months a daily intimacy, the two poets must inevitably have reacted upon each other; yet to put one's finger on this or that point of influence is almost impossible. Even intangible traces of Shelley's influence on Byron, of Byron on Shelley, in subject matter, treatment, or mood, can be only conjectural. We may imagine that to Shelley, as much as to experience in life itself, Byron owed the broader, less egotistical, more widely humanistic trend of the later works of the Italian period. What Shelley owed to Byron it is impossible to say. Shelley is so purely himself from beginning to end that we are forced to accept his own statement that Byron did not influence, he suppressed his genius altogether. The divergence of their views of poetry was too radical to admit of compromise. Each was too ardent an advocate of his own poetic ideal to be won by argument to the other side. Discussion would only intensify his convictions. It may be that to this very sharpening of their dissimilarities through constant association we owe the supreme individuality of the work of each of these great poets. LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN* A MEDIEVAL FARCE Translated from the old French by Colin C. Clements and John M. Saunders Dedicated to N. M. T. CHARACTERS JACQUINOT HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW SCENE The scene is in a French kitchen of the Moyen Age. At the back is a large fireplace in front of which stands an immense iron kettle. On the mantle are copper and pewter pans-the nondescript sort. Against the wall at the right stands a cupboard filled with crockery near it a door leading to the outside. At the left, up several steps, is a low door leading to some other part of the house. A table, several chairs, and a churn stand near the center of the room. JACQUINOT enters from the door at the left. He is a small thin fellow; his matted and disheveled hair sticking out from under a little red cap, and his big sleepy eyes give him the appearance of an owl. He carries a lighted candle in his hand. He pauses on the landing, looks about him, clumsily descends the stairs and moves toward the table, his big wooden sabots rattling loudly as he drags his weary feet over the stone floor, He blows out the candle and places the candlestick on the table. He goes to the door at the left and throws it open. It is early morning. Jacquinot. The old devil led me well when I stepped into matrimony. (He moves to the table again, takes up the candlestick and places it on a shelf in the cupboard.) It has been nothing but storm and tempest care and sorrow my wife always bustling about arranging things and then her mother, *All Rights Reserved, For dramatic version address The Dramatists Agency 1483 Broadway, New York City. no rest disarranging them. (He looks slightly toward the door at the left, satisfied that no one is coming he surreptitiously removes a jug from the bottom shelf of the cupboard and takes a long drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve and replaces the jug.) I have no time no peace. One of them cries and the other grumbles, one of them curses and the other storms. Whether it is a week day or a holiday makes no difference. I am in the midst of discontent, nothing interests me except what the grace of God does for me. (Bringing his fist down on the table with a bang.) I'm tired of all this. I will be master of my own house. I will be mas (A light comes to his eyes but quickly fades. His voice trails off into doubt. He removes the little red cap and skeptically scratches his head. After a pause, slowly shaking his head.) No I've been saying It's no use. (Hope no some that every morning for twenty years now. fully.) But my chance might come sometime 、 time (His wife appears on the landing at the left. She is a large, corpulent woman. Her voice is hard and garrulous when she speaks the whole room quivers with harsh overtones. She comes heavily down the stairs, rolling up her sleeves. She is followed by her mother, a childish old woman with shaggy features. The mother slowly and painfully sits down on the last step of the landing.) Wife (To JACQUINOT).-What are you complaining about? Be quiet if you will be wise. Jacquinot. What is the matter now? Wife. What? And how should I know? You're always complaining. I have matters of my own to attend. You keep me ever picking up after you, I always have to do over what you have done. I have to see to all the business or we would starve. I have to do all the work in the house and outside, while you do nothing. The Mother (Pounding the end of her cane on the floor).—That is not right. Like a good husband, he should obey his wife. Jacquinot.-But if she————— The Mother. If she hits you now and then it is because it is necessary. The Mother-No? Why? By Saint Marie, do you think if your wife chastises you and corrects you from time to time that is bad? Do you call that suffering! Non, parbleu, it is only a sign of love. Jacquinot. It sounds better than it feels. Wife.-Come, come, stop this haggling and get the table set for breakfast. (He reluctantly begins to set the table.) You're a much improved man since I married you. (She goes to the fireplace and swings a small kettle over the fire.) Jacquinot.-Improved! By Saint George, I should improve more if my throat were cut. Improved! (Lifting his eyes heavenward.) Blessed Dame! The Mother. You should always agree with your wife, you should do as she commands. Jacquinot.-Agree? I always do I wish I dared not to agree with her just once. Ha! Saint Jehan! She commands too much. I can't keep track of half she commands me to do. The Mother.-In order to remember better you should write down all she commands you to do. Wife (Coming toward him).-That is an idea. You shall write down, so you can read, all my commands. It will save me a deal of useless talking. Jacquinot. I will do nothing of the sort. Wife. Go to the fire and bring me a piece of charred wood. (Her husband hesitates.) Do you hear me? Go! (She commandingly points toward the fireplace.) Bring a large piece. (JACQUINOT cringingly stumbles off to do her bidding. She goes to the cupboard, gets a slab of clean, white board and lays it on the table. JACQUINOT returns with the charcoal and stands awkwardly holding it out to his wife. Questioningly he looks at the board, then at her.) This board will do. Write what I tell you. It will take lots of room. (JACQUINOT does so. His wife stands Napoleon fashion with her chest arched like a pouter pigeon.) Jacquinot.-Yes yes. Wife. First, you must always arise first to do the work. Jacquinot. By our Dame of Boulogne, I oppose that article to always get up first. For what reason? Wife. To warm my chemise by the fire. Jacquinot. Do you tell me that is the reason? and the fashion. What other use is a husband than to care for his wife? The Mother. The first to rise. Put it down. Wife.-Have you got that down? fast. Jacquinot. I am still at the first word. You rush me too The Mother. At night if the baby cries, you must be the You must get up to rock her, to comfort her, to carry her, to hush her. nurse. Jacquinot.-What do I know about babies? don't know how to hold 'em. Wife. Write it down. Jacquinot. By my conscience it's all plain when you say it but I don't know how to write it. Wife (Taking the stick from her mother).—Put it down or I'll put this down across your back. The Mother. Then, Jacquinot, you must learn to cook, bake and broil. Jacquinot.-To have as much torment as the devil. rake the coals. The Mother. To take the grain to the mill. Wife. To make the bed every morning and keep the kitchen clean. Jacquinot. If I must put all that down you must say it word for word. The Mother.-Well, write it down that way. The Mother.-Bake! Wife.-Soak! The Mother.-Wash! Wife.-Stew! Jaqcuinot.-To wash what? The Mother.-The pots and pans Jacquinot.-Wait! Not so fast Jacquinot.-Without brains I would never know how to remember all this. Wife. Write it down so that you can remember it. Do you hear? Jacquinot. But I can't read it after it is written down. Well, go ahead. Wife. Dress the baby. |