stars go wandering_)
Stars. Blooming great stars. There _ain't_ no Heaven, Jim.
[_Ever since the revelation a cruel and violent laugh has arisen off.
It increases in volume and grows louder and louder._
JIM
That's like them. That's very like them. Yes, they'd do that!
_The curtain falls and the laughter still howls on._
THE LOST SILK HAT
PERSONS
THE CALLER
THE LABORER
THE CLERK
THE POET
THE POLICEMAN
_Scene: A fashionable London street._
THE LOST SILK HAT
_The Caller stands on a doorstep, "faultlessly dressed," but without
a hat. At first he shows despair, then a new thought engrosses him._
_Enter the Laborer._
THE CALLER
Excuse me a moment. Excuse me--but--I'd be greatly obliged to you
if--if you could see your way--in fact, you can be of great service to
me if--
THE LABORER
Glad to do what I can, sir.
CALLER
Well, all I really want you to do is just to ring that bell and go up
and say--er--say that you've come to see to the drains, or anything
like that, you know, and get hold of my hat for me.
LABORER
Get hold of your 'at!
CALLER
Yes. You see, I left my hat behind most unfortunately. It's in the
drawing-room (_points to window_), that room there, half under the long
sofa, the far end from the door. And if you could possibly go and get
it, why I'd be (_The Laborer's expression changes_)--Why, what's the
matter?
LABORER (_firmly_)
I don't like this job.
CALLER
Don't like this job! But my dear fellow, don't be silly, what possible
harm--?
LABORER
Ah-h. That's what I don't know.
CALLER
But what harm can there possibly be in so simple a request? What harm
does there seem to be?
LABORER
Oh, it seems all right.
CALLER
_Well_, then.
LABORER
All these crack jobs do seem all right.
CALLER
But I'm not asking you to rob the house.
LABORER
Don't seem as if you are, certainly, but I don't like the looks of it;
what if there's things what I can't 'elp taking when I gets inside?
CALLER
I only want my hat--Here, I say, please don't go away--here's a
sovereign, it will only take you a minute.
LABORER
_What I want to know_--
CALLER
Yes?
LABORER
--Is what's _in_ that hat?
CALLER
What's _in_ the hat?
LABORER
Yes; that's what I want to know.
CALLER
What's _in_ the hat?
LABORER
Yes, you aren't going to give me a sovereign--?
CALLER
I'll give you two sovereigns.
LABORER
You aren't going to give me a sovereign, and rise it to two sovereigns,
for an _empty_ hat?
CALLER
But I must have my hat. I can't be seen in the streets like this.
There's nothing _in_ the hat. What do you think's in the hat?
LABORER
Ah, I'm not clever enough to say that, but it looks as if the papers
was in that hat.
CALLER
The papers?
LABORER
Yes, papers proving, if you can get them, that you're the heir to that
big house, and some poor innocent will be defrauded.
CALLER
Look here, the hat's absolutely empty. I _must_ have my hat. If there's
anything in it you shall have it yourself as well as the two pounds,
only get me my hat.
LABORER
Well, that seems all right.
CALLER
That's right, then you'll run up and get it?
LABORER
Seems all right to me and seems all right to you. But it's the police
what you and I have got to think of. Will it seem all right to them?
CALLER
Oh, for heaven's sake--
LABORER
Ah!
CALLER
What a hopeless fool you are.
LABORER
Ah!
CALLER
Look here.
LABORER
Ah, I got you there, mister.
CALLER
Look here, for goodness sake don't go.
LABORER
Ah! (_Exit_)
[_Enter the Clerk._
CALLER
Excuse me, sir. Excuse my asking you, but, as you see, I am without a
hat. I shall be extraordinarily obliged to you if you would be so very
good as to get it for me. Pretend you have come to wind the clocks, you
know. I left it in the drawing-room of this house, half under the long
sofa, the far end.
CLERK
Oh, er--all right, only--
CALLER
Thanks so much, I am immensely indebted to you. Just say you've come to
wind the clocks, you know.
CLERK
I--er--don't think I'm very good at winding clocks, you know.
CALLER
Oh, that's all right, just stand in front of the clock and fool about
with it. That's all they ever do. I must warn you there's a lady in the
room.
CLERK
Oh!
CALLER
But that's all right, you know. Just walk past up to the clock.
CLERK
But I think, if you don't mind, as there's someone there--
CALLER
Oh, but she's quite young and very, very beautiful and--
CLERK
Why don't you get it yourself?
