_The Scene is the Exterior of a Cottage in West Issacshire on a
desperately Arcadian afternoon in August._ MR. ICKY, _quaintly
dressed in the costume of an Elizabethan peasant, is pottering and
doddering among the pots and dods. He is an old man, well past the
prime of life, no longer young. From the fact that there is a burr in
his speech and that he has absent-mindedly put on his coat wrongside
out, we surmise that he is either above or below the ordinary
superficialities of life._
_Near him on the grass lies_ PETER, _a little boy._
PETER, _of course, has his chin on his palm like the pictures
of the young Sir Walter Raleigh. He has a complete set of features,
including serious, sombre, even funereal, gray eyes--and radiates that
alluring air of never having eaten food. This air can best be radiated
during the afterglow of a beef dinner. He is looking at_ MR.
ICKY, _fascinated._
_Silence. . . . The song of birds._
PETER: Often at night I sit at my window and regard the stars.
Sometimes I think they’re my stars.... (_Gravely_) I think I
shall be a star some day....
MR. ICKY: (_Whimsically_) Yes, yes ... yes....
PETER: I know them all: Venus, Mars, Neptune, Gloria Swanson.
MR. ICKY: I don’t take no stock in astronomy.... I’ve been thinking o’
Lunnon, laddie. And calling to mind my daughter, who has gone for to
be a typewriter.... (_He sighs._)
PETER: I liked Ulsa, Mr. Icky; she was so plump, so round, so buxom.
MR. ICKY: Not worth the paper she was padded with, laddie. (_He
stumbles over a pile of pots and dods._)
PETER: How is your asthma, Mr. Icky?
MR. ICKY: Worse, thank God!...(_Gloomily.)_ I’m a hundred years
old... I’m getting brittle.
PETER: I suppose life has been pretty tame since you gave up petty
arson.
MR. ICKY: Yes... yes.... You see, Peter, laddie, when I was fifty I
reformed once--in prison.
PETER: You went wrong again?
MR. ICKY: Worse than that. The week before my term expired they
insisted on transferring to me the glands of a healthy young prisoner
they were executing.
PETER: And it renovated you?
MR. ICKY: Renovated me! It put the Old Nick back into me! This young
criminal was evidently a suburban burglar and a kleptomaniac. What was
a little playful arson in comparison!
PETER: (_Awed_) How ghastly! Science is the bunk.
MR. ICKY: (_Sighing_) I got him pretty well subdued now. ’Tisn’t
every one who has to tire out two sets o’ glands in his lifetime. I
wouldn’t take another set for all the animal spirits in an orphan
asylum.
PETER: (_Considering_) I shouldn’t think you’d object to a nice
quiet old clergyman’s set.
MR. ICKY: Clergymen haven’t got glands--they have souls.
(_There is a low, sonorous honking off stage to indicate that a
large motor-car has stopped in the immediate vicinity. Then a young
man handsomely attired in a dress-suit and a patent-leather silk hat
comes onto the stage. He is very mundane. His contrast to the
spirituality of the other two is observable as far back as the first
row of the balcony. This is_ RODNEY DIVINE.)
DIVINE: I am looking for Ulsa Icky.
(MR. ICKY _rises and stands tremulously between two dods._)
MR. ICKY: My daughter is in Lunnon.
DIVINE: She has left London. She is coming here. I have followed her.
(_He reaches into the little mother-of-pearl satchel that hangs at
his side for cigarettes. He selects one and scratching a match touches
it to the cigarette. The cigarette instantly lights._)
DIVINE: I shall wait.
(_He waits. Several hours pass. There is no sound except an
occasional cackle or hiss from the dods as they quarrel among
themselves. Several songs can be introduced here or some card tricks
by_ DIVINE _or a tumbling act, as desired._)
DIVINE: It’s very quiet here.
MR. ICKY: Yes, very quiet....
(_Suddenly a loudly dressed girl appears; she is very worldly. It
is_ ULSA ICKY. _On her is one of those shapeless faces peculiar to
early Italian painting._)
ULSA: (_In a coarse, worldly voice_) Feyther! Here I am! Ulsa did
what?
MR. ICKY: (_Tremulously_) Ulsa, little Ulsa. (_They embrace
each other’s torsos._)
MR. ICKY: (_Hopefully_) You’ve come back to help with the
ploughing.
ULSA: (_Sullenly_) No, feyther; ploughing’s such a beyther. I’d
reyther not.
(_Though her accent is broad, the content of her speech is sweet and
clean._)
DIVINE: (_Conciliatingly_) See here, Ulsa. Let’s come to an
understanding.
(_He advances toward her with the graceful, even stride that made
him captain of the striding team at Cambridge._)
ULSA: You still say it would be Jack?
MR. ICKY: What does she mean?
DIVINE: (_Kindly_) My dear, of course, it would be Jack. It
couldn’t be Frank.
MR. ICKY: Frank who?
ULSA: It _would_ be Frank!
(_Some risqué joke can be introduced here._)
MR. ICKY: (_Whimsically_) No good fighting...no good fighting...
DIVINE: (_Reaching out to stroke her arm with the powerful movement
that made him stroke of the crew at Oxford_) You’d better marry me.
ULSA: (_Scornfully_) Why, they wouldn’t let me in through the
servants’ entrance of your house.
DIVINE: (_Angrily_) They wouldn’t! Never fear--you shall come in
through the mistress’ entrance.
ULSA: Sir!
DIVINE: (_In confusion_) I beg your pardon. You know what I mean?
MR. ICKY: (_Aching with whimsey_) You want to marry my little
Ulsa?...
DIVINE: I do.
MR. ICKY: Your record is clean.