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diff --git a/36984.txt b/36984.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f22efb7 --- /dev/null +++ b/36984.txt @@ -0,0 +1,47466 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays + +Author: Various + +Editor: Frank Shay + Pierre Loving + +Release Date: August 6, 2011 [EBook #36984] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + FIFTY CONTEMPORARY + ONE-ACT PLAYS + + SELECTED AND EDITED + + BY + + FRANK SHAY + + AND + + PIERRE LOVING + + + CINCINNATI + STEWART & KIDD COMPANY + PUBLISHERS + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY + STEWART & KIDD COMPANY + _All rights reserved_ + COPYRIGHT IN ENGLAND + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +Tradition in the sphere of books is relentlessly imperious and will not +be denied. The present anthology of one-act plays, in defiance of a keen +reluctance on the part of the editors, is condemned at birth to the +heritage of a title; for this practice, as is well known, has been the +unchallenged punctilio of book-making and book-editing from time +immemorial. And yet if the truth be told, the editors have found +precisely this to be by far the most embarrassing of the various tasks +that have arisen in connection with the project. In the selection of a +title, the immediate problem was of course to avoid, so far as possible, +the slightest pretense or assumption of categorical standards of choice +or even the merest intimation that there existed somewhere, attainable +or unattainable, an ideal norm according to which one-act plays could be +faultlessly assessed and pigeon-holed. + +In point of fact, so many tolerably good one-act plays are being written +and acted nowadays, that the editors early concluded that the business +of editing a volume of fifty one-act pieces implies, so to speak, +inviting the devil or the spirit that denies to the feast. Thus all +manner of obstinate ribaldries and mischief began to infest our path of +progress. + +If it were only a naive question of adjudging a golden apple to one of +three lovely women, earthly or divine, the matter would have proved +comparatively simple; but the question was more complex: it offered the +public a meager book which could never hope to compress within itself +the core and quiddity of about a thousand plays, or more, which the +editors were privileged to examine from the first moment when they +launched upon their task eight months ago, to this. Moreover it +frequently happened that when the editors had flattered themselves on +having picked a sure winner, the sure winner forthwith got out of hand +and no persuasive cajolings availed to allure it back. In other words, +not a few plays which the editors sought to include in the book were +found unavailable by reason of previous copyrights. In several cases the +copyright had passed entirely out of the control of the author or his +accredited representative. + +On the whole, however, both authors and those commissioned to act for +them have responded most sympathetically to the project and have +rendered valuable assistance and support, without which, let me hasten +to add, the present collection would not have been possible. + +The reader will observe that plays by American authors predominate over +those of any other single country, and the reason for this is fairly +obvious. American plays, besides being most readily available to the +anthologist, are beginning to reflect the renascence that is gradually +taking place in the American theater. There is growing up in this +country a younger generation of dramatists, which is achieving its most +notable work outside the beaten path of popular recognition, in small +dramatic juntos and in the little theaters. In the main, the form they +employ as being most suitable to their needs, is that offered by the +concise scaffold of the one-act play. These efforts, we hold, deserve a +wider audience. + +On the other hand, a mere scrutiny of the table of contents will reveal +that the editors have included a number of foreign plays heretofore not +accessible to English-speaking readers. This aspect of the task, the +effort of pioneer exploration, has indeed been by far the most pleasant, +and most pleasant, too, has proved the discovery of several new American +writers who have produced original work. Of the foreign writers, such +men as Wied and Speenhof, for example, are practically if not totally +unknown to American readers, and they, as well as a handful of others, +are in the opinion of the editors worthy of an American following. + +As concerns the procedure or technic of choice, it goes without saying, +surely, that if a congruous method exists at all, it merely embodies a +certain permissible viewpoint. This viewpoint will probably find +unqualified favor with but a handful of readers; others it will frankly +outrage to the extent of their casting it out, lock, stock and barrel. +But this is to be looked for in an undertaking of this caliber in which +individual bias, after all, plays so leading a part. And titling the +volume came to be an arduous process only in virtue of the +afore-mentioned viewpoint, cherished but shadowily defined, or to be +exact, in virtue of the despair which succeeded upon each persistent +attempt to capture what remained perennially elusive. Unfortunately it +still remains elusive. If then a rationalization is demanded by the +reader--a privilege none will question his right to exercise--he will, I +am afraid, have to content himself with something as vague and fantastic +as the following: + +Imagine a playhouse, perfectly equipped, plastic and infinitely +adaptable. Invite Arthur Hopkins, John Williams, Winthrop Ames, Sam Hume +and George Cram Cook to manage it; let them run riot on the stage. Clear +the wings and the front of the house of all routineers. Fill the seats +at each performance with the usual gallery-haunters of the New York +theaters. Do not overlook the hosts of experimental playhouse +directors--unleash them in the backyard area with a _kammerspielhaus_ to +toy with at pleasure. Let the personnel of the play-reading committee +consist of such men as Ludwig Lewisohn, Barrett H. Clark, George Jean +Nathan and Francis Hackett. The result will take care of itself. This, +in brief, is the theatrical menage for which, in the main, the plays +included in this volume were written. + +Is this a hair-brained or a frivolous notion? It may be. But, please +note, it expresses, no matter how limpingly, some approach to a +viewpoint. At all events it is the only touchstone applied by the +editors in their choice of fifty contemporary one-act plays. + + PIERRE LOVING. + +New York City, Sept., 1920. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + AUSTRIA: PAGE + VON HOFMANNSTHAL (HUGO) _Madonna Dianora_ 1 + SCHNITZLER (ARTHUR) _Literature_ 13 + + BELGIUM: + MAETERLINCK (MAURICE) _The Intruder_ 27 + + BOLIVIA: + MORE (FEDERICO) _Interlude_ 39 + + FRANCE: + ANCEY (GEORGE) _Monsieur Lamblin_ 45 + DE PORTO-RICHE (GEORGES) _Francoise' Luck_ 53 + + GERMANY: + ETTLINGER (KARL) _Altruism_ 67 + WEDEKIND (FRANK) _The Tenor_ 77 + + GREAT BRITAIN: + BENNETT (ARNOLD) _A Good Woman_ 89 + CALDERON (GEORGE) _The Little Stone House_ 99 + CANNAN (GILBERT) _Mary's Wedding_ 111 + CROCKER (BOSWORTH) _The Baby Carriage_ 119 + DOWSON (ERNEST) _The Pierrot of the Minute_ 133 + ELLIS (MRS. HAVELOCK) _The Subjection of Kezia_ 145 + HANKIN (ST. JOHN) _The Constant Lover_ 155 + + INDIA: + MUKERJI (DHAN GOPAL) _The Judgment of Indra_ 165 + + IRELAND: + GREGORY (LADY) _The Workhouse Ward_ 173 + + HOLLAND: + SPEENHOFF (J. H.) _Louise_ 181 + + HUNGARY: + BIRO (LAJOS) _The Grandmother_ 191 + + ITALY: + GIACOSA (GIUSEPPE) _The Rights of the Soul_ 201 + + RUSSIA: + ANDREYEV (LEONID) _Love of One's Neighbor_ 213 + TCHEKOFF (ANTON) _The Boor_ 227 + + SPAIN: + BENEVENTE (JACINTO) _His Widow's Husband_ 237 + QUINTEROS (THE) _A Sunny Morning_ 253 + + SWEDEN: + STRINDBERG (AUGUST) _The Creditor_ 261 + WIED (GUSTAV) _Autumn Fires_ 289 + + UNITED STATES: + BEACH (LEWIS) _Brothers_ 303 + COWAN (SADA) _In the Morgue_ 313 + CRONYN (GEORGE W.) _A Death in Fever Flat_ 319 + DAVIES (MARY CAROLYN) _The Slave with Two Faces_ 329 + DAY (FREDERIC L.) _The Slump_ 337 + FLANNER (HILDEGARDE) _Mansions_ 349 + GLASPELL (SUSAN) _Trifles_ 361 + GERSTENBERG (ALICE) _The Pot Boiler_ 371 + HELBURN (THERESA) _Enter the Hero_ 383 + HUDSON (HOLLAND) _The Shepherd in the Distance_ 395 + KEMP (HARRY) _Boccaccio's Untold Tale_ 407 + LANGNER (LAWRENCE) _Another Way Out_ 419 + MILLAY (EDNA ST. VINCENT) _Aria Da Capo_ 431 + MOELLER (PHILIP) _Helena's Husband_ 443 + MACMILLAN (MARY) _The Shadowed Star_ 455 + O'NEILL (EUGENE G.) _Ile_ 465 + STEVENS (THOMAS WOOD) _The Nursery Maid of Heaven_ 477 + STEVENS (WALLACE) _Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise_ 493 + TOMPKINS (FRANK G.) _Sham_ 501 + WALKER (STUART) _The Medicine Show_ 511 + WELLMAN (RITA) _For All Time_ 517 + WILDE (PERCIVAL) _The Finger of God_ 529 + + YIDDISH: + ASCH (SHOLOM) _Night_ 537 + PINSKI (DAVID) _Forgotten Souls_ 545 + + BIBLIOGRAPHY 553 + + + + +MADONNA DIANORA + + A PLAY IN VERSE + + BY HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL + Translated from the German by Harriet Betty Boas. + + + Copyright, 1916, by Richard S. Badger. + Toronto: The Copp Clark Co., Limited. + Copyright, 1920, The Four Seas Co., Boston. + + + +MADONNA DIANORA + + A PLAY IN VERSE BY HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL + + LA DEMENTE: _"Conosci la storia di Madonna Dianor?"_ + + IL MEDICO: _"Vagamente. Non ricordo piu."... + Sogno d'un mattino di primavera._ + + + [SCENE: _The garden of a somber Lombardian Palace. To the right + the wall of a house, which is at an angle with the moderately high + garden wall that encloses it. The lower portion of the house is + built of rough granite, above which rests a strip of plain marble + forming a sill, which, under each window, is adorned with a lion's + head in repose. Two windows are visible, each one having a small + angular balcony with a stone railing, spaced sufficiently to show + the feet of those standing there. Both windows are curtained to + the floor. The garden is a mere lawn with a few scattered fruit + trees. The corner of the garden between the wall and the house is + crowded with high box wood bushes. A leafy grapevine, trained over + stunted chestnut trees, forms an arbor which completely fills the + left side of the stage; only this entrance is visible. The arbor + slants irregularly to the left rear. Behind the rear wall there + may be seen (by the gallery spectator) a narrow path beyond which + is the neighbor's garden wall--no house is visible. In the + neighbor's garden and as far as the eye can reach, the tops of the + trees are illuminated by the evening glow of a brilliant sunset._] + + +DIANORA [_at the window_]. + + A harvester I see, and not the last, + No, not the last, descending from the hill. + There are three more, and there, and there! + Have you no end, you never-ending day? + How have I dragged the hours away from you, + Torn them to shreds and cast them in the flood, + As I do now with these poor tattered blooms! + How have I coaxed each minute of this day. + Each bracelet, and each earring was clasped on, + Ta'en off again, then once more tried, until + 'Twas thrown aside, exchanged, and others brought-- + I slowly dripped the fountain, drop on drop + All through my tresses, dried them languidly; + With quiet, measured step, out in the sun + I walked me to and fro--oh! to and fro! + But 'twas still damp--the path is narrow there. + I looked among the bushes, for the birds,-- + Less than a zephyr's breath I bent them back, + Those swaying branches, sat 'neath rustling trees, + And felt on cheeks and hands in waiting woe + The little flickerings of warm sunshine. + I closed my eyes, and almost thought soft lips + Gently caressing, strayed my clammy brow. + Sometimes hours come when this duplicity, + All this concealment, seems so fruitless, and + I cannot bear it. I can only gaze + With eyes of steel far up into the sky + Where flocks of wild geese float, or bend me low + O'er some mad, rushing plunging waterfall + That tears my weakling shadow with its flow,-- + I will be patient--why, I must, I am!-- + Madonna--I will climb the steepest mount + And on my knees will count me every stone + With this, my rosary, if only now, + Oh, soon,--this day will sink into the night. + It is so long! I have its measured tread + With these same beads been scanning o'er and o'er. + And now I talk so fev'rishly, instead + Of counting all the leaves upon that tree. + Oh! I have finished much too soon again. + See! See the yeoman, calling to his dog. + The shadows do upon his garden fall, + For him the night has come, but brings no joy; + He fears it, locks his door and is alone.-- + See where the maidens wander to the well. + I know the manner in which each of them + Will fill her bucket--that one's prettiest. + Why does the stranger at the cross roads stay? + Distant's his goal, I warrant. He unwinds + And folds again the cloth about his feet. + What an existence! Draw the thorns, yes, draw + Them quickly out. You must speed. We all + Must hurry on, the restless day must down + And with it take this bright and scarlet glow + That's lingering in radiance on my cheeks. + All that is troubling us cast far away, + Fling wide the thorn into the field + Where waters flow and sheaves of brilliant flow'rs + Are bending, glowing, yearning towards the night.-- + I draw my rings from off my fingers, and + They're happy as the naked children are + Who scamper quickly to the brook to bathe.-- + Now all the girls have gone-- + Only one maiden's left. Oh, what lovely hair! + I wonder if she knows its beauty's power? + Perhaps she's vain--but vanity, thou art + A plaything only for the empty years. + When once she has arrived where I am now, + She'll love her hair, she'll let it clasp her close, + Enwrap her round and whisper to her low, + Like echoing harpstrings throbbing with the touch + Of fev'rish fingers straying in the dark. + + [_She loosens her hair and lets it fall to the left and to the + right in front of her._] + + What, would you close to me? Down, down with you.-- + I bid you greet him. When the dusk has come, + And when his hands hold fast the ladder there + A-sudden he will feel, instead the leaves, + The cool, firm leaves, a gently spraying rain, + A rain that falls at eve from golden clouds. + + [_She lets her hair fall over the balustrade._] + + You are so long, and yet you barely reach + A third the distance; hardly are your ends + Touching the cold, white marble lion's nose. + + [_She laughs and rises._] + + Ah! there's a spider! No, I will not fling + You off; I lay my hand once more + Upon this spot, so you may find again + The road you wish to speed so quickly on. + How I have changed! I am bewitched indeed! + In former days, I could not touch the fruit + Within a basket, if upon its edge + A spider had been seen. Now in my hand + It runs.--Intoxication makes me glad! + Why, I could walk along the very edge + Of narrow walls, and would not totter--no!-- + Could I but fall into the waters deep! + In their cool velvet arms I would be well, + Sliding in grottoes of bright sapphire hues + Playing with wondrous beings of the deep + All golden finned, with eyes benignly sad. + Yes, if I were immured in the chestnut woods + Within some ruined walls, my soul were free. + For there the forest's animals would come + And tiny birds. The little weasels would + Brush up against and touch my naked toes + With their soft snouts and lashes of bright eyes + While in the moss I lay and ate wild fruit.-- + What's rustling? 'Tis the little porcupine + Of that first night. What, are you there again, + Stepped from the dark? Art going on the hunt? + Oh! If my hunter would but come to me! + + [_Looking up._] + + Now have the shadows vanished! Gone are all + Those of the pines and those of the dolls, + The ones that played about the little huts, + The large ones from the vineyards and the one + Upon the figtree at the crossroads--gone + As though the quiet earth had sucked them in! + The night has really come! The lamp + Is placed upon the table, closely press + The sheep together--close within the fold. + Within the darkest corners of the eaves + Where the dustvine-leaves meet, goblins do crouch, + And on the heights from out the clearing step + The blessed saints to gaze where churches stand + Well pleased at seeing chapels manifold. + Now, sweetest plaything, you may also come, + Finer than spider's web, stronger than steel. + + [_She fastens one end of the silk ladder to an iron hook on the + floor in the balcony._] + + Let me now play that it were highest time + And dip you deep down, down into my well, + To bring this parched one a sparkling draught. + + [_She pulls the ladder up again._] + + Night, night has come! And yet how long might be, + Endlessly long, the time until he comes. + + [_She wrings her hands._] + + Might be! + + [_With shining eyes._] + + But must not--yet, it might-- + + [_She puts up her hair. During this time the nurse has stepped to + the front window and waters the red flowers there._] + +DIANORA [_much frightened_]. Who's there, who's there! Oh, nurse, nurse, +is it you? I've ne'er before seen you in here so late. Has ought +occurred?-- + +NURSE. Why nothing, gracious one. Do you not see, I quite forgot my +flowers--they've not been watered. On my way from church I suddenly +remembered, quickly came. + +DIANORA. Yes, give the flowers water. But how strange you look, your +cheeks are feverish, your eyes are shining-- + +NURSE [_does not answer_]. + +DIANORA. Who preached? Tell me, was it that monk, the one-- + +NURSE [_curtly_]. Yes, gracious one. + +DIANORA. The one from Spain, is it not? + +NURSE [_does not answer--pause_]. + +DIANORA [_following her own train of thoughts_]. Can you recall the kind +of child I was? + +NURSE. Proud, gracious one, a proud child, very proud. + +DIANORA [_very softly_]. How singular! Humanity's so sweet!--What?-- + +NURSE. I said no word, my gracious Lady, none-- + +DIANORA. Yes, yes, whom does the Spanish monk resemble? + +NURSE. He is different from the others. + +DIANORA. No--his appearance! Does he resemble my husband? + +NURSE. No, gracious one. + +DIANORA. My brother-in-law? + +NURSE. No. + +DIANORA. Ser Antonio Melzi? + +NURSE. No. + +DIANORA. Messer Galeazza Swardi? + +NURSE. No. + +DIANORA. Messer Palla degli Albizzi? + +NURSE. His voice is a little like Messer Palla's--yes--I said to my son +yesterday, that his voice reminded me a little of Messer Palla's voice. + +DIANORA. The voice-- + +NURSE. But his eyes are like Messer Guido Schio, the nephew of our +gracious lord. + +DIANORA [_is silent_]. + +NURSE. I met him on the stairs yesterday--he stopped-- + +DIANORA [_suddenly flaring up_]. Messer Palla? + +NURSE. No! Our gracious lord. He ordered me to make some ointment. His +wound is not yet entirely healed. + +DIANORA. Oh, yes! The horse's bite--did he show it to you? + +NURSE. Yes--the back of the hand is quite healed, but on the palm +there's a small dark spot, a curious spot, such as I've never seen in a +wound-- + +DIANORA. What horse did it, I wonder? + +NURSE. The big roan, gracious Lady. + +DIANORA. Yes, yes, I remember. It was on the day of Francesco +Chieregati's wedding. [_She laughs loudly._] + +NURSE [_looks at her_]. + +DIANORA. I was thinking of something else. He told about it at table--he +wore his arm in a sling. How was it, do you remember? + +NURSE. What, gracious one? + +DIANORA. With the horse-- + +NURSE. Don't you remember, gracious one? + +DIANORA. He spoke about it at table. But I could not hear it. Messer +Palla degli Albizzi sat next to me, and was so merry, and everybody +laughed, so I could not hear just what my husband said. + +NURSE. When our gracious lord came to the stall, the roan put back his +ears, foamed with rage and suddenly snapped at the master's hand. + +DIANORA. And then? + +NURSE. Then the master hit the roan behind the ears with his fist so +that the big, strong horse staggered back as though it were a dog-- + +DIANORA [_is silent, looks dreamily down_]. + +NURSE. Oh, our gracious lord is strong! He is the strongest gentleman of +all the nobility the country 'round, and the cleverest. + +DIANORA. Yes, indeed. [_Attentively now._] Who? + +NURSE. Our master. + +DIANORA. Ah! our master. [_Smiles._]--and his voice is so beautiful, and +that is why everybody loves to listen to him in the large, dark church. + +NURSE. Listen to whom, gracious one? + +DIANORA. To the Spanish monk, to whom else? + +NURSE. No, my Lady, it isn't because of his voice that people listen to +him. + +DIANORA [_is again not listening_]. + +NURSE. Gracious one--my Lady--is it true--what people say about the +envoy? + +DIANORA. What envoy? + +NURSE. The envoy whom the people of Como sent to our master. + +DIANORA. What are people saying? + +NURSE. They say a shepherd saw it. + +DIANORA. What did he see? + +NURSE. Our gracious lord was angry at the envoy--would not accept the +letter that the people of Como had written him. Then he took it +anyhow--the letter--read part of it, tore it into bits and held the +pieces before the envoy's mouth and demanded that he swallow them. But +the envoy went backwards, like a crab, and made stary eyes just like a +crab, and everybody laughed, especially Signor Silvio, the master's +brother. Then the master sent for the envoy's mule and had it brought to +the gates. When the envoy was too slow in mounting, the master whistled +for the dogs. The envoy left with his two yeomen. Our master went +hunting with seven men and all the dogs. Towards evening, however, they +say that our gracious lord, and the envoy met at the bridge over the +Adda, there where Verese begins--our master and the envoy met. And the +shepherd was passing and drove his sheep next to the bridge into a +wheat-field--so that the horses would not kill them. And the shepherd +heard our master cry, "There's the one who wouldn't eat, perhaps he'd +like to drink." So four of our men seized the two yeomen, two others +took the envoy, each one took hold of a leg, lifted him from the +saddle--threw him screaming like a madman and struggling fiercely, over +the parapet--he tore out a piece of the sleeve of one, together with the +flesh. The Adda has very steep banks at that place--the river was dark +and swollen from all the snow on the mountains. The envoy did not appear +again, said the shepherd. + + [_Nurse stops, looks questioningly at Dianora._] + +DIANORA [_anxiously_]. I do not know. + + [_She shakes off the worried expression, her face assumes the + dreamy, inwardly happy expression._] + +DIANORA. Tell me something about his preaching--the Spaniard's +preaching. + +NURSE. I don't know how to express it, gracious one. + +DIANORA. Just say a little. Does he preach of so many things? + +NURSE. No, almost always about one thing. + +DIANORA. What? + +NURSE. Of resignation to the Lord's will. + +DIANORA [_looks at her and nods_]. + +NURSE. Gracious one, you must understand, that is all. + +DIANORA. What do you mean by--all---- + +NURSE [_while speaking, she is occupied with the flowers_]. He says that +all of life is in that--there's nothing else. He says everything is +inevitable and that's the greatest joy--to realize that everything is +inevitable--that is good, and there is no other good. The sun must glow, +and stone must be on the dumb earth and every living creature must give +utterance to its voice--whether he will or no--we must---- + +DIANORA [_is thinking--like a child_]. + +NURSE [_goes from window--pause_]. + +DIANORA. + + As though 'twere mirrored in a placid pool + Self-prisoned lies the world asleep, adream-- + The ivy's tendrils clamber through the dusk + Closely embracing thousandfold the wall. + An arbor vitae towers. At its feet + The quiet waters mirror what they see. + And from this window, on this balustrade + Of cool and heavy stones, I bend me o'er + Stretching my arms so they may touch the ground. + I feel as though I were a dual being + Gazing within me at my other self. + + [_Pause._] + + Methinks such thoughts crowd in upon the soul + When grim, inexorable death is near. + + [_She shudders and crosses herself._] + +NURSE [_has returned several times to the window; in one hand she +carries scissors with which she clips the dry branches from the +plants_]. + +DIANORA [_startled_]. What? Good night, nurse, farewell. I'm dizzy, +faint. + +NURSE [_goes off_]. + +DIANORA [_with a great effort_]. Nurse! Nurse! + +NURSE [_comes back_]. + +DIANORA. If the Spanish monk preaches to-morrow, I'll go with you. + +NURSE. Yes, to-morrow, my Lady, if the Lord spare us. + +DIANORA [_laughs_]. Certainly,--if the Lord spare us. Good night. + + [_A long pause._] + +DIANORA. + + His voice is all he has, the strange monk, + Yet people flock, hang on his words like bees + Upon the dark sweet blossoms, and they say + "This man is not like others--he + Does shake our souls, his voice melts into space, + Floats down to us, and penetrates our being-- + We are all like children when we hear his voice."-- + Oh, if a judge could have his lofty brow, + Who would not kneel upon the steps to read + Each sentence from his clear and shining brow. + How sweet to kneel upon the honest step + And know one's fate were safe within that hand, + Within those kingly, good and noble hands. + + * * * * * + + And oh, his merriment! How exquisite! + To see such people merry is a joy, + --He took me by the hand and drew me on. + My blood ran magic, backward stretched my hand. + The laughing throng upon it closely hung + A sinuous chain, we flew along arbored walks + Down through a deep and steep and narrow path + Cool as a well, and bordered very close + With cypresses that lived a century-- + Then down the brightest slope. + Up to my knees the wild, warm flowers kissed + Where we were running like a breeze in May. + Then he released me, and along he leapt + Upon the marble stairs between cascades; + Astride he sat upon the dolphin's back + And held himself up on the arms of fauns, + Upon the dripping Triton's shoulders stood + Mounting always; high, higher still he clomb, + The wildest, handsomest of all the gods!-- + Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth, + They sparkled, foamed, and showered the air with spray, + Falling on me. The waves' tumultuous din + Drowned out, engulfed the entire world, + Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth, + They sparkled, foamed and showered their spray on me. + + [_Pause--footsteps are heard in the distance._] + +DIANORA. Sh! Footsteps! No, it is so much too soon--And yet--and +yet--[_long waiting_] they come. + + [_Pause._] + + They do not come-- + Oh, no, they do not come--They're shuffling steps, + They shuffle down the vineyard--now they reel-- + There are the steps! A drunkard, verily! + Stay in the street, intoxicated one. + What would you do within our garden gates?-- + No moon shines here to-night--were there a moon + I were not here--no, no, I were not here. + The little stars are flick'ring restlessly, + They cannot light the way for a drunken one, + But one not drunken from a musty wine. + His footsteps are as light as wind on grass + And surer than the tread of the young lion. + + [_Pause._] + + These hours are martyrdom! No, no, no, no, + They're not--no, they are beautiful and good, + And lovely and so sweet! He comes, he comes; + A long, long way already he has walked-- + The last tall tree down there has seen him come--- + It could--if that dark strip of woodland boughs + Did not obscure the road--and 'twere not dark-- + + [_Pause._] + + He comes--as certainly as I do now + Upon this hook bend this frail ladder--comes. + As surely as I now do let it down + In rustling murmur in the leaves enmeshed, + As certainly as it now swaying hangs, + Quivering softly as I bend me low, + Myself aquiver with a greater thrill-- + + [_She remains for a long time bent over the balustrade. Suddenly + she seems to hear the curtain between her balcony and the room + thrown back. She turns her head and her features are distorted in + deathly fear and terror. Messer Braccio stands silently in the + door. He wears a simple, dark green robe, carries no weapons--his + shoes are low. He is very tall and strong. His face resembles the + portraits of aristocrats and captains of mercenaries. He has an + extremely large forehead and small dark eyes, closely cropped, + curly black hair and a small beard that covers his cheeks and + chin._] + +DIANORA [_wants to speak, but is unable to utter a sound_]. + +MESSER BRACCIO [_beckons to her to pull up the ladder_]. + +DIANORA [_does so like an automaton and drops the bundle, as in a +trance, at her feet_]. + +BRACCIO [_looks at her quietly, reaches with his right hand to his left +hip, also with his left hand; notices that he has no dagger. He moves +his lips impatiently, glances toward the garden, then over his +shoulders. He lifts his right hand for a moment and examines his palm, +then walks firmly and quickly back into the room_]. + +DIANORA [_looks after him incessantly; she cannot take her eyes away +from him. As the curtain closes behind his retreating form, she passes +her fingers excitedly over her face and through her hair, then folds her +hands and murmurs a prayer, her lips wildly convulsed. Then she throws +her arms backwards and folds them above the stone pillar, in a gesture +that indicates a desperate resolve and a triumphant expectancy_]. + +BRACCIO [_steps into the doorway again, carrying an armchair, which he +places in the opening of the door. He seats himself on it, facing his +wife. His face does not change. From time to time he raises his right +hand mechanically and examines the little wound upon his palm_]. + +BRACCIO [_his tone is cold, rather disdainful. He points with his foot +and eyes to the ladder_]. Who? + +DIANORA [_raises her shoulders, and drops them slowly_]. + +BRACCIO. I know! + +DIANORA [_raises her shoulders and drops them slowly. Her teeth are +clenched_]. + +BRACCIO [_moves his hand, barely glances at his wife, and looks again +into the garden_]. Palla degli Albizzi! + +DIANORA [_between her teeth_]. How ugly the most beautiful name becomes +when uttered by unseemly tongue. + +BRACCIO [_looks at her as though he were about to speak, but remains +silent. Pause_]. + +BRACCIO. How old are you? + +DIANORA [_does not answer_]. + +BRACCIO. Fifteen and five. You are twenty years old. + +DIANORA [_does not answer. Pause_]. + +DIANORA [_almost screaming_]. My father's name was Bartholomeno +Colleone--you can let me say the Lord's Prayer and the Hail Mary, and +then kill me, but not let me stand here like a fettered beast. + +BRACCIO [_looks at her as though surprised; does not answer--glances at +his hand_]. + +DIANORA [_strokes back her hair slowly, folds her elbows over her +breast, stares at him, then drops her arms, seems to divine his plan. +Her voice is completely changed and is like a string that is stretched +to the breaking-point_]. + + One of my women I desire, who will-- + + [_She stops; her voice seems to give out._] + + First braid my hair--'tis tangled, disarranged. + +BRACCIO. You often help yourself without a maid. + +DIANORA [_presses her lips together, says nothing, smoothes her hair at +the temples, folds her hands_]. + + I have no children. My mother I saw once-- + I saw her once, just before she died. + My father led me and my sister to + A vaulted, high, severe and gloomy room. + The suff'rer I saw not; her hand alone + Hung like a greeting to me--that I kissed. + About my father I remember this. + He wore an armor of green burnished gold + With darker clasps--two always helped him mount + Upon his horse, for he was very old-- + I hardly knew Medea. Not much joy, + Had she, my sister. Thin of hair, + Her forehead and her temples older seemed, + Much older, than her mouth and her hands to me-- + She always held a flower in her hand.-- + O Lord, have mercy unto these sweet souls + As unto mine, and bid them welcome me, + Greeting me kindly when I come to Thee. + I cannot kneel--there is no space to kneel. + +BRACCIO [_rises, pushes the chair into the room to make space for her. +She does not notice him_]. + +DIANORA. + + There's more--I must remember--Bergamo, + Where I was born--the house in Feltre where + The uncles and the cousins were.... + Then they put me upon a gallant steed + Caparisoned most splendidly--they rode, + Cousins and many others by my side. + And so I came here, from whence I now go.... + + [_She has leaned back and looked up at the glittering stars upon + the black sky--she shudders_]. + + I wanted something else-- + + [_She searches her memory._] + + In Bergamo where I was taught to walk + Upon the path that brought me here, I was + Often--most frequently through pride,--and now + I am contrite and would go to confession + For all those errors, and some graver ones;-- + When I [_She ponders._]--three days after Saint Magdalen + Was riding homeward from the chase with him. + This man, here, who's my husband--others too-- + Upon the bridge an old lame beggar lay. + I knew that he was old and ill and sore + And there was something in his tired eyes + Reminded me of my dead father--but + Nevertheless--only because the one + Riding beside me touched my horse's bridle, + I did not pull aside, but let the dust + My horse kicked up, blind, choke that poor old man. + Yes, so close I rode that with his hands + He had to lift aside his injured leg. + This I remember, this I now regret. + +BRACCIO. The one beside you held your horse's bridle? [_He looks at +her._] + +DIANORA [_answers his look, understands him, says trenchantly_]: + + Yes! Then as often since--as often since-- + And yet how rarely after all! + How meager is all joy--a shallow stream + In which you're forced to kneel, that it may reach + Up to your shoulders-- + +BRACCIO. + + Of my servants who,--of all your women, + Who knew of these things? + +DIANORA [_is silent_]. + +BRACCIO [_makes a disdainful gesture_]. + +DIANORA. + + Falsely, quite falsely, you interpret now + My silence. How can I tell you who might know?-- + But if you think that I am one of those + Who hides behind her hireling's her joy, + You know me ill. Now note--note and take heed. + Once may a woman be--yes, once she may + Be as I was for twelve weeks--once she may be + If she had found no need of veil before, + All veiled, protected by her own great pride + As by a shield--she once may rend that veil, + Feel her cheeks crimson, burning in the sun. + Horrible she, who twice could such a thing! + I'm not of these--that surely you must know. + Who knew?--Who guessed? I never hid my thoughts? + Your brother must have known--just as you knew, + Your brother just as you. Ask him, ask him! + + [_Her voice is strange, almost childlike, yet exalted._] + + That day--'twas in July, Saint Magdalen + Francesco Chieregati's wedding day-- + That nasty thing upon your hand came then, + Came on that day. Well, I remember too + We dined out in the arbor--near the lake, + And he sat next to me, while opposite + Your brother sat. Then passing me the fruit, + Palla did hold the heavy gold dish + Of luscious peaches so that I might take. + My eyes were fastened on his hands--I longed + To humbly kiss his hands, there,--before all. + Your brother--he's malicious and no fool-- + Caught this my glance, and must have guessed my thought. + He paled with anger.--Sudden came a dog, + A tall dark greyhound brushed his slender head + Against my hand--the left one by my side,-- + Your stupid brother kicked in furious rage + With all his might, the dog--only because + He could not with a shining dagger pierce + Me and my lover. I but looked at him. + Caressed and stroked the dog, and had to laugh + + [_She laughs immoderately and shrilly in a way that threatens to + be a scream, or to break into tears at any moment._] + +BRACCIO [_seems to listen_]. + +DIANORA [_also listens. Her face expresses horrible tension. Soon she +cannot bear it, begins to speak again almost deliriously_]. + + Why whosoever saw me walk would know! + Walked I not differently? Did not I ride + Ecstatically? I could look at you + And at your brother and this gloomy house + And feel as light as air, floating in space. + The myriad trees seemed all to come to me + Filled with the sunlight dancing toward me, + All paths were open in the azure air-- + Those sunlit paths were all the roads to him. + To start with fright was sweet--he might appear + From any corner, any bush or tree-- + + [_Her language becomes incoherent from terror, because she sees + that Braccio has drawn the curtains behind him close. Her eyes are + unnaturally wide open--her lips drawn more constantly._] + +BRACCIO [_in a tone that the actor must find for himself, not loud, not +low, not strong, nor yet weak, but penetrating_]. + + If I, your husband, had not at this hour + Come to your chamber to fetch me a salve, + An ointment for my wounded hand-- + What would-- + What had you done, intended, meant to do? + +DIANORA [_looks at him, as though distraught, does not understand his +latest question. Her right hand presses her forehead--with the left she +shakes the ladder before his face, lets it fall at his feet, one end +remains tied, shrieks_]. + + What had I done? What had I done, you ask? + Why, waited thus--I would have waited-- + + [_She sways her open arms before him like one intoxicated, throws + herself around, with the upper part of her body over the + balustrade, stretches her arms towards the ground--her hair falls + over them._] + +BRACCIO [_with a hurried gesture tears off a piece of his sleeve and +winds it around his right hand. With the sureness of a wild animal on +the hunt, he grasps the ladder that is lying there, like a thin, dark +rope, with both hands, makes a loop, throws it over his wife's head and +pulls her body towards him._] + + + [_During this time the curtain falls._] + + + + +LITERATURE + + A COMEDY + + BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER + TRANSLATED BY PIERRE LOVING. + + + Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company. + All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS + + MARGARET. + CLEMENT. + GILBERT. + + + LITERATURE is reprinted from "Comedies of Words" by Arthur Schnitzler, + by permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. + + + +LITERATURE + +A COMEDY BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER + + + [SCENE: _Moderately well, but quite inexpensively furnished + apartments occupied by Margaret. A small fireplace, a table, a + small escritoire, a settee, a wardrobe cabinet, two windows in the + back, entrances left and right._ + + _As the curtain rises, Clement, dressed in a modish, + tarnished-gray sack suit, is discovered reclining in a fauteuil + near the fireplace. He is smoking a cigarette and perusing a + newspaper. Margaret is standing at the window. She walks back and + forth, finally goes up directly behind Clement, and playfully + musses his hair. Evidently she has something troublesome on her + mind._] + + +CLEM. [_reading, seizes her hand and kisses it_]. Horner's certain about +his pick and doubly certain about mine; Waterloo five to one; Barometer +twenty-one to one; Busserl seven to one; Attila sixteen to one. + +MARG. Sixteen to one! + +CLEM. Lord Byron one and one-half to one--that's us, my dear. + +MARG. I know. + +CLEM. Besides, it's sixteen weeks yet to the Handicap. + +MARG. Evidently he looks upon it as a clean "runaway." + +CLEM. Not quite--but where did you pick up your turf-lingo, Brava? + +MARG. Oh, I used this kind of talk before I knew you. Is it settled that +you are to ride Lord Byron yourself? + +CLEM. How absurd to ask! You forget, it's the Damenpreis Handicap. Whom +else could I get to ride him? And if Horner thought for a moment that I +wasn't going to ride him, he'd never put up one and a half to one. You +may stake all you've got on that. + +MARG. I'm well aware of that. You are _so_ handsome when you mount a +horse--honest and truly, too sweet for anything! I shall never forget +that day in Munich, when I first made your acquaintance-- + +CLEM. Please do not remind me of it. I had rotten luck that day. But you +can believe me, Windy would never have won if it weren't for the ten +lengths he gained at the start. But this time--never! You know, of +course, it is decided; we leave town the same day. + +MARG. Same evening, you mean. + +CLEM. If you will--but why? + +MARG. Because it's been arranged we're to be married in the morning, +hasn't it? + +CLEM. Quite so. + +MARG. I am so happy. [_Embraces him._] Now, where shall we spend our +honeymoon? + +CLEM. I take it we're agreed. Aren't we? On the estate. + +MARG. Oh, of course, later. Aren't we going to take in the Riviera, as a +preliminary tidbit? + +CLEM. AS for that, it all depends on the Handicap. If we win-- + +MARG. Surest thing! + +CLEM. And besides, in April the Riviera's not at all good _ton_. + +MARG. Is that your reason? + +CLEM. Of course it is, my love. In your former way of life, there were +so few opportunities for your getting a clear idea of fashion--Pardon +me, but whatever there was, you must admit, really had its origin in the +comic journals. + +MARG. Clem, please! + +CLEM. Well, well. We'll see. [_Continues reading._] Badegast fifteen to +one-- + +MARG. Badegast? There isn't a ghost of a show for him! + +CLEM. Where did you get that information? + +MARG. Szigrati himself gave me a tip. + +CLEM. Where--and when? + +MARG. Oh, this morning in the Fredenau, while you were talking with +Milner. + +CLEM. Now, look here; Szigrati isn't fit company for you. + +MARG. Jealous? + +CLEM. Not at all. Moreover, let it be understood that from now on I +shall introduce you everywhere as my fiancee. [_Margaret kisses him._] + +CLEM. Now, what did Szigrati say? + +MARG. That he's not going to enter Badegast in the Handicap at all. + +CLEM. Well, don't you believe everything Szigrati is likely to say. He's +circulating the rumor that Badegast will not be entered so that the odds +may be bigger. + +MARG. Nonsense! That's too much like an investment. + +CLEM. So you don't believe there is such a thing as investment in this +game? For a great many it's all a commercial enterprise. Do you think +that a fellow of Szigrati's ilk cares a fig for sport? He might just as +well speculate on the market, and wouldn't realize the difference. +Anyway, as far as Badegast is concerned, one hundred to one wouldn't be +too much to put up against him. + +MARG. Really? I found him in first-rate fettle this morning. + +CLEM. Then you saw Badegast, too? + +MARG. Certainly. Didn't Butters put him through his paces, right behind +Busserl? + +CLEM. But Butters isn't riding for Szigrati. He was only a stableboy. +Badegast can be in as fine fettle as he chooses--it's all the same to +me. He's nothing but a blind. Some day, Margaret, with the aid of your +exceptional talent, you will be able to distinguish the veritable +somebodies from the shams. Really, it's remarkable with what proficiency +you have, so to speak, insinuated yourself into all these things. You go +beyond my expectations. + +MARG. [_chagrined_]. Pray, why do I go beyond your expectations? All +this, as you know, is not so new to me. At our house we entertained very +good people--Count Libowski and people of that sort--and at my +husband's-- + +CLEM. Quite so. No question about that. As a matter of principle, you +realize, I've no grudge against the cotton industry. + +MARG. Even if my husband happened to be the owner of a cotton mill, that +didn't have to effect my personal outlook on life, did it? I always +sought culture in my own way. Now, don't let's talk of that period of my +life. It's dead and buried, thank heaven! + +CLEM. Yes. But there's another period which lies nearer. + +MARG. I know. But why mention it? + +CLEM. Well, I simply mean that you couldn't possibly have heard much +about sportsmanship from your friends in Munich--at least, as far as I +am able to judge. + +MARG. I do hope you will stop tormenting me about those friends in whose +company you first made my acquaintance. + +CLEM. Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only it's incomprehensible to me how you +ever got amongst those people. + +MARG. You speak of them as if they were a gang of criminals. + +CLEM. Dearest, I'd stake my honor on it, some of them looked the very +picture of pickpockets. Tell me, how did you manage to do it? I can't +understand how you, with your refined taste--let alone your purity and +the scent you used--could have tolerated their society. How could you +have sat at the same table with them? + +MARG. [_laughing_]. Didn't you do the same? + +CLEM. Next to them--not with them. And for your sake--merely for your +sake, as you know. To do them justice, however, I will admit that many +bettered upon closer acquaintance. There were some interesting people +among them. You mustn't for a moment believe, dearest, that I hold +myself superior to those who happen to be shabbily dressed. That's +nothing against them. But there was something in their conduct, in their +manners, which was positively revolting. + +MARG. It wasn't quite so bad. + +CLEM. Don't take offense, dear. I said there were some interesting +people among them. But that a lady should feel at ease in their company, +for any length of time, I cannot and do not pretend to understand. + +MARG. You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense I'm one of them--or was at +one time. + +CLEM. Now, please! For my sake! + +MARG. They were artists. + +CLEM. Thank goodness, we've returned to the old theme. + +MARG. Yes, because it hurts me to think you always lose sight of that +fact. + +CLEM. Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! You know what pained me in your +writings--things entirely personal. + +MARG. Let me tell you, Clem, there are women who, in my situation, would +have done worse than write poetry. + +CLEM. But what sort of poetry! What sort of poetry! [_Takes a slender +volume from the mantel-shelf._] That's what repels me. I assure you, +every time I see this book lying here; every time I think of it, I blush +with shame that it was you who wrote it. + +MARG. That's why you fail to understand-- Now, don't take offense. If +you did understand, you'd be quite perfect, and that, obviously, is +impossible. Why does it repel you? You know I didn't live through all +the experiences I write about. + +CLEM. I hope not. + +MARG. The poems are only visions. + +CLEM. That's just it. That's what makes me ask: How can a lady indulge +in visions of that character? [_Reads._] "Abandoned on thy breast and +suckled by thy lips" [_shaking his head_]. How can a lady write such +stuff--how can a lady have such stuff printed? That's what I simply +cannot make out. Everybody who reads will inevitably conjure up the +person of the authoress, and the particular breast mentioned, and the +particular abandonment hinted at. + +MARG. But, I'm telling you, no such breast ever existed. + +CLEM. I can't bring myself to imagine that it did. That's lucky for both +of us, Margaret. But where did these visions originate? These glowing +passion-poems could not have been inspired by your first husband. +Besides, he could never appreciate you, as you yourself always say. + +MARG. Certainly not. That's why I brought suit for divorce. You know the +story. I just couldn't bear living with a man who had no other interest +in life than eating and drinking and cotton. + +CLEM. I dare say. But that was three years ago. These poems were written +later. + +MARG. Quite so. But consider the position in which I found myself-- + +CLEM. What do you mean? You didn't have to endure any privation? In this +respect you must admit your husband acted very decently toward you. You +were not under the necessity of earning your own living. And suppose the +publishers did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem--surely they don't +pay more than that--still, you were not bound to write a book of this +sort. + +MARG. I did not refer to position in a material sense. It was the state +of my soul. Have you a notion how--when you came to know me--things were +considerably improved. I had in many ways found myself again. But in the +beginning! I was so friendless, so crushed! I tried my hand at +everything; I painted, I gave English lessons in the pension where I +lived. Just think of it! A divorcee, having nobody-- + +CLEM. Why didn't you stay in Vienna? + +MARG. Because I couldn't get along with my family. No one appreciated +me. Oh, what people! Did any one of them realize that a woman of my type +asks more of life than a husband, pretty dresses and social position? My +God! If I had had a child, probably everything would have ended +differently--and maybe not. I'm not quite lacking in accomplishments, +you know. Are you still prepared to complain? Was it not for the best +that I went to Munich? Would I have made your acquaintance else? + +CLEM. You didn't go there with that object in view. + +MARG. I wanted to be free spiritually, I mean. I wanted to prove to +myself whether I could succeed through my own efforts. And, admit, +didn't it look as if I was jolly well going to? I had made some headway +on the road to fame. + +CLEM. H'm! + +MARG. But you were dearer to me than fame. + +CLEM [_good-naturedly_]. And surer. + +MARG. I didn't give it a thought. I suppose it's because I loved you +from the very start. For in my dreams, I always conjured up a man of +your likeness. I always seemed to realize that it could only be a man +like you who would make me happy. Blood--is no empty thing. Nothing +whatever can weigh in the balance with that. You see, that's why I can't +resist the belief-- + +CLEM. What? + +MARG. Oh, sometimes I think I must have blue blood in my veins, too. + +CLEM. How so? + +MARG. It's not improbable? + +CLEM. I'm afraid I don't understand. + +MARG. But I told you that members of the nobility were entertained at +our house-- + +CLEM. Well, and if they were? + +MARG. Who knows-- + +CLEM. Margaret, you're positively shocking. How can you hint at such a +thing! + +MARG. I can never say what I think in your presence! That's your only +shortcoming--otherwise you would be quite perfect. [_She smiles up to +him._] You've won my heart completely. That very first evening, when you +walked into the cafe with Wangenheim, I had an immediate presentiment: +this is he! You came among that group, like a soul from another world. + +CLEM. I hope so. And I thank heaven that somehow you didn't seem to be +altogether one of them, either. No. Whenever I call to mind that +junto--the Russian girl, for instance, who because of her close-cropped +hair gave the appearance of a student--except that she did not wear a +cap-- + +MARG. Baranzewitsch is a very gifted painter. + +CLEM. No doubt. You pointed her out to me one day in the picture +gallery. She was standing on a ladder at the time, copying. And then the +fellow with the Polish name-- + +MARG. [_beginning_]. Zrkd-- + +CLEM. Spare yourself the pains. You don't have to use it now any more. +He read something at the cafe while I was there, without putting himself +out the least bit. + +MARG. He's a man of extraordinary talent. I'll vouch for it. + +CLEM. Oh, no doubt. Everybody is talented at the cafe. And then that +yokel, that insufferable-- + +MARG. Who? + +CLEM. You know whom I mean. That fellow who persisted in making tactless +observations about the aristocracy. + +MARG. Gilbert. You must mean Gilbert. + +CLEM. Yes. Of course. I don't feel called upon to make a brief for my +class. Profligates crop up everywhere, even among writers, I understand. +But, don't you know it was very bad taste on his part while one of us +was present? + +MARG. That's just like him. + +CLEM. I had to hold myself in check not to knock him down. + +MARG. In spite of that, he was quite interesting. And, then, you mustn't +forget he was raving jealous of you. + +CLEM. I thought I noticed that, too. [_Pause._] + +MARG. Good heavens, they were all jealous of you. Naturally enough--you +were so unlike them. They all paid court to me because I wouldn't +discriminate in favor of any one of them. You certainly must have +noticed that, eh? Why are you laughing? + +CLEM. Comical--is no word for it! If some one had prophesied to me that +I was going to marry a regular frequenter of the Cafe Maxmillian--I +fancied the two young painters most. They'd have made an incomparable +vaudeville team. Do you know, they resembled each other so much and +owned everything they possessed in common--and, if I'm not mistaken, the +Russian on the ladder along with the rest. + +MARG. I didn't bother myself with such things. + +CLEM. And, then, both must have been Jews? + +MARG. Why so? + +CLEM. Oh, simply because they always jested in such a way. And their +enunciation. + +MARG. You may spare your anti-Semitic remarks. + +CLEM. Now, sweetheart, don't be touchy. I know that your blood is not +untainted, and I have nothing whatever against the Jews. I once had a +tutor in Greek who was a Jew. Upon my word! He was a capital fellow. One +meets all sorts and conditions of people. I don't in the least regret +having made the acquaintance of your associates in Munich. It's all the +weave of our life experience. But I can't help thinking that I must +have appeared to you like a hero come to rescue you in the nick of time. + +MARG. Yes, so you did. My Clem! Clem! [_Embraces him._] + +CLEM. What are you laughing at? + +MARG. Something's just occurred to me. + +CLEM. What? + +MARG. "Abandoned on thy breast and--" + +CLEM. [_vexed_]. Please! Must you always shatter my illusions? + +MARG. Tell me truly, Clem, wouldn't you be proud if your fiancee, your +wife, were to become a great, a famous writer? + +CLEM. I have already told you. I am rooted in my decision. And I promise +you that if you begin scribbling or publishing poems in which you paint +your passion for me, and sing to the world the progress of our +love--it's all up with our wedding, and off I go. + +MARG. You threaten--you, who have had a dozen well-known affairs. + +CLEM. My dear, well-known or not, I didn't tell anybody. I didn't bring +out a book whenever a woman abandoned herself on my breast, so that any +Tom, Dick or Harry could buy it for a gulden and a half. There's the +rub. I know there are people who thrive by it, but, as for me, I find it +extremely coarse. It's more degrading to me than if you were to pose as +a Greek goddess in flesh-colored tights at Ronacher's. A Greek statue +like that doesn't say "Mew." But a writer who makes copy of everything +goes beyond the merely humorous. + +MARG. [_nervously_]. Dearest, you forget that the poet does not always +tell the truth. + +CLEM. And suppose he only vaporizes. Does that make it any better? + +MARG. It isn't called vaporizing; it's "_distillation_." + +CLEM. What sort of an expression is that? + +MARG. We disclose things we never experience, things we dreamed--plainly +invented. + +CLEM. Don't say "we" any more, Margaret. Thank goodness, that is past. + +MARG. Who knows? + +CLEM. What? + +MARG. [_tenderly_]. Clement, I must tell you all. + +CLEM. What is it? + +MARG. It is not past; I haven't given up my writing. + +CLEM. Why? + +MARG. I'm still going on with my writing, or, rather, I've finished +writing another book. Yes, the impulse is stronger than most people +realize. I really believe I should have gone to pieces if it hadn't been +for my writing. + +CLEM. What have you written now? + +MARG. A novel. The weight was too heavy to be borne. It might have +dragged me down--down. Until to-day, I tried to hide it from you, but it +had to come out at last. Kuenigel is immensely taken with it. + +CLEM. Who's Kuenigel? + +MARG. My publisher. + +CLEM. Then it's been read already. + +MARG. Yes, and lots more will read it. Clement, you will have cause to +be proud, believe me. + +CLEM. You're mistaken, my dear. I think--but, tell me, what's it about? + +MARG. I can't tell you right off. The novel contains the greatest part, +so to speak, and all that can be said of the greatest part. + +CLEM. My compliments! + +MARG. That's why I'm going to promise you never to pick up a pen any +more. I don't need to. + +CLEM. Margaret, do you love me? + +MARG. What a question! You and you only. Though I have seen a great +deal, though I have gadded about a great deal, I have experienced +comparatively little. I have waited all my life for your coming. + +CLEM. Well, let me have the book. + +MARG. Why--why? What do you mean? + +CLEM. I grant you, there was some excuse in your having written it; but +it doesn't follow that it's got to be read. Let me have it, and we'll +throw it into the fire. + +MARG. Clem! + +CLEM. I make that request. I have a right to make it. + +MARG. Impossible! It simply-- + +CLEM. Why? If I wish it; if I tell you our whole future depends on it. +Do you understand? Is it still impossible? + +MARG. But, Clement, the novel has already been printed. + +CLEM. What! Printed? + +MARG. Yes. In a few days it will be on sale on all the book-stalls. + +CLEM. Margaret, you did all that without a word to me--? + +MARG. I couldn't do otherwise. When once you see it, you will forgive +me. More than that, you will be proud. + +CLEM. My dear, this has progressed beyond a joke. + +MARG. Clement! + +CLEM. Adieu, Margaret. + +MARG. Clement, what does this mean? You are leaving? + +CLEM. As you see. + +MARG. When are you coming back again? + +CLEM. I can't say just now. Adieu. + +MARG. Clement! [_Tries to hold him back._] + +CLEM. Please. [_Goes out._] + +MARG. [_alone_]. Clement! What does this mean? He's left me for good. +What shall I do? Clement! Is everything between us at an end? No. It +can't be. Clement! I'll go after him. [_She looks for her hat. The +doorbell rings._] Ah, he's coming back. He only wanted to frighten me. +Oh, my Clement! [_Goes to the door. Gilbert enters._] + +GIL. [_to the maid_]. I told you so. Madame's at home. How do you do, +Margaret? + +MARG. [_astonished_]. You? + +GIL. It's I--I. Amandus Gilbert. + +MARG. I'm so surprised. + +GIL. So I see. There's no cause for it. I merely thought I'd stop over. +I'm on my way to Italy. I came to offer you my latest book for auld lang +syne. [_Hands her the book. As she does not take it, he places it on the +table._] + +MARG. It's very good of you. Thanks! + +GIL. You have a certain proprietorship in that book. So you are living +here? + +MARG. Yes, but-- + +GIL. Opposite the stadium, I see. As far as furnished rooms go, it's +passable enough. But these family portraits on the walls would drive me +crazy. + +MARG. My housekeeper's the widow of a general. + +GIL. Oh, you needn't apologize. + +MARG. Apologize! Really, the idea never occurred to me. + +GIL. It's wonderful to hark back to it now. + +MARG. To what? + +GIL. Why shouldn't I say it? To the small room in Steinsdorf street, +with its balcony abutting over the Isar. Do you remember, Margaret? + +MARG. Suppose we drop the familiar. + +GIL. As you please--as you please. [_Pause, then suddenly._] You acted +shamefully, Margaret. + +MARG. What do you mean? + +GIL. Would you much rather that I beat around the bush? I can find no +other word, to my regret. And it was so uncalled for, too. +Straightforwardness would have done just as nicely. It was quite +unnecessary to run away from Munich under cover of a foggy night. + +MARG. It wasn't night and it wasn't foggy. I left in the morning on the +eight-thirty train, in open daylight. + +GIL. At all events, you might have said good-by to me before leaving, +eh? [_Sits._] + +MARG. I expect the Baron back any minute. + +GIL. What difference does that make? Of course, you didn't tell him that +you lay in my arms once and worshiped me. I'm just an old acquaintance +from Munich. And there's no harm in an old acquaintance calling to see +you? + +MARG. Anybody but you. + +GIL. Why? Why do you persist in misunderstanding me? I assure you, I +come _only_ as an old acquaintance. Everything else is dead and buried, +long dead and buried. Here. See for yourself. [_Indicates the book._] + +MARG. What's that? + +GIL. My latest novel. + +MARG. Have you taken to writing novels? + +GIL. Certainly. + +MARG. Since when have you learned the trick? + +GIL. What do you mean? + +MARG. Heavens, can't I remember? Thumb-nail sketches were your +specialty, observation of daily events. + +GIL. [_excitedly_]. My specialty? My specialty is life itself. I write +what suits me. I do not allow myself to be circumscribed. I don't see +who's to prevent my writing a novel. + +MARG. But the opinion of an authority was-- + +GIL. Pray, who's an authority? + +MARG. I call to mind, for instance, an article by Neumann in the +"Algemeine"-- + +GIL. [_angrily_]. Neumann's a blamed idiot! I boxed his ears for him +once. + +MARG. You-- + +GIL. In effigy-- But you were quite as much wrought up about the +business as I at that time. We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a +blamed idiot. "How can such a numbskull dare"--these were your very +words--"to set bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle your +next work still, so to speak, in the womb?" You said that! And to-day +you quote that literary hawker. + +MARG. Please do not shout. My housekeeper-- + +GIL. I don't propose to bother myself about the widows of defunct +generals when every nerve in my body is a-tingle. + +MARG. What did I say? I can't account for your touchiness. + +GIL. Touchiness! You call me touchy? You! Who used to be seized with a +violent fit of trembling every time some insignificant booby or some +trumpery sheet happened to utter an unfavorable word of criticism. + +MARG. I don't remember one word of unfavorable criticism against me. + +GIL. H'm! I dare say you may be right. Critics are always chivalrous +toward beautiful women. + +MARG. Chivalrous? Do you think my poems were praised out of chivalry? +What about your own estimate-- + +GIL. Mine? I'm not going to retract so much as one little word. I simply +want to remind you that you composed your sheaf of lovely poems while we +were living together. + +MARG. And you actually consider yourself worthy of them? + +GIL. Would you have written them if it weren't for me? They are +addressed to me. + +MARG. Never! + +GIL. What! Do you mean to deny that they are addressed to me? This is +monstrous! + +MARG. No. They are not addressed to you. + +GIL. I am dumbfounded. I shall remind you of the situations in which +some of your loveliest verses had birth? + +MARG. They were inscribed to an Ideal--[_Gilbert points to +himself_]--whose representative on earth you happened to be. + +GIL. Ha! This is precious. Where did you get that? Do you know what the +French would say in a case like that? "C'est de la litterature!" + +MARG. [_mimicking him_]. Ce n'est pas de la litterature! Now, that's the +truth, the honest truth! Or do you really fancy that by the "slim boy" I +meant you? Or that the curls I hymned belonged to you? At that time you +were fat and your hair was never curly. [_Runs her fingers through his +hair. Gilbert seizes the opportunity to capture her hand and kiss it._] +What an idea! + +GIL. At that time you pictured it so; or, at all events, that is what +you called it. To be sure, a poet is forced to take every sort of +license for the sake of the rhythm. Didn't I once apostrophise you in a +sonnet as "my canny lass"? In point of fact, you were neither--no, I +don't want to be unfair--you were canny, shamefully canny, perversely +canny. And it suited you perfectly. Well, I suppose I really oughtn't to +wonder at you. You were at all times a snob. And, by Jove! you've +attained your end. You have decoyed your blue-blooded boy with his +well-manicured hands and his unmanicured brain, your matchless horseman, +fencer, marksman, tennis player, heart-trifler--Marlitt could not have +invented him more revolting than he actually is. Yes, what more can you +wish? Whether he will satisfy you--who are acquainted with something +nobler--is, of course, another question. I can only say that, in my +view, you are degenerate in love. + +MARG. That must have struck you on the train. + +GIL. Not at all. It struck me this very moment. + +MARG. Make a note of it then; it's an apt phrase. + +GIL. I've another quite as apt. Formerly you were a woman; now you're a +"sweet thing." Yes, that's it. What attracted you to a man of that +type? Passion--frank and filthy passion-- + +MARG. Stop! You have a motive-- + +GIL. My dear, I still lay claim to the possession of a soul. + +MARG. Except now and then. + +GIL. Please don't try to disparage our former relations. It's no use. +They are the noblest experiences you've ever had. + +MARG. Heavens, when I think that I endured this twaddle for one whole +year I-- + +GIL. Endure? You were intoxicated with joy. Don't try to be ungrateful. +I'm not. Admitting that you behaved never so execrably at the end, yet I +can't bring myself to look upon it with bitterness. It had to come just +that way. + +MARG. Indeed! + +GIL. I owe you an explanation. This: at the moment when you were +beginning to drift away from me, when homesickness for the stables +gripped you--_la nostalgie de l'ecurie_--at that moment I was done with +you. + +MARG. Impossible. + +GIL. You failed to notice the least sign in your characteristic way. I +was done with you. To be plain, I didn't need you any longer. What you +had to give you gave me. Your uses were fulfilled. In the depths of your +soul you knew, unconsciously you knew-- + +MARG. Please don't get so hot. + +GIL. [_unruffled_]. That our day was over. Our relations had served +their purpose. I don't regret having loved you. + +MARG. I do! + +GIL. Capital! This measly outburst must reveal to a person of any +insight just one thing: the essential line of difference between the +artist and the dilettante. To you, Margaret, our _liaison_ means nothing +more than the memory of a few abandoned nights, a few heart-to-heart +talks in the winding ways of the English gardens. But _I_ have made it +over into a work of art. + +MARG. So have I! + +GIL. Eh? What do you mean? + +MARG. I have done what you have done. I, too, have written a novel in +which our relations are depicted. I, too, have embalmed our love--or +what we thought was our love--for all time. + +GIL. If I were you, I wouldn't talk of "for all time" before the +appearance of the second edition. + +MARG. Your writing a novel and my writing a novel are two different +things. + +GIL. Maybe. + +MARG. You are a free man. You don't have to steal your hours devoted to +artistic labor. And your future doesn't depend on the throw. + +GIL. And you? + +MARG. That's what I've done. Only a half hour ago Clement left me +because I confessed to him that I had written a novel. + +GIL. Left you--for good? + +MARG. I don't know. But it isn't unlikely. He went away in a fit of +anger. What he'll decide to do I can't say. + +GIL. So he objects to your writing, does he? He can't bear to see his +mistress put her intelligence to some use. Capital! And he represents +the blood of the country! H'm! And you, you're not ashamed to give +yourself up to the arms of an idiot of this sort, whom you once-- + +MARG. Don't you speak of him like that. You don't know him. + +GIL. Ah! + +MARG. You don't know why he objects to my writing. Purely out of love. +He feels that if I go on I will be living in a world entirely apart from +him. He blushes at the thought that I should make copy of the most +sacred feelings of my soul for unknown people to read. It is his wish +that I belong to him only, and that is why he dashed out--no, not dashed +out--for Clement doesn't belong to the class that dashes out. + +GIL. Your observation is well taken. In any case, he went away. We will +not undertake to discuss the _tempo_ of his going forth. And he went +away because he could not bear to see you surrender yourself to the +creative impulse. + +MARG. Ah, if he could only understand that! But, of course, that can +never be! I could be the best, the faithfulest, the noblest woman in the +world if the right man only existed. + +GIL. At all events, you admit he is not the right man. + +MARG. I never said that! + +GIL. But you ought to realize that he's fettering you, undoing you +utterly, seeking through egotism, to destroy your inalienable self. +Look back for a moment at the Margaret you were; at the freedom that was +yours while you loved me. Think of the younger set who gathered about me +and who belonged no whit less to you? Do you never long for those days? +Do you never call to mind the small room with its balcony--Beneath us +plunged the Isar--[_He seizes her hand and presses her near._] + +MARG. Ah! + +GIL. All's not beyond recall. It need not be the Isar, need it? I have +something to propose to you, Margaret. Tell him, when he returns, that +you still have some important matters to arrange at Munich, and spend +the time with me. Margaret, you are so lovely! We shall be happy again +as then. Do you remember [_very near her_] "Abandoned on thy breast +and--" + +MARG. [_retreating brusquely from him_]. Go, go away. No, no. Please go +away. I don't love you any more. + +GIL. Oh, h'm--indeed! Oh, in that case I beg your pardon. [_Pause._] +Adieu, Margaret. + +MARG. Adieu. + +GIL. Won't you present me with a copy of your novel as a parting gift, +as I have done? + +MARG. It hasn't come out yet. It won't be on sale before next week. + +GIL. Pardon my inquisitiveness, what kind of a story is it? + +MARG. The story of my life. So veiled, to be sure, that I am in no +danger of being recognized. + +GIL. I see. How did you manage to do it? + +MARG. Very simple. For one thing, the heroine is not a writer but a +painter. + +GIL. Very clever. + +MARG. Her first husband is not a cotton manufacturer, but a big +financier, and, of course, it wouldn't do to deceive him with a tenor-- + +GIL. Ha! Ha! + +MARG. What strikes you so funny? + +GIL. So you deceived him with a tenor? I didn't know that. + +MARG. Whoever said so? + +GIL. Why, you yourself, just now. + +MARG. How so? I say the heroine of the book deceives her husband with a +baritone. + +GIL. Bass would have been more sublime, mezzo-soprano more piquant. + +MARG. Then she doesn't go to Munich, but to Dresden; and there, has an +affair with a sculptor. + +GIL. That's me--veiled. + +MARG. Very much veiled, I rather fear. The sculptor, as it happens, is +young, handsome and a genius. In spite of that she leaves him. + +GIL. For-- + +MARG. Guess? + +GIL. A jockey, I fancy. + +MARG. Wretch! + +GIL. A count, a prince of the empire? + +MARG. Wrong. An archduke. + +GIL. I must say you have spared no costs. + +MARG. Yes, an archduke, who gave up the court for her sake, married her +and emigrated with her to the Canary Islands. + +GIL. The Canary Islands! Splendid! And then-- + +MARG. With the disembarkation-- + +GIL. In Canaryland. + +MARG. The story ends. + +GIL. Good. I'm very much interested, especially in the veiling. + +MARG. You yourself wouldn't recognize me were it not for-- + +GIL. What? + +MARG. The third chapter from the end, where our correspondence is +published entire. + +GIL. What? + +MARG. Yes, all the letters you sent me and those I sent you are included +in the novel. + +GIL. I see, but may I ask where you got those you sent me? I thought I +had them. + +MARG. I know. But, you see, I had the habit of always making a rough +draft. + +GIL. A rough draft? + +MARG. Yes. + +GIL. A rough draft? Those letters which seemed to have been dashed off +in such tremendous haste. "Just one word, dearest, before I go to bed. +My eyelids are heavy--" and when your eyelids were closed you wrote the +whole thing over again. + +MARG. Are you piqued about it? + +GIL. I might have expected as much. I ought to be glad, however, that +they weren't bought from a professional love-letter writer. Oh, how +everything begins to crumble! The whole past is nothing but a heap of +ruins. She made a rough draft of her letters! + +MARG. Be content. Maybe my letters will be all that will remain immortal +of your memory. + +GIL. And along with them will remain the fatal story. + +MARG. Why? + +GIL. [_indicating his book_]. Because they also appear in my book. + +MARG. In _where_? + +GIL. In my novel. + +MARG. What? + +GIL. Our letters--yours and mine. + +MARG. Where did you get your own? I've got them in my possession. Ah, so +you, too, made a rough draft? + +GIL. Nothing of the kind! I only copied them before mailing. I didn't +want to lose them. There are some in my book which you didn't even get. +They were, in my opinion, too beautiful for you. You wouldn't have +understood them at all. + +MARG. Merciful heavens! If this is so--[_turning the leaves of Gilbert's +book_]. Yes, yes, it is so. Why, it's just like telling the world that +we two--Merciful heavens! [_Feverishly turning the leaves._] Is the +letter you sent me the morning after the first night also-- + +GIL. Surely. That was brilliant. + +MARG. This is horrible. Why, this is going to create a European +sensation. And Clement--My God; I'm beginning to hope that he will not +come back. I am ruined! And you along with me. Wherever you are, he'll +be sure to find you and blow your brains out like a mad dog. + +GIL. [_pocketing his book_]. Insipid comparison! + +MARG. How did you hit upon such an insane idea? To publish the +correspondence of a woman whom, in all sincerity, you professed to have +loved! Oh, you're no gentleman. + +GIL. Quite charming. Haven't you done the same? + +MARG. I'm a woman. + +GIL. Do you take refuge in that now? + +MARG. Oh, it's true. I have nothing to reproach you with. We were made +for one another. Yes, Clement was right. We're worse than those women +who appear in flesh-colored tights. Our most sacred feelings, our +pangs--everything--we make copy of everything. Pfui! #Pfui!# It's +sickening. We two belong to one another. Clement would only be doing +what is right if he drove me away. [_Suddenly._] Come, Amandus. + +GIL. What is it? + +MARG. I accept your proposal. + +GIL. What proposal? + +MARG. I'm going to cut it with you. [_Looks for her hat and cloak._] + +GIL. Eh? What do you mean? + +MARG. [_very much excited; puts her hat on tightly_]. Everything can be +as it was. You've said it. It needn't be the Isar--well, I'm ready. + +GIL. Sheer madness! Cut it--what's the meaning of this? Didn't you +yourself say a minute ago that he'd find me anywhere. If you're with me, +he'll have no difficulty in finding you, too. Wouldn't it be better if +each-- + +MARG. Wretch! Now you want to leave me in a lurch! Why, only a few +minutes ago you were on your knees before me. Have you no conscience? + +GIL. What's the use? I am a sick, nervous man, suffering from +hypochondria. [_Margaret at the window utters a cry._] + +GIL. What's up? What will the general's widow think? + +MARG. It's he. He's coming back. + +GIL. Well, then-- + +MARG. What? You intend to go? + +GIL. I didn't come here to pay the baron a visit. + +MARG. He'll encounter you on the stairs. That would be worse. Stay. I +refuse to be sacrificed alone. + +GIL. Now, don't lose your senses. Why do you tremble like that? It's +quite absurd to believe that he's already gone through both novels. Calm +yourself. Remove your hat. Off with your cloak. [_Assists her._] If he +catches you in this frame of mind he can't help but suspect. + +MARG. It's all the same to me. Better now than later. I can't bear +waiting and waiting for the horrible event. I'm going to tell him +everything right away. + +GIL. Everything? + +MARG. Yes. And while you are still here. If I make a clean breast of +everything now maybe he'll forgive me. + +GIL. And me--what about me? I have a higher mission in the world, I +think, than to suffer myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous +baron. [_The bell rings._] + +MARG. It's he! It's he. + +GIL. Understand, you're not to breathe a word. + +MARG. I've made up my mind. + +GIL. Indeed, have a care. For, if you do, I shall sell my hide at a good +price. I shall hurl such naked truths at him that he'll swear no baron +heard the like of them. + +CLEM. [_entering, somewhat surprised, but quite cool and courteous_]. +Oh, Mr. Gilbert! Am I right? + +GIL. The very same, Baron. I'm traveling south, and I couldn't repress +the desire to pay my respects to madame. + +CLEM. Ah, indeed. [_Pause._] Pardon me, it seems I've interrupted your +conversation. Pray, don't let me disturb you. + +GIL. What were we talking about just now? + +CLEM. Perhaps I can assist your memory. In Munich, if I recall +correctly, you always talked about your books. + +GIL. Quite so. As a matter of fact, I was speaking about my new novel. + +CLEM. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find that I, too, can talk literature. +Eh, Margaret? Is it naturalistic? Symbolic? Autobiographical? Or--let me +see--is it distilled? + +GIL. Oh, in a certain sense we all write about our life-experiences. + +CLEM. H'm. That's good to know. + +GIL. Yes, if you're painting the character of Nero, in my opinion it's +absolutely necessary that you should have set fire to Rome-- + +CLEM. Naturally. + +GIL. From what source should a writer derive his inspiration if not from +himself? Where should he go for his models if not to the life which is +nearest to him? [_Margaret becomes more and more uneasy._] + +CLEM. Isn't it a pity, though, that the models are so rarely consulted? +But I must say, if I were a woman, I'd think twice before I'd let such +people know anything--[_Sharply._] In decent society, sir, that's the +same as compromising a woman! + +GIL. I don't know whether I belong to decent society or not, but, in my +humble opinion, it's the same as ennobling a woman. + +CLEM. Indeed. + +GIL. The essential thing is, does it really hit the mark! In a higher +sense, what does it matter if the public does know that a woman was +happy in this bed or that? + +CLEM. Mr. Gilbert, allow me to remind you that you are speaking in the +presence of a lady. + +GIL. I'm speaking in the presence of a comrade, Baron, who, perhaps, +shares my views in these matters. + +CLEM. Oh! + +MARG. Clement! [_Throws herself at his feet._] Clement. + +CLEM. [_staggered_]. But--Margaret. + +MARG. Your forgiveness, Clement! + +CLEM. But, Margaret. [_To Gilbert._] It's very painful to me, Mr. +Gilbert. Now, get up, Margaret. Get up, everything's all right; +everything's arranged. Yes, yes. You have but to call up Kuenigel. I have +already arranged everything with him. We are going to put it out for +sale. Is that suitable to you? + +GIL. What are you going to put out for sale, if I may be so bold as to +ask? The novel madame has written? + +CLEM. Ah, so you know already. At all events, Mr. Gilbert, it seems that +your _camaraderie_ is not required any further. + +GIL. Yes. There's really nothing left for me but to beg to be excused. +I'm sorry. + +CLEM. I very much regret, Mr. Gilbert, that you had to witness a scene +which might almost be called domestic. + +GIL. Oh, I do not wish to intrude any further. + +GIL. Madame--Baron, may I offer you a copy of my book as a token that +all ill-feeling between us has vanished? As a feeble sign of my +sympathy, Baron? + +CLEM. You're very good, Mr. Gilbert. I must, however, tell you that this +is going to be the last, or the one before the last, that I ever intend +to read. + +GIL. The one before the last? + +CLEM. Yes. + +MARG. And what's the last going to be? + +CLEM. Yours, my love. [_Draws an advanced copy from his pocket._] I +wheedled an advance copy from Kuenigel to bring to you, or, rather, to +both of us. [_Margaret and Gilbert exchange scared glances._] + +MARG. How good of you! [_Taking the book._] Yes, it's mine. + +CLEM. We will read it together. + +MARG. No, Clement, no. I cannot accept so much kindness. [_She throws +the book into the fireplace._] I don't want to hear of this sort of +thing any more. + +GIL. [_very joyful_]. But, dear madame-- + +CLEM. [_going toward the fireplace_]. Margaret, what have you done? + +MARG. [_in front of the fireplace, throwing her arms about Clement_]. +Now, do you believe that I love you! + +GIL. [_most gleeful_]. It appears that I'm entirely _de trop_ here. Dear +Madame--Baron--[_To himself._] Pity, though, I can't stay for the last +chapter. [_Goes out._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE INTRUDER + + A PLAY + + BY MAURICE MAETERLINCK + + + CHARACTERS + + THE GRANDFATHER [_blind_]. + THE FATHER. + THE THREE DAUGHTERS. + THE UNCLE. + THE SERVANT. + + + The present translation of THE INTRUDER is the anonymous version + published by Mr. Heinemann in 1892, the editor having, however, + made some slight alterations in order to bring it into conformity + with the current French text. The particular edition used for this + purpose was the 1911 (twenty-third) reprint of Vol. I of M. + Maeterlinck's "Theatre." + A. L. G. + + + Reprinted from "A Miracle of St. Antony and Five Other Plays" in the + Modern Library, by permission of Messrs. Boni & Liveright, Inc. + + + +THE INTRUDER + +A PLAY BY MAURICE MAETERLINCK + + + [_A sombre room in an old Chateau. A door on the right, a door + on the left, and a small concealed door in a corner. At the back, + stained-glass windows, in which green is the dominant color, and + a glass door giving on to a terrace. A big Dutch clock in one + corner. A lighted lamp._] + + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Come here, grandfather. Sit down under the lamp. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There does not seem to me to be much light here. + +THE FATHER. Shall we go out on the terrace, or stay in this room? + +THE UNCLE. Would it not be better to stay here? It has rained the whole +week, and the nights are damp and cold. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. But the stars are shining. + +THE UNCLE. Oh the stars--that's nothing. + +THE GRANDFATHER. We had better stay here. One never knows what may +happen. + +THE FATHER. There is no longer any cause for anxiety. The danger is +over, and she is saved.... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I believe she is not doing so well.... + +THE FATHER. Why do you say that? + +THE GRANDFATHER. I have heard her voice. + +THE FATHER. But since the doctors assure us we may be easy.... + +THE UNCLE. You know quite well that your father-in-law likes to alarm us +needlessly. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I don't see things as you do. + +THE UNCLE. You ought to rely on us, then, who can see. She looked very +well this afternoon. She is sleeping quietly now; and we are not going +to mar, needlessly, the first pleasant evening that chance has put in +our way.... It seems to me we have a perfect right to peace, and even to +laugh a little, this evening, without fear. + +THE FATHER. That's true; this is the first time I have felt at home with +my family since this terrible confinement. + +THE UNCLE. When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a +stranger had forced himself into the family circle. + +THE FATHER. And then you understand, too, that you can count on no one +outside the family. + +THE UNCLE. You are quite right. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why couldn't I see my poor daughter to-day? + +THE UNCLE. You know quite well--the doctor forbade it. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what to think.... + +THE UNCLE. It is useless to worry. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_pointing to the door on the left_]. She cannot hear +us? + +THE FATHER. We will not talk too loud; besides, the door is very thick, +and the Sister of Mercy is with her, and she is sure to warn us if we +are making too much noise. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_pointing to the door on the right_]. He cannot hear +us? + +THE FATHER. No, no. + +THE GRANDFATHER. He is asleep? + +THE FATHER. I suppose so. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Some one had better go and see. + +THE UNCLE. The little one would cause _me_ more anxiety than your wife. +It is now several weeks since he was born, and he has scarcely stirred. +He has not cried once all the time! He is like a wax doll. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I think he will be deaf--dumb too, perhaps--the usual +result of a marriage between cousins.... [_A reproving silence._] + +THE FATHER. I could almost wish him ill for the suffering he has caused +his mother. + +THE UNCLE. Do be reasonable; it is not the poor little thing's fault. He +is quite alone in the room? + +THE FATHER. Yes; the doctor does not wish him to stay in his mother's +room any longer. + +THE UNCLE. But the nurse is with him? + +THE FATHER. No; she has gone to rest a little; she has well deserved it +these last few days. Ursula, just go and see if he is asleep. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father. [_The Three Sisters get up, and go +into the room on the right, hand in hand._] + +THE FATHER. When will your sister come? + +THE UNCLE. I think she will come about nine. + +THE FATHER. It is past nine. I hope she will come this evening, my wife +is so anxious to see her. + +THE UNCLE. She is sure to come. This will be the first time she has been +here? + +THE FATHER. She has never been in the house. + +THE UNCLE. It is very difficult for her to leave her convent. + +THE FATHER. Will she be alone? + +THE UNCLE. I expect one of the nuns will come with her. They are not +allowed to go out alone. + +THE FATHER. But she is the Superior. + +THE UNCLE. The rule is the same for all. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Do you not feel anxious? + +THE UNCLE. Why should we feel anxious? What's the good of harping on +that? There is nothing more to fear. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is older than you? + +THE UNCLE. She is the eldest. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what ails me; I feel uneasy. I wish your +sister were here. + +THE UNCLE. She will come; she promised to. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Ah, if this evening were only over! + + [_The three daughters come in again._] + +THE FATHER. He is asleep? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father; he is sleeping soundly. + +THE UNCLE. What shall we do while we are waiting? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Waiting for what? + +THE UNCLE. Waiting for our sister. + +THE FATHER. You see nothing coming, Ursula? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER [_at the window_]. Nothing, father. + +THE FATHER. Not in the avenue? Can you see the avenue? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I can see the avenue as +far as the cypress wood. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And you do not see any one? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. + +THE UNCLE. What sort of a night is it? + +THE DAUGHTER. Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales? + +THE UNCLE. Yes, yes. + +THE DAUGHTER. A little wind is rising in the avenue. + +THE GRANDFATHER. A little wind in the avenue? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes; the trees are trembling a little. + +THE UNCLE. I am surprised that my sister is not here yet. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear the nightingales any longer. + +THE DAUGHTER. I think some one has come into the garden, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it? + +THE DAUGHTER. I do not know; I can see no one. + +THE UNCLE. Because there is no one there. + +THE DAUGHTER. There must be some one in the garden; the nightingales +have suddenly ceased singing. + +THE GRANDFATHER. But I do not hear any one coming. + +THE DAUGHTER. Some one must be passing by the pond, because the swans +are ruffled. + +ANOTHER DAUGHTER. All the fishes in the pond are diving suddenly. + +THE FATHER. You cannot see any one. + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, father. + +THE FATHER. But the pond lies in the moonlight.... + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes; I can see that the swans are ruffled. + +THE UNCLE. I am sure it is my sister who is scaring them. She must have +come in by the little gate. + +THE FATHER. I cannot understand why the dogs do not bark. + +THE DAUGHTER. I can see the watchdog right at the back of his kennel. +The swans are crossing to the other bank!... + +THE UNCLE. They are afraid of my sister. I will go and see. [_He +calls._] Sister! sister! Is that you?... There is no one there. + +THE DAUGHTER. I am sure that some one has come into the garden. You will +see. + +THE UNCLE. But she would answer me! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Are not the nightingales beginning to sing again, +Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. I cannot hear one anywhere. + +THE GRANDFATHER. But there is no noise. + +THE FATHER. There is a silence of the grave. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It must be a stranger that is frightening them, for if +it were one of the family they would not be silent. + +THE UNCLE. How much longer are you going to discuss these nightingales? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Are all the windows open, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. The glass door is open, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that the cold is penetrating into the +room. + +THE DAUGHTER. There is a little wind in the garden, grandfather, and the +rose-leaves are falling. + +THE FATHER. Well, shut the door. It is late. + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father.... I cannot shut the door. + +THE TWO OTHER DAUGHTERS. We cannot shut the door. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why, what is the matter with the door, my children? + +THE UNCLE. You need not say that in such an extraordinary voice. I will +go and help them. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We cannot manage to shut it quite. + +THE UNCLE. It is because of the damp. Let us all push together. There +must be something in the way. + +THE FATHER. The carpenter will set it right to-morrow. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is the carpenter coming to-morrow. + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; he is coming to do some work in the +cellar. + +THE GRANDFATHER. He will make a noise in the house. + +THE DAUGHTER. I will tell him to work quietly. + + [_Suddenly the sound of a scythe being sharpened is heard outside._] + +THE GRANDFATHER [_with a shudder_]. Oh! + +THE UNCLE. What is that? + +THE DAUGHTER. I don't quite know; I think it is the gardener. I cannot +quite see; he is in the shadow of the house. + +THE FATHER. It is the gardener going to mow. + +THE UNCLE. He mows by night? + +THE FATHER. Is not to-morrow Sunday?--Yes.--I noticed that the grass was +very long round the house. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that his scythe makes as much noise.... + +THE DAUGHTER. He is mowing near the house. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Can you see him, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather. He is standing in the dark. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid he will wake my daughter. + +THE UNCLE. We can scarcely hear him. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It sounds as if he were mowing inside the house. + +THE UNCLE. The invalid will not hear it; there is no danger. + +THE FATHER. It seems to me that the lamp is not burning well this +evening. + +THE UNCLE. It wants filling. + +THE FATHER. I saw it filled this morning. It has burnt badly since the +window was shut. + +THE UNCLE. I fancy the chimney is dirty. + +THE FATHER. It will burn better presently. + +THE DAUGHTER. Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept for three nights. + +THE FATHER. He has been so much worried. + +THE UNCLE. He always worries too much. At times he will not listen to +reason. + +THE FATHER. It is quite excusable at his age. + +THE UNCLE. God knows what we shall be like at his age! + +THE FATHER. He is nearly eighty. + +THE UNCLE. Then he has a right to be strange. + +THE FATHER. He is like all blind people. + +THE UNCLE. They think too much. + +THE FATHER. They have too much time to spare. + +THE UNCLE. They have nothing else to do. + +THE FATHER. And, besides, they have no distractions. + +THE UNCLE. That must be terrible. + +THE FATHER. Apparently one gets used to it. + +THE UNCLE. I cannot imagine it. + +THE FATHER. They are certainly to be pitied. + +THE UNCLE. Not to know where one is, not to know where one has come +from, not to know whither one is going, not to be able to distinguish +midday from midnight, or summer from winter--and always darkness, +darkness! I would rather not live. Is it absolutely incurable? + +THE FATHER. Apparently so. + +THE UNCLE. But he is not absolutely blind? + +THE FATHER. He can perceive a strong light. + +THE UNCLE. Let us take care of our poor eyes. + +THE FATHER. He often has strange ideas. + +THE UNCLE. At times he is not at all amusing. + +THE FATHER. He says absolutely everything he thinks. + +THE UNCLE. But he was not always like this? + +THE FATHER. No; once he was as rational as we are; he never said +anything extraordinary. I am afraid Ursula encourages him a little too +much; she answers all his questions.... + +THE UNCLE. It would be better not to answer them. It's a mistaken +kindness to him. + + [_Ten o'clock strikes._] + +THE GRANDFATHER [_waking up_]. Am I facing the glass door? + +THE DAUGHTER. You have had a nice sleep, grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Am I facing the glass door? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There is nobody at the glass door? + +THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; I do not see any one. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I thought some one was waiting. No one has come? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_to the Uncle and Father_]. And your sister has not +come? + +THE UNCLE. It is too late; she will not come now. It is not nice of her. + +THE FATHER. I'm beginning to be anxious about her. [_A noise, as of some +one coming into the house._] + +THE UNCLE. She is here! Did you hear? + +THE FATHER. Yes; some one has come in at the basement. + +THE UNCLE. It must be our sister. I recognized her step. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I heard slow footsteps. + +THE FATHER. She came in very quietly. + +THE UNCLE. She knows there is an invalid. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I hear nothing now. + +THE UNCLE. She will come up directly; they will tell her we are here. + +THE FATHER. I am glad she has come. + +THE UNCLE. I was sure she would come this evening. + +THE GRANDFATHER. She is a very long time coming up. + +THE UNCLE. It must be she. + +THE FATHER. We are not expecting any other visitors. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear any noise in the basement. + +THE FATHER. I will call the servant. We shall know how things stand. +[_He pulls a bell-rope._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear a noise on the stairs already. + +THE FATHER. It is the servant coming up. + +THE GRANDFATHER. To me it sounds as if she were not alone. + +THE FATHER. She is coming up slowly.... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I hear your sister's step! + +THE FATHER. I can only hear the servant. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is your sister! It is your sister! [_There is a +knock at the little door._] + +THE UNCLE. She is knocking at the door of the back stairs. + +THE FATHER. I will go and open it myself. [_He opens the little door +partly; the Servant remains outside in the opening._] Where are you? + +THE SERVANT. Here, sir. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is at the door? + +THE UNCLE. I can only see the servant. + +THE FATHER. It is only the servant. [_To the Servant._] Who was that, +that came into the house? + +THE SERVANT. Came into the house? + +THE FATHER. Yes; some one came in just now? + +THE SERVANT. No one came in, sir. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it sighing like that? + +THE UNCLE. It is the servant; she is out of breath. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is she crying? + +THE UNCLE. No; why should she be crying? + +THE FATHER [_to the Servant_]. No one came in just now? + +THE SERVANT. No, sir. + +THE FATHER. But we heard some one open the door! + +THE SERVANT. It was I shutting the door. + +THE FATHER. It was open? + +THE SERVANT. Yes, sir. + +THE FATHER. Why was it open at this time of night? + +THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. I had shut it myself. + +THE FATHER. Then who was it that opened it? + +THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. Some one must have gone out after me, +sir.... + +THE FATHER. You must be careful.--Don't push the door; you know what a +noise it makes! + +THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am not touching the door. + +THE FATHER. But you are. You are pushing as if you were trying to get +into the room. + +THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am three yards away from the door. + +THE FATHER. Don't talk so loud.... + +THE GRANDFATHER. Are they putting out the light? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. No, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me it has grown pitch dark all at once. + +THE FATHER [_to the Servant_]. You can go down again now; but do not +make so much noise on the stairs. + +THE SERVANT. I did not make any noise on the stairs. + +THE FATHER. I tell you that you did make a noise. Go down quietly; you +will wake your mistress. And if any one comes now, say that we are not +at home. + +THE UNCLE. Yes; say that we are not at home. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_shuddering_]. You must not say that! + +THE FATHER. ... Except to my sister and the doctor. + +THE UNCLE. When will the doctor come? + +THE FATHER. He will not be able to come before midnight. [_He shuts the +door. A clock is heard striking eleven._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. She has come in? + +THE FATHER. Who? + +THE GRANDFATHER. The servant. + +THE FATHER. No, she has gone downstairs. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I thought that she was sitting at the table. + +THE UNCLE. The servant? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Yes. + +THE UNCLE. That would complete one's happiness! + +THE GRANDFATHER. No one has come into the room? + +THE FATHER. No; no one has come in. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And your sister is not here? + +THE UNCLE. Our sister has not come. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You want to deceive me. + +THE UNCLE. Deceive you? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth, for the love of God! + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather! Grandfather! what is the matter with +you? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Something has happened! I am sure my daughter is +worse!... + +THE UNCLE. Are you dreaming? + +THE GRANDFATHER. You do not want to tell me!... I can see quite well +there is something.... + +THE UNCLE. In that case you can see better than we can. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth! + +THE DAUGHTER. But we have told you the truth, grandfather! + +THE GRANDFATHER. You do not speak in your ordinary voice. + +THE FATHER. That is because you frighten her. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Your voice is changed, too. + +THE FATHER. You are going mad! [_He and the Uncle make signs to each +other to signify the Grandfather has lost his reason._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear quite well that you are afraid. + +THE FATHER. But what should we be afraid of? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why do you want to deceive me? + +THE UNCLE. Who is thinking of deceiving you? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why have you put out the light? + +THE UNCLE. But the light has not been put out; there is as much light as +there was before. + +THE DAUGHTER. It seems to me that the lamp has gone down. + +THE FATHER. I see as well now as ever. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I have millstones on my eyes! Tell me, girls, what is +going on here! Tell me, for the love of God, you who can see! I am here, +all alone, in darkness without end! I do not know who seats himself +beside me! I do not know what is happening a yard from me!... Why were +you talking under your breath just now? + +THE FATHER. No one was talking under his breath. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You did talk in a low voice at the door. + +THE FATHER. You heard all I said. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You brought some one into the room!... + +THE FATHER. But I tell you no one has come in! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is it your sister or a priest?--You should not try to +deceive me.--Ursula, who was it that came in? + +THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You must not try to deceive me; I know what I +know.--How many of us are there here? + +THE DAUGHTER. There are six of us round the table, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are all round the table? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Paul? + +THE FATHER. Yes. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Oliver? + +THE UNCLE. Yes, of course I am here, in my usual place. That's not +alarming, is it? + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Genevieve? + +ONE OF THE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Gertrude? + +ANOTHER DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are here, Ursula? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; next to you. + +THE GRANDFATHER. And who is that sitting there? + +THE DAUGHTER. Where do you mean, grandfather?--There is no one. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There, there--in the midst of us! + +THE DAUGHTER. But there is no one, grandfather! + +THE FATHER. We tell you there is no one! + +THE GRANDFATHER. But you cannot see--any of you! + +THE UNCLE. Pshaw! You are joking. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel inclined for joking, I can assure you. + +THE UNCLE. Then believe those who can see. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_undecidedly_]. I thought there was some one.... I +believe I shall not live long.... + +THE UNCLE. Why should we deceive you? What use would there be in that? + +THE FATHER. It would be our duty to tell you the truth.... + +THE UNCLE. What would be the good of deceiving each other? + +THE FATHER. You could not live in error long. + +THE GRANDFATHER [_trying to rise_]. I should like to pierce this +darkness!... + +THE FATHER. Where do you want to go? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Over there.... + +THE FATHER. Don't be so anxious. + +THE UNCLE. You are strange this evening. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is all of you who seem to me to be strange! + +THE FATHER. Do you want anything? + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what ails me. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather! grandfather! What do you want, +grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. Give me your little hands, my children. + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Why are you all three trembling, girls? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We are scarcely trembling at all, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I fancy you are all three pale. + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is late, grandfather, and we are tired. + +THE FATHER. You must go to bed, and grandfather himself would do well to +take a little rest. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I could not sleep to-night! + +THE UNCLE. We will wait for the doctor. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Prepare for the truth. + +THE UNCLE. But there is no truth! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Then I do not know what there is! + +THE UNCLE. I tell you there is nothing at all! + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could see my poor daughter! + +THE FATHER. But you know quite well it is impossible; she must not be +awakened unnecessarily. + +THE UNCLE. You will see her to-morrow. + +THE GRANDFATHER. There is no sound in her room. + +THE UNCLE. I should be uneasy if I heard any sound. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is a very long time since I saw my daughter!... I +took her hands yesterday evening, but I could not see her!... I do not +know what has become of her.... I do not know how she is.... I do not +know what her face is like now.... She must have changed these weeks!... +I felt the little bones of her cheeks under my hands.... There is +nothing but the darkness between her and me, and the rest of you!... I +cannot go on living like this ... this is not living.... You sit there, +all of you, looking with open eyes at my dead eyes, and not one of you +has pity on me!... I do not know what ails me.... No one tells me what +ought to be told me.... And everything is terrifying when one's dreams +dwell upon it.... But why are you not speaking? + +THE UNCLE. What should we say, since you will not believe us? + +THE GRANDFATHER. You are afraid of betraying yourselves! + +THE FATHER. Come now, be rational! + +THE GRANDFATHER. You have been hiding something from me for a long +time!... Something has happened in the house.... But I am beginning to +understand now.... You have been deceiving me too long!--You fancy that +I shall never know anything?--There are moments when I am less blind +than you, you know!... Do you think I have not heard you whispering--for +days and days--as if you were in the house of some one who had been +hanged--I dare not say what I know this evening.... But I shall know the +truth!... I shall wait for you to tell me the truth; but I have known it +for a long time, in spite of you!--And now, I feel that you are all +paler than the dead! + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Grandfather! grandfather! What is the matter, +grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is not you that I am speaking of, girls. No; it is +not you that I am speaking of.... I know quite well you would tell me +the truth--if they were not by!... And besides, I feel sure that they +are deceiving you as well.... You will see, children--you will see!... +Do not I hear you all sobbing? + +THE FATHER. Is my wife really so ill? + +THE GRANDFATHER. It is no good trying to deceive me any longer; it is +too late now, and I know the truth better than you!... + +THE UNCLE. But _we_ are not blind; we are not. + +THE FATHER. Would you like to go into your daughter's room? This +misunderstanding must be put an end to.--Would you? + +THE GRANDFATHER [_becoming suddenly undecided_]. No, no, not now--not +yet. + +THE UNCLE. You see, you are not reasonable. + +THE GRANDFATHER. One never knows how much a man has been unable to +express in his life!... Who made that noise? + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is the lamp flickering, grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me to be very unsteady--very! + +THE DAUGHTER. It is the cold wind troubling it.... + +THE UNCLE. There is no cold wind, the windows are shut. + +THE DAUGHTER. I think it is going out. + +THE FATHER. There is no more oil. + +THE DAUGHTER. It has gone right out. + +THE FATHER. We cannot stay like this in the dark. + +THE UNCLE. Why not?--I am quite accustomed to it. + +THE FATHER. There is a light in my wife's room. + +THE UNCLE. We will take it from there presently, when the doctor has +been. + +THE FATHER. Well, we can see enough here; there is the light from +outside. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is it light outside? + +THE FATHER. Lighter than here. + +THE UNCLE. For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark. + +THE FATHER. So would I. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me the clock makes a great deal of +noise.... + +THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. That is because we are not talking any more, +grandfather. + +THE GRANDFATHER. But why are you all silent? + +THE UNCLE. What do you want us to talk about?--You are really very +peculiar to-night. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is it very dark in this room? + +THE UNCLE. There is not much light. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel well, Ursula; open the window a little. + +THE FATHER. Yes, child; open the window a little. I begin to feel the +want of air myself. [_The girl opens the window._] + +THE UNCLE. I really believe we have stayed shut up too long. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Is the window open? + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; it is wide open. + +THE GRANDFATHER. One would not have thought it was open; there was not a +sound outside. + +THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; there is not the slightest sound. + +THE FATHER. The silence is extraordinary! + +THE DAUGHTER. One could hear an angel tread! + +THE UNCLE. That is why I do not like the country. + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could hear some sound. What o'clock is it, +Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. It will soon be midnight, grandfather. [_Here the Uncle +begins to pace up and down the room._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. Who is that walking round us like that? + +THE UNCLE. Only I! only I! Do not be frightened! I want to walk about a +little. [_Silence._]--But I am going to sit down again;--I cannot see +where I am going. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I were out of this place. + +THE DAUGHTER. Where would you like to go, grandfather? + +THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know where--into another room, no matter +where! no matter where! + +THE FATHER. Where could we go? + +THE UNCLE. It is too late to go anywhere else. [_Silence. They are +sitting, motionless, round the table._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the leaves falling.--Yes, it +is the leaves falling on the terrace. + +THE GRANDFATHER. Go and shut the window, Ursula. + +THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. [_She shuts the window, comes back, and +sits down._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. I am cold. [_Silence. The Three Sisters kiss each +other._] What is that I hear now? + +THE FATHER. It is the three sisters kissing each other. + +THE UNCLE. It seems to me they are very pale this evening. [_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear now, Ursula? + +THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the clasping of my hands. +[_Silence._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. And that?... + +THE DAUGHTER. I do not know, grandfather ... perhaps my sisters are +trembling a little?... + +THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid, too, my children. [_Here a ray of +moonlight penetrates through a corner of the stained glass, and throws +strange gleams here and there in the room. A clock strikes midnight; at +the last stroke there is a very vague sound, as of some one rising in +haste._] + +THE GRANDFATHER [_shuddering with peculiar horror_]. Who is that who got +up? + +THE UNCLE. No one got up! + +THE FATHER. I did not get up! + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Nor I!--Nor I!--Nor I! + +THE GRANDFATHER. Some one got up from the table! + +THE UNCLE. Light the lamp!... [_Cries of terror are suddenly heard from +the child's room, on the right; these cries continue, with gradations of +horror, until the end of the scene._] + +THE FATHER. Listen to the child! + +THE UNCLE. He has never cried before! + +THE FATHER. Let us go and see him! + +THE UNCLE. The light! The light! [_At this moment, quick and heavy steps +are heard in the room on the left.--Then a deathly silence.--They listen +in mute terror, until the door of the room opens slowly; the light from +it is cast into the room where they are sitting, and the Sister of Mercy +appears on the threshold, in her black garments, and bows as she makes +the sign of the cross, to announce the death of the wife. They +understand, and, after a moment of hesitation and fright, silently enter +the chamber of death, while the Uncle politely steps aside on the +threshold to let the three girls pass. The blind man, left alone, gets +up, agitated, and feels his way round the table in the darkness._] + +THE GRANDFATHER. Where are you going?--Where are you going?--The girls +have left me all alone! + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +INTERLUDE + + BY FEDERICO MORE + TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY AUDREY ALDEN. + + + Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS + + THE MARQUISE. + THE POET. + + + Application for permission to produce INTERLUDE must be addressed to + Pierre Loving, in care of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, + Ohio. + + + +INTERLUDE + +BY FEDERICO MORE + + + _Scene:_ A Salon. + + +MARQUISE [_entering_]. + + It is chic yet full of peril to be a marquise, betrothed + And on the brim of nineteen, with two whole years' + Devotion at the convent behind her. Well may the man + I am to marry place his faith in me. + And yet, I am obsessed with the sweet indecision + Of having met a poet who will shrive me in verse, + Drape my life with the vigor of his youth + Yet never kiss me. + +POET [_entering_]. + + I was looking for you, madame. + +MARQUISE. + + Well, here I am. + +POET. + + Does the dance tire you or the music displease? + +MARQUISE. + + It has never before displeased me, and yet--now-- + +POET. + + In a life + Happy as yours, joy is reborn, + Your moods are versatile, and charming, marquise.... + Bad humor de luxe ... perhaps mere caprice.... + +MARQUISE. + + Perhaps mere caprice ... perhaps; but I am prey + To something more profound, something warmer.... + +POET. + + Have I not told you + That in happy lives such as your high-placed life + There is nothing of ennui, nothing to lead astray, + Nothing to spur you on, nothing to unfold, + Nor any dim wraith stalking by your side? + +MARQUISE. + + Ah, you have uttered my thought. I feel as though a ghost walked with + me. + +POET. + + And I could almost swear + You do not feel your grief molded as the phantom wills. + +MARQUISE. + + I do feel it. There is a spell, + An echo from afar. + +POET. + + Nerves ... the dance ... fatigue! + Too many perfumes ... too many mirrors.... + +MARQUISE. + + And the lack of a voice I love. + +POET. + + Oh do not be romantic. Don't distort life. + Romance has always proved an evil scourge. + +MARQUISE. + + But you, a poet ... are not you romantic? + +POET. + + I? Never. + +MARQUISE. + + Then how do you write your verse? + +POET. + + I make poems + The way your seamstresses make your dresses. + +MARQUISE. + + With a pattern and a measure? + +POET. + + With a pattern and a measure. + +MARQUISE. + + Impossible! Poets give tongue to truth sublime. + +POET. + + Pardon, marquise, but it is folly + To think that poems are something more than needles + On which to thread the truth. + +MARQUISE. + + Truly, are they no more than that? + +POET. + + Ephemeral and vain, in this age + Poetry is woven of agile thought. + +MARQUISE. + + What of the sort that weeps and yearns most woe-begone? + Poignancy that is the ending of a poem? + +POET. + + All that + Is reached with the noble aid of a consonant + As great love is reached with a kiss. + +MARQUISE. + + And what of the void in which my soul is lost + Since no one, poet ... no one cries his need for me.... + +POET. + + Do not say that, marquise. I can assure you.... + +MARQUISE. + + That I am a motif for a handful of consonants? + +POET. + + Nonsense! I swear it by your clear eyes.... + +MARQUISE. + + Comparable, I suppose, in verse to two clear diamonds.... + +POET. + + You scoff, but love is very serious.... + +MARQUISE. + + Love serious, poet? A betrothal, it may be, is serious, + Arranged by grave-faced parents with stately rites; + Yawns are serious and so is repletion. + +POET. + + But tell me, whence comes this deep cynicism? + +MARQUISE. + + Oh, do not take it ill. I say it but in jest, + Merely because I like to laugh at the abyss, + What do you think, poet? + +POET. + + Well, marquise, I must confess + That I am capable of feeling various loves. + +MARQUISE. + + Then you were born for various women. + +POET. + + No, I was born for various sorrows. + +MARQUISE. + + Or, by the same token, for various pleasures. + +POET. + + Sheer vanity! Women always presume + That their mere earthly presence gives men pleasure. + +MARQUISE. + + You are clear-witted + And a pattern of such good common-sense. + Who would believe + That a poet, dabbler in every sort of folly, + May turn discreet when mysterious love beckons? + +POET. + + Mysterious love? Marquise, that is not so.... Love has abandons + Irrestrainable. + +MARQUISE. + + And shame restrains them. + +POET. + + But what has shame to do with poetry? + It has no worth, it is a social value, + Value of a marquise, par excellence. + +MARQUISE. + + None the less, shame is a resigned and subtle justice, + The justice of women, poet. + +POET. + + Which is no justice at all. + +MARQUISE. + + Poet, the stones you throw + In your defeat, will fall upon your head. + +POET. + + That is my destiny. Your rising sun + Can never know the splendor of my sun that sets. + +MARQUISE. + + The fault is nowise mine.... + +POET. + + True.... I am insane + And a madman is insane, marquise, although he reason. + +MARQUISE. + + Oh, reason, poet. I would convince you + That even a marquise may be sincere. + +POET. + + And I, my lady, I would fain believe it. + +MARQUISE. + + Believe it then, I beg of you. + +POET. + + But there is this: + A marquise might also lose her head. + +MARQUISE. + + True she might lose her head ... but for a rhyme? + +POET. + + Which, no matter how true, will always be a lie. + + [_Pause._] + +MARQUISE. + + But why did you protest against my skepticism? + +POET. + + I riddled your words, but protested for myself. + +MARQUISE. + + So vain a reason, and so selfish? + +POET. + + A prideful reason.... I stand aghast before the abyss. + +MARQUISE. + + I see that all your love has been in verse. + +POET. + + No, marquise, but life + Cradles crude truths which the poet disdains. + +MARQUISE. + + And amiable truths which passion passes by. + +POET. + + But about which the dreamer's world revolves. + +MARQUISE. + + I do not dream, I wish.... + +POET. + + I know well what I wish.... + +MARQUISE. + + Well then, we wish that it should not be merely a consonant. + +POET. + + No, rather that it should be poetry. + +MARQUISE. + + Suppose that it were so, would it content you? + +POET. + + It is enough for me, and yet I fear + That this pale poetry, untried, unlived, + Can have no driving urge. + +MARQUISE. + + Why then should we refuse to live it? + +POET. + + I shall tell you. It is not in high-born taste + To trifle with a heart. + The love of a marquise is the problematic + Love of elegance and froth, + And like other love a sort of mathematic + Love of addition, subtraction and division. + It is not rude passion, fierce, emphatic, + Song and orchestral counterpoint of life. + It is what the world would name platonic, + Love without fire, without virility, + With nothing of creation, nothing tonic, + One-step love, love of society. + And I will have none of this love sardonic, + None of its desperate futility. + +MARQUISE. + + I do not fear you though you are a poet, + And I say things to you, no other ears would endure. + You were not born, poor anchorite, + To say to a woman: "Be mine." + And such is your secret vanity, + You are a servile vassal of your own Utopia. + You pretend to transform women + Into laurel branches meaningless, + And with your cynic's blare + You thread upon the needle of your pride + Dregs from the utter depths of the abyss. + +POET. + + Marquise, a poet's love has led you astray. + +MARQUISE. + + Oh, don't be vain and fanciful. I swear + That in my placid life, happiness brings no joy. + What I longed for was a love, profound and mature, + The profound love of a poet come to being, + And not the incongruities of adolescence in verse.... + The radiant synthesis of a pungent existence + And not the disloyalties of a dispersed dream. + What woman has not dreamed of loving a poet + Who would be conqueror and conquered all in one? + What woman has not wished to be humble and forgiving + With the man who sings the great passions he has known? + We need you poets.... We are tormented by the desire + Of a harmonious life, filled with deep sound, + With the vigor and strength of wine poured out + Into bowls of truths, deep with the depth of death. + We crave no water, lymphatic, pure, + In glasses of wind, frail as life. + Better the vintage of the rich + Served in vile glasses of gold. And if the mind be coarse, + Perchance the hands will glitter with many stones. + And if I may not have a fragrant and well-ordered nest + Filled with clear rhythm and little blond heads, + Then let me have my palace where luxurious pleasure + Lends to love of earth, grief and deep dismay. + Why do you not love living, poets? Why is it, + The dullard who nor loves nor lives poaches your kisses? + +POET. + + I do not comprehend, marquise. Why love living, + If that is to live loving? We know that life and love + Are wings forever fledging out + In a bird neither swan nor hawk. + I am resigned to my unequal destiny, for I know + That my two eyes cannot perceive the same color. + For even when there is calm, anxiety arises + And then, I am not master, not even of my pain. + I would be your friend, but there are obstacles, + Captious dynamics, that put a check upon my words. + I yield to the dumb pride of my huge torment, + The song without words, the sonorous silence, + And I do not desire any one to penetrate + The garden wherein flowers the mystery I adore. + +MARQUISE. + + Conserve your mysteries, poet; they will have no heirs. + +POET. + + Death is the heir of everything impenetrable. + +MARQUISE. + + But only during life do the words of the sphinx + Possess a meaning for our ears. + +POET. + + I am terror-stricken by the sphinx. + +MARQUISE. + + Coward! The sun blinds him who cannot hearken to the sphinx. + + [_Sounds of music in the distance._] + +POET. + + Does not the music tempt you? + +MARQUISE. + + It does, and I feel sure + My lover must be waiting. Will you come with me? + +POET. + + No, thanks. I shall remain and think of what has died. + +MARQUISE. + + May you have the protection of my defunct illusion. + + [_She goes out._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +MONSIEUR LAMBLIN + + A COMEDY + + BY GEORGE ANCEY + TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY BARRETT H. CLARK. + + + CHARACTERS + + LAMBLIN. + MARTHE. + MADAME BAIL. + MADAME COGE. + SERVANT. + + + First published in the _Stratford Journal_, March, 1917. Reprinted by + permission of Mr. Barrett H. Clark. + + + +MONSIEUR LAMBLIN + +A COMEDY BY GEORGE ANCEY + +Translated from the French by Barrett H. Clark. + + + [_A stylish drawing-room. There are doors at the back, and on each + side. Down-stage to the right is a window; near it, but protected + by a screen, is a large arm-chair near a sewing-table. Down-stage + opposite is a fire-place, on each side of which, facing it, are a + sofa and another large arm-chair; next the sofa is a small table, + and next to it, in turn, a stool and two chairs. This part of the + stage should be so arranged as to make a little cozy-corner. The + set is completed by various and sundry lamps, vases with flowers, + and the like._ + + _As the curtain rises, the servant enters to Lamblin, Marthe and + Madame Bail, bringing coffee and cigarettes, which he lays on the + small table._] + + +LAMBLIN [_settling comfortably into his chair_]. Ah, how comfortable it +is! Mm--! [_To Marthe._] Serve us our coffee, my child, serve us our +coffee. + +MARTHE [_sadly_]. Yes, yes. + +LAMBLIN [_aside_]. Always something going round and round in that little +head of hers! Needn't worry about it--nothing serious.--Well, +Mother-in-law, what do you say to the laces, eh? + +MADAME BAIL. Delicious! It must have cost a small fortune! You have +twenty yards there! + +LAMBLIN. Five thousand francs! Five thousand francs! [_To Marthe._] Yes, +madame, your husband was particularly generous. He insists upon making +his wife the most beautiful of women and giving her everything her heart +desires. Has he succeeded? + +MARTHE. Thank you. I've really never seen such lovely malines. Madame +Pertuis ordered some lately and they're not nearly so beautiful as +these. + +LAMBLIN. I'm glad to hear it. Well, aren't you going to kiss your +husband--for his trouble? [_She kisses him._] Good! There, now. + +MADAME BAIL [_to Lamblin_]. You spoil her! + +LAMBLIN [_to Marthe_]. Do I spoil you? + +MARTHE. Yes, yes, of course. + +LAMBLIN. That's right. Everybody happy? That's all we can ask, isn't +that so, Mamma Bail? Take care, I warn you! If you continue to look at +me that way I'm likely to become dangerous! + +MADAME BAIL. Silly man. + +LAMBLIN. Ha! + +MADAME BAIL [_to Marthe_]. Laugh, why don't you? + +MARTHE. I do. + +LAMBLIN [_bringing his wife to him and putting her upon his knee_]. No, +no, but you don't laugh enough, little one. Now, to punish you, I'm +going to give you another kiss. [_He kisses her._] + +MARTHE. Oh! Your beard pricks so! Now, take your coffee, or it'll get +cold, and then you'll scold Julie again. [_A pause._] + +LAMBLIN. It looks like pleasant weather to-morrow! + +MADAME BAIL. What made you think of that? + +LAMBLIN. The particles of sugar have all collected at the bottom of my +cup. [_He drinks his coffee._] + +MADAME BAIL. As a matter of fact, I hope the weather will be nice. + +LAMBLIN. Do you have to go out? + +MADAME BAIL. I must go to Argentuil. + +LAMBLIN. Now, my dear mother-in-law, what are you going to do at +Argentuil? I have an idea that there must be some old general there--? + +MADAME BAIL [_ironically_]. Exactly! How would you like it if--? + +LAMBLIN. Don't joke about such things! + +MADAME BAIL. You needn't worry! Catch me marrying again! + +LAMBLIN [_timidly_]. There is a great deal to be said for the happiness +of married life. + +MADAME BAIL. For the men! + +LAMBLIN. For every one. Is not the hearth a refuge, a sacred spot, where +both man and woman find sweet rest after a day's work? Deny it, Mother. +Here we are, the three of us, each doing what he likes to do, in our +comfortable little home, talking together happily. The mind is at rest, +and the heart quiet. Six years of family life have brought us security +in our affection, and rendered us kind and indulgent toward one another. +It is ineffably sweet, and brings tears to the eyes. [_He starts to take +a sip of cognac._] + +MARTHE [_preventing him_]. Especially when one is a little--lit up! + +MADAME BAIL. Marthe, that's not at all nice of you! + +LAMBLIN [_to Madame Bail_]. Ah, you're the only one who understands me, +Mother! Now, little one, you're going to give me a cigar, one of those +on the table. + +MARTHE [_giving him a cigar_]. Lazy! He can't even stretch his arm out! + +LAMBLIN. You see, I prefer to have my little wife serve me and be nice +to me. + +MADAME BAIL [_looking at them both_]. Shall I go? + +LAMBLIN. Why should you? + +MADAME BAIL. Well--because-- + +LAMBLIN [_understanding_]. Oh! No, no, stay with us and tell us stories. +The little one is moody and severe, I don't dare risk putting my arm +around her. Her religion forbids her--expanding! + +MADAME BAIL. Then you don't think I'll be in the way? + +LAMBLIN. You, Mother! I tell you, the day I took it into my head to +bring you here to live with us, I was an extremely clever man. It's most +convenient to have you here. Men of business like me haven't the time to +spend all their leisure moments with their wives. Very often, after a +day's work at the office, I'm not at liberty to spend the evening at +home: I must return to the office, you know. + +MARTHE. As you did yesterday! + +LAMBLIN. As I did yesterday. And when I take it into my head to stroll +along the boulevard-- + +MADAME BAIL. Or elsewhere! + +LAMBLIN. You insist on your little joke, Mother. If, I say, I take it +into my head to go out, there's the little one all alone. You came here +to live with us, and now my conscious is easy: I leave my little wife in +good hands. I need not worry. There were a thousand liberties I never +indulged in before you came. Now I take them without the slightest +scruple. + +MADAME BAIL. How kind of you! + +LAMBLIN. Don't you think so, little one? + +MARTHE. I believe that Mamma did exactly the right thing. + +LAMBLIN. You see, I want people to be happy. It is not enough that I +should be: every one must be who is about me. I can't abide selfish +people. + +MADAME BAIL. You're right! + +LAMBLIN. And it's so easy not to be! [_A pause._] There is only one +thing worrying me now: I brought a whole package of papers with me from +the office, which I must sign. + +MARTHE. How is business now? + +LAMBLIN. Not very good. + +MARTHE. Did M. Pacot reimburse you? + +MADAME BAIL. Yes, did he? + +LAMBLIN. It's been pretty hard these past three days, but I am +reimbursed, and that's all I ask. Now I'm going to sign my papers. It +won't take me more than a quarter of an hour. I'll find you here when I +come back, shan't I? [_To Marthe._] And the little one will leave me my +cognac, eh? See you soon. + +MADAME BAIL. Yes, see you soon. + +LAMBLIN [_to Marthe_]. You'll let me have my cognac? + +MARTHE. No! It's ridiculous! It'll make you ill. [_Lamblin goes out._] + +MADAME BAIL. There's a good boy! + +MARTHE. You always stand up for him. The world is full of "good boys" of +his sort. "Good boys"! They're all selfish! + +MADAME BAIL. Don't get so excited! + +MARTHE. I'm not in the least excited. I'm as calm now as I was excited a +year ago when I learned of Alfred's affair. + +MADAME BAIL. I understand. + +MARTHE. No, you don't understand. + +MADAME BAIL. You didn't behave at all reasonably, as you ought to have +done long since. You still have absurd romantic ideas. You're not at all +reasonable. + +MARTHE [_very much put out_]. Well, if I still have those absurd ideas, +if I rebel at times, if, as you say, I'm unreasonable, whom does it harm +but me alone? What do you expect? The bare idea of sharing him is +repulsive to me. Think of it a moment--how perfectly abominable it all +is! Why, we are practically accomplices! I thought we were going to +discuss it with him just now! It will happen, I know! + +MADAME BAIL. What do you intend to do about it? You keep on saying the +same thing. I'm an experienced woman. Why don't you take my word, and be +a philosopher, the way all women are, the way I've had to be more than +once? If you think for one moment that your own father--! Well, we won't +say anything about him. + +MARTHE. Philosopher, philosopher! A nice way to put it! In what way is +that Mathilde Coge, who is his mistress, better than I? I'd like to know +that! + +MADAME BAIL. In any event, he might have done much worse. She is a +widow, a woman of the world, and she isn't ruining him. I know her +slightly; I've seen her at Madame Parent's. She just seems a little mad, +and not in the least spiteful! + +MARTHE [_raging_]. Ah! + +MADAME BAIL. But what are you going to do about it? + +MARTHE. It would be best to separate. + +MADAME BAIL. Why didn't you think of that sooner? You know very well +you'd be sorry the moment you'd done it. + +MARTHE. Don't you think that would be best for us all? What am I doing +here? What hopes have I for the future? Merely to complete the happiness +of Monsieur, who deigns to see in me an agreeable nurse, who +occasionally likes to rest by my side after his escapades elsewhere! +Thank you so much! I might just as well go! + +MADAME BAIL. That would be madness. You wouldn't be so foolish as to do +it. + +MARTHE. Yes--I know--society would blame me! + +MADAME BAIL. That's the first point. We should submit to everything +rather than do as some others do and fly in the face of convention. We +belong to society. + +MARTHE. In that case I should at least have peace. + +MADAME BAIL. Peace! Nothing of the sort, my dear. You know very well, +you would have regrets. + +MARTHE [_ironically_]. What regrets? + +MADAME BAIL. God knows! Perhaps, though you don't know it, you still +love him, in some hidden corner of your heart. You may pity him. You can +go a long way with that feeling. Perhaps you have same vague +hope--[_Marthe is about to speak._] Well, we won't say any more about +that. And then you are religious, you have a big forgiving soul. Aren't +these sufficient reasons for waiting? You may regret it. Believe me, my +dear child. [_Marthe stands silent, and Madame Bail changes her attitude +and tone of voice._] Now, you must admit, you haven't so much to +complain of. Your husband is far from the worst; indeed, he's one of the +best. What would you do if you were in Madame Ponceau's position? Her +husband spends all their money and stays away for two and three months +at a time. He goes away, is not seen anywhere, and when he returns, he +has the most terrible scenes with poor Marie, and even beats her! Now, +Alfred is very good to you, pays you all sorts of attentions, he comes +home three evenings a week, gives you all sorts of presents. And these +laces! He never bothers you or abuses you. See how nice he was just a +few minutes ago, simple and natural! He was lovely, and said the +pleasantest imaginable things. + +MARTHE [_bitterly_]. He flattered you! + +MADAME BAIL. That isn't the reason! + +MARTHE. That you say nice things about him? Nonsense! He pleases and +amuses you. You don't want me to apply for a separation because you want +him near you, and because you are afraid of what people will say. Be +frank and admit it. + +MADAME BAIL. Marthe, that's not at all nice of you. + +MARTHE. It's the truth. + +MADAME BAIL. No, no, nothing of the sort. + +MARTHE. Another thing that grates on me in this life we are leading is +to see the way my mother takes her son-in-law's part against me. You +find excuses for him on every occasion; and your one fear seems to be +that he should hear some random word that will wound him; and the proof +is that he never interrupts one of our conversations--which are always +on the same subject--but that you don't fail to make desperate signs to +me to keep still! + +MADAME BAIL. What an idea! [_Marthe is about to reply, when Madame Bail +perceives Lamblin reentering, and signs to Martha to say nothing more._] +It's he! [_Marthe shrugs her shoulders._] + + [_Enter Lamblin._] + +LAMBLIN [_joyfully_]. There, that's done. One hundred and two +signatures. Kiss me, little one. In less than an hour I've earned a +thousand francs for us. Isn't that splendid? + + [_Enter a servant._] + +SERVANT. Monsieur? + +LAMBLIN. What is it? + +SERVANT [_embarrassed_]. Some one--from the office--who wishes to speak +with Monsieur. + +LAMBLIN. From the office? At this time? + +SERVANT. Yes, Monsieur. + +LAMBLIN. Say that I am with my family, and that I am not receiving any +one. + +SERVANT. That is what I said, but the--person--insists. + +LAMBLIN. How annoying! + +MADAME BAIL. See him, dear, Marthe and I will go out and you may see him +here. No one will disturb you. + +MARTHE. Yes, it's best to see him! [_They make ready to go out; pick up +their work, and so on._] + +LAMBLIN [_to the servant_]. Tell him to come in. [_The servant goes +out._] + +MARTHE [_to Madame Bail, as she points after the servant_]. Did you +notice? Adolphe was very embarrassed! + +MADAME BAIL. Now what are you going to worry about? + +MARTHE. I tell you, I saw it! [_The women go out._] + +LAMBLIN. This is too much! Not a moment of peace! + + [_Enter Madame Coge._] + +You? + +MADAME COGE. What do you think of my trick? + +LAMBLIN. Detestable as well as dangerous. + +MADAME COGE. Come, come. I wanted to go to the _Bouffes_, and I wanted +you to go with me. It's nine o'clock, but we'll be in time for the +principal play. + +LAMBLIN. No, no, no, impossible. And what do you mean by falling upon me +this way without warning! My dear Mathilde, what were you thinking +about? + +MADAME COGE. I decided this morning. You were so nice yesterday! + +LAMBLIN. You must go at once! What if some one found you here? + +MADAME COGE. Your wife? Quick, then, we must be going. Take your hat, +say good-by. I'll wait for you downstairs. I have a cab. [_A pause._] + +LAMBLIN. I tell you, it's out of the question. Go alone. I have a +headache--I've smoked too much. + +MADAME COGE. You refuse? And I was looking forward so--! + +LAMBLIN. Now, listen to me, my dear: I have told you once for all, I'm +not a rounder. I like everything well regulated. I have my own little +habits, and I don't like something to come along and upset everything. +I'm very much of a family man, I've often impressed that fact upon you, +and I'm astonished, perfectly astonished, that you don't take that into +account. + +MADAME COGE [_in a high voice_]. You make me tired. So there. + +LAMBLIN. Don't scream so! I tell you, I wouldn't go out to-night for +anything under the sun. Yesterday, Heaven knows, I was only too happy to +be with you: we enjoyed ourselves; it was most pleasant. As for this +evening--no: to-morrow. We decided on Mondays, Wednesday, Fridays, and a +Sunday from time to time. I have no wish to alter that schedule. I'm +regulated like a cuckoo clock. You don't seem to believe that. I strike +when I'm intended to strike. + +MADAME COGE. That is as much as to say that you like me three days a +week, and the rest of the time I mean as little to you as the Grand +Turk! That's a queer kind of love! + +LAMBLIN. Not at all. I think of you very often, and if you were to +disappear, I should miss you a great deal. Only it's a long way between +that and disturbing my equilibrium. + +MADAME COGE. And I suppose you love your wife? + +LAMBLIN. Are you jealous? + +MADAME COGE. I am, and I have reason to be be.... + +LAMBLIN. How childish of you! You know very well that you are the only +woman, only-- + +MADAME COGE. Ah, there is an "only"! + +LAMBLIN. Yes,--only, just because I love you is no reason why I should +feel no affection for her, and that you should treat her as you do! She +is so devoted! + +MADAME COGE. What is there so extraordinary about her? + +LAMBLIN [_becoming excited_]. She does for me what others would not +do--you for instance! She has a steady affection for me; I keep it for +my bad moments; her action doesn't turn in every wind. You should see +her, so resigned, so anxious to do everything for my comfort and +convenience! She's worried when I have a headache, she runs for my +slippers when I come home in wet weather--from your house! [_Deeply +moved._] You see that cognac there? That was the second glass I poured +out for myself this evening; the moment I started to drink it her little +hand stretched forth and took it from me, because she said I would make +myself ill! [_He starts to weep._] You know, I poured it out just in +order that she should prevent my drinking it. These things stir the +heart! [_A pause._] Now you must go. + +MADAME COGE. No, no. I love you, and I-- + +LAMBLIN. You are selfish. And you know I can't stand selfish people. You +want to deprive me of a quiet evening in the bosom of my family. + +MADAME COGE. I want you to love me, and me alone. I want you to leave +your home if need be. + +LAMBLIN. Yes, and if I were to fall sick--which might happen, though I +have a strong constitution, thank God!--I know you. You're the best +woman in the world, but that doesn't prevent your being a little +superficial! + +MADAME COGE. Superficial! + +LAMBLIN. Yes, you are, and you can't deny it! Your dropping in on me, +like a bolt from the blue, proves it conclusively. And when you once +begin chattering about yourself, about your dresses, oh, my! You never +stop. You can't be serious, your conversation is not the sort that +pleases a man, flatters and amuses him. + +MADAME COGE. Oh! + +LAMBLIN. You never talk about _him_! One night I remember, I was a +little sick and you sent me home. _There_ they made tea for me. The cook +was already in bed, and Marthe didn't hesitate an instant to go to the +kitchen and soil her hands! + +MADAME COGE. When was that? When was that? + +LAMBLIN. For God's sake, don't scream so! Not more than two weeks ago. + +MADAME COGE. You didn't say what was the matter with you, that's all. + +LAMBLIN. I complained enough, Heaven knows. [_A pause._] + +MADAME COGE. Then you won't come? + +LAMBLIN. No. + +MADAME COGE [_resolutely_]. Very well, then, farewell. + +LAMBLIN. Now, you mustn't get angry. [_He puts his arm round her +waist_]. You know I can't do without you. You are always my dear little +Mathilde, my darling little girl. Aren't you? Do you remember yesterday, +eh? You know I love you--deeply? + +MADAME COGE. On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and from time to time on +Sundays. Thanks! [_She starts to go._] + +LAMBLIN. Mathilde! + +MADAME COGE. Good evening. [_Returning to him._] Do you want me to tell +you something? Though I may be superficial, _you_ are a selfish egotist, +and you find your happiness in the tears and suffering of those who love +you! Good-by! [_She starts to go again._] + +LAMBLIN. Mathilde, Mathilde, dear! To-morrow? + +MADAME COGE [_returning_]. Do you want me to tell you something else? +When a man is married and wants to have a mistress, he would do much +better and act more uprightly to leave his wife! + +LAMBLIN [_simply_]. Why? + +MADAME COGE. Why?--Good evening! [_She goes out._] + +LAMBLIN. Mathilde, Mathilde! Did I make her angry? Oh, she'll forget it +all in a quarter of an hour. My, what a headache! [_Catching sight of +Marthe, who enters from the right._] Marthe! She looks furious! She saw +Mathilde go out! What luck! + +MARTHE [_furiously_]. Who was that who just left? + +LAMBLIN. Why-- + +MARTHE. Who was that who just left? Answer me! + +LAMBLIN. It was-- + +MARTHE. Madame Coge, wasn't it? Don't lie, I saw her! What can you be +thinking of? To bring your mistress here! I don't know what's prevented +my going away before, and leaving you to your debauchery! This is the +end--understand? I've had enough. You're going to live alone from now +on. [_He starts to speak._] Alone. Good-by, monsieur! + +LAMBLIN [_moved_]. Marthe! [_She dashes out. Lamblin goes to the door +through which Marthe has gone._] Marthe, Marthe, little one! Tell me +that you forgive me. [_Coming down-stage._] It's all up! Good Lord! + + [_Enter Madame Bail._] + +LAMBLIN [_goes to her, nearly in tears_]. Oh, Mother, all is lost! + +MADAME BAIL. No, no, you great child! I know everything, and I promise +it will be all right. + +LAMBLIN. No, no, I tell you. Marthe told me she wanted to leave me. + +MADAME BAIL. Now, don't carry on that way. I don't want to see you cry. + +LAMBLIN. But how can I be calm when my whole future is ruined? + +MADAME BAIL. Nothing of the sort. Don't you think I know my own +daughter? She is too well educated, she has too much common sense, to +leave you. + +LAMBLIN [_a little consoled_]. You think so? Oh, if that were only true! + +MADAME BAIL. But it is true! She's crying now; her tears will ease her, +and make her change her mind. + +LAMBLIN. Yes, yes, let her cry, let her cry all she wants to! + +MADAME BAIL. I tell you she is yours; she loves you. + +LAMBLIN [_brightening_]. Is that true? [_Madame Bail nods._] How happy I +am! [_A pause. His attitude changes._] But there's one thing that +troubles me. + +MADAME BAIL. What? + +LAMBLIN [_embarrassed_]. No, nothing. + +MADAME BAIL. Confide in me. Tell me. [_A pause._] + +LAMBLIN. Well, that lady who came here this evening--I'm afraid I was a +little short with her. I think I offended her. I practically showed her +the door. + +MADAME BAIL. Don't worry about that. Perhaps you weren't so rude as you +thought you were. + +LAMBLIN. No, I'm sure. I know very well that-- + +MADAME BAIL. You mustn't worry and get all excited-- + +LAMBLIN. Do you know anything about it? + +MADAME BAIL. No, nothing, only--as I rather suspected what was going on +in here--and was afraid--of a quarrel--I met her as she was going out, +and I--spoke to her. + +LAMBLIN [_taking her hands--joyfully_]. I thank you! [_They are both +embarrassed for a moment, then sit down._] Ah, good. Well, and Marthe? + +MADAME BAIL [_pointing to Marthe who enters_]. There she is. What did I +tell you? [_Marthe enters without saying a word. She brings her work, +Madame Bail takes up hers, and sits next her. A pause. Madame Bail +speaks to Marthe._] What a pretty design! Where did you find the +pattern? + +MARTHE. I just picked it up at the store. + +MADAME BAIL. It's charming. I must get one like it. + +LAMBLIN [_ill at ease_]. May I see it, little one? [_Marthe unrolls the +embroidery for him and shows it._] Oh, it's perfectly lovely! We men +would be hard put to it to make anything half as beautiful! [_He laughs +awkwardly, and pours out some cognac, in full sight of Marthe._] + +MARTHE [_quickly_]. That's ridiculous, Alfred. [_Then she says slowly, +as she lowers her eyes._] You'll make yourself ill! + +LAMBLIN [_in perfect contentment_]. How charming she is! + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +FRANCOISE' LUCK + + A COMEDY + + BY GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE + (La Chance de Francoise.) + TRANSLATED BY BARRETT H. CLARK. + + + Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company. + All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS REPRESENTED + + MARCEL DESROCHES. + GUERIN. + JEAN. + FRANCOISE. + MADELEINE. + + SCENE: _Auteuil_. + TIME: _Present_. + + Presented for the first time December 10,1888, in Paris, at the + Theatre Libre. + + + FRANCOISE' LUCK is reprinted from "Four Plays of the Free Theatre," + translated by Barrett H. Clark by permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd + Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. + + + +FRANCOISE' LUCK + +A COMEDY BY GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE + + + [_A studio. At the back is a door opening upon a garden; doors to + the right and left; likewise a small inconspicuous door to the + left. There are a few pictures on easels. The table is littered + with papers, books, weapons, bric-a-brac. Chairs and sofas. It is + eleven o'clock in the morning._] + + +FRANCOISE [_a small, frail woman, with a melancholy look, at times +rather mocking. As the curtain rises she is alone. She raises and lowers +the window-blind from time to time_]. A little more! There! Oh, the +sunlight! How blinding! [_Glancing at the studio with satisfaction._] +How neat everything is! [_In attempting to take something from the +table, she knocks some papers to the floor._] Well! [_Seeing a letter, +among the papers she is picking up._] A letter! From Monsieur +Guerin--[_Reading._] "My dear friend, why do you persist in keeping +silence? You say very little of the imprudent woman who has dared to +become the companion of the handsome Marcel! Do you recompense her for +her confidence in you, for her courage? You are not at all like other +men: your frivolity, if you will permit the term, your--" [_Interrupting +herself._] He writes the word! [_Continuing._] "Your cynicism makes me +tremble for you. Absent for a year! How much friendship gone to waste! +Why were we thrust apart the moment you were married? Why did my wife's +health make sunlight an absolute necessity for her? We are now leaving +Rome; in a month I'll drop in on you at Auteuil--" [_Interrupting +herself again._] Very soon! + + [_Marcel appears at the back._] + +"I am very impatient to see you, and Very anxious to see Madame +Desroches. I wonder whether she will take to me? I hope she will. Take +care, you villain, I shall cross-question her carefully, and if I find +the slightest shadow upon her happiness, her friend-to-be will be an +angry man." [_She stops reading and says to herself, sadly._] A +friend--I should like that! + +MARCEL [_carelessly dressed. He is of the type that appeals to women_]. +Ah, inquisitive, you read my letters? + +FRANCOISE. Oh, it's an old one-- + +MARCEL [_chaffing her_]. From Guerin? + +FRANCOISE. I found it there, when I was putting the studio in order. + +MARCEL [_tenderly_]. The little romantic child is looking for a friend? + +FRANCOISE. I have so much to tell, so much about my recent happiness! + +MARCEL. Am I not that friend? + +FRANCOISE. You are the man I love. Should I consult with you, where your +happiness is concerned? + +MARCEL. Too deep for me! [_Yawning._] Oh, I'm tired! + +FRANCOISE. Did you come in late last night? + +MARCEL. Three o'clock. + +FRANCOISE. You were very quiet, you naughty man! + +MARCEL. Were you jealous? + +FRANCOISE. The idea! I am morally certain that you love no one except +your wife. + +MARCEL [_sadly_]. It's true, I love no one except my wife. + +FRANCOISE [_chaffing him in turn_]. Poor Marcel! + +MARCEL. I was bored to death at that supper; I can't imagine why.--They +all tell me I'm getting stout. + +FRANCOISE. That's no reason why you shouldn't please. + +MARCEL. God is very unjust. + +FRANCOISE. So they say! + +MARCEL [_stretching out on a sofa_]. Excuse my appearance, won't you, +Francoise? [_Making himself comfortable._] I can't keep my eyes open +any longer nowadays. The days of my youth--Why, I was--[_He stops._] + +FRANCOISE. You were just the right age for marriage. + +MARCEL [_as if to banish the idea_]. Oh! [_A pause._] I'm sure you will +get along well with Guerin. Yours are kindred spirits--you're alike--not +in looks, however. + +FRANCOISE. Morally, you mean? + +MARCEL. Yes, The comparison flatters him. + +FRANCOISE. He's like this, then; sentimental, a good friend, and a man +of honor. Yes, I think I shall get along nicely with him. + +MARCEL. What a sympathetic nature you have! You've never seen him, and +you know him already. + +FRANCOISE. How long has he been married? + +MARCEL. He was born married! + +FRANCOISE. Tell me. + +MARCEL. Ten years, I think. + +FRANCOISE. He's happy. + +MARCEL. Very. + +FRANCOISE. What sort of woman is she? + +MARCEL. Lively. + +FRANCOISE. Though virtuous? + +MARCEL. So they say. + +FRANCOISE. Then Madame Guerin and the handsome Martel--eh? + +MARCEL. A friend's wife? + +FRANCOISE. It's very tempting--[_Marcel seems to take this with +ill-humor; he is about to put on his hat._] Are you going out? + +MARCEL. I lunch at the club. + +FRANCOISE. Very well. + +MARCEL. I'm--a little nervous; I need a breath of air. + +FRANCOISE. Paris air! + +MARCEL. Precisely. + +FRANCOISE. And your work? + +MARCEL. I'm not in the mood. + +FRANCOISE. It's only ten days before the Salon: you'll never be ready. + +MARCEL. What chance have I, with my talent? + +FRANCOISE. You have a great deal of talent--it's recognized everywhere. + +MARCEL. I did have. + + [_A pause._] + +FRANCOISE. Will you be home for dinner? + +MARCEL [_tenderly_]. Of course! And don't allow any black suspicion to +get the better of you: I'm not lunching with anybody! + +FRANCOISE. I suspect you! + +MARCEL [_gratefully_]. 'Til later, then! [_A pause. Frankly._] Of +course, I don't always go where I tell you I'm going. Why should I worry +you? But if you think I--do what I ought not to do, you are mistaken. +I'm no longer a bachelor, you know. + +FRANCOISE. Just a trifle, aren't you? + +MARCEL. No jealousy, dear! The day of adventures is dead and buried. +Thirty-five mortal years, a scarcity of hair, a noticeable +rotundity--and married! Opportunities are fewer now! + +FRANCOISE [_playfully_]. Don't lose courage, your luck may return. A +minute would suffice. + +MARCEL [_mournfully_]. I don't dare hope. + +FRANCOISE. Married! It was never your destiny to be a proprietor, you +are doomed to be a tenant. + +MARCEL [_as he is about to leave, sees a letter on the table_]. Oh, a +letter, and you said nothing to me about it! + +FRANCOISE. I didn't see it. Jean must have brought it while you were +asleep. + +MARCEL. From Passy! I know that hand! [_Aside, with surprise._] Madame +Guerin--Madeleine! Well! [_Reading._] "My dear friend I lunch to-day +with my aunt Madame de Monglat, at La Muette--as I used to. Come and see +me before noon, I have serious things to discuss with you." [_He stops +reading; aside, much pleased._] A rendezvous! And after three years! +Poor Guerin! No! It wouldn't be decent now! No! + +FRANCOISE [_aside_]. He seems to be waking up! + +MARCEL [_aside_]. They must have returned! Francoise was right--a minute +would suffice! The dear girl! + +FRANCOISE. No bad news? + +MARCEL [_in spite of himself_]. On the contrary! + +FRANCOISE. Oh! + +MARCEL [_embarrassed_]. It's from that American woman who saw my picture +the other day--at Goupil's, you remember? She insists that I give it to +her for ten thousand francs. I really think I'll let her have it. +Nowadays you never can tell-- + +FRANCOISE. I think you would be very wise to sell. + +MARCEL [_handing her the letter_]. Don't you believe me? + +FRANCOISE. Absolutely. + + [_Marcel puts the letter in his pocket. A pause._] + +MARCEL [_hesitating before he leaves; aside_]. She's a darling; a +perfect little darling. + +FRANCOISE. Then you're not going out? + +MARCEL [_surprised_]. Do you want to send me away? + +FRANCOISE. If you're going out to lunch, you had better hurry--the train +leaves in a few minutes. + +MARCEL [_suddenly affectionate_]. How can I hurry when you are so +charming? You're adorable this morning! + +FRANCOISE. D'you think so? + + [_A pause._] + +MARCEL [_aside_]. Curious, but every time I have a rendezvous, she is +like that! + +FRANCOISE. Good-by, then; I've had enough of you! If you stay you'll +upset all my plans. I'd quite made up my mind to be melancholy and +lonely. It's impossible to be either gay or sad with you! Run along! + +MARCEL [_taking off his hat, which he had put on some moments before_]. +I tell you this is my house, and this my studio. Your house is there by +the garden. + +FRANCOISE. Yes, it's only there that you are my husband. + +MARCEL. Oh! [_Reproachfully, and with tenderness._] Tell me, Francoise, +why don't you ever want to go out with me? + +FRANCOISE. You know I don't like society. + +MARCEL. I'm seen so much alone! + +FRANCOISE. So much the better for you; you will be taken for a bachelor! + +MARCEL. One might think the way you talk, that husband and wife ought +never to live together. + +FRANCOISE. Perhaps I'd see you oftener if we weren't married! + +MARCEL. Isn't it a pleasure to you, Madame, to be in the arms of your +husband? + +FRANCOISE. Isn't it likewise a pleasure to be able to say, "He is free, +I am not his wife, he is not my husband; I am not his duty, a millstone +around his neck; I am his avocation, his love? If he leaves me, I know +he is tired of me, but if he comes back, then I know he loves me"? + +MARCEL. Francoise, you are an extremist! + +FRANCOISE. You think so? + +MARCEL. You are. + +FRANCOISE. Well? + +MARCEL. I know your philosophy is nothing but love. [_A pause._] You cry +sometimes, don't you? When I'm not here? + +FRANCOISE. Just a little. + +MARCEL. I make you very unhappy! When you are sad, don't conceal it from +me, Francoise; one of your tears would make me do anything in the world +for you. + +FRANCOISE. One, yes! But, many? + +MARCEL. Don't make fun of me: I am serious. If I told you that my +affection for you is as great as yours, I-- + +FRANCOISE. You would be lying. + +MARCEL. Perhaps! But I think I adore you! Every time I leave you, I feel +so lonely; I wander about like a lost soul! I think something must be +happening to you. And when I come home at midnight, and open the door, I +feel an exquisite sensation--Is that love? You ought to know--you are an +adept! + +FRANCOISE. Perhaps. + +MARCEL [_unthinkingly_]. You know, Francoise, one can never be sure of +one's self. + +FRANCOISE. Of course! + +MARCEL. No one can say, "I love to-day, and I shall love to-morrow." You +or any one else. + +FRANCOISE [_offended_]. I? + +MARCEL. How can you tell, whether in fifteen years--? + +FRANCOISE. Oh, I'm a little child--I'm different from the others: I +shall always love the same man all his life. But go on, you were saying? + +MARCEL. Nothing. I want you to be happy, in spite of everything, no +matter what may happen--no matter what I may do. + +FRANCOISE. Even if you should deceive me? + +MARCEL [_tenderly_]. Deceive you? Never! I care nothing about other +women! You are my happiness--not a mere pastime. + +FRANCOISE. Alas! + +MARCEL. Why alas? + +FRANCOISE. Because it is easier to do without happiness than pleasure. + +MARCEL [_tenderly_]. Oh, you are all that is highest and best in my +life. I prefer you to everything else! Let a woman come between us, and +she shall have me to deal with! Call it selfishness, if you will, or +egotism--but your peace of mind is an absolute necessity to me! + +FRANCOISE. You need not prepare me for the future, you bad boy: I +resigned myself to "possibilities" some time ago. I'm inexperienced and +young in years, but I'm older than you. + +MARCEL. Shall I tell you something? I never deserved you! + +FRANCOISE. That's true. + +MARCEL. When I think how happy you might have made some good and worthy +man, and that-- + +FRANCOISE. Who then would have made me happy? + +MARCEL. You are not happy now. + +FRANCOISE. I didn't marry for happiness; I married in order to have you. + +MARCEL. I'm a fool! It would be nice, wouldn't it, if I were an +unfaithful husband! + +FRANCOISE. I'm sure you will never be that. + +MARCEL. Do you really think so? + +FRANCOISE. I am positive. What would be the use in deceiving me? I +should be so unhappy, and you wouldn't be a bit happier. + +MARCEL. You are right. + +FRANCOISE. No, you will not deceive me. To begin with, I have great +luck. + +MARCEL [_gayly_]. Of course, you have; you don't know how much! + +FRANCOISE [_coquettishly_]. Tell me! + +MARCEL. What a child you are! + +MARCEL. I should think so! Sometimes I imagine that my happiness does +not lie altogether in those sparkling eyes of yours and I try to fall in +love with another woman; I fall in deeper and deeper for a week or two, +and think I am terribly infatuated. But just as I am about to take the +fatal leap, I fail: Francoise' luck, you see! At bottom, I'm a +commencer; I can't imagine what it is that saves me--and you. Sometimes +_she_ has done something to displease me, sometimes a divine word from +your lips--and a mere nothing, something quite insignificant! For +instance, Wednesday, I missed the train, and came back and had dinner +with you. You see, Francoise' luck! + +FRANCOISE. Then you're not going out to-day, are you? + +MARCEL. Nor to-morrow; the whole day is yours. We'll close the door. + +FRANCOISE. Aren't you happy? + +MARCEL [_kissing her behind the ear_]. Hurry up, you lazy child! + +FRANCOISE. I'm not pretty, but I have my good points. + +MARCEL. Not pretty? + +FRANCOISE. No, but I deserve to be. + + [_Madeleine appears at the back._] + +MADELEINE. I beg your pardon! + + [_Francoise gives an exclamation of surprise and escapes through + the door to the right without looking again at the visitor._] + +MARCEL [_surprised_]. Madeleine! + + [_A pause._] + +MADELEINE [_stylishly dressed. With an air of bravura_]. So this is the +way you deceive me! + +MARCEL [_gayly_]. My dear, if you think that during these three years-- + +MADELEINE. I beg your pardon for interrupting your little _tete-a-tete_, +Marcel, but your door was open, and there was no servant to announce me. + +MARCEL. You know you are always welcome here. + +MADELEINE. Your wife is very attractive. + +MARCEL. Isn't she? Shall I introduce you? + +MADELEINE. Later--I've come to see _you_. + +MARCEL. I must confess your visit is a little surprising. + +MADELEINE. Especially after my sending that note this morning. I thought +I should prefer not to trouble you. + +MARCEL [_uncertain_]. Ah! + +MADELEINE. Yes. + +MARCEL. Well? + +MADELEINE. Well, no! + +MARCEL. I'm sorry. [_Kissing her hand._] Glad to see you, at any rate. + +MADELEINE. Same studio as always, eh? + +MARCEL. You are still as charming as ever. + +MADELEINE. You are as handsome as ever. + +MARCEL. I can say no less for you. + +MADELEINE. I'm only twenty-eight. + +MARCEL. But your husband is fifty: that keeps you young. How long have +you been back? + +MADELEINE. A week. + +MARCEL. And I haven't seen Guerin yet! + +MADELEINE. There's no hurry. + +MARCEL. What's the matter? + +MADELEINE. He's a bit worried: you know how jealous he is! Well, +yesterday, when I was out, he went through all my private papers-- + +MARCEL. Naturally he came across some letters. + +MADELEINE. _The_ letters, my dear! + +MARCEL. Mine? + +MADELEINE. Yes. [_Gesture from Marcel._] Old letters. + +MARCEL. You kept them? + +MADELEINE. From a celebrity? Of course! + +MARCEL. The devil! + +MADELEINE. Ungrateful! + +MARCEL. I beg your pardon. + +MADELEINE. You can imagine my explanation following the discovery. My +dear Marcel, there's going to be a divorce. + +MARCEL. A--! A divorce? + +MADELEINE. Don't feel too sorry for me. After all, I shall be free and +almost happy. + +MARCEL. What resignation! + +MADELEINE. Only-- + +MARCEL. Only what? + +MADELEINE. He is going to send you his seconds. + +MARCEL [_gayly_]. A duel? To-day? You're not serious? + +MADELEINE. I think he wants to kill you. + +MARCEL. But that affair was three years ago! Why, to begin with, he +hasn't the right! + +MADELEINE. Because it was so long ago? + +MARCEL. Three years is three years. + +MADELEINE. You're right: _now_ you are not in love with his wife: you +love your own. Time has changed everything. Now your own happiness is +all-sufficient. I can easily understand your indignation against my +husband. + +MARCEL. Oh, I-- + +MADELEINE. My husband is slow, but he's sure, isn't he? + +MARCEL. You're cruel, Madeleine. + +MADELEINE. If it's ancient history for you, it's only too recent for +him! + +MARCEL. Let's not speak about him! + +MADELEINE. But he ought to be a very interesting topic of conversation +just now! + +MARCEL. I hadn't foreseen his feeling so keenly. + +MADELEINE. You must tell him how sorry you are when you see him. + +MARCEL. At the duel? + +MADELEINE. Elsewhere! + +MARCEL. Where? Here, in my house? + +MADELEINE. My dear, he may want to tell you how he feels. + + [_A pause._] + +MARCEL [_aside, troubled_]. The devil! And Francoise? [_Another pause._] +Oh, a duel! Well, I ought to risk my life for you; you have done the +same thing for me many times. + +MADELEINE. Oh, I was not so careful as you were then. + +MARCEL. You are not telling me everything, Madeleine. What put it into +your husband's head to look through your papers? + +MADELEINE. Ah! + +MARCEL. Well, evidently _I_ couldn't have excited his jealousy. For a +long time he has had no reason to suspect me! Were they my letters he +was looking for? + +MADELEINE. That is my affair! + +MARCEL. Then I am expiating for some one else? + +MADELEINE. I'm afraid so. + +MARCEL. Perfect! + +MADELEINE. Forgive me! + +MARCEL [_reproachfully_]. So you are deceiving him? + +MADELEINE. You are a perfect friend to-day! + +MARCEL. Then you really have a lover? + +MADELEINE. A second lover! That would be disgraceful, wouldn't it? + +MARCEL. The first step always brings the worst consequences. + +MADELEINE. What are you smiling at? + +MARCEL. Oh, the happiness of others! Well, let's have no bitterness. + +MADELEINE. No, you might feel remorse! + +MARCEL. Oh, Madeleine, why am I not the guilty one this time? You are +always so beautiful! + +MADELEINE. Your fault! You should have kept what you had! + +MARCEL. I thought you were tired of me. + +MADELEINE. You will never know what I suffered; I cried like an +abandoned shopgirl! + +MARCEL. Not for long, though? + +MADELEINE. Three months. When I think I once loved you so much, and here +I am before you so calm and indifferent! You look like anybody else now. +How funny, how disgusting life is! You meet some one, do no end of +foolish and wicked and mean things in order to belong to him, and the +day comes when you don't know one another. Each takes his turn! I think +it would have been better--[_Gesture from Marcel._] Yes--I ought to try +to forget everything. + +MARCEL. That's all buried in the past! Wasn't it worth the trouble, and +the suffering we have to undergo now? + +MADELEINE. You, too! You have to recall--! + +MARCEL. I'm sorry, but I didn't begin this conversation. + +MADELEINE. Never mind! It's all over, let's say no more about it! + +MARCEL. No, please! Let's--curse me, Madeleine say anything you like +about me: I deserve it all! + +MADELEINE. Stop! Behave yourself, married man! What if your wife heard +you! + +MARCEL. She? Dear child! She is much too afraid of what I might say to +listen. + +MADELEINE. Dear child! You cynic! I'll wager you have not been a model +husband since your marriage! + +MARCEL. You are mistaken this time, my dear. + +MADELEINE. You are lying! + +MARCEL. Seriously; and I'm more surprised than you at the fact--but it's +true. + +MADELEINE. Poor Marcel! + +MARCEL. I do suffer! + +MADELEINE. Then you are a faithful husband? + +MARCEL. I am frivolous and--compromising--that is all. + +MADELEINE. It's rather funny: you seem somehow to be ready to belong to +some one! + +MARCEL. Madeleine, you are the first who has come near tempting me. + +MADELEINE. Is it possible? + +MARCEL. I feel myself weakening. + +MADELEINE. Thank you so much for thinking of me, dear; I appreciate it, +but for the time being, I'll--consider. + +MARCEL. Have you made up your mind? + +MADELEINE. We shall see later; I'll think it over--perhaps! Yet, I +rather doubt if--. You haven't been nice to me to-day, your open honest +face hasn't pleased me at all. You're so carelessly dressed! I don't +think you're interesting any more. No, I hardly think so! + +MARCEL. But, Madeleine-- + +MADELEINE. Don't call me Madeleine. + +MARCEL. Madame Guerin! Madame Guerin! if I told you how much your note +meant to me! How excited I was! I trembled when I read it! + +MADELEINE. I'll warrant you read it before your wife? + +MARCEL. It was so charming of you! + +MADELEINE. How depraved you are! + +MARCEL. How well you know me! + +MADELEINE. Fool! + +MARCEL. I adore you! + +MADELEINE. That's merely a notion of yours! You imagine, since you +haven't seen me for so long--I've just come back from a long trip! + +MARCEL. Don't shake my faith in you! + +MADELEINE. Think of your duties, my dear; don't forget-- + +MARCEL. My children? I have none. + +MADELEINE. Your wife. + +MARCEL [_in desperation_]. You always speak of her! + +MADELEINE. Love her, my friend, and if my husband doesn't kill you +to-morrow, continue to love her in peace and quiet. You are made for a +virtuous life now--any one can see that. I flatter you when I consider +you a libertine. You've been spoiled by too much happiness, that's the +trouble with you! + +MARCEL [_trying to kiss her_]. Madeleine, if you only--! + +MADELEINE [_evading him_]. Are you out of your wits? + +MARCEL. Forgive me: I haven't quite forgotten! Well, if I am killed it +will be for a good reason. + +MADELEINE. Poor dear! + +MARCEL. It will! This duel is going to compromise you fearfully. Come +now, every one will accuse you to-morrow; what difference does it make +to you? + +MADELEINE. I'm not in the mood! + +MARCEL. Now _you_ are lying! + +MADELEINE. I don't love you. + +MARCEL. Nonsense! You're sulking! + +MADELEINE. How childish! Don't touch me! You want me to be unfaithful to +everybody! Never! [_Changing._] Yet--! No; it would be too foolish! +Good-by. + +MARCEL [_kissing her as she tries to pass him_]. Not before-- + +MADELEINE. Oh, you've mussed my hat; how awkward of you! [_Trying to +escape from Marcel's embrace._] Let me go! + +MARCEL [_jokingly_]. Let you go? In a few days! + +MADELEINE. Good-by. My husband may come any moment. + +MARCEL. Are you afraid? + +MADELEINE. Yes, I'm afraid he might forgive me! + +MARCEL. One minute more! + +MADELEINE. No! I have just time. I'm going away this evening-- + +MARCEL. Going away? + +MADELEINE. To London. + +MARCEL. With--_him_, the other? + +MADELEINE. I hope so. + +MARCEL. Who knows? He may be waiting for you this moment at Madame de +Montglat's, your aunt's-- + +MADELEINE. They are playing cards together. + +MARCEL. The way we are! What a family! + +MADELEINE. Impudent! + +MARCEL. That's why you came. + +MADELEINE [_about to leave_]. Shall I go out through the models' door, +as I used to? + +MARCEL. If I were still a bachelor you wouldn't leave me this way! You +would miss your train this evening, I'll tell you that! + +MADELEINE. You may very well look at that long sofa! No, no, my dear: +not to-day, thanks! + +MARCEL. In an hour, then, at Madame de Montglat's! + +MADELEINE. Take care, or I'll make you meet your successor! + +MARCEL. Then I can see whether you are still a woman of taste. + +MADELEINE. Ah, men are very--I'll say the word after I leave. [_She goes +out through the little door._] + +MARCEL [_alone_]. "Men are very--!" If we were, the women would have a +very stupid time of it! + + [_He is about to follow Madeleine._] + + [_Enter Francoise._] + +FRANCOISE. Who was that stylish looking woman who just left, Marcel? + +MARCEL [_embarrassed_]. Madame Jackson, my American friend. + +FRANCOISE. Well? + +MARCEL. My picture? Sold! + +FRANCOISE. Ten thousand? Splendid! Don't you think so? You don't seem +very happy! + +MARCEL. The idea! + + [_He picks up his hat._] + +FRANCOISE [_jealously_]. Are you going to leave me? + +MARCEL. I am just going to Goupil's and tell him. + +FRANCOISE. Then I'll have to lunch all by myself! [_Marcel stops an +instant before the mirror._] You look lovely. + +MARCEL [_turning round_]. I-- + +FRANCOISE. Oh, you'll succeed! + + [_A pause._] + +MARCEL [_enchanted, in spite of himself_]. What can you be thinking of! +[_Aside._] What if she were after all my happiness? [_Reproachfully._] +Now, Francoise-- + +FRANCOISE. I was only joking. + +MARCEL [_ready to leave_]. No moping, remember? I can't have that! + +FRANCOISE. I know! + +MARCEL [_tenderly. He stands at the threshold. Aside_]. Poor child! Well +I may fail! + + [_He goes out, left._] + +FRANCOISE [_sadly_]. Where is he going? Probably to a rendezvous. Oh, if +he is! Will my luck fail me to-day? Soon he'll come back again, so well +satisfied with himself! I talk to him so much about my resignation, I +wonder whether he believes in it? Why must I be tormented this way +forever? + + [_Enter Jean, with a visiting-card._] + +JEAN. Is Monsieur here? + +FRANCOISE. Let me see! + + [_She takes the card._] + +JEAN. The gentleman is waiting, Madame. + +FRANCOISE. Ask him to come in. Quick, now! + + [_Jean goes out._] + + [_Enter Guerin, at the back. As he sees Francoise he hesitates + before coming to her._] + +FRANCOISE [_cordially_]. Come in, Monsieur. I have never seen you, but I +already know you very well. + +GUERIN [_a large, strong man, with grayish hair_]. Thank you, Madame. I +thought I should find Monsieur Desroches at home. If you will excuse +me-- + +FRANCOISE. I beg you! + +GUERIN. I fear I am intruding: it's so early. + +FRANCOISE. You intruding in Marcel's home? + +GUERIN. Madame-- + +FRANCOISE. My husband will return soon, Monsieur. + +GUERIN [_brightening_]. Good! + +FRANCOISE. Will you wait for him here in the studio? + +GUERIN [_advancing_]. Really, Madame, it would be most ungrateful of me +to refuse your kindness. + +FRANCOISE. Here are magazines and newspapers--I shall ask to be excused. +[_As she is about to leave._] It was rather difficult to make you stay! + +GUERIN. Forgive me, Madame. [_Aside ironically._] Too bad! She's +decidedly charming! + + [_Having gone up-stage, Francoise suddenly returns._] + +FRANCOISE. It seems a little strange to you, Monsieur--doesn't it?--to +see a woman in this bachelor studio--quite at home? + +GUERIN. Why, Madame-- + +FRANCOISE. Before leaving you--which I shall do in a moment--you must +know that there is one woman who is very glad to know you have returned +to Paris! + +GUERIN. We just arrived this week. + +FRANCOISE. Good! + +GUERIN [_ironically_]. It's so long since I've seen Marcel. + +FRANCOISE. Three years. + +GUERIN. So many things have happened since! + +FRANCOISE. You find him a married man, for one thing-- + +GUERIN. Happily married! + +FRANCOISE. Yes, happily! + +GUERIN. Dear old Marcel! I'll be so glad to see him! + +FRANCOISE. I see you haven't forgotten my husband, Monsieur. Thank you! + +GUERIN. How can I help admiring so stout and loyal a heart as his! + +FRANCOISE. You'll have to like me, too! + +GUERIN. I already do. + +FRANCOISE. Really? Then you believe everything you write? + +GUERIN. Yes, Madame. + +FRANCOISE. Take care! This morning I was re-reading one of your letters, +in which you promised me your heartiest support. [_Offering him her +hand._] Then we're friends, are we not? + +GUERIN [_after hesitating, takes her hand_]. Good friends, Madame! + +FRANCOISE. Word of honor? + +GUERIN. Word of honor! + +FRANCOISE [_sitting_]. Then I'll stay. Sit down, and let's talk. +[_Guerin is uncertain._] We have so much to say to each other! Let's +talk about you first. + +GUERIN [_forced to sit down_]. About me? But I-- + +FRANCOISE. Yes, about you. + +GUERIN [_quickly_]. No, about _your_ happiness, your welfare. + +FRANCOISE. About my great happiness! + +GUERIN [_ironically_]. Let us speak about your--existence--with which +you are so content. I must know all the happiness of this house! + +FRANCOISE. Happy people never have anything to say. + +GUERIN. You never have troubles, I presume? + +FRANCOISE. None, so far. + +GUERIN. But what might happen? To-day you are living peacefully with +Marcel, a man whose marriage was, it seems, strongly opposed. Life owes +you no more than it has already given you. + +FRANCOISE. My happiness is complete. I had never imagined that a man's +goodness could make a woman so happy! + +GUERIN. Goodness? + +FRANCOISE. Of course! + +GUERIN. Love, you mean Madame! + +FRANCOISE. Oh, Marcel's love for me--! + +GUERIN. Something lacking? + +FRANCOISE. No! + +GUERIN [_interested_]. Tell me. Am I not your friend? + +FRANCOISE. Seriously, Monsieur, you know him very well: how could he be +in love with me? Is it even possible? He allows one to love him, and I +ask nothing more. + +GUERIN. Nothing? + +FRANCOISE. Only to be allowed to continue. [_Gesture from Guerin._] I am +not like other women. I don't ask for rights; but I do demand +tenderness, and consideration. He is free, I am not--I'll admit that. +But I don't mind, I only hope that we may continue as we are! + +GUERIN. Have you some presentiment, Madame? + +FRANCOISE. I am afraid, Monsieur. My happiness is not of the proud, +demonstrative variety, it is a kind of happiness that is continually +trembling for its safety. If I told you-- + +GUERIN. Do tell me! + +FRANCOISE. Later! How I pity any one who loves and has to suffer for it! + +GUERIN [_surprised_]. You--! + +FRANCOISE. I am not on the side of the jealous, of the betrayed-- + +GUERIN [_aside, sympathetically_]. Poor little woman! [_With great +sincerity._] Then you are not sure of him? + +FRANCOISE [_more and more excited_]. He is Marcel! Admit for a moment +that he loves me to-day--I want so to believe it! To-morrow will he love +me? Does he himself know whether he will love me then? Isn't he at the +mercy of a whim, a passing fancy--of the weather, or the appearance of +the first woman he happens to meet? I am only twenty, and I am not +always as careful as I might be. Happiness is so difficult! + +GUERIN. Yes, it is. [_To himself._] It is! [_To Francoise._] Perhaps you +are conscientious, too sincere? + +FRANCOISE. I feel that; yes, I think I am, but every time I try to hide +my affection from him, he becomes indifferent, almost mean--as if he +were glad to be relieved of a duty--of being good! + +GUERIN. So it's come to that! + +FRANCOISE. You see, Marcel can't get used to the idea that his other +life is over, dead and buried, that he's married for good--that he must +do as others do. I do my best and tell him, but my very presence only +reminds him of his duties as a husband. For instance [_interrupting +herself_]. Here I am telling you all this-- + +GUERIN. Oh!--Please. + +FRANCOISE [_bitterly_]. He likes to go out alone at night, without me. +He knows me well enough to understand that his being away makes me very +unhappy, and as a matter of form, of common courtesy, he asks me to go +with him. I try to reason and convince myself that he doesn't mean what +he says, but I can't help feeling sincerely happy when once in a while I +do accept his invitation. But the moment we leave the house I realize my +mistake. Then he pretends to be in high spirits, but I know all the time +he is acting a part; and when we come home again he lets drop without +fail some hint about having lost his liberty; he says he took me out in +a moment of weakness, that he really wanted to be alone. + +GUERIN [_interrupting_]. And when he does go out alone? + +FRANCOISE. Then I am most unhappy; I'm in torment for hours and hours. I +wonder where he can be, and then I'm afraid he won't come back at all. +When the door opens, when I hear him come in, I'm so happy I pay no +attention to what he tells me. But I made a solemn vow never to show the +least sign of jealousy. My face is always tranquil, and what I say to +him never betrays what I feel. I never knowingly betray myself, but his +taking way, his tenderness, soon make me confess every fear; then he +turns round and, using my own confession as a weapon, shows me how wrong +I am to be afraid and suspicious. And when sometimes I say nothing to +him, even when he tries to make me confess, he punishes me most severely +by telling me stories of his affairs, narrow escapes, and all his +temptations. He once told me about an old mistress of his, whom he had +just seen, a very clever woman, who was never jealous! Or else he comes +in so late that I must be glad, for if he came in later, it would have +been all night! He tells me he had some splendid opportunity, and had to +give it up! A thousand things like that! He seems to delight in making +me suspect and doubt him! + +GUERIN. Poor little woman! + +FRANCOISE. That's my life; as for my happiness, it exists from day to +day. [_With determination._] If I only had the right to be unhappy! But +I must always smile, I must be happy, not only in his presence, but to +the very depths of my soul! So that he may deceive me without the least +remorse! It is his pleasure! + + [_She bursts into tears._] + +GUERIN [_rising_]. The selfish brute! + +FRANCOISE. Isn't my suffering a reproach to him? + +GUERIN. I pity you, Madame, and I think I understand you better than any +one else. I have trouble not unlike your own; perhaps greater, troubles +for which there is no consolation. + +FRANCOISE. If you understand me, Monsieur, advise me! I need you! + +GUERIN [_startled back into reality_]. Me, help you? I? [_Aside._] No! + +FRANCOISE. You spoke of your friendship. The time has come, prove that +it is genuine! + +GUERIN. Madame, why did I ever see you? Why did I listen to you? + +FRANCOISE. What have you to regret? + +GUERIN. Nothing, Madame, nothing. + +FRANCOISE. Explain yourself, Monsieur. You--you make me afraid! + +GUERIN [_trying to calm her suspicions_]. Don't cry like that! There is +no reason why you should behave that way! Your husband doesn't love you +as he ought, but he does love you. You are jealous, that's what's +troubling you. But for that matter, why should he deceive you? That +would be too unjust. + +FRANCOISE [_excited_]. Too unjust! You are right, Monsieur! No matter +how cynical, how blase a man may be, isn't it his duty, his sacred duty, +to say to himself, "I have found a good and true woman in this world of +deceptions; she is a woman who adores me, who is only too ready to +invent any excuse for me! She bears my name and honors it; no matter +what I do, she is always true, of that I am positive. I am always +foremost in her thoughts, and I shall be her only love." When a man can +say all that, Monsieur, isn't that real, true happiness? + +GUERIN [_sobbing_]. Yes--that is happiness! + +FRANCOISE. You are crying! [_A pause._] + +GUERIN. My wife--deceived me! + +FRANCOISE. Oh! [_A pause._] Marcel-- + +GUERIN. Your happiness is in no danger! Yesterday I found some old +letters, in a desk--old letters--that was all! You weren't his wife at +the time. It's ancient history. + +FRANCOISE [_aside_]. Who knows? + +GUERIN. Forgive me, Madame; your troubles remind me of my own. When you +told of the happiness you still have to give, I couldn't help thinking +of what I had lost! + +FRANCOISE. So you have come to fight a duel with my husband? + +GUERIN. Madame-- + +FRANCOISE. You are going to fight him? Answer me. + +GUERIN. My life is a wreck now--I must-- + +FRANCOISE. I don't ask you to forget; Monsieur-- + +GUERIN. Don't you think I have a right? + +FRANCOISE. Stop! + +GUERIN. I shall not try to kill him. You love him too much! I couldn't +do it now. In striking him I should be injuring you, and you don't +deserve to suffer; you have betrayed no one. The happiness you have just +taught me to know is as sacred and inviolable as my honor, my +unhappiness. I shall not seek revenge. + +FRANCOISE [_gratefully_]. Oh, Monsieur. + +GUERIN. I am willing he should live, because he is so dear, so necessary +to you. Keep him. If he wants to spoil your happiness, his be the blame! +I shall not do it. It would be sacrilege. Good-by, Madame, good-by. + + [_Guerin goes out, back, Francoise falls into a chair, sobbing._] + + [_Enter Marcel by the little door._] + +MARCEL [_aside, with a melancholy air_]. Refused to see me! + +FRANCOISE [_distinctly_]. Oh, it's you! + +MARCEL [_good-humoredly_]. Yes, it's I. [_A pause. He goes toward her._] +You have been crying! Have you seen Guerin? He's been here! + +FRANCOISE. Marcel! + +MARCEL. Did he dare tell you! + +FRANCOISE. You won't see any more of him. + +MARCEL [_astounded_]. He's not going to fight? + +FRANCOISE. He refuses. + +MARCEL. Thank you! + +FRANCOISE. I took good care of your dignity, you may be sure of that. +Here we were together; I told him the story of my life during the last +year--how I loved you--and then he broke down. When I learned the truth, +he said he would go away for my happiness' sake. + +MARCEL. I was a coward to deceive that man! Is this a final sentence +that you pass on me? + +FRANCOISE. Marcel! + +MARCEL. Both of you are big! You have big hearts. I admire you both more +than I can say. + +FRANCOISE [_incredulously_]. Where are you going? To get him to fight +with you? + +MARCEL [_returning to her; angrily_]. How can I, now? After what you +have done, it would be absurd. Why the devil did you have to mix +yourself up in something that doesn't concern you? I was only looking +for a chance to fight that duel! + +FRANCOISE. Looking for a chance? + +MARCEL. Oh, I-- + +FRANCOISE. Why? + +MARCEL [_between his teeth_]. That's my affair! Everybody has his +enemies--his insults to avenge. It was a very good thing that gentleman +didn't happen across my path! + +FRANCOISE. How dare you recall what he has been generous enough to +forget? + +MARCEL. How do you know that I haven't a special reason for fighting +this duel? A legitimate reason, that must be concealed from you? + +FRANCOISE. You are mistaken, dear: I guess that reason perfectly. + +MARCEL. Really? + +FRANCOISE. I know it. + +MARCEL [_bursting forth_]. Oh! Good! You haven't always been so +frightfully profound. + +FRANCOISE. Yes, I have, and your irony only proves that I have not been +so much mistaken in what I felt by intuition. + +MARCEL. Ah, marriage. + +FRANCOISE. Ah, duty! + +MARCEL. I love Madame Guerin, don't I? + +FRANCOISE. I don't say that. + +MARCEL. You think it. + +FRANCOISE. And if I do? Would it be a crime to think it? You once loved +her--perhaps you have seen her again, recently? Do I know where you go? +You never tell me. + +MARCEL. I tell you too much! + +FRANCOISE. I think you do. + +MARCEL. You're jealous! + +FRANCOISE. Common, if you like. Come, you must admit, Marcel, Madame +Guerin is in some way responsible for your excitement now? + +MARCEL. Very well then, I love her, I adore her! Are you satisfied? + +FRANCOISE. You should have told me that first, my dear; I should never +have tried to keep you away from her. + + [_She breaks into tears._] + +MARCEL. She's crying! Good, there's liberty for you! + +FRANCOISE [_bitterly_]. Liberty? I did not suffer when I promised you +your liberty. + +MARCEL. That was your "resignation." + +FRANCOISE. You knew life, I did not. You ought never to have accepted +it! + +MARCEL. You're like all the rest! + +FRANCOISE [_more excited_]. Doesn't unhappiness level us all? + +MARCEL. I see it does! + +FRANCOISE. What can you ask for, then? So long as you have no great +happiness like mine you are ready enough to make any sacrifice, but when +once you have it, you never resign yourself to losing it. + +MARCEL. That's just the difficulty. + +FRANCOISE. Be a little patient, dear: I have not yet reached that state +of cynicism and subtlety which you seem to want in your wife--I thought +I came near to your ideal once! Perhaps there's some hope for me yet: I +have promised myself to do my best to satisfy your ideal. + +MARCEL [_moved_]. I don't ask that. + +FRANCOISE. You are right, I am very foolish to try to struggle. What is +the good? It will suffice when I have lost the dearest creature on +earth--through my foolishness, my blunders! + +MARCEL. The dearest creature? + +FRANCOISE. I can't help it if he seems so to me! + +MARCEL [_disarmed_]. You--you're trying to appeal to my vanity! + +FRANCOISE. I am hardly in the mood for joking. + +MARCEL [_tenderly, as he kneels at her feet_]. But you make me say +things like that--I don't know what! I am not bad--really bad! No, I +have not deceived you! I love you, and only you! You! You know that, +Francoise! Ask--ask any woman! All women! + + [_A pause._] + +FRANCOISE [_smiling through her tears_]. Best of husbands! You're not +going out then? You'll stay? + +MARCEL [_in Francoise's arms_]. Can I go now, now that I'm here? You are +so pretty that I-- + +FRANCOISE. Not when I'm in trouble. + +MARCEL. Don't cry! + +FRANCOISE. I forgive you! + +MARCEL. Wait, I haven't confessed everything. + +FRANCOISE. Not another word! + +MARCEL. I want to be sincere. + +FRANCOISE. I prefer you to lie to me! + +MARCEL. First, read this note--the one I received this morning. + +FRANCOISE [_surprised_]. From Madame Guerin? + +MARCEL. You saw her not long ago. Yes, she calmly told me-- + +FRANCOISE. That her husband had found some letters! + +MARCEL. And that she was about to leave for England with her lover. + +FRANCOISE. Then she is quite consoled? + +MARCEL. Perfectly. + +FRANCOISE. Poor Marcel! And you went to see her and try to prevent her +going away with him? + +MARCEL. My foolishness was well punished. She wouldn't receive me. + +FRANCOISE. Then I am the only one left who loves you? How happy I am! + +MARCEL. I'll kill that love some day with my ridiculous philandering! + +FRANCOISE [_gravely_]. I defy you! + +MARCEL [_playfully_]. Then I no longer have the right to provoke +Monsieur Guerin? Now? + +FRANCOISE [_gayly_]. You are growing old, Lovelace, his wife has +deceived you! + +MARCEL [_lovingly_]. Francoise' luck! [_Sadly._] Married! + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +ALTRUISM + + A SATIRE + + BY KARL ETTLINGER + TRANSLATED BY BENJAMIN F. GLAZER. + + + Copyright, 1920, by Benjamin F. Glazer. + All rights reserved. + + + The first performance of ALTRUISM was given by The Stage Society of + Philadelphia at the Little Theatre, Philadelphia, on January 28, 1916, + with the following cast: + + A BEGGAR _Henry C. Sheppard_ + A WAITER _E. Ryland Carter_ + A YOUNG MAN _William H. McClure_ + A COCOTTE _Sylvia Loeb._ + A PARISIAN _Edward B. Latimer_ + HIS WIFE _Florence Bernstein_ + THEIR CHILD _Jean Massey_ + AN ARTIST _Theron J. Bamberger_ + AN AMERICAN _William J. Holt_ + A GENTLEMAN _Caspar W. Briggs_ + ANOTHER GENTLEMAN _Norris W. Corey_ + A PICKPOCKET _Walter E. Endy_ + A GENDARME _William H. Russell_ + ANOTHER GENDARME _Frederick Cowperthwaite_ + A WORKINGMAN _Walter D. Dalsimer_ + A FLOWER GIRL _Katherine Kennedy_ + A PASSING LADY _C. Warren Briggs_ + A BYSTANDER _Charles E. Sommer_ + AN OLD LADY _Paulyne Brinkman_ + A GRISETTE _Florence M. Lyman_ + + [TIME: _The present_. PLACE: A Parisian Cafe by the Seine.] + + Produced under the direction of Benjamin F. Glazer. Scene designed by + H. Devitt Welsh. Costumes designed by Martha G. Speiser. + + + CHARACTERS + + A BEGGAR + A TOWNSMAN + A TOWNSWOMAN + THEIR SEVEN-YEAR-OLD SON + AN ARTIST + AN AMERICAN + A COCOTTE + A WAITER + A WORKINGMAN + A YOUNG MAN + TWO OFFICERS + THE CROWD + + PLACE: _Paris_. + TIME: _Present_. + _On the banks of the Seine._ + + + The play was later produced by the Washington Square Players, at the + Comedy Theatre, New York City. The professional and amateur stage + rights are reserved by the translator, Mr. Benjamin F. Glazer, + Editorial Department, _The Press_, Philadelphia, Pa., to whom all + requests for permission to produce the play should be made. + + + +ALTRUISM + +A SATIRE BY KARL ETTLINGER + + + [_In the background the end of a pier. On a post hangs a rope and + a life buoy. Close by the Beggar is sitting on the floor. At right + a street cafe; two tables stand under the open sky on the street. + At one of the tables sits the Waiter, reading a newspaper. At the + other sits the Cocotte and the blond Young Man. At left on a + public bench sits the Artist. He has a sketch book and pencil with + which he is drawing the Cocotte, who has noticed it and is + flirting with him._] + + + [_Lady xes from Left to Right._] + + [_Man xes from Right to Left._] + +BEGGAR [_sings_]: + + Kind sir, have pity while you can, + Remember the old beggar man + The poor beggar man. + +WAITER [_sitting at table, R. C., looks up from his newspaper_]. Shut +up! + +BEGGAR. Don't get fresh! I was once a _head_ waiter! + +WAITER. That must have been a fine place. + +BEGGAR. It was too. I traveled all around the world as a waiter. I saw +better days before I became a beggar. + +YOUNG MAN [_at table Left, fondly to the Cocotte_]. Indeed if I were a +millionaire--my word of honor I would buy you an automobile. Nothing +would be too dear for you. + +COCOTTE [_at table Left_]. My darling Kangaroo. How liberal you are. I +am sure I am your first love. + +YOUNG MAN. Yes--you are--that is if I don't count the cook who has been +at our house for five years--yes, on my word of honor. + + [_He finishes in pantomime._] + +BEGGAR [_to Waiter_]: Yes, yes, one goes down. Life is a tight rope +dance--before you look around you've lost your balance, and are lying in +the dirt. + +WAITER [_laying aside the paper_]. You ought to go to work. That would +do you more good than talking. + +BEGGAR. I've tried working too. But work for our kind is the surest way +to remain poor. And, do you know, begging is no pleasure either. To get +the money centime by centime and no rest from the police--well, well, if +I'm born into this world again I will become a government official. + + [_A man passes. Enter lady from Left. Stops lady Center. Sings and + holds out his hat._] + + The rich man in his banquet hall, + Has everything I long for! + The poor man gets the scraps that fall; + That's what I sing this song for. + Kind sir, have pity while you can-- + + [_Man exit Left._] + +Do you see? he doesn't give me anything! (Social enlightenment ends with +the lower classes. That is where need is greatest and the police are +thickest.) + +YOUNG MAN [_to the_ COCOTTE]. I would buy you a flying machine too, but +you shouldn't fly alone in it--Ah, to soar with you a thousand meters +above the earth--and far and wide nothing--only you and our love-- + +COCOTTE. What a wonderful boy you are. + + [_She flirts with the Artist._] + +BEGGAR. How often have I wanted to commit suicide. But why should I +gratify my fellow man by doing that?--suicide is the one sin I can see +nothing funny in. I always say to myself, so long as there's a jail one +can never starve. + +WAITER. You have no dignity. + +BEGGAR. No. My dignity was taken away from me ten years ago by the law. +But I'm not so sure I want it back. + +WAITER [_in disgust_]. I ought to call the cops and have them drive you +away from here. + +BEGGAR [_confidentially_]. You wouldn't do that. Only yesterday I paid +my colleagues 20 francs for this place. [_Searches in his pockets._] +Here is a receipt. I won't go away from here unless the police carry me +away in their arms. The police seem to be the only people who make a +fuss over me these days. [_Laughs._] + +WAITER. Disgusting old beggar. Why on earth such people--[_The rest is +lost in his teeth._] + + [_The Townsman, the Townswoman, and their child enter. The + Townsman carries the child on his shoulder and is perspiring from + the exertion._] + + [_Waiter X to Right of Table. Beggar goes up stage Center._] + +TOWNSWOMAN [_center Left with boy; sighs_]. That is all I have to say, +just let me come to that. Just let me come to it. On the spot I'll get a +divorce. + +TOWNSMAN [_following her_]. Give me your word of honor on it. + +TOWNSMAN. Now I know what they mean when they say that all men were +polygamists. + +TOWNSMAN. Calm yourself, old woman. It's all theoretical that married +women are good cooks and married men are polygamists. + +BEGGAR. + + The rich man in his banquet hall + Has everything I long for! + The poor.... + +TOWNSMAN. Let him banquet in peace. + + [_They sit at the table from which the Waiter has just risen._] + +CHILD. I want to give the poor man something. Papa! Money! Papa! Money! + +TOWNSMAN [_kisses child_]. A heart of gold has my little Phillip. A +disposition like butter. He gets that from me. + +TOWNSMAN. What? Asking for money or the oleo margerine disposition? + +CHILD. When I give the poor man something he makes a funny face and I +have to laugh. Papa, money! + +TOWNSMAN. Since I've been married I make all kinds of faces, but no one +gives me anything. [_Searches in his pocket book._] Too bad, I've +nothing smaller than a centime piece. + +TOWNSMAN. Of course, you'd rather bring up our Phillip to have a heart +of stone. Children should be taught to love people. They must be brought +up in that way--to have regard and respect for the most unfortunate +fellow beings--How that woman is perfumed. Women like that shouldn't be +permitted in the city. + +YOUNG MAN [_to the Cocotte_]. I would buy you two beautiful air ships, a +half moon for week days and a star for Sundays. All my millions I would +lay at your feet. [_Raising his hand._] Waiter--another glass of water, +please. + +COCOTTE. I'd like to kiss you, my little wild horse. + + [_Waiter dusts table, Right Center. Flirts with the Artist._] + + [_Child, Man and Wife sit at table Right Center._] + +WAITER [_to the Townsman_]. What can I bring you? + +TOWNSMAN. For the child, a glass of milk, but be sure it's well cooked. +[_To the Child._] A little glass of good ninni for my darling, a glass +of ninni from the big moo cow. + +TOWNSMAN [_mocking her_]. And for me a glass of red wine--a little glass +of good red wine for the big moo-ox. + +TOWNSWOMAN [_angry_]. That's just like you. Begrudge a glass of milk to +your own child--naturally--so long as you have your cigar and your +wine-- + +TOWNSMAN. My dear, I hereby give little Phillip permission to drink +three cows dry. And of my next week's wages, you may buy him a whole +herd of cows. + +CHILD. I want chocolate! Chocolate, mama! + +TOWNSMAN. You shall have it. As much as you want. Wouldn't you perhaps +like to have a glass of champagne, little Phillip, and a Henry Clay +cigar and a salad made of a big moo-chicken? + +YOUNG MAN [_getting up, x to Center. Jumps up and runs to the Artist_]. +Sir! Sir! This is unheard of. You've been drawing this lady all the +time. She is a respectable lady, do you understand? For all you know she +may be my wife. + +ARTIST [_phlegmatically_]. More than that--for all I know she may be +your mother. + +YOUNG MAN [_stammering_]. My dear sir--I must call you to account--what +do you mean by-- + +ARTIST. Why are you so excited? Isn't it a good likeness? + +YOUNG MAN [_confused_]. Of course, it's a good likeness, that is--I ask +you, sir, how dare you to draw a picture of my bride? + +TOWNSMAN. These young people are quarreling. You always bring me to +places like this. We can never go out together but there's a scandal. + +COCOTTE [_who has drawn near and is examining the drawing_]. I like +that. I'd like to own the drawing. + +ARTIST. My dear lady, if it would give you any pleasure.... + +COCOTTE. I couldn't think of taking it. [_To the boy._] Buy me the +picture. Sweetheart, will you buy it for me? + +YOUNG MAN. I don't think much of it. You are far, far prettier. + +COCOTTE. You won't refuse me this one little request. How much do you +ask for the picture? + +ARTIST. I hadn't thought of selling it--but because it is such a good +likeness of you, ten francs. But you must promise that in return you +will sit for me again--[_With emphasis._] perhaps at my studio. +To-morrow at noon? + +COCOTTE. Gladly! Very gladly! [_The young man pays for the sketch._] +Would you care to sit down and have something with us? + +ARTIST. If your fiance doesn't object? + +YOUNG MAN [_coldly_]. Charmed! [_The three sit._] + +THE CHILD. The chocolate is no good. I want some moo milk. + +TOWNSMAN. In a minute, I'll take my moo stick and tan your moo hide. + +AMERICAN. [_Enters leading a dog on a leash._] [_From Left x Center._] + +BEGGAR [_sings_]. + + The rich man his banquet hall + Has everything I long for, + The poor man gets the crumbs that fall, + That's what I sing this song for. + Kind sir, have pity while you can, + Remember the old beggar man, + The poor beggar man. + +AMERICAN. [_Has listened to the entire song impassively._] Are you +through? Waiter, put a muzzle on this man. [_x to Table Right._] + +TOWNSWOMAN. That is what I call an elegant man. I have always wanted you +to have a suit made like that. Ask him where he got it and what it cost. + +TOWNSMAN. I couldn't ask an utter stranger what his clothes cost. + +TOWNSWOMAN. Of course not, but if it was a woman you would have been +over there long ago. + +CHILD. Mama, the bow-wow dog is biting me. + +TOWNSMAN. My dear sir, your dog is biting my son. + +AMERICAN. You're mistaken, madame. My dog has been carefully trained to +eat none other than boiled meat. + +ARTIST [_to the Young Man_]. Pardon me for asking--but is the lady your +wife or your fiance? + +AMERICAN [_sits, puts his legs on the two extra chairs_]. Waiter! +Garcon! Bring me a quart of Cliquot, and bring my dog a menu card. + + [_At the word "Cliquot" the Cocotte looks up and begins to flirt + with the American._] + +CHILD. The bow-wow dog is making faces at me. + +TOWNSMAN. Look here, sir, your dog is certainly about to bite my child. + +AMERICAN [_lights his pipe_]. How much does your child cost? + +TOWNSMAN. Cost! My child! Did you ever hear of such a thing? I want you +to understand that my child p-- + +AMERICAN. Waiter! Tell this woman not to shout so!--How much does your +child cost? + +TOWNSMAN. My child costs--nothing! Do you understand? + +AMERICAN. Well, your child costs nothing--my dog costs eight dollars. +Think that over--is your son a thoroughbred? My dog is of the purest +breed--think that over--if your son hurts my dog I'll hold you +responsible. Think that over. [_Fills his glass._] + +COCOTTE. What do you think that man to be, little mouse? + +YOUNG MAN. A full blooded American. + +ARTIST. I should say he's a German who has spent two weeks in New York. + +TOWNSMAN. Aristide, are you going to sit there and permit your +defenseless wife to be insulted like that? + +TOWNSMAN. As long as you have your tongue, my dear, you are not +defenseless. + +TOWNSWOMAN. It is your business to talk to him. [_Kisses the Child._] +My poor little Phillip! Your father is no man. + +TOWNSMAN. I was before I got married. [_Crosses to the American._] Sir, +my name is Aristide Beaurepard. + +AMERICAN. Is that my fault? + +TOWNSMAN. I am the father of a family. + +AMERICAN. I am very sorry for you, indeed. + +TOWNSMAN. I have a wife and children-- + +AMERICAN. You have only yourself to blame. + +TOWNSMAN. Your dog-- + +AMERICAN. I have no desire to discuss dogs with you. I don't believe you +know anything about thoroughbred dogs. Waiter, sit this man down in his +place. + +TOWNSMAN. This is I must say, this is-- + +WAITER. Monsieur, you must not make a racket around you. This is a first +class establishment. A real prince once dined here, I would have you +understand. Come on now, if you please. [_Leads Townsman back to his +seat._] + +TOWNSMAN [_sits unwillingly_]. Not a centime tip will that fellow get +from me. Not a centime. + +AMERICAN. Waiter, Waiter, bring my dog a portion of liver, and not too +fat. And a roast potato. + +BEGGAR. [_Coming down C._] [_Jumps up, cries out wildly._] I can't stand +any more. For eight days I have not had a warm morsel of food in my +stomach. I am not a human being any more. I'll kill myself. [_Runs to +the edge of the dock and jumps overboard._] [_The splash of the water is +heard. The Townswoman and the Waiter call "help, help!" Whereupon, from +every side a crowd collects so that the entire background is filled with +people staring into the water._] + +TOWNSWOMAN. For God's sake he has thrown himself into the Seine. Oh, +God! Oh, God! + +OMNES. He's in the river! + +AMERICAN. [_At table Right._] What a noisy place this is. + + [_Townsman at center throws off his coat and is unbuttoning his + vest when his wife seizes him._] + +TOWNSWOMAN. [_Center._] [_Whimpering._] Aristide, remember you have a +wife and children. + +TOWNSMAN. That is why I want to do it. + +TOWNSWOMAN. Aristide, I'll jump in after you--as true as I live I'll +jump in after you. + +TOWNSMAN. [_Slowly puts his coat on again._] Then I won't do it. [_Goes +with her into the crowd._] + +A VOICE. Get the life buoy. [_Willing hands try to unloosen the life +buoy, but it sticks._] + +ANOTHER VOICE. Let that life buoy alone. Don't you see the sign "Do not +touch"? + +A MAN. The buoy is no good. It will not work. + +ANOTHER MAN. Of course not. It's city property. + +COCOTTE [_shuddering_]. I can't look at it. [_Comes back to her table._] + +A WOMAN. Look! He's come up! Over there! + +CHILD. I can't see. + +TOWNSWOMAN. My little heart of gold [_to her husband_]. Why don't you +lift him up? Don't you hear that the child can't see? [_Townsman takes +the child on his shoulder._] + +YOUNG MAN [_coming back to table_]. These people are utterly heartless. +It is revolting. + +AMERICAN [_loudly_]. I'll bet twenty dollars he drowns. Who'll take the +bet? Twenty dollars. + +YOUNG MAN. Are you a man or a beast? + +AMERICAN. Young man, better shut your mouth. [_Fills his glass._] + +YOUNG MAN. Does no one hear know the meaning of Altruism? + +ARTIST. Altruism! Ha, ha! [_Laughs scornfully._] Love of one's neighbor. +God preserve mankind from Altruism! + +COCOTTE. What do you mean? You are not in earnest? + +ARTIST. In dead earnest. [_Some one in the crowd brings a boat hook and +reaches down into the river._] + +AMERICAN. I'll bet twenty-five dollars that he doesn't drown--thirty +dollars! [_Disgustedly, seeing that no one takes him up._] Tightwads! + +ARTIST. Life is like that. One man's success is another man's failure. +He who sacrifices himself for an idea is a hero. He who sacrifices +himself for a fellow man is a fool. + +YOUNG MAN [_theatrically_]. No, it is the highest, the noblest of +instincts. That is why my heart bleeds when I see all these people stand +indifferently by while a fellow man is drowning. No one jumps in after +him-- + +AMERICAN. Jump in yourself, young man, jump in yourself. + +YOUNG MAN [_center_]. It is different with me, I am with a lady--it +wouldn't be right. + +AMERICAN. Nobody will bet. This is a hell of a bunch. They ought to see +one of our nigger lynchings. [_Strokes the dog._] Poor Molly! She is so +nervous. Things like this get her all excited. + + [_Two Policemen enter._] + +FIRST POLICEMAN. Look at the mob. Something is liable to happen there. + +SECOND POLICEMAN. Isn't it forbidden for such a mob to gather on the +dock? + +FIRST POLICEMAN. Sure, it's against the law. Why shouldn't it be? + +SECOND POLICEMAN [_shaking their heads_]. This is no place for us. +[_Exit Left._] + +ARTIST [_to the Young Man_]. Does it begin to dawn on you that true love +of one's neighbor would not only be monotonous but unbearable as well. + +YOUNG MAN. Out there a man is drowning--and you stand there moralizing. + +ARTIST. Why not? We read a dozen suicides every day. [_x to Chair +Left._] Yet we go home and eat our dinner with undiminished relish. Why +then sentimentalize over a drowning beggar? I wouldn't rescue a man who +had fallen into the water much less one who had jumped in. + +YOUNG MAN [_passionately_]. Sir--I despise you! [_Goes into the crowd._] + + [_A man has succeeded in prying up the life buoy, now he throws it + into the water with the warning cry "Look out."