All.
[Considering.] That’s true!
The Chancellor.
So long as there’s no precedent to go by, suppose we ourselves adopt an original measure. Suppose we take the Princess into our confidence so that she can herself be on her guard! [This gives rise to murmurs, some approving, others dissenting.]
The King.
It’s rather radical, not to say subversive, to teach young people anything that isn’t perfectly pleasant, but—isn’t it best to let them find out for themselves that roses have thorns?
The Chancellor.
Hardly, Sire, considering the price of the prick!
The Frog.
That’s what I have always said!
The Queen.
Yes, but then you two haven’t the feelings of a mother! If you think there are no pricks, why, then there are none!... Ouch! What was that?
The King.
Oh, nothing, my love! I only stuck a pin into your arm to test your theory!
The Queen.
But it isn’t a fair test unless you tell that you are going to do it, so that I can make up my mind not to feel it!
The King.
I see! Well, but to come back to the question, who is to tell our child of the peril in which she stands?
The Queen.
Why, you, of course! You are head of the family!
The King.
Only when there’s something unpleasant to be done! When it’s a matter of buying new head-gear, Paris hats, and all that, who is head of the family then, I’d like to know!—However, I suppose I had better take the child into the library, and say: “My child, I do not wish to alarm you, but—” [All murmur, protesting against this.] Oh, very well, then! Someone else will have to do it!
The Chancellor.
Couldn’t it be led up to diplomatically, Sire? Use tact! As thus: “How pretty you look to-day, my little daughter! Which reminds me; speaking of the uncertainty of life—” [Again All protest.] Oh, as you please! I only threw out the suggestion!
The Frog.
Why not be playful? Introduce death jocosely into the conversation! Begin with dead letters and go on to the dead languages! Ask her how long a dead-weight is! And if a dead-lock grows on a dead-head! [Again All protest strongly.] Oh, very well! Do it your own way!
The King.
Why can’t the child’s governess teach her all about it? It seems to me it is a matter of education, entirely!
The Governess.
Pardon, Sire. Questions concerning life and death were strictly barred from the curriculum on which my diploma was obtained!
The King.
Well, something has to be done; that’s clear!
All.
Yes, that’s clear!
The King.
But what? And how? That’s the question!
All.
Yes, that’s the question!
The Queen.
I have an idea! Let us all tell her, together, in concert! [All assent.] Let us all begin, “My dear little Moss-Rose—Our dear little Moss-Rose—”
All.
[Clap hands.] Oh, excellent!
The King.
Yes! Well, and then—?
The Queen.
Yes; what then?
All.
Yes; what then?
The Nurse.
Madam, if I may make so bold—
The Queen.
Well, nurse? What have you to suggest?
The Nurse.
The Princess has always been keen about fairy-stories! Why not tell it to her, each contributing a bit, as if it were a fairy-story? Begin, Once upon a time!
[All exclaim, interested.]
The Queen.
But, my dear soul; this is true! How can we pretend about it?
[All agree to this view of the matter.]
The Nurse.
Madam, it’s by pretending that truth is a fairy-story we make children know it’s true!
The Queen.
Nurse, you’re a darling, but so old-fashioned! Fairy-stories don’t happen nowadays, do they, Sir Amphibious?
The Frog.
My old grandmother, Mother Goose, believes in them! But then, she’s a Mother Goose!
The Gardener.
Fairy-stories happen in the greenhouse, and miracles in the garden all the time! I help ’em along! Why, look at that bonny moss-rose bush! Sixteen years from to-day it was but a wee slip, as tiny in its way as the Princess in hers!
The King.
But, my dear fellow, that’s only nature, and we are talking about life and death, which are social functions, eh, my Lord High Chancellor?
The Chancellor.
[Corroborating this.] Social functions, Sire! Greatly copied by the lower classes!
[There is a pause.]
The King.
Well, what are we to do? [Moss-Rose is heard, singing, approaching.] Here comes the child now! Why didn’t we prepare for this long ago?
The Gardener.
Sixteen years ago, when I planted that wee slip!
The King.
Something has to be done! Nurse’s suggestion—it’s the simplest! We’ll tell her her own story as if it were a fairy-story! Remember, all must help! All must begin, Once upon a time! [Moss-Rose enters, laden with presents.] Ah, my dear child! Come here! We’re going to tell you something—a fairy-story, eh, my Lords and Ladies?
All.
Yes, indeed! Once upon a time—
Moss-Rose.
