FRONTISPIECE
DRAMATIS PERSONAE ( One-Act Play)
(Short Story)
"Why,
what the devil, Horace!" [PAGE 20]
THE MESSENGER
COPYRIGHT 1029 BY J. HARRIS WELSH
Vol. LI-¥--))
RICHMOND COLLEGENUMBER, 1929 No.6
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
BRUCEMORRISSETTE
"And finally, my dear, came Shakesp eare to round out the business with the highly novel observation that the world, in any event, is only a stage: and all of us merely the Dramatis Personae ... "
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
HORACEWALPOLE,wit, dilettante in letters, and general gossip. My lord BuTE, his Grace of Kingston, a man of parts, and very wealthy. 1
My lord CHESTERFIELD,gallant, statesman, and wit; but briefly.
PHILLIP BASSENGE,a Lond on jeweler, with an exhibit now at court.
ELIZABETHCHUDLEIGH,maid of h onor to Augusta, Princess of Wa les .
ADELE, Duchess of Nicole-Leguay, a young widow; and lives in France.
ANNE PATEL, a well-disposed but simple girl, and maid to our Duchess.
The Scene is at London, April 26, 1749
ScENE: We begin a fair whil e ago, in England, and when our Mr. Walpole was pesterin g Sir Horace Mann in Vienna with letters posted at inhumanly frequent intervals. Precisely, we begin on the nig ht of April 26, 1749, but six clays after His Majesty's great masquerade at Ranelagh held in honor of Miss Elizabeth Chudleigh, fir st maid to Augusta, Princess of Wales. Miss Chudleigh, quite a favorite at court, seems to have been very honest in her opinion that since God had made her beautiful-her person was accounted the fin est in all England-it must be for men's enjoyment , for she chose the occasion to appear before London's mo st brilliant assembly in
such a costume as partially to convulse the affair. Indeed, the famous Mrs. Montagu, "she whom Dr. Johnson was wont to call Queen of the Bluestockings," beheld her and fainted outright. As she put it in a letter to her sister: "Miss Chudleigh's dress, or rather undress, was remarkable; she was Iphigenia for the sacrifice . . . " And utterly to finish the thing to a nicety, none other than His Majesty George II, quite bewitched by the young lady's charms, and already comfortably amourous with cordial, embellished the flushing Miss Chudleigh's face with a royal kiss-a kiss, however, nothing lacking in succulence . You can find the whole Jubilee masquerade chronicled by that sedulous fop and gossip ·walpole in some one or another of his innumerous letters-oh, there was quite a to-do about it all, even in those faraway unhampered days of England's youth, when morals were, more or less, a matter of personal preference. . . .
In fine, we begin a while ago in England, in the apartment which Miss Elizabeth Chudleigh shares with her mother-recently appointed housekeeper at ·windsor-and it is April. As we shall presently see, the widow Duchess of Nicole-Leguay, the charming Adele, is just now staying with Elizabeth pending her return to France within the week.
The hue and gossip, friendly and malign, which arose after the now famous ball has duly quieted, so that the four persons at whist before us exhibit no feverish loquacity, nor seems to contain any very startling information. Their surroundings are historically correct: the furniture-gilt chairs, tables, fauteuils, screens-woodwork, grillings, and tapestries are all accurately in period, disclosing nowhere any awkward anachronism. There is the necessary number of doors: a small one at right and large partially-open double ones, of dark walnut inlaid, at left. The whist table is approximately at right center, while the fauteuils, screens, gilt chairs, and tapestries are distributed appropriately at discretion. A fine portrait, perhaps, gives the requisite depth by hanging cordially upon the back wall, while objets d'art sprinkled carefully about suggest the needed antiquity. Costumes, too, are naturally in period: the hoopskirt and knee breeches in silk should, however inadequately, recall fine stuffs long ago heaped dustily with their wearers in time's spoilage .
Four persons, again, are at whist-Mr. Horace Walpole, our Duchess, my lord Bute (his Grace of Kingston), and Miss Elizabeth Chuclleigh. At hand, upon a smaller table, are the divers liqueurs, Tokay, Burgundy, Chartreuse, clarets and vins appropriate to the
well -appointed drawing-room, and each player has contiguous to him a thin-stemmed wine-glass filled with one or another beverage. Each, too , sips delicately from his glass at suitable moments, and, if necessary, refills. The whole tone is that of rich English woodenness, of walnut and dark veneered mahogany. Wall -candles and a single lamp furnish a soft English illumination, and the quiet pleasant voic~s of our four persons have a dimly nostalgic charm.
(At rise, Miss Chudleigh is at far right, Horace Walpole at far left, the Duchess upstage, and his Grace of Kingston, Lord Bute, downstage of the small whist table at right center. They complete a play.)
CHUDLEIGH: La, Mr. Walpole, d'ye know, you're perfectly terrible at whist. Really, in the future I shall have to be most careful that I get my lord Bute here for partner_:__don't you think, Adele?
Du CHESS: And leave me with Mr. ·walpole, my dear? Why, but I suspect we'd win occasionally at that. Indeed, now, Elizabeth, as I recall it Mr. Walpole played his hands-and I grant you, they were quite wretched-very capably. But cards, my dear, cards are frightfully frivolous-aren't they, my lord?
BuTE: I concede, Madame, less to their frivolity than to their capnc10usness. They are quite a feminine lot, really meritorious, but correctly despising constancy. Hence I applaud him who can win continually at them equally as one skillful at amour. ...
WALPOLE: Actually, now, his Grace's metaphor has possibilities. Proceeding by inference, let us see-faint bidder never won fair lead, the too audacious player loses all,-oh, the implications are innumerable. Fortunately, too, you are not nearly so hampered by, say, personal appearances, or conventions, or legalities-why, his Grace here might otherwise find himself quickly clapped into gaol for licentiousness! For one notes, my lord, you are quite an excellent whist-player.
BuTE: Come now, ·Walpole, but it is my hobb y! Just as, you know, felicity of phrase chances to be yours. ( Walpole protests mildly.) Egad, man, bother! I have seen your let ters!
'vVALPOLE:Tush-nothing, nothing! (A sip-then, with some
small pride) : But did you, by any chance, see my letter to Lord Alver about the masquerade at Ranelagh?
BuTE: No; I haven't seen Alver of late, but I daresay it was notable-in fact, yes, I heard of it. Eh, faith, quite a deal.
CHUDLEIGH: Quite. (Rather haughtily.) Mr. Walpole, orte hears that your letter to Lord Alver was indeed explicit about certain things pertaining to me. For example, one hears that my dress moved you to a very fine paragraph, and that His Majesty George the Second's kiss, which was of course part of a ceremony, the masquerade being in my honor, did not escape careful description. Can you--
WALPOLE (gesturing) : My dear Miss Chudleigh--!
CHUDLEIGH (proceeding unmoved) : Can you, recollecting that only a week has passed since your itemized account of my "extraordinary conduct" was dispatched to a person well-calculated to inform all London of any potential scandal, exactly wonder that your whist game does not wholly meet with my approval?
WALPOLE: My dear Miss Chudleigh, it is quite unprecedented for the king of England to kiss, or otherwise embrace, particularly in such an efficient manner, a maid of honor, even to the Princess of Wales. I grant His Majesty is highly suscep tibl e to April and wine and pretty women, but such affinities even in a king are condonable only when indulged in privately. And as to your dress (he seems alnwst amused), you know full well our Mrs. Montagu well-nigh fainted outright when she beheld you
CHUDLEIGH: I am properly shocked.
BUTE: Eh bien, Walpole, one can't well be upset simp ly because the primmest Bluestocking in all England objects to the brevity of a dress. Personally, I thought Miss Chudleigh completely charming.
DucHESS (laughing) : As did, it appears, His Majesty! Really (she becomes affectedly lugubrious), I am most unfortunate-I arrive in London immediately after quite the most entertaining of imaginable masquerades, and then stay with its principal (gesture) while the world talks about her and impresses on me what I have just missed! ( With charming affected despair) : And I'm sure, utterly, that the instant I leave something else will happen.
BUTE (quicldy): Leave? Not for a fortnight, at all events?
DUCHESS: Unfortunately, again, quite soon. \Vithin the weekyou conceive, I must be in Paris on the first of May, to arrange some
or another miserable things about my estate. Oh, it has been simply terrible since the Duke died ; I've had to see about more wretched papers and the like- pardieu, I miss mon mari if only for tending to those!
BuTE: Then you will leave Tuesday?
DuCI-rnss: Doubtless. (They regard each other.)
BUTE: Surely you will return when you have adjusted your affairs? By, say, the end of May?
CHUDLEIGH (generously) : Of course, you must, Adele. I can accommodate you admirably here with my mother and myself, and I cannot imagine this being a dull spring in London. You will?
