Enter Spartacus, L.,[6] Jovius, R.
Spartacus. Speak, Roman! wherefore does thy master send
Thy gray hairs to the “cut throat’s” camp?
Spart. Why, that’s a better name than rogue or bondman;
But in this camp I am called General.
Jov. Brave General,—for, though a rogue and bondman,
As you have said, I’ll still allow you General,
As he that beats a consul surely is.
Spart. Say two—two consuls; and to that e’en add
A proconsul, three prætors, and some generals.
Jov. Why, this is no more than true. Are you a Thracian?
Jov. There is something in the air of Thrace
Breeds valor up as rank as grass. ’Tis pity.
You are a barbarian.
Jov. Had you been born
A Roman, you had won by this a triumph.
Spart. I thank the gods I am barbarian;
For I can better teach the grace-begot
And heaven-supported masters of the earth
How a mere dweller of a desert rock
Can bow their crowned heads to his chariot-wheels,
Their regal necks to be his stepping-blocks.
But come, what is thy message?
Jov. Julia, niece
Of the prætor, is thy captive.
Jov. For whom
Is offered in exchange thy wife, Senona,
And thy young boy.
Spart. Tell thou the prætor, Roman,
The Thracian’s wife is ransomed.
Spart. Ransomed, and by the steel, from out the camp
Of slaughtered Gellius! (Pointing off.) Behold them, Roman!
Jov. (Looking as Spart. points.) This is sorcery!
But name a ransom for the general’s niece.
Spart. Have I not now the prætor on the hip?
He would, in his extremity, have made
My wife his buckler of defence; perhaps
Have doomed her to the scourge! But this is Roman.
Now the barbarian is instructed. Look!
I hold the prætor by the heart; and he
Shall feel how tightly grip barbarian fingers.
Jov. Men do not war on women. Name her ransom.
Spart. Men do not war on women! Look you:
One day I climbed up to the ridgy top
Of the cloud-piercing Hæmus, where, among
The eagles and the thunders, from that height,
I looked upon the world, as far as where,
Wrestling with storms, the gloomy Euxine chafed
On his recoiling shores; and where dim Adria
In her blue bosom quenched the fiery sphere.
Between those surges lay a land, might once
Have matched Elysium; but Rome had made it
A Tartarus. In my green youth I looked
From the same frosty peak where now I stood,
And then beheld the glory of those lands,
Where Peace was tinkling on the shepherd’s bell
And singing with the reapers.
Since that glad day, Rome’s conquerors had passed
With withering armies there, and all was changed.
Peace had departed; howling War was there,
Cheered on by Roman hunters. Then, methought
E’en as I looked upon the altered scene,
Groans echoed through the valleys, through which ran
Rivers of blood, like smoking Phlegethons;
Fires flashed from burning villages, and Famine
Shrieked in the empty cornfields! Women and children,
Robbed of their sires and husbands, left to starve—
These were the dwellers of the land! Say’st thou
Rome wars not, then, on women?
Jov. This is not to the matter.
Spart. Now, by Jove,
It is! These things do Romans. But the earth
Is sick of conquerors. There is not a man,
Not Roman, but is Rome’s extremest foe:
And such am I; sworn from that hour I saw
Those sights of horror, while the gods support me,
To wreak on Rome such havoc as Rome wreaks,
Carnage and devastation, woe and ruin.
Why should I ransom, when I swear to slay?
Begone! This is my answer!
THE RESOLVE OF REGULUS.—Sargent.
(Regulus, a Roman consul, having been defeated
in battle and taken prisoner by the Carthaginians,
was detained in captivity five years, and then sent on
an embassy to Rome to solicit peace, under a promise
that he would return to Carthage if the proposals
were rejected. These, it was thought, he would
urge in order to obtain his own liberty; but he
urged contrary and patriotic measures on his countrymen;
and then, having carried his point, resisted
the persuasions of his friends to remain in Rome,
and returned to Carthage, where a martyr’s death
awaited him. Some writers say that he was thrust into
a cask covered over on the inside with iron spikes,
and thus rolled down hill. The following scene presents
Regulus just as he has made known to his friends
in Rome his resolution to return to Carthage.)
Enter Regulus, followed by Sertorius.
Sertorius. Stay, Roman, in pity!—if not for thy life,
For the sake of thy country, thy children, thy wife.
Sent, not to urge war, but to lead Rome to peace,
Thy captors of Carthage vouchsafed thee release.
