King Arthurs Socks and Other Village Plays | Page 6

on the
table, and looks down at him. He continues to study the papyrus. She
leans over to see what he is doing, and then, as he pays no attention,
she turns so that she is reclining prone along its length, facing him, her
chin in her hands, one foot idly waving in the air_.
MADAM POTIPHAR. (_gently_) Am I bothering you?

JOSEPH. Not at all.
MADAM POTIPHAR. I like to watch you work.
JOSEPH. I don't mind.
MADAM POTIPHAR. You are very interesting to look at, do you
know?
JOSEPH. (_absently_) Yes, I know.
MADAM POTIPHAR. Little egotist!
JOSEPH. (_unperturbed_) Yes.
_He rises and seats himself at the side of the table. Propping his
papyrus against the reclining body of Madam Potiphar, he takes a new
sheet of papyrus, and commences to copy a passage_.
MADAM POTIPHAR. (_wriggling about to look at him_) What are
you copying?
JOSEPH. Be careful. Don't jiggle my manuscript, please!
MADAM POTIPHAR. I asked, what are you copying?
JOSEPH. I am copying some inaccurate information about the climate
of Egypt, with reference to the yearly crop-yield. . . . I wonder if there
is any one in Egypt who has exact information on that subject? . . .
MADAM POTIPHAR. The yearly crop-yield! What do you care about
the yearly crop-yield?
JOSEPH. Never mind. You wouldn't understand if I told you.
MADAM POTIPHAR. You are quite right. Besides, I didn't come here
to talk about crops.
JOSEPH. (_writing_) No. You came here to talk about me.

MADAM POTIPHAR. I came here to talk about my cousin Asenath.
You knew she was coming--why didn't you tell me you had been in
service in her father's household in Heliopolis?
JOSEPH. (_writing_) It wasn't necessary for me to tell you. I knew she
would.
MADAM POTIPHAR. No doubt you think we sat there all the time she
was combing her hair, and talked about you!
JOSEPH. (_writing_) Precisely.
MADAM POTIPHAR. I suppose you know she is crazy about you!
JOSEPH. (_still writing_) Is she?
MADAM POTIPHAR. She doesn't put it just that way. She says she
takes an interest in your future.
JOSEPH. (_continuing to work_) She doesn't take half as much interest
in it as I do.
MADAM POTIPHAR. She told me your romantic story: how you had
been sold by your brothers into slavery because you wore a coat of
many colours. Joseph, did you wear a coat of many colours? That
seems a curious thing for any one to be angry about.
JOSEPH. (_not ceasing to copy the manuscript_) I wore it only
figuratively--I am wearing it now. And it always makes you angry.
MADAM POTIPHAR. You mean the cloak of your insolence?
JOSEPH. I mean the cloak of my pride.
MADAM POTIPHAR. I can sympathize with your brothers. . . . Are
you in love with her, Joseph?
JOSEPH. I am not.

_He has finished--he rolls up the papyrus_.
MADAM POTIPHAR. No--so I told her.
JOSEPH. But she didn't believe you. MADAM POTIPHAR. You seem
to know our conversation pretty well.
JOSEPH. I can imagine it.
MADAM POTIPHAR. Well, go ahead and imagine it. What did we
say?
JOSEPH. You both lied to each other.
MADAM POTIPHAR. About what?
JOSEPH. About me. MADAM POTIPHAR. (_sitting up_) Your
conceit is insufferable!
JOSEPH. (_rising politely_) I hope so.
MADAM POTIPHAR. Is that a dismissal?
JOSEPH. If you will be so kind.
MADAM POTIPHAR. You interest me more and more.
JOSEPH. I feared as much.
MADAM POTIPHAR. I detest you!
JOSEPH. It is one of the symptoms.
MADAM POTIPHAR. Young man, do you really know nothing about
love?
JOSEPH. If I don't, it is not the fault of the women of Egypt.
MADAM POTIPHAR. You are a strange youth. It cannot be that you

love this work you are doing....
JOSEPH. No, madam--I hate it.
MADAM POTIPHAR. Then where do you find your happiness? Tell
me, Joseph--what is the happiest hour of the day for you?
JOSEPH. (_with complete sincerity_) It is that hour when I have
finished the day's work, and can lie down upon my couch. It is the hour
before sleep comes, when the room is filled with moonlight, and there
is no sound except the crickets singing in the orchard, and the music of
the toads in the pool. The wind of the night comes in, cool with dew.
Then I am happy--for I can lie and make plans for my future.
MADAM POTIPHAR. (_softly_) And in that hour of moonlight and
dew and the music of the crickets, and the ancient love-song of the
toads in the pool, when all the earth abandons itself to love,--what
would you say to a woman who stole in to you like a moonbeam, like a
breath of the night-wind, like a strain of music?
JOSEPH. I would tell