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diff --git a/37970.txt b/37970.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f5723b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/37970.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15504 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of 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: Contemporary One-Act Plays + +Compiler: B. Roland Lewis + +Author: Sir James M. Barrie + George Middleton + Althea Thurston + Percy Mackaye + Lady Augusta Gregor + Eugene Pillot + Anton Tchekov + Bosworth Crocker + Alfred Kreymborg + Paul Greene + Arthur Hopkins + Paul Hervieu + Jeannette Marks + Oscar M. Wolff + David Pinski + Beulah Bornstead + Hermann Sudermann + August Strindberg + +Release Date: November 10, 2011 [EBook #37970] +[Last updated: January 23, 2012] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from scanned images of public domain material +from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + + + +CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS + + + + +CONTEMPORARY +ONE-ACT PLAYS + +WITH OUTLINE STUDY OF THE +ONE-ACT PLAY AND BIBLIOGRAPHIES + +BY + +B. ROLAND LEWIS + +Professor and Head of the Department of English in the University of Utah; +Author of "The Technique of the One-Act Play" + +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + +NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON + +COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS + +Printed in the United States of America + +The plays in this book are fully protected by copyright and the +professional and amateur stage rights are reserved by the authors. +Applications for their use should be made to the respective authors or +publishers, as designated + + TO + THE MEN AND WOMEN +WHO SO KINDLY HAVE PERMITTED ME TO + REPRINT THESE ONE-ACT PLAYS + + + + +PREFACE + + +This collection of one-act plays appears because of an increasingly +large demand for such a volume. The plays have been selected and the +Introduction prepared to meet the need of the student or teacher who +desires to acquaint himself with the one-act play as a specific dramatic +form. + +The plays included have been selected with this need in mind. +Accordingly, emphasis has been placed upon the wholesome and uplifting +rather than upon the sordid and the ultra-realistic. The unduly +sentimental, the strikingly melodramatic, and the play of questionable +moral problems, has been consciously avoided. Comedies, tragedies, +farces, and melodramas have been included; but the chief concern has +been that each play should be good, dramatic art. + +The _Dramatic Analysis and Construction of the One-Act Play_, which +appears in the Introduction, also has been prepared for the student or +teacher. This outline-analysis and the plays in this volume are +sufficient material, if carefully studied, for an understanding and +appreciation of the one-act play. + +B. ROLAND LEWIS. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + +INTRODUCTION 3 + + + LIST OF PLAYS + +THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK _Sir James M. Barrie_ 17 + +TRADITION _George Middleton_ 43 + +THE EXCHANGE _Althea Thurston_ 61 + +SAM AVERAGE _Percy Mackaye_ 85 + +HYACINTH HALVEY _Lady Augusta Gregory_ 103 + +THE GAZING GLOBE _Eugene Pillot_ 139 + +THE BOOR _Anton Tchekov_ 155 + +THE LAST STRAW _Bosworth Crocker_ 175 + +MANIKIN AND MINIKIN _Alfred Kreymborg_ 197 + +WHITE DRESSES _Paul Greene_ 215 + +MOONSHINE _Arthur Hopkins_ 239 + +MODESTY _Paul Hervieu_ 255 + +THE DEACON'S HAT _Jeannette Marks_ 273 + +WHERE BUT IN AMERICA _Oscar M. Wolff_ 301 + +A DOLLAR _David Pinski_ 321 + +THE DIABOLICAL CIRCLE _Beulah Bornstead_ 343 + +THE FAR-AWAY PRINCESS _Hermann Sudermann_ 365 + +THE STRONGER _August Strindberg_ 393 + + + BIBLIOGRAPHIES + + PAGE + +COLLECTIONS OF ONE-ACT PLAYS 405 + +LISTS OF ONE-ACT PLAYS 406 + +BIBLIOGRAPHY OF REFERENCE ON THE ONE-ACT PLAY 408 + +BIBLIOGRAPHY ON HOW TO PRODUCE PLAYS 409 + + + + +CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +THE ONE-ACT PLAY AS A SPECIFIC DRAMATIC TYPE + + +The one-act play is with us and is asking for consideration. It is +challenging our attention whether we will or no. In both Europe and +America it is one of the conspicuous factors in present-day dramatic +activity. Theatre managers, stage designers, actors, playwrights, and +professors in universities recognize its presence as a vital force. +Professional theatre folk and amateurs especially are devoting zestful +energy both to the writing and to the producing of this shorter form of +drama. + +The one-act play is claiming recognition as a specific dramatic type. It +may be said that, as an art form, it has achieved that distinction. The +short story, as every one knows, was once an embryo and an experiment; +but few nowadays would care to hold that it has not developed into a +specific and worthy literary form. This shorter form of prose fiction +was once apologetic, and that not so many years ago; but it has come +into its own and now is recognized as a distinct type of prose +narrative. The one-act play, like the short story, also has come into +its own. No longer is it wholly an experiment. Indeed, it is succeeding +in high places. The one-act play is taking its place among the +significant types of dramatic and literary expression. + +Artistically and technically considered, the one-act play is quite as +much a distinctive dramatic problem as the longer play. In writing +either, the playwright aims so to handle his material that he will get +his central intent to his audience and will provoke their interest and +emotional response thereto. Both aim at a singleness of impression and +dramatic effect; both aim to be a high order of art. Yet since the one +is shorter and more condensed, it follows that the dramaturgy of the one +is somewhat different from that of the other, just as the technic of the +cameo is different from the technic of the full-sized statue. The +one-act play must, as it were, be presented at a "single setting": it +must start quickly at the beginning with certain definite dramatic +elements and pass rapidly and effectively to a crucial movement without +halt or digression. A careful analysis of any one of the plays in this +volume, like Anton Tchekov's _The Boor_, or like Oscar M. Wolff's _Where +But in America_, will reveal this fact. The shorter form of drama, like +the short story, has a technical method characteristically its own. + +It is a truth that the one-act play is well made or it is nothing at +all. A careful analysis of Sir James M. Barrie's _The Twelve-Pound +Look_, Paul Hervieu's _Modesty_, Althea Thurston's _The Exchange_, will +reveal that these representative one-act plays are well made and are +real bits of dramatic art. A good one-act play is not a mere cheap +mechanical _tour de force_; mechanics and artistry it has, of course, +but it is also a high order of art product. A delicately finished cameo +is quite as much a work of art as is the larger statue; both have +mechanics and design in their structure, but those of the cameo are more +deft and more highly specialized than those of the statue, because the +work of the former is done under far more restricted conditions. The +one-act play at its best is cunningly wrought. + +Naturally, the material of the one-act play is a bit episodical. It +deals with but a single situation. A study of the plays in this volume +will reveal that no whole life's story can be treated adequately in the +short play, and that no complexity of plot can be employed. Unlike the +longer play, the shorter form of drama shows not the whole man--except +by passing hint--but a significant moment or experience, a significant +character-trait. However vividly this chosen moment may be +interpreted--and the one-act play must be vivid--much will still be +left to the imagination. It is the aim of the one-act form to trace the +causal relations of but _one_ circumstance so that the circumstance may +be intensified. The writer of the one-act play deliberately isolates so +that he may throw the strong flashlight more searchingly on some one +significant event, on some fundamental element of character, on some +moving emotion. He presents in a vigorous, compressed, and suggestive +way a simplification and idealization of a particular part or aspect of +life. Often he opens but a momentary little vista of life, but it is so +clear-cut and so significant that a whole life is often revealed +thereby. + +The student must not think that because the one-act play deals with but +one crisis or but one simplified situation, it is therefore weak and +inconsequential. On the contrary, since only one event or situation can +be emphasized, it follows that the writer is obliged to choose the one +determining crisis which makes or mars the supreme struggle of a soul, +the one great change or turning-point or end of a life history. Often +such moments are the really vital material for drama; nothing affords so +much opportunity for striking analysis, for emotional stress, for the +suggestion of a whole character sketched in the act of meeting its test. + +The one-act play is a vital literary product. To segregate a bit of +significant experience and to present a finished picture of its aspects +and effects; to dissect a motive so searchingly and skilfully that its +very roots are laid bare; to detach a single figure from a dramatic +sequence and portray the essence of its character; to bring a series of +actions into the clear light of day in a sudden and brief human crisis; +to tell a significant story briefly and with suggestion; to portray the +humor of a person or an incident, or in a trice to reveal the touch of +tragedy resting like the finger of fate on an experience or on a +character--these are some of the possibilities of the one-act play when +bandied by a master dramatist. + + +THE PROPER APPROACH TO THE STUDY OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY + +To read a one-act play merely to get its story is not in itself an +exercise of any extraordinary value. This sort of approach to any form +of literature does not require much appreciation of literary art nor +much intelligence. Almost any normal-minded person can read a play for +its story with but little expenditure of mental effort. Proper +appreciation of a one-act play requires more than a casual reading whose +chief aim is no more than getting the plot. + +If the shorter form of drama is to be appreciated properly as a real +literary form, it must be approached from the point of view of its +artistry and technic. This means that the student should understand its +organic construction and technic, just as he should understand the +organic construction and technic of a short story, a ballad, or a +perfect sonnet, if he is to appreciate them properly. + +The student should know _what_ the dramatist intends to get across the +footlights to his audience, and should be able to detect _how_ he +accomplishes the desired result. + +It must not be thought that the author urges a study of construction at +the expense of the human values in a play. On the contrary, such a study +is but the means whereby the human values are made the more manifest. +Surely no one would argue that the less one knows about the technic of +music the better able is one to appreciate music. Indeed, it is not too +much to say that, within reasonable limits, no one can really appreciate +a one-act play if one does not know at least the fundamentals of its +dramatic organization. + +In fact, students of the one-act play recognize in its constructive +regularity not a hindrance to its beauty but a genuine power. This but +lends to it the charm of perfection. The sonnet and the cameo are +admirable, if for no other reason than their superior workmanship. The +one-act play does not lose by any reason of its technical requirements; +indeed, this is one of its greatest assets. And the student who will +take the pains to familiarize himself with the organic construction of a +typical one-act play will have gone a long way in arriving at a proper +appreciation of this shorter form of drama. + + +DRAMATIC ANALYSIS AND CONSTRUCTION OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY + +I. THE THEME OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY + +The one-act play, like the short story, is a work of literary art, and +must be approached as such. Just like a painting or a poem or a fine +public building, the one-act play aims at making a _singleness of +effect_ upon the reader or observer. One does not judge a statue, or a +poem, or any other work of art, by the appearance of any isolated part +of it, but by the sum-total effect of the whole. The fundamental aim of +a one-act play is that it shall so present a singleness of effect to the +reader or to the assembled group who have gathered to witness a +performance of it, that the reader or observer will be provoked to +emotional response thereto. + +Thus, when a student reads a play like George Middleton's _Tradition_, +he is made to see and feel that the life of a daughter has been +handicapped and the longings of a mother smothered because of the +conventional narrowness of an otherwise loving father. This is the +singleness of effect of the play; this is its theme. This is precisely +what the author of the play wished his reader or observer to see and +feel. When one reads Bosworth Crocker's _The Last Straw_, one feels that +a reasonably good and worthy man, because of his sensitiveness to +criticism, has been driven to despair and to a tragic end by the +malicious gossip of neighbors. One's sense of pity at his misfortune is +aroused. This is what the author intended to do. This idea and effect is +the theme of the play. And when the student reads Paul Hervieu's +_Modesty_, he feels that a woman, even though she may lead herself into +thinking she prefers brutal frankness, instinctively likes affection and +even flattery. This is the effect produced by the play; this is its +intent; this is its theme. + +In approaching a one-act play, then, the very first consideration should +be to determine what the purpose and intent of the play is--to determine +its theme. This demands that the play be read through complete at one +sitting and that no premature conclusions be drawn. Once the play is +read, it is well to subject the play to certain leading questions. What +has the author intended that his reader or hearer shall understand, +think, or feel? What is the play about? What is its object and purpose? +Is it a precept or an observation found in life, or is it a bit of +fancy? Is it artificially didactic and moralizing? With what fundamental +element in human nature does it have to do: Love? Patriotism? Fear? +Egotism and self-centredness? Sacrifice? Faithfulness? Or what? + +A word of warning should be given. The student should not get the idea +that by theme is meant the moral of the play. A good play may be +thoroughly moral without its descending to commonplace moralizing. Good +plays concern themselves with the presentation of the fundamentals of +life rather than a creed of morals, theories, and propagandas. Art +concerns itself with larger things than didactic and argumentative +moralizing. + + +II. THE TECHNIC OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY + +Once the student satisfies himself as to the singleness of effect or +theme of the play, he will do well to set himself to the task of seeing +just how the dramatist has achieved this effect. He should keep in mind +that the playwright is a skilled workman; that he has predetermined for +himself just what he wishes his audience to think, feel, or understand, +and has marshalled all his materials to that end. The way by which he +accomplishes that end is his technic. Technic is but the practical +method by which an artist can most effectively convey his message to +his public. In a play the materials that the dramatist uses to this end +are character, plot, dialogue, and stage direction. If he is skilled he +will use these elements in such a way that the result will be an +artistic whole, a singleness of effect, an organized unit that will +exemplify and express his theme. + +_A._ THE CHARACTERS IN THE ONE-ACT PLAY.--Generally speaking, drama +grows out of character. Farce, melodrama, and extravaganza usually +consist of situation rather than of character. In any event, the student +should avail himself of every means to understand the characters in the +play under discussion. His real appreciation of the play will be in +direct ratio almost to his understanding of the persons in the drama. +Any attention given to this end will be energy well spent. The student +should get into the very heart of the characters, as it were. + +Thus, ADONIJAH, in Beulah Bornstead's _The Diabolical Circle_, is a +narrow, self-centred, Puritan egotist who has little about his +personality to appeal to the romantic and vivacious BETTY. LADY SIMS, in +Sir James M. Barrie's _The Twelve-Pound Look_, is a woman who really is +pathetic in her longing for some human independence in the presence of +her self-centred husband, "SIR" HARRY SIMS. And MANIKIN and MINIKIN, in +Alfred Kreymborg's _Manikin and Minikin_, are conventionalized puppets +representing the light yet half-serious bickerings, jealousies, and +quarrellings of human nature. + +The student will do well to characterize the _dramatis personae_ +deliberately and specifically. He should not now value himself for +working fast; for things done in a hurry usually lack depth. He must not +be content with vague and thin generalities. In analyzing a character it +might be well to apply some specific questions similar to the following: +Just what is the elemental human quality in the character? Loving? +Trusting? Egotistic? Superstitious? Revengeful? Treacherous? Selfish? +Discontented? Optimistic? Romantic? Or what? How does the dramatist +characterize them: By action? By dialogue? By spirit of likes and +dislikes? By racial trait? By religion? By peculiarity of manner, +speech, appearance? Are the characters really dramatic: are they +impelled to strong emotional reaction upon each other and upon +situation? Do they provoke one's dramatic sympathy? Do they make one +feel their own point of view and their own motives for conduct? + +_B._ THE PLOT OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY.--Plot and character are integrally +interlinked. Plot is not merely story taken from every-day life, where +seldom do events occur in a series of closely following minor crucial +moments leading to a climax. The dramatist so constructs his material +that there is a sequential and causal interplay of dramatic forces, +ending in some major crisis or crucial moment. Plot may be said to be +the framework and constructed story by which a dramatist exemplifies his +theme. It does not exist for its own end, but is one of the fundamental +means whereby the playwright gets his singleness of effect, or theme, to +his reader or hearer. From the story material at his disposal the +playwright constructs his plot to this very end. + +Careful attention should be given to the plot. The student should +question it carefully. Do the plot materials seem to have been taken +from actual life? Or do they seem to be invented? Is the plot well +suited to exemplifying the theme? Reconstruct the story out of which the +plot may have been built. Since the plot of a one-act play is highly +simplified, determine whether there are any complexities, any +irrelevancies, any digressions. Does the plot have a well-defined +beginning, middle, and end? + +1. _The Beginning of the One-Act Play._--Having but a relatively short +time at its disposal, usually about thirty minutes and seldom more than +forty-five minutes, the beginning of a one-act play is very short. It is +characterized by condensation, compactness, and brevity. Seldom is the +beginning more than a half-page in length; often the play is got under +way in two or three speeches. The student will do well to practise to +the end that he will recognize instantly when the dramatic background of +a one-act play has been laid. + +Whatever else may characterize the beginning, it must be dramatically +effective. Instantly it must catch the powers of perception by making +them aware of the initial situation out of which the subsequent dramatic +action will develop. A good beginning makes one _feel_ that suddenly he +has come face to face with a situation which cannot be solved without an +interplay of dramatic forces to a given final result. + +Thus, when one reads Althea Thurston's _The Exchange_, one is made +suddenly to feel that human beings are discontent with their +shortcomings and possessed qualities, and that they always feel that +they would be happier if they possessed something other than what they +have. The JUDGE, who handles the cases as they come in for exchange, is +disgusted with the vanities of humankind, and is ready to clear his +hands of the whole matter. Here is a situation; it is the beginning of +the play. In the beginning of Lady Gregory's _Hyacinth Halvey_ one is +brought suddenly to the realization that HYACINTH HALVEY instinctively +rebels against the highly colored and artificially created good name +that has been unwittingly superimposed upon him. This situation, +suddenly presented, is the beginning of the play. Out of this initial +situation the subsequent dramatic action evolves. + +Is the beginning too short? Too long? Does it make the initial dramatic +situation clear? How has the playwright made it clear and effective? +Just where is the end of the beginning? Although the beginning and the +subsequent plot development are well blended together, so that there is +no halting where the beginning ends, usually one can detect where the +one ends and the other begins. It is a good idea, for the purpose of +developing a sense of the organic structure of the one-act play, to draw +a line across the page of the play, just where the one ends and the +other begins. + +The _setting_ of the play is a part of the beginning. Is the setting +realistic? Romantic? Fantastic or bizarre? Are the details of stage +design, properties, and especially the atmosphere and color scheme in +harmony with the tone of the play itself? Is the setting really an +organic part of the play or is it something apart from it? Note that the +setting is usually written in the third person, present tense, and in +italics. + +2. _The Middle of the One-Act Play._--The middle of a one-act play is +concerned primarily with the main crucial moment or climax and the +dramatic movement that from the beginning leads up to it. A good play +consists of a series of minor crises leading up to a major crisis or +crucial moment. It is for this crucial moment that the play exists; it +is for this big scene precisely that the play has been written. Indeed, +the play succeeds or fails as the crucial moment is strongly dramatic or +flabbily weak. This is the part of the play that is strongest in +dramatic tension, strongest in emotional functioning. + +A study of Sir James M. Barrie's _The Twelve-Pound Look_ shows that the +crucial moment comes at the point where "SIR" HARRY SIMS in his +self-centred egotism discovers that his wife's, LADY SIMS'S, +heart-longing could easily be satisfied if she were permitted no other +freedom than merely operating a typewriter. In Althea Thurston's _The +Exchange_ the crucial moment comes when the several characters, who +unwittingly had exchanged one ill for a worse one, find that they can +never re-exchange, and that they must endure the torments and +displeasure of the newly acquired ill throughout life. + +Just where is the crucial moment or climax in the play under +consideration? Determine the several minor crises that lead up to the +crucial moment. Is the crucial moment delayed too long for good dramatic +effect? Or is it reached too soon, so that the play is too short and too +sudden in reaching the climax? Does it make one _feel_ that some vital +result has been attained in the plot movement? Is it characterized by +strong situation and by strong emotional reactions of character on +character or of character on situation? + +For purposes of impressing a sense the organic structure of a one-act +play, it is a good plan to draw a horizontal line across the page at the +close of the crucial moment. Keep in mind, however, that the crucial +moment is _not_ the end of the play as it appears on the printed page or +as it is acted on the stage. + +3. _The End of the One-Act Play._--The end of the one-act play is an +important consideration. Too often it is entirely lost sight of. It is +the part that frequently makes or mars a play. When the crucial moment +or climax has been reached, the plot action of the play is completed, +but the play is not yet completed. The play needs yet to be rounded out +into an artistic and dramatic whole. In life the actual crisis in human +affairs is not often our chiefest interest, but the reaction of +characters immediately _after_ the crisis has occurred. Thus, in a play, +the emotional reaction of the characters on the crucial moment and the +more or less sudden readjustment between characters after the crucial +moment must be presented. For this very purpose the end of the one-act +play is constructed. The end is of need very short--usually even shorter +than the beginning. Usually the end consists of but a speech or two, or +sometimes only of pantomime that more effectively expresses the +emotional reactions of the characters on the crucial moment than +dialogue. + +Thus, in Sir James M. Barrie's _The Twelve-Pound Look_, the end consists +of but pantomime, in which "SIR" HARRY expresses his emotional reaction +upon his wife's longing for the human liberty that even the operating of +a typewriter would provide her. The end of Bosworth Crocker's _The Last +Straw_ comes immediately after the pistol-shot is heard in the adjoining +room and MRS. BAUER'S voice is heard: "Fritz! Fritz! Speak to me! Look +at me, Fritz! You didn't do it, Fritz! I know you didn't do it!" etc. + +Is the end of the play under consideration in terms of dialogue? In +pantomime? Or both? Is it too long? Too short? Is it dramatic? Is it +conclusive and satisfying? + +_C._ DIALOGUE OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY.--Dialogue, like plot and +characterization, is another means whereby the theme of the play is got +to the reader or audience. Good dramatic dialogue is constructed to this +very end. It is not the commonplace, rambling, uncertain, and realistic +question and answer of every-day life. Usually good dramatic dialogue is +crisp, direct, condensed. It is the substance but not the form of +ordinary conversation. Its chiefest characteristic is spontaneity. + +_The highest type of dramatic dialogue is that which expresses the ideas +and emotions of characters at the points of highest emotional +functioning._ It will readily be seen, then, that not all dialogue in a +play is necessarily dramatic. In truth, the best dramatic dialogue +occurs in conjunction with the series of minor crises and the crucial +moment that go to make up the dramatic movement of the play. Often there +is much dialogue in a play that essentially is not dramatic at all. + +In analyzing dramatic dialogue it is well to inquire whether in the play +it serves (1) to express the ideas and emotions of characters at points +of highest emotional functioning, (2) to advance the plot, (3) to reveal +character, or (4) what. Is it brief, clear, direct, spontaneous? Or is +it careless, loose, insipid? Wit, repartee? Didactic, moralizing? +Satirical, cynical? + +_D._ STAGE-BUSINESS AND STAGE-DIRECTION IN THE ONE-ACT PLAY.--The +stage-business and stage-direction, usually printed in italics, of a +play are an essential part of a drama. They must not be ignored in +either reading or staging a play. The novel or short story generally +uses narration and description to achieve its desired result; a play, on +the contrary, uses dialogue and concrete objective pantomime that may be +seen readily with the eye. A play is not a story narrated in +chronological order of events, but it is a story so handled and so +constructed that it can be acted on a stage by actors before an +audience. It is a series of minor crises leading to a major crisis, +presented to a reader or to an audience by characters, dialogue, and +stage-business and pantomime. For purposes of indicating the pantomimic +action of the play, the dramatist resorts to stage-business and +stage-direction. + +Does the stage-direction aid in making (1) the dialogue, (2) the plot, +(3) the dramatic action, or (4) the character more clear? Does it +shorten the play? Does it express idea, emotion, or situations more +effectively than could dialogue, if it were used? + +And, finally, do not judge any play until all the evidence is in, until +you have thoroughly mastered every detail and have fully conceived the +_author's idea_ and _purpose_. It is not a question whether _you_ would +have selected such a theme or whether _you_ would have handled it in the +same way in which the author did; but the point is does the _author_ in +_his_ way make _his_ theme clear to you. The author has conceived a +dramatic problem in his _own mind_ and has set it forth in _his own +way_. The question is, does he make you see his result and his method? + +Do you like the play? Or do you not like it? State your reason in either +case. Is it because of the author? Is it because of the theme? Is it +because of the technic--the way he gets his intent to his reader or +audience? Is it because of your own likes or dislikes; preconceived +notions or prejudices? Is it because of the acting? Of the staging or +setting? Does it uplift or depress? Does it provoke you to emotional +functioning? + + "Though old the thought and oft expressed, + 'Tis his at last who says it best." + + + + +THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK + +BY + +SIR JAMES M. BARRIE + + +_The Twelve-Pound Look_ is reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner's +Sons, the publisher in America of the works of Sir James M. Barrie. For +permission to perform, address the publisher. + + +SIR JAMES M. BARRIE + +Sir James M. Barrie is rated as the foremost English dramatist of the +day; and his plays, taken together, make the most significant +contribution to English drama since Sheridan. Practically his entire +life has been given to the writing of novels and plays, many of the +latter having their heroines conceived especially for Maude Adams, one +of America's greatest actresses. He was born in Kirriemuir, Scotland, in +1860. He received his education at Dumfries and Edinburgh University. +His first work in journalism and letters was done at Nottingham, but +soon he took up his work in London, where he now resides. + +Sir James M. Barrie's literary labors have been very fruitful. His _The +Professor's Love Story_, _The Little Minister_, _Quality Street_, _The +Admirable Crichton_, _Peter Pan_, _What Every Woman Knows_, and _Alice +Sit-by-the-Fire_ are well known to every one. + +In 1914 there appeared a volume of one-act plays, _Half Hours_, the most +important of which is _The Twelve-Pound Look_. And in 1918 appeared a +volume, _Echoes of the War_, the most important one-act play therein +being _The Old Lady Shows Her Medals_. + +Barrie is a great playwright because he is so thoroughly human. All the +little whimsicalities, sentiments, little loves, and heart-longings of +human beings are ever present in his plays. He is no reformer, no +propagandist. He appeals to the emotions rather than to the intellect. +He continues the romantic tradition in English drama and gives us plays +that are wholesome, tender, and human. And with all this, he has the +added saving grace of a most absorbing humor. + +While Barrie is not a devotee of the well-made play, his _The +Twelve-Pound Look_ is one of the most nearly perfect one-act plays of +contemporary drama. His interest in human personalities is not more +manifest in any of his plays than in LADY SIMS and "SIR" HARRY SIMS in +this play. + + +CHARACTERS + + + "SIR" HARRY SIMS + LADY SIMS + KATE + TOMBES + + + + +THE TWELVE-POUND LOOK[A] + + + _If quite convenient (as they say about checks) you are to conceive + that the scene is laid in your own house, and that_ HARRY SIMS _is + you. Perhaps the ornamentation of the house is a trifle + ostentatious, but if you cavil at that we are willing to + redecorate: you don't get out of being_ HARRY SIMS _on a mere + matter of plush and dados. It pleases us to make him a city man, + but (rather than lose you) he can be turned with a scrape of the + pen into a K.C., fashionable doctor, Secretary of State, or what + you will. We conceive him of a pleasant rotundity with a thick red + neck, but we shall waive that point if you know him to be thin._ + + _It is that day in your career when everything went wrong just when + everything seemed to be superlatively right._ + + _In_ HARRY'S _case it was a woman who did the mischief. She came to + him in his great hour and told him she did not admire him. Of + course he turned her out of the house and was soon himself again, + but it spoiled the morning for him. This is the subject of the + play, and quite enough too._ + + HARRY _is to receive the honor of knighthood in a few days, and we + discover him in the sumptuous "snuggery" of his home in Kensington + (or is it Westminster?), rehearsing the ceremony with his wife. + They have been at it all the morning, a pleasing occupation._ MRS. + SIMS _(as we may call her for the last time, as it were, and + strictly as a good-natured joke) is wearing her presentation gown, + and personates the august one who is about to dub her_ HARRY + _knight. She is seated regally. Her jewelled shoulders proclaim + aloud her husband's generosity. She must be an extraordinarily + proud and happy woman, yet she has a drawn face and shrinking ways, + as if there were some one near her of whom she is afraid. She claps + her hands, as the signal to_ HARRY. _He enters bowing, and with a + graceful swerve of the leg. He is only partly in costume, the sword + and the real stockings not having arrived yet. With a gliding + motion that is only delayed while one leg makes up on the other, he + reaches his wife, and, going on one knee, raises her hand superbly + to his lips. She taps him on the shoulder with a paper-knife and + says huskily: "Rise, Sir Harry." He rises, bows, and glides about + the room, going on his knees to various articles of furniture, and + rises from each a knight. It is a radiant domestic scene, and_ + HARRY _is as dignified as if he knew that royalty was rehearsing it + at the other end_. + +SIR HARRY. [_Complacently._] Did that seem all right, eh? + +LADY SIMS. [_Much relieved._] I think perfect. + +SIR HARRY. But was it dignified? + +LADY SIMS. Oh, very. And it will be still more so when you have the +sword. + +SIR HARRY. The sword will lend it an air. There are really the five +moments--[_suiting the action to the word_]--the glide--the dip--the +kiss--the tap--and you back out a knight. It's short, but it's a very +beautiful ceremony. [_Kindly._] Anything you can suggest? + +LADY SIMS. No--oh, no. [_Nervously, seeing him pause to kiss the tassel +of a cushion._] You don't think you have practised till you know what to +do almost too well? + + [_He has been in a blissful temper, but such niggling criticism + would try any man._ + +SIR HARRY. I do not. Don't talk nonsense. Wait till your opinion is +asked for. + +LADY SIMS. [_Abashed._] I'm sorry, Harry. [_A perfect butler appears and +presents a card._] "The Flora Typewriting Agency." + +SIR HARRY. Ah, yes. I telephoned them to send some one. A woman, I +suppose, Tombes? + +TOMBES. Yes, Sir Harry. + +SIR HARRY. Show her in here. [_He has very lately become a stickler for +etiquette._] And, Tombes, strictly speaking, you know, I am not Sir +Harry till Thursday. + +TOMBES. Beg pardon, sir, but it is such a satisfaction to us. + +SIR HARRY. [_Good-naturedly._] Ah, they like it down-stairs, do they? + +TOMBES. [_Unbending._] Especially the females, Sir Harry. + +SIR HARRY. Exactly. You can show her in, Tombes. [_The butler departs on +his mighty task._] You can tell the woman what she is wanted for, Emmy, +while I change. [_He is too modest to boast about himself, and prefers +to keep a wife in the house for that purpose._] You can tell her the +sort of things about me that will come better from you. [_Smiling +happily._] You heard what Tombes said: "Especially the females." And he +is right. Success! The women like it even better than the men. And +rightly. For they share. _You_ share, _Lady_ Sims. Not a woman will see +that gown without being sick with envy of it. I know them. Have all our +lady friends in to see it. It will make them ill for a week. + + [_These sentiments carry him off light-heartedly, and presently the + disturbing element is shown in. She is a mere typist, dressed in + uncommonly good taste, but at contemptibly small expense, and she + is carrying her typewriter in a friendly way rather than as a badge + of slavery, as of course it is. Her eye is clear; and in odd + contrast to_ LADY SIMS, _she is self-reliant and serene_. + +KATE. [_Respectfully, but she should have waited to be spoken to._] Good +morning, madam. + +LADY SIMS. [_In her nervous way, and scarcely noticing that the typist +is a little too ready with her tongue._] Good morning. [_As a first +impression she rather likes the woman, and the woman, though it is +scarcely worth mentioning, rather likes her._ LADY SIMS _has a maid for +buttoning and unbuttoning her, and probably another for waiting on the +maid, and she gazes with a little envy perhaps at a woman who does +things for herself_.] Is that the typewriting machine? + +KATE. [_Who is getting it ready for use._] Yes. [_Not "Yes, madam" as it +ought to be._] I suppose if I am to work here I may take this off. I get +on better without it. [_She is referring to her hat._ + +LADY SIMS. Certainly. [_But the hat is already off._] I ought to +apologize for my gown. I am to be presented this week, and I was trying +it on. + + [_Her tone is not really apologetic. She is rather clinging to the + glory of her gown, wistfully, as if not absolutely certain, you + know, that it is a glory._ + +KATE. It is beautiful, if I may presume to say so. + + [_She frankly admires it. She probably has a best and a second best + of her own; that sort of thing._ + +LADY SIMS. [_With a flush of pride in the gown._] Yes, it is very +beautiful. [_The beauty of it gives her courage._] Sit down, please. + +KATE. [_The sort of woman who would have sat down in any case._] I +suppose it is some copying you want done? I got no particulars. I was +told to come to this address, but that was all. + +LADY SIMS. [_Almost with the humility of a servant._] Oh, it is not work +for me, it is for my husband, and what he needs is not exactly copying. +[_Swelling, for she is proud of_ HARRY.] He wants a number of letters +answered--hundreds of them--letters and telegrams of congratulation. + +KATE. [_As if it were all in the day's work._] Yes? + +LADY SIMS. [_Remembering that_ HARRY _expects every wife to do her +duty_.] My husband is a remarkable man. He is about to be knighted. +[_Pause, but_ KATE _does not fall to the floor_.] He is to be knighted +for his services to--[_on reflection_]--for his services. [_She is +conscious that she is not doing_ HARRY _justice_.] He can explain it so +much better than I can. + +KATE. [_In her businesslike way._] And I am to answer the +congratulations? + +LADY SIMS. [_Afraid that it will be a hard task._] Yes. + +KATE. [_Blithely_] It is work I have had some experience of. [_She +proceeds to type._ + +LADY SIMS. But you can't begin till you know what he wants to say. + +KATE. Only a specimen letter. Won't it be the usual thing? + +LADY SIMS. [_To whom this is a new idea._] Is there a usual thing? + +KATE. Oh, yes. + + [_She continues to type, and_ LADY SIMS, _half-mesmerized, gazes at + her nimble fingers. The useless woman watches the useful one, and + she sighs, she could not tell why._ + +LADY SIMS. How quickly you do it! It must be delightful to be able to do +something, and to do it well. + +KATE. [_Thankfully._] Yes, it is delightful. + +LADY SIMS [_Again remembering the source of all her greatness._] But, +excuse me, I don't think that will be any use. My husband wants me to +explain to you that his is an exceptional case. He did not try to get +this honor in any way. It was a complete surprise to him---- + +KATE. [_Who is a practical_ KATE _and no dealer in sarcasm_.] That is +what I have written. + +LADY SIMS. [_In whom sarcasm would meet a dead wall._] But how could you +know? + +KATE. I only guessed. + +LADY SIMS. Is that the usual thing? + +KATE. Oh, yes. + +LADY SIMS. They don't try to get it? + +KATE. I don't know. That is what we are told to say in the letters. + + [_To her at present the only important thing about the letters is + that they are ten shillings the hundred._ + +LADY SIMS. [_Returning to surer ground._] I should explain that my +husband is not a man who cares for honors. So long as he does his +duty---- + +KATE. Yes, I have been putting that in. + +LADY SIMS. Have you? But he particularly wants it to be known that he +would have declined a title were it not---- + +KATE. I have got it here. + +LADY SIMS. What have you got? + +KATE. [_Reading._] "Indeed, I would have asked to be allowed to decline +had it not been that I want to please my wife." + +LADY SIMS. [_Heavily._] But how could you know it was that? + +KATE. Is it? + +LADY SIMS. [_Who, after all, is the one with the right to ask +questions._] Do they all accept it for that reason? + +KATE. That is what we are told to say in the letters. + +LADY SIMS. [_Thoughtlessly._] It is quite as if you knew my husband. + +KATE. I assure you, I don't even know his name. + +LADY SIMS. [_Suddenly showing that she knows him._] Oh, he wouldn't like +that! + + [_And it is here that_ HARRY _re-enters in his city garments, + looking so gay, feeling so jolly, that we bleed for him. However, + the annoying_ KATHERINE _is to get a shock also_. + +LADY SIMS. This is the lady, Harry. + +SIR HARRY. [_Shooting his cuffs._] Yes, yes. Good morning, my dear. + + [_Then they see each other, and their mouths open, but not for + words. After the first surprise_ KATE _seems to find some humor in + the situation, but_ HARRY _lowers like a thunder-cloud_. + +LADY SIMS. [_Who has seen nothing._] I have been trying to explain to +her---- + +SIR HARRY. Eh--what? [_He controls himself._] Leave it to me, Emmy; I'll +attend to her. + + [LADY SIMS _goes, with a dread fear that somehow she has vexed her + lord, and then_ HARRY _attends to the intruder_. + +SIR HARRY. [_With concentrated scorn._] You! + +KATE. [_As if