Oh, you darlings! But, wait! Wait till I have thanked you all for the lovely presents you have given me! [She lays them heaped on the table.] They’re all of them just exactly what I wanted! Just as if they came out of a fairy-book! So, now, then, for your story! [She seats herself on a step of the throne.]
The King and Queen.
My dear little Moss-Rose—
All.
Our dear little Moss-Rose—
Moss-Rose.
Oh, wait! My candles! [She runs toward the cake.] Before they burn down you must all blow them out together! But first each must make me a wish! Now, wish, in silence, then when I count three, blow! Blow hard, all together! Ready! One, two, three—Blow! [All blow, and the candle-flames are extinguished.] Good! Now I am going to have luck till my next birthday! [She returns to her place on the throne-step.] Now, then, for the fairy-story! Once upon a time—
All.
Once upon a time—
Moss-Rose.
[Starts up.] Wait! Hush! Oh, listen! Listen! [All show alarm at her manner.]
The Queen.
Moss-Rose—my child—what is it!
Moss-Rose.
[As if drawn slowly nearer the enchanted mug.] Oh, wonderful! So soft—but always growing louder, coming nearer—like the turning of a wheel! [All exclaim, in alarm.] Oh, it sounds like—Oh, it is that forbidden word beginning with s-p!
[Again All cry out in wildest alarm. Moss-Rose, however, begins to dance, and grow excited. Meanwhile the sound of the Wheel is heard whirring, and a faint voice croons the Spin-Wheel’s Song.]
The King.
[Trying to catch Moss-Rose.] My precious one, come to your father!
The Queen.
[Also trying to catch her.] My baby, come hide your head in mother’s lap where you won’t hear it!
Moss-Rose.
[Eluding capture.] Oh, but I want to hear it! It is beautiful, but terrible! Terrible, but beautiful! It is drawing me away from you all! Oh, now I begin to understand! Strange voices are telling me the word you all bump your heads and stub your poor toes against!—Consider the lilies of the field, How they grow! That’s what the archbishop preached about. They toil not, he said, neither do they sp— Then he broke off, just as everybody does, as if a thread were snapped when anyone said something beginning with s-p!
The Chancellor.
Your Royal Highness—my precious Princess—Listen! I’ll explain! Oh, listen to your old friend!
Moss-Rose.
I’d like to please you, my dear Lord, but—buzz, whir—sp-p—
[Everyone shrieks, preventing her saying the word.]
The Frog.
[Seizing her hand.] Come, my darling goddaughter—to the pond—the pond!
Moss-Rose.
Oh, but my dear, dear Sir Amphibious, I can’t! Don’t you hear it calling me? Buzz-whir—telling me it is the appointed day! [Again All cry out.]
The Cook.
[Followed by his assistants rushes in, agitated, brandishing a soup-ladle.] Oh, Sire, Madam—in the kitchen—the strangest noise—There it is now! Buzz, whir, sp—
[Again All cry out.]
Moss-Rose.
[In an ecstasy.] Spin! That’s what it says! Spin-Spin-Spin!
[All shriek with horror. Confusion prevails.]
The King.
[In wildest alarm.] Hunt it! Kill it! Loose the dogs! Turn the hose upon it!
All.
[Rushing about wildly.] Hunt it! Kill it! Destroy the spinning-wheel! Loose the dogs! Turn the hose on it! Banish it! Behead it! Death to the spinning-wheel!
[Brandishing whatever comes to hand as weapon All rush out in different directions, seeking the enemy. Meanwhile the buzzing sound seems to pervade the place, as if myriad spinning-wheels were at work. Moss-Rose, who alone remains, dances in ecstasy. Rising from her christening mug appear the Three Fates, known to the ancients as Atropos, Clotho and Lachesis in their traditional attitudes. They are singing as they work.]
[During this Moss-Rose looks up and seeing the Three Weird Sisters dances and claps her hands in an ecstasy of glee, joining in the chorus of the song. At one point, noticing the spindle, she holds up her hands for this entreatingly, on which the Fate holding it, lowers it to her by its thread. Moss-Rose delightedly dances about, playing with it, its thread still retained by the Fate. Suddenly the maiden pricks her finger, and stops in her dance. She staggers slightly, as if dizzy, looks at her finger, sucks this, and laughs, as if it were but a trifling matter. Then she passes her hand over her brow, as if dazed, becomes more and more sleepy, and finally falls on a couch at the foot of the mug in enchanted slumber. The King, Queen and all the Court return, breathless with their quest. The Fates disappear as they came, but the spindle with its attaching thread remains in the young girl’s hand.]
