If, by Lord Dunsany

Wot's the worry? They don't give you better wages nor a dog, and then they thinks they can talk at yer and talk at yer, and say wot they likes, like.

Wot about? I'll tell yer. Just coz I let a lidy get into a train. That's wot about. Said I ought to 'av stopped 'er. Thought the train was moving. Thought it was dangerous. Thought I tried to murder 'er, I suppose.

Yes. Drops 'er bag. Writes to the company. They writes back she shouldn't 'av got in. She writes back she should. Then they gets on to me. Any more of it and I'll...

Well, anyway, I won't let any more of them passengers go jumping into trains any more, not when they're moving, I won't. When the train gets in, doors shut. That's the rule. And they'll 'ave to abide by it.

I don't care. They ain't going to 'ave me on the mat again and talk all that stuff to me. No, if someone 'as to suffer... 'Ere she is.

[JOHN is stopped by BILL and pushed back by the face. JOHN advances towards BILL looking like fighting. The train has gone.]

[JOHN stops and reflects at this, deciding it isn't good enough. He shrugs his shoulders, turns round and goes away.]

I shouldn't be surprised if I didn't get even with you one of these days, you..... and some way you won't expect.

Well, you see the house is called The Acacias, and it seems rather silly not to have at least one.

O, I don't think that matters. Lots of places are called lots of things. Everyone does.

O, no, it wouldn't, dear. He wouldn't know an acacia if he saw it any more than I should.

Have I, John? We'll plant an acacia if you like. I'll ask about it at the grocer's.

Somehow I wish sometimes, I almost wish I could have gone abroad for a week or so to places like where acacias grow naturally.

O, I don't know. The East or some such place. I've often heard people speak of it, and somehow it seemed so...

The East, John? Not the East. I don't think the East somehow is quite respectable.

O well, it's all right, I never went, and never shall go now. It doesn't matter.

Well, Liza was dusting the photographs, and when she came to Jane's she says she hadn't really begun to dust it, only looked at it, and it fell down, and that bit of glass is broken right out of it.

Well, that's how she broke it; she said so, and as I know you believe in Liza...

We'll get it mended, and if Jane is unhappy about it she can have Alice's frame. Alice is too young to notice it.

Not to-day, John. Not on a Sunday. She shall do it to-morrow by the time you get back from the office.

If it had been Aunt Martha's photograph she'd have walked in next day and seen it for certain; I know Aunt Martha. Then there'd have been trouble.

There's a gentleman to see you, sir, which isn't, properly speaking, a gentleman at all. Not what I should call one, that is, like.

O... yes, that would be Ali. A queer old customer, Mary; perfectly harmless. Our firm gets hundreds of carpets through him; and then one day...

Well, one day he turned up in London; broke, he said; and wanted the firm to give him a little cash. Well, old Briggs was for giving him ten shillings. But I said "here's a man that's helped us in making thousands of pounds. Let's give him fifty."

Yes, it seems a lot; but it seemed only fair. Ten shillings would have been an insult to the old fellow, and he'd have taken it as such. You don't know what he'd have done.

No, I expect he's come to thank me. He seemed pretty keen on getting some cash. Badly broke, you see. Don't know what he was doing in London. Never can tell with these fellows. East is East, and there's an end of it.

O, got the address at the office. Briggs and Cater won't let theirs be known. Not got such a smart little house, I expect.

Yes, I—I know. But the East doesn't seem quite to count, somehow, as the proper sort of place to come from, does it, dear?

Well, just for once. But we can't make a practice of it. And you don't want to be thinking of business on a Sunday, your only day off.

I hope he won't say it in some queer Eastern way. You don't know what these people....

It seems a lot of money. But I think, as the man is actually coming up the stairs, I'm glad he's got something to be grateful for.

Wherefore the name Briggs, Cater, and Beal shall be magnified and called blessed.

Hush. It is beyond price. I am not bidden to sell it. I was in my extremity, but I was not bidden to sell it. It is a token of gratitude, a gift, as it came to me.

I wouldn't take his only crystal, dear. It's a nice little thing, but [to ALI], but you think a lot of it, don't you?

He that taketh this crystal, so, in his hand, at night, and wishes, saying "At a certain hour let it be"; the hour comes and he will go back eight, ten, even twelve years if he will, into the past, and do a thing again, or act otherwise than he did. The day passes; the ten years are accomplished once again; he is here once more; but he is what he might have become had he done that one thing otherwise.

To-night you wish. All to-morrow you live the last ten years; a new way, master, a new way, how you please. To-morrow night you are here, what those years have made you.

All right, Mary, I'm not going to. But, do you mean one could go back ten years?

Well, it seems odd, but I'll take your word for it. But look here, you can't live ten years in a day, you know.

He is carved of one piece of jade, a god in the greenest mountains. The years are his dreams. This crystal is his treasure. Guard it safely, for his power is in this more than in all the peaks of his native hills. See what I give you, master.

Good night, Mr. Ali. We are very much obliged for your kind offer, which we are so sorry we can't avail ourselves of.

One moment, Mary. Do you mean that I can go back ten years, and live till—till now again, and only be away a day?

Is there no step that you would wish untrodden, nor stride that you would make where once you faltered?

I? I am afraid of the past. But you Engleesh, and the great firm of Briggs, Cater, and Beal; you are afraid of nothing.

Ha, ha. Well—I wouldn't go quite as far as that, but—well, give me the crystal.

All right, Mary. I needn't use it. But I want to hear about it, it's so odd, it's so what-you-might-call queer; I don't think I ever——- [To ALI.] You mean if I work hard for ten years, which will only be all to-morrow, I may be Governor of the Bank of England to-morrow night.

But the Governor of the Bank of England would live in the City, and he'd have a much bigger house anyway. He wouldn't live in Lewisham.

The crystal will bring you to this house when the hour is accomplished, even tomorrow night. If you be the great banker you will perhaps come to chastise one of your slaves who will dwell in this house. If you be head of Briggs and Cater you will come to give an edict to one of your firm. Perchance this street will be yours and you will come to show your power unto it. But you will come.

If I want to do anything different to what I did, how shall I remember when I get back there?

