The Merchant Prince of Cornville

The
Merchant Prince of Cornville

A COMEDY
BY SAMUEL EBERLY GROSS
Represented in London, England, at the Novelty Theater,
on November 11, 1896.
———
FOURTH EDITION.
———
Chicago and New York:
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.

Copyright, 1896, by Samuel Eberly Gross.
All rights reserved.
Copyrighted in England, 1896.

PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION.

Prompted by the interest which has arisen since the publication of former editions of this comedy, the author takes occasion to state that “The Merchant Prince of Cornville” was written between the years 1875 and 1879. It was circulated and read in manuscript copies until 1895, when, at the request of many persons, it was placed in the hands of the printers for publication in book form, from whom printed proofs were received in July, of that year. In 1896 the first edition appeared in print from the University Press of Cambridge. In the same year it was given a single representation at the Novelty Theater, London, with the object only of securing the acting rights in England.

One of the purposes of the author is to present the poetic and ideal in dramatic contrast with the materialistic and commonplace spirit, which, perhaps, somewhat more strongly than to-day, prevailed two decades ago, when this comedy was completed; the underlying theme intended to be developed being that the love of a high-minded and refined woman can be gained only by appealing to her poetic fancy and finer sensibilities. How well the objects sought have been attained is left to the judgment of the reader.

S. E. G.

Chicago, March 1, 1899.

The Merchant Prince of Cornville.
A Comedy.

THE CHARACTERS.

SYNOPSIS OF SCENERY AND INCIDENTS.

The Merchant Prince of Cornville.
A COMEDY.

Act the First.

Scene I.—An orchard by the sea. Sunrise. Birds singing.

Enter Ideal.

Ideal.

The hour of dawn!—how thrilling and intense!
The matin songs of birds, that dart and soar
On quivering wings, now break upon the sense
As sharply as the cannon’s voice at mid-day;
In yonder wood that guards the sea-cliff’s wall,
Where sullen shadows shrink away and flee
Before the rising sun’s advancing spears,
The day-detesting owl hath turned his back
Unto the light, and sought the sheltering cowl
Of ivy web about the oak-tree thrown;
And all the glowing world,—wood, sea, and sky,—
Is most sublimely beautiful beneath
This pendulous light, that, like an avalanche
Of golden beams.... But I have spoken the word
That halts my fancy’s flight, and brings me back
To earth and its dull cares, and our dull age,—
Our golden age ’tis called: our age of gold,
Hard and material, when our best ideals
But folly seem, all things are bought and sold,
And even love itself is merchandise.
Alas! the many years that I have known,
And many ills, in this same golden age,
Have brought their bitter harvest to my breast,
Like frozen grain beaten by winds unkind
From out the icy north; but as those seeds
Fall sterile on the earth, nor glow with life,
So shall my sorrows take no living root
Within my bosom.... Now do I recall,
Like a sweet picture in a gallery hung,
How I last eve at early twilight watched
The figure of a lovely maiden bending
Tenderly o’er a vase of new-blown flowers,
Upon a breezy terrace, underneath
A green-hued lattice-work, that, like a shield
Embossed with morning-glories, hides and guards
Her chamber window. Passing there this morn,
I looked upon the flowers as one might
Who, barred from out the walls of Paradise,
Would seize some blossom growing sweetly there;
Then, while my eager heart tumultuous beat,
Sending the tell-tale blushes to my cheek,
I plucked a flower—this crimson, perfumed pink.
’Tis woven from a clod of earth, and yet
To me ’tis fairer than a star of heaven.
Sweet flower! sweet flower! last evening I did see
Thy mistress from her chamber casement lean
And gaze ecstatic on the pilgrim moon
Tracing a silvery path along the sky;
But thou didst woo her from that magic gaze,
Drawing her to thee with the subtler force
Of finer particles than live within
The cold moon’s slanting beams....
But soft! yonder my lady’s self appears,
Slow moving down the orchard path. I’ll seek
A covert by this tree. Seeing the hunter
Doth fright the deer away.

[He hides behind an orchard tree.

Enter Violet.

Violet.

