Short Plays

to the sky. And now, by Heaven,
She stoops below me; condescends upon
This hero of the pothouse, whose exploits,
Writ in my character from my last place,
Would damn me into ostlerdom. And yet
There’s an eternal justice in it; for
By so much as the ne’er subduèd Indian
Excels the servile Negro, doth this ruffian
Precedence take of me. “Ich dien.” Damnation!
I serve. My motto should have been, “I scalp.”
And yet I do not bear the yoke for gold.
Because I love her I have blacked her boots;
Because I love her I have cleaned her knives,
Doing in this the office of a boy,
Whilst, like the celebrated maid that milks
And does the meanest chares, I’ve shared the passions
Of Cleopatra. It has been my pride
To give her place the greater altitude
By lowering mine, and of her dignity
To be so jealous that my cheek has flamed
Even at the thought of such a deep disgrace
As love for such a one as I would be
For such a one as she; and now! and now!
A prizefighter! O irony! O bathos!
To have made way for this! Oh, Bashville, Bashville:
Why hast thou thought so lowly of thyself,
So heavenly high of her? Let what will come,
My love must speak: ’twas my respect was dumb.

Scene II

The Agricultural Hall in Islington, crowded with spectators. In the arena a throne, with a boxing ring before it. A balcony above on the right, occupied by persons of fashion: among others, Lydia and Lord Worthington.

	Flourish. Enter Lucian and Cetewayo, with Chiefs in attendance.
Cetewayo	Is this the Hall of Husbandmen?
Lucian	It is.
Cetewayo	Are these anaemic dogs the English people?
Lucian	Mislike us not for our complexions, The pallid liveries of the pall of smoke Belched by the mighty chimneys of our factories, And by the million patent kitchen ranges Of happy English homes.
Cetewayo	When first I came I deemed those chimneys the fuliginous altars Of some infernal god. I now perceive The English dare not look upon the sky. They are moles and owls: they call upon the soot To cover them.
Lucian	You cannot understand The greatness of this people, Cetewayo. You are a savage, reasoning like a child. Each pallid English face conceals a brain Whose powers are proven in the works of Newton And in the plays of the immortal Shakespeare. There is not one of all the thousands here But, if you placed him naked in the desert, Would presently construct a steam engine, And lay a cable t’ th’ Antipodes.
Cetewayo	Have I been brought a million miles by sea To learn how men can lie! Know, Father Webber, Men become civilized through twin diseases, Terror and Greed to wit: these two conjoined Become the grisly parents of Invention. Why does the trembling white with frantic toil Of hand and brain produce the magic gun That slays a mile off, whilst the manly Zulu Dares look his foe i’ the face; fights foot to foot; Lives in the present; drains the Here and Now; Makes life a long reality, and death A moment only! whilst your Englishman Glares on his burning candle’s winding-sheets, Counting the steps of his approaching doom, And in the murky corners ever sees Two horrid shadows, Death and Poverty: In the which anguish an unnatural edge Comes on his frighted brain, which straight devises Strange frauds by which to filch unearnèd gold, Mad crafts by which to slay unfacéd foes, Until at last his agonized desire Makes possibility its slave. And then⁠— Horrible climax! All-undoing spite!⁠— Th’ importunate clutching of the coward’s hand From wearied Nature Devastation’s secrets Doth wrest; when straight the brave black-livered man Is blown explosively from off the globe; And Death and Dread, with their white-livered slaves O’er-run the earth, and through their chattering teeth Stammer the words “Survival of the Fittest.” Enough of this: I came not here to talk. Thou say’st thou hast two white-faced ones who dare Fight without guns, and spearless, to the death. Let them be brought.
Lucian	They fight not to the death, But under strictest rules: as, for example, Half of their persons shall not be attacked; Nor shall they suffer blows when they fall down, Nor stroke of foot at any time. And, further, That frequent opportunities of rest With succor and refreshment be secured them.
Cetewayo	Ye gods, what cowards! Zululand, my Zululand: Personified Pusillanimity Hath ta’en thee from the bravest of the brave!
Lucian	Lo, the rude savage whose untutored mind Cannot perceive self-evidence, and doubts That Brave and English mean the selfsame thing!
Cetewayo	Well, well, produce these heroes. I surmise They will be carried by their nurses, lest Some barking dog or bumbling bee should scare them.
	Cetewayo takes his state. Enter Paradise.
Lydia	What hateful wretch is this whose mighty thews Presage destruction to his adversaries?
Lord Worthington	’Tis Paradise.
Lydia	He of whom Cashel spoke? A dreadful thought ices my heart. Oh, why Did Cashel leave us at the door?
	Enter Cashel.
Lord Worthington	Behold! The champion comes.
Lydia	Oh, I could kiss him now, Here, before all the world. His boxing things Render him most attractive. But I fear Yon villain’s fists may maul him.
Lord Worthington	Have no fear. Hark! the king speaks.
Cetewayo	Ye sons of the white queen: Tell me your names and deeds ere ye fall to.
Paradise	Your royal highness, you beholds a bloke What gets his living honest by his fists. I may not have the polish of some toffs As I could mention on; but up to now No man has took my number down. I scale Close on twelve stun; my age is twenty-three; And at Bill Richardson’s Blue Anchor pub Am to be heard of any day by such As likes the job. I don’t know, governor, As ennythink remains for me to say.
Cetewayo	Six wives and thirty oxen shalt thou have If on the sand thou leave thy foeman dead. Methinks he looks full scornfully on thee. To Cashel. Ha! dost thou not so?
Cashel	Sir, I do beseech you To name the bone, or limb, or special place Where you would have me hit him with this fist.
Cetewayo	Thou hast a noble brow; but much I fear Thine adversary will disfigure it.
Cashel	There’s a divinity that shapes our ends Rough hew them how we will. Give me the gloves.
The Master of the Revels	Paradise, a professor. Cashel Byron, Also professor. Time!
	They spar.
Lydia	Eternity It seems to me