The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays Part 34

(LADY VIOLETTA _moans._)

URSULA. Bring some water. I will take off her headdress and bathe her forehead.

VIOLETTA (_sitting up_). I feel better now. Where am I? What is the matter? I remember. Oh, my poor tarts!

(_She buries her face in her hands._)

CHANCELLOR (_suspiciously_). Your Majesty, this is very strange.

URSULA (_excitedly_). I know, Your Majesty. It was the Knave. One of the Queen's women, who was walking in the garden, saw the Knave jump out of this window with a tray in his hand. It was the Knave.

VIOLETTA. Oh, I don't think it was he. I don't, really.

POMPDEBILE. The scoundrel. Of course it was he. We shall banish him for this or have him _beheaded._

CHANCELLOR. It should have been done long ago, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. You are right.

CHANCELLOR. Your Majesty will never listen to me.

POMPDEBILE. We _do_ listen to you. Be quiet.

VIOLETTA. What are you going to do, Pompy, dear?

POMPDEBILE. Herald, issue a proclamation at once. Let it be known all over the Kingdom that I desire that the Knave be brought here dead or alive. Send the royal detectives and policemen in every direction.

CHANCELLOR. Excellent; just what I should have advised had Your Majesty listened to me.

POMPDEBILE (_in a rage_). Be quiet. (_Exit_ HERALD.) I never have a brilliant thought but you claim it. It is insufferable!

(_The_ HERALDS _can be heard in the distance._)

CHANCELLOR. I resign.

POMPDEBILE. Good. We accept your thirty-eighth resignation at once.

CHANCELLOR. You did me the honor to appoint me as your Chancellor, Your Majesty, yet never, never do you give me an opportunity to chancel. That is my only grievance. You must admit, Your Majesty, that as your advisers advise you, as your dressers dress you, as your hunters hunt, as your bakers bake, your Chancellor should be allowed to chancel. However, I will be just--as I have been with you so long; before I leave you, I will give you a month's notice.

POMPDEBILE. That isn't necessary.

CHANCELLOR (_referring to the const.i.tution hanging at his belt_).

It's in the const.i.tution.

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet.

VIOLETTA. Well, I think as things have turned out so--so unfortunately, I shall change my gown. (_To_ URSULA) Put out my cloth of silver with the moonstones. It is always a relief to change one's gown. May I have my handkerchief, Pompy? Rather a pretty one, isn't it, Pompy? Of course you don't object to my calling you Pompy now. When I'm in trouble it's a comfort, like holding your hand.

POMPDEBILE (_magnanimously_). You may hold our hand too, Violetta.

VIOLETTA (_fervently_). Oh, how good you are, how sympathetic! But you see it's impossible just now, as I have to change my gown--unless you will come with me while I change.

CHANCELLOR (_in a voice charged with inexpressible horror_). Your Majesty!

POMPDEBILE. Be quiet! You have been discharged! (_He starts to descend, when a_ HERALD _bursts through the door in a state of great excitement. He kneels before_ POMPDEBILE.)

HERALD. We have found him; we have found him, Your Majesty. In fact,_I_ found him all by myself! He was sitting under the shrubbery eating a tart. I stumbled over one of his legs and fell. "How easy it is to send man and all his pride into the dust," he said, and then--I saw him!

POMPDEBILE. Eating a tart! Eating a tart, did you say? The scoundrel! Bring him here immediately.

(_The_ HERALD _rushes out and returns with the_ KNAVE, _followed by the six little_ PAGES. _The_ KNAVE _carries a tray of tarts in his hand._)

POMPDEBILE (_almost speechless with rage_). How dare you--you--you--

KNAVE (_bowing_). Knave, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. You Knave, you shall be punished for this.

CHANCELLOR. Behead him, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. Yes, behead him at once.

VIOLETTA. Oh, no, Pompy, not that! It is not severe enough.

POMPDEBILE. Not severe enough, to cut off a man's head! Really, Violetta--

VIOLETTA. No, because, you see, when one has been beheaded, one's consciousness that one has been beheaded comes off too. It is inevitable. And then, what does it matter, when one doesn't know?

Let us think of something really cruel--really fiendish. I have it--deprive him of social position for the rest of his life--force him to remain a mere knave, forever.

POMPDEBILE. You are right.

KNAVE. Terrible as this punishment is, I admit that I deserve it, Your Majesty.

POMPDEBILE. What prompted you to commit this dastardly crime?

KNAVE. All my life I have had a craving for tarts of any kind.

There is something in my nature that demands tarts--something in my const.i.tution that cries out for them--and I obey my const.i.tution as rigidly as does the Chancellor seek to obey his.

I was in the garden reading, as is my habit, when a delicate odor floated to my nostrils, a persuasive odor, a seductive, light brown, flaky odor, an odor so enticing, so suggestive of tarts fit for the G.o.ds--- that I could stand it no longer. It was stronger than I. With one gesture I threw reputation, my chances for future happiness, to the winds, and leaped through the window. The odor led me to the oven; I seized a tart, and, eating it, experienced the one perfect moment of my existence. After having eaten that one tart, my craving for other tarts has disappeared. I shall live with the memory of that first tart before me forever, or die content, having tasted true perfection.

POMPDEBILE. M-m-m, how extraordinary! Let him be beaten fifteen strokes on the back. Now, Pastry Cooks to the Royal Household, we await your decision!

(_The_ COOKS _bow as before; then each selects a tart from the tray on the table, lifts it high, then puts it in his mouth. An expression of absolute ecstasy and beat.i.tude comes over their faces. They clasp hands, then fall on each other's necks, weeping._)

POMPDEBILE (_impatiently_). What on earth is the matter?

YELLOW HOSE. Excuse our emotion. It is because we have at last encountered a true genius, a great master, or rather mistress, of our art.

(_They bow to_ VIOLETTA.)