Am _I_ in it? Do tell us

{ about it. Is it for Christmas?

ROSEMARY (in alarm). James, could you----?

JAMES (firmly). Quiet, there, quiet! Down, Master Dennis, down! Miss

Gwendoline, if you wouldn't mind---- (He picks her up and places her

on the floor.) Thank you. (Order is restored.)

ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. . . . Yes, it's a play for Christmas, and it

is called "Make-Believe," and that's all I'm certain about yet, except

that we're all going to be in it.

BERTRAM. Then I vote we have a desert island----

DENNIS. And pirates----

FRANK. And cannibals----

HAROLD (gloatingly). Cannibals eating people--Oo!

CAROLINE (shocked). Harold! How would _you_ like to be eaten by a

cannibal?

DENNIS. Oh, chuck it! How would _you_ like to be a cannibal and have

nobody to eat? (CAROLINE is silent, never having thought of this

before.)

ADA. Let it be a fairy-story, Rosemary, darling. It's so much

_prettier_.

ELSIE. With a lovely princess----

GWENDOLINE. And a humble woodcutter who marries her----

ISABEL (her only contribution). P'itty P'incess.

BERTRAM. Princesses are rot.

ELSIE (with spirit). So are pirates! (Deadlock.)

CAROLINE. _I_ should like something about Father Christmas, and snow,

and waits, and a lovely ball, and everybody getting nice presents and

things.

DENNIS (selfishly, I'm afraid). Bags I all the presents.

(Of course, the others aren't going to have that. They all say so

together.)

ROSEMARY (above the turmoil). James, I _must_ have silence.

JAMES. Silence, all!

ROSEMARY. Thank you. . . . You will be interested to hear that I have

decided to have a Fairy Story _and_ a Desert Island _and_ a Father

Christmas.

ALL. Good! (Or words to that effect)

ROSEMARY (biting her pen). I shall begin with the Fairy Story. (There

is an anxious silence. None of them has ever seen anybody writing a

play before. How does one do it? Alas, ROSEMARY herself doesn't know.

She appeals to JAMES.) James, how _do_ you begin a play? I mean when

you've _got_ the title.

JAMES (a man of genius). Well, Miss Rosemary, seeing that it's to be

called "Make-Believe," why not make-believe as it's written already?

ROSEMARY. What a good idea, James!

JAMES. All that is necessary is for the company to think very hard of

what they want, and--there we are! Saves all the bother of writing and

spelling and what not.

ROSEMARY (admiringly.) James, how clever you are!

JAMES. So-so, Miss Rosemary.

ROSEMARY. Now then, let's all think together. Are you all ready?

ALL. Yes! (They clench their hands.)

ROSEMARY. Then one, two, three--Go!

(They think. . . . The truth is that JAMES, who wasn't really meant to be

in it, thinks too. If there is anything in the play which you don't

like, it is JAMES thinking.)

ACT I.--THE PRINCESS AND THE WOODCUTTER

(The WOODCUTTER is discovered singing at his work, in a glade of the

forest outside his hut. He is tall and strong, and brave and handsome;

all that a woodcutter ought to be. Now it happened that the PRINCESS

was passing, and as soon as his song is finished, sure enough, on she

comes.)

PRINCESS. Good morning, Woodcutter.

WOODCUTTER. Good morning. (But he goes on with his work.)

PRINCESS (after a pause). Good morning, Woodcutter.

WOODCUTTER. Good morning.

PRINCESS. Don't you ever say anything except good morning?

WOODCUTTER. Sometimes I say good-bye.

PRINCESS. You _are_ a cross woodcutter to-day.

WOODCUTTER. I have work to do.

PRINCESS. You are still cutting wood? Don't you ever do anything else?

WOODCUTTER. Well, you are still a Princess; don't _you_ ever do

anything else?

PRINCESS (reproachfully). Now, that's not fair, Woodcutter. You can't

say I was a Princess yesterday, when I came and helped you stack your

wood. Or the day before, when I tied up your hand where you had cut

it. Or the day before that, when we had our meal together on the

grass. Was I a Princess then?

WOODCUTTER. Somehow I think you were. Somehow I think you were saying

to yourself, "Isn't it sweet of a Princess to treat a mere woodcutter

like this?"

PRINCESS. I think you're perfectly horrid. I've a good mind never to

speak to you again. And--and I would, if only I could be sure that you

would notice I wasn't speaking to you.

WOODCUTTER. After all, I'm just as bad as you. Only yesterday I was

thinking to myself how unselfish I was to interrupt my work in order

to talk to a mere Princess.

PRINCESS. Yes, but the trouble is that you _don't_ interrupt your

work.

WOODCUTTER (interrupting it and going up to her with a smile). Madam,

I am at your service.

PRINCESS. I wish I thought you were.

WOODCUTTER. Surely you have enough people at your service already.

Princes and Chancellors and Chamberlains and Waiting Maids.

PRINCESS. Yes, that's just it. That's why I want your help.

Particularly in the matter of the Princes.

WOODCUTTER. Why, has a suitor come for the hand of her Royal Highness?

PRINCESS. Three suitors. And I hate them all.

WOODCUTTER. And which are you going to marry?

PRINCESS. I don't know. Father hasn't made up his mind yet.

WOODCUTTER. And this is a matter which father--which His Majesty

decides for himself?

PRINCESS. Why, of course! You should read the History Books,

Woodcutter. The suitors to the hand of a Princess are always set some

trial of strength or test of quality by the King, and the winner

marries his daughter.

WOODCUTTER. Well, I don't live in a Palace, and I think my own

thoughts about these things. I'd better get back to my work. (He goes

on with his chopping.)

PRINCESS (gently, after a pause). Woodcutter!

WOODCUTTER (looking up). Oh, are you there? I thought you were married

by this time.

PRINCESS (meekly). I don't want to be married. (Hastily) I mean, not

to any of those three.

WOODCUTTER. You can't help yourself.

PRINCESS. I know. That's why I wanted _you_ to help me.

WOODCUTTER (going up to her). Can a simple woodcutter help a Princess?

PRINCESS. Well, perhaps a simple one couldn't, but a clever one might.

WOODCUTTER. What would his reward be?

PRINCESS. His reward would be that the Princess, not being married to

any of her three suitors, would still be able to help him chop his

wood in the mornings. . . . I _am_ helping you, aren't I?

WOODCUTTER (smiling). Oh, decidedly.

PRINCESS (nodding). I thought I was.

WOODCUTTER. It is kind of a great lady like yourself to help so humble

a fellow as I.

PRINCESS (meekly). I'm not _very_ great. (And she isn't. She is the

smallest, daintiest little Princess that ever you saw.)

WOODCUTTER. There's enough of you to make a hundred men unhappy.

PRINCESS. And one man happy?

WOODCUTTER. And one man very, very happy.

PRINCESS (innocently). I wonder who he'll be. . . . Woodcutter, if _you_

were a Prince, would you be my suitor?

WOODCUTTER (scornfully). One of three?

PRINCESS (excitedly). Oo, would you kill the others? With that axe?

WOODCUTTER. I would not kill them, in order to help His Majesty make

up his mind about his son-in-law. But if the Princess had made up her

mind--and wanted me----

PRINCESS. Yes?

WOODCUTTER. Then I would marry her, however many suitors she had.

PRINCESS. Well, she's only got three at present.

WOODCUTTER. What is that to me?

PRINCESS. Oh, I just thought you might want to be doing something to

your axe.

WOODCUTTER. My axe?

PRINCESS. Yes. You see, she _has_ made up her mind.

WOODCUTTER (amazed). You mean--But--but I'm only a woodcutter.

PRINCESS. That's where you'll have the advantage of them, when it

comes to axes.

WOODCUTTER. Princess! (He takes her in his arms) My Princess!

PRINCESS. Woodcutter! My woodcutter! My, oh so very slow and

uncomprehending, but entirely adorable woodcutter!

(They sing together. They just happen to feel like that)

WOODCUTTER (the song finished). But what will His Majesty say?

PRINCESS. All sorts of things. . . . Do you really love me, woodcutter,

or have I proposed to you under a misapprehension?

WOODCUTTER. I adore you!

PRINCESS (nodding). I thought you did. But I wanted to hear you say

it. If I had been a simple peasant, I suppose you would have said it a

long time ago?

WOODCUTTER. I expect so.

PRINCESS (nodding). Yes. . . . Well, now we must think of a plan for

making Mother like you.

WOODCUTTER. Might I just kiss you again before we begin?

PRINCESS. Well, I don't quite see how I am to stop you.

(The WOODCUTTER picks her up in his arms and kisses her.)

WOODCUTTER. There!

PRINCESS (in his arms). Oh, Woodcutter, woodcutter, why didn't you do

that the first day I saw you? Then I needn't have had the bother of

proposing to you. (He puts her down suddenly) What is it?

