in saying that to me; but as that girl said, I asked for it. What else could the poor old chap do but fake up an answer fit for publication? There were whispers about it; but nobody believed them. I believe them now.
| The Elderly Gentleman |
Oh, I cannot admit that Sir Fuller Eastwind was capable of such a fraud. |
| The Envoy |
He was capable of anything: I knew his private secretary. And now what are we going to say? You don’t suppose I am going back to Baghdad to tell the British Empire that the oracle called me a fool, do you? |
| The Elderly Gentleman |
Surely we must tell the truth, however painful it may be to our feelings. |
| The Envoy |
I am not thinking of my feelings: I am not so selfish as that, thank God. I am thinking of the country: of our party. The truth, as you call it, would put the Rotterjacks in for the next twenty years. It would be the end of me politically. Not that I care for that: I am only too willing to retire if you can find a better man. Don’t hesitate on my account. |
| The Elderly Gentleman |
No, Ambrose: you are indispensable. There is no one else. |
| The Envoy |
Very well, then. What are you going to do? |
| The Elderly Gentleman |
My dear Ambrose, you are the leader of the party, not I. What are you going to do? |
| The Envoy |
I am going to tell the exact truth; that’s what I’m going to do. Do you take me for a liar? |
| The Elderly Gentleman |
Puzzled. Oh. I beg your pardon. I understood you to say— |
| The Envoy |
Cutting him short. You understood me to say that I am going back to Baghdad to tell the British electorate that the oracle repeated to me, word for word, what it said to Sir Fuller Eastwind fifteen years ago. Molly and Ethel can bear me out. So must you, if you are an honest man. Come on. |
|
He goes out, followed by his wife and daughter. |
| The Elderly Gentleman |
Left alone and shrinking into an old and desolate figure. What am I to do? I am a most perplexed and wretched man. He falls on his knees, and stretches his hands in entreaty over the abyss. I invoke the oracle. I cannot go back and connive at a blasphemous lie. I implore guidance. |
|
The Pythoness walks in on the gallery behind him, and touches him on the shoulder. Her size is now natural. Her face is hidden by her hood. He flinches as if from an electric shock; turns to her; and cowers, covering his eyes in terror. |
| The Elderly Gentleman |
No: not close to me. I’m afraid I can’t bear it. |
| The Oracle |
With grave pity. Come: look at me. I am my natural size now: what you saw there was only a foolish picture of me thrown on a cloud by a lantern. How can I help you? |
| The Elderly Gentleman |
They have gone back to lie about your answer. I cannot go with them. I cannot live among people to whom nothing is real. I have become incapable of it through my stay here. I implore to be allowed to stay. |
| The Oracle |
My friend: if you stay with us you will die of discouragement. |
| The Elderly Gentleman |
If I go back I shall die of disgust and despair. I take the nobler risk. I beg you, do not cast me out. |
|
He catches her robe and holds her. |
| The Oracle |
Take care. I have been here one hundred and seventy years. Your death does not mean to me what it means to you. |
| The Elderly Gentleman |
It is the meaning of life, not of death, that makes banishment so terrible to me. |
| The Oracle |
Be it so, then. You may stay. |
|
She offers him her hands. He grasps them and raises himself a little by clinging to her. She looks steadily into his face. He stiffens; a little convulsion shakes him; his grasp relaxes; and he falls dead. |
| The Oracle |
Looking down at the body. Poor short-lived thing! What else could I do for you? |
Part V
As Far as Thought Can Reach
AD 31,920
Summer afternoon in the year 31,920 AD. A sunlit glade at the southern foot of a thickly wooded hill. On the west side of it, the steps and columned porch of a dainty little classic temple. Between it and the hill, a rising path to the wooded heights begins with rough steps of stones in the moss. On the opposite side, a grove. In the middle of the glade, an altar in the form of a low marble table as long as a man, set parallel to the temple steps and pointing to the hill. Curved marble benches radiate from it into the foreground; but they are not joined to it: there is plenty of space to pass between the altar and the benches.
A dance of youths and maidens is in progress. The music is provided by a few flute players seated carelessly on the steps of the temple. There are no children; and none of the dancers seems younger than eighteen. Some of the youths have beards. Their dress, like the architecture of the theatre and the design of the altar and curved seats, resembles Grecian of the fourth century BC, freely handled. They move with perfect balance and remarkable grace, racing through a figure like a farandole. They neither romp nor hug in our manner.
At the first full close they clap their hands to stop the musicians, who recommence with a saraband, during which a strange figure appears on the path beyond the temple. He is deep in thought, with his eyes closed and his feet feeling automatically for the rough irregular steps as he slowly descends them. Except for a sort of linen kilt consisting mainly of a girdle carrying a sporran and a few minor
