The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays Part 32

VIOLETTA. Those stupid tarts! And wouldn't I make a pretty picture riding on the white palfrey, garlanded with flowers, followed by the cheers of the populace--Long live Queen Violetta, long live Queen Violetta! Those _abominable_ tarts!

KNAVE. I'm afraid that Her Ladyship is vain.

VIOLETTA. I am indeed. Isn't it fortunate?

KNAVE. Fortunate?

VIOLETTA. Well, I mean it would be fortunate if I were going to be queen. They get so much flattery. The queens who don't adore it as I do must be bored to death. Poor things! I'm never so happy as when I am being flattered. It makes me feel all warm and purry. That is another reason why I feel sure I was _made_ to be a queen.

KNAVE (_looking ruefully at the pan_). You will never be queen, My Lady, unless we can think of something quickly, some plan--

VIOLETTA. Oh, yes, dear Knave, please think of a plan at once.

Banished people, I suppose, have to comb their own hair, put on their shoes, and b.u.t.ton themselves up the back. I have never performed these estimable and worthy tasks, Knave. I don't know how; I don't even know how to scent my bath. I haven't the least idea what makes it smell deliciously of violets. I only know that it always _does_ smell deliciously of violets because I wish it that way. I should be miserable; save me, Knave, please.

KNAVE. My mind is unhappily a blank, Your Majesty.

VIOLETTA. It's very unjust. Indeed, it's unjust! No other queen in the world has to understand cooking; even the Queen of Spades doesn't. Why should the Queen of Hearts, of all people!

KNAVE. Perhaps it is because--I have heard a proverb: "The way to the heart is through the--"

VIOLETTA (_angrily, stamping her foot_). Don't repeat that hateful proverb! Nothing can make me more angry. I feel like crying when I hear it, too. Now see, I'm crying. You made me.

KNAVE. Why does that proverb make you cry, My Lady?

VIOLETTA. Oh, because it is such a stupid proverb and so silly, because it's true in most cases, and because--I don't know why.

KNAVE. We are a set of moles here. One might also say that we are a set of mules. How can moles or mules either be expected to understand the point of view of a Bird of Paradise when she--

VIOLETTA. Bird of Paradise! Do you mean me?

KNAVE (_bowing_). I do, My Lady, figuratively speaking.

VIOLETTA (_drying her eyes_). How very pretty of you! Do you know, I think that you would make a splendid chancellor.

KNAVE. Her Ladyship is vain, as I remarked before.

VIOLETTA (_coldly_). As I remarked before, how fortunate. Have you anything to suggest--a plan?

KNAVE. If only there were time my wife could teach you. Her figure is squat, round, her nose is clumsy, and her eyes stumble over it; but her cooking, ah--(_He blows a kiss_) it is a thing to dream about. She cooks as naturally as the angels sing. The delicate flavors of her concoctions float over the palate like the perfumes of a thousand flowers. True, her temper, it is anything but sweet--However, I am conceded by many to be the most happily married man in the kingdom.

VIOLETTA (_sadly_). Yes. That's all they care about here. One may be, oh, so cheerful and kind and nice in every other way, but if one can't cook n.o.body loves one at all.

KNAVE. Beasts! My higher nature cries out at them for holding such views. Fools! Swine! But my lower nature whispers that perhaps after all they are not far from right, and as my lower nature is the only one that ever gets any encouragement--

VIOLETTA. Then you think that there is nothing to be done--I shall have to be banished?

KNAVE. I'm afraid--Wait, I have an idea! (_Excitedly_) Dulcinea, my wife--her name is Dulcinea--made known to me this morning, very forcibly--Yes, I remember, I'm sure--Yes, she was going to bake this very morning some raspberry tarts--a dish in which she particularly excels--If I could only procure some of them and bring them here!

VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, dearest, sweetest Knave, could you, I mean, would you? Is there time? The court will return.

(_They tiptoe to the door and listen stealthily._)

KNAVE. I shall run as fast as I can. Don't let anyone come in until I get back, if you can help it.

(_He jumps on the table, ready to go out the window._)

VIOLETTA. Oh, Knave, how clever of you to think of it. It is the custom for the King to grant a boon to the Queen at her coronation. I shall ask that you be made Chancellor.

KNAVE (_turning back_). Oh, please don't, My Lady, I implore you.

VIOLETTA. Why not?

KNAVE. It would give me social position, My Lady, and that I would rather die than possess. Oh, how we argue about that, my wife and I! Dulcinea wishes to climb, and the higher she climbs, the less she cooks. Should you have me made Chancellor, she would never wield a spoon again.

VIOLETTA (_pursing her lips_). But it doesn't seem fair, exactly.

Think of how much I shall be indebted to her. If she enjoys social position, I might as well give her some. We have lots and lots of it lying around.

KNAVE. She wouldn't, My Lady, she wouldn't enjoy it. Dulcinea is a true genius, you understand, and the happiness of a genius lies solely in using his gift. If she didn't cook she would be miserable, although she might not be aware of it, I'm perfectly sure.

VIOLETTA. Then I shall take all social position away from you.

You shall rank below the scullery maids. Do you like that better?

Hurry, please.

KNAVE. Thank you, My Lady; it will suit me perfectly.

(_He goes out with the tarts._ VIOLETTA _listens anxiously for a minute; then she takes her skirt between the tips of her fingers and practises in pantomime her antic.i.p.ated ride on the palfrey.

She bows, smiles, kisses her hand, until suddenly she remembers the mule standing outside the gates of the palace. That thought saddens her, so she curls up in_ POMPDEBILE'S _throne and cries softly, wiping away her tears with a lace handkerchief. There is a knock. She flies to the door and holds it shut._)

VIOLETTA (_breathlessly_). Who is there?

CHANCELLOR. It is I, Lady Violetta. The King wishes to return.

VIOLETTA (_alarmed_). Return! Does he? But the tarts are not done.

They are not done at all!

CHANCELLOR. You said they would be ready in twenty minutes. His Majesty is impatient.

VIOLETTA. Did you play a game of checkers with him, Chancellor?

CHANCELLOR. Yes.

VIOLETTA. And did you beat him?

CHANCELLOR (_shortly_). I did not.

VIOLETTA (_laughing_). How sweet of you! Would you mind doing it again just for me? Or would it be too great a strain on you to keep from beating him twice in succession?

CHANCELLOR. I shall tell the King that you refuse admission.