Thou return’st to encounter their anger, their rage;—
No mercy expect for thy fame or thy age!
Regulus. To my captors one pledge, and one only, I gave:
To return, though it were to walk into my grave!
No hope I extended, no promise I made,
Rome’s Senate and people from war to dissuade.
If the vengeance of Carthage be stored for me now,
I have reaped no dishonor, have broken no vow.
Sert. They released thee, but dreamed not that thou wouldst fulfil
A part that would leave thee a prisoner still;
They hoped thy own danger would lead thee to sway
The councils of Rome a far different way;
Would induce thee to urge the conditions they crave,
If only thy freedom, thy life-blood, to save.
Thought shudders, the torment and woe to depict
Thy merciless foes have the heart to inflict!
Remain with us, Regulus! do not go back!
No hope sheds its ray on thy death-pointing track!
Keep faith with the faithless? The gods will forgive
The balking of such. O, live, Regulus, live!
Reg. With the consciousness fixed in the core of my heart,
That I had been playing the perjurer’s part?
With the stain ever glaring, the thought ever nigh,
That I owe the base breath I inhale to a lie?
O, never! Let Carthage infract every oath,
Be false to her word and humanity both,
Yet never will I in her infamy share,
Or turn for a refuge to guilt from despair!
Sert. O, think of the kindred and friends who await
To fall on thy neck, and withhold thee from fate;
O, think of the widow, the orphans to be,
And let thy compassion plead softly with me.
Reg. O, my friend, thou canst soften, but canst not subdue;
To the faith of my soul I must ever be true.
If my honor I cheapen, my conscience discrown,
All the graces of life to the dust are brought down;
All creation to me is a chaos once more—
No heaven to hope for, no God to adore!
And the love that I feel for wife, children, and friend,
Has lost all its beauty, and thwarted its end.
Sert. Let thy country determine.
Reg. My country? Her will,
Were I free to obey, would be paramount still.
I go to my doom for my country alone;
My life is my country’s; my honor, my own!
Sert. O, Regulus! think of the pangs in reserve!
Reg. What menace should make me from probity swerve?
Sert. Refinements of pain will these miscreants find
To daunt and disable the loftiest mind.
Reg. And ’tis to a Roman thy fears are addressed!
Sert. Forgive me. I know thy unterrified breast.
Reg. Thou know’st me but human—as weak to sustain
As thyself, or another, the searchings of pain.
This flesh may recoil, and the anguish they wreak
Chase the strength from my knees, and the hue from my cheek;
But the body alone they can vanquish and kill;
The spirit immortal shall smile at them still.
Then let them make ready their engines of dread,
Their spike-bristling cask, and their torturing bed;
Still Regulus, heaving no recreant breath,
Shall greet as a friend the deliverer, Death!
Their cunning in torture and taunt shall defy,
And hold it in joy for his country to die.
HOW THE MONEY GOES.
(A temperance play.)
- Characters.—Man, about thirty-five years old;
his Wife; Nellie, his daughter, ten years old;
Friend, man about husband’s age, dressed in a
man-of-the-world style; A. and B., two young
men, dressed as business men, should appear about
thirty years of age.
Scene I. (Mr. L. and his wife on the stage; Mr. L.
dressed for his work, and about to go.)
Mrs. L. Albert, I wish you would give me
seventy-five cents.
Mr. L. What do you want seventy-five cents
for?
Mrs. L. I want to get some braid for my new
dress.
Mr. L. I thought you had material enough on
hand for that.
Mrs. L. So I thought I had; but it looks
rather plain with no trimming at all. You know
I was intending to trim it with that fringe; but
it looks too gray, come to try it by the side of
the dress.
Mr. L. Haven’t you something else that will
do?
Mrs. L. No. But, then, braid is cheap; and
I can make it look quite pretty with seventy-five
cents.
Mr. L. Plague take these women’s fashions.
Your endless trimmings and thing-a-ma-jigs cost
more than the dress is worth. It is nothing but
shell out money when a woman thinks of a new
dress.
Mrs. L. I don’t have many new dresses. I
do certainly try to be as economical as I can.
Mr. L. It is funny kind of economy, at all
events. But if you must have it, I suppose you
must.
(Takes out his purse, and counts out carefully
seventy-five cents, and puts his purse away,
angrily. He starts to go; but when at the
door, he thinks he will take his umbrella, and
goes back for it. Finds his wife in tears,
which she tries hastily to conceal.)