Choose just before the hour of the step you desire to change. Memory lingers a little at first, and fades away slowly.

Sell it not. Give it, as I gave it, if the heart impels. So shall it come back one day to the hills that are brighter than grass, made richer by the gratitude of many men. And my master shall smile thereat and the vale shall be glad.

And besides, I don't want things different. I've got fond of this little house. And Briggs is a good old sort, you know. Cater's a bit of an ass, but there's no harm in him. In fact, I'm contented, Mary. I wouldn't even change Aunt Martha now.

You remember when she first came and you said "Where shall we hang her?" I said the cellar. You said we couldn't. So she had to go there. But I wouldn't change her now. I suppose there are old watch-dogs like her in every family. I wouldn't change anything.

I'm glad of that, John. I was frightened. I couldn't bear to tamper with the past. You don't know what it is, it's what's gone. But if it really isn't gone at all, if it can be dug up like that, why you don't know what mightn't happen! I don't mind the future, but if the past can come back like that.... O, don't, don't, John. Don't think of it. It isn't canny. There's the children, John.

Yes, yes, that's all right. It's only a little ornament. I won't use it. And I tell you I'm content. [Happily] It's no use to me.

I'm so glad you're content, John. Are you really? Is there nothing that you'd have had different? I sometimes thought you'd rather that Jane had been a boy.

Me? Oh, no. I still think that sofa would have been better green, but you would have it red.

No, I don't suppose they can. They're not all married to you. I don't suppose many of them can.

I should think that very few could say that they regretted nothing... very few in the whole world.

O, well, if you want to know, it was once when I missed a train. I don't mind missing a train, but it was the way the porter pushed me out of the way. He pushed me by the face. I couldn't hit back, because, well, you know what lawyers make of it; I might have been ruined. So it just rankled. It was years ago before we married.

Yes, I'd like to have caught that train in spite of him. I sometimes think of it still. Silly of me, isn't it?

O, well, it can't be helped now; but I'd like to have caught it in sp... [An idea seizes him.]

I mean he'd no right to stop me catching that train. I've got the crystal, and I'll catch it yet!

No. I said I'd do nothing to alter the past. And I won't. I'm too content, Mary. But this can't alter it. This is nothing.

For London. I wasn't at the office then. It was a business appointment. There was a man who had promised to get me a job, and I was going up to...

Now do listen, Mary, do listen. He never turned up. I got a letter from him apologising to me before I posted mine to him. It turned out he never meant to help me, mere meaningless affabilities. He never came to London that day at all. I should have taken the next train back. That can't affect the future.

Think how we met. We met at ARCHIE's wedding. I take it one has to go to one's brother's wedding. It would take a pretty big change to alter that. And. you were her bridesmaid. We were bound to meet. And having once met, well, there you are. If we'd met by chance, in a train, or anything like that, well, then I admit some little change might alter it. But when we met at ARCHIE's wedding and you were her bridesmaid, why, Mary, it's a cert. Besides, I believe in predestination. It was our fate; we couldn't have missed it.

O, Mary, I have so longed to catch that infernal train. Just think of it, annoyed on and off for ten years by the eight-fifteen.

O, John, suppose there's a railway accident? You might be killed, and we should never meet.

There wasn't an accident to the eight-fifteen. It got safely to London just ten years ago.

You see how groundless your fears are. I shall catch that train, and all the rest will happen the same as before. Just think Mary, all those old days again. I wish I could take you with me. But you soon will be. But just think of the old days coming back again. Hampton Court again and Kew, and Richmond Park again with all the May. And that bun you bought, and the corked ginger-beer, and those birds singing and the 'bus past Isleworth. O, Mary, you wouldn't grudge me that?

No, Mary. I only want to catch that train. I'm content with the rest. The same things must happen, and they must lead me the same way, to you, Mary. Good night, now, dear.

I shall stay here on the sofa holding the crystal and thinking. Then I'll have a biscuit and start at seven.

Getting it clear in my mind what I want to do. That one thing and the rest the same. There must be no mistakes.

I wish to go back ten years, two weeks and a day, at, at—8.10 a.m. to-morrow; 8.10 a.m. to-morrow, 8.10.

Wot's the worry? They don't give you better wages nor a dog, and then they thinks they can talk at yer and talk at yer, and say wot they likes, like.

Yes. Drops 'er bag. Writes to the company. They writes back she shouldn't 'av got in. She writes back she should. Then they gets on to me. Any more of it and I'll...

Well, anyway, I won't let any more of them passengers go jumping into trains any more, not when they're moving, I won't. When the train gets in, doors shut. That's the rule, and they'll have to abide by it.

Noise, and a scene drawn past the windows. The scene, showing a momentary glimpse of fair English hills, is almost entirely placards, "GIVE HER BOVRIL," "GIVE HER OXO," alternately, for ever.

All sit in stoical silence like the two images near Luxor. The man has the window seat, and therefore the right of control over the window.

I think I'd like the window open again now for a bit. It is rather stuffy, isn't it?

[She sighs, moves her hands slightly, and her pretty face expresses the resignation of the Christian martyr in the presence of lions. This for the benefit of John.]

[He leans across the window's rightful owner, a bigger man than he, and opens his window.

MAN IN THE CORNER shrugs his shoulders and, quite sensibly, turns to his paper.]

Thank you so much. It was kind of you to protect me from that horrid man. He wanted to suffocate me.

I should have been afraid to have done it in spite of him. It was splendid of you.

Yes. He didn't like me. I think he did it out of contrariness as much as anything. He was always like that to me.

Yes. It was invested at twenty-five per cent. He never liked me. Thought I was too—I don't know what.

I don't quite know. I never was good at geography. I never quite knew where Persia ends.

There's a pass in some mountains that they can get camels over, and a huge toll is levied on everything that goes by; that is the custom of the tribe that lives there, and I believe the toll is regularly collected.

The chief of the tribe. He is called Ben Hussein. But my uncle lent him all this money, and the toll on the camels was what they call the security. They always carry gold and turquoise, you know.

A shame? I should think it is. An awful shame. Why, it's a crying shame. He ought to go to prison.

Yes, he ought. But you see it's so hard to find him. It isn't as if it was this side of Persia. It's being on the other side that is such a pity. If only it was in a country like, like...

