Angels Ministers | Page 8

QUEEN. Yes, my dear friend, go and rest yourself! But before you go,
will you not wait, and take a glass of wine with me?
(_He bows, and she rings_.)
And there is just one other thing I wish to say before we part.

LORD B. Speak, Madam, for thy servant heareth.
(_The other servant is now also standing to attention, awaiting orders_.)
QUEEN. Bring some wine. (The Attendant GOES.)
That Order of the Garter which I had intended to onfer upon the
Sultan-- have you, as Prime Minister, any objection if I bestow it nearer
home, on one to whom personally--I cannot say more--on yourself, I
mean.
(_At that pronouncement of the royal favour, the Minister stands,
exhausted of energy, in an attitude of drooping humility. The eloquent
silence is broken presently by the Queen_.)
QUEEN. Dear Lord Beaconsfield, I want your answer.
LORD B. Oh, Madam! What adequate answer can these poor lips make
to so magnificent an offer? Yet answer I must. We have spoken
together briefly to-day of our policies in the Near East. Madam, let me
come to you again when I have saved Constantinople, and secured once
more upon a firm basis the peace of Europe. Then ask me again
whether I have any objection, and I will own--"I have none!"
(RE-ENTERS _Attendant. He deposits a tray with decanter and glasses,
and retires again_.)
QUEEN. Very well, Lord Beaconsfield. And if you do not remind me, I
shall remind you. (She points to the tray.) Pray, help yourself!
(He takes up the decanter.)
LORD B. I serve you, Madam?
QUEEN. Thank you.
(_He fills the two glasses; presents hers to the Queen, and takes up his
own_.)
LORD B. May I propose for myself--a toast, Madam?
(_The Queen sees what is coming, and bows graciously_.)
LORD B. The Queen! God bless her!
(_He drains the glass, then breaks it against the pole of the tent, and
throws away the stem_.)
An old custom, Madam, observed by loyal defenders of the House of
Stewart, so that no lesser health might ever be drunk from the same
glass. To my old hand came a sudden access of youthful
enthusiasm--an ardour which I could not restrain. Your pardon,
Madam!
QUEEN (_very gently_). Go and lie down, Lord Beaconsfield; you

need rest.
LORD B. Adieu, Madam.
QUEEN. Draw your curtains, and sleep well!
(_For a moment he stands gazing at her with a look of deep emotion; he
tries to speak. Ordinary words seem to fail; he falters into poetry_.)
"When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering Angel, thou!"
(_It has been beautifully said, they both feel. Silent and slow, with head
reverentially bowed, he backs from the Presence_.)
(_The Queen sits and looks after the retreating figure, then at the
broken fragments of glass. She takes up the hand-bell and rings. The
Attendant_ ENTERS.)
QUEEN. Pick up that broken glass.
(_The Attendant collects it on the hand-tray which he carries_)
Bring it to me! ... Leave it!
(_The Attendant deposits the tray before her, and_ GOES. _Gently the
Queen handles the broken pieces. Then in a voice of tearful emotion
she speaks_.)
Such devotion! Most extraordinary! Oh! Albert! Albert!
(_And in the sixteenth year of her widowhood and the fortieth of her
reign the Royal Lady bends her head over the fragments of broken
glass, and weeps happy tears_.)
CURTAIN

His Favourite Flower
Dramatis Personae
THE STATESMAN THE HOUSEKEEPER THE DOCTOR THE
PRIMROSES
His Favourite Flower
A Political Myth Explained
_The eminent old Statesman has not been at all well. He is sitting up in
his room, and his doctor has come to see him for the third time in three
days. This means that the malady is not yet seriously regarded: once a
day is still sufficient. Nevertheless, he is a woeful wreck to look at; and
the doctor looks at him with the greatest respect, and listens to his
querulous plaint patiently. For that great dome of silence, his brain,
repository of so many state-secrets, is still a redoubtable instrument: its
wit and its magician's cunning have not yet lapsed into the dull inane of

senile decay. Though fallen from power, after a bad beating at the polls,
there is no knowing but that he may rise again, and hold once more in
those tired old hands, shiny with rheumatic gout, and now twitching
feebly under the discomfort of a superimposed malady, the reins of
democratic and imperial power. The dark, cavernous eyes still wear
their look of accumulated wisdom, a touch also of visionary fire. The
sparse locks, dyed to a raven black, set off with their uncanny sheen the
clay-like pallor of the face. He sits in a high-backed chair, wrapped in
an oriental dressing-gown, his muffled feet resting on a large hot-water