Various - Modern Prose And Poetry; For Secondary Schools

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MADAME. The supper, your Reverence.

[_The Bishop glances at the table_.]

BISHOP. It strikes me there is something missing from this
table.

[_Madame hesitates._]

MLLE. Madame, do you not understand?

[_Madame steps to a cupboard, gets the remaining silver plates, and
places them on the table._]

BISHOP (_gayly, turning to Jean_). To table then, my friend! To
table!

[_Jean remains for a moment, standing doggedly apart; then he steps over
to the chair awaiting him, jerks it back, and sinks into it, without
looking up._]

SCENE III

TIME: _Daybreak the next morning._

PLACE: _The Bishop's dining room._

* * * * *

[_The room is dark, except for a faint light that comes in through
window curtains._ JEAN VALJEAN _creeps in from the alcove. He
carries his knapsack and cudgel in one hand; in the other, his shoes. He
opens the window overlooking the garden; the room becomes lighter. Jean
steps to the mantel and lifts a silver candlestick._]

JEAN (_whispering_). Two hundred francs--double what I have
earned in nineteen years!

[_He puts it in his knapsack; takes up the other candlestick; shudders,
and sets it down again._]

No, no, he is good--he called me "sir"--

[_He stands still, staring before him, his hand still gripping the
candlestick. Suddenly he straightens up; speaks bitterly._]

Why not? 'Tis easy to give a bed and food! Why doesn't he keep men from
the galleys? Nineteen years for a loaf of bread!

[_Pauses a moment, then resolutely puts both candlesticks into his bag;
steps to the cupboard and takes out the silver plates and the ladle, and
slips them into the bag._]

All solid--I should gain at least one thousand francs. 'Tis due me--due
me for all these years!

[_Closes the bag. Pause._]

No, not the candles--I owe him that much--

[_He puts the candlesticks on mantel; takes up cudgel, knapsack, and
shoes; jumps out window and disappears. Pause._]

[_Enter_ MADAME. _She shivers; discovers the open window._]

MADAME. Why is that window open? I closed it last night myself.
Oh! Could it be possible?

[_Crosses and looks at open cupboard._]

It is gone!

[_Enter the_ BISHOP _from his room._]

BISHOP. Good morning, Madame!

MADAME. Your Reverence! The silver is gone! Where is that man?

BISHOP. In the alcove sleeping, I suppose.

[_Madame runs to curtains of alcove and looks in. Enter_
MADEMOISELLE. _Madame turns._]

He is gone!

MLLE. Gone?

MADAME. Aye, gone--gone! He has stolen our silver, the
beautiful plates and the ladle! I'll inform the police at once!

[_Starts off. The Bishop stops her._]

BISHOP. Wait!--Let me ask you this--was that silver ours?

MADAME. Why--why not?

BISHOP. Because it has always belonged to the poor. I have
withheld it wrongfully.

MLLE. Its loss makes no difference to Madame or me.

MADAME. Oh, no! But what is your Reverence to eat from now?

BISHOP. Are there no pewter plates?

MADAME. Pewter has an odor.

BISHOP. Iron ones, then.

MADAME. Iron has a taste.

BISHOP. Well, then, wooden plates.

[_A knock is heard at street door._]

Come in.

[_Enter an_ OFFICER _and two_ SOLDIERS, _dragging in_
JEAN VALJEAN.]

OFFICER. Your Reverence, we found your silver on this man.

BISHOP. Why not? I gave it to him. I am glad to see you again,
Jean. Why did you not take the candlesticks, too?

JEAN (_trembling_). Your Reverence--

BISHOP. I told you everything in this house was yours, my
brother.

OFFICER. Ah, then what he said was true. But, of course, we did
not believe him. We saw him creeping from your garden--

BISHOP. It is all right, I assure you. This man is a friend of
mine.

OFFICER. Then we can let him go?

BISHOP. Certainly.

[_Soldiers step back._]

JEAN (_trembling_). I am free?

OFFICER. Yes! You can go. Do you not understand?

[_Steps back._]

BISHOP (_to Jean_). My friend, before you go away--here are
your candlesticks (_going to the mantel and bringing the candlesticks_);
take them.

[_Jean takes the candlesticks, seeming not to know what he is doing._]

By the way, my friend, when you come again you need not come through the
garden. The front door is closed only with a latch, day or night. (_To
the Officer and Soldiers._) Gentlemen, you may withdraw.