DucHESS: My dear, you are very kind, and of course I want to return immensely, but I cannot neglect my summer estate-honestly, it would be all horribly run over and mussed unless I was there to see to it that those indolent gardeners fixed things up properly. You have no idea how much care summer-houses require. No ; I am afraid I shall not be able to visit London again this spring, but of course during the summer - -
BUTE ( inimediately) : You will?
DUCHESS: Oh, no; I mean you must all come to France! I cannot, naturally, offer you the diversions London can, but summer estates, sometimes-and particularly in Provence - can be very charming .... (She gestures . ) You will?
CHUDLEIGH: Deplorably, Adele, I for one can't-I have my duties, you know; Augusta must not be unattended, and new maids of honor are quickly found. . . . (She shrugs.)
DUCHESS: You, Mr. Walpole?
WALPOLE: Your invitation appeals to my inner bucolic yearn~ngs, but I fear I must sacrifice rusticity for more pressing urban pursuits. You perceive, I am involved in politics (shrugs), and that is synonymous with London. I am very sorry-I think summer estates entirely charming.
Ducr-rnss (smiling) : And my lord Bute, his Grace of Kingston? ...
BUTE (risen): Contrary, perhaps to one's expectations, I accept your invitation ( he stops the Duchess with a niotion), with a small proviso. It chances, Madame, that I, too, must be in Paris on the first of May. To be sure, I had intended returning to London im-
THE MESSENGER
mediately, but there is really nothing to prevent me from enjoying, as Walpole might submit, your proffered rusticity. So, if we may leave together on Tuesday. . . . Are you in accord, Madame?
DucHESS: Oh, entirely, my lord. (She is delighted.) I had begun to fear none of you would accept me-and I detest crossing Dover alone. , . . I shall have some friends up from Paris, naturally, and I do not doubt you will find amusement.
( Walpole regards Miss Chudleigh, who appears upset; Lord Bute and the Duchess regard each other rather enthusiastically.)
'vVALPOLE:But, my lord, His Majesty will not be pleased to find you missing at Tunbridge anon. You know there is to be--
BuTE (confidently) : Oh, I shall arrange easily. For I can contrive an excuse for a short while at all events. Why, indeed--
( Enter the Duchess' maid, Anne, at the French doors, who announces):
ANNE: Madame, Lord Chesterfield and Mr. Phillip Bassenge.
BUTE: Bassenge? Phillip Bassenge? (He looks around inquiringly, receiving only negative nods.)
(As Lord Chesterfield and Bassenge enter, all rise, falling into a sort of tableau. Elizabeth Chudleigh exhib i ts additional disconcertion: Bassenge should look at her in such a 11-ianneras to convey intimacy, but without surprise; he obviously knew she would be there.)
CHESTERFIELD:Ah, omnia rise in tableau! My lord Chesterfield advances (he is following his own stage dir ections , with mock seriousness), kisses the hand of the Duchess of N icole-Leguay, of Miss Elizabeth Chudleigh, dismisses such minor notables as my Lord Bute and Mr. Horace Walpole with a depreciatory nod, and presents Mr. Phillip Bassenge.
(Bassenge bows. They return it, gracefully . )
BASSENGE: I am very highly honored.
CHESTERFIELD:Bassenge here is a London jeweler, and has consented to bring part of his company ' s exhibit at Court with him tonight so that we may inspect some of the most remarkable and finest pieces now in the world. ( Bassenge nods.)
CHUDLEIGH: Lovely, my lord! And do you have these with you now? (This last amiably to Bassenge, who is enibarrassed.)
CHESTERFIELD:No; we have arranged them all on the table in the salon there (he gestures through the French doors), so that when
the company is ready, we shall proceed .... Egad, I am~shall I say mildly ?-thirsty. (He advances towards the liqueurs.)
CHUDLEIGH( the hostess) : Of course, my lord. ( She attends.) You prefer?
CHESTERFIELD: Oh, Chartreuse, my dear. D'ye know, Miss Chudleigh, I was sorely tempted to follow His Majesty's example at Ranelagh last week. I have never admired you so much, honestly. You were adorable, unprecedentedly so !
CHUDLEIGH: And Mr. Walpole, here, my lord, would add "unprecedentedly shocking." Eh bien, but we have discussed that-pray let us get into the salon. (She takes Chesterfield's arrn; the company pairs up, Lord Bute with the Duchess, and Walpole talking with Bassenge . They are passing out during the fallowing three speeches.)
CHESTERFIELD:Certainly, my dear-incidentally, I have invited Lord and Lady Harvey and several connoisseurs I thought would be interested. They should arrive at any moment, now. ( Chudleigh acknowledges s1nilingly.)
CHUDLEIGH (lightly to Chesterfield) : D'ye know, my lord, the world says I have had twins?
CHESTERFIELD:Does it indeed, Ma'am? But I make a point of believing only one-half of what it says. . . . ( They all exeunt.)
(A short curtain indicates the passing of about twenty minutes. At rise the stage is somewhat dimmer, and remains so until the proper directions. Mr. Walpole can be perceived upstage pouring wine. When he has drained his glass he replaces it and starts toward left-stage, where the partially open French doors admit a panel of light indicative of the gathermg outside; but the entrance, quietly, of Miss Chudleigh wi.th Phillip Bass enge naturally stops him, puzzled . They do not observe Walpole, going immediately downstage left. They speak cautiously, though they have closed the doors. Walpole stands motionless beside one of the screens, smiling.)
CHUDLEIGH: This is entirely dramatic, Phillip.
BASSENGE : Elizabeth, you are not happy at seeing me--!
CHUDLEIGH: No, Phillip. (She is even casual.)
BASSENGE: But last summer, at Merton! ( Walpole softly slips behind his convenient screen.) Surely you have not forgotten--
CHUDLEIGH : Phillip, it is not highly original for a woman to
remark that summers--clie at winter. (She turns to him impulsively.) Phillip, Phillip!-look at me! You did not suspect, last summer at Aunt Agatha's, that I was the Miss Elizabeth Chuclleigh, maid of honor to the Princess of Wales, did you, clear boy? (Lightly.) Why no; I was only Elizabeth, and you were Phillip, and you were in love with me-oh, very madly in love with me! Perhaps I, just a trifle, too-ah, but Phillip, you must put last summer quite aside now ( very practically, with an attractive sigh) : why la, boy, by how many years must I be your senior? At least ten!
BASSENGE( with boyish desperation) : Elizabeth, what have mere counting systems to do with love? . (He rants nicely.) I was frantic when you left Merton for London. You told me nothing before you went away, and I came every clay to the stone bench in that out-ofthe-way part of your aunt's gardens where we would meet, expecting to encounter you. Finally I thought you were ill--
CHUDLEIGH ( authentically sympathetic) : Really, you must believe me-I am very sorry. It was quite pleasant, chatting there in the hedged garden in the afternoons, so I naturally came every clay. And once or twice at night, too, was it I met you, Phillip? Ah, well, perhaps I did rather fancy you, momentarily. (She would like to conceal being sorry for him.) But I was not very kind in leaving you without saying farewell, was I? . . .
BASSENGE: Ah, clear Goel, Elizabeth, you were needlessly cruel. Why did you not at least tell me good -bye?
CHUDLEIGH (musing): So you came to Aunt Agatha's gardens every clay-why, but certainly-oh, indeed I was unkind, Phillip. And then, of course, you inquired whether I were ill, and (she laughs) -I can see her now-Aunt Agatha told you everything. Really, she must have been amusing-clear Aunt Agatha! Tell me, Phillip, weren't you amused?
BASSENGE( at his ranting in earnest) : Hah, Elizabeth, you cannot see I still love you! While I yearn whole-heartedly for you, with last summer's kisses not even yet wholly faded from my lips, you laugh and suggest that I must have been amused to learn that the woman I loved was not simply Elizabeth, but the Mistress Chudleigh, maid of honor to Augusta. I came to London for you--
CHUDLEIGH : Boy!
BASSENGE( collecting a fine fervor) : I became apprentice to a jeweler, so that I might have the entreei at Court, where I could see you. I pleaded with my lord Chesterfield to bring me here under I
have forgotten what pretext-and I discover I was only a diversion, only a pleasurable summer pastime, put aside like a finished iced drink at the proper cue!. (Crescendo.) And in the teeth of this, I dare tell you I still love you. Yes, I love you; and I am ridiculous. I am the inevitable and banal lackey who loves the queen; I am the ranting boy who speaks in lines even the cheap actor cannot mouth without laughing--
CHUDLEIGH: Oh, Phillip, Phillip, dear boy ... ! (If she laughs it is wholly imthout derision.)