WOODCUTTER (listening). Somebody coming. (He peers through the trees

and then says in surprise) The King!

PRINCESS. Oh! I must fly!

WOODCUTTER. But you'll come back?

PRINCESS. Perhaps.

[She disappears quickly through the trees.

(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and is discovered at it a minute

later by the KING and QUEEN.)

KING (puffing). Ah! and a seat all ready for us. How satisfying. (They

sit down, a distinguished couple--reading from left to right, "KING,

QUEEN"--on a bench outside the WOODCUTTER'S hut.)

QUEEN (crossly--she was like that). I don't know why you dragged me

here.

KING. As I told you, my love, to be alone.

QUEEN. Well, you aren't alone. (She indicates the WOODCUTTER.)

KING. Pooh, he doesn't matter. . . . Well now, about these three Princes.

They are getting on my mind rather. It is time we decided which one of

them is to marry our beloved child. The trouble is to choose between

them.

QUEEN. As regards appetite, there is nothing to choose between them.

They are three of the heartiest eaters I have met for some time.

KING. You are right. The sooner we choose one of them, and send the

other two about their business, the better. (Reflectively) There were

six peaches on the breakfast-table this morning. Did I get one? No.

QUEEN. Did _I_ get one? No.

KING. Did our darling child get one--not that it matters? No.

QUEEN. It is a pity that the seven-headed bull died last year.

KING. Yes, he had a way of sorting out competitors for the hand of our

beloved one that was beyond all praise. One could have felt quite sure

that, had the three competitors been introduced to him, only one of

them would have taken any further interest in the matter.

QUEEN (always the housekeeper). And even he mightn't have taken any

interest in his meals.

KING (with a sigh). However, those days are over. We must think of a

new test. Somehow I think that, in a son-in-law, moral worth is even

more to be desired than mere brute strength. Now my suggestion is

this: that you should disguise yourself as a beggar woman and approach

each of the three princes in turn, supplicating their charity. In this

way we shall discover which of the three has the kindest heart. What

do you say, my dear?

QUEEN. An excellent plan. If you remember, I suggested it myself

yesterday.

KING (annoyed). Well, of course, it had been in my mind for some time.

I don't claim that the idea is original; it has often been done in our

family. (Getting up) Well then, if you will get ready, my dear, I will

go and find our three friends and see that they come this way.

[They go out together.

(As soon as they are out of sight the PRINCESS comes back.)

PRINCESS. Well, Woodcutter, what did I tell you?

WOODCUTTER. What did you tell me?

PRINCESS. Didn't you listen to what they said?

WOODCUTTER. I didn't listen, but I couldn't help hearing.

PRINCESS. Well, _I_ couldn't help listening. And unless you stop it

somehow, I shall be married to one of them to-night.

WOODCUTTER. Which one?

PRINCESS. The one with the kindest heart--whichever that is.

WOODCUTTER. Supposing they all three have kind hearts?

PRINCESS (confidently). They won't. They never have. In our circles

when three Princes come together, one of them has a kind heart and the

other two haven't. (Surprised) Haven't you read any History at all?

WOODCUTTER. I have no time for reading. But I think it's time History

was altered a little. We'll alter it this afternoon.

PRINCESS. What do you mean?

WOODCUTTER. Leave this to me. I've got an idea.

PRINCESS (clapping her hands). Oh, how clever of you! But what do you

want me to do?

WOODCUTTER (pointing). You know the glade over there where the brook

runs through it? Wait for me there.

PRINCESS. I obey my lord's commands.

[She blows him a kiss and runs off

(The WOODCUTTER resumes his work. By and by the RED PRINCE comes

along. He is a--well, you will see for yourself what he is like.)

RED PRINCE. Ah, fellow. . . . Fellow! . . . I said fellow! (Yes, that sort

of man.)

WOODCUTTER (looking up.) Were you speaking to me, my lord?

RED PRINCE. There is no other fellow here that I can see.

(The WOODCUTTER looks round to make sure, peers behind a tree or two,

and comes back to the PRINCE.)

WOODCUTTER. Yes, you must have meant me.

RED PRINCE. Yes, of course I meant you, fellow. Have you seen the

Princess come past this way? I was told she was waiting for me here.

WOODCUTTER. She is not here, my lord. (Looking round to see that they

are alone) My lord, are you one of the Princes who is seeking the hand

of the Princess.

RED PRINCE (complacently). I am, fellow.

WOODCUTTER. His Majesty the King was here a while ago. He is to make

his decision between you this afternoon. (Meaningly) I think I can

help you to be the lucky one, my lord.

RED PRINCE. You suggest that I take an unfair advantage over my

fellow-competitors?

WOODCUTTER. I suggest nothing, my lord. I only say that I can help

you.

RED PRINCE (magnanimously). Well, I will allow you to help me.

WOODCUTTER. Thank you. Then I will give you this advice. If a beggar

woman asks you for a crust of bread this afternoon, remember--it is

the test!

RED PRINCE (staggered). The test! But I haven't _got_ a crust of

bread!

WOODCUTTER. Wait here and I will get you one.

(He goes into the hut)

RED PRINCE (speaking after him as he goes). My good fellow, I am

extremely obliged to you, and if ever I can do anything for you, such

as returning a crust to you of similar size, or even lending you

another slightly smaller one, or---- (The WOODCUTTER comes back with

the crust.) Ah, thank you, my man, thank you.

WOODCUTTER. I would suggest, my lord, that you should take a short

walk in this direction (pointing to the opposite direction to that

which the PRINCESS has taken), and stroll back casually in a few

minutes' time when the Queen is here.

RED PRINCE. Thank you, my man, thank you.

(He puts the crust in his pocket and goes off.) (The WOODCUTTER goes

on with his work. The BLUE PRINCE comes in and stands watching him in

silence for some moments.) WOODCUTTER (looking up). Hullo!

BLUE PRINCE. Hullo!

WOODCUTTER. What do you want?

BLUE PRINCE. The Princess.

WOODCUTTER. She's not here.

BLUE PRINCE. Oh!

(The WOODCUTTER goes on with his work and the PRINCE goes on looking

at him.)

WOODCUTTER (struck with an idea). Are you one of the Princes who is

wooing the Princess?

BLUE PRINCE. Yes.

WOODCUTTER (coming towards him). I believe I could help your Royal

Highness.

BLUE PRINCE. DO.

WOODCUTTER (doubtfully). It would perhaps be not Quite fair to the

others.

BLUE PRINCE. Don't mind.

WOODCUTTER. Well then, listen. (He pauses a moment and looks round to

see that they are alone.)

BLUE PRINCE. I'm listening.

WOODCUTTER. If you come back in five minutes, you will see a beggar

woman sitting here. She will ask you for a crust of bread. You must

give it to her, for it is the way His Majesty has chosen of testing

your kindness of heart.

BLUE PRINCE (feeling in his pockets). No bread.

WOODCUTTER. I will give you some.

BLUE PRINCE. Do.

WOODCUTTER (taking a piece from his pocket). Here you are.

BLUE PRINCE. Thanks.

WOODCUTTER. Not at all, I'm very glad to have been able to help you.

(He goes on with his work. The BLUE PRINCE remains looking at him.)

BLUE PRINCE (with a great effort). Thanks.

(He goes slowly away. A moment later the YELLOW PRINCE makes a

graceful and languid entry.)

YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, come hither, my man, come hither.

WOODCUTTER (stopping his work and looking up). You want me, sir?

YELLOW PRINCE. Come hither, my man. Tell me, has her Royal Highness

the Princess passed this way lately?

WOODCUTTER. The Princess?

YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, the Princess, my bumpkin. But perhaps you have

been too much concerned in your own earthy affairs to have noticed

her. You--ah--cut wood, I see.

WOODCUTTER. Yes, sir, I am a woodcutter.

YELLOW PRINCE. A most absorbing life. Some day we must have a long

talk about it. But just now I have other business waiting for me. With

your permission, good friend, I will leave you to your faggots. (He

starts to go.)

WOODCUTTER. Beg your pardon, sir, but are you one of those Princes

that want to marry our Princess?

YELLOW PRINCE. I had hoped, good friend, to obtain your permission to

do so. I beg you not to refuse it.

WOODCUTTER. You are making fun of me, sir.

YELLOW PRINCE. Discerning creature.

WOODCUTTER. All the same, I _can_ help you.

YELLOW PRINCE. Then pray do so, log-chopper, and earn my everlasting

gratitude.

WOODCUTTER. The King has decided that whichever of you three Princes

has the kindest heart shall marry his daughter.

YELLOW PRINCE. Then you will be able to bear witness to him that I

have already wasted several minutes of my valuable time in

condescending to a mere faggot-splitter. Tell him this and the prize

is mine. (Kissing the tips of his fingers) Princess, I embrace you.

