Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels.
Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge
behind 'em. Hancock--he's our general--
he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements
from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose
the Ridge, and lose the Ridge--lose God-and-all!--
Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington,
Abe Lincoln and the White House in one bite!--
So the Union, Polly,--me and you and Roger,
your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam--is all
thar--growin' in that Wheatfield.
POLLY [_smiling proudly_].
And they're growin'
still!
LINK.
Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls,
thar comes the Johnnies, thick as grasshoppers:
gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat tops.
And now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat,
thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round
in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces,
and grapplin' with hell-devils, and stink o' smoke,
and stingin' smother, and--up thar through the dark--
that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon
lopsided, crackin' her red shell with thunder!
[_In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial music of a
brass band begins. Again LINK's face twitches, and he pauses,
listening. From this moment on, the sound and emotion of the brass
music, slowly growing louder, permeates the scene._]
POLLY.
Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow
the created world to act that awful?
LINK. Now,
I wonder!--Cast your eye along this hoe:
[_He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron._]
Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see
yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?--That's the boy
I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link,"
they call him, 'cause his legs is spry 's a squirrel's.--
Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes
like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day,
keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him.
[_Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe._]
If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you.
But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein'
them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps
o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized
Link as his livin' image, and so kep him
to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs,
and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs,
list'nin' to bugles--bugles--bugles, callin'.
[_LINK clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music draws
nearer. POLLY touches him soothingly._]
POLLY.
Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind 'em.
LINK [_relaxing under her touch_].
No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct--
onct we was boys, onct we was boys--with legs.
But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle.
_Onct_, though, he was: and all God's life a-snortin'
outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin'
outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds
ablowin' _Glory Hallelujahs_, like
brass music, from his mouth.--But never mind!
'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now.
Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin'
gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.
[_With smoldering fire._]
But jest the same--
[_His face convulses and he cries out, terribly--straining in his
chair to rise._]
--for holy God, that band!
Why don't they stop that band!
POLLY [_going_].
I'll run and tell them.
Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back.
[_Glancing back anxiously, POLLY disappears outside. The approaching
band begins to play "John Brown's Body." LINK sits motionless,
gripping his chair._]
LINK. _Set quiet!_
Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand,
and Link--he kin set quiet.--Goda'mighty,
how _kin_ he set, and them a-marchin' thar
with old John Brown? Lord God, you ain't forgot
the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin'
home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown,
a-singin' _Glory_ to ye! Jest look down:
thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge:
don't say ye disremember _them_! And thar's
the colors: Look, he's picked 'em up--the sergeant's
blood splotched 'em some--but thar they be, still flyin'!
Link done that: Link--the spry boy, what they call
Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step,
have ye? [_Again he cries out, beseechingly._]--
My God, why do You keep on marchin'
and leave him settin' here?
[_To the music outside, the voices of children begin to sing the words
of "John Brown's Body." At the sound, LINK's face becomes transformed
with emotion, his body shakes and his shoulders heave and
straighten._]
No!--I--_won't_--set!
[_Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and stands._]
Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come
ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line.
Them voices--Lord, I guess you've brought along
your Sunday choir of young angel folks
to help the boys out.
[_Following the music with swaying arms._]
Glory!--Never mind
me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm
goin' t' jine in, or bust!
[_Joining with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously along the
edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps--his one hand leaning on the
hoe, his other reached as to unseen hands, that draw him--he totters
toward the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so, his
thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where the children's are
singing it:_]
"--a-mold'rin' in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mold'rin' in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mold'rin' in the grave,
But his soul goes--"
[_Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries aloud,
astounded_:]
Lord, Lord, my legs!
Whar did Ye git my legs?
[_Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the little flag
from the woodpile, and waves it joyously._]
I'm comin', boys!
Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap.
[_With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the woodpile._]
Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge!
Jine in, jine in!
[_Swinging the flag._]
Hooray!--Hooray!--Hooray!
[_Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old men and
children sing martially to the brass music._
_With his final cheer, LINK stumbles down from the mound, brandishes
in one hand his hat, in the other the little flag, and stumps off
toward the approaching procession into the sunlight, joining his old
cracked voice, jubilant, with the singers:_]
"--ry hallelujah,
Glory, glory hallelujah,
His truth is marchin' on!"
[THE CURTAIN.]
WURZEL-FLUMMERY[34]
_A COMEDY IN ONE ACT_
By A. A. MILNE
[Footnote 34: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned
that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws
of the United States, and no one is allowed to produce this
play without first having obtained permission of Samuel
French, 28 West 28 Street, New York.]
