Cards of Identity

by Nigel Dennis

  ‘May I add a rider?’ cried Mr Jamesworth: ‘that we feel no good would be obtained by postponing the business in any way?’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Father Orfe. ‘Nostalgic memories of his prime might stay our hands.’

  ‘We will have more room for grief once he is out of the way,’ said Dr Shubunkin. ‘So don’t let’s put the cart before the horse.’

  ‘It begins to sound like a tumbril,’ said the President.

  ‘You will be much happier, you know,’ said Father Orfe, ‘in an identity that really suits you.’

  ‘You don’t think that is stretching our theory?’ asked the President.

  ‘It seems to me to follow admirably,’ said Dr Musk. ‘It would be a poor theory if it didn’t.’

  ‘It would lack all the qualities of absolute finality that every good theory must have,’ said Father Orfe. ‘It would leave room for doubt. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’

  ‘Why, no, I don’t think so,’ said the President. ‘I had always realized, of course, that every theory must reach a fatal conclusion, but it had not occurred to me that this time the conclusion would be me.’

  ‘I don’t think this is a time for jokes,’ said Mr Harcourt peevishly. ‘If the President intends to resign, as I gather he does, he owes it to the club to do so with dignity.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Captain Mallet, rising suddenly, ‘let me warn you that in a few minutes the staff play is due to begin and that we cannot put it off.’

  ‘I warmly agree,’ said the President.

  ‘Surely that’s fiddling while Rome’s burning?’ said Father Orfe.

  ‘You will hear no objections from Rome,’ said the President.

  ‘It is heartening, gentlemen,’ said the captain, ‘to see our old friend go out with a jest.’

  ‘He has not much option,’ said Mr Jamesworth. ‘Besides, the tragic vein was never his forte.’

  There was a knock on the door and Mrs Paradise appeared. ‘We are all ready, sir,’ she said, dropping the captain a curtsey.

  ‘And so are we, Florence,’ he replied.

  ‘Do all the gentlemen have their programmes, sir?’

  ‘They do, Florence.’

  ‘Then shall I put out the lights?’

  ‘By all means. And draw the curtains.’

  The Prince of Antioch

  or

  An Old Way to New Identity

  BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  *

  Edited by Miss Blanche Tray

  CAST

  THE PRINCE OF ANTIOCH Herbert Towzer

  CAPTAIN JACK Henry Jellicoe

  COUNT OF BAALBECK Mrs Chirk

  DUKE OF BURGUNDY Miss Blanche Tray

  KING OF ARTOIS Herbert Towzer

  KING OF ARTOIS’ PRIME MINISTER Henry Jellicoe

  TURNKEY Miss Blanche Tray

  GHOSTS Mrs Chirk

  HERMIONE Mrs Paradise

  CATRIONA Miss Blanche Tray

  RADEGUND Miss Finch

  QUEEN OF ARTOIS Mrs Paradise

  Other Dukes, Lords, Counsellors, Courtiers, Pikemen, etc. played by all members of the staff, according to convenience.

  PROLOGUE

  Spoken by Mrs Chirk

  Thank you, good friends, your welcone warms my heart

  (Now, clap ye all, and justify my start).

  Retard your orange ’til our acts are sped;

  Cast not its blood upon the Prologue’s head.

  * * *

  Before you walks a company of men

  That’s sad and weary in its acumen.

  We ask you: who are you, and what are we

  That play as riddlers with identity?

  Are you our hosts, who pay us for our pains,

  Or is it we boards you, and entertains?

  Answer me not! Can any answer be?

  Can any tie one tight identity?

  E’en he that’s Will’d this play is self-mistaken,

  Flitched like a hog to make a Bacon:

  Is yoked to Oxford to conform a Vere,

  Is skinned and tanned, so Dyer’s hand appear.

  The skeleton that’s left, with this all done

  Must course a Derby e’er his race is run,

  Yet still must hear that he was much remiss

  In wearing laurel which was pluckt by Chris.

  Was ever butcher’s boy so tricked and baited,

  So carved to sirloin – or so well related?