[_Exit Officer and Soldiers._]

JEAN (_recoiling and holding out the candlesticks_).
No--no--I--I--

BISHOP. Say no more; I understand. You felt that they were all
owing to you from a world that had used you ill. Keep them, my friend,
keep them. I would I had more to give you. It is small recompense for
nineteen years.

[_Jean stands bewildered, looking down at the candlesticks in his
hands._]

They will add something to your hundred francs. But do not forget, never
forget, that you have promised to use the money in becoming an honest
man.

JEAN. I--promised--?

BISHOP (_not heeding_). Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer
belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you: I
withdraw it from thoughts of hatred and revenge--I give it to peace and
hope and God.

[_Jean stands as if stunned, staring at the Bishop, then turns and walks
unsteadily from the room._]

SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

Jean Valjean, as a young man, was sent to the galleys for stealing a
loaf of bread to feed his sister's hungry children. From time to time,
when he tried to escape, his sentence was increased, so that he spent
nineteen years as a convict. Scene I of Miss Stevenson's dramatization
shows Jean Valjean being turned away from the inn because he has been in
prison.

What does the stage setting tell of the Bishop and his sister? Notice,
as you read, why each of the items in the stage setting is mentioned.
Why is Madame made to leave the room--how does her absence help the
action of the play? What is the purpose of the conversation about the
weather? About the carriage hire? Why is the Bishop not more excited at
Madame's news? What is gained by the talk about the silver? Notice the
dramatic value of the Bishop's speech beginning "Stay!" Why does Jean
Valjean speak so roughly when he enters? Why does he not try to conceal
the fact that he is a convict? Why does not the Bishop reply directly to
Jean Valjean's question? What would be the action of Mademoiselle and
Madame while Jean is speaking? What is Madame's action as she goes out?
What is gained by the conversation between Jean and the Bishop? Why does
the Bishop not reproach Jean for saying he will have revenge? Why is the
silver mentioned so many times?

While you are reading the first part of Scene III, think how it should
be played. Note how much the stage directions add to the clearness of
the scene. How long should the pause be, before Madame enters? What is
gained by the calmness of the Bishop? How can he say that the silver was
not his? What does the Bishop mean when he says, "I gave it to him"?
What are Mademoiselle and Madame doing while the conversation with the
officers and Jean Valjean is going on? Is it a good plan to let them
drop so completely out of the conversation? Why does the Bishop say that
Jean has promised? Why does the scene close without Jean's replying to
the Bishop? How do you think the Bishop's kindness has affected Jean
Valjean's attitude toward life?

Note how the action and the conversation increase in intensity as the
play proceeds: Is this a good method? Notice the use of contrast in
speech and action. Note how the chief characters are emphasized. Can you
discover the quality called "restraint," in this fragment of a play? How
is it gained, and what is its value?

EXERCISES[8]

Select a short passage from some book that you like, and try to put it
into dramatic form, using this selection as a kind of model. Do not
attempt too much at once, but think out carefully the setting, the stage
directions, and the dialogue for a brief fragment of a play.

Make a series of dramatic scenes from the same book, so that a connected
story is worked out.

Read a part of some modern drama, such as _The Piper_, or _The Blue
Bird_, or one of Mr. Howells's little farces, and notice how it makes
use of setting and stage directions; how the conversation is broken up;
how the situation is brought out in the dialogue; how each person is
made to speak in his own character.

After you have done the reading suggested above, make another attempt at
dramatizing a scene from a book, and see what improvement you can make
upon the sort of thing you did at first.

It might be interesting for two or three persons to work on a bit of
dramatization together, and then give the fragment of a play in simple
fashion before the class. Or the whole class may work on the play, and
then select some of their number to perform it.

COLLATERAL READINGS

A Dramatic Reader: Book Five Augusta Stevenson
Plays for the Home " "
Jean Valjean (translated and abridged from
Victor Hugo's _Les Miserables_) S.E. Wiltse (Ed.)
The Little Men Play (adapted from Louisa
Alcott's _Little Men_) E.L. Gould
The Little Women Play " " "
The St. Nicholas Book of Plays Century Company
The Silver Thread and Other Folk Plays Constance Mackay
Patriotic Plays and Pageants " "
Fairy Tale Plays and How to Act Them Mrs. Hugh Bell
Festival Plays Marguerite Merington
Short Plays from Dickens H.B. Browne
The Piper Josephine Preston Peabody
The Blue Bird Maurice Maeterlinck
Riders to the Sea J.M. Synge
She Stoops to Conquer Oliver Goldsmith
The Rivals Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Prince Otto R.L. Stevenson
The Canterbury Pilgrims Percy Mackaye
The Elevator William Dean Howells
The Mouse Trap " " "
The Sleeping Car William Dean Howells
The Register " " "
The Story of Waterloo Henry Irving
The Children's Theatre A. Minnie Herts
The Art of Play-writing Alfred Hennequin