The King.
Strange, it’s nowhere to be found!
The Queen.
Nowhere! We must just have thought there was one!
The Chancellor.
High and low—nowhere!
The Frog.
By land or water—nowhere!
All.
Nowhere!
The King.
It is all right, Moss-Rose! Where are you, child?
The Queen.
She’s hiding, frightened! Moss-Rose! There’s nothing to be afraid of, darling! Where can the child be?
All.
[Searching.] Moss-Rose! Princess Moss-Rose!
The King.
Search the forest! Drag the pond!
The Court.
Aye, search the forest, drag the pond!
The Frog.
You look to the forest; leave the pond to me! [While about to run out he sees Moss-Rose and utters a wild cry.] Ah-h!
All.
What is it? [They run to the spot, and seeing her, also cry out.]
The King.
My child, my little daughter, my Moss-Rose!
The Queen.
Moss-Rose! Oh, my baby!
The King.
But however did it happen?
The Chancellor.
[Lifting the spindle.] See! See! A spindle! [All exclaim.]
The King.
But how, where, why.... Where did it come from?
The Chancellor.
Attached to a thread that reaches ... reaches.... [Growing sleepy.]
The Frog.
Clear to the centre of the earth ... and the waters under the earth! [Yawning.]
The Chancellor.
[Dropping the spindle.] No precedent.... I don’t recall any precedent! [Yawning, he staggers over to the statute books and tries to turn over the leaves of these.]
The King.
[Chafing a hand of the sleeping girl.] But, my child—surely she is not dead? [All echo, “Not dead?”]
The Queen.
[Kissing Moss-Rose.] No, no! Only sleeping!
All.
Ah, only sleeping!
The Chancellor.
Term not exceeding one hundred years—[Sleepily.] Kind courtesy of Sir Amphid—Amphid—phib—phib—phib—ib—ib—
The Frog.
Just a trifling matter of a century!
The Queen.
So kind of him when already—given—mug! [Sleepily.] Good-night, my darling, for one hundred years! [Again kisses Moss-Rose and staggers to throne, falls on this, in sound slumber.]
The King.
[Following the Queen’s example.] Good-night, daughter—good-night, everybody—one hundred—
All.
Good-night—everybody—one hundred—[Falling asleep.]
The Frog.
You see, moral is, no escaping Fate! Fate! [Yawns.] Oh, I am so dry! Can’t you spray me? [To the Gardener.]
The Gardener.
[To his assistants who hold garden hose and watering-pot.] Don’t you hear? Let spray!
The Frog.
Aye, let spray! Always spray before going to bed! ’specially one hundred years!
[Drops off to sleep.]
The Gardener.
[Catching hold of a branch of the wonderful moss-rose bush.] It’s the finest moss-rose bush in all the world!—Little slip—this size—sixteen years—Just think!—One hundred years—whole forest—moss roses!
[Drops off to sleep.]
The Cook.
[Waking slightly.] Left roast on spit—bread in oven—Slightly overdone—one hundred years!
The Butler.
[Very drowsy, taking an alarm clock from his pocket, and trying to set it.] Those lazy footmen—Set alarm—wake promptly—one hundred years!
The Governess.
[Almost asleep.] Have to go to work—learn new set of dates—important events—one hundred years!
The Queen.
[Waking slightly.] How the fashions will have changed—one hundred years!—New clothes—Shall have to order—entire new wardrobe! From Paris—one hundred—new hats!
The King.
[Slightly waking.] No, no! Same old styles—come back—into fashion again—every hundred years! [He settles himself comfortably, and is about to doze again when some sound without arrests his attention.] Hark! Hark!
All.
[Slightly roused.] Hark, hark, the lark!
The King.
Aye, the lark, and the hawk; bird of song and bird of prey alike; the lion and the lamb—all, all falling fast asleep! Hear old lion snore! Sleep one hundred years! [He drops into slumber again.]
The Frog.
Oh, I am so dry! I am so dry!
All.
Do keep still—not wake—everybody—one hundred—
The Frog.
But I am so dry! [A Gardener’s Boy sprays him.] That’s better! Oh, I was so dry! I was so dry! [Again All murmur.] All very well for landlubbers, but first time—I ever went without bath—one hundred years!
