Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 179
King Oroastus being now left alone starts a new fit of sorrow, “Aie, aie, aie,” — in fact just as we expected he would. By this time we have grasped the idea of the tragedy, the successive blows of sorrow that hit Oroastus one after the other. First the chorus say there’ll be sorrow, then Oroastus says here comes a sorrow, and then the Herald comes in and says get ready now, stand by for a new sorrow, and lands it at him. There’s a beautiful simplicity about it that you never see on the stage to-day. In fact this is that sublimity that loftiness that only the Fi Fi Omega players can catch.
So the King groans:
Oh what an absolutely complete sorrow this is, this last one.
O Apologee!
O Hades!
For me, what now is left. My palace is destroyed and the fair-fingered Apologee has gone to Hades. What now is left to me but my old dog.
Old dog that I am myself on the one hand, my old dog on the other hand is all.
This passage “old dog that I am myself” is indicated in the text as one of the high spots. In fact it is a joke. The text says so. From where we sit we can see the professor of Greek laughing at it. Indeed we could easily prove by looking up the large editions of the play that this is a joke. The commentator says.
The bitter jest of Oroastus in calling himself an old dog illustrates for us the delicious irony of the great tragedian. Certain commentators have claimed indeed that the passage is corrupt and that Oroastus called himself not an old dog but a hot dog. We prefer, however, the earlier reading which seems to us exquisite. Diplodocus undoubtedly felt that the weight of sorrow at this point had become more than Oroastus or even the spectators could bear. By making Oroastus call himself an old dog he removes exactly that much of it.
This contention seems pretty well sustained. In fact anybody accustomed to the modern stage will realize that we are here at the source of the alleviating joke, introduced at any moment of terrible tension. In the modern play a comic character is carried all through the piece in order to make these jokes. But the Greek tragedy was nothing if not simple, direct, and honest. The hero has to make his own jokes.
Still, we are keeping the Herald waiting. The time is ripe for him to come in again.
ENTER THE HERALD
In he comes just as before (the Greeks didn’t believe in variety) and the King at once asks him the usual question about his feet.
For what purpose, Oh Herald, he enquires, do your feet bring you this way again?
The Herald: A gloomy one.
Let me have it.
I will.
Do. For however dark it is I being now an old dog (or perhaps a hot dog) have no further consolation in life than my dog.
It is to be noticed that Diplodocus here uses the same joke twice. Anybody who deals in humour will warmly approve of this. To get the best out of a joke it must be used over and over again. In this matter the Greeks have nothing on us.
This time the Herald knows that Oroastus can’t stand for much more. So he says.
Old dog indeed? Did your lips lead you to say old dog?
They did indeed.
Are you perhaps under the impression, Oh King, that you still have an old dog?
Such is my impression.
In that case you never made a bigger mistake in your life.
Let me know it and if indeed I have made a mistake, let me hear it.
Hear it then. Your old dog is gone to Hades. Good-bye. I have other avocations.
The Herald leaves and the King breaks out into lamentations.
Aie, aie, he says, my consort the fair-fingered Apologee and my old dog are in Hades. Why I am still left in the upper air (or perhaps in the air). Oh Whoa!
The King lifts his hands up in sorrow and a note in the book says: “King Oroastus has now had nearly enough.” To this we quite agree. One might say, in fact, he had had plenty.
But the chorus are not done with him yet. On they come with the remorselessness of the Greek drama.
They line up.
Look then at this standing before us King. What a load he has. But worse is yet coming. Keep your seats and watch him.
They go out in their usual undisturbed way, and Oroastus says: —
Oh, what a last final instalment (or hangover) of bitter grief is now mine. What now is left? Now that everything has gone to Hades of what use is life itself. O, day! Oh, sunshine! O, light! Let me withdraw myself, I before my time, to my tomb, to my mausoleum which I have had made by the skilled hands of artificers and there let me join hands with Death.
Oroastus has hardly said this when the Herald comes back. By this time everybody guesses the news that he brings. Under the circumstances not even a Greek Herald could string it out. The thing is too obvious.
The King says, — well there is no need to write it again, — the Herald’s feet, that same stuff, but what he really means is, Are you back again? and the Herald says, “Yes.” This is the first plain answer that the Herald has given all through the play.
Then Oroastus says: —
Is it dark stuff again?
And the Herald says:
The darkest?
At which the King gives a groan and says:
Then let me not hear it. For already to me thinking over pretty well everything the matter seems more or less what you would call played out (or possible worked to death). It is now in my mind hearing nothing further to repair to the mausoleum which I have long since caused to be built by skilled artificers and there lying down upon the stone to clasp the hand of Death.
The Herald: You can’t.
The King: Why not? What is which? For your words convey nothing.
Tell me what it is.
The Herald: I will.
The King: Do.
The Herald: All right. Get ready for something pretty tough. Are you all set?
The King: I am.
The Herald: Know then that your mausoleum no longer is. It was broken into by burglars and is unfit to use. Good-bye. I have other avocations.
Oroastus: Aie, aie, aie, . . .