A COMBAT ON THE SANDS

MARY JOHNSTON

(From _To Have and to Hold_, Chapters XXI and XXII)

A few minutes later saw me almost upon the party gathered about the
grave. The grave had received that which it was to hold until the crack
of doom, and was now being rapidly filled with sand. The crew of
deep-dyed villains worked or stood or sat in silence, but all looked at
the grave, and saw me not. As the last handful of sand made it level
with the beach, I walked into their midst, and found myself face to face
with the three candidates for the now vacant captaincy.

"Give you good-day, gentlemen," I cried. "Is it your captain that you
bury or one of your crew, or is it only pezos and pieces of eight?

"The sun shining on so much bare steel hurts my eyes," I said. "Put up,
gentlemen, put up! Cannot one rover attend the funeral of another
without all this crowding and display of cutlery? If you will take the
trouble to look around you, you will see that I have brought to the
obsequies only myself."

One by one cutlass and sword were lowered, and those who had drawn them,
falling somewhat back, spat and swore and laughed. The man in black and
silver only smiled gently and sadly. "Did you drop from the blue?" he
asked. "Or did you come up from the sea?"

"I came out of it," I said. "My ship went down in the storm yesterday.
Your little cockboat yonder was more fortunate." I waved my hand toward
that ship of three hundred tons, then twirled my mustaches and stood at
gaze.

"Was your ship so large, then?" demanded Paradise, while a murmur of
admiration, larded with oaths, ran around the circle.

"She was a very great galleon," I replied, with a sigh for the good ship
that was gone.

A moment's silence, during which they all looked at me. "A galleon,"
then said Paradise softly.

"They that sailed her yesterday are to-day at the bottom of the sea," I
continued. "Alackaday! so are one hundred thousand pezos of gold, three
thousand bars of silver, ten frails of pearls, jewels uncounted, cloth
of gold and cloth of silver. She was a very rich prize."

The circle sucked in their breath. "All at the bottom of the sea?"
queried Red Gil, with gloating eyes fixed upon the smiling water. "Not
one pezo left, not one little, little pearl?"

I shook my head and heaved a prodigious sigh. "The treasure is gone," I
said, "and the men with whom I took it are gone. I am a captain with
neither ship nor crew. I take you, my friends, for a ship and crew
without a captain. The inference is obvious."

The ring gaped with wonder, then strange oaths arose. Red Gil broke into
a bellow of angry laughter, while the Spaniard glared like a catamount
about to spring. "So you would be our captain?" said Paradise, picking
up another shell, and poising it upon a hand as fine and small as a
woman's.

"Faith, you might go farther and fare worse," I answered, and began to
hum a tune. When I had finished it, "I am Kirby," I said, and waited to
see if that shot should go wide or through the hull.

For two minutes the dash of the surf and the cries of the wheeling sea
fowl made the only sound in that part of the world; then from those
half-clad rapscallions arose a shout of "Kirby!"--a shout in which the
three leaders did not join. That one who looked a gentleman rose from
the sand and made me a low bow. "Well met, noble captain," he cried in
those his honey tones. "You will doubtless remember me who was with you
that time at Maracaibo when you sunk the galleasses. Five years have
passed since then, and yet I see you ten years younger and three inches
taller."

"I touched once at the Lucayas, and found the spring de Leon sought," I
said. "Sure the waters have a marvelous effect, and if they give not
eternal youth at least renew that which we have lost."

"Truly a potent aqua vitae," he remarked, still with thoughtful
melancholy. "I see that it hath changed your eyes from black to gray."

"It hath that peculiar virtue," I said, "that it can make black seem
white."

The man with the woman's mantle drawn about him now thrust himself from
the rear to the front rank. "That's not Kirby!" he bawled. "He's no more
Kirby than I am Kirby! Didn't I sail with Kirby from the Summer Isles to
Cartagena and back again? He's a cheat, and I am a-going to cut his
heart out!" He was making at me with a long knife, when I whipped out my
rapier.

"Am I not Kirby, you dog?" I cried, and ran him through the shoulder.

