he had touched her with a spur. Advice!!!
| Patiomkin |
Madman: take care! |
| Naryshkin |
Advise the Empress!! |
| The Sergeant |
Sainted Nicholas! |
| Varinka |
Hoo hoo! A stifled splutter of laughter. |
| Edstaston |
Following the Empress and resuming kindly but judicially. After all, though your Majesty is of course a great queen, yet when all is said, I am a man; and your Majesty is only a woman. |
| Catherine |
Only a wo—She chokes. |
| Edstaston |
Continuing. Believe me, this Russian extravagance will not do. I appreciate as much as any man the warmth of heart that prompts it; but it is overdone: it is hardly in the best taste: it is—really I must say it—it is not proper. |
| Catherine |
Ironically, in German. So! |
| Edstaston |
Not that I cannot make allowances. Your Majesty has, I know, been unfortunate in your experience as a married woman— |
| Catherine |
Furious. Alle Wetter!!! |
| Edstaston |
Sentimentally. Don’t say that. Don’t think of him in that way. After all, he was your husband; and whatever his faults may have been, it is not for you to think unkindly of him. |
| Catherine |
Almost bursting. I shall forget myself. |
| Edstaston |
Come! I am sure he really loved you; and you truly loved him. |
| Catherine |
Controlling herself with a supreme effort. No, Catherine. What would Voltaire say? |
| Edstaston |
Oh, never mind that vile scoffer. Set an example to Europe, Madam, by doing what I am going to do. Marry again. Marry some good man who will be a strength and a support to your old age. |
| Catherine |
My old—She again becomes speechless. |
| Edstaston |
Yes: we must all grow old, even the handsomest of us. |
| Catherine |
Sinking into her chair with a gasp. Thank you. |
| Edstaston |
You will thank me more when you see your little ones round your knee, and your man there by the fireside in the winter evenings—by the way, I forgot that you have no fireside here in spite of the coldness of the climate; so shall I say by the stove? |
| Catherine |
Certainly, if you wish. The stove by all means. |
| Edstaston |
Impulsively. Ah, Madam, abolish the stove: believe me, there is nothing like the good old open grate. Home! duty! happiness! they all mean the same thing; and they all flourish best on the drawing room hearthrug. Turning to Claire. And now, my love, we must not detain the Queen: she is anxious to inspect the model of her museum, to which I am sure we wish every success. |
| Claire |
Coldly. I am not detaining her. |
| Edstaston |
Well, goodbye wringing Patiomkin’s hand goo-oo-oodbye, Prince: come and see us if ever you visit England. Spire View, Deepdene, Little Mugford, Devon, will always find me. To Varinka, kissing her hand. Goodbye, Mademoiselle: goodbye, Little Mother, if I may call you that just once. Varinka puts up her face to be kissed. Eh? No, no, no, no: you don’t mean that, you know. Naughty! To the Sergeant. Goodbye, my friend. You will drink our healths with this. Tipping him. |
| The Sergeant |
The blessed Nicholas will multiply your fruits, Little Father. |
| Edstaston |
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. |
|
He goes out backwards, bowing, with Claire curtseying, having been listened to in utter dumbfoundedness by Patiomkin and Naryshkin, in childlike awe by Varinka, and with quite inexpressible feelings by Catherine. When he is out of sight she rises with clenched fists and raises her arms and her closed eyes to Heaven. Patiomkin, rousing himself from his stupor of amazement, springs to her like a tiger, and throws himself at her feet. |
| Patiomkin |
What shall I do to him for you? Skin him alive? Cut off his eyelids and stand him in the sun? Tear his tongue out? What shall it be? |
| Catherine |
Opening her eyes. Nothing. But oh, if I could only have had him for my—for my—for my— |
| Patiomkin |
In a growl of jealousy. For your lover? |
| Catherine |
With an ineffable smile. No: for my museum. |
The Music Cure
A Piece of Utter Nonsense
This is not a serious play: it is what is called a Variety Turn for two musicians. It is written for two pianists, but can be adapted to any instruments on which the performers happen to be proficient. At its first performance by Miss Madge McIntosh and Mr. William Armstrong the difficulty arose that, though Mr. Armstrong was an accomplished pianist, Miss McIntosh’s virtuosity was confined to the English concertina. That did just as well.
As a last desperate resort a pianola behind the scenes can be employed; but the result will lack spontaneity.
There is, however, no pressing reason why the thing should be performed at all.
Dramatis Personae
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Lord Reginald Fitzambry
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The Doctor
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Strega Thundridge
The Music Cure
Lord Reginald Fitzambry, a fashionably dressed, rather pretty young man of 22, is prostrate on a sofa in a large hotel drawing room, crying convulsively. His doctor is trying to soothe him. The doctor is about a dozen years his senior; and his ways are the ways of a still youthful man who considers himself in smart society as well as professionally attendant on it. The drawing room has tall central doors, at present locked. If anyone could enter under these circumstances, he would find on his left a grand piano with the keyboard end towards him, and a smaller door beyond the piano. On his right would be the window, and, further on, the sofa on which the unhappy youth is wallowing, with, close by it, the doctor’s chair and a little table accommodating the doctor’s hat, a plate, a medicine bottle, a half emptied glass, and a bell call.
| The Doctor |
Come come! be a man. Now really this is silly. You mustn’t give way like this. I tell you nothing’s happened to you. Hang it all! it’s not the end of the world if you did buy |
