Chapters 10
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1 01 - The Falcon 35:32
The Falcon by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Dramatis Personae. The Count Federico degli Alberighi. Read by Alan Wayman. Filippo, the Count's foster brother. Read by... Dustin Tuttle. The Lady Giovanna. Read by Amanda Friday. Elisabetta, The Count's Nurse. Read by Eden Ray Hedrick. Narrated by Elizabeth Klatt. Scene. An Italian Cottage. Castle and Mountains Seen Through Window. Elisabetta discovered seated on stool in window darning. The Count, with Falcon on his hand, comes down through the door at back, a withered wreath on the wall. So, my lord, the Lady Giovanna, who hath been away so long, came back last night with her son to the castle. Hear that, my bird? Art thou not jealous of her? My princess of the cloud, my plumed purveyor, my far-eyed queen of the winds, thou that canst soar beyond the morning lark, and howsoe'er thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop down upon him eagle-like, lightning-like, strike, make his feathers glance in mid-heaven.
Crosses to Chair. I would thou hadst a mate. Thy breed will die with thee, and mine with me. I am as lone and loveless as thyself. Sitz in chair. Giovanna here. Aye, raffle thyself. Be jealous. Thou shouldst be jealous of her. Though I bred thee the full-trained marvel of all falconry, and love thee, and thou me, yet if Giovanna be here again—no, no, buss me, my bird. The stately widow has no heart for me. Thou art the last friend left me upon earth. No, no again to that. My good old nurse, I had forgotten thou wast sitting there. Ay, and forgotten thy foster-brother too. Bird babble for my falcon, let it pass. What art thou doing there? Darning, your lordship, we cannot flaunt it in new feathers now.
Nay, if we will buy diamond necklaces to please our lady, we must darn, my lord. This old thing here... They are but blue beads. My Pierrot, God rest his honest soul, he bought em for me. Ay, but he knew I meant to marry him. How couldst thou do it, my son? How couldst thou do it? She saw it at a dance, upon a neck less lovely than her own, and longed for it. She told thee as much? No, no, a friend of hers. Shame on her that she took it at thy hands. She rich enough to have bought it for herself. She would have robbed me then of a great pleasure. But hath she yet returned thy love? Not yet. She should return thy necklace, then. Aye, if she knew the giver. But I bound the cellar to silence, and I left it privily at Florence in her palace.
And sold thine own to buy it for her. She not know. She knows there's none such other. Madman anywhere. Speak freely, though to call a madman mad will hardly help to make him sane again. Enter Filippo. Are the women the women? Are Mona Giovanna? You hear again. You that have the face of an angel, and the heart of a... That's too positive. You that have a score of lovers, and have not a heart for any of them... That's positive negative. You that have not the head of a toad, and not a heart like the jewel in it... That's too negative. You that have a cheek like a peach, and a heart like the stone in it... That's positive again. That's better. Shhh, shhh, Philippo. Filippo turns half round. Here has our master been a glorifying and a velveting and a silking himself, and a peacocking and a spreading to catch her eye for a dozen year, till he hasn't an eye left in his own tail to flourish among the peahens.
And all along, oh you, Mona Giovanna, all along, oh you.
Filippo, can't you hear that you are saying behind his back what you see you are saying for his face? Let him. He never spares me to my face. No, my lord. I never spare your lordship to your lordship's face, nor behind your lordship's back, nor to right, nor to left, nor to round about and back to your lordship's face again, for I'm honest, your lordship. Come, come, Filippo. What is there in the larder? Shelves and hooks, shelves and hooks. And when I see the shelves, I am like to hang myself on the hooks. No bread? Half a breakfast for a rat. Milk. Three laps for a cat. Cheese. A supper for twelve mites. Eggs. One, but addled. No bird. Half a tit and a hern's bill. Let be thy jokes and thy jerks, man, anything or nothing.
Well, my lord, if all but nothing be anything, and one plate of dried prunes be all but nothing, Then there's anything in your lordship's larder at your lordship's service, if your lordship care to call for it. Good mother, happy was the prodigal son, for he returned to the rich father. Ay, but add my poverty to thine, and all through following of my fancy. Pray thee make thy slender meal out of those scraps and shreds Filippo spoke of. As for him and me, there sprouts a salad in the garden still. To the Falcon. Why didst thou miss thy quarry yestereven? To-day, my beauty, thou must dashest down our dinner from the skies. Away, Filippo. Exit, followed by Filippo. I knew it would come to this.
She has beggared him. I always knew it would come to this. Goes up to table as if to resume darning, and looks out of window. Why, as I live, there is Mona Giovanna coming down the hill from the castle. Stops and stares at our cottage. Aye, I stare at it. It's all you have left us. Shame upon you. She, beautiful, sleek as a miller's mouse. Meal enough, meat enough, well fed, but beautiful. Bah! Nay, see, why she turns down the path through our little vineyard. "'And I sneezed three times this morning. "'Coming to visit my lord for the first time in her life, too. "'Why bless the saints! "'I'll be bound to confess her love to him at last. "'I forgive her. "'I forgive her. "'I knew it would come to this.
"'I always knew it must come to this.'" Going up to door during latter part of speech, and opens it. "'Come in, Madonna. Come in.'" Retires to front of table and curtsies as the Lady Giovanna enters, then moves chair towards the hearth. Nay, let me place this chair for your ladyship. Lady Giovanna moves slowly downstage, then crosses to chair, looking about her, bows as she sees the Madonna over fireplace, then sits in chair. Can I speak with the Count? Aye, my lady. But won't you speak with the old woman first, and tell her all about it, and make her happy? For I've been on my knees every day for these half-dozen years in a hope that the saints would send us this blessed morning, and he always took you so kindly.
He always took the world so kindly. When he was a little one, and I put the bitters on my breast to wean him, he made a wry mouth at it, but he took it so kindly. And your ladyship has given him bitters enough in this world, and he never made a wry mouth at you. He always took you so kindly, which is more than I did, my lady, more than I did, and he's so handsome. And bless your sweet face, you look as beautiful this morning as the very Madonna her own self, and better late than never. But come when they will, then or now, it's all for the best. Come when they will. They are made by the blessed saints, these marriages." Raises her hands. Marriages? I shall never marry again. Elisabetta rises and turns.
Shame on her, then. Where is the Count? Just gone to fly his falcon. Call him back and say I come to breakfast with him. Holy Mother! To breakfast! Oh, sweet saints! One plate of prunes! Well, madam, I will give your message to him. Exit. His falcon. And I come to ask for his falcon, the pleasure of his eyes. Boast of his hand, pride of his heart, the solace of his hours, his one companion here. Nay, I have heard that through his late magnificence of living, and this last costly gift to mine own self—' He hath become so beggared that his falcon even wins his dinner for him in the field. That must be talk, not truth. But truth or talk, how can I ask for his falcon? Rises and moves as she speaks.
O my sick boy, my daily fading Florio, it is thou hath set me this hard task, for when I say, What can I do, what can I get for thee? He answers, Get the Count to give me his falcon, and that will make me well. Yet if I ask, he loves me, and he knows I know he loves me. Will he not pray me to return his love, to marry him?
I can never marry him. His grandsire struck my grandsire in a brawl at Florence, and my grandsire stabbed him there. The feud between our houses is the bar I cannot cross. I dare not brave my brother, break with my kin. My brother hates him, scorns the noblest-natured man alive. And I, who have that reverence for him that I scarce dare beg him to receive his diamonds back, how can I, dare I, ask him for his falcon? Puts diamonds in her casket. Re-enter Count and Filippo. Count turns to Filippo. Do what I said. I cannot do it myself. Why then, my lord, we are paupered out and out. Do what I said. Advances and bows low. Welcome to this poor cottage, my dear lady. And welcome turns a cottage to a palace.
Tis long since we have met. Filipe. To make amends, I come this day to break my fast with you. Filipe. I am much honored. Yes. Filipe. Do what I told thee. Must I do it myself? Filipe. I will. I will.
Poor fellow. Filipe. Lady, you bring your light into my cottage, who never deigned to shine into my palace. My palace, wanting you, was but a cottage. My cottage, while you grace it, is a palace. In cottage or in palace, being still beyond your fortunes, you are still the king of courtesy and liberality. I trust I still maintain my courtesy. My liberality purportes dead through lack of means of giving. Yet I come to ask a gift. Moves toward him a little. It will be hard, I fear, to find one shock upon the field when all the harvest has been carried. But my boy— No, no, not yet. I cannot. Ay, how is he, that bright inheritor of your eyes, your boy? Alas, my lord Federigo! He hath fallen into a sickness, and it troubles me.
Sick? Is it so? Why, when he came last year to see me hawking, he was well enough, and then I taught him all our hawking phrases. Ladyfra, oh yes, and once you let him fly your falcon. How charmed he was! What wonder! A gallant boy, a noble bird, each perfect of the breed. Lady Giovanna Sinks in Chair. Ladyfra, what do you rate her at? My bird? A hundred gold pieces once were offered by the Duke. I had no heart to part with her for money. No, not for money. Count turns away and sighs. Wherefore do you sigh?
I have lost a friend of late. I could sigh with you, for fear of losing more than friend, a son. And if he leaves me, all the rest of life, that withered wreath were of more worth to me. Looking at Wreath on Wall That withered wreath is of more worth to me than all the blossom, all the leaf of this new wakening year. And yet I never saw the land so rich in blossom as this year.
Was not the year when this was gathered richer? How long ago was that? Alas, ten summers. A lady that was beautiful as day sat by me at a rustic festival with other beauties on a mountain meadow, and she was the most beautiful of all, then but fifteen, and still as beautiful. The mountain-flowers grew thickly round about. I made a wreath with some of these. I asked a ribbon from her hair to bind it with. I whispered, Let me crown you queen of beauty. And softly placed the chaplet on her head. A color, which has colored all my life, flushed in her face. Then I was called away, and presently all rose, and so departed.
Ah, she had thrown my chaplet on the grass, and there I found it. Let's his hand fall, holding Reith despondingly.
How long since, do you say? That was the very year before you married. When I was married you were at the wars. Had she not thrown my chaplet on the grass, yet maybe I had never seen the wars? Ah, but, my lord, there ran a rumour, then, that you were killed in battle. I can tell you true tears that year were shed for you in Florence. It might have been as well for me. Unhappily I was but wounded by the enemy there, and then imprisoned. Happily, however, I see you quite recovered of your wound. No, no, not quite, Madonna, not yet. Not yet. Re-enter Filippo. My lord, a word with you. Pray pardon me. Lady Giovanna crosses and passes behind chair and takes down wreath, then goes to chair by table.
Count to Filippo. What is it, Filippo? Spoons, your lordship. Spoons? Yes, my lord, for was it my lady born with a golden spoon in her ladyship's mouth, and we haven't never so much as a silver one for the golden lips of her ladyship? Have we not half a score of silver spoons? Half of one, my lord. How half of one? I trod upon him even now, my lord, in my hurry, and broke him. And the other nine? Sold. But shall I not mount with your lordship's leave to her ladyship's castle, in your lordship's and her ladyship's name, and confer with her ladyship's seneschal, and so descend again with some of her ladyship's own appurtenances? Mr. Brown. Why, no, man. Only see your cloth be clean. Exit Filippo.
Ay, ay, this faded ribbon was the mode in Florence ten years back. What's here? A scroll pinned to the wreath. My lord, you have said so much of this poor wreath that I was bold enough to take it down, if but to guess what flowers had made it, and I find a written scroll that seems to run in rhymings. Might I read? I, if you will. It should be, if you can.
Dead Mountain. Nay, for who could trace a hand so wild and staggering? This was penned, Madonna, close to the grating on a winter morn in the perpetual twilight of a prison. When he that made it, having his right hand lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left. Oh, heavens! The very letter seemed to shake with cold. With pain, perhaps, poor prisoner. Well, tell me the words, or better, for I see there goes a musical score along with them. Repeat them to their music. You can touch no chord in me that would not answer you in music. That is musically said. Count takes guitar. Lady Giovanna sits listening with wreath in her hand, and quietly removes scroll and places it on table at the end of the song.
Count sings, playing guitar. Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain meadow flowers, dearer than when you made your mountain gay, sweeter than any violet of to-day. Richer than all the wide world wealth of May, to me, though all your bloom has died away, you bloom again, dead mountain meadow flowers. Enter Elisabetta with cloth. A word with you, my lord. O mountain flowers. A word, my lord. Dead flowers. A word, my lord. I pray you pardon me again. Lady Giovanna looking at Wreath. Count to Elisabetta. What is it? My lord, we have but one piece of earthenware to serve the salad in to my lady. And that cracked. Mr. Brown. Why, then, that flowered bowl my ancestor fetched from the farthest east, we never use it for fear of breakage.
But this day has brought a great occasion. You can take it, nurse. Mrs. I did take it, my lord. But what with my lady's coming that had so flurried me? And what with the fear of breaking it? I did break it, my lord. It is broken. Mr. Brown. My one thing left of value in the world. No matter. See your cloth be white as snow. Elisabetta, pointing through window. White? I'll warrant thee, my son, as the snow yonder on the very tip-top of the mountain. And yet, to speak white truth, my good old mother, I have seen it like the snow on the moraine. How can your lordship say so? There, my lord. Lays Cloth. Oh, my dear son. Be not unkind to me, and one word more. Going. Returns. Count, touching guitar.
Good. Let it be but one. Hath she returned, thy love? Not yet. And will she? Count, looking at Lady Giovanna. I scarce believe it. Shame upon her, then. Exit. Count sings. Dead mountain flowers.
Ah, well, my nurse has broken the thread of my dead flowers, as she has broken my china bowl. My memory is as dead. Goes and replaces guitar. Strange that the words at home with me so long should fly like bosom friends when needed most. So by your leave, if you would hear the rest, the writing. Lady Giovanna Holding Wreath Toward Him. There, my lord, you are a poet, and can you not imagine that the wreath, set as you say so lightly on her head, fell with her motion as she rose, and she, a girl, a child, then but fifteen, however fluttered or flattered by your notice of her, was yet too bashful to return for it. Was it so, indeed? Was it so? Was it so? Leans forward to take wreath, and touches Lady Giovanna's hand, which he withdraws hastily.
He places wreath on corner of chair. I did not say, my lord, that it was so. I said you might imagine it was so. Enter Filippo with bowl of salad, which he places on table. Here's a fine salad for my lady. For though we have been a soldier, and ridden by his lordship's side, and seen the red of the battlefield, yet are we now drill-sergeant to his lordship's lettuces, And profess to be great in green things and in garden stuff. I thank thee, good Philippo. Exit Philippo. Enter Elisabetta with bird on dish, which she places on table. Elisabetta, close to table. Here's a fine fowl for my lady. I had scant time to do him in. I hope he be not underdone, for we be undone in the doing of him. I thank you, my good nurse.
Filippo, re-entering with plate of prunes. And here are fine fruits for my lady, prunes, my lady, from the tree that my lord himself planted here in the blossom of his boyhood. And so I, Filippo being, with your ladyship's pardon, and as your ladyship knows, his lordship's own foster brother, would commend them to your ladyship's most peculiar appreciation.
Filippo! Count leads her to table. Will you not eat with me, my lord? I cannot. Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have broken my fast already. I will pledge you. Wine, Filippo, wine. Sits near table. Filippo brings flask, fills the Count's goblet, then Lady Giovanna's. Elisabetta stands at the back of Lady Giovanna's chair. It is but thin and cold, not like the vintage blowing round your castle. We lie too deep down in the shadow here. Your ladyship lives higher in the sun. They pledge each other and drink. If I might send you down a flask or two of that same vintage. There is iron in it. It has been much commended as a medicine. I give it my sick son, and if you be not quite recovered of your wound, the wine might help you.
None has ever told me yet the story of your battle and your wound. Filippo, coming forward. I can tell you, my lady. I can tell you. Philippot, will you take the word out of your master's own mouth? Philippot, was it there to take? Put it there, my lord. Giovanna, my dear lady, in this same battle we had been beaten. They were ten to one. The trumpets of the fight had echoed down. I and Filippo here had done our best, and, having passed unwounded from the field, were seated sadly at a fountain side, our horses grazing by us, when a troop, laden with booty and with a flag of ours taean in the fight— Aye, but we fought for it back, and killed— Filippo! A troop of horse? Five hundred! Say, fifty.
And we killed him by the score. Filippo! Well, well, well. I bite my tongue. We may have left their fifty less by five. However, staying not to count how many, but angered at their flaunting of our flag, we mounted and we dashed into the heart of them. I wore the lady's chaplet round my neck. It served me for a blessed rosary. I am sure that more than one brave fellow owed his death to the charm in it. Hear that, my lady. I cannot tell how long we strove before our horses fell beneath us. Down we went, crushed, hacked at, trampled underfoot. The night, as some cold-mannered friend may strangely do us the truest service, had a touch of frost that helped to check the flowing of the blood. My last sight, ere I swooned, was one sweet face crowned with the wreath.
That seemed to come and go. They left us there for dead. Philpope. Hear that, my lady. Aye, and I left two fingers there for dead. See, my lady? I see, Philippo. And I have small hope at the gentleman gout in my great toe. And why, Philippo? I left him there for dead, too. She smiles at him. How hard the woman is. My lady, if your ladyship were not too proud to look upon the garland, you would find it stained. Count, rising. Silence, Elisabetta. Stained with the blood of the best heart that ever beat for one woman. Points to Wreath on Chair. Lady Giovanna, rising slowly. I can eat no more. You have but trifled with our homely salad, but dallied with a single lettuce leaf. Not eaten anything. Nay, nay, I cannot.
You know, my lord, I told you I was troubled, my one child Florio lying still so sick. I bound myself, and by a solemn vow, that I would touch no flesh till he were well, here, or else well in heaven, where all is well." Elisabetta clears table of bird and salad. Filippo snatches up the plate of prunes and holds them to Lady Giovanna. But the prunes, my lady. From the tree that his lordship— Not now, Filippo. My lord Federico, can I not speak with you once more alone? Filippo. You hear, Filippo? My good fellow, go.
Filippo. I prune our company of thine own, and go. Filippo. Filippo. Well, well. The women. Exit. Filippo. And thou too leave us, my dear nurse, alone. Elisabetta, folding up cloth and going, And me too. I, the dear nurse, will leave you alone, but for all that, she that has eaten the yolk is scarce like to swallow the shell. Turns and curtsies stiffly to Lady Giovanna, then exit. Lady Giovanna takes out Diamond Necklace from casket. I have angered your good nurse. These old world servants are all but flesh and blood with those they serve. My lord. I have a present to return you, and afterwards a boon to crave of you. Mr. Brown. No, my most honored and long-worshipped lady. Poor Federico degli Alberigi takes nothing in return from you except return of his affection.
Can deny nothing to you that you require of him. Then I require you to take back your diamonds. Offering necklace. I doubt not they are yours. No other heart of such magnificence and courtesy beats. Out of heaven. They seemed too rich a prize to trust with any messenger. I came in person to return them. Count draws back. If the phrase return displease you, we will say, exchange them for your—for your— Count takes a step toward her, and then back. For mine? And what of mine? Well, shall we say this wreath and your sweet rhymes? But have you ever worn my diamonds? No, for that would seem accepting of your love. I cannot brave my brother, but be sure that I shall never marry again, my lord. Sure?
Yes. Is this your brother's order? No, for he would marry me to the richest man in Florence. But I think you know the saying, Better a man without riches than riches without a man. A noble saying, and acted on, would yield a nobler breed of men and women. Lady, I find you a shrewd bargainer. The wreath that once you wore outvalues twentyfold the diamonds that you never deigned to wear. But lay them there for a moment. Points to table. Lady Giovanna places necklace on table. And be you gracious enough to let me know the boon, by granting which, if ought be mine to grant, I should be made more happy than I hoped ever to be again. Then keep your wreath. But you will find me a shrewd bargainer still.
I cannot keep your diamonds, for the gift I ask for, to my mind, and at this present, outvalues all the jewels upon earth. It should be love that thus outvalues all. You speak like love, and yet you love me not. I have nothing in this world but love for you. Love? It is love. Love for my dying boy. Moves me to ask it of you. What, my time? Is it my time? Well, I can give my time to him that is a part of you, your son. Shall I return to the castle with you? Shall I sit by him, read to him, tell him my tales, sing him my songs? You know that I can touch the gitter to some purpose. No, not that. I thank you heartily for that. And you, I doubt not from your nobleness of nature, will pardon me for asking what I ask.
Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I, that once the wildest of the random youth of Florence before I saw you, all my nobleness of nature, as you deign to call it, draws from you, and from my constancy to you. No more, but speak. I will. You know sick people, more especially sick children, have strange fancies, strange longings, and to thwart them in their mood may work them grievous harm at times. May even hasten their end. I would you had a son. It might be easier, then, for you to make allowance for a mother—her, who comes to rob you of your one delight on earth. How often has my sick boy yearned for this! I have put him off as often. But to-day I dared not. So much weaker, so much worse for last day's journey.
I was weeping for him. He gave me his hand. I should be well again if the good Count would give me— Give me? His falcon. Count starts back. My falcon! Yes, your falcon, Federico. Alas, I cannot. Cannot? Even so, I feared as much. Oh, this unhappy world! How shall I break it to him? How shall I tell him? The boy may die. More blessed were the rags of some pale beggar woman seeking alms for her sick son, if he were like to live, than all my childless wealth, if mine must die. I was to blame. The love you said you bore me. My lord, we thank you for your entertainment. And so return, heaven help him, to our son. Count rushes forward. Stay, stay, I am most unlucky, most unhappy. You never had looked in on me before, and when you came and dipped your sovereign head through these low doors, you asked to eat with me.
I had but emptiness to set before you, no, not a draught of milk, no, not an egg, nothing but my brave bird, my noble falcon, my comrade of the house and of the field. She had to die for it. She died for you. Perhaps I thought with those of old, the nobler the victim was, the more acceptable might be the sacrifice. I fear you scarce will thank me for your entertainment now. Lady Giovanna returning. I bear with him no longer. No, Madonna. And he will have to bear with it as he may. I break with him forever. Yes, Giovanna. But he will keep his love to you forever. You? You? Not you! My brother! My hard brother! Oh, Federigo! Federigo, I love you! SPITE OF TEN THOUSAND BROTHERS, FEDERIGO.
Why, then, the dying of my noble bird hath served me better than her living. Then— Takes diamonds from table. These diamonds are both yours and mine, have won their value again, beyond all markets. There I lay them for the first time round your neck. And then this chaplet. No more feuds, but peace, peace and conciliation. I will make your brother love me. See, I tear away the leaves were darkened by the battle. Crown you again with the same crown, my queen of beauty. Rise. I could almost think that the dead garland will break once more into the living blossom. Nay, nay, I pray you rise. Raises her with both hands. We two together will help to heal your son, your son and mine. We shall do it. We shall do it.
Embraces her. The purpose of my being is accomplished, and I am... Happy. And I too, Federigo.
End of the Falcon by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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2 02 - The Hunting of the Snark 27:34
The Hunting of the Snark by Lewis Carroll. CHARACTERS Baker, read by Tavarish. The Bellman, read by Todd. The Butcher, read by Christine Gee. He Who Forgets Read by Lambda Judge Read by Christine G. Snark Read by Tavarish Beaver and Narrator Read by Elizabeth Klett Fit the First The Landing Just a place for a snark, the bellman cried as he landed his crew with care. Supporting each man on the top of the tide by a finger entwined in his hair. Just a place for a snark. I have said it twice. That alone should encourage the crew. Just a place for a snark. I have said it thrice. What I tell you three times is true. The crew was complete. It included a boots, a maker of bonnets and hoods, a barrister brought to arrange their disputes, and a broker to value their goods.
A billiard-marker, whose skill was immense, might perhaps have won more than his share. But a banker, engaged at enormous expense, had the whole of their cash in his care. There was also a beaver that paced on the deck, or would sit making lace in the bow, and had often, the bellman said, saved them from wreck, though none of the sailors knew how. There was one who was famed for the number of things he forgot when he entered the ship. His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings, and the clothes he had bought for the trip. He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed, with his name painted clearly on each. But, since he omitted to mention the fact, they were all left behind on the beach.
The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because he had seven coats on when he came, with three pairs of boots, but the worst of it was, he had wholly forgotten his name. He would answer to, or any loud cry, such as, or, to, but especially, while for those who preferred a more forcible word, he had different names from these. His intimate friends called him, and his enemies, . His form is ungainly. His intellect small, so the bellman would often remark. But his courage is perfect, and that, after all, is the thing that one needs with a snark. He would joke with hyenas returning their stare with an impudent wag of the head, and he once went a walk paw in paw with a bear. Just to keep up its spirits, he said.
He came as a baker, but owned when too late, and it drove the poor bellman half mad. He could only bake bride cake. For which, I may state, no materials were to be had. The last of the crew needs a special remark, though he looked an incredible dunce. He had just one idea, but that one being Snark, the good bellman engaged him at once. He came as a butcher, but gravely declared when the ship had been sailing a week, he could only kill beavers. The bellman looked scared, and was almost too frightened to speak. But at length he explained in a tremulous tone there was only one beaver on board, and that was a tame one he had of his own, whose death would be deeply deplored. The beaver, who happened to hear the remark, protested with tears in its eyes that not even the rapture of hunting the snark could atone for that dismal surprise.
It strongly advised that the butcher should be conveyed in a separate ship, but the bellman declared he would never agree with the plans he had made for the trip. Navigation was always a difficult art, though with only one ship and one bell, and he feared he must really decline for his part undertaking another as well. The beaver's best course was no doubt to procure a second-hand dagger-proof coat, so the baker advised it, and next to ensure its life in some office of note. This the banker suggested and offered for hire on moderate terms or for sale, to excellent policies, one against fire. And one against damage from hail. Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day, whenever the butcher was by, the beaver kept looking the opposite way, and appeared unaccountably shy.
FIT THE SECOND. THE BELLMAN'S SPEECH. The bellman himself they all praised to the skies. Such a carriage, such ease, and such grace! Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise the moment one looked in his face. He had bought a large map representing the sea without the least vestige of land, and the crew were much pleased when they found it to be a map they could all understand. What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators, Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines? So the bellman would cry, and the crew would reply, They are merely conventional signs. Other maps are such shapes. With their islands and capes. But we've got our brave captain to thank. So the crew would protest. That he's bought us the best.
A perfect and absolute blank. This was charming, no doubt. But they shortly found out that the captain they trusted so well had only one notion for crossing the ocean, and that was to tingle his bell. He was thoughtful and grave, but the orders he gave were enough to bewilder a crew, when he cried, Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard. What on earth was the helmsman to do? Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes, a thing, as the bellman remarked, that frequently happens in tropical climes when a vessel is, so to speak, snarked. But the principal failing occurred in the sailing, and the bellman, perplexed and distressed, said he had hoped at least, when the wind blew due east, that the ship would not travel due west.
But the danger was past. They had landed at last with their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags. Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view, which consisted of chasms and crags. The bellman perceived that their spirits were low, and repeated in musical tone some jokes he had kept for a season of woe, but the crew would do nothing but groan. He served out some grog with a liberal hand, and bade them sit down on the beach. And they could not but own that their captain looked grand as he stood and delivered his speech. Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears. They were all of them fond of quotations, so they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers while he served out additional rations.
We have sailed many months. We have sailed many weeks. Four weeks to the month, you may mark. But never as yet, tis your captain who speaks, Have we caught the least glimpse of a snark? We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days, seven days to the week I allow, but a snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze, we have never beheld until now. Come listen, my men, while I tell you again the five unmistakable marks, by which you may know Wheresoever you go, the warranted genuine snarks. Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, which is meager and hollow, but crisp, like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist, with a flavor of will-of-the-wisp. It's habit of getting up late, you'll agree, that it carries too far when I say that it frequently breakfasts at five o'clock tea.
and dines on the following day. The third is its slowness in taking a jest. Should you happen to venture on one, it will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed, and it always looks grave at a pun. The fourth is its fondness for bathing machines, which it constantly carries about, and believes that they add to the beauty of scenes, a sentiment open to doubt. The fifth is ambition. It next will be right to describe each particular batch, distinguishing those that have feathers and bite, and those that have whiskers and scratch. For although common snarks do no matter of harm, yet I feel it my duty to say, some are Bojems. The bellman broke off in alarm, for the baker had fainted away.