Mr. L. Good gracious! Kate, I should like
to know if you are crying at what I said about
the dress.
Mrs. L. I was not crying at what you said,
but you were so reluctant to grant the small
favor! I was thinking how hard I have to
work. I am tied to the house. I have many
little things to perplex me. Then to think—
Mr. L. Pshaw! What do you want to be
foolish for.
(Exit.)
(In the hall he was met by his little girl, Lizzie.)
Lizzie (holding both his hands). O, papa, give
me fifteen cents.
Mr. L. What?
Lizzie. I want fifteen cents. Please give me
fifteen cents.
Mr. L. What in the world do you want it for?
Are they changing books again?
Lizzie. No. I want a hoop. It’s splendid
rolling; and all the girls have one. Mr. Grant
has some real nice ones to sell. Please, can’t I
have one?
Mr. L. Nonsense! If you want a hoop, go
and get one off some old barrel. I can’t afford
to buy hoops for you to trundle about the streets.
(Throws her off.)
Lizzie (in a pleading tone). Please, papa?
Mr. L. No, I told you!
(She bursts into tears, and he goes off muttering,
“Cry, then, and cry it out.”)
Scene II. (Albert enters, his wife entering on the opposite
side. She kisses him as a greeting.)
Mrs. L. I am glad you are home thus early.
How has business gone to-day?
Mr. L. Well, I am happy to say.
Mrs. L. Are you very tired?
Mr. L. No; why?
Mrs. L. I want you to go to the sewing circle
to-night.
Mr. L. I can’t go; I have an engagement.
Mrs. L. I am sorry. You never go with me
now. You used to go a great deal.
(Just then Lizzie comes in crying, dragging an old
hoop, and rubbing her eyes.)
Mr. L. What is the matter with you, darling?
Lizzie. The girls have been laughing at me,
and making fun of my hoop. They say mine is
ugly and homely.
Mr. L. Never mind; perhaps we’ll have a
new one some time.
Lizzie. Mayn’t I have one now? Mr. Grant
has one left—a real pretty one.
Mr. L. Not now, Lizzie; not now. I’ll
think of it.
(Lizzie goes out crying, followed by her mother.
A friend of Mr. L. enters.)
Friend. Hello, Albert! What’s up?
Mr. L. Nothing in particular. Take a chair.
Friend. How’s business?
Mr. L. Good.
Friend. Did you go to the club last night?
Mr. L. Don’t speak so loud!
Friend. Ha! wife don’t know—does she?
Where does she think you go?
Mr. L. I don’t know. She never asks me,
and I am glad of it. She asked me to go with
her to-night, and I told her I was engaged.
Friend. Good! I shan’t ask you where, but
take it for granted that it was with me. What
do you say for a game of billiards?
Mr. L. Good! I’m in for that. (They rise
to go.) Have a cigar, Tom?
Friend. Yes. (They go out.)
Scene III. (Two men in conversation as they come upon the
stage.)
B. Billiards? No, I never play billiards.
A. Why not?
B. I don’t like its tendency.
A. It is only a healthy pastime. I am sure it
has no evil tendency.
B. I cannot assert that the game in its most
innocent form is, of itself, an evil, to be sure.
But, although it has the advantage of calling
forth skill and judgment, yet it is evil when it
excites and stimulates beyond the bounds of
healthy recreation.
A. That result can scarcely follow such a
game.
B. You are wrong there. The result can
follow in two ways. First, it can lead men
away from their business. Secondly, it leads
those to spend money who have none to spend.
Look at that young man just passing. He
looks like a mechanic; and I should judge from
his appearance that he has a family. I see by
his face that he is kind and generous, and wants
to do as near right as he can. I have watched
him in the billiard saloon time after time, and
only last night I saw him pay one dollar and
forty cents for two hours’ recreation. He did
it cheerfully, too, and smiled at his loss. But
how do you suppose it is at home? Suppose
his wife had asked him for a dollar or two for
some household ornament, or his child, if he
has one, for a picture-book or toy, what do you
suppose he would have answered? This is not
conjecture; for you and I both know plenty of
such cases.
A. Upon my word, B., you speak to the
point; for I know that young man, and what
you have said is true. I can furnish you with
facts. We have a club for a literary paper in
our village, and last year he was one of the subscribers.
This year he was obliged to discontinue.
His wife was very anxious to take it;
but he said he could not afford the $1.25 for it.
And his little Lizzie, ten years old, has coaxed
her father for fifteen cents, for a hoop, in vain.