He dropped, and his fellows surged forward with a yell. "Yet a little
patience, my masters!" said Paradise in a raised voice and with genuine
amusement in his eyes. "It is true that that Kirby with whom I and our
friend there on the ground sailed was somewhat short and as swart as a
raven, besides having a cut across his face that had taken away part of
his lip and the top of his ear, and that this gentleman who announces
himself as Kirby hath none of Kirby's marks. But we are fair and
generous and open to conviction"--

"He'll have to convince my cutlass!" roared Red Gil.

I turned upon him. "If I do convince it, what then?" I demanded. "If I
convince your sword, you of Spain, and yours, Sir Black and Silver?"

The Spaniard stared. "I was the best sword in Lima," he said stiffly. "I
and my Toledo will not change our minds."

"Let him try to convince Paradise; he's got no reputation as a
swordsman!" cried out the grave-digger with the broken head.

A roar of laughter followed this suggestion, and I gathered from it and
from the oaths and allusions to this or that time and place that
Paradise was not without reputation.

I turned to him. "If I fight you three, one by one, and win, am I
Kirby?"

He regarded the shell with which he was toying with a thoughtful smile,
held it up that the light might strike through its rose and pearl, then
crushed it to dust between his fingers.

"Ay," he said with an oath. "If you win against the cutlass of Red Gil,
the best blade of Lima, and the sword of Paradise, you may call yourself
the devil an you please, and we will all subscribe to it."

I lifted my hand. "I am to have fair play?"

As one man that crew of desperate villains swore that the odds should be
only three to one. By this the whole matter had presented itself to them
as an entertainment more diverting than bullfight or bear-baiting. They
that follow the sea, whether honest men or black-hearted knaves, have in
their composition a certain childlikeness that makes them easily turned,
easily led, and easily pleased. The wind of their passion shifts quickly
from point to point, one moment blowing a hurricane, the next sinking to
a happy-go-lucky summer breeze. I have seen a little thing convert a
crew on the point of mutiny into a set of rollicking, good-natured souls
who--until the wind veered again--would not hurt a fly. So with these.
They spread themselves into a circle, squatting or kneeling or standing
upon the white sand in the bright sunshine, their sinewy hands that
should have been ingrained red clasped over their knees, or, arms
akimbo, resting upon their hips, on their scoundrel faces a broad smile,
and in their eyes that had looked on nameless horrors a pleasurable
expectation as of spectators in a playhouse awaiting the entrance of the
players.

"There is really no good reason why we should gratify your whim," said
Paradise, still amused. "But it will serve to pass the time. We will
fight you, one by one."

"And if I win?"

He laughed. "Then, on the honor of a gentleman, you are Kirby and our
captain. If you lose, we will leave you where you stand for the gulls to
bury."

"A bargain," I said, and drew my sword.

"I first!" roared Red Gil. "God's wounds! there will need no second!"

As he spoke he swung his cutlass and made an arc of blue flame. The
weapon became in his hands a flail, terrible to look upon, making
lightnings and whistling in the air, but in reality not so deadly as it
seemed. The fury of his onslaught would have beaten down the guard of
any mere swordsman, but that I was not. A man, knowing his weakness and
insufficiency in many and many a thing, may yet know his strength in one
or two and his modesty take no hurt. I was ever master of my sword, and
it did the thing I would have it do. Moreover, as I fought I saw her as
I had last seen her, standing against the bank of sand, her dark hair,
half braided, drawn over her bosom and hanging to her knees. Her eyes
haunted me, and my lips yet felt the touch of her hand. I fought
well,--how well the lapsing of oaths and laughter into breathless
silence bore witness.

The ruffian against whom I was pitted began to draw his breath in gasps.
He was a scoundrel not fit to die, less fit to live, unworthy of a
gentleman's steel. I presently ran him through with as little
compunction and as great a desire to be quit of a dirty job as if he had
been a mad dog. He fell, and a little later, while I was engaged with
the Spaniard, his soul went to that hell which had long gaped for it. To
those his companions his death was as slight a thing as would theirs
have been to him. In the eyes of the two remaining would-be leaders he
was a stumbling-block removed, and to the squatting, open-mouthed
commonalty his taking off weighed not a feather against the solid
entertainment I was affording them. I was now a better man than Red
Gil,--that was all.

The Spaniard was a more formidable antagonist. The best blade of Lima
was by no means to be despised: but Lima is a small place, and its
blades can be numbered. The sword that for three years had been counted
the best in all the Low Countries was its better. But I fought fasting
and for the second time that morning, so maybe the odds were not so
great. I wounded him slightly, and presently succeeded in disarming him.
"Am I Kirby?" I demanded, with my point at his breast.