BASSENGE(more softly) : Oh, Elizabeth, I am very ludicrousam I not, Elizabeth? . . . But I cannot forget those August afternoons in your aunt's hedged garden, when we sat chatting quietly while the birds quarreled, and then talked on, of very trivial matters, until twilight came. I cannot forget your kisses, Elizabeth, when we walked through the moonlit terraces and the hedges hunched about us, sometimes frightening you very horribly. (He gets a bit of nostalgia into it.) I cannot forget these things, for all their obviousness. And so I shall not ever see you clearly, quite, because of the Elizabeth I once kissed in a hedged garden.
Cr-IUDLEIGH( she touches him) : Mon ami, ah-you must believe me when I tell you I am sorry. But you must not hold up to me the dear, clean-hearted girl I seemed to you in Aunt Agatha's gardenit is not very fair, do you think, mon ami? And eh, faith, let us at all events make some pretense at justice! For you must see me quite clearly, quite as I am-a scheming flatterer at Court, a parasite, soon well -nigh a pauper--
BASSENGE(startled): Soon a pauper- - !
CHUDLEIGH(scattering forced laughter through it): Yes, Phillip -isn't it amusing? . . . For I had intended to marry his Grace of Kingston ( as she ma hes a moc !? curtsey you observe inwardly she is very upset), who has taken a fancy to our Duchess of Nicole-Leguay, whom I invited to London to stay with me, and-Phillip---is going back to France with her! Don't you find that amusing? Ah, Goel, say that you find it amusing, Phillip,-oh, laugh-please! (Bassenge does not laugh. During a short pause Chudleigh regains perfect control over her self.)
BASSENGE: You are in love with that arrogant fop Bute?
CHUDLEIGH (almost Z.ightly): Oh, come now-let us not add naivete and slander to your list of delinquencies. Assuredly not!
THE MESSENGER
BASSEGNE: But you intend--
CHUDLEIGH: Yes, Phillip dear, I intended-I must put the verb in the past, I fear,-I intended to marry his Grace of Kingston. (Sincerely and quickly): You see, Monsieur Bassenge, I am not the clean-hearted girl of Aunt Agatha's garden now, don't you-dear boy? (Laughs.) Instead, I am an almost miclclle-agecl woman of somewhat ( considers her w ord) tentative financial circumstances, and just at present quite desperately endeavoring to intercept probably her last available catch. . . . Oh, I am indeed wretched! . . . Yet my mother, who live s here with me-she and I have, as the phrase runs, to live. And I fancy I should make a dutiful wife--
BASSENGE: But , Elizabeth, you are maid of honor. .
CHUDLEIGH : Oh, yes, I know. But you comprehend I have been somewhat more than a mere maid of honor. His Majesty has been so gracious as to indulge me with balls and masquerades in my name, and I have passed everywhere on the level of a Lady of England. But all this will presently cease; I shall become older and unlovely and neglected; and I cannot give up the ball room and flattery and dancing minuets with powdered wigs and playing at whist-I cannot give these things up, Phillip! Hence I desire above everything to marry Lo-rel Bute. Do you see me clearly, now? . . .
BASSENGE: You are trying very hard, aren't you, Elizabeth, to mangle that image I retain from last summer? Yes, perhaps I do see you a bit more clearly, now. ( A pause.) And I love you, I love you! I am (he is ranting again now) emboldened by a lunacy I do not care to understand. Elizabeth-listen. I have filled this pouch (exhibits) with jewels valuable enough to purchase-oh, any imaginable object. They are part of my company's exhibit. I can offer you a life that shames the paleness of your court; I can give you laces and silks and fans-if you come with me, we can travel at pleasure through Egypt and India and China--
CHUDLEIGH: Dear, clear boy, do you love me quite as much as that-to steal jewels "valuable enough to purchase-oh, any imaginable object" ( she laughs again wholly without derision) for me? Bah, Phillip, I envy you bitterly your youth, your incapacity to understand why anyone should possibly prefer a life such as mine to traveling through Egypt or China or any of your fine lands. (De cisively) : But I cannot go with you , Phillip; and so ( she sighs) you must put the jewels back, and forget, really, all about me
BASSENGE(protesting) : Elizabeth, Elizabeth--!
CHUDLEIGH: No, Phillip .... And now, I think, we two must quite forget last summer and Aunt Agatha's garden and your dear young irrational notions about blundering off into the world with stolen jewels and things: for they are probably wondering whatever could have happened to us, at this very instant--
( Lord Chesterfield pushes open the French doors and observes them. Bassenge has not had time to put up the pouch. Chudleigli and Bassenge turn. Lord Chesterfield bows.)
CHESTERFIELD:Now, indeed, what have I tumbled upon?
CHUDLEIGH: Why, my lord (quickly-lightly), I am futilely attempting to bargain with Mr. Bassenge here for some jewel s which have quite taken my fancy; but the fellow is adamant. Look, my lord, are they not very lovely? ( She takes several large rubies and displays them. Chesterfield vnspects one or two.)
CHESTERFIELD: Why, these are exquisite! (Bassenge is im111,obile.)
CHUDLEIGH : But, my lord, the fellow asks such an enormous price. (She loo!?s at Bassenge roguishly.)
BASSENGE: You comprehend, Lord Chesterfield, I am in the employ of my company. I do not set the price.
CHUDLEIGH : And yet, Monsieur Bassenge,-your name is French, is it not ?-and yet one in order to acquire these jewels must pay the price you demand, n' cest-ce pas? . . .
BASSENGE(quietly) : Yes; I believe that is true.
CHESTERFIELD:Really, Harvey must inspect these. Shall we not enter? (He gestures through the doors.)
CHUDLEIGH: 'vVhy, of course. (She moves toward Lord Chest erfield.) Mr. Bassenge, d 'ye know, I think you should indulge poverty-stricken ladies more-don't you think, my lord?
CHESTERFIELD:Piffle! Bassenge, I applaud you. But let us get on (he fingers the jew els) : we must lay these out for the others to see. (He ta!?es Chudleigh/s arm,.)
BASSENGE: Certainly, my lord. I had intended displaying them later, as a sort of delicacy, you understand.
(Lord Chesterfield helps Miss Chudleigh through the· doors. She puts her arm through and touches Basse11ge lightly.)
CHUDLEIGH:Come, you jewel-monger who has no pity for mendi-
cants! (She laughs very charmingly. Bassenge stiffly follows her. The doors close.)
(Walpole emerges from his screen and smilingly pours a drink. In a moment Anne Patel enters from the salon outside and deposits a tray somewhere to Mr. Wal pole!s left. He turns.)
WALPOLE: Anne.
ANNE: Yes, my lord?
WALPOLE: "My lord"? Faith, yes, provided I outlive those twaddling brothers of mine. Yes, Anne, you may call me "my lord": my accession to the peerage of England chances to be solely a matter of competitive longevity. . . .
ANNE: Your pardon, sir?
WALPOLE : Never mind. Anne, I should like you to find my lord Bute, and to mention casually to him that Mr. Walpole desires a moment with him privately here in the tap-room. You will probably find him with your mistress; and you must prevent Madame from hearing you, you comprehend? Can you do this, do you think?
ANNE: Yes, my lord, I shall speak to him alone. Is that all, sir?
WALPOLE: Yes. Merci, Anne. (He smiles. She curtseys and begins to leave. When she has reached the door Walpole calls her.) Anne!
ANNE (turning): Yes, my lord?
WALPOLE: There is to be tea in this room soon, is there not?
ANNE: Yes, my lord. Quite soon now.
WALPOLE: And until tea you will doubtless remain in the vicinity of that door? (He indicates the French doors.)
ANNE: Yes, my lord, unless you wish--
WALPOLE: Quite the contrary. Anne, after you have spoken to Lord Bute I should like for you to remain close enough to those doors to hear, say, (he considers-pic!?s up a wine-glass) the breaking of a tumbler such as this. Then-yes, then I should like for you to announce tea. You will listen, and do this?
ANNE: Yes, my lord. I shall stand immediately outside, here.
\V ALPOLE : Excellent. . . . Anne, do you care for amethysts?
ANNE: Why, my lord--! ( Walpole is fingering a jewel. She hesitates.) Yes, my lord, I am fond of amethysts.
WALPOLE: Here, girl-it is a trifle I bought from our jeweler,
Bassenge. Have it made into a brooch, (He gives it to her. She is very embarrassed.)
ANNE: But, my lord--
WALPOLE: Come, Anne, let us not prolong this unimportant scene; we must get on to the principal action. Take it and welcome, child-and now run on with my errands.
ANNE: Oh, thank you, my lord. Vraiment, c'est trap ban. (She exits joyously, but flustered.)
( Walpole chuckingly pours a drin!?, looks about the room, and decides slightly to edit the position of the furniture. He adjusts the screen to his taste, arranges a pair of gilt chairs in a manner more conducive to intimacy, and returns to the liqueurs to drain his glass. Enter my lord Bute curiously. He closes the French doors.)
