The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays by Gordon Bottomley et al. (free ebooks romance novels .txt) 📖

may be, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every other way, but if one can't cook nobody loves one at all.

KNAVE. Beasts! My higher nature cries out at them for holding such views. Fools! Swine! But my lower nature whispers that perhaps after all they are not far from right, and as my lower nature is the only one that ever gets any encouragement—

VIOLETTA. Then you think that there is nothing to be done—I shall have to be banished?

KNAVE. I'm afraid—Wait, I have an idea! (Excitedly) Dulcinea, my wife—her name is Dulcinea—made known to me this morning, very forcibly—Yes, I remember, I'm sure—Yes, she was going to bake this very morning some raspberry tarts—a dish in which she particularly excels—If I could only procure some of them and bring them here!

VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, dearest, sweetest Knave, could you, I mean, would you? Is there time? The court will return.

(They tiptoe to the door and listen stealthily.)

KNAVE. I shall run as fast as I can. Don't let anyone come in until I get back, if you can help it.

(He jumps on the table, ready to go out the window.)

VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, how clever of you to think of it. It is the custom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen at her coronation. I shall ask that you be made Chancellor.

KNAVE (turning back). Oh, please don't, My Lady, I implore you.

VIOLETTA. Why not?

KNAVE. It would give me social position, My Lady, and that I would rather die than possess. Oh, how we argue about that, my wife and I! Dulcinea wishes to climb, and the higher she climbs, the less she cooks. Should you have me made Chancellor, she would never wield a spoon again.

VIOLETTA (pursing her lips). But it doesn't seem fair, exactly. Think of how much I shall be indebted to her. If she enjoys social position, I might as well give her some. We have lots and lots of it lying around.

KNAVE. She wouldn't, My Lady, she wouldn't enjoy it. Dulcinea is a true genius, you understand, and the happiness of a genius lies solely in using his gift. If she didn't cook she would be miserable, although she might not be aware of it, I'm perfectly sure.

VIOLETTA. Then I shall take all social position away from you.
You shall rank below the scullery maids. Do you like that better?
Hurry, please.

KNAVE. Thank you, My Lady; it will suit me perfectly.

(He goes out with the tarts. VIOLETTA listens anxiously for a minute; then she takes her skirt between the tips of her fingers and practises in pantomime her anticipated ride on the palfrey. She bows, smiles, kisses her hand, until suddenly she remembers the mule standing outside the gates of the palace. That thought saddens her, so she curls up in POMPDEBILE'S throne and cries softly, wiping away her tears with a lace handkerchief. There is a knock. She flies to the door and holds it shut.)

VIOLETTA (breathlessly). Who is there?

CHANCELLOR. It is I, Lady Violetta. The King wishes to return.

VIOLETTA (alarmed). Return! Does he? But the tarts are not done.
They are not done at all!

CHANCELLOR. You said they would be ready in twenty minutes. His
Majesty is impatient.

VIOLETTA. Did you play a game of checkers with him, Chancellor?

CHANCELLOR. Yes.

VIOLETTA. And did you beat him?

CHANCELLOR (shortly). I did not.

VIOLETTA (laughing). How sweet of you! Would you mind doing it again just for me? Or would it be too great a strain on you to keep from beating him twice in succession?

CHANCELLOR. I shall tell the King that you refuse admission.

(VIOLETTA runs to the window to see if the KNAVE is in sight. The
CHANCELLOR returns and knocks.)

CHANCELLOR. The King wishes to come in.

VIOLETTA. But the checkers!

CHANCELLOR. The Knights of the Checker Board have taken them away.

VIOLETTA. But the tarts aren't done, really.

CHANCELLOR. You said twenty minutes.

VIOLETTA. No, I didn't—at least, I said twenty minutes for them to get good and warm and another twenty minutes for them to become brown. That makes forty—don't you remember?

CHANCELLOR. I shall carry your message to His Majesty.

(VIOLETTA again runs to the window and peers anxiously up the road.)

CHANCELLOR (knocking loudly). The King commands you to open the door.