Fit the third, the baker's tale. They roused him with muffins, they roused him with ice, they roused him with mustard and cress, they roused him with jam and judicious advice, they set him conundrums to guess. When at length he sat up and was able to speak, his sad story he offered to tell. And the bellman cried, Silence! Not even a shriek! and excitedly tingled his bell. There was silence supreme, not a shriek, not a scream, scarcely even a howl or a groan, as the man they called Ho told his story of woe in an antediluvian tone. My father and mother were honest though poor. Skip all that, cried the bellman in haste. If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a snark. We have hardly a minute to waste.
I skip forty years, said the baker in tears. And proceed without further remark to the day when you took me aboard of your ship to help you in hunting the snark. A dear uncle of mine, after whom I was named, remarked when I bade him farewell. Oh, skip your dear uncle! the bellman exclaimed as he angrily tingled his bell. He remarked to me then, said that mildest of men, if your snark be a snark, that is right. Fetch it home by all means. You may serve it with greens and its handy for striking a light. You may seek it with thimbles and seek it with care. You may hunt it with forks and hope. You may threaten its life with a railway share. You may charm it with smiles and soap. That's exactly the method," the bellman bold and hasty parenthesis cried.
That's exactly the way I have always been told that the capture of snarks should be tried. But, O beamish nephew, beware of the day, if your snark be a boojan, for then you will softly and suddenly vanish away, and never be met with again. It is this, it is this, that oppresses my soul when I think of my uncle's last words, and my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl brimming over with quivering curds. It is this, it is this. Mr. Brown. We have had that before. The bellman indignantly said, and the baker replied, Let me say it once more. It is this, it is this that I dread. I engage with a snark every night after dark, in a dreamy, delirious fight. I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, and I use it for striking a light.
But if ever I meet with a boojum that day in a moment, of this I am sure, I shall softly and suddenly vanish away, and the notion I cannot endure. Fit the Fourth. The Hunting. The bellman looked uffish and wrinkled his brow. If only you'd spoken before. It's excessively awkward to mention it now, with a snark, so to speak, at the door. We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe, if you never were met with again. But surely, my man, when the voyage began, you might have suggested it then? It's excessively awkward to mention it now, as I think I've already remarked." And the man they called High replied with a sigh, I informed you the day we embarked. You may charge me with murder or want of sense.
We are all of us weak at times. But the slightest approach to a false pretense was never among my crimes. I said it in Hebrew, I said it in Dutch, I said it in German and Greek, but I wholly forgot, and it vexes me much, that English is what you speak. "'Tis a pitiful tale," said the bellman, whose face had grown longer at every word. But now that you've stated the whole of your case, more debate would be simply absurd. "'The rest of my speech,' he explained to his men, "'you shall hear when I've leisure to speak it. But the snark is at hand, let me tell you again. "'Tis your glorious duty to seek it. "'To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care, to pursue it with forks and hope, to threaten its life with a railway share, and charm it with smiles and soap.
For the snark's a peculiar creature that won't. Be caught in a commonplace way. Do all that you know, and try all that you don't. Not a chance must be wasted to-day. For England expects, I forbear to proceed, tis a maxim tremendous but trite. And you'd best be unpacking the things that you'd need to rig yourself out for the fight." Then the banker endorsed a blank cheque, which he crossed, and changed his loose silver for notes. The banker with care combed his whiskers and hair, and shook the dust out of his coats. The boots and the broker were sharpening a spade, each working the grindstone in turn, but the beaver went on making lace, and displayed no interest in the concern. Though the barrister tried to appeal to its pride, and vainly proceeded to cite, a number of cases in which making laces had been proved an infringement of right.
The maker of bonnets ferociously planned a novel arrangement of bows, while the billiard-marker with quivering hand was chalking the tip of his nose. But the butcher turned nervous and dressed himself fine with yellow kid gloves and a ruff, said he felt it exactly like going to dine, which the bellman declared was all stuff. "'Introduce me, now there's a good fellow,' he said, "'if we happen to meet it together.' And the bellman, sagaciously nodding his head, said, That must depend on the weather. The beaver went simply galumphing about, at seeing the butcher so shy, and even the baker, though stupid and stout, made an effort to wink with one eye. Be a man, said the bellman in wrath as he heard the butcher beginning to sob.
Should we meet with a jub-jub, that desperate bird, we shall need all our strength for the job. Fit the Fifth. The Beaver's Lesson. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care, they pursued it with forks and hope, they threatened its life with a railway share, they charmed it with smiles and soap. Then the butcher contrived an ingenious plan for making a separate sally, and had fixed on a spot unfrequented by man, a dismal and desolate valley. But the very same plan to the beaver occurred, it had chosen the very same place, yet neither betrayed by a sign or a word the disgust that appeared in his face. Each thought he was thinking of nothing but snark, and the glorious work of the day, and each tried to pretend that he did not remark that the other was going that way.
But the valley grew narrow and narrower still, and the evening got darker and colder, till, merely from nervousness, not from goodwill, they marched along shoulder to shoulder. Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, and they knew that some danger was near. The beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, And even the butcher felt queer. He thought of his childhood, left far, far behind, that blissful and innocent state, the sound so exactly recalled to his mind a pencil that squeaks on a slate. "'This the voice of the Jab-Jab,' he suddenly cried, this man that they used to call Dunce. "'As the bellman would tell you,' he added with pride, "'I have uttered that sentiment once.' "'Tis the note of the Jab-Jab.
Keep count, I entreat. You will find I have told it you twice.' This is the song of the Jab-Jab. The proof is complete, if only I've stated it thrice. The beaver had counted with scrupulous care, attending to every word, but it fairly lost heart and outgrave in despair when the third repetition occurred. It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, it had somehow contrived to lose count, and the only thing now was to rack its poor brains by reckoning up the amount. Two added to one, if that could but be done. It said, with one's fingers and thumbs, recollecting with tears how in earlier years it had taken no pains with its sums. The thing can be done, said the butcher. I think. The thing must be done, I am sure.
The thing shall be done. Bring me paper and ink, the best there is time to procure. The beaver brought paper, portfolio, pens, and ink in unfailing supplies, while strange, creepy creatures came out of their dens and watched them with wondering eyes. So engrossed was the butcher he heeded them not, as he wrote with a pen in each hand, and explained all the while in a popular style which the beaver could well understand. Taking three as a subject to reason about. A convenient number to state. We add seven and ten, and then multiply out by one thousand diminished by eight. The result we produce to divide, as you see, by nine hundred and ninety-two, then subtract seventeen, and the answer must be exactly and perfectly true.
The method employed I would gladly explain, while I have it so clear in my head. If I had but the time, and you had but the brain, but much yet remains to be said. In one moment I have seen what has hitherto been, enveloped in absolute mystery. And without extra charge I will give you at large a lesson in natural history." In his genial way he proceeded to say, forgetting all laws of propriety, and that giving instruction without introduction would have caused quite a thrill in society. As to temper the jab-jabs, a desperate bird, since it lives in perpetual passion. Its taste in costume is entirely absurd. It is ages ahead of the fashion. But it knows any friend it has met once before. It never will look at a bribe.
And in charity meetings it stands at the door, and collects though it does not subscribe. Its flavor, when cooked, is more exquisite far than mutton or oyster or eggs. Some thinks it keeps best in an ivory jar, and some in mahogany cakes. You boil it in sawdust, you salt it in glue, you condense it with locust and tape, still keeping one principal object in view, to preserve its symmetrical shape." The butcher would gladly have talked till next day, but he felt that the lesson must end, and he wept with delight in attempting to say he considered the beaver his friend. While the beaver confessed, with affectionate looks, more eloquent even than tears, it had learned in ten minutes far more than all books would have taught it in seventy years.
They returned hand in hand, and the bellman, unmanned for a moment with noble emotion, said, This amply repays all the wearisome days we have spent on the billowy ocean. Such friends as the beaver and butcher became have seldom, if ever, been known. In winter or summer, it was always the same. You could never meet either alone. And when quarrels arose, as one frequently finds quarrels will, spite of every endeavor, the song of the Jub-Jub recurred to their minds and cemented their friendship forever.
Fit the Sixth. The Barrister's Dream. They sought it with thimbles. They sought it with care. They pursued it with forks and hope. They threatened its life with a railway share. They charmed it with smiles and soap. But the barrister, weary of proving in vain that the beaver's lace-making was wrong, fell asleep, and in dreams saw the creature quite plain that his fancy had dwelt on so long. He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy court, where the snark, with a glass in its eye, dressed in gown, bands, and wig, was defending a pig, on the charge of deserting its sty. The witnesses proved, without error or flaw, that the sty was deserted when found. And the judge kept explaining the state of the law in a soft undercurrent of sound.
The indictment had never been clearly expressed, and it seemed that the snark had begun, and had spoken three hours before anyone guessed what the pig was supposed to have done. The jury had each formed a different view, long before the indictment was read, and they all spoke at once so that none of them knew one word that the others had said. Fudge. That statute is obsolete quite. Let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends on an ancient manorial rite. In the matter of treason the pig would appear to have aided, but scarcely abetted, while the charge of insolvency fails, it is clear, if you grant a plea never indebted. The fact of desertion I will not dispute, but its guilt, as I trust, is removed, so far as related to the cost of this suit, by the alibi which has been proved.
My poor Klein's fate now depends on your votes. Here the Speaker sat down in his place, and directed the Judge to refer to his notes, and briefly to sum up the case. But the Judge said he had never summed up before, so the Snark undertook it instead. And summed it so well that it came to far more than the witnesses ever had said. When the verdict was called for, the jury declined, as the word was so puzzling to spell. But they ventured to hope that the snark wouldn't mind undertaking that duty as well. So the snark found the verdict, although as it owned, it was spent with the toils of the day. When it said the word, Guilty, the jury all groaned, and some of them fainted away. Then the snark pronounced sentence, the judge being quite too nervous to utter a word.
When it rose to its feet there was silence like night, and the fall of a pin might be heard. "'Transportation for life,' was the sentence it gave. "'And then to be fined forty pound.' The jury all cheered, though the judge said he feared that the phrase was not legally sound. But their wild exultation was suddenly checked when the jailer informed them with tears. Such a sentence would have not the slightest effect. As the pig had been dead for some years. The judge left the court looking deeply disgusted, but the snark, though a little aghast, as the lawyer to whom the defense was entrusted, went bellowing on to the last. Thus the barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed to grow every moment more clear, till he woke to the knell of a furious bell, which the bellman rang close at his ear.
FIT THE SEVENTH. THE BANKER'S FATE. They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care, they pursued it with forks and hope, they threatened its life with a railway share, they charmed it with smiles and soap. And the banker, inspired with a courage so new it was matter for general remark, rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view, in his zeal to discover the snark. But while he was seeking with thimbles and care, a bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh, and grabbed at the banker who shrieked in despair, for he knew it was useless to fly. He offered large discount. He offered a check, drawn to bearer, for seven pounds ten, but the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck and grabbed at the banker again.
Without rest or pause, while those frumious jaws went savagely snapping around, he skipped and he hopped and he floundered and flopped till fainting he fell to the ground. The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared, led on by that fear-stricken yell, and the bellman remarked, And solemnly tolled on his bell. He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace the least likeness to what he had been, while so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white—a wonderful thing to be seen. To the horror of all who were present that day he uprose in full evening dress, and with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say what his tongue could no longer express. Down he sank in a chair, ran his hands through his hair, and chanted in mimsiest tones, words whose utter inanity proved his insanity, while he rattled a couple of bones.
"'Leave him here to his fate! It is getting so late!' the bellman exclaimed in affright. "'We have lost half the day. Any further delay, and we shan't catch the snark before night!' Fit the Eighth The Vanishing They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care, they pursued it with forks and hope. They threatened its life with a railway share, they charmed it with smiles and soap. They shuddered to think that the chase might fail, and the beaver, excited at last, went bounding along on the tip of its tail, for the daylight was nearly past. There is Singumbob shouting, the bellman said. He is shouting like mad, only hark! He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head. He has certainly found a snark.
They gazed in delight while the butcher exclaimed, "'He was always a desperate wag.' They beheld him, their baker, their hero unnamed, on the top of a neighboring crag, erect and sublime for one moment of time, in the next that wild figure they saw, as if stung by a spasm, plunge into a chasm while they waited and listened in awe. "'It's a snark!' was the sound that first came to their ears, and seemed almost too good to be true. Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers. Then the ominous words, It's a boo! Then silence. Some fancied they heard in the air a weary and wandering sigh, then sounded like, Jum! But the others declared it was only a breeze that went by. They hunted till darkness came on, but they found not a button or feather or mark, by which they could tell that they stood on the ground where the baker had met with the snark.
In the midst of the word he was trying to say, In the midst of his laughter and glee, he had softly and suddenly vanished away, for the snark was a boo-jum, you see.
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3 03 - Madame Butterfly 45:47
Madame Butterfly, A Tragedy of Japan, dramatized by David Belasco, from the story by John Luther Long. Cho-cho-san, Madam Butterfly. Suzuki, Her Servant.
Mr. Sharpless, the American Consul, read by Alan Wayman. Lieutenant B. F. Pinkerton, of the Warship, Connecticut, read by Christine Gee. Yamadori, a citizen of New York, read by Chuck Williamson. Danakodo, a marriage broker, read by Lambda. Kate, Pinkerton's wife, read by Amanda Friday. Narration by Todd.
During the scene in which Madame Butterfly waits at the soji for her lover, a night is supposed to pass, and the story is resumed on the morning of the following day. Madame Butterfly. The play takes place in Japan, in Madame Butterfly's little house at the foot of Higashi Hill, facing the harbor. Everything in the room is Japanese, save the American locks and bolts on the doors and windows, and an American flag fastened to a tobacco jar. Cherry blossoms are a bloom outside and inside. A sword rack, a shrine on which lie a sword and a pair of men's slippers, a chest of drawers on top of which is a tray containing two red poppies, rouge, powder, and hair ornaments, a stand for the tobacco jar and tea, are the only pieces of furniture in the room.
As the curtain rises, Madame Butterfly is spraying the growing flowers with a small watering pot. She sniffs off two little punches, lays them on a plate of rice, which she sets reverently on the shrine, then kneels, putting her hands on the floor, her forehead on them. Oh, Shaka, Hel, Herr, also perceive, Rukdan, I have brought a sacrifice of frowres and new rice. Also I am quite clean. I am shivering with cleanness. Therefore, grant that Lieutenant B. F. P. Kerton may come back soon. She rises, clasps her hands, and comes down to a floor cushion, and sits, fanning herself. Suzuki, entering with a low bow. Madame Butterfly's wish? Suzuki, inform me, if it please you. How much more nearer beggary we are today than yesterday?
Aye. She takes some coins from a small box in her sleeve and lays them in three piles on her palm, touching them as she speaks. Rin, Yan, Zen. Madame Butterfly, reprovingly. Suzuki. How many time I tellin' you. No one shall speak anythin' but those United States languages in these Leftenant Peek Etun's house.
Once more, and I put you outside, Shoji. That's one thin. Ivory body got reckon like a count. It's American house. His wife, his maid. Suzuki, mouthing to herself, Making no sound, counting on her fingers. Two dollar. She drops the money into the box, giving it to Madame Butterfly. Oh, how we waste my husband's beautiful monies. That's shame. Most gone. This money have kept us two years. What's happened to us now if he don't come back? Madame Butterfly, scoffing, putting the money in her sleeve. If he don't come back, of course he come back. He's gone so long account, he's got business in those his rarge country. If he's not come back to his house, why he signed Japanese lease for nine hundred and ninety-nine year for me to live?
Why he put American lock to bolt it door, to shut it window? Answer me those questions. Suzuki, doubtfully. I dunno. Of course you dunno. You don't know which either. We'll, I go and tell you. To keep out those which are out, and in those which are in. That's me. She rises, goes to the window, and looks out. But he don't write no letter. American men don't never write letter. No time. Suzuki cynically. Aye. I'd never no American Navy man with Japanese wife come back. Madame Butterfly, impassively, her eyes narrowing. Speak concerning marriage once more. You die. She fans herself. Suzuki salaams and backs quickly towards the door. Madame Butterfly clasps her hands, and Suzuki pauses. Don't come back.
Lieutenant B. F. P. Kirtle, don't come back. Ha! Me! I know when he comes back, he told me. When he go on way, he say... In those doors. Madam Butterfly, I have had very nice time with my Japanese sweetheart. So now I go back to my own country, and here's money, and don't worry about me, I come back when Robin's nests again. Ha! Ha! That's when he come back, when Robin's nests again. She sways her head triumphantly from side to side, fanning herself. Suzuki, not impressed. Yes, I didn't like ways he said it, like those... She imitates a flippant gesture of farewell. Madame Butterfly, laughing. That's a maddiken way saying goodbye to girl. Yes. He come back when Robin's nass again. Shoo, shoo.
She clasps her hands with delight. Suzuki, with a look of unbelief, starts to go. Say, why no shoe on your face for such a fool's? Looking towards the window. Oh, look, Suzuki. A robin's. The first day spring. Go see if he's stay for nests. Suzuki, looking. It is a robin's, oh Juju-san. Madam Butterfly, running to the window. Oh, oh! But he's fly away.
How they are slow this year. Say, see if you don't find one that's more industrial and domestic. Suzuki, looking out. There are none yet. But soon they nest now. Suzuki, when we see that ship come in, and say, then we go and put flowers everywhere. And if it's night, we go and hang up most ones. Thousand lanterns. Eh? No got money for thousand. We'll twenty maybe, and say, when we see him coming quick up pack... Imitates. So, so, so. Lifts her kimono and strides in a masculine fashion. To look for a little wife. Me? Me just go and hide behind Georgie. Making two holes with her wet finger in the low paper soji, and peeking through. And watch, and make believe me gone way. Leave little note saying, "'Gun-bye, sayonara, butterfly.' Now he come in.
Hide. Ah! And then he gets angry, and he says all kinds of American language, debbles, hells. But before he get too angry, me run out and flew around his neck. She illustrates with Suzuki, who is carried away and embraces her with fervor. Say, you no flew round his neck, just me.
They laugh in each other's arms. Then he'll sit down and sing this little Medican song. Oh, how he'll laugh. She sings as though not understanding a word of it. I call her the Belle of Japan, of Japan. Her name it is O Chocho San, Chocho San. Such tenderness lies in her soft almond eyes. I tell you she's just Ichiban.
Then I'll dance, like when I was Geisha girl. She dances as Sharpless, an American consul, arrives in the doorway, followed by the Nakoto. This is the house, your excellency. Sharpless, removing his clogs outside. You may wait. Nakoto bows, and Sharpless enters. I beg pardon. Madame Butterfly, still dancing, begins the song again. Sharpless goes to the door, and knocks to attract her attention. Ah! Suzuki, bowing low, leaves the room. This is Madame Chocho-san? No, I am Mrs. Lieutenant B. F. P. Kerton. I see. Pardon my interruption. I am Mr. Sharpless, the American consul. Madame Butterfly, once more salaaming to the ground, drawing in her breath between her teeth to express pleasure.
Your Honourable Excellency, good night. No, not night yet. Excuse me, I'm little rattle. I mean good morning. Good day. Good evening. Welcome to American house. Most welcome to American girl. pointing to herself. They both bow. Be seated. Sharpless sits on a cushion on the floor, and Madame Butterfly sits at a little distance. There is a slight pause. How are those health? You sleepin' good? How are that honorable ancestors? Are they well? And those parents? That grandmother, how is she? Thanks. They're all doing well, I hope. Madame Butterfly. She clasps her hands. Suzuki enters, and puts the little stand between them, and leaves the room. "'Except pipe, Your Excellency. Oh, I forget, and I have still of those large American cigarettes.' Madame Butterfly gestures towards Pinkerton's tobacco-jar, decorated with the flag of his country.
Sharkless, accepting a cigarette while she fills her pipe, "'Thanks. I'm on a little visit of inquiry, Madame Butterfly. Your name, I believe, in our language. Lieutenant Pinkerton wrote to me to find out. Madame Butterfly, almost breathless. You have heard from him? He's well? Oh, he's all right. Madame Butterfly, relieved. That's make me most best happy female woman in Japan. Maybe in that whole world. What do you think? Puffing at the cigarette. Sawdust. Pinkerton must have left these. Oh, I am so glad you came. I go and ask you a little question. Well? You know about birds in those your country? Something. That's what I think. You know everything. That's why your country send you here. You flatter me.
Oh, no, you got big head. Pinkerton again. I can hear him. Oh, excuse me, I forget in my manners. I got little more rattle. She offers him her pipe, which he gravely touches, returning it. She touches it again, then puts it down. Now, what do you know about just robins? What? About when do they nest again? Me, I think it must be more early in Japan as in America, account they nest in here now. Oh, at the same time, I fancy. Madame Butterfly, disappointed. Yes? Then they's nest in there. Then, taking hope again... Say, I tell you, perhaps some time sooner, some time later. Just how they feel like. Possibly. Why do you ask? Because Lieutenant B. F. P. Curtin say he will come back to me when the robins nest again.
Sharpless, to himself. Poor devil. One of his infernal jokes. Madame Butterfly, clapping her hands. Me, I think it's time. I've waited so long. Suzuki enters with a teapot. Madame Butterfly gives Sharpless a cup of tea. Nakoto appearing at the door. E. Most illustrious. Ah! Enter, Nakoto. Your presence lights up my entire house. She gives him a cup. Accepting it, He goes up to a cushion and sits. That's bad, man. When my husband's gone away, he try to forget me merry again. The rich Yamaduri, Madame Cho-Cho-San, is very poor. Madame Butterfly bowing politely. Oh, little old friend, these are my business. Rejected advice makes the heart sad. Well, if those hearts hurt you so much, you better not arrive here no more.
Madame Butterfly... May I ask, where are your people? They have outcasted her. Say, that's phony. My people make me merry when I don't want. Now I am merry, they don't want. Before I merry, Lieutenant B. F. P. Curtin, my honorable father— She bows low. Nakoto bows. Sharpless bows. Die. He's officer. These are his sort. Pointing to an inscription. Tis written? She holds out the sword that the inscriptions may be read. Nakoto reading. To die with honor, when one can no longer live with honor. He bows, then turns and bows towards the shrine, and goes back to his cushion where he sits. He's kill himself, account he soldier of emperor and defeat in battle. Then we get—oh, there, poor. Me? I go dance little.
Also, I think if some rich man wish me I get married for a while, account my grandmother.
Nakoto bows. Sharkless politely nods. Don't got no food, no obi. Then, old Nakoto, he say, uh... Nakoto picks up his cushion and moves down to join in the conversation. Man's just assin' for nice wife for three months. Nakoto tell him he don't know none more nicer as me. Nakoto salaaming. Nizzer, ask you. Madame Butterfly salaaming. Nizer as me. Sharpless, looking from one to the other. Couldn't be nicer. He salaams profoundly. Then all salaam. Then Nakoto say. I say, I don't lig him a conky. He also remarked with me that he is barbarian and beast, but every one say, yes, take him, take him, beast, he's got monies. So I say, for just little while perhaps I can stand. So that code will bring him.
For look at meeting, Madame Butterfly, laughing. Me? Well, I think that day, Lieutenant B. F. P. Carrotone is just a god. Gold button, lace on his unicorn. At first I frightened. He hold my hands so close, like— She illustrates by giving both hands to Sharpless. And kiss. Japanese girl, no like kiss. But when Lieutenant B. F. P. Kerton kiss me, I like fair much. What's use lie? It's not inside of me. Noticing that her hands are still in Sharpless's. Oh, I beg your honorable pardon. She tucks her hands into her sleeves. So we is getting married, and then his ship order away, and me, I am just waiting. Sometimes crying, sometimes watching, but always waiting. Nakoto, in the doorway, bowing with servility.
My client, the prosperous Yamaduri, approaches for the third time today. Now I have my little joke again. You watch. He comes all time to make smash with me. Pinkerton slang. Yamadori enters, attended by two servants. Sharpless rises and bows ceremoniously. Madame Butterfly does not rise, but bends her head and fans herself coquettishly. The two servants squat. Mr. Sharpless, always a pleasure to meet you here, or in New York. Thanks, Mr. Yamadori. Madame Butterfly coquettishly You have something nice to say to me again today? Perseverance shall be the religion of my life, until the capricious butterfly deigns to believe me. You go and tell me again you kill yourself I don't make kiss with you.
Yamadori, very much embarrassed, looking at Consul. Oh! You can speak. Consul, no. I've been telling him about your little foolishness. Such treatment, Mr. Sharpless, is one of the penalties we incur when madly in love with a charming woman. That's very nice. Winks behind her fan at Sharpless. Heavens, Pinkerton's very wink. Madame Butterfly gives a cup of tea to Yamadori, who drinks it and rolls a cigarette. Yamadori to Sharpless. I am in Japan for two months. A pleasure trip. Do you blame me? Pointing to Madame Butterfly. Every time he come home get another woman, must have more than eight now. But I married them all. Oh, he. He just married whenever he think about it. You shall be different.
I will bury you with my ancestors. Too sharp, Liz. I offered her a thousand servants. Nakoto, stunned. Thousand? Fans. And a palace to live in. The Nakoto is overcome by such generosity. Everything her heart can wish.
Is that not enough? She shakes her head. Then in the presence of this statesman of integrity, I will give you a solemn writing. Sharpless gives him a quizzical glance. Is that enough? What's good of that to married women? According to the laws of Japan, when a woman is deserted, she is divorced. Madame Butterfly stops fanning, and listens. Though I have traveled much abroad, I know the laws of my own country. And I know laws of my husband's country. She still fancies herself married to the young officer. If Your Excellency would explain— Madame Butterfly, to Sharpless. Say, when someone getting married in America, don't he stay married? Usually, yes. Well, that's all right. I'm married to Lieutenant B.
F. P. Curtin. Yes, but a Japanese marriage. Matrimony is a serious thing in America, not a temporary affair, as it often is here. Yes, and you can't like American mans. Japanese got too many wives, eh? Sharpless, laughing. We're not allowed more than one at a time. Yes, and you can't divorce wives like here by saying, Walk it back to your parent, eh? Oh, no. That's right. Exactly. When I asked leftina to be F. P. Carton, he explained those law to me of getting divorce in those United States. He say no one can get except he stand up before Judge two, three, four, seven year.
First, the man he got tell those judge all he know about womans. Then womans, she got tell. Then some lawyer quarreled with those judge. The judge get jury and ask what they think. And if they don't know, they'll all get put in chills. That's all right. Fold hands. Your friend has told her everything she wanted him to tell her. Madame Butterfly, who has paid no attention. That's very nice, too, that American god. I beg your pardon? Once times, Lieutenant B.F. Pinkerton. Yamadori, aside to Sharpless. Pinkerton again? He's in great troubles, and he said, God help me, and sunshine came right out. And God he did. That's very quick. Japanese gods take more time. Everything quick in America. Ha! Me, sometime I think I pray large American God to get him back soon, but no use.
He don't know me where I live. Attracted by a sound. What's that? You hear? No. Madame Butterfly runs to the window and listens, then takes up the glasses while Sharpless speaks in a low voice to Yamadori. Lieutenant Pinkerton's ship was due yesterday. His young wife from America is waiting here to meet him. At the word wife, Yamadori smiles, takes his fan from his sleeve, and fans himself. The Nakoto, who is listening, is struck by an idea, and departs in such haste that he tumbles over one of Yamadori's attendants who jabbers at him. Devilish sorry for that girl. Then tell her the truth. Excuse me, but I always hear him sound like Shipgun. That's not real. Yamadori, preparing to go. Good morning, Mr.
Sharpless. Shaking hands. Turning to Madame Butterfly. I leave you today. Tomorrow, the gods may prompt you to listen to me. He bows. Madame Butterfly, bowing. Maybe. Yamadori and attendants go off, bowing. She turns to Sharpless. Maybe not. Say, somehow couldn't you let that Lieutenant B. F. P. Curtin know there's other all crazy about me. Madame Butterfly, sit down. While she, struck by his solemn manner, looks at him and obeys, he removes the teapot and sits on the stand to the astonishment of Madame Butterfly. "'I'm going to read you part of a letter I have received from Pinkerton.' He takes a letter from his pocket. "'Just let me look at those letters.' She slips it under her kimono on her heart, and with an indrawn breath, hands it back.