BuTE: Enfin, Horace, whatever are you up to? I feel quite fictitious, slipping away to have "moments in private" like a veritable character in a play. (He comes more to center.)
WALPOLE (calmly): Why, nothing of enormous import, Hugh. I simply thought I should like to discuss your sudden notion of going back to France with Adele, our Duchess of Nicole-Leguay.
BuTE (somewhat coldly): Actually? And what fine arguments have you trimmed up to convince me of my mistake? (Walpole begins to speak - he silences him.) Piffle, man! - a pox on His Majesty's missing me at Tunbridge and the like! And as for scandal, let the gossips wag; egad, they wag now, do they not? Come, now, Horace (fraternally), be rational: I shall indeed miss you, but-( Walpole is laughing.) What--?
WALPOLE: My dear Hugh, you entirely misapprehend me.
BuTE (skeptically): Yes?
WALPOLE: I approve whole-heartedly.
BuTE: You approve whole-heartedly of--
WALPOLE: Of course, of your going to France, and of the summer estate in Provence-in fine, of the whole business.
BUTE ( brightened) : I begin to perceive private meditation in a tap-room can work wonders in improving a man's logic. But do you tell me how you came about this applaudable mental metamorphosis!
WALPOLE: Oh, the stages were simple enough. But, Hugh (he pours liqueurs for two), while we drink to your excellent fortune ( he gives Bute one glass), allow me to express one tiny objection.
. (Bute assumes a glower.) No, it does not concern you, my dear fellow, at all. It relates to Madame la Duchess de Nicole Leguay.
BuTE: Hein? How, possibly, does Adele figure?
WALPOLE : I fail to see how she could very well manage not to figure. In brief, Hugh, you assume, do you not, that the lady loves you?
BuTE: If we were not old friends, Horace, I should be tempted to resent. Oh, candidly, yes. We have made, needless to say, the customary mutual declarations, (He shrugs.)
WALPOLE: And, I take it, you are sincere? I use the pronoun in the singular. . . .
BuTE: Eh, bien, Horace-! Eh, faith, I shall humor you. Yes; I love the lady. Now?
WALPOLE: I simply propose that you verify beyond question whether, in the pleasant phraseology we have taken up, the lady loves you. (Lord Bute begins a protest.) Tush! Marriages, you know, incubate admirably in and about summer estates; and it is on record, I believe, that our Duchess did not fall into untold wealth at the death of Monsieur le Due. (Another protest begins.) Voila!-I merely submit it as a possible cause of actions otherwise attributable to the shafts of the blind archer. For my lord Bute, as one knows, is a Duke, and in no wise poverty-ridden. . . .
BuTE ( considers for a short while - then, slowly) : In fine, you suggest . . . ?
\iVALPOLE(spealiing casually): It occurs to me, Hugh, that one might secret one's self superlatively behind, say, this screen, while, just here ( he itndfrates the gilt chairs), two persons, talking, disclose astonishingly interesting things. . . . ( A pause.) In short, Hugh, I shall return presently-and not, I trust, alone. . . .
(He places his undrained glass upon the table and exits through the French doors, leaving Bute standing quietly. Bute deposits his glass, also undrained, and contemplate 's apparently nebulous matters. Anon he starts at a slight noise and disappears behind the screen. Enter Walpole with the Duchess. They come downstage.)
WALPOLE: Madame, you must take a liqueur and chat with me. Why, I declare I've not had opportunity to converse with you tonight, and indeed, ma'am, that it is an irreparable omission.
DUCHESS: Come, now, Mr. Walpole! Alors, but I suspect I like
your flattery-you may continue, Mr. Walpole ! ( W a.Zpoleinquirquiringly indicates the drinh) I shall take Tokay, I think. (He pours, gives her a glass, takes one.) Why, la, do you look at that! (She points to the two glasses Walpole and Bute failed to drink.) I do believe some couple has left here hastily.
WALPOLE : And that would surprise you?
DUCHESS: Oh, ma:is non! Assuredly not. Why, truly, Cupid is in excellent form tonight, Mr. Walpole. Did you not know that?
WALPOLE: Really? Well, personally, now--
DUCHESS: Why, I myself have received a shaft. There!
WALPOLE : Ah ? Then you are in love, Madame ?
DUCHESS: Utterly. (She sits in one of the gilt chairs.)
WALPOLE: And he, naturally, is quite handsome, and possesses the requisite virtues? (He sits in the other.)
DUCHESS: He is handsome and entirely adorable and he loves me.
WALPOLE: We indeed progress. You will pardon my being mercenary, Madame, but is this gentleman, as one might put it, this gentleman whom you love and who loves you, situated well finanically?
DUCHESS: Oh, he is quite wealthy. But really, Mr. Walpole, that is wholly immaterial. I am in love, I tell you!
WALPOLE: Oh, certainly, but that does not prevent wealth from remaining a very attractive incidental, do you think?
DUCHESS: Perhaps, perhaps. But I am easily too much in love for that. Indeed, though, d'ye know, before I fell in love I did have it in mind that I might, if worse came to worse, marry a man I did not love, for his wealth: but now-why la, it isn't necessary at all!
WALPOLES It seems superfluous to say you are fortunate, Madame.
DucHESS: And we are going to France on Tuesday, to my summer estate in Provence, where it will be very lovely, I am sure. Then in a little while, we shall return to London and visit you and Miss Chudleigh and everybody. I am very excited, actually.
·wALPOLE: You have sufficient cause, certainly. (He rises.) Indeed now, Madame ( he pours a drink), allow me a toast to your future!
DucHESS: Why, of course. Imagine trying to prevent the literary man from his toasts !
WALPOLE(wine glass aloft): My dear, your literary man cannot
decide, exactly, the context of his toast. I feel, somehow, that in this instant I should sum up the world in one or another fine phrase; and yet I cannot imagine its precise nature. I think I should emulate Socrates, and emit lasting catch-words which posterity will treasure and never bother to understand; yet I cannot think of any. Conceive of the poets, from blind Homer on, whose ghosts arise to shame me! Perhaps Marcus Aurelius himself is listening, with his own epigrams under his arm. Oh, these makers of potential platitude have followed each other incessantly since the earth's framing! And finally, my dear, came Shakespeare to round out the business with the highly novel observation that the world, in any event, is only a stage: and all of us merely the Dramatis Personae. . . . So nothing staggering occurs to me. Instead, after a short rhetorical flight, I content myself with the hope that your marriage may be as completely happy as mine shall remain nonexistant; and may Lord Bute--
DucHESS (rising very quic!?ly): Lord Bute?
WALPOLE (puzzled) : Lord Bute, your incipient husband, his Grace of Kingston--
DucHEss: Why, Mr. Walpole! (She begins to laugh.) La, then you thought ... Why, Lord Bute is the man I told you I had in mind to marry failing everything! Don't you remember?
WALPOLE: But I thought you had arranged for him to accorripany you back to France, and--
DUCHESS: My dear Mr. Walpole, I have since fallen desperately in love with, and intend to return to France with, my lord Chesterfield.
(Lord Bute e111,ergeshotly from the screen, facing them. The Duchess starts; they all form a small tableau for an instant.)
BuTE: Lord Chesterfield? (He is furious.) You-youMadame, I restrain myself with difficulty. (He stops abruptly, controls himself, bows deeply.) I request your pardon, Madame; I became a trifle excited. I-- Why, what the devil, Horace!
( Walpole has deliberately smashed his wine glass upon the 1 floor, and stands conteniplating the pieces a111,usedly. The French doors open, and Anne announce 's tea.)
ANNE ( through the doors) : Mesdames et messieurs, tea is served in the tap-room. ( She enters and begins preparing the tea things.)
(The three of them retain their postures as Chudleigh enters with
Lord Chesterfield. Chudleigh senses something wrong and turns quickly to Anne, gesturing toward the French doors.)
CHUDLEIGH : Anne, close the doors quickly and tell them I have decided to have tea in the larger room. Quickly, Anne. (She looks at the three. Chesterfield lifts his eyebrows.)
(Anne hurries to the doors, closing them behind her as she spea!?s. )
ANNE: Mesdames et messieurs, Miss Chudleigh has decided that tea had best be served (the doors are nearly closed) in the larger room. (The doors are now shut.)
( A pause. C hudleigh looks inquiringly at them; Walpole amused, the Duchess noncomrmital, and Lord Bute extremely stiff.)
CHUDLEIGH: Well, and may I ask whatever is the trouble here? ( Walpole gathers the fragments of the wine glass. There is silence until he has finished and deposited them, on the table.)
