 Cinderella, by George Calderon. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Jametis Pisoni. Mrs. Inquest, read by Ruth Golding. Heather, her daughter, a distinguished fashionable person. Read by Trisha G. Hilda, her stepdaughter. Read by Helen Taylor. Madam Helseth, her servant. Read by Madeira. Aunt Judy, her sister. Read by Maria Casper. Mobsy Man, Aunt Judy's dog. Read by Clara Snyder. Stockfish, read by M.B. Tezman, his son. Acts one and two, read by David Barnes. And Foot Act Three, read by Ian King. A Demon, read by Icy Jumbo. A Fairy, read by Lucy Perry. A Hired Waiter, read by Iswa. An Italian Waiter. Read by Laurie Ann Walden. A German Waiter. Read by Robert Steiner. A Chamberlain. Read by Zames Curran. Stage Directions, read by David Lawrence. End of Jametis Pisoni. Act One, of Cinderella, by George Calderon. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Prologue. The theatrical manager comes before the curtain and introduces the play with a short speech, in which he says that he has endeavored to please both generations, providing Ibsen for the young and pantomime for the old. The result is a pantomime as Ibsen would have written it, if only it had occurred to him to rate one. Cinderella, Act One, Scene One, Before a Drop Scene, Red Light and a Gong. Enter a Demon. What now? I am the spirit of the night, and to do evil is my chiefty light. When I see people happy, I am sad. Nothing seems good to me unless it's bad. Good girls like Cinderella drive me wild. She's never naughty. That's why I hate the child. And now that she's emerging from her teens, I'll give her no peace. I'll give her beans. White Light and a Gong. Enter a Fairy. Trimble, saucy knave. Behold, the enemy you feared of old. Oh, Lord, my word, that girl again. The Toot-la-faire-je-suit-la-renne. She's a undesirable immigrant. No harm shall come to Cinderella, from you or any other fellow. I and my fairies will protect her. They're the police. She's the inspector. Where are the others? Where's the ballet? They can't come on the stage today. So allay. Why not? Oh, Madame Brown forgot to send their things, so we're obliged to keep them in the wings. Enter the Fairy, singing her song. Dear little fairy, singing all wrong. If you can't hear her song, you're very fine. Oh, spare me, spare me. What have I done to deserve this? Enter the Fairy, singing her song. Dear little fairy, singing all wrong. If you can't hear her song, you're very plain. When he's finished, we'll sing it again. Enough. Belay there. It is time to give the kids their pantomime. Excent, demon and fairy. Scene two. The drop scene is raised, revealing an Ibsen interior. Mrs. Inquest sits at a table and knits. She rings a bell. Enter Madame Hilseth. Come hither, Madame Hilseth, and sit down by me. But I have the scuttles to fill. No matter. Come hither. I want to talk. Soliloquy is not allowed in modern plays. It is necessary that I should have a confidant. I'll take my sewing. I am a lady of middle age and pre-possessing aspect. My name is not Mrs. Twanke, it is Mrs. Inquest. A nice, cheerful sort of name with a Scandinavian ring about it. I do nothing all day but knit, knit, knit. It has some sort of symbolical meaning. I never open a book, we none of us ever do. There are no books in the house except what we write ourselves. We sit and brood over our sorrows. We are a peculiar family, all of us. We are a thing apart. Our names all begin with an H. There's Hilda and Hedda and Hilseth. And Inquest? We are all fond of pickles and all our uncles drink. And we all have green eyes of a peculiar shade. A good gracious, Mrs. Inquest. I've heard all this a dozen times before. Very likely. But those good people over there haven't. The name of this house is Rosmer's home. It is a gloomy place, situated on a bleak and cheerless heath overlooking the fjord. We have no friends, no neighbours. There is no human habitation within miles and miles except the gasworks. And here we all live, side by side, cheek by jull. But miles apart in soul, Hilda and Hedda and I. And we all detest each other heartily. Hedda is mad, Hilda is mad. We are all more or less mad. I must go and be about my work. Nay, hear me out. But indeed I must go. You shall hear me out. Forcing her back into her chair. Am I mistress here or not? Listen and I will tell you the story of my life. I have a past behind me. Ah, this becomes interesting. Do you know an idea that sort across my mind already once or twice? When I was very young I was married to a man with whom I had no single point of sympathy. He loved me, oh, so passionately. But it was only for my beauty, my charm, my wit. I was not a human being to him. Not a creature with a free, wild will. I was only a chattel, a doll. Even then I wanted to live my own life. But he wouldn't so much as let me eat macaroons. Ah, so you are Nora. Yes, I am that unhappy woman. I know all about you. You ran away. Ran away? Oh, that was nothing. I soon came back again. When at last my child was born. Miss Hedda? Yes, but you had several already. Oh, they didn't count. We turned them out. They were dolls too. We wanted to start quite afresh. Fancy. When Hedda was born I determined to get rid of my husband. His constant presence irked me. His perpetual smiles and caresses seemed to insult my humanity. What did you do? I drowned him in the mill-race. Oh, dearie, dearie me. You drowned him? Yes, I had my undaunted free-born will at that time. I pushed him in. That was when the white horse began to hunt Rasmussen. Ah, yes, the white horse. I enjoyed the luxury of widowhood for many years. Then I determined for some very complicated reasons to marry again. Oh, he was an angel. I met him up at the Bards. He had a daughter already. Miss Hedda? Yes, her name was Hedda. Ah, that was a happy marriage. Yes, those are the worst the happy marriages. You always agreed on everything. Yes, I always insisted on that. But I was bored, mortally bored. All this happened as usual, you will understand, together with a lot of other complicated circumstances, fifteen or twenty years before the play opens. Well, I could stand it no longer. I had to get rid of him, too. He was a miserable, undersized little beast. What? Did you kill him, too? No, he was good enough to take that trouble off my hands. He hanged himself in the apple orchard. I drove him to it. I drove him mad, inexorably mad. I hinted. I said, here is a rope. There is the apple orchard. But that was cruel of you. It was tactless. Oh, of course, blame me, blame me. A woman is always in the wrong. And who's that all? Were there no other children? Oh, yes, fifteen others. What became of them? I killed them, lucky children. They enjoy the peace and luxury of death. Then, at last, I began to live deep down in the bottom of my soul. These secrets are more than I can bear. But all this is nothing. It is only the prelude. You have not heard the worst. Oh, Lord, have you more confessions to make? Was there some other crime? The worst thing was what came after. Oh, let me know the worst. No, I will keep it for some wet afternoon. It is all in here. Giving her a portfolio. Here is the key. I want you to take care of it for me. You must on no account look inside. Then why do you give it me? It may be useful in the last act. And now you know why it is that a kind of gloom weighs over the household. The white horse? Yes, yes. Header