"'Now read quick, you most best nice man in all the whole world.' Sharkless reads. "'Find out about that little Jap girl. What has become of her? It might be awkward now.' If Little Butterfly still remembers me, perhaps you can help me out and make her understand. Let her down gently. You won't believe it, but for two weeks after I sailed, I was Dottie in love with her. Sharpless is amazed to see Madame Butterfly convulsed with silent joy. Oh, the gods, how it was sweet! Why, really— That's what I'm afraid, that he love me so much he's going to desert his country and get in trouble with American Eagle. What do you think? Oh, it's more better I wait than those. Sharpless, folding the letter. No use.
You can't understand. Madame Butterfly, suppose this waiting should never end? What would become of you? Me? I could dance, maybe, or die? Don't be foolish. I advise you to consider the rich Yamadori's offer. Madame Butterfly, astonished. You say those? You, American consul, when you know that me, I am Mary. You heard Yamadori. It is not binding. Yamadori lies. His offer is an unusual opportunity for a girl who—for any Japanese girl in your circumstances. Madame Butterfly, enraged, she clapped her hands. "'Suzuki, the excellent gentleman,' bowing sarcastically, "'who have done us the honor to call. He wished to go hurriedly. His shoes, hasten them.' Suzuki, who has entered carrying a jar, gets Sharpless's clogs and gives them to him, then passes off with her jar.
Sharpless, holding the clogs awkwardly, "'I'm really very sorry.' No, no. Don't be angry. But just now you told me— Oh, God. You mean— Looks at him pitifully. Are I not Lieutenant B.F. P. Gerton's wife? Me? Hardly. Oh, I— She sways slightly. Sharpless goes to her assistance, but she recovers and fans herself. That's all right. I got— Little heart illness. I can't... I can't in some ways give up thinking he'll come back to me. You think that's all over? I'll finish? Dropping her fan, Sharpless nods assent. Oh no! Love, don't forget some things, or what's use of love? She claps her hands, beckoning off. Love's got remember. Pointing. Some things. A child enters. A child? Pinkerton's? Madame Butterfly, showing a picture of Pinkerton's.
Look, look! Holding it up beside the child's face. That's just his face. Same hair, same blue eye. Does Lieutenant Pinkerton know? No. He come after he go. Looking at the child with pride. You think father neither comes back? That's what you think he do. You write him letter. Tell him about one best most nice Bebby ever seen. Ha! Ha! I bet all monies he go and come most one million mile for see those child. Surely this is time. Bebby.
Say! You didn't mean what you said about me not being merry. You make little joke? Moved, Sharpless nods his head in assent. To the great relief of Madame Butterfly.
She lays the baby's hand in Sharpless's. Sharpless, shaking hands with the child. Hmm? Hmm? What's your name? Trouble. Japanese baby always change its name. I was thinking some day, when he come back, change it to joy. Yes, yes, I'll let him know. Glad to escape. He takes an abrupt departure. Suzuki, in the distance, wailing, "'Aye, aye, aye.'" "'Thus well.'" Suzuki, nearer. "'Oh, Chuchu-san.'" Madame Butterfly goes to the door to meet Suzuki. "'Chuchu-san.'" "'Speak.'" "'We are shamed through the town. The Nakoto.'" Nakoto, appearing, "'Aye, but said the child.'" He points to the baby. Whom Madame Butterfly instinctively shelters in her arms, was a badge of shame to his father. In his country, there are homes for such unfortunates, and they never rise above the stigma of their class.
They are shunned and cursed from birth. Madame Butterfly, who has listened stolidly, now with a savage cry, pushing him away from her until he loses his balance and falls to the floor. You lie! Nakoto on the floor. But Yamaduri, Madame Butterfly, touching her father's sword. Lies, lies, lies. Say again, I kill. Go. But Nakoto goes quickly. Bebe, he lies. Yes, it lie. When your father knows how they speak, he will take us away from bad people to his own country. I am finished here. Taking the American flag from the tobacco jar and giving it to the child. That's your country, your flag. Now wave like father, say, and excite. Wave like hell. Waves the child's hand.
A ship's gun is heard. Madame Butterfly and Suzuki start for the balcony. Madame Butterfly runs back for the child as the gun is heard again, then returning to the soji, looks through the glasses. Look! Look! Warship! Wait. Can't see name. Let me. No. Name is Connecticut. His ship! He's come back! He's come back! Laughing, she embraces Suzuki, then sinks to the floor. You've come back! Those robins' nests again, and we didn't know! Oh, baby, baby, your father come back! Your father's come back! Oh! Shaking a bough of cherry blossoms, which fall on them both. This is the best nice moment since you was born. Now your name's Joy. Suzuki! The moon goddess sent that baby straight from Bridge of Heaven to make me courage to wait so long.
Ah, ship's in. Madame Butterfly, rising in great excitement. Hurry, Suzuki! Here's the room! Suzuki pulls out a screen to form a little room. We must hurry. Picking flowers from the pots and decorating the room. Like we got eagle's wings and thousand feet. You cigarettes? Setting the jar in the room. You slipper? Suzuki gets them from the shrine. His chair, Suzuki, hustle! Suzuki hastens off. Madame Butterfly shakes a cushion and drops it on the floor. His bed? Suzuki enters with a steamer chair, which he places upside down. Now his room fixed. Suzuki closes the shoji. Madame Butterfly adjusts the chair and sets the lanterns about the room. Bring me my whitest obi. Kanzashi for my hair. Poppy's...
Mr. Brown. He must look very pretty. Rest is best beauty. He no come yet. Sleep little first. No, no time. Taking up a small mirror, and looking critically at herself. He must see me look most pretty ever. You think I changed since he went away? Not so beauty? Suzuki is silent. What? I am. Randishing the mirror. Say so. Perhaps you rest little, or once more. You get so pretty again. Again? Trouble does make change. Much change. Still looking in the glass. No. I am no more pretty. And he comes soon. On her knees in front of Suzuki, resting her forehead on the maid's feet. Ah, Suzuki, be kind with me. Make me pretty. Don't say you can't, you mose. And tomorrow the gods will. Ah. Yes, you can—you can—you got to—bring—powder, comb, rouge, henna—fixit hair like on wedding day.
Suzuki brings the toilet articles, and they sit on the floor. Suzuki puts the poppies and pins in Madame Butterfly's hair, and she, in turn, dresses the baby, enveloping him in an obi so wide that it almost covers the child. Now, baby, when you cry, he'll sing you those little American songs you sing me when I cry. Song all Americans sing for baby. Sitting with the baby in front of her, swaying it by the arms, she sings. Rag-a-bye, baby, off in Japan. You just a picture off of a fan. Suzuki has found it very difficult to finish the toilet, but at last she accompanies it. Madame Butterfly lifts the baby up, gives it a doll, then touches it with rouge, and adds a final dash of rouge on her own face.
Now watch for papa. Putting the flag in the child's hand, She takes it up to the window and makes three holes in the soji, one low down for the baby. As the three look through the soji, they form the picture she has already described.
During the vigil, the night comes on. Suzuki lights the floor lamps, the stars come out, and the dawn breaks. The floor lights flicker out one by one. The birds begin to sing, and the day discovers Suzuki and the baby fast asleep on the floor. But Madame Butterfly is awake, still watching. Her face white and strained. She reaches out her hands and rouses Suzuki. Suzuki, starting to her feet, surprised and looking about the room. He no come yet. No. Oh! Madame Butterfly, with an imperious gesture. No. Oh, he will come. Bring fresh flowers. She collects the lanterns as Suzuki brings in fresh flowers. Madame Butterfly tears up the roses and throws their leaves in Pinkerton's room. Then, pointing to the upper part of the house, she picks up the child, whose doll drops from its hand.
She leaves the room, and Suzuki goes to prepare the breakfast. The stage is empty. Very faintly, a strain of, I call her the Bell of Japan, is heard. Madame Butterfly is singing that she may not weep. A pause. Someone knocks on the door. Lieutenant Pinkerton's voice calls outside the soji. "'Madam Butterfly? Madame Butterfly?' Coming into the room, he looks about. "'Butterfly?' Sharpless, following him. "'They've seen the ship. These decorations were not here when I called.' Madame Butterfly, singing to hush the child. "'Rag-a-bye, baby, off in Japan.' Lieutenant Pinkerton listens to the song coming from above. "'You just a picture, off of a fan.' She's watching the ship. Noticing the screened-off part of the room.
My room. Just as it used to look. My chair. Picking up the doll which the child has dropped. Poor kid. Poor little devil. Sharpless, I thought when I left this house the few tears, sobs, little polite regrets would be over as I crossed the threshold. I started to come back for a minute, but I said to myself— Don't do it. By this time, she's wringing your gold pieces to make sure they're good. You know, that class of Japanese girl and— Sharpless, seeing Nakoto, who is at the soji. Look here. I have something to settle with you. Nakoto comes in cautiously. Why did you seek out my friend's wife at the pier? Why did you tell her that story, the child and all? Answer me. Nakoto to Sharpless. Your Excellency.
I but thought if trouble came between the two women, he would surely break with Chocho San, and then she would be glad to marry the rich Yamaduri, and I get Big C. Exit. You'll never get it. To Pinkerton. She'll starve first. Sharpless, thank God, that's one thing I can do. Money. He takes out an envelope containing some money. What did your wife say, Pinkerton? Well, it was rather rough on her. Only married four months. Sharpless, my Kate's an angel. She offered to take the child. Maybe promise I'd speak of it to Butterfly. Madame Butterfly calling from above. Suzuki? She's coming. Pinkerton instinctively draws behind the screen. Madame Butterfly, coming down the stairs with the sleeping baby on her back, calling.
Suzuki? Come for baby. Kissing the child. Nice little eye. Pick out of blue sky. All shut up. Lieutenant Pinkerton, aside to Sharpless, his eyes fixed on the mother and child. I can't face it. I'm going. Give her the money. Ah! Sharpless gives her a warning gesture. Madame Butterfly, seeing Suzuki's astonished face, What? She puts the baby in Suzuki's arms. Suzuki goes out quickly. Madame Butterfly sees the council. You? Joyously. Oh, you seen him? Yes. And you told him? Well... But you told him... of Bebby? Yes. Madame Butterfly, wiping her dry lips. Yes. That's right. That's what I asked you to do. And... and... what'd he say? Well... Taking out the envelope, and giving her the money which he takes without looking at it.
He said he was crazy to see you, and— Aside. What the devil can I say? To her. You know, he can't leave the ship just yet. Pointing to the package in her hand. That is in remembrance of the past. He wishes you to be always happy to have the best of luck. He hopes to see you soon, and— The lies die out on his lips. Madame Butterfly, bending and kissing his hand, Overcome, she staggers. Sharpless catches her, puts her into the chair. She leans against him, her face upraised, her eyes closed. Kate, entering hurriedly. Has Lieutenant Pinkerton gone? Has my husband been here? Madame Butterfly hears, and opens her eyes. For God's sake. He looks at Madame Butterfly, whose eyes are fixed on his with a look of despair.
Come, we can overtake him. Kate, in a lower voice. Did he speak to her of the— No. Then I will ask. For the first time, seeing Madame Butterfly— Is this— Sharpless nods and goes. There is a short pause while the two women look at each other. Then Madame Butterfly, still seated, slowly bows her head. Why, you poor little thing. Who in the world could blame you, or call you responsible? You pretty little plaything. Takes Madame Butterfly in her arms. Madame Butterfly, softly, No, plaything, I am Mrs. Lieutenant B. F. No, no, now I am only Churchill, but no, She rises, then impassively. How long have you been, Maddy? Four months. Madame Butterfly, counting on her fingers. Oh. Four. Won't you let me do something for the child?
Where is he? Madame Butterfly gestures towards the next room. Kate, seeing the child. Ah, the dear little thing. May I— No, can look—no can touch. Let us think first of the child. For his own good. Let me take him home to my country. I will do all I would do for my own. Madame Butterfly, showing no emotion. He not know than me and his mother. It's hard, very hard, I know. But would it not be better? Madame Butterfly, taking the money box from her sleeve and giving the coins to Kate. That's his. Two dollars. All that's left of his.
I shall need no more. She hands Kate the envelope which Sharpless has just given. I like if you also say I sorry. No, no, no, glad. Glad. I wish him that same happiness like he wished for me. And tell him I shall be happy, maybe. Thank him, Mr. B. F. for also that kindness he have been unto me, and permit me to thank you, Augustus, for that same—you—you must be the best lucky girl in this whole world. Good night. She stands stolidly, with her eyes closed. Kate, wiping her eyes. But the child— Come back fifteen minutes. With closed eyes, she bows politely. Sayonara. God help me, but no sun can shine. Suzuki, who has listened, sings at Madame Butterfly's feet. Don't cry, Suzuki, little maiden. I can disappoint, a little disappoint.
Don't cry. Running her hand over Suzuki's head as she kneels. That's short while ago. You asked me rest. Sleep. Well, Go away, and I will rest now. I wish rest, sleep, long sleep, and when you see me again, I pray you look whether I be not beautiful again. As a bride.
No, no, no. So that I suffer no more. Good-bye, little maiden. Suzuki does not go. Madame Butterfly claps her hands, and sobbing, Suzuki leaves the room. Madame Butterfly bolts the soji and the door, lights fresh incense before the shrine, takes down her father's sword, and reads the inscription. To die with honor, when one can no longer live with honor. She draws her finger across the blade to test the sharpness of the sword, then picks up the hand-glass, puts on more rouge, rearranges the poppies in her hair, bows to the shrine, and is about to press the blade of the sword against her neck when the door is opened and the child is pushed into the room by Suzuki, who keeps out of sight. Madame Butterfly drops the sword and takes the baby in her arms.
A knocking is heard, but she pays no heed.
She sets the child on a mat, puts the American flag in its hand, and, picking up the sword, goes behind the screen that the child may not see what she is about to do. A short pause. The sword is heard to drop. Madame Butterfly reappears, her face deathly, a scarf about her neck to conceal the wound. Suzuki opens the door, sees the face of her mistress, backs out of the room in horror. Madame Butterfly drops to her knees as she reaches the child, and clasps it to her. A hand is thrust through the soji, and the bolt is drawn. Kate enters quickly, urging the reluctant Pinkerton to follow her. Lieutenant Pinkerton, discerning what she has done, Oh, Cho-cho-san. He draws her to him, with the baby pressed to her heart.
She waves the child's hand, which holds the flag, saying faintly, Those...rabins...didn't...less again.
She dies.
End of Madame Butterfly by David Belasco from the story by John Luther Long
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4 04 - A Midsummer Dance Dream 35:06
A Midsummer Dance Dream by Anna Byrd Stewart and William Shakespeare.
A Midsummer Dance Dream. The Persons of the Play. Justine, a modern college girl who dreams the dream. Read by Miriam Esther Goldman. Puck, who introduces the dream with the following characters. Read by Peter Makus. Hermione, a little too stiff after her experience as a statue to go in for modern dancing. Read by Patti Cunningham. Perdita, her daughter, originator of the Shakespeare tango. Read by Elizabeth Klatt. Rosalind, the Dr. Mary Walker of Queen Elizabeth's time. Read by Eden Ray Hedrick. Catherine, a militant suffragist. Read by Amanda Friday. Read by Charlotte Duckett. Read by Michelle Eaton. Read by Libby Gawne. Read by Miriam Esther Goldman. The induction. The stage is set to represent a girl's room at college, with an extremely modern setting.
At the right, in the foreground, is a table with a lighted electric lamp upon it. It is covered with large and small books. Papers and manuscripts are everywhere. Discovered. At the rise of the curtain, Justine is working at her table, consulting books and writing on her thesis. Dance music of the most modern sort is heard outside. The girl indicates in pantomime that she wishes to follow the music, but she keeps at her work. Enter college girls, out of breath from running, all laughing and talking at once. Come on, Justine. We're having a dance at the gym. I can't come tonight. Ah, come on. I have to work on my thesis. You can do it tomorrow. No, I have to finish it tonight. Oh, come on, silly.
A dance will do you good. No, I'm sorry, but I've got my head full of the heroines of Shakespeare, and I'm not going to dance, nor go to bed, nor eat, nor anything, until I get all those classic dames locked within the pages of my thesis. All the girls laugh at the words, classic dames. It's now or never for the heroines of Shakespeare. Well, good night then. Good luck to the stupid old thing. Good night. Exeunt Girls Chattering Justine gets to work again. She grows sleepier and sleepier, yawning over her book. At last her head drops down on her arms on the table, and she sleeps. She may remain here all during the dream-play, if desired, but must feign sleep without interruption. Otherwise she should make her exit during the dark change after Puck's speech.
Music cue when Justine sleeps. Schubert's moment musicale continued. Enter Puck. As I am an honest Puck, what f— Fools these mortals be! To what base uses may they return? Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away, And Shakespeare, with small Latin and less Greek, May yet be made in modern plays to speak. Music cue. The puck music turns into modern dance music. Hark! Hark! a lark! There is a dance toward. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. Look here upon this picture and on that. Points first to girl and then to books. He picks up pages of the thesis, looks at them, and blows them aside. Words, words, words. Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care grapples her to her soul with hoops of steel and tense her to the quick.
To sleep perchance to dream? Ay, there's the rub, for in her sleep what dreams may come must give us applause. Makes passes around the girl's head with his wand. Mark how I rock her brains with my air-drawn dagger. She dreams a dream tonight. The play's the thing. It is such stuff as dreams are made on, and its little life is rounded with her sleep. Come, I know a bank where a wild time flows. Follow my voice. We'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes. Out, damn spot! Puck waves his hand toward the spotlight. All the lights go out. He speaks through the darkness from another part of the stage. Follow my voice. He sings. The backdrop lifts to show the stage set for the dream-play itself.
Hermione is seated on the throne, right. Perdita is standing on the steps of the portico, looking into the distance. Puck, with a little laugh, runs down to the front of the stage, where he sits on the floor with his hands clasped around his knees. He watches with interest every movement made by every character, laughing impishly at each new difficulty, and on the allurge to join in the action during the entire play.
THE DREAM Now is the winter of our discontent. O prettiest Perdita, true it is we have seen better days. Who steals my purse steals trash. Our state is wretched. She is seated on the throne, and at the end assumes the hamlet pose. Hermione, dear Queen, hear thy admiring daughter. I have a plan better to mend our fortunes, and so prepare to cast aside that lean and hungry look. Put money in thy purse. Perdita has run down to the throne for this, with a bundle of newspapers. What's to be done? Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck, till thou applaud the deed. I have put this night's great business into my dispatch. News, Courier, Sun, and the Distracted Globe, and in the Lark, the Herald of the Mourn, the abstract and brief chronicle of the times.
And though I hold the world but as the world, likewise. In that, For my own part, that's Greek to me. Mark me. Many a time and oft in the Rialto I have trod a measure. Dost thou remember how young Florizel did praise my dancing in no meager terms? She shows Hermione a newspaper with an advertisement in it. Hermione reading. When you do dance, I wish you a wave of the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that. So said he. And to give them a taste of my quality, I print Viola's words.
Lady, you are the cruelest she alive if you will lead these dances to the grave and leave the world no copy. Learn of me. There is a tide in the affairs of men that, taken at its flood, leads them to tango. I know a trick worth two of these. Hermione, deeply distressed at her daughter's plan, "'I would the gods had made thee poetical.' The poet's eye in fine frenzy rolling, to fill my purse with money? "'Tis to laugh," Perdita rises. "'Say, tell me, where is dancing bread? In the heels, or in the head? I'll make my foot my tutor, and they'll learn the dance of fashion and the mould of form." There are more dances in heaven and earth, Hermione, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. What say you to a neat foot?
She dances a step or two. It likes me not. Mischief thou art a foot. Perdita, crossing to the throne and trying to make her mother understand. Good mother, cast thy benighted notion off, and let thine eye look like a friend on dancing. Thou knowest his common. "'Aye, madam, it is common, but tis a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance. But have thy way. My poverty, but not my will, consents." She rises pathetically, Perdita holding out her hand. She and Hermione stroll to the centre of the room. Necessity's the mother of invention. And nothing comes amiss, so money comes with all. Hang out our banners on the outward wall. The cry is still, they come. She runs up the steps at the rear as she says this.
This castle hath a pleasant seat here on the platform, where I'll watch. She strides back to the throne seat. How sweet the moon will sleep upon this bank. She gets the money box from pedestal. Sit, Hermione. Thy way of life hath fallen into the sear and yellow leaf, but this is the very coinage to cure thy itching palm. She gives Hermione the money-box, kneeling ceremoniously. A loud knock is heard off left. By the pricking of my thumbs, something trickid this way comes. Open locks whoever knocks. Puck has laughed and dashed up on the steps' center, looking off when the knock is heard. Enter Rosalind, dressed as a boy, carrying a copy of the world. She assumes the traditional Rosalind pose, her right outstretched arm holding the boar-spear.
Good-morrow, fair ones. Pray, if you know, where in the purlieus of Bohemia stands the dancing-school of Perdita? Behold it! If that an eye should profit by a tongue, then I should know thee by description. Such garments and such years! Sweet Rosalind! Rosalind salutes Hermione and Perdita. Hermione calls the attention of Perdita to the money-box. Wast thou who taught Macbeth the hairy lauder? Discovered Moorish tangos to Othello? The melancholy Maxique showed to Jacques. Did Castle walks at Elsinore for Hamlet? And did he learn from thee the hesitation? Yea, I must tell the truth, and shame the devil. Then on the table of thy memory pray set me down a pupil. What's the cost? Hermione opens the box.
Rosalind opens her purse. And thou shalt have the pay of it from me, yea, twice the sum, if that will not suffice. I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er. Predita, gauging Rosalind's purse from a side. Sweetest nut hath sourest rind. Such a nut is Rosalind. Frailty thy name is one step. Then to Rosalind she says aloud, Four score ducats. Hermione, becoming reconciled to the idea at once. Four score ducats at a sitting. My daughter. And my ducats. There is a knock heard off left. Rosalind pays Remini the money. At this moment another loud knock is heard. Here's a knocking indeed. Knock is repeated. Rosalind crosses to left of the steps, and Puck, who has gone up to see what the noise is, comes down beyond the chair at the left.
Enter Catherine the Shrew, with a copy of the Times. She pauses at the top step. Where be these knaves? What? No man at door. What? No attendance? No regard? No duty? She glares at everyone. Good-morrow, Kate. For that's your name, I hear. Next Sunday week my sister's to be married. I must dance barefoot on her wedding day. She assumes the traditional Catherine pose, with crossed arms and a scowl, at the centre of the stage. All this I can acquaint to, madam, according to the fashion and the time. Hermione, aside to Perdita, fearing Catherine is not going to pay. Is she not able to discharge the money? Catherine, overhearing this and throwing her handbag to Hermione at the foot of the throne.
Here's money. Only give me so much of your time in exchange for it, as to lay an amiable siege to the art of dancing. Perdita, opening the bag and pulling out all sorts of feminine things from it, but no money. She looks further. Hast any philosophy in thee? Though last, not least— She has discovered a little change purse. "'Seven groats in mill sixpences. The pity of it! "'Tis not enough for lesson one, good mother." Then to Catherine. "'You're yet my debtor." Perdita crosses right, takes a bond and quill from the money-box, and holds it for Catherine to sign. Puck rises to watch, running around behind the others to centre to get a good view. Catherine signs it. Perdita is whispering to Hermione.
"'I think I may take her bond.' Hermione locks the signed bond in the box. If brevity is the soul of wit, dance on, and damned be she who first cries, hold enough. Puck skips up to center, and Perdita begins a dancing step, which Catherine is watching and about to imitate. I shall in all my best obey you, madam. Puck is center in the archway, Hermione on the throne. Rosalind left center, Perdita near the throne, and Catherine down left. Outside, the wailing voice of Lady Macbeth is heard, which interrupts all proceedings. Lady Macbeth, outside. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth. I stand like patience on a monument. But look you yonder where the poor wretch comes reading. Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a newspaper by the light of a candle she is carrying.
She pauses at the top step. Puck is nearby. To Tango, or not to Tango? That is the question. She comes down the steps to center. Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer, the slings and arrows of outrageous preachers, or to put arms around the chariest maid, who is prodigal enough if she unmask her beauty to the moon and the primrose path of Dallion's tread, out, out, brief candle. Puck blows the candle out. Lady Macbeth does the hamlet walk to the chair down left. Catherine, who is at the extreme left. I had as a leaf be taught by a snail. Predita, looking off left from right center. But soft! What light through yonder doorway breaks! It is the east, and Juliet has the sun. Enter Juliet with a copy of the sun.
The world's my oyster. Catherine, tearing up her paper and throwing the pieces underfoot. Words, words, words! The time's out of joint. Weep no more, ladies. Foolery doth walk around the orb like the sun. It shines everywhere. She waves her newspaper. Perdita to Juliet. Shall we make the Welkin dance? My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour. Twas at a dance where I first met Romeo. Oh, he is the almanay of my true dates. Perdita and Rosalind run to Juliet at centre to hear her confidences. But something is rotten in the state of dancing. I can no longer put my best foot foremost. Hence, Perdita, come teach me. Teach me! For now I am in holiday humour, and like enough to learn. Hermione to Juliet.
I must entreat of you some of that money. Juliet giving Hermione money. Dispense of trifles. Hermione locking the box. I like her money well. Is it honest in word and deed? Is it a good thing? She joins Rosalind, Juliet, and Catherine at the center, and they begin a loud chatter of gossip. Aha! Now they are clapper-clawing one another. I'll go look on. As Puck rises to listen, they all talk at once. You bite your tongue at me. Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Oh, that I were in an alehouse in London. God has given you one face, and you make yourself another. Perdita, trying to make herself heard above the clatter. Friends! Roaming countrywomen, lend me your ears. She holds her hand up to silence them.
You come to learn the tango, not to praise it. The evil in men's dance lives after them. The good is often turred with the exercise. Perdita getting a leer from behind the throne, and placing it downstage right for Puck. It will discourse most eloquent music, and if music be the food of love, play on. Puck plays for the dancing. Perdita, during the following speech, has lined up the others in the background, and she illustrates each dance as she names it, taking the women, one after another, for partners as she needs them. All the world's a dance, and all the men and women merely dancers. They have their tempos and their temperaments, and each one in his time has many partners, his dance being in seven ages.
At first, the jig step. Music cue. Jig, which Perdita dances alone. Kicking, he learned it in his nurse's arms. Then the winding minuet. Music cue. Minuet, which she dances with Juliet. With its graces and smiling happy face, creeping like snail most willingly it rule. Then the waltz step. Music cue. Waltz, which she dances with Rosalind. Sighing like Furnace with a woeful ballad made to his partner's ankle. Then the polka. Music cue. Polka with Catherine. Full of strange glides and rushing with his pard, violent in action, sudden and quick in stride, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth. And then the cakewalk. Music cue. Cakewalk with Lady Macbeth, who falls exhausted in the chair at the left when the dance has ended.
With not severe and not a formal cut, full of wide steps and negro instances, and thus it plays its part. The sixth dance shifts into the cabaret and vaudeville. Music cue. Cabaret tango music. No dance. Perdita goes down to the footlights for these lines. Where one may eat his fill, if he hath that to pay the reckoning. Where servants, tipped, do dance attendance on his lordship's pleasure, and to speak by the card there's meat and drink to them. And meat it is, you set it down, that one may dance and dance and be no villain. At least I'm sure it may be so in restaurants. Dance on, you fat and greasy citizens. Tis just the fashion, as if excessive appetite should grow by what it feeds on. Tango doth murder sleep.
Worst dance of all that ends this strange eventful history is turkey-trottishness to mere oblivion.
Sands grace, sands charm, sands taste. Sands everything. Perdita and Juliet dance the turkey-trot. Catherine, running over left to dance with Lady Macbeth. If it were done when tis done, then twere well it were done quickly. Lady Macbeth, starting to dance and then stopping with one foot in the air. Butch, says the fiend. Butch not, says my conscience. Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all. She takes Juliet as a partner, and all dance, starting a one-step or turkey trot, and ending with a cakewalk. Hermione, afraid she will lose money if she does not satisfy all doubts. There's nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Wisely and slow, they stumble that go fast. Come, dance it orderly and well.
