ETERNITY AND POST-ETERNITY

ETERNITY AND POST-ETERNITY

(An endless Tone-Drama in the Shavian manner.)

Through the skylight of the subterranean dwelling ofColonel Lazyboy(R.A.S.C., T.D.),in the Chiltern Hills, an apparently endless procession of clouds may be seen racing across a Mediterranean-blue sky, a sure sign that rain will fall later. We may omit a number of stage directions about the history of theLazyboyfamily, the detailed furnishing of the cavern, the mental processes of theColonelhimself, and a stupendous preface on “Midwifery and the Modern Play”—it being sufficient to state that, although a spacious mansion stands in the grounds hard by, it is entirely given over to the servants, the family preferring to share the cave life of theColonel,who, since he commanded a Chinese Labour Battalion during the second battle of the Somme, has been quite unable to reaccustom himself to living in a house, preferring, as he says, the harder and more natural life of the dug-out.TheColonel,Mrs. Lazyboy(a faded, bored woman),Mercia,their daughter, andHarmodius Hashovit,her husband, are at their morning wrangle. In the middle of the row,Nurse Allsopphurries in. BeingMercia’sold nurse she is virtually mistress (and master) of the house.

Through the skylight of the subterranean dwelling ofColonel Lazyboy(R.A.S.C., T.D.),in the Chiltern Hills, an apparently endless procession of clouds may be seen racing across a Mediterranean-blue sky, a sure sign that rain will fall later. We may omit a number of stage directions about the history of theLazyboyfamily, the detailed furnishing of the cavern, the mental processes of theColonelhimself, and a stupendous preface on “Midwifery and the Modern Play”—it being sufficient to state that, although a spacious mansion stands in the grounds hard by, it is entirely given over to the servants, the family preferring to share the cave life of theColonel,who, since he commanded a Chinese Labour Battalion during the second battle of the Somme, has been quite unable to reaccustom himself to living in a house, preferring, as he says, the harder and more natural life of the dug-out.

TheColonel,Mrs. Lazyboy(a faded, bored woman),Mercia,their daughter, andHarmodius Hashovit,her husband, are at their morning wrangle. In the middle of the row,Nurse Allsopphurries in. BeingMercia’sold nurse she is virtually mistress (and master) of the house.

Mrs. Lazyboy: Oh, dear! What is it now, Nursey?

Nurse: Oh, Im sure I beg pardon, Maam, but heres Miss Mercias young man—(suddenly observingHashovit)—Oh, Im sure I beg pardon, sir, I didn’t see you. I meant to say——

Hashovit(heavily): You meant that popinjay Eustace Brill. You needn’t make a mystery about it, Nurse. Everyone knows hes my wifes young man.

Nurse(shocked): Oh, that Im sure they dont, sir.

The Colonel(pained): Harmodius, my dear fellow, er——Allsopp, tell Mr. Brill were not at home.

Mercia(bouncing up): Certainly not! Send Youstee away because Harmys jealous. Ill go and let him in myself.

Hashovit(sneering): So that you can kiss him in the passage without anyone seeing you——

Mercia(proudly): Ill kiss him before you all. (A terrific crash and splintering of glass heralds the arrival ofEustaceby the skylight. He lands on the table, which collapses under him; recovers his feet, and smiles genially around.)

“The influence of that man Shaw.”

“The influence of that man Shaw.”

“The influence of that man Shaw.”

Mercia(crooning): Yousteeee!

The Colonel(testily): Confound it all, Brill, I wish you wouldn’t tear the place to pieces like that.... And you’ve shot a great fid of glass into my eye. Damn the thing. (He gropes, and finally extracts it.) There, now itll bleed for the rest of the day!

Eustace(surprised): I thought you prided yourself on keeping up active service conditions.

The Colonel: So I do.

Eustace: Then why make all this fuss about a trifling wound? You ought to be grateful. It adds a touch of reality to your life.

The Colonel: Id rather you left me to supply the reality myself, Brill. However—(Mercia,true to her threat, embracesEustacewith fervour).... Now really, Mercia, upon my soul.... (He clicks his tongue with vexation.)

Eustace(taken aback): Mercia, dear. I know you mean it awfully nicely. But really, in public——

Hashovit(glowering): You see—you degrade yourself to no purpose.

The Colonel(warmly): Degrade? Nonsense!... I, of course, dont mean to imply——

Hashovit: But damn it all, Colonel——

Mercia(screaming): Dont shout, Harmodius.

The wrangle proceeds on the familiar Shavian lines, the party being reinforced for no apparent reason by the arrival ofDan Bigby,an old sea-captain, andMichael John O’Sullivan.

Eustace(at long last): Look here, Im getting sick of this. Its all too much like a play by Bernard Shaw.

Hashovit(growling): Everyone is at heart a Shavian.

The Colonel(hastily): No, really, Harmodius.... O’Sullivan, Brill, we cant have that——

The Colonel(in his parade voice): Silence. Youre on parade. Behave accordingly.

Captain Dan: Avast there. Belay.

Mercia(stamping): I wont belay. I object——

Eustace: But whats this to do with Shaw? And whats the use of objecting when cosmic forces grip people by the throat? Ive no wish whatever to do anything thats notA1at Lloyds and all that. But——

Hashovit: Cosmic fiddlesticks. Its lust, Brill, and you know it. You and Mercia want to misconduct yourselves, and its no good your trying to draw a red herring of formulas and psycho-analytic bosh across the track. It wont wash. In my young days——

Mercia(icily): I dont think were greatly interested in your young days, Harmodius.

Hashovit: Be quiet, Mercia. Iwillspeak my mind, so youd better make up your minds to listen. In my young days if a man and a girl wanted to behave improperly they just did so and said no more about it. But youve no decency. Youre not content with forbidden fruit, you go and flaunt your liaison in the husband’s face, and make a parade of it before all his and your friends. I wonder you dont advertise it in the papers. Upon my soul, its what were coming to——

Eustace: But——

Hashovit(yelling): Dont you interrupt me, sir. I dont care a swizzle stick about your stealing my wifes affections. As a matter of fact, she hasnt got any, as youll jolly soon discover when the noveltys worn off——

Mercia: Oh, Harmy. (She weeps.)

Hashovit: I dont care if you take her to Brighton or Nijni Novgorod—if youre such a blastedfool as to spend so much money on her. I dont care if you sit all day squeezing her hand, looking into her eyes till you both squint, pawing her about, and talking that horrible sickly twaddle I couldn’t help overhearing last night (he shudders at the recollection).... But—(rising to his feet)—but I will not have all your friends and my friends whispering and talking about me as though I were something to be pitied. (His voice rising to a scream.) If you want to know, I think Im just about the damn luckiest fellow alive to have unloaded this viperish, discontented, addle-headed, empty-hearted baggage on the most crass and pitiable fool Ive ever met—and if you want to say any more—(his poor, overstrained voice cracks and dies away in his throat with a mouse’s squeak; whereat he expresses his feelings by tearing the cushions to pieces and scattering the bits on the floor.)

The Colonel: Come, come, my dear fellow—pull yourself together.

Mercia(crisply): What I like about Harmodius is his obvious self-control.

Hashovit(his eyes bulging; he speaks in a hoarse whisper): Shut up, you she-porcupine, you hateful female skunk, you—(his vocal chords snap and his voice goes for ever.)

Mercia: His manners are so perfect, too: and hes so brave.... Cry-baby!

Hashovit(inarticulately): o o o o o o o b b—(or some similar noise. Blood gushes from his mouth.)

Nurse Allsopp: There, my poddle-poodkins, come with nursey-wursey. (Addressing the others sharply): And if you want any lunch go and wash your hands, all of you. (She leadsHarmodiusout by the hand. The others, exceptEustaceandMercia, follow her meekly.)

Eustace(uneasily): You expect me to admire all that, I suppose.

Mercia(fixing him with vampire eyes): I expect you to admire nothing except me.

Eustace: Admire you. I loathe you. I struggle to escape from you. Youre like some awful drug, the same odious intoxication, the same irresistible fascination, and the same deadly remorse when its all over. You steal away my senses, and make me a slave.

Mercia: I make you a priest, not a slave.

Eustace: No, its slavery.

Mercia: Priesthood. High Priesthood to the divine desire in all of us.

Eustace(retreating): Im afraid of that.

Mercia(snaring him with her eyes): Afraid! Afraid of worshipping love?

Eustace: Yes. Ive no vocation.

Mercia(dangerously): Does that mean youve no inclination?

Eustace: No. It means what it says.... You talk about priesthood of love. You seem to think no vocation is necessary, though I suppose youd admit it in the case of a priest of Buddhism. Religion is a dedication of the spirit; Love, a dedication of the heart. You cant dedicate your spirit till its broken; nor can you your heart; and hearts dont break as easily as crockery, let me tell you. (EspyingMichael Johnin the passage): O’Sullivan.

Michael John(entering and curling himself up in the coal-scuttle): Speak.

Eustace: Tell her how long a mans heart must beat against that of a woman before it will break.

Michael John: Four years and ninety minutes exactly. On the tick of the ninetieth minute the heart cracks, and the imprisoned soul passes from its bondage into the numbing bliss of everlasting heartache——

Captain Dan(entering unobserved and taking up the tale): And in the fifth year he shall be exalted above human understanding.... In the dog watches and under the dog starsIve looked upon the ways of mankind, and held my hand from destroying them in sheer——

Eustace: Pity?

Captain Dan: Pity. No! Indifference.

Mercia(fixing him with her eyes): Danny, I make you mine. The priesthood of love——

Captain Dan(uneasily): Avast there.

Mercia(triumphantly): There’s no avasting where Ill take you. (Breaking into a chant)

