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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - The Little Left Hand - Act I
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DRAMATIS PERSONAE
    * Sir John Leicester, a Revolutionary Soldier of Fortune.
    * General Lord Bellingham, in command of the Queen`s Troops.
    * Colonel Warren, serving under him.
    * Sergeant Mullens, a Non--Commissioned Officer.
    * Davis and leaders of the Idealist Movement.
    * Bradshaw leaders of the Idealist Movement.
    * Paul, an Idealist.
    * Lady Marian (Lady Bellingham).
    * Rosina, her Maid.
    * Phoebe, an Idealist.
    * Town Councillors, Soldiers, Idealists, etc., etc.


Place
A Country Town in England.

Time
Mid--Victorian.


Scene I A large Room scantily furnished.

Leicester, Davis, Bradshaw.
Leicester.  Is all in readiness? The plan well understood?
 The ground marked out and flagged? How many will face blood,
 Think you, when the pinch comes? I have seen soldiers fly
 From a sudden shower of stones who had scorned cavalry,
 Ay, and artillery too, but without special drill
 Bolted like boys. `Twas thus we lost Majuba Hill
 In the Boer War. Mind this, strength lies in discipline,

Davis. And a good cause,

Bradshaw. And chief. What fear but we shall win
With you, Sir, for our leader?

Leicester. Truce to compliments.
 This is a soldier`s battle. Drill and common sense,
 And the mot d`ordre to act distinctly in their heads,
There lies our generalship.

Davis. Our men will face the reds
If you only wave your hand.

Bradshaw. Your name`s a guarantee
 With every one of them for certain victory
 Wherever freedom`s fought for. Pueblo, Puttenden,
 Canea, Cansfield, Crete, the Bridge of Sittingen,
 These have become their watchwords. They all know your face,
 Although they never saw you till this year of grace.
 The women have your portrait framed in every room
 Clothed in the heroic white renowned through Christendom.
 They know your motto ``Jamais,`` and the left--hand glove
 Pinned to your forage cap, and look for it with love;
 It is your badge of fortune now become their own.
 The children strut like you and imitate your frown.
Oh! we are well prepared.

Leicester. This is all excellent.
 But how about your strength? Have you the complement
 Of small arms for your force? Eight hundred men, you say,
Of the volunteers are yours. How are they armed?

Davis. To--day
 The force will be complete. We have advice from York
Announcing their dispatch by the first train.

Leicester. Close work,
 Even if they come to time. And if they are delayed?

Davis. We have the invoice, Sir.

Leicester. The invoice, I am afraid,
 Will be of little use if the Queen`s troops are here.

Bradshaw. They dare not send the troops!

Leicester. Of that I am less clear.
 These are the days of force, and Governments to live
 Must use the powers they wield, even if they next forgive.
 All must have heart to fight if they would hold their own,
 The Priest to hold his creed, the King to hold his throne.
 Strength justifies alike coercion and revolt,
 And Jove would not be Jove but for the thunderbolt.

Davis.  We are Idealists and take no count of Kings.

Leicester.  Yet a King`s constables are facts and stubborn things.

Davis.  The constables are ours, all but the Officers.

Leicester.  The greater reason then to expect the regulars.
 There should be news in town at the High Council Board.
 Go, Gentlemen, I pray, and bring me the last word;
 Tell them my message is to stand fast by the plan
 Resolved upon last night, doing the best we can,
 Troops or no troops. We meet to--morrow on Pains Hill
 The whole strength of the League, calm but inflexible.
 At the first stroke of noon we march, each separate band
 Led by a Councillor holding the chief command,
 The wards have their own drums and flags. A signal gun
 Will order the advance and notify the town.
 Our first point is the churches. These in your possession,
 You have half gained your cause, and half fulfilled your mission.
 A faith proclaimed in church is a faith justified.

(Aside.)  Just as a woman wronged becomes in church a bride.