Suit the action to the word, and the word to the action. She lines them up in a row across the stage, standing before them. Music Cue. Maxix. They strive to imitate her, awkwardly. Follow me. Do not saw the air too much with your hand thus. Look here upon this picture, and on this. She poses, first awkwardly and then gracefully, to illustrate her meaning. They dance a few steps of the Maxix to the right, and then back to their former places. What's in a name? A fox-trot by any other name would still be sweet. Music Cue. Fox-trot. Perdita dances with Juliet to the right, then to the center. Rosalind follows alone to the right, imitating. "'Tis as Casey is lying." "'You're to the manner born." Perdita takes Rosalind as a partner, dancing from right to left.
Juliet steps back right center. "'She does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural." "'Oh, Lord, how weary are my spirits!' Rosalind, stopping her dance, she draws a long breath and hits the top of her boot. "'I care not for spirits if my legs were not so weary.'" Perdita stands at the left, watching. Catherine and Rosalind dance a foxtrot from left to center. Juliet and Lady Macbeth from right to center. Catherine and Lady Macbeth bump back to back, and both fall sprawling, their feet straight out before them. A hit! A very palpable hit!
Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Hermione, rising on the throne platform. Oh, what a fall was that! Lady Macbeth, still on the floor. Some of us were smart for it. Can such things be, and overcome us, like a summer cloud without our special wonder?
Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt! You jest at scars who never felt a wound! Juliet has succeeded in helping Lady Macbeth to her feet at left centre. Catherine at centre. Madam, you have done me wrong—notorious wrong. The lady protests too much, methinks. You marble-hearted fiend! Predita, coming in front of Hermione. Why, what's the matter? I am nothing if not critical. I would speak daggers to her. But I am too full of the milk of human kindness. She looks fixedly at Lady Macbeth. I'll laugh. To Predita. O shame! Where is thy blush? Neither rhyme nor reason lies in the deep damnation of your taking off. Dressed in a little brief authority. You do teach us a midsummer madness. You tend us to the quick.
Go, get thee to a nunnery. I do remember an apothecary who could dance as well. Predita, breathless from astonishment. I was never so berimed since Pythagoras's time. Catherine, with withering scorn. When you were an Irish rat. Still harping on my daughter. There's no offense. Hermione, rising. Yes, by St. Patrick, but there is. "'Tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue." The retort courteous. She sits again, Catherine getting ready to go. God give them wisdom that have it, and those—looking at Perdita meaningly—that are fools, let them use their talents. Alack! How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to teach a thankless shrew! The reproof valiant, yet more in sorrow than in anger.
"'Oh, my daughter!' Suddenly remembering that Catherine has not paid for the first lesson, she rises. "'And my ducats! Madam, hold! Omittance is no quittance.' "'You can fool no more money out of me at that throw.' "'I'll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak.' Rattling the cash-box, she opens it and takes out the bond. "'I'll have my bond.' "'Thrift, thrift, Hermione! Age cannot wither her.' "'Nor custom stale her infinite avariciousness.' Catherine goes up the steps at centre, then to Perdita. "'I'll trip you so your heels may kick at heaven, and I am then revenged.' Catherine exits left centre, and Puck, carrying the Lear, watches her off, and then places the Lear at the right of the steps.
Rosalind has gone up centre to watch Catherine off also, and as she disappears, she speaks. "'I want that glib and oily art to speak and purpose not.' Uneasy lies the foot that wears a ballet-slipper. That was laid on with a trowel. Ophelia appears, in the flowing white robe, with the wreath of wildflowers about her hair, and her arms are filled with nondescript weeds. Perdita, speaking before Ophelia is seen by the others. Soft you now, the fair Ophelia. Nymph, in thy orisons be all our dance remembered. Where is the beauteous majesty of dancing? Ophelia, singing plaintively as she comes forward. How should I my hamlet know from another one? By his hesitation waltz and his tango shoon. She wanders aimlessly down center.
Hermione, who has stood watching her, now sits. Mad for the tango? Indeed, I do not know, but truly I do fear it. Sweet ladies, I was sewing in my parlour, when Lord Hamlet, with no hat upon his head, pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, he comes before me. Lady Macbeth, stalking over and seizing Ophelia's wrist. What, said he? He took me by the wrist and held me hard. Then goes he to the length of all his arm. Long stayed he so. At last a little shaking of mine arm, and thrice his steps thus he waved up and down. She dances with Lady Macbeth. Three stiff steps downstage. That done, he lets go. Oh, proper stuff! This is the very painting of my fear. This is the hesitation which I said I taught to Hamlet.
That way madness lies. Ophelia, singing. Tomorrow is St. Valentine's Day, all in the morning be time, and I must master the tango to be his valentine. Though this be madness, yet there's method in it. Ophelia begins to weep. Alas, poor Yorick. Like Niobe, all tears. She is importunate. Indeed, distract. Her mood must needs be pitied. Ophelia, giving flowers to each of the women. There's Rosemary. That's for remembrance. Pray, love, remember. Tis more than I can do. One step with the right foot, then with the left foot so. She attempts the steps awkwardly, but shakes her head sadly as she realizes it is beyond her. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts. I would give you violets, but they wither so.
She pronounces this with a rising, drawn-out inflection. And there's rue for you, and some for me. Oh, but I must wear my rue with a difference. She fastens it on her dress upside down. Then she begins her song again, working toward the upper step, and making her exit with the last word. And will he not hesitate, and will he not tango again? No. No, he is dead, gone to his deathbed. He never will foxtrot again. Exit Ophelia, with a foxtrot step at left center. Puck follows her, as though to see what she will do next. I had thought to gild myself with some more ducats. What time she chanted snatches of old songs. Well, what's done cannot be undone. Off left there is a loud noise of tramping feet and voices.
It is like the approach of a great crowd of people. What noise is this? Juliet, going up the steps and looking off. That way the noise is. Perdita exits left, center to investigate. Daughter! Rosalind, going to Hermione, left of throne. She goes but to see a noise that she heard, and is to come again. Perdita re-enters in great excitement. She speaks from the top of the steps. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. Here come the officers. Hermione, greatly frightened. One woe doth tread upon another's heels, so fast they follow. Rosalind goes to the right of the throne. Lady Macbeth, pointing at Hermione. Who was most marble hair changed color. I would a Daniel come to judgment to report me and my cause aright.
Hermione, suddenly struck with a brilliant idea. The better part of valor is discretion. I've a device to make all well. A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! She moves energetically to the center of the room, waving her arms. Then she runs back to the throne, gets the money box, and tucks it under her arm. I'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes. Exit Hermione. Perdita, sitting on the throne steps. The game is up. Tis Catherine, with all the officers of Windsor. Juliet, looking out left center. They stand by your door like a sheriff's post. Rosalind, hiding behind the throne chair. Alack the day! What shall I do with my doublet and hose? Juliet hides behind a pillar on the platform, and Puck dashes in and hides down left.
Catherine re-enters with a huge official paper. Here comes the lady. Lady Macbeth, standing at left centre. Confusion now hath made her masterpiece. I want that glib and oily art to speak and purpose not. On easy lies the foot that wears a ballet-slipper. Perdita, sitting on the throne steps, hides her slippered foot quickly. Now is the very witching hour that I can do it, Pat. A deed of dreadful note. Perdita, all the perfumes of Arabia cannot strengthen thy little hand. The jailer will look to thee. You cannot deny the course of a law. Puck slips down and lights Lady Macbeth's candle, unseen by her. Exit, Puck. Read the indictment. Catherine, opening the document she carries and reading it.
Oh, for a muse of fire! For Lady Macbeth would seem to me this night a torch-bearer. How came she by that light? I know not. But tis against the law and majesty of Bohemia to make insurance doubly sure. There's Rosalind doth wander in the forest, and in man's apparel, and Juliet hath broken forth from out the tombs. That undiscovered bourne from which no traveller returns. While Perdita keeps watch at night, holds were sail in this staggering one-steep reels. "'Die a dry death, or reform it altogether. By such sin fell the angels.' Hermione enters center, crosses to the throne. Perdita rises, as Portia enters, followed by Puck. "'Portia!' Portia at center. "'I am Sir Oracle, and when I open my lips, let no dog bark.' Hermione beckons her to take the throne, which Perdita has vacated.
Puck crosses to extreme left, where he sets on the floor, chuckling at what follows. Are you acquainted with the difference that holds this present question in the court? Portia on the throne. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. Which is the dancer here, and which the shrew? Perdita and Catherine both stand forth. They step forward. Is your name Catherine? Catherine is my name. Portia to Perdita. You stand within her danger, do you not? Aye, so she says. Do you— Confess the dance hall? I do. Ha! Striking a traditional pose. Without a license. My license is poetical. Then must the shrew be merciful? On what compulsion must I? Tell me that. Portia, greatly surprised at the question. Why, the quality of mercy is not strained.
Didst thou not learn that in thine salad days when thou wast green? For good you were schooled, let's have the warrant. Catherine takes it out and holds it toward Portia with rude indifference. Portia looks at her severely, whereupon Catherine comes forward and presents the warrant with a bow. Once more to the breach. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. She examines the warrant on both sides, up and down. Ha-ha! This warrant's forfeit. General movement from all. It is such stuff as dreams are made of. "'Tis an air-drawn dagger, signifying nothing. Your own opinion was your law, "'tis not." She turns and looks at Rosalind, then asks Catherine. "'Core ye suited to all points like a man, a swashing and marshal outside, that?
A tailor made her, therefore. Let her pass for a man." She turns to Lady Macbeth, whose candle puck has blown out some time before. "'Look to the lady. As good luck would have it, see, her candle has burnt out. How far the little candle through its beams so shines a good dance in the awkward world. She turns to Juliet. And Juliet escaped the tombs. And wherefore not, forsooth, you shut the door upon the woman's wits, twill out at the casement. That warrants old, poor, infirm, weak, and despised old thing. And no more like this season's, than I to Hercules. Throw physic to—she turns to Perdita—the dogs, and let the rose of youth upon you. Portia takes a rose from her gown, and tosses it to Perdita, who catches and kisses it happily.
Dance on forever in a day, yea. Thank heaven fasting. For a good man, partner. Some are born dancers. Some achieve the foxtrot. And some have bunny-hugging cast upon them.
And indeed, it is dance more sinned against that than sinning. Catherine, on the steps up centre. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness. My cake is dough. I screwed my courage to the sticking point, and yet I failed. So to your pleasures, I am for other than for dancing measures. Exit Catherine, centre. Rosalind, swaggering to the steps left centre. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Juliet, standing at the left of Rosalind at the foot of the steps. "'Tis my speech! Let them that play the clown speak no more than is set down for them." Oh, if this were played upon a stage now, I would condemn it as an improbable fiction. Perdita, going to the door center and leading Catherine back downstage.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. Thus do we find gestures in trees, dances in the running brooks, poses in stones, and good in everything. Come, our dance, I say. Join us, good people. Puck joins the others in an Elizabethan round, ancient music, or Schubert's moment musicale, as in the beginning. The lights flash out suddenly. The drop at the arch falls. As the lights come up again, Justine wakes with a start, her dream still vivid. She looks around, stretches, rubs her eyes, yawns, and starts to work again on her thesis, and the curtain falls.
End of A Midsummer Dance Dream by Anna Byrd Stewart and William Shakespeare
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5 05 - Night at the Inn 26:34
Night at the Inn by Edward Dunsany. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Night at the Inn. Narrated by Michelle Eaton. Cast of Characters. A. E. Scott Fortescue. The Toff. Dilapidated Gentleman. Read by Chuck Williamson. William Jones, Bill. Read by Lambda. Albert Thomas. Read by Todd. Jacob Smith, Sniggers. Read by Rapunzelina. Klesch. Read by Elizabeth Klett. The curtain rises on a room in an inn. Sniggers and Bill are talking. The toff is reading a paper. Albert sits a little apart. What's his idea, I wonder? I don't know. And how much longer will he keep us here? We've been here three days.
And haven't seen a soul. And a pretty penny it cost us when he rented the pub. How long did he rent the pub for? You never know with him. It's lonely enough. How long did you rent the pub for, Toffee? The Toff continues to read a sporting paper. He takes no notice of what is said. He's such a Toff. Yet he's clever. No mistake. Those clever ones are the beggars to make a model. Their plans are clever enough, but they don't work, and then they make a mess of things much worse than you or me. Huh. I don't like this place. Why not? I don't like the looks of it. He's keeping us here because those niggers can't find us. The three heathen priests, what was looking for us so. But we want to go and sell our ruby soon.
There's no sense in it. Why not, Albert? Because I gave those black devils the slip in hull. You give them a slip, Albert? The slip, all three of them. The fellows with the gold spots on their foreheads. I had the ruby then, and I gave them the slip-in hull. How did you do it, Albert? I had the ruby, and they were following me. Who told them you had the ruby? You didn't show it? No, but they kind of know. They kind of know, Albert? Yes, they know if you've got it. Well, they sort of mooched after me, and I tells a policeman, and he says, Oh, they were only three poor niggers, and they wouldn't hurt me. Ugh, when I think of what they did in Malta to poor old Jim. Yes, on to George in Bombay before we started.
Ugh. Why didn't you give him in charge? What about the Ruby, Bill? Huh. Well, I did better than that. I walks up and down through Hull, I walks slow enough, and then I turns a corner and I runs. I never sees a corner, but I turns it. But sometimes I let a corner pass just to fool them. I twists about like a hare. Then I sits down and waits. No priests. What? No heathen black devils with gold spots on their face. I give them the slip. Well done, Albert. Sniggers, after a sigh of content. Why didn't you tell us? Because he wouldn't let you speak. He's got his plans, and he thinks we're silly folk. Things must be done his way. And all the time, I've given him the slip. Might have had one of them crooked knives in him before now, but for me who gave him the slip and hull.
Well done, Albert. Do you hear that, Toffee? Albert has given him the slip. Yes, I hear. Well, what do you say to that? Oh... Well done, Albert. And what are you gonna do? Going to wait. Don't seem to know what he's waiting for. It's a nasty place. It's getting silly, Bill. Our money's gone, and we want to sell the ruby. Let's get on to a town. But he won't come. Then we'll leave him. We'll be all right if we keep away from Hull. We'll go to London. But he must have his share. All right. Only let's go. To the toff. We're going, do you hear? Give us the ruby.
Oh, certainly. He gives them a ruby from his waistcoat pocket. It is the size of a small hen's egg. He goes on reading his paper. Come on, Sniggers. Exeunt, Albert and Sniggers. Goodbye, old man. We'll give you fair share. But there is nothing to do here. No girls, no halls, and we must sell the ruby. I'm not a fool, Bill. No, no. Of course not. Of course you ain't. And you have helped us a lot. Goodbye. You will say goodbye? Oh, yes. Goodbye. Still reads paper. Exit Bill. The Toff puts a revolver on the table beside him and goes on with his paper.
Sniggers, out of breath.
We've come back, Toffy.
So you have. Toffy, how did they get here?
They walked, of course. But it's eighty miles. Did you know they were here, Toffy?
Expected them about now. Eighty miles! Toffee, old man, what are we to do? Ask Albert. If they can do things like this, there is no one can save us but you, Toffee. I always knew you were a clever one. We won't be fools anymore. We'll obey you, Toffee. Oh, you're brave enough, and strong enough. There isn't many that would steal a ruby eye out of an idol's head.
And such an idol as that was to look at. And on such a night. You're brave enough, Bill. But you're all three of you fools. Jim would have none of my plans. And where's Jim? And George? What did they do to him? Don't, Duffy. Well then, your strength is no use to you. You want cleverness, or they'll have you the way they had George and Jim. Ugh! Those black- The priest would follow you round the world in circles, year after year, till they got the idol's eye. And if we died with it, they'd follow our grandchildren. That fool thinks he can escape men like that by running round three streets in the town of Hull. God's truth! You haven't escaped them, cause they're here! So I supposed. You supposed?
Yes, I believe there is no announcement in the society papers. But I took this country's seat to receive them. There's plenty of room if you dig. It is pleasantly situated. And what is most important, it is in a very quiet neighborhood. So I'm at home to them this afternoon. Well, you are a deep one. And remember, you've only my wits between you and death, and don't put your futile plans against those of an educated gentleman. If you're a gentleman, why don't you go about among gentlemen instead of the likes of us? Because I was too clever for them, as I am too clever for you. Too clever for them? I never lost a game of cards in my life. You never lost a game? Not when there was money on it. Well, well.
Have a game of poker? No, thanks. Then do as you're told. All right, Toffee. I saw something just then. Hadn't we better draw the curtains? No. What? Don't draw the curtains. Oh, all right. But Toffee, they can see us. One doesn't let the enemy do that. I don't see why. No, of course you don't. Oh, all right, Toffee. All begin to pull out revolvers, the Toph putting his own away. No revolvers, please. Why not? Because I don't want any noise at my party. We might get guests that hadn't been invited. Knives are a different matter. All draw knives. The Toph signs to them not to draw them yet. Toffee has already taken back his ruby. I think they are coming, Toffee. Not yet. When will they come? When I am quite ready to receive them.
Not before. I should like to get this over. Should you? Then we'll have them... now. Now? Yes.
Listen to me. You shall do as you see me do. You will all pretend to go out. I'll show you how. I've got the ruby. When they see me alone, they will come for their idol's eye. How can they tell like this? Which one of us has it? I confess I don't know, but they seem to. What will you do when they come in? I shall do nothing. What? They will creep up behind me. Then my friends... Sniggers and Bill and Albert, who gave them the slip, will do what they can. All right, Toffee. Trust us. If you are a little slow, you will see enacted the cheerful spectacle that accompanied the demise of Jem. Don't, Toffee. We'll be there, all right. Very well. Now watch me. He goes past the windows to the inner door right.
He opens it inwards. Then, under cover of the open door, he slips down on his knee and closes it, remaining on the inside, appearing to have gone out. He signs to the others who understand. Then he appears to re-enter in the same manner. Now, I shall sit with my back to the door. You go out one by one, so far as our friend can make out. Crouch very low to be on the safe side. They mustn't see you through the window. Bill makes his sham exit. Remember, no revolvers. The police are, I believe, proverbially inquisitive. The other two follow Bill. All three are now crouching inside the door right. The toff puts the ruby beside him on the table. He lights a cigarette. The door in back opens so slowly that you can hardly say at what moment it began.
The toff picks up his paper. A native of India wriggles along the floor ever so slowly, seeking cover from chairs. He moves left where the toff is. The three sailors are right. Sniggers and Albert lean forward. Bill's arm keeps them back. An armchair had better conceal them from the Indian. The black priest nears the toff. Bill watches to see if any more are coming. Then he leaps forward alone. He has taken his boots off, and knifes the priest. The priest tries to shout, but Bill's left hand is over his mouth. The toff continues to read his sporting paper. He never looks round. Bill Sotto voce. There is only one, Tuffy. What shall we do? The Toph, without turning his head. Only one? Yes. Wait a moment.
Let me think. Still apparently absorbed in his paper. Ah, yes. You go back, Bill. We must attract another guest. Now. Are you ready? Yes. All right. You shall now see my demise at my Yorkshire residence. You must receive guests for me. He leaps up in full view of the window, flings up both arms, and falls onto the floor near the dead priest.
Now be ready. His eyes close. There is a long pause. Again the door opens, very, very slowly. Another priest creeps in. He has three golden spots upon his forehead. He looks round, then he creeps up to his companion, and turns him over and looks inside each of his clenched hands. Then he looks at the recumbent toff, then he creeps towards him. Bill slips after him, and knifes him like the other with his left hand over his mouth. Bill sotto voce. We've only got two, Toffee. Still another. What'll we do? The Toff, sitting up. Hmm... This is the best way, much. Out of the question. Never play the same game twice.
Why not, Toffee? Doesn't work if you do. Well? I have it, Albert. You will now walk into the room. I showed you how to do it. Yes? Just run over here and have a fight at this window with these two men. But they're... Yes, they're dead, my perspicuous Albert. But Bill and I are going to resuscitate them. Come on. Bill picks up a body under the arms. That's right, Bill. Does the same. Come over and help us, Sniggers. Sniggers comes. Keep low, keep low. Wave their arms about Sniggers. Don't show yourself. Now, Albert, over you go. "'Our Albert is slain. Back you get, Bill. Back, Sniggers. Still, Albert mustn't move when he comes. Not a muscle.' A face appears at the window and stays for some time.
Then the door opens, and, looking craftily round, the third priest enters. He looks at his companion's bodies and turns round. He suspects something. He takes up one of the knives. With a knife in each hand, he puts his back to the wall. He looks to the left and right. Come on, Bill. The priest rushes to the door. The tough knife's the last priest from behind. A good day's work, my friends.
Well done, Toffee. Oh, you are a deep one. A deep one, if ever there was one. There ain't any more, Bill, are there? No more in the world, my friend. Hey, that's all there are. There were only three in the temple. Three priests and their beastly idol. What is it worth, Toffee? Is it worth a thousand pounds? It's worth all they've got in the shop. Worth just whatever we like to ask for it. Then we're millionaires now. Yes. And what is more important, we no longer have any heirs. We'll have to sell it now. That won't be easy. It's a pity it isn't small, and we had half a dozen. Hadn't the idol any other on him? No. He has a green jade all over, and only had this one eye. He had it in the middle of his forehead.
And was alongside uglier than anything else in the world. I'm sure we ought all to be very grateful to Toffee. And indeed we ought. If it hadn't been for him. Yes, if it hadn't been for old Toffee. He's a deep one. Well, you see, I just have a knack for foreseeing things. I should think you did. Why? I don't suppose anything happens that our old Tof doesn't foresee. Does it, Tofie? Well, I don't think it does, Bill. I don't think it often does.
Life is no more than just a game of cards to our old Tof. Well, we've taken these fellows trick. Sniggers going to the window. It wouldn't do for anyone to see them. Oh, nobody will come this way. We're all alone on a moor. Where will we put them? Bury them in the cellar. But there's no hurry. And what then, Toffee? Why, then we'll go to London and upset the Ruby business. We'll have really come through this job. Very nicely. I think the first things we have to do is to give a little supper to old Toffee. We'll bury these fellows tonight. Yes, let's. The very thing. And we'll all drink ourselves. Good old Toffee. You ought to have been a general or a premier. They get bottles from cupboard, etc.
Well, we've earned our bit of a supper. They sit down, Bill, glass in hand. Here's the old Toffee, who guessed everything. Good old Toffee. Toffee, who saved our lives and made our fortunes. Hear, hear. And here's to Bill, who saved me twice tonight. Couldn't have done it but for your cleverness, Toffee. Hear, hear. Hear, hear. He foresees everything. A speech, Toffee. A speech from our general. Yes, a speech. A speech. Well, get me some water. This whiskey's too much for my head, and I must keep it clear till our friends are safe in the cellar. Water? Yes, of course. Get him some water, Sniggers. We don't use water here. Where shall I get it? Outside, in the garden. Exit Sniggers. Here's to Fortune.
They all drink. Here's to Albert Thomas, Esquire. He drinks. Albert Thomas, Esquire. He drinks. And William Jones, Esquire. Albert Jones, Esquire! The Toff and Albert drink. Re-enter Sniggers, terrified. Hello! Here's Jacob Smith, Esquire, JP. Alias Sniggers. Back again. Toffee, I've been thinking about my share in that ruby. I don't want it, Toffee. I don't want it. Nonsense, Sniggers! Nonsense! You shall have it, Toffee. You shall have it yourself. Only say Sniggers has no share in this here ruby. Say it, Toffee. Say it. Want to turn in for more, Sniggers? No, no. Only I don't want the ruby, Toffee. Oh, no more nonsense, Sniggers. We're all in together in this. If one hangs, we all hang.
But they won't outwit me. Besides... It's not a hanging affair. They had their knives. Toffee, Toffee, I've always treated you fair, Toffee. I was always one to say, give Toffee a chance. Take back my share, Toffee. What's the matter? What are you driving at? Take it back, Toffee. Answer me! What are you up to? I don't want my share anymore. Have you seen the police? Albert pulls out his knife. No! No knives, Albert! What then? The honest truth, an open court. Barring the ruby. We were attacked. There's no police. Well then, what's the matter? Out with it. I swear to God. Well? Don't interrupt. I swear I saw something what I didn't like. What you didn't like? Sniggers in tears. Oh, Toffee, Toffee, take it back.
Take my share. Say you take it. What has he seen? Dead silence only broken by Sniggers' sobs. Then stony steps are heard. Enter a hideous idol. It is blind and gropes its way. It gropes its way to the ruby, and picks it up and screws it into a socket in the forehead. Sniggers still weep softly, the rest stare in horror. The idol steps out, not groping. Its steps move off, then stops.
Oh, great heavens! Albert in a childish plaintive voice. What is it, Toffee? Albert, it is the Dubseen Idol, in a whisper. Come from India. It is gone. It has taken its eye. We are saved. Off, a voice with an outlandish accent. Mr. William Jones, able seaman. The Toph has never spoken, never moved. He only gazes stupidly in horror. Albert? Albert? What is this? He rises and walks out. One moan is heard. Sniggers goes to window. He falls back sickly. Albert, in a whisper. What has happened? I have seen it. I have seen it. Oh, I have seen it. He returns to table. The Toph, laying his hand very gently on Sniggers' arm, speaking softly and winningly. What was it, Sniggers? I have seen it. What? Oh...
Mr. Albert Thomas, able seaman. Must I go, Toffee? Toffee? Must I go? Sniggers clutching him. Don't move. Albert going. Toffee? Toffee? Exit. Mr. Jacob Smith, able seaman. I can't go, Toffee. I can't go. I can't do it. He goes.
Mr. Arnold Everett Scott Fortescue, late esquire, able seaman.
I did not foresee it. End of Night at the Inn
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6 06 - Punch and Go 31:20
Punch and Go by John Galsworthy. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Cast. Narrator. Read by Michelle Eaton. James G. Frost. The Boss. Read by Todd. E. Blew at Vane. Read by Larry Wilson. Mr. Forsen, the stage manager. Read by Alji Pag. Electrics. Read by Libby Gaughan. Props. Read by Bill Yallily. Guy Toon. Read by Tavarish. Vanessa Hellgrove. Read by Amanda Friday. George Fleetway. Read by Lambda. Maud Hopkins. Read by Elizabeth Klatt. A Voice. Read by Christine Gee.
Punch and Go, a little comedy. Scene, the stage of a theatre. Action continuous, though the curtain is momentarily lowered according to that action. Punch and Go, the scene is the stage of the theatre set for the dress rehearsal of the little play, Orpheus with his lute. The curtain is up, and the audience, though present, is not supposed to be. The set scene represents the end section of a room with wide French windows, back centre, fully opened onto an apple orchard in bloom. The back wall with these French windows is set only about ten feet from the footlights, and the rest of the stage is orchard. What is visible of the room would indicate the study of a writing man of culture. Note, if found advantageous for scenic purposes, this section of room can be changed to a broad veranda or porch with pillars supporting its roof.
In the wall, stage left, is a curtained opening, across which the curtain is half-drawn. Stage right of the French windows is a large armchair, turned rather towards the window, with a book rest attached. On which is a volume of the Encyclopædia Britannica, while on a stool alongside are writing materials such as a man requires when he writes with a pad on his knees. On a little table close by is a reading lamp with a dark green shade. A crude light from the float makes the stage stare. The only person on it is Mr. Fawson, the stage manager, who is standing in the centre looking upwards, as if waiting for someone to speak. He is a short, broad man, rather blank and fatal. From the back of the auditorium, or from an empty box, whichever is most convenient, the producer, Mr.
Blewett Vane, a man of about thirty-four, with his hair brushed back, speaks. Mr. Forsen? Sir? We'll do that lighting again. Forsen walks straight off the stage, into the wing's right. A pause. Mr. Forsen! Crescendo. Mr. Forsen. Forsen walks on again from right and shades his eyes. For goodness sake, stand by. We'll do that lighting again. Check your floats. Speaking up into the prompt wings. Electrics. Hello. Give it us again. Check your floats. The floats go down. And there is a sudden blinding glare of blue lights, in which Forsen looks particularly ghastly. Great Scott! What the blazes? Mr. Forsen? Forsen walks straight out into the wing's left. Crescendo. Mr. Forsen! Reappearing. Sir? Tell Miller to come down.