VIOLETTA. Commands! Tell him—Is he there—with you?

CHANCELLOR. His Majesty is at the door.

VIOLETTA. Pompy, I think you are rude, very rude indeed. I don't see how you can be so rude—to command me, your own Violetta who loves you so. (She again looks in vain for the KNAVE.) Oh, dear! (Wringing her hands) Where can he be!

POMPDEBILE (outside). This is nonsense. Don't you see how worried we are? It is a compliment to you—

VIOLETTA. Well, come in; I don't care—only I'm sure they are not finished.

(She opens the door for the KING, the CHANCELLOR, and the two PASTRY COOKS. The KING walks to his throne. He finds LADY VIOLETTA'S lace handkerchief on it.)

POMPDEBILE (holding up handkerchief). What is this?

VIOLETTA. Oh, that's my handkerchief.

POMPDEBILE. It is very damp. Can it be that you are anxious, that you are afraid?

VIOLETTA. How silly, Pompy. I washed my hands, as one always does after cooking; (to the PASTRY COOKS) doesn't one? But there was no towel, so I used my handkerchief instead of my petticoat, which is made of chiffon and is very perishable.

CHANCELLOR. Is the Lady Violetta ready to produce her work?

VIOLETTA. I don't understand what you mean by work, Chancellor. Oh, the tarts! (Nervously) They were quite simple—quite simple to make—no work at all—A little imagination is all one needs for such things, just imagination. You agree with me, don't you, Pompy, that imagination will work wonders—will do almost anything, in fact? I remember—

POMPDEBILE. The Pastry Cooks will remove the tarts from the oven.

VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy! They are not finished or cooked, or whatever one calls it. They are not. The last five minutes is of the greatest importance. Please don't let them touch them! Please—

POMPDEBILE. There, there, my dear Violetta, calm yourself. If you wish, they will put them back again. There can be no harm in looking at them. Come, I will hold your hand.

VIOLETTA. That will help a great deal, Pompy, your holding my hand.

(She scrambles up on the throne beside the KING.)

CHANCELLOR (in horror). On the throne, Your Majesty?

POMPDEBILE. Of course not, Chancellor. We regret that you are not yet entitled to sit on the throne, my dear. In a little while—

VIOLETTA (coming down). Oh, I see. May I sit here, Chancellor, in this seemingly humble position at his feet? Of course, I can't really be humble when he is holding my hand and enjoying it so much.

POMPDEBILE. Violetta! (To the PASTRY COOKS) Sample the tarts.
This suspense is unbearable!

(The KING'S voice is husky with excitement. The two PASTRY COOKS, after bowing with great ceremony to the KING, to each other, to the CHANCELLOR—for this is the most important moment of their lives by far—walk to the oven door and open it, impressively. They fall back in astonishment so great that they lose their balance, but they quickly scramble to their feet again).

YELLOW HOSE. Your Majesty, there are no tarts there!

BLUE HOSE. Your Majesty, the tarts have gone!

VIOLETTA (clasping her hands). Gone! Oh, where could they have gone?

POMPDEBILB (coming down from throne). That is impossible.

PASTRY COOKS (greatly excited). You see, you see, the oven is empty as a drum.

POMPDEBILE (to VIOLETTA). Did you go out of this room?

VIOLETTA (wailing). Only for a few minutes, Pompy, to powder my nose before the mirror in the pantry. (To PASTRY COOKS) When one cooks one becomes so disheveled, doesn't one? But if I had thought for one little minute—

POMPDEBILE (interrupting). The tarts have been stolen!

VIOLETTA (with a shriek, throwing herself on a chair). Stolen! Oh, I shall faint; help me. Oh, oh, to think that any one would take my delicious little, my dear little tarts. My salts. Oh! Oh!

(PASTRY COOKS run to the door and call.)

YELLOW HOSE. Salts! Bring the Lady Violetta's salts.

BLUE HOSE. The Lady Violetta has fainted!

(URSULA enters hurriedly bearing a smelling-bottle.)