(Aloud.)  Here is your moral triumph. The material fight
 Needs your more active thought, for right still lies with might.
 We need ten thousand men well armed to hold the ground
 Against all possible force. See that the men be found.
And come again with news.

Davis. You shall not wait for us.

Bradshaw.  Your fortune leads our own. Both are victorious.

[Exeunt Davis and Bradshaw.

Scene II

Leicester
(alone).  Like all the rest of them, they think a fight is won
 By the noise of shawms and trumpets blown in the new moon.
 Jericho`s their precedent. They mock at the old faiths
 But still seek miracles at life`s hand and death`s.
 Why have they sent for me? Because my luck was good,
 And they were in straits, poor fools, to save their Brotherhood.
 My name alone, they say, is to work prodigies,
 A gambler`s argument. But is it so unwise?
 No, or I were not here. All faith is a wise thing,
 Compared with the lack of it. And therein lies the sting
 Of my own unreal life. What a mad lot is mine,
 Called to this leadership of a cause half divine,
 And pushed to martyrdom by my plain act and deed,
 Yet being what I am, a man without a creed,
 Almost without a hope of the world`s better way,
 And mired with a dark past, my sins of yesterday.
 Their virtue shames me. Ah! if they could see in truth
 Their trusted leader`s heart, his insolence of youth,
 His violent manhood--ay, the rebellious instincts still
 Ruling his better reason, his enfeebled will
 Battling with memories of an unburied past.
 If they could learn her name, the dearest loved and last,
 Who sent him forth to deeds the nations now applaud
 For her sole vanity, with vain love for reward,
 They would disown his help, and cast him out from them,
 A treachery unmasked, a fraud, a stratagem,
 Spite of their need to--day and his help timely given,
 These poor Idealists with their unselfish heaven.
 And yet their leader loves them. All that is best in me
 Thrills at their touch, my pride which is not vanity,
 My consciousness of right, my new--born rectitude,
 My love of virtuous deeds, their own the ideal good.
 No, no, this is not vanity. Say rather a fire
 Lit by consuming shame, the unfulfilled desire
 Of an heroic youth which would obliterate
 The memory of its fall and so be quits with fate.
 What else is Man`s ambition, even at the best?
 To do some worthiest deed before he takes his rest?
 And who knows rightly what? We are too ignorant
 To do good to the world except by accident.
 The sole sure good is to ourselves. And who dares die
 Unjustified by deeds while deeds can justify?
 To--morrow will prove all. If we outride the storm,
 We found a new religion for the world`s reform
 And our undying fame. If we are overcome
 The world will weep for us achieving martyrdom.
 Oh, Marian, Marian! With that little white left hand
What kingdoms have you rent!

Scene III

Leicester seated.
Phoebe
(entering). I did not understand
 You were alone and busy. Oh, excuse me, Sir.
I see you are in thought.

Leicester. No, dear petitioner,
 You do not trouble me. It was but idleness
 Made me look sad. It does me good to see your face.

Phoebe. Do you mean it so?

Leicester. Yes certainly. Sit down awhile,
And tell me all your wish.

Phoebe. I wished to see you smile
Instead of frowning.

Leicester. How?

Phoebe. You have so stern a look
When speaking to the crowds.

Leicester. This is a bad rebuke
 For a popular leader, one who would persuade mankind.

Phoebe.  Oh! Now you laugh at me. This was not in my mind.
 Only I watch you daily when you speak, and then
 I wonder at your sadness more than the rest of men.
And often I have wished--

Leicester. For what, you foolish child?

Phoebe.  That I could make you happy. See, now you have smiled.

Leicester. You are very young.

Phoebe. Sixteen.

Leicester. And an Idealist!

Phoebe. Yes.

Leicester. And you speak your thought?

Phoebe. We all do. It is best.

Leicester.  Then tell me the whole truth. I would like to learn your art,
 Being myself of those who search the human heart,
 And try to make the world, if may be, happier.
How would you cure my grief?