Electrics! Mr. Blue-Eyvane wants to speak to you. Come down! Tell Herbert to sit in that chair. Forsen walks straight out into the right wings. Mr. Forsen! Reappearing. Sir, don't go off the stage! Forsen mutters. Electrix appears from the wings, stage left. He is a dark, thin-faced man with rather spiky hair. Yes, Mr. Vane? Look! That's where I got marked, Mr. Vane. Once for all, what I want is the orchard in full moonlight, and the room dark except for the reading lamp. Cut off your front battens. Electrics withdraws left. Forsen walks off the stage into the right wings. Mr. Forsen! Reappearing. Sir? See this marked right. Now come on with it. I want to get some beauty into this. While he is speaking, Herbert the callboy appears from the wing's right, a mercurial youth of about sixteen with a wide mouth.
Maliciously. Here you are then, Mr. Vine. Herbert, sit in that chair. Herbert sits on the armchair with an air of perfect peace. Now. All the lights go out, in a wail. "'Great Scott!' A throaty chuckle from Forsen in the darkness. The light dances up, flickers, shifts, grows steady, falling on the orchard outside. The reading lamp darts alight, and a piercing little glare from it strikes into the auditorium away from Herbert. In a terrible voice, "'Mr. Forsen?' "'Sir?' "'Look at that shade!' Forsen mutters, walks up to it and turns it round so that the light shines on Herbert's legs. On his face! On his face! Forsen turns the light accordingly. Is it what you want, Mr. Vine? Yes. Now mark that.
Up into wing's right. Electrics! Hello! Mark that. The blue suddenly becomes amber. My God! The blue returns. All is steady. Herbert is seen diverting himself with an imaginary cigar. Mr. Forsen! Sir? Ask him if he's got that. Have you got that? Yes! Now pass to the change. Take your floats off altogether. Calling up. Floats out. They go out. Cut off the lamp. The lamp goes out. Put a little amber in your back baton. Mark that. Now pass to the end. Mr. Forsen. Sir? Blackout. Calling up. Blackout. The lights go out. Give us your first lighting lamp on, and then the two changes, quick as you can. Put some pep into it, Mr. Forsen. Sir? Stand for me where Miss Hellgrove comes in. Forsen crosses to the window.
No, no, by the curtain. Forsen takes his stand by the curtain, and suddenly the three lighting effects are rendered quickly and with miraculous exactness. Good. Leave it at that. We'll begin. Mr. Forsen, send up to Mr. Frust. He moves from the auditorium and ascends onto the stage by some steps stage right.
Herbert gets out of the chair and goes off right. Forsen is going off left as Vane mounts the stage. Mr. Forsen. Reappearing. Sir? I want props. In a stentorian voice. Props. Another moth-eaten man appears through the French windows. Is that boulder firm? Going to where, in front of the backcloth, and apparently among its apple trees, lies the counterfeitement of a mossy boulder. He puts his foot on it. If you don't put too much weight on it, sir. It won't creak. No. He mounts on it, and a dolorous creaking arises. "'Make that right. Let me see the loot.' Props produces a property loot. While they scrutinize it, a broad man with broad, leathery, clean-shaven face and small mouth, occupied by the butt-end of a cigar, has come onto the stage from stage left and stands waiting to be noticed.
Attracted by the scent of the cigar. "'The boss, sir.' Turning to Props. "'That'll do, then.' Props goes out through the French windows. To Frost. Now, sir, we're all ready for rehearsal of Orpheus with his lute. Orpheus with his lute? That his lute, Mr. Vane? Why doesn't he pinch something more precious? Has this high-brow curtain-raiser of yours got any pep in it? It has charm. I'd thought of Pop Goes the Weasel with Little Migs. We kind of want a cocktail before Louisa loses, Mr. Vane. Well, sir, you'll see. This is your lighting? It's a bit on the spiritual side. I've left my glass. Guess I'll sit in the front row. Half a minute. Who plays this Orphous? George Fleetway. Has he got punch? It is a very small part.
Who are the others? Guy Toon plays the professor, Vanessa Hellgrove his wife, Maud Hopkins the faun. Hmm. Names don't draw. They're not expensive, any of them. Miss Hellgrove's a find, I think. Pretty? Quite. Artie? Doubtfully. No. With resolution. Look here, Mr. Frust. It's no use your expecting another Pop Goes the Weasel. Well, if it's got punch and go, that'll be enough for me. Let's get to it. He extinguishes his cigar and descends the steps, and sits in the center of the front row of the stalls. Mr. Forsen? Appearing through curtain right. Sir? Beginners, take your curtain down. He descends the steps and seats himself next to Thrust. The curtain goes down. A woman's voice is heard singing very beautifully Sullivan's song, Orpheus with his lute, and his lute made trees and the mountain tops that freeze, etc.
Some voice. The curtain rises. In the armchair, the professor is yawning, tall, thin, abstracted, and slightly grizzled in the hair. He has a pad of paper over his knee, ink on the stool to his right, and the Encyclopedia volume on the stand, to his left barricaded, in fact, by the article he is writing. He is reading a page over to himself, but the words are drowned in the sound of the song. His wife is singing in the next room, partly screened off by the curtain. She finishes and stops. His voice can then be heard, conning the words of his article. Orpheus symbolized the voice of beauty, the call of life, luring us mortals. With his song, Back from the graves we dig for ourselves. Probably the ancients realized this neither more nor less than we moderns.
Mankind has not changed. The civilized being still hides the fawn and the dryad within its broadcloth and its silk. And yet—he stops with a dried-up air rather impatiently. Go on, my dear. It helps the atmosphere. The voice of his wife begins again, gets as far as made them sing, and stops dead, just as the professor's pen is beginning to scratch, and suddenly drawing the curtain further aside, she appears. Much younger than the professor, pale, very pretty, of a Botticellian type, in face, figure, and in her clinging cream-coloured frock, she gazes at her abstracted husband, then swiftly moves to the lintel of the open window, and stands looking out. God, what beauty! Looking up. Um. I said, God, what beauty!
Ah-ha. Looking at him. Do you know that I have to repeat everything to you nowadays? What? That I have to repeat— Yes, I heard. I'm sorry. I get absorbed. In all but me? Startled. My dear, your song was helping me like anything to get the mood. This paper is the very deuce to balance between the historical and the natural. Who wants the natural? Grumbling. Hmm. Wish I thought that. Modern taste, history may go dang. They're all for tuppence-coloured sentiment nowadays. As if to herself. Is the spring sentiment? I beg your pardon, my dear, I didn't catch. As if against her will, urged by some pent-up force. Beauty. Beauty. That's what I'm trying to say here. The Orpheus legend symbolizes to this day the call of beauty.
He takes up his pen, while she continues to stare out at the moonlight, yawning. Er, Dasheth, I get so sleepy. I wish you'd tell them to make the after-dinner coffee twice as strong. I will. How does this strike you? Conning. Many Renaissance pictures, especially those of Botticelli, Francesca, and Piero di Cosimo, were inspired by such legends as that of Orpheus, and we owe a tiny gem like Raffaele, Apollo, and Martez to the same pagan inspiration. We owe it more than that. Rebellion against the dry is dust. Quite. I might develop that. We owe it our revolt against the academic, or our disgust at big business, and all the grossness of commercial success. We owe— His voice peters out. It—love.
Abstracted. Eh— I said we owe it love. Rather startled. "'Possibly, but, er—' I mustn't say that here. Hardly.' To herself and the moonlight. Orpheus with his lute. "'Most people think a lute is a sort of flute.' Yawning heavily. "'My dear, if you're not going to sing again, do you mind sitting down? I want to concentrate.' "'I'm going out.' Mind the dew. The Christian virtues and the dew. Not bad, not bad. The Christian virtues and the dew. His hand takes up his pen, his face droops over his paper, while his wife looks at him with a very strange face. How far we can trace the modern resurgence against the Christian virtues to the symbolic figures of Orpheus, Pan, Apollo, and Bacchus might be difficult to estimate, but—during those words his wife has passed through the window into the moonlight, and her voice rises, singing as she goes, Orpheus with his lute, with his lute made trees.
Suddenly aware of something. Mr. Brown. She'll get her throat bad. He is silent as the voice swells in the distance. Mr. Brown. Sounds queer at night. He is silent, yawning. The voice dies away. Suddenly his head nods. He fights his drowsiness, writes a word or two, nods again, and in 20 seconds is asleep. The stage is darkened by a blackout. Frost's voice is heard speaking. What's that girl's name? Vanessa Hellgrove. Aha! The stage is lighted up again, moonlight bright on the orchard, the room in darkness where the professor's figure is just visible sleeping in the chair. and screwed a little more round towards the window. From behind the mossy boulder, a fawn-like figure uncurls itself and peeps over, with ears standing up and elbows leaning on the stone, playing a rustic pipe, and there are seen two rabbits and a fox sitting up and listening.
A shiver of wind passes, blowing petals from the apple trees. The faun darts his head towards where, from right, comes slowly the figure of a Greek youth, holding a lute or lyre, which his fingers strike, lifting out little wandering strains, as of wind whinnying in funnels and odd corners. The faun darts down behind the stone, and the youth stands by the boulder playing his lute. Slowly while he plays, the whitened trunk of an apple-tree is seen to dissolve into the body of a girl, with bare arms and feet, her dark hair unbound, and the face of the professor's wife. Hypnotized, she slowly sways towards him, their eyes fixed on each other, till she is quite close. Her arms go out to him, cling round his neck, and their lips meet.
But as they meet, there comes a gasp, and the professor with rumpled hair is seen starting from his chair, his hands thrown up, and at his horrified, oh, the stage is darkened with a blackout. The voice of thrust is heard speaking. Gee! The stage is lighted up again, as in the opening scene. The professor is seen in his chair, with spilt sheets of paper round him, waking from a dream. He shakes himself, pinches his leg, stares heavily round into the moonlight. Rises. Phew! Beastly dream! Poof! Hmm! He moves to the window and calls. Blanche! Blanche! To himself. Made trees! Made trees! Calling. Blanche! Yes? Where are you? Appearing by the stone with her hair down. Here. Mr. Brown. I say, I've been asleep, had a dream.
Come in, I'll tell you. She comes, and they stand in the window. Mr. Brown. I dreamed I saw a fawn on that boulder blowing on a pipe. He looks nervously at the stone. Mr. Brown. With two damned little rabbits and the fox sitting up and listening. And then from out there came our friend Orpheus, playing on his confounded lute till he actually turned that tree there into you. Gradually he drew you like a snake till you, er, put your arms around his neck and, er, kissed him. Boof! I woke up. Most unpleasant. Why? Your hair's down? Yes. Why? It was no dream. He was bringing me to life. What on earth? Do you suppose I am alive? I'm as dead as Eurydice. Good heavens, Blanche. What's the matter with you tonight?
Pointing to the litter of papers. Why don't we live instead of writing of it? She points out onto the moonlight. What do we get out of life? Money? Fame? Fashion. Talk. Learning. Yes. And what good are they? I want to live. Helplessly. My dear, I really don't know what you mean. Pointing out into the moonlight. Look, Orpheus with his lute, and nobody can see him. Beauty, beauty, beauty. We let it go. With sudden passion. Beauty. Love. The spring. They should be in us. And they're all outside. Mr. Brown. My dear, this is—this is awful. He tries to embrace her, avoiding him in a stilly voice. Mrs. Oh, go on with your writing. Mr. Brown. I'm—I'm upset. I've never known you so—so— Mrs. Hysterical.
Well, it's over. I'll go and sing. soothingly. There, there. I'm sorry, darling. I really am. You're hipped. You're hipped. He gives, and she accepts a kiss. Better. He gravitates towards his papers. All right now? Standing still and looking at him. Quite. Well, I'll try and finish this tonight. Then tomorrow we might have a jaunt. How about a theatre? There's a thing, they say, called Chinese chops that's been running years. Softly to herself, as he settles down into his chair. Oh, God! While he takes up a sheet of paper and adjusts himself, she stands at the window, staring with all her might at the boulder, till from behind it the fawn's head and shoulders emerge once more. Very queer the power suggestion has over the mind.
Very queer. There is nothing really in animism, you know, except the curious shapes, rocks, trees and things, taking certain lights, effect they have on our imagination. He looks up. What's the matter now? Startled. Nothing. Nothing. Her eyes waver to him again, and the fawn vanishes. She turns again to look at the boulder. There is nothing there. A little shiver of wind blows some petals off the trees. She catches one of them, and turning quickly, goes out through the curtain, coming to himself and writing. The Orpheus legend is the apotheosis of animism. Can we accept? His voice is lost in the sound of his wife's voice beginning again. Orpheus with his lute, with his lute made trees. It dies in a sob.
The professor looks up startled as the curtain falls. Fine. Fine. Take up the curtain. Mr. Forsen? The curtain goes up. Sir? Everybody on. He and Frost leave their seats and ascend onto the stage, on which are collecting the four players. Give us some light. Electrics, turn up your floats. The footlights go up and the blue goes out. The light is crude as at the beginning. I'd like to meet Miss Hellgrove. She comes forward eagerly and timidly. He grasps her hand. Miss Hellgrove, I want to say I thought that fine. Fine! Her evident emotion and pleasure warm him, so that he increases his grasp and commendation. Fine! It quite got my soft spot. Emotional. Fine. Mr. Frost, it means so much to me. Thank you.
A little boulder in the eye and losing warmth. Um, fine. His eye wanders. Where's Mr. Flatway? Fleetway! Fleetway comes up. Mr. Fleetway, I wanted to say I thought your office quite remarkable. Fine. Thank you, sir. Indeed. So glad you liked it. A little balder in the eye. There wasn't much to it, but what there was was fine. Mr. Toon? Fleetway melts out, and Toon is precipitated. Mr. Toon, I was very pleased with your professor. Quite a character study. Toon bows and murmurs. Yes, sir. I thought it fine. His eye grows bald. Who plays the goat? Appearing suddenly between the windows. I play the fawn, Mr. Frost. Introducing Miss Maude Hopkins. Miss Hopkins, I guess your fawn was fine. Oh, thank you, Mr.
Frost. How nice of you to say so. I do so enjoy playing him. His eye growing bald. Mr. Forsen, I thought the way you fixed that tree was very cunning. I certainly did. Got a match? He takes a match from Forsen. and lighting a very long cigar, walks upstage through the French windows, followed by Forsen, and examines the apple tree. The two actors depart, but Miss Hellgrove runs from where she has been lingering, by the curtain, to Vane, stage right. Oh, Mr. Vane! Do you think? He seemed quite—oh, Mr. Vane! Ecstatically. If only— Pleased and happy. Yes, yes, all right. You were splendid. He liked it. He quite—clasping her hand. How wonderful! Oh, Mr. Vane, thank you. She clasps his hands, but suddenly seeing that Frost is coming back, fits across into the curtain and vanishes, the stage in the crude light as empty now save for Frost.
who in the French window centre is mumbling his cigar, and Vane stage right, who is looking up into the wing stage left, calling up. That lighting is just right now, Miller. Got it marked carefully? Yes, Mr. Vane. Good. To Frost, who is coming down. Well, sir, so glad— Mr. Vane, we got little Migs on contract? Yes. Well, I like that little pocket piece fine, but I'm blamed if I know what it's all about. A little staggered. Why, of course it's a little allegory. The tragedy of civilization, all real feeling for beauty and nature kept out, or pent up even in the cultured. Yeah. Meditatively. Little Migs'd be fine in Pop Goes the Weasel. Yes, he'd be all right, but I— Get him on the phone, and put it into rehearsal right now.
What? But this piece—I—I—I—I— Guess we can't take liberties with our public, Mr. Vane. They want pep. Distressed. But it'll—it will break that girl's heart. I really—I—I can't—I— Give her the part of the tweenie in Pop Goes. Mr. Frost, I... I beg. I've taken a lot of trouble with this little plate. It's good. It's that girl's chance, and I would... Well, I certainly thought she was fine. Now, you phone up Migs and get right along with it. I've only one rule, sir. Give the public what it wants, and what the public wants is punch and go. They've got no use for beauty, allegory. Oh, that high-brow racket. I know, Miss, I know my hand. During this speech, Miss Hellgrove is seen listening by the French window, in distress, unnoticed by either of them.
Mr. Frost, the public would take this. I'm sure they would. I'm convinced of it. You underrate them. Now see here, Mr. Blewett Vane. Is this my theatre? I tell you I can't afford luxuries. But it—it moved you, sir. I saw it. I was watching. Mr.
Vane, I judge I'm not the average man. Before Louisa loses, the public will want a stimulant. Pop Goes the Weasel will suit us fine. So get right along with it. I'll go get some lunch. As he vanishes into the wing's left, Miss Hellgrove covers her face with her hands. A little sob escaping her attracts Vane's attention. He takes a step towards her, but she flies, dashing his hands through his hair till it stands up. Damnation! Forsen walks on from the wing's right. Sir? Punch and go. That's superstition. Forsen walked straight out into the wing's left. Mr. Forsen. Reappearing. Sir? This is scrapped. With savagery. Tell him to set the first act of Louisa loses. And put some pep into it. He goes through the French windows with the wind still in his hair.
In the centre of the stage. Electrics! Hello! Where's Charlie? Gone to his dinner! Anybody own the curtain? Yes, Mr. Forreston. Put your curtain down. He stands in the centre of the stage, with eyes uplifted as the curtain descends. The End End of Punch and Go by John Galsworthy.
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7 07 - A Question of Sex 41:55
A Question of Sex by Arnold Bennett. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Narrator, read by Ruth Golding. May Foster, read by Amanda Friday. Helen, read by Michelle Eaton. George Gower. Read by Elizabeth Klatt. Francis Gower. Read by Tavarish. Scene. George Gower's Drawing Room. Evening. George Gower is asleep in an easy chair near the hearth. By his side is a fairly large occasional table, on which are some writing materials and an empty glass. Enter May Foster and Helen Stanton. They open the door quietly and pause on the threshold to observe the sleeper. They are both in a pleased, gay mood of gentle excitation, but at first they speak low.
The wretch still sleeps. Yes, a man is a marvellous thing. Such talent in some directions. Let's wake him now. I should think he'd had enough. Enough? Well, it's turned seven. And he must have dropped off just after lunch. Five hours. Smiling kindly at her unconscious brother. Ah, he hasn't slept much for the last few nights. He's been so frightfully anxious. Raising her eyebrows. Anxious? And what about his poor wife? What about Ada's anxiety? How he could sleep like this when he knew perfectly well? Lifts her hands and finishes by smiling. The two young women approach George's chair on tiptoe and indicate to each other by gestures that they will waken him in the orthodox way. Bending down, Helen sniffs at the empty glass.
Mmm, whisky, naturally. She then bends to George's face to kiss him, but hesitates and looks at May. Perhaps it would be better if you did it, dear. May quickly kisses him. The privileges of a sister-in-law vary in different families. George wakes up. May and Helen stand side by side facing him, their hands behind them, smiling and full of mysteries. Mechanically reaching out for the glass. What did you say? I do believe I dropped off for a second or two. Finding glass empty. Dash, what a thirst I've got on today. There. Well, what are you staring at? How's Ada now? Doctor come yet? Softly. George, it's a girl. What's a girl? Who's a girl? It's a girl. Pause while the fact of his fatherhood dawns upon George.
Starting up. Well, I'm damned if this isn't the quickest thing of the kind that I ever heard of. He makes a bound for the door. Both the girls seizing him. George, come back. You mustn't go to her. She's asleep. Soothing him and trying to calm his sudden tremendous excitement. Well, I am damned. Why, it can't be a quarter of an hour since I left her. Sinks back into chair. George Gower, does it not occur to you that these terrible oaths are sadly, sadly out of place? Recollect that, as a father, you are considerably less than a day old. Blasphemy from lips so young is an instance of infant depravity, such as even I, a district visitor, have seldom seen surpassed. Our curate at Ealing has composed a special form of prayer for young parents.
I have brought it over with me, and I shall ask you to—to make it your own. In the meantime, I beg you not to disgrace the sacred name of Father. Think of poor dear Ada. Ah, my darling sister has behaved splendidly. Think of what she has been through. That's just what I am thinking of. And the more I think, the more I can't... Why, George, you silly. You've been asleep five hours, and... I swear I haven't. No more swearing, I entreat. You have been asleep five hours. It's turned seven o'clock. Your daughter is some three hours old. Yes, and everything went off beautifully. Ada cried a bit. Ada was simply superb. Yes, she was, dear. She's asleep now, George, and the baby's the loveliest little thing.
The doctor says he never saw a finer. Yes, a nurse says so too, and she's got lots of hair. And cry, she's got lungs like bellows. Sitting up severely. Why didn't you come and wake me up? Answer me. For anything you knew, I might have been doing the most awful things to the sacred name of Father during these three hours, and quite innocently. Helen, you at least. Ends with a reproachful gesture. Well, I did ask May to go down and sit with you. To Helen. But dear, I couldn't have dreamt of leaving Ada. Why not, dear? I came over specially from Ealing. And left my own little ones in earnest, in order to see after Ada myself. And I came from Harrow, which is much further than Ealing. I haven't any little ones, but if I had, I should have left them.
I'm sure I should. Plaintively. I left Jack and the two kittens, and there was nothing left to leave. But it is a question of experience, dear. Well, I don't know, dear. It seems to me that common sense and a cool head are better than experience. But surely, dear, you don't suggest... Oh! Suddenly forgetting this little passage of arms and thinking of something important. We didn't, whispers in May's ear. Gracious heavens, do you think nurse will remember? Probably not. I have had three different nurses myself, and they're all alike. I'll just run up and see to it. George is mystified as males are. Oh no, I'll go dear. Oh no, I'll go dear. Where were the safety pins put? I know. I'll go. My dear, I really think...
If it's anything serious, hadn't you better both go? Further delay might be fatal, and I should like to avoid being cut off in my infancy as a father. May shall go. Not at all. I should much prefer Helen to go. She is so experienced. A pause, and then Helen, pursing her lips, and looking as much like a martyred saint as she can, departs. A girl!
George, what's the matter? I thought all the time that you didn't receive our news, with that ecstatic abandonment of joy, which I believe is usual under the circumstances. Why aren't you glad and proud? Why don't you weep happy tears of relief and contentment? Is it possible you are so lost to all parental feeling as to be indifferent when your wife presents you with a dear little darling baby? May, you're a very decent sort, but if you say two more words in that strain, I'll go upstairs and I'll wring that kid's neck. I couldn't permit any child of mine to be niece to a woman who talked like that. Remember that as a father I have duties, responsibilities. You're not well. I see it now. You're suffering.
Of course it must be a great strain on the system to wake up and find yourself a father. George, forgive my hasty speech. You must take a little nourishment every quarter of an hour till the symptoms pass. She pats him gently on the cheek. A great strain it was. Strain? If you knew the strain I've been bearing for months past. Haven't you noticed the dark rings under my eyes, the unnatural brightness of my orbs? The hectic flush on my cheeks, the bald spot on the back of my head. Strain! My dear sister, I have a secret and terrible woe. A woe which, with courage worthy of an Englishman and a parent, I have shared with none. May, I am undone. With accents of despairing, sorrowful sympathy. Who has undone you?
My beloved wife. Three hours since as I slept. I feared it. I have feared it for many weeks. Listen. Five or six months ago, Uncle Francis said that if it was a son, he would settle £10,000 upon it. And if a daughter? He coldly declined to consider the possibility of such a thing. You know the special brand of ass he is sometimes. I said nothing to anybody, not even to my wife. For I felt that it would worry her. Imagine my condition of mind, my agonizing suspense. Do you wonder that I have been wakeful night after night? Do you wonder that from pure weariness and fatigue I should fall asleep on this very afternoon of my undoing? Oh, May. To be a father is not so simple and pleasing as the superficial observer might fancy.
Sympathetically? It certainly isn't. Especially if you happen to be occupied with being nephew to Uncle Francis at the same time. Uncle Francis. Uncle Donkey. Uncle Nincompoop. Uncle Booby. Uncle... George. Bachelor. Pompous old bachelor. Upon my soul to see the way bachelors behave themselves in these days makes me sick. Don't forget you were a bachelor yourself less than a year ago. Only in practice, not in theory. Not in theory. I maintain that all bachelors are idiots. Look at Uncle Francis. There's a nice sample. I believe the beggar knew it would be a girl all the time. But in any case, why couldn't he keep his precious plan of benevolence to himself until I was actually a father? Then, unless the sex of my child happened to please his fastidious taste, he need have said nothing.
I should have been spared all this anxiety. And I should have been no worse off. Well, George, it's a great pity, of course. I suppose he won't withdraw the condition. Not he. Trying to be brave. After all, you are no worse off. Uncle hasn't robbed you of anything. Oh, hasn't he? I like that. You aren't a father, May, and you can't enter into a father's feelings. Now what I feel is that he has robbed me. He's robbed me of precisely ten thousand pounds. Here am I, engaged in the arduous and expensive task of founding a family. I see ten thousand pounds within my grasp. The inhuman monster positively dangles it before me. And then, through no fault of mine, I repeat, through no fault of mine, it is snatched away.
Caressing him. Never mind, George. You're doing splendidly in your profession. You know you are, and you'll soon have got a large practice together, and made ten thousand pounds all of your own. Never mind. But I do mind. I will mind. I won't be robbed. I absolutely decline to be jockeyed out of a large sum of money on a mere, a mere, a mere quibble of physiology. The idea is revolting to my legal intellect. Something must be done, and done quickly. I'm afraid it's a little late, George. Rot. We must think of something instantly. Uncle Francis is certain to call tonight. I wish he lived in the next hemisphere instead of in the next street. That would give us a chance. May, you must help me. I rely on you.
But really, George, I don't see... I shall be sure to think of some scheme in a minute or two. Re-enter Helen. Hush. I shan't say anything to her. Well... Sweet sister-in-law. Delightedly to May. That darling is perfectly marvellous. Nurse brought her up to the light just now, and she blinked her eyes like anything. With equal delight and astonishment. No, just fancy George. Yes, imagine the intelligence involved in that apparently simple act. That's what you call taking notice, I suppose. The little pet blinked her ridiculous little eyes several times. About how many times? After looking at him, I dare say you think you're very funny, George. Instinctively coming to the rescue of the sex. George, don't be silly.
You've no notion of good taste. Well, she called my daughter's eyes ridiculous. I don't think that was quite in the best taste, especially after an acquaintance of only three hours. To George. Dear Ada is awake now, and she did say she would like to see you for a minute, but I doubt whether in your present mood... George is at the door in a second. George. Stopping him peremptorily. Well? Going up to him and putting a hand on his arm entreatingly. Be good to her, George, and mind, you must only stay a minute or two, my dear. To May. You had better go with him. We cannot be too careful, and I will just scribble a line to Ernest. Sits down to write at table. To George. Now, Papa. Exit George and May.
Reading what she writes. My love, just a word to let you know that all is well, and Ada has a little daughter. Rather weak and puny, I fear, but we cannot expect all children to be as strong as ours. Ada was very brave. But it is fortunate I came, as no one seemed to have any idea of how to manage. May Foster is very kind-hearted, but so girlish. Shall return Thursday if I can be spared. Love to the chicks. Don't forget what I told you about going to bed early. With fondest love from your little Nell. P.S. No time for more. Folding up letter. Enter Francis Geyer with hat and stick. Good evening, er... Ah, good evening. Getting up. I must introduce myself. I am Mrs. Ernest Stanton, George Gower's sister-in-law.
You, I feel sure, are Mr. Francis Gower, George's uncle. Shaking hands with assiduity. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Stanton. You knew me for a Gower at once, then? Yes, you have the unmistakable Gower eyes. Wicked eyes, only more so. They sit down. You flatter me. Flatter you, Mr. Gower? How so? When I see eyes like yours, I always say to myself that their owner has ensured the happiness of some innocent and trusting woman. I beg pardon. I am not a... By not marrying her. In that sense, I may certainly claim to be the benefact of your sex. When I review in my mind the vast phalanx of charming women whom I have not married, I— Interrupting him dryly. Of course you want to know about Ada.
Yes. I thought I would come round and enquire before sitting down to dinner. I was given to understand that there was an expectation, a surmise, a suspicion that, er— Well, Mr. Gower, I have good news for you. Ada has a daughter. A daughter? How delightful. Smiles to himself with secret joy. You said a daughter? Yes, just after three this afternoon. Rather an unusual hour. Indeed, er, indeed. I fear I'm quite at sea in the minute details of these matters. Er... Are mother and child both doing well? Splendidly, splendidly. My sister has behaved admirably. During the foregoing conversation, Helen has just put her letter in an envelope and addressed it. She now goes to the mantelpiece and rings Bell.