Alan Alexander Milne was born January 18, 1882. He was a student at
Westminster School, the library of which is familiar ground to every
reader of Irving's _Sketch Book_. From there he proceeded to Trinity
College, Cambridge. On his graduation, he went into journalism in
London. He was assistant editor of _Punch_ from 1906 to 1914. During
the War he was a lieutenant in the Fourth Royal Warwickshire Regiment.
In the introduction to his volume of _First Plays_, in which
_Wurzel-Flummery_ appears, he gives the following whimsical account of
his career as a dramatist: "These five plays [_The Lucky One_, _The
Boy Comes Home_, _Belinda_, _The Red Feather_, _Wurzel-Flummery_] were
written in the order in which they appear now, during the years 1916
and 1917. They would hardly have been written had it not been for the
War, although only one of them is concerned with that subject. To his
other responsibilities the Kaiser now adds this volume.
"For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but the
recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing is a
luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more expensive
in time and money. When an article is written, the financial reward
(and we may as well live as not) is a matter of certainty. A novelist,
too, even if he is not in 'the front rank'--but I never heard of one
who wasn't--can at least be sure of publication. But when a play is
written, there is no certainty of anything save disillusionment.
"To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a
depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the morning.
I thought I could write one (we all think we can), but I could not
afford so unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the case was
altered. No duty now urged me to write. My job was soldiering, and my
spare time was my own affair. Other subalterns played bridge and golf;
that was one way of amusing oneself. Another way was--why not?--to
write plays.
"So we began with _Wurzel-Flummery_. I say 'we,' because another is
mixed up in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She
wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out for
a walk along the byways--where there was no saluting, and one could
smoke a pipe without shocking the Duke of Cambridge--then it was to
discuss the last scene and to wonder what would happen in the next. We
did not estimate the money or publicity which might come from this new
venture; there has never been any serious thought of making money by
my bridge-playing, nor desire for publicity when I am trying to play
golf. But secretly, of course, we hoped. It was that which made it so
much more exciting than any other game.
"Our hopes were realized to the following extent:
"Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New
Theatre in April, 1917. It was originally written in three acts, in
which form it was shown to one or two managers. At the beginning of
1917 I was offered the chance of production in a triple bill if I cut
it down into a two-act play. To cut even a line is painful, but to cut
thirty pages of one's first comedy, slaughtering whole characters on
the way, has at least a certain morbid fascination. It appeared,
therefore, in two acts; and one kindly critic embarrassed us by saying
that a lesser artist would have written it in three acts, and most of
the other critics annoyed us by saying that a greater artist would
have written it in one act. However, I amused myself some months later
by slaying another character--the office-boy, no less--thereby getting
it down to one act, and was surprised to find that the one-act version
was, after all, the best.... At least, I think it is.... At any rate,
that is the version I am printing here; but, as can be imagined, I am
rather tired of the whole business by now, and I am beginning to
wonder if anyone ever did take the name of Wurzel-Flummery at all.
Possibly the whole thing is an invention."
_Wurzel-Flummery_ was first produced in this country at the Arts and
Crafts Theatre in Detroit; recently it was acted again by The Players
of St. Louis.
WURZEL-FLUMMERY
CHARACTERS
ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P.
MARGARET CRAWSHAW (_his wife_).
VIOLA CRAWSHAW (_his daughter_).
RICHARD MERITON, M.P.
DENIS CLIFTON.
_SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW's town house. Morning._
_It is a June day before the War in the morning-room of ROBERT
CRAWSHAW's town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent,
our attention would first be called to the delightful club fender
round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out
at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is
sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to
catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out the
comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In the
middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid
knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of reference,
and supported by a chair at the middle and another at the side. The
rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures round the walls, we
must leave until another time, for at this moment the door behind the
sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in. He looks about thirty-five,
has a clean-shaven intelligent face, and is dressed in a dark tweed
suit. We withdraw hastily, as he comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands
over her eyes._
RICHARD. Three guesses who it is.
VIOLA [_putting her hands over his_]. The Archbishop of Canterbury.
RICHARD. No.
VIOLA. The Archbishop of York.
RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your
last guess.
VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P.
RICHARD. Wonderful! [_He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes
round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the
fireplace._] How did you know? [_He begins to fill a pipe._]
VIOLA [_smiling_]. Well, it couldn't have been father.
RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway.
Anything in the paper?
VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that ----
RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out.
VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print.
RICHARD. It would be.
VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick.
RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear.
VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as
father.
RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that
before.... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference?
VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the other
day.
RICHARD. No, I don't, really.
VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equaled by
your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it
doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law.
RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke
to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it.
VIOLA. Of course not.
RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really.
VIOLA. Then why does he say it?
RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole
structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to say
things like that at Basingstoke.... But really, darling, we're very
good friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he doesn't
take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it was awfully good of
him to insist on my staying here while my flat was being done up.
[_Seriously._] I bless him for that. If it hadn't been for the last
week I should never have known you. You were just "Viola"--the girl
I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; and now--oh, why won't
you let me tell your father? I hate it like this.
VIOLA. Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He would,
as they say in novels, show you the door. [_Smiling._] And I want you
this side of the door for a little bit longer.
RICHARD [_firmly_]. I shall tell him before I go.
VIOLA [_pleadingly_]. But not till then; that gives us two more days.
You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him.
You see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates poor
people.
RICHARD [_viciously_]. Damn money!
VIOLA [_thoughtfully_]. I think that's what father means by spiritual
instability.
RICHARD. Viola! [_He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes
to him and_--] Oh, Lord, look out!
VIOLA [_reaching across to the mantelpiece_]. Matches?
RICHARD. Thanks very much. [_He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW
comes in. CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed mustache and
whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly
style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him
look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which
he undoubtedly is._]
CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?
RICHARD. Good-morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at
breakfasts?
CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?
VIOLA [_making for the door_]. I don't know, father; do you want her?
CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her.
VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [_She goes out. RICHARD picks up "The
Times" and sits down again._]
CRAWSHAW [_sitting down in a business-like way at his desk_]. Richard,
why don't you get something to do?
RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast.
CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah--work
in the House.
RICHARD [_a trifle cool_]. I have something to do.
CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a
directorship or something in the City.
RICHARD. I hate the City.
CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual arrogance
to which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke.
RICHARD [_dryly_]. Yes, so Viola was telling me.
CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing
personal. [_Clearing his throat._] It is justly one of the proudest
boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed
to interfere with his private friendships.
RICHARD [_carelessly_]. Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.
_Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for
twenty-five years, the last twenty-four years from habit. She is
small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a
dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear._
MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was all
right.
RICHARD. Excellent, thank you.
MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?
CRAWSHAW [_obviously uncomfortable_].
Yes--er--h'r'm--Richard--er--what are your--er--plans?
RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?
MARGARET. Of course not. [_To ROBERT._] Are you, dear?
CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can
leave Richard here with the paper.
RICHARD. No, no; I'm going.
CRAWSHAW [_going to the door with him_]. I have some particular
business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to consult
you in the matter afterwards.
RICHARD. Right. [_He goes out._ ]
CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news for you.
MARGARET [_sitting down_]. Yes, Robert?
CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. [_He reads it._] "199,
Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that
under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to
the extent of L50,000."
MARGARET. Robert!
CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you
should take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery."
MARGARET. Robert!
CRAWSHAW. "I have the honor to be, your obedient servant, Denis
Clifton." [_He folds the letter up and puts it away._]
MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the
money?
CRAWSHAW [_calmly_]. I have not the slightest idea, Margaret.
Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis
Clifton to come and see me.
MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy!
CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery!
MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what
about moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more
central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so
much more--more Cabinety.
CRAWSHAW. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of Curzon Street--I don't
know what _that_ sounds like.
MARGARET. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, dear. They
can't really expect us to change our name to--Wurzley-Fothergill.
CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery.
MARGARET. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you could talk the
solicitor round--this Mr. Denis Clifton. After all, it doesn't matter
to _him_ what we call ourselves. Write him one of your letters, dear.
CRAWSHAW. You don't seem to apprehend the situation, Margaret.
MARGARET. Yes, I do, dear. This Mr.--Mr.--
CRAWSHAW. Antony Clifton.
MARGARET. Yes, he's left you fifty thousand pounds, together with the
name of Wurzley-Fothergill--
CRAWSHAW. Wurzel--oh, well, never mind.
MARGARET. Yes, well, you tell the solicitor that you will take the
fifty thousand pounds, but you don't want the name. It's too absurd,
when everybody knows of Robert Crawshaw, M.P., to expect you to call
yourself Wurzley-Fothergill.