CALLER
That is impossible.
CLERK
Impossible?
CALLER
Yes, I have sprained my ankle.
CLERK
Oh! Is it bad?
CALLER
Yes, very bad indeed.
CLERK
I don't mind trying to carry you up.
CALLER
No, that would be worse. My foot has to be kept on the ground.
CLERK
But how will you get home?
CALLER
I can walk all right on the flat.
CLERK
I'm afraid I have to be going on. It's rather later than I thought.
CALLER
But for goodness sake don't leave me. You can't leave me here like this
without a hat.
CLERK
I'm afraid I must, it's later than I thought.
(_Exit_)
[_Enter the Poet._
CALLER
Excuse me, sir. Excuse my stopping you. But I should be immensely
obliged to you if you would do me a very great favor. I have
unfortunately left my hat behind while calling at this house. It is
half under the long sofa, at the far end. If you could possibly be so
kind as to pretend you have come to tune the piano and fetch my hat for
me I should be enormously grateful to you.
POET
But why cannot you get it for yourself?
CALLER
I cannot.
POET
If you would tell me the reason perhaps I could help you.
CALLER
I cannot. I can never enter that house again.
POET
If you have committed a murder, by all means tell me. I am not
sufficiently interested in ethics to wish to have you hanged for it.
CALLER
Do I look like a murderer?
POET
No, of course not. I am only saying that you can safely trust me, for
not only does the statute book and its penalties rather tend to bore
me, but murder itself has always had a certain fascination for me. I
write delicate and fastidious lyrics, yet, strange as it may appear, I
read every murder trial, and my sympathies are always with the
prisoner.
CALLER
But I tell you I am not a murderer.
POET
Then what have you done?
CALLER
I have quarrelled with a lady in that house and have sworn to join the
Bosnians and die in Africa.
POET
But this is beautiful.
CALLER
Unfortunately I forgot my hat.
POET
You go to die for a hopeless love, and in a far country; it was the
wont of the troubadours.
CALLER
But you will get my hat for me?
POET
That I will gladly do for you. But we must find an adequate reason for
entering the house.
CALLER
You pretend to tune the piano.
POET
That, unfortunately, is impossible. The sound of a piano being
unskilfully handled is to me what the continual drop of cold water on
the same part of the head is said to be in countries where that
interesting torture is practised. There is--
CALLER
But what are we to do?
POET
There is a house where kind friends of mine have given me that security
and comfort that are a poet's necessity. But there was a governess
there and a piano. It is years and years since I was able even to see
the faces of those friends without an inward shudder.
CALLER
Well, we'll have to think of something else.
POET
You are bringing back to these unhappy days the romance of an age of
which the ballads tell us that kings sometimes fought in no other armor
than their lady's nightshirt.
CALLER
Yes, but you know first of all I must get my _hat_.
POET
But why?
CALLER
I cannot possibly be seen in the streets without a hat.
POET
Why not?
CALLER
It can't be done.
POET
But you confuse externals with essentials.
CALLER
I don't know what you call essentials, but being decently dressed in
London seems pretty essential to me.
POET
A hat is not one of the essential things of life.
CALLER
I don't want to appear rude, but my hat isn't quite like yours.
POET
Let us sit down and talk of things that matter, things that will be
remembered after a hundred years. (_They sit_) Regarded in this
light one sees at once the triviality of hats. But to die, and die
beautifully for a hopeless love, that is a thing one could make a lyric
about. That is the test of essential things--try and imagine them in a
lyric. One could not write a lyric about a hat.
CALLER
I don't care whether you could write a lyric about my hat or whether
you couldn't. All I know is that I am not going to make myself
absolutely ridiculous by walking about in London without a hat. Will
you get it for me or will you not?
POET
To take any part in the tuning of a piano is impossible to me.
CALLER
Well, pretend you've come to look at the radiator. They have one under
the window, and I happen to know it leaks.
POET
I suppose it has an artistic decoration on it.
CALLER
Yes, I think so.
POET
Then I decline to look at it or to go near it. I know these decorations
in cast iron. I once saw a pot-bellied Egyptian god, named Bes, and
he was _meant_ to be ugly, but he wasn't as ugly as these
decorations that the twentieth century can make with machinery. What
has a plumber got to do with art that he should dare to attempt
decoration?
CALLER
Then you won't help me.