My Nellie told me that.
B. Yes; and that two hours’ recreation last
night, would have paid for both. It is well for
wives and children that they do not know where
all the money goes.
THE SALUTATORIAN’S DIFFICULTIES.
Characters.
- Frank Clayton.
- Harry Thompson.
- Tommy Watkins.
- Sammy Long.
- Johnny Wilson.
- Willie Brown.
Scene.—A stage. Curtain rises, and Frank
Clayton comes forward and speaks.
Frank. Ladies and gentlemen: Our performances
are now about to commence. We have
spent some time in preparing for this exhibition,
and we hope you will be pleased with all the
performances that may be given. You well
know that we have not had much practice in
giving school exhibitions, and if you see any
errors, we hope you will kindly forgive and
overlook. We will endeavor to give our recitations
correctly, and act our parts truthfully, and
we ask you to—and we ask you to—and—and—and
we ask that—that—
(Enter Harry Thompson. He comes in front of
Frank and commences to speak.)
“Did you ever hear of Jehosophat Boggs,
A dealer and raiser of all sorts of dogs?
No? Then I’ll endeavor in doggerel verse
To just the main points of the story rehearse.
Boggs had a good wife—”
Frank. (Speaking in a loud whisper.) Harry,
what did you come out here for? I’m not
through with the introductory speech yet.
Harry. (Turns half way round, puts his hand
to his mouth, as if to keep the audience from hearing,
and speaks in a loud whisper.) I know you
weren’t through, but you stuck, and I thought I
had better come on. You know my recitation
is second on the programme, and I didn’t want to
have a bungle right at the commencement of the
exhibition.
Frank. Go back to your place, you little
rascal, and don’t interrupt me again. I’m
going to speak my piece.
Harry. (With his hand up to hide his mouth as
before.) Oh, you’re stuck and you’d better
retire. (Turns to audience and continues to speak
his piece.)
“Boggs had a good wife, the joy of his life,
There was nothing between them inclining to strife.
Except her dear J.’s dogmatic employment;
And that, she averred, did mar her enjoyment.”
Frank. (Whispering as before.) I say, Harry,
get from before me and let me speak my
piece.
Harry. (Turns, puts up his hand, and whispers
as before.) Oh, you keep shady until I get
through. (Turns to audience and speaks.)
“She often had begged him to sell off his dogs,
And instead to raise turkeys, spring chickens or hogs.
She made him half promise at no distant day
He would sell the whole lot, not excepting old Tray;
And as good luck would have it,—”
Frank. (Turning Harry by the collar and
pulling him back.) I tell you to get out of this
until I have spoken my piece.
Harry. I won’t. Let me alone, I say. You
have stuck fast, and do you want to spoil the
exhibition? Didn’t you know enough to keep
off the stage until I had spoken my piece?
Frank. (Still holding him by the collar.) It is
you that are spoiling the exhibition. (Leads him
off the stage.)
Harry. (Speaking loudly as he goes out.)
I call this an outrage.
Frank. (Returning to his place and commencing
to speak.) Ladies and gentlemen, my
speech has been interrupted, and I will commence
again. Our performances are now about
to commence. We have spent some time in
preparing for this exhibition, and we hope you
will be pleased with all the performances that
may be given. You know that we have not had
much practice in giving school exhibitions, and
if you see any errors, we hope you will kindly
forgive and overlook. We will endeavor to
give our recitations correctly, and act our parts
truthfully, and we ask you to—to—and we ask
you to—and act our parts truthfully, and we ask
you to—and we ask you to—(In a lower tone.)
I’ve forgotten it again; isn’t that too bad?
(Speaking as before.) And we ask you to—to—to—
(Enter Tommy Watkins. He comes in front of
Frank, and commences to speak “The Ghost.”)
“’Tis about twenty years since Abel Law,
A short, round, favored merry
Old soldier of the Revolutionary War,
Was wedded to a most abominable shrew.
The temper, sir, of Shakespeare’s Catharine
Could no more be compared with hers
Than mine
With Lucifer’s.”
Frank. (In a loud whisper.) Tommy Watkins,
get from before me. Don’t you see I’m speaking?
I don’t want to be interrupted—I want
to finish my speech.
Tommy. (Facing the audience and speaking
in the same tone as when reciting his speech.)
Oh, you’d better quit! You’ve stuck twice
now, and if you don’t go off the stage the audience
will become disgusted.
