Part One:  Angels and Ministers

The Queen:  God Bless Her!

Dramatis Personae

Queen Victoria
lord Beaconsfield
Mr. John Brown
A footman

The Queen:  God Bless Her!

A Scene from Home-Life in the Highlands

The august Lady is sitting in a garden-tent on the lawn of Balmoral Castle.  Her parasol leans beside her.  Writing-materials are on the table before her, and a small fan, for it is hot weather; also a dish of peaches.  Sunlight suffuses the tent interior, softening the round contours of the face, and caressing pleasantly the small plump hand busy at letter-writing.  The even flow of her penmanship is suddenly disturbed; picking up her parasol, she indulgently beats some unseen object, lying concealed against her skirts.

Queen.  No:  don’t scratch!  Naughty!  Naughty!

(She then picks up a hand-bell, rings it, and continues her writing.  Presently a fine figure of a man in Highland costume appears in the tent-door.  He waits awhile, then speaks in the strong Doric of his native wilds.)

Mr. J. Brown.  Was your Majesty wanting anything, or were you ringing only for the fun?

(To this brusque delivery her Majesty responds with a cosy smile, for the special function of Mr. John Brown is not to be a courtier; and, knowing what is expected of him, he lives up to it.)

Queen.  Bring another chair, Brown.  And take Mop with you:  he wants his walk.

Mr. J.B.  What kind of a chair are you wanting, Ma’am?  Is it to put your feet on?

Queen.  No, no.  It is to put a visitor on.  Choose a nice one with a lean-back.

Mr. J.B.  With a lean back?  Ho!  Ye mean one that you can lean back in.  What talk folk will bring with them from up south, to be sure!  Yes, I’ll get it for ye, Ma’am.  Come, Mop, be a braw little wee mon, and tak’ your walk!

(And while his Royal Mistress resumes her writing, taking Mop by his “lead” he prepares for departure.)

Have ye seen the paper this morning yet?  Ma’am.

(The address of respect is thrown in by way of afterthought, or, as it were, reluctantly.  Having to be in character, his way is to tread heavily on the border-line which divides familiarity from respect.)

Queen.  Not yet.

Mr. J.B. (departing).  I’ll bring it for ye, now.

Queen.  You had better send it.

J.B. (turning about).  What did ye say? ...  Ma’am.

Queen.  “Send it,” Brown, I said.  Mop mustn’t be hurried.  Take him round by the stables.

(He goes:  and the Queen, with a soft, indulgent smile, that slowly flickers out as the labour of composition proceeds, resumes her writing.)