I go by the mountains and rivers,I go by the seashore and fell.Eustace(satirically):While the thankless old mariner shiversMichael John:And strives to break loose from her spell.Mercia(her voice rising to prophetic fervour):But the child, still unborn, of my yearning,Shall go in the van as our guide,Captain Dan(chuckling feebly):Down the pathway of shame to the burning,Mercia(laughing horribly):When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.(She sweeps him into her arms and carries him away shouting.)Mercia(disappearing): Io. Io. Dionysos!Captain Dan(in a high falsetto): Let the skies rain joy!Eustace(passionately): How can you, Mercia, how can you? (He is seized by uncontrollable weeping.) Im crying, O’Sullivan——Michael John: Im wantin a cry meself. (He bursts into tears.)Mercia’s voice(a long way off): But you must let me come back and look after Harmodius’s clothes——Many years elapse. They are still talking.Mercia(temporizing): After all, if I leave Harmodius for Eustace, or Eustace for Danny——The Colonel(who is deaf by now): Whats that?Mrs. Lazyboy(who is nearly as deaf and very feeble): Shes talking about the childrens holidays.The Colonel: He! He! He!A long time passes by.Mr. Fuzzlewhitt(Merciasgreat grandson): After all, if she had deserted Harmodius Hashovit——Mrs. Fuzzlewhitt(who is thoroughly tired of the story): Yes, Rejjy, I know....Centuries roll by.Monsieur Chose: Bernard Shaw says in his play about Mercia and Harmodius Hashovit that if Mrs. Lazyboy——Æons pass.Somebody: Theres a storm coming. Its going to cleanse the world. (The sky darkens.)Somebody else: It makes no difference. The human brain will survive.A Third Person: The human antheap will continue to surge with meaningless movement.A Fourth: The human voice will continue to cry from nothing to nothing.A Fifth: The human hand will continue to write, and posterity will bury the writings.A Sixth: And Shaw alone shall be assured of immortality.The storm breaks with prodigious force. Eternity arrives.A Shining One: Yes, the immortals are all in their places. Dante and Cervantes had a squabble last night, but theyve made it up.The Eternal: Good.The Shining One: Shakespeare has been giving trouble, too. Hes jealous of Shaw.The Eternal(apprehensively): Im not at all easy in my own mind about Shaw.Eternity passes.Mr. Shaw(on the steps of the eternal throne): Im really very sorry. Its no wish of mine, you know.The Eternal(apologetically, and handing over the crown and sceptre of Heaven): Not at all. Its a pleasure to make this trifling acknowledgment of your genius.The End of the Play.THE ENCHANTED ISLAND(A Fantasy in the manner of J. M. Barrie.)IThepink and white drawing-room of Emily Jane’s house—or rather of the house of Emily Jane’s father, Mister Balbus, is so caressingly harmonious to the eye, so surpassingly restful, so eminently a place of happy people, that one knows instinctively it will be visited by a tragedy. It is just a question of time, and this gentle atmosphere will find itself charged with the electricity of conflicting human emotions; dear women’s hearts will break and be laid aside in pot-pourri jars; strong sentimental men will walk their sweet, melancholy way; and we shall all go home the cleaner, mentally, for a refreshing bath of tears. Emily Jane is not yet in the drawing-room. The appropriate atmosphere has first to be created, so that we may catch our breath just a little as Miss Compton or Miss Celli trips on. Emily Jane is really a very ordinary kind of girl, plump, pleasant-looking, and neither very clever nor specially athletic. But to her mother she is still a tiny toddling mite in a knitted woollen coat with pink ribbons, and to Daddy, Mister Balbus, she is a resplendent goddess.At last, after a preliminary conversation about stamp-collecting, or some other harmless hobby, between McVittie and Price, two old dullards introduced to fill in the few awkward minutes while the latecomers are clambering into their stalls, Mister Balbus comes into the room. There is nothing remarkable about Mister Balbus. In the eyes of his wife he is an irresistibly lovable plexus of male weaknesses; in the eyes of Emily Jane he is closely related to the Almighty. Actually he is nobody in particular, an architect of sorts; but we are to see him through their eyes, and so he appears in the play as a genial and gigantic mixture of a demigod and a buffoon. Mr. Aynesworth is appropriately selected to represent him.“Good morning,” he says.“Good morning,” reply McVittie and Price, delighted that any of the principal characters should condescend to speak to them.“Where’s our little Emily Jane?” he asks, tenderly.“Here, Daddy,” replies a sweet voice.“Where, my lovely one?”“In the chimney, Daddy”; and the dear child clambers down and rushes into his arms without even waiting to brush off the soot. McVittie and Price make clucking noises of approval and delight. This is typical of whatgoes on in the Balbus household every day. How can it be possible that anything except joy should be in store for them? But ah——Mr. Balbus: Where is Mammy, my treasure?Emily Jane: Waiting for Daddy darling, in his study.Mr. Balbus: Will my little heart ask her to come?Emily Jane trips away so happily and obediently. “Well, Price,” says Mr. Balbus, “I must go and see how they’re getting on with the wall.”Price: Haven’t you finished it yet?Mr. Balbus: I don’t think I ever shall. Balbus was building a wall in the time of the Roman Empire; and I suppose he’ll go on for the rest of time.McVittie: Which wall is it this time, Balbus?Mr. Balbus: The Great Wall of China. They’ve retained me to go and inspect it. I leave to-morrow.Mrs. Balbus hurries in and embraces her husband shamelessly. Emily Jane follows and embraces them both. McVittie and Price, not to be outdone, embrace each other in the corner.“You’re going to China, my husband?” asks Mrs. Balbus, tenderly.“Yes, wife.”“I’ll go with you.”Emily Jane: And I, Daddy.McVittie & Price: We will come too, old friend.Mr. Balbus beams at them through his tears. The audience beam at each other through theirs.IIThey have been wrecked.They are all on a deserted island which, from the stunted shrubs and bleak outlook, is probably in the neighbourhood of Tristan da Cunha. McVittie and Price are pretending to be tremendously brave and contented over a meal of roasted berries.“These are really delicious,” says McVittie.“Capital,” says Price. “Have some more.”“No thanks. My doctor, you know. He won’t let me enjoy myself.”“A glass of this delicious rock-water, then. Most stimulating.”“No, my dear fellow. I’ve done magnificently. Not another sup.”But it is really only pretend. The brave fellows are concealing their anxiety for fear of alarming Emily Jane and her mother who are resting in the bivouac near by. Actually they are full of apprehension.“Price,” says McVittie at last, leaning forward mysteriously.“McVittie?” He leans forward too; their long noses almost touch.“I’m uneasy.” A hoarse whisper.“So am I. Very.” A squeak of terror.“I’ve found out the name of this island, Price.”“Indeed?”McVittie sinks his voice even deeper.“It’s called—Umborroweeboo.”“Gracious. What ever does that mean?”“It means....” His voice becomes blood-curdling in its intensity. “It means The-Island-that-wants-to-be-let-alone. It’s a sinister spot, Price. They say....”Darkness begins to close in rapidly. Price shivers.“What do they say?”“They say it can vanish beneath the sea and reappear in another place, after remaining submerged for years.”“Good heavens.” Price is very uneasy. Emily Jane appears from the bivouac and prostrates herself on the ground.“I love you, dear little island,” she murmurs, kissing the shore. “I would like to be married to a beautiful island like you.”“I shall come to claim that promise one day,” says a deep, rich voice from nowhere.Emily Jane: Did anyone speak?McVittie: No one. I heard nothing.Price: I thought—why, what’s that?Mr. Balbus(emerging from a hollow tree): What’s what?Price: That. There. Look.The others: Where?Price: There. Look. Now it’sthere. Quick. It’s moved again. (A strain of unearthly music.)Everybody: Hark. What’s that? (Mrs. Balbus crawls out of the bivouac on her hands and knees.)Mrs. Balbus(fondly): John, you’ve left off your comforter.... Why are you all in a ring? You’ll have the fairies out if you stand in a ring.McVittie(uneasily): In a ring? I didn’t notice. I think——(He turns to move away but finds himself rooted to the ground.) Well, this is most extraordinary.Emily Jane: What is extraordinary, dear Mr. McVittie?McVittie: I can’t move hand or foot.Mr. Balbus: Good Lord. Nor can I.Price: Nor I.Emily Jane: I can a little. It’s getting very difficult. NowIcan’t either. (The strain of music is heard again.)Mrs. Balbus: Ugh! The horrid thing’s got hold ofmenow. I can’t move either. John, make them stop it at once.Mr. Balbus(feebly): How can I, my dear? I’m quite powerless.Emily Jane(illusion suddenly stripped from her eyes—for that is what happens under the spell of this magic island): Oh, Daddy, I thought there was nothing you couldn’t do. And now, now—you’re just like anybody else.Mrs. Balbus(critically): You certainly look strange, John; not at all your usual self.Mr. Balbus(for the first time seeing his wife and daughter as they really are): Please be quiet both of you and don’t talk about things you don’t understand. McVittie, what are we to do?McVittie(philosophically): Wait for the island to disappear, I suppose. (The strain of music sounds once more.)Price(excitedly): There it is moving about again. The thing I saw before.Emily Jane: It’s like a tiny, tiny man.Mr. Balbus: I don’t fancy this at all.Price: It’s coming nearer. (An elvish figure appears dancing towards them. It is puffing a stupendous pipe.)Mr. Balbus(trying to be severe and failing signally): Who are you, please?The Figure(dancing more than ever): Macconachie.Emily Jane: What do you mean by trespassing on our island?Macconachie: I live here. It’s my home. You are the trespassers. But you’re very welcome. (With goblin glee.) I’ve been waiting for you, for a long time.Mr. Balbus: Waiting for us. Nonsense. You don’t know who we are, even.Macconachie: Oh yes I do. I’ve been watching you for a long time. Especially Emily Jane. I want Emily Jane.Mrs. Balbus: Want Emily Jane? The idea of such a thing! Go away, Sir, at once.Macconachie: You think you’re her mother, I suppose? (Addressing Balbus) And you believe yourself to be her father?Mr. Balbus(with dignity): I certainly do.Macconachie: But you’re not, you’re not. She’s mine.Mrs. Balbus(indignantly): Sir! John, don’t listen to a word he says.Macconachie: You’re all mine. I want you all.McVittie(hoarsely): Want us all? What for, may I ask?Macconachie: To draw tears from simple hearts. You’ll see.But they don’t understand at all, and look blankly at one another, as he flits about like a will o’ the wisp still puffing at his gigantic pipe.IIIThe drawing-room again. They are all, except Emily Jane, sitting there in disconsolate melancholy.Mr. Balbus(with a deep sigh): It’s for the best of course.... But I miss her sadly.McVittie & Price: It’s terrible, terrible. (They sigh).Mrs. Balbus: I always felt there was something unearthly about the child. (She sighs very deeply.)There is a long pause. They are thinking of their terrible experience when Macconachie flitted over their heads like a sprite, and the solid island sank beneath their feet, and they were left clinging to a raft.“When the island began to submerge”—begins Mr. Balbus, and then he checks himself with a sob.McVittie(for the hundredth time): I could have sworn I had her in my arms on the raft. (His voice breaks.)Price: You didn’t hear the Voice—Mrs. Balbus: Voice—what voice?Price: Something about claiming a promise. And she gave a little cry of wonder. I heard it. (He walks gloomily over to the window.)Mr. Balbus(suddenly enlightened): That’s what Macconachie meant, when he said “to drawtears from simple hearts.” I begin to understand....Price(at the window): How very curious.Mrs. Balbus: My curtains? They are certainly not.Price(in choking tones): Look at the lake—it’s drying up, or something.They all rush to the window. An amazing thing is in progress. The bottom of the lake seems to be rising. Stunted shrubs are pushing themselves above the water.“My gracious powers, it’s the island,” cries Mr. Balbus.Price(quoting McVittie’s long-forgotten remark): They say it can vanish beneath the sea, and reappear in another place after remaining submerged for years.McVittie: There’s somebody moving on it. Look. Among the trees.Mr. Balbus: It’s Macconachie. (He hails the island. Macconachie comes ashore, and flits up to the house.)Mr. Balbus(in a trembling voice): Where is she, Sir? Tell us where she is?Macconachie: Emily Jane? She’s touring in America. Making a fortune.Mr. Balbus: But will she come back, Sir?Macconachie: If you need her sufficiently, andwish for her often enough, and believe with strength, she will assuredly come back.Mr. Balbus: But why should she have been taken from us, Sir? We loved her, cared for her. She was happy with us.“To carry my message to the hearts of men,” replies Macconachie, with a wistful smile. “I may need any of you in the future and then——” He pauses. “But till then farewell.” And he flits through the window; and the island submerges again. But the others sit in rapt silence, for they have seen beyond the veil.PRESIDENT WILSON(A Chronicle in the manner of John Drinkwater.)Scene I.—The President’s Chamber in the White House, Autumn, 1918.Woodrow Wilson,lean, single-purposed, masterful, is signing State documents with inflexible pen.Joseph Tumulty,a chubby little man, is leaning affectionately on the back of the President’s chair, following the movements of his pen with dog-like veneration. The President, still writing, breaks the silence without looking up.Wilson: Tumulty.Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: I wouldn’t have you think I’m insensible to the merits of your proposals—but I can’t accept them. In the bargainings and shifts of the Allies I must be unfettered, if necessary blindly followed, by the American delegation. Otherwise there’ll be another Congress of Vienna.... It’s not that I criticise our Allies, I would be loath to do that; but I understand their passions and distress. Firmness on our part may perhaps redress the balance.... Where’s Lansing? (The Secretary of State comes in.)Lansing: Good morning, Mr. President.Wilson(wistfully): Why—you’re mighty formal, Lansing. I’ve not to convince you again, I trust. Why, Lansing——Lansing: I hold, as you know, that with the Republicans in a majority in both Houses, it’s an act of, I won’t say folly, Mr. President, but an act of ill-judgment to have them uncommitted to the terms of peace.Wilson: I’m taking Hoover and White.Lansing: White means nothing, and Hoover is only an expert. Lodge, Root, Leonard Wood should all go with you as delegates.Wilson: No, Mr. Secretary. (Tumultybows his head as if to a blow.) No, a thousand times.Lansing: They’ll tear up your work otherwise. I speak as your friend, Mr. President. Myself as you know I don’t think extravagantly well of your plan for a League of Nations. I’ve never disguised that. Though a fine ideal it isn’t practical——But setting my views aside, and speaking as a friend to the proposal, because it’s your proposal, I feel bound to say that, if the Republicans aren’t pledged to it in advance, it will never pass Congress.Wilson(affectionately): Lansing, you’re so logical and clear there seems to be no escape from your reasoning. I’ve no doubt yousize up the Republican intentions mighty well. But you’re wrong for all that; and where you go wrong is right at the beginning. Don’t you see the choice of evils before me? If I don’t take the Republicans they may try to wreck my work when it’s done, true; but if I do take them the work won’t be done at all.Lansing(stiffly): I can’t allow that, Mr. President. They’re good, patriotic Americans.Wilson: Who says they aren’t? Who suggests for one moment that they won’t do their best for America and the Allies? But will they do the best for the world? (Lansingis silent.) Will they tie the world up in a League against war; or will they inflict a vindictive peace, that’ll do no more than sow the seeds of another?Lansing: You distrust their patriotism?Wilson: Never. I distrust their passions. Or say I’m wrong. Say their conception of the peace is the proper one, and mine a delusion. How can we work together? The Delegation couldn’t be depended on to agree in the smallest particular. I should just be playing a lone hand; and the Allies, knowing my house to be divided against itself, would put me aside in the Conference like a cipher. No, Lansing. I’ll go to Paris with those onwhom I can rely. I’ll so tie up the peace with the League, that the one can’t live without the other; and if, as you prophesy, I find myself deserted by Congress, I’ll go over their heads to the American people in whose ideals the thing has its roots. That is my final decision.Lansing: I hope you’ll not regret it.(He takes his leave. The others follow him with their eyes. The President gives a half laugh.)Wilson: Ah, if one could only add to the good qualities one’s friends possess, the good qualities one would have them possess.... (He sighs). These Commissions (holding up the papers he has signed), they’re all in order now?Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: Deliver them yourself. (He reads out the names as he hands them over.) House ... Lansing ... White.The Scene Closes.Scene II.—Wilson’shouse in the Place des Etats Unis, Paris, in the year 1919. A spring morning. The windows of the room look out upon an old-world square—made safe for democracy by American detectives.Woodrow Wilsonsits in a deep armchair by the table. His colleaguesClemenceau,David Lloyd GeorgeandOrlandoare grouped around him.Wilson: Gentlemen, a little merriment would season our labours. (Polite murmurs.) There was a man, a Confederate soldier, in our civil war, who soliloquised thus on a long hard march: “I love my country, and I’m fighting for my country; but if this war ends I’ll be dad-burned if I ever love another country.”The Others(spiritlessly): Ha! Ha! Ha!Wilson: Signor Orlando, you don’t laugh.Orlando: No, sare.Wilson: I’m sorry. The point of my story was somewhat directed to you. I feel rather like that Confederate soldier. I took the American people into war; but I don’t mean to have them dragged into another by a bad territorial settlement in the Adriatic!Orlando: Well, Fiume can be waiting.Wilson: All things can wait. But don’t, I beg you, fall into error. My view of that matter will never change. Monsieur Clemenceau, Gentlemen, be with me in this I entreat you. (A brief silence.) And now, Part I of the Treaty. We are agreed to incorporate the Covenant of the League of Nations there?(There is still silence.) Gentlemen, I can’t think that you hesitate——Clemenceau: Sur cette question de la Société des Nations. Il est bien entendu, n’est ce pas, que la Traité de Garantie, La Pacte, entre La France, Les Etats Unis, et la Grande Bretagne——?Wilson: Why, Mr. Lloyd George will answer for England, but I guess there’s no doubt at all concerning America.Lloyd George: As the President says, I answer for Great Britain. I have agreed in her name that, in certain conditions, she shall be bound to act with France. On the fulfilment of those conditions, she will so act.Clemenceau: Alors, en principe je suis d’accord.Wilson: In principle. Yes, Monsieur. In principle we have never differed. But on the concrete proposition that this Covenant as drafted be embodied in the Treaty——?Clemenceau: Well, I do not object.Wilson: You take a weight from my mind.... I wish to be frank, Gentlemen. I am not happy about the voting of the British Empire in the Assembly of the League. I can’t disguise from you that it’s a difficult provision to explain to the American people. It may antagonise them. I make a final effort. Mr. Lloyd George, would yourDominions be irreconcilable to exercising their vote in one Empire delegation?Lloyd George: They would reject it, Mr. President. I myself would move the rejection. (A brief pause.)Wilson: I put the question formally. That the Covenant, as drafted, stand embodied in the Treaty of Peace. (Aye.) Gentlemen, I thank you for your forbearance. These questions of the Saar Valley and Danzig.... (They pass to other business.)The Scene Closes.Scene III.—The anteroom of a public hall at Pueblo in the Western States, duringPresident Wilson’stour on behalf of the Treaty of Versailles. September 25th, 1919. When the door is open, the speaker’s voice in the main hall is distinctly audible.Admiral Graysonis waiting anxiously.Mrs. Wilsonhurries in.Mrs. Wilson: The President—it’s critical. He must be persuaded against continuing this tour.Grayson: I have been saying that, ma’am, for a long time.Mrs. Wilson: But it grows more urgent. I left the platform to find you. How he’llfinish I don’t know. He was swaying and the utterance seemed more difficult each minute. Nothing but his iron determination sustains him.Grayson: Nothing but the depth of his convictions and his devotion to the task he has begun, have brought him so far.Mrs. Wilson: You must prevail on him, Admiral. If he breaks, the League breaks. Use that with him.Grayson: Prevail. Have you ever tried, ma’am, to prevail upon a monolith? (Tumultyenters, jubilant). How does it go?Tumulty: He’s carrying them. The old wonderful Wilson touch. Listen.He throws open the door. The President’s rich, musical voice, full of power, is borne in upon them.Mrs. Wilson: Why, he sounds to be quite recovered.Grayson(reverently): Hush, ma’am. It is the voice of a prophet.Wilson(off): Now that the mists of this great question have cleared away, I believe that men will see the truth, eye to eye and face to face. There is one thing that the American people always rise to and extend their hand to, and that is the truth of justice and of liberty and of peace. We have accepted thattruth, and we are going to be led by it; and it is going to lead us, and through us the world, out into pastures of quietness and peace, such as the world never dreamed of before.Prolonged applause. The President enters, followed by local magnates and his staff.Tumulty: Oh, Governor, this is the best you’ve ever done.Wilson: Tumulty, it does me good to hear you speak so. I guess—why, surely this building is strangely unsteady—or—Everything’s going. Why, Grayson, it’s—it’s dark.Grayson: Bear up, Sir. A touch of vertigo. You’re tired.Wilson(horror in his eyes): No. My speech. Failing. I can’t—articulate.He sinks intoGrayson’sarms, and is lowered into a chair.Mrs. Wilsonfalls on her knees beside him.Tumulty: In God’s name, Admiral——?Grayson: Paralysis. The tour is over.They prepare to carry the President away.The Scene closes.Scene IV.—A room in the White House. January 16th, 1920.Woodrow Wilson,a shadow of himself, is at his desk.Tumultyas usual is behind the President’s chair. The President is reading a telegram.Wilson: Tumulty, this is bitter. Bitter.Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: They’re meeting beyond the sea in Paris. The League that received birth in American ideals. And the chair of America is empty, not by the declared wish of the people—I’d not believe it, were such a wish expressed—but by the strength of personal rancour in the Senate. It’s unbelievable.Tumulty: And no one there to represent American ideals and aspirations!Wilson: Brazil. This telegram says the Brazilian spoke for the whole American continent: that was brave and far-sighted of him. But it cuts me to the heart to think that the duty of speaking for America should rest elsewhere than on us.Tumulty: It’s hard.Wilson: Hard? It’s cynically false. Tumulty. I can’t believe that is the wish of the country. I will take them the Covenant with my two hands, reason with them, explain....Tumulty(gently): No, dear Governor, you have done all that a man could do. Another effort would waste your life——Wilson: I would give it gladly.Tumulty: To no purpose, now.The Scene closes.Scene V.—The Presidential Room at the Capitol, Washington. Just before 12 noon on March 4th, 1921.Woodrow Wilson,Marshall,the Vice-President, andTumultyare waiting for the hour to strike that will makeWarren HardingPresident of the United States of America, andWilsona free citizen again.Wilson: They have been great years to live in. I’ve tried to be worthy of them.Tumulty: And succeeded, with Lincoln and George Washington, Governor.Wilson(shyly): You put me in mighty good company. Anyone can be great in great times. The events we’ve been through called for something superhuman. I wish I could have given that.Marshall: No man could have done more, Mr. President. Some day the world will see it.Wilson: Marshall, I’m not ambitious for the world to see any such thing. I want my work to prosper. That is all.Tumulty: It has made a beginning.Wilson: A small beginning, a halting beginning, but a beginning, yes. Yet when I think of what the League could be doing to facilitate a general settling down to peace, if only America were behind it— And yet again,perhaps it is well. Maybe, if things had not so fallen out, the weaknesses of the thing we made would not have become manifest, until it was too late for improvement.Marshall: You think it has weaknesses?Wilson: The highest product of man’s mind, the law, is full of weaknesses, Marshall. How can this new conception have escaped them? But the idea will surely triumph. I have faith.Tumulty: The new administration will kill it, if they can.Wilson: I have faith.... It must be nearly time now.A tall, spare man followed by his colleagues walks into the Chamber. This isSenator Lodge,the President’s life-long political foe.Lodge(stiffly): Mr. President, we have come, as a Committee of the Senate, to notify you that the Senate and the House are about to adjourn, and await your pleasure.Wilson(rising with majesty): Senator Lodge, I have no further communication to make. I thank you.... The few seconds now remaining no more than suffice me to lay down the authority derived from my office. (The clock strikes twelve.) Gentlemen, I wish you well, and farewell. Come, Tumulty.He goes. Simultaneously a roar of applause without, proclaims the accession ofPresident Harding.The Scene closes.[THE END.]JEMIMA BLOGGS(A Play of Life as it is, in the Manchester manner of Mr. St. John Ervine.)ACT IScene:A dingy parlour in a London Suburb. Two men in ill-fitting garments are sitting glumly, in comfortless chairs with shabby and rather soiled covers, on either side of a dismal mockery of a fire. The room is lit with incandescent gas, which shows a sickly yellow through a raw haze, offensively compounded of “London Particular” and the penetrating yellow fumes of cheap coal. The men areJoseph Bloggs(52), one of life’s many failures, andHenry Hooker(49), another of them. Their tired white faces are resting on their hands, and they are staring into the smoking grate. At lastHookerbreaks the intolerable silence.Hooker(gloomily): The fire’s smoking.Bloggs: Yes. (He pokes it. The fire smoulders angrily. They cough. There is a pause.Hookerlooks out of the window.)Hooker(darkly): It’s raining.Bloggs(with a deep sigh): Yes.... Has the fog lifted?Hooker: No. It’s getting thicker.Bloggs(with resignation): Ah, well. (Jemima(42)comes in, tiredly. She is the wife ofBloggs,a thin, prematurely grey-haired woman, haggard with cares. The fire welcomes her with a spiteful volley of lyddite.)Jemima(wearily): You’re here, are you?Bloggs: Yes.... The fire’s smoking.Jemima(with a sigh): I’ll make it up. (She makes a listless attack on it with the poker. The fire goes out.) The coals are so bad. (She painfully rekindles it.)Hooker: Yes.Jemima (addressingBloggs): That kid’s very bad again. She’s coughing something awful.Bloggs: Better have the doctor.Jemima: Perhaps Mr. Hooker would tell him on his way home?Hooker: Yes.Jemima: The gas company’s going to cut off the gas to-morrow, unless—Joseph, couldn’t we pay something on account?Bloggs: I’ll see what I can do.Hooker: Life’s very hard.Jemima: Yes. (She begins to lay the table with enamel cups and saucers.) You’ll stay for tea, Mr. Hooker?Hooker(drearily): Yes. I suppose so. (They wait in silent misery for the kettle to boil.)