WALPOLE: 'Why, nothing of enormous import, Miss Chudleigh. It simply appears that our lord Bute here, cannot, after all, logically go back to France with Madame, who is naturally disappointed. He has decided that His Majesty would not approve of finding him missing at Tunbridge, and that really he has very important affairs that must be attended to in London here upon the first of May. ( Chudleigh cannot conceal her delight. Bute is bewildered at first, but finally appears grateful for Wal pole's successful s1noothing over.) So ( very casually) I suggest we go in for tea before our absence excites remark. . , .
BUTE (advances and ta!?es Chudleigh's arm): Indeed, ma'am, I think we should. Yes, I find I cannot logically, as Walpole suggests, return to France with Madame, and I am mightily grieved. However ... (He faces them.)
WALPOLE: Yes, Hugh?
BUTE: However, Horace, Madame will not return alone.
WALPOLE: No? ( Everyone loo!?s about curiously.)
BuTE: Indeed, no. My lord Chesterfield here is to accompany her.
CHUDLEIGH( agast) : Lord Chesterfield?
CHESTERFIELD: I? Egad! ( Takes snuff.) Why, man, what jest is this?
BuTE ( confused) : Why - aren't you? Faith, I thought--
WALPOLE: Ah, Hugh, you were born with poor ears! You see, our lord Bute here has been posturing at eavesdropping, with miserable success. Messieurs, et - Madame (he bows to Chudleigh and the men), I am happy to announce that this person with whom our Duchess is to sai l is I, and that we leave for France on n ext Tuesday. (They are completely startled.)
BUTE: Horace--! But how do you explain--?
WALPOLE: Oh, come now, your Grace; it would never have clone to tell you all-at-once. . . . You must concede that!
( Clzudleigh and Bute regard Walpole, Chudleigh vntently and Bute exasperatedly. Bute heaves a sigh.)
BUTE: Eh bien-let us have a toast. It seems (he lool?s at Walpole) appropriate. Perhaps someone could-well, sum up the world in one or another fine phrase .... (He loolis around. Walpole smiles. They pour.)
CHESTERFIELD(glass aloft) : A pox on you, Bute! B ut , at all events, to-let us say-the institution of marriage, the most pleasant -occasionally-and the most amusing-unflaggingly-of our social habits. (They drink.)
BuTE ( as soon as he gulps his drink) : But, Horace, when, in Heaven's name--?
'vVALPOLE:It was, as I believe it has been phrased, love at first sight.
BUTE: But earlier, when we were playing at whist--!
WALPOLE: Oh, I know. But you unclerstancl, Hugh, I did not really see Adele until much later this evening -in fact, when we were walking toward this room. . . .
BuTE: Hein?
DucHESS: Don't you think that is remarkable, my lord?
BuTE: Madame, I should doubtless, earlier in this evening, have applied a stronger adjective . (He approaches Chudleigh.) Shall we enter the salon?
CHUDLEIGH : Let us. (She tak:es his arm. Wal pole prepares to escort the Duchess.)
WALPOLE: Miss Chuclleigh ( she turns to him), may I inquire about our jeweler, Mr. Bassenge? I have heard nothing of him ....
CHUDLEIGH : \i\!hy, Mr. Bassenge has learned a good deal, with his exhibit here tonight, I suspect, about the tastes of various people.
(Walpole is lightly fingering the edge of the scr een. Chudleigh looks at hun.) I think it will help him hereafter in his dealings with them.
WALPOLE: Questionless.
CHESTERFIELD: Egad, I think tea is now quite in order. (He opens the doors.) Will you come?
(The Duchess and Walpole start out. At the door, Walpole turns. Frain without the sound of tea-things and voices can be heard.)
WALPOLE: One wonders, now, Miss Chudleigh, if my whist game is indeed so very bad. . . .
CHUDLEIGH: vVhy, Mr. Walpole, did I say your game was bad? Why, I do declare, now, but I must have been jokin g. Why, as I recollect it, you played, considering your hands-and they were quite wretched, you know-very capably. . . .
( Chudleigh smiles charniingly at them,. They exeunt as Bute approaches Chudleigh and takes her arm.)
BuTE: Miss Chudleigh? (She nods and accepts. They start out, turning as Chesterfield speaks.)
CHESTERFIELD: Miss Chudleigh?
CHUDLEIGH : Yes, my lord?
CHESTERFIELD: D'ye know, ma'am, the world says you make a very fine pair, you two.
CHUDLEIGH: Does it really, sir? I, my lord, elect to believe the world entirely .
CHESTERFIELD:Always, your-Grace? ( Bute s111,iles.)
CHUDLEIGH : Oh, well, in any event, chacun a, if you will permit the pun, monsieur, son but . . .
(She s1niles. They turn and exeunt. Lord Chesterfield shrugs, ta!?es snuff delicately, adjusts his peruke, and follows casually.)
CURTAIN.
APOLOGIA AUCTORIS
It is gratifying here to record, in afternote, that neither of the marriages logically to be inferred from the ending of this little piece ever, actually, occurred. Our Miss Chudleigh indeed became later her frolic Grace of Kingston; but as the bigamous wife of Evelyn
Pierrepoint, Duke of Kingston, and not through matrimony with the fictitious Lord Bute here presented-whom dullards will not confuse, the author trusts, with John Stuart, the powerful third earl of Bute in this century. Of the disasters which later befell Elizabeth Chudleigh upon exposition of her first marriage-with Augustus Hervey, a lieutenant of the British navy, in 1744--it is needless here to speak, save perhaps to mention that this most charming and brilliant of figures in that gallant period of English history was exiled from her country in the April of 1776, following her trial for bigamy, and thereafter, heartbroken, circulated prodigally through the capitals of Europe with the remnants of the fortune left her by the then dead Duke, settling down only at the remarkable age of sixty-eight, in Paris, where she died not long after of a blood vessel ruptured by undue excitement. Walpole, one conjectures to the other hand, quite probably accompanied our Duchess as far as her summer estate in Provence, wrote a few letters,-however short the sojourn,-and passed on, a bachelor, to Vienna, where he was humored lavishly by Sir Horace Mann; and resumed anon his London apartments, none the worse for his sortie from routine-yet one cannot really tell, for the dustiest of tomes are suspiciously noncommital about the Duchess of Nicole-Leguay. . . . It funishes an appropriately ironical finis to relate that Walpole finally acceded to the peerage not by direct inheritance at all, but through the death of a nephew, at which he became Lord Horace Walpole, earl of Orford, a title he refused ever to use.
EXPLICIT
MASQUERADE
JOHN P. BATKINS
BETTY slammed the front door in disgust. Her whele evening wasted! Why was Roy so dumb? There they had sat, a foot or more apart on the Chesterfield, and for almost three hours she had tried to appear interested in his unromantic conversation. He might indeed have redeemed himself as they stood there on the porch in the moonlight, but his only response to such a romantic stimulus had been a press of her hand and a half-hearted "Good night, Betty." Why hadn't he? Well, he hadn't. What difference did it make anyhow. He was handsome and he had a splendid pos1t10n. What more could any girl want? The question seemed to ring in her ears as she has made her way to her room.
Once there, she lost no time in changing from her pale green frock to her blue silk pajamas. , Flinging herself across the bed, she reached under her pillow and pulled out a volume entitled "Success in Love." She opened it to a marked passage and read: "Control your emotions at all times. Do not, by any means, be promiscuous in your love-making. In spite of the fact that men flock after the flirt, they always seek a modest, intelligent girl when choosing a life companion." She was beginning to think that this advice was worthless. Almost a year had elapsed since Roy Barnes had saved her from drowning at Long's Beach. She never would forget that moment when her eyes met his. It was a case of love at first sight. He was the man for her, she had resolved. Since that time, in accordance with this rule book of the love game, she has endeavored to win his affection. Well, didn't he give her presents and take her to a dance or show at least once a week? Wasn't this a demonstration of affection? Yes, but she wanted a stronger demonstrationshe wanted . . . Ten minutes to twelve! And she had an engagement to play tennis at six in the morning! Out went the light.
Ten minutes to twelve! Roy Barnes fumbled in his pocket for the garage key. Another perfectly good evening wasted! Not that he didn't care for Betty; he was crazy about her, had been ever since he had looked into those dancing brown eyes, at Long's Beach last summer. He had decided then and there that she was the girl for him. She was different from those dancing dolls he knew, beautiful but not dumb. Different? He was beginning to wonder if she
wasn't too different. He felt so unnecessary in her company. She was a puzzle to him. He felt perfectly at ease with Helen, Lucille, Jean, and their flapper friends, but he was sick of them. Their tastes were too epicurean for him. He wanted a girl with ideals. But now that he had one, did he want her? Would he be willing to go through life tied up to an iceberg of ideals? The garage key clicked in the lock and the doors swung inward.