_] + +ARTIST. Love of one's neighbor is a mask. A mask that people wear to +hide from themselves their real faces. + +AMERICAN [_x to Artist Left_]. No, I don't agree with you. I am strong +for love of one's neighbor. Indeed, the Bible tells us to love our +neighbor as ourselves. Oh, I am very strong for it. I go to Church on +Sundays in the U. S. A. I never touch a drop--in the U. S. A. + +VOICE. The life buoy is sinking. + +ANOTHER VOICE. That's why they call it a _life buoy_. [_Laughter._] + +COCOTTE [_sympathetically_]. How interestingly you talk. I love +Americans. + +AMERICAN. We have two kinds of neighborly love back home. Neighborly +love that makes for entertaining and dancing, and neighborly love that +you read about next day in the newspapers. + +OMNES [_Workingman who has just entered._] [_Right._] What's the matter +here? [_Elbows his way through the crowd._] Make way there! Let me +through! [_Throws off coat, tightens his belt, spits in his hand and +jumps into the water._] [_Great excitement._] + +YOUNG MAN [_center_]. [_Ecstatically._] A hero! A hero! + +AMERICAN [_loudly but indifferently_]. I'll bet sixty dollars that both +of them drown!--Seventy! Seventy-five! [_Contemptuously._] I can't get a +bet around here. I'm going back to America. + + [_The Artist goes into the crowd._] + +COCOTTE [_at table Left, alone with American_]. Going back so soon? + +AMERICAN. As soon as I have seen Paris. Wouldn't you like to show me the +town? I'll meet you to-morrow at four in front of the Opera House. + +COCOTTE. I'll be there. I like Americans. + +THE MOB [_cheering_]. He's got him! Hurrah! [_The pole is +outstretched._] + +AMERICAN. I'd like to know how much longer that waiter means to keep my +dog waiting for her order of liver. [_x to table Right._] + +YOUNG MAN [_comes down to table, joyfully_]. He is saved; thank God he +is saved. Weren't you sorry at all when that poor wretch jumped into the +river? + +AMERICAN. Young man, is it my river? + +THE MOB [_cheering again_]. Hurrah! [_Great excitement._] + + [_The Workingman and the Beggar are dragged dripping out of the + water. They help the Beggar to a chair._] + +WORKINGMAN [_center_]. [_Shaking himself._] That was no easy job. + +A WOMAN [_left, center_]. Take care what you are doing. You are wetting +my whole dress. + +BEGGAR. [_Left._] [_Whimpering._] Oh!--Oh!--Oh!-- + +YOUNG MAN [_left_]. [_Shaking the Workingman's hand._] You are a noble +fellow. I saw how brave you were. + +WORKINGMAN [_business like_]. Did you? Then give me your name and +address. + +YOUNG MAN [_gives him a card_]. Jules Leboeof, Rue d'Hauteville. + +WORKINGMAN. Who else saw it? + +BEGGAR. Oh! Oh! Oh! + +WORKINGMAN. Shut your mouth. Your turn comes next. Who else saw me save +him? + +TOWNSMAN. [_R. C._] Aristide Beaurepard, Rue de Lagny, a14. + +TOWNSMAN. Must you mix in everything? This is nothing to you. Do you +want to get in trouble? You didn't see a thing. Why you just want to get +in trouble? You didn't see a thing. Why you just this moment came. What +do you want the address for, eh? + +WORKINGMAN. Do you think I am taking cold baths for my health? I want to +get a medal for life saving. + +A MAN. You have a chance to get an award from the Carnegie fund for life +saving. + +WORKINGMAN. Don't I know it. I read all about it in "Humanitie" +yesterday. Do you think I'd have jumped in the water otherwise? + + [_A crowd has collected around the Beggar._] + +BEGGAR. O God! O God! I'm soaking wet. + +AMERICAN [_cold bloodedly._] Isn't that surprising? + +BEGGAR. I am freezing. I am freezing to death. + +COCOTTE. Waiter, bring him a glass of brandy and charge it to me. +[_Waiter exit Right._] + +CHILD [_whimpering_]. I am freezing too, Mama, I'm cold. + +TOWNSWOMAN. My poor little Phillip. [_To her husband._] You never think +of bringing a coat for the child. There, my darling, you shall have a +cup of hot coffee right away. + +CHILD. Coffee is pfui. I want brandy! + +TOWNSMAN [_sternly_]. Brandy is not for children. You'll drink coffee. + +TOWNSWOMAN. Who says brandy is not for children? You get the most +foolish ideas in your head. Hush, hush, my baby, you shall have some +brandy. + +AMERICAN. They ought to offer a medal for the murder of certain kinds of +wives. + +BEGGAR. Oh! [_Whimpering._] Oh, what a life I lead! What a life! + +A MAN [_feeding sugar to the dog_]. + +BEGGAR. I wish I were dead. Why did they pull me out? I want to die. +What does life mean to me? What joy is there in life for me? + +ARTIST. There will be less joy for you in death. [_Laughter._] + +BEGGAR. If I were only young. If I only had my two strong arms again. I +never dreamed I would come to this. I never would have believed +it--Forty years ago I was a workingman, yes, forty years until an +accident-- + +WORKINGMAN. Were you a Union man, brother? + +BEGGAR. Certainly--certainly. [_Guardedly._] That is, I wasn't exactly a +Union man but-- + +WORKINGMAN. What! Not a Union man. [_Rushes at him._] + +TOWNSMAN. What do you want to do to that poor man? + +WORKINGMAN. Throw him back in the river. [_He is held back._] + +BEGGAR. Forty years I worked at the machine--and now I have nothing to +show for it but diseased lungs. + +TOWNSWOMAN [_decisively_]. Aristide, we are going home. Tuberculosis is +contagious. + +WORKINGMAN. That's capital for you. The capitalist sucks the workingman +dry and then turns him out on the streets to starve. But we, the people, +shall have our day. When first the uprising of the masses-- + +AMERICAN. Oh, don't make a speech. + +BEGGAR [_whining_]. And my military medal is gone. I must have lost it +in the water. You can still see the saber wound on my arm. + +YOUNG MAN. Thus the Fatherland repays its valiant sons. + +BEGGAR. Nobody knows what I suffered for France. Twenty years I served +in the foreign legion. + +AMERICAN. This fellow ought to be celebrating his two hundredth birthday +soon. + +BEGGAR. O God--my poor wife--my poor children--the youngest is just four +months old-- + +COCOTTE. Poor soul, here are two francs for you. [_Other people take out +their purses._] + +BEGGAR. God bless you mademoiselle. [_Holds out his hat for the other +alms._] + + [_During the excitement the Beggar passes through the crowd + begging and singing._] + +BEGGAR. + + The rich man in his banquet hall, + Has everything I long for. + The poor man gets the crumbs that fall, + That's what I sing this song for. + Help a poor man, sir. + +AMERICAN [_cries out in sudden alarm._] My dog! My Molly! She has jumped +into the river! [_The crowd is still and listening to him._] She will +drown! [_Runs to the edge of the dock._] There she is--swimming. Oh, my +Molly! She cost me eighty dollars. [_Desperately._] A hundred dollars to +the man that saves my dog. A hundred dollars. + +A MAN. Do you mean that? + +AMERICAN [_deaf to everything but his anxiety_]. A hundred dollars. +Here, I'll put it up with the Waiter--a hundred dollars for my poor dog. + +VOICES IN THE CROWD. A hundred dollars! Five hundred francs! + + [_The Crowd moves, pushing and gesticulating to the water's edge. + One by one they jump into the Seine with a great splashing. Only + the American, the Young Man, the Cocotte and the Beggar remain._] + +AMERICAN. My poor Molly! She loved me like a son! Where is that pole? +[_Gets pole and thrusts with it in the water._] + +A VOICE. Hey! Oh! My head! + +AMERICAN [_beside himself_]. There--over there--the poor dog never had a +swimming lesson. [_Sees the Young Man._] What are you standing there +for? You with your precious neighborly love! A hundred and fifty dollars +for my dog! Jump in! Here is a deposit. [_Pushes money in his hand._] + +YOUNG MAN [_makes ready to jump, but stops at the edge and turns +around_]. No! For a dog? Never! + +AMERICAN. It was a thoroughbred dog. Jump! I'll give you two +hundred--I'll take you back to the U. S. A. with me--I'll pay for your +musical education--anything--if you save my dog. + +YOUNG MAN. Will you really pay for my musical education if I save your +dog? + +AMERICAN [_on knees by wall_]. Every instrument there is--piano, +piccolo, cornet, bass drum--only jump!--jump! + +YOUNG MAN [_upon wall throws a farewell kiss to the Cocotte, takes a +heroic posture_]. With God! [_Makes a perfect dive into the river._] + +AMERICAN [_at the end of the dock, brokenly_]. Poor Molly! [_Dries his +eyes with handkerchief._] I'll endow a home for poor Parisians if she is +brought back to me alive. [_To the Cocotte._] Oh, dear lady, I don't +know whether I shall be able to meet you to-morrow at the Avenue de +l'Opera. I have had a bereavement. [_Comes down to the pavement._] I +must telephone to the lifeguard station. [_Exits into the cafe._] Poor +Molly! All the insurance I carried on her is three thousand dollars. +[_Exit with Artist into cafe, Right._] [_There is a brief pause._] + +BEGGAR [_angrily_]. Damn his heart; the dog tender! I hope he drowns +himself. Just as I was doing the best business in weeks that damn dog +had to spoil everything. The scabby beast. + +COCOTTE. How often have I asked you not to use those vulgar expressions. + +BEGGAR. What! Is that how a daughter should speak to her father? You +shameless wench! I'll teach you. I'll be lame again hereafter. For when +I am lame I carry a stick and a stick is a good thing to have in your +hand to teach a daughter respect. Ten francs; you know for the picture. +[_While he speaks he is taking off his coat and vest, showing a cork +life belt beneath._] That suicide trick is getting played out +anyhow--hardly 50 francs--and I had to pay 20 for the place. Come my +daughter, we will go home. [_Calls._] Waiter--Waiter! + +COCOTTE. He doesn't hear you, papa--Waiter if you don't come at once we +shall go without paying. [_The Waiter enters with hat wet._] + +BEGGAR [_slips him a gold piece_]. Waiter, call a taxicab. + + [_The Waiter takes the coin with a respectful bow, blows his taxi + whistle. As the answering whistle of the taxicab and the honk of + the horn are heard the Beggar and Cocotte exit ceremoniously and + the curtain falls._ + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE TENOR + + A COMEDY + + BY FRANK WEDEKIND + TRANSLATED BY ANDRE TRIDON. + + + Copyright, 1913, by Andre Tridon. + All rights reserved. + + + CHARACTERS + + GERARDO [_Wagnerian tenor, thirty-six years old_]. + HELEN MAROVA [_a beautiful dark-haired woman of twenty-five_]. + PROFESSOR DUHRING [_sixty, the typical "misunderstood genius"_]. + MISS ISABEL COEHURNE [_a blonde English girl of sixteen_]. + MULLER [_hotel manager_]. + A VALET. + A BELL BOY. + AN UNKNOWN WOMAN. + + TIME: _The present_. + PLACE: _A city in Austria_. + + + THE TENOR was first produced in America by the Washington Square + Players. Applications for permission to perform THE TENOR must be + addressed to Andre Tridon, 121 Madison Avenue, New York. + + + +THE TENOR + +A COMEDY BY FRANK WEDEKIND + + + [SCENE: _A large hotel room. There are doors at the right and in + the center, and at the left a window with heavy portieres. Behind + a grand piano at the right stands a Japanese screen which conceals + the fireplace. There are several large trunks, open; bunches of + flowers are all over the room; many bouquets are piled up on the + piano._] + + +VALET [_entering from the adjoining room carrying an armful of clothes +which he proceeds to pack in one of the trunks. There is a knock at the +door_]. Come in. + +BELL BOY. There is a lady who wants to know if the Maestro is in. + +VALET. He isn't in. [_Exit Bell Boy. The Valet goes into the adjoining +room and returns with another armful of clothes. There is another knock +at the door. He puts the clothes on a chair and goes to the door._] +What's this again? [_He opens the door and some one hands him several +large bunches of flowers, which he places carefully on the piano; then +he goes back to his packing. There is another knock. He opens the door +and takes a handful of letters. He glances at the addresses and reads +aloud:_ "Mister Gerardo. Monsieur Gerardo. Gerardo Esquire. Signor +Gerardo." [_He drops the letters on a tray and resumes his packing._] + + [_Enter Gerardo._] + +GERARDO. Haven't you finished packing yet? How much longer will it take +you? + +VALET. I'll be through in a minute, sir. + +GERARDO. Hurry! I still have things to do. Let me see. [_He reaches for +something in a trunk._] God Almighty! Don't you know how to fold a pair +of trousers? [_Taking the trousers out._] This is what you call packing! +Look here! You still have something to learn from me, after all. You +take the trousers like this.... You lock this up here.... Then you take +hold of these buttons. Watch these buttons here, that's the important +thing. Then--you pull them straight.... There.... There.... Then you +fold them here.... See.... Now these trousers would keep their shape for +a hundred years. + +VALET [_respectfully, with downcast eyes_]. You must have been a tailor +once, sir. + +GERARDO. What! Well, not exactly.... [_He gives the trousers to the +Valet._] Pack those up, but be quick about it. Now about that train. You +are sure this is the last one we can take? + +VALET. It is the only one that gets you there in time, sir. The next +train does not reach Brussels until ten o'clock. + +GERARDO. Well, then, we must catch this one. I will just have time to go +over the second act. Unless I go over that.... Now don't let anybody.... +I am out to everybody. + +VALET. All right, sir. There are some letters for you, sir. + +GERARDO. I have seen them. + +VALET. And flowers! + +GERARDO. Yes. all right. [_He takes the letters from the tray and throws +them on a chair before the piano. Then he opens the letters, glances +over them with beaming eyes, crumples them up and throws them under the +chair._] Remember! I am out to everybody. + +VALET. I know, sir. [_He locks the trunks._] + +GERARDO. To everybody. + +VALET. You needn't worry, sir. [_Giving him the trunk keys._] Here are +the keys, sir. + +GERARDO [_pocketing the keys_]. To everybody! + +VALET. The trunks will be taken down at once. [_He goes out._] + +GERARDO [_looking at his watch_]. Forty minutes. [_He pulls the score of +"Tristan" from underneath the flowers on the piano and walks up and down +humming._] "_Isolde! Geliebte! Bist du mein? Hab' ich dich wieder? Darf +ich dich fassen?_" [_He clears his throat, strikes a chord on the piano +and starts again._] "_Isolde! Geliebte! Bist du mein? Hab' ich dich +wieder?..._" [_He clears his throat._] The air is dead here. [_He +sings._] "_Isolde! Geliebte...._" It's oppressive here. Let's have a +little fresh air. [_He goes to the window at the left and fumbles for +the curtain cord._] Where is the thing? On the other side! Here! [_He +pulls the cord and throws his head back with an annoyed expression when +he sees Miss Coeurne._] + +MISS COEURNE [_in three-quarter length skirt, her blonde hair down her +back, holding a bunch of red roses; she speaks with an English accent +and looks straight at Gerardo_]. Oh, please don't send me away. + +GERARDO. What else can I do? God knows, I haven't asked you to come +here. Do not take it badly, dear young lady, but I have to sing +to-morrow night in Brussels. I must confess, I hoped I would have this +half-hour to myself. I had just given positive orders not to let any +one, whoever it might be, come up to my rooms. + +MISS COEURNE [_coming down stage_]. Don't send me away. I heard you +yesterday in "Tannhaeuser," and I was just bringing you these roses, +and-- + +GERARDO. And--and what? + +MISS COEURNE. And myself.... I don't know whether you understand me. + +GERARDO [_holding the back of a chair; he hesitates, then shakes his +head._] Who are you? + +MISS COEURNE. My name is Miss Coeurne. + +GERARDO. Yes.... Well? + +MISS COEURNE. I am very silly. + +GERARDO. I know. Come here, my dear girl. [_He sits down in an armchair +and she stands before him._] Let's have a good earnest talk, such as you +have never had in your life--and seem to need. An artist like +myself--don't misunderstand me; you are--how old are you? + +MISS COEURNE. Twenty-two. + +GERARDO. You are sixteen or perhaps seventeen. You make yourself a +little older so as to appear more--tempting. Well? Yes, you are very +silly. It is really none of my business, as an artist, to cure you of +your silliness.... Don't take this badly.... Now then! Why are you +staring away like this? + +MISS COEURNE. I said I was very silly, because I thought you Germans +liked that in a young girl. + +GERARDO. I am not a German, but just the same.... + +MISS COEURNE. What! I am not as silly as all that. + +GERARDO. Now look here, my dear girl--you have your tennis court, your +skating club; you have your riding class, your dances; you have all a +young girl can wish for. What on earth made you come to me? + +MISS COEURNE. Because all those things are awful, and they bore me to +death. + +GERARDO. I will not dispute that. Personally, I must tell you, I know +life from an entirely different side. But, my child, I am a man; I am +thirty-six. The time will come when you, too, will claim a fuller +existence. Wait another two years and there will be some one for you, +and then you won't need to--hide yourself behind curtains, in my room, +in the room of a man who--never asked you, and whom you don't know any +better than--the whole continent of Europe knows him--in order to look +at life from his--wonderful point of view. [_Miss Coeurne sighs +deeply._] Now then.... Many thanks from the bottom of my heart for your +roses. [_He presses her hand._] Will this do for to-day? + +MISS COEURNE. I had never in all my life thought of a man, until I saw +you on the stage last night in "Tannhaeuser." And I promise you-- + +GERARDO. Oh, don't promise me anything, my child. What good could your +promise do me? The burden of it would all fall upon you. You see, I am +talking to you as lovingly as the most loving father could. Be thankful +to God that with your recklessness you haven't fallen into the hands of +another artist. [_He presses her hand again._] Let this be a lesson to +you and never try it again. + +MISS COEURNE [_holding her handkerchief to her face but shedding no +tears_]. Am I so homely? + +GERARDO. Homely! Not homely, but young and indiscreet. [_He rises +nervously, goes to the right, comes back, puts his arm around her waist +and takes her hand._] Listen to me, child. You are not homely because I +have to be a singer, because I have to be an artist. Don't misunderstand +me, but I can't see why I should simply, because I am an artist, have to +assure you that I appreciate your youthful freshness and beauty. It is a +question of time. Two hundred, maybe three hundred, nice, lovely girls +of your age saw me last night in the role of Tannhaeuser. Now if every +one of those girls made the same demands upon me which you are +making--what would become of my singing? What would become of my voice? +What would become of my art? + + [_Miss Coeurne sinks into a seat, covers her face and weeps._] + +GERARDO [_leaning over the back of her chair, in a friendly tone_]. It +is a crime for you, child, to weep over the fact that you are still so +young. Your whole life is ahead of you. Is it my fault if you fell in +love with me? They all do. That is what I am for. Now won't you be a +good girl and let me, for the few minutes I have left, prepare myself +for to-morrow's appearance? + +MISS COEURNE [_rising and drying her tears_]. I can't believe that any +other girl would have acted the way I have. + +GERARDO [_leading her to the door_]. No, dear child. + +MISS COEURNE [_with sobs in her voice_]. At least, not if-- + +GERARDO. If my valet had stood before the door. + +MISS COEURNE. If-- + +GERARDO. If the girl had been as beautiful and youthfully fresh as you. + +MISS COEURNE. If-- + +GERARDO. If she had heard me only once in "Tannhaeuser." + +MISS COEURNE [_indignant_]. If she were as respectable as I am! + +GERARDO [_pointing to the piano_]. Before saying good-by to me, child, +have a look at all those flowers. May this be a warning to you in case +you feel tempted again to fall in love with a singer. See how fresh they +all are. And I have to let them wither, dry up, or I give them to the +porter. And look at those letters. [_He takes a handful of them from a +tray._] I don't know any of those women. Don't worry; I leave them all +to their fate. What else could I do? But I'll wager with you that every +one of your lovely young friends sent in her little note. + +MISS COEURNE. Well, I promise not to do it again, not to hide myself +behind your curtains. But don't send me away. + +GERARDO. My time, my time, dear child. If I were not on the point of +taking a train! I have already told you, I am very sorry for you. But my +train leaves in twenty-five minutes. What do you expect? + +MISS COEURNE. A kiss. + +GERARDO [_stiffening up_]. From me? + +MISS COEURNE. Yes. + +GERARDO [_holding her around the waist and looking very serious_]. You +rob Art of its dignity, my child. I do not wish to appear an unfeeling +brute, and I am going to give you my picture. Give me your word that +after that you will leave me. + +MISS COEURNE. Yes. + +GERARDO. Good. [_He sits at the table and autographs one of his +pictures._] You should try to become interested in the operas themselves +instead of the men who sing them. You would probably derive much greater +enjoyment. + +MISS COEURNE [_to herself_]. I am too young yet. + +GERARDO. Sacrifice yourself to music. [_He comes down stage and gives +her the picture._] Don't see in me a famous tenor but a mere tool in the +hands of a noble master. Look at all the married women among your +acquaintances. All Wagnerians. Study Wagner's works; learn to understand +his _leit motifs_. That will save you from further foolishness. + +MISS COEURNE. I thank you. + + [_Gerardo leads her out and rings the bell. He takes up his piano + score again. There is a knock at the door._] + +VALET [_coming in out of breath_]. Yes, sir. + +GERARDO. Are you standing at the door? + +VALET. Not just now, sir. + +GERARDO. Of course not! Be sure not to let anybody come up here. + +VALET. There were three ladies who asked for you, sir. + +GERARDO. Don't you dare to let any one of them come up, whatever she may +tell you. + +VALET. And then here are some more letters. + +GERARDO. Oh, all right. [_The Valet places the letters on a tray._] And +don't you dare to let any one come up. + +VALET [_at the door_]. No, sir. + +GERARDO. Even if she offers to settle a fortune upon you. + +VALET. No, sir. [_He goes out._] + +GERARDO [_singing_]. _"Isolde! Geliebte! Bist du...."_ Well, if women +don't get tired of me--Only the world is so full of them; and I am only +one man. Every one has his burden to carry. [_He strikes a chord on the +piano._] + + [_Prof. Duhring, dressed all in black, with a long white beard, a + red hooked nose, gold spectacles, Prince Albert coat and silk hat, + an opera score under his arm, enters without knocking._] + +GERARDO. What do you want? + +DUHRING. Maestro--I--I--have--an opera. + +GERARDO. How did you get in? + +DUHRING. I have been watching for two hours for a chance to run up the +stairs unnoticed. + +GERARDO. But, my dear good man, I have no time. + +DUHRING. Oh, I will not play the whole opera for you. + +GERARDO. I haven't the time. My train leaves in forty minutes. + +DUHRING. You haven't the time! What should I say? You are thirty and +successful. You have your whole life to live yet. Just listen to your +part in my opera. You promised to listen to it when you came to this +city. + +GERARDO. What is the use? I am not a free agent-- + +DUHRING. Please! Please! Please! Maestro! I stand before you an old man, +ready to fall on my knees before you; an old man who has never cared for +anything in the world but his art. For fifty years I have been a willing +victim to the tyranny of art-- + +GERARDO [_interrupting him_]. Yes, I understand; I understand, but-- + +DUHRING [_excitedly_]. No, you don't understand. You could not +understand. How could you, the favorite of fortune, you understand what +fifty years of bootless work means? But I will try to make you +understand it. You see, I am too old to take my own life. People who do +that do it at twenty-five, and I let the time pass by. I must now drag +along to the end of my days. Please, sir, please don't let these moments +pass in vain for me, even if you have to lose a day thereby, a week +even. This is in your own interest. A week ago, when you first came for +your special appearances, you promised to let me play my opera for you. +I have come here every day since; either you had a rehearsal or a woman +caller. And now you are on the point of going away. You have only to say +one word: I will sing the part of Hermann--and they will produce my +opera. You will then thank God for my insistance.... Of course you sing +Siegfried, you sing Florestan--but you have no role like Hermann in your +repertoire, no role better suited to your middle register. + + [_Gerardo leans against the mantelpiece; while drumming on the top + with his right hand, he discovers something behind the screen; he + suddenly stretches out his arm and pulls out a woman in a gray + gown, whom he leads out of the room through the middle door; after + closing the door, he turns to Duhring._] + +GERARDO. Oh, are you still there? + +DUHRING [_undisturbed_]. This opera is good; it is dramatic; it is a +financial success. I can show you letters from Liszt, from Wagner, from +Rubinstein, in which they consider me as a superior man. And why hasn't +any opera ever been produced? Because I am not crying wares on the +market-place. And then you know our directors: they will revive ten dead +men before they give a live man a chance. Their walls are well guarded. +At thirty you are in. At sixty I am still out. One word from you and I +shall be in, too. This is why I have come, and [_raising his voice_] if +you are not an unfeeling brute, if success has not killed in you the +last spark of artistic sympathy, you will not refuse to hear my work. + +GERARDO. I will give you an answer in a week. I will go over your opera. +Let me have it. + +DUHRING. No, I am too old, Maestro. In a week, in what you call a week, +I shall be dead and buried. In a week--that is what they all say; and +then they keep it for years. + +GERARDO. I am very sorry but-- + +DUHRING. To-morrow perhaps you will be on your knees before me; you will +boast of knowing me ... and to-day, in your sordid lust for gold, you +cannot even spare the half-hour which would mean the breaking of my +fetters. + +GERARDO. No, really, I have only thirty-five minutes left, and unless I +go over a few passages.... You know I sing Tristan in Brussels to-morrow +night. [_He pulls out his watch._] I haven't even half an hour.... + +DUHRING. Half an hour.... Oh, then, let me play to you your big aria at +the end of the first act. [_He attempts to sit down on the piano bench. +Gerardo restrains him._] + +GERARDO. Now, frankly, my dear sir.... I am a singer; I am not a critic. +If you wish to have your opera produced, address yourself to those +gentlemen who are paid to know what is good and what is not. People +scorn and ignore my opinions in such matters as completely as they +appreciate and admire my singing. + +DUHRING. My dear Maestro, you may take it from me that I myself attach +no importance whatever to your judgment. What do I care about your +opinions? I know you tenors; I would like to play my score for you so +that you could say: "I would like to sing the role of Hermann." + +GERARDO. If you only knew how many things I would like to do and which I +have to renounce, and how many things I must do for which I do not care +in the least! Half a million a year does not repay me for the many joys +of life which I must sacrifice for the sake of my profession. I am not a +free man. But you were a free man all your life. Why didn't you go to +the market-place and cry your wares? + +DUHRING. Oh, the vulgarity of it.... I have tried it a hundred times. I +am a composer, Maestro, and nothing more. + +GERARDO. By which you mean that you have exhausted all your strength in +the writing of your operas and kept none of it to secure their +production. + +DUHRING. That is true. + +GERARDO. The composers I know reverse the process. They get their operas +written somehow and then spend all their strength in an effort to get +them produced. + +DUHRING. That is the type of artist I despise. + +GERARDO. Well, I despise the type of man that wastes his life in useless +endeavor. What have you done in those fifty years of struggle, for +yourself or for the world? Fifty years of useless struggle! That should +convince the worst blockhead of the impracticability of his dreams. What +have you done with your life? You have wasted it shamefully. If I had +wasted my life as you have wasted yours--of course I am only speaking +for myself--I don't think I should have the courage to look any one in +the face. + +DUHRING. I am not doing it for myself; I am doing it for my art. + +GERARDO [_scornfully_]. Art, my dear man! Let me tell you that art is +quite different from what the papers tell us it is. + +DUHRING. To me it is the highest thing in the world. + +GERARDO. You may believe that, but nobody else does. We artists are +merely a luxury for the use of the _bourgeoisie_. When I stand there on +the stage I feel absolutely certain that not one solitary human being in +the audience takes the slightest interest in what we, the artists, are +doing. If they did, how could they listen to "Die Walkuere," for +instance? Why, it is an indecent story which could not be mentioned +anywhere in polite society. And yet, when I sing Siegmund, the most +puritanical mothers bring their fourteen-year-old daughters to hear me. +This, you see, is the meaning of whatever you call art. This is what you +have sacrificed fifty years of your life to. Find out how many people +came to hear me sing and how many came to gape at me as they would at +the Emperor of China if he should turn up here to-morrow. Do you know +what the artistic wants of the public consist in? To applaud, to send +flowers, to have a subject for conversation, to see and be seen. They +pay me half a million, but then I make business for hundreds of cabbies, +writers, dressmakers, restaurant keepers. It keeps money circulating; it +keeps blood running. It gets girls engaged, spinsters married, wives +tempted, old cronies supplied with gossip; a woman loses her pocketbook +in the crowd, a fellow becomes insane during the performance. Doctors, +lawyers made.... [_He coughs._] And with this I must sing Tristan in +Brussels to-morrow night! I tell you all this, not out of vanity, but to +cure you of your delusions. The measure of a man's worth is the world's +opinion of him, not the inner belief which one finally adopts after +brooding over it for years. Don't imagine that you are a misunderstood +genius. There are no misunderstood geniuses. + +DUHRING. Let me just play to you the first scene of th second act. A +park landscape as in the painting, "Embarkation for the Isle of +Cythera." + +GERARDO. I repeat to you I have no time. And furthermore, since Wagner's +death the need for new operas has never been felt by any one. If you +come with new music, you set against yourself all the music schools, the +artists, the public. If you want to succeed just steal enough out of +Wagner's works to make up a whole opera. Why should I cudgel my brains +with your new music when I have cudgeled them cruelly with the old? + +DUHRING [_holding out his trembling hand_]. I am afraid I am too old to +learn how to steal. Unless one begins very young, one can never learn +it. + +GERARDO. Don't feel hurt. My dear sir--if I could.... The thought of how +you have to struggle.... I happen to have received some five hundred +marks more than my fee.... + +DUHRING [_turning to the door_]. Don't! Please don't! Do not say that. I +did not try to show you my opera in order to work a touch. No, I think +too much of this child of my brain.... No, Maestro. + + [_He goes out through the center door._] + +GERARDO [_following him to the door_]. I beg your pardon.... Pleased to +have met you. + + [_He closes the door and sinks into an armchair. A voice is heard + outside: "I will not let that man step in my way." Helen rushes + into the room followed by the Valet. She is an unusually beautiful + young woman in street dress._] + +HELEN. That man stood there to prevent me from seeing you! + +GERARDO. Helen! + +HELEN. You knew that I would come to see you. + +VALET [_rubbing his cheek_]. I did all I could, sir, but this lady +actually-- + +HELEN. Yes, I slapped his face. + +GERARDO. Helen! + +HELEN. Should I have let him insult me? + +GERARDO [_to the Valet_]. Please leave us. + + [_The Valet goes out._] + +HELEN [_placing her muff on a chair_]. I can no longer live without +you. Either you take me with you or I will kill myself. + +GERARDO. Helen! + +HELEN. Yes, kill myself. A day like yesterday, without even seeing +you--no, I could not live through that again. I am not strong enough. I +beseech you, Oscar, take me with you. + +GERARDO. I couldn't. + +HELEN. You could if you wanted to. You can't leave me without killing +me. These are not mere words. This isn't a threat. It is a fact: I will +die if I can no longer have you. You must take me with you--it is your +duty--if only for a short time. + +GERARDO. I give you my word of honor, Helen, I can't--I give you my +word. + +HELEN. You must, Oscar. Whether you can or not, you must bear the +consequences of your acts. I love life, but to me life and you are one +and the same thing. Take me with you, Oscar, if you don't want to have +my blood on your hands. + +GERARDO. Do you remember what I said to you the first day we were +together here? + +HELEN. I remember, but what good does that do me? + +GERARDO. I said that there couldn't be any question of love between us. + +HELEN. I can't help that. I didn't know you then. I never knew what a +man could be to me until I met you. You know very well that it would +come to this, otherwise you wouldn't have obliged me to promise not to +make you a parting scene. + +GERARDO. I simply cannot take you with me. + +HELEN. Oh, God! I knew you would say that! I knew it when I came here. +That's what you say to every woman. And I am just one of a hundred. I +know it. But, Oscar, I am lovesick; I am dying of love. This is your +work, and you can save me without any sacrifice on your part, without +assuming any burden. Why can't you do it? + +GERARDO [_very slowly_]. Because my contract forbids me to marry or to +travel in the company of a woman. + +HELEN [_disturbed_]. What can prevent you? + +GERARDO. My contract. + +HELEN. You cannot.... + +GERARDO. I cannot marry until my contract expires. + +HELEN. And you cannot.... + +GERARDO. I cannot travel in the company of a woman. + +HELEN. That is incredible. And whom in the world should it concern? + +GERARDO. My manager. + +HELEN. Your manager! What business is it of his? + +GERARDO. It is precisely his business. + +HELEN. Is it perhaps because it might--affect your voice? + +GERARDO. Yes. + +HELEN. That is preposterous. Does it affect your voice? + + [_Gerardo chuckles._] + +HELEN. Does your manager believe that nonsense? + +GERARDO. No, he doesn't. + +HELEN. This is beyond me. I can't understand how a decent man could sign +such a contract. + +GERARDO. I am an artist first and a man next. + +HELEN. Yes, that's what you are--a great artist--an eminent artist. +Can't you understand how much I must love you? You are the first man +whose superiority I have felt and whom I desired to please, and you +despise me for it. I have bitten my lips many a time not to let you +suspect how much you meant to me; I was so afraid I might bore you. +Yesterday, however, put me in a state of mind which no woman can endure. +If I didn't love you so insanely, Oscar, you would think more of me. +That is the terrible thing about you--that you must scorn a woman who +thinks the world of you. + +GERARDO. Helen! + +HELEN. Your contract! Don't use your contract as a weapon to murder me +with. Let me go with you, Oscar. You will see if your manager ever +mentions a breach of contract. He would not do such a thing. I know men. +And if he says a word, it will be time then for me to die. + +GERARDO. We have no right to do that, Helen. You are just as little free +to follow me, as I am to shoulder such a responsibility. I don't belong +to myself; I belong to my art. + +HELEN. Oh, leave your art alone. What do I care about your art? Has God +created a man like you to make a puppet of himself every night? You +should be ashamed of it instead of boasting of it. You see, I overlooked +the fact that you were merely an artist. What wouldn't I overlook for a +god like you? Even if you were a convict, Oscar, my feelings would be +the same. I would lie in the dust at your feet and beg for your pity. I +would face death as I am facing it now. + +GERARDO [_laughing_]. Facing death, Helen! Women who are endowed with +your gifts for enjoying life don't make away with themselves. You know +even better than I do the value of life. + +HELEN [_dreamily_]. Oscar, I didn't say that I would shoot myself. When +did I say that? Where would I find the courage to do that? I only said +that I will die, if you don't take me with you. I will die as I would of +an illness, for I only live when I am with you. I can live without my +home, without my children, but not without you, Oscar. I cannot live +without you. + +GERARDO. Helen, if you don't calm yourself.... You put me in an awful +position.... I have only ten minutes left.... I can't explain in court +that your excitement made me break my contract.... I can only give you +ten minutes.... If you don't calm yourself in that time.... I can't +leave you alone in this condition. Think all you have at stake! + +HELEN. As though I had anything else at stake! + +GERARDO. You can lose your position in society. + +HELEN. I can lose you! + +GERARDO. And your family? + +HELEN. I care for no one but you. + +GERARDO. But I cannot be yours. + +HELEN. Then I have nothing to lose but my life. + +GERARDO. Your children! + +HELEN. Who has taken me from them, Oscar? Who has taken me from my +children? + +GERARDO. Did I make any advances to you? + +HELEN [_passionately_]. No, no. I have thrown myself at you, and would +throw myself at you again. Neither my husband nor my children could keep +me back. When I die, at least I will have lived; thanks to you, Oscar! I +thank you, Oscar, for revealing me to myself. I thank you for that. + +GERARDO. Helen, calm yourself and listen to me. + +HELEN. Yes, yes, for ten minutes. + +GERARDO. Listen to me. [_Both sit down on the divan._] + +HELEN [_staring at him_]. Yes, I thank you for it. + +GERARDO. Helen! + +HELEN. I don't even ask you to love me. Let me only breathe the air you +breathe. + +GERARDO[_trying to be calm_]. Helen--a man of my type cannot be swayed +by any of the bourgeois ideas. I have known society women in every +country of the world. Some made parting scenes to me, but at least they +all knew what they owed to their position. This is the first time in my +life that I have witnessed such an outburst of passion.... Helen, the +temptation comes to me daily to step with some woman into an idyllic +Arcadia. But every human being has his duties; you have your duties as I +have mine, and the call of duty is the highest thing in the world.... + +HELEN. I know better than you do what the highest duty is. + +GERARDO. What, then? Your love for me? That's what they all say. +Whatever a woman has set her heart on winning is to her good; whatever +crosses her plans is evil. It is the fault of our playwrights. To draw +full houses they set the world upside down, and when a woman abandons +her children and her family to follow her instincts they call that--oh, +broad-mindedness. I personally wouldn't mind living the way turtle doves +live. But since I am a part of this world I must obey my duty first. +Then whenever the opportunity arises I quaff of the cup of joy. Whoever +refuses to do his duty has no right to make any demands upon another +fellow being. + +HELEN [_staring absent-mindedly_]. That does not bring the dead back to +life. + +GERARDO [_nervously_]. Helen, I will give you back your life. I will +give you back what you have sacrificed for me. For God's sake take it. +What does it come to, after all? Helen, how can a woman lower herself to +that point? Where is your pride? What am I in the eyes of the world? A +man who makes a puppet of himself every night! Helen, are you going to +kill yourself for a man whom hundreds of women loved before you, whom +hundreds of women will love after you without letting their feelings +disturb their life one second? Will you, by shedding your warm red +blood, make yourself ridiculous before God and the world? + +HELEN [_looking away from him_]. I know I am asking a good deal, +but--what else can I do? + +GERARDO. Helen, you said I should bear the consequences of my acts. Will +you reproach for not refusing to receive you when you first came here, +ostensibly to ask me to try your voice? What can a man do in such a +case? You are the beauty of this town. Either I would be known as the +bear among artists who denies himself to all women callers, or I might +have received you and pretended that I didn't understand what you meant +and then pass for a fool. Or the very first day I might have talked to +you as frankly as I am talking now. Dangerous business. You would have +called me a conceited idiot. Tell me, Helen--what else could I do? + +HELEN [_staring at him with, imploring eyes, shuddering and making an +effort to speak_]. O God! O God! Oscar, what would you say if to-morrow +I should go and be as happy with another man as I have been with you? +Oscar--what would you say? + +GERARDO [_after a silence_]. Nothing. [_He looks at his watch._] Helen-- + +HELEN. Oscar! [_She kneels before him._] For the last time, I implore +you.... You don't know what you are doing.... It isn't your fault--but +don't let me die.... Save me--save me! + +GERARDO [_raising her up_]. Helen, I am not such a wonderful man. How +many men have you known? The more men you come to know, the lower all +men will fall in your estimation. When you know men better you will not +take your life for any one of them. You will not think any more of them +than I do of women. + +HELEN. I am not like you in that respect. + +GERARDO. I speak earnestly, Helen. We don't fall in love with one person +or another; we fall in love with our type, which we find everywhere in +the world if we only look sharply enough. + +HELEN. And when we meet our type, are we sure then of being loved again? + +GERARDO [_angrily_]. You have no right to complain of your husband. Was +any girl ever compelled to marry against her will? That is all rot. It +is only the women who have sold themselves for certain material +advantages and then try to dodge their obligations who try to make us +believe that nonsense. + +HELEN [_smiling_]. They break their contracts. + +GERARDO [_pounding his chest_]. When I sell myself, at least I am honest +about it. + +HELEN. Isn't love honest? + +GERARDO. No! Love is a beastly bourgeois virtue. Love is the last refuge +of the mollycoddle, of the coward. In my world every man has his actual +value, and when two human beings make up a pact they know exactly what +to expect from each other. Love has nothing to do with it, either. + +HELEN. Won't you lead me into your world, then? + +GERARDO. Helen, will you compromise the happiness of your life and the +happiness of your dear ones for just a few days' pleasure? + +HELEN. No. + +GERARDO [_much relieved_]. Will you promise me to go home quietly now? + +HELEN. Yes. + +GERARDO. And will you promise me that you will not die.... + +HELEN. Yes. + +GERARDO. You promise me that? + +HELEN. Yes. + +GERARDO. And you promise me to fulfill your duties as mother and--as +wife? + +HELEN. Yes. + +GERARDO. Helen! + +HELEN. Yes. What else do you want? I will promise anything. + +GERARDO. And now may I go away in peace? + +HELEN [_rising_]. Yes. + +GERARDO. A last kiss? + +HELEN. Yes, yes, yes. [_They kiss passionately._] + +GERARDO. In a year I am booked again to sing here, Helen. + +HELEN. In a year! Oh, I am glad! + +GERARDO [_tenderly_]. Helen! + + [_Helen presses his hand, takes a revolver out of her muff, shoots + herself and falls._] + +GERARDO. Helen! [_He totters and collapses in an armchair._] + +BELL BOY [_rushing in_]. My God! Mr. Gerardo! [_Gerardo remains +motionless; the Bell Boy rushes toward Helen._] + +GERARDO [_jumping up, running to the door and colliding with the manager +of the hotel_]. Send for the police! I must be arrested! If I went away +now I should be a brute, and if I stay I break my contract. I still have +[_looking at his watch_] one minute and ten seconds. + +MANAGER. Fred, run and get a policeman. + +BELL BOY. All right, sir. + +MANAGER. Be quick about it. [_To Gerardo._] Don't take it too hard, sir. +Those things happen once in a while. + +GERARDO [_kneeling before Helen's body and taking her hand_]. Helen!... +She still lives--she still lives! If I am arrested I am not wilfully +breaking my contract.... And my trunks? Is the carriage at the door? + +MANAGER. It has been waiting twenty minutes, Mr. Gerardo. [_He opens the +door for the porter, who takes down one of the trunks._] + +GERARDO [_bending over her_]. Helen! [_To himself._] Well, after all.... +[_To Muller._] Have you called a doctor? + +MANAGER. Yes, we had the doctor called at once. He will be here at any +minute. + +GERARDO [_holding her under the arms_]. Helen! Don't you know me any +more? Helen! The doctor will be here right away, Helen. This is your +Oscar. + +BELL BOY [_appearing in the door at the center_]. Can't find any +policeman, sir. + +GERARDO [_letting Helen's body drop back_]. Well, if I can't get +arrested, that settles it. I must catch that train and sing in Brussels +to-morrow night. [_He takes up his score and runs out through the center +door, bumping against several chairs._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +A GOOD WOMAN + + A FARCE + + BY ARNOLD BENNETT + + + CHARACTERS + + JAMES BRETT [_a Clerk in the War Office_, 33]. + GERALD O'MARA [_a Civil Engineer_, 24]. + ROSAMUND FIFE [_a Spinster and a Lecturer on Cookery_, 28]. + + + Reprinted from "Polite Farces," published by George H. Doran Company, + by special arrangement with Mr. Arnold Bennett. + + + +A GOOD WOMAN + +A FARCE BY ARNOLD BENNETT + + + [SCENE: _Rosamund's Flat; the drawing-room. The apartment is + plainly furnished. There is a screen in the corner of the room + furthest from the door. It is 9 A. M. Rosamund is seated alone at + a table. She wears a neat travelling-dress, with a plain straw + hat. Her gloves lie on a chair. A small portable desk full of + papers is open before her. She gazes straight in front of her, + smiling vaguely. With a start she recovers from her daydreams, and + rushing to the looking-glass, inspects her features therein. Then + she looks at her watch._] + + +ROSAMUND. Three hours yet! I'm a fool [_with decision. She sits down +again, and idly picks up a paper out of the desk. The door opens, +unceremoniously but quietly, and James enters. The two stare at each +other, James wearing a conciliatory smile_]. + +ROSAMUND. You appalling creature! + +JAMES. I couldn't help it, I simply couldn't help it. + +ROSAMUND. Do you know this is the very height and summit of indelicacy? + +JAMES. I was obliged to come. + +ROSAMUND. If I had any relations-- + +JAMES. Which you haven't. + +ROSAMUND. I say _if_ I had any relations-- + +JAMES. I say _which_ you haven't. + +ROSAMUND. Never mind, it is a safe rule for unattached women always to +behave as if they had relations, especially female relations whether +they have any or not. My remark is, that if I had any relations they +would be absolutely scandalized by this atrocious conduct of yours. + +JAMES. What have I done? + +ROSAMUND. Can you ask? Here are you, and here am I. We are to be married +to-day at twelve o'clock. The ceremony has not taken place, and yet you +are found on my premises. You must surely be aware that on the day of +the wedding the parties--yes, the "parties," that is the word--should on +no account see each other till they see each other in church. + +JAMES. But since we are to be married at a registry office, does the +rule apply? + +ROSAMUND. Undoubtedly. + +JAMES. Then I must apologize. My excuse is that I am not up in these +minute details of circumspection; you see I have been married so seldom. + +ROSAMUND. Evidently. [_A pause, during which James at last ventures to +approach the middle of the room._] Now you must go back home, and we'll +pretend we haven't seen each other. + +JAMES. Never, Rosamund! That would be acting a lie. And I couldn't dream +of getting married with a lie on my lips. It would be so unusual. No; we +have sinned, or rather I have sinned, on this occasion. I will continue +to sin--openly, brazenly. Come here, my dove. A bird in the hand is +worth two under a bushel. [_He assumes an attitude of entreaty, and, +leaving her chair, Rosamund goes towards him. They exchange an ardent +kiss._] + +ROSAMUND [_quietly submissive_]. I'm awfully busy, you know, Jim. + +JAMES. I will assist you in your little duties, dearest, and then I will +accompany you to the sacred ed--to the registry office. Now, what were +you doing? [_She sits down, and he puts a chair for himself close beside +her._] + +ROSAMUND. You are singularly unlike yourself this morning, dearest. + +JAMES. Nervous tension, my angel. I should have deemed it impossible +that an _employe_ of the War Office could experience the marvelous and +exquisite sensations now agitating my heart. But tell me, what are you +doing with these papers? + +ROSAMUND. Well, I was just going to look through them and see if they +contained anything of a remarkable or valuable nature. You see, I hadn't +anything to occupy myself with. + +JAMES. Was 'oo bored, waiting for the timey-pimey to come? + +ROSAMUND [_hands caressing_]. 'Iss, little pet was bored, she was. Was +Mr. Pet lonely this morning? Couldn't he keep away from his little +cooky-lecturer? He should see his little cooky-lecturer. + +JAMES. And that reminds me, hadn't we better lunch in the train instead +of at Willis's? That will give us more time? + +ROSAMUND. Horrid greedy piggywiggy! Perhaps he will be satisfied if Mrs. +Pet agrees to lunch both at Willis's and in the train? + +JAMES. Yes. Only piggywiggy doesn't want to trespass on Mrs. Pet's good +nature. Let piggywiggy look at the papers. [_He takes up a paper from +the desk._] + +ROSAMUND [_a little seriously_]. No, Jimmy. I don't think we'll go +through them. Perhaps it wouldn't be wise. Just let's destroy them. +[_Takes papers from his hand and drops them in desk._] + +JAMES [_sternly_]. When you have been the wife of a War Office clerk for +a week you will know that papers ought never to be destroyed. Now I come +to think, it is not only my right but my duty to examine this secret +_dossier_. Who knows--[_Takes up at random another document, which +proves to be a postcard. Reads._] "Shall come to-morrow night. Thine, +Gerald." + +ROSAMUND [_after a startled shriek of consternation_]. There! There! +You've done it, first time! [_She begins to think, with knitted brows._] + +JAMES. Does this highly suspicious postcard point to some--some episode +in your past of which you have deemed it advisable to keep me in +ignorance? If so, I seek not to inquire. I forgive you--I take you, +Rosamund, as you are! + +ROSAMUND [_reflective, not heeding his remark_]. I had absolutely +forgotten the whole affair, absolutely. [_Smiles a little. Aside._] +Suppose he should come! [_To James._] Jim, I think I had better tell you +all about Gerald. It will interest you. Besides, there is no knowing +what may happen. + +JAMES. As I have said, I seek not to inquire. [_Stiffly._] Nor do I +imagine that this matter, probably some childish entanglement, would +interest me. + +ROSAMUND. Oh, wouldn't it! Jim, don't be absurd. You know perfectly well +you are dying to hear. + +JAMES. Very well, save my life, then, at the least expense of words. To +begin with, who is this Gerald--"thine," thine own Gerald? + +ROSAMUND. Don't you remember Gerald O'Mara? You met him at the Stokes's, +I feel sure. You know--the young engineer. + +JAMES. Oh! _That_ ass! + +ROSAMUND. He isn't an ass. He's a very clever boy. + +JAMES. For the sake of argument and dispatch, agreed! Went out to Cyprus +or somewhere, didn't he, to build a bridge, or make a dock, or dig a +well, or something of that kind? + +ROSAMUND [_nodding_]. Now, listen, I'll tell you all about it. [_Settles +herself for a long narration._] Four years ago poor, dear Gerald was +madly in love with me. He was twenty and I was twenty-four. Keep calm--I +felt like his aunt. Don't forget I was awfully pretty in those days. +Well, he was so tremendously in love that in order to keep him from +destroying himself--of course, I knew he was going out to Cyprus--I sort +of pretended to be sympathetic. I simply _had_ to; Irishmen are so +passionate. And he was very nice. And I barely knew you then. Well, the +time approached for him to leave for Cyprus, and two days before the +ship sailed he sent me that very postcard that by pure chance you picked +up. + +JAMES. He should have written a letter. + +ROSAMUND. Oh! I expect he couldn't wait. He was so impulsive. Well, on +the night before he left England he came here and proposed to me. I +remember I was awfully tired and queer. I had been giving a lecture in +the afternoon on "How to Pickle Pork," and the practical demonstration +had been rather smelly. However, the proposal braced me up. It was the +first I had had--that year. Well, I was so sorry for him that I +couldn't say "No" outright. It would have been too brutal. He might have +killed himself on the spot, and spoilt this carpet, which, by the way, +was new then. So I said, "Look here, Gerald--" + +JAMES. You called him "Gerald"? + +ROSAMUND. _Rather!_ "Look here, Gerald," I said; "you are going to +Cyprus for four years. If your feeling towards me is what you think it +is, come back to me at the end of those four years, and I will then give +you an answer." Of course I felt absolutely sure that in the intervening +period he would fall in and out of love half a dozen times at least. + +JAMES. Of course, half a dozen times at least; probably seven. What did +he say in reply? + +ROSAMUND. He agreed with all the seriousness in the world. "On this day +four years hence," he said, standing just there [_pointing_], "I will +return for your answer. And in the meantime I will live only for you." +That was what he said--his very words. + +JAMES. And a most touching speech, too! And then? + +ROSAMUND. We shook hands, and he tore himself away, stifling a sob. +Don't forget, he was a boy. + +JAMES. Have the four years expired? + +ROSAMUND. What is the date of that postcard? Let me see it. [_Snatches +it, and smiles at the handwriting pensively._] July 4th--four years ago. + +JAMES. Then it's over. He's not coming. To-day is July 5th. + +ROSAMUND. But yesterday was Sunday. He wouldn't come on Sunday. He was +always very particular and nice. + +JAMES. Do you mean to imply that you think he will come to-day and +demand from you an affirmative? A moment ago you gave me to understand +that in your opinion he would have--er--other affairs to attend to. + +ROSAMUND. Yes. I did think so at the time. But now--now I have a kind of +idea that he may come, that after all he may have remained faithful. You +know I was maddeningly pretty then, and he had my photograph. + +JAMES. Tell me, have you corresponded? + +ROSAMUND. No, I expressly forbade it. + +JAMES. Ah! + +ROSAMUND. But still, I have a premonition he may come. + +JAMES [_assuming a pugnacious pose_]. If he does, I will attend to him. + +ROSAMUND. Gerald was a terrible fighter. [_A resounding knock is heard +at the door. Both start violently, and look at each other in silence. +Rosamund goes to the door and opens it._] + +ROSAMUND [_with an unsteady laugh of relief_]. Only the postman with a +letter. [_She returns to her seat._] No, I don't expect he will come, +really. [_Puts letter idly on table. Another knock still louder. Renewed +start._] + +ROSAMUND. Now that _is_ he, I'm positive. He always knocked like that. +Just fancy. After four years! Jim, just take the chair behind that +screen for a bit. I _must_ hide you. + +JAMES. No, thanks! The screen dodge is a trifle _too_ frayed at the +edges. + +ROSAMUND. Only for a minute. It would be _such_ fun. + +JAMES. No, thanks. [_Another knock._] + +ROSAMUND [_with forced sweetness_]. Oh, very well, then.... + +JAMES. Oh, well, of course, if you take it in that way--[_He proceeds to +a chair behind screen, which does not, however, hide him from the +audience._] + +ROSAMUND [_smiles his reward_]. I'll explain it all right. [_Loudly._] +Come in! [_Enter Gerald O'Mara._] + +GERALD. So you are in! [_Hastens across room to shake hands._] + +ROSAMUND. Oh, yes, I am in. Gerald, how are you? I must say you look +tolerably well. [_They sit down._] + +GERALD. Oh, I'm pretty fit, thanks. Had the most amazing time in spite +of the climate. And you? Rosie, you haven't changed a little bit. How's +the cookery trade getting along? Are you still showing people how to +concoct French dinners out of old bones and a sardine tin? + +ROSAMUND. Certainly. Only I can do it without the bones now. You see, +the science has progressed while you've been stagnating in Cyprus. + +GERALD. Stagnating is the word. You wouldn't believe that climate! + +ROSAMUND. What! Not had nice weather? What a shame! I thought it was +tremendously sunshiny in Cyprus. + +GERALD. Yes, that's just what it is, 97 deg. in the shade when it doesn't +happen to be pouring with malarial rain. We started a little golf club +at Nicosia, and laid out a nine-hole course. But the balls used to melt. +So we had to alter the rules, keep the balls in an ice-box, and take a +fresh one at every hole. Think of that! + +ROSAMUND. My poor boy! But I suppose there were compensations? You +referred to "an amazing time." + +GERALD. Yes, there were compensations. And that reminds me, I want you +to come out and lunch with me at the Savoy. I've got something awfully +important to ask you. In fact, that's what I've come for. + +ROSAMUND. Sorry I can't, Gerald. The fact is, I've got something awfully +important myself just about lunch time. + +GERALD. Oh, yours can wait. Look here, I've ordered the lunch. I made +sure you'd come. [_Rosamund shakes her head._] Why can't you? It's not +cooking, is it? + +ROSAMUND. Only a goose. + +GERALD. What goose? + +ROSAMUND. Well--my own, and somebody else's. Listen, Gerald. Had you not +better ask me this awfully important question now? No time like the +present. + +GERALD. I can always talk easier, especially on delicate topics, with a +pint of something handy. But if you positively won't come, I'll get it +off my chest now. The fact is, Rosie, I'm in love. + +ROSAMUND. With whom? + +GERALD. Ah! That's just what I want you to tell me. + +ROSAMUND [_suddenly starting_]. Gerald! what is that dreadful thing +sticking out of your pocket, and pointing right at me? + +GERALD. That? That's my revolver. Always carry them in Cyprus, you know. +Plenty of sport there. + +ROSAMUND [_breathing again_]. Kindly take it out of your pocket and put +it on the table. Then if it does go off it will go off into something +less valuable than a cookery-lecturer. + +GERALD [_laughingly obeying her_]. There. If anything happens it will +happen to the screen. Now, Rosie, I'm in love, and I desire that you +should tell me whom I'm in love with. There's a magnificent girl in +Cyprus, daughter of the Superintendent of Police-- + +ROSAMUND. Name? + +GERALD. Evelyn. Age nineteen. I tell you I was absolutely gone on her. + +ROSAMUND. Symptoms? + +GERALD. Well--er--whenever her name was mentioned I blushed +terrifically. Of course, that was only one symptom.... Then I met a girl +on the home steamer--no father or mother. An orphan, you know, awfully +interesting. + +ROSAMUND. Name? + +GERALD. Madge. Nice name, isn't it? [_Rosamund nods._] I don't mind +telling you, I was considerably struck by her--still am, in fact. + +ROSAMUND. Symptoms? + +GERALD. Oh!... Let me see, I never think of her without turning +absolutely pale. I suppose it's what they call "pale with passion." +Notice it? + +ROSAMUND [_somewhat coldly_]. It seems to me the situation amounts to +this. There are two girls. One is named Evelyn, and the thought of her +makes you blush. The other is named Madge, and the thought of her makes +you turn pale. You fancy yourself in love, and you wish me to decide for +you whether it is Madge or Evelyn who agitates your breast the more +deeply. + +GERALD. That's not exactly the way to put it, Rosie. You take a fellow +up too soon. Of course I must tell you lots more yet. You should hear +Evelyn play the "Moonlight Sonata." It's the most marvelous thing.... +And then Madge's eyes! The way that girl can look at a fellow.... I'm +telling you all these things, you know, Rosie, because I've always +looked up to you as an elder sister. + +ROSAMUND [_after a pause, during which she gazes into his face_]. I +suppose it was in my character of your elder sister, that you put a +certain question to me four years ago last night? + +GERALD [_staggered; pulls himself together for a great resolve; after a +long pause_]. Rosie! I never thought afterwards you'd take it seriously. +I forgot it all. I was only a boy then. [_Speaking quicker and +quicker._] But I see clearly now. I never _could_ withstand you. It's +all rot about Evelyn and Madge. It's you I'm in love with; and I never +guessed it! Rosie!... [_Rushes to her and impetuously flings his arms +around her neck._] + +JAMES [_who, during the foregoing scene, has been full of uneasy +gestures; leaping with incredible swiftness from the shelter of the +screen_]. Sir! + +ROSAMUND [_pushing Gerald quickly away_]. Gerald! + +JAMES. May I inquire, sir, what is the precise significance of this +attitudinising? [_Gerald has scarcely yet abandoned his amorous pose, +but now does so quickly_]. Are we in the middle of a scene from "Romeo +and Juliet," or is this 9:30 A. M. in the nineteenth century? If Miss +Fife had played the "Moonlight Sonata" to you, or looked at you as Madge +does, there might perhaps have been some shadow of an excuse for your +extraordinary and infamous conduct. But since she has performed neither +of these feats of skill, I fail to grasp--I say I fail to grasp--er-- + +GERALD [_slowly recovering from an amazement which has rendered him +mute_]. Rosie, a man concealed in your apartment! But perhaps it is the +piano-tuner. I am willing to believe the best. + +ROSAMUND. Let me introduce Mr. James Brett, my future husband. Jim, this +is Gerald. + +JAMES. I have gathered as much. [_The men bow stiffly._] + +ROSAMUND [_dreamily_]. Poor, poor Gerald! [_Her tone is full of feeling. +James is evidently deeply affected by it. He walks calmly and steadily +to the table and picks up the revolver._] + +GERALD. Sir, that tool is mine. + +JAMES. Sir, the fact remains that it is an engine of destruction, and +that I intend to use it. Rosamund, the tone in which you uttered those +three words, "Poor, poor Gerald!" convinces me, a keen observer of +symptoms, that I no longer possess your love. Without your love, life to +me is meaningless. I object to anything meaningless--even a word. I +shall therefore venture to deprive myself of life. Good-by! [_To +Gerald._] Sir, I may see you later. [_Raises the revolver to his +temples._] + +ROSAMUND [_appealing to Gerald to interfere_]. Gerald. + +GERALD. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver is mine. It would be a +serious breach of good manners if you used it without my consent, a +social solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss Fife's, to +be absolutely incapable. Still, as the instrument happens to be in your +hand, you may use it--but not on yourself. Have the goodness, sir, to +aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand in the way of another's +happiness, as I should do if I continued to exist. At the same time I +have conscientious objections to suicide. You will therefore do me a +service by aiming straight. Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I +merely mention it because I perceive that you are unaccustomed to the +use of firearms. [_Folds his arms._] + +JAMES. Rosamund, _do_ you love me? + +ROSAMUND. My Jim! + +JAMES [_deeply moved_]. The possessive pronoun convinces me that you do. +[_Smiling blandly._] Sir, I will grant your most reasonable demand. +[_Aims at Gerald._] + +ROSAMUND [_half shrieking_]. I don't love you if you shoot Gerald. + +JAMES. But, my dear, this is irrational. He has asked me to shoot him, +and I have as good as promised to do so. + +ROSAMUND [_entreating_]. James, in two hours we are to be married.... +Think of the complications. + +GERALD. Married! To-day! Then I withdraw my request. + +JAMES. Yes; perhaps it will be as well. [_Lowers revolver._] + +GERALD. I have never yet knowingly asked a friend, even an acquaintance, +to shoot me on his wedding-day, and I will not begin now. Moreover, now +I come to think of it, the revolver wasn't loaded. Mr. Brett, I +inadvertently put you in a ridiculous position. I apologize. + +JAMES. I accept the apology. [_The general tension slackens. Both the +men begin to whistle gently, in the effort after unconcern._] + +ROSAMUND. Jim, will you oblige me by putting that revolver down +somewhere. I know it isn't loaded; but so many people have been killed +by guns that weren't loaded that I should feel safer.... [_He puts it +down on the table._] Thank you! + +JAMES [_picking up letter_]. By the way, here's that letter that came +just now. Aren't you going to open it? The writing seems to me to be +something like Lottie Dickinson's. + +ROSAMUND [_taking the letter_]. It isn't Lottie's; it's her sister's. +[_Stares at envelope._] I know what it is. I _know_ what it is. Lottie +is ill, or dead, or something, and can't come and be a witness at the +wedding. I'm sure it's that. Now, if she's dead we can't _be_ married +to-day; it wouldn't be decent. And it's frightfully unlucky to have a +wedding postponed. Oh, but there isn't a black border on the envelope, +so she can't be _dead_. And yet perhaps it was so sudden they hadn't +time to buy mourning stationery! This is the result of your coming here +this morning. I felt sure something would happen. Didn't I tell you so? + +JAMES. No, you didn't, my dear. But why don't you open the letter? + +ROSAMUND. I am opening it as fast as I can. [_Reads it hurriedly._] +There! I said so! Lottie fell off her bicycle last night, and broke her +ankle--won't be able to stir for a fortnight--in great pain--hopes it +won't _inconvenience_ us! + +JAMES. Inconvenience! I must say I regard it as very thoughtless of +Lottie to go bicycling the very night before our wedding. Where did she +fall off? + +ROSAMUND. Sloane Street. + +JAMES. That makes it positively criminal. She always falls off in Sloane +Street. She makes a regular practice of it. I have noticed it before. + +ROSAMUND. Perhaps she did it on purpose. + +JAMES. Not a doubt of it! + +ROSAMUND. She doesn't want us to get married! + +JAMES. I have sometimes suspected that she had a certain tenderness for +me. [_Endeavoring to look meek._] + +ROSAMUND. The cat! + +JAMES. By no means. Cats are never sympathetic. She is. Let us be just +before we are jealous. + +ROSAMUND. Jealous! My dear James! Have you noticed how her skirts hang? + +JAMES. Hang her skirts! + +ROSAMUND. You wish to defend her? + +JAMES. On the contrary; it was I who first accused her. [_Gerald, to +avoid the approaching storm, seeks the shelter of the screen, sits down, +and taking some paper from his pocket begins thoughtfully to write._] + +ROSAMUND. My dear James, let me advise you to keep quite, quite calm. +You are a little bit upset. + +JAMES. I am a perfect cucumber. But I can hear you breathing. + +ROSAMUND. If you are a cucumber, you are a very indelicate cucumber. I'm +not breathing more than is necessary to sustain life. + +JAMES. Yes, you are; and what's more you'll cry in a minute if you don't +take care. You're getting worked up. + +ROSAMUND. No, I shan't. [_Sits down and cries._] + +JAMES. What did I tell you? Now perhaps you will inform me what we are +quarreling about, because I haven't the least idea. + +ROSAMUND [_through her sobs_]. I do think it's horrid of Lottie. We +can't be married with one witness. And I didn't want to be married at a +registry office at all. + +JAMES. My pet, we can easily get another witness. As for the registry +office, it was yourself who proposed it, as a way out of a difficulty. +I'm High and you're Low-- + +ROSAMUND. I'm not Low; I'm Broad, or else Evangelical. + +JAMES [_beginning calmly again_]. I'm High and you're Broad, and there +was a serious question about candles and a genuflexion, and so we +decided on the registry office, which, after all, is much cheaper. + +ROSAMUND [_drying her tears, and putting on a saintly expression_]. +Well, anyhow, James, we will consider our engagement at an end. + +JAMES. This extraordinary tiff has lasted long enough, Rosie. Come and +be kissed. + +ROSAMUND [_with increased saintliness_]. You mistake me, James. I am not +quarreling. I am not angry. + +JAMES. Then you have ceased to love me? + +ROSAMUND. I adore you passionately. But we can never marry. Do you not +perceive the warnings against such a course? First of all you come +here--drawn by some mysterious, sinister impulse--in breach of all +etiquette. That was a Sign. + +JAMES. A sign of what? + +ROSAMUND. Evil. Then you find that postcard, to remind me of a forgotten +episode. + +JAMES. Damn the postcard! I wish I'd never picked it up. + +ROSAMUND. Hush! Then comes this letter about Lottie. + +JAMES. Damn that, too! + +ROSAMUND [_sighs_]. Then Gerald arrives. + +JAMES. Damn him, too! By the way, where is he? + +GERALD [_coming out from behind the screen_]. Sir, if you want to +influence my future state by means of a blasphemous expletive, let me +beg you to do it when ladies are not present. There are certain prayers +which should only be uttered in the smoking-room. [_The two men stab +each other with their eyes._] + +JAMES. I respectfully maintain, Mr. O'Mara, that you had no business to +call on my future wife within three hours of her wedding, and throw her +into such a condition of alarm and unrest that she doesn't know whether +she is going to get married or not. + +GERALD. Sir! How in the name of Heaven was I to guess-- + +ROSAMUND [_rising, with an imperative gesture_]. Stop! Sit down, both. +James [_who hesitates_], this is the last request I shall ever make of +you. [_He sits_]. Let me speak. Long ago, from a mistaken motive of +kindness, I gave this poor boy [_pointing to Gerald_] to understand that +I loved him; that any rate I should love him in time. Supported by that +assurance, he existed for four years through the climatic terrors of a +distant isle. I, pampered with all the superfluities of civilization, +forgot this noble youth in his exile. I fell selfishly in love. I +promised to marry ... while he, with nothing to assuage the rigors-- + +JAMES. Pardon me, there was Evelyn's "Moonlight Sonata," not to mention +Madge's eyes. + +ROSAMUND. You jest, James, but the jest is untimely. Has he not himself +said that these doubtless excellent young women were in fact nothing to +him, that it was _my_ image which he kept steadfastly in his heart? + +GERALD. Ye--es, of course, Rosie. + +ROSAMUND [_chiefly to James_]. The sight of this poor youth fills me +with sorrow and compunction and shame. For it reminds me that four years +ago I lied to him. + +GERALD. It was awfully good of you, you know. + +ROSAMUND. That is beside the point. At an earlier period of this unhappy +morning, James, you asseverated that you could not dream of getting +married with a lie on your lips. Neither can I. James, I love you to +madness. [_Takes his inert hand, shakes it, and drops it again._] +Good-by, James! Henceforth we shall be strangers. My duty is towards +Gerald. + +GERALD. But if you love _him_? + +ROSAMUND. With a good woman, conscience comes first, love second. In +time I shall learn to love _you_. I was always quick at lessons. Gerald, +take me. It is the only way by which I can purge my lips of the lie +uttered four years ago. [_Puts her hands on Gerald's shoulders._] + +JAMES. In about three-quarters of an hour you will regret this, Rosamund +Fife. + +ROSAMUND. One never regrets a good action. + +GERALD. Oh! well! I say.... [_inarticulate with embarrassment_]. + +ROSAMUND [_after a pause_]. James, we are waiting. + +JAMES. What for? + +ROSAMUND. For you to go. + +JAMES. Don't mind me. You forget that I am in the War Office, and +accustomed to surprising situations. + +GERALD. Look here, Rosie. It's awfully good of you, and you're doing me +a frightfully kind turn; but I can't accept it, you know. It wouldn't +do. Kindness spoils my character. + +JAMES. Yes, and think of the shock to the noble youth. + +GERALD. I couldn't permit such a sacrifice. + +ROSAMUND. To a good woman life should be one long sacrifice. + +GERALD. Yes, that's all very well, and I tell you, Rosie, I'm awfully +obliged to you. Of course I'm desperately in love with you. That goes +without saying. But I also must sacrifice myself. The fact is ... +there's Madge.... + +ROSAMUND. Well? + +GERALD. Well, you know what a place a steamer is, especially in calm, +warm weather. I'm afraid I've rather led her to expect.... The fact is, +while you and Mr. Brett were having your little discussion just now, I +employed the time in scribbling out a bit of a letter to her, and I +rather fancy that I've struck one or two deuced good ideas in the +proposal line. How's this for a novelty: "My dear Miss Madge, you cannot +fail to have noticed from my behavior in your presence that I admire you +tremendously?" Rather a neat beginning, eh? + +ROSAMUND. But you said you loved me. + +GERALD. Oh, well, so I do. You see I only state that I "admire" her. All +the same I feel I'm sort of bound to her, ... you see how I'm fixed. I +should much prefer, of course.... + +JAMES. To a good man life should be one long sacrifice. + +GERALD. Exactly, sir. + +ROSAMUND [_steadying herself and approaching James_]. Jim, my sacrifice +is over. It was a terrible ordeal, and nothing but a strict sense of +duty could have supported me through such a trying crisis. I am yours. +Lead me to the altar. I trust Gerald may be happy with this person named +Madge. + +JAMES. The flame of your love has not faltered? + +ROSAMUND. Ah, no! + +JAMES. Well, if my own particular flame hadn't been fairly robust, the +recent draughts might have knocked it about a bit. You have no more +sacrifices in immediate view?... [_She looks at him in a certain +marvelous way, and he suddenly swoops down and kisses her._] To the +altar! March! Dash; we shall want another witness. + +GERALD. Couldn't I serve? + +ROSAMUND. You're sure it wouldn't be too much for your feelings? + +GERALD. I should enjoy it.... I mean I shan't mind very much. Let us +therefore start. If we're too soon you can watch the process at work on +others, and learn how to comport yourselves. By the way, honeymoon? + +JAMES. Paris. Charing Cross 1:30. Dine at Dover. + +GERALD. Then you shall eat that lunch I have ordered at the Savoy. + +ROSAMUND. Er--talking of lunch, as I'm hostess here, perhaps I should +ask you men if you'd like a drink. + +JAMES AND GERALD [_looking hopefully at each other_]. Well, yes. + +ROSAMUND. I have some beautiful lemonade. + +JAMES AND GERALD [_still looking at each other, but with a different +expression_]. Oh, that will be delightful! [_Lemonade and glasses +produced._] + +GERALD. I drink to the happy pair. + +ROSAMUND [_a little sinister_]. And I--to Madge. + +JAMES. And I--to a good woman--Mrs. Pet [_looking at her fixedly_]. All +men like a good woman, but she shouldn't be too good--it's a strain on +the system. [_General consumption of lemonade, the men bravely +swallowing it down, Rosamund rests her head on James's shoulder._] + +ROSAMUND. It occurs to me, Gerald, you only ordered lunch for two at the +Savoy. + +GERALD. Well, that's right. By that time you and James, if I may call +him so, will be one, and me makes two. + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE + + A PLAY + + BY GEORGE CALDERON + + + Copyright, 1913, by Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. + All rights reserved. + + + THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE is founded on a story by the same author, + published anonymously some years ago in _Temple Bar_. + + The agents for amateur rights in this play are Messrs. Samuel + French, 28 West 38th Street, New York, and Joseph Williams, Ltd., + 32 Great Portland Street, London, from whom a license to play it + in public must be obtained. + + It was first performed for the Stage Society at the Aldwych + Theatre, London, January 29, 1911, with the following cast: + + PRASKOVYA, _a lodging-house keeper_ _Mrs. Saba Raleigh_ + VARVARA, _her servant_ _Miss Eily Malyon_ + ASTERYI, _a lodger_ _Mr. Franklin Dyall_ + FOMA, _a lodger_ _Mr. Stephen T. Ewart_ + SPIRIDON, _a stonemason_ _Mr. Leon M. Lion_ + A STRANGER _Mr. O. P. Heggie_ + A CORPORAL _Mr. E. Cresfan_ + + Produced by MR. KENELM FOSS. + + SCENE: _Small provincial town in Russia._ + + + Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Messrs. + Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd., publishers of the English edition. + + + +THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE + +A PLAY BY GEORGE CALDERON + + + [_Praskovya's sitting-room. Street door in porch and a curtainless + window at the back. It is night; the light of an oil-lamp in the + street dimly shows snow-covered houses and falling snow. The room + is plainly furnished: a bed, a curtain on a cord, some books, + eikons on a shelf in the corner with a wick in a red glass bowl + burning before them, paper flowers, and Easter eggs on strings. A + photograph of a man of twenty hangs by the eikons. There are doors + to kitchen and to the lodgers' rooms._ + + _Varvara is discovered sitting by a lamp darning stockings._ + + _There is an atmosphere of silence, solitude, and Russian + monotony. The clock ticks. A man is seen passing in the street; + his feet make no sound on the snowy ground. There is the sound of + a concertina and a man who laughs in the distance out of doors. + Then silence again._ + + _Enter Asteryi, stout and lazy; gray hair thrown untidily back, a + rough beard. He is in slippers and dirty dressing-gown, with a big + case full of Russian cigarettes in his pocket._] + + +AST. Is Praskovya Petrovna not at home? + +VAR. [_rising_]. She is not at home, Asteryi Ivanovitch. She has gone to +Vespers at St. Pantaleimon's in the Marsh. It is the festival of the +translation of St. Pantaleimon's relics. [_Varvara sits again. Asteryi +walks to and fro smoking a cigarette._] Will you not have your game of +patience as usual? + +AST. Without Praskovya Petrovna? + +VAR. She would be sorry if you missed your game because she was late. +You can play again when she returns; she likes to watch you. + +AST. Very well. + + [_Varvara gets a pack of cards. Asteryi sits at a table at one + side and plays._] + +VAR. Shall I prepare the samovar? + +AST. Not yet; I will wait. How greasy these cards are [_laying out a +patience_]. + +VAR. No wonder, Asteryi Ivanovitch. It is two years since you bought +this pack. + +A VOICE [_without_]. Varvara! Varvara! There is no water in my jug. + +AST. There is one of the lodgers calling you. + +VAR. It is the schoolmaster. + +AST. Better not keep him waiting; he is an angry man. + +VAR. I will go. Excuse me, please. + + [_Exit Varvara. The clock ticks again. Asteryi pauses and + meditates, then murmurs, "Oh, Hospodi!" as if in surprise at being + so terribly bored. The concertina plays a few notes. A knock at + the street door._] + +AST. Who's there? Come in, come in! + + [_Enter Spiridon, a man with a cringing, crafty manner, in a + sheepskin coat with snow on it. He stands by the door, facing the + eikon, crossing himself with large gestures and bowing very low + towards it._] + +SPIR. [_looking round_]. Good-day, sir, good-day. [_Crossing himself +again._] May the holy saints preserve all in this house. + +AST. Ah! it's you, Spiridon? + +SPIR. Yes, sir. It is Spiridon the stonemason. + +AST. What brings you here, Spiridon? + +SPIR. Is Praskovya Petrovna not at home? + +AST. No, she has gone to Vespers at St. Pantaleimon's in the Marsh. + +SPIR. The service is late to-night. + +AST. Yes.... You are a hard man, Spiridon. + +SPIR. Me, sir! + +AST. And you lose money by your hardness. Praskovya Petrovna is a poor +woman. For years she has been saving up money to build a stone house +over the grave of her son in the Troitski Cemetery. You say that you +will build it for 500 roubles, but you ask too much. By starving herself +and pinching in every way she has saved up 400 roubles at last, and if +you were a wise man you would accept it. For see, she is old; if she +starve herself to save up another 100 roubles she will be dead before +she has got it; her money will be sent back to her village or it will go +into the pocket of some official, and you will not have the tomb-house +to build at all. + +SPIR. I have thought of all these things, Asteryi Ivanovitch, since you +last spoke to me about it. And I said to myself: Asteryi Ivanovitch is +perhaps right; it is not only Praskovya Petrovna who is old; I myself am +old also, and may die before she has saved up money enough. But it is +very hard to work and be underpaid. Good Valdai stone is expensive and +hard to cut, and workmen nowadays ask for unholy wages. Still, I said to +myself, a tomb-house for her son--it is a God-fearing work: and I have +resolved to make the sacrifice. I have come to tell her I will consent +to build it for 400 roubles. + +AST. You have done rightly. You are an honest man, and God and St. +Nicholas will perhaps save your soul. + + [_Enter Foma in cap and great-coat from the door to the lodgers' + rooms._] + +FOMA. Good-evening, Asteryi Ivanovitch. Is Praskovya not at home? + +AST. No, she is at Vespers. + +FOMA. I come in and find my stove smoking. [_Taking of his coat._] I +wished to ask her permission to sit here awhile to escape a headache. +Who is this? Ah, Spiridon. And by what miracle does Asteryi Ivanovitch +hope that God and St. Nicholas will save your soul? + +AST. He has consented to build Praskovya Petrovna the tomb-house over +Sasha's grave for 400 roubles instead of 500. + +FOMA. That is good! She will be glad to hear the news, and shake hands +on the bargain, and christen the earnest-money with vodka. + +SPIR. The earnest-money? Ah no, sir, there can be no earnest-money. The +whole sum of money must be paid at once. I am a poor man. I must pay the +quarryman for the stone; my workmen cannot live on air. + +AST. If she has the money she will pay you. + +FOMA. Well, if there is to be no earnest-money, at least we will have +the vodka. Vodka is always good. + +AST. [_to Spiridon_]. Sit down and wait till she returns. She will not +be long. + +SPIR. No, no; I will come again in an hour. I have to go to my +brother-in-law two streets away. [_Crossing himself before the eikons._] +I will come again as I return. + + [_The tap of drums in the street._] + +AST. Why are they beating drums? + +FOMA. It is a patrol passing. + +SPIR. The soldiers are very watchful to-day. + +FOMA. It is because the Empress comes this way to-morrow on her journey +to Smolensk. + +SPIR. They have arrested many suspicious people. All those who have no +passports are being sent away to Siberia. + +FOMA. Ah! poor creatures! [_A patrol of soldiers passes the window +quietly_]. + +SPIR. Why should you say "poor creatures"? If they were honest men they +would not be without passports. Good-evening. + +FOMA. Wait till they have gone. + +SPIR. We honest men have nothing to fear from them. Good-evening. I will +return again in an hour. [_Exit Spiridon._] + +FOMA. How glad Praskovya will be. + +AST. Say nothing of this to any one. We will keep it as a surprise. + + [_Enter Varvara._] + +FOMA. Varvara, my pretty child, fetch the bottle of vodka from my room. + +VAR. Vodka in here? Praskovya Petrovna will be angry. + +FOMA. No, she will not be angry; she will be glad. [_Exit Varvara._] Do +you play patience here every night? + +AST. Every night for more than twenty years. + +FOMA. What is it called? + +AST. It is called the Wolf! + +FOMA. Does it ever come out? + +AST. It has come out twice. The first time I found a purse in the street +which somebody had lost. The second time the man above me at the office +died, and I got his place. + +FOMA. It brings good luck then? + +AST. To me at least. + +FOMA. How glad Praskovya Petrovna will be! + + [_Enter Varvara with vodka bottle, which she sets on a table; no + one drinks from it yet._] + +VAR. Do you not want to drink tea? + +FOMA. Very much, you rogue. + +VAR. Then I will set the samovar for both of you in here. [_She gets out +tumblers, lemon and sugar._] + +AST. I did wrong in moving the seven. + +FOMA. Put it back then. + +AST. It is too late. Once it has been moved, it must not be put back. + + [_Enter Praskovya from the street hurriedly with a lantern._] + +PRAS. [_crossing herself_]. Hospodi Bozhe moy! + +VAR. [_running to her, frightened_]. Have you seen him again? + +PRAS. [_agitated_]. I do not know. There seemed to be men standing +everywhere in the shadows.... Good-evening, Foma Ilyitch, good-evening, +Asteryi Ivanovitch. + + [_Varvara goes out, and brings in the samovar._] + +FOMA. I have been making myself at home; my stove smoked. + +PRAS. Sit down, sit down! What ceremony! Why should you not be here? And +vodka too? What is the vodka for? + +AST. I will tell you when I have finished my patience. [_They all drink +tea._] + +PRAS. So you are playing already. + +AST. If it comes out, the good luck that it brings shall be for you! + +PRAS. For me? [_They all watch Asteryi playing._] The knave goes on the +queen. [_A pause._] + +FOMA. That is unfortunate. + +VAR. You should not have moved the ten. [_A pause._] + +AST. That will be better. [_A pause._] + +PRAS. How brightly the eikon lamp burns before the portrait of my boy. + +VAR. It does indeed. + +PRAS. It is the new fire from the Candlemas taper. + +FOMA. It is the new oil that makes it burn brightly. + +PRAS. [_crossing herself_]. Nonsense! it is the new fire. + +FOMA. Did ever one hear such stuff? She put out the lamp at Candlemas, +and lighted it anew from the taper which she brought home from the +midnight service, from the new fire struck by the priest with flint and +steel; and now she thinks that is the reason why it burns so brightly. + +VAR. Is that not so then, Asteryi Ivanovitch? + +AST. Oh, Foma Ilyitch is a chemist; he can tell you what fire is made +of. + +FOMA. So you have been all the way to St. Pantaleimon's in the Marsh? +Oh, piety, thy name is Praskovya Petrovna! Not a person can hold the +most miserably little service in the remotest corner of the town but you +smell it out and go to it. + +VAR. It is a Christian deed, Foma Ilyitch. + +AST. Now I can get at the ace. + +VAR. [_to Praskovya_]. I must get your supper. [_She gets a plate of +meat from a cupboard._] + +FOMA. And on All Souls' Day she brought home holy water in a bottle and +sprinkled the rooms of all the lodgers. The schoolmaster was very angry. +You spotted the cover of his Greek Lexicon. He says it is a pagan +custom, come down to us from the ancient Scythians. + +PRAS. I do not like to hear jokes about sacred things. One may provoke +Heaven to anger. + +AST. Now I get all this row off. + +FOMA. You are always afraid of offending Heaven. + +PRAS. Of course I am. Think what I have at stake. For you it is only a +little thing. You have a life of your own on earth; I have none. I have +been as good as dead for twenty years, and the only thing that I desire +is to get safely to heaven to join my son who is there. + +FOMA. We all wish to get to heaven. + +PRAS. Not so much as I do. If I were in hell it is not the brimstone +that would matter; it would be to know that I should not see my son. +[_Foma nods_]. + +AST. I believe it is coming out. + + [_They all concentrate their attention eagerly on the patience._] + +VAR. The six and the seven go. Saints preserve us! and the eight. [_She +takes up a card to move it._] + +AST. No, not that one; leave that. + +VAR. Where did it come from? + +AST. From here. + +PRAS. No, from there. + +VAR. It was from here. + +AST. It is all the same. + +FOMA. It will go. + +PRAS. And the knave from off this row. + +VAR. The Wolf is going out! + +PRAS. It is seven years since it went out. + +FOMA. Seven years? + +AST. It is out! + +PRAS. It is done! + +VAR. [_clapping her hands_]. Hooray! + +AST. [_elated_]. Some great good fortune is going to happen. + +VAR. What can it be? [_A pause._] + +PRAS. And what is the vodka for? + +AST. The vodka? + +PRAS. You promised to tell me when the patience was done. + +AST. How much money have you saved up for the house on Sasha's tomb? + +PRAS. Four hundred and six roubles and a few kopecks. + +AST. And Spiridon asks for 500 roubles? + +PRAS. Five hundred roubles. + +AST. What if he should lower his price? + +PRAS. He will not lower his price. + +AST. What if he should say that he would take 450 roubles? + +PRAS. Why, if I went without food for a year.... [_Laughing at +herself._] If one could but live without food! + +AST. What if he should say that he would take 420 roubles? + +PRAS. Asteryi Ivanovitch, you know the proverb--the elbow is near, but +you cannot bite it. I am old and feeble. I want it now, now, now. Shall +I outlive the bitter winter? A shelter to sit in and talk to my son. A +monument worthy of such a saint. + +AST. Spiridon has been here. + +PRAS. Spiridon has been here? What did he say? Tell me! + +AST. He will build it for 400 roubles. + +VAR. For 400 roubles! + +AST. He will return soon to strike a bargain. + +PRAS. Is it true? + +AST. As true as that I wear the cross. + +PRAS. Oh, all the holy saints be praised! Slava Tebye Hospodi! +[_Kneeling before the eikons._] Oh, my darling Sasha, we will meet in a +fine house, you and I, face to face. [_She prostrates herself three +times before the eikons._] + +VAR. Then this is the good luck. + +AST. No, this cannot be what the cards told us; for this had happened +already before the Wolf came out. + +VAR. Then there is something else to follow? + +AST. Evidently. + +VAR. What can it be? + +AST. To-morrow perhaps we shall know. + +PRAS. [_rising_]. And in a month I shall have my tomb-house finished, +for which I have been waiting twenty years! A little stone house safe +against the rain. [_Smiling and eager._] There will be a tile stove +which I can light: in the middle a stone table and two chairs--one for +me and one for my boy when he comes and sits with me, and.... + +VAR. [_at the window, shrieking_]. Ah! Heaven defend us! + +PRAS. What is it? + +VAR. The face! the face! + +PRAS. The face again? + +FOMA. What face? + +VAR. The face looked in at the window! + +AST. Whose face? + +VAR. It is the man that we have seen watching us in the cemetery. + +PRAS. [_crossing herself_]. Oh, Heaven preserve me from this man! + +FOMA. [_opening the street door_]. There is nobody there. + +AST. This is a false alarm. + +FOMA. People who tire their eyes by staring at window-panes at night +often see faces looking in through them. + +PRAS. Oh, Hospodi! + +AST. Spiridon will be returning soon. Have you the money ready? + +PRAS. The money? Yes, yes! I will get it ready. It is not here. Come, +Varvara. [_They put on coats and shawls._] + +AST. If it is in the bank we must wait till the daytime. + +PRAS. My money in the bank? I am not so foolish. [_She lights the +lantern._] Get the spade, Varvara. [_Varvara goes out and fetches a +spade._] It is buried in the field, in a place that no one knows but +myself. + +AST. Are you not afraid to go out? + +PRAS. Afraid? No, I am not afraid. + +FOMA. But your supper--you have not eaten your supper. + +PRAS. How can I think of supper at such a moment? + +FOMA. No supper? Oh, what a wonderful thing is a mother's love! + +PRAS. [_to Asteryi and Foma_]. Stay here till we return. + +VAR. [_drawing back_]. I am afraid, Praskovya Petrovna. + +PRAS. Nonsense, there is nothing to fear. + +FOMA. [_throwing his coat over his back_]. I will go with you to the +corner of the street. + +AST. [_shuffling the cards_]. I must try one for myself. + +FOMA. [_mockingly_]. What's the use? It will never come out. + +AST. [_cheerfully_]. Oh, it never does to be discouraged. + + [_Exeunt Praskovya, Varvara, and Foma. Asteryi plays patience. + Everything is silent and monotonous again. The clock ticks._] + +FOMA. [_reenters, dancing and singing roguishly to the tune of the +Russian folksong, "Vo sadu li v vogorode"_]: + + In the shade there walked a maid + As fair as any flower, + Picking posies all of roses + For to deck her bower. + +AST. Don't make such a noise. + +FOMA. I can't help it. I'm gay. I have a sympathetic soul. I rejoice +with Praskovya Petrovna. I think she is mad, but I rejoice with her. + +AST. So do I; but I don't disturb others on that account. + +FOMA. Come, old grumbler, have a mouthful of vodka. +[_Melodramatically._] A glass of wine with Caesar Borgia! [_Singing._] + + As she went adown the bent + She met a merry fellow, + He was drest in all his best + In red and blue and yellow. + +So he was a saint, was he, that son of hers? Well, well, of what +advantage is that? Saints are not so easy to love as sinners. You and I +are not saints, are we, Asteryi Ivanovitch? + +AST. I do not care to parade my halo in public. + +FOMA. Oh, as for me, I keep mine in a box under the bed; it only +frightens people. Do you think he would have remained a saint all this +time if he had lived? + +AST. Who can say? + +FOMA. Nonsense! He would have become like the rest of us. Then why make +all this fuss about him? Why go on for twenty years sacrificing her own +life to a fantastic image? + +AST. Why not, if it please her to do so? + +FOMA. Say what you please, but all the same she is mad; yes, Praskovya +is mad. + +AST. We call every one mad who is faithful to their ideas. If people +think only of food and money and clothing we call them sane, but if they +have ideas beyond those things we call them mad. I envy Praskovya. +Praskovya has preserved in her old age what I myself have lost. I, too, +had ideas once, but I have been unfaithful to them; they have evaporated +and vanished. + +FOMA. What ideas were these? + +AST. Liberty! Political regeneration! + +FOMA. Ah, yes; you were a sad revolutionary once, I have been told. + +AST. I worshiped Liberty, as Praskovya worships her Sasha. But I have +lived my ideals down in the dull routine of my foolish, aimless life as +an office hack, a clerk in the District Council, making copies that no +one will ever see of documents that no one ever wants to read.... +Suddenly there comes the Revolution; there is fighting in the streets; +men raise the red flag; blood flows. I might go forth and strike a blow +for that Liberty which I loved twenty years ago. But no, I have become +indifferent. I do not care who wins, the Government or the +Revolutionaries; it is all the same to me. + +FOMA. You are afraid. One gets timid as one gets older. + +AST. Afraid? No. What have I to be afraid of? Death is surely not so +much worse than life? No, it is because my idea is dead and cannot be +made to live again, while Praskovya, whose routine as a lodging-house +keeper is a hundred times duller than mine, is still faithful to her old +idea. Let us not call her mad; let us rather worship her as something +holy, for her fidelity to an idea in this wretched little town where +ideas are as rare as white ravens. + +FOMA. She has no friends to love? + +AST. She has never had any friends; she needed none. + +FOMA. She has relatives, I suppose? + +AST. None. + +FOMA. What mystery explains this solitude? + +AST. If there is a mystery it is easily guessed. It is an everyday +story; the story of a peasant woman betrayed and deserted by a nobleman. +She came with her child to this town; and instead of sinking, set +herself bravely to work, to win a living for the two of them. She was +young and strong then; her work prospered with her. + +FOMA. And her son was worthy of her love? + +AST. He was a fine boy--handsome and intelligent. By dint of the +fiercest economy she got him a nobleman's education; sent him to the +Gymnase, and thence, when he was eighteen, to the University of Moscow. +Praskovya herself cannot read or write, but her boy ... the books on +that shelf are the prizes which he won. She thought him a pattern of all +the virtues. + +FOMA. Aha! now we're coming to it! So he was a sinner after all? + +AST. We are none of us perfect. His friends were ill-chosen. The +hard-earned money that Praskovya thought was spent on University +expenses went on many other things--on drink, on women, and on gambling. +But he did one good thing--he hid it all safely from his mother. I +helped him in that. Together we kept her idea safe through a difficult +period. And before he was twenty it was all over--he was dead. + +FOMA. Yes, he was murdered by some foreigner, I know. + +AST. By Adamek, a Pole. + +FOMA. And what was the motive of the crime? + +AST. It was for money. By inquiries which I made after the trial I +ascertained that this Adamek was a bad character and an adventurer, who +used to entice students to his rooms to drink and gamble with him. Sasha +had become an intimate friend of his; and it was even said that they +were partners in cheating the rest. Anyhow, there is no doubt that at +one time or another they had won considerable sums at cards, and +disputed as to the ownership of them. The last thing that was heard of +them, they bought a sledge with two horses and set out saying they were +going to Tula. On the road Adamek murdered the unfortunate boy. The +facts were all clear and indisputable. There was no need to search into +the motives. The murderer fell straight into the hands of the police. +The District Inspector, coming silently along the road in his sledge, +suddenly saw before him the boy lying dead by the roadside, and the +murderer standing over him with the knife in his hand. He arrested him +at once; there was no possibility of denying it. + +FOMA. And it was quite clear that his victim was Sasha? + +AST. Quite clear. Adamek gave intimate details about him, such as only a +friend of his could have known, which put his identity beyond a doubt. +When the trial was over the body was sent in a coffin to Praskovya +Petrovna, who buried it here in the Troitski Cemetery. + +FOMA. And the Pole? + +AST. He was sent to penal servitude for life to the silver mines of +Siberia. + +FOMA. So Praskovya is even madder than I thought. Her religion is +founded on a myth. Her life is an absurd deception. + +AST. No; she has created something out of nothing; that is all. + +FOMA. In your place I should have told her the truth. + +AST. No. + +FOMA. Anything is better than a lie. + +AST. There is no lie in it. Praskovya's idea and Sasha's life are two +independent things. A statement of fact may be true or false; but an +idea need only be clear and definite. That is all that matters. [_There +is a tapping at the door; the latch is lifted, and the Stranger peeps +in._] Come in, come in! + + [_Enter the Stranger, ragged and degraded. He looks about the + room, dazed by the light, and fixes his attention on Asteryi._] + +Who are you? What do you want? + +STRANGER. I came to speak to you. + +AST. To speak to me? + +FOMA. Take off your cap. Do you not see the eikons? + +AST. What do you want with me? + +STRANGER. Only a word, Asteryi Ivanovitch. + +AST. How have you learnt my name? + +FOMA. Do you know the man? + +AST. No. + +STRANGER. You do not know me? + +AST. No. + +STRANGER. Have you forgotten me, Asteryi Ivanovitch? + +AST. [_almost speechless_]. Sasha! + +FOMA. What is it? You look as if you had seen a ghost. + +AST. A ghost? There are no such things as ghosts. Would that it were a +ghost. It is Sasha. + +FOMA. Sasha? + +AST. It is Praskovya's son alive. + +FOMA. Praskovya's son? + +SASHA. You remember me now, Asteryi Ivanovitch. + +AST. How have you risen from the dead? How have you come back from the +grave--you who were dead and buried these twenty years and more? + +SASHA. I have not risen from the dead. I have not come back from the +grave; but I have come a long, long journey. + +AST. From where? + +SASHA. From Siberia. + +FOMA. From Siberia? + +SASHA. From Siberia. + +AST. What were you doing in Siberia? + +SASHA. Do you not understand, Asteryi Ivanovitch? I am a criminal. + +AST. Ah! + +SASHA. A convict, a felon. I have escaped and come home. + +AST. Of what crime have you been guilty? + +SASHA. Do not ask me so many questions, but give me something to eat. + +AST. But tell me this.... + +SASHA. There is food here. I smelt it as I came in. [_He eats the meat +with his fingers ravenously, like a wild beast._] + +FOMA. It is your mother's supper. + +SASHA. I do not care whose supper it is. I am ravenous. I have had +nothing to eat all day. + +FOMA. Can this wild beast be Praskovya's son? + +SASHA. We are all wild beasts if we are kept from food. Ha! and vodka, +too! [_helping himself_]. + +AST. Are you a convict, a felon, Sasha? You who were dead? Then we have +been deceived for many years. + +SASHA. Have you? + +AST. Some other man was murdered twenty years ago. The murderer said +that it was you. + +SASHA. Ah, he said that it was me, did he? + +AST. Why did Adamek say that it was you? + +SASHA. Can you not guess? Adamek murdered no one. + +AST. He murdered no one? But he was condemned. + +SASHA. He was never condemned. + +AST. Never condemned? Then what became of him? + +SASHA. He died.... Do you not understand? It was I who killed Adamek. + +AST. You! + +SASHA. We had quarreled. We were alone in a solitary place. I killed him +and stood looking down at him with the knife in my hand dripping scarlet +in the snow, frightened at the sudden silence and what I had done. And +while I thought I was alone, I turned and saw the police-officer with +his revolver leveled at my head. Then amid the confusion and black +horror that seized on me, a bright thought shot across my mind. Adamek +had no relatives, no friends; he was an outcast. Stained with his +flowing blood, I exchanged names with him; that's the old heroic custom +of blood-brotherhood, you know. I named myself Adamek; I named my victim +Sasha. Ingenious, wasn't it? I had romantic ideas in those days. Adamek +has been cursed for a murderer, and my memory has been honored. +Alexander Petrovitch has been a hero; my mother has wept for me. I have +seen her in the graveyard lamenting on my tomb; I have read my name on +the cross. I hardly know whether to laugh or to cry. Evidently she loves +me still. + +AST. And you? + +SASHA. Do I love her? No. There is no question of that. She is part of a +life that was ended too long ago. I have only myself to think of now. +What should I gain by loving her? Understand, I am an outlaw, an escaped +convict; a word can send me back to the mines. I must hide myself, the +patrols are everywhere.... Even here I am not safe. [_Locks the street +door._] + +AST. Why have you returned? Why have you spoilt what you began so well? +Having resolved twenty years ago to vanish like a dead man.... + +SASHA. Ah! if they had killed me then I would have died willingly. But +after twenty years remorse goes, pity goes, everything goes; entombed in +the mines, but still alive.... I was worn out. I could bear it no +longer. Others were escaping, I escaped with them. + +AST. This will break her heart. She has made an angel of you. The lamp +is always burning.... + +SASHA [_going to the eikon corner with a glass of vodka in his hand_]. +Aha! Alexander Nevski, my patron saint. I drink to you, my friend: but I +cannot congratulate you on your work. As a guardian angel you have been +something of a failure. And what is this? [_taking a photograph_]. +Myself! Who would have known this for my portrait? Look at the angel +child, with the soft cheeks and the pretty curly hair. How innocent and +good I looked! [_bringing it down_]. And even then I was deceiving my +mother. She never understood that a young man must live, he must live. +We are animals first; we have instincts that need something warmer, +something livelier, than the tame dull round of home. [_He throws down +the photograph; Foma replaces it._] And even now I have no intention of +dying. Yet how am I to live? I cannot work; the mines have sucked out +all my strength. Has my mother any money? + +AST. [_to Foma_]. What can we do with him? + +SASHA. Has my mother any money? + +AST. Money? Of course not. Would she let lodgings if she had? Listen. I +am a poor man myself, but I will give you ten roubles and your railway +fare to go to St. Petersburg. + +SASHA. St. Petersburg? And what shall I do there when I have spent the +ten roubles? + +AST. [_shrugging his shoulders_]. How do I know? Live there, die there, +only stay away from here. + +FOMA. What right have you to send him away? Why do you suppose that she +will not be glad to see him? Let her see her saint bedraggled, and love +him still--that is what true love means. You have regaled her with lies +all these years; but now it is no longer possible. [_A knocking at the +door._] She is at the door. + +AST. [_to Sasha_]. Come with me. [_To Foma._] He must go out by the +other way. + +FOMA [_stopping them_]. No, I forbid it. It is the hand of God that has +led him here. Go and unlock the door. [_Asteryi shrugs his shoulders, +and goes to unlock the door._] [_To Sasha, hiding him._] Stand here a +moment till I have prepared your mother. + + [_Enter Praskovya and Varvara, carrying a box._] + +PRAS. Why is the door locked? Were you afraid without old Praskovya to +protect you? Here is the money. Now let me count it. Have you two been +quarreling? There are fifty roubles in this bag, all in little pieces of +silver; it took me two years. + +FOMA. How you must have denied yourself, Praskovya, and all to build a +hut in a churchyard! + +PRAS. On what better thing could money be spent? + +FOMA. You are so much in love with your tomb-house, I believe that you +would be sorry if it turned out that your son was not dead, but alive. + +PRAS. Why do you say such things? You know that I should be glad. Ah! if +I could but see him once again as he was then, and hold him in my arms! + +FOMA. But he would not be the same now. + +PRAS. If he were different, he would not be my son. + +FOMA. What if all these years he had been an outcast, living in +degradation? + +PRAS. Who has been eating here? Who has been drinking here? Something +has happened! Tell me what it is. + +AST. Your son is not dead. + +PRAS. Not dead? Why do you say it so sadly? No, it is not true. I do +not believe it. How can I be joyful at the news if you tell it so sadly? +If he is alive, where is he? Let me see him. + +AST. He is here. + + [_Sasha comes forward._] + +PRAS. No, no! Tell me that that is not him ... my son whom I have loved +all these years, my son that lies in the churchyard. [_To Sasha._] Don't +be cruel to me. Say that you are not my son; you cannot be my son. + +SASHA. You know that I am your son. + +PRAS. My son is dead; he was murdered. I buried his body in the Troitski +Cemetery. + +SASHA. But you see that I was not murdered. Touch me; feel me. I am +alive. I and Adamek fought; it was not Adamek that slew me, it was.... + +PRAS. No, no! I want to hear no more. You have come to torment me. Only +say what you want of me, anything, and I will do it, if you will leave +me in peace. + +SASHA. I want food and clothing; I want shelter; I must have money. + +PRAS. You will go if I give you money? Yes? Say that you will go, far, +far away, and never come back to tell lies.... But I have no money to +give; I am a poor woman. + +SASHA. Come, what's all this? + +PRAS. No, no! I need it; I can't spare it. What I have I have starved +myself to get. Two roubles, five roubles, even ten roubles I will give +you, if you will go far, far away.... + +FOMA. Before he can travel we must bribe some peasant to lend him his +passport. + +PRAS. Has he no passport then? + +FOMA. No. + + [_A knock. Enter Spiridon._] + +SPIR. Peace be on this house. May the saints watch over all of you! +Asteryi Ivanovitch will have told you of my proposal. + +PRAS. Yes, I have heard of it, Spiridon. + +FOMA. Good-by, Spiridon; there is no work for you here. That is all +over. + +PRAS. Why do you say that that is all over? + +FOMA. There will be no tomb-house to build. + +PRAS. No tomb-house? How dare you say so? He is laughing at us, +Spiridon. The tomb-house that we have planned together, with the table +in the middle, and the two chairs.... Do not listen to him, Spiridon. At +last I have money enough; let us count it together. + +SASHA. Give me my share, mother! + +PRAS. I have no money for you. + +SASHA [_advancing_]. I must have money. + +PRAS. You shall not touch it. + +SASHA. I will not go unless you give me money. + +PRAS. It is not mine. I have promised it all to Spiridon. Help me, +Asteryi Ivanovitch; he will drive me mad! Oh, what must I do? What must +I do? Is there no way, Varvara? [_Tap of drums without._] [_To Sasha._] +Go! go! go quickly, or worse will befall you. + +SASHA. I will not go and starve while you have all this money. + +PRAS. Ah! Since you will have it so.... It is you, not I! [_Running out +at the door and calling._] Patrol! Patrol! + +FOMA. Stop her. + +VAR. Oh, Hospodi! + +PRAS. Help! Help! Come here! + +FOMA. What have you done? What have you done? + + [_Enter Corporal and Soldiers._] + +PRAS. This man is a thief and a murderer. He is a convict escaped from +Siberia. He has no passport. + +CORP. Is that true? Where is your passport? + +SASHA. I have none. + +CORP. We are looking for such men as you. Come! + +SASHA. This woman is my mother. + +CORP. That's her affair. You have no passport; that is enough for me. +You'll soon be back on the road to the North with the rest of them. + +SASHA. Woman! woman! Have pity on your son. + +CORP. Come along, lad, and leave the old woman in peace. + + [_Exit Sasha in custody._] + +PRAS. The Lord help me! + + [_Praskovya stumbles towards the eikons and sinks blindly before + them._] + +FOMA [_looking after Sasha_]. Poor devil! + +ASTERYI. What's a man compared to an idea? + + [_Praskovya rolls over, dead._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +MARY'S WEDDING + + A PLAY + + BY GILBERT CANNAN + + + Copyright, 1913, by Sidgwick and Jackson. + All rights reserved. + + + MARY'S WEDDING was first produced at the Coronet Theatre, in + May, 1912, with the following cast: + + MARY _Miss Irene Rooke_ + TOM _Mr. Herbert Lomas_ + ANN _Miss Mary Goulden_ + MRS. AIREY _Miss Muriel Pratt_ + BILL AIREY _Mr. Charles Bibby_ + TWO MAIDS. + VILLAGERS AND OTHERS. + + SCENE: _The Davis's Cottage_. + + NOTE: There is no attempt made in the play to reproduce exactly + the Westmoreland dialect, which would be unintelligible to ears + coming new to it, but only to catch the rough music of it and the + slow inflection of northern voices. + + Reprinted from "Four Plays," by permission of Mr. Gilbert Cannan. + + + +MARY'S WEDDING + +A PLAY BY GILBERT CANNAN + + + [_The scene is the living-room in the Davis's cottage in the hill + country. An old room low in the ceiling. Ann Davis is at the table + in the center of the room untying a parcel. The door opens to + admit Tom Davis, a sturdy quarryman dressed in his best and + wearing a large nosegay._] + + +ANN. Well, 'ast seed un? + +TOM. Ay, a seed un. 'Im and 'is ugly face-- + +ANN [_untying her parcel_].'Tis 'er dress come just in time an' no more +from the maker-up-- + +TOM. Ef she wouldna do it.... + +ANN. But 'tis such long years she's been a-waitin'.... 'Tis long years +since she bought t' dress. + +TOM. An' 'tis long years she'll be a livin' wi' what she's been waitin' +for; 'tis long years she'll live to think ower it and watch the thing +she's taken for her man, an' long years that she'll find 'un feedin' on +'er, an' a dreary round she'll 'ave of et.... + +ANN. Three times she 'ave come to a month of weddin' an' three times 'e +'ave broke loose and gone down to the Mortal Man an' the woman that +keeps 'arf our men in drink.... 'Tis she is the wicked one, giving 'em +score an' score again 'till they owe more than they can ever pay with a +year's money. + +TOM. 'Tis a fearful thing to drink.... + +ANN. So I telled 'er in the beginnin' of it all, knowin' what like of +man 'e was. An' so I telled 'er last night only. + +TOM. She be set on it? + +ANN. An', an' 'ere's t' pretty dress for 'er to be wedded in.... + +TOM. What did she say? + +ANN. Twice she 'ave broke wi' 'im, and twice she 'ave said that ef 'e +never touched the drink fur six months she would go to be churched wi' +'im. She never 'ave looked at another man. + +TOM. Ay, she be one o' they quiet ones that goes about their work an' +never 'as no romantical notions but love only the more for et. There've +been men come for 'er that are twice the man that Bill is, but she never +looks up from 'er work at 'em. + +ANN. I think she must 'a' growed up lovin' Bill. 'Tis a set thing +surely. + +TOM. An' when that woman 'ad 'im again an' 'ad 'im roaring drunk fur a +week, she never said owt but turned to 'er work agin an' set aside the +things she was makin' agin the weddin'.... + +ANN. What did 'e say to 'er? + +TOM. Nowt. 'E be 'most as chary o' words as she. 'E've got the 'ouse an' +everything snug, and while 'e works 'e makes good money. + +ANN. 'Twill not end, surely. + +TOM. There was 'is father and two brothers all broken men by it. + + [_She hears Mary on the stairs, and they are silent._] + +ANN. 'Ere's yer pretty dress, Mary. + +MARY. Ay.... Thankye, Tom. + +TOM. 'Twill be lovely for ye, my dear, an' grand. 'Tis a fine day fur +yer weddin', my dear.... + +MARY. I'll be sorry to go, Tom. + +TOM. An' sorry we'll be to lose ye.... + +MARY. I'll put the dress on. + + [_She throws the frock over her arm and goes out with it._] + +ANN. Another girl would 'a' wedded him years ago in the first +foolishness of it. But Mary, for all she says so little, 'as long, long +thoughts that never comes to the likes o' you and me.... Another girl, +when the day 'ad come at last, would 'a' been wild wi' the joy an' the +fear o' it.... But Mary, she's sat on the fells under the stars, an' +windin' among the sheep. D' ye mind the nights she's been out like an +old shepherd wi' t' sheep? D' ye mind the nights when she was but a lile +'un an' we found 'er out in the dawn sleepin' snug again the side o' a +fat ewe? + +TOM. 'Tis not like a weddin' day for 'er.... If she'd 'ad a new dress, +now-- + +ANN. I said to 'er would she like a new dress; but she would have only +the old 'un cut an' shaped to be in the fashion.... Et 'as been a +strange coortin', an' 'twill be a strange life for 'em both, I'm +thinkin', for there seems no gladness in 'er, nor never was, for she +never was foolish an' she never was young; but she was always like there +was a great weight on 'er, so as she must be about the world alone, but +always she 'ave turned to the little things an' the weak, an' always she +'ad some poor sick beast for tendin' or another woman's babe to 'old to +'er breast, an' I think sometimes that 'tis only because Bill is a poor +sick beast wi' a poor sick soul that she be so set on 'im. + +TOM. 'E be a sodden beast wi' never a soul to be saved or damned-- + +ANN. 'Cept for the drink, 'e've been a good son to 'is old mother when +the others 'ud 'a' left 'er to rot i' the ditch, an' 'e was the on'y one +as 'ud raise a finger again his father when the owd man, God rest him, +was on to 'er like a madman. Drunk or sober 'e always was on 'is +mother's side. + +TOM. 'Twas a fearful 'ouse that. + +ANN. 'Twas wonderful that for all they did to 'er, that wild old man wi' +'is wild young sons, she outlived 'em all, but never a one could she +save from the curse that was on them, an', sober, they was the likeliest +men 'n Troutbeck.... + +TOM. 'Tis when the rain comes and t' clouds come low an' black on the +fells and the cold damp eats into a man's bones that the fearful +thoughts come to 'im that must be drowned or 'im go mad--an' only the +foreigners like me or them as 'as foreign blood new in 'em can 'old out +again it; 'tis the curse o' livin' too long between two lines o' 'ills. + +ANN. An' what that owd woman could never do, d'ye think our Mary'll do +it? 'Im a Troutbeck man an' she a Troutbeck girl? + +TOM. She've 'eld to 'er bargain an' brought 'im to it. + +ANN. There's things that a maid can do that a wife cannot an' that's +truth, an' shame it is to the men. [_Comes a knock at the door._] +'Tisn't time for t' weddin' folk. + + [_Tom goes to the window._] + +TOM. Gorm. 'Tis Mrs. Airey. + +ANN. T' owd woman. She that 'as not been further than 'er garden-gate +these ten years? + + [_She goes to the door, opens it to admit Mrs. Airey, an old gaunt + woman just beginning to be bent with age._] + +MRS. A. Good day to you, Tom Davis. + +TOM. Good day to you, Mrs. Airey. + +MRS. A. Good day to you, Ann Davis. + +ANN. Good day to you, Mrs. Airey. Will ye sit down? + + [_She dusts a chair and Mrs. Airey sits by the fireside. She sits + silent for a long while. Tom and Ann look uneasily at her and at + each other._] + +MRS. A. So 'tis all ready for Bill's wedding. + +TOM. Ay. 'Tis a fine day, an' the folks bid, and the sharry-bang got for +to drive to Coniston, all the party of us. Will ye be coming, Mrs. +Airey? + +MRS. A. I'll not. [_Mrs. Airey sits silent again for long._] Is Mary in +the 'ouse? + +ANN. She be upstairs puttin' on 'er weddin' dress. + +MRS. A. 'Tis the sad day of 'er life.... They're a rotten lot an' who +should know et better than me? Bill's the best of 'em, but Bill's +rotten.... Six months is not enough, nor six years nor sixty, not while +'er stays in Troutbeck rememberin' all that 'as been an' all the trouble +that was in the 'ouse along o' it, and so I've come for to say it. + +ANN. She growed up lovin' Bill, and 'tis a set thing. She've waited long +years. 'Tis done now, an' what they make for theirselves they make, an' +'tis not for us to go speirin' for the trouble they may make for +theirselves, but only to pray that it may pass them by.... + +MRS. A. But 'tis certain.... Six months is not enough, nor six years, +nor sixty-- + +ANN. And are ye come for to tell Mary this...? + +MRS. A. This and much more.... + +TOM. And what 'ave ye said to Bill? + +MRS. A. Nowt. There never was a son would give 'eed to 'is mother.... +'Tisn't for 'im I'm thinkin', but for t' children that she's bear 'im. I +'oped, and went on 'opin' till there was no 'ope left in me, and I lived +to curse the day that each one of my sons was born. John and Peter are +dead an' left no child behind, and it were better for Bill also to leave +no child behind. There's a day and 'alf a day o' peace and content for a +woman with such a man, and there's long, long years of thinkin' on the +peace and content that's gone. There's long, long years of watching the +child that you've borne and suckled turn rotten, an' I say that t' +birth-pangs are nowt to t' pangs that ye 'ave from the childer of such a +man as Bill or Bill's father.... She's a strong girl an' a good girl; +but there's this that is stronger than 'er. + + [_Mary comes again, very pretty in her blue dress. She is at once + sensible of the strangeness in Tom and Ann. She stands looking + from one to the other. Mrs. Airey sits gazing into the fire._] + +MARY. Why, mother ... 'tis kind of you to come on this morning. + +MRS. A. Ay, 'tis kind of me. [_Ann steals away upstairs and Tom, taking +the lead from her, goes out into the road._] Come 'ere, my pretty. + + [_Mary goes and stands by her._] + +MARY. The sun is shining and the bees all out and busy to gather in the +honey. + +MRS. A. 'Tis the bees as is t' wise people to work away in t' dark when +t' sun is hidden, and to work away in t' sun when 'tis bright and light. +'Tis the bees as is t' wise people that takes their men an' kills 'em +for the 'arm that they may do, and it's us that's the foolish ones to +make soft the way of our men an' let them strut before us and lie; and +'tis us that's the foolish ones ever to give a thought to their needs +that give never a one to ours. + +MARY. 'Tis us that's t' glorious ones to 'elp them that is so weak, and +'tis us that's the brave and the kind ones to let them 'ave the 'ole +world to play with when they will give never a thought to us that gives +it t' 'em. + +MRS. A. My pretty, my pretty, there's never a one of us can 'elp a man +that thinks 'isself a man an' strong, poor fool, an' there's never a one +of us can 'elp a man that's got a curse on 'im and is rotten through to +t' bone, an' not one day can you be a 'elp to such a man as this.... + +MARY. There's not one day that I will not try, and not one day that I +will not fight to win 'im back.... + +MRS. A. The life of a woman is a sorrowful thing.... + +MARY. For all its sorrow, 'tis a greater thing than t' life of a man ... +an' so I'll live it.... + +MRS. A. Now you're strong and you're young.--'Ope's with ye still and +life all before ye--and so I thought when my day came, and so I did. +There was a day and 'alf a day of peace and content, and there was long, +long years of thinking on the peace and content that are gone.... Four +men all gone the same road, and me left looking down the way that they +are gone and seeing it all black as the pit.... I be a poor old woman +now with never a creature to come near me in kindness, an' I was such a +poor old woman before ever the 'alf of life was gone, an' so you'll be +if you take my son for your man. He's the best of my sons, but I curse +the day that ever he was born.... + +MARY. There was never a man the like of Bill. If ye see 'un striding the +'ill, ye know 'tis a man by 'is strong, long stride; and if ye see 'un +leapin' an' screein' down th' 'ill, ye know 'tis a man; and if we see +'un in t' quarry, ye know 'tis a strong man.... + +MRS. A. An' if ye see 'un lyin' drunk i' the ditch, not roarin' drunk, +but rotten drunk, wi' 'is face fouled an' 'is clothes mucked, ye know +'tis the lowest creature of the world. + + [_Mary stands staring straight in front of her._] + +MARY. Is it for this that ye come to me to-day? + +MRS. A. Ay, for this: that ye may send 'un back to 'is rottenness, for +back to it 'e'll surely go when 'tis too late, an' you a poor old woman +like me, with never a creature to come near ye in kindness, before ever +the bloom 'as gone from your bonny cheeks, an' maybe childer that'll +grow up bonny an' then be blighted for all the tenderness ye give to +them; an' those days will be the worst of all--far worse than the day +when ye turn for good an' all into yourself from t' man that will give +ye nowt.... 'Tis truly the bees as is the wise people.... + +MARY. It's a weary waitin' that I've had, and better the day and 'alf a +day of peace and content with all the long years of thinking on it than +all the long, long years of my life to go on waitin' and waitin' for +what has passed me by, for if he be the rottenest, meanest man in t' +world that ever was made, there is no other that I can see or ever will. +It is no wild foolishness that I am doing: I never was like that; but +it's a thing that's growed wi' me an' is a part o' me--an' though every +day o' my life were set before me now so I could see to the very end, +an' every day sadder and blacker than the last, I'd not turn back. I +gave 'im the bargain, years back now, and three times e' 'as failed me; +but 'e sets store by me enough to do this for me a fourth time--'Twas +kind of ye to come.... + +MRS. A. You're strong an' you're young, but there's this that's stronger +than yourself-- + +MARY. Maybe, but 'twill not be for want o' fightin' wi' 't. + +MRS. A. 'Twill steal on ye when you're weakest, an' come on ye in your +greatest need.... + +MARY. It 'as come to this day an' there is no goin' back. D' ye think +I've not seed t' soft, gentle things that are given to other women, an' +not envied them? D' ye think I've not seed 'em walkin' shut-eyed into +all sorts o' foolishness an' never askin' for the trewth o' it, an' not +envied 'em for doin' that? D' ye think I've not seed the girls I growed +wi' matin' lightly an' lightly weddin', an' not envied 'em for that, +they wi' a 'ouse an' babes an' me drudgin' away in t' farm, me wi' my +man to 'and an' only this agin 'im? D' ye think I've not been tore in +two wi' wantin' to close my eyes an' walk like others into it an' never +think what is to come? There's many an' many a night that I've sat there +under t' stars wi' t' three counties afore me an' t' sea, an' t' sheep +croppin', an' my own thoughts for all the comp'ny that I 'ad, an' +fightin' this way an' that for to take 'up an' let 'un be so rotten, as +ever 'e might be; an' there's many an' many a night when the thoughts +come so fast that they hurt me an' I lay pressed close to t' ground wi' +me 'ands clawin' at it an' me teeth bitin' into t' ground for to get +closer an' 'ide from myself; an' many a night when I sat there seein' +the man as t' brave lad 'e was when I seed 'un first leapin' down the +'ill, an' knowin' that nothin' in the world, nothin' that I could do to +'un or that 'e could do 'isself, would ever take that fro' me.... In all +my time o' my weary waitin' there 'as never been a soul that I told so +much to, an' God knows there never 'as been an' never will be a time +when I can tell as much to 'im.... + +MRS. A. My pretty, my pretty, 'tis a waste an' a wicked, wicked +waste.... + +MARY. 'Tis a day an' alf a day agin never a moment.... + +MRS. A. 'Tis that, and so 'tis wi' all o' us ... an' so 'twill be.... +God bless ye, my dear.... + + [_Ann comes down. Mary is looking out of the window._] + +ANN. Ye forgot the ribbon for yer 'air, that I fetched 'specially fro' +t' town. + +MARY. Why, yes. Will ye tie it, Ann? + + [_Ann ties the ribbon in her hair._] + +MRS. A. Pretty, my dear, oh! pretty-- + +MARY. I'm to walk to t' church o' Tom's arm...? + +ANN. An' I to Tom's left; wi' the bridesmaids be'ind, an' the rest a +followin'.... + + [_Tom returns, followed by two girls bringing armfuls of flowers. + With these they deck the room, and keep the choicest blooms for + Mary. Ann and the three girls are busied with making Mary reach + her most beautiful. Mrs. Airey goes. At intervals one villager and + another comes to give greeting or to bring some small offering of + food or some small article of clothing. Mary thanks them all with + rare natural grace. They call her fine, and ejaculate remarks of + admiration: "The purty bride...." "She's beautiful...." "'Tis a + lucky lad, Bill Airey...." The church bell begins to ring.... All + is prepared and all are ready.... Mary is given her gloves, which + she draws on--when the door is thrown open and Bill Airey lunges + against the lintel of the door and stands leering. He is just + sober enough to know what he is at. He is near tears, poor + wretch. He is not horribly drunk. He stands surveying the group + and they him._] + +BILL. I come--I come--I--c-come for to--to--to--show--to show myself.... + + [_He turns in utter misery and goes. Mary plucks the flowers from + her bosom and lets them fall to the ground; draws her gloves off + her hands and lets them fall. The bell continues to ring._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE BABY CARRIAGE + + A PLAY + + BY BOSWORTH CROCKER + + + Copyright, 1920, by Bosworth Crocker. + All rights reserved. + + + THE BABY CARRIAGE was originally produced by the Provincetown Players, + New York, February 14, 1919, with the following cast: + + MRS. LEZINSKY _Dorothy Miller._ + MRS. ROONEY _Alice Dostetter._ + MR. ROSENBLOOM _W. Clay Hill._ + SOLOMON LEZINSKY _O. K. Liveright._ + + PLACE: _The Lezinsky Tailor Shop_. + TIME: _To-day_. + + + Application for the right of performing THE BABY CARRIAGE must be made + to Mr. Bosworth Crocker, in care of the Society of American Dramatists + and Composers, 148 West 45th Street, New York, or The Authors' League, + Union Square, New York. + + + +THE BABY CARRIAGE + +A PLAY BY BOSWORTH CROCKER + + + [_THE SCENE is an ordinary tailor shop two steps down from the + sidewalk. Mirror on one side. Equipment third rate. Mrs. Solomon + Lezinsky, alone in the shop, is examining a torn pair of trousers + as Mrs. Rooney comes in._] + + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_27 years old, medium height and weight, dark, +attractive. In a pleased voice with a slight Yiddish accent_]. Mrs. +Rooney! + +MRS. ROONEY [_30 years old. A plump and pretty Irish woman_]. I only ran +in for a minute to bring you these. [_Holds up a pair of roller skates +and a picture book._] Eileen's out there in the carriage. [_Both women +look out at the baby-carriage in front of the window._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Bring her in, Mrs. Rooney. Such a beautiful child--your +Eileen! + +MRS. ROONEY. Can't stop--where's the kids? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. The janitress takes them to the moving pictures with her +Izzy. + +MRS. ROONEY. You wouldn't believe the things I've run across this day, +packing. [_Puts down the skates._] I'm thinking these skates'll fit one +of your lads. My Mickey--God rest his soul!--used to tear around great +on them. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Fine, Mrs. Rooney! [_Examines the skates._ But couldn't +you save them for Eileen? + +MRS. ROONEY. Sure, she'd be long growing up to them and they be laying +by gathering the rust. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. My David and Julius and Benny could die for joy with +these fine skates, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. + +MRS. ROONEY. Here's an old book [_hands Mrs. Lezinsky the book_], but +too good to throw away entirely. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_opens the book_]. Fine, Mrs. Rooney! Such a book with +pictures in it! My Benny's wild for picture books. Julius reads, +reads--always learning. Something wonderful, I tell you. Just like the +papa--my Solly ruins himself with his nose always stuck in the Torah. + +MRS. ROONEY. The Toro? 'Tis a book I never heard tell of. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. The law and the prophets--my Solly was meant to be a +rabbi once. + +MRS. ROONEY. A rabbi? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. You know what a rabbi is by us, Mrs. Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY. Indeed, I know what a rabbi is, Mrs. Lezinsky--a rabbi is a +Jewish priest. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. You don't hate the Jewish religion, Mrs. Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY. Every one has a right to their own religion. Some of us are +born Jewish--like you, Mrs. Lezinsky, and some are born Catholics, like +me. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Catholics like you are fine, Mrs. Rooney. Such a good +neighbor! A good customer, too! Why should you move away now, Mrs. +Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY. The air in the Bronx will be fine for Eileen. 'Tis a great +pity you couldn't be moving there, yourself. With the fresh air and the +cheap rent, 'twould be great for yourself and the boys--not to mention +the baby that's coming to you. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Thank God, that don't happen for a little while yet. But +in the hottest weather--maybe--some Septembers--even so late yet--ain't +it, Mrs. Rooney? Always trouble by us. Such expense, too. The agent +takes the rent to-day. With Solly's eyes so bad it's a blessing when we +can pay the rent even. And the gas bills! So much pants pressing! See? +They send us this already. [_Shows a paper._] A notice to pay right away +or they shut it off. Only ten days overdue. Would you believe it, Mrs. +Rooney? Maybe we catch up a little next month. It don't pay no longer, +this business. And soon now another mouth to feed, and still my Solly +sticks by his learning. + +MRS. ROONEY. But he can't be a rabbi now, can he? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. He can't be a rabbi now, no more, Mrs. Rooney, but such a +pious man--my Solly. He must be a poor tailor, but he never gives up his +learning--not for anything he gives that up. Learning's good for my +David and Julius and Benny soon, but it's bad for my Solly. It leaves +him no eyes for the business, Mrs. Rooney. + +MRS. ROONEY. And are the poor eyes as bad as ever? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. How should his eyes get better when he gives them no +chance? Always he should have an operation and the operation--it don't +help--maybe. [_Mrs. Rooney turns to the door._] Must you go so quick, +Mrs. Rooney? Now you move away, I never see you any more. + +MRS. ROONEY. The subway runs in front of the house. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. I tell you something, Mrs. Rooney: Solly couldn't keep +the shop open without me. Sometimes his eyes go back on him altogether. +And he should get an operation. But that costs something, I tell you, +Mrs. Rooney. The doctors get rich from that. It costs something, that +operation. And then, sometimes, may be it don't help. + +MRS. ROONEY. 'Tis too bad, altogether. [_Looks at the baby-carriage._] +Wait a minute, Mrs. Lezinsky. [_Starts out._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_as Mrs. Rooney goes_]. What is it, Mrs. Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY [_just outside the door, calls out_]. Something else--I +forgot. 'Tis out here in the carriage. + + [_Mrs. Lezinsky threads a needle and begins to sew buttons on a + lady's coat. Mrs. Rooney comes back carrying a small square + package wrapped in newspaper._] + +MRS. ROONEY. Here's something. You'll like this, Mrs. Lezinsky. It +belongs to Eileen. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_looking out at the child in the carriage_]. Was her +collar stitched all right, Mrs. Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY. It was that. Fits her coat perfect. See the new cap on her? +'Twas for her birthday I bought it. Three years old now. Getting that +big I can feel the weight of her. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Such a beautiful little girl, Mrs. Rooney! And such +stylish clothes you buy for her. My David should have a new suit from +his papa's right away now. Then we fix the old one over for Julius. +Maybe my Benny gets a little good out of that suit too, sometime. We +couldn't afford to buy new clothes. We should first get all the wear out +of the old ones. Yes, Mrs. Rooney. Anyhow, boys! It don't so much +matter. But girls! Girls is different. And such a beautiful little girl +like Eileen! + +MRS. ROONEY. She'll be spoilt on me entirely--every one giving her her +own way. [_In a gush of mother-pride._] 'Tis the darling she is--anyhow. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. O, Mrs. Rooney, I could wish to have one just like her, I +tell you, such a beautiful little girl just like her. + +MRS. ROONEY. Maybe you will, Mrs. Lezinsky, maybe you will. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. She sleeps nice in that baby-carriage. + +MRS. ROONEY. 'Tis the last time she sleeps in it. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. The last time, what? + +MRS. ROONEY. Her pa'll be after buying me a go-cart for her now we're +moving. 'Tis destroying me--the hauling that up and down stairs. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Such a gorgeous baby-carriage--all fresh painted--white-- + +MRS. ROONEY. It's fine for them that likes it. As for me--I'm that tired +of dragging it, I'd rather be leaving it behind. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_her face aglow_]. What happens to that carriage, Mrs. +Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY. I'll be selling it. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Who buys that carriage, Mrs. Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY. More than one has their eye on it, but I'll get my price. +Mrs. Cohen has spoke for it. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. How much you ask for that carriage, Mrs. Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY. Sure, and I'd let it go for a $5 bill, Mrs. Lezinsky. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_her face falls_]. Maybe you get that $5 ... Mrs. Rooney. +Those Cohens make money by that stationery business. + +MRS. ROONEY. And sure, the secondhand man would pay me as much. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_longingly_]. My David and Julius and Benny--they never +had such a baby-carriage--in all their lives they never rode in a +baby-carriage. My babies was pretty babies, too. And smart, Mrs. Rooney! +You wouldn't believe it. My Benny was the smartest of the lot. When he +was 18 months old, he puts two words together already. + +MRS. ROONEY. He's a keener--that one. [_Unwraps the package._] I'm clean +forgetting the basket. [_Holds it out to Mrs. Lezinsky's delighted +gaze._] Now there you are--as good as new--Mrs. Lezinsky--and when you +do be sticking the safety pins into the cushion [_she points out the +cushion_] you can mind my Eileen. Some of the pinholes is rusty like, +but the pins'll cover it--that it was herself gave your baby its first +present. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. O, Mrs. Rooney, such a beautiful basket! Such a +beautiful, stylish basket! + +MRS. ROONEY. And here's a box for the powder. [_Opens a celluloid box +and takes out a powder puff._] And here's an old puff. Sure the puff +will do if you're not too particular. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_handling the things_]. Why should I be so particular? In +all their lives my David and Julius and Benny never had such a box and +puff, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. + +MRS. ROONEY [_points_]. Them little pockets is to stick things in. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Should you give away such a basket, Mrs. Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY. What good is it but to clutter up the closet, knocking +about in my way. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. My David and Julius and Benny, they never had such a +basket, but my cousin, Morris Schapiro's wife,--she had such a +basket--for her baby. All lined with pink it was. + +MRS. ROONEY. Pink is for boys. I wanted a girl, having Mickey then. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Me, too, Mrs. Rooney. Three boys! Now it's time it should +be a little girl. Yes, Mrs. Rooney. A little girl like Eileen. + +MRS. ROONEY. Sure, then, if you're going by the basket 'tis a little +girl you have coming to you. Blue's for girls.... A comb and a brush for +it--you can buy. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Combs and brushes! What should I do with combs and +brushes? My David and Julius and Benny are all born bald. + +MRS. ROONEY. Sure, Eileen had the finest head of curls was ever seen on +a baby--little soft yellow curls--like the down on a bird. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. If I should have a little girl--like your Eileen--my +David and Julius and Benny--they die for joy over their little sister, I +tell you, Mrs. Rooney. Yes, it should be a girl and I name her Eileen. +Such pretty names for girls: Eileen and Hazel and Gladys and Goldie. +Goldie's a pretty name, too. I like that name so much I call myself +Goldie when I go to school. Gietel's my Jewish name. Ugly? Yes, Mrs. +Rooney? Goldie's better--much better. But Eileen's the best of all. +Eileen's a gorgeous name. I name her Eileen, I do assure you. She should +have another name, too, for Solly. Zipporah, maybe--for her dead +grandmother. + +MRS. ROONEY. Sure, Eileen has a second name: Bridget. 'Tis for my mother +in the old country. A saint's name. Her father chose it for her. +Bridget's a grand name--that--too. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Zipporah--that was Solly's mother.... But I call her +Eileen. + +MRS. ROONEY. That's a grand compliment, Mrs. Lezinsky, and 'tis myself +would stand godmother for her should you be wanting me to. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. I'm sorry, Mrs. Rooney, by our religion we don't have +such god-mothers. + +MRS. ROONEY. I'll be running on now not to keep you from your work and +so much of it with your poor man and the drops in his sick eyes. Here! +[_She puts half a dollar into Mrs. Lezinsky's hand._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY. For what? + +MRS. ROONEY. For Mr. Lezinsky stitching the collar on Eileen's coat. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_trying to make Mrs. Rooney take it back_]. Mrs. +Rooney--if you wouldn't insult me--please--when you bring all these +lovely things.... [_Mrs. Rooney pushes the money away._] And so you sell +that fine baby-carriage.... That carriage holds my Benny, too, maybe? + +MRS. ROONEY. Sure. Easy. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. My David and Julius--they could wheel that carriage. The +little sister sleeps in it. And my Benny--he rides at the foot. $5 is +cheap for that elegant carriage when you should happen to have so much +money. I ask my Solly. Do me the favor, Mrs. Rooney--you should speak to +me first before you give it to Mrs. Cohen--yes? + +MRS. ROONEY. Sure I will. I'll be leaving the carriage outside and carry +the child up. You and Mr. Lezinsky can be making up your minds. [_Mrs. +Rooney looks through the window at a man turning in from the street._] +Is it himself coming home? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Any time now, Mrs. Rooney, he comes from the doctor. + +MRS. ROONEY. 'Tis not himself. 'Tis some customer. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_as the door opens_]. It's Mr. Rosenbloom. + +MRS. ROONEY. See you later. [_Rushes out. Through the window Mrs. +Lezinsky watches her take the child out of the carriage._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_sighs, turns to her customer_]. O, Mr. Rosenbloom! Glad +to see you, Mr. Rosenbloom. You well now, Mr. Rosenbloom? + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. Able to get around once more, Mrs. Lezinsky. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. I hope you keep that way. You got thinner with your +sickness. You lose your face, Mr. Rosenbloom. [_He hands her a coat and +a pair of trousers._] Why should you bother to bring them in? I could +send my David or Julius for them. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. Right on my way to the barber-shop. The coat's a little +loose now. [_Slips off his coat and puts on the other._] Across the +back. See? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. He should take it in a little on the shoulders, Mr. +Rosenbloom? + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_considers_]. It wouldn't pay--so much alterations for +this particular suit. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. It's a good suit, Mr. Rosenbloom. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. He should just shorten the sleeves. Those sleeves were +from the first a little too long. + + [_He slips the coat off. Mrs. Lezinsky measures coat sleeve + against his bent arm._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY. About how much, Mr. Rosenbloom? Say--an inch? + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. An inch or an inch and a half--maybe. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_measures again_]. I think that makes them too short, Mr. +Rosenbloom. One inch is plenty. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. All right--one inch, then. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. One inch.... All right, Mr. Rosenbloom--one inch. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. How soon will they be ready? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Maybe to-morrow. He lets all this other work +go--maybe--and sets to work on them right away when he gets back home. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. All right. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. I send my David or Julius with them, Mr. Rosenbloom? + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. I'll stop in the evening and try the coat on. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Maybe it wouldn't be ready to try on so soon--All right, +Mr. Rosenbloom, this evening you come in. [_She calls after him as he +goes out._] O, Mr. Rosenbloom! The pants? What should he do to the +pants? + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_from the doorway_]. Press them. [_He turns back._] +Press the--whole thing--suit. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Press them. Sure. Press the suit. A fine suit. Certainly +a fine piece of goods, Mr. Rosenbloom. Did my husband make it up for +you? + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. Yes. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. I thought so. Wears like iron, too, this goods. Yes, Mr. +Rosenbloom? With one eye my husband picks the best pieces of goods I +tell you, Mr. Rosenbloom.... He should shorten the sleeves one inch.... +All right, he fixes it to your satisfaction, Mr. Rosenbloom-- + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. Yes, yes. [_Impatiently edges toward the door._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY. This evening you come for them? + + [_He nods and hurries out._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Five dollars! [_Drops everything and stands looking +dreamily through the shop window at the baby-carriage. She takes a roll +of money from her bosom and counts it. Shakes her head dispiritedly and +sighs. She makes an estimate of the money coming in from the work on +hand. Pointing to Mr. Rosenbloom's suit._] Two dollars for that--[_Turns +from the suit to a pair of torn trousers._] Half a dollar, +anyhow--[_Points to the lady's coat on which she has been sewing +buttons._] A dollar--maybe--[_Hears some one coming, thrusts the roll of +money back into her bosom._] + +LEZINSKY [_comes in. Spare. Medium height. Pronounced Semitic type. He +wears glasses with very thick lenses._] Where are the children? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Mrs. Klein takes them to the moving pictures with her +Izzy. + +LEZINSKY. Always to the moving pictures! The children go blind, too, +pretty soon. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. The doctor didn't make your eyes no better, Solly? + +LEZINSKY. How should he make them better when he says all the time: +"Don't use them." And all the time a man must keep right on working to +put bread in the mouths of his children. And soon, now, another one +comes--nebbich! + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Maybe your eyes get much better now when our little +Eileen comes. + +LEZINSKY. Better a boy, Goldie: that helps more in the business. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. It's time our David and Julius and Benny should have a +little sister now. They like that. Such another little girl like Mrs. +Rooney's Eileen. When it is, maybe, a girl, we call her Eileen--like +Mrs. Rooney's Eileen. Such a gorgeous name--that Eileen! Yes, Solly? + +LEZINSKY. Eileen! A Goy name! She should be Rebecca for your mother or +Zipporah for mine. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Sure. Zipporah, too, Solly--Eileen Zipporah! When there +should be sometime--another boy, Solly, then you name him what you like. +When it a little girl--Eileen. I dress her up stylish. Such beautiful +things they have in Gumpertz's window. And--Mrs. Rooney sells her +baby-carriage. [_Both look out at the carriage._] She gives it away. + +LEZINSKY. She gives you a baby-carriage? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. For five dollars she gives me that lovely carriage good +as new--all fresh painted white--and the little Eileen Zipporah sleeps +at the head and Benny rides at the foot by his little sister. So +elegant--Solly! + +LEZINSKY. I put my eyes out to earn the bread and this woman--she should +buy a baby-carriage. Oi! Oi! + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_points to carriage_]. Such a baby-carriage what Mrs. +Rooney has--it only happens to us once, Solly. Only five +one-dollars--all fresh painted white--just like new--and such a cover to +keep out the sun. She gets a little new go-cart for Eileen. Otherwise +she don't give up such an elegant carriage what cost her more money than +we could even see at one time except for rents and gas-bills. Five +dollars is cheap for that carriage. Five dollars is nothing for that +carriage I tell you, Solly. Nothing at all. She sells it now before she +moves to the Bronx this afternoon. Such a bargain we shouldn't lose, +Solly--even if we don't pay all the money right away down. Yes, Solly? +And Mrs. Rooney--she gives our David and Julius and Benny skates and a +picture book--and their little sister this fine basket. [_Shows him the +basket._] Yes, Solly. Shouldn't we make sure to buy this baby-carriage? +Only five dollars, Solly, this baby-carriage-- + +LEZINSKY. Baby-carriage! Baby-carriage! If I had so much money for +baby-carriages I hire me a cutter here. This way I go blind. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. No, but by reading the Torah! And that way you lose good +custom, too. [_Wheedling him again._] Maybe you get good business and +hire you a cutter when the little Eileen comes. Five dollars! Does that +pay wages to a cutter? Yes, Solly? But it buys once a beautiful +baby-carriage, and David and Julius go wild to ride their little sister +in it--and Benny at the foot. + +LEZINSKY [_waving his arms_]. I should have a cutter not to lose my +customers--and this woman--she would have a baby-carriage. I lose my +eyes, but she would have a baby-carriage. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. But it costs only five dollars. What costs a cutter? + +LEZINSKY. At Union wages! I might as well ask for the moon, Goldie. Oi! +Oi! Soon we all starve together. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. You hire you a cheap hand here, Solly. He does pressing +and all the dirty work. He works and you boss him around. That looks +good to the customers. Yes, Solly? And I save up that five dollars soon +and give it back to you. Yes, Solly? Business goes better now already +when people come back from the country and everything picks up a little. +I help now and we spare that five dollars. Mr. Rosenbloom brings us a +little work. See? [_She points to the coat._] You should make the +sleeves shorter--one inch. Mr. Rosenbloom gets thinner by his sickness. +His clothes hang a little loose on him. + +LEZINSKY [_looks at the trousers_]. And the pants? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Mr. Rosenbloom didn't lose his stomach by his sickness. +He only loses his face. + +LEZINSKY. Such a _chutzpah_! + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Yes, nothing makes Mr. Rosenbloom to lose his cheek, +ain't it, Solly? And plenty roast goose has he to fill up his stomach. +By us is no more roast goose nowadays. + +LEZINSKY. We make up what we didn't get here maybe in the world to come, +Goldie _leben_. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Roast goose in the world to come! Such a business! Angels +shouldn't eat, Solly. I take my roast goose now--then I sure get it.... +How much you charge Mr. Rosenbloom for this [_points to the suit_], +Solly? + +LEZINSKY. One dollar and a half--maybe. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. For such a job my cousin Morris Schapiro gets three +dollars and not too dear then. Everything goes 'way up and you stay 'way +behind. You should raise your prices. No wonder we shall all starve +together. It's not baby-carriages what ruin us. Did our David or Julius +or Benny ever have such a baby-carriage? No. But it is that you let the +customers steal your work. + +LEZINSKY. All right--I charge two dollars. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. What good should half a dollar do? Three dollars, Solly. + +LEZINSKY. Two dollars. Three dollars swindles him. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. All right--then two dollars. Fifty cents is fifty cents +anyhow. [_She goes up to him and presses her face against his._] Solly, +leben, shouldn't our David and Julius and Benny have a baby-carriage for +their little sister? + +LEZINSKY. Baby-carriage--Oi! Peace, Goldie, my head aches. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_picking up the trousers_]. How much for these, Solly? + +LEZINSKY. One dollar. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_derisively_]. One dollar you say! And for the lady's +coat? + +LEZINSKY. A couple of dollars, anyway. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. A couple of dollars anyway! And he thinks he does good +business when he charges a couple of dollars anyway. And for that, my +cousin, Morris Schapiro charges three dollars each. A couple of dollars! +Your children will be left without bread. [_He mutters phrases from the +Torah._] You hear me, Solly? [_He goes on with his prayers._] Prayers +are what he answers me. Soon you pray in the streets. + +LEZINSKY. Woe is me! Woe is me! + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Could he even answer me? Yes, if it was roast goose I was +asking for or black satin for a decent _Shabbos_ dress. But no! +[_Satirically._] Maybe you even get roast goose from your learning.... +Yes--on account of your praying we all have to go a begging yet. + +LEZINSKY. To-morrow is _Rosch Hoschana_, Gietel. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Does _Rosch Hoschana_ mean a roast goose by us? Does it +even mean a baby-carriage what costs five dollars? + +LEZINSKY. Roast goose and baby-carriage! You have no pious thoughts.... +Go away.... My head swims. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. That comes by fasting. Don't you fast enough every day? + +LEZINSKY. She comes now to roast goose again. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. What should I care for roast goose? _Rosch Hoschana_ +comes next year again. But the baby-carriage--it never comes again. + +LEZINSKY. Baby-carriage! Baby-carriage! When you should fast and +pray.... + +MRS. LEZINSKY. What! Should I fast and give our David and Julius and +Benny a shadow--maybe--for a little sister?... But--yes--I fast, too ... +that--even--for such a baby carriage. O, Solly--that much we all do--for +our little Eileen. + +LEZINSKY [_wearily, putting his hands to his eyes_]. All right. How much +money have you got there--Gietel? + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_sweetly_]. Now call me Goldie, Solly, so I know you +ain't mad. + +LEZINSKY. Yes, yes. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Goldie--say it--Solly leben--Go on--count it--Goldie. +[_She takes the money out and they count it together._] + +MR. AND MRS. LEZINSKY [_together_]. One.... [_Counting out +another dollar bill_]--Two.... [_Counting out a third dollar +bill_]--Three.... [_Counting out a two-dollar bill_]--Five dollars.... +[_Another two-dollar bill_]--Seven dollars.... [_A ten-dollar +bill_]--Seventeen.... [_Another ten-dollar bill_]--Twenty-seven.... +[_The last ten-dollar bill_]--Thirty-seven. + +LEZINSKY. Thirty-seven dollars in all--the rent and the gas! + +MRS. LEZINSKY. And a little over, Solly, to pay on the baby carriage. + +LEZINSKY. And to-morrow _Rosch Hoschana_. Shall we starve the children +on Rosch Hoschana? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. They could go a little hungry once for their little +sister, Eileen. + +LEZINSKY. Don't be too sure, Goldie, maybe another boy comes. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Well, even if--it needs the fresh air, too. + +LEZINSKY [_firmly after a moment's thought_]. No, Goldie, it couldn't be +done. In the spring we buy a baby-carriage. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. You think she waits till spring to sell that +baby-carriage? She sells it now before she moves away--now, this +afternoon, I tell you. + +LEZINSKY. Well, we buy another carriage, then. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. You don't find such a bargain again anytime. She gives it +away. + +LEZINSKY. My eyes get much better soon--now--by the operation. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Operation! Operation! Always operations! And the baby +comes. No carriage for our David and Julius to wheel her in--with our +Benny at the foot--in the fresh air--and she dies on us in the heat next +summer--maybe--and David and Julius and Benny--they lose their little +sister. + +LEZINSKY. Didn't David and Julius and Benny live without a +baby-carriage? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Yes, a mile to the park, maybe, and I carry them to the +fresh air. And a baby-carriage for her costs five dollars. What time +shall I have for that with all the extra work and my back broken? In +such a baby-carriage the little sister sleeps from morning to night--on +the sidewalk by the stoop; she gets fat and healthy from that +baby-carriage. + +LEZINSKY. When I could pay for the operation, maybe--then-- + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_despairingly_]. Operations again--always operations! + +LEZINSKY. Go away, Goldie, I must work. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. I advise you not to have that operation now. He steals +your money and don't help your eyes. Get another doctor. But +baby-carriages like this ain't so plenty. + +LEZINSKY. God of Israel, shall I go blind because you would have a +baby-carriage for our unborn son? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. No, but by reading the Torah--and that way you lose good +customers, too--and she shall die in the heat because David and Julius +cannot push her in that baby-carriage. + +LEZINSKY. Go away, Gietel, I have work to do. Maybe you could rip out +the sleeves from Mr. Rosenbloom's coat? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. I do anything--anything you like, Solly, for that +baby-carriage.... Yes, I rip out the sleeves when I finish sewing on the +buttons.... I do anything--anything--so we get this baby carriage. We +never get another such carriage. + +LEZINSKY. God of Israel, will she never hear me when I say: No! + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Then--Mrs. Cohen--she gets that baby carriage--and every +day of my life I see it go past my window--and the little sister--she +goes without. [_She picks up Mr. Rosenbloom's coat, looks it over and +finds a small wallet in the breast pocket. Tucks the wallet into her +bosom. Fiercely, half-aloud, but to herself._] No! No! Mrs. Cohen +shouldn't get that baby-carriage--whatever happens--she shouldn't get +it. [_She crosses to the mirror, pulls the wallet from her bosom, +hurriedly counts the money in it, glances at her husband, then takes out +a five-dollar bill. She hears a noise outside and makes a move as though +to restore the money to the wallet, but at the sound of steps on the +stoop, she thrusts the loose bill into her bosom. As Mr. Rosenbloom +comes in she has only time to stick the wallet back into the coat. Picks +up the lady's coat and sews on buttons vigorously._] + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. I left my wallet in that coat. + +LEZINSKY [_with a motion of his head toward the coat_]. Goldie. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_sewing the buttons onto the lady's coat_]. In which +pocket, Mr. Rosenbloom? + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_crosses to coat_]. You don't begin work on it, yet? + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_slowly puts her work aside_]. I rip the sleeves out so +soon I sew these buttons on, Mr. Rosenbloom. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_looks in breast pocket, draws back in astonishment to +find the wallet gone._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY. In which pocket, Mr. Rosenbloom? + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. I keep it always in that breast pocket. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_taking the wallet from an outside pocket_]. Why--here it +is, Mr. Rosenbloom. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_suspiciously_]. From which pocket does it come? + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_points_]. Right here, Mr. Rosenbloom. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_shakes his head_]. I don't see how it got in that +pocket. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. We didn't touch that coat, Mr. Rosenbloom--except Solly +looks when I told him what he should do to it--ain't it, Solly? +Otherwise we didn't touch it. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_opens the wallet_]. Funny! It couldn't walk out of one +pocket into another all by itself. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. We didn't touch it, Mr. Rosenbloom. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_begins to count the bills_]. Maybe some customer-- + +MRS. LEZINSKY. That may be--all kinds of customers, Mr. Rosenbloom-- + +LEZINSKY [_as Mr. Rosenbloom goes over the money for the second time._] +But it hangs here always in our sight. Who has been here, Goldie? + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. There's a bill missing here. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_pretending great astonishment_]. Mr. Rosenbloom! + +LEZINSKY [_with an accusing note in his tone, meant for her only_]. +Gietel? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. How should I know? [_To Mr. Rosenbloom._] Maybe you +didn't count it right. [_He counts it again._] + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. No--it's short--$5. + +LEZINSKY [_under his breath, looking strangely at his wife._] Mr. +Rosenbloom, however that happens--I make up that $5. Such a thing +shouldn't happen in my business. I make it up right away. +Gietel!--Gietel--give me the money. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_in a trembling voice_]. I didn't-- + +LEZINSKY [_checks her_]. I pay you from my own money, Mr. Rosenbloom.... +Gietel! [_He puts out his hand for the money._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY. All right, Solly.... [_Turns her back to Mr. Rosenbloom +and pulls the roll of money from her bosom, thrusting the loose bill +back. Solomon, standing over her, sees this bill and puts out his hand +for it._] + +LEZINSKY [_in a tense undertone_]. All--Gietel--all! + + [_Reluctantly she draws the $5 bill from her bosom and, seizing a + moment when Mr. Rosenbloom is recounting his money, she thrusts it + quickly into her husband's hand._] + +LEZINSKY [_he crosses to Mr. Rosenbloom and counts out the five dollars +from the bills in the roll._] One dollar--two dollars--three +dollars--and two is five dollars. [_Hands it to Mr. Rosenbloom._] + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_hesitates_]. You shouldn't be out that $5, Mr. +Lezinsky. Anyhow--pay me the difference when you charge for the suit. + +LEZINSKY. No, Mr. Rosenbloom--if you take the money now, please.... I +couldn't rest--otherwise. In all my life--this--never--happened--before. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM [_takes the money_]. Well, if you want it that way, Mr. +Lezinsky.... You have the suit ready this evening anyhow? + +LEZINSKY. You get the suit this evening, Mr. Rosenbloom. I stop +everything else.... And I don't charge you anything for this work, Mr. +Rosenbloom. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. Of course, you charge. "Don't charge"! What kind of +business is that? + +LEZINSKY. I make you a present, Mr. Rosenbloom--for your trouble. + +MR. ROSENBLOOM. I pay you for these alterations, all right. [_He goes +out._] + +LEZINSKY [_searches his wife's face, with ominous calm_]. Gietel! +Gietel! + +MRS. LEZINSKY. You make presents, eh, Solly? Are you a rabbi or a poor +blind tailor--yes? + +LEZINSKY [_bursts out_]. She makes a mock at me--this shameless one! + +MRS. LEZINSKY. No, no, Solly-- + +LEZINSKY [_scathingly_]. Gietel!... [_His eyes never leave her face._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_in a hushed voice_]. Why do you look at me like that, +Solly? + +LEZINSKY. Blind as I am, I see too much, Gietel. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Listen, Solly--I tell you now-- + +LEZINSKY [_silences her with a wave of his hand._] What I get I +give--[_He takes the five-dollar bill from his pocket, smooths it out +and adds it to the roll._] I give my money. I give my eyes ... and this +woman--she sells me for a baby-carriage. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. No, no, Solly, you shouldn't say such things before you +know-- + +LEZINSKY. Silence, woman! How should I not know? It is here in my +hand--the five-dollar bill--here in my hand. I have counted the money. +Thirty-seven dollars we had. I have given him back his five and +thirty-seven dollars remain. How is that, Gietel? What is the answer to +that?... She cheats the customer and she cheats me.... Rather should I +take my children by the hand and beg my bread from door to door. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Solly--Solly--I tell you--the baby-carriage-- + +LEZINSKY. Out of my sight, woman; I forbid you to come into this shop +again. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. O, Solly _leben_, that couldn't be-- + +LEZINSKY. The mother of my children--she sins--for a baby-carriage. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. Listen, Solly--I didn't mean to keep that money. As +there's a God of Israel I didn't mean to keep it. I should use it--just +this afternoon--to buy the baby-carriage--and when the customers pay +us--put the money back before he misses it. + +LEZINSKY. Meshugge! So much money isn't coming to us. And why should you +use Mr. Rosenbloom's money? Why shouldn't you take it from the money you +had? + +MRS. LEZINSKY. How could I use that money? Don't you pay the rent this +afternoon to the agent? And they shut off the gas when we don't settle: +by five o'clock they shut it off. And Mrs. Rooney moves away--[_Breaks +into sobbing._] and so--I thought I lose the baby-carriage. + +LEZINSKY. Gietel--Gietel--you are a----. I can't speak the word, +Gietel--It sticks in my throat. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. No, no, Solly, you shouldn't speak that word. If I took +it to keep it maybe. But--no. I couldn't do such a thing. Not for a +million baby-carriages could I do such a thing. Not for anything could I +keep what is not my own--I tell you, Solly.... [_Pleadingly._] But just +to keep it for a few hours, maybe? Why should a man with so much money +miss a little for a few hours? Then Mr. Rosenbloom--he comes back in. I +change my mind, but the door opens and it is too late already. Solly +leben, did I keep it back--the five dollars? I ask you, Solly? Didn't I +give it all into your hand? I ask you that, Solly? + +LEZINSKY. Woe is me!--The mother of my children--and she takes what is +not her own! + +MRS. LEZINSKY. So much money and not one dollar to pay Mrs. Rooney for +the baby-carriage! You see, Solly--always fine-dressed people +around--the mamas and the little children all dressed fine--with white +socks and white shoes. And our David--and our Julius--and our Benny, +even--what _must_ they wear? Old clothes! Yes. And to save the money +they should wear black stockings--and old shoes. Never no pretty things! +And it's all the time work--work--work and we never have nothing--no new +clothes--no pretty things--[_She breaks down completely._] + +LEZINSKY. So our children grow up with the fear of God in their hearts-- + +MRS. LEZINSKY. What should little children know of all this pious +business when they must play alone on the stoop with Izzi Klein +together. For why? The Cohen children shouldn't play with our David and +Julius and Benny. They make a snout at them. The Cohens dress them up +stylish and they should play with Gentile children. They push my Benny +in the stomach when he eats an ice-cream cone, and they say--regular--to +my David and Julius: "Sheeny"--the same as if they wasn't Jewish, +too.... Just for once I wanted something lovely and stylish--like other +people have.... Then she asks--only five dollars for the +baby-carriage--and--[_Choking back a sob._] Mrs. Cohen--now, Mrs. +Cohen--she gets it. She gets it and I must want--and want. First +David--then Julius--then comes Benny--and now the little sister--and +never once a baby-carriage! [_Sobs._] + +LEZINSKY. We should raise our children to be pious. + + [_There is the sound of trundling wheels. Mrs. Lezinsky looks out. + The carriage is gone from the window._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_as the door opens and Mrs. Rooney appears wheeling the +carriage in, low voices_]. Mrs. Rooney, Solly; she comes now to say +good-by. [_Mops her eyes, trys to put on a casual look._] + +MRS. ROONEY. Now there you are, Mrs. Lezinsky, blanket and all. + + [_Lezinsky works feverishly without lifting his eyes._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_low appealing voice_]. You should look at it once, +Solly. [_Lezinsky stops for a moment and lets his eyes rest on the +baby-carriage._] Ain't it a beautiful, stylish baby-carriage, Solly? + +MRS. ROONEY. There it is now and I'll be running on for Mrs. Klein's +Anna's keeping Eileen and I have her to dress before her pa comes home. +He's getting off earlier for the moving. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. The little Eileen! Why didn't you bring her along with +you, Mrs. Rooney? + +MRS. ROONEY. She went to sleep on me or I would that. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_her eyes on her husband's face in mute appeal_]. O, Mrs. +Rooney--so little business and so much expense--and my Solly has an +operation for his sick eyes soon--it breaks my heart--but--Mrs. Cohen +[_Shaking voice._] _she_ gets this lovely baby carriage. + +MRS. ROONEY [_taking in the situation_]. Mrs. Cohen--_she_ gets it! Does +she now? Not if my name's Rooney does Mrs. Cohen get it and she only +after offering to raise me a dollar to make sure of the baby-carriage, +knowing your sore need of the same. Am I a lady or not, Mr. Lezinsky? +'Tis that I want to know. "I'll give you six dollars for it," says she +to me. Says I to her: "Mrs. Cohen--when I spoke to you of that +baby-carriage," says I, "it clean slipped me mind that I promised the +same to Mrs. Lezinsky. I promised it to Mrs. Lezinsky long ago," says +I--and so I did, though I forget to make mention of it to you at the +time, Mrs. Lezinsky. So here it is and here it stays or my name's not +Rooney. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. But so much money we haven't got now--not even for the +operation, Mrs. Rooney.... [_Soft pleading undertone to her husband._] +Only five dollars, Solly!... [_Sinking her voice still lower._] +Anyhow--I don't deserve no baby-carriage--maybe--[_Lezinsky makes no +sign._] + +MRS. LEZINSKY. If we could possibly pay for that baby-carriage we keep +it, Mrs. Rooney--[_Turns back to her husband, voice shakes._] for our +Benny and the little sister--yes, Solly? [_She waits and watches him +with mute appeal, then, forcing herself to speak casually._] But it +couldn't be done, Mrs. Rooney--[_Bravely._] Solly should have every +dollar for that operation. + +MRS. ROONEY. There now--no more about it! 'Tis your own from this day +out.... You can take your own time to be paying for it.... I'll be +wanting some work done anyhow--when the cold weather sets in. + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_between tears and laughter_]. Solly!... Ain't it +wonderful? Mrs. Rooney--she trusts us--for this beautiful +baby-carriage!... O, Mrs. Rooney! + +MRS. ROONEY. 'Tis little enough to be doing for my godchild that could +be was she born a Catholic now. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. O, Mrs. Rooney, dear Mrs. Rooney! Solly, Solly, we should +have a baby-carriage at last! At last we should have a baby-carriage. O, +Solly, Solly, what a mitzvah! Yes, Solly? [_As Mrs. Rooney starts to +leave._] But your blanket--Mrs. Rooney-- + +MRS. ROONEY. I'll be throwing that in--for good luck. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. It breaks my heart you move away, Mrs. Rooney. + +MRS. ROONEY. See you soon. [_Opens the door; looks up the street as she +stands in the doorway._] Here's the kids coming. + +MRS. LEZINSKY. My David and Julius and Benny, they could die for joy to +wheel their little sister in this baby-carriage. + +MRS. ROONEY. Well, good luck--the both of you--and good-by! [_With a +sense of pride in the greater prosperity which the new address means to +her._] Three thousand and thirty-seven Jerome Avenue--don't forget! + +MRS. LEZINSKY [_bending over the baby-carriage_]. Good-by, Mrs. +Rooney--next time you come, maybe you see her in the baby-carriage. +[_Soothing the blanket_]--the little Eileen! [_Turns to her husband as +the door closes._] Yes, Solly? + + [_They look at each other in silence for a moment.--She puts out + her hands imploringly. His face softens; he lays his hand on her + shoulder as the three little boys, David, Julius and Benny pass by + the window. As they come into the shop_ + + + _the Curtain Falls._] + + + + +THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE + + A DRAMATIC FANTASY + + BY ERNEST DOWSON + + + CHARACTERS + + A MOON MAIDEN. + PIERROT. + + + +THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE + +A DRAMATIC FANTASY BY ERNEST DOWSON + + + [SCENE: _A glade in the Parc du Petit Trianon. In the center a + Doric temple with steps coming down the stage. On the left a + little Cupid on a pedestal. Twilight._ + + _Enter Pierrot with his hands full of lilies. He is burdened with + a little basket. He stands gazing at the Temple and the Statue._] + + +PIERROT. + + My journey's end! This surely is the glade + Which I was promised: I have well obeyed! + A clue of lilies was I bid to find, + Where the green alleys most obscurely wind; + Where tall oaks darkliest canopy o'erhead, + And moss and violet make the softest bed; + Where the path ends, and leagues behind me lie + The gleaming courts and gardens of Versailles; + The lilies streamed before me, green and white; + I gathered, following: they led me right, + To the bright temple and the sacred grove: + This is, in truth, the very shrine of Love! + + [_He gathers together his flowers and lays them at the foot of + Cupid's statue; then he goes timidly up the first steps of the + temple and stops._] + + It is so solitary, I grow afraid. + Is there no priest here, no devoted maid? + Is there no oracle, no voice to speak, + Interpreting to me the word I seek? + + [_A very gentle music of lutes floats out from the temple. Pierrot + starts back; he shows extreme surprise; then he returns to the + foreground, and crouches down in rapt attention until the music + ceases. His face grows puzzled and petulant._] + + Too soon! too soon! in that enchanting strain + Days yet unlived, I almost lived again: + It almost taught me that I most would know-- + Why am I here, and why am I Pierrot? + + [_Absently he picks up a lily which has fallen to the ground, and + repeats._] + + Why came I here, and why am I Pierrot? + That music and this silence both affright; + Pierrot can never be a friend of night. + I never felt my solitude before-- + Once safe at home, I will return no more. + Yet the commandment of the scroll was plain; + While the light lingers let me read again. + + [_He takes a scroll from his bosom and reads._] + + "He loves to-night who never loved before; + Who ever loved, to-night shall love once more." + I never loved! I know not what love is. + I am so ignorant--but what is this? + + [_Reads._] + + "Who would adventure to encounter Love + Must rest one night within this hallowed grove. + Cast down thy lilies, which have led thee on, + Before the tender feet of Cupidon." + Thus much is done, the night remains to me. + Well, Cupidon, be my security! + Here is more writing, but too faint to read. + + [_He puzzles for a moment, then casts the scroll down._] + + Hence, vain old parchment. I have learnt thy rede! + + [_He looks round uneasily, starts at his shadow; then discovers + his basket with glee. He takes out a flask of wine, pours it into + a glass, and drinks._] + + Courage _mon Ami_! I shall never miss + Society with such a friend as this. + How merrily the rosy bubbles pass, + Across the amber crystal of the glass. + I had forgotten you. Methinks this quest + Can wake no sweeter echo in my breast. + + [_Looks round at the statue, and starts._] + + Nay, little god! forgive. I did but jest. + + [_He fills another glass, and pours it upon the statue._] + + This libation, Cupid, take, + With the lilies at thy feet; + Cherish Pierrot for their sake, + Send him visions strange and sweet, + While he slumbers at thy feet. + Only love kiss him awake! + _Only love kiss him awake!_ + + [_Slowly falls the darkness, soft music plays, while Pierrot + gathers together fern and foliage into a rough couch at the foot + of the steps which lead to the Temple d'Amour. Then he lies down + upon it, having made his prayer. It is night. He speaks softly._] + + Music, more music, far away and faint: + It is an echo of mine heart's complaint. + Why should I be so musical and sad? + I wonder why I used to be so glad? + In single glee I chased blue butterflies, + Half butterfly myself, but not so wise, + For they were twain, and I was only one. + Ah me! how pitiful to be alone. + My brown birds told me much, but in mine ear + They never whispered this--I learned it here: + The soft wood sounds, the rustling in the breeze, + Are but the stealthy kisses of the trees. + Each flower and fern in this enchanted wood + Leans to her fellow, and is understood; + The eglantine, in loftier station set, + Stoops down to woo the maidly violet. + In gracile pairs the very lilies grow: + None is companionless except Pierrot. + Music, more music! how its echoes steal + Upon my senses with unlooked for weal. + Tired am I, tired, and far from this lone glade + Seems mine old joy in rout and masquerade. + Sleep cometh over me, now will I prove, + By Cupid's grace, what is this thing called love. + + [_Sleeps._] + + [_There is more music of lutes for an interval, during which a + bright radiance, white and cold, streams from the temple upon the + face of Pierrot. Presently a Moon Maiden steps out of the temple; + she descends and stands over the sleeper._] + +THE LADY. + + Who is this mortal + Who ventures to-night + To woo an immortal? + Cold, cold the moon's light, + For sleep at this portal, + Bold lover of night. + Fair is the mortal + In soft, silken white, + Who seeks an immortal. + Ah, lover of night, + Be warned at the portal, + And save thee in flight! + + [_She stoops over him; Pierrot stirs in his sleep._] + +PIERROT [_murmuring_]. + + Forget not, Cupid. Teach me all thy lore: + "_He loves to-night who never loved before._" + +THE LADY. + + Unwitting boy! when, be it soon or late, + What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? + What if I warned him! He might yet evade, + Through the long windings of this verdant glade; + Seek his companions in the blither way, + Which, else, must be as lost as yesterday. + So might he still pass some unheeding hours + In the sweet company of birds and flowers. + How fair he is, with red lips formed for joy, + As softly curved as those of Venus' boy. + Methinks his eyes, beneath their silver sheaves, + Rest tranquilly like lilies under leaves. + Arrayed in innocence, what touch of grace + Reveals the scion of a courtly race? + Well, I will warn him, though, I fear, too late-- + What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? + But, see, he stirs, new knowledge fires his brain, + And cupid's vision bids him wake again. + Dione's Daughter! but how fair he is, + Would it be wrong to rouse him with a kiss? + + [_She stoops down and kisses him, then withdraws into the shadow._] + +PIERROT [_rubbing his eyes_]. + + Celestial messenger! remain, remain; + Or, if a vision, visit me again! + What is this light, and whither am I come + To sleep beneath the stars so far from home? + + [_Rises slowly to his feet._] + + Stay, I remember this is Venus' Grove, + And I am hither come to encounter-- + +THE LADY [_coming forward, but veiled_]. + + Love! + +PIERROT [_in ecstasy, throwing himself at her feet_]. + + Then have I ventured and encountered Love? + +THE LADY. + + Not yet, rash boy! and, if thou wouldst be wise, + Return unknowing; he is safe who flies. + +PIERROT. + + Never, sweet lady, will I leave this place + Until I see the wonder of thy face. + Goddess or Naiad! lady of this Grove, + Made mortal for a night to teach me love, + Unveil thyself, although thy beauty be + Too luminous for my mortality. + +THE LADY [_unveiling_]. + + Then, foolish boy, receive at length thy will: + Now knowest thou the greatness of thine ill. + +PIERROT. + + Now have I lost my heart, and gained my goal. + +THE LADY. + + Didst thou not read the warning on the scroll? + + [_Picks up the parchment._] + +PIERROT. + + I read it all, as on this quest I fared, + Save where it was illegible and hard. + +THE LADY. + + Alack! poor scholar, wast thou never taught + A little knowledge serveth less than naught? + Hadst thou perused--but, stay, I will explain + What was the writing which thou didst disdain. + + [_Reads._] + + "_Au Petit Trianon_, at night's full noon, + Mortal, beware the kisses of the moon! + Whoso seeks her she gathers like a flower-- + He gives a life, and only gains an hour." + +PIERROT [_laughing recklessly_]. + + Bear me away to thine enchanted bower, + All of my life I venture for an hour. + +THE LADY. + + Take up thy destiny of short delight; + I am thy lady for a summer's night, + Lift up your viols, maidens of my train, + And work such havoc on this mortal's brain + That for a moment he may touch and know + Immortal things, and be full Pierrot, + White music, Nymphs! Violet and Eglantine! + To stir his tired veins like magic wine, + What visitants across his spirit glance, + Lying on lilies, while he watch me dance? + Watch, and forget all weary things on earth, + All memories and cares, all joy and mirth, + While my dance woos him, light and rhythmical, + And weaves his heart into my coronal. + Music, more music for his soul's delight: + Love is his lady for a summer's night. + + [_Pierrot reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The dance + finished, she beckons to him: he rises dreamily, and stands at her + side._] + +PIERROT. + + Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody? + +THE LADY. + + Pan made it long ago in Arcady. + +PIERROT. + + I heard it long ago, I know not where, + As I knew thee, or ever I came here. + But I forgot all things--my name and race, + All that I ever knew except thy face. + Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me, + That I may tell it like a rosary. + Thou, whom I sought, dear Dryad of the trees, + How art thou designate--art thou Heart's-Ease? + +THE LADY. + + Waste not the night in idle questioning, + Since Love departs at dawn's awakening. + +PIERROT. + + Nay, thou art right; what recks thy name or state, + Since thou art lovely and passionate. + Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre. + +THE LADY. + + I am to each the face of his desire. + +PIERROT. + + I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove, + Who craves a refuge on the breast of love. + +THE LADY. + + What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon? + Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon. + +PIERROT. + + Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car, + Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star-- + Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,-- + Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies, + Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids, + Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades; + Mount me beside thee, bear me far away + From the low regions of the solar day; + Over the rainbow, up into the moon, + Where is thy palace and thine opal throne; + There on thy bosom-- + +THE LADY. + + Too ambitious boy! + I did but promise thee one hour of joy. + This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light, + Could hardly be completed in a night. + Hast thou no craving less remote than this? + +PIERROT. + + Would it be impudent to beg a kiss? + +THE LADY. + + I say not that: yet prithee have a care! + Often audacity has proved a snare. + How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow-- + Does thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot? + +PIERROT. + + As one who faints upon the Libyan plain + Fears the oasis which brings life again! + +THE LADY. + + Where far away green palm trees seem to stand + May be a mirage of the wreathing sand. + +PIERROT. + + Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught, + Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught. + +THE LADY. + + Dost thou persist? + +PIERROT. + + I do entreat this boon! + + [_She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a + petulant shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter._] + +THE LADY. + + Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon? + +PIERROT. + + Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell; + Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle! + Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream + Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream: + But with its frost such sweetness did conspire + That all my veins are filled with running fire; + Never I knew that life contained such bliss + As the divine completeness of a kiss. + +THE LADY. + + Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught, + Warning, as usual, has gone for naught. + +PIERROT. + + Had all my schooling been of this soft kind, + To play the truant I were less inclined. + Teach me again! I am a sorry dunce-- + I never knew a task by conning once. + +THE LADY. + + Then come with me! below this pleasant shrine + Of Venus we will presently recline, + Until birds' twitter beckon me away + To my own home, beyond the milky-way. + I will instruct thee, for I deem as yet + Of Love thou knowest but the alphabet. + +PIERROT. + + In its sweet grammar I shall grow most wise, + If all its rules be written in thine eyes. + + [_The Lady sits upon a step of the temple, and Pierrot leans upon + his elbow at her feet, regarding her._] + + Sweet contemplation! how my senses yearn to be thy scholar always, + always learn. + Hold not so high from me thy radiant mouth, + Fragrant with all the spices of the South; + Nor turn, O sweet! thy golden face away, + For with it goes the light of all my day. + Let me peruse it, till I know by rote + Each line of it, like music, note by note; + Raise thy long lashes, Lady; smile again: + These studies profit me. + + [_Takes her hand._] + +THE LADY. + + Refrain, refrain! + +PIERROT [_with passion_]. + + I am but studious, so do not stir; + Thou art my star, I thine astronomer! + Geometry was founded on thy lip. + + [_Kisses her hand._] + +THE LADY. + + This attitude becomes not scholarship! + Thy zeal I praise; but, prithee, not so fast, + Nor leave the rudiments until the last, + Science applied is good, but 'twere a schism + To study such before the catechism. + Bear thee more modestly, while I submit + Some easy problems to confirm thy wit. + +PIERROT. + + In all humility my mind I pit + Against her problems which would test my wit. + +THE LADY [_questioning him from a little book bound deliciously in +vellum_]. + + What is Love? + Is it folly, + Is it mirth, or melancholy? + Joys above, + Are there many, or not any? + What is love? + +PIERROT [_answering in a very humble attitude of scholarship_]. + + If you please, + A most sweet folly! + Full of mirth and melancholy: + Both of these! + In its sadness worth all gladness, + If you please! + +THE LADY. + + Prithee where, + Goes Love a-hiding? + Is he long in his abiding + Anywhere? + Can you bind him when you find him; + Prithee, where? + +PIERROT. + + With spring days + Love comes and dallies: + Upon the mountains, through the valleys + Lie Love's ways. + Then he leaves you and deceives you + In spring days. + +THE LADY. + + Thine answers please me: 'tis thy turn to ask. + To meet thy questioning be now my task. + +PIERROT. + + Since I know thee, dear Immortal, + Is my heart become a blossom, + To be worn upon thy bosom. + When thou turn me from this portal, + Whither shall I, hapless mortal, + Seek love out and win again + Heart of me that thou retain? + +THE LADY. + + In and out the woods and valleys, + Circling, soaring like a swallow, + Love shall flee and thou shalt follow: + Though he stops awhile and dallies, + Never shalt thou stay his malice! + Moon-kissed mortals seek in vain + To possess their hearts again! + +PIERROT. + + Tell me, Lady, shall I never + Rid me of this grievous burden! + Follow Love and find his guerdon + In no maiden whatsoever? + Wilt thou hold my heart forever? + Rather would I thine forget, + In some earthly Pierrette! + +THE LADY. + + Thus thy fate, what'er thy will is! + Moon-struck child, go seek my traces + Vainly in all mortal faces! + In and out among the lilies, + Court each rural Amaryllis: + Seek the signet of Love's hand + In each courtly Corisande! + +PIERROT. + + Now, verily, sweet maid, of school I tire; + These answers are not such as I desire. + +THE LADY. + + Why art thou sad? + +PIERROT. + + I dare not tell. + +THE LADY [_caressingly_]. + + Come, say! + +PIERROT. + + Is love all schooling, with no time to play? + +THE LADY. + + Though all love's lessons be a holiday, + Yet I will humor thee: what wouldst thou play? + +PIERROT. + + What are the games that small moon-maids enjoy: + Or is their time all spent in staid employ? + +THE LADY. + + Sedate they are, yet games they much enjoy: + They skip with stars, the rainbow is their toy. + +PIERROT. + + That is too hard! + +THE LADY. + + For mortal's play. + +PIERROT. + + What then? + +THE LADY. + + Teach me some pastime from the world of men. + +PIERROT. + + I have it, maiden. + +THE LADY. + + Can it soon be taught? + +PIERROT. + + A single game, I learnt it at the Court. + +THE LADY. + + But, prithee, not so near. + +PIERROT. + + That is essential, as will soon appear. + Lay here thine hand, which cold night dews anoint, + Washing its white-- + +THE LADY. + + Now is this to the point? + +PIERROT. + + Prithee, forbear! Such is the game's design. + +THE LADY. + + Here is my hand. + +PIERROT. + + I cover it with mine. + +THE LADY. + + What must I next? + + [_They play._] + +PIERROT. + + Withdraw. + +THE LADY. + + It goes too fast. + + [_They continue playing, until Pierrot catches her hand._] + +PIERROT [_laughing_]. + + 'Tis done. I win my forfeit at the last. + + [_He tries to embrace her. She escapes; he chases her round the + stage; she eludes him._] + +THE LADY. + + Thou art not quick enough. Who hopes to catch + A moon-beam, must use twice as much dispatch. + +PIERROT [_sitting down sulkily_]. + + I grow aweary, and my heart is sore. + Thou dost not love me; I will play no more. + + [_He buries his face in his hands. The Lady stands over him._] + +THE LADY. + + What is this petulance? + +PIERROT. + + 'Tis quick to tell-- + Thou hast but mocked me. + +THE LADY. + + Nay! I love thee well! + +PIERROT. + + Repeat those words, for still within my breast + A whisper warns me they are said in jest. + +THE LADY. + + I jested not: at daybreak I must go, + Yet loving thee far better than thou know. + +PIERROT. + + Then, by this altar, and this sacred shrine, + Take my sworn troth, and swear thee wholly mine! + The gods have wedded mortals long ere this. + +THE LADY. + + There was enough betrothal in my kiss. + What need of further oaths? + +PIERROT. + + That bound not thee! + +THE LADY. + + Peace! since I tell thee that it may not be. + But sit beside me whilst I soothe thy bale + With some moon fancy or celestial tale. + +PIERROT. + + Tell me of thee, and that dimy, happy place + Where lies thine home, with maidens of thy race! + +THE LADY [_seating herself_]. + + Calm is it yonder, very calm; the air + For mortals' breath is too refined and rare; + Hard by a green lagoon our palace rears + Its dome of agate through a myriad years. + A hundred chambers its bright walls enthrone, + Each one carved strangely from a precious stone. + Within the fairest, clad in purity, + Our mother dwelleth immemorially: + Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon stones on her gown, + The floor she treads with little pearls is sown; + She sits upon a throne of amethysts, + And orders mortal fortunes as she lists; + I, and my sisters, all around her stand, + And, when she speaks, accomplish her demand. + +PIERROT. + + Methought grim Clotho and her sisters twain + With shriveled fingers spun this web of bane! + +THE LADY. + + Theirs and my mother's realm is far apart; + Hers is the lustrous kingdom of the heart, + And dreamers all, and all who sing and love, + Her power acknowledge, and her rule approve. + +PIERROT. + + Me, even me, she hath led into this grove. + +THE LADY. + + Yea, thou art one of hers! But, ere this night, + Often I watched my sisters take their flight + Down heaven's stairway of the clustered stars + To gaze on mortals through their lattice bars; + And some in sleep they woo with dreams of bliss + Too shadowy to tell, and some they kiss. + But all to whom they come, my sisters say, + Forthwith forget all joyance of the day, + Forget their laughter and forget their tears, + And dream away with singing all their years-- + Moon-lovers always! + + [_She sighs._] + +PIERROT. + + Why art sad, sweet Moon? + + [_Laughs._] + +THE LADY. + + For this, my story, grant me now a boon. + +PIERROT. + + I am thy servitor. + +THE LADY. + + Would, then, I knew + More of the earth, what men and women do. + +PIERROT. + + I will explain. + +THE LADY. + + Let brevity attend + Thy wit, for night approaches to its end. + +PIERROT. + + Once was I a page at Court, so trust in me: + That's the first lesson of society. + +THE LADY. + + Society? + +PIERROT. + + I mean the very best + Pardy! thou wouldst not hear about the rest. + I know it not, but am a petit maitre + At rout and festival and bal champetre. + But since example be instruction's ease, + Let's play the thing.--Now, Madame, if you please! + + [_He helps her to rise, and leads her forward: then he kisses her + hand, bowing over it with a very courtly air._] + +THE LADY. + + What am I, then? + +PIERROT. + + A most divine Marquise! + Perhaps that attitude hath too much ease. + + [_Passes her._] + + Ah, that is better! To complete the plan, + Nothing is necessary save a fan. + +THE LADY. + + Cool is the night, what needs it? + +PIERROT. + + Madame, pray + Reflect, it is essential to our play. + +THE LADY [_taking a lily_]. + + Here is my fan! + +PIERROT. + + So, use it with intent: + The deadliest arm in beauty's armament! + +THE LADY. + + What do we next? + +PIERROT. + + We talk! + +THE LADY. + + But what about? + +PIERROT. + + We quiz the company and praise the rout; + Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly, + Or what you will, so reputations die. + Observe the Duchess in Venetian lace, + With the red eminence. + +THE LADY. + + A pretty face! + +PIERROT. + + For something tarter set thy wits to search-- + "She loves the churchman better than the church." + +THE LADY. + + Her blush is charming; would it were her own! + +PIERROT. + + Madame is merciless! + +THE LADY. + + Is that the tone? + +PIERROT. + + The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught. + Madame was evidently bred at Court. + +THE LADY. + + Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age. + +PIERROT. + + I listened much, as best becomes a page. + +THE LADY. + + I like thy Court but little-- + +PIERROT. + + Hush! the Queen! + Bow, but not low--thou knowest what I mean. + +THE LADY. + + Nay, that I know not! + +PIERROT. + + Though she wears a crown, + 'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown. + +THE LADY. + + Thou art a child: thy malice is a game. + +PIERROT. + + A most sweet pastime--scandal is its name. + +THE LADY. + + Enough, it wearies me. + +PIERROT. + + Then, rare Marquise, + Desert the crowd to wander through the trees. + + [_He bows low, and she curtsies; they move round the stage. When + they pass before the Statue he seizes her hand and falls on his + knee._] + +THE LADY. + + What wouldst thou now? + +PIERROT. + + Ah, prithee, what, save thee! + +THE LADY. + + Was this included in thy comedy? + +PIERROT. + + Ah, mock me not! In vain with quirk and jest + I strive to quench the passion in my breast; + In vain thy blandishments would make me play: + Still I desire far more than I can say. + My knowledge halts, ah, sweet, be piteous, + Instruct me still, while time remains to us, + Be what thou wist, Goddess, moon-maid, _Marquise_, + So that I gather from thy lips heart's ease, + Nay, I implore thee, think thee how time flies! + +THE LADY. + + Hush! I beseech thee, even now night dies. + +PIERROT. + + Night, day, are one to me for thy soft sake. + + [_He entreats her with imploring gestures, she hesitates: then + puts her finger on her lip, hushing him._] + +THE LADY. + + It is too late, for hark! the birds awake. + +PIERROT. + + The birds awake! It is the voice of day! + +THE LADY. + + Farewell, dear youth! They summon me away. + + [_The light changes, it grows daylight: and the music imitates the + twitter of the birds. They stand gazing at the morning: then + Pierrot sinks back upon his bed, he covers his face in his + hands._] + +THE LADY [_bending over him_]. + + Music, my maids! His weary senses steep + In soft untroubled and oblivious sleep, + With Mandragore anoint his tired eyes, + That they may open on mere memories, + Then shall a vision seem his lost delight, + With love, his lady for a summer night. + Dream thou hast dreamt all this, when thou awake, + Yet still be sorrowful, for a dream's sake. + I leave thee, sleeper! Yea, I leave thee now, + Yet take my legacy upon thy brow: + Remember me, who was compassionate, + And opened for thee once, the ivory gate. + I come no more, thou shalt not see my face + When I am gone to mine exalted place: + Yet all thy days are mine, dreamer of dreams, + All silvered over with the moon's pale beams: + Go forth and seek in each fair face in vain, + To find the image of thy love again. + All maids are kind to thee, yet never one + Shall hold thy truant heart till day be done. + Whom once the moon has kissed, loves long and late, + Yet never finds the maid to be his mate. + Farewell, dear sleeper, follow out thy fate. + + [_The Moon Maiden withdraws: a song is sung from behind: it is + full day._] + + +THE MOON MAIDEN'S SONG + + Sleep! Cast thy canopy + Over this sleeper's brain, + Dim grows his memory, + When he awake again. + + Love stays a summer night, + Till lights of morning come; + Then takes her winged flight + Back to her starry home. + + Sleep! Yet thy days are mine; + Love's seal is over thee: + Far though my ways from thine, + Dim though thy memory. + + Love stays a summer night, + Till lights of morning come; + Then takes her winged flight + Back to her starry home. + + [_When the song is finished, the curtain falls upon Pierrot + sleeping._] + + +_EPILOGUE_ + +[_Spoken in the character of PIERROT_] + + _The sun is up, yet ere a body stirs, + A word with you, sweet ladies and dear sirs,_ + + [_Although on no account let any say + That PIERROT finished Mr. Dowson's play_]. + + _One night not long ago, at Baden Baden,-- + The birthday of the Duke,--his pleasure garden + Was lighted gayly with_ feu d'artifice, + _With candles, rockets, and a center-piece + Above the conversation house, on high, + Outlined in living fire against the sky, + A glittering_ Pierrot, _radiant, white, + Whose heart beat fast, who danced with sheer delight, + Whose eyes were blue, whose lips were rosy red, + Whose_ pompons _too were fire, while on his head + He wore a little cap, and I am told + That rockets covered him with showers of gold. + "Take our applause, you well deserve to win it," + They cried: "Bravo! the_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_ + + _What with applause and gold, one must confess + That Pierrot had "arrived," achieved success, + When, as it happened, presently, alas! + A terrible disaster came to pass. + His nose grew dim, the people gave a shout, + His red lips paled, both his blue eyes went out. + There rose a sullen sound of discontent, + The golden shower of rockets was all spent; + He left off dancing with a sudden jerk, + For he was nothing but a firework. + The garden darkened and the people in it + Cried, "He is dead,--the_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_ + + _With every artist it is even so; + The artist, after all, is a_ Pierrot-- + _A_ Pierrot _of the minute, naif, clever, + But Art is back of him, She lives for ever!_ + + _Then pardon my Moon Maid and me, because + We craved the golden shower of your applause! + Pray shrive us both for having tried to win it, + And cry, "Bravo! The_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_ + + + + +THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA + + A PLAY + + BY MRS. HAVELOCK ELLIS + + + Copyright, 1915, by Edith M. O. Ellis. + As Author and Proprietor. + All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS IN THE PLAY. + + JOE PENGILLY. + KEZIA [_Joe Pengilly's wife_]. + MATTHEW TREVASKIS [_a friend of the Pengillys_]. + + THE SCENE _is laid in a Cornish village_. + TIME: _The Present_. + + _The whole action of the play takes place between seven o'clock + and nine o'clock on a Saturday evening._ + + + Reprinted from "Love in Danger" by permission of and special + arrangements with, Houghton, Mifflin Company. + + The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are + strictly reserved by the author, to whose dramatic agent, Miss + Galbraith Welch, 101 Park Avenue, New York, applications for + permission to produce it should be made. + + + +THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA + +A PLAY BY MRS. HAVELOCK ELLIS + + + [SCENE: _Interior of a cottage kitchen in a Cornish fishing + village. The walls are distempered a pale blue; the ceiling wooden + and beamed. Middle of back wall, a kitchen-range where fire is + burning. At back R. is a door opening into an inner room. At back + L. small cupboards. At side L. is a large kitchen-table laid for + tea under a window facing sea. The floor is red brick. On + mantelpiece, white china dogs, clock, copper candlesticks, + tea-caddy, stirrups, and bits. On walls, family framed + photographs, religious framed pictures. Below table is a door + leading into street. Behind door, roller with hanging towel. Usual + kitchen paraphernalia, chairs, pots and pans, etc. Cat basket with + straw to R. of range. At back R. is a wooden settle with good + upright sides. Joe Pengilly is wiping his face and hands, having + just come in from the pump outside. He sighs and glances uneasily + at Kezia, who has her back turned to him, and is frying mackerel + at the stove. He rolls down his sleeves slowly and watches his + wife uneasily. He is dressed as a laborer--corduroy trousers, + hob-nailed boots, blue-and-white shirt, open throat. He takes down + a sleeved waistcoat from a peg behind the door and puts it on. He + is a slight man with thin light hair, gentle in manner, but with a + strong keen face. Kezia is a little taller than Joe--slender and + graceful, with a clean cotton dress fitting well to her figure; a + clean apron, well-dressed and tidy hair; good-looking and + energetic. Joe smiles to himself and crosses his arms and shuffles + his feet as he looks towards Kezia. Kezia turns round suddenly and + looks at him sideways, the cooking-fork in one hand and the handle + of the frying-pan in the other. Joe sits down at table._] + + +KEZIA. Why didn't thee speak? + +JOE. Nothin' to say, my dear. + +KEZIA. Thee's not much company, for sure. + + [_Joe laughs and leans his arms on the table as he looks at Kezia; + his face beams as he watches her landing the fish from the + bubbling fat to a dish. She puts some on a plate in front of Joe, + and pours out tea in a large cup. She suddenly looks at him as he + begins picking off the tail of his mackerel with his fingers._] + +KEZIA. Cain't thee answer? + +JOE. To what? + +KEZIA [_snappily_]. Why, to me, of course. + + [_Joe takes a long drink of tea and gazes at her over his cup._] + +JOE. Thee'rt a great beauty, Kezia, sure enough! + + [_He puts the cup down and goes on picking his fish with the + fingers of one hand, while the other holds bread and butter._] + +KEZIA. There you are again; always either grumblin' or jeerin' at me. + +JOE. I'm not doin' neither, woman. I'm tryin' for to make up for +thrawtin' of you this mornin' over they soaked crusties as I gave the +cat and ruined the nice clean floor. + +KEZIA. Now [_angrily_], just when I were forgettin' all about it, of +course you must bring it all up again, and you're tryin' now [_pointing +at the fish_] all thee knows how, to make the tablecloth like a +dish-clout with thy great greasy fingers! + + [_Joe licks his fingers, one by one, and wipes them on his trousers, + as he smiles into her cross face._] + +KEZIA. Gracious! [_whimpering_] that's thee all over. Thee gives up one +dirty trick for another. I believe you only married me to clean and tidy +after you. + + [_Joe laughs heartily and looks up at her._] + +JOE. Heart alive! I married you because you are the only woman I've ever +met in my life I could never weary of, not even if you tormented me +night and day. Love of 'e, my dear, seemly, makes a real fool of me most +of my time. + + [_His face becomes very grave, and Kezia's brow clears as she sits + down and begins to eat._] + +KEZIA. You was always one for pretty talk, Joe, but you're not a bit +what you were i' deeds lately. + + [_Joe hands his cup for more tea._] + +JOE. 