  Nay, never was; hence he hath thought it fit

  To add to his apportionments, his bit;

  T’assuage, in mirth, the sadness of his fame,

  Which all acknowledge but decline his name.

  Our play’s a riddle in which ours display

  The guises which your living selves portray;

  The many semblances that make one you,

  Shall play, through us, the game of who is who.

  And play it fair, as players only can

  Who’ve played your play since play and time began.

  I.1

  Scene: A furious seashore: enter, on spars, the Prince of Antioch, disguised as a common sailor, and a sea-captain.

  PRINCE: Fundament! Fundament! Do I find bottom?

  CAPT: Aye, zany, anchor thy soles!

  Cut short thy prayers; they’re curtly answered.

  Oh, I am froze white as my grandfather’s beard!

  Off! Fetch sere sticks;

  We’ll build such fire the north star himself

  Will find his ice a-sweat.

  PRINCE: Who orders me? Am I one that’s ordered?

  CAPT (striking him): Sticks, goose, rummage thy bill!

  Waste not my chilled surmise

  On thy peculiar. Art so wet i’ the pan

  Thou hast forgot thyself? I’ll fetch flint.

  Exit Captain in search of flints.

  PRINCE (picking up sticks): He does not see the toity prince,

  Shrouded in sables, hung in gold carats,

  Who lolled the poop, pond’ring an Assyrian theme,

  Barking him orders till his knee-caps creaked

  Much as these woody bones (breaks a twig). Thus, too,

  Was my dear greatness snapped, when that vast storm

  Screaming from northward in a harpy’s veil,

  O’er powered the barque in which I was in route

  (From Thule on successful embassy) back

  To my desert throne. A state of caution

  Warned me to this disguise, lest I in turmoil,

  Should be despoilt.

  Takes a handful of rubies from his pocket.

  But now, I’ll drop it off and be myself.

  With these I’ll bribe the churl to take me home.

  Enter Captain, with flints.

  Here, Captain, precious gems; look, look!

  CAPT: Put off your sanguine pebbles! All’s now

  Grown green; red’s but a boiled lobster.

  Give me your sticks.

  Kindles fire.

  PRINCE: This hotty beam exonerates my chills.

  CAPT: Stand that the rising flame may cause the sea,

  Hugging its harbourage in your worsted cape,

  To be expelled right out in ghostly steam.

  Thus did I when we foundered off Ragusa,

  Spalato, Joppa, Tenereef, and Ness,

  And many other wrecks of which I shall

  In due course tell you, down

  To the last detail.

  PRINCE: So many founderings?

  CAPT: Was never a storm,

  Turning uncertain in the seven skies,

  But saw me peaceful in a distant sea

  And chose me for her seat.

  PRINCE: Yet thus thou hast escaped men’s follies ashore, Captain?

  CAPT: Nay, nay, all them too I’ve had.

  PRINCE: What! Treason, revolt, dissent? Landsmen’s furies?

  CAPT: Never a month absent. They wait me at the port.

  PRINCE: Some heaven’s protected thee.


  CAPT: Ay, some heaven and a cutlass.

  PRINCE (aside): Through this hard wretch, if I am resolute,

  I may at last draw wisdom from her well,

  For he, salt as a winter bean, may

  Keep ajar a whole philosophy

  To feed a tender prince.

  Off, royal self and panoply! I’ll be

  His mate and pupil; thumb his horny book,

  And take fresh wisdom home to Antioch. All my

  Advisers, counsellors, and nobs, I’ll

  Rule with tar and salt, a sailor king,

  Shrewd as a flea.

  To Captain.

  Knowst thou this shore, sir?

  CAPT: Your sir is pleasing in my ears; no sound

  Has quite the sweetness of the bending spine.

  As to this shore, I see upon a dune

  A tug of twitch-grass: where that couchie

  Grows, Nature dictates the sand of Brittany.

  PRINCE: Thrice-cloven Gaul, salute you this triune!

  One, a hard Captain, wombed in a canvas gut;

  Two, a soft Prince, tutored in all but life;

  Three, a poor student, fumbling a new book.