Sammy Long. (Seated in the audience.) The
people are disgusted now with that boy’s opening
speech. He’d better go home, memorize
it, and speak it some time next year.
Tommy. There! You hear what they say out
there in the audience. They are disgusted, and
they think you had better leave the stage.
Frank. Oh, that’s nobody but Sammy Long,
and he is displeased because we didn’t invite
him to take part in the exhibition.
Tommy. Well, I’ll go ahead and speak my
piece while you are trying to think up the words
you have forgotten.
Her eyes were like a weasel’s; she had a harsh
Face, like a cranberry marsh,
All spread with spots of white and red;
Hair of the color of a wisp of straw,
And a disposition like a cross-cut saw.
The appellation of this lovely dame
Was Nancy; don’t forget the name.
Frank. Stop, Tommy; I can finish my speech
now.
Tommy. So can I. (Continues his recitation.)
His brother David was a tall,
Good-looking chap, and that was all,
One of your great big nothings, as they say
Out in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes,
And cracking them on other folks.
Well, David undertook one night to play
The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who,
He knew,
Would be returning from a journey through
A grove of forest wood
That stood
Below
The house some distance—half a mile or so.
With a long taper
Cap of white paper,
Just made to cover
A wig, nearly as large over
As a corn-basket, and a sheet
With both ends made to meet
Across his breast
(The way in which ghosts are always dressed),
He took
His station near
A huge oak-tree,
Whence he could overlook
The road and see
Whatever might appear.
It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel
Had left the table
Of an inn, where he had made a halt,
With horse and wagon,
To taste a flagon
Of malt
Liquor, and so forth, which, being done,
He went on,
Caring no more for twenty ghosts
Than if they had been so many posts.
David was nearly tired of waiting;
His patience was abating;
At length, he heard the careless tones
Of his kinsman’s voice,
And then the noise
Of wagon-wheels among the stones.
Abel was quite elated, and was roaring
With all his might, and pouring
Out, in great confusion,
Scraps of old songs made in “the Revolution.”
His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton;
And jovially he went on.
Scaring the whip-po’-wills among the trees
With rhymes like these:
(Sings. Air, “Yankee Doodle.”)
“See the Yankees
Leave the hill,
With baggernetts declining,
With lopped-down hats
And rusty guns,
And leather aprons shining.”
“‘See the Yankees’—Whoa! Why, what is that?”
Said Abel, staring like a cat,
As, slowly, on the fearful figure strode
Into the middle of the road.
“My conscience! what a suit of clothes!
Some crazy fellow, I suppose.
Hallo! friend, what’s your name? by the powers of gin,
That’s a strange dress to travel in.”
“Be silent, Abel; for I now have come
To read your doom;
Then hearken, while your fate I now declare.
I am a spirit—” “I suppose you are;
But you’ll not hurt me, and I’ll tell you why:
Here is a fact which you cannot deny;—
All spirits must be either good
Or bad—that’s understood—
And be you good or evil, I am sure
That I’m secure.
If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil—
And I don’t know but you may be the devil—
If that’s the case, you’ll recollect, I fancy,
That I am married to your sister Nancy!”
(Bows and turns to go off. To Frank.) Now,
Frank, you can go ahead again until you come to
the sticking place. I hope that, during the time
I have generously given you by speaking my
piece, you have been collecting your scattered
senses, and will now be able to finish what you
began.
(Exit Tommy.)
Frank. Ladies and gentlemen, I am not at
all pleased with this way of doing business. I
think these boys have not treated me with
proper respect. I was selected to give the
opening or introductory address, and you see
how it has been done.
Sammy. (In the audience.) We didn’t see
very much of it. Don’t you think it would be
well enough for you to retire and memorize your
speech?
Frank. You boys out there had better keep
silent and not create a disturbance. There is
an officer in the house.
(Enter Willie Brown. He comes before Frank
and commences to speak.)
“’Twas night! The stars were shrouded in
a veil of mist; a clouded canopy o’erhung the
world; the vivid lightnings flashed and shook
their fiery darts upon the earth—”
Frank. (Speaking out.) I say, Willie Brown,
what did you come here for? I haven’t finished
the opening speech yet.
Willie. What’s the use of having an opening
speech now? The exhibition is half over.
(Continues his speech.)