[There is a slight somnolent pause, then softly, faintly the whir of the wheels of Fate and the Spin-wheel Song rise from the enchanted mug; meanwhile roses bubble over its sides, their long trailing sprays falling like a veil over the sleeping Princess.]
The Gardener.
[Catching a handful of sprays, crosses the hall, these lengthening in his progress, as if by miraculous growth from their root in the enchanted mug.] Little slip—whole forest—one hundred years! [Still holding the ends of the trailing sprays he falls down, asleep.]
The King and Queen.
[In their sleep.] Good-night, Moss-Rose! Good-night, everybody, one hundred years!
All.
[In their sleep.] Good-night—everybody—one hundred years!
[The Curtains now shut out the scene from our view, but if by any chance these are lifted again we see roses, always moss-roses, fountaining from the mug over the assemblage in their enchanted sleep.]
THE THIRD EVENT
[The Curtains lifted, now disclose the same scene, but with the Gardener’s prophecy evidently fulfilled, for we seem to be on the outskirts of a dense forest of moss-roses. As we gaze on this, wondering what ever will come of it, we hear two voices, one which might properly belong, and proves so to do, to a charming Young Prince, while the other is that of his Tutor.]
The Prince.
This way! What ho, Mentor! This way! [He blows a blast on his horn.]
Mentor.
What ho! Oh, I’m nearly smothered! And I’m almost pricked to death! Where, in the name of forestry, are you?
The Prince.
Here! This way!... To the right! So! Here we are!
[They come from opposite directions, and meet on the outskirts of the thicket confronting us, and we now see that Prince Charming fully justifies his name, while Mentor is no doubt a tutor with excellent references. Each carries or drags a number of trophies in the way of arms and legs and other portions of the anatomy, or some piece of the outfit, of other Princes. They pause to rest.]
Mentor.
What a wild-goose chase! And so far, not even the ghost of a wild-goose! Only this human bric-a-brac! [Throws down his burden.]
The Prince.
Still, as an antiquarian, you ought not to grumble! [Throwing down his burden, also. Both sit.] Did you ever see such a collection?
Mentor.
[Picking up specimens.] Leg of the time of your great grandfather! Right arm dating, let me see, fifty years back! Torso ninety-nine years old!
The Prince.
And we can’t construct one symmetrical skeleton out of them! None of the rights match the lefts! Whatever shall we do with them? As trophies they are interesting, yet one wouldn’t want them on the walls of the dining-room!
Mentor.
As soon as you ascend the throne you must build a new wing to the Royal Museum for them. Ouch! Another thorn in my foot!
The Prince.
Oh, I’m getting used to thorns! As for these fellows, look at them! Everyone of them a human pin-cushion! Well, they certainly made a valiant battle for the rose!
Mentor.
The rose, the rose, always the rose! Haven’t you got that old tale out of your mind yet?
The Prince.
How can I, when I was brought up on it? It is true, nurses in long succession were dismissed for attempting to tell me fairy-tales, but these things will out! There was a jackdaw who used to sit on the barn door and talk to himself about it, hour after hour. Then in the pond were two venerable frogs who told me that in their tadpole youth they had been to the palace itself to carry a mug as christening present for the Rose!
Mentor.
Fudge! Have you any sandwiches left?
[The Prince offers him the lunch-box that he carries, also a flask, then proceeds with his discourse.]
The Prince.
Also there was a robin whose grandmother had escaped from the forest just before the slumber-spell fell on it!
Mentor.
[With his mouth full.] Fudge! Stuff and nonsense!
The Prince.
And in my nursery there is a tiger-skin rug, you remember! Well, one day it whispered to me—
Mentor.
Gammon and spinach! I beg your pardon, my dear Prince, but really, when you talk this way—Why, the thesis on which I took my doctor’s degree is a refutation of the tissue of lies—very poetic ones, I grant you—which form the myth of the Sleeping Beauty! [He takes a drink.] There’s a presentation copy in the Royal library! The trouble is that the poetic myth is a best seller, while the leaves of the presentation-copy-refutation remain uncut!
The Prince.
But, my dear Mentor, how do you account for the disappearance of King Johannes Johann Ivor Ivan Ian Giovanni Juan Jean John? The sudden mysterious disappearance with all his court that caused my royal ancestors to annex the kingdom to their own! It’s an historical fact, you know!
Mentor.