is clever and writes books. Hilda had a mean, crawling spirit. She loves drudgery. She does the housework while you loaf around gibbering about white horses and things. I never laugh. Hilda never laughs. Nobody ever laughs at Rosmer's home. Except Miss Header. Yes, Header laughs at times. But it is a funereal sort of laugh. Sardonic and chauvinic sort of laugh. It always means death to somebody. Enter, Header. Give me my pistols. There's a visitor coming up the drive. Exit with pistols. Oh, the Miss Header, the thing she does do. Pistol shots without... Help, help! More pistol shots. Enter, Header laughing. What is the matter, my child? It is only Tessman coming to pay a call. I nearly got him, but he dodged. It is Overdrain Inspector Tessman who is engaged to be married to my daughter, Header. I know, I know. Enter, Tessman, in mittens, carrying a parcel. You dodged, you mean beast. You dodged. Do you know, Header, I wish you were a little more gentle and winning in your ways. You mustn't mind, Header, Tessman. She overflows with the joy of life. Why have you come here? I came to show you something very wonderful. You will never guess what. It is Aunt Jemima's wedding present. I had never hoped for anything so good from her. I don't care. I don't want to see. Following her about. But you must, Header. You're one of the family now. I don't want to see. I don't want to see. Uncle Crog stud used to wear them. You never saw such a big pair. Heavens, what is he going to show us? Producing them from his parcel. A pair of galoshes. What do you think? A pair of old galoshes. Fancy. Old galoshes. Think of that, Header. Yes, yes. Only think, Header. I am thinking. But that is not the most important thing that I have to tell you. No. There is something more. Whatever can it be? I cannot come and see you now so often. You can't? This valley has become terrible to me. Why? Because I have found my father. Your father? You have a father? A long lost father. He lives up here at the gasworks under an assumed name. You can hear his footstep. A steady footstep. Heard pacing up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. For eight long years on the top of the gas meter. Are you afraid of your father then? Yes. Inscrutably afraid. It is one of the old habits of childhood. But that is not all. What more is there? He has grown tired of his solitude at last. Today he has determined to come down. To go out into society again. He is coming here. At the window. See he is descending the gas meter. Slowly step by step he clambers down the ironwork pillars. He has a stick in his hand. I must be off. Be kind to him. After all he is my father. You mustn't mind if he is a little strange in his manner. He cometh hitherwards. I must have a shot at him. No, don't. Not on his first visit. He might not understand. He might make him shy of coming again. Here's Hilda. Bully her instead. Goodbye. I must fly. I love him dearly, but my life is not worth a minute's purchase if he finds me here. Exit Tezman. Enter Hilda in green spectacles with a cardboard shade over her eyes. Come here. Come here, you little coward. You mean spirited wretch. You wear those goggles and that idiotic shade over your eyes. Oh, please, header. You know that I have to for my work. Your work? The glare of the kitchen fire is too much for me without them. Oh, please forgive me, header. I've got such weak eyes. You wretched little household drudge. You're afraid of me. You're afraid of me. Oh, please don't hurt me. And I can't stand your hair. Rumbling it. Hug. It's all fluffy like a Regent Street chicken. Oh, please. Oh, please. I think I must burn it off after all. Oh, no. Please not. I'll do anything you tell me. Enter Madame Helseth ushering in stockfish with straw in his hair. Mr. Stockfish. She hands his card to Mrs. Inquest. So glad I'm sure. To Madame Helseth. One of my former husbands. Standing beside the table like Mrs. Borkman. Why have you come here, Stockfish? Can you not forget? Can you not forgive? I never forgive. I never forget. After eight years of solitude I could bear it no longer. I waited and waited up there expecting a deputation but none came. This is not life. I must have company. Company, Stockfish. Did I have company when as a girl of thirty-five? Leave us, Mama. Your presence irks me. Exit Mrs. Inquest. Sit down. Tell us the story of your life. Once I was a builder. I used to build houses. With high towers to them? How did you know that? Yes, they had high towers to them. Who is this girl? Take no notice of her. She's the between. I built houses on a new principle. But they always tumbled down the houses that I built. Burying housemaids and clockwork mice in the ruins. Clockwork mice? Oh, there's some symbolism in that you may be sure. It is a pity only that they tumbled down. But that wasn't the worst. It was what happened after they tumbled down that was the worst. What was that? I began to mistrust myself. To mistrust yourself? Ah, that is the worst sort of mistrust. Yes, I began to doubt whether I had any great mission, any special message to the world in the architectural line. Others began to doubt it too. I began to be known as the Plaster Builder. I resolved to begin a new life. I resolved to build no more houses. You were quite right. Houses are so irrelevant. I said to myself, I will build gasworks instead. Oh, to light the turn. That is a great need of the local situation. No, that is where I had been wrong all my life. I had been trying to serve mankind. I had been trying to do something useful. Useful? How I hate that mean ugly word. I said, I will no longer do what is useful. I will no longer build little humdrum houses for little humdrum people to live in. I will build gasworks out in some wild, desolate spot far from all human habitation In the peaks and the great waste places where they can never, never be of any use to anybody at all. Oh, that was noble of you, Stockfish. Do you know what I am? I am an idealist. Whatever I do has a symbolical meaning. And the gas? That is symbolical too. I cast off my family. I changed my name. Why? Do you not understand? I wanted to start quite afresh, besides I owed money in the town. You were quite right. All that sort of thing is so irrelevant. The soulless toil of the wage earner has always aroused a sickening aversion in me. That is why I cast off my son, Tezman. You know him? Oh, slightly. You'd better go and get on with the housework, I think, Madame Helseth. Exit Madame Helseth. He insisted on working. He worked nearly six hours a day and lived on what he earned. Shame. He haunted me with the vision of the humdrum citizen, the good bourgeois. I said a patin le, and I a pat of him. He wanted to be respectable. I kicked him out. I want none of that. I should think not, indeed. Serve him jolly well right. He is a drudge. Down with him. Besides, as overdrain inspector to the Stockholm City Council, he had condemned several of the houses that I built. And so for eight long years I have been up in this valley, making gas that no one will ever burn. That no one will ever burn. How beautiful. The solitude up there at the gasworks is something awful you can't think. You could cut it with a knife. What, are you quite alone? Sh, no, I am not quite alone. Is there some other person? No, it is not a person. Sh, it's a great secret. I keep it in the box room. You shall