The Prime Minister

Front matter

CHARACTERS

The Rt. Hon. Sir Robert Temple Lord Burnley Mr. Dundas Sir Richard Carfax Mr. Hallam Sir Malcolm Clark Lady Dorothy Nugent Peggy, seven years of age Galloway Doctor Gottfried Schiller Mrs. Schiller Friedrich Schiller Otto Schiller, twenty years of age Dr. Hoffmann Freda Michel Margaret Schiller

Secretaries of the Minister, Compatriots of the Schiller family

front matter

THE PRIME MINISTER

THE object of this play is to present a picture in little of the evil which lies at the heart of the world-war, by showing the clash of ideals in the warring nations. On the one side, a race which has, for thirty years, been taught in its schools to set up its State as an idol to be worshipped, and now sincerely believes and shame- lessly declares, that it is justified in committing any crime that will add to its power and temporal glory. On the other side, a group of races which, incapable of realising the peril of this moral lunacy, have been struggling to hold on to their faith in the veracities, in abstract justice, and in human brotherhood.

By the same Author

Author's Note

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In the winter of 1910 or 1911 I was staying, for the silence and solitude which seemed necessary to certain literary work I had to do, at an old manor house turned into a private hotel in Sils Beseglia, near Sils Maria, a little village in the Engadine, lying midway on the mountain road between St. Moritz and Maloja, at the foot of a glacier and in the midst of the deep snows. My few housemates were all Germans, being chiefly muscular and adventurous German women, who spent most of their time ski-ing along the neighbouring slopes in not altogether becoming male costume. One afternoon I heard from my sitting-room the tinkle of many sleigh-bells, and looking out I saw, in the glistening Engadine sunshine, some three or four sleighs rolling up the deep snow-ruts to the half-buried gate of the house. They contained a group of illustrious personages, with several of whom I had such slight acquaintance as one usually acquires (whatever different world one comes out of) in the course of long sojourns at small hotels in remote places. As far as I can remember, there were, among others, the Princess Stéphanie of Belgium; her second husband, the Hungarian nobleman whom she married after the death of her first husband, the Crown Prince of Austria; the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife; a little Austrian baroness who was lady-in-waiting, and (I think, but am not sure) one of the younger sons of the Kaiser, whom I had frequently seen in the same company. They had sleighed over from St. Moritz and were to go back after tea.

Knowing I was staying in the house the Princess kindly sent up to ask me to join her party, and going downstairs I found the rather large company in the timbered hall by the side of a crackling wood fire, seated in the manner of country folk about a big pine tea-table. My recollections of that tea-party centre in the impression left on my dramatic sense by the contrast and, as subsequent events show, the conflict of family relations and dynastic interests. There was the Archduke, a stiff-set, stolid, gloomy, not very inspiring person, commonly understood to be intensely hostile to England and France, and closely bound to Germany and the person of the Kaiser. And there was the brighter and more expansive Belgian Princess, daughter of the late King and cousin of the present one. If the war came which was even then, threatening (it was mentioned that afternoon, I remember, that Austria had eight hundred thousand men under arms) and Germany carried out the intention that was being openly avowed by her military writers, of marching over Belgium to get at France, what would happen to the members of that family group? How would they stand to each other in the tragic developments of the plots and counterplots that are the chief industries of what Mr. Gerard calls "the King business." In particular, how would the daughter of Belgium stand to the Archduke if he became Emperor of Austria (as it seemed he might at any moment) and carried out with the Kaiser the schemes with which he was credited by whispered rumour and report? They were apparently united and harmonious now, laughing and chatting and calling each other by their Christian names and diminutives, but it needed no special development of the dramatic sense to hear under the crackle of cup and saucer the murmur of the voiceless millions of Europe, whose lives lay so lightly in the hands of this little party taking tea together in the snow-covered house among the mountains.

