Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 296
Act I. — A Camp in Flanders.
Enter the King of the Belgians with the Belgian Army (two men) followed by My Lord French with the English Army (two men) and the Speaker of the Chamber of Deputies with the French Army (one man).
My Lord FrenchHow now, my liege? :
The King:
. . . But ill, my noble French,
Town after town, the jewels of my crown,
Lost to these dirty Pups; in sooth,
Good French, the thing begins to get me.
The Speaker of the Chamber of Deputies:
Not so, Lord King, we are not licked by half.
Our army, sore reduced, can still make head.
Let us fall on again.
The French Army (waving his sword).Fall on.
(Exeunt the three armies.)
Lord French:
Well said, O noble France,
Let them fall on. Mark me, — let them, not us,
And when they do, let us take cognizance
Of how it fares with them.
The KingHow stands our cause in England? :
Lord French:
Not half bad,
Our armies multiply, while on the seas
From each far corner of the distant world
Comes the full tide of Empire.
The KingExactly, you mean that the various :
Dominions of the British Empire have shown an
entire willingness to participate in the war.
Lord FrenchDidn’t I say that? :
The King:
Belike, perhaps, yet, couched in subtle verse,
It reached me not. And tell me, noble France,
What is the latest word from Washington?
The Speaker of the Chamber of Deputies:
The noble Wilson walketh in his room
And times he will and other times he won’t,
Whether to seize the sword and cut the knot
Or hold the equal poise of statesmanship.
The KingThank you. I get the idea without :
further difficulty. You mean that it is still
uncertain whether the United States will enter
the war.
The Speaker of the Chamber of DeputiesYes. :
Enter an illiterate peasant.
The Illiterate PeasantMy liege, my lord, alas! :
AllWhat bring you! What news. :
The Illiterate Peasant:
Sad is the news, my lord. The infuriate Hun,
Wreaking his wrath in ever-widening sweep,
That will not take denial of advance,
Hath met and overwhelmed our weakened force
And all are gone, —
The KingAll five? :
The Illiterate PeasantAll five, my lord. :
The KingAlas! this day! good French, :
commend me to my cousin George.
(King stabs himself and falls dead.)
Lord FrenchAlas, good King, I am a soldier :
too. I follow still.
(Stabs himself and falls dead.)
The Speaker of the Chamber of Deputies:
Be it not said that in this Big Idea
A Frenchman failed.
(Stabs himself and falls dead.)
The Illiterate Peasant:
I, too, the last to the Hyrcanean shades,
Where gloomy Pluto reigns o’er slumbering souls,
Will down.
(Stabs himself and falls dead.)
Enter Winston Churchill, with a link and an historical note-book.
What scene is this! (looks at the bodies)
A dreadful sight in sooth I witness here,
A king distended on a German bier.
Curtain.
Act II. — A Hall in Castle in Lorraine.
Enter the Emperor of Alleman accompanied by his army (three) and the Dukes of Hindenburg and Ludendorff. A tucket sounds.
The EmperorWho comes? :
Enter the King of Austria.
Welcome, noble Austria. What news bring
you, and how are our Brothers Bavaria and
Bulgaria?
The King of Austria:
Sweet William, all are well, the noble Fred
Drives all his enemies before him.
The EmperorUs too? Not so, my Lord :
Dukes?
Dukes Hindenburg and LudendorffIt is. :
The EmperorWe lick the world. :
Dukes Hindenburg and LudendorffWe do. :
The Emperor (raising a Goblet)Gesundheit! :
At this moment the ghost of Abraham Lincoln, wearing a frock-coat and hat and looking very solid, walks around the back of the room.
The Emperor (affrighted)What is it! :
All (affrighted):
Lo, where it walks
’Twould speak . . .
The Ghost of LincolnBeware the Ides of April. :
The Ghost vanishes by walking across to a door and going out of it.
The EmperorWhat means it? :
Dukes of Hindenburg and LudendorffIt means :
that the United States has entered the war on
April 5th.