Do? Well, now, you know in business there's nothing like being on the spot. When you're on the spot you can—but then, of course, it's so far.

Still, I think you should go if you could. If only I could offer to help you in any way, I would gladly, but of course...

Why, I'd tell him a bit about the law, and make him see that you didn't keep all that money that belonged to someone else.

It's just the sort of thing that I should like, apart from the crying shame. The man ought to be...

We're getting into Holborn. Would you come and lunch somewhere with me and talk it over?

Gladly. I'd be glad to help. I've got to see a man on business first. I've come up to see him. And then after that, after that there was something I wanted to do after that. I can't think what it was. But something I wanted to do after that. O, heavens, what was it?

No. O, well, it can't have been so very important. And yet... Well, where shall we lunch?

Perfectly. I'd like to get a man like Hussein in prison. I'd like... O, I beg your pardon.

ACT II

SCENE

JOHN's tent in Al Shaldomir. There are two heaps of idols, left and right, lying upon the ground inside the tent. DAOUD carries another idol in his arms. JOHN looks at its face.

You are in no wise to call me great master. Have not I said so? I am not your master. I am helping you people. I know better than you what you ought to do, because I am English. But that's all. I'm not your master, See?

JOHN BEAL [looking at their faces, pointing to the two smaller idols first] These two are holy. This one is unholy.

Why, ARCHIE, this is splendid of you! You've come! Why, that's splendid! All that way!

ARCHIE, it's grand of you to come! I never ought to have asked it of you, only...

O, this. Well, well they're the very oddest people here. It's a long story. But I wanted to tell you first how enormously grateful I am to you for coming.

O, that's all right. But I want to know what you're doing with all these genuine antiques.

Well, ARCHIE, the fact of it is they're a real odd lot of people here. I've learnt their language, more or less, but I don't think I quite understand them yet. A lot of them are Mahommedans; they worship Mahommed, you know. He's dead. But a lot of them worship these things, and...

Yes, that's just it. I hate interfering with them, but, well, I simply had to. You see there's two sorts of idols here; they offer fruit and rats to some of them; they lay them on their hands or their laps.

O, I don't know. They don't know either. It's the right thing to do out here, it's been the right thing for hundreds of years; nobody exactly knows why. It's like the bows we have on evening shoes, or anything else. But it's all right.

They offer blood to them, ARCHIE. They pour it down their throats. Sometimes they kill people, sometimes they only bleed them. It depends how much blood the idol wants.

The priests tell them. Sometimes they fill them up to their necks—they're all hollow, you know. In spring it's awful.

I don't know. The priests ask for more blood then. Much more. They say it always was so.

Yes, I'm stopping these. One must. I'm letting them worship those. Of course, it's idolatry and all that kind of thing, but I don't like interfering short of actual murder.

It affects everything here. If that pass were closed no living man would ever enter or leave, or even hear of, this country. It's absolutely cut off except for that one pass. Why, ARCHIE, it isn't even on the map.

Well, it's actually owned by a fellow called Hussein, but Miss Clement's uncle, a man called Hinnard, a kind of lonely explorer, seems to have come this way; and I think he understood what this pass is worth. Anyhow, he lent Hussein a big sum of money and got an acknowledgment from Hussein. Old Hinnard must have been a wonderfully shrewd man. For that acknowledgment is no more legal than an I.O.U., and Hussein is simply a brigand.

Well, you're wrong there. Hussein himself respects that piece of parchment he signed. There's the name of some god or other written on it Hussein is frightened of. Now you see how things are. That pass is as holy as all the gods that there are in Al Shaldomir. Hussein possesses it. But he owes an enormous sum to Miss Miralda Clement, and I am here as her agent; and you've come to help me like a great sportsman.

Yes. And meanwhile I feel sort of responsible for all these silly people. Somebody's got to look after them. Daoud!

I can't get them to stop calling me absurd titles. They're so infernally Oriental.

Listen. At night you shall come and take these gods away. These shall be worshipped again in their own place, these you shall cast into the great river and tell no man where you cast them.

I am sorry to make you do it. You are sad that you have to do it. Yet it must be done.

Great master, in times you do not know these gods were holy. In times you have not guessed. In old centuries, master, perhaps before the pass. Men have prayed to them, sorrowed before them, given offerings to them. The light of old hearths has shone on them, flames from old battles. The shadow of the mountains has fallen on them, so many times, master, so many times. Dawn and sunset have shone on them, master, like firelight flickering; dawn and sunset, dawn and sunset, flicker, flicker, flicker for century after century. They have sat there watching the dawns like old men by the fire. They are so old, master, so old. And some day dawn and sunset will die away and shine on the world no more, and they would have still sat on in the cold. And now they go... They are our history, master, they are our old times. Though they be bad times they are our times, master; and now they go. I am sad, master, when the old gods go.

Well, do you know, I'm going to chuck this hat there. It doesn't seem to me somehow to be any more right here than those idols would be at home. Odd isn't it? Here goes.

I don't like to see a decent Christian hat among these filthy idols. They've all got rust on their mouths. I don't like to see it, Archie; it's sort of like what they call an omen. I don't like it.

You don't know these people, and I've brought you out here. I feel kind of responsible. If Hussein's lot turn nasty you don't know what he'd do, with all those idols and all.

Well, they can have my hat. It looks silly, somehow. I don't know why. What are we going to do?

We've got to see Hussein's accounts, and get everything clear in black and white, and see just what he owes to Miss Miralda Clement.

Go to the palace of the Lord of the pass and beat on the outer door. Say that I desire to see him. Pray him to come to my tent.

Yes, it's a palace, it's a wonderful place. It's bigger than the Mansion House, much.

Well, I must. I hate doing it. It seems almost like being rude to the Lord Mayor. But there's two things I can't stand—cheating in business is one and murder's another. I've got to interfere. You see, if one happens to know the right from wrong as we do, we've simply got to tell people who don't. But it isn't pleasant. I almost wish I'd never come.

I don't see it that way. To me those idols are just horrid murder. And this man owes money to this girl with no one to look after her, and he's got to pay. But I hate being rude to a man in a place like the Mansion House, even if he is black. Why, good Lord, who am I? It seems such cheek.