WOODCUTTER. The King will not listen to me. But if you return here in

five minutes, you will find an old woman begging for bread. It is the

test which their Majesties have arranged for you. If you share your

last crust with her--

YELLOW PRINCE. Yes, but do I look as if I carried a last crust about

with me?

WOODCUTTER. But see, I will give you one.

YELLOW PRINCE (taking it between the tips of his fingers). Yes, but--

WOODCUTTER. Put it in your pocket, and when--

YELLOW PRINCE. But, my dear bark-scraper, have you no feeling for

clothes at all? How can I put a thing like this in my pocket? (Handing

it back to him) I beg you to wrap it up. Here take this. (Gives him a

scarf) Neatly, I pray you. (Taking an orange ribbon out of his pocket)

Perhaps a little of this round it would make it more tolerable. You

think so? I leave it to you. I trust your taste entirely. . . . Leaving a

loop for the little finger, I entreat you . . . so. (He hangs it on his

little finger) In about five minutes, you said? We will be there.

(With a bow) We thank you.

(He departs delicately. The WOODCUTTER smiles to himself, puts down

his axe and goes off to the PRINCESS. And just in time. For behold!

the KING and QUEEN return. At least we think it is the QUEEN, but she

is so heavily disguised by a cloak which she wears over her court

dress, that for a moment we are not quite sure.)

KING. Now then, my love, if you will sit down on that log

there--(placing her)--excellent--I think perhaps you should remove the

crown. (Removes it) There! Now the disguise is perfect.

QUEEN. You're sure they are coming? It's a very uncomfortable seat.

KING. I told them that the Princess was waiting for them here. Their

natural disappointment at finding I was mistaken will make the test of

their good nature an even more exacting one. My own impression is that

the Yellow Prince will be the victor.

QUEEN. Oh, I hate that man.

KING (soothingly). Well, well, perhaps it will be the Blue one.

QUEEN. If anything, I dislike him _more_ intensely.

KING. Or even the Red.

QUEEN. Ugh! I can't bear him.

KING. Fortunately, dear, you are not called upon to marry any of them.

It is for our darling that we are making the great decision. Listen! I

hear one coming. I will hide in the cottage and take note of what

happens.

(He disappears into the cottage as the BLUE PRINCE comes in.)

QUEEN. Oh, sir, can you kindly spare a crust of bread for a poor old

woman! Please, pretty gentleman!

BLUE PRINCE (standing stolidly in front of her and feeling in his

pocket). Bread . . . Bread . . . Ah! Bread! (He offers it.)

QUEEN. Oh, thank you, sir. May you be rewarded for your gentle heart.

BLUE PRINCE. Thank you.

(He stands gazing at her. There is an awkward pause.)

QUEEN. A blessing on you, sir.

BLUE PRINCE. Thank you. (He indicates the crust) Bread.

QUEEN. Ah, you have saved the life of a poor old woman----

BLUE PRINCE. Eat it.

QUEEN (embarrassed). I--er--you--er---(She takes a bite and mumbles

something.)

BLUE PRINCE. What?

QUEEN (swallowing with great difficulty). I'm almost too happy to eat,

sir. Leave a poor old woman alone with her happiness, and---

BLUE PRINCE. Not too happy. Too weak. Help you eat. (He breaks off a

piece and holds it to her mouth. With a great effort the QUEEN

disposes of it.) Good! . . . Again! (She does it again.) Now! (She

swallows another piece.) Last piece! (She takes it in. He pats her

kindly on the back, and she nearly chokes.) Good. . . . Better now?

QUEEN (weakly). Much.

BLUE PRINCE. Good day.

QUEEN (with an effort). Good day, kind gentleman.

[He goes out.

(The KING is just coming from the cottage, when he returns suddenly.

The KING slips back again.)

BLUE PRINCE. Small piece left over. (He gives it to her. She looks

hopelessly at him.) Good-bye.

[He goes.

QUEEN (throwing the piece down violently). Ugh! What a man!

KING (coming out). Well, well, my dear, we have discovered the winner.

QUEEN (from the heart). Detestable person!

KING. The rest of the competition is of course more in the nature of a

formality--

QUEEN. Thank goodness.

KING. However, I think that it will prevent unnecessary discussion

afterwards if we--Take care, here is another one. (He hurries back.)

_Enter the RED PRINCE_.

QUEEN (with not nearly so much conviction). Could you spare a crust of

bread, sir, for a poor hungry old woman?

RED PRINCE. A crust of bread, madam? Certainly. As luck will have it,

I have a crust on me. My last one, but--your need is greater than

mine. Eat, I pray.

QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir.

RED PRINCE. Not at all. Come, eat. Let me have the pleasure of seeing

you eating.

QUEEN. M-might I take it home with me, pretty gentleman?

RED PRINCE (firmly). No, no. I must see you eating. Come! I will take

no denial.

QUEEN. Th-thank you, sir. (Hopefully) Won't you share it with me?

RED PRINCE. No, I insist on your having it all. I am in the mood to be

generous. Oblige me by eating it now for I am in a hurry; yet I will

not go until you have eaten. (She does her best.) You eat but slowly.

(Sternly) Did you deceive me when you said you were hungry?

QUEEN. N-no. I'm very hungry. (She eats)

RED PRINCE. That's better. Now understand--however poor I am, I can

always find a crust of bread for an old woman. Always! Remember this

when next you are hungry. . . . You spoke? (She shakes her head and goes

on eating.) Finished?

QUEEN (with great difficulty). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman.

RED PRINCE. There's a piece on the ground there that you dropped. (She

eats it in dumb agony) Finished?

QUEEN (huskily). Yes, thank you, pretty gentleman.

RED PRINCE. Then I will leave you, madam. Good morning.

[He goes out.

(The QUEEN rises in fury. The KING is about to come out of the

cottage, when the YELLOW PRINCE enters. The QUEEN sits down again and

mumbles something. It is certainly not an appeal for bread, but the

YELLOW PRINCE is not to be denied.)

YELLOW PRINCE (gallantly). My poor woman, you are in distress. It

pains me to see it, madam, it pains me terribly. Can it be that you

are hungry? I thought so, I thought so. Give me the great pleasure,

madam, of relieving your hunger. See (holding up his finger), my own

poor meal. Take it! It is yours.

QUEEN (with difficulty). I am not hungry.

YELLOW PRINCE. Ah, madam, I see what it is. You do not wish to deprive

me. You tell yourself, perchance, that it is not fitting that one in

your station of life should partake of the meals of the highly born.

You are not used, you say, to the food of Princes. Your rougher

palate----

QUEEN (hopefully). Did you say food of princes?

YELLOW PRINCE. Where was I, madam? You interrupted me. No matter--eat.

(She takes the scarf and unties the ribbon.) Ah, now I remember. I was

saying that your rougher palate---

QUEEN (discovering the worst). No! No! Not bread!

YELLOW PRINCE. Bread, madam, the staff of life. Come, madam, will you

not eat? (She tries desperately.) What can be more delightful than a

crust of bread by the wayside?

(The QUEEN shrieks and falls back in a swoon. The KING rushes out to

her.)

KING (to YELLOW PRINCE). Quick, quick, find the Princess.

YELLOW PRINCE. The Princess--find the Princess! (He goes vaguely off

and we shall not see him again. But the WOODCUTTER and the PRINCESS do

not need to be found. They are here.)

WOODCUTTER (to PRINCESS). Go to her, but don't show that you know me.

(He goes into the cottage, and the PRINCESS hastens to her father.)

PRINCESS. Father!

KING. Ah, my dear, you're just in time. Your mother---

PRINCESS. My mother?

KING. Yes, yes. A little plan of mine--of hers--your poor mother.

Dear, dear!

PRINCESS. But what's the matter?

KING. She is suffering from a surfeit of bread, and---

(The WOODCUTTER comes up with a flagon of wine)

WOODCUTTER. Poor old woman! She has fainted from exhaustion. Let me

give her some---

QUEEN (shrieking). No, no, not bread! I will _not_ have any more

bread.

WOODCUTTER. Drink this, my poor woman.

QUEEN (opening her eyes). Did you say drink? (She seizes the flagon

and drinks)

PRINCESS. Oh, sir, you have saved my mother's life!

WOODCUTTER. Not at all.

KING. I thank you, my man, I thank you.

QUEEN. My deliverer! Tell me who you are!

PRINCESS. It is my mother, the Queen, who asks you.

WOODCUTTER (amazed, as well he may be). The Queen!

KING. Yes, yes. Certainly, the Queen.

WOODCUTTER (taking off his hat). Pardon, your Majesty. I am a

woodcutter, who lives alone here, far away from courts.

QUEEN. Well, you've got more sense in your head than any of the

Princes that _I've_ seen lately. You'd better come to court.

PRINCESS (shyly). You will be very welcome, sir.

QUEEN. And you'd better marry the Princess.

KING. Isn't that perhaps going a _little_ too far, dear?