agreeing with him._] Yes, it's funny. + +SIR HARRY. The shamelessness of your daring to come here. + +KATE. Believe me, it is not less a surprise to me than it is to you. I +was sent here in the ordinary way of business. I was given only the +number of the house. I was not told the name. + +SIR HARRY. [_Withering her._] The ordinary way of business! This is what +you have fallen to--a typist! + +KATE. [_Unwithered._] Think of it! + +SIR HARRY. After going through worse straits, I'll be bound. + +KATE. [_With some grim memories._] Much worse straits. + +SIR HARRY. [_Alas, laughing coarsely._] My congratulations! + +KATE. Thank you, Harry. + +SIR HARRY. [_Who is annoyed, as any man would be, not to find her +abject._] Eh? What was that you called me, madam? + +KATE. Isn't it Harry? On my soul, I almost forget. + +SIR HARRY. It isn't Harry to you. My name is Sims, if you please. + +KATE. Yes, I had not forgotten that. It was my name, too, you see. + +SIR HARRY. [_In his best manner._] It was your name till you forfeited +the right to bear it. + +KATE. Exactly. + +SIR HARRY. [_Gloating._] I was furious to find you here, but on second +thoughts it pleases me. [_From the depths of his moral nature._] There +is a grim justice in this. + +KATE. [_Sympathetically._] Tell me? + +SIR HARRY. Do you know what you were brought here to do? + +KATE. I have just been learning. You have been made a knight, and I was +summoned to answer the messages of congratulation. + +SIR HARRY. That's it, that's it. You come on this day as my servant! + +KATE. I, who might have been Lady Sims. + +SIR HARRY. And you are her typist instead. And she has four +men-servants. Oh, I am glad you saw her in her presentation gown. + +KATE. I wonder if she would let me do her washing, Sir Harry? [_Her want +of taste disgusts him._ + +SIR HARRY. [_With dignity._] You can go. The mere thought that only a +few flights of stairs separates such as you from my innocent +children---- + + [_He will never know why a new light has come into her face._ + +KATE. [_Slowly._] You have children? + +SIR HARRY. [_Inflated._] Two. [_He wonders why she is so long in +answering._ + +KATE. [_Resorting to impertinence._] Such a nice number. + +SIR HARRY. [_With an extra turn of the screw._] Both boys. + +KATE. Successful in everything. Are they like you, Sir Harry? + +SIR HARRY. [_Expanding._] They are very like me. + +KATE. That's nice. [_Even on such a subject as this she can be ribald._ + +SIR HARRY. Will you please to go. + +KATE. Heigho! What shall I say to my employer? + +SIR HARRY. That is no affair of mine. + +KATE. What will you say to Lady Sims? + +SIR HARRY. I flatter myself that whatever I say, Lady Sims will accept +without comment. + + [_She smiles, heaven knows why, unless her next remark explains + it._ + +KATE. Still the same Harry. + +SIR HARRY. What do you mean? + +KATE. Only that you have the old confidence in your profound knowledge +of the sex. + +SIR HARRY. [_Beginning to think as little of her intellect as of her +morals._] I suppose I know my wife. + +KATE. [_Hopelessly dense._] I suppose so. I was only remembering that +you used to think you knew her in the days when I was the lady. [_He is +merely wasting his time on her, and he indicates the door. She is not +sufficiently the lady to retire worsted._] Well, good-by, Sir Harry. +Won't you ring, and the four men-servants will show me out? [_But he +hesitates._ + +SIR HARRY. [_In spite of himself._] As you are here, there is something +I want to get out of you. [_Wishing he could ask it less eagerly._] Tell +me, who was the man? + + [_The strange woman--it is evident now that she has always been + strange to him--smiles tolerantly._ + +KATE. You never found out? + +SIR HARRY. I could never be sure. + +KATE. [_Reflectively._] I thought that would worry you. + +SIR HARRY. [_Sneering._] It's plain that he soon left you. + +KATE. Very soon. + +SIR HARRY. As I could have told you. [_But still she surveys him with +the smile of Mona Lisa. The badgered man has to entreat._] Who was he? +It was fourteen years ago, and cannot matter to any of us now. Kate, +tell me who he was? + + [_It is his first youthful moment, and perhaps because of that she + does not wish to hurt him._ + +KATE. [_Shaking a motherly head._] Better not ask. + +SIR HARRY. I do ask. Tell me. + +KATE. It is kinder not to tell you. + +SIR HARRY. [_Violently._] Then, by James, it was one of my own pals. Was +it Bernard Roche? [_She shakes her head._] It may have been some one who +comes to my house still. + +KATE. I think not. [_Reflecting._] Fourteen years! You found my letter +that night when you went home? + +SIR HARRY. [_Impatient._] Yes. + +KATE. I propped it against the decanters. I thought you would be sure to +see it there. It was a room not unlike this, and the furniture was +arranged in the same attractive way. How it all comes back to me. Don't +you see me, Harry, in hat and cloak, putting the letter there, taking a +last look round, and then stealing out into the night to meet---- + +SIR HARRY. Whom? + +KATE. Him. Hours pass, no sound in the room but the tick-tack of the +clock, and then about midnight you return alone. You take---- + +SIR HARRY. [_Gruffly._] I wasn't alone. + +KATE. [_The picture spoiled._] No? Oh. [_Plaintively._] Here have I all +these years been conceiving it wrongly. [_She studies his face._] I +believe something interesting happened. + +SIR HARRY. [_Growling._] Something confoundedly annoying. + +KATE. [_Coaxing._] Do tell me. + +SIR HARRY. We won't go into that. Who was the man? Surely a husband has +a right to know with whom his wife bolted. + +KATE. [_Who is detestably ready with her tongue._] Surely the wife has a +right to know how he took it. [_The woman's love of bargaining comes to +her aid._] A fair exchange. You tell me what happened, and I will tell +you who he was. + +SIR HARRY. You will? Very well. + + [_It is the first point on which they have agreed, and, forgetting + himself, he takes a place beside her on the fire-seat. He is + thinking only of what he is to tell her, but she, womanlike, is + conscious of their proximity._ + +KATE. [_Tastelessly._] Quite like old times. [_He moves away from her +indignantly._] Go on, Harry. + +SIR HARRY. [_Who has a manful shrinking from saying anything that is to +his disadvantage._] Well, as you know, I was dining at the club that +night. + +KATE. Yes. + +SIR HARRY. Jack Lamb drove me home. Mabbett Green was with us, and I +asked them to come in for a few minutes. + +KATE. Jack Lamb, Mabbett Green? I think I remember them. Jack was in +Parliament. + +SIR HARRY. No, that was Mabbett. They came into the house with me +and--[_with sudden horror_]--was it him? + +KATE. [_Bewildered._] Who? + +SIR HARRY. Mabbett? + +KATE. What? + +SIR HARRY. The man? + +KATE. What man? [_Understanding._] Oh, no. I thought you said he came +into the house with you. + +SIR HARRY. It might have been a blind. + +KATE. Well, it wasn't. Go on. + +SIR HARRY. They came in to finish a talk we had been having at the club. + +KATE. An interesting talk, evidently. + +SIR HARRY. The papers had been full that evening of the elopement of +some countess woman with a fiddler. What was her name? + +KATE. Does it matter? + +SIR HARRY. No. [_Thus ends the countess._] We had been discussing the +thing and--[_he pulls a wry face_]--and I had been rather warm---- + +KATE. [_With horrid relish._] I begin to see. You had been saying it +served the husband right, that the man who could not look after his wife +deserved to lose her. It was one of your favorite subjects. Oh, Harry, +say it was that! + +SIR HARRY. [_Sourly._] It may have been something like that. + +KATE. And all the time the letter was there, waiting; and none of you +knew except the clock. Harry, it is sweet of you to tell me. [_His face +is not sweet. The illiterate woman has used the wrong adjective._] I +forget what I said precisely in the letter. + +SIR HARRY. [_Pulverizing her._] So do I. But I have it still. + +KATE. [_Not pulverized._] Do let me see it again. + + [_She has observed his eye wandering to the desk._ + +SIR HARRY. You are welcome to it as a gift. + + [_The fateful letter, a poor little dead thing, is brought to light + from a locked drawer._ + +KATE. [_Taking it._] Yes, this is it. Harry, how you did crumple it! +[_She reads, not without curiosity._] "Dear husband--I call you that for +the last time--I am off. I am what you call making a bolt of it. I won't +try to excuse myself nor to explain, for you would not accept the +excuses nor understand the explanation. It will be a little shock to +you, but only to your pride; what will astound you is that any woman +could be such a fool as to leave such a man as you. I am taking nothing +with me that belongs to you. May you be very happy.--Your ungrateful +KATE. _P.S._--You need not try to find out who he is. You will try, but +you won't succeed." [_She folds the nasty little thing up._] I may +really have it for my very own? + +SIR HARRY. You really may. + +KATE. [_Impudently._] If you would care for a typed copy----? + +SIR HARRY. [_In a voice with which he used to frighten his +grandmother_.] None of your sauce! [_Wincing._] I had to let them see it +in the end. + +KATE. I can picture Jack Lamb eating it. + +SIR HARRY. A penniless parson's daughter. + +KATE. That is all I was. + +SIR HARRY. We searched for the two of you high and low. + +KATE. Private detectives? + +SIR HARRY. They couldn't get on the track of you. + +KATE. [_Smiling._] No? + +SIR HARRY. But at last the courts let me serve the papers by +advertisement on a man unknown, and I got my freedom. + +KATE. So I saw. It was the last I heard of you. + +SIR HARRY. [_Each word a blow for her._] And I married again just as +soon as ever I could. + +KATE. They say that is always a compliment to the first wife. + +SIR HARRY. [_Violently._] I showed them. + +KATE. You soon let them see that if one woman was a fool, you still had +the pick of the basket to choose from. + +SIR HARRY. By James, I did. + +KATE. [_Bringing him to earth again._] But still, you wondered who he +was. + +SIR HARRY. I suspected everybody--even my pals. I felt like jumping at +their throats and crying: "It's you!" + +KATE. You had been so admirable to me, an instinct told you that I was +sure to choose another of the same. + +SIR HARRY. I thought, it can't be money, so it must be looks. Some dolly +face. [_He stares at her in perplexity._] He must have had something +wonderful about him to make you willing to give up all that you had with +me. + +KATE. [_As if he was the stupid one._] Poor Harry. + +SIR HARRY. And it couldn't have been going on for long, for I would have +noticed the change in you. + +KATE. Would you? + +SIR HARRY. I knew you so well. + +KATE. You amazing man. + +SIR HARRY. So who was he? Out with it. + +KATE. You are determined to know? + +SIR HARRY. Your promise. You gave your word. + +KATE. If I must--[_She is the villain of the piece, but it must be +conceded that in this matter she is reluctant to pain him._] I am sorry +I promised. [_Looking at him steadily._] There was no one, Harry; no one +at all. + +SIR HARRY.. [_Rising._] If you think you can play with me---- + +KATE. I told you that you wouldn't like it. + +SIR HARRY. [_Rasping._] It is unbelievable. + +KATE. I suppose it is; but it is true. + +SIR HARRY. Your letter itself gives you the lie. + +KATE. That was intentional. I saw that if the truth were known you might +have a difficulty in getting your freedom; and as I was getting mine it +seemed fair that you should have yours also. So I wrote my good-by in +words that would be taken to mean what you thought they meant, and I +knew the law would back you in your opinion. For the law, like you, +Harry, has a profound understanding of women. + +SIR HARRY. [_Trying to straighten, himself._] I don't believe you yet. + +KATE. [_Looking not unkindly into the soul of this man._] Perhaps that +is the best way to take it. It is less unflattering than the truth. But +you were the only one. [_Summing up her life._] You sufficed. + +SIR HARRY. Then what mad impulse---- + +KATE. It was no impulse, Harry. I had thought it out for a year. + +SIR HARRY. A year? [_Dazed._] One would think to hear you that I hadn't +been a good husband to you. + +KATE. [_With a sad smile._] You were a good husband according to your +lights. + +SIR HARRY. [_Stoutly._] _I_ think so. + +KATE. And a moral man, and chatty, and quite the philanthropist. + +SIR HARRY. [_On sure ground._] All women envied you. + +KATE. How you loved me to be envied. + +SIR HARRY. I swaddled you in luxury. + +KATE. [_Making her great revelation._] That was it. + +SIR HARRY. [_Blankly._] What? + +KATE. [_Who can be serene because it is all over._] How you beamed at me +when I sat at the head of your fat dinners in my fat jewelry, surrounded +by our fat friends. + +SIR HARRY. [_Aggrieved._] They weren't so fat. + +KATE. [_A side issue._] All except those who were so thin. Have you ever +noticed, Harry, that many jewels make women either incredibly fat or +incredibly thin? + +SIR HARRY. [_Shouting._] I have not. [_Is it worth while to argue with +her any longer?_] We had all the most interesting society of the day. It +wasn't only business men. There were politicians, painters, writers---- + +KATE. Only the glorious, dazzling successes. Oh, the fat talk while we +ate too much--about who had made a hit and who was slipping back, and +what the noo house cost and the noo motor and the gold soup-plates, and +who was to be the noo knight. + +SIR HARRY. [_Who it will be observed is unanswerable from first to +last._] Was anybody getting on better than me, and consequently you? + +KATE. Consequently me! Oh, Harry, you and your sublime religion. + +SIR HARRY. [_Honest heart._] My religion? I never was one to talk about +religion, but---- + +KATE. Pooh, Harry, you don't even know what your religion was and is and +will be till the day of your expensive funeral. [_And here is the lesson +that life has taught her._] One's religion is whatever he is most +interested in, and yours is Success. + +SIR HARRY. [_Quoting from his morning paper._] Ambition--it is the last +infirmity of noble minds. + +KATE. Noble minds! + +SIR HARRY. [_At last grasping what she is talking about._] You are not +saying that you left me because of my success? + +KATE. Yes, that was it. [_And now she stands revealed to him._] I +couldn't endure it. If a failure had come now and then--but your success +was suffocating me. [_She is rigid with emotion._] The passionate +craving I had to be done with it, to find myself among people who had +not got on. + +SIR HARRY. [_With proper spirit._] There are plenty of them. + +KATE. There were none in our set. When they began to go down-hill they +rolled out of our sight. + +SIR HARRY. [_Clenching it._] I tell you I am worth a quarter of a +million. + +KATE [_Unabashed._] That is what you are worth to yourself. I'll tell +you what you are worth to me: exactly twelve pounds. For I made up my +mind that I could launch myself on the world alone if I first proved my +mettle by earning twelve pounds; and as soon as I had earned it I left +you. + +SIR HARRY. [_In the scales._] Twelve pounds! + +KATE. That is your value to a woman. If she can't make it she has to +stick to you. + +SIR HARRY. [_Remembering perhaps a rectory garden._] You valued me at +more than that when you married me. + +KATE. [_Seeing it also._] Ah, I didn't know you then. If only you had +been a man, Harry. + +SIR HARRY. A man? What do you mean by a man? + +KATE. [_Leaving the garden._] Haven't you heard of them? They are +something fine; and every woman is loath to admit to herself that her +husband is not one. When she marries, even though she has been a very +trivial person, there is in her some vague stirring toward a worthy +life, as well as a fear of her capacity for evil. She knows her chance +lies in him. If there is something good in him, what is good in her +finds it, and they join forces against the baser parts. So I didn't give +you up willingly, Harry. I invented all sorts of theories to explain +you. Your hardness--I said it was a fine want of mawkishness. Your +coarseness--I said it goes with strength. Your contempt for the weak--I +called it virility. Your want of ideals was clear-sightedness. Your +ignoble views of women--I tried to think them funny. Oh, I clung to you +to save myself. But I had to let go; you had only the one quality, +Harry, success; you had it so strong that it swallowed all the others. + +SIR HARRY. [_Not to be diverted from the main issue._] How did you earn +that twelve pounds? + +KATE. It took me nearly six months; but I earned it fairly. [_She +presses her hand on the typewriter as lovingly as many a woman has +pressed a rose._] I learned this. I hired it and taught myself. I got +some work through a friend, and with my first twelve pounds I paid for +my machine. Then I considered that I was free to go, and I went. + +SIR HARRY. All this going on in my house while you were living in the +lap of luxury! [_She nods._] By God, you were determined. + +KATE. [_Briefly._] By God, I was. + +SIR HARRY. [_Staring._] How you must have hated me. + +KATE. [_Smiling at the childish word._] Not a bit--after I saw that +there was a way out. From that hour you amused me, Harry; I was even +sorry for you, for I saw that you couldn't help yourself. Success is +just a fatal gift. + +SIR HARRY. Oh, thank you. + +KATE. [_Thinking, dear friends in front, of you and me perhaps._] Yes, +and some of your most successful friends knew it. One or two of them +used to look very sad at times, as if they thought they might have come +to something if they hadn't got on. + +SIR HARRY. [_Who has a horror of sacrilege._] The battered crew you live +among now--what are they but folk who have tried to succeed and failed? + +KATE. That's it; they try, but they fail. + +SIR HARRY. And always will fail. + +KATE. Always. Poor souls--I say of them. Poor soul--they say of me. It +keeps us human. That is why I never tire of them. + +SIR HARRY. [_Comprehensively._] Bah! Kate, I tell you I'll be worth half +a million yet. + +KATE. I'm sure you will. You're getting stout, Harry. + +SIR HARRY. No, I'm not. + +KATE. What was the name of that fat old fellow who used to fall asleep +at our dinner-parties? + +SIR HARRY. If you mean Sir William Crackley---- + +KATE. That was the man. Sir William was to me a perfect picture of the +grand success. He had got on so well that he was very, very stout, and +when he sat on a chair it was thus [_her hands meeting in front of +her_]--as if he were holding his success together. That is what you are +working for, Harry. You will have that and the half million about the +same time. + +SIR HARRY. [_Who has surely been very patient._] Will you please to +leave my house? + +KATE. [_Putting on her gloves, soiled things._] But don't let us part in +anger. How do you think I am looking, Harry, compared to the dull, inert +thing that used to roll round in your padded carriages? + +SIR HARRY. [_In masterly fashion._] I forget what you were like. I'm +very sure you never could have held a candle to the present Lady Sims. + +KATE. That is a picture of her, is it not? + +SIR HARRY. [_Seizing his chance again._] In her wedding-gown. Painted by +an R.A. + +KATE. [_Wickedly._] A knight? + +SIR HARRY. [_Deceived._] Yes. + +KATE. [_Who likes_ LADY SIMS--_a piece of presumption on her part_.] It +is a very pretty face. + +SIR HARRY. [_With the pride of possession._] Acknowledged to be a beauty +everywhere. + +KATE. There is a merry look in the eyes, and character in the chin. + +SIR HARRY. [_Like an auctioneer._] Noted for her wit. + +KATE. All her life before her when that was painted. It is a +_spirituelle_ face too. [_Suddenly she turns on him with anger, for the +first and only time in the play._] Oh, Harry, you brute! + +SIR HARRY. [_Staggered._] Eh? What? + +KATE. That dear creature, capable of becoming a noble wife and +mother--she is the spiritless woman of no account that I saw here a few +minutes ago. I forgive you for myself, for I escaped, but that poor lost +soul, oh, Harry, Harry. + +SIR HARRY. [_Waving her to the door._] I'll thank you--If ever there +was a woman proud of her husband and happy in her married life, that +woman is Lady Sims. + +KATE. I wonder. + +SIR HARRY. Then you needn't wonder. + +KATE. [_Slowly._] If I was a husband--it is my advice to all of them--I +would often watch my wife quietly to see whether the twelve-pound look +was not coming into her eyes. Two boys, did you say, and both like you? + +SIR HARRY. What is that to you? + +KATE. [_With glistening eyes_.] I was only thinking that somewhere there +are two little girls who, when they grow up--the dear, pretty girls who +are all meant for the men that don't get on! Well, good-by, Sir Harry. + +SIR HARRY. [_Showing a little human weakness, it is to be feared._] Say +first that you're sorry. + +KATE. For what? + +SIR HARRY. That you left me. Say you regret it bitterly. You know you +do. [_She smiles and shakes her head. He is pettish. He makes a terrible +announcement._] You have spoiled the day for me. + +KATE. [_To hearten him._] I am sorry for that; but it is only a +pin-prick, Harry. I suppose it is a little jarring in the moment of your +triumph to find that there is--one old friend--who does not think you a +success; but you will soon forget it. Who cares what a typist thinks? + +SIR HARRY. [_Heartened._] Nobody. A