Oh, I don't know. It's very hard to say. She's, she's tall and she's fair and she's got blue eyes.

Well, she's pretty hard up until she gets this money, and she hasn't got any job that's any good, and no real prospects bar this, and nobody particular by birth, and doesn't know anybody who is, and lives in the least fashionable suburb and can only just afford a second-class fare and...

O, I don't know. Well, look here, ARCHIE, it's only my impression. I don't know her well yet. It's only my impression. I only tell you in absolute confidence. You won't pass it on to anybody, of course.

Well, I don't know, only she seemed more like well, a kind of autocrat, you know, who'd stop at nothing. Well, no, I don't mean that, only...

Marry her! Good Lord, no. Why, you'd never dare ask her. She's not that sort. I tell you she's a sort of queen. And (Good Lord!) she'd be a queen if it wasn't for Hussein, or something very like one. We can't go marrying queens. Anyhow, not one like her.

I tell you—she's a—well, a kind of goddess. You couldn't ask her if she loved you. It would be such, such...

I see. Well, I see you aren't in love with her. But it seems to me you'll be seeing a good deal of her some day if we pull this off. And then, my boy-o, you'll be going and getting in love with her.

Why, because there's lots of other girls and it seems to me you might be happier with some of them.

Nor I have. Still, if I'm here to protect you I somehow think I will. And if I'm not ...

[ARCHIE shakes hands with HUSSEIN. HUSSEIN looks at his hand when it is over in a puzzled way. JOHN BEAL and Hussein then bow to each other.]

The white traveller, whom we call Hinnard, lent you one thousand greater gold pieces, which in our money is one hundred thousand pounds, as you acknowledge. [Hussein nods his head.] And every year you were to pay him for this two hundred and fifty of your greater gold pieces—as you acknowledge also.

His heiress is Miss Miralda Clement, who instructs me to be her agent. What have you to say?

Therefore I will go to a bronze god of earth, very holy, having the soil in his care and the things of earth. I will take unto him the greater pieces of gold due up to the year when the white traveller died, and will melt them in fire at his feet by night on the mountains, saying, "O, Lruru-onn (this is his name) take this by the way of earth to the grave of Hinnard." And so I shall be free of my debt before all gods.

He won't pay, but I told him we're English and that they're greater than all his bronze gods.

[HUSSEIN looks fiercely at ARCHIE. He sees ARCHIE's hat lying before a big idol. He points at the hat and looks in the face of the idol.]

I know; if we were in England you could call a policeman. I tell you what it is, Johnny.

Why, because at the present moment our friend Hussein is a craftier fellow than you, and looks like getting the best of it.

Why, because you want to be a bit craftier than Hussein, and I fancy she might make you.

We're mostly made what we are by some woman or other. We think it's our own cleverness, but we're wrong. As things are you're no match for Hussein, but if you altered...

It's funny your mentioning Miss Miralda. I got a letter from her the same day I got yours.

She said she was going into it closer. She underlined closer. What could she mean by that? How could she get closer?

Because it's impossible. Absolutely impossible. Why—good Lord—she couldn't come here. Why, she'd want a chaperon and a house and—and—everything. Good Lord, she couldn't come here. It would be—well it would be impossible—it couldn't be done.

ARCHIE! You don't really think she'd come here? You don't really think it, do you?

Well, it's the sort of thing that that sort of girl might do, but of course I can't say...

Why? But what would I do? Where would she go? Where would her chaperon go? The chaperon would be some elderly lady. Why, it would kill her.

Well, if it did you've never met her, so you needn't go into mourning for an elderly lady that you don't know; not yet, anyway.

No, of course not. You're laughing at me, ARCHIE. But for the moment I took you seriously. Of course, she won't come. One can go into a thing closely without doing it absolutely literally. But, good Lord, wouldn't it be an awful situation if she did.

We're tame, they're wild. We like all the dull things and the quiet things, they like all the romantic things and the dangerous things.

Of course you do. We all do. It's the women that put us up to it. She's putting you up to this. And the more she puts you up to the more likely is Hussein to get it in his fat neck.

But, but you don't understand. She's just a young girl, A girl like Miss Miralda couldn't come out here over the pass and down these mountains, she'd never stand it, and as for the chaperon... You've never met Miss Miralda.

No, Johnny. But the girl that was able to get you to go from Bromley to this place can look after herself.

I don't see what that's got to do with it. She was in trouble and I had to help her.

Yes, and she'll be in trouble all the way here from Blackheath, and everyone will have to help her.

What beats me is how you can have the very faintest inkling of what she's like without ever having seen her and without my having spoken of her to you for more than a minute.

Well, Johnny, you're not a romantic bird, you're not a traveller by nature, barring your one trip to Eastbourne, and it was I that took you there. And contrariwise, as they say in a book you've never read, you're a levelheaded business man and a hardworking respectable stay-at-home. You meet a girl in a train, and the next time I see you you're in a place that isn't marked on the map and telling it what gods it ought to worship and what gods it ought to have agnosticism about. Well, I say some girl.

Well, I must say you make the most extraordinary deductions, but it was awfully good of you to come, and I ought to be grateful; and I am, too, I'm awfully grateful; and I ought to let you talk all the rot you like. Go ahead. You shall say what you like and do what you like. It isn't many brothers that would do what you've done.

O, that's nothing. I like this country. I'm glad I came. And if I can help you with Hussein, why all the better.

O, go away, go away. [To ARCHIE.] I said it was an awful country. They sit down outside one's tent and do that kind of thing for no earthly reason.

Coming? Good Lord, no, Archie. He said a lady; there'd be the chaperon too. There'd be two of them if it was Miss Miralda. But he said a lady. One lady. It can't be her. A girl like that alone in Al Shaldomir. Clean off the map. Oh, no, it isn't possible.

Wouldn't worry? But, good Lord, the situation's impossible. People would talk. Don't you see what people would say? And where could they go? Who would look after them? Do try and understand how awful it is. But it isn't. It's impossible. It can't be them. For heaven's sake run out and see if it is; and (good Lord!) I haven't brushed my hair all day, and, and—oh, look at me.

But it can't be. She doesn't ride. She can never have been able to afford a horse.

She's on a camel. She'll be here in a moment. [He goes to door.] Hurry up with that hair; she's dismounted.

O, there were some Arabs coming this way in a caravan. They were really very good to me too.

O, there were some people the other side of the mountains. Everybody has been very kind about it. And then there was the man who showed me here. He's called Hafiz el Alcolahn. It's a nice name, don't you think?

But, you know, this country, Miss Clement, I'm half afraid it's hardly—isn't it, Archie? Er—how long did you think of staying?

Oh, I like it. Just that hollow in the mountains, and the one pass, and no record of it anywhere. I like that. I think it's lovely.

You see, I'm afraid—what I mean is I'm afraid the place isn't even on the map!

You mean if a place is on the map we've got to behave accordingly. But if not, why...

Enter DAOUD. He goes up to the unholy heap and takes away two large idols, one under each arm. Exit.]

O, that. I'm afraid it's rather horrible. I told you it was an awful country. They pray to these idols here, and some are all right, though of course it's terribly blasphemous, but that heap, well, I'm afraid, well that heap is very bad indeed.

I've seen them do it, and those mouths are all rusty. But it's all right now. It won't happen any more.

H'm. I've never known anyone that tried to govern a country or anything of that sort, but...

Of course, I'm just doing what I can to put them right.... I'd be very glad of your advice... Of course, I'm only here in your name.

What I mean is that I'd always thought that the one thing you shouldn't do, if you don't mind my saying so...

But, but I don't think you quite understand. The priests knife these people in the throat, boys and girls, and then acolytes lift them up and the blood runs down. I've seen them.

I think it's best to leave religion to the priests. They understand that kind of thing.

[JOHN BEAL opens his mouth in horror and looks at ARCHIE. ARCHIE returns the glance; there is very nearly a twinkle in ARCHIE's eyes.]

Oh, because he's so much in debt. It's awful to be in debt. I'd sooner almost anything happened to me than to owe a lot of money.

O, I only meant that I'd hate to be in debt. And I should hate owing money to you, Because...

Daoud, for the present these gods must stay. Aho-oomlah's gone, but the rest must stay for the present.

Daoud, go once more to the palace of the Lord of the Pass and beat the outer door. Say that the great lady herself would see him. The great lady, Miss Clement, the white traveller's heiress.

No. I think he wrote to me by the same mail as he wrote to you (if they have mails here). I came at once.

You know, I hardly like bringing Hussein in here to see you. He's such a—he's rather a...

Well, we must see him first and hear what he has to say before we take any steps.

You know he's practically king of the whole country. It seems rather cheek almost my sending for him like this.

You will pay to Miss Clement and not to your god of bronze. On the word of an Englishman, your god of bronze shall not have one gold piece that belongs to the great lady!

I'm afraid he's rather an ugly customer to introduce you to like that. I'm sorry he came now.

Yes, if you can interfere with their religion like this, and none of them say a word, why—you can make any laws you like.

But Hussein is king here; he is Lord of the Pass, and that's everything here. I'm nobody.

I think she means that if Hussein weren't there there'd be only you. Of course, I don't know. I've only just come.

O Lord! Good heavens! Please, Miss Clement! I'm awfully sorry if I've said anything you didn't like. I wouldn't do that for worlds. I'm awfully sorry. It's a beastly country, I know. I'm really sorry you came. I feel it's all my fault. I'm really awfully sorry...

Never mind. Never mind. I was so helpless, and I asked you to help me. I never ought to have done it. I oughtn't to have spoken to you at all in that train without being introduced; but I was so helpless. And now, and now, I haven't a penny in the world, and, O, I don't know what to do.

I... I only, I only wanted to—to kill Hussein. But never mind, it doesn't matter now.

We'll do it, Miss Clement, won't we, Archie? Only don't cry. We'll do it. I—I suppose he deserves it, doesn't he?

Well, all right, Miss Clement, that's settled. My brother and I will talk it over.

And—and—don't hang him or anything—he looks so fine.... I—I wouldn't like him treated like that. He has such a grand beard. He ought to die fighting.

It is sweet of you. It's really sweet. It's sweet of both of you. I don't know what I d have done without you. I seemed to know it that day the moment I saw you.

Yes, that's the trouble, that really is the trouble. That's what I've been thinking of

I—I; but what can I... You see, you're all alone. If you'd anyone with you, you could have...

I did think of bringing a rather nice aunt. But on the whole I thought it better not to tell anyone.

Well, really, that is better. Yes that will be all right. We can find a room for you now. The trouble was your being alone. I hope you'll like them. [To DAOUD.] Tell them to enter here.

[Enter BAZZALOL and THOOTHOOBABA two enormous Nubians, bearing peacock fans and wearing scimitars. All stare at them. They begin to fan slightly.]

ACT III

SCENE 1

Miralda, you're thinking of those old customs again that we left behind us seven years ago. What's the good of it?

What's the good of it? You know you are my beloved. There are none of those clergymen within hundreds of miles. What's the good of it?

It's a silly reason. It's a crazy reason. It's no reason at all. There's some other reason.

No, there isn't. But I feel that in my bones. I don't know why. You know that I love none else but you. Besides, we're never going back, and it doesn't matter. This isn't Blackheath.

No, no, Miralda. My dear, you are not my slave. Did not the singer compare our love to the desire of the nightingale for the evening star? All know that you are my queen.

Home? Home? How could they know? What have we in common with home? Rows and rows of little houses; and if they hear a nightingale there they write to the papers. And—and if they saw this they'd think they were drunk. Miralda, don't be absurd. What has set you thinking of home?

You are all-powerful here, John, you can do what you please, if you wish to. You don't love me at all.

And Hussein's people killed ARCHIE. That was for you too. I brought my brother out here to help you. He was engaged to be married, too.

Yes, I do. I love you as the dawn loves the iris marshes. You know the song they sing. (footnote: poem just before Act III)

I told you, I told you. I had a dream about the future. I forgot the dream, but I know I was not to marry. I will not wrong the future.

I will have what fancies I please, crazy or sane. Am I not Shereef of Shaldomir? Who dare stop me if I would be mad as Herod?