Then they line up for a last crack at Oroastus.
Look at him!
Isn’t he the unlucky bean (or perhaps turnip).
Did you ever hear of worse luck than his?
Can you beat it?
But such is life, Oroastus, and it is a necessity of the Gods that even Death is withheld from the sorrowful. Aie, aie, aie.
And with that the play gives every symptom of being over. The white sheet that acts as the curtain glides down and there is quite a burst of applause from the audience. The actors line up on the stage and all the Fi Fi Omega crowd in the gallery call out, “Attaboy Oroastus! Good work Teddy!”
After which the audience doesn’t break up as an ordinary theatre audience does, but coagulates itself into little knots and groups. It knows that presently coffee and sandwiches are going to be passed around and the Greek professor will stand in the middle of an admiring group while he explains to them that Oroastus is under the compulsion of ANANGKE.
But for us no cake nor coffee. Let us get back to the Jefferson Hotel Grill Room while the supper is still on and while we can still get places for the midnight vaudeville show with the Dances of the Susquehanna Sextette and the black-faced comedian with the saxophone. This Greek stuff is sublime, we admit it, and it is lofty, we know it; and it has a dignity that the Susquehanna Sextette has not.
But after seeing Greek tragedy once, we know our level. And henceforth we mean to stick to it.
The Sub-Contractor. An Ibsen Play. Done out of the Original Norwegian with an axe.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Slump
A Builder.
Vamp
His Wife.
Dump
A professor of Thermodynamics.
Simp
A maid servant.
Yoop
An accountant.
Scoop
His sister.
Pastor Gymp
A pastor.
Cramp
His mother-in-law.
etc. . . . etc. . . . etc.
. . . and as many more with names of that kind and with occupations of that sort, as there is room for on the page. Some of them may not get into the play at all. But that doesn’t matter. An Ibsen Dramatis Personæ is a thing by itself.
Scene: A room in Slump’s house. (There are flowers on the table.)
Slump: What beautiful flowers.
Vamp: Yes, they are fresh this morning.
(Slump and Vamp speak one after the other in short turns, like sawing wood with a crosscut saw. But there is no need to indicate which is speaking. It doesn’t matter.)
Are they indeed?
Yes they are.
How sweet they smell.
Yes, don’t they?
I like flowers.
So do I. I think they smell so beautiful.
It’s a beautiful morning.
Yes, the spring will soon be here.
The air is deliciously fresh.
Yes, it is, isn’t it?
I saw a bobolink in the garden.
A bobolink already? Then the summer is soon here.
Soon indeed, the meadows are already green.
I like the green meadows.
Yes, isn’t it?
The angle of the sun is getting high.
I suppose it is. I noticed yesterday that the diameter of the moon was less.
Much less, and the planets are higher than they were. Their orbits are elongating.
I suppose so.
Vamp: How I love the spring!
Slump: So do I. The evaporation of the air closes the pores of my skin.
This completes round number one. It is meant to show Norwegian home life, the high standard of education among the Norwegians and, just at the end, the passionate nature of Vamp.
The spring fills her with longings. It also shows where Slump stands. For him the spring merely opens the pores of his skin.
With this understanding we are ready for a little action.
(A bell rings. Then Simp the maid enters, showing in Dump, a Professor of Thermodynamics.)
Good-morning, Dump. Good-morning, Slump. Good-morning, Vamp. Good-morning, Dump.
Dump: The spring will soon be here.
Vamp: I saw a bobolink in the garden.
Dump: Yes, I saw a wagtail on the thatch of the dovecote.
Slump: Spring is coming.
Dump: It will do my cough good.
Vamp: Yes, you will soon be well.
Dump: Never well. (He coughs again.)
Slump: You think too much. You need pleasure. For me each time I finish a sub-contract, I like to take my ease and drink sprott.
Dump: I can’t drink sprott. (He coughs.) I have a mortal disease.
Vamp: Don’t say that.
Dump: In six years I shall be dead.
Slump: Nonsense. Come, drink a glass of sprott.
No.
Have some yip?
No.
Take some pep?
No.
(Dump goes and sits down near a window; the others look at him in silence.)
This completes round two. It is intended to establish the fact that Dump has a mortal disease. There is nothing visibly wrong with Dump except that he looks bilious. But in every Ibsen play it is understood that one of the characters has to have a mortal disease. Dump in the Ibsen drama will die of biliousness and ill-temper in six years. Biliousness and ill temper take the place of Anangke in the Greek tragedy.
Slump: Well, I must be about my work. Come, Simp, come and help me get my wallet and my compasses.
Simp: Yes, sir. (Simp and Slump go out. Vamp and Dump are left alone.)
Vamp: Come and sit down.
Dump: I don’t want to sit down. I’m too ill to sit down.
Here, get into this long chair, let me make you comfortable.
(Vamp makes Dump sit down.) There, now, you’re comfortable.
Why should I be comfortable? I’m too ill to be comfortable. In six years I shall be dead.
Oh no! Don’t say that.