And the child, how did it behave? Smiling cautiously. Oh well, Mr. Gower, as you say, you are rather at sea in these matters. It is so difficult to mould one's inquiries in quite the right form. Now, at funerals, I assure you, I am unimpeachable. I have often been told so. Question of practice, I suppose. It is a most singular thing to me, having regard to the alarming increase in our population, how many funerals there seem to be and how few births. Perhaps that has not occurred to you, Mrs. Stanton?" After ringing bell again. Indeed not. Quite the opposite, in fact. Did you hear that bell ring? Distinctly. That is the fifth time I have rung it, at least. These events upset a household from attic to basement.
Mildly surprised. So far. Can I be of any assistance to you? Oh, no, thanks. I only wanted this letter posted. If you'll excuse me one second. He rises and opens door for her. Of course George is in high spirits. Going out. Oh, yes, but he conceals his feelings. Men do, you know. They think it's manly. Exit. Just so. Well, Mother Nature, you with the inscrutable ways. Sits down. You've saved me ten thousand pounds by this day's work. "'I reverence you. You're a bit of the right sort.' Smiling with silent satisfaction, "'I've got through safe this time, as it happens, but I must really cure myself of these fits of impulsive generosity. Now, if it had been a boy, I suppose George would actually have expected me to fork out that ten thousand, and I suppose like a good-natured arse I should have done so.' The door bursts open and George and May enter quickly.
To George as they enter. Isn't she a pretty little thing? The two perceive Uncle Francis and stop short. Yes, he is. With a tremendous portentous look at May pulling himself together. Hello, Uncle Francis. With a look at George appealing for instructions. Good evening, Uncle. Rather warm, isn't it, for the time of year? You look rather warm, my dear May. Well, what's the news, Uncle?
Been to the city? No, this is the first time I've been out today. I thought I'd just walk round before dinner to inquire. To inquire? About what? Oh, yes, of course. You mean about Ada. Well, Uncle, I'm glad to say it's all right. Isn't it, May? Yes, it's absolutely all right. Ada is doing well, and I'm the father of a fine boy. Imperterbable. A boy? Yes, now come. Uncle, bear up. I know it must be a blow to you. But heavens, what's ten thousand pounds to a man of your fortune? Why, it's less than a fiver to me, isn't it, May? Yes, George, it is. I think it was noble of you, Uncle, to offer that ten thousand pounds. Though the actual parting with it, to a person of your economic mind, cannot fail to be agonising.
Yes, indeed. When I first heard that my child was a boy, I said, I wish for uncle's sake it had been a girl. Didn't I, May? You did, George. You were sitting in that chair, and I stood here, and you said, I wish for uncle's sake it had been a girl. Those were the very words you used. To Francis. My sympathies went out instantly to you, uncle. You who will have to write me a cheque for £10,000 this very night. Personally, I should prefer to consider your offer cancelled, but I feel convinced that you would never consent to such a cause. You are a man of your word. You said you would settle £10,000 upon my child if it was a boy. It is a boy, and you will." You're sure it's a boy? Aside to May. Now what the deuce?
To Francis. Sure it's a boy? Well, what do you take me for? I take you for a father suffering from some nervous disorder. You mean I'm a little excited? Well, isn't that natural? You wait till you're a father, Uncle. I bet it'll make you sit up. But fancy you asking me if I'm sure my own child is a boy? Yes, fancy. Uncle, you should be more careful. To a man in George's delicate condition. So recently a father. Anything in the nature of a shock might easily bring about the most serious results. You are right, my dear little girl. Pardon her off, old bachelor, not accustomed to the etiquette of paternity. I suppose you haven't yet decided on a name, or names, for this marvellous infant. Looking at May helplessly, well, er...
Dear Ada was saying only just now that at any rate he must be named Francis. Probably his name will be George Francis, but he will always be called Frankie, after you. My dear, I am deeply touched by this little mark of consideration. Yes, Uncle, of course we aren't the sort of individuals that proclaim their private feelings from the housetops. Francis walks about and twists his moustache. But we think a great deal of you. A great deal. We look up to you. We admire your notion of the duties and responsibilities of a great uncle. We, er... And perhaps you'd like to give me the cheque now, uncle, and then you won't forget it. Francis takes no heed. Aside to May. If we can once get the cheque, he'll never stop it, you know, and we can undeceive him afterwards and tell him it was a joke and all that sort of thing.
Er... Goes up to Francis and puts her hands on his shoulders. You are a dear old thing. She is just about to kiss him when door opens and Helen enters. Suddenly frantic. Helen, you better go upstairs. They've been knocking on the ceiling like anything for the last five minutes. I believe they want something. Quietly. George, you've had too much whisky. I've just come from dear Ada. May has dropped her hands from Frances's shoulders and looks stonily at Helen. Calmly desperate. Helen, this is Uncle Francis. You haven't met before, I think. Oh yes, we met a minute or two ago, and I was telling Mr. Gower what a fine little girl Ada has. With a stifled shriek, May sinks into a chair. George also sits down, lamentably sighing.
Pause in which only Helen is mystified. Mrs. Stanton. As the head of the Gawar family, I feel it my duty to apologize beforehand. You are about to witness what is known as a scene. That is, unless you would prefer to retire. Not in the least, I assure you. Not merely a scene, but a family scene, which I believe is the most highly developed form of scene known to science. Pray don't mention it. I am quite accustomed. That is short of bloodshed. I can stand anything, but I do think blood is horrid. Sits down with pleasurable anticipation, nodding suavely in acquiescence. The preliminary is being settled. We may proceed. George, why have you been lying to me? Lying to you, Uncle? Lying, Uncle? Suddenly crosses over to Helen and they embrace, Helen sympathetically rising to the height of May's emotion.
May then sits down again. I use the word. Forcing a laugh. Oh yes, I see what you mean. I see what you mean now. I see. What eyesight? Well, I was just carried away by one of those sudden impulses that one has, you know. That was it, wasn't it, May? Yes, George, that must have been it. The sort of thing that comes over you, Uncle, before you know where you are. Comes over me? No, Uncle, not you. You won't understand it, I'm afraid. You're too old. You've got past the age for impulse. It's a disease that comes somewhere between measles and gout. It only affects the younger generation. Showing perhaps the slightest passing trace of heat. I'm too old, am I? I belong to the older generation, I suppose.
With terrible cold sarcasm. Toothless, guns, palsy limbs, doddering idiot, and so on. Smiling calmly again, but distinctly very angry beneath the arctic smile. If you look as well as me at forty-two, sir, you'll be lucky. Damned lucky. Half to herself enjoying it. As Ernest often says, the band is beginning to play. I seem to hear the strains in the distance. Getting up. Forty-two? Uncle? With shocked surprise. Forty-two? Sit down, sir. Sitting down. Well, you called me a liar, but it occurs to me I'm not the only. Yes, I do call you a liar. A liar from the basis of the most mercenary motives. You told me your child was a boy. Tut-tut, a slip of the tongue. You exaggerate trifles. Besides, for anything I knew, my child was a boy.
I admit I had been told it was a girl, but you know what women are, Uncle, especially at these times, absolutely unreliable. I was merely, as it were, hoping for the best. Have you not just returned from viewing the body? Musingly. Now we're at an inquest. I saw a kind of vermilion blob surrounded by woolen fabrics, and I was given to understand that what I beheld was a human nose. But before I could satisfy myself even on that minor point, I was told to go, as Ada mustn't be excited. I hope you'll all equip me of any desire to take part in this scene, but do I gather, Mr. Gower, that George has attempted to deceive you as to the, er, sex of his, er... Offspring? You do gather, Mrs. Stanton. You emphatically do gather.
George, I'm surprised at you, I really am. To think that your poor dear wife should have gone through what she has gone through this day, and you not satisfied, George, I blush for you. Then you were ashamed of your daughter. You wanted a son, a son that you could train up in your own sinful habits of blasphemy, self-indulgence and deceit. All I can say is I'm glad, profoundly glad, that it is a girl. Mrs. Stanton, so am I. You have a truly noble mind. Continuing to George. What could be the object of such a childish deception, even if you must have foreseen that it couldn't last, that there must come a time when the dreadful secret would reach your good, kind uncle's ears? I will tell you his object, Mrs.
Stanton. As you may possibly have heard, I am an industrious and painstaking person. I work hard and live plainly, and by the exercise of those gifts which Heaven has been pleased to grant me, I have accumulated a fortune. Some would call it a large fortune, I merely call it a fortune. I dare say I am worth a hundred thousand pounds. Now, you might imagine that, possessing this and a clear conscience, I am happy. But there is another and darker side to the picture which I am endeavouring to paint, Mrs. Stanton. I am cursed, continually cursed, in spite of what George is pleased to consider my advanced age, with an impulse, the impulse of unrestrained generosity. George and May exchange a look heavy with meaning.
Acting under this impulse about six months ago, when George imparted to me the information that, er, he, that Ada, when I say, George imparted to me that information, I said, George, if your child is a boy, I will settle ten thousand on him. You see, boys are so helpless. A boy can't marry a rich husband. Can't make his own clothes. Can't, if the worst comes to the worst, go out as mother's help. That is why I said, if it is a boy, I will settle ten thousand pounds on your child. I was under no obligation to make the offer. I acted merely from impulse, the impulse of absurd generosity. And how does George repay me? By lying to me, and, what is worse, getting his sister to lie to me, in order to obtain a paltry ten thousand pounds he is willing to stain his honour with a lie.
Bah! You, Mrs. Stanton, with characteristic insight and common sense, have at once put your finger on the most despicable aspect of this painful affair. The lie was useless, futile, silly. A slight pause ensues after this damning indictment. George, did your wife know of your uncle's offer? No, I kept it from her. I thought it would worry her. That's perfectly true, Helen. He said so to me himself. I do not approve of secrets between husband and wife. It would have been better if you'd told dear Ada. But what difference could it have made? Uncle only made the offer. One never knows. Ah, George! Suddenly to May. As for you, May, you have pained me beyond expression. Interrupting with womanly tact.
Now, as I have been dragged into this little, shall I say, difficulty, let me end it for you. I always think it's such a pity to allow a quarrel to grow. One should stamp it out in the bud. George and you, May, you must beg your uncle's pardon. I am sure he will grant it. With Christian resignation? Willingly. Oh, very well, then. If there is to be such a fuss about a mere nothing, a momentary forgetfulness, excusable, I should have thought, in a man suffering the first pangs of fatherhood, I beg pardon, I apologise, I grovel. If uncle can take any pleasure in the self-abasement of a fellow creature, and that fellow creature a woman, I also grovel. Brightly. There, there. That's all right. Shake hands.
They shake hands with mutual forgiveness. There. It's all done with and forgotten. A little tact I have invariably found is all that is necessary in these affairs, and I'm sure I'm very glad to have been of assistance. And now, Uncle Francis, I may call you Uncle. You will write out the cheque. The cheque? Calmly. The cheque for £10,000. Almost staggered, yet still imperturbable. The check for ten thar stops. You surely are not going to withhold it, especially after George and May have apologized so prettily. You surely aren't going to cast a slur, as it were, upon my niece and my poor dear sister, who have behaved so splendidly today. Suddenly tumbling to the game. You surely aren't going to.
My dear uncle, you surely aren't going to. After a pause. George, is your child a boy, or is it not? I'm informed that he isn't. That she isn't. Well then, upon what possible ground can you claim my ten thousand pounds? Allow me to remark that I have not the slightest intention of parting with it. Mr. Gower, I am... Deeply disappointed in you. Common humanity alone. Breaks off. Uncle, you have pained me beyond expression. Both the women begin to cry softly, looking to heaven. My poor wife and innocent babe. Great wealth may be to its owner a blessing or a curse. Alas, I fear it is too often the latter. It hardens the heart, blunts the finer susceptibilities. And transforms into a fiend what, under more favourable circumstances, might have been a human being.
I have noticed the same phenomena given in my own children when Ernest gives them sixpence. Striving after dignity without self-consciousness. By Jove, it's eight o'clock. I shall be late for dinner. Yes, that's it. Go, go, and consume dainties out of season, and drink expensive wines, while your own flesh and blood eat the bread of sorrow. Centre all your thoughts on yourself. Shut your eyes to the grief and suffering which surround you. Think only of the carnal appetite. There is the rich man all over. Tromple on us. Drag the juggernaut of your gold across our defenceless bodies. What is the shriek of pain, the moan of anguish to you? So long as your millions increase and multiply. Now, Helen, you see my uncle, my so-called uncle, in his true colours.
Francis gazes with longing at the door. I do, George, I do, and I cannot bear the sight. I will go to my poor sister, who is to be robbed of ten thousand pounds, for a mere, a mere indiscretion. I must try to comfort her as best I can. It will be a fearful shock to the poor thing. It might kill her, but of course she must be told. True, the news may kill her, but as you say, she must be told. I will do my best to comfort her. I cannot say more. We must hope for the best. Ah, her you may comfort. But who shall pour balm into the wound of my defenceless child, whose career is blasted, so to speak, before it has cut its first tooth? You may well ask, George, but you ask in vain. Wealth has no ear for the wail of an infant.
Wealth is preoccupied with its dinner. Appealingly. Uncle, are you quite, quite determined?
Yes, May, I fear I am, and I insist on being allowed to depart. Oh, go, go. Do not let us keep you from your past. Moving to door. Possibly, I say possibly. I may repeat my offer if at some future time you, George, that is Ada, should have a boy. I have noticed that some parents have large families, families in which both sexes are represented. If so— Alas, a frail hope, a hope probably delusive. Our dear curator Teeling has nine daughters. With cold politeness. I thank you, Uncle Francis, but I have no expectation of being able to avail myself of your offer. Helen, we must resign ourselves. We must. Yes, yes. But do not let us bear you spite, Mr. Gower. We freely forgive you. Personally, I shall pray for you.
Yes, Uncle. We feel it our duty to forgive you, and dear Helen will pray for you. Showing her forgiveness, and with a new idea in her head. Before leaving, Mr. Gower, you must really come upstairs and see the baby. She's a charming little creature. If we could get him upstairs. George comprehends that in the presence of maternity and infancy, his uncle may be less obdurate. Edging towards the door. I do not doubt it, but I would really prefer to be excused. But Ada said to me specially that you were to go up. She wants you dreadfully to see her baby, her firstborn. You must feel how heavy the little deer is. I shall be charmed too, when it is a little bigger. Surely you will not disappoint, dear Ada.
Surely you don't bear malice. I would rather... Taking him by the arm. Come along, Uncle. We'll all go. Yes, we'll accompany you. You needn't be afraid. For the first time, showing signs of losing his equanimity, faintly. Not tonight. Some other time. Oh, come on! Holding back with all his strength. George, I will not. The two great rules of my life are never to enter a sick-room and never to handle babies. And you ask me to break them both at once. Oh, stuff. The men shy, actually. Make him come, George. Appealingly. No, no, George, I intrigued. I once handled a baby. Well? I dropped it. Consternation. Did it die? No, I have sometimes wished it had. Who was it? It was you, George. And your mother fainted.
Oh! You dropped me, did you? Was I injured for life? Maimed? Crippled? Happily not. A jolly good thing for you. I'll teach you to drop me and make my mother faint. Come on now. Excuse me. I pray you to excuse me. To himself. I'd give a good deal to be out of this. Solemnly. How much would you give? Would you give a lot? Would you give ten thousand pounds? Almost shaking him, dramatic pause.
Faintly but quite self-possessed again. I feel it coming. What? It. My impulse of extravagant generosity. My terrible charitableness.
There. There. Perhaps pen and ink would assuage the agony. Perhaps. They lead him to the table. He sits down and pulls checkbook out of his pocket. May hands him the pen. He begins to write. Reading over his shoulder. Pay George Gower £10,000. Now the signature. Pausing on the verge of the signature. Understand. I don't have to see that baby till it's six months old, and I don't have to handle it till it's a year, no, two years old. George nods, all smiles. Francis signs with a flourish, tears cheque out of book and hands it to May. May hands it to George, who receives it in ecstatic silence. Frances heaves a profound sigh.
Curtain. End of A Question of Sex by Arnold Bennett.
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8 08 - The Sightless 41:39
The site was by Maurice Maederlinck. The First Blind Man Read by Lambda. Second Blind Man Read by Elizabeth Klatt. Third Blind Man Read by Christine G. The Oldest Blind Man. Read by Todd. Fifth Blind Man. Read by Larry Wilson. The Sixth Blind Man. Read by Anastasia Saloha. A Young Blind Woman. Read by Amanda Friday. The Oldest Blind Woman. Read by Michelle Eaton. A Mad Blind Woman. Read by Libby Gawne. Narrator. Read by Elliot Cage. The Sightless, a very ancient northern forest, eternal aspect, beneath a sky profoundly starred. In the midst and towards the depths of night, a very old priest is seated wrapped in a wide black His head and upper part of his body, slightly thrown back and mortally still, are leaning against the bowl of an oak tree, huge and cavernous.
His face is fearfully pale and of an inalterable waxen lividity. His violet lips are parted. His eyes, dumb and fixed, no longer gaze at the visible side of eternity and seem bleeding beneath a multitude of immemorial sorrows and of tears. His hair, of a most solemn white, falls in stiff and scanty locks upon a face more illumined and more weary than all else that surrounds it in the intense silence of the gloomy forest. His hands, extremely lean, are rigidly clasped on his lap. To the right, six old blind men are seated upon stones, the stumps of trees and dead leaves. To the left, Separated from them by an uprooted tree and fragments of rock, six women, blind also, are seated facing the old men.
Three of them are praying and wailing in hollow voice and without pause. Another is extremely old. The fifth, in an attitude of mute insanity, holds on her knees a little child asleep. The sixth is strangely young, and her hair inundates her whole being. The women, as well as the old men, are clothed in ample garments, somber and uniform. Most of them sit waiting with their elbows on their knees and their faces between their hands, and all seem to have lost the habit of useless gesture. and no longer turned their heads at the stifled and rustless noises of the island. Great funereal trees, yews, weeping willows, cypresses, enwrap them in their faithful shadows. Not far from the priest, a cluster of Is he not coming yet?
You have waked me. I was asleep too. I was asleep too. Is he not coming yet? I hear nothing coming. It must be about time to go back to the asylum. We want to know where we are. It has grown cold since he left. We want to know where we are. Does anyone know where we are? We were walking a very long time. We must be very far from the asylum. Huh. The women are opposite us. We are sitting opposite you. Wait, I will come next to you. He rises and gropes about. Where are you? Speak, that I may hear where you are. Here, we are sitting on stones. He steps forward, stumbling against the fallen tree and the rocks. There is something between us. It is better to stay where one is. Where are you sitting?
Do you want to come over to us? We dare not stand up. Why did he separate us? I hear praying on the women's side. Yes, the three old women are praying. This is not the time to pray. You can pray by and by in the dormitory. The three old women continue their prayers. I should like to know next to whom I am sitting. I think I am next to you. They grope about them with their hands. We cannot touch each other. And yet we are not far apart. He gropes about him, and with his stick hits the fifth blind man who gives a dull moan. The one who cannot hear is sitting next to us. I don't hear everybody. We were six just now. I am beginning to make things out. Let us question the women too. It is necessary that we should know how matters stand.
I still hear the three old women praying. Are they sitting together? They are sitting beside me on a rock. I am sitting on dead leaves. And the beauty, where is she? She is near those that are praying. Where are the madwoman and her child? He is asleep. Don't wake him. Oh, how far from us you are. I thought you were just opposite me. We know, more or less, all that we need know. Let us talk a little, till the priest comes back. He told us to await him in silence. We are not in a church. You don't know where we are? I feel frightened when I am not talking. Do you know where the priest has gone? It seems to me that he is leaving us alone too long. He is growing too old. It appears that he has hardly been able to see for some time himself.
He will not own it, for fear that another should come and take his place among us. But I suspect that he can hardly see any more. We ought to have another guide. He never listens to us now, and we are becoming too many for him. The three nuns and he are the only ones in the house that can see. And they are all older than we are. I am sure that he has led us astray and is trying to find the way again. Where can he have gone? He has no right to leave us here. He has gone very far. I think he said so to the woman. Then he only speaks to the women now? Do we not exist anymore? We shall have to complain in the end. To whom will you carry your complaint? I don't yet know. We shall see. We shall see.
But where can he have gone? I am asking it of the women. He was tired, having walked so long. I think he sat down a moment in our midst. He has been very sad and very weak for some days. He has been uneasy since the doctor died. He is lonely. He hardly ever speaks. I don't know what can have happened. He insisted on going out today. He said he wanted to see the island one last time, in the sun, before winter came. It appears that the winter will be very cold, and very long, and that ice is already coming down from the north. He was anxious, too, they say, that the great storms of these last days have swelled the stream, and that all the dykes are giving way. He said, too, that the sea frightened him.
It appears to be agitated for no reason, and the cliffs of the island are not high enough. He wanted to see for himself, but he did not tell us what he saw. I think he has gone now to fetch some bread and water for the madwoman. He said that he would perhaps have to go very far. We shall have to wait." He took my hands on leaving, and his hands trembled as if he were afraid. Then he kissed me. I asked him what had happened. He told me that he did not know what was going to happen. He told me that the old men's reign was coming to an end, perhaps. What did he mean by that? I did not understand him. He told me that he was going towards the great lighthouse. Is there a lighthouse here? Yes, north of the island.
I think we are not far from it. He told me that he could see the light of the beacon falling here, upon the leaves. He never seemed to me sadder than today, and I think that for some days he had been crying. I don't know why, but I cried too, without seeing him. I did not hear him go. I did not question him further. I could hear that he was smiling too solemnly. I could hear that he was closing his eyes and wished for silence. He said nothing to us of all this. You never listen to him when he speaks. You all murmur when he speaks. He merely said goodnight on leaving. It must be very late. He said goodnight two or three times on leaving, as if he were going to sleep. I could hear that he was looking at me when he said, goodnight, goodnight.
The voice changes when one looks at someone fixedly. Have pity on those that cannot see. Who is talking in that senseless way? I think it is the one who cannot hear. Be quiet. This is not the time to beg. Where was he going for the bread and water? He went towards the sea. One does not walk towards the sea in that way at his age. Are we near the sea? Yes. Be quiet an instant. You will hear it. A murmur of the sea near at hand, and very calm against the cliffs. I only hear the three old women praying. Listen well. You will hear it through their prayers. Yes. I hear something that is not far from us. It was asleep. It seems as if it were waking. It was wrong of him to lead us here. I don't like hearing that noise.
You know very well that the island is not large, and that one can hear it as soon as everyone leaves the walls of the asylum. I never listened to it. It seems to me that it is next to us today. I don't like hearing it so close. Nor I. Besides, we never asked to leave the asylum. We have never been as far as this. It was useless to bring us so far. It was very fine this morning. He wanted us to enjoy the last days of sunshine before shutting us up for the whole winter in the asylum. But I prefer staying in the asylum. He too said that we ought to know something of the little island we live in. He himself has never been all over it. There is a mountain that no one has climbed, valleys which no one likes to go down to, and caves that have not been entered to this day.
He said, in short, that one must not always sit waiting for the sun under the dormitory roof. He wanted to bring us to the seashore. He has gone there alone. He is right. One must think of living. But there is nothing to see out of those. Are we in the sun now? Is the sun still shining? I think not. It seems to me to be very late. What a clock is it? I don't know. Nobody knows. Is it still light? To the sixth blind man. Where are you? Come, you who can see a little, come. I think it's very dark. When the sun shines, I see a blue line under my eyelids. I saw one a long while ago, but now I can see nothing at all. As for me, I know that it is late when I am hungry, and I am hungry. But look up at the sky.
You will see something, perhaps. They all lift their heads towards the sky, save the three that were born blind, who continue to look on the ground. I don't know that we are under the sky. Our voices resound as if they were in a cave. I rather think they resound so, because it is evening. It seems to me that I feel the moonlight on my hands. I think there are stars. I hear them. I, too. I can hear no sound. I can only hear the sound of our breathing. I think the women are right. I never heard the stars. Neither did I. A flight of night birds alights suddenly amidst the foliage. Listen. Listen, what is that above us? Do you hear? Something passed between the sky and us. There is something moving above our heads, but we cannot reach it.
I don't know the nature of that sound. I want to go back to the asylum. We want to know where we are. I have tried to stand up. There are thorns, nothing but thorns about me. I dare not spread my hands out any more. We want to know where we are. We cannot know it. We must be very far from the house. I can no longer make out a single noise. For a long while I have smelt the smell of dead leaves. Did anyone of us see the island in past days, and could he tell us where we are? We were all blind when we came here. We have never been able to see. Let us not be unnecessarily anxious. He will soon return. Let us wait a little longer. But in future we will not go out with him again. We cannot go out alone.
We will not go out at all. I prefer not going out. We had no wish to go out. Nobody had asked to do so. It was a holiday on the island. We always go out on great holidays. He came and hit me on the shoulder when I was still asleep, saying, Get up, get up. It is time. The sun is shining. Was there any sun? I was not aware of it. I have never seen the sun. I saw the sun when I was very young. I, too. It was long ago, when I was a child. Mr. Brown. But I hardly remember it now. Mr. Brown. Why does he want us to go out every time the sun shines? Which of us is any the wiser? I never know whether I am walking out at midday or at midnight. Mr. Brown. I prefer going at midday. I suspect a great brightness then, and my eyes make great efforts to open.
Mr. Brown. I prefer staying in the refractory by the coal-fire. There was a big fire there this morning. He could bring us out into the sun in the yard. There one has the shelter of the walls. One cannot get out. There is nothing to fear when the door is shut. I always shut it. Why did you touch my left elbow? I did not touch you. I cannot reach you. I tell you that somebody touched my elbow. It was none of us. I want to go away. Oh God, oh God, tell us where we are. We cannot wait here forever. A very distant clock strikes twelve very slowly. Oh, how far we are from the asylum. It is midnight. It is midday. Does anyone know? Speak. Hmm, I don't know. But I think we are in the shade. I can make nothing out.
We slept too long. I am hungry. We are hungry and thirsty. Have we been here long? It seems to me that I have been here centuries. I am beginning to make out where we are. We ought to go towards where midnight struck. All the nightbirds exult suddenly in the gloom. Do you hear? Do you hear? We are not alone. I have had my suspicions for a long time. We are being overheard. Has he come back? I don't know what it is. It is above us. Did the others hear nothing? You were always silent. We are still listening. I hear wings about me. Oh God, oh God, tell us where we are. I am beginning to make out where we are. The asylum is on the other side of the big river. We have crossed the old bridge. He has brought us to the north side of the island.
We are not far from the river, and perhaps we should hear it if he were to listen a moment. We shall have to go down to the edge of the water if he does not come back. Night and day great ships pass there, and the sailors will see us standing on the banks. It may be that we are in the forest that surrounds the lighthouse, but I don't know the way out of it. Is somebody willing to follow me? Let us keep seated. Let us wait. Let us wait. We don't know the direction of the big river, and there are bogs all around the asylum. Let us wait. Let us wait. He will come back. He is bound to come back. Does anyone know which way we came here? He explained it to us as we walked. I paid no attention. Did anyone listen to him?
We must listen to him in the future. Was anyone of us born on the island? You know quite well that we come from elsewhere. We come from the other side of the sea. I thought I should have died crossing. I too. We came together. We are all three of the same parish. They say that one can see it from here in the clear weather, towards the north. It was no steeple. We landed by chance. I come from another direction. From where do you come? I no longer dare think of it. I can hardly call it to mind when I speak of it. It was too long ago. It was colder there than here. And I... I come from very far. Where do you come from, then? I could not tell you. How should I be able to describe it? It is too far from here.
It is beyond the seas. I come from a big country. I could only explain it to you by signs, and we cannot see. I have wandered too long. But I have seen the sun and water and fire and mountains and faces and strange flowers. There are none like them on this island. It is too dismal here. And too cold. I have never known the scent again, since I lost my sight. But I saw my parents and my sisters. I was too young then to know where I was. I still played about on the seashore. Yet how well I remember having seen. One day, I looked at the snow from the top of a mountain. I was just beginning to distinguish those that are to be unhappy. What do you mean? I can still distinguish them by the sound of their voice at times.
