One-Act Plays Part 37

By A. A. MILNE

[Footnote 34: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States, and no one is allowed to produce this play without first having obtained permission of Samuel French, 28 West 28 Street, New York.]

Alan Alexander Milne was born January 18, 1882. He was a student at Westminster School, the library of which is familiar ground to every reader of Irving's _Sketch Book_. From there he proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge. On his graduation, he went into journalism in London. He was a.s.sistant editor of _Punch_ from 1906 to 1914. During the War he was a lieutenant in the Fourth Royal Warwicks.h.i.+re Regiment.

In the introduction to his volume of _First Plays_, in which _Wurzel-Flummery_ appears, he gives the following whimsical account of his career as a dramatist: "These five plays [_The Lucky One_, _The Boy Comes Home_, _Belinda_, _The Red Feather_, _Wurzel-Flummery_] were written in the order in which they appear now, during the years 1916 and 1917. They would hardly have been written had it not been for the War, although only one of them is concerned with that subject. To his other responsibilities the Kaiser now adds this volume.

"For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but the recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing is a luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more expensive in time and money. When an article is written, the financial reward (and we may as well live as not) is a matter of certainty. A novelist, too, even if he is not in 'the front rank'--but I never heard of one who wasn't--can at least be sure of publication. But when a play is written, there is no certainty of anything save disillusionment.

"To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the morning.

I thought I could write one (we all think we can), but I could not afford so unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the case was altered. No duty now urged me to write. My job was soldiering, and my spare time was my own affair. Other subalterns played bridge and golf; that was one way of amusing oneself. Another way was--why not?--to write plays.

"So we began with _Wurzel-Flummery_. I say 'we,' because another is mixed up in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out for a walk along the byways--where there was no saluting, and one could smoke a pipe without shocking the Duke of Cambridge--then it was to discuss the last scene and to wonder what would happen in the next. We did not estimate the money or publicity which might come from this new venture; there has never been any serious thought of making money by my bridge-playing, nor desire for publicity when I am trying to play golf. But secretly, of course, we hoped. It was that which made it so much more exciting than any other game.

"Our hopes were realized to the following extent:

"Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre in April, 1917. It was originally written in three acts, in which form it was shown to one or two managers. At the beginning of 1917 I was offered the chance of production in a triple bill if I cut it down into a two-act play. To cut even a line is painful, but to cut thirty pages of one's first comedy, slaughtering whole characters on the way, has at least a certain morbid fascination. It appeared, therefore, in two acts; and one kindly critic embarra.s.sed us by saying that a lesser artist would have written it in three acts, and most of the other critics annoyed us by saying that a greater artist would have written it in one act. However, I amused myself some months later by slaying another character--the office-boy, no less--thereby getting it down to one act, and was surprised to find that the one-act version was, after all, the best.... At least, I think it is.... At any rate, that is the version I am printing here; but, as can be imagined, I am rather tired of the whole business by now, and I am beginning to wonder if anyone ever did take the name of Wurzel-Flummery at all.

Possibly the whole thing is an invention."

_Wurzel-Flummery_ was first produced in this country at the Arts and Crafts Theatre in Detroit; recently it was acted again by The Players of St. Louis.

WURZEL-FLUMMERY

CHARACTERS

ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P.

MARGARET CRAWSHAW (_his wife_).

VIOLA CRAWSHAW (_his daughter_).

RICHARD MERITON, M.P.

DENIS CLIFTON.

_SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW's town house. Morning._

_It is a June day before the War in the morning-room of ROBERT CRAWSHAW's town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent, our attention would first be called to the delightful club fender round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out the comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In the middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of reference, and supported by a chair at the middle and another at the side. The rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures round the walls, we must leave until another time, for at this moment the door behind the sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in. He looks about thirty-five, has a clean-shaven intelligent face, and is dressed in a dark tweed suit. We withdraw hastily, as he comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands over her eyes._

RICHARD. Three guesses who it is.

VIOLA [_putting her hands over his_]. The Archbishop of Canterbury.

RICHARD. No.

VIOLA. The Archbishop of York.

RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your last guess.

VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P.

RICHARD. Wonderful! [_He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the fireplace._] How did you know? [_He begins to fill a pipe._]

VIOLA [_smiling_]. Well, it couldn't have been father.

RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway.

Anything in the paper?

VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that ----

RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out.

VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print.

RICHARD. It would be.

VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, d.i.c.k.

RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear.

VIOLA. Poor d.i.c.k! Oh, d.i.c.k, I wish you were on the same side as father.

RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that before.... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference?

VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the other day.

RICHARD. No, I don't, really.

VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equaled by your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law.

RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it.

VIOLA. Of course not.

RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really.

VIOLA. Then why does he say it?

RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole structure of the British Const.i.tution rests upon Robert's right to say things like that at Basingstoke.... But really, darling, we're very good friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he doesn't take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it was awfully good of him to insist on my staying here while my flat was being done up.

[_Seriously._] I bless him for that. If it hadn't been for the last week I should never have known you. You were just "Viola"--the girl I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; and now--oh, why won't you let me tell your father? I hate it like this.

VIOLA. Because I love you, d.i.c.k, and because I know father. He would, as they say in novels, show you the door. [_Smiling._] And I want you this side of the door for a little bit longer.

RICHARD [_firmly_]. I shall tell him before I go.

VIOLA [_pleadingly_]. But not till then; that gives us two more days.

You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him.