POET
I won't look at ugly things and I won't listen to ugly noises, but if
you can think of any reasonable plan I don't mind helping you.
CALLER
I can think of nothing else. You don't look like a plumber or a
clock-winder. I can think of nothing more. I have had a terrible ordeal
and I am not in the condition to think calmly.
POET
Then you will have to leave your hat to its altered destiny.
CALLER
Why can't you think of a plan? If you're a poet, thinking's rather in
your line.
POET
If I could bring my thoughts to contemplate so absurd a thing as a hat
for any length of time no doubt I could think of a plan, but the very
triviality of the theme seems to scare them away.
CALLER (_rising_)
Then I must get it myself.
POET
For Heaven's sake, don't do that! Think what it means!
CALLER
I know it will seem absurd, but not so absurd as walking through London
without it.
POET
I don't mean that. But you will make it up. You will forgive each
other, and you will marry her and have a family of noisy, pimply
children like everyone else, and Romance will be dead. No, don't ring
that bell. Go and buy a bayonet, or whatever one does buy, and join the
Bosnians.
CALLER
I tell you I can't without a hat.
POET
What is a hat! Will you sacrifice for it a beautiful doom? Think of
your bones, neglected and forgotten, lying forlornly because of
hopeless love on endless golden sands. "Lying forlorn!" as Keats said.
What a word! Forlorn in Africa. The careless Bedouins going past by
day, at night the lion's roar, the grievous voice of the desert.
CALLER
As a matter of fact, I don't think you're right in speaking of it as
desert. The Bosnians, I believe, are only taking it because it is
supposed to be the most fertile land in the world.
POET
What of that? You will not be remembered by geography and statistics,
but by golden-mouthed Romance. And that is how Romance sees Africa.
CALLER
Well, I'm going to get my hat.
POET
Think! Think! If you enter by that door you will never fall among the
foremost Bosnians. You will never die in a far-off, lonely land to lie
by immense Sahara. And she will never weep for your beautiful doom and
call herself cruel in vain.
CALLER
Hark! She is playing the piano. It seems to me that she might be
unhappy about it for years. I don't see much good in that.
POET
No. _I_ will comfort her.
CALLER
I'm damned if you do! Look here! I don't mind saying, I'm damned if you
do.
POET
Calm yourself. Calm yourself. I do not mean in that way.
CALLER
Then what on earth do you mean?
POET
I will make songs about your beautiful death, glad songs and sad songs.
They shall be glad because they tell again the noble tradition of the
troubadours, and sad because they tell of your sorrowful destiny and of
your hopeless love.
I shall make legends also about your lonely bones, telling perhaps how
some Arabian men, finding them in the desert by some oasis, memorable
in war, wonder who loved them. And then as I read them to her, she
weeps perhaps a little, and I read instead of the glory of the soldier,
how it overtops our transitory--
CALLER
Look here, I'm not aware that you've ever been introduced to her.
POET
A trifle, a trifle.
CALLER
It seems to me that you're in rather an undue hurry for me to get a
Jubu spear in me; but I'm going to get my hat first.
POET
I appeal to you. I appeal to you in the name of beautiful battles, high
deeds, and lost causes; in the name of love-tales told to cruel maidens
and told in vain. In the name of stricken hearts broken like beautiful
harp-strings, I appeal to you.
I appeal in the ancient holy name of Romance: _do not ring that bell_.
[_Caller rings the bell._
POET (_sits down, abject_)
You will marry. You will sometimes take a ticket with your wife as far
as Paris. Perhaps as far as Cannes. Then the family will come; a large
sprawling family as far as the eye can see (I speak in hyperbole).
You'll earn money and feed it and be like all the rest. No monument
will ever be set up to your memory but--
[_Servant answers bell. Caller says something inaudible. Exit through
door._
POET (_rising, lifting hand_)
But let there be graven in brass upon this house: Romance was born
again here out of due time and died young. (_He sits down_)
[_Enter Laborer and Clerk with Policeman. The music stops._
POLICEMAN
Anything wrong here?
POET
Everything's wrong. They're going to kill Romance.
POLICEMAN (_to Laborer_)
This gentleman doesn't seem quite right somehow.
LABORER
They're none of them quite right to-day.
[_Music starts again._
POET
My God! It is a duet.
POLICEMAN
He seems a bit wrong somehow.
LABORER
You should 'a seen the other one.
CURTAIN