Diminutive dramas

Scene.—London. Breakfast chamber in the Palace. King Henry VIII. and Catherine Parr are discovered sitting opposite to each other at the breakfast table. The King has just cracked a boiled egg.

King Henry. My egg’s raw. It really is too bad.

Catherine. Yesterday you complained of their being hard.

King Henry. And so they were. I don’t want a hard egg and I don’t want a raw egg. I want them to be cooked just right.

Catherine. You are very difficult to please. The egg was in boiling water for three minutes and a half. I boiled it myself. But give it me. I like them like that. I will boil you another.

King Henry. No, it’s too late now. But it is a fact that you have no idea how to boil an egg. I wish you’d let them do them in the kitchen.

Catherine. If they’re done in the kitchen you complain because they’re not here when you come down, and if they are here, you say they’re cold.

King Henry. I never say anything of the kind. The cook boils eggs beautifully.

Catherine. She shall boil them to-morrow.

King Henry. One would have thought that a woman of your experience might at least know how to boil an egg. I hate a watery egg. (Pensively) Poor dear Katie used to boil eggs beautifully.

Catherine. Do you mean Catherine Howard or Katharine of Aragon?

King Henry. I was alluding to poor, dear, misguided Katie Howard. Katharine of Aragon never was my wife. The marriage was not valid.

Catherine. Well, Catherine Howard ought to have known how to boil eggs, considering her mother was a kitchenmaid.

King Henry. That is utterly untrue. Her mother was a Rockford.

Catherine. You’re thinking of Anne Bullen.

King Henry. Yes, yes, to be sure, Katie’s mother was a Somerset.

Catherine. You’re thinking of Jane Seymour.

King Henry. Not at all. Jane Seymour was a sister of Somerset’s.

Catherine. All I know is that Catherine Howard’s mother was a kitchenmaid. And I think it’s very unkind of you to throw her up at me. I suppose you mean that you wish she were alive, and that you loved her better than you love me.

King Henry. I never said anything of the kind. All I said was that she knew how to boil eggs.

Catherine. You clearly meant to say that she had all the qualities which I lack.

King Henry. You are most unfair. I never meant to hint at any such thing. All I said was that I hate a watery egg, and my egg this morning was raw.

Catherine (rising and going to the door in a temper). Well, the best thing you can do is to get rid of me, and to marry some one who knows how to boil an egg.

King Henry. Catherine, come back! I really didn’t mean to offend you. You know how to boil eggs very well.

Catherine (sitting down). One takes an endless amount of trouble, and that’s all the thanks one gets. Don’t think that I shall ever boil your eggs for you again, because I shan’t.

King Henry. I was thinking we might have a little music this morning. I have composed a new ballad which I should like to try over with you. It’s for viol and lute and voice. We might try it.

Catherine. I’m not sure if I have time. What is it called?

King Henry. It’s called “The Triumph of Love,” and it begins:

Catherine. “Son” doesn’t rhyme with “come.”

King Henry. It’s not meant to. It’s assonance.

Catherine. Do you mean Alexander the Great?

King Henry. Yes, of course.

Catherine. The only thing is, his horse was black.

King Henry. No, my dear, you’re mistaken; his horse was white.

Catherine. Black—black as jet.

King Henry. But I know for a fact it was white.

Catherine. Alexander’s horse was black. Everybody knows it was black.

King Henry. It was white. You can ask any one you like.

Catherine. It was black. He was famous for his black horse. There are hundreds of pictures of him on his black horse—my father has got one.

King Henry. Then the painter made a mistake. Plutarch, Xenophon, Aristotle all mention his white horse.

Catherine. Black.

King Henry. But, my dear, how obstinate you are! I know it is white——

Catherine. Black, coal-black.

King Henry. Have you read Xenophon?

Catherine. You are thinking of something else. Even when we were children my father always showed us the picture of Alexander’s black horse.

King Henry. Well, I can easily prove it to you. There’s a Plutarch here in the bookcase. (He goes to the bookcase and takes out a book.)

Catherine. I remember it particularly well because my brother had a black horse and we called it “Bucephalus,” after Alexander’s black horse.

King Henry (turning over the leaves of the book). If it had been black it would never have been called Bucephalus—it would be absurd to call a black horse Bucephalus.

Catherine. Not so absurd as calling a white horse Bucephalus.