Yes I will. The bile is mounting to my œsophagous.
Oh, no!
I say it is. There’s an infiltration into my ducts. My bones are turning into calcareous feldspar.
This dialogue is supposed to bring out the full charm of Dump. The more bilious he is the better Vamp likes him. It is a law of the Norwegian drama that the heroines go simply crazy over bilious disagreeable men with only from six to twenty years to live. This represents the “everlasting-mother-soul.” They go on talking: —
Vamp: Let me dance for you.
Dump: Yes, yes.
Vamp: Let me dance for you.
Dump: No. Yes, yes. Dance for me.
Vamp is evidently smitten with that peculiar access of gayety that is liable to overcome the heroine of an Ibsen play at any time. She dances about the room singing as she goes:
Was ik en Butterflog
Flog ik dein Broost enswog,
Adjö, mein Hertzenhog,
Adje, Adjö!
Dump (passionately): More, more, keep on singing. Keep on dancing. It exhilarates my capillary tissue. More, more.
Vamp: Do you love me?
Dump: I do.
Vamp: No, you mustn’t say that. It’s wicked to say that. What put that into your head?
Dump: Dance for me again.
Vamp: No, I mustn’t. Listen. I hear them coming back.
(Slump and Simp come back into the room.)
Slump: There, I have everything, my wallet, my compasses, my slide rule, — right, everything is here.
Dump: You are very busy. What are you building now?
Slump: I am laying gas mains. They are to go under the market hall. They are twenty feet under the pavement. I have forty workmen working, — and six steam dredges digging. When I see them dig I want to shout “Ha! ha! Dig harder! Dig harder!” Do you like steam shovels?
No, they make a noise.
I like noise. It makes my veins tingle. Don’t you like it?
No. It closes my ducts. I don’t like it.
Ha! This morning we are to explode dynamite to blow out the boulders. When it explodes I like to shout, “Ha! That was a good one!” Don’t you like dynamite?
No, it oscillates my diaphragm.
Slump: Ha, you should learn to like it. Look, here are sticks of it. Like shaving sticks, aren’t they? Slump takes from his pockets some short sticks of dynamite.
Vamp: Don’t speak so roughly. It is bad for Dump. It will make him cough.
(Dump coughs.)
Vamp: You see. Come away, Dump. Come into the conservatory. I have a lovely Eschscholzia that I want to show you.
(Vamp and Dump go out.)
Round three is now complete. It is meant to show that Slump the sub-contractor is a man of terrible driving powers. He is filled with the “drang” of life. You have to call this “drang” simply “drang” because in English we don’t have it. It means something the same as “pep” but not quite. Pep is intellectual; drang is bodily. It means, as all the critics of the play point out, that Slump represents the upsurge of elemental forces.
Slump (calling): Now then, Simp, my hat, my stick and a glass of sprott. Where are you?
I am coming, master.
(Simp comes in with a hat and stick and with a glass of sprott in her hand.)
Ha, give it me. I like my sprott. It makes my eyes bulge. (He drinks greedily.)
You shouldn’t drink so fast.
I like to drink fast. It inflates me. Ha! (He finishes the glass and puts it aside.) Ha! That’s good. You’re a pretty girl.
Oh!
Come and give me a kiss.
No.
Yes, you shall. (He takes hold of Simp and draws her towards him.)
No.
Yes, I say. (He kisses Simp greedily three or four times.) There!
Simp: You shouldn’t kiss me.
Why not?
I have a hereditary taint.
Slump (aghast): What?
I have a hereditary taint. My grandmother died of appendicitis.
Slump (staggering back, his hand to his brow): Appendicitis!
Simp: Yes, look, I have the marks of it.
(Simp raises her sleeve and shows a round red mark on her wrist.)
Slump: Great Heavens! Sprott! Give me some more sprott.
(He stands staring in front of him while Simp fetches another glass of sprott. He drinks it eagerly.)
Simp: How do you feel now?
Slump: Bad. There are specks dancing in front of my eyes. What does it mean?
Simp: Appendicitis.
Slump: I am doomed! Give me more sprott. Appendicitis! Sprott!
The action of the play pauses here a moment to let the audience appreciate the full measure of retribution that has fallen upon Slump for kissing a Norwegian housemaid. Slump has sunk into a chair and sits with his eyes staring in front of him. Simp stands looking at him unconcerned. Vamp and Dump come back.
Vamp: Good heavens! What is the matter?
Dump: What is it?
Simp: I don’t know. I don’t think he is well.
Slump: (beginning to hark like a dog): Wow. Wow.
Vamp: No, he is not well.
Dump: He is hardly himself.
Slump: Bow, wow.
Vamp: I should say that he is ill.
Dump: Yes, he seems poorly.
Slump: Wow.
Vamp: He appears in poor health.
Dump: Yes, he looks out of sorts.
(Slump takes the sticks of dynamite out of his pocket and begins to eat them.)
Vamp: What is he doing now?
Dump: I think he is eating dynamite.
Vamp: Will it hurt him?
Dump: Yes, presently.