'Cause you snap me up so. + +KEZIA. There you are again, tryin' to pick a quarrel. + + [_Joe pulls his chair away from the table and drags it nearer the + grate. He takes his pipe from his pocket and blows into it._] + +KEZIA. Now, Joe, you know I cain't abide that 'baccy smell: it gives me +a headache. + +JOE. It gives me a headache to do without 'baccy. + + [_Joe polishes his pipe-bowl on his sleeve, puts the stem in his + mouth, and takes out some shag. Kezia watches him as she removes + the tea-things. Joe watches her out of the corner of his eye as he + slowly fills his pipe._] + +KEZIA. I'm fair wore out. + + [_Joe gets up, puts his pipe on the mantelpiece and his knife and + shag in his pocket, and advances towards Kezia. He puts his hands + on her shoulders and looks in her eyes._] + +JOE. Kiss us, old girl! + +KEZIA. Don't be so silly. I don't feel like it at all, and I want to be +with mother again. + +JOE. And married only two years! + +KEZIA. It seems like six to me. + +JOE. What ails thee, lass? + +KEZIA. Don't keep allus askin' questions and bein' so quarrelsome; I'm +mazed at the sight of 'e, sure enough. [_She folds the cloth, pokes the +fire, goes into the inner room, at back R., and comes in again with her +hat and shawl on and a basket in her hand. She looks at Joe, and wipes +her eyes._] You can sit there as long as you've a mind to, and smoke +insides black and blue. I'm going to market a bit, and then I shall go +into Blanch Sally and talk to she. She've got a bit of common sense. +It's just on eight o'clock, and I shan't be more nor an hour or so. + + [_Joe does not stir as Kezia goes out of the front door. Kezia + looks back to see if he'll turn, but he does not move. He gazes + into the fire with his hands clasped behind his head, and his + chair tilted back._] + +JOE. I'd as soon be a dog as a man, sure enough! They can sit by the +fire and be comfortable. [_He jumps up suddenly as he hears a knock at +the door._] Come in! + + [_The street door opens softly, and Matthew Trevaskis comes in + very quietly. He is a stout, short man with bushy hair and a + beard. He also is dressed as a laborer. He looks at Joe and gives + a low whistle._] + +MATTHEW. Hallo, mate! + +JOE. Oh! you? + + [_Joe sits down again, points to another chair, and looks gloomily + back into the fire._] + +MATTHEW. Well, brother! Thee looks as if thee'd run out o' speerits and +'baccy both. + +JOE. I'm moody, like a thing. + + [_Matthew laughs and draws his chair up close to Joe. He pulls + down his waistcoat, and then puts his fingers in the arm-holes, as + he contemplates Joe._] + +MATTHEW. Got the hump, mate? Have 'e? + + [_Joe shakes his head dolefully from side to side and sighs._] + +MATTHEW. Jaw, I suppose? + + [_Joe nods._] + +MATTHEW. Thought so. I met the missus as I came along looking a bit +teasy. Women's the devil that way; it's in their breed and bone, like +fightin' in we. You began all wrong, like me, mate, and females always +takes advantage of honeymoon ways, and stamps on we if we don't take 'em +in hand at once. + + [_Joe sighs, crosses his legs and looks at his friend._] + +JOE. Drat it all! I never began no different to what I am now. I cain't +make things up at all. I'm fairly mazed, never having had dealin's with +no female, except mother, who was mostly ill, and never in tantrums. + + [_Matthew rises, pokes Joe in the ribs and laughs._] + +MATTHEW. Cheer up, brother, there's no bigger fool than a man as is sent +crazy with a woman. + +JOE. Women is mazy things. + +MATTHEW. There's allus 'baccy for to fortify us against them, thanks be. + + [_Matthew draws a little black clay pipe out of his waistcoat + pocket and points to Joe's pipe on the mantelpiece as he sits + down._] + +JOE. Kezia 'ates 'baccy in the house. + +MATTHEW. Smoke all the time then; it's the only way. + + [_Joe smiles and smoothes his thin straight hair._] + +JOE. You allus forgets I'm bent on pleasin' of Kezia. + + [_Matthew stretches out his legs, and his face becomes calm and + thoughtful. He speaks very deliberately._] + +MATTHEW. The more thee tries to please women, mate, the more crotchety +they becomes. Within bounds I keep the peace in our place like a judge, +but she've learnt, Jane Ann have, that I'll put my foot down on any +out-of-the-way tantrums. Give them their heads and they'll soon have we +by the heels. + +JOE. Sometimes I wonder if we give 'em their heads enough. Perhaps +they'd domineer less if we left 'em take their own grainy ways. + +MATTHEW. You bet! If I gave in to Jane Ann entirely, where the devil do +'e think I should be at all? + + [_The two men laugh together and light their pipes and smoke hard._] + +JOE. I've no notion. + +MATTHEW. Well! I should be like a cat out in the rain, never certain +where to put my feet. As it is, as you do know, I cain't keep no dog for +fear of the mess its feet 'ud make on the floor; I cain't have a magpie +in a cage 'cause its seed 'ud 'appen fall on the table. I've got to walk +ginger like a rooster in wet grass for fear o' disturbin' the sand on +the clean floor, and I rubs my feet on the mat afore I goes in to my +meals enough to split it in half. I gives in to all things 'cause I was +took captive over them, in a manner of speaking, almost afore I'd +finished courting, and it takes years to understand women's fancies! +It's worse nor any book learnin', is understandin' women; and then, when +you think you've learnt 'em off by heart, any man 'ud fail under a first +standard examination on 'em. [_He gets up and shakes Joe by the +shoulder._] Listen to me, mate! Bein' a real pal to thee, Joe, I'm +warnin' of 'e now afore it's too late, for thee's only been wed two +years, and there's time to alter things yet. + + [_Joe suddenly gets up and goes to the door to see if it is + fastened, and returns to face his friend. He takes off his + long-sleeved waistcoat and throws it on a chair, after putting + down his pipe._] + +JOE. Matthey! + +MATTHEW. Yes? + +JOE. Don't you think it is too late even now? + +MATTHEW. Fur what? It's no use speakin' i' riddles, man. Trust or no +trust--that's my plan. Thee's the only livin' man or woman, for the +matter of that, as I've blackened Jane Ann to, and if it'll ease thy +mind to tell what's worritin' of thee, you do know it's as safe as if +you'd dropt your secret into the mouth of a mine shaft. + +JOE. Done! Give me a hearing and let's have finished with it. + + [_Matthew cleans out the bowl of his pipe and knocks the ashes out + against the grate as he waits for his friend to begin. Joe stands + first on one leg and then on the other and gives a long whistle._] + +MATTHEW. Sling along. It won't get no easier wi' keeping. + + [_Joe wipes his forehead with a red handkerchief, which he takes + out of his trouser pocket._] + +JOE. Awkward kind o' work, pullin' your lawful wife to bits. + +MATTHEW. It'll get easier as thee goes on, man. I'll help thee. What's +the row to-day? + +JOE. Crusties. + + [_Matthew winks at Joe and lights his pipe again._] + +MATTHEW. It's always some feeble thing like that as makes confusion in a +house. Jane Ann began just like that. Dirty boots in the best parlor was +my first offense, and it raised hell in our house for nigh on a whole +day. + +JOE. Well, I never! It was just the same thing in a way with me. I +soaked the crusties in my tea this mornin' and threw 'em to the cat +under the table, and I suppose I must 'ave put my foot in 'em, for Kezia +went off like a thing gone mazy. She stormed and said--[_he sits down +and wipes his forehead again with his handkerchief as he pauses_]--as +she were a fool to take me, and all sorts, and then she cried fit to +kill herself, and when I spoke she told me to hold my noise, and when I +didn't speak she said I'd no feelin's, and was worse nor a stone. We +scarcely spoke at dinner-time. She said she wished she was dead, and +wanted her mother, and that, bein' a man, I was worse nor a devil; and +when I kept on eatin' she said she wondered the food didn't choke me, +and when I stopped eatin' she said I was never pleased wi' nothin' she'd +got ready for me. My head is sore with the clang of the teasy things she +drove into me, and I'm not good at replies, as you do know. + + [_Joe ends in a weary voice and pokes the fire listlessly. Matthew + smokes hard and his eyes are on the ground._] + +MATTHEW. Women be mysteries, and without little uns they'm worse nor +monsters. A child do often alter and soften 'em, but a childless woman +is as near a wolf as anything I do know. + + [_Joe's elbows sink on his knees and his hands support his + woebegone face. When he next speaks he has a catch in his voice, + and he speaks quickly._] + +JOE. That's it, is it? + +MATTHEW. Iss, mate! That's the mischief. Unless--[_he looks up suddenly +at Joe_]--perhaps she be goin' to surprise 'e by telling 'e she be going +to have a little one. That would account for her bein' teasy and moody. + + [_Joe laughs sorrowfully._] + +JOE. Lor', I should be the first to know that, surely! + +MATTHEW. Not a bit of it. Women loves secrets of that sort. + +JOE. No; 'tain't that at all. I only wish it was, if what you say be +true of women. + +MATTHEW. True enough, my son. I did the cutest day's work in my life +when I persuaded Jane Ann to take little Joe to help we. I watched the +two of 'em together and found he caught his tongueing, too, from she, +but it had a sort of nestle sound in it as if she were a-cuddlin' of +him. She've been gentler wi' me ever since Joe come back again after his +long bout at home. + + [_Joe scratches his head very thoughtfully; a pause, in which he + seems to be thinking before speaking again._] + +JOE. I don't know of no sister's child to take on for Kezia at all. +What's the next remedy, think you? + +MATTHEW. A thrashin'. + + [_Joe jumps up and stares at Matthew._] + +JOE. A what? + +MATTHEW. Wallop her just once. + + [_Matthew looks on the ground and taps it with his foot, and he + does not see that Joe is standing over him with his hands + clenched._] + +JOE. Shame on thee, mate! I feel more like strikin' thee nor a female. +I'm sorry I told thee, if thee can offer no more help than that. I'm not +much of a chap, but I've never struck a woman yet. + +MATTHEW. Strike on principle, then. + + [_He still looks fixedly at the floor, and Joe stands glaring at + him._] + +JOE. How? + +MATTHEW. Like the Almighty strikes when He've got a lesson for we to +learn, which we won't learn without strikes and tears. Nothin' is of no +avail to stop His chastisement if He do think it's goin' to work out His +plan for He and we, and that's what I'm wanting of you to do by your +wife for her sake more than for yours. Wives must learn to submit. +[_Harshly._] It's Divine Providence as 'ave ordered it, and women be +miserable, like ivy and trailers of all sorts, if they've no prop to +bear 'em up. Beat her once and it'll make a man of you and be a +life-long warnin' to she. + +JOE. But I love her, man! [_Softly._] The very thought of hurting her +makes me creep. + + [_Joe shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head repeatedly._] + +MATTHEW. Women likes bein' hurt. It's a real fondlin' to 'em at times. + + [_Joe sits down and folds his arms as he looks humbly at Matthew._] + +JOE. Lor', I never heard that afore. How can you be sure of that at all? + +MATTHEW. I've traveled, as you do knaw. I ain't been to Africa for +nothin', mate. I've seen a deal o' things, which if I'd happened on +afore I courted Jane Ann would have got me through the marriage +scrimmage wi' no tiles off of my roof. That's why I'm a warnin' of you +afore it's too late. Your woman be worth gettin' i' trim--[_with a +sigh_]--for she's--well--she's-- + + [_Joe's eyes rest on his friend's face and his face suddenly + lights up with a smile._] + +JOE. She's the best sort of woman a man could 'ave for a sweetheart when +her moods is off, and it's only lately her 'ave altered so, and I expect +it's really all my fault. + +MATTHEW. Certainly it is; you've never shown master yet, and you must +this very night. + +JOE. [_Coughs nervously._] How? + +MATTHEW. You must thrash her before it is too late. Have 'e a cane? + + [_Joe jumps up, twists round his necktie, undoes it, ties it + again--marches up and down the little kitchen, and wheels round on + Matthew._] + +JOE. You'm a fair brute, Matthew Trevaskis. + +MATTHEW. And you'm a coward, Joe Pengilly. [_Matthew clasps his hands +round his raised knee and nods at Joe, who sits._] I've given you golden +advice, and if only a pal had given it to me years ago I shouldn't be in +the place I'm in now, but be master of my own wife and my own +chimney-corner. + + [_Joe puts his hands in his pockets and tilts back his chair as he + gazes up at the ceiling as if for inspiration._] + +JOE. I cain't stomach the idea at all; it's like murderin' a baby, +somehow. + +MATTHEW. Stuff! You needn't lay on too hard to make bruises nor nothin'. + + [_Joe goes pale and puts his head in his hands for a moment, and + he almost whispers._] + +JOE. Good Lord! Bruises! Why, man, she've got flesh like a flower! + + [_Matthew suddenly holds out his hand to Joe, who shakes it + feebly._] + +MATTHEW. I almost envies thee, mate. Why, thee's fair daft wi' love +still. + +JOE. Of course I be! [_Sullenly._] She's more nor meat and drink to me; +allus have been since the first I took to she. + +MATTHEW. All the more reason to beat her, and at once. [_Sternly._] +You'll lose her, sure enough, if you don't. It's the only chance for +thee now, and I do knaw I'm speaking gospel truth. + + [_A long pause, in which Joe meditates with a grave face. He + suddenly snaps the fingers of his right hand as he says quickly._] + +JOE. I'll do it. It'll nearly be the finish of me, but if you're certain +sure she'll love me more after it I'll shut my eyes and set my teeth +and--and--yes, upon my soul, I'll do it! She'm more to me than all the +world, and I'll save she and myself with her. But are you sure it will +do any good? + + [_Matthew wrings Joe's hands and then slaps him on the back._] + +MATTHEW. I swear it, brother. [_Solemnly._] I've never once known it +fail. + +JOE [_anxiously_]. Never once in all your travels? + + [_Matthew looks down._] + +MATTHEW. Iss, mate, once, sure enough, but the woman had never cared +twopence for the man to start with. After it she left 'un altogether. + +JOE [_with a groan_]. Oh! Good Lord! + +MATTHEW. That was no fair start like a thing. See? + +JOE. No, to be sure. + +MATTHEW. Now! [_He strikes Joe's shoulder briskly._] Now for it! + + [_Joe twists round towards the door, and a miserable smile is on + his lips._] + +JOE. Well, what now? + + [_Matthew bends down to Joe's ear and whispers._] + +MATTHEW. We must go and buy the cane. + +JOE. Sakes! + +MATTHEW. Bear up! It'll all be over by this time to-morrow night, and +that's a great stand by, isn't it? + +JOE. I suppose it is. [_Gloomily._] Who'll be spokesman over the buyin'? + +MATTHEW. Me, my son. How far will 'e go i' price? + + [_Joe shakes his head and looks wearily at Matthew._] + +JOE. It's no odds to me, Matthey; I don't know and don't care! + +MATTHEW. Will sixpence ruin 'e? + +JOE. It's all ruin. I'm sweatin' like a bull with fear and shame, and +wish I was dead and buried. + + [_Matthew points to the door and the two men move slowly towards + it._] + +MATTHEW. It's just on nine o'clock. Kezia will be back afore we start if +we don't mind. Don't stop to think when you come back, but rush right in +and set at it at once, and she'll have time to come round before you +settle for the night. Bein' Saturday night, all the neighbors be mostly +i' town shoppin', and if there should be a scream I'll make up a yarn to +any one who comes near as 'll stop all gossip. I shan't be far off till +I reckon it's all over. + + [_Joe's teeth are set and his head down, and he gazes at the door + and then at Matthew, irresolutely._] + +MATTHEW. Thee deserves to lose her if thee be real chicken-hearted like +this 'ere. + + [_Joe makes a dart forward, unlatches the door, rushes out + followed by Matthew._] + +MATTHEW [_outside_]. Go round by the croft and then we shan't meet her +coming home. + + [_After a pause the door slowly opens and Kezia comes in. She has + a basket in one hand and a string bag full of parcels in the + other. She looks round, puts her parcels on the table and in the + cupboards, pokes the fire, and then takes her basket in her hand + again, looks at the clock and goes into the inner room. She comes + back with her outdoor garments off and a loose dressing-jacket of + white and blue linen over her arm. She goes to a drawer in the + table and brings out a little comb and brush and stands + thinking._] + +KEZIA. I'll do my hair down here. He cain't be long, and it's cold +upstairs. Gone for tobacco, I suppose, and he'll want his tea when he +comes in. + + [_She puts the kettle on the fire. She undoes her hair, + facing audience; shakes it about her shoulders, puts on her + dressing-jacket and begins to brush and comb her hair before the + fire, and near the settle she bends down and warms her hands, + singing a lullaby as she does so. She then stands facing the + fire, smiling to herself as she sings. So absorbed is she in her + thoughts that she does not see the street-door open and the white, + scared face of Joe appear. He puts his hands behind his back when + he has softly shut the door, and tip-toes towards Kezia, who never + sees him till he has sat down swiftly on the settle, the further + corner to where she stands. His left hand, with the cane in it, + is not visible to Kezia, as it is hidden by the end of the settle. + Tying a large plait on one side of her head--the nearest to + him--with pink ribbon, she suddenly turns round and sees him, and + their eyes meet. She sits down by him. Kezia's face is very sweet + and smiling as she tosses the plait over her shoulder._] + +KEZIA. Seen a ghost, Joey, my dear, or is it Kezia come to her senses at +last, think you? + + [_Joe does not stir. He gazes at Kezia with a puzzled and tender + expression._] + +JOE. What's come to thee, lass? + +KEZIA. Guess! + + [_Kezia clasps her hands behind her head and looks into Joe's face + with a happy smile._] + +JOE. Cain't at all. + +KEZIA. Come close, sweetheart. + + [_She draws nearer to Joe, who does not move, and tries to keep + the cane hidden. He suddenly draws her close to him with his right + arm, and whispers._] + +JOE. Kezia. + +KEZIA [_softly_]. Joey, my dear! [_She nestles closer to him and puts +her head on his shoulder._] He'll be the dearest little thing a woman +ever bore. + + [_Joe laughs softly, kisses Kezia gently on the eyes, brow, and + then month, and holds her closely to him._] + +JOE. Heaven cain't be more desirable than this. + +KEZIA. To think there'll be three of us soon. You see now why I've been +so teasy lately. Now I'll sing all day long so he'll be a happy boy. + + [_Joe does not move. He makes furtive attempts to hide the cane + behind the settle, and moves a little as he continues to smile at + Kezia._] + +KEZIA. Thee'rt smiling, Joe! Thee and me 'ave both hungered for the same +thing. Did thee guess it at all, I wonder? I've kept it from thee a +while to make sure. But, lor'! my dear life! whatever be this that +you've got here? [_She pulls the long cane out of Joe's hands and holds +it in hers. They both look at it very solemnly for a few moments, and +Joe scratches his head sadly, unable to speak. She bursts into a merry +laugh and her lips tremble._] Eh! Joe! lad! [_softly._] Thee was always +unlike other chaps; that's why I do love thee so. Fancy thee guessing, +and going to buy him somethin' right away! [_She puts her face in her +hands and sobs and laughs together._] Oh! it brings it so near like. +Most men would have thought of a cradle or a rattle, but thee! Oh! my +dear! [_She throws her arms round his neck and kisses him on the +mouth._] Thee thought of the first beatin' we should be forced to give +him, for, of course, he'll be a lad of tremenjous spirit. + +JOE [_suddenly, and snatching the cane from Kezia._] So he will. Both +his father and mother be folk of great spirit, and--the first time as he +dirts the tablecloth or frets his mother, I'll lay it on him as, thanks +be, I've never laid it on nobody yet. + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE CONSTANT LOVER + + A COMEDY OF YOUTH + + BY ST. JOHN HANKIN + + + Copyright, + All rights reserved. + + + "_As of old when the world's heart was lighter._" + + + THE CONSTANT LOVER was first produced at the Royalty Theatre, + London, January 30, 1912, under the direction of Messrs. Vedrenne + and Eadie, with the following cast: + + EVELYN RIVERS _Miss Gladys Cooper._ + CECIL HARBURTON _Mr. Dennis Eadie._ + + + Reprinted from "The Dramatic Works of St. John Hankin," by permission + of, and by special arrangement with, Mr. Mitchell Kennerley. + + + +THE CONSTANT LOVER + +A COMEDY BY ST. JOHN HANKIN + + + [_Before the curtain rises the orchestra will play the Woodland + Music (cuckoo) from "Hansel and Gretel" and possibly some of the + Grieg Pastoral Music from "Peer Gynt," or some Gabriel Faure._ + + SCENE: _A glade in a wood. About C. a great beech-tree, the + branches of which overhang the stage, the brilliant sunlight + filtering through them. The sky where it can be seen through the + branches is a cloudless blue._ + + _When the curtain rises Cecil Harburton is discovered sitting on + the ground under the tree, leaning his back against its trunk and + reading a book. He wears a straw hat and the lightest of gray + flannel suits. The chattering of innumerable small birds is heard + while the curtain is still down, and this grows louder as it + rises, and we find ourselves in the wood. Presently a wood pigeon + coos in the distance. Then a thrush begins to sing in the tree + above Cecil's head and is answered by another. After a moment + Cecil looks up._] + + +CECIL. By Jove, that's jolly! [_Listens for a moment, then returns to +his book._] + + [_Suddenly a cuckoo begins to call insistently. After a moment or + two he looks up again._] + +Cuckoo too! Bravo! [_Again he returns to his book._] + + [_A moment later enter Evelyn Rivers. She also wears the lightest + of summer dresses, as it is a cloudless day in May. On her head is + a shady straw hat. As she approaches the tree a twig snaps under + her foot and Cecil looks up. He jumps to his feet, closing book, + and advances to her, eagerly holding out his right hand, keeping + the book in his left._] + +[_Reproachfully._] Here you are at last! + +EVELYN. At last? + +CECIL. Yes. You're awfully late! [_Looks at watch._] + +EVELYN. Am I? + +CECIL. YOU know you are. I expected you at three. + +EVELYN. Why? I never said I'd come at three. Indeed, I never said I'd +come at all. + +CECIL. No.--But it's always been three. + +EVELYN. Has it? + +CECIL. And now it's half-past. I consider I've been cheated out of a +whole half-hour. + +EVELYN. I couldn't help it. Mother kept me. She wanted the roses done in +the drawing-room. + +CECIL. How stupid of Mrs. Rivers! + +EVELYN. Mr. Harburton! + +CECIL. What's the matter? + +EVELYN. I don't think you _ought_ to call my mother stupid. + +CECIL. Why not--if she is stupid? Most parents are stupid, by the way. +I've noticed it before. Mrs. Rivers ought to have thought of the roses +earlier. The morning is the proper time to gather roses. Didn't you tell +her that? + +EVELYN. I'm afraid I couldn't very well. You see it was really I who +ought to have thought of the roses! I always do them. But this morning I +forgot. + +CECIL. I see. [_Turning towards the tree._] Well, sit down now you are +here. Isn't it a glorious day? + +EVELYN [_hesitating_]. I don't believe I ought to sit down. + +CECIL [_turns to her_]. Why not? There's no particular virtue about +standing, is there? I hate standing. So let's sit down and be +comfortable. + + [_She sits, so does he. She sits on bank under tree, left of it. + He sits below bank to right of tree._] + +EVELYN. But _ought_ I to be sitting here with you? That's what I mean. +It's--not as if I really _knew_ you, is it? + +CECIL. Not _know_ me? [_The chatter of birds dies away._] + +EVELYN. Not properly--we've never even been introduced. We just met +quite by chance here in the wood. + +CECIL. Yes. [_Ecstatically._] What a glorious chance! + +EVELYN. Still, I'm sure mother wouldn't approve. + +CECIL. And _you_ say Mrs. Rivers isn't stupid! + +EVELYN [_laughing_]. I expect most people would agree with her. Most +people would say you oughtn't to have spoken to a girl you didn't know +like that. + +CECIL. Oh, come, I only asked my way back to the inn. + +EVELYN. There was no harm in asking your way, of course. But then we +began talking of other things. And then we sat down under this tree. And +we've sat under this tree every afternoon since. And that was a week +ago. + +CECIL. Well, it's such an awfully jolly tree. + +EVELYN. I don't know _what_ mother would say if she heard of it! + +CECIL. Would it be something unpleasant? + +EVELYN [_ruefully_]. I'm afraid it would. + +CECIL. How fortunate you don't know it then. + +EVELYN [_pondering_]. Still, if I really _oughtn't_ to be here.... Do +_you_ think I oughtn't to be here? + +CECIL. I don't think I should go into that if I were you. Sensible +people think of what they want to do, not of what they _ought_ to do, +otherwise they get confused. And then of course they do the wrong thing. + +EVELYN. But if I do what I oughtn't, I generally find I'm sorry for it +afterwards. + +CECIL. Not half sorry as you would have been if you hadn't done it. In +this world the things one regrets are the things one hasn't done. For +instance, if I hadn't spoken to you a week ago here in the wood I should +have regretted it all my life. + +EVELYN. Would you? + + [_He nods._] + +Really and truly? + +CECIL [_nods_]. Really and truly. + + [_He lays his hand on hers for a moment, she lets it rest there. + Cuckoo calls loudly once or twice--she draws her hand away._] + +EVELYN. There's the cuckoo. + + [_Cecil rises and sits up on bank R. of her, leaning against + tree._] + +CECIL. Yes. Isn't he jolly? Don't you love cuckoos? + +EVELYN. They _are_ rather nice. + +CECIL. Aren't they! And such clever beggars. Most birds are fools--like +most people. As soon as they're grown up they go and get married, and +then the rest of their lives are spent in bringing up herds of children +and wondering how on earth to pay their school-bills. Your cuckoo sees +the folly of all that. No school-bills for _her_! No nursing the baby! +She just flits from hedgerow to hedgerow flirting with other cuckoos. +And when she lays an egg she lays it in some one else's nest, which +saves all the trouble of housekeeping. Oh, a wise bird! + +EVELYN [_pouting, looking away from him_]. I don't know that I _do_ like +cuckoos so much after all. They sound to me rather selfish. + +CECIL. Yes. But so sensible! The duck's a wise bird too in her way. +[_She turns to him._] But _her_ way's different from the cuckoo's. +[_Matter-of-fact._] She always _treads_ on _her_ eggs. + +EVELYN. Clumsy creature! + +CECIL. Not a bit. She does it on purpose. You see, it's much less +trouble than _sitting_ on them. As soon as she's laid an egg she raises +one foot absent-mindedly and gives a warning quack. Whereupon the farmer +rushes up, takes it away, and puts it under some wretched hen, who has +to do the sitting for her. I call that genius! + +EVELYN. Genius! + +CECIL. Yes. Genius is the infinite capacity for making other people take +pains. + +EVELYN. How can you say that? + +CECIL. I didn't. Carlyle did. + +EVELYN. I don't believe he said anything of the kind. And I don't +believe ducks are clever one bit. They don't look clever. + +CECIL. That's part of their cleverness. In this world if one _is_ wise +one should look like a fool. It puts people off their guard. That's +what the duck does. + +EVELYN. Well, I think ducks are horrid, and cuckoos, too. And I believe +most birds _like_ bringing up their chickens and feeding them and +looking after them. + +CECIL. They do. That's the extraordinary part of it. They spend their +whole lives building nests and laying eggs and hatching them. And when +the chickens come out the father has to fuss round finding worms. And +the nest's abominably over-crowded and the babies are perpetually +squalling, and that drives the husband to the public house, and it's all +as uncomfortable as the Devil-- + +EVELYN. Mr. Harburton! + +CECIL. Well, _I_ shouldn't like it. In fact, I call it fatuous. + +[_Evelyn is leaning forward pondering this philosophy with a slightly +puckered brow--a slight pause_]. I say, _you_ don't look a bit +comfortable like that. Lean back against the tree. It's a first-rate +tree. That's why I chose it. + +EVELYN [_tries and fails_]. I can't. My hat gets in the way. + +CECIL. Take it off then. + +EVELYN. I think I will. [_Does so._] That's better. [_Leans back +luxuriously against the trunk; puts her hat down on bank beside her._] + +CECIL. Much better. [_Looks at her with frank admiration._] By Jove, you +_do_ look jolly without your hat! + +EVELYN. Do I? + +CECIL. Yes. Your hair's such a jolly color. I noticed it the first time +I saw you. You had your hat off then, you know. You were walking through +the wood fanning yourself with it. And directly I caught sight of you +the sun came out and simply flooded your hair with light. And there was +the loveliest pink flush on your cheeks, and your eyes were soft and +shining-- + +EVELYN [_troubled_]. Mr. Harburton, you mustn't say things to me like +that. + +CECIL. Mustn't I? Why not? Don't you like being told you look jolly? + +EVELYN [_naively_]. I do _like_ it, of course. But _ought_ you...? + +CECIL [_groans_]. Oh, it's _that_ again. + +EVELYN. I mean, it's not _right_ for men to say those things to girls. + +CECIL. I don't see that--if they're true. You _are_ pretty and your eyes +_are_ soft and your cheeks--why, they're flushing at this moment! +[_Triumphant._] Why shouldn't I say it? + +EVELYN. Please!... [_She stops, and her eyes fill with tears._] + +CECIL [_much concerned_]. Miss Rivers, what's the matter? Why, I believe +you're crying! + +EVELYN [_sniffing suspiciously_]. I'm ... not. + +CECIL. You are, I can see the tears. Have I said anything to hurt you? +What is it? Tell me. [_Much concerned._] + +EVELYN [_recovering herself by an effort_]. It's nothing, nothing +really. I'm all right now. Only you won't say things to me like that +again, will you? Promise. [_Taking out handkerchief._] + +CECIL. I promise ... if you really wish it. And now dry your eyes and +let's be good children. That's what my nurse used to say when my sister +and I quarreled. Shall I dry them for you? [_Takes her handkerchief and +does so tenderly._] + +EVELYN [_with a gulp_]. Thank you. [_Takes away handkerchief._] How +absurd you are! [_Puts it away._] + +CECIL. Thank _you_! + + [_Evelyn moves down, sitting at bottom of bank, a little below + him._] + +EVELYN. Did you often quarrel with your sister? + +CECIL. Perpetually. _And_ my brothers. Didn't you? + +EVELYN. I never had any. + +CECIL. Poor little kid. You must have been rather lonely. + +EVELYN [_matter-of-fact_]. There was always Reggie. + +CECIL. Reggie? + +EVELYN. My cousin, Reggie Townsend. He lived with us when we were +children. His parents were in India. + +CECIL [_matter-of-fact_]. So he used to quarrel with you instead. + +EVELYN [_shocked_]. Oh no! We _never_ quarreled. At least, Reggie never +did. _I_ did sometimes. + +CECIL. How dull! There's no good in quarreling if people won't quarrel +back. + +EVELYN. I don't think there's any good in quarreling at all. + +CECIL. Oh, yes, there is. There's the making it up again. + +EVELYN. Was that why you used to quarrel with your sister? + +CECIL. I expect so, though I didn't know it, of course--then. I used to +tease her awfully, I remember, and pull her hair. She had awfully jolly +hair. Like yours--oh! I forgot, I mustn't say that. Used you to pull +Reggie's hair? + +EVELYN [_laughing_]. I'm afraid I did sometimes. + +CECIL. I was sure of it. How long was he with you? + +EVELYN. Till he went to Winchester. And of course he used to be with us +in the holidays after that. And he comes to us now whenever he can get +away for a few days. He's in his uncle's office in the city. He'll be a +partner some day. + +CECIL. Poor chap! + +EVELYN. _Poor_ chap! Mother says he's very _fortunate_. + +CECIL. She would. Parents always think it very fortunate when young men +have to go to an office every day. I know mine do. + +EVELYN. _Do_ you go to an office every day? + +CECIL. No. + +EVELYN [_with dignity_]. Then I don't think you can know much about it, +can you? + +CECIL [_carelessly_]. I know too much. That's why I don't go. + +EVELYN. What _do_ you do? + +CECIL. I don't do anything. I'm at the Bar. + +EVELYN. If you're at the Bar, why are you down here instead of up in +London working? + +CECIL. Because if I were in London I might possibly get a brief. It's +not likely, but it's possible. And if I got a brief I should have to be +mugging in chambers, or wrangling in a stuffy court, instead of sitting +under a tree in the shade with you. + +EVELYN. But _ought_ you to waste your time like that? + +CECIL [_genuinely shocked_]. _Waste_ my time! To sit under a tree--a +really nice tree like this--talking to you. You can call that _wasting +time_! + +EVELYN. Isn't it? + +CECIL. No! To sit in a frowsy office adding up figures when the sky's +blue and the weather's heavenly, _that's_ wasting time. The only real +way in which one can waste time is not to enjoy it, to spend one's day +blinking at a ledger and never notice how beautiful the world is, and +how good it is to be alive. To be only making money when one might be +making love, _that_ is wasting time! + +EVELYN. How earnestly you say that! + + [_Cecil leans forward--close to her._] + +CECIL. Isn't it true? + +EVELYN [_troubled_]. Perhaps it is. [_Looks away from him._] + +CECIL. You know it is. Every one knows it. Only people won't admit it. +[_Leaning towards her and looking into her eyes._] You know it at this +moment. + +EVELYN [_returning his gaze slowly_]. I think I do. + + [_For a long moment they look into each other's eyes. Then he + takes her two hands, draws her slowly towards him and kisses her + gently on the lips._] + +CECIL. Ah! [_Sigh of satisfaction. He releases her hands and leans back +against the tree again._] + +EVELYN [_sadly_]. Oh, Mr. Harburton, you _oughtn't_ to have done that! + +CECIL. Why not? + +EVELYN. Because.... [_Hesitates._] Because you _oughtn't_.... Because +men _oughtn't_ to kiss girls. + +CECIL [_scandalized_]. Oughtn't to kiss girls! What nonsense! What on +earth were girls made for if not to be kissed? + +EVELYN. I mean they _oughtn't_ ... unless.... [_Looking away._] + +CECIL [_puzzled_]. Unless? + +EVELYN [_looking down_]. Unless they _love_ them. + +CECIL [_relieved_]. But I _do_ love you. Of course I love you. That's +why I kissed you. + + [_A thrush is heard calling in the distance._] + +EVELYN. Really? [_Cecil nods. Evelyn sighs contentedly._] That makes it +all right then. + +CECIL. I should think it did. And as it's all right I may kiss you +again, mayn't I? + +EVELYN [_shyly_]. If you like. + +CECIL. You darling! [_Takes her in his arms and kisses her long and +tenderly._] Lean your head on my shoulder, you'll find it awfully +comfortable. [_He leans back against the tree._] [_She does so._] There! +Is that all right? + +EVELYN. Quite. [_Sigh of contentment._] + +CECIL. How pretty your hair is! I always thought your hair lovely. And +it's as soft as silk. I always knew it would be like silk. [_Strokes +it._] Do you like me to stroke your hair? + +EVELYN. Yes! + +CECIL. Sensible girl! [_Pause; he laughs happily._] I say, what am I to +call you? Do you know, I don't even know your Christian name yet? + +EVELYN. Don't you? + +CECIL. No. You've never told me. What is it? Mine's Cecil. + +EVELYN. Mine's Evelyn. + +CECIL. Evelyn? Oh, I don't like Evelyn. It's rather a _stodgy_ sort of +name. I think I shall call you Eve. Does any one else call you Eve? + +EVELYN. No. + +CECIL. Then I shall certainly call you Eve. After the first woman man +ever loved. May I? + +EVELYN. If you like--Cecil. + +CECIL. That's settled then. + + [_He kisses her again. Pause of utter happiness, during which he + settles her head more comfortably on his shoulder, and puts arm + round her._] + +Isn't it heavenly to be in love? + +EVELYN. Heavenly! + +CECIL. There's nothing like it in the whole world! Say so. + +EVELYN. Love is the most beautiful thing in the whole world. + +CECIL. Good girl! There's a reward for saying it right. [_Kisses her._] + + [_Pause of complete happiness for both._] + +EVELYN [_meditatively_]. I'm afraid Reggie won't be pleased. + + [_The chatter of sparrows is heard._] + +CECIL [_indifferently_]. Won't he? + +EVELYN [_shakes her head_]. No. You see, Reggie's in love with me too. +He always has been in love with me, for years and years. [_Sighs._] Poor +Reggie! + +CECIL. On the contrary. Happy Reggie! + +EVELYN [_astonished_]. What _do_ you mean? + +CECIL. To have been in love with you years and years. _I've_ only been +in love with you a week.... I've only known you a week. + +EVELYN. I'm afraid Reggie didn't look at it like that. + +CECIL [_nods_]. No brains. + +EVELYN. You see, I always refused _him_. + +CECIL. Exactly. And he always went on loving you. What more could the +silly fellow want? + +EVELYN [_shyly, looking up at him_]. He _wanted_ me to accept him, I +suppose. + + [_The bird chatter dies away._] + +CECIL. Ah!... Reggie ought to read Keats's "Ode to a Grecian Urn."... I +say, what jolly eyes you've got! I noticed them the moment we met here +in the wood. That was why I spoke to you. + +EVELYN [_demurely_]. I thought it was to ask your way back to the inn. + +CECIL. That was an excuse. I knew the way as well as you did. I'd only +just come from there. But when I saw you with the sunshine on your +pretty soft hair and lighting up your pretty soft eyes, I said I _must_ +speak to her. And I did. Are you glad I spoke to you? + +EVELYN. Yes. + +CECIL. Glad and glad? + +EVELYN. Yes. + +CECIL. Good girl! [_Leans over and kisses her cheek._] + +EVELYN [_sigh of contentment; sits up_]. And now we must go and tell +mother. + +CECIL [_with a comic groan_]. Need we? + +EVELYN [_brightly_]. Of course. + +CECIL [_sigh_]. Well, if _you_ think so. + +EVELYN [_laughing_]. You don't seem to look forward to it much. + +CECIL. I don't. That's the part I always hate. + +EVELYN. _Always?_ [_Starts forward and looks at him, puzzled._] + +CECIL [_quite unconscious_]. Yes. The going to the parents and all that. +Parents really are the most preposterous people. They've no feeling for +_romance_ whatever. You meet a girl in a wood. It's May. The sun's +shining. There's not a cloud in the sky. She's adorably pretty. You fall +in love. Everything heavenly! Then--why, I can't imagine--she wants you +to tell her mother. Well, you do tell her mother. And her mother at once +begins to ask you what your profession is, and how much money you earn, +and how much money you have that you don't earn--and that spoils it all. + +EVELYN [_bewildered_]. But I don't understand. You talk as if you had +actually done all this before. + +CECIL. So I have. Lots of times. + +EVELYN. Oh! [_Jumps up from the ground and faces him, her eyes flashing +with rage._] + +CECIL. I say, don't get up. It's not time to go yet. It's only four. Sit +down again. + +EVELYN [_struggling for words_]. Do you mean to say you've been in love +with girls before? _Other_ girls? + +CECIL [_apparently genuinely astonished at the question_]. Of course I +have. + +EVELYN. And been engaged to them? + +CECIL. Not engaged. I've never been engaged so far. But I've been in +love over and over again. + + [_Evelyn stamps her foot with rage--turning away from him._] + +My dear girl, what _is_ the matter? You look quite cross. [_Rises._] + +EVELYN [_furious_]. And you're not even _ashamed_ of it? + +CECIL [_roused to sit up by this question_]. Ashamed of it? Ashamed of +being in love? How can you say such a thing! Of course I'm not ashamed. +What's the good of being alive at all if one isn't to be in love? I'm +perpetually in love. In fact, I'm hardly ever out of love--with +somebody. + +EVELYN [_still furious_]. Then if you're in love, why don't you get +engaged? A man has no business to make love to a girl and not be engaged +to her. It's not right. + +CECIL [_reasoning with her_]. That's the parents' fault. I told you +parents were preposterous people. They won't allow me to get engaged. + +EVELYN. Why not? + +CECIL. Oh, for different reasons. They say I'm not _serious_ enough. Or +that I don't work enough. Or that I haven't got enough money. Or else +they simply say they "don't think I'm fitted to make their daughter +happy." Anyhow, they won't sanction an engagement. They all agree about +_that_. Your mother would be just the same. + + [_Impatient exclamation from Evelyn._] + +I don't blame her. I don't say she's not right. I don't say they haven't +all been right. In fact, I believe they _have_ been right. I'm only +explaining how it is. + +EVELYN [_savagely_]. I see how it is. You don't really want to be +married. + +CECIL. Of course I don't _want_ to be married. Nobody does unless he's +perfectly idiotic. One wants to be in love. Being in love's splendid. +And I dare say being engaged isn't bad--though I've had no experience of +that so far. But being married must be simply hateful. + +EVELYN [_boiling with rage_]. Nonsense! How can it be hateful to be +married if it's splendid to be in love? + + [_The cuckoo is heard._] + +CECIL. Have you forgotten the cuckoo? + +EVELYN. Oh!!! + +CECIL. No ties, no responsibilities, no ghastly little villa with +children bellowing in the nursery. Just life in the open hedgerow. Life +and love. Happy cuckoo! + +EVELYN [_furious_]. I think cuckoos detestable. They're mean, horrid, +_disgusting_ birds. + +CECIL. No. No. I can't have you abusing cuckoos. They're particular +friends of mine. In fact, I'm a sort of cuckoo myself. + +EVELYN [_turning on him_]. Oh, I hate you! I hate you! [_Stamps her +foot._] + +CECIL [_with quiet conviction_]. You don't. + +EVELYN. I do! + +CECIL [_shaking his head_]. You don't. [_Quite gravely._] One never +really hates the people one has once loved. + + [_He looks into her eyes. For a moment or two she returns his gaze + fiercely. Then her eyes fall and they fill with tears._] + +EVELYN [_half crying_]. How horrid you are to say that! + +CECIL. Why? + +EVELYN. Because it's true, I suppose. Ah, I'm so unhappy! [_Begins to +cry._] + +CECIL [_genuinely distressed_]. Eve! You're crying. You mustn't do that. +I can't bear seeing people cry. [_Lays hand on her shoulder._] + +EVELYN [_shaking it off_]. Don't. I can't bear you to touch me. After +falling in love with one girl after another like that. When I thought +you were only in love with me. + +CECIL. So I am only in love with you--now. + +EVELYN [_tearfully_]. But I thought you'd never been in love with any +one else. And I let you call me Eve because you said she was the first +woman man ever loved. + +CECIL. But I never said she was the only one, did I? +[_Argumentatively._] And one can't help being in love with people when +one _is_ in love, can one? I couldn't _help_ falling in love with you, +for instance, the moment I saw you. You looked simply splendid. It was +such a splendid day too. _Of course_ I fell in love with you. + +EVELYN [_slightly appeased by his compliment, drying her eyes_]. But you +seem to fall in love with such a lot of people. + +CECIL. I do. [_Mischievously._] But ought _you_ to throw stones at me? +After all, being in love with more than one person is no worse than +having more than one person in love with you. How about Reggie? + +EVELYN. Reggie? [_The sparrows' chatter starts again._] + +CECIL [_nods_]. Reggie's in love with you, isn't he? So am I. And both +at once too! I'm only in love with one person at a time. + +EVELYN [_rebelliously_]. I can't help Reggie being in love with me. + +CECIL. And I can't help _my_ being in love with you. That's just my +point. I knew you'd see it. + +EVELYN. I don't see it at all. Reggie is quite different from you. +Reggie's love is true and constant.... + +CECIL. Well, I'm a _constant_ lover if you come to that. + +EVELYN. You aren't. You know you aren't. + +CECIL. Yes, I am. A constant lover is a lover who is constantly in love. + +EVELYN. Only with the same person. + +CECIL. It doesn't say so. It only says constant. + +EVELYN [_half-laughing_]. How ridiculous you are! [_Turns away._] + +CECIL [_sigh of relief_]. That's right. Now you're good-tempered again. + +EVELYN. I'm not. + +CECIL. What a story! + +EVELYN. I'm not. I'm very, _very_ angry. + +CECIL. That's impossible. You can't possibly be angry and laugh at the +same time, can you? No one can. And you _did_ laugh. You're doing it +now. + + [_She does so unwillingly._] + +So don't let's quarrel any more. It's absurd to quarrel on such a fine +day, isn't it? Let's make it up, and be lovers again. + + [_The sparrows die away._] + +EVELYN [_shaking her head_]. No. + +CECIL. Please! + +EVELYN [_shaking her head_]. No. + +CECIL. Well, you're very foolish. Love isn't a thing to throw away. It's +too precious for that. Love is the most beautiful thing in the whole +world. You said so yourself not ten minutes ago. + +EVELYN. I didn't. You said it. [_Looking down._] + +CECIL. But you said it after me. [_Gently and gravely._] Eve, dear, +don't be silly. Let's be in love while we can. Youth is the time to be +in love, isn't it? Soon you and I will be dull and stupid and +middle-aged like all the other tedious people. And then it will be too +late. Youth passes so quickly. Don't let's waste a second of it. They +say the May-fly only lives for one day. He is born in the morning. All +the afternoon he flutters over the river in the sunshine, dodging the +trout and flirting with other May-flies. And at evening he dies. Think +of the poor May-fly who happens to be born on a wet day! The tragedy of +it! + +EVELYN [_softly_]. Poor May-fly. + +CECIL. There! You're sorry for the May-fly, you see. You're only angry +with me. + +EVELYN. Because you're not a May-fly. + +CECIL. Yes, I am. A sort of May-fly. + +EVELYN [_with suspicion of tears in her voice_]. You aren't. How can you +be? Besides, you said you were a cuckoo just now. + +CECIL. I suppose I'm a cuckoo-May-fly. For I _hate_ wet days. And if +you're going to cry again, it might just as well be wet, mightn't it? So +do dry your eyes like a good girl. Let me do it for you. [_Does it with +her handkerchief._] + + [_She laughs ruefully._] + +There, that's better. And now we're going to be good children again, +aren't we? + +CECIL [_holding out hand_]. And you'll kiss and be friends? + +EVELYN. I'll be friends, of course. [_Sadly._] But you must never kiss +me again. + +CECIL. What a shame! Why not? + +EVELYN. Because you mustn't. + +CECIL [_cheerfully_]. Well, you'll sit down again anyhow, won't you? +just to show we've made it up. [_Moves towards tree._] + +EVELYN [_shakes head_]. No. + +CECIL [_disappointed; turns_]. A.... Then you haven't really made it up. + +EVELYN. Yes, I have. [_Picks up her hat._] But I must go now. Reggie's +coming down by the five o'clock train, and I want to be at the station +to meet him. [_Holds out hand._] Good-by, Mr. Harburton. + +CECIL [_taking hand_]. Eve! You're going to accept Reggie! [_Pause._] + +EVELYN [_half to herself_]. I wonder. + +CECIL. And he'll have to tell your mother? + +EVELYN. Of course. + +CECIL [_drops her hand_]. Poor Reggie! So _his_ romance ends too! + +EVELYN. It won't! If I marry Reggie I shall make him very happy. + +CECIL. Very likely. Marriage may be happiness, but I'm hanged if it's +romance! + +EVELYN. Oh! [_Exclamation of impatience._] + + [_She turns away and exits R._] + + [_Cecil watches her departure with a smile half-amused, + half-pained, till she is long out of sight. Then with half a sigh + turns back to his tree._] + +CECIL [_re-seating himself_]. Poor Reggie! [_Re-opens his book and +settles himself to read again._] + + [_A cuckoo hoots loudly from a distant thicket and is answered by + another. Cecil looks up from his book to listen as the curtain + falls._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE JUDGMENT OF INDRA + + A PLAY + BY DHAN GOPAL MUKERJI + + + Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. + All rights reserved. + + + The professional and amateur stage rights of this play are strictly + reserved by the author, to whose dramatic representative, Frank Shay, + in care Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, Ohio, applications for + permission to produce it should be made. + + + +THE JUDGMENT OF INDRA + +A PLAY BY DHAN GOPAL MUKERJI + + + [TIME: _The Fifteenth Century._] + + [PLACE: _A Monastery on one of the foothills of Himalaya._] + + [SCENE: _In the foreground is the outer court of a Monastery. In + the center of the court is a sacred plant, growing out of a small + altar of earth about two feet square. On the left of the court is + a sheer precipice, adown which a flight of stone steps--only a few + of which are visible--connects the Monastery with the village in + the valley below._ + + _To the right are the temple and the adobe walls and the roof of + the monastery cells. There is a little space between the temple + and the adobe walls, which is the passage leading to the inner + recesses of the monastery. Several steps lead to the doors of the + temple, which give on the court. In the distance, rear, are the + snowy peaks of the Himalayas, glowing under the emerald sky of an + Indian afternoon. To the left, the distances stretch into vast + spaces of wooded hills. Long bars of light glimmer and die as the + vast clouds, with edges of crimson, golden and silver, spread + portentously over the hills and forest._ + + _A roll of thunder in the distance, accompanies the rise of the + curtain._] + + +SHANTA. [_He is reading a palm-leaf manuscript near the Sacred Plant. He +looks up at the sky._] It forbodes a calamity. + + [_Suddenly the Temple doors open. Shukra stands framed in the + doorway. Seeing that Shanta is alone, Shukra walks down the steps + toward him._] + +SHUKRA. Are you able to make out the words? + +SHANTA. Aye, Master. + +SHUKRA. Where is Kanada? + +SHANTA. He will be here presently. Listen, master: it sayeth: "Only a +hair's breadth divides the true from the false. Upon him who by thought, +word or deed confuses the two, will descend the Judgment of Indra." + +SHUKRA. The thunder of Indra is just. It will strike the erring and the +unrighteous no matter where they hide themselves; in the heart of the +forest or in the silence of the cloisters, Indra's Judgment will descend +on them. Even the erring heart that knows not that it is erring will be +smitten and chastised by Indra. [_Thunder rumbles in the distance._] + +SHANTA. Master, when you speak, you not only fill the heart with +ecstasy, but also the soul with the beauty of truth. + +SHUKRA. To praise is good. But why praise me, who have yet to find God +and,--[_Shakes his head sadly._] + +SHANTA. You will find Him soon; your time is nigh. + +SHUKRA. I wish it were true. + +SHANTA. Master, if there be anything that I can do for you. If I could +only lighten your burden a little,-- + +SHUKRA. Thou hast done that already. All the cares of the monastery thou +hast taken from me. Thou hast bound me to thee by bonds of gratitude +that can never break. [_Enter Kanada._] Ah, Kanada, how be it with you +to-day? [_Coming to him._] + +KANADA. [_He is a lad of twenty and two._] By your blessing I am well +and at peace. Have you finished your meditation? + +SHUKRA. [_Sadly._] Nine hours have I meditated, but--I shall say the +prayers now. [_Enters the temple and shuts the door._] + +KANADA. He seems not to be himself. + +SHANTA. When he is in meditation for a long time, he becomes another +being. + +KANADA. There is sadness in his eyes. + +SHANTA. How can he be sad,--he who has risen above joy and sorrow, +pleasure and pain, hate and love? + +KANADA. Above love, too? + +SHANTA. Yea, hate and love being opposite, are Maya, illusion! + +KANADA. Yet we must love the world. + +SHANTA. Yea, that we do to help the world. + +KANADA. The Master is tender to the villagers even if they lead the +worldly life. + +SHANTA. We be monks. We have broken all the ties of the world, even +those of family, so that we can bestow our thoughts, care and love upon +all the children of God. Our love is impartial. [_The thunder growls in +the distance._] + +KANADA. Yea, that is the truth. Yet I think the Master loves thee more +than any other. + +SHANTA. Nay, brother. He loves no one more than another. I have been +with him ten years; that makes him depend on me. But if the truth were +known,--he loves none. For he loves all. Indra, be my witness: the +Master loveth no one more than another. + +KANADA. Ah, noble-souled Master! Yet I feel happy to think that he +loveth thee more than any. + +SHANTA. He loves each living creature. He is not as the worldly ones who +love by comparison--this one more, the other less. Last night, as the +rain wailed without like a heart-broken woman, how his voice rose in +song of light and love! He is one of God's prophets, and a true singer +of His praise. + +KANADA. I can hear him yet. + +SHANTA. I will never forget the ineffable joy that glowed in his words. +Only he who has renounced all ties, can speak with such deep and undying +love. No anxiety-- + +KANADA. It was that of which I would speak to thee. Dost thou not see +sadness and anxiety in the Master's face? + +SHANTA. He is deep in thought--naught else. + +KANADA. Ever since that message was brought him the other day, he has +seemed heavy hearted. It was melancholy tidings. + +SHANTA. Nay, that message had naught to do with him. [_Thunder growls. +The Temple doors open. Shukra comes out of the Temple and shuts the +doors behind him. Then he stands still in front of the Temple._] + +SHUKRA. [_Calling._] Kanada. + +KANADA. Yea, Master. [_He goes up to Shukra, who gives him some +directions. Kanada exits; Shukra stands looking at the sky._] + +SHANTA. How wonderful a vision he is! As he stands at the threshold of +the temple he seems like a new God, another divinity come down to earth +to lead the righteous on to the realms celestial. Ah, Master, how +grateful am I to have thee as my teacher! I thank Brahma for giving thee +to me. + + [_Enter Kanada. Shukra then walks to Shanta, with Kanada following + him._] + +KANADA. Master, all is ready. + +SHUKRA. Go ye to the village; ask them if all be well with them. When +the heavens are unkind--ah, if it rains another day all the crops will +be destroyed. What will they live on? No, no, it cannot be. Go ye both +down to them and take them my blessings: Tell them we will make another +offering to Indra to-night. It must not rain any more. + +SHANTA. Bring out begging bowls, Kanada. + +KANADA. Shall I bring the torches, too? [_Crossing._] + +SHUKRA. The clouds may hide the moon; yea, the torches, too. [_Kanada +exits R._] + +SHUKRA. Yea. [_Thunder growls above head._] The storm grows apace. I +hope thou wilt find shelter ere it breaks. [_A short silence._] The +world is growing darker and darker each day. Sin and Vice are gathering +around it like a vast coiling Serpent. We monks be the only ones that +can save it and set it free. Shanta, be steadfast; strengthen me. Help +me to bring the light to the world. Thou art not only my disciple, but +my friend and brother. [_He embraces Shanta._] Save me from the world. + +KANADA. [_Entering._] Here be--[_Stops in surprise._] + +SHUKRA. [_Releasing Shanta._] Come to me, Kanada. [_The latter does so, +Shukra putting an arm around Kanada's neck._] Little Brother-- + +KANADA. [_Radiantly._] Master-- + +SHUKRA. Be brave and free--free from the delusions of this world, +Sansara. Go yet to the village; take them our blessings! Hari be with +them all! May ye return hither safely. [_Thunder and lightning._] Ah, +Lord Indra!--Look, it is raining yonder. Go, hasten-- + +SHANTA. [_Taking a begging bowl and torch from Kanada._] Come! + +SHUKRA. [_Putting his hands on their heads._] I bless ye both. May Indra +protect ye--[_the rest of his words are drowned by the lightning flash +and peal of thunder_]. + + [_The two disciples intone_: "OM Shanti OM." _They go down the + steps._] + +SHUKRA. May this storm pass. OM Shiva. Shiva love you, my Shanta. For +ten long years he has been with me; he has greatly helped me in my +search after Him who is the only living Reality. To-day I am nearer +God--I stand at the threshold of realization. I seem to feel that it +will not be long before the Veil will be lifted and I shall press my +heart against the heart of the ultimate mystery--Who comes there? +[_Listens attentively_]. They cannot have gone and come back so soon. +Ha! another illusion! These days I am beset by endless illusions. +Perhaps that betokens the end of my search, as the gloom is always +thickest ere the dawn. Yea, after this will come the Light; I will see +God! [_Hears a noise; listens attentively._] Are they already returning? +[_Calling._] Shanta! [_He crosses and looks down. Thunder rolls very +loudly now. He does not heed that. Suddenly he recoils in agitation. +Footsteps are heard from below, rising higher and higher. Shukra rubs +his eyes to make sure that he has really seen something that is not an +illusion. He goes forward a few steps. The head of an old man rises into +view, Shukra is stupefied; walks backwards until his back touches the +Sacred plant. He stands still. The old man at last climbs the last step. +He has not noticed Shukra. He looks at the Himalayas in the rear. Then +his eyes travel over the monastery walls--Now suddenly they catch sight +of Shukra._] + +SHUKRA. What seek ye here? + +OLD MAN [_eyeing him carefully_]. Ah, Shukra! dost thou not recognize +thine aged father? [_He goes to Shukra with outstretched arms._] + +SHUKRA. I have no father. + +OLD MAN. But I am thy father. Did not my messenger come the other day? +[_Silence._] Did he lie to me? Dost thou not know thy mother is-- + +SHUKRA. Thy messenger came. + +OLD MAN. Then come thou home at once. There is not time to be lost. +Come, my son, ere thy mother leaves this earth. + +SHUKRA. I cannot go. + +OLD MAN. Thou canst not go? Dost thou not know that thy mother is on her +death-bed? + +SHUKRA. I have renounced the world. For twelve years I have had no +father, nor mother. + +OLD MAN. Thou didst leave us, but we did not renounce thee. And now thou +shouldst come. + +SHUKRA. I told thy messenger that I have no father nor mother,--I cannot +come. + +OLD MAN. I heard it all. If you art born of us, thou canst not have a +heart of stone? Come, my son: I, thy father, implore thee. + +SHUKRA. Nay, nay; God alone is my father. + +OLD MAN. Hath it not been said in the scriptures that thy parents are +thy God? Thy father should be obeyed. + +SHUKRA. That was said by one who had not seen the Truth, the Light. + +OLD MAN. I command thee in the name of the Scriptures. + +SHUKRA. God alone can command me. + +OLD MAN. Vishnu protect me! Art thou dreaming, my child? Yonder lies thy +mother, fighting death,-- + +SHUKRA. I have heard it all. + +OLD MAN. And yet thou wilt not go? + +SHUKRA. Nay, father, I cannot go. The day I took the vow of a monk, that +day I cut the bond that binds me to you all. I must be free of all ties. +I must love none for myself that I may love all for God. Here I must +remain where God has placed me, until He calls me elsewhere. + +OLD MAN. But thy mother lies, fighting with each breath. She wishes to +see thee. + +SHUKRA. I cannot come. + +OLD MAN. But thou must. + +SHUKRA. I would if I could; but my life is in the hands of God. + +OLD MAN [_mocking_]. God! Thy life belongs to God? Who gave thee life? +Not God, but she who lies there dying; what ingratitude! This, indeed, +is the age of darkness; sons are turning against their fathers,--and +killing their own mother. + +SHUKRA [_quietly_]. I may not love one more than another; my steps, as +my heart, go whither God guides them. + +OLD MAN [_mocking_]. Truth is thy witness? + +SHUKRA. May Indra himself punish me if I love one more than another. +Hear me, Indra. [_The roll of thunder above._] + +OLD MAN [_in desperation_]. Come, my son, in the name of thine own God I +pray to thee, come to thy mother. I kneel at thy feet and beg for this +boon. [_He does so._] + +SHUKRA [_raising him to his feet. He puts his own head down on the old +man's feet._] + +OLD MAN. Then thou comest? [_Shukra rises to his feet._] + +SHUKRA [_hesitating_]. There is a law in the Sacred books that says an +ascetic should see the place of his birth every twelfth year. + +OLD MAN. And it is twelve years now since thou didst renounce us! Ah! +blessed be the law. + +SHUKRA. Yet, father, if I go, I go not in obedience to the law, but +since the desire to see my mother is uppermost in me, I who dreamt not +of the law hitherto--yea, now I hasten to abide by the law. Ah, what +mockery! It is not the letter of the law, but the spirit in us that +judges us sinners or saints. Now if I go with thee to obey the law, that +would be betraying the law. + +OLD MAN. Betraying the law! + +SHUKRA. Thought alone is the measure of our innocence. He who thinks +evil is a doer of evil indeed. Nay, nay, tempt me not with the law. I +must remain here. I must keep my vow. [_He looks up to heaven; it is +covered with enormous black clouds._] + +OLD MAN. The law is not written in the heavens. It is inscribed in the +heart of man. Obey the dictates of thy heart. + +SHUKRA. God alone shall be obeyed. I cannot betray His command. I, who +am an ascetic, must not yield to the desire to see my mother--Nay! +God-- + +OLD MAN. What manner of God is He that deprives a dying mother of her +son? Such a God never was known in Hindu life. No such God lives, nor +breathes. [_Thunder and lightning._] + +SHUKRA. Erring Soul, do not blaspheme your creator. He is the God of +Truth--God of Love. + +OLD MAN [_disdainfully_]. God of Love,-- How can He be God of Love if +He dries up the stream of thy heart and blinds thy reason as the clouds +blind the eyes of the Sun? Nay, thou liest. It is not the God of Love, +but the God of thine insane self--self-love that makes thee rob thy +mother of her only joy in life. I--yea, I will answer to God for thee. +If, by coming to see thy mother, thou sinnest, I ask God to make me pay +for thy sin. Come, obey thy father,--I will take the burden of thy sin, +if sin it be. + +SHUKRA. Nay, each man pays for his sins as each man reaps the harvest of +his own good deeds. None can atone for another. Ah, God! cursed be the +hour when I was born. Cursed,-- + +OLD MAN [_angrily_]. Thou cursest thy birth? + +SHUKRA. Yea, to be born in this world of woe is a curse indeed. + +OLD MAN. Then curse thy tormented mind and thy desolate heart; curse +not,-- + +SHUKRA. Nay, I curse the hour that saw me come to this earth of delusion +and Maya. I do curse,-- + +OLD MAN. Thou dost dare curse the hour when thou wert born! Ah, vile +sinner! To curse the hour of thy birth when thy mother is dying! God be +my witness, he has incurred his father's wrath. Now,--no God can save +thee. + +SHUKRA. Nay, nay,-- + +OLD MAN. Shukra. I, thy father, thy God in life, curse thee. Thou hast +deprived thy mother of her child, and her death of its solace. Thou hast +incurred the wrath of the Spirits of all thy departed ancestors. + +SHUKRA [_cries out_]. Not thus; not thus. [_Thunder and lightning, the +whole sky is swept by the clouds._] + +OLD MAN. Not thus? Thus alone shall it be. Cursed be thou at night; +cursed be thou by day; cursed be thou going; cursed be thou coming. Thou +art cursed by the spirit of the race, by the spirit of God. [_Continued +thunder and lightning._] + +SHUKRA [_falling at his father's feet_]. I beseech thee, my father,-- + +OLD MAN [_shrinking away_]. Touch me not. [_Going left._] Cursed art +thou in Life and Death forever. + +SHUKRA. God!--Father, go not thus. + +OLD MAN. I am not thy father. [_Deafening and blinding thunder and +lightning._] + +SHUKRA. Father-- + +OLD MAN [_going down the steps_]. Pollute not my hearing by calling me +thy father. May the judgment of Indra be upon thee! [_He totters down +out of sight, left, in anger and horror._] + +SHUKRA. Father, hear, oh hear! [_The rain comes down in a deluge; +thunder and lightning. The rain blots everything out of sight. It pours +in deep, dark sheets, through which the chains and sheets of lightning +burn and run. After raining awhile, the sky clears. In the pale +moonlight, Shukra is seen crouching near the Sacred plant. He is wet and +disheveled. He slowly rises, swaying in exhaustion. Voices are heard +below._] + +SHUKRA. Can it be that it is over? Has Indra judged me and found me free +of error? Yea, were I in error, the lightning would have struck me. I +lay there blinded by rain awaiting my death. It did not come. Yea, Indra +has judged! [_Noises below; he does not hear._] O, thou shadowy world, I +am free of thee at last. Free of love and loving, free of all bondage. I +have no earthly ties,--I lean on God alone. At last, I am bound to no +earthly being, not even--[_strange pause_]--not even,--Shanta. [_He +becomes conscious of the noise of approaching footsteps and the light of +the torches from below._] Who is that? [_He goes forward a few steps. +Enter Kanada, torch in hand._] + +KANADA. Master, Master. + +SHUKRA. Kanada, thou,--[_a pause, very brief but poignant_]. Why this +agitation? Shanta, where is Shanta? + +KANADA. Shanta is-- + +SHUKRA [_seeing the other torches rising suddenly_]. Speak! Who comes +hither? + +KANADA. They bring a dead man. + +SHUKRA. Who is he? [_As a premonition of the truth comes over him._] +Where is Shanta? + +KANADA [_blurts out_]. At the foot of the hill the lightning struck him. + +SHUKRA [_with a terrible cry_]. Shanta,--my Shanta! [_Two men carrying +torches with one hand, and dragging something white with the other, come +up the steps. This vision silences Shukra. A pause follows. Another +torch is seen rising behind them._] + +SHUKRA [_slowly_], Shanta,--gone. [_Pause again, looking into the starry +heavens._] This is the Judgment of Indra! + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE WORKHOUSE WARD + + A PLAY + + BY LADY GREGORY + + + Copyright, 1909, by Lady Gregory. + All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS + + MICHAEL MISKELL } [_Paupers_]. + MIKE MCINERNEY } + MRS. DONOHOE [_a Countrywoman_]. + + + Reprinted from "Seven Short Plays," by Lady Gregory, published by + G. P. Putnam's Sons, by permission of Lady Gregory and Messrs. + G. P. Putnam's Sons. + + All acting rights, both professional and amateur, are reserved in + the United States, Great Britain, and all countries of the Copyright + Union, by the author. Performances forbidden and right of presentation + reserved. + + Application for the right of performing this play or reading it in + public should be made to Samuel French, 28 West 38th Street, New York + City, or 26 South Hampton Street, Strand, London. + + + +THE WORKHOUSE WARD + +A PLAY BY LADY GREGORY + + + [SCENE: _A ward in Cloon Workhouse. The two old men in their + beds_.] + + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Isn't it a hard case, Mike McInerney, myself and +yourself to be left here in the bed, and it the feast day of Saint +Colman, and the rest of the ward attending on the Mass. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Is it sitting up by the hearth you are wishful to be, +Michael Miskell, with cold in the shoulders and with speckled shins? Let +you rise up so, and you well able to do it, not like myself that has +pains the same as tin-tacks within in my inside. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. If you have pains within in your inside there is no one +can see it or know of it the way they can see my own knees that are +swelled up with the rheumatism, and my hands that are twisted in ridges +the same as an old cabbage stalk. It is easy to be talking about +soreness and about pains, and they maybe not to be in it at all. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. To open me and to analyze me you would know what sort of +a pain and a soreness I have in my heart and in my chest. But I'm not +one like yourself to be cursing and praying and tormenting the time the +nuns are at hand, thinking to get a bigger share than myself of the +nourishment and of the milk. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. That's the way you do be picking at me and faulting me. +I had a share and a good share in my early time, and it's well you know +that, and the both of us reared in Skehanagh. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. You may say that, indeed, we are both of us reared in +Skehanagh. Little wonder you to have good nourishment the time we were +both rising, and you bringing away my rabbits out of the snare. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. And you didn't bring away my own eels, I suppose, I was +after spearing in the Turlough? Selling them to the nuns in the convent +you did, and letting on they to be your own. For you were always a +cheater and a schemer, grabbing every earthly thing for your own profit. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. And you were no grabber yourself, I suppose, till your +land and all you had grabbed wore away from you! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. If I lost it itself, it was through the crosses I met +with and I going through the world. I never was a rambler and a +card-player like yourself, Mike McInerney, that ran through all and +lavished it unknown to your mother! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Lavished it, is it? And if I did was it you yourself led +me to lavish it or some other one? It is on my own floor I would be +to-day and in the face of my family, but for the misfortune I had to be +put with a bad next door neighbor that was yourself. What way did my +means go from me is it? Spending on fencing, spending on walls, making +up gates, putting up doors, that would keep your hens and your ducks +from coming in through starvation on my floor, and every four footed +beast you had from preying and trespassing on my oats and my mangolds +and my little lock of hay! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. O to listen to you! And I striving to please you and to +be kind to you and to close my ears to the abuse you would be calling +and letting out of your mouth. To trespass on your crops is it? It's +little temptation there was for my poor beasts to ask to cross the +mering. My God Almighty! What had you but a little corner of a field! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. And what do you say to my garden that your two pigs had +destroyed on me the year of the big tree being knocked, and they making +gaps in the wall. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, there does be a great deal of gaps knocked in a +twelve-month. Why wouldn't they be knocked by the thunder, the same as +the tree, or some storm that came up from the west? + +MIKE MCINERNEY. It was the west wind, I suppose, that devoured my green +cabbage? And that rooted up my Champion potatoes? And that ate the +gooseberries themselves from off the bush? + +MICHAEL MISKELL. What are you saying? The two quietest pigs ever I had, +no way wicked and well ringed. They were not ten minutes in it. It would +be hard for them to eat strawberries in that time, let alone +gooseberries that's full of thorns. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. They were not quiet, but very ravenous pigs you had that +time, as active as a fox they were, killing my young ducks. Once they +had blood tasted you couldn't stop them. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. And what happened myself the fair day of Esserkelly, +the time I was passing your door? Two brazened dogs that rushed out and +took a piece of me. I never was the better of it or of the start I got, +but wasting from then till now! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Thinking you were a wild beast they did, that had made +his escape out of the traveling show, with the red eyes of you and the +ugly face of you, and the two crooked legs of you that wouldn't hardly +stop a pig in a gap. Sure any dog that had any life in it at all would +be roused and stirred seeing the like of you going the road! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. I did well taking out a summons against you that time. +It is a great wonder you not to have been bound over through your +lifetime, but the laws of England is queer. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. What ailed me that I did not summons yourself after you +stealing away the clutch of eggs I had in the barrel, and I away in +Ardrahan searching out a clocking hen. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. To steal your eggs is it? Is that what you are saying +now? [_Holds up his hands._] The Lord is in heaven, and Peter and the +saints, and yourself that was in Ardrahan that day put a hand on them as +soon as myself! Isn't it a bad story for me to be wearing out my days +beside you the same as a spancelled goat. Chained I am and tethered I am +to a man that is ram-shacking his mind for lies! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. If it is a bad story for you, Michael Miskell, it is a +worse story again for myself. A Miskell to be next and near me through +the whole of the four quarters of the year. I never heard there to be +any great name on the Miskells as there was on my own race and name. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. You didn't, is it? Well, you could hear it if you had +but ears to hear it. Go across to Lisheen Crannagh and down to the sea +and to Newtown Lynch and the mills of Duras and you'll find a Miskell, +and as far as Dublin! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. What signifies Crannagh and the mills of Duras? Look at +all my own generations that are buried at the Seven Churches. And how +many generations of the Miskells are buried in it? Answer me that! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. I tell you but for the wheat that was to be sowed there +would be more side cars and more common cars at my father's funeral (God +rest his soul!) than at any funeral ever left your own door. And as to +my mother, she was a Cuffe from Claregalway, and it's she had the purer +blood! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. And what do you say to the banshee? Isn't she apt to +have knowledge of the ancient race? Was ever she heard to screech or to +cry for the Miskells? Or for the Cuffes from Claregalway? She was not, +but for the six families, the Hyneses, the Foxes, the Faheys, the +Dooleys, the McInerneys. It is of the nature of the McInerneys she is I +am thinking, crying them the same as a king's children. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. It is a pity the banshee not to be crying for yourself +at this minute, and giving you a warning to quit your lies and your chat +and your arguing and your contrary ways; for there is no one under the +rising sun could stand you. I tell you you are not behaving as in the +presence of the Lord. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Is it wishful for my death you are? Let it come and meet +me now and welcome so long as it will part me from yourself! And I say, +and I would kiss the book on it, I to have one request only to be +granted, and I leaving it in my will, it is what I would request, nine +furrows of the field, nine ridges of the hills, nine waves of the ocean +to be put between your grave and my own grave the time we will be laid +in the ground! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Amen to that! Nine ridges, is it? No, but let the whole +ridge of the world separate us till the Day of Judgment! I would not be +laid anear you at the Seven Churches, I to get Ireland without a divide! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. And after that again! I'd sooner than ten pound in my +hand, I to know that my shadow and my ghost will not be knocking about +with your shadow and your ghost, and the both of us waiting our time. +I'd sooner be delayed in Purgatory! Now, have you anything to say? + +MICHAEL MISKELL. I have everything to say, if I had but the time to say +it! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. [_Sitting up._] Let me up out of this till I'll choke +you! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. You scolding pauper you! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. [_Shaking his fist at him._] Wait a while! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. [_Shaking his fist._] Wait a while yourself! + + [_Mrs. Donohoe comes in with a parcel. She is a countrywoman with + a frilled cap and a shawl. She stands still a minute. The two old + men lie down and compose themselves._] + +MRS. DONOHOE. They bade me come up here by the stair. I never was in +this place at all. I don't know am I right. Which now of the two of ye +is Mike McInerney? + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Who is it is calling me by my name? + +MRS. DONOHOE. Sure amn't I your sister, Honor McInerney that was, that +is now Honor Donohoe. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. So you are, I believe. I didn't know you till you pushed +anear me. It is time indeed for you to come see me, and I in this place +five year or more. Thinking me to be no credit to you, I suppose, among +that tribe of the Donohoes. I wonder they to give you leave to come ask +am I living yet or dead? + +MRS. DONOHOE. Ah, sure, I buried the whole string of them. Himself was +the last to go. [_Wipes her eyes._] The Lord be praised he got a fine +natural death. Sure we must go through our crosses. And he got a lovely +funeral; it would delight you to hear the priest reading the Mass. My +poor John Donohoe! A nice clean man, you couldn't but be fond of him. +Very severe on the tobacco he was, but he wouldn't touch the drink. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. And is it in Curranroe you are living yet? + +MRS. DONOHOE. It is so. He left all to myself. But it is a lonesome +thing the head of a house to have died! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. I hope that he has left you a nice way of living? + +MRS. DONOHOE. Fair enough, fair enough. A wide lovely house I have; a +few acres of grass land ... the grass does be very sweet that grows +among the stones. And as to the sea, there is something from it every +day of the year, a handful of periwinkles to make kitchen, or cockles +maybe. There is many a thing in the sea is not decent, but cockles is +fit to put before the Lord! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. You have all that! And you without e'er a man in the +house? + +MRS. DONOHOE. It is what I am thinking, yourself might come and keep me +company. It is no credit to me a brother of my own to be in this place +at all. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. I'll go with you! Let me out of this! It is the name of +the McInerneys will be rising on every side! + +MRS. DONOHOE. I don't know. I was ignorant of you being kept to the bed. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. I am not kept to it, but maybe an odd time when there is +a colic rises up within me. My stomach always gets better the time there +is a change in the moon. I'd like well to draw anear you. My heavy +blessing on you, Honor Donohoe, for the hand you have held out to me +this day. + +MRS. DONOHOE. Sure you could be keeping the fire in, and stirring the +pot with the bit of Indian meal for the hens, and milking the goat and +taking the tacklings off the donkey at the door; and maybe putting out +the cabbage plants in their time. For when the old man died the garden +died. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. I could to be sure, and be cutting the potatoes for +seed. What luck could there be in a place and a man not to be in it? Is +that now a suit of clothes you have brought with you? + +MRS. DONOHOE. It is so, the way you will be tasty coming in among the +neighbors at Curranroe. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. My joy you are! It is well you earned me! Let me up out +of this! [_He sits up and spreads out the clothes and tries on coat._] +That now is a good frieze coat ... and a hat in the fashion.... [_He +puts on hat._] + +MICHAEL MISKELL [_alarmed_]. And is it going out of this you are, Mike +McInerney? + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Don't you hear I am going? To Curranroe I am going. +Going I am to a place where I will get every good thing! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. And is it to leave me here after you you will? + +MIKE MCINERNEY [_in a rising chant_]. Every good thing! The goat and the +kid are there, the sheep and the lamb are there, the cow does be running +and she coming to be milked! Plowing and seed sowing, blossom at +Christmas time, the cuckoo speaking through the dark days of the year! +Ah, what are you talking about? Wheat high in hedges, no talk about the +rent! Salmon in the rivers as plenty as hurf! Spending and getting and +nothing scarce! Sport and pleasure, and music on the strings! Age will +go from me and I will be young again. Geese and turkeys for the hundreds +and drink for the whole world! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, Mike, is it truth you are saying, you to go from me +and to leave me with rude people and with townspeople, and with people +of every parish in the union, and they having no respect for me or no +wish for me at all! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Whist now and I'll leave you ... my pipe [_hands it +over_]; and I'll engage it is Honor Donohoe won't refuse to be sending +you a few ounces of tobacco an odd time, and neighbors coming to the +fair in November or in the month of May. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, what signifies tobacco? All that I am craving is +the talk. There to be no one at all to say out to whatever thought might +be rising in my innate mind! To be lying here and no conversible person +in it would be the abomination of misery! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Look now, Honor.... It is what I often heard said, two +to be better than one.... Sure if you had an old trouser was full of +holes ... or a skirt ... wouldn't you put another in under it that might +be as tattered as itself, and the two of them together would make some +sort of a decent show? + +MRS. DONOHOE. Ah, what are you saying? There is no holes in that suit I +brought you now, but as sound it is as the day I spun it for himself. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. It is what I am thinking, Honor.... I do be weak an odd +time.... Any load I would carry, it preys upon my side ... and this man +does be weak an odd time with the swelling in his knees ... but the two +of us together it's not likely it is at the one time we would fail. +Bring the both of us with you, Honor, and the height of the castle of +luck on you, and the both of us together will make one good hardy man! + +MRS. DONOHOE. I'd like my job! Is it queer in the head you are grown +asking me to bring in a stranger off the road? + +MICHAEL MISKELL. I am not, ma'am, but an old neighbor I am. If I had +forecasted this asking I would have asked it myself. Michael Miskell I +am, that was in the next house to you in Skehanagh! + +MRS. DONOHOE. For pity's sake! Michael Miskell is it? That's worse +again. Yourself and Mike that never left fighting and scolding and +attacking one another! Sparring at one another like two young pups you +were, and threatening one another after like two grown dogs! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. All the quarreling was ever in the place it was myself +did it. Sure his anger rises fast and goes away like the wind. Bring him +out with myself now, Honor Donohoe, and God bless you. + +MRS. DONOHOE. Well, then, I will not bring him out, and I will not bring +yourself out, and you not to learn better sense. Are you making yourself +ready to come? + +MIKE MCINERNEY. I am thinking, maybe ... it is a mean thing for a man +that is shivering into seventy years to go changing from place to place. + +MRS. DONOHOE. Well, take your luck or leave it. All I asked was to save +you from the hurt and the harm of the year. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Bring the both of us with you or I will not stir out of +this. + +MRS. DONOHOE. Give me back my fine suit so [_begins gathering up the +clothes_], till I go look for a man of my own! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Let you go so, as you are so unnatural and so +disobliging, and look for some man of your own, God help him! For I will +not go with you at all! + +MRS. DONOHOE. It is too much time I lost with you, and dark night +waiting to overtake me on the road. Let the two of you stop together, +and the back of my hand to you. It is I will leave you there the same as +God left the Jews! + + [_She goes out. The old men lie down and are silent for a moment._] + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Maybe the house is not so wide as what she says. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Why wouldn't it be wide? + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Ah, there does be a good deal of middling poor houses +down by the sea. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. What would you know about wide houses? Whatever sort of +a house you had yourself it was too wide for the provision you had into +it. + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Whatever provision I had in my house it was wholesome +provision and natural provision. Herself and her periwinkles! +Periwinkles is a hungry sort of food. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Stop your impudence and your chat or it will be the +worse for you. I'd bear with my own father and mother as long as any man +would, but if they'd vex me I would give them the length of a rope as +soon as another! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. I would never ask at all to go eating periwinkles. + +MIKE MCINERNEY [_sitting up_]. Have you any one to fight me? + +MICHAEL MISKELL [_whimpering_]. I have not, only the Lord! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Let you leave putting insults on me so, and death +picking at you! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Sure I am saying nothing at all to displease you. It is +why I wouldn't go eating periwinkles, I'm in dread I might swallow the +pin. + +MIKE MCINERNEY. Who in the world wide is asking you to eat them? You're +as tricky as a fish in the full tide! + +MICHAEL MISKELL. Tricky is it! Oh, my curse and the curse of the four +and twenty men upon you! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. That the worm may chew you from skin to marrow bone! +[_Seizes his pillow._] + +MICHAEL MISKELL [_seizing his own pillow_]. I'll leave my death on you, +you scheming vagabone! + +MIKE MCINERNEY. By cripes! I'll pull out your pin feathers! [_throwing +pillow_]. + +MICHAEL MISKELL [_throwing pillow_]. You tyrant! You big bully you! + +MIKE MCINERNEY [_throwing pillow and seizing mug_]. Take this so, you +stabbing ruffian you! + + [_They throw all within their reach at one another, mugs, prayer + books, pipes, etc._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +LOUISE + + A PLAY + + BY J. H. SPEENHOFF + TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH BY A. V. C. P. HUIZINGA AND PIERRE LOVING. + + + Acting rights reserved by Pierre Loving. + All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS + + LOUISE. + VAN DER ELST [_Notary_]. + VENNEMA [_Louise's Father_]. + SOPHIE [_Serving Maid_]. + + + Applications for permissions to produce LOUISE must be addressed to + Pierre Loving, 240 W. 4. + + + +LOUISE + +A PLAY BY J. H. SPEENHOFF + + + [SCENE: _A large fashionably appointed room with few decorations + on the walls. The latter are papered in yellow with large black + lilies. To the right, a tall broad window with heavy brown + curtains. To the left, an old gold harp with a little footstool. + Behind, to the right, a door with brown portieres, affording a + view of a vestibule and banister. To the left, down front, a broad + couch with black head cushions. Next to it the end of a heavy + broad oaken table, with the side turned toward the couch. Behind, + the back wall has an open chimney with carved wood and ornaments + on it. Beside the chimney, on both sides, are two large + comfortable chairs and two others by the table and window + respectively. On the table are the remains of breakfast: fruit + glasses and two empty champagne bottles_. + + _As the curtain rises Louise is discovered lying on the couch with + her feet extended toward the audience. She lies quietly and gazes + blankly in the distance. Closer scrutiny reveals that she is in + the last stage of intoxication. On the whole, it is rather a + lady-like inebriety and expresses itself now and again by way of a + heavy sigh, looseness of limb, a languid flutter of the eyelids + and a disposition to be humorous. It is about three in the + afternoon. As for the tone of the room, there are a lot of + yellows, blacks and browns; the light is quite subdued. Soon after + the rise of the curtain, Louise begins slowly and dreamily to hum + a melody. She stops for a while, gazes blankly around and starts + humming again. Then she raises herself, crosses her arms on the + tables and rests her head on them. Her hair is loosely + arranged--or disarranged. Her dressing gown is black and white._ + + _A bell is rung downstairs. Louise does not seem to hear it. + Another ting-a-ling. You can hear the maid going downstairs. The + door opens and shuts. Two pairs of feet are heard climbing the + stairs. The maid parts the portieres, shows Van der Elst in and + points Louise out to him, meanwhile remaining discreetly behind + the portieres._ + + _The truth is that Sophie is very much embarrassed. She looks as + if she has been called away from her proper duties. She is a + healthy maid, with tousled blond hair, cotton dress, blue apron, + maid's cap and is in her stocking feet. She goes toward Louise, + then stops confusedly at a little distance from her. She moves a + chair needlessly, in timid embarrassment, and wipes her lips with + her apron._] + + +SOPHIE. Here's a gentleman to see you--to see--you, madam. + + [_Louise doesn't hear._] + +SOPHIE [_approaches the end of table_]. A gentleman has come--come to +see--you. + +LOUISE [_raising herself on her elbows; with her head on her hands_]. +What are you doing? + +SOPHIE [_confusedly_]. I--madam? Why, nothing. But there's a gentleman +... you see.... + +LOUISE. A gentleman? Very well, you may go. [_She closes her eyes._] + +SOPHIE. But ... but ... he wishes to speak to you. A gray-haired +gentleman. He is standing by the portieres ... over there. [_Indicates +Van Elst._] + + [_Louise does not pay any attention to Sophie or Van Elst, but + composes herself for another nap on the couch._] + +SOPHIE. May he come in? [_A long pause._] May he...? [_Louise does not +answer. Sophie waits a bit, then she beckons Van Elst into the room._] +She won't answer, sir. Maybe you'd better come back in an hour or +so.... + +VAN ELST. Hm! No. That's impossible. [_Looks at Louise._] What's the +matter with madam? Is she asleep? + +SOPHIE. No ... you see ... she is, you know.... + +VAN ELST [_approaching_]. What? + +SOPHIE. She isn't well.... + +VAN ELST. Ah, not well? + +SOPHIE. Yes, from.... [_Hesitates._] + +VAN ELST [_spying the bottles on the table_]. Has madam consumed those? + +SOPHIE. Yes, yes. It's awful. [_Pause._] + +VAN ELST. Does this happen very often? + +SOPHIE. Yes. Oh, yes, quite often. + +VAN ELST. Indeed! + +SOPHIE. Hadn't you better go until ... for a while? + +VAN ELST. No, no. I shall.... + +SOPHIE. Very well, sir, you know best. [_Sophie goes out of the room on +tiptoe._] + + [_Now that Sophie is out of the room, one has an opportunity to + scrutinize Van Elst more closely. He is a prosperous-looking + country gentleman about fifty years old. He wears a shining + tophat, white vest with a gold chain across his stomach, + tight-fitting blue trousers, low shoes, white socks and a short + blue coat. He is clean-shaven and when he removes his hat, one + observes that his hair is close-cropped. His walking-stick, + contrary to expectations, is light and slim. He takes a chair near + the window, directly behind the harp, puts his hat, cane and + gloves beside him on the floor and looks around. He glances at + Louise, shakes his head solemnly, coughs, wipes his forehead, puts + his handkerchief carefully away, coughs again, moves his chair and + after some signs of nervousness, says_]: + +VAN ELST. Miss ... may I have a word with you? [_Louise doesn't hear._] + +VAN ELST [_with growing embarrassment_]. I ... I should like to speak to +you. + +LOUISE [_a little wildly_]. Are you there? + +VAN ELST [_taken aback_]. Yes ... no ... yes.... I.... Whom do you mean? + +LOUISE. Come here beside me. + +VAN ELST [_astonished_]. Certainly, but.... + +LOUISE [_sighing_]. Come ... come. + +VAN ELST. Aren't you making a mistake? I'm not.... + +LOUISE [_raising herself halfway, left elbow on table, head on hand, the +other arm outstretched on the table. She looks unseeingly at him_]. +Don't you want to? + +VAN ELST. But I'm not ... how shall I put it? I've come to speak with +you very seriously. + +LOUISE [_has seated herself in the middle of the couch. She extends her +arms with a smiling invitation_]. Don't you dare? + +VAN ELST [_very considerably embarrassed by this time. He coughs and +mops his face_]. It isn't quite necessary. We can talk this way. + +LOUISE [_smiling_]. I will come to you, you know. Ah, you don't +realize.... + +VAN ELST [_rising, disturbed_]. No. Please stay where you are. Don't +trouble yourself. I can hear you from where you are, and you can hear +me. + +LOUISE [_ignores his words completely, gets up dizzily and gropes with +the aid of the table toward the chair. She leans on the arm of the chair +and looks at Van Elst. She points out the small chair_]. Come here. + +VAN ELST [_after some deliberation, sits at her side_]. We had +better.... [_His voice dies in a mutter._] + +LOUISE [_insistent_]. No. Here at my side. Sit close to me, then I'll be +able to hear you better. + +VAN ELST [_pulling his chair closer_]. I don't see why.... + +LOUISE. Don't you think I'm very beautiful and wise? + +VAN ELST. I have very serious things to discuss with you. Will you +listen to me? [_He assumes an important pose._] + +LOUISE. Why do you take on such a severe tone? You must be more +gentle--very gentle. + +VAN ELST. Hm! Very well. First let me tell you who I am. My name is Van +der Elst. I'm the new attorney back home, and I am a friend of your +father's. + +LOUISE. Well? + +VAN ELST. I think a lot of your father. As you know, Mr. Degudo was your +father's lawyer; but he's gone away and I've taken his place. + +LOUISE. Why am I honored with these confidences? + +VAN ELST. You ought to know who I am. + +LOUISE. Well, what's your name? + +VAN ELST [_angrily_]. I told you that my name is Van der Elst, +attorney-at-law. + +LOUISE [_smiling vapidly_]. Have you any bonbons with you? + +VAN ELST. What sort of a question is that, madam? You're not listening +to me. [_He gets up angrily, about to collect his effects prior to +leaving._] + +LOUISE. Are you leaving me so soon? If I were you, I wouldn't leave. + + [_Van Elst walks back and forth in annoyance, muttering all the + while._] + +LOUISE. What are you muttering about? Come here and sit by my side. Last +week I received flowers from an old gentleman, an old gentleman. At +least that is what the girl said. He sent them for my shoulders, mind +you. You see, he had seen my shoulders. Please sit down. That's why he +sent me flowers--[_extending her hand_] and this ring came with them. +Look! [_Van der Elst has taken a seat. She thrusts her hand before his +face._] It's the thin one. + +VAN ELST. Madam, I didn't come for this frivolity. + +LOUISE. What would you give if you could kiss me? + + [_Van Elst coughs and fumbles with his handkerchief._] + +LOUISE. Do you know what I suspect? I suspect that you are the old +gentleman in question. + +VAN ELST [_getting up in high dudgeon_]. Madam, I consider that +accusation entirely improper, in view of the fact that I am a +respectable married man. I want you to know that I keep out of these +things. My reputation is above reproach. Do you intend to listen to me +or not? + +LOUISE. Don't shout so. + +VAN ELST. Do you talk this way always? You amaze me. + +LOUISE [_smiling_]. I suspect you are the gentleman with the pretty +touch about my shoulders. Well, sit down. Is he gone? Are you gone? + +VAN ELST [_stepping forwardly boldly_]. I am still here. This is +positively the last time I'll ask you to listen to me. I assure you, my +patience is nearly exhausted. Your father and mother, your family have +asked me to bring the following to your notice. Your present conduct has +caused a great scandal. You've left your family for a man who is too far +above you socially ever to make you his wife. Consequently, you have +become his mistress. + +LOUISE. Eh? + +VAN ELST. I'm not through yet. Your father and mother have requested me +to ask you to come back home. They await you with open arms. + +LOUISE. Don't be silly. Sit down. + +VAN ELST. Oh, it's useless. + +LOUISE [_incoherently_]. Will you promise to tell me? + +VAN ELST. I suppose I'll have to wait. [_He sits down in utter +despair._] + +LOUISE [_goes up to him unsteadily, groping for the arm of the chair. +With a laugh_]. Tell me, which one was it. This shoulder or this one? +Ah, aren't you clever! You're the old gentleman, aren't you, you old +duck? + +VAN ELST. A useless commission. Poor parents! + +LOUISE. What's that? The joke's on me. + +VAN ELST. Next she'll ask me to dance with her, I suppose. + +LOUISE. Dance? No dancing. Don't get up. You needn't get up. I don't +mean it ... really, I don't. + + [_Louise sits in front of the harp and runs her fingers idly over + the strings. Then slowly, she plays the same melody she hummed + previously. She hums it again dreamily. The music grows softer and + softer. She sighs, stops playing, her head drops to her hands and + she falls limply to the floor._] + +VAN ELST. Good God, what's this? It wasn't my fault. I suppose I was +cruel to her. [_Walks excitedly back and forth. Sophie enters._] + +SOPHIE. What's the matter? + +VAN ELST. Look at your mistress. I can't make out what's wrong with her. + +SOPHIE. Oh, that's nothing. It happens every day. Just a fainting fit. + +VAN ELST. What a life! What a life! Why don't you do something? She +can't be allowed to lie there that way. + +SOPHIE. Just a minute. [_She seizes Louise by the waist and lifts her +from the floor. Van Elst assists her._] + +SOPHIE. Nothing to worry about [_arranging Louise's clothes_]. Now you +lie here and you'll be quite all right in a very short while. She gets +that way quite frequently. + +VAN ELST [_sinks into a chair_]. This is frightful. + +SOPHIE [_confidentially_]. Madam drinks heavily in the afternoons and in +the evening, too, when the master is here. Yes, and then they sing +together and madam plays on that thing there. [_Points to the harp._] +It's very nice sometimes. + +VAN ELST. Who is the master? + +SOPHIE. I don't know, sir. But that's what I've been told to call him. + +VAN ELST. Are they happy together? Or do they sometimes quarrel? + +SOPHIE. I don't know. I don't think so, for he's very good and likes her +very much. + +VAN ELST. Madam never weeps or is sad? I ask these questions for madam's +sake. + +SOPHIE. Oh, yes, she weeps sometimes. But it's mostly when she hasn't +had a drink and feels out of sorts. But it's soon cured when I fetch the +wine. + +VAN ELST. Then she occasionally thinks of her home. That may help us. + +SOPHIE. May I suggest something, sir? [_She busies herself clearing off +the table._] If I were you, I should go away quietly. + +VAN ELST. Go away? + +SOPHIE. For madam can't bear men folks around her when she sobers up. If +I were you, I'd go away. + +VAN ELST. No, I'll stay. If she's sober after a while, perhaps she'll be +able to talk to me coherently. + +SOPHIE. You must know best. But I warn you, madam can't bear to have +anybody else with her. + +VAN ELST. What! Do you think I came for that purpose? + +SOPHIE. Of course. You're not trying to tell me that you came to read +the newspaper with her. + +VAN ELST. You keep your mouth shut. I've come to ask madam to return to +her parents. + +SOPHIE. Oh, that's it, is it? You're from the family. I see. Of course +... but she won't go with you. + +LOUISE [_dreaming aloud_]. William, William! He's bolting. Help! Help! +Oh, the brown mare! Look! [_Sighs._] + +SOPHIE. She's delirious again. She goes on like that a lot. She was in a +carriage with the master the other day, when the horse bolted. That's +what she always dreams about these days. + +LOUISE. Ah, wait. I left my earrings at the doctor's. Mother, mother, I +love you so. [_She sighs heavily. A ring is heard below._] + +VAN ELST. Ah, that's Mr. Vennema. Open the door for him. It's her +father. + +SOPHIE. Ought I let him in? He mustn't see her in that condition. + +VAN ELST. Please open the door. + +SOPHIE. Oh, all right. [_She goes out._] + + [_Van der Elst listens._] + +LOUISE. Hopla, hopla, hopla.... + + [_Vennema and Sophie mount the stairs._] + +SOPHIE [_to Vennema behind the portieres_]. Come this way, sir. You may +come in. + + [_Vennema comes in hesitating and stops at the door. He is a + kindly country parson type, wholly gray, with a gray beard and + mustache. He is wearing an ecclesiastical hat, a black coat and + black trousers. He gazes about anxiously and finally his eyes + light on Van der Elst. Van der Elst beckons to Vennema and + indicates Louise on the couch. Sophie goes out._] + +VAN ELST. There she is. + +VENNEMA. Is she ill? + +VAN ELST. No, that isn't it. She's dreaming. She's very nervous. She was +quite agitated a moment ago. + +VENNEMA. What did she say? + +VAN ELST. She wouldn't listen to me. She insisted on speaking of other +things. As a matter of fact; she acted very queerly. + +LOUISE. First prize ... splendid. + +VENNEMA. What's the matter with her? + +VAN ELST. I don't know. Nerves perhaps. + +VENNEMA. Has she had a fainting spell? + +VAN ELST. Don't worry about it. She'll be better in a little while. + +VENNEMA [_noticing the bottles_]. Is she...? + +VAN ELST. I don't know. + +VENNEMA. Couldn't you tell? You may tell me. + +VAN ELST. Yes; I think a little. + +VENNEMA. That hurts. I never thought she would allow herself to get into +such a state. Has she been this way for a long time? + +VAN ELST. About ten minutes, I should say. But she'll be quite all right +in a little while. + +VENNEMA. I can't help being distressed over it. That she should have +descended to this! + +VAN ELST. Do you know what the maid told me? She said that they are +happy together, and that he is truly in love with her. + +VENNEMA. Yes. But why did he allow her to go this far? + +VAN ELST. She won't see anybody. + +VENNEMA. Not even me? Her father? + +VAN ELST. Perhaps you. + +VENNEMA. What do you think? Will she come home with us? Have you found +out? + +VAN ELST. She didn't pay any attention to me. She didn't quite +understand my mission. I don't know. Perhaps you had better speak to +her. + +LOUISE [_calling_]. I.... Oh.... Help! [_She sits up in the middle of +the couch, with her hands to her face. She droops and seems to fall +asleep in a sitting posture._] + +VENNEMA. Is she...? + +VAN ELST. Yes, she's coming to. + +LOUISE [_wakes with a start_]. Bah! [_She looks around, does not +recognize Van der Elst and Vennema. Then, peering closer, she registers +surprise, sudden fright and finally anger. Van der Elst is about to +speak, but she interrupts him._] + +LOUISE. Who are you? [_Coughs._] Who are you and what is your business +here? Go away.... Go away. + +VAN ELST. Madam.... I.... + +VENNEMA. Let me speak. [_He goes toward Louise._] Louise ... it is I. +Don't you recognize me? [_After a pause._] Louise! + +LOUISE [_after a pause_]. Father! + +VENNEMA. Aren't you glad to see your father? + +LOUISE [_in a low tone of voice_]. Oh, father. + +VENNEMA. You are not ill, my child? + +LOUISE. No. Why have you come? + +VENNEMA. I wanted to speak to you. + +LOUISE. Why did you come? Why? + +VENNEMA [_seating himself beside Louise on the couch_]. Listen to me, my +dear. + +LOUISE. Yes. + +VENNEMA. I came to find out whether you are happy or not. + +LOUISE. I don't know. Happy ... that's a strange word. + +VENNEMA. Why strange? Are you happier here than--with us. + +LOUISE [_leaning forward on her hands_]. Than with you? [_Looking up._] +I prefer to be here. + +VENNEMA. Don't you miss us all, just the least little bit? + +LOUISE. Sometimes, when I'm alone. All the same, I'd rather be here. + +VENNEMA. Aren't you deluding yourself? Wasn't your life with us at home +better? + +LOUISE. Better? What do you mean, better? + +VENNEMA. You know what I mean. Don't you regret running off with ... him +... and spreading sorrow in our hearts? + +LOUISE. I loved him. And then I yearned for freedom, for the pleasures +of life and travel. At home everything was so dull and monotonous. I +couldn't stand the smug people at home. Their life is one round of lying +and gossiping, of scolding and backbiting. + +VENNEMA. But what of this sort of existence? You don't quite appreciate +the damage you have done. How you have stained the fair reputation of +your parents. I wonder whether that has ever occurred to you? You say +that you do not like the people who are our neighbors back home, but it +is these very people who make and unmake reputations. We must live with +them. Can't you realize that? + +LOUISE. Father, I'm sorry, but I couldn't go back to them. The +commonplace tattlers with their humdrum, uneventful lives scarcely exist +for me. + +VENNEMA. They don't exist for you, you say. But, remember, that they +despise you. They and their contempt do not reach you, but they reach +us. + +LOUISE [_almost inaudibly_]. Yes. + +VENNEMA. But your future? Have you thought of that? What will it be? +Wretchedness and contempt. When I came in and saw you stretched out in +that condition, I.... + +LOUISE. Father, I want to forget. I don't want to think of the past. + +VENNEMA. In order not to think of the past, you resort to drink? + +LOUISE. Sometimes it is hard to forget. + +VENNEMA. Tell me, Louise: does he love you, and do you love him? And +even if this be true, will he continue to love you always? Won't the +time come when he will grow indifferent to you? + +LOUISE [_getting up_]. Never ... never. Not he. You don't believe that +such a thing is impossible? He cannot forget me. I have given him +everything ... my love, myself ... all that is truly myself. + +VENNEMA. Aren't you a little too optimistic? + +LOUISE. Not when it concerns him. He knows what I have sacrificed. He +knows what I have given him. There is no room for doubt, father. + +VENNEMA. Very well, we will not speak of it again. But how about us, +Louise? Don't you ever think of us? Don't you ever long to come back to +us, to the old home where you were born? Wouldn't you like to see it +again? + +LOUISE [_sadly_]. Yes. + +VENNEMA [_anxious and excited_]. Then come back with me. Come back to +us. You know my motive for coming. Won't you come back home with me? +Everything is in perfect readiness for you: your little room, the +flowers, the trees ... everything. Louise.... + +LOUISE. Father, that can never be. Never. + +VENNEMA. Why not? We have arranged everything. Nothing will be lacking +for your welcome, your comfort. + +LOUISE. Why should I bring misfortune to you? It would simply add to +your unhappiness. Isn't it better now that I am away from home? Later +on, perhaps. + +VENNEMA. Later on? Did it ever occur to you that there may be no later +on? You may not find us then. We are getting old, your mother and I. + +LOUISE. Don't, please! + +VENNEMA. Come, Louise. Come. Think of the happiness. + +LOUISE. How about the townfolks? Would they accept me again, do you +think? + +VENNEMA. Don't think of them. Those who are sincerely friendly to us, +will continue to be so. The rest don't count. Ah, if we only could have +you back, my child! + +LOUISE [_after a pause_]. Father, I cannot go back. Don't you see that +it is utterly impossible? I am changed now. And then I am not strong +enough. Life is so long and I cannot bear to face it alone. + +VENNEMA. But you will have us. You belong to us, and your place, if you +have a place in the world, is with your mother and father. Your old home +is waiting for you with welcoming arms. Summer is coming and you know +how splendid the garden and the orchard are when the lilac trees are in +bloom. Do you remember the little tree you planted once? Doesn't your +heart yearn to see the little flowers that have sprouted on its +branches? Everything is just waiting for you to come home. + +LOUISE [_dreamily_]. Everything.... + +VENNEMA. You will come, won't you? + +LOUISE. I cannot. I simply cannot. It is your happiness that I am +thinking of. The intrusion of my life would spoil everything. Everybody +will blame you. + +VENNEMA. My child, I have long ago put behind me what the world says. + +LOUISE [_suddenly_]. And William? What about William? What about him +when I go back? No, I can't do it. I cannot leave him. + +VENNEMA. What about your mother, Louise? She is waiting for you. She +will be at the window to-night, waiting and peering out. Your chair is +ready for you and she herself will open the door to greet you, to take +you to her heart again. Do you know, Louise, she has been getting very +gray of late. Come. + +LOUISE. Mother isn't ill? + +VENNEMA. Your mother wants to see you before she.... + +LOUISE [_rising to her feet_]. I ... I will do it. + +VENNEMA. Thank you, my child. [_He embraces her_]. We shall go at once. + +LOUISE. Ring for Sophie, please. Yes, we will go at once. [_Close to +him._] Mother is not seriously ill? + +VENNEMA. I am sure, your return will be her cure. + +VAN ELST [_who has listened attentively throughout the whole +conversation_]. Madam, permit me also to thank you for this resolve to +return home. You are going to make many hearts joyful because of your +decision. + +LOUISE. I hope so. + +SOPHIE [_enters_]. Is there anything you wish, madam? + +LOUISE. Pack my traveling bag. Get my black hat and gray coat. I am +leaving at once. + +SOPHIE. Very well, madam, but.... + +LOUISE. Lose no time about it. I'm in a hurry. + +SOPHIE. A lady called to see, madam, and I told her you were engaged. + +LOUISE. What did she want? Did she say? + +SOPHIE. She said she would come back. She insisted on speaking with you. + +LOUISE. Do you know the lady? + +SOPHIE. Yes ... no. That is, I don't know. I believe I've seen her +before. + +LOUISE. Didn't she say what her errand was? + +SOPHIE. No, madam, but she said she would come back soon. + +LOUISE. When she comes, show her into the drawing room. + +SOPHIE. Yes, madam. + +LOUISE. Have everything ready at once. + +SOPHIE. Yes, madam. [_She goes out._] + +LOUISE. You will excuse me. I must change my clothes. I shall put my old +ones on. You see, I kept them. Then I must write to him. I must tell him +why I am going away. [_She goes out by the side door._] + +VENNEMA. I feel as if I have never been as happy as this before. + +VAN ELST. It will help your wife to get well. She hasn't been very well +these last few weeks. + +VENNEMA. Yes, I know it will do her heaps of good. I am quite happy. + +VAN ELST. Don't excite your wife unnecessarily to-night. Any shock may +be too much for her. + +VENNEMA. Yes, we will postpone our rejoicing until to-morrow. You must +come to-morrow, but alone. Bring your wife Sunday evening. The process +of acclamation will be slow, of course. There is a train about six, I +believe. + +VAN ELST. Yes, at five forty-five. We have an hour yet. + +VENNEMA. The sooner the better. She must have a change at first. I +thought it mightn't be a bad idea if we paid my brother a visit at +Frezier. It might do her a lot of good. Yes, I think what she needs is a +change of scene. + +VAN ELST. If I were you I would stay home the first week. + +VENNEMA. We'll attend to that later. It is terrible when you think of +the condition she was in when we arrived. + +VAN ELST. The maid said that it happened quite often, too. + +VENNEMA. What do you think he will do when he learns that she is gone? + +VAN ELST. If he is anything of a man, if he is a man of honor, then he +will stay away. If not, there is the law. But I believe it can be +arranged although she loves him very much. + +VENNEMA. Let's not speak of it any more. She will change slowly, and so +the past will be forgotten. + +SOPHIE [_enters with a traveling bag_]. Oh, isn't Madam here? + +VENNEMA. She will be back very shortly. + +SOPHIE. Here's the bag. Everything is ready. [_Puts Louise's things on +the table._] + +LOUISE [_enters very simply dressed with a letter in her hand_]. Here I +am. [_To Sophie._] Have you packed everything? + +SOPHIE. Yes, everything is ready. + +LOUISE. Help me then. + + [_Sophie helps Louise with her coat._] + +LOUISE. Mail this letter for me. [_The bell rings downstairs._] Go and +see who it is. I am not at home to anybody now. + +SOPHIE. It may be the lady who was here before. + +LOUISE. Heavens, I had almost forgotten her. If it's the lady-- + +SOPHIE. Yes? + +LOUISE. See who it is. + +SOPHIE [_going_]. Yes, madam. + +VENNEMA. What is it, Louise? What does the lady wish? + +LOUISE. Nothing, father [_with a forced laugh_]. Nothing at all. + +VENNEMA. Must you see her? Can't you say that you are about to go away +on a trip and that you cannot see her? Say that, and let us go. + +LOUISE. Oh, it's nothing. I will just speak to her, and then we will go +at once. [_She laughs again in a forced manner._] + +VENNEMA. But why are you so excited? + +SOPHIE [_entering_]. Madam, the lady has gone away. She left this. [_She +extends a visiting card._] But-- + +LOUISE. What is it, Sophie? + +SOPHIE. She told me to tell you that you must think of the bay mare. +Here is her card. + +LOUISE [_excitedly_]. Oh, a card [_tries to restrain herself_]. Give it +to me. + +SOPHIE. Then she said nothing about Elsa and the race. + + [_Louise takes the card and goes a little to the side._] + +VENNEMA. What's the matter, Louise? What ails you? + +LOUISE [_deeply affected_]. Father, father! [_She looks from the card to +her father with tears in her eyes; then she goes mutely toward the +couch, sits down, and stares blankly in front of her._] + +LOUISE [_sobbing_]. I can't do it! + +VENNEMA [_takes the visiting card from her hands_]. Must you pay all +that? Have you lost all that money? + +LOUISE. Yes. + +VENNEMA. Through gambling? + +LOUISE. Yes. + +VENNEMA. Good God! Gambling, too? And to-night you must pay all that +money. + +SOPHIE [_entering excitedly with a small bunch of flowers_]. Madam, +Madam. + +LOUISE [_looks up slowly and sees the flowers_]. What is it? + +SOPHIE. These are the compliments of Mr. De Brandeis. + +LOUISE. Mr. De Brandeis? + +SOPHIE. The gentleman is waiting below in a carriage. + +VENNEMA. Tell that gentleman to go away. + +LOUISE. It was too beautiful, too good to be true. Now it will never be. + +VENNEMA. Why not? I shall give you the money. + +LOUISE. Father, I tell you it can never be. + +VENNEMA. What do you mean? What are you going to do, Louise? + +LOUISE. Father, I can't go back home with you. [_To Sophie._] Take the +flowers and tell Mr. De Brandeis that--that-- + + [_Vennema sinks into a chair. Sophie stands at the door with the + flowers. Van der Elst stands listening anxiously._] + +LOUISE [_with a sob in her throat_]. Tell him, that I am going to stand +by him. + + [_She stands looking at the door, twitching her handkerchief + nervously._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE GRANDMOTHER + + A PLAY + BY LAJOS BIRO + + + Authorized Translation by Charles Recht. + Copyright, 1920, by Charles Recht. + All rights reserved. + + + CHARACTERS + + THE GRANDMOTHER. + HER GRANDCHILDREN: + THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. + THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. + THE BRIDE. + THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. + THE MELANCHOLY GIRL. + THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. + THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. + THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. + THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. + + + All rights reserved by Charles Recht and John Biro, 47 West 42nd + Street, New York. Applications for permission to produce THE + GRANDMOTHER must be made to Mr. Charles Recht. + + + +THE GRANDMOTHER + +A PLAY BY LAJOS BIRO + + + [_There is only this notable thing to be said about + Grandmother--her hair is snow white, her cheeks rosy and her eyes + violet blue. She is the most youthful and enthusiastic, best and + most cordial grandmother ever beloved by her grandchildren._ + + _The scene opens on a broad, sunny terrace furnished with garden + furniture, chairs, small tables and chaises longues. Back of the + terrace is the beautiful summer residence of Grandpa. Behind it is + a large English garden in its lenten blossoms. The Disagreeable + Young Man enters; yawns; stretches discontentedly; slouches here + and there; picks up a volume from the table, then falls into a + couch at right and, lighting a cigarette, begins to read. The + other grandchildren enter in groups of two and three and seat + themselves._] + + +THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. My word, children, I am too full for utterance. +What a spread! Now for a good cigar and a soft chair and I am as rich as +a king. + +THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. We are having such charming weather. Is not this +park like a paradise? + +THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. How did you like the after-dinner speeches? + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Uncle Heinrich was splendid. [_There is great +laughter._] + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Uncle Heinrich was never strong in speechmaking, +but in the beginning even Demosthenes stuttered. + +THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. The trouble is that Uncle Heinrich stopped where +Demosthenes began. Besides a manufacturer has no time to parade on the +sea shore with pebbles under his tongue. + + [_There is more laughter._] + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Children, who wants a cigarette? + +THE BLOND AND BRUNETTE YOUNG LADIES. I! + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN [_handing them cigarettes and lighting a match for +them. He speaks to the Bride_]. Aren't you going to smoke? + +BRIDE. No, I thank you. + +THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. Lord, no! She must not! The noble bride must not +permit tobacco smoke to contaminate her rosy lips. [_They all laugh._] + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. May I have a cigarette, too? + +THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. You be careful or the same misfortune may happen +to you at any minute that happened to Lucy [_pointing to the Bride, he +hands the Vivacious Girl a cigarette._] + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. If my bridegroom shall object to tobacco smoke, he +can pack his things and--off. + +THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Well, young people, what are we going to do +next? + +THE MELANCHOLY YOUNG LADY. Let's remain here. The park looks so +beautiful. + +THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Oh, I object. We'll remain here until the sun goes +down a little and then we'll play tennis. [_They agree._] + +THE MELANCHOLY YOUNG LADY. Can't we remain here? Let us enjoy the spring +in the garden. + +THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. Let's play tennis. A little exercise is the best +cure for romance. And you can enjoy your spring out there as well--you +dreamer. [_They laugh._] + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. You are as loud as the besiegers of Jericho +in your planning. + +THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. Behold! He speaketh. [_They laugh._] + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. You are so overbearing in your +jollifications that it is positively disgusting. For the past hour you +have been giggling away without the slightest reason. You have so much +leisure you do not know what to do with yourselves. + +THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Curt, must you always be the killjoy in a +party! + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. If you would at least take yourselves off +from here. + +THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. But admit that to-day there is reason enough +for every kind of jollity. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Is there, indeed? You have finished a costly +banquet and now are enjoying a good digestion. You are young and have a +healthy animal appetite; but why deck sentimentalism on your horns? + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Your pardon! Do you suppose that all a person gets +out of this remarkable occasion is a good dinner? Have you no +appreciation? Do you realize what this day means to all of us? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Very well, my boy. Now tell me why you are +so over-filled with joy? + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Yes, I will. I am glad that I can celebrate the +golden wedding of my grandfather. I am glad that just thirty years ago +to-day grandfather founded his factory. I am glad because of our large +and happy family and that so many lovely and good and happy people have +come here to celebrate this remarkable event; all of them good and +prosperous. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Prosperous! + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Yes, I rejoice at their prosperity. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. The laborers down there in the foundry, +however, are not as over-joyed at this prosperity as you are. For this +prosperity of yours they have been starving these past thirty years. + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Grandfather was always good to his employees. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Indeed! Our grandfather has managed by hook +or by crook to amass an enormous fortune and you are glad that his +fortune is now made and you do not have to resort to questionable means. + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN [_hurt_]. Questionable means? You do not intend to +assert that our grandpapa.... + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I assert nothing. But mark you this. There +is only one honest way to gain a large fortune: inheriting it. You +cannot earn it without resorting to questionable means. + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Shame! to say a thing like that! + +THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Shame to say that of grandfather. + + [_All of them are upset and disturbed. Grandmother appears on the + balcony._] + +GRANDMOTHER. Why, children, what is it? What's wrong? + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Why, grandma, just think of it! Curt +said that grandpa made his fortune by questionable means. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I did not say exactly that-- + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Yes, you did. + +THE OTHERS [_chiming in_]. You said that. Yes, you said that. + +GRANDMOTHER [_as energetically as possible for her_]. I think you are in +error, Curt. In the entire fortune of your grandpa there is not a single +copper that was not earned by him in the most honest way. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But look, grandma,--what I said +was--generally in those cases no one-- + +GRANDMOTHER [_hurt_]. When I tell you this, boy, it _is so_. When I tell +you anything, my child, you should never doubt it. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes, grandma, you are quite right. But I +maintain that human learning and experience have proved-- + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Why don't you stop? Do you perhaps want to insult +grandma? You are taking too great an advantage of our good nature--I'll +tell you that! + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. If you folks had any sense-- + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Don't you know enough.... + +THE OTHER GRANDCHILDREN. ... to shut up. [_Attacks him._] Indeed. He's +right. Stop--shut up! + + [_The Disagreeable Young Man, in spite of this scene, wants to + continue, but the protests of the others drown his voice. He casts + a contemptuous look at them, shrugs his shoulders, throws himself + on the sofa and begins to read._] + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Now don't trouble yourself about him any longer, +grandma dear. Here, rest yourself nicely in this chair among us. + +THE JOVIAL YOUNG MAN. There, grandma! The old folks are there at table. +We young people are here in the fresh air. We lacked only the youngest +one of us all. And here you are. + + [_There is a glad assent as the Grandmother sits down._] + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Are you quite comfortable, grandma dear? Would you +like something to rest your feet on? + +GRANDMOTHER. Thanks, my child, I am quite all right, and I am very +happy. + +THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Yes, grandma, you ought to feel happy. + +THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. How young you look, and how lovely and rosy! + +THE BRIDE. Grandma? + +GRANDMOTHER. What is it, my angel? + +THE BRIDE. Tell me, how does a woman manage so that she is admired by +her husband for full fifty years, as you are by grandfather? + +THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. Yes, how did you manage that? + +GRANDMOTHER. You will all be loved and admired after fifty years as I +have been. A person must be good. We must love each other. + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. But, grandmother, is it not wonderful at seventy +and seventy-five to love so beautifully and purely as you and +grandfather have loved? + +GRANDMOTHER. You must always be good and patient with each other, and +brave. Never lose courage. + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. But look, grandma, not even I could be as brave as +you have been. And no one can ever say that I lose courage. [_They all +laugh._] I still shudder when I think how in those days in March of +Forty-eight you had to run away! Or in the Sixties when the city was +bombarded, you with my mamma and Aunt Olga escaped from the burning +house.... + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. How interesting that was! Tell us +another story, grandma. [_There is loud assent._] Yes, yes, grandma +shall tell us another story! + +GRANDMOTHER. But I have already told you so much. You heard all our +history. + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Not I, grandma; I have not heard the +story of when you got lost in the _Friedrichsrode_ forest. + +GRANDMOTHER. That story I have told you so often, children. Ask your +mother about it; she'll tell you. + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma, I haven't heard it, either. Just +tell us that one and we'll go to play tennis. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. If you'll pardon me, grandma, I believe you +ought to tell us a different incident to-day. I've heard that history so +often. Tell us something contemporaneous. Tell us about the first sewing +machine, or the first railroad, or about crinolines or contemporary +theater or art. + +THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. No. Tell us about the woods. + +THE OTHERS. Yes, yes, that's right,--the story of how you got lost. + + [_The Disagreeable Young Man shrugs his shoulder and buries his + head in his book. Grandmother begins to narrate, and the circle of + her admiring and attentive audience grows narrower._] + +GRANDMOTHER. Well, my children, it happened in the year eighteen hundred +and forty, a year after grandfather was almost shot by error. In those +days the happenings took us quite far away from here to +_Friedrichsrode_, my dears, where you have never been. Your grandfather +had a small estate there, and that's how we made our livelihood. We +always wished and prayed to get the management of the large estate of +the Count of Schwanhausen. But we lived there humbly in the little +house. + +THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Was my mamma home then? + +GRANDMOTHER. No, she was not in this world yet. But a year later she was +born. So your grandfather and I lived then in this little red-roofed +house. Your grandfather used to be busy with the land the entire day. +Those days I was taking on weight, and to reduce I would take long +walks through the country. One day in October--in the afternoon--it was +beautiful sunny autumn weather--as usual I went again on my long walk. +The country there is very beautiful--all hills--covered with dense +forests. This afternoon my way led into the famous forest of +_Friedrichsrode_. When there I kept on walking--here and there I would +stop to pick a flower. + +THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. Don't forget, grandma, that it was quite late when +you left your house. + +GRANDMOTHER. You are correct, my dear. After our dinner I had some +things to attend to in the house and that is why I started that day +later than usual. I was walking through the forest, going in deeper and +deeper and suddenly I began to realize that it was getting dark. It was +in the autumn and the days were getting short. When I saw how dark it +was I turned homeward. But in the meanwhile evening came sooner than I +counted, and suddenly it got dark altogether. Now, thought I, I must +hustle. I hurried, as well as I could, but as much as I hurried I did +not get home. Had I gone home the right way I would have reached it +then, and so it dawned on me that I had lost my way. + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Great Heavens.... + +GRANDMOTHER. Indeed, my child, I was really lost in the woods and in the +_Friedrichsrode_ forest, besides. What that meant you cannot now +realize. Since that time these woods have been considerably cleared. +Then also we live in a different world to-day. But in those days +_Friedrichsrode_ forest was a very, very dismal place. It spread away +into the outskirts of the Harz Mountains and was a wild, primaeval, +godforsaken forest where highway robbers were hiding. And in the winter +it was full of the wolves from the mountains. + + [_There is a short pause._] + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. And what did you do, grandmother? + +GRANDMOTHER. Really, my child, a great anxiety came upon me. I stood +still and tried to fix my direction. Then I turned to a path which I +figured ought to lead me home. After I walked a half hour, however, I +found that the forest instead of getting lighter was getting thicker and +thicker. Three or four times I changed the direction, but no matter what +I did I was walking deeper and deeper into the dark woods. Although the +moon was shining then, the branches of the trees were so thick that I +could see but little. And that which I saw only frightened me all the +more. Every tree stump, every overhanging bough excited my fear. My feet +were continuously caught in the roots of big trees and the undergrowth +tore my bleeding face and feet; and it was getting cold. I felt frozen. +And dismally quiet, terribly dark was the night in the forest. + + [_There is a pause and suspense._] + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Good heavens, how perfectly terrible! + +GRANDMOTHER. Then I collected all my wits. I said to myself, if I keep +on walking I will lose my way all the more. I ought to remain where I am +and wait. When grandfather arrives at home and misses me he will start a +search with all the help and people. They will go into the woods with +torchlights--and then I will see the lights from the distance and hear +them call--and in that way I can get home. + +THE MELANCHOLY GIRL. How clever of our grandma! + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. And how brave! + +GRANDMOTHER. After I figured it out that way I looked about for a +sheltered nook. In between two great big tree trunks there was a cave, +like a little house, a place all filled with soft moss. A pleasant +camping place. I fell into this and prepared myself for a long wait. I +waited and waited. The night peopled the woods with every kind of sound. +There was whistling, whispering, humming, blowing, screeching and once +from a distance a long-drawn deep howling. This, undoubtedly, was the +wolves. + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL [_frightened_]. Merciful God! + +GRANDMOTHER. Then even I lost my courage. I wanted to run, run as long +as my legs would carry me. But I realized that the wiser thing was to be +brave and to remain. So I set my teeth and kept on waiting. And then +gradually the howling ceased. So, I sat there on this moss bank gazing +before me and thought of many things. Suddenly I heard a noise. I +straightened up and listened. It was a breaking sound and a rustle as +though some one were brushing aside the underbrush.... The noise was +getting nearer and nearer. + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Oh! + +GRANDMOTHER. I was all ears. I could clearly distinguish now that the +sound was the footstep of a human being. Frightened, I started through +the darkness and in the dull moonlight I saw that actually a man was +wading through the thick underbrush. What was I to do? I pressed against +the tree trunk and my fast and loud-beating heart seemed to be in my +throat. The man was coming directly toward me. When he was about three +paces away from me and I could distinguish his features, I felt like +fainting. It was "Red Mike," a very dangerous fellow from our +neighborhood; every one knew that he was a robber. Later on he was +imprisoned for murder, but he escaped from the prison. Now he was +there.... What should I do? + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL [_breathlessly_]. What did you do, grandma? + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. Great heavens! + +GRANDMOTHER. Frenzied, I pressed against the tree trunk. I wanted to +hide, but the robber came directly toward me. It was as though he could +see me even in this darkness and behind the tree trunk. Later on when he +was caught, I found out, that he had prepared this very place for his +night's resting place. He had brought all this soft moss there. Of +course, I did not know that he just came there to rest himself. All I +saw was that he was making directly for me. Then such a great fear +seized me that instead of pressing against the tree and letting him go +past me I shrieked just as he came within reaching distance and began to +run away. + + [_There is a pause and feverish suspense._] + +THE MELANCHOLY YOUNG LADY. And what did the robber do? + +GRANDMOTHER. My sudden outcry and quick dash and flight scared him for +the moment, but as soon as I appeared in the moonlight, he saw that it +was only a woman who had frightened him. He hesitated about a half a +minute and then started to pursue me. I flew. I was young then and I +could run fast. But it was dark and I did not know my way. As I pressed +forward I ran into a low branch and tore my cheek so that it bled. My +skirt was torn into shreds. Suddenly I stumbled and fell to the ground. +I hurt myself quite painfully, but in spite of that I rose quickly again +and commenced to run. And the robber after me all the time. I could +always hear his footsteps in my wake. My legs were about to give up +under me when I got an idea to hide behind a stout tree trunk. But the +robber began to look through the underbrush in the spot where he last +saw me and he finally found me. He came near me. + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. How terrible! + +GRANDMOTHER. With one single leap I jumped aside and started to run +again. Once more I fell down and again I rose. Aimlessly I ran wildly +over roots and stones and the robber kept right on after me.... And the +distance between me and my pursuer was getting smaller and smaller. Then +all of a sudden I heard the sound of his footsteps close to me--to +escape him I tried to dash away to the side of him but with a sudden +leap he was by my side. Grabbing me by my shoulder he threw me on the +ground and I fell upon my back. He had run so fast that he dashed a +couple of paces past me. He turned about.... And then I saw that he had +a long knife in his hand. + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL [_horrified_]. Merciful heaven! + +GRANDMOTHER. I could not budge.... And unspeakable fear seized me.... +Then I uttered a piercing shriek.... The robber approached me.... I +cried out.... + + [_There is a pause._] + +THE MELANCHOLY GIRL. Then, then-- + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Well, what then? What? + +GRANDMOTHER. I cried out like an insane person.... Now the robber was +near me.... He bent over me.... Suddenly a voice sounded,--"_who is +crying here?_" the voice seemed to be near--the footsteps were +audible--"who's crying here?" it asked the second time.... The branches +parted and a man in a hunting habit with a gun in his hand appeared. The +robber took to his heels and flew into the woods. The hunter now came +near me and called to a second man who followed. They helped me to rise +and they carried me over to a small clearing. There I saw a light buggy +into which they lifted me. Soon they fetched the horses and in a half +hour I was in the Schwanhausen castle sipping hot brandy which they had +prepared for me. The man in the hunting habit was the Count of +Schwanhausen, who had been hunting in the woods. + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL. How interesting! + +GRANDMOTHER. In the castle I quite recovered. Then the Count ordered +another carriage to drive me home and at six in the morning I landed +safely in our house. Your grandpa was sick with worry.... He and his +people had searched for me in the woods for hours. And that's how I was +almost lost. A few days later grandpa went to thank the Count for my +rescue. The Count took a liking to him. + +THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. That was the old Count? + +GRANDMOTHER. Yes, it was the old Count. The benefactor of all of us. +Grandfather thanked him courteously for my rescue. The Count took a +liking to him and soon after that grandfather got the management of the +entire Schwanhausen estate, which proved the cornerstone of his good +fortune. And that, my dears, is the story of my night wander in the +forest of _Friedrichsrode_. + + [_Amid general approval, Grandma is surrounded. Everybody is + indebted to her. They all speak at once, except the The + Disagreeable Young Man._] + +"We thank you cordially." + +"It was wonderful, grandma, dear." + +"Interesting." + +"Beautiful." + +THE VIVACIOUS GIRL. Grandma is a story-telling genius! + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. A most wonderful one! + +GRANDMOTHER. Very well, my dears, but now run along to your tennis game. +I'll come over later to watch on. [_They all agree._] + +THE POLITE YOUNG MAN. Three cheers for our very dear beloved charming +grandma. + + [_They all cheer three times, then they surround her, kiss her + cheeks and head and stroke her hair._] + +THE BLOND YOUNG LADY. _Adieu_--old sweetheart. + +THE BRUNETTE YOUNG LADY. _Auf wiedersehen_--precious grandma! + +THE SENTIMENTAL HIGH SCHOOL GIRL [_inspired_]. Grandma...! [_She rushes +over to her and covers her with kisses._] + + [_Grandma bears all these amiabilities with pleasurable tolerance. + She strokes and pats the grandchildren and as they retire, she + fondly gazes after them, nodding to them with laughter._] + +GRANDMOTHER. Curt--are not you going with the others? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. No. + +GRANDMOTHER. Why not, Curt? Why don't you follow the others? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. They think that I am bad, and I know that +they are stupid. + + [_Grandmother seats herself in silence. The Disagreeable Young Man + continues to read. He lights a new cigarette. While lighting the + cigarette--_] + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Grandma! + +GRANDMOTHER. What is it, my child? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Whatever you say might, of course, never be +questioned.... + +GRANDMOTHER. No, my child. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But do tell me, grandma, did that story +really happen in that way? + +GRANDMOTHER. What story? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. The night wander through the +_Friedrichsrode_ forest. + +GRANDMOTHER. Certainly it happened. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Exactly as you told it? Are you quite sure +that you remember all those details. + +GRANDMOTHER. Yes. Why? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Oh, just so. I merely wanted to inquire, +grandma. + +GRANDMOTHER. But why did you want to? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I was just interested. Thank you very much. +Do not let me disturb you further, grandma. + + [_He takes up his book and continues to read. The Grandmother + remains seated, but is greatly embarrassed. She would like to keep + on gazing into the park and enjoying her quiet, but she is unable + to concentrate her thoughts. She is getting more and more + disturbed. There is a pause._] + +GRANDMOTHER. Curt! + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes--grandma, dear. + +GRANDMOTHER. Curt, why have you asked me if the forest incident happened +that way? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I merely wanted to find out, grandma. + +GRANDMOTHER. You just wanted to find out. But one does not ask such +things without some good reason. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. I was interested. + +GRANDMOTHER. Interested, but why are you interested? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Just in general. But do not get disturbed on +account of that, grandma. + + [_The Grandmother is silent._] + + [_The Disagreeable Young Man picks up his book. The Grandmother + wants to drop the subject at this point. She does not succeed, but + continues to look over toward the young man. He reads on._] + +GRANDMOTHER. Curt! + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes, grandma, dear. + +GRANDMOTHER. Curt, you shall tell me this instant the reason you asked +if the incident really happened that way! + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma ... I have already told you +that.... + +GRANDMOTHER. Don't you tell me again that you asked because the matter +interested you. You would have never asked such a question if you did +not have some special reason for it. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma-- + +GRANDMOTHER. Curt, if you do not this moment tell me why you said that, +then I will never--[_her voice becomes unusually strong and shakes_] I +never in my life will speak to you again. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. But, grandma, I do not want to insult you. + +GRANDMOTHER. You will not insult me if you will be sincere and open. Be +sincere always.... And you will not insult me. But when your trying to +hide something from me, that's when you insult me. This _cannot_ remain +in this way. I must know what you are thinking of. I must know that. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Grandma, I was afraid you would be angry +with me. + +GRANDMOTHER. If you keep on concealing things I shall be angry. No +matter what you have to say I will not hold it against you. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Are you not angry now? + +GRANDMOTHER. No. I promise you I will not be angry. Say whatever you +please. + + [_The Disagreeable Young Man hesitates._] + +GRANDMOTHER. Well, then--out with it--speak up, my child--be it what it +may as long as it is frank and sincere. Speak up, now. Come! + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Very well then, grandma. It is impossible +that the story could happen in that manner. + +GRANDMOTHER [_offended_]. You mean that I told an untruth? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Oh, no. I did not say that the incident did +not happen. I just maintain that it could not have happened in that +fashion. + +GRANDMOTHER. But why not? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. On account of the details. Let us take it +for granted, grandma, that as you state you commenced your exercise walk +in the afternoon.... + +GRANDMOTHER. Yes. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Let's say that you had household duties and +started out quite late--about four o'clock. + +GRANDMOTHER [_disturbed, but following the cross-examination intently_]. +Yes. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Very well, you started at four o'clock. The +walk was a good one and consumed--let us say one hour and a half. + +GRANDMOTHER. Yes. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Yes? This brings us to half-past five +o'clock. In October and in a dense forest besides at half-past five it +gets fairly dark at that hour. It was then that you lost your way? + +THE GRANDMOTHER [_nods her head in assent_]. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Another hour and a half spent in +wandering--that brings us to seven o'clock. You now reached the night +lodging of the robber--here you were resting? + +GRANDMOTHER. Exactly. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Quite right. Here you were waiting and +resting--now we want to allow a long time for it--three--let us +say--three and a half hours. + +GRANDMOTHER [_involuntarily_]. Not that long.... + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Oh, yes ... let us ... we'll then have +reached half-past ten o'clock. It could not have been later when this +forest bandit came. These pirates never go to their bed earlier. They +shun light and must get their sleep while the world is the darkest. He +could not sleep during the day even in the darkest forests. In short, +then, it was half-past ten? + +GRANDMOTHER. Half-past ten. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. Now began the flight and the pursuit. You +ran--let us say--full twenty minutes. That is a great deal. I was a +track runner in college and I know what a twenty-minute stretch means. +Shall we say twenty minutes? + +GRANDMOTHER. Twenty minutes.... + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. In any circumstances it was not even eleven +when you were safely out of danger? + +GRANDMOTHER. Yes. + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. And--and a half hour later you were sipping +hot brandy in the Schwanhausen castle? + +GRANDMOTHER. Yes. + + [_The Disagreeable Young Man is silent._] + +GRANDMOTHER [_shaking with excitement_]. And--what else? + + [_The Disagreeable Young Man is silent._] + +GRANDMOTHER [_she shakes with fear as to what will follow, but forces +herself to face it_]. Well, say on ... what else?... + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. At six on the following morning you reached +your home and.... [_He pauses._] + +GRANDMOTHER [_if her loud-speaking could be called an outcry, then she +cries out_]. Yes ... what else?... What happened then?... Go on ... say +it ... what else? + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN. [_He makes a new attempt to tell everything +bravely at once, but hesitates._] In the morning at six you arrived at +home. The others had no idea as to the distance between _Schwanhausen_ +and _Friederichsrode_. But I wanted to see it myself, so last year with +a friend I made a walking trip through that country. I tried this +distance. In a half hour of slow walking I reached from one place to the +other, and the horses in the Count's stables and the state roads were +then in as good condition as to-day. Well, then you started from the +castle at half-past five in the morning; but you reached there at +half-past eleven the preceding night.... You spent six entire hours in +the castle.... Then, another point--they all speak of the count, the +"benefactor of us all," as the "old count."... When he died five years +ago he was, of course, an old count--an old man of seventy.... But +thirty-five years ago he was a young count of thirty years of age. + + [_The Grandmother stares blindly at The Disagreeable Young Man. + Alarmed over Grandma's fright, he rises. He would very much like + to make up to her, but he lacks words. The Grandmother rises. She + is trembling. With a shaking hand she is nervously setting her + dress to rights. Twice she turns to the young man to speak to him, + but is unable to utter a word. Then she turns; she is about to + return into the house, but remains near the doorstep. Again she + turns; then she is about to go in, but turns again and remains + standing._] + +THE DISAGREEABLE YOUNG MAN [_frightened_]. Grandma, you gave me your +word that you would not be angry. + +GRANDMOTHER [_she stumbles forward a few steps. She is disturbed, +shivering, beside herself, complaining, almost sobbing_]. You are an +evil child! You are a bad, bad and evil child! For fifty years I have +told the same story ... always the same, same way ... and that it +happened differently never, never even came into my mind. + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL + + A PLAY + + BY GIUSEPPE GIACOSA + TRANSLATED BY THEODORA MARCONE. + + + Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. + All rights reserved. + + + CHARACTERS + + PAOLO. + MARIO. + ANNA. + MADDALENA. + + PLACE: _A villa at Brianza_. + TIME: _The Present_. + + + Applications for the right of performing THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL must + be made to Frank Shay, who may be addressed in care of Stewart & Kidd + Company. + + + +THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL + +ONE ACT BY GIUSEPPE GIACOSA + + + [SCENE: _A living-room well furnished in an old fashioned style + but not shabbily. An open fire-place which is practical. A sofa. A + writing desk. A closet at the back. Door leading into Anna's room + at the left. Window at the right._ + + _Paolo discovered seated at the writing desk upon which there is a + confusion of papers._] + + + [_Servant--Maddalena enters._] + +PAOLO. Well, has he returned yet? + +MADDALENA. Not yet. + +PAOLO. He has taken a lot of time! + +MADDALENA. I have been to look for him at the post-office cafe. + +PAOLO. I told you to look in his room or in the garden. Was it necessary +to run all over the country? + +MADDALENA. Well, he wasn't there. I thought--he wasn't at the cafe +either, but they told me where he was. He'll be back shortly. He went to +the station at Poggio to meet the engineer of the water-works. The tax +collector saw him walking in that direction. He always walks. But he +will return by the stage for the engineer's sake. The stage should be +here at any moment. It is sure though--but are you listening? + +PAOLO. No, you may go. + +MADDALENA. Yes, sir. But it is sure that if the engineer of the +water-works really has arrived, your brother will not go away to-morrow. +You and the Madame intend leaving to-morrow, don't you? + +PAOLO. Yes, no. I don't know--yes, we will go to-morrow. Leave me alone. + +MADDALENA. All right, but see if I'm wrong; I say that your brother will +not go to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow. Here he is. + +MARIO. Were you looking for me? + +PAOLO. Yes, for the last hour. + +MADDALENA. Mr. Paolo--here asked me-- + +PAOLO. I did not ask you anything. Go away. [_He takes her by the arm +and pushes her out._] + +MARIO. What has happened? + +PAOLO. She is insufferable. She isn't listening at the door, is she? + +MARIO. No, be calm. I hear her in the garden. What has happened. You +look worried. + +PAOLO. [_After a pause._] Do you know why Luciano killed himself? + +MARIO. No. + +PAOLO. He killed himself for love. For the love of Anna. I have the +proofs--they are there. I just found it out to-day, a moment ago. He has +killed himself for the love of my wife. You and I were his relatives; he +was a companion of my youth, my dearest friend. He tried to force her to +love him. Anna repulsed him. He insisted; Anna responded firmly. Highly +strung as he was, he killed himself. + +MARIO. How did you find out? + +PAOLO. I have the proofs, I tell you. I have been reading them for an +hour. I am still stunned! They have been there for a month. You know +that as soon as I received the telegram in Milan which announced his +suicide in London, I ran to Luciano's room and gathered all his papers, +made a packet of them, sealed it and brought them here. + +MARIO. I told you to burn them. + +PAOLO. I wanted to in fact, but afterward I thought it better to await +until the authorities of the hospital, to whom he left the estate, had +verified the accounts. The Syndic came here an hour ago, at the order of +the sub-Prefect, to give me the wallet which was found on the body and +which our Consul at London had sent to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. +I was just putting them away into the desk, when I felt the desire, I +don't know why, to look for the reason of his suicide which no one +seemed able to explain. [_Mario starts._] You know? You suspect the +reason? + +MARIO. I suspected-- + +PAOLO. Suspected! You knew of this love? + +MARIO. There, there--I will tell you, don't excite yourself! + +PAOLO. No--answer me! You knew? + +MARIO. I felt it--yes, that Luciano had lost his head. + +PAOLO. And you never told me anything? + +MARIO. What had I to tell you? Seen by others these things appear +greater and more offensive than they are. And then I might have been +wrong; I only see you and Anna during your short visits to the country. +If you, who are with her all the year, did not see anything--On the +other hand, Anna was always on her guard, she knew perfectly how to +defend herself. + +PAOLO. Oh, Anna! Anna is a saint! I have always thought of her as one. +But now-- + +MARIO. GO on--tell me. + +PAOLO. In the wallet I found a letter and noticed it was in Anna's +handwriting. + +MARIO. It was perfectly natural that your wife should write to our +cousin. + +PAOLO. Naturally. In fact I have read it. Here it is. [_Mario starts to +take the letter._] No, listen. [_Paolo reads._] "You write me--" +[_Speaking._] There is no heading. [_Reads._] "You write me that if I do +not respond you will return immediately. I love my husband, that is my +reply. This and only this forever. I beg you not to torment me. Anna." + +MARIO. Of course. + +PAOLO. The scoundrel. + +MARIO. What date is that letter? + +PAOLO. Luciano himself has noted the hour and date when he received it. +He has written here in pencil: "Received to-day, June 26th, 11 A.M." He +killed himself before noon. + +MARIO. Poor devil! One can see it was a stroke of insanity; the writing +demonstrates that. + +PAOLO. You understand of course, that I did not stop there. I opened the +wallet. I found four other letters from Anna all on the same subject and +in the same tone. The first is of three years ago. There are few words; +returning a letter Luciano had written. I looked for this letter of +Luciano--it is not here. He must have destroyed it. He kept only hers. +Then there is a little note from Rome; you know Anna visited her mother +in Rome for a month last winter. It is evident that our friend followed +her. Anna would not see him. Then there is a long one which must have +been written when he was recovering from that fall he had from his +horse. It is the only long one among the five--written in affectionate +terms, reasoning and begging; a wonderful letter, good, noble; +read--read. + +MARIO [_turning away_]. No, no, no. + +PAOLO. Listen, just a moment. + +MARIO. I don't like to. + +PAOLO. She does nothing but speak of me, of our brotherly youth. She +also speaks of you. She says-- + +MARIO. No, I beg of you. It is useless. I know what kind of a woman my +sister-in-law is and I do not need proofs of her virtue. Why do you +bother with those poor letters? Is it so painful that you have found +them? + +PAOLO. Painful? It is painful that I am not able to weep for a false +relative who wished to rob-- + +MARIO. Let him alone. He is dead and he has not robbed you of anything. +If he had lived he would not have robbed you of anything, the same. Anna +knew how-- + +PAOLO. And this? And this? You count as little? Is this painful? I never +had the shadow of a doubt about Anna, but--nor has the thought even +passed through my mind--but it is different not to have doubted and not +to have thought, than to possess the palpable proof of her faith and +love. "I love my husband." It is the refrain of all her letters. + +MARIO. Was it necessary that she tell you this? + +PAOLO. She did not tell it to me, she told it to him. She told it to +him--do you understand? Luciano had all the qualities which attract a +woman. He was younger, better looking than I, well spoken, full of fire +and courage. + +MARIO. How it pleases you, eh? To praise him now! + +PAOLO. Painful? If I had burned, as you wished, those papers and then +one day I should have discovered this love, who could then have lifted +this suspicion from my mind? + +MARIO. The certainty makes you suspicious! + +PAOLO. What do you mean? + +MARIO. If you had feared this a year ago, that which has happened would +not have occurred. I was wrong not to have opened your eyes. A long way +off, perhaps Luciano would not have killed himself. + +PAOLO. But I would have lacked the proof. + +MARIO. Your tranquility costs much--to the others. + +PAOLO. You can't pretend that I should feel badly about the fate of +Luciano? + +MARIO. I am not speaking of him. + +PAOLO. Of whom? + +MARIO. Of your wife. Think what she must be suffering! + +PAOLO. Do you think she blames herself? + +MARIO. Of course. + +PAOLO. I have noticed that she was distressed but not agitated. + +MARIO. You do not see the continuous things, you only see the +unexpected. Besides, Anna is mistress of herself. + +PAOLO. And she has done her duty. + +MARIO. It is a long time that she has done her duty. + +PAOLO. I shall know how to comfort her, there, I shall know how to cheer +her. You shall see, Mario. I feel that we have returned to the first +days of our marriage, that I possess her only from to-day. + +MARIO. Leave it to time. You have read--you have known. It is enough. It +is useless that Anna knows you know. + +PAOLO. She was here when the Syndic gave me the wallet. But she went out +immediately. + +MARIO. She does not know, then, that you have read? + +PAOLO. She will have imagined it. + +MARIO. No. And in any case she would be grateful if you pretended to +ignore.... + +PAOLO. Let us be frank. Don't let's argue. Nothing is more dreadful than +to plan out a line of conduct in these matters. What she has done, Anna +has done for me. I must think how to repay her. She has done this for +me, for me, do you understand? + +MARIO. And who says the contrary? See how you excite yourself. + +PAOLO. Excite myself! Certainly, I will not go and say: "I have read +your letters and I thank you very much!" One understands that when I +speak of comforting her and of cheering her I intend to do it with the +utmost tenderness, with the utmost confidence. I have always been like +that. That was why she loved me. There is no need to change even to +please you. + +MARIO. How you take it! + +PAOLO. It is you who take it badly. You have not said a just word to me. +I thought better of you. One would say, to hear you, that this discovery +was a disgrace. What has happened new from this discovery? Luciano is +dead a month ago, the first grief is passed. If I did continue to ignore +everything he would not return to life! He did not arrive to do me the +harm he wanted to; so peace be to his soul. There remains the certainty +of my wife's love and for this, think as you wish, I rejoice for the +best fortune which could befall me. + +MARIO. Come here. [_He places an arm around Paolo's shoulders._] Are you +persuaded that I love you? + +PAOLO. Yes. + +MARIO. Well then, if you are content, so am I. Is it all right? + +PAOLO. Yes. Now go and pack your bag. + +MARIO. Ah, that reminds me, I cannot go to-morrow. + +PAOLO. No! + +MARIO. The engineer Falchi has arrived. The day after to-morrow there is +the meeting of the water-company. + +PAOLO. Send it to the devil. + +MARIO. I cannot, I am the president. + +PAOLO. It was arranged that we were to leave to-day. We put it off on +your account. + +MARIO. How could it be helped? I had to sell the hay. It is now a +question of three days, four at the most. + +PAOLO. Suppose Anna and I go meanwhile? The rent of the chalet started +fifteen days ago. You can join us as soon as you are free. + +MARIO. If you think so-- + +PAOLO. I'll tell you. The day after to-morrow is Anna's birthday. Until +the business kept me in Milan all of July, we always passed that day +together--just Anna and I. We did not do this on purpose, but things +turned out so. Last year I was able to be free early in July and we came +here to stay until September. Well, three days before her birthday, Anna +begged me to take her for a trip to Switzerland. She did not tell me, +you understand, the reason for her desire, but insisted upon leaving +immediately. We went to Interlaken and from there we went up to Murren. +The day of Saint Anna we were at Murren. The place was so lovely, Anna +liked it so much, that then and there I arranged for a chalet for this +year. Fifteen days ago you--who never go anywhere, proposed to accompany +us-- + +MARIO. Did you find it indiscreet of me? + +PAOLO. No. You saw that Anna was pleased. She is very fond of you. + +MARIO. I know. + +PAOLO. When you had to postpone your leaving it was the same as to +propose that we wait for you. But the first delay would still have +allowed us to arrive in time; this second one will not and I, for my +part, now especially desire to be there at the date arranged. It is +childish if you wish-- + +MARIO. No. All right. I will join you there. + +PAOLO. We postponed leaving until to-morrow to await you; but now that +you cannot come immediately we could leave this evening. [_Jumping up._] +I must go--to get out of here. Those letters-- + +MARIO. Burn them. Give them to me. + +PAOLO. Ah, no. Not yet. + +MARIO. Go. Go to-night; it is better. But will Anna be ready? + +ANNA. [_Who has entered._] To do what? + +MARIO. I was telling Paolo that I could not leave to-morrow; nor for +three or four days. It is useless that you two remain here in the heat +to wait for me. Paolo must be back in Milan at the beginning of +September; every day shortens his vacation. I am old enough to travel +alone; as soon as I am free I will join you. What do you say? + +ANNA. As you wish. + +MARIO. I also desire to thoroughly clean the house and garden. Your +presence would disturb me, and mine is necessary. + +PAOLO. And as Mario cannot accompany us, we may as well leave this +evening. + +ANNA. So soon? + +PAOLO. Your luggage is almost finished. + +MARIO. You will gain a day. At this season of the year it is better to +travel by night than by day. It is full moon now and the Gottard road is +charming. + +ANNA [_distractedly_]. Yes. Yes. + +MARIO [_to Paolo_]. Then you had better go immediately to the stable in +the piazza and tell them to hold a carriage in readiness. At what time +does the train leave from Poggio? + +PAOLO. At seven-thirty. + +MARIO. Tell him to be here at six. I would send Battista to order it, +but the engineer has taken him with him. On the other hand, it is better +that you see the carriage, they have some antediluvian arks! + +PAOLO. And why don't you go? He knows you and you know his arsenal--you +could choose better. + +MARIO. You are right. Anna, I will send Maddalena to help you with your +luggage? + +ANNA. Yes, thank you, Mario. Send Maddalena to help me. + +MARIO [_going off_]. And dinner is at five. + +PAOLO. Yes. + + [_Mario exits. Silence. Anna takes a few steps toward the desk. + Paolo goes impetuously to Anna and takes her in his arms and + kisses her. She breaks away violently._] + +ANNA. Oh--horrors! [_The words escape from her lips involuntarily._] + +PAOLO [_drawing back_]. Anna! + +ANNA. There was one of my letters in that wallet, wasn't there? + +PAOLO. Yes, there was. + +ANNA. You have read it? + +PAOLO. Yes. + +ANNA. I have killed a man and you embrace me for that? + +PAOLO. I did not want to. I was tempted not to tell you. Mario advised +me not to. Then when I saw you--you filled me with tenderness! But what +did you say, Anna? + +ANNA. Pardon me. And promise me that you will never speak of all this +again, either here or hereafter, directly or indirectly--never. + +PAOLO. I promise. + +ANNA. You will not keep your promise. + +PAOLO. Oh! + +ANNA. You will not keep it. I know you. What a misfortune that you +should have known it! I saw it in your eyes when I came in, that you +knew. I had hoped that you would always have ignored it. I prayed so. +But as soon as I entered I saw immediately. [_With imperceptible accent +of mocking pity._] You had a modest and embarrassed air. I know you so +well. Do you want to hear how well? When Mario proposed you go for the +carriage, I thought--he will not go. When you sent him instead, I +smiled. + +PAOLO. I noticed it, but I did not understand. + +PAOLO. That's nothing. That you should read me is natural. + +ANNA. In exchange, eh? And listen--when Mario was leaving, I also +thought--now the minute we are alone--he will come to me and embrace me. + +PAOLO. You imagine very well.... + +ANNA. This was also natural, wasn't it? + +PAOLO. I love you so much, Anna. [_A long pause._] It is strange that in +your presence I have a sense of restraint. I tell you something and +immediately I think should I tell her? Was it better I kept silent? It +is the first time I have had this feeling toward you. We both need +distraction. + +ANNA. Yes, but to-day I do not leave. + +PAOLO. No? But you said-- + +ANNA. I have thought better. There is not the time to get ready. + +PAOLO. Your luggage is ready. + +ANNA. Oh, there is a lot to do. + +PAOLO. We have eight hours yet. + +ANNA. I am tired. + +PAOLO. Mario has just gone to order the carriage. + +ANNA. It can be for another day. + +PAOLO. Perhaps to-morrow-- + +ANNA. Not to-day, certainly. + +PAOLO. I do not know how to tell Mario. It looks like a whim. + +ANNA. Oh, Mario will understand. + +PAOLO. More than I do. + +ANNA. I did not wish to say-- + +PAOLO. Anna, you do not pardon me for having read those letters. + +ANNA. You see, you have already begun to speak of them again! Well, no, +no, no, poor Paolo, it is not that. I have nothing to pardon. Believe +me. I feel no wrath or bitterness. I would have given, I don't know +what, if you had ignored them; for you, for your own good, for your +peace, not for me. But I felt that some time or other--[_Pause._] It has +been a useless tragedy--you will see. + +PAOLO. What do you mean? + +ANNA. I don't know, don't mind me--excuse me--[_Moves up._] + +PAOLO. Are you going? + +ANNA. Yes. + +PAOLO. So you won't tell me if we go to-morrow? + +ANNA. We have time to decide. + +PAOLO. Oh, rather. [_Anna exits. Silence._] A useless tragedy! [_Sits +with his elbows upon his knees and his head in his hands._] + +MARIO [_coming in_]. There, that is done. And Anna? + +PAOLO. She's there. [_Points off._] + +MARIO. Maddalena will be here immediately, she was still at the +wash-house. Well? Come, come, shake yourself, throw off that fixed idea. +One knows that at the first opportunity--You do well to leave +immediately, the trip will distract you. + +PAOLO. We do not go. + +MARIO. What? + +PAOLO. Anna does not want to. + +MARIO. Why? + +PAOLO [_shrugs his shoulders_]. + +MARIO. She said so? + +PAOLO. She understood, she asked me.... I could not deny it. + +MARIO. She asked of her own accord, without you saying anything? + +PAOLO. Do me the favor of not judging me now. If you knew what I am +thinking! + +MARIO. Do you wish that I speak to her? I am convinced that to remain +here is the worse thing to do. + +PAOLO. Try it. Who knows? You understand her so well! She said so +herself. + +MARIO. And you promise me not to worry meanwhile? + +PAOLO. What is the use of promising? I wouldn't keep it. She said that +also. She knows me. Don't you know me? + +MARIO. Is she in her room? + +PAOLO. I think so. + +MARIO. Leave it to me. + +PAOLO. Look out. If--no, no, go--go--we shall see afterwards. [_Mario +exits. Paolo takes a letter from the wallet, reads it attentively, +accentuating the words._] "You write me that if I do not respond you +will return immediately." [_Speaks._] You write me! Where is that +letter? [_Reads._] "I love my husband, that is my response. This and +only this forever. I beg you not to torment me." [_Speaks._] I beg you +not to torment me. Ummm! + +MADDALENA. Here I am. + +PAOLO. I do not want you. It is not necessary now. If I need you I will +call you. + +MADDALENA. Excuse me, Mr. Paolo, is it true what they say in the +village? + +PAOLO. What? + +MADDALENA. That the Syndic brought the wallet of Mr. Luciano this +morning with a lot of money in it for the poor! + +PAOLO. Why--no. + +MADDALENA. The servant of the Syndic said so just now at the wash-house. + +PAOLO. There was nothing in it, the Syndic also knows that. + +MADDALENA. Oh, it would not have been a surprise. Mr. Luciano came here +rarely, but when he did he spent. + +PAOLO. I am glad to hear it. + +MADDALENA. Last year, to Liberata, the widow of the miner who went to +America to join his son and to whom you gave fifty lire, well, Mr. +Luciano gave her a hundred. + +PAOLO. What a story! He wasn't even here at that time. + +MADDALENA. Wasn't even here? I saw him-- + +PAOLO. Nonsense. That woman received word that her husband was killed in +the mine and that the son wanted her to come to America, the day I left +for Switzerland, a year ago yesterday or to-day; I remember it because I +gave her a little money in gold which I had been able to procure. She +was to leave two days later.... + +MADDALENA. There you are. + +PAOLO. There you are nothing. Luciano was not there. I know. + +MADDALENA. He arrived the day Liberata started on the trip. + +PAOLO. Oh, two days after we left. + +MADDALENA. Yes it was. He arrived in the morning. + +PAOLO. At his villa. + +MADDALENA. No, no, here; but he found only Mr. Mario; he was annoyed, +poor man, and left immediately. + +PAOLO. Ah, I did not know that.... Then you are right. Ah, so he came? +You are right. Oh, he was generous! He left all to the hospital. + +MADDALENA. Yes, yes. But what hospital? + +MARIO [_off stage calls_]. Maddalena! + +MADDALENA. Here I am. + +MARIO [_entering_]. Go to Madame, she needs you. [_Maddalena exits._] +[_To Paolo._] I have persuaded her. + +PAOLO. How fortunate to have a good lawyer. + +MARIO. And as you see, it did not take long. + +PAOLO. Want to bet I know how you convinced her? + +MARIO. Oh, it was very easy--I said.... + +PAOLO. No, let me tell you. I want my little triumph. You gave up the +business which held you here and decided to leave with us. + +MARIO. Even that. + +PAOLO. Eh? Didn't I know it? When you went away I was just about to tell +you and then I wanted to wait and see. So now Anna is disposed to go? + +MARIO. Are you sorry? + +PAOLO. I should say not! All the more as we are--are we not going to +amuse ourselves? The place, the trip, the hotels,--yes, it is better. +But the company! To run away there should be few of us. + +MARIO. What are you saying? + +PAOLO [_putting his two hands on Mario's shoulders and facing him._] To +run away--do you understand? We must be a few. To run away as Anna and I +did last year. + +MARIO. I do not understand. + +PAOLO. You did not tell me that Luciano had been here last year, nor +the day that he was here. + +MARIO. I don't know. I do not remember.... + +PAOLO. There you are--there--there--I knew it! And you knew that Anna +went away from here to avoid him. And I went with her all unconscious. +You saw the husband take a train and run away before the other could +arrive! + +MARIO. And if it is true. It does not tell you more or less than the +letters did. + +PAOLO. No, a little more. Everything tells a little more. One grain of +sand piles up upon another, then another until it makes the mill-stone +which crushes you. It tells a little more. It is one thing to keep away +and another to run away. One can keep away a trouble without begging it +to keep its distance. But one runs away for fear. + +MARIO. Uh-h! + +PAOLO. And look here--look--look, let us examine the case. Let us see. +It is improbable that he wrote her he was coming. It is sure he did not +or she would have responded: "You write me that you are coming.... I +love my husband--I beg you to remain away." + +MARIO. Oh! + +PAOLO. So she, foreseeing his intentions, felt that he would come ... by +that divination.... + +MARIO. You are the first husband to get angry because a wife did her +duty. + +PAOLO. Uhm! Duty--the ugly word! + +MARIO. If there ever was a virtuous woman! + +PAOLO. Woman or wife? + +MARIO. It is the same. + +PAOLO. No, no. A woman is for all; a wife for myself alone. Do you +believe one marries a woman because she is virtuous? Never! I marry her +because I love her and because I believe she loves me. There are a +thousand virtuous women, there is one that I love, one alone who loves +me ... if there is one.... + +MARIO. Paolo! + +PAOLO. And if she loved him? Tell me--and if she loved him? And if she +repulsed him for virtue's sake, for duty's sake? Tell me. What remains +for me? If he was alive I could fight, I might win out. But he is +dead--and has killed himself for love of her. If she loved him no force +can tear him from her heart. + +MARIO. You think--? + +PAOLO. I do not know. It is that--I do not know. And I want to--I want +to hear her shout it to my face. And she shall tell me.... Oh, I had the +feeling the minute I had read the first letter. I did not then +understand anything, indeed, I believed; "I love my husband." But I +immediately felt a blow here--and it hurt me so! And I did not know what +it was. Oh, before some fears assume shape, it takes time. First they +gnaw, they gnaw and one does not know what they are. I was content.... I +told you I was content, I wanted to persuade myself, but you have seen +that fear gnaws at my heart. And if she loved him? Oh, surely! The more +admirable eh? All the world would admire her. I, myself, would admire +her upon my knees if she were the wife of another. But she is mine. I am +not the judge of my wife. I am too intimately concerned, I cannot judge, +I am the owner--she is mine--a thing of mine own. I must admire her +because, while she could have cheated me altogether, she has only +cheated me a little. I see that which she has robbed me of, not that +which remains. + +MARIO. You are crazy! + +PAOLO. Do you not see that I am odious to her? + +MARIO. Oh, God! + +PAOLO. Odious! You were not here a moment ago. Don't you see that it is +necessary that she have your help in order to support my presence? + +MARIO. To-day. Because she knows that you have read--did I not tell you? +Because it is embarrassing. + +PAOLO. Not only to-day. You never move from this place. For fifteen +years that you have played at being a farmer, you have not been away for +a week. And fifteen days ago you suddenly decided to make a tour of the +world. She begged you to. + +MARIO. I swear-- + +PAOLO. I do not believe you. Anna shall have to tell me. [_Paolo starts +to exit._] + +MARIO. What are you doing? + +PAOLO. I am going to ask her. + +MARIO. No, Paolo. + +PAOLO. Let me go. + +MARIO. No. Maddalena is also there. + +PAOLO. Oh, as far as that's concerned--[_Calls._] Anna--Anna! + +MARIO. You are very ungrateful. + +PAOLO. If she loved me it did not come hard for her to repulse him. If +she loved him, I owe her no gratitude. + +ANNA [_entering_]. Did you call me? + + [_Mario starts to exit._] + +PAOLO. No, no. Remain. Yes, Anna. I wanted to ask you something. +Whatever you say, I shall believe you. + +ANNA. Of that I am certain. + +PAOLO. Was it you who begged Mario to come with us? Not to-day I don't +mean. + +ANNA. Neither to-day nor before. + +MARIO. You see! + +ANNA. I did not beg him nor did I propose it to him. But I must say that +if Mario had not come I would not have gone either. + +PAOLO. To-day. But fifteen days ago? + +MARIO. Listen, this is ridiculous. + +ANNA. It is natural that Paolo desires to know and he has the right to +question me. + +PAOLO. I do not wish to impose my rights. + +ANNA. There you are wrong. We must value our own and respect those of +the others. Fifteen days ago I would have gone with you alone. + +MARIO. Oh, blessed God! + +PAOLO. You were afraid that she would say no? + +ANNA. But his consent to accompany us greatly relieved me. + +PAOLO. Which is to say that my company would have weighed upon you. + +ANNA. Not weighed. It would have annoyed me. + +PAOLO. May one ask why? + +ANNA. You may as well. Because I was shadowed by an unhappiness which +you ignored at the time, whereas now you know the reasons. Knowing them, +you will understand that I must be very worried, but for the sake of +your peace I must hide my unhappiness, seeing that I had nothing to +reproach myself with in relation to you. You understand that for two to +be together, always together, it would be more difficult to pretend all +the time--all the time! While the presence of a third person-- + +MARIO. But listen--listen-- + +ANNA. Mario had the good idea to accompany us. + +PAOLO. Mario, who knew him! + +ANNA. I ignore that. + +PAOLO. Did he ever speak of it? + +MARIO. Do not reply, Anna, do not answer, come away--he is ill, he does +not reason--poor devil--it will pass and he will understand then-- + +ANNA. No, it is useless. + +PAOLO. A useless tragedy, isn't it, Anna? + +ANNA. Do you require anything more of me? + +PAOLO [_imperiously_]. Yes. I want the letters which you wrote to +Luciano. + +ANNA. That is just. I will go and get them. [_Exits._] + +PAOLO. All! + + [_Anna returns and hands Paolo a key._] + +ANNA. They're in my desk, in the first drawer at the right. They are +tied with a black ribbon. + +PAOLO. Very well. [_Exits._] + +MARIO. Pardon him, Anna, he does not know what he is doing. He loves you +so much? He is rather weak. + +ANNA. Oh, without pity! + +MARIO. As are the weak. He loves you--he loves you. + +ANNA. Worse for him that he loves me. He will lose. + +MARIO. No, it is for you to help him. + +ANNA. As long as I can. + + [_Paolo returns with the letters in his hand, goes to the desk and + takes out the others, throws them all into the fire-place and + lights them._] + +MARIO. What are you doing? Look, Anna! + + [_Anna stands rigid, erect and watches the letters burn, and + murmurs as though to herself._] + +ANNA. Gone! Gone! Gone! + + [_Paolo comes to Anna with hands clinched as though in prayer, + bursts into tears and kneels before her. Mario goes off half in + contempt and half in despair._] + +PAOLO [_on his knees_]. And now--can you pardon me? + + [_Anna reluctantly rests a hand upon his head, then indulgently + and discouragingly._] + +ANNA. Rise--rise. + +PAOLO. Tell me that you pardon me. I swear that I want to die here and +now. + +ANNA. Yes, yes. Arise; do not remain so. It hurts me. + +PAOLO [_getting up_]. I do not know what got into my head--but I have +suffered a great deal. + +ANNA. Yes, I see. Yes ... calm yourself. + +PAOLO. Mario has no tact ... it was he who irritated me from the first. +[_Anna starts to go._] Do not go. Stay here a moment. [_Anna sits upon +the sofa._] You see the stroke of madness has passed. It was only +because Mario was here. Mario is good, judicious, but his presence +irritated me. Yes, yes, you were right. But you should also understand +the state of my mind. [_He walks up and down._] After all, what does all +this disturbance mean? It means that I love you--and it seems to me that +is the essential thing! One must consider the source of things. It is +five years that we are husband and wife and you cannot say I have ever +given you the slightest reason for regret. I do not believe so. Five +years are five years. I have worked up to a good position, you have +always figured in society; a pastime which I would never have enjoyed +alone. I had friends, the club, the other husbands after the first year +of marriage, in the evenings, I renounced everything. I do not wish to +praise myself, but-- + +ANNA. Please don't walk up and down so much! + +PAOLO. Excuse me. Will you allow me to sit here next to you? [_Long +silence._] When shall I see you smile, Anna? No, do not get up. Then it +is not true that you have pardoned me! + +ANNA. What do you wish, Paolo? What do you wish of me? Say it quickly! + +PAOLO. You made me promise never to speak of it. + +ANNA. Oh, but I said that you would break your promise immediately. You +are wrong though, believe me. Do not ask me anything. When there is no +more danger I promise you, and I will keep my promise. I promise that I +will tell you everything without your asking me. And it will be good for +both of us. But I wish to choose the moment. + +PAOLO. All right then. Do not tell me anything, but come away with me, +with me alone. I will attend to Mario. He was coming to please you and +he will be much happier to see us leave together, as a sign of peace. I +understand that it is repulsive to you to re-awaken those memories; all +right, instead of awakening them I will make you forget them--I swear +it--I swear that I will never speak of them again, but come away with me +and you shall see how much love.... + +ANNA. Do not insist, Paolo. If you insist I shall come--but-- + +PAOLO. No, no, I do not insist. You see me here begging. I do not want +you by force. But listen once more, listen. I am grateful, you must +understand, for that which you have done. Oh, I shall recompense you for +it all my life. I realize there is not a more saintly woman in all the +world, but you must enter into my soul and feel a little pity also for +me. + +ANNA. Ah, ah! [_Laughs bitterly._] + +PAOLO. Why do you prolong this torment? You said when there is no more +danger! What danger is there? Upon whom depends this danger--from you or +from me? What can time change for us? I have always loved you, I love +you now, and in this moment I love you as I have never loved you! Give +me your hand--only your hand. God, Anna! You are beautiful! And you are +my wife--you are my wife and the oath which you took when we were +married, is not only one of faithfulness, but of love. Come away--come +away. + +ANNA. No, no, no. + +PAOLO. No? Are you afraid? Afraid of being unfaithful to him? + +ANNA. Paolo--Paolo! + +PAOLO. And if I wish it? + +ANNA. You cannot wish it. + +PAOLO. And if I want? + +ANNA. Paolo!-- + +PAOLO. And if I command? + +ANNA. You will, in one moment, destroy all my plan. Think--your violence +is a liberation for me. + +PAOLO. Oh, come--or speak! + +ANNA. Do you wish it so? We have come to that? I have done all that I +could. + +PAOLO. Yes, go on. Speak! + +ANNA. I loved Luciano and I love him still. + +PAOLO. Oh! + +ANNA. I loved him. I loved him--do you hear? I loved him and I feel an +immense joy to say it here and you did not see that I was dying to say +it--and when I saw you nearly stifling me with your ferocious curiosity, +I said to myself: "It will out--it will out"... And it has come. I loved +him, I love him and I have never loved any one in the world but him and +I feel only remorse for my virtue. Now do you know? + +PAOLO. Very well! [_Starts to go._] + +ANNA. Ah, no. Remain here--now you hear me. You wished that I speak, now +I do.... It is I now who command you to stay. You must understand very +well that after a scene such as this, everything is finished between us, +so I must tell you everything. I listened to you and will listen to you +again if you wish, but you also must listen to me. What have you ever +done for me? What help have you given me? Have you known how to see when +it was right that you should see? Have you known even how to suspect? +Was it necessary that a man die.... Not even that! When you were not +suffering, as you are suffering now, did you know how to see the way I +suffered? You thought that my sorrow was for a dead relative! You did +not understand that I was crazed; you slept next to me and yet you did +not realize that the first few nights I bit the covers so as not to cry +out. In a moment you realize all the facts. And what are these facts? +That I, your wife for many years, have defended your peace in silence. I +have fulfilled that which people call my duty. Then your curiosity is +awakened and to make up for lost time you wish to violate my soul and +penetrate down to its very depths. Ah--Paolo, no, no; one cannot do +this. No, it will not help to know everything. One does not enter into +the soul by the front door; one enters by stealth. You have tried to +force an entrance; now you see there is nothing more inside for you. + +PAOLO. No? You think you are right, eh? You are right--it is true--I +admit that you are right. So I have never had your love, eh? You have +said so; that I never had your love! Then what? You are right. Still--do +you know what I shall do? I throw you out of my house! + +ANNA [_happily_]. I go, I go, I go and I shall never come back! And do +not beg me and do not come after me. I have no more strength to have +pity, when I say good-by, I shall be as dead to you! [_Runs off into her +room. Paolo stunned, stares after her awaiting for her return. Anna +returns with her hat and cloak, crosses to exit._] + +PAOLO. No, Anna, no, no, no. Anna, no. For pity's sake wait! We are both +mad. What will become of us? I need you. [_Paolo tries to get in her way +to stop her._] Do not go. I do not want you to--remain here. I was +crazy--do not go, you will see that--for all my life--[_Anna tries to +break away._] No, for pity's sake--if you go--if you break from me--if +you speak--I feel that this will be the end of everything! Remain! +Remain, Anna! [_She breaks away._] + +ANNA. Good-by! [_Exits._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR + + A COMEDY + + BY LEONID ANDREYEV + TRANSLATED BY THOMAS SELTZER. + + + Copyright, 1914, by Albert and Charles Boni. + + + Reprinted from "The Plays of the Washington Square Players," published + by Frank Shay. + + The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly + reserved by Mr. Thomas Seltzer. Applications for permission to produce + the play should be made to Mr. Seltzer, 5 West 50th St., New York + City. + + + +LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR + +A COMEDY BY LEONID ANDREYEV + + + [SCENE: _A wild place in the mountains_. + + _A man in an attitude of despair is standing on a tiny projection + of a rock that rises almost sheer from the ground. How he got + there it is not easy to say, but he cannot be reached either from + above or below. Short ladders, ropes and sticks show that attempts + have been made to save the unknown person, but without success._ + + _It seems that the unhappy man has been in that desperate position + a long time. A considerable crowd has already collected, extremely + varied in composition. There are venders of cold drinks; there is + a whole little bar behind which the bartender skips about out of + breath and perspiring--he has more on his hands than he can attend + to; there are peddlers selling picture postal cards, coral beads, + souvenirs, and all sorts of trash. One fellow is stubbornly trying + to dispose of a tortoise-shell comb, which is really not + tortoise-shell. Tourists keep pouring in from all sides, attracted + by the report that a catastrophe is impending--Englishmen, + Americans, Germans, Russians, Frenchmen, Italians, etc., with all + their peculiar national traits of character, manner and dress. + Nearly all carry alpenstocks, field-glasses and cameras. The + conversation is in different languages, all of which, for the + convenience of the reader, we shall translate into English._ + + _At the foot of the rock where the unknown man is to fall, two + policemen are chasing the children away and partitioning off a + space, drawing a rope around short stakes stuck in the ground. It + is noisy and jolly._] + + +POLICEMAN. Get away, you loafer! The man'll fall on your head and then +your mother and father will be making a hullabaloo about it. + +BOY. Will he fall here? + +POLICEMAN. Yes, here. + +BOY. Suppose he drops farther? + +SECOND POLICEMAN. The boy is right. He may get desperate and jump, land +beyond the rope and hit some people in the crowd. I guess he weighs at +least about two hundred pounds. + +FIRST POLICEMAN. Move on, move on, you! Where are you going? Is that +your daughter, lady? Please take her away! The young man will soon fall. + +LADY. Soon? Did you say he is going to fall soon? Oh, heavens, and my +husband's not here! + +LITTLE GIRL. He's in the cafe, mamma. + +LADY [_desperately_]. Yes, of course. He's always in the cafe. Go call +him, Nellie. Tell him the man will soon drop. Hurry! Hurry! + +VOICES. Waiter!--Garcon--Kellner--Three beers out here!--No +beer?--What?--Say, that's a fine bar--We'll have some in a +moment--Hurry up--Waiter!--Waiter!--Garcon! + +FIRST POLICEMAN. Say, boy, you're here again? + +BOY. I wanted to take the stone away. + +POLICEMAN. What for? + +BOY. So he shouldn't get hurt so badly when he falls. + +SECOND POLICEMAN. The boy is right. We ought to remove the stone. We +ought to clear the place altogether. Isn't there any sawdust or sand +about? + + [_Two English tourists enter. They look at the unknown man through + field-glasses and exchange remarks._] + +FIRST TOURIST. He's young. + +SECOND TOURIST. How old? + +FIRST TOURIST. Twenty-eight. + +SECOND TOURIST. Twenty-six. Fright has made him look older. + +FIRST TOURIST. How much will you bet? + +SECOND TOURIST. Ten to a hundred. Put it down. + +FIRST TOURIST [_writing in his notebook. To the policeman_]. How did he +get up there? Why don't they take him off? + +POLICEMAN. They tried, but they couldn't. Our ladders are too short. + +SECOND TOURIST. Has he been here long? + +POLICEMAN. Two days. + +FIRST TOURIST. Aha! He'll drop at night. + +SECOND TOURIST. In two hours. A hundred to a hundred. + +FIRST TOURIST. Put it down. [_He shouts to the man on the rock._] How +are you feeling? What? I can't hear you. + +UNKNOWN MAN [_in a scarcely audible voice_]. Bad, very bad. + +LADY. Oh, heavens, and my husband is not here! + +LITTLE GIRL [_running in_]. Papa said he'll get here in plenty of time. +He's playing chess. + +LADY. Oh, heavens! Nellie, tell him he must come. I insist. But perhaps +I had rather--Will he fall soon, Mr. Policeman? No? Nellie, you go. I'll +stay here and keep the place for papa. + + [_A tall, lanky woman of unusually independent and military + appearance and a tourist dispute for the same place. The tourist, + a short, quiet, rather weak man, feebly defends his rights; the + woman is resolute and aggressive._] + +TOURIST. But, lady, it is my place. I have been standing here for two +hours. + +MILITARY WOMAN. What do I care how long you have been standing here. I +want this place. Do you understand? It offers a good view, and that's +just what I want. Do you understand? + +TOURIST [_weakly_]. It's what I want, too. + +MILITARY WOMAN. I beg your pardon, what do you know about these things +anyway? + +TOURIST. What knowledge is required? A man will fall. That's all. + +MILITARY WOMAN [_mimicking_]. "A man will fall. That's all." Won't you +have the goodness to tell me whether you have ever seen a man fall? No? +Well, I did. Not one, but three. Two acrobats, one rope-walker and three +aeronauts. + +TOURIST. That makes six. + +MILITARY WOMAN [_mimicking_]. "That makes six." Say, you are a +mathematical prodigy. And did you ever see a tiger tear a woman to +pieces in a zoo, right before your eyes? Eh? What? Yes, exactly. Now, I +did--Please! Please! + + [_The tourist steps aside, shrugging his shoulders with an air of + injury, and the tall woman triumphantly takes possession of the + stone she has won by her prowess. She sits down, spreading out + around her her bag, handkerchief, peppermints, and medicine + bottle, takes off her gloves and wipes her field-glass, glancing + pleasantly on all around. Finally she turns to the lady who is + waiting for her husband in the cafe_]. + +MILITARY WOMAN [_amiably_]. You will tire yourself out, dear. Why don't +you sit down? + +LADY. Oh, my, don't talk about it. My legs are as stiff as that rock +there. + +MILITARY WOMAN. Men are so rude nowadays. They will never give their +place to a woman. Have you brought peppermints with you? + +LADY [_frightened_]. No. Why? Is it necessary? + +MILITARY WOMAN. When you keep looking up a long time you are bound to +get sick. Sure thing. Have you spirits of ammonia? No? Good gracious, +how thoughtless! How will they bring you back to consciousness when he +falls? You haven't any smelling salts either, I dare say. Of course not. +Have you anybody to take care of you, seeing that you are so helpless +yourself? + +LADY [_frightened_]. I will tell my husband. He is in the cafe. + +MILITARY WOMAN. Your husband is a brute. + +POLICEMAN. Whose coat is this? Who threw this rag here? + +BOY. It's mine. I spread my coat there so that he doesn't hurt himself +so badly when he falls. + +POLICEMAN. Take it away. + + [_Two tourists armed with cameras contending for the same + position._] + +FIRST TOURIST. I wanted this place. + +SECOND TOURIST. You wanted it, but I got it. + +FIRST TOURIST. You just came here. I have had this place for two days. + +SECOND TOURIST. Then why did you go without even leaving your shadow? + +FIRST TOURIST. I wasn't going to starve myself to death. + +COMB-VENDER [_mysteriously_]. Tortoise-shell. + +TOURIST [_savagely_]. Well? + +VENDOR. Genuine tortoise-shell. + +TOURIST. Go to the devil. + +THIRD TOURIST, PHOTOGRAPHER. For heaven's sake, lady, you're sitting on +my camera! + +LITTLE LADY. Oh! Where is it? + +TOURIST. Under you, under you, lady. + +LITTLE LADY. I am so tired. What a wretched camera you have. I thought +it felt uncomfortable and I was wondering why. Now I know; I am sitting +on your camera. + +TOURIST [_agonized_]. Lady! + +LITTLE LADY. I thought it was a stone. I saw something lying there and I +thought: A queer-looking stone; I wonder why it's so black. So that's +what it was; it was your camera. I see. + +TOURIST [_agonized_]. Lady, for heaven's sake! + +LITTLE LADY. Why is it so large, tell me. Cameras are small, but this +one is so large. I swear I never had the faintest suspicion it was a +camera. Can you take my picture? I would so much like to have my picture +taken with the mountains here for a background, in this wonderful +setting. + +TOURIST. How can I take your picture if you are sitting on my camera? + +LITTLE LADY [_jumping up, frightened_]. Is it possible? You don't say +so. Why didn't you tell me so? Does it take pictures? + +VOICES. Waiter, one beer!--What did you bring wine for?--I gave you my +order long ago.--What will you have, sir?--One minute.--In a second. +Waiter!--Waiter--Toothpicks!-- + + [_A fat tourist enters in haste, panting, surrounded by a numerous + family._] + +TOURIST [_crying_]. Mary! Aleck! Jimmie!--Where is Mary? For God's sake! +Where is Mary? + +STUDENT [_dismally_]. Here she is, papa. + +TOURIST. Where is she? Mary! + +GIRL. Here I am, papa. + +TOURIST. Where in the world are you? [_He turns around._] Ah, there! +What are you standing back of me for? Look, look! For goodness' sake, +where are you looking? + +GIRL [_dismally_]. I don't know, papa. + +TOURIST. No, that's impossible. Imagine! She never once saw a lightning +flash. She always keeps her eyes open as wide as onions, but the instant +it flashes she closes them. So she never saw lightning, not once. Mary, +you are missing it again. There it is! You see! + +STUDENT. She sees, papa. + +TOURIST. Keep an eye on her. [_Suddenly dropping into tone of profound +pity._] Ah, poor young man. Imagine! He'll fall from that high rock. +Look, children, see how pale he is! That should be a lesson to you how +dangerous climbing is. + +STUDENT [_dismally_]. He won't fall to-day, papa! + +SECOND GIRL. Papa, Mary has closed her eyes again. + +FIRST STUDENT. Let us sit down, papa! Upon my word, he won't fall +to-day. The porter told me so. I can't stand it any more. You've been +dragging us about every day from morning till night visiting art +galleries. + +TOURIST. What's that? For whose benefit am I doing this? Do you think I +enjoy spending my time with a dunce? + +SECOND GIRL. Papa, Mary is blinking her eyes. + +SECOND STUDENT. I can't stand it, either. I have terrible dreams. +Yesterday I dreamed of garcons the whole night long. + +TOURIST. Jimmie. + +FIRST STUDENT. I have gotten so thin I am nothing but skin and bones. I +can't stand it any more, father. I'd rather be a farmer, or tend pigs. + +TOURIST. Aleck. + +FIRST STUDENT. If he were really to fall--but it's a fake. You believe +every lie told you! They all lie. Baedeker lies, too. Yes, your Baedeker +lies! + +MARY [_dismally_]. Papa, children, he's beginning to fall. + + [_The man on the rock shouts something down into the crowd. + There is general commotion._ (_Voices._) _"Look, he's falling." + Field-glasses are raised; the photographers, violently agitated, + click their cameras; the policemen diligently clean the place + where he is to fall._] + +PHOTOGRAPHER. Oh, hang it! What is the matter with me? The devil! When a +man's in a hurry-- + +SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Brother, your camera is closed. + +PHOTOGRAPHER. The devil take it. + +VOICES. Hush! He's getting ready to fall.--No, he's saying +something.--No, he's falling.--Hush! + +UNKNOWN MAN ON THE ROCK [_faintly_]. Save me! Save me! + +TOURIST. Ah, poor young man. Mary, Jimmie, there's a tragedy for you. +The sky is clear, the weather is beautiful, and has he to fall and be +shattered to death? Can you realize how dreadful that is, Aleck? + +STUDENT [_wearily_]. Yes, I can realize it. + +TOURIST. Mary, can you realize it? Imagine. There is the sky. There are +people enjoying themselves and partaking of refreshments. Everything is +so nice and pleasant, and he has to fall. What a tragedy! Do you +remember Hamlet? + +SECOND GIRL [_prompting_]. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, of Elsinore. + +JAMES. Of Helsingfors, I know. Don't bother me, father! + +MARY [_dismally_]. He dreamed about garcons all night long. + +ALECK. Why don't you order sandwiches, father. + +COMB-VENDER [_mysteriously_]. Tortoise-shell. Genuine tortoise-shell. + +TOURIST [_credulously_]. Stolen? + +VENDOR. Why, sir, the idea! + +TOURIST [_angrily_]. Do you mean to tell me it's genuine if it isn't +stolen? Go on. Not much. + +MILITARY WOMAN [_amiably_]. Are all these your children? + +TOURIST. Yes, madam. A father's duty. You see, they are protesting. It +is the eternal conflict between fathers and children. Here is such a +tragedy going on, such a heart-rending tragedy--Mary, you are blinking +your eyes again. + +MILITARY WOMAN. You are quite right. Children must be hardened to +things. But why do you call this a terrible tragedy? Every roofer, when +he falls, falls from a great height. But this here--what is it? A +hundred, two hundred feet. I saw a man fall plumb from the sky. + +TOURIST [_overwhelmed_]. You don't say? + +ALECK. Children, listen. Plumb from the sky. + +MILITARY WOMAN. Yes, yes. I saw an aeronaut drop from the clouds and go +crash upon an iron roof. + +TOURIST. How terrible! + +MILITARY WOMAN. That's what I call a tragedy. It took two hours to bring +me back to consciousness, and all that time they pumped water on me, the +scoundrels. I was nearly drowned. From that day on I never step out of +the door without taking spirits of ammonia with me. + + [_Enter a strolling troop of Italian singers and musicians: a + short, fat tenor, with a reddish beard and large, watery, stupidly + dreamy eyes, singing with extraordinary sweetness; a skinny + humpback with a jockey cap, and a screeching baritone; a bass who + is also a mandolinist, looking like a bandit; a girl with a + violin, closing her eyes when she plays, so that only the whites + are seen. They take their stand and begin to sing: "Sul mare + lucica--Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia--"_] + +MARY [_dismally_]. Papa, children, look. He is beginning to wave his +hands. + +TOURIST. Is that the effect the music has upon him? + +MILITARY WOMAN. Quite possible. Music usually goes with such things. But +that'll make him fall sooner than he should. Musicians, go away from +here! Go! + + [_A tall tourist, with up-curled mustache, violently + gesticulating, enters, followed by a small group attracted by + curiosity._] + +TALL TOURIST. It's scandalous. Why don't they save him? Ladies and +gentlemen, you all heard him shout: "Save me." Didn't you? + +THE CURIOUS [_in chorus_]. Yes, yes, we heard him. + +TALL TOURIST. There you are. I distinctly heard these words: "Save me! +Why don't they save me?" It's scandalous. Policemen, policemen! Why +don't you save him? What are you doing there? + +POLICEMEN. We are cleaning up the place for him to fall. + +TALL TOURIST. That's a sensible thing to do, too. But why don't you save +him? You ought to save him. If a man asks you to save him, it is +absolutely essential to save him. Isn't it so, ladies and gentlemen? + +THE CURIOUS [_in chorus_]. True, absolutely true. It is essential to +save him. + +TALL TOURIST [_with heat_]. We are not heathens, we are Christians. We +should love our neighbors. When a man asks to be saved every measure +which the government has at its command should be taken to save him. +Policemen, have you taken every measure? + +POLICEMAN. Every one! + +TALL TOURIST. Every one without exception? Gentleman, every measure has +been taken. Listen, young man, every measure has been taken to save you. +Did you hear? + +UNKNOWN MAN [_in a scarcely audible voice_]. Save me! + +TALL TOURIST [_excitedly_]. Gentlemen, did you hear? He again asked to +be saved. Policemen, did you hear? + +ONE OF THE CURIOUS [_timidly_]. It is my opinion that it is absolutely +necessary to save him. + +TALL TOURIST. That's right. Exactly. Why, that's what I have been saying +for the last two hours. Policemen, do you hear? It is scandalous. + +ONE OF THE CURIOUS [_a little bolder_]. It is my opinion that an appeal +should be made to the highest authority. + +THE REST [_in chorus_]. Yes, yes, a complaint should be made. It is +scandalous. The government ought not to leave any of its citizens in +danger. We all pay taxes. He must be saved. + +TALL TOURIST. Didn't I say so? Of course we must put up a complaint. +Young man! Listen, young man. Do you pay taxes? What? I can't hear. + +TOURIST. Jimmie, Katie, listen! What a tragedy! Ah, the poor young man! +He is soon to fall and they ask him to pay a domiciliary tax. + +KATE [_the girl with glasses, pedantically_]. That can hardly be called +a domicile, father. The meaning of domicile is-- + +JAMES [_pinching her_]. Lickspittle. + +MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, look! He's again beginning to fall. + + [_There is excitement in the crowd, and again a bustling and + shouting among the photographers._] + +TALL TOURIST. We must hurry, ladies and gentlemen. He must be saved at +any cost. Who's going with me? + +THE CURIOUS [_in chorus_]. We are all going! We are all going? + +TALL TOURIST. Policemen, did you hear? Come, ladies and gentlemen! + + [_They depart, fiercely gesticulating. The cafe grows more lively. + The sound of clinking beer glasses and the clatter of steins is + heard, and the beginning of a loud German song. The bartender, who + has forgotten himself while talking to somebody, starts suddenly + and runs off, looks up to the sky with a hopeless air and wipes + the perspiration from his face with his napkin. Angry calls of + Waiter! Waiter!