Next morning I awoke early with the drama of that tea-party strongly on my mind, but, by a process which imaginative writers will recognize as not unfamiliar, the scenes and characters had undergone important changes during the hours of sleep. The Archduke had become the Prime Minister of England; his palace at Konopisht had become No. 10 Downing Street; the daughter of King Leopold had become the daughter of a German doctor practising in Soho, and the long-expected war had begun. My imaginary German girl, inspired by racial hatred, and smarting under a deep sense of personal injury, had found a way, under a false name and character, of entering the house of the Prime Minister in order to destroy him, and through him, his country. But being in that house, she could not get out of it. Fate had laid its hand upon her. She had fallen into her own trap. Her hate of hates had gone down before the stirrings of another (and apparently unrequitable) passion. And after her soul had become denationalized, and she had rightly convinced herself that, like some of the highest ladies of the land, she was a true and loyal Englishwoman and a member of the "empire of humanity," she, who had come to destroy the Prime Minister, remained to save him, and so, by a great and moving act of self-sacrifice, to bring nearer the day of peace.

This sequel to the foreshadowed tragedy of the tea-party took such hold of me that I had to put aside the work on which I was engaged and go on forthwith with the drama which had shaped itself, so that within six or seven days, working continuously and feverishly, I had written the first draft of a play in four acts. But having got the subject off my mind, I put the manuscript among many similar papers in my bag, and thought no more about it for fully three years. Then the war began, and in the earliest days of it I availed myself of the friendly acquaintance I have enjoyed through many years with the present Prime Minister (then Chancellor of the Exchequer) to go down to breakfast with him, in order to ask if there was any way (such as by propaganda) in which a man who was too old for military duty, but was not unknown abroad, might be of service to his country. At that breakfast (no one else being present except a fellow-author) the Prime Minister told a thrilling story—the story, which I trust I have not done wrong in making public already, of the Cabinet on the day of the Ultimatum, waiting in Mr. Asquith's room for the answer that was expected from Berlin before midnight, but overlooking the difference between mid-European time and Greenwich time, so that Great Britain was an hour at war before the country was aware of it. Listening to that story, told on the spot in the Prime Minister's vivid way, I remembered my play and thought, "That's my Prologue." Then I looked up my manuscript and wrote my drama over again, feeling that I had only touched the fringe of a great subject. And quite lately I have again rewritten it, out of that deep sense of the significance of war which none of us can know until we have gone through the pain and throb of it.

Why The Prime Minister has not been produced in London before is a long story. It may be sufficient to say that the chief impediment was the difficulty of finding, among our many accomplished actresses, a woman who at once by her personality and training seemed to the author to meet precisely the needs of the trying situation in which he had placed his principal character. That difficulty disappeared when I saw Miss Ethel Irving in Brieux' Three Daughters of M. Dupont, and now I can only hope I have given her material as worthy of her genius.

One word more. Looking round the theatres one sees that the class of entertainment most in vogue at present is that which combines bright music, bright faces, and beautiful dresses, with cheerful story and heartsome laughter. That is no doubt just as it should be, while a considerable part of the public to be catered for consists of our young soldiers on leave from the grey life of the trenches. Nothing could be better for them, and perhaps nothing else so good. But there is another part of the public who live at home, and have to face bereavement and the strain of ever-renewed and increasing self-sacrifice if we are to endure to the end of this grim business. Is it too much to assume that this public (a very large one) asks in the theatre, as elsewhere, for the food that aims, however humbly, to strengthen the muscles of its soul, to lift up its heart, and exalt its hope that after so much suffering the world may win through to a joyful peace?

HALL CAINE

Easter 1918

Prologue

THE PRIME MINISTER

PROLOGUE

Scene.—Room in the house of the Minister. Large windows at back. Middle window opened to ground as door to garden. Door open. A clear night. Garden seen without. Beyond garden St. James's Park, with lake, etc. Buckingham Palace in distance. Doors right and left. Fireplace on left. Above mantelpiece a portrait in oils of a young and beautiful woman. A light shining on portrait. Nearer to footlights there is a desk, with electric lamp, etc. It is a night in late summer. Electric light burning.

A round table middle of room. Four gentlemen seated about it. Telephone bells, etc. Sir Robert Temple faces audience. He is about forty-five; has strong clean-shaven face. The others are men of varying ages.

