I am that cunning infidel
By men called CHANCE,—you know me well.
It is through me you met your wives;
Through me your harvest blights or thrives;
And one and all, through me, to-day
Hither you came to see the play,
Which if your favor still you lend,
As now, so on until the end,
You shall be taught what way a King
Though a sublime and awful thing
And even wise, may come to be
A laughing-stock,—and all through me!
(Exit)
(enter King)
King:
I am the King of all this land:
I hold a sceptre in my hand;
Upon my head I wear a crown;
Everybody stands when I sit down. (Sits)
Chance (Appearing to audience; he is invisible
throughout the play to the other players in it.):
Excepting me,—please bear in mind
I sit whenever I feel inclined. (Sits)
King:
Although my lands are wide and long,
My walls right thick, my armies strong,
I am not wholly satisfied.
Chance:
That is because you have no bride.
King:
Who speaks?—Come forth and, if you dare,
Say once again what causes my care!
Why I am discontent with life!
Chance:
It is because you have no wife.
King:
A woman in my royal house!
A woman! A wife! A bride! A spouse!
Bold stranger, this is not the cure,
For a woman I could never endure!
Chance:
Per-CHANCE to-morrow you will find
You have altered your imperial mind.
(Exeunt King and Chance severally)
(Enter Tidy)
Tidy:
I am TIDY, I have been
All my life both neat and clean.
From my outside to my in
Clean am I unto my skin.
Every day into a bucket
My hands I dip, my head I duck it;
And if the water plenty be
I sometimes wet some more of me.
This is my kitchen, where you will find
All things pleasant and to your mind;
Against the wall in orderly pairs—
One, two,—one, two,—observe my chairs
In the middle of the room my table stands:
I would not move it for many lands.
My basins and bowls are all in their places;
The bottoms of my pots are as clean as your faces.
My kettle boils so cheerily,
It is like a friendly voice to me;
About my work I merrily sing,
And I brush my hearth with a white duck’s wing.
Oh, full is every cupboard, sharp is every knife!—
My bright, sunny kitchen is the pride of my life!
(Exit Tidy)
(Enter Slut)
Slut:
I am SLUT; I am a slattern,
You must not take me for your pattern.
I spend my days in slovenly ease;
I sleep when I like and I wake when I please.
My manners, they are indolent;
In clutter and filth I am quite content.
Here is my kitchen, where I stir up my messes,
And wear out my old shoes and soiled silk dresses.
My table sags beneath the weight
Of stale food and unwashed plate;
The cat has tipped the pitcher o’er,—
The greasy stream drips onto the floor;
Under the table is a broken cup—
I am too tired to pick it up.
(Exit Slut)
(Enter King)
Continue reading “Read Edna St. Vincent Millay’s one-act play, Two Slatterns and a King” →
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