Drive me not to anger. If I have you cast into a well and take twenty of the fairest daughters of Al Shaldomir in your place, who can gainsay me?

Was it not my money that brought you here? Was it not I who said "Kill Hussein"? What power could you have had, had Hussein lived? What would you have been doing now, but for me?

Catching some silly train to the City. Working for some dull firm. Living in some small suburban house. It is I, I, that brought you from all that, and you won't make me a queen.

Is it not enough that you are my beloved? You know there is none other but you. Is it not enough, Miralda?

Tchah!... Miralda, I know you are a wonderful woman, the most wonderful in the East; how you ever came to be in the West I don't know, and a train of all places; but, Miralda, you must not have petty whims, they don't become you.

Yes, when it is only the name you want. You are a queen. You have all you wish for. Are you not my beloved? And have I not power here over all men? Could I not close the pass?

Oh-h! I will leave you. I have more to do than to sit and hear your whims. When I come back you will have some other whim. Miralda, you have too many whims.

[Her fan is laid down. She clutches it with sudden resolve. She goes to the wall, fanning herself slowly. She leans against it. She fans herself now with obvious deliberation. Three times the great fan goes pat against the window, and then again separately three times; and then she puts it against the window once with a smile of ecstasy. She has signalled. She returns to the cushions and reclines with beautiful care, fanning herself softly.

Lady, O star of these times. O light over lonely marshes. [He kneels by her and embraces her.] Is the Shereef gone, lady?

Indeed, before all my wives, before all women, over all Shaldomir, named the elect.

Lady, O dawn's delight, let there be a banquet. Let the great ones of Shaldomir be bidden there.

And you. Though this one speak, yet be silent, or dread the shadow of Hafiz el Alcolahn.

[He drops a bag of gold. THOOTHOOBABA goes down and grabs at the gold; his eyes gloat over it.]

MIRALDA arranges herself on the cushions. She looks idly at each Nubian. The Nubians put each a finger over his lips and go on fanning with one hand.]

Daoud, one day in spring, in the cemetery of those called Blessed, beyond the city's gates, you swore to me by the graves of both your parents....

You have helped me often, Daoud, warned me and helped me often. Through you I knew those currents that run through the deeps of the market, in silence and all men feel them, but a ruler never. You told me of them, and when I knew—then I could look after myself, Daoud. They could do nothing against me then. Well, now I hold this people. I hold them at last, Daoud, and now —well, I can rest a little.

In Western countries, master, whose tales I have read, in a wonderful book named the "Good Child's History of England," in the West a man hath power over a land, and lo! the power is his and descends to his son's son after him.

Not if he does not watch, master; in the night and the day, and in the twilight between the day and the night, and in the dawn between the night and the day.

Master, he that was mightiest of those that were kings in Babylon had a secret door prepared in an inner chamber, which led to a little room, the smallest in the palace, whose back door opened secretly to the river, even to great Euphrates, where a small boat waited all the days of his reign.

No, master. Such boats are never used. Those that watch like that do not need to seek them, and the others, they would never be able to reach the river in time, even though the boat were there.

I shouldn't like to have to live like that. Why, a river runs by the back of this palace. I suppose palaces usually are on rivers. I'm glad I don't have to keep a boat there.

O, Hafiz. I have no fears of Hafiz. Lately I ordered my spies to watch him no longer. Why does he hate me?

Well, he should have done it before I came. We don't hang over things and brood over them for years where I come from. If a thing's to be done, it's done.

Even so, master. Hafiz had laid his plans for years. He would have killed him and got his substance; and then, when the hour drew near, you came, and Hussein died, swiftly, not as Hafiz would have had him die; and lo! thou art the lord of the pass, and Hafiz is no more than a beetle that runs about in the dirt.

Not for himself, master. Nay, I fear not Hafiz. But, master, hast thou seen when the thunder is coming, but no rumble is heard and the sky is scarce yet black, how little winds run in the grass and sigh and die; and the flower beckons a moment with its head; all the world full of whispers, master, all saying nothing; then the lightning, master, and the anger of God; and men say it came without warning? [Simply.] I hear those things coming, master.

Master, it is all silent in the market. Once, when the price of turquoises was high, men abused the Shereef. When the merchant men could not sell their pomegranates for silver they abused the Shereef. It is men's way, master, men's way. Now it is all silent in the market. It is like the grasses with the idle winds, that whisper and sigh and die away; like the flowers beckoning to nothing. And so, master, and so....

Daoud, I have cast men into prison for saying less than this. Men have been flogged on the feet for less than this.

I will not slay you. You are mistaken, Daoud. You have made a great mistake. The thing is absurd. Why, the gracious lady has scarcely seen Hafiz. She knows nothing of the talk of the market. Who could tell her? No one comes here. It is absurd. Only the other day she said to me... But it is absurd, it is absurd, Daoud. Besides, the people would never rebel against me. Do I not govern them well?

The old times? Why, their lives weren't safe. The robbers came down from the mountains and robbed the market whenever they had a mind.

Those that loved merchandise were content, master. Those that loved it not went into the mountains.

They soon recovered their losses, master. Their prices were unjust and they loved usury.

Some were, master, as men have to be in all countries. The others went into the mountains and robbed the merchants.

But now, master, a man robs a merchant and he is cast into prison. Now a man is slain in the market and his son, his own son, master, may not follow after the aggressor and slay him and burn his house. They are ill-content, master. No man robs the merchants, no man slays them, and the merchants' hearts are hardened and they oppress all men.

I see; I see. In spite of all I have done for them, they want their old bad government back again.

Yes, yes. And so they would rebel. Well, we must watch. You have warned me once again, Daoud, and I am grateful. But you are wrong, Daoud, about the gracious lady. You are mistaken. It is impossible. You are mistaken, Daoud. I know it could not be.

And, master, if ever I come to you bearing oars, then watch no longer, master, but follow me through the banquet chamber and through the room beyond it. Move as the wild deer move when there is danger, without pausing, without wondering, without turning round; for in that hour, master, in that hour....

Is it come to that?... No, Daoud, all this is unnecessary. It can't come to that.

If ever I come before you bearing two oars, in that hour, master, it is necessary.