Phoebe. I would be your follower,
 To guard you from all peril. In your hours of pain
 I would talk till you forgot. Grief would be silent then,
 And I should need no word. You would rest still as now
 And listen to my voice as to a river`s flow,
And you would sleep--

Leicester. `Tis well. And what else?

Phoebe. I would sit
 Your daily worshipper, a Mary at your feet,
 Gathering in the pearls of wisdom you let fall
And give them back to you new strung.

Leicester. And is that all?
 It would not be enough. Let me know all your store.

Phoebe.  Oh, I would love you too, now and for evermore.

Leicester. You are pretty, far too pretty.

Phoebe. What has prettiness
To do with what I ask?

Leicester
(aside). Perhaps more than you guess.

Phoebe. I cannot help it.

Leicester. No. To be pretty is no crime.
 You shall have lovers yet, and in a happier time
It is pleasant to be loved.

Phoebe. I would rather die for you
 Than be loved by all the world--even if that were true.

(With emotion.)  That were the ideal ending of the ideal life:
 To fall, a flower cut down, and not to feel the knife
 Because of the great joy transcending pain. How often
 I have thought of this in dreams, till tears have come to soften
 Pain to an ecstasy. Struck thus--by the last dart
 Of the last flying foe aimed at the hero`s heart,
 Leaving the victory his and the world`s battle won,
 And so faint in his fame as clouds faint in the sun!

Leicester.  And if your hero loved you, and you did not die?

Phoebe. I would then live for him.

Leicester. In what capacity?

Phoebe.  As the companion of his thoughts. All men, they say,
 Need some poor woman`s wit to help them on their way.
 Mine is intelligent. I have observant eyes.
 He would not find me childish if not always wise,
And then--

Leicester. And then what?

Phoebe. It is pleasant to be loved
 (You said it, Sir, just now), and he should find it proved.

Leicester.  You are talking nonsense. Love? What do you know of it?
 Love is a malady, a grief, a fever fit,
 A darkening of the soul, which hides the ideal light.

Phoebe. How then can it be sweet?

Leicester. Sweet things are seldom right.

Phoebe.  And you condemn it? Love, our missionaries teach,
 Is a sacrament of fire uniting each to each--
 We need it for our lives--the initial principle
 Which gives the mind its power to work for good and ill;
 For good if we love right, and our soul meets a soul
 Large in its purposes, and the two make a whole
 Possessed of double strength and wise in loveliness.

Leicester. Under what visible sign?

Phoebe. The sacramental kiss.
This surely is for good. You do not doubt it?

Leicester. No.
But if it work for ill?

Phoebe. That is the tragic woe
 Of the world`s wickedness, yet unregenerate;
 The cause of half its pain, the cause of all its hate.
 They would stamp this out in blood; there is no other hope.

Leicester. And it, too, has a sign?

Phoebe. That is beyond my scope.
 I would not know of it. But love is not to blame
 If men do evil things and call it in love`s name.

Leicester.  Dear child, you are too sweet.
(Aside.) Alas! and innocent.

Kisses her.)
Phoebe.  What is it? He has kissed me! It is the sacrament!

Scene IV

Paul entering surprises Leicester holding Phoebe`s hand.
Paul
(aside).  Phoebe with the chief! How`s this? She has an ecstatic look,
 Like the Virgin with the Angel, drawn in a missal book.
I do not like his smile.

(Aloud.) Sir John, I come with news
Most urgent from the Board.

Leicester. Your haste needs no excuse.
Speak.

Paul. It is ascertained the forces of the crown
 Have been reinforced in strength. Two regiments, sent down
 In the night from Liverpool, now hold the central square
 In front of St. Jude`s Church and the main thoroughfare
 From Langley waterworks to the ``Cock`` at Chesterton.
 The side streets are patrolled by the new garrison
 Who question all who pass. There are three field--pieces
 Posted in Worship Street near the old granaries.
 The lower town alone is in the City`s hands.
Moreover, a troop of Horse--

Leicester. It must be Westmoreland`s.
 Did I not say it? Quick, give me my sword. Stay here,
 Paul, till I come again or send a messenger.
 This news needs all our thought, perhaps a change of plan.