Roy Barnes slammed the receiver on the hook with a bang and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. This surely was his lucky clay. A bid to the biggest masquerade of the social season ! A elate with Betty. He couldn't drag Betty, his whole evening would be ruined. Besides she wouldn't want to go, it would be too loud an affair for her quiet nature. He had prepared a nice story to tell her in order that he might break his date with her and then-what could be sweeter-her mother informed him that she was sick and would not be able to keep her engagement! Not that he was glad that she was sick. He wasn't that cold-hearted. But he was more than glad that he didn't have to keep that elate. This was one evening he was really going to enjoy. If Betty was sick she could never find out about it and what if she did. Was he under any obligations to have elates with her alone and to only go anywhere when she went along? No, he thanked his lucky stars, they weren't engaged yet. Yet? He was beginning to think they never would be. From his coat pocket he took a small box. It flew open with a snap, revealing a large diamond in a platinum setting. He had bought the ring several weeks ago, but it had never left the little purple box. Since the time of its purchase he had become less and less anxious to "pop the question." But why worry about Betty? It would only spoil his evening. The box dropped back into his pocket.
"3009 Cavalier Avenue."
The cab shot forward with a lurch. Roy Barnes leaned over to light a cigarette from a match in the hand of his old college chum, Cliff Rogers. Cliff had gotten him the bid to the masquerade and they were both going stag. They smoked in silence for a while until Cliff chuckled and nudged Roy.
"Seems strange to see you stepping out without Betty, old man. Haven ' t had a quarrel, have you?"
" N o," Roy replied scowling, "Betty's sick."
"Sick? Sorry to hear that, but I hope her absence won't spoil your good time."
Roy didn't reply. The cab was slowing down. In a little while he would be dancing in the midst of a gay light-hearted crowd, he would feel at home for the first time in months. The cab came to a full stop in front of a large stone mansion. A few m.inutes later he and Cliff were attired in their costumes and ready for the evening's fun.
In order to keep everyone's identity a secret and thereby acid to the fun, each guest was provided with a small slate and pencil, and he or she was to speak visibly, but not audibly until the stroke of twelve broke this reign of silence. Roy Barnes was having a grand and glorious time. He danced with blondes, brunettes, and red heads. He couldn't tell much about their faces. But he was an expert mathematician: he knew his figures. One vivacious little brunette drew him like a magnet. Her card was so full that he only got two dances with her before the intermission. During this lull in the dancing, she dared him to take the middle of the floor and go the latest steps with her. He was game and their little act brought hearty applause from the onlookers. Dancing was resumed and she glided away in another fellow's arms. She was his type. Peppy, pretty, and graceful - a real queen. His partner reminded him that she didn't care for toe dancing, especially when it was clone on her toes. He apologized via his slate and when the dance was over he sought the open air. The little brunette had promised him the last dance for his daring during the intermission. The rest of her card was taken. He didn't mind waiting-she was worth waiting for. It was an ideal June night with starry skies and a mellow moon above. It seemed hours before that last dance rolled around. When it finally came, he suggested, slately speaking, that they sit it out. She agreed. They found a secluded spot before a beautiful artificial pool from which the moon's reflection smiled up at them. They said it with slates.
"Who are you anyway?'" he enquired.
"I wouldn't ask you that," was the prompt rejoinder.
"Let's throw these slates away and speak for ourselves."
"No. Not until twelve o'clock."
"You're the first woman I've met who wasn't dying to say something."
"Really?"
"Are you married?"
"No, silly!"
"Then I still have a chance."
"What makes you think so ?"
"Are you engaged?"
"Not yet."
"But you will be soon."
"To whom?"
"Foolish question! To me."
"You're good to yourself. But suppose there is another party?"
"There is-are several, but I'd be willing to drop them all for you."
"You flatter yourself. I mean, suppose there is another of your own sex?"
"Is there?"
"Several."
"Well, several are gomg to be disappointed and I don't mean perhaps."
"Is that so? Well, be sure you don't find yourself among the several."
Before Roy Barnes could think of a snappy retort to inscribe upon his slate, the orchestra which had been playing for the last dance stopped with three sharp cymbal crashes, the signal to unmask. He jumped to his feet, grabbed the girl's slate, and hurled his and hers into the pool before them. She rose to her feet, a faint smile playing around her ruby lips. He bit his lip.
"Laugh this off!" he blurted, crushing her to him and kissing her.
"Roughneck!" she exclaimed, drawing back to slap him while her other hand snatched the mask from his face. But the blow never went home. The girl's hand fall to her side and she dropped back several steps.
"You, you, Roy Barnes-a caveman!"
"Who-who are you-you little heart thief," he stammered. In answer to the question she removed her mask.
"You-Betty Dew!"
"That's my name."
"You're not mad with me, Betty?"
"Yes. Mad because you've fooled me all these months. Mad because you've made me think you were a back number, as slow as a snail, afraid to kiss me. Mad because~"
Just a minute! You've had me fooled, too. But let's let bygones be bygones. We've both been masquerading ever since we met. It took this masquerade ball to unmask us. If I thought I loved you then, I know it now. Something told me to bring this along. I'm happy tonight. I can be always. It all depends on you! What's the verdict?"
"Question?"
"Resolved, that Miss Betty Dew and Mr. Roy Barnes would make a good looking bride and groom. All in favor say aye."
"Aye, aye!"
"The eyes and the lips have it."
A diamond flashed in the moonlight. Two brown eyes beamed with lovelight. Two arms encircled a sylph -like form. Cupid-the world's favorite two -year -old had won by kiss.
"Be yourself, Roy," Betty murmured in ecstasy.
"Don't worry," he said joyfully, "from now on that's what I'm going to be nothing else but!"
AT FOUR A.· M.
(A One-Act Play)
BEN SOWELL
Time: Four A. M.
Place: Home of R. P. Shifflett, a boarding house in the suburbs of the city.
Characters:
R. P. SHIFFLETT, 37 years of age , post-office clerk in the main office. Thin and wiry, dopey-looking , dissipated. Receding chin, dirty, dark face, with need of a shave. Vagrant, stiff, and curly wisps of black hair sticking out at illogical places on his face and hands. Dirty, long, unshapely, crooked fingers-yellow with cigarette smoking. Shabby brown suit of cheap make and of distasteful design, ruffled and unpressed. No collar, with the collar button showing. Dark rings around the eyes. Ruffled hair.
MRS. SHIFFLETT, 33 years old, sloppily dressed. Hair bobbed, and straggling over her face. Lines of worry and hardship.
JOE ASHBY, friend of the Shiffletts, and a fellow worker with Shifflett at the post-office. Unkempt, badly dressed. Drunk.
PEARL, sister-in-law of Joe Ashby, a moron, 18 years old. Small, weakly legs in black stockings. Grey, imitation chinchilla coat. Has dress on wrong side out.
DICKS and BILL, two boarders.
THE SHERIFF.
Setting: A par !or, barely furnished with a green, plush settee in the left background, an armchair in the right foreground, another arm chair in the left foreground, right by the door leading to the street. A telephone stand, phone and directory, between the armchair and the door. A lamp and shade of loud design by the other armchair. A newspaper thrown carelessly on this. A cigarette stand and ash tray by the settee. , A magazine stand in the middle, with a dirty looking vase and paper flowers. Doors at the right and left of stage, and one or two in the background. A picture cut from a magazine, awry in its frame, hanging on the wall. Another cheap reproduction of a tavern scene, with the glass broken, behind the
settee. Large, dirty rug covering the whole floor. A mongrel cur lying curled on the settee. Strong scent of liquor pervades the room.
(Joe Ashby and Shifflett emerge from a door m the background tugging at each other, Joe in an attempt to break away and Shifflett hanging on to the shoulders of Joe's coat. Joe is drunk. Dog scampers out.)
JOE ( with breath coming short and fast) : Let me go . . . let me go . I tell you . . . let me go . . . I don't want to stay in your damn house if that's the way you feel about it.
SHIFLETT: Come on, Joe, listen to reason now ... keep quiet . . . you'll wake up the whole family . . . don't wake up my wife . . . Joe, she don't know anything about this mess; it would break her up if you told her, Joe, for God's sake, don't ....
JOE: I don't give a damn, what the hell do I care, let me g·o, I tell you. (He wrenches away and gives Shifflett a hard blow on the shoulder.) Pearl! Pearl! (Loudly.) Come on down here-let's go -if that's the way they feel about it. (Starts putting on his overcoat rather clumsily.)
SCAREDVOICE FROM THE RIGHT DooR: What's the matter, Bob, what's the matter? (Mrs. Shifflett appears at the door, dishevelled, with bathrobe on, clasping and putting her hands to her breast unconsciously.)
SHIFLETT: Nothing the matter, nothing Lu, he'll calm down in a minute. He's mad because I'm trying to get him to think about his wife, the way he's carrying on with Pearl. Joe, for Heaven's sake, keep quiet (wlbispering), come on now, old man. (Tries to talie hi111, bacli into the bedroo111,.) Don't start a row. (To Lu): He's so darn drunk he don't know what he's doing. He can't get drunk without getting into trouble. He could have been out on regular bail if it hadn't been for his being drunk at the same time they caught him.