see it when you come up. Oh, what can it be? This evening you will see. At last I have grown sick of this life, even gas-making Pauls in the end. This morning I said to myself, I will go out into society again. I will marry. Marry? One of us. I am engaged, but I can easily break it off. I have determined to give a party. I'm going to break the ice. I invite you to my party. This evening? Yes, just this evening. Oh, how ricking. Nonsense, you're not asked. Of course not. I only want the eligible ladies of the neighborhood, just the county. And what amusements will there be at the party? We will play paper games. How beautiful, long dreary paper games. I'll go and ask Mama. We shall have to titivate a bit, change our clothes and all that. Oh, clothes are so irrelevant. How I wish I could go too. You indeed, Ugg. I think I shall have to burn your hair off after all. Oh, please not, header. Spare me. Spare me. I am weak and feeble. Exit, header. Oh, sir, I want to ask a favour of you. A favour? You? May I come to your party, too? A tame little beast like you? No, indeed. I want no mouse faces about me, no lapdog muzzles, no turtle bills. Give me tiger slouts and ravening wolf jowls. Oh, dear, oh, dear, why am I such a miserable, teeny-weeny little mizzler? I am enormously fetched by you, Stockfish. There is something very taking about you. Pass, grub. Enter Mrs. Inquest and header in hooded cloaks. To Mrs. Inquest. What are you coming to? Stockfish. During fifteen years I wrestled with another woman once for your soul, and now I mean to have it. Oh, Sophonisba, how will all this end? Exit, Stockfish. To Hilda. Have the milk hot when we come back and don't forget to feed the cat. By the by, don't let anybody in while we're away. Who is likely to come? No one ever comes here. My sister has been seen in the hills. Your godmother aren't Judy. Aren't Judy? My godmother? Why, I never even heard of her. She's a bad lot. They call her the Rat Wife. Heaven grant that you may never meet her. Why, what was that? The White Horse. Oh, you wait till I get back. Exit, Mrs. Inquest and header. Heaven grant they may not meet the White Horse on the way. All alone, all alone, all alone. Why, you've got me, dearie. Hilda sings a song expressing solitude and dejection. And now I suppose I shall have to spend the evening scrubbing those pots and pans. How I hate pots and pans. Are we downhearted? No. And I'm hungry too. They gave me nothing to eat. Lord, love a duck, young lady. I'll toss you up a bit of a pancake for your supper at no time. I tell you what we'll do. We'll read Header's book together. That'll be a lark. What? There's Miss Header writing a book. Didn't you know? Yes, on deportment for young ladies. Fancy. That ought to be something quite new. A bell rings. Ha, there's the bell. Who can it be? I'll go and see. Yes, do. Exit, Madame Hilseth. Reading. My, the thing's Header does say. If Mama only knew. Enter, Madame Hilseth. It's an elderly woman downstairs who wants to see you. Who is she? She's not much to look at. She seems what you might call a bit crazed. Balmy, so to speak, on the crumpet. And that's a fact. Oh, well. She won't be out of place here. Ask her to come up. I did. I told her to follow me, but she said she'd prefer coming her own way. A gong, music and a red light. Enter and Judy through a trapdoor. She has a hooked nose and wears a welch witch costume with tall hat and cap frill. Well, here we are again. Pardon, seductive lady. You don't remember me. I don't think I ever had the pleasure. Why, I'm your Aunt Judy. Aunt Judy? The lady I wasn't to admit under any circumstances. Come in. Come in. I'm your godmother. I know. Your fairy godmother. What? Are you a fairy? Yes, I'm a troll. Singing and dancing. Fold it all, LOL. I'm a troll. I'm a troll. Fold it all, lay to your gay, to your gay. Fold it all, Lee. You'll never catch me. Fold it all, LOL. The role, Lee Do. My elegant mermaid. What do you think of that? What an engaging old lady you are. Are you always as gay as that? Rather, I sing and dance all day and all night. Allegro Conbrio is my lay. And is it true you're a bad lot? Ah, they told you that. Fidonk, that's their spitefulness, my unspeakable jam-puff. Because I went my own way without listening to them. Donnerwetter. Mon cher, I was never cut out to be a mermidon of morality. I'm an emonsipé, that's what I am. I've always lived my own life, comprené. What are corkscrews made for? I say no more. Aha! You've been brought up by hand. You have hit it, gracious lady. I've signed the pledge a dozen times. But bless you, Aunt Judy still remains the woman she always was. Since then they call me the rat-wife. It's the jolliest thing in the world that anyone can be. Are you so fond of rats, then? Fond of them? I've got to be fond of them, whether I like it or not. I see rats, rats, rats everywhere. Big rats, little rats, pink rats with purple eyes. Look at them, rats and pumpkins. They're all over the floor and white mice, too. Jumping up on a chair. I don't see no mice. Ah, you wait till you've signed the pledge. They come creepy-crawly up in the beds all night long. They plump into the milk cans. They go pittering-pattering all over the floor. Backwards and forwards and up and down. Nibbling and gnawing and creeping and crawling. All the rats and the blessed little rat-children. And I go about following and following after them. I and my lovely little dog, Mopsie-Man. What? Have you got a dog, too? A dog? Of course I have. A real dog? I should think so. Indeed. He drinks whiskey, too. Real whiskey? Yes. Scotch-real. Mopsie-Man! Mopsie-Man! Enter Mopsie-Man. Ah, you should see him dance. Why, what's this? A pair of clogs? Four of them. A pair for me and a pair for you, Mopsie-Man. Ooh, let's have a clog dance. And Judy and Mopsie-Man dance. Basta! I'm blown. So, the rest of the family have gone out to a party and left you all alone at home. Yes. I overheard all that they said. I was under the window. I said to myself, What-how, capi-scow, Mina-Domin? I'll have my revenge. I'll put some stiffening into that tame little ash-cat hilda and twist-old inquest tale. I've come to revolutionize you. You've got to stand up and be a man. Me? Oh, no. I'm a little soft, early Victorian thing. You can't stiffen me. What, are you contented with your position here? Oh, no. To be a drudge, a cinder-minks? No. I crave for great things, great, enormous, irrelevant things. Ha-ha! You want to live your own life. Yes. That's it. I want to live my own life. If only I knew how to begin. Odds, ratacons, that's easy. Every woman begins with the same thing. What's that? A man. A man? Oh, my. How ripping. A little soft, whiskery man to crunch up in your dainty finger-kins. Oh, wouldn't I like it? Running about. Oh, where's a man? Where's a man? There's Stockfish to begin with. Stockfish? You can practice on him for a start. Go up to the party at the gas-works. But Hedda would burn my hair off. Hedda, indeed. Who's afraid of Hedda? Disguise yourself. But how am I to disguise myself? I have it. Wash. I will. And figure yourself up in some of Hedda's clothes. Righto. I will. I will get myself up in the height of fashion. And Judy and Mobsy Man get out clothes, hilda, washes, and dresses. There. What do you think of that? Be free. Be free. Don't let others prescribe your life for you. Don't be a mermadon of morality