(Aside.)  My hour has come at last and I must play the man.

Phoebe
(aside).  He is gone, without a look, without a thought of me.
 And Paul, what does he think? Oh, this is misery.

(Weeps.)

Scene V

Paul and Phoebe alone.
Paul.  Phoebe, you are in tears. What is the meaning, say!
 This is no hour to cry, be the cause what it may,
 To--morrow we may need it. But to--day our grief
 Needs other arms than these. Shame on your handkerchief,
Shame on your foolishness.
This hero, what is he
 That you should weep? A God, of poor humanity!
 A God? A mountebank! He has a tragic face
 And a voice that trembles well, and that is all his case.
 What is he to you, Phoebe, but a name in print?
 Poser and partisan? I do not trust the mint
 Where he was coined. He was a soldier, too--the name
 Stinks in all honest nostrils. `Tis a double game
 These soldiers play for honour in their fool`s career--
 This side a patriot, that a licensed buccaneer.

Phoebe. Hush, you blaspheme a saint.

Paul. Leicester is virtuous
 As a man looks grave in church. Before the world and us
 He stands with a face bowed and his eternal frown.
But who has seen his heart?

Phoebe. His heart, like his renown,
Is high above our world.

Paul. They tell another tale
 Who knew him in his youth. Phoebe, you are looking pale.
 What is your secret, girl? This great man`s confidence
 Is yours. He held your hand and smiled a minute since.
What does he say when smiling?

Phoebe. You are too cruel, Paul,
Unjust, irreverent.

Paul. Love then is lord of all,
 As the unconverted teach. And our chief Puritan
 Stands feebly bandying words as between maid and man
 With one a Hedonist. You blush now. Your cheeks speak
 More strongly than your words, showing you more than weak.

Phoebe. It is true I love him.

Paul. What! Love! And at such a time,
 With the world`s fate at issue! Phoebe, it is a crime!
 You have no right to folly! Look me in the face
 And say this shall not be! A crime--and a disgrace!

Phoebe.  No, neither. You are mad. My love is not like this,
 A thing to count for shame or count for foolishness.
 It is a strength to me, a buttress to our cause,
 A glory to my heart, a law transcending laws,
The love that casts out fear.

Paul. But if your leader shrink?

Phoebe.  The shame is yours to doubt. The shame is yours to think.
Leicester has never failed.

Paul. He never yet has stood
 Opposed to what he loves dear as his flesh and blood.
 He is a soldier still. His fetish is the rag
 Borne by his regiment. The honour of the flag
 Excuses all dishonour in a soldier`s mind.
 He will not strike at it, or strike as one being blind.

Phoebe.  You mean he will betray us?
(Aside.) This is jealousy
Because he loves me too.

Paul. To--morrow we shall see.

Scene VI

(Re--enter Leicester, Davis, Bradshaw, and Town Councillors.)
Leicester.  We fight then? That is fixed? I understand you right?
Your minds are all made up?

Bradshaw. Happen what will, we fight.

Davis. We do not shrink from it.

A Town Councillor. We only asked your thought
To strengthen our decision.

nd Town Councillor. Your experience bought
 Upon so many fields, the instinct of your eye
 Used to command the fight and snatch the victory.

Leicester.  I thank you, Gentlemen. Keen measures are my trade.
 I am a soldier bred and dare not be afraid,
 Even where the odds are great. If all are of your heart
 We need not doubt to play a creditable part
 And pull the matter through. In the game of battle chance
 Has always a last word which means deliverance
 For him who fights the hardest. We shall win the day
 In spite of the Queen`s troops, do they the worst they may.
My mind is clear to risk it.

Phoebe
(to Paul). You have heard him, Paul?

Paul. I hear him and I watch.