  Whence now, sir, captain?

  CAPT: Art steamed, clam?

  PRINCE: All but my marrow.

  CAPT: We’ll find a farmhouse: on its fringe, I’ll

  Hang, spying out the land.

  At my demand you’ll climb the guardian roost,

  Abduct a creamy goose

  And hasten back. I’ll tend our rear.

  PRINCE (aside): His methods are not nice nor honourable,

  But I’ll not question one whose mischief bold

  Doubtless conceals a soul as wise as gold.

  Exeunt.

  I.2

  Scene: A Chamber in the Palace of the Duke of Brittany. Enter the Duke, Counsellors, and Attendants.

  DUKE: Tedium engrosses me. Another hour,

  Another face, all different, all the same.

  Is business done?

  COUN: A few more peasants ask you justice.

  DUKE: Murderous few! Enter, assassins!

  Enter 1st Peasant.

  1ST P: Most noble Lord, Serene Preponderance –

  DUKE: Plea, sir! Law is a mouse-trap,

  Sprung in a trice!

  1ST P: Your honourable steward hath proclaimed

  That I, my flocks, my whole demesne,

  And wife and bairns, numbering seventeen,

  Are forfeit all to you.

  DUKE: Harsh! Harsh! Give him a groat for a new codpiece.

  Ha! Ha!

  Exit 1st Peasant.

  Enter 2nd Peasant.

  2ND P: I fished a troutlet from your stream.

  Tomorrow I’ll be hanged.

  DUKE: Good riddance! Hang and be damned!

  Wait! Where was the catch?

  2ND P: Beneath the sallow, at the gloomy bend

  They call Lejeune’s.

  DUKE: Here’s information to dry on a gallows! Give him

  A golden livre; appoint him

  My Counsellor of Fish.

  2ND P: Delicious Duke, protect you God!

  Exit 2nd Peasant.

  COUN: All done, my lord. Wouldst play at chess?

  Arranges board. They play.

  DUKE: Ha! I’ll chop you a mitre! Ha, Ha!

  COUN: My mouth turns dry, but I’ll cry check, my Lord.

  DUKE: Hounds and cameras; here: take it, take it!

  Kicks chess-board into the air.

  ATTEND: Hermione is here, my Lord.

  Enter Hermione.

  DUKE: Come near, Hermione. Rosiest

  Of blossoms, Sharon’s choicest nut:

  Sugar me, sweetmeat; pluck me till my strings

  Fret to a gallop.

  HERM: I’ll take you to my boudoir,

  Show you my brushes tortoiseshell;

  My charms, my lockets, sprigs, and fairey sprays,

  Wind you in pinky silk of bodyguard,

  Closet your humour in a secret drawer,

  Coddle your langour

  Into sharp infamy.

  DUKE: She half persuades me. No, no;

  ’Tis but old nip and tuck

  Veiled in a rainbow. Take the old bag away!

  Exit Hermione.

  What now? Where’s my new clown?

  ATTEND: Clown! Clown!

  COUN: The rogue is absent, lord.

  DUKE: Find him, old goat!

  His oddities delight me. False

  As the plover’s cry, they hide deep wisdom.

  Oh miserable man, unhappy me,

  Fixed as an alter, dull as a keystone;

  Condemned to duty, as a kitchen knife’s

  Clenched to a grindstone. To hang,

  Promote, and pardon, play on a board,

  Fuddle a witch – what fates

  This dismal round? I am

  Deader than any doornail. Oh, oh!

  Where is my clown?

  Exit Attendants in a flurry, shouting

  Clown, Clown!

  I.3

  Scene: The Ducal goose-roost. Enter the Count of Baalbeck, disguised as the Duke’s clown.

  COUNT: Peace, peace at last. Among these furs and feathers,

  Beaks, horns, and claws I find a leisure.

  The Duke’s a bore, his attendants worse –

  If worse than bore can be – and I,

  Disguiséd through necessity, must play the fool.

  How can I cackle, trip, and play the goat

  When every item in my senses’ book

  Sums to the total of Hermione?

