  A DRAMATIZED VERSION. When it was announced recently in an English Daily Paper that a drama founded upon Fitzgerald’s version of the RubÁiyÁt of Omar KhayyÁm had been compounded in the United States, and would shortly be seen on the stage, many people may have wondered how it was done. It was done as follows:— OMAR AND OH MY.Scene.—Courtyard of the deserted palace of Jamshyd, canopied by that inverted bowl commonly called the sky. To right, a tavern—not deserted. To left, a potter’s house. At back, the grave of BahrÁm, whence a sound of snoring proceeds. A wild ass stamps fitfully upon it. It is four o’clock in the morning, and the “false dawn” shows in the sky. In the centre of the stage stand a lion and a lizard, eyeing each other mistrustfully. Lion. Look here, do you keep these courts, or do I? Lizard. [Resentfully.] I don’t know. I believe we both keep them. Lion. [Sarcastically.] Do you? Then I venture to differ from you. Lizard. Perhaps you’d rather we took turns? Lion. Oh, no, I wouldn’t. I mean to have this job to myself. [He and the lizard close in mortal combat. After a gallant struggle the latter is killed, and the lion proceeds to eat him. Suddenly a shadowy form issues from the grave at back of stage. Lion. BahrÁm, by Jove! Confound that jackass! [Bolts remains of lizard and then bolts himself, pursued by shadowy form. Wild Ass. They said I couldn’t wake him. But I knew better! Hee-haw! [Exit in triumph.] [A sound in revelry becomes noticeable from the tavern. A crowd gathers outside. The voice of Omar, rather tipsy, is heard. Omar. When all the temple—hic!—is prepared within, why nods the lousy worshipper outside? [A cock crows, and the sun rises. Crowd. [Shouting in unison.] Open then the door. You know how little while we have to stay. And, once departed, goodness only knows when we shall get back again! Omar. [Opening the door and appearing unsteadily on the threshold.] You can’t come in. It’s—hic—full. [Closes door again. Crowd. I say, what rot! [Exeunt, depressed. Nightingale. [Jubilantly from tree.] Wine! Wine! Red wine! Rose. [From neighbouring bush, much shocked.] My dear, you don’t know how your passion for alcohol shocks me. Nightingale. Oh yes I do. But every morning brings a thousand roses. After all, you’re cheap. Jamshyd and I like our liquor, and plenty of it. Rose. [Shaking her head in disapproval.] I’ve heard he drank deep. Nightingale. Of course he did. You should have seen him when HÁtim called to supper! He simply went for it! Rose. [Blushing crimson.] How dreadful! Nightingale. [Contemptuously.] I dare say. But you wouldn’t be so red yourself if some buried CÆsar didn’t fertilize your roots. Why, even the hyacinth’s past isn’t altogether creditable, and as for the grass—why, I could tell you things about the grass that would scare the soul out of a vegetable! Rose. [Annoyed.] I’m not a vegetable. Nightingale. Well, well, I can’t stay to argue with you. I’ve but a little time to flutter myself. [Exit on the wing. [Enter Omar from tavern. He is by this time magnificently intoxicated and is leaning on the arm of a fascinating SÁki. He has a jug of wine in his hand. Omar. [Trying to kiss her.] Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears to-day of past regrets and future fears. To-morrow! Why to-morrow I may be—— SÁki. [Interrupting.] I know what you’re going to say. To-morrow you’ll be sober. But you won’t. I know you. Go home! Omar. Home!—hic. What do I want with home? A book of verses underneath the bough, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread—no, no bread, two jugs of wine—and thou [puts arm round her waist] beside me singing like a bulbul. [Sings uproariously. For to-night we’ll merry be! For to-night—— SÁki. Fie! An old man like you! Omar. Old! Thank goodness I am old. When I was young I went to school and heard the sages. Didn’t learn much there! They said I came like water and went like wind. Horrid chilly Band-of-Hope sort of doctrine. I know better now. [Drinks from the jug in his hand. SÁki. [Watching him anxiously.] Take care. You’ll spill it. Omar. Never mind. It won’t be wasted. All goes to quench some poor beggar’s thirst down there [points below]. Dare say he needs it—hic. SÁki. [Shocked.] How can you talk so! Omar. [Growing argumentative in his cups.] I must abjure the balm of life, I must! I must give up wine for fear of—hic—What is it I’m to fear? Gout, I suppose. Not I! [Takes another drink. SÁki. [Trying to take jug from him.] There, there, you’ve had enough. Omar. [Fast losing coherence in his extreme intoxication.] I want E. J. Wheeler. “Myshticism, difficult word to say, mysticishm.” SÁki. You’re drunk, that’s what you are. Disgracefully drunk. Omar. Of course I’m drunk. I am to-day what I was yesterday, and to-morrow I shall not be less. Kiss me. SÁki. [Boxing his ears.] I won’t have it, I tell you. I’m a respectable SÁki; and you’re not to take liberties, or I’ll leave you to find your way home alone. Omar. [Becoming maudlin.] Don’t leave me, my rose, my bullfinch—I mean bulbul. You know how my road is beset with pitfall—hic!