QUEEN. Well, you wanted kindness of heart in your son-in-law, and

you've got it. And he's got common sense too. (To WOODCUTTER) Tell me,

what do you think of bread as--as a form of nourishment?

WOODCUTTER (cautiously). One can have too much of it.

QUEEN. Exactly my view. (To KING) There you are, you see.

KING. Well, if you insist. The great thing, of course, is that our

darling child should be happy.

PRINCESS. I will do my best, father. (She takes the WOODCUTTER'S

hand.)

KING. Then the marriage will take place this evening. (With a wave of

his wand) Let the revels begin.

(They begin)

ACT II.--OLIVER'S ISLAND

SCENE I.--The Schoolroom (Ugh!)

(OLIVER is discovered lying flat on his--well, lying flat on the

floor, deep in a book. The CURATE puts his head in at the door.)

CURATE. Ah, our young friend, Oliver! And how are we this morning,

dear lad?

OLIVER (mumbling). All right, thanks.

CURATE. That's well, that's well. Deep in our studies, I see, deep in

our studies. And what branch of Knowledge are we pursuing this

morning?

OLIVER (without looking up). "Marooned in the Pacific," or "The

Pirate's Bride."

CURATE. Dear, dear, what will Miss Pinniger say to this interruption

of our studies?

OLIVER. Silly old beast.

CURATE. Tut-tut, dear lad, that is not the way to speak of our mentors

and preceptors. So refined and intelligent a lady as Miss Pinniger.

Indeed I came here to see her this morning on a little matter of

embroidered vestments. Where is she, dear lad?

OLIVER. It isn't nine yet.

CURATE (looking at his watch). Past nine, past nine.

OLIVER (jumping up). Je-hoshaphat!

CURATE. Oliver! Oliver! My dear lad! Swearing at _your_ age! Really, I

almost feel it my duty to inform your aunt---

OLIVER. Fat lot of swearing in just mentioning one of the Kings of

Israel.

CURATE. Of Judah, dear boy, of Judah. To be ignorant on such a vital

matter makes it even more reprehensible. I cannot believe that our

dear Miss Pinniger has so neglected your education that----

_Enter our dear MISS PINNIGER, the Governess_.

GOVERNESS. Ah, Mr. Smilax; how pleasant to see you!

CURATE. My dear Miss Pinniger! You will forgive me for interrupting

you in your labours, but there is a small matter of--ah!---

GOVERNESS. Certainly, Mr. Smilax. I will walk down to the gate with

you. Oliver, where is Geraldine?

OLIVER. Aunt Jane wanted her.

GOVERNESS. Well, you should be at your lessons. It's nine o'clock. The

fact that I am momentarily absent from the room should make no

difference to your zeal.

OLIVER (without conviction). No, Miss Pinniger. (He sits down at his

desk, putting "Marooned in the Pacific" inside it.)

CURATE (playfully). For men must work, Oliver, men must work. How doth

the little busy bee--Yes, Miss Pinniger, I am with you. [They go

out.

OLIVER (opening his poetry book and saying it to himself). It was a

summer evening--It was a summer evening--(He stops, refers to the

book, and then goes on to himself) Old Kaspar's work was done. It was

a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done---

_Enter GERALDINE--or JILL_.

JILL. Where's Pin?

OLIVER. Hallo, Jill. Gone off with Dearly Belovéd. Her momentary

absence from the room should make no difference to your zeal, my dear

Geraldine. And what are we studying this morning, dear child? (To

himself) It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done.

JILL (giggling). Is that Pin?

OLIVER. Pin and Dearly Belovéd between them. She's a bit batey this

morning.

JILL (at her desk). And all my sums have done themselves wrong. (Hard

at it with paper and pencil) What's nine times seven, Oliver?

OLIVER. Fifty-six. Old Kaspar's work was done. Jolly well wish mine

was. And he before his cottage door. Fat lot of good my learning this

stuff if I'm going to be a sailor. I bet Beatty didn't mind what

happened to rotten old Kaspar when he saw a German submarine.

JILL. Six and carry five. Aunt Jane has sent for the doctor to look at

my chest.

OLIVER. What's the matter with your chest?

JILL. I blew my nose rather loud at prayers this morning.

OLIVER. I say, Jill, you _are_ going it!

JILL. It wasn't my fault, Oliver. Aunt Jane turned over two pages at

once and made me laugh, so I had to turn it into a blow.

OLIVER. Bet you what you like she knew.

JILL. Of course she did, and she'll tell the doctor, and he'll be as

beastly as he can. What did she say to you for being late?

OLIVER. I said somebody had bagged my sponge, and she wouldn't like me

to come down to prayers all unsponged, and she said, "Excuses, Oliver,

_always_ excuses! Leave me. I will see you later." Suppose that means

I've got to go to bed this afternoon. Jill, if I do, be sporty and

bring me up "Marooned in the Pacific."

JILL. They'll lock the door. They always do.

OLIVER. Then I shall jolly well go up for a handkerchief this morning,

and shove it in the bed, just in case. Cavé--here's Pin.

MISS PINNIGER _returns to find them full of zeal_.

GOVERNESS (sitting down at her desk). Well, Oliver, have you learnt

your piece of poetry?

OLIVER (nervously). I--I think so, Miss Pinniger.

GOVERNESS. Close the book, and stand up and say it. (Oliver takes a

last despairing look, and stands up.) Well?

OLIVER. It was a summer evening---

GOVERNESS. The title and the author first, Oliver. Everything in its

proper order.

OLIVER. Oh, I say, I didn't know I had to learn the title.

JILL (in a whisper). After Blenheim.

GOVERNESS. Geraldine, kindly attend to your own work.

OLIVER. After Blenheim. It was a summer evening.

GOVERNESS. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey. One of our greatest

poets.

OLIVER. After Blenheim, by Robert Southey, one of our greatest poets.

It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done--er--Old Kaspar's

work was done--er--work was done, er . . .

GOVERNESS. And he before---

OLIVER. Oh yes, of course. And he before--er--and he before--er--It

was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, and he

before--er--and he before--- Er, it _was_ a summer evening---

GOVERNESS. So you have already said, Oliver.

OLIVER. I just seem to have forgotten this bit, Miss Pinniger. And he

before---

GOVERNESS. Well, what was he before?

OLIVER (hopefully). Blenheim? Oh no, it was _after_ Blenheim.

GOVERNESS (wearily). His cottage door.

OLIVER. Oo, yes. And he before his cottage door was sitting in the

sun. (He clears his throat) Was sitting in the sun. Er--(He coughs

again)--er---

GOVERNESS. You have a cough, Oliver. Perhaps the doctor had better see

you when he comes to see Geraldine.

OLIVER. It was just something tickling my throat, Miss Pinniger.

Er--it was a summer evening.

GOVERNESS. You haven't learnt it, Oliver?

OLIVER. Yes, I have, Miss Pinniger, only I can't quite remember it.

And he before his cottage door---

GOVERNESS. Is it any good, Geraldine, asking you if you have got any

of your sums right?

JILL. I've got one, Miss Pinniger . . . nearly right . . . except for some

of the figures.

GOVERNESS. Well, we shall have to spend more time at our lessons,

that's all. This afternoon--ah--er---

(She stands up as AUNT JANE and the DOCTOR come in.)

AUNT JANE. I'm sorry to interrupt lessons, Miss Pinniger, but I have

brought the Doctor to see Geraldine. (To DOCTOR) You will like her to

go to her room?

DOCTOR. No, no, dear lady. There is no need. Her pulse--(He feels

it)---dear, dear! Her tongue--(She puts it out)--tut-tut! A milk diet,

plenty of rice-pudding, and perhaps she would do well to go to bed

this afternoon.

AUNT JANE. I will see to it, doctor.

JILL (mutinously). I _feel_ quite well.

DOCTOR (to AUNT JANE). A dangerous symptom. _Plenty_ of rice-pudding.

GOVERNESS. Oliver was coughing just now.

OLIVER (to himself). Shut up!

DOCTOR (turning to OLIVER). Ah! His pulse--(Feels it)--tut-tut! His

tongue--(OLIVER puts it out) Dear, dear! The same treatment, dear

lady, as prescribed in the other case.

OLIVER (under his breath). Beast!

AUNT JANE. Castor-oil, liquorice-powder, ammoniated quinine--anything

of that nature, doctor?

DOCTOR. _As_ necessary, dear lady, _as_ necessary. The system must be

stimulated. Nature must be reinforced.

AUNT JANE (to GOVERNESS). Which do they dislike least?

OLIVER and JILL (hastily). Liquorice-powder!

DOCTOR. Then concentrate on the other two, dear lady.

AUNT JANE. Thank you, doctor. [They go out.

GOVERNESS. We will now go on with our lessons. Oliver, you will have

opportunities in your bedroom this afternoon of learning your poetry.

By the way, I had better have that book which you were reading when I

came in just now.