  This screwy fowl that apprehends my steps,

  Resumes the pretty strutting of my love.

  This monstrous dunghill, in contingent rank,

  Doth but attach me to her vaprous scent.

  As I a clown, so does she play a whore,

  And yet methinks she, too, is somewhat more.

  A certain quality beneath her brass

  Bespeaks a gentle. I wonder, say,

  If she’s my sister in disguise;

  (That would be odd) or some disfranchised queen?

  But whore or paladine I’ll never ask! Love

  Probes not th’essent nature, hugs in the one enfold

  Enclaves of pro and con. Oh! my heart raged

  To see him put her off so sharp! Death –

  His or mine I know not – clouded the moment’s breath.

  But hist, whist! Voices, voices; what does?

  Conceals himself.

  Enter the Prince of Antioch, followed at a distance by the Captain.

  PRINCE: What now, sweet mentor?

  CAPT: Here’s a place for plunder, schoolboy, oh my eye! On, on, there’s a spanking roost ahead, filled up, I swear, with host o’ drowsy muttering fowls. In, in with you, snatch you a gander. Cosset him close at the neck, snug as a tippet. I’ll wait you here, whisp’ring advice.

  Hides.

  COUNT (aside): What! A mariner robbing my pumpkin’s roost!

  CAPT: Forward, forward; forward is hearty!

  PRINCE: Forward, my aspic legs!

  Enters roost.

  COUNT: Ho! Ho! Guards and securers! Arson! Murder! Help, help! A manikin in my lord’s filbert, a second under brush.

  Lights and alarms.

  PRINCE: What, now? Master, master, inform me, pray, pray!

  CAPT: Thou’st muffed it, colt. Put thy legs to the fence or swing ’em on a gibbet!

  Flees.

  PRINCE: Can a poplar run, rooted?

  COUNT (advancing): Antioch’s voice in Brittany!

  PRINCE: Touch me not, fool!

  COUNT: No fool but knows his brother. Look, my visage.

  PRINCE: What! Two fools o’ the same mother?

  They embrace.

  How’re you here, dear one?

  COUNT: Antioch’s lost. Since your depart, Enos,

  That trusted eunuch, hath

  Turned i’ the pan, put out poor father’
s eyes,

  And wound him up a mummy. Your own betrothed,

  The velvety Zenobia, raped by conspiring Turks,

  Which have enslaved our mother. Our sisters now

  All concubines, praying to Mahomet, blood

  Like a million Niles flooding our ancient seat.

  PRINCE: Oh, dear, what sorry news! My grief oblates In oozy gutturals.

  COUNT: Fly, fly, redeem your kingdom, heir of Antioch!

  Or stay and hang, a common poacher.

  Enter Guards, Attendants, with pikes and torches.

  PRINCE: Meseems it were too late.

  COUNT (aside): Thus was he ever. Some disposition

  Peculiar to his temper, checked his pace.

  In Antioch, instructed by old Zeno, a

  Sluggard sprite engaged him, made all his homework late.

  Oh, brother, brother! Thou hast hesitated

  For the last time.

  Exeunt Guards with captive Prince, followed by Attendants and Count.

  I.4

  Scene: The Duke’s Chamber. Enter Guards, Attendants, with Prince and Captain, manacled, followed by Count.

  1ST COUN: Here’s diversion, my Lord! A sailor turned roost-robber, caught in the act, and his fellow snatched up two fields distant.

  2ND COUN: You’ll hang them both, my Lord, with much entrancing ceremony.

  3RD COUN: ’Twill bright a whole long tedious morning, Lord. Do I call the Master of your Ceremonies?

  DUKE: I guess so.

  1ST COUN: Remit, dear Lord, a public invitation, and delight your villeins with the spectacle.

  DUKE: Why not?

  3RD COUN: I’ll call the torturers and butchers too. We’ll make a shambles.

  DUKE: Thanks, generous friends.

  I see you do conspire

  To silk the silly worsted of my life.

  Aside.

  All fur and presence, yea or nay according,

  They tread me as their hen, much as these mariners.

  To Prince.