 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
346
ASPIRANTS THREE
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
- De Young a Brother to Mushrooms
QUICK:
- Swift an Heirloom
- Estee a Relic
DEAD:
- The Spirit of Broken Hopes. The Author.
IMMORTALS.
- A Troupe of Coffins. The Moon. Various Colored Fires.
MISCELLANEOUS.
De Young
(solus):
This is the spot agreed upon. Here rest
The sainted statesmen who upon the field
Of honor have at divers times laid down
Their own, and ended, ignominious,
Their lives political. About me, lo!
Their silent headstones, gilded by the moon,
Half-full and near her setting—midnight. Hark!
Through the white mists of this portentous night
(Which throng in moving shapes about my way,
As they were ghosts of candidates I've slain,
347
Engulfs a footstep.
(Enter Estee from his tomb.)
Ah, 'tis he, my foe,
True to appointment; and so here we fight—
Though truly 'twas my firm belief that he
Would send regrets, or I had not been here.
Estee:
O moon that hast so oft surprised the deeds
Whereby I rose to greatness!—tricksy orb,
The type and symbol of my politics,
Now draw my ebbing fortunes to their flood,
As, by the magic of a poultice, boils
That burn ambitions with defeated fires
Are lifted into eminence.
(Sees De Young.)
What? you!
Faith, if I had suspected you would come
From the fair world of politics wherein
So lately you were whelped, and which, alas,
I vainly to revisit strive, though still
Rapped on the rotting head and bidden sleep
Till Resurrection's morn,—if I had thought
You would accept the challenge that I flung
I would have seen you damned ere I came forth
In the night air, shroud-clad and shivering,
To fight so mean a thing. But since you're here,
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Who'll be Postmaster-General!
De Young:
We will—
I'll fight (for I am lame) with any blue
And redolent remain that dares aspire
To wreck the Grand Old Grandson's cabinet.
Here's at you, nosegay!
(They draw tongues and are about to fight, when from an adjacent whited sepulcher, enter Swift.)
Swift:
Hold! put up your tongues!
Within the confines of this sacred spot
Broods such a holy calm as none may break
By clash of weapons, without sacrilege.
(Beats down their tongues with a bone.)
Madmen! what profits it? For though you fought
With such heroic skill that both survived,
Yet neither should achieve the prize, for I
Would wrest it from him. Let us not contend,
But friendliwise by stipulation fix
A slate for mutual advantage. Why,
Having the pick and choice of seats, should we
Forego them all but one? Nay, we'll take three,
And part them so among us that to each
Shall fall the fittest to his powers. In brief,
Let us establish a Portfolio Trust.
349
Agreed.
De Young:
Aye, truly, 'tis a greed—and one
The offices imperfectly will sate,
But I'll stand in.
Swift.
Well, so 'tis understood,
As you're the junior member of the Trust,
Politically younger and undead,
Speak, Michael: what portfolio do you chose?
De Young:
I've thought the Postal service best would serve
My interest; but since I have my pick,
I'll take the War Department. It is known
Throughout the world, from Market street to Pine,
(For a Chicago journal told the tale)
How in this hand I lately took my life
And marched against great Buckley, thundering
My mandate that he count the ballots fair!
Earth heard and shrank to half her size! Yon moon,
Which rivaled then a liver's whiteness, paused
That night at Butchertown and daubed her face
With sheep's blood! Then my serried rank I drew
Back to my stronghold without loss. To mark
My care in saving human life—my own—
The Peace Society bestowed on me
Its leather medal and the title, too,
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I naturally dote on a brass band!
(Sings.)
O, give me a life on the tented field,
Where the cannon roar and ring,
Where the flag floats free and the foemen yield
And bleed as the bullets sing.
But be it not mine to wage the fray
Where matters are ordered the other way,
For that is a different thing.
Where the cannon roar and ring,
Where the flag floats free and the foemen yield
And bleed as the bullets sing.
But be it not mine to wage the fray
Where matters are ordered the other way,
For that is a different thing.
O, give me a life in the fierce campaign—
Let it be the life of my foe:
I'd rather fall upon him than the plain;
That service I'd fain forego.
O, a warrior's life is fine and free,
But a warrior's death—ah me! ah me!
That's a different thing, you know.
Let it be the life of my foe:
I'd rather fall upon him than the plain;
That service I'd fain forego.
O, a warrior's life is fine and free,
But a warrior's death—ah me! ah me!
That's a different thing, you know.