any longer. Go it, you cripple. Paint the little homestead red. I will. I'm damned if I don't. Come. You're beginning to swear. That's better. Jumping across the stage like a kangaroo in a hobble skirt. Women must be free, untrammeled. We have been tied up too long. I'm going to be a new woman, a bold-faced jig. Don't you think they'll recognise me? Not they. It isn't much of a disguise outwardly. But you're disguised mentally. That's the important thing. And what am I to do next? Something symbolic. Something to show your newfound freedom. I know. Hedda said she would burn off my hair. Well, I'll tell you what. I'll burn Hedda's book. Her manuscript on deportment for young ladies. What a luck. She burned Loveborg's book, you know. Serve her right, the cat, that learner. Burning the manuscript. Now I'm burning your child, Hedda. I am burning your child. What, oh, she bumps. This is prime fun. Why wasn't I a suffragette before? Now let's be off. But how are we to get there? I can't walk. It's raining. Enter, Madame Helseth. You're Miss Hilda, you do look as well. Well, I never. Miss Hedda's feeds you, too. We're going to the party. But you can't walk, not in them shoes. Now for some of those rats and mice and pumpkins of yours aren't, Judy. Oh, but they're only imaginary rats and mice. They won't take you anywhere. Why, here's the very thing. Just at the door, a pair of horses. Why, tosses? No, no. A pair of galoshes. That'll do. I'll go in them. It's frightfully thrilling. Ex-ent and Judy, Mobsyman and Hilda trailing her big galoshes. Enter the fairy. Behold me, Cinderella, in your hour of need. What time the others to the party speed? Would you not like to go as well? Too late. She's gone. Oh, what a cell. What a fairy singing their song. Dear little fairies singing all wrong. If you can't hear a song, you're very fine. Curtain, End of Act One. Act Two of Cinderella by George Calderon. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Cinderella, Act Two, Scene One. At the gasworks, the scene is only a few feet deep. Behind the back cloth, there is a great din of hammering and occasionally a blow on the cloth itself. Stockfish alone. At home, he is an ordinary peevish, nervous householder. Oh dear, oh dear. I wish I had never undertaken to give a party. If I had known all the preparations that it would involve. This fearful noise going on all day. Nowhere to sit down or anything. And as soon as I get a little privacy, someone is sure to come intruding. Enter Tessman, disguised as a waiter, with a false nose and a long beard. Another waiter with him, small and Jewish. Both wear big, quite cotton gloves. Now what do you want? What earth are you? Tessman and waiter, stepping absurdly together and keeping exact time in their words and gestures. We are the first and second high waiters. Ah, the men from Gunters. Now you know I'm expecting a small party here tonight. Oh dear, oh dear. What is all that noise behind? It is the stage carpenter's preparing the big scene. The big set scene. I do wish they could be a little quieter about it. Well, as I say, I am expecting a small party. He is interrupted by a blow on the back cloth near his head. There, that one nearly got me. Relling and Morvik will be here, Nigel Playfair, little Astleskin and the old crew, some Chamberlains, a thin-haired gentleman, a flabby gentleman, a short-sighted gentleman, courtiers, peasants, soldiers, servants, etc. For heaven's sake, go and tell those people behind to be a little bit quieter. Ah, the audience won't hear a thing I have to say. Master, we harken in dupe. Salam! Excent, Tessman and Waiter. Stockfish endeavors to make a speech to the audience, but is drowned out by the noise. Enter Mrs. Enquest and Hedda. Hello? What's this? You didn't say anything about clothes, so we thought it best to come in fancy dress. I have come in classical costume. My costume is symbolical. I am joy. They all set and yarn. How shall we amuse ourselves? Let us look at albums of photographs of cathedrals and places of interest that we have never visited. You promised to play paper games. Paper games? Long dreary paper games. Let us play at words. We will take some long word. Some long dreary word. Alexi-Morkey-Garti-Conelogilness. Alexi-Morkey-Garti-Conelogilness. And what do we do then? We make little words out of it. Words of not less than eight letters. Beginning in X. How long shall we have? Forty minutes. They sit with pencils and paper. After a moment Mrs. Enquest produces a big flute and plays the deadmarch in sol. Ugg. Ugg. Ugg. We are having an excessively jolly evening. It might best be described as an orgy. How many words have you? None. None? I also have none. With my flute in my hand and you too at my side I can be happy. Let us play at telegrams. Let us play at prehistoric animals in ebb. I do not care what game we play. All are equally dreary. Let us penetrate the blackest depths of gloom. Hilda is heard singing without. What is that? It is seldom that anyone sings near Osmer's home. Or near the gasworks. Even the birds only make a sort of croaking noise. Enter Hilda in garashes. I am free. I am free. I am free. No more life in the prison for me as a flea. I am free. I am free. I am free. Looking at her through long handled eyeglasses. Who can this be? We are having to notion who this can be. What an enchanting creature. A little bourgeois. No style. Rather Rococo. My what a picnic. Are you playing with the waxworks? Chamber of Oras, Sixpence Extra. What a astonishing persiflage. What a bird little minx. Bad form I call it to be so familiar. Are you alive? Yes, we are living deep down. We are going it inside. Do you call this living? You don't know what life is. Life is to leap and dance in the woods to catch skylarks with the hands to chase the robot and leap down the rocks. You can't do that at the gasworks. We'll have to play that game some other day. Aha! So that's the sort you are. One of the alive lot. We'll go hunting you and I right up there in the mountains. In the mists and clouds near the bathing establishment. You're a huntress aren't you? Yes, a huntress of men. A pretty wit if faith. I'll show you my dogs. You shall see them gulp down great bones. Huge beef bones covered with flesh and gore. Ah, give me gore. That's life. Come let's all be jolly. Let's climb down off our perch a bit. We're too intense. It's all very well for the children but we must think of the old folk too. Remember that this is a pantomime. Alright, what shall we do? Let's have a song and dance. Right you are. I'm game. To Tessman and Waiter. Just keep things going till we're ready. Shall we do a short turn, governor? Yes. Ex-Unt, Starkvish and Hilda. Now mind whatever you do. Let your entertainment be refined. Madam, of course. Something that the children can thoroughly understand. Something really Drurylainian. I should suggest, for instance, that you both pretend you're broker's men and one of you is drunk and toasts a herring over a candle. You see, something amusing but refined. Exit Mrs. Inquest. To Hedda. Shh, not a word. You know me. You are Bernard Shaw. No, I'm your defiant bride. I'm Tessman of the Derbervils. Introducing the Waiter. This is Jude the Obscure. One must earn one's living somehow. Exit Hedda. Something amusing but refined. I know. We'll do the ticket business. Enter Anne Judy and Mopsyman. Now then, what do you