Town Councillors. We are determined all.

Leicester.  Then each man to his post.
(Aside.) It is a desperate plan.
 But what have I to lose? Ah! Marian, Marian!
[They turn to go out.
Enter Messenger who stops Leicester.

Messenger. A message for the chief.

Leicester. A moment, Sirs--what now?

Messenger.  There is an Officer with a white flag below,
 The bearer of this letter from their General, sent
To you, Sir John, our chief.

Leicester
(looking at the envelope). From the Queen`s Government.
 It is too late--too late. We cannot look at it.
 And yet this handwriting! I know it, but forget,
 I cannot put a name. Here! Stop! I will speak with him,
 If I do not open it. It all is like a dream
 This monogram and badge, ``Loyaulté me oblige.``
 How strangely things come back.--Sebastopol, the siege,
 The fight at Inkerman, when I a subaltern
 Took glory in it all. What nonsense! My cheeks burn
 Even at this late day to picture certain scenes,
 And certain words, and men ``So proud to be the Queen`s
 Servants and Officers!`` I dreamed of it last night,
 And thought myself insulted at some trivial slight
 Hurled at Her Majesty by God knows what mad fool
 Whom I must teach his lesson in the fencing school,
 And bring to better manners.

(Looking at Paul and Phoebe.)  That child`s eyes on me
 Are a reproach, and his, with their sincerity.
(Enter Warren.)
(Aloud.)
 Leave us, good Paul and Phoebe. The Town Councillors
 Should know this new arrival. It may need some course
 Of action not discussed. Go, both, and call them back
Once more for one last word.

Phoebe
(to Paul). My heart is on the rack
 To leave him with this man. I fear some treachery.

Paul. On which side, Phoebe? His?

Phoebe. Distrustful!

Paul. We shall see.

[Exeunt Paul and Phoebe.

Scene VII

Leicester and Warren alone.
Leicester. Well, Sir! You would speak to me!

Warren. My orders were, Sir John,
To press you for an answer.

Leicester. Frankly, I have none.
 I have not read the letter, nor intend to read.
 Things are too far advanced--or not enough--and need
 Their settlement elsewhere. When we have paid that score
 There may be room perhaps for parleying--not before.

Warren.  I understand you, Sir. And yet my duty is
 To press you to consider the full penalties,
 Not to yourself, Sir John, I do not speak of that,
 But to these ignorant fools who run upon their fate
Without a full fore--knowledge. They are at best--

Leicester. A mob.

Warren. No, but an untried mass--

Leicester. Of heroes on the job,
 (We will put it so) poor heroes to their shirt--sleeves stripped
 Against scientific strength professionally equipped.

Warren. You do not doubt the issue?

Leicester. Doubt it! Pardon me,
 I never doubt my star. `Tis my sole vanity.

Warren.  I see I shall not move you. Yet before I go
 Forgive me if I speak my pain it should be so
 As a man and Officer.
(Aside.) I must play my strongest card.

(Aloud.)  You were, Sir John, I know, like me in the Queen`s Guard
 Some years before I joined, in the old fighting days
 Of the Crimean War, which our tradition says
 Was a battle of the Gods. There is in the Brigade
 A record extant still of your great escapade
 In which you first won fame. We all are proud of it,
 Believe me, to this hour as a regimental feat,
 And even, if I may say it without disloyalty,
 We are proud of the rest too, the career of victory
 In many a strange land which you have made your own,
 Abroad, on the Continent. We admire your wide renown.
 Only, excuse me, Sir, if I speak plainly, we
 Like it less well at home--for the Queen`s loyalty
 And the old regiment, you understood me, Sir,
 And why I brought this letter as interpreter
Of a last hope of peace from--

Leicester. Whose, Sir, is this hand?

(Aside.) His pleading touches me.

Warren. The General`s in command.
Who once was your best friend.

Leicester. My friend, Sir? And his name?

(Aside.) I seem to clutch at shadows.