I go by the mountains and rivers,I go by the seashore and fell.

I go by the mountains and rivers,I go by the seashore and fell.

I go by the mountains and rivers,

I go by the seashore and fell.

Eustace(satirically):

While the thankless old mariner shiversMichael John:And strives to break loose from her spell.Mercia(her voice rising to prophetic fervour):But the child, still unborn, of my yearning,Shall go in the van as our guide,Captain Dan(chuckling feebly):Down the pathway of shame to the burning,Mercia(laughing horribly):When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.(She sweeps him into her arms and carries him away shouting.)Mercia(disappearing): Io. Io. Dionysos!Captain Dan(in a high falsetto): Let the skies rain joy!Eustace(passionately): How can you, Mercia, how can you? (He is seized by uncontrollable weeping.) Im crying, O’Sullivan——Michael John: Im wantin a cry meself. (He bursts into tears.)Mercia’s voice(a long way off): But you must let me come back and look after Harmodius’s clothes——Many years elapse. They are still talking.Mercia(temporizing): After all, if I leave Harmodius for Eustace, or Eustace for Danny——The Colonel(who is deaf by now): Whats that?Mrs. Lazyboy(who is nearly as deaf and very feeble): Shes talking about the childrens holidays.The Colonel: He! He! He!A long time passes by.Mr. Fuzzlewhitt(Merciasgreat grandson): After all, if she had deserted Harmodius Hashovit——Mrs. Fuzzlewhitt(who is thoroughly tired of the story): Yes, Rejjy, I know....Centuries roll by.Monsieur Chose: Bernard Shaw says in his play about Mercia and Harmodius Hashovit that if Mrs. Lazyboy——Æons pass.Somebody: Theres a storm coming. Its going to cleanse the world. (The sky darkens.)Somebody else: It makes no difference. The human brain will survive.A Third Person: The human antheap will continue to surge with meaningless movement.A Fourth: The human voice will continue to cry from nothing to nothing.A Fifth: The human hand will continue to write, and posterity will bury the writings.A Sixth: And Shaw alone shall be assured of immortality.The storm breaks with prodigious force. Eternity arrives.A Shining One: Yes, the immortals are all in their places. Dante and Cervantes had a squabble last night, but theyve made it up.The Eternal: Good.The Shining One: Shakespeare has been giving trouble, too. Hes jealous of Shaw.The Eternal(apprehensively): Im not at all easy in my own mind about Shaw.Eternity passes.Mr. Shaw(on the steps of the eternal throne): Im really very sorry. Its no wish of mine, you know.The Eternal(apologetically, and handing over the crown and sceptre of Heaven): Not at all. Its a pleasure to make this trifling acknowledgment of your genius.The End of the Play.THE ENCHANTED ISLAND(A Fantasy in the manner of J. M. Barrie.)IThepink and white drawing-room of Emily Jane’s house—or rather of the house of Emily Jane’s father, Mister Balbus, is so caressingly harmonious to the eye, so surpassingly restful, so eminently a place of happy people, that one knows instinctively it will be visited by a tragedy. It is just a question of time, and this gentle atmosphere will find itself charged with the electricity of conflicting human emotions; dear women’s hearts will break and be laid aside in pot-pourri jars; strong sentimental men will walk their sweet, melancholy way; and we shall all go home the cleaner, mentally, for a refreshing bath of tears. Emily Jane is not yet in the drawing-room. The appropriate atmosphere has first to be created, so that we may catch our breath just a little as Miss Compton or Miss Celli trips on. Emily Jane is really a very ordinary kind of girl, plump, pleasant-looking, and neither very clever nor specially athletic. But to her mother she is still a tiny toddling mite in a knitted woollen coat with pink ribbons, and to Daddy, Mister Balbus, she is a resplendent goddess.At last, after a preliminary conversation about stamp-collecting, or some other harmless hobby, between McVittie and Price, two old dullards introduced to fill in the few awkward minutes while the latecomers are clambering into their stalls, Mister Balbus comes into the room. There is nothing remarkable about Mister Balbus. In the eyes of his wife he is an irresistibly lovable plexus of male weaknesses; in the eyes of Emily Jane he is closely related to the Almighty. Actually he is nobody in particular, an architect of sorts; but we are to see him through their eyes, and so he appears in the play as a genial and gigantic mixture of a demigod and a buffoon. Mr. Aynesworth is appropriately selected to represent him.“Good morning,” he says.“Good morning,” reply McVittie and Price, delighted that any of the principal characters should condescend to speak to them.“Where’s our little Emily Jane?” he asks, tenderly.“Here, Daddy,” replies a sweet voice.“Where, my lovely one?”“In the chimney, Daddy”; and the dear child clambers down and rushes into his arms without even waiting to brush off the soot. McVittie and Price make clucking noises of approval and delight. This is typical of whatgoes on in the Balbus household every day. How can it be possible that anything except joy should be in store for them? But ah——Mr. Balbus: Where is Mammy, my treasure?Emily Jane: Waiting for Daddy darling, in his study.Mr. Balbus: Will my little heart ask her to come?Emily Jane trips away so happily and obediently. “Well, Price,” says Mr. Balbus, “I must go and see how they’re getting on with the wall.”Price: Haven’t you finished it yet?Mr. Balbus: I don’t think I ever shall. Balbus was building a wall in the time of the Roman Empire; and I suppose he’ll go on for the rest of time.McVittie: Which wall is it this time, Balbus?Mr. Balbus: The Great Wall of China. They’ve retained me to go and inspect it. I leave to-morrow.Mrs. Balbus hurries in and embraces her husband shamelessly. Emily Jane follows and embraces them both. McVittie and Price, not to be outdone, embrace each other in the corner.“You’re going to China, my husband?” asks Mrs. Balbus, tenderly.“Yes, wife.”“I’ll go with you.”Emily Jane: And I, Daddy.McVittie & Price: We will come too, old friend.Mr. Balbus beams at them through his tears. The audience beam at each other through theirs.IIThey have been wrecked.They are all on a deserted island which, from the stunted shrubs and bleak outlook, is probably in the neighbourhood of Tristan da Cunha. McVittie and Price are pretending to be tremendously brave and contented over a meal of roasted berries.“These are really delicious,” says McVittie.“Capital,” says Price. “Have some more.”“No thanks. My doctor, you know. He won’t let me enjoy myself.”“A glass of this delicious rock-water, then. Most stimulating.”“No, my dear fellow. I’ve done magnificently. Not another sup.”But it is really only pretend. The brave fellows are concealing their anxiety for fear of alarming Emily Jane and her mother who are resting in the bivouac near by. Actually they are full of apprehension.“Price,” says McVittie at last, leaning forward mysteriously.“McVittie?” He leans forward too; their long noses almost touch.“I’m uneasy.” A hoarse whisper.“So am I. Very.” A squeak of terror.“I’ve found out the name of this island, Price.”“Indeed?”McVittie sinks his voice even deeper.“It’s called—Umborroweeboo.”“Gracious. What ever does that mean?”“It means....” His voice becomes blood-curdling in its intensity. “It means The-Island-that-wants-to-be-let-alone. It’s a sinister spot, Price. They say....”Darkness begins to close in rapidly. Price shivers.“What do they say?”“They say it can vanish beneath the sea and reappear in another place, after remaining submerged for years.”“Good heavens.” Price is very uneasy. Emily Jane appears from the bivouac and prostrates herself on the ground.“I love you, dear little island,” she murmurs, kissing the shore. “I would like to be married to a beautiful island like you.”“I shall come to claim that promise one day,” says a deep, rich voice from nowhere.Emily Jane: Did anyone speak?McVittie: No one. I heard nothing.Price: I thought—why, what’s that?Mr. Balbus(emerging from a hollow tree): What’s what?Price: That. There. Look.The others: Where?Price: There. Look. Now it’sthere. Quick. It’s moved again. (A strain of unearthly music.)Everybody: Hark. What’s that? (Mrs. Balbus crawls out of the bivouac on her hands and knees.)Mrs. Balbus(fondly): John, you’ve left off your comforter.... Why are you all in a ring? You’ll have the fairies out if you stand in a ring.McVittie(uneasily): In a ring? I didn’t notice. I think——(He turns to move away but finds himself rooted to the ground.) Well, this is most extraordinary.Emily Jane: What is extraordinary, dear Mr. McVittie?McVittie: I can’t move hand or foot.Mr. Balbus: Good Lord. Nor can I.Price: Nor I.Emily Jane: I can a little. It’s getting very difficult. NowIcan’t either. (The strain of music is heard again.)Mrs. Balbus: Ugh! The horrid thing’s got hold ofmenow. I can’t move either. John, make them stop it at once.Mr. Balbus(feebly): How can I, my dear? I’m quite powerless.Emily Jane(illusion suddenly stripped from her eyes—for that is what happens under the spell of this magic island): Oh, Daddy, I thought there was nothing you couldn’t do. And now, now—you’re just like anybody else.Mrs. Balbus(critically): You certainly look strange, John; not at all your usual self.Mr. Balbus(for the first time seeing his wife and daughter as they really are): Please be quiet both of you and don’t talk about things you don’t understand. McVittie, what are we to do?McVittie(philosophically): Wait for the island to disappear, I suppose. (The strain of music sounds once more.)Price(excitedly): There it is moving about again. The thing I saw before.Emily Jane: It’s like a tiny, tiny man.Mr. Balbus: I don’t fancy this at all.Price: It’s coming nearer. (An elvish figure appears dancing towards them. It is puffing a stupendous pipe.)Mr. Balbus(trying to be severe and failing signally): Who are you, please?The Figure(dancing more than ever): Macconachie.Emily Jane: What do you mean by trespassing on our island?Macconachie: I live here. It’s my home. You are the trespassers. But you’re very welcome. (With goblin glee.) I’ve been waiting for you, for a long time.Mr. Balbus: Waiting for us. Nonsense. You don’t know who we are, even.Macconachie: Oh yes I do. I’ve been watching you for a long time. Especially Emily Jane. I want Emily Jane.Mrs. Balbus: Want Emily Jane? The idea of such a thing! Go away, Sir, at once.Macconachie: You think you’re her mother, I suppose? (Addressing Balbus) And you believe yourself to be her father?Mr. Balbus(with dignity): I certainly do.Macconachie: But you’re not, you’re not. She’s mine.Mrs. Balbus(indignantly): Sir! John, don’t listen to a word he says.Macconachie: You’re all mine. I want you all.McVittie(hoarsely): Want us all? What for, may I ask?Macconachie: To draw tears from simple hearts. You’ll see.But they don’t understand at all, and look blankly at one another, as he flits about like a will o’ the wisp still puffing at his gigantic pipe.IIIThe drawing-room again. They are all, except Emily Jane, sitting there in disconsolate melancholy.Mr. Balbus(with a deep sigh): It’s for the best of course.... But I miss her sadly.McVittie & Price: It’s terrible, terrible. (They sigh).Mrs. Balbus: I always felt there was something unearthly about the child. (She sighs very deeply.)There is a long pause. They are thinking of their terrible experience when Macconachie flitted over their heads like a sprite, and the solid island sank beneath their feet, and they were left clinging to a raft.“When the island began to submerge”—begins Mr. Balbus, and then he checks himself with a sob.McVittie(for the hundredth time): I could have sworn I had her in my arms on the raft. (His voice breaks.)Price: You didn’t hear the Voice—Mrs. Balbus: Voice—what voice?Price: Something about claiming a promise. And she gave a little cry of wonder. I heard it. (He walks gloomily over to the window.)Mr. Balbus(suddenly enlightened): That’s what Macconachie meant, when he said “to drawtears from simple hearts.” I begin to understand....Price(at the window): How very curious.Mrs. Balbus: My curtains? They are certainly not.Price(in choking tones): Look at the lake—it’s drying up, or something.They all rush to the window. An amazing thing is in progress. The bottom of the lake seems to be rising. Stunted shrubs are pushing themselves above the water.“My gracious powers, it’s the island,” cries Mr. Balbus.Price(quoting McVittie’s long-forgotten remark): They say it can vanish beneath the sea, and reappear in another place after remaining submerged for years.McVittie: There’s somebody moving on it. Look. Among the trees.Mr. Balbus: It’s Macconachie. (He hails the island. Macconachie comes ashore, and flits up to the house.)Mr. Balbus(in a trembling voice): Where is she, Sir? Tell us where she is?Macconachie: Emily Jane? She’s touring in America. Making a fortune.Mr. Balbus: But will she come back, Sir?Macconachie: If you need her sufficiently, andwish for her often enough, and believe with strength, she will assuredly come back.Mr. Balbus: But why should she have been taken from us, Sir? We loved her, cared for her. She was happy with us.“To carry my message to the hearts of men,” replies Macconachie, with a wistful smile. “I may need any of you in the future and then——” He pauses. “But till then farewell.” And he flits through the window; and the island submerges again. But the others sit in rapt silence, for they have seen beyond the veil.PRESIDENT WILSON(A Chronicle in the manner of John Drinkwater.)Scene I.—The President’s Chamber in the White House, Autumn, 1918.Woodrow Wilson,lean, single-purposed, masterful, is signing State documents with inflexible pen.Joseph Tumulty,a chubby little man, is leaning affectionately on the back of the President’s chair, following the movements of his pen with dog-like veneration. The President, still writing, breaks the silence without looking up.Wilson: Tumulty.Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: I wouldn’t have you think I’m insensible to the merits of your proposals—but I can’t accept them. In the bargainings and shifts of the Allies I must be unfettered, if necessary blindly followed, by the American delegation. Otherwise there’ll be another Congress of Vienna.... It’s not that I criticise our Allies, I would be loath to do that; but I understand their passions and distress. Firmness on our part may perhaps redress the balance.... Where’s Lansing? (The Secretary of State comes in.)Lansing: Good morning, Mr. President.Wilson(wistfully): Why—you’re mighty formal, Lansing. I’ve not to convince you again, I trust. Why, Lansing——Lansing: I hold, as you know, that with the Republicans in a majority in both Houses, it’s an act of, I won’t say folly, Mr. President, but an act of ill-judgment to have them uncommitted to the terms of peace.Wilson: I’m taking Hoover and White.Lansing: White means nothing, and Hoover is only an expert. Lodge, Root, Leonard Wood should all go with you as delegates.Wilson: No, Mr. Secretary. (Tumultybows his head as if to a blow.) No, a thousand times.Lansing: They’ll tear up your work otherwise. I speak as your friend, Mr. President. Myself as you know I don’t think extravagantly well of your plan for a League of Nations. I’ve never disguised that. Though a fine ideal it isn’t practical——But setting my views aside, and speaking as a friend to the proposal, because it’s your proposal, I feel bound to say that, if the Republicans aren’t pledged to it in advance, it will never pass Congress.Wilson(affectionately): Lansing, you’re so logical and clear there seems to be no escape from your reasoning. I’ve no doubt yousize up the Republican intentions mighty well. But you’re wrong for all that; and where you go wrong is right at the beginning. Don’t you see the choice of evils before me? If I don’t take the Republicans they may try to wreck my work when it’s done, true; but if I do take them the work won’t be done at all.Lansing(stiffly): I can’t allow that, Mr. President. They’re good, patriotic Americans.Wilson: Who says they aren’t? Who suggests for one moment that they won’t do their best for America and the Allies? But will they do the best for the world? (Lansingis silent.) Will they tie the world up in a League against war; or will they inflict a vindictive peace, that’ll do no more than sow the seeds of another?Lansing: You distrust their patriotism?Wilson: Never. I distrust their passions. Or say I’m wrong. Say their conception of the peace is the proper one, and mine a delusion. How can we work together? The Delegation couldn’t be depended on to agree in the smallest particular. I should just be playing a lone hand; and the Allies, knowing my house to be divided against itself, would put me aside in the Conference like a cipher. No, Lansing. I’ll go to Paris with those onwhom I can rely. I’ll so tie up the peace with the League, that the one can’t live without the other; and if, as you prophesy, I find myself deserted by Congress, I’ll go over their heads to the American people in whose ideals the thing has its roots. That is my final decision.Lansing: I hope you’ll not regret it.(He takes his leave. The others follow him with their eyes. The President gives a half laugh.)Wilson: Ah, if one could only add to the good qualities one’s friends possess, the good qualities one would have them possess.... (He sighs). These Commissions (holding up the papers he has signed), they’re all in order now?Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: Deliver them yourself. (He reads out the names as he hands them over.) House ... Lansing ... White.The Scene Closes.Scene II.—Wilson’shouse in the Place des Etats Unis, Paris, in the year 1919. A spring morning. The windows of the room look out upon an old-world square—made safe for democracy by American detectives.Woodrow Wilsonsits in a deep armchair by the table. His colleaguesClemenceau,David Lloyd GeorgeandOrlandoare grouped around him.Wilson: Gentlemen, a little merriment would season our labours. (Polite murmurs.) There was a man, a Confederate soldier, in our civil war, who soliloquised thus on a long hard march: “I love my country, and I’m fighting for my country; but if this war ends I’ll be dad-burned if I ever love another country.”The Others(spiritlessly): Ha! Ha! Ha!Wilson: Signor Orlando, you don’t laugh.Orlando: No, sare.Wilson: I’m sorry. The point of my story was somewhat directed to you. I feel rather like that Confederate soldier. I took the American people into war; but I don’t mean to have them dragged into another by a bad territorial settlement in the Adriatic!Orlando: Well, Fiume can be waiting.Wilson: All things can wait. But don’t, I beg you, fall into error. My view of that matter will never change. Monsieur Clemenceau, Gentlemen, be with me in this I entreat you. (A brief silence.) And now, Part I of the Treaty. We are agreed to incorporate the Covenant of the League of Nations there?(There is still silence.) Gentlemen, I can’t think that you hesitate——Clemenceau: Sur cette question de la Société des Nations. Il est bien entendu, n’est ce pas, que la Traité de Garantie, La Pacte, entre La France, Les Etats Unis, et la Grande Bretagne——?Wilson: Why, Mr. Lloyd George will answer for England, but I guess there’s no doubt at all concerning America.Lloyd George: As the President says, I answer for Great Britain. I have agreed in her name that, in certain conditions, she shall be bound to act with France. On the fulfilment of those conditions, she will so act.Clemenceau: Alors, en principe je suis d’accord.Wilson: In principle. Yes, Monsieur. In principle we have never differed. But on the concrete proposition that this Covenant as drafted be embodied in the Treaty——?Clemenceau: Well, I do not object.Wilson: You take a weight from my mind.... I wish to be frank, Gentlemen. I am not happy about the voting of the British Empire in the Assembly of the League. I can’t disguise from you that it’s a difficult provision to explain to the American people. It may antagonise them. I make a final effort. Mr. Lloyd George, would yourDominions be irreconcilable to exercising their vote in one Empire delegation?Lloyd George: They would reject it, Mr. President. I myself would move the rejection. (A brief pause.)Wilson: I put the question formally. That the Covenant, as drafted, stand embodied in the Treaty of Peace. (Aye.) Gentlemen, I thank you for your forbearance. These questions of the Saar Valley and Danzig.... (They pass to other business.)The Scene Closes.Scene III.—The anteroom of a public hall at Pueblo in the Western States, duringPresident Wilson’stour on behalf of the Treaty of Versailles. September 25th, 1919. When the door is open, the speaker’s voice in the main hall is distinctly audible.Admiral Graysonis waiting anxiously.Mrs. Wilsonhurries in.Mrs. Wilson: The President—it’s critical. He must be persuaded against continuing this tour.Grayson: I have been saying that, ma’am, for a long time.Mrs. Wilson: But it grows more urgent. I left the platform to find you. How he’llfinish I don’t know. He was swaying and the utterance seemed more difficult each minute. Nothing but his iron determination sustains him.Grayson: Nothing but the depth of his convictions and his devotion to the task he has begun, have brought him so far.Mrs. Wilson: You must prevail on him, Admiral. If he breaks, the League breaks. Use that with him.Grayson: Prevail. Have you ever tried, ma’am, to prevail upon a monolith? (Tumultyenters, jubilant). How does it go?Tumulty: He’s carrying them. The old wonderful Wilson touch. Listen.He throws open the door. The President’s rich, musical voice, full of power, is borne in upon them.Mrs. Wilson: Why, he sounds to be quite recovered.Grayson(reverently): Hush, ma’am. It is the voice of a prophet.Wilson(off): Now that the mists of this great question have cleared away, I believe that men will see the truth, eye to eye and face to face. There is one thing that the American people always rise to and extend their hand to, and that is the truth of justice and of liberty and of peace. We have accepted thattruth, and we are going to be led by it; and it is going to lead us, and through us the world, out into pastures of quietness and peace, such as the world never dreamed of before.Prolonged applause. The President enters, followed by local magnates and his staff.Tumulty: Oh, Governor, this is the best you’ve ever done.Wilson: Tumulty, it does me good to hear you speak so. I guess—why, surely this building is strangely unsteady—or—Everything’s going. Why, Grayson, it’s—it’s dark.Grayson: Bear up, Sir. A touch of vertigo. You’re tired.Wilson(horror in his eyes): No. My speech. Failing. I can’t—articulate.He sinks intoGrayson’sarms, and is lowered into a chair.Mrs. Wilsonfalls on her knees beside him.Tumulty: In God’s name, Admiral——?Grayson: Paralysis. The tour is over.They prepare to carry the President away.The Scene closes.Scene IV.—A room in the White House. January 16th, 1920.Woodrow Wilson,a shadow of himself, is at his desk.Tumultyas usual is behind the President’s chair. The President is reading a telegram.Wilson: Tumulty, this is bitter. Bitter.Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: They’re meeting beyond the sea in Paris. The League that received birth in American ideals. And the chair of America is empty, not by the declared wish of the people—I’d not believe it, were such a wish expressed—but by the strength of personal rancour in the Senate. It’s unbelievable.Tumulty: And no one there to represent American ideals and aspirations!Wilson: Brazil. This telegram says the Brazilian spoke for the whole American continent: that was brave and far-sighted of him. But it cuts me to the heart to think that the duty of speaking for America should rest elsewhere than on us.Tumulty: It’s hard.Wilson: Hard? It’s cynically false. Tumulty. I can’t believe that is the wish of the country. I will take them the Covenant with my two hands, reason with them, explain....Tumulty(gently): No, dear Governor, you have done all that a man could do. Another effort would waste your life——Wilson: I would give it gladly.Tumulty: To no purpose, now.