_] + +UNKNOWN MAN [_rather loudly_]. Can you let me have some soda water? + + [_The waiter is startled, looks at the sky, glances at the man on + the rock, and pretending not to have heard him, walks away._] + +MANY VOICES. Waiter! Beer! + +WAITER. One moment, one moment! + + [_Two drunken men come out from the cafe._] + +LADY. Ah, there is my husband. Come here quick. + +MILITARY WOMAN. A downright brute. + +DRUNKEN MAN [_waving his hand to the unknown man_]. Say, is it very bad +up there? Hey? + +UNKNOWN MAN [_rather loudly_]. Yes, it's bad. I am sick and tired of it. + +DRUNKEN MAN. Can't you get a drink? + +UNKNOWN MAN. No, how can I? + +SECOND DRUNKEN MAN. Say, what are you talking about? How can he get a +drink? The man is about to die and you tempt him and try to get him +excited. Listen, up there, we have been drinking your health right +along. It won't hurt you, will it? + +FIRST DRUNKEN MAN. Ah, go on! What are you talking about? How can it +hurt him? Why, it will only do him good. It will encourage him. Listen, +honest to God, we are very sorry for you, but don't mind us. We are +going to the cafe to have another drink. Good-by. + +SECOND DRUNKEN MAN. Look, what a crowd. + +FIRST DRUNKEN MAN. Come, or he'll fall and then they'll close the cafe. + + [_Enter a new crowd of tourists, a very elegant gentleman, the + chief correspondent of European newspapers at their head. He is + followed by an ecstatic whisper of respect and admiration. Many + leave the cafe to look at him, and even the waiter turns slightly + around, glances at him quickly, smiles happily and continues on + his way, spilling something from his tray._] + +VOICES. The correspondent! The correspondent! Look! + +LADY. Oh, my, and my husband is gone again! + +TOURIST. Jimmie, Mary, Aleck, Katie, Charlie, look! This is the chief +correspondent. Do you realize it? The very highest of all. Whatever he +writes goes. + +KATE. Mary, dear, again you are not looking. + +ALECK. I wish you would order some sandwiches for us. I can't stand it +any longer. A human being has to eat. + +TOURIST [_ecstatically_]. What a tragedy! Katie, dear, can you realize +it? Consider how awful. The weather is so beautiful, and the chief +correspondent. Take out your note-book, Jimmie. + +JAMES. I lost it, father. + +CORRESPONDENT. Where is he? + +VOICES [_obligingly_]. There, there he is. There! A little higher. +Still higher! A little lower! No, higher! + +CORRESPONDENT. If you please, if you please, ladies and gentlemen, I +will find him myself. Oh, yes, there he is. Hm! What a situation! + +TOURIST. Won't you have a chair? + +CORRESPONDENT. Thank you. [_Sits down._] Hm! What a situation! Very +interesting. Very interesting, indeed! [_Whisks out his note-book; +amiably to the photographers._] Have you taken any pictures yet, +gentlemen? + +FIRST PHOTOGRAPHER. Yes, sir, certainly, certainly. We have photographed +the place showing the general character of the locality-- + +SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. The tragic situation of the young man-- + +CORRESPONDENT. Ye-es, very, very interesting. + +TOURIST. Did you hear, Aleck? This smart man, the chief correspondent, +says it's interesting, and you keep bothering about sandwiches. Dunce! + +ALECK. May be he has had his dinner already. + +CORRESPONDENT. Ladies and gentlemen, I beg you to be quiet. + +OBLIGING VOICES. It is quieter in the cafe. + +CORRESPONDENT [_shouts to the unknown man_]. Permit me to introduce +myself. I am the chief correspondent of the European press. I have been +sent here at the special request of the editors. I should like to ask +you several questions concerning your situation. What is your name? What +is your general position? How old are you? [_The unknown man mumbles +something._] + +CORRESPONDENT [_a little puzzled_]. I can't hear a thing. Has he been +that way all the time? + +VOICE. Yes, it's impossible to hear a word he says. + +CORRESPONDENT [_jotting down something in his note-book_]. Fine! Are you +a bachelor? [_The unknown man mumbles._] + +CORRESPONDENT. I can't hear you. Are you married? Yes? + +TOURIST. He said he was a bachelor. + +SECOND TOURIST. No, he didn't. Of course, he's married. + +CORRESPONDENT [_carelessly_]. You think so? All right. We'll put down, +married. How many children have you? Can't hear. It seems to me he said +three. Hm! Anyway, we'll put down five. + +TOURIST. Oh, my, what a tragedy. Five children! Imagine! + +MILITARY WOMAN. He is lying. + +CORRESPONDENT [_shouting_]. How did you get into this position? What? I +can't hear? Louder! Repeat. What did you say? [_Perplexed, to the +crowd._] What did he say? The fellow has a devilishly weak voice. + +FIRST TOURIST. It seems to me he said that he lost his way. + +SECOND TOURIST. No, he doesn't know himself how he got there. + +VOICES. He was out hunting.--He was climbing up the rocks.--No, no! He +is simply a lunatic! + +CORRESPONDENT. I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, ladies and +gentlemen! Anyway, he didn't drop from the sky. However--[_He quickly +jots down in his note-book._] Unhappy young man--suffering from +childhood with attacks of lunacy.--The bright light of the full +moon--the wild rocks.--Sleepy janitor--didn't notice-- + +FIRST TOURIST [_to the second, in a whisper_]. But it's a new moon now. + +SECOND TOURIST. Go, what does a layman know about astronomy. + +TOURIST [_ecstatically_]. Mary, pay attention to this! You have before +you an ocular demonstration of the influence of the moon on living +organisms. What a terrible tragedy to go out walking on a moonlit night +and find suddenly that you have climbed to a place where it is +impossible to climb down or be taken down. + +CORRESPONDENT [_shouting_]. What feelings are you experiencing? I can't +hear. Louder! Ah, so? Well, well! What a situation! + +CROWD [_interested_]. Listen, listen! Let's hear what his feelings are. +How terrible! + +CORRESPONDENT [_writes in his note-book, tossing out detached remarks_]. +Mortal terror, numbs his limbs.--A cold shiver goes down his spinal +column.--No hope.--Before his mental vision rises a picture of family +bliss: Wife making sandwiches; his five children innocently lisping +their love.--Grandma in the armchair with a tube to her ear, that is, +grandpa in the arm-chair, with a tube to his ear and grandma.--Deeply +moved by the sympathy of the public.--His last wish before his death +that the words he uttered with his last breath should be published in +our newspapers-- + +MILITARY WOMAN [_indignantly_]. My! He lies like a salesman. + +MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, look, he is starting to fall again. + +TOURIST [_angrily_]. Don't bother me. Such a tragedy is unfolding itself +right before your very eyes--and you--What are you making such big eyes +for again? + +CORRESPONDENT [_shouting_]. Hold on fast. That's it! My last question: +What message do you wish to leave for your fellow citizens before you +depart for the better world? + +UNKNOWN MAN. That they may all go to the devil. + +CORRESPONDENT. What? Hm, yes--[_He writes quickly._] Ardent love--is a +stanch opponent of the law granting equal rights to negroes. His last +words: "Let the black niggers--" + +PASTOR [_out of breath, pushing through the crowd_]. Where is he? Ah, +where is he? Ah, there! Poor young man. Has there been no clergyman here +yet? No? Thank you. Am I the first? + +CORRESPONDENT [_writes_]. A touching dramatic moment.--A minister has +arrived.--All are trembling on the verge of suspense. Many are shedding +tears-- + +PASTOR. Excuse me, excuse me! Ladies and gentlemen, a lost soul wishes +to make its peace with God--[_He shouts._] My son, don't you wish to +make your peace with God? Confess your sins to me. I will grant you +remission at once! What? I cannot hear? + +CORRESPONDENT [_writes_]. The air is shaken with the people's groans. +The minister of the church exhorts the criminal, that is, the +unfortunate man, in touching language.--The unfortunate creature with +tears in his eyes thanks him in a faint voice-- + +UNKNOWN MAN [_faintly_]. If you won't go away I will jump on your head. +I weigh three hundred pounds. [_All jump away frightened behind each +other._] + +VOICES. He is falling! He is falling! + +TOURIST [_agitatedly_]. Mary, Aleck, Jimmie. + +POLICEMAN [_energetically_]. Clear the place, please! Move on! + +LADY. Nellie, go quick and tell your father he is falling. + +PHOTOGRAPHER [_in despair_]. Oh my, I am out of films [_tosses madly +about, looking pitifully at the unknown man_]. One minute, I'll go and +get them. I have some in my overcoat pocket over there. [_He walks a +short distance, keeping his eyes fixed on the unknown man, and then +returns._] I can't, I am afraid I'll miss it. Good heavens! They are +over there in my overcoat. Just one minute, please. I'll fetch them +right away. What a fix. + +PASTOR. Hurry, my friend. Pull yourself together and try to hold out +long enough to tell me at least your principal sins. You needn't +mention the lesser ones. + +TOURIST. What a tragedy? + +CORRESPONDENT [_writes_]. The criminal, that is, the unhappy man, makes +a public confession and does penance. Terrible secrets revealed. He is a +bank robber--blew up safes. + +TOURIST [_credulously_]. The scoundrel. + +PASTOR [_shouts_]. In the first place, have you killed? Secondly, have +you stolen? Thirdly, have you committed adultery? + +TOURIST. Mary, Jimmie, Katie, Aleck, Charlie, close your ears. + +CORRESPONDENT [_writing_]. Tremendous excitement in the crowd.--Shouts +of indignation. + +PASTOR [_hurriedly_]. Fourthly, have you blasphemed? Fifthly, have you +coveted your neighbor's ass, his ox, his slave, his wife? Sixthly-- + +PHOTOGRAPHER [_alarmed_]. Ladies and gentlemen, an ass! + +SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Where? I can't see it! + +PHOTOGRAPHER [_calmed_]. I thought I heard it. + +PASTOR. I congratulate you, my son! I congratulate you! You have made +your peace with God. Now you may rest easy--Oh, God, what do I see? The +Salvation Army! Policeman, chase them away! + + [_Enter a Salvation Army band, men and women in uniforms. There + are only three instruments, a drum, a violin and a piercingly + shrill trumpet._] + +SALVATION ARMY MAN [_frantically beating his drum and shouting in a +nasal voice_]. Brethren and sisters-- + +PASTOR [_shouting even louder in a still more nasal voice in an effort +to drown the other's_]. He has already confessed. Bear witness, ladies +and gentlemen, that he has confessed and made his peace with heaven. + +SALVATION ARMY WOMAN [_climbing on a rock and shrieking_]. I once +wandered in the dark just as this sinner and I lived a bad life and was +a drunkard, but when the light of truth-- + +A VOICE. Why, she is drunk now. + +PASTOR. Policeman, didn't he confess and make his peace with heaven? + + [_The Salvation Army man continues to beat his drum frantically; + the rest begin to drawl a song. Shouts, laughter, whistling. + Singing in the cafe, and calls of "Waiter!" in all languages. The + bewildered policemen tear themselves away from the pastor, who is + pulling them somewhere; the photographers turn and twist about as + if the seats were burning under them. An English lady comes riding + in on a donkey, who, stopping suddenly, sprawls out his legs and + refuses to go farther, adding his noise to the rest. Gradually the + noise subsides. The Salvation Army band solemnly withdraws, and + the pastor, waving his hands, follows them._] + +FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST [_to the other_]. How impolite! This crowd doesn't +know how to behave itself. + +SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. Come, let's go away from here. + +FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST. One minute. [_He shouts._] Listen, won't you +hurry up and fall? + +SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. What are you saying, Sir William? + +FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST [_shouting_]. Don't you see that's what they are +waiting for? As a gentleman you should grant them this pleasure and so +escape the humiliation of undergoing tortures before this mob. + +SECOND ENGLISH TOURIST. Sir William. + +TOURIST [_ecstatically_]. See? It's true. Aleck, Jimmie, it's true. What +a tragedy! + +SEVERAL TOURISTS [_going for the Englishman_]. How dare you? + +FIRST ENGLISH TOURIST [_shoving them aside_]. Hurry up and fall! Do you +hear? If you haven't the backbone I'll help you out with a pistol shot. + +VOICES. That red-haired devil has gone clear out of his mind. + +POLICEMAN [_seizing the Englishman's hand_]. You have no right to do it, +it's against the law. I'll arrest you. + +SOME TOURISTS. A barbarous nation! + + [_The unknown man shouts something. Excitement below._] + +VOICES. Hear, hear, hear! + +UNKNOWN MAN [_aloud_]. Take that jackass away to the devil. He wants to +shoot me. And tell the boss that I can't stand it any longer. + +VOICES. What's that? What boss? He is losing his mind, the poor man. + +TOURIST. Aleck! Mary! This is a mad scene. Jimmie, you remember Hamlet? +Quick. + +UNKNOWN MAN [_angrily_]. Tell him my spinal column is broken. + +MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, he's beginning to kick with his legs. + +KATE. Is that what is called convulsions, papa? + +TOURIST [_rapturously_]. I don't know. I think it is. What a tragedy? + +ALECK [_glumly_]. You fool! You keep cramming and cramming and you don't +know that the right name for that is agony. And you wear eyeglasses, +too. I can't bear it any longer, papa. + +TOURIST. Think of it, children. A man is about to fall down to his death +and he is bothering about his spinal column. + + [_There is a noise. A man in a white vest, very much frightened, + enters, almost dragged by angry tourists. He smiles, bows on all + sides, stretches out his arms, now running forward as he is + pushed, now trying to escape in the crowd, but is seized and + pulled again._] + +VOICES. A bare-faced deception! It is an outrage. Policeman, policeman, +he must be taught a lesson! + +OTHER VOICES. What is it? What deception? What is it all about? They +have caught a thief! + +THE MAN IN THE WHITE VEST [_bowing and smiling_]. It's a joke, ladies +and gentlemen, a joke, that's all. The people were bored, so I wanted to +provide a little amusement for them. + +UNKNOWN MAN [_angrily_]. Boss! + +THE MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. Wait a while, wait a while. + +UNKNOWN MAN. Do you expect me to stay here until the Second Advent? The +agreement was till twelve o'clock. What time is it now? + +TALL TOURIST [_indignantly_]. Do you hear, ladies and gentlemen? This +scoundrel, this man here in the white vest hired that other scoundrel up +there and just simply tied him to the rock. + +VOICES. Is he tied? + +TALL TOURIST. Yes, he is tied and he can't fall. We are excited and +worrying, but he couldn't fall even if he tried. + +UNKNOWN MAN. What else do you want? Do you think I am going to break my +neck for your measly ten dollars? Boss, I can't stand it any more. One +man wanted to shoot me. The pastor preached me for two hours. This is +not in the agreement. + +ALECK. Father, I told you that Baedeker lies. You believe everything +anybody tells you and drag us about without eating. + +MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. The people were bored. My only desire was to +amuse the people. + +MILITARY WOMAN. What is the matter? I don't understand a thing. Why +isn't he going to fall? Who, then, is going to fall? + +TOURIST. I don't understand a thing either. Of course he's got to fall! + +JAMES. You never understand anything, father. Weren't you told that he's +tied to the rock? + +ALECK. You can't convince him. He loves every Baedeker more than his own +children. + +JAMES. A nice father! + +TOURIST. Silence! + +MILITARY WOMAN. What is the matter? He must fall. + +TALL TOURIST. The idea! What a deception. You'll have to explain this. + +MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. The people were bored. Excuse me, ladies and +gentlemen, but wishing to accommodate you--give you a few hours of +pleasant excitement--elevate your spirits--inspire you with altruistic +sentiments-- + +ENGLISHMAN. Is the cafe yours? + +MAN IN THE WHITE VEST. Yes. + +ENGLISHMAN. And is the hotel below also yours? + +GENTLEMAN. Yes. The people were bored-- + +CORRESPONDENT [_writing_]. The proprietor of the cafe, desiring to +increase his profits from the sale of alcoholic beverages, exploits the +best human sentiments.--The people's indignation-- + +UNKNOWN MAN [_angrily_]. Boss, will you have me taken off at once or +won't you? + +HOTEL KEEPER. What do you want up there? Aren't you satisfied? Didn't I +have you taken off at night? + +UNKNOWN MAN. Well, I should say so. You think I'd be hanging here +nights, too! + +HOTEL OWNER. Then you can stand it a few minutes longer. The people are +bored-- + +TALL TOURIST. Say, have you any idea of what you have done? Do you +realize the enormity of it? You are scoundrels, who for your own sordid +personal ends have impiously exploited the finest human sentiment, love +of one's neighbor. You have caused us to undergo fear and suffering. You +have poisoned our hearts with pity. And now, what is the upshot of it +all? The upshot is that this scamp, your vile accomplice, is bound to +the rock and not only will he not fall as everybody expects, but he +_can't_. + +MILITARY WOMAN. What is the matter? He has got to fall. + +TOURIST. Policeman! Policeman! + + [_The pastor enters, out of breath._] + +PASTOR. What? Is he still living? Oh, there he is! What fakirs those +Salvationists are. + +VOICES. Don't you know that he is bound? + +PASTOR. Bound! Bound to what? To life? Well, we are all bound to life +until death snaps the cord. But whether he is bound or not bound, I +reconciled him with heaven, and that's enough. But those fakirs-- + +TOURIST. Policeman! Policeman, you must draw up an official report. +There is no way out of it. + +MILITARY WOMAN [_going for the hotel owner_]. I will not allow myself to +be fooled. I saw an aeronaut drop from the clouds and go crash upon a +roof. I saw a tiger tear a woman to pieces-- + +PHOTOGRAPHER. I spoiled three films photographing that scamp. You will +have to answer for this, sir. I will hold you responsible. + +TOURIST. An official report! An official report! Such a bare-faced +deception. Mary, Jimmie, Aleck, Charlie, call a policeman. + +HOTEL KEEPER [_drawing back, in despair_]. But, I can't make him fall if +he doesn't want to. I did everything in my power, ladies and gentlemen! + +MILITARY WOMAN. I will not allow it. + +HOTEL KEEPER. Excuse me. I promise you on my word of honor that the next +time he will fall. But he doesn't want to, to-day. + +UNKNOWN MAN. What's that? What did you say about the next time? + +HOTEL KEEPER. You shut up there! + +UNKNOWN MAN. For ten dollars? + +PASTOR. Pray, what impudence! I just made his peace with heaven when he +was in danger of his life. You have heard him threatening to fall on my +head, haven't you? And still he is dissatisfied. Adulterer, thief, +murderer, coveter of your neighbor's ass-- + +PHOTOGRAPHER. Ladies and gentlemen, an ass! + +SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. Where, where is an ass? + +PHOTOGRAPHER [_calmed_]. I thought I heard one. + +SECOND PHOTOGRAPHER. It is you who are an ass. I have become cross-eyed +on account of your shouting: "An ass! An ass!" + +MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, look! A policeman is coming. + + [_Excitement and noise. On one side a crowd pulling a policeman, + on the other the hotel keeper; both keep crying: "Excuse me! + Excuse me!"_] + +TOURIST. Policeman, there he is, the fakir, the swindler. + +PASTOR. Policeman, there he is, the adulterer, the murderer, the coveter +of his neighbor's ass-- + +POLICEMAN. Excuse me, excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. We will bring him +to his senses in short order and make him confess. + +HOTEL KEEPER. I can't make him fall if he doesn't want to. + +POLICEMAN. Hey, you, young man out there! Can you fall or can't you? +Confess! + +UNKNOWN MAN [_sullenly_]. I don't want to fall! + +VOICES. Aha, he has confessed. What a scoundrel! + +TALL TOURIST. Write down what I dictate, policeman--"Desiring--for the +sake of gain to exploit the sentiment of love of one's neighbor--the +sacred feeling--a-a-a--" + +TOURIST. Listen, children, they are drawing up an official report. What +exquisite choice of language! + +TALL TOURIST. The sacred feeling which-- + +POLICEMAN [_writing with painful effort, his tongue stuck out_]. Love of +one's neighbor--the sacred feeling which-- + +MARY [_wearily_]. Papa, children, look! An advertisement is coming. + + [_Enter musicians with trumpets and drums, a man at their head + carrying on a long pole a huge placard with the picture of an + absolutely bald head, and printed underneath: "I was bald."_] + +UNKNOWN MAN. Too late. They are drawing up a report here. You had better +skidoo! + +THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE [_stopping and speaking in a loud voice_]. I +had been bald from the day of my birth and for a long time thereafter. +That miserable growth, which in my tenth year covered my scalp was more +like wool than real hair. When I was married my skull was as bare as a +pillow and my young bride-- + +TOURIST. What a tragedy! Newly married and with such a head! Can you +realize how dreadful that is, children? + + [_All listen with interest, even the policeman stopping in his + arduous task and inclining his ear with his pen in his hand._] + +THE MAN CARRYING THE POLE [_solemnly_]. And the time came when my +matrimonial happiness literally hung by a hair. All the medicines +recommended by quacks to make my hair grow-- + +TOURIST. Your note-book, Jimmie. + +MILITARY WOMAN. But when is he going to fall? + +HOTEL KEEPER [_amiably_]. The next time, lady, the next time. I won't +tie him so hard--you understand? + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE BOOR + + A COMEDY + + BY ANTON TCHEKOFF + TRANSLATED BY HILMAR BAUKAGE. + + + Copyright, 1915, by Samuel French. + + + CHARACTERS + + HELENA IVANOVNA POPOV [_a young widow, mistress of a country + estate_]. + GRIGORJI STEPANOVITCH SMIRNOV [_proprietor of a country estate_]. + LUKA [_servant of Mrs. Popov_]. + A GARDENER. + A COACHMAN. + _Several Workmen._ + + PLACE: _The Estate of Mrs. Popov_. + TIME: _The Present_. + + [_The stage shows an elegantly furnished reception room._] + + + Reprinted from "The World's Best Plays by Celebrated European + Authors," edited by Barrett H. Clark, and published by Samuel French, + by permission of, and special arrangements with, Samuel French. + + + +THE BOOR + +A COMEDY BY ANTON TCHEKOFF + + + [_Mrs. Popov discovered in deep mourning, sitting upon a sofa, + gazing steadfastly at a photograph. Luka is also present._] + + +LUKA. It isn't right, ma'am--You're wearing yourself out! The maid and +the cook have gone looking for berries, everything that breathes is +enjoying life, even the cat knows how to be happy--slips about the +courtyard and catches birds; but you hide yourself here in the house as +though you were in a cloister and have no pleasures--Yes, truly, by +actual reckoning you haven't left this house for a whole year. + +MRS. POPOV. And I shall never leave it--why should I? My life is over. +He lies in his grave, and I have buried myself within these four walls. +We are both dead. + +LUKA. There you are again! It's too awful to listen to, so it is! +Nikolai Michailovitch is dead, it was the will of the Lord and the Lord +has given him eternal peace. You have grieved over it and that ought to +be enough. Now it's time to stop. One can't weep and wear mourning +forever! My wife died a few years ago, too. I grieved for her, I wept a +whole month--and then it was over. Must one be forever singing +lamentations? That would be more than your husband was worth! [_He +sighs._] You have forgotten all your neighbors. You don't go out and you +won't receive any one. We live,--you'll pardon me--like the spiders, and +the good light of day we never see. All the livery is eaten by the +mice--As though there weren't any more nice people in the world! But the +whole neighborhood is full of gentlefolk. In Riblov the regiment is +stationed, officers--simply beautiful! One can't see enough of them! +Every Friday a ball, and military music every day. Oh, my dear, dear +ma'am, young and pretty as you are, if you'd only let your spirits live! +Beauty can't last forever. When ten short years are over, then you'll be +glad enough to go out a bit! And meet the officers--and then it'll be +too late. + +MRS. POPOV [_resolutely_]. Please, don't speak of these things to me +again. You know very well that since the death of Nikolai Michailovitch +my life is absolutely nothing to me. You think I live, but it only seems +that I live. Do you understand? Oh, that his departed soul may see how I +love him--Oh, I know, it's no secret to you; he was often unjust towards +me, cruel and--he wasn't faithful, but I shall be faithful to the grave +and prove to him how I am able to love. There, in the beyond, he'll find +me the same, as I was until his death. + +LUKA. What is the use of all these words? When you'd so much rather go +walking in the garden or order Tobby or Welikan harnessed to the trap, +and visit the neighbors. + +MRS. POPOV [_weeping_]. Oh! + +LUKA. Madam, dear, dear Madam, what is it? In heaven's name? + +MRS. POPOV. He loved Tobby so! He always took him when he drove to the +Kortschagins or the Vlassovs. What a wonderful horseman he was! How fine +he looked! When he pulled at the reins with all his might! Tobby, Tobby, +give him an extra measure of oats to-day! + +LUKA. Yes, ma'am. + + [_A bell rings loudly._] + +MRS. POPOV [_shudders_]. What's that? Say that I am receiving no one. + +LUKA. Yes, ma'am. [_He goes out center._] + +MRS. POPOV [_gazing at the photograph_]. You shall see, Nikol, how I can +love and forgive--My love will die only with me--when my poor heart +stops beating. [_She smiles through her tears._] And aren't you +ashamed? I have been a good, true wife, I have imprisoned myself and I +shall remain true until the grave, and you--you--you're not ashamed of +yourself, my dear monster! Betrayed me, quarreled with me, left me alone +for weeks-- + + [_Luka enters in great excitement._] + +LUKA. Oh, ma'am, some one is asking for you, insists on seeing you-- + +MRS. POPOV. You told him that since my husband's death I receive no one? + +LUKA. I said so, but he won't listen, he says that it is a pressing +matter. + +MRS. POPOV. I--re--ceive--no--one! + +LUKA. I told him that, but he's a wild-man, he swore and pushed himself +into the room--he's in the dining room now. + +MRS. POPOV [_excitedly_]. Good. Show him in. What an intruder! + + [_Luka goes out center._] + +MRS. POPOV. What a bore people are! What can they want with me? Why do +they disturb my peace? [_She sighs._] Yes, it is clear I must go to a +cloister. [_Meditatively._] Yes, in a cloister-- + + [_Smirnov enters followed by Luka._] + +SMIRNOV [_to Luka_]. Fool, you make too much noise! You're an ass! +[_Discovering Mrs. Popov--politely._] Madam, I have the honor to +introduce myself; Lieutenant in the Artillery, retired, country +gentleman, Grigorji Stepanovitch Smirnov! I'm forced to bother you about +an exceedingly important matter. + +MRS. POPOV [_without offering her hand_]. What is it you wish? + +SMIRNOV. Your deceased husband, with whom I had the honor to be +acquainted, left me two notes amounting to about twelve hundred rubles. +Inasmuch as I have to meet the interest to-morrow on a loan from the +Agrarian Bank, I should like to request, madam, that you pay me the +money to-day. + +MRS. POPOV. Twelve hundred--and for what was my husband indebted to you? + +SMIRNOV. He had bought oats from me. + +MRS. POPOV [_with a sigh to Luka_]. Don't forget to have Tobby given an +extra measure of oats. + + [_Luka goes out._] + +MRS. POPOV [_to Smirnov_]. If Nikolai Michailovitch is indebted to you, +I will of course pay you, but, I am sorry, I haven't the money to-day. +To-morrow my manager will be back from the city and I shall notify him +to pay you what is due you, but until then I cannot satisfy your +request. Furthermore to-day it is just seven months since the death of +my husband and I am not in the mood to discuss money matters. + +SMIRNOV. And I am in the mood to fly up the chimney with my feet in the +air if I can't lay hands on that interest to-morrow. They'll sequestrate +my estate! + +MRS. POPOV. Day after to-morrow you will receive the money. + +SMIRNOV. I don't need the money day after to-morrow, I need it to-day. + +MRS. POPOV. I'm sorry I can't pay you to-day. + +SMIRNOV. And I can't wait until day after to-morrow. + +MRS. POPOV. But what can I do if I haven't it? + +SMIRNOV. So you can't pay? + +MRS. POPOV. I cannot. + +SMIRNOV. Hm.--Is that your last word? + +MRS. POPOV. My last. + +SMIRNOV. Absolutely? + +MRS. POPOV. Absolutely. + +SMIRNOV. Thank you. We shan't forget it. [_He shrugs his shoulders._] +And then they expect me to stand for all that. The toll gatherer just +now met me in the road and asked, why are you always worrying, Grigorji +Stepanovitch? Why in heaven's name shouldn't I worry? I need money, I +feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday morning I left my house in the +early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had paid +his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers! The devil knows in what sort +of Jew-inn I slept, in a room with a barrel of brandy! And now at last I +come here, seventy versts from home, hope for a little money and all you +give me is moods. Why shouldn't I worry? + +MRS. POPOV. I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return +from town and then you will get your money? + +SMIRNOV. I did not come to see the manager, I came to see you. What the +devil--pardon the language--do I care for your manager? + +MRS. POPOV. Really, sir, I am neither used to such language nor such +manners. I shan't listen to you any further. [_She goes out left._] + +SMIRNOV. What can one say to that? Moods! Seven months since her husband +died! And do I have to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, +have I to pay the interest or not? Well yes, the husband is dead and all +that, the manager is--the devil with him--traveling somewhere. Now tell +me, what am I to do? Shall I run away from my creditors in a balloon? Or +push my head into a stone wall? If I call on Grusdev he chooses to be +"not at home," Iroschevitch has simply hidden himself, I have quarreled +with Kurzin until I came near throwing him out of the window, Masutov is +ill and this one in here has--moods! Not one of the crew will pay up! +And all because I've spoiled them all, because I'm an old whiner, an old +dish rag! I'm too tender hearted with them. But you wait! I'll show you! +I permit nobody to play tricks with me, the devil with 'em all! I'll +stay here and not budge from the spot until she pays! Brrr! How angry I +am, how terribly angry I am! Every tendon is trembling with anger and I +can hardly breathe--ah, I'm even growing ill. [_He calls out._] Servant! + + [_Luka enters._] + +LUKA. What is it you wish? + +SMIRNOV. Bring me Kvas or water! [_Luka goes out._] Well, what can we +do? She hasn't it on hand? What sort of logic is that? A fellow stands +with the knife at his throat, he needs money, he is just at the point of +hanging himself, and she won't pay because she isn't in the mood to +discuss money matters. See! Pure woman's logic. That's why I never liked +to talk to women and why I hate to do it now. I would rather sit on a +powder barrel than talk with a woman. Brr!--I'm getting cold as ice, +this affair has made me so angry. I only need to see such a romantic +creature from the distance to get so angry that I have cramps in the +calves? It's enough to make one yell for help! + + [_Enter Luka._] + +LUKA [_hands him water_]. Madam is ill and is not receiving. + +SMIRNOV. March! [_Luka goes out._] Ill and isn't receiving! All right, +it isn't necessary. I won't receive either. I'll sit here and stay until +you bring that money. If you're ill a week, I'll sit here a week. If +you're ill a year, I'll sit here a year. As heaven is a witness I'll get +my money. You don't disturb me with your mourning--or with your dimples. +We know these dimples! [_He calls out the window._] Simon, unharness. We +aren't going to leave right away. I am going to stay here. Tell them in +the stable to give the horses some oats. The left horse has twisted the +bridle again. [_Imitating him._] Stop. I'll show you how. Stop. [_Leaves +window._] It's awful. Unbearable heat, no money, didn't sleep well last +night and now mourning-dresses with moods. My head aches, perhaps I +ought to have a drink. Ye-s, I must have a drink. [_Calling._] Servant! + +LUKA. What do you wish? + +SMIRNOV. A little drink. [_Luka goes out. Smirnov sits down and looks at +his clothes._] Ugh, a fine figure! No use denying that. Dust, dirty +boots, unwashed, uncombed, straw on my vest--the lady probably took me +for a highwayman. [_He yawns._] It was a little impolite to come into a +reception room with such clothes. Oh well, no harm done. I'm not here as +guest. I'm a creditor. And there is no special costume for creditors. + +LUKA [_entering with glass_]. You take a great deal of liberty, sir. + +SMIRNOV [_angrily_]. What? + +LUKA. I--I--I just-- + +SMIRNOV. Whom are you talking to? Keep quiet. + +LUKA [_angrily_]. Nice mess! This fellow won't leave! [_He goes out._] + +SMIRNOV. Lord, how angry I am! Angry enough to throw mud at the whole +world! I even feel ill--servant! + + [_Mrs. Popov comes in with downcast eyes._] + +MRS. POPOV. Sir, in my solitude I have become unaccustomed to the human +voice and I cannot stand the sound of loud talking. I beg of you, please +to cease disturbing my quiet. + +SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave. + +MRS. POPOV. I told you once plainly in your native tongue that I haven't +the money on hand; wait until day after to-morrow. + +SMIRNOV. And I also have the honor of informing you in your native +tongue that I need the money, not day after to-morrow, but to-day. If +you don't pay me to-day I shall have to hang myself to-morrow. + +MRS. POPOV. But what can I do when I haven't the money? How strange! + +SMIRNOV. So you are not going to pay immediately? You're not? + +MRS. POPOV. I can't. + +SMIRNOV. Then I'll sit here and stay until I get the money. [_He sits._] +You will pay day after to-morrow? Excellent! Here I stay until day after +to-morrow. [_Jumps up._] I ask you: do I have to pay that interest +to-morrow or not? Or do you think I'm joking? + +MRS. POPOV. Sir, I beg of you, don't scream! This is not a stable. + +SMIRNOV. I'm not asking you about a stable, I'm asking you whether I +have to pay that interest to-morrow or not? + +MRS. POPOV. You have no idea how a lady should be treated. + +SMIRNOV. Oh, yes, I know how to treat ladies. + +MRS. POPOV. No, you don't. You are an ill-bred, vulgar +person--respectable people don't speak so with ladies. + +SMIRNOV. Oh, how remarkable! How do you want one to speak with you? In +French perhaps. Madame, je vous prie--how fortunate I am that you won't +pay me my money! Pardon me for having disturbed you. What beautiful +weather we are having to-day. And how this mourning becomes you. [_He +makes an ironic bow._] + +MRS. POPOV. Not at all funny--vulgar! + +SMIRNOV [_imitating her_]. Not at all funny--vulgar. I don't understand +how to behave in the company of ladies. Madam, in the course of my life +I have seen more women than you have sparrows. Three times I have fought +duels over women, twelve women I threw over and nine threw me over. +There was a time when I played the fool, used honeyed language, bows and +scrapings. I loved, suffered, sighed to the moon, melted in love's +torments. I loved passionately, I loved to madness, in every key, +chattered like a magpie on emancipation, sacrificed half my fortune in +the tender passion until now the devil knows I've had enough of it. Your +obedient servant will let you lead him around by the nose no more. +Enough! Black eyes, passionate eyes, coral lips, dimples in cheeks, +moonlight whispers, soft, modest sighs,--for all that, madam, I wouldn't +pay a copper cent. I am not speaking of the present company but of women +in general; from the tiniest to the greatest, they are all conceited, +hypocritical, chattering, odious, deceitful from top to toe; vain, +petty, cruel with a maddening logic and [_he strikes his forehead_] in +this respect, please excuse my frankness, but one sparrow is worth ten +of the aforementioned petticoat-philosophers. When one sees one of the +romantic creatures before him he imagines that he is looking at some +holy being, so wonderful that its one breath could dissolve him in a sea +of a thousand charms and delights--but if one looks into the soul--it's +nothing but a common crocodile. [_He seizes the arm-chair and breaks it +in two._] But the worst of all is that this crocodile imagines that it +is a chef-d'oeuvre and that it has a monopoly on all the tender +passions. May the devil hang me upside down if there is anything to love +about a woman! When she is in love all she knows is how to complain and +shed tears. If the man suffers and makes sacrifices she trails her train +about and tries to lead him around by the nose. You have the misfortune +to be a woman and you naturally know woman's nature; tell me on your +honor, have you ever in your life seen a woman who was really true and +faithful? You never saw one. Only the old and the deformed are true and +faithful. It's easier to find a cat with horns or a white woodcock than +a faithful woman. + +MRS. POPOV. But just allow me to ask, who is true and faithful in love? +The man, perhaps? + +SMIRNOV. Yes, indeed! The man! + +MRS. POPOV. The man! [_She laughs ironically._] The man is true and +faithful in love! Well, that is something new. [_She laughs bitterly._] +How can you make such a statement? Men true and faithful! As long as we +have gone as far as we have I may as well say that of all the men I have +known my husband was the best--I loved him passionately with all my +soul, as only a young, sensible woman may love, I gave him my youth, my +happiness, my fortune, my life. I worshiped him like a heathen. And what +happened? This best of all men betrayed me right and left in every +possible fashion. After his death I found his desk filled with a +collection of love letters. While he was alive he left me alone for +months--it is horrible to even think about it--he made love to other +women in my very presence, he wasted my money and made fun of my +feelings,--and in spite of all that I trusted him and was true to him. +And more than that, he is dead and I am still true to him. I have buried +myself within these four walls and I shall wear this mourning to my +grave. + +SMIRNOV [_laughing disrespectfully_]. Mourning! What on earth do you +take me for? As if I didn't know why you wore this black domino and why +you buried yourself within these four walls. As if I didn't know! Such a +secret! So romantic! Some knight will pass the castle, will gaze up at +the windows and think to himself: "Here dwells the mysterious Tamara +who, for love of her husband, has buried herself within four walls." Oh, +I understand the art! + +MRS. POPOV [_springing up_]. What? What do you mean by saying such +things to me? + +SMIRNOV. You have buried yourself alive, but meanwhile you have not +forgotten to powder your nose! + +MRS. POPOV. How dare you speak to me so? + +SMIRNOV. Don't scream at me, please, I'm not the manager. Just let me +call things by their right names. I am not a woman and I am accustomed +to speak out what I think. So please don't scream. + +MRS. POPOV. I'm not screaming. It is you who are doing the screaming. +Please leave me, I beg of you. + +SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave. + +MRS. POPOV. I won't give you the money. + +SMIRNOV. You won't? You won't give me my money? + +MRS. POPOV. I don't care what you do. You won't get a kopeck! Leave me +alone. + +SMIRNOV. As I haven't the pleasure of being either your husband or your +fiance please don't make a scene. [_He sits down._] I can't stand it. + +MRS. POPOV [_breathing hard_]. You are going to sit down? + +SMIRNOV. I already have. + +MRS. POPOV. Kindly leave the house! + +SMIRNOV. Give me the money. + +MRS. POPOV. I don't care to speak with impudent men. Leave! [_Pause._] +You aren't going? + +SMIRNOV. No. + +MRS. POPOV. No? + +SMIRNOV. No. + +MRS. POPOV. Very well. [_She rings the bell._] + + [_Enter Luka._] + +MRS. POPOV. Luka, show the gentleman out. + +LUKA [_going to Smirnov_]. Sir, why don't you leave when you are +ordered? What do you want-- + +SMIRNOV [_jumping up_]. Whom do you think you are talking to? I'll grind +you to powder. + +LUKA [_puts his hand to his heart_]. Good Lord! [_He drops into a +chair._] Oh, I'm ill, I can't breathe! + +MRS. POPOV. Where is Dascha? [_Calling._] Dascha! Pelageja! Dascha! +[_She rings._] + +LUKA. They're all gone! I'm ill. Water! + +MRS. POPOV [_to Smirnov_]. Leave! Get out! + +SMIRNOV. Kindly be a little more polite! + +MRS. POPOV [_striking her fists and stamping her feet_]. You are vulgar! +You're a boor! A monster! + +SMIRNOV. Wh--at did you say? + +MRS. POPOV. I said you were a boor, a monster! + +SMIRNOV [_steps toward her quickly_]. Permit me to ask what right you +have to insult me? + +MRS. POPOV. Yes, I insult you. What of it? Do you think I am afraid of +you? + +SMIRNOV. And you think that because you are a romantic creature that you +can insult me without being punished? I challenge you! Now you have it. + +LUKA. Merciful heaven! Water! + +SMIRNOV. We'll have a duel. + +MRS. POPOV. Do you think because you have big fists and a steer's neck +that I am afraid of you? + +SMIRNOV. That is the limit! I allow no one to insult me and I make no +exception because you are a woman, one of the "weaker sex"! + +MRS. POPOV [_trying to cry him down_]. Boor, boor, boor! + +SMIRNOV. It is high time to do away with the old superstition that it is +only a man who is forced to give satisfaction. If there is equity at all +let there be equity in all things. There's a limit! + +MRS. POPOV. You wish to fight a duel? Very well. + +SMIRNOV. Immediately. + +MRS. POPOV. Immediately. My husband had pistols. I'll bring them. [_She +hurries away, then turns._] Oh, what a pleasure it will be to put a +bullet in your impudent head. The devil take you! [_She goes out._] + +SMIRNOV. I'll shoot her down! I'm no fledgling, no sentimental, young +puppy. For me there is no weaker sex. + +LUKA. Oh, sir. [_Falls to his knees._] Have mercy on me, an old man, and +go away. You have frightened me to death already and now you want to +fight a duel. + +SMIRNOV [_paying no attention_]. A duel. That's equity, that's +emancipation. That way the sexes are made equal. I'll shoot her down as +a matter of principle. What can a person say to such a woman? +[_Imitating her._] "The devil take you. I'll put a bullet in your +impudent head." What can a person say to that? She was angry, her eyes +blazed, she accepted the challenge. On my honor it's the first time in +my life that I ever saw such a woman. + +LUKA. Oh, sir. Go away. Go away from here. + +SMIRNOV. That _is_ a woman. I can understand her. A real woman. No +shilly-shallying, but fire, powder, and noise! It would be a pity to +shoot a woman like that. + +LUKA [_weeping_]. Oh, sir; go away. + + [_Enter Mrs. Popov._] + +MRS. POPOV. Here are the pistols. But before we have our duel please +show me how to shoot. I have never had a pistol in my hand before! + +LUKA. God be merciful and have pity upon us! I'll go and get the +gardener and the coachman. Why has this horror come to us! [_He goes +out._] + +SMIRNOV [_looking at the pistols_]. You see there are different kinds of +pistols. There are special duelling pistols with cap and ball. But these +are revolvers, Smith & Wesson, with ejectors, fine pistols. A pair like +that cost at least ninety rubles. This is the way to hold a revolver. +[_Aside._] Those eyes, those eyes! A real woman! + +MRS. POPOV. Like this? + +SMIRNOV. Yes, that way. Then you pull the hammer back--so--then you +aim--put your head back a little--just stretch your arm out, please. +So--then press your finger on the thing like that, and that is all. The +chief thing is this: don't get excited, don't hurry your aim, and take +care that your hand doesn't tremble. + +MRS. POPOV. It isn't as well to shoot inside, let's go into the garden. + +SMIRNOV. Yes. I'll tell you now that I am going to shoot into the air. + +MRS. POPOV. That is too much. Why? + +SMIRNOV. Because--because--That's my business why. + +MRS. POPOV. You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h. No, no, my dear sir, no +welching. Please follow me. I won't rest myself, until I've made a hole +in your head that I hate so much. Are you afraid? + +SMIRNOV. Yes, I'm afraid. + +MRS. POPOV. You are lying. Why won't you fight? + +SMIRNOV. Because--because--I--like you. + +MRS. POPOV [_with an angry laugh_]. You like me! He dares to say that he +likes me. [_She points to the door._] Go. + +SMIRNOV [_laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and +goes; at the door he stops a moment gazing at her silently, then he +approaches her undecidedly_]. Listen? Are you still angry? I was mad as +the devil, but please understand me--how can I express myself?--The +thing is like this--such things are--[_He raises his voice._] How is it +my fault that you owe me money? [_Grasps the chair back which breaks._] +The devil knows what breakable furniture you have! I like you! Do you +understand?--I--I'm almost in love! + +MRS. POPOV. Leave. I hate you. + +SMIRNOV. Lord! What a woman! I never in my life met one like her. I'm +lost, ruined! I've been caught like a mouse in a trap. + +MRS. POPOV. Go, or I'll shoot. + +SMIRNOV. Shoot! You have no idea what happiness it would be to die in +sight of those beautiful eyes, to die from the revolver in this little +velvet hand--I'm mad! Consider it and decide immediately for if I go +now; we shall never see each other again. Decide--speak--I am a noble, a +respectable man, have an income of ten thousand, can shoot a coin thrown +into the air--I own some fine horses. Will you be my wife? + +MRS. POPOV [_swings the revolver angrily_]. Shoot! + +SMIRNOV. My mind is not clear--I can't understand--servant--water! I +have fallen in love like any young man. [_He takes her hand and she +cries with pain._] I love you! [_He kneels._] I love you as I have never +loved before. Twelve women, I threw over, nine were untrue to me, but +not one of them all have I loved as I love you. I am conquered, lost, I +lie at your feet like a fool and beg for your hand. Shame and disgrace! +For five years I haven't been in love, I thanked the Lord for it and now +I am caught, like a carriage tongue in another carriage. I beg for your +hand! Yes or no? Will you?--Good! [_He gets up and goes to the door +quickly._] + +MRS. POPOV. Wait a moment-- + +SMIRNOV [_stopping_]. Well? + +MRS. POPOV. Nothing. You may go. But--wait a moment. No, go on, go on. I +hate you. Or no. Don't go. Oh, if you knew how angry I was, how angry! +[_She throws the revolver onto the chair._] My finger is swollen from +this thing. [_She angrily tears her handkerchief._] What are you +standing there for? Get out! + +SMIRNOV. Farewell! + +MRS. POPOV. Yes, go. [_Cries out._] What are you going for? Wait--no, +go!! Oh, how angry I am! Don't come too near, don't come too +near--er--come--no nearer. + +SMIRNOV [_approaching her_]. How angry I am with myself. Fallen in love +like a school-boy, thrown myself on my knees. I've got a chill! +[_Strongly._] I love you. This is fine,--all I needed was to fall in +love. To-morrow I have to pay my interest, the hay harvest has begun and +then you appear. [_He takes her in his arms._] I can never forgive +myself. + +MRS. POPOV. Go away! Take your hands off me! I hate you--you--this +is--[_A long kiss._] + + [_Enter Luka with an ax, the gardener with a rake, the coachman + with a pitch-fork, workmen with poles._] + +LUKA [_staring at the pair_]. Merciful Heavens! [_A long pause._] + +MRS. POPOV [_dropping her eyes_]. Tell them in the stable that Tobby +isn't to have any oats. + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND + + A COMEDY + + BY JACINTO BENEVENTE + TRANSLATED BY JOHN GARRETT UNDERHILL. + + + Copyright, 1917, by John Garrett Underhill. + All rights reserved. + + + First presented at the Teatro Principe Alfonso, Madrid, on the evening + of the nineteenth of October, 1908. + + CHARACTERS + + CAROLINA. + EUDOSIA. + PAQUITA. + FLORENCIO. + CASALONGA. + ZURITA. + VALDIVIESO. + + THE SCENE _is laid in a provincial capital_. + + + Reprinted from "Plays: First Series," by permission of, and special + arrangements with, Mr. John Garrett Underhill and Charles Scribner's + Sons. Applications for permission to produce HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND + should be addressed to the Society of Spanish Authors, 20 Nassau + Street, New York. + + + +HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND + +A COMEDY BY JACINTO BENEVENTE + + + [_Carolina is seated as Zurita enters._] + +ZURITA. My friend! + +CAROLINA. My good Zurita, it is so thoughtful of you to come so +promptly! I shall never be able to repay all your kindness. + +ZURITA. I am always delighted to be of service to a friend. + +CAROLINA. I asked them to look for you everywhere. Pardon the +inconvenience, but the emergency was extreme. I am in a terrible +position; all the tact in the world can never extricate me from one of +those embarrassing predicaments--unless you assist me by your advice. + +ZURITA. Count upon my advice; count upon me in anything. However, I +cannot believe that you are really in an embarrassing predicament. + +CAROLINA. But I am, my friend; and you are the only one who can advise +me. You are a person of taste; your articles and society column are the +standard of good form with us. Everybody accepts and respects your +decisions. + +ZURITA. Not invariably, I am sorry to say--especially now that I have +taken up the suppression of the hips, which are fatal to the success of +any _toilette_. Society was formerly very select in this city, but it is +no longer the same, as you no doubt have occasion to know. Too many +fortunes have been improvised, too many aristocratic families have +descended in the scale. There has been a great change in society. The +_parvenus_ dominate--and money is so insolent! People who have it +imagine that other things can be improvised--as education, for example, +manners, good taste. Surely you must realize that such things cannot be +improvised. Distinction is a hothouse plant. We grow too few gardenias +nowadays--like you, my friend. On the other hand, we have an abundance +of sow-thistles. Not that I am referring to the Nunez family.... How do +you suppose those ladies enliven their Wednesday evenings? With a +gramophone, my friend, with a gramophone--just like any vulgar cafe; +although I must confess that it is an improvement upon the days when the +youngest sang, the middle one recited, and all played together. +Nevertheless it is horrible. You can imagine my distress. + +CAROLINA. You know, of course, that I never take part in their +Wednesdays. I never call unless I am sure they are not at home. + +ZURITA. But that is no longer a protection; they leave the gramophone. +And the maid invites you to wait and entertain yourself with the +_Mochuelo_. What is a man to do? It is impossible to resent the records +upon the maid. But we are wandering from the subject. You excite my +curiosity. + +CAROLINA. You know that to-morrow is the day of the unveiling of the +statue of my husband, of my previous husband-- + +ZURITA. A fitting honor to the memory of that great, that illustrious +man. This province owes him much, and so does all Spain. We who enjoyed +the privilege of calling ourselves his friends, should be delighted to +see justice done to his deserts at last, here where political jealousies +and intrigues have always belittled the achievements of our eminent men. +But Don Patricio Molinete could have no enemies. To-morrow will atone +for much of the pettiness of the past. + +CAROLINA. No doubt. I feel I ought to be proud and happy, although you +understand the delicacy of my position. Now that I have married again, +my name is not the same. Yet it is impossible to ignore the fact that +once it was mine, especially as everybody knows that we were a model +couple. I might perhaps have avoided the situation by leaving town for +a few days on account of my health, but then that might have been +misinterpreted. People might have thought that I was displeased, or that +I declined to participate. + +ZURITA. Assuredly. Although your name is no longer the same, owing to +circumstances, the force of which we appreciate, that is no reason why +you should be deprived of the honor of having borne it worthily at the +time. Your present husband has no right to take offense. + +CAROLINA. No, poor Florencio! In fact, he was the first to realize that +I ought to take a leading part in the rejoicing. Poor Florencio was +always poor Patricio's greatest admirer. Their political ideas were the +same; they agreed in everything. + +ZURITA. Apparently. + +CAROLINA. As I have reason to know. Poor Patricio loved me dearly; +perhaps that was what led poor Florencio to imagine that there was +something in me to justify the affection of that great-hearted and +intellectual man. It was enough for me to know that Florencio was +Patricio's most intimate friend in order to form my opinion of him. Of +course, I recognize that Florencio's gifts will never enable him to +shine so brilliantly, but that is not to say that he is wanting in +ability. He lacks ambition, that is all. All his desires are satisfied +at home with me, at his own fireside. And I am as well pleased to have +it so. I am not ambitious myself. The seasons which I spent with my +husband in Madrid were a source of great uneasiness to me. I passed the +week during which he was Minister of Agriculture in one continual state +of anxiety. Twice he nearly had a duel--over some political question. I +did not know which way to turn. If he had ever become Prime Minister, as +was actually predicted by a newspaper which he controlled, I should have +been obliged to take to my bed for the week. + +ZURITA. You are not like our senator's wife, Senora Espinosa, nor the +wife of our present mayor. They will never rest, nor allow others to do +so, until they see their husbands erected in marble. + +CAROLINA. Do you think that either Espinosa or the mayor are of a +caliber to deserve statues? + +ZURITA. Not publicly, perhaps. In a private chapel, in the class of +martyrs and husbands, it might not be inappropriate. But I am growing +impatient. + +CAROLINA. As you say, friend Zurita, it might seem marked for me to +leave the city. Yet if I remain I must attend the unveiling of the +monument to my poor Patricio; I must be present at the memorial +exercises to-night in his honor; I must receive the delegations from +Madrid and the other cities, as well as the committees from the rest of +the province. But what attitude ought I to assume? If I seem too sad, +nobody will believe that my feeling is sincere. On the other hand, it +would not be proper to appear altogether reconciled. Then people would +think that I had forgotten too quickly. In fact, they think so already. + +ZURITA. Oh, no! You were very young when you became a widow. Life was +just beginning for you. + +CAROLINA. It is a delicate matter, however, to explain to my +sisters-in-law. Tell me, what ought I to wear? Anything severe, an +attempt at mourning, would be ridiculous, since I am going with my +husband; on the other hand, I should not like to suggest a festive +spirit. What do you think, friend Zurita? Give me your advice. What +would you wear? + +ZURITA. It is hard to say; the problem is difficult. Something rich and +black, perhaps, relieved by a note of violet. The unveiling of a +monument to perpetuate the memory of a great man is not an occasion for +mourning. Your husband is partaking already of the joys of immortality, +in which no doubt, he anticipates you. + +CAROLINA. Thank you so much. + +ZURITA. Do not thank me. You have done enough. You have been faithful to +his memory. You have married again, but you have married a man who was +your husband's most intimate friend. You have not acted like other +widows of my acquaintance--Senora Benitez, for example. She has been +living for two years with the deadliest enemy her husband had in the +province, without any pretense at getting married--which in her case +would have been preposterous. + +CAROLINA. There is no comparison. + +ZURITA. No, my friend; everybody sympathizes with your position, as they +ought. + +CAROLINA. The only ones who worry me are my sisters-in-law. They insist +that my position is ridiculous, and that of my husband still more so. +They do not see how we can have the effrontery to present ourselves +before the statue. + +ZURITA. Senora, I should not hesitate though it were that of the +Commander. Your sisters-in-law exaggerate. Your present husband is the +only one you have to consider. + +CAROLINA. I have no misgivings upon that score. I know that both will +appreciate that my feelings are sincere, one in this world, and the +other from the next. As for the rest, the rest-- + +ZURITA. The rest are your friends and your second husband's friends, as +we were of the first. We shall all take your part. The others you can +afford to neglect. + +CAROLINA. Thanks for those words of comfort. I knew that you were a good +friend of ours, as you were also of his. + +ZURITA. A friend to both, to all three; _si, senora_, to all three. But +here is your husband. + + [_Don Florencio enters._] + +ZURITA. Don Florencio! My friend! + +FLORENCIO. My dear Zurita! I am delighted to see you! I wish to thank +you for that charming article in memory of our never-to-be-forgotten +friend. It was good of you, and I appreciate it. You have certainly +proved yourself an excellent friend of his. Thanks, my dear Zurita, +thanks! Carolina and I are both indebted to you for your charming +article. It brought tears to our eyes. Am I right, Carolina? + +CAROLINA. We were tremendously affected by it. + +FLORENCIO. Friend Zurita, I am deeply gratified. For the first time in +the history of the province, all parties have united to do honor to this +region's most eminent son. But have you seen the monument? It is a work +of art. The statue is a perfect likeness--it is the man, the man +himself! The allegorical features are wonderfully artistic--Commerce, +Industry, and Truth taken altogether in the nude. Nothing finer could be +wished. You can imagine the trouble, however, we had with the nudes. The +conservative element opposed the nudes, but the sculptor declined to +proceed if the nudes were suppressed. In the end we won a decisive +victory for Art. + +CAROLINA. Do you know, I think it would have been just as well not to +have had any nudes? What was the use of offending anybody? Several of +our friends are going to remain away from the ceremonies upon that +account. + +FLORENCIO. How ridiculous! That only shows how far we are behind the +times. You certainly have no feeling of that sort after having been the +companion of that great, that liberal man. I remember the trip we took +to Italy together--you surely recollect it, Carolina. I never saw a man +so struck with admiration at those marvelous monuments of pagan and +Renaissance art. Oh, what a man! What a wonderful man! He was an artist. +Ah! Before I forget it, Carolina, Gutierrez asked me for any pictures +you have for the special edition of his paper, and I should like to have +him publish the verses which he wrote you when you were first engaged. +Did you ever see those verses? That man might have been a poet--he might +have been anything else for that matter. Talk about letters! I wish you +could see his letters. Carolina, let us see some of those letters he +wrote you when you were engaged. + +CAROLINA. Not now. That is hardly the time.... + +FLORENCIO. Naturally. In spite of the satisfaction which we feel, these +are trying days for us. We are united by our memories. I fear I shall +never be able to control myself at the unveiling of the statue. + +CAROLINA. Florencio, for heaven's sake, you must! You must control +yourself. + +ZURITA. Yes, do control yourself. You must. + +FLORENCIO. I am controlling myself. + +ZURITA. If there is nothing further that I can do.... + +CAROLINA. No, thank you, Zurita. I am awfully obliged to you. Now that I +know what I am to wear, the situation does not seem half so +embarrassing. + +ZURITA. I understand. A woman's position is never so embarrassing as +when she is hesitating as to what to put on. + +CAROLINA. Until to-morrow then? + +ZURITA. Don Florencio! + +FLORENCIO. Thank you again for your charming article. It was admirable! +Admirable! + + [_Zurita retires._] + +FLORENCIO. I see that you feel it deeply! you are touched. So am I. It +is foolish to attempt to conceal it. + +CAROLINA. I don't know how to express it, but--I am upset. + +FLORENCIO. Don't forget the pictures, however, especially the one where +the three of us were taken together on the second platform of the Eiffel +tower. It was particularly good. + +CAROLINA. Yes, something out of the ordinary. Don't you think, perhaps, +that our private affairs, our family life.... How do we know whether at +this time, in our situation.... + +FLORENCIO. What are you afraid of? That is the woman of it. How +narrow-minded! You ought to be above such pettiness after having been +the wife of such an intelligent man. Every detail of the private life of +the great has its interest for history. Those of us who knew him, who in +a certain sense were his colaborers--you will not accuse me of +immodesty--his colaborers in the great work of his life, owe it to +history to see that the truth be known. + +CAROLINA. Nevertheless I hardly think I would print those letters--much +less the verses. Do you remember what they said? + +FLORENCIO. Of course, I remember: + + "Like a moth on a pin I preserve all your kisses!..." + +Everybody makes allowances for poetry. Nobody is going to take seriously +what he reads in a poem. He married you anyway. Why should any one +object? + +CAROLINA. Stop, Florencio! What are you talking about? We are making +ourselves ridiculous. + +FLORENCIO. Why should we make ourselves ridiculous? Although I shall +certainly stand by you, whatever you decide, if for no other reason than +that I am your husband, his widow's husband. Otherwise people might +think that I wanted you to forget, that I was jealous of his memory; and +you know that is not the case. You know how I admired him, how I loved +him--just as he did me. Nobody could get along with him as well as I +could; he was not easy to get along with, I do not need to tell you +that. He had his peculiarities--they were the peculiarities of a great +man--but they were great peculiarities. Like all great men, he had an +exaggerated opinion of himself. He was horribly stubborn, like all +strong characters. Whenever he got on one of his hobbies no power on +earth could pry him off of it. It is only out of respect that I do not +say he was pig-headed. I was the only one who had the tact and the +patience to do anything with him; you know that well enough. How often +you said to me: "Oh, Florencio! I can't stand it any longer!" And then I +would reason with you and talk to him, and every time that you had a +quarrel I was the one who consoled you afterward. + +CAROLINA. Florencio, you are perfectly disgusting! You have no right to +talk like this. + +FLORENCIO. Very well then, my dear. I understand how you feel. This is a +time when everybody is dwelling on his virtues, his good qualities, but +I want you to remember that that great man had also his faults. + +CAROLINA. You don't know what you are talking about. + +FLORENCIO. Compare me with him-- + +CAROLINA. Florencio? You know that in my mind there has never been any +comparison. Comparisons are odious. + +FLORENCIO. Not necessarily. But of course you have not! You have never +regretted giving up his distinguished name, have you, Carolina, for this +humble one of mine? Only I want you to understand that if I had desired +to shine, if I had been ambitious.... I have talent myself. Now admit +it! + +CAROLINA. Of course I do, my dear, of course! But what is the use of +talking nonsense? + +FLORENCIO. What is the matter with you, anyway? You are nervous to-day. +It is impossible to conduct a sensible conversation.--Hello! Your +sisters-in-law! I am not at home. + +CAROLINA. Don't excite yourself. They never ask for you. + +FLORENCIO. I am delighted!... Well, I wish you a short session and +escape. + +CAROLINA. I am in a fine humor for this sort of thing myself. + + [_Florencio goes out. Eudosia and Paquita enter._] + +EUDOSIA. I trust that we do not intrude? + +CAROLINA. How can you ask? Come right in. + +EUDOSIA. It seems we find you at home for once. + +CAROLINA. So it seems. + +PAQUITA. Strange to say, whenever we call you always appear to be out. + +CAROLINA. A coincidence. + +EUDOSIA. The coincidence is to find you at home. [_A pause._] We passed +your husband on the street. + +CAROLINA. Are you sure that you would recognize him? + +PAQUITA. Oh! he was not alone. + +CAROLINA. Is that so? + +EUDOSIA. Paquita saw him with Somolino's wife, at Sanchez the +confectioner's. + +CAROLINA. Very possibly. + +PAQUITA. I should not make light of it, if I were you. You know what +Somolino's wife is, to say nothing of Sanchez the confectioner. + +CAROLINA. I didn't know about the confectioner. + +EUDOSIA. No respectable woman, no woman who even pretends to be +respectable, would set foot in his shop since he married that French +girl. + +CAROLINA. I didn't know about the French girl. + +EUDOSIA. Yes, he married her--I say married her to avoid using another +term. He married her in Bayonne--if you call such a thing +marriage--civilly, which is the way French people marry. It is a land of +perdition. + +CAROLINA. I am very sorry to hear it because I am awfully fond of +sweetmeats. I adore _bonbons_ and _marrons glaces_, and nobody here has +as good ones as Sanchez, nor anywhere else for that matter. + +PAQUITA. In that case you had as well deny yourself, unless you are +prepared to invite criticism. Somolino's wife is the only woman who +enters the shop and faces the French girl, who gave her a receipt for +dyeing her hair on the spot. You must have noticed how she is doing it +now. + +CAROLINA. I hadn't noticed. + +EUDOSIA. It is not jet-black any more; it is baby-pink--so she is having +the Frenchwoman manicure her nails twice a week. Have you noticed the +condition of her nails? They are the talk of the town. + + [_A pause._] + +PAQUITA. Well, I trust he is satisfied. + +CAROLINA. Who is he? + +PAQUITA. I do not call him your husband. Oh, our poor, dear brother! + +CAROLINA. I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about. + +EUDOSIA. So he has had his way at last and desecrated the statue of our +poor brother with the figures of those naked women? + +PAQUITA. As large as life. + +CAROLINA. But Florencio is not responsible. It was the sculptor and the +committee. I cannot see anything objectionable in them myself. There are +such figures on all monuments. They are allegorical. + +EUDOSIA. I could understand, perhaps, why the statue of Truth should be +unclothed. Something of the sort was always expected of Truth. But I +must say that Commerce and Industry might have had a tunic at least. +Commerce, in my opinion, is particularly indecent. + +PAQUITA. We have declined the seats which were reserved for us. They +were directly in front and you could see everything. + +EUDOSIA. I suppose you still intend to be present? What a pity that +there is nobody to give you proper advice! + +CAROLINA. As I have been invited, I judge that I shall be welcome as I +am. + +PAQUITA. Possibly--if it were good form for you to appear at all. But +when you exhibit yourself with that man--who was his best friend--after +only three short years! + +CAROLINA. Three long years. + +EUDOSIA. No doubt they seemed long to you. Three years, did I say? They +were like days to us who still keep his memory green! + +PAQUITA. Who still bear his name, because no other name sounds so noble +in our ears. + +EUDOSIA. Rather than change it, we have declined very flattering +proposals. + +CAROLINA. I am afraid that you have made a mistake. You remember that +your brother was very anxious to see you married. + +PAQUITA. He imagined that all men were like him, and deserved wives like +us, our poor, dear brother! Who would ever have dreamed he could have +been forgotten so soon? Fancy his emotions as he looks down on you from +the skies. + +CAROLINA. I do not believe for one moment that he has any regrets. If he +had, then what would be the use of being in paradise? Don't you worry +about me. The best thing that a young widow can do is marry at once. I +was a very young widow. + +EUDOSIA. You were twenty-nine. + +CAROLINA. Twenty-six. + +EUDOSIA. We concede you twenty-six. At all events, you were not a +child--not to speak of the fact that no widow can be said to be a child. + +CAROLINA. No more than a single woman can be said to be old. However, I +fail to see that there would be any impropriety in my being present at +the unveiling of the statue. + +EUDOSIA. Do you realize that the premature death of your husband will be +the subject of all the speakers? They will dwell on the bereavement +which we have suffered through the loss of such an eminent man. How do +you propose to take it? When people see you standing there, complacent +and satisfied, alongside of that man, do you suppose they will ever +believe that you are not reconciled? + +PAQUITA. What will your husband do while they are extolling the genius +of our brother, and he knows that he never had any? + +CAROLINA. That was not your brother's opinion. He thought very highly of +Florencio. + +EUDOSIA. Very highly. Our poor, dear brother! Among his other abilities +he certainly had an extraordinary aptitude for allowing himself to be +deceived. + +CAROLINA. That assumption is offensive to me; it is unfair to all of us. + +EUDOSIA. I hope you brought it with you, Paquita? + +PAQUITA. Yes; here it is. + + [_Taking out a book._] + +EUDOSIA. Just look through this book if you have a moment. It arrived +to-day from Madrid and is on sale at Valdivieso's. Just glance through +it. + +CAROLINA. What is the book? [_Reading the title upon the cover._] "Don +Patricio Molinete, the Man and His Work. A Biography. Together with His +Correspondence and an Estimate of His Life." Why, thanks-- + +PAQUITA. No, do not thank us. Read, read what our poor brother has +written to the author of this book, who was one of his intimate friends. + +CAROLINA. Recaredo Casalonga. Ah! I remember--a rascal we were obliged +to turn out of the house. Do you mean to say that scamp Casalonga has +any letters? Merely to hear the name makes me nervous. + +EUDOSIA. But go on! Page two hundred and fourteen. Is that the page, +Paquita? + +PAQUITA. It begins on page two hundred and fourteen, but before it +amounts to anything turn the page. + +CAROLINA. Quick, quick! Let me see. What does he say? What are these +letters? What is this? He says that I.... But there is not a word of +truth in it. My husband could never have written this. + +EUDOSIA. But there it is in cold type. You don't suppose they would dare +to print-- + +CAROLINA. But this is outrageous; this book is a libel. It invades the +private life--the most private part of it! It must be stopped. + +EUDOSIA. It cannot be stopped. You will soon see whether or not it can +be stopped. + +PAQUITA. Probably the edition is exhausted by this time. + +CAROLINA. Is that so? We shall see! We shall see!--Florencio! Florencio! +Come quickly! Florencio! + +EUDOSIA. Perhaps he has not yet returned. + +PAQUITA. He seemed to be enjoying himself. + +CAROLINA. Nonsense! He was never out of the house. You are two old +busybodies! + +EUDOSIA. Carolina! You said that without thinking. + +PAQUITA. I cannot believe my ears. Did you say busybody. + +CAROLINA. That is exactly what I said. Now leave me alone. I can't stand +it. It is all your fault. You are insupportable! + +EUDOSIA and PAQUITA. Carolina! + +CAROLINA. Florencio! Florencio! + + [_Florencio enters._] + +FLORENCIO. What is it, my dear? What is the matter? Ah! You? I am +delighted.... + +EUDOSIA. Yes, we! And we are leaving this house, where we have been +insulted--forever! + +PAQUITA. Where we have been called busybodies! + +EUDOSIA. Where we have been told that we were insupportable! + +PAQUITA. And when people say such things you can imagine what they +think! + +FLORENCIO. But Eudosia, Paquita.... I do not understand. As far as I am +concerned.... + +EUDOSIA. The person who is now your wife will make her explanations to +you. + +PAQUITA. I never expected to be driven out of our brother's house like +this! + +EUDOSIA. Our poor, dear brother! + +FLORENCIO. But, Carolina-- + +CAROLINA. Let them go! Let them go! They are impossible. + +PAQUITA. Did you hear that, Eudosia? We are impossible! + +EUDOSIA. I heard it, Paquita. There is nothing left for us to hear in +this house. + +CAROLINA. Yes there is! You are as impossible as all old maids. + +EUDOSIA. There was something for us to hear after all! Come, Paquita. + +PAQUITA. Come, Eudosia. + + [_They go out._] + +FLORENCIO. What is this trouble between you and your sisters-in-law? + +CAROLINA. There isn't any trouble. We were arguing, that was all. There +is nothing those women like so much as gossip, or making themselves +disagreeable in any way they can. Do you remember Casalonga? + +FLORENCIO. Recaredo Casalonga? I should say I did remember him! That man +was a character, and strange to say, a profound philosopher with it all. +He was quite a humorist. + +CAROLINA. Yes, he was. Well, this philosopher, this humorist, has +conceived the terribly humorous idea of publishing this book. + +FLORENCIO. Let me see. "Don Patricio Molinete, the Man and His Work. A +Biography. Together with His Correspondence and an Estimate of His +Life." A capital idea! They were great friends, you know, although I +don't suppose that there can be anything particular in this book. What +could Casalonga tell us anyway? + +CAROLINA. Us? Nothing. But go on, go on. + +FLORENCIO. You don't say! Letters of Patricio's. Addressed to whom? + +CAROLINA. To the author of the book, so it seems. Personal letters, they +are confidential. Go on, go on. + +FLORENCIO. "Dear Friend: Life is sad. Perhaps you ask the cause of my +disillusionment. How is it that I have lost my faith in the future, in +the future of our unfortunate land?" I remember that time. He was +already ill. This letter was written after he had liver complaint and +took a dark view of everything. Ah! What a pity that great men should be +subject to such infirmities! Think of the intellect being made the slave +of the liver! We are but dust. "The future of this unfortunate land...." + +CAROLINA. No, that doesn't amount to anything. Lower down, lower down. +Go on. + +FLORENCIO. "Life is sad!" + +CAROLINA. Are you beginning all over again? + +FLORENCIO. No, he repeats himself. What is this? "I never loved but once +in my life; I never loved but one woman--my wife." He means you. + +CAROLINA. Yes. Go on, go on. + +FLORENCIO. "I never trusted but one friend, my friend Florencio." He +means me. + +CAROLINA. Yes, yes; he means you. But go on, go on. + +FLORENCIO. I wonder what he can be driving at. Ah! What does he say? +That you, that I.... + +CAROLINA. Go on, go on. + +FLORENCIO. "This woman and this man, the two greatest, the two pure, the +two unselfish passions of my life, in whom my very being was +consumed--how can I bring myself to confess it? I hardly dare admit it +to myself! They are in love--they love each other madly--in +secret--perhaps without even suspecting themselves." + +CAROLINA. What do you think of that? + +FLORENCIO. Suspecting themselves.... "They are struggling to overcome +their guilty passion, but how long will they continue to struggle? Yet I +am sorry for them both. What ought I to do? I cannot sleep." + +CAROLINA. What do you say? + +FLORENCIO. Impossible! He never wrote such letters. Besides, if he did, +they ought never to have been published. + +CAROLINA. But true or false, they have been published, and here they +are. Ah! But this is nothing! You ought to see what he says farther on. +He goes on communicating his observations, and there are some, to be +perfectly frank, which nobody could have made but himself. + +FLORENCIO. You don't mean to tell me that you think these letters are +genuine? + +CAROLINA. They might be for all we know. He gives dates and details. + +FLORENCIO. And all the time we thought he suspected nothing! + +CAROLINA. You do jump so at conclusions, Florencio. How could he +suspect? You know how careful we were about everything, no matter what +happened, so as not to hurt his feelings. + +FLORENCIO. This only goes to show all the good that it did us. + +CAROLINA. He could only suspect--that it was the truth; that we were +loving in silence. + +FLORENCIO. Then perhaps you can explain to me what was the use of all +this silence? Don't you see that what he has done now is to go and blurt +the whole thing out to this rascal Casalonga?--an unscrupulous knave +whose only interest in the matter is to turn these confidences to his +own advantage! It is useless to attempt to defend it. Such foolishness +was unpardonable. I should never have believed it of my friend. If he +had any doubts about me--about us--why didn't he say so? Then we could +have been more careful, and have done something to ease his mind. But +this notion of running and telling the first person who happens +along.... What a position does it leave me in? In what light do we +appear at this time? Now, when everybody is paying respect to his +memory, and I have put myself to all this trouble in order to raise +money for this monument--what are people going to think when they read +these things? + +CAROLINA. I always said that we would have trouble with that monument. + +FLORENCIO. How shall I have the face to present myself to-morrow before +the monument? + +CAROLINA. My sisters-in-law were right. We are going to be conspicuous. + +FLORENCIO. Ah! But this must be stopped. I shall run at once to the +offices of the papers, to the judicial authorities, to the governor, to +all the booksellers. As for this Casalonga--Ah! I will settle with him! +Either he will retract and confess that these letters are forgeries from +beginning to end, or I will kill him! I will fight with him in earnest! + +CAROLINA. Florencio! Don't forget yourself! You are going too far. You +don't mean a duel? To expose your life? + +FLORENCIO. Don't you see that it is impossible to submit to such an +indignity? Where is this thing going to stop? Is nobody's private life +to be secure? And this goes deeper than the private life--it impugns the +sanctity of our intentions. + +CAROLINA. No, Florencio! + +FLORENCIO. Let me go! + +CAROLINA. Florencio! Anything but a duel! No, no! + +FLORENCIO. Ah! Either he will retract and withdraw the edition of this +libel or, should he refuse.... + +CAROLINA. Zurita! + +FLORENCIO. My friend.... You are just in time! + + [_Zurita enters._] + +ZURITA. Don Florencio.... Carolina.... Don't say a word! I know how you +feel. + +FLORENCIO. Did you see it? Did you hear it? Is this a civilized country +in which we live? + +CAROLINA. But surely he has not heard it already? + +ZURITA. Yes, at the Club. Some one had the book; they were passing it +around.... + +FLORENCIO. At the Club? + +ZURITA. Don't be alarmed. Everybody thinks it is blackmail--a case of +_chantage_. Don Patricio could never have written such letters. + +FLORENCIO. Ah! So they think that? + +ZURITA. Even if he had, they deal with private matters, which ought +never to have been made public. + +FLORENCIO. Exactly my idea--with private matters; they are confidential. + +ZURITA. I lost no time, as you may be sure, of hurrying to Valdivieso's +shop, where the books are on sale. I found him amazed; he was entirely +innocent. He bought the copies supposing that the subject was of timely +importance; that it was of a serious nature. He hurried at once to +withdraw the copies from the window, and ran in search of the author. + +FLORENCIO. Of the author? Is the author in town? + +ZURITA. Yes, he came with the books; he arrived with them this morning. + +FLORENCIO. Ah! So this scamp Casalonga is here, is he? Tell me where I +can find him! + +ZURITA. At the Hotel de Europa. + +CAROLINA. Florencio! Don't you go! Hold him back! He means to challenge +him. + +ZURITA. Never! It is not worth the trouble. Besides, you ought to hold +yourself above such things. Your wife is above them. + +FLORENCIO. But what will people say, friend Zurita? What will people +say? + +ZURITA. Everybody thinks it is a huge joke. + +FLORENCIO. A joke? Then our position is ridiculous. + +ZURITA. I did not say that. What I do say.... + +FLORENCIO. No, no, friend Zurita; you are a man of honor, you know that +it is necessary for me to kill this man. + +CAROLINA. But suppose he is the one who kills you? No, Florencio, not a +duel! What is the use of the courts? + +FLORENCIO. No, I prefer to fight. My dear Zurita, run in search of +another friend and stop at the Hotel de Europa as my representatives. +Seek out this man, exact reparation upon the spot--a reparation which +shall be resounding, complete. Either he declares over his own signature +that those letters are impudent forgeries or, should he refuse.... + +CAROLINA. Florencio! + +FLORENCIO. Stop at nothing! Do not haggle over terms. Let it be pistols +with real bullets, as we pace forward each to each! + +ZURITA. But, Don Florencio! + +CAROLINA. Don't go, I beg of you! Don't leave the house! + +FLORENCIO. You are my friend--go at once! + +CAROLINA. No, he will never go! + +ZURITA. But, Don Florencio! Consider.... The situation is serious. + +FLORENCIO. When a man is made ridiculous the situation ceases to be +serious! How shall I have the face to show myself before the monument! +I--his most intimate friend! She, my wife, his widow! And everybody +thinking all the while of those letters, imagining that I, that she.... +No, no! Run! Bring me that retraction at once. + +ZURITA. Not so fast! I hear the voice of Valdivieso. + +FLORENCIO. Eh? And Casalonga's! Has that man the audacity to present +himself in my house? + +ZURITA. Be calm! Since he is here, perhaps he comes to explain. Let me +see-- + + [_He goes out_.] + +CAROLINA. Florencio! Don't you receive him! Don't you have anything to +do with that man! + +FLORENCIO. I am in my own house. Never fear! I shall not forget to +conduct myself as a gentleman. Now we shall see how he explains the +matter; we shall see. But you had better retire first. Questions of +honor are not for women. + +CAROLINA. You know best; only I think I might remain within earshot. I +am nervous. My dear!--Where are your arms? + +FLORENCIO. What do I need of arms? + +CAROLINA. Be careful just the same. Keep cool! Think of me. + +FLORENCIO. I am in my own house. Have no fear. + +CAROLINA. It upsets me dreadfully to see you in such a state. + +FLORENCIO. What are you doing now? + +CAROLINA. Removing these vases in case you should throw things. I should +hate awfully to lose them; they were a present. + +FLORENCIO. Hurry, dear! + +CAROLINA. I am horribly nervous. Keep cool, for heavens' sake! Control +yourself. + + [_Carolina goes out. Zurita reenters._] + +ZURITA. Are you calmer now? + +FLORENCIO. Absolutely. Is that man here? + +ZURITA. Yes, Valdivieso brought him. He desires to explain. + +FLORENCIO. Who? Valdivieso? Naturally. But that other fellow, that +Casalonga--what does he want? + +ZURITA. To have a few words with you; to offer a thousand explanations. + +FLORENCIO. No more than one explanation is possible. + +ZURITA. Consider a moment. In my opinion it will be wiser to receive +him. He appears to be innocent. + +FLORENCIO. Of the first instincts of a gentleman. + +ZURITA. Exactly. I did not venture to put it so plainly. He attaches no +importance to the affair whatever. + +FLORENCIO. Of course not! It is nothing to him. + +ZURITA. Nothing. However, you will find him disposed to go to any +length--retract, make a denial, withdraw the book from circulation. You +had best have a few words with him. But first promise to control +yourself. Shall I ask them to come in? + +FLORENCIO. Yes ... yes! Ask them to come in. + +ZURITA. Poor Valdivieso is awfully put out. He always had such a high +opinion of you. You are one of the two or three persons in this town who +buy books. It would be a tremendous relief to him if you would only tell +him that you knew he was incapable.... + +FLORENCIO. Thoroughly! Poor Valdivieso! Ask him to come in; ask them +both to come in. + + [_Zurita retires and returns presently with Valdivieso and + Casalonga._] + +VALDIVIESO. Senor Don Florencio! I hardly know what to say. I am sure +that you will not question my good faith in the matter. I had no +idea ... in fact, I never suspected.... + +FLORENCIO. I always knew you were innocent! but this person.... + +CASALONGA. Come, come now! Don't blame it on me. How the devil was I to +know that you were here--and married to his widow! Sport for the gods! + +FLORENCIO. Do you hear what he says? + +ZURITA. I told you that he appeared to be innocent. + +FLORENCIO. And I told you that he was devoid of the first instincts of a +gentleman; although I failed to realize to what an extent. Sir-- + +CASALONGA. Don't be absurd! Stop making faces at me. + +FLORENCIO. In the first place, I don't recall that we were ever so +intimate. + +CASALONGA. Of course we were! Of course! Anyhow, what difference does it +make? We were together for a whole season; we were inseparable. Hard +times those for us both! But what did we care? When one of us was out of +money, all he had to do was to ask the other, and be satisfied. + +FLORENCIO. Yes; I seem to recall that the other was always I. + +CASALONGA. Ha, ha, ha! That might be. Stranger things have happened. But +you are not angry with me, are you? The thing is not worth all this +fuss. + +FLORENCIO. Do you hear what he says? + +VALDIVIESO. You may be sure that if I had had the slightest idea.... I +bought the books so as to take advantage of the timeliness of the +monument. If I had ever suspected.... + +CASALONGA. Identically my position--to take advantage of the monument. +Life is hard. While the conservatives are in power, I am reduced to +extremities. I am at my wit's end to earn an honest penny. + +FLORENCIO. I admire your colossal impudence. What are you going to do +with a man like this? + +ZURITA. Exactly the question that occurred to me. What are you going to +do? + +CASALONGA. For a time I was reduced to writing plays--like everybody +else--although mine were better. That was the reason they did not +succeed. Then I married my last landlady; I was obliged to settle with +her somehow. A little difference arose between us, so we agreed to +separate amicably after smashing all the furniture. However, that will +be of no interest to you. + +FLORENCIO. No, no, it is of no interest to me. + +CASALONGA. A novel, my boy! A veritable work of romance! I wandered all +over the country explaining views for the cinematograph. You know what a +gift I have for talk? Wherever I appeared the picture houses were +crowded--even to the exits. Then my voice gave out. I was obliged to +find some other outlet for my activities. I thought of my friends. You +know what friends are; as soon as a man needs them he hasn't any +friends. Which way was I to turn? I happened to hear that you were +unveiling a monument to the memory of friend Patricio. Poor Patricio! +That man was a friend! He could always be relied upon. It occurred to me +that I might write out a few pages of reminiscences--preferably +something personal--and publish any letters of his which I had chanced +to preserve. + +FLORENCIO. What luck! + +CASALONGA. Pshaw! Bread and butter--bread and butter, man! A mere +pittance. It occurred to me that they would sell better here than +anywhere else--this is where he lived. So I came this morning third +class--think of that, third class!--and hurried at once to this fellow's +shop. I placed two thousand copies with him, which he took from me at a +horrible discount. You know what these booksellers are.... + +VALDIVIESO. I call you to witness--what was customary under the +circumstances. He was selling for cash. + +CASALONGA. Am I the man to deny it? You can divide mankind into two +classes--knaves and fools. + +VALDIVIESO. Listen to this-- + +CASALONGA. You are not one of the fools. + +VALDIVIESO. I protest! How am I to profit by the transaction? Do you +suppose that I shall sell a single copy of this libel now that I know +that it is offensive to my particular, my excellent friend, Don +Florencio, and to his respected wife? + +FLORENCIO. Thanks, friend Valdivieso, thanks for that. + +VALDIVIESO. I shall burn the edition, although you can imagine what that +will cost. + +FLORENCIO. The loss will be mine. It will be at my expense. + +CASALONGA. What did I tell you? Florencio will pay. What are you +complaining about?--If I were in your place, though, I'd be hanged if I +would give the man one penny. + +VALDIVIESO. What? When you have collected spot cash? + +CASALONGA. You don't call that collecting? Not at that discount. The +paper was worth more. + +FLORENCIO. The impudence of the thing was worth more than the paper. + +CASALONGA. Ha, ha, ha! Really, I cannot find it in my heart to be angry +with you. You are too clever! But what was I to do? I had to find some +outlet for my activities. Are you going to kill me? + +FLORENCIO. I have made my arrangements. Do you suppose that I will +submit meekly to such an indignity? If you refuse to fight, I will hale +you before the courts. + +CASALONGA. Drop that tragic tone. A duel? Between us? Over what? Because +the wife of a friend--who at the same time happens to be your wife--has +been intimate with you? Suppose it had been with some one else! + +FLORENCIO. The supposition is improper. + +CASALONGA. You are the first man I ever heard of who was offended +because it was said that he had been intimate with his wife. The thing +is preposterous. How are we ever going to fight over it? + +ZURITA. I can see his point of view. + +FLORENCIO. Patricio could never have written those letters, much less to +you. + +CASALONGA. Talk as much as you like, the letters are genuine. Although +it may have been foolish of Patricio to have written them--that is a +debatable question. I published them so as to enliven the book. A little +harmless suggestion--people look for it; it adds spice. Aside from that, +what motive could I have had for dragging you into it? + +FLORENCIO. I admire your frankness at least. + +ZURITA. What do you propose to do with this man? + +FLORENCIO. What do you propose? + +CASALONGA. You know I was always fond of you. You are a man of ability. + +FLORENCIO. Thanks. + +CASALONGA. You have more ability than Patricio had. He was a worthy +soul, no doubt, but between us, who were in the secret, an utter +blockhead. + +FLORENCIO. Hardly that. + +CASALONGA. I need not tell you what reputations amount to in this +country. If he had had your brains, your transcendent ability.... + +FLORENCIO. How can I stop this man from talking? + +CASALONGA. You have always been too modest in my opinion; you have +remained in the background in order to give him a chance to shine, to +attract attention. Everybody knows that his best speeches were written +by you. + +FLORENCE. You have no right to betray my confidence. + +CASALONGA. Yes, gentlemen, it is only just that you should know. The +real brains belonged to this man, he is the one who should have had the +statue. As a friend he is wonderful, unique! + +FLORENCIO. How am I going to fight with this man? + +CASALONGA. I will give out a statement at once--for public +consumption--declaring that the letters are forgeries--or whatever you +think best; as it appeals to you. Fix it up for yourself. It is of no +consequence anyhow. I am above this sort of thing. I should be sorry, +however, to see this fellow receive more than his due, which is two +_reals_ a copy, or what he paid me. + +VALDIVIESO. I cannot permit you to meddle in my affairs. You are a rogue +and a cheat. + +CASALONGA. A rogue and a cheat? In that case you are the one I will +fight with. You are no friend of mine. You are an exploiter of other +men's brains. + +VALDIVIESO. You are willing to fight with me, are you--a respectable +man, the father of a family? After swindling me out of my money! + +CASALONGA. Swindling? That is no language to use in this house. + +VALDIVIESO. I use it where I like. + +FLORENCIO. Gentlemen, gentlemen! This is my house, this is the house of +my wife! + +ZURITA. Valdivieso! + +CASALONGA [_to Florencio_]. I choose you for my second. And you too, my +friend--what is your name? + +VALDIVIESO. But will you listen to him? Do you suppose that I will fight +with this rascal, with the first knave who happens along? I, the father +of a family? + +CASALONGA. I cannot accept your explanation. My friends will confer with +yours and apprise us as to the details. Have everything ready for this +afternoon. + +VALDIVIESO. Do you stand here and sanction this nonsense? You cannot +believe one word that he says. No doubt it would be convenient for you +to retire and use me as a Turk's head to receive all the blows, when you +are the one who ought to fight! + +FLORENCIO. Friend Valdivieso, I cannot permit reflections upon my +conduct from you. After all, you need not have purchased the book, which +you did for money, knowing that it was improper, since it contained +matter which was offensive to me. + +VALDIVIESO. Are you speaking in earnest? + +FLORENCIO. I was never more in earnest in my life. + +CASALONGA. Yes, sir, and it is high time for us all to realize that it +is in earnest. It was all your fault. Nobody buys without spending the +wares. It was your business to have pointed out to me the indiscretion I +was about to commit. [_To Florencio._] I am perfectly willing to +withdraw if you wish to fight him, to yield my place as the aggrieved +party to you. I should be delighted to act as one of your seconds, with +our good friend here--what is your name? + +ZURITA. Zurita. + +CASALONGA. My good friend Zurita. + +VALDIVIESO. Am I losing my mind? This is a trap which you have set for +me, a despicable trap! + +FLORENCIO. Friend Valdivieso, I cannot tolerate these reflections. I am +incapable of setting a trap. + +ZURITA. Ah! And so am I! When you entered this house you were familiar +with its reputation. + +CASALONGA. You have forgotten with whom you are speaking. + +VALDIVIESO. Nonsense! This is too much. I wash my hands of the whole +business. Is this the spirit in which my advances are received? What I +will do now is sell the book--and if I can't sell it, I will give it +away! Everybody can read it then--and they can talk as much as they want +to. This is the end! I am through. + +FLORENCIO. Wait? What was that? I warn you not to sell so much as one +copy? + +ZURITA. I should be sorry if you did. Take care not to drag me into it. + +CASALONGA. Nor me either. + +VALDIVIESO. Enough! Do as you see fit--and I shall do the same. This is +the end--the absolute end! It is the finish! + + [_Rushes out._] + +FLORENCIO. Stop him! + +CASALONGA. It won't be necessary. I shall go to the shop and take back +the edition. Whatever you intended to pay him you can hand directly to +me. I am your friend; besides I need the money. This man shall not get +the best of me. Oh! By the way, what are you doing to-night? Have dinner +with me. I shall expect you at the hotel. Don't forget! If you don't +show up, I may drop in myself and have dinner with you. + +FLORENCIO. No! What would my wife say? She has trouble enough. + +CASALONGA. Nonsense! She knows me, and we should have a good laugh. Is +she as charming, as good-looking, as striking as ever? I am keen for +her. I don't need to ask whether she is happy. Poor Patricio was a +character! What a sight he was! What a figure! And age doubled him for +good measure. I'll look in on you later. It has been a rare pleasure +this time. There are few friends like you. Come, shake hands! I am +touched; you know how it is. See you later! If I don't come back, I have +killed my man and am in jail for it. Tell your wife. If I can help out +in any way.... Good-by, my friend--ah, yes! Zurita. I have a terrible +head to-day. See you later! + + [_Goes out._] + +FLORENCIO. Did you ever see anything equal of it? I never did, and I +knew him of old. But he has made progress. + +ZURITA. His assurance is fairly epic. + +FLORENCIO. What are you going to do with a man who takes it like this? +You cannot kill him in cold blood-- + + [_Carolina reenters._] + +FLORENCIO. Ah! Carolina! Were you listening? You heard everything. + +CAROLINA. Yes, and in spite of it I think he is fascinating. + +FLORENCIO. Since Carolina feels that way it simplifies the situation. + +ZURITA. Why not? She heard the compliments. The man is irresistible. + +FLORENCIO. Carolina, it comes simply to this: nobody attaches any +importance to the matter. Only two or three copies have been sold. + +CAROLINA. Yes, but one of them was to my sisters-in-law, which is the +same as if they had sold forty thousand. They will tell everybody. + +FLORENCIO. They were doing it anyhow; there is no further cause for +worry. + +CAROLINA. At all events, I shall not attend the unveiling to-morrow, and +you ought not to go either. + +FLORENCIO. But, wife! + +ZURITA. Ah! The unveiling.... I had forgotten to mention it. + +CAROLINA. To mention what? + +ZURITA. It has been postponed. + +FLORENCIO. How? + +ZURITA. The committee became nervous at the last moment over the +protests against the nudes. After seeing the photographs many ladies +declined to participate. At last the sculptor was convinced, and he has +consented to withdraw the statue of Truth altogether, and to put a tunic +upon Industry, while Commerce is to have a bathing-suit. + +CAROLINA. That will be splendid! + +ZURITA. All this, however, will require several days, and by that time +everything will have been forgotten. + + [_Casalonga reenters with the books. He is completely out of + breath and drops them suddenly upon the floor, where they raise a + tremendous cloud of dust._] + +CAROLINA. _Ay!_ + +CASALONGA. I had you scared! At your service.... Here is the entire +edition. I returned him his thousand pesetas--I declined to make it +another penny. I told you that would be all that was necessary. I am a +man of my word. Now it is up to you. No more could be asked! I am your +friend and have said enough. I shall have to find some other outlet for +my activities. That will be all for to-day. + +FLORENCIO. I will give you two thousand pesetas. But beware of a second +edition! + +CASALONGA. Don't begin to worry so soon. With this money I shall have +enough to be decent at least--at least for two months. You know me, +senora. I am Florencio's most intimate friend, as I was Patricio's most +intimate friend, which is to say one of the most intimate friends you +ever had. + +CAROLINA. Yes, I remember. + +CASALONGA. But I have changed since that time. + +FLORENCIO. Not a bit of it! He is just the same. + +CASALONGA. Yes, the change is in you. You are the same, only you have +improved. [_To Carolina._] I am amazed at the opulence of your beauty, +which a fortunate marriage has greatly enhanced. Have you any children? + +CAROLINA. No.... + +CASALONGA. You are going to have some. + +FLORENCIO. Flatterer! + +CASALONGA. But I must leave before night: there is nothing for me to do +here. + +FLORENCIO. No, you have attended to everything. I shall send it after +you to the hotel. + +CASALONGA. Add a little while you are about it to cover expenses--by way +of a finishing touch. + +FLORENCIO. Oh, very well! + +CASALONGA. That will be all. Senora, if I can be of service.... My good +Zurita! Friend Florencio! Before I die I hope to see you again. + +FLORENCIO. Yes! Unless I die first. + +CASALONGA. I know how you feel. You take the worst end for yourself. + +FLORENCIO. Allow me that consolation. + +CASALONGA. God be with you, my friend. Adios! Rest in peace. How +different are our fates! Life to you is sweet. You have +everything--love, riches, satisfaction. While I--I laugh through my +tears! + + [_Goes out._] + +CAROLINA. That cost you money. + +FLORENCIO. What else did you expect? I gave up to avoid a scandal upon +your account. I could see that you were nervous. I would have fought if +I could have had my way; I would have carried matters to the last +extreme. Zurita will tell you so. + +CAROLINA. I always said that monument would cost us dear. + +FLORENCIO. Obviously! Two thousand pesetas now, besides the twenty-five +thousand which I subscribed for the monument, to say nothing of my +uniform as Chief of Staff which I had ordered for the unveiling. Then +there are the banquets to the delegates.... + +ZURITA. Glory is always more expensive than it is worth. + +FLORENCIO. It is not safe to be famous even at second hand. + +CAROLINA. But you are not sorry? + +FLORENCIO. No, my Carolina, the glory of being your husband far +outweighs in my eyes the disadvantages of being the husband of his +widow. + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +A SUNNY MORNING + + A COMEDY + + BY SERAFIN AND JOAQUIN ALVAREZ QUINTERO + TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY LUCRETIA XAVIER FLOYD. + + + Copyrighted, 1914, by Lucretia Xavier Floyd under the title of + "A Morning of Sunshine." + + All rights reserved. + + + CHARACTERS + + DONA LAURA. + PETRA [_her maid_]. + DON GONZALO. + JUANITO [_his servant_]. + + TIME: _The Present_. + + + Published by special arrangement with Mrs. Lucretia Xavier Floyd + and Mr. John Garrett Underhill, the Society of Spanish Authors. + Applications for permission to produce this play must be made to the + Society of Spanish Authors, Room 62, 20 Nassau Street, New York. + + + +A SUNNY MORNING + +A COMEDY BY SERAFIN AND JOAQUIN ALVAREZ QUINTERO + + + [_Scene laid in a retired part of a park in Madrid, Spain. A bench + at right. Bright, sunny morning in autumn. Dona Laura, a handsome + old lady of about 70, with white hair and of very refined + appearance, although elderly, her bright eyes and entire manner + prove her mental facilities are unimpaired. She enters accompanied + by her maid Petra, upon whose arm she leans with one hand, while + the other holds a parasol which she uses as a cane._] + + +DONA LAURA. I am so glad we have arrived. I feared my seat would be +occupied. What a beautiful morning! + +PETRA. The sun is rather hot. + +DONA LAURA. Yes, to you who are only 20 years old. [_She sits down on +the bench._] Oh, I feel more tired to-day than usual. [_Noticing Petra, +who seems impatient._] Go, if you wish to chat with your guard. + +PETRA. He is not my guard, Senora; he belongs to the park. + +DONA LAURA. He belongs more to you than to the park. Go seek him, but +remain within calling distance. + +PETRA. I see him over there waiting for me. + +DONA LAURA. Do not remain away more than ten minutes. + +PETRA. Very well, Senora. [_Walks toward right, but is detained._] + +DONA LAURA. Wait a moment. + +PETRA. What does the Senora wish? + +DONA LAURA. You are carrying away the bread crumbs. + +PETRA. Very true. I don't know where my head is. + +DONA LAURA [_smiling_]. I do. It is where your heart is--with your +guard. + +PETRA. Here, Senora. [_She hands Dona Laura a small bag. Exit Petra._] + +DONA LAURA. Adios. [_Glancing toward trees._] Here come the rogues. They +know just when to expect me. [_She rises, walks toward right, throws +three handfuls of bread crumbs._] These are for the most daring, these +for the gluttons, and these for the little ones which are the biggest +rogues. Ha, ha. [_She returns to her seat and watches with a pleased +expression, the pigeons feeding._] There, that big one is always the +first. That little fellow is the least timid. I believe he would eat +from my hand. That one takes his piece and flies to that branch. He is a +philosopher. But from where do they all come? It seems as if the news +had been carried. Ha, ha. Don't quarrel. There is enough for all. +To-morrow I'll bring more. + + [_Enter Don Gonzalo and Juanito. Don Gonzalo is an old gentleman + over 70, gouty and impatient. He leans upon Juanito's arm and + drags his feet along as he walks. He displays ill temper._] + +DON GONZALO. Idling their time away. They should be saying Mass. + +JUANITO. You can sit here, Senor. There is only a lady. + + [_Dona Laura turns her head and listens to the dialogue._] + +DON GONZALO. I won't, Juanito. I want a bench to myself. + +JUANITO. But there is none. + +DON GONZALO. But that one over there is mine. + +JUANITO. But there are three priests sitting there. + +DON GONZALO. Let them get up. Have they gone, Juanito? + +JUANITO. No, indeed. They are in animated conversation. + +DON GONZALO. Just as if they were glued to the seat. No hope of their +leaving. Come this way, Juanito. [_They walk toward birds._] + +DONA LAURA [_indignantly_]. Look out! + +DON GONZALO [_turning his head_]. Are you talking to me, Senora? + +DONA LAURA. Yes, to you. + +DON GONZALO. What do you wish? + +DONA LAURA. You have scared away the birds who were feeding on bread +crumbs. + +DON GONZALO. What do I care about the birds. + +DONA LAURA. But I do. + +DON GONZALO. This is a public park. + +DONA LAURA. Then why do you complain that the priests have taken your +bench? + +DON GONZALO. Senora, we have not been introduced to each other. I do not +know why you take the liberty of addressing me. Come, Juanito. [_Both +exit._] + +DONA LAURA. What an ill-natured old man. Why must some people get so +fussy and cross when they reach a certain age? I am glad. He lost that +bench, too. Serves him right for scaring the birds. He is furious. Yes, +yes; find a seat if you can. Poor fellow! He is wiping the perspiration +from his face. Here he comes. A carriage would not raise more dust than +he does with his feet. + + [_Enter Don Gonzalo and Juanito._] + +DON GONZALO. Have the priests gone yet, Juanito? + +JUANITO. No, indeed, Senor. They are still there. + +DON GONZALO. The authorities should place more benches here for these +sunny mornings. Well, I suppose I must resign myself and sit on the same +bench with the old lady. [_Muttering to himself, he sits at the extreme +end of Dona Laura's bench and looks at her indignantly. Touches his hat +as he greets her._] Good morning. + +DONA LAURA. What, you here again? + +DON GONZALO. I repeat that we have not been introduced. + +DONA LAURA. I am responding to your greeting. + +DON GONZALO. Good morning should be answered by good morning, and that +is what you should have said. + +DONA LAURA. And you should have asked permission to sit on this bench +which is mine. + +DON GONZALO. The benches here are public property. + +DONA LAURA. Why, you said the one the priests occupied was yours. + +DON GONZALO. Very well, very well. I have nothing more to say. [_Between +his teeth_.] Doting old woman. She should be at home with her knitting +and counting her beads. + +DONA LAURA. Don't grumble any more. I'm not going to leave here just to +please you. + +DON GONZALO [_brushing the dust from his shoes with his handkerchief_]. +If the grounds were sprinkled more freely it would be an improvement. + +DONA LAURA. What an idea, to brush your shoes with your handkerchief. + +DON GONZALO. What? + +DONA LAURA. Do you use a shoe brush as a handkerchief? + +DON GONZALO. By what right do you criticize my actions? + +DONA LAURA. By the rights of a neighbor. + +DON GONZALO. Juanito, give me my book. I do not care to hear any more +nonsense. + +DONA LAURA. You are very polite. + +DON GONZALO. Pardon me, Senora, but if you did not interfere with what +does not concern you. + +DONA LAURA. I generally say what I think. + +DON GONZALO. And say more than you should. Give me the book, Juanito. + +JUANITO. Here it is, Senor. [_Juanito takes book from pocket, hands it +to Don Gonzalo; then exits._] + + [_Don Gonzalo, casting indignant glances at Dona Laura, puts on an + enormous pair of glasses, takes from his pocket a reading-glass, + adjusts both to suit him, opens his book._] + +DONA LAURA. I thought you were going to take out a telescope now. + +DON GONZALO. What, again? + +DONA LAURA. Your sight must be fine. + +DON GONZALO. Many times better than yours. + +DONA LAURA. Yes, it is very evident. + +DON GONZALO. Many hares and partridges could bear testimony to my words. + +DONA LAURA. Do you hunt? + +DON GONZALO. I did, and even now-- + +DONA LAURA. Oh, yes, of course. + +DON GONZALO. Yes, Senora. Every Sunday I take my gun and dog, you +understand, and go to one of my properties near Aravaca, just to kill +time. + +DONA LAURA. Yes, to kill time. That is all you can kill. + +DON GONZALO. Do you think so? I could show you a wild boar's head in my +study-- + +DONA LAURA. Yes, and I could show you a tiger's skin in my boudoir. What +an argument! + +DON GONZALO. Very well, Senora, please allow me to read. I do not feel +like having more conversation. + +DONA LAURA. Well, keep quiet then. + +DON GONZALO. But first I shall take a pinch of snuff. [_Takes out snuff +box._] Will you have some? [_Offers box to Dona Laura._] + +DONA LAURA. If it is good? + +DON GONZALO. It is of the finest. You will like it. + +DONA LAURA [_taking pinch of snuff_]. It clears my head. + +DON GONZALO. And mine. + +DONA LAURA. Do you sneeze? + +DON GONZALO. Yes, Senora, three times. + +DONA LAURA. And so do I. What a coincidence! + + [_After taking the snuff, they await the sneezes, making grimaces, + and then sneeze alternately three times each._] + +DON GONZALO. There, I feel better. + +DONA LAURA. So do I. [_Aside._] The snuff has made peace between us. + +DON GONZALO. You will excuse me if I read aloud? + +DONA LAURA. Read as you please; you will not disturb me. + +DON GONZALO [_reading_]. "All love is sad, but sad and all, it is the +best thing that exists." That is from Campoamor. + +DONA LAURA. Ah! + +DON GONZALO [_reading_]. "The daughters of the mothers I once loved, +kiss me now as they would kiss a wooden image." Those lines are in the +humorous vein. + +DONA LAURA [_laughing_]. So I see. + +DON GONZALO. There are some beautiful poems in this book. Listen: +"Twenty years have passed. He returns." + +DONA LAURA. You cannot imagine how it affects me to see you reading with +all those glasses. + +DON GONZALO. Can it be possible that you read without requiring any? + +DONA LAURA. Certainly. + +DON GONZALO. At your age? You must be jesting. + +DONA LAURA. Pass me the book, please. [_takes book, reads aloud._] +"Twenty years have passed. He returns. And each upon beholding the other +exclaims--Can it be possible that this is he? Merciful heavens, can this +be she?" + + [_Dona Laura returns book to Don Gonzalo._] + +DON GONZALO. Indeed, you are to be envied for your wonderful eyesight. + +DONA LAURA [_aside_]. I knew the lines from memory. + +DON GONZALO. I am very fond of good verse, very fond. I even composed +some in my youth. + +DONA LAURA. Good ones? + +DON GONZALO. Of all kinds. I was a great friend of Espronceda, Zorrilla, +Becquer and others. I first met Zorrilla in America. + +DONA LAURA. Why, have you been in America? + +DON GONZALO. Several times. The first time I went I was only six years +old. + +DONA LAURA. Columbus must have carried you in one of his caravels. + +DON GONZALO [_laughing_]. Not quite as bad as that. I am old, I admit, +but I did not know Ferdinand and Isabella. [_They both laugh._] I was +also a great friend of Campoamor. I met him in Valencia. I am a native +of that city. + +DONA LAURA. You are? + +DON GONZALO. I was brought up there and there I spent my early youth. +Have you ever visited that city? + +DONA LAURA. Yes, Senor. Not far from Valencia there was a mansion that +if still there, should retain memories of me. I spent there several +seasons. This was many, many years ago. It was near the sea, concealed +among lemon and orange trees. They called it--let me see, what did they +call it?--"Maricela." + +DON GONZALO [_startled_]. Maricela? + +DONA LAURA. Maricela. Is the name familiar to you? + +DON GONZALO. Yes, very familiar. If my memory serves me right, for we +forget as we grow old, there lived in that mansion the most beautiful +woman I have ever seen, and I assure you I have seen a few. Let me +see--what was her name? Laura--Laura--Laura Lorente. + +DONA LAURA [_startled_]. Laura Lorente? + +DON GONZALO. Yes. [_They look at each other strangely._] + +DONA LAURA [_recovering herself_]. Nothing. You reminded me of my best +friend. + +DON GONZALO. How strange! + +DONA LAURA. It is strange. She was called "The Silver Maiden." + +DON GONZALO. Precisely, "The Silver Maiden." By that name she was known +in that locality. I seem to see her as if she were before me now, at +that window of the red roses. Do you remember that window? + +DONA LAURA. Yes, I remember. It was that of her room. + +DON GONZALO. She spent many hours there. I mean in my days. + +DONA LAURA [_sighing_]. And in mine, too. + +DON GONZALO. She was ideal. Fair as a lily, jet black hair and black +eyes, with a very sweet expression. She seemed to cast a radiance +wherever she was. Her figure was beautiful, perfect. "What forms of +sovereign beauty God models in human sculpture!" She was a dream. + +DONA LAURA [_aside_]. If you but knew that dream was now by your side, +you would realize what dreams are worth. [_Aloud_.] She was very +unfortunate and had a sad love affair. + +DON GONZALO. Very sad. [_They look at each other._] + +DONA LAURA. You know of it? + +DON GONZALO. Yes. + +DONA LAURA [_aside_]. Strange are the ways of Providence! This man is my +early lover. + +DON GONZALO. The gallant lover, if we refer to the same affair-- + +DONA LAURA. To the duel? + +DON GONZALO. Precisely, to the duel. The gallant lover was--my cousin, +of whom I was very fond. + +DONA LAURA. Oh, yes, a cousin. My friend told me in one of her letters +the story of that love affair, truly romantic. He, your cousin, passed +by on horseback every morning by the rose path under her window, and +tossed up to her balcony a bouquet of flowers which she caught. + +DON GONZALO. And later in the afternoon, the gallant horseman would +return by the same path, and catch the bouquet of flowers she would toss +him. Was it not so? + +DONA LAURA. Yes. They wanted to marry her to a merchant whom she did not +fancy. + +DON GONZALO. And one night, when my cousin watched under her window to +hear her sing, this new lover presented himself unexpectedly. + +DONA LAURA. And insulted your cousin. + +DON GONZALO. There was a quarrel. + +DONA LAURA. And later a duel. + +DON GONZALO. Yes, at sunrise, on the beach, and the merchant was badly +wounded. My cousin had to conceal himself for a few days and later to +fly. + +DONA LAURA. You seem to know the story perfectly. + +DON GONZALO. And so do you. + +DONA LAURA. I have told you that my friend related it to me. + +DON GONZALO. And my cousin to me. [_Aside._] This woman is Laura. What a +strange fate has brought us together again. + +DONA LAURA [_aside_]. He does not suspect who I am. Why tell him? Let +him preserve his illusion. + +DON GONZALO [_aside_]. She does not suspect she is talking to her old +lover. How can she? I will not reveal my identity. + +DONA LAURA. And was it you, by chance, who advised your cousin to forget +Laura? + +DON GONZALO. Why, my cousin never forgot her for one instant. + +DONA LAURA. How do you account, then, for his conduct? + +DON GONZALO. I will explain. The young man first took refuge in my +house, fearful of the consequences of his duel with that man, so much +beloved in that locality. From my home he went to Seville, then came to +Madrid. He wrote to Laura many letters, some in verse. But, undoubtedly, +they were intercepted by her parents, for she never answered them. +Gonzalo then, in despair, and believing his loved one lost to him +forever, joined the army, went to Africa, and there, in a trench, met a +glorious death, grasping the flag of Spain and repeating the name of his +beloved--Laura--Laura--Laura. + +DONA LAURA [_aside_]. What an atrocious lie! + +DON GONZALO [_aside_]. I could not have killed myself in a more glorious +manner. + +DONA LAURA. Such a calamity must have caused you the greatest sorrow. + +DON GONZALO. Yes, indeed, Senora. As great as if it were a brother. I +presume though, that on the contrary, Laura in a short time was chasing +butterflies in her garden, indifferent to everything. + +DONA LAURA. No, Senor, no indeed. + +DON GONZALO. It is usually a woman's way. + +DONA LAURA. Even if you consider it a woman's way, the "Silver Maiden" +was not of that disposition. My friend awaited news for days, months, a +year, and no letter came. One afternoon, just at sunset, and as the +first stars were appearing, she was seen to leave the house, and with +quick steps, wend her way toward the beach, that beach where her beloved +had risked his life. She wrote his name on the sand, then sat upon a +rock, her gaze fixed upon the horizon. The waves murmured their eternal +monologue and slowly covered the rock where the maiden sat. Shall I tell +you the rest?--The tide rose and carried her off to sea. + +DON GONZALO. Good heavens! + +DONA LAURA. The fishermen of that sea-coast who tell the story, affirm +that it was a long time before the waves washed away that name written +on the sand. [_Aside._] You will not get ahead of me in inventing a +romantic death. + +DON GONZALO [_aside_]. She lies more than I do. + +DONA LAURA. Poor Laura! + +DON GONZALO. Poor Gonzalo! + +DONA LAURA [_aside_]. I will not tell him that in two years I married +another. + +DON GONZALO [_aside_]. I will not tell her that in three months I went +to Paris with a ballet dancer. + +DONA LAURA. What strange pranks Fate plays! Here you and I, complete +strangers, met by chance, and in discussing the romance of friends of +long ago, we have been conversing as we were old friends. + +DON GONZALO. Yes, it is strange, considering we commenced our +conversation quarreling. + +DONA LAURA. Because you scared away the birds. + +DON GONZALO. I was in a bad temper. + +DONA LAURA. Yes, that was evident. [_Sweetly._] Are you coming +to-morrow? + +DON GONZALO. Most certainly, if it is a sunny morning. And not only will +I not scare away the birds, but will also bring them bread crumbs. + +DONA LAURA. Thank you very much. They are very interesting and deserve +to be noticed. I wonder where my maid is? [_Dona Laura rises; Don +Gonzalo also rises._] What time can it be? [_Dona Laura walks toward +left._] + +DON GONZALO. It is nearly twelve o'clock. Where can that scamp Juanito +be? [_Walks toward right._] + +DONA LAURA. There she is talking with her guard. [_Signals with her hand +for her maid to approach._] + +DON GONZALO [_looking at Laura, whose back is turned. Aside_]. No, no, I +will not reveal my identity. I am a grotesque figure now. Better that +she recall the gallant horseman who passed daily under her window and +tossed her flowers. + +DONA LAURA. How reluctant she is to leave him. Here she comes. + +DON GONZALO. But where can Juanito be? He has probably forgotten +everything in the society of some nursemaid. [_Looks toward right and +signals with his hand._] + +DONA LAURA [_looking at Gonzalo, whose back is turned. Aside_]. No, I +will not tell him I am Laura. I am too sadly altered. It is better he +should remember me as the blackeyed girl who tossed him flowers as he +passed through the rose path in that garden. + + [_Juanito enters by right: Petra by left. She has a bunch of + violets in her hand._] + +DONA LAURA. Well, Petra, I thought you were never coming. + +DON GONZALO. But, Juanito, what delayed you so? It is very late. + +PETRA [_handing violets to Dona Laura_]. My lover gave me these violets +for you, Senora. + +DONA LAURA. How very nice of him. Thank him for me. They are very +fragrant. [_As she takes the violets from her maid, a few loose ones +drop to the ground._] + +DON GONZALO. My dear Senora, this has been a great honor and pleasure. + +DONA LAURA. And it has also been a pleasure to me. + +DON GONZALO. Good-by until to-morrow. + +DONA LAURA. Until to-morrow. + +DON GONZALO. If it is a sunny day. + +DONA LAURA. If it is a sunny day. Will you go to your bench? + +DON GONZALO. No, Senora, I will come to this, if you do not object? + +DONA LAURA. This bench is at your disposal. [_Both laugh._] + +DON GONZALO. And I will surely bring the bread crumbs. [_Both laugh +again._] + +DONA LAURA. Until to-morrow. + +DON GONZALO. Until to-morrow. + + [_Laura walks away on her maid's arm toward right. Gonzalo, before + leaving with Juanito, trembling and with a great effort, stoops to + pick up the violets Laura dropped. Just then, Laura turns her head + and sees him pick up flowers._] + +JUANITO. What are you doing, Senor? + +DON GONZALO. Wait, Juanito, wait. + +DONA LAURA [_aside_]. There is no doubt. It is he. + +DON GONZALO [_walks toward left. Aside_]. There can be no mistake. It is +she. + + [_Dona Laura and Don Gonzalo wave farewells to each other from a + distance._] + +DONA LAURA. Merciful heavens! This is Gonzalo. + +DON GONZALO. And to think that this is Laura. + + [_Before disappearing they give one last smiling look at each + other._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE CREDITOR + + A PLAY + + BY AUGUST STRINDBERG + + + PERSONS + + THELKA. + ADOLF [_her husband, a painter_]. + GUSTAV [_her divorced husband_]. + TWO LADIES, A WAITER. + + + +THE CREDITOR + +A PLAY BY AUGUST STRINDBERG + + + [SCENE: _A small watering-place. Time, the present. Stage + directions with reference to the actors._ + + _A drawing-room in a watering-place; furnished as above._ + + _Door in the middle, with a view out on the sea; side doors right + and left; by the side door on the left the button of an electric + bell; on the right of the door in the center a table, with a + decanter of water and a glass. On the left of the door in the + center a what-not; on the right a fireplace in front; on the right + a round table and arm-chair; on the left a sofa, a square table, a + settee; on the table a small pedestal with a draped + figure--papers, books, arm-chairs. Only the items of furniture + which are introduced into the action are referred to in the above + plan. The rest of the scenery remains unaffected. It is summer, + and the day-time._] + + +SCENE I. + + [_Adolf sits on the settee on the left of the square table; his + stick is propped up near him._] + +ADOLF. And it's you I've got to thank for all this. + +GUSTAV [_walks up and down on the right, smoking a cigar_]. Oh, +nonsense. + +ADOLF. Indeed, I have. Why, the first day after my wife went away, I lay +on my sofa like a cripple and gave myself up to my depression; it was as +though she had taken my crutches, and I couldn't move from the spot. A +few days went by, and I cheered up and began to pull myself together. +The delirious nightmares which my brain had produced, went away. My head +became cooler and cooler. A thought which I once had came to the surface +again. My desire to work, my impulse to create, woke up. My eye got back +again its capacity for sound sharp observation. You came, old man. + +GUSTAV. Yes, you were in pretty low water, old man, when I came across +you, and you went about on crutches. Of course, that doesn't prove that +it was simply my presence that helped so much to your recovery: you +needed quiet, and you wanted masculine companionship. + +ADOLF. You're right in that, as you are in everything else you say. I +used to have it in the old days. But after my marriage it seemed +unnecessary. I was satisfied with the friend of my heart whom I had +chosen. All the same I soon got into fresh sets, and made many new +acquaintances. But then my wife got jealous. She wanted to have me quite +to herself; but much worse than that, my friends wanted to have her +quite to themselves--and so I was left out in the cold with my jealousy. + +GUSTAV. You were predisposed to this illness, you know that. + + [_He passes on the left behind the square table and comes to + Adolf's left._] + +ADOLF. I was afraid of losing her--and tried to prevent it. Are you +surprised at it? I was never afraid for a moment that she'd be +unfaithful to me. + +GUSTAV. What husband ever was afraid? + +ADOLF. Strange, isn't it? All I troubled about was simply this--about +friends getting influence over her and so being able indirectly to +acquire power over me--and I couldn't bear that at all. + +GUSTAV. So you and your wife didn't have quite identical views? + +ADOLF. I've told you so much, you may as well know everything---my wife +is an independent character. [_Gustav laughs._] What are you laughing +at, old man? + +GUSTAV. Go on, go on. She's an independent character, is she? + +ADOLF. She won't take anything from me. + +GUSTAV. But she does from everybody else? + +ADOLF [_after a pause_]. Yes. And I've felt about all this, that the +only reason why my views were so awfully repugnant to her, was because +they were mine, not because they appeared absurd on their intrinsic +merits. For it often happened that she'd trot out my old ideas, and +champion them with gusto as her own. Why, it even came about that one of +my friends gave her ideas which he had borrowed direct from me. She +found them delightful; she found everything delightful that didn't come +from me. + +GUSTAV. In other words, you're not truly happy. + +ADOLF. Oh yes, I am. The woman whom I desired is mine, and I never +wished for any other. + +GUSTAV. Do you never wish to be free either? + +ADOLF. I wouldn't like to go quite so far as that. Of course the thought +crops up now and again, how calmly I should be able to live if I were +free--but she scarcely leaves me before I immediately long for her +again, as though she were my arm, my leg. Strange. When I'm alone I +sometimes feel as though she didn't have any real self of her own, as +though she were a part of my ego, a piece out of my inside, that stole +away all my will, all my _joie de vivre_. Why, my very marrow itself, to +use an anatomical expression, is situated in her; that's what it seems +like. + +GUSTAV. Viewing the matter broadly, that seems quite plausible. + +ADOLF. Nonsense. An independent person like she is, with such a +tremendous lot of personal views, and when I met her, what was I then? +Nothing. An artistic child which she brought up. + +GUSTAV. But afterwards you developed her intellect and educated her, +didn't you? + +ADOLF. No; her growth remained stationary, and I shot up. + +GUSTAV. Yes; it's really remarkable, but her literary talent already +began to deteriorate after her first book, or, to put it as charitably +as possible, it didn't develop any further. [_He sits down opposite +Adolf on the sofa on the left._] Of course she then had the most +promising subject-matter--for of course she drew the portrait of her +first husband--you never knew him, old man? He must have been an +unmitigated ass. + +ADOLF. I've never seen him. He was away for more than six months, but +the good fellow must have been as perfect an ass as they're made, +judging by her description--you can take it from me, old man, that her +description wasn't exaggerated. + +GUSTAV. Quite; but why did she marry him? + +ADOLF. She didn't know him then. People only get to know one another +afterwards, don't you know. + +GUSTAV. But, according to that, people have no business to marry +until--Well, the man was a tyrant, obviously. + +ADOLF. Obviously? + +GUSTAV. What husband wouldn't be? [_Casually._] Why, old chap, you're as +much a tyrant as any of the others. + +ADOLF. Me? I? Well, I allow my wife to come and go as she jolly well +pleases! + +GUSTAV [_stands up_]. Pah! a lot of good that is. I didn't suppose you +kept her locked up. [_He turns round behind the square table and comes +over to Adolf on the right._] Don't you mind if she's out all night? + +ADOLF. I should think I do. + +GUSTAV. Look here. [_Resuming his earlier tone._] Speaking as man to +man, it simply makes you ridiculous. + +ADOLF. Ridiculous? Can a man's trusting his wife make him ridiculous? + +GUSTAV. Of course it can. And you've been so for some time. No doubt +about it. + + [_He walks round the round table on the right._] + +ADOLF [_excitedly_]. Me? I'd have preferred to be anything but that. I +must put matters right. + +GUSTAV. Don't you get so excited, otherwise you'll get an attack again. + +ADOLF [_after a pause_]. Why doesn't she look ridiculous when I stay out +all night? + +GUSTAV. Why? Don't you bother about that. That's how the matter stands, +and while you're fooling about moping, the mischief is done. + + [_He goes behind the square table, and walks behind the sofa._] + +ADOLF. What mischief? + +GUSTAV. Her husband, you know, was a tyrant, and she simply married him +in order to be free. For what other way is there for a girl to get free, +than by getting the so-called husband to act as cover? + +ADOLF. Why, of course. + +GUSTAV. And now, old man, you're the cover. + +ADOLF. I? + +GUSTAV. As her husband. + +ADOLF [_looks absent_]. + +GUSTAV. Am I not right? + +ADOLF [_uneasily_]. I don't know. [_Pause._] A man lives for years on +end with a woman without coming to a clear conclusion about the woman +herself, or how she stands in relation to his own way of looking at +things. And then all of a sudden a man begins to reflect--and then +there's no stopping. Gustav, old man, you're my friend, the only friend +I've had for a long time, and this last week you've given me back all my +life and pluck. It seems as though you'd radiated your magnetism over +me. You were the watchmaker who repairs the works in my brain, and +tightened the spring. [_Pause._] Don't you see yourself how much more +lucidly I think, how much more connectedly I speak, and at times it +almost seems as though my voice had got back the timbre it used to have +in the old days. + +GUSTAV. I think so, too. What can be the cause of it? + +ADOLF. I don't know. Perhaps one gets accustomed to talk more softly to +women. Thekla, at any rate, was always ragging me because I shrieked. + +GUSTAV. And then you subsided into a minor key, and allowed yourself to +be put in the corner. + +ADOLF. Don't say that. [_Reflectively._] That wasn't the worst of it. +Let's talk of something else--where was I then--I've got it. [_Gustav +turns round again at the back of the square table and comes to Adolf on +his right._] You came here, old man, and opened my eyes to the mysteries +of my art. As a matter of fact, I've been feeling for some time that my +interest in painting was lessening, because it didn't provide me with a +proper medium to express what I had in me; but when you gave me the +reason for this state of affairs, and explained to me why painting could +not possibly be the right form for the artistic impulse of the age, then +I saw the true light and I recognized that it would be from now onwards +impossible for me to create in colors. + +GUSTAV. Are you so certain, old man, that you won't be able to paint any +more, that you won't have any relapse? + +ADOLF. Quite. I have tested myself. When I went to bed the evening after +our conversation I reviewed your chain of argument point by point, and +felt convinced that it was sound. But the next morning, when my head +cleared again, after the night's sleep, the thought flashed through me +like lightning that you might be mistaken all the same. I jumped up, and +snatched up a brush and palette, in order to paint, but--just think of +it!--it was all up. I was no longer capable of any illusion. The whole +thing was nothing but blobs of color, and I was horrified at the +thought. I could never have believed I could convert any one else to the +belief that painted canvas was anything else except painted canvas. The +scales had fallen from my eyes, and I could as much paint again as I +could become a child again. + +GUSTAV. You realized then that the real striving of the age, its +aspiration for reality, for actuality, can only find a corresponding +medium in sculpture, which gives bodies extension in the three +dimensions. + +ADOLF [_hesitating_]. The three dimensions? Yes--in a word, bodies. + +GUSTAV. And now you want to become a sculptor? That means that you were +a sculptor really from the beginning; you got off the line somehow, so +you only needed a guide to direct you back again to the right track. I +say, when you work now, does the great joy of creation come over you? + +ADOLF. Now, I live again. + +GUSTAV. May I see what you're doing? + +ADOLF [_undraping a figure on the small table_]. A female figure. + +GUSTAV [_probing_]. Without a model, and yet so lifelike? + +ADOLF [_heavily_]. Yes, but it is like somebody; extraordinary how this +woman is in me, just as I am in her. + +GUSTAV. That last is not so extraordinary--do you know anything about +transfusion? + +ADOLF. Blood transfusion? Yes. + +GUSTAV. It seems to me that you've allowed your veins to be opened a bit +too much. The examination of this figure clears up many things which I'd +previously only surmised. You loved her infinitely? + +ADOLF. Yes; so much that I could never tell whether she is I, or I am +her; when she laughed I laughed; when she cried I cried, and when--just +imagine it--our child came into the world I suffered the same as she +did. + +GUSTAV [_stepping a little to the right_]. Look here, old chap, I am +awfully sorry to have to tell you, but the symptoms of epilepsy are +already manifesting themselves. + +ADOLF [_crushed_]. In me? What makes you say so. + +GUSTAV. Because I watched these symptoms in a younger brother of mine, +who eventually died of excess. + + [_He sits down in the arm-chair by the circular table._] + +ADOLF. How did it manifest itself--that disease, I mean? + + [_Gustav gesticulates vividly; Adolf watches with strained + attention, and involuntarily imitates Gustav's gestures._] + +GUSTAV. A ghastly sight. If you feel at all off color, I'd rather not +harrow you by describing the symptoms. + +ADOLF [_nervously_]. Go on; go on. + +GUSTAV. Well, it's like this. Fate had given the youngster for a wife a +little innocent, with kiss-curls, dove-like eyes, and a baby face, from +which there spoke the pure soul of an angel. In spite of that, the +little one managed to appropriate the man's prerogative. + +ADOLF. What is that? + +GUSTAV. Initiative, of course; and the inevitable result was that the +angel came precious near taking him away to heaven. He first had to be +on the cross and feel the nails in his flesh. + +ADOLF [_suffocating_]. Tell me, what was it like? + +GUSTAV [_slowly_]. There were times when he and I would sit quite +quietly by each other and chat, and then--I'd scarcely been speaking a +few minutes before his face became ashy white, his limbs were paralyzed, +and his thumbs turned in towards the palm of the hand. [_With a +gesture._] Like that! [_Adolf imitates the gesture._] And his eyes were +shot with blood, and he began to chew, do you see, like this. [_He moves +his lips as though chewing; Adolf imitates him again._] The saliva stuck +in his throat; the chest contracted as though it had been compressed by +screws on a joiner's bench; there was a flicker in the pupils like gas +jets; foam spurted from his mouth, and he sank gently back in the chair +as though he were drowning. Then-- + +ADOLF [_hissing_]. Stop! + +GUSTAV. Then--are you unwell? + +ADOLF. Yes. + +GUSTAV [_gets up and fetches a glass of water from the table on the +right near the center door_]. Here, drink this, and let's change the +subject. + +ADOLF [_drinks, limp_]. Thanks; go on. + +GUSTAV. Good! When he woke up he had no idea what had taken place. [_He +takes the glass back to the table._] He had simply lost consciousness. +Hasn't that ever happened to you? + +ADOLF. Now and again I have attacks of dizziness. The doctor puts it +down to anaemia. + +GUSTAV [_on the right of Adolf_]. That's just how the thing starts, mark +you. Take it from me, you're in danger of contracting epilepsy; if you +aren't on your guard, if you don't live a careful and abstemious life, +all round. + +ADOLF. What can I do to effect that? + +GUSTAV. Above all, you must exercise the most complete continence. + +ADOLF. For how long? + +GUSTAV. Six months at least. + +ADOLF. I can't do it. It would upset all our life together. + +GUSTAV. Then it's all up with you. + +ADOLF. I can't do it. + +GUSTAV. You can't save your own life? But tell me, as you've taken me +into your confidence so far, haven't you any other wound that hurts +you?--some other secret trouble in this multifarious life of ours, with +all its numerous opportunities for jars and complications? There is +usually more than one _motif_ which is responsible for a discord. +Haven't you got a skeleton in the cupboard, old chap, which you hide +even from yourself? You told me a minute ago you'd given your child to +people to look after. Why didn't you keep it with you? + + [_He goes behind the square table on the left and then behind the + sofa._] + +ADOLF [_covers the figure on the small table with a cloth_]. It was my +wife's wish to have it nursed outside the house. + +GUSTAV. The motive? Don't be afraid. + +ADOLF. Because when the kid was three years old she thought it began to +look like her first husband. + +GUSTAV. Re-a-lly? Ever seen the first husband? + +ADOLF. No, never. I just once cast a cursory glance over a bad +photograph, but I couldn't discover any likeness. + +GUSTAV. Oh, well, photographs are never like, and besides, his type of +face may have changed with time. By the by, didn't that make you at all +jealous? + +ADOLF. Not a bit. The child was born a year after our marriage, and the +husband was traveling when I met Thekla, here--in this +watering-place--in this very house. That's why we come here every +summer. + +GUSTAV. Then all suspicion on your part was out of the question? But so +far as the intrinsic facts of the matter are concerned you needn't be +jealous at all, because it not infrequently happens that the children of +a widow who marries again are like the deceased husband. Very awkward +business, no question about it; and that's why, don't you know, the +widows are burned alive in India. Tell me, now, didn't you ever feel +jealous of him, of the survival of his memory in your own self? Wouldn't +it have rather gone against the grain if he had just met you when you +were out for a walk, and, looking straight at Thekla, said "We," instead +of "I"? "We." + +ADOLF. I can't deny that the thought has haunted me. + +GUSTAV [_sits down opposite Adolf on the sofa on the left_]. I thought +as much, and you'll never get away from it. There are discords in life, +you know, which never get resolved, so you must stuff your ears with +wax, and work. Work, get older, and heap up over the coffin a mass of +new impressions, and then the corpse will rest in peace. + +ADOLF. Excuse my interrupting you--but it is extraordinary at times how +your way of speaking reminds me of Thekla. You've got a trick, old man, +of winking with your right eye as though you were counting, and your +gaze has the same power over me as hers has. + +GUSTAV. No, really? + +ADOLF. And now you pronounce your "No, really?" in the same indifferent +tone that she does. "No, really?" is one of her favorite expressions, +too, you know. + +GUSTAV. Perhaps there is a distant relationship between us: all men and +women are related of course. Anyway, there's no getting away from the +strangeness of it, and it will be interesting for me to make the +acquaintance of your wife, so as to observe this remarkable +characteristic. + +ADOLF. But just think of this, she doesn't take a single expression from +me; why, she seems rather to make a point of avoiding all my special +tricks of speech; all the same, I have seen her make use of one of my +gestures; but it is quite the usual thing in married life for a husband +and a wife to develop the so-called marriage likeness. + +GUSTAV. Quite. But look here now. [_He stands up._] That woman has never +loved you. + +ADOLF. Nonsense. + +GUSTAV. Pray excuse me, woman's love consists simply in this--in taking +in, in receiving. She does not love the man from whom she takes nothing: +she has never loved you. + + [_He turns round behind the square table and walks to Adolf's + right._] + +ADOLF. I suppose you don't think that she'd be able to love more than +once? + +GUSTAV. No. Once bit, twice shy. After the first time, one keeps one's +eyes open, but you have never been really bitten yet. You be careful of +those who have; they're dangerous customers. + + [_He goes round the circular table on the right._] + +ADOLF. What you say jabs a knife into my flesh. I've got a feeling as +though something in me were cut through, but I can do nothing to stop +it all by myself, and it's as well it should be so, for abscesses will +be opened in that way which would otherwise never be able to come to a +head. She never loved me? Why did she marry me, then? + +GUSTAV. Tell me first how it came about that she did marry you, and +whether she married you or you her? + +ADOLF. God knows! That's much too hard a question to be answered +offhand, and how did it take place?--it took more than a day. + +GUSTAV. Shall I guess? + + [_He goes behind the round table, toward the left, and sits on the + sofa._] + +ADOLF. You'll get nothing for your pains. + +GUSTAV. Not so fast! From the insight which you've given me into your +own character, and that of your wife, I find it pretty easy to work out +the sequence of the whole thing. Listen to me and you'll be quite +convinced. [_Dispassionately and in an almost jocular tone._] The +husband happened to be traveling on study and she was alone. At first +she found a pleasure in being free. Then she imagined that she felt the +void, for I presume that she found it pretty boring after being alone +for a fortnight. Then he turned up, and the void begins gradually to be +filled--the picture of the absent man begins gradually to fade in +comparison, for the simple reason that he is a long way off--you know of +course the psychological algebra of distance? And when both of them, +alone as they were, felt the awakening of passion, they were frightened +of themselves, of him, of their own conscience. They sought for +protection, skulked behind the fig-leaf, played at brother and sister, +and the more sensual grew their feelings the more spiritual did they +pretend their relationship really was. + +ADOLF. Brother and sister! How did you know that? + +GUSTAV. I just thought that was how it was. Children play at mother and +father, but of course when they grow older they play at brother and +sister--so as to conceal what requires concealment; they then discard +their chaste desires; they play blind man's bluff till they've caught +each other in some dark corner, where they're pretty sure not to be seen +by anybody. [_With increased severity._] But they are warned by their +inner consciences that an eye sees them through the darkness. They are +afraid--and in their panic the absent man begins to haunt their +imagination--to assume monstrous proportions--to become +metamorphosed--he becomes a nightmare who oppresses them in that love's +young dream of theirs. He becomes the creditor [_he raps slowly on the +table three times with his finger, as though knocking at the door_] who +knocks at the door. They see his black hand thrust itself between them +when their own are reaching after the dish of pottage. They hear his +unwelcome voice in the stillness of the night, which is only broken by +the beating of their own pulses. He doesn't prevent their belonging to +each other, but he is enough to mar their happiness, and when they have +felt this invisible power of his, and when at last they want to run +away, and make their futile efforts to escape the memory which haunts +them, the guilt which they have left behind, the public opinion which +they are afraid of, and they lack the strength to bear their own guilt, +then a scapegoat has to be exterminated and slaughtered. They posed as +believers in Free Love, but they didn't have the pluck to go straight to +him, to speak straight out to him and say, "We love each other." They +were cowardly, and that's why the tyrant had to be assassinated. Am I +not right? + +ADOLF. Yes; but you're forgetting that she trained me, gave me new +thoughts. + +GUSTAV. I haven't forgotten it. But tell me, how was it that she wasn't +able to succeed in educating the other man--in educating him into being +really modern? + +ADOLF. He was an utter ass. + +GUSTAV. Right you are--he was an ass; but that's a fairly elastic word, +and according to her description of him, in her novel, his asinine +nature seemed to have consisted principally in the fact that he didn't +understand her. Excuse the question, but is your wife really as deep as +all that? I haven't found anything particularly profound in her +writings. + +ADOLF. Nor have I. I must really own that I too find it takes me all my +time to understand her. It's as though the machinery of our brains +couldn't catch on to each other properly--as though something in my head +got broken when I try to understand her. + +GUSTAV. Perhaps you're an ass as well. + +ADOLF. No, I flatter myself I'm not that, and I nearly always think that +she's in the wrong--and, for the sake of argument, would you care to +read this letter which I got from her to-day? + + [_He takes a letter out of his pocketbook._] + +GUSTAV [_reads it cursorily_]. Hum, I seem to know the style so well. + +ADOLF. Like a man's, almost. + +GUSTAV. Well, at any rate I know a man who had a style like that. +[_Standing up._] I see she goes on calling you brother all the time--do +you always keep up the comedy for the benefit of your two selves? Do you +still keep on using the fig leaves, even though they're a trifle +withered--you don't use any term of endearment? + +ADOLF. No. In my view, I couldn't respect her quite so much if I did. + +GUSTAV [_hands back the letter_]. I see, and she calls herself "sister" +so as to inspire respect. + + [_He turns around and passes the square table on Adolf's right._] + +ADOLF. I want to esteem her more than I do myself. I want her to be my +better self. + +GUSTAV. Oh, you be your better self; though I quite admit it's less +convenient than having somebody else to do it for you. Do you want, +then, to be your wife's inferior? + +ADOLF. Yes, I do. I find pleasure in always allowing myself to be beaten +by her a little. For instance, I taught her swimming, and it amuses me +when she boasts about being better and pluckier than I am. At the +beginning I simply pretended to be less skillful and courageous than she +was, in order to give her pluck, but one day, God knows how it came +about, I was actually the worse swimmer and the one with less pluck. It +seemed as though she's taken all my grit away in real earnest. + +GUSTAV. And haven't you taught her anything else? + +ADOLF. Yes--but this is in confidence--I taught her spelling, because +she didn't know it. Just listen to this. When she took over the +correspondence of the household I gave up writing letters, and--will you +believe it?--simply from lack of practice I've lost one bit of grammar +after another in the course of the year. But do you think she ever +remembers that she has to thank me really for her proficiency? Not for a +minute. Of course, I'm the ass now. + +GUSTAV. Ah, really? You're the ass now, are you? + +ADOLF. I'm only joking, of course. + +GUSTAV. Obviously. But this is pure cannibalism, isn't it? Do you know +what I mean? Well, the savages devour their enemies so as to acquire +their best qualities. Well, this woman has devoured your soul, your +pluck, your knowledge. + +ADOLF. And my faith. It was I who kept her up to the mark and made her +write her first book. + +GUSTAV [_with facial expression_]. Re-a-lly? + +ADOLF. It was I who fed her up with praise, even when I thought her work +was no good. It was I who introduced her into literary sets, and tried +to make her feel herself in clover; defended her against criticism by my +personal intervention. I blew courage into her, kept on blowing it for +so long that I got out of breath myself. I gave and gave and gave--until +nothing was left for me myself. Do you know--I'm going to tell you the +whole story--do you know how the thing seems to me now? One's +temperament is such an extraordinary thing, and when my artistic +successes looked as though they would eclipse her--her prestige--I tried +to buck her up by belittling myself and by representing that my art was +one that was inferior to hers. I talked so much of the general +insignificant role of my particular art, and harped on it so much, +thought of so many good reasons for my contention, that one fine day I +myself was soaked through and through with the worthlessness of the +painter's art; so all that was left was a house of cards for you to blow +down. + +GUSTAV. Excuse my reminding you of what you said, but at the beginning +of our conversation you were asserting that she took nothing from you. + +ADOLF. She doesn't--now, at any rate; now there is nothing left to +take. + +GUSTAV. So the snake has gorged herself, and now she vomits. + +ADOLF. Perhaps she took more from me than I knew of. + +GUSTAV. Oh, you can reckon on that right enough--she took without your +noticing it. [_He goes behind the square table and comes in front of the +sofa._] That's what people call stealing. + +ADOLF. Then what it comes to is that she hasn't educated me at all? + +GUSTAV. Rather you her. Of course she knew the trick well enough of +making you believe the contrary. Might I ask how she pretended to +educate you? + +ADOLF. Oh--at first--hum! + +GUSTAV. Well? [_He leans his arms on the table._] + +ADOLF. Well, I-- + +GUSTAV. No; it was she--she. + +ADOLF. As a matter of fact I couldn't say which it was. + +GUSTAV. You see. + +ADOLF. Besides, she destroyed my faith as well, and so I went backward +until you came, old chap, and gave me a new faith. + +GUSTAV [_he laughs_]. In sculpture? + + [_He turns round by the square table and comes to Adolf's right._] + +ADOLF [_hesitating_]. Yes. + +GUSTAV. And you believed in it?--in that abstract, obsolete art from the +childhood of the world. Do you believe that by means of pure form and +three dimensions--no, you don't really--that you can produce an effect +on the real spirit of this age of ours, that you can create illusions +without color? Without color, I say. Do you believe that? + +ADOLF [_tonelessly_]. No. + +GUSTAV. Nor do I. + +ADOLF. But why did you say you did? + +GUSTAV. You make me pity you. + +ADOLF. Yes, I am indeed to be pitied. And now I'm bankrupt, +absolutely--and the worst of it is I haven't got her any more. + +GUSTAV [_with a few steps toward the right_]. What good would she be to +you? She would be what God above was to me before I became an atheist--a +subject on which I could lavish my reverence. You keep your feeling of +reverence dark, and let something else grow on top of it--a healthy +contempt, for instance. + +ADOLF. I can't live without some one to reverence. + +GUSTAV. Slave! + + [_He goes round the table on the right._] + +ADOLF. And without a woman to reverence, to worship. + +GUSTAV. Oh, the deuce! Then you go back to that God of yours--if you +really must have something on which you can crucify yourself; but you +call yourself an atheist when you've got the superstitious belief in +women in your own blood; you call yourself a free thinker when you can't +think freely about a lot of silly women. Do you know what all this +illusive quality, this sphinx-like mystery, this profundity in your +wife's temperament all really comes to? The whole thing is sheer +stupidity; why, the woman can't distinguish between A.B. and bull's foot +for the life of her. And look here, it's something shoddy in the +mechanism, that's where the fault lies. Outside it looks like a +fifty-guinea hunting watch, open it and you find it's tuppenny-halfpenny +gun-metal. [_He comes up to Adolf._] Put her in trousers, draw a +mustache under her nose with a piece of coal, and then listen to her in +the same state of mind, and then you'll be perfectly convinced that it +is quite a different kettle of fish altogether---a gramaphone which +reproduces, with rather less volume, your words and other people's +words. Do you know how a woman is constituted? Yes, of course you do. A +boy with the breasts of a mother, an immature man, a precocious child +whose growth has been stunted, a chronically anaemic creature that has a +regular emission of blood thirteen times in the year. What can you do +with a thing like that? + +ADOLF. Yes--but--but then how can I believe--that we are really on an +equality? + +GUSTAV [_moves away from him again towards the right_]. Sheer +hallucination! The fascination of the petticoat. But it is so; perhaps, +in fact you have become like each other, the leveling has taken place. +But I say. [_He takes out his watch._] We've been chatting for quite +long enough. Your wife's bound to be here shortly. Wouldn't it be better +to leave off now, so that you can rest for a little? + + [_He comes nearer and holds out his hand to say good-by. Adolf + grips his hand all the tighter._] + +ADOLF. NO, don't leave me. I haven't got the pluck to be alone. + +GUSTAV. Only for a little while. Your wife will be coming in a minute. + +ADOLF. Yes, yes--she's coming. [_Pause._] Strange, isn't it? I long for +her and yet I'm frightened of her. She caresses me, she is tender, but +her kisses have something in them which smothers one, something which +sucks, something which stupefies. It is as though I were the child at +the circus whose face the clown is making up in the dressing-room, so +that it can appear red-cheeked before the public. + +GUSTAV [_leaning on the arm of Adolf's chair_]. I'm sorry for you, old +man. Although I'm not a doctor I am in a position to tell you that you +are a dying man. One only has to look at your last pictures to be quite +clear on the point. + +ADOLF. What do you say--what do you mean? + +GUSTAV. Your coloring is so watery, so consumptive and thin, that the +yellow of the canvas shines through. It is just as though your hollow +ashen white cheeks were looking out at me. + +ADOLF. Ah! + +GUSTAV. Yes, and that's not only my view. Haven't you read to-day's +paper? + +ADOLF [_he starts_]. No. + +GUSTAV. It's before you on the table. + +ADOLF [_he gropes after the paper without having the courage to take +it_]. Is it in here? + +GUSTAV. Read it, or shall I read it to you? + +ADOLF. No. + +GUSTAV [_turns to leave_]. If you prefer it, I'll go. + +ADOLF. NO, no, no! I don't know how it is--I think I am beginning to +hate you, but all the same I can't do without your being near me. You +have helped to drag me out of the slough which I was in, and, as luck +would have it, I just managed to work my way clear and then you knocked +me on the head and plunged me in again. As long as I kept my secrets to +myself I still had some guts--now I'm empty. There's a picture by an +Italian master that describes a torture scene. The entrails are dragged +out of a saint by means of a windlass. The martyr lies there and sees +himself getting continually thinner and thinner, but the roll on the +windless always gets perpetually fatter, and so it seems to me that you +get stronger since you've taken me up and that you're taking away now +with you, as you go, my innermost essence, the core of my character, and +there's nothing left of me but an empty husk. + +GUSTAV. Oh, what fantastic notions; besides, your wife is coming back +with your heart. + +ADOLF. No; no longer, after you have burnt it for me. You have passed +through me, changing everything in your track to ashes--my art, my love, +my hope, my faith. + +GUSTAV [_comes near to him again_]. Were you so splendidly off before? + +ADOLF. No, I wasn't, but the situation might have been saved; now it's +too late. Murderer! + +GUSTAV. We've wasted a little time. Now we'll do some sowing in the +ashes. + +ADOLF. I hate you! I curse you! + +GUSTAV. A healthy symptom. You've still got some strength, and now I'll +screw up your machinery again. I say. [_He goes behind the square table +on the left and comes in front of the sofa._] Will you listen to me and +obey me? + +ADOLF. Do what you will with me, I'll obey. + +GUSTAV. Look at me. + +ADOLF [_looks him in the face_]. And now you look at me again with that +other expression in those eyes of yours, which draws me to you +irresistibly. + +GUSTAV. Now listen to me. + +ADOLF. Yes, but speak of yourself. Don't speak any more of me: it's as +though I were wounded, every movement hurts me. + +GUSTAV. Oh no, there isn't much to say about me, don't you know. I'm a +private tutor in dead languages and a widower, that's all. [_He goes in +front of the table._] Hold my hand. + + [_Adolf does so._] + +ADOLF. What awful strength you must have, it seems as though a fellow +were catching hold of an electric battery. + +GUSTAV. And just think, I was once quite as weak as you are. +[_Sternly._] Get up. + +ADOLF [_gets up_]. I am like a child without any bones, and my brain is +empty. + +GUSTAV. Take a walk through the room. + +ADOLF. I can't. + +GUSTAV. You must; if you don't I'll hit you. + +ADOLF [_stands up_]. What do you say? + +GUSTAV. I've told you--I'll hit you. + +ADOLF [_jumps back to the circular table on the right, beside himself._] +You! + +GUSTAV [_follows him_]. Bravo! That's driven the blood to your head, and +woken up your self-respect. Now I'll give you an electric shock. Where's +your wife? + +ADOLF. Where's my wife? + +GUSTAV. Yes. + +ADOLF. At--a meeting. + +GUSTAV. Certain? + +ADOLF. Absolutely. + +GUSTAV. What kind of a meeting? + +ADOLF. An orphan association. + +GUSTAV. Did you part friends? + +ADOLF [_hesitating_]. Not friends. + +GUSTAV. Enemies, then? What did you say to make her angry? + +ADOLF. You're terrible. I'm frightened of you. How did you manage to +know that? + +GUSTAV. I've just got three known quantities, and by their help I work +out the unknown. What did you say to her, old chap? + +ADOLF. I said--only two words--but two awful words. I regret them--I +regret them. + +GUSTAV. You shouldn't do that. Well, speak! + +ADOLF. I said, "Old coquette." + +GUSTAV. And what else? + +ADOLF. I didn't say anything else. + +GUSTAV. Oh yes, you did; you've only forgotten it. Perhaps because you +haven't got the pluck to remember it. You've locked it up in a secret +pigeonhole; open it. + +ADOLF. I don't remember. + +GUSTAV. But I know what it was--the sense was roughly this: "You ought +to be ashamed of yourself to be always flirting at your age. You're +getting too old to find any more admirers." + +ADOLF. Did I say that--possibly? How did you manage to know it? + +GUSTAV. On my way here I heard her tell the story on the steamer. + +ADOLF. To whom? + +GUSTAV [_walks up and down on the left_]. To four boys, whom she +happened to be with. She has a craze for pure boys, just like-- + +ADOLF. A perfectly innocent _penchant_. + +GUSTAV. Quite as innocent as playing brother and sister when one is +father and mother. + +ADOLF. You saw her, then? + +GUSTAV. Yes, of course; but you've never seen her if you didn't see her +then--I mean, if you weren't present--and that's the reason, don't you +know, why a husband can never know his wife. Have you got her +photograph? + +ADOLF [_takes a photo out of his pocketbook. Inquisitively_]. Here you +are. + +GUSTAV [_takes it_]. Were you present when it was taken? + +ADOLF. No. + +GUSTAV. Just look at it? Is it like the portrait you painted? No, the +features are the same, but the expression is different. But you don't +notice that, because you insist on seeing in it the picture of her which +you've painted. Now look at this picture as a painter, without thinking +of the original. What does it represent? I can see nothing but a +tricked-out flirt, playing the decoy. Observe the cynical twist in the +mouth, which you never managed to see. You see that her look is seeking +a man quite different from you. Observe the dress is _decollete_, the +coiffure titivated to the last degree, the sleeves finished high up. You +see? + +ADOLF. Yes, now I see. + +GUSTAV. Be careful, my boy. + +ADOLF. Of what? + +GUSTAV [_gives him back the portrait_]. Of her revenge. Don't forget +that by saying she was no longer attractive to men you wounded her in +the one thing which she took most seriously. If you'd called her +literary works twaddle she'd have laughed, and pitied your bad taste, +but now--take it from me--if she hasn't avenged herself already it's not +her fault. + +ADOLF. I must be clear on that point. + + [_He goes over to Gustav, and sits down in his previous place. + Gustav approaches him._] + +GUSTAV. Find out yourself. + +ADOLF. Find out myself? + +GUSTAV. Investigate. I'll help you, if you like. + +ADOLF [_after a pause_]. Good. Since I've been condemned to death +once--so be it--sooner or later it's all the same what's to happen. + +GUSTAV. One question first. Hasn't your wife got just one weak point? + +ADOLF. Not that I know of. [_Adolf goes to the open door in the +center_]. Yes. You can hear the steamer in the Sound now--she'll be here +soon. And I must go down to meet her. + +GUSTAV [_holding him back_]. No, stay here. Be rude to her. If she's got +a good conscience she'll let you have it so hot and strong that you +won't know where you are. But if she feels guilty she'll come and caress +you. + +ADOLF. Are you so sure of it? + +GUSTAV. Not absolutely. At times a hare goes back in the tracks, but I'm +not going to let this one escape me. My room is just here. [_Points to +the door on the right and goes behind Adolf's chair._] I'll keep this +position, and be on the look-out, while you play your game here, and +when you've played it to the end we'll exchange parts. I'll go in the +cage and leave myself to the tender mercies of the snake, and you can +stand at the keyhole. Afterwards we'll meet in the park and compare +notes. But pull yourself together, old man, and if you show weakness +I'll knock on the floor twice with a chair. + +ADOLF [_getting up_]. Right. But don't go away: I must know that you're +in the next room. + +GUSTAV. You can trust me for that. But be careful you aren't afraid when +you see later on how I can dissect a human soul and lay the entrails +here on the table. It may seem a bit uncanny to beginners, but if you've +seen it done once you don't regret it. One thing more, don't say a word +that you've met me, or that you have made any acquaintance during her +absence--not a word. I'll ferret out her weak point myself. Hush! She's +already up there in her room. She's whistling--then she's in a temper. +Now stick to it. [_He points to the left._] And sit here on this chair, +then she'll have to sit there [_He points to the sofa on the left._], +and I can keep you both in view at the same time. + +ADOLF. We've still got an hour before dinner. There are no new visitors, +for there has been no bell to announce them. We'll be alone +together--more's the pity! + +GUSTAV. You seem pretty limp. Are you unwell? + +ADOLF. I'm all right; unless, you know, I'm frightened of what's going +to happen. But I can't help its happening. The stone rolls, but it was +not the last drop of water that made it roll, nor yet the +first--everything taken together brought it about. + +GUSTAV. Let it roll, then; it won't have any peace until it does. +Good-by, for the time being. + + [_Exit on the right. Adolf nods to him, stands up for a short + time, looking at the photograph, tears it to pieces, and throws + the fragments behind the circular table on the right; he then sits + down in his previous place, nervously arranges his tie, runs his + fingers through his hair, fumbles with the lapels of his coat, + etc. Thekla enters on the left._] + + +SCENE II. + +THEKLA [_frank, cheerful and engaging, goes straight up to her husband +and kisses him_]. Good-day, little brother; how have you been getting +on? + + [_She stands on his left._] + +ADOLF [_half overcome but jocularly resisting_]. What mischief have you +been up to, for you to kiss me? + +THEKLA. Yes, let me just confess. Something very naughty--I've spent an +awful lot of money. + +ADOLF. Did you have a good time, then? + +THEKLA. Excellent. [_She goes to his right._] But not at the Congress. +It was as dull as ditch-water, don't you know. But how has little +brother been passing the time, when his little dove had flown away? + + [_She looks around the room, as though looking for somebody or + scenting something, and thus comes behind the sofa on the left._] + +ADOLF. Oh, the time seemed awfully long. + +THEKLA. Nobody to visit you? + +ADOLF. Not a soul. + +THEKLA [_looks him up and down and sits down on the sofa_]. Who sat +here? + +ADOLF. Here? No one. + +THEKLA. Strange! The sofa is as warm as anything, and there's the mark +of an elbow in the cushion. Have you had a lady visitor? + + [_She stands up._] + +ADOLF. Me? You're not serious? + +THEKLA [_turns away from the square table and comes to Adolf's right_]. +How he blushes! So the little brother wants to mystify me a bit, does +he? Well, let him come here and confess what he's got on his conscience +to his little wife. + + [_She draws him to her. Adolf lets his head sink on her breast; + laughing._] + +ADOLF. You're a regular devil, do you know that? + +THEKLA. No, I know myself so little. + +ADOLF. Do you never think about yourself? + +THEKLA [_looking in the air, while she looks at him searchingly_]. About +myself? I only think about myself. I am a shocking egoist, but how +philosophical you've become, my dear. + +ADOLF. Put your hand on my forehead. + +THEKLA [_playfully_]. Has he got bees in his bonnet again? Shall I drive +them away? [_She kisses him on the forehead._] There, it's all right +now? [_Pause, moving away from him to the right._] Now let me hear what +he's been doing to amuse himself. Painted anything pretty? + +ADOLF. No; I've given up painting! + +THEKLA. What, you've given up painting! + +ADOLF. Yes, but don't scold me about it. How could I help it if I wasn't +able to paint any more? + +THEKLA. What are you going to take up then? + +ADOLF. I'm going to be a sculptor. [_Thekla passes over in front of the +square table and in front of the sofa._] Yes, but don't blame me--just +look at this figure. + +THEKLA [_unwraps the figure on the table_]. Hallo, I say. Who's this +meant to be? + +ADOLF. Guess! + +THEKLA [_tenderly_]. Is it meant to be his little wife? And he isn't +ashamed of it, is he? + +ADOLF. Hasn't he hit the mark? + +THEKLA. How can I tell?--the face is lacking. + + [_She drapes the figure._] + +ADOLF. Quite so--but all the rest? Nice? + +THEKLA [_taps him caressingly on yhe cheek_]. Will he shut up? Otherwise +I'll kiss him. + + [_She goes behind him; Adolf defending himself._] + +ADOLF. Look out, look out, anybody might come. + +THEKLA [_nestling close to him_]. What do I care! I'm surely allowed to +kiss my own husband. That's only my legal right. + +ADOLF. Quite so; but do you know the people here in the hotel take the +view that we're not married because we kiss each other so much, and our +occasional quarreling makes them all the more cocksure about it, because +lovers usually carry on like that. + +THEKLA. But need there be any quarrels? Can't he always be as sweet and +good as he is at present. Let him tell me. Wouldn't he like it himself? +Wouldn't he like us to be happy? + +ADOLF. I should like it, but-- + +THEKLA [_with a step to the right_]. Who put it into his head not to +paint any more? + +ADOLF. You're always scenting somebody behind me and my thoughts. You're +jealous. + +THEKLA. I certainly am. I was always afraid some one might estrange you +from me. + +ADOLF. You're afraid of that, you say, though you know very well that +there isn't a woman living who can supplant you--that I can't live +without you. + +THEKLA. I wasn't frightened the least bit of females. It was your +friends I was afraid of: they put all kinds of ideas into your head. + +ADOLF [_probing_]. So you were afraid? What were you afraid of? + +THEKLA. Some one has been here. Who was it? + +ADOLF. Can't you stand my looking at you? + +THEKLA. Not in that way. You aren't accustomed to look at me like that. + +ADOLF. How am I looking at you then? + +THEKLA. You are spying underneath your eyelids. + +ADOLF. Right through. Yes, I want to know what it's like inside. + +THEKLA. I don't mind. As you like. I've nothing to hide, but--your very +manner of speaking has changed--you employ expressions. [_Probing._] You +philosophize. Eh? [_She goes toward him in a menacing manner._] Who has +been here? + +ADOLF. My doctor--nobody else. + +THEKLA. Your doctor! What doctor? + +ADOLF. The doctor from Stroemastad. + +THEKLA. What's his name? + +ADOLF. Sjoeberg. + +THEKLA. What did he say? + +ADOLF. Well--he said, among other things--that I'm pretty near getting +epilepsy. + +THEKLA [_with a step to the right_]. Among other things! What else did +he say? + +ADOLF. Oh, something extremely unpleasant. + +THEKLA. Let me hear it. + +ADOLF. He forbade us to live together as man and wife for some time. + +THEKLA. There you are. I thought as much. They want to separate us. I've +already noticed it for some time. + + [_She goes round the circular table toward the right._] + +ADOLF. There was nothing for you to notice. There was never the +slightest incident of that description. + +THEKLA. What do you mean? + +ADOLF. How could it have been possible for you to have seen something +which wasn't there if your fear hadn't heated your imagination to so +violent a pitch that you saw what never existed? As a matter of fact, +what were you afraid of? That I might borrow another's eye so as to see +you as you really were, not as you appeared to me? + +THEKLA. Keep your imagination in check, Adolf. Imagination is the beast +in the human soul. + +ADOLF. Where did you get this wisdom from? From the pure youths on the +steamer, eh? + +THEKLA [_without losing her self-possession_]. Certainly--even youth can +teach one a great deal. + +ADOLF. You seem for once in a way, to be awfully keen on youth? + +THEKLA [_standing by the door in the center_]. I have always been so, +and that's how it came about that I loved you. Any objection? + +ADOLF. Not at all. But I should very much prefer to be the only one. + +THEKLA [_coming forward on his right, and joking as though speaking to a +child_]. Let the little brother look here. I've got such a large heart +that there is room in it for a great many, not only for him. + +ADOLF. But little brother doesn't want to know anything about the other +brothers. + +THEKLA. Won't he just come here and let himself be teased by his little +woman, because he's jealous--no, envious is the right word. + + [_Two knocks with a chair are heard from the room on the right._] + +ADOLF. No, I don't want to fool about, I want to speak seriously. + +THEKLA [_as though speaking to a child_]. Good Lord! he wants to speak +seriously. Upon my word! Has the man become serious for once in his +life? [_Comes on his left, takes hold of his head and kisses him._] +Won't he laugh now a little? + + [_Adolf laughs._] + +THEKLA. There, there! + +ADOLF [_laughs involuntarily_]. You damned witch, you! I really believe +you can bewitch people. + +THEKLA [_comes in front of the sofa_]. He can see for himself, and +that's why he mustn't worry me, otherwise I shall certainly bewitch him. + +ADOLF [_springs up_]. Thekla! Sit for me a minute in profile, and I'll +do the face for your figure. + +THEKLA. With pleasure. + + [_She turns her profile toward him._] + +ADOLF [_sits down, fixes her with his eyes and acts as though he were +modeling_]. Now, don't think of me, think of somebody else. + +THEKLA. I'll think of my last conquest. + +ADOLF. The pure youth? + +THEKLA. Quite right. He had the duckiest, sweetest little mustache, and +cheeks like cherries, so delicate and soft, one could have bitten right +into them. + +ADOLF [_depressed_]. Just keep that twist in your mouth. + +THEKLA. What twist? + +ADOLF. That cynical insolent twist which I've never seen before. + +THEKLA [_makes a grimace_]. Like that? + +ADOLF. Quite. [_He gets up._] Do you know how Bret Harte describes the +adulteress? + +THEKLA [_laughs_]. No, I've never read that Bret What-do-you-call-him. + +ADOLF. Oh! she's a pale woman who never blushes. + +THEKLA. Never? Oh yes, she does; oh yes, she does. Perhaps when she +meets her lover, even though her husband and Mr. Bret didn't manage to +see anything of it. + +ADOLF. Are you so certain about it? + +THEKLA [_as before_]. Absolutely. If the man isn't able to drive her +very blood to her head, how can he possibly enjoy the pretty spectacle? + + [_She passes by him toward the right._] + +ADOLF [_raving_]. Thekla! Thekla! + +THEKLA. Little fool! + +ADOLF [_sternly_]. Thekla! + +THEKLA. Let him call me his own dear little sweetheart, and I'll get red +all over before him, shall I? + +ADOLF [_disarmed_]. I'm so angry with you, you monster, that I should +like to bite you. + +THEKLA [_playing with him_]. Well, come and bite me; come. + + [_She holds out her arms towards him._] + +ADOLF [_takes her by the neck and kisses her_]. Yes, my dear, I'll bite +you so that you die. + +THEKLA [_joking_]. Look out, somebody might come. + + [_She goes to the fireplace on the right and leans on the + chimneypiece._] + +ADOLF. Oh, what do I care if they do. I don't care about anything in the +whole world so long as I have you. + +THEKLA. And if you don't have me any more? + +ADOLF [_sinks down on the chair on the left in front of the circular +table_]. Then I die! + +THEKLA. All right, you needn't be frightened of that the least bit; I'm +already much too old, you see, for anybody to like me. + +ADOLF. You haven't forgotten those words of mine?--I take them back. + +THEKLA. Can you explain to me why it is that you're so jealous, and at +the same time so sure of yourself? + +ADOLF. No, I can't explain it, but it may be that the thought that +another man has possessed you, gnaws and consumes me. It seems to me at +times as though our whole love were a figment of the brain--a passion +that had turned into a formal matter of honor. I know nothing which +would be more intolerable for me to bear, than for him to have the +satisfaction of making me unhappy. Ah, I've never seen him, but the very +thought that there is such a man who watches in secret for my +unhappiness, who conjures down on me the curse of heaven day by day, who +would laugh and gloat over my fall--the very idea of the thing lies like +a nightmare on my breast, drives me to you, holds me spellbound, +cripples me. + +THEKLA [_goes behind the circular table and comes on Adolf's right_]. Do +you think I should like to give him that satisfaction, that I should +like to make his prophecy come true? + +ADOLF. No, I won't believe that of you. + +THEKLA. Then if that's so, why aren't you easy on the subject? + +ADOLF. It's your flirtations which keep me in a chronic state of +agitation. Why do you go on playing that game? + +THEKLA. It's no game. I want to be liked, that's all. + +ADOLF. Quite so; but only liked by men. + +THEKLA. Of course. Do you suggest it would be possible for one of us +women to get herself liked by other women? + +ADOLF. I say. [_Pause._] Haven't you heard recently--from him? + +THEKLA. Not for the last six months. + +ADOLF. Do you never think of him? + +THEKLA [_after a pause, quickly and tonelessly_]. No. [_With a step +toward the left._] Since the death of the child there is no longer any +tie between us. [_Pause._] + +ADOLF. And you never see him in the street? + +THEKLA. No; he must have buried himself somewhere on the west coast. But +why do you harp on that subject just now? + +ADOLF. I don't know. When I was so alone these last few days, it just +occurred to me what he must have felt like when he was left stranded. + +THEKLA. I believe you've got pangs of conscience. + +ADOLF. Yes. + +THEKLA. You think you're a thief, don't you? + +ADOLF. Pretty near. + +THEKLA. All right. You steal women like you steal children or fowl. You +regard me to some extent like his real or personal property. Much +obliged. + +ADOLF. No; I regard you as his wife, and that's more than property: it +can't be made up in damages. + +THEKLA. Oh yes, it can. If you happen to hear one fine day that he has +married again, these whims and fancies of yours will disappear. [_She +comes over to him._] Haven't you made up for him to me? + +ADOLF. Have I?--and did you use to love him in those days? + +THEKLA [_goes behind him to the fireplace on the right_]. Of course I +loved him--certainly. + +ADOLF. And afterwards? + +THEKLA. I got tired of him. + +ADOLF. And just think, if you get tired of me in the same way? + +THEKLA. That will never be. + +ADOLF. But suppose another man came along with all the qualities that +you want in a man? Assume the hypothesis, wouldn't you leave me in that +case? + +THEKLA. No. + +ADOLF. If he riveted you to him so strongly that you couldn't be parted +from him, then of course you'd give me up? + +THEKLA. No; I have never yet said anything like that. + +ADOLF. But you can't love two people at the same time? + +THEKLA. Oh yes. Why not? + +ADOLF. I can't understand it. + +THEKLA. Is anything then impossible simply because you can't understand +it? All men are not made on the same lines, you know. + +ADOLF [_getting up a few steps to the left_]. I am now beginning to +understand. + +THEKLA. No, really? + +ADOLF [_sits down in his previous place by the square table_]. No, +really? [_Pause, during which he appears to be making an effort to +remember something, but without success._] Thekla, do you know that your +frankness is beginning to be positively agonizing? [_Thekla moves away +from him behind the square table and goes behind the sofa on the left._] +Haven't you told me, times out of number, that frankness is the most +beautiful virtue you know, and that I must spend all my time in +acquiring it? But it seems to me you take cover behind your frankness. + +THEKLA. Those are the new tactics, don't you see. + +ADOLF [_after a pause_]. I don't know how it is, but this place begins +to feel uncanny. If you don't mind, we'll travel home this very night. + +THEKLA. What an idea you've got into your head again. I've just arrived, +and I've no wish to travel off again. + + [_She sits down on the sofa on the left._] + +ADOLF. But if I want it? + +THEKLA. Nonsense! What do I care what you want? Travel alone. + +ADOLF [_seriously_]. I now order you to travel with me by the next +steamer. + +THEKLA. Order? What do you mean by that? + +ADOLF. Do you forget that you're my wife? + +THEKLA [_getting up_]. Do you forget that you're my husband? + +ADOLF [_following her example_]. That's just the difference between one +sex and the other. + +THEKLA. That's right, speak in that tone--you have never loved me. + + [_She goes past him to the right up to the fireplace._] + +ADOLF. Really? + +THEKLA. No, for loving means giving. + +ADOLF. For a man to love means giving, for a woman to love means +taking--and I've given, given, given. + +THEKLA. Oh, to be sure, you've given a fine lot, haven't you? + +ADOLF. Everything. + +THEKLA [_leans on the chimneypiece_]. There has been a great deal +besides that. And even if you did give me everything, I accepted it. +What do you mean by coming now and handing the bill for your presents? +If I did take them, I proved to you by that very fact that I loved you. +[_She approaches him._] A girl only takes presents from her lover. + +ADOLF. From her lover, I agree. There you spoke the truth. [_With a step +to the left._] I was just your lover, but never your husband. + +THEKLA. A man ought to be jolly grateful when he's spared the necessity +of playing cover, but if you aren't satisfied with the position you can +have your _conge_. I don't like a husband. + +ADOLF. No, I noticed as much, for when I remarked, some time back, that +you wanted to sneak away from me, and get a set of your own, so as to be +able to deck yourself out with my feathers, to scintillate with my +jewels, I wanted to remind you of your guilt. And then I changed from +your point of view into that inconvenient creditor, whom a woman would +particularly prefer to keep at a safe distance from one, and then you +would have liked to have canceled the debt, and to avoid getting any +more into my debt; you ceased to pilfer my coffers and transferred your +attention to others. I was your husband without having wished it, and +your hate began to arise; but now I'm going to be your husband, whether +you want it or not. I can't be your lover any more, that's certain! + + [_He sits down in his previous place on the right._] + +THEKLA [_half joking, she moves away behind the table and goes behind +the sofa_]. Don't talk such nonsense. + +ADOLF. You be careful! It's a dangerous game, to consider every one else +an ass and only oneself smart. + +THEKLA. Everybody does that more or less. + +ADOLF. And I'm just beginning to suspect that that husband of yours +wasn't such an ass after all. + +THEKLA. Good God! I really believe you're beginning to have +sympathy--for him? + +ADOLF. Yes, almost. + +THEKLA. Well, look here. Wouldn't you like to make his acquaintance, so +as to pour out your heart to him if you want to? What a charming +picture! But I, too, begin to feel myself drawn to him somehow. I'm +tired of being the nurse of a baby like you. [_She goes a few steps +forward and passes by Adolf on the right._] He at any rate was a man, +even though he did make the mistake of being my husband. + +ADOLF. Hush, hush! But don't talk so loud, we might be heard. + +THEKLA. What does it matter, so long as we're taken for man and wife. + +ADOLF. So this is what it comes to then? You are now beginning to be +keen both on manly men and pure boys. + +THEKLA. There are no limits to my keenness, as you see. And my heart is +open to the whole world, great and small, beautiful and ugly. I love the +whole world. + +ADOLF [_standing up_]. Do you know what that means? + +THEKLA. No, I don't know, I only feel. + +ADOLF. It means that old age has arrived. + +THEKLA. Are you starting on that again now? Take care! + +ADOLF. You take care! + +THEKLA. What of? + +ADOLF. Of this knife. + + [_Goes towards her._] + +THEKLA [_flippantly_]. Little brother shouldn't play with such dangerous +toys. + + [_She passes by him behind the sofa._] + +ADOLF. I'm not playing any longer. + +THEKLA [_leaning on the arm of the sofa_]. Really, he's serious, is he, +quite serious? Then I'll jolly well show you--that you made a mistake. I +mean--you'll never see it yourself, you'll never know it. The whole +world will be up to it, but you jolly well won't, you'll have suspicions +and surmises and you won't enjoy a single hour of peace. You will have +the consciousness of being ridiculous and of being deceived, but you'll +never have proofs in your hand, because a husband never manages to get +them. [_She makes a few steps to the right in front of him and toward +him._] That will teach you to know me. + +ADOLF [_sits down in his previous place by the table on the left_]. You +hate me. + +THEKLA. No, I don't hate you, nor do I think that I could ever get to +hate you. Simply because you're a child. + +ADOLF. Listen to me! Just think of the time when the storm broke over +us. [_Standing up._] You lay there like a new-born child and shrieked; +you caught hold of my knees and I had to kiss your eyes to sleep. Then I +was your nurse, and I had to be careful that you didn't go out into the +street without doing your hair. I had to send your boots to the +shoe-maker. I had to take care there was something in the larder. I had +to sit by your side and hold your hand in mine by the hour, for you were +frightened, frightened of the whole world, deserted by your friends, +crushed by public opinion. I had to cheer you up till my tongue stuck to +my palate and my head ached; I had to pose as a strong man, and compel +myself to believe in the future, until at length I succeeded in +breathing life into you while you lay there like the dead. Then it was I +you admired, then it was I who was the man; not the athlete like the man +you deserted, but the man of psychic strength, the man of magnetism, who +transferred his moral force into your enervated muscles and filled your +empty brain with new electricity. And then I put you on your feet again, +got a small court for you, whom I jockeyed into admiring you, as a sheer +matter of friendship to myself, and I made you mistress over me and my +home. I painted you in my finest pictures, in rose and azure on a ground +of gold, and there was no exhibition in which you didn't have the place +of honor. At one moment you were called St. Cecelia, then you were Mary +Stuart, Karm Mansdotter, Ebba Brahe, and so I succeeded in awakening and +stimulating your interests and so I compelled the yelping rabble to look +at you with my own dazzled eyes. I impressed your personality on them by +sheer force. I compelled them until you had won their overwhelming +sympathy--so that at last you have the free _entree_. And when I had +created you in this way it was all up with my own strength--I broke +down, exhausted by the strain. [_He sits down in his previous place. +Thekla turns toward the fireplace on the right._] I had lifted you up, +but at the same time I brought myself down; I fell ill; and my illness +began to bore you, just because things were beginning to look a bit rosy +for you--and then it seemed to me many times as though some secret +desire were driving you to get away from your creditor and accomplice. +Your love became that of a superior sister, and through want of a better +part I fell into the habit of the new role of the little brother. Your +tenderness remained the same as ever, in fact it has rather increased, +but it is tinged with a grain of pity which is counterbalanced by a +strong dose of contempt, and that will increase until it becomes +complete, even as my genius is on the wane and your star is in the +ascendant. It seems, too, as though your source were likely to dry up, +when I leave off feeding it, or, rather, as soon as you show that you +don't want to draw your inspiration from me any longer. And so we both +go down, but you need somebody you can put in your pocket, somebody new, +for you are weak and incapable of carrying any moral burden yourself. So +I became the scapegoat to be slaughtered alive, but all the same we had +become like twins in the course of years, and when you cut through the +thread of my longing, you little thought that you were throttling our +own self. You are a branch from my tree, and you wanted to cut yourself +free from your parent stem before it had struck roots, but you are +unable to flourish on your own, and the tree in its turn couldn't do +without its chief branch, and so both perish. + +THEKLA. Do you mean, by all that, that you've written my books? + +ADOLF. No; you say that so as to provoke me into a lie. I don't express +myself so crudely as you, and I've just spoken for five minutes on end +simply so as to reproduce all the nuances, all the half-tones, all the +transitions, but your barrel organ has only one key. + +THEKLA [_walking up and down on the right_]. Yes, yes; but the gist of +the whole thing is that you've written my books. + +ADOLF. No, there's no gist. You can't resolve a symphony into one key; +you can't translate a multifarious life into a single cipher. I never +said anything so crass as that I'd written your books. + +THEKLA. But you meant it all the same. + +ADOLF [_furious_]. I never meant it. + +THEKLA. But the result-- + +ADOLF [_wildly_]. There's no result if one doesn't add. There is a +quotient, a long infinitesimal figure of a quotient, but I didn't add. + +THEKLA. You didn't, but I can. + +ADOLF. I quite believe you, but I never did. + +THEKLA. But you wanted to. + +ADOLF [_exhausted, shutting his eyes_]. No, no, no--don't speak to me +any more, I'm getting convulsions--be quiet, go away! You're flaying my +brain with your brutal pinchers--you're thrusting your claws into my +thoughts and tearing them. + + [_He loses consciousness, stares in front of him and turns his + thumbs inwards._] + +THEKLA [_tenderly coming towards him_]. What is it, dear? Are you ill? +[_Adolf beats around him. Thekla takes her handkerchief, pours water on +to it out of the bottle on the table right of the center door, and cools +his forehead with it._] Adolf! + +ADOLF [_he shakes his head_]. Yes. + +THEKLA. Do you see now that you were wrong? + +ADOLF [_after a pause_]. Yes, yes, yes--I see it. + +THEKLA. And you ask me to forgive you? + +ADOLF. Yes, yes, yes--I ask you to forgive me; but don't talk right into +my brain any more. + +THEKLA. Now kiss my hand. + +ADOLF. I'll kiss your hand, if only you won't speak to me any more. + +THEKLA. And now you'll go out and get some fresh air before dinner. + +ADOLF [_getting up_]. Yes, that will do me good, and afterwards we'll +pack up and go away. + +THEKLA. No. + + [_She moves away from him up to the fireplace on the right._] + +ADOLF. Why not? You must have some reason. + +THEKLA. The simple reason that I've arranged to be at the reception this +evening. + +ADOLF. That's it, is it? + +THEKLA. That's it right enough. I've promised to be there. + +ADOLF. Promised? You probably said that you'd try to come; it doesn't +prevent you from explaining that you have given up your intention. + +THEKLA. No, I'm not like you: my word is binding on me. + +ADOLF. One's word can be binding without one being obliged to respect +every casual thing one lets fall in conversation; or did somebody make +you promise that you'd go? In that case, you can ask him to release you +because your husband is ill. + +THEKLA. No, I've no inclination to do so. And, besides, you're not so +ill that you can't quite well come along too. + +ADOLF. Why must I always come along too? Does it contribute to your +greater serenity? + +THEKLA. I don't understand what you mean. + +ADOLF. That's what you always say when you know I mean something which +you don't like. + +THEKLA. Re-a-lly? And why shouldn't I like it? + +ADOLF. Stop! stop! Don't start all over again--good-by for the +present--I'll be back soon; I hope that in the meanwhile you'll have +thought better of it. + + [_Exit through the central door and then toward the right. Thekla + accompanies him to the back of the stage. Gustav enters, after a + pause, from the right._] + + +SCENE III. + + [_Gustav goes straight up to the table on the left and takes up a + paper without apparently seeing Thekla._] + +THEKLA [_starts, then controls herself_]. You? + + [_She comes forward._] + +GUSTAV. It's me--excuse me. + +THEKLA [_on his left_]. Where do you come from? + +GUSTAV. I came by the highroad, but--I won't stay on here after seeing +that-- + +THEKLA. Oh, you stay--Well, it's a long time. + +GUSTAV. You're right, a very long time. + +THEKLA. You've altered a great deal, Gustav. + +GUSTAV. But you, on the other hand, my dear Thekla, are still quite as +fascinating as ever--almost younger, in fact. Please forgive me. I +wouldn't for anything disturb your happiness by my presence. If I'd +known that you were staying here I would never have-- + +THEKLA. Please--please, stay. It may be that you find it painful. + +GUSTAV. It's all right as far as I'm concerned. I only thought--that +whatever I said I should always have to run the risk of wounding you. + +THEKLA [_passes in front of him toward the right_]. Sit down for a +moment, Gustav; you don't wound me, because you have the unusual +gift--which always distinguished you--of being subtle and tactful. + +GUSTAV. You're too kind; but how on earth can one tell if--your husband +would regard me in the same light that you do. + +THEKLA. Quite the contrary. Why, he's just been expressing himself with +the utmost sympathy with regard to you. + +GUSTAV. Ah! Yes, everything dies away, even the names which we cut on +the tree's bark--not even malice can persist for long in these +temperaments of ours. + +THEKLA. He's never entertained malice against you--why, he doesn't know +you at all--and, so far as I'm concerned, I always entertained the +silent hope that I would live to see the time in which you would +approach each other as friends--or at least meet each other in my +presence, shake hands, and part. + +GUSTAV. It was also my secret desire to see the woman whom I loved more +than my life in really good hands, and, as a matter of fact, I've only +heard the very best account of him, while I know all his work as well. +All the same, I felt the need of pressing his hand before I grew old, +looking him in the face, and asking him to preserve the treasure which +providence had entrusted to him, and at the same time I wanted to +extinguish the hate which was burning inside me, quite against my will, +and I longed to find peace of soul and resignation, so as to be able to +finish in quiet that dismal portion of my life which is still left me. + +THEKLA. Your words come straight from your heart; you have understood +me, Gustav--thanks. + + [_She holds out her hand._] + +GUSTAV. Ah, I'm a petty man. Too insignificant to allow of your thriving +in my shadow. Your temperament, with its thirst for freedom, could not +be satisfied by my monotonous life, the slavish routine to which I was +condemned, the narrow circle in which I had to move. I appreciate that, +but you understand well enough--you who are such an expert +psychologist--what a struggle it must have cost me to acknowledge that +to myself. + +THEKLA. How noble, how great to acknowledge one's weaknesses so +frankly--it's not all men who can bring themselves to that point. +[_She sighs._] But you are always an honest character, straight and +reliable--which I knew how to respect,--but-- + +GUSTAV. I wasn't--not then, but suffering purges, care ennobles +and--and--I have suffered. + +THEKLA [_comes nearer to him_]. Poor Gustav, can you forgive me, can +you? Tell me. + +GUSTAV. Forgive? What? It is I who have to ask you for forgiveness. + +THEKLA [_striking another key_]. I do believe that we're both +crying--though we're neither of us chickens. + +GUSTAV [_softly sliding into another tone_]. Chickens, indeed! I'm an +old man, but you--you're getting younger every day. + +THEKLA. Do you mean it? + +GUSTAV. And how well you know how to dress! + +THEKLA. It was you and no one else who taught me that. Do you still +remember finding out my special colors? + +GUSTAV. No. + +THEKLA. It was quite simple, don't you remember? Come, I still remember +distinctly how angry you used to be with me if I ever had anything else +except pink. + +GUSTAV. I angry with you? I was never angry with you. + +THEKLA. Oh yes, you were, when you wanted to teach me how to think. +Don't you remember? And I wasn't able to catch on. + +GUSTAV. Not able to think, everybody can think, and now you're +developing a quite extraordinary power of penetration--at any rate in +your writings. + +THEKLA [_disagreeably affected, tries to change the subject quickly_]. +Yes, Gustav dear, I was really awfully glad to see you again, especially +under circumstances so unemotional. + +GUSTAV. Well, you can't say at any rate that I was such a cantankerous +cuss: taking it all round, you had a pretty quiet time of it with me. + +THEKLA. Yes; if anything too quiet. + +GUSTAV. Really? But I thought, don't you see, that you wanted me to be +quiet and nothing else. Judging by your expressions of opinion as a +bride, I had to come to that assumption. + +THEKLA. How could a woman know then what she really wanted? Besides, +mother had always drilled into me to make the best of myself. + +GUSTAV. Well, and that's why it is that you're going as strong as +possible. There's such a lot always doing in artist life--your husband +isn't exactly a home-bird. + +THEKLA. But even so one can have too much of a good thing. + +GUSTAV [_suddenly changing his tone_]. Why, I do believe you're still +wearing my earrings. + +THEKLA [_embarrassed_]. Yes, why shouldn't I? We're not enemies, you +know--and then I thought I would wear them as a symbol that we're not +enemies--besides, you know that earrings like this aren't to be had any +more. + + [_She takes one off._] + +GUSTAV. Well, so far so good; but what does your husband say on the +point? + +THEKLA. Why should I ask him? + +GUSTAV. You don't ask him? But that's rubbing it in a bit too much--it +could quite well make him look ridiculous. + +THEKLA [_simply--in an undertone_]. If it only weren't so pretty. + + [_She has some trouble in adjusting the earring._] + +GUSTAV [_who has noticed it_]. Perhaps you will allow me to help you? + +THEKLA. Oh, if you would be so kind. + +GUSTAV [_presses it into the ear_]. Little ear! I say, dear, supposing +your husband saw us now. + +THEKLA. Then there'd be a scene. + +GUSTAV. Is he jealous, then? + +THEKLA. I should think he is--rather! + + [_Noise in the room on the right._] + +GUSTAV [_passes in front of her toward the right_]. Whose room is that? + +THEKLA [_stepping a little toward the left_]. I don't know--tell me how +you are now, and what you're doing. + + [_She goes to the table on the left._] + +GUSTAV. You tell me how you are. [_He goes behind the square table on +the left, over to the sofa.