OLIVER (trying to be surprised). Which book?

JILL (nobly doing her best to save the situation). Miss Pinniger, if

you're multiplying rods, poles, or perches by nine, does it matter

if---

GOVERNESS. I am talking to Oliver, Geraldine. Where is that book,

Oliver?

OLIVER. Oh, _I_ know the one you mean. I must have put it down

somewhere. (He looks vaguely about the room.)

GOVERNESS. Perhaps you put it in your desk.

OLIVER. My desk?

JILL (going up to MISS PINNIGER with her work). You see, it's all gone

wrong here, and I think I must have multiplied---- (Moving in front of

her as she moves) I think I must have multiplied----

(Under cover of this, OLIVER makes a great effort to get the book into

JILL'S desk, but it is no good.)

GOVERNESS (brushing aside JILL and advancing on OLIVER). Thank you,

_I_ will take it.

OLIVER (looking at the title). Oh yes, this is the one.

GOVERNESS. And I will speak to your aunt at _once_ about the behaviour

of both of you. [She goes out.

OLIVER (gallantly). _I_ don't care.

JILL. I did try to help you, Oliver.

OLIVER. You wait. Won't I jolly well bag something of hers one day,

just when she wants it.

JILL. I'm afraid you'll find the afternoon rather tiring without your

book. What will you do?

OLIVER. I suppose I shall have to think.

JILL. What shall you think about?

OLIVER. I shall think I'm on my desert island.

JILL. Which desert island?

OLIVER. The one I always pretend I'm on when I'm thinking.

JILL. Isn't there any one else on it ever?

OLIVER. Oo, lots of pirates and Dyaks and cannibals and--other people.

JILL. What sort of other people?

OLIVER. I shan't tell you. This is a special think I thought last

night. As soon as I thought of it, I decided to keep it for

(impressively) a moment of great emergency.

JILL (silenced). Oh! . . . Oliver?

OLIVER Yes?

JILL. Let me be on your desert island this time. Because I did try to

help you.

OLIVER. Well--well---- (Generously) Well, you can if you like.

JILL. Oh, thank you, Oliver. Won't you tell me what it's about, and

then we can both think it together this afternoon.

OLIVER. I expect you'll think all sorts of silly things that _never_

happen on a desert island.

JILL. I'll try not to, Oliver, if you tell me.

OLIVER. All right.

JILL (coming close to him). Go on.

OLIVER. Well, you see, I've been wrecked, you see, and the ship has

foundered with all hands, you see, and I've been cast ashore on a

desert island, you see.

JILL. Haven't I been cast ashore too?

OLIVER. Well, you will be this afternoon, of course. Well, you see, we

land on the island, you see, and it's a perfectly ripping island, you

see, and--and we land on it, you see, and. . . .

* * * * *

(But we are getting on too fast. When the good ship crashed upon the

rock and split in twain, it seemed like that all aboard must perish.

Fortunately OLIVER was made of stern mettle. Hastily constructing a

raft and placing the now unconscious JILL upon it, he launched it into

the seething maelstrom of waters and pushed off. Tossed like a

cockle-shell upon the mountainous waves, the tiny craft with its

precious freight was in imminent danger of foundering. But OLIVER was

made of stern mettle. With dauntless courage he rigged a jury-mast,

and placed a telescope to his eye. "Pull for the lagoon, JILL," cried

the dauntless OLIVER, and in another moment. . . .)

(As the raft glides into the still waters beyond the reef, we can see

it more clearly. Can it be JILL'S bed, with OLIVER in his pyjamas

perched on the rail, and holding up his bath-towel? Does he shorten

sail for a moment to thump his chest and say, "But OLIVER was made of

stern mettle"? Or is it----)

(But the sun is sinking behind the swamp where the rattlesnakes bask.

For a moment longer the sail gleams like copper in its rays, and

then--fizz-z--we have lost it. See! Is that speck on the inky black

waters the dauntless Oliver? It is. Let us follow to the island and

see what adventures befall him.)

SCENE II.--It is the island which we have dreamed about all our lives.

But at present we cannot see it properly, for it is dark. In one of

those tropical darknesses which can be felt rather than seen OLIVER

hands JILL out of the boat.

OLIVER. Tread carefully, Jill, there are lots of deadly rattlesnakes

about.

JILL (stepping hastily back into the boat). Oli-ver!

OLIVER. You hear the noise of their rattles sometimes when the sun is

sinking behind the swamp. (The deadly rattle of the rattlesnake is

heard) There!

JILL. Oh, Oliver, are they very deadly? Because if they are, I don't

think I shall like your island.

OLIVER. Those aren't. I always have their teeth taken out when ladies

are coming. Besides, it's daylight now.

(With a rapidity common in the tropics--although it may just be

OLIVER'S gallantry--the sun climbs out of the sea, and floods the

island, JILL, no longer frightened, steps out of the boat, and they

walk up to the clearing in the middle.)

JILL (looking about her). Oh, what a lovely island! I think it's

lovely, Oliver.

OLIVER (modestly). It's pretty decent, isn't it? Won't you lie down? I

generally lie down here and watch the turtles coming out of the sea to

deposit their eggs on the sand.

JILL (lying down). How many do they de-deposit usually, Oliver?

OLIVER. Oh, three--or a hundred. Just depends how hungry I am. Have a

bull's-eye, won't you?

JILL (excitedly). Oh, did you bring some?

OLIVER (annoyed). Bring some? (Brightening up) Oh, you mean from the

wreck?

JILL (hastily). Yes, from the wreck. I mean besides the axe and the

bag of nails and the gunpowder.

OLIVER. Couldn't. The ship sank with all hands before I could get

them. But it doesn't matter, because (going up to one of the trees) I

recognise this as the bull's-eye tree. (He picks a couple of

bull's-eyes and gives one to her.)

JILL. Oh, Oliver, how lovely! Thank you. (She puts it in her mouth.)

OLIVER (sucking hard). There was nothing but breadfruit trees here the

first time I was marooned on it. Rotten things to have on a decent

island. So I planted a bull's-eye tree, and a barley-sugar-cane grove,

and one or two other things, and made a jolly ripping place of it.

JILL (pointing). What's that tree over there?

OLIVER. That one? Rice-pudding tree.

JILL (getting up indignantly). Oliver! Take me back to the boat at

once.

OLIVER. I say, shut up, Jill. You didn't think I meant it for _you_,

did you?

JILL. But there's only you and me on the island.

OLIVER. What about the domestic animals? I suppose _they've_ got to

eat.

JILL. Oh, how lovely! Have we got a goat and a parrot, and a--a--

OLIVER. Much better than that. Look in that cage there.

JILL. Oh, is that a cage? I never noticed it. What do I do?

OLIVER (going to it). Here, I'll show you (He draws the blind, and the

DOCTOR is exposed sitting on a stump of wood and blinking at the

sudden light) What do you think of that?

JILL. Oliver!

OLIVER (proudly). I thought of that in bed one night. Spiffing idea,

isn't it? I've got some other ones in the plantation over there.

Awfully good specimens. I feed 'em on rice-pudding.

JILL. Can this one talk?

OLIVER. I'm teaching it. (Stirring it up with a stick) Come up there.

DOCTOR (mumbling). Ninety-nine, ninety-nine . . .

OLIVER. That's all it can say at present. I'm going to give it a swim

in the lagoon to-morrow. I want to see if there are any sharks. If

there aren't, then we can bathe there afterwards.

(The DOCTOR shudders.)

JILL. Have you given it a name yet? I think I should like to call it

Fluffkins.

OLIVER. Righto! Good night, Fluffkins. Time little doctors were in

bed. (He pulls down the blind.)

JILL (lying down again). Well, I think it's a lovely island.

OLIVER (lying beside her). If there's anything you want, you know,

you've only got to say so. Pirates or anything like that. There's a

ginger-beer well if you're thirsty.

JILL (closing her eyes). I'm quite happy, Oliver, thank you.

OLIVER (after a pause, a little awkwardly). Jill, you didn't ever want

to marry a pirate, did you?

JILL (still on her back with her eyes shut). I hadn't thought about it

much, Oliver dear.

OLIVER. Because I can get you an awfully decent pirate, if you like,

and if I was his brother-in-law it would be ripping. I've often been

marooned with him, of course, but never as his brother-in-law.

JILL. Why don't you marry his daughter and be his son-in-law?

OLIVER. He hasn't got a daughter.

JILL. Well, you could think him one.

OLIVER. I don't want to. If ever I'm such a silly ass as to marry,

which I'm jolly well not going to be, I shall marry a--a dusky maiden.

Jill, be sporty. All girls have to get married some time. It's

different with men.

JILL. Very well, Oliver. I don't want to spoil your afternoon.

OLIVER. Good biz. (He stands up, shuts his eyes and waves his hands

about.)

[Enter the PIRATE CHIEF.