I have memories that are clear when I am not thinking of them. I have no memories. I— A flight of big birds of passage passes clambering above the foliage. There is something passing again beneath the sky. Why did you come here? To whom are you speaking? To our young sister. They told me that he could cure me. He says that I shall see again someday. Then I shall be able to leave the island. We should all like to leave the island. We shall stay here forever. He is too old. He will never have time to cure us. My eyelids are closed, but I feel that my eyes are alive. Mine are open. I sleep with my eyes open. Let us not speak of our eyes. You have not been here long. One evening, during prayers, I heard on the woman's side a voice I did not know, and I could tell by your voice that you were young.
I wanted to see you, having heard your voice. I never noticed it. He never lets us know anything. They say that you are beautiful, like some woman come from afar. I have never seen myself. We have never seen each other. We question each other, and we answer each other. We live together, and we are always together. But we know not what we are. It is all very well to touch each other with both hands. Eyes no more than hands. I see your shadows sometimes when you are in the sun. We have never seen the house in which we live. It is all very well to touch the walls and the windows. We know nothing of where we live. They say it is an old castle, very gloomy and very wretched. One never sees a light there, save in the tower where the priest's room is.
Those who cannot see need no light. When I am keeping the flocks around about the asylum, the sheep go home of themselves when at the evening they see that light in the tower. They have never led me astray. For years and years we have lived together, and we have never beheld each other. One would say we were always alone. One must see to love. I sometimes dream that I can see. I only see when I am dreaming. I only dream, as a rule, at midnight. Of what can one dream when one's hands are motionless? A squall shakes the forest, and the leaves fall in dismal showers. Who was it touched my hands? There is something falling around us. It comes from above. I don't know what it is. Who was it, touched my hands?
I was asleep. Let me sleep. Nobody touched your hands. Who was it, took my hands? Answer loud. I am rather hard of hearing. We don't ourselves know. Have they come to warn us? It is of no use answering. He can hear nothing. It must be admitted that the deaf are very unfortunate. I am tired of sitting down. I'm tired of being here. We seem to me so far from one another. Let us try to draw a little closer together. It's beginning to be cold. I dare not stand up. It is better to stay where one is. There is no knowing what there may be between us. I think both of my hands are bleeding. I want to stand up. I can hear that you are leaning towards me. The blind woman rubs her eyes violently, moaning and persistently turning towards the emotionless priest.
I hear another noise. I think it is our poor sister rubbing her eyes. She never does anything else. I hear her every night. She's mad. She never says anything. She has never spoken. Since she had her child, she seems always to be afraid. Are you not afraid here, then? Who? All the rest of us. Yes, yes, we are afraid. We have been afraid a long time. Why do you ask that? I don't know why I ask it. There is something I cannot make out. It seems as if I heard a sudden sound of crying in our midst. It does not do to be afraid. I think it is the madwoman. There is something else besides. I am sure there is something else besides. It is not only that which frightens me. She always cries when she is about to suckle her child.
She is the only one that cries so. They say that she can still see at times. One never hears the others cry. One must see to weep. I smell a scent of flowers round about us. I only smell the smell of the earth. There are flowers. There are flowers near us. I only smell the smell of the earth. I have just smelt flowers on the wind. I only smell the smell of the earth. I think the women are right. Where are they? I will go and beat them. To your right. Stand up. The sixth blind man rises slowly, and knocking himself against the trees and bushes. Gropes his way towards the daffodils, which he treads down and crushes as he goes. I can hear that you are snapping green stems. Stop! Stop! Never mind about the flowers, but think about getting back.
I dare not retrace my steps. You must not come back. Wait! She rises. Oh, how cold the earth is! It is going to freeze! She moves without hesitation towards the strange pale daffodils, but she is stopped by the fallen tree and the rocks in the neighborhood of the flowers. They are here. I cannot reach them. They are on your side. I think I am picking them. Groping about him, he picks what flowers are left and offers them to her. The night birds fly away. It seems to me that I once saw these flowers. I have forgotten their name. But how ill they are, and how limp their stalks are. I hardly know them again. I think they are the flowers of the dead. She plates the daffodils in her hand. I hear the sound of your hair.
Those are the flowers. We shall not see you. I shall not see myself. I am cold. At this moment, the wind rises in the forest, and the sea roars suddenly and with violence against the neighboring cliffs. It is thundering. I think it is a storm rising. I think it is the sea. The sea? Is it the sea? But it is at two steps from us. It is beside us. I hear it all around me. It must be something else. I hear the sound of waves at my feet. I think it is the wind and the dead leaves. I think the women are right. It will be coming here. Where does the wind come from? It comes from the sea. It always comes from the sea. The sea hems us in on all sides. It cannot come from elsewhere. Let us not think of the sea anymore.
But we must think of it, as it is going to reach us. You don't know that it is the sea? I hear its waves as if I were going to dip both hands in. We cannot stay here. They may be all around us. Where do you want to go? No matter where. No matter where. I will not hear the sound of that water anymore. Let us go. Let us go. It seems to me that I hear something else besides. Listen. A sound of footsteps, swift and distant, is heard among the dead leaves. There is something coming towards us. He is coming. He is coming. He is coming back. He is taking little steps, like a little child. Let us reproach him nothing today. I think it is not the step of a man. A big dog enters the forest and passes before them.
Silence. Who is that? Who are you? Have pity on us. We have been waiting so long. The dog stops and returning lays his front paws on the blind man's knees. Ha! Ha! What have you put on my knees?
What is it? Is it an animal? I think it is a dog. Ho! Ho! It is the dog. It is the dog from the asylum. Come here. Come here. He has come to deliver us. Come here. He has come to deliver us. He has followed our traces. He is licking my hands as if he has fallen me after hundreds of years. He is howling for joy. He will die of joy. Listen. Listen. Come here. He has perhaps run on in front of somebody. No, no. He is alone. I hear nothing coming. We need no other guide. There is none better. He will lead us wherever we want to go. He will obey us. I dare not follow him. Nor I. Why not? He sees better than we do. Let us not listen to the women. I think that something has changed in the sky. I breathe freely.
The air is pure now. It is the sea breeze that is blowing round us. It seems to me that it is going to get white. I think the sun is rising. I think it is going to be cold. We shall find the way. He is dragging me along. He is drunk with joy. I can no longer hold him back. Follow me. Follow me. We are going home. He rises, dragged along by the dog who leads him towards the motionless priest, and there stops. Where are you going? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Take care of you. Wait. Wait. Don't follow me yet. I will come back. He is standing still. What is it? Ha. Ha! I have touched something very cold. What are you saying? I can hardly hear your voice anymore. I think I am touching a face.
What are you saying? One can hardly understand you anymore. What is the matter with you? Where are you? Are you already so far away from us? Ho! Ho! Ho! I don't yet know what it is. There is a dead man in our midst. A dead man in our lives. Where are you? There is a dead man among us. I tell you. Oh, oh, I have touched a dead face. You are sitting next to a dead body. One of us must have died suddenly. But speak then, that I may know which are alive. Where are you? Answer, answer altogether. They answer in succession, save the madwoman and the deaf man. The three old women have ceased praying. I can no longer distinguish your voices. You are all speaking alike. They are all trembling. There are two who did not answer.
Where are they? He touches with his stick the fifth blind man. It is not he. Is it the madwoman? She is sitting next to me. I can hear her live. I think... I think it is the priest. He is standing. Come! Come! Come! He is standing. Then he is not dead. Where is he? Come and see. They all rise save the mad woman and the fifth blind man, and grope their way towards the dead. Is he here? Is it he? Yes, yes, I recognize him. Oh God, oh God, what is to become of us? Father, Father, is it you? Father, what has happened? What is the matter with you? Answer us, we are all gathered round you. Oh, oh, oh! Bring some water, he is perhaps still alive. Let us try. He will perhaps be able to lead us back to the asylum.
It is useless. I cannot hear his heart. He is cold. He died without a word. He ought to have warned us. Oh, how old he was. It is the first time I ever touched his face. He is taller than we are. Feeling the corpse. His eyes are wide open. He died with clasped hands. He died, so... For no reason. He is not standing. He is sitting on a stone. Oh God, oh God, I did not know all. All. He had been ill so long. He must have suffered today. Oh, oh, oh, he never complained. He only complained in pressing our hands. One does not always understand. One never understands. Let us pray around him. Kneel down. The women kneel moaning. I dare not kneel down. One does not know what one is kneeling on here. Was he ill?
He never told us. I heard him whisper something as he went. I think he was speaking to our young sister. What did he say? She will not answer. You will not answer us any more. But where are you, then? Speak! You made him suffer too much. You have killed him. You would go no further. You wanted to sit down on the stones by the roadside to eat. You grumbled all day. I heard him sigh. He lost courage. Was he hell? Did you know it? We knew nothing. We had never seen him. When have we ever known of anything that passed before our poor dead eyes? He never complained. Now it is too late. I have seen three die, but never so. Now it is our turn. It is not I that made him suffer. I never said anything.
Nor I. We followed him without a word. He died going to fetch water for the madwoman. What are we to do now? Where shall we go? Where is the dog? Here. He will not leave the dead. Drag him away. Drive him off. Drive him off. He will not leave the dead. We cannot wait beside a dead man. We cannot die thus in the dark. Let us keep together. Let us not move away from one another. Let us hold hands. Let us all sit down on this stone. Where are the others? Come here. Come. Come. Where are you? Here. I am here. Are we all together? Come nearer to me. Where are your hands? It is very cold. How cold your hands are! What are you doing? I was putting my hands to my eyes. I thought I was going to see all at once.
Who is that crying? It is the madwoman sobbing. Yet she does not know the truth. I think we shall die here. Someone will come, perhaps. Who else would be likely to come? I don't know. I think the nuns will come out of the asylum. They never go out of an evening. They never go out at all. I think that the men from the big lighthouse will see us. They never come down from their tower. They might see us. They are always looking towards the sea. It is cold. Listen to the dead leaves. I think it is freezing. Oh, how hard the earth is! I hear to my left a noise that I cannot make out. It is the sea, moaning against the rocks. I thought it was the woman. I hear the ice breaking under the waves. Who is it that is shivering so?
He is making us all shake on the stone. I can no longer open my hands. I hear another noise that I cannot make out. Which of us is it that is shivering so? He is shaking the stone. I think it is a woman. I think the madwoman is shivering most. I cannot hear her child. I think he is still sucking. He is the only one that can see where we are. I hear the north wind. I think there are no more stars. It is going to snow. Then we are lost. If one of us falls asleep, he must be waked. I am sleepy, though. A squall makes the dead leaves whirl. Do you hear the dead leaves? I think someone is coming towards us. It is the wind. Listen. No one will come now. The great cold is coming. I hear someone walking in the distance.
I only hear the dead leaves. I hear someone walking very far from us. I only hear the north wind. I tell you that someone is coming towards us. I hear a sound of very slow footsteps. I think the women are right. It begins to snow in great flakes. Ho! Ho! What is that falling? So cold on my hands. It is snowing. Let us draw up close to one another. But listen to the sound of the footsteps. For God's sake, be still an instant. They are drawing nearer. They are drawing nearer. Listen, then. Here the mad woman's child begins to wail suddenly in the dark. The child is crying. It sees. It sees. It must see something as it is crying. She seizes the child in her arms and moves forward in the direction whence the sound of footsteps seemed to come.
The other women follow her anxiously and surround her. I am going to meet it. Take care. Oh, how he is crying! What is it? Don't cry. Don't be afraid. There is nothing to be afraid of. We are here all about you. What do you see? Fear nothing. Don't cry so. What is it that you see? Tell us, what is it that you see? The sound of footsteps is drawing nearer. Listen. Listen. I hear the rustling of a dress among the dead leaves. Is it a woman? Is it the sound of footsteps? It is perhaps the sea on the dead leaves. No, no. They are footsteps. They are footsteps. They are footsteps. We shall soon know. Listen to the dead leaves. I hear them. I hear them almost beside us. Listen. Listen. What is it that you see?
What is it that you see? Which way is he looking? He always follows the sound of the footsteps. Look. Look. When I turn him away, he turns back to look. He sees! He sees! He sees! He must see something strange. Lift him above us that he may see. Coming forward. Step aside! Step aside! She lifts the child above the group of the sightless. The footsteps have stopped right among us. They are here! They are here in our midst! Who are you? Silence. Have pity on us. Silence. The child cries more desperately.
The End End of The Sightless by Maurice Maederlinck
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9 09 - Zenobia 25:22
Zenobia, a dream of ancient Egypt, a psychic drama in seven scenes, by Heriward Carrington, joint-author of The Mysteries of Myra, etc. Devised, staged, and with scenic effects, by Harry Squires. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Cast of Characters. Jacques Dupont, an artist.
Dr. Robert Morton, occult investigator.
Princess Neftari Ra, the mummy. Narrator, read by Alji Pag. Attendance, etc. Time, present, place, Egypt, near the pyramids. Scene One. Full set, showing sands of desert, sphinx, and pyramids in distance. Mummy chamber in center. Faint blue light on stage, an illuminating mummy. Faint weird music is in progress. Stage is empty for about thirty seconds at opening. Then voices are heard coming from a distance. They get louder and louder. Finally, Dupont and Dr. Morton enter right talking. I tell you, my dear fellow, it's all rubbish. There's no such thing. I'm a complete materialist, and all this talk about souls and spirits and reincarnation and all that is so much trash. Why— Don't display your ignorance any further, my dear boy.
You are speaking a phenomena you know nothing about. I have seen these things, and I know. You know I'm not a lunatic or unbalanced, don't you? Yes, but... My dear boy, there is no but about it. I assure you solemnly that these things are true. They really happen, and science is doing more and more to prove them every day. Spirits exist, and they can continue to influence those still living. Out here, in this gorgeous desert, with the influences and traditions of the pyramids behind us, indicates them by a sweep of the arm. I don't see how you can doubt. DuPont, who has been moving about a little during this talk, and ascended the steps so that he can see the mummy in the room asleep. Good God!
Rob, come here, old man, quick, and see what we've found. How on earth did this get here, do you think? What a beautiful creature she must have been to. He advances a step or two nearer. An Egyptian goddess! Cut in the whitest marble, and what exquisite lines, those features, those arms, the curves of the bust, the throat. Oh, Robert, what a find! My God, if she were only alive! Well, your artistic interest is no more aroused than my scientific sense. He ascends the steps and looks at the figure. If only we knew the secret of life, how to restore it. Some elixir. Why not try? You say you know all about these occult things. Why not try some evocation to bring her back? Some... No, no. With one so long dead, the consequences might be...
other than we suspect. We cannot tell. Take my advice. Do not press me further. Why not? What can happen? I'll take the risk. Come, in the name of our old friendship and by the promise you once made me, I conjure you to do what you can, perform any ceremony, and we will see the effects. Of course nothing will happen, but— It shall be as you say, though remember I have warned you against it. Blame me not for anything that may befall. Come, stand here by me. And step not out of this magic circle until I give the word, otherwise your life may pay the price. Morton, while saying the last words, has drawn a sword from his sword-stick, and traced a circle on the sand, and the sacred pentagram within it.
He then lights a small jar of incense, and, taking the sword in his right hand, performs certain passes and figures with the point, At the same time muttering a spell or evocation. As he does so, the stage slightly darkens, the light in the mummy room becomes brighter. Morton and DuPont kneel and fall to the ground on their faces. DuPont at the silent command of Morton. The slow transformation from the statue to the living woman is accomplished. She thereupon moves, gets up, stretches, smiles, and finally speaks. During all this time, the stage has been getting gradually brighter, but is never fully bright. Ah, the bliss! To feel once more, after all these years, the spark of life, the touch of moist, warm flesh, the thrill of living and of loving.
To return to Earth. Once more. Yes, it is sweet. And sweet, too, is revenge. My return is for a purpose. She catches sight of DuPont and Morton in the circle on the sand. That head, that form, O holy mother Isis, O Osiris, give me strength a right. To live just long enough to justify my animation of this fair body. To use its fascination and its power to the great aim and end in view.
So give me strength and steadfastness of purpose. She crosses the floor of the mummy room, descends the stairs, and walks on to the sands, approaching the figures in the magic circle. As she does so, Morton gradually raises his head and catches sight of her. He gazes a moment, then clutches Dupont by the arm and brings him up so that he too can see the figure. My God, how mythical! Or is it a vision? He leans closer to assure himself, and she draws herself up in a haughty attitude as he does so. This assures him that she is a woman of flesh and blood. He proceeds. No, she lives. Rob, look, look! She breathes and glances fire from her eyes. Our invocation has succeeded. No more a skeptic eye. He advances toward her.
Fair maid. Not long ago we saw you sleeping marble, white and pure as the sands of yonder desert. Indicates them. And now you stand before us in all the beauty of your womanhood, brought to life by our magical invocation. Speak, fair wanderer, from another sphere, and tell us of yourself, your name, and whence you came. Many, many years have I lain asleep, encased in marble, a brain and heart of stone, waiting, waiting, waiting, For the day of my reincarnation, four thousand years ago, in ancient Egypt, I was a princess of the royal house, Neftari-Ra. All Egypt bowed to my bidding. I loved. I gave my love, my all, to a man, O fair to look upon. Of grace, of mind, and strength of body. And for a time, we two were happy.
She clasps her hands ecstatically and looks up at the audience, pauses. And then my lover wearied of me, betrayed me, and one night. Just such a night as this. He stabbed me with this very dagger. Takes it from her belt. And shows it. Here, into my fair breast did he plunge it. Bares her breast as far as the senses allow, and shows scar. To the hilt he drove it, and drank of my heart's blood. She pauses, and droops her head. I died. For thousands of years have I lain asleep, Waiting for the magic touch to restore me. And now, I know that I am alive. I know also that my former lover still lives, for my life and his will cross again. So it was prophesied by the temple prophetess in the days of ancient Egypt.
Princess, I am overwhelmed by what you tell me. So horrible a crime must needs be expiated by the heart's blood of him who was your murderer. If I can do aught to serve you, you have but to command me. You are right, indeed, as to the expiation of this crime. When his reincarnated soul meets mine, and realizes that twas he who so foully murdered me, then, then his death-knail shall be sounded. Ha! You say you would serve me? Then come tonight to my palace, three earthly miles from here. Points. See? On the Nile, at eight. I shall expect you. Come. Exits. Wanderous vision! Come, I shall be there! Rob! Rob! my friend, did you see and hear as I did just now? What can it all mean?
That palace! We have just visited it but yesterday, and it was dead, a pile of ruins. Yet now she says she lives there. Mystery of mysteries! Come, Rob, my friend, let us rest, and then to the palace! And the princess!
Lights out. Drop curtain for scene two. Exterior of ruined Egyptian temple. Faint blue lights. Blue sky showing between the columns. Weird faraway music. Resounds from within the temple. Enter Dupont and Morton left, and stand in front of the temple. They look up at it. This is the place. The very place. Yet it is dark and ruined. No signs of life about it. Can it be she was tricking you, playing upon your youthful credulity? No, no, not that. The very soul shone out of her eyes, and when she spoke of meeting once again her lover, I felt a thrill of envy sweep through me. Stay, what was that? He grasps Morton by the arm, and they both listen as the music becomes louder, then softer again. And finally dies away.
Music. And from within the temple. There must be someone inside it, then. But stay, my friend, a moment before so rashly venturing in. You do not altogether realize the danger that you run. She is more than mere earthly woman. There is something of the supernatural about her. Be persuaded by me. Leave this place before it is too late, before you have gone too far. Cease, cease your croakings. How can I think of aught else when she is present and awaits me? If you fear for yourself, stay here, but I will enter. Does so. Aye, I will stay and watch. Scene III. Interior of Egyptian Palace. Huge columns of stone at back and on both wings. Right a dais, upon it a throne, to left of throne a table containing wine, fruit, etc.
Cushions about. Egyptian details as far as possible. Faint blue light, which gradually becomes brighter on throne, in which is discovered, seated, the princess. Soft music is heard, Then dies away as DuPont enters. Hail and welcome, honored guest. After your journey, you must be weary and need rest. Sit you down. Drink. Here is wine. She fills two goblets and hands him one. Will I dance for your entertainment, as I did of old? Yes, before my lover, four thousand years ago. Ah, yes, most beauteous princess! And come to my arms when weary. Ra then throws off a veil, and begins to dance in a circle, constantly coming back to Dupont. And each time she does, she strips off a veil and throws it at his feet, until she has as little on as the censer will permit.
Dupont has been getting more and more enthralled all this time. and finally puts down his wine-cup and stretches out his arms to her. She falls at his feet and throws herself into his arms. They kiss passionately. Fairest of women, dearest princess, my very heart and soul are yours. My life's blood pulsates but for you. Give me your love. As I have given you life, to hold you in my arms, to feel the warmth of your kiss upon my lips. Yes, for this would I sacrifice all, body, heart, and soul, for you. Looks at her again, picks up a wine-cup, and holds aloft as a toast. He goes on. Give me dancing, give me wine, bright eyes glancing into mine, kisses sucking up my breath, give me passion, give me death.
You mean that? Leaning forward and speaking slowly. If you have my love, will you too promise to give me yourself? Body, heart, and soul, for this life and all lives to come. I do, I do. Let me but love you, and all I have or am or ever will be is yours. He leans forward to take her more closely in his arms. Wait, wait, not now. This palace is enchanted. A low burst of music is heard. He starts back. Come to me tonight at twelve. She picks up a veil and gathers it around herself. In the room where first you saw me, and all I have to give in love will I give. At twelve, tonight. She passes behind a pillar, or something of the kind, and is gone. DuPont runs and looks behind the pillar, finds her gone.
Mr. O God, to hold her in my arms, to feel her kiss, her passionate embrace. At twelve tonight, what can the time be now? Looks at wristwatch. Mr. Already ten. I must be gone. O being, natural or supernatural. I am yours. Exits. Scene Four. Drop. Desert scene. A sandstorm is in progress. Faint light. Storm clouds. General storm effects. Enter Dupont right. Staggering along, more or less blinded by the sand and wind. And he holds up one arm over his face and eyes, then stops and falls to his knees. Curse it, wind and sand. It fills my eyes and ears, and nearly strangles me. Ah, I must be nearly there. Were it not for her, I would turn back. But she, the prize. I must on, struggle on, and pray the god Osiris.
Stop. How came I to name that heathen god? It came to my lips without my bidding. Strange, strange. Ah! I must be gone! Tis nearly twelve! He struggles up and out left. Scene 5. Same as Scene 1. No storm. Stage is nearly dark. No figures visible anywhere. Dupont enters right, wiping his face with his handkerchief. He looks about. Thank all the gods the storm has ceased! This quiet spot seems magically sheltered. And here she awaits me. O love, my divine one, I come to you. He runs up the steps and into mummy room, pauses a moment, looking about in the dark, seeing no one. At that instant he is grabbed by two Arabs, dressed in conventional garb, thrown to the ground, gagged, bound hand and foot.
A trap is opened in the floor from which a faint blue light enters. One man descends, his body is passed to him, and the two men start to carry him through the trap-door and down a steep flight of stairs, when the lights go out. Stage is in complete darkness. Gradually, faint blue light is seen, indicating scene six. Rock-lined tomb, faintly lighted in blue. Princess Ra is seen standing, wrapped in winding white trappings, Half resembling a mummy. The two assistants are seen carrying Dupont's body down a steep flight of stairs. They deposit him on the floor, fold their arms, and look to her for instructions. Go! Pointing to steps. They are exeunt. She then takes the gag out of Dupont's mouth and unties his feet, leaving his hands tied.
He staggers to his feet. She confronts him. What can this mean? So late I held you in my arms and pressed my lips to yours, and now I am bound, a prisoner in a dungeon, a damp, cold, vaulted chamber, with the very atmosphere of death. He shudders. Oh! My love, loose me, unbind me, give me your love, yourself, as late you promised me. For you I crossed the blinding, sandy desert. Is that not proof of my devotion? Come, fairy princess, do not play with me. What means this rough reception at your hands? Oh, Jacques Dupont, when first you undertook the quickening of my soul to life, you brought into your life more than you ever dreamed of. A supernatural being, your friend called me. Well, that I am.
Dupont starts back. You know the secret of my life and birth, my birth into this life, my present incarnation. But do you know that I have lived apart, and longed and waited all these years for this supreme moment?
Centuries and centuries have I slept the sleep of death, awaiting incarnation.
I told you once before I was a princess in the days of Egypt. Yes, that I was foully murdered by my best beloved, to him whom I had given soul and body. Yes, stabbed with this very dagger. Takes it out. In this my once fair breast. And did I tell you, too? Of him who thus betrayed me, that demon, fiend incarnate, who, in his hour of triumph, cast me aside for another, a priestess of the temple of Isis. Do you remember, in those days of long ago, how I loved and longed for you in your last incarnation? Oh God, am I mad? Do I remember? Can I be he? Neftari Ra screams with laughter.
Ah, he remembers. Holy Mother Isis, he remembers. Yes, I am the reincarnation of that princess, and you, you, the living, breathing image of my former lover. Long, long have I waited for revenge, and at last it has come. This dagger, which once you plunged in my fair bosom, shall now find rest and lodgment in your heart. You gave yourself to me. Body and soul, you said, yes, body and soul, and your heart's blood, you gave to me. Well, not I take it, Isis. O Cyrus, to you I give him, to you I offer him a living sacrifice. She stabs him. Dupont falls to the floor. She stands, gazing at him for a moment, then turns and mounts the stairs to the upper room. Scene 7 Upper mummy room, stage almost dark.
A faint light, blue, gives, as she ascends, a soft glow. She places herself on the couch, and is gradually retransformed to the marble image. The rest of the stage is in more or less darkness. It becomes gradually lighter, and Dupont and Morton are discovered on the floor, in the center of their magic circle, faces to the ground, as they were in the first scene before the mummy came to life. As it gets brighter, Morton lifts his head. He shakes Dupont by the arm. DuPont sits up, putting his hand to his head and passing his fingers through his hair, etc. He looks wild, his eyes staring. He gasps and clutches his throat. Oh, God! She stabbed me! She stabbed me! Be quiet, old man, quiet. If you will go in for magical seances, you must expect disturbing visions.
All of them are not pleasant. Come. Tell me what it was you saw. Under the spell of the ceremony, what did you dream?
Come, tell me. A vision. A dream. Yes, I'll tell you. They seat themselves. As Dupont is about to begin his story, the curtain slowly descends.
By Herowood Carrington
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10 10 - Something to Vote For 41:52
Something to vote for. A one-act play by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. People in the Play. Mrs. May Carroll. Read by Libby Gahn. Dr. Strong. Read by Elizabeth Klatt.
Read by Amanda Friday. Read by Michelle Eaton. Read by Anastasia Saloha. Read by Ariel Lipshaw.
Read by Elizabeth Klatt. Club Women. Read by Anastasia Saloha. Read by Michelle Eaton. Read by Christine Gee. Read by Bruce Peary. Mr. James Billings. Read by Todd. Narrated by Elizabeth Klatt. Place. A parlor, porch, or garden belonging to Mrs. Carroll. Chairs arranged at right. Platform with table and three chairs at left front. Doors at left, right, and center. Enter Miss Turner and Mrs. Reedway. Dear me! I was so afraid we'd be late. Looking at watch. Oh, no! The meeting begins at three, you know, and it's only quarter past. Drawing scarf about her. I wish it would get warmer. I do like warmer weather. So do I. What a lovely place Mrs. Carroll has. I think we are extremely fortunate to have her for our president.
So do I. She's so sweet. I hear she has asked Mr. Billings to this milk discussion. Yes. You're not surprised, are you? Oh, no. Everyone is talking about them. He's been conspicuously devoted to her for some time now. I think it's her money he's after. So do I. But she's crazy about him. I suppose she thinks he's disinterested, being so rich himself. But I've heard that he'd lose a lot if this milk bill goes through. So have I. Enter Dr. Strong. Left. Sorry to be late. I was detained by a patient. Oh, you're not late, Dr. Strong. The ladies are usually a little slow in gathering. I see. And about what time do your meetings really begin? About half past three, usually. Next time I'll come then.