--Thekla, embarrassed, takes the cloth off +the figure absent-mindedly._] No! who is that? Why--it's you! + +THEKLA. I don't think so. + +GUSTAV. But it looks like you. + +THEKLA [_cynically_]. You think so? + +GUSTAV [_sits down on the sofa_]. It reminds one of the anecdote: "How +could your Majesty say that?" + +THEKLA [_laughs loudly and sits down opposite him on the settee_]. What +foolish ideas you do get into your head. Have you got by any chance some +new yarns? + +GUSTAV. No; but you must know some. + +THEKLA. I don't get a chance any more now of hearing anything which is +really funny. + +GUSTAV. Is he as prudish as all that? + +THEKLA. Rather! + +GUSTAV. Never different? + +THEKLA. He's been so ill lately. + + [_Both stand up._] + +GUSTAV. Well, who told little brother to walk into somebody else's +wasps' nest. + +THEKLA [_laughs_]. Foolish fellow, you! + +GUSTAV. Poor child! do you still remember that once, shortly after our +engagement, we lived in this very room, eh? But then it was furnished +differently, there was a secretary for instance, here, by the pillar, +and the bed [_With delicacy._] was here. + +THEKLA. Hush! + +GUSTAV. Look at me! + +THEKLA. If you would like me to. + + [_They keep their eyes looking into each other's for a minute._] + +GUSTAV. Do you think it is possible to forget a thing which has made so +deep an impression on one's life? + +THEKLA. No; the power of impressions is great, particularly when they +are the impressions of one's youth. + + [_She turns toward the fireplace on her right._] + +GUSTAV. Do you remember how we met for the first time? You were such an +ethereal little thing, a little slate on which your parents and +governess had scratched some wretched scrawl, which I had to rub out +afterwards, and then I wrote a new text on it, according to what I +thought right, till it seemed to you that the slate was filled with +writing. [_He follows her to the circular table on the right._] That's +why, do you see, I shouldn't like to be in your husband's place--no, +that's his business. [_Sits down in front of the circular table._] But +that's why meeting you has an especial fascination for me. We hit it off +together so perfectly, and when I sit down here and chat with you it's +just as though I were uncorking bottles of old wine which I myself have +bottled. The wine which is served to me is my own, but it has mellowed. +And now that I intend to marry again, I have made a very careful choice +of a young girl whom I can train according to my own ideas. [_Getting +up._] For woman is man's child, don't you know; if she isn't his child, +then he becomes hers, and that means that the world is turned upside +down. + +THEKLA. You're going to marry again? + +GUSTAV. Yes. I'm going to try my luck once more, but this time I'll +jolly well see that the double harness is more reliable and shall know +how to guard against any bolting. + +THEKLA [_turns and goes over toward him to the left_]. Is she pretty? + +GUSTAV. Yes, according to my taste, but perhaps I'm too old, and +strangely enough--now that chance brings me near to you again--I'm now +beginning to have grave doubts of the feasibility of playing a game like +that twice over. + +THEKLA. What do you mean? + +GUSTAV. I feel that my roots are too firmly embedded in your soil, and +the old wounds break open. You're a dangerous woman, Thekla. + +THEKLA. Re-a-lly? My young husband is emphatic that is just what I'm +not--that I can't make any more conquests. + +GUSTAV. That means he's left off loving you. + +THEKLA. What he means by love lies outside my line of country. + + [_She goes behind the sofa on the left. Gustav goes after her as + far as the table on the left._] + +GUSTAV. You've played hide and seek so long with each other that the +"he" can't catch the she, nor the she the "he," don't you know. Of +course it's just the kind of thing one would expect. You had to play the +little innocent, and that makes him quite tame. As a matter of fact a +change has its disadvantages--yes, it has its disadvantages. + +THEKLA. You reproach me? + +GUSTAV. Not for a minute. What always happens, happens with a certain +inevitability, and if this particular thing hadn't happened something +else would, but this did happen, and here we are. + +THEKLA. You're a broad-minded man. I've never yet met anybody with whom +I liked so much to have a good straight talk as with you. You have so +little patience with all that moralizing and preaching, and you make +such small demands on people, that one feels really free in your +presence. Do you know I'm jealous of your future wife? + + [_She comes forward and passes by him toward the right._] + +GUSTAV. And you know I'm jealous of your husband. + +THEKLA. And now we must part! Forever! + + [_She goes past him till she approaches the center door._] + +GUSTAV. Quite right, we must part--but before that, we'll say good-by to +each other, won't we? + +THEKLA [_uneasily_]. No. + +GUSTAV [_dogging her_]. Yes, we will; yes, we will. We'll say good-by; +we will drown our memories in an ecstasy which will be so violent that +when we wake up the past will have vanished from our recollection +forever. There are ecstasies like that, you know. [_He puts his arm +around her waist._] You're being dragged down by a sick spirit, who's +infecting you with his own consumption. I will breathe new life into +you. I will fertilize your genius, so that it will bloom in the autumn +like a rose in the spring, I will-- + + [_Two lady visitors appear on the right behind the central door._] + + +SCENE IV. + + [_The previous characters; the Two Ladies._] + + [_The ladies appear surprised, point, laugh, and exeunt on the + left._] + + +SCENE V. + +THEKLA [_disengaging herself_]. Who was that? + +GUSTAV [_casually, while he closes the central door_]. Oh, some visitors +who were passing through. + +THEKLA. Go away! I'm afraid of you. + + [_She goes behind the sofa on the left._] + +GUSTAV. Why? + +THEKLA. You've robbed me of my soul. + +GUSTAV [_comes forward_]. And I give you mine in exchange for it. +Besides, you haven't got any soul at all. It's only an optical illusion. + +THEKLA. You've got a knack of being rude in such a way that one can't be +angry with you. + +GUSTAV. That's because you know very well that I am designated for the +place of honor--tell me now when--and where? + +THEKLA [_coming toward him_]. No. I can't hurt him by doing a thing like +that. I'm sure he still loves me, and I don't want to wound him a second +time. + +GUSTAV. He doesn't love you. Do you want to have proofs? + +THEKLA. How can you give me them? + +GUSTAV [_takes up from the floor the fragments of photograph behind the +circular table on the right_]. Here, look at yourself! + + [_He gives them to her._] + +THEKLA. Oh, that is shameful! + +GUSTAV. There, you can see for yourself--well, when and where? + +THEKLA. The false brute! + +GUSTAV. When? + +THEKLA. He goes away to-night by the eight-o'clock boat. + +GUSTAV. Then-- + +THEKLA. At nine. [_A noise in the room on the right._] Who's in there +making such a noise? + +GUSTAV [_goes to the right at the keyhole_]. Let's have a look--the +fancy table has been upset and there's a broken water-bottle on the +floor, that's all. Perhaps some one has shut a dog up there. [_He goes +again toward her._] Nine o'clock, then? + +THEKLA. Right you are. I should only like him to see the fun--such a +piece of deceit, and what's more, from a man that's always preaching +truthfulness, who's always drilling into me to speak the truth. But +stop--how did it all happen? He received me in almost an unfriendly +manner--didn't come to the pier to meet me--then he let fall a remark +over the pure boy on the steam-boat, which I pretended not to +understand. But how could he know anything about it? Wait a moment. Then +he began to philosophize about women--then you began to haunt his +brain--then he spoke about wanting to be a sculptor, because sculpture +was the art of the present day--just like you used to thunder in the old +days. + +GUSTAV. No, really? + + [_Thekla moves away from Gustav behind the sofa on the left._] + +THEKLA. "No, really?" Now I understand. [_To Gustav._] Now at last I see +perfectly well what a miserable scoundrel you are. You've been with him +and have scratched his heart out of his body. It's you--you who've been +sitting here on the sofa. It was you who've been suggesting all these +ideas to him: that he was suffering from epilepsy, that he should live a +celibate life, that he should pit himself against his wife and try to +play her master. How long have you been here? + +GUSTAV. Eight days. + +THEKLA. You were the man, then, I saw on the steamer? + +GUSTAV [_frankly_]. It was I. + +THEKLA. And did you really think that I'd fall in with your little game? + +GUSTAV [_firmly_]. You've already done it. + +THEKLA. Not yet. + +GUSTAV [_firmly_]. Yes, you have. + +THEKLA [_comes forward_]. You've stalked my lamb like a wolf. You came +here with a scoundrelly plan of smashing up my happiness and you've been +trying to carry it through until I realize what you were up to and put a +spoke in your precious wheel. + +GUSTAV [_vigorously_]. That's not quite accurate. The thing took quite +another course. That I should have wished in my heart of hearts that +things should go badly with you is only natural. Yet I was more or less +convinced that it would not be necessary for me to cut in actively; +because, I had far too much other business to have time for intrigues. +But just now, when I was loafing about a bit, and happened to run across +you on the steamer with your circle of young men, I thought that the +time had come to get to slightly closer quarters with you two. I came +here and that lamb of yours threw himself immediately into the wolf's +arms. I aroused his sympathy by methods of reflex suggestion, into +details of which, as a matter of good form, I'd rather not go. At first +I experienced a certain pity for him, because he was in the very +condition in which I had once found myself. Then, as luck would have it, +he began unwittingly to probe about in my old wound--you know what I +mean--the book--and the ass--then I was overwhelmed by a desire to pluck +him to pieces and to mess up the fragments in such a tangle that they +could never be put together again. Thanks to the conscientious way in +which you have cleared the ground, I succeeded only too easily, and then +I had to deal with you. You were the spring in the works that had to be +taken to pieces. And, that done, the game was to listen for the +smash-up. When I came into this room I had no idea what I was to say. I +had a lot of plans in my head, like a chess player, but the character of +the opening depended on the moves you made; one move led to another, +chance was kind to me. I soon had you on toast--and now you're in a nice +mess. + +THEKLA. Nonsense. + +GUSTAV. Oh yes; what you'd have prayed your stars to avoid has happened: +society, in the persons of two lady visitors--I didn't commandeer their +appearance because intrigue is not in my line--society, I say, has seen +your pathetic reconciliation with your first husband, and the penitent +way in which you crawled back into his faithful arms. Isn't that enough? + +THEKLA [_she goes over to him toward the right_]. Tell me--you who make +such a point of being so logical and so intellectual--how does it come +about that you, who make such a point of your maxim that everything +which happens happens as a matter of necessity, and that all our actions +are determined-- + +GUSTAV [_corrects her_]. Determined up to a certain extent. + +THEKLA. It comes to the same thing. + +GUSTAV. No. + +THEKLA. How does it come about that you, who are bound to regard me as +an innocent person, inasmuch as nature and circumstances have driven me +to act as I did, could regard yourself as justified in revenging +yourself on me. + +GUSTAV. Well, the same principle applies, you see--that is to say, the +principle that my temperament and circumstances drove me to revenge +myself. Isn't it a case of six of one and half-a-dozen of the other? But +do you know why you've got the worst of it in this struggle? [_Thekla +looks contemptuous._] Why you and that husband of yours managed to get +downed? I'll tell you. Because I was stronger than you, and smarter. It +was you, my dear, who was a donkey--and he as well! So you see that one +isn't necessarily bound to be quite an ass even though one doesn't write +any novels or paint any pictures. Just remember that! + + [_He turns away from her to the left._] + +THEKLA. Haven't you got a grain of feeling left? + +GUSTAV. Not a grain--that's why, don't you know, I'm so good at +thinking, as you are perhaps able to see by the slight proofs which I've +given you, and can play the practical man equally well, and I've just +given you something of a sample of what I can do in that line. + + [_He strides round the table and sofa on the left and turns again to + her._] + +THEKLA. And all this simply because I wounded your vanity? + +GUSTAV [_on her left_]. Not that only, but you be jolly careful in the +future of wounding other people's vanity--it's the most sensitive part +of a man. + +THEKLA. What a vindictive wretch! Ugh! + +GUSTAV. What a promiscuous wretch. Ugh! + +THEKLA. Do you mean that's my temperament? + +GUSTAV. Do you mean that's my temperament? + +THEKLA [_goes over toward him to the left_]. You wouldn't like to +forgive me? + +GUSTAV. Certainly, I have forgiven you. + +THEKLA. You? + +GUSTAV. Quite. Have I ever raised my hand against you two in all these +years? No. But when I happened to be here I favored you two with scarce +a look and the cleavage between you is already there. Did I ever +reproach you, moralize, lecture? No. I joked a little with your husband +and the accumulated dynamite in him just happened to go off, but I, who +am defending myself like this, am the one who's really entitled to stand +here and complain. Thekla, have you nothing to reproach yourself with? + +THEKLA. Not the least bit--the Christians say it's Providence that +guides our actions, others call it Fate, aren't we quite guiltless? + +GUSTAV. No doubt we are to a certain extent. But an infinitesimal +something remains, and that contains the guilt, all the same, and the +creditors turn up sooner or later! Men and women may be guiltless, but +they have to render an account. Guiltless before Him in whom neither of +us believes any more, responsible to themselves and to their fellow-men. + +THEKLA. You've come, then, to warn me? + +GUSTAV. I've come to demand back what you stole from me, not what you +had as a present. You stole my honor, and I could only win back mine by +taking yours--wasn't I right? + +THEKLA [_after a pause, going over to him on the right_]. Honor! Hm! And +are you satisfied now? + +GUSTAV [_after a pause_]. I am satisfied now. + + [_He presses the bell by the door L. for the Waiter._] + +THEKLA [_after another pause_]. And now you're going to your bride, +Gustav? + +GUSTAV. I have none--and shall never have one. I am not going home +because I have no home, and shall never have one. + + [_Waiter comes in on the lef._] + + +SCENE VI. + + [_Previous characters--Waiter standing back._] + +GUSTAV. Bring me the bill--I'm leaving by the twelve-o'clock boat. + + [_Waiter bows and exit left._] + + +SCENE VII. + +THEKLA. Without a reconciliation? + +GUSTAV [_on her left_]. Reconciliation? You play about with so many +words that they've quite lost their meaning. We reconcile ourselves? +Perhaps we are to live in a trinity, are we? The way for you to effect a +reconciliation is to put matters straight. You can't do that alone. You +have not only taken something, but you have destroyed what you took, and +you can never put it back. Would you be satisfied if I were to say to +you: "Forgive me because you mangled my heart with your claws; forgive +me for the dishonor you brought upon me; forgive me for being seven +years on end the laughing-stock of my pupils, forgive me for freeing you +from the control of your parents; for releasing you from the tyranny of +ignorance and superstition; for making you mistress over my house; for +giving you a position and friends, I, the man who made you into a woman +out of the child you were? Forgive me like I forgive you? Anyway, I now +regard my account with you as squared. You go and settle up your +accounts with the other man. + +THEKLA. Where is he? What have you done with him? I've just got a +suspicion--a--something dreadful! + +GUSTAV. Done with him? Do you still love him? + +THEKLA [_goes over to him toward the left_]. Yes. + +GUSTAV. And a minute ago you loved me? Is that really so? + +THEKLA. It is. + +GUSTAV. Do you know what you are, then? + +THEKLA. You despise me? + +GUSTAV. No, I pity you. It's a characteristic--I don't say a defect, but +certainly a characteristic--that is very fatal, by reason of its +results. Poor Thekla! I don't know--but I almost think that I'm sorry +for it, although I'm quite innocent--like you. But anyway it's perhaps +all for the best that you've now got to feel what I felt then. Do you +know where your husband is? + +THEKLA. I think I know now. [_She points to the right._] He's in your +room just here. He has heard everything, seen everything, and you know +they say that he who looks upon his vampire dies. + + +SCENE VIII. + + [_Adolf appears on the right, deadly pale, a streak of blood on + his left cheek, a fixed expression in his eyes, white foam on his + mouth._] + +GUSTAV [_moves back_]. No, here he is--settle with him now! See if he'll +be as generous to you as I was. Good-by. + + [_He turns to the left, stops after a few steps, and remains + standing._] + +THEKLA [_goes toward Adolf with outstretched arms_]. Adolf! [_Adolf +sinks down in his chair by the table on the left. Thekla throws herself +over him and caresses him._] Adolf! My darling child, are you alive? +Speak! Speak! Forgive your wicked Thekla! Forgive me! Forgive me! +Forgive me! Little brother must answer. Does he hear? My God, he doesn't +hear me! He's dead! Good God! O my God! Help! Help us! + +GUSTAV. Quite true, she loves him as well--poor creature! + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +AUTUMN FIRES + + A COMEDY + + BY GUSTAV WIED + TRANSLATED BY BENJAMIN F. GLAZER. + + + Copyright, 1920, by Benjamin F. Glazer. + All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS + + HELMS, } + KRAKAU, } + HANSEN, } + JOHNSTON, } [_Old Men, inmates of an old men's home_]. + HAMMER, } + BUFFE, } + BOLLING, } + KNUT [_An eighteen-year-old boy_]. + + + The professional and amateur stage rights are reserved by the + translator, Mr. Benjamin F. Glazer, Editorial Department, _The Press_, + Philadelphia, Pa., to whom all requests for permission to produce the + play should be made. + + + +AUTUMN FIRES + +A COMEDY IN ONE ACT BY GUSTAV WIED + + + [_The room of Helms and Krakau in the Old Men's Home. The time + is afternoon of a late September day. There is a window at right + looking out on the street and another at left overlooking a + courtyard. There is a single door back center which opens into a + corridor on both sides of which are similar doors in long regular + rows and at the end of which is a stairway from the lower floors._ + + _An imaginary line divides the room into two equal parts. Helms + lives on the street side and Krakau on the side nearest the + courtyard. In each division there is a bed, chiffonier, a + cupboard, a table, a sofa and several chairs. The stove is on + Krakau's side, but by way of compensation Helms has an upholstered + arm chair with a tall back. A lamp hangs in the exact center of + the ceiling._ + + _Though there is a low screen which can be used as partial + partition between the two divisions it is now folded and standing + against the back wall, and the two tables are placed down center, + end to end, so that the place is for all present purposes a single + room._ + + _Helms' side is conspicuously ill kept and in disorder; Krakau's + side is spick and span. On Helms' table there is a vase filled + with flowers and near it a pair of gray woolen socks and a pair of + heavy mittens. There is also a photograph of a boy in a polished + nickel standing-frame._ + + _Helms, his spectacles on his nose, sits in his great arm chair at + the table and reads a newspaper._ + + _Krakau sits next to him working out a problem on a chess board._ + + _There is a short pause after the curtain rises._] + + +KRAKAU. There, I've done it again. + +HELMS [_without looking up from his paper_]. It's easy enough if one +cheats. + +KRAKAU. Who cheats? + +HELMS. Well, year after year you work out the same problem. Anybody can +do that. + +KRAKAU [_rearranging the chessmen_]. You can't. + +HELMS. Just try another problem once, then see how smart you are. + +KRAKAU. I'm quite satisfied with this one. [_Moves a piece._] Going to +have chocolate to-day? + +HELMS [_contemptuously_]. Chocolate! What for? + +KRAKAU. I thought on account of it being your birthday-- + +HELMS. Chocolate! That's a drink for women. On my birthday I serve wine. + +KRAKAU. Hmmm! Wine, eh? Who's coming? + +HELMS. Just one floor. + +KRAKAU. Bolling too? + +HELMS. I suppose Buffe will bring him along. + +KRAKAU. And he won't have a word to say. + +HELMS. He never has a word to say. + +KRAKAU. No, never. + +HELMS. Must you rattle those pieces like that? + +KRAKAU. Can I help it if they are heavy? [_Moves them more carefully._] +You are always complaining about noise. You only do it to remind me how +well you can hear. + +HELMS. Your hearing has gotten a good deal worse this year, hasn't it? +Hansen says so, too. + +KRAKAU. Hansen! A lot he knows! [_Moves a piece._] Is there anything +about you in the paper? + +HELMS. Nonsense! What should there be? + +KRAKAU. Your eightieth birthday. They put all kinds of foolishness in +the papers these days. + +HELMS. Didn't you hear what I said? There is nothing. + +KRAKAU. I heard you. + +HELMS [_regards him distrustfully over his spectacles_]. Have you been +reading this paper while I was out? + +KRAKAU [_loftily_]. I always read the paper at night, you know. +Newspaper ought to be read by lamplight. + +HELMS. Boasting about your eyesight again. + +KRAKAU. Yes, I have excellent eyes. [_Knocks solemnly on wood._] + +HELMS. Did you read the "personal notes"? + +KRAKAU [_indignantly_]. I told you I haven't touched your old paper. + +HELMS. My son-in-law has been appointed postal inspector. + +KRAKAU. Postal Inspector! That's not a very high office. I suppose that +is why Knut hasn't turned up to-day. + +HELMS [_resentfully_]. You haven't congratulated me. + +KRAKAU. Because he's a postal inspector? Hump! Congratulations. [_Pushes +aside the chessboard and rises._] + +HELMS [_ironically_]. Thanks. Ah, if my daughter had lived, she would be +proud. + +KRAKAU [_over his shoulder_]. If Mary's gray cat had been a horse she +could have gone riding in the park. + +HELMS [_regarding him sharply over his glasses_]. Do you know what I +have noticed, Krakau? [_Krakau does not answer._] I have noticed that +whenever I mention my son-in-law you get mad. + +KRAKAU. So? + +HELMS [_querulously_]. Yes you do. I noticed it long ago. I don't see +what you've got against him. His son Knut is your godson, too. + +KRAKAU. We'll not talk about that, Helms. + +HELMS. But I want to talk about it. We have been friends for sixty +years, you and me, and-- + +KRAKAU [_suddenly_]. Why didn't Knut send regards to me in his birthday +letter? + +HELMS. Ha, you're jealous, that's what you are. After all, it's my +birthday, not yours. + +KRAKAU. He never forgot to send regards to _you_ on _my_ birthday. + +HELMS [_beating his breast_]. Well, he's my grandson and he's only your +godson. + +KRAKAU [_incredulously_]. So--e? + +HELMS. Well, isn't he your godson? + +KRAKAU. Yes. + +HELMS. Then why do you say so--e like that? + +KRAKAU [_restraining himself_]. We'd better not talk about that. I told +you so before. + +HELMS. But, damn it, I insist upon talking about it. I want to know what +you mean. + +KRAKAU. That's all right. + +HELMS. It isn't the first time you've made the same stupid remark.... Do +you mean to insinuate that he isn't my grandson? Is that what you're +driving at? + +KRAKAU. For the third time, let's drop the subject. [_Down in the +courtyard a hand organ begins to play._] There's the old organ +grinder.... This is Thursday. + +HELMS. You needn't tell me. I can hear for myself. + +KRAKAU. It's your turn to give him something. + +HELMS. I have no small change. Lay it out for me. + +KRAKAU. Remember you owe me for the pack of matches. + +HELMS. This will make seventeen. + +KRAKAU. [_Wraps a coin in a bit of paper._] I just want to make sure +you've got it right. You always argue about it afterwards. + +HELMS. Hmm! + +KRAKAU. [_Opens the window, throws out the coin. The music plays more +vigorously, then suddenly stops._] The porter is chasing him away.... I +suppose it's because Larsen is sick downstairs. + +HELMS [_laughs angrily_]. Huh! You were in an awful hurry about throwing +that money down, weren't you? Well, I won't pay you for that. + +KRAKAU [_hastily closing the window_]. What kind of a way is that? + +HELMS. You should have waited until he'd played a few tunes. + +KRAKAU. How was I going to know the porter would chase him away? + +HELMS. That's your lookout. You should have waited, then you would have +seen, I won't pay you back. + +KRAKAU. You're a damned old swindler, Helms, and you always were. +[_Turns away and pulls out his pipe._] + +HELMS [_sees the pipe_]. I can't bear tobacco smoke to-day; my throat's +too bad. + +KRAKAU. Let me tell you something; I take no orders from you. + +HELMS. I'll complain to the superintendent. Smoke hurts my throat, and +you know it. + +KRAKAU. Huh! Won't you complain to your postal clerk son-in-law, too? + +HELMS. No, but I'll tell Knut when he comes. I don't see why I let you +be his godfather anyway. They wanted some one else, but I said: "No, +let's ask Krakau; it will please him." I was a fool. + +KRAKAU. You asked me because you knew I'd give him a handsome present. +Old miser that you are! + +HELMS. But you've always been jealous because I am his grandfather while +you are only his godfather. + +KRAKAU. So--! + +HELMS [_furious_]. Don't you dare to smoke, do you hear! + +KRAKAU. Who's smoking? [_Puts the pipe back in his pocket._] + +HELMS. You needn't pretend you are not jealous. Why, when my daughter +was alive and came to visit me here you used to crawl over to your own +side and hide your envious face. + +KRAKAU. She didn't come to see me. + +HELMS. Well, you might at least have been polite.... But you were always +a false friend. You never forgave me for having a wife and family while +you were a lonely old bachelor. + +KRAKAU. So--e! + +HELMS. Don't make that nasty noise! It's true; you know it's true. To +this day I remember how angry you were when Andrea was born. For two +years you didn't set foot in my house. You said you couldn't bear +children about.... But if she had been your own child-- + +KRAKAU. Can't you talk about anything else? + +HELMS. And you wouldn't come to my wife's funeral either. I shall never +forgive you that, Krakau,--the wife of your best friend--and now you +want to smoke though you know I have a weak throat. + +KRAKAU. Why will you talk like an idiot? Don't you see the pipe is in my +pocket. + +HELMS. Well, you were going to smoke, weren't you? And there's another +thing: It never occurred to you to congratulate me when I told you my +son-in-law had been made a postal clerk. + +KRAKAU [_ironically_]. I do congratulate you. But you needn't be so +stuck up about it. He's not the only postal inspector in the world. + +HELMS. Who's stuck up? Not a bit of it! I was thinking of Knut. He'll be +better provided for now his father has a good position. Isn't it natural +for me to think of Knut's welfare? I am his grandfather. + +KRAKAU. So--o? + +HELMS. There you go again with your So--o! My daughter's son is my +grandson. Any fool knows that. + +KRAKAU. Many a fool has believed he was a daughter's father--and wasn't. + +HELMS. What's that? My daughter...? You are an idiot. + +KRAKAU. Do you remember what happened to Adam Harbee? + +HELMS. That has nothing to do with the case. My wife was not that sort +of a woman. You'll concede that. + +KRAKAU. Ye-es. + +HELMS. Well, then--but what can an innocent old bachelor like you know +of such things. + +KRAKAU. Are you going to talk stuck up again, Helms? + +HELMS. Sure I will: I am too stuck up to let an ignorant bachelor like +you teach me what's what about married life. What do you know about it? +Virgin! + +KRAKAU [_infuriated_]. I'll tell you what I know about it. You are not +Andrea's father at all. + +HELMS [_laughs incredulously_]. Ain't I? Well, if I may take the liberty +to ask, who is her father? + +KRAKAU. That's all right. We'll not talk about it any more. + +HELMS. Oh yes, we will! Who is her father, if I am not? + +KRAKAU. That's all right. + +HELMS. Just empty talk, eh? I might have known it. You just say such +things because I owe you seventeen pfennig. + +KRAKAU. Twenty-seven! I laid out ten for cake last Friday. + +HELMS. Twenty-seven, then. And that's why you make up these stories to +annoy me. + +KRAKAU.. Have it your way. + +HELMS [_whimpering_]. Why don't you speak out, then? If I am not +Andrea's father, who is? You can't leave it like this. Who is the man +you accuse, eh? Was it Axel? + +KRAKAU [_scornfully_]. No. + +HELMS. Or Summensen? + +KRAKAU. Do you suppose Caroline would mix up with a couple of swine like +that? + +HELMS. Of course I don't. It's you that's been putting such things in my +head. You don't know what you are talking about. + +KRAKAU. I know what I know. + +HELMS [_pounds on the table_]. Who was he then? Speak up or admit that +you are a filthy liar. + +KRAKAU [_with sudden determination_]. I was her father. Now you know it. + +HELMS [_derisively_]. You!... Ha, ha, ha!... You! God knows how you hit +on that idea. Do tell us about it. + +KRAKAU [_savagely; he is on his own side of the room now_]. Yes, I'll +tell you about it.... With pleasure, my dear Helms!... I had made up my +mind to carry the secret with me to the grave ... but I can't stand your +overbearing ways any more.... Now it comes out.... And thank God for +it.... You were a devil to your wife and you have been a devil to me, +Helms, all the fifteen years we have lived in this room. + +HELMS. Ha, ha! So I've been a devil, eh? The things one lives and +learns! + +KRAKAU. Yes, a devil--a devil on wheels. You whine and crow and fuss and +scold ... nothing suits you ... no matter how hard I try ... and you are +mean and niggardly.... Every pfennig must be pulled out of you like a +tooth. + +HELMS. I don't throw my money in the street. + +KRAKAU. Nobody throws his money in the street, but you can't get along +without spending money, can you? + +HELMS. No. + +KRAKAU. No, but you expected Caroline to. Instead of money you gave her +compliments. Naturally she came to me for help. She had to have pin +money and clothes. + +HELMS. And you gave her money. + +KRAKAU. Of course I did. + +HELMS. Yes, what then? + +KRAKAU. Of course it was humiliating to her. She was very unhappy. I did +my best to console her. + +HELMS. And then Andrea was born. + +KRAKAU. Yes. + +HELMS [_bitterly_]. That was ... that was powerful consolation, Krakau, +I must say.... But tell me how you are so sure that Andrea was your +daughter. + +KRAKAU. Caroline told me herself. Besides, didn't I know that she had +lived with you ten years before and never had a child. + +HELMS [_pathetically_]. No. [_With a flash of anger._] Why didn't you +tell me this before? + +KRAKAU [_who is half sorry now_]. Why should I have told you? + +HELMS [_without heeding him; mumbles half to himself, shaking his +head_]. And if she was your daughter, then Knut is your grandson and you +are also his godfather ... and to me he is nothing [_bows his head_]. I +am eighty years old to-day, Krakau.... It is hard to be told such a +thing when you are eighty.... + +KRAKAU [_has gone over to him, sympathetically touching his shoulder_]. +I'm sorry, Helms. I wish I hadn't told you. But you made me so angry it +just popped out.... But don't worry ... everything will be just the same +as before-- + +HELMS [_shakes his head mournfully_]. No. + +KRAKAU. But yes! I don't want him all for myself. We can share him, +can't we? + +HELMS. Share him? + +KRAKAU. Of course. Instead of being your grandson Knut will be _our_ +grandson, that's all. + +HELMS [_sits up proudly_]. Knut is nothing to me. + +KRAKAU. But nobody knows that. + +HELMS. He is a perfect stranger. + +KRAKAU. But nobody knows it except you and me--don't you see? + +HELMS. You would throw it up to me every day. + +KRAKAU. Never! We should be equal partners. And oh, the long talks we +could have about him!... Before it was different ... you were so stuck +up about your grandson, I couldn't bear it any longer.... But now we can +both be stuck up. + +HELMS [_hotly_]. No.... Go over on your own side. I don't want you +here.... I want to be alone. + +KRAKAU. Helms.... + +HELMS. Get out of here, I say.... And take your flowers with you. I +accept no presents from the like of you. + +KRAKAU. The flowers--? + +HELMS. Yes, take them away. And take [_chokes over the word_] take +Knut's picture, too, and the stockings his father sent.... I guess +they're yours by right. + +KRAKAU [_indignantly_]. I'll do nothing of the kind. My name's not Carl +Helms. + +HELMS. Well, take the flowers then. + +KRAKAU [_takes the flowers_]. I can do that, all right. + +HELMS. And see that you don't come on my side again without asking +permission. + +KRAKAU [_walks a few paces; turns around_]. Hadn't I better straighten +up a bit before your guests come? + +HELMS. You leave my things alone ... and mind your business. + + [_Krakau goes with the flowers to his own side._] + +HELMS. You've got the best of everything anyhow. The stove is on your +side and the morning sun. Wouldn't you like to take my arm chair too, +and my pictures? Don't mind me, you know. + + [_Krakau does not answer. There is a pause. A clock outside + strikes five._] + +KRAKAU. The clock's striking five. + +HELMS. Let it strike. + + [_There is another pause. A knock on the door is heard. Neither + answers it. There is a louder knock._] + +KRAKAU. [_Impatiently._] Why don't you answer the door? + +HELMS. I'm not in the humor for company. + +KRAKAU. But some one is knocking. + +HELMS. What's that to me? [_There is a third knock._] + +KRAKAU. Obstinate old fool. [_Loudly._] Come in. + + [_Hansen and Johnston enter. Behind them in the hallway Buffe can + be seen with Bolling on his arm. Farther back Hammer is seen._ + + [_Krakau rises, goes to the window and stands there, looking + gloomily out into the courtyard._] + +HANSEN [_leaving the door open_]. The others are coming. Well, +congratulations, Helms. + +HELMS. Thank you. + +JOHNSTON. Many happy returns. [_They shake hands._] + +BUFFE [_entering with Bolling_]. I'll have to put him in your arm chair. + +HELMS. Right over there. + +BUFFE. [_Helping Bolling to the chair._] Our heartiest congratulations, +eh, Bolling? + +BOLLING. Hey? + +BUFFE [_speaking close to his ear_]. I say we congratulate Helms on his +birthday. + +BOLLING. No. It's nothing to boast about. + +HAMMER [_entering_]. Congratulations! + +HANSEN. Now we're all here. + +HELMS. Make yourselves comfortable. [_They all take seats._] + + [_Bolling sits rigid in the arm chair absently twirling his + fingers._ + + _Krakau, who has once or twice shown the impulse to go over to + Helms, stirs uneasily but turns his back to his window._ + + _A silence falls._ + + _Suddenly Hansen begins to whistle, a tuneless mournful strain._] + +JOHNSTON [_whispering confidentially_]. My dear Peter, one doesn't +whistle at a birthday party. + +HANSEN [_mocking him_]. My dear Henry, mind your own affairs. + +JOHNSTON. You have the soul of a greengrocer. + +HANSEN. You have the manners of a barber. + +BUFFE [_laughing_]. Those boys are always fighting. + +HAMMER. But they can't live without each other. + +BUFFE [_to Hammer_]. Aren't you lonely since Kruger died? + +HAMMER. It is lonesome sometimes, but I have more room now. + +BUFFE. My wrists are so full of rheumatism I can hardly bend them any +more. + +HAMMER. There's something the matter with all of us. How is your throat, +Helms? + +HELMS. Pretty good. [_There is silence again._] + +HANSEN. Fine weather to-day. + +JOHNSTON. Regular birthday weather. + +HAMMER. On my birthday it always rains. + +HANSEN [_points to the window_]. You can see the sun from here. + +BUFFE. I read in the papers about your son-in-law's appointment. + +HELMS [_shortly_]. Yes? + +JOHNSTON. Yes, we must congratulate you over again. + +HANSEN. Helms is the luckiest man in the place. + +HAMMER. Has your grandson been here yet? + +HELMS. No. + +BUFFE. Of course he's coming. + +HELMS. I don't know. + +JOHNSTON. Of course he'll come on your birthday. He's a fine young +fellow. + +HANSEN. Yes, indeed, Helms, you should be proud of him. + +HAMMER [_sees Knut's portrait_]. There he is. [_All except Helms and +Bolling look at the picture._] + +HANSEN. Looks something like his grandfather. + +JOHNSTON. Yes, it's a striking resemblance. + +HAMMER. The nose. + +JOHNSTON. And the eyes--look at the eyes. + +HANSEN. Yes. + +BUFFE. We are looking at his grandson's picture, Bolling. + + [_Bolling stares indifferently. Helms casts apprehensive glances + at Krakau._] + +HAMMER. Look at the gifts. + +HANSEN. He's a lucky man. + +JOHNSTON [_with a sigh_]. Ah yes, when you have your family-- + +BUFFE [_showing the stockings_]. Helms got some wonderful birthday +presents, Bolling. + +BOLLING [_feeling them_]. Good wool. + +HANSEN [_suddenly_]. What is Krakau doing over there? + +HELMS [_angrily_]. Yes, why don't you stop skulking over there like a +homeless dog. + +BUFFE [_to Hammer_]. They have quarreled. + +HAMMER. I guess so. [_To Hansen._] Have they had a fight? + +HANSEN. I don't know. + +JOHNSTON. That's right, be sociable, Krakau. + +HELMS [_irritably_]. Why don't you get the wine, Krakau? + +KRAKAU. How should I know-- + +HELMS [_interrupts_]. You know it is in the closet. [_Krakau takes +bottle and glasses from the cupboard._] + +HAMMER [_delighted_]. Did you say wine? + +BUFFE. Wine! Did you hear? + +HANSEN. You might think Helms was a postal inspector himself. + +JOHNSTON. More than that! He's a millionaire in disguise. Krakau can +tell you--he has stockings full of good red gold. + + [_Krakau pours the wine. All watch with eager eyes. The sun now + shines full in the room._] + +KRAKAU. Hadn't we better push the tables together. + +HELMS [_petulantly_]. No. It's my birthday. And we can do very well +without your table. + +HAMMER. There'd be more room with both tables. + +BUFFE. We can't all sit around one table. + +HELMS. All right--push them together. [_They do so._] + +JOHNSTON. We must fix our tables this way, too, Peter. + +HANSEN. All right. + +BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. Come over to the table; we are going to have wine. + + [_Bolling stands up. They move his chair to the table. He sits + again._] + +HANSEN. Why are you so quiet, Bolling? + +BOLLING. Everything there is to say has been said. + +JOHNSTON. He's a smart man. [_Nods admiringly._] + +HANSEN. Ha, ha, ha! + +BOLLING [_suddenly to Krakau_]. What's that you are pouring? + +KRAKAU. Sherry. + +BOLLING [_angrily_]. I can't stand port wine. + +KRAKAU. Yes, but this is sherry. + +BOLLING. Port wine is poison. + +HAMMER. But this is sherry. + +BOLLING. Port wine is poison. + +BUFFE. Yes, Bolling; but this is sherry; it won't hurt you. + +BOLLING. Poison--port wine is. + +JOHNSTON [_raising his glass._] Many happy returns! + +HAMMER. Many future birthdays! + +HANSEN. Happy ones! + +BUFFE. Bolling, we are drinking to Helms. + +BOLLING. It isn't port wine, is it? + +BUFFE. No, indeed,--sherry. + +BOLLING. I da'sn't drink port. + +BUFFE. It's a toast to Helms. + +BOLLING. Why? + +BUFFE. He's eighty years old to-day. + +BOLLING. I am ninety-two. That's nothing to be glad about. + + [_All except Bolling raise their glasses. They utter cheery + exclamations and drink._] + +HELMS. Thanks; thank you! + +BOLLING [_raising his glass_]. Congratulations, Helms. I hope you never +get as old as me. + +HAMMER [_angrily_]. That's no way to talk, Bolling. + +HANSEN. He's spoiling the whole party. + +BUFFE [_apologetically_]. Bolling's tired of living. + +JOHNSTON. You're joking. + +BUFFE. No; really he is. He wants to die. + +JOHNSTON. Nonsense! How can any one _want_ to die? It's against human +nature. + +KRAKAU [_who has taken cigars from the cupboard_]. Who wants to smoke? + +HANSEN [_with delight._] Cigars too! + + [_Krakau passes the cigars. Hansen, Hammer and Johnston each take + one. The sun now shines on the table and men._] + +BUFFE. The sun is as red as wine. + +HANSEN [_with a sigh_]. Autumn is coming. + +HANSEN. We've had Autumn weather for two weeks past. + +HELMS. Unseasonable weather! I hate it. [_During the entire scene he has +been ill at ease, casting frequent apprehensive glances at Krakau, who +avoids his gaze._] + +BUFFE. It isn't like it used to be. + +HAMMER. No. When the calendar said _Summer_ we _had_ Summer. + +BOLLING [_apropos of nothing_]. I am ninety-two. + +BUFFE [_explaining apologetically_]. He always says that. It's on his +mind. + +KRAKAU. I hear that the nurse downstairs is engaged to be married. + +HANSEN. Yes, with the doctor. + +JOHNSTON. The hospital doctor? + +KRAKAU. Yes; he's a sick man himself. + +HAMMER. Then it's a good thing she's a nurse. + +HELMS. Every young woman ought to be trained as a nurse. + +BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. The nurse in the hospital is going to marry the +doctor. + +BOLLING. I was married, too. + +HELMS. Fill the glasses, Krakau. [_Krakau does._] + +BUFFE. How is Larsen's brain fever getting along? + +HANSEN. He must be worse. The porter chased the organ grinder away. + +HAMMER. I thought I heard the organ. Is this Thursday? + +KRAKAU. Thursday, September twentieth. + +HELMS [_testily_]. Don't show off, Krakau. + +JOHNSTON [_raises his glass_]. Here's health. Splendid sherry. + +KRAKAU [_to Buffe_]. Why aren't you drinking? + +BUFFE. Thanks. I never take more than one glass. This sunshine warms you +as much as wine. + +HAMMER. I have the morning sun in my window. + +HANSEN. So have I. It wakes me up every morning. It's supposed to be +healthy. + +HELMS. Krakau stole it from me. + +KRAKAU. You know very well that-- + +HELMS. Yes you did. And the stove, too. + +KRAKAU. The stove-- + +HELMS. Isn't the morning sun on your side? + +KRAKAU. Yes, but-- + +HELMS. And the stove, too? + +KRAKAU. Didn't you-- + +HELMS. Nothing of the kind. You live on the east side, and the morning +sun is healthiest. + +KRAKAU. We can change, for my part. + +HELMS. Do you hear that? Now he wants to steal my view of the street, +too? + +HAMMER. What do you old friends want to quarrel for? + +JOHNSTON. And on your birthday. + +HELMS. Who is quarreling? + +BUFFE. You may be well satisfied with the afternoon sun, Helms. See how +beautifully it shines in the window. Look at the sun, Bolling. + +BOLLING. I've seen it before. + +BUFFE [_explaining with pride_]. Bolling used to be a carpenter, you +know. He traveled all over the world. + +BOLLING. I have seen everything. + + [_There is a rap at the door. Silence. Krakau opens it, Knut + enters._] + +KNUT [_to Krakau_]. Hello, Grandpop! [_To Helms, shaking his hand._] +Congratulations, grandfather. [_To the others._] Hello, everybody. + + [_The old men nod their heads, delighted. Buffe whispers to + Bolling._] + +BUFFE. It's Knut. The son of Helms' daughter. + +BOLLING. I had a son. + +HELMS. I'm glad you came my--my son [_glares at Krakau defiantly._] + +KNUT. I can only stay a minute. Have you heard about father's +appointment? + +JOHNSTON. He's been bragging to us about it, sonny. + +HAMMER. And treated us to sherry. + +BOLLING. Port wine is poison. + +HANSEN. And cigars. + +KNUT. Not really! + +HELMS. Why don't you hang up your cap? + +KNUT. I must be off in a minute. Back to school. I had only an hour's +leave, and it takes half an hour to ride each way. + +BUFFE. How old are you, my boy? + +KNUT. Seventeen. + +BUFFE. It's sixty-one years since I was that young. He's only seventeen, +Bolling. + +BOLLING. I was seventeen--once. Now I'm ninety-two. + +HAMMER. I am seventy-three. + +KNUT. Let's add up the number of years in this room. + +HELMS. There's too many. It can't be done. + +KNUT [_with a laugh_]. Let's try. [_Rapidly._] Mr. Bolling is 92 and +grandfather is 80; that's 172. + +HELMS. There's quick counting for you! + +KNUT. How old are you, Mr. Buffe? + +BUFFE. Seventy-eight. + +KNUT. That's 250. + +HAMMER [_in wonderment_]. Two hundred and fifty! + +KNUT. And you, grandpop? + +KRAKAU. Seventy. + +KNUT. 320. And you, Mr. Hammer? + +HAMMER. Seventy-three. + +KNUT. 393. + +JOHNSTON. Think of that! + +KNUT. And Mr. Hansen? + + [_All the old people except Bolling and Hansen, snigger. Hansen + turns away, offended._] + +KNUT. Don't you know how old you are, sir? + +HANSEN. Of course, I know. + +HELMS. He's ashamed to tell you. Ha, ha! + +BUFFE. He's afraid. Ha, ha! + +HANSEN. Who's afraid? [_Reluctantly._] I'm only sixty. + +THE OLD PEOPLE. "Only a boy." "Not dry behind the ears." "He'll grow." +"Poor child." + +KNUT. That makes 453. + +JOHNSTON [_beats his chest_]. I am seventy-five. + +KNUT. That gives us 528 altogether. + +HAMMER. Five hundred and twenty-eight! What a head the boy has on him. + +BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. All together we are 528 years old. + +BOLLING. What does it matter? + +HELMS. We'd be older still if there weren't a boy among us. + +JOHNSTON. Yes, Hansen spoils it by being so young. + +KRAKAU. You'll have to hurry, Hansen. + +HAMMER. Yes, so you will. + +BUFFE. Why don't you take something to make you grow? + +HANSEN. Oh, let me alone! + +KNUT. Well, I must be going. + +THE OLD PEOPLE. "What a pity." "Can't you be late for once?" "The +teacher won't mind." + +KNUT. I really must. Good-by, grandfather.... Hope you live eighty years +more.... Good-by, grandpop.... Good-by, everybody. Good luck! [_He +exits._] + +HAMMER. You can see him go from here. [_Goes to the window._] + +HANSEN. Can you? [_Joins him._] + + [_All go to the window except Bolling, who sits stiff and + abstracted in his chair._] + +HELMS. Open it. [_He helps Johnston do so._] + +JOHNSTON. There he goes. + +KRAKAU. He is waving to us. [_All wave back._] + +BUFFE. What a fine lad! + +KRAKAU. Good-by. [_All shout good-by. Bolling does not stir._] + +BUFFE [_turning away from the window, with a sigh_]. He's gone. + +HANSEN [_low_]. Yes, he's gone. + +JOHNSTON. It's nice to have young people around once in a while. + +BUFFE [_nods sadly_]. Yes. + +JOHNSTON. You have a fine young grandson, Helms. + +HELMS [_with an uneasy glance at Krakau_]. Yes, I can't complain of him. + +BUFFE. It's good to have a family that look after you. + +HANSEN. It's good to have a family at all. Many people haven't. + +HAMMER. No. + +BOLLING. No. They die. + +HELMS [_sharply_]. Close the window, Krakau. There's a draught. [_Krakau +closes the window._] + +HAMMER. Yes, the sun is down. + +BUFFE. Yes. + +HANSEN. Isn't it time we were going? + +JOHNSTON. These _young_ people should be early to bed. [_Laughter._] + +BUFFE. It really is time to go. Thank you, Helms. It was a nice party. + +HELMS. Going already? [_Glances uneasily at Krakau._] + +BUFFE. It's near supper time, you know. We are going, Bolling. + +HAMMER. Then we'll go too.... We enjoyed your party, Helms. + +HELMS. The pleasure was mine. + +JOHNSTON. Good night, Helms. Next time it's my party. + +HELMS. When? + +JOHNSTON. October 23rd. + +HANSEN. Good-by--and many thanks. + +HELMS. Not at all, not at all. + +BUFFE. Are you ready, Bolling? + +BOLLING. Hum! [_He rises._] + +BUFFE. Good-by, everybody. [_To Bolling._] Say good-by. + +BOLLING. Good-by. + + [_Krakau holds open the door. The guests file out talking gayly. + He closes the door and their voices are faintly heard outside._] + + [_Helms bustles about uneasily._] + +KRAKAU [_on his own side_]. Well, it went off very nicely. + +HELMS. Yes, very well--very well. + +KRAKAU. Want me to help you straighten up? + +HELMS. No--I can do it myself. + + [_There is a pause. Krakau takes back his chairs._] + +KRAKAU. We'll want to move my table back. + +HELMS [_seizing one end of it_]. Well, come on! Where are you? + +KRAKAU [_taking the other end hastily_]. Coming, coming! + + [_The table moved, there is another pause. Each is on his own + side. Helms potters helplessly with the bottles and glasses._] + +KRAKAU. Need any help? + +HELMS. You stand there doing nothing and you ask me-- [_The rest is +a sullen growl._] + + [_Krakau takes the glasses, puts them on a tray and carries them + across to left._] + +HELMS. Where are you going with my glasses? + +KRAKAU [_stops_]. I was going to wash them. + +HELMS. Well, don't forget whom they belong to. + +KRAKAU. Don't worry. [_Puts the glasses on the wash stand._] Shall I +light the lamp? + +HELMS. You can't see in the dark, can you? + +KRAKAU [_lighting the hanging lamp_]. Knut behaved very nicely, didn't +he? + +HELMS [_moodily_]. Yes. + +KRAKAU. He made everybody happy with his high spirits. + +HELMS. Not me. + +KRAKAU [_hastily changing the subject_]. It's funny about old Bolling. +How he's changed in the last year! He never talks any more. + +HELMS. When you get to be ninety-two and not a relation in the +world--[_His voice breaks in self-pity._] + +KRAKAU [_finished with the lamp, makes a little solicitous gesture +behind his friend's back, but immediately busies himself with putting +things to right_]. Where do you want these things to go? + +HELMS. On the chiffonier ... next to the other.... Bolling is so old he +feels superfluous.... I am getting like that-- + +KRAKAU [_hastily_]. Where do these stockings and things go? + +HELMS. Next to the last drawer. + +KRAKAU. I guess you are all fixed now.... There's nothing else? [_Turns +from the chiffonier, having closed the drawer, and starts for his own +side of the room._] + +HELMS [_suddenly_]. It's a terrible thing you've done to me, Krakau! + +KRAKAU [_in surprise_]. What now? + +HELMS [_his voice trembling_]. You have made my dead wife a strumpet and +my dead daughter a bastard. [_Krakau bridles and turns to him with +clenched fists. Helms continues pitifully._] And you have robbed me in +my old age of a grandson ... all I have in the world. [_Querulously +musing._] When men are young they see red and kill for that sort of +thing ... yes ... they kill.... But when you are old it's different.... +I can't even be very angry with you, Krakau.... Isn't it queer?... It's +all so far back ... in the past ... impersonal ... and blurred like a +half-remembered dream. + +KRAKAU [_with contrition_]. I shouldn't have told you. + +HELMS. You shouldn't have told me.... No ... but you did ... and I can't +be angry with you.... I am an old fool.... After all ... honor ... +fidelity ... marriage vows ... what do they matter when there is nothing +to do but to sit and count the days until you die? + +KRAKAU [_chokingly_]. Helms! + +HELMS [_with a flash of anger_]. But Knut matters. He _is_ my grandson +... in spite of you.... You shan't take him away from me. + +KRAKAU. I don't want to take him away from you. + +HELMS. Your blood ... perhaps ... but _my grandson_-- + +KRAKAU [_eagerly_]. Of course, he is, Helms. We can share him between +us. Don't you see? He need never know. No one need know ... just you +and I.... We can have him together ... our own little secret. + +HELMS [_looks at him_]. Nobody else will know? + +KRAKAU [_solemnly_]. Not a soul. I swear it. + +HELMS. Nobody? + +KRAKAU. Nobody. + +HELMS [_a faint smile dispels his frown_]. And when we talk about Knut +you won't say "So-o" any more? + +KRAKAU. Never ... for hereafter he'll be _our_ Knut ... just as if you +were his father and I his mother. + +HELMS [_the idea pleases him, considers it, then gives his assent like a +child playing a game_]. No, I'll be the mother. And we can quarrel about +him ... of course, in a friendly way. + +KRAKAU. Always friendly. + +HELMS. And just think--we shall have something to talk about all the +time. + +KRAKAU. Especially at night ... after supper ... under the lamp. + +HELMS. And when we are in bed in the dark and cannot sleep. + +KRAKAU. Always about our Knut. + +HELMS. Ha, ha.... Do you know, Krakau, I think you should have told me +long ago. + +KRAKAU. I was afraid. + +HELMS. Afraid! Absurd. What was there to be afraid about? You can see +for yourself that we are better friends since you told me. [_Goes to the +chiffonier and gets the photograph._] He does look something like you. + +KRAKAU [_magnanimously_]. Oh, no! He's your wife's son all over. + +HELMS [_with equal magnanimity_]. He looks a good deal like you just the +same.... Don't you want to borrow this for a few days? + +KRAKAU. Why, you only got it this morning. + +HELMS. Never mind. Take it.... Saturday I'll get it back from you. Then +in a few days I'll lend it to you again. + +KRAKAU. Thanks. [_Takes the photograph_]. Can I borrow the paper, too? + +HELMS. Sure, take it with you.... And lend me your chess men, will you? + +KRAKAU [_with animation_]. I'll get it for you. [_Goes to his own +chiffonier for it._] + +HELMS. We might as well move the tables together. It's more comfortable +that way. + +KRAKAU. Certainly. [_Comes down with the chessboard and helps move the +tables._] + +HELMS. Now you take my arm chair and read your paper. I'll play over +here. + +KRAKAU. I wouldn't think of taking your chair. + +HELMS. You do as you are told. [_Sits on an ordinary chair._] I can +reach better from one of these anyway. + +KRAKAU. Oh, well. [_Sits in the arm chair and unfolds the newspaper. +There is a pause._] + +HELMS. Why don't you light your pipe? + +KRAKAU. Your throat-- + +HELMS. My throat is all right. Go on and smoke. + +KRAKAU [_comfortably lights his pipe, relaxes_]. Well, now we'll see how +good you are at working out problems. + +HELMS. I don't think I can do it. + +KRAKAU [_reading_]. Sure you can. + +HELMS. Look here. Would you check with the bishop? + +KRAKAU [_studies the board_]. No ... that loses you the queen.... Hum +... you've sort of mixed it up.... Back with that rook. + +HELMS. How's that? + +KRAKAU. Brilliant! + +HELMS. Knut is back at school by this time. + +KRAKAU. Yes, probably studying his lessons. + +HELMS. He's a boy. + +KRAKAU. None better. + +HELMS. Isn't it nice to talk about him like this ... calm and +friendly?... You have no cause to be jealous any more, ha, ha! + +KRAKAU. And you needn't be stuck up any more, ha, ha! + +HELMS. No, ha, ha! There, I've muddled it again. + +KRAKAU. No, you haven't.... Just move here ... and here. + +HELMS [_suddenly takes out his purse_]. By the way, I owe you +twenty-seven pfennig. + +KRAKAU. There's no hurry. + +HELMS. Take it! + +KRAKAU. All right. [_He rises._] + +HELMS. Where are you going? + +KRAKAU [_at the chiffonier_]. We forgot the flowers. + +HELMS. Oh, yes! + +KRAKAU. They smell so fragrant. [_Puts them on the table._] + +HELMS [_takes a flower and puts it in Krakau's buttonhole_]. You must +wear one. + +KRAKAU [_overcome_]. Thank you, Helms, thank you. [_They bend over the +chessboard again._] + +HELMS [_rubs his hands with delight_]. Now white moves. + +KRAKAU [_considering_]. White moves.... I should say ... there ... that +pawn ... I'd sacrifice it. + +HELMS [_picks it up with playful tenderness_]. Poor little white pawn! +[_Places it on the board._] + + [_They study the next move absorbedly as the curtain falls._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +BROTHERS + + A SARDONIC COMEDY + + BY LEWIS BEACH + + + Copyright, 1920, by Frank Shay. + All rights reserved. + + + CHARACTERS + + SETH. + LON. + PA. + + + BROTHERS was first presented by the Provincetown Players, New York. + + Applications for permission to produce BROTHERS should be addressed to + Frank Shay, Four Christopher Street, New York City. No performance may + take place without his consent. + + + +BROTHERS + +A SARDONIC COMEDY BY LEWIS BEACH + + + [SCENE: _A very small room in a tar-papered shanty, reeking + poverty. The entrance is center-back,--a few boards nailed + together for a door. A similar door, opening into the bedroom of + the shack, upstage right. Downstage left, a broken window. Left + center, a rusty cooking stove. Above it, a series of shelves + holding a few dishes and cooking utensils. Rough board table in + the center of the room. A kitchen chair at the right of the table. + A large wooden rocker near the stove; rope and wire hold it + together. An arm-chair, below the bedroom door is full of + newspapers. Several heterogeneous colored prints culled from + out-of-date newspapers and calendars are tacked on the + rain-stained walls. When the entrance door is open we see a + cleared, sandy spot with a background of scrub oaks and jack + pines._ + + _The curtain rises on the late afternoon of a spring day._ + + _A man of forty enters, leaving the bedroom door open behind him. + His small head and childish face, on a tall, thin, and extremely + erect body, resemble those of a species of putty-like rubber doll + whose head may be reshaped by the hand. He wears a winter cap, + blue flannel shirt, well-worn trousers with suspenders, and + sneakers that were once white. Outside shirt sleeves are rolled to + the elbow; undershirt sleeves are not. His shoes make no noise; + nevertheless, he comes on tiptoe, his eyes fixed on the shelves. + For a moment he stops and glances into the room he has just + quitted. Satisfied, he squats before the shelves. He hesitates, + then quickly lifts from a lower shelf an inverted cooking vessel, + and grasps a small tin box which was hidden under it. He inspects + the box, trying to decide whether he can pry open its lock._] + + +[_The voice of an old, infirm man in the adjoining room_]: Seth? + +SETH [_alarmed; starts to return the box to the shelf_]. Yes, Pa? [_His +voice is pitched high._] + +PA [_querulously_]. What yuh doin'? + +SETH. Jest settin'. + +PA. Don't yuh go near my tin box 'til I'm dead. + + [_Seth makes no answer._] + +PA. D'yuh hear? + +SETH. I hear. + +PA. I won't heve no one know nothin' 'bout my last will an' testament +'til I'm dead. + + [_There is a pause. Seth is regarding the box intently._] + +PA. Seth? + +SETH [_peevishly_]. What d'yuh want? + +PA. Bring me a drink. + +SETH. There ain't no more water in the pail. + +PA. There's lots in the well this spring. + + [_A pause. Seth continues his scrutiny of the lock._] + +PA. My throat's burnin' up. + +SETH. Well, maybe I kin find a drop. [_Puts the box on the shelf and +re-covers it; in doing so makes a slight noise._] + +PA. What's that noise? + +SETH. I'm gettin' yuh a drink! + + [_Seth strolls to the stove, lifts the top from the kettle, and + looks inside. He finds a tin cup and fills it with water. Looking + into the kettle again, he sees there is little water left. Why + make a trip to the pump necessary? Back into the kettle goes some + of the water. Cup in hand, he moves toward the bedroom. He reaches + the door when a sagging bellied man enters from the yard. It is + Lon, the elder, shorter brother. His face has become molded into + an expressionless stare, and his every movement seems to be made + with an effort. An abused man, Lon, the most ill-treated fellow + in the world. At least, so he is ever at pains to have all + understand. He wears an old felt hat, cotton shirt, badly patched + trousers, suspenders attached to the buttons of his trousers with + string, and shoes that are almost soleless. His shirt, stained + with sweat, is opened at the throat, revealing red flannel + underwear. When Seth sees Lon he immediately closes the bedroom + door, silently turns the key in the lock, and puts the key in his + pocket. For a moment the men stand looking at each other, + reminding one of two roosters. Then Seth strolls to the stove, + pours the water into the kettle, and planks himself down in the + rocker. Lon glances once or twice at the bedroom door, but moves + not to it. He watches Seth suspiciously. Finally he speaks._] + +LON [_in an expressionless drawl_]. I hear Pa's dyin'. + +SETH. Yuh hear right. + +LON [_with a motion of his head toward the bedroom_]. Is he in there? + +SETH. Yes. + + [_Lon hesitates, then moves slowly toward Pa's room. An idea + strikes Seth suddenly and he interrupts Lon's progress._] + +SETH. He's asleep. + + [_Lon stops. Seth fills his pipe and lights it. Lon takes his + corncob from his pocket and coughs meaningly. Seth looks at Lon, + sees what he wants, but does not offer him tobacco. Lon puts his + pipe back in his pocket, moves to the table, sits, and sighs. He + crosses his right foot so Seth sees what was once the sole of his + shoe._] + +SETH. What did yuh come here fur? + +LON. 'Cause Pa's dyin'. + +SETH. Yuh never come when he was about. + +LON. Wall, no one ever seed yuh a settin' here much. + +SETH [_fleeringly_]. Suppose yuh want t' know what he's left yuh. + +LON. Wall, ... it warn't comfortable comin' three miles an' a quarter on +a day like this un. + +SETH [_cackles_]. Sand's hot on yer bare naked feet, ain't it? + +LON [_moves his feet_]. Yuh kin talk about my holey boots. If I didn't +heve no mouths but my own t' feed I guess I could buy new ones too. So +there, Seth Polland! + +SETH. Jacobs offered yuh a job at the fisheries same as me. + +LON. It's too fur t' hoof it twict a day. + +SETH. Yuh could sleep at the fisheries. + +LON. I got t' look after my kids. + +SETH [_grins_]. 'Tain't my fault yuh've kids. + +LON [_threateningly_]. Don't yuh talk 'bout that! [_Pause._] Yer woman +had t' leave yuh. [_Laughs._] Yuh didn't give her 'nough t' eat. + +SETH [_indifferently_]. She warn't no good. + +LON. She had t' leave yuh same as Ma left Pa twenty years ago. Pa's +dyin' fur sure? + +SETH. Who told yuh? + +LON. Ma. + +SETH [_greatly surprised_]. Ma? [_suspiciously._] What you got t' do +with her? + +LON. I was passin' her place this mornin'. Furst time I spoke t' her in +a year. + +SETH. I ain't in two. + +LON [_in despair_]. Seth, she's cut twenty cords o' wood t' sell. + +SETH [_shaking his head_]. An' me without a roof o' my own. + +LON. Me an' the kids wonder sometimes where our next meal's comin' from. + +SETH [_as though there were something better in store for him_]. Oh, +wall. + +LON [_pricks up his ears; coughs_]. If I had this house I could work at +the fisheries. + +SETH. But yuh ain't a goin' t' git it. + +LON [_alarmed_]. Pa ain't gone an' left it t' yuh? + +SETH. Pa deeded this t' Doc last winter. + +LON [_amazed and angered_]. He did? + +SETH. Doc said he could live here 'till he died. But it's Doc's. + +LON. It warn't right. + +SETH. Wall, he had t' pay fur his physics some way. He told me yuh +wouldn't help him out. + +LON. And Pa told me yuh wouldn't. An' yuh ain't got two kids t' feed. +[_Pause._] There's Pa's old shanty down the road. If I had that I could +work at the fisheries. + + [_Seth's smile is his only response._] + +Pa still owns it, don't he? + +SETH. There warn't no call fur him t' make his last will an' testament +if he don't. + +LON [_brightens_]. He's left his last will an' testament? + +SETH. Yes. I'm figgerin' on sellin' the place t' Doc. + +LON [_emphatically_]. Pa ain't a left it t' yuh! + +SETH. Doc'll want it. + +LON [_forcefully_]. Where's the will an' testament? + +SETH [_with a gesture_]. In the tin box under that there kittle. + + [_Lon hurries to the shelves, picks up the dish, and grasps the + box._] + +LON [_disappointed_]. It's locked. + +SETH. An' the key's round Pa's neck. + +LON. Let's git it. + +SETH. Pa won't give it t' us. + +LON. Yuh said he was sleepin'. + +SETH. I mean--he might wake up. + + [_Lon inspects the box further._] + +LON. I think I could open it. + +SETH. Pa might ask t' see it. + +LON. Hell. [_Puts the box back on the shelf._] + +SETH. Doc'll want the place seein' as how it's right next t' this un. + + [_Lon is very nervous._] + +Yuh might jest as wall go home. + +LON. No, yuh don't! Yuh can't make me believe Pa's left it t' yuh. +[_Takes off his hat and mops his brow with his sleeve. The top of his +head is very bald._] + +SETH. Then what yuh gettin' so excited 'bout? + +LON. I ain't excited. [_Puts his hat on._] It jest makes me mad 'cause +yuh say Pa's left it t' yuh, an' I know he ain't. See? There warn't no +call fur him t' heve willed an' testamented it t' yuh. Yuh've only +yerself t' look after an' I've two motherless kids. + +SETH. Every one knows how much Pa thought o' them. + +LON. It warn't my fault if they thumbed their noses at him. + +SETH. Yuh could o' basted 'em. + +LON. They's like their Ma. Bastin' never done her no good, God rest her +soul. All the same, Pa knowd how hard it is fur me t' keep their bellies +full. Why, when we heve bread Alexander never wants less than half the +loaf! An' all the work I gits t' do is what the city folks who come t' +the Beach in the summer gives me. + +SETH. Huh! Jest as though I didn't know 'bout yuh. Mr. Breckenridge told +me yuh wouldn't even contract t' chop his wood fur him. An' there yuh +sits all winter long in that God-fursaken shanty o' yourn, with trees +all round yuh, an' yuh won't put an ax t' one 'til yer own fires dies +out. + +LON. My back ain't never been strong. Choppin' puts the kinks in it. Yuh +kin talk, yuh kin, Seth Polland, with a soft job at the fisheries an' +three squares a day which yuh don't heve t' cook yourself. Nothin' t' do +all winter but walk round them cottages an' see that no one broke in. +An' I'm the one who knows how often yuh walk round them cottages. I wish +I hed yer snap. [_Sits._] But I ain't never had no luck. + +SETH [_defending himself_]. I walk round them cottages jest as often as +I need t' walk round them cottages. + +LON. Huh! I could tell a tale. Who was it set with his feet in the oven +last winter, an' let Jack Tompkins break into them cottages--_with +keys_? [_Seth does not answer._] I could tell, I could. But I ain't a +goin' t' 'til they put me on the witness-stand. [_Pause._] But the furst +initials o' his name is Seth Polland. + +SETH [_rising instantly_]. Lon Polland, yuh ever tell an' I'll skin yuh +alive. + +LON. Huh! + +SETH. Skin yuh like a pole-cat. + +LON. Huh! + + [_Seth turns, knocks the ashes from his pipe into the stove. Lon + rises; takes Seth's chair and rocks vigorously._] + +SETH. Yuh know what I got on yuh. + + [_Lon's bravado is short-lived. He rocks less strenuously._] + +SETH. Yuh thought I didn't see yuh, but I was right on the spot when yuh +set fire t' Mr. Rogers' bath-house. + + [_Lon stops rocking._] + +SETH. Right behind a jack pine I was an' seed yuh do it. An' yuh done it +'cause Mr. Rogers leaved Jessup paint the house when yuh thought yuh +ought t' had the job. + +LON [_rises_]. I got t' be a gettin' home a fore dark an' tend t' my +stock. + +SETH. Stock? [_Cackles. Pulls out his tobacco-pouch and fills his pipe. +Lon shows his pipe again._] A blind mare an' a rooster. [_Drops pouch on +the table as he lights his pipe._] + +LON. Rooster's dead. [_Moves stealthily toward the table._] + +SETH. What of? + +LON. Pip. + +SETH. Starvation. + +LON. I would a killed him this long time, but Victoria howled so when I +threatened. The fowl used t' wake me in winter same as summer with his +crowin'. + + [_As Lon finishes his speech he reaches for the pouch. But Seth's + hand is quicker. Seth moves to the rocker and sits, dangling the + pouch temptingly by one finger. Lon puts his pipe in his pocket._] + +SETH. Should think yuh'd want t' set round 'til Pa dies, bein' as yer so +sure he's left yuh his property. + +LON. He oughter a left it t' me. + +SETH. Well, I'm a tellin' yuh it's mine. + +LON. Yuh ain't got no right t' it. [_Mops his head again._] Pa begged +yuh t' come an' live with him, offered yuh this fine roof over yer head, +an' yuh was too cussed even t' do that fur him. An' now yuh expect he's +made yuh his heir. + +SETH. I've treated him righter 'an yuh. + +LON. Yuh ain't. + + [_Suddenly something seems to snap in Seth's brain. He looks as + though he were in intense pain._] + +SETH [_gasping_]. Maybe he's left it t' the two o' us! + +LON. _What?_ + +SETH. Maybe he's divided the place a 'tween us. + +LON [_shakes his head_]. Oh, he wouldn't be so unhuman as that. + +SETH. He would. He was always settin' one agin' t' other. + +LON. He used t' tell me I had t' figger how t' git the best o' yuh or +he'd baste me. + +SETH. He was all the time whettin' us on when we was kids. + +LON. It was him showed me how t' shake my old clock so it'd run fur five +minutes, an' then you'd swop that pail yuh found fur it. + +SETH. Huh! He give me his gum t' stop up the hole in that pail. Yuh +wouldn't know it leaked an' we could laugh at yuh when you had t' carry +water in it. + +LON [_pathetically_]. There warn't never more 'an a pint left when I got +t' the house. An' Pa always hed such a thirst. + +SETH. He'd like t' laugh at us in his grave. + +LON. It jest tickled him t' raise hell a 'tween us. + +SETH [_rises_]. I'll take my oath he's divided the old shanty an' the +two acres a 'tween us. [_Drops into his chair like a condemned man._] +An' I figgered I'd be sellin' them t' Doc t'morrow. + +LON. Me an' the kids was a goin' t' heve a garden on the cleared spot. + +SETH. A garden in that sand? + +LON. Radishes an' rutabagas. + +SETH [_persuasively; his manner becomes kind_]. Lon, what yuh need is +the shanty. + +LON [_droning_]. The shanty ain't no good t' me without I hes the ground +fur it t' set on. + +SETH. Yuh can tear it down an' use the lumber t' mend yer old leaky one. + +LON. I want the shanty t' live in so I kin git a soft job at the +fisheries. [_Sympathetically._] You ought t' have a shanty, Seth. +Supposin' yuh was t' take sick. They wouldn't keep yuh at the fisheries +then. Yuh take my place an' give me Pa's. + +SETH [_flashing into anger_]. I want the two acres t' sell Doc. Yer old +place leaks like a net! [_Then, fearing he has been too disparaging:_] +But yuh could make it real comfortable with the lumber in-- + +LON [_cutting in_]. I'll make a bargain. I'll leave yuh a bed-stead an' +a table if yuh'll take my place. + +SETH. I don't want it! I want Pa's old place. + +LON. An' I want it. I'm older 'an yuh. + +SETH. I got the best claim t' it. + +LON. Yuh ain't. We with three mouths t' feed. Yer a swindler, yuh are. +Yuh always tried t' cheat me. + +SETH. No one kin say that t' me. I'm an honest man. But I'm a goin' 't +heve the two acres if I heve t' go t' law. + +LON. Wall, yuh ain't a goin' t' wreck me. + +SETH [_calmly; philosophically again_]. Maybe yer right, Lon, when yuh +say I ought t' have a roof. I'll tell yuh what I'll do, seein' as how +yer my brother. Yuh give me the ground an' the house on it, an' I'll +make yuh a present o' twenty-five dollars. + +LON. That's a lie! Yuh ain't got twenty-five dollars t' yer name. + +SETH. Yuh think so. + +LON. Every one in these parts knows yuh owes Hawkins forty-three dollars +an twenty-nine cents he kin't collect. Give me the house an' ground, an' +I'll give yuh my own house an' my note fur twenty-five dollars. + +SETH. Yer note! I'm a goin' t' heve Pa's old place. + +LON. An' I say that yuh or no swindler like yuh is a goin' t' cheat me +out o' it. + +SETH. I ain't a swindler, yuh wall-eyed son-- + +LON [_advancing_]. Take it back. Don't yuh call me dissipated names. + +SETH. I'll never take it back! + + [_Lon doubles his fists and strikes; but the blow lands in the air + as Seth grabs Lon. They fight furiously and in dead earnest, + though there is no ethics to the struggle. The rickety furniture + trembles as they advance and retreat. Seth is quicker and lighter + and less easily winded; but Lon's bulk is not readily moved, and, + despite his "weak back," he can still wield his arms. It looks + like a fight to the finish. Isn't their future at stake? And they + are giving vent to a hatred bred by their father. But suddenly + Pa's voice is heard, calling wildly to Seth. The men do not move: + the voice seems to have paralyzed their muscles. For a moment they + stand dazed. Then consciousness comes to them: they realize that + the waiting is over. They tear to the bedroom. A silence follows. + They must be fascinated by the ghost of the old man._] + +SETH [_in the bedroom; quietly_]. He's gone, Lon. + +LON [_in the bedroom_]. Yer right, Seth. + + [_Then their voices rise in dispute._] + +Don't yuh take it! + +SETH. I've got it! + +LON. It's mine! + +SETH. It ain't! + +LON. Yuh kin't-- + +SETH. Shut up! + + [_They rush into the kitchen, Seth in advance, Lon close on his + heels. The younger throws the cooking-dish to the floor, grabs the + box, and hurries to the table. As though they were about to + discover a world's secret, they unlock the box, each as near to it + as possible, his arms tense, fingers itching, ready to ward off a + blow or seize the treasure. From the box, Seth takes an old + tobacco-pouch, a jack-knife, a bit of heavy cord, a couple of + letters. These are contemptuously thrown on the table. The will + lies at the bottom of the box. Lon snatches it. Seth would take it + from him._] + +LON. Hold off! I'm jest a goin' t' read it. + + [_Seth curbs his impatience. Lon opens the document and reads, + slowly and haltingly._] + +"I, Nathaniel Polland, o' Sandy Point in the County o' Rhodes an' State +o' Michigan, bein' o' sound mind an' memory, do make, publish, an' +declare this t' be my last Will an' Testament in manner followin', +viz--." What does "viz" mean? + + [_Unable to bear the suspense longer, Seth seizes the paper. He + scans it until his eyes catch the all-important paragraph._] + +SETH. "--Bequeath all my earthly possessions to my wife, Jennie +Polland." + + [_Their thunderbolt has descended. They stand like two men + suddenly deprived of thought and motion. Medusa's victims could + not have been more pitiable. They have been hurled from their El + Dorado, which, at the worst, was to have been their common + property._ + + _Then Seth's voice comes to him, and sufficient strength to drop + into a chair._] + +SETH. The damned old critter. + +LON. I'll be swaned. + +SETH [_blazing out_]. That's gratitude. + +LON. After all we done fur him. + +SETH [_pathetically_]. An' me a plannin' these last five years on +gettin' that house an' ground. + +LON. My kids are packin' our furniture this afternoon, gettin' ready t' +move in. + +SETH [_with supreme disgust_]. Leavin' it t' Ma. + +LON. Her who he ain't hardly spoke t' in twenty years. + +SETH. Jest as though yuh an' me wasn't alive. + +LON. We'd a given him our last pipeful. + +SETH. His own flesh an' blood. + +LON. Why, he told me more 'an a thousand times he hated Ma. + +SETH. She don't need it. + +LON. She's ready fur the grave-yard. + +SETH. She's that stingy, cuttin' an' choppin' wood, sellin it t' the +city folks. We might a knowd. + +LON. An' me a comin' all the three miles an' a quarter t' see him a fore +he died. + +SETH. I been settin' here two days a waitin'. + +LON. An' then t' treat us like that. [_Wipes his mouth._] Why, the hull +place ain't worth a damn! + +SETH. A cavin'-in shanty an' two acres yuh couldn't grow weeds on. + +LON. A pile o' sand. + +SETH [_rising; bursting into fire like an apparently dead rocket_]. She +ain't a goin' t' heve it! + +LON. What? + +SETH. I won't let Ma heve it! + +LON. But how yuh goin' t' stop her? 'Twon't do no good t' tear up the +will an' testament. It's rec-ord-ed. + +SETH. Don't make no difference. She ain't a goin' t' heve that place. + +LON [_eagerly_]. But how yuh goin'--? + +SETH. I don't know. But I'm a goin' t'. + +LON. It ain't hers by rights. + +SETH. Didn't she leave him twenty years ago? + +LON. Why, she ain't even expectin' it! + +SETH. She'll never miss it if she don't git it. + +LON [_shaking his head_]. Me an' the kids packed up, ready t' move in. + + [_There is a silence. Lon deep in his disappointment, Seth making + his brain work as it has never worked before. And he is rewarded + for his diligence. A suggestion of his sneering smile comes to his + face._] + +SETH. Lon? + +LON. Yes? + +SETH [_looks about, making sure that only his brother is listening_]. +Yuh 'member what yuh done t' Rogers when he didn't leave yuh paint his +bath-house? + +LON [_his eyes open wide_]. Burn it? + +SETH. Sh! + +LON. Oh, no! + +SETH. Yuh don't want Ma t' heve it, does yuh? + +LON. When I burned that bath-house I didn't sleep good fur a couple o' +nights. I dreamed o' the sheriff. + +SETH. Nobody knows but me. An' nobody'll know yuh an' me set fire t' +Pa's old place. + +LON. Yuh swear yuh won't never tell? + +SETH [_raising his right hand_]. I swear. + +LON. Yuh won't never try an' make out I done it next time we run agin +each other fur district school-inspector? + +SETH [_raising his right hand_]. I swear. 'Cause if I kin't have Pa's +old place, no one kin. + +LON. Got matches? + +SETH. Yes. An' Pa's kerosene-can's got 'bout a pint in it. [_Takes the +can from the bottom shelf._] + +LON. I may as wall take these papers along with me. [_Picks up the +newspapers._] + + [_Seth moves to the table. Begins to fill his pipe. Lon takes his + corncob from his pocket and coughs. Seth looks at Lon, meditates, + then speaks._] + +SETH. Heve a smoke, Lon? + +LON. Maybe I will. + + [_Lon fills his pipe.--Seth strikes a match, lights his own pipe + first, then hands the match to Lon._] + +SETH. We're brothers. + +LON. The same flesh an' blood has got t' treat each other right. + + [_Lon starts to put Seth's tobacco-pouch in his pocket, but Seth + stops him._] + +SETH. An' we wouldn't be treatin' each other right if we let Pa's +property come into Ma's hands. + + [_Seth carries the kerosene, Lon the papers. They go out the back + door and disappear. Thus, in disgust and rage, the brothers are + united. Then Seth's voice is heard._] + +SETH [_in the yard_]. Wait a minute, Lon. + + [_Seth returns. He picks up Pa's tobacco-pouch, knife and + scissors, glances toward the door to see that Lon isn't watching, + and sticks them into his pocket._] + +LON [_in the yard_]. What yuh doin', Seth? [_Appears at the door._] + +SETH. I thought I left somethin' valuable. But I ain't. [_He leaves._] + + [_Lon and Seth pass out of sight._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +IN THE MORGUE + + A PLAY + + BY SADA COWAN + + + Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. + All rights reserved. + + + IN THE MORGUE is reprinted from "The Forum" by special permission of + Miss Sada Cowan. Application for right of performing IN THE MORGUE + must be made to Miss Sada Cowan, The Authors' League, New York City. + + + +IN THE MORGUE + +A PLAY BY SADA COWAN + + + [PLACE: _In the morgue of a foreign city_.] + + [SCENE: _A small almost empty room with the rear wall of glass. + Before this glass black curtains are drawn. An old man ... Caren + ... sits at a low table, well forward, sorting and arranging + papers, writing from time to time. A lamp upon the table, is so + shaded as to concentrate the light and throws Caren's wicked face + into sharp relief. The room conveys a feeling of unfriendliness, + coldness and gloom. Caren is old, so old he is somewhat decrepit + ... hard, shrill and tottering. His features are sharp, his + fingers are as talons. He seems almost as a vulture ... perhaps + for hovering too long among the unbeloved dead._] + +CAREN [_calling to some one behind the black curtain_]. What was the +number of that last one? + +HELPER [_putting out his head_]. Thirteen. [_He disappears._] + +CAREN [_writes and repeats_]. Thirteen.... + +VOICES [_are heard, rough and harsh, from in back of the curtains_]. +Shove that stiff up! He's got more room than what's coming to him. + +CAREN [_calling, without rising_]. Who is it you're moving? + +VOICE. Thirteen. Any reason why he should sprawl? + +CAREN. Not a bit. Shove him along. + + [_The curtains part. There is a swift vision of brilliant light + within, and bodies laid out upon tables of ice._] + +KRAIG [_a man, scarcely more than a boy, over-wrought and hysterical, +with his hands pressed close to his throbbing temples, bursts out_]. +Oh.... Oh! Let me stay here just a moment away from that horror. + +CAREN [_glancing up from his writing and smiles_]. You're all the same +the first day. + +KRAIG. Oh.... Oh! + +CAREN. That last one got you ... eh? + +KRAIG [_bitterly_]. So young ... so young! + +CAREN. Must have been a good looker. Much as you can tell the way his +face is banged up. I'll bet his own mother wouldn't know him. + +KRAIG [_turning aside_]. Don't! + +CAREN [_titters_]. He ... he ... he! Number thirteen...! I hope he ain't +superstitious. + +KRAIG. He has nothing more to fear. + +CAREN [_with dread_]. There's no tellin'. + +KRAIG. He's dead.... [_Enviously._] ... Dead! + +CAREN [_angry_]. Fool! + +KRAIG [_watching through the glass at the placid figure, enviously_]. +Dead! + +CAREN [_exasperated_]. Bah! + +KRAIG [_suddenly has a hideous thought and turns swiftly to Caren_]. You +think it was fair...? He went of his own free will? + +CAREN. Eh...? What put that into your head? + +KRAIG. No clothes ... naked! + +CAREN. A lot of them do that when they take the plunge. It ain't so easy +to identify them. It saves a lot of bother, too. We stick 'em on the +slabs a while and then.... + +KRAIG [_shuddering_]. Don't! It makes me cold ... cold! [_Again he parts +the curtains and looks through the glass._] He's so calm ... so still. I +wonder if he suffered first! [_With a clutch of hatred in his voice._] I +wonder if--he starved! + +CAREN. That soft white kitten? Not much. Did you get a squint at his +hands? He's never even tied his own tie. + +KRAIG [_laughs_]. And he's here! + +CAREN [_looking at Kraig_]. This is a funny job for a kid like you to +pick. + +KRAIG [_turning away_]. I'm not as young as I look. I've got three +little ones already. [_With deep anguish._] And another on the way. + +CAREN. It's a queer hang out for a kid like you, just the same. + +KRAIG [_hysterically, almost beside himself_]. I tell you ... there's +another on the way. + +CAREN. What do you mean by that? + +KRAIG. Nothing! [_A pause, then bitterly._] Oh there's one joy down +here. You can burrow and hide like a rat from it all. The damn carriages +don't roll by before your eyes. The women don't!... Oh, those women, how +I hate them. Their silks, their jewels, their soft white skins. Fed! +Clothed! Housed!... [_Clenching his fists._] While Martha starves! Oh, +God! They drive by laughing and I could choke them! Listen what +happened. [_He comes closer to Caren and speaks fanatically._] Yesterday +in the park I stood there ... shivering ... wondering! And all at once +the mad hate came into my heart and I felt that I could kill. [_Caren +looks alarmed._] And then.... Ha ... ha ... ha! Then.... The King.... +The King drove by. [_Laughing bitterly, and with a great flourish._] And +off came my hat! [_Making fun of himself._] My hat came off my head, Old +Man, and I bowed and cringed [_vehemently_] WITH THE HATE IN MY HEART. I +could have torn the warm furs from his throat and wrapped my fingers in +their place [_his hands clench spasmodically_]. Ugh! + +CAREN [_thoroughly alarmed_]. Hush.... Hush! You mustn't talk so of our +King. A nice young boy he is. + +KRAIG. Oh the hate ... the hate. Perhaps it will leave me here in this +hall of the dead. [_Glancing about._] It all seems so level here. So +level. + +CAREN [_with the first faint touch of sympathy_]. You're right. Here's +the one spot on earth where you get fair play. That's what I like. There +ain't no rich and there ain't no poor. And there ain't no class nor +nothing. Every man gets a square deal here ... a square deal. + +KRAIG. Perhaps that's worth dying for--a square deal. + +CAREN. Dying ... bah! Wait until you've seen a few more of them slung on +the slabs. You'll lose your longing for death. I'm an old man, but.... + +KRAIG. If only I can see more of it. If only I can bear it. + +CAREN. The pay's not bad? + +KRAIG. It would be bad at any price. + +CAREN [_shaking his finger childishly_]. Tut ... tut! We're fair here +... fair. There ain't no flowers ... he ... he ... he ... and there +ain't no song [_he chuckles_], but.... + +KRAIG [_with intense passion, pacing to and fro, and never pausing, +while he speaks very rapidly_]. If only the living could have what is +spent on the dead. All the waste ... the hateful waste. Flowers wilting +in dead hands. Stones weighing down dead hearts. While living bodies +famish and living eyes burn for the sight of beauty. Oh, I wonder the +dead don't scream out at our madness. I wonder the graves don't burst +with the pain of it all. + +CAREN. Have they shut me up with a maniac? Have you gone stark out of +your mind? + + [_There is a loud knocking on the door, to the right._] + +CAREN [_opens it a crack and peeps out cautiously_]. What do you want? + +VOICE. Let me in. + +CAREN. Get away. + +VOICE [_piteously, clamoring_]. Let me look once ... just once. + +CAREN [_harshly_]. Got a pass? + +VOICE. No ... no. Oh, let me in. + +CAREN [_bangs the door shut_]. Get away. + +VOICE [_brokenly_]. Let me look once ... just once. [_Caren opens the +door a crack._] Are there any ... women? + +CAREN. Women? Of course, there's women ... always women. What is it +you've craving? The sight of the beauties or the smell of their stinking +flesh? Go on ... get out. This isn't a bawdy house. [_He slams the door +to and walks away._] + +KRAIG. What is it he wants? + +CAREN. A peep at the stiffs. Probably looking for his girl. [_He passes +out of sight, behind the black curtain._] + +KRAIG. Oh! [_Cautiously he peeps after Caren, then opens the door a +crack and calls in a whisper_]. Man!... You can see the new ones +through the panel there. Lift up the curtain. There's two. A blond +haired girl and a boy. [_He turns swiftly as the curtains part and Caren +reenters. Softly he shuts the door, then stands watching into the +hallway through a glass partition._] Poor soul! + +CAREN [_mumbles as he returns_]. There's something queer about that last +young stiff. + +KRAIG. Number thirteen? + +CAREN. Yes, number thirteen. You may have been right after all. Perhaps +it wasn't fair play to put him in the river. There's some mystery ... +something wrong. [_Tittering._] He ... he ... he! Not number thirteen +for nothing. + +KRAIG [_watching outside_]. How do you know there's anything wrong? + +CAREN. That's telling, Sonny. [_With deep meaning._] But you get wise +quick ... looking at the dead. + +KRAIG. Ugh! + +CAREN. People are telephoning and messengers are on the way. Pah ... +things like this are a nuisance. They keep one late. What are you +watching? + +KRAIG. That man who was here at the door. He doesn't go away. I wonder +what keeps him here. + +CAREN. Conscience! Scared to death he'll find his girl. Afraid not to +look for her. + +KRAIG. You mean?... + +CAREN. Oh, there's just two things drives people into the water. The +men ... 'cause they've got too little inside 'em.... The women.... + +KRAIG [_furious_]. Stop! + +CAREN [_alarmed, yet brazen ... scratching his head_]. He ... he ... he! +Pretty clever little joke. He ... he! + + [_Kraig begins to pace the room, his hands pressed to his temples._] + +CAREN. I must tell that to the boys inside. [_He starts to go._] Pretty +clever little joke!... + +KRAIG [_watching, excitedly_]. There's something wrong with the fellow. +I'd better see. + +CAREN [_pausing_]. You'd better shut your eyes and see nothing. + +KRAIG. He is staggering. + +CAREN. Let him stagger. + +KRAIG. He may be ill. He may be--starving. + +CAREN. He's come to a good place to lose his appetite. + +KRAIG. Oh, let me see what's wrong with him ... please. + +CAREN. You go out that door and you don't come back. [_A pause._] I +guess you'll stay. + +KRAIG [_looks his hatred_]. Just as you say. + + [_Outside the door there is a short, sharp scream._] + +VOICE. Maria! + +KRAIG. He's fallen. + +CAREN. He'll get up. + +KRAIG. I wonder what happened. + +CAREN. Perhaps he got a peep at the new blonde. [_There is now a violent +banging on the door._] + +KRAIG. He's here. + + [_Caren opens the door cautiously a crack._] + +VOICE [_outside_]. My woman!... Maria! + +CAREN. If you can identify her shut up your racket. Go to the first door +at the right and make arrangements to take her away. + +VOICE [_crushed and broken_]. Maria. + +CAREN. Shut up! Bottle the tears until you get home. The first door to +the right. + +VOICE [_pleading_]. Cover her. For the love of the Lord ... cover her. +Don't let her lie like that. + +CAREN. Ain't she covered enough to suit you? + +VOICE. Cover her ... cover her. + +CAREN. Afraid she'll catch cold? Go on ... get out! [_He slams the +door._] + +KRAIG [_walks to the black curtains and parts them slightly_]. His woman +... his LOVE. [_Sighing and glancing towards the door_.] Poor devil! + +CAREN. What's the matter with you, Softy? + +KRAIG. Nothing. I was just thinking. + +CAREN. Don't be a fool. + +KRAIG [_again walking back and looking at the woman_]. Couldn't we cover +her just a little? The sheet seems to have slipped. + +CAREN. And no harm done. Meat's meat. + +KRAIG [_dreamily_]. Her hair would cover her like a mantle. How soft and +white she is. And how happy she seems. I wonder just when that look came +into her face. It surely wasn't there when she plunged into the river. + +CAREN [_annoyed_]. You ought to be nurse maid to a doll baby. What are +you anyway? + +KRAIG [_indifferently_]. A dreamer ... a creator ... a starver! + +CAREN. Well, you're the wrong sort for in here. This is one place where +you get down to facts; truth. No lies, no frills, no dreams. Dreams +don't count [_banging his fist for emphasis_]. Money don't count. Power +don't count ... beauty don't count. Nothing counts. + +KRAIG [_hotly_]. Then it's not truth if beauty and dreams don't count. +That's what we starved for, Martha and I. + +CAREN [_softening a little_]. Well, you won't starve here. It's a fair +place ... fair. The King himself wouldn't be treated no different than a +beggar. The man with brains and the man without.... [_The curtains part +and a helper enters._] + +HELPER. Some one wants to blink at number thirteen. He's got two swell +dames with him. Can they go in? + +CAREN. If their permit's all right. Yes. Bring them in. + +HELPER. They won't come in here. They want to go in the private way. + +CAREN. I know there's some mystery about number thirteen.... + +HELPER. Yes, there is. He's a swell ... a big one. I shouldn't wonder +if.... + +CAREN. Go on. Get out. [_The helper goes._] + +KRAIG. Aren't you going to cover the boy before you let them enter? + +CAREN. If they can't see him how are they going to know him? He ain't a +tailor's dummy. + +KRAIG. It all seems horrible. + +CAREN. I guess you'll never see a second day at this. + +KRAIG. Oh.... Oh, I don't know. + +CAREN. You think I'm going to tuck on a few extras just because he's a +swell. [_Yelling._] Don't I keep telling you 'til there's not a breath +left in my body, that there ain't no class here? [_The helper reenters +and hears the last words. He stands breathless._] Tramp or gentleman, +they're all alike. Now get that into your head and let it grow. + +HELPER [_has been stammering trying to speak_]. I oughtn't to tell. +They'd kill me if they knew. It's to be kept a secret, but.... + +CAREN. What's the matter? + +HELPER. Number thirteen.... [_Stammering._] He ... he.... + +CAREN. Well, what about him? + +HELPER. He ain't a loafer. He ain't a tramp. He ain't even a gentleman. +He.... + +CAREN. Who is he? Quick! + +HELPER. Our.... [_Exultantly._] Our King! + +CAREN [_open-mouthed, aghast_]. Our ... King! + +KRAIG [_laughing triumphantly_]. Ha ... ha ... ha ... ha--HERE! [_He +clasps his hands together._] + +CAREN [_excited_]. Are you mad, Boy, mad? Our King! Oh! + + [_Kraig laughs. Both men stare at him horrified._] + +HELPER [_to Caren_]. Ain't you got a flag or something ... some little +mark of respect to cover his nibs? + +CAREN [_to Kraig_]. Run upstairs and get that big silk flag that.... +[_as Kraig does not move_]. Go. + +KRAIG [_immovable, abruptly ceasing to laugh_]. No. + +CAREN [_threateningly_]. What do you mean? No? + +KRAIG [_hysterically_]. This is one place in the world where all are +treated fair. Dreams don't count. POWER don't count. There's no rich, no +poor.... + +CAREN. Shut up and get that flag. + +KRAIG. You're going to cover him ... but she.... Oh! [_Both men +disappear behind the curtains, cringing and bowing to people within. +Caren, with his back to the curtains, does not realize that he is +alone._] Even death can't level. No ... not even death. [_For a second +he stares ahead of him piercingly into space, standing taut and rigid. +Then commences to laugh in pure hysteria as_ + + + [_The Curtain Slowly Falls._] + + + + +A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT + + A PLAY + + BY GEORGE W. CRONYN + + + Copyright, 1919, by Shadowland. + Copyright, 1920, by George W. Cronyn. + + All rights reserved. + + + Reprinted from _Shadowland_, a magazine, by permission of the + publishers and the author. The professional and amateur stage rights + of this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for + permission to produce this play should be made to Frank Shay, Care + Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. + + SCENE: _In the great Far West, i. e., far from the "Movie" West_. + + CHARACTERS + + HANK [_proprietor of the Good Hope Roadhouse_]. + LON PURDY [_about whom the play is concerned_]. + MIZPAH [_his wife, called "Padie"_]. + THE STAGE DRIVER. + THE GHOST OF HARVEY MACE. + THE GHOST OF THE OTHER MAN. + + THE TIME _is the present, about 11 P. M._ + + + This is not a Bret Harte play, nor is it designed for W. S. Hart. + And it should be performed with none of that customary and specious + braggadoccio of western plays. + + + +A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT + +A PLAY BY GEORGE W. CRONYN + + + [_THE SCENE is laid in the so-called dining-room of one of those + forlorn hostelries of the great Plains, which goes by the name of + Mace's Good Hope Roadhouse, a derisive title evidently intended to + signify the traveler's hope of early escape from its desiccated + hospitality._ + + _This room is sometimes reluctantly frequented by a rare guest, + usually a passenger on his way via auto stage, to some place else, + whom delays en route have reduced to this last extremity of + lodging for the night. The room is a kind of lumber yard of + disused cheap hotel furniture._ + + _Nothing can be drearier._ + + _Most of this junk is heaped along the left (stage) wall, and it + has a settled look of confusion which the processes of gradual + decay will, apparently, never disturb. Tables tip crazily against + the plaster of the greasy wall. Chairs upturned on these, project + thin legs, like the bones of desert places, toward a ceiling + fantastically stained. One table smaller than the rest, sees + occasional use, for it stands somewhat out of the debris and has + about it three chairs reasonably intact. A pack of cards and + several dirty glasses adorn the top._ + + _A stairway rises along the right wall, beginning at the rear, and + attaining to a rickety landing, supported by a single post of + doubtful strength, to which is affixed a glass lamp in a bracket. + (Inasmuch as the stairway is turned away from the audience, those + who ascend are completely hidden until their heads top the last + riser.) At the right front, between the landing and the + proscenium, a door (now shut) leads to the Bar, the one spot of + brightness in this lump, the shining crack at its sill bespeaking + the good cheer beyond. And that crack is the only illumination to + this morgue of defunct appetites, for the moonlight, which enters + by way of a small window at the right, is rather an obscuration, + inasmuch as it heightens the barren mystery of the room's + entombing shadows._ + + _Double doors center of rear wall lead to the outside. A window on + either side of the door._ + + _So much for the melancholy set._ + + _From the Bar percolates the lubricated melodiousness of the few + regular customers who constitute the population of Fever Flat, + with the exception of three worn-out women folks, two haggard cows + and three hundred or so variegated dogs. The female element are to + home, the dogs, astray and astir, with lamentable choruses._ + + _Sounds from the Bar, samples only._] + + +A JOLLY SOUL [_hoarsely_]. Pitch into her, boys! Tune up your gullets! +[_With quavering pathos._] "She was born in old Kentucky"-- + +ANOTHER SUCH [_with peeve_]. Aw, shet up, that's moldy! Giv's that +Tennessee warble, Hank! + +VOICE OF HANK [_rather rich and fine_]. + + "When your heart was mine, true love, + And your head lay on my breast, + You could make me believe + By the falling of your arm + That the sun rose up in the west--" + + [_There is a momentary pause, filled in by--_ + +A VOICE. Y'oughter go courtin' with that throat o' yourn, Hank. + +Mace [_as if misanthrope_]. Aw, women-- + + [_During the laugh that follows, an auto horn blares outside and a + bright shaft is visible through the rear windows._] + +VOICES. Stage's come! Stage's come! + + [_There are sounds indicating the rapid evacuation of the Bar, + and a moment later one of the rear doors is jerked open and the + Stage Driver enters, dragging in two heavy suitcases which he + deposits near the small table with appropriate grunts, meanwhile + encouraging the passengers to enter._] + +STAGE DRIVER. Uh! perty lumpy bags--come in, folks, come in! Seems like +you might be carryin' all your b'longings. + + [_The two passengers enter; the man, quickly, nervously, almost + furtively; the woman, with that weariness which ignores everything + except its own condition._] + +STAGE DRIVER. Come in and set, lady; don't be skeered. Looks a little +spooky, but Hank'll have a glim fer ye in two shakes. [_Places a chair +for her._] Here, I know you're plumb tuckered. Make y'self t'home. +[_Looking around at the drear surroundings._] 'S fer 's yer able. + +THE MAN. I thought the stage went through to Hollow Eye to-night? + +DRIVER. Well, sir, she do, but this time she don't. I've been havin' to +run ten miles on low already and I jest don't _dast_ take her across +that thirty miles of sand the way she is. She'll drink water like a +thusty hoss and like as not lay down and die on us half way out. Then +where'd we be? No sir; you folks'll just have to camp here at Fever Flat +till I kin do a tinkerin' job to-morrow mornin'. So I'll step into the +Bar and tell Hank you're here. [_At the door to the Bar._] Hank'll do +the best he kin fer ye. He's a squ'ar man. Good-night to ye! [_Goes out, +leaving the door half open._] + +THE MAN [_briefly_]. Good-night. [_Looking about._] What a hole! Like +somebody died here and they'd gone off and left it all stand just the +way it was. [_He goes to the open door at the rear and stares at the +naked moonlit buttes._] Them hills gits my goat. They're nothin' but +blitherin skeletons, and this bunch of shacks they call Fever Flat looks +like no more'n a damn bone yard to me. [_Shutting the door._] Ugh! it's +cold in here. Feel like I was sittin' on my own grave's edge. + +THE WOMAN [_scarcely raising her head, and speaking with no emotion, in +a dead dry voice._] You didn't use to be so pernickety, when you was +punchin' on the range, Lon. + +LON [_waspishly_]. And you didn't use to look like a hag, neither, +Padie. + +PADIE [_with a momentary flash_]. Drink's poisoning your tongue, too. + +LON [_viciously_]. Who's drinking? Cain't I take a thimbleful now'n then +without all this jawin'? + +PADIE. You ain't takin' thimblefuls. You're just soakin' it up. You'll +be gettin' snakes if you keep on. 'n then, what'll _I_ do? [_Resuming +her air of weary indifference._] Not that I care so much what you do +with yourself--or what becomes of me. Nothing matters. + +LON [_petulent and aggrieved_]. There you go, actin' abused. How 'bout +_my_ rights 'n pleasures? Ain't got none, I s'pose. + +PADIE. Oh, shut up, you make me sick. + + [_Hank enters; a ruddy, vigorous, young man, strangely out of + place among all this rubbish. He wears a barkeeper's apron and + speaks cordially._] + +HANK. Howdyedo, folks! Howdye do! Well, this is a kinda rough lay-out +fer you-all. Y'see the Stage is due here at five, and stops fer grub, +then makes Hollow Eye by about nine, but here 'tis ... [_pulls out +watch_] half an hour of midnight an' I s'pose you ain't et, yet, eh? +[_Lights the glass lamp._] + +PADIE. Thanks. We've had sandwiches, but maybe my husband'd like +something. + +LON [_significantly_]. Wet. + + [_Padie shrugs indifferently, and fixes her hair. As she turns + toward Hank, the light for the first time falls full on his face. + Padie stares fixedly at him, and half rises, with a little cry._] + +LON [_with a quick, startled glance at Hank, speaks to her in a sharp, +threatening voice_]. Padie! Sit down! Are you gittin' plumb loco drivin' +out so late in autymobiles? [_To Hank, apologetically._] You kinda +flustered us, mister, cause you have a little the look a friend of ourn +that died suddint. Mournful case. Pardner o'mine. No, you're not much +like. He was tall, heavy-built and lighter complected. Must a been +consid'ble older, too. + +PADIE [_almost in a whisper_]. No. + +LON. Older, I say. My wife's kinda wrought up by this here little spell +of travelin'. + +HANK [_sympathetically_]. Oh, you're not used to it, eh? + +PADIE [_slowly and deliberately_]. We've been at it--[_draws out the +word into a burden_] years. + +LON [_impatiently_]. That is, off'n on, m'dear. Only off'n on. + +PADIE [_monotonously_]. All the time. + +HANK [_trying to be a little jocose to break the oppressive +atmosphere_]. Should think you might hanker after yer own nest, lady. + +PADIE [_rising rudely_]. Well, just keep your thoughts! + +HANK [_completely abashed_]. Yes, ma'am. Your room is just at the top of +the landin'. I'll make ye a light. [_He hustles away upstairs to cover +his embarrassment, taking the suitcases with him._] + +LON [_irritably_]. You're always tryin' to belittle me in public. Is +that any way fer a wife to act? I wanta know. + +PADIE. What do you always lie so fer? + +LON [_with rising voice_]. That's my business. I'll do as I damn please. +And don't you go too fer, crossin' me. I won't stand it. Some day I'll +up, an-- + +PADIE [_contemptuously_]. Beat me. That's all that's left to _you_, +wife-beater. + + [_Lon raises his hand as though to strike her, but lets it fall as + Hank reappears on the landing._] + +HANK. Excuse me, m'am. Have you your own towels by you? Ourn is pretty +scaly. It's been so long since we've had in women folks, at least, +ladies. + +PADIE [_moving toward the stair_]. Thanks, we have some. + + [_Lon to Padie as Hank, hidden from audience, descends._] + +LON. You might as well be decent, Padie. You ain't got none other but +me. + +PADIE [_bitterly_]. Yes, you've took me from 'em. We've been trapsin and +trapsin till I'm plumb sick. Yes, I'm-- + + [_Her voice breaks and she runs blindly toward the stair, + almost into the arms of Hank, which further increases his + consternation._] + +HANK [_holding her off_]. Stidy, stidy. There's the ladder, m'am. Can't +I fetch you somethin'? Toddy? + + [_Padie shakes her head, runs up, and slams her door._] + +HANK [_to Lon in friendly fashion_]. Women folks is cur'us, cur'us. + +LON [_surlily_]. Take my advice and keep free from 'em. + +HANK. It was a woman did fer my brother. + +LON [_with increased interest_]. Oh, you've got a brother, eh? + +HANK [_simply_]. Had. + +LON. Where is he? + +HANK. Down at Laguna Madre, Arizony. + +LON [_leaning forward and gripping the edge of the table_]. Ranchin'? + +HANK. Buried. + +LON [_haltingly_]. How--what were you saying--about a woman? + +HANK. A woman done fer him. That's what they said, I don't know. I +didn't git there fer a long time. There was a mix-up. + +LON. Well, well. That's strange. + +HANK [_eagerly_]. I s'pose you heard of it? It was in all the papers. It +even got as fer as Denver. + +LON. No, I don't remember. But I've read of similar cases. + +HANK. You've been to Arizony, I s'pose. + +LON. No, not quite. I've been all around them parts, but never Arizony. + +HANK. 'Tain't what you'd call a perty country, but it's mighty +satisfyin'. Too blame cold up here. + +LON. Why don't you move? + +HANK. I'm agoin' to, but you see my brother had half interest in this +here tavern and there was some litigation about it. Case's just +finished. I been here three years, ever since he went. But I'm pullin' +my stakes, you bet. I wouldn't be _buried_ here! Would you? + +LON [_dryly_]. I'd rather not. + +HANK. So she took me fer a friend that'd croaked, eh? That's cur'us. + +LON. Eh? What's that? Who? + +HANK. Your wife. + +LON. Oh, yes. Well, he was a good ten years older. And dark-complected. + +HANK. Thought you said he was light. + +LON. Mebbe I did. Well, he mought have been a trifle lighten'n you, but +then, size him up by the average, he was dark. Let's fergit him. Bring +us a bottle of your best--and see that the glass is clean. + +HANK. To be sure. [_Goes out._] + + [_Lon sits with his head between his hands, brooding. The voice of + Hank rises from the Bar, rendering the second verse of the + Tennessee "warble."_] + +HANK [_in the Bar_]. + + There's many a girl can go all round about + And hear the small birds sing. + And many a girl that stays at home alone, + And rocks the cradle and spins. + + [_As the song ends, the door at the rear opens soundlessly, + revealing the vast expanse of moonlit plains and desolate buttes. + Lon shivers and turns up his coat collar, finally facing about to + discover the cause of the chill. Observing the open door, he goes + to it, closes and locks it, the click of the key being distinctly + audible. He then returns and sits as before, and again the song + comes._] + +HANK [_in the Bar_]. + + There's many a star shall jangle in the west; + There's many a leaf below. + There's many a damn that will light upon the man + For treating a poor girl so. + + [_Now both of the double doors swing open, without sound. Lon + shivers, then, looking over his shoulder, suddenly gets up, glares + about him and makes hastily for the door to the Bar, where he + almost collides with Hank entering with bottle and glass._] + +HANK. Here, mister, I was just comin'. + +LON. What the devil's the matter with your doors? + +HANK. Them? Oh, the lock's no good. When the wind's southwest they fly +right open. Got to be wedged with a shingle. + + [_He goes over to the doors, slams them shut, picks up a shingle + from the floor and inserts firmly between them._] + +LON [_relieved_]. H'm. Well, that's all right. + +HANK. Now it's blame cur'us the way old places gits. You'll hear these +floor boards creak at times like as if som'un was sneakin' over 'em +b'ar-foot. Feller told me onct it was made by contrapshun and +temper'ture. Mebbe so, but I reckon [_knowingly_] there's more goes on +around than we give credit fer. + + [_Hank dusts off the table and puts bottle and glass down. Lon + seizes them eagerly and begins drinking._] + +LON [_after a couple of glasses_]. You mean--spirits? + +HANK. Well, I dunno as you'd call 'em that. But it's a fact, there's +more liquor goes over the Bar than gits paid for. 'Tain't _stole_ +either. It just _goes_.... As old Pete Gunderson used to say, "I'm a +hell of a th'usty p'uson, and when I croak I'll be a hell of a th'usty +spirit." I sometimes wonder-- + + [_Padie appears above, in a loose dressing sack, her hair hanging + in a great wavy mass, and holding a pitcher._] + +PADIE. Lon, please fetch some water. + +LON [_not moving_]. I don't dast go out in the night. I've caught a kind +of chill from to-day's drive. + +HANK [_going up the stairs_]. I'll fetch it you, m'am. + + [_She comes down to meet him and the two are momentarily hidden + from the audience. Lon continues to drink steadily, pouring down + one glass after another. Hank reappears, treading with a certain + gayety, and goes out rear, whistling the Tennessee "warble."_] + +PADIE [_leaning out of the shadow of the stairway toward her husband_]. +Ain't you comin' up soon, Lon? + +LON [_ignoring the query_]. Scarcely no resemblance whatever. + +PADIE [_with sudden fierceness_]. You lie! + + [_She ascends to the top of the landing. Outside a pump cranks + dismally._] + +PADIE [_relenting a little_]. You'll be seein' things, Lon, if you keep +it up. + +LON [_rising, perfectly steady_]. Mind your business. Wish to hell I had +a newspaper. + + [_He goes out through the door to the Bar, while Padie runs a comb + reflectively through the exuberant tumult of her dark hair. Hank + enters and stops a moment, half blinded by the light, then looks + up, and shading his eyes, smiles._] + +PADIE [_coyly_]. Is it the light in your eyes, mister? + +HANK [_daringly_]. It's you, ma'am, are blinding them. [_He runs up the +stairs with the pitcher._] + +PADIE [_bending toward him as he comes near the top steps_]. You'd +better reach it to me. Maybe the landing'll not hold the two of us. + +HANK. It'll hold two that have such light hearts as we. + +PADIE. Ah, you don't know mine, mister. + +HANK [_reaching her the pitcher_]. There, the clumsy mut I am! Spillt +the cold water on your pretty bare toes! + + [_As she leans over to take the pitcher her hair falls suddenly + about his head, almost covering his face._] + +PADIE [_drawing it back, with a deft twirl_]. I've most smothered you! + +HANK. I wouldn't want a sweeter death. + +PADIE [_looking down into his eyes_]. Indeed, you're the picture of--an +old lover of mine. + +HANK. I'd rather be the picture of the new. + + [_He makes as if to clasp her about the ankles, but she puts a + hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently back._] + +PADIE. You've been very kind to a wanderer--from Arizony. Don't spoil +it. Good-night! + +HANK [_turning about, mutters_]. Good-night. + + [_He clatters loudly down the stairs as Lon reenters, studying a + newspaper. Lon seats himself, still absorbed. Hank favors him with + a glare of positive hatred._] + +HANK [_with a sneer_]. All fixed fer the night, eh? + +LON [_grunting_]. G'night. + +HANK. Well, I hope you like this country better'n Arizony. + +LON [_starting out of the news_]. The hell you say! + +HANK. Your wife was wishing herself back there. + +LON [_settling back to his paper and bottle_]. Well, that's where she +come from. I don't. Women allus want what they ain't got. + +HANK [_retiring_]. + + When your heart was mine, true love, + And your head lay on my breast, + + [_He goes out, closing the door._] + + You could make me believe by the falling of your arm + That the sun rose in the west. + + [_During the singing of this last stanza, the double doors swing + wide as before, revealing a Figure standing motionless outside, + bathed in moonlight. At the same time the flame in the glass lamp + begins to flicker and wane. Lon holds the paper closer to his + face, finally almost buries his nose in it, as if conscious of the + Presence, but stubbornly resolved to ignore it. The Figure moves, + and as it crosses the threshold the feeble light expires. Lon, + however, still sits, as if absorbed in the newspaper, pretending + to sip from the glass. The Figure in a thin mocking voice, echoes + the song of the other, standing just behind Lon's chair._] + +THE FIGURE [_a thin echo_]. + + You could make me believe by the falling of your arm + That the sun rose up in the west.-- + + [_Lon picks up the soiled pack of cards from the table and begins + to shuffle them mechanically, nor does he once turn toward the + apparition._] + +LON [_in a hoarse whisper_]. And what'r _you_ doin' here? + + [_The Figure sits down nonchalantly in a chair a little to one + side of Lon's. He is dressed in the western style, that is, + without style, corduroys, heavy boots, flannel shirt. In fact, he + looks almost natural. But there is a curious dark mark in the + center of his forehead--or is it a round, dark hole?_] + +LON [_petulantly_]. Cain't you stay where you was put--with a heap o' +rocks on top o' ye? + +THE FIGURE [_thinly ironical_]. Can't seem to give up the old habits, y' +know. + +LON [_thickly, tossing the pack down_]. What's the hell's a corpse got +to do with habits? + +GHOST [_unmoved_]. You pore fool, you'll _learn_ when you come over. + +LON [_huskily_]. Come over--wh'ar? + +GHOST [_significantly_]. Where I am. [_Sings in a quavering voice._] + + There's many a girl can go all round about + And hear the small birds sing-- + +LON [_snarling_]. Dry up on them corpse tunes o' yourn, Harvey Mace. + +GHOST [_leering_]. Oh, you recognize me, eh? You recognize your old +friend and pardner, do you, Lon Purdy? + +LON [_sullenly_]. I _knowed_ you'd come. + +GHOST [_triumphantly_]. And you believe in me, eh? Well, that's good, +too. + +LON [_stubbornly_]. Believe? Well! I knowed I'd be seein' things soon, +what with the booze. I knowed it'd be the snakes or you. Padie told me +I'd be seein' things. + +GHOST [_maliciously_]. So you believe in _her_, anyway. Well, how's +Padie--and the children? + +LON. You know damn well we ain't had none. + +GHOST. What, no children! How unfortunate! The house of love not to be +graced with fruit ... sterile, sterile. + +LON [_belligerently_]. Er you referrin' to me? + +GHOST. To your spiritual union only, my friend. Physically, I know, +nothing was wanting for a perfect match,--female form divine to mate +with big blond beast. A race of superpeople! + +LON. What the hell 'r' you gabbin'? You allus had a lot of talky-talk. +That's what made a hit with Padie, before, before-- + +GHOST. Before the Other Man came along and cut us both out. [_Sings._] + + And many a girl that stays at home alone + And rocks the cradle and spins. + +GHOST [_reflectively_]. Yes, I'm afraid we both stood up pretty poorly +alongside him. I had the words, the brain, the idea. I could charm her, +tantalize her, quicken her mind, arouse her imagination. That's why I +cut you out with her. + +LON [_sneeringly_]. Gab! + +GHOST. Yes, gab. It was one better to her than mere brute--guts! You +personified strength. You didn't have nerves enough to be afraid of +anything. You had endurance, cheek, deviltry, and a kind of raw good +nature. These took with the gay, immature girl she was, until I came. +You had--Guts; I had--Gab. + +LON. And the Other Feller? + +GHOST. He had the Gift. + +LON. What you mean? + +GHOST. He was a full man. His personality exuded from him like incense. +It wrapped and enfolded you and warmed you, and yet it was not a grain +feminine, but deeply, proudly masculine. You tolerated him, I--loved +him. I had the fine passion for Padie, but when I first saw the two of +them together I _knew_ she was his, or [_with a keen, stern look at +Lon_] _ought_ to be ... and she _has_ been, always. + +LON [_jumping to his feet, and knocking over his chair_]. You lie like +hell! She's mine! She's been mine all these three years! I won her and I +own her! What little of love she ever had fer you or him is buried down +in Laguna Madre with the bones of both of ye! And all hell can't take +her from me! + +GHOST [_rising tall and pale_]. _He_ kin, and he's done it! You +_thought_ you'd got her. But he's had her, or rather, she's had _him_ in +her heart ever since they took the rope from his neck and pronounced him +legally dead, and justice vindicated, and laid him away in the desert. +All that time since, he's belonged to her. When you laid by her side +nights, it was _his_ arm she felt about her waist, not yours; his breath +was on her cheek, and his heart was beating against hers. Oh you poor, +poor fool! + +LON [_throwing his glass straight at the ghost_]. You lyin' pup! + +GHOST [_bursting into a gale of eerie laughter_]. Ha! ha! ha! you _poor_ +fool! _Now_ you believe in me! + + [_Lon whips out his revolver and aims at the ghost, then slowly + returns it to the holster, as he realizes the futility of the + move._] + +GHOST. Go on, my boy! Let's have another one here. [_He points to the +dark hole in his forehead._] + + [_Lon, wiping his own face with the back of his hand, and + shuddering, slumps down into his seat and stares vacantly at the + table._] + +GHOST. Another one, just like the last--for your friend and pardner. +[_He stresses the words with intense irony._] Do you remember the +_last_ time you pulled that trick? What a foxy one it was! How astutely +planned! _Planned_, my friend. I remember when we two went up the canyon +together, just such a shining night as this, I asked you why you had +borrowed--the Other Man's horse, and you said, yours was a little lame. +Oh! excellent dissembler! Most crafty of liars! You _stole_ that horse. +You stole that horse to put a rope around the Other Man's neck! You knew +the pinto was shod different from any pony in those parts. You knew +where they'd track him to, when they found the job you'd done. Then we +sat down to smokes and cards. And I remember the curious glitter in your +eyes. I was dealing. [_The Ghost shuffles the cards on the table, then +lays down the pack in front of Lon._] Cut! + + [_Lon mechanically obeys._] + +GHOST [_dealing_]. And after several hands, you brought up the subject +of Padie. And I told you I was out of the race--and that you'd better +get out too, because the best man already had her. And then--and then I +sensed you were going to draw, and when I had my gun out, it was empty. +Clever boy! You had it fixed right. And so you plugged me square. And +the moon and stars went out for me and I dropped into the black gulf. + + [_Lon, throwing his hand down, buries his face in his hands, + groaning._] + +GHOST [_pitilessly_]. You left me with my face to the stars for the +coyotes to find. Then, very coolly, you turned the Other Man's horse +toward home and sent him off cracking. And you jumped to a pinon log +that led off to a ledge of lava where your footprints wouldn't show. And +you turned up in half an hour with the boys in town. Then you inquired +casually where the Other Man was. You _knew_, you devil! You knew they'd +never get an alibi from him for that night, 'cause--Padie was with him. +Padie had her dear arms about his neck while you, clever dog! were out +fixing to put a rope there. And you done it, too! _Won_ her? Yes, you +did--like hell! After the trial was all over, and the dead buried, me +and him, you passed a dirty whisper around town about her, and then +married her, to save her good name. That's how you won her. + + [_There is an immense silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of + Lon, which comes in rattling gasps._] + +GHOST [_sings_]. + + There's many a star shall jangle in the west, + There's many a leaf below, + There's many a damn that will light upon the man + For treating a poor girl so. + +GHOST. But I ain't forgot all you done for me. Neither has the Other +Man, [_with deep solemnity_] and he's come--to settle too-- + +LON [_staggering up_]. No! I don't believe in you! You're nothin' at +all! There ain't no-- + + [_Lon sways and catches at the table; as he swings around, the + figure of Another stands outside the door, a tall figure with + something white twisted about its neck. Lon with a cry of horror + puts out his arms as if to ward off the apparition and backs + slowly toward the left wall._] + +FIRST GHOST [_coming toward him_]. Murderer! betrayer! We've come to +settle! + +LON [_screaming_]. No! no! no! I don't believe-- + + [_He falls, and the pile of rubbishy furniture topples over on to + him with a crash. The two apparitions vanish. The door to the bar + is flung open and Hank leaps in, at the same moment that Padie + appears above, whitely clad._] + +PADIE. Lon! Lon! What's the matter? + +HANK [_going toward the pile of stuff_]. Go back! It's something +terrible. + + [_He heaves the heavy pieces from the body and drags it out, as + Padie, with a long cry, flies down the stairs. He feels the breast + quickly and rises before Padie reaches the table._] + +HANK. I'm afraid he's done for. + +PADIE [_drawing a deep quivering breath_]. Oh. + +HANK. He must 'a' fell. + +PADIE. I knew--drink'd do fer him. + +HANK. Did you--love him--so much? + +PADIE [_very low_]. Once--a little. [_With sudden, fierce joy._] I don't +care! Now--I kin--live! + +HANK [_looking out over the desert where the dawn begins to show_]. Both +of us. + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES + + AN ALLEGORY + + BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES + + + Copyright, 1918, by Egmont Arens. + All rights reserved. + + Reprinted from No. 6, of the "Flying Stag Plays," published by Egmont + Arens, by special permission of Miss Davies. The professional and + amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. + Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to + Egmont Arens, 17 West 8th Street, New York. + + THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES was first produced in New York City by the + Provincetown Players, on January 25th, 1918, with the following cast: + + LIFE, THE SLAVE _Ida Rauh._ + FIRST GIRL _Blanche Hays._ + SECOND GIRL _Dorothy Upjohn._ + A WOMAN _Alice MacDougal._ + A MAN _O. K. Liveright._ + A YOUNG MAN _Hutchinson Collins._ + A WORKMAN _O. K. Liveright._ + _And Others._ + + + Scene designed by Norman Jacobsen. Produced under the direction of + Nina Moise. Incidental music written by Alfred Kreymborg. + + + +THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES + +AN ALLEGORY BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES + + + [_THE SCENE is a wood through which runs a path. Wild rose bushes + and other wood-things border it. On opposite sides of the path + stand two girls waiting. They have not looked at each other. The + girls wear that useful sort of gown which, with the addition of a + crown, makes a queen--without, makes a peasant. The first girl + wears a crown. The second carries one carelessly in her hand._] + + +FIRST GIRL [_looking across at the other_]. For whom are you waiting? + +SECOND GIRL. I am waiting for Life. + +FIRST GIRL. I am waiting for Life also. + +SECOND GIRL. They said that he would pass this way. Do you believe that +he will pass this way? + +FIRST GIRL. He passes all ways. + +SECOND GIRL [_still breathing quickly_]. I ran to meet Life. + +FIRST GIRL. Are you not afraid of him? + +SECOND GIRL. Yes. That is why I ran to meet him. + +FIRST GIRL [_to herself_]. I, too, ran to meet him. + +SECOND GIRL. Ah! he is coming! + +FIRST GIRL. No. It is only the little quarreling words of the leaves, +and the winds that are always urging them to go away. + +SECOND GIRL. The leaves do not go. + +FIRST GIRL. Some day they will go. And that the wind knows. + +FIRST GIRL. Why are you not wearing your crown? + +SECOND GIRL. Why should we wear crowns? [_She places the crown upon her +head._] + +FIRST GIRL. Do you not know? + +SECOND GIRL. No. + +FIRST GIRL. That is all of wisdom--the wearing of crowns before the eyes +of Life. + +SECOND GIRL. I do not understand you. + +FIRST GIRL. Few understand wisdom--even those who need it most-- + +SECOND GIRL. He is coming! I heard a sound. + +FIRST GIRL. It was only the sound of a petal dreaming that it had fallen +from the rose-tree. + +SECOND GIRL. I have waited-- + +FIRST GIRL. We all long for him. We cry out to him. When he comes, he +hurts us, he tortures us. He kills us, unless we know the secret. + +SECOND GIRL. What is the secret? + +FIRST GIRL. That he is a slave. He pretends! He pretends! But always he +knows in his heart that he is a slave. Only of those who have learned +his secret is he afraid. + +SECOND GIRL. Tell me more! + +FIRST GIRL. Over those who are afraid of him he is a tyrant. He +obeys--Kings and Queens! + +SECOND GIRL. Then that-- + +FIRST GIRL. --Is why we must never let him see us without our crowns! + +SECOND GIRL. How do you know these things? + +FIRST GIRL. They were told me by an old wise man, who sits outside the +gate of our town. + +SECOND GIRL. How did he know? Because he was one of those who are kings? + +FIRST GIRL. No. Because he was one of those who are afraid. + +SECOND GIRL [_dreamily_]. I have heard that Life is very beautiful. Is +he so? I have heard also that he is supremely ugly; that his mouth is +wide and grinning, that his eyes slant, and his nostrils are thick. Is +he so?--or is he--very beautiful? + +FIRST GIRL. Perhaps you will see--for yourself--Ah! + +SECOND GIRL. + + [_As Life saunters into view at the farthest bend of the path. He + walks like a conqueror. But there is something ugly in his + appearance. Life sees the girls just as a sudden sun-ray catches + the jewels of their crowns. He cringes and walks like a hunchback + slave. He is beautiful now._] + +FIRST GIRL. He has seen our crowns! + +SECOND GIRL. Ah! + +FIRST GIRL. Remember! You are only safe--as long as you remain his +master. Never forget that he is a slave, and that you are a queen. + +SECOND GIRL [_to herself_]. I must never let him see me without my +crown. + +FIRST GIRL. Hush! He is coming! + +SECOND GIRL. He is very beautiful-- + +FIRST GIRL. While he is a slave. + +SECOND GIRL [_not hearing_]. He is--very beautiful-- + +FIRST GIRL. Life! + + [_Life bows to the ground at her feet._] + +SECOND GIRL [_in delight_]. Ah! + +FIRST GIRL. Life, I would have opals on a platter. + + [_Life bows in assent._] + +SECOND GIRL. Oh-h! + +FIRST GIRL. And pearls! + + [_Life bows._] + +SECOND GIRL. Ah! + +FIRST GIRL. And a little castle set within a hedge. + + [_Life bows._] + +SECOND GIRL. Yes-- + +FIRST GIRL. I would have a fair prince to think tinkling words about me. +And I would have a strawberry tart, with little flutings in the crust. +Go, see that these things are made ready for me. + + [_Life bows in assent and turns to go._] + +SECOND GIRL. Ah! + +FIRST GIRL. See? It is so that one must act. It is thus one must manage +him. So and not otherwise it is done. Now--do you try. [_She plucks a +rose from a bush beside her, and twirls it in her fingers._] + +SECOND GIRL. Life! [_Life kneels._] I have a wish for a gown of gold. +[_Life bows._] + +FIRST GIRL. Yes! + + [_And over his bowed head, the two laugh gayly at the ease of his + subjection._] + +SECOND GIRL. And a little garden where I may walk and think of trumpets +blowing. + + [_Life bows._] + +SECOND GIRL. It is a good rule. + +FIRST GIRL [_calling slave back as he is leaving_]. I have a wish for a +gray steed. [_Life bows._] Bring me a little page, too. With golden +hair. And with a dimple. + + [_Life acquiesces, and starts to leave._] + +FIRST GIRL [_calling him back with a gesture_]. Life! [_An important +afterthought._] With two dimples! + +SECOND GIRL. And an amber necklace! Bring me an amber necklace! + +FIRST GIRL [_tossing away the rose she has just plucked_]. And a fresh +rose. + + [_Life bows; turns to obey. The two are convulsed with mirth at the + adventure and its success._] + +FIRST GIRL. Life! + + [_Life halts._] + +SECOND GIRL. What are you going to do? + +FIRST GIRL. Come here! + + [_Life comes to her. With a quick movement she snatches one of the + gold chains from about his neck._] + +SECOND GIRL [_frightened_]. How can you dare? + +FIRST GIRL. What you see you must take. [_She seizes his wrist and pulls +from it a bracelet._] + +SECOND GIRL [_frightened_]. Ah! + +FIRST GIRL. Go! + + [_Exit Life._] + +SECOND GIRL. But why-- + +FIRST GIRL. He does not like beggars, Life. You see, he is a slave +himself. + +SECOND GIRL. He is so beautiful. + +FIRST GIRL. Do not forget that he is your slave.... This rosebush +[_touches it_] is a queen who forgot. + +SECOND GIRL. Ah! + +FIRST GIRL [_pointing to bones that seemed part of bushes along +roadside_]. Those are the bones of others who forgot. + +SECOND GIRL. But he is beautiful! + +FIRST GIRL. Only so long as you are his master. + +SECOND GIRL. But he is kind! + +FIRST GIRL. Only so long as you are not afraid of him. + +SECOND GIRL. But you snatched-- + +FIRST GIRL. Life is the only person to whom one should be rude. + + [_They hear sounds of moaning and cries and a harsh voice menacing + some unseen crowd._] + +SECOND GIRL. What is that? + +FIRST GIRL. Come! We must not be seen! [_Pulls her companion behind bush +at side of stage._] + +SECOND GIRL. What will be done to us? + +FIRST GIRL. Hush! If he should see you! He is always watching for the +first sign of fear. + +SECOND GIRL. What is the first sign of fear? + +FIRST GIRL. It is a thought-- + +SECOND GIRL. But can he see one's thoughts-- + +FIRST GIRL. Only thoughts of fear. + +SECOND GIRL. If one hides them well even from oneself? + +FIRST GIRL. Even then. But words are more dangerous still. If we say we +are afraid we will be more afraid, because whatever we make into words +makes itself into our bodies. + +VOICES OFF STAGE. Oh, master! Mercy, master! + +FIRST GIRL. It spoils him, this cringing. It spoils a good servant. As +long as he is kept in his place-- + + [_A man enters and kneels, looking at Life off stage, in fear._] + +FIRST GIRL [_steals to man and says_]. But he is only a slave. Do you +not see that he is a slave? + +MAN. How can you say that? Look at his terrible face. Who that has seen +his face can doubt that he is a master, and a cruel one? + +FIRST GIRL. He cannot be a master unless you make him so. + +MAN. What is this that you are saying? Is it true? + +FIRST GIRL. Yes, it is true. Even though it can be put into words it is +true. + +MAN [_starts to rise, sinks to knees again_]. Yes. I see that it is +true. But go away. + +FIRST GIRL [_crouching behind bush again_]. Ah! + + [_Life crosses the stage, with a whip of many thongs driving a + huddled throng of half crouching men and women. They kneel and + kiss his robe. His mouth is wide and grinning, his eyes slant, his + nostrils are thick. He is hideous._] + +LIFE. You! Give me your ideals. Three ideals! Is that all you have? + +YOUNG MAN. Life has robbed me of my ideals. + +WORKMAN. He robbed me too. + +YOUNG MAN. But I had so few. + +WORKMAN. When you have toiled to possess more, he will take those from +you also. + +LIFE [_to an old woman_]. For twelve hours you shall toil at what you +hate. For an hour you shall work at what you love, to keep the wound +fresh, to make the torture keener. + +OLD MAN. Ah, pity! Do not be so cruel! Let me forget the work I love! + +LIFE. Dog! Take what I give you! It is not by begging that you may win +anything from me! + +A VOICE. Give me a dream! A dream to strengthen my hands! + +ANOTHER VOICE. A little love to make the day less terrible! + +THIRD VOICE. Only rest, a little rest! Time to think of the sea, and of +grasses blowing in the wind. + +A WOMAN. Master! + + [_Life lashes her with his whip. The woman screams. Life draws + back from them, and dances a mocking dance, dancing himself into + greater fury, laughing terribly, he lashes out at them. Several + fall dead. He chokes a cripple with his hands. Finally he drives + them off the stage before him, several furtively dragging the + bodies with them._] + +SECOND GIRL [_as the two emerge from their hiding place_]. Oh! I wish +never to see his face as they saw it! + +FIRST GIRL. You will not, unless you kneel--never kneel, little queen. + +SECOND GIRL. I shall never kneel to Life. I shall stand upright, as you +have taught me, and I shall say, "Bring me another necklace, Life--" + +FIRST GIRL. I must go now for a little while. I shall come back. Do not +forget. [_She goes out._] + +SECOND GIRL. I shall say-- + + [_Life's voice is heard off stage. Second Girl cowers. Life + enters._] + +SECOND GIRL. Slave! I would have the chain with the red stone! [_As Life +submissively approaches, she snatches it from his neck._] And this! + + [_Snatching at his hand and pulling the ring from a finger. The + slave bows. She happens to look toward the spot where the bodies + were, and shivers._] + +LIFE [_raising his head in time to see the look of horror. From this +moment his aspect gradually changes until from the slave he becomes a +tyrant_]. Are you afraid of me? + +SECOND GIRL. No. + +LIFE. There are many who are afraid of me. + +SECOND GIRL. You are a slave. + +LIFE. There are many who are afraid. + +SECOND GIRL. You are only a slave. + +LIFE. A slave may become a master. + +SECOND GIRL. No. + +LIFE. I may become-- + +SECOND GIRL. You are my slave. + +LIFE. If I were your master-- + +SECOND GIRL. You are a slave. + +LIFE. If I were your master, I would be kind to you. You are beautiful. + +SECOND GIRL. Ah! + +LIFE. You are very beautiful. + +SECOND GIRL. It is my crown that makes me beautiful. + +LIFE. If you should take your crown from your head, you would still be +beautiful. + +SECOND GIRL. That I will not do. + +LIFE. You are beautiful as the slight burning of the apple-petal's cheek +when the sun glances at the great flowers near it. You are beautiful as +the little pool far in the forest which holds lily-buds in its hands. +You are beautiful-- + +SECOND GIRL [_aside_]. I think he wants me to be afraid, so I will say +it. I have heard that men are like that. I am not afraid, but I will say +it to please him. + +LIFE. Are you afraid of me? + +SECOND GIRL. Yes. + +LIFE. Are you afraid? + +SECOND GIRL. Yes, I am afraid. + +LIFE. Ah, that pleases me. + +SECOND GIRL [_aside_]. I knew that I would be able to please him! +Whatever I make into words makes itself into my body, she said, like +fear--but she does not know everything! It is impossible that she should +know everything! And it is so pleasant to please him--And so easy! I am +not afraid of him. I have only _said_ that I am afraid. + +LIFE. Will you not take your crown from your head? + +SECOND GIRL. No. + +LIFE. There is nothing so beautiful as a woman's hair flying in the +wind. I can see your hair beneath your crown. Your hair would be +beautiful flying in the wind. + +SECOND GIRL [_removes crown_]. It is only for a moment. + +LIFE. Yes, you are beautiful. + +SECOND GIRL [_to herself_]. It may be that I was not wise-- + +LIFE. You are like a new flower opening, and dazzling a passing bird +with sudden color. + +SECOND GIRL. She said that I must not-- + +LIFE. You are like the bird that passes. Your hair lifts like winks in +the sun. + +SECOND GIRL. He has not harmed me. + +LIFE. Your crown is like jewels gathered from old galleons beneath the +sea. May I see your crown? + +SECOND GIRL [_holds it out cautiously toward him, then changes her +mind_]. No-- + +LIFE. Let me hold it in my fingers. I shall give it back to you. + +SECOND GIRL. No. + +LIFE. I shall give it back. + +SECOND GIRL. If you will surely give it back to me-- + +LIFE [_takes crown_]. But your hair is lovelier without a crown. +[_Flings it from him._] + +SECOND GIRL. What have you done? + +LIFE. It was only in jest. + +SECOND GIRL. But you promised-- + +LIFE. In jest. + +SECOND GIRL. But-- + +LIFE. Ho-ho! Laugh with me. What a jest! + +SECOND GIRL [_laughs, then shivers_]. + +LIFE [_in high good humor with himself_]. Dance for me. You are young. +You are happy. Dance! + +SECOND GIRL. What shall my dance say? + +LIFE. That it is Spring, and that there are brooks flowing, newly +awakened and mad to be with the sea. That there is a white bud widening +under the moon, and in a curtained room a young girl sleeping. That the +sun has wakened her-- + +SECOND GIRL [_dances these things. At first she is afraid of him, then +she forgets and dances with abandon_]. And now give me back my crown. + +LIFE. You do not need a crown, pretty one. + +SECOND GIRL. I am afraid of you! + +LIFE. Afraid of me! What have I done? + +SECOND GIRL. I do not know. + +LIFE. Do not be afraid. + +SECOND GIRL. I am afraid. + +LIFE. I shall be a kind master to you. + +SECOND GIRL. Master? + +LIFE. A kind master. + +SECOND GIRL. You are my slave. + +LIFE. I shall never be your slave again. + +SECOND GIRL. And if she were right? If it is true? + +LIFE. What are you saying? + +SECOND GIRL. Nothing-- + +LIFE. You must call me master. + +SECOND GIRL. No. That I will not do. + +LIFE [_leering at her_]. Call me master. Then I shall be kind to you. + +SECOND GIRL. No. I can not. + +LIFE [_picks up his whip from the path, toying with the whip but +laughing at her_]. Then I shall be kind. + +SECOND GIRL. Master-- + +LIFE. It has a good sound. + +SECOND GIRL. You will give me-- + +LIFE. Greedy one! Be grateful that I do not punish you. + +SECOND GIRL. You would not strike me? + +LIFE. If you do not obey-- + +SECOND GIRL [_whispering_]. You would not strike-- + +LIFE. You must kneel. + +SECOND GIRL [_repeating_]. Never kneel, little queen-- + +LIFE. You must kneel to me. + +SECOND GIRL. No. + +LIFE [_raising the whip as if to strike_]. On your knees! Slave! + +SECOND GIRL. You were kind! Life, you were kind! You said beautiful +words to me. + +LIFE. Kneel. + +SECOND GIRL. You would be always kind, you said-- + +LIFE. Will you obey? + +SECOND GIRL. I shall never-- + + [_Life curls his whip around her shoulders._] + +SECOND GIRL [_screams_]. Do not flog me. I will kneel. [_Kneels_.] + +LIFE. So? In that way I can win obedience. + +SECOND GIRL. Master! + +LIFE. It has a good sound. + +SECOND GIRL. Pity! Have pity! + +LIFE. Do not whine. [_Kicks her._] + +SECOND GIRL [_rises staggering_]. Spare me! + +LIFE. I shall beat you, for the cries of those who fear me are sweet in +my ears. [_Beats her._] + +SECOND GIRL. Master! + +LIFE [_flinging aside whip_]. But sweeter yet are stilled cries--[_He +seizes her, they struggle._] + +SECOND GIRL. He is too strong--I can struggle no longer! + + [_They struggle. Life chokes her to death and flings her body from + him. Then laughing horribly he goes off the stage._] + +FIRST GIRL [_enters skipping merrily. Singing_]. + + Heigho, in April, + Heigho, heigho, + All the town in April + Is gay, is gay! + + [_She plucks rose from bush._] + + Heigho, in April, + In merry, merry April, + Love came a-riding + And of a sunny day + I met him on the way! + Heigho, in April, + Heigho, heigho-- + + [_Suddenly seeing the body, she breaks the song, and stares + without moving. Then she goes very slowly toward it, smooths down + the dead girl's dress, and kneels beside the body. Whispers._] + +She was young ... he was cruel.... [_Touches the body._] She also was a +queen. She snatched his trinkets. See, there on her dead neck is his +chain with the red fire caught in gold. And on her finger his ring. But +he was too strong ... too strong.... [_She stands, trembles, cowering in +terror._] Life has broken her.... Life has broken them all.... Some +day.... I am afraid.... + + [_Life enters, still the ugly tyrant. She remains cowering. His + eyes rove slowly over the stage, but she sees him a second before + he discovers her. She straightens up just in time to be her + scornful self before his eyes light upon her. As she speaks Life + becomes the slave again._] + +FIRST GIRL [_carelessly flings rose down without seeing that it has +fallen upon the body_]. Life! Bring me a fresh rose! + + [_The slave bows abjectly and goes to do her bidding._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE SLUMP + + A PLAY + + BY FREDERIC L. DAY + + + Copyright, 1920, by Frederic L. Day. + All rights reserved. + + + The Slump was first produced February 5, 1920, by "The 47 Workshop" + with the following cast: + + FLORENCE MADDEN _Miss Ruth Chorpenning_. + JAMES MADDEN _Mr. Walton Butterfield_. + EDWARD MIX _Mr. W. B. Leach, Jr_. + + + Permission to reprint, or for amateur or professional performances + of any kind must first be obtained from "The 47 Workshop," Harvard + College, Cambridge, Mass. Moving picture rights reserved. + + TIME: _The Present. About four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon in + December._ + + + +THE SLUMP + +A PLAY BY FREDERIC L. DAY + + + [SCENE: _A dingy room showing the very worst of contemporary lower + middle-class American taste. The dining table in the center is of + "golden oak"; and a sideboard at the left, a morris chair at the + right and front, and three dining-room chairs (one of which is in + the left rear corner, the others at the table) are all of this + same finish. The paper on the walls is at once tawdry and faded. A + tarnished imitation brass gas jet is suspended from the right + wall, just over the morris chair. In the back wall and to the left + is a door leading outside. Another door, in the left wall, leads + to the rest of the house. A low, rather dirty window in the back + wall, to the right of the center, looks out on a muddy river with + the dispiriting houses of a small, grimy manufacturing city + beyond. On the back wall are one or two old-fashioned engravings + with sentimental subjects, and several highly-colored photographs + of moving picture stars, each of them somewhat askew. A few + pictures on the other walls are mostly cheap prints cut out of the + rotogravure section of the Sunday paper. In the right-hand rear + corner is an air-tight stove. The whole room has an appearance of + hopeless untidiness and slovenliness. Close by the morris chair, + at its right, is a phonograph on a stand. Outside it is a dull + gray day. The afternoon light is already beginning to wane._ + + _As the curtain rises, James Madden is sitting behind the table in + the center of the room. He is a rather small man of thirty-five, + his hair just beginning to turn gray at the temples. Spectacles, a + peering manner, and the sallow pallor of his face all suggest the + man of a sedentary mode of life. His clothes are faded and of a + poor cut, but brushed and neat. There is something ineffectual but + distinctly appealing about the little man. Madden is working on a + pile of bills which are strewn over the top of the table. He picks + up a bill, looks at it, and draws in his under lip with an + expression of dismay. He writes down the amount of the bill on a + piece of paper, below six or seven other rows of figures. He looks + at another bill, and his expression becomes even more + distracted._] + + +MADDEN [_with exasperation_]. Oh! + + [_He brings his fist down on the table with a limp whack, then + turns and looks helplessly toward the door at the left. After a + moment this door starts to open. Madden turns quickly to the + front, trying to compose his face and busying himself with the + bills. The door continues to open, and Mrs. Madden now issues from + it lazily. She is thirty-two years old, and a good half head + taller than her husband. Where he is thin and bony, she has + already begun to lose her figure. Her yellow hair, the color of + molasses kisses, is at once greasy and untidy, and seems ready to + come to pieces. Her face is beginning to lose its contour--the + uninspired face of a lower middle-class woman who has once been + pretty in a rather cheap way. She is sloppily dressed in showy + purple silk. Her skirt is short, and she wears brand new, high, + shiny, mahogany-colored boots. She has powdered her nose._] + +MRS. MADDEN [_uninterestedly, in a slow, flat, nasal voice_]. How long +y' been home? Yer pretty late f'r Sat'rdy. + +MADDEN [_still looking down and trying to control his feelings_]. The +head bookkeeper kept me, checkin' up the mill pay roll. I been here +[_consulting his watch_] just seven minutes. + +MRS. MADDEN [_yawning_]. Thanks. Yer s' darn acc'rate, Jim. I didn' +really wanta know. + + [_He looks at another bill and writes down the amount on the same + piece of paper as before, keeping his head averted so that she may + not see his face._] + +MRS. MADDEN. Jim. [_With lazy self-satisfaction._] Look up an' glimpse +yer wifey in 'r new boots. [_She draws up her skirts sufficiently to +show the boots._] + + [_He looks up unwillingly and makes a movement of exasperation._] + +MADDEN. Oh, Florrie! + +MRS. MADDEN. W'at's a matter? Don'choo like 'em? + +MADDEN. You didn't need another pair, Florrie. + +MRS. MADDEN [_on the defensive_]. Y' wouldn' have me look worse 'n one +o' these furriners, would y'? There's Mrs. Montanio nex' door; she's +jus' got a pair o' mahogany ones an' a pair o' lemon colored ones. An' +_her_ husban's on'y a "slasher." + +MADDEN. Slashers get a big sight more pay than under bookkeepers these +days, Florrie. + +MRS. MADDEN [_persuasively_]. Got 'em at a bargain, anyways. Jus' think, +Jim. On'y twelve, an' they _was_ sixteen. [_Madden groans audibly. She +changes the subject hastily._] W'at's a news down town? + +MADDEN [_seriously_]. Florrie-- [_He hesitates and then seems to change +his mind. He relaxes and speaks wearily, trying to affect an off-hand +manner._] Nothin' much. [_Struck by an unpleasant recollection._] Comin' +home by Market Wharf I saw 'em pull a woman out o' the river. + +MRS. MADDEN [_interested_]. Y' don' say, Jim. Was she dead? + +MADDEN [_nervously_]. I ... I don't know. I didn't stop. [_He passes his +hand across his face with a sudden gesture of horror._] You know, +Florrie, I hate things like that! + +MRS. MADDEN. Well--y' poor boob! Not t' find out if she was dead! + + [_She gives an impatient shrug of the shoulders and passes behind + him, going over to the back window and looking out aimlessly. + Madden picks up another bill, regarding it malevolently. After a + moment she turns carelessly toward him._] + +MRS. MADDEN. Jim. [_He does not look up._] Say, Jim. I'm awful tired o' +cookin'. There ain't a thing t' eat in th' house. Le's go down t' +Horseman's f'r a lobster supper t'night, an' then take in a real show. +Mrs. Montanio's tol' me-- + +MADDEN [_interrupting very gravely_]. Florrie. [_He rises to his feet._] + +MRS. MADDEN [_continuing without a pause_]. There's an awful comical +show down t' th' Hyperion. Regal'r scream, they say. Mrs. Montanio-- + +MADDEN [_breaking in_]. Florrie, there's somethin' I got to say to you. + +MRS. MADDEN [_a little sulky_]. I got lots I'd like t' say t' _you_. +On'y I ain't sayin' it. + +MADDEN [_more quietly_]. I wasn't goin' to say it now ... not 'till I +finished goin' through these. [_He makes a gesture toward the bills._] +But when I saw your new shoes, an' specially when you spoke o' goin' out +to-night.... + +MRS. MADDEN. Well, why shouldn' I? I got t' have _some_ fun. + +MADDEN [_keeping his self-control_]. Look here, Florrie. D'you know what +I was doin' when you came in? + +MRS. MADDEN. I didn't notice. Figgerin' somethin', I s'pose. Y' always +are. + +MADDEN. This mornin' at the office I got called to the phone. The +Excelsior Shoe Comp'ny said you cashed a check there yesterday for +fifteen dollars. Said you bought a pair o' shoes ... those, I suppose +[_He looks at her feet. She turns away sulkily._] ... an' had some money +left over. Check came back to 'em this mornin' from the bank.--"No +funds." + +MRS. MADDEN [_with righteous but lazy indignation_]. How'd I know there +wasn't no money in th' bank? + +MADDEN. If you kept your check book up to date you'd know. + +MRS. MADDEN. W'at right they got not t' cash my check? + +MADDEN [_still controlling himself_]. The bank don't let you overdraw +any more. [_He glances back at the bills._] D'you know, I'm wonderin' +why you didn't charge those boots. + +MRS. MADDEN. I ain't got any account at th' Excelsior. + +MADDEN. I guess it's the only place in town you haven't got one.--You +don't seem to remember what salary I get. + +MRS. MADDEN. Sure--I know. Ninety-five a month. Y' know mighty well I'm +ashamed o' you f'r not gettin' more. Mrs. Montanio's husban'-- + +MADDEN [_breaking in_]. Hang the Montanios! [_More quietly._] Don't you +see what I'm gettin' at? Here it is the twelfth o' December; you know my +pay don't come in till the end o' the month; an' here you go an' draw +all our money out o' the bank ... an' more. [_Turning toward the +table._] An' _look_ at these bills! + +MRS. MADDEN. James Madden, I like t' know w'at right you got t' talk t' +me like that. + +MADDEN [_thoughtfully_]. I've always argued it's the woman's job to run +the house. [_He walks around the table from front to rear, passing to +its left, and looking down at the bills. With conviction._] It's no +use!--I don't just see how we're goin' to get out of this mess; but I do +know one thing. [_Advancing toward her from the rear of the table._] +After this _I'm_ goin' to spend our money, even if I have to buy your +dresses. + +MRS. MADDEN [_with rising anger_]. If you say I've been extrav'gant, +James Madden, yer a plain liar! + +MADDEN [_biting his lip and stepping back a pace_]. Easy, Florrie!--I +know you don't mean that, or-- + +MRS. MADDEN [_interrupting viciously_]. I do! + +MADDEN [_persuasively_]. Look here, Florrie. We got to work this out +together. There's no use gettin' mad. Prob'ly you aren't +extravagant--really. Just considerin' the size o' my salary. + +MRS. MADDEN. A pig couldn' live decent on _your_ salary! + +MADDEN. Other folks seem to get on, even in these times. What would you +do if we had kids? + +MRS. MADDEN. Thank the Lord we ain't got _them_ t' think about. + +MADDEN [_shocked_]. Florence! + +MRS. MADDEN. Well, I guess anybody'd be glad not t' have kids with _you_ +f'r a husban'. Y' don't earn enough money t' keep a cat--let alone kids! +An' jus' t' think they'd be like you! + +MADDEN [_more surprised than angry_]. Florence--you're talking like a +street woman. + +MRS. MADDEN. Oh, I am, am I? Well, I guess you treat me like a street +woman. Y' don' deserve t' have a wife. + +MADDEN. Well, I don't guess I do. Not one like you! + +MRS. MADDEN. That's right! That's right! You don' know how t' treat a +lady. + +MADDEN [_controlling himself_]. Look here, Florrie. Don't let's get all +het up over this. + +MRS. MADDEN. Who's gettin' het up? [_Bursting past him toward the door +at the left._] I wish t' God you was a gen'leman! + +MADDEN. Florrie--_don't_! + +MRS. MADDEN [_turning on him from the other side of the table_]. W'y +don't y' go out an' dig in th' ditch? Y'd earn a damn sight more money +th'n-- + +MADDEN [_with angry impatience_]. You _know_ I'm not strong enough. + +MRS. MADDEN. Bony little shrimp! Not even pep enough t' have kids! + +MADDEN [_beside himself_]. Florence! [_Going toward her._] I'm goin' to +tell you some things I never thought I would. You're just a plain, +common, selfish, vulgar woman! You don't care one penny for anybody +except yourself. You an' your clothes an' your movies an' your sodas an' +your candy! [_Mrs. Madden is glowering at him across the table. She is +beginning to weep with rage.--Two or three times she opens her mouth as +if to speak, but each time he cuts her short._] Look at the way you been +leavin' this house lately. [_He makes an inclusive gesture toward the +room._] The four years I've lived with you would drive a saint to Hell! +[_Mrs. Madden marches furiously by him and over to her hat and coat, +which are hanging from pegs at the right, just in front of the stove._] +I wish I'd never seen you! + +MRS. MADDEN [_getting her coat and hat_]. D' y' think I'm goin' t' stay +in this house t' be talked to like that? [_Putting on her hat +viciously._] D' y' think I'm goin' t' stand that kind of a thing? +[_Putting on her coat.--Sobbing angrily._] I guess ... you'll be ... +pretty sorry when I've ... gone. [_Coming closer to him on her way to +the outside door._] If ... if I _did_ somethin' ... if somethin' ... +_happened_ t' me ... I guess you ... you wouldn't never ... f'give +yerself! [_She is at the door._] + +MADDEN. I don't worry about you. [_She turns on him at the door._] You +wouldn't do anything like that. You're too _yellow_! + +MRS. MADDEN [_at the door. Sobbing, in a fury_]. You'll ... see! + + [_With one last glare at him, she turns, opens the door and goes + outside, slamming the door behind her. Madden stares after her, + almost beside himself. He takes several steps across the room, + then crosses and recrosses it, trying to regain control of + himself. Little by little his anger fades; the energy goes out of + his pacing, and finally he approaches the table and sits down in + his old place with a hopeless droop of the shoulders. He takes up + another bill and looks at its amount helplessly, finally writing + it down on the same piece of paper as before. He starts to add up + the total of the bills he has already set down on the piece of + paper. His hand moves mechanically. Suddenly a shadow crosses his + face, as an idea begins to form itself in his mind. He looks + straight ahead, his eyes opening wide with horror. With a sudden + movement he springs up from the table and goes quickly to the + window, where he looks out anxiously at the river. He turns back + into the room, and passes his hand across his face with the same + gesture of horror he used earlier in speaking to Mrs. Madden of + the woman who had fallen into the river._] + +MADDEN. Ugh! + + [_He returns to the table, his face dark with the fear that has + seized him. At the table, he stands a moment, thinking. Once again + he passes his hand across his forehead with the same gesture of + horrified fear. He drops into the chair behind the table, still + thoughtful. After a moment his face clears, and he shakes his head + with an expression of disbelief. He bends again over the bills, + and once more takes up his work of going over them. From outside + comes the faint sound of some one whistling "Tell Me." Gradually + the whistle grows louder and louder, as if the whistler were + coming nearer up the street. There is a sharp rap at the door. + Madden starts violently, and, jumping up, he goes quickly to the + door. He opens it eagerly and slumps with obvious disappointment + as Edgar Mix enters breezily. Mix is about twenty-five; a loosely + put together, thin faced youth in a new suit of readymade clothes + which are of too blatant a pattern and much too extreme a cut to + be in really good taste. He is whistling the refrain of "Tell + Me."_] + +MIX [_as he passes_]. H'llo, James. [_Without stopping for an answer, he +crosses the room and starts to remove his hat and coat._] Where's the +sister? + +MADDEN [_he has closed the door. Dully._] She's gone out. + + [_As if struck by an idea, Madden reopens the door and goes + outside. He can be seen, looking first to the left, then to the + right, and finally down at the river before him. Mix finishes + taking off his outer garments, which he hangs with a flourish on + pegs near the stove. He is still whistling the same refrain._] + +MIX. W'at's a matter with you? Tryin' t' freeze me out? [_His voice has +the same flat quality as his sister's, but it is full of energy._] + + [_Madden does not appear to hear him. He now comes back into the + house, shutting the door behind him. His face is anxious, a fact + he tries to hide._] + +MADDEN. Did you want to see Florence? [_Mix pauses in his whistling._] + +MIX. Sure. Nothin' important, though. Just about a little party she said +you an' she was goin' t' take me on t'night. [_He commences whistling +cheerily the opening bars of his refrain._] + +MADDEN [_dully_]. Sorry. I don't know anythin' about it. + + [_Mix stops whistling suddenly and looks down with dismay. Then, + with his hands in his pockets, he slowly whistles the four + descending notes at the end of the third bar and the beginning of + the fourth. He stops and shakes his head, then slowly whistles a + few more bars of the refrain, starting where he just left off, and + letting himself drop into the morris chair on the descending note + in the fifth bar. After another brief silence he finishes the + refrain, but with a sudden return of the same quick, light mood in + which he entered. The refrain over, he begins again at the + beginning and whistles two or three more bars. Madden has + meanwhile sat down at the table and is again going over the + bills._] + +MIX. Jim--ever get a piece runnin' in yer head so y' can't get it out? +[_Madden is looking vacantly down at the bills._] I s'pose I been +w'istlin' that tune steady f'r three whole weeks. [_He whistles three or +four more bars of the same refrain._] Like it? [_Madden does not appear +to have heard him._] P'raps Florrie's got th' record f'r that on th' +phornograph. Has she, Jim? It ain't been out long. + +MADDEN [_impatiently_]. Oh, I don't know, Ed. + +MIX [_after whistling very softly a bar or two more_]. I see some girl +fell in the river. + +MADDEN [_startled_]. What? + +MIX. Yep. They was tryin' t' make her come to. No use. She was a goner +all right. + +MADDEN [_rising from his chair. Trying to control himself._] Where was +this? + +MIX. Oh, not s' far below here. Saw her m'self, I did. + +MADDEN [_with increasing fear. Taking a step or two toward Mix._] Did +you see her face? + +MIX. Nope. Somethin' 'd struck her face. Y'd hardly know she was a +woman, 'cept f'r her clothes. + +MADDEN [_wildly. Coming closer_]. How long ago? + +MIX. W'at y' gettin' s' het up about? [_Madden is almost frantic._] +Oh ... 'bout 'n hour. + + [_Madden relaxes suddenly. The reaction is almost too much for + him. He slowly goes back to the table._] + +MADDEN [_nervously_]. Oh ... down by Market Wharf? + +MIX. Sure. Did y' see her? [_Madden sits down heavily._] + +MADDEN. Uhuh. + + [_For a second or two there is silence. Madden rearranges the + bills in front of him. Mix lolls in the armchair, whistling very + softly._] + +MADDEN. Ed. + +MIX. Uhuh. + +MADDEN. Would you call Florrie a ... a ... well one o' them high-strung +girls? + +MIX. Gosh, no! + +MADDEN. You don't think she'd be the sort to fly off the handle an' do +... well, somethin' desp'rate? + +MIX. Come off. You know's well's I do, Florrie's nothin' but a big jelly +fish. + +MADDEN. Ed--I don't want you to talk that way about Florrie. You don't +'preciate her. + +MIX. Well, w'at's bitin' _you_? W'at y' askin' all these questions f'r, +anyways? + +MADDEN [_dully_]. Oh, nothin'. + + [_Madden looks down uneasily at the bills, but without giving them + any real attention. Mix yawns and lazily shifts his position in + the armchair._] + +MADDEN. Ed--I do want to ask you somethin'. + +MIX [_indifferently_]. Shoot. + +MADDEN. I want you to tell the truth about this, Ed. Even if you think +it will hurt my feelings. It won't. + +MIX. Spit it out. + +MADDEN. Just what sort of a chap do you think I am? + +MIX [_considering_]. Huh! That's easy. D' y' really wanta know w'at I +think? + +MADDEN [_gravely_]. I cert'nly do. + +MIX. Well--if you really wanta know, I think yer a damn good kid +[_Madden looks suddenly grateful_] ... but a bit weak on th' pep. + +MADDEN [_a trifle dubiously_]. Thanks. [_Thoughtfully._] You don't +think I'm unfair? + +MIX. Unfair? Why, no. How d' y' mean? + +MADDEN. Well ... here in the house, f'r instance. + +MIX. Lord, no, Jim! Yer s' easy goin' it'd be a holy shame f'r any one +t' slip anythin' over on y'. [_After a short pause. Suspiciously._] W'at +y' askin' all these questions f'r, anyways? + +MADDEN. Oh--nothin'. + +MIX [_struck with an idea.--Starting up from his chair_]. _I_ know +w'at's bitin' you. You an' Florrie's had a row. [_He walks up to Madden +and taps his arm familiarly with the back of his hand._] Come on. Own +up! [_He passes around behind Madden until he stands behind the chair at +the left of the table._] + +MADDEN. Well ... we did have a ... a sort of a ... disagreement. + +MIX. I bet y' did. Look here, Jim. W'at's a use o' takin' it s' hard? + +MADDEN [_gravely_]. The trouble is----[_He breaks off_] I guess I was +mostly in the wrong. + +MIX [_sitting down vehemently_]. Tell that to a poodle! I know you an' I +know Florrie. I guess I know who'd be in the wrong, all right. She was +bad enough w'en y' firs' got sweet on 'r--jus' a lazy fool, ev'n if she +did have a pretty face. Gee, how you did fall f'r her face! Moonin' +round an' sayin' how _wonderful_ she was! [_He chuckles._] An' Florrie +twenty-eight years old ... an' jus' waitin' t' fall into yer arms. + +MADDEN. Ed--don't say things like that, even in fun. + +MIX. Hell! It's the truth.... But lately Florrie's jus' plain slumped. +She's nothin' now but a selfish, lazy pig. + +MADDEN [_angrily_]. I won't have you talk that way about Florrie. She's +made me a good wife ... on the whole. She don't go trapesin' off like +some o' your fly by nights. She's affection'te ... an' good tempered ... +an'----[_Mix is grinning incredulously._] + +MIX. Rats! Yer havin' a damn hard time t' say anythin' real nice about +'r. I wouldn' stretch th' truth s' far 's _that_ [_snapping his +fingers._] f'r her, ev'n if she is m' sister. + +MADDEN [_vehemently_]. Ed--if you can't talk decently about a nice girl +like Florrie, I guess you better get out. + +MIX [_slowly rising from his chair_]. Well I'll be damned! All right, I +_will_ go.... Yer crazy, Jim! + +MADDEN [_rising and putting a restraining arm on Mix's shoulder. +Nervously_]. Don't mind me, Ed. I didn't really mean what I said. I'm +all upset. + +MIX. Sh'd think y' were. [_After a slight hesitation, he sits down +again._] W'at y' quarrelin' 'bout? Money? + +MADDEN [_sitting down again_]. Uhuh. + +MIX. Huh! Thought as much.... As I was sayin', I know Florrie. + +MADDEN. It really wasn't her fault. + +MIX [_slowly and emphatically_]. Well, you are sappy. Ever'body knows +Florrie spends more money th'n you an' all my family put t'gether. + +MADDEN. You wouldn't have me deny her _ev'rythin'_?... She's got to have +_some_ fun. + +MIX. But, Lord, man, y' don't earn th' income of a John D. Rockefeller. + +MADDEN [_somberly_]. I know.... I ought to do much better. But that +isn't _her_ fault. Besides, she's learned her lesson. + +MIX. Well, I'll be damned! T' hear you talk this way. O' course, y' kep' +yer mouth pretty well shut. But we all figgered you was havin' th' +devil's own time with Florrie! + +MADDEN [_rising from his seat. With deep feeling_]. Ed----[_He turns and +goes over to the window, looks out and then faces around_]. I never knew +... till just now ... how fond I was of her. + + [_Mix regards him with a puzzled expression. Madden begins to walk + up and down the floor, at first slowly and thoughtfully, then more + and more nervously. The light outside begins to fade._] + +MIX [_after a pause. Looking up at Madden_]. Jim. Y' never c'n tell w'at +these women 're goin' t' do--can yer? + +MADDEN [_stopping abruptly. Intensely_]. I s'pose not, Ed. [_He goes on +a few steps and then stops again._] Even ... even when they're not ... +high strung. + + [_Madden continues his nervous pacing of the floor. Mix watches + him with increasing annoyance._] + +MADDEN [_suddenly_]. Was that a footstep? + + [_Mix shakes his head. Madden goes quickly to the window and looks + out. From there he rushes to the door and peers out, first to one + side and then to the other. He shuts the door, and with a hopeless + look on his face comes back into the room. Outside the light is + steadily fading._] + +MIX [_slowly rising from his chair, a look of still greater annoyance on +his face_]. I guess Florrie ain't comin' f'r some time. I'll be goin'. +[_He goes over toward his coat and hat._] + +MADDEN [_nervously_]. Why don't you drop into Smith's soda parlor? +That's where she always is, this time o' the afternoon. + +MIX. She ain't there, I don't guess.... I jus' come from there m'self. + +MADDEN [_intensely_]. You did? + +MIX. Sure. + +MADDEN [_wildly_]. Ed--I can't stand this waitin' f'r her any more. [_He +goes quickly and gets his hat and coat from a peg near the stove._] I'm +goin' out. + + [_Madden goes swiftly across the room to the door at the back and + goes out. He is seen to pass outside in front of the back window. + Mix takes a few involuntary steps after him toward the door, then + stops and gives a low whistle of astonishment. After a moment he + turns and starts back toward his hat and coat._] + +MIX [_half aloud_]. Poor ol' Jim. + + [_He gets his hat and coat, and puts them on. In the course of a + few seconds the reflective look has gone from his face; he begins + to whistle softly the same refrain as before. From his pocket + he produces a cigarette, which he places in his mouth. He is + preparing to light it when a thought strikes him. He goes quickly + over to the phonograph and, bending down, takes a record and + examines it. It has become so dark that he is unable to read the + title; so he lights the neighboring gas jet. He then examines two + or three records in quick succession, finally producing one which + causes a smile to spread over his face._] + +MIX. Ah! + + [_He places his find on the phonograph, winds the machine, and + starts his record playing. The tune is the same one he has been + whistling the whole afternoon. With an expression of great + pleasure he hears the record start, at the same time producing a + huge nickel watch from his pocket and glancing at it casually. As + he sees the time, his whole expression changes._] + +MIX [_throwing his cigarette impatiently on the floor_]. Hell! + + [_He stops the phonograph and tilts back the playing arm. He + buttons up his overcoat, turns up his collar and adjusts his hat. + Then, his whistle suddenly breaking out again loudly into his + favorite refrain, he marches quickly across the room to the door + at the back, and goes out. He is seen to pass by the window, and + his whistling is heard to die away gradually down the street._ + + _Stillness has hardly fallen when the door at the back opens, and + Mrs. Madden enters. She appears a trifle chilly, but seems + otherwise to have recovered her composure. Closing the door behind + her, she comes forward lazily to the table. She looks down at the + piles of bills before her with a perfectly vacant stare, and + taking from her pocket a pound box of candy she tosses it down on + the papers. She opens the cover and extracts a large chocolate + cream, which she eats indolently and with evident pleasure. Next, + she removes her hat and coat, throwing them carelessly on the + table beside the candy. She walks, with a lazy, flat-footed step, + over to the gas jet at the right, and turns up the gas + sufficiently for reading. Looking down, she notices the record + left on the phonograph._] + +MRS. MADDEN [_with slow pleasure_]. Hm! + + [_Without bothering to find out whether or not the phonograph is + wound up, she starts it going and places the playing arm with + apparent carelessness so that the record begins playing about a + third of the way through. She listens to the music for three or + four seconds with an expression of indolent appreciation, then she + crosses the floor to the door at the left, always moving with the + same flat-footed walk. Opening the door, she peers through it._] + +MRS. MADDEN [_calling, her flat voice rising above the sound of the +phonograph_]. Oh Ji--im! + + [_She listens a moment for an answer; but as there is none, she + closes the door and turns around. Once again the music catches and + holds her attention. She listens for an instant and then goes back + to the table, making a heavy attempt at a dance step or two. From + the pocket of her overcoat she extracts a new cheap novel, whose + content is well advertised by a lurid colored cover. This she + takes over to the morris chair. Another thought strikes her; she + tosses the novel into the chair and goes back to the table, where + she gets five or six chocolate creams from the candy box, + depositing them in a row on the right arm of the morris chair. + Then she takes up her book and sits down. For a moment she tries + to read, but all is not comfortable yet. She changes her position + two or three times in the chair. At last she rises, heaving a + disgusted sigh. Dropping her book into the chair she walks with + flat, heavy steps across the room and out of the door at the left, + leaving it open. She returns almost instantly, dragging two greasy + looking sofa pillows after her. She kicks the door to, and crosses + to the morris chair. Here she places one of the pillows on the + ground for her feet, the other at the back of the chair. Picking + up her book once more, she settles back into the chair with an + expression of perfect animal contentment. She puts another + chocolate cream in her mouth, and finds her place in the book. + Then the music again engages her attention; she leans back with a + foolish smile on her face as she listens. Constantly chewing the + piece of candy, she hums a bar or two of the tune which is still + being played by the phonograph. Then she settles down to her + reading, eating candy as she feels inclined. The phonograph + reaches the end of the record and makes that annoying clicking + noise which shows it should be shut off. For two or three seconds + Mrs. Madden pays no attention to it. Finally she raises herself in + the chair, and without getting up she reaches over and switches + off the phonograph, then settles back again to her reading._ + + _Some one goes swiftly by the window outside. After a moment the + door at the back opens, and Madden stands in the doorway._] + +MADDEN [_in the doorway, catching sight of Mrs. Madden. With pathetic +eagerness_]. _Florrie!_ [_He closes the door._] + +MRS. MADDEN [_without looking up. In lazy, matter of fact tones_]. 'Lo, +Jim. + +MADDEN [_coming forward toward his wife_]. Are you _really_ safe, +Florrie? + + [_She looks up with a glance of feeble annoyance._] + +MRS. MADDEN. Sure. I'm all right. [_She looks down again._] + +MADDEN [_coming still closer_]. Oh, I'm so _thankful_!... I ... I been +lookin' for you, Florrie.--Where you been? + +MRS. MADDEN [_without looking up_]. Wat d' y' say? + +MADDEN. Where you been, Florrie? [_With even greater anxiety._] You +didn't go down by the river? + +MRS. MADDEN [_looking up_]. Lord no! W'atev'r made y' think that? [_She +takes up a chocolate cream and bites off half of it._] I jus' took Mrs. +Montanio over t' Brailey's new place f'r a couple o' ice cream sodas. +[_She looks down again._] + +MADDEN [_softly_]. Oh. [_A shadow passes over his face and vanishes._] +Florrie. [_He sits down on the left arm of the morris chair and puts his +arm affectionately about her shoulders._] I didn't know what I was +sayin'. + +MRS. MADDEN [_puzzled. Without looking up_]. W'at y' talkin' 'bout? + +MADDEN [_pathetically_]. I guess I ought not to ask you to forgive me. + +MRS. MADDEN [_looking up_]. F'give y'? [_Remembering._] Oh, yes--y' +_did_ call me some darn hard names. + +MADDEN. I know. [_Slowly. Looking into her face._] D' you think you +_could_ forgive me? + +MRS. MADDEN [_lazily_]. Sure. I guess so. Glad t' see y' got over yer +pet. + + [_He smiles a pathetic, eager smile, and takes her left hand, + which is lying in her lap. With an impatient movement, she + stretches her left arm out and back, carrying his left hand with + it and forcing him off the arm of the chair._] + +MRS. MADDEN. Say, Jim--look w'at's on th' table. + + [_Madden sighs softly and takes a few steps toward the table. He + sees the candy box; a darker shadow appears on his face for a + second or two, and is gone._] + +MRS. MADDEN. Have a chocklick, Jim. + + [_She herself picks one up from the arm of the chair; then she + looks down again at her book, eating the candy as she reads._] + +MADDEN [_unheeding.--Taking a step or two back toward her from the +table. With deep feeling_]. Florrie. I got somethin' I want to tell you. +[_She does not look up. He takes another step toward her._] After you'd +gone out, I kept thinkin' ... thinkin' what mighta happened to you. + +MRS. MADDEN [_with a short chuckle_]. Y' poor boob! + +MADDEN. Florrie--look at me. [_She looks up with an expression of lazy +annoyance._] Out there--[_He gestures toward the door_] the river looked +so cold an' black--An' I couldn't find you-- ... I knew all of a sudden +I ... I hadn't really meant what I said to you. + +MRS. MADDEN [_impatiently_]. That's all right. [_She looks down again at +her book._] + +MADDEN [_with increasing emotion. Going to the arm chair and looking +down at her tenderly from behind it_]. I kept thinkin' ... thinkin' how +pretty an' how ... how good natured you are. [_With some +embarrassment._] I thought how we used to walk ... down by the river. +Four years ago ... you know--just before we was married. + +MRS. MADDEN [_with growing annoyance_]. Don' choo want 'nuther +choclick, Jim? + +MADDEN [_unheeding_]. Florrie--d'you remember that time ... the first +time you let me hold your hand? + +MRS. MADDEN [_looking up impatiently_]. W'at's bitin' you? Don't y' see +I'm readin'? [_He steps back and to the left a pace or two. She looks +down again._] + +MADDEN [_humbly_]. Scuse me, Florrie. I just wanted to tell you. [_With +great earnestness._] You know, I'd forgotten.... I mean I didn't +realize ... till just now--[_Awkwardly._] how fond ... how much I ... I +love you. + +MRS. MADDEN [_thickly, through a chocolate cream which she is eating. +Without looking up._] Tha's ... nice. + + [_He looks at her pathetically, waiting, hoping that she will look + up. His face is intense with longing. After a short interval he + gives it up. He turns sadly and goes toward the door at the left, + passing in back of the table._] + +MRS. MADDEN [_taking another chocolate and looking after him. He has +almost reached the door_]. Jim. [_He stops and turns eagerly._] You +ain't such a bad ol' boy. [_His face is suddenly radiant. He takes +several steps back toward her, bringing him behind the table. She has +looked down at her book again. Coaxingly._] Goin' t' take me t' +Horseman's t'night f'r lobster? + + [_All the eagerness, the radiance, vanishes from his face.--He + sits down heavily in the chair behind the table. He looks at her, + uncomprehending, hurt, disillusionized._] + +MRS. MADDEN [_without looking up_]. An' say--[_She puts another +chocolate in her mouth. Speaking through it thickly._] I'm jus' _dyin'_ +t' see a real ... comical ... show. + + [_Madden's head droops. He looks at his wife dumbly, then back at + the table. His left hand goes out toward the bills; then he drops + both elbows limply on the table, resting his weight on them. Mrs. + Madden does not look up, but continues to read and munch a + chocolate cream. Madden stares in front of him miserably, + hopelessly as_ + + + _The Curtain Falls._] + + + + +MANSIONS + + A PLAY + + BY HILDEGARDE FLANNER + + + Copyright, 1920, by Hildegarde Flanner. + All rights reserved. + + + CHARACTERS + + HARRIET WILDE. + LYDIA WILDE [_her niece_]. + JOE WILDE [_her nephew_]. + + TIME: _Yesterday_. + + + MANSIONS is an original play. The editors are indebted to Mr. Sam + Hume for permission to include it in this volume. Applications for + permission to produce this play must be made to Frank Shay, care + Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. + + + +MANSIONS + +A PLAY BY HILDEGARDE FLANNER + + + [_In a small town on the southern border of a Middle-Western + state, stands an old brick house. The town is sufficiently near + the Mason and Dixon line to gather about its ankles the rustle of + ancient petticoats of family pride and to step softly lest the + delicate sounds should be lost in a too noisy world. Even this old + brick house seems reticent of the present, and gazing aloofly from + its arched windows, barely suffers the main street to run past its + gate. Many of the blinds are drawn, as if the dwelling and its + inhabitants preferred to hug to themselves the old strength of the + past rather than to admit the untried things of the present._ + + _The scene of the play is laid in the living-room. At the back is + a wide door leading into the hallway beyond. At the left are + French doors opening upon steps which might descend into the + garden. At the right side of the room, and opposite the French + doors, is a marble fireplace, while on either side of the + fireplace and a little distant from it, is a tall window. To the + left of the main door is a lounge upholstered in dark flowered + tapestry, and to the right of the door is a mahogany secretary. + Before the secretary and away from the hearth, an old-fashioned + grand piano is placed diagonally, so that any one seated at the + instrument would be partially facing the audience. To the left of + the French doors is a lyre table, on which stands a bowl of + flowers. Above the rear door hangs the portrait of a man._ + + _When the curtain rises Harriet Wilde is discovered standing + precisely in the middle of her great-grandfather's carpet which is + precisely in the middle of the floor. To Harriet, ancestors are a + passion, the future an imposition. Added to this, she is in her + way, intelligent. Therefore even before she speaks, you who are + observant know that she is a formidable person. Her voice is low, + even, and--what is the adjective? Christian. Yes, Harriet is a + good woman. But don't let that mislead you._] + + +HARRIET [_calling_]. Lydia! + + [_Lydia comes into the room from the garden. In fact, she has been + coming and going for more than fifteen years at the word of her + aunt, although she is now twenty-seven. Her hands appear sensitive + and in some way, deprived and restless. She is dressed in a slim + black gown which could be worn gracefully by no one else, although + Lydia is not aware of this fact. In one hand she carries a pair of + garden shears with handles painted scarlet; in the other, a bright + spray of portulaca; while over her wrist is slung a garden hat. + During their conversation Lydia moves fitfully about the room. Her + manner changes from bitter drollery to a lonely timidness and from + timidness to something akin to sulkiness. Harriet, whether seated + or standing, gives the impression of having been for a long hour + with dignity in the same position. She has no sympathy for Lydia + nor any understanding of her. There is a wall of mistrust between + the two. Both stoop to pick up stones, not to throw, but to build + the wall even higher. Lydia employs by turns an attitude of + cheerful cynicism and one of indifference, both planned to annoy + her aunt, though without real malice. But this has become a + habit._] + +HARRIET. What are you doing, Lydia? + +LYDIA. I had been trimming the rose hedge along the south garden, Aunt +Harriet. + +HARRIET. But surely you can find something better to do than that, my +dear. [_She cannot help calling people "my dear." It is because she is +so superior._] Some one might see in if you trim it too much. We want a +bit of privacy in these inquisitive times. + +LYDIA. The young plants on the edge of the walk needed sun. + +HARRIET. Move the young plants. Don't sacrifice the rose hedge. +[_Pausing as she straightens the candle in an old brass candlestick on +the mantel._] I--it seems to me that the furniture has been disarranged. + +LYDIA. I was changing it a little this morning. + +HARRIET. May I ask why? + +LYDIA [_eagerly_]. Oh, just--just to be changing. Don't you think it is +an improvement? + +HARRIET [_coldly_]. It does very well. But I prefer it as it was. You +know yourself that this room has never been changed since your +grandfather died. [_Piously._] And as long as I am mistress in this +house, it shall remain exactly as he liked it. + + [_Lydia looks spitefully at the portrait over the rear door._] + +HARRIET [_stepping to the window to the left of the fire-place and +lowering the curtain to the middle of the frame._] The court house will +be done before your brother is well enough to come downstairs, Lydia. +How astonished he will be to see it completed. + +LYDIA. Yes. But he would much rather watch while it is being done. + +HARRIET. Well naturally. But from upstairs you can't see through the +leaves of the maple tree. Why, Lydia, there isn't another tree for miles +around with such marvelous foliage. Great-grandfather Wilde did not +know, when he set out a sapling, that the county court house was to be +built--almost in its very shadow. + +LYDIA. You always did admire any kind of a family tree. + +HARRIET [_as if speaking to an unruly child_]. If Great-grandfather +Wilde heard you say that-- + +LYDIA [_with a sudden flash of spirit which dies almost before she +ceases to speak_]. If Great-grandfather Wilde heard me say that. It may +be he would have the excellent sense to come back and chop off a limb or +two, so that Joe could have sunlight in that little dark room up there, +and see out. + +HARRIET [_lifting her left hand and letting it sink upon her knee with +the air of one who has suffered much, but can suffer more_]. Lydia, my +dear child, I am not responsible for your disposition this lovely +morning. Moreover, this is a fruitless-- + +LYDIA. Fruitless, fruitless! _Why_ couldn't he have planted an apple +tree? [_Throwing her head back slightly._] With blossoms in the spring +and fruit in the summer-- + +HARRIET. I beg your pardon? + +LYDIA [_wearily_]. With blossoms in the spring and fruit in the summer. +[_Slowly and gazing toward the window._] Sounds rather pretty, doesn't +it? + +HARRIET [_unsympathetically_]. I do not understand what you are talking +about. + +LYDIA [_shortly_]. No. + +HARRIET. It is always a source of sorrow to me, Lydia, that you show so +little pride in any of the really noble men in the Wilde family. + +LYDIA. I never knew them. + +HARRIET. But you could at least reverence what I tell you. + +LYDIA [_cheerfully_]. Well, I do think great-great-grandfather must have +been a gay old person. + +HARRIET. Gay old person! + +LYDIA. Yes. The portulaca blooms so brightly on his grave. It's really +not bad, having your family buried in the front yard, if its dust +inspires a flower like this. + +HARRIET. I don't see why you insist upon picking those. They wilt +immediately. + +LYDIA [_looking appealingly at her aunt_]. Oh, but they're so bright and +gay! I can't keep my hands from them. + +HARRIET [_scornfully smoothing her lace cuff_]. Really? + +LYDIA [_for the moment a trifle lonely_]. Aunt Harriet, tell me why +these dead old men mean so much to you? + +HARRIET [_breathlessly_]. Dead--old--men--? Why, Lydia? The Wildes came +up from Virginia and were among the very first pioneers, in this +section. They practically made this town and there is no better known +name here in the southern part of the state than ours. We-- + +LYDIA. Oh, yes. Of course, I've heard all that ever since I can +remember. [_Assuming an attitude of pride._] We have the oldest and most +aristocratic-looking house for miles around; the rose-hedge has bloomed +for fifty years--it's very nearly dead, too; General Someone drank out +of our well, or General Some-One-Else drowned in it, I always forget +which. + +HARRIET. Lydia! + +LYDIA [_soothingly_]. Oh, it doesn't make much difference which. That +doesn't worry me. But what does, is how you manage to put a halo around +all your fathers and grandfathers and-- + +HARRIET [_piously_]. Because they represent the noble traditions of a +noble past. + +LYDIA. What about the noble present? + +HARRIET [_looking vaguely about the room_]. I have not seen it. + +LYDIA [_bitterly_]. No, you have not seen it. [_Turning to go._] + +HARRIET. Just one moment, Lydia. I want to speak to you about your +brother. + +LYDIA [_quickly_]. Did the doctor say that Joe is worse? + +HARRIET. No. In fact, the doctor won't tell me anything. He and Joe seem +to have a secret. I can get nothing definite from the doctor at all. But +what I feel it my duty to ask you, Lydia, is this: Tell me truthfully. +Have you been speaking to Joe about--Heaven? + +LYDIA. No. What a dreadful thing to even mention to a sick boy. + +HARRIET. My dear, you are quite wrong. But some one has been +misinforming him. + +LYDIA. Really? + +HARRIET. Lydia, I am very distressed. [_Slowly._] Your young brother +holds the most unusual and sacrilegious ideas of immortality. + +LYDIA [_indifferently_]. So? + +HARRIET. No member of the Wilde family has ever held such ideas. It is +quite irregular. + +LYDIA. What does he think? + +HARRIET. I don't know that I can tell you clearly. It is all so +distasteful to me. But he declares--even in contradiction to my +explanation--that after death we continue our earthly occupations,--that +is, our studies, our ambitions-- + +LYDIA. That is a wonderful idea. + +HARRIET [_not noticing_]. That if we die before accomplishing anything +on earth, we have a chance in the after-life to work. Work! Imagine! In +fact he pictures Heaven as a place where people are--doing things. + +LYDIA [_lifting her head and smiling_]. Oh, that is beautiful--I mean, +what did you tell him? + +HARRIET [_reverently_]. I explained very carefully that Heaven is peace, +peace. That the first thing we do when a dear one dies, is to pray for +the eternal rest of his soul. + +LYDIA [_dully_]. Oh. + +HARRIET. Yes, Lydia, I am glad to see that you share my distress. +Why--he desecrates the conception of Heaven with workmen, artists, +inventors, musicians--anything but angels. + +LYDIA. Anything but angels. [_Smiles._] That is quite new, is it not? At +least in this little town. Does Joe see himself building houses in +Heaven? + +HARRIET. That is the worst of it. Why, Lydia, even after I told him +patiently that there were no such things as architects in Heaven, he +still insists that if he dies, he is going to be one. + +LYDIA [_startled_]. If he should die? + +HARRIET [_decidedly_]. That is simply another foolish fancy. He has been +confined so long, that he gets restless and imagines these strange +things. + +LYDIA. Poor Joe. + +HARRIET. Don't sympathize with him, please. I can't possibly allow him +to become an architect. + +LYDIA. Why not? + +HARRIET. When the men in our family have been clergymen for four +generations? + +LYDIA. Yes, but they're dead now. + +HARRIET. All the more reason for continuing the tradition. + +LYDIA. There isn't one bit of money in it. + +HARRIET [_proudly_]. When was a Wilde ever slave to money? + +LYDIA [_sulkily_]. Certainly not since my day, and for a very, very good +reason. + +HARRIET. Well, at least we have sufficient to send Joe to college--and +as a divinity student. And some day we will hear him preach in the house +of the Lord. + +LYDIA. He would rather build houses himself. + +HARRIET. Simply a boyish whim. He's too young to really have a mind of +his own. [_Confidently._] He will do what I tell him to. + +LYDIA. He is very nearly nineteen, Aunt Harriet. Didn't you have a mind +of your own when you were nineteen? + +HARRIET. Certainly not. Yes, of course. + + [_Lydia laughs._] + +HARRIET [_the hem of her skirt bellowing with dignity._] This is +entirely different. If you can't be polite, Lydia, you might at least +stop laughing. + +LYDIA [_still laughing_]. Oh, no--oh, no--I take after my +great-great-grandfather. I've just discovered it. At last I'm interested +in the noble men of the Wilde family. I know he liked to laugh. Look at +the pertness of that! [_Holding up the portulaca._] + +HARRIET [_ignoring the flower_]. Please give me your sun-hat, Lydia. + +LYDIA [_demurely_]. Oh, are you going to look at the portulaca? + +HARRIET. No. I am going to see what you have done to the rose-hedge. +[_Going out through the French door._] + +LYDIA [_suddenly furious_]. Go look at your decrepit old rose-hedge! Go +look at it! And I hope you get hurt on a thorn and bleed, yes, +bleed--the way you make me bleed. I did cut a hole in it. I don't care +who sees in--I want to see out! [_Looking toward the portrait and +throwing the flowers on the floor._] Take your stupid flowers--take +them. They don't do me any good. They're withering, they're withering! + + [_She goes to lean against the window and look toward the court + house. As she stands there, the door opens slowly and Joe, with + blankets wrapped about him and trailing from his shoulders, comes + unsteadily into the room. He carries paper and drawing materials. + He is an eager boy, who seems always afraid of being overtaken. + Lydia turns suddenly and starts toward the door. She stops in + surprise as she sees her brother._] + +LYDIA. Joe! My goodness! Whatever made you come downstairs? Aunt Harriet +will be angry. Why this might be awfully dangerous for you, Joe. How did +you come to do such a thing? + + [_She helps him toward the lounge and arranges a cushion for him._] + +JOE [_sinking back, but facing the window_]. I wanted to see how the +court house was getting on. I can't see out of my window, you know. + +LYDIA. Well, you see [_Raising the blind._] they will soon have it done. + +JOE [_delightedly_]. Yes, won't they, though. Look at those white +pillars! That's worth something, I tell you. I'm glad I saw it. + +LYDIA. What do you mean? + +JOE. Just what I said. + +LYDIA. Yes, but, Joe--coming down stairs this way, when you have been +really ill-- + +JOE. Oh, don't argue, Lydia. I have just been arguing with Aunt Harriet. + +LYDIA. You'd better rest then. You will have to, anyway, before you go +back to your room. I see you plan to draw. + +JOE. Yes, I've been lazy for so long. It's driving me crazy, never doing +anything. I thought I'd copy some Greek columns this morning. Could you +give me a large book to work on? + +LYDIA. I'll look for one. [_Hunting._] Joe, what were you and Aunt +Harriet arguing about? + +JOE. Oh, nothing. + +LYDIA. Yes, I've heard her do that before. But won't you tell me? + +JOE. It wasn't anything, Lydia. + +LYDIA. Here is what you want. + + [_She brings a large bound volume from the piano and places it + upon his knees._] + +JOE. Thank you. [_Settling himself to draw._] Where is she, by the way? + +LYDIA. Out looking at the rose-hedge, where I cut a hole in it. + +JOE. A hole in the sacred rose-hedge! Where did you suddenly get the +courage? I've heard you talk about doing such things before, but you +never really did them. + +LYDIA [_timidly_]. I don't know, Joe, where I got my courage. I think +it's leaving me, too. + + [_She puts out her hand as if trying to detain some one._] + +JOE [_cheerfully_]. Come stand by me. I have--I have a great deal of +courage this morning. + + [_Lydia stands behind Joe and looks over his shoulder._] + +JOE [_turning to her affectionately_]. It's good I have you, Lydia. Aunt +Harriet has a fit every time she sees me doing this. + +LYDIA. Having them is part of her religion. + +JOE. Well, this is mine. What is yours, Lydia? I don't believe I ever +heard you say. + +LYDIA [_shortly_]. I haven't any. + +JOE. Sure enough? + +LYDIA [_nodding, then speaking quite slowly_]. I never did anything for +any one out of love, and I was never allowed to do anything I wanted to +for joy. So I know that I have no religion. + +JOE [_embarrassed_]. Never mind. Perhaps that will all come to you some +day. [_Joe suddenly sits erect and looks first toward the French door +and then toward the window._] I wonder what you will do when I go? + +LYDIA [_following the direction of his gaze_]. Where? + +JOE. Oh--to college. + +LYDIA. Perhaps when you go to college I'll do something Aunt Harriet +doesn't think is regular. + +JOE. What will it be? + +LYDIA. How can I know now? How should I want to know? + + [_Joe looks over his shoulder toward the rear door of the room._] + +LYDIA [_nervously_]. What do you see? + +JOE. Nothing--nothing. + +LYDIA. Then please stop looking at it. + +JOE [_meeting her eyes for the fraction of a moment and then holding up +the sheet of paper._] I am actually getting some form into this column. +If I could only learn to design beautiful buildings-- + + [_He puts his hand to his side in sudden pain._] + +LYDIA [_not noting his action_]. Why, of course you will some day. + +JOE. I don't know. Sometimes I'm afraid I won't get the chance. + +LYDIA. Oh, you'll be a man. You can ride over Aunt Harriet. + + [_Joe looks at his copy and crumples it savagely. Suddenly he + holds up his hand and listens._] + +JOE. What was that bell? + +LYDIA. I did not hear any. + +JOE. I did. + +LYDIA. It must have been the side door. Some one will answer it. + +JOE. Do people often come by the side door? + +LYDIA. Why, Joe, you know very well that the delivery boy always comes +there. + +JOE. Delivery?--I wonder--will it be delivery? + +LYDIA. Joe, you're even odder than I am. Stop it. It doesn't do to have +two in the family. + +JOE [_laughing_]. Oh, just as you say. [_Looking at the book on his +knee_.] What is this big book? + +LYDIA. Music. + +JOE [_opening the book_]. Why, it has your name in it. + +LYDIA. It is my book. + +JOE [_in surprise_]. Did you ever play the piano? + +LYDIA [_turning aside_]. Yes. + +JOE [_his face lighting up_]. Play something now, please. + +LYDIA. That piano has been locked for fifteen years. + +JOE. Ever since mother died and you and I came here to live? + +LYDIA. Yes. Haven't you ever wondered why it was never open? + +JOE. I certainly have. But Aunt Harriet always avoided the subject and I +could never get you to say anything about it. + +LYDIA. By the time I had tried it for two years, I knew better. + +JOE. But why is it locked? + +LYDIA. Because I neglected my duties. I played the piano when I should +have been studying, and I played when I should have been hemming linen, +and I played when I should have been learning psalms. + +JOE. But surely when you grew older--when you were through school-- + +LYDIA. No. I lied to her once about it. She made me promise not to +touch the piano, and left it open on purpose to see what I would do. +And I played and she heard me. So when I denied it--[_Shrugging her +shoulders._] You see, after that, to have let me go on, playing and +undisciplined--why, it would have meant the loss of my soul. [_Very +pleasantly._] It would have meant hell, at least, Joe dear, and I don't +know what else. Aunt Harriet has always been so careful about what I +learned. + +JOE [_angrily_]. But surely you are old enough now to do what you want +to! I'll ask her myself if-- + +LYDIA [_alarmed_]. Oh, no, Joe! Please, please don't do that. I should +be frightened, really. It is a matter of religion with her. + +JOE. And don't you know how to play any longer? + +LYDIA. Yes, some. I sneak into the church when no one is there and play +on that piano. [_She walks to the instrument, and sitting down before +it, rubs her palms lovingly across the closed lid._] When you were away +six months ago, this was opened to be tuned for those young cousins of +hers who visited. They were lively young girls, and the first thing they +did every morning was to go to the piano. They would have asked +questions if it had been locked, and Aunt Harriet hates inquisitiveness +like poison. + +JOE. Where is the key? + +LYDIA. I don't know where it is now. She has probably thrown it away. It +would be just like her to do it. [_Changing her manner suddenly and +rising._] Joe, wouldn't you like a cup of tea? + +JOE [_earnestly_]. No, I wouldn't. Sit down, Lydia. + + [_Lydia sits down again. Joe starts to speak, but stops to look + about the room._] + +LYDIA. Joe, what are you looking for? + +JOE [_slowly and reluctantly_]. I can't get over the feeling that I am +expecting some one. + +LYDIA. Who is it? + +JOE [_evasively_]. I don't know. Some one I never saw before. + +LYDIA [_laughing_]. An unknown visitor knocks before he comes in the +door. + +JOE. I'm not sure that this one will. + + [_He closes his eyes wearily and puts his palms before them._] + +LYDIA [_gently_]. Joe, you're tired. Please go upstairs. + +JOE. Not quite yet. [_Eagerly._] Lydia, you know what Aunt Harriet and I +were arguing about. I saw it in your eyes. + +LYDIA. Of course. It's a beautiful idea. + +JOE [_excitedly_]. Then you think I'm right. + +LYDIA [_looking at the piano_]. I hope to Heaven you are. + +JOE [_pleading_]. Then do something for me, Lydia, please. + +LYDIA. What? + +JOE. I've been so worried lately to think--how awful it is if a person +dies without accomplishing anything. + +LYDIA. I wish you wouldn't talk like that. + +JOE [_hastily_]. I wasn't speaking for myself. I meant, just generally, +you know. But what I have been figuring out, is this--so long as you +believe that you can go on working after you leave here, it's all right, +isn't it? + +LYDIA [_hesitant_]. Yes. + +JOE [_thoughtfully and as though on unaccustomed ground_]. But when you +first go over, you are rather weak-- + +LYDIA. You mean your soul? + +JOE [_speaking hurriedly_]. Yes, that's it. And you mustn't be worried +by grief or any force working against you from the people you've left +behind. + +LYDIA. Yes, I follow you. Where did you learn all this? + +JOE. In a book at the library. + +LYDIA [_uncertainly_]. I think I have heard of some theory-- + +JOE [_impatiently_]. I'm not bothering about theories. I haven't got +time for them. In fact, I'd almost forgotten about the whole idea until +the other day. Something the doctor told me set me thinking. He is +really a splendid man, Lydia. + +LYDIA [_indifferently_]. Yes, I've always thought so. But what is it you +want me to do for you, Joe? Aunt Harriet may come in any moment. + +JOE [_looking at Lydia very fixedly and speaking slowly_]. Just this. +When I die, don't let Aunt Harriet pray for my soul. + +LYDIA. Joe! + +JOE. Yes, I mean it. She has a powerful mind. And she would pray for my +eternal rest and I might not be strong enough to stand against her. + +LYDIA [_starting toward the rear door_]. I won't listen to you any +longer. It is wrong to talk and think about death. + +JOE. Lydia, please! It means so much to me. Listen just one second. I +know I'm not very good, but Aunt Harriet would be sure to try to make an +angel out of me. And if I thought I had to sit on those everlasting gold +steps and twang an everlasting gold harp forever and forever--Lydia, I'd +go crazy, I'd go crazy! + + [_His voice rises to a scream and he sinks back gasping._] + +LYDIA [_rushing to his side_]. I promise anything. Only don't excite +yourself this way. For Heaven's sake, Joe, be quiet. + +JOE [_insisting_]. But don't let her pray. And make her give you the key +to the piano, and you play something so I can go out in +harmony.--Harmony--do you understand that, Lydia? Harmony. That's the +word they used so often in the book. Do you promise surely? + +LYDIA [_tearfully_]. Yes, but, Joe, you're not going to die. You're not! +The doctor would have told us something about it. + +JOE. Of course, I'm not going to. Not until I get good and ready. Don't +be silly. But remember, when it does happen, you must not cry. That is +very hard on souls that are just starting out. + +LYDIA. I--I can see how it might be. + +JOE. You won't forget to smile? + +LYDIA. No. + +JOE. But smile now, for practice. + +LYDIA [_trying to smile, but failing_]. Oh, I can smile for you easily +enough; but don't frighten me like that again. + +JOE. I'll try not to. + +LYDIA [_suddenly facing him_]. Do you expect Aunt Harriet to live as +long as you do? + +JOE [_with a second's hesitation_]. Yes, I'm quite sure she will. The +Wildes have the habit of living long, you know. + +LYDIA. But why shouldn't you live longer than she, since you are +younger? + +JOE. Oh, I don't know. I'd rather like to get ahead of her in something, +though. + +LYDIA. Well, you do believe in preparation. I can't see why you are +being so beforehanded, but if it gives you any pleasure to scare me to +death---- + +JOE. It certainly does, Lydia. And just one thing more, I want of you. + +LYDIA. What? + +JOE [_rather shyly_]. Take the Bible and read something to bind the +promise. Just any verse. + +LYDIA. This is becoming too solemn. I don't care for it. + + [_She approaches the lyre table, upon which, of course, is a Bible, + and opens the book._] + +JOE. Then I'll be ready to go. + +LYDIA [_looking at him sharply_]. Go? + +JOE. Upstairs. + + [_Lydia turns the leaves of the Bible._] + +JOE. This will be our secret, Lydia. [_He leans forward and looks out +the French door, then turns to her impatiently._] What are you waiting +for? + +LYDIA. Yes, Joe, our secret. Let me see. Mother was always very fond of +John. [_Joe makes a movement of pain, which Lydia does not see._] Oh, I +have the very thing to read you. How strange! It sounds like a prophecy +for you. + +JOE. Read it. [_Steps are heard in the garden. Joe looks up in alarm._] +Who is that coming? + +LYDIA. Only Aunt Harriet. + + [_Harriet Wilde comes in through the French door._] + +HARRIET. I managed, Lydia, to some extent, to repair the damage which +you----[_Seeing Joe, she stops in surprise._] Actually, Joe downstairs! +But I felt certain this morning, my dear, when you were arguing in that +unheard-of fashion, that you must be better. + +LYDIA [_hastily_]. I don't think it has hurt him to come down, Aunt +Harriet. + +HARRIET. On the contrary, I think it has done him good. + +JOE. I should say it did, Aunt Harriet,--you don't know how much. +[_Again he looks toward the rear door._] + +HARRIET. What is it, Joe dear? Is the doctor coming again? + +JOE. No, I hardly think the doctor will need to come again. + +HARRIET. Why, how gratifying. I am so glad. + + [_Joe closes his eyes wearily._] + +LYDIA. Aunt Harriet, Joe was just about to go up to his room, but he +asked me to read something to him from the Bible first. I opened to this +passage. Won't you read it to him? + +HARRIET. Yes, I will indeed. It gives me great happiness, Joe, to see +you really showing a desire for the holy word of the Scripture. + + [_Harriet takes the Bible from Lydia and stands in the light by + the French door. She faces slightly away from Joe. Lydia walks to + the rear door and stands directly beneath the portrait. She + conceals a smile and looks expectantly toward her aunt._] + +[_Reading_]: Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe +also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I +would have told you. I---- + +JOE [_sitting erect and interrupting_]. Many mansions--many +mansions--Lydia, Aunt Harriet--who said I couldn't build +hou--houses--in---- + + [_He sinks back. Harriet does not look at him, but shuts the Bible + with displeasure and moves forward to place it on the table._] + +HARRIET [_coldly_]. That is positive sacrilege, Joe. + + [_Lydia laughs triumphantly and steps to Joe's side, walking on + her tip-toes and pretending to dance, pleased at her aunt's + discomfiture._] + +LYDIA [_stopping by Joe and bending over him_]. Didn't I say it was a +prophecy? + + [_Joe does not answer nor open his eyes. Lydia takes his hand and + then drops it in fear._] + +LYDIA. Aunt Harriet, come here quickly! + + [_Harriet comes swiftly and stoops over Joe. She feels of his + pulse and lays her hand against his heart._] + +HARRIET. Joe, Joe! + +LYDIA [_moving distractedly toward the door_]. I'll call the doctor. + +HARRIET [_standing very straight and twisting her handkerchief_]. It +will do no good, Lydia. Joe has gone. This is the way your father went +and your grandfather--all the men in the Wilde family. But this is +irregular. They never died so young. + + [_Lydia covers her face with her hands._] + +HARRIET. And he seems so well. Why didn't the doctor--Lydia! This was +their secret--this is what they wouldn't tell me! + +LYDIA. Secret? Which secret? + + [_She looks at Joe and clasps her hands in anguish. Harriet kneels + by the lounge and begins to pray._] + +HARRIET. Dear Lord, I do beseech thee to grant peace and eternal rest to +thy child come home to thee. Grant that he may forever sit in thy +presence---- + + [_Lydia, slowly realizing what her aunt is saying, runs to her + side and makes her rise._] + +LYDIA. Stop that! Stop it, I say! You worried him enough when he was +alive. Now that he's dead, let him do what he wants to. + +HARRIET. Lydia! You have lost your senses. Be calm, be calm. [_Harriet +crosses to the table and picks up the Bible._] Come. We will read a few +verses and have faith that-- + +LYDIA [_snatching the Bible from her aunt_]. No you shan't! Let him +alone. Oh, Joe, Joe, I'm trying. Be brave! You knew, all along. You were +watching, you were expecting. Why didn't you tell me? [_Lydia looks from +Joe to the piano and back to Joe. She composes herself and puts her +hands on her aunt's shoulders._] Where is the key to the piano? + +HARRIET [_horrified_]. You wouldn't touch the piano in the presence of +death! + +LYDIA. Where is the key? + +HARRIET [_unable to fathom Lydia's strange demand_]. It is gone. I don't +know where it is. + +LYDIA. Don't you? Don't you? [_Sliding her hands toward her aunt's +throat and turning toward Joe._] Be brave, Joe. [_Speaking to her +aunt._] Then if the key is gone, I shall have to take the fire-tongs. + + [_Lydia steps toward the fire-place._] + +HARRIET. Lydia! Don't touch them! What are you about? + +LYDIA [_coming again to her aunt and placing her hands on her +shoulders_]. I want--that--key. And I want it quickly. + + [_They look squarely into one another's eyes._] + +HARRIET [_uncertainly_]. I can't give it to you now. I will never give +it to you. + +LYDIA. No? [_Almost breaking down._] Joe, why didn't you tell me? +[_Walking toward the hearth._] Very well, Aunt Harriet. + +HARRIET [_passing her hand over her eyes in terror_]. Wait! Look in that +old vase on the mantel. No--the one that we never use--with the crack in +it-- + + [_Lydia takes down the vase and tilts it. A key falls on the + hearth with a ringing sound. She picks it up and quickly opens the + piano._] + +HARRIET. To think that this should happen in my house. Lord, what have I +done to deserve it? + +LYDIA [_seating herself at the piano_]. Joe, this sounds like wind +blowing through willow trees. [_She plays softly._] Good-by, Joe, +good-by, dear. Good luck! + +HARRIET [_pulling down the blinds on either side of the fire-place_]. +Lydia, have you no religion? + +LYDIA [_controlling her agitation_]. Yes--I have. + +HARRIET [_looking from Lydia to Joe_]. I can't understand. Joe, poor +Joe. + +LYDIA. Let not your heart be troubled.... [_Continuing to play._] I'm +smiling, Joe. I'm laughing, Joe! Be strong.... + + [_Harriet is stupefied. She starts toward Lydia, but stops. She + lifts the Bible from the table, but replaces it hastily, as Lydia + looks across at her._] + +LYDIA [_dreamily_]. In my Father's house are many mansions. + + [_Harriet looks to the portrait above the door, as if for help._] + +LYDIA. If it were not so--I would have told you-- + + [_And Lydia looks mystically out into space and continues to play + while_ + + + _The Curtain Falls._] + + + + +TRIFLES + + A PLAY + + BY SUSAN GLASPELL + + + Copyright, 1920, by Small, Maynard & Company. + All rights reserved. + + + TRIFLES was first produced by the Provincetown Players, at the Wharf + Theatre, Provincetown, Mass., on August 8th, 1916, with the following + cast: + + GEORGE HENDERSON _Robert Rogers_. + HENRY PETERS _Robert Conville_. + LEWIS HALE _George Cram Cook_. + MRS. PETERS _Alice Hall_. + MRS. HALE _Susan Glaspell_. + + It was later produced by the Washington Square Players at the Comedy + Theatre, New York City, on the night of November 15th, 1916, with the + following cast: + + GEORGE HENDERSON _T. W. Gibson_. + HENRY PETERS _Arthur E. Hohl_. + LEWIS HALE _John King_. + MRS. PETERS _Marjorie Vonnegut_. + MRS. HALE _Elinor M. Cox_. + + + Reprinted from "Plays" by Susan Glaspell, published by Small, Maynard + & Company, by permission of Miss Susan Glaspell and Messrs. Small, + Maynard & Company. The professional and amateur stage rights on this + play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission + to produce this play must be made to Miss Susan Glaspell, care of + Small, Maynard & Company, 41 Mt. Vernon Street, Boston, Mass. + + + +TRIFLES + +A PLAY BY SUSAN GLASPELL + + + [SCENE: _The kitchen in the now abandoned farm-house of John + Wright, a gloomy kitchen, and left without having been put in + order--unwashed pans under the sink, a loaf of bread outside the + bread-box, a dish-towel on the table--other signs of incompleted + work. At the rear the outer door opens and the Sheriff comes in + followed by the County Attorney and Hale. The Sheriff and Hale are + men in middle life, the County Attorney is a young man; all are + much bundled up and go at once to the stove. They are followed by + the two women--the Sheriff's wife first; she is a slight wiry + woman, a thin nervous face. Mrs. Hale is larger and would + ordinarily be called more comfortable looking, but she is + disturbed now and looks fearfully about as she enters. The women + have come in slowly, and stand close together near the door._] + + +COUNTY ATTORNEY [_rubbing his hands_]. This feels good. Come up to the +fire, ladies. + +MRS. PETERS [_after taking a step forward_]. I'm not--cold. + +SHERIFF [_unbuttoning his overcoat and stepping away from the stove as +if to mark the beginning of official business_]. Now, Mr. Hale, before +we move things about, you explain to Mr. Henderson just what you saw +when you came here yesterday morning. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. By the way, has anything been moved? Are things just as +you left them yesterday? + +SHERIFF [_looking about_]. It's just the same. When it dropped below +zero last night I thought I'd better send Frank out this morning to make +a fire for us--no use getting pneumonia with a big case on, but I told +him not to touch anything except the stove--and you know Frank. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. Somebody should have been left here yesterday. + +SHERIFF. Oh--yesterday. When I had to send Frank to Morris Center for +that man who went crazy--I want you to know I had my hands full +yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by to-day and as long as +I went over everything here myself-- + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. Well, Mr. Hale, tell just what happened when you came +here yesterday morning. + +HALE. Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes. We came +along the road from my place and as I got here I said, "I'm going to see +if I can't get John Wright to go in with me on a party telephone." I +spoke to Wright about it once before and he put me off, saying folks +talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet--I guess +you know about how much he talked himself; but I thought maybe if I went +to the house and talked about it before his wife, though I said to Harry +that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to +John-- + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. Let's talk about that later, Mr. Hale. I do want to +talk about that, but tell now just what happened when you got to the +house. + +HALE. I didn't hear or see anything; I knocked at the door, and still it +was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up, it was past eight o'clock. +So I knocked again, and I thought I heard somebody say "Come in." I +wasn't sure, I'm not sure yet, but I opened the door--this door +[_indicating the door by which the two women are still standing_] and +there in that rocker--[_pointing to it_] sat Mrs. Wright. + + [_They all look at the rocker._] + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. What--was she doing? + +HALE. She was rockin' back and forth. She had her apron in her hand and +was kind of--pleating it. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. And how did she--look? + +HALE. Well, she looked queer. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. How do you mean--queer? + +HALE. Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next. And +kind of done up. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. How did she seem to feel about your coming? + +HALE. Why, I don't think she minded--one way or other. She didn't pay +much attention. I said, "How do, Mrs. Wright, it's cold, ain't it?" And +she said "Is it?"