PIRATE CHIEF (with a flourish). Gentles, your servant. Commodore

Crookshank, at your service. Better known on the Spanish Main as

One-eared Eric.

OLIVER. Glad to meet you, Commodore. I'm--er-- Two-toed Thomas, the

Terror of the Dyaks. But you may call me Oliver, if you like. This is

my sister Jill--the Pride of the Pampas.

PIRATE CHIEF (with another bow). Charmed!

JILL (politely). Don't mention it, Commodore.

OLIVER. My sister wants to marry you. Er--carry on. (He moves a little

away from them and lies down.)

JILL (sitting down and indicating a place beside her). Won't you sit

down, Commodore?

PIRATE CHIEF. Thank you, madam. The other side if I may. I shall hear

better if you condescend to accept me. (He sits down on the other side

of her.)

JILL. Oh, I'm so sorry! I was forgetting about your ear.

PIRATE CHIEF. Don't mention it. A little discussion in the La Plata

river with a Spanish gentleman. At the end of it I was an ear short

and he was a head short. It was considered in the family that I had

won.

(There is an awkward pause.)

JILL (shyly). Well, Commodore?

PIRATE CHIEF. Won't you call me Eric?

JILL. I am waiting, Eric.

PIRATE CHIEF. Madam, I am not a marrying man, not to any extent, but

if you would care to be Mrs. Crookshank, I'd undertake on my part to

have the deck swabbed every morning, and to put a polish on the

four-pounder that you could see your pretty face in.

JILL. Eric, how sweet of you. But I think you must speak to my brother

in the library first. Oli-ver!

OLIVER (coming up). Hallo! Settled it?

JILL. It's all settled, Oliver, between Eric and myself, but you will

want to ask him about his prospects, won't you?

OLIVER. Yes, yes, of course.

PIRATE. I shall be very glad to tell you anything I can, sir. I think

I may say that I am doing fairly well in my profession.

OLIVER. What's your ship? A sloop or a frigate?

PIRATE. A brigantine.

JILL (excited). Oh, that's what Oliver puts on his hair when he goes

to a party.

OLIVER (annoyed). Shut up, Jill! A brigantine? Ah yes, a rakish craft,

eh, Commodore?

PIRATE (earnestly). Extremely rakish.

OLIVER. And how many pieces of eight have you?

PIRATE. Nine thousand.

OLIVER. Ah! (To JILL) What's nine times eight?

JILL (to herself). Nine times eight.

OLIVER (to himself). Nine times eight.

PIRATE (to himself). Nine times eight.

JILL. Seventy-two.

PIRATE. I made it seventy-one, but I expect you're right.

OLIVER. Then you've seventy-two thousand pieces altogether?

PIRATE. Yes, sir, about that.

OLIVER. Any doubloons?

PIRATE. Hundreds of 'em.

OLIVER. Ingots of gold?

PIRATE. Lashings of 'em.

JILL. And he's going to polish up the four-pounder until I can see my

face in it.

OLIVER. I was just going to ask you about your guns. You've got 'em

fore and aft of course?

PIRATE. Yes, sir. A four-pounder fore and a half-pounder haft.

OLIVER (a little embarrassed). And do you ever have brothers-in-law in

your ship?

PIRATE. Well, I never have had yet, but I have always been looking

about for one.

JILL. Oh, Oliver, isn't Eric a _nice_ man?

OLIVER (casually). I suppose the captain's brother-in-law is generally

the first man to board the Spaniard with his cutlass between his

teeth?

PIRATE. You might almost say always. Many a ship on the Spanish Main

I've had to leave unboarded through want of a brother-in-law. They're

touchy about it somehow. Unless the captain's brother-in-law comes

first they get complaining.

OLIVER (bashfully). And there's just one other thing. If the

brigantine happened to put in at an island for water, and the

captain's brother-in-law happened--just happened--to be a silly ass

and go and marry a dusky maiden, whom he met on the beach---

PIRATE. Bless you, it's always happening to a captain's

brother-in-law.

OLIVER (in a magnificent manner). Then, Captain Crookshank, you may

take my sister!

JILL. Thank you, Oliver.

(It is not every day that one-eared ERIC, that famous chieftain,

marries into the family of the TERROR OF THE DYAKS. Naturally the

occasion is celebrated by the whole pirate crew with a rousing chorus,

followed by a dance in which the dusky maidens of the Island join. At

the end of it, JILL finds herself alone with TUA-HEETA, the Dusky

Princess.)

JILL (fashionably). I'm so pleased to meet my brother's future wife.

It's so nice of you to come to see me. You will have some tea, won't

you? (She puts out her hand and presses an imaginary bell) I wanted to

see you, because I can tell you so many little things about my

brother, which I think you ought to know. You see, Eric--my husband--

TUA-HEETA. Ereec?

JILL. Yes. I wish you could see him. He's so nice-looking. But I'm

afraid he won't be home to tea. That's the worst of marrying a sailor.

They are away so much. Well, I was telling you about Oliver. I think

it would be better if you knew at once that--he doesn't like

rice-pudding.

TUA-HEETA. Rice-poodeeng?

JILL. Yes, he hates it. It is very important that you should remember

that. Then there's another thing--(An untidy looking servant comes in.

Can it be--can it possibly be AUNT JANE? Horrors!) He dislikes--Oh,

there you are, Jane. You've been a very long time answering the bell.

AUNT JANE. I'm so sorry ma'am, I was just dressing.

JILL. Excuses, Jane, always excuses. Leave me. Take a week's notice.

(To TUA-HEETA) YOU must excuse my maid. She's very stupid. Tea at

once, Jane. (AUNT JANE sniffs and goes off) What was I saying? Oh yes,

about Oliver. He doesn't care for cod-liver oil in the way that some

men do. You would be wise not to force it on him just at first. . . .

Have you any idea where you are going to live?

TUA-HEETA. Live? (These dusky maidens are no conversationalists.)

JILL. I expect Oliver will wish to reside at Hammersmith, so

convenient for the City. You'll like Hammersmith. You'll go to St.

Paul's Church, I expect. The Vicar will be sure to call. (Enter AUNT

JANE with small tea-table.) Ah, here's tea. (To JANE) You're very

slow, Jane.

AUNT JANE. I'm sorry, ma'am.

JILL. It's no good being sorry. Take another week's notice. (To

TUA-HEETA) You must forgive my talking to my maid. She wants such a

lot of looking after. (JANE puts down the table) That will do, Jane,

(JANE bumps against the table) Dear, dear, how clumsy you are. What

wages am I giving you now?

AUNT JANE. A shilling a month, ma'am.

JILL. Well, we'd better make it ninepence. (JANE goes out in tears.)

Servants are a great nuisance, aren't they? Jane is a peculiarly

stupid person. She used to be aunt to my brother, and I have only

taken her on out of charity. (She pours out from an imaginary tea-pot)

Milk? Sugar? (She puts them in and hands the imaginary cup to

TUA-HEETA.)

TUA-HEETA. Thank you. (Drinks.)

JILL (pouring herself a cup). I hope you like China. (She drinks, and

then rings an imaginary bell) Well, as I was saying---(Enter AUNT

JANE.) You can clear away, Jane.

AUNT JANE. Yes, ma'am.

(She clears away the tea and TUA-HEETA and--very quickly--herself, as

OLIVER comes back. OLIVER has been discussing boarding-tactics with

his brother-in-law. CAPTAIN CROOKSHANK belongs to the now

old-fashioned Marlinspike School; OLIVER is for well-primed pistols.)

JILL. Oh, Oliver, I love your island. I've been thinking things all by

myself. You're married to Tua-heeta. You don't mind, do you?

OLIVER. Not at all, Jill. Make yourself at home. I've just been trying

the doctor in the lagoon. There _were_ sharks there, after all, so

we'll have to find another place for bathing. Oh, and I shot an

elephant. What would you like to do now?

JILL. Just let's lie here and see what happens. (What happens is that

a cassowary comes along.) Oh, what a lovely bird! Is it an ostrich?

(The cassowary sniffs the air, puts its beak to the ground and goes

off again.)

OLIVER. Silly! It's a cassowary, of course.

JILL. What's a cassowary?

OLIVER. Jill! Don't you remember the rhyme?

I wish I were a cassowary

Upon the plains of Timbuctoo

And then I'd eat a missionary--

And hat and gloves and hymn-book too!

JILL. Is that all they're for?

OLIVER. Well, what else would you want them for?

(A MISSIONARY, pith-helmet, gloves, hymn-book, umbrella, all

complete--creeps cautiously up. He bears a strong likeness to the

curate, the REVEREND SMILAX.)

MISSIONARY. I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy, dear friends, but

have you observed a cassowary on this island, apparently looking for

something?

OLIVER. Yes, we saw one just now.

MISSIONARY (shuddering). Dear, dear, dear. You didn't happen to ask

him what was the object of his researches?