While the thankless old mariner shivers

While the thankless old mariner shivers

While the thankless old mariner shivers

Michael John:

And strives to break loose from her spell.Mercia(her voice rising to prophetic fervour):But the child, still unborn, of my yearning,Shall go in the van as our guide,Captain Dan(chuckling feebly):Down the pathway of shame to the burning,Mercia(laughing horribly):When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.(She sweeps him into her arms and carries him away shouting.)Mercia(disappearing): Io. Io. Dionysos!Captain Dan(in a high falsetto): Let the skies rain joy!Eustace(passionately): How can you, Mercia, how can you? (He is seized by uncontrollable weeping.) Im crying, O’Sullivan——Michael John: Im wantin a cry meself. (He bursts into tears.)Mercia’s voice(a long way off): But you must let me come back and look after Harmodius’s clothes——Many years elapse. They are still talking.Mercia(temporizing): After all, if I leave Harmodius for Eustace, or Eustace for Danny——The Colonel(who is deaf by now): Whats that?Mrs. Lazyboy(who is nearly as deaf and very feeble): Shes talking about the childrens holidays.The Colonel: He! He! He!A long time passes by.Mr. Fuzzlewhitt(Merciasgreat grandson): After all, if she had deserted Harmodius Hashovit——Mrs. Fuzzlewhitt(who is thoroughly tired of the story): Yes, Rejjy, I know....Centuries roll by.Monsieur Chose: Bernard Shaw says in his play about Mercia and Harmodius Hashovit that if Mrs. Lazyboy——Æons pass.Somebody: Theres a storm coming. Its going to cleanse the world. (The sky darkens.)Somebody else: It makes no difference. The human brain will survive.A Third Person: The human antheap will continue to surge with meaningless movement.A Fourth: The human voice will continue to cry from nothing to nothing.A Fifth: The human hand will continue to write, and posterity will bury the writings.A Sixth: And Shaw alone shall be assured of immortality.The storm breaks with prodigious force. Eternity arrives.A Shining One: Yes, the immortals are all in their places. Dante and Cervantes had a squabble last night, but theyve made it up.The Eternal: Good.The Shining One: Shakespeare has been giving trouble, too. Hes jealous of Shaw.The Eternal(apprehensively): Im not at all easy in my own mind about Shaw.Eternity passes.Mr. Shaw(on the steps of the eternal throne): Im really very sorry. Its no wish of mine, you know.The Eternal(apologetically, and handing over the crown and sceptre of Heaven): Not at all. Its a pleasure to make this trifling acknowledgment of your genius.The End of the Play.THE ENCHANTED ISLAND(A Fantasy in the manner of J. M. Barrie.)IThepink and white drawing-room of Emily Jane’s house—or rather of the house of Emily Jane’s father, Mister Balbus, is so caressingly harmonious to the eye, so surpassingly restful, so eminently a place of happy people, that one knows instinctively it will be visited by a tragedy. It is just a question of time, and this gentle atmosphere will find itself charged with the electricity of conflicting human emotions; dear women’s hearts will break and be laid aside in pot-pourri jars; strong sentimental men will walk their sweet, melancholy way; and we shall all go home the cleaner, mentally, for a refreshing bath of tears. Emily Jane is not yet in the drawing-room. The appropriate atmosphere has first to be created, so that we may catch our breath just a little as Miss Compton or Miss Celli trips on. Emily Jane is really a very ordinary kind of girl, plump, pleasant-looking, and neither very clever nor specially athletic. But to her mother she is still a tiny toddling mite in a knitted woollen coat with pink ribbons, and to Daddy, Mister Balbus, she is a resplendent goddess.At last, after a preliminary conversation about stamp-collecting, or some other harmless hobby, between McVittie and Price, two old dullards introduced to fill in the few awkward minutes while the latecomers are clambering into their stalls, Mister Balbus comes into the room. There is nothing remarkable about Mister Balbus. In the eyes of his wife he is an irresistibly lovable plexus of male weaknesses; in the eyes of Emily Jane he is closely related to the Almighty. Actually he is nobody in particular, an architect of sorts; but we are to see him through their eyes, and so he appears in the play as a genial and gigantic mixture of a demigod and a buffoon. Mr. Aynesworth is appropriately selected to represent him.“Good morning,” he says.“Good morning,” reply McVittie and Price, delighted that any of the principal characters should condescend to speak to them.“Where’s our little Emily Jane?” he asks, tenderly.“Here, Daddy,” replies a sweet voice.“Where, my lovely one?”“In the chimney, Daddy”; and the dear child clambers down and rushes into his arms without even waiting to brush off the soot. McVittie and Price make clucking noises of approval and delight. This is typical of whatgoes on in the Balbus household every day. How can it be possible that anything except joy should be in store for them? But ah——Mr. Balbus: Where is Mammy, my treasure?Emily Jane: Waiting for Daddy darling, in his study.Mr. Balbus: Will my little heart ask her to come?Emily Jane trips away so happily and obediently. “Well, Price,” says Mr. Balbus, “I must go and see how they’re getting on with the wall.”Price: Haven’t you finished it yet?Mr. Balbus: I don’t think I ever shall. Balbus was building a wall in the time of the Roman Empire; and I suppose he’ll go on for the rest of time.McVittie: Which wall is it this time, Balbus?Mr. Balbus: The Great Wall of China. They’ve retained me to go and inspect it. I leave to-morrow.Mrs. Balbus hurries in and embraces her husband shamelessly. Emily Jane follows and embraces them both. McVittie and Price, not to be outdone, embrace each other in the corner.“You’re going to China, my husband?” asks Mrs. Balbus, tenderly.“Yes, wife.”“I’ll go with you.”Emily Jane: And I, Daddy.McVittie & Price: We will come too, old friend.Mr. Balbus beams at them through his tears. The audience beam at each other through theirs.IIThey have been wrecked.They are all on a deserted island which, from the stunted shrubs and bleak outlook, is probably in the neighbourhood of Tristan da Cunha. McVittie and Price are pretending to be tremendously brave and contented over a meal of roasted berries.“These are really delicious,” says McVittie.“Capital,” says Price. “Have some more.”“No thanks. My doctor, you know. He won’t let me enjoy myself.”“A glass of this delicious rock-water, then. Most stimulating.”“No, my dear fellow. I’ve done magnificently. Not another sup.”But it is really only pretend. The brave fellows are concealing their anxiety for fear of alarming Emily Jane and her mother who are resting in the bivouac near by. Actually they are full of apprehension.“Price,” says McVittie at last, leaning forward mysteriously.“McVittie?” He leans forward too; their long noses almost touch.“I’m uneasy.” A hoarse whisper.“So am I. Very.” A squeak of terror.“I’ve found out the name of this island, Price.”“Indeed?”McVittie sinks his voice even deeper.“It’s called—Umborroweeboo.”“Gracious. What ever does that mean?”“It means....” His voice becomes blood-curdling in its intensity. “It means The-Island-that-wants-to-be-let-alone. It’s a sinister spot, Price. They say....”Darkness begins to close in rapidly. Price shivers.“What do they say?”“They say it can vanish beneath the sea and reappear in another place, after remaining submerged for years.”“Good heavens.” Price is very uneasy. Emily Jane appears from the bivouac and prostrates herself on the ground.“I love you, dear little island,” she murmurs, kissing the shore. “I would like to be married to a beautiful island like you.”“I shall come to claim that promise one day,” says a deep, rich voice from nowhere.Emily Jane: Did anyone speak?McVittie: No one. I heard nothing.Price: I thought—why, what’s that?Mr. Balbus(emerging from a hollow tree): What’s what?Price: That. There. Look.The others: Where?Price: There. Look. Now it’sthere. Quick. It’s moved again. (A strain of unearthly music.)Everybody: Hark. What’s that? (Mrs. Balbus crawls out of the bivouac on her hands and knees.)Mrs. Balbus(fondly): John, you’ve left off your comforter.... Why are you all in a ring? You’ll have the fairies out if you stand in a ring.McVittie(uneasily): In a ring? I didn’t notice. I think——(He turns to move away but finds himself rooted to the ground.) Well, this is most extraordinary.Emily Jane: What is extraordinary, dear Mr. McVittie?McVittie: I can’t move hand or foot.Mr. Balbus: Good Lord. Nor can I.Price: Nor I.Emily Jane: I can a little. It’s getting very difficult. NowIcan’t either. (The strain of music is heard again.)Mrs. Balbus: Ugh! The horrid thing’s got hold ofmenow. I can’t move either. John, make them stop it at once.Mr. Balbus(feebly): How can I, my dear? I’m quite powerless.Emily Jane(illusion suddenly stripped from her eyes—for that is what happens under the spell of this magic island): Oh, Daddy, I thought there was nothing you couldn’t do. And now, now—you’re just like anybody else.Mrs. Balbus(critically): You certainly look strange, John; not at all your usual self.Mr. Balbus(for the first time seeing his wife and daughter as they really are): Please be quiet both of you and don’t talk about things you don’t understand. McVittie, what are we to do?McVittie(philosophically): Wait for the island to disappear, I suppose. (The strain of music sounds once more.)Price(excitedly): There it is moving about again. The thing I saw before.Emily Jane: It’s like a tiny, tiny man.Mr. Balbus: I don’t fancy this at all.Price: It’s coming nearer. (An elvish figure appears dancing towards them. It is puffing a stupendous pipe.)Mr. Balbus(trying to be severe and failing signally): Who are you, please?The Figure(dancing more than ever): Macconachie.Emily Jane: What do you mean by trespassing on our island?Macconachie: I live here. It’s my home. You are the trespassers. But you’re very welcome. (With goblin glee.) I’ve been waiting for you, for a long time.Mr. Balbus: Waiting for us. Nonsense. You don’t know who we are, even.Macconachie: Oh yes I do. I’ve been watching you for a long time. Especially Emily Jane. I want Emily Jane.Mrs. Balbus: Want Emily Jane? The idea of such a thing! Go away, Sir, at once.Macconachie: You think you’re her mother, I suppose? (Addressing Balbus) And you believe yourself to be her father?Mr. Balbus(with dignity): I certainly do.Macconachie: But you’re not, you’re not. She’s mine.Mrs. Balbus(indignantly): Sir! John, don’t listen to a word he says.Macconachie: You’re all mine. I want you all.McVittie(hoarsely): Want us all? What for, may I ask?Macconachie: To draw tears from simple hearts. You’ll see.But they don’t understand at all, and look blankly at one another, as he flits about like a will o’ the wisp still puffing at his gigantic pipe.IIIThe drawing-room again. They are all, except Emily Jane, sitting there in disconsolate melancholy.Mr. Balbus(with a deep sigh): It’s for the best of course.... But I miss her sadly.McVittie & Price: It’s terrible, terrible. (They sigh).Mrs. Balbus: I always felt there was something unearthly about the child. (She sighs very deeply.)There is a long pause. They are thinking of their terrible experience when Macconachie flitted over their heads like a sprite, and the solid island sank beneath their feet, and they were left clinging to a raft.“When the island began to submerge”—begins Mr. Balbus, and then he checks himself with a sob.McVittie(for the hundredth time): I could have sworn I had her in my arms on the raft. (His voice breaks.)Price: You didn’t hear the Voice—Mrs. Balbus: Voice—what voice?Price: Something about claiming a promise. And she gave a little cry of wonder. I heard it. (He walks gloomily over to the window.)Mr. Balbus(suddenly enlightened): That’s what Macconachie meant, when he said “to drawtears from simple hearts.” I begin to understand....Price(at the window): How very curious.Mrs. Balbus: My curtains? They are certainly not.Price(in choking tones): Look at the lake—it’s drying up, or something.They all rush to the window. An amazing thing is in progress. The bottom of the lake seems to be rising. Stunted shrubs are pushing themselves above the water.“My gracious powers, it’s the island,” cries Mr. Balbus.Price(quoting McVittie’s long-forgotten remark): They say it can vanish beneath the sea, and reappear in another place after remaining submerged for years.McVittie: There’s somebody moving on it. Look. Among the trees.Mr. Balbus: It’s Macconachie. (He hails the island. Macconachie comes ashore, and flits up to the house.)Mr. Balbus(in a trembling voice): Where is she, Sir? Tell us where she is?Macconachie: Emily Jane? She’s touring in America. Making a fortune.Mr. Balbus: But will she come back, Sir?Macconachie: If you need her sufficiently, andwish for her often enough, and believe with strength, she will assuredly come back.Mr. Balbus: But why should she have been taken from us, Sir? We loved her, cared for her. She was happy with us.“To carry my message to the hearts of men,” replies Macconachie, with a wistful smile. “I may need any of you in the future and then——” He pauses. “But till then farewell.” And he flits through the window; and the island submerges again. But the others sit in rapt silence, for they have seen beyond the veil.PRESIDENT WILSON(A Chronicle in the manner of John Drinkwater.)Scene I.—The President’s Chamber in the White House, Autumn, 1918.Woodrow Wilson,lean, single-purposed, masterful, is signing State documents with inflexible pen.Joseph Tumulty,a chubby little man, is leaning affectionately on the back of the President’s chair, following the movements of his pen with dog-like veneration. The President, still writing, breaks the silence without looking up.Wilson: Tumulty.Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: I wouldn’t have you think I’m insensible to the merits of your proposals—but I can’t accept them. In the bargainings and shifts of the Allies I must be unfettered, if necessary blindly followed, by the American delegation. Otherwise there’ll be another Congress of Vienna.... It’s not that I criticise our Allies, I would be loath to do that; but I understand their passions and distress. Firmness on our part may perhaps redress the balance.... Where’s Lansing? (The Secretary of State comes in.)Lansing: Good morning, Mr. President.Wilson(wistfully): Why—you’re mighty formal, Lansing. I’ve not to convince you again, I trust. Why, Lansing——Lansing: I hold, as you know, that with the Republicans in a majority in both Houses, it’s an act of, I won’t say folly, Mr. President, but an act of ill-judgment to have them uncommitted to the terms of peace.Wilson: I’m taking Hoover and White.Lansing: White means nothing, and Hoover is only an expert. Lodge, Root, Leonard Wood should all go with you as delegates.Wilson: No, Mr. Secretary. (Tumultybows his head as if to a blow.) No, a thousand times.Lansing: They’ll tear up your work otherwise. I speak as your friend, Mr. President. Myself as you know I don’t think extravagantly well of your plan for a League of Nations. I’ve never disguised that. Though a fine ideal it isn’t practical——But setting my views aside, and speaking as a friend to the proposal, because it’s your proposal, I feel bound to say that, if the Republicans aren’t pledged to it in advance, it will never pass Congress.Wilson(affectionately): Lansing, you’re so logical and clear there seems to be no escape from your reasoning. I’ve no doubt yousize up the Republican intentions mighty well. But you’re wrong for all that; and where you go wrong is right at the beginning. Don’t you see the choice of evils before me? If I don’t take the Republicans they may try to wreck my work when it’s done, true; but if I do take them the work won’t be done at all.Lansing(stiffly): I can’t allow that, Mr. President. They’re good, patriotic Americans.Wilson: Who says they aren’t? Who suggests for one moment that they won’t do their best for America and the Allies? But will they do the best for the world? (Lansingis silent.) Will they tie the world up in a League against war; or will they inflict a vindictive peace, that’ll do no more than sow the seeds of another?Lansing: You distrust their patriotism?Wilson: Never. I distrust their passions. Or say I’m wrong. Say their conception of the peace is the proper one, and mine a delusion. How can we work together? The Delegation couldn’t be depended on to agree in the smallest particular. I should just be playing a lone hand; and the Allies, knowing my house to be divided against itself, would put me aside in the Conference like a cipher. No, Lansing. I’ll go to Paris with those onwhom I can rely. I’ll so tie up the peace with the League, that the one can’t live without the other; and if, as you prophesy, I find myself deserted by Congress, I’ll go over their heads to the American people in whose ideals the thing has its roots. That is my final decision.Lansing: I hope you’ll not regret it.(He takes his leave. The others follow him with their eyes. The President gives a half laugh.)Wilson: Ah, if one could only add to the good qualities one’s friends possess, the good qualities one would have them possess.... (He sighs). These Commissions (holding up the papers he has signed), they’re all in order now?Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: Deliver them yourself. (He reads out the names as he hands them over.) House ... Lansing ... White.The Scene Closes.Scene II.—Wilson’shouse in the Place des Etats Unis, Paris, in the year 1919. A spring morning. The windows of the room look out upon an old-world square—made safe for democracy by American detectives.Woodrow Wilsonsits in a deep armchair by the table. His colleaguesClemenceau,David Lloyd GeorgeandOrlandoare grouped around him.Wilson: Gentlemen, a little merriment would season our labours. (Polite murmurs.) There was a man, a Confederate soldier, in our civil war, who soliloquised thus on a long hard march: “I love my country, and I’m fighting for my country; but if this war ends I’ll be dad-burned if I ever love another country.”The Others(spiritlessly): Ha! Ha! Ha!Wilson: Signor Orlando, you don’t laugh.Orlando: No, sare.Wilson: I’m sorry. The point of my story was somewhat directed to you. I feel rather like that Confederate soldier. I took the American people into war; but I don’t mean to have them dragged into another by a bad territorial settlement in the Adriatic!Orlando: Well, Fiume can be waiting.Wilson: All things can wait. But don’t, I beg you, fall into error. My view of that matter will never change. Monsieur Clemenceau, Gentlemen, be with me in this I entreat you. (A brief silence.) And now, Part I of the Treaty. We are agreed to incorporate the Covenant of the League of Nations there?(There is still silence.) Gentlemen, I can’t think that you hesitate——Clemenceau: Sur cette question de la Société des Nations. Il est bien entendu, n’est ce pas, que la Traité de Garantie, La Pacte, entre La France, Les Etats Unis, et la Grande Bretagne——?Wilson: Why, Mr. Lloyd George will answer for England, but I guess there’s no doubt at all concerning America.Lloyd George: As the President says, I answer for Great Britain. I have agreed in her name that, in certain conditions, she shall be bound to act with France. On the fulfilment of those conditions, she will so act.Clemenceau: Alors, en principe je suis d’accord.Wilson: In principle. Yes, Monsieur. In principle we have never differed. But on the concrete proposition that this Covenant as drafted be embodied in the Treaty——?Clemenceau: Well, I do not object.Wilson: You take a weight from my mind.... I wish to be frank, Gentlemen. I am not happy about the voting of the British Empire in the Assembly of the League. I can’t disguise from you that it’s a difficult provision to explain to the American people. It may antagonise them. I make a final effort. Mr. Lloyd George, would yourDominions be irreconcilable to exercising their vote in one Empire delegation?Lloyd George: They would reject it, Mr. President. I myself would move the rejection. (A brief pause.)Wilson: I put the question formally. That the Covenant, as drafted, stand embodied in the Treaty of Peace. (Aye.) Gentlemen, I thank you for your forbearance. These questions of the Saar Valley and Danzig.... (They pass to other business.)The Scene Closes.Scene III.—The anteroom of a public hall at Pueblo in the Western States, duringPresident Wilson’stour on behalf of the Treaty of Versailles. September 25th, 1919. When the door is open, the speaker’s voice in the main hall is distinctly audible.Admiral Graysonis waiting anxiously.Mrs. Wilsonhurries in.Mrs. Wilson: The President—it’s critical. He must be persuaded against continuing this tour.Grayson: I have been saying that, ma’am, for a long time.Mrs. Wilson: But it grows more urgent. I left the platform to find you. How he’llfinish I don’t know. He was swaying and the utterance seemed more difficult each minute. Nothing but his iron determination sustains him.Grayson: Nothing but the depth of his convictions and his devotion to the task he has begun, have brought him so far.Mrs. Wilson: You must prevail on him, Admiral. If he breaks, the League breaks. Use that with him.Grayson: Prevail. Have you ever tried, ma’am, to prevail upon a monolith? (Tumultyenters, jubilant). How does it go?Tumulty: He’s carrying them. The old wonderful Wilson touch. Listen.He throws open the door. The President’s rich, musical voice, full of power, is borne in upon them.Mrs. Wilson: Why, he sounds to be quite recovered.Grayson(reverently): Hush, ma’am. It is the voice of a prophet.Wilson(off): Now that the mists of this great question have cleared away, I believe that men will see the truth, eye to eye and face to face. There is one thing that the American people always rise to and extend their hand to, and that is the truth of justice and of liberty and of peace. We have accepted thattruth, and we are going to be led by it; and it is going to lead us, and through us the world, out into pastures of quietness and peace, such as the world never dreamed of before.Prolonged applause. The President enters, followed by local magnates and his staff.Tumulty: Oh, Governor, this is the best you’ve ever done.Wilson: Tumulty, it does me good to hear you speak so. I guess—why, surely this building is strangely unsteady—or—Everything’s going. Why, Grayson, it’s—it’s dark.Grayson: Bear up, Sir. A touch of vertigo. You’re tired.Wilson(horror in his eyes): No. My speech. Failing. I can’t—articulate.He sinks intoGrayson’sarms, and is lowered into a chair.Mrs. Wilsonfalls on her knees beside him.Tumulty: In God’s name, Admiral——?Grayson: Paralysis. The tour is over.

