Short Plays

epub:type="z3998:persona">Magnesia Listening at the Doctor’s chest. Dead! Fitz Kneeling by the Landlord, and raising his hand, which drops with a thud. Dead! Phyllis Seizing the looking glass and holding it to the Policeman’s lips. Dead! Fitz Solemnly rising. The copper attracted the lightning. Magnesia Rising. After life’s fitful fever they sleep well. Phyllis: sweep them up. Phyllis replaces the looking glass on the dressing table; takes up the fan; and fans the Policeman, who rolls away like a leaf before the wind to the wall. She disposes similarly of the Landlord and Doctor. Phyllis Will they be in your way if I leave them there until morning, my lady? Or shall I bring up the ashpan and take them away? Magnesia They will not disturb us. Goodnight, Phyllis. Phyllis Goodnight, my lady. Goodnight, sir. She retires. Magnesia And now, husband, let us perform our last sad duty to our friend. He has become his own monument. Let us erect him. He is heavy; but love can do much. Fitz A litte leverage will get him on his feet. Give me my umbrella. Magnesia True. She hands him the umbrella, and takes up the bootjack. They get them under Adolphus’s back, and prize him up on his feet. Fitz That’s done it! Whew! Magnesia Kneeling at the left hand of the statue. Forever and forever, Adolphus. Fitz Kneeling at the right hand of the statue. The rest is silence. The Angels sing “Bill Bailey.” The statue raises its hands in an attitude of blessing, and turns its limelit face to heaven as the curtain falls. National Anthem. Attendants In front. All out for the next performance. Pass along, please, ladies and gentlemen: pass along.

The Interlude at the Playhouse

Dramatis Personae

• The Manager’s Wife

• The Manager

• The Conductor

• A Carpenter

• The Stage Manager

The Interlude at the Playhouse

Opening night. Brilliant first-night audience assembled. Conclusion of overture. In each programme a slip has been distributed stating that before the play begins the Manager will address a few words to the audience.

	The float is turned up. Lights down in auditorium.
	Expectancy. Silence.
	The act drop is swung back. Evidently somebody is coming forward to make a speech.
	Enter before the curtain the Manager’s Wife, with one of the programme slips in her hand.
The Manager’s Wife	Ladies and gentlemen. She hesitates, overcome with nervousness: then plunges ahead. About this speech⁠—you know⁠—this little slip in your programme⁠—it says Cyril⁠—I mean Mr. Maude⁠—I am so frightfully nervous⁠—I⁠—she begins tearing up the slip carefully into very small pieces⁠—I have to get this finished before he comes up from his dressing room, because he doesn’t know what I’m doing. If he did⁠—! Well, what I want to say is⁠—of course I am saying it very badly because I never could speak in public; but the fact is, neither can Cyril. Excuse my calling him Cyril; I know I should speak of him as Mr. Maude, but⁠—but⁠—perhaps I had better explain that we are married; and the force of habit is so strong⁠—er⁠—yes, isn’t it? You see, it’s like this. At least, what I wanted to say is⁠—is⁠—is⁠—er⁠—. A little applause would encourage me perhaps, if you don’t mind. Thank you. Of course, it’s so ridiculous to be nervous like this, among friends, isn’t it? But I have had such a dreadful week at home over this speech of Cyril’s. He gets so angry with me when I tell him that he can’t make speeches, and that nobody wants him to make one! I only wanted to encourage him; but he is so irritable when he has to build a theatre! Of course, you wouldn’t think so, seeing him act, but you don’t know what he is at home. Well, dear ladies and gentlemen, will you be very nice and kind to him when he is speaking, and if he is nervous, don’t notice it? And please don’t make any noise; the least sound upsets him and puts his speech out of his head. It is really a very good speech; he has not let me see the manuscript, and he thinks I know nothing about it, but I have heard him make it four times in his sleep. He does it very well when he is asleep⁠—quite like an orator; but unfortunately he is awake now and in a fearful state of nerves. I felt I must come out and ask you to be kind to him⁠—after all, we are old friends, aren’t we? Applause. Oh, thank you, thank you; that is your promise to me to be kind to him. Now I will run away. Please don’t tell him I dared to do this. Going. And, please, please, not the least noise. If a hairpin drops, all is lost. Coming back to centre. Oh, and Mr. Conductor, would you be so good, when he comes to the pathetic part, to give him a little slow music? Something affecting, you know.
Conductor	Certainly, Mrs. Maude, certainly.
The Manager’s Wife	Thank you. You know, it is one of the great sorrows of his life that the managers will not give him an engagement in melodrama. Not that he likes melodrama, but he says that the slow music is such a support on the stage; and he needs all the support he can get tonight, poor fellow! The⁠—
A Carpenter	From the side, putting his head round the edge of the curtain. Tsst! ma’am, tsst!
The Manager’s Wife	Eh? What’s the matter?
The Carpenter	The governor’s dressed and coming up, ma’am.
The Manager’s Wife	Oh! To the audience. Not a word. She hurries off, with her finger on her lips.
	The warning for the band sounds. “Auld Lang Syne” is softly played. The curtain rises, and discovers a reading table, with an elaborate triple-decked folding desk on it. A thick manuscript of unbound sheets is on the desk. A tumbler and decanter, with water, and two candles shaded from the audience are