—and with gin. SÁki. [Disgusted.] Plenty of gin, I know. You never can pass a public-house. Omar. [Struck with the splendour of the idea.] I say—hic!—let’s fling the dust aside, and naked on the air of Heaven ride. It’s shame not to do it! [Flings off hat, and stamps on it by way of preliminary. SÁki. [Scandalised.] If you take anything else off I shall call the police. [Exit hurriedly. Omar. [Terrified.] Here, SÁki, come back. How am I to find my way without you? [A pause.] What’s come to the girl? I only spoke—hic—meta—phorically. Difficult word to say, meta—phorically! [Longer pause.] How am I to get home? Can’t go ’lone. Must wait for someone to come along. [Peers tipsily about him.] Strange, isn’t it, that though lots of people go along here every day, not one returns to tell me of the road! Very strange. S’pose must sleep here.... S’pose—— [Rolls into ditch and falls asleep. [The curtain falls for a moment. When it rises again, day is departing and it is growing dark. Omar is still in his ditch. The door of the potter’s house, to the left of the stage, is open, the Potter having betaken himself to the tavern opposite, and the pots within are arguing fiercely. First Pot. Don’t tell me I was only made to be broken. I know better. Second Pot. Even a peevish boy wouldn’t break me! The Potter would whack him if he did! Third Pot. [Of a more ungainly make.] Depends on what he drank out of you. Second Pot. What’s that you say, you lopsided object? Third Pot. That’s right. Sneer at me! ’Tisn’t my fault if the potter’s hand shook when he made me. He was not sober. Fourth Pot. [I think a SÚfi pipkin.] It’s all very well to talk about pot and potter. What I want to know is, what did the pot call the kettle? Third Pot. [Grumbling.] I believe my clay’s too dry. That’s what’s the matter with me! [The moon rises. A step is heard without. Several Pots. Hark, there’s the potter! Can’t you hear his boots creaking? Enter Potter from tavern. Potter. [Crossly.] Shut up in there, or I’ll break some of you. [The pots tremble and are silent. Potter. [Seeing Omar.] Hullo. Come out of that. You’re in my ditch. [Lifts him into sitting posture by the collar.] Omar. [Rubbing his eyes.] Eh! What’s that? Oh, my head! my head! [Clasps it between his hands.] Potter. Get up! You’ve been drinking. Omar. [Dazed at his penetration.] I wonder how you guessed that! Potter. It’s plain enough. You’ve been providing your fading life with liquor. I can see that with half an eye. Omar. I have, I have. I’ve drowned my glory in a shallow cup, and my head’s very bad. Potter. You should take the pledge. Omar. Oh! I’ve sworn to give up drink lots of times. [Doubtfully.] But was I sober when I swore? Tell me that. Potter. [Scratching his head.] Dunnow. Omar. [Staggering to his feet.] Would but the desert of the fountain yield one glimpse! In more prosaic language, could you get me something to drink? I’m rather star-scattered myself and the grass is wet. [Potter goes to house and takes up third pot at random. Third Pot. [Delighted.] Now he’s going to fill me with the old familiar juice! [Potter fills him with water and returns to Omar. Third Pot. [Disgusted.] Water! Well, I’m dashed! Omar. Many thanks, O SÁki. Here’s to you. [Drains beaker.] Ugh! don’t think much of your liquor. I wish the moon wouldn’t look at me like that. She’s a beastly colour. Why doesn’t she look the other way? Potter. [Sarcastically.] Wants to see you, I suppose. Omar. [Darkly.] Well, some day she won’t. That’s all. Farewell, O SÁki. Yours is a joyous errand. But I wish you had put something stronger in the glass. [Handing it back to him.] Turn it down, there’s a good fellow. [Exit. Curtain. THE END. BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE. |
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