Warren. General Bellingham.

Leicester
(aside).  Her husband! The old man! Fool, that I did not guess.

(Aloud.) He was my Colonel once. Your General now?

Warren. No less.

Leicester
(after a pause). Give me the letter back.
(Aside.) It half unmans me.
(Opens it--while he is reading re--enter Davis, Bradshaw, Town Councillors, Paul and Phoebe.)
(Aloud to Davis.)
Read.
You all should know the contents.

Warren. They deserve your heed.

Leicester. What says he, Mr. Davis?

Davis. `Tis from the General
 To you, Sir, in command of the rebel forces all.
 I give its sense in brief. It deprecates the strife
 Impending on both sides, the causeless loss of life,
 The pain Her Majesty--it says the ``personal pain``--
 Feels at the unhappy issue for misguided men,
 Whose cause, but for the force, would merit sympathy.
 It promises redress, a parliamentary
 Commission on the case, and such remedial acts
 As prudence shall desire with due regard to facts.

Paul
(aside).  Et cetera, et cetera, the usual jargon used
 By Governments in straits till they have got you noosed.

Davis.  An amnesty to all but common law--breakers.

Paul
(aside).  Which means a loophole left to hang malingerers.

Davis. In the meanwhile under truce--

Paul
(aside). To gain time.

Davis. --he invites
The chief to a conference.

Leicester. What say you?

Paul
(aside). Ha! He bites.
 We shall see him presently my Lord Chief Advocate
 Upon the Government side. All comes to those who wait.

Phoebe
(aside).  I only fear betrayal.
(Aloud.) Can we trust them, Sir?

Bradshaw. If there were treachery meant?

Leicester. I have no personal fear.
Their General I know.

Paul
(aside). Ha!

Leicester. A comrade of old days.
 He would not condescend to disingenuous ways.
 I should not fear to go. The Government? Ah, well,
 That is another thing as all our histories tell.
And yet the terms seem good.

Town Councillor. We pray you counsel us.

Leicester.  I hardly dare advise. It is too onerous.
My friend here, Paul, would say--

Town Councillor. No matter, Sir. The boy
 Shall hold his bitter tongue. Speak on without annoy.

Leicester.  I will tell you then my thought. The terms proposed seem good,
 The best that could be hoped to save your Brotherhood
 And, if agreed to, screen the cause from further hurt.
 Though Governments are false, they dare not eat the dirt
 Of their own written word made false by treachery.
 They twist, equivocate, but seldom in terms lie.
 Holding this letter, signed by their commissioner,
 The General in command, we may treat them without fear.
 A common ruse of war? A trap to catch me in?
 I cannot see it so. I would trust my head within
 The lion`s jaws unmoved. I know he would not bite.
 All soldiers have one code, one rule of wrong and right,
 And treachery could not be under a flag of truce.
 The question therefore is: Shall we or not make use
 Of the occasion given of peace? Do you so far trust me
 As to send me with full powers and your authority
 To do the best I can? Before I go, be sure
 All shall be ready set for fight in half an hour.

Town Councillor.  We only fear their wiles--the price set on your head.

Phoebe
(aside). He shall not go alone.

Warren. I stay here in his stead
If you have doubt for him.

Leicester. We have no doubt at all,
 Only to be prepared and loyally forestall
 All possible accident and casual surprise
 From whatsoever cause. (It is best to be forewise.)
 This be our plan of action: if at the stroke of noon
 I still be unreturned, fire a first signal gun;
 It will warn me to break off a useless argument,
 And bring me back to you at speed the way I went.

Town Councillor. And if you should not come?

Leicester. Give me ten minutes law,
 Then forward in full force and give them tooth and claw.

(With his hand to his sword.) I will fight my way to you.

Phoebe
(aside). He shall not go alone.

Paul. He shall be closely watched.

Town Councillor. Go, Sir.

Warren
(aside). The game is won.

[Exeunt. Curtain.
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