And strives to break loose from her spell.

And strives to break loose from her spell.

And strives to break loose from her spell.

Mercia(her voice rising to prophetic fervour):

But the child, still unborn, of my yearning,Shall go in the van as our guide,Captain Dan(chuckling feebly):Down the pathway of shame to the burning,Mercia(laughing horribly):When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.(She sweeps him into her arms and carries him away shouting.)Mercia(disappearing): Io. Io. Dionysos!Captain Dan(in a high falsetto): Let the skies rain joy!Eustace(passionately): How can you, Mercia, how can you? (He is seized by uncontrollable weeping.) Im crying, O’Sullivan——Michael John: Im wantin a cry meself. (He bursts into tears.)Mercia’s voice(a long way off): But you must let me come back and look after Harmodius’s clothes——Many years elapse. They are still talking.Mercia(temporizing): After all, if I leave Harmodius for Eustace, or Eustace for Danny——The Colonel(who is deaf by now): Whats that?Mrs. Lazyboy(who is nearly as deaf and very feeble): Shes talking about the childrens holidays.The Colonel: He! He! He!A long time passes by.Mr. Fuzzlewhitt(Merciasgreat grandson): After all, if she had deserted Harmodius Hashovit——Mrs. Fuzzlewhitt(who is thoroughly tired of the story): Yes, Rejjy, I know....Centuries roll by.Monsieur Chose: Bernard Shaw says in his play about Mercia and Harmodius Hashovit that if Mrs. Lazyboy——Æons pass.Somebody: Theres a storm coming. Its going to cleanse the world. (The sky darkens.)Somebody else: It makes no difference. The human brain will survive.A Third Person: The human antheap will continue to surge with meaningless movement.A Fourth: The human voice will continue to cry from nothing to nothing.A Fifth: The human hand will continue to write, and posterity will bury the writings.A Sixth: And Shaw alone shall be assured of immortality.The storm breaks with prodigious force. Eternity arrives.A Shining One: Yes, the immortals are all in their places. Dante and Cervantes had a squabble last night, but theyve made it up.The Eternal: Good.The Shining One: Shakespeare has been giving trouble, too. Hes jealous of Shaw.The Eternal(apprehensively): Im not at all easy in my own mind about Shaw.Eternity passes.Mr. Shaw(on the steps of the eternal throne): Im really very sorry. Its no wish of mine, you know.The Eternal(apologetically, and handing over the crown and sceptre of Heaven): Not at all. Its a pleasure to make this trifling acknowledgment of your genius.The End of the Play.THE ENCHANTED ISLAND(A Fantasy in the manner of J. M. Barrie.)IThepink and white drawing-room of Emily Jane’s house—or rather of the house of Emily Jane’s father, Mister Balbus, is so caressingly harmonious to the eye, so surpassingly restful, so eminently a place of happy people, that one knows instinctively it will be visited by a tragedy. It is just a question of time, and this gentle atmosphere will find itself charged with the electricity of conflicting human emotions; dear women’s hearts will break and be laid aside in pot-pourri jars; strong sentimental men will walk their sweet, melancholy way; and we shall all go home the cleaner, mentally, for a refreshing bath of tears. Emily Jane is not yet in the drawing-room. The appropriate atmosphere has first to be created, so that we may catch our breath just a little as Miss Compton or Miss Celli trips on. Emily Jane is really a very ordinary kind of girl, plump, pleasant-looking, and neither very clever nor specially athletic. But to her mother she is still a tiny toddling mite in a knitted woollen coat with pink ribbons, and to Daddy, Mister Balbus, she is a resplendent goddess.At last, after a preliminary conversation about stamp-collecting, or some other harmless hobby, between McVittie and Price, two old dullards introduced to fill in the few awkward minutes while the latecomers are clambering into their stalls, Mister Balbus comes into the room. There is nothing remarkable about Mister Balbus. In the eyes of his wife he is an irresistibly lovable plexus of male weaknesses; in the eyes of Emily Jane he is closely related to the Almighty. Actually he is nobody in particular, an architect of sorts; but we are to see him through their eyes, and so he appears in the play as a genial and gigantic mixture of a demigod and a buffoon. Mr. Aynesworth is appropriately selected to represent him.“Good morning,” he says.“Good morning,” reply McVittie and Price, delighted that any of the principal characters should condescend to speak to them.“Where’s our little Emily Jane?” he asks, tenderly.“Here, Daddy,” replies a sweet voice.“Where, my lovely one?”“In the chimney, Daddy”; and the dear child clambers down and rushes into his arms without even waiting to brush off the soot. McVittie and Price make clucking noises of approval and delight. This is typical of whatgoes on in the Balbus household every day. How can it be possible that anything except joy should be in store for them? But ah——Mr. Balbus: Where is Mammy, my treasure?Emily Jane: Waiting for Daddy darling, in his study.Mr. Balbus: Will my little heart ask her to come?Emily Jane trips away so happily and obediently. “Well, Price,” says Mr. Balbus, “I must go and see how they’re getting on with the wall.”Price: Haven’t you finished it yet?Mr. Balbus: I don’t think I ever shall. Balbus was building a wall in the time of the Roman Empire; and I suppose he’ll go on for the rest of time.McVittie: Which wall is it this time, Balbus?Mr. Balbus: The Great Wall of China. They’ve retained me to go and inspect it. I leave to-morrow.Mrs. Balbus hurries in and embraces her husband shamelessly. Emily Jane follows and embraces them both. McVittie and Price, not to be outdone, embrace each other in the corner.“You’re going to China, my husband?” asks Mrs. Balbus, tenderly.“Yes, wife.”“I’ll go with you.”Emily Jane: And I, Daddy.McVittie & Price: We will come too, old friend.Mr. Balbus beams at them through his tears. The audience beam at each other through theirs.IIThey have been wrecked.They are all on a deserted island which, from the stunted shrubs and bleak outlook, is probably in the neighbourhood of Tristan da Cunha. McVittie and Price are pretending to be tremendously brave and contented over a meal of roasted berries.“These are really delicious,” says McVittie.“Capital,” says Price. “Have some more.”“No thanks. My doctor, you know. He won’t let me enjoy myself.”“A glass of this delicious rock-water, then. Most stimulating.”“No, my dear fellow. I’ve done magnificently. Not another sup.”But it is really only pretend. The brave fellows are concealing their anxiety for fear of alarming Emily Jane and her mother who are resting in the bivouac near by. Actually they are full of apprehension.“Price,” says McVittie at last, leaning forward mysteriously.“McVittie?” He leans forward too; their long noses almost touch.“I’m uneasy.” A hoarse whisper.“So am I. Very.” A squeak of terror.“I’ve found out the name of this island, Price.”“Indeed?”McVittie sinks his voice even deeper.“It’s called—Umborroweeboo.”“Gracious. What ever does that mean?”“It means....” His voice becomes blood-curdling in its intensity. “It means The-Island-that-wants-to-be-let-alone. It’s a sinister spot, Price. They say....”Darkness begins to close in rapidly. Price shivers.“What do they say?”“They say it can vanish beneath the sea and reappear in another place, after remaining submerged for years.”“Good heavens.” Price is very uneasy. Emily Jane appears from the bivouac and prostrates herself on the ground.“I love you, dear little island,” she murmurs, kissing the shore. “I would like to be married to a beautiful island like you.”“I shall come to claim that promise one day,” says a deep, rich voice from nowhere.Emily Jane: Did anyone speak?McVittie: No one. I heard nothing.Price: I thought—why, what’s that?Mr. Balbus(emerging from a hollow tree): What’s what?Price: That. There. Look.The others: Where?Price: There. Look. Now it’sthere. Quick. It’s moved again. (A strain of unearthly music.)Everybody: Hark. What’s that? (Mrs. Balbus crawls out of the bivouac on her hands and knees.)Mrs. Balbus(fondly): John, you’ve left off your comforter.... Why are you all in a ring? You’ll have the fairies out if you stand in a ring.McVittie(uneasily): In a ring? I didn’t notice. I think——(He turns to move away but finds himself rooted to the ground.) Well, this is most extraordinary.Emily Jane: What is extraordinary, dear Mr. McVittie?McVittie: I can’t move hand or foot.Mr. Balbus: Good Lord. Nor can I.Price: Nor I.Emily Jane: I can a little. It’s getting very difficult. NowIcan’t either. (The strain of music is heard again.)Mrs. Balbus: Ugh! The horrid thing’s got hold ofmenow. I can’t move either. John, make them stop it at once.Mr. Balbus(feebly): How can I, my dear? I’m quite powerless.Emily Jane(illusion suddenly stripped from her eyes—for that is what happens under the spell of this magic island): Oh, Daddy, I thought there was nothing you couldn’t do. And now, now—you’re just like anybody else.Mrs. Balbus(critically): You certainly look strange, John; not at all your usual self.Mr. Balbus(for the first time seeing his wife and daughter as they really are): Please be quiet both of you and don’t talk about things you don’t understand. McVittie, what are we to do?McVittie(philosophically): Wait for the island to disappear, I suppose. (The strain of music sounds once more.)Price(excitedly): There it is moving about again. The thing I saw before.Emily Jane: It’s like a tiny, tiny man.Mr. Balbus: I don’t fancy this at all.Price: It’s coming nearer. (An elvish figure appears dancing towards them. It is puffing a stupendous pipe.)Mr. Balbus(trying to be severe and failing signally): Who are you, please?The Figure(dancing more than ever): Macconachie.Emily Jane: What do you mean by trespassing on our island?Macconachie: I live here. It’s my home. You are the trespassers. But you’re very welcome. (With goblin glee.) I’ve been waiting for you, for a long time.Mr. Balbus: Waiting for us. Nonsense. You don’t know who we are, even.Macconachie: Oh yes I do. I’ve been watching you for a long time. Especially Emily Jane. I want Emily Jane.Mrs. Balbus: Want Emily Jane? The idea of such a thing! Go away, Sir, at once.Macconachie: You think you’re her mother, I suppose? (Addressing Balbus) And you believe yourself to be her father?Mr. Balbus(with dignity): I certainly do.Macconachie: But you’re not, you’re not. She’s mine.Mrs. Balbus(indignantly): Sir! John, don’t listen to a word he says.Macconachie: You’re all mine. I want you all.McVittie(hoarsely): Want us all? What for, may I ask?Macconachie: To draw tears from simple hearts. You’ll see.But they don’t understand at all, and look blankly at one another, as he flits about like a will o’ the wisp still puffing at his gigantic pipe.IIIThe drawing-room again. They are all, except Emily Jane, sitting there in disconsolate melancholy.Mr. Balbus(with a deep sigh): It’s for the best of course.... But I miss her sadly.McVittie & Price: It’s terrible, terrible. (They sigh).Mrs. Balbus: I always felt there was something unearthly about the child. (She sighs very deeply.)There is a long pause. They are thinking of their terrible experience when Macconachie flitted over their heads like a sprite, and the solid island sank beneath their feet, and they were left clinging to a raft.“When the island began to submerge”—begins Mr. Balbus, and then he checks himself with a sob.McVittie(for the hundredth time): I could have sworn I had her in my arms on the raft. (His voice breaks.)Price: You didn’t hear the Voice—Mrs. Balbus: Voice—what voice?Price: Something about claiming a promise. And she gave a little cry of wonder. I heard it. (He walks gloomily over to the window.)Mr. Balbus(suddenly enlightened): That’s what Macconachie meant, when he said “to drawtears from simple hearts.” I begin to understand....Price(at the window): How very curious.Mrs. Balbus: My curtains? They are certainly not.Price(in choking tones): Look at the lake—it’s drying up, or something.They all rush to the window. An amazing thing is in progress. The bottom of the lake seems to be rising. Stunted shrubs are pushing themselves above the water.“My gracious powers, it’s the island,” cries Mr. Balbus.Price(quoting McVittie’s long-forgotten remark): They say it can vanish beneath the sea, and reappear in another place after remaining submerged for years.McVittie: There’s somebody moving on it. Look. Among the trees.Mr. Balbus: It’s Macconachie. (He hails the island. Macconachie comes ashore, and flits up to the house.)Mr. Balbus(in a trembling voice): Where is she, Sir? Tell us where she is?Macconachie: Emily Jane? She’s touring in America. Making a fortune.Mr. Balbus: But will she come back, Sir?Macconachie: If you need her sufficiently, andwish for her often enough, and believe with strength, she will assuredly come back.Mr. Balbus: But why should she have been taken from us, Sir? We loved her, cared for her. She was happy with us.“To carry my message to the hearts of men,” replies Macconachie, with a wistful smile. “I may need any of you in the future and then——” He pauses. “But till then farewell.” And he flits through the window; and the island submerges again. But the others sit in rapt silence, for they have seen beyond the veil.PRESIDENT WILSON(A Chronicle in the manner of John Drinkwater.)Scene I.—The President’s Chamber in the White House, Autumn, 1918.Woodrow Wilson,lean, single-purposed, masterful, is signing State documents with inflexible pen.Joseph Tumulty,a chubby little man, is leaning affectionately on the back of the President’s chair, following the movements of his pen with dog-like veneration. The President, still writing, breaks the silence without looking up.Wilson: Tumulty.Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: I wouldn’t have you think I’m insensible to the merits of your proposals—but I can’t accept them. In the bargainings and shifts of the Allies I must be unfettered, if necessary blindly followed, by the American delegation. Otherwise there’ll be another Congress of Vienna.... It’s not that I criticise our Allies, I would be loath to do that; but I understand their passions and distress. Firmness on our part may perhaps redress the balance.... Where’s Lansing? (The Secretary of State comes in.)Lansing: Good morning, Mr. President.Wilson(wistfully): Why—you’re mighty formal, Lansing. I’ve not to convince you again, I trust. Why, Lansing——Lansing: I hold, as you know, that with the Republicans in a majority in both Houses, it’s an act of, I won’t say folly, Mr. President, but an act of ill-judgment to have them uncommitted to the terms of peace.Wilson: I’m taking Hoover and White.Lansing: White means nothing, and Hoover is only an expert. Lodge, Root, Leonard Wood should all go with you as delegates.Wilson: No, Mr. Secretary. (Tumultybows his head as if to a blow.) No, a thousand times.Lansing: They’ll tear up your work otherwise. I speak as your friend, Mr. President. Myself as you know I don’t think extravagantly well of your plan for a League of Nations. I’ve never disguised that. Though a fine ideal it isn’t practical——But setting my views aside, and speaking as a friend to the proposal, because it’s your proposal, I feel bound to say that, if the Republicans aren’t pledged to it in advance, it will never pass Congress.Wilson(affectionately): Lansing, you’re so logical and clear there seems to be no escape from your reasoning. I’ve no doubt yousize up the Republican intentions mighty well. But you’re wrong for all that; and where you go wrong is right at the beginning. Don’t you see the choice of evils before me? If I don’t take the Republicans they may try to wreck my work when it’s done, true; but if I do take them the work won’t be done at all.Lansing(stiffly): I can’t allow that, Mr. President. They’re good, patriotic Americans.Wilson: Who says they aren’t? Who suggests for one moment that they won’t do their best for America and the Allies? But will they do the best for the world? (Lansingis silent.) Will they tie the world up in a League against war; or will they inflict a vindictive peace, that’ll do no more than sow the seeds of another?Lansing: You distrust their patriotism?Wilson: Never. I distrust their passions. Or say I’m wrong. Say their conception of the peace is the proper one, and mine a delusion. How can we work together? The Delegation couldn’t be depended on to agree in the smallest particular. I should just be playing a lone hand; and the Allies, knowing my house to be divided against itself, would put me aside in the Conference like a cipher. No, Lansing. I’ll go to Paris with those onwhom I can rely. I’ll so tie up the peace with the League, that the one can’t live without the other; and if, as you prophesy, I find myself deserted by Congress, I’ll go over their heads to the American people in whose ideals the thing has its roots. That is my final decision.Lansing: I hope you’ll not regret it.