I could have seen two more patients. I hate to see women so unpunctual. So do I. This is Mrs. Readway, our corresponding secretary, Dr. Strong. They shake hands. You must remember, Dr. Strong, that our members are not as a whole professional women. More's the pity. Enter Mrs. Wolverhampton. Well, well, not started yet. But you're always on hand, Miss Turner. Fence herself. Bless me, how hot it is. I do hate hot weather. So do I. Have you met our new member, Mrs. Wolverhampton? Dr. Strong of Colorado. Mrs. Wolverhampton bows. Dr. Strong comes forward and shakes hands. Dear me, from Colorado, and I suppose you have voted? I certainly have. You seem to think I look like it. Why, yes, if you pardon me, you do.
Pardon you? It seems to me a compliment. We're very proud of being voters. In my country. Mrs. Reedway and Mrs. Wolverhampton draw aside and converse in low tones. Miss Turner fussily arranges papers. She has a large, flat bag, and is continually diving into it and fumbling about. Enter Mrs. Carroll. "'Pardon me, ladies, I had no idea it was so late,' greets them all. "'Dear Mrs. Carroll, would you accept these flowers? How charming of you, Miss Turner. They are lovely,' sweeps toward Dr. Strong. Both hands out. My dear Doctor, I feel so glad and proud to have you with us. You know, Mrs. Wolverhampton, Dr. Strong saved my mother's life. If she had come sooner, I'm sure she would have saved my baby.
And she's going to be such a help to our club, aren't you, Doctor? I'm not so sure of that, Mrs. Carroll. I'm afraid this isn't the sort of club I'm used to. It's the sort of club that needs you, Doctor. Takes Doctor's arm and sits down with her. Make yourselves quite at home, ladies. The others will be here presently. Miss Turner, Mrs. Readway, and Mrs. Wolverhampton go out. We've got everything arranged, Doctor. I'm going to have a bottle of the Billings & Co. milk tested, and Mr. Billings himself is to be here. That may be awkward. Oh, no, the milk is all right. I've taken it for years, and I think he's a very fine man. So I hear. You mustn't believe all you hear, Doctor. I don't. But I hope it isn't true.
Hope what isn't true? About you and Mr. Billings. Never mind about me and Mr. Billings. The question is, have you got the new inspector to come? Yes, he'll be ready on time. But the club won't, I'm afraid. A few moments won't matter, I'm sure. It's a Mr. Arnold, you said. Do you know his initials? His name's Henry T. Arnold. I believe he's honest and efficient. I used to go to school with a boy named Harry Arnold. He was the very nicest boy in the room. I think he liked me pretty well. And I think you liked him pretty well, eh? Well, that was years ago. By the way, Mrs. Carroll, have you any red ink? Red ink? Yes, red ink. Can you get me some? Why, I'm sure I don't know. Let me see. I did have some.
It's right here, if there is any. Goes out right and returns with red ink. Thank you. Takes out a yellow-backed bill and deliberately marks it. How exciting! What do you do that for, Doctor? Just a habit of mine. Some day I may see that again, and then I'd know it. Do you mark all your money? Oh, no. Only some of it. And now, will you do me a real favour? Indeed, I will. Please, do not make any remark about this bill if you see me change it. How mysterious. I won't say a word. Putting away, Bill. You said I might bring along one of my patients for evidence, and I have. I've got little Mrs. O'Shane here to tell them how it affects the poor people. That will be interesting, I'm sure. Where is she?
Waiting outside. I couldn't induce her to come in. I'll bring her in. Exit Mrs. Carroll. Returns with a small shabby woman in black, who shrinks into the chair farthest back and sits silent. It's very good of you to come, Mrs. O'Shane. We're so much obliged. Enter Louise. Mr. Arnold, ma'am. Show him in, Louise. Exit Louise. Enter Mr. Arnold. Mrs. Carroll? Mr. Arnold? It is Harry Arnold, I do believe. But you don't remember me. Don't remember little May Terry, the prettiest girl in school? I've never forgotten her. But I did not expect to find you here. I'm glad to welcome you to my home, Mr. Arnold, as well as to our club. How are you getting on? Nothing to boast of, Mrs. Carroll, if you mean in dollars and cents.
I like public work, you see, and the salaries are not high. But some of our officials get very rich, don't they? Yes, some of them do, but not on their salaries. If you knew more about politics, Mrs. Carroll, you would think better of Mr. Arnold for not making much. And he an inspector, too. You don't mean that our public men are bribed, surely? It's been known to occur. I can't believe that such things go on here. Did anyone ever bribe you, Mr. Arnold? Some have tried. Not in this town, surely? Not yet. He's only just appointed, Mrs. Carroll. Thanks to you, Dr. Strong. Yes, I guess I did help. Enter Louise. Mr. Billings. Ask him to come in. Exit Louise. Enter Mr. Billings. Good afternoon, Mr.
Billings. Let me present you to my dear friend, Dr. Strong, our new member. And Mr. Arnold, you probably know, the milk inspector. Mr. Billings approaches Dr. Strong, who bows stiffly. He shakes hands amiably with Mr. Arnold. Well, Mr. Arnold, I think we're going to make an impression on these ladies. I trust you'll deal gently with me. I'll do the best I can, Mr. Billings. I didn't expect to have the head of the Milk Trust in my audience. That is all my fault, Mr. Arnold. I have taken the milk of Mr. Billings' company for years, and it's always good, and I want the ladies to know it. Mr. Billings can stand the test. I'm glad to hear it, Mrs. Carroll. You'll show up all of us, rascally milkman, I don't doubt.
I hope not. Mr. Billings goes to Mrs. Carroll. They talk apart. Dr. Strong confers with Mr. Arnold. Now, Mr. Arnold, watch me and be sure you play up. Say you can't make change for this bill. Goes to Mr. Billings. Mr. Billings, can you and will you change this bill for me? Mr. Arnold here can't make it. I'm sorry, Doctor, but I haven't seen a hundred-dollar bill in some time. Perhaps I can— No, indeed, Mrs. Carroll. I shall be delighted, Dr. Strong, if I have that much about me. Brings out bills from pockets and makes up the amount. Thank you, Mr. Billings. Gives him her marked bill. The club members are seen arriving in background, returning to Mr. Arnold. What figures have you brought, Mr. Arnold?
I don't want to cross your trail. They confer a part. Mr. Billings, to Mrs. Carroll. Isn't it rather a new thing for you to interest yourself in public matters, Mrs. Carroll? Oh, but milk is really a domestic matter, don't you think so? So many of our ladies are getting interested in it. I suspect that is because you are. I do not think you realize your influence in this town. I'm sure you overestimate it. Not in the least. Look at the way you swing this club. And these are the society lights all the other women follow. And the men are yours to command anyhow. I tell you such an influence as yours has woman suffrage beaten to a standstill. Woman suffrage. Enter Mrs. Wolverhampton. Pardon me, Mrs.
Carroll, but it is half past three. Dear me, yes. We must come to order. Ladies all come in and take seats. Some polite confusion. Mrs. Carroll in the chair, Mrs. O'Shane and Mr. Billings at extreme right, behind others but near front of stage. Mrs. Carroll, rising. "'Ladies and gentlemen, I, uh, as you all know, I can't make a speech. And I'm not in the least fit to be president of a club. But you would have it, you know.' Murmur of approval. Faint applause. I am very glad to welcome you to my home, and I'm sure I hope that we shall all enjoy meeting here. More faint applause. I don't suppose it's very business-like, but the first thing I want to do is to introduce our new member, Dr. Strong of Colorado.
Mrs. Carroll sits. Dr. Strong rises and bows. Oh, do come forward to the platform, Doctor, where we can all see you. Madam President, ladies and gentlemen. I did not expect to be sprung on you until after the reading of the minutes, at least. But I am very glad to meet you, and to feel that you have honoured me with membership in what I understand is the most influential women's club in this community. I have heard that this is a very conservative club. But I find that you are interesting yourselves in one of the most vital movements of our time—a question of practical politics. Pure milk. It is a great question. A most important question. One that appeals to the mother-heart and housekeeping sense of every woman.
It is a matter of saving money and saving life—the lives of little children. I do not know of any single issue now before us which is so sure to make every woman want to vote. The ballot is our best protection." Cries of, No! No! Much confusion and talking among members. One hiss. Mrs. Wolverhampton rises ponderously. Mrs. Wolverhampton, Madam President, I rise to a point of order. I move you that our new member be informed that all discussion of woman suffrage is forbidden by the by-laws of this club. There is no subject so calculated to disrupt an organization. Madam President, Mrs. Black, I wish to second the motion. We decided long ago to allow no discussion of woman suffrage. I consider it to be one of the most dangerous movements of our time.
Madam President! Mrs. White, won't you come forward, Mrs. White? Oh, no! Excuse me, no! I'll speak from here. I merely wish to agree with the previous speaker. Woman suffrage breaks up the home. Madam President! Mrs. Gray, I think, spoke first. In a moment, Mrs. Green. Mrs. Gray? I just want to say that I, for one, should feel obliged to resign if woman suffrage is to be even mentioned in the club. Madam President! Madam President! Madam President! Madam President! Madam President! Ladies, one at a time, please. Several ladies are on their feet. All speak together. A woman's place is in the home, Madam President. If she takes good care of the home and brings up her children right— Women are not fitted for politics.
They haven't the mind for it. And my husband says politics is not fit for women, either. This club decided long ago that it was against women's suffrage. Who take care of the baby? Our power is through our feminine influence. Yes, a woman's influence. Mrs. Carroll, rapping feebly on the table. Ladies, ladies, we will adjourn for some refreshments. Won't you all please come and have some tea? I'll go out, still talking. Mrs. Carroll and Mr. Billings last. Dr. Strong and Mr. Arnold remain. Well, Dr. Strong, you did put your foot in it. Yes, that was unfortunate, wasn't it? I'd no idea they'd fly up like that. Never mind. I'll only talk milk to them. Pure milk. I'm sorry to have annoyed these women.
This is an awfully important occasion. Even if they can't vote, they could do something. Don't you fret, Doctor. We'll get them interested. You don't know how important this is. The death rate among the babies here is something shameful. It's mostly owing to bad milk, and the bad milk is mostly owing to this man Billings. If this bill passes, he's got the whole thing in his hands, and he's crooked. I'd about come to that conclusion myself. He's got her confidence, you see, and she swings this town socially. What's more, he means to marry her, that he's not a fit man to marry any decent woman. We've got to put a spoke in his wheel, Mr. Arnold. I'm willing. You'll never get a better opportunity than right now.
He'll try to fix you before you speak. I'll promise you that. And do you stick out for that hundred-dollar bill, and take it? I guess not. What do you think I am? I think you're man enough to see this game through. It's a marked bill, I tell you. You take that hundred and look at it. If there's a speck of red in the middle on the top on both sides, you take it and bring it out in evidence after you've shown up the milk. But the milk he sends here will be all right. Of course. But I've brought another bottle in my bag, and I'm going to substitute it. It's his milk, all right, the common grocery store kind. You'll be safe with the iodine test. Shh! You take that bill.
We are really much indebted to you for coming, Mrs. O'Shane. I hope you are quite comfortable. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you, coindly. Now, Dr. Strong, you mustn't be angry because our ladies are not suffragettes. Not a bit. I'm only sorry I mentioned it. I'm here to talk milk, not suffrage. That's so nice of you. Now, do go out and get some tea, Doctor. Exit Dr. Strong. I suppose you are going to be very impressive, Mr. Arnold. You were as a boy, you know. Was I? I don't remember that. Yes, indeed. You used to brush your hair, when you did brush it. In a way, I thought extremely fine. And yours was always brushed. Beautiful, long, soft curls. I used to wish I dared touch them. My hair's grown so much darker since then, and I'm getting grey.
Mr. Arnold, drawing nearer. Gray? It's a libel, not a single one. There were two or three, but to speak confidentially I pulled them out. It wasn't necessary. You will be still more beautiful with gray hair. You didn't make compliments at thirteen. No, I didn't dare. And how do you dare now? The courage of desperation, I suppose. Here you are, still young, more beautiful than ever, the richest woman in the town, the social leader, able to lift and stir all these women, and here am I, a lot older than you are, and nothing but a milk inspector. You haven't had much personal ambition, have you? No, I haven't, but I might if I were encouraged. Mr. Arnold, I am so glad to find you are my old friend, and to think you do, perhaps, value my opinion.
You're right as to that. That's what discouraged me when you married Carol, and when I heard that you had become a mere society woman. You've got a good mind, always had, but you don't use it. You do think I have a mind, then? Indeed I do, a first-class one. Then let me persuade you to speak for this milk bill, Mr. Arnold. I do hope in your speech you'll mention the excellent influence—on the milk, you know—of Mr. Billings' company. Why, I shall have to tell what I know, Mrs. Carroll. You want the facts. Of course we want the facts. But having Mr. Billings' milk to be tested, and Mr. Billings here, and he being a good friend of mine, I am particularly anxious to have his reputation thoroughly established.
I see. And if I said anything against Mr. Billings, we should meet as strangers? Not at all, Mr. Arnold. It's the milk we're talking about, not Mr. Billings. I beg pardon. I understand. Re-enter Mr. Billings. Exit Mr. Arnold. Mr. Billings coming to Mrs. Carroll. I began to think I shouldn't have a chance to see you at all. Why, I'm quite conspicuous, I'm sure, in the chair. Ah, but I like best to see you alone. No one sees me when I'm alone. You can joke about it, Mrs. Carroll. It is a very serious matter to me. You must know how much I care for you, how long I have been devoted to you. You know I'm an ambitious man, Mrs. Carroll. I must be to dare hope for you. There are things I can't speak of yet.
Big chances in politics. If I had you with me, with your beauty and fascinating ways, by heavens, there's no place I wouldn't try for. Walks up and down excitedly. I never wanted anything so much in my life as I want you. When will you give me an answer? Certainly not now, Mr. Billings. When the meeting is over? Perhaps, when the meeting is over. Enter Miss Turner with bag and papers. Mrs. Carroll rises and goes to her. Mr. Billings turns away. Well, Miss Turner, are you going to set us to work again? I hope I don't interrupt. Interrupt? Why, this is a club meeting, Miss Turner. Are we ready now? Perhaps. If you'd have the maid bring in the sample. Oh, yes. Rings. Enter maid. Bring in the bottle of milk, Louise.
Exit maid. Re-enter Dr. Strong and Mr. Arnold. I'm to be the scapegoat for the sins of the whole community, I see. You are going to clear the good name of our milk supply, Mr. Billings. Re-enter maid with bottle of milk. Sets it on table. Here it is. The best milk in town. They all approach table. Mr. Billings takes it up. That's mine, all right. Name blown in the bottle, sealed with paraffin, airtight from cow to customer, Mr. Arnold. Mr. Arnold examining bottle. Looks like good milk, Mr. Billings. It is good milk, Mr. Arnold. There's none better in the market. We're not afraid of your examination. Do you send out a uniform quality? Well, hardly that, of course. We have some with less butterfat.
Comes a cent or two lower, but it's all pure milk. Dr. Strong, to Arnold, aside. Get him to look at your papers. Call him off. Have you seen our official cards, Mrs. Carroll? Takes out papers. They turn to him. The doctor whips out bottle of milk from her bag and changes it for the one on the table. Billings hears her and turns around, comes over to table and takes bottle up. Starts. Others turn also. What's the matter? Matter? Why, nothing. Name blown in the bottle all right? Paraffin seal all right? All come to look. Yes, yes, it's all right. Moves off, evidently perturbed. What is it? Anything wrong with the milk? No, no, certainly not. Well, Miss Turner. I think we must collect our audience.
They all go out. Can I be of assistance? Follows, with a meaning glance at Mr. Arnold, who is by the table. Mr. Billings, with sudden determination, walks swiftly to the table to take milk bottle. Mr. Arnold seizes it. Excuse me, Mr. Arnold, but there's a mistake here. This is not the milk I sent Mrs. Carroll. By some error, it's a bottle of our second quality. I'd hate to have her find it out. I've got my car here, and I'm just going to run off and change this. It won't take but a minute. Mr. Arnold, holding the bottle. I don't think you'd better, Mr. Billings. It would look badly. There's really no time. I guess you're right. See here, this is a very important matter to me, more important than you know.
This bottle is not my best milk, but I'll be much obliged to you if it tested well. I hope it will. Look here, Arnold! Confound it! They'll all be back in a minute! Here, quick! Passes him a bill. Mr. Arnold takes it, looks at it both sides. I'm not in the habit of taking bribes, Mr. Billings. Shh! I can see that! You are so stiff about it! For goodness' sakes, man, see me through this foolish hen party, and I'll make it worth your while! Come, put that in your pocket for this one occasion. You understand? Well, just for this one occasion— Puts Bill in pocket. Ladies all re-enter and take seats. Meeting called to order. Mrs. Carroll in chair as before. Mrs. Carroll wrapping on table. Will the meeting please come to order?
I think, since it is already so late, and since we have such an important question to discuss, it will be as well to postpone the regular order of business until our next meeting. I'm sure you will be glad to have our discussion opened with a few words from Mr. Billings. Mr. Billings is the head of the milk business here, and knows more about it than any man in town. It is his milk which we are to have tested this afternoon, and he is proud to have it so, aren't you, Mr. Billings?" smiles at him. Yes, yes. Now do talk to us a little, Mr. Billings. Won't you please come forward? Mr. Billings, rising in his place. Madame President and ladies, also Mr. Inspector, I feel it to be an honor to be here today to meet so many of the leading ladies of our community, to see so many fair faces, hear so many sweet voices, take the hand of so many I am proud to number among my friends.
I wish to congratulate this club on its new president, a lady whose presence carries a benefaction wherever she goes. Applause. In these days, when so many misguided and unwomanly women are meeting together for all manner of unnecessary and sometimes utterly mistaken purposes, it is a genuine pleasure to find here so many true women of that innate refinement which always avoids notoriety. Takes out large white handkerchief and wipes face. The subject upon which I have been asked to address you is one which appeals to the heart of every woman. Milk for babes. The favorite food of our children, the mainstay of the invalid, the foundation of all delicate cookery. It has been my pleasure, ladies, and my pride, to have helped in serving this community with pure and healthful milk for many years past.
Our new organization, of which there is now so much discussion in the public press, is by no means the evil some would have you believe. I speak as one who knows. This is not the place for dry financial statistics, but I assure you that through this combination of milk dealers, which has been recently affected, you will have cheaper milk than has ever been given here before, and a far more regular and reliable service. "'For the quality, we must trust the opinion of these experts.' Waves his hand to Dr. Strong and Mr. Arnold. "'But for the wish to serve your best interests, and for a capacity in service developed through years of experience, you may always count upon yours truly.' Bows and sits.
Stir and murmurs of approval. Applause. "'Isn't he interesting?' "'Just what I think.' I am sure we are all very grateful to Mr. Billings for giving us so much of his valuable time. It is so interesting in this study of large general questions to get information from the Fountainhead, and now we shall learn the medical side of it from a most competent authority. Ladies, I take pleasure in introducing my dear friend, Dr. Strong, who will speak to us on—what do you call it, doctor? Dr. Strong, Coming Forward Let us call it the danger of impure milk.
We all love babies. We love our own babies best of all, naturally. We all want to feed our babies well, and some of us can't do it ourselves. Next to the mother, the most important food supplier for our children is the cow. Milk is the most valuable article of food for little children. I suppose you all know that bottle-fed babies die faster than breastfed, by far. They die mostly in summer, and from enteric and diarrheal diseases. 17,437 babies under a year old died in New York in 1907. 1,315 died in Boston between June 1 and November 30 of that same year, in six months. In Fall River at that time more than three hundred out of one thousand died, nearly one-third. In New York in five years over 23,000 children of all ages died of measles, scarlet fever, and diphtheria combined, and in the same time over 26,000 babies under two years died of diarrheal diseases.
Out of 1,943 cases of these infantile diseases in New York, only 3 per cent were breastfed. Now, ladies, this class of diseases comes from bacteria, and the bacteria come in the vast majority of cases from the milk. You see, the bottle-fed baby does not get its supply directly from the source, as when fed by its mother. Between the cow and the baby stands the milkman. The milkman is not a mother. I really believe that if mothers ran the milk business, they would not be willing to poison other women's babies, even to make money for their own. The producer and distributor of milk has small thought for the consumer's interests. To protect the consumer, the law now provides the milk inspector. But the milk inspector has on one side a few alert business men, often ready to pay well to protect their interests, and on the other the great mass of apathetic citizens, who do not take the trouble to protect their own.
The discussion to-day is the hope of rousing this club to see the vital importance of pure milk for our children, and to urge its members to use their influence to secure it. By the kind permission of your president, I have brought with me a resident of a less fortunate part of the town, that she may give you a personal experience. Mrs. O'Shane, will you please come to the platform? The little woman in black rises, hesitates, sits down again.
She comes down and escorts Mrs. O'Shane to platform, Mrs. O'Shane much agitated. Brace up, Mrs. O'Shane. It's for little Patsy's sake, you know. He's gone, but there are many more. Indeed there are, thank heaven. It's not too late for the others. The street's full of them. If you please, ladies. Did any of you ever lose a child? Mrs. Carroll coming to her and taking her hand. I have, Mrs. O'Shane. Sits again. There's many I don't doubt. But you have the consolation of knowing that your children had all done that could be done for them. And ours dies on us every summer. Such a many of them dies, and we can't help it. They used to tell us twas the hand o' God, and then they said twas the hot weather.
And now they're preaching it to us everywhere that tis the milk, does it? The hot weather is bad, because of them things that's in the milk shwarms thicker and faster, them little bugs that kills our babies. If you could have seen me little Patsy, he was the handsomest child and the strongest. Walkin' he was, and him hardly a year old, and he was all I had, and me a widow. And of course I took the best milk I could get, but all the milk in our parts comes from the trust, and sixteen cents a quart for them fancy brands I could not pay. And just think of it. Even if I could, there's not enough of that sort to go around. There's so many of us. We have no choice, and we have no money to pay for the extras, and we must give our babies the milk that is sold to us, and they die.
I know I should care most for the hundreds and thousands of them, and for Mrs. Casey's twins that died in a week last summer, and three of Mrs. Flaherty's, and even them little blackies on Bay Street. But I care the most for my little Patsy. "'Have him but the one. Ladies, if you could have seen him. The hair on his head was that soft, and all in little rings of curls, and his cheeks like roses before he took a sec, and his little feet was that pretty, and he'd kick out so strong and bold with them, and he could stand up, and he was beginning to hold on to the chairs like, and he'd catch me by the skirts and look up at me with such a smile, and pull on me he would and say, Ma! Ma! And what had I to give him but the milk?' And the milk killed him.
I beg your pardon, ladies, but it breaks me heart. She cries. Mrs. Carroll comforts her, crying too, many handkerchiefs out. Mrs. Carroll rises up, repressing emotion. Ladies, we will now hear from our new inspector, Mr. Arnold. Mr. Arnold comes forward and bows. I fear cold facts will make but little impression after this moving appeal. Mrs. O'Shane has given you the main points in the case. Most people are poor, most milk is poor, and the poorest milk goes to the poorest people. The community must protect itself. The inspector has no power except to point out defects in the supply. Action must be taken to enforce the law, and unless the public does its duty, there is often no action taken.
Dr. Strong has given you some figures as to the mortality among babies. There is also a heavy death rate for adults from contaminated milk, as in the case of the typhoid fever outbreak in Stamford, Connecticut, in 1895, when 160 cases were reported in nine days, 147 of which had all used milk from one dairyman. In about six weeks, 386 cases were reported. Of these, 352 took milk from that one dealer, and four more got it from him indirectly. His dairy was closed, and in two weeks the outbreak had practically subsided. Typhoid fever, scarlet fever, and diphtheria, as well as many less common diseases, are spread by infected milk. The Inspection Service watches both the producer and distributor, Examining the dairy farm as to the health of the cattle, the nature of their surroundings, the care given them, the methods of milking, bottling, and so on, and looking to the milkman in each step of handling, carriage, and delivery.
In judging milk there are three main questions to be considered. Its comparative quality as good milk, the percentage of butter fats, etc., its cleanliness, Dirty milk is always likely to carry disease, and its freedom from adulteration, from the primitive pump water and starch, down to the subtler and more dangerous commercial methods of today. I have been asked to show you a simple test or two, such as might be used at home. These do not require chemical or bacteriological analysis, a microscope or a lactometer. Merely, a fine cloth produces it. and a little iodine. Produces that. The ladies lean forward eagerly. Mr. Billings looks indifferent. Please understand, ladies, that neither of these tests proves anything absolutely harmful.
I feel extremely awkward in testing a bottle of the Billings Company milk in the presence of Mr. Billings. Please remember that the Billings Company has many supply dairies. If this one bottle should not prove first class, it is no direct reproach to your guest. Ladies, I do not ask any excuses. The Billings Company is reliable. We have every confidence in this milk, Mr. Billings. That is why I asked for the test. May I ask for another vessel, a pitcher or a milk bottle? Mrs. Carol rings. Enter Louise. Bring another pitcher, Louise, and an empty milk bottle. Clean. Exit Louise and returns with them, while Mr. Arnold continues. Only two things are to be decided by this little test, whether the milk is clean and whether it has starch in it.
If it is clean milk, according to our standard, there will be but a slight smear on the cloth when it is strained. He puts cloth over top of pitcher, pushing it down inside, and fastens it with string or rubber band, then solemnly pours in most of the milk. Buzz among ladies. While this is straining, I will apply the iodine test to what remains in the bottle. If there is starch in it, it will turn blue. Pours water from a glass into the bottle, adds a few drops of iodine, shakes it, holds it up before them. It is blue. Oh, look at that! Look at that! Just think of it! Mr. Billings, much confused, but unable to escape. I'm afraid one of the supplying dairymen thins his milk and whitens it. Starch is not dangerous.
Dirt is. We will now examine our strainer. Holds up cloth. A heavy, dark deposit is shown. There is a tense silence. Mrs. O'Shane suddenly rising up. That's what killed my Patsy! points at Mr. Billings. And it was him that did it! Commotion. Mr. Billings rising. Ladies! I demand to be heard! You have all known me for years. Most of you take my milk. You know it is good. There is some mistake. That is not the milk that should have been delivered here. Evidently not. No, tis not the milk for the rich. Tis the milk for the poor. Ladies, I protest. My standing in this community, my years of service, ought to give me your confidence long enough to look into this matter. I must find out from which of my suppliers this inferior milk has come.
We will have a thorough overhaul, I assure you. I had no idea any such milk was being handled by us. Then why did you give me this bill? Shows marked Bill. This was handed to me a few moments ago by Mr. Billings, to insure my giving him a favorable test. It is the first time I ever held a bribe, even for evidence. Ladies, I wish to clear Mr. Arnold of even a moment's suspicion. I knew the milk-trust would not bear inspection, so I urged Mr. Arnold to take the money, if it was offered, and bring it out in evidence. There it is. Mr. I suspected as much. This is admitted to be a conspiracy between our new doctor and our new inspector, but I trust, ladies, that more than the word of two strangers will be required to condemn an old friend and fellow-citizen.
I gave you that bill, Mr. Billings. It's the one you changed for me just now. That much of a conspiracy I admit. So you and your accomplice had it all framed up to knife me. And is your word and his a man whose very admission proves him a venal scoundrel to stand against mine? Do you think I had but one hundred-dollar bill about me? I doubt if you had more than one with a red mark in the middle of the top on both sides. Mrs. Carroll suddenly takes up bill and examines it, rises. It was a painful surprise to find the quality of milk which has been served to me. But it is more painful to see that it was evidently known to be bad. Ladies, I saw Dr. Strong mark that bill. I saw her give it to him in change for smaller ones.
Sure, and I saw him pass it to the man. Ladies, if you will kindly move a little, I think Mr. Billings would be glad to pass out. They make way for him, and he goes out, turns at door, and shakes fist at Mr. Arnold. You'll lose your job, young man. I have some power in this town. And so have I, Mr. Billings. I'll see that Mr. Arnold keeps his place. We need him. You said this club could carry the town, that we women could do whatever we wanted to here, with our influence. Now we will see what our influence amounts to. Rich or poor, we are all helpless together unless we wake up to the danger and protect ourselves. That is what the ballot is for, ladies, to protect our homes. To protect our children, to protect the children of the poor.
I am willing to vote now. I am glad to vote now. I've got something to vote for. Friends, sisters, all who are in favor of woman suffrage and pure milk, say aye. Club women all rise and wave their handkerchiefs, with cries of, aye, aye. Curtain.