Oh, probably good King Jack got into some slight trouble—violated the game laws, or something, so abdicated and went quietly abroad, leaving the Court Chronicler to invent some pretty tale to hush up the scandal!
The Prince.
But this forest that we have hewed and hacked our way through—How do you account for it that every living thing in it, bird and beast, is fast, fast asleep?
Mentor.
The sleeping sickness is nothing new! Everyone, from Adam down, who has had to sit through after-dinner oratory has felt a touch of it! It is only the orators who are immune!
The Prince.
And this forest—this marvellous forest of moss-roses?
Mentor.
Just moss-roses! The soil in this region happens to be peculiarly favourable to their growth!
The Prince.
And the Princess herself, the heart and soul and living embodiment of a moss-rose?
Mentor.
My dear lad, all youths of the princely temperament are like you! All want to turn the cold hard facts of science into romance, with a beautiful maid at the root of a beautiful mystery! To let you into a family confidence, it originated with my great-aunt! Oh, she was not beautiful; she was practical and punctual, like me! In order to be always in the right and put her husband always in the wrong she used to turn the hands of the clock to whatever hour she thought would be for his best good! It was one of those large, old-fashioned clocks, you know! And one night, while inside the case, she got caught in the works, and for eight days went up and down, clinging to the weights, ticking off the seconds, striking the hours, before she was rescued by the little Swiss man who came periodically to wind and regulate the household time-pieces! My great-uncle-by-marriage, though at the time distracted with anxiety, has since been heard to say that those were the happiest because the most unpunctual hours of his life! Since which time it has passed into a proverb when anything is wrong with the works of anything to look for a woman in the case!
The Prince.
What you say no doubt is true, and yet—
Mentor.
And yet, like all young fools you won’t believe me till you yourself have proved it! In spite of all these warnings, in the shape of fragments of Kings’ Sons who have lost their lives in the attempt! If these poor witnesses could speak, which, think you, would say, go forward, Prince Charming? Persevere unto the end!
The Prince.
Which, think, you, would say, Turn back, Prince Charming! Give it up!
Mentor.
All! Every mother’s son of them!
The Prince.
Not one! Not one protoplasmic atomy of one!
[At this challenge the Fragments of Kings’ Sons become endowed with the powers of life. The Hands applaud, clap the Prince on the back, or shake hands with him, the Legs dance, and indeed the ruder of these buffet Mentor, one going so far as to kick his hat off. The Torso inclines itself approvingly, the Heads bow, and many Voices cry “Go forward, Prince Charming! Persevere to the end!”]
The Prince.
You hear? [To Mentor.] I thank you, comrades, or fragments of comrades; I thank you with all my heart!
Mentor.
More fools they!... You see that while we have found countless hearts we have not come upon one single set of brains! Now, now! [Evading some of the Fragments who seem disposed to resent this.] Since you are in pieces can’t you rest in peace?
The Prince.
Forward, that’s the word! With the Heart for my device, let my motto be: Forward, to success, or death in the attempt!
[He hacks away at the hedge, on which all the Fragments aid him.]
Mentor.
Since you are determined to go on, why not try skill instead of strength! See how all these branches seem to radiate from a common centre, somewhere not far away, as if they had fountained, tent-wise, over a clear space!... What’s that noise?
The Prince.
People approaching! Who can it be?
[We now hear a swish-swash approaching from the outer forest, also the sound of an old man’s stick. Pausing, the Prince and Mentor turn, and see two elderly Frogs. These halt, and salute.]
First Frog.
Pardon. Prince Charming, I believe!
Second Frog.
We believe!
The Prince.
[Salutes.] At your service, gentlemen!—Why, you are my two old friends from the Frog-pond!
The Frogs.
[Gratified.] The same. The same!
First Frog.
It’s a long time since Your Highness has made mud pies and listened to our tales!
The Prince.
But never have I forgotten these! The proof is, I am here, following the prickly quest for the Sleeping Beauty in the enchanted forest of moss-roses!
First Frog.
All Kings’ Sons to whom the tale is told sooner or later follow the same quest!
The Prince.
And fall beside the way! [Sighs, on which all the Hearts sigh also.]
Second Frog.
True! Failures, but glorious! They fell because they were in advance of their time! But you—
The Prince.
I?
Second Frog.
You will succeed, because you are the Man of the Hour!
The Prince.
[Bows.] I thank you much for telling me this!
First Frog.