JOE: I'll be damned if I don't . . . I'm not drunk. . . . I know what I'm doing just as good as you. . . . I ain't a-going to stand for none of yer insults . . . it's none of yer damn business about the gir I. .
MRS. SHIFFLETT (looking bac!?.): Don't come down, Pearl, go on back to bed.
(Pearl, scared, and with her dress on wrong side out, appears behind Mrs. Shifflett and tries to force her way through the door.)
JoE: Let 'er come, Mrs. Shifflett; come on, Pearl, we're leaving these people. .
SHIFFLETT: Joe, for Heaven's sake, listen to reason, calm clown, now, come on.
JOE: Come on, Pearl, I tell you.
SHIFFLETT: You know, I've been trying to help you. Joe, I tried to warn you, take care of you, tried to be a friend to you. We took you home from the party last night because you were so drunk you couldn't stand up, and then, because your wife asked us to, we brought you 'way out here, so you wouldn't get into trouble. And now you're trying to ruin it all by going back into town, and you'll get picked sure. And if that happens, you know what will happen to Dave and Parker.
JOE: The hell you say! You're so damn scared of what will happen to you, you mean. You can't call yourself my friend one minute and insult me the next. I did think you were my friend. I thought I was a friend to you . . . ( starts weeping).
SHIFFLETT: Joe, you know I ain't trying to insult you. I'm trying to get you to act right. Can't you see the mess you're going to get us into ?-we've got boarders in the house and they'll spread it all over the village. Now be reasonable. If you go to town now and get picked up, it's all up with your peace bond, and your friends' money.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Sure, Joe, you know Bob didn't mean nothing by it; why don't you go on to bed now? Go on, Pearl. What's the trouble, Bob?
SHIFFLETT: Oh, nothing at all. He's mad because I tried to quiet him clown. I pushed him back in bed, that's all.
JOE: Yeah, that was all, you damn two timer, you. I thought you was my friend when you paid out that thousand dollars on my bail, you and the rest of 'em. I see now why you clone it. I thought you was going to act square and help me out of this mess ; now you're trying to put over one -like that on me. (Rocl,s and reels, supporting himself with the wall.)
SHIFFLETT: Joe, there's boarders upstairs, and they'll hear every word you say, be careful, shut up, won't you?
JOE: Yau - you want me to shut up because they' s boarders in the house, eh? I know why you want me to shut up. Because your
wife's standing there, that's why. (Mrs. Shifflett gives Shifflett a startled look. Bob Shifflett reaches over and puts his hand on Joe's mouth suddenly, and rather sharply, pushing Joe onto the settee.)
SHIFFLETT: Shut up, you damn fool!
JOE: I wouldn't shut up now if it put me in jail for twenty years. I'd be willing to go just to see you get yours.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Bob! (She screams.) What's he talking about?
JOE ( balancing himself as he tries to rise from the settee) Look in his coat pocket and find out, why don't you?
SHIFFLETT (pushing Joe out of the house) : Go on, Joe, go on. . . . I hope to hell they get you and your friends' money, too, if that's the gratitude you've got. Come on, I'll take you in the car. Give me the keys, Lu.
MRs. SHIFFLETT: No, you shan't go with him. What's the matter with him? What did you do to him? He'll hurt you.
SHIFFLETT: No, he won't Lu (goes over to her) ; I can quiet him down once we get away.
JOE: You better had let Bob and me talk it over, Mrs. Shifflett. Give him the keys.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: No; you'll hurt him, and you'll hurt my car. Don't you remember what you said coming home tonight?
JoE: What did I say?
MRS. SHIFFLETT: You swore you'd break it up if you ever got into it again because we didn't want to let Pearl stay here tonight.
JOE: Aw, I never said that, Mrs. Shifflett, you know I didn't; did I now, Pearl? (Pearl comes over to him and clings dependently on his arm and shoulder.)
PEARL: You know he didn't, Mrs . Shifflett (weeping).
JoE: See? (Smiles and waves his hand): Come on, let me have the car, then ( wheedlingly).
MRS. SHIFFLETT: No. (Shifflett lights cigarette.)
JOE: You'd better go careful yourself, you were in that party, too, last night.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Don't care (agitatedly), I have the keys and the property right to the car, and you-all shan't have it. (Joe takes Pearl close to him and begins roc!?ing her to and fro. Suddenly he
begins slapping her on the face and beating her, knocking her down. Shifflett rushes up to s eparat e them. Mrs. Shifflett takes Pearl u,nder her arni, Pearl crying.)
PEARL: Don't do nothing to 'im, Mr. Shifflett, don't do nothing to 'im!
MRS. SHIFFLETT: You brute! Get out of my house. Get out, I say. I don't want none o' yer. I'll have you to know, I won't have anything but gentlemen in my house. If you can't behave yourself, get out. I mean it ! Get out! Poor little thing ( snuggl i ng P ear l).
JoE: Come on, Pearl. (P earl starts over to him,. Mrs. Shiffl ett stops h er, holding to h er tightly.)
MRS. SHIFFLETT: N jo, you can't have her . . . get out of my house!
JoE (turning to Shifflett): Bob, let me have the girl and let me get out of this hole damn quick or I'll make it plenty hot for you.
SHIFFLETT: Come on, Lu, let us have the car and let me take them on home so we won ' t get into trouble. You know, Lu, if they get him in that state it will be all up with Dave and Parker.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: I can't help it, he shan't have the girl. The car is mine; I bought it with the money I earned with the boarders, and I have a right to keep you from using it. And what's more, if you don't make Joe get out quick, there's men in the house that can do it.
SHIFFLETT: Be reasonable, Lu; let him have the kid and let me take him home. (Pearl ma!?es a break from Mrs. Shifflett, g ets beside Joe , we eping.)
PEARL: Let me go with him, Mrs. Shifflett; let me go with . . . him . . . 00-00-oh ( with a sing-song wail.) (Joe starts to drag P earl out. Mrs. Shifflett runs to interv ene. Shifflett starts op ening the door for Joe. The two boarders appear on the scene in th eir bathrob es.)
DICKS: What the devil's going on? (The two rush forward, taking Pearl away from Jo e. Joe starts weeping.)
JOE: Loan me enough money to get a taxi ; call a taxi for me, Bob.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Put him out, Mr. Dicks. (Shifflett starts over to the phone. Dic!?s and Bill proceed to put Joe out.)
JOE: Here, take my overcoat, loan me enough money on it, will you , mister, will you? Come on, I've got to get to town (pleading).
SHIFFLETT: I'm going to call a taxi and see what arrangements I can make; I ain't got any money, Joe.
DICKS: Get out now, get out (pushing).
MRs. SHIFFLETT: Take him out, Mr. Dicks. (Joe is pushed out.)
JOE: All right, Bob, I'll remember that.
DICKS: Where does the sheriff live, Bill?
BILL : Believe he boards over on Sherwood A venue with a man named Duncan; look it up in the directory. (Dicks starts looking in the directory.)
SHIFFLETT ( calling taxi) : They don't answer. Look here, fellows, don't call the sheriff; it will get me into a bunch of trouble. I've got reasons why I don't want to get mixed up in this. If he gets caught my friends lose their money. He's out on peace bond.
DICKS ( at phone) : Boulevard 489-J . . . I'd like to get this cleared up. There's something funny about it.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Bob, what's Joe talking about. What's he got on you? You ain't clone nothing, have you? Oh, Bob, you ain't have you?
SHIFFLETT: Don't be silly, Lu. He's so damn drunk he thinks he has; he doesn't know what he says.
DICKS : Hello. This the sheriff? . . . Can't wake him up? Try again, will you? It's rather urgent.
SHIFFLETT: Tell him it's all right, Dicks, won't you?
DICKS: Listen, we heard that man beating up this girl, and we can't stand for that. . . . Hello, sheriff? Say, there's a drunkard here; he's been beating up a girl. Wan't you to come on over to Juniper Avenue and Meadow .... Yes .... Right by the Chrysler signboard. . . . Yeah, that's it . a gray, stucco house. . . . Get over here as quick as you can. (Hangs up.)
SHIFFLETT: Listen, fellows. I've been trying my best to do right by Joe. . . . I've loaned him money when he needed it; I've begged him to quit drinking. Last night his wife asked me to bring him out here so he wouldn't get into town. (The dog comes in again. Mrs. Shifflett takes hvm up and fondles him nervously, clasping him to her.) After I clone that for him he kicks up a row about the girl, here. Honest, that's what's its about, Lu. To save our souls we couldn't keep her from coming with us-left her sister; says she was going to stay by Joe no matter where he went. He beat her up, then.