“The deep-toned thunder rolled along the
vaulted sky; the elements were in wild commotion;
the storm-spirit howled in the air; the
winds whistled; the hail-stones fell like leaden
balls; the huge undulations of the ocean dashed
upon the rock-bound shore; and torrents leaped
from mountain tops; when the murderer sprang
from his sleepless couch with vengeance on his
brow—murder in his heart—and the fell instrument
of destruction in his hand.”
Frank. Stop, I say. What kind of an exhibition
will this be without an introductory
speech? Stop, I say. We will be the laughing-stock
of the country if we don’t open our
exhibition with an introductory speech.
Johnny. (In the audience.) Oh, nobody cares
for the introductory speech. Let the speech go
and give us some dialogues and songs.
Willie. No dialogues and songs until I have
finished my speech. This is my place on the
programme. (Continues his speech. Frank
comes and stands near him and they both speak at
the same time, Willie giving the concluding portion
of his speech and Frank commencing at the
first of his Opening Speech and going as far
as he had gone before. Willie should finish
just before Frank commences to stammer.)
“The storm increased; the lightnings
flashed with brighter glare; the thunder
growled with deeper energy; the winds
whistled with a wilder fury; the confusion of
the hour was congenial to his soul, and the
stormy passions which raged in his bosom.
He clenched his weapon with a sterner grasp.
A demoniac smile gathered on his lip; he
grated his teeth; raised his arm; sprang
with a yell of triumph upon his victim, and
relentlessly killed—a mosquito!” (Bows
and turns to go off. To Frank.) Stuck
again, my boy? If we had waited for the
opening speech we would not have got our
exhibition opened for a week or ten days.
(Exit Willie.)
Johnny. (In the audience.) Well, we haven’t
had that introductory speech yet, and I
guess we are not going to get it. That was
the queerest kind of speech I ever heard. It
began, and then balked, and then kicked up,
and then braced its feet in front, and finally
stopped altogether. I think we would have
done better if we had started without any introduction,
just as grandpa said the other day
he thought Parson Goodwin ought to have
begun his sermon at the conclusion and left
out all that went before it.
Frank. (Excitedly.) Hold on there! You
say we don’t need any speech and yet you
are making a long one yourself. You said
that I hitched like a balky horse, but you
have kicked up your heels and cantered off
as if somebody had touched off a pack of
fire-crackers under you.
(Enter Harry Thompson. He comes forward
and speaks.)
Our parts are performed and our speeches are ended,
We are monarchs and courtiers and heroes no more;
To a much humbler station again we’ve descended,
And are now but the school-boys you’ve known us before.
Farewell then our greatness—’tis gone like a dream,
’Tis gone—but remembrance will often retrace
The indulgent applause which rewarded each theme,
And the heart-cheering smiles that enlivened each face.
We thank you! Our gratitude words cannot tell,
But deeply we feel it—to you it belongs;
With heartfelt emotion we bid you farewell,
And our feelings now thank you much more than our tongues.
We will strive to improve, since applauses thus cheer us,
That our juvenile efforts may gain your kind looks;
And we hope to convince you, the next time you hear us,
That praise has but sharpened our relish for books.
(Bows and turns to go off.) I have spoken
the valedictory, and the exhibition is over.
Ring down the curtain.
Frank. (Excitedly.) Stop! Hold! Don’t!
I haven’t finished my speech yet.
Johnny. (In the audience.) You’ve given
us enough for the present. You can finish it
out next Christmas.
Harry. Ring down the curtain.
Frank. Stop! Don’t! Don’t! I want to
speak my piece. (A bell is rung and the curtain
falls.)
Frank. (Drawing the curtain aside and
looking out.) Here’s a go! How are we
going to get along without an Opening
Speech? (Disappears.)
[Curtain.]
PYGMALION AND GALATEA.
Characters.
- Pygmalion, an Athenian sculptor.
- Galatea, a statue.
Costumes.
- Gentleman, in the habit of a
Greek artist. Lady, in statuesque drapery or
ordinary Greek costume.
(A noted Greek sculptor, Pygmalion, makes a most
beautiful statue of woman. Having attained perfection
of form he longs to breathe life into his work,
and blames the gods that they have limited his
power. He stands on the stage, to the left, looking
thoughtfully up as if imploring the gods. While apparently
uttering his complaints, Galatea, coming to
life, calls to him from behind the curtain.)
Galatea (
from behind curtain, C.[7]). Pygmalion!
Pygmalion (after a pause). Who called?
(Pygmalion tears away curtain and discovers Galatea alive.)
Pyg. It speaks!
I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes!