The Emperor:Give me poison, quick!
HindenburgNot. Wait till the last Act. You :
get it then and get it good.
The Emperor (speaking in rhyme to end the Act):
Oh what an April idiot I am
Fighting France, England, America and Siam.
Curtain.
Act III. — A Camp in Eastern France.
Moonlight. Enter My Lord Pershing of Paterson, New Jersey. He addresses the moon:
Oh thou bright orb, whose incandescent beam
Looks down each night on the United States,
Floods Porto Rico and the Philippines,
Gilds with its gold the Zone of Panama,
Alaska’s snow, and Hikkitikki Beach
In Honolulu — shine but one more night,
One more — we have them pinched.
Enter the Earl of Philadelphia leading the American Army (four men).
PershingHow now, good Philadelphia? :
Philadelphia:
All is well.
Our noble army landing from New York
Hath pushed its way across the map of France,
Leaving a track of cigarettes and gum,
Nought can avail against its driving force,
Onward and forward goes our dry canteen,
Y.M.C.A. and lecture for the Boys,
In vain they try to dam us and they don’t.
PershingThey dam us not. :
Philadelphia:
They don’t and now behold we have them pinched.
Our boys in front, stout England on the flank,
And in between, the boys from Canada,
While farther East the army of Siam
Joins hands with France and noble Portugal.
The thing’s a cinch.
Noise of battle is heard, occasioned by some one beating with a stick.
PershingThe fight approaches. Stand fast. :
AllStand fast! :
Enter the Emperor of Alleman in flight, pursued by My Lord Currie of Strathray and the Canadian Army (both of them), followed by the King of Austria pursued by George V of England, followed by the Duke of Hindenburg pursued by Woodrow Wilson, followed by King Ferdinand of Bulgaria pursued by the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, and the King of Bavaria pursued by the Speaker of the French Senate. Alarms and Excursions — in fact, it is a real Shakespearian climax — all fight, two by two, round the scene.
The Emperor of AllemanOh! I am killed. ( :Falls dead.)
The King of AustriaSo am I. ( :Falls dead.)
The Duke of HindenburgMe, too. ( :Falls dead.)
All the enemies fall dead, while Lord Pershing, the Earl of Philadelphia, Baron Currie of Strathray and the others stand looking at the bodies of the four dead kings and their dead Field-Marshals.
The Ghost of Abraham Lincoln (appearing in the moonlight):
I think, gentlemen, I may say without hypocrisy
That this sort of thing looks pretty safe for Democracy.
Curtain.
FINIS
IF THE GANDHI HABIT SPREADS. WHAT IF ALL THE POLITICIANS STRIP TO THE WAIST
ALL THE WORLD has its eyes on Mahatma Gandhi, the strange emaciated little Indian who is said to hold in his hand the destinies of three hundred and fifty million people. All the world has been struck by the wave of enthusiasm which greeted in England Gandhi’s appearance at the All India Round Table Conference. The strange little man, with his large spectacles, his loincloth, his bottle of goat’s milk, has made an impression on the public mind greater than that of Kings and Emperors in glittering uniform.
But it has not yet occurred to the public that Gandhi’s appearance in London carries with it a grave danger. What if the other politicians of the world follow suit — follow Gandhi’s suit? The probable result can be clearly seen from the following Press despatches, the first of which has already come over the wires, while the others will follow later.
I
Gandhi in London
Mahatma Gandhi has literally carried London by storm. He appeared at the All India Round Table Conference, clad only in his spectacles and his loincloth. His little brown enfeebled body bore witness to his long fasting and privations. Gandhi’s arms, it was remarked with a thrill of enthusiasm, are hardly bigger than billiard cues. The exuberant and admiring crowd which accompanied Gandhi from the Victoria Station to the Conference at the India House noted that his legs were little more than tubes with flexible joints. His stomach, however, is rather better, which makes his general appearance that of a compressed-air vacuum cleaner. Gandhi carried in one hand a paper bag filled with curdled goat’s milk and in the other a portable spinning-wheel, model of 100 b.c. As he took his seat at the Conference amid overwhelming applause it was felt by all the assembled statesmen that Gandhi had conquered. “We can’t go up against that,” said one leading Conservative peer with characteristic British sportsmanship, “the man has out-trained us and we know it.” It is said that Gandhi can now dictate his own terms by threatening to upset his goat’s milk and take off his loincloth. “If he does,” said the same peer, “we must withdraw from India.”