THE MESSENGER
I cussed him out for it. We kept arguing about it all the way out here, and the girl telling me not to be hard on him. Kept it up after we had gone to bed-Joe and me piled in here on my bed; couldn't even take his clothes off-Lu and the girl upstairs. She's the funniest thing! (He laughs as if trying to ease the crowd.) About a month ago Joe got on a drunk and lay on the floor . Pearl, here, sat right by him the whole night looking after him. I was taking the part of his wife. You ought to have seen how she begged me la st night to take care of him for her. He treats her like a dog. If I were her I wouldn't have stood it this long, I tell you that now. (Pearl niakes an attempt to slip out; Mrs. Shifflet takes her and pushes her back into the other door.)
MRs. SHIFFLETT: Come on to bed, Pearl.
DICKS : Well, we'll be down when the sheriff arrives. Come on, Bill. ( They return to th eir room.)
SHIFFLETT: That's a devil of a mess, now. Have to get into twice as much trouble on account of all these boarders of yours.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Well, you could have kept out of it if you hadn't made a hog of yourselves at the party last night and got Joe so drunk.
SHIFFLETT: Yeah, I suppose yo u're going to reform now all of a sudden and stop drinking so's you can cuss me out about it. You've lot of room to talk.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Who made me drink? Who made me turn bootlegger so's you could have plenty of liquor for your old parties and get drunk as hops?
SHIFFLETT: Oh, shut up and go to bed. I'll tend to the sheri ff when he comes.
MRs. SIFFLETT: Bob ! What did Joe mean when he accused you of double-crossing him?
SHIFFLETT: I tell you he was drunk.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: What's that he talks about in your pocket. Let's see it.
SHIFFLETT: It's none of your business. (Knock on th e door. Shifflett opens. Sheriff walks in with fur coat and gloves.)
SHERIFF: Where's the rowdy? Damn a man that puts it off to four o'clock to have a row (gruffly).
SHIFFLETT: Everything's 0. K. now, sheriff. Sorry to have bothered you. Everybody's in bed asleep. (Looking furtiv ely at the door when ce come Dicks and Bill.)
DICK: That's not so, sheriff. Go and hunt the man up. He struck out on the road a few minutes ago.
SHERIFF: Which way?
DICKS: Down Meadow towards town. He's drunk and tried to beat up a girl here.
SHERIFF: Where's the girl?
DICKS: She's upstairs in bed now.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Sheriff! Don't go after him. He'll get on all right. The girl's here.
SHIFFLETT: Sure, he'll walk it off before he gets to town. It's seven miles away. (Sheriff starts walking out.)
SHERIFF: Great mind to go to bed. (Just as he reaches the door f oosteps are heard and the door swings open, revealing Joe.)
JOE: I'm telling you for the last time, Bob , give me the girl. I've taken care of her all right, and it's nobody's business but mine. Pearl! (Loudly.)
DICKS: Take him, sheriff.
JoE: So you'd call the sheriff, would you? Now say you ain't two -timing me, you ... you ... you'd see me in jail and never do anything about it. You call yourself my friend and you'd let me take the whole blame when you could say something to help me out. Just to save your own skin. Then you try to buy me to shut up. (Shifflett tries to hit Joe. They restrain him.)
SHIFFLETT: Keep quiet, Joe, or I swear I'll make it twice as hard for you.
JoE: Do, and be damned. I tell you ... listen, sheriff. (Shifflett makes another attempt to stop him.)
SHIFFLETT: Shut up or I'll tell them about Pearl; I'll tell your wife.
JOE: Tell; I don't give a damn. You'll go to jail, too. (Shifflett breaks away.)
SHIFFLETT ( in low tone) : Let me talk to him a minute, sheriff. ( Goes over to Joe, tries to prod him with a gun without the rest seeing him,.) Now say.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Oh, Bob! (She screanis. Sheriff and Dicks run to him and hold hini, taking gun away.)
SHERIFF: What are you doing with weapons?
SHIFFLETT: I'm a post -office clerk.
JoE: Look in his pockets, sheriff, search him. (Sheriff starts to do so . )
SHIFFLETT: You can't search me without a warrant. (Sheriff pauses. Joe runs over, and before anyone can stop him, takes out two or three letters from Shifflett' s pockets, and scatters them on the floor.)
JOE: Look them over, everybody. (Dicks holds Shifflett. Sheriff holds Joe. Mrs. Shifflett falls weakly on settee.)
SHERIFF: Hold this man, here, fellow. (Bill goes over. Sheriff starts to read letters.)
SHERIFF: First National Bank, City; Dodge Bros. Motor Co.; M. L. Patton, M. D., 1203 Monument Avenue.
JOE: Open them, sheriff. He's a mail clerk at the main postoffice. (Sheriff opens.) I was caught and he wasn\ You can take him along now.
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Bob! ( Shifflett alniost faints, and has to be held up.)
SHERIFF: Here, catch hold of him here. (Dicks goes over and talees Shifflett and sets him on the settee. Mrs. Shifflett is weeping, takes Die/es' place. Dicks and Bill go to bed.)
(All speaking at once):
DICKS: Come on, Bill. ( Sheriff starts to handcuff Joe to take him out. Pearl tries to follow the sheriff. Sheriff puts her back. Pearl clings on.)
SHERIFF: Stay here, girl. (Pearl cries.)
PEARL: No, I'm going with him; let me go with him, please. (Follows, running along behind.)
MRS. SHIFFLETT: Bob, Bob, why didn't you tell me . . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh ( violent weeping). Why did I ever let it happen . . . it's my fault. . . . I let you drag me down instead of me lifting you up . . . but I tried, Bob, I tried, and you wouldn't listen, don't you remember, Bob, I tried to get you to go to church and you made me quit, and made me quit going to see my friends. . . . I've slaved, I've scrubbed, I've given my whole life to you. Bob, you know I have, tried to reform you; you told me you had quit and I believed you. . . . I thought you were playing square with me I thought. . . . I should have known when you bought me all that new furniture there was something wrong. . . Oh, why did I let you . . . why, Bob . . . it was my fault . . . was my fault. (Sheriff comes with handcuffs.)
CURTAIN
THE MESSENGER
Member Intercollegiate Press Association of Virginia
RICHMOND COLLEGE
ELMER POTIER
J. HARRIS WELSH -
H. G. KINCHELOE
LAWRENCE BLOOMBERG
BRUCE MORRISSETTE -
CARROLL T. TAYLOR -
LLOYD CASTER -
Editor-in-Chief
Business Manager Assistant Editor Assistant Editor Assistant Editor - Assistant Business Man ager Staff Artist
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
CATHERINE BRANCH
NATALIE EVANS
MARGARET LOWE
Editor-in-Chief
Business Manager Assistant Editor
THE MESSENGER is published every month from November to June inclusive by the students of The University of Richmond. Contributions are welcomed from all members of the student body and from the alumni. Manuscripts not found available for publication will be returned. Subscription rates are Two Dollars per year; single copies Thirty-five cents. All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers. Entered as second-class matter in the postoffice at The University of Richmond.
EDITORIAL
The Players-Messenger Contest
THE results of the recent University Players-Messenger one-act play contest have already been announced in The Collegian as follows:
First prize of $20 awarded to Dramatis Personae by Bruce Morrissette. 1
Second prize of $15 awarded to There Came a Woman, written by Lawrence Bloomberg.
Third Prize of $10 awarded to In the Light of the Moon by Geneva Bennett.
Runners-up were Comproniise by Eudice Brenner, Drawbridge by Lawrence Bloomberg, and Ati Four A. M. by Ben Sowell, which latter appears in this issue.
In the opinion of the editor-if that means anything-the judges, Misses Brown and Lutz and Mr. Handy, have shown admirable taste. Mr. Morrissette's piece, which, incidentally, was unanimously voted first choice, is included in this issue. It is a notable piece of work,
THE MESSENGER
certainly, for a college Sophomore, embodying, as it does, some twentyfour pages of scintillating and unflagging dialogue wherein are developed several characters of really astonishing authenticity. The winner of the second prize appeared in THE MESSENGERof May, 1928, and the winner of the third prize will, in all probability, appear in the forthcoming Commencent Number.
It is our belief that the contest has, by inducing a number of young writers to attempt the difficult dramatic form, been of material benefit. Marshalling together the various elements that go to make up drama and arranging these elements in the proper time order and character relation to produce a readable and actable play is, we believe, one of the most difficult and exacting tasks to which a writer can set himself, and no young literateur can attempt such a feat without bettering himself.
The staff takes this opportunity of thanking all those who have contributed to the success of this attempt to stimulate literary interest on the campus-the students who so enthusiastically responded, the faculty members who so kindly read and judged the manuscripts, and the University Players who furnished a not incon siderable portion of the prize award.