The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays Part 35

POMPDEBILE. They are good, then?

BLUE HOSE (_his eyes to heaven_). Good! They are angelic!

POMPDEBILE. Give one of the tarts to us. We would sample it.

(_The_ PASTRY COOKS _hand the tray to the KING, who selects a tart and eats it._)

POMPDEBILE (_to_ VIOLETTA). My dear, they are marvels! marvels!

(_He comes down from the throne and leads_ VIOLETTA _up to the dais._) Your throne, my dear.

VIOLETTA (_sitting down, with a sigh_). I'm glad it's such a comfortable one.

POMPDEBILE. Knave, we forgive your offense. The temptation was very great. There are things that mere human nature cannot be expected to resist. Another tart, Cooks, and yet another!

CHANCELLOR. But, Your Majesty, don't eat them all. They must go to the museum with the dishes of the previous Queens of Hearts.

YELLOW HOSE. A museum--those tarts! As well lock a rose in a money-box!

CHANCELLOR. But the const.i.tution commands it. How else can we commemorate, for future generations, this event?

KNAVE. An Your Majesty, please, I will commemorate it in a rhyme.

POMPDEBILE. How can a mere rhyme serve to keep this affair in the minds of the people?

KNAVE. It is the only way to keep it in the minds of the people.

No event is truly deathless unless its monument be built in rhyme. Consider that fall which, though insignificant in itself, became the most famous of all history, because someone happened to put it into rhyme. The crash of it sounded through centuries and will vibrate for generations to come.

VIOLETTA. You mean the fall of the Holy Roman Empire?

KNAVE. No, Madam, I refer to the fall of Humpty Dumpty.

POMPDEBILE. Well, make your rhyme. In the meantime let us celebrate. You may all have one tart. (_The_ PASTRY COOKS _pa.s.s the tarts. To_ VIOLETTA) Are you willing, dear, to ride the white palfrey garlanded with flowers through the streets of the city?

VIOLETTA. Willing! I have been practising for days!

POMPDEBILE. The people, I suppose, are still clamoring at the gates.

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, they must clamor. I _want_ them to. Herald, tell them that to every man I shall toss a flower, to every woman a s.h.i.+ning gold piece, but to the babies I shall throw only kisses, thousands of them, like little winged birds. Kisses and gold and roses! They will surely love me then!

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty, I protest. Of what possible use to the people--?

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet. The Queen may scatter what she pleases.

KNAVE. My rhyme is ready, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Repeat it.

KNAVE.

The Queen of Hearts She made some tarts All on a summer's day.

The Knave of Hearts He stole those tarts And took them quite away.

The King of Hearts Called for those tarts And beat the Knave full sore.

The Knave of Hearts Brought back the tarts And vowed he'd sin no more.

VIOLETTA (_earnestly_). My dear Knave, how wonderful of you! You shall be Poet Laureate. A Poet Laureate has no social position, has he?

KNAVE. It depends, Your Majesty, upon whether or not he chooses to be more laureate than poet.

VIOLETTA (_rising, her eyes closed in ecstasy_). _Your Majesty!_ Those words go to my head--like wine!

KNAVE. Long live Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta!

(_The trumpets sound._)

HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta!

VIOLETTA (_excitedly_). _Vee_-oletta, please!

HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen _Vee_-oletta--

(_The_ KING _and_ QUEEN _show themselves at the door--and the people can be heard clamoring outside._)

[CURTAIN]

FAME AND THE POET[1]

Lord Dunsany

[Footnote 1: Reprinted from the _Atlantic Monthly_ for June, 1919, by special permission of Lord Dunsany and the editors of the _Atlantic Monthly._]

SCENE: The Poet's rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screen in a corner.

TIME: February 30th.

CHARACTERS

HARRY DE REVES.--A Poet.

(_This name, though of course of French origin, has become anglicized and is p.r.o.nounced_ DE REEVES.)

d.i.c.k PRATTLE.--A Lieutenant-Major of the Royal Horse Marines.

FAME.