want here? Oh, please, Mr. Gentleman. We want to go to the party. Very well, then. Where's the ticket? We haven't got no ticket. You can't come in without a ticket. The governor said he'd sell my leg off if I let anybody in without a ticket. We must disguise ourselves. What as? I know. Ibsen characters. They disguise themselves. Mopsyman in bathing drawers. Anne Judy as a bathing woman. Please, Mr. Gentleman. This is little Iolf and I am the lady from the sea. I'm just going to give him a dip. Very well. Where's your ticket, then? Tezman and Waiter turn them out. They re-enter newly disguised. Who are you? We are pillars of society. Where's your ticket, then? They turn them out. They re-enter in sheets. We are ghosts. Ah! They pass and turn. Don't be so frightened. We are not real ghosts. Not real ghosts? What are you then? We're the pretenders. Anne Judy and Mopsyman throw their sheets over the others and run away. Where's your ticket? Where's your ticket? Seen to. A deeper scene with palace staircase and crowd of guests painted at the back. The middle of this painting is a practicable double door. But the doors are not painted as doors. Parts of the staircase and crowd swing back when they're opened. Stockfish shakes hands and converses with the painted guests. And the waiters offer them refreshments. Stockfish, Mrs. Enquest, Hedda and Hilda discovered. Well, here we all are, then. And what is this? Referring to a catalogue. This is the Patent of Empire, gallery number 17, Meeting of Colonial Premiers. Not bad for gasworks, eh? This is the boardroom, the room where the directors come when they're bored. Come, let us be sportive and merry. Let us have a song and dance. How are you? Are you feeling pretty fit? Fit? Yes. Fit for anything. I am fit to be made a peer. The bandmaster taps his desk. Mrs. Enquest clears her throat. To Hilda. You hear? Tap, tap, tap. She's going to sing. I knew how it would be if we took her out to a party. The coffee goes to her head at once. Oh, poor old Mr. Harris. Quith is very odd-worked, I fear. He's trying to find 500 men that's fit to be made a peer. Well, he wouldn't look long if he heard this song for someone to make a nulp. There's me, and there's him, and there's Bill, and there's Jim, he's ready to type that job. He's trying to find 500 men that's fit to be made a peer. What a peer. A career. The day this girl is dying feel queer. I'll walk in the row with my hellboats so any be seen or lockouts, then no fear. I'll do myself well if they can't at a hotel when he's trying to find 500 men that's fit to be made a peer. Sages nor drink, no ginger beer. I'll wet my gum when I'm in days. Mr. Lloyd George, that's clear. Ridges of a nulp when I... Having finished the song, Mrs. Enquest takes the stage. Talking of the House of Lords always reminds me of that dear old ditty, the corpse. The bandmaster taps his desk. Heavens, she's going to sing again. It was a corpse lay on a beer beneath the silvery moon. There, there, that's enough. You've had your song. You must make way for someone else now. What? So I've got to make room now? To make room for the new generation? For little chits of girls? No, I will never make room. I will never retire. I will go on singing forever and ever. They hustle her. It was a corpse lay on a beer beneath the silvery moon. She has bundled out, the music plays a dance. What is this? This is our principal ballet. It is a grand pageant of all nations. The dresses alone cost fifty thousand pounds. Hush, they come. Ballet of four hired waiters. Tessman dances a la russe and says Gop, gop, du shinkamaya! The Jew wears three hats. An Italian waiter says Caramba. A German waiter, carrying three glass mugs in either hand, exclaims Potstausens Donavetta. To Tessman Come hither, Dandini. I would quaff a goblet of brown October. Tessman serves him. Thank you. Do not thank me. It is my simple duty. I'm paid to do it. Leaning his elbow on Tessman's shoulder and looking at Hilda. Tell me, Dandini. Who is Jan Virgil of peerless beauty? I know not your majesty. But Fane would I right gladly meet with her and on in the twilight? The bandmaster taps. They lot that for heaven's sake ring off. Oh, spare me. Spare me. Do not kneel to me, old man. Do not know me. I am Tessman, your long lost son. He takes off his beard and nose. You! What? Have you turned up again? And this is Hedda, my little Hedda. We are engaged. You engaged? You don't mean to say that you ever had the courage to propose to her? Yes. Last Tuesday I took the Hedda. There were many that sought her hand. I was jealous, I said, Hedda, I wish to be the only cock on your foul roost. And what did she say? She said puk puk puk puk puk puk puk. Bless you my children! Be shrew him. Ever this violet foils my plans. I must be revenged. Come, let us amuse ourselves, as we did of yore in the old stock-home days, with a little knock-about business, you remember? Only too well. They put on small straw hats and do a knock-about business in which Stockfish is beaten worse. And now I will keep the promise that I made you. I will show you the great secret, the mystery of the box-room. Ah, yes, the thing that isn't a person. I must put on my uniform first. I like to do everything in style. Exit. What is the mystery of the box-room? Oh, it's a symbol, like that. Enter Stockfish suddenly in a cocked hat, standing in a Napoleon attitude. I am the rightful heir to the throne of France. I am Napoleon returned to his own. The island of Elba was too small for me. I had no Elba-room. He was in the volunteers, you know. And now for the secret, the great secret. He goes out on tiptoe and opens the folding doors at the back. Shhh! Is she awake? I can't quite tell yet. She's in her hutch. I told you you should see her, and so you shall. Exit into box-room. What has he got in there? Poor old man, you must humor him. It's an idea of his. It's all the pleasure that he has now. Since he gave up taking real outdoor exercise, he goes in for big game shooting in the box-room. What does he shoot? That's the secret. It's a guinea pig. A guinea pig? Real wild guinea pig. But why a guinea pig? Oh! He was swindled out of some money once by a company director. He creeps around among the boxes and trunks. He pretends they're trunks of trees and shoots at it with a pop-gun. Enter Stockfish, alarmed. I say, there's something rather queer about that guinea pig today. His pop-gun goes off and frightens him. She looks so fierce. She seems so much bigger than usual and uncommonly lively. A gong. Mobsy man jumps in from the box-room and Aunt Judy behind, laughing. Here we are again. Did little Mobsy man give you a bit of a turn, hair-militar? Ah-ha! The forest avenges itself with a vengeance. We always like coming in in these funny ways, if we can. Who is this? This is Aunt Judy. She's not respectable. She's been in jail, you know. In jail? Well, well, that's a bond of union. So have I. Enter Mrs. Inquest and Madame Helseth. Why, here's Madame Helseth, too. How very mixed Norwegian society is becoming. Song and dance, Mrs. Inquest and Judy, Header and Madame Helseth. With the gifts and gifts and rickety, rackety gals, True blood, blue blood, sand and envious wells, Greater girls, dear girls, take us all in the moth, We're rather rough, and we're up to snuff, And we're all of us off our chum. Yes, all of us, all of us, all of us, all of us, all