Don’t mention it! We have followed you, every step of the way, rather slowly, because of my brother’s rheumatism—
Second Frog.
I always get rheumatism unless I have wet feet! To sit in a puddle on a chilly evening, that’s the only way to keep well!
First Frog.
At any rate we got ahead of the jackdaw and the robin. Flighty things, they stopped to wake up everybody and have a bit of worm with every old acquaintance on the way!—There they are now! Flighty things! [He shakes his stick at two birds whom we hear chattering and whistling in a nearby thicket.]
The Prince.
My old friends! [He waves his hand, whistling to the Birds who respond in kind.] But, come! To work!
First Frog.
Sir, we ask the privilege of following the adventure with you! In our tadpole days, aye, even as pollywogs, we were devoted to the Frog who was the oldest and most respected inhabitant of our pond. When he was chosen godfather to the Princess it was we who carried the christening mug to the palace. We were present when he was knighted, and baroneted! And now, if he has dried up we wish to bestow on him a watery grave and dig a mud-hole to his memory. [He weeps.]
Second Frog.
That’s it; a mud-hole to the memory of Sir Amphibious! [Weeps.]
The Prince.
Gentlemen, your sentiments do you credit, and believe me, if there is anything I can do in the way of restoratives ... casting a wet blanket, or the like—! Why, what’s this? [Stepping aside, he stoops to examine something against which his foot had brushed.]
All.
[Excited.] What is it?
The Prince.
The hand of a man—not dead, but warm with sleep!
Mentor.
[Excited, stoops to examine.] A man wearing the badge of Court Gardener, of the time of King Johannes Giovanni John!
[Releasing the spray from the Gardener’s hand the Prince raises this, whereupon it snaps back toward the still invisible mug. All exclaim, and set to work vigorously, assisted by the Fragments, and soon all the sprays are drawn aside, curtain-wise, or pulled back by unseen forces toward the mug. At last the scene is revealed, of the Court asleep, Princess Moss-Rose in the centre, on her couch, against the mug. All exclaim, and do homage.]
The Prince.
At last, at last!
The Head Fragments.
At last!
[The Hearts sigh.]
The Prince.
Poor dears, to think that I should succeed where such good men and true have failed!
First Frog.
Ah, to be the Man of the Hour—that’s success! If only one knows enough to realise it!
Second Frog.
And there, there, is our own dear Sir Amphibious! Not changed one bit!
Mentor.
Well, it’s all very well to talk of success, but after all you have only come upon a bit of still-life, a canvas by an old master, as it were! And the chances are it would crumble to dust if you were to transfer it to the Royal Museum!
The Prince.
But they’re only asleep!
The Frogs.
That’s all!
Mentor.
What’s the difference, if you can’t wake them?
The Prince.
But I must! I must!... Eh, my friends?
Voices.
[From invisible sources.] You must!
The Prince.
[Gazing on Moss-Rose from afar.] And yet, so beautiful, how dare I?
The Voices.
You must!
The Prince.
[To Mentor.] You hear? They say I must!
Mentor.
Who say so? Simply the echoes of your sophomoric fancy!
The Voices.
Fiddlestrings!
Mentor.
Eh? I beg your pardon?
The Voices.
Fudge! Gammon and spinach!
Mentor.
[Piqued.] Oh, very well! Only I don’t see the good of getting a degree if I’m not allowed to know anything about anything!
A Single Voice.
Go forward! Take your fate into your own hands!
The Prince.
Who gave me that counsel? You, my jackdaw? You, friend robin?
First Frog.
Oh, that’s Destiny! Destiny always is in at the death!
The Prince.
The death?
First Frog.
Or the other ending!
Mentor.
Well, if they have to be wakened let’s go to work and waken them! Here, I’ll begin with the governess! [He approaches the Governess.] Miss! I regret to disturb you, Miss, but do you happen to know the date? Where was the first nail knocked, eh? How many scruples make a conscience? Bah! Things that I could answer in my sleep!
The Frogs.
[Stroking Sir Amphibious.] Dry as a bone, poor dear! Lucky we brought a wet sponge with us! [After repeated efforts to arouse their friend, they desist in despair.] Dear, dear, if we could only get him down to the marshes!
The Prince.
What can I do? [He appeals to the Hearts who sigh in response. He listens to them more closely.] What’s that? You want to sing! [He sets them in the window where they give the notes of the scale, like an Æolian harp.] Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si—and the scale is closed by the echo in my own heart! What is it you sing,