King Henry. He would never have chosen a black horse. He was superstitious——

Catherine. Just because you’re superstitious and believe in Saints, and worship images, you think every one else is. As a matter of fact, he chose a black horse on purpose to show he didn’t care a pin about superstitions——

King Henry. Here it is—“χαλεπὸς εἶναι καὶ κομιδῆ δύσχρηστος”—“The horse was wild and extremely difficult to manage.” In fact, he had all the characteristics of the white Thessalian horses of that day.

Catherine. But it doesn’t say it was white. And Thessalian horses are famous for being black.

King Henry. You really are too obstinate for words. I will find you the proof in Xenophon. It is distinctly stated that the horse was white. It is an historical fact. Nobody has ever disputed it.

Catherine. But Plutarch, you see, practically says it was black.

King Henry. Plutarch says nothing of the kind. Besides, I now remember talking about this with Wolsey, who was an excellent scholar. I distinctly remember his saying one day: “As white as Bucephalus.” It’s quite a common phrase among scholars.

Catherine. He must have said “As black as Bucephalus.”

King Henry. Of course, if you mean to say I tell lies——

Catherine. I don’t mean that you tell lies, but you are mistaken—that’s all.

King Henry. But I tell you that there is no mistake possible. I know it as well as I know my own name.

Catherine. Your memory plays you tricks. Just now you couldn’t remember Catherine Howard’s mother’s name.

King Henry. That’s nothing to do with it. Besides, I did remember it. I made a slip, that’s all. But this is an historical fact which I’ve known all my life.

Catherine. I quite understand your memory failing you. You have so many names to remember. I expect you were confusing Alexander’s black horse with King Alfred’s white horse—the white horse of Wantage.

King Henry. Good gracious! If you had a smattering of education you wouldn’t say such things! It comes of having no religion and no education, and of not knowing Latin. A Lutheran education is worse than none. Even Anne of Cleves knew Latin.

Catherine. Thank heavens, I don’t know Latin! Stupid, superstitious language, fit only for bigots and monks!

King Henry. I suppose you mean I am a bigot.

Catherine. You can turn what one says into meaning anything you like. As a matter of fact, all I said was that the horse was black.

King Henry. I’d rather be a bigot than a Lutheran heretic.

Catherine. You know you’re wrong and you try to escape the point. That’s just like a Tudor. No Tudor could ever listen to reason.

King Henry. I must ask you not to insult my family.

Catherine. You’ve insulted mine, which is a far older one. My family has no blood on its escutcheon.

King Henry. I won’t stand this any longer. (He gets up, opens the door, and calls) Denny, Butts, Page, who is there?

Enter a Page

Page. Your Majesty.

King Henry. Go and tell the Lord Chamberlain to make the necessary arrangements for transporting the Ex-Queen to the Tower.

Page (puzzled). Yes, your Majesty. Does your Majesty mean the late Queen’s remains?

King Henry. I said the Ex-Queen, you stupid boy—Queen Catherine Parr.

Page. Yes, your Majesty.

King Henry. And tell him to give orders to the Governor of the Tower to have everything ready for the Ex-Queen’s execution.

Page. Is the same ceremonial to be observed as in the case of Queen Catherine Howard, your Majesty?

King Henry. Yes; only there need only be one roll of drums instead of two—at the end. (The Page goes to the door.) And on the way ask Dr. Butts whether Alexander the Great’s horse was black or white.

Catherine. It was black. (The Page bows and goes out.) Well, since I’m to be executed I daresay you will allow me to go and pack up my things. By the way, you left your lute in my sitting-room yesterday. I will bring it down.

King Henry. Wait a minute, there’s no hurry.

Catherine. I beg your pardon, I have very little time, and a great many letters to write.

King Henry (hesitating). And I wanted to have some music.

Catherine. You don’t expect me to accompany you now, I suppose? You had better find some one else. I have got other things to think about during my last moments on earth.

King Henry (laughing uneasily). I was only joking, of course, my dear. You don’t mean to say you took it seriously.

Catherine. I am afraid I don’t appreciate that kind of joke.

King Henry. Come, come; let bygones be bygones, and let us have some music. I want to play you my ballad.

Enter the Page

Page. If you please, your Majesty, I can’t find the Lord Chamberlain, and Dr. Butts says your Majesty was quite correct as to the colour of Alexander the Great’s horse.

King Henry (beaming). Very good; you can go. You need not deliver the message to the Lord Chamberlain. (The Page bows and retires.) And now, my dear, we’ll go and play. You see I knew I was right.

[The King opens the door with a bow.

Catherine. It was black, all the same.

King Henry (indulgently, as if speaking to a child). Yes, yes, my dear, of course it was black, but let’s go and have some music.

[They go out.

Curtain.