Short Plays

a simple string, the moustaches turn up and down, so⁠—? He makes his moustache turn, up and down several times. No! I say No. The Inca’s moustache is so watched and studied that it has made his face the political barometer of the whole continent. When that moustache goes up, culture rises with it. Not what you call culture; but Kultur, a word so much more significant that I hardly understand it myself except when I am in specially good form. When it goes down, millions of men perish. Ermyntrude You know, if I had a moustache like that, it would turn my head. I should go mad. Are you quite sure the Inca isn’t mad? The Inca How can he be mad, madam? What is sanity? The condition of the Inca’s mind. What is madness? The condition of the people who disagree with the Inca. Ermyntrude Then I am a lunatic because I don’t like that ridiculous brooch. The Inca No, madam: you are only an idiot. Ermyntrude Thank you. The Inca Mark you: It is not to be expected that you should see eye to eye with the Inca. That would be presumption. It is for you to accept without question or demur the assurance of your Inca that the brooch is a masterpiece. Ermyntrude My Inca! Oh, come! I like that. He is not my Inca yet. The Inca He is everybody’s Inca, madam. His realm will yet extend to the confines of the habitable earth. It is his divine right; and let those who dispute it look to themselves. Properly speaking, all those who are now trying to shake his world predominance are not at war with him, but in rebellion against him. Ermyntrude Well, he started it, you know. The Inca Madam, be just. When the hunters surround the lion, the lion will spring. The Inca had kept the peace of years. Those who attacked him were steeped in blood, black blood, white blood, brown blood, yellow blood, blue blood. The Inca had never shed a drop. Ermyntrude He had only talked. The Inca Only talked! Only talked! What is more glorious than talk? Can anyone in the world talk like him? Madam, when he signed the declaration of war, he said to his foolish generals and admirals, “Gentlemen, you will all be sorry for this.” And they are. They know now that they had better have relied on the sword of the spirit: in other words, on their Inca’s talk, than on their murderous cannons. The world will one day do justice to the Inca as the man who kept the peace with nothing but his tongue and his moustache. While he talked: talked just as I am talking now to you, simply, quietly, sensibly, but greatly, there was peace; there was prosperity; Perusalem went from success to success. He has been silenced for a year by the roar of trinitrotoluene and the bluster of fools; and the world is in ruins. What a tragedy! He is convulsed with grief. Ermyntrude Captain Duval, I don’t want to be unsympathetic; but suppose we get back to business. The Inca Business! What business? Ermyntrude Well, my business. You want me to marry one of the Inca’s sons: I forget which. The Inca As far as I can recollect the name, it is His Imperial Highness Prince Eitel William Frederick George Franz Josef Alexander Nicholas Victor Emmanuel Albert Theodore Wilson⁠— Ermyntrude Interrupting. Oh, please, please, mayn’t I have one with a shorter name? What is he called at home? The Inca He is usually called Sonny, madam. With great charm of manner. But you will please understand that the Inca has no desire to pin you to any particular son. There is Chips and Spots and Lulu and Pongo and the Corsair and the Piffler and Jack Johnson the Second, all unmarried. At least not seriously married: nothing, in short, that cannot be arranged. They are all at your service. Ermyntrude Are they all as clever and charming as their father? The Inca Lifts his eyebrows pityingly; shrugs his shoulders; then, with indulgent paternal contempt. Excellent lads, madam. Very honest affectionate creatures. I have nothing against them. Pongo imitates farmyard sounds⁠—cock crowing and that sort of thing⁠—extremely well. Lulu plays Strauss’s Sinfonia Domestica on the mouth organ really screamingly. Chips keeps owls and rabbits. Spots motor bicycles. The Corsair commands canal barges and steers them himself. The Piffler writes plays, and paints most abominably. Jack Johnson trims ladies’ hats, and boxes with professionals hired for that purpose. He is invariably victorious. Yes: they all have their different little talents. And also, of course, their family resemblances. For example, they all smoke; they all quarrel with one another; and they none of them appreciate their father, who, by the way, is no mean painter, though the Piffler pretends to ridicule his efforts. Ermyntrude Quite a large choice, eh? The Inca But very little to choose, believe me. I should not recommend Pongo, because he snores so frightfully that it has been necessary to build him a soundproof bedroom: otherwise the royal family would get no sleep. But any of the others would suit equally well⁠—if you are really bent on marrying one of them. Ermyntrude If! What is this? I never wanted to marry one of them. I thought you wanted me to. The Inca I did, madam; but confidentially, flattering her you are not quite the sort of person I expected you to be; and I doubt whether any of these young degenerates would make you happy. I trust I am not showing any want of natural feeling when I say that from the point of view of a lively, accomplished, and beautiful woman Ermyntrude bows they might pall after a time. I suggest that you might prefer the Inca himself. Ermyntrude Oh, Captain, how could a humble person like myself be of any interest to a prince who is surrounded with the ablest and most far-reaching intellects in the world? The Inca Explosively. What on earth are you talking about,