typist at eighteen shillings a week! + +KATE. [_Proudly._] Not a bit of it, Harry. I double that. + +SIR HARRY. [_Neatly._] Magnificent! + + [_There is a timid knock at the door._] + +LADY SIMS. May I come in? + +SIR HARRY. [_Rather appealingly._] It is Lady Sims. + +KATE. I won't tell. She is afraid to come into her husband's room +without knocking! + +SIR HARRY. She is not. [_Uxoriously._] Come in, dearest. + + [_Dearest enters, carrying the sword. She might have had the sense + not to bring it in while this annoying person is here._ + +LADY SIMS. [_Thinking she has brought her welcome with her._] Harry, the +sword has come. + +SIR HARRY. [_Who will dote on it presently._] Oh, all right. + +LADY SIMS. But I thought you were so eager to practise with it. + + [_The person smiles at this. He wishes he had not looked to see if + she was smiling._ + +SIR HARRY. [_Sharply._] Put it down. + + [LADY SIMS _flushes a little as she lays the sword aside_. + +KATE. [_With her confounded courtesy._] It is a beautiful sword, if I +may say so. + +LADY SIMS. [_Helped._] Yes. + + [_The person thinks she can put him in the wrong, does she? He'll + show her._ + +SIR HARRY. [_With one eye on_ KATE.] Emmy, the one thing your neck needs +is more jewels. + +LADY SIMS. [_Faltering._] More! + +SIR HARRY. Some ropes of pearls. I'll see to it. It's a bagatelle to me. +[KATE _conceals her chagrin, so she had better be shown the door. He +rings._] I won't detain you any longer, miss. + +KATE. Thank you. + +LADY SIMS. Going already? You have been very quick. + +SIR HARRY. The person doesn't suit, Emmy. + +LADY SIMS. I'm sorry. + +KATE. So am I, madam, but it can't be helped. Good-by, your +ladyship--good-by, Sir Harry. + + [_There is a suspicion of an impertinent courtesy, and she is + escorted off the premises by_ TOMBES. _The air of the room is + purified by her going._ SIR HARRY _notices it at once_. + +LADY SIMS. [_Whose tendency is to say the wrong thing._] She seemed such +a capable woman. + +SIR HARRY. [_On his hearth._] I don't like her style at all. + +LADY SIMS. [_Meekly._] Of course you know best. + + [_This is the right kind of woman._ + +SIR HARRY. [_Rather anxious for corroboration._] Lord, how she winced +when I said I was to give you those ropes of pearls. + +LADY SIMS. Did she? I didn't notice. I suppose so. + +SIR HARRY. [_Frowning._] Suppose? Surely I know enough about women to +know that. + +LADY SIMS. Yes, oh yes. + +SIR HARRY. [_Odd that so confident a man should ask this._] Emmy, I know +you well, don't I? I can read you like a book, eh? + +LADY SIMS. [_Nervously._] Yes, Harry. + +SIR HARRY. [_Jovially, but with an inquiring eye._] What a different +existence yours is from that poor lonely wretch's. + +LADY SIMS. Yes, but she has a very contented face. + +SIR HARRY. [_With a stamp of his foot._] All put on. What? + +LADY SIMS. [_Timidly._] I didn't say anything. + +SIR HARRY. [_Snapping._] One would think you envied her. + +LADY SIMS. Envied? Oh, no--but I thought she looked so alive. It was +while she was working the machine. + +SIR HARRY. Alive! That's no life. It is you that are alive. [_Curtly._] +I'm busy, Emmy. [_He sits at his writing-table._ + +LADY SIMS. [_Dutifully._] I'm sorry; I'll go, Harry. +[_Inconsequentially._] Are they very expensive? + +SIR HARRY. What? + +LADY SIMS. Those machines? + + [_When she has gone the possible meaning of her question startles + him. The curtain hides him from us, but we may be sure that he will + soon be bland again. We have a comfortable feeling, you and I, that + there is nothing of_ HARRY SIMS _in us_. + + + + +TRADITION + +BY + +GEORGE MIDDLETON + + +_Tradition_ is reprinted by permission of the author and the publisher, +Henry Holt & Company, New York City. All rights reserved. For permission +to perform, address the author, in care of the publisher. + +The author and publisher of this play have permitted this reprinting of +copyrighted material on the understanding that the play will be used +only in classroom work. No other use of the play is authorized, and +permission for any other use must be secured from the holder of the +acting rights. + + +GEORGE MIDDLETON + +George Middleton, one of the first to write and publish a volume of +one-act plays in America, was born in Paterson, New Jersey, 1880. He was +graduated from Columbia University in 1902. Since 1921 he has been +literary editor of _La Follette's Weekly_, and, in addition, has been a +frequent contributor to magazines and reviews on dramatic and literary +subjects. During the last few years he has spent much of his time +abroad. + +George Middleton's chiefest interest has been in the one-act play. He +has been an ardent champion of the shorter form of drama. Among his +three volumes of one-act plays are _Embers_ (including _The Failures_, +_The Gargoyle_, _In His House_, _Madonna_, and _The Man Masterful_), +_Tradition_ (including _On Bail_, _Their Wife_, _Waiting_, _The Cheat of +Pity_, and _Mothers_), and _Possession_ (including _The Grove_, _A Good +Woman_, _The Black Tie_, _Circles_, and _The Unborn_). Other one-act +plays are _Criminals_ and _The Reason_. His longer plays are _Nowadays_ +and _The Road Together_. Mr. Middleton has lectured widely on the +one-act play before colleges, in Little Theatres, and clubs. Perhaps his +most notable article is _The Neglected One-Act Play_, which appeared in +_The New York Dramatic Mirror_ in 1912. + +_Tradition_ is one of Mr. Middleton's best and most popular one-act +plays; and it most nearly conforms to the organic technic of the one-act +play. + +FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE BERKELEY THEATRE, NEW YORK CITY, JANUARY 24, +1913. + +(Produced under the personal direction of Mr. FRANK REICHER.) + + +THE PEOPLE + +GEORGE OLLIVANT MR. GEORGE W. WILSON + +EMILY, _his wife_ MISS ALICE LEIGH + +MARY, _his daughter, an actress_ MISS FOLA LA FOLLETTE + + + + +TRADITION[B] + + + SCENE: _The sitting-room at the_ OLLIVANTS' _in a small town + up-State. It is an evening late in the spring._ + + _A simple room is disclosed, bearing the traces of another + generation. Old-fashioned window-doors at the right, overlooking + the garden, open on a porch; another door in back opening on the + hall-way. A large fire-place at the left, now concealed by an + embroidered screen; the horsehair furniture, several terra-cotta + statuettes, and a woodcut or two on the walls create the subtle + atmosphere of the past. There is a lamp on the table, and another + on a bracket by the door in back. Moonlight filters through the + window-doors._ + + _The_ OLLIVANTS _are discovered together_. MARY, _a rather plain + woman of about twenty-five, with a suggestion of quick + sensibilities, is standing, lost in thought, looking out into the + garden. Her mother_, EMILY, _nearing fifty, quiet and subdued in + manner, is seated at the table trimming a hat. Occasionally she + looks at_ MARY, _stops her work, glances at her husband, closes her + eyes as though tired, and then resumes. The silence continues for + some time, broken only by the rattle of the town paper which_ + GEORGE OLLIVANT _is reading. He is well on in middle life, with a + strong, determined face not entirely without elements of kindness + and deep feeling. When he finishes, he folds the paper, puts it on + the table, knocks the ashes carefully from his pipe into his hand, + and throws them behind the screen; takes off his spectacles and + wipes them as he, too, looks over toward his daughter, still gazing + absently into the garden. Finally, after a slight hesitation, he + goes to her and puts his arm about her; she is startled but smiles + sweetly._ + +OLLIVANT. [_Affectionately._] Glad to be home again, Mary? + +MARY. [_Evasively._] The garden is so pretty. + +OLLIVANT. Hasn't changed much, eh? + +MARY. It seems different; perhaps it's the night. + +OLLIVANT. I guess it isn't up to its usual standard. Haven't seen your +mother there so often this spring. + +EMILY. [_Quietly._] This dry spell is not good for flowers. + +OLLIVANT. It's only the cultivated flowers that need care; can't help +thinking that when I see the wild ones so hardy in my fields on the +hill. [_Turning to_ EMILY _and patting her_.] Is there any of that spray +mixture left, Emily, dear? + +EMILY. I haven't looked lately. + +OLLIVANT. I'll order some to-morrow. [_Taking up his pipe again and +looking for the tobacco._] Think it would be a good idea, daughter, if +you'd spray those rosebushes every couple of weeks. The bugs are a pest +this spring. Where's my tobacco? + +EMILY. On the mantel. + +OLLIVANT. Wish you would always leave it on the table; you know how I +hate to have things changed. + + [OLLIVANT _goes to the mantel, filling his pipe, and while his back + is turned_, MARY _makes a quick questioning gesture to her mother, + who sighs helplessly_. MARY _ponders a moment_.] + +MARY. How's Ben been doing these two years, father? + +OLLIVANT. Hasn't your brother written you? + +MARY. Only once--when I left home; he disapproved, too. + +OLLIVANT. Had an older brother's feeling of wanting to take care of you, +Mary. + +MARY. Yes; I know. How's he doing? + +OLLIVANT. He's commencing to get on his feet. Takes time and money for +any one to get started these days. + +MARY. But he's still in partnership with Bert Taylor, isn't he? + +OLLIVANT. Yes. He'd have been somewhere if he'd worked in with me as I +did with _my_ father. Things should be handed down. Offered him the +chance, tried to make him take it, as your mother knows; but that +college chum--nice enough fellow, I've heard--turned his head another +way. [_Lighting his pipe and puffing slowly._] It's best to humor a +young fellow's ideas if he sticks them out, but I'd like to have had us +all here together now. The place is big enough even if he should want to +marry. Your mother and I came here, you know, when your grandfather was +still alive. + +MARY. Then Ben isn't making any money? + +OLLIVANT. [_Reluctantly._] Not yet--to speak of. + +EMILY. [_Quietly._] But he's promised to pay his father back, Mary. + +MARY. I see. [_Thoughtfully._] College and then more help to get +started, because he's a man. + +OLLIVANT. [_Complacently._] He'll have to support a family some day; +I've had to keep that in mind. + +MARY. I'd like to have a real talk with him. + +OLLIVANT. When did his letter say he'd be coming for a visit, Emily? + +EMILY. The fifteenth. + +MARY. Not till then? That's too bad. + +OLLIVANT. Eh? + +MARY. [_After exchanging a quick glance with her mother and gaining +courage._] Father, I hope you didn't misunderstand my coming back? + +OLLIVANT. Not at all. We all make mistakes--especially when we're young. +Perhaps I was a bit hasty when you left home, but I knew you'd soon see +I was right. I didn't think it would take you two years--but perhaps if +I'd written you before you'd have come sooner. I told your mother I'd +like to make it easy for you to come home. + +MARY. Mother suggested that you write me? + +OLLIVANT. Well, I suppose you might put it that way. I always felt she +thought I was a bit hard on you, but I'm not one to back down easily. + +MARY. Don't blame me then, father, if I showed I was your daughter. + +OLLIVANT. Let's forget my feeling; but naturally I was set back. + +MARY. Because you didn't take my going seriously until I was actually +leaving. + +OLLIVANT. I couldn't get it into my head then, and I can't now, how any +girl would want to leave a home like this, where you have everything. +You don't know how lucky you are--or maybe you have realized it. Look +about you and see what other girls have. Is it like this? Trees, +flowers, and a lake view that's the best in the county. Why, one can +breathe here and even taste the air. Every time I come back from a +business trip it makes a new man of me. Ask your mother. Eh, Emily? When +I sit out there on the porch in the cool evenings it makes me feel at +ease with the world to know that the place is _mine_ and that I've +raised a family and can take care of them all. Ben had to go, I +suppose--it's the way with sons; but I thought you, at least, would stay +here, daughter, in this old house where you were born, where I was born, +where all your early associations---- + +MARY. [_Shuddering._] I hate associations. + +OLLIVANT. [_Eying her._] Well, I'd like to know where you get _that_ +from. Not from your mother and me. _We_ like them, don't we, Emily? Why, +your mother's hardly ever even left here--but you had to up and get out. + +MARY. Yes. That's right, father; I _had_ to. + +OLLIVANT. [_He stops smoking and looks at her sharply._] Had to? Who +made you? + +MARY. [_Reluctantly._] It was something inside me. + +OLLIVANT. [_In spite of himself._] Tush--that foolishness. + +MARY. [_Quickly._] Don't make it hard for us again. + +OLLIVANT. I made it hard, Mary? Because I objected to your leaving your +mother here alone? + +MARY. I remember; you said I was a foolish, "stage-struck" girl. + +OLLIVANT. Well, you're over _that_, aren't you? + +MARY. That's just where you are mistaken, father. [_Slowly._] That's why +I asked you if you hadn't misunderstood my coming back. + +OLLIVANT. [_Suspiciously._] Then why did you come at all? + +MARY. I'm human; I wanted to see you and mother, so I came when you +generously wrote me. I'm not going to stay and spray the roses. + +OLLIVANT. [_He eyes her tensely and controls himself with an effort._] +So you are not going to stay with your mother and me? + +MARY. [_Affectionately._] I'll come see you as often as I can and---- + +OLLIVANT.--and make a hotel of your home? [MARY _is silent_.] Don't you +see your mother is getting older and needs somebody to be here? + +EMILY. [_With a quiet assurance._] I have never been so well and +contented. + +OLLIVANT. [_Tenderly._] I know better, Emily; can't I see you're getting +thinner and older? [_Stopping her protests._] Now, let me manage this, +dear. It's a girl's place to stay at home. You know my feelings about +that. Suppose anything should happen to your mother, what would _I_ do? + +MARY. So it's not mother alone you are thinking of? + +OLLIVANT. [_Tersely._] I'm thinking of your place at home--doing a +woman's work. I'm not proud of having my daughter off earning her own +living as though I couldn't support her. + +EMILY. George! + +MARY. I thought it was only because I was on the stage. + +OLLIVANT. Well, it's not the most heavenly place, is it? A lot of +narrow-minded fools here in town thought I was crazy to _let_ you go; I +knew how they felt; I grinned and bore it. You were my daughter and I +loved you, and I didn't want them to think any less of you by their +finding out you were leaving against my wish. + +MARY. [_Slowly, with comprehension._] That's what hurt you. + +OLLIVANT. Well, I blamed myself a bit for taking you to plays and liking +them myself. + +MARY. People here will soon forget about me and merely be sorry for you. + +OLLIVANT. [_Persuasively._] Why, Mary. I've made it easy for you to +stay. I told every one you were coming home for good. They'll think me a +fool if---- + +MARY. [_Tenderly._] You meant what was dear and good, father; but you +had no right to say that. I'm sorry. + +OLLIVANT. I did it because I thought you had come to your senses. + +MARY. [_Firmly._] I never saw so clearly as I do now. + +OLLIVANT. [_Bluntly._] Then you're stubborn--plain stubborn--not to +admit failure. + +MARY. [_Startled._] Failure? + +OLLIVANT. I know what the newspapers said; Ben sent them to me. + +MARY. Which ones? + +OLLIVANT. Why, all of them, I guess. + +MARY. Did he send you the good ones? + +OLLIVANT. Were there any? + +MARY. Oh, I see. So Ben carefully picked out only those which would +please you. + +OLLIVANT. [_Sarcastically._] Please me? + +MARY. Yes; because you and he didn't want me to succeed; because you +thought failure would bring me home. But don't you think I'll let some +cub reporter settle things for me. I'll never come home through +failure--never. + +OLLIVANT. [_Kindly._] Ben and I only want to protect you, Mary. + +MARY. Why do men always want to protect women? + +OLLIVANT. Because we know the world. + +MARY. Yes; but you don't know _me_. Father, you still think I'm only a +foolish, stage-struck girl, and want flowers and men and my name in big +letters. It isn't that. + +OLLIVANT. Well, what is it, then? + +MARY. Oh--I want to be an artist. I don't suppose you can understand it; +I didn't, myself, at first. I was born with it, but didn't know what it +was till that first time you took me to the theatre. + +OLLIVANT. So it was all my fault? + +MARY. It isn't anybody's fault; it's just a fact. I knew from that day +what I wanted to do. I wanted to act--to create. I don't care whether I +play a leading lady or a scrub-woman, if I can do it with truth and +beauty. + +OLLIVANT. Well, you haven't done much of either, have you? What have you +got to show for our unhappiness? What have you got ahead of you? + +MARY. Nothing--definite. + +OLLIVANT. [_Incredulously._] Yet, you're going to keep at it? + +MARY. Yes. + +OLLIVANT. What do you think of that, Emily? + +MARY. I am going to the city Monday. + +OLLIVANT. [_Persistently._] But what will you do when you get there? + +MARY. What I've done before: hunt a job, tramp the streets, call at the +offices, be snubbed and insulted by office-boys--keep at it till I get +something to do. + +OLLIVANT. Come, come, Mary; don't make me lose patience. Put your pride +in your pocket. You've had your fling. You've tried and failed. Give it +all up and stay home here where you can be comfortable. + +MARY. [_With intense feeling._] Father, I can't give it up. It doesn't +make any difference how they treat me, how many times I get my "notice" +and don't even make good according to their standards. I can't give it +up. I simply can't. It keeps gnawing inside me and driving me on. It's +there--always there, and I know if I keep at work I will succeed. I know +it; I know it. + + [MARY _throws herself into the chair, much stirred_. EMILY'S _eyes + have eagerly followed her throughout this as though responding + sympathetically, but_ OLLIVANT _has stood in silence, watching her + apparently without comprehension_.] + +OLLIVANT. [_Not without kindness._] Something inside. Huh! Have you any +clear idea what she's talking about, Emily? + + [MARY _gives a short, hurt cry and goes quickly to the window, + looking out and controlling herself with an effort_.] + +EMILY. [_Softly, as she looks at_ MARY.] I think I understand. + +OLLIVANT. I don't. Something inside. I never had anything like that +bothering me. What's it all mean? + +EMILY. [_Quietly._] So many people use the same words, but cannot +understand each other. + +OLLIVANT. Well, you seem to think it's mighty important Mary, whatever +it is; but it's too much for me. If you had something to show for it I +wouldn't mind. But you're just where you started and you might as well +give up. + +EMILY. George! + +OLLIVANT. Now I don't know much about the stage, Emily, but Ben does. He +says you're not made for an actress, Mary; you haven't got a chance. + +MARY. [_Turning._] Father! + +OLLIVANT. Can't you see your failure isn't your own fault? If you were a +beauty like Helen Safford or some of those other "stars"--but you're +not pretty, why, you're not even good-looking and---- + +MARY. [_With bitter vehemence_.] Oh, don't go any further. I know all +that. But I don't care how I look off the stage if only I can grow +beautiful on it. I'll create with so much inner power and beauty that +people will forget how I look and only see what I think and feel. I can +do it; I have done it; I've made audiences feel and even got my "notice" +because the stage-manager said I was "too natural." Helen +Safford--what's she? A professional beauty with everything outside and +nothing in. You think of her eyes, her mouth, and her profile; but does +she touch you so you remember? I know her work. Wait till I get a chance +to play a scene with her--which they may give me because I'm not +good-looking--I'll make them forget she's on the stage the first ten +minutes--yes, and you and Ben, too, if you'll come. Helen Safford? Huh! +Why, people will remember me when she's only a lithograph. + +OLLIVANT. Well, then, why haven't you had your chance? + +MARY. [_Quickly._] Because most managers feel the way you and Ben do. +And not having a lovely profile and a fashion-plate figure stands +between me and a chance even to read a part, let alone play it. That's +what eats the heart out of me, mother; and makes me hate my face every +time I sit down to put on the grease paint. + +OLLIVANT. Well, don't blame me for that. + +MARY. [_Going to her mother, who takes her hand._] You can laugh at me, +father; you don't understand. It's foolish to talk. But, oh, mother, why +is such beauty given to women like Helen Safford who have no inner need +of it, and here am I, with a real creative gift, wrapped up in a +nondescript package which stands between me and everything I want to do? +[_With determination._] But I will--ultimately I will make good, in +spite of my looks; others have. And what I've suffered will make me a +greater artist. + +OLLIVANT. [_In a matter-of-fact tone._] Are you sure all this isn't +overconfidence and vanity? + +MARY. I don't care what you call it. It's what keeps me working. + +OLLIVANT. [_Quickly._] Working? But how can you work without an +engagement? + +MARY. That _is_ the hard part of our life; waiting, waiting for a