Estee:
Some claim I might myself advance to that
Portfolio. When Rebellion raised her head,
And you, my friends, stayed meekly in your shirts,
I marched with banners to the party stump,
Spat on my hands, made faces fierce as death,
Shook my two fists at once and introduced
Brave resolutions terrible to read!
Nay, only recently, as you do know,
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And slew again (to her surprise) the South!
Swift:
You once fought Stanford, too.
Estee:
Enough of that—
Give me the Interior and I'll devote
My mind to agriculture and improve
The breed of cabbages, especially
The Brassica Celeritatis, named
For you because in days of long ago
You sold it at your market stall,—and, faith,
'Tis said you were an honest huckster then.
I'll be Attorney-General if you
Prefer; for know I am a lawyer too!
Swift:
I never have heard that!—have you, De Young?
De Young:
Never, so help me! And I swear I've heard
A score of Judges say that he is not.
Swift
(to Estee):
You take the Interior. I might aspire
To military station too, for once
I led my party into Pixley's camp,
And he paroled me. I defended, too,
The State of Oregon against the sharp
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But I've an aptitude exceeding neat
For bloodless battles of diplomacy.
My cobweb treaty of Exclusion once,
Through which a hundred thousand coolies sailed,
Was much admired, but most by Colonel Bee.
Though born a tinker, I'm a diplomat
From old Missouri, and I—ha! what's this?
(Exit Moon. Enter Blue Lights on all the tombs, and a circle of Red Fire on the grass; in the center the Spirit of Broken Hopes, and round about, a Troupe of Coffins, dancing and singing.)
Chorus of Coffins:
Two bodies dead and one alive—
Yo, ho, merrily all!
Now for office strain and strive—
Buzzards all a-warble, O!
Prophets three, agape for bread;
Raven with a stone instead—
Providential raven!
Judges two and Colonel one—
Run, run, rustics, run!
But it's O, the pig is shaven,
And oily, oily all!
(Exeunt Coffins, dancing. The Spirit of Broken Hopes advances, solemnly pointing at each of the Three Worthies in turn.)
353
Governor, Governor, editor man,
Rusty, musty, spick-and-span,
Harlequin, harridan, dicky-dout,
Demagogue, charlatan—o, u, t, OUT!
(De Young falls and sleeps.)
Antimonopoler, diplomat,
Railroad lackey, political rat,
One, two, three—SCAT!
(Swift falls and sleeps.)
Boycotting chin-worker, working to woo
Fortune, the fickle, to smile upon you,
Jo-coated acrobat, shuttle-cock—SHOO!
(Estee falls and sleeps.)
Now they lie in slumber sweet,
Now the charm is all complete,
Hasten I with flying feet
To where beyond the farther sea
A babe upon its mother's knee
Is gazing into skies afar
And crying for a golden star.
I'll drag a cloud across the blue
And break that infant's heart in two!
(Exeunt the Spirit of Broken Hopes and the Red and Blue Fires. Re-enter Moon.)
Estee
(waking):
Why, this is strange! I dreamed I know not what.
It seemed that certain apparitions were,
354
And yet ambiguous—half-understood—
Portending evil; and an awful spook,
Even as I stood with my accomplices,
Counted me out, as children do in play.
Is that you, Mike?
De Young
(waking):
It was.
Swift
(waking):
And I all that?
Then I'll reform my life.
(Reforms his life.)
Ah! had I known
How sweet it is to be an honest man
I never would have stooped to turn my coat
For public favor, as chameleons take
The hue (as near as they can judge) of that
Supporting them. Henceforth I'll buy
With money all the offices I need,
And know the profit of an honest life,
Or stay forever in this dismal place.
Now that I'm good, it will no longer do
To make a third with such a wicked two.
(Returns to his tomb.)
De Young:
Prophetic dream; by some good angel sent
To make me with a quiet life content.
355
To go to Washington or go to work.
From Fame's debasing struggle I'll withdraw,
And taking up the pen lay down the law.
I'll leave this rogue, lest my example make
An honest man of him—his heart would break.
(Exit De Young.)
Estee:
Out of my company these converts flee,
But that advantage is denied to me:
My curst identity's confining skin
Nor lets me out nor tolerates me in.
But since my hopes eternally have fled,
And, dead before, I'm more than ever dead,
To find a grander tomb be now my task,
And pack my pork into a stolen cask.
(Exit, searching. Loud calls for the Author, who appears, bowing and smiling. Enter Faint Odor of Mortality. Exit the Gas.)
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |