DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

DEAD LETTERS

“This is one of those rare and delightful books, in which the reader is invited to smile rather than to laugh, and to think even when he is most amused.”—The Globe.

“Many a tired mind will find in this volume refreshing stimulus.”—The Observer.

“Surely the ease, the irony, and the mere humour of this will be very grateful to any mind that values those gifts.”—The Outlook.

“Altogether stimulating and delightful.”—The Daily Express.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY Boston.

DIMINUTIVE

DRAMAS

BY

MAURICE BARING

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

1911

These “Diminutive Dramas” first appeared in the Morning Post and are reprinted here by the courtesy of the Editor.

DEDICATED

TO

A. I.

WHOSE UNWRITTEN CHRONICLES ARE BETTER THAN BOOKS

AND

WHOSE UNPREMEDITATED SUGGESTION HITS A TARGET

BEYOND THE REACH OF ARTISTS

AND THE KEN OF CRITICS

[Pg vii]

CONTENTS

I CATHERINE PARR OR ALEXANDER’S HORSE

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

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

Catherine. Yesterday you complained of their being hard.

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

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

[Pg 2]

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

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

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

Catherine. She shall boil them to-morrow.

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

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

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

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

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

Catherine. You’re thinking of Anne Bullen.

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

[Pg 3]

Catherine. You’re thinking of Jane Seymour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catherine (sitting down). One takes an endless amount of trouble, and that’s all the thanks one [Pg 4]gets. Don’t think that I shall ever boil your eggs for you again, because I shan’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Catherine. Do you mean Alexander the Great?

King Henry. Yes, of course.

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

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

Catherine. Black—black as jet.

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

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

[Pg 5]

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

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

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

Catherine. Black.

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

Catherine. Black, coal-black.

King Henry. Have you read Xenophon?

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

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

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

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

[Pg 6]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

King Henry. Plutarch says nothing of the kind. Besides, I now remember talking about this with Wolsey, who was an excellent scholar. I distinctly remember his saying one day: “As white [Pg 7]as Bucephalus.” It’s quite a common phrase among scholars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

King Henry. Good gracious! If you had a smattering of education you wouldn’t say such things! It comes of having no religion and no education, and of not knowing Latin. A Lutheran [Pg 8]education is worse than none. Even Anne of Cleves knew Latin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter a Page

Page. Your Majesty.

King Henry. Go and tell the Lord Chamberlain [Pg 9]to make the necessary arrangements for transporting the Ex-Queen to the Tower.

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

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

Page. Yes, your Majesty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Pg 10]

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

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

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

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

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

Enter the Page

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

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

[The King opens the door with a bow.

Catherine. It was black, all the same.

[Pg 11]

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

[They go out.

Curtain.

[Pg 12]

II THE DRAWBACK

Scene.—A corner in Kensington Gardens. A summer evening. Discovered, sitting on a seat, a girl, aged 21, pretty and neat, and a good-looking young man, aged 27, dressed in a top hat and a black morning coat.

He. But are you quite sure you will not change your mind?

She. I never change my mind once it is made up. I often take a very long time to make up my mind, but once I’ve made it up I never change. Now my sister Alice is quite different. She never knows her mind from one minute to the other.

He. But your father——

She. Papa always does what I want. Besides, directly he knows you it will be all right. And when he knows that you’re at the Bar he will be delighted. He always wanted me to marry a [Pg 13]lawyer. You see Papa was at the Bar in his young days—I daresay your father was too.

He (embarrassed). No, yes—I mean no. That’s to say he is in a way indirectly connected with the Bar; but my father’s principal hobby is playing on the harp. He gives himself up almost entirely to that now.

She. I see.

He. Have you told your father yet?

She. You told me I wasn’t to until I’d seen you again.

He. Yes, of course. I thought you might have changed your mind.

She. As if that were likely.

He. And then, if you remember, I told you when I, when you, when we settled everything that there was a—er—drawback.

She. As if any drawback could possibly make any difference.

He. I thought it might.

She. You mean to say that it is something which might make me wish to change my mind?

He. Exactly.

She. That shows you know me very little—but what is it?

He. You see it’s a kind of confession.

[Pg 14]

She. I know what it is; you want to tell me you once loved some one else.

He. No, not that, I swear I never did. I may have thought once or twice that I was in love, but until I met you I never knew what love, what real love, was.

She. And those other times when you thought you were in love—were there many of them?

He. It only happened twice; that’s to say three times, only the third time didn’t count.

She. And the first time, who was she?

He. I was quite young, only a boy. She was a girl in an A.B.C. shop.

She. Was she pretty?

He. Not exactly.

She. Did you propose to her?

He. Yes, but she refused.

She. And that’s all that happened?

He. That’s all.

She. And the second time?

He. It was the parson’s daughter down in the country.

She. Did you make love to her?

He. No, not really, of course, but we were friends.

She. Did you kiss her?

He. Only once, and that was by accident. But it was all years ago.

[Pg 15]

She. How many years ago?

He. Let me see; two, no, no, it must have been four years ago. I’m not sure it wasn’t five. She married the curate.

She. And the third time?

He. Oh! that was nothing.

She. Who was she?

He. She was an artist—a singer.

She. A concert singer?

He. Almost; that’s to say she wanted to be one. She sang in a music-hall.

She. Oh!

He. Only a serious turn. She wasn’t dressed up or anything. She sang “The Lost Chord” and songs like that. She was called “The New Zealand Nightingale.”

She. And you knew her?

He. Very slightly. I had tea with her once or twice. And then she went away.

She. Back to New Zealand?

He. Yes, back to New Zealand.

She. Now I’ve made you confess everything. Aren’t you glad you’ve got it off your mind? I don’t mind a bit, and I like you for being so honest.

He. But it’s not that at all. It’s nothing to do with me.

She. Then who has it got to do with?

[Pg 16]

He. My father.

She. You mean he won’t approve of me?

He. Of course I don’t mean that. He’d simply love you.

She. He’s going to marry again.

He. No, it’s not that.

She. He doesn’t want you to marry.

He. No, it’s nothing to do with me.

She. Then I don’t understand.

He. It’s something to do with him.

She. He’s consumptive.

He. No; his health is excellent.

She. He’s lost his money.

He. No; he’s very well off. You see it’s something to do with his social position. A matter of—I don’t quite know how to put it.

She. But, Georgie, you don’t think I’m such a snob as to care twopence for social position and conventions of that kind? Your father is your father—that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

He. I know, I know, but there are prejudices.

She. Is it something your father’s done? Has he been in the Bankruptcy Court? I wouldn’t care a pin.

He. No, it’s nothing he’s done. It’s something he is.

She. He’s a Socialist!

[Pg 17]

He. No.

She. Is he a Roman Catholic?

He. Oh no! He’s Church of England.

She. I know; he’s a Liberal.

He. No; he says the Liberals are just as bad as the Conservatives.

She. Then he’s a Little Englander.

He. On the contrary; he’s outside politics. He belongs to no party.

She. He’s a foreigner—by birth, I mean.

He. Not at all.

She. He’s not a Mormon?

He. No. It’s nothing to do with politics or religion or that kind of thing. It’s his profession.

She. His profession! But I thought—as if I cared about his profession!

He. But you might—there are some professions——

She. You see, I know he’s honest.

He. Oh! you needn’t have any fear. He’s perfectly honest, respectable, and respected.

She. Then what is it?

He. I’d rather you guessed it.

She. How absurd you are! I know what it is; he’s somebody’s agent.

He. No.

She. Then he’s a schoolmaster.

[Pg 18]

He. No.

She (tentatively). Of course, I know he was never in trade?

He. No, never. He had nothing to do with it.