Which way’s the robber gone? I’m sure I saw him here.

Ideal [aside].

What! I’m a robber, am I? Well, this tree hath no tell-tale bark, and I’ll stay here.

Violet.

I thought I heard some one speak, but not from underground, for he’s not a goblin; nor yet from the sky, for he’s not an angel; nor yet from the earth, for no dreadful man is near. Why, what is that in the sky? ’Tis last eve’s moon, that will not to her couch by day. To rest! pale planet. O gentle moon, where is thy blush? Thou art dismantled by the roseate sun. Alack! what divine dramas are there in the skies!

Oh, would that I within thy circlet’s rim
Might glide by curves of brightening lawns. In thee
The day is half a month till noon, and thoughts
Are gentle as the velvet fawns that glide
From out thy rustling groves. In thee, rare flowers
Their fragrant balms distil, and perfume wreathes
The girdling hours. Let me fancy this!

Ideal.

Now doth she see her fragile fancies rise on wings of gossamer, like one who chases golden butterflies, flying before the dawn. What sweet mysterious alchemy could beauty such as hers persuade!

Violet.

But list; what’s this? A spirit in the tree,—a talking spirit, too! I’ll listen; ’tis my privilege in this orchard. Go on, sweet spirit, I’m listening. [Pauses.] Nay, go on, my time is brief; or if thou’dst rather, I’ll not overhear.

Ideal.

Nay, hear, sweet maid; I’m fated in this tree to dwell, and ne’er before so spoke my heart unto a maid.

Violet.

Canst thou not speak in rhymes? Why, spirits should be poets too; or is the tree’s rind too hard? I do pity thee for a poor spirit.

Ideal.

Nay, hear me. When the tree is in its blossom, then rhymes come fleetest; when the tree is in its fruitage, then rhymes come sweetest. Thou once, on such a time, didst sit beneath these ripening boughs, in sweetest reverie wrapt, and I, while musing on thy beauty and the gentle spirit within thee, did weave these rhymes.

Violet.

I well remember it; and if thou art a truthful spirit I will listen to thy rhymes. Thou mayst begin.

Ideal.

What pure mysterious alchemy
Doth beauty chaste as thine persuade
To sublimate its crude degree
In sweetest herbs of earth displayed!

Violet.

Stop, stop; I command thee! Thou art much too philosophical for a poet. I’m weary.

Ideal.

Thou didst halt me in the middle of my verse.

For I philosophy discern
In quivering lips, in liquid eyes,
In rounded neck, and cheeks that burn
Like rose-leaves ’neath the radiant skies;

In hair as golden as the sun
That wreathes the circling grove, and seems
As fine and delicately spun
As if ’twere woven of his beams.

Violet.

Thou’rt much too flattering for a spirit. Thou art not a cold spirit, but a warm one. Good spirits should be cold. Mend thy rhymes, or I will leave thee in thy prison.

Ideal [aside].

I’ll learn if she beheld my robbery this morn.

[Aloud.] Didst thou awake?
Didst thou awake?
That hour when moonbeams glide away
’Neath limpid tints of twinkling day,
When from the wires of its cage,
That string between from bar to bar,
Thy prisoned bird, in tuneful rage,
Awoke unto the morning star,
And sang unto the woodland wild
That hides the sun beyond the hills,
And hides, in wavy foliage isled,
The breezy nest of cooing bills?
Didst thou awake?
Didst thou awake?

Violet.

Why, that sounds like a morning serenade. Now indeed do I know thee for a spirit of light-tripping gayety; but I’ll answer no questions. I was wakened by a robber who from my chamber-window plucked my favorite flower. Spirits should know all things, and not be so inquisitive for ladies’ secrets.

Ideal.

Give me the wings of yonder lark,
Soaring into the perfumed dawn,
Beyond the chimney’s beckoning spark
That, blackening, strews the beaten lawn.

For I, within this tree immured,
With fervent glances scan the ships
That sail and sail until, obscured,
The ivory fleet the ocean dips;

While swarms of white-winged memories,
Like missive-bearing doves, arise
From out the pure pellucid seas,
And float above these orchard skies.

Violet.

Why, what pretty fruit that tree doth bear! I have a mind, but, alas! not the heart, to leave thee in thy tree, to rhyme to me some other day. Art done? No answer. Then I’ll rhyme, too. Spirit, thy art’s infectious.

Move slow, thou circlet of the moon,
Turn not to zones thy brightening lawns;
Let day be half a month till noon;
Wake not with light thy distant dawns.

But, fie, why doth the genial sun make the moon so pale? I would not turn so pale were a man to appear in this orchard. [Pauses.] Sweet spirit, appear, appear! No answer. Hast lost thy speech, or doth the tree’s bark encompass thee too closely? If thou art in the trunk of this fair tree, I’ll petition it with ardent lips to ope its close-bound rind and let thee out; but how? The tree cannot hear, being deaf, but the tree can feel, being alive; so then, I’ll kiss thee, thou hard, hard tree. [Bends to kiss the tree, when Ideal appears and kisses her.] What spirit art thou in man’s disguise to thus affright a lady who ne’er did harm to thee, but wished thee well? How couldst thou treat me so?

Ideal.

Fair maid, thou fill’st me with such keen delight I know not what to say, but pause for utterance, my lips being newly laden with a sweet burden.

Violet.

Nay, not so. Thou art too literal. I do entreat thee for an answer.

Ideal.

Thou art the most fair complainant that e’er did sue for answer, and in a just cause, too. How could the earth resist the sun? How could the sea resist the tide? How could a spirit resist heaven?

Violet.

I thought thou wert a spirit who’d been in heaven long ago.

Ideal.

Never before did I even dream of heaven; and for material answer make I this: Our spirits were kindred, and by that fair relationship I did salute thee so.

Violet.

Now do I know thee: thou art no spirit, but a robber,—a substantial robber who plucked my favorite pink from my window; but I, rising in quick haste, followed thee adown this orchard path. Thou thought’st thou hadst escaped me. I did see thee but half plainly, by the dawn’s most timorous light that through the lattice wooed my pillow.

Ideal.

As thou didst wake! Oh, would I were the dawn’s most delicate light that wooed thy soul’s fair stars exiled within thy crescent-curtained eyes!

Violet.

And if thou wert, thou wert but a robber still. Thou hast the flower in thy hand!

Ideal.

Oh, I have treasured it; yet will I return to thee the pink. ’Tis thy property.

Violet.

Nay, keep the flower, if thou lovest it so.

Ideal.

Ay, then I’ll think it had its birth ’neath twilight’s violet sky.

Violet.

Think not too lightly of the flower; ’tis most rare,—grown from a seed found in the tomb of an Egyptian mummy. She was an ancient princess who died in the flower of her youth from love ill requited: so reads the antique parchment entombed with her,—a legend pitiful and true; but then, ’twas three thousand years ago.

Ideal.

Love has grown more constant since then.

Violet.

I hope thou wouldst not jest at love?

Ideal.

Nay, not I. I’d sooner jest at all fair properties in heaven and earth than jest at love.

Violet.

’Tis a flower of ancient lineage. I planted it with mine own hands, and watched it grow. What joy I felt to see it grow, I ne’er can tell. When first its tender bud beseeched the sky, it was athirst; I brought it water from a crystal spring. From simple bud to leafy stalk it grew, and then the petals formed, giving sweet promise of a flower; till yesternight from its green husk the perfect blossom bloomed, and I did shed a tear upon it, thinking of that poor princess.

Ideal.

Dost think her spirit lives in heaven?

Violet.

That do I most truly. I would not that thou thought’st differently. Thou couldst not be so cruel!

Ideal.

Thy simple story moves me beyond the power of prayer. Now that the flower buried with her doth live, let it bequeath a legacy of love most true and constant to our hearts; so shall the princess from beyond see within our lives a perfect love wrought by her most heavenly agency. And here [kneeling], on bended knee, by thy dear hand that’s clasped in mine, I vow, by all the subtle bonds that nature placed within the world to bind us to the truth, to love thee ever.

Violet.

Rise; thou art the planet of my maiden firmament. I do believe thee. My vow is linked with thine most sweetly and inseparably.

Ideal.

Thy words are bright flowers, whose subtle sweets I do extract and hide away. Ay, I shall live on them when thou art absent, as the patient bee lives on his hoarded store in winter.

Violet.

I hope thou speakest truly as thou dost fairly, for thou speakest as a poet doth, and I have heard,—but pardon me; I’ll not quote the idle gossip.

Ideal.

I pray thee, do.

Violet.

Well, then, to heed thy prayer. I’ve heard it rumored that poets, in their grammar, all the moods of love do conjugate in swift succession.

Ideal.

I’ll prove to thee that gossip is untrue.

Violet.

I’ve heard that they are variable; that they contract the four seasons into the compass of a day,—call the morning spring, the forenoon summer, the afternoon autumn, and the evening oft the depth of winter; that they in idle ways say thus: Why, prithee, this forenoon, being in love beneath the equator, I felt the fervent sun impart his fever to the earth; but to-night, alack! being out of love, Lapland hath no denizen colder than I. I pray thou wilt not treat me so.

Ideal.

By Heaven, ’tis a scandal! I’d have thee try me. Use pique, jest, coldness, stratagem, and all the dire weapons in a maid’s armory to try her lover, and if, knowing thou art true, I do not in all love’s humors love thee still, why then—

Violet.

Yes, why then—

Ideal.

Why, then, I’ll return to dust.

Violet.

Alack! that would be unkind.

Ideal.

Nay, try me.

Violet.

Perchance I may. [Aside] But only for a moment. [Aloud] How high’s the sun, pray?

Ideal [looking at his watch].

I’ll be precise, and timely guard my answer. ’Tis nigh unto five o’clock; the minute-hand lacks one, the second-hand—

Violet.

Stop, stop! thou outspeedest Time himself. How desperately thou rushest from the hour to the minute hand—from thence there is but a fraction of time to the second hand, which I take to be not a good token; for thou hadst but a minute ago my hand, and yet thus swiftly thou wouldst approach a second hand.

Ideal.

Shall we have no watches with second hands?

Violet.

I’ll have no merchandising. Thou a poet and a lover, and lookest at thy watch to tell the sun’s height! Alas! put up thy watch; lovers do not time themselves by watches. Thou wouldst not so at night register the moon’s height; but upon a pressing question, How high’s the moon? wouldst answer, A little higher than yonder rose-bush, if the moon rose late; or, perchance, A little higher than yonder tree-top, if the moon rose early. The sun’s as fine to me by day as the moon by night. Poetry doth not steal away at dawn of day. But thou must go; good-by for a moment. [Looks up the orchard path.] Nay, good-by for all day, for I do spy my guardian uncle.

Ideal.

Dreams do not end but oft begin at dawn. Give me leave to walk with thee at midday in the Glen of Ferns.

Violet.

High noon must be high dream-time when poets love. Await me there to-morrow.

Ideal.

High noon will brighter grow when thou dost come.

[Exit Ideal.

Violet.

As fair spoken a robbery as e’er the sun shone upon. A fair and gallant robber, too, who robs me of my heart in broad daylight, detected in the very act by his own watch. I made the robber tell the hour and minute, so that in any court no cruel alibi could lie. I’m fain to think I’ll ne’er again detect so fine a robber. Who’s he? What’s he? I know not, I care not. I would not ask that question rude and mercenary. I do but know he’s the most gentle gentleman I e’er did meet. Oh, if this be love, ’tis very kind and sweet!

Northlake [afar in the orchard, calls].

Violet!

Violet.

’Tis very strange, for I have heard in sundry rhymes, and good rhymes too, that moonlit eves were the only seasons suited for robberies so thinly veiled as this. Why, my own heart doth beat as if there were two hearts within, and I had gained another rather than lost my own. How can it be? But gently,—I’ll not argue the question; ’tis much too deep and sweet for idle questioning. Sweet argument, wait for my uncle.

Northlake [afar, calls].

Violet!

Violet.

Why, I forgot to ask his name! I could not call him did I wish to, and I might wish, being affrighted. Yet he shall not want so simple a matter; I’ll give him a name. I’ll call him [commandingly] Oliver! [Entreatingly] Oliver! thy Violet calls thee. [Indifferently] Oliver! I do not like the name, ’tis too round.

Northlake [afar].

What, ho, Violet!

Violet.

I’ll call him Peter. What, ho [piquantly], Peter! ’Tis too piercing; I’ll none of it. Let me think: I’ll call him [slowly] Daniel! Dost hear me [inquiringly slow], Daniel? I like it no better than the first. ’Tis too long.

Northlake [nearer].

Where art thou, Violet?

Violet.

I’ll call him—yes, I’ll call him Joseph. [Tenderly] Joseph! wilt thou not come? Thy Violet calls thee. No, no, ’tis a mistake; I’ll not call him Joseph,—’tis too, too flat. I’ll call him—let me see—I’ll call him a name borne by none other, oft dreamed by me, but never met until this morn. I’ll call him my Ideal, my dear, dear Ideal.

Northlake [very near].

Violet! Where can the maiden be? [Enter Northlake.] I surely saw her going down the orchard path. [Discovers Violet.] Why, there thou art! Why didst thou not answer me?

Violet.

Didst thou call me?

Northlake.

Did I call thee? Why, if I called once, I called thee twenty times. I’m almost hoarse with calling. Why art thou out at break of day? One might almost think thou wast in love, to rise so early.

Violet [aside].

That am I.

Northlake.

Thy lover comes to-day.

Violet [aside].

I wonder if he knows!

Northlake.

He’s rich, a thorough business man and solid gentleman.

Violet.

I don’t like solid gentlemen. Who is he?

Northlake.

A princely merchant in the West, and owner of banks, mills, stores, houses, and lands. Thou shalt have a list of it all made for thee on satin. Profits of business are five hundred thousand a year. Think of it! thy wedding-dresses of white satin!

Violet [abstractedly].

Shall I have five hundred thousand dresses of white satin a year?

Northlake.

No, no; thou hast mixed the profits of the business with the number of dresses.

Violet.

Are the profits of the business five hundred thousand white satin dresses a year?

Northlake.

Stop, now; this shall all be explained after thou art married.

Violet.

But I’ll have it explained before I’m married.

Northlake.

Be patient, Violet. He will woo thee properly, and explain all things. I am to meet him at the Dolphin Inn to-day. He’ll be in a very good humor at my account of thee.

Violet.

I’m well enough without his good humor. Pray, what’s his name?

Northlake.

A merchant prince, the Honorable Hercules Whetstone, Mayor of Cornville.

Violet [laughing].

What a name! Ha! ha! Couldst thou not add something to it? ’Tis too short.

Northlake.

Thou wilt be added to it.

Violet.

That will I not be.

Northlake.

What’s this,—rebellion? Who’s been here? Hast thou seen any one in this orchard?

Violet.

No one but my Ideal.

Northlake.

That’s too insubstantial.

Violet.

More substantial than thou dreamest.

Northlake.

I’d think thou wast bewitched by love, did I not know thou never hadst a lover.

Violet.

That was true yesterday; but to-day! [Sighing] Ah, well-a-day!

Northlake.

Thou speakest truly. Thou hast a lover now, and before the night passes thou shalt see him.

Violet.

Shall I?

Northlake.

He’ll be weary from his travels, and to-day, no doubt, will require rest; but he’ll meet thee to-night at the masked ball. Come, then, to the villa, so that to-night thou mayst appear refreshed.

Violet.

I’m not weary. Oh, that sweet, sweet tree!

Northlake.

Why, what’s in that tree? ’Tis but an orchard tree.

Violet.

I’ll wager thee, ’twill bear sweet fruit.

Northlake.

Why, what a fever thou art in!

Violet.

I’m not in a fever. A child that never ventured in the fields may know a blossom when it sees it.

Northlake.

Come, thy maid, Ninon, has risen, and awaits thee. Thy feet are damp with morning dew from the grass.

Violet.

The dew of love is in my heart; and that’s not damp.

Northlake.

This comes of teaching thee, from childhood, philosophy in my melancholy moods. I’ll never again teach thee philosophy, though I be as melancholy as Democritus, since thou dost use the philosophy I teach thee against thine uncle and teacher, instead of against the world.

Violet.

For the good philosophy thou didst teach me, I’ll love thee all my days. But, uncle, is this marriage good? ’Twere not good, ’twere not philosophical.

Northlake.

Alas, dear Violet! [Aside] If she but knew! [Aloud] I cannot give thee thy dues except by this marriage. Thou wast my favorite sister’s only child; and when she left thee and thy fortune to my guardianship, I promised to protect thy fortune, and watch over thee even as my own daughter. Now I will get thee a good husband; for he’s rich, and a solid gentleman.

Violet.

Who’s a solid gentleman?

Northlake.

Why, the Honorable Hercules Whetstone.

Violet.

Oh, puzzle thy Whetstone!

Northlake.

I fear thou’lt puzzle him, Violet. But never mind; come, come now.

Violet.

Oh, thou sweet tree; I cannot leave thee!

Northlake.

Why, there must be some witchery in that tree! I’ll have it cut down and burnt.

Violet.

Nay, good uncle, thou wouldst not have the tree cut down. ’Tis a good and thrifty tree that never did harm to any one, and therefore I love the tree. [Takes his arm.] Dear uncle, do not cut it down. Thou art a good, dear uncle, and I will go with thee; and thou wilt let the tree live.

Northlake [going].

Well, then, come, come! I’ll let the tree live.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—A pavilion, with view of the sea. Forenoon.

Enter Whetstone, Bluegrass, and Scythe.

Scythe.

Who knows but, in the chemistry of Heaven, we, this noble race of men, are but parasites feeding in space upon a crust of earth encompassing a fiery particle!

Bluegrass.

What a glorious thing is one of our ordinary mundane cycles of time! ’Tis only a day; and yet it is a legacy too great for the richest man to put in his will. Let no one be so brazen as to attempt to belittle this magnificent star of ours.

Whetstone.

Hold! Professor Scythe, is that the so-called sea?

Scythe [examining it with his glass].

Yonder liquid and corrugated mass is the rumpled outskirts of the sea. In our scientific formula, it is the correlation of a mighty power.

Whetstone [taking glass and examining].

I can believe you.

Bluegrass.

Hercules Whetstone, patron of the arts and sciences, founder and president of the Cornville Academy as a paying investment, and nourisher of its infant civilization, proprietor of the Cornville Eagle—

Whetstone.

One moment, Major Bluegrass: that will do for the home market, but not among strangers. I’ve given you both a summer vacation, so that you may enjoy yourselves, and work harder when you return. Now, look around, store up knowledge, and—I won’t deduct the time from your salaries. That’s business. But you must be more particular about my titles. Always speak of me to strangers as the Honorable Mayor Hercules Whetstone, the Merchant Prince of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois,—called Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the Indians down the Mississippi. Do you follow me?

Bluegrass, Scythe.

We do.

Bluegrass.

Oh, why was I so long pent up in the heart of a continent? I can remain on land no longer.

Scythe [taking out his note-book and writing].

Item,—this is important. Major Bluegrass, long pent up in the heart of the American continent, upon his first sight of the sea wishes to swim. This is of great scientific value, as it shows the recurrence, after long deprivation, of an inherited pre-Adamite instinct; for we read that Adam walked, but never that he swam, therefore are we driven to the waters for evidence. It proves the origin of man from the oyster, or some more ancient inhabitant of the sea.

Bluegrass.

I am no fish, nor ever was. I’d rather spring from a rainbow than a pond.

Scythe.

A pond is your rainbow come to earth.

Bluegrass.

I must swim. Oh, Mayor Whetstone, let us all swim!

Scythe [writing in his note-book].

The pre-Adamite instinct in the presence of its primary environment manifests increasing ratio.

Bluegrass.

Professor, take your increasing ratio and slide down to the imponderable roots of the sea. I must get out of this prison of clothes, and into the water.

Whetstone.

Major, try to feel comfortable with your clothes on, for you’d soon be imprisoned without them.