--and went on kind of pleating at her apron. Well, I +was surprised; she didn't ask me to come up to the stove, or to set +down, but just sat there, not even looking at me, so I said, "I want to +see John." And then she--laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh. I +thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said a little sharp: "Can't +I see John?" "No," she says, kind o' dull like. "Ain't he home?" says I. +"Yes," says she, "he's home." "Then why can't I see him?" I asked her, +out of patience. "'Cause he's dead," says she. "_Dead_?" says I. She +just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin' back and +forth. "Why--where is he?" says I, not knowing what to say. She just +pointed upstairs--like that [_himself pointing to the room above_]. I +got up, with the idea of going up there. I walked from there to +here--then I says, "Why, what did he die of?" "He died of a rope round +his neck," says she, and just went on pleatin' at her apron. Well, I +went out and called Harry. I thought I might--need help. We went +upstairs and there he was lyin'---- + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs, +where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the +story. + +HALE. Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked.... +[_Stops, his face twitches._] ... but Harry, he went up to him, and he +said, "No, he's dead all right, and we'd better not touch anything." So +we went back down stairs. She was still sitting that same way. "Has +anybody been notified?" I asked. "No," says he, unconcerned. "Who did +this, Mrs. Wright?" said Harry. He said it business-like--and she +stopped pleatin' of her apron. "I don't know," she says. "You don't +_know_?" says Harry. "No," says she. "Weren't you sleepin' in the bed +with him?" says Harry. "Yes," says she, "but I was on the inside." +"Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him and you didn't +wake up?" says Harry. "I didn't wake up," she said after him. We must 'a +looked as if we didn't see how that could be, for after a minute she +said, "I sleep sound." Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I +said maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner, or +the sheriff, so Harry went fast as he could to Rivers' place, where +there's a telephone. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. And what did Mrs. Wright do when she knew that you had +gone for the coroner? + +HALE. She moved from that chair to this over here.... [_Pointing to a +small chair in the corner._] ... and just sat there with her hands held +together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some +conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a +telephone, and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and +looked at me--scared. [_The County Attorney, who has had his notebook +out, makes a note._] I dunno, maybe it wasn't scared. I wouldn't like to +say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. +Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY [_looking around_]. I guess we'll go upstairs first--and +then out to the barn and around there. [_To the Sheriff._] You're +convinced that there was nothing important here--nothing that would +point to any motive? + +SHERIFF. Nothing here but kitchen things. + + [_The County Attorney, after again looking around the kitchen, + opens the door of a cupboard closet. He gets up on a chair and + looks on a shelf. Pulls his hand away, sticky._] + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. Here's a nice mess. + + [_The women draw nearer._] + +MRS. PETERS [_to the other woman_]. Oh, her fruit; it did freeze. [_To +the Lawyer._] She worried about that when it turned so cold. She said +the fire'd go out and her jars would break. + +SHERIFF. Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder and worryin' +about her preserves. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. I guess before we're through she may have something +more serious than preserves to worry about. + +HALE. Well, women are used to worrying over trifles. + + [_The two women move a little closer together._] + +COUNTY ATTORNEY [_with the gallantry of a young politician_]. And yet, +for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies? [_The women +do not unbend. He goes to the sink, takes a dipperful of water from the +pail and pouring it into a basin, washes his hands. Starts to wipe them +on the roller-towel, turns it for a cleaner place._] Dirty towels! +[_Kicks his foot against the pans under the sink._] Not much of a +housekeeper, would you say, ladies? + +MRS. HALE [_stiffly_]. There's a great deal of work to be done on a +farm. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. To be sure. And yet.... [_With a little bow to +her._] ... I know there are some Dickson county farmhouses which do +not have such roller towels. + + [_He gives it a pull to expose its full length again._] + +MRS. HALE. Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always +as clean as they might be. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. Ah, loyal to your sex, I see. But you and Mrs. Wright +were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too. + +MRS. HALE [_shaking her head_]. I've not seen much of her of late years. +I've not been in this house--it's more than a year. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. And why was that? You didn't like her? + +MRS. HALE. I liked her all well enough. Farmers' wives have their hands +full, Mr. Henderson. And then-- + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. Yes--? + +MRS. HALE [_looking about_]. It never seemed a very cheerful place. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. No--it's not cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the +homemaking instinct. + +MRS. HALE. Well, I don't know as Wright had, either. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. You mean that they didn't get on very well? + +MRS. HALE. No, I don't mean anything. But I don't think a place'd be any +cheerful for John Wright's being in it. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. I'd like to talk more of that a little later. I want to +get the lay of things upstairs now. + + [_He goes to the left, where three steps lead to a stair door._] + +SHERIFF. I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does'll be all right. She was to +take in some clothes for her, you know, and a few little things. We left +in such a hurry yesterday. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. Yes, but I would like to see what you take, Mrs. +Peters, and keep an eye out for anything that might be of use to us. + +MRS. PETERS. Yes, Mr. Henderson. + + [_The women listen to the men's steps on the stairs, then look + about the kitchen._] + +MRS. HALE. I'd hate to have men coming into my kitchen, snooping around +and criticizing. + + [_She arranges the pans under sink which the Lawyer had shoved out + of place._] + +MRS. PETERS. Of course it's no more than their duty. + +MRS. HALE. Duty's all right, but I guess that deputy sheriff that came +out to make the fire might have got a little of this on. [_Gives the +roller towel a pull._] Wish I'd thought of that sooner. Seems mean to +talk about her for not having things slicked up when she had to come +away in such a hurry. + +MRS. PETERS [_who has gone to a small table in the left rear corner of +the room, and lifted one end of a towel that covers a pan_]. She had +bread set. [_Stands still._] + +MRS. HALE [_eyes fixed on a loaf of bread beside the bread-box, which is +on a low shelf at the other side of the room. Moves slowly toward it._] +She was going to put this in there. [_Picks up loaf, then abruptly +drops it. In a manner of returning to familiar things._] It's a shame +about her fruit. I wonder if it's all gone. [_Gets up on the chair and +looks._] I think there's some here that's all right, Mrs. Peters. +Yes--here; [_Holding it toward the window._] this is cherries, too. +[_Looking again._] I declare I believe that's the only one. [_Gets down, +bottle in her hand. Goes to the sink and wipes it off on the outside._] +She'll feel awful bad after all her hard work in the hot weather. I +remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer. + + [_She puts the bottle on the big kitchen table, center of the + room, front table. With a sigh, is about to sit down in the + rocking-chair. Before she is seated realizes what chair it is; + with a slow look at it, steps back. The chair which she has + touched rocks back and forth._] + +MRS. PETERS. Well, I must get those things from the front room closet. +[_She goes to the door at the right, but after looking into the other +room, steps back._] You coming with me, Mrs. Hale? You could help me +carry them. + + [_They go in the other room; reappear, Mrs. Peters carrying a + dress and skirt, Mrs. Hale following with a pair of shoes._] + +MRS. PETERS. My, it's cold in there. + + [_She puts the cloth on the big table, and hurries to the stove._] + +MRS. HALE [_examining the skirt_]. Wright was close. I think maybe +that's why she kept so much to herself. She didn't even belong to the +Ladies' Aid. I suppose she felt she couldn't do her part, and then you +don't enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes +and be lively, when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls singing +in the choir. But that--oh, that was thirty years ago. This all you was +to take in? + +MRS. PETERS. She said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to want, for +there isn't much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose +just to make her feel more natural. She said they was in the top drawer +in this cupboard. Yes, here. And then her little shawl that always hung +behind the door. [_Opens stair door and looks._] Yes, here it is. + + [_Quickly shuts door leading upstairs._] + +MRS. HALE [_abruptly moving toward her_]. Mrs. Peters? + +MRS. PETERS. Yes, Mrs. Hale? + +MRS. HALE. Do you think she did it? + +MRS. PETERS [_in a frightened voice_]. Oh, I don't know. + +MRS. HALE. Well, I don't think she did. Asking for an apron and her +little shawl. Worrying about her fruit. + +MRS. PETERS [_starts to speak, glances up, where footsteps are heard in +the room above. In a low voice_]. Mr. Peters says it looks bad for her. +Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech and he'll make fun of her +sayin' she didn't wake up. + +MRS. HALE. Well, I guess John Wright didn't wake when they was slipping +that rope under his neck. + +MRS. PETERS. No, it's strange. It must have been done awful crafty and +still. They say it was such a--funny way to kill a man, rigging it all +up like that. + +MRS. HALE. That's just what Mr. Hale said. There was a gun in the house. +He says that's what he can't understand. + +MRS. PETERS. Mr. Henderson said coming out that what was needed for the +case was a motive; something to show anger, or--sudden feeling. + +MRS. HALE [_who is standing by the table_]. Well, I don't see any signs +of anger around here. [_She puts her hand on the dish towel which lies +on the table, stands looking down at table, one half of which is clean, +the other half messy._] It's wiped here. [_Makes a move as if to finish +work, then turns and looks at loaf of bread outside the bread-box. Drops +towel. In that voice of coming back to familiar things._] Wonder how +they are finding things upstairs? I hope she had it a little more red-up +up there. You know, it seems kind of _sneaking_. Locking her up in town +and then coming out here and trying to get her own house to turn against +her! + +MRS. PETERS. But, Mrs. Hale, the law is the law. + +MRS. HALE. I s'pose 'tis. [_Unbuttoning her coat._] Better loosen up +your things, Mrs. Peters. You won't feel them when you go out. + + [_Mrs. Peters takes off her fur tippet, goes to hang it on hook at + back of room, stands looking at the under part of the small corner + table._] + +MRS. PETERS. She was piecing a quilt. + + [_She brings the large sewing basket and they look at the bright + pieces._] + +MRS. HALE. It's log cabin pattern. Pretty, isn't it? I wonder if she was +goin' to quilt it or just knot it? + + [_Footsteps have been heard coming down the stairs. The Sheriff + enters, followed by Hale and the County Attorney._] + +SHERIFF. They wonder if she was going to quilt it or just knot it. + + [_The men laugh, the women look abashed._] + +COUNTY ATTORNEY [_rubbing his hands over the stove_]. Frank's fire +didn't do much up there, did it? Well, let's go out to the barn and get +that cleared up. + + [_The men go outside._] + +MRS. HALE [_resentfully_]. I don't know as there's anything so strange, +our takin' up our time with little things while we're waiting for them +to get the evidence. [_She sits down at the big table smoothing out a +block of decision._] I don't see as it's anything to laugh about. + +MRS. PETERS [_apologetically_]. Of course they've got awful important +things on their minds. + + [_Pulls up a chair and joins Mrs. Hale at the table._] + +MRS. HALE [_examining another block_]. Mrs. Peters, look at this one. +Here, this is the one she was working on, and look at the sewing! All +the rest of it has been so nice and even. And look at this! It's all +over the place! Why, it looks as if she didn't know what she was about! + + [_After she has said this they look at each other, then start to + glance back at the door. After an instant Mrs. Hale has pulled at + a knot and ripped the sewing._] + +MRS. PETERS. Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale? + +MRS. HALE [_mildly_]. Just pulling out a stitch or two that's not sewed +very good. [_Threading a needle._] Bad sewing always made me fidgety. + +MRS. PETERS [_nervously_]. I don't think we ought to touch things. + +MRS. HALE. I'll just finish up this end. [_Suddenly stopping and leaning +forward._] Mrs. Peters? + +MRS. PETERS. Yes, Mrs. Hale? + +MRS. HALE. What do you suppose she was so nervous about? + +MRS. PETERS. Oh--I don't know. I don't know as she was nervous. I +sometimes sew awful queer when I'm just tired. [_Mrs. Hale starts to say +something, looks at Mrs. Peters, then goes on sewing._] Well, I must get +these things wrapped up. They may be through sooner than we think. +[_Putting apron and other things together._] I wonder where I can find a +piece of paper, and string. + +MRS. HALE. In that cupboard, maybe. + +MRS. PETERS [_looking in cupboard_]. Why, here's a bird-cage. [_Holds it +up._] Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale? + +MRS. HALE. Why, I don't know whether she did or not--I've not been here +for so long. There was a man around last year selling canaries cheap, +but I don't know as she took one; maybe she did. She used to sing real +pretty herself. + +MRS. PETERS [_glancing around_]. Seems funny to think of a bird here. +But she must have had one, or why should she have a cage? I wonder what +happened to it? + +MRS. HALE. I s'pose maybe the cat got it. + +MRS. PETERS. No, she didn't have a cat. She's got that feeling some +people have about cats--being afraid of them. My cat got in her room and +she was real upset and asked me to take it out. + +MRS. HALE. My sister Bessie was like that. Queer, ain't it? + +MRS. PETERS [_examining the cage_]. Why, look at this door. It's broke. +One hinge is pulled apart. + +MRS. HALE [_looking too_]. Looks as if some one must have been rough +with it. + +MRS. PETERS. Why, yes. + + [_She brings the cage forward and puts it on the table._] + +MRS. HALE. I wish if they're going to find any evidence they'd be about +it. I don't like this place. + +MRS. PETERS. But I'm awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale. It would be +lonesome for me sitting here alone. + +MRS. HALE. It would, wouldn't it? [_Dropping her sewing._] But I tell +you what I do wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over some times when +_she_ was here. I--[_Looking around the room._]--wish I had. + +MRS. PETERS. But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale--your house +and your children. + +MRS. HALE. I could've come. I stayed away because it weren't +cheerful--and that's why I ought to have come. I--I've never liked this +place. Maybe because it's down in a hollow and you don't see the road. I +dunno what it is, but it's a lonesome place and always was. I wish I had +come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now-- + + [_Shakes her head._] + +MRS. PETERS. Well, you mustn't reproach yourself, Mrs. Hale. Somehow we +just don't see how it is with other folks until--something comes up. + +MRS. HALE. Not having children makes less work--but it makes a quiet +house, and Wright out to work all day, and no company when he did come +in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters? + +MRS. PETERS. Not to know him; I've seen him in town. They say he was a +good man. + +MRS. HALE. Yes--good; he didn't drink, and kept his word as well as +most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. +Just to pass the time of day with him. [_Shivers._] Like a raw wind that +gets to the bone. [_Pauses, her eye falling on the cage._] I should +think she would 'a wanted a bird. But what do you suppose went with it? + +MRS. PETERS. I don't know, unless it got sick and died. + + [_She reaches over and swings the broken door, swings it again, + both women watch it._] + +MRS. HALE. You weren't raised round here, were you? [_Mrs. Peters shakes +her head._] You didn't know--her? + +MRS. PETERS. Not till they brought her yesterday. + +MRS. HALE. She--come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird +herself--real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and--fluttery. +How--she--did--change. [_Silence; then as if struck by a happy thought +and relieved to get back to every day things._] Tell you what, Mrs. +Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her +mind. + +MRS. PETERS. Why, I think that's a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale. There +couldn't possibly be any objection to it, could there? Now, just what +would I take? I wonder if her patches are in here--and her things. + + [_They look in the sewing basket._] + +MRS. HALE. Here's some red. I expect this has got sewing things in it. +[_Brings out a fancy box._] What a pretty box. Looks like something +somebody would give you. Maybe her scissors are in here. [_Opens box. +Suddenly puts her hand to her nose._] Why--[_Mrs. Peters bends nearer, +then turns her face away._] There's something wrapped up in this piece +of silk. + +MRS. PETERS. Why, this isn't her scissors. + +MRS. HALE [_lifting the silk_]. Oh, Mrs. Peters--it's-- + + [_Mrs. Peters bends closer._] + +MRS. PETERS. It's the bird. + +MRS. HALE [_jumping up_]. But, Mrs. Peters--look at it. Its neck! Look +at its neck! It's all--other side _to_. + +MRS. PETERS. Somebody--wrung--its neck. + + [_Their eyes met. A look of growing comprehension of horror. Steps + are heard outside. Mrs. Hale slips box under quilt pieces, and + sinks into her chair. Enter Sheriff and County Attorney. Mrs. + Peters rises._] + +COUNTY ATTORNEY [_as one turning from serious things to little +pleasantries_]. Well, ladies, have you decided whether she was going to +quilt it or knot it? + +MRS. PETERS. We think she was going to--knot it. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. Well, that's interesting, I'm sure. [_Seeing the +bird-cage._] Has the bird flown? + +MRS. HALE [_putting more quilt pieces over the box_]. We think the--cat +got it. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY [_preoccupied_]. Is there a cat? + + [_Mrs. Hale glances in a quick covert way at Mrs. Peters._] + +MRS. PETERS. Well, not now. They're superstitious, you know. They leave. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY [_to Sheriff Peters, continuing an interrupted +conversation_]. No sign at all of any one having come from the outside. +Their own rope. Now let's go up again and go over it piece by piece. +[_They start upstairs._] It would have to have been some one who knew +just the---- + + [_Mrs. Peters sits down. The two women sit there not looking at + one another, but as if peering into something and at the same time + holding back. When they talk now it is in the manner of feeling + their way over strange ground, as if afraid of what they are + saying, but as if they can not help saying it._] + +MRS. HALE. She liked the bird. She was going to bury it in that pretty +box. + +MRS. PETERS [_in a whisper_]. When I was a girl--my kitten--there was a +boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes--and before I could get +there----[_Covers her face an instant._] If they hadn't held me back I +would have--[_Catches herself, looks upstairs where steps are heard, +falters weakly_]--hurt him. + +MRS. HALE [_with a slow look around her_]. I wonder how it would seem +never to have had any children around. [_Pause._] No, Wright wouldn't +like the bird--a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that, too. + +MRS. PETERS [_moving uneasily_]. We don't know who killed the bird. + +MRS. HALE. I knew John Wright. + +MRS. PETERS. It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, +Mrs. Hale. Killing a man while he slept, slipping a rope around his neck +that choked the life out of him. + +MRS. HALE. His neck. Choked the life out of him. + + [_Her hand goes out and rests on the bird-cage._] + +MRS. PETERS [_with rising voice_]. We don't know who killed him. We +don't _know_. + +MRS. HALE [_her own feeling not interrupted_]. If there'd been years and +years of nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful--still, +after the bird was still. + +MRS. PETERS [_something within her speaking_]. I know what stillness is. +When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died--after he was two +years old, and me with no other then---- + +MRS. HALE [_moving_]. How soon do you suppose they'll be through, +looking for the evidence? + +MRS. PETERS. I know what stillness is. [_Pulling herself back._] The law +has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale. + +MRS. HALE [_not as if answering that_]. I wish you'd seen Minnie Foster +when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons and stood up there in the +choir and sang. [_A look around the room._] Oh, I _wish_ I'd come over +here once in a while? That was a crime! That was a crime! Who's going to +punish that? + +MRS. PETERS [_looking upstairs_]. We mustn't--take on. + +MRS. HALE. I might have known she needed help! I know how things can +be--for women. I tell you, it's queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close +together and we live far apart. We all go through the same things--it's +all just a different kind of the same thing. [_Brushes her eyes, +noticing the bottle of fruit, reaches out for it._] If I was you I +wouldn't tell her her fruit was gone. Tell her it _ain't_. Tell her it's +all right. Take this in to prove it to her. She--she may never know +whether it was broke or not. + +MRS. PETERS [_takes the bottle, looks about for something to wrap it in; +takes petticoat from the clothes brought from the other room, very +nervously begins winding this around the bottle. In a false voice_]. My, +it's a good thing the men couldn't hear us. Wouldn't they just laugh! +Getting all stirred up over a little thing like a--dead canary. As if +that could have anything to do with--with--wouldn't they _laugh_! + + [_The men are heard coming down stairs._] + +MRS. HALE [_under her breath_]. Maybe they would--maybe they wouldn't. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. No, Peters, it's all perfectly clear except a reason +for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was +some definite thing. Something to show--something to make a story +about--a thing that would connect up with this strange way of doing it. + + [_The women's eyes meet for an instant. Enter Hale from outer + door._] + +HALE. Well, I've got the team around. Pretty cold out there. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. I'm going to stay here a while by myself. [_To the +Sheriff._] You can send Frank out for me, can't you? I want to go over +everything. I'm not satisfied that we can't do better. + +SHERIFF. Do you want to see what Mrs. Peters is going to take in? + + [_The Lawyer goes to the table, picks up the apron, laughs._] + +COUNTY ATTORNEY. Oh, I guess they're not very dangerous things the +ladies have picked out. [_Moves a few things about, disturbing the quilt +pieces which cover the box. Steps back._] No, Mrs. Peters doesn't need +supervising. For that matter, a sheriff's wife is married to the law. +Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters? + +MRS. PETERS. Not--just that way. + +SHERIFF [_chuckling_]. Married to the law. [_Moves toward the other +room._] I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to +take a look at these windows. + +COUNTY ATTORNEY [_scoffingly_]. Oh, windows! + +SHERIFF. We'll be right out, Mr. Hale. + + [_Hale goes outside. The Sheriff follows the County Attorney into + the other room. Then Mrs. Hale rises, hands tight together, + looking intensely at Mrs. Peters, whose eyes make a slow turn, + finally meeting Mrs. Hale's. A moment Mrs. Hale holds her, then + her own eyes point the way to where the box is concealed. Suddenly + Mrs. Peters throws back quilt pieces and tries to put the box in + the bag she is wearing. It is too big. She opens box, starts to + take bird out, cannot touch it, goes to pieces, stands there + helpless. Sound of a knob turning in the other room. Mrs. Hale + snatches the box and puts it in the pocket of her big coat. Enter + County Attorney and Sheriff._ + +COUNTY ATTORNEY [_facetiously_]. Well, Henry, at least we found out that +she was not going to quilt it. She was going to--what is it you call it, +ladies? + +MRS. HALE [_her hand against her pocket_]. We call it--knot it, Mr. +Henderson. + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE POT BOILER + + A SATIRE + + BY ALICE GERSTENBERG + + + Copyright, 1916, by Alice Gerstenberg. + All rights reserved. + + + THE POT BOILER was first produced by the Players' Workshop, Chicago, + Ill., on the night of November 20th, 1916, with the following cast: + + THOMAS PINIKLES SUD [_the playwright_] _William Ziegler Nourse_. + WOULDBY [_the novice_] _Morton Howard, Jr_. + MR. IVORY [_the financier_] _Henry Ryan_. + MR. RULER [_the hero_] _Donovan Yeuell_. + MISS IVORY [_the heroine_] _Caroline Kohl_. + MR. INKWELL [_the villain_] _H. C. Swartz_. + MRS. PENCIL [_the woman_] _Anna Buxton_. + + + THE POT BOILER is published for the first time. The editors are + indebted to Miss Gerstenberg for permission to include it in this + volume. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are + strictly reserved by the author. Applications from amateurs to + produce the play should be addressed to Norman Lee Swartout, + 24 Blackburn Road, Summit, N. J. Professionals should address + Miss Alice Gerstenberg, 539 Deming Place, Chicago, Ill. + + + +THE POT BOILER + +A SATIRE BY ALICE GERSTENBERG + + + [SCENE: _A stage only half set for a morning rehearsal and dimly + lighted. Sud, a successful playwright, enters in a hurry carrying + a leather bag of manuscripts._] + + +STAGE HAND. Good morning, Mr. Sud. + +SUD. Good morning, Gus. Just set two doors; that'll be all I'll need +this morning. We're rehearsing for lines. [_Steps down stage and calls +front._] Joe, I'm expecting a young man, it's all right, let him in. + +WOULDBY [_from auditorium back_]. I'm here now, Mr. Sud. + +SUD. Come up, Mr. Wouldby. Some more border lights, please. + +WOULDBY. It's very good of you to let me in. + +SUD. I was fond of your father. I am glad to see his son. + +WOULDBY. I have written a play, too. + +SUD. Too bad, too bad, you make the price of paper go up. + +WOULDBY. It must be wonderful to be the master playwright of our day. +Everybody knows Mr. Thomas Pinikles Sud. + +SUD [_setting stage_]. Yes, it is a privilege to be a friend of mine! + +WOULDBY [_pursuing Sud_]. Will you read my manuscript, sir? + +SUD. Never roll a manuscript. I see very well you don't even know the +first principles. + +WOULDBY. How can I learn the first principles? No one will tell me. + +SUD. Wait, I will do a great thing for you, let you stay and see a dress +rehearsal of my latest play, "The Pot Boiler." In it I have used all +dramatic principles. + +WOULDBY. What are they? + +SUD. Well, for instance, this pencil is the woman in the case. + +WOULDBY. Pencil! + +SUD. This inkwell is the villain, although that's really too dark for +him. Deep-eyed villains are out of fashion. + +WOULDBY. Inkwell! + +SUD. The heroine is Miss Ivory paper cutter. + +WOULDBY. Ivory! + +SUD. Mr. Ruler is the hero. + +WOULDBY. Ruler! + + [_Other characters enter from stage door._] + +SUD. I haven't finished writing it, but we're going through it this +morning as far as I have written, then I shall see how to go on. Here +are the players now. Line up, please, and let me see your costumes. [_He +studies them._] Now to work--[_Rubbing his hands._] to work--clear the +stage! + + [_Mrs. Pencil and Ruler go out left; Mr. and Miss Ivory and + Inkwell go out right and close the door._] + +SUD. Mr. Wouldby, if you sit down here with me, we'll be out of the way. +[_Sud and Wouldby sit on two stools way down right._] You must imagine +that this room is the library in Mr. Ivory's house. [_Sud claps his +hands and calls._] Ready. + + [_There is a pause, then the door up left opens and Mrs. Pencil + comes in; her pantomime is as Sud explains it to Wouldby._] + +SUD [_in stage whisper to Wouldby_]. The adventuress--she comes in--she +has been cut--she is worried--that nervous twitching of lips and +narrowing of eyes are always full of suspense--she takes off her gloves, +her hat--that's good business. A door opens--she starts--by starting she +shows you she is guilty of something-- + +MISS IVORY [_without hat or gloves enters from right_]. Oh, there you +are, Mrs. Pencil. + +MRS. PENCIL. Yes, I'm back. + +MISS IVORY. I thought I should have to drink my tea without you. + + [_They sit down to tea--Miss Ivory back of table center. Mrs. + Pencil left of table._] + +SUD [_in stage whisper to Wouldby_]. That tells the audience what time +of the day it is; besides, drinking afternoon tea shows Miss Ivory is in +society. + +MRS. PENCIL. Isn't your father going to join us? + +SUD [_aside_]. That's merely to show the girl has a father. + +MISS IVORY. No, he is talking business with Mr. Inkwell. + +MRS. PENCIL [_starting_]. Inkwell! + +MISS IVORY. Yes, do you know him? + +MRS. PENCIL [_evasively_]. I? Oh--no. + +MISS IVORY. You've heard of him? + +MRS. PENCIL. Yes--of course---- + +SUD [_aside_]. Do you catch it? Do you see how her nervousness and her +few words at once suggest that there is a link between Mrs. Pencil and +Inkwell? That's where I show my technique. + +WOULDBY [_scratching his head_]. Technique! How can I learn it? + +SUD. It is the secret that every playwright locks in his breast. Keep +the young ones out! _Mum_ is the word! + +MISS IVORY. I am so sorry father has all this trouble with the +brick-layers. They shouldn't have gone on a strike--just now--when you +are visiting us. + +SUD [_to Wouldby_]. That tells that Mrs. Pencil is a guest in Miss +Ivory's house. + +MISS IVORY. When you were here last year my mother---- + +SUD [_aside_]. The girl hesitates--they both look sorrowful; we had to +cut down the cast, so I killed off her mother. + +MRS. PENCIL [_sadly, with foreign accent_]. Ah, my dear--we were such +close friends--since my arrival in this country---- + +SUD [_aside_]. You see, I had to make her a foreigner. A villainess +always talks with a foreign accent. + +MRS. PENCIL. I haven't had much time to read particulars about the +strike. Does your father still refuse to arbitrate? + +MISS IVORY [_haughtily_]. What right have brick-layers to make rules for +my father? He would show his weakness if he gave in--I have faith that +what he does is right. + +SUD [_to Wouldby_]. The innocent heroine, so cool and pure and white. + + [_The right door opens and Inkwell enters--he starts as he sees + Mrs. Pencil; there is a straight look of recognition between them + which Miss Ivory does not see._] + +SUD [_aside_]. That's a dramatic scene. Doesn't it thrill your spine? + +MISS IVORY. Mrs. Pencil, may I introduce Mr. Inkwell--[_Inkwell and Mrs. +Pencil bow slightly._] Will you have a dish of tea? + +SUD. Cup, cup of tea. + +MISS IVORY. Dish; _dish_ of tea, or I quit. [_Pause._] Which is it? + +SUD. Oh, very well, dish if you like. + + [_Sud's manner indicates he gives in simply to let the rehearsal + progress, but that he will settle with Miss Ivory later._] + +MISS IVORY. Please tell me that you have ordered the strikers to come to +father's terms? + +MR. INKWELL [_at right of table_]. He is looking through his safe for +more papers so he asked me to wait in here. + +SUD. That's an explanation why he came in. + +MISS IVORY [_offering cup_]. How many lumps? + +SUD [_aside_]. That question of the number of lumps is very important; +it gives a natural air to the scene. + +MISS IVORY. I am going to the dining-room to get some arrack for your +tea. + +MR. INKWELL [_nervously_]. Oh, please don't trouble---- + +MISS IVORY. No trouble at all. + + [_Exit right._] + +SUD. When you want to get a character out, you've got to get 'em out. + +MR. INKWELL [_at right of table, to Mrs. Pencil_]. You here! + +MRS. PENCIL [_at left of table_]. Sch! I had to come! I couldn't live +without you any longer---- + +INKWELL. But in this house? + +MRS. PENCIL. I was her mother's friend. + +INKWELL. You are indiscreet---- + +MRS. PENCIL. I was desperate for you! You kept putting me off--when I +read about this strike I had to come. + +SUD. Mrs. Pencil is the dreadful woman! A play can't exist without +her---- + +WOULDBY. You mean she was his---- + +SUD [_seriously_]. Oh, yes--the more fuss we make about her the better. + +MRS. PENCIL. Oh! Clem! You aren't glad to see me! Oh! that I have lived +for this!!! + + [_She tears around the stage waving her hands in grief--making + faces of agony. Sud rises in astonishment and follows her left._] + +SUD [_shrieks in anger_]. Idiot! Can't you talk! Do you think I write +lines to be cut? How dare you cut my lines!!! + +MRS. PENCIL. I've done just what it says. [_She takes her part from +table, reads from it and shows it to him._] "Mrs. Pencil shows extreme +despair and passionately----" + +SUD. That's not the play! That's the moving picture version!!! Come +here. + + [_He fumbles with his papers. Takes blue pencil to her part, + changes his mind and uses red pencil--and puts them back of + different ears._] + +WOULDBY. Oh! Have you the same play ready for the movies? + +SUD. I write in columns--alongside of each other. Dramatic version, +moving picture, novelization--for magazines--newspapers and books. + +WOULDBY. All _at once_! + +SUD. Yes! + +WOULDBY. What are all the pins for? + +SUD. When I cut out a line one place--I keep it until I find a place +somewhere else to patch it in. + + [_Hands new lines to Mrs. Pencil, who is back of table center._] + +WOULDBY. A great playwright has to be economical with his great ideas! + +SUD. Yes, if he wants a yacht. + +MRS. PENCIL [_studying her book_]. Now I see, now I see--Mr. Sud. Shall +I go on? + +SUD. Yes, go on! + + [_Sud comes down right to Wouldby._] + +MRS. PENCIL. Oh! Clem--I was so frightened when I heard about the +strikers. Even if you are their leader now, they might turn and murder +you. + + [_Mrs. Pencil and Inkwell play center, front of table._] + +INKWELL. Nonsense, I control the strikers, they come to me for orders. +I'll stop this strike as soon as old Ivory gives me my price. + +MRS. PENCIL. What do the brick-layers want? + +INKWELL. They want shorter hours, more pay, better light--better air---- + + [_Inkwell stops and looks at Sud._] + +SUD. Go on--go on--don't glare at me! + +INKWELL. Pardon me, Mr. Sud--but you have me say the brick-layers want +better air. It doesn't sound right. You see brick-layers work out of +doors and the air there is--I beg your pardon--it's in no way of +criticism, sir---- + +SUD. Come here. [_He cuts the line, using wrong colored pencil first._] +Leave out "light and air." That's a confusion from bad typing in the +serial version. Go on, Mr. Inkwell. + +INKWELL [_sits right of table and Mrs. Pencil left_]. See here, Kate, +you keep out of this business--I'm not going to be spied on by any +woman. + +MRS. PENCIL [_in whisper_]. Who is spying on you? + +INKWELL [_in whisper_]. You!! + +MRS. PENCIL. I? + +SUD [_smacks his lips_]. Now we are coming to a big scene! There is +nothing so effective as the repetition of the same words brought up to a +climax. Begin again, Mrs. Pencil. "Who is spying on you?" + +MRS. PENCIL. Who is spying on you? + +INKWELL. You! + +MRS. PENCIL. I? + +INKWELL. You! + +MRS. PENCIL. I? + +INKWELL. You! + +MRS. PENCIL. I? + +SUD [_tearing his hair--going to them_]. Parrots! Nothing but parrots! +Increase the stress--build up the scene--build--build! + +INKWELL. How can we build when you don't give us any lines? + +SUD. What do you call yourselves actors for if you can't supply acting +when the playwright uses dashes!--This is the biggest scene in the play. +[_Crosses to lower left._] The very fact that I don't give you a lot of +literary lines puts me in the class of the most forceful dramatists of +the day! My plays are not wishy-washy lines! They are full of +action--red-blood--of flesh and blood! Now you do _your_ part--bing-bang +stuff!--shake them in their chairs out there--make shivers run up their +spines! Make 'em _feel_ you! Compel their applause! Now go to _it!_ Go +to it!!! + + [_Sud sets the tempo, repeating their words._] + +INKWELL. You! + +MRS. PENCIL. I? + +INKWELL. You! + +MRS. PENCIL. I? + +SUD [_shouts_]. Get it over! Get it over! + +INKWELL. You! + +MRS. PENCIL. I? + +SUD [_shouts_]. Get it over! Mr. Wouldby, is it getting over? + +WOULDBY [_looks at footlights_]. I don't see anything get over. + +SUD. He doesn't see it! You hear? He doesn't see it! Begin again! And +please, please, please--get it over--over!! + + [_He motions violently with his arms during following scene as if + to help them raise the vitality of the scene. Sud sets tempo + again._] + +MRS. PENCIL. Who is spying on you? + +INKWELL. You! + +MRS. PENCIL. I? + +INKWELL. You!! + +MRS. PENCIL. I?? + +INKWELL. You!!! + +MRS. PENCIL. I??? + +INKWELL. You!!!!! + +MRS. PENCIL. I?????? + +INKWELL [_fiercely_]. You!!!!!!! + +MRS. PENCIL. I??????? + +INKWELL. What do you call it then, coming here after me like this? + +MRS. PENCIL. What do you mean--like this? + +SUD [_shrieks--beside himself_]. Like what? + +MRS. PENCIL. Like this? + +SUD. Accent it--stress it--increase it! Like _what_? + +MRS. PENCIL. Like this! + +SUD. Like what? + +MRS. PENCIL. Like this! + +SUD [_rushes around circuit of stage and ends near Wouldby_]. The best +scene in the play--ruined--ruined! I'm noted for my strong, laconic +scenes and you make me suffer like this. Perfectly hopeless--I say +increase--you decrease; nothing but animal sounds! Nothing but a +machine! Oh! What's the use! Go on, go on--now you see, Mr. Wouldby, how +actors can make plays fail-- + +MRS. PENCIL. If you'd write us a decent play once we might-- + +SUD. No back-talk, madam! I haven't engaged you yet. If you can't play +it any better, I'll let you out! Show us what you can do with the rest +of the scene! By Heaven--if you can't pound his chest right the box +office will lose money on you! + +WOULDBY [_his eyes popping_]. Oh! Must she pound him? + +SUD. Seeing a woman pounding a man's chest and hearing her scream is +worth two dollars to anybody. Go on, Mrs. Pencil. + +MRS. PENCIL. You are keeping something from me? You have deceived me! +You dog! Tell me! Tell me! Who is she? Where is she? You are keeping +something from me! + + [_She pounds Inkwell in a rage._] + +WOULDBY [_in innocent wonderment_]. Is she trying to yank it out of his +chest? + +SUD. Pound! Pound! Get it over! [_Sud rushes back between Mrs. Pencil +and Inkwell, pushes her down left, drags Inkwell to center, grasps his +coat lapel, shakes him violently and shouts her lines: "You are keeping +something from me." and pushes Inkwell to right. Sud turns quickly to +left and shows her his manuscript._] I wrote "applause" here. You've got +to get applause here--so pound! + +INKWELL. Would you mind skipping the scene to-day? I'll wear a foot-ball +suit to-morrow. + +SUD [_in scorn_]. Just like an actor to have a personal prejudice +against a part. + +INKWELL. I'm not "suited" to it yet--but with the proper costume-- + +SUD [_in scorn_]. You must not rely on costume! Think of your art! + +WOULDBY. But why must she pound him so hard? + +SUD [_down left_]. Because he is the villain and the audience likes to +see him get it. + +MRS. PENCIL [_at right and Inkwell to her left_]. Who is she? You are +keeping something from me! + +WOULDBY. What has he done to make him the villain? + +SUD. I didn't want an explanation here, so I had to interrupt +them--sch--here comes Miss Ivory. + + [_Miss Ivory enters._] + +SUD. Such interruptions reek with dramatic intensity. + +MISS IVORY. Here is the arrack for you, Mr. Inkwell-- + +INKWELL [_accepting it_]. Thank you. + +MRS. PENCIL [_nervously_]. I think I'll take my hat to my room-- + + [_Inkwell gives her her hat. She goes out._] + +SUD [_aside_]. Not a bad excuse, the hat! Eh? I had to get her out. + +WOULDBY. Very natural--yes--indeed-- + +MISS IVORY [_seated at right of table. Inkwell stands back of +table--center_]. Well, Mr. Inkwell, I hope we may yet succeed in +claiming you as a friend--instead of coddling you as an enemy. + +INKWELL. If you treat all your enemies so well--what must you do for +your friends? + +MISS IVORY. We abuse those we love. + +SUD [_nudging Wouldby--aside_]. Quite epigrammatic, eh? + +INKWELL. Even abuse at such fair hands could only please. + +SUD [_aside_]. Did you catch the subtlety of that line? + +MISS IVORY [_nervously_]. Wi--wi--will you have some more tea? + +INKWELL [_coming left of table--to be opposite her--catching her hand._] +I don't want tea--I want you! I love you! + +SUD. Wait a moment! That's too abrupt! I've some more lines here +somewhere. [_Looks through slips pinned in manuscript._] I cut some out +of the beginning of the act. When the first curtain went up and the maid +was discovered dusting the room I had the Irish butler make love to her. +[_To Wouldby._] [_Handing Inkwell a paragraph._] There, Inkwell, are the +love lines I was looking for. Proceed, please. + +MISS IVORY. Shall I go back? + +INKWELL. To tea. + +MISS IVORY. Wi--will--will you have some m--more--t--tea? + +INKWELL [_catching her hand and bringing her forward, he gives speech +with Irish accent_]. I don't want tea--I want you! I love you! Oh! My +darlint, it is a terrible sensation I'ave for you, I'ave--'and me your +little 'and in moine, for the loikes of you I never--[_As all look dazed +and Inkwell has trouble twisting his tongue._] I beg pardon, Mr. Sud, +but this is a butler making love--I am playing the part of a gentleman-- + +SUD [_has dropped from his stool and retired in tears and rage up +right_]. Haven't you any brains of your own? If a musician can transpose +music by sight, can't you do the same to dialogue? + +INKWELL. But a gentleman doesn't make love like a-- + +SUD [_goes up stage again--ends at his stool by Wouldby_]. He means the +same--now go on--I can't stand these arguments. They will give me +apoplexy! + +MISS IVORY. Oh! Come on, Robert, say anything. + + [_They sit at table again._] + +INKWELL. Ahem! + +MISS IVORY. Wi--wi--will you have some more t--tea? + +INKWELL. I don't want tea! I want you! I love you! Oh! My darling--it is +a wonderful feeling--this one--that--which I have for you--indeed--that +one which I have for you--put your hand in mine--for a woman like you +never before fr--fr--never before have I seen a woman such as you-- + + [_Again he has brought Miss Ivory down center._] + +SUD. My stars! Leave out the h's. That--which--such!--Get it clear for +to-morrow's rehearsal. + +INKWELL [_puts paragraph in his pocket--hesitatingly, doubtfully, +sarcastically_]. I ought to have my name on the program as co-author. + + [_Exit left._] + +SUD [_jumps forward_]. You ought to have it cut out of the program when +you forget to act! [_Raps on floor and cries out._] Mr. Ruler--Mr. +Ruler--Pay some attention to your cues, please!-- + + [_Sud goes off stage center over bridge into pit._] + +RULER [_pokes head in from left_]. Beg pardon, sir--I didn't hear my +cue! + +SUD [_at right of center_]. It's your business to listen for it. + +RULER. But they didn't give me the cue! + +SUD. Well, what is your cue? + +RULER [_not seen_]. What is it? + +SUD. I asked you what your cue was? + +RULER [_appears_]. What is it? + +SUD. Is your hearing perfectly clear? + +RULER. Perfectly. + +SUD. Then will you kindly tell me what your cue is? + +RULER. What is it? + +SUD. I shall go mad! I'm dealing with lunatics! Lunatics--Once again I +ask you, Mr. Ruler--if you can _hear_--[_Yells._] Kindly read from your +book and tell me what your cue is-- + +RULER [_yells furiously and is now down stage_]. I've been trying to +tell you my cue is "WHAT IS IT!" + + [_During this scene all the other players come in to see the fight + and grin._] + +SUD [_wipes perspiration from brow_]. Heart disease! Heart disease--I +shall die of it! That line was cut long ago!!! [_Sud walks back and +forth across the pit._] The trouble with you actors is you can't forget. +Oh! If you could only forget! + +WOULDBY [_meekly_]. I always thought actors had to remember. + +SUD. Any fool can remember-- + +RULER. See here, Mr. Sud--I don't take abuse! In fact, it's my first +experience taking it from authors. In all the other companies I've been +in the manager kept the playwright out. He wouldn't have him meddling +about! + + [_Sud stops short during this speech--turns--straightens up--buttons + coat--adjusts tie--faces Ruler._] + +SUD. Mr. Ruler, I am backing the show. I haven't engaged you because you +can act, but because you were born good-looking, which is scarcely a +compliment to your own efforts. [_Other players retire now laughing at +Ruler._] If you please we will proceed. I'll find a line here somewhere +in my treasure note books. + + [_He goes upstairs and stands near border lights aside to hunt + through many books he has in his pockets. Ruler sits left of table + to rest and smoke. Mr. Ivory and Mrs. Pencil play cards out of + character up stage._] + +MISS IVORY [_talks out of character and gets light from Ruler for her +cigarette_]. Did you see the advance notices in the paper this morning, +Jack--saying the Pot-Boiler is sold out three weeks in advance? + +RULER. Bill told me there's a steady line outside of the box office. + +MISS IVORY. I have visions of rehearsing all night outside the night +before the opening. + +RULER. I'm used to doing that, my dear. What gets me is the story of the +plot the Sunday edition printed. How can the newspaper know the plot +before the playwright does? + +MISS IVORY. Doesn't Mr. Sud know his own plot? + +RULER. Why! No, my part's not written after the second act. + +MISS IVORY. My part isn't either, but it doesn't worry me. These +authors--[_She points to her forehead._] I don't memorize until dress +rehearsal night. What's the _use_. _They don't know themselves_ by that +time what lines they told you to keep in or put in or take out. The next +morning the critics re-write it _anyway_ for the manager--_I_ don't +begin to memorize really--until we're settled for a _run_. + +RULER [_worried_]. You'll throw me all out if you give wrong cues-- + +MISS IVORY [_rises and strolls about_]. Oh! When I can't use my tongue, +I let my eyes talk. The public doesn't know the difference. _I_ don't +have to act, just be myself. They engage _me_ for my _eyes_. + +SUD. Ah! Here's a precious line [_Goes up to Ruler._], take it down, Mr. +Ruler. "I was in the neighborhood looking for some real estate." [_All +the players suppress a laugh._] Now, Mr. Ruler, you enter in time--[_Sud +goes down the stairs again._] You enter in time to interrupt Mr. +Inkwell's declaration of love to Miss Ivory. They spring apart--spring! +Mr. Inkwell! [_Inkwell springs._] No, the house is not on fire!--I +didn't say jump. + +INKWELL. Spring is the same as jump! + + [_Ruler enters from left. Inkwell goes right, Miss Ivory comes + center._] + +SUD. There is no time to discuss synonyms. Go on, Miss Ivory. + +MISS IVORY. Oh! Jack--hello!--where'd _you_ come from? + +RULER. I was in the neighborhood looking at some real estate--Hello, +Inkwell--how's the strike? + + [_Miss Ivory and Ruler cross to give Ruler the center._] + +INKWELL. If you could persuade Mr. Ivory to-- + +RULER. No--Inkwell--I'm not converted to your view! I have my own +theories! + +SUD [_at left speaks across in delight to Wouldby_]. Now we are coming +to the kernel of the play's success. The new viewpoint--Use all the +stock character and situations you want, but add a new twist. + +WOULDBY. What does Ruler think? + +SUD. Listen. + +RULER. I believe sternly in justice--righteous expiation of sin--only in +that way can we progress to higher things. + +SUD. Forms, not things. + +RULER. Beg pardon, forms--the position I hold to-day is the result of my +desires in my previous life--when the trumpet calls me into the +next--there I shall reap the harvest of what I have sown here. Why +should we help the brick-layers? + + [_Miss Ivory interrupts, "Mr. Sud."_] + +SUD [_waves her silent_]. Sch! + +RULER. If they chose in their past life to be born brick-layers here, +have we the right-- + + [_Miss Ivory interrupts several times. Miss Ivory is on stage + left._] + +SUD. Sch!! + +RULER. I ask you--have we the right to tear down the building they +designed when they were here before? Have we the right to say to them +how they shall lay the bricks in the foundation for their next life? +Have we the right-- + +MISS IVORY. Mr. Sudd!!! + +SUD [_at last in desperation_]. Well, what is it, Miss Ivory? + +MISS IVORY. Excuse me, Mr. Sud--but all this time--while Ruler is +talking--I don't know what to do with my _hands_! Couldn't you _cut_ his +lines? + +RULER. I protest! Mr. Sud, I would resent having a part shortened on me +because the leading lady doesn't know what to do with her hands. I +really think in this speech of mine you have shown your talent. To cut +one word of it would do you a great injustice! + +SUD [_smiles at Ruler_]. Thank you! Quite so! Quite so! Miss Ivory, +during this scene you might be--you might be--be--fanning yourself--to +keep yourself the heroine, cool and white. + +WOULDBY. How well you understand human nature. The play is really more +important than the players--isn't it? + +SUD [_aside. Goes back on stage and sits next to Wouldby_]. Of course, +but actors are so superbly conceited. + +WOULDBY. I know--poor things! + +SUD. Mr. Ivory's entrance. + +WOULDBY. The girl's father? + +IVORY [_enters_]. I could not find the papers in the safe, Inkwell. +Ah--how-do-you-do, Jack. + + POSITIONS + + _Inkwell_ _Miss Ivory_ + _Mr. Ivory_ _Ruler_ + + [_Ivory has crossed to Ruler and is between Miss Ivory and Ruler._] + +RULER. Good morning, Mr. Ivory. + +IVORY. Daughter, dear--do you know anything about the papers in the +safe? + +SUD. Keep up the suspense--Inkwell. + +INKWELL. I have no lines here. + +SUD. A villain should sustain the suggestion of villainy whether he has +lines or not. Look uneasy--tremble-- + + [_Inkwell looks uneasy and trembles._] + +IVORY. But if I see him tremble, Mr. Sud, wouldn't I ask him if he had a +chill? + +SUD. It's not your business to be looking his way just then. Again, +Inkwell. + + [_Inkwell trembles, etc._] + +SUD [_yells to Ivory_]. Don't catch his eye! + +IVORY [_to Inkwell_]. Will you tremble again please? + + [_Inkwell does so patiently._] + +SUD. Count five for the tremble. Again please, "Daughter dear, do you +know anything about the papers in the safe?" + +IVORY. Daughter, dear, do you know anything about the papers in the +safe? + +SUD [_excitedly_]. Everybody look away. Tremble, Inkwell--Now, Inkwell, +count five--now look at Inkwell--Again, please. + +IVORY. Daughter, dear, do you know anything about the papers in the +safe? + +SUD [_claps his hands_]. One--two--three--four--five-- + +IVORY. Those valuable papers! + +SUD. That's it, go ahead! + +MISS IVORY. I don't even know the combination, father. Could they have +been stolen? + +WOULDBY. Did Inkwell really take them? + +SUD. He's the villain, isn't he? I couldn't let the hero do it. + +IVORY. What shall I do? Where shall I look? Where, oh where? + + [_Ivory goes up stage back of Miss Ivory to table and knocks off a + revolver._] + +MISS IVORY. Oh! Revolvers! + +RULER. Let me, sir. [_Picks them up._] + +MISS IVORY [_in terror_]. Where did they come from? + +WOULDBY [_hands to ears_]. Are they going to use them? + +SUD. Of course. I had to show the audience the revolvers are there, so +Ivory had to knock them down. + +IVORY [_is up stage. Places one revolver on table_]. I have to have +these near by when a strike is on, one never knows what to expect. + +RULER [_places other revolver on table_]. Even I have one in my pocket. + +INKWELL [_slaps his side pocket_]. And I in mine-- + +MISS IVORY. Oh! dear, how dreadful! Suppose one of them should go off! +Oh! Do be careful! + +INKWELL [_insinuatingly_]. Have you changed your mind, Mr. Ivory? Have +you decided to accept my proposition? + +MISS IVORY. What is your proposition, Mr. Inkwell? + +INKWELL [_goes left to Ruler_]. I believe your father wishes to discuss +it with you. Mr. Ruler, will you have a smoke with me in the orangerie? + +SUD [_corrects him with great disgust_]. Orangerie!!! + + [_Inkwell and Ruler exeunt right._] + +MISS IVORY [_crosses right--anxiously_]. What does he want to know-- + +IVORY [_almost breaking down. Sinks into chair left of table_]. Oh! My +daughter--how can I tell you--how can I--I am ruined--ruined! + + [_Sud rises, and beats time in rhythm like a conductor to their + "Ohs."_] + +MISS IVORY [_a little up and left of table_]. _You_--_ruined_--_Oh!_-- + +IVORY. Oh! + +MISS IVORY. Oh! + +SUD [_turning to Wouldby and whispering audibly_]. When you are hard up +for conversation use Oh's-- + + [_Sits quickly._] + +IVORY. We have lived beyond our means--Oh!--my child--I have only +brought you misery-- + +MISS IVORY [_goes to father, stands back of his chair and caresses +him_]. Poor father--don't take it that way--I _love_ you--we must live +differently--anything you say-- + +WOULDBY [_to Sud_]. How sweet and sacrificial! + +SUD [_enthusiastically_]. Ah! She's pure Ivory--a chip off the old +block! + +IVORY. That is not all. Inkwell represents the brick-layers; he will +continue the strike unless I can buy him off. + + [_Sud goes up right, to be behind them. Faces them. Follows every + line in his manuscript._] + +MISS IVORY. And you can't raise the money? + +IVORY. He doesn't want money. He wants to marry you! He will stop at +nothing to get me into prison--any place to crush me--he has power. I +have cause to fear him. + + [_Ivory at right._] + +MISS IVORY [_at left. In distress_]. Oh! Oh!--How terrible--how +terrible--what am I to say! Oh--father--and I can save you? And I +hesitate? Yes--yes--I will--father! + + [_Rushes to Ivory's arms._] + +IVORY. Oh! My daughter! My child! My child! + +MISS IVORY. Yes, father, I will, cost me what it may. I will. + + [_She reads last line flatly._] + +SUD. Miss Ivory! Show some feeling! Think how you feel when you read +those lines! + +MISS IVORY. I know how I feel [_impudently. Then with some feeling._] +Yes, father, I will. Cost me what it may, I will, Mr. Inkwell! + +SUD. Abandonment, Miss Ivory--abandonment-- + +MISS IVORY [_nods intelligently_]. Mr. Inkwell! Mr. Ink--we--all--! + +IVORY [_rushing after Miss Ivory_]. Wait--think--consider-- + + [_Inkwell and Ruler enter right._] + +INKWELL [_takes her hand_]. Ah, My dear! + +IVORY [_with bowed head_]. Oh! + +RULER [_in alarm, to Miss Ivory_]. My dear--what is it? + +SUD. Now, there's your line of "what is it?" I tucked it in there. + +MISS IVORY [_goes left to Mr. Ruler. Ivory is up center. Inkwell is +right_]. I can't keep my promise to you--Mr. Ruler--please don't ask for +an explanation. + +RULER [_excited, rushing up to Mr. Ivory_]. What is it, Mr. Ivory? + +IVORY [_in despair, taking Ruler's arm for support_]. Oh--I--am +broken-hearted--she is going to marry Inkwell! + +RULER. No!--no!--not while I live! + +IVORY. It must be! Come with me--I'll tell you--alone! + +RULER. Not while I live! + +SUD [_excitedly_]. Mr. Ruler! Mr. Ruler! You go out too easily! Wait! I +remember a precious line I cut out of one of my last year's plays. It is +perfectly fresh! No novelty worn off and incontestably original! "I am +coming back." + +RULER [_deferentially Ruler writes the line_]. I am coming back--yes, +sir. I am coming back. + +SUD. There is no, "yes, sir," in it. + +RULER. No, sir. + +SUD. Do you wish to retire for a few minutes and commit to memory? +[_Ruler repeats the line._] Now that we are reaching the climax I want +as few interruptions and references to the book as possible-- + +RULER. I think I have it. [_All resume former positions. Sud climbs on +his stool._] Cue please, Mr. Ivory. + +IVORY [_drags Ruler across to go out right_]. Come with me--I'll tell +you!--alone! + +RULER. Not while I live! I am coming back! I am coming back!!!--I am +coming back! + + [_Exeunt Ivory and Ruler right. Sud tiptoes up center to make sure + Mrs. Pencil is ready for her cue._] + +INKWELL [_to Miss Ivory_]. Now that they have left us alone--my +darling--let me tell you how I have waited for this moment-- + +MISS IVORY [_in despair and tears she tries to rush by to right, but he +catches her_]. No, let me pass--now, now. I have said yes, let it go at +that--I cannot talk now--not now-- + + [_Exit right weeping._] + +MRS. PENCIL [_in fury of jealousy opens door and enters in rage_]. +Coward! Villain!--I have been listening behind that door--all your false +vows to me! + +INKWELL [_he tries to choke her_]. Don't yell so! + +MRS. PENCIL [_in ordinary tone_]. I will yell! + +SUD [_delighted_]. Of course, she will! Shriek good, Mrs. Pencil. + +MRS. PENCIL [_shrieks_]. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! + +INKWELL [_they struggle. Grabs Mrs. Pencil to put his hand over her +mouth_]. Stop--! Stop! + +SUD. Tussle! Tussle! The audience loves it! + + [_They fight._] + +WOULDBY. But what did Inkwell do? + +SUD [_talks fast over shoulder to Wouldby like a man in a fast auto +talks to another passing_]. Can't you tell. Haven't decided yet! +Explanation in last act. No time now. Reaching climax of play. Keep it +up! Keep it up! + +MRS. PENCIL [_yelling_]. Oh! The treachery--perjury--You are not fit to +live! I'll have my revenge--Revenge! Bing! Bang! [_She grabs revolver +from table and shoots Inkwell. He falls back and obligingly lies upon +the table._] I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! + +MISS IVORY [_having heard the shot and shrieks, runs in from the wing_]. +Oh--who's hurt? + +MRS. PENCIL [_turning and aiming revolver at Miss Ivory_]. Don't come +near him or I'll shoot you! + +RULER [_enters from right_]. What's the matter? + +MISS IVORY [_screams at Ruler_]. _Don't_ move or she'll shoot _you_. + +RULER [_taking a revolver out of his pocket aims it at Mrs. Pencil_]. +Harm her and I'll shoot _you_! + +INKWELL [_who has come to in the meantime, manages to get his own +revolver out of his pocket, he half raises himself from his lying +position on the table and aims at Ruler, crying hoarsely_]. You thought +you could be my rival--the girl said she would be mine! If you shoot the +woman she'll kill the girl. I'm going to save the girl. Shoot and I'll +kill _YOU_! + +MR. IVORY [_he enters from right and, hearing these desperate +words--takes revolver from his pocket and aims at Inkwell! Screams in +fear and rage_]. Stop! Save him or I'll shoot to kill! I'll shoot to +kill! I'll shoot to kill! + +WOULDBY [_thrilled and excited, cries out_]. Who shoots? + +SUD [_overcome with sudden realization, jumps up, grabs his forehead_]. +My God! It's a deadlock!!! I don't know who shoots! + +OTHERS. Oh! Shoot the _AUTHOR_!! + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +ENTER THE HERO + + A COMEDY + + BY THERESA HELBURN + + + + Copyright, 1916, by Theresa Helburn. + Copyright, 1918, by Egmont Arens. + + All rights reserved. + + + ENTER THE HERO was first produced in San Francisco by the St. Francis + Little Theater Players, on January 16th, 1918, with the following + cast: + + RUTH CAREY _Ruth Hammond_. + ANNE CAREY _Helene Sullivan_. + HAROLD LAWSON _Arthur Maitland_. + MRS. CAREY _Julia Deane_. + + + Reprinted from No. 4, of the "Flying Stag Plays," published by Egmont + Arens, by special permission of Miss Helburn. The professional and + amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. + Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to + Egmont Arens, 17 West 8th St., New York. + + + +ENTER THE HERO + +A COMEDY BY THERESA HELBURN + + + [_The scene presents an upstairs sitting room in a comfortable + house in a small city. The wall on the spectator's left is broken + by a fireplace, and beyond that a door leading into the hall. At + the back of the stage is a deep bay window from which one may have + a view up and down the street. A door in the right wall leads to + Anne Carey's bedroom. The sitting room, being Anne's particular + property, is femininely furnished in chintz. A table desk with + several drawers occupies an important place in the room, which is + conspicuously rich in flowers._ + + _The curtain rises on an empty stage. Ruth Carey, a pretty girl of + eighteen years, enters hurriedly, carrying a large box; she wears + a hat and coat._] + + +RUTH. Oh, Anne, here's _another_ box of flowers! Anne, where are you? + +VOICE FROM ANNE'S BEDROOM. In here. I thought you had gone out. + +RUTH [_opening door left_]. I was just going when the expressman left +these--and I wanted to see them. [_Looking into the bedroom._] Oh, how +pretty your dress is. Turn round. Just adorable! May I open these? + +THE VOICE. Yes, but hurry. It's late. + +RUTH [_throwing her sister a kiss_]. You dear! It's almost like having a +fiance of my own. Three boxes in two days! He's adorably extravagant. +Oh, Anne, exquisite white roses! Come, look! + + [_Anne Carey appears in the bedroom door. She is a girl of + twenty-two. Her manner in this scene shows nervousness and + suppressed excitement._] + +ANNE. Yes, lovely. Get a bowl, Ruth. Quickly. + +RUTH. I will. Here's a card. [_She hands Anne an envelope, goes to the +door, then stops._] What does he say, Anne? May I see? + + [_Anne, who has read the card quickly with a curious little smile, + hands it back to her without turning._] + +RUTH [_reading_]: + + "The red rose whispers of passion + And the white rose breathes of love; + Oh, the red rose is a falcon, + And the white rose is a dove. + + "But I send you a cream-white rosebud + With a flush on its petal tips, + For the love that is purest and sweetest + Has a kiss of desire on the lips. + +Oh, how beautiful! Did he make that up, do you suppose? I didn't know he +was a real poet. + +ANNE [_who has been pinning some of the roses on her dress_]. Any one in +love is a poet. + +RUTH. It's perfectly beautiful! [_She takes a pencil and little notebook +out of her pocket._] May I copy it in my "Harold Notebook"? + +ANNE. Your _what_? + +RUTH. I call it my "Harold Notebook." I've put down bits of his letters +that you read me, the lovely bits that are too beautiful to forget. Do +you mind? + +ANNE. You silly child! + +RUTH. Here, you may see it.... That's from the second letter he wrote +you from Rio Janeiro. I just couldn't get over that letter. You know I +made you read it to me three times. It was so--so delicate. I remembered +this passage--see. "A young girl seems to me as exquisite and frail as a +flower, and I feel myself a vandal in desiring to pluck and possess one. +Yet, Anne, your face is always before me, and I know now what I was too +stupid to realize before, that it was you and you only, who made life +bearable for me last winter when I was a stranger and alone." Oh, +Anne--[_Sighing rapturously._] that's the sort of love letters I've +dreamed of getting. I don't suppose I ever shall. + +ANNE. [_still looking over the notebook with her odd smile_]. Have you +shown this to any one? + +RUTH. Only to Caroline--in confidence. [_Pauses to see how Anne will +take it._] But really, Anne, every one knows about Harold. You've told +Madge and Eleanor, and I'm sure they've told the others. They don't say +anything to us, but they do to Caroline and she tells me. [_Watching +Anne's face._] You're not angry, are you, Anne? + +ANNE. Yes, rather. [_Then eagerly._] What do they say? + +RUTH. Oh, all sorts of things. Some of them horrid, of course! You can't +blame them for being jealous. Here you are having just the sort of +experience that any one of them would give their eye teeth to have. +_I'd_ be jealous if you weren't my sister. As it is, I seem to get some +of the glory myself. + +ANNE [_pleads, but disparaging_]. But every girl has this experience +sooner or later. + +RUTH. Oh, not in this way. Everything that Harold does is beautiful, +ideal. Jane Fenwick showed me some of Bob's letters. They were so dull, +so prosaic! All about his salary and the corn crop. I was disgusted with +them. So was she, I think, when she saw Harold's letters. + +ANNE. Oh, you showed them to Jane, too? + +RUTH [_a bit frightened_]. No, really I didn't. Caroline did. I lent her +my notebook once overnight, and she gave Jane a peek--in the _strictest_ +confidence. Jane really needed it. She was getting so cocky about Bob. +Girls are funny things, aren't they? + +ANNE [_who has been keenly interested in all of Ruth's gossip_]. What do +you mean? + +RUTH. It isn't so much the man, as the idea of a man--some one to dream +about, and to talk about. When I think of getting engaged--I suppose I +shall get engaged some day--I never think of being really, really kissed +by a man-- + +ANNE. What do you think of? + +RUTH. I always think of telling Caroline about it, showing my ring to +her and to Madge. Oh, Madge is green with envy. I believe she thought +Harold sort of liked her. [_Anne turns away._] She was so excited when +she saw him in New York. She said she would have got off the bus and +chased him, but he went into a house.... Anne, why didn't you tell +us--me, at least--that Harold was back from South America, before we +heard it from Madge? + +ANNE. Just because.... I wanted to avoid all this.... It was hard enough +to have him within a few hours' distance and know he could not get to +me. But it was easier when no one else knew. Don't you understand? + +RUTH. Yes, dear, of course I do--but still-- + +ANNE [_impatiently_]. Now, Ruth, it's quarter past four. You promised-- + +RUTH. I'm going ... right straight off ... unless--Oh, Anne, mayn't I +stay and have just one peek. I won't let him see me, and then I'll run +straight away? + +ANNE. Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be naughty and silly! Clear out now, +quickly, or--[_Changing her tone suddenly._] Ruth, dear, put yourself +in my place. Think how you would feel if you were going to see the man +you loved for the first time. That's what it really is. Think of it! Two +years ago when he went away we were just the merest friends--and now-- + +RUTH. And now you're engaged to be married! Oh, isn't it the most +romantic thing! Of course you want to be alone. Forgive me. Oh, Anne, +how excited you must be! + +ANNE [_with rather histrionic intensity_]. No, I'm strangely calm. And +yet, Ruth, I'm afraid, terribly afraid. + +RUTH. Why, what of? + +ANNE [_acting_]. I don't know ... of everything ... of the unknown. All +this has been so wonderful, if anything should happen I don't think I +could bear it. I think I should die. + +RUTH. Nonsense, dear, what can happen? You're just on edge. Well, I'll +be off. I'll join Mother at Aunt Nellie's. Give my love to Harold. You +know I've never called him anything but Mr. Lawson to his face. Isn't +that funny? Good-by, dear. [_Throwing Anne a kiss._] You look so sweet. + +ANNE [_her hands on Ruth's shoulders for an impressive moment_]. +Good-by, Ruth. Good-by. + + [_They kiss. Ruth goes. Left alone, a complete change comes over + Anne. She drops the romantic attitude. She is nervously + determined. She quickly arranges the flowers, takes out the box, + etc., straightens the room, and surveys herself rapidly in the + mirror. There is a sound of wheels outside. Anne goes to the bay + window and looks out. Then she stands erect in the grip of an + emotion that is more like terror than anticipation. Hearing the + sound of footsteps on the stair she is panic-stricken and about to + bolt, but at the sound of voices she pulls herself together and + stands motionless._] + +MAN'S VOICE [_outside_]. In here? All right! + + [_Harold Lawson enters, a well set up, bronzed, rather commonplace + young man of about twenty-eight. He sees no one on his entry, but + as he advances into the room, Anne comes down from the bay + window._] + +HAROLD. Hello, Miss Carey, how are you? Splendid to see you again, after +all this time. [_Anne looks at him without speaking, which slightly +embarrasses him._] You're looking fine. How's your mother--and little +Ruth? + +ANNE [_slowly_]. Welcome home. + +HAROLD. Oh, thanks. It's rather nice to be back in God's country. But +it's not for long this time. + +ANNE. Are you going away again? + +HAROLD. Yes. I've another appointment. This one in India, some big salt +mines. Not bad, eh? I made pretty good in Brazil, they tell me. + +ANNE [_nervously_]. Sit down. + +HAROLD. Thanks. Hot for September, isn't it? Though I ought to be used +to heat by this time. Sometimes the thermometer would run a hundred and +eight for a week on end. Not much fun, that. + +ANNE. No, indeed. + +HAROLD [_settling back comfortably to talk about himself_]. You know I +loathed it down there at first. What with all the foreigners and the +rotten weather and the bugs--thought I'd never get into the swing. +Wanted to chuck engineering for any old job that was cool, but after a +while-- + +ANNE. How long have you been home? + +HAROLD. About three weeks. I'd really been meaning to come out here and +have a look round my old haunts, but there was business in New York, and +I had to go South and see my family--you know how time flies. Then your +note came. It was mighty jolly of you to ask me out here. By the way, +how did you know I was back? + +ANNE [_after a pause_]. Madge Kennedy caught sight of you in New York. + +HAROLD. Did she really? How is little Madge? And that odd brother of +hers. Is he just as much of a fool as ever? I remember once he said to +me-- + +ANNE. Oh, I didn't ask you here to talk about Madge Kennedy's family. + +HAROLD [_taken aback_]. No ... no, of course, not. I--I've been +wondering just why you did ask me. You said you wanted to talk to me +about something. + +ANNE [_gently_]. Weren't you glad to come? + +HAROLD. Why, of course I was. Of course. And then your note fired my +curiosity--your asking me to come straight to you before seeing any one +else. + +ANNE. Aren't you glad to be here with me? + +HAROLD. Why surely, of course, but--[_Pause._] + +ANNE. You see, people seemed to expect you would come to see me first of +all. I rather expected it myself. Don't you understand? + +HAROLD [_very uncomfortably_]. No.... I'm afraid I don't.... + +ANNE. From the way you acted before you went away I thought you, +yourself, would want to see me first of all. + +HAROLD. Before I went away? What do you mean? + +ANNE. You know well enough what I mean. The parties those last +weeks--the theater we went to--the beautiful flowers you sent +Mother--the letter-- + +HAROLD. But--but--why, I was going away. You and your people had been +awfully nice to me, a perfect stranger in town. I was simply trying to +do the decent thing. Good Lord! You don't mean to say you thought-- + +ANNE [_watching him very closely_]. Yes, it's true, I thought--and every +one else thought--I've been waiting these two years for you to come +back. + + [_She drops her face into her hands. Her shoulders shake._] + +HAROLD [_jumping up_]. Great Heavens! I never imagined--Why, Miss Carey, +I--oh, I'm terribly sorry! [_She continues to sob._] Please don't do +that--please! I'd better go away--I'll clear out--I'll go straight off +to India--I'll never bother you again. + + [_He seized his hat, and is making, in a bewildered way, for the + door, when she intercepts him._] + +ANNE. No. You mustn't go away! + +HAROLD. But what can I do? + +ANNE [_striking a tragic attitude_]. You mean to say you don't care at +all--that you have never cared? + +HAROLD. Really, Miss Carey, I-- + +ANNE. For heaven's sake, don't call me Miss Carey. Call me Anne. + +HAROLD. Miss Carey.... Anne.... I.... Oh, you'd better let me go--let me +get away before any one knows I'm here--before they think-- + +ANNE. It's too late. They think already. + +HAROLD. Think what? What do you mean? + +ANNE. Oh, this is terrible! Sit down, Harold, and listen to me. [_She +pushes him into a chair and begins to talk very rapidly, watching +intently the effect of her words upon him._] You see, when you went +away, people began to say things about us--you and me--about your +caring. I let them go on. In fact I believed them. I suppose it was +because I wanted so much to believe them. Oh, what a fool I've been! +What a fool! + + [_She covers her face with her hands. He gets up intending vaguely + to comfort her, but she thinks he is making another move to go, + and jumps to her feet._] + +ANNE. And now you want to clear out like a thief in the night, and leave +me to be laughed at! No, no, you can't do that! You must help me. You've +hurt me to the very soul. You mustn't humiliate me before the world. + +HAROLD. I'll do anything I can, Miss Carey. + +ANNE. Anne! + +HAROLD. Anne, I mean. But how? + +ANNE [_after a moment's thought, as if the idea had just come to her_]. +You must stay here. You must pretend for a few days--for a week at most, +that we're engaged. + +HAROLD. I can't do that, you know. Really, I can't. + +ANNE [_going to him_]. Why not? Only a little while. Then you'll go away +to India. We'll find it's been a mistake. I'll break it off,--it will +only be a pretense, of course, but at least no one will know what a fool +I've been. + +HAROLD [_after a moment's hesitation_]. Miss Carey--Anne, I mean, I'll +do anything I can, but not that! A man can't do that. You see, there's a +girl, an English girl, down in Brazil, I-- + +ANNE. Oh, a girl! Another! Well, after all, what does that matter? +Brazil is a long way off. She need never know. + +HAROLD. She might hear. You can't keep things like this hid. No. I +wouldn't risk that. You'd better let me clear out before your family +gets home. No one need ever know I've been here. + + [_Again he makes a move toward the door. Anne stands motionless._] + +ANNE. You can't go. You can't. It's more serious than you imagine. + +HAROLD. Serious? What do you mean? + +ANNE. Come here. [_He obeys. She sits in a big chair, but avoids looking +at him. There is a delicate imitation of a tragic actress in the way she +tells her story._] I wonder if I can make you understand? It means so +much to me that you should--so much! Harold, you know how dull life is +here in this little town. You were glad enough to get away after a year +of it, weren't you? Well, it's worse for a girl, with nothing to do but +sit at home--and dream--of you. Yes, that's what I did, until, at last, +when I couldn't stand it any longer, I wrote you. + +HAROLD [_quickly_]. I never got the letter, Miss Carey. Honor bright, I +didn't. + +ANNE. Perhaps not, but you answered it. + +HAROLD. Answered it? What are you talking about? + +ANNE. Would you like to see your answer? [_She goes to the desk, takes a +packet of letters out of a drawer, selects one, and hands it to him._] +Here it is--your answer. You see it's post-marked Rio Janeiro. + +HAROLD [_taking it wonderingly_]. This does look like my writing. +[_Reads._] "Anne, my darling--" I say, what does this mean? + +ANNE. Go on. + +HAROLD [_reading_]. "I have your wonderful letter. It came to me like +rain in the desert. Can it be true, Anne, that you do care? I ask myself +a hundred times what I have done to deserve this. A young girl seems to +me as exquisite and frail as a flower--" Great Scott! You don't think +_I_ could have written such stuff! What in the world! + +ANNE [_handing over another letter_]. Here's the next letter you wrote +me, from the mine. It's a beautiful one. Read it. + +HAROLD [_tears it open angrily, and reads_]. "I have been out in the +night under the stars. Oh, that you were here, my beloved! It is easy to +stand the dust and the turmoil of the mine without you, but beauty that +I cannot share with you hurts me like a pain--" + + [_He throws the letter on the table and turns toward her, + speechless._] + +ANNE [_inexorably_]. Yes, that's an exceptionally beautiful one. But +there are more--lots more. Would you like to see them? + +HAROLD. But I tell you, I never wrote them. These aren't my letters. + +ANNE. Whose are they, then? + +HAROLD [_walking up and down furiously_]. God knows! This is some +outrageous trick. You've been duped, you poor child. But we'll get to +the bottom of this. Just leave it to me. I'll get detectives. I'll find +out who's back of it! I'll-- + + [_He comes face to face with her and finds her looking quietly at + him with something akin to critical interest._] + +HAROLD. Good Lord. What's the matter with me! You don't believe those +letters. You couldn't think I wrote them, or you wouldn't have met me as +you did, quite naturally, as an old friend. _You understand!_ For +heaven's sake, make it clear to me! + +ANNE. I am trying to.... I told you there had to be ... answers.... I +was afraid to send my letters to you, but there had to be answers. +[_Harold stares at her._] So I wrote them myself. + +HAROLD. You wrote them yourself?!? + +ANNE. Yes. + +HAROLD. These? These very letters? + +ANNE. Yes. I had to. + +HAROLD. Good God! [_He gazes at the litter of letters on the desk in +stupefied silence._] But the handwriting. + +ANNE. Oh, that was easy. I had the letter you wrote to Mother. + +HAROLD. And you learned to imitate my handwriting? + +ANNE [_politely_]. It was very good writing. + +HAROLD [_in sudden apprehension_]. No one has seen these things,--have +they? + +ANNE. They arrived by mail. + +HAROLD. You mean people saw the envelopes. Yes, that's bad enough.... +But you haven't shown them to any one? [_At her silence he turns +furiously upon her._] Have you?... Have you? + +ANNE [_who enjoys her answer and its effect upon him_]. Only +parts--never a whole letter. But it was such a pleasure to be able to +talk about you to some one. My only pleasure. + +HAROLD. Good heavens! You told people I wrote these letters? That we +were engaged? + +ANNE. I didn't mean to, Harold. Really, I didn't. But I couldn't keep it +dark. There were your telegrams. + +HAROLD. My telegrams?!? + + [_She goes to desk and produces a bundle of dispatches._] + +ANNE [_brazen in her sincerity_]. You used to wire me every time you +changed your address. You were very thoughtful, Harold. But, of course, +I couldn't keep those secret like your letters. + +HAROLD [_standing helplessly, with the telegrams loose in his fingers_]. +My telegrams! Good Lord! [_He opens one and reads_.] "Leaving Rio for +fortnight of inspection in interior. Address care Senor Miguel--" _My_ +telegrams! + + [_He flings the packet violently on the table, thereby almost + upsetting a bowl of roses which he hastens to preserve._] + +ANNE. And then there were your flowers. I see you are admiring them. + + [_Harold withdraws as if the flowers were charged with + electricity._] + +HAROLD. What flowers? + +ANNE. These--these--all of them. You sent me flowers every week while +you were gone. + +HAROLD [_overcome_]. Good God! + + [_He has now reached the apex of his amazement and becomes + sardonic._] + +ANNE. Yes. You were extravagant with flowers, Harold. Of course I love +them, but I had to scold you about spending so much money. + +HAROLD. Spending so much money? And what did I say when you scolded me? + +ANNE [_taken aback only for a moment by his changed attitude_]. You sent +me a bigger bunch than ever before--and--wait a minute--here's the card +you put in it. + + [_She goes to the same fatal desk and produces a package of + florists' cards._] + +HAROLD. Are all those my cards too? + +ANNE. Yes. + +HAROLD [_laughing a bit wildly_]. I'm afraid I was a bit extravagant! + +ANNE. Here's the one! You wrote: "If all that I have, and all that I am, +is too little to lay before you, how can these poor flowers be much?" + +HAROLD. I wrote that? Very pretty--very. I'd forgotten I had any such +knack at sentiments. + +ANNE. And then, right away, you sent me the ring. + +HAROLD [_jumps, startled out of his sardonic pose_]. Ring! What ring? + +ANNE. My engagement ring. You really were very extravagant that time, +Harold. + +HAROLD [_looking fearfully at her hands_]. But I don't see.... You're +not wearing...? + +ANNE. Not there--here, next to my heart. [_She takes out a ring which +hangs on a chain inside her frock and presses it to her lips. Looking at +him deeply._] I adore sapphires, Harold. + + [_A new fear comes into Harold's eyes. He begins to humor her._] + +HAROLD. Yes. Yes. Of course. Everyone likes sapphires, Anne. It is a +beauty. Yes. [_He comes very close to her, and speaks very gently, as if +to a child._] You haven't shown your ring to any one, have you, Anne? + +ANNE. Only to a few people--One or two. + +HAROLD. A few people! Good heavens! [_Then he controls himself, takes +her hands gently in his, and continues speaking, as if to a child._] Sit +down, Anne; we must talk this over a little,--very quietly, you +understand, very quietly. Now to begin with, when did you first-- + +ANNE [_breaks away from him with a little laugh_]. No, I'm not crazy. +Don't be worried. I'm perfectly sane. I had to tell you all this to show +how serious it was. Now you know. What are you going to do? + +HAROLD. Do? [_He slowly straightens up as if the knowledge of her sanity +had relieved him of a heavy load._] I'm going to take the next train +back to New York. + +ANNE. And leave me to get out of this before people all alone? + +HAROLD. You got into it without my assistance, didn't you? Great Scott, +you forged those letters in cold blood-- + +ANNE. Not in cold blood, Harold. Remember, I cared. + +HAROLD. I don't believe it. [_Accusingly._] You enjoyed writing those +letters! + +ANNE. Of course I enjoyed it. It meant thinking of you, talking of-- + +HAROLD. Rot! Not of me, really. You didn't think I am really the sort of +person who could write that--that drivel! + +ANNE [_hurt_]. Oh, I don't know. After a while I suppose you and my +dream got confused. + +HAROLD. But it was the rankest-- + +ANNE. Oh, I'm not so different from other girls. We're all like that. +[_Repeating Ruth's phrase reminiscently._] We must have some one to +dream about--to talk about. I suppose it's because we haven't enough to +do. And then we don't have any--any real adventures like--shop girls. + +HAROLD [_surprised at this bit of reality_]. That's a funny thing to +say! + +ANNE. Well, it's true. I know I went rather far. After I got started I +couldn't stop. I didn't want to, either. It took hold of me. So I went +on and on and let people think whatever they wanted. But if you go now +and people find out what I've done, they'll think I'm really mad--or +something worse. Life will be impossible for me here, don't you +see--impossible. [_Harold is silent._] But if you stay, it will be so +easy. Just a day or two. Then you will have to go to India. Is that much +to ask? [_Acting._] And you save me from disgrace, from ruin! + + [_Harold remains silent, troubled._] + +ANNE [_becoming impassioned_]. You must help me. You _must_. After I've +been so frank with you, you can't go back on me now. I've never in my +life talked to any one like this--so openly. You _can't_ go back on me! +If you leave me here to be laughed at, mocked at by every one, I don't +know what I shall do. I shan't be responsible. If you have any kindness, +any chivalry.... Oh, for God's sake, Harold, help me, help me! + + [_Kneels at his feet._] + +HAROLD. I don't know.... I'm horribly muddled.... All right, I'll stay! + +ANNE. Good! Good! Oh, you are fine! I knew you would be. Now everything +will be so simple. [_The vista opens before her._] We will be very quiet +here for a couple of days. We won't see many people, for of course it +isn't announced. And then you will go ... and I will write you a +letter.... + +HAROLD [_disagreeably struck by the phrase_]. Write me a letter? What +for? + +ANNE [_ingenuously_]. Telling you that I have been mistaken. Releasing +you from the engagement ... and you will write me an answer ... sad but +manly ... reluctantly accepting my decision.... + +HAROLD. Oh, I am to write an answer, sad but manly--Good God! Suppose +you don't release me after all. + +ANNE. Don't be silly, Harold. I promise. Can't you trust me? + +HAROLD. Trust you? [_His eyes travel quickly from the table littered +with letters and dispatches to the flowers that ornament the room, back +to the table and finally to the ring that now hangs conspicuously on her +breast. She follows the look and instinctively puts her hand to the +ring._] Trust you? By Jove, no, I don't trust you! This is absurd, I +don't stay another moment. Say what you will to people. I'm off. This is +final. + +ANNE [_who has stepped to the window_]. You can't go now. I hear Mother +and Ruth coming. + +HAROLD. All the more reason. [_He finds his hat._] I bolt. + +ANNE [_blocking the door_]. You can't go, Harold! Don't corner me. I'll +fight like a wildcat if you do. + +HAROLD. Fight? + +ANNE. Yes. A pretty figure you'll cut if you bolt now. They'll think you +a cad--an out and out cad! Haven't they seen your letters come week by +week, and your presents? And you have written to Mother, too--I have +your letter. There won't be anything bad enough to say about you. +They'll say you jilted me for that English girl in Brazil. It will be +true, too. And it will get about. She'll hear of it, I'll see to +that--and then-- + +HAROLD. But it's a complete lie! I can explain-- + +ANNE. You'll have a hard time explaining your letters and your +presents--and your ring. There's a deal of evidence against you-- + +HAROLD. See here, are you trying to blackmail me? Oh, this is too +ridiculous! + +ANNE. They're coming! I hear them on the stairs! What are you going to +tell them? + +HAROLD. The truth. I must get clear of all this. I tell you-- + +ANNE [_suddenly clinging to him_]. No, no, Harold! Forgive me, I was +just testing you. I will get you out of this. Leave it to me. + +HAROLD [_struggling with her_]. No, I won't leave anything to you, +_ever_. + +ANNE [_still clinging tightly_]. Harold, remember I am a woman--and I +love you. + + [_This brings him up short a moment to wonder, and in this moment + there is a knock at the door._] + +ANNE [_abandoning Harold_]. Come in. [_There is a discreet pause._] + +MRS. CAREY'S VOICE [_off stage_]. May we come in? + +ANNE [_angrily_]. Yes! + + [_Harold, who has moved toward the door, meets Mrs. Carey as she + enters. She throws her arms about his neck and kisses him warmly. + She is followed by Ruth._] + +MRS. CAREY. Harold! My door boy! + +RUTH [_clutching his arm_]. Hello, Harold. I am so glad. + + [_Harold, temporarily overwhelmed by the onslaught of the two + women, is about to speak, when Anne interrupts dramatically._] + +ANNE. Wait a moment, Mother. Before you say anything more I must tell +you that Harold and I are no longer engaged! + + [_Mrs. Carey and Ruth draw away from Harold in horror-struck + surprise._] + +MRS. CAREY. No longer engaged? Why.... What...? + +HAROLD. Really, Mrs. Carey, I-- + +ANNE [_interrupts, going to her mother_]. Mother, dear, be patient with +me, trust me, I beg of you--and please, please don't ask me any +questions. Harold and I have had a very hard--a very painful hour +together. I don't think I can stand any more. + + [_She is visibly very much exhausted, gasping for breath._] + +MRS. CAREY. Oh, my poor child, what is it? What has he done? + + [_She supports Anne on one side while Ruth hurries to the other._] + +HAROLD. Really, Mrs. Carey, I think I can explain. + +ANNE. No, Harold, there's no use trying to explain. There are some +things a woman feels, about which she cannot reason. I know I am doing +right. + +HAROLD [_desperately_]. Mrs. Carey, I assure you-- + +ANNE [_as if on the verge of a nervous crisis_]. Oh, please, _please_, +Harold, don't protest any more. I am not blaming you. Understand, +Mother, I am not blaming him. But my decision is irrevocable. I thought +you understood. I beg you to go away. You have just time to catch the +afternoon express. + +HAROLD. Nonsense, Anne, you must let me-- + +ANNE [_wildly_]. No, no, Harold, it is finished! Don't you understand? +Finished! [_She abandons the support of her mother and Ruth and goes to +the table._] See, here are your letters. I am going to burn them. [_She +throws the packet into the fire._] All your letters--[_She throws the +dispatches into the fire._] Don't, please, continue this unendurable +situation any longer. Go, I beg of you, go! + + [_She is almost hysterical._] + +HAROLD. But I tell you I must-- + +ANNE [_falling back in her mother's arms_]. Make him go, Mother! Make +him go! + +MRS. CAREY. Yes, go! Go, sir! Don't you see you are torturing the child. +I insist upon your going. + +RUTH. Yes, she is in a dreadful state. + + [_Here Mrs. Carey and Ruth fall into simultaneous urgings._] + +HAROLD [_who has tried in vain to make himself heard_]. All right, I'm +going, I give up! + + [_He seizes his hat and rushes out, banging the door behind him. + Anne breaks away from her mother and sister, totters rapidly to + the door and calls down gently._] + +ANNE. Not in anger, I beg of you, Harold! I am not blaming you. Good-by. + + [_The street door is heard to bang. Anne collapses in approved + tragedy style._] + +ANNE [_gasping_]. Get some water, Ruth. I shall be all right in a +moment. + + [_Ruth rushes into the bedroom._] + +MRS. CAREY. Oh, my dear child, calm yourself. Mother is here, dear. She +will take care of you. Tell me, dear, tell me. + + [_Ruth returns with the water. Anne sips a little._] + +ANNE. I will, Mother--I will ... everything ... later. [_She drinks._] +But now I must be alone. Please, dear, go away ... for a little while. I +must be alone [_Rising and moving to the fire._] with the ruin of my +dreams. + + [_She puts her arms on the chimney shelf and drops her head on + them._] + +RUTH. Come, Mother! Come away! + +MRS. CAREY. Yes, I am coming. We shall be in the next room, Annie, when +you want us. Right here. + +ANNE [_as they go out, raises her head and murmurs_]. Dust and ashes! +Dust and ashes! + + [_As soon as they have gone, Anne straightens up slowly. She pulls + herself together after the physical strain of her acting. Then she + looks at the watch on her wrist and sighs a long triumphant sigh. + Her eye falls on the desk and she sees the package of florists' + cards still there. She picks them up, returns with them to the + fire and is about to throw them in, when her eye is caught by the + writing on one. She takes it out and reads it. Then she takes + another--and another. She stops and looks away dreamily. Then + slowly, she moves back to the desk, drops the cards into a drawer + and locks it. She sits brooding at the desk and the open paper + before her seems to fascinate her. As if in a dream she picks up a + pencil. A creative look comes into her eyes. Resting her chin on + her left arm, she begins slowly to write, murmuring to herself._] + +ANNE [_reading as she writes_]. "Anne, my dearest.... I am on the train +... broken, shattered.... Why have you done this to me ... why have you +darkened the sun ... and put out the stars ... put out the stars?... +Give me another chance, Anne.... I will make good.... I promise you.... +For God's sake, Anne, don't shut me out of your life utterly.... I +cannot bear it.... I...." + + + [_The Curtain + has fallen slowly as she writes._] + + + + +THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE + + A PANTOMIME + + BY HOLLAND HUDSON + + + Copyright, 1920, by Frank Shay. + All rights reserved. + + + THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE was first produced by the Washington + Square Players, at the Bandbox Theatre, New York City, on the night + of March 26, 1915, with the following cast: + + THE PRINCESS _Frances Paine_. + THE ATTENDANT _Beatrice Savelli_. + THE SHEPHERD _Robert Locher_. + THE WAZIR _Arvid Paulson_. + THE VIZIER _John Alan Houghton_. + GHURRI-WURRI [_the Beggar_} _Harry Day_. + THE GOAT _E. J. Ballantine_. + SLAVES OF THE PRINCESS { _Josephine Niveson_. + { _Edwina Behre_. + THE MAKER OF SOUNDS _Robert Edwards_. + + Produced under the direction of William Pennington. Scenes and + costumes designed by Robert Locker. + + + PROGRAM + + THE PERSONS: + + THE PRINCESS. + THE ATTENDANT. + THE SLAVES. + THE WAZIR [_her guardian_]. + THE VIZIER. + THE NUBIAN. + THE SHEPHERD. + THE GOAT. + GHURRI-WURRI. + THE MAKER OF SOUNDS. + + + THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE is published for the first time. The + editors are indebted to Mr. Holland Hudson for permission to include + it in this volume. The professional and amateur stage rights on this + pantomime are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for + permission to produce the pantomime should be made to Frank Shay, + Care Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. + + +THE ACTION: + + I. The Princess beholds The Shepherd in the Distance and goes in + quest of him. + II. Ghurri-Wurri, enraged by the Princess' meager alms, swears + vengeance. + III. He reveals her destination to the Wazir. + IV. Pursuit ensues. + V. The Princess meets The Shepherd in the Distance. Her capture is + averted by the faithful Goat. + VI. The Goat's long head evolves a means of rescuing The Shepherd + from the cruel Wazir. + VII. The Princess joins The Shepherd in the Distance. + + +THE STORY.[1] + +Of the Princess, we know only that she was fair and slender as the lily, +that somehow the fat and stupid Wazir became her guardian, and that he +neglected her utterly and played chess eternally in the garden with his +almost-equally-stupid Vizier. Is it any wonder she was bored? + +One afternoon the Princess called for her ivory telescope, and, placing +it to her eye, sought relief from the deadly ennui which her guardian +caused. In the Distance she discerned a Shepherd, playing upon his pipe +for the dancing of his favorite Goat. While he played the Princess +marveled at his comeliness. She had never seen before a man so pleasing +in face and person. At the end of his tune it seemed to her that the +Shepherd turned and beckoned to her. She dared watch him no longer, lest +her guardian observe her. + +When the Wazir, the Vizier and the Nubian were deep in their afternoon +siesta, the Princess stole out of the garden with her personal retinue +and her small, but precious hope chests, and set forth toward the +Distance. + +Now on the highway between the foreground and the Distance lived a +wretched and worthless beggar who had even lost his name and was called +Ghurri-Wurri because he looked absolutely as miserable as that. He +pretended to be blind and wore dark spectacles. The greatest affliction +of his life was that his dark spectacles prevented him from inspecting +the coins that fell in his palm, and he received more than his share of +leaden counterfeits. + +When Ghurri-Wurri observed the approach of the Princess and her retinue +he reasoned from the richness of their attire that alms would be +plentiful and large and he fawned and groveled before them. The Princess +was generous, but she was also in haste, so bade her attendant give him +the first coin that came to hand, and hurried on. + +Ghurri-Wurri's rage knew no bounds. He wept, he stamped, he shook his +fists, he railed, and he cursed. Then, perceiving the Princess' +destination, he made haste to notify her guardian. The Wazir would not +believe him at first and the beggar would have lost his head if he had +not happened on the Princess' telescope and placed it in the Wazir's +hand. + +Gazing toward the Distance, the Wazir saw the Princess and her retinue +nearing their destination. He lost his temper and did all of the +undignified things which Ghurri-Wurri had done. Then, with the Vizier +and the Nubian, he set forth in pursuit, forcing the reluctant +Ghurri-Wurri to guide them. They ran like the wind, till the beggar +gasped and staggered, only to be jerked to his feet and forced on by the +implacable Vizier, who was cruel as well as stupid. + +Meanwhile the Princess arrived in the Distance. The Shepherd, who was as +wise as he was comely, had proper regard for her rank and danced in her +honor to his own piping. They had scarcely spoken to each other when the +faithful Goat warned them of the furious approach of the raging Wazir. +The Goat carried the Princess to a place of safety on his back while the +Shepherd stayed to delay her pursuers. Of the Nubian he made short work +indeed, but the Vizier overcame him with his great scimiter and they led +him captive to the garden, leaving Ghurri-Wurri cursing on the sands. + +Arrived at the garden, the Wazir ordered the Shepherd bound in chains +and went on with his chess game. The Shepherd, in a gesture of despair, +came upon the Princess' telescope and, seeking some ray of hope, gazed +into the Distance. Here he saw the Princess and his faithful Goat, who, +he perceived, had invented a plan for his deliverance. + +Soon the Princess returned to the garden, disguised as a wandering +dancer. She danced before the Wazir and pleased him so much that he bade +her come nearer. She did so, and bound the Vizier's arms with a scarf, +which so amused the Wazir that he laughed loud and long. Then she bound +the Wazir's arms in the same manner and it was the Vizier's turn to +laugh. Into their laughing mouths she thrust two poisoned pills so that +in another instant they fell over, quite dead, amongst the chessmen. + +The omnivorous Goat delivered the Shepherd from his chains with his +strong teeth and they all returned to the Distance, where they still +dwell in more-than-perfect bliss and may be discerned through an ivory +telescope any fine afternoon. + + [1] A synopsis for readers only. + + +CONCERNING THE SCENERY. + +In the original production by The Washington Square Players, THE +SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE was played in front of backgrounds of black +velvet. The garden scene consisted of a black velvet drop about half-way +between the curtain and back-wall, upon which a decorative white design +merely suggesting the garden and its gate was appliqued. This drop was +made in three sections, the middle one hung on a separate set of lines +so that it could be raised to show the "Distance" (as seen through the +telescope) without disturbing the rest of the scene. + +The "Distance" consisted of a velvet drop hung slightly behind the +middle section of the garden scene, on the middle of which two large, +white concentric circles were appliqued around a circular opening about +five feet in diameter. The bottom of the opening was about eighteen +inches above the stage. Behind this stood a platform just large enough +to hold four characters at one time. Black masking drapes were provided +at both sides of the stage and behind the platform. + +The Prologue, Scenes II, IV, V, the first part of Scene VII and the +Epilogue were all played before a plain velvet drop hung a few feet +upstage of the curtain line. + +THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE has also been produced in colors very +effectively by the Hollywood Community Theatre, at Hollywood, +California. There is no reason why any highly decorative treatment of +scenery and costuming will not enhance the production if it be well +planned and consistent throughout. + + +IMPORTANT PROPERTIES. + +The properties consist principally of a small chess table with most of +the chessmen glued on, two stools, a telescope, a balloon and papier +mache chain which are employed as a ball and chain, a very large Chinese +crash cymbal for the stage manager's use, and such personal properties +as occur in the text. + + +COSTUMES AND MAKE-UP. + +Whatever scheme is selected for the scenery, the costumes and make-up +should be consistent with it. In the original production, all of the +characters but the Nubian were made up completely with clown white or +"Plexo," the eyebrows and eyes outlined in black and mouths rouged but +slightly. No unwhitened flesh was visible at all. + +The Princess wore a white satin pseudo-Oriental costume with stiff ruffs +at the collar, wrists and knees, the trousers not gathered at the +ankles, a flat close-fitting turban with a number of ornaments and a +hanging veil, and white slippers. In the dance in Scene VI she used a +long black gauze scarf and a white one. Her attendant wore a similar +costume of cheaper material, an unornamented turban and black slippers. +Her slaves were also similarly garbed, in cotton, but with bulkier +turbans, and baggy trousers, gathered at the ankles. + +The Wazir, armed with a preposterous "corporation," wore baggy white +trousers, gathered at the ankles, a sleeveless vest with wide, +horizontal black-and-white stripes, a white cloak hanging from his +shoulders which terminated in a large black tassel, a turban, a beard +made of several lengths of black portiere cord sewed to white gauze, and +white pointed shoes. His bare arms were whitened, his eyebrows were +short, thick and high up on his forehead, and he carried a black +snuff-box. + +The Vizier's white trousers were not so full as the Wazir's; his tight +white vest had tight white sleeves; his cloak was shorter and without a +tassel. His white turban, however, was decorated with antennae of white +milliner's wire. He affected high arching eyebrows, a long pointed nose, +a drooping mustache, a disdainful mouth, carried a white wooden scimiter +about four feet long with a black handle and wore bells on his pointed +white shoes. + +The Nubian wore black tights and shirt, black slippers and a white skull +cap and breech-clout. The rest of him, excepting his eyes and mouth, +which were whitened, was a symphony in burnt cork. + +The Shepherd wore white, knee-length trunks, frayed at the ends, a +little drapery about the upper man, slippers and a cap. His body was +whitened profusely and he carried a tiny flute. + +The Goat wore a white furry skin, horns, and foot and hand coverings +resembling hoofs. His make-up approached the animal's face as nearly as +possible. + +Ghurri-Wurri wore tattered white baggy trousers, vest and cloak, a +turban and black goggles. + +The Maker of Sounds was garbed in an all-enveloping white burnous and a +white skull cap. + + +A FEW STAGE DIRECTIONS. + +Left and right, in this text, refer to the actor's, not the spectator's, +point of view. The action of the piece is meant to be two-dimensional; +the actors are to perform in profile as far as possible; except when +registry of facial expression is important the action should be parallel +with the back drop. + +The entire action must be rhythmical and the rhythms should be used as +definite themes, one for the Princess and her retinue, another for the +Wazir, etc. The performance should be extremely rapid and must never +drag. The cast should direct special attention to the comic features, +and the director to the pictorial elements of the piece. The director +may consider the performance as an animated poster which moves rapidly +from design to design. + + + +THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE + +A PANTOMIME BY HOLLAND HUDSON + + +PROLOGUE. + + [_The curtain rises on a plain drop curtain. The Maker of Sounds + enters with his arms full of instruments, crosses the scene and + sits with his back against one side of the proscenium, outside the + curtain line. He tries out all his instruments, wind, string, + percussion and "traps." He yawns. He becomes impatient and raps on + the stage._] + + Cymbal Crash The lights go out + The drop is lifted in the darkness + + Cymbal Crash The lights are turned on + + +SCENE I. + + [_The Wazir's garden. Discovered left to right, the Nubian, + standing with folded arms, the Vizier, seated at the chess table, + playing with the Wazir. At the other side of the stage, the + Princess, her attendant, her two slaves. All stand motionless + until set in action by the Maker of Sounds._] + + _The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._ + + Tap--on Chinese wood _Nubian_ unfolds his arms + block + + Tap He salaams + + Tap Resumes original pose + + Tap _Vizier_ moves a chessman + + Tap _Wazir_ moves a chessman + + Tap _Vizier_ moves a chessman + + Tap _Wazir_ picks up snuff-box + + Tap Opens it + + Tap Offers Vizier snuff + + Tap _Vizier_ takes a pinch + + Sand blocks Sniffs it + + Drum crash _Vizier_ sneezes + + Drum crash Sneezes again + + No sound Sneezes again + _Nubian_ sneezes synchronously with Vizier's + paroxysms + + Tap _Vizier_ returns snuff-box + + Tap _Wazir_ puts it away + + Bell _Princess_ yawns + + Tap Signals her attendant + + Tap _Attendant_ picks up telescope + + Tap Hands it to Princess + + Wind instrument _Princess_ uses telescope + [The middle portion of the back drop is + lifted to show the "Distance" in which + the _Shepherd_ is discovered piping + for the _Goat's_ dancing.] + + Stringed instrument _The Shepherd_ sees the Princess, stops + piping, and declares his adoration across + the distance. He beckons her to join him. + _Princess_ promises to do so. + [The lifted portion of the drop is + lowered again. The "Distance" + vanishes.] + + Tap _Princess_ signals to her retinue + + Tap _Attendant_ relays the signal + + Tap _Slaves_ stoop. + + Tap Lift the hope chests to their shoulders + + Bass chord on _Princess and retinue_ take one step + stringed instrument downstage + + Treble chord All lean forward, watching Wazir + + Drum crash _Wazir_ and _Vizier_ stand up + + Drum crash They glare at Princess + + Tap on wood block They sit + + Bass chord _Vizier_ yawns + + Bass chord _Wazir_ yawns + + Bass chord _Nubian_ yawns + + Bass chord _Vizier_ nods + + Bass chord _Wazir_ nods + + Bass chord _Nubian_ drops on one knee + + Treble chord _Princess and retinue_ lean forward + + Bass chord They take one step + [A continuation of this business takes + them off at the left] + The lights go out + + Cymbal crash [In the darkness. _Princess and retinue_ + cross to right of stage, ready for + Scene II] + The plain drop is lowered + + Cymbal crash The lights come up + + +SCENE II. + + _The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._ + + Tambourine jingles _Ghurri-Wurri_ discovered above at center, + with his dark glasses pushed up on his + forehead, counting his money. + + Tap on piece He finds a bad coin + of crockery + + Sand blocks Bites it + + Tap crockery Throws it away + + Begins the Princess Hears the _Princess and retinue_ approaching + rhythms on Chinese + wood block + + [Telegraphically He pulls glasses over his eyes + expressed it is ... ... + ... ... Musically, + accented triplets, + common time, _presto_] He grovels + + Princess rhythm _Princess and retinue_ enter from the right + continues They pass by Ghurri-Wurri without pause + + Drum crash _Ghurri-Wurri_ runs ahead and prostrates + himself before the Princess + + Tap _Princess' retinue_ halts + + Tap _Princess_ signals to attendant + + Tap _Attendant_ signals to nearest slave + + Tap _Slave_ proffers chest + + Tap, Tap, Tap _Attendant_ opens it, takes coin, closes it + + Tap Gives coin to Princess + + Tap on crockery _Princess_ drops coin in beggar's hand + + Princess rhythm _Princess and retinue_ exit at the left + + Begin drum roll _Ghurri-Wurri_ looks at coin, scrambles to + _pp. cresc. to ff._ his feet, looks after Princess, shakes + his fists, starts to the right, turns, + shakes his fist again, exits at right, + raging + + Cymbal crash Lights out + In the darkness Ghurri-Wurri crosses to + left of stage, ready for Scene III + The drop is lifted + + Cymbal crash Lights up + + +SCENE III. + + [The Wazir's Garden as in Scene I] + + _The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._ + + Bass chords _Wazir_, _Vizier_ and _Nubian_ asleep as + before + + Tap on drum _Ghurri-Wurri_ enters at the left + + Tap on drum Prostrates himself before Wazir + + Bass chord _Wazir and court_ sleep on + + Tap on drum _Ghurri-Wurri_ again prostrates himself + + Bass chord _The Court_ sleeps on + + Drum crash _Ghurri-Wurri_ slams himself down hard + + Drum crash _Wazir_, _Vizier_, _Nubian_ awake + + Drum roll _Wazir_ shakes his fist at the beggar + + Wood-block tap Signals Vizier + + Sand blocks _Vizier_ runs thumb along his scimiter + blade + + Tap _Ghurri-Wurri_ retreats to the right + + Tap He stumbles over the telescope + + Tap, tap He picks it up and hands it to the Wazir + + Tap _Ghurri-Wurri_ points to the "Distance." + + Tap _The Wazir_ uses the telescope + + Princess rhythm The "Distance" is revealed as in Scene I + _Princess and retinue_ are seen traveling + [across the platform from right to left] + + Tap _The Wazir_ lowers the telescope + The "Distance" vanishes as in Scene I + + Drum crash _Wazir_ stamps his foot + + Drum roll He shakes his fists, first at the distance, + then off left + + Tap Points at Ghurri-Wurri + + Tap _Vizier_ seizes Ghurri-Wurri by the scruff + of the neck + + Tap _Vizier_ points off left with his scimiter + + Wazir rhythm on _The Court_ _and_ _Ghurri-Wurri_ begin to + wood-drum run, _Nubian_ first, then _Ghurri-Wurri_, + [Telegraphically then _Vizier_, then _Wazir_. The running + stated ... ... etc. is entirely vertical in movement, no + ground being covered at all. + Musically, accented Lights out + eighth notes in 2/4 [In the darkness, the runners move downstage + time, _presto_] without losing step. A plain drop is lowered + behind them] + + Cymbal crash + + Cymbal crash Lights on + + +SCENE IV. + + _The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._ + + Wazir rhythm, The runners increase their speed throughout the + _crescendo_ and scene + _acceleramento_ _Ghurri-Wurri_ slips to his knees, + _Vizier_, without losing a step, jerks him back on + his feet + _Ghurri-Wurri_, pointing left, resumes running + _Wazir_ points left + When the runners have reached their maximum speed + + Cymbal crash The lights go out + In the darkness the _Wazir's court_ and + _Ghurri-Wurri_ exit and take their places + at the right ready for Scene V + _The Shepherd_ and _Goat_ take their places + + Cymbal crash Lights up + + +SCENE V. + + _The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._ + + Wind instrument [A plain drop] + _The Shepherd_ is discovered well to the left, + piping for the Goat + _Goat_ is dancing + + Begin Princess _Goat_ stops to listen, looks off to the right + rhythm _Shepherd_ looks to the right + _Goat_ crosses to extreme right, bows + _Princess and retinue_ enter + + Tap They halt + + Tap _The Shepherd_ kneels to the Princess, then dances + for her + + Stringed instrument + + Drum roll _pp. _The Goat_ becomes alarmed + crescendo_ _All_ turn and look to the right + _Goat_, on all fours, offers his back to the + Princess + _Shepherd_ induces + _Princess_ to sit on Goat's back + + Princess rhythm _Goat_ exits, followed by Princess and retinue + + Tap _Shepherd_ folds his arms + + Wazir rhythm _Wazir's Court_ and _Ghurri-Wurri_ enter from the + right + + Tap They halt + + Tap _Wazir_ points to Shepherd + + Tap _Vizier_ brandishes his scimiter + + Drum roll _Nubian_ approaches Shepherd + + Drum crash _Nubian_ falls + + Drum roll _Wazir_ shakes his fists + _Crescendo_ Points at Shepherd + to _Vizier_ attacks Shepherd with scimiter + _Shepherd_ grasps scimiter + They struggle, conventionally, one, two, three, + four, five, six + + Drum crash _The Shepherd_ falls + + Drum roll _The Vizier_ waves his scimiter aloft + + Drum roll _Wazir_ exults + + Tap _Nubian_ rises + + Tap _Wazir_ points to the right + + Tap _Vizier_ points at Shepherd with scimiter + + Tap _Nubian_ seizes the Shepherd + + Wazir rhythm _Wazir's Court_ and _Shepherd_ exit at the right, + ignoring Ghurri-Wurri, Nubian and Shepherd + first, then Vizier, then Wazir. [All cross + behind the drop to left of stage ready for + Scene VI] + + Drum crash _Ghurri-Wurri_ stamps his foot + + Drum roll Shakes his fists after them + + Drum roll Runs to left and shakes his fists at the Princess + + Drum roll Runs to right and shakes them at the Wazir + Runs to center and shakes them at the audience + + Cymbal crash Lights out + _Ghurri-Wurri_ exits + The drop is raised + + Cymbal crash Lights on + + +SCENE VI. + + [The Wazir's garden. No characters on scene] + + _The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._ + + Wazir rhythm _Nubian_ enters from left, holding the Shepherd + The _Wazir_ and _Vizier_ follow + + Tap _Wazir_ takes his seat, smirking + + Tap _Wazir_ orders Shepherd thrown down at the right + + Drum crash _Nubian_ complies + + Tap _Vizier_ orders Nubian off right + + Wazir rhythm, fast _Nubian_ hurries out + + Wazir rhythm, slow Reenters, staggering under a ball and chain [the + chain of papier mache and the ball a balloon] + + Drum crash Drops these beside the Shepherd + + Clank, clank Rivets chain to Shepherd's leg + + Tap Rises + + Tap _Vizier_ orders Nubian off, left + + Wazir rhythm _Nubian_ exits left + + Tap _Vizier_ sits + + Tap _Wazir_ moves a chessman + + Tap _Vizier_ moves a chessman + + Tap _Shepherd_, in a gesture of despair, finds the + telescope + He looks into the "Distance" + [The "Distance" is shown as in Scene I] + + Stringed music _Princess_ and _Goat_ discovered in conference. + Goat has an idea. He points to the Shepherd, + then to the Wazir, then to the Princess and + executes an ancient dance movement which is + contemporaneously described as the "shimmy" + _The Princess_ claps her hands and exits, + followed by the Goat + + Tap _Shepherd_ lowers the telescope + [The "Distance" vanishes] + + Tap _Shepherd_ is puzzled + + Stringed music _Princess_ enters from the left, veiled and + carrying a scarf in her hands + _Goat_ enters with her, goes at once to the + Shepherd + _Princess_ poses at center + _Wazir_ and _Vizier_ turn, smirking + _Princess_ dances + _Wazir_ leers and strokes his beard + _Princess_ ends dance beside Vizier + + Chords, agitato She ties his arms with her scarf + + Sand blocks _Wazir_ is convulsed with laughter + + Chords _Princess_ binds Wazir's arms with her veil + + Sand blocks _Vizier_ is convulsed with laughter + + Princess rhythm on _The Attendant_ enters from the left with a box + wood drum on which a skull and cross-bones are conspicuous + + Tap _Princess_ takes two pills from the box + + Tap She pops them into her prisoners' open mouths + + Princess rhythm _The Attendant_ exits as she came + + Sand blocks _Wazir_ and _Vizier_ swallow vigorously + + Drum crash They lay their heads upon the chess table and die + + Tap _Princess_ beckons to the Shepherd + + Tap _Shepherd_ points to his fetters + + Tap _Goat_ attacks the ball and chain + + Drum crash He "bites" the ball [bursts the balloon] + + Tap He "bites" the chain. + + String music _Princess_, _Shepherd_ and _Goat_ dance in a + circle + + Cymbal crash Lights out + _Princess_ and _Shepherd_ and _Goat_ ready at left + for next scene + The drop is lowered + + Cymbal crash Lights up + + +SCENE VII. + + _The Music_ _The Pantomime, etc._ + + String music _Princess_ and _Shepherd_ dance across followed + by the _Goat_, who is playing on the Shepherd's + pipe + _Princess_ and _Shepherd_, behind the drop take + their places on the platform + + Cymbal crash Lights out + [The drop is lifted] + + Cymbal crash Lights on + [The Wazir's garden with the middle + section of the drop lifted to show + the "Distance"] + + String music _Shepherd_ and _Princess_ discovered in the + "Distance" posed in a kiss + + Cymbal crash Lights out + [The drop is lowered] + + Cymbal crash Lights on + The Maker of Sounds rises, yawns cavernously, + bows very slightly and exits + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE + + A PLAY + + BY HARRY KEMP + + + Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Co. + All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. + + FLORIO [_a poet_]. + OLIVIA [_Florio's mistress_]. + VIOLANTE [_a Florentine noblewoman_]. + LIZZIA [_Florio's serving-woman_]. + DIONEO [_a member of Boccaccio's party_]. + ONE VOICE. + ANOTHER VOICE. + VARIOUS PROCESSIONS BEARING THE DEAD. + + TIME: _The year of the Great Plague, A. D. 1348_. + PLACE: _Florence_. + + + Published by permission of and special arrangement with Harry Kemp. + Applications for the right of performing BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE must + be made to Mr. Harry Kemp, in care of Brentano's, New York. + + + +BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE + +A PLAY BY HARRY KEMP + + + [SCENE: _A lower room in Florio's house. It is wide and simply + furnished._ + + _In the center, at back, is a large doorway, hung with great black + arras. In the right-hand extreme corner is a small altar to the + Virgin._ + + _In wall, at back, high up on left, a small window._ + + _A smaller doorway, hung with arras of black, is on the left, well + toward the front. This doorway gives on the study of the poet._ + + _At rise of curtain the stage is lit with the uncertain light of + tapers._ + + _Lizzia, the old servant, is discovered kneeling at the altar._ + + _Soon she rises, crossing herself devoutly._ + + _Demurringly and with deprecating shakes of the head, she begins + hanging wreaths about the walls of the room._ + + _After the hanging of each wreath she crosses herself, and, with + agitated piety verging on superstition, she bends the knee briefly + before altar._ + + _Now the wreaths are all in place.... Through the small window the + grayness that comes before dawn begins to glimmer in._ + + _One by one Lizzia snuffs out the tapers._ + + _For a moment everything is left in the gray half-darkness._ + + _But now Lizzia draws aside the large black arras in the back. + There is revealed a magnificent panoramic view of medieval + Florence, flushing gradually from pearl-gray to soft, delicate + rose, then to the full gold of accomplished sunrise._ + + _Again the old woman kneels at the altar._ + + _Enter, through the open doorway at back, Violante--rather tall, + good-looking, quite dark._ + + _Violante stands silent for a moment. One can see that it is in + her thought to wait till Lizzia finishes her devotions ... then + she becomes impatient and breaks in on them._] + + +VIOLANTE + + Lizzia, where bides your master, Florio? + I sped a servant hither yesterday, + To bid him come to me, and now, this morning, + I come myself. + + +LIZZIA + + For three days he has looked upon no one. + Even I, who wait upon him, have not seen him. + + +VIOLANTE + + Where keeps he, then? + + +LIZZIA [_indicating the small doorway_]. + + Yonder, within that arras. + + +VIOLANTE + + Summon him forth! + Say the Lady Violante waits his presence. + + +LIZZIA + + He will grow wroth with me--nor will he greet you. + + +VIOLANTE + + Fears he, then, the Plague so? Is he too such + As dare not walk abroad nor breathe the air + Lest he should drink infection? + + +LIZZIA + + Not so, Lady, but he-- + + +VIOLANTE + + Tell him, then, + Our friend Boccaccio, the story-teller, + Has shaped a brave device against the Plague.... + Before the sun climbs higher into day + And the night's Dead are heaped up in the streets + For buriers and priests to draw away, + A group of goodly ladies and gentlemen + Go forth to a sequestered country place + Remote from Florence and invisible Death. + There, in green gardens full of birds and leaves, + The blue, cloud-wandering heaven spread above, + We shall beguile the time with merriment, + Music and song and telling of many tales, + Trusting that Death, glutted with multitudes, + Will pass us by.... We need but Florio + To bring our perfect pleasure to the brim. + + +LIZZIA [_obstinately_] + + But he will see no one, Lady, not even you. + He is--he is-- + + +VIOLANTE + + Not smitten by the Plague? + + +LIZZIA [_hesitating_] + + Nay, he has taken a vow of close seclusion. + + +VIOLANTE [_confidently_] + + But he knows not I am here--the Lady Violante! [_A pause_.] + [_Impetuously_] Go, tell him it is I,-- + Nor take upon yourself such high command! + + +LIZZIA [_somewhat resentfully_] + + I am a servant, + I only do as he commanded me.... + [_Barring way_.] + + +VIOLANTE [_distractedly_] + + Strange that he should so change in ten days' space. + [_With passionate abandonment_] + Old woman, go this instant--summon him! + I will abide your crabbed ways no longer. + + +LIZZIA [_stung to retaliation_] + + Lady, he would not look upon your face + If you made him ruler of the world for it. + + +VIOLANTE [_flaming_] + + What new freak of his is this? + He is as full of moods as any woman.... + But I had never thought-- + [_Determined_] + I will go to him! + + +LIZZIA [_again barring way_] + + I could tell you many things, + But I would spare you. + + +VIOLANTE + + Spare me!... you insolent, presumptuous old woman, + What have I, + I, the Lady Violante Ugolini, + To do with your good master, Florio, + Beyond a fostering friendship for his song! + Else he were nothing to me.... + You are presuming on your age and service-- + He shall rebuke you for this.... + + +LIZZIA + + Very well, Lady, if you must know-- + He has sworn that he will look upon no one + Till he behold--Olivia! + + +VIOLANTE [_startled_] + + Olivia!... who is Olivia? + + +LIZZIA + + She is a girl who came from Padua + Hither, to flee the Plague ... and fled in vain. + He has loved her just ten days ... since first she came.... + She came to him, a stranger, singing songs-- + His songs! + + +VIOLANTE + + And flattering him so--he loved her! + + +LIZZIA + + Nay, she was beautiful, my noble lady,-- + Surpassing wonderful.... "His shining dream + Of ivory and gold," he called her.... + + +VIOLANTE [_coldly_] + + What has all this to do with me? + [_Relapsing into forgetful eagerness._] + Tell me, where, then, is his Olivia now? + + +LIZZIA + + The Plague! He gave her to a doctor's care, + Beggaring himself therefor, as one who loves! + + +VIOLANTE + + And now he shuts himself away for grief + Because she died!... But, if she be dead, + Wherefore these garlands?-- + Or does he think she will come back, alive? + + +LIZZIA + + The learned doctor swears if she survives + Three days, she shall not die. + + +VIOLANTE + + Not die, in sooth! + Who is this man who resurrects the Dead? + Why, folk whose nerves and sinews sing with life + Sicken, fall down, and seethe with death and worms + Within an hour, and they, the few who live, + Living, curse God because they did not die.... + He would best think of the Living, and forget + The Dead. + + +LIZZIA + + Half-crazed with love, he dreams she will return.... + This is the morning after the third day-- + This is the very hour she would return. + Suppose the learned doctor keep his word?-- + Hence have I hung these garlands. + + [_The sounds of a funeral procession heard approaching.... The + procession passes the large doorway, going by, along the street, + without. The people bear candles.... They pass slowly by the open + door ... bodies being carried in shrouds._] + + +ONE VOICE + + We bore the son ... and now we bear the father.... + + +ANOTHER VOICE + + And I or you, mayhap, will be the next. + + +LIZZIA [_continuing_] + + These wreaths, they seem a mockery of Heaven. + I pray that God will smite me not--I do + What I am bid!... + + +VIOLANTE [_half to herself_] + + She will not come!... + [_To Lizzia_] + Is there nothing will cure his madness? + + +LIZZIA + + Even if she die they are to bring her hither.... + + +VIOLANTE + + Hither? And all corrupt? Then Death will strike you both! + + +LIZZIA + + Lady, I am so old I'd rather sleep + Than walk this sinful, weary world; and be-- + He will unshroud her, kiss her lips, and die! + + +VIOLANTE [_with great bitterness_] + + Fie, this our Florio--he has loved before, + And he will love again, and yet again.... + Women's beauty he loves, not any woman! + + +LIZZIA + + What you have said were true ten days ago-- + Do I not know him, Lady?... But a change + Has come upon him that I marvel at-- + So great a change in such a little while.... + Ah, looked you on them when they were together, + Saw you how he is caught up in her face + And all the beauty of her, you would say + "Here is a love, at last, that climbs from earth to heaven!" + + +VIOLANTE [_laughing harshly_] + + It is her beauty he loved; not she + The thing he loved! A poet, he!... + [_A pause._] + It were as well you tore these garlands down: + If, by a miracle, she should return, + The Plague will have marked her with such ugliness + That even you will shine like Helen of Troy beside her! + Much will he care, then, if she sing his songs! + Had she a voice like a garden of nightingales + He could not listen to her without loathing.... + + [_Sounds of approach of another funeral procession._] + + +VIOLANTE [_continuing_] + + Pray draw the arras, Lizzia, and close out + The things that they bring by.... They have begun + To move the night's innumerable Dead. + + [_Lizzia draws the large arras.... From now on, till the very + last, just before climax, sound and murmur of processions are + continually heard._] + + +VIOLANTE [_persistently_] + + I think she will not come-- + But, if she does, she should be spared the cruelty + Of his heart's change, + And he, her marred, plague-broken face! + Stand aside--let me pass.... + + +LIZZIA [_barring way again_] + + He took his oath + Before that altar, to the most high God! + You shall not break his vow.... + + +VIOLANTE + + Let me go to him--here are my jewels! + + +FLORIO [_calling from within_] + + Who is it speaks without? Whose voice is this + Wrangling and breaking in upon my peace? + + +LIZZIA + + The Lady Violante Ugolini! + + +FLORIO + + To-day, of all days, must I be alone.... + + [_Florio pushes out arras from small doorway and stands before it, + so that he remains unseen to Violante and Lizzia._] + + +FLORIO [_to Lizzia_] + + Go, Lizzia, I will speak with the Lady.... + Have you the wreaths hung, Lizzia? + + +LIZZIA + + Aye, master Florio! + + +FLORIO + + Have you the table heaped with delicacies + In the green space by the fountain-shaken pool? + + +LIZZIA + + I go to set the viands now, my master. + + [_Lizzia goes out._] + + +FLORIO + + Violante, if you would speak with me, + Stay where you are--I cannot look upon you. + + +VIOLANTE + + Not look upon me? + + +FLORIO + + Nor must you look on me.... I have vowed a vow! + + +VIOLANTE + + How strange you are!... + I had thought to rush into your arms!... + Have you forgotten so soon the oaths you took? + + [_She starts toward him._] + + +FLORIO [_hearing the rustle of her garment._] + + Move one step further and I draw the arras! + + +VIOLANTE [_halting and hesitating_] + + Have you forgotten the first time you saw my face + And sent a sonnet to me?... It seems but a day + Since you were awed by my nobility.... + And when I let you press your burning lips + Against my hand, you swore it made you God! + [_Sadly_] + From that time it was not far to my mouth.... + And, after that, what with the shining moon, + And nightingales beginning in the dusk, + And songs and music that you made for me-- + In a little while I was entirely yours!... + + +FLORIO + + Remember that young nobleman who died + For love of you?... I was your pastime, merely that! + And so I sipped what honey came my way. + But why do you come now? + Did you not leave me without a word? + + +VIOLANTE + + My father.... + [_Sombrely_] My father whom the Pestilence has smitten-- + + +FLORIO [_quickly_] + + You sent me no message. + + +VIOLANTE + + Every door was watched ... he might have had you slain.... + He bore me off to Rome.... + + +FLORIO + + You loved me, then? + + +VIOLANTE + + And did not you love me? + + +FLORIO + + I could have sworn I did. + + +VIOLANTE + + O Florio!... + Where is my pride of rank, my woman's shame. + That I should come like this to you! + + +FLORIO + + Speak not so, Violante--I pray you go! + + +VIOLANTE + + You love another, then? + + +FLORIO [_ecstatically_] + + I have loved beauty, beauty all my life! + + +VIOLANTE + + We are not metaphors and pale abstractions, + We women ... nor would we be prized alone + For smooth perfections.... [_Low and intense_] Say that you loved a + woman + Smitten with the Plague, say, further, that she lived-- + One among ten thousand--that she came back to you, + [The one thing sure] hideous and marred-- + + +FLORIO + + You try me sorely! + Violante, I pray you, go! + + +VIOLANTE [_persistently_] + + I have come hither + To bid you come away with me. + + +FLORIO + + It may not be. + + +VIOLANTE [_slowly_] + + The other one--there is another one!-- + I pity her! + + +FLORIO + + You need not. + + +VIOLANTE + + Ah, then, there is another? + + +FLORIO + + Have you no pride, my Lady Violante? + + +VIOLANTE + + That I have not, + For shameless is the heart that loves. + + +FLORIO + + Then shamelessly I love + Another face, another heart and body, + Another soul, unto eternity-- + She is all beauty to me, and all life-- + So shall she be forever! + + +VIOLANTE + + Forever? That is what you swore to me. + + +FLORIO + + I have not sworn a single oath to her, + And yet she made earth heaven in a day, + And earth continues heaven.... Go, noble Lady! + + +VIOLANTE + + You have no pity on me?... + You see + How humbly I've become.... + + +FLORIO + + To pity you, Lady, would be cruel to her!... + In a month you will be glad. + + +VIOLANTE + + You have slain me, Florio! + + +FLORIO + + Farewell, Violante! + + [_Violante affects to go. But she stops quickly at large door in + back and reenters on tiptoe. Florio withdraws to his study again, + after listening for a moment_.] + + +LIZZIA [_reentering_] + + You have not gone, my Lady Violante? + + +VIOLANTE + + I will not go + Till I have looked upon this woman's face! + + [_As she finishes these words, the great black arras in the back + is listed and a hooded and veiled woman enters. She stands + regarding the two other women in silence._] + + +VIOLANTE + + Ah! + + +LIZZIA + + The miracle has come to pass! + + [_Crosses herself._] + + +VIOLANTE + + Do they call you Olivia? Speak, woman! + + +OLIVIA + + Yea, I am she--but where is Florio? + + [_Violante straightens, proud and erect, as if she had been struck + an invisible blow._] + + +LIZZIA + + He waits for you within. + + +OLIVIA + + So he had faith I would not die? + + +LIZZIA + + He had these garlands hung for your return. + He has lived beneath a holy vow, the days + You were not here: shut in his room, + Yours must be the first face + He sees, on his return to light and life. + He must have fallen asleep from weariness + Or he had heard your voice. + [_To Violante._] + Now, Lady Violante, you must go! + + +VIOLANTE [_indignant_] + + How? I must go? + + +LIZZIA + + You would not stay? + + +VIOLANTE + + Yea, I would stay to see this love grow dark + And shrink to hate. + + +OLIVIA [_astonished_] + + And shrink to hate? + + +VIOLANTE + + When you remove your veil + Behind which ugliness that beggars hell + Lies hidden-- + + +OLIVIA [_dazed_] + + Ugliness? + + +VIOLANTE + + Cast by your veil!... + Well may you shrink from your own hideousness + Since the foul plague has withered up your face + And seared it till you die.... + There shines your mirror, wrought of polished brass-- + How many hours you have dallied at it + Only the beauty that you once possessed + Can tell. + You will no longer find a use for it. + + +OLIVIA [_recovering herself_] + + I trust I shall! + + +LIZZIA [_to Olivia_] + + Alas, dear God! And is it true, Olivia? + + +OLIVIA [_to Lizzia_] + + Would he not love me still if it were true? + + +LIZZIA [_to Olivia_] + + I am old and wretched and full of woe. + I have known life too long. + + +VIOLANTE [_to Olivia_] + + He whose one cry is beauty! How could _that_ be? + + +OLIVIA [_almost singing in speech_] + + Then, God be praised, I need not try him thus! + For God has wrought two miracles with me: + I live, and I am beautiful! + + +VIOLANTE + + Unveil your face, then--give yourself to sight. + + +OLIVIA + + His must be the first eyes that look on me. + + +VIOLANTE + + Ah, so you trust that you, with fond deceit, + May find some magic way to cozen him? + + +LIZZIA [_with great emotion_] + + Go, Lady--I see darkness in the air, + I thrill to some strange horror, yet unguessed.... + Go, Lady Violante, I pray you, go! + + [_Lizzia lifts arras in back for Violante's exit. Violante does + not move from where she stands._] + + +VIOLANTE [_persistently, to Olivia_] + + Woman it is your beauty that he loved, + And that alone ... just as he loves a flower + Or sunset.... That gone, lo, his love is gone! + + +OLIVIA + + Strange woman, there is evil in your voice! + And yet I know he loves me for myself, + Taking my beauty, none the less, in gladness + Like any transitory gift from God. + + +VIOLANTE + + And yet you dare not put him to the test? + + +OLIVIA + + What test? + + +VIOLANTE + + To make him first believe + That you are ugly! + + +OLIVIA + + I would not toy with such a splendid gift + As a man's love. + + +VIOLANTE [_mocking_] + + Ah ... in sooth? + + +OLIVIA + + How strange you look ... yet stranger is your speech. + + +VIOLANTE + + Before you came--whom loved he then? + + +OLIVIA + + I do not think he was like other men. + + +VIOLANTE + + Like other men he took and tossed aside, + Deceived and lied and went from heart to heart + Reaping the richness of each woman's soul. + + +OLIVIA + + Go, lest I strike you! + + +VIOLANTE + + Poor, fond, believing child-- + Now I would not have you test his love! + + +OLIVIA [_stirred_] + + By all the saints, I'll put him to the test!... + [_As Violante steps closer to her_] + Nay, I'll not let you look upon my face.... + He must, as I have vowed, look on it first, + Nor will I break that vow--[_Her vanity conquering_] + But lift yon mirror + And you shall look in it and see me there + Reflected!... + + [_Violante lifts mirror so she and Lizzia can see reflection_.] + + +OLIVIA [_with simplicity_] + + Keep your backs so! + [_Unveiling briefly, then drawing veil again_.] + There! Have I lied? + + +VIOLANTE + + He always worshiped beauty.... You are fair! + + +OLIVIA + + Soon will you know our love has mighty wings + Outsoaring time into eternity! + + +VIOLANTE + + I'll have him forth--are you ready for the trial? + + +OLIVIA + + Do you persuade him of my ugliness.... + If he loves me not I shall go forth and die-- + Then life will be far too like death to live! + + +LIZZIA [_agonized_] + + My little children, you must not do this thing! + Love is too high a gift to play with so. + God only has the right to put the heart + Of man to trial! + + +VIOLANTE [_to Lizzia_] + + Will you be quiet, old woman! + + +OLIVIA [_to Lizzia_] + + I would not hold him if he only loved + My beauty, and not me. The test is just.... + + +VIOLANTE [_to Lizzia_] + + Go you, inform him of her return.... + But tell him that that flower which was her face + Is shriveled up and lean as any hag's. + + +LIZZIA + + Now God forbid I should deceive him so! + + +VIOLANTE + + Not even for gold? + + +LIZZIA + + Have you no fear of God? + + [_A stir is heard within._] + + +VIOLANTE + + Hush!... I will do it, then. + [_Going up to small arras over study door, she calls._] + Florio!... Florio!... + + +FLORIO [_from within, after a brief space_] + + Who is it calls me? + + +VIOLANTE + + It is I, Violante! + + +FLORIO + + Why have you come again? + + +VIOLANTE + + I have returned, Florio, + In strange times, bearing strange news. + + +FLORIO + + My soul is full of death--I pray you go! + + +VIOLANTE + + It could not be--aye, it is passing strange!-- + She said her name was "Olivia." + + +FLORIO + + Olivia, ah, she lives! + + +VIOLANTE + + Then, it is true? You love this shriveled woman? + + +FLORIO + + Shriveled woman? + + +VIOLANTE + + Ugly and bent and gray--a woman + Who says in as few words she is your mistress. + + +FLORIO + + Has she come? Is she here?... Go, Violante-- + Go, leave us two alone! + + +VIOLANTE + + She walked as one bewitched in a dream. + She seemed to fear.... I bade her wait without.... + Florio, could it be true you loved this woman? + + +FLORIO + + Has all the brightness fallen from her eyes, + The glory and the wonder from her face? + + +VIOLANTE + + She _lives_! How few have had the plague and _lived_! + + +FLORIO + + Alas, woe, woe is me! + + +VIOLANTE [_triumphantly, to Olivia_] + + You heard? + [_To Florio._] + Come forth--she's at the threshold. + + +FLORIO + + Bid her wait. + Give me space for thought ... a little space.... + This is almost as horrible as her death.... + + [_Long silence. The women wait.... Groaning within. Olivia starts + forward to go to Florio._] + + +VIOLANTE [_to Olivia_] + + Do you flinch now? I knew you would not dare! + + [_Olivia stops. Proudly she remains still._] + + +VIOLANTE [_as arras stirs_] + + Now bear _your_ part--continue the deceit. + + +OLIVIA [_in a frightened voice_] + + I know he loves me. Yet a little while + And I will draw my veil! + [_Another groan. Olivia starts forward again._] + Oh, I cannot! + + +VIOLANTE [_mocking_] + + I knew you would not dare! + + [_Again Olivia stops still. Now, after a long pause, during which + death processions are heard to pass, the arras over the smaller + doorway is slowly put aside. Florio enters, swaying. He holds his + cloak about his brow._] + + +FLORIO + + Where is Olivia? + + +OLIVIA [_feigning with an effort_] + + Florio, God pity you and me-- + I had rather died!... + + +FLORIO + + Oh, speak not so! + + +OLIVIA + + My "beauty clean and golden as the sun," + As once you sang it, has become so gross + And fearful, that I veil it, broken with shame, + From eyes of men.... [_A pause._] 'Tis well you cloak your eyes, + For should I drop my veil through which I glance--[_Another pause._] + Shall I go? + + +FLORIO [_breathing heavily_] + + No ... for I love you ... bide with me.... + [_With great effort_] ... Though you be foul, Olivia! + + [_As he still stands muffled, Olivia grows more and more + frightened at what she is doing, and now, in complete surrender to + terror, gives over the deceit and speaks the truth._] + + +OLIVIA + + Florio, my Florio--draw down your arm.... + No longer need you fear to look on me-- + It was a test, my love, a cruel test! + + [_She draws aside her veil, the other women in back of her, Florio + obliquely in front. Her face is seen to be one of surpassing + loveliness._ + + _Florio, groaning, keeps his face cloaked and does not speak._] + + +OLIVIA + + Look, my beloved, or I shall go mad! + + [_Olivia tugs at his arm. He lowers it. He exposes a sightless + face._] + + +LIZZIA [_breaking in on the awful pause_]. + + Self-blinded, my poor master! + + +VIOLANTE + + Oh, Florio, what is this that I have done! + + [_Olivia has dropped slowly back, stricken dumb with voiceless + terror. Her throat works convulsively with a scream which now + rushes forth._ + + _Florio falls to his knees, again covering his face and bowing his + head. Olivia comes and kneels, grief-stricken, beside him, putting + one arm about him in support._] + + +OLIVIA [_sobbing_] + + There is ... no one ... that's ... uglier ... than I! + + +FLORIO [_convulsively_] + + You were the glory of the world, Olivia!... + And now ... your beauty ... that is ... dead ... will always be ... + to me ... + The glory of ... the world!... forever and forever!... + + +OLIVIA + + Oh, if you could but see my ugliness-- + I think there's nothing like it in the world! + O God, why did I not die an hour ago! + + +VIOLANTE [_crazed anew with jealousy_] + + Florio, Florio--Olivia lies! + Her beauty floods the very room with light-- + You are deceived most horribly! + + +OLIVIA + + Command that woman hence; + She is the source and cause of all our ill. + + +FLORIO + + What does this mean? My soul is sick to death! + + +VIOLANTE + + I tell you, Florio, that she lies to you. + + [_To Lizzia._] + + Tell him the truth, old woman, and beware, + As you have fear of Hell, belief in God, + And hope of Heaven, to perjure not your soul! + + +LIZZIA [_at first frightened and irresolute, then quietly determined._] + + God help me--she is surpassingly--ugly! + + [_Returning Violante glare for glare._] + + Her ugliness--! + + [_Breaking down, she goes to altar and drops on knees before it._] + + +FLORIO + + Go, Violante! + + +VIOLANTE + + I could curse God for this! + + [_Violante staggers toward the great black curtain in doorway, + where she supports herself by clinging to it._] + + +FLORIO + + Olivia, come back to me from the great Dark-- + All life is but a ghost. Where are you, Olivia? + + +OLIVIA + + I am here--close to you, Florio! + + +FLORIO + + What have you women done to me! + [_To Olivia._] Your face! + An evil dream is in my heart! + + [_He gropes, catches her quickly on each side of the head with + both hands. He draws her down to him. He runs his fingers + flickeringly over the smooth, rosy beauty of her face...._ + + _Then, with an eyeless, uplifted countenance which reveals + complete understanding and an abyss of horror and madness, he + slowly pushes Olivia away...._ + + _He lifts his fingers up grotesquely in the air, each distinct and + widespread--painfully, as if fire spurted out of the ends of them. + Olivia weeps...._ + + _Lizzia intones prayers...._ + + _Violante holds herself erect and triumphant, clinging to the + great arras in back, struggling for strength to go out._ + + _At this moment another death-procession passes.... A Miserere is + chanted...._ + + _A dawn of horror breaks over Violante's face ... she shrinks + inward from the passing procession, feeling the huge horror of the + Pestilence._ + + _Olivia gathers Florio's unresisting head to her bosom...._ + + _The sound of the Miserere dies off...._ + + _Into this tableau breaks Dioneo. Slowly he parts the arras._] + + +DIONEO [_grimacing, and seeing, at first, only Lizzia at the altar._] + + Bestir yourself, old woman-- + Where is your master, Florio, + And Lady Violante Ugolini?... + This is no time for lovers' dallying.... + Tell them that Seignior Boccaccio + Sends word through me that we must wait no longer. + And, furthermore, he bids me say--that + + [_Violante falls in a faint across his feet. Dioneo sees all. + Shrinking back._] + + Merciful God!... + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +ANOTHER WAY OUT + + A COMEDY + + BY LAWRENCE LANGNER + + + Copyright, 1916, by Lawrence Langner. + All rights reserved. + + + ANOTHER WAY OUT was originally produced by the Washington Square + Players at the Comedy Theatre, New York, on November 13th, 1916, + with the following cast: + + MARGARET MARSHALL _Gwladys Wynne_. + MRS. ABBEY _Jean Robb_. + POMEROY PENDLETON _Jose Ruben_. + BARONESS DE MEAUVILLE _Helen Westley_. + CHARLES P. K. FENTON _Robert Strange_. + + TIME: _The Present_. + + Produced under the direction of MR. PHILLIP MOELLER. + + + Reprinted from "Plays of the Washington Square Players," published by + Frank Shay, by permission of Mr. Lawrence Langner. Applications for + permission to perform ANOTHER WAY OUT must be made to Lawrence + Langner, 55 Liberty Street, New York. + + + +ANOTHER WAY OUT + +A COMEDY BY LAWRENCE LANGNER + + + [SCENE: _The studio in Pendleton's apartment. A large room, with + sky-light in center wall, doors right and left, table set for + breakfast; a vase with red flowers decorates the table. Center + back stage, in front of sky-light, modeling stand upon which is + placed a rough statuette, covered by cloth. To one side of this is + a large screen. The furnishings are many hued, the cushions a + flare of color, and the pictures fantastically futuristic._ + + _At Rise: Mrs. Abbey, a benevolent looking, middle-aged woman, in + neat clothes and apron, is arranging some dishes on the table. + Margaret, a very modern young woman, is exercising vigorously. She + is decidedly good-looking. Her eyes are direct, her complexion + fresh, and her movements free. Her brown hair is "bobbed," and she + wears a picturesque Grecian robe._] + + +MRS. ABBEY. Breakfast is ready, ma'am. + + [_Margaret sits at table and helps herself. Exit Mrs. Abbey, left._] + +MARGARET [_calling_]. Pommy dear. Breakfast is on the table. + +PENDLETON [_from without_]. I'll be there in a moment. + + [_Margaret glances through paper; Pendleton enters, door right. He + is tall and thin, and of aesthetic appearance. His long blond hair + is brushed loosely over his forehead and he is dressed in a + helitrope-colored dressing gown. He lights a cigarette._] + +MARGARET. I thought you were going to stop smoking before breakfast. + +PENDLETON. My dear, I can't possibly stand the taste of tooth paste in +my mouth all day. + + [_Pendleton sits at table. Enters Mrs. Abbey with tray. Pendleton + helps himself, then drops his knife and fork with a clang. Mrs. + Abbey and Margaret are startled._] + +MRS. ABBEY. Anything the matter, sir? + +PENDLETON. Dear, dear! My breakfast is quite spoiled again. + +MRS. ABBEY [_concerned_]. Spoiled, sir? + +PENDLETON [_pointing to red flowers on breakfast table_]. Look at those +flowers, Mrs. Abbey. Not only are they quite out of harmony with the +color scheme in this room, but they're positively red, and you know I +have a perfect horror of red. + +MRS. ABBEY. But you like them that color sometimes, sir. What am I to do +when you're so temperamental about 'em. + +MARGARET. Temperamental. I should say bad-tempered. + +MRS. ABBEY [_soothingly_]. Oh no, ma'am. It isn't bad temper. I +understand Mr. Pendleton. It's just another bad night he's had, that's +what it is. + +PENDLETON [_sarcastically polite_]. Mrs. Abbey, you appear to have an +intimate knowledge of how I pass the nights. It's becoming quite +embarrassing. + +MRS. ABBEY. You mustn't mind an old woman like me, sir. + + [_The sound of a piano hopelessly out of tune, in the apartment + upstairs, is heard, the player banging out Mendelssohn's Wedding + March with unusual insistence._] + +PENDLETON. There! That confounded piano again! + +MARGARET. And they always play the Wedding March. There must be an old +maid living there. + +MRS. ABBEY. They're doing that for a reason. + +MARGARET. What reason? + +MRS. ABBEY. Their cook tole me yesterday that her missus thinks if she +keeps on a-playing of the Wedding March, p'raps it'll give you an' Mr. +Pendleton the idea of getting married. She don't believe in couples +livin' to-gether, like you an' Mr. Pendleton. + +MARGARET. No? + +MRS. ABBEY. And I just said you an' Mr. Pendleton had been living +together so long, it was my opinion you might just as well be married +an' done with it. + +MARGARET [_angrily_]. Your opinion is quite uncalled for, Mrs. Abbey. + +PENDLETON. Why shouldn't Mrs. Abbey give us her opinion? It may be +valuable. Look at her experiences in matrimony. + +MRS. ABBEY. In matrimony, and out of it, too. + +MARGARET [_sitting_]. But Mrs. Abbey has no right to discuss our affairs +with other people's maids. + +MRS. ABBEY. I'll be glad to quit if I don't suit the mistress. + +MARGARET [_angrily_]. There! Mistress again! How often have I asked you +not to refer to me as the mistress? + +MRS. ABBEY. No offense, ma'am. + +PENDLETON. You'd better see if there's any mail, Mrs. Abbey, and take +those flowers away with you. + +MRS. ABBEY. Very well, sir. + + [_Exit Mrs. Abbey door center._] + +MARGARET. What an old-fashioned point of view Mrs. Abbey has. + + [_Pendleton takes up paper and commences to read._] + +MARGARET. Pommy, why do you stoop so? + +PENDLETON. Am I stooping? + +MARGARET. I'm tired of telling you. You ought to take more exercise. + + [_Pendleton continues to read._] + +MARGARET. One reason why the Greeks were the greatest of artists was +because they cultivated the body as carefully as the mind. + +PENDLETON. Oh! Hang the Greeks! + + [_Enter Mrs. Abbey right, with letters._] + +MRS. ABBEY. There are your letters, sir. [_Coldly._] And these are +yours, ma'am. + + [_Exit Mrs. Abbey left._] + +MARGARET [_who has opened her letters meanwhile_]. How delightful! Tom +Del Valli has asked us to a party at his studio next Friday. + +PENDLETON [_opening his letters_]. Both of us? + +MARGARET [_giving him letter_]. Yes, and Helen Marsden wants us for +Saturday. + +PENDLETON. Both of us? + +MARGARET [_picking up another letter_]. Yes, and here's one from Bobby +Watson for Sunday. + +PENDLETON. Both of us? + +MARGARET. Yes. + +PENDLETON. Really, Margaret, this is becoming exasperating. [_Holds up +letters._] Here are four more, I suppose for both of us. People keep on +inviting us out together time after time as though we were the most +conventional married couple on God's earth. + +MARGARET. Do you object to going out with me? + +PENDLETON [_doubtfully_]. No, it isn't that. But we're having too much +of a good thing. And I've come to the conclusion that it's your fault. + +MARGARET [_indignantly_]. Oh! it's my fault? Of course you'd blame me. +Why? + +PENDLETON. Because you have such an absurd habit of boasting to people +of your devotion for me, when we're out. + +MARGARET. You surely don't expect me to quarrel with you in public? + +PENDLETON. It isn't necessary to go to that extent. But then everybody +believes that we're utterly, almost stupidly in love with one another, +what can you expect? + +MARGARET. You said once you never wanted me to suppress anything. + +PENDLETON. That was before we began to live together. + +MARGARET. What could I have done? + +PENDLETON [_up right_]. Anything just so we could have a little more +freedom instead of being tied to one another the way we are. Never a +moment when we're not together, never a day when I'm not interviewed by +special article writers from almost every paper and magazine in the +country, as the only successful exponent of the theory that love can be +so perfect that the marriage contract degrades it. I put it to you, +Margaret, if this is a free union it is simply intolerable! + +MARGARET. But aren't we living together so as to have more freedom? +Think of what it might be if we were married. Didn't you once write that +"When marriage comes in at the door, freedom flies out at the window"? + +PENDLETON. Are we any better off, with everybody treating us as though +we were living together to prove a principle? + +MARGARET. Well, aren't we incidently? You said so yourself. We can be a +beautiful example to other people, and show them how to lead the pure +natural lives of the later Greeks? + +PENDLETON. Damn the later Greeks! Why do you always throw those +confounded later Greeks in my face? We've got to look at it from our +standpoint. This situation must come to an end. + +MARGARET. What can we do? + +PENDLETON. It rests with you. + +MARGARET. With me? + +PENDLETON. You can compromise yourself with somebody publicly. That'll +put an end to everything. + +MARGARET. How will that end it? + +PENDLETON. It'll break down the morally sanctified atmosphere in which +we're living. Then perhaps, people will regard us as immoral and treat +us like decent human beings again. + +MARGARET. But I don't want to compromise myself. + +PENDLETON. If you believe in your own ideas, you must. + +MARGARET. But why should I have to do it? + +PENDLETON. It will be so easy for you. + +MARGARET. Why can't we both be compromised? That would be better still. + +PENDLETON. I should find it a bore. You, unless my memory fails me, +would enjoy it. + +MARGARET. You needn't be cynical. Even if you don't enjoy it, you can +work it into a novel. + +PENDLETON. It's less exertion to imagine an affair of that sort, and the +result would probably be more saleable. Besides I have no interest +whatsoever in women, at least, in the women we know. + +MARGARET. For that matter, I don't know any eligible men. + +PENDLETON. What about Bob Lockwood? + +MARGARET. But he's your best friend! + +PENDLETON. Exactly--no man ever really trusts his best friend. He'll +probably compromise you without compunction. + +MARGARET. I'm afraid he'd be too dangerous--he tells you all his +secrets. Whom will you choose? + +PENDLETON. It's a matter of complete indifference to me. + +MARGARET. I've heard a lot of queer stories about Jean Roberts. How +would she do? + +PENDLETON [_firmly_]. Margaret, I don't mind being party to a +flirtation--but I draw the line at being the victim of a seduction. + +MARGARET. Why not leave it to chance? Let it be the next interesting +woman you meet. + +PENDLETON. That might be amusing. But there must be an age limit. And +how about you? + +MARGARET [_takes cloth off statuette and discloses figure of Apollo in +rough modeling clay_]. Me! Why not the new model who is coming to-day to +pose for my Apollo? + +PENDLETON. Well, if he's anything like that, you ought to be able to +create a sensation. Then, perhaps, we shall have some real freedom. + +MARGARET. Pommy, do you still love me as much as you did? + +PENDLETON. How you sentimentalize! Do you think I'd be willing to enter +into a flirtation with a strange woman, if I didn't want to keep on +living with you? + +MARGARET. And we won't have to break up our little home, will we? + +PENDLETON. No, anything to save the home. [_Catches himself._] My God! +If any of my readers should hear me say that! To think that I, Pomeroy +Pendleton, should be trying to save my own home. And yet, how +characteristically paradoxical. + +MARGARET [_interrupting_]. You are going to philosophize! Give me a +kiss. + + [_She goes to him, sits on his lap, and places her arm on his + shoulder; he takes out cigarette, she lights it for him._] + +PENDLETON [_brought back to reality_]. I have some work to do--I must +go. + +MARGARET. A kiss! + +PENDLETON [_kisses her carelessly_]. There let me go. + +MARGARET. I want a real kiss. + +PENDLETON. Don't be silly, dear, I can't play this morning. I've simply +got to finish my last chapter. + + [_A bell rings, Mrs. Abbey enters and goes to door._] + +MRS. ABBEY. There's a lady to see Mr. Pendleton. + +MARGARET. Tell her to come in! + +PENDLETON. But, Margaret! + +MARGARET. Remember! [_Significantly._] The first woman you meet! + + [_Exit Margaret. Mrs. Abbey enters with Baroness de Meauville. + Exit Mrs. Abbey._] + +BARONESS DE MEAUVILLE [_speaking with a pronounced English accent_]. +Good morning, Mr. Pendleton, I'm the Baroness de Meauville! + +PENDLETON [_recalling her name_]. Baroness de Meauville? Ah, the +costumiere? + +BARONESS. Not a costumiere, Mr. Pendleton, I am an artist, an artist in +modern attire. A woman is to me what a canvas is to a painter. + +PENDLETON. Excuse me for receiving you in my dressing gown. I was at +work. + +BARONESS. I like to see men in dressing gowns--yours is charming. + +PENDLETON [_flattered and pleased_]. Do you like it? I designed it +myself. + +BARONESS [_looking seductively into his eyes_]. How few really creative +artists there are in America. + +PENDLETON [_modestly_]. You flatter me. + +BARONESS. Not at all. You must know that I'm a great admirer of yours, +Mr. Pendleton. I've read every one of your books. I feel I know you as +an old friend. + +PENDLETON. That's very nice of you! + + [_The Baroness reclines on couch; takes jeweled cigarette case + from reticule and offers Pendleton a cigarette._] + +BARONESS. Will you smoke? + +PENDLETON. Thanks. + + [_Pendleton lights her cigarette, then his own. He draws his + chair up to the couch. An atmosphere of mutual interest is + established._] + +BARONESS. Mr. Pendleton, I have a mission in life. It is to make the +American woman the best dressed woman in the world. I came here to-day +because I want you to help me. + +PENDLETON. But I have no ambitions in that direction. + +BARONESS. Why should you have ambitions? Only the bourgeoisie have +ambitions. We artists have inspirations. I want to breathe into you the +spirit of my great undertaking. Already I have opened my place in the +smartest part of the Avenue. Already I have drawn my assistants from all +parts of the world. Nothing is lacking to complete my plans but you. + +PENDLETON. Me? Why me? + +BARONESS [_endearingly_]. Are you not considered one of the foremost men +of letters in America? + +PENDLETON [_modestly_]. Didn't you say you had read all my books? + +BARONESS. Are you not the only writer who has successfully portrayed the +emotional side of American life? + +PENDLETON [_decidedly_]. Yes. + +BARONESS. Exactly. That is why I have chosen you to write my +advertisements. + +PENDLETON [_aghast_]. But, Baroness! + +BARONESS. You're not going to say that. It's so ordinary. + +PENDLETON. But, but, you want me to write advertisements! + +BARONESS. Please don't disappoint me. + +PENDLETON. Yes, I suppose that's so. But one has a sense of pride. + +BARONESS. Art comes before Pride. Consider my feelings, an aristocrat, +coming here to America and engaging in commerce, and advertising, and +other dreadful things, and all for the sake of Art! + +PENDLETON. But you make money out of it! + +BARONESS. Only incidentally. Just as you, in writing my advertisements, +would make, say ten thousand or so, as a sort of accident. But don't let +us talk of money. It's perfectly revolting, isn't it? Art is Life, and I +believe in Life for Art's sake. That's why I'm a success. + +PENDLETON. Indeed? How interesting. Please go on. + +BARONESS. When a woman comes to me for a gown, I don't measure body, why +should I? I measure her mind. I find her color harmony. In a moment I +can tell whether she ought to wear scarlet, mauve, taupe, magenta, or +any other color, so as to fall into her proper rhythm. Every one has a +rhythm, you know. [_Pendleton sits on sofa._] But I don't have to +explain all this to you, Mr. Pendleton. You understand it intuitively. +This heliotrope you are wearing shows me at once that you are in rhythm. + +PENDLETON [_thinks of Margaret_]. I'm not so sure that I am. What you +say interests me. May I ask you a question? + +BARONESS. Yes, but I may not answer it. + +PENDLETON. Why do you wear heliotrope and the same shade as mine? + +BARONESS [_with mock mystery_]. You mustn't ask me that. + +PENDLETON. I'm all curiosity. + +BARONESS. Curiosity is dangerous. + +PENDLETON. Supposing I try to find out? + +BARONESS. That may be even more dangerous. + +PENDLETON. I'm fond of that kind of danger. + +BARONESS. Take care! I'm very fragile. + +PENDLETON. Isn't heliotrope in rhythm with the faint reflection of +passion? + +BARONESS. How brutal of you to have said it. + +PENDLETON [_coming closer to her_]. I, too, am in rhythm with +heliotrope. + +BARONESS [_with joy_]. How glad I am. Thank God you've no desire to kiss +my lips. + +PENDLETON. Only your finger-tips. + + [_They exchange kisses on finger-tips._] + +PENDLETON. Your fingers are like soft, pale, waxen tapers! + +BARONESS. Your kisses are the breathings that light them into quivering +flame! + +PENDLETON. Exquisite--exquisite! + +BARONESS [_withdrawing her hands_]. That was a moment! + +PENDLETON. We must have many such. + +BARONESS. Many? That's too near too much. + +PENDLETON [_feverishly_]. We shall, dear lady. + +BARONESS. How I adore your writings! They have made me realize the +beauty of an ideal union, the love of one man for one woman at a time. +Let us have such a union, you and me. + +PENDLETON [_taken back_]. But I live in such a union already. + +BARONESS [_rising in amazement_]. And only a moment ago you kissed me! + +PENDLETON. Well--what of it? + +BARONESS. Don't you see what we've done? You are living in one of those +wonderful unions you describe in your books--and I've let you kiss me. +I've committed a sacrilege. + +PENDLETON. You're mistaken. It isn't a sacrilege. It's an opportunity. + +BARONESS [_dramatically_]. How can you say that--you whose words have +inspired my deepest intimacies. No, I must go. [_Makes for the door._] +I--must--go. + +PENDLETON. You don't understand. I exaggerated everything so in my +confounded books. + +BARONESS. Please ask her to forgive me. Please tell her I thought you +were married, otherwise, never, never, would I have permitted you to +kiss me. + +PENDLETON. What made you think I was married? + +BARONESS. One often believes what one hopes. + +PENDLETON. You take it too seriously. Let me explain. + +BARONESS. What is there to explain? Our experience has been complete. +Why spoil it by anti-climax? + +PENDLETON. Am I never to see you again? + +BARONESS. Who knows? If your present union should end, and some day your +soul needs--some one? + + [_Exit door center, her manner full of promise._] + +PENDLETON [_with feeling_]. Good-by--long, pale fingers. + + [_Enter Margaret, door right._] + +MARGARET. Did you get a good start with the scandal? + +PENDLETON. Not exactly. I may as well admit it was a failure through no +fault of mine, of course. And now, I simply must finish that last +chapter. + + [_He exits. Margaret rings. Mrs. Abby enters._] + +MARGARET. You may clear, Mrs. Abbey. + +MRS. ABBEY. Very well, ma'am. + + [_She attends to clearing the table._] + +MARGARET. Mrs. Abbey, have you worked for many people living together, +like Mr. Pendleton and myself? + +MRS. ABBEY. Lor', Ma'am, yes. I've worked in nearly every house on the +south side of Washington Square. + +MARGARET. Mr. Pendleton says I'm as domestic as any wife could be. Were +the others like me? + +MRS. ABBEY. Most of them, ma'am, but some was regular hussies; not only +a-livin' with their fellers--but havin' a good time, too. That's what I +call real immoral. + + [_Bell rings. Mrs. Abbey opens door center and passes out. + Conversation with Fenton without is heard. Mrs. Abbey comes + back._] + +MRS. ABBEY. A young man wants to see you, ma'am. + +MARGARET. That's the new model. I'll get my working apron. + + [_Exit Margaret, door right. Mrs. Abbey calls through door center._] + +MRS. ABBEY. You c'n come in. + + [_Enter door left, Charles P. K. Fenton, dictionary salesman. He + is a strikingly handsome young man, offensively smartly dressed in + a black and white check suit, gaudy tie, and white socks. His hair + is brushed back from his forehead like a glossy sheath. He carries + a black bag. His manner is distinctly "male."_] + +MRS. ABBEY [_points to screen_]. You can undress behind there. + +FENTON. Undress? Say, what's this? A Turkish bath? + +MRS. ABBEY. Did you expect to have a private room all to yourself? + +FENTON [_looking around_]. What am I to undress for? + +MRS. ABBEY. The missus will be here in a minute. + +FENTON. Good night! I'm goin'. + + [_Makes for door._] + +MRS. ABBEY. What's the matter? Ain't you the Missus' new model? + +FENTON. A model! Ha! Ha! You've sure got the wrong number this time. I'm +in the dictionary line, ma'am. + +MRS. ABBEY. Well, of all the impudence! You a book agent, and a-walkin' +in here. + +FENTON. Well, you asked me in, didn't you? Can't I see the missus, jest +for a minute? + +MRS. ABBEY [_good-naturedly_]. Very well. Here she is. +[_Confidentially._] And I advise you to remove that Spearmint from your +mouth, if you want to sell any dictionaries in this house. + +FENTON [_placing hand to mouth_]. Where shall I put it? + +MRS. ABBEY. You'd better swallow it! + + [_Fenton tries to do so, chokes, turns red, and places his hand to + mouth._] + +MARGARET [_to Fenton_]. I'm so glad to see you. + + [_Fenton is most embarrassed. Mrs. Abbey, in surprise, attempts to + explain situation._] + +MRS. ABBEY. But, ma'am-- + +MARGARET. You may go, Mrs. Abbey. + +MRS. ABBEY. But, but, ma'am-- + +MARGARET [_severely_]. You may go, Mrs. Abbey. [_Exit Mrs. Abbey in a +huff._] I'm so glad they sent you up to see me. Won't you sit down? + + [_Fenton finds it a difficult matter to handle the situation. He + adopts his usual formula for an "opening," but his speech is + mechanical and without conviction. Margaret adds to the + embarrassment by stepping around him and examining him with + professional interest._] + +FENTON. Madam, I represent the Globe Advertising Publishing Sales Co., +the largest publishers of dictionaries in the world. + +MARGARET [_continuing to appraise him_]. Then you're not the new model? + +FENTON. No, ma'am. + +MARGARET. What a pity! Never mind, go on. + +FENTON. As I was saying, ma'am, I represent the Advertising Globe +Publishing--I mean the Globe Publishing Sales Publishing Co., the +largest publishers of dictionaries in the world. For some time past we +have felt there was a demand for a new Encyclopaedic Dictionary, madam, +one that would not only fill up a good deal of space in the bookshelf, +making an attractive addition to the home, but also containing the most +complete collection of words in the English language. + +MARGARET [_who has taken a pencil and is measuring Fenton while he +speaks; Fenton's discomfort is obvious. He attempts to rearrange his tie +and coat, thinking she is examining him._] Please go on talking, it's so +interesting. + +FENTON. Statistics show that the Woman of Average Education in America, +Madam, has command of but fifteen hundred words. This new dictionary, +Madam, [_Produces book from bag._] will give you command of over eight +hundred and fifty thousand. + +MARGARET [_archly_]. So you are a dealer in words--how perfectly +romantic. + +FENTON [_warming_]. Most of these words, madam, are not used more than a +dozen times a year. They are our Heritage from the Past. And all these +words, to say nothing of the fact that the dictionary fills five inches +in a bookshelf, making an attractive addition to the library, being +handsomely bound in half-cloth--all these are yours, ma'am, for the +price of one dollar. + + [_He places dictionary in her hand. She examines it._] + +FENTON. If you have a son, madam, the possession of this dictionary will +give him an opportunity of acquiring that knowledge of our language +which made Abraham Lincoln the Father of our Country. Madam, opportunity +knocks at the door only once and _This_ is _your_ opportunity at one +dollar. + +MARGARET [_meaningly_]. Yes, this is my opportunity! I'll buy the +dictionary and now [_sweetly_] won't you tell me your name? + +FENTON [_pocketing dollar_]. My name is Charles P. K. Fenton. + +MARGARET. Mr. Fenton, would you mind doing me a favor? + +FENTON [_looking dubiously towards the screen_]. Why, I guess not, +ma'am. + +MARGARET. I want you to take off your coat. + +FENTON [_puzzled_]. You're not trying to kid me, ma'am? + +MARGARET. I just want to see your development. Do you mind? + +FENTON [_removes coat_]. Why, no, ma'am, if that's all you want. + +MARGARET. Now, bring your arm up, tighten the muscles. [_Fenton does as +she bids; Margaret thumps his arm approvingly._] Splendid! You must take +lots of exercise, Mr. Fenton. + +FENTON. Not me, ma'am. I never had no time for exercise; I got that +workin' in a freight yard. + +Margaret. I suppose you think me rather peculiar, Mr. Fenton. + +FENTON. You said it, Miss. + +MARGARET. You see I'm a sculptress. [_Points to statuette._] This is my +work. + +FENTON. You made that? Gee! that's great. [_Examines statuette._] Just +like them statues at the Metropolitan. + +MARGARET. That figure is Apollo, Mr. Fenton. + +FENTON. Oh, Apollo. + +MARGARET. I was to engage a professional model for it, but I could never +hope to get a professional as fine a type as you. Will you pose for it? + +FENTON [_aghast_]. Me? That feller there without any clothes. +[_Dubiously._] Well, I don't know. It's kind of chilly here. + +MARGARET. If I draped you, it would spoil some of your lines. [_Seeing +his hesitation._] But I will if you like. + +FENTON [_relieved_]. Ah, now you're talking. + +MARGARET. So, you'll really come? + +FENTON. How about this evening? + +MARGARET. Splendid! Sit down. [_Fenton does so._] Mr. Fenton, you've +quite aroused my curiosity. I know so few business men. Is your work +interesting? + +FENTON. Well, I can't say it was, until I started selling around this +neighborhood. + +MARGARET. Is it difficult? + +FENTON. Not if you've got personality, Miss. That's the thing, +personality. If a feller hasn't got personality, he can't sell goods, +that's sure. + +MARGARET. What do you mean by personality, Mr. Fenton. + +FENTON. Well, it's what sells the goods. I don't know how else to +explain it exactly. I'll look it up in the dictionary. [_Takes +dictionary and turns pages._] Here it is, ma'am. Per--per--why, it +isn't in here. I guess they don't put in words that everybody knows. We +all know what personality means. It's what sells the goods. + +MARGARET. I adore a strong, virile, masculine personality. + +FENTON. I don't quite get you, madam. + +MARGARET. The men I know have so much of the feminine in them. + +FENTON. Oh, "Cissies"! + +MARGARET [_flirtingly_]. They lack the magnetic forcefulness which I +like so much in you. + +FENTON. I believe you are kidding me. Does that mean you like me? + +MARGARET. That's rather an embarrassing question. + +FENTON. You must or you wouldn't let me speak to you this way. + +MARGARET [_archly_]. Never mind whether I like you. Tell me whether you +like me? + +FENTON [_feeling more at home_]. Gee! I didn't get on to you at first. +Sure I like you. + +MARGARET. Then we're going to be good friends. + +FENTON. You just bet we are. Say, got a date for to-morrow evening? + +MARGARET. No. + +FENTON. How about the movies? There's a fine feature film at the Strand. +Theda Bara in "The Lonesome Vampire," five reels. They say it's got +"Gloria's Romance" beat a mile. + +MARGARET. I don't know that I'd care to go there. + +FENTON. How about a run down to Coney? + +MARGARET. Coney! I've always wanted to do wild Pagan things. + +FENTON. Say, you'll tell me your name, won't you? + +MARGARET. Margaret Marshall. + +FENTON. Do you mind if I call you Margie? + +MARGARET. If you do, I must call you-- + +FENTON. Charley. Gee, I like the name of Margie. Some class to that. + +MARGARET. I'm glad you like it. + +FENTON [_moving nearer_]. And some class to you! + +MARGARET [_coyly_]. So you really like me? + +FENTON. You bet. Say, before I go, you've got to give me a kiss, Margie. + +MARGARET. Well, I don't know. Aren't you rather "rushing" me? + +FENTON. Say, you are a kidder. + + [_He draws her up from her chair, and kisses her warmly on the + lips._] + +MARGARET [_ecstatically_]. You have the true Greek spirit! [_They kiss +again._] If only Pommy would kiss me that way! + +FENTON. Pommy? Who's Pommy? + +MARGARET. Pommy is the man I live with. + +FENTON. Your husband! + +MARGARET. No, we just live together. You see, we don't believe in +marriage. + +FENTON [_pushing her away in horror_]. I thought there was something +queer about all this. Does he live here? + +MARGARET. Yes. [_Points to door._] He's in there now. + +FENTON [_excitedly_]. Good night! I'm goin'. + + [_Looks for hat._] + +MARGARET [_speaking with real anguish_]. You're surely not going just on +that account. + +FENTON [_taking hat and bag_]. Isn't that enough? + +MARGARET [_emotionally_]. Please don't go. Listen, I can't suppress my +feeling for you; I never do with anybody. I liked you the moment I saw +you, I want you as a friend, a good friend. You can't go now, just when +everything's about to begin. + +FENTON [_severely_]. Fair's fair, Miss. If he's keeping you, you can't +be taking up with me at the same time. That puts the finish on it. + +MARGARET. But he doesn't keep me. I keep myself. + +FENTON. Wait a minute. You support yourself, and live with him of your +own free will. Then you've got no excuse for being immoral; 'tisn't like +you had to make your living at it. [_At door._] Good-by. + +MARGARET. But I can explain everything. + +FENTON. It's no use, Miss. Even though I am a salesman, I've got a sense +of honor. I sized you up as a married woman when I came in just now, or +I never would have made love to you at all. + +MARGARET. Oh--wait! Supposing I should want to buy some more +dictionaries. + +FENTON [_returning_]. You've got my card, Miss. The 'phone number is on +it. Bryant 4253. [_Sees Margaret hang her head._] Don't feel hurt, Miss. +You'll get over these queer ideas some day, and when you do, well, +you've got my number. So long, kid. + + [_Exit Fenton, door, center._] + +MARGARET [_taking his card from table and placing it to her lips +soulfully_]. My Apollo, Bryant 4253! + +PENDLETON. Did you get a good start with your scandal. [_Margaret hangs +her head._] It's no use; I'm convinced we're in a hopeless muddle. + +MARGARET. I heartily agree with you. + +PENDLETON. You've changed your mind very suddenly. + +MARGARET. I have my reasons. + +PENDLETON. The fact is, Margaret, that so long as we live together we're +public figures, with everybody else as our jury. + +MARGARET. But lots of people read your books and respect us. + +PENDLETON. The people that respect us are worse than the people that +don't. + +MARGARET. If they wouldn't always be bothering about our morals! + +PENDLETON. If we continue living together, we shall simply be giving up +our freedom to prove we are free. + +MARGARET [_faltering_]. I suppose we ought to separate. + +PENDLETON. I believe we should. + +MARGARET. We'll have to give up the studio. + +PENDLETON [_regretfully_]. Yes. + +MARGARET. It's taken a long time to make the place homelike. + +PENDLETON. We've been very comfortable here. + +MARGARET. I shall miss you at meals. + +PENDLETON. I shall have to start eating at clubs and restaurants again, +no more good home cooking. + +MARGARET. We're kind of used to one another, aren't we? + +PENDLETON. It isn't an easy matter to break, after five years. + +MARGARET. And there are mighty few studios with as good a light as this; +I don't want to separate if you don't. + +PENDLETON. But, Margaret. [_Piano starts playing wedding march._] There, +that confounded piano again. [_Seized with an idea._] Margaret, there's +another way out! + +MARGARET [_with same idea_]. You mean, we ought to marry! + +PENDLETON. Yes, marry, and do it at once. That'll end everything. + +MARGARET. Let's do it right away and get it over with; I simply must +finish my Apollo. + +PENDLETON. I'm going to buy you a new gown to get married in, a wedding +present from Baroness de Meauville's. + +MARGARET. I don't know that I want a De Meauville gown. + +PENDLETON. Please let me. I want to give you something to symbolize our +new life together. + +MARGARET. Very well. And in return, I'll buy you a dictionary, so that I +won't have to keep on correcting your spelling. + + [_Exit Pendleton. Margaret goes to 'phone, and consults Fenton's + card._] + +MARGARET. Bryant 4253? Can I speak to Mr. Fenton? [_Enter Mrs. Abbey._] +Mrs. Abbey. What do you think? We're going to get married! + +MRS. ABBEY. Well, bless my soul! That's right. You can take it from me, +ma'am, you'll find that respectability pays. + +MARGARET [_at 'phone_]. Bryant 4253? [_Sweetly._] Is that Mr. Fenton? +[_Pause._] Hello, Charley! + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +ARIA DA CAPO + + A PLAY + + BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY + + + Copyright, 1920, by Edna St. Vincent Millay. + All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS + + PIERROT. + COLUMBINE. + COTHURNUS [_masque of tragedy_]. + THYRSIS [_shepherd_]. + CORYDON [_shepherd_]. + + + First printed in "Reedy's Mirror," St. Louis. Application to produce + this play should be made to Edna St. Vincent Millay, in care of the + Provincetown Players, 133 Macdougal Street, New York. + + + +ARIA DA CAPO + +A PLAY BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY + + + [SCENE: _A Stage. The curtain rises on a stage set for a + Harlequinade, a merry black and white interior. Directly behind + the footlights, and running parallel with them, is a long table, + covered with a gay black and white cloth, on which is spread a + banquet. At the opposite ends of this table, seated on delicate + thin-legged chairs with high backs, are Pierrot and Columbine, + dressed according to the tradition, excepting that Pierrot is in + lilac, and Columbine in pink. They are dining._] + + + COLU. Pierrot, a macaroon! I cannot _live_ + Without a macaroon! + + PIER. My only love, + You are _so_ intense.... It is Tuesday, Columbine?---- + I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday. + + COLU. It is Wednesday, + If you must know.... Is this my artichoke, + Or yours? + + PIER. Ah, Columbine,--as if it mattered! + Wednesday.... Will it be Tuesday, then, to-morrow, + By any chance? + + COLU. To-morrow will be--Pierrot, + That isn't funny! + + PIER. I thought it rather nice. + Well, let us drink some wine and lose our heads + And love each other. + + COLU. Pierrot, don't you love + Me now? + + PIER. La, what a woman!--How should I know? + Pour me some wine: I'll tell you presently. + + COLU. Pierrot, do you know, I think you drink too much. + + PIER. Yes, I dare say I do.... Or else too little. + It's hard to tell. You see, I am always wanting + A little more than what I have,--or else + A little less. There's something wrong. My dear, + How many fingers have you? + + COLU. La, indeed, + How should I know?--It always takes me one hand + To count the other with. It's too confusing. + Why? + + PIER. Why?--I am a student, Columbine; + And search into all matters. + + COLU. La, indeed?-- + Count them yourself, then! + + PIER. No. Or, rather, nay. + 'Tis of no consequence.... I am become + A painter, suddenly,--and you impress me-- + Ah, yes!--six orange bull's-eyes, four green pin-wheels, + And one magenta jelly-roll,--the title + As follows: _Woman Taking In Cheese From Fire-Escape_. + + COLU. Well, I like that! So that is all I've meant + To you! + + PIER. Hush! All at once I am become + A pianist. I will image you in sound,... + On a new scale ... without tonality.... + _Vivace senza tempo senza tutto_.... + Title: _Uptown Express at Six O'Clock_. + Pour me a drink. + + COLU. Pierrot, you work too hard. + You need a rest. Come on out into the garden, + And sing me something sad. + + PIER. Don't stand so near me! + I am become a socialist. I love + Humanity; but I hate people. Columbine, + Put on your mittens, child; your hands are cold. + + COLU. My hands are _not_ cold. + + PIER. Oh, I am sure they are. + And you must have a shawl to wrap about you, + And sit by the fire. + + COLU. Why, I'll do no such thing! + I'm hot as a spoon in a tea-cup! + + PIER. Columbine, + I'm a philanthropist. I know I am, + Because I feel so restless. Do not scream, + Or it will be the worse for you! + + COLU. Pierrot, + My vinaigrette: I cannot _live_ without + My vinaigrette! + + PIER. My only love, you are + _So_ fundamental!... How would you like to be + An actress, Columbine?--I am become + Your manager. + + COLU. Why, Pierrot, _I_ can't act. + + PIER. Can't act! Can't act! La, listen to the woman! + What's that to do with the price of furs?--You're blonde, + Are you not?--You have no education, have you?-- + Can't act! You under-rate yourself, my dear! + + COLU. Yes, I suppose I do. + + PIER. As for the rest, + I'll teach you how to cry, and how to die, + And other little tricks; and the house will love you. + You'll be a star by five o'clock.... That is, + If you will let me pay for your apartment. + + COLU. _Let_ you?--well, that's a good one! Ha! Ha! Ha! + But why? + + PIER. But why?--well, as to that, my dear, + I cannot say. It's just a matter of form. + + COLU. Pierrot, I'm getting tired of caviar + And peacocks' livers. Isn't there something else + That people eat?--some humble vegetable, + That grows in the ground? + + PIER. Well, there are mushrooms. + + COLU. Mushrooms! + That's so! I had forgotten ... mushrooms ... mushrooms.... + I cannot _live_ with.... How do you like this gown? + + PIER. Not much. I'm tired of gowns that have the waist-line + About the waist, and the hem around the bottom,-- + And women with their breasts in front of them!-- + _Zut_ and _ehe_! Where does one go from here! + + COLU. Here's a persimmon, love. You always liked them. + + PIER. I am become a critic; there is nothing I can enjoy.... + However, set it aside; + I'll eat it between meals. + + COLU. Pierrot, do you know, + Sometimes I think you're making fun of me. + + PIER. My love, by yon black moon, you wrong us both. + + COLU. There isn't a sign of a moon, Pierrot. + + PIER. Of course not. + There never was. "Moon's" just a word to swear by, + "Mutton!"--now _there's_ a thing you can lay the hands on, + And set the tooth in! Listen, Columbine: + I always lied about the moon and you. + Food is my only lust. + + COLU. Well, eat it, then, + For heaven's sake, and stop your silly noise! + I haven't heard the clock tick for an hour. + + PIER. It's ticking all the same. If you were a fly, + You would be dead by now. And if I were a parrot, + I could be talking for a thousand years! + + [_Enters Cothurnus._] + + PIER. Hello, what's this, for God's sake?--What's the matter? + Say, whadda you mean?--get off the stage, my friend, + And pinch yourself,--you're walking in your sleep! + + COTH. I never sleep. + + PIER. Well, anyhow, clear out. + You don't belong on here. Wait for your own scene! + Whadda you think this is,--a dress-rehearsal? + + COTH. Sir, I am tired of waiting. I will wait + No longer. + + PIER. Well, but what are you going to do? + The scene is set for me! + + COTH. True, sir; yet I + Can play the scene. + + PIER. Your scene is down for later! + + COTH. That, too, is true, sir; but I play it now. + + PIER. Oh, very well!--Anyway, I am tired + Of black and white. At least, I think I am. + [_Exit Columbine._] + Yes, I am sure I am. I know what I'll do!-- + I'll go and strum the moon, that's what I'll do.... + Unless, perhaps, ... you never can tell ... I may be, + You know, tired of the moon. Well, anyway, + I'll go find Columbine.... And when I find her, + I will address her thus: "_Ehe_ Pierrette!"-- + There's something in that. + + [_Exit Pierrot._] + + COTH. You, Thyrsis! Corydon! + Where are you? + + THYR. Sir, we are in our dressing-room! + + COTH. Come out and do the scene. + + CORY. You are mocking us!-- + The scene is down for later. + + COTH. That is true; + But we will play it now. I am the scene. + + [_Seats himself on high place in back of stage. Enter Corydon and + Thyrsis._] + + CORY. Sir, we were counting on this little hour. + We said, "Here is an hour,--in which to think + A mighty thought, and sing a trifling song, + And look at nothing."--And, behold! the hour, + Even as we spoke, was over, and the act begun, + Under our feet! + + THYR. Sir, we are not in the fancy + To play the play. We had thought to play it later. + + CORY. Besides, this is the setting for a farce. + Our scene requires a wall; we cannot build + A wall of tissue-paper! + + THYR. We cannot act + A tragedy with comic properties! + + COTH. Try it and see. I think you'll find you can. + One wall is like another. And regarding + The matter of your insufficient wood, + The important thing is that you speak the lines, + And make the gestures. Wherefore I shall remain + Throughout, and hold the prompt-book. Are you ready? + + CORY.-THYR. [_sorrowfully_]. Sir, we are always ready. + + COTH. Play the play! + + [_Corydon and Thyrsis move the table and chairs to one side out of + the way, and seat themselves in a half-reclining position on the + floor, left of the center of the stage, propped up by crepe paper + pillows and bolsters, in place of rocks._] + + THYR. How gently in the silence, Corydon, + Our sheep go up the bank. They crop a grass + That's yellow where the sun is out, and black + Where the clouds drag their shadows. + Have you noticed + How steadily, yet with what a slanting eye + They graze? + + CORY. As if they thought of other things. + What say you, Thyrsis, do they only question + Where next to pull?--Or do their far minds draw them + Thus vaguely north of west and south of east? + + THYR. One cannot say.... The black lamb wears its burdocks + As if they were a garland,--have you noticed?-- + Purple and white--and drinks the bitten grass + As if it were a wine. + + CORY. I've noticed that. + What say you, Thyrsis, shall we make a song + About a lamb that thought himself a shepherd? + + THYR. Why, yes!--that is, why,--no. (I have forgotten + My line.) + + CORY. [_prompting_]. "I know a game worth two of that." + + THYR. Oh, yes.... I know a game worth two of that: + Let's gather rocks, and build a wall between us; + And say that over there belongs to me, + And over here to you! + + CORY. Why,--very well. + And say you may not come upon my side + Unless I say you may! + + THYR. Nor you on mine! + And if you should, 'twould be the worse for you! + + [_They weave a wall of colored crepe paper ribbons from the + center front to the center back of the stage, fastening the + ends to Columbine's chair in front and to Pierrot's chair in + the back._] + + CORY. Now there's a wall a man may see across, + But not attempt to scale. + + THYR. An excellent wall. + + CORY. Come, let us separate, and sit alone + A little while, and lay a plot whereby + We may outdo each other. + + [_They seat themselves on opposite sides of the wall._] + + PIER. [_off stage_]. Ehe Pierrette! + + COLU. [_off stage_]. My name is Columbine! + Leave me alone! + + THYR. [_coming up to the wall_]. + Corydon, after all, and in spite of the fact + I started it myself, I do not like this + So very much. What is the sense of saying + I do not want you on my side the wall? + It is a silly game. I'd much prefer + Making the little song you spoke of making, + About the lamb, you know, that thought himself + A shepherd!--what do you say? + + [_Pause._] + + CORY. [_at wall_]. (I have forgotten + The line) + + COTH. [_prompting_]. "How do I know this isn't a trick" + + CORY. Oh, yes.... How do I know this isn't a trick + To get upon my land? + + THYR. Oh, Corydon, + You _know_ it's not a trick. I do not like + The game, that's all. Come over here, or let me + Come over there. + + CORY. It is a clever trick + To get upon my land. + + [_Seats himself as before._] + + THYR. Oh, very well! [_Seats himself as before_] [_To himself._] + I think I never knew a sillier game. + + CORY. [_coming to wall_]. + Oh, Thyrsis, just a minute!--all the water + Is on your side the wall, and the sheep are thirsty. + I hadn't thought of that. + + THYR. Oh, hadn't you? + + CORY. Why, what do you mean? + + THYR. What do I mean?--I mean + That I can play a game as well as you can. + And if the pool is on my side, it's on + My side, that's all. + + CORY. You mean you'd let the sheep + Go thirsty? + + THYR. Well, they're not my sheep. My sheep + Have water enough. + + CORY. _Your_ sheep! You are mad, to call them. + Yours--mine--they are all one flock! Thyrsis, you can't mean + To keep the water from them, just because + They happened to be grazing over here + Instead of over there, when we set the wall up? + + THYR. Oh, can't I?--wait and see!--and if you try + To lead them over here, you'll wish you hadn't! + + CORY. I wonder how it happens all the water + _Is_ on your side.... I'll say you had an eye out + For lots of little things, my innocent friend, + When I said, "Let us make a song," and you said, + "I know a game worth two of that!" + + COLU. [_off stage_]. + + D'you know, I think you must be getting old, + Or fat, or something,--stupid, anyway!-- + Can't you put on some other kind of collar? + + THYR. You know as well as I do, Corydon, + I never thought of anything of the kind. + _Don't_ you? + + CORY. I _do_ not. + + THYR. Don't you? + + CORY. Oh, I suppose so. + Thyrsis, let's drop this,--what do you say?--it's only + A game, you know ... we seem to be forgetting + It's only a game ... a pretty serious game + It's getting to be, when one of us is willing + To let the sheep go thirsty, for the sake of it. + + THYR. I know it, Corydon. + + [_They reach out their arms to each other across the wall._] + + COTH. [_prompting_]. "But how do I know?" + + THYR. Oh, yes.... But how do I know this isn't a trick + To water your sheep, and get the laugh on me? + + CORY. You can't know, that's the difficult thing about it, + Of course,--you can't be sure. You have to take + My word for it. And I know just how you feel. + But one of us has to take a risk, or else, + Why don't you see?--the game goes on forever-- + It's terrible, when you stop to think of it.... + Oh, Thyrsis, now for the first time I feel + This wall is actually a wall, a thing + Come up between us, shutting me away + From you.... I do not know you any more! + + THYR. No, don't say that! Oh, Corydon, I'm willing + To drop it all, if you will! Come on over + And water your sheep! It is an ugly game. + I hate it from the first.... How did it start? + + CORY. I do not know.... I do not know.... I think + I am afraid of you!--you are a stranger! + I never set eyes on you before! "Come over + And water my sheep," indeed!--They'll be more thirsty + Then they are now, before I bring them over + Into your land, and have you mixing them up + With yours, and calling them yours, and trying to keep them! + + [_Enter Columbine._] + + COLU. [_to Cothurnus_]. Glummy, I want my hat. + + THYR. Take it, and go. + + COLU. Take it and go, indeed! Is it my hat, + Or isn't it? Is this my scene, or not? + Take it and go! Really, you know, you two + Are awfully funny! + + [_Exit Columbine._] + + THYR. Corydon, my friend, + I'm going to leave you now, and whittle me + A pipe, or sing a song, or go to sleep. + When you have come to your senses, let me know. + + [_Goes back to where he has been sitting, lies down and sleeps._] + + [_Corydon, in going back to where he has been sitting, stumbles + over bowl, of colored confetti and colored paper ribbons._] + + CORY. Why, what is this?--Red stones--and purple stones-- + And stones stuck full of gold!--The ground is full + Of gold and colored stones!... I'm glad the wall + Was up before I found them!--Otherwise, + I should have had to share them. As it is, + They all belong to me.... Unless-- + + [_He goes to wall and digs up and down the length of it, to see if + there are jewels on the other side._] + + None here-- + None here--none here--They all belong to me! + + [_Sits._] + + THYR. [_awakening_]. How curious! I thought the little black lamb + Came up and licked my hair! I saw the wool + About its neck as plain as anything! + It must have been a dream. The little black lamb + Is on the other side of the wall, I'm sure. + + [_Goes to wall and looks over. Corydon is seated on the ground, + tossing the confetti up into the air and catching it._] + + Hello, what's that you've got there, Corydon? + + CORY. Jewels. + + THYR. Jewels?--And where did you ever get them? + + CORY. Oh, over here. + + THYR. You mean to say you found them, + By digging around in the ground for them? + + CORY. [_unpleasantly_]. No, Thyrsis. + By digging down for water for my sheep. + + THYR. Corydon, come to the wall a minute, will you? + I want to talk to you. + + CORY. I haven't time. + I'm making me a necklace of red stones. + + THYR. I'll give you all the water that you want, + For one of those red stones,--if it's a good one. + + CORY. Water?--what for?--what do I want of water? + + THYR. Why, for your sheep. + + CORY. My sheep?--I'm not a shepherd! + + THYR. Your sheep are dying of thirst. + + CORY. Man, haven't I told you + I can't be bothered with a few untidy + Brown sheep all full of burdocks?--I'm a merchant, + That's what I am!--And I set my mind to it, + I dare say I could be an emperor! + [_To himself_.] Wouldn't I be a fool to spend my time + Watching a flock of sheep go up a hill, + When I have these to play with--when I have these + To think about?--I can't make up my mind + Whether to buy a city, and have a thousand + Beautiful girls to bathe me, and be happy + Until I die, or build a bridge, and name it + The Bridge of Corydon,--and be remembered + After I'm dead. + + THYR. Corydon, come to the wall, + Won't you?--I want to tell you something. + + CORY. Hush! + Be off! Be off! Go finish your nap, I tell you! + + THYR. Corydon, listen: If you don't want your sheep, + Give them to me. + + CORY. Be off. Go finish your nap. + A red one--and a blue one--and a red one-- + And a purple one--give you my sheep, did you say?-- + Come, come! What do you take me for, a fool? + I've a lot of thinking to do,--and while I'm thinking, + The sheep might just as well be over here + As over there.... A blue one--and a red one-- + + THYR. But they will die! + + CORY. And a green one--and a couple + Of white ones, for a change. + + THYR. Maybe I have + Some jewels on my side. + + CORY. And another green one-- + Maybe, but I don't think so. You see, this rock + Isn't so very wide. It stops before + It gets to the wall. It seems to go quite deep, + However. + + THYR. [_with hatred_]. I see. + + COLU. [_off stage_]. Look, Pierrot, there's the moon! + + PIER. [_off stage_]. Nonsense! + + THYR. I see. + + COLU. [_off stage_]. Sing me an old song, Pierrot,-- + Something I can remember. + + PIER. [_off stage_]. Columbine, + Your mind is made of crumbs,--like an escallop + Of oysters,--first a layer of crumbs, and then + An oystery taste, and then a layer of crumbs. + + THYR. I find no jewels ... but I wonder what + The root of this black weed would do to a man + If he should taste it.... I have seen a sheep die, + With half the stalk still drooling from its mouth. + 'Twould be a speedy remedy, I should think, + For a festered pride and a feverish ambition. + It has a curious root. I think I'll hack it + In little pieces.... First I'll get me a drink; + And then I'll hack that root in little pieces + As small as dust, and see what the color is + Inside. [_Goes to bowl on floor._] + The pool is very clear. I see + A shepherd standing on the brink, with a red cloak + About him, and a black weed in his hand.... + 'Tis I. [_Kneels and drinks._] + + CORY. [_Coming to wall_]. Hello, what are you doing, Thyrsis? + + THYR. Digging for gold. + + CORY. I'll give you all the gold + You want, if you'll give me a bowl of water. + If you don't want too much, that is to say. + + THYR. Ho, so you've changed your mind?--It's different, + Isn't it, when you want a drink yourself? + + CORY. Of course it is. + + THYR. Well, let me see ... a bowl + Of water,--come back in an hour, Corydon. I'm busy now. + + CORY. Oh, Thyrsis, give me a bowl + Of water!--and I'll find the bowl with jewels, + And bring it back! + + THYR. Be off, I'm busy now. + + [_He catches sight of the weed, picks it up and looks at it, + unseen by Corydon._] + + Wait!--Pick me out the finest stones you have.... + I'll bring you a drink of water presently. + + CORY. [_goes back and sits down, with the jewels before him_]. + + A bowl of jewels is a lot of jewels. + + THYR. [_chopping up the weed_]. I wonder if it has a bitter taste? + + CORY. There's sure to be a stone or two among them + I have grown fond of, pouring them from one hand + Into the other. + + THYR. I hope it doesn't taste + Too bitter, just at first. + + CORY. A bowl of jewels + Is far too many jewels to give away.... + And not get back again. + + THYR. I don't believe + He'll notice. He's thirsty. He'll gulp it down + And never notice. + + CORY. There ought to be some way + To get them back again.... I could give him a necklace, + And snatch it back, after I'd drunk the water, + I suppose ... why, as for that, of course, a _necklace_.... + + [_He puts two or three of the colored tapes together and tries + their strength by pulling them, after which he puts them around + his neck and pulls them, gently, nodding to himself. He gets up + and goes to the wall, with the colored tapes in his hands._ + + _Thyrsis in the meantime has poured the powdered root--black + confetti--into the pot which contains the flower and filled it up + with wine from the punch-bowl on the floor. He comes to the wall + at the same time, holding the bowl of poison._] + + THYR. Come and get your bowl of water, Corydon. + + CORY. Ah, very good!--and for such a gift as that + I'll give you more than a bowl of unset stones. + I'll give you three long necklaces, my friend. + Come closer. Here they are. + + [_Puts the ribbons about Thyrsis' neck._] + + THYR. [_putting bowl to Corydon's mouth_]. I'll hold the bowl + Until you've drunk it all. + + CORY. Then hold it steady. + For every drop you spill I'll have a stone back + Out of this chain. + + THYR. I shall not spill a drop. + + [_Corydon drinks, meanwhile beginning to strangle Thyrsis._] + + THYR. Don't pull the string so tight. + + CORY. You're spilling the water. + + THYR. You've had enough--you've had enough--stop pulling + The string so tight! + + CORY. Why, that's not tight at all.... + How's this? + + THYR. [_drops bowl_]. You're strangling me! Oh, Corydon! + It's only a game!--and you are strangling me! + + CORY. It's only a game, is it?--Yet I believe + You've poisoned me in earnest! + + [_Writhes and pulls the strings tighter, winding them about + Thyrsis' neck._] + + THYR. Corydon! [_Dies._] + + CORY. You've poisoned me in earnest.... I feel so cold.... + So cold ... this is a very silly game.... + Why do we play it?--let's not play this game + A minute more ... let's make a little song + About a lamb.... I'm coming over the wall, + No matter what you say,--I want to be near you.... + + [_Groping his way, with arms wide before him, he strides through + the frail papers of the wall without knowing it, and continues + seeking for the wall straight across the stage._] + + Where is the wall? + + [_Gropes his way back, and stands very near Thyrsis without + knowing it; he speaks slowly._] + + There isn't any wall, + I think. + + [_Takes a step forward, his foot touches Thyrsis' body, and he + falls down beside him._] + + Thyrsis, where is your cloak?--just give me + A little bit of your cloak!... + + [_Draws corner of Thyrsis' cloak over his shoulders, falls across + Thyrsis' body, and dies._ + + _Cothurnus closes the prompt-book with a bang, arises + matter-of-factly, comes down stage, and places the table over the + two bodies, drawing down the cover so that they are hidden from + any actors on the stage, but visible to the audience, pushing in + their feet and hands with his boot. He then turns his back to the + audience, and claps his hands twice._] + + COTH. Strike the scene! + + [_Exit Cothurnus. Enter Pierrot and Columbine._] + + PIER. Don't puff so, Columbine! + + COLU. Lord, what a mess + This set is in! If there's one thing I hate + Above everything else,--even more than getting my feet wet-- + It's clutter!--He might at least have left the scene + The way he found it.... don't you say so, Pierrot? + + [_She picks up punch bowl. They arrange chairs as before at ends + of table._] + + PIER. Well, I don't know. I think it rather diverting + The way it is. + [_Yawns, picks up confetti bowl._] + Shall we begin? + + COLU. [_screams_]. My God! + What's that there under the table? + + PIER. It is the bodies + Of the two shepherds from the other play. + + COLU. [_slowly_]. How curious to strangle him like that, + With colored paper ribbons! + + PIER. Yes, and yet + I dare say he is just as dead. + [_Pause. Calls Cothurnus._] + Come drag these bodies out of here! We can't + Sit down and eat with two dead bodies lying + Under the table!... The audience wouldn't stand for it! + + COTH. [_off stage_]. What makes you think so?--Pull down the + tablecloth + On the other play, and hide them from the house, + And play the farce. The audience will forget. + + PIER. That's so. Give me a hand there, Columbine. + + [_Pierrot and Columbine pull down the table cover in such a way + that the two bodies are hidden from the house, then merrily set + their bowls back on the table, draw up their chairs, and begin the + play exactly as before, speaking even more rapidly and + artificially._] + + COLU. Pierrot, a macaroon,--I cannot _live_ + Without a macaroon! + + PIER. My only love, + You are _so_ intense!... Is it Tuesday, Columbine?