(He takes his leave. The others follow him with their eyes. The President gives a half laugh.)Wilson: Ah, if one could only add to the good qualities one’s friends possess, the good qualities one would have them possess.... (He sighs). These Commissions (holding up the papers he has signed), they’re all in order now?Tumulty: Yes, Governor.Wilson: Deliver them yourself. (He reads out the names as he hands them over.) House ... Lansing ... White.The Scene Closes.Scene II.—Wilson’shouse in the Place des Etats Unis, Paris, in the year 1919. A spring morning. The windows of the room look out upon an old-world square—made safe for democracy by American detectives.Woodrow Wilsonsits in a deep armchair by the table. His colleaguesClemenceau,David Lloyd GeorgeandOrlandoare grouped around him.Wilson: Gentlemen, a little merriment would season our labours. (Polite murmurs.) There was a man, a Confederate soldier, in our civil war, who soliloquised thus on a long hard march: “I love my country, and I’m fighting for my country; but if this war ends I’ll be dad-burned if I ever love another country.”The Others(spiritlessly): Ha! Ha! Ha!Wilson: Signor Orlando, you don’t laugh.Orlando: No, sare.Wilson: I’m sorry. The point of my story was somewhat directed to you. I feel rather like that Confederate soldier. I took the American people into war; but I don’t mean to have them dragged into another by a bad territorial settlement in the Adriatic!Orlando: Well, Fiume can be waiting.Wilson: All things can wait. But don’t, I beg you, fall into error. My view of that matter will never change. Monsieur Clemenceau, Gentlemen, be with me in this I entreat you. (A brief silence.) And now, Part I of the Treaty. We are agreed to incorporate the Covenant of the League of Nations there?(There is still silence.) Gentlemen, I can’t think that you hesitate——Clemenceau: Sur cette question de la Société des Nations. Il est bien entendu, n’est ce pas, que la Traité de Garantie, La Pacte, entre La France, Les Etats Unis, et la Grande Bretagne——?Wilson: Why, Mr. Lloyd George will answer for England, but I guess there’s no doubt at all concerning America.Lloyd George: As the President says, I answer for Great Britain. I have agreed in her name that, in certain conditions, she shall be bound to act with France. On the fulfilment of those conditions, she will so act.Clemenceau: Alors, en principe je suis d’accord.Wilson: In principle. Yes, Monsieur. In principle we have never differed. But on the concrete proposition that this Covenant as drafted be embodied in the Treaty——?Clemenceau: Well, I do not object.Wilson: You take a weight from my mind.... I wish to be frank, Gentlemen. I am not happy about the voting of the British Empire in the Assembly of the League. I can’t disguise from you that it’s a difficult provision to explain to the American people. It may antagonise them. I make a final effort. Mr. Lloyd George, would yourDominions be irreconcilable to exercising their vote in one Empire delegation?Lloyd George: They would reject it, Mr. President. I myself would move the rejection. (A brief pause.)Wilson: I put the question formally. That the Covenant, as drafted, stand embodied in the Treaty of Peace. (Aye.) Gentlemen, I thank you for your forbearance. These questions of the Saar Valley and Danzig.... (They pass to other business.)

But the child, still unborn, of my yearning,Shall go in the van as our guide,

But the child, still unborn, of my yearning,Shall go in the van as our guide,

But the child, still unborn, of my yearning,

Shall go in the van as our guide,

Captain Dan(chuckling feebly):

Down the pathway of shame to the burning,Mercia(laughing horribly):When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.(She sweeps him into her arms and carries him away shouting.)Mercia(disappearing): Io. Io. Dionysos!Captain Dan(in a high falsetto): Let the skies rain joy!Eustace(passionately): How can you, Mercia, how can you? (He is seized by uncontrollable weeping.) Im crying, O’Sullivan——Michael John: Im wantin a cry meself. (He bursts into tears.)Mercia’s voice(a long way off): But you must let me come back and look after Harmodius’s clothes——Many years elapse. They are still talking.Mercia(temporizing): After all, if I leave Harmodius for Eustace, or Eustace for Danny——The Colonel(who is deaf by now): Whats that?Mrs. Lazyboy(who is nearly as deaf and very feeble): Shes talking about the childrens holidays.The Colonel: He! He! He!A long time passes by.Mr. Fuzzlewhitt(Merciasgreat grandson): After all, if she had deserted Harmodius Hashovit——Mrs. Fuzzlewhitt(who is thoroughly tired of the story): Yes, Rejjy, I know....Centuries roll by.Monsieur Chose: Bernard Shaw says in his play about Mercia and Harmodius Hashovit that if Mrs. Lazyboy——Æons pass.Somebody: Theres a storm coming. Its going to cleanse the world. (The sky darkens.)Somebody else: It makes no difference. The human brain will survive.A Third Person: The human antheap will continue to surge with meaningless movement.A Fourth: The human voice will continue to cry from nothing to nothing.A Fifth: The human hand will continue to write, and posterity will bury the writings.A Sixth: And Shaw alone shall be assured of immortality.The storm breaks with prodigious force. Eternity arrives.A Shining One: Yes, the immortals are all in their places. Dante and Cervantes had a squabble last night, but theyve made it up.The Eternal: Good.The Shining One: Shakespeare has been giving trouble, too. Hes jealous of Shaw.The Eternal(apprehensively): Im not at all easy in my own mind about Shaw.Eternity passes.Mr. Shaw(on the steps of the eternal throne): Im really very sorry. Its no wish of mine, you know.The Eternal(apologetically, and handing over the crown and sceptre of Heaven): Not at all. Its a pleasure to make this trifling acknowledgment of your genius.The End of the Play.THE ENCHANTED ISLAND(A Fantasy in the manner of J. M. Barrie.)IThepink and white drawing-room of Emily Jane’s house—or rather of the house of Emily Jane’s father, Mister Balbus, is so caressingly harmonious to the eye, so surpassingly restful, so eminently a place of happy people, that one knows instinctively it will be visited by a tragedy. It is just a question of time, and this gentle atmosphere will find itself charged with the electricity of conflicting human emotions; dear women’s hearts will break and be laid aside in pot-pourri jars; strong sentimental men will walk their sweet, melancholy way; and we shall all go home the cleaner, mentally, for a refreshing bath of tears. Emily Jane is not yet in the drawing-room. The appropriate atmosphere has first to be created, so that we may catch our breath just a little as Miss Compton or Miss Celli trips on. Emily Jane is really a very ordinary kind of girl, plump, pleasant-looking, and neither very clever nor specially athletic. But to her mother she is still a tiny toddling mite in a knitted woollen coat with pink ribbons, and to Daddy, Mister Balbus, she is a resplendent goddess.At last, after a preliminary conversation about stamp-collecting, or some other harmless hobby, between McVittie and Price, two old dullards introduced to fill in the few awkward minutes while the latecomers are clambering into their stalls, Mister Balbus comes into the room. There is nothing remarkable about Mister Balbus. In the eyes of his wife he is an irresistibly lovable plexus of male weaknesses; in the eyes of Emily Jane he is closely related to the Almighty. Actually he is nobody in particular, an architect of sorts; but we are to see him through their eyes, and so he appears in the play as a genial and gigantic mixture of a demigod and a buffoon. Mr. Aynesworth is appropriately selected to represent him.“Good morning,” he says.“Good morning,” reply McVittie and Price, delighted that any of the principal characters should condescend to speak to them.“Where’s our little Emily Jane?” he asks, tenderly.“Here, Daddy,” replies a sweet voice.“Where, my lovely one?”“In the chimney, Daddy”; and the dear child clambers down and rushes into his arms without even waiting to brush off the soot. McVittie and Price make clucking noises of approval and delight. This is typical of whatgoes on in the Balbus household every day. How can it be possible that anything except joy should be in store for them? But ah——Mr. Balbus: Where is Mammy, my treasure?Emily Jane: Waiting for Daddy darling, in his study.Mr. Balbus: Will my little heart ask her to come?Emily Jane trips away so happily and obediently. “Well, Price,” says Mr. Balbus, “I must go and see how they’re getting on with the wall.”Price: Haven’t you finished it yet?Mr. Balbus: I don’t think I ever shall. Balbus was building a wall in the time of the Roman Empire; and I suppose he’ll go on for the rest of time.McVittie: Which wall is it this time, Balbus?Mr. Balbus: The Great Wall of China. They’ve retained me to go and inspect it. I leave to-morrow.Mrs. Balbus hurries in and embraces her husband shamelessly. Emily Jane follows and embraces them both. McVittie and Price, not to be outdone, embrace each other in the corner.“You’re going to China, my husband?” asks Mrs. Balbus, tenderly.“Yes, wife.”“I’ll go with you.”Emily Jane: And I, Daddy.McVittie & Price: We will come too, old friend.Mr. Balbus beams at them through his tears. The audience beam at each other through theirs.IIThey have been wrecked.They are all on a deserted island which, from the stunted shrubs and bleak outlook, is probably in the neighbourhood of Tristan da Cunha. McVittie and Price are pretending to be tremendously brave and contented over a meal of roasted berries.“These are really delicious,” says McVittie.“Capital,” says Price. “Have some more.”“No thanks. My doctor, you know. He won’t let me enjoy myself.”“A glass of this delicious rock-water, then. Most stimulating.”“No, my dear fellow. I’ve done magnificently. Not another sup.”But it is really only pretend. The brave fellows are concealing their anxiety for fear of alarming Emily Jane and her mother who are resting in the bivouac near by. Actually they are full of apprehension.“Price,” says McVittie at last, leaning forward mysteriously.“McVittie?” He leans forward too; their long noses almost touch.“I’m uneasy.” A hoarse whisper.“So am I. Very.” A squeak of terror.“I’ve found out the name of this island, Price.”“Indeed?”McVittie sinks his voice even deeper.“It’s called—Umborroweeboo.”“Gracious. What ever does that mean?”“It means....” His voice becomes blood-curdling in its intensity. “It means The-Island-that-wants-to-be-let-alone. It’s a sinister spot, Price. They say....”Darkness begins to close in rapidly. Price shivers.“What do they say?”“They say it can vanish beneath the sea and reappear in another place, after remaining submerged for years.”“Good heavens.” Price is very uneasy. Emily Jane appears from the bivouac and prostrates herself on the ground.“I love you, dear little island,” she murmurs, kissing the shore. “I would like to be married to a beautiful island like you.”“I shall come to claim that promise one day,” says a deep, rich voice from nowhere.Emily Jane: Did anyone speak?McVittie: No one. I heard nothing.Price: I thought—why, what’s that?Mr. Balbus(emerging from a hollow tree): What’s what?Price: That. There. Look.The others: Where?Price: There. Look. Now it’sthere. Quick. It’s moved again. (A strain of unearthly music.)Everybody: Hark. What’s that? (Mrs. Balbus crawls out of the bivouac on her hands and knees.)Mrs. Balbus(fondly): John, you’ve left off your comforter.... Why are you all in a ring? You’ll have the fairies out if you stand in a ring.McVittie(uneasily): In a ring? I didn’t notice. I think——(He turns to move away but finds himself rooted to the ground.) Well, this is most extraordinary.Emily Jane: What is extraordinary, dear Mr. McVittie?McVittie: I can’t move hand or foot.Mr. Balbus: Good Lord. Nor can I.Price: Nor I.Emily Jane: I can a little. It’s getting very difficult. NowIcan’t either. (The strain of music is heard again.)Mrs. Balbus: Ugh! The horrid thing’s got hold ofmenow. I can’t move either. John, make them stop it at once.Mr. Balbus(feebly): How can I, my dear? I’m quite powerless.Emily Jane(illusion suddenly stripped from her eyes—for that is what happens under the spell of this magic island): Oh, Daddy, I thought there was nothing you couldn’t do. And now, now—you’re just like anybody else.Mrs. Balbus(critically): You certainly look strange, John; not at all your usual self.Mr. Balbus(for the first time seeing his wife and daughter as they really are): Please be quiet both of you and don’t talk about things you don’t understand. McVittie, what are we to do?McVittie(philosophically): Wait for the island to disappear, I suppose. (The strain of music sounds once more.)Price(excitedly): There it is moving about again. The thing I saw before.Emily Jane: It’s like a tiny, tiny man.Mr. Balbus: I don’t fancy this at all.Price: It’s coming nearer. (An elvish figure appears dancing towards them. It is puffing a stupendous pipe.)Mr. Balbus(trying to be severe and failing signally): Who are you, please?The Figure(dancing more than ever): Macconachie.Emily Jane: What do you mean by trespassing on our island?Macconachie: I live here. It’s my home. You are the trespassers. But you’re very welcome. (With goblin glee.) I’ve been waiting for you, for a long time.Mr. Balbus: Waiting for us. Nonsense. You don’t know who we are, even.Macconachie: Oh yes I do. I’ve been watching you for a long time. Especially Emily Jane. I want Emily Jane.Mrs. Balbus: Want Emily Jane? The idea of such a thing! Go away, Sir, at once.Macconachie: You think you’re her mother, I suppose? (Addressing Balbus) And you believe yourself to be her father?Mr. Balbus(with dignity): I certainly do.Macconachie: But you’re not, you’re not. She’s mine.Mrs. Balbus(indignantly): Sir! John, don’t listen to a word he says.Macconachie: You’re all mine. I want you all.McVittie(hoarsely): Want us all? What for, may I ask?Macconachie: To draw tears from simple hearts. You’ll see.But they don’t understand at all, and look blankly at one another, as he flits about like a will o’ the wisp still puffing at his gigantic pipe.IIIThe drawing-room again. They are all, except Emily Jane, sitting there in disconsolate melancholy.Mr. Balbus(with a deep sigh): It’s for the best of course.... But I miss her sadly.McVittie & Price: It’s terrible, terrible. (They sigh).Mrs. Balbus: I always felt there was something unearthly about the child. (She sighs very deeply.)