URSULA. Here, here—What has happened? Oh, My Lady, my sweet mistress!

POMPDEBILE. Some wretch has stolen the tarts.

(LADY VIOLETTA moans.)

URSULA. Bring some water. I will take off her headdress and bathe her forehead.

VIOLETTA (sitting up). I feel better now. Where am I? What is the matter? I remember. Oh, my poor tarts!

(She buries her face in her hands.)

CHANCELLOR (suspiciously). Your Majesty, this is very strange.

URSULA (excitedly). I know, Your Majesty. It was the Knave. One
of the Queen's women, who was walking in the garden, saw the
Knave jump out of this window with a tray in his hand. It was the
Knave.

VIOLETTA. Oh, I don't think it was he. I don't, really.

POMPDEBILE. The scoundrel. Of course it was he. We shall banish him for this or have him beheaded.

CHANCELLOR. It should have been done long ago, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. You are right.

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty will never listen to me.

POMPDEBILE. We do listen to you. Be quiet.

VIOLETTA. What are you going to do, Pompy, dear?

POMPDEBILE. Herald, issue a proclamation at once. Let it be known all over the Kingdom that I desire that the Knave be brought here dead or alive. Send the royal detectives and policemen in every direction.

CHANCELLOR. Excellent; just what I should have advised had Your
Majesty listened to me.

POMPDEBILE (in a rage). Be quiet. (Exit HERALD.) I never have a brilliant thought but you claim it. It is insufferable!

(The HERALDS can be heard in the distance.)

CHANCELLOR. I resign.

POMPDEBILE. Good. We accept your thirty-eighth resignation at once.

CHANCELLOR. You did me the honor to appoint me as your Chancellor, Your Majesty, yet never, never do you give me an opportunity to chancel. That is my only grievance. You must admit, Your Majesty, that as your advisers advise you, as your dressers dress you, as your hunters hunt, as your bakers bake, your Chancellor should be allowed to chancel. However, I will be just—as I have been with you so long; before I leave you, I will give you a month's notice.

POMPDEBILE. That isn't necessary.

CHANCELLOR (referring to the constitution hanging at his belt).
It's in the constitution.

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet.

VIOLETTA. Well, I think as things have turned out so—so unfortunately, I shall change my gown. (To URSULA) Put out my cloth of silver with the moonstones. It is always a relief to change one's gown. May I have my handkerchief, Pompy? Rather a pretty one, isn't it, Pompy? Of course you don't object to my calling you Pompy now. When I'm in trouble it's a comfort, like holding your hand.

POMPDEBILE (magnanimously). You may hold our hand too, Violetta.

VIOLETTA (fervently). Oh, how good you are, how sympathetic! But you see it's impossible just now, as I have to change my gown—unless you will come with me while I change.

CHANCELLOR (in a voice charged with inexpressible horror). Your
Majesty!

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet! You have been discharged! (He starts to descend, when a HERALD bursts through the door in a state of great excitement. He kneels before POMPDEBILE.)

HERALD. We have found him; we have found him, Your Majesty. In fact,I found him all by myself! He was sitting under the shrubbery eating a tart. I stumbled over one of his legs and fell. "How easy it is to send man and all his pride into the dust," he said, and then—I saw him!

POMPDEBILE. Eating a tart! Eating a tart, did you say? The scoundrel! Bring him here immediately.

(The HERALD rushes out and returns with the KNAVE, followed by the six little PAGES. The KNAVE carries a tray of tarts in his hand.)

POMPDEBILE (almost speechless with rage). How dare you—you—you—

KNAVE (bowing). Knave, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. You Knave, you shall be punished for this.

CHANCELLOR. Behead him, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Yes, behead him at once.

VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy, not that! It is not severe enough.

POMPDEBILE. Not severe enough, to cut off a man's head! Really,
Violetta—

VIOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been beheaded, one's consciousness that one has been beheaded comes off too. It is inevitable. And then, what does it matter, when one doesn't know? Let us think of something really cruel—really fiendish. I have it—deprive him of social position