"Kirby, of course, senor," he answered with a sour smile, his eyes upon
the gleaming blade.

I lowered my point and we bowed to each other, after which he sat down
upon the sand and applied himself to stanching the bleeding from his
wound. The pirate ring gave him no attention, but stared at me instead.
I was now a better man than the Spaniard.

The man in black and silver rose and removed his doublet, folding it
very carefully, inside out, that the sand might not injure the velvet,
then drew his rapier, looked at it lovingly, made it bend until point
and hilt well-nigh met, and faced me with a bow.

"You have fought twice, and must be weary," he said. "Will you not take
breath before we engage, or will your long rest afterward suffice you?"

"I will rest aboard my ship," I made reply. "And as I am in a hurry to
be gone we won't delay."

Our blades had no sooner crossed than I knew that in this last encounter
I should need every whit of my skill, all my wit, audacity, and
strength. I had met my equal, and he came to it fresh and I jaded. I
clenched my teeth and prayed with all my heart; I set her face before
me, and thought if I should fail her to what ghastly fate she might
come, and I fought as I had never fought before. The sound of the surf
became a roar in my ears, the sunshine an intolerable blaze of light;
the blue above and around seemed suddenly beneath my feet as well. We
were fighting high in the air, and had fought thus for ages. I knew that
he made no thrust I did not parry, no feint I could not interpret. I
knew that my eye was more quick to see, my brain to conceive, and my
hand to execute than ever before; but it was as though I held that
knowledge of some other, and I myself was far away, at Weyanoke, in the
minister's garden, in the haunted wood, anywhere save on that barren
islet. I heard him swear under his breath, and in the face I had set
before me the eyes brightened. As if she had loved me I fought for her
with all my powers of body and mind. He swore again, and my heart
laughed within me. The sea now roared less loudly, and I felt the good
earth beneath my feet. Slowly but surely I wore him out. His breath came
short, the sweat stood upon his forehead, and still I deferred my
attack. He made the thrust of a boy of fifteen, and I smiled as I put it
by.

"Why don't you end it?" he breathed. "Finish and be hanged to you!"

For answer I sent his sword flying over the nearest hillock of sand. "Am
I Kirby?" I said. He fell back against the heaped-up sand and leaned
there, panting, with his hand to his side. "Kirby or devil," he replied.
"Have it your own way."

I turned to the now highly excited rabble. "Shove the boats off, half a
dozen of you!" I ordered. "Some of you others take up that carrion there
and throw it into the sea. The gold upon it is for your pains. You there
with the wounded shoulder you have no great hurt. I'll salve it with ten
pieces of eight from the captain's own share, the next prize we take."

A shout of acclamation arose that scared the sea fowl. They who so short
a time before had been ready to tear me limb from limb now with the
greatest apparent delight hailed me as captain. How soon they might
revert to their former mood was a question that I found not worth while
to propound to myself.

By this the man in black and silver had recovered his breath and his
equanimity. "Have you no commission with which to honor me, noble
captain?" he asked in gently reproachful tones. "Have you forgot how
often you were wont to employ me in those sweet days when your eyes were
black?"

"By no means, Master Paradise," I said courteously. "I desire your
company and that of the gentleman from Lima. You will go with me to
bring up the rest of my party. The three gentlemen of the broken head,
the bushy ruff, which I protest is vastly becoming, and the wounded
shoulder will escort us."

"The rest of your party?" said Paradise softly.

"Ay," I answered nonchalantly. "They are down the beach and around the
point warming themselves by a fire which this piled-up sand hides from
you. Despite the sunshine it is a biting air. Let us be going! This
island wearies me, and I am anxious to be on board ship and away."

"So small an escort scarce befits so great a captain," he said. "We will
all attend you." One and all started forward.

I called to mind and gave utterance to all the oaths I had heard in the
wars. "I entertain you for my subordinate whom I command, and not who
commands me!" I cried, when my memory failed me. "As for you, you dogs,
who would question your captain and his doings, stay where you are, if
you would not be lessoned in earnest!"

Sheer audacity is at times the surest steed a man can bestride. Now at
least it did me good service. With oaths and grunts of admiration the
pirates stayed where they were, and went about their business of
launching the boats and stripping the body of Red Gil, while the man in
black and silver, the Spaniard, the two gravediggers, the knave with the
wounded shoulder, and myself walked briskly up the beach.

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