Down the pathway of shame to the burning,

Down the pathway of shame to the burning,

Down the pathway of shame to the burning,

Mercia(laughing horribly):

When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.(She sweeps him into her arms and carries him away shouting.)Mercia(disappearing): Io. Io. Dionysos!Captain Dan(in a high falsetto): Let the skies rain joy!Eustace(passionately): How can you, Mercia, how can you? (He is seized by uncontrollable weeping.) Im crying, O’Sullivan——Michael John: Im wantin a cry meself. (He bursts into tears.)Mercia’s voice(a long way off): But you must let me come back and look after Harmodius’s clothes——Many years elapse. They are still talking.Mercia(temporizing): After all, if I leave Harmodius for Eustace, or Eustace for Danny——The Colonel(who is deaf by now): Whats that?Mrs. Lazyboy(who is nearly as deaf and very feeble): Shes talking about the childrens holidays.The Colonel: He! He! He!A long time passes by.Mr. Fuzzlewhitt(Merciasgreat grandson): After all, if she had deserted Harmodius Hashovit——Mrs. Fuzzlewhitt(who is thoroughly tired of the story): Yes, Rejjy, I know....Centuries roll by.Monsieur Chose: Bernard Shaw says in his play about Mercia and Harmodius Hashovit that if Mrs. Lazyboy——Æons pass.Somebody: Theres a storm coming. Its going to cleanse the world. (The sky darkens.)Somebody else: It makes no difference. The human brain will survive.A Third Person: The human antheap will continue to surge with meaningless movement.A Fourth: The human voice will continue to cry from nothing to nothing.A Fifth: The human hand will continue to write, and posterity will bury the writings.A Sixth: And Shaw alone shall be assured of immortality.

When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.

When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.

When Im Daniel the Mariners Bride.

(She sweeps him into her arms and carries him away shouting.)

(She sweeps him into her arms and carries him away shouting.)

Mercia(disappearing): Io. Io. Dionysos!

Captain Dan(in a high falsetto): Let the skies rain joy!

Eustace(passionately): How can you, Mercia, how can you? (He is seized by uncontrollable weeping.) Im crying, O’Sullivan——

Michael John: Im wantin a cry meself. (He bursts into tears.)

Mercia’s voice(a long way off): But you must let me come back and look after Harmodius’s clothes——

Many years elapse. They are still talking.

Many years elapse. They are still talking.

Mercia(temporizing): After all, if I leave Harmodius for Eustace, or Eustace for Danny——

The Colonel(who is deaf by now): Whats that?

Mrs. Lazyboy(who is nearly as deaf and very feeble): Shes talking about the childrens holidays.

The Colonel: He! He! He!

A long time passes by.

A long time passes by.

Mr. Fuzzlewhitt(Merciasgreat grandson): After all, if she had deserted Harmodius Hashovit——

Mrs. Fuzzlewhitt(who is thoroughly tired of the story): Yes, Rejjy, I know....

Centuries roll by.

Centuries roll by.

Monsieur Chose: Bernard Shaw says in his play about Mercia and Harmodius Hashovit that if Mrs. Lazyboy——

Æons pass.

Æons pass.

Somebody: Theres a storm coming. Its going to cleanse the world. (The sky darkens.)

Somebody else: It makes no difference. The human brain will survive.

A Third Person: The human antheap will continue to surge with meaningless movement.

A Fourth: The human voice will continue to cry from nothing to nothing.

A Fifth: The human hand will continue to write, and posterity will bury the writings.

A Sixth: And Shaw alone shall be assured of immortality.

The storm breaks with prodigious force. Eternity arrives.

A Shining One: Yes, the immortals are all in their places. Dante and Cervantes had a squabble last night, but theyve made it up.

The Eternal: Good.

The Shining One: Shakespeare has been giving trouble, too. Hes jealous of Shaw.

The Eternal(apprehensively): Im not at all easy in my own mind about Shaw.

Eternity passes.

Eternity passes.

Mr. Shaw(on the steps of the eternal throne): Im really very sorry. Its no wish of mine, you know.

The Eternal(apologetically, and handing over the crown and sceptre of Heaven): Not at all. Its a pleasure to make this trifling acknowledgment of your genius.

The End of the Play.

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND

(A Fantasy in the manner of J. M. Barrie.)

Thepink and white drawing-room of Emily Jane’s house—or rather of the house of Emily Jane’s father, Mister Balbus, is so caressingly harmonious to the eye, so surpassingly restful, so eminently a place of happy people, that one knows instinctively it will be visited by a tragedy. It is just a question of time, and this gentle atmosphere will find itself charged with the electricity of conflicting human emotions; dear women’s hearts will break and be laid aside in pot-pourri jars; strong sentimental men will walk their sweet, melancholy way; and we shall all go home the cleaner, mentally, for a refreshing bath of tears. Emily Jane is not yet in the drawing-room. The appropriate atmosphere has first to be created, so that we may catch our breath just a little as Miss Compton or Miss Celli trips on. Emily Jane is really a very ordinary kind of girl, plump, pleasant-looking, and neither very clever nor specially athletic. But to her mother she is still a tiny toddling mite in a knitted woollen coat with pink ribbons, and to Daddy, Mister Balbus, she is a resplendent goddess.

At last, after a preliminary conversation about stamp-collecting, or some other harmless hobby, between McVittie and Price, two old dullards introduced to fill in the few awkward minutes while the latecomers are clambering into their stalls, Mister Balbus comes into the room. There is nothing remarkable about Mister Balbus. In the eyes of his wife he is an irresistibly lovable plexus of male weaknesses; in the eyes of Emily Jane he is closely related to the Almighty. Actually he is nobody in particular, an architect of sorts; but we are to see him through their eyes, and so he appears in the play as a genial and gigantic mixture of a demigod and a buffoon. Mr. Aynesworth is appropriately selected to represent him.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning,” reply McVittie and Price, delighted that any of the principal characters should condescend to speak to them.

“Where’s our little Emily Jane?” he asks, tenderly.

“Here, Daddy,” replies a sweet voice.

“Where, my lovely one?”

“In the chimney, Daddy”; and the dear child clambers down and rushes into his arms without even waiting to brush off the soot. McVittie and Price make clucking noises of approval and delight. This is typical of whatgoes on in the Balbus household every day. How can it be possible that anything except joy should be in store for them? But ah——

Mr. Balbus: Where is Mammy, my treasure?

Emily Jane: Waiting for Daddy darling, in his study.

Mr. Balbus: Will my little heart ask her to come?

Emily Jane trips away so happily and obediently. “Well, Price,” says Mr. Balbus, “I must go and see how they’re getting on with the wall.”

Price: Haven’t you finished it yet?

Mr. Balbus: I don’t think I ever shall. Balbus was building a wall in the time of the Roman Empire; and I suppose he’ll go on for the rest of time.

McVittie: Which wall is it this time, Balbus?

Mr. Balbus: The Great Wall of China. They’ve retained me to go and inspect it. I leave to-morrow.

Mrs. Balbus hurries in and embraces her husband shamelessly. Emily Jane follows and embraces them both. McVittie and Price, not to be outdone, embrace each other in the corner.

“You’re going to China, my husband?” asks Mrs. Balbus, tenderly.

“Yes, wife.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Emily Jane: And I, Daddy.

McVittie & Price: We will come too, old friend.

Mr. Balbus beams at them through his tears. The audience beam at each other through theirs.

They have been wrecked.

They are all on a deserted island which, from the stunted shrubs and bleak outlook, is probably in the neighbourhood of Tristan da Cunha. McVittie and Price are pretending to be tremendously brave and contented over a meal of roasted berries.

“These are really delicious,” says McVittie.

“Capital,” says Price. “Have some more.”

“No thanks. My doctor, you know. He won’t let me enjoy myself.”

“A glass of this delicious rock-water, then. Most stimulating.”

“No, my dear fellow. I’ve done magnificently. Not another sup.”

But it is really only pretend. The brave fellows are concealing their anxiety for fear of alarming Emily Jane and her mother who are resting in the bivouac near by. Actually they are full of apprehension.

“Price,” says McVittie at last, leaning forward mysteriously.

“McVittie?” He leans forward too; their long noses almost touch.

“I’m uneasy.” A hoarse whisper.

“So am I. Very.” A squeak of terror.

“I’ve found out the name of this island, Price.”

“Indeed?”

McVittie sinks his voice even deeper.

“It’s called—Umborroweeboo.”

“Gracious. What ever does that mean?”

“It means....” His voice becomes blood-curdling in its intensity. “It means The-Island-that-wants-to-be-let-alone. It’s a sinister spot, Price. They say....”

Darkness begins to close in rapidly. Price shivers.

“What do they say?”

“They say it can vanish beneath the sea and reappear in another place, after remaining submerged for years.”

“Good heavens.” Price is very uneasy. Emily Jane appears from the bivouac and prostrates herself on the ground.

“I love you, dear little island,” she murmurs, kissing the shore. “I would like to be married to a beautiful island like you.”

“I shall come to claim that promise one day,” says a deep, rich voice from nowhere.

Emily Jane: Did anyone speak?

McVittie: No one. I heard nothing.

Price: I thought—why, what’s that?

Mr. Balbus(emerging from a hollow tree): What’s what?

Price: That. There. Look.

The others: Where?

Price: There. Look. Now it’sthere. Quick. It’s moved again. (A strain of unearthly music.)

Everybody: Hark. What’s that? (Mrs. Balbus crawls out of the bivouac on her hands and knees.)

Mrs. Balbus(fondly): John, you’ve left off your comforter.... Why are you all in a ring? You’ll have the fairies out if you stand in a ring.

McVittie(uneasily): In a ring? I didn’t notice. I think——(He turns to move away but finds himself rooted to the ground.) Well, this is most extraordinary.

Emily Jane: What is extraordinary, dear Mr. McVittie?

McVittie: I can’t move hand or foot.

Mr. Balbus: Good Lord. Nor can I.

Price: Nor I.

Emily Jane: I can a little. It’s getting very difficult. NowIcan’t either. (The strain of music is heard again.)

Mrs. Balbus: Ugh! The horrid thing’s got hold ofmenow. I can’t move either. John, make them stop it at once.

Mr. Balbus(feebly): How can I, my dear? I’m quite powerless.

Emily Jane(illusion suddenly stripped from her eyes—for that is what happens under the spell of this magic island): Oh, Daddy, I thought there was nothing you couldn’t do. And now, now—you’re just like anybody else.

Mrs. Balbus(critically): You certainly look strange, John; not at all your usual self.

Mr. Balbus(for the first time seeing his wife and daughter as they really are): Please be quiet both of you and don’t talk about things you don’t understand. McVittie, what are we to do?

McVittie(philosophically): Wait for the island to disappear, I suppose. (The strain of music sounds once more.)

Price(excitedly): There it is moving about again. The thing I saw before.

Emily Jane: It’s like a tiny, tiny man.

Mr. Balbus: I don’t fancy this at all.

Price: It’s coming nearer. (An elvish figure appears dancing towards them. It is puffing a stupendous pipe.)

Mr. Balbus(trying to be severe and failing signally): Who are you, please?

The Figure(dancing more than ever): Macconachie.

Emily Jane: What do you mean by trespassing on our island?

Macconachie: I live here. It’s my home. You are the trespassers. But you’re very welcome. (With goblin glee.) I’ve been waiting for you, for a long time.

Mr. Balbus: Waiting for us. Nonsense. You don’t know who we are, even.

Macconachie: Oh yes I do. I’ve been watching you for a long time. Especially Emily Jane. I want Emily Jane.

Mrs. Balbus: Want Emily Jane? The idea of such a thing! Go away, Sir, at once.

Macconachie: You think you’re her mother, I suppose? (Addressing Balbus) And you believe yourself to be her father?

Mr. Balbus(with dignity): I certainly do.

Macconachie: But you’re not, you’re not. She’s mine.

Mrs. Balbus(indignantly): Sir! John, don’t listen to a word he says.

Macconachie: You’re all mine. I want you all.

McVittie(hoarsely): Want us all? What for, may I ask?

Macconachie: To draw tears from simple hearts. You’ll see.

But they don’t understand at all, and look blankly at one another, as he flits about like a will o’ the wisp still puffing at his gigantic pipe.

The drawing-room again. They are all, except Emily Jane, sitting there in disconsolate melancholy.

Mr. Balbus(with a deep sigh): It’s for the best of course.... But I miss her sadly.

McVittie & Price: It’s terrible, terrible. (They sigh).

Mrs. Balbus: I always felt there was something unearthly about the child. (She sighs very deeply.)

There is a long pause. They are thinking of their terrible experience when Macconachie flitted over their heads like a sprite, and the solid island sank beneath their feet, and they were left clinging to a raft.

“When the island began to submerge”—begins Mr. Balbus, and then he checks himself with a sob.

McVittie(for the hundredth time): I could have sworn I had her in my arms on the raft. (His voice breaks.)

Price: You didn’t hear the Voice—

Mrs. Balbus: Voice—what voice?

Price: Something about claiming a promise. And she gave a little cry of wonder. I heard it. (He walks gloomily over to the window.)

Mr. Balbus(suddenly enlightened): That’s what Macconachie meant, when he said “to drawtears from simple hearts.” I begin to understand....

Price(at the window): How very curious.

Mrs. Balbus: My curtains? They are certainly not.

Price(in choking tones): Look at the lake—it’s drying up, or something.

They all rush to the window. An amazing thing is in progress. The bottom of the lake seems to be rising. Stunted shrubs are pushing themselves above the water.

“My gracious powers, it’s the island,” cries Mr. Balbus.

Price(quoting McVittie’s long-forgotten remark): They say it can vanish beneath the sea, and reappear in another place after remaining submerged for years.

McVittie: There’s somebody moving on it. Look. Among the trees.

Mr. Balbus: It’s Macconachie. (He hails the island. Macconachie comes ashore, and flits up to the house.)

Mr. Balbus(in a trembling voice): Where is she, Sir? Tell us where she is?

Macconachie: Emily Jane? She’s touring in America. Making a fortune.

Mr. Balbus: But will she come back, Sir?

Macconachie: If you need her sufficiently, andwish for her often enough, and believe with strength, she will assuredly come back.