-- + I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday. + + [_Curtains begin to close slowly._] + + COLU. It is Wednesday, + If you must know.... Is this my artichoke, + Or yours? + + PIER. Ah, Columbine, as if it mattered! + Wednesday.... Will it be Tuesday, then to-morrow, + By any chance? + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +HELENA'S HUSBAND + + AN HISTORICAL COMEDY + + BY PHILIP MOELLER + + + Copyright, 1915, by Philip Moeller. + Copyright, 1916, by Doubleday, Page & Co. + All rights reserved. + + + CHARACTERS + + HELENA, _the Queen_. + TSUMU, _a black woman, slave to Helena_. + MENELAUS, _the King_. + ANALYTIKOS, _the King's librarian_. + PARIS, _a shepherd_. + + + HELENA'S HUSBAND was first produced by the Washington Square Players, + under the direction of Mr. Moeller, at the Bandbox Theatre, New York, + on the night of October 4, 1915, with the following cast: + + HELENA [_Queen of Sparta_] _Noel Haddon_. + TSUMU [_the slave_] _Helen Westley_. + MENELAUS [_the King_] _Frank Conroy_. + ANALYTIKOS [_his librarian_] _Walter Frankl_. + PARIS [_a shepherd_] _Harold Meltzer_. + + The scene was designed by Paul T. Frankl and the costumes by Robert + Locker. + + + Reprinted from "Five Somewhat Historical Plays" published by Alfred + A. Knopf, by special permission of Mr. Moeller. The professional and + amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. + Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. + Philip Moeller, care Alfred A. Knopf, 220 West 42nd Street, New York. + + + +HELENA'S HUSBAND + +AN HISTORICAL COMEDY BY PHILIP MOELLER + + + [_SCENE is that archaeological mystery, a Greek interior. A door + on the right leads to the King's library, one on the left to the + apartment of the Queen. Back right is the main entrance leading to + the palace. Next this, running the full length of the wall, is a + window with a platform, built out over the main court. Beyond is a + view of hills bright with lemon groves, and in the far distance + shimmers the sea. On the wall near the Queen's room hangs an old + shield rusty with disuse. A bust of Zeus stands on a pedestal + against the right wall. There are low coffers about the room from + which hang the ends of vivid colored robes. The scene is bathed in + intense sunlight. Tsumu is massaging the Queen._] + + +HELENA. There's no doubt about it. + +TSUMU. Analytikos says there is much doubt about all things. + +HELENA. Never mind what he says. I envy you your complexion. + +TSUMU [_falling prostrate before Helena_]. Whom the Queen envies should +beware. + +HELENA [_annoyed_]. Get up, Tsumu. You make me nervous tumbling about +like that. + +TSUMU [_still on floor_]. Why does the great Queen envy Tsumu? + +HELENA. Get up, you silly. [_She kicks her._] I envy you because you can +run about and never worry about getting sunburnt. + +TSUMU [_on her knees_]. The radiant beauty of the Queen is unspoilable. + +HELENA. That's just what's worrying me, Tsumu. When beauty is so perfect +the slightest jar may mean a jolt. [_She goes over and looks at her +reflection in the shield._] I can't see myself as well as I would like +to. The King's shield is tarnished. Menelaus has been too long out of +battle. + +TSUMU [_handing her a hand mirror_]. The Gods will keep Sparta free from +strife. + +HELENA. I'll have you beaten if you assume that prophetic tone with me. +There's one thing I can't stand, and that's a know-all. + + [_Flinging the hand mirror to the floor._] + +TSUMU [_in alarm_]. Gods grant you haven't bent it. + +HELENA. These little mirrors are useless. His shield is the only thing +in which I can see myself full-length. If he only went to war, he'd have +to have it cleaned. + +TSUMU [_putting the mirror on a table near the Queen_]. The King is a +lover of peace. + +HELENA. The King is a lover of comfort. Have you noticed that he spends +more time than he used to in the library? + +TSUMU. He is busy with questions of State. + +HELENA. You know perfectly well that when anything's the matter with the +Government it's always straightened out at the other end of the palace. +Finish my shoulder. [_She examines her arm._] I doubt if there is a +finer skin than this in Sparta. + + [_Tsumu begins to massage the Queen's shoulder._] + +HELENA [_taking up a mirror_]. That touch of deep carmine right here in +the center of my lips was quite an idea. + +TSUMU [_busily pounding the Queen_]. An inspiration of the Gods! + +HELENA. The Gods have nothing to do with it. I copied it from a low +woman I saw at the circus. I can't understand how these bad women have +such good ideas. + + [_Helen twists about._] + +TSUMU. If your majesty doesn't sit still, I may pinch you. + +HELENA [_boxing her ears_]. None of your tricks, you ebony fiend! + +TSUMU [_crouching_]. Descendant of paradise, forgive me. + +HELENA. If you bruise my perfect flesh, the King will kill you. My +beauty is his religion. He can sit for hours, as if at prayer, just +examining the arch of my foot. Tsumu, you may kiss my foot. + +TSUMU [_prostrate_]. May the Gods make me worthy of your kindness! + +HELENA. That's enough. Tsumu, are you married? + +TSUMU [_getting up_]. I've been so busy having babies I never had time +to get married. + +HELENA. It's a great disillusionment. + +TSUMU [_agast_]. What! + +HELENA. I'm not complaining. Moo Moo is the best of husbands, but +sometimes being adored too much is trying. [_She sighs deeply._] I think +I'll wear my heliotrope this afternoon. + + [_A trumpet sounds below in the courtyard. Tsumu goes to the + window._] + +TSUMU. They are changing the guards at the gates of the palace. It's +almost time for your bath. + + [_She begins scraping the massage ointment back into the box._] + +HELENA. You're as careful with that ointment as Moo Moo is with me. + +TSUMU. Precious things need precious guarding. + +HELENA. It's very short-sighted on Moo Moo's part to send everybody to +the galleys who dares lift a head when I pass by--and all these +nice-looking soldiers! Why--the only men I ever see besides Moo Moo are +Analytikos and a lot of useless eunuchs. + +TSUMU. Oh, those eunuchs! + +HELENA [_as she sits dreaming_]. I wish, I wish-- + + [_She stops short._] + +TSUMU. You have but to speak your desire to the King. + +HELENA [_shocked_]. Tsumu! How can you think of such a thing? I'm not a +bad woman. + +TSUMU. He would die for you. + +HELENA [_relieved_]. Ah! Do you think so, Tsumu? + +TSUMU. All Sparta knows that His Majesty is a lover of peace, and yet he +would rush into battle to save you. + +HELENA. I should love to have men fighting for me. + +TSUMU [_in high alarm_]. May Zeus turn a deaf ear to your voice. + +HELENA. Don't be impertinent, Tsumu. I've got to have some sort of +amusement. + +TSUMU. You've only to wait till next week, and you can see another of +the priestesses sacrificed to Diana. + +HELENA. That doesn't interest me any longer. The girls are positively +beginning to like it. No! My mind is set on war. + +TSUMU [_terrified_]. I have five fathers of my children to lose. + +HELENA. War, or--or-- + +TSUMU [_hopefully_]. Have I been so long your slave that I no longer +know your wish? + +HELENA [_very simply_]. Well, I should like to have a lover. + +TSUMU [_springs up and rushes over in horror to draw the curtains across +the door of the library. All of a tremble_]. Gods grant they didn't hear +you. + +HELENA. Don't be alarmed, Tsumu. Analytikos is over eighty. + + [_She bursts into a loud peal of laughter and Menelaus rushes into + the room._] + +MENELAUS [_in high irritation_]. I wish you wouldn't make so much noise +in here. A King might at least expect quiet in his own palace. + +HELENA. Tsumu, see if my bath is ready. [_Tsumu exits._] You used not +speak like that to me, Moo Moo. + +MENELAUS [_in a temper_]. How many times must I tell you that my name is +Menelaus and that it isn't "Moo Moo"? + +HELENA [_sweetly_]. I'll never do it again, Moo Moo. [_She giggles._] + +MENELAUS. Your laugh gets on my nerves. It's louder than it used to be. + +HELENA. If you wish it, I'll never, never laugh again. + +MENELAUS. You've promised that too often. + +HELENA [_sadly_]. Things are not as they used to be. + +MENELAUS. Are you going to start that again? + +HELENA [_with a tinge of melancholy_]. I suppose you'd like me to be +still and sad. + +MENELAUS [_bitterly_]. Is it too much to hope that you might be still +and happy? + +HELENA [_speaking very quickly and tragically_]. Don't treat me cruelly, +Moo Moo. You don't understand me. No man ever really understands a +woman. There are terrible depths to my nature. I had a long talk with +Dr. AEsculapius only last week, and he told me I'm too introspective. +It's the curse of us emotional women. I'm really quite worried, but much +you care, much you care. [_A note of tears comes into her voice._] I'm +sure you don't love me any more, Moo Moo. No! No! Don't answer me! If +you did you couldn't speak to me the way you do. I've never wronged you +in deed or in thought. No, never--never. I've given up my hopes and +aspirations, because I knew you wanted me around you. And now, +NOW--[_She can contain the tears no longer._] Because I have neglected +my beauty and because I am old and ugly, you regret that Ulysses or +Agamemnon didn't marry me when you all wanted me, and I know you curse +the day you ever saw me. + + [_She is breathless._] + +MENELAUS [_fuming_]. Well! Have you done? + +HELENA. No. I could say a great deal more, but I'm not a talkative +woman. + + [_Analytikos comes in from the library._] + +ANALYTIKOS. Your Majesty, are we to read no longer to-day? + +HELENA. I have something to say to the King. + + [_Analytikos goes toward the library. Menelaus anxiously stops + him._] + +MENELAUS. No. Stay here. You are a wise man and well understand the +wisdom of the Queen. + +ANALYTIKOS [_bowing to Helena_]. Helena is wise as she is beautiful. + +MENELAUS. She is attempting to prove to me in a thousand words that +she's a silent woman. + +ANALYTIKOS. Women are seldom silent. [_Helen resents this._] Their +beauty is forever speaking for them. + +HELENA. The years have, indeed, taught you wisdom. + + [_Tsumu enters._] + +TSUMU. The almond water awaits your majesty. + +HELENA. I hope you haven't forgotten the chiropodist. + +TSUMU. He has been commanded but he's always late. He's so busy. + +HELENA [_in a purring tone to Menelaus_]. Moo Moo. + + [_Menelaus, bored, turns away._] + +HELENA [_to Tsumu_]. I think after all I'll wear my Sicily blue. + + [_She and Tsumu go into the Queen's apartment._] + +ANALYTIKOS. Shall we go back to the library? + +MENELAUS. My mind is unhinged again--that woman with her endless +protestations. + +ANALYTIKOS. I am sorry the poets no longer divert you. + +MENELAUS. A little poetry is always too much. + +ANALYTIKOS. To-morrow we will try the historians. + +MENELAUS. No! Not the historians. I want the truth for a change. + +ANALYTIKOS. The truth! + +MENELAUS. Where in books can I find escape from the grim reality of +being hitched for life to such a wife? Bah! + +ANALYTIKOS. Philosophy teaches-- + +MENELAUS. Why have the Gods made woman necessary to man, and made them +fools? + +ANALYTIKOS. For seventy years I have been resolving the problem of woman +and even at my age-- + +MENELAUS. Give it up, old man. The answer is--don't. + +ANALYTIKOS. Such endless variety, and yet-- + +MENELAUS [_with the conviction of finality_]. There are only two sorts +of women! Those who are failures and those who realize it. + +ANALYTIKOS. Is not Penelope, the model wife of your cousin Ulysses, an +exception? + +MENELAUS. Duty is the refuge of the unbeautiful. She is as commonplace +as she is ugly. [_And then with deep bitterness._] Why didn't _he_ marry +Helen when we all wanted her? He was too wise for that. He is the only +man I've ever known who seems able to direct destiny. + +ANALYTIKOS. You should not blame the Gods for a lack of will. + +MENELAUS [_shouting_]. Will! Heaven knows I do not lack the will to rid +myself of this painted puppet, but where is the instrument ready to my +hand? + + [_At this moment a Shepherd of Apollonian beauty leaps across the + rail of the balcony and bounds into the room. Menelaus and + Analytikos start back in amazement._] + +ANALYTIKOS. Who are you? + +PARIS. An adventurer. + +ANALYTIKOS. Then you have reached the end of your story. In a moment you +will die. + +PARIS. I have no faith in prophets. + +ANALYTIKOS. The soldiers of the King will give you faith. Don't you know +that it means death for any man to enter the apartments of the Queen? + +PARIS [_looking from one to the other_]. Oh! So you're a couple of +eunuchs. + + [_Though nearly eighty this is too much for Analytikos to bear. He + rushes to call the guard, but Menelaus stops him._] + +PARIS [_to Analytikos_]. Thanks. + +ANALYTIKOS. You thank me for telling you your doom? + +PARIS. No--for convincing me that I'm where I want to be. It's taken me +a long while, but I knew I'd get here. [_And then very intimately to +Menelaus._] Where's the Queen? + +MENELAUS. Where do you come from? + +PARIS. From the hills. I had come down into the market-place to sell my +sheep. I had my hood filled with apples. They were golden-red like a +thousand sunsets. + +MENELAUS [_annoyed_]. You might skip those bucolic details. + +PARIS. At the fair I met three ancient gypsies. + +MENELAUS. What have they to do with you coming here? + +PARIS. You don't seem very patient. Can't I tell my story in my own way? +They asked me for the apple I was eating and I asked them what they'd +give for it. + +MENELAUS. I'm not interested in market quotations. + +PARIS. You take everything so literally. I'm sure you're easily bored. + +MENELAUS [_with meaning_]. I am. + +PARIS [_going on cheerfully_]. The first was to give me all the money +she could beg, and the second was to tell me all the truth she could +learn by listening, and the third promised me a pretty girl. So I +chose-- + + [_He hesitates._] + +ANALYTIKOS. You cannot escape by spinning out your tale. + +PARIS. Death is the end of one story and the beginning of another. + +MENELAUS. Well! Well! Come to the point. Which did you choose? + +PARIS [_smiling_]. Well, you see I'd been in the hills for a long while, +so I picked the girl. + +ANALYTIKOS. It would have been better for you if you had chosen wisdom. + +PARIS. I knew you'd say that. + +ANALYTIKOS. I have spoken truly. In a moment you will die. + +PARIS. It is because the old have forgotten life that they preach +wisdom. + +MENELAUS. So you chose the girl? Well, go on. + +PARIS. This made the other cronies angry, and when I tossed her the +apple one of the others yelped at me: "You may as well seek the Queen of +Sparta: she is the fairest of women." And as I turned away I heard their +laughter, but the words had set my heart aflame and though it cost me my +life, I'll follow the adventure. + +ANALYTIKOS [_scandalized_]. Haven't we heard enough of this? + +MENELAUS [_deeply_]. No! I want to hear how the story ends. It may amuse +the King. + + [_He makes a sign to Analytikos._] + +PARIS. And on the ship at night I looked long at the stars and dreamed +of possessing Helen. + + [_Analytikos makes an involuntary movement toward the balcony, but + Menelaus stops him._] + +PARIS. Desire has been my guiding Mercury; the Fates are with me, and +here I am. + +ANALYTIKOS. The wrath of the King will show you no mercy. + +PARIS [_nonchalantly_]. I'm not afraid of the King. He's fat, and--a +fool. + +ANALYTIKOS. Shall I call the guards? + + [_Menelaus stops him._] + +MENELAUS [_very significantly_]. So you would give your life for a +glimpse of the Queen? + +PARIS [_swiftly_]. Yes! My immortal soul, and if the fables tell the +truth, the sight will be worth the forfeit. + +MENELAUS [_suddenly jumping up_]. It shall be as you wish! + +PARIS [_buoyantly_]. Venus has smiled on me. + +MENELAUS. In there beyond the library you will find a room with a bath. +Wait there till I call you. + +PARIS. Is this some trick to catch me? + +MENELAUS. A Spartan cannot lie. + +PARIS. What will happen to you if the King hears of this? + +MENELAUS. I will answer for the king. Go. + + [_Paris exits into the library._] + +ANALYTIKOS [_rubbing his hands_]. Shall I order the boiling oil? + +MENELAUS [_surprised_]. Oil? + +ANALYTIKOS. Now that he is being cleaned for the sacrifice. + +MENELAUS. His torture will be greater than being boiled alive. + +ANALYTIKOS [_eagerly_]. You'll have him hurled from the wall of the +palace to a forest of waiting spears below? + +MENELAUS. None is so blind as he who sees too much. + +ANALYTIKOS. Your majesty is subtle in his cruelty. + +MENELAUS. Haven't the years taught you the cheapness of revenge? + +ANALYTIKOS [_mystified_]. You do not intend to alter destiny. + +MENELAUS. Never before has destiny been so clear to me. + +ANALYTIKOS. Then the boy must die. + +MENELAUS [_with slow determination_]. No! He has been sent by the Gods +to save me! + +ANALYTIKOS. Your majesty! + + [_He is trembling with apprehension._] + +MENELAUS [_with unbudgeable conviction_]. Helena must elope with him! + +ANALYTIKOS [_falling into a seat_]. Ye Gods! + +MENELAUS [_quietly_]. I couldn't divorce the Queen. That would set a bad +example. + +ANALYTIKOS. Yes, very. + +MENELAUS. I couldn't desert her. That would be beneath my honor. + +ANALYTIKOS [_deeply_]. Was there no other way? + +MENELAUS [_pompously_]. The King can do no wrong, and besides I hate the +smell of blood. Are you a prophet as well as a scholar? Will she go? + +ANALYTIKOS. To-night I will read the stars. + +MENELAUS [_meaningfully_]. By to-night I'll not need you to tell me. +[_Analytikos sits deep in thought._] Well? + +ANALYTIKOS. Ethics cite no precedent. + +MENELAUS. Do you mean to say I'm not justified? + +ANALYTIKOS [_cogitating_]. Who can establish the punctilious ratio +between necessity and desire? + +MENELAUS [_beginning to fume_]. This is no time for language. Just put +yourself in my place. + +ANALYTIKOS. Being you, how can I judge as I? + +MENELAUS [_losing control_]. May you choke on your dialectics! Zeus +himself could have stood it no longer. + +ANALYTIKOS. Have you given her soul a chance to grow? + +MENELAUS. Her soul, indeed! It's shut in her rouge pot. [_He has been +strutting about. Suddenly he sits down crushing a roll of papyrus. He +takes it up and in utter disgust reads._] "The perfect hip, its +development and permanence." Bah! [_He flings it to the floor._] I've +done what I had to do, and Gods grant the bait may be sweet enough to +catch the Queen. + +ANALYTIKOS. If you had diverted yourself with a war or two you might +have forgotten your troubles at home. + +MENELAUS [_frightened_]. I detest dissension of any kind--my dream was +perpetual peace in comfortable domesticity with a womanly woman to warm +my sandals. + +ANALYTIKOS. Is not the Queen--? + +MENELAUS. No! No! The whole world is but her mirror. And I'm expected to +face that woman every morning at breakfast for the rest of my life, and +by Venus that's more than even a King can bear! + +ANALYTIKOS. Even a King cannot alter destiny. I warn you, whom the Gods +have joined together-- + +MENELAUS [_in an outburst_]. Is for man to break asunder! + +ANALYTIKOS [_deeply shocked_]. You talk like an atheist. + +MENELAUS. I never allow religion to interfere with life. Go call the +victim and see that he be left alone with the Queen. + + [_Menelaus exits and Analytikos goes over to the door of the + library and summons Paris, who enters clad in a gorgeous robe._] + +PARIS. I found this in there. It looks rather well, doesn't it? Ah! So +you're alone. I suppose that stupid friend of yours has gone to tell the +King. When do I see the Queen? + +ANALYTIKOS. At once. + + [_He goes to the door of the Queen's apartment and claps his hand. + Tsumu enters and at the sight of her Paris recoils the full length + of the room._] + +PARIS. I thought the Queen was a blonde! + +ANALYTIKOS. Tell Her Majesty a stranger awaits her here. + + [_Tsumu exits, her eyes wide on Paris._] + +You should thank the Gods for this moment. + +PARIS [_his eyes on the door_]. You do it for me. I can never remember +all their names. + + [_Helena enters clad in her Sicily blue, crowned with a garland of + golden flowers. She and Paris stand riveted, looking at each + other. Their attitude might be described as fantastic. Analytikos + watches them for a moment and then with hands and head lifted to + heaven he goes into the library._] + +PARIS [_quivering with emotion_]. I have the most strange sensation of +having seen you before. Something I can't explain-- + +HELENA [_quite practically_]. Please don't bother about all sorts of +fine distinctions. Under the influence of Analytikos and my husband, +life has become a mess of indecision. I'm a simple, direct woman and I +expect you to say just what you think. + +PARIS. Do you? Very well, then--[_He comes a step nearer to her._] Fate +is impelling me toward you. + +HELENA. Yes. That's much better. So you're a fatalist. It's very Greek. +I don't see what our dramatists would do without it. + +PARIS. In my country there are no dramatists. We are too busy with +reality. + +HELENA. Your people must be uncivilized barbarians. + +PARIS. My people are a genuine people. There is but one thing we +worship. + +HELENA. Don't tell me it's money. + +PARIS. It's-- + +HELENA. Analytikos says if there weren't any money, there wouldn't be +any of those ridiculous socialists. + +PARIS. It isn't money. It's sincerity. + +HELENA. I, too, believe in sincerity. It's the loveliest thing in the +world. + +PARIS. And the most dangerous. + +HELENA. The truth is never dangerous. + +PARIS. Except when told. + +HELENA [_making room on the couch for him to sit next to her_]. You +mustn't say wicked things to me. + +PARIS. Can your theories survive a test? + +HELENA [_beautifully_]. Truth is eternal and survives all tests. + +PARIS. No. Perhaps, after all, your soul is not ready for the supremest +heights. + +HELENA. Do you mean to say I'm not religious? Religion teaches the +meaning of love. + +PARIS. Has it taught you to love your husband? + +HELENA [_starting up and immediately sitting down again_]. How dare you +speak to me like that? + +PARIS. You see. I was right. + + [_He goes toward the balcony._] + +HELENA [_stopping him_]. Whatever made you think so? + +PARIS. I've heard people talk of the King. You could never love a man +like that. + +HELENA [_beautifully_]. A woman's first duty is to love her husband. + +PARIS. There is a higher right than duty. + +HELENA [_with conviction_]. Right is right. + +PARIS [_with admiration_]. The world has libeled you. + +HELENA. Me! The Queen? + +PARIS. You are as wise as you are beautiful. + +HELENA [_smiling coyly_]. Why, you hardly know me. + +PARIS. I know you! I, better than all men. + +HELENA. You? + +PARIS [_rapturously_]. Human law has given you to Menelaus, but +divine law makes you mine. + +HELENA [_in amazement_]. What! + +PARIS. I alone appreciate your beauty. I alone can reach your soul. + +HELENA. Ah! + +PARIS. You hate your husband! + +HELENA [_drawing back_]. Why do you look at me like that? + +PARIS. To see if there's one woman in the world who dares tell the +truth. + +HELENA. My husband doesn't understand me. + +PARIS [_with conviction_]. I knew you detested him. + +HELENA. He never listens to my aspirations. + +PARIS. Egoist. + +HELENA [_assuming an irresistible pose_]. I'm tired of being only +lovely. He doesn't realize the meaning of spiritual intercourse, of soul +communion. + +PARIS. Fool! + +HELENA. You dare call Moo Moo a fool? + +PARIS. Has he not been too blind to see that your soul outshines your +beauty? [_Then, very dramatically._] You're stifling! + +HELENA [_clearing her throat_]. I--I-- + +PARIS. He has made you sit upon your wings. [_Helena, jumping up, shifts +her position._] You are groping in the darkness. + +HELENA. Don't be silly. It's very light in here. + +PARIS [_undisturbed_]. You are stumbling, and I have come to lead you. + + [_He steps toward her._] + +HELENA. Stop right there! [_Paris stops._] No man but the King can come +within ten feet of me. It's a court tradition. + +PARIS. Necessity knows no tradition. [_He falls on his knees before +her._] I shall come close to you, though the flame of your beauty +consume me. + +HELENA. You'd better be careful what you say to me. Remember I'm the +Queen. + +PARIS. No man weighs his words who has but a moment to live. + +HELENA. You said that exactly like an actor. [_He leans very close to +her._] What are you doing now? + +PARIS. I am looking into you. You are the clear glass in which I read +the secret of the universe. + +HELENA. The secret of the universe. Ah! Perhaps you could understand me. + +PARIS. First you must understand yourself. + +HELENA [_instinctively taking up a mirror_]. How? + +PARIS. You must break with all this prose. [_With an unconscious gesture +he sweeps a tray of toilet articles from the table. Helena emits a +little shriek._] + +HELENA. The ointment! + +PARIS [_rushing to the window and pointing to the distance_]. And climb +to infinite poesie! + +HELENA [_catching his enthusiasm, says very blandly_]. There is nothing +in the world like poetry. + +PARIS [_lyrically_]. Have you ever heard the poignant breathing of the +stars? + +HELENA. No. I don't believe in astrology. + +PARIS. Have you ever smelt the powdery mists of the sun? + +HELENA. I should sneeze myself to death. + +PARIS. Have you ever listened to the sapphire soul of the sea? + +HELENA. Has the sea a soul? But please don't stop talking. You do it so +beautifully. + +PARIS. Deeds are sweeter than words. Shall we go hand in hand to meet +eternity? + +HELENA [_not comprehending him_]. That's very pretty. Say it again. + +PARIS [_passionately_]. There's but a moment of life left me. I shall +stifle it in ecstasy. Helena, Helena, I adore you! + +HELENA [_jumping up in high surprise_]. You're not making love to me, +you naughty boy? + +PARIS. Helena. + +HELENA. You've spoken to me so little, and already you dare to do that. + +PARIS [_impetuously_]. I am a lover of life. I skip the inessentials. + +HELENA. Remember who I am. + +PARIS. I have not forgotten, Daughter of Heaven. [_Suddenly he leaps to +his feet._] Listen! + +HELENA. Shhh! That's the King and Analytikos in the library. + +PARIS. No! No! Don't you hear the flutter of wings? + +HELENA. Wings? + +PARIS [_ecstatically_]. Venus, mother of Love! + +HELENA [_alarmed_]. What is it? + +PARIS. She has sent her messenger. I hear the patter of little feet. + +HELENA. Those little feet are the soldiers below in the courtyard. + + [_A trumpet sounds._] + +PARIS [_the truth of the situation breaking through his emotion_]. In a +moment I shall be killed. + +HELENA. Killed? + +PARIS. Save me and save yourself! + +HELENA. Myself? + +PARIS. I shall rescue you and lead you on to life. + +HELENA. No one has even spoken to me like that before. + +PARIS. This is the first time your ears have heard the truth. + +HELENA. Was it of you I've been dreaming? + +PARIS. Your dream was but your unrealized desire. + +HELENA. Menelaus has never made me feel like this. [_And then with a +sudden shriek._] Oh! I'm a wicked woman! + +PARIS. No! No! + +HELENA. For years I've been living with a man I didn't love. + +PARIS. Yes! Yes! + +HELENA. I'm lost! + +PARIS [_at a loss_]. No! Yes! Yes! No! + +HELENA. It was a profanation of the most holy. + +PARIS. The holiest awaits you, Helena! Our love will lighten the +Plutonian realms. + +HELENA. Menelaus never spoke to me like that. + +PARIS. 'Tis but the first whisper of my adoration. + +HELENA. I can't face him every morning at breakfast for the rest of my +life. That's even more than a Queen can bear. + +PARIS. I am waiting to release you. + +HELENA. I've stood it for seven years. + +PARIS. I've been coming to you since the beginning of time. + +HELENA. There is something urging me to go with you, something I do not +understand. + +PARIS. Quick! There is but a moment left us. + + [_He takes her rapturously in his arms. There is a passionate + embrace in the midst of which Tsumu enters._] + +TSUMU. The chiropodist has come. + +HELENA. Bring me my outer garment and my purse. + + [_Tsumu exits, her eyes wide on Paris._] + +PARIS. Helena! Helena! + + [_Helena looks about her and takes up the papyrus that Menelaus + has flung to the floor._] + +HELENA. A last word to the King. [_She looks at the papyrus._] No, this +won't do; I shall have to take this with me. + +PARIS. What is it? + +HELENA. Maskanda's discourse on the hip. + + [_A trumpet sounds below in the courtyard._] + +PARIS [_excitedly_]. Leave it--or your hip may cost me my head. We +haven't a minute to spare. Hurry! Hurry! + + [_Helena takes up an eyebrow pencil and writes on the back of the + papyrus. She looks for a place to put it and seeing the shield she + smears it with some of the ointment and sticks the papyrus to + it._] + +PARIS [_watching her in ecstasy_]. You are the fairest of all fair women +and your name will blaze as a symbol throughout eternity. + + [_Tsumu enters with the purse and the Queen's outer robe._] + +HELENA [_tossing the purse to Paris_]. Here, we may need this. + +PARIS [_throwing it back to Tsumu_]. This for your silence, daughter of +darkness. A prince has no need of purses. + +TSUMU [_looking at him_]. A prince! + +HELENA [_gloriously_]. My prince of poetry. My deliverer! + +PARIS [_divinely_]. My queen of love! + + [_They go out, Tsumu looking after them in speechless amazement. + Suddenly she sees the papyrus on the shield, runs over and reads + it and then rushes to the door of the library._] + +TSUMU [_calling_]. Analytikos. + + [_She hides the purse in her bosom. Analytikos enters, scroll in + hand._] + +ANALYTIKOS. Has the Queen summoned me? + +TSUMU [_mysteriously_]. A terrible thing has happened. + +ANALYTIKOS. What's the matter? + +TSUMU. Where's the King? + +ANALYTIKOS. In the library. + +TSUMU. I have news more precious than the gold of Midas. + +ANALYTIKOS [_giving her a purse_]. Well! What is it? + +TSUMU [_speaking very dramatically and watching the effect of her +words_]. The Queen has deserted Menelaus. + +ANALYTIKOS [_receiving the shock philosophically_]. Swift are the ways +of Nature. The Gods have smiled upon him. + +TSUMU. The Gods have forsaken the King to smile upon a prince. + +ANALYTIKOS. What? + +TSUMU. He was a prince. + +ANALYTIKOS [_apprehensively_]. Why do you say that? + +TSUMU [_clutching her bosom_]. I have a good reason to know. [_There is +a sound of voices below in the courtyard. Menelaus rushes in +expectantly. Tsumu falls prostrate before him._] Oh, King, in thy +bottomless agony blame not a blameless negress. The Queen has fled! + +MENELAUS [_in his delight forgetting himself and flinging her a purse_]. +Is it true? + +TSUMU. Woe! Woe is me! + +MENELAUS [_storming_]. Out of my sight, you eyeless Argus! + +ANALYTIKOS [_to Tsumu_]. Quick, send a messenger. Find out who he was. + + [_Tsumu sticks the third purse in her bosom and runs out._] + +MENELAUS [_with radiant happiness, kneeling before the bust of Zeus_]. +Ye Gods, I thank ye. Peace and a happy life at last. + + [_The shouts in the courtyard grow louder._] + +ANALYTIKOS. The news has spread through the palace. + +MENELAUS [_in trepidation, springing up_]. No one would dare stop the +progress of the Queen. + +TSUMU [_rushes in and prostrates herself before the King_]. Woe is me! +They have gone by the road to the harbor. + +MENELAUS [_anxiously_]. Yes! Yes! + +TSUMU. By the King's orders no man has dared gaze upon Her Majesty. They +all fell prostrate before her. + +MENELAUS. Good! Good! [_Attempting to cover his delight._] Go! Go! You +garrulous dog. + + [_Tsumu gets up and points to shield. Analytikos and the King look + toward it. Analytikos tears off the papyrus and brings it to + Menelaus. Tsumu, watching them, exits._] + +MENELAUS [_reading_]. "I am not a bad woman. I did what I had to do." +How Greek to blame fate for what one wants to do. + + [_Tsumu again comes tumbling in._] + +TSUMU [_again prostrate before the King_]. A rumor flies through the +city. He--he-- + +ANALYTIKOS [_anxiously_]. Well? Well? + +TSUMU. He--he-- + +MENELAUS [_furiously to Analytikos_]. Rid me of this croaking raven. + +TSUMU. Evil has fallen on Sparta. He-- + +ANALYTIKOS. Yes--yes-- + +MENELAUS [_in a rage_]. Out of my sight, perfidious Nubian. + + [_Sounds of confusion in the courtyard. Suddenly she springs to + her feet and yells at the top of her voice._] + +TSUMU. He was Paris, Prince of Troy! + + [_They all start back. Analytikos stumbles into a seat. Menelaus + turns pale. Tsumu leers like a black Nemesis._] + +ANALYTIKOS [_very ominously_]. Who can read the secret of the Fates? + +MENELAUS [_frightened_]. What do you mean? + +ANALYTIKOS. He is the son of Priam, King of Troy. + +TSUMU [_adding fuel_]. And of Hecuba, Queen of the Trojans. + + [_She rushes out to spread the news._] + +ANALYTIKOS. That makes the matter international. + +MENELAUS [_quickly_]. But we have treaties with Troy. + +ANALYTIKOS. Circumstances alter treaties. They will mean nothing. + +MENELAUS. Nothing? + +ANALYTIKOS. No more than a scrap of papyrus. Sparta will fight to regain +her Queen. + +MENELAUS. But I don't want her back. + +ANALYTIKOS. Can you tell that to Sparta? Remember, the King can do no +wrong. Last night I dreamed of war. + +MENELAUS. No! No! Don't say that. After the scandal I can't be expected +to fight to get her back. + +ANALYTIKOS. Sparta will see with the eyes of chivalry. + +MENELAUS [_fuming_]. But I don't believe in war. + +ANALYTIKOS [_still obdurate_]. Have you forgotten the oath pledged of +old, with Ulysses and Agamemnon? They have sworn, if ever the time came, +to fight and defend the Queen. + +MENELAUS [_bitterly_]. I didn't think of the triple alliance. + +ANALYTIKOS. Can Sparta ask less of her King? + +MENELAUS. Let's hear the other side. We can perhaps arbitrate. Peace at +any price. + +ANALYTIKOS. Some bargains are too cheap. + +MENELAUS [_hopelessly_]. But I am a pacifist. + +ANALYTIKOS. You are Menelaus of Sparta, and Sparta's a nation of +soldiers. + +MENELAUS [_desperately_]. I am too proud to fight! + +ANALYTIKOS. Here, put on your shield. [_A great clamor comes up from the +courtyard, Analytikos steps out on the balcony and is greeted with +shouts of "The King! The King!" Addressing the crowd._] People of +Sparta, this calamity has been forced upon us. [_Menelaus winces._] We +are a peaceful people. But thanks to our unparalleled efficiency, the +military system of Sparta is the most powerful in all Greece and we can +mobilize in half an hour. + + [_Loud acclaims from the people. Menelaus, the papyrus still in + hand, crawls over and attempts to stop Analytikos._] + +ANALYTIKOS [_not noticing him_]. In the midst of connubial and communal +peace the thunderbolt has fallen on the King. [_Menelaus tugs at +Analytikos' robe._] Broken in spirit as he is, he is already pawing the +ground like a battle steed. Never will we lay down our arms! We and +Jupiter! [_Cheers._] Never until the Queen is restored to Menelaus. +Never, even if it takes ten years. [_Menelaus squirms. A loud cheer._] +Even now the King is buckling on his shield. [_More cheers. Analytikos +steps farther forward and then with bursting eloquence._] One hate we +have and one alone! [_Yells from below._] + + Hate by water and hate by land, + Hate of the head and hate of the hand, + Hate of Paris and hate of Troy + That has broken the Queen for a moment's toy. + + [_The yells grow fiercer._] + + Zeus' thunder will shatter the Trojan throne. + We have one hate and one alone! + + [_Menelaus sits on the floor dejectedly looking at the papyrus. A + thunder of voices from the people._] + + We have one hate and one alone. Troy! Troy! + + [_Helmets and swords are thrown into the air. The cheers grow + tumultuous, trumpets are blown, and the_ + + + _Curtain falls._] + + + + +THE SHADOWED STAR + + BY MARY MACMILLAN + + + Copyright, 1913, by Stewart & Kidd Company. + All rights reserved. + + + CAST + + A WOMAN, _the mother_. + AN OLD WOMAN, _the grandmother_. + TWO GIRLS, _the daughters_. + A MESSENGER BOY. + A NEIGHBOR. + ANOTHER NEIGHBOR. + + + THE SHADOWED STAR is reprinted from "Short Plays" by Mary MacMillan by + permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. The + acting rights of this play are reserved by the author. Address all + correspondence to the author in regard to production. + + + +THE SHADOWED STAR + +BY MARY MACMILLAN + + + [_A very bare room in a tenement house, uncarpeted, the boards + being much worn, and from the walls the bluish whitewash has + scaled away; in the front on one side is a cooking-stove, and + farther back on the same side a window; on the opposite side is a + door opening into a hallway; in the middle of the room there is a + round, worn dining-room table, on which stands a stunted, scraggly + bit of an evergreen-tree; at the back of the room, near the + window, stands an old-fashioned safe with perforated tin front; + next it a door opening into an inner room, and next it in the + corner a bed, on which lies a pallid woman; another woman, very + old, sits in a rocking-chair in front of the stove and rocks. + There is silence for a long space, the old woman rocking and the + woman on the bed giving an occasional low sigh or groan. At last + the old woman speaks._] + + THE OLD WOMAN. David an' Michael might be kapin' the Christmas wid + us to-morrow night if we hadn't left the ould counthry. They'd + never be crossin' the sea--all the many weary miles o' wetness an' + fog an' cold to be kapin' it wid us here in this great house o' + brick walls in a place full o' strange souls. They would never be + for crossin' all that weary, cold, green wather, groanin' an' + tossin' like it was the grave o' sivin thousan' divils. Ah, but it + would be a black night at sea! [_She remains silent for a few + minutes, staring at the stove and rocking slowly._] If they hadn't + to cross that wet, cold sea they'd maybe come. But wouldn't they + be afeard o' this great city, an' would they iver find us here? + Six floors up, an' they niver off the ground in their lives. What + would ye be thinkin'? [_The other woman does not answer her. She + then speaks petulantly._] What would ye be thinkin'? Mary, have ye + gone clane to slape? [_Turns her chair and peers around the back + of it at the pallid woman on the bed, who sighs and answers._] + + THE WOMAN. No, I on'y wisht I could. Maybe they'll come--I don't + know, but father an' Michael wasn't much for thravel. [_After a + pause and very wearily._] Maybe they'll not come, yet [_slowly_], + maybe I'll be kapin' the Christmas wid them there. [_The Old Woman + seems not to notice this, wandering from her question back to her + memories._] + + +THE OLD WOMAN. No, they'll niver be lavin' the ould land, the green +land, the home land. I'm wishing I was there wid thim. [_Another pause, +while she stares at the stove._] Maybe we'd have a duck an' potatoes, +an' maybe something to drink to kape us warm against the cold. An' the +boys would all be dancin' an' the girls have rosy cheeks. [_There is +another pause, and then a knock at the door. "Come in," the two women +call, in reedy, weak voices, and a thin, slatternly Irish woman +enters._] + +THE NEIGHBOR. God avnin' to ye; I came in to ask if I might borrow the +loan o' a bit o' tay, not havin' a leaf of it left. + +THE WOMAN. We have a little left, just enough we was savin' for +ourselves to-night, but you're welcome to it--maybe the girls will bring +some. Will ye get it for her, mother? Or she can help herself--it's in +the safe. It's on the lower shelf among the cups an' saucers an' plates. +[_The Old Woman and Neighbor go to the safe and hunt for the tea, and do +not find it readily. The safe has little in it but a few cracked and +broken dishes._] + +THE NEIGHBOR [_holding up a tiny paper bag with an ounce perhaps of tea +in it._] It's just a scrap! + +THE OLD WOMAN. To be sure! We use so much tay! We're that exthravagant! + +THE NEIGHBOR. It hurts me to take it from ye--maybe I'd better not. + +THE OLD WOMAN. The girls will bring more. We always have a cupboard full +o' things. We're always able to lend to our neighbors. + +THE NEIGHBOR. It's in great luck, ye are. For some of us be so poor we +don't know where the next bite's comin' from. An' this winter whin +iverything's so high an' wages not raised, a woman can't find enough to +cook for her man's dinner. It isn't that ye don't see things--oh, +they're in the markets an' the shops, an' it makes yer mouth wather as +ye walk along the sthrates this day before the Christmas to see the +turkeys an' the ducks ye'll niver ate, an' the little pigs an' the +or'nges an' bananies an' cranberries an' the cakes an' nuts an'--it's +worse, I'm thinkin', to see thim whin there's no money to buy than it +was in the ould counthry, where there was nothing to buy wid the money +ye didn't have. + +THE WOMAN. It's all one to us poor folk whether there be things to buy +or not. [_She speaks gaspingly, as one who is short of breath._] I'm +on'y thinkin' o' the clane air at home--if I could have a mornin' o' +fresh sunshine--these fogs an' smoke choke me so. The girls would take +me out to the counthry if they had time an' I'd get well. But they +haven't time. [_She falls into a fit of coughing._] + +THE OLD WOMAN. But it's like to be bright on Christmas Day. It wouldn't +iver be cloudy on Christmas Day, an' maybe even now the stars would be +crapin' out an' the air all clear an' cold an' the moon a-shinin' an' +iverything so sthill an' quiet an' bleamin' an' breathless [_her voice +falls almost to a whisper_], awaitin' on the Blessed Virgin. [_She goes +to the window, lifts the blind, and peers out, then throws up the sash +and leans far out. After a moment she pulls the sash down again and the +blind and turns to those in the room with the look of pathetic +disappointment in little things, of the aged._] No, there's not a sthar, +not one little twinklin' sthar, an' how'll the shepherds find their way? +Iverything's dull an' black an' the clouds are hangin' down heavy an' +sthill. How'll the shepherds find their way without the sthar to guide +thim? [_Then almost whimpering._] An' David an' Michael will niver be +crossin' that wet, black sea! An' the girls--how'll they find their way +home? They'll be lost somewhere along by the hedges. Ohone, ohone! + +THE NEIGHBOR. Now, grannie, what would ye be sayin'? There's niver a +hedge anywhere but granite blocks an' electric light poles an' plenty o' +light in the city for thim to see all their way home. [_Then to the +woman._] Ain't they late? + +THE WOMAN. They're always late, an' they kape gettin' lather an' lather. + +THE NEIGHBOR. Yis, av coorse, the sthores is all open in the avnin's +before Christmas. + +THE WOMAN. They go so early in the mornin' an' get home so late at +night, an' they're so tired. + +THE NEIGHBOR [_whiningly_]. They're lucky to be young enough to work an' +not be married. I've got to go home to the childer an' give thim their +tay. Pat's gone to the saloon again, an' to-morrow bein' Christmas I +misdoubt he'll be terrible dhrunk again, an' me on'y jist well from the +blow in the shoulder the last time. [_She wipes her eyes and moves +towards the door._] + +THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay an' kape Christmas wid us. We're goin' to have our +celebratin' to-night on Christmas Eve, the way folks do here. I like it +best on Christmas Day, the way 'tis in the ould counthry, but here 'tis +Christmas Eve they kape. We're waitin' for the girls to come home to +start things--they knowin' how--Mary an' me on'y know how to kape +Christmas Day as 'tis at home. But the girls'll soon be here, an' +they'll have the three an' do the cookin' an' all, an' we'll kape up the +jollity way into the night. + +THE NEIGHBOR [_looks questioningly and surprised at the Woman, whose +eyes are on the mother._] Nay, if Pat came home dhrunk an' didn't find +me, he'd kill me. We have all to be movin' on to our own throubles. +[_She goes out, and the old woman leaves the Christmas-tree which she +has been fingering and admiring, and sits down in the rocking-chair +again. After a while she croons to herself in a high, broken voice. This +lasts some time, when there is the noise of a slamming door and then of +footsteps approaching._] + +THE WOMAN. If I could on'y be in the counthry! + +THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe that would be the girls! [_She starts tremblingly +to her feet, but the steps come up to the door and go by._] If David and +Michael was to come now an' go by--there bein' no sthar to guide thim! + +THE WOMAN. Nay, mother, 'twas the shepherds that was guided by the sthar +an' to the bed o' the Blessed Babe. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Aye, so 'twas. What be I thinkin' of? The little Blessed +Babe! [_She smiles and sits staring at the stove again for a little._] +But they could not find Him to-night. 'Tis so dark an' no sthars +shinin.' [_After another pause._] An' what would shepherds do in a +ghreat city? 'Twould be lost they'd be, quicker than in any bog. Think +ye, Mary, that the boys would be hootin' thim an' the p'lice, maybe, +would want to be aristin' thim for loitherin'. They'd niver find the +Blessed Babe, an' they'd have to be movin' on. [_Another pause, and then +there is the sound of approaching footsteps again. The Old Woman grasps +the arms of her chair and leans forward, intently listening._]--That +would sure be the girls this time! [_But again the footsteps go by. The +Old Woman sighs._] Ah, but 'tis weary waitin'! [_There is another long +pause._] 'Twas on that day that David an' me was plighted--a brave +Christmas Day wid a shinin' sun an' a sky o' blue wid fair, white +clouds. An' David an' me met at the early mass in the dark o' the frosty +mornin' afore the sun rose--an' there was all day good times an' a duck +for dinner and puddin's an' a party at the O'Brady's in the evenin', +whin David an' me danced. Ah, but he was a beautiful dancer, an' me, +too--I was as light on my feet as a fairy. [_She begins to croon an old +dance tune and hobbles to her feet, and, keeping time with her head, +tries a grotesque and feeble sort of dancing. Her eyes brighten and she +smiles proudly._] Aye, but I danced like a fairy, an' there was not +another couple so sprightly an' handsome in all the country. [_She +tires, and, looking pitiful and disappointed, hobbles back to her chair, +and drops into it again._] Ah, but I be old now, and the strength fails +me. [_She falls into silence for a few minutes._] 'Twas the day before +the little man, the little white dove, my next Christmas that Michael +was born--little son! [_There is a moment's pause, and then the pallid +woman on the bed has a violent fit of coughing._] + +THE WOMAN. Mother, could ye get me a cup o' wather? If the girls was +here to get me a bite to ate, maybe it would kape the breath in me the +night. + +THE OLD WOMAN [_starts and stares at her daughter, as if she hardly +comprehended the present reality. She gets up and goes over to the +window under which there is a pail full of water. She dips some out in a +tin cup and carries it to her bed._] Ye should thry to get up an' move +about some, so ye can enjoy the Christmas threat. 'Tis bad bein' sick on +Christmas. Thry, now, Mary, to sit up a bit. The girls'll be wantin' ye +to be merry wid the rest av us. + +THE WOMAN [_looking at her mother with a sad wistfulness_]. I wouldn't +spoil things for the girls if I could help. Maybe, mother, if ye'd lift +me a little I could sit up. [_The Old Woman tugs at her, and she herself +tries hard to get into a sitting posture, but after some effort and +panting for breath, she falls back again. After a pause for rest, she +speaks gaspingly._] Maybe I'll feel sthronger lather whin the girls come +home--they could help me--[_with the plaint of longing in her voice_] +they be so late! [_After another pause._] Maybe I'll be sthrong again in +the mornin'--if I'd had a cup of coffee.--Maybe I could get up--an' walk +about--an' do the cookin'. [_There is a knock at the door, and again +they call, "Come in," in reedy, weak voices. There enters a little +messenger boy in a ragged overcoat that reaches almost to his heels. His +eyes are large and bright, his face pale and dirty, and he is fearfully +tired and worn._] + +THE WOMAN. Why, Tim, boy, come in. Sit ye down an' rest, ye're lookin' +weary. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Come to the stove, Timmie, man, an' warm yourself. We +always kape a warm room an' a bright fire for visitors. + +THE BOY. I was awful cold an' hungry an' I come home to get somethin' to +eat before. I started out on another trip, but my sisters ain't home +from the store yit, an' the fire's gone out in the stove, an' the room's +cold as outside. I thought maybe ye'd let me come in here an' git warm. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Poor orphan! Poor lamb! To be shure ye shall get warm by +our sthove. + +THE BOY. The cars are so beastly col' an' so crowded a feller mostly has +to stand on the back platform. [_The Old Woman takes him by the shoulder +and pushes him toward the stove, but he resists._] + +THE BOY. No, thank ye--I don't want to go so near yet; my feet's all +numb an' they allays hurt so when they warms up fast. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Thin sit ye down off from the sthove. [_Moves the +rocking-chair farther away from the stove for him._] + +THE BOY. If ye don't mind I'd rather stand on 'em 'til they gets a +little used to it. They been numb off an' on mos' all day. + +THE WOMAN. Soon as yer sisters come, Timmie, ye'd betther go to +bed--'tis the best place to get warm. + +THE BOY. I can't--I got most a three-hour trip yet. I won't get home any +'fore midnight if I don't get lost, and maybe I'll get lost--I did once +out there. I've got to take a box o' 'Merican Beauty roses to a place +eight mile out, an' the house ain't on the car track, but nearly a mile +off, the boss said. I wisht they could wait till mornin', but the orders +was they just got to get the roses to-night. You see, out there they +don' have no gas goin' nights when there's a moon, an' there'd ought to +be a moon to-night, on'y the clouds is so thick there ain't no light +gets through. + +THE OLD WOMAN. There's no sthar shinin' to-night, Tim. [_She shakes her +head ominously. She goes to the window for the second time, opens it as +before, and looks out. Shutting the window, she comes back and speaks +slowly and sadly._] Niver a sthar. An' the shepherds will be havin' a +hard time, Tim, like you, findin' their way. + +THE BOY. Shepherds? In town? What shepherds? + +THE WOMAN. She means the shepherds on Christmas Eve that wint to find +the Blessed Babe, Jesus. + +THE OLD WOMAN. 'Tis Christmas Eve, Timmie; ye haven't forgot that, have +ye? + +THE BOY. You bet I ain't. I know pretty well when Christmas is comin', +by the way I got to hustle, an' the size of the boxes I got to carry. +Seems as if my legs an' me would like to break up pardnership. I got to +work till midnight every night, an' I'm so sleepy I drop off in the cars +whenever I get a seat. An' the girls is at the store so early an' late +they don't get time to cook me nothin' to eat. + +THE WOMAN. Be ye hungry, Timmie? + +THE BOY [_diffidently and looking at the floor_]. No, I ain't hungry +now. + +THE WOMAN. Be ye shure, Timmie? + +THE BOY. Oh, I kin go till I git home. + +THE WOMAN. Mother, can't you find something for him to eat? + +THE OLD WOMAN. To be shure, to be shure. [_Bustling about._] We always +kapes a full cupboard to thrate our neighbors wid whin they comes in. +[_She goes to the empty safe and fusses in it to find something. She +pretends to be very busy, and then glances around at the boy with a sly +look and a smile._] Ah, Timmie, lad, what would ye like to be havin', +now? If you had the wish o' yer heart for yer Christmas dinner an' a +good fairy to set it all afore ye? Ye'd be wishin' maybe, for a fine +roast duck, to begin wid, in its own gravies an' some apple sauce to go +wid it; an' ye'd be thinkin' o' a little bit o' pig nicely browned an' a +plate of potaties; an' the little fairy woman would be bringin' yer +puddin's an' nuts an' apples an' a dish o' the swatest tay. [_The Boy +smiles rather ruefully._] + +THE WOMAN. But, mother, you're not gettin' Tim something to ate. + +THE BOY. She's makin' me mouth water all right. [_The Old Woman goes +back to her search, but again turns about with a cunning look, and says +to the boy:_] + +THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe ye'll meet that little fairy woman out there in +the counthry road where ye're takin' the roses! [_Nods her head +knowingly, turning to the safe again._] Here's salt an' here's +pepper an' here's mustard an' a crock full o' sugar, an', oh! Tim, +here's some fine cold bacon--fine, fat, cold bacon--an' here's half a +loaf o' white wheat bread! Why, Timmie, lad, that's just the food to +make boys fat! Ye'll grow famously on it. 'Tis a supper, whin ye add to +it a dhrop o' iligant milk, that's fit for a king. [_She bustles about +with great show of being busy and having much to prepare. Puts the plate +of cold bacon upon the table where stands the stunted bit of an +evergreen-tree, then brings the half-loaf of bread and cuts it into +slices, laying pieces of bacon on the slices of bread. Then she pours +out a glass of milk from a dilapidated and broken pitcher in the safe +and brings it to the table, the Boy all the while watching her hungrily. +At last he says rather apologetically to the woman._] + +THE BOY. I ain't had nothin' since a wienerwurst at eleven o'clock. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Now, dhraw up, Timmie, boy, an' ate yer fill; ye're more +thin welcome. [_The boy does not sit down, but stands by the table and +eats a slice of bread and bacon, drinking from the glass of milk +occasionally._] + +THE WOMAN. Don't they niver give ye nothin' to ate at the gran' houses +when ye'd be takin' the roses? + +THE BOY. Not them. They'd as soon think o' feedin' a telephone or an +automobile as me. + +THE WOMAN. But don't they ask ye in to get warm whin ye've maybe come so +far? + +THE BOY. No, they don't seem to look at me 'zacly like a caller. They +generally steps out long enough to sign the receipt-book an' shut the +front door behin' 'em so as not to let the house get col' the length o' +time I'm standin' there. Well, I'm awful much obleeged to ye. Now, I got +to be movin' on. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Sthop an' cilibrate the Christmas wid us. We ain't +started to do nothin' yet because the girls haven't come--they know how +[_nodding her head_]--an' they're goin' to bring things--all kinds o' +good things to ate an' a branch of rowan berries--ah, boy, a great +branch o' rowan wid scarlet berries shinin' [_gesticulating and with +gleaming eyes_], an' we'll all be merry an' kape it up late into the +night. + +THE BOY [_in a little fear of her_]. I guess it's pretty late now. I got +to make that trip an' I guess when I get home I'll be so sleepy I'll +jus' tumble in. Ye've been awful good to me, an' it's the first time I +been warm to-day. Good-by. [_He starts toward the door, but the Old +Woman follows him and speaks to him coaxingly._] + +THE OLD WOMAN. Ah, don't ye go, Michael, lad! Now, bide wid us a bit. +[_The Boy, surprised at the name, looks queerly at the Old Woman, who +then stretches out her arms to him, and says beseechingly:_] Ah, boy, +ah, Mike, bide wid us, now ye've come! We've been that lonesome widout +ye! + +THE BOY [_frightened and shaking his head_]. I've got to be movin'. + +THE OLD WOMAN. No, Michael, little lamb, no! + +THE BOY [_almost terrified, watching her with staring eyes, and backing +out_]. I got to go! [_The Boy goes out, and the Old Woman breaks into +weeping, totters over to her old rocking-chair and drops into it, rocks +to and fro, wailing to herself._] + +THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, to have him come an' go again, my little Michael, my +own little lad! + +THE WOMAN. Don't ye, dearie; now, then, don't ye! 'Twas not Michael, but +just our little neighbor boy, Tim. Ye know, poor lamb, now if ye'll thry +to remember, that father an' Michael is gone to the betther land an' us +is left. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, nay, 'tis the fairies that took thim an' have thim +now, kapin' thim an' will not ever give thim back. + +THE WOMAN. Whisht, mother! Spake not of the little folk on the Holy +Night! [_Crosses herself._] Have ye forgot the time o' all the year it +is? Now, dhry yer eyes, dearie, an' thry to be cheerful like 'fore the +girls be comin' home. [_A noise is heard, the banging of a door and +footsteps._] Thim be the girls now, shure they be comin' at last. [_But +the sound of footsteps dies away._] But they'll be comin' soon. +[_Wearily, but with the inveterate hope._] + + [_The two women relapse into silence again, which is undisturbed + for a few minutes. Then there is a knock at the door, and together + in quavering, reedy voices, they call, "Come in," as before. There + enters a tall, big, broad-shouldered woman with a cold, + discontented, hard look upon the face that might have been + handsome some years back; still, in her eyes, as she looks at the + pallid woman on the bed, there is something that denotes a + softness underneath it all._] + +THE OLD WOMAN. Good avnin' to ye! We're that pleased to see our +neighbors! + +THE NEIGHBOR [_without paying any attention to the Old Woman, but +entirely addressing the woman on the bed._] How's yer cough? + +THE WOMAN. Oh, it's jist the same--maybe a little betther. If I could +on'y get to the counthry! But the girls must be workin'--they haven't +time to take me. Sit down, won't ye? [_The Neighbor goes to the bed and +sits down on the foot of it._] + +THE NEIGHBOR. I'm most dead, I'm so tired. I did two washin's +to-day--went out and did one this mornin' and then my own after I come +home this afternoon. I jus' got through sprinklin' it an' I'll iron +to-morrow. + +THE WOMAN. Not on Christmas Day! + +THE NEIGHBOR [_with a sneer_]. Christmas Day! Did ye hear 'bout the +Beckers? Well, they was all put out on the sidewalk this afternoon. +Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid his rent an' his wife's got +a two weeks' old baby. It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on +one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't move, an' nobody couldn't +do nothin' with her. But they ain't the only ones has bad luck--Smith, +the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. They took him to the +hospital, but it wasn't no use--his head was all mashed in. His wife's +got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, though he warn't a +drinkin' man. It's a good thing Smith's children is boys--they can make +their livin' easier! + +THE WOMAN [_smiling faintly_]. Ain't ye got no cheerful news to tell? +It's Christmas Eve, ye know. + +THE NEIGHBOR. Christmas Eve don't seem to prevent people from dyin' an' +bein' turned out o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the dipthery is? +They say as how if it gits much worse they'll have to close the school +in our ward. Two o' the Homan children's dead with it. The first one +wasn't sick but two days, an' they say his face all turned black 'fore +he died. But it's a good thing they're gone, for the Homans ain't got +enough to feed the other six. Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin' +again? Swore off for two months, an' then took to it harder'n +ever--perty near killed the baby one night. + +THE WOMAN [_with a wan, beseeching smile_]. Won't you please not tell me +any more? It just breaks me heart. + +THE NEIGHBOR [_grimly_]. I ain't got no other kind o' news to tell. I +s'pose I might's well go home. + +THE WOMAN. No, don't ye go. I like to have ye here when ye're kinder. + +THE NEIGHBOR [_fingering the bed clothes and smoothing them over the +woman_]. Well, it's gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep. + +THE WOMAN. Oh, no, I won't go to slape till the girls come. They'll +bring me somethin' to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon. + +THE NEIGHBOR. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til they git home? + +THE OLD WOMAN. That we are. We're kapin' the cilebratin' till they come. + +THE NEIGHBOR. What celebratin'? + +THE OLD WOMAN. Why, the Christmas, to be shure. We're goin' to have high +jinks to-night. In the ould counthry 'tis always Christmas Day, but here +'tis begun on Christmas Eve, an' we're on'y waitin' for the girls, +because they know how to fix things betther nor Mary an' me. + +THE NEIGHBOR [_staring_]. But ain't they workin' in the store? + +THE OLD WOMAN. Yes, but they're comin' home early to-night. + +THE NEIGHBOR [_laughing ironically_]. Don't ye fool yerselves. Why, +they've got to work harder to-night than any in the whole year. + +THE WOMAN [_wistfully_]. But they did say they'd thry to come home +early. + +THE NEIGHBOR. The store's all crowded to-night. Folks 'at's got money +to spend never remembers it till the last minute. If they didn't have +none they'd be thinkin' 'bout it long ahead. Well, I got to be movin'. I +wouldn't stay awake, if I was you. + +THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay and kape the Christmas wid us! We'll be havin' high +jinks by an' by. Sthay, now, an' help us wid our jollity! + +THE NEIGHBOR. Nay, I left my children in bed, an' I got to go back to +'em. An' I got to get some rest myself--I got that ironin' ahead o' me +in the mornin'. You folks better get yer own rest. [_She rises and walks +to the door._] + +THE OLD WOMAN [_beamingly_]. David an' Michael's comin'. [_The Neighbor +stands with her back against the door and her hand on the knob, staring +at the Old Woman._] + +THE OLD WOMAN [_smiling rapturously_]. Yis, we're goin' to have a gran' +time. [_The Neighbor looks puzzled and fearful and troubled, first at +the Woman and then at the Old Woman. Finally, without a word, she opens +the door and goes out._] + +THE OLD WOMAN [_going about in a tottering sort of dance_]. David an' +Michael's comin' an' the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the +way. + +THE WOMAN. If the girls would on'y come! If they'd give me somethin' so +as I wouldn't be so tired! + +THE OLD WOMAN. There's niver a sthar an' there's nobody to give thim a +kind word an' the counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got the +little folk to guide thim! An' whin they reach the city--the poor, +lonesome shepherds from the hills!--they'll find naught but coldness an' +hardness an' hurry. [_Questioningly._] Will the fairies show thim the +way? Fairies' eyes be used to darkness, but can they see where it is +black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light in another? [_She goes to +the window for the third time, opens it and leans far out for a long +time, then turns about and goes on in her monotone, closing the +window.--She seems by this time quite to have forgotten the presence of +the pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her eyes, and lies like one +dead._] + +THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, there's niver a sthar, an' the clouds are hangin' +heavier an' lower an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little folk +guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' thim by the hand so gently +because there's no others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to the +manger o' the Blessed Babe. [_She comes over to her rocking-chair and +again sits down in it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in time +to the motion._] Poor little mite of a babe, so cold an' unwelcome an' +forgotten save by the silly ould shepherds from the hills! The silly +ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, who are comin' through +the darkness in the lead o' the little folk! [_She speaks slower and +lower, and finally drops into a quiet crooning--it stops and the Old +Woman has fallen asleep._] + + [_Curtain._] + + [_While the curtain is down the pallid, sick woman upon the bed + dies, the Old Woman being asleep does not notice the slight + struggle with death. The fire has gone out in the stove, and the + light in the lamp, and the stage is in complete darkness when the + two girls come stumbling in. They are too tired to speak, too + weary to show surprise that the occupants of the room are not + awake. They fumble about, trying to find matches in the darkness, + and finally discover them and a candle in the safe. They light the + candle and place it upon the table by the scraggy little + evergreen-tree. They turn about and discern their grandmother + asleep in the rocking-chair. Hurriedly they turn to the bed and + discover their mother lying there dead. For a full minute they + stand gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, misery increasing + in their faces; then with screams they run to the bed, throw + themselves on their knees and bury their faces, sobbing, in the + bedclothes at the Woman's feet._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +ILE + + A PLAY + + BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL + + + All rights reserved. + + + CHARACTERS + + BEN [_the cabin boy_]. + THE STEWARD. + CAPTAIN KEENEY. + SLOCUM [_second mate_]. + MRS. KEENEY. + JOE [_a harpooner_]. + _Members of the crew of the Atlantic Queen._ + + + ILE was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, on + the night of November 30th, 1917, with the following cast: + + BEN [_the cabin boy_] _Harold Conley_. + THE STEWARD _Robert Edwards_. + CAPTAIN KEENEY _H. Collins_. + MR. SLOCUM [_second mate_] _Ira Remsen_. + MRS. KEENEY _Clara Savage_. + JOE [_the harpooner_] _Lewis B. Ell_. + + Produced under the direction of MISS NINA MOISE. Scenery by MR. LEWIS + B. ELL. + + + Reprinted from "The Moon of the Caribbees and Six Other Plays of the + Sea" by special permission of Eugene O'Neill. The professional and + amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. + Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. + Eugene G. O'Neill, Provincetown, Mass. + + + +ILE + +A PLAY BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL + + + [_SCENE: Captain Keeney's cabin on board the steam whaling ship + Atlantic Queen--a small, square compartment about eight feet high + with a skylight in the center looking out on the poop deck. On the + left (the stern of the ship) a long bench with rough cushions is + built in against the wall. In front of the bench a table. Over the + bench, several curtained port-holes._ + + _In the rear left, a door leading to the captain's sleeping + quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, looking as if it + were brand new, is placed against the wall._ + + _On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped sideboard. On the + sideboard, a woman's sewing basket. Farther forward, a doorway + leading to the companion-way, and past the officers' quarters to + the main deck._ + + _In the center of the room, a stove. From the middle of the + ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are + painted white._ + + _There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes + through the sky-light is sickly and faint, indicating one of those + gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence + is unbroken except for the measured tread of some one walking up + and down on the poop deck overhead._ + + _It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day + in the year 1895._ + + * * * * * + + _At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. + Then The Steward enters and commences to clear the table of the + few dishes which still remain on it after the Captain's dinner. He + is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and + a woolen cap with ear flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. He + stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward at + the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and + listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes his + face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise from + the doorway on the right and he darts back to the table._ + + _Ben enters. He is an over-grown gawky boy with a long, pinched + face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are + chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove where he + stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping them + against his sides, on the verge of crying._] + + +THE STEWARD [_in relieved tones--seeing who it is_]. Oh, 'tis you, is +it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye belong and +ye'll find no need of chatterin'. + +BEN. It's c-c-cold. [_Trying to control his chattering +teeth--derisively._] Who d'ye think it were--the Old Man? + +THE STEWARD [_makes a threatening move--Ben shrinks away_]. None o' your +lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. [_More kindly._] Where was it ye've +been all o' the time--the fo'c's'tle? + +BEN. Yes. + +THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkeyshinin' with the +hands and ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a hurry. + +BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. [_A trace of awe in his tones--he glances +upward._] He jest walks up and down like he didn't notice nobody--and +stares at the ice to the no'the'ard. + +THE STEWARD [_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_]. He's +always starin' at the ice. [_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the +skylight._] Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' us in for +nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it like a fly in +molasses! + +BEN [_apprehensively_]. Ssshh! He'll hear ye. + +THE STEWARD [_raging_]. Aye, damn, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn +this rotten whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on +it! [_Subsiding as if realizing the uselessness of this +outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep conviction._] He's a hard +man--as hard a man as ever sailed the seas. + +BEN [_solemnly_]. Aye. + +THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this day! Two +years o' this dog's life, and no luck in the fishin', and the hands half +starved with the food runnin' low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of +him turnin' back for home! [_Bitterly._] Home! I begin to doubt if ever +I'll set foot on land again. [_Excitedly._] What is it he thinks he's +goin' to do? Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the +last man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly +to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men goin' to +do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'tle? + +BEN [_going over to him--in a half whisper_]. They said if he don't put +back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny. + +THE STEWARD [_with grim satisfaction_]. Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only thing +they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's treated them--'s +if they weren't no better nor dogs. + +BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'ard. They's clear water s'far 's +you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back for home, the +men says. + +THE STEWARD [_bitterly_]. He won't look nowheres but no'the'ard where +they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. All he +thinks on is gettin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he ain't had good +luck with the whales. [_Shaking his head._] I think the man's mighty +nigh losin' his senses. + +BEN [_awed_]. D'you really think he's crazy? + +THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye ever hear of +a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? [_Pointing to the door in +rear._] Who but a man that's mad would take his woman--and as sweet a +woman as ever was--on a rotten whalin' ship to the Arctic seas to be +locked in by the ice for nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses +forever--for it's sure she'll never be the same again. + +BEN [_sadly_]. She useter be awful nice to me before--[_His eyes grow +wide and frightened._] she got--like she is. + +THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'Twould have been hell on +board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard man--a driver if +there ever was one. [_With a grim laugh._] I hope he's satisfied +now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. And who could blame +her? 'Tis a God's wonder we're not a ship full of crazed people--with +the ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your +own voice. + +BEN [_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_]. She don't +never speak to me no more--jest looks at me 's if she didn't know me. + +THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to him--when she +does talk--right enough. + +BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then she +cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her. + +THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back. + +BEN [_tiptoes over to the door and listens_]. She's cryin' now. + +THE STEWARD [_furiously--shaking his fist_]. God send his soul to hell +for the devil he is! + + [_There is the noise of some one coming slowly down the + companion-way stairs. The Steward hurries to his stacked-up + dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top + one which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, + trembling with dread. Ben is violently rubbing off the organ with + a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket. Captain + Keeney appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin, + removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty, + around five-ten in height but looking much shorter on account of + the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is + massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak hardness, + and a tightly-clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick hair is long + and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants + stuffed into his sea-boots. He is followed into the cabin by the + Second Mate, a rangy six-footer with a lean weather-beaten face. + The Mate is dressed about the same as the captain. He is a man of + thirty or so._] + +KEENEY [_comes toward The Steward with a stern look on his face. The +Steward is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes rattles in his +trembling hands. Keeney draws back his fist and The Steward shrinks +away. The fist is gradually lowered and Keeney speaks slowly_]. 'Twould +be like hitting a worm. It is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this +truck not cleared yet. + +THE STEWARD [_stammering_]. Y-y-yes, sir. + +KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here +gossipin' old women's talk with that boy. [_To Ben, fiercely._] Get out +o' this you! Clean up the chart room. [_Ben darts past the Mate to the +open doorway._] Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward! + +THE STEWARD [_doing so with difficulty_]. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the +Behring Sea at the end of a rope. + +THE STEWARD [_trembling_]. Yes, sir. + + [_He hurries out. The Second Mate walks slowly over to the + Captain._] + +MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should catch what +I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below. + +KEENEY [_impatiently_]. Speak your say, Mr. Slocum. + +MATE [_unconsciously lowering his voice_]. I'm afeared there'll be +trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly, +every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two years they +signed up for is up to-day. + +KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me something new, Mr. Slocum? +I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen +their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked? + + [_The door in rear is opened and Mrs. Keeney stands in the + doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman, primly dressed + in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and + pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands + as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and + unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at + her._] + +KEENEY [_with rough tenderness_]. Well, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY [_as if awakening from a dream_]. David, I-- + + [_She is silent. The Mate starts for the doorway._] + +KEENEY [_turning to him--sharply_]. Wait! + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY [_after a pause during which she seems to be endeavoring to +collect her thoughts_]. I thought maybe--I'd go up on deck, David, to +get a breath of fresh air. + + [_She stands humbly awaiting his permission. He and The Mate + exchange a significant glance._] + +KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below. There's nothing to +look at on deck--but ice. + +MRS. KEENEY [_monotonously_]. I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing +to see down here but these walls. + + [_She makes a gesture of loathing._] + +KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home. + +KEENEY [_a touch of resentment in his voice_]. I got it jest for you! + +MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. I know. [_She turns away from them and walks +slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks +through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy._] Ah, water! +Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these +months of ice! [_She turns round to them, her face transfigured with +joy._] Ah, now I must go up on deck and look at it, David! + +KEENEY [_frowning_]. Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when +the sun shines. + +MRS. KEENEY [_desperately_]. But the sun never shines in this terrible +place. + +KEENEY [_a tone of command in his voice_]. Best not to-day, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY [_crumbling before this command--abjectly_]. Very well, +David. + + [_She stands there, staring straight before her as if in a + daze.--The two men look at her uneasily._] + +KEENEY [_sharply_]. Annie! + +MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. Yes, David. + +KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's business. + +MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David. + + [_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three-quarters + shut behind her._] + +KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble. + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. And trouble they's going to be. I feel it in my bones. [_Takes a +revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._] Got your'n? + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed of +dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. [_Grimly._] I ain't never been +forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by sea s'long as +I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I reckon. + +MATE [_hesitatingly_]. Then you ain't goin'--to turn back? + +KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' s'uth +for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold? + +MATE [_hastily_]. But the grub's gittin' low. + +KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with +it; and they's plenty of water. + +MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two years they +signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble for you in the +courts when we git home. + +KEENEY. Let them make what law trouble they kin! I don't give a damn +'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! [_Glancing sharply at the +Mate._] You ain't turnin' no sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum? + +MATE [_flushing_]. Not by a hell of a sight, sir. + +KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the +four hundred barrel wouldn't keep them in chewin' terbacco. + +MATE [_slowly_]. They wants to git back to their old folks an' things, I +s'pose. + +KEENEY [_looking at him searchingly_]. 'N you want to turn back too. +[_The Mate looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._] Don't lie, Mr. +Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. [_With grim sarcasm._] I +hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me. + +MATE [_indignantly_]. That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things. + +KEENEY [_with satisfaction_]. I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You +been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin +say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one. + +MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I mean. +[_Desperately._] But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't jest +satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad luck an' the +ice an' all. + +KEENEY [_his face clouding--rebukingly, but not severely_]. That's my +business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' that. +[_A pause._] The ice'll break up soon to no'the'ard. I could see it +startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun Annie'll pick up. +[_Another pause--then he bursts forth._] It ain't the damned money +what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to +Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't +never come back home in all my days without a full ship. Ain't that +true? + +MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'-- + +KEENEY [_scornfully_]. And d'you s'pose any of 'em would believe +that--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you +hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots n' Harris n' Simms and the +rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney, what boasts +he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, comin' back with a measly +four hundred barrel of ile!" [_The thought of this drives him into a +frenzy and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the +sideboard._] I got to git the ile, I tell you! How could I figger on +this ice? It's never been so bad before in the thirty year I been +acomin' here. And now it's breakin' up. In a couple o' days it'll be all +gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't +never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of +all hell, and by God, I ain't agoin' home till I do git it! + + [_There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The + two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then Keeney goes + over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he + were going to enter--then closes the door softly. Joe, the + harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, + enters from right and stands waiting for the Captain to notice + him._] + +KEENEY [_turning and seeing him_]. Don't be standin' there like a hawk, +Harpooner. Speak up! + +JOE [_confusedly_]. We want--the men, sir--they wants to send a +depitation aft to have a word with you. + +KEENEY [_furiously_]. Tell 'em to go to--[_Checks himself and continues +grimly._] Tell 'em to come. I'll see 'em. + +JOE. Aye, aye, sir. + + [_He goes out._] + +KEENEY [_with a grim smile_]. Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of, +Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such +things at the start than let them make headway. + +MATE [_worriedly_]. Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might +need their help. + +KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, Mr. +Slocum. + + [_There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the + crew crowd into the cabin, led by Joe. All are dressed + alike--sweaters, sea boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the + Captain, twirling their fur caps in their hands._] + +KEENEY [_after a pause_]. Well? Who's to speak fur ye? + +JOE [_stepping forward with an air of bravado_]. I be. + +KEENEY [_eyeing him up and down coldly_]. So you be. Then speak your say +and be quick about it. + +JOE [_trying not to wilt before the Captain's glance and avoiding his +eyes_]. The time we signed up for is done to-day. + +KEENEY [_icily_]. You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know. + +JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far s'we kin see. + +KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile. + +JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice before ye. + +KEENEY. The ice is breaking up. + +JOE [_after a slight pause, during which the others mumble angrily to +one another_]. The grub we're gittin' now is rotten. + +KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten +worse. + + [_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd._] + +JOE [_encouraged by this support_]. We ain't agoin' to work no more less +you puts back for home. + +KEENEY [_fiercely_]. You ain't, ain't you? + +JOE. No; and the law courts'll say we was right. + +KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm the law +on this ship! [_Edging up toward the harpooner._] And every mother's son +of you what don't obey orders goes in irons. + + [_There are more angry exclamations from the crew. Mrs. Keeney + appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. + None of the men notice her._] + +JOE [_with bravado_]. Then we're agoin' to mutiny and take the old +hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys? + + [_As he turns his head to look at the others, Keeney's fist shoots + out to the side of his jaw. Joe goes down in a heap and lies + there. Mrs. Keeney gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands. + The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop + when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers of Keeney + and the Mate._] + +KEENEY [_his eyes and voice snapping_]. Hold still! [_The men stand +huddled together in a sullen silence. Keeney's voice is full of +mockery._] You's found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't +you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and--[_He gives Joe's body a +contemptuous kick._] drag him with you. And remember, the first man of +ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and +you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! [_The men leave +in cowed silence, carrying Joe with them. Keeney turns to the Mate with +a short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket._] Best get up on +deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of their skulkin' +tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I know 'em. + +MATE. Yes, sir. + + [_He goes out, right. Keeney hears his wife's hysterical weeping + and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her side._] + +KEENEY [_putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff tenderness_]. +There, there, Annie. Don't be feared. It's all past and gone. + +MRS. KEENEY [_shrinking away from him_]. Oh, I can't bear it! I can't +bear it any longer! + +KEENEY [_gently_]. Can't bear what, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY [_hysterically_]. All this horrible brutality, and these +brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room, +and the ice all around, and the silence. + + [_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her + handkerchief._] + +KEENEY [_after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled +frown_]. Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage, +Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I didn't +want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've been doing these +last six years since we were married--waiting, and watching, and +fearing--with nothing to keep my mind occupied--not able to go back +teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream +of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your +side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the +hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead [_Her voice grows +tremulous_] all I find is ice and cold--and brutality! [_Her voice +breaks._] + +KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea +party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home where you've got all +your woman's comforts." [_Shaking his head._] But you was so set on it. + +MRS. KEENEY [_wearily_]. Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see, +I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in +the story books and I thought you were one of them. + +KEENEY [_protestingly_]. I done my best to make it as cozy and +comfortable as could be. [_Mrs. Keeney looks around her in wild scorn._] +I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be +soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was +dull like. + +MRS. KEENEY [_wearily_]. Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. +[_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks +out--then suddenly bursts forth_]: I won't stand it--I can't stand +it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. [_She runs over to him and +throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over +her shoulders._] Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from +here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I +can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were +crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home! + +KEENEY [_holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously_]. +Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look +so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before. + +MRS. KEENEY [_laughing hysterically_]. It's the ice and the cold and the +silence--they'd make any one look strange. + +KEENEY [_soothingly_]. In a month or two, with good luck, three at the +most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything +she'll stand and p'int for home. + +MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to get +home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's +brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse. +There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all you've +got to turn back. + +KEENEY [_harshly_]. I can't, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you? + +KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason. + +MRS. KEENEY [_wildly_]. Because it's a stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you +talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will +sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to +live up to your silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve +men and drive me mad to do it. + +KEENEY [_his jaw set stubbornly_]. It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers +would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what any one'd +say--but--[_He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning_] you +see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as skipper. I always +come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem right not to--somehow. I +been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and--don't you see my +meanin', Annie? [_He glances at her. She is not looking at him, but +staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying._] Annie! +[_She comes to herself with a start._] Best turn in, Annie, there's a +good woman. You ain't well. + +MRS. KEENEY [_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear_]. +David! Won't you please turn back? + +KEENEY [_gently_]. I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my +meanin'. I got to git the ile. + +MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. +You've got more than plenty. + +KEENEY [_impatiently_]. It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think +I'm as mean as that? + +MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. No--I don't know--I can't understand. +[_Intensely._] Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more, and see +my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able +to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago--as if I'd been dead and +could never go back. + +KEENEY [_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her +eyes_.] Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well. + +MRS. KEENEY [_not appearing to hear him_]. I used to be lonely when you +were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then +I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the +breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine, free life you must +be leading. [_She gives a laugh which is half a sob._] I used to love +the sea then. [_She pauses; then continues with slow intensity._] But +now--I don't ever want to see the sea again. + +KEENEY [_thinking to humor her_]. 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's +sure. I was a fool to bring ye. + +MRS. KEENEY [_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a +gesture of pathetic weariness_]. How long would it take us to reach +home--if we started now? + +KEENEY [_frowning_]. 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck. + +MRS. KEENEY [_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt smile_]. +That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on +the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it? + +KEENEY [_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved +him--gruffly_]. Don't you remember? + +MRS. KEENEY [_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_]. My memory +is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. [_A pause--then +she smiles dreamily._] It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in +the front yard--and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the +house--they're budding-- + + [_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to + sob._] + +KEENEY [_disturbed_]. Go in and rest, Annie. You're all worn out cryin' +over what can't be helped. + +MRS. KEENEY [_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to +him_]. You love me, don't you, David? + +KEENEY [_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_]. Love you? Why d'you +ask me such a question, Annie? + +MRS. KEENEY [_shaking him fiercely_]. But you do, don't you, David? Tell +me! + +KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be +aught but love between us after all these years? + +MRS. KEENEY [_shaking him again--still more fiercely_]. Then you do love +me. Say it! + +KEENEY [_simply_]. I do, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY [_gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her sides. +Keeney regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and +murmurs half to herself_]: I sometimes think if we could only have had a +child--[_Keeney turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and +turns him around to face her--intensely._] And I've always been a good +wife to you, haven't I, David? + +KEENEY [_his voice betraying his emotion_]. No man has ever had a +better, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have +I? + +KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie. + +MRS. KEENEY [_wildly_]. Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's +sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the brutality and cold +and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I +can't bear the silence threatening me--day after gray day and every day +the same. I can't bear it. [_Sobbing._] I'll go mad, I know I will. Take +me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of +God, take me home! + + [_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. + His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He + holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a + moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens + as he looks at her tear-stained face._] + +KEENEY [_dragging out the words with an effort_]. I'll do it, Annie--for +your sake--if you say it's needful for ye. + +MRS. KEENEY [_with wild joy--kissing him_]. God bless you for that, +David! + + [_He turns away from her silently and walks toward the + companion-way. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps + on the stairs and the Second Mate enters the cabin._] + +MATE [_excitedly_]. The ice is breakin' up to no'the'ard, sir. There's a +clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout +says. + + [_Keeney straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance. + Mrs. Keeney looks at the Mate with terrified eyes._] + +KEENEY [_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_]. A clear passage? To +no'the'ard? + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY [_his voice suddenly grim with determination_]. Then get her +ready and we'll drive her through. + +MATE. Aye, aye, sir. + +MRS. KEENEY [_appealingly_]. David! David! + +KEENEY [_not heeding her_]. Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag +'em out? + +MATE. They'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em, +sir. They're meek as lambs. + +KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. [_With grim determination._] +They's whale t'other side o' this floe and we're agoin' to git 'em. + +MATE. Aye, aye, sir. + + [_He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of + scuffling feet from the deck outside and the Mate's voice shouting + orders._] + +KEENEY [_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_]. And I was agoin' home +like a yaller dog! + +MRS. KEENEY [_imploringly_]. David! + +KEENEY [_sternly_]. Woman, you ain't adoin' right when you meddle in +men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to +prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git +the ile, I tell ye. + +MRS. KEENEY [_supplicatingly_]. David! Aren't you going home? + +KEENEY [_ignoring this question--commandingly_]. You ain't well. Go and +lay down a mite. [_He starts for the door._] I got to git on deck. + + [_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. + She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh + hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to + play wildly an old hymn, "There is rest for the weary." Keeney + reenters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her + angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder._] + +KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? [_She laughs wildly and he +starts back from her in alarm._] Annie! What is it? [_She doesn't answer +him. Keeney's voice trembles._] Don't you know me, Annie? + + [_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that + he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid + expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, + and she commences softly to play the organ again._] + +KEENEY [_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty +in speaking_]. You said--you was agoin' mad--God! + + [_A long wail is heard from the deck above, "Ah, bl-o-o-o-ow!" A + moment later the Mate's face appears through the skylight. He + cannot see Mrs. Keeney._] + +MATE [_in great excitement_]. Whales, sir--a whole school of 'em--off +the star-b'd quarter 'bout five miles away--big ones! + +KEENEY [_galvanized into action_]. Are you lowerin' the boats? + +MATE. Yes, sir. + +KEENEY [_with grim decision_]. I'm acomin' with ye. + +MATE. Aye, aye, sir. [_Jubilantly._] You'll git the ile now right +enough, sir. + + [_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders._] + +KEENEY [_turning to his wife_]. Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the +ile. [_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard +laugh which is almost a groan._] I know you're foolin' me, Annie. You +ain't out of your mind--[_Anxiously._] be you? I'll git the ile now +right enough--jest a little while longer, Annie--then we'll turn +home'ard. I can't turn back now, you see that, don't you? I've got to +git the ile. [_In sudden terror._] Answer me! You ain't mad, be you? + + [_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The Mate's + face appears again through the skylight._] + +MATE. All ready, sir. + + [_Keeney turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway, + where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, + fighting to control his feelings._] + +MATE. Comin', sir? + +KEENEY [_his face suddenly grows hard with determination_]. Aye. + + [_He turns abruptly and goes out. Mrs. Keeney does not appear to + notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centered in the + organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little + from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move + faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as + the_ + + + _Curtain falls._] + + + + +THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN + + A MIRACLE PLAY + + BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS + + + Based on a story by Vernon Lee. + Copyright, 1920, by Thomas Wood Stevens. + All rights reserved. + + + THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN was first produced by the School of the + Drama, Carnegie Institute of Technology, Pittsburgh, Pa., on the night + of November 14, 1919, with the following cast: + + SISTER BENVENUTA _Hazel Beck_. + SISTER GRIMANA _Alicia S. Guthrie_. + SISTER ROSALBA _Grey McAuley_. + THE ABBESS _Dorothy Rubinstein_. + THE SISTER SACRISTAN _Inez D. R. Hazel_. + ATALANTA BADOER [_a novice_] _Carolyn McCampbell_. + ABBE FILOSI _Wm. R. Dean_. + THE PUPPET MAN _Lawrence Paquin_. + BEELZEBUBB SATANASSO _James S. Church_. + + SCENE I: The Chapter-Room of the Convent of Our Lady of the + Rosebush, Cividale. + SCENE II: Benvenuta's cell. + SCENE III: The Chapter-Room. + + TIME: _Early in the eighteenth century. Some days elapse between + scenes_. + + Stage settings and properties by ALEXANDER WYCKOFF and DAVID S. + GAITHER. + + Lightning by ARLEIGH B. WILLIAMSON. + + Costumes by SARA E. BENNETT and LELA MAY AULTMAN. + + Music by CHARLES PEARSON. + + + The amateur and professional stage rights to THE NURSERY MAID OF + HEAVEN are reserved by the author. Applications for permission to + produce the play should be addressed to Frank Shay, Stewart & Kidd + Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. No performance may be given without his + consent. + + + +THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN + +A MIRACLE PLAY BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS + + + [_SCENE I: Atalanta, the novice, sits, rebellious and sullen, on + the steps of the Mother Superior's dais. From time to time nuns + and novices pass across the stage to the left, on their way to the + refectory. Sister Grimana, an old nun, comes down to Atalanta + purposefully._] + + +GRIMANA. Sulking again, are you? Waiting for Sister Benvenuta, are you? + + [_Atalanta is silent._] + +Remembering things that are really no concern of yours; and thinking +they concern you because you remember them--doubtless quite +inaccurately. I know. It's a way of the Badoer family--and of the +Loredani, too, for that matter. When you were a child there was +confiture with the bread--and you threw away the crust; and they let you +do it, and now you can't find your vocation. + + [_She taps her foot impatiently._] + +Well--well--will you come? + + [_Atalanta is still silent, her face hard with resolution._] + +I might mention it to the Sister Sacristan. She'd fetch you. + + [_Atalanta gives her a look of scornful disgust._] + +It's as well you didn't say that in so many words, Sister. + + [_Atalanta looks straight before her, a statue of silence._] + +Perhaps there is some one you would prefer to have me call, before the +Sister Sacristan comes to fetch you? Sister Rosalba? + + [_No response._] + +So it must be Sister Benvenuta, must it? + +ATALANTA. I would speak with her. + +GRIMANA. Oho! You would speak with her! And so you shall--for the love I +bore your mother when we were children together. But what good she can +do you, with her chatter and laughing--childish laughing and chatter--I +can't see. I'll send her to you. And meantime, count your buttons. +That's my advice. Count your buttons. + + [_She comes close and speaks more confidentially._] + +That helps greatly--it did when I was your age. + + [_Grimana goes off. Atalanta mechanically runs her fingers over + the buttons of her novice's cape; as she arrives at the end of the + row, she mutters._] + +ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta! + + [_At the second word she rises abruptly, her hands on the veil._] + +Heaven forgive me! + + [_She tears off the veil just as Benvenuta enters from the left. + Benvenuta limps down around the Mother Superior's throne, and on + seeing Atalanta with her veil off, bursts into laughter._] + +ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta! What amuses you so? + +BENVENUTA. It's your hair. It's so funny--it's so long since I've seen +your hair, Atalanta, dear. + +ATALANTA [_sullenly_]. It's not that I want to talk to you about. You +needn't have laughed. + +BENVENUTA. I know, dear. I shouldn't have laughed, but I always do. I'm +so unworthy. I can't seem to help it, though I tell myself, often and +often, that it's trifling and worldly to laugh so much, and undignified, +too, before the children and novices. I will try not to laugh, Atalanta. +Sister Grimana said you wanted me. What is it, dear? + + [_She looks at Atalanta and smothers another laugh._] + +Put on your veil, child. + +ATALANTA. Don't call me child--I'm only three years younger than you, +and I'm taller. + + [_She puts on the veil again, still sullen._] + +BENVENUTA. You're only a novice and I call you a child--very properly, +too. And if you want me to talk to you, you must listen--like a good +child. + + [_A step is heard approaching and a rattle of keys; Atalanta pulls + at Benvenuta's dress as if to draw her down beside her._] + +ATALANTA. It's the Sister Sacristan. Now she'll make me go, and there's +something you must tell me--you must--I beg of you. + + [_The Sister Sacristan comes in and goes straight to Atalanta, + ignoring Benvenuta. Her keys are audible as she walks._] + +THE SISTER SACRISTAN. Well, Mistress Perverse and Disobedient? Not come +to reason yet? + +BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan, pardon her. Let me speak with her +a little while--only a little while. Her tasks can wait-- + +SISTER SACRISTAN. Her tasks! Praise the Blessed Mother, in this noble +house we need not depend on the novices for anything. It's not +that--it's the discipline in the pigeon cot. The Mother Abbess will be +displeased-- + +BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan. This novice has asked of me some +spiritual admonition. She is my kinswoman, and I cannot refuse it. So I +ask you for a little time with her, to speak to her of spiritual things, +and perhaps bring her some comfort, to the end that her holy vocation +may the sooner come. I ask it in humility, Sister Sacristan. + +SISTER SACRISTAN [_crossing to the closet, which she unlocks_]. +Admonition, eh? + + [_She takes out some vestments, which she hangs over her arm, + closing the door._] + +BENVENUTA. I ask you to remember, Sister, that last Thursday I took upon +myself the vexed matter of the hair of the two new novices, and that it +throve in my charge. + +SISTER SACRISTAN. Yes--throve. You so coddled them that they cried for +you each night after, and are more trouble to the lay sisters than ever. +But since she's your kinswoman--have it as you will. I look for little +effect from your admonitions, I may as well tell you. + + [_She removes her keys and goes out, without locking the closet._] + +ATALANTA. That was good of you, Benvenuta. Now, listen to me. I am +unworthy. I am unhappy. I feel no call. Tell me--tell me about the +world, Sister Benvenuta--I beg you, tell me-- + +BENVENUTA. I will tell you of God's love, and of this holy life-- + +ATALANTA [_leading her to the stairway, where she sits down_]. Yes--I +know. But first, tell me about the world. + +BENVENUTA. I only tell you by way of admonition--that you may see how +hollow is the world, and full of delusion-- + +ATALANTA. I understand you. Go on. + + [_She draws Benvenuta down beside her._] + +BENVENUTA. You must know then, that I--even I, Sister Benvenuta, was a +most worldly little girl. I can remember so clearly how I used to run +madly through the gardens, and roll on the grass like--like a wild +puppy, and bury my face in the roses--till they scratched my nose and +the warm scent made me dizzy. And then I would climb on the wall and +watch the barges go by, with the strong men sculling them, and the women +under the awnings sorting crabs and prawns. + +ATALANTA. Tell me about the barge people. + +BENVENUTA. That was all I saw of them. And then they would take me to my +lady mother, of a forenoon, while she was having her hair powdered and +curled; and there would be a black page bringing her chocolate, and her +serving cavalier would be leaning beside her mirror taking snuff. + +ATALANTA. Yes--tell me about the cavalier servant. + +BENVENUTA. That was all I ever saw of him. But he was very worldly, I am +sure. + +ATALANTA. I wish you had seen more of him. And your mother? Did she have +little children? + +BENVENUTA. You know well I was the youngest of our family. That was why +I was destined for the benefice we possessed in this high born convent. + +ATALANTA. Tell me about your father? + +BENVENUTA. I used only to see him once in a month, and I was much +frightened of him--he was so noble and so just. + +ATALANTA. Oh, he was a father of that sort, was he? + +BENVENUTA. And when he did receive me, he had a handkerchief like a +turban around his head, and horn spectacles on his nose, and he would be +making gold with an astrologer, or putting devils in retorts. That was +what he said he was doing, but I know now that he deceived me; he was a +very worldly man, though he was so noble and just. + +ATALANTA. Tell me, Benvenuta, when you were in the world, did you ever +see mothers and babies--tiny babies--not old at all? + +BENVENUTA. The only one was in the picture in our chapel--the panel in +the center with the Blessed Mother and the little Child Christ. He was +so sweet, and his eyes were as if they would open in a moment and then I +should know what color of eyes they were. + +ATALANTA [_glancing toward the Sacristy closet_]. And that's why you so +love the Bambino they keep in the Sacristy closet? + +BENVENUTA. Yes. + +ATALANTA [_more passionately_]. And was it easy for you, +Benvenuta--always easy in your heart, to give up the world? + +BENVENUTA. I was destined for this, dear. + +ATALANTA [_rising_]. I am not sure. I was not destined. I am-- + +BENVENUTA. Ssh! Dear Atalanta. Be quiet. Be calm. Yes, I was worldly, +and I gave it up willingly-- + +ATALANTA. Yes, it was easy for you, and so you think it should be for +me. You never even saw a little baby with her mother. You were destined, +and you were the youngest-- + +BENVENUTA. It was for the best. I was unworthy, but I gave up the world +willingly-- + +ATALANTA [_bitterly_]. Willingly--you were lame, and-- + + [_She stops, biting her lips. There is a pause._] + +BENVENUTA. Yes. I was a little lame. But I was a worldly little girl. + +ATALANTA. Forgive me, dear sister. I meant no hurt. + +BENVENUTA. You did not hurt me. [_Another pause._] + +ATALANTA. Dear Benvenuta, one thing I must tell you. I must. It happened +just before I came here. + + [_Benvenuta looks at her soberly._] + +BENVENUTA. Are you sure it is to me you should tell it? + +ATALANTA. It is not a sin--not something I could confess, dear. It was +this. Just as you looked over the wall at the barges, it was. In our +gardens there was a time when the old gardener brought a vinedresser to +help him. And the vinedresser's wife came with his dinner and their +baby. And I came on them eating under the ilex trees, very secretly, of +course. And the baby was clambering over her. She was no older than I am +now--the vinedresser's wife. And she fed the baby at her breast in the +deep shade under the ilexes. And I talked to her. Then the old gardener +came, and of course I walked away, very haughtily, as became a daughter +of the house. But hear me, sister. I cannot forget her, the +vinedresser's wife with the baby clambering over her, under the shade of +the ilex trees, I cannot put her out of my thoughts. + +BENVENUTA. I understand you, dear. I cannot put out of my thoughts the +poor little Bambino in the Sacristy closet all the year around, shut up +with the saint's bones and the spare vestments, and he with only a piece +of stiff purple and gold stuff around his middle. + +ATALANTA. I cannot think that the same. The vinedresser's baby was +alive--so alive. + +BENVENUTA. It is much the same, I think. + +ATALANTA. Anyway, I am glad I told you, Benvenuta. Why can I not forget +about it? + +BENVENUTA [_laying her hand on Atalanta's head_]. It would be better if +you could forget it, Atalanta. You must go now. + +ATALANTA. One moment--don't take your hand away. I had to tell somebody. + + [_Both look off in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, thinking of the two + babies. Grimana enters again. Atalanta rises._] + +ATALANTA. I am full of thankfulness, Sister Benvenuta. I will go to my +task. + + [_Atalanta bows her head and follows Grimana out. A muffled + droning chorus is heard from the chapel. Benvenuta watches the + others go off, and then speaks to the Bambino through the door of + the Sacristy closet._] + +BENVENUTA. My dear--my dear little Great One, can you hear my voice +through the door? Dear little child Christ, I am so sorry for you, alone +for days and days in the closet with the holy relics and the wax lights. +And at night it must be very cold for you. I wish I might touch you, +dear little Great One, with my hands. + + [_She tries the door and, finding it unfastened, draws back from it + a moment._] + +It is open; the Sister Sacristan has left it unlocked. For this I am +thankful, for I am sure you put it into her mind to leave it so--or that +you by your divine power and foresight put it out of her mind to lock it +as she intended. + + [_She opens the door and looks in._] + +If only I could get appointed Sacristan! But I am too young and being +lame would prevent my getting on to the step-ladders, as a Sacristan +must. But I would never leave you alone among the relics in their +cotton-wool, little Great One. And now--just for a moment lest the +Sister Sacristan come back--I will take you out of the closet. + + [_She brings out the Bambino._] + +I will show you the chapter room, for while you have seen all places, +and the high heavens and all the hells, it will be pleasant to you to +see the chapter room, after so long in the closet. See, yonder is the +seat of the Mother Abbess. She is very great, and very holy, and of the +high house of the Morosini. And that way is to the refectory and the +work room. And that way is to the chapel--up the stairs. And up that way +are our cells, where I sleep and where I pray to dream of you, little +Great One. Touch my cheek, I pray you.... How cold your hands are!... +Touch my cheek as she said the vinedresser's babe touched his mother's-- + + [_She stops suddenly, and then reverently returns the Bambino to + his place. She kneels before the open door._] + +Forgive me, dear little Child Christ. I spoke not in vain glory. But all +my life I have waited, not knowing for what ... but happy ... dreaming +that sometime.... If it be a sin I will confess it--I will. + + [_Again the rattle of keys is heard. Benvenuta stands up hurriedly + and speaks in a half whisper._] + +She is coming back to lock the closet. But I will get you a coat for the +cold nights. Your hands were so cold. I will get you a warm coat--that I +promise, dear little Great One. + + [_She closes the door and stands before it looking consciously + innocent, as the Sister Sacristan enters. The Sister Sacristan is + not deceived, however._] + +SISTER SACRISTAN. By your leave, Sister Benvenuta. + + [_She ostentatiously locks the closed door._] + +BENVENUTA. Sister Sacristan, I trust the novice you left in my charge +has returned to her task. + +SISTER SACRISTAN. I trust she has. + +BENVENUTA [_after a pause_]. I wish I might help you with your duties +sometimes, Sister. + +SISTER SACRISTAN. I do not need you, little sister. + +BENVENUTA. I am sorry. + + [_Mechanically she counts her buttons._] + + [_Enter the Abbess._] + +THE ABBESS [_to the Sacristan_]. Sister, go into the chapel and tell the +Reverend Father that the Bolognese puppet man is waiting, and say that I +wish to see him here; and bid the Reverend Father bring the manuscript +of his poem for Shrove Tuesday. + + [_The Sister Sacristan goes out. Benvenuta remains, waiting + patiently for a word from the Abbess._] + +Well, my little sister? + +BENVENUTA. I pray you, Mother. + +ABBESS. I listen, little sister. + +BENVENUTA. It is about the little Child Christ. I pray you that a coat +may be made for him--a warm coat of soft silk; for at Christmas he lies +out in the draughty manger before the altar, and even at other times he +is very cold at night here in the Sacristy closet. And I pray you, +Mother? + +ABBESS. I listen. + + [_Reenter the Sister Sacristan._] + +BENVENUTA. That I may help with the making of the coat, for all that I +sew so badly. + +ABBESS [_smiling_]. Truly, our little sister Benvenuta Loredan was born +to be the nursery-maid of Heaven. + +SISTER SACRISTAN. Is it for me to know also, Mother? + +ABBESS. Our little sister wishes that a coat of warm silk be made for +the little Bambino, against next Christmas in the cold of the chapel. + +SISTER SACRISTAN. I suspected something of that kind. + +ABBESS. You do not approve, sister? + +SISTER SACRISTAN. No, mother. It would be taking the time and money from +the redressing of the skeleton of Saint Prosdoscimus, which is a most +creditable relic, of unquestioned authenticity, with real diamond loops +in his eye holes; this skeleton ought to be made fit to exhibit for +veneration. And besides, this Bambino never had any clothes, and so far +as I know never wanted any. The purple sash is only for modesty's sake. +And as for such a new-fangled proposal coming from Sister +Benvenuta--that alone-- + +ABBESS. That will do. Fie, fie, little sister. The Sacred Bambino is not +your serving Cavalier, that you should wish to cover him with silk and +velvet. Is the Reverend Father coming? + +SISTER SACRISTAN. Immediately, mother. He only stayed to gather his +manuscript. + +ABBESS. Call in the man with the puppets. + + [_Exit Sister Sacristan._] + +And now, little sister, you may go. You see it is not wise, ... your +thought for the Bambino. + +BENVENUTA. No, mother. I see it is not wise. + + [_Benvenuta goes up the staircase and off at the left.--The Abbess + seats herself in the chair of State. The Father Confessor comes in + from the Chapel._] + +ABBESS. You are welcome, Father. + +ABBE FILOSI [_bowing very low_]. Happy greetings, Reverendissima. + +ABBESS. I have sent for you because the puppet man, the Bolognese one +you sent for, has come to make his bargain for the Shrove-tide play, and +I wished you to be present, lest he fail to serve your inspiration +worthily. + +ABBE FILOSI. I am grateful for your care in the matter, Reverendissima. + + [_Enter Sister Sacristan._] + +ABBESS. The fellow is waiting? + + [_The Sister Sacristan bows._] + +Show him in. + + [_The Sister Sacristan goes out._] + +And now, Father, I pray that you will make terms for your play, as you +please. + +ABBE FILOSI. Perhaps I had better not do that, Reverendissima. Poets are +proverbially improvident-- + +ABBESS. That does not matter in the least. Whatever he charges, I shall +beat him down. + + [_The Sister Sacristan brings in the Puppet Man, who carries a bag + of his puppets on his arm. He bows extravagantly to the Abbess._] + +PUPPET MAN. Excellenza Reverendissima, my prayers shall in the future be +lightened by the memory of your presence. Reverend Father, I am humbly +your servant. + + [_The Abbess nods to Father Filosi._] + +ABBE FILOSI. You have been summoned here, sir, with regard to the Shrove +Tuesday play which her Excellenza condescends to give for the +edification of the friends of this noble convent. She has commissioned +me to write the poem, and she graciously proposes to allow you to +perform it with your puppets. + +PUPPET MAN. I am honored, and in me all my craft is honored. + +ABBE FILOSI. I have here the manuscript of my poor device. + +PUPPET MAN. I cannot have so excellent a work so slightly spoken of. + +ABBE FILOSI. A trifle ... a trifle. But I trust, when you have done your +part, it may amuse the novices and the ladies--noble guests of Our Lady +of the Rosebush. + +PUPPET MAN. Is it from the gospels, or a saint's story? + +ABBE FILOSI. Humbly, it is the story of Judith. + +PUPPET MAN. Humbly, as an artist, I am filled with delight. And I have +for it just the figures you could wish. A Judith, lovely beyond the +power of song, and a Prince, heavy with gold, and a cavalier for the +lady-- + +ABBE FILOSI. That will not serve. In my play she goes with only her +maid-servant to the tent of the Holophernes. + +PUPPET MAN. It is not usual, in Venice. Will it not be deemed strange by +the ladies present? + +ABBE FILOSI. Better so, than its author be deemed ignorant by the +learned Reverendissima, who will grace your performance personally. + +PUPPET MAN [_stiffly_]. I bow to your learning, Reverend Father. + +ABBE FILOSI. My poem will require of you some artistry, and not all of +the stale and accustomed sort. + + [_The Puppet Man bows._] + +I shall require, for example, that the head of the Holophernes be +actually and visibly severed. + +PUPPET MAN. I will undertake it, and moreover, I will promise a goodly +flow of red blood from the corpus of the Holophernes. + +ABBE FILOSI. Excellent. Further, there is required a Triumph of Judith, +in a car of state, and a figure of Time, speaking, and a Religion, out +of the clouds, who speaks some verse in praise of the Reverendissima and +of the noble house of the Morosini. All this must be carried out +precisely. + +PUPPET MAN. All this I undertake, seeing how famous is this convent, and +of how illustrious a house is its Abbessa. Suffer me to inquire if the +entire poem is of a lofty and tragic nature. + +ABBE FILOSI. Certainly. + +PUPPET MAN. This is a great honor to me, but a ruinous one as well. For +I see I shall have no opportunity to bring on my most potent figures--my +Harlequino with the seven wires, and-- + +ABBE FILOSI. Harlequino does not appear in the poem. + +PUPPET MAN. But might he not appear in an interlude? Let me suggest, in +all humility, that I might perform an interlude between the Harlequino +and the serving-wench of Judith, after the death of the Holophernes? + +ABBE FILOSI. Dio, dio--what a profanation! + +ABBESS. Come, come, your Reverence, I see no profanation in it. We must +not be too severe--too lofty. Think of our guests, and of the novices, +mere children in heart--who will be witnessing our play. Let there be +something in it for the liking of all, I should say. + +ABBE FILOSI. But, Reverendissima-- + +PUPPET MAN. I could assure you of the success of the poem, if you would +permit it. + +ABBESS. I am sure it will be permitted. And now, sir, there are some +other matters to be settled. First, we shall require that you bring here +your puppets, in advance of the play, for our inspection, lest there be +anything ungodly and unfit about them. + +PUPPET MAN. It is the custom. I have brought some; and you shall have +the others when I have conned the reverend Father's poem, and know which +ones shall be required. + + [_Opens his bag and takes out puppets._] + +Here is a lady who might serve for Judith. And here a Prince, though I +have a richer one, better perhaps for the Holophernes. And here a +devil--a Satanasso, and here-- + +ABBESS. Leave them all on the table. I will have them examined at +leisure. Now, sir, tell me what you expect to be paid for this +performance? + +PUPPET MAN [_fingering his manuscript_]. Reverendissima, considering the +difficulties of the poem, and the Holophernes to be visibly beheaded, +and the great fame of this convent, that is said to require of every +novice sixteen quarterings to her crest and a thousand ducats of dowry, +and considering the illustrious family of which the Abbessa herself +descends--I will perform the poem in the best manner for twelve ducats. + +ABBESS. Considering just the matters you mention, and the honor to you +to bring your puppets into this convent at all, you shall have five +ducats. + +PUPPET MAN. Five ducats--Reverendissima, I cannot have heard you +aright--five ducats. + +ABBESS. Five ducats. + +PUPPET MAN. Mercy of the Saints! Five ducats for Shrove Tuesday, and a +Holophernes to be visibly beheaded--in a most illustrious convent, too. +It is ruin to me, Reverendissima--black ruin. + +ABBESS. Five ducats you shall have. + +PUPPET MAN [_starting to put his puppets back in the bag_]. It is not +possible, Reverendissima. No one of my craft could do it--even the worst +of them would ask more than I have. Mere jugglers and bunglers from +Padua would ask twenty ducats. And the fame of this convent! I see I +have been deceived,-- + +ABBESS. Be silent, sir. You cannot trifle with me. Put down your +trinkets. Do you know who I am, and of what family in the world? Well, +sir? + +PUPPET MAN [_slowly putting down his puppets again_]. Maybe it will +profit me in the sight of the Saints-- + +ABBESS. I need not warn you further. Be prepared for the performance in +the best style against Shrove Tuesday. And if all goes well, I may add a +ducat to your fee. + + [_She taps a gong on the table, and the Sister Sacristan enters. + The Puppet Man, dismissed, bows himself out, clutching the + manuscript to his breast. The Sacristan follows him out, returning + at once._] + +Now, Father, since the play is yours, it shall also be yours to pass on +the propriety of the figures. + +ABBE FILOSI. I do not seek the responsibility, Reverendissima. Will you +not excuse me? + +ABBESS. You have some intention in this, Father? + +ABBE FILOSI. Will you not excuse me? + +ABBESS [_smiling_]. Certainly not. What troubles you about it? + +ABBE FILOSI. Reverendissima, I would gladly have passed it in silence. +Your wisdom in matters of the world--and of the Church--is greater than +mine. But look you now. This Judith I think shows more of her bosom than +is seemly. + +ABBESS [_with asperity_]. I will instruct you. By the laws on the serene +Republic, a Venetian lady may show one-half of her bosom and no more, +and there is no immodesty in the proceeding. This law the lady Judith +obeys. + +ABBE FILOSI. I do not dissent from your wisdom, nor from the law of +Venice. Still, it seems to me there would be more propriety in it if we +were to have a collarette of tissue pinned about her--the eyes of all +the novices, remember-- + +ABBESS. I remember also our guests, many of them ladies of the first +houses, who would certainly take it amiss, and as a reflection upon +themselves-- + +ABBE FILOSI. I wish with all my heart, Reverendissima, you had excused +me. + +ABBESS [_turning to Sister Sacristan_]. I will ask the Sisters Grimana +Emo and Rosalba Foscarini to examine the puppets. + + [_The Sister Sacristan goes out._] + +Their learning in theology may not be profound, but they know the +world's judgment, coming as they do of the first families. + + [_The Abbe Filosi bows low._] + +ABBE FILOSI. I shall be at your service, Reverendissima. + +ABBESS. I thank you enough for the poem. Farewell. + + [_He bows himself out, at right, as Sister Grimana and Sister + Rosalba enter left._] + +GRIMANA. You have sent for us, Mother? + +ABBESS. In the matter of the Shrove Tuesday play--yes. The puppets will +be brought in advance, as usual. These few the show-man has already +left. + +GRIMANA. You wish them to be looked over, as usual? + +ABBESS. Not quite as usual. This year they are to appear in a play or +poem which the Father Confessor has written for us--dealing with the +story of Judith. Now the good Abbe, though a man of great learning and a +graceful poet withal, has not the advantage of family that some of our +sisters-- + +GRIMANA. And some of our guests-- + +ROSALBA. I remember once, at a fete in the gardens of my uncle, the +Doge-- + +ABBESS. I need instruct you no further. I do not wish anything ungodly +or unfit to appear; nor do I wish anything in the play to suggest that +there is any impropriety in the illustrious audience. + +GRIMANA. I understand, Mother. It is chiefly a question of the dressing +of the ladies. + +ABBESS. Precisely. I shall leave it in your charge. Remembering, Sister +Grimana, the laws of Venice and the customs of the house of your father, +the most illustrious Admiral, and you Sister Rosalba, the fetes in the +gardens of your uncle, the Doge--surely it will be properly cared for. + + [_Exit the Abbess._] + +GRIMANA. All this because we have been given a bourgeois Confessor-- + +ROSALBA. No matter for that, Sister. I love puppets. We had once a +puppet festival, when they played the whole history of the Serene +Republic, and there were great ships with puppet sailors-- + + [_They begin to separate the puppets with their wires and strings. + Enter Sister Benvenuta._] + +BENVENUTA. Oh, the joy! Are these for the Shrove Tuesday play? If only +we could show them to-- + + [_She glances toward the Sacristy closet, stops, and goes on._] + +Sister Rosalba, can you make them dance? + +GRIMANA. Dance, forsooth--to what music, sister? + +ROSALBA. You might sing for them, Sister. + +GRIMANA. Aye, so I might.--Time was when I knew tunes enough. + +BENVENUTA. There is a lute in the cloister--left from the musical mass. +And my cousin Atalanta can play it--I should like to hear some music +here. + + [_She glances at the closet._] + +I'll fetch her. + + [_She goes off to find Atalanta._] + +GRIMANA. What personages have we here? This lady for Judith? + +ROSALBA. That can scarcely be, Judith was black haired. + +GRIMANA. Nothing of the sort. She had hair of a dark red--a smoldering +color. + +ROSALBA. Was she not of the tribe?-- + +GRIMANA. What matters the tribe? In her picture by Titian, in the great +hall of my father's house-- + +ROSALBA. We had a Judith also--by Jacopo Bellini. He was Titian's +master. Her hair was black. + +GRIMANA. You may be right. In our picture by Titian, now I remember it, +the head was so covered with a wonderful jeweled crown that we could see +little of the hair. + + [_Rosalba is somewhat put down by the splendor of Grimana's + Titian. Benvenuta comes back with Atalanta, who carries a lute. As + she appears Grimana untangles and holds up another puppet--the + Beelzebubb._] + +GRIMANA. Here's a personage of terror. + + [_She turns the figure and moves it threateningly toward + Benvenuta, who looks at Beelzebubb and is instantly seized with a + wild fit of laughter._] + +Saint Mark preserve us! You are queerly pleased, Sister. It's not many +that laugh at this figure. + +ROSALBA [_reading the figure's label_]. He's Beelzebubb Satanasso, +Prince of all Devils. + +BENVENUTA. I pray your pardon. I could not keep from laughing. I can +never look at a devil without laughing. He seems so anxious to +understand, and so important with the responsibility of being Prince of +all Devils. + +ROSALBA. You may laugh if you like, but you should remember how ready he +is to slip away with the unwary souls of people who laugh at him. How he +is always in wait, by day and by night, for a wavering thought or a rift +in one's faith-- + +GRIMANA. See here the pouch he carries to put your soul in. Truly, +Sister, he might pluck you off like a cherry. + +ATALANTA [_shuddering_]. Dear Sister Grimana--I beg of you-- + +GRIMANA. And he comes at the call of the secret thought--that's what +makes him look so anxious--lest he should not be listening when you call +him, and the Saints come to your soul first, and warn it-- + +ATALANTA. Sister Grimana! + +BENVENUTA. Still, I can never look at him without laughing. He is droll. +Atalanta, the lute. + + [_Atalanta brings forward the lute and tries the strings. Rosalba + takes up the puppet of the lady._] + +I saw the show-man. He was a most ill-favored man. Sister Rosalba, do +you think he was excommunicate. + +ROSALBA. Of course not. And if he were, that would not make his puppets +excommunicate. + +GRIMANA. What if it did? A noble convent has privileges. It would not +matter to us. + +ATALANTA. What shall I play? + +GRIMANA. Can you play? [_She sings_]: + + Go visto una colomba el cielo andare + Che la svolava su per un giardino + In mezzo 'l peto la gavea do ale + E in boca la tegniva un zenzamino! + +ATALANTA. I do not know the air. But I can play a furlana. + +BENVENUTA. That will be gay, Atalanta. Play a furlana, I beg you. + +GRIMANA. That will serve, Sister Rosalba, your prince. + + [_As Atalanta plays, Grimana manipulates the Judith and Rosalba + the Prince. They are unskillful and the puppets dance crudely, but + Benvenuta looks on in ecstasy, falling slowly back until she + stands by the door of the closet. As she does so two or three more + nuns and novices come furtively in at the back and stand watching + the performance. As the dance of the puppets grows more animated + the Abbess enters with the Sister Sacristan. For a moment the + others do not see her, and the play continues. Then she speaks + coldly and evenly._] + +ABBESS. Sisters, is this the solemn judgment I bespoke on these +trinkets? Sister Grimana! + + [_Grimana lays down the puppets and comes forward._] + +Sister Rosalba! + + [_Rosalba also comes forward._] + +I will consider this, and will give out the penances in chapter. + +GRIMANA. Yes, Mother. + + [_Rosalba stands with her head bowed and her fingers run along the + buttons of her cape._] + +ABBESS. There has been too much playing of lutes, too much worldly +anticipation and imagining among us. So I have decided that all the holy +relics shall be re-furbished, and all the vestments mended and cleaned, +against Shrove Tuesday. And all other work, whether of embroidery or of +whatever nature, shall wait till this be done. Sister Sacristan, let the +tasks be set at once. + + [_The sisters bow their heads and go out, the Sister Sacristan + following Rosalba and Grimana off. Benvenuta stands still in an + attitude of deep humility._] + +Well, little Sister? + +BENVENUTA. Holy Mother, I am waiting for my penance. + +ABBESS. Your penance, Benvenuta? + +BENVENUTA. The fault was mine. I brought Atalanta with her lute. I was +to blame for it all. I am heedless, and unworthy, and stained with +worldliness, Mother. + +ABBESS. There, there, my child. I will overlook it. + + [_Benvenuta turns away, weeping furtively._] + +Come here, little Sister. Why should you weep? I have said I will +overlook it. + +BENVENUTA. I weep because I am unworthy to be penanced. I am nothing. + +ABBESS. You are nothing? Is not this the very essence of humility? +Little Sister, when I forgave you your fault, did you doubt my wisdom? + +BENVENUTA. Yes, holy Mother. Oh, I have sinned in vain glory. I doubted. +But I did not mean to doubt. + +ABBESS [_smiling_]. Come hither, little Sister. If I must set you a +penance, what would you have it be? + +BENVENUTA. I would have it ... no.... + + [_She hesitates._] + +ABBESS. Speak, Sister. + +BENVENUTA. I would have you set me to the making of a coat for the Holy +Bambino, as I asked of you before. + +ABBESS. That would hardly be a penance. And, besides, you sew so badly. + +BENVENUTA. Yes, Mother. I sew badly. And it would not really be a +penance. + + [_The Sister Sacristan comes in and takes from the closet some + cloth and a reliquary or two. She lays them on the table, + preparing them for work._] + +ABBESS. I will speak of this another time. Another time, little Sister. + + [_Benvenuta stands very still. The Abbess turns to the Sister + Sacristan._] + +What have you there? + +SISTER SACRISTAN. The fine lawn for the surplices for His Eminence. + +ABBESS. That can wait. I do not think it wise to leave the workroom +alone while the relics are being done over. + + [_She stands in the doorway. The Sister Sacristan is about to + follow, but notices Benvenuta and goes over ostentatiously to lock + the closet; then she goes out after the Abbess. Benvenuta stands + still and her eyes go from the closet to the cloth and takes up a + piece of lawn, and carries it with her to the closet door._] + +BENVENUTA. Dear little Great One, I see no way but this to keep my +promise. I do not understand what the Holy Mother means. But I will do +my penance when she determines it. I do sew very badly, dear little +Great One, but I will make the stitches slowly, night by night in my +cell, and every one of them, no matter how far askew, shall have all the +love of my heart drawn tight in it. I have promised you a coat, little +Great One, and I will surely keep my promise. + + [_She steals upstairs in the gathering darkness. The organ in the + chapel is heard, faintly at first, then swelling in exultation. + Slowly, after she disappears, the door of the closet opens of + itself, and from within a golden light glows across the room and + up the stair. The Curtain Falls._] + + + [_SCENE II. In her white-walled cell, with its one high window + looking over the tree tops into the night sky, Benvenuta sits + alone, sewing, with great labor and difficulty, by the light of a + candle. There is a soft knock, and Atalanta slips in, bringing + something concealed under her cape._] + +BENVENUTA. Have you brought it, dear? + +ATALANTA. I've got the coat of the gardener's child, but I fear it is +not what you wanted. + +BENVENUTA. I'm sure it will serve. Why do you fear for it? + +ATALANTA. Because it's the little girl's coat. The boy's I could not +get, for he has but the one, and the nights are so cold. + +BENVENUTA. So they are--and we wouldn't have the poor lad shivering. +Perhaps the girl's will serve. Did you get the thread of gold? + +ATALANTA. Yes, dear. + + [_There is a pause._] + +You wouldn't be happier telling me all about it? Or letting me help you, +perhaps? + +BENVENUTA. What good were there in that? You sew as badly as I do, +child. + +ATALANTA. It's not kind of you to say so. + +BENVENUTA. I'm sorry, Atalanta, dear. And it's most ungrateful of +me--for you are helping me--helping me very much. And as for my telling +you--it's a great secret, and you should be content to know as much as +you do of it. + +ATALANTA. I'm afraid I know too much of it now. I'm afraid I ought to be +confessing what I know already. + +BENVENUTA. Confessing it. Oh, no; Atalanta, dear-- + +ATALANTA. I'm afraid I ought--unless you tell me more. + +BENVENUTA. Oh, I see. Now, listen, my child. This matter is one +concerning my devotions--a private matter surely, and needing no +confessions from you. + +ATALANTA. Then why these secret messages, and the gold thread, and the +gardener's child's coat to be got by stealth? + +BENVENUTA. For what I am doing, I would call for help from you--or from +any one--from the Evil One himself, if it would serve. But it is surely +no sin--though it might get you into trouble to help me with it, +Atalanta, dear. + +ATALANTA. Prt! That's not what I mind. + +BENVENUTA. You--you love me enough to be troubled for my sake, a little, +dear? + +ATALANTA [_breaking out_]. I would flout the Mother Abbess to her face +for you, Benvenuta. It's that you try to keep me in the dark that I mind +about it. I'm going. + + [_Atalanta turns sharply and goes. Benvenuta lays out the little + coat of the gardener's child, and lays her lawn, already cut, upon + it. She seems discouraged, turns it over, and tries again. Then + with an air of resolution, she takes it up and sews fiercely, + pricking her fingers, stopping to put them to her mouth, and going + on doggedly._] + +BENVENUTA. I promised it, dear little Great One, and I would give my +soul to keep my promise, but I fear me it will never comfort you. + + [_She sews for a minute in silence. Then lifts her head with a + sudden thought, and says aloud with a firm resolution_]: + + I would give my soul. + + [_She waits. After a moment there is a light tapping of footsteps; + then a marked rapping, as of hoofs on a pavement; she shivers, and + starts up in sudden terror, as Beelzebubb Satanasso confronts her. + He is like the Devil Puppet in every respect, but the size of a + small man. He bows low in a mechanical sort of way as if jointed. + She gazes at him in wonder, laughs nervously and suppresses her + laughter._] + +BEELZEBUBB [_in a voice like a Jews' harp_]. Sister Benvenuta, did I +hear you call for me, or wish for me to come? + +BENVENUTA. Yes, I called you. + +BEELZEBUBB. You wished me to help you? + +BENVENUTA. Yes. + +BEELZEBUBB. You know who I am. + + [_He points to his label._] + +BENVENUTA. I know. You are Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils. + + [_She suppresses a laugh._] + +BEELZEBUBB. You have made a promise, and you cannot keep it, so you call +for help. I come, for I am always ready. Now tell me precisely what it +is you want. + +BENVENUTA. I have promised a coat to the little Child-- + +BEELZEBUBB. That will do. It were better not to speak the name. What +sort of a coat do you wish? + +BENVENUTA. May I have just what I like? + +BEELZEBUBB. Certainly you may, my dear--if you are ready to pay for it. + +BENVENUTA. I am ready. And I should like a little coat like the one on +the second of the Magi in the Adoration by Bellini that is over the +altar in our chapel at home--in the house of the Duke Loredano. + +BEELZEBUBB. Let me understand exactly. The coat is to be like the coat +on the second figure to the left from the center of the picture? + +BENVENUTA. Yes--no, there's a Saint Joseph also at the back. He would be +the third--from the Holy-- + +BEELZEBUBB. I pray you, keep the names of these people out of it. + +BENVENUTA. These people! + + [_Benvenuta's hand moves as if she were about to cross herself._] + +BEELZEBUBB. And let your hand fall. You were about to make--to make some +sort of sign with it. These practices are very distasteful to me. I +cannot help you--or even stay for an interview--if you persist in them. + +BENVENUTA. I beg your forgiveness. I had no intention-- + +BEELZEBUBB. I believe that--it is merely a habit you have learned--but +it is distasteful to me. + +BENVENUTA. I will not offend you again. + +BEELZEBUBB. Now to business. You wish of me a coat, a rich coat like +that on the third figure from the center of the picture that is in your +father's chapel at Venice. And the size-- + +BENVENUTA. To fit the little Child-- + +BEELZEBUBB [_interrupting sharply_]. I beg of you! I understand. The +coat is of what color? + +BENVENUTA. It is the coat of the second of the Magi-- + + [_He puts up his hand, and she checks herself._] + +It is of carmine silk damask with gold thread, and the inner vest is of +white lawn. I wish it precisely like the picture, since you promise so +much. + +BEELZEBUBB. It shall be so. I will undertake to bring you the coat. And +in exchange I ask only that you sign your name here. + + [_He takes out a parchment contract, with a great red seal on it._] + +I regret that ink will not do. You must prick one of your fingers. I am +very sorry, but there is no other way. + +BENVENUTA. Prick my finger? Once? + +BEELZEBUBB. Only once, to secure the drop of blood. I am sorry to ask +it, but-- + +BENVENUTA. As though it never happened to me before! + + [_She pricks her finger and squeezes out a drop of Blood. He + whips out a quill pen, and deftly wets it with the blood._] + +BEELZEBUBB. You will sign here. + +BENVENUTA. And what does it say? I should be loath to sign anything +unworthy of my family, or of this noble convent-- + +BEELZEBUBB. There is nothing novel about it--the form is quite usual, +and has been signed, I assure you, by many of the highest families in +Venice. It merely binds me at once to furnish you the rich coat, and +you to give me your little flame of a soul--when I come for it. That is +all. + +BENVENUTA. Give me the pen. + + [_She signs the contract. He passes his hand thrice across the + pouch and then takes from it the coat, and lays it across her lap. + He steps back and bows stiffly, folding the contract and + smiling._] + +BEELZEBUBB. My dear young lady--my dear little sister. + + [_He bows again, and vanishes; again the organ is heard, and + Benvenuta is left, her face glowing in ecstasy, the carmine coat + across her knees._] + + [_Curtain._] + + + [SCENE III: _The Chapter Room. Night. The Abbess giving orders to + Grimana, Rosalba, the Sister Sacristan and others, about the + midnight office._] + +ABBESS. All are to be present. None are to be indulged. I beg you, so +inform the sisters. + + [_Rosalba goes out._] + +And the novices are all to be in their places. I know the hour is late +for them, and many are young, but this is an exceptional night. +Stay.--The novice Atalanta Badoer--I shall require her apart from the +others. She will be needed with her lute. + +GRIMANA. I will look to it, Reverend Mother. + + [_She sets about to gather her embroidery._] + +ABBESS. Now in the matter of the relics and vestments? + +SISTER SACRISTAN. The relics are all re-furbished and repacked in new +cotton-wool, Reverend Mother. + +ABBESS. And the vestments? + +SISTER SACRISTAN. The vestments are all in order-- + + [_She is about to mention something about the vestments, but stops + herself._] + +ABBESS. Go on. + +SISTER SACRISTAN. I must report, as a matter of duty, Reverend Mother, +that certain goods--a piece of fine lawn--cannot be found. It was laid +out here to be used for the new surplice for His Eminence. + +ABBESS. I do not like this. Tell me what you know of it. + +SISTER SACRISTAN. This is all I know. Except that when I returned here, +the door to the Sacristy Closet was open-- + +ABBESS. Who was here at the time? + +SISTER SACRISTAN. Sister Benvenuta was left here. When I returned she +was gone, and the closet was open, and the lawn-- + +GRIMANA [_interceding_]. I beg you, Reverend Mother-- + +ABBESS. Sister Grimana, I have given you your task. Be about it. + + [_Grimana touches the buttons of her cape one by one, and then turns + and goes out._] + +Sister, remember that the Sister Benvenuta comes of the noble house of +the Loredani. Guard your tongue. + + [_The Sister Sacristan stands gloomily biting her lips._] + +If she has removed the cloth to some other place, it does not matter. +Remember who she is, and that she is after all a child in mind, in +heart. We will speak no more of this. + +SISTER SACRISTAN. No, Reverend Mother. + +ABBESS. Send Sister Rosalba to me. + +SISTER SACRISTAN. She is coming now, Reverend Mother. + + [_Rosalba comes in and the Sister Sacristan goes out._] + +ABBESS. I wish to speak with Benvenuta, Sister. + +ROSALBA. I will fetch her, Reverend Mother. + +ABBESS. One moment. You have observed her of late? + +ROSALBA. Yes, Mother. + +ABBESS. She seems pale, and not so strong as she was. And her mind--but +then she was always a simple child. + +ROSALBA. Of course, I do not know the cause of her pallor. Perhaps a +penance she is undergoing secretly. + + [_The suggestion is half a question as are those of the Abbess as + well._] + +She is still very young, Reverend Mother. + +ABBESS. She has confided nothing to you, nor to Grimana? + +ROSALBA. Not to me, Mother. Shall I call Sister Grimana? + +ABBESS. No. Send Benvenuta to me. And ask Grimana to send the novice +Atalanta also--a little later. + + [_Rosalba goes out. The Abbess goes over and examines the Sacristy + Closet door, tries the lock, finds it fast, and returns to her + chair. Benvenuta enters. She is more pale than before, and looks + frailer, and her limp is more apparent, but her eyes are wide, and + rove about the room, and her expression is of one who has found + her happiness. The Abbess speaks to her kindly._] + +ABBESS. My child, I have called you to me because you have seemed so +pale, and I fear you have burdened yourself beyond your strength. + +BENVENUTA. No, Reverend Mother. I am not burdened. + +ABBESS. You are not performing any secret penance? + +BENVENUTA. None, Mother. + +ABBESS. Answer me truly, Benvenuta. You have not been contemplating some +penance, and so been filled with anxiety. + +BENVENUTA. I look for no penance in this life, Reverend Mother, beyond +such as may be imposed upon me. + +ABBESS. Nothing beyond your strength will be imposed. If you have need +of more sleep, I would be willing to relax for you, for a time. + +BENVENUTA. I do not need it, Reverend Mother. + + [_Atalanta enters, sees the Abbess, and stands waiting._] + +ABBESS. If you should find yourself overburdened, little Sister, come to +me. That will do. Atalanta, one moment. + + [_Atalanta steps forward. Benvenuta starts to go, but lingers._] + +I shall need your help with the lute to-night. I know you play it well. +The best lute player among the lay sisters is ill. You can play from +notes? + +ATALANTA. If it be not too difficult, Reverend Mother. + +ABBESS. It is simple. But I will have them give you the music, against +the time when you will be needed. + + [_The Abbess goes out toward the Chapel. Benvenuta comes down to + Atalanta._] + +BENVENUTA. Atalanta, dear! + +ATALANTA. Yes, Benvenuta. + +BENVENUTA. There is something I must talk to you about. I have put it +off because I have been deep in my own thoughts. You told me not so long +ago that you could not find your call, that the world still beckoned +you. + +ATALANTA. Yes, it did. But I have been calmer since we spoke of it. +There was a thing in my heart that had to be spoken out-- + +BENVENUTA. Yes. + +ATALANTA. I spoke it out to you, and since then it has not troubled me. + +BENVENUTA. It was about the vinedresser's baby in your father's garden? + +ATALANTA. Yes. + +BENVENUTA. You told me about it here--in this room, was it not? + +ATALANTA. Yes. Surely it was here. How strangely you speak, Benvenuta. +Have you forgotten? It was after that you asked me to get the gold +thread, and the child's coat. + +BENVENUTA. So I did. I had almost forgotten it. + +ATALANTA. It was a great comfort to me to tell you, Sister--and to serve +you. Why have you asked nothing more of me? + +BENVENUTA. I have all the help I need, now. + + [_A pause. Atalanta looks at Benvenuta wonderingly._] + +The vinedresser's baby--did you ever hold him in your arms? + +ATALANTA. No. + +BENVENUTA. Nor ever felt his lips soft and moist against your cheek, nor +his fingers warm on your neck? + +ATALANTA. No. I only saw the child, as I told you. + +BENVENUTA. I remember now. You only saw him. + + [_Another pause. Benvenuta is looking toward the Sacristy closet._] + +Atalanta, dear, do you know that we can only be happy by pleasing those +we love most--that is what people live for, I think. And dear, remember +this: the happiness you saw on the face of the vinedresser's wife was as +torment beside the joy that is glowing in me. + + [_Her eyes meet Atalanta's for a moment._] + +Don't, dear--don't think it too strange. Everything is strange, after +all. + +ATALANTA. Your face was like hers, then. + +BENVENUTA. Please don't say that, dear. It's--it's foolish--isn't it? +But I told you once I was waiting for something--all my life waiting. +And now--and now! + + [_She touches Atalanta's head, lightly, and goes off upstairs + toward her cell. Atalanta is left looking after her. Grimana comes + in._] + +GRIMANA. Well, mistress. Prideful over not sitting with the novices this +night, eh? The lute-playing comes in well at last, does it? + +ATALANTA. Oh, Sister Grimana, I-- + + [_She stops, confused._] + +GRIMANA. What is it, child? + +ATALANTA. It's Benvenuta. Have you seen her? Have you?-- + +GRIMANA. Yes, dear, I've seen. She's young. These times come to all of +us, I suppose. But they pass. Calm, child. Count your buttons. + +ATALANTA. I was frightened, Sister Grimana. + +GRIMANA. Aye, you'll frighten the novices just so in your turn. But just +the same, I wish she wouldn't-- + + [_The Abbess reenters, as a bell strikes from the chapel. Rosalba + comes on from the left, with two or three sisters._] + +ABBESS. It is time. Let us all proceed to the chapel. + + [_The Sister Sacristan carrying the lute and some music, enters + from the chapel._] + +Are all the sisters assembled? + +SISTER SACRISTAN. All save those who are here, and Sister Benvenuta. + +ABBESS. Please you, Sister Grimana, go for Benvenuta. + + [_Grimana goes up the stairs._] + +SISTER SACRISTAN. Here is the lute, Atalanta Badoer. The notes are +clear, and the times you are to play them are written there. + +ATALANTA. My hands tremble so. I'm afraid I shall fail in it. + +ABBESS. Courage, child. I know it is the first time, but you will do +well--I am sure you will do well. Come, let us take our places. + + [_Grimana enters on the steps, in great trouble of mind. She + carries in her hand the puppet of the Beelzebubb, twisted and + shattered and singed with fire._] + +GRIMANA. Reverend Mother, forgive me. I have seen--I have seen-- + + [_She clasps and unclasps her hands, unable to speak._] + +ABBESS. What was it, Grimana? + +GRIMANA. I scarcely know, Mother. Mary be my shield! + +ABBESS. Speak, Sister. + +GRIMANA. There was a great light through every crevice of the door of +her cell. And music in the air--like harps and viols d'amour. And on the +floor outside I found this--shattered and half burnt--this puppet. And +from within, sounds-- + +ABBESS. Tell me all, Sister. + +GRIMANA [_her fingers on the buttons of her cape_]. Sounds as of a +mother and her babe, cooing and kissing and caressing each other. + +ABBESS. Call the Father Confessor. + + [_The Sister Sacristan goes out toward the chapel._] + +We must look to this. If her mind have broken under some penance-- + +ATALANTA. Let me go-- + +ABBESS. No. She was so pale-- + + [_The Sister Sacristan returns with the Abbe Filosi._] + +Reverend Father, the little sister of the house of Loredan-- + + [_Then, the upper corridor is filled with a growing light--the + same radiant gold that streamed from the Sacristy closet. The + sisters bless themselves and most of them fall on their knees. In + the light Benvenuta appears walking erect, her lameness gone, and + holding before her the Christ Child, in a wondrous robe of carmine + silk damask. She laughs softly with the babe as she passes, and + when she has passed off toward the chapel, whence the organ is + again heard, the light fades._] + +ABBE FILOSI [_in a hushed voice_]. A miracle! + +ABBESS. She is healed! A miracle of the Holy Child. Blessed Mother--thy +Holy Child in our house. + + [_Atalanta goes swiftly up the steps and off after Benvenuta._] + +ABBE FILOSI. Let there be a special service of thanksgiving. + +ABBESS. Let all hearts be uplifted! + + [_Atalanta returns, trailing her lute behind her, and sinks down at + the head of the stairway, sobbing._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE + +A PLAY + +BY WALLACE STEVENS + + + +Copyright, 1916, by Wallace Stevens. + +All rights reserved. + + +Reprinted from "Poetry" (Chicago) by permission of Mr. Wallace Stevens +and Miss Harriet Monroe. Applications for permission to produce this +play should be addressed to Mr. Wallace Stevens, 125 Trumbull Street, +Hartford, Conn. + + + +THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE + +A PLAY BY WALLACE STEVENS + + + [_The characters are three Chinese, two negroes and a girl._ + + _The scene represents a forest of heavy trees on a hilltop in + eastern Pennsylvania. To the right is a road, obscured by bushes. + It is about four o'clock of a morning in August, at the present + time._ + + _When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. The limb of a tree + creaks. A negro carrying a lantern passes along the road. The + sound is repeated. The negro comes through the bushes, raises his + lantern and looks through the trees. Discerning a dark object + among the branches, he shrinks back, crosses stage, and goes out + through the wood to the left._ + + _A second negro comes through the bushes to the right. He carries + two large baskets, which he places on the ground just inside of + the bushes. Enter three Chinese, one of whom carries a lantern. + They pause on the road,_] + + + SECOND CHINESE. All you need, + To find poetry, + Is to look for it with a lantern. [_The + Chinese laugh._] + + THIRD CHINESE. I could find it without, + On an August night, + If I saw no more + Then the dew on the barns. + + [_The Second Negro makes a sound to attract their attention. The + three Chinese come through the bushes. The first is short, fat, + quizzical, and of middle age. The second is of middle height, thin + and turning gray; a man of sense and sympathy. The third is a + young man, intent, detached. They wear European clothes._] + + SECOND CHINESE [_glancing at the baskets_]. + Dew is water to see, + Not water to drink: + We have forgotten water to drink. + Yet I am content + Just to see sunrise again. + I have not seen it + Since the day we left Pekin. + It filled my doorway, + Like whispering women. + + FIRST CHINESE. And I have never seen it. + If we have no water, + Do find a melon for me + In the baskets. + + [_The Second Negro, who has been opening the baskets, hands the + First Chinese a melon._] + + FIRST CHINESE. Is there no spring? + + [_The negro takes a water bottle of red porcelain from one of the + baskets and places it near the Third Chinese._] + + SECOND CHINESE [_to Third Chinese_]. + Your porcelain water bottle. + + [_One of the baskets contains costumes of silk, red, blue and + green. During the following speeches, the Chinese put on these + costumes, with the assistance of the negro, and seat themselves on + the ground._] + + THIRD CHINESE. This fetches its own water. + + [_Takes the bottle and places it on the ground in the center of + the stage._] + + I drink from it, dry as it is, + As you from maxims, [_To Second Chinese._] + Or you from melons. [_To First Chinese._] + + FIRST CHINESE. Not as I, from melons. + Be sure of that. + + SECOND CHINESE. Well, it is true of maxims. + + [_He finds a book in the pocket of his costume, and reads from it._] + + "The court had known poverty and wretchedness; humanity had invaded + its seclusion, with its suffering and its pity." + + [_The limb of the tree creaks._] + + Yes: it is true of maxims, + Just as it is true of poets, + Or wise men, or nobles, + Or jade. + + FIRST CHINESE. Drink from wise men? From jade? + Is there no spring? + + [_Turning to the negro, who has taken a jug from one of the + baskets._] + + Fill it and return. + + [_The negro removes a large candle from one of the baskets and + hands it to the First Chinese; then takes the jug and the lantern + and enters the trees to the left. The First Chinese lights the + candle and places it on the ground near the water bottle._] + + THIRD CHINESE. There is a seclusion of porcelain + That humanity never invades. + + FIRST CHINESE [_with sarcasm_]. Porcelain! + + THIRD CHINESE. It is like the seclusion of sunrise, + Before it shines on any house. + + FIRST CHINESE. Pooh! + + SECOND CHINESE. This candle is the sun; + This bottle is earth: + It is an illustration + Used by generations of hermits. + The point of difference from reality + Is this: + That, in this illustration, + The earth remains of one color-- + It remains red, + It remains what it is. + But when the sun shines on the earth, + In reality + It does not shine on a thing that remains + What it was yesterday. + The sun rises + On whatever the earth happens to be. + + THIRD CHINESE. And there are indeterminate moments + Before it rises, + Like this, [_With a backward gesture._] + Before one can tell + What the bottle is going to be-- + Porcelain, Venetian glass, + Egyptian ... + Well, there are moments + When the candle, sputtering up, + Finds itself in seclusion, [_He raises the candle in the air._] + And shines, perhaps, for the beauty of shining. + That is the seclusion of sunrise + Before it shines on any house. [_Replacing the candle._] + + FIRST CHINESE [_wagging his head_]. As abstract as porcelain. + + SECOND CHINESE. Such seclusion knows beauty + As the court knew it. + The court woke + In its windless pavilions, + And gazed on chosen mornings, + As it gazed + On chosen porcelain. + What the court saw was always of the same color, + And well shaped, + And seen in a clear light. [_He points to the candle._] + It never woke to see, + And never knew, + The flawed jars, + The weak colors, + The contorted glass. + It never knew + The poor lights. [_He opens his book significantly._] + When the court knew beauty only, + And in seclusion, + It had neither love nor wisdom. + These came through poverty + And wretchedness, + Through suffering and pity. [_He pauses._] + It is the invasion of humanity + That counts. + + [_The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese turns, for a + moment, in the direction of the sound._] + + FIRST CHINESE [_thoughtfully_]. The light of the most tranquil candle + Would shudder on a bloody salver. + + SECOND CHINESE [_with a gesture of disregard_]. + It is the invasion + That counts. + If it be supposed that we are three figures + Painted on porcelain + As we sit here, + That we are painted on this very bottle, + The hermit of the place, + Holding this candle to us, + Would wonder; + But if it be supposed + That we are painted as warriors, + The candle would tremble in his hands; + Or if it be supposed, for example, + That we are painted as three dead men, + He could not see the steadiest light, + For sorrow. + It would be true + If an emperor himself + Held the candle. + He would forget the porcelain + For the figures painted on it. + + THIRD CHINESE [_shrugging his shoulders_]. + Let the candle shine for the beauty of shining. + I dislike the invasion + And long for the windless pavilions. + And yet it may be true + That nothing is beautiful + Except with reference to ourselves, + Nor ugly, + Nor high, [_Pointing to the sky._] + Nor low. [_Pointing to the candle._] + No: not even sunrise. + Can you play of this [_Mockingly to First Chinese._] + For us? [_He stands up._] + + FIRST CHINESE [_hesitatingly_]. I have a song + Called _Mistress and Maid_. + It is of no interest to hermits + Or emperors, + Yet it has a bearing; + For if we affect sunrise, + We affect all things. + + THIRD CHINESE. It is a pity it is of women. + Sing it. + + [_He takes an instrument from one of the baskets and hands it to + the First Chinese, who sings the following song, accompanying + himself, somewhat tunelessly, on the instrument. The Third Chinese + takes various things out of the basket for tea. He arranges fruit. + The First Chinese watches him while he plays. The Second Chinese + gazes at the ground. The sky shows the first signs of morning._] + + FIRST CHINESE. The mistress says, in a harsh voice, + "He will be thinking in strange countries + Of the white stones near my door, + And I--I am tired of him." + She says sharply, to her maid, + "Sing to yourself no more." + + Then the maid says, to herself, + "He will be thinking in strange countries + Of the white stones near her door; + But it is me he will see + At the window, as before. + + "He will be thinking in strange countries + Of the green gown I wore. + He was saying good-by to her." + The maid drops her eyes and says to her mistress, + "I shall sing to myself no more." + + THIRD CHINESE. That affects the white stones, + To be sure. [_They laugh._] + + FIRST CHINESE. And it affects the green gown. + + SECOND CHINESE. Here comes our black man. + + [_The Second Negro returns, somewhat agitated, with water but + without his lantern. He hands the jug to the Third Chinese. The + First Chinese from time to time strikes the instrument. The Third + Chinese, who faces the left, peers in the direction from which the + negro has come._] + + THIRD CHINESE. You have left your lantern behind you. + It shines, among the trees, + Like evening Venus in a cloud-top. + + [_The Second Negro grins but makes no explanation. He seats + himself behind the Chinese to the right._] + + FIRST CHINESE. Or like a ripe strawberry + Among its leaves. [_They laugh._] + I heard to-night + That they are searching the hill + For an Italian. + He disappeared with his neighbor's daughter. + + SECOND CHINESE [_confidently_]. I am sure you heard + The first eloping footfall, + And the drum + Of pursuing feet. + + FIRST CHINESE [_amusedly_]. It was not an elopement. + The young gentleman was seen + To climb the hill, + In the manner of a tragedian + Who sweats. + Such things happen in the evening. + He was + _Un miserable_. + + SECOND CHINESE. Reach the lady quickly. + + [_The First Chinese strikes the instrument twice as a prelude to + his narrative._] + + FIRST CHINESE. There are as many points of view + From which to regard her + As there are sides to a round bottle. + + [_Pointing to the water bottle._] + + She was represented to me + As beautiful. + + [_They laugh. The First Chinese strikes the instrument, and looks + at the Third Chinese, who yawns._] + + FIRST CHINESE [_reciting_]. She was as beautiful as a porcelain water + bottle. + + [_He strikes the instrument in an insinuating manner._] + + FIRST CHINESE. She was represented to me + As young. + Therefore my song should go + Of the color of blood. + + [_He strikes the instrument. The limb of the tree creaks. The + First Chinese notices it and puts his hand on the knee of the + Second Chinese, who is seated between him and the Third Chinese, + to call attention to the sound. They are all seated so that they + do not face the spot from which the sound comes. A dark object, + hanging to the limb of the tree, becomes a dim silhouette. The sky + grows constantly brighter. No color is to be seen until the end of + the play._] + + SECOND CHINESE [_to First Chinese_]. It is only a tree + Creaking in the night wind. + + THIRD CHINESE [_shrugging his shoulders_]. + There would be no creaking + In the windless pavilions. + + FIRST CHINESE [_resuming_]. So far the lady of the present ballad + Would have been studied + By the hermit and his candle + With much philosophy; + And possibly the emperor would have cried, + "More light!" + But it is a way with ballads + That the more pleasing they are + The worse end they come to; + For here it was also represented + That the lady was poor-- + The hermit's candle would have thrown + Alarming shadows, + And the emperor would have held + The porcelain in one hand ... + She was represented as clinging + To that sweaty tragedian, + And weeping up the hill. + + SECOND CHINESE [_with a grimace_]. It does not sound like an + elopement. + + FIRST CHINESE. It is a doleful ballad, + Fit for keyholes. + + THIRD CHINESE. Shall we hear more? + + SECOND CHINESE. Why not? + + THIRD CHINESE. We came for isolation, + To rest in sunrise. + + SECOND CHINESE [_raising his book slightly_]. But this will be a part + of sunrise, + And can you tell how it will end?-- + Venetian, + Egyptian, + Contorted glass ... + + [_He turns toward the light in the sky to the right, darkening the + candle with his hands._] + + In the meantime, the candle shines, [_Indicating the sunrise._] + As you say, [_To the Third Chinese._] + For the beauty of shining. + + FIRST CHINESE [_sympathetically_]. Oh! it will end badly. + The lady's father + Came clapping behind them + To the foot of the hill. + He came crying, + "Anna, Anna, Anna!" [_Imitating._] + He was alone without her, + Just as the young gentleman + Was alone without her: + Three beggars, you see, + Begging for one another. + + [_The First Negro, carrying two lanterns, approaches cautiously + through the trees. At the sight of him, the Second Negro, seated + near the Chinese, jumps to his feet. The Chinese get up in alarm. + The Second Negro goes around the Chinese toward the First Negro. + All see the body of a man hanging to the limb of the tree. They + gather together, keeping their eyes fixed on it. The First Negro + comes out of the trees and places the lanterns on the ground. He + looks at the group and then at the body._] + + First Chinese [_moved_]. The young gentleman of the ballad. + + THIRD CHINESE [_slowly, approaching the body_]. And the end of the + ballad. + Take away the bushes. + + [_The negroes commence to pull away the bushes._] + + SECOND CHINESE. Death, the hermit, + Needs no candle + In his hermitage. + + [_The Second Chinese snuffs out the candle. The First Chinese puts + out the lanterns. As the bushes are pulled away, the figure of a + girl, sitting half stupefied under the tree, suddenly becomes + apparent to the Second Chinese and then to the Third Chinese. They + step back. The negroes move to the left. When the First Chinese + sees the girl, the instrument slips from his hands and falls + noisily to the ground. The girl stirs._] + + SECOND CHINESE [_to the girl_]. Is that you, Anna? + + [_The girl starts. She raises her head, looks around slowly, leaps + to her feet and screams._] + + SECOND CHINESE [_gently_]. Is that you, Anna? + + [_She turns quickly toward the body, looks at it fixedly and totters + up the stage._] + + ANNA [_bitterly_]. Go. + Tell my father: + He is dead. + + [_The Second and Third Chinese support her. The First Negro + whispers to the First Chinese, then takes the lanterns and goes + through the opening to the road, where he disappears in the + direction of the valley._] + + FIRST CHINESE [_to Second Chinese_]. + Bring up fresh water + From the spring. + + [_The Second Negro takes the jug and enters the trees to the left. + The girl comes gradually to herself. She looks at the Chinese and + at the sky. She turns her back toward the body, shuddering, and + does not look at it again._] + + ANNA. It will soon be sunrise. + + SECOND CHINESE. One candle replaces + Another. + + [_The First Chinese walks toward the bushes to the right. He + stands by the roadside, as if to attract the attention of any one + passing._] + + ANNA [_simply_]. When he was in his fields, + I worked in ours-- + Wore purple to see; + And when I was in his garden + I wore gold ear-rings. + Last evening I met him on the road. + He asked me to walk with him + To the top of the hill. + I felt the evil, + But he wanted nothing. + He hanged himself in front of me. + + [_She looks for support. The Second and Third Chinese help her + toward the road.--At the roadside, the First Chinese takes the + place of the Third Chinese. The girl and the two Chinese go + through the bushes and disappear down the road. The stage is empty + except for the Third Chinese. He walks slowly across the stage, + pushing the instrument out of his way with his foot. It + reverberates. He looks at the water bottle._] + + THIRD CHINESE. Of the color of blood ... + Seclusion of porcelain ... + Seclusion of sunrise ... + + [_He picks up the water bottle._] + + The candle of the sun + Will shine soon + On this hermit earth. [_Indicating the bottle._] + It will shine soon + Upon the trees, + And find a new thing [_Indicating the body._] + Painted on this porcelain, [_Indicating the trees._] + But not on this. [_Indicating the bottle._] + + [_He places the bottle on the ground. A narrow cloud over the + valley becomes red. He turns toward it, then walks to the right. + He finds the book of the Second Chinese lying on the ground, picks + it up and turns over the leaves._] + + Red is not only + The color of blood, + Or [_Indicating the body._] + Of a man's eyes, + Or [_Pointedly._] + Of a girl's. + And as the red of the sun + Is one thing to me + And one thing to another, + So it is the green of one tree [_Indicating._] + And the green of another, + Which without it would all be black. + Sunrise is multiplied, + Like the earth on which it shines, + By the eyes that open on it, + Even dead eyes, + As red is multiplied by the leaves of trees. + + [_Toward the end of this speech, the Second Negro comes from the + trees to the left, without being seen. The Third Chinese, whose + back is turned toward the negro, walks through the bushes to the + right and disappears on the road. The negro looks around at the + object on the stage. He sees the instrument, seats himself before + it and strikes it several times, listening to the sound. One or + two birds twitter. A voice, urging a horse, is heard at a + distance. There is the crack of a whip. The negro stands up, walks + to the right and remains at the side of the road._] + + + [_The Curtain Falls Slowly._] + + + + +SHAM + + A SOCIAL SATIRE + + BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS + + + Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Co. + All rights reserved. + + + THREE PEOPLE + + CHARLES, _the Householder_. + CLARA, _his Wife_. + THE THIEF. + + + Originally produced by Sam Hume as the dedicatory piece of the new + Arts & Crafts Theater, Detroit, and by Maurice Browne of the Chicago + Art Theater. + + + Reprinted from "The Stewart-Kidd Modern Plays," edited by Frank Shay. + The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly + reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this + play should be made to Mr. Frank Shay, care Stewart & Kidd Co., + Cincinnati, U. S. A. + + + +SHAM + +A SOCIAL SATIRE BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS + + + [_SCENE: A darkened room. After a moment the door opens, admitting + a streak of light. A man peers in cautiously. As soon as he is + sure that the room is unoccupied, he steps inside and feels along + the wall until he finds the switch which floods the room with + light. He is dressed in impeccable taste--evidently a man of + culture. From time to time he bites appreciatively on a ham + sandwich as he looks about him, apparently viewing the room for + the first time. Nothing pleases him until a vase over the mantel + catches his eye. He picks it up, looks at the bottom, puts it down + hard, and mutters, "Imitation." Other articles receive the same + disdainful verdict. The whole room is beneath his notice. He + starts to sit down before the fire and enjoy his sandwich. + Suddenly he pauses to listen, looks about him hurriedly for some + place to hide, thinks better of it, and takes his stand opposite + the door, smiling pleasantly and expectantly. The door opens and a + young woman enters with a man at her heels. As she sees the thief + she stifles a scream and retreats, backing the man out behind her. + The thief smiles and waits. Soon the door opens again, and the man + enters with the woman clinging to him. They stand opposite the + thief and stare at him, not sure what they ought to say or do._] + + +THIEF [_pleasantly_]. Good evening! [_Pause._] Good evening, good +evening. You surprised me. Can't say I expected you home so soon. Was +the play an awful bore? [_Pause._] We-e-ell, can't one of you speak. I +CAN carry on a conversation alone, but the question-and-answer method is +usually preferred. If one of you will ask me how I do, we might get a +step farther. + +CLARA [_breathlessly_]. You--you--[_With growing conviction._] You're a +thief! + +THIEF. Exactly. And you, madame? The mistress of the house, I presume. +Or are you another thief? The traditional one that it takes to catch the +first? + +CLARA. This--this is OUR house. Charles, why don't you do something? +Don't stand there like a--Make him go away! Tell him he mustn't take +anything. [_Advancing toward the thief and speaking all in one +sentence._] What have you taken? Give it to me instantly. How dare you! +Charles, take it away from him. + +CHARLES [_apparently not afraid, a little amused, but uncertain what to +do, finally adopting the bullying tone._] I say, old man, you'd better +clear out. We've come home. You know you can't--come now, give it up. Be +sensible. I don't want to use force-- + +THIEF. I don't want you to. + +CHARLES. If you've got anything of ours--We aren't helpless, you know. +[_He starts to draw something black and shiny from his overcoat pocket. +It might be a pistol, but he does not reveal its shape._] + +THIEF. Let's see those glasses. Give them here. [_Takes them from the +uncertain Charles._] Perhaps they're better than mine. Fine cases. +[_Tries them._] Humph! Window glass! Take them back. You're not armed, +you know. I threw your revolver down the cold-air shaft. Never carry one +myself--in business hours. Yours was in the bottom of your bureau +drawer. Bad shape, those bureau drawers were in. Nice and neat on top; +rat's nest below. Shows up your character in great shape, old man. +Always tell your man by his bureau drawers. Didn't it ever occur to you +that a thief might drop in on you some night? What would he think of +you? + +CHARLES. I don't think-- + +THIEF. You should. I said to myself when I opened that drawer: "They put +up a great surface, but they're shams. Probably streak that runs through +everything they do." You ought to begin with real neatness. This other +sort of thing is just a form of dishonesty. + +CLARA. You! Talking to US about honesty--in our house! + +THIEF. Just the place for honesty. Begin at home. Let's-- + +CLARA. Charles, I won't stand this? Grab hold of him. Search him. You +hold him. I'll telephone. + +THIEF. You can't. + +CLARA. You've cut the wires. + +THIEF. Didn't have to. Your telephone service has been cut off by the +company. I found that out before I came. I suspect you neglected the +bill. You ought not to, makes no end of trouble. Inconvenienced me this +evening. Better get it put in right away. + +CLARA. Charles, do I have to stand here and be insulted? + +THIEF. Sit down. Won't you, please! This is your last ham-sandwich, so I +can't offer you any, but there's plenty of beer in the cellar, if you +care for it. I don't recommend it, but perhaps you're used to it. + +CLARA [_almost crying_]. Charles, are you going to let him preach to us +all night! I won't have it. Being lectured by a thief! + +CHARLES. You can't stop a man's talking, my dear, especially this sort +of man. Can't you see he's a born preacher? Old man, while advice is +going round, let me tell you that you've missed your calling. Why don't +you go in for reform? Ought to go big. + +CLARA. Oh, Charles! Don't talk to him. You're a good deal bigger than he +is. + +THIEF. Maybe I'll jiu-jitsu him. + +CLARA. He's insulting you now, Charles. Please try. I'll hold his feet. + +THIEF. No doubt you would. But that wouldn't stop my talking. You'd be +taking an unfair advantage, too; I couldn't kick a lady, could I? +Besides, there are two of you. You leave it to Charles and me. Let's +have fair play, at least. + +CLARA. Fair play? I'd like to know-- + +THIEF. Ple-e-ase, don't screech! My head aches and your voice pierces +so. Let's sit down quietly and discuss the situation like well-bred +people, and when we've come to some understanding, I'll go. + +CLARA. Yes, after you've taken everything in the house and criticized +everything else you can't take, our manners and our morals. + +CHARLES. But he isn't taking anything now, is he? Let the poor chap +criticize, can't you? I don't suppose he often meets his--er--customers +socially. He's just dying for a good old visit. Lonesome profession, +isn't it, old man? + +CLARA. If you WON'T do anything, I'll call the neighbors. + +THIEF. No neighbors to call. Nearest one a block away, and he isn't at +home. That comes of living in a fashionable suburb. Don't believe you +can afford it, either. WON'T you sit down, madame? I can't till you do. +Well, then I shall have to stand, and I've been on my feet all day. It's +hardly considerate [_plaintively_]. I don't talk so well on my feet, +either. It will take me much longer this way. [_Clara bounces into a +chair, meaningfully._] Thank you, that's better [_sighs with relief as +he sinks into the easy chair_]. I knew I could appeal to your better +nature. Have a cigarette? [_Charles accepts one from his beautiful +case._] And you, madame? + +CLARA [_puts out her hand, but withdraws it quickly_]. Thank you, I +don't care to smoke--with a thief. + +THIEF. Right. Better not smoke, anyway. I'm so old-fashioned, I hate to +see women smoke. None of the women in my family do it. Perhaps we're too +conventional-- + +CLARA. I don't know that I care to be like the women of your family. I +_will_ have one, if you please. No doubt you get them from a man of +taste. + +THIEF. Your next-door neighbor. This is--was--his case. Exquisite taste. +Seen this case often, I suppose? [_He eyes them closely._] Great +friends? Or perhaps you don't move in the same circles. [_Clara glares +at him._] Pardon me. Tactless of me, but how could I guess? Well, +here's your chance to get acquainted with his cigarettes. Will you have +one now? + +CLARA. I don't receive stolen goods. + +THIEF. That's a little hard on Charles, isn't it? He seems to be +enjoying his. + +CHARLES. Bully cigarette. Hempsted's a connoisseur. Truth is--we don't +know the Hempsteds. They've never called. + +THIEF. That's right, Charles. Tell the truth and shame [_with a jerk of +his head toward Clara_]--you know who. + +CLARA. Charles, there isn't any reason, I'm sure-- + +THIEF. Quietly, please. Remember my head. I'm sorry, but I must decline +to discuss your social prospects with you, and also your neighbors' +shortcomings, much as we should all enjoy it. There isn't time for that. +Let's get down to business. The question we've got to decide and decide +very quickly is, What would you like to have me take? + +CLARA [_aghast_]. What would we--what would we like to have you take? +Why--why--you can't take anything now; we're here. Of all the nerve! +What would we like-- + +THIEF. It gains by repetition, doesn't it? + +CHARLES. You've got me, old man. You'll have to come again. I may be +slow, but I don't for the moment see the necessity for your taking +anything. + +THIEF. I was afraid of this. I'll have to begin farther back. Look here +now, just suppose I go away and don't take anything [_with an air of +triumph_]. How would you like that? + +CHARLES. Suits me to a "T." How about you, my dear? Think you can be +firm and bear up under it? + +THIEF. Don't be sarcastic. You're too big. Only women and little men +should be sarcastic. Besides, it isn't fair to me, when I'm trying to +help you. Here am I, trying to get you out of a mighty ticklish +situation, and you go and get funny. It isn't right. + +CHARLES. Beg pardon, old man. Try us in words of one syllable. You see +this is a new situation for us. But we're anxious to learn. + +THIEF. Listen, then. See if you can follow this. Now there's nothing in +your house that I want; nothing that I could for a moment contemplate +keeping without a good deal of pain to myself. + +CLARA. We're trying to spare you. But if you care to know, we had the +advice of Elsie de Wolfe. + +THIEF [_wonderingly_]. Elsie de Wolfe? Elsie, how could you! Now, if you +had asked me to guess, I should have said--the Pullman Company. I +shudder to think of owning any of this bric-a-brac myself. But it must +be done. Here am I offering to burden myself with something I don't +want, wouldn't keep for worlds, and couldn't sell. [_Growing a little +oratorical._] Why do I do this? + +CHARLES. Yes, why do you? + +CLARA. Hush, Charles; it's a rhetorical question; he wants to answer it +himself. + +THIEF. I do it to accommodate you. Must I be even plainer? Imagine that +I go away, refusing to take anything in spite of your protests. Imagine +it's to-morrow. The police and the reporters have caught wind of the +story. Something has been taken from every house in Sargent Road--except +one. The nature of the articles shows that the thief is a man of rare +discrimination. To be quite frank--a connoisseur. + +CLARA. A connoisseur of what? Humph! + +THIEF. And a connoisseur of such judgment that to have him pass your +Rubens by is to cast doubt upon its authenticity. I do not exaggerate. +Let me tell you that from the Hempsteds--[_Clara leans forward, all +interest._]--but that would take too long. [_She leans back._] The +public immediately asks, Why did the thief take nothing from 2819 +Sargent Road? The answer is too obvious: There is nothing worth taking +at 2819 Sargent Road. + +CHARLES [_comprehendingly_]. Um-hu-m! + +THIEF. The public laughs. Worse still, the neighbors laugh. What becomes +of social pretensions after that? It's a serious thing, laughter is. It +puts anybody's case out of court. And it's a serious thing to have a +thief pass you by. People have been socially marooned for less than +that. Have I made myself clear? Are you ready for the question? What +would you like to have me take? + +CHARLES. Now, old man, I say that's neat. Sure you aren't a lawyer? + +THIEF. I have studied the law--but not from that side. + +CLARA. It's all bosh. Why couldn't we claim we'd lost something very +valuable, something we'd never had? + +THIEF [_solemnly_]. That's the most shameless proposal I've ever heard. +Yes, you could _lie_ about it. I can't conceal from you what I think of +your moral standards. + +CHARLES. I can't imagine you concealing anything unpleasant. + +CLARA. It's no worse than-- + +THIEF. Your moral sense is blunted. But I can't attend to that now. +Think of this: Suppose, as I said, I should take nothing and you should +publish that bare-faced lie, and then I should get caught. Would I +shield you? Never. Or suppose I shouldn't get caught. Has no one entered +your house since you have been here? Doesn't your maid know what you +have? Can you trust her not to talk? No, no, it isn't worth the risk. It +isn't even common sense, to say nothing of the moral aspects of the +case. Why do people never stop to think of the practical advantages of +having things stolen! Endless possibilities! Why, a woman loses a $5 +brooch and it's immediately worth $15. The longer it stays lost, the +more diamonds it had in it, until she prays God every night that it +won't be found. Look at the advertising she gets out of it. And does she +learn anything from it? Never. Let a harmless thief appear in her room +and she yells like a hyena instead of saying to him, like a sensible +woman: "Hands up; I've got you right where I want you; you take those +imitation pearls off my dresser and get to hell out of here. If I ever +see you or those pearls around here again, I'll hand you over to the +police." That's what she ought to say. It's the chance of her life. But +unless she's an actress, she misses it absolutely. A thief doesn't +expect gratitude, but it seems to me he might at least expect +understanding and intelligent cooeperation. Here are you facing disgrace, +and here am I willing to save you. And what do I get? Sarcasm, cheap +sarcasm! + +CHARLES. I beg your pardon, old man. I'm truly sorry. You're just too +advanced for us. Clara, there's an idea in it. What do you think? + +CLARA. It has its possibilities. Now if he'll let me choose--Isn't there +a joker in it somewhere? Let me think. We might let you have something. +What do you want? + +THIEF [_indignantly_]. What do I want? I--don't want--anything. Can't +you see that? The question is, What do you want me to have? And please +be a little considerate. Don't ask me to take the pianola or the +ice-box. Can't you make up your minds? Let me help you. Haven't you got +some old wedding gifts? Everybody has. Regular white elephants, yet you +don't dare get rid of them for fear the donors will come to see you and +miss them. A discriminating thief is a godsend. All you have to do is +write: "Dear Maude and Fred: Last night our house was broken into, and +of course the first thing that was taken was that lovely Roycroft chair +you gave us." Or choose what you like. Here's opportunity knocking at +your door. Make it something ugly as you please, but something genuine. +I hate sham. + +CLARA. Charles, it's our chance. There's that lovely, hand-carved-- + +THIEF. Stop! I saw it [_shuddering_]. It has the marks of the machine +all over it. Not that. I can't take that. + +CLARA. Beggars shouldn't be-- + +THIEF. Where's my coat? That settles it. + +CLARA. Oh, don't go! I didn't mean it. Honestly I didn't. It just +slipped out. You mustn't leave us like this-- + +THIEF. I don't have to put up with such-- + +CLARA. Oh, please stay, and take something! Haven't we anything you +want? Charles, hold him; don't let him go. No, that won't do any good. +Talk to him-- + +CHARLES. Don't be so sensitive, old man. She didn't mean it. You know +how those old sayings slip out--just say themselves. She only called you +a little beggar anyway. You ought to hear what she calls me sometimes. + +THIEF. I don't want to. I'm not her husband. And I don't believe she +does it in the same way, either. But I'm not going to be mean about +this. I'll give you another chance. Trot out your curios. + +CHARLES. How about this? Old luster set of Clara's grandmother's. I'm +no judge of such things myself, but if you could use it, take it. +Granddad gave it to her when they were sweethearts, didn't he, Clara? + +THIEF. That! Old luster? That jug won't be four years old its next +birthday. Don't lay such things to your grandmother. Have some respect +for the dead. If you gave more than $3.98 for it, they saw you coming. + +CLARA. You don't know anything about it. You're just trying to humiliate +us because you know you have the upper hand. + +THIEF. All right. Go ahead. Take your own risks. + +CLARA. There's this Sheffield tray? + +THIEF. No. + +CHARLES. Do you like Wedgewood? + +THIEF. Yes, where is it? [_Looks at it._] No. + +CLARA. This darling hawthorne vase-- + +THIEF. Please take it away. It isn't hawthorne. + +CHARLES. I suppose Cloisonne-- + +THIEF. If they were any of them what you call them. But they aren't. + +CHARLES. Well, if you'd consider burnt wood. That's a genuine burn. + +THIEF. Nothing short of cremation would do it justice. Of course I've +got to take one of them, if they're all you've got. But honestly, there +isn't one genuine thing in this house, except Charles--and--and the ham +sandwich. + +CLARA [_takes miniature from cabinet_]. I wonder if you would treasure +this as I do. It's very dear to me. It's grandmother-- + +THIEF [_suspiciously_]. Grandmother again? + +CLARA. As a little girl. Painted on ivory. See that quaint old coral +necklace. And those adorable yellow curls. And the pink circle comb. +Would you like it? + +THIEF. Trying to appeal to my sympathy. I've a good notion to take it to +punish you. I wonder if it IS your grandmother. There isn't the +slightest family resemblance. Look here!--it is!--it's a copy of the +Selby miniature! Woman, do you know who that IS? It's Harriet Beecher +Stowe at twelve. What have you done with my overcoat? + +CHARLES. I give up. Here it is. Clara, that was too bad. + +CLARA. I wanted to see if he'd know. + +CHARLES. There's no use trying to save us after this. We'll just have to +bear the disgrace. + +THIEF. Charles, you're a trump! I'll even take that old daub for YOU. +Give it to me. + +CHARLES. Wait a minute. You won't have to. Say, Clara, where is that old +picture of Cousin Paul? It's just as bad as it pretends to be, if +genuineness is all you want. + +THIEF [_suspiciously_]. Who is Cousin Paul? Don't try to ring in Daniel +Webster on me. + +CHARLES. Cousin of mine. Lives on a farm near Madison, Wisconsin. + +THIEF. You don't claim the picture is by Sargent or Whistler? + +CLARA. It couldn't be-- + +THIEF [_ignoring her pointedly_]. Do you, Charles? + +CHARLES. Certainly not. It's a water color of the purest water, and +almost a speaking likeness. + +THIEF. I'll take Cousin Paul. Probably he has human interest. + +CHARLES. That's the last thing I should have thought of in connection +with Cousin Paul. + +THIEF. Bring him, but wrapped, please. My courage might fail me if I saw +him face to face. + +CHARLES [_leaving room for picture_]. Mine always does. + +THIEF. While Charles is wrapping up the picture, I want to know how you +got back so early. Your maid said you were going to the Garrick. + +CLARA. We told her so. But we went to the moving pictures. + +THIEF. You ought not to go to the movies. It will destroy your literary +taste and weaken your minds. + +CLARA. I don't care for them myself, but Charles won't see anything +else. + +THIEF. You ought to make him. Men only go to the theater anyway because +their wives take them. They'd rather stay at home or play billiards. You +have a chance right there. Charles will go where you take him. By and by +he will begin to like it. Now to-night there was a Granville Barker show +at the Garrick, and you went to the movies to see a woman whose idea of +cuteness is to act as if she had a case of arrested mental development. + +CHARLES [_entering, doing up picture_]. Silly old films, anyway. But +Clara will go. Goes afternoons when I'm not here, and then drags me off +again in the evening. Here's your picture, as soon as I get it tied up. +Can't tell you how grateful we are. Shall we make it unanimous, Clara? + +CLARA. I haven't the vote, you know. Clumsy! give me the picture. + +THIEF. Don't try to thank me. If you'll give up this shamming I'll feel +repaid for my time and trouble [_looking at watch_]. By Jove! it's far +too much time. I must make tracks this minute. I'll feel repaid if +you'll take my advice about the theater for one thing, and--why don't +you bundle all this imitation junk together and sell it and get one +genuine good thing? + + [_Clara leaves, apparently for more string._] + +CHARLES. Who'd buy them? + +THIEF. There must be other people in the world with taste as infallibly +bad as yours. + +CHARLES. Call that honest? + +THIEF. Certainly. I'm not telling you to sell them as relics. You +couldn't in the first place, except to a home for the aged and indigent +blind. But I know a man who needs them. They'd rejoice his heart. They'd +be things of beauty to him. I wish I could help you pick out something +with your money. But I don't dare risk seeing you again. + +CLARA [_reentering, with the picture tied_]. Why not? There's honor +among thieves. + +THIEF. There _is_. If you were thieves, I'd know just how far to trust +you. Now, I'd be willing to trust Charles as man to man. Gentleman's +agreement. But [_looking at Clara_] I don't know-- + +CHARLES. Clara is just as honest as we are--with her own class. But your +profession puts you outside the pale with her; you're her natural enemy. +You haven't any rights. But you've been a liberal education for us both. + +THIEF. I've been liberal. You meet me--listen!--there are footsteps on +the porch. I--I've waited too long. Here I've stood talking-- + +CHARLES. Well, stop it now, can't you? I don't see how you've ever got +anywhere. Hide! + +THIEF. No, it can't be done. If you'll play fair, I'm safe enough here +in this room, safer than anywhere else. Pretend I'm a friend of yours. +You will? Gentleman's agreement? [_He shakes hands with Charles._] + +CHARLES. Gentleman's agreement. My word of honor. + +CLARA [_offers her hand as Charles starts for the door_]. Gentleman's +agreement, but only in this. I haven't forgiven you for what you've +said. If I ever get you in a tight place--look out. + +THIEF [_taking her hand_]. Don't tell more than one necessary lie. It's +so easy to get started in that sort of thing. Stick to it that I'm a +friend of the family and that I've been spending the evening. God knows +I have! + +CLARA. I'll try to stick to that. But can't I improvise a little? It's +such fun! + +THIEF. Not a bit. Not one little white lie. + +CHARLES [_entering with a young man behind him_]. It's a man from the +_News_. He says he was out here on another story and he's got a big +scoop. There's been some artistic burglary in the neighborhood and he's +run onto it. I told him we hadn't lost anything and that we don't want +to get into the papers; but he wants us to answer a few questions. + +REPORTER. Please do. I need some stuff about the neighborhood. + +CLARA. I don't know, Charles, but that it's our duty. [_She smiles +wickedly at the thief._] Something we say may help catch the thieves. +Perhaps we owe it to law and order. + +REPORTER. That's right. Would you object if I used your name? + + [_Charles and the thief motion to Clara to keep still, but + throughout the rest of the conversation she disregards their + frantic signals, and sails serenely on._] + +CLARA. I don't know that we should mind if you mention us nicely. Will +the Hempsteds be in? I shan't mind it, if they don't. + +REPORTER. Good for you. Now, have you-- + +CLARA. We have missed something. We haven't had time to look thoroughly, +but we do know that one of our pictures is gone. + + [_The men are motioning to her, but she goes on sweetly._] + +REPORTER. A-a-ah! Valuable picture. He hasn't taken anything that wasn't +best of its class. Remarkable chap. Must be the same one that rifled the +Pierpont collection of illuminated manuscripts. Culled the finest pieces +without a mistake. + +THIEF [_interested_]. He made one big mistake. He--[_stops short_]. + +REPORTER. Know the Pierponts? + +THIEF. Er--ye-es. I've been in their house. [_Retires from the +conversation. Clara smiles._] + +REPORTER. Well, believe me, if he's taken anything, your reputation as +collectors is made. Picture, eh? Old master, I suppose? + +CLARA. A family portrait. We treasured it for that. Associations, you +know. + +REPORTER. Must have been valuable, all right. Depend on him to know. He +doesn't run away with any junk. Who was the artist? + +CLARA. We don't know--definitely. + +REPORTER. Never heard it attributed to anybody? + +CLARA. We don't care to make any point of such things. But there have +been people who have thought--it was not--a--a Gilbert Stuart. + +CHARLES. Clara! + +CLARA. I don't know much about such things myself. But our friend [_nods +toward the thief_], Mr.--Mr. Hibbard--who has some reputation as a +collector, has always said that it was--not. In spite of that fact, he +had offered to take it off our hands. + +CHARLES. Clara, you're going too far-- + +REPORTER. She's quite right. You're wrong, Mr. Hibbard. You may be good, +but this fellow KNOWS. Too bad you didn't take it while the taking was +good. This fellow never sells. Of course he can't exhibit. Just loves +beautiful things. No, sir, it was real. + +THIEF [_between his teeth_]. It wasn't. Of all the-- + +CLARA [_smiling_]. You take your beating so ungracefully, Mr. Hibbard. +The case, you see, is all against you. + +THIEF. Be careful. The picture may be found at any minute. Don't go too +far. + +CLARA. I hardly think it will be found unless the thief is caught. And I +have such perfect confidence in his good sense that I don't expect that. + +REPORTER. Lots of time for a getaway. When was he here? + +CLARA. He was gone when we came from the theater. But we must almost +have caught him. Some of our finest things were gathered together here +on the table ready for his flight. How he must have hated to leave them, +all the miniatures and the cloisonne. I almost feel sorry for him. + +CHARLES. I do. + +CLARA. You see, we went to the Garrick for the Granville Barker show. +Mr. Hibbard took us [_she smiles sweetly at him_]. I'm devoted to the +best in drama and I always insist that Charles and Mr. Hibbard shall +take me only to the finest things. And now we come home to find +our--you're sure it was a Gilbert Stuart?--gone. + +THIEF. I've got to be getting out of here! Can't stay a minute longer! +Charles, I wish you luck in that reform we were speaking of, but I +haven't much hope [_looking at Clara_]. There is such a thing as total +depravity. Oh, here! [_taking package from under his arm_]. What am I +thinking of? I was running away with your package [_hands it to Clara_]. + +CLARA [_refusing it_]. Oh, but it's yours, Mr. Hibbard. I couldn't think +of taking it. Really, you must keep it to remember us by. Put it among +your art treasures at home, next to your lovely illuminated manuscripts, +and whenever you look at it remember us and this delightful evening, +from which we are all taking away so much. You must keep it--that's part +of the bargain, isn't it? And now are we even? + +THIEF. Even? Far from it. I yield you your woman's right to the last +word, and I admit it's the best [_stoops and kisses her hand_]. +Good-night, Clara. [_To the reporter._] May I give you a lift back to +town? + +REPORTER. Thanks. As far as the Hempsteds' corner. Good-night. Thank +you for this much help. [_Exeunt._] + +CHARLES. Thank goodness, they've gone. What relief! That pace is too +rapid for me. You had me running round in circles. But he's got the +picture, and we're safe at last. But don't you think, Clara, you took +some awful risks. You goaded him pretty far. + +CLARA. I had to. Did you hear him call me Clara? + +CHARLES [_chuckling_]. He doesn't know our name. But he wasn't a bad +fellow, was he? I couldn't help liking him in spite of his impudence. + +CLARA. You showed it. You took sides with him against me all the time +the reporter was here. But, you know, he was right about our house. It's +all wrong. The Hempsteds would see it in a minute. I believe I'll clear +out this cabinet and have this room done over in mahogany. + +CHARLES. Too expensive this winter. + +CLARA. Birch will do just as well--nobody knows the difference. Listen! +is he coming back? + +REPORTER [_in the doorway_]. Excuse me--listen. Mr. Hibbard says you've +given him the wrong package. He says you need this to go with the +picture of your grandmother. And he says, sir, that you need to get wise +to your own family. He's waiting for me. Good-night! [_Exit._] + +CHARLES [_angrily_]. Get wise to my own family? He may know all about +art [_undoing the picture_], but I guess I know my own relatives. +[_Holds up picture so that audience can see it, but he can't._] And if +that isn't a picture of my own cousin Paul, I'll eat--[_sees Clara +laughing_]. What the devil! [_Looks at picture, which represents George +Washington._] Clara! you did that! [_laughs uproariously_]. You little +cheat! + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE MEDICINE SHOW + + A COMEDY + + BY STUART WALKER + + + Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company. + All rights reserved. + + + THE MEDICINE SHOW was first produced by Stuart Walker's Portmanteau + Theatre, with the following cast: + + LUT'ER _Williard Webster_. + GIZ _Edgar Stehli_. + DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER _Lew Medbury_. + + CHARACTERS + + LUT'ER. + GIZ. + DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER. + + + _THE SCENE is on the south bank of the Ohio River. An old soap box, + a log and a large stone are visible. The river is supposed to flow + between the stage and the audience. In the background, at the lop of + the "grade," is the village of Rock Springs._ + + + Reprinted from "Portmanteau Plays" published by Stewart & Kidd + Company, Cincinnati, Ohio, by special permission of Stewart and Kidd. + The professional and amateur stage rights are strictly reserved by + Mr. Stuart Walker. + + + +THE MEDICINE SHOW + +A COMEDY BY STUART WALKER + + + [_PROLOGUE: This is only a quarter of a play. Its faults are many. + Come, glory in them with us._ + + _You are a little boy once more lying on your rounded belly on the + cool, damp sands beside the beautiful river. You are still young + enough to see the wonder that everywhere touches the world; and + men are in the world--all sorts of men. But you can still look + upon them with the shining eyes of brotherhood. You can still feel + the mystery that is true understanding. Everywhere about you men + and things are reaching for the infinite, each in his own way, be + it big or little, be it the moon or a medicine show; and you + yourself are not yet decided whether to reach for the stars or go + a-fishing. Brother!_ + + _Lut'er enters or rather oozes in._ + + _He is a tall, expressionless, uncooerdinated person who might be + called filthy were it not for the fact that the dirt on his skin + and on his clothes seems an inherent part of him. He has a wan + smile that--what there is of it--is not displeasing. Strangely + enough, his face is always smooth-shaven. He carries a fishing + pole made from a tree twig and equipped with a thread knotted + frequently and a bent pin for hook._ + + _Lut'er looks about and his eyes light on the stone. He attempts + to move it with his bare foot to the water's edge, but it is too + heavy for him. Next he looks at the log, raises his foot to move + it, then abandons the attempt because his eyes rest on the lighter + soap box. This he puts in position, never deigning to touch it + with his hands. Then he sits calmly and drawing a fishing worm + from the pocket of his shirt fastens it on the pin-hook and casts + his line into the water. Thereafter he takes no apparent interest + in fishing._ + + _After a moment Giz enters._ + + _Giz is somewhat dirtier than Lut'er but the dirt is less + assimilated and consequently less to be condoned. Besides he + is fuzzy with a beard of long standing. He may have been shaved + some Saturdays ago--but quite ago._ + + _Giz doesn't speak to Lut'er and Lut'er doesn't speak to Giz, but + Lut'er suggests life by continued chewing and he acknowledges the + proximity of Giz by spitting and wiping his lips with his hand. + Giz having tried the log and the rock finally chooses the rock and + acknowledges Lut'er's salivary greeting by spitting also; but he + wipes his mouth on his sleeve._ + + _After a moment he reaches forward with his bare foot and touches + the water._] + + +GIZ. 'Tis warm as fresh milk. + + [_Lut'er, not to be wholly unresponsive, spits. A fresh silence + falls upon them._] + +GIZ. 'S Hattie Brown came in? + + [_Lut'er spits and almost shakes his head negatively._] + +She's a mighty good little steam-boat. + +LUT'ER. She's water-logged. + +GIZ. She ain't water-logged. + +LUT'ER. She is. + +GIZ. She ain't. + +LUT'ER. She is. + +GIZ. She ain't. + + [_The argument dies of malnutrition. After a moment of silence Giz + speaks._] + +GIZ. 