[Exit DAOUD. Rather strained silence with JOHN and MIRALDA till he goes. She goes and retakes herself comfortable on the cushions. He is not entirely at ease.]

Say you will do it, John. I should love to have one of my little wishes granted.

[He walks up and down in front of the two Nubians in silence. She plucks petulantly at a pillow. She suddenly calms herself. A light comes into her eyes. The Nubians go on fanning. JOHN goes on pacing.]

Then if I may not be a queen, and if you will not kill Daoud for me, give a banquet, John. There is no harm in a banquet.

To-morrow, John. Bid all the great ones to it, all the illustrious ones in Al Shaldomir.

He walks to the door to see that she is really gone. He comes back to centre and stands with back to audience, pulling a cord quietly from his pocket and arranging it.

He moves half left and comes up behind BAZZALOL. Suddenly he slips the cord over BAZZALOL's head, and tightens it round his neck.]

If you would speak, raise your left hand. If you raise your left hand and do not speak you shall die.

[BAZZALOL is silent. JOHN tightens more. BAZZALOL raises his great flabby left hand high. JOHN releases the cord. BAZZALOL blinks and moves his mouth.]

Gracious Shereef, one visited the great lady and gave us gold, saying, "Speak not."

Gold does not make you silent, but there is a thing that does. What is that thing? Speak. What thing makes you silent?

The banqueting hall. A table along the back. JOHN and MIRALDA seated with notables of Al Shaldomir.

JOHN sits in the centre, with MIRALDA on his right and, next to her, HAFIZ EL ALCOLAHN.

[Enter R. an OFFICER-AT-ARMS. He halts at once and salutes with his sword, then takes a side pace to his left, standing against the wall, sword at the carry.

JOHN acknowledges salute by touching his forehead with the inner tips of his fingers.]

[Enter R. some men in single file; uniform, pale green silks; swords at carry. They advance in single file, in a slightly serpentine way, deviating to their left a little out of the straight and returning to it, stepping neatly on the tips of their toes. Their march is fantastic and odd without being exactly funny.

The OFFICER-AT-ARMS falls in on their left flank and marches about level with the third or fourth man. When he reaches the centre he gives another word of command.]

JOHN stands up and acknowledges their salute by touching his forehead with the fingers of the right hand, palm turned inwards.

[Enter R. ZABNOOL, a CONJURER, with brass bowl. He bows. He walks to centre opposite JOHN. He exhibits his bowl.]

Birds, master. Birds from Nowhere. Sing, sing to the Shereef. Sing the little empty songs of the land of Nowhere.

[He seats himself on the ground facing JOHN. He puts the bowl on the ground. He places a piece of silk, with queer designs on it over the bowl. He partly draws the silk away with his left hand and puts in his right. He brings out a young crocodile and holds it by the neck.]

[He arises and bows to JOHN and wraps up the crocodile in some drapery and walks away. As he goes he addresses his crocodile.]

O eater of lambs, O troubler of the rivers, you sought to evade me in an empty bowl. O thief, O appetite, you sought to evade the Shereef. The Shereef has seen you, O vexer of swimmers, O pig in armour, O...

[He pushes ZABNOOL away roughly, impetus of which carries ZABNOOL to the wings.]

He very, very bad man, lily lady. He get crocodile from devil. From devil Poolyana, lily lady. Very, very bad.

But Poolyana, my devil. He call on my devil, lily lady. Very, very, very bad. My devil Poolyana.

Very bad man go away. Go away, bad man: go away, bad man. Poolyana not want bad man: Poolyana only work for good man. He mighty fine devil. Poolyana, Poolyana. Big, black, fine, furry devil. Poolyana, Poolyana, Poolyana. O fine, fat devil with big angry tail. Poolyana, Poolyana, Poolyana. Send me up fine young pig for the Shereef. Poolyana, Poolyana. Lil yellow pig with curly tail. [Small pig appears.] O Poolyana, great Poolyana. Fine black fur and grey fur underneath. Fine ferocious devil you my devil, Poolyana. O, Poolyana, Poolyana, Poolyana. Send me a big beast what chew bad man's crocodile. Big beast with big teeth, eat him like a worm.

[He has spread large silk handkerchief on floor and is edging back from it in alarm.]

Long nails in him toes, big like lion, Poolyana. Send great smelly big beast—eat up bad man's crocodile.

O, Poolyana, you big devil have your liddle joke. You laugh at poor conjuring man. You send him lil rabbit to eat big crocodile. Bad Poolyana. Bad Poolyana.

[Whacking it again. Handkerchief has been thrown on ground again. Handkerchief stirs slightly.]

No, no, Poolyana. You not bad devil. You not bad devil. You plenty good devil, Poolyana. No, no, no! Poor conjuring man quite happy on muddy earth. No, Poolyana, no! O, no, no, devil. O, no, no! Hell plenty nice place for devil. Master! He not my devil! He other man's devil!

Poolyana, Poolyana, Poolyana. Stay down, stay down, Poolyana. Stay down in nice warm hell, Poolyana. The Shereef want no devil to-day.

[ZABNOOL before speaking returns to centre and pats air over ground where handkerchief lies.

Then SHABEESH and ZABNOOL come together side by side and bow and smile together toward the SHEREEF. Gold is thrown to them, which ZABNOOL gathers and hands to SHABEESH, who gives a share back to ZABNOOL.]

[Enter three women R. in single file, dancing, and carrying baskets full of pink rose-leaves. They dance across, throwing down rose-leaves, leaving a path of them behind them. Exeunt L.]

There is a need. [He rises.] People of Shaldomir, behold I know your plottings. I know the murmurings that you murmur against me. When I sleep in my inner chamber my ear is in the market, while I sit at meat I hear men whisper far hence and know their innermost thoughts. Hope not to overcome me by your plans nor by any manner of craftiness. My gods are gods of brass; none have escaped them. They cannot be overthrown. Of all men they favour my people. Their hands reach out to the uttermost ends of the earth. Take heed, for my gods are terrible. I am the Shereef; if any dare withstand me I will call on my gods and they shall crush him utterly. They shall grind him into the earth and trample him under, as though he had not been. The uttermost parts have feared the gods of the English. They reach out, they destroy, there is no escape from them. Be warned; for I do not permit any to stand against me. The laws that I have given you, you shall keep; there shall be no other laws. Whoso murmurs shall know my wrath and the wrath of my gods. Take heed, I speak not twice. I spoke once to Hussein. Hussein heard not; and Hussein is dead, his ears are closed for ever. Hear, O people.