CRAWSHAW [_impatiently_]. Yes, yes. The point is that this Mr. Clifton
has left me the money on _condition_ that I change my name. If I don't
take the name, I don't take the money.
MARGARET. But is that legal?
CRAWSHAW. Perfectly. It is often done. People change their names on
succeeding to some property.
MARGARET. I thought it was only when your name was Moses and you
changed it to Talbot.
CRAWSHAW [_to himself_]. Wurzel-Flummery!
MARGARET. I wonder why he left you the money at all. Of course it was
very nice of him, but if you didn't know him--Why do you think he did,
dear?
CRAWSHAW. I know no more than this letter. I suppose he
had--ah--followed my career, and was--ah--interested in it, and being
a man with no relations, felt that he could--ah--safely leave this
money to me. No doubt Wurzel-Flummery was his mother's maiden name, or
the name of some other friend even dearer to him; he wished the
name--ah--perpetuated, perhaps even recorded not unworthily in the
history of our country, and--ah--made this will accordingly. In a way
it is a kind of--ah--sacred trust.
MARGARET. Then, of course, you'll accept it, dear?
CRAWSHAW. It requires some consideration. I have my career to think
about, my duty to my country.
MARGARET. Of course, dear. Money is a great help in politics, isn't
it?
CRAWSHAW. Money wisely spent is a help in any profession. The view of
riches which socialists and suchlike people profess to take is
entirely ill-considered. A rich man, who spends his money
thoughtfully, is serving his country as nobly as anybody.
MARGARET. Yes, dear. Then you think we _could_ have that second car
and the house in Curzon Street?
CRAWSHAW. We must not be led away. Fifty thousand pounds, properly
invested, is only two thousand a year. When you have deducted the
income-tax--and the tax on unearned income is extremely high just
now--
MARGARET. Oh, but surely if we have to call ourselves Wurzel-Flummery
it would count as _earned_ income.
CRAWSHAW. I fear not. Strictly speaking, all money is earned. Even if
it is left to you by another, it is presumably left to you in
recognition of certain outstanding qualities which you possess. But
Parliament takes a different view. I do not for a moment say that
fifty thousand pounds would not be welcome. Fifty thousand pounds is
certainly not to be sneezed at--
MARGARET. I should think not, indeed!
CRAWSHAW [_unconsciously rising from his chair_]. And without this
preposterous condition attached I should be pleased to accept this
trust, and I would endeavor, Mr. Speaker--[_He sits down again
suddenly._] I would endeavor, Margaret, to carry it out to the best of
my poor ability. But--Wurzel-Flummery!
MARGARET. You would soon get used to it, dear. I had to get used to
the name of Crawshaw after I had been Debenham for twenty-five years.
It is surprising how quickly it comes to you. I think I only signed my
name Margaret Debenham once after I was married.
CRAWSHAW [_kindly_]. The cases are rather different, Margaret.
Naturally a woman, who from her cradle looks forward to the day when
she will change her name, cannot have this feeling for the--ah--honor
of his name, which every man--ah--feels. Such a feeling is naturally
more present in my own case since I have been privileged to make the
name of Crawshaw in some degree--ah--well-known, I might almost say
famous.
MARGARET [_wistfully_]. I used to be called "the beautiful Miss
Debenham of Leamington." Everybody in Leamington knew of me. Of
course, I am very proud to be Mrs. Robert Crawshaw.
CRAWSHAW [_getting up and walking over to the fireplace_]. In a way it
would mean beginning all over again. It is half the battle in politics
to get your name before the public. "Whoever is this man
Wurzel-Flummery?" people will say.
MARGARET. Anyhow, dear, let us look on the bright side. Fifty thousand
pounds is fifty thousand pounds.
CRAWSHAW. It is, Margaret. And no doubt it is my duty to accept it.
But--well, all I say is that a _gentleman_ would have left it without
any conditions. Or at least he would merely have expressed his _wish_
that I should take the name, without going so far as to enforce it.
Then I could have looked at the matter all round in an impartial
spirit.
MARGARET [_pursuing her thoughts_]. The linen is marked R. M. C. now.
Of course, we should have to have that altered. Do you think R. M. F.
would do, or would it have to be R. M. W. hyphen F.?
CRAWSHAW. What? Oh--yes, there will be a good deal of that to attend
to. [_Going up to her._] I think, Margaret, I had better talk to
Richard about this. Of course, it would be absurd to refuse the money,
but--well, I should like to have his opinion.