JILL. He went so quickly.

MISSIONARY (coming out of the undergrowth to them). I wonder if you

have ever heard of a little rhyme which apparently attributes to the

bird in question, when residing in the level pastures of Timbuctoo, an

unholy lust for the body and appurtenances thereto of an unnamed

clerical gentleman?

OLIVER and JILL (shouting together). Yes! Rather!

MISSIONARY. Dear, dear! Fortunately--I say fortunately--this is not

Timbuctoo! (OLIVER slips away and comes back with a notice-board

"Timbuctoo," which he places at the edge of the trees, unseen by the

MISSIONARY, who goes on talking to JILL) I take it that a cassowary

residing in other latitudes is of a more temperate habit. His

appetite, I venture to suggest, dear lady, would be under better

restraint. That being so, I may perhaps safely---- (He begins to move

off, and comes suddenly up to the notice-board) Dear, dear, dear,

dear, dear! This is terrible! You said, I think, that the--ah--bird in

question was moving in _this_ direction?

OLIVER. That's right.

MISSIONARY. Then I shall move, hastily yet with all due precaution, in

_that_ direction. (He walks off on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder

in case the cassowary should reappear. Consequently, he does not

observe the enormous CANNIBAL who has appeared from the trees on the

right, until he bumps into him) I beg your---- (He looks up) Dear,

dear, dear, dear, dear!

CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo!

MISSIONARY. Yes, my dear sir, it is as you say, a beautiful morning.

CANNIBAL. Boria, boria, boo!

MISSIONARY. But I was just going a little walk--in this direction--if

you will permit me.

CANNIBAL (threateningly). Boria, boria, boo!

MISSIONARY. I have noticed it, my dear sir, I have often made that

very observation to my parishioners.

CANNIBAL (very threateningly). Boria, boria, boo!

MISSIONARY. Oh, what's he saying?

OLIVER. He says it's his birthday to-morrow.

CANNIBAL. Wurra, wurra wug!

OLIVER. And will you come to the party?

MISSIONARY (to CANNIBAL). My dear sir, it is most kind of you to

invite me, but a prior engagement in a different part of the

country--a totally unexpected call upon me in another locality--will

unfortunately----

(While he is talking, the cassowary comes back, sidles up to him, and

taps with his beak on the MISSIONARY'S pith-helmet.)

MISSIONARY (absently, without looking round). Come in! . . . As I was

saying, my dear sir---- (The bird taps again. The MISSIONARY turns

round annoyed) Can't you see I'm engaged----Oh dear, dear, dear, dear,

dear!

(He clasps the CANNIBAL in his anguish, recoils from the CANNIBAL and

clasps the cassowary. The three of them go off together, OLIVER and

JILL following eagerly behind to see who gets most.)

(The PIRATES come back, each carrying a small wooden ammunition-box,

and sit round in a semicircle, the PIRATE CHIEF in the middle.)

PIRATE. Steward! Steward!

STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir.

CHIEF. Now then, tumble up, my lad. I would carouse. Circulate the dry

ginger.

STEWARD (hurrying out). Yes, sir, going, sir.

CHIEF. Look lively, my lad, look lively.

STEWARD (hurrying in). Yes, sir, coming, sir. (He hands round mugs to

them all.)

CHIEF (rising). Gentlemen! (They all stand up) The crew of the

_Cocktail_ will carouse---- (They all take one step to the right, one

back, and one left--which brings them behind their boxes--and then

place their right feet on the boxes together) One! (They raise their

mugs) Two! (They drink) Three! (They bang down their mugs) Four! (They

wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands) So! . . . Steward!

STEWARD. Yes, sir, here, sir.

CHIEF. The carouse is over.

STEWARD. Yes, sir. (He collects the mugs and goes out.) (The PIRATES

sit down again.)

CHIEF (addressing the men). Having passed an hour thus in feasting and

song----

(Hark! is it the voice of our dear MISS PINNIGER? It is.)

GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Oliver! Jill! You may get up now and come

down to tea.

CHIEF. Having, as I say, slept off our carouse---

GOVERNESS (off). Oliver! Jill! (She comes in) Oh, I beg your pardon,

I--er---

(All the PIRATES rise and draw their weapons)

CHIEF. Pray do not mention it. (Polishing his pistol lovingly) You

were asking---

GOVERNESS. I--I was l-looking for a small boy--Oliver--

CHIEF. Oliver? (To 1ST PIRATE) Have we any Olivers on board?

1ST PIRATE. NO, Captain. Only Bath Olivers.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to my brother-in-law,

hight Two-Toed Thomas, the Terror of the Dyaks?

GOVERNESS. Oh no, no--Just a small boy and his sister--Jill.

CHIEF (to 2ND PIRATE). Have we any Jills on board?

2ND PIRATE. No, Captain. Only gills of rum.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). You cannot be referring to Mrs. Crookshank,

styled the Pride of the Pampas?

GOVERNESS. Oh no, no, I am so sorry. Perhaps I--er--

CHIEF. Wait, woman. (to 6TH PIRATE) Ernest, offer your seat to the

lady.

(The 6TH PIRATE stands up.)

GOVERNESS (nervously). Oh please don't trouble, I'm getting out at the

next station--I mean I--

6TH PIRATE (thunderously). Sit down!

(She sits down tremblingly and he stands by her with his pistol.)

CHIEF. Thank you. (to 1ST PIRATE) Cecil, have you your pencil and

notebook with you?

1ST PIRATE (producing them). Ay, ay, Captain.

CHIEF. Then we will cross-examine the prisoner. (to GOVERNESS) Name?

GOVERNESS. Pinniger.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Pincher.

CHIEF. Christian names, if any?

GOVERNESS. Letitia.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Letisher--how would you spell it, Captain?

CHIEF. Spell it like a sneeze. Age?

GOVERNESS. Twenty-three.

CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Habits--untruthful. Appearance--against her.

Got that?

1ST PIRATE. Yes, sir.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). And what are you for?

GOVERNESS. I teach. Oliver and Jill, you know.

CHIEF. And what do you teach them?

GOVERNESS. Oh, everything. Arithmetic, French, Geography, History,

Dancing----

CHIEF (holding up his hand). A moment! I would take counsel with

Percy. (to 2ND PIRATE) Percy, what shall we ask her in Arithmetic?

(The 2ND PIRATE whispers to him.) Excellent. (To her) If you really

are a teacher as you say, answer me this question. The brigantine

_Cocktail_ is in longitude 40° 39' latitude 22° 50', sailing

closehauled on the port tack at 8 knots in a 15-knot nor'-nor'

westerly breeze--how soon before she sights the Azores?

GOVERNESS. I--I--I'm afraid I---You see--I----

CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Arithmetic rotten.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Arithmetic rotten.

CHIEF (to 3RD PIRATE). Basil, ask her a question in French.

3RD PIRATE. What would the mate of a French frigate say if he wanted

to say in French, "Avast there, ye lubbering swab" to a friend like?

GOVERNESS. Oh, but I hardly--I---

CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). French futile.

1ST PIRATE (writing). French futile.

CHIEF (to 4TH PIRATE). I don't suppose it's much use, Francis. But try

her in Geography.

4TH PIRATE. Well now, lady. If you was wanting a nice creek to lay up

cosy in, atween Dago Point and the Tortofitas, where would you run to?

GOVERNESS. It-run to? But that isn't--of course I---

CHIEF (to 1ST PIRATE). Geography ghastly.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Geography ghastly.

CHIEF (to 5TH PIRATE). Give her a last chance, Mervyn. See if she

knows any history.

5TH PIRATE. I suppose you couldn't tell me what year it was when old

John Cann took the _Saucy Codfish_ over Black Tooth Reef and laid her

alongside the Spaniard in the harbour there, and up comes the Don in

his nightcap. "Shiver my timbers," he says in Spanish, "but there's

only one man in the whole of the Spanish Main," he says, "and that's

John Cann," he says, "who could---"

(The GOVERNESS looks dumbly at him.)

CHIEF. She couldn't. History hopeless.

1ST PIRATE. History hopeless.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). What else do you teach?

GOVERNESS. Music, dancing--er--but I don't think---

CHIEF. Steward!

STEWARD (coming in). Yes, sir, coming, sir.

CHIEF. Concertina.

STEWARD (going out). Yes, sir, going, sir.

CHIEF (to GOVERNESS). Can you dance a hornpipe?

GOVERNESS. No, I---

CHIEF. Dancing dubious.

1ST PIRATE (writing). Dancing dubious.

STEWARD (coming in). Concertina, sir.

CHIEF. Give it to the woman. (He takes it to her.)

GOVERNESS. I'm afraid I---(She produces one ghastly noise and drops

the concertina in alarm.)

1ST PIRATE (writing). What shall I say, sir? Music mouldy or music

measly?