Gal. Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion;
Give me thy hand—both hands—how soft and warm!
Whence came I? (Descends.)
Pyg. Why, from yonder pedestal.
Gal. That pedestal! Ah, yes, I recollect,
There was a time when it was part of me.
Pyg. That time has passed forever, thou art now
A living, breathing woman, excellent
In every attribute of womankind.
Pyg. Why, born into the world
By miracle.
Pyg. This room is a portion of a house;
The house stands in a grove; the grove itself
Is one of many, many hundred groves
In Athens.
Gal. And is Athens, then, the world?
Pyg. By birth and parentage, not by descent.
Gal. But how came I to be?
Pyg. Well, let me see
Oh! you were quarried in Pentelicus;
I modelled you in clay; my artisans
Then roughed you out in marble; I, in turn,
Brought my artistic skill to bear on you,
And made you what you are, in all but life.
The gods completed what I had begun,
And gave the only gift I could not give.
Gal. And not long since
I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect
That by some means I knew that I was stone,
That was the first dull gleam of consciousness;
I became conscious of a chilly self,
A cold immovable identity.
I knew that I was stone, and knew no more;
Then by an imperceptible advance,
Came the dim evidence of outer things,
Seen, darkly and imperfectly, yet seen;
The walls surrounded me, and I alone.
That pedestal—that curtain—then a voice
That called on Galatea! At that word,
Which seemed to shake my marble to the core.
That which was dim before, came evident.
Sounds that had hummed around me, indistinct,
Vague, meaningless—seemed to resolve themselves
Into a language I could understand;
I felt my frame pervaded with a glow
That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh;
Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life,
My limbs grew supple, and I moved—I lived!
Lived in the ecstasy of new born life;
Lived in the love of him that fashioned me;
Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope,
Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved themselves
Into one word, that word, Pygmalion!
Pyg. I have no words to tell thee of my joy,
O woman—perfect in thy loveliness.
Gal. What is that word? Am I a woman?
Pyg. A being strongly framed,
To wait on woman, and protect her from
All ills that strength and courage can avert;
To work and toil for her, that she may rest;
To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh;
To fight and die for her, that she may live!
Gal. (after a pause). I’m glad I am a woman.
(Takes his hand—he leads her down, L.)
Pyg. So am I. (They sit.)
Gal. That I escape the pains thou hast to bear?
Pyg. That I may undergo those pains for thee.
Gal. With whom wouldst thou fight?
Pyg. With any man
Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain.
Gal. Then there are other men in this strange world?
Pyg. (taken aback). Yes;
Though for the moment I’d forgotten it!
Yes, other women.
Gal. And for all of these
Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep, and fight?
Pyg. It is man’s duty, if he’s called upon,
To fight for all—he works for those he loves.
Gal. Then by thy works I know thou lovest me?
Pyg. Indeed, I love thee. (Embraces her.)
Pyg. I love thee (recollecting himself and releasing her) as a sculptor loves his work!
(Aside.) There is diplomacy in that reply.
Gal. My love is different in kind to thine:
I am no sculptor, and I’ve done no work,
Yet I do love thee; say—what love is mine?
Pyg. Tell me its symptoms, then I’ll answer thee.
Gal. Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come.
A sense that I am made by thee for thee.
That I’ve no will that is not wholly thine,
That I’ve no thought, no hope, no enterprise,
That does not own thee as its sovereign;
That I have life that I may live for thee,
That I am thine—that thou and I are one!
What kind of love is that?
Pyg. A kind of love
That I shall run some risk in dealing with.
Pyg. Such love as thine
A man may not receive, except, indeed,
From one who is, or is to be, his wife.
Gal. Then I will be thy wife.
Pyg. That may not be;
I have a wife—the gods allow but one.
Gal. Why did the gods then send me here to thee?
Pyg. I cannot say—unless to punish me (Rises.)
For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer!
I pray’d that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer,
And now I see the fearful consequence
That must attend it!
Gal. Yet thou lovest me? (Rises.)
Pyg. Who could look on that face and stifle love?
Gal. Then I am beautiful?
Gal. I wish that I could look upon myself,
But that’s impossible.
Pyg. Not so, indeed, (Crosses, R.)
This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold!
(Hands her a mirror from table, R. C.)
Gal. How beautiful! I am very glad to know
That both our tastes agree so perfectly;
Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think
That aught could be more beautiful than thou,
Till I behold myself. Believe me, love,
I could look in this mirror all day long.