When curtain rises there is a moment of silence. The conference is seen to be one of considerable gravity. Sir Robert touches bell on table. A manservant enters right.

Sir Robert. Close the window and draw the curtains, Galloway.

Galloway. Yes, sir. [All sit without speaking while door at back is closed, curtains drawn, etc.

Sir Robert. Galloway?

Galloway. Yes, Sir Robert?

Sir Robert. Call up Mr. Denham at the Foreign Office. Give him my compliments and ask if any message has yet been received from the Embassy.

Galloway. The Embassy, sir?

Sir Robert. He'll know which. If not, say I could wish him to put it through to this room the moment it arrives.

Galloway. Yes, sir.

Sir Robert. When Lord Burnley comes bring him up immediately.

Galloway. Yes, sir. [Manservant goes out.

Sir Robert. Pity our old colleague isn't here. Something must have detained him. No doubt he'll come presently.

Others. Sure to.

Sir Robert. I particularly wished that we five should be together to-night.

Others. Yes, of course, naturally.

Sir Robert. When the reply to our Ultimatum comes, an answer may be required at once, and, of course, it should be agreeable to all.

Others. Of course! Of course!

Hallam. But aren't we alarming ourselves unduly, sir? Is it possible that our neighbours will repeat the blunder of the last war?

Carfax. They are again so plainly in the wrong. How can they defend such conduct?

Dundas. They can't and they won't; You may be sure they won't. They've learnt their lesson.

Sir Robert. My experience is that when a nation has determined upon a policy it is the easiest thing in the world for it to become convinced that it is in the right, and no lesson from the past is sufficient to undeceive it.

Hallam. True!

Dundas. Quite true!

Carfax. Yes, every nation thinks it carries the Ark of the Covenant.

Sir Robert. Therefore I cherish no illusions to-night. But reply or no reply, all that remains to us is to follow the line of honour.

Others. Quite so.

Dundas. So soon after the last war, though!

Hallam. With all its frightful sorrow and suffering!

Carfax. Terrible! Terrible!

Enter manservant as before.

Galloway. Lord Burnley.

Enter Lord Burnley. Elderly man. There are general salutations.

Lord Burnley. Sorry to be late. Excuse me, Robert. [Nodding round table.] Carfax! Dundas! Hallam! How long do you think it has taken me to reach here in a taxi from my house in Kensington? An hour and a half! Traffic held up everywhere! People walking in procession! Mass meetings in Trafalgar Square! Such unanimity of popular feeling! Have never seen the like of it!

Others. Ah!

Hallam. We've certainly got the country behind us, haven't we?

Lord Burnley. Yes, it's always like that to begin with. Every great war in the history of the world has been heralded by just such outbursts of popular enthusiasm. But when the bill comes in, and the price has to be paid . . .

Carfax. True!

Lord Burnley. Terribly true! The people of yesterday thought they were seeing the last of war. "A war to end war," they called it. And yet here we are, so soon afterwards, as the harvest of hate and revenge perhaps . . . ugh!

Dundas. Yes, reprisals, reprisals, reprisals!

Carfax. Frightful! If war comes now it will be the most awful tragedy the world has ever witnessed.

Dundas. Twenty millions of dead—that's the least we can look for.

Hallam. More—far more! Think of the development of physical force during the years of peace.

Carfax. Yes, nobody can say what the consequences of war will be now. All past records are useless.

Dundas. Utterly useless! Whole continents may be wiped out in a year, a month, nay, a week for all we know.

Hallam. Yes, yes! Man has made his Frankenstein, and now God knows if it will not destroy him.

Sir Robert. [Who has been listening in silence.] Gentlemen, let us not lose our strength in sentimentality. War is always terrible, and it may be even more terrible in the future than it has ever been in the past. But are we to buy the temporary ease and safety of our bodies at the lasting peril of our souls? In this age of the world, are a little handful of arch-egotists and crowned degenerates to be permitted to plot, intrigue and gamble in the destinies of hundreds of millions of people, in life and death, happiness and misery, with everything God gave us to be ours—on the land, in the air, on the sea? No, the time has come when that terror has to die if liberty is to live, and it is for us to kill it. Therefore we sent our Ultimatum this morning, and if as a consequence we are called upon to make the sacrifices of war for the things that are more to us than life, we must make them— every man, every woman, every child. [There is a moment of silence. Then from within comes the cry of a child. Sir Robert listens, then touches bell. Maidservant enters.] What was that?