II
Snowden goes One Better
England has been saved from the sudden and overwhelming crisis into which the country was plunged by Mahatma Gandhi. To the wild delight of the supporters of the National Government, the Chancellor, Philip Snowden, appeared on the second morning of the India Conference wearing nothing except spectacles, sandals and a Lancashire bath-towel. Snowden, it was seen at once, has a daintier figure than Gandhi, with better arms and a cute little neck and shoulders. His skin is excellent and excited the immediate admiration of every poultry-fancier. Snowden carried a beautiful Hampshire cabbage which is all that he proposes to eat during the deliberations. He has entirely thrown Gandhi’s spinning-wheel into the shade.
III
Ramsay MacDonald Joins
The wavering allegiance of the Labour Party was welded again into solid bonds of cohesion by the appearance of Ramsay MacDonald in the full (Gandhi) costume of his native Scotland. The Prime Minister’s rugged and magnificent figure was revealed clad only in the MacDonald one-piece tartan. His chest was thrown open to the public. He had a tin-can of Haggis tied to his waist and he carried a sledge-hammer in his right hand. He has sworn to eat nothing but Haggis till Scotland is moved away from England and given Dominion status without expense. As he brandished his hammer and shouted “Bring me that Budget,” the crowd went wild with excitement. Meanwhile Mr. Gandhi was carried unobserved to a hospital, suffering from an inflation of goat’s milk.
IV
And the House of Commons
English politics last night were restored to a new basis of stable equilibrium by a meeting of the House of Commons which showed the universal adoption of the new Gandhi method. All the members appeared in the full costumes of ancient Britain, wearing only about the loins a chaplet of oak leaves, or in some cases only a mere paragraph of mistletoe. Their bodies were stained blue and it was plain that they had allowed their beards to grow during the long vacation. They carried heavy clubs with which they beat upon the floor with loud cries of Rah! Rah! England! Skol! Skol! Hooroo!
The one remark heard through the galleries and corridors was, “This is England again! To hell with the pound sterling!”
V
Mahatma Briand Gandhies France
The new Gandhi tactics have rapidly spread to Europe where they are accomplishing the same terrific political results. The first consequence in France has been to effect the political salvation of President Briand and Monsieur Laval, his Prime Minister. Briand appeared this morning on the Champs Elysées wearing only a dainty little frilled pantalonette, style Marie Antoinette, with a light chemisette of transparent batiste, style Charlotte Corday, thrown over his shoulders. He carried a dainty little parasol and a basket of fresh eggs. The wildest enthusiasm greeted him as he walked down the Champs Elysées to join the Premier at the Palais Bourbon. “Comme il est beau!” exclaimed the ladies, and again and again one heard the remark, Quel joli petit derrière, et comme ça se trémousse! On the steps of the Palais Bourbon the President was received by Prime Minister Laval, who wore eye-glasses and a pretty little blue-silk fichu looped round the hips and nailed on with tin-tacks. Of the two, Laval has perhaps the more upright figure, but Briand undoubtedly the more girlish. The attempt of the Opposition to raise the cry that he needed a shave was lost in the general enthusiasm. The Government is now safe till the cold weather.
VI
And America —
Latest advices from Washington report the White House as closed absolutely to the public since yesterday at noon. It is known, however, that messengers have been sent out to fetch a bunch of California Asparagus, and a mountain goat from Idaho together with an electric milking machine. Among the large crowd gathered about the White House the one subject of speculation is, “Will he do it?”
