Short Plays

sir, I complained of the noise and wanted to have a peaceful hour at home. Well: them two has taught me a lesson. This morning, sir, when I was telling the boys here how I was longing to be back taking my part for king and country with the others, I was lying, as you well knew, sir. Now I can go and say it with a clear conscience. Some likes war’s alarums; and some likes home life. I’ve tried both, sir; and I’m for war’s alarums now. I always was a quiet lad by natural disposition. Sir Pearce Strictly between ourselves, O’Flaherty, and as one soldier to another O’Flaherty salutes, but without stiffening, do you think we should have got an army without conscription if domestic life had been as happy as people say it is? O’Flaherty Well, between you and me and the wall, Sir Pearce, I think the less we say about that until the war’s over, the better. He winks at the General. The General strikes a match. The thrush sings. A jay laughs. The conversation drops.

Annajanska

The Bolshevik Empress

Preface

“Annajanska” is frankly a bravura piece. The modern variety theatre demands for its “turns” little plays called sketches, to last twenty minutes or so, and to enable some favorite performer to make a brief but dazzling appearance on some barely passable dramatic pretext. Miss Lillah McCarthy and I, as author and actress, have helped to make one another famous on many serious occasions, from Man and Superman to Androcles; and Mr. Charles Ricketts has not disdained to snatch moments from his painting and sculpture to design some wonderful dresses for us. We three unbent as Mrs. Siddons, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Dr. Johnson might have unbent, to devise a “turn” for the Coliseum variety theatre. Not that we would set down the art of the variety theatre as something to be condescended to, or our own art as elephantine. We should rather crave indulgence as three novices fresh from the awful legitimacy of the highbrow theatre.

Well, Miss McCarthy and Mr. Ricketts justified themselves easily in the glamor of the footlights, to the strains of Tchaikovsky’s 1812. I fear I did not. I have received only one compliment on my share; and that was from a friend who said, “It is the only one of your works that is not too long.” So I have made it a page or two longer, according to my own precept: Embrace your reproaches: they are often glories in disguise.

Dramatis Personae

• General Strammfest

• Lieutenant Schneidekind

• The Grand Duchess

• Two soldiers

Annajanska

The General’s office in a military station on the east front in Beotia. An office table with a telephone, writing materials, official papers, etc., is set across the room. At the end of the table, a comfortable chair for the General. Behind the chair, a window. Facing it at the other end of the table, a plain wooden bench. At the side of the table, with its back to the door, a common chair, with a typewriter before it. Beside the door, which is opposite the end of the bench, a rack for caps and coats. There is nobody in the room.

	General Strammfest enters, followed by Lieutenant Schneidekind. They hang up their cloaks and caps. Schneidekind takes a little longer than Strammfest, who comes to the table.
Strammfest	Schneidekind.
Schneidekind	Yes, sir.
Strammfest	Have you sent my report yet to the government? He sits down.
Schneidekind	Coming to the table. Not yet, sir. Which government do you wish it sent to? He sits down.
Strammfest	That depends. What’s the latest? Which of them do you think is most likely to be in power tomorrow morning?
Schneidekind	Well, the provisional government was going strong yesterday. But today they say that the Prime Minister has shot himself, and that the extreme left fellow has shot all the others.
Strammfest	Yes: that’s all very well; but these fellows always shoot themselves with blank cartridge.
Schneidekind	Still, even the blank cartridge means backing down. I should send the report to the Maximilianists.
Strammfest	They’re no stronger than the Oppidoshavians; and in my own opinion the Moderate Red Revolutionaries are as likely to come out on top as either of them.
Schneidekind	I can easily put a few carbon sheets in the typewriter and send a copy each to the lot.
Strammfest	Waste of paper. You might as well send reports to an infant school. He throws his head on the table with a groan.
Schneidekind	Tired out, sir?
Strammfest	O Schneidekind, Schneidekind, how can you bear to live?
Schneidekind	At my age, sir, I ask myself how can I bear to die?
Strammfest	You are young, young and heartless. You are excited by the revolution: you are attached to abstract things like liberty. But my family has served the Panjandrums of Beotia faithfully for seven centuries. The Panjandrums have kept our place for us at their courts, honored us, promoted us, shed their glory on us, made us what we are. When I hear you young men declaring that you are fighting for civilization, for democracy, for the overthrow of militarism, I ask myself how can a man shed his blood for empty words used by vulgar tradesmen and common laborers: mere wind and stink. He rises, exalted by his theme. A king is a splendid reality, a man raised above us like a god. You can see him; you can kiss his hand; you can be cheered by his smile and terrified by his frown. I would have died for my Panjandrum as my father died for his father. Your toiling millions were only too honored to receive the toes of our boots in the proper spot for them when they displeased their betters. And now what is left in life for me? He relapses into his chair discouraged. My Panjandrum is deposed and transported to herd with convicts. The army, his pride