of us, all of us, all of us, all of us, all of us, all of our chum. Exit, Hilda. Come on, Judy. Let's have a drink together. It's a long time since we met. No, thank you. Nothing for me. I've signed the pledge. What again? What does it matter? Pledges are so irrelevant. Come, a little cold punch. Better not press her, my dear. Do have a glass. No, thank you. Aha! You dare not. You preach freedom to others, but you dare not be free yourself. Didn't you see the way they smiled when you said no? Come, be secure. Be confident of yourself. Drinking five or six glasses. Well, well, here goes then. Did you see that? She wolfed the lot, my dear. Wolfed the ballet show. Enter Demon and Ferry, meeting. Oh, there's someone I know at last. Oh, how'd he do? How'd he do? Don't you know many people here? Not a soul. Pull my word. Queer set of folk they've got together. Wonder where they rake them up. I feel rather out of it. May I have the pleasure of taking you into supper? Exit, Arm and Arm. All have gone, but stockfish. Enter Hilda and Cloak and Gauches. At last, I find you alone. You're not going. Alas, poor man, it were better for you that I should. I must be back by twelve. But it's only eight. You've got four hours. All too little for what I have to say. This is a moment that I have waited for for years. Who are you, mysterious stranger? I am a woman who has found herself at last. I am the apostle of freedom. Freedom for everyone to be themselves. No social conventions, no duties, nothing but to do and to be. You are still a slave, I see. A slave of little things. You love your furniture, your glasses. I will free you from them. She goes round with a hammer, breaking everything. There, that's the sort of hairpin I am. Nine o'clock. Goodness, how time flies when you're enjoying yourself. Do you feel it beginning? Feel what? Love. No, I feel only dread. That's right. That's how it should be. I want you to loathe me and to dread me. That is what binds people together. For you are mine, mine, mine. Embracing him. Unhand me, wench. You are strangling me. Will you return my passion? I will do anything if you will only let me go. Do you loathe and love me? I will care for you with all the tenderness of a middle-aged man. I want no tenderness. I want no quiet. I want to be loved as your dogs love those great, bloody bones they swallow whole. Oh, how lovely that must be. What, would you like to swallow big bones whole? No, but to be swallowed whole. Ten o'clock. I must hasten. I must get to the point. Listen to me, Stockfish. When first I saw the gasworks, I knew that it was all over with me. It was so tremendously thrilling. I couldn't believe there was anybody in the world could have built such great, enormous gasworks. Ever since I was born, I love you. Love you. Love you. But we have never met before. Yes. Don't you remember? Long, long ago. That was up at the bathing establishment. Do you not remember? It lives in my memory as if it were but yesterday. I was only three weeks old then. You picked me out of my cradle and kissed me passionately. It isn't true. I always detested babies. It is true. You kissed me here. Did I? Since that moment, our seals are sold for one another. I have no recollection. But that isn't what mattered. That wasn't the important thing. The thing that mattered was what came after. I know that phrase. It is always what came after that matters. You took the coral necklace off my neck and hid it in your pocket. Fancy. And I said to myself, for I couldn't talk out loud then, I said, that is the man for me, a real man, a man who is master of his own soul, and not bound down by little petty conventions and rules of etiquette. I don't remember a word of all this. Aside. Nor do I. Eleven o'clock. My time is nearly out. Come. Tell me who you are. No. That you must never learn. Nor now. Nor nevermore. That must always remain a secret between us. A beautiful secret, symbolical of the relation between the two sexes. Tell me your address. Never. Tell me at least your telephone number. No. No. I am bewildered. I do not know what I ought to do. Do you not know? Listen, we too are the only waking creatures here. Do you not understand me? No, I do not understand you. Getting on the table. The champagne is on the table. I do not see any champagne. There stood the champagne, but he tasted it not. Ah, now at last. I understand. He runs after her. Twelve strikes. Stop. Stop. There's twelve striking. Come here, you little witch. I've got to get back. One kiss. One kiss. She boxes his ears and runs away. He follows her out and returns with a galaash. She's gone. She's gone. But in her flight she dropped this precious relic. Kissing it. Oh, yum-yum-yum-yum-yum. Enter Tessman. Stockvish hides the galaash. See, Father, three chamberlains are playing blind man's buff with Madame Helseth. What do I care? Touch. I would be alone. Enter Madame Helseth and three chamberlains. Ah, it isn't always the oldest wine that is the best. She's coming out at our expense. Oh, fire! Oh, fire! What railery! Enter Mrs. Inquest and Hedda and Aunt Judy. I am bored to death with insipid conversation and heartless amusement. I am stifled with the taint of marsh vapours. Oh, if only I could find the address of the alcohol-refraining society. I would send in my resignation. You're not going? I am homesick for the mighty nothingness. Farewell, old horse. Good night, respected sir. I'll see you out. No, thank you. I'll go my own road. Exit Aunt Judy through the ceiling. Please excuse her. She's always been a little eccentric. And now it's time that you all went. I want to be alone. He kisses the glosh. Well, after a broad hint like that. We'd better say good night. Good night. Good night. May you have no dreams. Let us pray that we may none of us have any dreams. Tessman, Mrs. Inquest and the waiter stand as a comic American unaccompanied trio. Tessman in a little straw hat, waiter in a new gate fringe. Who put my nightie by the fire and make my groan will haunt and go and get the warming pan to warm my little cot. My little cot to warm to warm my little cot. Come, that's enough. Why don't you go? Enter fairy. She chips forward and takes the stage. And now that all the rest have had their say, come fairy bright eyes who mortals all obey. Behold the triumph of mine. Oh, you won't go, won't you? Well then, I'll turn off the gas. Darkness, screaming, laughter and pistol shots. Curtain, end of act two, act three of Cinderella by George Calderon. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The same scene as in act one, scene two. Stockfish in a garland of leaves sits with Heta and Mrs. Inquest at a small round table on which stands a bottle of champagne. Madame Helseth stands by them. Did you sleep well after it? I slept a little towards morning. I felt an oppressive burden here. I saw crocodiles and hippopotamuses all night dancing and making faces at me. I saw white horses. Have a little more champagne. Enter Helda in spectacles and eye shade with a tray of pies. Ah, here are some pies that Heta has made on purpose for you over gas purveyor stockfish. I love to see him with the vine leaves in his hair. My aunt is dead. I learnt he's dead. Echdall is dead. Aslaxon is dead. The governess of the gardener's children is dead. Everyone is dead. You are in low spirit, stockfish. The cloth is dirty. The wine is flat. The pies are bad. Absolutely un-eatable. One of them goes off like a jack-in-the-box. Whatever I touch, I make a mess of. Have some more wine? She pours wine all over the table. I am bored and tired of life. My head hurt is thirsty. Bring more champagne. Bring a magnum. Madame Helseth puts a geroboam on the table. I want my wee girly to be happy. She shan't go racking her brains. Never a gleam of brightness to lighten our home. It isn't a home. It's a cage. It's a menagerie. I cannot rest until I have found out who that girl was who came last night. That princess. She wasn't a princess. Well, she had on a princess skirt. There she stood on the table as it might be that bottle of champagne. I practically had only to draw the cork. Who can it have been? We cannot guess. Helder sings without. I am free. I am free. There! I hear her voice. He runs off and returns. No, there's nobody there. Only that little mouse-jowled slot of a slavey. There was I. There was the table. And there she stood. Helder sings above. There! I'll swear that was her voice. He runs up and returns. No, there's nobody there. Only that pulp-headed Abigail upstairs dusting the hayloft. Well, as I was saying, there we stood. I was where that chair is, and she was... Helder sings below. I am as free. This time, I'm sure. He looks down through a trapdoor. No, not a soul. Nobody but the she-surf down in the cellar drawing the beer. Well, for the present I must be off. However, our friendship mustn't end like this. I will come and see you again tomorrow. I will come and see you again this afternoon. I will come and see you two or three times every day. Oh, if I could but find her again. She left a gumshoe behind her. It might prove a clue. I'll let you know. A loud knocking at the front door. Who on earth can that be? Are you expecting anyone? No, no one. There isn't a soul but ourselves up this mountain, except the hired waiters. And they've gone back to town again. Go and see who it is, Madam Hilseth. Well, I must be off. Don't forget about the galash. No, no. Exit Starkfish. Demon without. I beg your pardon, Governor. Not at all, not at all. Enter Fairy and Demon. I hope you'll excuse the liberty. We are sorry to interrupt the course of the pantomime. What has happened? What's the matter? We wanted to ask you a question. The fact is, we were both at Mr Starkfish's party last night, and couldn't help overhearing a good deal of the conversation around us. We were both profoundly astonished. What sort of conversation? What about? The moral aspect, lady. The moral aspect. What does he mean, mother? The point of view seems to have changed so much since our young days. It used to be so hazy. In fact, we were fairly confused by all we heard, and what we want to know is what is right and what is wrong. To header. What a comical old-fashioned bear, my dear. Quite a couple of droleries. Looking at them through her long-handled glasses. Such people don't exist nowadays. My dear children, these arbitrary distinctions of right and wrong have quite gone out. They have been abolished. Well, I never. You don't say so. In place of them, we have nowadays the expression of our personality. Crikey. It is our duty to express our personality in our lives. Just as much as ever we can. And if in doing so we break the criminal law, well, so much the worse for the criminal law. But look here, lady. In that case, I am just as good, just as moral as she is. More so in all probability, because you've got more snap in you. More expression of your personality. My eye. Do you hear that, Titania? And I've always looked on myself for such a bad lot. My poor fellow, you've been reproaching yourself quite unnecessarily. Yes. But look here, I love Heavill. Quite right. So do we all. It was made to be loved. Yes, but I don't Heavill. You try to, but you never do any harm, really. Your intentions are always baffled. Haven't you noticed that? Yeah. She foils me every time. Evil intentions never come to anything. It's only good intentions that ever do any harm. But bless my soul. Why should two innocents like you worry your heads over these matters? The fact is, lady, it isn't only curiosity prying into things that still I for us like. It's, well, we've met so often in the way of business all these four or five thousand years. Since the creation of the world, you know. That where? We've come to rather like one another. In fact, he wants to marry me. I've got a little home ready for her in the garden suburb. But I've felt it my duty to refuse him, as he's such a very, very bad man. Then in that case it is you who are the devil, because you're preventing him from expressing his personality. Then it's really me that ought to wear the horns. Yes, and he ought to have a halo. The demon puts on a halo and poses like a saint. How do I look, Titty? The fairy puts on his horns. They laugh heartily. You must have a little something in the servant's hall before you go. Mrs. Enquest leads them out. Heda looks at them through her glasses. The fairy lowers her horns at Heda and bellows wickedly. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Excellent all, but Heda, enter Hilda. So there you are, Miss. Now I'm going to give you what for. Give me what for, Heda? Surely you wouldn't bang your little Hilda. I suppose you think we didn't know you at the party last night? I suppose you think you were very fine and smart in my clothes, eh? I didn't think you'd mind, Heda. Who gave you leave to wear my ninon ballet skirt and plum-colored pelarine? Who gave you leave to splash one of my slippers all over with mud? Oh, what are you going to do to me, Heda? Producing a pistol. I am going to shoot you. Oh, not shoot me, Heda. Yes, shoot you. Are you sure you mean to shoot me, Heda? Quite sure. Come on, then. Two can play at that game. Producing a gun. What, ho? What? You? You have the courage? I have courage for this or for anything now. I have awakened from the dead. I have found myself at last. Oh, joy, hooray! Embracing her. At last you are one of us. Yes, I'm a real rickety-rackety Ibsen girl at last. Oh, Hilda, what a wonderful thing it is at last to have a sister that one can love. But what about my lover, Hilda? Tasman? No, Stockfish. You will not steal him from me, Hilda? No, Heda. I will not steal him from you, Heda. We will share him, fairly between us, Heda. How can we do that, Hilda? Wait and see, Heda. Enter Madame Hilseth, dragging Mrs. Inquest. Tasman follows. What is this? Spare me, spare me. Do not shame me before my children. What I did, I did with a good purpose. Oh, what has she done? Don't be harsh with her, Madame Hilseth. Children, your mother is a fraud. She has been leading a double life. She has been deceiving us. No, no. Do not expose me. I must. It is my simple duty. All these years your mother has been living on the reputation of a mysterious past full of fearful crimes. Yes, yes. We respect her for it. No, then, that your respect is founded on a lie. I have examined this portfolio. I forbid you to open it. I looked for murder. Arse and robbery fold you with the usual things. What do I find? Nothing but blameless innocence. Oh, horror. A pious and well-spent youth. Oh, shame. You are mother. I hardly like to tell you the things that woman has done. The things she has been. Let us know the worst. A Sunday schoolteacher. Oh. President of the Gothenburg Dorcus Society. Oh. Organising secretary for the dire season mother's treat. Oh. And treasurer of the orphan curate's Sustentation Fund. This is too awful. I could never face my children again. From henceforth, mother, we declare to you solemnly that your authority in this house is at an end. You must take a back seat. I never did believe much in those dark stories of 15 or 20 years ago. I and Hilda at least have real crimes that we can boast of. Hilda. No. Not my innocent Hilda. If I have committed no crimes yet, mother, I am about to do so on a stupendous scale. My reign is over. There is nothing left for me but to sit and jibber in the chimney corner now. My salts. My salts. Her salts. Has it come to this then? Or mother has weak nerves. There's someone ringing a visitor. Please, please compose yourself. Excellent, Mrs. Enquest, Hedda and Hilda. Do you know at times I almost regret my promise to marry Hedda? Whatever made you fall in love with her, I kind of understand. You never have a moment's peace. It'll be another doll's house or more like a punch and duty show in which you'll be the baby. Do you know, Madam Helseth, in spite of the disparity of our years, I have half a mind to kiss you. God bless me. Whatever put such an idea into your head? I sometimes think that you and I are the only two sane people here, although the author evidently meant to guide us. Testament kisses, Madam Helseth. There, there. It's very annoying. I've searched and searched. Have you lost something, Mr. Testament? I could have sworn I left a pair of galoshes here yesterday, and now there is only one of them. Excellent, Testament and Madam Helseth. Enter, Stockfish, Mrs. Enquest, Hedda and Hilda. Here is the galosh that she left behind her. Now, if you've got such a thing as a bloodhound about you, perhaps it's got the name of the maker inside. That might be a clue. Rabbits, where does he live, I wonder? I know, in the borough. What if it should belong to someone in this house? That is hardly likely. We look so different by candlelight. Well, I don't care. I swear that I will marry the rightful owner of this galosh, whoever it be. Testament runs on. Father, Father, it is mine. It is your own tessie-wessies. I am yours, yours forever. Oh, confound this jackalips. Wherever I turn, I find him in my road. Take that, you oaf. Take that. He kicks him out. Let me try it on. You indeed. Come here, Stockfish. What is it, Backfish? Let me murmur in your ear. Murmur away. There stood the champagne, but he tasted it not. You? Hilda takes off her spectacles and eye-shade. Go, all of you. I must be alone with this girl. Excellent, Albert Hilda and Stockfish. So it was you. Me, me, me. Oh, if you knew the hungry hanker that I feel for you, for a man that could do such a delightful asinine thing as build those great clumping gas-works on such a desolate mountainside. Then if I love you and you love me, there is only one thing to be done. We must marry. Marry, Stockfish? What do you take me for? A heroine of a second-rate English comedy? What? We meet on the lofty plain of affinity, aspiration, high towers and big gas-works, and then you drag us down to this? To marriage? How humiliating. How irrelevant. There, there, I didn't mean to be harsh. But surely my own boy knows that such a solution is impossible. I have higher things than that for you. Only tell me what they are, Hilda. Listen. I am about to take hold of life with a strong hand. I am going to ask a big thing of you. Whatever you ask. I want no commonplace contentment. I want something rare. Something with a sting and an ache in it. Bliss with a groan in it. Oh, what is it? What is it? I will give it you. I have a wild uncontrollable desire to see you suffer. Suffer horribly, unendurably. Finish well what you have begun so well. Get on these gas-works that you have built and blow yourself up. Not that, not that. Only that. I would do anything to please you, Hilda, but this. Oh, I am afraid, I am afraid. Do you mean to tell me that you, my hero, are afraid to blow yourself up on gas-works that you yourself have built? Oh, Hilda, you know that I would gladly do anything in reason to amuse and entertain you. But this is too much. How if I refuse? Then I shall shoot you in the stomach where Loveborg shot himself. What an awful choice to have to make. This, then, is what love means. Scandinavian love, but don't look downcast, Stockfish. This is the only way that I can have you utterly, utterly to myself. When you are blown to bits, then at last I can know for certain that you will never be anybody else's. For my sake, you must do it gladly. Take this wreath. I had prepared it for this moment. You knew that I should come? Something told me. It was made ready for you to wear at your own funeral. A mortel, a pretty idea. I want you to do it beautifully with the vine leaves in your hair. Beautifully, Stockfish. Promise me that. Farewell, Hilda, in quest. Farewell, half-done, Stockfish. This is the end. Stockfish goes out and returns. But supposing the gas won't catch fire, Hilda, it may turn out to be quite incombustible, you know. Fancy, Stockfish. There'll be a sort of sporting interest in that. Bye. Exit, Stockfish. This is frightfully thrilling. She dances a hornpipe. Enter, Hedda. Why is Stockfish going about from room to room with a wreath in his hand, asking everybody to lend him a crowbar and a flaming torch? Stockfish has gone to kill himself. To kill himself? Fancy. Why is Stockfish going to kill himself? I made him. You made him? I did. He is to ascend to the highest peak of the gasworks and blow himself up. Hilda, I adore you. You have the true Viking spirit. Enter, Mrs. Inquest and Madame Hilseth. Mama, Stockfish is going to kill himself. He is going to turn away from the banquet of life and blow himself up in the gasworks. But, Lord of the Bold Deed, there is beauty in this. We shall have a good view from this window. Why doesn't he hurry up? Dear Lord, Miss Hilda, how could you do such a cruel thing? He bored me. You will never have any peace of soul again after this. Who cares? Peace of soul? What a humiliating idea. Who wants peace of soul? It sounds like snacks of fish, threepants, doesn't it? This, then, is what the White Horse meant. What's that White Horse she's always talking about? Oh, it's a public house down the road here. At window. See, see, there he goes to his death. Now he ascends the little path. Now he clambers slowly up the ironwork with the crowbar in his teeth and the wreath about his neck. Now he has arrived. He looks round. He wipes his brow with a red bandana handkerchief. Now he is the only cock on the fall roost at last. Now he plunges the crowbar into the gas meter. Now he sets the torch to the orifice. They imitate a rocket. Look up high and clap their hands. My word. What a beauty. Well, there's an end of him. He's blown himself up. He's blown himself up. All sing and dance. Enter, Tesman, weeping. Blown up. Gone's a glory. I shall never, never see them again. Them? What's them? It's the little things that hurt one most. The things that some people would look on as almost nothing. Come, Tesman, what things do you mean? He went up in my galoshes. Your galoshes? My beautiful big galoshes that Aunt Jemima gave me. Waving a handkerchief and dancing. My plaster builder. My galoshes. My plaster builder. My galoshes. Curtain, end of Cinderella by George Calderon.