chance +to work. But don't think I stand still when I haven't an engagement. I +don't dare. That's why I keep at my voice work and dancing and---- + +OLLIVANT. [_Suddenly interrupting._] Dancing and voice work when you +have no engagements. Would you mind telling me who is paying the bills? + +MARY. [_Indignantly._] Father! + +OLLIVANT. I think I have the right to ask that. + +MARY. Have you? + +OLLIVANT. I am your father. + +MARY. [_With quiet dignity._] You thought you'd force me here at home to +do as you wished because you paid for my food and clothes; when you took +that from me you _ceased_ to have that right. Don't forget since I left +you've not helped me with my work or given me a penny. + +OLLIVANT. [_Suspiciously._] Mary.... No, that's not why you went away +from home? + +MARY. No. + +OLLIVANT. Or you met some man _there_ and.... + +MARY. No. + +OLLIVANT. There is some man. + +MARY. Why a _man_? + +OLLIVANT. Damn them; I know them. [_Breaking._] Good God, Mary, dear, +you haven't...? Answer me, daughter. + +MARY. [_Calmly._] No, there's been no need of that. + + [_He has been violently shaken at the thought, looks at her + intently, believes her, and then continues in a subdued manner._ + +OLLIVANT. Then who helped you? Ben? + +MARY. How could he help me? Are men the only ones who help women? + +EMILY. [_Quietly._] Tell him, Mary; it's best now. + +OLLIVANT. [_Turning slowly to her in surprise._] You knew and have kept +it from me? + +EMILY. [_Calmly, as she puts down the hat she has been trimming._] I +found I hadn't lost my old skill, though it's been a good many years +since I held a brush--since before we were married, George. I had an +idea I thought would sell: paper dolls with little hand-painted dresses +on separate sheets; they were so much softer than the printed kind, and +children like anything soft. I wrote to Mr. Aylwin--you remember--he was +so kind to me years before. He had called here once before when you were +away and asked after my work. He used to think I had such promise. He +found an opportunity to use the dolls as a specialty, and when I +explained he induced some other firms to use all I can paint, too. They +pay me very well. I made enough each month to help Mary when she went +behind. + +OLLIVANT. [_Incredulously._] You! After you heard me say when she left I +wouldn't give her a cent? + +EMILY. [_Looking fondly at_ MARY.] You were keeping Ben, weren't you? + +OLLIVANT. But--that's--that's different. + +EMILY. I didn't see why we shouldn't help _both_ our children. + +OLLIVANT. [_Perplexed by this he turns to_ MARY.] And you took it? + +MARY. Yes. + +OLLIVANT. You knew how she got the money? + +MARY. Yes. + +OLLIVANT. Your mother working herself sick for you, and you took it? + +EMILY. I told you I've never been so happy. + +MARY. [_Simply._] I couldn't bargain with what I felt. I had to study. +I'd have taken anything, gotten it anywhere. I had to live. You didn't +help me. Ben and I both went against your will, but you helped him +because he was your son. I was only your daughter. + + [OLLIVANT _eyes her and seems to be struggling with himself. He is + silent a long while as they both watch him. Finally, after several + efforts he speaks with emotion._] + +OLLIVANT. Mary, I--I didn't realize how much you meant to me till--till +I thought of what might have happened to you without my help. +Would--would you have stayed on in the city if--if your mother hadn't +helped you? + +MARY. [_Firmly._] Yes, father; I would have stayed on. + +OLLIVANT. [_After a pause._] Then I guess what you _feel_ is stronger +than all your mother and I tried to teach you.... Are you too proud to +take help from me--now? + +MARY. [_Simply._] No, father; till I succeed. Then I'll pay you back +like Ben promised. + +OLLIVANT. [_Hurt._] You don't think it was the money, daughter? It would +have cost to keep you here. It wasn't that. + +MARY. No; it was your father speaking and his father and his father. +[_Looking away wistfully._] And perhaps I was speaking for those before +me who were silent or couldn't be heard. + +OLLIVANT. [_With sincerity._] I don't exactly understand _that_ any more +than the feeling you spoke of driving you from home. But I do see what +you mean about brothers and sisters. You seem to think boys and girls +are the same. But they're not. Men and women are different. You may not +know it, but your mother had foolish ideas like you have when I first +knew her. She was poor and didn't have a mother to support her, and she +had to work for a living. She'd about given up when I met her--trying to +work at night to feed herself in the day while studying. But she was +sensible; when a good man came along who could support her she married +him and settled down. Look how happy she's been here with a home of her +own that is a home--with associations and children. Where would she be, +struggling to-day trying to paint pictures for a living? Why, there's +lots of men who can paint pictures, and too few good wives for +hard-working, decent men who want a family--which is God's law. You'll +find that out one of these days and you'll give yourself as she did. +Some day a man will come and you'll want to marry him. How could you if +you keep on with your work, going about the country? + +MARY. [_Quietly._] You leave mother at times, don't you? + +OLLIVANT. I've got to. + +MARY. So may I. + +OLLIVANT. And the children? + +MARY. They'd have a share of my life. + +OLLIVANT. A mighty big share if you're human, I tell you. Ask your +mother if you think they're easy coming and bringing up. + +MARY. And now they've left her. Dear mother, what has she to do? + +OLLIVANT. Well, if you ever get a husband with those ideas of yours +you'll see what a wife has to do. [_He goes to her._] Mary, it isn't +easy, all this you've been saying. But your mother and I are left alone, +and perhaps we _have_ got different views than you. But if ever you do +see it our way, and give up or fail--- well, come back to us, +understand? + +MARY. [_Going to him and kissing him._] I understand how hard it was for +you to say that. And remember I may come back a success. + +OLLIVANT. Yes. I suppose they all think that; it's what keeps them +going. But some day, when you're in love and marry, you'll see it all +differently. + +MARY. Father, what if the man does not come--or the children? + +OLLIVANT. Why--[_He halts as though unable to answer her._] Nonsense. +He'll come, never fear; they always do. + +MARY. I wonder. + +OLLIVANT. [_He goes affectionately to_ EMILY_, who has been staring +before her during this_.] Emily, dear. No wonder the flowers have been +neglected. Well, you'll have time to spray those roses yourself. I'll +get the spray mixture to-morrow. [_Kisses her tenderly._] Painting paper +dolls with a change of clothes! When I might have been sending her the +money without ever feeling it. No more of that, dear; you don't have to +now. I shan't let you get tired and sick. That's one thing I draw the +line at. [_He pats her again, looks at his watch, and then goes slowly +over to the window-doors._] Well, it's getting late. I'll lock up. +[_Looking up at sky._] Paper says it will rain to-morrow. + +EMILY. [_Very quietly so only_ MARY _can hear_.] At the art school they +said I had a lovely sense of color. Your father is so kind; but he +doesn't know how much I enjoyed painting again--even those paper dolls. + +MARY. [_Comprehending in surprise._] Mother! You, _too_? + +EMILY. [_Fearing lest_ OLLIVANT _should hear_.] Sh! + + [OLLIVANT _closes the doors and eyes the women thoughtfully_.] + +OLLIVANT. Better fasten the other windows when you come. Good-night. + + [_He goes out slowly as mother and daughter sit there together._] + + +THE CURTAIN FALLS + + + + +THE EXCHANGE + +BY + +ALTHEA THURSTON + +_The Exchange_ is reprinted by permission of Althea Thurston. This play +is one of the farces written in the Course in Dramatic Composition +(English 109) in the University of Utah. For permission to perform, +address B. Roland Lewis, Department of English, University of Utah, Salt +Lake City, Utah. + + +ALTHEA THURSTON + +Althea Cooms-Thurston, one of the promising writers of the younger set +of American dramatists, was born in Iowa, but soon moved with her +parents to Colorado, where she spent her girlhood. She was educated in +the public schools of Colorado Springs and Denver. Her collegiate +training was received in the University of Utah, Salt Lake City. In 1902 +she married Walter R. Thurston, a well-known engineer. At present she +resides in Dallas, Texas. + +Mrs. Thurston has travelled widely and has resided for periods of time +in Mexico City and Havana, Cuba. She is an able linguist and has made a +special study of her native English tongue and of Spanish and French, +all of which she uses fluently. + +From childhood she has shown dramatic ability. Her dramatic composition +has been more or less directly associated with the courses in +playwriting and the history of the drama which she completed in the +University of Utah. Among her one-act plays are _When a Man's Hungry_, +_And the Devil Laughs_, and _The Exchange_. + +Mrs. Thurston has an aptitude for delicate and satirical farce. _The +Exchange_ is an excellent example of farce-comedy in the contemporary +one-act play. + + +CHARACTERS + + JUDGE, _the exchanger of miseries_ + IMP, _office boy to the_ JUDGE + A POOR MAN + A VAIN WOMAN + A RICH CITIZEN + + + + +THE EXCHANGE[C] + + +SCENE I + + _The curtain rises upon an office scene. Seemingly there is nothing + unusual about this office: it has tables, chairs, a filing cabinet, + and a hat-rack. A portion of the office is railed off at the right. + Within this enclosed space is a commodious desk and swivel-chair; + and the filing cabinet stands against the wall. This railed-off + portion of the office belongs, exclusively, to the_ JUDGE. _Here he + is wont to spend many hours--sometimes to read or write, and again, + perhaps, he will just sit and ponder upon the vagaries of mankind. + The_ JUDGE _is a tall, spare man with rather long gray hair, which + shows beneath the skull-cap that he always wears. When we first see + him, he is reading a letter, and evidently he is not pleased, for + he is tapping with impatient fingers upon his desk._ + + _At the left of the stage is a heavily curtained door which leads + to an inner room. At centre rear is another door which evidently + leads to the street, as it is through this door that the_ POOR MAN, + _the_ VAIN WOMAN, _and the_ RICH CITIZEN _will presently enter, + each upon his special quest. The hat-rack stands near the street + door, and we glimpse a soft black hat and a long black overcoat + hanging upon it._ + + _Down stage to the left is a flat-topped desk, littered with papers + and letters. This desk has two large drawers, wherein a number of + miscellaneous articles might be kept. It is at this desk that we + catch our first glimpse of_ IMP. _He is busily writing in a huge + ledger, and he seems to be enjoying his work, for he chuckles the + while._ IMP _is a little rogue; he looks it and acts it, and we + feel that he has a Mephistophelian spirit. He wears a dark-green + tight-fitting uniform, trimmed with red braid. His saucy little + round cap is always cocked over one eye. He is ever chuckling + impishly, and we feel that he is slyly gleeful over the weaknesses + of mankind and the difficulties that beset them._ + +IMP. [_Throws down his pen, chuckles, and half standing on the rungs of +his chair and balancing himself against his desk, surveys the ledger._] +Your honor, I've all the miseries listed to date and a fine lot there is +to choose from. Everything from bunions to old wives for exchange. + +JUDGE. [_Scowls and impatiently taps the letter he is reading._] Here is +another one. A woman suspects her husband of a misalliance. Wants to +catch him, but is so crippled with rheumatism she can't get about. Wants +us to exchange her rheumatism for something that won't interfere with +either her walking or her eyesight. + +IMP. [_Referring to the ledger and running his finger along the lines._] +We have a defective heart or a lazy liver that we could give her. + +JUDGE. [_Irritably tossing the letter over to_ IMP.] She would not be +satisfied. People never are. They always want to change their miseries, +but never their vices. Each thinks his own cross heavier than others +have to bear, but he is very willing to make light of his own weaknesses +and shortcomings. He thinks they are not half so bad as his neighbor's. +I have tried for years to aid distressed humanity, but I can't satisfy +them. I am growing tired of it all, Imp. People need a lesson and +they're going to get it, too. I am going to---- + + [_Knock is heard at the street door._ JUDGE _sighs, turns to his + desk and begins to write_. IMP _sweeps the litter of papers on his + desk into a drawer, closes ledger, and goes to answer knock_. + +IMP. Here comes another misery. + + [IMP _opens the door to admit the_ POOR MAN, _who is very shabbily + dressed. He hesitates, looks around the room as if he were in the + wrong place, and then addresses_ IMP _in a loud whisper_. + +POOR MAN. [_Indicating the_ JUDGE _with a motion of his head_.] Is that +him? + +IMP. [_Whispering loudly his reply._] Yes, that is his honor. + +POOR MAN. [_Still whispering and showing signs of nervousness._] Do I +dare speak to him? + +IMP. [_Enjoying the situation and still whispering._] Yes, but be +careful what you say. + +POOR MAN. [_Takes off his hat, approaches slowly to the railing, and +speaks humbly._] Your honor. I--[_Swallows hard, clears throat._] Your +honor, I've a little favor--to ask of you. + +JUDGE. [_Looking coldly at the_ POOR MAN.] Well? + +POOR MAN. You see, your honor, I've been poor all my life. I've never +had much fun. I don't ask for a lot of money, but--I would like enough +so that I could have some swell clothes, and--so that I could eat, +drink, and be merry with the boys. You know, I just want to have a good +time. Do you think you could fix it for me, Judge? + +JUDGE. [_Gazes at him sternly for a moment._] So you just want to have a +good time? Want me to take away your poverty? I suppose you have no +moral weakness you want to change, no defects in your character that you +want to better? + +POOR MAN. [_Stammering and twirling his hat._] Why, w-hy, Judge, I--I am +not a bad man. Of--of course, I have my faults, but then--I've never +committed any crimes. I guess I stack up pretty fair as men go. I'm just +awful tired of being poor and never having any fun. Couldn't you help me +out on that point, Judge? + +JUDGE. [_Sighs wearily and turns to_ IMP.] Bring me the ledger. + + [IMP _gives him the ledger in which he has been writing_. JUDGE + _opens it, and then speaks sharply to the_ POOR MAN. + +JUDGE. You understand, do you, my good man, that if I take away your +poverty and give you enough money for your good time, you will have to +accept another misery? + +POOR MAN. [_Eagerly._] Yes, your honor, that's all right. I'm willing. + +JUDGE. [_Scanning ledger._] Very well. Let us see. Here is paralysis. + +POOR MAN. [_Hesitatingly._] Well. I--I couldn't have a--very good time, +if--if I was paralyzed. + +JUDGE. [_Shortly._] No. I suppose not. How about a glass eye? + +POOR MAN. [_Anxiously._] Please, your honor, if I'm going to have a good +time I need two good eyes. I don't want to miss anything. + +JUDGE. [_Wearily turning over the leaves of the ledger._] A man left his +wife here for exchange, perhaps you would like her. + +POOR MAN. [_Shifting from one foot to the other and nervously twirling +his hat._] Oh, Judge, oh, no, please, no. I don't want anybody's old +cast-off wife. + +JUDGE. [_Becoming exasperated._] Well, choose something, and be quick +about it. Here is lumbago, gout, fatness, old age, and---- + +IMP. [_Interrupting, and walking quickly over to the railing._] Excuse +me, Judge, but maybe the gentleman would like the indigestion that Mr. +Potter left when he took old Mrs. Pratt's fallen arches. + +POOR MAN. [_Eagerly._] Indigestion? Sure! That will be fine! I won't +mind a little thing like indigestion if I can get rid of my poverty. + +JUDGE. [_Sternly._] Very well. Raise your right hand. Repeat after me: +"I swear to accept indigestion for better or for worse as my portion of +the world's miseries, so help me God." + +POOR MAN. [_Solemnly._] "I swear to accept indigestion for better or for +worse as my portion of the world's miseries, so help me God." + +JUDGE. [_To_ IMP.] Show this gentleman to the changing-room. + + [POOR MAN _follows_ IMP, _who conducts him to the heavily curtained + door. The_ POOR MAN _throws out his chest and swaggers a bit, as a + man might who had suddenly come into a fortune_. IMP _swaggers + along with him_. + +IMP. Won't you have a grand time, though. I'll get you a menu card, so +that you can be picking out your dinner. + +POOR MAN. [_Joyfully slapping_ IMP _on the back_.] Good idea, and I'll +pick out a regular banquet. + + [_Pausing a moment before he passes through the curtains, he smiles + and smacks his lips in anticipation. Exit._ + +JUDGE. [_Speaks disgustedly to_ IMP.] There you are! He's perfectly +satisfied with his morals. Has no defects in his character. Just wants +to have a good time. + + [_Sighs heavily and turns back to his writing._ IMP _nods his head + in agreement and chuckles slyly_. + + [_The street door opens slowly and the_ VAIN WOMAN _stands upon the + threshold. She does not enter at once, but stands + posing--presumably she desires to attract attention, and she is + worthy of it. She has a superb figure, and her rich gowning + enhances it. Her fair face reveals a shallow prettiness, but the + wrinkles of age are beginning to leave telltale lines upon its + smoothness. As_ IMP _hurries forward to usher her in, she sweeps + grandly past him to the centre of the stage_. IMP _stops near the + door, with his hands on his hips, staring after her, then takes a + few steps in imitation of her. She turns around slowly and, + sauntering over to the railing, coughs affectedly, and as the_ + JUDGE _rises and bows curtly, she speaks in a coaxing manner_. + +VAIN WOMAN. Judge, I have heard that you are very kind, and I have been +told that you help people out of their troubles, so I have a little +favor to ask of you. + +JUDGE. [_Coldly._] Yes, I supposed so; go on. + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Archly._] Well, you know that I am a famous beauty; in +fact, both my face and my form are considered very lovely. [_She turns +around slowly that he may see for himself._] Great and celebrated men +have worshipped at my feet. I simply cannot live without admiration. It +is my very life. But, Judge [_plaintively_], horrid wrinkles are +beginning to show in my face. [_Intensely._] Oh, I would give anything, +do anything, to have a smooth, youthful face once more. Please, oh, +please, won't you take away these wrinkles [_touching her face with her +fingers_] and give me something in their stead. + +JUDGE. [_Looking directly at her and speaking coldly._] Are you +satisfied with yourself in other ways? Is your character as beautiful as +your face? Have you no faults or weaknesses that you want exchanged? + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Uncertainly._] Why, I--don't know what you mean. I am just +as good as any other woman and lots better than some I know. I go to +church, and I subscribe to the charities, and I belong to the best +clubs. [_Anxiously._] Oh, please, Judge, it's these wrinkles that make +me so unhappy. Won't you exchange them? You don't want me to be unhappy, +do you? Please take them away. + +JUDGE. [_Wearily looking over the ledger._] Oh, very well, I'll see what +I can do for you. [_To_ IMP.] Fetch a chair for this lady. + + [IMP _gives her a chair and she sits facing front_. IMP _returns to + his desk, perches himself upon it and watches the_ VAIN WOMAN + _interestedly_. JUDGE _turns over the leaves of the ledger_. + +JUDGE. I have a goitre that I could exchange for your wrinkles. + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Protestingly, clasping her hands to her throat._] Oh, +heavens, no! That would ruin my beautiful throat. See. [_Throwing back +her fur and exposing her neck in a low-cut gown._] I have a lovely neck. +[IMP _makes an exaggerated attempt to see_. + +JUDGE. [_Glances coldly at her and then scans ledger again._] Well, how +about hay-fever? + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Reproachfully._] Oh, Judge, how can you suggest such a +thing! Watery eyes and a red nose, the worst enemy of beauty there is. I +simply couldn't think of it. I want something that won't show. + +JUDGE. [_Disgustedly turns to filing cabinet and looks through a series +of cards, withdraws one, and turns back to_ VAIN WOMAN.] Perhaps this +will suit you. [_Refers to card._] A woman has grown very tired of her +husband and wants to exchange him for some other burden. + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Indignantly._] What! I accept a man that some other woman +doesn't want! Certainly not! I prefer one that some other woman does +want. + +JUDGE. [_Irritated, puts the card back in its place, and turns upon the_ +VAIN WOMAN _crossly_.] I fear that I cannot please you and I do not have +time to---- + +IMP. [_Interrupts and runs over to the railing, speaking soothingly to +the_ JUDGE.] Excuse me, Judge, but maybe the lady would like deafness in +exchange for