“If he does,” said a leading Democrat disconsolately, “there will be no presidential election next year.”
IN PRAISE OF THE AMERICANS. THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY WRITING THE FIRST STORY IN THIS BOOK
THE AMERICANS ARE a queer people: they can’t rest. They have more time, more leisure, shorter hours, more holidays and more vacations than any other people in the world. But they can’t rest. They rush up and down across their continent as tourists; they move about in great herds to conventions, they invade the wilderness, they flood the mountains, they keep hotels full. But they can’t rest. The scenery rushes past them. They learn it but they don’t see it. Battles and monuments are announced to them in a rubber-neck bus. They hear them but they don’t get them. They never stop moving: they rush up and down as Shriners, Masons, Old Graduates, Veterans, Bankers — they are a new thing each day, always rushing to a Reunion of something.
So they go on rushing till the undertaker gathers them in to a last convention.
The Americans are a queer people: they can’t read. They have more schools, and better schools, and spend more money on schools and colleges than all of Europe. But they can’t read. They print more books in one year than the French print in ten. But they can’t read. They cover their country with 100,000 tons of Sunday newspapers every week. But they don’t read them. They’re too busy. They use them for fires and to make more paper with. They buy eagerly thousands of new novels at two dollars each. But they only read page one. Their streets are full of huge signs. They won’t look at them. Their street-cars are filled with advertising. They turn their eyes away. Transparent colours, cartwheels and mechanical flares whirl and flicker in the crowded streets at night. No one sees them. Tons of circulars pour through the mails, through the houses and down the garbage chute. The last American who sat down to read died in about the days of Henry Clay.
The Americans are a queer people: they can’t drink. All of the American nation is haunted. They have a fierce wish to be sober: and they can’t. They pass fierce laws against themselves, shut themselves up, chase themselves, shoot themselves: and they can’t stay sober and they can’t drink. They have a furious idea that if they can ever get sober, all of them sober, they can do big things. But they can’t hold it. They got this mentality straight out of home life in Ohio, copied from the wild spree and the furious repentance of the pioneer farmer. The nation keeps it yet. It lives among red spectres, rum devils, broken bottles, weeping children, penitentiary cells, bar-rooms and broken oaths. The last man who sat down and drank a quiet glass of beer, was found dead — dead for twenty years — in Milwaukee.
The Americans are a queer people: they can’t play. Americans rush to work as soon as they get up. They want their work as soon as they wake. It’s a stimulant: the only one they’re not afraid of. They used to open their offices at 10 o’clock: then at 9: then at 8: then at 7. Now they never shut them. Every business in America is turning into an open-all-day-and-night business. They eat all night, dance all night, build buildings all night, run cars all night, make a noise all night. They can’t play. They try to, but they can’t. They turn football into a fight, baseball into a lawsuit and yachting into machinery. They can’t play. The little children can’t play: they use mechanical toys instead: toy cranes hoisting toy loads: toy machinery spreading a toy industrial depression of infantile dullness. The grown-up people can’t play: they use a mechanical gymnasium and a clockwork horse. They can’t swim: they use a float. They can’t run: they use a car. They can’t laugh: they hire a comedian and watch him laugh.
The Americans are a queer people: they don’t give a damn. All the world criticizes them and they don’t give a damn. All the world writes squibs like this about them and they don’t give a damn. Foreigner visitors come and write them up: they don’t give a damn. Lecturers lecture at them: they don’t care. They are told they have no art, no literature, and no soul. They never budge. Moralists cry over them, criminologists dissect them, writers shoot epigrams at them, prophets foretell the end of them, and they never move. Seventeen brilliant books analyse them every month: they don’t read them. The Europeans threaten to unite against them: they don’t mind. Equatorial Africa is dead sour on them: they don’t even know it. The Chinese look on them as full of Oriental cunning: the English accuse them of British stupidity: the Scotch call them close-fisted: the Italians say they are liars: the French think their morals loose, and the Bolsheviks accuse them of communism.