She. Is he on the stage?

He. No; he disapproves of actors.

She. He’s a Quaker.

He. I told you it’s nothing to do with religion.

She. Then, he’s a photographer. Some photographers almost count as artists.

He. No.

She. Then it is something to do with art.

He. His profession certainly needs art and skill.

She. He’s not a conjurer?

He. Conjurers are scarcely respectable.

She. I know, of course. He’s a jockey.

He. No

She. A bookmaker.

He. No.

She. A veterinary surgeon.

He. No.

She. Does he ever give lessons?

He. Only to his assistants, whom he’s training.

She. He’s a prize-fighter.

He. Oh no!

[Pg 19]

She. He’s an Art-dressmaker.

He. No. You see it’s something some people might mind.

She. What can it be? A dentist.

He. No.

She. How stupid of me. He’s a literary man.

He. He’s never written a line.

She. But you told me. I remember now. He plays the harp. He’s something musical; but nobody could mind that. He’s a dancing-master.

He. No.

She. A commercial traveller.

He. No.

She. Of course not; it’s something to do with art. But what could one mind?

He. Not exactly art. It’s more skill.

She. Is he a chiropodist?

He. No.

She. Or a Swedish masseur?

He. Nothing like it.

She. Is it anything to do with officials?

He. Yes, in a way.

She. Then I’ve guessed. He’s a detective.

He. No.

She. He’s in the Secret Service.

He. No.

She. It’s something to do with the police.

[Pg 20]

He. Not exactly.

She. With prisons.

He. In a way.

She. He’s a prison inspector.

He. No.

She. A prison chaplain.

He. No; he’s not in Orders.

She. The prison doctor who has to feed the Suffragettes.

He. No.

She. I’ve guessed. He’s a keeper in a lunatic asylum.

He. You’re getting cold again.

She. Then it’s something to do with prisons?

He. Yes.

She. He’s a warder.

He. No.

She. I don’t know who else is in a prison, except the prisoners.

He. He doesn’t live in the prison.

She. But he goes there sometimes?

He. Yes.

She. I give it up.

He. His duty is a disagreeable one, but some one has to do it.

She. He’s the man who has to taste the prisoners’ food.

[Pg 21]

He. I didn’t know there was such a person.

She. You must tell me. I’ll never guess.

He (blurting it out). Well, you see, he’s the hangman.

[A Pause.

She. You mean he——

He. Yes, he——

She. Oh, I see.

He. Some people might mind this. He’s going to retire very soon—on a pension.

She. Yes?

He. And, of course, he very seldom——

She. Yes, I suppose——

He. It’s all quite private, of course.

She. Yes, of course.

[A Pause.

(Looking at her watch) Good gracious! I shall be late for dinner. It’s nearly seven o’clock. I must fly. I was late yesterday.

He. Shall I—shall we meet to-morrow?

She. No, not to-morrow. I’m busy all to-morrow.

He. Perhaps the day after.

She. Perhaps I had better tell you at once what I was going to write to you.

He. You think the drawback——

She (indignantly). I wasn’t thinking of that. [Pg 22]But I do think you ought to have told me directly about those others.

He. What others?

She. Those women—the A.B.C. shop, the clergyman’s daughter, and that music-hall singer.

He. But you said you didn’t mind.

She. I minded too much to speak about it. A music-hall singer! The New Zealand Nightingale! Oh! to think that you, that I——Oh! the shame of it.

He. But——

She. There’s no but. You’ve grossly deceived me. You played with my feelings. You led me on. You trifled with me. You’ve treated me scandalously. You’ve broken my heart. You’ve ruined my life.

He. But let me say one word.

She. Not one word. A girl in an A.B.C. shop! A clergyman’s daughter! and a music-hall singer!

He. You really mean——

She. I’ve heard quite enough. Thank you, Mr. Belleville. Please to understand that our acquaintance is at an end. Good evening. (She bows and walks away.)