So I’m a woman.
Pyg. There’s no doubt of that!
Gal. Oh! happy maid, to be so passing fair!
And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze
At will upon so beautiful a face!
Pyg. Hush! Galatea—in thine innocence
Thou sayest things that others would reprove.
Gal. Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong
To think that one is exquisitely fair?
Pyg. Well, Galatea, it’s a sentiment
That every other woman shares with thee;
They think it—but they keep it to themselves.
Gal. And is thy wife as beautiful as I?
Pyg. No, Galatea; for in forming thee
I took her features—lovely in themselves—
And in marble made them lovelier still.
Gal. (disappointed). Oh! then I am not original?
Pyg. Well—no—
That is, thou hast indeed a prototype,
But though in stone thou didst resemble her,
In life, the difference is manifest.
Gal. I’m very glad that I am lovelier than she.
And am I better? (Sits, L.)
Gal. Then she has faults.
Pyg. Very few, indeed;
Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show
That she and I are of one common kin.
I love her all the better for such faults.
Gal. (after a pause). Tell me some faults and I’ll commit them now.
Pyg. There is no hurry; they will come in time: (Sits beside her, L.)
Though for that matter, it’s a grievous sin
To sit as lovingly as we sit now.
Gal. Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk
As we are sitting, be indeed a sin,
Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love,
Is this great fault that I’m committing now,
The kind of fault that only serves to show
That thou and I are of one common kin?
Pyg. Indeed, I am very much afraid it is.
Gal. And dost thou love me better for such fault?
Pyg. Where is the mortal that could answer “no?”
Gal. Why then I’m satisfied, Pygmalion;
Thy wife and I can start on equal terms.
She loves thee?
Gal. I’m glad of that.
I like thy wife.
Gal. (surprised at the question). Our tastes agree
We love Pygmalion well, and what is more,
Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife;
I’m sure we shall agree.
Pyg. (aside). I doubt it much.
Pyg. No, she is not within.
Gal. But she’ll come back?
Pyg. Oh! yes, she will come back.
Gal. How pleased she’ll be to know when she returns,
That there was someone here to fill her place.
Pyg. (dryly). Yes, I should say she’d be extremely pleased. (Rises.)
Gal. Why, there is something in thy voice which says
That thou art jesting. Is it possible
To say one thing and mean another?
Pyg. Yes,
It’s sometimes done.
Gal. How very wonderful!
So clever!
Gal. Yes.
Teach me the art.
Pyg. The art will come in time.
My wife will not be pleased; there—that’s the truth.
Gal., I do not think that I shall like thy wife.
Tell me more of her.
Gal. What did she say
When she last left thee?
Pyg. Humph! Well, let me see:
Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife—
Her solitary representative;
(Tenderly) She feared I should be lonely till she came,
And counselled me, if thoughts of love should come,
To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont
To speak to her.
Pyg. (releasing her). But when she spoke
Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood,
Which makes a difference.
Gal. It’s a strange world;
A woman loves her husband very much,
And cannot brook that I should love him too;
She fears he will be lonely till she comes,
And will not let me cheer his loneliness:
She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone,
And when that stone is brought to life—be dumb!
It’s a strange world, I cannot fathom it.
Pyg. (aside). Let me be brave, and put an end to this.
(Aloud.) Come, Galatea—till my wife returns,
My sister shall provide thee with a home;
Her house is close at hand.
Gal. (astonished and alarmed). Send me not hence,
Pygmalion—let me stay.
Pyg. It may not be.
Come, Galatea, we shall meet again.
Gal. (resignedly). Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion!
But we shall meet again?—and very soon?
Gal. And when thy wife returns,
She’ll let me stay with thee?
Pyg. I do not know.
(Aside.) Why should I hide the truth from her?
(Aloud.) Alas!
I may not see thee then.
Gal. Pygmalion,
What fearful words are these?
Pyg. The bitter truth.
I may not love thee; I must send thee hence.
Gal. Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love!
Was it for this that Heaven gave me life?
Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see
I am thy work, thou hast created me;
The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine,
Thine! only and unalterably thine! (Music.)
This is the thought with which my soul is charged.
Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love,
That thou hast love for her alone! Alas!
I do not know these things; I only know
That Heaven has sent me here to be with thee.
Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife,
Of vows that thou wilt love but her; alas!
I do not know these things; I only know
That Heaven, who sent me here, has given me
One all-absorbing duty to discharge—
To love thee, and to make thee love again!