CHIEF (standing up). Gentlemen, I think you will agree with me that

the woman Pinniger has proved that she is utterly incapable of

teaching anybody anything. Twenty-five years, man and boy, I have

sailed the Spanish Main, and with the possible exception of a dumb and

half-witted negro whom I shipped as cook in '64, I have never met any

one so profoundly lacking in intellect. I propose, therefore, that for

the space of twenty-four hours the woman Pinniger should be

incarcerated in the smuggler's cave, in the company of a black beetle

of friendly temperament.

GOVERNESS. Mercy! Mercy!

1ST PIRATE. I should like to second that.

CHIEF. Those in favour--ay! (They all say "Ay.") Contrary--No! (The

GOVERNESS says "No.") The motion is carried.

(One of the Pirates opens the door of the cave. The GOVERNESS rushes

to the CHIEF and throws herself at his feet. OLIVER and JILL appear in

the nick of time.)

OLIVER. A maiden in distress! I will rescue her. (She looks up and

OLIVER recognises her) Oh! Carry on, Commodore.

(The GOVERNESS is lowered into the cave and the door is shut.)

CHIEF (to his men). Go, find that black beetle, and having found it,

introduce it circumspectly by the back door.

PIRATES. Ay, ay, sir. [They go out.

OLIVER. All the same, you know, I jolly well should like to rescue

somebody.

JILL (excitedly). Oo, rescue me, Oliver.

CHIEF (solemnly). Two-toed Thomas, Terror of the Dyaks, and Pest of

the North Pacific, truly thou art a well-plucked one. Wilt fight me

for the wench? (He puts an arm round JILL.)

OLIVER. I will.

CHIEF. Swords?

OLIVER. Pistols.

CHIEF. At twenty paces?

OLIVER. Across a handkerchief.

CHIEF. Done! (Feeling in his pockets) Have you got a handkerchief? I

think I must have left mine on the dressing-table.

OLIVER (bringing out his and putting it hastily back again). Mine's

rather--Jill, haven't you got one?

JILL (feeling). I know I had one, but I----

CHIEF. This is an ill business. Five-and-thirty duels have I

fought--and never before been delayed for lack of a handkerchief.

JILL. Ah, here it is. (She produces a very small one and lays it on

the ground. They stand one each side of it, pistols ready.)

OLIVER. Jill, you must give the word. JILL. Are you ready?

(The sound of a gong is heard.)

CHIEF. Listen! (The gong is heard again) The Spanish Fleet is engaged!

JILL. _I_ thought it was our tea gong.

CHIEF. Ah, perhaps you're right.

OLIVER. I say, we oughtn't to miss tea. (Holding out his hand to her)

Come on, Jill.

CHIEF. But you'll come back? We shall always be waiting here for you

whenever you want us.

JILL. Yes, we'll come back, won't we, Oliver?

OLIVER. Oo, rather.

(The whole population of the Island, Animals, Pirates, and Dusky

Maidens, come on. They sing as they wave good-bye to the children who

are making their way to the boat.)

JILL (from the boat). Good-bye, good-bye.

OLIVER. Good-bye, you chaps.

JILL (politely). And thank you all for a very pleasant afternoon.

[They are all singing as the boat pushes off. Night comes on with

tropical suddenness. The singing dies slowly down.

ACT III.--FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE HUBBARD FAMILY

SCENE I.--The drawing-room of the HUBBARDS before Fame and Prosperity

came to them. It is simply furnished with a deal table and two cane

chairs.

MR. and MRS. HUBBARD, in faultless evening dress, are at home, MR.

HUBBARD reading a magazine, MRS. HUBBARD with her hands in her lap.

She sighs.

MR. HUBBARD (impetuously throwing down his magazine). Dearest, you

sighed?

MRS. HUBBARD (quickly). No, no, Henry. In a luxurious and

well-appointed home such as this, why should I sigh?

MR. HUBBARD. True, dear. Not only is it artistically furnished, as you

say, but it is also blessed with that most precious of all things--(he

lifts up the magazine)--a library.

MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, yes, Henry, we have much to be thankful for.

MR. HUBBARD. We have indeed. But I am selfish. Would you care to read?

(He tears out a page of the magazine and hands it to her.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Thank you, thank you, Henry.

(They both sit in silence for a little. She sighs again.)

MR. HUBBARD. Darling, you did sigh. Tell me what grieves you.

MRS. HUBBARD. Little Isabel. Her cough troubles me.

MR. HUBBARD (thoughtfully). Isabel?

MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, dear, our youngest. Don't you remember, she comes

after Harold?

MR. HUBBARD (counting on his fingers). A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I--dear

me, have we got nine already?

MRS. HUBBARD (imploringly). Darling, say you don't think it's too

many.

MR. HUBBARD. Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . . After all, it isn't as

if they were real children.

MRS. HUBBARD (indignantly). Henry! How can you say they are not real?

MR. HUBBARD. Well, I mean they're only the children we thought we'd

like to have if Father Christmas gave us any.

MRS. HUBBARD. They are just as real to me as if they were here in the

house. Ada, Bertram, Caroline, the high-spirited Dennis, pretty Elsie

with the golden ringlets, dear little fair-haired Frank--

MR. HUBBARD (firmly). Darling one, Frank has curly brown hair. It was

an understood thing that you should choose the girls, and _I_ should

choose the boys. When we decided to take--A, B, C, D, E, F--a sixth

child, it was my turn for a boy, and I selected Frank. He has curly

brown hair and a fondness for animals.

MRS. HUBBARD. I daresay you're right, dear. Of course it is a little

confusing when you never see your children.

MR. HUBBARD. Well, well, perhaps some day Father Christmas will give

us some.

MRS. HUBBARD. Why does he neglect us so, Henry? We hang up our

stockings every year, but he never seems to notice them. Even a

diamond necklace or a few oranges or a five-shilling postal order

would be something.

MR. HUBBARD. It is very strange. Possibly the fact that the chimney

has not been swept for some years may have something to do with it. Or

he may have forgotten our change of address. I cannot help feeling

that if he knew how we had been left to starve in this way he would be

very much annoyed.

MRS. HUBBARD. And clothes. I have literally nothing but what I am

standing up in--I mean sitting down in.

MR. HUBBARD. Nor I, my love. But at least it will be written of us in

the papers that the Hubbards perished in faultless evening dress. We

are a proud race, and if Father Christmas deliberately cuts us off in

this way, let us go down proudly. . . . Shall we go on reading or would

you like to walk up and down the room? Fortunately these simple

pleasures are left to us.

MRS. HUBBARD. I've finished this page.

MR. HUBBARD (tearing out one). Have another, my love. (They read for a

little while, until interrupted by a knock at the door.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Some one at the door! Who could it be?

MR. HUBBARD (getting up). Just make the room look a little more homey,

dear, in case it's any one important.

(He goes out, leaving her to alter the position of the chairs

slightly.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Well?

MR. HUBBARD (coming in). A letter. (He opens it.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Quick!

MR. HUBBARD (whistling with surprise). Father Christmas! An invitation

to Court! (Reading) "Father Christmas at Home, 25th December.

Jollifications, 11.59 P.M." My love, he has found us at last! (They

embrace each other.)

MRS. HUBBARD. Henry, how gratifying!

MR. HUBBARD. Yes. (Sadly, after a pause) But we can't go.

MRS. HUBBARD (sadly). No, I have no clothes.

MR. HUBBARD. Nor I.

MRS. HUBBARD. How can I possibly go without a diamond necklace? None

of the Montmorency-Smythe women has ever been to Court without a

diamond necklace.

MR. HUBBARD. The Hubbards are a proud race. No male Hubbard would

dream of appearing at Court without a gentleman's gold Albert

watch-chain. . . . Besides, there is another thing. There will be many

footmen at Father Christmas's Court, who will doubtless require

coppers pressed into their palms. My honour would be seriously

affected, were I compelled to whisper to them that I had no coppers.

MRS. HUBBARD. It is very unfortunate. Father Christmas may have

hundreds of presents waiting for us.

MR. HUBBARD. True. But how would it be to hang up our stockings again

this evening--now that we know he knows we are here? I would suggest

tied on to the door-knocker, to save him the trouble of coming down

the chimney.

MRS. HUBBARD (excitedly). Henry, I wonder! But of course we will.

(They begin to take off--the one a sock, the other a stocking.)

MR. HUBBARD. I almost wish now that my last suit had been a

knickerbocker one. However, we must do what we can with a sock.

MRS. HUBBARD (holding up her stocking and looking at it a little

anxiously). I hope Father Christmas won't give me a bicycle. A

stocking never sets so well after it has had a bicycle in it.

MR. HUBBARD (taking it from her). Now, dear, I will go down and put

them in position. Let us hope that fortune will be kind to us.

MRS. HUBBARD. Let us hope so, darling. And quickly. For (picking up

her page of the magazine) it is a trifle cold.

[He goes out and she is left reading.