Mr. Balbus: But why should she have been taken from us, Sir? We loved her, cared for her. She was happy with us.

“To carry my message to the hearts of men,” replies Macconachie, with a wistful smile. “I may need any of you in the future and then——” He pauses. “But till then farewell.” And he flits through the window; and the island submerges again. But the others sit in rapt silence, for they have seen beyond the veil.

PRESIDENT WILSON

(A Chronicle in the manner of John Drinkwater.)

Scene I.—The President’s Chamber in the White House, Autumn, 1918.Woodrow Wilson,lean, single-purposed, masterful, is signing State documents with inflexible pen.Joseph Tumulty,a chubby little man, is leaning affectionately on the back of the President’s chair, following the movements of his pen with dog-like veneration. The President, still writing, breaks the silence without looking up.

Scene I.—The President’s Chamber in the White House, Autumn, 1918.

—The President’s Chamber in the White House, Autumn, 1918.

Woodrow Wilson,lean, single-purposed, masterful, is signing State documents with inflexible pen.Joseph Tumulty,a chubby little man, is leaning affectionately on the back of the President’s chair, following the movements of his pen with dog-like veneration. The President, still writing, breaks the silence without looking up.

Wilson: Tumulty.

Tumulty: Yes, Governor.

Wilson: I wouldn’t have you think I’m insensible to the merits of your proposals—but I can’t accept them. In the bargainings and shifts of the Allies I must be unfettered, if necessary blindly followed, by the American delegation. Otherwise there’ll be another Congress of Vienna.... It’s not that I criticise our Allies, I would be loath to do that; but I understand their passions and distress. Firmness on our part may perhaps redress the balance.... Where’s Lansing? (The Secretary of State comes in.)

Lansing: Good morning, Mr. President.

Wilson(wistfully): Why—you’re mighty formal, Lansing. I’ve not to convince you again, I trust. Why, Lansing——

Lansing: I hold, as you know, that with the Republicans in a majority in both Houses, it’s an act of, I won’t say folly, Mr. President, but an act of ill-judgment to have them uncommitted to the terms of peace.

Wilson: I’m taking Hoover and White.

Lansing: White means nothing, and Hoover is only an expert. Lodge, Root, Leonard Wood should all go with you as delegates.

Wilson: No, Mr. Secretary. (Tumultybows his head as if to a blow.) No, a thousand times.

Lansing: They’ll tear up your work otherwise. I speak as your friend, Mr. President. Myself as you know I don’t think extravagantly well of your plan for a League of Nations. I’ve never disguised that. Though a fine ideal it isn’t practical——But setting my views aside, and speaking as a friend to the proposal, because it’s your proposal, I feel bound to say that, if the Republicans aren’t pledged to it in advance, it will never pass Congress.

Wilson(affectionately): Lansing, you’re so logical and clear there seems to be no escape from your reasoning. I’ve no doubt yousize up the Republican intentions mighty well. But you’re wrong for all that; and where you go wrong is right at the beginning. Don’t you see the choice of evils before me? If I don’t take the Republicans they may try to wreck my work when it’s done, true; but if I do take them the work won’t be done at all.

Lansing(stiffly): I can’t allow that, Mr. President. They’re good, patriotic Americans.

Wilson: Who says they aren’t? Who suggests for one moment that they won’t do their best for America and the Allies? But will they do the best for the world? (Lansingis silent.) Will they tie the world up in a League against war; or will they inflict a vindictive peace, that’ll do no more than sow the seeds of another?

Lansing: You distrust their patriotism?

Wilson: Never. I distrust their passions. Or say I’m wrong. Say their conception of the peace is the proper one, and mine a delusion. How can we work together? The Delegation couldn’t be depended on to agree in the smallest particular. I should just be playing a lone hand; and the Allies, knowing my house to be divided against itself, would put me aside in the Conference like a cipher. No, Lansing. I’ll go to Paris with those onwhom I can rely. I’ll so tie up the peace with the League, that the one can’t live without the other; and if, as you prophesy, I find myself deserted by Congress, I’ll go over their heads to the American people in whose ideals the thing has its roots. That is my final decision.

Lansing: I hope you’ll not regret it.

(He takes his leave. The others follow him with their eyes. The President gives a half laugh.)

(He takes his leave. The others follow him with their eyes. The President gives a half laugh.)

Wilson: Ah, if one could only add to the good qualities one’s friends possess, the good qualities one would have them possess.... (He sighs). These Commissions (holding up the papers he has signed), they’re all in order now?

Tumulty: Yes, Governor.

Wilson: Deliver them yourself. (He reads out the names as he hands them over.) House ... Lansing ... White.

The Scene Closes.

Scene II.—Wilson’shouse in the Place des Etats Unis, Paris, in the year 1919. A spring morning. The windows of the room look out upon an old-world square—made safe for democracy by American detectives.Woodrow Wilsonsits in a deep armchair by the table. His colleaguesClemenceau,David Lloyd GeorgeandOrlandoare grouped around him.

Scene II.—Wilson’shouse in the Place des Etats Unis, Paris, in the year 1919. A spring morning. The windows of the room look out upon an old-world square—made safe for democracy by American detectives.

—Wilson’shouse in the Place des Etats Unis, Paris, in the year 1919. A spring morning. The windows of the room look out upon an old-world square—made safe for democracy by American detectives.

Woodrow Wilsonsits in a deep armchair by the table. His colleaguesClemenceau,David Lloyd GeorgeandOrlandoare grouped around him.

Wilson: Gentlemen, a little merriment would season our labours. (Polite murmurs.) There was a man, a Confederate soldier, in our civil war, who soliloquised thus on a long hard march: “I love my country, and I’m fighting for my country; but if this war ends I’ll be dad-burned if I ever love another country.”

The Others(spiritlessly): Ha! Ha! Ha!

Wilson: Signor Orlando, you don’t laugh.

Orlando: No, sare.

Wilson: I’m sorry. The point of my story was somewhat directed to you. I feel rather like that Confederate soldier. I took the American people into war; but I don’t mean to have them dragged into another by a bad territorial settlement in the Adriatic!

Orlando: Well, Fiume can be waiting.

Wilson: All things can wait. But don’t, I beg you, fall into error. My view of that matter will never change. Monsieur Clemenceau, Gentlemen, be with me in this I entreat you. (A brief silence.) And now, Part I of the Treaty. We are agreed to incorporate the Covenant of the League of Nations there?(There is still silence.) Gentlemen, I can’t think that you hesitate——

Clemenceau: Sur cette question de la Société des Nations. Il est bien entendu, n’est ce pas, que la Traité de Garantie, La Pacte, entre La France, Les Etats Unis, et la Grande Bretagne——?

Wilson: Why, Mr. Lloyd George will answer for England, but I guess there’s no doubt at all concerning America.

Lloyd George: As the President says, I answer for Great Britain. I have agreed in her name that, in certain conditions, she shall be bound to act with France. On the fulfilment of those conditions, she will so act.

Clemenceau: Alors, en principe je suis d’accord.

Wilson: In principle. Yes, Monsieur. In principle we have never differed. But on the concrete proposition that this Covenant as drafted be embodied in the Treaty——?

Clemenceau: Well, I do not object.

Wilson: You take a weight from my mind.... I wish to be frank, Gentlemen. I am not happy about the voting of the British Empire in the Assembly of the League. I can’t disguise from you that it’s a difficult provision to explain to the American people. It may antagonise them. I make a final effort. Mr. Lloyd George, would yourDominions be irreconcilable to exercising their vote in one Empire delegation?

Lloyd George: They would reject it, Mr. President. I myself would move the rejection. (A brief pause.)

Wilson: I put the question formally. That the Covenant, as drafted, stand embodied in the Treaty of Peace. (Aye.) Gentlemen, I thank you for your forbearance. These questions of the Saar Valley and Danzig.... (They pass to other business.)

The Scene Closes.

Scene III.—The anteroom of a public hall at Pueblo in the Western States, duringPresident Wilson’stour on behalf of the Treaty of Versailles. September 25th, 1919. When the door is open, the speaker’s voice in the main hall is distinctly audible.Admiral Graysonis waiting anxiously.Mrs. Wilsonhurries in.

Scene III.—The anteroom of a public hall at Pueblo in the Western States, duringPresident Wilson’stour on behalf of the Treaty of Versailles. September 25th, 1919. When the door is open, the speaker’s voice in the main hall is distinctly audible.

—The anteroom of a public hall at Pueblo in the Western States, duringPresident Wilson’stour on behalf of the Treaty of Versailles. September 25th, 1919. When the door is open, the speaker’s voice in the main hall is distinctly audible.

Admiral Graysonis waiting anxiously.Mrs. Wilsonhurries in.

Mrs. Wilson: The President—it’s critical. He must be persuaded against continuing this tour.

Grayson: I have been saying that, ma’am, for a long time.

Mrs. Wilson: But it grows more urgent. I left the platform to find you. How he’llfinish I don’t know. He was swaying and the utterance seemed more difficult each minute. Nothing but his iron determination sustains him.

Grayson: Nothing but the depth of his convictions and his devotion to the task he has begun, have brought him so far.

Mrs. Wilson: You must prevail on him, Admiral. If he breaks, the League breaks. Use that with him.

Grayson: Prevail. Have you ever tried, ma’am, to prevail upon a monolith? (Tumultyenters, jubilant). How does it go?

Tumulty: He’s carrying them. The old wonderful Wilson touch. Listen.

He throws open the door. The President’s rich, musical voice, full of power, is borne in upon them.

He throws open the door. The President’s rich, musical voice, full of power, is borne in upon them.

Mrs. Wilson: Why, he sounds to be quite recovered.

Grayson(reverently): Hush, ma’am. It is the voice of a prophet.

Wilson(off): Now that the mists of this great question have cleared away, I believe that men will see the truth, eye to eye and face to face. There is one thing that the American people always rise to and extend their hand to, and that is the truth of justice and of liberty and of peace. We have accepted thattruth, and we are going to be led by it; and it is going to lead us, and through us the world, out into pastures of quietness and peace, such as the world never dreamed of before.

Prolonged applause. The President enters, followed by local magnates and his staff.

Prolonged applause. The President enters, followed by local magnates and his staff.

Tumulty: Oh, Governor, this is the best you’ve ever done.

Wilson: Tumulty, it does me good to hear you speak so. I guess—why, surely this building is strangely unsteady—or—Everything’s going. Why, Grayson, it’s—it’s dark.

Grayson: Bear up, Sir. A touch of vertigo. You’re tired.

Wilson(horror in his eyes): No. My speech. Failing. I can’t—articulate.

He sinks intoGrayson’sarms, and is lowered into a chair.Mrs. Wilsonfalls on her knees beside him.

He sinks intoGrayson’sarms, and is lowered into a chair.Mrs. Wilsonfalls on her knees beside him.

Tumulty: In God’s name, Admiral——?

Grayson: Paralysis. The tour is over.

They prepare to carry the President away.

They prepare to carry the President away.

The Scene closes.

Scene IV.—A room in the White House. January 16th, 1920.Woodrow Wilson,a shadow of himself, is at his desk.Tumultyas usual is behind the President’s chair. The President is reading a telegram.

Scene IV.—A room in the White House. January 16th, 1920.Woodrow Wilson,a shadow of himself, is at his desk.Tumultyas usual is behind the President’s chair. The President is reading a telegram.

—A room in the White House. January 16th, 1920.Woodrow Wilson,a shadow of himself, is at his desk.Tumultyas usual is behind the President’s chair. The President is reading a telegram.

Wilson: Tumulty, this is bitter. Bitter.

Tumulty: Yes, Governor.

Wilson: They’re meeting beyond the sea in Paris. The League that received birth in American ideals. And the chair of America is empty, not by the declared wish of the people—I’d not believe it, were such a wish expressed—but by the strength of personal rancour in the Senate. It’s unbelievable.

Tumulty: And no one there to represent American ideals and aspirations!

Wilson: Brazil. This telegram says the Brazilian spoke for the whole American continent: that was brave and far-sighted of him. But it cuts me to the heart to think that the duty of speaking for America should rest elsewhere than on us.

Tumulty: It’s hard.

Wilson: Hard? It’s cynically false. Tumulty. I can’t believe that is the wish of the country. I will take them the Covenant with my two hands, reason with them, explain....

Tumulty(gently): No, dear Governor, you have done all that a man could do. Another effort would waste your life——

Wilson: I would give it gladly.

Tumulty: To no purpose, now.

The Scene closes.

Scene V.—The Presidential Room at the Capitol, Washington. Just before 12 noon on March 4th, 1921.Woodrow Wilson,Marshall,the Vice-President, andTumultyare waiting for the hour to strike that will makeWarren HardingPresident of the United States of America, andWilsona free citizen again.

Scene V.—The Presidential Room at the Capitol, Washington. Just before 12 noon on March 4th, 1921.

—The Presidential Room at the Capitol, Washington. Just before 12 noon on March 4th, 1921.

Woodrow Wilson,Marshall,the Vice-President, andTumultyare waiting for the hour to strike that will makeWarren HardingPresident of the United States of America, andWilsona free citizen again.

Wilson: They have been great years to live in. I’ve tried to be worthy of them.

Tumulty: And succeeded, with Lincoln and George Washington, Governor.

Wilson(shyly): You put me in mighty good company. Anyone can be great in great times. The events we’ve been through called for something superhuman. I wish I could have given that.

Marshall: No man could have done more, Mr. President. Some day the world will see it.

Wilson: Marshall, I’m not ambitious for the world to see any such thing. I want my work to prosper. That is all.

Tumulty: It has made a beginning.

Wilson: A small beginning, a halting beginning, but a beginning, yes. Yet when I think of what the League could be doing to facilitate a general settling down to peace, if only America were behind it— And yet again,perhaps it is well. Maybe, if things had not so fallen out, the weaknesses of the thing we made would not have become manifest, until it was too late for improvement.

Marshall: You think it has weaknesses?

Wilson: The highest product of man’s mind, the law, is full of weaknesses, Marshall. How can this new conception have escaped them? But the idea will surely triumph. I have faith.

Tumulty: The new administration will kill it, if they can.

Wilson: I have faith.... It must be nearly time now.

A tall, spare man followed by his colleagues walks into the Chamber. This isSenator Lodge,the President’s life-long political foe.

A tall, spare man followed by his colleagues walks into the Chamber. This isSenator Lodge,the President’s life-long political foe.

Lodge(stiffly): Mr. President, we have come, as a Committee of the Senate, to notify you that the Senate and the House are about to adjourn, and await your pleasure.

Wilson(rising with majesty): Senator Lodge, I have no further communication to make. I thank you.... The few seconds now remaining no more than suffice me to lay down the authority derived from my office. (The clock strikes twelve.) Gentlemen, I wish you well, and farewell. Come, Tumulty.

He goes. Simultaneously a roar of applause without, proclaims the accession ofPresident Harding.

He goes. Simultaneously a roar of applause without, proclaims the accession ofPresident Harding.

The Scene closes.

[THE END.]

JEMIMA BLOGGS

(A Play of Life as it is, in the Manchester manner of Mr. St. John Ervine.)

Scene:A dingy parlour in a London Suburb. Two men in ill-fitting garments are sitting glumly, in comfortless chairs with shabby and rather soiled covers, on either side of a dismal mockery of a fire. The room is lit with incandescent gas, which shows a sickly yellow through a raw haze, offensively compounded of “London Particular” and the penetrating yellow fumes of cheap coal. The men areJoseph Bloggs(52), one of life’s many failures, andHenry Hooker(49), another of them. Their tired white faces are resting on their hands, and they are staring into the smoking grate. At lastHookerbreaks the intolerable silence.

Scene:A dingy parlour in a London Suburb. Two men in ill-fitting garments are sitting glumly, in comfortless chairs with shabby and rather soiled covers, on either side of a dismal mockery of a fire. The room is lit with incandescent gas, which shows a sickly yellow through a raw haze, offensively compounded of “London Particular” and the penetrating yellow fumes of cheap coal. The men areJoseph Bloggs(52), one of life’s many failures, andHenry Hooker(49), another of them. Their tired white faces are resting on their hands, and they are staring into the smoking grate. At lastHookerbreaks the intolerable silence.

Hooker(gloomily): The fire’s smoking.

Bloggs: Yes. (He pokes it. The fire smoulders angrily. They cough. There is a pause.Hookerlooks out of the window.)

Hooker(darkly): It’s raining.

Bloggs(with a deep sigh): Yes.... Has the fog lifted?

Hooker: No. It’s getting thicker.

Bloggs(with resignation): Ah, well. (Jemima(42)comes in, tiredly. She is the wife ofBloggs,a thin, prematurely grey-haired woman, haggard with cares. The fire welcomes her with a spiteful volley of lyddite.)

Jemima(wearily): You’re here, are you?

Bloggs: Yes.... The fire’s smoking.

Jemima(with a sigh): I’ll make it up. (She makes a listless attack on it with the poker. The fire goes out.) The coals are so bad. (She painfully rekindles it.)

Hooker: Yes.

Jemima (addressingBloggs): That kid’s very bad again. She’s coughing something awful.

Bloggs: Better have the doctor.

Jemima: Perhaps Mr. Hooker would tell him on his way home?

Hooker: Yes.

Jemima: The gas company’s going to cut off the gas to-morrow, unless—Joseph, couldn’t we pay something on account?

Bloggs: I’ll see what I can do.

Hooker: Life’s very hard.

Jemima: Yes. (She begins to lay the table with enamel cups and saucers.) You’ll stay for tea, Mr. Hooker?

Hooker(drearily): Yes. I suppose so. (They wait in silent misery for the kettle to boil.)

The Curtain Falls.

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