Yes. And I will exalt myself. I have been Shereef hitherto, but now I will be king. Al Shaldomir is less than I desire. I have ruled too long over a little country. I will be the equal of Persia. I will be king; I proclaim it. The pass is mine; the mountains shall be mine also. And he that rules the mountains has mastery over all the plains beyond. If the men of the plains will not own it let them make ready; for my wrath will fall on them in the hour when they think me afar, on a night when they think I dream. I proclaim myself king over...

[HAFIZ pulls out his flute and plays the weird, strange tune. JOHN looks at him in horrified anger.]

The penalty is death! Death is the punishment for what you do, Hafiz. You have dared while I spoke. Hafiz, your contempt is death. Go to Hussein. I, the king... say it.

[DAOUD has entered R., bearing two oars. DAOUD walks across, not looking at JOHN. Exit by small door in L. near back.

Al Shaldomir, Al Shaldomir, The nightingales that guard thy ways Cease not to give thee, after God And after Paradise, all praise.

[MIRALDA standing up, right arm akimbo, left arm pointing perfectly straight out towards the small door, hand extended.]

[The BISHAREENS begin to return looking all about them like disappointed hounds.]

Not there? Not there? Why, there is no door beyond. He must needs be there, and his chief spy with him.

ZAGBOOLA [who has come on with a little crowd that followed the BISHAREENS. She is blind.]

Lead me to Hafiz. I am the mother of Hafiz. Lead me to Hafiz. [They lead her near.] Hafiz! Hafiz!

ACT IV

SCENE 1

[Ali leans on a pillar-box watching. John shuffles on L. He is miserably dressed, an Englishman down on his luck. A nightingale sings far off.]

Al Shaldomir, Al Shaldomir, The nightingales that guard thy ways Cease not to give thee, after God And after Paradise, all praise...

The infernal place! I wish I had never seen it! Wonder what set me thinking of that?

[The nightingale sings another bar. JOHN turns to his left and walks down the little path that leads to the door of the Acacias.]

[He draws near it reluctantly. He puts his hand to the bell and withdraws it. Then he rings and snatches his hand away. He prepares to run away. Finally he rings it repeatedly, feverishly, violently.

I oughtn't to have rung, miss, I know. I oughtn't to have rung your bell; but I've seen better days, and wondered if—I wondered...

I oughtn't to 'ave opened the door, that's wot I oughtn't. Now I look at you, I oughtn't to 'ave opened it. Wot does you want?

Miss! Miss! Don't go, miss. Don't shut me out. If you knew what I'd suffered, if you knew what I'd suffered. Don't!

Through being blind. But never mind, never mind. It's all gone now, and I'm hungry.

Well, I suppose I might have. I suppose it's my fault, miss. But the heart was out of me.

Well, I dunno. I might, as yer so down on yer luck—I don't like to see a man like you are, I must say.

The scene is the same as in Act I, except that the sofa which was red is now green, and the photograph of Aunt Martha is replaced by that of a frowning old colonel. The ages of the four children in the photographs are the same, but their sexes have changed.

There's a gentleman to see you, mum, which is, properly speaking, not a gentleman at all, but 'e would come in, mum.

I know that, madam, I know that. Yet somehow I couldn't help myself. I've been begging for nearly three years now, and I've never done this before, yet somehow to-night I felt impelled to come to this house. I beg your pardon, humbly. Hunger drove me to it.

If you could give me a little to eat yourself, madam, a bit of stale bread, a crust, something that Mr. Cater would not want.

It's very unusual, coming into a house like this and at such an hour—it's past eleven o'clock—and Mr. Cater not yet returned. Are you really hungry?

I have not met such kindness for three years. I... I'm starving. I've known better times.

I had been intended for work in the City. And then, then I travelled, and—and I got very much taken with foreign countries, and I thought—but it all went to pieces. I lost everything. Here I am, starving.

That's all very well to say, living in a fine house, as you are, dry and warm and well-fed. But what have I to cheer up about?

Nothing you can take to the pawn-shop? I've tided over times I wanted a bit of cash that way sometimes.

No, I can't remember at all. But I've a feeling about it, I can't explain what I feel; but I don't part with it.

Yes, I have that feeling very strongly. I've kept it always. Everything else is gone.

Yes, yes. About ten years. I found I had it one morning in a train. It's odd that I can't remember.

You're as down in your luck as ever you can be, and you go keeping a thing like that for luck. Why, you couldn't be funnier.

Why, I 'ad a mascot once, all real gold; and I had rotten luck. Rotten luck I had. Rotten.

They was quite obliging about it. Gave me a wooden one instead, what was guaranteed. Luck changed very soon altogether.

You just give it to me. I tell you it's doing you no good. I know all about them mascots. Give it me.

Well, I'll give it you. You're the first woman that's been kind to me since ... I'm on my beam ends.

There, there. I'm going to smash it, I am. These mascots! One's better without 'em. Your luck'll turn, never fear. And you've a nice supper coming.

The photographs of the four children change slightly. The Colonel gives place to Aunt Martha. The green sofa turns red. JOHN's clothes become neat and tidy. The hammer in LIZA's hand turns to a feather duster. Nothing else changes.]

[LIZA, dusting the photographs on the wall, just behind the corner of the mantelpiece.]

Really, Liza, I often think you have. You really should be more careful. Only—only yesterday you broke the glass of Miss Jane's photograph.

Really, I think it sometimes is. It's a mistake you make too often, Liza. You—you must be more careful.

Did you, dear? Thanks, Liza. Run along to bed now, Liza. Good gracious, it's half-past eleven.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IF: A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS ***

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of If: A Play in Four Acts

If

By Lord Dunsany

[Dunsany, Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Baron]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Contents

IF

ACT I

SCENE 1

ACT II

SCENE

ACT III

SCENE 1

ACT IV

SCENE 1

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE