VIZIER. It is not necessary; the Administration will attend to that. The Cabinet is adjourned. Will it please Your Highness to lay aside his official attire and return to private life, with its petty diversions. The Chamberlain is at Your Highness' service. [Goes.]

[The Chamberlain removes Caliph's crown and sceptre and conducts him to divan. Enter Dancers, Singers and Poet Laureate. The Dance.]

PEHR. What is this company?

CHAMBERLAIN. This is the Court.

PEHR. Why do they wear such short dresses? I do not like that custom.

CHAMBERLAIN. It is the custom of the country, Your Highness.

PEHR. This at least is not politics.

CHAMBERLAIN. The first Court Singer begs that she may entertain Your Highness with an idealistic song written by the celebrated poet laureate, Hourglass-Link.

PEHR. Be good enough to entertain me!

SINGER. [With lute, sings.]

Then say farewell to Horaire, the march is already broken. O army, hast thou the strength to say a farewell!

PEHR. Where's the rhyme?

POET LAUREATE. There are no rhymes in this kind of poetry.

PEHR. That's bad! Continue—

AMEER. [Aside to historian.] He's not long for this place.

SINGER. Your Highness must pardon me, but I am indisposed to-day.

PEHR. Chamberlain, is there not something in the constitution called bastinado?

[Panic.]

CHAMBERLAIN. Assuredly—but—

PEHR. [To singer.] Continue, then!

SINGER. [Sings.] Marble brow, flowing hair, sparkling rows of teeth, She steps as light as the pacer, lest she soil her hoof in the mud.

PEHR. Mud? I don't like dirt in poetry. Go on!

SINGER. Swelling bosom, slender waist, throbbing now anew; As she gives each fresh embrace, she is like to break in two!

PEHR. Oh—!

SINGER. O happy man with perfume laden Man of high estate! Who may in some dreary hour Hold her in his sweet embrace.

PEHR. That will do! Where's the author? Author!

POET LAUREATE. Your Highness, I have not learned to flatter.

PEHR. Haven't you? That's a poor poet laureate! Then play up your strophe so we may hear if you lie.

POET LAUREATE. Your Highness—surely I can never question—

PEHR. Don't talk—just reel off!

POET LAUREATE.

The soul hath lost itself since love's flame it hath grasped, Nor doth it awaken to reason, under the witchcraft of eyes. But my love for hinds I leave—

PEHR. Pardon—what did you say?

POET LAUREATE. [Irritated.]

My love for hinds I leave and cherish a noble prince, Generous and well born—nor tainted by low base deeds; The prince who hath vanquished his foemen. Whatever the cost might be, Strong in the Faith is he! Heresy's dreaded scourge!

PEHR. [Springs to his feet.] Do you mean it seriously or are you joking?

POET LAUREATE. I mean it seriously, Your Highness. How should anything else be—

PEHR. Indeed! It is in all seriousness, then, that you praise my low actions?

POET LAUREATE. Your Highness stands as high above low actions as the sun above a mud-puddle!

PEHR. I know you and your gang, counterfeiter! You call me, who foreswore my faith, the Defender of the Faith; you say that I, a bell-ringer's son, am of royal descent; that I am generous, who refused to grant the first humble petition presented since my coming to the throne! I know you, for your kind is to be found the world over. You live for thought and immortality, you say; but you are never seen when a thought is to be born; you are never felt when it comes to a question of immortality. But around heaped up dishes, in the sunlight of affluence and power, there you swarm, like fat meat flies, only to fly away that you may set black specks upon those who can let themselves be slain for both thought and immortality. Out of my sight, liar! I would have your head removed did I not see the shadow of a purpose in your presence. A poor ruler is forced by political considerations to do so many despicable things that he would die of shame did he not have an institution like you to dull his conscience continually. Go! I would be alone.

CHAMBERLAIN. Your Highness, it cannot be.

PEHR. It can be! [All go out except Pehr and Royal Historian.]

PEHR. What are you waiting for? What do you do?

HISTORIAN. I am writing Your Highness' history.

PEHR. So you are Court Historian.

HISTORIAN. Royal—

PEHR. What matter, once you're dead! But what shall you write about? I have never carried on any wars.

HISTORIAN. That is just what I wish to speak about. Your Highness only need turn to the Minister of War—

PEHR. Then he will arrange one; that is his occupation, and for that he is paid 20,000 shekels.

HISTORIAN. It is the people, Your Highness, who—

PEHR. Conduct the wars. The Minister of War makes them, while we sit at home and take the glory—the shame we never take.

[Enter Vizier.]

VIZIER. The bride is waiting.

PEHR. The bride! Who? Where? What does it mean?

VIZIER. Your Highness' consort.

PEHR. Lisa! She loves me still, despite all my faults? Conduct her hither. She shall bring the fresh air of the forest into these musty halls!

VIZIER. Your Highness wished first to sign the marriage contract.

PEHR. I'm forever writing! No, this time I don't have to read. [Signs.] Now, Royal Historian, you can put down at least one action in my life that was not crime! [Vizier and Historian go.]

[Bride, veiled in Oriental fashion, is ushered in; attendants withdraw immediately; from behind is heard soft music.]

PEHR. [Runs toward bride.] Lisa, Lisa! You always come like a sunbeam when the clouds thicken—always like a friend in the dark hour!

BRIDE. [Raises veil.] My name is not Lisa.

PEHR. Not Lisa—What does this mean? Treachery! Who are you then?

BRIDE. Your consort.

PEHR. My consort!

BRIDE. [Indifferently.] The Administration had three candidates for you: The Vizier's choice fell upon me because my father threatened you with a tariff treaty.

PEHR. The administration's candidate—tariff treaties—what does that signify?

BRIDE. Politics require that princes shall sacrifice their personal considerations for the good of the people.

PEHR. Politics require—But does the good of the people require any princes?

BRIDE. I don't know—but it's done once for all, and now you are my husband. Have the goodness to be happy, or you will be miserable.

PEHR. Are you happy?

BRIDE. I am nothing.

PEHR. Do you love me?

BRIDE. No, certainly not! And you me?

PEHR. No!

BRIDE. You love your Lisa?

PEHR. And you your—

BRIDE. Ali.

PEHR. O misery and lamentation!

BRIDE. Calm yourself a moment—One moment, while they come in and congratulate us. The bridal procession is waiting without. Silence! They are nearing; stand at my side!

PEHR. Must I go forth again, and jest?

BRIDE. Obey me, for I'm a wise woman! When they go I shall tell you my plan. Here they come! Look pleasant, husband, else they will say that I made you unhappy.

PEHR. Dear old father, how right you were! Black is black and can never be white. [Pehr and bride seat themselves on divan and assume a sentimental attitude.]

[Enter Singers, Dancers, Chamberlain, Ameer, Royal Historian, Vizier.]

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