Maidservant. Little Miss Peggy, sir. Awakened from sleep in a fright. Must have been a nightmare. She's calling for her father, and Nurse says she cannot be pacified.

Sir Robert. [Rising.] Excuse me, gentlemen. [He goes out at right. His colleagues look after him, and then smile.

Carfax. Isn't that like him?

Dundas. Isn't it?

Carfax. How little the world knows him!

Hallam. How little indeed!

Carfax. A hard, austere, unyielding nature, without a touch of sentiment, and yet . . .

Hallam. A person of such underlying tenderness that his highest, gravest, sternest moment may be broken in upon by the cry of a little child!

Dundas. Strange contradiction!

Hallam. Extraordinary combination of conflicting characteristics!

Carfax. What a victim for the designing man!

Hallam. Or the scheming woman!

Lord Burnley. No!

Hallam. No?

Lord Burnley. The scheming woman—no! Robert Temple carries one talisman against that kind of peril [Pointing to portrait over fireplace], the memory of his dead wife.

Carfax. Ah! You knew him during his early married life, didn't you?

Lord Burnley. Yes, through all the sad and hidden years of it.

Carfax. Rather a hard time, wasn't it?

Lord Burnley. Very. When Temple came up from the University he was poor—very poor.

Carfax. Hardly had enough to pay his fees for the Bar— isn't that so?

Lord Burnley. [Nodding.] Then by some chance he came to know the family of that rich old dunderhead. Lord Nugent. You remember him, Hallam?

Hallam. Perfectly. A hard old nut if ever there was one.

Lord Burnley. The old man had two daughters, and Temple fell in love with the younger of them [Indicating portrait]—Margaret. When he asked for her, Nugent almost spat in his face. "The briefless beggar," "the parvenu," and so forth.

Carfax. Just so.

Lord Burnley. Things had gone too far though, and in spite of her father's refusal the girl married Temple, and was forthwith cut off for the rest of the old man's life.

Hallam. She would be.

Lord Burnley.

Then followed ten years of poverty—some say privation. The young wife bore it cheerfully. Never regretted her choice. Always believed in her husband —his talents, his future, his destiny. He would be the first man in England some day.

Others. Ah!

Lord Burnley. Then old Nugent died, and not being able to alienate the whole of his fortune. Temple's wife became rich.

Hallam. Jumped in a moment into ten thousand a year, they say.

Lord Burnley. [Nodding.] Temple had made some progress, too. Got into Parliament somehow, and produced a considerable impression. And when the great crisis came——

Carfax. The great war you mean?

Lord Burnley. [Nodding] And reputations were being made—and lost—in a month, Temple was given a place in the Government.

Hallam. So that after fifteen years of poverty and obscurity he and his wife broke into great prosperity.

Lord Burnley. [Nodding.] Into great happiness also. After many years of childlessness a child was born to them—the little girl he has gone upstairs to see. And then the bolt fell—you know how?

Carfax. The death of his wife?

Lord Burnley. Her death-warrant anyway. An incurable malady! Temple thought it had been accelerated—perhaps generated—by the long period of their poverty, and reproached himself accordingly.

Others. Pitiful! Pitiful!

Lord Burnley. He did everything that love and care could do. Time passed—two years, three years, four. At last he took her to Switzerland.

Hallam. Yes, up to the Engadine.

Lord Burnley. No use! Six months later she came back worse than she went, and died, as you remember, in the spring.

Carfax. Poor wife!

Dundas. Poor husband!

Lord Burnley. All the world heard of his bereavement, but nobody was allowed to know how much he felt it. Parliament never knew. Even his colleagues never knew.

Others. Never!