'S river raisin'? + +LUT'ER. Nup! + + [_Silence._] + +GIZ. Fallin'? + +LUT'ER. Nup! + +GIZ. Standin' still? + +LUT'ER. Uh! + + [_The conversation might continue if Giz did not catch a mosquito on + his leg._] + +GIZ. Gosh! A galler-nipper at noonday! + + [_Lut'er scratches back of his ear warily._] + +GIZ. An' look at the whelp! + + [_Giz scratches actively, examines the wound and anoints it with + tobacco juice._ + + _The Play would be ended at this moment for lack of varied action + if Dr. Stev'n Vandexter did not enter._ + + _He is an eager, healthy-looking man with a whitish beard that + long washing in Ohio River water has turned yellowish. He wears + spectacles and his clothes and general appearance are somewhat an + improvement upon Lut'er and Giz. Furthermore he wears what were + shoes and both supports of his suspenders are fairly intact. He is + whittling a piece of white pine with a large jack-knife._ + + _Seeing Lut'er and Giz he draws the log between them and sits._ + + _After a moment in which three cuds are audibly chewed, Dr. Stev'n + speaks._] + +DOCTOR. What gits me is how they done it. + + [_For the first time Lut'er turns his head as admission that some + one is there. Giz looks up with a dawn of interest under his + beard. Silence._] + +DOCTOR. I traded a two-pound catfish for a box of that salve: an' I +don't see how they done it. + + [_Lut'er having turned his head keeps it turned. Evidently Dr. + Stev'n always has something of interest to say._] + +GIZ. Kickapoo? + +DOCTOR. Ye'. Kickapoo Indian Salve. I don't think no Indian never seen +it. + + [_He looks at Giz for acquiescence._] + +GIZ. Y'ain't never sure about nothin' these days. + + [_Dr. Stev'n looks at Lut'er for acquiescence also, and Lut'er + approving turns his head forward and spits assent._] + +DOCTOR. I smelled it an' it smelled like ker'sene. I biled it an' it +biled over an' burnt up like ker'sene.... I don't think it was nothin' +but ker'sene an' lard. + +GIZ. Reckon 't wuz common ker'sene? + +DOCTOR. I don't know whether 't wuz common ker'sene but I know 't wuz +ker'sene.... An' I bet ker'sene'll cure heaps o' troubles if yer use it +right. + +GIZ. That air doctor said the salve ud cure most anything. + +LUT'ER [_as though a voice from the grave, long forgotten_]. Which +doctor? + +GIZ. The man doctor--him with the p'inted musstash. + +LUT'ER. I seen him take a egg outer Jimmie Weldon's ear--an' Jimmie +swore he didn't have no hen in his head. + +DOCTOR. But the lady doctor said it warn't so good--effie-cacious she +called it--withouten you took two bottles o' the buildin' up medicine, a +box o' the liver pills an' a bottle o' the hair fluid. + +GIZ. She knowed a lot. She told me just how I felt an' she said she +hated to trouble me but I had a internal ailment. An' she said I needed +all their medicine jus' like the Indians used it. But I told her I +didn't have no money so she said maybe the box o' liver pills would do +if I'd bring 'em some corn for their supper. + +DOCTOR. Y' got the liver pills? + +GIZ. Uh-huh. + +LUT'ER. Took any? + +GIZ. Nup, I'm savin' 'em. + +LUT'ER. What fur? + +GIZ. Till I'm feelin' sicker'n I am now. + +DOCTOR. Where are they? + +GIZ. In m' pocket. + + [_They chew in silence for a minute._] + +DOCTOR. Yes, sir! It smelled like ker'sene ter me--and ker'sene 't +wuz.... Ker'sene'll cure heaps o' things if you use it right. + + [_He punctuates his talk with covert glances at Giz. His thoughts + are on the pills._] + +DOCTOR. Which pocket yer pills in, Giz? + +GIZ [_discouragingly_]. M' hip pocket. + + [_Again they chew._] + +DOCTOR. The Family Medicine Book where I learned ter be a doctor said +camphor an' ker'sene an' lard rubbed on flannel an' put on the chest 'ud +cure tizic, maybe. [_He looks at Giz._] + +DOCTOR. An' what ud cure tizic ought ter cure anything, I think.... I'd +'a' cured m' second wife if the winder hadn't blowed out an' she got +kivered with snow. Atter that she jus' wheezed until she couldn't wheeze +no longer. An' so when I went courtin' m' third wife, I took a stitch +in time an' told her about the camphor an' ker'sene an' lard. +[_Ruefully._] She's a tur'ble healthy woman. [_His feelings and his +curiosity having overcome his tact, he blurts out._] Giz, why'n th' hell +don't yer show us yer pills! + +GIZ. Well--if yer wanner see 'em--here they air. + + [_He takes the dirty, mashed box out of his hip pocket and hands + it to the Doctor. The Doctor opens the box and smells the pills._] + +DOCTOR. Ker'sene.... Smell 'em, Lut'er. [_He holds the box close to +Luter's nose._] + +LUT'ER [_with the least possible expenditure of energy_]. Uh! + +DOCTOR. Ker'sene!... Well, I guess it's good for the liver, too.... +Gimme one, Giz? + +GIZ. I ain't got so many I can be givin' 'em ter everybody. + +DOCTOR. Jus' one, Giz. + +GIZ. She said I ought ter take 'em all fer a cure. + +LUT'ER. What yer got, Giz? [_Calling a man by name is a great effort for +Lut'er._] + +GIZ. Mostly a tired feelin' an' sometimes a crick in th' back. [_Lut'er +displays a sympathy undreamed of._] + +LUT'ER. Gimme one, Giz. + +GIZ. Gosh! You want th' whole box, don't yer? + +LUT'ER. Keep yer pills. [_He spits._] + +DOCTOR. What's ailin' _you_, Lut'er? + +LUT'ER. Oh, a tired feelin'. [_There is a long moment of suspended +animation, but the Doctor knows that the mills of the gods grind +slowly--and he waits for Lut'er to continue._] An' a crick in m' back. + +DOCTOR. I'll cure yer, Lut'er. [_Lut'er just looks._] If that Kickapoo +doctor with the p'inted muss-tash kin cure yer, I guess I can. + +GIZ [_who has been thinking pretty hard_]. Got any terbaccer, Doc? + +DOCTOR. Yep. + +GIZ. Well, here's a pill fer a chaw. [_He and the Doctor rise._] + + [_Giz takes a pill out of the box and the Doctor takes his tobacco + from his pocket, reaches out his hand for the pill and holds out + the tobacco, placing his thumb definitely on the plug so that Giz + can bite off so much and no more. Giz bites and the Doctor takes + over the pill. Lut'er not to be outdone takes a battered plug of + tobacco from his pocket and bites of an unlimited "chaw." The + Doctor takes his knife from his pocket and cuts the pill, smelling + it._] + +DOCTOR. Ker'sene! [_He tastes it._] Ker'sene! Now I been thinkin' things +over, Lut'er and Giz.... [_He tastes the pill again._] Ker'sene, +sure! [_He sits down on the log once more, spits carefully and crosses +his legs._] I got a business proposition to make. [_Silence. Lut'er +spits and crosses his legs, and Giz just spits._] + +DOCTOR. There ain't enough home industry here in Rock Springs. We got a +canning fact'ry and a stea'mill; but here comes a medicine show from +Ioway--a Kickapoo Indian Medicine Show from Ioway! Now--what we need in +Rock Springs is a medicine show! [_He waits for the effect upon his +audience._] + +LUT'ER [_after a pause_]. How yer goin' ter git it? + +DOCTOR. Well, here's my proposition. Ain't we got as much horse sense as +them Ioway Indians? + +LUT'ER. A damn sight more. [_That is the evident answer to the Doctor, +but Lut'er develops a further idea._] We got the country from the +Indians. + +GIZ [_after a moment of accumulating admiration_]. By Golly, Lut'er, yer +right. + +DOCTOR. Now, I got some medicine science. I'd 'a' cured my second wife +if it hadn't been for that busted winder. + +GIZ. Yeh, but what come o' yer first wife? + +DOCTOR. I could 'a' cured her, too, only I hadn't found the Family +Medicine Book then. + +LUT'ER. Well, what I wanter know is--what's yer proposition.... I'm in a +hurry.... Here comes the Hattie Brown. + + [_The Hattie Brown and the whistle of the steam-mill indicate + noon. Lut'er takes in the line--removes the fishing worm and puts + it in his pocket._] + +DOCTOR. Well, I'll make the salve an' do the talkin'; Giz'll sort o' +whoop things up a bit and Lut'er'll git cured. + +LUT'ER. What'll I get cured of? + +DOCTOR. Oh, lumbago an' tired feelin' ... crick in the back and tizic. + +LUT'ER. But who'll take a egg out o' somebody's ear? + +DOCTOR. Giz'll learn that. + +LUT'ER [_with a wan smile that memory illuminates._] An' who'll play the +pianny? + +DOCTOR. Besteena, my daughter. + +LUT'ER. Where we goin'? + +DOCTOR. We'll go ter Lavanny first. + +LUT'ER. How'll we git there? + +DOCTOR. Walk--unless somebody give us a tote. + +GIZ. We kin go in my John-boat. + +LUT'ER. Who'll row? [_There is fear in his voice._] + +GIZ. We'll take turns. [_Lut'er looks with terror upon Giz._] + +LUT'ER. How fur is it? + +DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile.... Will you go, Lut'er? + +LUT'ER [_evidently thinking deeply_]. How fur is it? + +GIZ. Three an' a half mile. + +DOCTOR. Will yer go, Lut'er? + +LUT'ER. Uh-h. + +DOCTOR. Huh? + +GIZ. He said, uh-huh. + +[_Lut'er chews in silence._] + +DOCTOR. I thought he said uh-uh. + +GIZ. He said uh-huh. + +DOCTOR. He didn't say nothin' o' the sort--he said uh-uh. + +[_They turn to Lut'er questioningly. He is chewing intensely._] + +LUT'ER [_after a pause_]. How fur did yer say it wuz? + +DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile. + +[_Silence._] + +GIZ. We'll each take a oar. + + [_Silence. A stentorian voice is heard calling "Stee'vun." The + Doctor rises, hastily._] + +DOCTOR. What d'yer say, Lut'er? + +LUT'ER. It's three an' a half mile ter Lavanny--an' three an' a half +mile back.... Pretty fur. + +DOCTOR. We kin come back on the current. + +LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile air three an' a half mile--current or no +current. + + [_Again the masterful female voice calls "Stee'vun." There is no + mistaking its meaning. The Doctor is torn between home and + business. Lut'er takes up his rod, rebaits the hook with the + fishing-worm from his pocket and casts his line into the river._] + +LUT'ER. I'll think it over ... but I ain't givin' yuh no hope.... Three +an' a half mile one way air pretty fur ... but two ways--it's turruble. + +DOCTOR. Come on, Giz. We'll talk it over. + + [_The Doctor and Giz leave Lut'er to his problem. Lut'er is + undecided. He is at a crisis in his life. He spits thoughtfully + and looks after the retreating Doctor and Giz._] + +LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile.... [_He takes in his line and removes the +fishing-worm. He rises and looks again after the Doctor and Giz. He +hesitates._] ... two ways.... [_He starts in the opposite direction, as +he justifies himself to his inner self._] Rock Springs is fur enough fur +me! [_When he disappears the play is over._] + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +FOR ALL TIME + + A PLAY + + BY RITA WELLMAN + + + Copyright, 1918, by Rita Wellman. + All rights reserved. + + + CHARACTERS + + MONSIEUR ROBERT. + NANETTE. + DIANE BERTRAL. + MADAME LE BARGY. + + TIME: _France, 1915_. + + + Dedicated to + MAURICE MAETERLINCK, + + Whose essay in + "The Wrack of the Storm" + inspired this play. + + + Application for the right of performing FOR ALL TIME must be + made to Rita Wellman, 142 East 18th Street, New York. + + + +FOR ALL TIME + +A PLAY BY RITA WELLMAN + + + [_SCENE: Sitting room in the house of Madame le Bargy. Furnished + in excellent taste. Main entrance center, this leads into a hall. + Another entrance left, back. French window right near back, near + this stands a large wing chair. Couch left, well forward. Chairs + near this. Nanette comes from the entrance left as Monsieur Robert + comes into the room from entrance center. Nanette is a European + old maid. Her dark eyes are full of fire and her lips are bitter. + She speaks quickly and sharply and is always on the defensive. + Monsieur Robert is well groomed, gentle, weak and likable. Nanette + is in deep mourning. Monsieur Robert carries a small bunch of + flowers which he holds awkwardly and fussily as if they + embarrassed him._] + + +NANETTE. Monsieur Robert.... + +ROBERT [_coming forward_]. Nanette.... How are you, Nanette! You look +thinner. + +NANETTE. Yes, it's the mourning. It's unbecoming. + +ROBERT. I shouldn't say that, Nanette. How is Madame? Tell me. [_Nanette +gives an eloquent shrug._] I haven't dared to come before. You know how +I hate anything--anything like a scene. + +NANETTE [_sitting left_]. Sit down, Monsieur Robert. [_He sits in a +chair forward right._] It was cowardly of you not to come to see Madame. + +ROBERT. Yes, I know. I am such a coward. I cannot imagine how I came to +be such a coward, Nanette. I am afraid to do anything any more. Yet my +mind keeps so active. How do you account for that? It's my imagination. +It seems to run ahead and do things in my place. In these times I am all +over the world at once. Nanette, will you believe it, that I suffer +actually with every man in the trenches? + +NANETTE [_contemptuously_]. Oh, I daresay. + +ROBERT. You don't understand my case. I am fifty-five. I have lived for +my work always. Why should I give it up now that the world has gone mad? +Some one must stay behind and keep things together. Some one must +conduct the dull march of everyday life. We can't all be heroes. + +NANETTE. Your work! + +ROBERT. Well, to be at the head of a big charity. That is something. +Countless lives, numberless families are in my care. I am sort of a +father to them all, Nanette. + +NANETTE. They could have a mother as well. + +ROBERT [_with pained eagerness_]. Do you really think that? + +NANETTE. I know it. There are many women as well fitted for your post as +you--better fitted, in fact. + +ROBERT. Oh, surely not. I have had the experience of years. I love my +work so. I love my little people. + +NANETTE. You have made a pleasure out of what should be only your duty. +It isn't the poor who couldn't get along without you, Monsieur Robert. +It's you who couldn't get along without the poor. + +ROBERT. Well, are we all to live merely to do our duty? Is that what the +Germans are going to teach us--to be machines like themselves? + +NANETTE. I suppose after all, you are better off where you are. + +ROBERT. How do you mean, Nanette? + +NANETTE. You are more of a woman than a man after all. + +ROBERT. You were always bitter against me, Nanette. + +NANETTE. You were always superior with me, because I was not beautiful +like Madame nor young like Maurice. + +ROBERT. How did you say she was, Nanette? + +NANETTE. You will find her greatly changed. + +ROBERT. I wanted to come to her as soon as she came, from Aix les Bains. +When she went to recover the body. + +NANETTE [_in a tone of deep feeling_]. Yes, when we went hoping to find +Maurice. + +ROBERT [_softly_]. Tell me about his death. + +NANETTE. There were terrible days in which we could learn nothing +certain. Several times they gave up hope. What hope! It only made +certainty more unbearable. + +ROBERT. They found him at last. + +NANETTE. Yes, they found Maurice. + +ROBERT. The French. That was good. + +NANETTE. No, the Germans. + +ROBERT. But Madame wrote me.... + +NANETTE. That was a lie she told you. The Germans found him. It was they +who had the privilege of putting him away to his final rest. He had just +won his cross. + +ROBERT. He won the cross! + +NANETTE. Yes, didn't you hear? That very week. [_Almost overcome with +emotion she rises._] We have it now. [_She goes out back a moment and +returns with a small black box which she opens reverently._] Here is all +that we have left of Maurice. [_She hands him a picture post card._] +This was taken only the day before.... [_She hands him a letter._] This +was the last letter ... you can see the date.... He was never so +confident or full of life.... There is even a joke about me. He was +always making fun of me. I don't know why. [_She hands him a revolver._] +Here is his revolver. [_She takes out the small box with the cross of +war and hesitates to give it to him._] This--this is what we have left +in place of Maurice. [_With a violent look she opens the box and then +suddenly hands it to him._] + +ROBERT. You mustn't look on it in that way, Nanette. + +NANETTE. I can't help it. + +ROBERT [_reading_]. Maurice Paul le Bargy. Little Maurice! He was never +meant for action either. Do you remember how we used to tease him? He +hated to make any decision. He loved life's dreams and nuances. + +NANETTE. He was nothing but a dreamer. Madame and I were talking only +yesterday of his garden--did we ever tell you of the garden he had when +he was a boy? + +ROBERT [_handing her the box very carefully_]. No. Tell me about the +garden. + +NANETTE. He made himself a garden, everything in it was arranged as if +for people only an inch high. + +ROBERT. But there are no such people. + +NANETTE. Of course not. That is why every one made fun of him. But he +went on building it just the same. It was scaled so that he was a giant +in it. There were little houses and little walks and little boats +sailing on lakes two feet across. The geraniums were great trees, his +pet turtle was like a prehistoric monster, and the hollyhocks pierced +heaven itself. When people told him that no one could really enjoy such +a garden he said that the ants could, and they ought to appreciate a +little beauty because they were always so busy. + +ROBERT. That was like Maurice. How vast the sky must have seemed to him +who loved minute shadowy things! + +NANETTE. He was always timid. Everything violent frightened him. They +made him positively ill. And how he dreaded the sea! Do you remember how +Madame tried to get him to swim? + +ROBERT. But he did learn to swim finally. + +NANETTE. Yes. But he told me one day--"Nanette, when I hear the surf my +whole body shakes with fear. I feel as if some terrible giant were +calling me. I hate the great sea." + +ROBERT. And he fell into the sea, didn't he? + +NANETTE. Two thousand feet. + +ROBERT. What he must have endured all alone! + +NANETTE. No one can know. + + [_After a pause._] + +ROBERT. You say Madame has changed? + +NANETTE [_looking toward left before speaking_]. Yes. + +ROBERT. Why do you look around like that? Is there anything wrong? + +NANETTE. Yes, there is. + +ROBERT. What do you mean? Is Madame very ill? + +NANETTE. There has been a change. + +ROBERT. What kind of a change? + +NANETTE. Madame has changed. You wouldn't know her, Monsieur Robert. + +ROBERT. You mean she has grown old? Madame was always so beautiful. Has +her hair turned white? + +NANETTE. No, it isn't that. + +ROBERT. You mean she is so stricken she can't talk with me? She won't +see me? + +NANETTE. She will see you. But for your own peace of mind I advise you +to go away. I will tell her that you came. That will be the best way. + +ROBERT. A change, you say? You mean she has altered so.... + +NANETTE. Yes. The truth is, it is Madame's mind. + +ROBERT. Her mind! No, no, don't tell me that. That is the worst of all. +Do you mean that she is not clear in her mind? She wouldn't know me? She +wouldn't be able to remember? Nanette, I can't believe it. I can't +believe that this great and beautiful woman could give in like that. +Everywhere you see the small ones breaking down. But the great spirits +like hers--oh they must keep up. What else is there left for us if they +give up, too? + +NANETTE. If you could hear her talk, Monsieur Robert. The things she +says.... Sometimes I have to run away and lock my door. I am afraid of +her. + +ROBERT. I cannot stay now, Nanette. I couldn't bear it. It was hard +enough for me before. What can I say to her, Nanette, when my own grief +finds no comfort? Maurice was like my own son. He was the fruit of my +own soul. Into him went all the spiritual love I had for Madame, the +love which for fourteen years.... + +NANETTE. Monsieur Robert! + +ROBERT. Oh, Nanette, forget your piety for once and let me speak my +heart out. + +NANETTE [_with her strange, bitter coldness_]. No, Monsieur Robert, I +can never forget what you call my--piety. + +ROBERT. No, you never can. That is why I have never been able to talk to +you. Your heart is closed to all but Maurice. + +NANETTE. Yes, that is true. My heart has been like one of those vases of +domestic use which the ancients buried with the dead in their tombs. All +that was warm and beautiful in me is closed away forever with Maurice. +Although I was never more to him than a familiar object which was a part +of his everyday life. Only his old nurse. + +ROBERT. How did he come to inspire such love in every one who came near +him? + +NANETTE. Because he was young and beautiful. + +ROBERT. But that is simply a temporary state. + +NANETTE. Maurice would always have been young and beautiful. + +ROBERT. Yes, he made you believe that. When he talked with you you felt +glad and young as if you'd heard music. + +NANETTE. He loved life. + +ROBERT. Yet he was a coward. + +NANETTE. But he always dared to do what he was afraid to do. + +ROBERT. Yes, that is where he was different from me. That is what I have +never been able to do--to dare as far as I could imagine. + + [_He goes slowly toward the back._] + +NANETTE [_rising_]. You are going? + +ROBERT. Yes. I can't see her. You see the state I am in. What could I +say to her? I had better go. + +NANETTE. Yes, it is the best way for you both. + + [_Robert hesitates at the chair right. He tentatively puts a hand + out to touch the arm of it, and regards it curiously._] + +NANETTE [_unsteadily_]. What are you doing? + +ROBERT. It is strange.... [_Suddenly he falls into the chair and buries +his head in the cushions, sobbing and calling._] Maurice! Maurice! + +NANETTE [_hoarsely_]. Monsieur Robert. [_As he does not answer--sharply +and frightened._] Monsieur Robert! + +ROBERT [_rises slowly, a little dazed, but calm_]. Yes, yes, I know. I +am trying your nerves. Forgive me. I am going now, Nanette. Here--I was +forgetting--The flowers I brought for Madame. You will give them to her, +Nanette. + +NANETTE. Monsieur Robert, why did you act in that way just now? Why did +you go to that chair? + +ROBERT. I don't know. + +NANETTE. When we came home from Aix les Bains I thought Madame would go +wild. She tore her clothes. She went striding about the house from room +to room calling at the top of her voice--Maurice, Maurice. She went into +all the rooms, into his room, looking into the closets--everywhere--Then +she came running down here. She went back into the back sitting room +where she is now--then back into this room. At last she came to that +chair. + +ROBERT. To that chair, Nanette? Are you sure? + +NANETTE. To that very chair. Then she flung herself down into it and +cried. That was the first time she had cried. I went away. When I came +back she was still there. And then this strange and terrible change came +over her. + +ROBERT. How do you mean? + +NANETTE. A peculiar quiet, an awful calm like death--only more terrible. + +ROBERT. Yes, that is how I felt. + +NANETTE. Just now in that chair? + +ROBERT. Yes, just now. + +NANETTE. A calm, you say? + +ROBERT. Yes, like a hand pressed over my heart. + +NANETTE. But you seemed happier, Monsieur Robert. + +ROBERT. I am happier, Nanette. [_He goes toward back._] I am going. + + [_He goes out at center. Nanette watches him dumbfounded. She then + gets the black box, carefully puts away her keepsakes, and takes + the box out center, returning almost at the same time that Diane + Bertral enters. Diane Bertral is a beautiful woman of about + twenty-eight. She is nervous and ill at ease, almost hysterical._] + +DIANE. Does Madame le Bargy live here? + +NANETTE. Yes, she does. Where can Julie be? Did the maid let you in? + +DIANE. No, the gentleman who just went out ... he left the door open for +me. He evidently thought I was a friend. + +NANETTE. Did you want to see Madame le Bargy? + +DIANE. Yes, very much. Could I see her, do you think? + +NANETTE. She is back in her own sitting room. She isn't to be disturbed. + +DIANE. No, I suppose not. I shouldn't have come. + +NANETTE. If you wished to speak with her about anything important I can +take the message. + +DIANE [_absently_]. No--no.... + +NANETTE [_regarding her suspiciously_]. You know Madame le Bargy +personally? + +DIANE. No, no, I don't. + +NANETTE. I thought not. + + [_Sitting._] + +DIANE. May I sit down here for a moment? I am so tired. I have walked +all the way, or rather I have run most of it. I am all out of breath. + +NANETTE. If you will let me know your message at once.... Otherwise +there is a seat down at the concierge. I am very busy. + + [_She goes toward back, with her lips set._] + +DIANE [_rising_]. The truth is.... I can't tell you. It is something +personal. + +NANETTE. Something personal? Perhaps you are mistaken in the Madame le +Bargy ... this is Madame Jeanne le Bargy--the writer.... + +DIANE. Yes, yes, I know. Mightn't I speak with her for a moment? + +NANETTE. That is impossible. Since the death of her son Madame le Bargy +has seen no one. No one at all. + +DIANE. I might have known. Let me think. My mind has been so confused +lately. I have been in such a state of mind--I don't know what to do. I +came running here without any idea in my head. I felt that I would be +all right if I could only see Madame le Bargy. + +NANETTE [_tersely_]. Perhaps Mademoiselle had better see the doctor. At +the end of the street--number 27--you will find an excellent physician. + +DIANE. No physician on earth can cure me. + +NANETTE [_after giving her an uneasy, distrustful look_]. Well, since +you cannot see Madame le Bargy, and since you have no message for her, I +must ask you please to excuse me. I am busy. + + [_She stands waiting for Diane to go, regarding her with undisguised + hostility._] + +DIANE. Yes, I will go. Why did I ever come? It was a mad idea. I see now +that the things which seem so simple and easy in the heat of your own +mind are the hardest of all to accomplish when you meet the coldness of +other minds. Don't trouble about me. I am going. I didn't come to harm +you or Madame in any way. + +[_As she goes toward the door she passes the chair at right and stops. +She goes toward it curiously, then hopefully. Finally she flings herself +into it as Robert has done, and sobs the name--"Maurice! Maurice!"_] + +NANETTE [_horrified_]. Mademoiselle! + + [_Diane rises slowly, looking about her in a dazed way. Then she + suddenly leaves the chair._] + +DIANE [_quietly_]. Forgive me. I will go quietly now. + +NANETTE [_trembling_]. Mademoiselle. Just now--you spoke a name.... + +DIANE. Yes. + +NANETTE. Was it--Maurice? + +DIANE. Yes. + +NANETTE [_drawing away, her face going black_]. I see. + +DIANE [_going up to her curiously_]. Who are you? + +NANETTE [_drawing herself up, showing the utmost contempt, hatred and +fear of Diane_]. Who are _you_? + +DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral. + +NANETTE. Who _are_ you? + +DIANE. Just that. + +NANETTE [_as before_]. I see. + +DIANE [_passionately_]. Madame, listen to me.... + +NANETTE. Mademoiselle.... + +DIANE. Mademoiselle--are you--Nanette? + +NANETTE [_who seems to grow small with dread_]. Those who know me well +call me that. + +DIANE. He often spoke of you. He told me of you. You were his old nurse. +You were very dear to him. He always said he was the only person to +reach your heart. [_Seizing Nanette's hand._] Nanette! Let me call you +Nanette! Let me touch you. Let me know that heart which he could waken. +I am so in need of help. I am so in need of love. + +NANETTE [_drawing away_]. Mademoiselle! + +DIANE. You have lost Maurice. You know what I feel. Only you can know. +Help me. Let us help each other! We can never be strangers for our +hearts bear the same sorrow. + +NANETTE. I don't understand. [_Growing stern with the realization._] +Maurice! Can it be that Maurice.... No, that is impossible. He was not +like that. + +DIANE. Nanette. I loved Maurice. He loved me. + +NANETTE [_recoiling as if at a great obscenity_]. Oh! + +DIANE. Why do you speak like that? What could there be in our love for +each other that was wrong? If you only knew what we were to each other. +If you only knew, Nanette.... + +NANETTE [_hoarsely_]. Maurice.... I can scarcely believe it. + +DIANE. Let me talk to you about him. Let me tell you about us. [_She +sits on the couch left, and feverishly begins to talk._] I am an +actress. We met at a supper party after the theater. You know how shy +Maurice was. He was afraid of most people. I saw that. I drew him to one +side and got him to talk. He was like a child when any one took a real +interest in him. He told me all about himself at once, about you, and +about Madame le Bargy.... + +NANETTE [_passionately_]. Oh, keep still! + +DIANE [_not noticing Nanette's hostility_]. And about your house in the +country, and his garden and books and his piano and all the things he +loved. Then he went on and told me about his work, and how he wanted to +be a great writer, how he wanted to carry on what was best in the French +theater. He promised to show me his play. + +NANETTE. His play! + +DIANE. I told him to come to my house and read it to me. He came the +next day. It was the twenty-first of March. I remember the date +perfectly. + +NANETTE. We always left town on that day, but we could not get Maurice +to go, so we had to leave him behind. Now I understand. + +DIANE. Yes. He stayed to lunch with me, and that afternoon I had him +read his play to me. Do you remember how beautiful his voice was? It +started in a sort of sing song, like a child singing itself to sleep, +but as he went on his voice grew deeper and stronger, all your senses +melted into his voice and he carried you along as if on a great wave of +emotion, of ecstasy. Monsieur Laugier came later. He was my manager +then. I had Maurice read the play to him. And later some other people +came, and every one urged Monsieur Laugier to take the play. I begged +him to read it. I will never forget it. It seemed to me the most +important thing in the world. Well, as you know, Monsieur Laugier did +produce Maurice's play. And, although they wouldn't let me be in it, I +always considered it my play, too. + +NANETTE. Then the story he told us of his meeting with Monsieur +Laugier--that wasn't true? + +DIANE. No. I invented that for him to tell you. + +NANETTE. He lied to us! + +DIANE. You would never have understood. + +NANETTE. Let me think--Maurice's play was produced in September, 1913. +That is two years ago. Two years.... Maurice lived here with us--day +after day--saying nothing--telling us nothing--We never suspected. We +never dreamed that he would deceive us. + +DIANE. He did not deceive you. Not even the closest hearts can reveal +everything. + +NANETTE. But to continue to see you ... all that time! It is +unthinkable. + +DIANE. How could he explain what he didn't understand himself? How could +he tell you of what was a mystery to him? From the first moment we met +we lived and thought and felt as one being. + +NANETTE [_vehemently_]. No! With us he was like that! He was like that +with us. + +DIANE. With me! + +NANETTE. To think of it! A common actress! + +DIANE [_jumping up_]. How could you? + +NANETTE. If I had known of this affair I would have gone straight to +you. + +DIANE. And what could you have done? + +NANETTE [_significantly_]. I could have found a way. + +DIANE. You are a terrible old woman. + +NANETTE. Am I terrible? I had to fight my way when I was your +age--because I was not pretty. I had the choice of being a free drudge +or some man's slave. So I chose to toil alone. In order to get along +alone I had to stifle every drop of humanity in my being. I had to bind +up my human instincts as they bind up the breasts of mothers who flow +too bounteously with life-blood long after their babes have need of it. +I had to become sharp and bitter because sweetness and softness get +crushed under in the battle to live. I learned to fight and I forgot to +feel. Then, when I was used up and hard I met Madame le Bargy and she +took me into her house because I had one valuable thing left. I had +learned that it is wiser to be honest. I was there when Maurice was +born. + +DIANE. You were with him from the very beginning then. + +NANETTE. I was an old maid of thirty-five. I had always lived alone. I +hadn't ever had a dog to care for. Then all at once I had this baby, +this little baby. I had his baby cries to call me. I had his tiny hands +to kiss. I used to press my lips against his throbbing head, against the +soft fissure where life and death meet, and I would say to myself, +"Here, with one pressure I can crush away life. Here, with one pressure +is where immortal life must have entered." + +DIANE. Then later--when he grew up.... + +NANETTE. Day by day I watched over him. Madame was busy. Even after her +husband died she was in the world. She had her writing. She had her +friends. Her heart was fed in a hundred different ways. While I--I had +only Maurice. + +DIANE. I understand. + +NANETTE. I lived only for Maurice. When I saw that it was raining I +thought of Maurice. When I saw that the sun shone I thought of Maurice. +If I was awakened suddenly in the night his name was on my lips. It +seemed to me I could not take a deep breath for fear of disturbing his +image against my heart. + +DIANE. Nanette! Can you believe that I have felt that way too? + +NANETTE. You! + +DIANE. Yes, yes, I have. Nanette, when he was little, when he was a boy +growing up, did you never think of me? + +NANETTE. Of you! + +DIANE. Yes, of the woman who would eventually take your place. Didn't +you think of what she would be like, didn't you plan her, didn't you +pray that she might be fine and great and beautiful? I know you did. You +must have! Well, I tried to mold myself that way. I tried to be worthy +of every dream you could have had for him, that his mother could have +had. That is how I loved him. + +NANETTE. Do you know what I thought of when the idea of a woman for +Maurice came into my mind? I thought that when she came--if she ever +did-- + + [_She pauses, looking ahead of her._] + +DIANE. Yes? + +NANETTE [_turning and looking at Diane vindictively_]. I would kill her! + +DIANE. Nanette, I would have killed myself rather than harm Maurice. + +NANETTE. Then why did you allow him to throw himself away? + +DIANE. Throw himself away! Nanette, I never knew what love was until +Maurice came. I was older than he. I knew life better. I knew myself +better. I had struggled. You say that you had to struggle because you +weren't pretty. I had to struggle because I was. You can't know what it +is to have every other man you meet want to possess you, not because he +loves you, but because your face suggests love to him and he hasn't +learned to know the difference. He finds that out later, and then he +reproaches you for being beautiful. + +NANETTE. To think that Maurice should fall so low! + +DIANE. But I came to know things. I was determined to find love. From +man to man, Nanette, I climbed up and up, picking my way, falling and +getting up again. Only the truly educated can love. I loved Maurice with +all the wisdom I had accumulated in years of suffering. I gave him a +perfect gift I had molded in pain. + +NANETTE. You! What had _you_ to give? + +DIANE. Then the war broke out. + +NANETTE. Yes, the war. Maurice was one of the first. He made up his mind +at once. + +DIANE. No, he did _not_ make up his mind at once. + +NANETTE [_with a dreadful realization_]. Then it was.... + +DIANE. I made up his mind for him. + +NANETTE [_vehemently_]. You did it! It was you then! You sent Maurice to +war. After they excused him! After they gave him a post at home! You +sent him to his death. Oh, I hated you before, but now.... + +DIANE. His mother and you clung to him. There was one excuse after the +other. You made him believe that he was too delicate and sensitive. You +used all of your influence. Madame le Bargy tried in every way to keep +him. She even testified officially that Maurice was weak from birth and +had dizzy spells and an unaccountable fear of the sea. And you testified +under oath to a long and dangerous illness he had had in childhood. + +NANETTE. I did that. And it was all a lie. + +DIANE. But all the time I was urging him to go. We three women fought +for mastery. But you see who won! I did! When he came to me at +nights--in the country--to my little house where we had been so happy, +there, there, in the very room where we were nearest, then I persuaded +him. With my kisses, Nanette, with my arms, with all the power I had +over him--then was when I thrust him away. + +NANETTE [_triumphantly_]. You didn't love him then! + +DIANE [_passionately_]. Could I love Maurice and see him stay behind? +Could I really want him to save his body for me when thousands were +giving theirs for France? + +NANETTE. For France.... But what of us? + +DIANE. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved! + +NANETTE. Never loved! How can you say that I have never loved? + +DIANE. What can you know of my loss? Your love was a habit. It was the +love you could have lavished on a dog, or a horse or anything. But with +me--now that he is gone, I have lost everything. I have no place to +turn. I haven't even memory, as you have. Your love always took on the +color of memory, but mine was a living, flaming thing, necessary as food +and drink--as life itself! + +NANETTE [_white with passion_]. But my love was pure and yours was not. +[_She crosses the room._] Good God, to think that this thing should ever +have happened to us in this house! [_She covers her face with her hands +and runs out back._] + + [_After a moment Madame le Bargy enters, left. She is a handsome + woman of fifty or more. She wears a long loose gown of white silk. + Her voice is perfectly modulated and beautiful. There is about her + a gentleness and nobility of perfect spiritual strength. She looks + at Diane curiously for a moment, and then goes to her with hand + outstretched. During the following the day is fast becoming dark, + and the sun's setting is seen from the French window._] + +MADAME LE BARGY. I heard Nanette's voice. She has a habit of keeping +people from me, although I am always glad to see any one. May I know +your name? + +DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral. + +MADAME LE BARGY. Diane Bertral. I have never heard of you. + +DIANE. No. I am an actress. But I am not so very well known. Are you +Madame le Bargy? + +MADAME LE BARGY. Yes. Won't you sit down on the couch there? Why did you +come to see me, Mademoiselle? + + [_She sits at right forward._] + +DIANE [_embarrassed_]. I came.... I don't know why I came, Madame le +Bargy. + +MADAME LE BARGY. You know some one I know, perhaps--some friend of us +both. + +DIANE. Yes, that is it. Some one we have both--lost. + +MADAME LE BARGY [_with a quick look at Diane_]. A _dear_ friend? + +DIANE. Yes, a very dear friend. + +MADAME LE BARGY. Do you mean--Maurice? + +DIANE. Yes. + +MADAME LE BARGY. You knew him well? + +DIANE. I loved him. + +MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, I know. + +DIANE [_astonished_]. You know! + +MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, Maurice has told me. + +DIANE. No, no; that I am sure of. I am sure he never has. He has never +told a soul. That was our agreement. We were to keep it secret and +sacred. Not even you were to know, not as long as we lived. + +MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. But after...? + +DIANE [_puzzled_]. After? + +MADAME LE BARGY. How long did you know Maurice? + +DIANE. It would be two years this March. + +MADAME LE BARGY. You loved each other all that time? + +DIANE. From the very first. We never had any of those preliminaries in +which people have a chance to deceive each other. We came together +directly and frankly and we never regretted it. + +MADAME LE BARGY. Maurice was very young. + +DIANE. He was twenty-four. He was eager for life. But you two had kept +him back. You had warmed his heart with your kind of love until he had +begun to think it was the only love which is worthy. + +MADAME LE BARGY. And you believe that that isn't so? + +DIANE [_simply_]. I believe that there can be no flame like the love +between two young people who are one. + +MADAME LE BARGY [_going to Diane and putting a hand on her shoulder_]. +Poor little woman. + +DIANE [_astounded_]. Madame! + +MADAME LE BARGY. You have been suffering a great deal, Diane. + +DIANE [_bursting into wild weeping_]. Oh, Madame, how good you are, how +kind you are! [_Grasping Madame's arms, she trembles and sobs._] Oh, how +can I ever tell you? Thank you, thank you! [_She jumps up and paces +about the room._] What am I going to do with myself? How can I go on? I +simply can't stand it. If I had only died with Maurice! If I could only +have died in his place! Oh, the cruelty of it! Why did they have to pick +out _my_ lover? Surely there are thousands of others. Why did it have to +be just mine? Mine--when I needed him so! He might have been spared a +little longer, to give me time to get used to it. That would have been +better. But now! Just as he was beginning to be of service, too. Why he +hadn't been there a year yet. Not even a year! [_Beating her hips +violently._] I could tear myself to pieces. I hate myself for going on +living. I detest myself for being alive when he is dead. + +MADAME LE BARGY [_who has watched Diane with infinite pity--softly_]. +Diane, do you think that I loved my son? + +DIANE [_in surprise_]. Why, yes, Madame, I believe that you loved +Maurice. + +MADAME LE BARGY. You think that my love was not as great as yours? + +DIANE. No, I don't think so. You had had your life. Maurice and I were +only beginning ours. + +MADAME LE BARGY. Which do you think is the greater love, Diane, the love +which endures for the moment, or the love which endures for all time? + +DIANE [_puzzled_]. For all time...? + +MADAME LE BARGY. For all time. + +DIANE. We have the dear lips to kiss, the dear head to caress, but when +these are gone there is only memory--and that is torture. + +MADAME LE BARGY. What if I should tell you that Maurice still lives, +Diane? + +DIANE [_rushing to her_]. Madame! My God, is this true? + +MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. Maurice still lives, Diane. He talks with me +every day. + +DIANE [_slowly_]. He talks with you.... + +MADAME LE BARGY [_holding her gaze_]. Yes, Diane, he talks with me. + +DIANE [_the hope dies out of her face and she turns away_]. I +understand. + +MADAME LE BARGY. You see, you did not love Maurice. + +DIANE. How can you tell me that--that I didn't love him? + +MADAME LE BARGY. Because you don't continue to do so. + +DIANE. But how can I love what no longer exists? + +MADAME LE BARGY. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really +loved! + +DIANE. That is what I said to Nanette--and now you say the same thing to +me. + +MADAME LE BARGY. Diane, when I knew for certain that Maurice had fallen +into the sea, that they had recovered his body, that he was buried in +German soil, then I felt that I should never live another moment. I felt +as you have felt. I wanted to die. I could not bear it. I came here to +this house. I was mad for the sight of him, for the things that he had +touched and loved. I flew into his room and dragged his clothes from the +pegs and crushed them to me, but even the odor and touch of his personal +belongings was not enough to calm me. I came into this room. Then I drew +near that chair. Something--I don't know what--drove me to sit in it. I +flung myself into it as if it were into his arms, and I wept out all my +grief. Then, all at once, a great calm came over me. I looked upon my +solemn black dress in amazement and distaste. I looked into my solemn +and black heart with surprise and shame. I felt that Maurice was +_alive_, that he was not _dead_, Diane. Then I remembered, as I sat +there, that it was in this chair that he had sat when he came to say +good-by. There he had sat talking happily and confidently--he had seemed +filled with radiance. And so he has talked to me again and again. Every +day, at the same time, at twilight, I have sat there and felt myself +with Maurice. We have talked together, just as we always did. There is +nothing weird or supernatural about it, Diane. He is just as we knew +him, as we knew him in those swift, strange moments when, in a flash, +the body seems to slip aside and spirit rushes out to meet spirit. That +is all. People see me cheerful and smiling and they say that I am mad. +The few to whom I have told of these talks pity me and are sure that I +have lost my reason. Perhaps, in a worldly sense, I am mad. But I know +this, Diane, that Maurice lives as usual, more truly, than he did six +weeks ago. I know that his youth has not been sacrificed in vain. As the +dead plant enriches the soil from which it grew and into which it +finally falls, so will this young soul in all its bloom enrich the life +out of which it sprang and from which it can never entirely disappear. + +DIANE [_after a pause--rising_]. That is beautiful, but I cannot do it. +[_Stretching out her arms._] My arms are aching with emptiness. + +MADAME LE BARGY. You see that you did not really love, Diane. + +DIANE. Perhaps not. But it was the greatest I was capable of. + + [_She gets a scarf she has dropped and goes toward the back._] + +MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. This is the time, Diane. + +DIANE. When you talk with him? + +MADAME LE BARGY. Yes. + + [_Diane goes slowly and sinks into the chair wearily. Suddenly she + flings her arms out, crying "Maurice, Maurice." Madame le Bargy + rises and goes to her._] + +DIANE. Maurice, come back to me! Dear God, give him back to me! + + [_Nanette enters at back with her black box. She sees Diane in the + chair. Suddenly she takes out the revolver and shoots Diane._] + +NANETTE. Maurice! Forgive me! + +MADAME LE BARGY. Nanette! Child! My child! [_She rushes to take Diane in +her arms._] Nanette, what have you done, what have you done? + +NANETTE. I have rid Maurice of a stain. + +DIANE [_calling softly_]. Maurice, Maurice.... Oh, I knew you couldn't +stay away. I knew you would come back to me. Now we will never be +separated. We will be together like this for always--for all time. + +MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. For all time, Diane. + +NANETTE [_kneeling beside Diane--crossing herself_]. For all time. + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +THE FINGER OF GOD + + A PLAY + + BY PERCIVAL WILDE + + + Copyright, 1915, by Percival Wilde. + Professional stage and motion picture rights reserved. + + + THE FINGER OF GOD was produced by the Wisconsin Players at the + Wisconsin Little Theatre, Milwaukee, Wis., March 28, 1916, and + subsequently, with the following cast: + + STRICKLAND _Frederick Irving Deakin_. + BENSON _Harry V. Meissner_. + A GIRL _Marjorie Frances Hollis_. + + Under the direction of FREDERIC IRVING DEAKIN. + + + Reprinted from "Dawn, and Other One-Act Plays of Life To-day" by + permission of, and special arrangement with, Mr. Wilde. The acting + rights in this play are strictly reserved. Performances may be + given by _amateurs_ upon payment to the author of a royalty of + five dollars ($5.00) for each performance. Production by + professional actors, without the written consent of the author, is + forbidden. Persons who wish to produce this play should apply to + Mr. Percival Wilde, in care of Walter H. Baker & Co., 5 Hamilton + Place, Boston, Mass. + + + +THE FINGER OF GOD + +A PLAY BY PERCIVAL WILDE + + + [_The living room of Strickland's apartment. At the rear, a + doorway, heavily curtained, leads into another room. At the left + of the doorway, a bay window, also heavily curtained, is set into + the diagonal wall. Near the center, an ornate writing desk, upon + which is a telephone. At the right, the main entrance. The + furnishings, in general, are luxurious and costly._ + + _As the curtain rises Strickland, kneeling, is burning papers in a + grate near the main door. Benson, his valet, is packing a suitcase + which lies open on the writing desk. It is ten-thirty; a bitterly + cold night in winter._] + + +STRICKLAND. Benson! + +BENSON. Yes, sir. + +STRICKLAND. Close the window: it's cold. + +BENSON [_goes to the window_]. The window _is_ closed, sir. It's been +closed all evening. + +STRICKLAND [_shivers and buttons his coat tightly_]. Benson. + +BENSON. Yes, sir? + +STRICKLAND. Don't forget a heavy overcoat. + +BENSON. I've put it in already, sir. + +STRICKLAND. Plenty of fresh linen? + +BENSON. Yes, sir. + +STRICKLAND. Collars and ties? + +BENSON. I've looked out for everything, sir. + +STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You sent off the trunks this afternoon? + +BENSON. Yes, sir. + +STRICKLAND. You're sure they can't be traced? + +BENSON. I had one wagon take them to a vacant lot, and another wagon +take them to the station. + +STRICKLAND. Good! + +BENSON. I checked them through to Chicago. Here are the checks. [_He +hands them over._] What train do we take, sir? + +STRICKLAND. _I_ take the midnight. You follow me some time next week. We +mustn't be seen leaving town together. + +BENSON. How will I find you in Chicago? + +STRICKLAND. You won't. You'll take rooms somewheres, and I'll take rooms +somewheres else till it's all blown over. When I want you I'll put an ad +in the "Tribune." + +BENSON. You don't know when that will be, sir? + +STRICKLAND. As soon as I think it is safe. It may be two weeks. It may +be a couple of months. But you will stay in Chicago till you hear from +me one way or the other. You understand? + +BENSON. Yes, sir. + +STRICKLAND. Have you plenty of money? + +BENSON. Not enough to last a couple of months. + +STRICKLAND [_producing a large pocketbook_]. How much do you want? + +BENSON. Five or six hundred. + +STRICKLAND [_takes out a few bills. Stops_]. Wait a minute! I left that +much in my bureau drawer. + + [_He goes toward the door._] + +BENSON. Mr. Strickland? + +STRICKLAND. Yes? + +BENSON. It's the midnight train for Chicago, isn't it? + +STRICKLAND. Yes. + + [_He goes into the next room._] + +BENSON [_waits an instant. Then he lifts the telephone receiver, and +speaks very quietly_]. Hello. Murray Hill 3500.... Hello. This Finley? +This is Benson.... He's going to take the midnight train for Chicago. +Pennsylvania. You had better arrest him at the station. If he once gets +to Chicago you'll never find him. And, Finley, you won't forget _me_, +will you?... I want five thousand dollars for it. Yes, five thousand. +That's little enough. He's got almost three hundred thousand on him, and +you won't turn in _all_ of that to Headquarters. Yes, it's cash. Large +bills. [_Strickland's step is heard._] Midnight for Chicago. + + [_Benson hangs up the receiver and is busy with the suitcase as + Strickland enters._] + +STRICKLAND. Here's your money, Benson. Count it. + +BENSON [_after counting_]. Six hundred dollars, thank you, sir. [_He +picks up the closed suitcase._] Shall I go now? + +STRICKLAND. No. Wait a minute. [_He goes to the telephone._] Hello, +Madison Square 7900 ... Pennsylvania? I want a stateroom for Chicago, +midnight train. Yes, to-night. + +BENSON. Don't give your own name, sir. + +STRICKLAND. No. The name is Stevens.... Oh, you have one reserved in +that name already? Well, this is _Alfred_ Stevens.... You have it +reserved in that name? Then give me another stateroom.... What? You +haven't any other? [_He pauses in an instant's thought. Then, +decisively_]: Never mind, then. Good-by. [_He turns to Benson._] Benson, +go right down to the Pennsylvania, and get the stateroom that is +reserved for Alfred Stevens. You've got to get there before he does. +Wait for me at the train gate. + +BENSON. Yes, sir. + +STRICKLAND. Don't waste any time. I'll see you later. + +BENSON. Very well, sir. + + [_He takes up the suitcase, and goes._] + +STRICKLAND [_left alone, opens drawer after drawer of the desk +systematically, dumping what few papers are still left into the fire. +Outside a wintry gale whistles, and shakes the locked window. Suddenly +there is a knock at the door. He pauses, very much startled. A little +wait, and then the knock, a single knock, is repeated. He rises, goes to +the door, opens it._] Who's there? + +A GIRL. I, sir. + + [_She enters. She is young: certainly under thirty: perhaps under + twenty-five: possibly still younger. A somewhat shabby boa of some + dark fur encircles her neck, and makes her pallid face stand out + with startling distinctness from beneath a mass of lustrous brown + hair. And as she steps over the threshold she gives a little + shiver of comfort, for it is cold outside, and her thin shoulders + have been shielded from the driving snow by a threadbare coat. She + enters the warm room gracefully, and little rivulets of melted ice + trickle to the floor from her inadequate clothing. Her lips are + blue. Her hands tremble in their worn white gloves. A seat before + a blazing fire, or perhaps, a sip of some strong cordial--this is + what she needs. But Strickland has no time for such things. He + greets her with a volley of questions._] + +STRICKLAND. Who are you? + +THE GIRL. Who, don't you remember me, sir? + +STRICKLAND. No. + +THE GIRL. I'm from the office, sir. + +STRICKLAND. The office? + +THE GIRL. _Your_ office. I'm one of your personal stenographers, sir. + +STRICKLAND. Oh. I suppose I didn't recognize you on account of the hat. +What do you want? + +THE GIRL. There were some letters which came late this afternoon-- + +STRICKLAND [_interrupting harshly_]. And you're bothering me with them +now? [_He crosses to the door, and holds it open.]_ I've got no time. +Good night. + +THE GIRL [_timidly_]. I thought you'd want to see these letters. + +STRICKLAND. Plenty of time to-morrow. + +THE GIRL. But you won't be here to-morrow, will you? + +STRICKLAND [_starting violently_]. Won't be here? What do you mean? + +THE GIRL. You're taking the train to Chicago to-night. + +STRICKLAND. How did you know--[_He stops himself. Then, with forced +ease._] Taking a train to Chicago? Of course not! What put that in your +head? + +THE GIRL. Why, you told me, sir. + +STRICKLAND. _I_ told you? + +THE GIRL. You said so this afternoon. + +STRICKLAND [_harshly_]. I didn't see you this afternoon! + +THE GIRL [_without contradicting him_]. No, sir? [_She produces a +time-table._] Then I found this time-table. + + [_She holds it out. He snatches it._] + +STRICKLAND. Where did you find it? + +THE GIRL. On your desk, sir. + +STRICKLAND. On my desk? + +THE GIRL. Yes, sir. + +STRICKLAND [_suddenly and directly_]. You're lying! + +THE GIRL. Why, Mr. Strickland! + +STRICKLAND. That time-table never reached my desk! I lost it between the +railroad station and my office. + +THE GIRL. Did you, sir? But it's the same time-table: you see, you +checked the midnight train. [_He looks at her suspiciously._] I reserved +a stateroom for you. + +STRICKLAND [_astonished_]. You reserved a stateroom? + +THE GIRL [_smiling_]. I knew you'd forget it. You have your head so full +of other things. So I telephoned as soon as you left the office. + +STRICKLAND [_biting his lip angrily_]. I suppose you made the +reservation in my own name? + +THE GIRL. No, sir. + +STRICKLAND [_immensely surprised_]. What? + +THE GIRL. I thought you'd prefer some other name: you didn't want your +trip to be known. + +STRICKLAND. No, I didn't. [_A good deal startled, he looks at her as if +he were about to ask, "How did you know that?" She returns his gaze +unflinchingly. The question remains unasked. But a sudden thought +strikes him._] What name did you give? + +THE GIRL. Stevens, sir. + +STRICKLAND [_thunderstruck_]. Stevens? + +THE GIRL. Alfred Stevens. + +STRICKLAND [_gasping_]. What made you choose that name? + +THE GIRL. I don't know, sir. + +STRICKLAND. You don't _know_? + +THE GIRL. No, sir. It was just the first name that popped into my head. +I said "Stevens," and when the clerk asked for the first name, I said +"Alfred." + +STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Have you ever _known_ anybody of that +name? + +THE GIRL. No, sir. + +STRICKLAND [_with curious insistence_]. You are _sure_ you never knew +anybody of that name? + +THE GIRL. How can I be sure? I may have; I don't remember it. + +STRICKLAND [_abruptly_]. How old are you? [_He gives her no time to +answer._] You're not twenty, are you? + +THE GIRL [_smiling_]. Do you think so? + +STRICKLAND [_continuing the current of his thoughts_]. And I'm +forty-seven. It was more than twenty-five years ago.... You couldn't +have known. + +THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. No, sir. + +STRICKLAND [_looking at her with something of fear in his eye_]. What is +your name? + +THE GIRL. Does it matter? You didn't recognize my _face_ a few minutes +ago; my _name_ can't mean much to you. I'm just one of the office force: +I'm the girl who answers when you push the button three times. [_She +opens a handbag._] These are the letters I brought with me. + +STRICKLAND [_not offering to take them_]. What are they about? + +THE GIRL [_opening the first_]. This is from a woman who wants to invest +some money. + +STRICKLAND. How much? + +THE GIRL. Only a thousand dollars. + +STRICKLAND. Why didn't you turn it over to the clerks? + +THE GIRL. The savings of a lifetime, she writes. + +STRICKLAND. What of it? + +THE GIRL. She wrote that she had confidence in you. She says that she +wants you to invest it for her yourself. + +STRICKLAND. You shouldn't have bothered me with that. [_He pauses._] Did +she inclose the money? + +THE GIRL. Yes. A certified check. + + [_She hands it over to him._] + +STRICKLAND [_taking the check, and putting it in his pocketbook_]. Write +her--oh, you know what to write: that I will give the matter my personal +attention. + +THE GIRL. Yes, sir. She says she doesn't want a big return on her +investment. She wants something that will be perfectly safe, and she +knows you will take care of her. + +STRICKLAND. Yes. Of course. What else have you? + +THE GIRL. A dozen other letters like it. + +STRICKLAND. All from old women? + +THE GIRL [_seriously_]. Some of them. Here is one from a young man who +has saved a little money. He says that when he gets a little more he's +going to open a store, and go into business for himself. Here is another +from a girl whose father was an ironworker. He was killed accidentally, +and she wants you to invest the insurance. Here is another from--but +they're all pretty much alike. + +STRICKLAND. Why did you bring them here? + +THE GIRL. Every one of these letters asks you to do the investing +yourself. + +STRICKLAND. Oh! + +THE GIRL. And you're leaving town to-night. Here are the checks. [_She +passes them over._] Every one of them is made out to you personally; not +to the firm. + +STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You shouldn't have come here.... I haven't +time to bother with that sort of thing. Every man who has five dollars +to invest asks the head of the firm to attend to it himself. It means +nothing. I get hundreds of letters like those. + +THE GIRL. Still-- + +STRICKLAND. What? + +THE GIRL. You must do something to deserve such letters or they wouldn't +keep on coming in. [_She smiles._] It's a wonderful thing to inspire +such confidence in people? + +STRICKLAND. Do you think so? + +THE GIRL. It is more than wonderful! It is magnificent! These people +don't know you from Adam. Not one in a hundred has seen you: not one in +a thousand calls you by your first name. But they've all heard of you: +you're as real to them as if you were a member of their family. And what +is even more real than you is your reputation! Something in which they +rest their absolute confidence: something in which they place their +implicit trust! + +STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. So you think there are few honest men? + +THE GIRL. No: there are many of them. But there is something about you +that is different: something in the tone of your voice: something in the +way you shake hands: something in the look of your eye, that is +reassuring. There is never a doubt--never a question about you. Oh, it's +splendid! Simply splendid! [_She pauses._] What a satisfaction it must +be to you to walk along the street and know that every one you meet must +say to himself, "There goes an honest man!" It's been such an +inspiration to me! + +STRICKLAND. To _you_? + +THE GIRL. Oh, I know that I'm just one of the office force to you. You +don't even know my name. But you don't imagine that any one can see you +as I have seen you, can work with you as I have worked with you, without +there being _some_ kind of an effect? You know, in my own troubles-- + +STRICKLAND [_interrupting_]. So _you_ have troubles? + +THE GIRL. You don't pay me a very big salary, and there are others whom +I must help. But I'm not complaining. [_She smiles._] I--I used to be +like the other girls. I used to watch the clock. I used to count the +hours and the minutes till the day's work was over. But it's different +now. + +STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. How--different? + +THE GIRL. I thought it over, and I made up my mind that it wasn't right +to count the minutes you worked for an honest man. [_Strickland turns +away._] And there is a new pleasure in my work: I do my best--that's all +I can do, but _you_ do your best, and it's the _least_ I can do. + +STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Are you sure--I do my best? Are you sure I +am an honest man? + +THE GIRL. Don't you know it yourself, Mr. Strickland? + +STRICKLAND [_after another pause_]. You remember--a few minutes ago, you +spoke the name of Alfred Stevens? + +THE GIRL. Yes. + +STRICKLAND. Suppose I told you that there once _was_ an Alfred Stevens? +[_The girl does not answer._] Suppose I told you that Stevens, whom I +knew, stole money--stole it when there was no excuse for it--when he +didn't need it. His people had plenty, and they gave him plenty. But the +chance came, and he couldn't resist the temptation.... He was eighteen +years old then. + +THE GIRL [_gently_]. Only a boy. + +STRICKLAND. Only a boy, yes, but he had the dishonest streak in him! +Other boys passed by the same opportunity. Stevens didn't even know what +to do with the money when he had stolen it. They caught him in less than +twenty-four hours. It was almost funny. + +THE GIRL. He was punished. + +STRICKLAND [_nodding_]. He served a year in jail. God! What a year! His +folks wouldn't do a thing for him: they said such a thing had never +happened in the family. And they let him take the consequences. [_He +pauses._] When he got out--[_stopping to correct himself_]--when he was +_let_ out, his family offered him help. But he was too proud to accept +the help: it hadn't been offered when he needed it most. He told his +family that he never wanted to see them again. He changed his name so +they couldn't find him. He left his home town. He came here. + +THE GIRL. And he has been honest ever since! + +STRICKLAND. Ever since: for twenty-eight years! It was hard at times, +terribly hard! In the beginning, when he had to go hungry and cold, when +he saw other men riding around in carriages, he wondered if he hadn't +made a mistake. He had knocked about a good deal; he had learnt a lot, +and he wouldn't have been caught so easily the second time. It was +_almost_ worth taking the chance! It was _almost_ worth getting a foot +of lead pipe, and waiting in some dark street, waiting, waiting for some +sleek _honest_ man with his pockets full of money! It would have been so +simple! And he knew _how_! I don't know why he didn't do it. + +THE GIRL. Tell me more. + +STRICKLAND. He managed to live. It wasn't pleasant living. But he stayed +alive! I don't like to think of what he did to stay alive: it was +humiliating; it was shameful, because he hadn't been brought up to do +that kind of thing, but it was honest. Honest, and when he walked home +from his work at six o'clock, walked home to save the nickel, his +betters never crowded him because they didn't want to soil their clothes +with his _honest_ dirt! He had thought the year in jail was terrible. +The first year he was free was worse. He had never been hungry in jail. + +THE GIRL. Then his chance came. + +STRICKLAND. Yes, it _was_ a chance. He found a purse in the gutter, and +he returned it to the owner before he had made up his mind whether to +keep it or not. So they said he was honest! He knew he wasn't! He knew +that he had returned it because there was so much money in it that he +was afraid to keep it, but he never told them that. And when the man who +owned the purse gave him a job, he worked--worked because he was afraid +not to work--worked so that he wouldn't have any time to think, because +he knew that if he began to think, he would begin to steal! Then they +said he was a hard worker, and they promoted him: they made him manager. +That gave him more chances to steal, but there were so many men watching +him, so many men anxious for him to make a slip so that they might climb +over him, that he didn't dare. + + [_He pauses._] + +THE GIRL. And then? + +STRICKLAND. The rest was easy. Nothing succeeds like a good reputation, +and he didn't steal because he knew they'd catch him. [_He pauses +again._] But he wasn't honest at bottom! The rotten streak was still +there! After twenty-eight years things began to be bad. He speculated: +lost all the money he could call his own, and he made up his mind to +take other money that _wasn't_ his own, all he could lay his hands on, +and run off with it! It was wrong! It was the work of a lifetime gone to +hell! But it was the rottenness in him coming to the surface! It was the +thief he thought dead coming to life again! + +THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. What a pity! + +STRICKLAND. He had been honest so long--he had made other people think +that he was honest so long, that he had made _himself_ think that he was +honest! + +THE GIRL. Was he wrong, Mr. Strickland? + +STRICKLAND [_looking into her eyes; very quietly_]. Stevens, please. +[_There is a long pause._] I don't know what sent you: who sent you: but +you've come here to-night as I am running away. You're too late. You +can't stop me. Not even the finger of God Himself could stop me! I've +gone too far. [_He goes on in a voice which is low, but terrible in its +earnestness._] Here is money! [_He pulls out his pocketbook._] Hundreds +of thousands of it, not a cent of it mine! And I'm stealing it, do you +understand me? _Stealing_ it! To-morrow the firm will be bankrupt, and +there'll be a reward out for me. [_He smiles grimly, and bows._] Here, +if you please, is your honest man! What have you to say to him? + +THE GIRL [_very quietly_]. The man who has been honest so long that he +has made _himself_ think that he is honest can't steal! + +STRICKLAND [_hoarsely_]. You believe _that_? + +THE GIRL [_opening her bag again_]. I was left a little money this week: +only a few hundred dollars, hardly enough to bother you with. Will you +take care of it for me--Alfred Stevens? + +STRICKLAND. Good God! + + [_And utterly unnerved he collapses to a chair. There is a long + pause._] + +THE GIRL [_crossing slowly to the window, and drawing aside the +curtain_]. Look! What a beautiful night! The thousands of sleeping +houses! The millions of shining stars! And the lights beneath! And in +the distance, how the stars and the lights meet! So that one cannot say: +"Here Gods ends; Here Man begins." + + [_The telephone rings, harshly, and shrilly. Strickland goes to the + receiver._] + +STRICKLAND [_quietly_]. Yes?... You're afraid I'm going to miss the +train?... Yes? Well, I'm _going_ to miss the train!... I'm going to stay +and face the music! [_Hysterically._] I'm an honest man, d'ye hear me? +I'm an honest man. [_And furiously, he pitches the telephone to the +floor, and stands panting, shivering, on the spot. From the window a +soft radiance beckons, and trembling in every limb, putting out his +hands as if to ward off some unseen obstacle, he moves there slowly._] +Did you hear what I told him? I'm going to make good. I'm going to face +the music! Because I'm an honest man! An honest man! + + [_He gasps, stops abruptly, and in a sudden panic-stricken + movement, tears the curtains down. The window is closed--has never + been opened--but the girl has vanished. And as Strickland, burying + his face in his hands, drops to his knees in awe,_ + + + _The Curtain Falls._] + + + + +NIGHT + + A PLAY + + BY SHOLOM ASCH + + + Translated by Jack Robbins. + Copyright, 1920, by Sholom Asch. + All rights reserved. + + + NIGHT was originally produced by the East-West Players, at the + Berkeley Theatre, New York City, April 7, 1916, with the following + cast: + + THE OUTCAST [_prostitute_] _Miriam Reinhardt_. + THE DRUNKARD _Mark Hoffman_. + THE BEGGAR _Maxim Vodianoy_. + THE BASTARD _Jack Dickler_. + THE FOOL _Max Lieberman_. + THE THIEF _Gustav Blum_. + HELENKA _Elizabeth Meltzer_. + THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE _Bryna Zaranov_. + + Produced under the direction of GUSTAV BLUM. + + + Applications for permission to produce NIGHT must be addressed to + Mr. Sholom Asch, 3 Bank Street, New York. + + + +NIGHT + +A PLAY BY SHOLOM ASCH + + + [_Night in a market place. A small fire burns near a well. On a + bench near it sleeps the Beggar. The old Prostitute is warming + herself. There is the sound of dogs barking in the distance. Vast + shadows move about the market-place. The Drunkard emerges from the + gloom of the night._] + + +DRUNKARD. Good evening, Madam Prostitute. [_Listens to the dogs._] Why +are the dogs whining like this to-night? + +PROSTITUTE. They must be seeing things. + +DRUNKARD. Yes, your black soul. Perhaps they think you a devil. That's +why they chase all over the butchers' stalls. No wonder. They've reason +to be afraid. + +BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha. + +PROSTITUTE. A drunkard and a prostitute are the same thing. None of us +is clean of sin. + +BEGGAR [_sleepily_]. Don't take me for a "pal." + + [_Sleeps on._] + +DRUNKARD. Leave him alone. He sings hymns the whole day long. + +BEGGAR. Poverty is no sin. + +DRUNKARD. Don't mix in. [_To the Prostitute._] What do dogs see at +night? + +PROSTITUTE. They say that on the first of May the Holy Mother walks +through the market place, and gathers all the stray souls. + +DRUNKARD. What have the dogs got to do with it? + +PROSTITUTE. They are people laden with sins. People who died without the +Holy Sacrament, and who were buried outside of the fence. At night they +roam about the market in the shape of dogs. They run about in the stalls +of the butchers. The devil, too, stays there, but when the first of May +comes and the prayers begin, the Holy Mother walks through the +market-place. The souls of the damned cling to her dress, and she takes +them with her to Heaven. + + [_Pause for a minute._] + +BEGGAR [_turning in his sleep_]. Strong vinegar bursts the cask. Her +soul must be black indeed. + +DRUNKARD. It's awful to look into it. You'll be among them yet.... + +PROSTITUTE. I'm not afraid of that. The mercy of God is great. It will +reach even me. But all of you will be among the dogs too. Those who live +in the street come back to the street after death. + +BEGGAR. The street is the home of the beggar. Poverty is no sin. + + [_Stretches himself and sleeps on. There is a pause. The Fool + comes out of the darkness. He is tall, with a vacant, good-humored + face, dressed in a soldier's hat, with a wooden toy-sword in his + girdle. He grins kindly._] + +DRUNKARD. Ah, good evening, Napoleon. [_He salutes the Fool._] Where do +you hail from? + +FOOL [_grins and chuckles_]. From Turkey. I have driven out the Turk. + +DRUNKARD. And where is your army? + +FOOL. I have left it on the Vistula. + +DRUNKARD. And when will you drive the Russians out of there? + +FOOL. I have given my orders already. + +DRUNKARD. Are they being carried out? + +FOOL. I only need to draw my sword. + +DRUNKARD. Your sword? + +FOOL. Napoleon gave it to me. + +PROSTITUTE. Leave him be. Every one is crazy in his way. [_To the +fool._] You are cold. Come to the fire. He wanders about the hollows the +whole night long. + +FOOL [_smiles_]. I've quartered all of my soldiers, but I have no place +for myself to sleep in. + +PROSTITUTE. A fool, and yet he knows what he says. [_Gives him bread._] +Do you want to eat? + +FOOL. I get my dinner from the tables of Kings. + +BEGGAR [_awaking_]. You've brought the fool here too? He's got the whole +market place to be crazy in, and he comes here, where honest people +sleep. + + [_Takes his stick and tries to reach the Fool._] + +PROSTITUTE [_defending the Fool_]. Leave him alone I tell you. Crazy +though he be, he still wants to be among people. Like aches for like. + +BEGGAR. Let him go to the graveyard, and yell his craziness out among +the graves;--and not disturb honest men in their sleep. The street is +the beggar's home, and I don't want to share it with madmen. All that +the people throw out of their homes, wanders into the street. + + [_He chases the Fool away, and lies down._] + +DRUNKARD. Who made you boss here? The street belongs to all. Lie down in +the city hall, in the mayor's bed, if you want to have rest. + +PROSTITUTE. Keep still. He has a right to the place. He's had it long +enough. + +DRUNKARD. What kind of a right? Are you a newcomer? How long have you +been here? + +PROSTITUTE. All my life. I was born in the street, there, behind the +fence near the church. My mother pointed out the place to me. I have +never known any other home, but the street. In the daytime it belongs to +all. When people open their shops, and peasants come in their wagons, +and trade begins, I feel a stranger here, and I hide in the fields near +the cemetery. But when night comes, and people retire into their holes, +then the street is mine. I know every nook and corner of the market +place. It is my home. + +DRUNKARD. You've said it well. In that house there, I have a home, a +bed, and a wife. In the daytime I work there. I sit among boots, and +drive nails into heels and soles. And I bear my wife's nagging and +cursing patiently.... But when night comes I can't stand it any longer. +The house becomes too small for me. Something draws me into the street. + +PROSTITUTE. It is the curse of the street that rests on you as it does +on the howling dogs. All of us are damned, and we are punished here for +our sins. And we will not be delivered, till the Holy Mother will come, +and we will take hold of her dress, and our souls will be freed. + +BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha. + +DRUNKARD [_becomes sad, bows his head_]. In the daytime I don't mind +it. Then I am like other people. I work like all do. But when night +comes.... + +PROSTITUTE. It's the curse of the street. Don't worry. God will pity all +of us. His mercy is great. + + [_The cry of a child comes from the distance. It resembles the + howling of a dog._] + +DRUNKARD. What's that? + +PROSTITUTE. That's Manka's bastard. He strays the street. He wants to +come near the fire. + +DRUNKARD. Call him here. + +PROSTITUTE. Keep still. [_She points to the Beggar._] He will chase the +boy away. They believe the boy is born of the Devil. + +DRUNKARD. Who made him boss here? All of us are children of the Devil. +[_He calls to the boy as one calls to a dog._] Come here, you. + + [_A dumb boy, all in rags, drags himself near. He makes noises + like a little beast. He trembles with cold. The Prostitute tries + to quiet him._] + +PROSTITUTE. He lies the whole night behind his mother's doorstep. She is +afraid of her husband. Sometimes she gives him a piece of bread, when no +one looks. Thus he crawls like a worm in the street--human flesh and +blood. + +DRUNKARD. Let him come near the fire--so. [_He pushes the boy nearer to +the fire._] Give him a piece of bread. I'll take care of any one who +tries to hurt him. + +BEGGAR [_awaking_]. No. That's too much. Who brought this here? You know +that the Devil is in him? + + [_Tries to chase the boy away._] + +PROSTITUTE [_hiding the boy in her shawl_]. Have pity. + +BEGGAR. You're the Devil's wife. That's why you pity his child. + + [_Tries to reach the boy._] + +DRUNKARD [_tears the stick from the Beggar's hand_]. We're all the +children of the Devil. You've no more on your hide than he has. + +BEGGAR. Don't you start anything. I am a Christian, and believe in God. +I've no home. That's why I sleep on the street. Every dog finds his +hole. But I won't live together with the Devil. And I won't be the +neighbor of a harlot either. Nor was a drunkard ever a friend of mine. +[_He gathers his belongings._] What are you running after me for? This +whole street belongs to the Devil. Why are you trying to stop me? + + [_He tries to go away._] + +PROSTITUTE [_detaining him_]. Don't leave us. Let him only warm himself. +He'll go away. + +BEGGAR. It does me little honor to be with folk like you anyway. + + [_He goes away._] + +DRUNKARD. Why do you hold him back? Let him go if he thinks us below his +dignity. + +PROSTITUTE. And do you really think it an honor for one to remain with +you? That man is decent at least. + +DRUNKARD. Ah, you grow pious as you grow old. + +PROSTITUTE. I have always wanted to be in decent company. + + [_As the Beggar disappears, strange figures begin to show + themselves in the darkness. Most of them are half-naked. The Fool + also comes back. A dog comes wandering into the crowd._] + +PROSTITUTE [_looking around in terror_]. It's awful to be with so many +sick people. Not one amongst them who is of sound mind. Not one who has +a clean conscience. The Beggar has gone away. + +DRUNKARD [_with fear_]. The dogs have also come to the fire. + +PROSTITUTE. Even they are drawn to people. + + [_There is a short pause. The Bastard begins to wail._] + +DRUNKARD. What's the trouble with him? Take him away. + +PROSTITUTE. That's the Devil in him crying--see him gazing at something. + + [_The day begins to grow gray in the east. Strange, awful light + falls over all. Now one, now another corner of the street appears + and disappears. All is covered with shadows as in twilight._] + +DRUNKARD. Praised be God. The dawn. + +PROSTITUTE. How different the light is to-day. + + [_The dogs begin to howl._] + +DRUNKARD. What are the dogs howling about? Chase them away from the +fire. + +PROSTITUTE. They are looking somewheres. They sniff at the air. They +must see something now. + + [_In the distance is heard the sound of beating against tin + plates. The dogs howl with fright._] + +PROSTITUTE. Something is coming near to us. + + [_The Fool laughs._] + +DRUNKARD. What is the Fool laughing at? What is he gazing at? Chase him +away from the fire. + +PROSTITUTE. They all see more clearly than we. + + [_The dogs howl again, and gather in one group. Footsteps + approach._] + +DRUNKARD [_frightened_]. Something is coming near to us. + + [_A minute's pause. All waiting in fear. The Thief appears. He + carries a woman on his shoulders. The woman has a child in her + arms. They are followed by small, poorly clad boys who hold + trumpets and kettles in their hands, and make as much noise as + they can._] + +THIEF [_thunders_]. Fall on your knees. Draw off your hats! Do you see +who is coming? The queen! The queen! [_All grow pale, and move aside. +The Thief walks into their midst._] Who is there? Ah, the Fool. Well, +how are your armies getting along? Hold them in readiness. Hold them in +readiness. The Drunkard! Ah, the right man for the game. [_He bows._] +With awe do I kiss the little hand of Madame Prostitute. [_To the +Bastard_]: And your little heir is here also? [_To the woman_]: Take +them with you, oh, Queen. They too are dogs like us, thrown into the +street. Let them come with us, We have room for many, many. + +WOMAN. Take them with us, my man. We will all go together. + +THIEF [_letting the Woman down_]. Our company is growing big. Come with +us. + +DRUNKARD [_awaking from his torpor and looking at the Thief_]. So you +are the thief they let out of prison not long ago. And I was afraid of +you a little while ago. [_He spits._] That's a fine joke. Always at your +play. Who's the woman, and the children? Where did you get them? + +THIEF. Brother, this is not play. [_He points to the Woman._] She is a +queen. [_He points to the children._] And they are princes. Every one a +prince. At your knees before her! Take off your hat. + +DRUNKARD. I know this gentleman quite well. He likes to joke. + + [_The Thief comes close to him._] + +THIEF. To-night is the night when the dogs are delivered. Look at her. +[_He points at the Woman._] Look at us. We were locked in, and we have +come out. We are all one family--dogs. We wander on the street. Men have +shut their doors in our faces. Come, dogs. We will unite to-day. Throw +off your chains, and shake yourself as if you were shaking dust from +your shoulders. You are men after all. I have known you from childhood. +I knew your mother. + +DRUNKARD [_wondering_]. I don't know what you mean. + +THIEF. Look at yourself. What have they made of you? You walk the street +all night like an outcast. Your children are afraid of you. They hide +when they see you drunk on the street, and weep for you. Are you to +blame for it? You were made one with a mass of flesh you hate. You sit +bent over your boots the whole day long, and curses and blows are hurled +at your head. And when night comes you crawl in the gutter, and you will +crawl there till you will be freed from shame. + +DRUNKARD. What are you telling me this for? + +THIEF. And are you to blame for this? Have you had one minute of +happiness in your whole life? Who took care of you? You were raised by +your stepfather's cane. Show me the scars on your body. They beat you +from childhood on; first your stepfather, then your "step-wife." No one +ever spoke to you as to a friend. No one ever comforted you in your +grief. + + [_The Drunkard falls to the ground and weeps._] + +THIEF [_to the Woman_]. And he is an honest man. I know him. We went to +the same school. He had an honest mother. She loved him only as a mother +can. [_Whispering to the Woman._] She brought him bread behind his +stepfather's back. + +DRUNKARD. I will never drink again. I give my word of honor. + + [_He weeps._] + +THIEF. Don't cry, brother. We are all dogs of the street. But we unite +to-day. Come with us, come. We will care for you. We will all be +together. Take the Prostitute, and come with us. + + [_The old Prostitute rises and looks amazed._] + +PROSTITUTE. Me? + +THIEF [_taking her hand_]. We will not turn you, nor avoid you. We know +what you are. You are not to blame. Who brought you up? Who was your +mother? You were born in the street like a goat. Every stone, every hole +in the earth caresses you like a mother. You were thrown into the street +at birth, and men ran from you as from a leper. Any wonder that this is +what became of you? You lay in the street like an old, dirty rag. + +PROSTITUTE [_half-crying_]. I am not worthy of such comforting words by +a gentleman. + +THIEF. You are worthy. You are like all of us. Your skin is dirty, but +your soul is clean. Wash your sins away, throw the curse from off your +shoulders, and you will become a human being like all of us. You too +long for people. I know you. You are good, you love humanity. It is they +who have cursed you so. You were always a clean child. Wait. Wait. [_He +takes water from the well, and pours it on her._] I wash your head, and +you are a human being like the rest of us. The curse is removed from +you. Look around yourself. Spring is here. Its fragrance is everywhere. +You are a girl yet, a mere child. You know no wickedness. You are in +your father's garden. Your mother sits near the window and looks at +you. You are walking with your beloved. + + [_He takes the Drunkard, puts him side by side with the + Prostitute, joins their hands, and leads them back and forth._] + +PROSTITUTE [_smiles_]. Don't talk to me like that. + +THIEF. You are being married now. Virgins come and bring you your bridal +dress, your veil, your myrtle wreath. You are chaste. They lead you to +the altar. Your mother lays her hand on your head and blesses you. Sweet +harp music is heard. Your bridegroom takes his place beside you. + + [_The Prostitute breaks out into tears._] + +DRUNKARD [_excited_]. I will be together with her. I will defend her. I +will not let them insult her. She is my sister. I will work for her. + +THIEF. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. [_He takes the Bastard in +his arms and kisses him on the forehead._] And, he, too, is our child. +All of us are dogs of the street. All of us unite to-day. + +DRUNKARD [_takes the boy from the Thief_]. He is our child. He will be +with us. [_He takes the arm of the Prostitute._] Come, we will go +together. I will work for you. You will bring him up, and he will be our +child. [_He takes the shawl from the Prostitute, and wraps himself and +the boy in it._] What? You do not hear? Listen. I mean it with my whole +heart. + + [_The Prostitute does not hear. She looks with awe at the Woman._] + +THIEF. That's the way. That's the way. That's the way. To-day we unite. +We go together. We will be one with the dogs. [_He caresses all he finds +on the street._] Blow the trumpets, boys. Beat the drums. We choose a +queen to-day. [_To the Fool._] The army waits for you, with swords in +their hands, with spears ready. Do you see the cannon all trained? All +wait for your command. Do you see the foe around you? [_He points to the +street with a broad majestic gesture._] Here stands the army. + +FOOL [_happily_]. Yes, yes. + +THIEF. Give your order, Napoleon. You are our general. Draw the sword, +and command! + +FOOL [_draws his wooden sword and cries loudly as if he saw an army in +the market-place_]. Present arms! + +THIEF [_loudly_]. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. All will unite. +We choose a queen to-day. [_He points to the Woman._] She is worthy of +wearing the crown of the street. Come, queen. Mount to your throne. [_He +bends his back._] Boys, blow your trumpets. Beat your drums. At your +knees. All hats off. The queen comes. The queen comes. So will we go to +our land. + + [_It is grown lighter. The face of the Woman has grown young and + beautiful, and begins to look like the face of the Holy Mother._] + +PROSTITUTE [_who has looked at the Woman with awe, recognizes her in the +gray light, as she sits on the Thief's shoulders with the child in her +arms. She falls to her knees before her, and cries in an unearthly +voice_]. Oh, see, see. It is the Holy Mother. Look at her--her face. She +has come from the church. Oh, it is the holy picture before which I +always pray. I know her. Our Holy Mother in her very flesh. [_She gives +a great cry, and falls prostrate before the Woman._] Oh, Mother, Mother, +take me under Thy protection. [_She falls prostrate, unable to talk any +more. The others are infected with the spirit of her words. They look +with fear at the Woman's face. They recognize the Madonna. They bend +half-ways on their knees. The Thief, who has let her down from his +shoulders, takes off his hat and kneels with the rest. All prostrate +themselves. There is the sound of a church-bell. It is day. From the +open window of a house across the way, leans out the wife of the +Drunkard, and yells._] Ah, ah, what are you doing there. Come into the +house. There is work to be done. + +DRUNKARD [_roused from his ecstasy, tears his hand away from that of the +Prostitute, and looks at the Woman with the Thief._] Ha-ha-ha. That's +Helenka, Andrey the Plasterer's wife. Ha-ha-ha. He's cracked a good +joke. + + [_He runs away. The others awake as if from sleep. The Prostitute + suddenly rises. Helenka tries to escape from the Thief's hands._] + +HELENKA. Why did you drag me into the street? + +THIEF [_holding her hand_.] Come with me. Remember what we said. Come to +another land with me. + +HELENKA [_weeping_]. What does he want with me? Why did he drag me into +the street? Come home, children. + + [_All run from him._] + +THIEF [_stands near the well, and thunders after them_]. Dogs, where are +you running?... You dogs, you damned dogs.... [_Townspeople come to the +well with pails, grumbling._] Get out of the way.... + + + [_Curtain._] + + + + +FORGOTTEN SOULS + + A PLAY + + BY DAVID PINSKI + TRANSLATED AND EDITED BY ISAAC GOLDBERG, PH.D. + + + Copyright, 1916, by L. E. Bassett. + All rights reserved. + + + PERSONS + + FANNY SEGAL [_owner of a tailoring establishment_]. + LIZZIE EHRLICH [_a pianist_], } [_Miss Segal's boarders_]. + HINDES [_a teacher_], } + + PLACE: _A Russian Provincial Town_. + TIME: _1916_. + + + Reprinted from "Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre" by permission of, + and special arrangements with, Dr. Isaac Goldberg and David Pinski. + + + +FORGOTTEN SOULS + +A PLAY BY DAVID PINSKI + + + [SCENE: _Workroom at Fanny Segal's. A door to the left of the + spectator, another in the back. A large table, covered with + various materials; at each side of the table a sewing machine. On + the wall to the right, a three-panelled mirror; in the corner, a + large wardrobe. Not far from the wardrobe two dressmaker's forms, + covered with cloaks. In the middle a broad armchair. Evening._] + + +FANNY [_runs out through the rear door and soon returns with a letter in +her hand. She tears it nervously open and is absorbed in reading. +Suddenly she gives a scream of delight_]. Oh!--Oh! [_Passes her hand +over her face and through her hair, looks at the letter, cries out anew, +breathing with difficulty. Looks at the letter once more, and exclaims +heavily._] You! My love! My love! [_She is lost for a moment in thought, +then calls._] Lizzie! Lizzie! Lizzie! + +LIZZIE [_enters, dressed up as if for a ball, sticking a pin in her hat. +Mocks Fanny's tone._] What's up? What's up? What's up? + +FANNY. Read this! Quickly! It's from Berman! + +LIZZIE [_takes the letter_]. Why see! We've just been talking about him. +And they really accepted his drama? + + [_Looks at the letter._] + +FANNY [_looks on, too, in great excitement_]. + +LIZZIE [_as she reads_]. That's fine! [_Turns over a page and continues +reading._] Why! This is an actual proposal of marriage, Fanny, my dear! + +FANNY [_her breath short from delight_]. Did you understand it that way, +too? + +LIZZIE [_still looking at the letter_]. How can it be interpreted +otherwise? [_About to read the letter aloud._] Ahem! [_Reads with a +certain solemnity._] "My drama has been accepted and will be produced +this very winter. The conditions of the contract are first-rate, and the +director promises me a great success, and incidentally a great +reputation." [_Reads over some passages in an indistinct nasal monotone, +then continues._] "My! You ought to see me now.--I've sung and danced so +much that it'll be a wonder to me if I'm not asked to move. I feel so +strong. And now to write, to create, to do things!" [_Reads again in a +nasal monotone, and soon with greater solemnity than before, and a +certain tenderness._] "And now, I hope, better days are in store for us, +happiness of such a nature that you cannot be indifferent to it." +[_Stops reading._] That's a bit veiled, but it's plain talk just the +same. [_Gives Fanny the letter. Speaks lovingly._] Lucky woman! My +darling Fanny! [_Embraces her._] You dear! [_Kisses her._] + +FANNY. So that's the way you understand it, too? [_Speaks in gasps, +trembling all over._] Oh! Oh! + + [_Covers her face with the letter, takes it to her lips and + breathes with difficulty. She takes from her right sleeve a + handkerchief and wipes her eyes._] + +LIZZIE [_moved, embracing her with both arms_]. My dear Fanny! How happy +I am! You dear, you! [_Dreamily._] Now I know how I'll play at the +Ginsbergs' to-night! I'll put my whole soul into the music, and it will +be the merriest, cheeriest soul that ever lived in the world. + +FANNY [_bends down and kisses her forehead_]. My faithful friend! + +LIZZIE. At last! My dream's come true! + +FANNY [_drops into the armchair_]. Your dream? + +LIZZIE [_takes a piece of cloth from the table, spreads it out on the +floor, and kneels before Fanny_]. Listen. I dreamed for you a hero +before whom the world, even before seeing him, would bare its head. I +dreamed for you a triumphal march of powerful harmonies, a genius, a +superman, such as only you deserve. + +FANNY. Sh! Sh! Don't talk like that! + +LIZZIE. No, no. You can't take that away from me. As long as I shall +live I'll never cease admiring you. There aren't many sisters in the +world like you. Why, you never have given a thought to yourself, never a +look, but have worked with might and main to make a somebody out of your +sister. I'll tell you the truth. I've often had the most unfriendly +feelings toward your sister Olga. She takes it so easy there in +Petrograd, while you-- + +FANNY [_tenderly_]. You're a naughty girl. + +LIZZIE. I simply couldn't see how things went on,--how you were working +yourself to death. + +FANNY. But that was my happiness, and now I am amply repaid for it, to +see Olga placed upon an independent footing, with a great future before +her as a painter. + +LIZZIE. That kind of happiness did not appeal very much to me. I wanted, +for you, a different kind of happiness,--the happiness of being a wife, +of being a mother, of loving and being loved. + +FANNY [_in a reverie_]. I had already weaned my thoughts away from love +and family life as the only happiness. + +LIZZIE. You poor soul! + +FANNY. When my mother died, my road was clearly mapped out for me: to be +to my sister, who is eight years younger than I, both a father and a +mother. That purpose was great and holy to me. I never thought of +anything else. Only in the early twenties, between twenty-two and +twenty-five, a longing for something else came to me. Not that my sister +became a burden to me, God forbid, but I wanted something more, a full +life, happiness and--love. At that time I used to cry very much, and wet +my pillow with my tears, and I was very unhappy. And I was easily +angered then, too, so you see I was far from an angel. + +LIZZIE [_draws Fanny nearer, and kisses her_]. You darling, you! + +FANNY. But later the longing left me, as if it had been charmed away. +Olga grew older, and her talents began to ripen. Then I forgot myself +altogether, and she became again my sole concern. + +LIZZIE. And is that all? + +FANNY. What else can there be? Of course, when my sister went to +Petrograd she was no longer under my immediate care and I was left all +alone. The old longing re-awoke in my bosom but I told myself that one +of my years had no right to expect happiness and love? So I determined +to tear out, to uproot from my heart every longing. I tried to convince +myself that my goal in life had already been attained--that I had placed +a helpless child securely upon her feet-- + +LIZZIE. But you loved Berman all the time, didn't you? + +FANNY. Yes, I loved him all the time, but I fought my feelings. Life had +taught me to restrain and to suppress my desires. I argued: He is too +far above me-- + +LIZZIE. Too far above you? + +FANNY [_continuing_]. And I am too worn-out for him. And furthermore, I +tried to make myself believe that his daily visits here were accidental, +that they were not intended for me at all, but for his friend and nephew +Hindes, who happens to board with me. + +LIZZIE. But how could you help perceiving that he was something more +than indifference to you? You must have been able to read it in his +eyes. + +FANNY [_smiling_]. Well, you see how it is! And perhaps for the very +reason that I had abandoned all ideas of love, and had sought to deceive +myself into believing that I was a dried-up twig on the tree of live-- + +LIZZIE [_jumping up_]. My! How you sinned against yourself! + +FANNY [_rising_]. But now the sap and the strength flow again within +me,--now I am young once more.--Ah! Life, life!--To enjoy it, to drink +it down in copious draughts, to feel it in every pulse-beat--Oh, Lizzie, +play me a triumphal march, a song of joy, of jubilation.... + +LIZZIE. So that the very walls will dance and the heavens join in the +chorus. [_Goes to the door at the left, singing._] "Joy, thou goddess, +fair, immortal, daughter of Elysium, Mad with rapture--" [_Suddenly +stops._] Sh! Hindes is coming! + + [_Listens._] + +FANNY [_she has been standing as if entranced; her whole body trembles +as she awakens to her surroundings. She puts her finger to her nose, +warningly._] Don't say a word to him about it. + +LIZZIE. I will! He must know it, he must be happy over it, too. And if +he truly loves you, he will be happy to learn it. And then, once for all +he'll get rid of his notions about winning you. + +FANNY. Don't be so inconsiderate. + +LIZZIE. Leave it to me!... Hindes! Hindes! + +FANNY. It's high time you left for the Ginsbergs'. + +LIZZIE. I've a few minutes yet.... Hindes! Hindes! + +HINDES [_appears at the rear door. He wears spectacles; under his left +arm a crutch, under his right arm books, and in his hands various bags +of food_]. + +FANNY [_steals out through the door at the left_]. + +HINDES. Good evening. What's the news? + +LIZZIE. Come here! Quick! Fa-- + +HINDES. Won't you give me time to carry my parcels into my room? + +LIZZIE. Not even a second! Fanny has-- + +HINDES [_taking an apple from a bag_]. Have an apple. + +LIZZIE [_refusing it_]. Let me speak, won't you! Fa-- + +HINDES. May I at least sit down? + +LIZZIE [_loudly_]. Fanny has received a letter from Berman! + +HINDES [_taking a seat_]. Saying that his drama has been accepted. I, +too, have received a letter from Berman. + +LIZZIE. That's nothing. The point is that he is seeking to make a match +with her. He has practically proposed to her. + +HINDES [_astonished_]. Practically proposed? To Fanny? + +LIZZIE. Yes, and when Fanny comes back you just see to it that you wish +her a right friendly congratulation, and that you make no--[_Stops +suddenly._] Hm! I came near saying something silly.--Oh, I'm so happy, +and I'd just have the whole world happy with me. Do you hear? You must +help her celebrate, do you hear? And now, good night to you, for I must +run along to the Ginsbergs'. + + [_Turns to the door at the left singing: "Joy, thou goddess, fair, + immortal...."_] + +HINDES [_calling after her_]. But--the devil. Miss Ehrlich! + +LIZZIE [_at the door_]. I haven't a single moment to spare for the +devil. + + [_She disappears._] + +HINDES [_grunts angrily, throws his crutch to the ground, places his +books and his packages on a chair, and mumbles_]. What mockery is this! + + [_Takes out a letter from his inside pocket and reads it over + several times. Grunts again. Rests his head heavily upon his + hands, and looks vacantly forward, as if deeply puzzled._] + +FANNY [_enters, embarrassed_]. Good evening, Hindes! + +HINDES [_mumbles, without changing his position_]. Good evening! + +FANNY [_looks at him in embarrassment, and begins to busy herself with +the cloaks on the forms._] + +HINDES [_still in the same position. He taps his foot nervously. He soon +ceases this, and speaks without looking at Fanny_]. Miss Segal, will you +permit me to see Berman's letter? + +FANNY [_with a nervous laugh_]. That's a bit indiscreet--not at all like +a cavalier. + +HINDES [_same position and same tone_]. Will you permit me to see +Berman's letter? + +FANNY [_with a laugh of embarrassment, throws him the letter, which she +has been holding in her sleeve_]. Read it, if that's how you feel. + +HINDES [_bends slowly down, gets the letter, commences to read it, and +then to grumble_]. H'm! So! [_He lets the letter fall to his knee, and +stares vacantly before him. He shakes his foot nervously and mumbles as +if to himself._] To be such an idiot! + +FANNY [_regards him with astonishment_]. + +HINDES [_somewhat more softly_]. To be such an idiot! + +FANNY [_laughing, still embarrassed_]. Who? + +HINDES. Not I. + + [_Picks up his crutch, the books and the parcels, arises, and + gives the letter to Fanny._] + +FANNY [_beseechingly_]. Hindes, don't take it so badly. You make me very +sad. + +HINDES. I'm going to my room, so you won't see me. + +FANNY [_as before_]. Don't speak to me like that, Hindes. Be my good +friend, as you always were. [_In a lower tone, embarrassed._] And be +good to Berman. For you know, between us, between you and me, there +could never have been anything more than friendship. + +HINDES. There is no need of your telling me that. I know what I know and +have no fault to find with you. + +FANNY. Then why are you so upset, and why do you reproach yourself? + +HINDES. Because.... + +FANNY. Because what? + +HINDES [_after an inner struggle, stormily_]. Because I am in a rage! To +think of a chap writing such a veiled, ambiguous, absolutely botched +sentence, and cooking up such a mess! + +FANNY. What do you mean by all this? + +HINDES. You know, Miss Segal, what my feelings are toward you, and you +know that I wish you all happiness. I assure you that I would bury deep +within me all my grief and all my longing, and would rejoice with a full +heart--if things were as you understood them from Berman's letter. + +FANNY. As I understood them from Berman's letter? + +HINDES. --And what rouses my anger and makes me hesitate is that it +should have had to happen to you and that I must be the surgeon to cut +the cataract from your eye. + +FANNY [_astounded_]. Drop your rhetorical figures. End your work. Cut +away, since you've begun the cutting. + +HINDES [_without looking at her, deeply stirred_]. Berman did not mean +you. + +FANNY. Not me? + +HINDES. Not you, but your sister. + +FANNY [_with an outcry_]. Oh!-- + +HINDES. He writes me that his first meeting with her was as if the +splendor of God had suddenly shone down upon him,--that gradually he was +inflamed by a fiery passion, and that he hopes his love is returned, +that.... + +FANNY [_falls upon a chair, her face turned toward the table. She breaks +into moaning_]. She has taken from me everything! + + [_In deepest despair, with cries from her innermost being, she + tears at her hair._] + +HINDES [_drops his books and packages to the floor. Limps over to Fanny, +and removes her hands from her head_]. You have good reason to weep, but +not to harm yourself. + +FANNY [_hysterically_]. She has taken from me everything! My ambition to +study, my youth, my fondest hopes, and now.... + +HINDES. And now?--Nothing. As you see, Berman never loved you. If it +hadn't been for that unfortunate, ambiguous, absolutely botched, simply +idiotic sentence.... + +FANNY [_softly_]. Hindes, I feel that I no longer care to live. + +HINDES. Folly! + +FANNY. I feel as if my heart had been torn in two. My soul is empty, +desolate ... as if an abyss had opened before me.... What have I now in +life for? I can live no longer! + +HINDES. Folly! Nonsense! + +FANNY. I have already lived my life.... + +HINDES. Absurd! + +FANNY [_resolutely_]. I know what I'm talking about, and I know what to +do. + + [_Silence._] + +HINDES [_regarding her closely. With blunt emphasis_]. You're thinking +now over what death you shall choose. + +FANNY [_motionless_]. + +HINDES [_taking a seat_]. Let me tell you a story. There was once upon a +time a man who--not through doubt and misfortune, but rather through +good times and pleasures, came to the conclusion that life wasn't worth +living. So he went off to buy a revolver. On his way a great clamor +arose in the street. A house had caught fire and in a moment was in +flames. Suddenly, at one of the windows in the top story there appeared +a woman. The firemen had placed their highest ladders against the +building and a man began to climb up. That man was none other than our +candidate for suicide. He took the woman out of the window, gave her to +the firemen who had followed him up, and then went through the window +into the house. The surrounding crowd trembled with fear lest the house +should cave in at the very last moment. Flames already appeared at the +window, and people were sure that the hero had been burned to death +inside. But he had not been burned; he soon appeared on the roof, with a +small child in his arms. The ladders could not reach to this height, so +the firemen threw him a rope. He tied the rope about the child and +lowered it to the firemen. But he himself was beyond rescue. He folded +his hands over his heart, and tears trickled from his eyes. He, who but +a moment before had sought death, now desired not to die. No, he wanted +to live, for in that moment he had found a purpose: to live and to do +good. + +FANNY [_angrily_]. To do good! I'm tired of doing good! + +HINDES. Don't sin against yourself, Fanny! + +FANNY. Do good! I have done good; I have lived for others, not myself; +and now you can see for yourself that I have not fulfilled my life. I +feel as wretched as the most miserable, as the most wicked, and I long +for death even as the most unhappy! + +HINDES [_looking at her from under his spectacles_]. Does Olga know of +your feelings toward Berman? + +FANNY [_angrily_]. I don't know what she knows. + +HINDES. Can't you give me any better reply than that? + +FANNY. What can I know? I used to write her letters just full of Berman. + +HINDES. Could Olga have gathered from them that you were not +indifferently disposed toward him? + +FANNY. What do you mean by this cross-examination? + +HINDES. I have a notion that if you were to do what you have in your +mind at present,--a thing I cannot bring myself to name,--then Olga +would not accept Berman's love. Rather she would take her own life, +since she would look upon herself as the cause of your death. + +FANNY. What's this you've thought up? + +HINDES. Just what you heard. + +FANNY. And you mean--? + +HINDES. --That you know your sister and ought to realize what she's +liable to do. + +FANNY [_in a fit of anger_]. First she takes away my life, and now she +will not let me die! + + [_Her head sinks to the table._] + +HINDES. There spoke the true Fanny, the Fanny of yore. + +FANNY [_weeps bitterly_]. + +HINDES. Well may you weep. Weep, Fanny, weep until the tears come no +more. But when that is over, then dry your eyes and never weep again. +Dry forever the source of all your tears. That's exactly what I did, do +you understand? Such people as you and I, robbed of personal happiness, +must either weep forever, or never weep at all. I chose the latter +course. Harden yourself, Fanny, and then fold your arms on your breast +and look fearlessly forward into life, fulfilling it as your heart +dictates. + +FANNY [_continues weeping_]. + +HINDES [_noticing Berman's letter on the table, takes it up and throws +it down angrily_]. Such a botched, idiotic sentence! And he's a poet! + +FANNY [_raising her head_]. If things are as you say, then Olga will in +any case reject Berman. She will imagine that she is taking him away +from me, and such a thing she would never do. + +HINDES. Perhaps. [_Suddenly, bluntly._] And what will be the effect of +all this upon you? + +FANNY [_brokenly_]. Who's thinking of self? I mean that I want her to +have him. + +HINDES. There's the old Fanny again! + +FANNY. Ah! Enough of that! Better help me with some suggestion. + +HINDES. Some suggestion? Be her matchmaker. + +FANNY. And suppose she should turn the tables and want to be my +matchmaker? + +HINDES. We've got to think that over. + + [_Silence._] + +FANNY [_brokenly_]. Hindes! + +HINDES. What? + +FANNY. I have an idea. + +HINDES. Good. + +FANNY. But I need your aid. + +HINDES. Count on me, if I'm able. + +FANNY. Do you promise? + +HINDES. Blindly? + +FANNY. Blindly. + +HINDES [_looks at her_]. Why must I promise you blindly? If I'm able, +you may be sure I'll help. + +FANNY [_brokenly, yet in embarrassment_]. Take me.... Marry me. + +HINDES [_for a moment he looks at her, then picks up his crutch, his +books and the packages_]. + +FANNY [_beseechingly_]. Hindes! If I should marry, Olga wouldn't have +any obstacle in her way. + +HINDES. Miss Segal, I have loved you, and still do. But I refuse to be +the altar upon which you shall sacrifice yourself. + +FANNY. But a moment ago you dissuaded me from death. Will you now drive +me back to it? + +HINDES. Your sister will be able to find happiness without Berman. + +FANNY. But if she loves him?-- + +HINDES. Then she'll suffer, just as we do. + +FANNY. No! Olga must not suffer! Do you hear! I'll not have it! + +HINDES. That is very nice of you. + +FANNY [_through her tears_]. Hindes, I no longer know you. + +HINDES [_turns toward the door_]. Good night. + +FANNY [_is overcome by sobbing_]. + +HINDES [_limps to the door, then stops. Looks downwards, then raises his +eyes toward Fanny_]. Miss Segal, why is it that during all the time that +I have boarded with you I have made no declaration of love, that I have +never proposed marriage? + +FANNY [_weeps_]. + +HINDES. I'll tell you. Wasn't it because I knew that you didn't love me, +and because I wanted your love, not merely your respect? + +FANNY [_firmly_]. No. You didn't do it simply because you knew that I +would refuse you. + +HINDES. And suppose I expected "Yes" from you? + +FANNY. Then you would have proposed. + +HINDES. And married you without your love? + +FANNY. Yes. + +HINDES. But then I didn't know that you loved another. + +FANNY [_brokenly_]. The other no longer exists for me. + +HINDES [_looks again at the floor. Silence_]. + +FANNY. Hindes! + +HINDES. Yes? + +FANNY. Come nearer to me. + +HINDES. I am lame. + +FANNY. Put all your bundles aside. + +HINDES [_hesitates for a moment, then puts down his books and +packages_]. + +FANNY [_as if in embarrassment_]. Everything.... Everything.... + +HINDES [_bluntly_]. Don't be ashamed. Say just what you mean: Lay aside +the crutch, too. + + [_He lays aside the crutch._] + +FANNY [_arises, takes his hand_]. Hindes, you know my attitude toward +you. You know how highly I esteem you, how happy I've always been to +possess in you a good, true friend.... [_Nestles her head against him, +coyly._] Embrace me, and give me a kiss, a hot, passionate kiss. Put +into it your whole love, make it express your whole true soul. +[_Brokenly, and in tears._] I tell you, our life will be--happy. We +souls, forgotten by happiness, will yet find it--in our own way--as best +we can. [_Less tearfully._] You'll see how it'll soon be. Lizzie will +come home and she'll play us a march of jubilation, a march of joy.... +[_Brokenly._] She owes it to me!... I'll dance, I tell you; I'll dance +for two. You'll see. And I'll sing. I'll turn things upside down. +Hindes, kiss me, hotly, hotly. + +HINDES [_passionately, through tears_]. You.... You.... + + [_He gives her a long kiss, as if entranced._] + + + [_Slow Curtain._] + + + * * * * * + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY + +OF THE LITTLE THEATRE + + + + +FOREWORD + + +What is wanting in this list the reader will only too soon discover for +himself. I do not, however, wish to offer a faltering apology for the +incompleteness of the work. In truth, it needs none. Nevertheless, a +brief word of explanation may not be amiss. + +The duties of the bibliographer are more or less mechanical. He merely +collects his data from the most available sources or from arcana known +only to a few, arranges his material alphabetically and sends his copy +to the printer. + +The present list is an exception to the general practice. It will be +noted that the bibliographer has broken his traces, forsaken his +accustomed field and intruded, in some measure, upon the province of the +critic. From the great mass of plays accessible in English I have sought +to select only those which I hold best adapted to the little theater as +it is to-day constituted. On the whole, they are plays which have +encountered a certain measure of success or that I felt to be worthy of +production. Rigid care has been taken to exclude such dramatic pieces +which are fittingly described as "side-splitting farces." The latter +contribute nothing to the art theater. Box and Cox, I doubt not, may be +excruciatingly funny, but few would care to hear that Sam Hume, for +instance, was about to produce it. Not that genuine laughter hasn't its +place in the modern theater; but we cannot laugh to-day at the archaic +drolleries of yesterday. We cannot abandon ourselves to papier-mache +characterization in the theater. And this is what the art theater +accomplished in its brief stay with us. + + F. S. + + + + +THE BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE + + + ANTHONY, Luther B. + DRAMATOLOGY. A Manual of Craftsmanship + + APPIA, Adolphe + DIE MUSIK UND DIE INSCENIERUNG + + ARCHER, William + PLAY MAKING. A Manual of Craftsmanship + ABOUT THE THEATRE + + ARCHER, William, and BARKER, Granville + A NATIONAL THEATRE. Schemes and Estimates + + ARNOLD, Robert S. + DAS MODERNE DRAMA + + AUSTIN, Stephen F. + THE PRINCIPLES OF DRAMA-THERAPY + + + BAKER, George Pierce + THE TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA + DRAMATIC TECHNIQUE + + BAKSHY, Alexander + THE PATH OF THE MODERN RUSSIAN STAGE + + BICKLEY, Francis + J. M. SYNGE AND THE IRISH DRAMATIC MOVEMENT + + BLEACKLEY, J. Arthur + THE ART OF MIMICRY + + BOOTH, William Stone + A PRACTICAL GUIDE FOR AUTHORS AND PLAYWRIGHTS + + BOURGEOIS, Maurice + JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE AND THE IRISH THEATRE + + BOYD, Ernest A. + THE CONTEMPORARY DRAMA OF IRELAND + + BROADBENT, R. J. + A HISTORY OF PANTOMIME + + BROWNE, Maurice + THE TEMPLE OF A LIVING ART + + BROWNE, Van Dyke + SECRETS OF SCENE PAINTING AND STAGE EFFECTS + + BRUNETIERE, Ferdinand + THE LAW OF THE DRAMA, with an introduction by Henry Arthur Jones. + Translated by P. M. Hayden + + BURLEIGH, Louise + THE COMMUNITY THEATRE + + BURTON, Richard + HOW TO SEE A PLAY + + + CALTHROP, Dion Clayton + ENGLISH COSTUME. Four volumes + + CALVERT, Louis + PROBLEMS OF THE ACTOR + + CANNAN, Gilbert + THE JOY OF THE THEATRE + + CANNON, Fanny + WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY + + CARTER, Huntley + THE NEW SPIRIT IN DRAMA AND ART + THE THEATRE OF MAX REINHARDT + + CHENEY, Sheldon + THE OPEN AIR THEATRE + THE THEATRE ARTS MAGAZINE + THE NEW MOVEMENT IN THE THEATRE + THE ART THEATRE + + CLARK, Barrett H. + HOW TO PRODUCE AMATEUR PLAYS + CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY + BRITISH AND AMERICAN DRAMA OF TO-DAY + EUROPEAN THEORIES OF THE DRAMA + + COLLES, W. M., and HARDY, H. + PLAYWRIGHT AND COPYRIGHT IN ALL COUNTRIES + + COQUELIN, Constant + ART AND THE ACTOR. Translated by A. L. Alger + + CRAIG, Gordon + THE ART OF THE THEATRE + ON THE ART OF THE THEATRE + A LIVING THEATRE + TOWARDS A NEW THEATRE + THE THEATRE--ADVANCING + + + DEAN, Basil + THE REPERTORY THEATRE, 1911 + + DICKINSON, Thomas H. + THE CONTEMPORARY DRAMA OF ENGLAND + THE INSURGENT THEATRE + + + EDWARDS, O. + JAPANESE PLAYS AND PLAYFELLOWS + + + FENELLOSA, Ernest, and POUND, Ezra + "NO"; or ACCOMPLISHMENT + + FRY, Emma Sheridan + EDUCATIONAL DRAMATICS + + + GILLETTE, William + THE ILLUSION OF THE FIRST TIME IN ACTING + + GOLDMAN, Emma + THE SOCIAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE MODERN DRAMA + + GREGORY, Lady + OUR IRISH THEATRE + + + HAMILTON, Clayton + THEORY OF THE THEATRE + STUDIES IN STAGECRAFT + PROBLEMS OF THE PLAYWRIGHT + + HASTINGS, Charles + THE THEATRE. Its Development in France and England and a History + of Its Greek and Latin Origins + + HENDERSON, Archibald + THE CHANGING DRAMA + EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS + + HENNEQUIN, Alfred + THE ART OF PLAYWRITING + + HILLIARD, E., McCORMICK, T., and OGLEBAY, K. + AMATEUR AND EDUCATIONAL DRAMATICS + + HORNBLOW, Arthur + TRAINING FOR THE STAGE. Some Hints for Those About to Choose + the Player's Career + + HORRWITZ, Ernest P. + THE INDIAN THEATRE. A Brief Survey of the Sanskrit Drama + + HOWE, P. P. + THE REPERTORY THEATRE + + HUBERT, Philip G. + THE STAGE AS A CAREER + + HUNT, Elizabeth R. + THE PLAY OF TO-DAY + + + IZUMO, Takeda. Translated by M. C. Marcus + THE PINE TREE. With an Introductory Causerie on the Japanese Theatre + + + JONES, Henry Arthur + RENASCENCE OF THE ENGLISH DRAMA + FOUNDATIONS OF A NATIONAL DRAMA + THE THEATRE OF IDEAS + + + KROWS, Arthur Edwin + PLAY PRODUCTION IN AMERICA + + + LAWRENCE, W. J. + THE ELIZABETHAN PLAYHOUSE + + LEWES, G. H. + ON ACTORS AND THE ART OF ACTING + + LEWIS, B. Roland + THE TECHNIQUE OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY: A Study in Dramatic Construction + + LEWISOHN, Ludwig + THE MODERN DRAMA + + + MACCARTHY, Desmond + THE COURT THEATRE + + MACCLINTOCK, Lander + THE CONTEMPORARY DRAMA OF ITALY + + MACKAY, Constance D'Arcy + COSTUMES AND SCENERY FOR AMATEURS; A Practical Working Handbook + THE LITTLE THEATRE IN THE UNITED STATES + + MACKAY, F. F. + THE ART OF ACTING + + MACKAYE, Percy + COMMUNITY DRAMA + THE CIVIL THEATRE + THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY + PATRIOTIC DRAMA IN YOUR TOWN + + MACKINNON, Alan + THE OXFORD AMATEURS + + MANTIZIUS, Karl + HISTORY OF THEATRICAL ART IN ANCIENT AND MODERN TIMES. Five volumes + + McCLEOD, Addison + PLAYS AND PLAYERS IN MODERN ITALY + + McEWEN, E. J. + FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA + + MATTHEWS, Brander + ON ACTING + + MODERWELL, Hiram Kelly + THE THEATRE OF TO-DAY + + MONTAGUE, C. E. + DRAMATIC VALUES + + MORSE, Elizabeth + PRINCIPLES OF EXPRESSION: A Guide for Developing Readers, Speakers + and Dramatic Artists + + + NICHOLSON, Watson + THE STRUGGLE FOR A FREE STAGE IN LONDON + + + PALMER, John + THE FUTURE OF THE THEATRE COMEDY + THE CENSOR AND THE THEATRE + + PHELPS, William Lyon + THE TWENTIETH CENTURY THEATRE + + POLLAK, Gustav + FRANZ GRILLPARZAR AND THE AUSTRIAN DRAMA + + POLTI, George. Translated by Lucille Ray + THE THIRTY-SIX DRAMATIC SITUATIONS + + PRICE, W. T. + TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA + ANALYSIS OF PLAY CONSTRUCTION AND DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE + THE PHILOSOPHY OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE AND METHOD + + + RENNERT, Hugo A. + THE SPANISH STAGE + + RILEY, Alice C. D. + THE ONE-ACT PLAY. A Study Course in Three Parts + + ROUCHE, Jacques + L'ART THEATRAL MODERNE + + + SACHS, Edward O. + STAGE CONSTRUCTION + + SAYLER, Oliver M. + THE RUSSIAN THEATRE UNDER THE REVOLUTION + + SEPET, Marius + ORIGINES CATHOLIQUES DE THEATRE MODERNE + + SHAW, George Bernard + DRAMATIC OPINIONS AND ESSAYS + + SHAY, Frank + THE PLAYS AND BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE. A Listing of Over 1000 + One-Act Plays Available in Printed Form + + SMITH, Winifred + THE COMMEDIA DELL'ARTE. A Study of Italian Popular Comedy + + STOPES, Marie C. + THE PLAYS OF OLD JAPAN. The No. + + + TAYLOR, Emerson + PRACTICAL STAGE DIRECTING FOR AMATEURS + + THEATRICAL SCENE PAINTING: A Thorough and Complete Work on How to + Sketch, Paint and Install Theatrical Scenery + + THE TRUTH ABOUT THE THEATRE + + TURRELL, Charles A. + CONTEMPORARY SPANISH DRAMATISTS + + + WAUGH, Frank A. + OUTDOOR THEATRES + + WITKOWSKI, George. Translated by L. E. Horning + THE GERMAN DRAMA OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY + + WOODBRIDGE, Elizabeth + THE DRAMA. Its Law and Technique + + + * * * * * + + + + +THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE + + +ABBREVIATIONS + + a--Allegory + c--Comedy + d--Drama + m--Masque + p--Play + s--Satire + m--Men, or Male Characters + w--Women, or Female Characters + j--Juvenile + i--Characters played by either sex + + + ABERCROMBIE, Lascelles + THE ADDER + + AKINS, Zoe + DID IT REALLY HAPPEN? + THE MAGICAL CITY + SUCH A CHARMING YOUNG MAN + + ALDRICH, Thos. Bailey + SISTERS' TRAGEDY + CORYDON, a Pastoral. 2m + PAULINE PAVLOVNA. p. 1m 1w supers _Houghton_ + + ALDIS, Mary + PLAYS FOR SMALL STAGES + MRS. PAT AND THE LAW. p 2m 2w 1j + THE DRAMA CLASS AT TANKAHA, NEV. c 2m 9w + EXTREME UNCTION. d 1m 4w + THE LETTER. p 2m 1j + TEMPERAMENT. t 1m 2w + Five plays in one volume _Duffield_ + + ANCEY, Georges. + See "Four Plays for the Free Theatre." + + ANDREWS, K. + AMERICA PASSES BY. p 2m 2w _Baker_ + + ANDREYEV, Leonid + LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR. s 15m 7w 1j _Shay_ + + D'ANNUNZIO, Gabriele + DREAM OF AN AUTUMN SUNSET. p 2m 4w _Poet Lore_ + DREAM OF A SPRING MORNING. p 3m 4w _Poet Lore_ + + ARISTOPHANES + LYSISTRATA. s 4m 5w 1j _French_ + + ARKELL, Reginald + COLUMBINE, a fantasy. 4m 1w _S. & J._ + + AUGIER, Emile + THE POSTSCRIPT. c 1m 2w _French_ + + AUGIER, Emile, and de MUSSET, Alfred + THE GREEN COAT. c 3m 1w _French_ + + AUSTEN, Alfred + A LESSON IN HARMONY. p 3m 1w _French_ + + + BACON, Mrs. Josephine Dodge + THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS. p 2 scenes _Kennerley_ + + BAKER, Elizabeth + MISS TASSY. p _Sidgwick_ + + BALLARD, J. Fred + THE GOOD NEWS. d 3m 1w 1j _Harvard_ + + BANGS, John Kendrick + THE REAL THING, etc. + THE REAL THING. c 2m 5w + THE BARRINGTONS' "AT HOME." c 2m 3w + THE RETURN OF CHRISTMAS. c 4m 3w + THE SIDE SHOW. c 8m 3w + Four plays in one volume _Harpers_ + THE BICYCLERS, etc. + THE BICYCLERS. c 4m 3w + A DRAMATIC EVENING. c 4m 3w + THE FATAL MESSAGE. c 5m 4w + A PROPOSAL UNDER DIFFICULTIES. c 3m 2w + Four plays in one volume _Harpers_ + + BANNING, Kendall + "Copy." p 7m _Clinic_ + + DE BANVILLE, Theodore + GRINGOIRE. c 4m 2w supers _Poet Lore_ + GRINGOIRE. c 4m 2w _Dramatic_ + CHARMING LEANDRE. c 2m 1w _French_ + + BARBER, M. E. + MECHANICAL JANE. c 3W _French_ + + BARGATE, John + THE PRIZE. p 4m 3w _French_ + + BARKER, Granville + ROCOCO. f m w + VOTE BY BALLOT. p m w + FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE. p m w + Three plays in one volume _Little_ + ANATOL. (_See_ Schnitzler.) + + BARRIE, James M. + HALF HOURS + PANTALOON. p 3m + THE TWELVE POUND LOOK. c 2m 2w + ROSALIND. p 1m 2w + THE WILL. p 6m 1w + Four plays in one vol. _Scribner's_ + THE TRAGIC MAN _Scribner's_ + ECHOES OF WAR + OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS. p 1m 5w + THE NEW WORLD. p 2m 2w + BARBARA'S WEDDING. p 3m 1w + A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE. p 2m 2w + Four plays in one vol. _Scribner's_ + + BATES, W. O. + POLLY OF POGUE'S RUN. p 6m 2w _Shay_ + + BEACH, Lewis + THE CLOD. p 4m 1w _Shay_ + BROTHERS. p 3m _Shay_ + A GUEST FOR DINNER _Shay_ + + BECHHOFER, C. E. + FIVE RUSSIAN PLAYS, etc. + EVREINOV, N. A MERRY DEATH. c 5m + EVREINOV, N. THE BEAUTIFUL DESPOT. c 5m 3w 1j + VON VIZIN, D. THE CHOICE OF A TUTOR. c 5m 3w + CHEKOV, A. THE WEDDING. c 9m 3w + CHEKOV, A. THE JUBILEE. c 5m 1w + UKRAINKA, L. THE BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY. d 1m 7i + Six plays in one vol. _Dutton_ + + BECQUE, Henri + THE VULTURES, etc. + THE MERRY-GO-ROUND. c 4m 1w _Little_ + + BELL, Mrs. Hugh, and CECIL, A. + TIME IS MONEY. c 1m 2w _French_ + + BELMONT, Mrs. O. H. P., and MAXWELL, Elsa + MELINDA AND HER SISTERS. p 6m 12w _Shores_ + + BEITH, Ian Hay + THE CRIMSON COCOANUT, etc. + THE CRIMSON COCOANUT. c 4m 2w + A LATE DELIVERY. p 3m 2w + THE MISSING CARD. c 2m 2w + Three plays in one vol. _Baker_ + QUEEN OF HEARTS. c 2m 2w _Penn_ + + BENEDIX, Roderich + THE LAW OF SUIT. c 5m _French_ + THE THIRD MAN. c 1m 3w _French_ + + BENEVENTE, Jacinto. PLAYS + HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND. c 2m 5w + With other plays in one vol. _Scribner_ + THE SMILE OF THE MONA LISA. p 5m 1i _Badger_ + NO SMOKING. c 2m 2w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 + IN THE PLACE OF DON JUAN. p 3m 2w _Poet Lore_ + + BENNETT, Arnold. POLITE FARCES + THE STEPMOTHER. c 2m 1w + A GOOD WOMAN. 3 cm 1w + A QUESTION OF SEX. c 2m 2w + Three plays in one volume _Doran_ + + BERINGER, Mrs. Oscar + HOLLY TREE INN. p 4m 3w _French_ + + BERNARD, Tristan + FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER. c 5m 2w _French_ + I'M GOING! c 1m 1w _French_ + + BIRO, Lajos + THE BRIDEGROOM. p 5m 6w + THE GRANDMOTHER. p 3m 8w + Two plays in one number _Drama_, _May_, 1918 + + BLOCH, Bertram + THE MAIDEN OVER THE WALL. f 2m 1w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 + MORALS AND CIRCUMSTANCES. p 2m 3w _Smart Set_, _April_, 1919 + + BODENHEIM, Maxwell + THE WANDERER. p 4m 2w _Seven Arts_ + THE MASTER POISONER. + "In Minna and Myself" _Pagan_ + + BONE, F. D. + A DAUGHTER OF JAPAN. d _French_ + PRIDE OF THE REGIMENT. p 2m 1w _French_ + + BOTTOMLEY, Gordon + LAODICE AND DANAE. p 1m 5w _Four_ + KING LEAR'S WIFE. p _Reynolds_ + + BOUCHOR, Maurice + A CHRISTMAS TALE. p 2m 2w _French_ + + BOUCICAULT, Dion + MY LITTLE GIRL. d 3m 2w _French_ + LOVER BY PROXY. c 6m 4w _French_ + + BOYCE, Neith, and HAPGOOD, Hutchins + ENEMIES. p 1m 1w _Shay_ + + BOYCE, Neith + THE TWO SONS. p 2m 2w _Shay_ + + BRAGDON, Claude + THE GIFT OF ASIA. p 2m _Forum_, _March_, 1913 + + BRANCH, Anna Hempstead + THE ROSE OF THE WIND. p 2m 2w _Houghton_ + SHOES THAT DANCED. p 3m 5w 1j _Houghton_ + + BRETHERTON, Evangeline + THE MINISTER'S MESSENGER. p 14w _French_ + + BRIDGHAM, G. R. + EXCUSE ME! c Two acts. 4m 6w _Baker_ + A MODERN CINDERELLA. Two acts. p 16w _Baker_ + + BRIEUX, Eugene + SCHOOL FOR MOTHERS-IN-LAW. p 2m 4w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1913 + + BRIGHOUSE, Harold + SCARING OFF OF TEDDY DAWSON. c 2m 2w _French_ + LONESOME-LIKE. p 2m 2w _Phillips_ + THE PRICE OF COAL. p + THE MAID OF FRANCE. p 3m 2w _Phillips_ + THE DOORWAY. p _Joseph Williams_ + SPRING IN BLOOMSBURY. p _Joseph Williams_ + + BRIGGS, Caroline + ONE A DAY. c 5m _Shay_ + In "Morningside Plays." + + BROOKE, Rupert + LITHUANIA. d 5m 2w _Chicago_ + + BROWN, Alice + JOINT OWNERS IN SPAIN. c 4w _Baker_ + THE LOVING CUP. p 4m 9w _Baker_ + + BROWNE, Maurice + KING OF THE JEWS. p _Drama_, _Vol._ 6, 1916 + + BROWNING, Robert + IN A BALCONY. p 1m 2w _Dramatic_ + + BRUNNER, Emma Beatrice. BITS OF BACKGROUND + OVER AGE. p 1m 4w + SPARK OF LIFE. p 2m 2w + STRANGERS. p 2m 1w + MAKING A MAN. p 2m 2w + Four plays in one volume _Knopf_ + + BRYANT, E. M. + THE PEACEMAKER. c 2m 3w _French_ + + BRYANT, Louise + THE GAME. p 2m 2w _Shay_ + + BUCK, Gertrude + MOTHER-LOVE. p 1m 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919 + + BUNNER, H. C. + COURTSHIP WITH VARIATIONS. c 1m 1w _Werner_ + + BUNNER, H. C., and MAGNUS, J. + A BAD CASE. c 1m 3w _Baker_ + + BUSHIDO. _See_ IZUMO (TAKEDA) + + BUTLER, Ellis Parker + THE REVOLT. p 8w _French_ + + BYNNER, Witter + THE LITTLE KING. p 3m 1w 1j _Kennerley_ + TIGER. d 2m 3w _Kennerley_ + + + DECAULAVET, G. A. + CHOOSING A CAREER. c _French_ + + CALDERON, George + THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE. p _Sidgwick_ + + CAMERON, Margaret. COMEDIES IN MINIATURE + MISS DOULTON'S ORCHIDS. c 3m 3w + THE BURGLAR. c 5w + THE KLEPTOMANIAC. c 7w + THE PIPE OF PEACE. c 1m 2w + A CHRISTMAS CHIME. c 2m 2w + COMMITTEE ON MATRIMONY. c 1m 1w + HER NEIGHBOR'S CREED and FOUR MONOLOGUES. c 1m 1w + Seven plays in one vol. _Doubleday_ + PIPER'S PAY. c 7w French + THE TEETH OF THE GIFT HORSE. c 2m 3w _French_ + THE WHITE ELEPHANT. c 2m 3w _French_ + Published separately _French_ + + CAMPBELL, M. D. + A CHINESE DUMMY. c 6w _Baker_ + + CANNAN, Gilbert. FOUR PLAYS + JAMES AND JOHN. p 3m 1w + MILES DIXON. Two acts, p 3m 2w + MARY'S WEDDING. p 2m 3w + SHORT WAY WITH AUTHORS. p 7m 1w + Four plays in one volume _Phillips_ + EVERYBODY'S HUSBAND. p 1m 5w _Huebsch_ + + CAPUS, Alfred + MY TAILOR. c 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1918 + + CARMAN, Bliss, and KING, Mary. EARTH DEITIES, etc. + THE DANCE DIURNAL. m 2m 3w i + EARTH DEITIES. m 1m 10w i + CHILDREN OF THE WAR. m 1m 1w 24j + PAS DE TROIS. m 3m 1w + Four masques in one vol. _Kennerley_ + + CARTER, Josephine Howell + HILARION. c 2m 2w _Poet Lore_, _Summer_, 1915 + + CARTHEW, L. + THE AMERICAN IDEA. p 3m 2w _Baker_ + + CARTON, R. C. + THE NINTH WALTZ. c 1m 1w _French_ + + CHAMBERS, C. Haddon + OPEN GATE. d 2m 2w _French_ + + CHATTERJI, Tapanmohan + THE LIGHT-BEARER. d 4m _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 + + CHURCH, Virginia + PIERROT BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON. f 2m 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919 + + CLEMENTS, Colin C., and SAUNDERS, John M. + LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN, a Mediaeval Farce. 1m 2w _Poet Lore_ + + CLARK, Barrett H. FOUR PLAYS FOR THE FREE THEATRE + DECUREL, F. THE FOSSILS. Four acts p 6m 4w + JULIAN, J. THE SERENADE. Three acts. p 7m 6w + PORTO-RICHE, G. FRANCOISE'S LUCK. c 3m 2w + ANCEY, G. THE DUPE. c 1m 2w + Four plays in one volume _Stewart_ + + COLQUHON, Donald. _See_ REPERTORY PLAYS + CONFEDERATES. d 4m 1w _French_ + + CONWAY, Ed. Harold + THE WINDY SHOT. p 5m _Smart Set_, _April_, 1915 + + CONRAD, Joseph + ONE DAY MORE. d 4m 1w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1914 + + CONVERSE, Florence + THE BLESSED BIRTHDAY. A Christmas Miracle Play. + 19 Characters _Dutton_ + + COOLIDGE, H. D. + DEAD RECKONING. p 2m 1w _Baker_ + + COPPEE, Francois + THE VIOLIN MAKER OF CREMONA. c 3m 1w supers _Dramatic_ + PATER NOSTER. p 3m 3w _French_ + + COURTLELINE, Georges + THE PITILESS POLICEMAN. c 3m _Poet Lore_ + BLANK CARTRIDGE. p 1m 1w _International_, _July_, 1914 + PEACE AT HOME. c 1m 1w _International_, _Dec._, 1913 + PEACE AT HOME. c 1m 1w _Poet Lore_ + + COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. _See_ PRESBERY, E. + + COWAN, Sada + THE STATE FORBIDS. d 1m 2w 2j _Kennerley_ + IN THE MORGUE. _Forum_, _April_, 1916 + SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK. p 1m 1w + In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_ + + CRAIG, Marion Wentworth + WAR BRIDES. d 3m 4w _Century_ + + CRANDALL, Irene Jean + BEYOND THE GATE. Two acts. p 7m 2w _French_ + + CRANE, Mabel H. + THE GIRLS. p 9w _French_ + + CROTHERS, Rachel + THE RECTOR. p 1m 6w _French_ + + + DANE, Essex + FLEURETTE & CO. p 2w _French_ + WRONG NUMBERS. c 3w _French_ + + DANGERFIELD, Trelawney + OLD STUFF. p 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1917 + + DARGAN, Olive Tilford. LORDS AND LOVERS + LORDS AND LOVERS. p 18m 4w _Scribner_ + WOODS OF IDA. m _Century_, _August_, 1907 + + DAVIS, Richard Harding + MISS CIVILIZATION. c 4m 1w _French_ + PEACE MANOEUVERS. p 2m 1w _French_ + THE ZONE POLICE. p 4m _French_ + ORATOR OF ZAPATA CITY. p 8m 1w _Dramatic_ + + DAVIES, Mary Carolyn + SLAVE WITH TWO FACES. a 3m 4w _Arens_ + + DAVIS, Robert H. + ROOM WITHOUT A NUMBER. c 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _April_, 1917 + + DAVIS, Robert H., and SHEEHAN, P. P. + EFFICIENCY. d 3m _Doran_ + + DELL, Floyd + A LONG TIME AGO. f _Forum_, 1917 + KING ARTHUR'S SOCKS. c 1m 3w _Shay_ + THE ANGEL INTRUDES. c 3m 1w _Arens_ + + DELAND, Margaret + Dramatized by M. B. Vosburgh from "Old Chester Tales" + MISS MARIA. c 2m 3w _French_ + + DEMUTH, Charles + THE AZURE ADDER. s 3m 4w _Shay_ + + DENISON, Emily H. + THE LITTLE MOTHER OF THE SLUMS + Seven one-act plays _Badger_ + + DENTON, Clara J. + TO MEET MR. THOMPSON. c 8w _Baker_ + + DEPUE, Elva + HATTIE. p 2m 3w _Shay_ + In "Morningside Plays" + + DICKENS, Charles + BROWNE, H. B. Short Plays from Dickens. Contains 20 dramatized + sketches from the work of Charles Dickens _Scribner_ + BARDELL VS. PICKWICK. c 6m 2w _Baker_ + A CHRISTMAS CAROL. p 6m 3w _Baker_ + + DICKINSON, C. H., and GRIFFITHS, Arthur + THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE. p 4m 1w _French_ + + DIX, Beulah Marie + THE GLORIOUS GAME. d 6w _A.S.P.L._ + THE ENEMY. d 5m _A.S.P.L._ + CLEMENCY. d 3m 1w _A.S.P.L._ + LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS. d _Poet Lore_ + ALLISON'S LAD AND OTHER PLAYS + ALLISON'S LAD. d 6m + THE HUNDREDTH TRICK. d 4m + THE WEAKEST LINK. d 4m + THE SNARE AND THE FOWLER. d 3m + THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE. d 6m + THE DARK OF THE DAWN. d 4m + Six plays in one volume _Holt_ + + DONNAY, Maurice + THE GIMLET. c 1m 1w _Stratford_, _Dec._, 1918 + + DORAN, Marie + THE GIRLS OVER HERE. p 8w _French_ + + DOREY, J. Milnor + UNDER CONVICTION. d 2m 2w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919 + + DOWSON, Ernest + PIERROT OF THE MINUTE. f 1m 1w _Baker_ + + DOWN, Oliphant + THE MAKER OF DREAMS. f 2m 1w _Phillips_ + THE QUOD WRANGLE. c 5m 1w _French_ + + DOYLE, A. C. + WATERLOO. p 3m 1w _French_ + A DUET. c 3m 1w _French_ + + DRACHMAN, Holgar + "RENAISSANCE." d 6m 2w _Poet Lore_ + + DRAKE, Frank C. + THE ROSEBERRY SHRUB. p 1m 3w _French_ + + DREISER, Theodore + PLAYS OF THE NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL + THE GIRL IN THE COFFIN. p 4m 3w + THE BLUE SPHERE. f 4m 2w 2j + LAUGHING GAS. f 6m 2w + IN THE DARK. f 11m 4w + THE SPRING RECITAL. f 9m 9w + LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. f 9m 7w + OLD RAGPICKER. f 4m 1w + Seven plays in one volume _Lane_ + + DREW, Sylvan + THE NEW PYGMALION AND GALATEA. c 3m 6w _French_ + + DREYFUS, A. + THE SILENT SYSTEM. c 1m 1w _Baker_ + + DRISCOLL, Louise + THE POOR HOUSE. p 2m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1917 + THE CHILD OF GOD. p 2m 3w _Seven Arts_, _Nov._, 1916 + + DUNSANY, Lord. FIVE PLAYS + THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN. p 10i + THE GOLDEN DOOM. p 11m 1w + THE GLITTERING GATE. c 2m + KING ARGIMENES. p 10m 4w + THE LOST SILK HAT. c 5m + Five plays in one volume _Little_ + PLAYS OF GODS AND MEN + A NIGHT AT AN INN. p 8m + THE QUEEN'S ENEMIES. p 9m 2w + THE TENTS OF THE ARABS. p 6m + THE LAUGHTER OF THE GODS. p 9m 4w Three acts + Four plays in one volume _Luce_ + THE MURDERESS. In prep. + FAME AND THE POET. c 2m 1w _Atlantic_, _Aug._, 1919 + + DYMOW, Ossip + NJU. t 6m 3w 2j _Knopf_ + + + EARLE, Dorothy Kirchner + YOU'RE SUCH A RESPECTABLE PERSON, + MISS MORRISON. c 3m 2w _Smart Set_, _Aug._, 1915 + + EBNER-ESCHENBACH, Marie von + A MAN OF THE WORLD. p 3m _Poet Lore_ + + ECHEGARAY, Jose + THE STREET SINGER. p 2m 2w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 + MADMAN OR SAINT. p 7m 4w _Poet Lore_ + + EDGERTON, Lady Alex. + MASQUE OF THE TWO STRANGERS _Gowans_ + + ELDRIDGE, Paul + THE JEST. p 4m 2w _Stratford_, _July_, 1918 + + ELKINS, Felton B. THREE TREMENDOUS TRIFLES + THE BELGIAN BABY. c 2m 2w + THE QUICK AND THE DEAD. c 5m 1w + FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING. c 3m 2w + Three plays in one volume _Duffield_ + + ELLIS, Mrs. Havelock. LOVE IN DANGER + THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA. p 2m 1w + THE PIXY. p 3m + THE MOTHERS. p 1m 2w + Three plays in one vol. _Houghton_ + + ENANDER, Hilma L. + IN THE LIGHT OF THE STONE. p 3m 1w + THE MAN WHO DID NOT UNDERSTAND. p 1m 2w + ON THE TRAIL. p 4m 1w + Three plays in one volume _Badger_ + + ERVINE, St. John. Four Irish Plays + THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER + THE CRITICS + MIXED MARRIAGE + THE ORANGE MAN + Four plays in one vol. _Macmillan_ + + ESKIL, Ragna + IN THE TRENCHES OVER THERE. c 10m 6w _Dramatic_ + + ESMOND, H. V. + HER VOTE. c 1m 2w _French_ + + ESTERBROOK, Anne L. + THE CHRISTENING ROBE. p 1m 3w _Baker_ + + EURIPIDES + ALKESTIS. Nine characters _Baker_ + ELECTRA. Nine characters + THE FROGS. Twelve characters + IPHIGENIA IN TAURUS. Seven characters + Translated by Gilbert Murray Allen + + EVANS, Florence Wilkinson. THE RIDE HOME + THE MARRIAGE OF GUINETH. p 7m 3w _Houghton_ + + EVREINOV, Nicholas + THEATRE OF THE SOUL. f 5m 4w _Henderson_ + A MERRY DEATH. c 5m + THE BEAUTIFUL DESPOT. c 5m 3w 1j + Two plays; in Bechofer: Five Russian Plays + + + FAYDON, Nita + THE GREAT LOOK. c 2m 2w _French_ + + FENN, Frederick + THE NELSON TOUCH. c 2m 2w _French_ + CONVICT ON THE HEARTH. c 6m 5w _French_ + + FERGUSON, J. A. + CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR. p 4m 2w _Phillips_ + + FERRIER, Paul + THE CODICIL. c 3m 1w _Poet Lore_ + + FERRIS, E., and STUART, A. + NICOLETE. p 2m 2w _French_ + + FEUILLET, Octave + THE FAIRY. c 3m 1w _French_ + THE VILLAGE. c 2m 2w _French_ + + FIELD, Rachel L. + RISE UP, JENNIE SMITH. + + FILLMORE, J. E. + "WAR." p 2m 1w _Poet Lore_ + + FITZMAURICE, George + MAGIC GLASSES. p 3m 3w + THE PIEDISH. p 4m 2w 3j + THE DANDY DOLLS. p 4m 2w 3j + With two long plays in one volume _Little_ + + FLANNER, Hildegarde + MANSIONS. p 1m 2w _Stewart_ + + FLANNER, Mary H. + THE CHRISTMAS BURGLAR. p 3m 1w _French_ + + FLEXNER, Hortense + VOICES. p 2w _Seven Arts_, _Dec._, 1916 + + FLORIAN, J. P. + THE TWINS OF BERGAMO. p 2m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 + + FLYING STAG PLAYS. Arens, 1917-19 + CRONYN, G. THE SANDBAR QUEEN. d 6m 1w + OPPENHEIM, J. NIGHT. d 4m 1w + DELL, F. THE ANGEL INTRUDES. c 3m 1w + HELBURN, T. ENTER THE HERO. c 1m 3w + MOELLER, P. TWO BLIND BEGGARS AND ONE LESS BLIND. p 3m 1w + O'BRIEN, S. BLIND. c 3m + DAVIES, M. C. THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES. a 3m 4w + KEMP, H. THE PRODIGAL SON. c 3m 2w + ROSTETTER, ALICE. THE WIDOW'S VEIL. + + FRANCE, Anatole + THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE. Two acts. c 14m 4w _Lane_ + CRAINQUEBILLE. Three scenes. p 12m 6w _French_ + + FRANK, Florence Kiper + JAEL. _Chicago_ + CINDERELLINE. p 1m 4w _Dramatic_ + THE GARDEN. p 3m 3w _Drama_, _Nov._, 1918 + + FREDERICK, John T. + THE HUNTER. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _Sept._, 1917 + + FREYBE, C. E. + IN GARRISON. p 5m _Poet Lore_ + + FROOME, John Redhead + LISTENING. p 3w _Poet Lore_ + MRS. MAINWARING'S MANAGEMENT. Two acts. c _French_ + BILLY AND THE DIRECTING FATES. Two acts. p 3m _Dramatic_ + + FRY, Horace B. + LITTLE ITALY. d 2m 1w 1j _Dramatic_ + + FULDA, Ludwig + BY OURSELVES. c 3m 2w _Badger_ + + FURNISS, Grace L. + A DAKOTA WIDOW. c 1m 2w _French_ + PERHAPS. c 2m 1w _French_ + + + GALBRAITH, Esther + THE BRINK OF SILENCE. p 4m + In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_ + + GALLON, Tom, and LION, L. M. + MAN WHO STOLE THE CASTLE. p 4m 2w _French_ + + GALSWORTHY, John. THE LITTLE MAN, etc. + THE LITTLE MAN. s 5m 2w + HALLMARKED. s 3m 3w + Two plays in one volume _Scribner_ + THE LITTLE DREAM. An allegory in six scenes _Scribner_ + + GARLAND, Robert + AT NIGHT ALL CATS ARE GRAY. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _March_, 1916 + THE DOUBLE MIRACLE. p 4m 1w _Forum_, _April_, 1915 + + GERSTENBERG, Alice + OVERTONES. _See_ "Washington Square Plays." + BYOND. p 1w + In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_ + + GIACOSA, Giuseppe. THE STRONGER, etc. + SACRED GROUND. c 3m 1w _Little_ + THE WAGER. c 4m 1w _French_ + THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL. p 2m 2w _Stratford_, _Feb._, 1918 + + GIBSON, Preston + S.O.S. p 8m 2w _French_ + DERELICTS. p 2w _French_ + SUICIDES. p 2m _French_ + THE SECRET WAY. p 3m _French_ + THE VACUUM. p 2m 1w _French_ + CUPID'S TRICKS. c 3m 2w _French_ + + GIBSON, Wilfred Wilson + WOMENKIND. d 2m 3w _Macmillan_ + The following volumes of Mr. Gibson's are replete with short, + intensely dramatic sketches of English labor folk. + DAILY BREAD. _Macmillan_ + BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES. _Macmillan_ + FIRES. _Macmillan_ + + GILBERT, W. S. + SWEETHEARTS. Two acts. c 2m 2w _French_ + ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN. c 5m 3w _French_ + COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. d 14m 2w _French_ + + GLASPELL, Susan + TRIFLES. p 3m 2w + THE PEOPLE. p 10m 2w + CLOSE THE BOOK. c 3m 5w + THE OUTSIDE. p 3m 2w + WOMAN'S HONOR. c 3m 6w + BERNICE (3 Acts). p 2m 3w + SUPPRESSED DESIRES. c 1m 2w + TICKLESS TIME. c 2m 4w + In One Vol. _Small_ + + GLICK, Carl + OUTCLASSED. c 4m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1918 + + GLICK, C., and HIGHT, M. + THE POLICE MATRON. d 3m 2w _Baker_ + + GOLDBERG, Isaac + THE BETTER SON. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _Oct._, 1918 + + GOODMAN, Kenneth Sawyer + BACK OF THE YARDS. d 3m 2w _Shay_ + DUST OF THE ROAD. d 4m 4w _Shay_ + EPHRAIM AND THE WINGED BEAR. c 4m 3w _Shay_ + GAME OF CHESS. d 4m _Shay_ + BARBARA. p 2m 1w _Shay_ + DANCING DOLLS. p 4m 7w _Shay_ + A MAN CAN ONLY DO HIS BEST. c 6m 2w _Shay_ + + GOODMAN, K. S. + THE GREEN SCARF. c 1m 1w _Shay_ + + GOODMAN, K. S., and HECHT, Ben + THE HERO OF SANTA MARIA. c 4m 1w _Shay_ + THE WONDER HAT. f 3m 2w _Shay_ + + GOODMAN, K. S., and STEVENS, T. W. + HOLBEIN IN BLACKFRIARS. c 6m 2w _Shay_ + RYLAND. c 5m 2w _Shay_ + REINALD AND THE RED WOLF. m _Shay_ + CAESAR'S GODS. m _Shay_ + THE DAIMIO'S HEAD. m _Shay_ + THE MASQUE OF QUETZAL'S BOWL. m _Shay_ + MASQUE OF MONTEZUMA. m _Shay_ + + GORDON, Leon. Three Plays _Four Seas_ + + GOULD, Felix. THE MARSH MAIDEN, etc. + THE MARSH MAIDEN. p 2m 2w supers + THE STRANGER. p 3m 2w + IN THE MARSHES. p 1w + Three plays in one vol. _Four Seas_ + + DE GOURMONT, Remy + THEODAT. p 7m 1w + THE OLD KING. p 3m 3w + Two plays in one number _Drama_, _May_, 1916 + + GRAHAM, Bertha M. SPOILING THE BROTH, etc. + SPOILING THE BROTH. c 2m 2w + THE LAND OF THE FREE. p 2m 3w + OH, THE PRESS. c 1m 1w + THE ROSE WITH A THORN. c 2m 2w + TAFFY'S WIFE. p 2m 1w + Five plays in one volume _Chapman & Hall_ + + GROSSMITH, Weedon + COMMISSION. c 3m 2w _French_ + + GRAY, Eunice T. + WINNING OF FUJI. c 3 scenes 3m 3w _Dramatic_ + + GREENE, Clay M. + THE DISPENSATION. p 4m + THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. p 5m + THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS. p 4m 1w + AWAKENING OF BARBIZON. c 4m 1w + Four plays in one volume _Doran_ + + GREGORY, Lady + SPREADING THE NEWS. c 7m 3w + HYACINTH HALVEY. c 3m 3w + RISING OF THE MOON. c 4m + THE JACKDAW. c 4m 2w + THE WORKHOUSE WARD. c 2m 1w + THE TRAVELING MAN. p 1m 2w + THE _GAOL_ GATE. p 1m 2w + Seven plays in one volume _Luce_ + THE IMAGE. Three acts. p 5m 2w _Maunsel_ + GRANIA. Three acts. p 4m 1w + KINCORA. Three acts. p 8m 3w + DERVORGILLA. p 3m 3w + Three plays in one volume _Putnam_ + THE CANAVANS. Three acts. p 3m 2w + THE WHITE COCKADE. Three acts. p 10m 2w + THE DELIVERERS. p 6m 3w + Three plays in one volume _Putnam_ + THE BOGIE MAN. c 2m + THE FULL MOON. c 2m + COATS. c 4m 1w + DAMER'S GOLD. c 4m 1w + MCDONOUGH'S WIFE. c 1m 2w + Five plays in one volume _Putnam_ + + GREGORY, Lady, and YEATS, Wm. B. + THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS. _Macmillan_ + + GUIMERA, Angel + THE OLD QUEEN. p 7m 7w _Poet Lore_ + + GYALUI, Wolfgang + AFTER THE HONEYMOON. c 1m 1w _French_ + + GYP + THE LITTLE BLUE GUINEA-HEN. c 5m 4w _Poet Lore_ + + + HAGEDORN, Herman + MAKERS OF MADNESS. Five scenes. d 14m supers _Macmillan_ + HORSE THIEVES. c 4m 2w _Harvard_ + HEART OF YOUTH. _Macmillan_ + + HALE, Louise Closser + THE OTHER WOMAN. p 2w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1911 + PASTE CUT PASTE. p 3w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1912 + + HALMAN, Doris + WILL 'O THE WISP. p 4w + In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_ + + HALSEY, Forrest + THE EMPTY LAMP. p 1m 1w 1j _Smart Set_, _May_, 1911 + + HAMILTON, Cicely + JACK AND JILL AND A FRIEND. Two scenes. c 3m 1w _French_ + + HAMILTON, C., and ST. JOHN, Christopher + HOW THE VOTE WAS WON. c 2m 8w _Dramatic_ + + HAMILTON, Cosmo. Short plays for small stages + ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER. c 1m 2w + SOLDIER'S DAUGHTERS. c 3w + TOLLER'S WIFE. c 4m 1w + WHY CUPID CAME TO EARL'S COURT. c 3m 4w + Four plays in one vol. _Skeffington_ + JERRY AND A SUNBEAM. c 1m 1w _French_ + AUBREY CLOSES THE DOOR. c 3m 1w _French_ + + HANKIN, St. John + THE CONSTANT LOVER. p 1m 1w + Vol. III. No. 2 _Theatre Arts_ + + HARE, W. B. + ISOSCELES. p 2m 1w _Baker_ + + HARVARD PLAYS. THE 47 WORKSHOP + FIELD, R. L. THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE. f 5m 3w + OSBORNE, H. THE GOOD MEN DO. c 3m 5w + PILLOT, E. TWO CROOKS AND A LADY. p 3m 3w + PROSSER, W. FREE SPEECH. c 7m + Four plays in one vol. _Brentano_ + THE HARVARD DRAMATIC CLUB + HAWKBRIDGE, W. THE FLORIST SHOP. c 3m 2w + BROCK, H. THE BANK ACCOUNT. p 1m 2w + SMITH, R. C. THE RESCUE. p 3w + ANDREWS, K. AMERICA PASSES BY. p 2m 2w + Four plays in one volume _Brentano_ + THE HARVARD DRAMATIC CLUB. 2nd Series + BRAY, L. W. HARBOR OF LOST SHIPS. p 3m 1w + BATES, E. W. GARAFELIA'S HUSBAND. p 4m 1w + BISHOP, F. SCALES AND THE SWORD. d 6m 1w + KINKEAD, C. THE FOUR FLUSHERS. c 4m 1w + Four plays in one vol. _Brentano_ + + HASLETT, H. H. DOLORES OF THE SIERRA, etc. + DOLORES OF THE SIERRA. p 1m 1w + THE SCOOP. p 2m 1w + UNDERCURRENTS. p 4m 2w + A MODERN MENACE. c 3m 1w 1j + THE INVENTOR. p 2m 1w + WHEN LOVE IS BLIND. c 1m 1w + Six plays in one volume _Elder_ + + HASTINGS, Basil McDonald + TWICE ONE. p 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1913 + + HAUPTMANN, Gerhart + THE ASSUMPTION OF HANNELLE. Two parts. p 7m 3w _Poet Lore_ + + HAWKRIDGE, Winifred + THE PRICE OF ORCHIDS. c 4m 2w _Smart Set_, _Oct._, 1915 + + HAY, Ian. _See_ BEITH, Ian Hay + + HEAD, Cloyd + GROTESQUES _Poetry_ + + HEIDENSTAM, Verner von. Translated by K. M. Knudsen + THE SOOTHSAYER. In prep. _Four Seas_ + THE BIRTH OF GOD. In prep. _Four Seas_ + + HENNIQUE, Leon + DEATH OF THE DUC D'ENGHIEN. d Three scenes. 22m 2w _Poet Lore_ + + HENRY, R. + NORAH. p 2m 1w _Dramatic_ + + HERTZ, H. Translated by T. Martin + KING RENE'S DAUGHTER. d 6m 2w _Baker_ + + HERVIEU, Paul + MODESTY. c 1m 2w _French_ + + HENSLOWE, Leonard + PERFIDIOUS MARRIAGE. + A HERO FOR A HUSBAND. + PEOPLE FROM THE PAST. + Three plays in one vol. _Stanley Paul_ + + HELLEM, Valcos, and D'ESTOC + SABOTAGE. d 2m 2w 1j _Dramatist_ + + HICKS, Seymour + NEW SUB. c 8m 1w _French_ + + HILBERT, Jaroslav + WHOM THE GODS DESTROY. d 12m 1w _Poet Lore_ + + HOFFMAN, Phoebe + MARTHA'S MOURNING. p 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1918 + + VON HOFMANNSTHAL, Hugo + DEATH AND THE FOOL. d 4m 3w _Four Seas_ + MADONNA DIANORA. _Four Seas_ + THE DEATH OF TITIAN. In prep. _Four Seas_ + + HOGG, C. W. + MIRROR OF TIME. c 1m 1w _French_ + + HOLLEY, Horace. Read aloud plays + Nine short plays _Kennerley_ + ELLEN. p 2w _Stratford_, _March_, 1917 + + HOLT, Florence Taber + THEY THE CRUCIFIED. p 7m 2w + COMRADES. p 7m 2w + Two plays in one volume _Houghton_ + + HOME, Ian + A DREAM ON CHRISTMAS EVE. 10j _French_ + + HOPKINS, Arthur + MOONSHINE. p 2m Vol. III. No. 1 _Theatre Arts_ + + HOUGHTON, Stanley. Five one-act plays + THE DEAR DEPARTED. c 3m 3w + FANCY FREE. c 2m 2w + MASTER OF THE HOUSE. p 4m 2w + PHIPPS. c 2m 1w + THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. p 2m 2w + Five plays in one volume _French_ + THE DEAR DEPARTED. c 3m 3w _French_ + FANCY FREE. c 2m 2w _French_ + + HOUSMAN, Lawrence + AS GOOD AS GOLD. p 7m _French_ + BIRD IN HAND. c _French_ + A LIKELY STORY. c _French_ + LORD OF THE HARVEST. p 6m 1w _French_ + NAZARETH. I 13m 3w _French_ + THE SNOW MAN. p 4m 3w _French_ + RETURN OF ALCESTIS. p 15m 20w _French_ + + HOWARD, Bronson + OLD LOVE LETTERS. c 1m 1w _French_ + + HOWARD, Homer H. + THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE. p 2m 2w _French_ + + HOWARD, Keble + COMPROMISING MARTHA. c 1m 3w _French_ + DRAMATIST AT HOME. p 1m 1w _French_ + COME MICHAELMAS. p 2m 4w _French_ + MARTHA THE SOOTHSAYER. c 2m 3w _French_ + + HUDSON, Holland + THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE. 10 characters _Stewart_ + + HUTCHINS, Will + JEANNE D'ARC AT VAUCOULEURS. d 5m 3w _Poet Lore_ + + HYDE, Douglas + THE TWISTING OF THE ROPE. c 2m 3w _Poet Lore_ + + + IGLESIAS, Ignacio + THE CEMETERY. p 2m 1w _Poet Lore_ + + INDIAN PLAYS. By Helen P. Kane + YOT-CHE-KE, THE ERIE. p 5j _French_ + YAGOWANEA. p 4m 1w _French_ + CAPTURE OF OZAH. c 2m 2w _French_ + + IRVING, Laurence + PHOENIX. p 2m 2w _French_ + + IZUMO, Takeda + THE PINE TREE. d 4m 3w 4j _Duffield_ + Sometimes called BUSHIDO, MATSUO, etc. + + + JACOBS, W. W., and HUBBARD, P. E. + A LOVE PASSAGE. c 3m 1w _French_ + + JACOBS, W. W., and ROCK, Charles + THE GHOST OF JERRY BUNDLER. p 7m _French_ + GREY PARROT. p 4m 2w _French_ + + JACOBS, W. W., and MILLS, Horace + ADMIRAL PETERS. c 2m 1w _French_ + + JACOBS, W. W., and PARKER, L. N. + THE MONKEY'S PAW. d 4m 1w _French_ + + JACOBS, W. W., and SERGENT, H. + THE CHANGELING. c 2m 1w _French_ + BOATSWAIN'S MATE. p 2m 1w _French_ + IN THE LIBRARY. c _French_ + + JAGENDORF, Moritz + A BLUE MORNING GLORY. p 2m 1w _International_, _Mar._, + 1914 + + JAKOBI, Paula + THE CHINESE LILY. p 8w _Forum_, _Nov._, 1915 + + JAMACOIS, Eduardo. In "Contemporary Spanish Dramatists." + THE PASSING OF THE MAGI. p 7m 5w _Badger_ + + JAPANESE PLAYS + _See_ STOPES, MARIE C. + IZUMO, TAKEDA + POUND, EZRA, and FENOLLOSA, ERNEST + NOGUCHI, YONE, TEN NOH DRAMAS + + JENKS, Tudor + DINNER AT SEVEN SHARP. c 5m 3w _Baker_ + + JENNINGS, E. M. + MRS. OAKLEY'S TELEPHONE. c 4w _French_ + DINNER AT THE CLUB. c 9w _French_ + PRINZESSEN VON BARNHOF. c 8w _French_ + TOM'S FIANCEE. Two acts. c 5w _French_ + + JENNINGS, Gertrude + THE REST CURE. c 1m 4w + BETWEEN THE SOUP AND THE SAVOURY. c 3w + THE PROS AND CONS. c 1m 3w + ACID DROPS. p 1m 6w + Four plays in one volume _Sidgwick_ + BETWEEN THE SOUP AND THE SAVOURY. c 3w _French_ + + JEROME, Jerome K. + SUNSET. c 3m 4w _Dramatic_ + BARBARA. d 2m 2w _French_ + FENNEL. d 3m 1w _French_ + + JEX, John. Passion playlets + VIOLET SOULS. s 3m 2w + THE NEST. p 2m 3w + MR. WILLOUGHBY CALLS. p 3m 1w + THE UNNECESSARY ATOM. p 3m 1w + Four plays in one volume _Cornhill_ + + JOHNS, Orrick + SHADOW. p 3w _Others_ + + JOHNSON, Martyn + MR. AND MRS. P. ROE. c 1m 3w _Chicago_ + + JONES, Henry Arthur. THE THEATRE OF IDEAS, etc. + THE GOAL. 4m 2w + HERR TONGUE. 3m 2w + GRACE MARY. 6m 2w + Three plays in one volume _Doran_ + CLERICAL ERROR. c 3m 1w _French_ + SWEET WILL. p 1m 4w _French_ + DEACON. Two acts. c 2m 2w _French_ + HARMONY. d 3m 1w _French_ + BED OF ROSES. c 4m 2w _French_ + ELOPEMENT. Two acts. c 4m 3w _French_ + HEARTS OF OAK. Two acts. c 5m 2w _French_ + + + KALLEN, Horace M. + THE BOOK OF JOB. d _Moffatt Yard_ + + KAUFMAN, S. Jay + KISS ES. c 2m 4w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1915 + + KEMP, Harry + THE PRODIGAL SON. c 3m 2w _Arens_ + + KEMPER, S. + MOTH BALLS. p 3w _Baker_ + + KENNEDY, Charles Rann + THE TERRIBLE MEEK. p _Harper_ + THE NECESSARY EVIL. p _Harper_ + + KEYES, N. W. + RED-CAP. Two acts. p 5m 10w _Baker_ + + KILMER, Joyce + SOME MISCHIEF STILL. c 4m 1w _Smart Set_, _Aug._, 1914 + + KING, Pendleton + COACAINE. p 1m 1w _Shay_ + + KINGSBURY, Sara + THE CHRISTMAS GUEST. p 1m 3w 1j _Drama_, _Nov._, 1918 + + KINGSLEY, Ellis + THE OTHER WOMAN. d 2w _Baker_ + + KNOBLAUCH, Edward + A WAR COMMITTEE. p + LITTLE SILVER RING. p + Two plays in one volume _French_ + + KNOWLTON, A. R. + WHY, JESSICA! c 1m 9w _Baker_ + + KNOX, F. C. + THE MATRIMONIAL FOG. d 3m 1w _Baker_ + + KRAFT, Irma + THE POWER OF PURIN and other plays _Jewish Publication Soc._, + 1915 + + KREYMBORG, Alfred + SIX PLAYS FOR POEM-MIMES _Others_ + + + LABICHE + GRAMMAR. c 4m 1w _French_ + THE TWO COWARDS. c 3m 2w _French_ + + LAIDLAW, A. H. + CAPTAIN WALRUS. p 1m 2w _French_ + + LANGER, Lawrence + ANOTHER WAY OUT. c 2m 2w _Shay_ + THE BROKEN IMAGE. d 7m _Arens_ + PATENT APPLIED FOR. c 3m 3w _Arens_ + WEDDED. p _Little Review_, _No._ 8 + + LAVEDAN, Henri. Five little plays + ALONG THE QUAYS. p 2m + FOR EVER AND EVER. p 1m 1w + WHERE SHALL WE GO? p 1m 6w + THE AFTERNOON WALK. p 1m 4j + NOT AT HOME. p 2m 3w + Five plays in one number _Poet Lore_ + TWO HUSBANDS. p 2m _Poet Lore_ + SUNDAY ON SUNDAY GOES BY. p 3m _Poet Lore_ + + LAWS, Anna C. + A TWICE TOLD TALE. p 1m 3w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 + + LEACOCK, Stephen, and HASTINGS, Basil + "Q." Farce _French_ + + LEE, Charles + MR. SAMPSON. c 1m 2w _Dent_ + + LEE, M. E. + THE BLACK DEATH, or Ta un. A Persian + Tragedy. 2m 2w _Poet Lore_ + + LEFUSE, M. + AT THE "GOLDEN GOOSE." d 2m 2w _French_ + + LEHMAN, Adolph + THE TONGMAN. p 5m 1w _Little Theatre_, _July_, 1917 + + LELAND, Robert de Camp + PURPLE YOUTH. p 2m 1w _Four Seas_ + BARBARIANS. p 6m _Poetry-Drama_ + + LENNOX, Cosmo + THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE. c 1m 1w _French_ + + LENT, Evangeline M. + LOVE IN IDLENESS. c 1m 3w _French_ + + LESAGE + CRISPIN, HIS MASTER'S RIVAL. c 4m 3w _French_ + + LESLIE, Noel. Three plays + FOR KING AND COUNTRY. In prep. + WASTE. + THE WAR FLY. + Three plays in one vol. _Four Seas_ + + LEVICK, Milnes + WINGS IN THE MESH. p 3w _Smart Set_, _July_, 1919 + + LEVINGER, E. E. + THE BURDEN. p 3m 1w _Baker_ + + LEWISOHN, Ludwig + THE LIE. p 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Dec._, 1913 + + LINCOLN, Florence + A PIECE OF IVORY. p 3m 2w _Harvard_, _April_, 1911 + + LION, Leon M. + THE TOUCH OF A CHILD. p _French_ + + LION, L. M., and HALL, W. S. + THE MOBSWOMAN. d 2m 2w _French_ + + LITTLE THEATRE CLASSICS. Edited by SAMUEL A. ELIOT, JR. + EURIPIDES: POLYXENA + A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE PLAY + MARLOWE: DOCTOR FAUSTUS + BEAUMONT and FLETCHER: RICARDO and VIOLA + SHERIDAN: THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT + Five plays in one volume _Little_ + + LITTLE THEATRE CLASSICS. Second Series + ABRAHAM AND ISAAC + MIDDLETON: THE LOATHED LOVER + MOLIERE: SGANARELLE + PICHEL, I. PIERRE PATHELIN + Four plays in one volume _Little_ + + LONDON, Jack. TURTLES OF TASMAN + THE FIRST POET. p _Macmillan_ + + LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN. + A MEDIAEVAL FARCE. c 1m 2w _Poet Lore_ + + LUTHER, Lester + LAW. 10 voices _Forum_, _June_, 1915 + + + M. J. W. + A BROWN PAPER PARCEL. c 2w _French_ + + MACINTIRE, E., and CLEMENTS, C. C. + THE IVORY TOWER. p 3m 1w _Poet Lore_ + + MACDONALD, Zellah + MARKHEIM. d 2m 1w + In "Morningside Plays" _Shay_ + + MACKAYE, Constance D'Arcy + THE FOREST PRINCES AND OTHER MASQUES _Holt_ + THE BEAU OF BATH AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS _Holt_ + PLAYS OF THE PIONEERS _Harper_ + THE SILVER THREAD AND OTHER FOLK PLAYS _Holt_ + + MACKAYE, Percy. YANKEE FANTASIES + CHUCK. 1m 3j + GETTYSBURG. 1m 1j + THE ANTICK. 2m 3w + THE CAT BOAT. 1m 2w 1j + SAM AVERAGE. 4m + Five plays in one volume _Duffield_ + + McKINNEL, Norman + THE BISHOP'S CANDLESTICKS. p 3m 2w _French_ + + MACMILLAN, Mary. Short plays + THE SHADOWED STAR. p 3m 5w + THE RING. c 7m 3w + THE ROSE. p 1m 2w + LUCK? p 6m 7w + ENTR'ACTE. p 1m 2w + A WOMAN'S A WOMAN FOR A' THAT. 2m 3w + FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS. p 2m 1w + A MODERN MASQUE. p 3m 1w + THE FUTURISTS. p 8w + THE GATE OF WISHES. p 1m 1w 1j + Ten plays in one volume _Stewart_ + MORE SHORT PLAYS. + HIS SECOND GIRL. p 3m 3w + AT THE CHURCH DOOR. p 2m 2w + HONEY. c 2m 3w 1j + THE DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET. c 10w + THE PIONEER. p 10m 3w 5j + IN MENDELESIA, I. p 5w + IN MENDELESIA, II. p 5w + THE DRYAD. p 1m 2w + Eight plays in one volume _Stewart_ + THE GATE OF WISHES. p 1m 1w 1j _Poet Lore_ + + MAETERLINCK, Maurice + THE INTRUDER. p 3m 5w _Phillips_ + INTERIOR. p 4m 5w 1j supers _Phillips_ + DEATH OF TINTAGILES. d 1j 6w _Phillips_ + HAPPINESS. _Phillips_ + SEVEN PRINCESSES. p 3m 8w _Phillips_ + ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES. 2m 7w _Phillips_ + THE MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY + A MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY AND OTHER PLAYS + A MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY. 15 characters + PELLEAS AND MELISANDE. Five acts + DEATH OF TINTAGILES. 7 Characters + ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES. Five acts + INTERIOR. 10 Characters + THE INTRUDER. 7 Characters + Six plays in one volume _Boni & Liveright_ + + MALLESON, Miles + BLACK 'ELL. d 3m 4w _Shay_ + PADDY POOLS. f 19j _Henderson_ + LITTLE WHITE THOUGHT. f 9w _Henderson_ + "D" COMPANY. p 6m _Henderson_ + YOUTH. Three acts. p 9m 2w _Henderson_ + + MANNERS, J. Hartley. HAPPINESS AND OTHER PLAYS + HAPPINESS. p 2m 2w + JUST AS WEL.L c 1m 3w + DAY OF DUPES. c 5m 1w + Three plays in one volume _Dodd_ + QUEEN'S MESSENGER. d 1m 1w _French_ + THE WOMAN INTERVENES. p 3m 1w _French_ + JUST AS WELL. c 1m 1w _French_ + AS ONCE IN MAY. c 3m 2w _French_ + MINISTERS OF GRACE. p 3m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1914 + + MAPES, Victor + A FLOWER OF THE YEDDO. c 1m 3w _French_ + + MARBLE, T. L. + GIUSEPPINA. p 3m 2w _Dramatic_ + + MARIVAUX + THE LEGACY. c 4m 2w _French_ + + MARKS, Jeanette. Three Welsh Plays + THE MERRY CUCKOO. p 3m 2w + WELSH HONEYMOON. p 3m 2w + THE DEACON'S HAT. c 3m 3w + Three plays in one volume _Little_ + THE HAPPY THOUGHT. p 4m 5w _International_, _July_, 1912 + + MARTIN, John Joseph + THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. d 3m 3w _Poet Lore_ + + MASEFIELD, John + THE LOCKED CHEST. p 3m 1w + SWEEPS OF NINETY-EIGHT. p 5m 1w + Two plays in one volume _Macmillan_ + THE CAMPDEN WONDER. p 4m 2w + MRS. HARRISON. p 3m 1w + In "The Tragedy of Nan," etc. _Macmillan_ + PHILIP THE KING. p 7m 1w _Macmillan_ + GOOD FRIDAY. p _Macmillan_ + + MASSEY, Edward + PLOTS AND PLAYWRIGHTS. c Nine scenes. 11m 6w _Little_ + + MATHER, C. C. + DISPATCHES FOR WASHINGTON. p 3m 5w _Baker_ + DOUBLE-CROSSED. c 3m 3w _Baker_ + + MATSUO. _See_ IZUMO, Takeda + + MATTHEWS, Brander + THE DECISION OF THE COURT. c 2m 2w _Harpers_ + + MAUREY, Max + ROSALIE. c 1m 2w _French_ + + McCONNILL, G. K. + THE BONE OF CONTENTION. d 3m 8w _Baker_ + + McCOURT, Edna W. + JILL'S WAY. p 3m 2w _Seven Arts_, _Feb._, 1917 + THE TRUTH. p 2m 4w _Seven Arts_, _Mar._, 1917 + + McEVOY, Charles + HIS HELPMATE + DAVID BALLARD + GENTLEMEN OF THE ROAD + LUCIFER + WHEN THE DEVIL WAS ILL _Bullen_ + + MCFADDEN, Elizabeth A. + WHY THE CHIMES RANG. p 1m 1w 2j _French_ + + MEGRUE, Roi Cooper + DOUBLE CROSS. p 3m _Smart Set_, _Aug._, 1911 + + MEILHAC and HALEVY + PANURGE'S SHEEP. c 1m 2w _French_ + INDIAN SUMMER. c 2m 2w _French_ + + MICHELSON, Miriam + BYGONES. p 2m 1w _Smart Set_, _March_, 1917 + + MIDDLETON, George. EMBERS, etc. + EMBERS. d 2m 1w + THE FAILURES. d 1m 1w + THE GARGOYLE. p 2m + IN HIS HOUSE. p 2m 1w + THE MAN MASTERFUL. d 2w + MADONNA. d 3m 1w + Six plays in one volume _Holt_ + CRIMINALS. d 2m 2w _Huebsch_ + TRADITION, etc. + TRADITION. d 1m 2w + ON BAIL. d 2m 1w + MOTHERS. d 1m 2w + WAITING. d 1m 1w 1j + THEIR WIFE. d 2m 1w + THE CHEAT OF PITY. d 2m 1w + Six plays in one volume _Holt_ + POSSESSION, etc. + POSSESSION. d 2m 3w + THE GROOVE. d 2w + THE BLACK TIE. d 1m 2w 1j + A GOOD WOMAN. d 1m 1w + CIRCLES. d 1m 2w + THE UNBORN. d 1m 2w + Six plays in one volume _Holt_ + BACK OF THE BALLOT. c 4m 1w _French_ + Are published separately by Samuel French. + AMONG THE LIONS. s 5m 3w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1917 + THE REASON. p 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1917 + + DE MILLE, William C. + IN 1999. c 1m 2w _French_ + FOOD. c 2m 1w _French_ + POOR OLD JIM. p 2m 1w _French_ + DECEIVERS. p _French_ + + MILTON, John. Adapted by L. Chater + COMUS. m Nine characters _Baker_ + + MOLIERE + DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. c 6m 3w _French_ + THE SICILIAN. Two scenes. c 4m 3w _French_ + THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. s 6m 3w _French_ + SGANARELLE. _See_ Eliot: Little Theatre Classics + GREGORY, LADY. The Kiltartan Moliere + DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. 6m 3w + THE MISER + THE ROGUERIES OF SCAPIN + Three plays in one volume _Putnam_ + + MOELLER, Philip. FIVE SOMEWHAT HISTORICAL PLAYS + HELENA'S HUSBAND. c 3m 2w + THE LITTLE SUPPER. c 3m 1w + SISTERS OF SUSANNAH. c 5m 1w + ROADHOUSE IN ARDEN. c 4m 2w + POKEY. c 6m 3w + Five plays in one volume _Knopf_ + TWO BLIND BEGGARS AND ONE LESS BLIND. p 3m 1w _Arens_ + + MONTAGUE, Harold + PROPOSING BY PROXY. c 1m 1w _French_ + + MONTOMASA + SUMIDA GAWA. d 2m 1w 1j _Stratford_, _Jan._, 1918 + + MORGAN, Charles D. + SEARCH ME! c 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1915 + + MORNINGSIDE PLAYS, The + DEPUE, ELVA. HATTIE. d 2m 3w + BRIGGS, CAROLINE. ONE A DAY. c 5m + MACDONALD, Z. MARKHEIM. d 2m 1w + REIZENSTEIN, E. L. HOME OF THE FREE. c 2m 2w + Four plays in one vol. _Frank Shay_ + + MORRISON, Arthur + THAT BRUTE SIMMONS. c 2m 1w _French_ + + MOSHER, John Chapin + SAUCE FOR THE EMPEROR. c 5m 4w _Shay_ + + MOTHER, Charles C. + DISPATCHES FOR WASHINGTON. p 4m 5w _Baker_ + + MOTHER GOOSE, A DREAM OF + By J. C. MARCHANT, S. J. MAYHEW, H. WILBUR and others. + Containing A Dream of Mother Goose; + Scenes from Mother Goose; + A Mother Goose Party; + Two Mother Goose Operettas _Baker_ + + MOYLE, Gilbert + THE TRAGEDY _Four Seas_ + + MUGGERIDGE, Marie + THE REST CURE. p 1m 1w _French_ + + MURRAY, T. C. + BIRTHRIGHT. Two acts. d 4m 1w _Maunsel_ + + MUSKERRY, William + AN IMAGINARY AUNT. c 4w _French_ + + DE MUSSET, Alfred. BARBERINE AND OTHER COMEDIES + BARBERINE. Three acts. 5m 2w + FANTASIO. Two acts. 8m 2w + NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. Three acts. 4m 3w + A DOOR MUST BE OPEN OR SHUT. 2m + A CAPRICE. 1m 2w + ONE CANNOT THINK OF EVERYTHING. 3m 2w + Six plays in one volume _Sergel_ + + DE MUSSET, A., and AUGIER, E. + THE GREEN COAT. c 3m 1w _French_ + NAPOLEON AND THE SENTRY. p 3m 1w _Dramatic_ + + + NARODNY, Ivan + FORTUNE FAVORS FOOLS. c 4m 3w _Poet Lore_ + + NATHAN, George Jean + THE ETERNAL MYSTERY. p 2m 1w 1j _Smart Set_ + + NATHAN, Robert G. + THE COWARD. p 1m 2w _Harvard_, _March_, 1914 + ATOMS. p 2m 1w _Harvard_, _Nov._, 1913 + + NEIHARDT, John G. + EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES. p 1m 2w _Forum_, _Mar._, 1915 + + NEVITT, Mary Ross + THE ROSTOF PEARLS. p 7w _French_ + + NEWTON, H. L. + OUTWITTED. p 1m 1w _Baker_ + HER SECOND TIME ON EARTH. c 1m 1w _Baker_ + + NIRDLINGER, C. F. Four short plays + LOOK AFTER LOUISE. d 3m 1w + BIG KATE. d 4m 1w + THE REAL PEOPLE. d 2m 1w + AREN'T THEY WONDERS. d 2m 2w + Four plays in one vol. _Kennerley_ + WASHINGTON'S FIRST DEFEAT. c 1m 2w _French_ + + NOGUCHI, Yone + THE DEMON'S SHELL. p 2m _Poet Lore_ + TEN JAPANESE NOH PLAYS. In prep. _Four Seas_ + + NORMAND, Jacques + A DROP OF WATER. c 2m 1w _Dramatic_ + + NORTON, Harold F. + THE WOMAN. p 1m 2w _Sheffield_, _June_, 1914 + + + O'BRIEN, Edward J. + AT THE FLOWING OF THE TIDE. p 1m 1w _Forum_, _Sept._, 1914 + + O'BRIEN, Seumas. DUTY AND OTHER IRISH COMEDIES + DUTY. c 5m 1w + JURISPRUDENCE. c 9m 1w + MAGNANIMITY. c 5m + MATCHMAKERS. c 3m 3w + RETRIBUTION. c 3m 1w + Five plays in one volume _Little_ + + OFFICER, Katherine + ALL SOULS' EVE. p 3m 4w _International_, _Jan._, 1913 + + OLIVER, Mary Scott. SIX ONE-ACT PLAYS + THE HAND OF THE PROPHET. p 5m 2w + CHILDREN OF GRANADA. p 6m 4w + THE TURTLE DOVE. p 5m 1w + THIS YOUTH--GENTLEMEN! f 2m + THE STRIKER. p 2m 3w + MURDERING SELINA. c 5m 2w + Six plays in one volume _Badger_ + + O'NEILL, Eugene. THIRST AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS + THIRST. p 2m 1w + THE WEB. p 5m 1w + WARNINGS. p 5m 4w + FOG. p 3m 1w + RECKLESSNESS. p 3m 2w + Five plays in one volume _Badger_ + BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF. d 11m _Shay_ + BEFORE BREAKFAST. d 1w _Shay_ + THE MOON OF THE CARIBBEES + MOON OF THE CARIBBEES. p 17m 4w + BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF. p 11m + THE LONG VOYAGE HOME. p 8m 3w + IN THE ZONE. p 9m + ILE. p 5m 1w + WHERE THE CROSS IS MADE. p 6m 1w + THE ROPE. p 3m 2w + Seven plays in one volume _Boni & Liveright_ + + OPPENHEIM, James + THE PIONEER. Two scenes. d 5m 2w _Huebsch_ + NIGHT. p 4m 1w _Arens_ + + O'SHEA, Monica Barrie + THE RUSHLIGHT. p _Drama_ + + OVERSTREET, H. A. + HEARTS TO MEND. 2m 1w _Stewart_ + + OWEN, Harold + A LITTLE FOWL PLAY. c 3m 2w _French_ + + + PAIN, Mrs. Barry. NINE OF DIAMONDS AND OTHER PLAYS + THE NINE OF DIAMONDS + HER LADYSHIP'S JEWELS. c 1m 2w + MRS. MARLOWE'S CASE. c 2m 1w + Three plays in one volume _London, Chapman_ + SHORT PLAYS FOR AMATEURS + THE HAT. c 3w + A LESSON IN PEARLS. c 1m 2w + THIRTEEN. c -m 2w + TRUST. c 1m 1w + A VICIOUS CIRCLE. c 1m 1w + Five plays in one volume _London_, _Pinker_ + MORE SHORT PLAYS + THE LADY TYPIST. c 1m 4w + A QUICK CHANGE. Two scenes. c 2m 2w + THE REASON WHY. c 1m 1w + 'WARE WIRE. c 3m 2w + Four plays in one volume _Chapman_ + + PALMER, John + OVER THE HILLS. c 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1915 + + PARAMORE, E. E. + ACROSS THE MARSH. p 2m _Sheffield_, _April_, 1917 + + PARKER, Louis N. _See also_ JACOBS,W. W. + MAN IN THE STREET. p 2m 1w _French_ + + PARKHURST, Winthrop. + IT NEVER HAPPENS. c 2m 1w _Smart Set_, _Dec._, 1918 + IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARLY. c 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1916 + MORRACA. p 7m 1w _Drama_, _Nov._, 1918 + THE BEGGAR AND THE KING. p 3m _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919 + GETTING UNMARRIED. p 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _April_, 1918 + + PASTON, George + FEED THE BRUTE. p 1m 2w _French_ + STUFFING. c 2m 2w _French_ + TILDA'S NEW HAT. c 1m 3w _French_ + PARENT'S PROGRESS. c 3m 3w _French_ + + PATRICK, A. + JIMMY. p 2m + + PAULL, H. M. + HAL, THE HIGHWAYMAN. p 4m 2w _French_ + + PEABODY, Josephine Preston + FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. p 8m 2w i _French_ + THE WINGS. p 3m 1w _French_ + + PEARCE, Walter + 1588. c 4m 1w _French_ + + PEMBERTON, Max + PRIMA DONNA. c 3m 3w _French_ + LIGHTS OUT. c 3m 3w _French_ + + PHELPS, P., and SHORT, M. + SAINT CECILIA. p 1m 7w _French_ + + PHILLPOTTS, Eden. CURTAIN RAISERS + THE POINT OF VIEW. c 2m 1w + HIATUS. c 4m 2w + THE CARRIER PIGEON. d 2m 1w + Three plays in one volume _Brentano_ + PAIR OF KNICKERBOCKERS. c 1m 1w _French_ + BREEZY MORNING. c 1m 1w _French_ + + PHILLPOTTS, Eden, and GROVES, Charles + THEIR GOLDEN WEDDING. c 2m 1w _French_ + + PIAGGIO, E. E. + AT THE PLAY. p _London_, _Williams_ + + PICHEL, Irving + TOM, TOM, THE PIPER'S SON. p 3m _Harvard_, _Dec._, 1913 + + PILLOT, E. + HUNGER. f 4m 1w _Stratford_, _June_, 1918 + THE GAZING GLOBE. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _Nov._, 1918 + + PINERO, Sir Arthur Wing + PLAYGOERS. c 2m 6w _French_ + THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD. d _Smart Set_, _May_, 1914 + HESTER'S MYSTERY. c 3m 2w _French_ + MONEY SPINNER. + Two acts. d 5m 3w _French_ + + PINSKI, David _See_ Six Plays for the Yiddish Theatre + A DOLLAR. c 5m 3w _Stratford_, _June_, 1917 + MICHAEL. p 4m _Stratford_, _April_, 1918 + + PORTMANTEAU PLAYS. See WALKER, Stuart + + PORTO-RICHE, G. In Clark: Four Plays, etc. + FRANCOISE'S LUCK. c 3m 2w + + PLAUTUS + THE TWINS. c 7m 2w _French_ + + PICARD, L. B. + THE ROSEBUD. c 5m 2w _French_ + + POUND, Ezra, and FENOLLOSA, Ernest + "NOH," or Accomplishment. A study of the + Classical Stage of Japan. Contains + KAYOI KOMACHI. 3m i + SUMA GENJI. 3m + KUMASAKA. Two acts. 3m i + SHOJO. 2m supers + TAHURA. 3m i + and others _Knopf_ + + PRESBERY, Eugene + COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. p 2m 2w _French_ + + PRICE, Graham + THE CAPTURE OF WALLACE. p 4m 1w _Phillips_ + THE SONG OF THE SEAL. p 2m 2w _Phillips_ + THE ABSOLUTION OF BRUCE. p 10m _Phillips_ + MARRIAGES ARE MADE IN HEAVEN. _Phillips_ + + PROVINCETOWN PLAYS. Edited by GEORGE CRAM COOK and FRANK SHAY + ROSTETTER, ALICE. THE WIDOW'S VEIL + OPPENHEIM, JAMES. NIGHT + COOK AND GLASPELL. SUPPRESSED DESIRES + O'NEILL, EUGENE. BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF + MILLAY, EDNA ST. VINCENT. ARIA DA CAPO + WELLMAN, RITA. STRING OF THE SAMISEN + STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. NOT SMART + HAPGOOD AND BOYCE. ENEMIES + KING, PENDLETON. COACAINE + In one volume _Stewart_ + + PRYCE, Richard + THE VISIT. p 2m 3w _French_ + + PRYCE, R., and MORRISON A. + DUMB-CAKE. p 1m 2w _French_ + + PRYCE, R., and DRURY, W. P. + THE PRIVY COUNCIL. c 3m 4w _French_ + + PRYDZ, Alvilde + HE IS COMING. p 1m 5w _Poet Lore_ + + PUTNAM, Nina Wilcox + ORTHODOXY. p _Kennerley_ + + + QUINTERO, Serafino, and JOAQUIN, Alvarez + A BRIGHT MORNING. c 2m 2w _Poet Lore_ + BY THEIR WORDS YE SHALL KNOW THEM. c 2m 1w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 + + + RANCK, Edwin C. + THE YELLOW BOOTS. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _May_, 1919 + + RANDALL, William R. + THE GREY OVERCOAT. p 3m _French_ + + REED, John + FREEDOM. c 6m _Shay_ + MOONDOWN. p 2w _Masses_ + THE PEACE THAT PASSETH + UNDERSTANDING. f 12 characters _Liberator_, _March_, 1919 + + REELY, Mary Katherine + DAILY BREAD. p 1m 4w + A WINDOW TO THE SOUTH. p 5m 3w + THE LEAN YEARS. p 2m 2w + Three plays in one vol. _H. W. Wilson_ + + REIZENSTEIN, Elmer L. + HOME OF THE FREE. c 2m 2w + In "Morningside Plays" _Shay_ + + RENARD, Jules + GOOD-BYE! c 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1916 + + RENARD, Jules. Translated by Alfred Sutro + CARROTS. p 1m 2w _French_ + + REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS BY AMERICAN AUTHORS + Selected, with biographical notes, by + Margaret Gardiner Mayorga, M. A. _Little_ + + RICE, Cale Young. THE IMMORTAL LURE + GIORGIONE. p + ARDUIN. p + O-UME'S GODS. p + THE IMMORTAL LURE. p + Four plays in one vol. _Doubleday_ + A NIGHT IN AVIGNON. p + In "Collected Plays and Poems" _Doubleday_ + + RICHARDSON, Frank + BONNIE DUNDEE. d 4m 2w _French_ + + RIVOIRE, Andre + THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS. p 1m 2w _French_ + + ROBINS, Gertrude. LOVING AS WE DO, etc. + LOVING AS WE DO + THE RETURN + AFTER THE CASE + 'ILDA'S HONOURABLE + Four plays in one volume _Werner Laurie_ + MAKESHIFTS. p + REALITIES. p + Two plays in one volume _French_ + POT LUCK. c 3m 1w _French_ + + ROGERS, Maude M. + WHEN THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. p 3m _French_ + + ROGERS, Robert E. + BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE. f 6m 2w _Baker_ + + ROOF, Katherine + THE WORLD BEYOND THE + MOUNTAIN. p 2m 2w _International_, _Nov._, 1913 + + ROSENBERG, James N. + THE RETURN TO MUTTON. + Two acts. c 2m 1w _Kennerley_ + + ROSS, Clarendon + THE AVENGER. f 2m _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 + + RUSCHKE, Edmont W. THE ECHO, etc. + THE ECHO. c 5m 5w + DEATH SPEAKS. f 2m + THE INTANGIBLE. d 2m 2w + Three plays in one vol _Stratford_ + + RUSINOL, Santiago + THE PRODIGAL DOLL. c 5m 6w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 + + + SARDOU, Victorien + THE BLACK PEARL. c 7m 3w _French_ + + SARGENT, Frederick Leroy + OMAR AND THE RABBI. In prep. _Four Seas_ + + SARKADI, Leo + A VISION OF PAGANINI. p 2m 1w _International_, _Feb._, 1916 + THE PASSING SHADOW. p 2m _International_, _Aug._, 1916 + THE LINE OF LIFE. p 4m 3w _International_, _Nov._, 1916 + + SAWYER, Ruth + THE SIDHE OF BEN-MOR. p 1m 6w _Poet Lore_ + + SCHMERTZ, John R. + THE MARKSMAN. p 4m 1w _Sheffield_, _Feb._, 1917 + + SCHNITZLER, Arthur. COMEDIES OF WORDS. Translated by Pierre Loving + THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION. c 3m 2w + THE BIG SCENE. c 5m 2w + THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS. c 4m 2w + LITERATURE. c 2m 1w + HIS HELPMATE. c 5m 2w + Five plays in one volume _Stewart_ + COUNTESS MIZZIE. c 7m 2w + In volume with LONELY WAY, etc. _Little_ + LIVING HOURS + THE WOMAN WITH THE DAGGER + THE LAST MASKS + LITERATURE + Four plays in one volume _Badger_ + GALLANT CASSIAN. Puppet Play. 3m 1w _Phillips_ + DUKE AND THE ACTRESS. c 16m 2w _Badger_ + LADY WITH THE DAGGER. d 1m 1w _Poet Lore_ + + SCOTT, Clement + CAPE MAIL. p 3m 4w _Dramatic_ + + SCOTTISH REPERTORY PLAYS + MAXWELL, W. B. THE LAST MAN IN. p 4m 1w + BRIGHOUSE, H. THE PRICE OF COAL. p 1m 3w + CHAPIN, H. AUGUSTUS IN SEARCH OF A FATHER. p 3m + COLQUHON, D. JEAN. p 2m + DOWN, O. THE MAKER OF DREAMS. f 2m 1w + CHAPIN, H. DUMB AND THE BLIND. p 2m 1w 2j + BRIGHOUSE, H. LONESOME-LIKE. p 2m 2w + CHAPIN, H. AUTOCRAT OF THE COFFEE STALL. p + CHAPIN, H. MUDDLE ANNIE. p + FERGUSON, J. A. CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR. p 4m 2w + KORI, TORAHIKO. KANAWA, the Incantation. 4m 1w + BRIGHOUSE, H. MAID OF FRANCE. p 2m _Phillips_ + + SHAKESPEARE + OBERON AND TITANIA, 12 characters _French_ + + SHAW, George Bernard + HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND. c 2m 1w _Brentano_ + PRESS CUTTINGS. c 3m 3w _Brentano_ + DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS. c 1m 2w _Brentano_ + OVERRULED. p _Brentano_ + HEARTBREAK HOUSE + GREAT CATHERINE + O'FLATHERTY, C. V. + INCA OF PERUSALEM + AUGUSTUS DOES HIS BIT + THE BOLSHEVIK PRINCESS + Six plays in one volume _Brentano_ + + SHAW, Mary + THE PARROT CAGE. a 1m 7w _Dramatic_ + THE WOMAN OF IT. c 9w _Dramatic_ + + SHORES, Elsa. _See_ BELMONT, Mrs. + O. H. P. + + SIERRA, Gregorio Martinez + THE LOVER. c 1m 2w _Stratford_, _July_, 1919 + LOVE MAGIC. c 4m 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 + THE CRADLE SONG. 3 Two acts. 4m 10w _Poet Lore_ + + SINCLAIR, Upton. Plays of Protest. + THE SECOND STORY MAN. d 1m 1w _Kennerley_ + + SOLOGUB, Feodor + THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH. Three short + acts. d 4m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1916 + + SOPHOCLES + ANTIGONE. 11 characters _Baker_ + + SOTILLO, Antonio, and MICHO, Andres + THE JUDGMENT OF POSTERITY. p 5m 1w _Poet Lore_ + + SPEYER, Lady + LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1919 + + SPRINGER, Thomas G. + SECRETS OF THE DEEP. p 7m _Smart Set_, _June_, 1914 + + STEELL, W. + p 6m 1w _Baker_ + + STERLING, George + THE DRYAD. p 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1919 + + STEVENS, Henry Bailey. A CRY OUT IN THE DARK + THE MEDDLER + BOLO AND BABETTE. In prep. + THE MADHOUSE + Three plays in one vol. _Four Seas_ + + STEVENS, Wallace + THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE. p 5m 1w i _Poetry_, _July_, 1916 + + STEWART, Anna B. + BELLES OF CANTERBURY. + + STEWART-KIDD MODERN PLAYS. Edited by FRANK SHAY + TOMPKINS, F. G. SHAM. c 3m 1w _Stewart_ + HUDSON, HOLLAND. THE SHEPHERD IN THE + DISTANCE. f 10 characters _Stewart_ + FLANNER, HILDEGARDE. MANSIONS. p 1m 2w _Stewart_ + OVERSTREET, H. A. HEARTS TO + MEND. f 2m 1w _Stewart_ + + ST. HILL, T. N. + DUTY. p 2m _Sheffield_, _May_, 1916 + + STRAMM, August + THE BRIDE OF THE MOOR. p 4m 2w + SANCTA SUSANNA. p 1m 3w + Two plays in one number _Poet Lore_ + + STRATTON, Charles + THE CODA. p 1m 2w _Drama_, _May_, 1918 + + STRINDBERG, August + PLAYS. First Series + THE DREAM PLAY. THE LINK + THE DANCE OF DEATH. Parts I and II + PLAYS. Second Series + CREDITORS. p 2m 1w + PARIAH. p 2m + MISS JULIA. p 3w + THE STRONGER. p 2w + THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES + LUCKY PEHR _Stewart_ + EASTER _Stewart_ + PLAYS. Third Series + SWANWHITE. A Fairy Play. p 10m 6w + SIMOON. p 2m 1w + DEBIT AND CREDIT. p 6m 3w + ADVENT. Three acts. p 7m 3w + THE THUNDERSTORM. p 8m 4w + AFTER THE FIRE. p 11m 4w + PLAYS. Fourth Series + THE BRIDAL CROWN. Six scenes. p 12m 8w others + THE SPOOK SONATA. p 7m 6w + THE FIRST WARNING. c 1m 4w + GUSTAVUS VASA. Five acts. d 20m 8w + Four volumes _Scribners_ + THE STRONGER WOMAN. p 2w + MOTHERLY LOVE. p 4w + Two plays in one volume _Henderson_ + PARIA. p 2m + SIMOON. p 2m 1w + Two plays in one volume _Henderson_ + MISS JULIE. p 1m 2w _Henderson_ + THE CREDITOR. p 2m 1w _Henderson_ + THE OUTCAST. + SIMOON. 2m 1w + DEBIT AND CHRIST. p 6m 3w + Three plays in one volume _Badger_ + JULIE. p 2m 1w _Badger_ + THE CREDITORS. p 2m 1w _Badger_ + MOTHER LOVE. p 4w _Brown_ + + SUBERT, Frantisek Adolf + JAN VYRAVA. d 21m 11w _Poet Lore_ + + SUDERMANN, Herman. ROSES + STREAKS OF LIGHT. d 2m 1w + MARGOT. d 4m 2w + THE LAST VISIT. d 5m 3w + FAR-AWAY PRINCESS. c 2m 7w + Four plays in one volume _Scribner_ + MORITURI + TEJA. d 7m 2w + FRITZCHEN. d 5m 2w + ETERNAL MASCULINE. p 5m 2w + Three plays in one volume _Scribner_ + JOHANNES. p 40i _Poet Lore_ + + SUTRO, Alfred. FIVE LITTLE PLAYS + THE MAN IN THE STALLS. 2m 1w + A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED. 1m 1w + THE MAN ON THE KERB. 1m 1w + THE OPEN DOOR. p 1m 1w + THE BRACELET. c 5m 3w + Five plays in one volume _Brentano_ + THE BRACELET. c 5m 3w _French_ + A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED. 1m 1w _French_ + THE CORRECT THING. p 1m 1w _French_ + ELLA'S APOLOGY. p 1m 1w _French_ + A GAME OF CHESS. p 1m 1w _French_ + THE GUTTER OF TIME. p 1m 1w _French_ + A MAKER OF MEN. p 1m 1w _French_ + THE MAN OF THE KERB. 1m _French_ + THE OPEN DOOR. p 1m 1w _French_ + MR. STEINMANN'S CORNER. p 2m 2w _French_ + THE SALT OF LIFE. p 1m 1w _French_ + THE MARRIAGE WILL NOT TAKE PLACE. c 2m 1w + + SYMONS, Arthur + CLEOPATRA IN JUDEA. p 7m 3w _Forum_, _June_, 1916 + + SYNGE, John Millington + THE SHADOW OF THE GLEN _Luce_ + RIDERS TO THE SEA _Luce_ + THE TINKER'S WEDDING _Luce_ + DEIRDRE OF THE SORROWS _Luce_ + + + TARKINGTON, Booth + BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN. c 3m 2w _Harper_ + + TERRELL, Maverick + HONI SOIT.. s 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1918 + TEMPERAMENT.. c 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1916 + + TERRELL, Maverick, and STECHHAN, H. O. + THE REAL "Q." c 3m _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1911 + + TCHEKOFF, Anton. + PLAYS. First Series + THE SWAN SONG. p 2m _Scribner_ + PLAYS. Second Series + ON THE HIGH ROAD. p 8m 3w + THE PROPOSAL. c 2m 1w + THE WEDDING. c 7m 3w + THE BEAR. c 2m 1w + TRAGEDIAN IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. c 2m + ANNIVERSARY. c 2m 1w + Six plays in one volume _Scribner_ + A BEAR. c 2m 1w _French_ + THE MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. c 2m 1w _French_ + _See_ BECHHOFER. Five plays + ON THE HIGHMAY. d 6m 3w _Drama_, _May_, 1916 + + TENNYSON, Alfred Lord + THE FALCON. p 2m 2w _Collected Works_ + + TERENCE + PHORMIO. c 11m 2w _French_ + + THEURIET, Jean + JEAN MARIE. p 2m 1w _French_ + + THOMAS, Brandon + HIGHLAND LEGACY. c 5m 2w _French_ + LANCASHIRE SAILOR. p 3m 2w _French_ + COLOUR SERGEANT. p 4m 1w _French_ + + THOMAS, Kate + AN EVENING AT HELEN'S. p 7m _French_ + A BIT OF NONSENSE. c 8w _French_ + + THOMPSON, Alice C. PLAYS FOR WOMEN CHARACTERS + HER SCARLET SLIPPERS. p 4w _Penn_ + AN IRISH INVASION. c 8w _Baker_ + A KNOT OF WHITE RIBBON. p 3w _Penn_ + THE LUCKIEST GIRL. p 4w _Denison_ + MUCH TOO SUDDEN. p 7w _Baker_ + OYSTERS. c 6w _Baker_ + THE WRONG BABY. c 8w _Penn_ + + THOMPSON, Harlan + ONE BY ONE. 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _May_, 1919 + THE MAN HUNT. c 2m 1w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1919 + PANTS AND THE MAN. c 5m 2w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1917 + GEOMETRICALLY SPEAKING. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1918 + + TOMPKINS, Frank G. + SHAM. c 3m 1w _Stewart_ + + TORRENCE, Ridgely. THREE PLAYS FOR THE NEGRO THEATRE + GRANNY MAUMEE. p 3w + THE RIDER OF DREAMS. p 3m 1w + SIMON THE CYRENIAN. p 10m 6w + Three plays in one vol. _Macmillan_ + + TRADER, G. H. + SHAKESPEARE'S DAUGHTERS. f 11w _French_ + + TREE, H. B. + SIX AND EIGHTPENCE. c 2m 1w _French_ + + TREVOR, Philip + UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. p 2m 5w _French_ + THE LOOKING GLASS. p 7j _French_ + + + UKRAINKA, L. + THE BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY. d 1m 7i + In Bechofer: Five Russian Plays. + + URCHLICKY, Jaroslav + AT THE CHASM. p 2m 1w _Poet Lore_ + + + VIERECK, Geo. S. + A GAME OF LOVE. p 1m 2w + THE MOOD OF A MOMENT. p 2m 1w + FROM DEATH'S OWN EYES. p 1m 2w + QUESTION OF FIDELITY. p 1m 1w + THE BUTTERFLY. p 2m 3w + Five plays in one volume _Moffat_ + + Von VIZEN, D. + THE CHOICE OF A TUTOR. c 5m 3w + In Bechofer: Five Russian Plays. + + VAN ETTEN, G. + THE VAMPIRE CAT. p 4m 2w _Dramatic_ + + + WALKER, Stuart. THE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS + THE TRIMPLET. c 2m 4w + NEVERTHELESS. c 2m 1w + SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL. c 5m 3w + THE MEDICINE SHOW. c 3m + Four plays in one volume _Stewart_ + MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS + THE LADY OF THE WEEPING WILLOW TREE + THE VERY NAKED BOY + JONATHAN MAKES A WISH + Three in one volume _Stewart_ + PORTMANTEAU ADAPTATIONS + GAMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE + WILDE, O. THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA + TARKINGTON, BOOTH. SEVENTEEN + In one volume _Stewart_ + + WALKER, W. R. + A PAIR OF LUNATICS. c 1m 1w _French_ + GENTLEMAN JIM. 1m 1w _French_ + + WALLACE, A. C. + CHRYSANTHEMUMS. c 2m 2w _French_ + + WARE, J. Herbert + THE MEASURE OF THE MAN. p 3m 1w _Sheffield_, _June_, 1916 + + WARREN, P., and HUTCHINS, W. + THE DAY THAT LINCOLN DIED. p 5m 2w _Baker_ + + WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS, THE + BEACH, L. THE CLOD. p 4m 1w + GOODMAN, E. EUGENICALLY SPEAKING. c 3m 1w + GERSTENBERG, A. OVERTONES. p 4w + MOELLER, P. HELENE'S HUSBAND. c 3m 2w + Four plays in one vol. _Doubleday_ + LANGER, L. ANOTHER WAY OUT. c 2m 3w _Shay_ + GLASPELL, S. TRIFLES. d 3m 2w _Shay_ + CROCKER, B. THE LAST STRAW. d 2m 1w 2j _Shay_ + ANDREYEV, L. LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR. s 15m 7w _Shay_ + CRONYN, G. THE SANDBAR QUEEN. p 6m 1w _Arens_ + MOELLER, P. TWO BLIND BEGGARS, etc. p 3m 1w _Arens_ + MAETERLINCK, M. + INTERIOR + MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY + DEATH OF TINTAGILES. _See_ Author + REED, J. MOONDOWN. p 2w _Masses_ + TCHEKOW, A. THE BEAR. c 2m 1w _French_ + MACKAYE, P. THE ANTICK. _See_ Author + SCHNITZLER, A. LITERATURE. _See_ Author + MOELLER, P. + ROADHOUSE IN ARDEN + SISTERS OF SUSANNA + POKEY. _See_ Author + WEDEKIND, F. THE TENOR. p 5m 3w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1913 + AKINS, Z. THE MAGICAL CITY. p 7m 2w _Forum_, _May_, 1914 + DE BRVEYS, D. A. PIERRE PATELIN. c 7m 2w _French_ + TCHEKOV, A. THE SEA GULL. _See_ Author + EVREINOV, N. _See_ Bechofer: Five Russian Plays + PORTO-RICHE. LOVERS' LUCK. _See_ Clark: Plays for the Free Theatre + IZUMO, T. THE PINE TREE. Bushido. _See_ Author + MASSAY, E. PLOTS AND PLAYWRIGHTS. c 11m 6w _Little_ + MOLIERE. SGANARELLE. DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. _See_ Author + STRINDBERG, A. PARIAH. _See_ Author + + WATTS, Mary S. THREE SHORT PLAYS + AN ANCIENT DANCE. Two acts. p 6m 3w + CIVILIZATION. p 5m 5w + WEARIN' O' THE GREEN. c 8m 7w + Three plays in one vol. _Macmillan_ + + WEDEKIND, Frank + THE TENOR. p 5m 3w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1913 + + WEIL, Percival L. + THE CULPRIT. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1913 + + WELLMAN, Rita + THE LADY WITH THE MIRROR. a 2m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 + DAWN. p 2m 1w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919 + FUNICULI FUNICULI. In Mayorga's + "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_ + + WELSH, Robert Gilbert + JEZEBEL. p 6m 3w _Forum_, _May_, 1915 + + WENDT, Frederick W. + DES IRAE. p 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _July_, 1911 + + WHITE, Lucy + THE BIRD CHILD. p 2m 2w 1j _International_, _Nov._, + 1914 + + WILCOX, Constance + TOLD IN A CHINESE + GARDEN. p 10 characters _Drama_, _May_, 1919 + + WILDE, Oscar + SALOME. d 11m 2w _Several editions_ + BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA + + WILDE, Percival. DAWN AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS + DAWN. d 2m 1w 1j + THE NOBLE LORD. c 2m 1w + THE TRAITOR. d 7m + THE HOUSE OF CARDS. p 1m 1w + PLAYING WITH FIRE. c 1m 2w + FINGER OF GOD. p 2m 1w + Six plays in one volume _Holt_ + CONFESSIONAL. p 3m 3w + ACCORDING TO DARWIN. p 3m 2w + A QUESTION OF MORALITY. c 3m 1w + THE BEAUTIFUL STORY. p 1m 1w 1j + THE VILLAIN OF THE PIECE. c 2m 1w + Five plays in one volume _Holt_ + LINE OF NO RESISTANCE. c 1m 2w _French_ + SAVED. p 9m 1w _Smart Set_, _July_, 1915 + + WILEY, Sara King + PATRIOTS. c 3m 2w _French_ + + WISCONSIN PLAYS + FIRST SERIES + GALE, Z. THE NEIGHBORS. d 2m 6w + DICKINSON, T. H. IN HOSPITAL. c 3m 2w + LEONARD, W. E. GLORY OF THE MORNING. p 3m 2w + Three plays in one vol. _Huebsch_ + SECOND SERIES + ILLSEY, S. M. FEAST OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS. p 5w + SHERRY, L. ON THE PIER. p 1m 1w + JONES, H. M. THE SHADOW. p 4m 2w + GILMAN, T. WE LIVE AGAIN. p 6m 6w + Four Plays in one volume _Huebsch_ + + WOLFF, Oscar M. + WHERE BUT IN AMERICA. c 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _March_, 1918 + + WORLD'S BEST PLAYS, The. Edited by BARRETT H. CLARK + COPPEE, FRANCOIS. PATER NOSTER. p 3m 3w + MEILHAC AND HALEVY. INDIAN SUMMER. c 2m 2w + MAUREY, MAX. ROSALIE. c 1m 2w + HERVIEU, PAUL. MODESTY. c 2m 1w + TCHEKOF, ANTON. A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. c 2m 1w + DE MUSSET AND AUGIER. THE GREEN COAT. c 3m 1w + GIACOSA, GIUSEPPE. THE WAGER. c 4m 1w + TERRENCE. PHORMIO. c 11m 2w + RIVOIRE, ANDRE. THE LITTLE SHEPERDESS. c 1m 2w + PLAUTUS. THE TWINS. c 7m 2w + SARDOU, VICTORIEN. THE BLACK PEARL. c 7m 3w + TCHEKOF, ANTON. THE BOOR. c 2m 1w + DE BANVILLE, THEO. CHARMING LEANDER. c 2m 1w + AUGIER, EMILE. THE POST SCRIPTUM. c 1m 2w + MOLIERE. THE DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. c 6m 3w + DE CAILAVET, G. A. CHOOSING A CAREER. c + BERNARD, TRISTAN. FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER. c 5m 2w + MEILHAC AND HALEVY. PANURGE'S SHEEP. c 1m 2w + BENEDIX, RODERICK. THE LAW SUIT. c 5m + BENEDIX, RODERICK. THE THIRD MAN. c 1m 3w + MOLIERE. THE SICILIAN. Two scenes. c 4m 3w + MOLIERE. THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. s 6m 3w + BERNARD, TRISTAN. I'M GOING! c 1m 1w + FEUILLET, OCTAVE. THE FAIRY. c 3m 1w + FEUILLET, OCTAVE. THE VILLAGE. c 2m 2w + LABICHE. GRAMMAR. c 4m 1w + LABICHE. THE TWO COWARDS. c 3m 2w + LESAGE. CRISPIN, HIS MASTER'S RIVAL. c 4m 3w + MARIVAUX. THE LEGACY. c 4m 2w + GYALUI, WOLFGANG. AFTER THE HONEYMOON. c 1m 1w + BOUCHOR, MAURICE. A CHRISTMAS TALE. p 2m 2w + FRANCE, ANATOLE. CRAINQUEBILLE. 3 scenes. p 12m 6w + THEURIET, ANDRE. JEAN MARIE. p 2m 1w + PICARD, L. B. THE REBOUND. c 5m 2w + ARISTOPHANES. LYSISTRATA. s 4m 5w 1j + _Published by French_ + + WYNNE, Anna + THE BROKEN BARS. p 10m 10w _French_ + + + YEATS, William Butler + THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN + THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE + THE SHADOWY WATERS + THE KING'S THRESHOLD + ON BAILE'S STRAND + DEIRDRE _Macmillan_ + THE GREEN HELMET _Macmillan_ + WHERE THERE IS NOTHING _Macmillan_ + THE HOUR GLASS + CATHLEEN IN HOULIHAN + A POT OF BROTH _Macmillan_ + IN THE SEVEN WOODS _Macmillan_ + + YEHOASH + THE SHUNAMITE. p 3m 1w _Stratford_, _June_, 1919 + + YIDDISH THEATRE: SIX PLAYS FOR + FIRST SERIES + PINSKI, D. ABIGAIL. 7m 1w + PINSKI, D. FORGOTTEN SOULS. 1m 2w + ALEICHEM, S. SHE MUST MARRY A DOCTOR. 3m 4w + ASH, S. WINTER. 1m 6w + ASH, S. THE SINNER. 9m 1w + HIRSCHBEIN, P. IN THE DARK. 3m 2w + Six plays in one volume. + SECOND SERIES + PINSKI, D. LITTLE HEROES. p 6j + PINSKI, D. THE STRANGER. p 9m 6w + HIRSCHBEIN, P. ON THE THRESHOLD. p 4m 2w + LEVIN, Z. POETRY AND PROSE. p 1m 1w + KOBRIN, L. BLACK SHEEP. p 3m 2w + KOBRIN, L. THE SWEET OF LIFE. p 2m 1w + Six plays in one volume _Huebsch_ + + YOUNG, Stark. AT THE SHRINE AND OTHER PLAYS + ADDIO. p 3m 1w + MADRETTA. p 2m 1w + AT THE SHRINE. p 1m 1w + Three plays in one volume _Stewart_ + + + ZANGWILL, Israel + SIX PERSONS. c 1m 1w _French_ + GREAT DEMONSTRATION. c 2m 1w _French_ + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHIES + + + ACTABLE ONE-ACT PLAYS _Chicago Public Library, 1916_ + + PLAYS AND BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE. Compiled by Frank Shay. + + A LIST OF PLAYS AND PAGEANTS. Prepared by the Committee on Pageantry, + War Work Council, Young Woman's Christian Associations. 1919. + + PLAYS FOR AMATEURS. Arranged by John Mantel Clapp. Drama League of + America. Chicago. 1915. + + GUIDE TO SELECTING PLAYS for the use of professionals and amateurs. + By Wentworth Hogg. _French._ 1916. + + THE DRAMATIC BOOKS AND PLAYS. An annual compilation by Henry Eastman + Lower and George Heron Milne. Boston Book Co. + + + * * * * * + + + + +A SELECTED LIST + +OF + +DRAMATIC + +LITERATURE + + + PUBLISHED BY + STEWART & KIDD COMPANY + CINCINNATI + + + +_Plays and Players_ + + LEAVES FROM A CRITIC'S SCRAPBOOK + + BY WALTER PRICHARD EATON + + PREFACE BY BARRETT H. CLARK + +A new volume of criticisms of plays and papers on acting, play-making, +and other dramatic problems, by Walter Prichard Eaton, dramatic critic, +and author of "The American Stage of To-day," "At the New Theater and +Others," "Idyl of the Twin Fires," etc. The new volume begins with plays +produced as far back as 1910, and brings the record down to the current +year. One section is devoted to American plays, one to foreign plays +acted on our stage, one to various revivals of Shakespeare. These +sections form a record of the important activities of the American +theater for the past six years, and constitute about half of the volume. +The remainder of the book is given over to various discussions of the +actor's art, of play construction, of the new stage craft, of new +movements in our theater, such as the Washington Square Players, and +several lighter essays in the satiric vein which characterized the +author's work when he was the dramatic critic of the =New York Sun=. +Unlike most volumes of criticisms, this one is illustrated, the pictures +of the productions described in the text furnishing an additional +historical record. At a time when the drama is regaining its lost +position of literary dignity it is particularly fitting that dignified +and intelligent criticism and discussion should also find accompanying +publication. + +=Toronto Saturday Night=: + + Mr. Eaton writes well and with dignity and independence. His book + should find favor with the more serious students of the Drama of + the Day. + +=Detroit Free Press=: + + This is one of the most interesting and also valuable books on the + modern drama that we have encountered in that period popularly + referred to as "a dog's age." Mr. Eaton is a competent and + well-esteemed critic. The book is a record of the activities of + the American stage since 1910, down to the present. Mr. Eaton + succinctly restores the play to the memory, revisualizes the + actors, and puts the kernel of it into a nutshell for us to ponder + over and by which to correct our impressions. + + _Large 12mo. About 420 pages, 10 full-page illustrations + on Cameo Paper and End Papers_ _Net_ $3.00 + _Gilt top. 3/4 Maroon Turkey Morocco_ _Net_ 8.50 + + + +_Four Plays of the Free Theater_ + + Francois de Curel's _The Fossils_ + Jean Jullien's _The Serenade_ + Georges de Porto-Riche's _Francoise' Luck_ + Georges Ancey's _The Dupe_ + +_Translated with an introduction on Antoine and Theatre Libre by BARRETT +H. CLARK. Preface by BRIEUX, of the French Academy, and a Sonnet by +EDMOND ROSTAND._ + +=The Review of Reviews says=: + + "A lengthy introduction, which is a gem of condensed information." + +=H. L. Mencken (in the Smart Set) says=: + + "Here we have, not only skilful playwriting, but also sound + literature." + +=Brander Matthews says=: + + "The book is welcome to all students of the modern stage. It + contains the fullest account of the activities of Antoine's Free + Theater to be found anywhere--even in French." + +=The Chicago Tribune says=: + + "Mr. Clark's translations, with their accurate and comprehensive + prefaces, are necessary to anyone interested in modern drama.... + If the American reader will forget Yankee notions of morality ... + if the reader will assume the French point of view, this book will + prove a rarely valuable experience. Mr. Clark has done this + important task excellently." + + _Handsomely Bound. 12mo. Cloth_ _Net_, $2.50 + _3/4 Turkey Morocco_ 8.50 + + + +_Contemporary French Dramatists_ + + By BARRETT H. CLARK + +_In "Contemporary French Dramatists" Mr. Barrett H. Clark, author of +"The Continental Drama of Today," "The British and American Drama of +Today," translator of "Four Plays of the Free Theater," and of various +plays of Donnay, Hervieu, Lemaitre, Sardou, Lavedan, etc., has +contributed the first collection of studies on the modern French +theater. Mr. Clark takes up the chief dramatists of France beginning +with the Theatre Libre: Curel, Brieux, Hervieu, Lemaitre, Lavedan, +Donnay, Porto-Riche, Rostand, Bataille, Bernstein, Capus, Flers, and +Caillavet. The book contains numerous quotations from the chief +representative plays of each dramatist, a separate chapter on +"Characteristics" and the most complete bibliography to be found +anywhere._ + +_This book gives a study of contemporary drama in France which has been +more neglected than any other European country._ + +=Independent, New York=: + + "Almost indispensable to the student of the theater." + +=Boston Transcript=: + + "Mr. Clark's method of analyzing the works of the Playwrights + selected is simple and helpful. * * * As a manual for reference or + story, 'Contemporary French Dramatists,' with its added + bibliographical material, will serve well its purpose." + +_Uniform with FOUR PLAYS. Handsomely bound._ + + _Cloth_ _Net_, $2.50 + _3/4 Turkey Morocco_ 8.50 + + + +_"European Dramatists"_ + + By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON + + _Author of_ "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works." + +_In the present work the famous dramatic critic and biographer of Shaw +has considered six representative dramatists outside of the United +States, some living, some dead--Strindberg, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Wilde, +Shaw, Barker, and Schnitzler._ + +=Velma Swanston Howard says=: + + "Prof. Henderson's appraisal of Strindberg is certainly the + fairest, kindest and most impersonal that I have yet seen. The + author has that rare combination of intellectual power and + spiritual insight which casts a clear, strong light upon all + subjects under his treatment." + +=Baltimore Evening Sun=: + + "Prof. Henderson's criticism is not only notable for its + understanding and good sense, but also for the extraordinary + range and accuracy of its information." + +Jeanette L. Gilder, in the =Chicago Tribune=: + + "Henderson is a writer who throws new light on old subjects." + +=Chicago Record Herald=: + + "His essays in interpretation are welcome. Mr. Henderson has a + catholic spirit and writes without parochial prejudice--a thing + deplorably rare among American critics of the present day. * * * + One finds that one agrees with Mr. Henderson's main contentions + and is eager to break a lance with him about minor points, which + is only a way of saying that he is stimulating, that he strikes + sparks. He knows his age thoroughly and lives in it with eager + sympathy and understanding." + +=Providence Journal=: + + "Henderson has done his work, within its obvious limitations, in + an exceedingly competent manner. He has the happy faculty of + making his biographical treatment interesting, combining the + personal facts and a fairly clear and entertaining portrait of the + individual with intelligent critical comment on his artistic + work." + + _Photogravure frontispiece, handsomely printed and bound, + large 12mo_ _Net_, $3.00 + + + +_The Changing Drama_ + + By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A. Ph.D. + + _Author of_ "European Dramatists," "George Bernard Shaw--His Life + and Work." Etc. + +A vital book, popular in style, cosmopolitan in tone, appraising the +drama of the past sixty years, its changes, contributions and +tendencies. Has an expression of the larger realities of the art and +life of our time. + + =E. E. Hale= in _The Dial_: "One of the most widely read dramatic + critics of our day; few know as well as he what is 'up' in the + dramatic world, what are the currents of present-day thought, what + people are thinking, dreaming, doing, or trying to do." + + =New York Times=: "Apt, happily allusive, finely informed essays + on the dramatists of our own time--his essay style is vigorous and + pleasing." + + =Book News Monthly=: "Shows clear understanding of the evolution + of form and spirit, and the differentiation of the + forces--spiritual, intellectual and social--which are making the + theatre what it is today ... we can recollect no book of recent + times which has such contemporaneousness, yet which regards the + subject with such excellent perspective ... almost indispensable + to the general student of drama ... a book of rich perspective and + sound analysis. The style is simple and direct." + + =Geo. Middleton= in _La Follette's_: "The best attempt to + formulate the tendencies which the drama is now taking in its + evolutionary course." + + =Argonaut=: "Marked by insight, discernment and enthusiasm." + + _Large 12mo. Dignified binding_ _Net_, $2.50 + + + +GEORGE BERNARD SHAW + + _HIS LIFE AND WORKS_ + A Critical Biography (Authorized) + + BY + ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A., Ph.D. + +With two plates in color (one, the frontispiece, from an autochrome +by Alvin Langdon Coburn, the other from a water color by Bernard +Partridge), two photogravures, 26 plates on art paper, and numerous +illustrations in the text. + +In one volume, demy 8vo., cloth and gilt top, net $7.50. + +This remarkable book, upon which the author has been at work for more +than six years, is the authentic biography of the great Irish dramatist +and socialist. In order to give it the authority which any true +biography of a living man must possess, Mr. Shaw has aided the author in +every possible way. The book is based not only on the voluminous mass of +Mr. Shaw's works, published, uncollected in book form or unpublished, +but also on extensive data furnished the author by Mr. Shaw in person. + +A masterly and monumental volume, it is a history of Art, Music, +Literature, Drama, Sociology, Philosophy, and the general development of +the Ibsen-Nietzschean Movement in Morals for the last thirty years. The +Press are unanimous in their praise of this wonderful work. + +Opinions of the work and its author. + + _The Bookman_: "A more entertaining narrative whether in biography + or fiction has not appeared in recent years." + + _The Independent_: "Whatever George Bernard Shaw may think of his + Biography the rest of the world will probably agree that Dr. + Henderson has done a good job." + + _Boston Herald_: "This is probably the most informing and + satisfactory biography of this very difficult man that has + been written. A thoroughly painstaking work." + + #European Dramatists# + + + +_Short Plays_ + + By MARY MAC MILLAN + +_To fill a long-felt want. All have been successfully presented. +Suitable for Women's Clubs, Girls' Schools, etc. While elaborate enough +for big presentation, they may be given very simply._ + +=Review of Reviews=: + + "Mary MacMillan offers 'SHORT PLAYS,' a collection of pleasant one + to three-act plays for women's clubs, girls' schools, and home + parlor production. Some are pure comedies, others gentle satires + on women's faults and foibles. 'The Futurists,' a skit on a + woman's club in the year 1882, is highly amusing. 'Entr' Act' is a + charming trifle that brings two quarreling lovers together through + a ridiculous private theatrical. 'The Ring' carries us gracefully + back to the days of Shakespeare; and 'The Shadowed Star,' the best + of the collection, is a Christmas Eve tragedy. The Star is + shadowed by our thoughtless inhumanity to those who serve us and + our forgetfulness of the needy. The Old Woman, gone daft, who + babbles in a kind of mongrel Kiltartan, of the Shepherds, the + Blessed Babe, of the Fairies, rowan berries, roses and dancing, + while her daughter dies on Christmas Eve, is a splendid + characterization." + +=Boston Transcript=: + + "Those who consigned the writer of these plays to solitude and + prison fare evidently knew that 'needs must' is a sharp stimulus + to high powers. If we find humor, gay or rich, if we find + brilliant wit; if we find constructive ability joined with + dialogue which moves like an arrow; if we find delicate and keen + characterization, with a touch of genius in the choice of names; + if we find poetic power which moves on easy wing--the gentle + jailers of the writer are justified, and the gentle reader thanks + their severity." + +=Salt Lake Tribune=: + + "The Plays are ten in number, all of goodly length. We prophesy + great things for this gifted dramatist." + +=Bookseller, News Dealer & Stationer=: + + "The dialogue is permeated with graceful satire, snatches of wit, + picturesque phraseology, and tender, often exquisite, expressions + of sentiment." + + _Handsomely Bound. 12mo. Cloth_ _Net_, $2.50 + + + +_More Short Plays_ + + BY MARY MacMILLAN + +Plays that act well may read well. Miss MacMillan's plays are good +reading. Nor is literary excellence a detriment to dramatic performance. +They were put on the stage before they were put into print. They differ +slightly from those in the former volume. Two of them, "The Pioneers," a +story of the settlement of the Ohio Valley, and "Honey," a little +mountain girl cotton-mill worker, are longer. The other six, "In +Mendelesia," Parts I and II, "The Dryad," "The Dress Rehearsal of +Hamlet," "At the Church," and "His Second Girl," contain the spirit of +humor, something of subtlety, and something of fantasy. + + =Brooklyn Daily Eagle=: "Mary MacMillan, whose first volume of + short plays proved that she possessed unusual gifts as a + dramatist, has justified the hopes of her friends in a second + volume, 'More Short Plays,' which reveal the author as the + possessor of a charming literary style coupled with a sure + dramatic sense that never leads her idea astray.... In them all + the reader will find a rich and delicate charm, a bountiful + endowment of humor and wit, a penetrating knowledge of human + nature, and a deft touch in the drawing of character. They are + delicately and sympathetically done and their literary charm is + undeniable." + + _Uniform with "Short Plays"_ _Net_, $2.50 + + + +_Comedies of Words and Other Plays_ + + BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER + + TRANSLATED BY PIERRE LOVING + + {"=The Hour of Recognition=" + {"=Great Scenes=" + The contents are {"=The Festival of Bacchus=" + {"=His Helpmate=" + {"=Literature=." + +In his "Comedies of Words," Arthur Schnitzler, the great Austrian +Dramatist, has penetrated to newer and profounder regions of human +psychology. According to Schnitzler, the keenly compelling problems of +earth are: the adjustment of a man to one woman, a woman to one man, the +children to their parents, the artist to life, the individual to his +most cherished beliefs, and how can we accomplish this adjustment when, +try as we please, there is a destiny which sweeps our little plans away +like helpless chessmen from the board? Since the creation of Anatol, +that delightful toy philosopher, so popular in almost every theater of +the world, the great Physician-Dramatist has pushed on both as +World-Dramatist and reconnoiterer beyond the misty frontiers of man's +conscious existence. He has attempted in an artistic way to get beneath +what Freud calls the "Psychic Censor" which edits all our suppressed +desires. Reading Schnitzler is like going to school to Life itself! + + _Bound uniform with the S & K Dramatic Series_, _Net_ $2.50 + + + +_The Provincetown Plays_ + + EDITED BY + GEORGE CRAM COOK AND FRANK SHAY + + THE CONTENTS ARE: + + Alice Rostetter's comedy THE WIDOW'S VEIL + James Oppenheim's poetic NIGHT + George Cram Cook's and Susan Glaspell's SUPPRESSED DESIRES + Eugene O'Neill's play BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF + Edna St. Vincent Millay's ARIA DE CAPO + Rita Wellman's STRING OF THE SAMISEN + Wilbur D. Steele's satire NOT SMART + Floyd Dell's comedy THE ANGEL INTRUDES + Hutchin Hapgood's and Neith Boyce's play ENEMIES + Pendleton King's COCAINE + +Every author, with one exception, has a book or more to his credit. +Several are at the top of their profession. + +Rita Wellman, a Saturday Evening Post star, has had two or three plays +on Broadway, and has a new novel, THE WINGS OF DESIRE. + +Cook and Glaspell are well known--he for his novels and Miss Glaspell +for novels and plays. + +E. Millay is one of America's best minor poets. Steele, according to +O'Brien, is America's best short-story writer. + +Oppenheim has over a dozen novels, books of poems and essays to his +credit. + +O'Neill has a play on Broadway now, BEYOND THE HORIZON. + +Hutch, Hapgood is author of the STORY OF A LOVER, published by Boni and +Liveright anonymously. + + _8vo. Silk Cloth, Gilt Top_ _Net_ $3.00 + + + +Portmanteau Plays + + BY STUART WALKER + Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT + +This volume contains four One Act Plays by the inventor and director of +the Portmanteau Theater. They are all included in the regular repertory +of the Theater and the four contained in this volume comprise in +themselves an evening's bill. + +There is also an Introduction by Edward Hale Bierstadt on the +Portmanteau Theater in theory and practice. + +The book is illustrated by pictures taken from actual presentations of +the plays. + +The first play, the "=Trimplet=", deals with the search for a certain +magic thing called a trimplet which can cure all the ills of whoever +finds it. The search and the finding constitute the action of the piece. + +Second play, "=Six who Pass While the Lentils Boil=", is perhaps the +most popular in Mr. Walker's repertory. The story is of a Queen who, +having stepped on the ring-toe of the King's great-aunt, is condemned to +die before the clock strikes twelve. The Six who pass the pot in which +boil the lentils are on their way to the execution. + +Next comes "=Nevertheless=", which tells of a burglar who oddly enough +reaches regeneration through two children and a dictionary. + +And last of all is the "=Medicine-Show=", which is a character study +situated on the banks of the Mississippi. One does not see either the +Show or the Mississippi, but the characters are so all sufficient that +one does not miss the others. + +All of these plays are fanciful--symbolic if you like--but all of them +have a very distinct raison d'etre in themselves, quite apart from any +ulterior meaning. + +With Mr. Walker it is always "the story first," and herein he is at one +with Lord Dunsany and others of his ilk. The plays have body, force, and +beauty always; and if the reader desires to read in anything else surely +that is his privilege. + +Each play, and even the Theater itself has a prologue, and with the help +of these one is enabled to pass from one charming tale to the next +without a break in the continuity. + + _With five full-page illustrations on cameo paper._ + _12mo. Silk cloth_ $2.50 + + + +_More Portmanteau Plays_ + + BY STUART WALKER + Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT + +The thorough success of the volume entitled "=Portmanteau Plays=" has +encouraged the publication of a second series under the title "=More +Portmanteau Plays=". This continuation carries on the work begun in the +first book, and contains "=The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree=", one of +the finest and most effective pieces Stuart Walker has presented under +his own name; "=The Very Naked Boy=", a slight, whimsical, and wholly +delightful bit of foolery; "=Jonathan Makes a Wish=", a truly strong +three-act work with an appeal of unusual vigor. + + _With Six full page illustrations on Cameo Paper._ + _12mo. Silk cloth_ $2.00 + + + +TO BE PUBLISHED IN 1920 + +_Portmanteau Adaptations_ + + BY STUART WALKER + Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT + +The third volume of the Portmanteau Series includes three of Stuart +Walker's most successful plays which are either adapted from or based on +works by other authors. The first is the ever wonderful "=Gammer +Gurton's Needle=", written some hundreds of years ago and now arranged +for the use of the modern theater goer. Next comes, "=The Birthday of +the Infanta=" from the poignant story of Oscar Wilde (used also by +Alfred Noyes in one of his most effective poems), and last of all the +widely popular "=Seventeen=" from the story of the same name by Booth +Tarkington. + + _12mo. Silk cloth_ _Net_, $2.50 + + + * * * * * + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: + + +1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. + +2. Passages in bold are indicated by =bold=. + +3. Misprints in character names have been silently corrected. + +4. Punctuation has been normalized for the stage directions and the play +listings in the Bibliography. + +5. The following misprints have been corrected: + "Is sounds as if" corrected to "It sounds as if" (page 31) + "What should be" corrected to "What should we" (page 35) + "Don't call be" corrected to "Don't call me" (page 60) + "I don't now what!" corrected to "I don't know what!" (page 66) + "want to see her" corrected to "went to see her" (page 66) + "widly" corrected to "wildly" (page 72) + "horried" corrected to "horrid" (page 96) + "slindly" corrected to "blindly" (page 109) + "accept" corrected to "accent" (page 121) + "right. don't say" corrected to "right. I don't say" (page 162) + "J. H. SPEENHOFF" corrected to "ST. JOHN HANKIN" (page 157) + "SENE" corrected to "SCENE" (page 167) + "stobbing" corrected to "stabbing" (page 179) + "doube" corrected to "doubt" (page 204) + "pursuade" corrected to "persuade" (page 209) + "dring" corrected to "drink" (page 231) + "sits on the soft." corrected to "sits on the sofa." (page 268) + "lazzily" corrected to "lazily" (page 347) + "rearlize" corrected to "realize" (page 347) + "I sounds like" corrected to "It sounds like" (page 357) + "come into see" corrected to "come in to see" (page 364) + "ot do the decent" corrected to "to do the decent" (page 388) + "For heaven't sake" corrected to "For heaven's sake" (page 388) + "snuff-pox" corrected to "snuff-box" (page 400) + "just bet me are" corrected to "just bet we are" (page 428) + "ecstastically" corrected to "ecstatically" (page 428) + "crepe" corrected to "crepe" (page 436) + "paper ribbins." corrected to "paper ribbons." (page 437) + "rupturously" corrected to "rapturously" (page 451) + "palid" corrected to "pallid" (page 457) + "the the" corrected to "the" (page 459) + "port-hale" corrected to "porthole" (page 470) + "fierecly" corrected to "fiercely" (page 473) + "They why did" corrected to "Then why did" (page 525) + "Wilwaukee" corrected to "Milwaukee" (page 530) + "a few bille" corrected to "a few bills" (page 531) + "if marriage," corrected to "of marriage," (page 547) + "TREMENDOUR" corrected to "TREMENDOUS" (page 565) + "Pheobe" corrected to "Phoebe" (page 568) + "VON HOFFMANSTHALL" corrected to "VON HOFMANNSTHAL" (page 568) + "The Legacy. 3 4m" corrected to "The Legacy. c 4m" (page 572) + "MATUSO." corrected to "MATSUO." (page 572) + "SHAKERPEARE'S" corrected to "SHAKESPEARE'S" (page 579) + "volumn" corrected to "volume" (pages 561, 564, 565, 573) + +6. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies +in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been +retained. + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIFTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 36984.txt or 36984.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/9/8/36984/ + +Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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