Lord Burnley. He had formed his own Ministry in the meantime, and next day, after the funeral, found him on the Treasury Bench as usual. Apparently the same man as ever—proud, austere, reserved, unmoved, and immovable. He had brought in his wife's sister. Lady Dorothy, to look after his house and take care of his little daughter, and . . . that was all.

Carfax. All?

Lord Burnley. All that was visible to the eye of the world, I mean. Yes, a strange combination of the iron-willed man and the tender-hearted sentimentalist, I admit. But in danger from the scheming woman—no! Under his stern and cold exterior his dead wife still lives as in a shrine. [Sir Robert returns to the room.

Sir Robert. A thousand apologies. It was nothing. My little daughter's nurse had been telling the child some foolish stories before she went to bed. Thought some danger threatened her father, and couldn't be got to sleep without seeing him. Any answer from the Foreign Office?

Others. No—nothing yet.

Sir Robert. [Looks at watch] Time enough still. The Ultimatum does not expire until midnight. It's only half-past ten. My sister-in-law has had a little cold supper laid in the next room. Let us go in to it.

Others. [Rising.] With pleasure!

Carfax. [Going up.] An hour and a half yet.

Hallam. [Going up.] They will be sure to wait until the last moment.

Dundas [Going up.] Sure to.

[The men are passing into room on left when a lady enters by door on right. It is Lady Dorothy Nugent, about thirty-five. She has an open letter in her hand.

Lady Dorothy. Robert!

Sir Robert. Dorothy!

Lady Dorothy. May I speak to you for a moment?

Sir Robert. [To men.] Excuse me. Go in, gentlemen. Sit down without ceremony. I'll follow you presently. [To Lady Dorothy.] Well?

Lady Dorothy. Sorry to trouble you at such a time, but the matter is urgent. It's about Peggy. Lucy, the nurse, is no longer a possible person to have charge of such a nervous, imaginative child. She must have a governess immediately.

Sir Robert. [Going up.] I agree. Find one as soon as possible.

Lady Dorothy. Another moment, Robert. Do you remember that our dear Margaret used to speak of a Swiss governess whom she wished to engage?

Sir Robert. [Coming back.] The one she found in the Engadine? I do.

Lady Dorothy. Well, this letter has come from the girl to-night. It was addressed to Margaret, and I thought you would like me to open it, so I did. Clearly the girl hasn't heard of our darling's death. She writes to say she is leaving her situation, and if Margaret still wishes to engage her she can come to England immediately.

Sir Robert. [Going up again.] Good! Tell her what has happened, and let her come as soon as possible.

Lady Dorothy. Of course we shall be taking a certain risk.

Sir Robert. A risk?

Lady Dorothy. We have never seen the girl. We know nothing about her.

Sir Robert. But surely Margaret must have known all about her. In fact, she did. I remember that while she was at St. Moritz she mentioned the girl in more than one of her letters. [Coming down to desk.] Let me see if I can find anything.

Lady Dorothy. Yes, do. It will be safer.

Sir Robert. [After taking from drawer a bundle of letters and glancing at one of them.] Ah, here it is. [Reading.] "The references of the young Swiss girl, Freda Michel, whom I thought of as governess for our darling Peggy, turn out to be quite satisfactory. The American family with whom she is at present engaged will give her the warmest recommendations when they leave Europe to return home." That's good enough, isn't it?

Lady Dorothy. It seems so, certainly.

Sir Robert. Then write immediately; tell the girl to come to London at once.

Lady Dorothy. Very well, if you are satisfied.

Sir Robert. I am, perfectly. [Lady Dorothy goes out. Sir Robert continues to look at the letter, reading parts of it.] "I am sure you will like Freda. She is a sweet, simple, frank, sincere creature. Decidedly pretty, too, with her sea-blue eyes and golden hair." [" Big Ben " is heard chiming the quarter—six beats. Sir Robert folds up the letters, puts them to his lips, returns them to the drawer; switches off the light, and is turning up stage when— Voices are heard from supper-room, and the four men come out, looking very grave.] So soon? Surely you've not finished already?

Lord Burnley. Robert, there is something we have only just thought of—something serious.

Sir Robert. What is it?

Lord Burnley. The reply to our Ultimatum had to reach us before midnight, isn't that so?

Sir Robert. Undoubtedly.

Lord Burnley. That would be understood by our neighbour nation to be midnight in the country of dispatch, wouldn't it?

Sir Robert. Certainly.

Lord Burnley. Have you remembered the difference in time?

Sir Robert. Eh?

Lord Burnley. The difference of an hour between Greenwich and mid-European time?

Sir Robert. [Embarrassed.] No, I confess, I had not remembered that.

Lord Burnley. Twelve o'clock in mid-Europe will be eleven in London. Therefore————

Sir Robert. Therefore there is less than a quarter of an hour left.

Lord Burnley. That is so.

Sir Robert. [Sinking into a seat.] And if the reply does not come within a quarter of an hour the absence of an answer will be a declaration of war.

[A strained and painful silence for a moment.

The men seat themselves about the table as before.

Carfax. But the answer may come still. This telephone bell may ring at any moment.

Hallam. Besides there may be a breakdown on the wires.

Carfax. That is possible.

Sir Robert. [Speaking at the telephone.] Is that you, Denham?— Any answer from the Embassy?—No?—Has there been a breakdown on the continental wires to-night? —Not heard of any? Inquire, please, and ring up immediately.

[He puts back the receiver. There is another painful silence.

Dundas. [In a low voice.] What is the time now?

Sir Robert. [Looking at watch.] Seven minutes to eleven.

Lord Burnley. [Gazing forwards towards audience.] Terrible to think that at this very moment the electric wires may be flashing the awful news through the dark air all over Europe.

[The telephone bell rings. There is a startled movement about the table. Carfax. Perhaps that is——

Lord Burnley. Hush!

Sir Robert. [Taking up receiver and listening.] Denham again? —well?—No interruption?—Continental wires kept clear all evening?—Continue to stand by—Ring up again the moment you hear anything.

[Again Sir Robert puts up the receiver. The voices of the men drop to hushed whispers.

Dundas. What time now?

Carfax. [Watch in hand.] Five minutes to eleven.

Lord Burnley. [With same fixed gaze.] I seem to hear the tramp of twenty millions of men.

Hallam. Yes, and the scream of shell and the roar of cannon.

Lord Burnley. [As before.] I see villages and cities given up to the flames—cathedrals devastated—harvests trodden into the earth—only sons falling in battle—the world bleeding to death—women and children slaughtered— whole nations homeless, houseless, on the roads.

Dundas. Terrible! Terrible!

Hallam. Such a hideous social tragedy, too! We have tens of thousands of our neighbour nation living in our midst, and shall have to do as we did before—treat them all as enemies.

Carfax. Yes, the people who have dined at our tables, slept in our beds.

Hallam. Our alien servants, also—we shall have to turn them all out of doors.

Carfax. And shut them up in barbed-wire encampments.

Hallam. Men and women—women particularly, perhaps.

[There is a dull rumble of voices outside in the distance. The men listen to it.

Dundas. [In a breathless whisper.] What time—now?

Carfax. Two minutes to eleven.

[The men drop their heads. Sir Robert rises, goes to window, draws back curtains. Park seen outside. Murmur becomes louder; then dies down.

Hallam. Sir Robert?

Sir Robert. [At window, in a toneless voice.] Yes?

Hallam. Can you see the clock of St. Stephen's from there?

Sir Robert. [Without turning.] No.

Hallam. When it strikes can you hear it?

Sir Robert. Yes.

Lord Burnley. [As before.] It is just as if the whole world were on tip-toe—waiting for the thunder-stroke of fate.

Carfax. If the telephone rings even now, it may still be peace.

Dundas. But if not——

Lord Burnley. [Listening, raising his hand.] Hush!

[Through the awful stillness comes the deep booming of "Big Ben," striking eleven. Boom! Boom! Boom!

[No one moves until the last of the eleven strokes has gone reverberating through the silence of the night.

[Then Sir Robert returns to the head of the table. All rise. Sir Robert. [In a deep, low voice, charged with emotion.] It's war!

[The distant murmur of the crowd outside is heard again.

CURTAIN FALLS SLOWLY.