her wrinkles. Deafness wouldn't show, so it couldn't spoil +her face or her elegant figure. + +JUDGE. [_Wearily._] No, it won't show. Deafness ought to be a good thing +for you. + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Consideringly._] Why--yes--that might do. But--well, it +wouldn't show. I've a notion to take it. [_Pause--she seems to consider +and meditate. The_ JUDGE _stares at her coldly_. IMP _grins impudently. +She rises leisurely, sighs._] All right. I'll accept it. + +JUDGE. [_Sharply._] Hold up your right hand. [_She raises hand._] Do you +swear to accept deafness for better or for worse, as your portion of the +world's miseries, so help you God? + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Sweetly._] Oh, yes. I do, Judge. + +JUDGE. [_To_ IMP.] Show the lady to the changing-room. + +IMP. [_Escorts her to the curtained door with rather mock deference._] +No, deafness won't show at all, and you'll have 'em all crazy about you. +[_Draws aside curtains for her to pass._] Take second booth to your +right. + + [VAIN WOMAN _stands posing a moment. She smiles radiantly and pats + her cheeks softly with her hands, then with a long-drawn sigh of + happiness, she exits._ IMP _bows low and mockingly after her + vanishing form, his hand on his heart_. + +JUDGE. [_Sarcastically._] Do her faults or shortcomings trouble her? Not +at all! Perfectly satisfied with herself, except for a few wrinkles in +her face. Vain women! Bah! + +IMP. Yes, sir; women have queer notions. + + [_An imperative rap at the street-door, immediately followed by the + rapper's abrupt entrance. We see an important-appearing personage. + His arrogant bearing and commanding pose lead us to believe that he + is accustomed to prompt attention. It is the_ RICH CITIZEN, + _exceedingly well groomed. His manner is lordly, but he addresses + the_ JUDGE _in a bored tone. When_ IMP _scampers to meet him, the_ + RICH CITIZEN _hands him his hat and cane and turns at once to the_ + JUDGE. IMP _examines the hat and cane critically, hangs them on the + hat-rack, and returns to his desk, where he again perches to watch + the_ RICH CITIZEN. + +RICH CITIZEN. [_Lighting a cigarette._] I am addressing the Judge, am I +not? + +JUDGE. [_Shortly._] You are. + +RICH CITIZEN. [_Languidly, between puffs of his cigarette._] Well, +Judge, life has become rather boresome, so I thought I would drop in and +ask you to do me a small favor. + +JUDGE. [_Wearily._] Yes? We--What is your grievance? + +RICH CITIZEN. [_Nonchalantly._] Oh, I wouldn't say grievance exactly. +You see, my dear Judge, it is this way. I am a very rich and influential +citizen, a prominent member of society, and I am very much sought after. + +JUDGE. [_Frigidly._] Oh, indeed! + +RICH CITIZEN. [_In a very bored manner._] Yes. Women run after me day +and night. Ambitious mothers throw their marriageable daughters at my +head. Men seek my advice on all matters. I am compelled to head this and +that committee. [_Smokes languidly._ + +JUDGE. [_Sharply._] Well, go on. + +RICH CITIZEN. Really, Judge, my prestige has become a burden. I want to +get away from it all. I would like to become a plain, ordinary man with +an humble vocation, the humbler the better, so that people will cease +bothering me. + +JUDGE. [_Sarcastically._] Is your prestige all that troubles you? Don't +worry about your morals, I suppose. Satisfied with your habits and +character? + +RICH CITIZEN. [_Coldly._] What have my habits or morals got to do with +my request? [_Scornfully._] Certainly I am not one of your saintly men. +I live as a man of my station should live, and I think I measure up very +well with the best of them. I am simply bored and I would like a change. +I would like to be a plain man with an humble calling. + +JUDGE. [_Ironically._] I'll see what we have in humble callings. [_He +looks at the ledger, turning the leaves over slowly._] We have several +bartenders' vocations. + +RICH CITIZEN. [_Wearily smoking._] No. Too many people about all the +time, and too much noise. + +JUDGE. Well, here's a janitor's job open to you. + +RICH CITIZEN. [_Impatiently throwing away his cigarette._] No. I don't +like that, either. Too confining. Too many people bickering at you all +the time. I want to get out in the open, away from crowds. + +JUDGE. [_Sighing, and turning over the leaves of the ledger, then +hopefully._] Here's the very thing for you, then--postman in a rural +district. + +RICH CITIZEN. [_Showing vexation._] No, no, _no_. Too many old women +that want to gossip. I tell you, I want to get away from women. Haven't +you something peaceful and quiet; something that would take me out in +the quiet of the early morning, when the birds are singing? + +JUDGE. [_Closing ledger with a bang, and rising._] Well, you're too +particular, and I have not time to bother with you. I bid you good +after---- + +IMP. [_Slides from his desk, runs to railing, and speaks suavely._] +Excuse me, Judge, but maybe the gentleman would like the vocation of +milkman. That is early-morning work. And, you remember, a milkman left +his job here when he took that old, worn-out senator's position. + +JUDGE. [_Sharply, to_ RICH CITIZEN.] Well, how about it? Does a +milkman's vocation suit you? It's early-morning hours, fresh air, and no +people about. + +RICH CITIZEN. [_Musingly._] Well, the very simplicity and quietness of +it is its charm. It rather appeals to me. [_He ponders a moment._] Yes, +by Jove, I'll take it. + +JUDGE. [_Sternly._] Hold up your right hand. "Do you solemnly swear to +accept, for better or for worse, the vocation of milkman as your lot in +life, so help you God?" + +RICH CITIZEN. I do. + +JUDGE. [_To_ IMP.] Show this gentleman to the changing-room. + +IMP. [_While escorting him to the curtained door._] Yes, sir, you will +lead the simple life. Fresh air, fresh milk, no people, just cows--and +they can't talk. [_Holding aside the curtains._] Third booth, sir. + +RICH CITIZEN. [_Musingly._] The simple life--peace and quietness. + + [_Exit._ + +JUDGE. [I_n disgust._] It's no use, Imp. They all cling to their vices, +but they are very keen to change some little cross or condition that +vexes them--or think vexes them. + +IMP. It's strange that people always want something different from what +they have. + + [IMP _opens a drawer in his desk and takes out a bottle, evidently + filled with tablets, which he holds up, shaking it and chuckling. + He hunts in the drawer again, and this time brings forth a huge + ear-trumpet, which he chucklingly places an his table beside the + bottle of tablets._ + +JUDGE. Don't let any more in, Imp. I can't stand another one to-day. I +am going to write a letter and then go home. + +IMP. All right, sir. + +JUDGE. I am feeling very tired; what I really need is a vacation. A +sea-trip would put me right. By the way, Imp, where is that +transatlantic folder that I told you to get? + + [IMP _picks up the folder from his desk and takes it to the_ JUDGE, + _who studies it attentively_. IMP _returns to his own desk, where + he again looks in a drawer and brings forth a menu card, which he + glances over, grinning mischievously_. + + [_The former_ POOR MAN _re-enters from the changing-room. He is + well dressed, and taking a well-filled wallet from his pocket, he + looks at it gloatingly. However, from time to time, a shade of + annoyance passes over his face, and he puts his hand to the pit of + his stomach._ IMP _runs to meet him, and hands him the menu that he + has been reading_. + +IMP. Here's a menu from the Gargoyle. Say, you sure do look swell! +[_Looking him over admiringly._ + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Grinning happily._] Some class to me now, eh! +[_Looking at menu._] And you watch me pick out a real dinner. [_Sits +down at left front._] First, I'll have a cocktail, then--let's see--I'll +have--another cocktail. Next, oysters, and [_he frowns and presses his +hand to the pit of his stomach, keeping up a massaging +motion_]--green-turtle soup, sand dabs--chicken breasts-- + + [_They become absorbed over the menu._ + + [_The_ VAIN WOMAN _re-enters from the changing-room. She now has a + smooth face, and she is looking at herself in a hand-glass, + smiling and touching her face delightedly, She walks over to the + railing, and leans over it to the_ JUDGE. _He looks up + questioningly._ + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Smiling._] Oh, I am so happy again. Am I not beautiful? + +JUDGE. [_Pityingly._] You are a vain, foolish woman. + + [_Since she is deaf, she does not hear his words, but thinks he is + complimenting her. She smiles at him coyly._ + +VAIN WOMAN. Ah, Judge, you too are susceptible to my charms. + + [_The_ JUDGE, _in great exasperation, puts away his papers, thrusts + the transatlantic folder in his pocket, hastily closes his desk, + and hurries to the hat-rack, puts on his overcoat, slips his + skull-cap into his pocket and puts on his soft black hat. Then, + with a shrug of his shoulders and a wave of his hand indicative of + disgust, he slips quietly out._ + + [_The_ VAIN WOMAN _saunters past the_ FORMER POOR MAN, _stops near + him, posing, and begins to put on her gloves. He looks at her + admiringly, then, getting to his feet, makes an elaborate but + awkward bow._ + +FORMER POOR MAN. Excuse me, lady, but I've had a big piece of luck +to-day, and I want to celebrate, so I am having a big dinner. Won't you +join me and help me have a good time? + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Looking at him blankly, and trying to fathom what he has +said._] Oh--why, what did you say? + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Hesitating, and a bit surprised._] Why--er--I said +that I had a big piece of luck to-day, and I am going to celebrate. I am +having a fine dinner, and I just asked if--if--you wouldn't have dinner +with me. + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Still looking blank and a little confused, then smiling +archly and acting as though she had been hearing compliments, she speaks +affectedly._] Really, do you think so? [_Looking down and smoothing her +dress._] But, then, every one tells me that I am. + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Puzzled, turns to_ IMP _for help_.] Just what is her +trouble, Nut? + +IMP. [_Secretly gleeful._] She is stone-deaf. You had better write it. + +FORMER POOR MAN. Never! No deaf ones for me. + + [_Turns away and consults menu again._ VAIN WOMAN _poses and + frequently looks in hand-glass to reassure herself_. + + [FORMER RICH CITIZEN _re-enters from the changing-room. He is + dressed in shabby overalls, jumper, and an old hat. He has a pipe + in his mouth. He walks arrogantly over to the_ FORMER POOR MAN _and + addresses him_. + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Give me a light. + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Trying to live up to his fine clothes and wallet full +of money, looks the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _over snubbingly_.] Say, who do +you think you are? You light out, see? + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Very much surprised, stands nonplussed a +moment._] Well, upon my word, I--I---- + + [_He stops short in his speech, walks haughtily over to the + railing, where he stands glowering at the_ FORMER POOR MAN. _The_ + FORMER POOR MAN _starts for the street door, but_ IMP _runs after + him, waving the bottle of tablets_. + +IMP. I'll sell you these for two bits. + +FORMER POOR MAN. What is that? + +IMP. [_Grinning._] Indigestion tablets. + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Puts his hand to his stomach and laughs a little +lamely._] Keep 'em; I don't need 'em. + + [VAIN WOMAN _fastens her fur and starts for the street-door, giving + the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _a snubbing look as she passes him_. IMP + _stops her and offers the ear-trumpet_. + +IMP. You might need this; I'll sell it for a dollar. + + [_She does not hear what he says, but she looks her scorn at the + ear-trumpet and walks proudly out._ + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Fumbling at his pocket, as if to find a watch._] +Boy, what time is it? I haven't my watch. + +IMP. [_Grinning mischievously._] Time to milk the cows. + + [_The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _starts angrily toward_ IMP, _then + evidently thinking better of it, shrugs his shoulders and stalks + majestically to the street-door. He pauses with it partly open, + turns as if to speak to_ IMP, _drawing himself up haughtily--a + ludicrous figure in his shabby outfit--then he goes abruptly out, + slamming the door_. + + [IMP _doubles himself up in a paroxysm of glee as the curtain + falls_. + + +SCENE II + + _A fortnight has passed. The curtain rises upon the same + stage-setting. The_ JUDGE _is not about, but we see_ IMP _asleep in + a chair. All seems quiet and serene. But suddenly the street-door + opens noisily, and the_ FORMER POOR MAN _bursts into the room. He + is panting, as though he had been running. He is haggard and seems + in great pain, for occasionally he moans. He looks wildly about the + room, and seeing_ IMP _asleep in the chair, he rushes to him and + shakes him roughly_. IMP _wakes slowly, yawning and rubbing his + eyes_. + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Frantically._] The Judge, where is he? I must see him +at once. + +IMP. [_Yawning._] You're too early. He isn't down yet. + + [_Settles himself to go to sleep again._ + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Walking the floor, and holding his hands to his +stomach._] Don't go to sleep again. I'm nearly crazy. What time does the +Judge get here? Where does he live? Can't we send for him? + +IMP. [_Indifferently._] Oh, he is liable to come any minute--and then he +may not come for an hour or two. + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Pacing the floor, moaning and rubbing his stomach_.] +Oh, I can't stand it much longer. It's driving me wild, I tell you. I do +wish the Judge would come. + +IMP. [_Getting up from his chair and keeping step with the_ FORMER POOR +MAN.] What's the matter? I thought all you wanted was to eat, drink, and +be merry. + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Frantically waving his arms._] Eat, drink, and be +merry be----! Everything I eat gives me indigestion something awful; +everything I drink gives it to me worse. How can I be merry when I am in +this torment all the time? I tell you this pain is driving me mad. I +want to get rid of it quick. Oh, why doesn't the Judge come? + +IMP. What's the Judge got to do with it? + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Pathetically._] I am going to beg him to take back +this indigestion and give me back my poverty. It was not so bad, after +all; not nearly so bad as this pain in my stomach. + + [_The street-door opens slowly, and a sorrowful woman enters. She + is weeping softly. It is the_ VAIN WOMAN. _Gone is her posing and + her proud manner. She walks humbly to the railing, and not seeing + the_ JUDGE, she turns to IMP. _The_ FORMER POOR MAN _looks at the_ + VAIN WOMAN, _frowningly muttering: "What's she here for?" Then he + sits down at the left and rocks back and forth in misery._ + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Tearfully._] I must see the Judge right away, please. + +IMP. [Languidly.] He isn't down yet. You're too earl---- + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Interrupting._] Tell him that it is very important, that I +am in great distress and that he must see me at once. + +IMP. [_Loudly._] I said that he was not down yet. + + [_Seeing that she does not understand, he takes a writing-pad from + his desk, scribbles a few words, and standing in front of her, + holds it up for her to read._ + +VAIN WOMAN. [_After reading._] Oh, when will he be here? Can't you get +him to come right away? Oh, I am so unhappy. [_She walks the floor in +agitation._ + + [_The_ FORMER POOR MAN _grunts in irritation and turns his back on + her_. + +VAIN WOMAN. I cannot hear a word that is said to me. No one seems to +want me around, and I am not invited out any more. I have the feeling +that people are making fun of me instead of praising my beauty. Oh, it +is dreadful to be deaf. [_Getting hysterical._] I want the Judge to take +away this deafness. I would rather have my wrinkles. + + [IMP _shakes his head in pretended sympathy, saying: "Too bad, too + bad."_ + + [_She misunderstands and cries out._ + +VAIN WOMAN. Has the Judge given away my wrinkles? I want them back. I +want my very own wrinkles, too. Wrinkles are distinguished-looking. +[_Beginning to sob._] I don't want to be deaf any longer. + +IMP. [_Running over to the_ FORMER POOR MAN.] Say, this lady feels very +bad. Can't you cheer her up a little? + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Who is still rocking back and forth with his own +misery, looks up at_ IMP _in disgust_.] Cheer--her--up! Me? What's the +joke? + + [_The_ VAIN WOMAN _walks to the curtained door, looks in as if + seeking something, then returns to a chair, where she sits, weeping + softly_. + + [_A peculiar thumping is heard at the street-door. The_ FORMER POOR + MAN _jumps to his feet in expectancy, hoping it is the_ JUDGE. IMP, + _also, stands waiting. The door opens as though the person that + opened it did so with difficulty. The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _hobbles + in. He is ragged and dirty, and one foot is bandaged, which causes + him to use a crutch. He carries a large milk-can. He hobbles + painfully to the centre of the stage. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _grunts + with disappointment, and sits down again, rubbing away at his + stomach. The_ VAIN WOMAN _sits with bowed head, silently weeping. + The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _looks about, then addresses_ IMP _in a + rather husky voice_. + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. I wish to see the Judge at once. It is most urgent. + +IMP. [_With an ill-concealed smile._] You can't see the Judge at once. + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Impatiently._] Why not? I told you it was most +urgent. + +IMP. [_Grinning openly._] Because he isn't here. He hasn't come in yet. +What's your trouble? + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Vehemently._] Trouble! Everything's the trouble! +I have been abused, insulted, overworked--even the cows have kicked me. +[_Looking down at his bandaged foot._] I can't stand it. I won't stand +it. I want back my proper place in the world, where I am respected, and +where I can rest and sleep and mingle with my kind. [_He hobbles to a +chair and sits down wearily._ + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Getting up from his chair, walks over to the_ FORMER +RICH CITIZEN, _waggles his finger in his face and speaks fretfully_.] +What cause have you to squeal so? If you had indigestion like I have all +the time, you might be entitled to raise a holler. Why, I can't eat a +thing without having the most awful pain right here [_puts his hand to +the pit of his stomach_], and when I take a drink, oh, heavens, it---- + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Interrupting contemptuously._] You big baby, +howling about the stomachache. If you had a man-sized trouble, there +might be some excuse for you. Now I, who have been used to wealth and +respect, have been subjected to the most gruelling ordeals; why, in that +dairy there were a million cows, and they kicked me, and horned me, and +I---- + +VAIN WOMAN. [_Walks over to them, interrupting their talk, and speaks in +a voice punctuated with sniffing sobs._] Have--[_sniff_] either of you +gentlemen [_sniff_] ever been deaf? [_Sniff, sniff._] It is a terrible +thing [_sniff_] for a beautiful woman like I am [_sniff_] to have such +an affliction. [_Sniff, sniff, sniff._ + + [FORMER RICH CITIZEN _shrugs his shoulders indifferently and limps + to the other side of the stage, where he sits_. + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Stalks over to the railing, where he leans limply._] +Lord deliver me from a sniffling woman. + + [IMP, _who is perched on his desk, chuckles wickedly of their + sufferings_. VAIN WOMAN _sinks dejectedly into the chair vacated by + the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN. + + [_A knock is heard at the street-door. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _and + the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _start forward eagerly, expecting the_ + JUDGE. _Even the_ VAIN WOMAN, _seeing the others rise, gets to her + feet hopefully_. IMP _hastily slides from his desk and, pulling + down his tight little jacket and cocking his round little cap a + little more over one eye, goes to see who knocks. A messenger hands + him a letter and silently departs._ + +IMP. [_Importantly._] Letter for me from the Judge. + +FORMER POOR MAN. A letter! Why doesn't he come himself? + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Send for him, boy. + +IMP. [_Grins at_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _in an insolent manner_.] Well, +well, I wonder what the Judge is writing to me for. It's queer he would +send me a letter. + + [_He looks the letter over carefully, both sides; holds it up to + the light, smells it, shakes it. The two men and the woman grow + more and more nervous._ + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Extremely irritated._] For goodness' sake, open it +and read it. + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Yes, yes, and don't be so long about it. + + [VAIN WOMAN _simply stands pathetically and waits_. IMP _walks over + to his desk, hunts for a knife, finally finds one; looks letter + over again, then slowly slits the envelope and draws out letter, + which he reads silently to himself. They are breathlessly waiting._ + IMP _whistles softly to himself_. + +IMP. Well, what do you think of that! + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_Excitedly._] What is it--why don't you tell us? + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Pounding with his crutch on the floor._] Come, +come, don't keep me waiting like this. + +IMP. [_Reads letter again, silently, chuckling._] All right. Here it is. +[_Reads._] + + "MY DEAR IMP: + + "I have tried faithfully for years to aid distressed humanity, but + they are an ungrateful lot of fools, and I wash my hands of them. + When this letter reaches you I will be on the high seas, and I am + never coming back. So write 'Finis' in the big old ledger of + miseries, and shut up shop, for the Exchange is closed--forever. + +Yours in disgust, THE JUDGE." + + [_They all stand dazed a moment. The_ VAIN WOMAN, _sensing that + something terrible has happened, rushes from one to the other, + saying: "What is it? What has happened?"_ IMP _gives her the letter + to read_. + +FORMER POOR MAN. [_In a perfect frenzy._] My God! Indigestion all the +rest of my days. + +VAIN WOMAN. [_After reading letter collapses in a chair, hysterically +sobbing out._] Deaf, always deaf! Oh, what shall I do! + +FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Leaning heavily on his crutch and shaking his +free hand, clenched in anger._] This is an outrage. I am rich and have +influence, and I shall take steps to--to---- + + [IMP _laughs mockingly. The man looks down at his milk-spattered + clothes, his bandaged foot, and, letting his crutch fall to the + floor, sinks dejectedly into a chair, burying his face in his + hands._ + + [IMP _dangles his keys and opens the street-door, as an invitation + for them to go. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _is the first to start, moving + dazedly and breathing hard_. IMP _offers him the bottle of + indigestion tablets; the man grasps them, eagerly, tipping_ IMP, + _who chuckles as he pockets the money. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _takes + a tablet as he exits. The_ VAIN WOMAN, _bowed with sorrow, moves + slowly toward the door_. IMP _touches her arm and offers the + ear-trumpet. She accepts it, with a wild sob, tipping_ IMP, _who + again chuckles as he pockets the money. The last we see of the_ + VAIN WOMAN, _she is trying to hold the ear-trumpet to her ear, and + exits, sobbing. The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _still sits in his chair, + his head in his hands_. IMP _picks up the milk-can, and, tapping + the man not too gently on the shoulder, thrusts the milk-can at him + and makes a significant gesture, indicative of_--THIS WAY OUT. _The + man rises dejectedly, picks up his crutch, takes the milk-can, and + hobbles painfully toward the door._ IMP _doubles himself up in wild + Mephistophelian glee as the_ + + +CURTAIN FALLS + + + + +SAM AVERAGE + +BY + +PERCY MACKAYE + + +_Sam Average_ is reprinted by special permission of Percy Mackaye. This +play first appeared in _Yankee Fantasies_, Duffield & Company, New York. + +_Special Notice_ + +No public or private performance of this play--professional or +amateur--and no public reading of it for money may be given without the +written permission of the author and the payment of royalty. Persons who +desire to obtain such permission should communicate direct with the +author at his address, Harvard Club, 27 West 44th Street, New York +City. + + +PERCY MACKAYE + +Percy Mackaye, who was born in New York City in 1875, is one of the few +Americans whose interest has been almost wholly in the theatre. As a +lecturer, writer, and champion of real art in drama, he has had few if +any equals. He inherited his interest in drama from his father, Steele +Mackaye, author of _Hazel Kirke_. He was educated at Harvard, where he +studied under Professor George Pierce Baker, and at Leipzig. He has +travelled extensively in Europe and at various times has resided in +Rome, Switzerland, and London. In 1914 Dartmouth conferred upon him the +honorary Master of Arts degree. At present he holds a fellowship in +dramatic literature in Miami University, Oxford, Ohio. + +Mr. Mackaye's efforts in the dramatic field have been varied. Masques, +pageants, operas, and plays are to his credit. _The Canterbury +Pilgrims_, _The Scarecrow_, _Jeanne D'Arc_, _Mater_, _Anti-Matrimony_, +_Sanctuary_, _Saint Louis Masque_, and _Caliban_ are among his +better-known works. + +In 1912 appeared his Yankee Fantasies, of which _Sam Average_ and +_Gettysburg_ are the more noteworthy. + +In all of Mr. Mackaye's work he possesses what many dramatists lack--a +definite ideal. He aims at an artistic and literary effect. His _Sam +Average_ is a real contribution to American patriotic drama. + + +CHARACTERS + + ANDREW + JOEL + ELLEN + SAM AVERAGE + + +SAM AVERAGE[D] + + _An intrenchment in Canada, near Niagara Falls, in the year 1814. + Night, shortly before dawn._ + + _On the right, the dull glow of a smouldering wood fire ruddies the + earthen embankment, the low-stretched outline of which forms, with + darkness, the scenic background._ + + _Near the centre, left, against the dark, a flag with stars floats + from its standard._ + + _Beside the fire_, ANDREW, _reclined, gazes at a small frame in his + hand; near him is a knapsack, with contents emptied beside it_. + + _On the embankment_, JOEL, _with a gun, paces back and forth, a + blanket thrown about his shoulders_. + + +JOEL. [_With a singing call._] Four o'clock!--All's well! + + [_Jumping down from the embankment, he approaches the fire._ + +ANDREW. By God, Joel, it's bitter. + +JOEL. [_Rubbing his hands over the coals._] A mite sharpish. + +ANDREW. [_Looks up eagerly._] What? + +JOEL. Cuts sharp, for Thanksgivin'. + +ANDREW. [_Sinks back, gloomily._] Oh! [_A pause._] I wondered you should +agree with me. You meant the weather. I meant--[_A pause again._ + +JOEL. Well, Andy, what'd you mean? + +ANDREW. Life. + +JOEL. Shucks! + +ANDREW. [_To himself._] Living! + +JOEL. [_Sauntering over left, listens._] Hear a rooster crow? + +ANDREW. No. What are you doing? + +JOEL. Tiltin' the flag over crooked in the dirt. That's our signal. + +ANDREW. Nothing could be more appropriate, unless we buried it--buried +it in the dirt! + +JOEL. She's to find us where the flag's turned down. I fixed that with +the sergeant all right. The rooster crowin' 's _her_ watchword for us. + +ANDREW. An eagle screaming, Joel: that would have been better. +[_Rising._] Ah! [_He laughs painfully._ + +JOEL. Hush up, Andy! The nearest men ain't two rods away. You'll wake +'em. Pitch it low. + +ANDREW. Don't be alarmed. I'm coward enough. + +JOEL. 'Course, though, there ain't much danger. I'm sentinel this end, +and the sergeant has the tip at t'other. Besides, you may call it the +reg'lar thing. There's been two thousand deserters already in this +tuppenny-ha'penny war, and none on 'em the worse off. When a man don't +get his pay for nine months--well, he ups and takes his vacation. Why +not? When Nell joins us, we'll hike up the Niagara, cross over to +Tonawanda, and take our breakfast in Buffalo. By that time the boys here +will be marchin' away toward Lundy's Lane. + +ANDREW. [_Walks back and forth, shivering._] I'm afraid. + +JOEL. 'Fraid? Bosh! + +ANDREW. I'm afraid to face---- + +JOEL. Face what? We won't get caught. + +ANDREW. Your sister--my wife. + +JOEL. Nell! Why, ain't she comin' here just a-purpose to get you? Ain't +there reason enough, Lord knows? Ain't you made up your mind to light +out home anyhow? + +ANDREW. Yes. That's just what she'll never forgive me for. In her heart +she'll never think of me the same. For she knows as well as I what +pledge I'll be breaking--what sacred pledge. + +JOEL. What you mean? + +ANDREW. No matter, no matter; this is gush. + + [_He returns to the fire and begins to fumble over the contents of + his knapsack._ JOEL _watches him idly_. + +JOEL. One of _her_ curls? + +ANDREW. [_Looking at a lock of hair in the firelight._] No; the baby's, +little Andy's. Some day they'll tell him how his father---- [_He winces, +and puts the lock away._ + +JOEL. [_Going toward the embankment._] Listen! + +ANDREW. [_Ties up the package, muttering._] Son of a traitor! + +JOEL. [_Tiptoeing back._] It's crowed--that's her. + + [_Leaping to his feet_, ANDREW _stares toward the embankment where + the flag is dipped; then turns his back to it, closing his eyes and + gripping his hands_. + + [_After a pause, silently the figure of a young woman emerges from + the dark and stands on the embankment. She is bareheaded and ill + clad._ + + [JOEL _touches_ ANDREW, _who turns and looks toward her. Silently + she steals down to him and they embrace_. + +ANDREW. My Nell! + +ELLEN. Nearly a year---- + +ANDREW. Now, at last! + +ELLEN. Hold me close, Andy. + +ANDREW. You're better? + +ELLEN. Let's forget--just for now. + +ANDREW. Is he grown much? + +ELLEN. Grown? You should see him! But so ill! What could I do? You +see---- + +ANDREW. I know, I know. + +ELLEN. The money was all gone. They turned me out at the old place, and +then---- + +ANDREW. I know, dear. + +ELLEN. I got sewing, but when the smallpox---- + +ANDREW. I have all your letters, Nell. Come, help me to pack. + +ELLEN. What! You're really decided---- + +JOEL. [_Approaching._] Hello, Sis! + +ELLEN. [_Absently._] Ah, Joel; that you? [_Eagerly, following_ ANDREW +_to the knapsack_.] But, my dear---- + +ANDREW. Just these few things, and we're off. + +ELLEN. [_Agitated._] Wait, wait! You don't know yet why I've +come--instead of writing. + +ANDREW. I can guess. + +ELLEN. But you can't; that's--what's so hard! I have to tell you +something, and then---- [_Slowly._] I must know from your own eyes, from +yourself, that you wish to do this, Andrew; that you think it is +_right_. + +ANDREW. [_Gently._] I guessed that. + +ELLEN. This is what I must tell you. It's not just the sickness, it's +not only the baby, not the money gone--and all that; it's--it's---- + +ANDREW. [_Murmurs._] My God! + +ELLEN. It's what all that brings--the helplessness. I've been insulted. +Andy--[_Her voice breaks._] I want a protector. + +ANDREW. [_Taking her in his arms, where she sobs._] There, dear! + +ELLEN. [_With a low moan._] You know. + +ANDREW. I know. Come, now; we'll go. + +ELLEN. [_Her face lighting up._] Oh! and you _dare_! It's _right_? + +ANDREW. [_Moving from her, with a hoarse laugh._] _Dare?_ Dare I be +damned by God and all his angels? Ha! Come, we're slow. + +JOEL. Time enough. + +ELLEN. [_Sinking upon_ JOEL'S _knapsack as a seat, leans her head on her +hands, and looks strangely at_ ANDREW.] I'd better have written, I'm +afraid. + +ANDREW. [_Controlling his emotion._] Now, don't take it that way. I've +considered it all. + +ELLEN. [_With deep quiet._] Blasphemously? + +ANDREW. Reasonably, my brave wife. When I enlisted, I did so in a dream. +I dreamed I was called to love and serve our country. But that dream is +shattered. This sordid war, this political murder, has not one single +principle of humanity to excuse its bloody sacrilege. It doesn't deserve +my loyalty--our loyalty. + +ELLEN. Are you saying this--for my sake? What of "God and his angels"? + +ANDREW. [_Not looking at her._] If we had a just cause--a cause of +liberty like that in Seventy-six; if to serve one's country meant to +serve God and his angels--then, yes; a man might put away wife and +child. He might say: "I will not be a husband, a father; I will be a +patriot." But now--like this--tangled in a web of spiders--caught in a +grab-net of politicians--and you, you and our baby-boy, like this--hell +let in on our home--no, Country be cursed! + +ELLEN. [_Slowly._] So, then, when little Andy grows up---- + +ANDREW. [_Groaning._] I say that the only thing---- + +ELLEN. I am to tell him---- + +ANDREW. [_Defiantly._] Tell him his father deserted his country, and +thanked God for the chance. [_Looking about him passionately._] Here! +[_He tears a part of the flag from its standard, and reaches it toward +her._] You're cold; put this round you. + + [_As he is putting the strip of colored silk about her shoulders, + there rises, faint yet close by, a sound of fifes and flutes, + playing the merry march-strains of "Yankee Doodle."_ + + [_At the same time there enters along the embankment, dimly, + enveloped in a great cloak, a tall_ FIGURE, _which pauses beside + the standard of the torn flag, silhouetted against the first pale + streaks of the dawn_. + + +ELLEN. [_Gazing at_ ANDREW.] What's the matter? + +ANDREW. [_Listening._] Who are they? Where is it? + +JOEL. [_Starts, alertly._] He hears something. + +ANDREW. Why should they play before daybreak? + +ELLEN. Andy---- + +JOEL. [_Whispers._] Ssh! Look out! We're spied on! + + [_He points to the embankment._ ANDREW _and_ ELLEN _draw back_. + +THE FIGURE. [_Straightening the flag-standard, and leaning on it._] +Desartin'? + +ANDREW. [_Puts_ ELLEN _behind him_.] Who's there? The watchword! + +THE FIGURE. God save the smart folks! + +JOEL. [_To_ ANDREW.] He's on to us. Pickle him quiet, or it's court +martial! [_Showing a long knife._] Shall I give him this? + +ANDREW. [_Taking it from him._] No. _I_ will. + +ELLEN. [_Seizing his arm._] Andrew! + +ANDREW. Let go. + + [THE FIGURE, _descending into the intrenchment, approaches with + face muffled_. JOEL _draws_ ELLEN _away_. ANDREW _moves toward_ THE + FIGURE _slowly_. _They meet and pause._ + +ANDREW. You're a spy! + + [_With a quick flash,_ ANDREW _raises the knife to strike, but + pauses, staring_. THE FIGURE, _throwing up one arm to ward the + blow, reveals--through the parted cloak--a glint of stars in the + firelight_.[E] + +THE FIGURE. Steady, boys; I'm one of ye. The sergeant told me to drop +round. + +JOEL. Oh, the sergeant! That's all right, then. + +ANDREW. [_Dropping the knife._] Who are you? + +THE FIGURE. Who be _I_? My name, ye mean? My name's Average--Sam +Average. Univarsal Sam, some o' my prophetic friends calls me. + +ANDREW. What are you doing here--now? + +THE FIGURE. Oh, tendin' to business. + +JOEL. Tendin' to _other_ folks' business, eh? + +THE FIGURE. [_With a touch of weariness._] Ye-es; reckon that _is_ my +business. Some other folks is me. + +JOEL. [_Grimacing to_ ELLEN.] Cracked! + +THE FIGURE. [_To_ ANDREW.] You're a mite back'ard in wages, ain't ye? + +ANDREW. Nine months. What of that? + +THE FIGURE. That's what I dropped round for. Seems like when a man's +endoored and fit, like you have, for his country, and calc'lates he'll +quit, he ought to be takin' a little suthin' hom' for Thanksgivin'. So I +fetched round your pay. + +ANDREW. My pay! You? + +THE FIGURE. Yes; I'm the paymaster. + +ELLEN. [_Coming forward, eagerly._] Andy! The money, is it? + +THE FIGURE. [_Bows with a grave, old-fashioned stateliness._] Your +sarvent, ma'am! + +ANDREW. [_Speaking low._] Keep back, Nell. [_To_ THE FIGURE.] You--you +were saying---- + +THE FIGURE. I were about to say how gold bein' scarce down to the +Treasury, I fetched ye some s'curities instead; some national I.O.U.'s, +as ye might say. [_He takes out an old powder-horn, and rattles it +quietly._] That's them. [_Pouring from the horn into his palm some +glistening, golden grains._] Here they be. + +ELLEN. [_Peering, with_ JOEL.] Gold, Andy! + +JOEL. [_With a snigger._] Gold--nothin'! That's corn--just Injun corn. +Ha! + +THE FIGURE. [_Bowing gravely._] It's the quality, ma'am, what counts, as +ye might say. + +JOEL. [_Behind his hand._] His top-loft leaks! + +THE FIGURE. These here karnels, now, were give' me down Plymouth way, in +Massachusetts, the fust Thanksgivin' seems like I can remember. 'Twa'n't +long after the famine we had thar. Me bein' some hungry, the red-folks +fetched a hull-lot o' this round, with the compliments of their +capting--what were his name now?--Massasoit. This here's the last +handful on't left. Thought ye might like some, bein' Thanksgivin'. + +JOEL. [_In a low voice, to_ ELLEN.] His screws are droppin' out. Come +and pack. We've got to mark time and skip. + +THE FIGURE. [_Without looking at_ JOEL.] Eight or ten minutes still to +spare, boys. The sergeant said--wait till ye hear his jew's-harp playin' +of that new war tune, _The Star-Spangled Banner_. Then ye'll know the +coast's clear. + +JOEL. Gad, that's right, I remember now. + + [_He draws_ ELLEN _away to the knapsack, which they begin to pack_. + ANDREW _has never removed his eyes from the tall form in the + cloak_. + + [_Now, as_ THE FIGURE _pours back the yellow grains from his palm + into the powder-horn, he speaks, hesitatingly_. + +ANDREW. I think--I'd like some. + +THE FIGURE. Some o' what? + +ANDREW. Those--my pay. + +THE FIGURE. [_Cheerfully._] So. _Would_ ye? [_Handing him the horn._] +Reckon that's enough? + +ANDREW. [_Not taking it._] That's what I want to make sure of--first. + +THE FIGURE. Oh! So ye're hesitatin'! + +ANDREW. Yes; but I want you to help me decide. Pardon me, sir. You're a +stranger, yet somehow I feel I may ask your help. You've come just in +time. + +THE FIGURE. Queer I should a-dropped round jest now, wa'n't it? S'posin' +we take a turn. + + [_Together they walk toward the embankment. By the knapsack_ ELLEN + _finds the little frame_. + + +ELLEN. [_To herself._] My picture! + + [_She looks toward_ ANDREW _affectionately_. JOEL, _lifting the + knapsack, beckons to her_. + +JOEL. There's more stuff over here. + + [_He goes off, right_; ELLEN _follows him_. + +ANDREW. [_To_ THE FIGURE.] I should like the judgment of your +experience, sir. I can't quite see your face, yet you appear to be one +who has had a great deal of experience. + +THE FIGURE. Why, consid'able some. + +ANDREW. Did you--happen to fight in the late war for independence? + +THE FIGURE. Happen to? [_Laughing quietly._] N-no, not fight; ye see--I +was paymaster. + +ANDREW. But you went through the war? + +THE FIGURE. Ye-es, oh, yes; I went through it. I took out my fust +reg'lar papers down to Philadelphie, in '76, seems like 'twas the fourth +day o' July. But I was paymaster afore that. + +ANDREW. Tell me: I've heard it said there were deserters even in those +days, even from the roll-call of Washington. Is it true? + +THE FIGURE. True, boy? Have ye ever watched a prairie-fire rollin' +toward ye, billowin' with flame and smoke, and seed all the midget +cowerin' prairie-dogs scootin' for their holes? Wall, that's the way I +watched Howe's army sweepin' crosst the Jarsey marshes, and seed the +desartin' little patriots, with their chins over their shoulders, +skedaddlin' home'ards. + +ANDREW. What--the Americans! + +THE FIGURE. All but a handful on 'em--them as weren't canines, ye might +say, but men. _They_ set a back-fire goin' at Valley Forge. Most on 'em +burnt their toes and fingers off, lightin' on't thar in the white frost, +but they stuck it through and saved--wall, the prairie-dogs. + +ANDREW. But they--those others. What reason did they give to God and +their own souls for deserting? + +THE FIGURE. To who? + +ANDREW. To their consciences. What was their reason? It must have been a +noble one in '76. _Their_ reason _then_; don't you see, I must have it. +I must know what reason real heroes gave for their acts. You were there. +You can tell me. + +THE FIGURE. _Real_ heroes, eh? Look around ye, then. To-day's the heroic +age, and the true brand o' hero is al'ays in the market. Look around ye! + +ANDREW. What, here--in this war of jobsters, this petty campaign of +monstrous boodle? + +THE FIGURE. Thar we be! + +ANDREW. Why, here are only a lot of cowardly half-men, like me--lovers +of their own folks--their wives and babies at home. They'll make +sacrifices for them. But real men like our fathers in '76: they looked +in the beautiful face of Liberty, and sacrificed to _her_! + +THE FIGURE. Our fathers, my boy, was jest as fond o' poetry as you be. +They talked about the beautiful face o' Liberty same's you; but when the +hom'made eyes and cheeks of their sweethearts and young uns took to +cryin', they desarted their beautiful goddess and skun out hom'. + +ANDREW. But there were some---- + +THE FIGURE. Thar was some as didn't--yes; and thar's some as don't +to-day. Those be the folks on my pay-roll. Why, look a-here: I calc'late +I wouldn't fetch much on the beauty counter. My talk ain't rhyme stuff, +nor the Muse o' Grammar wa'n't my schoolma'am. Th' ain't painter nor +clay-sculptor would pictur' me jest like I stand. For the axe has hewed +me, and the plough has furrered; and the arnin' of gold by my own +elbow-grease has give' me the shrewd eye at a bargain. I manure my crops +this side o' Jordan, and as for t'other shore, I'd ruther swap jokes +with the Lord than listen to his sarmons. And yet for the likes o' me, +jest for to arn my wages--ha, the many, many boys and gals that's gone +to their grave-beds, and when I a-closed their eyes, the love-light was +shinin' thar. + +ANDREW. [_Who has listened with awe._] What _are_ you? What _are_ you? + +THE FIGURE. Me? I'm the paymaster. + +ANDREW. I want to serve you--like those others. + +THE FIGURE. Slow, slow, boy! Nobody sarves _me_. + +ANDREW. But they died for you--the others. + +THE FIGURE. No, 'twa'n't for me; 'twas for him as pays the wages; the +one as works through me--the one higher up. I'm only the paymaster; kind +of a needful makeshift--his obedient sarvant. + +ANDREW. [_With increasing curiosity, seeks to peer in_ THE FIGURE'S +_face_.] But the one up higher--who is he? + +THE FIGURE. [_Turning his head away._] Would ye sarve him, think, if ye +heerd his voice? + +ANDREW. [_Ardently, drawing closer._] And saw his face! + + [_Drawing his cowl lower and taking_ ANDREW'S _arm_, THE FIGURE + _leads him up on the embankment, where they stand together_. + +THE FIGURE. Hark a-yonder! + +ANDREW. [_Listening._] Is it thunder? + +THE FIGURE. Have ye forgot? + +ANDREW. The voice! I remember now--Niagara! + + [_With awe_, ANDREW _looks toward_ THE FIGURE, _who stands shrouded + and still, facing the dawn. From far off comes a sound as of + falling waters, and with that--a deep murmurous voice, which seems + to issue from_ THE FIGURE'S _cowl_. + +THE VOICE. I am the Voice that was heard of your fathers, and your +fathers' fathers. Mightier--mightier, I shall be heard of your sons. I +am the Million in whom the one is lost, and I am the One in whom the +millions are saved. Their ears shall be shut to my thunders, their eyes +to my blinding stars. In shallow streams they shall tap my life-blood +for gold. With dregs of coal and of copper they shall pollute me. In +the mystery of my mountains they shall assail me; in the majesty of my +forests, strike me down; with engine and derrick and millstone, bind me +their slave. Some for a lust, some for a love, shall desert me. One and +one, for his own, shall fall away. Yet one and one and one shall return +to me for life; the deserter and the destroyer shall re-create me. +Primeval, their life-blood is mine. My pouring waters are passion, my +lightnings are laughter of man. I am the One in whom the millions are +saved, and I am the Million in whom the one is lost. + +ANDREW. [_Yearningly, to_ THE FIGURE.] Your face! + + [THE FIGURE _turns majestically away_. ANDREW _clings to him_. + +ANDREW. Your face! + + [_In the shadow of the flag_ THE FIGURE _unmuffles for an instant_. + + [_Peering, dazzled_, ANDREW _staggers back, with a low cry, and, + covering his eyes, falls upon the embankment_. + + [_From away, left, the thrumming of a jew's-harp is heard, playing + "The Star-Spangled Banner."_ + + [_From the right enter_ JOEL _and_ ELLEN. + + [_Descending from the embankment_, THE FIGURE _stands apart_. + +JOEL. Well, Colonel Average, time's up. + +ELLEN. [_Seeing_ ANDREW'S _prostrate form, hastens to him_.] Andy! +What's happened? + +ANDREW. [_Rising slowly._] Come here. I'll whisper it. + + [_He leads her beside the embankment, beyond which the dawn is + beginning to redden._ + +JOEL. Yonder's the sergeant's jew's-harp. That's our signal, Nell. So +long, colonel. + +THE FIGURE. [_Nodding._] So long, sonny. + +ANDREW. [_Holding_ ELLEN'S _hands, passionately_.] You understand? You +_do_? + +ELLEN. [_Looking in his eyes._] I understand, dear. + + [_They kiss each other._ + +JOEL. [_Calls low._] Come, you married turtles. The road's clear. Follow +me now. Sneak. + + [_Carrying his knapsack_, JOEL _climbs over the embankment and + disappears_. + + [_The thrumming of the jew's-harp continues._ + + [ELLEN, _taking the strip of silk flag from her shoulders, ties it + to the standard_. + +ANDREW. [_Faintly._] God bless you! + +ELLEN. [_As they part hands._] Good-by! + + [THE FIGURE _has remounted the embankment, where--in the distincter + glow of the red dawn--the gray folds of his cloak, hanging from his + shoulders, resemble the half-closed wings of an eagle, the beaked + cowl falling, as a kind of visor, before his face, concealing it_. + +THE FIGURE. Come, little gal. + + [ELLEN _goes to him, and hides her face in the great cloak. As she + does so, he draws from it a paper, writes on it, and hands it to_ + ANDREW, _with the powder-horn_. + +THE FIGURE. By the by, Andy, here's that s'curity. Them here's my +initials; they're all what's needful. Jest file this in the right +pigeonhole, and you'll draw your pay. Keep your upper lip, boy. I'll +meet ye later, mebbe, at Lundy's Lane. + +ANDREW. [_Wistfully._] You'll take her home? + +THE FIGURE. Yes; reckon she'll housekeep for your uncle till you get +back; won't ye, Nellie? Come, don't cry, little gal. We'll soon git +'quainted. 'Tain't the fust time sweethearts has called me _Uncle_. + + [_Flinging back his great cloak, he throws one wing of it, with his + arm, about her shoulders, thus with half its reverse side draping + her with shining stripes and stars. By the same action his own + figure is made partly visible--the legs clad in the tight, + instep-strapped trousers (blue and white) of the Napoleonic era. + Holding the girl gently to him--while her face turns back toward_ + ANDREW--_he leads her, silhouetted against the sunrise, along the + embankment, and disappears_. + + [_Meantime, the thrumming twang of the jew's-harp grows sweeter, + mellower, modulated with harmonies that, filling now the air with + elusive strains of the American war-hymn, mingle with the faint + dawn-twitterings of birds._ + + [ANDREW _stares silently after the departed forms; then, slowly + coming down into the intrenchment, lifts from the ground his gun + and ramrod, leans on the gun, and--reading the paper in his hand by + the growing light--mutters it aloud_: + +_U. S. A._ + + [_Smiling sternly, he crumples the paper in his fist, makes a wad + of it, and rams it into his gun-barrel._ + + + + +HYACINTH HALVEY + +BY + +LADY AUGUSTA GREGORY + +_Hyacinth Halvey_ is reprinted by special permission of G. P. Putnam's +Sons, New York City, publishers of Lady Gregory's work in America. All +rights reserved. For permission to perform, address the publisher. + + +LADY AUGUSTA GREGORY + +Lady Augusta Gregory, one of the foremost figures in the Irish dramatic +movement, was born at Roxborough, County Galway, Ireland, in 1859. "She +was then a young woman," says one who has described her in her early +married life, "very earnest, who divided her hair in the middle and wore +it smooth on either side of a broad and handsome brow. Her eyes were +always full of questions.... In her drawing-room were to be met men of +assured reputation in literature and politics, and there was always the +best reading of the times upon her tables." Lady Gregory has devoted her +entire life to the cause of Irish literature. In 1911 she visited the +United States and at a dinner given to her by _The Outlook_ in New York +City she said: + + "I will not cease from mental strife + Or let the sword fall from my hand + Till we have built Jerusalem + In--Ireland's--fair and lovely land." + +Lady Gregory, with William Butler Yeats and John Millington Synge, has +been the very life of the Irish drama. The literary association of these +three has been highly fruitful. She helped to found the Irish National +Theatre Society, and for a number of years has been the managing force +of the celebrated Abbey Theatre in Dublin. + +Lady Gregory's chief interest has been in peasant comedies and +folk-plays. Her _Spreading the News_, _Hyacinth Halvey_, _The Rising of +the Moon_, _The Workhouse Ward_, and _The Travelling Man_ are well-known +contributions to contemporary drama. + +It is a noteworthy fact that most of the plays of the Irish dramatic +movement are one-act plays. Much of Irish life lends itself admirably to +one-act treatment. _Hyacinth Halvey_ is one of Lady Gregory's best +productions. This play contains a universal idea: reputation is in great +measure a matter of "a password or an emotion." Hyacinth, having a good +reputation thrust upon him, may do as he likes--his good name clings to +him notwithstanding. + + +PERSONS + + HYACINTH HALVEY + JAMES QUIRKE, _a butcher_ + FARDY FARREL, _a telegraph boy_ + SERGEANT CARDEN + MRS. DELANE, _postmistress at Cloon_ + MISS JOYCE, _the priest's housekeeper_ + + + + +HYACINTH HALVEY + + SCENE: _Outside the post-office at the little town of Cloon._ MRS. + DELANE _at post-office door_. MR. QUIRKE _sitting on a chair at + butcher's door. A dead sheep hanging beside it, and a thrush in a + cage above._ FARDY FARRELL _playing on a mouth-organ. Train-whistle + heard._ + + +MRS. DELANE. There is the four-o'clock train, Mr. Quirke. + +MR. QUIRKE. Is it now, Mrs. Delane, and I not long after rising? It +makes a man drowsy to be doing the half of his work in the night-time. +Going about the country, looking for little stags of sheep, striving to +knock a few shillings together. That contract for the soldiers gives me +a great deal to attend to. + +MRS. DELANE. I suppose so. It's hard enough on myself to be down ready +for the mail-car in the morning, sorting letters in the half-dark. It's +often I haven't time to look who are the letters from--or the cards. + +MR. QUIRKE. It would be a pity you not to know any little news might be +knocking about. If you did not have information of what is going on, who +should have it? Was it you, ma'am, was telling me that the new +sub-sanitary inspector would be arriving to-day? + +MRS. DELANE. To-day it is he is coming, and it's likely he was in that +train. There was a card about him to Sergeant Carden this morning. + +MR. QUIRKE. A young chap from Carrow they were saying he was. + +MRS. DELANE. So he is, one Hyacinth Halvey; and indeed if all that is +said of him is true, or if a quarter of it is true, he will be a credit +to this town. + +MR. QUIRKE. Is that so? + +MRS. DELANE. Testimonials he has by the score. To Father Gregan they +were sent. Registered they were coming and going. Would you believe me +telling you that they weighed up to three pounds? + +MR. QUIRKE. There must be great bulk in them indeed. + +MRS. DELANE. It is no wonder he to get the job. He must have a great +character, so many persons to write for him as what there did. + +FARDY. It would be a great thing to have a character like that. + +MRS. DELANE. Indeed, I am thinking it will be long before you will get +the like of it, Fardy Farrell. + +FARDY. If I had the like of that of a character it is not here carrying +messages I would be. It's in Noonan's Hotel I would be, driving cars. + +MR. QUIRKE. Here is the priest's housekeeper coming. + +MRS. DELANE. So she is; and there is the sergeant a little while after +her. + + [_Enter_ MISS JOYCE. + +MRS. DELANE. Good evening to you, Miss Joyce. What way is his reverence +to-day? Did he get any ease from the cough? + +MISS JOYCE. He did not, indeed, Mrs. Delane. He has it sticking to him +yet. Smothering he is in the night-time. The most thing he comes short +in is the voice. + +MRS. DELANE. I am sorry, now, to hear that. He should mind himself well. + +MISS JOYCE. It's easy to say let him mind himself. What do you say to +him going to the meeting to-night? + + [SERGEANT _comes in_. + +MISS JOYCE. It's for his reverence's "Freeman" I am come, Mrs. Delane. + +MRS. DELANE. Here it is ready. I was just throwing an eye on it to see +was there any news. Good evening, Sergeant. + +SERGEANT. [_Holding up a placard._] I brought this notice, Mrs. Delane, +the announcement of the meeting to be held to-night in the court-house. +You might put it up here convenient to the window. I hope you are coming +to it yourself? + +MRS. DELANE. I will come, and welcome. I would do more than that for +you, Sergeant. + +SERGEANT. And you, Mr. Quirke. + +MR. QUIRKE. I'll come, to be sure. I forget what's this the meeting is +about. + +SERGEANT. The Department of Agriculture is sending round a lecturer in +furtherance of the moral development of the rural classes. [_Reads._] "A +lecture will be given this evening in Cloon Court-House, illustrated by +magic-lantern slides--" Those will not be in it; I am informed they were +all broken in the first journey, the railway company taking them to be +eggs. The subject of the lecture is "The Building of Character." + +MRS. DELANE. Very nice, indeed, I knew a girl lost her character, and +she washed her feet in a blessed well after, and it dried up on the +minute. + +SERGEANT. The arrangements have all been left to me, the archdeacon +being away. He knows I have a good intellect for things of the sort. But +the loss of those slides puts a man out. The thing people will not see +it is not likely it is the thing they will believe. I saw what they call +tableaux--standing pictures, you know--one time in Dundrum---- + +MRS. DELANE. Miss Joyce was saying Father Gregan is supporting you. + +SERGEANT. I am accepting his assistance. No bigotry about me when there +is a question of the welfare of any fellow creatures. Orange and green +will stand together to-night, I, myself, and the station-master on the +one side, your parish priest in the chair. + +MISS JOYCE. If his reverence would mind me he would not quit the house +to-night. He is no more fit to go speak at a meeting than [_pointing to +the one hanging outside_ QUIRKE'S _door_] that sheep. + +SERGEANT. I am willing to take the responsibility. He will have no +speaking to do at all, unless it might be to bid them give the lecturer +a hearing. The loss of those slides now is a great annoyance to me--and +no time for anything. The lecturer will be coming by the next train. + +MISS JOYCE. Who is this coming up the street, Mrs. Delane? + +MRS. DELANE. I wouldn't doubt it to be the new sub-sanitary inspector. +Was I telling you of the weight of the testimonials he got, Miss Joyce? + +MISS JOYCE. Sure, I heard the curate reading them to his reverence. He +must be a wonder for principles. + +MRS. DELANE. Indeed, it is what I was saying to myself, he must be a +very saintly young man. + + [_Enter_ HYACINTH HALVEY. _He carries a small bag and a large + brown-paper parcel. He stops and nods bashfully._ + +HYACINTH. Good evening to you. I was bid to come to the post-office---- + +SERGEANT. I suppose you are Hyacinth Halvey? I had a letter about you +from the resident magistrate. + +HYACINTH. I heard he was writing. It was my mother got a friend he deals +with to ask him. + +SERGEANT. He gives you a very high character. + +HYACINTH. It is very kind of him, indeed, and he not knowing me at all. +But, indeed, all the neighbors were very friendly. Anything any one +could do to help me they did it. + +MRS. DELANE. I'll engage it is the testimonials you have in your parcel? +I know the wrapping-paper, but they grew in bulk since I handled them. + +HYACINTH. Indeed, I was getting them to the last. There was not one +refused me. It is what my mother was saying, a good character is no +burden. + +FARDY. I would believe that, indeed. + +SERGEANT. Let us have a look at the testimonials. + + [HYACINTH HALVEY _opens a parcel, and a large number of envelopes + fall out_. + +SERGEANT. [_Opening and reading one by one._] "He possesses the fire of +the Gael, the strength of the Norman, the vigor of the Dane, the +stolidity of the Saxon----" + +HYACINTH. It was the chairman of the Poor Law Guardians wrote that. + +SERGEANT. "A magnificent example to old and young----" + +HYACINTH. That was the secretary of the De Wet Hurling Club---- + +SERGEANT. "A shining example of the value conferred by an eminently +careful and high-class education----" + +HYACINTH. That was the national schoolmaster. + +SERGEANT. "Devoted to the highest ideals of his motherland to such an +extent as is compatible with a hitherto non-parliamentary career----" + +HYACINTH. That was the member for Carrow. + +SERGEANT. "A splendid exponent of the purity of the race----" + +HYACINTH. The editor of the "Carrow Champion." + +SERGEANT. "Admirably adapted for the efficient discharge of all possible +duties that may in future be laid upon him----" + +HYACINTH. The new station-master. + +SERGEANT. "A champion of every cause that can legitimately benefit his +fellow creatures--" Why, look here, my man, you are the very one to come +to our assistance to-night. + +HYACINTH. I would be glad to do that. What way can I do it? + +SERGEANT. You are a newcomer--your example would carry weight--you must +stand up as a living proof of the beneficial effect of a high character, +moral fibre, temperance--there is something about it here I am +sure--(_Looks._) I am sure I saw "unparalleled temperance" in some +place---- + +HYACINTH. It was my mother's cousin wrote that--I am no drinker, but I +haven't the pledge taken---- + +SERGEANT. You might take it for the purpose. + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Eagerly._] Here is an antitreating button. I was made a +present of it by one of my customers--I'll give it to you [_sticks it +in_ HYACINTH'S _coat_] and welcome. + +SERGEANT. That is it. You can wear the button on the platform--or a bit +of blue ribbon--hundreds will follow your example--I know the boys from +the Workhouse will---- + +HYACINTH. I am in no way wishful to be an example---- + +SERGEANT. I will read extracts from the testimonials. "There he is," I +will say, "an example of one in early life who by his own unaided +efforts and his high character has obtained a profitable situation." +[_Slaps his side._] I know what I'll do. I'll engage a few corner-boys +from Noonan's bar, just as they are, greasy and sodden, to stand in a +group--there will be the contrast--the sight will deter others from a +similar fate--that's the way to do a tableau--I knew I could turn out a +success. + +HYACINTH. I wouldn't like to be a contrast---- + +SERGEANT. [_Puts testimonials in his pocket._] I will go now and engage +those lads--sixpence each, and well worth it--nothing like an example +for the rural classes. + + [_Goes off_, HYACINTH _feebly trying to detain him_. + +MRS. DELANE. A very nice man, indeed. A little high up in himself, +maybe. I'm not one that blames the police. Sure they have their own +bread to earn like every other one. And indeed it is often they will let +a thing pass. + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Gloomily._] Sometimes they will, and more times they will +not. + +MISS JOYCE. And where will you be finding a lodging, Mr. Halvey? + +HYACINTH. I was going to ask that myself, ma'am. I don't know the town. + +MISS JOYCE. I know of a good lodging, but it is only a very good man +would be taken into it. + +MRS. DELANE. Sure there could be no objection there to Mr. Halvey. There +is no appearance on him but what is good, and the sergeant after taking +him up the way he is doing. + +MISS JOYCE. You will be near to the sergeant in the lodging I speak of. +The house is convenient to the barracks. + +HYACINTH. [_Doubtfully._] To the barracks? + +MISS JOYCE. Alongside of it, and the barrack-yard behind. And that's not +all. It is opposite to the priest's house. + +HYACINTH. Opposite, is it? + +MISS JOYCE. A very respectable place, indeed, and a very clean room you +will get. I know it well. The curate can see into it from his window. + +HYACINTH. Can he now? + +FARDY. There was a good many, I am thinking, went into that lodging and +left it after. + +MISS JOYCE. [_Sharply._] It is a lodging you will never be let into or +let stop in, Fardy. If they did go they were a good riddance. + +FARDY. John Hart, the plumber, left it---- + +MISS JOYCE. If he did it was because he dared not pass the police coming +in, as he used, with a rabbit he was after snaring in his hand. + +FARDY. The schoolmaster himself left it. + +MISS JOYCE. He needn't have left it if he hadn't taken to card-playing. +What way could you say your prayers, and shadows shuffling and dealing +before you on the blind? + +HYACINTH. I think maybe I'd best look around a bit before I'll settle in +a lodging---- + +MISS JOYCE. Not at all. You won't be wanting to pull down the blind. + +MRS. DELANE. It is not likely _you_ will be snaring rabbits. + +MISS JOYCE. Or bringing in a bottle and taking an odd glass the way +James Kelly did. + +MRS. DELANE. Or writing threatening notices, and the police taking a +view of you from the rear. + +MISS JOYCE. Or going to roadside dances, or running after +good-for-nothing young girls---- + +HYACINTH. I give you my word I'm not so harmless as you think. + +MRS. DELANE. Would you be putting a lie on these, Mr. Halvey? [_Touching +testimonials._] I know well the way you will be spending the evenings, +writing letters to your relations---- + +MISS JOYCE. Learning O'Growney's exercises---- + +MRS. DELANE. Sticking post-cards in an album for the convent bazaar. + +MISS JOYCE. Reading the "Catholic Young Man"---- + +MRS. DELANE. Playing the melodies on a melodeon---- + +MISS JOYCE. Looking at the pictures in the "Lives of the Saints." I'll +hurry on and engage the room for you. + +HYACINTH. Wait. Wait a minute---- + +MISS JOYCE. No trouble at all. I told you it was just opposite. [_Goes._ + +MR. QUIRKE. I suppose I must go up-stairs and ready myself for the +meeting. If it wasn't for the contract I have for the soldiers' barracks +and the sergeant's good word, I wouldn't go anear it. [_Goes into shop._ + +MRS. DELANE. I should be making myself ready, too. I must be in good +time to see you being made an example of, Mr. Halvey. It is I, myself, +was the first to say it; you will be a credit to the town. [_Goes._ + +HYACINTH. [_In a tone of agony._] I wish I had never seen Cloon. + +FARDY. What is on you? + +HYACINTH. I wish I had never left Carrow. I wish I had been drowned the +first day I thought of it, and I'd be better off. + +FARDY. What is it ails you? + +HYACINTH. I wouldn't for the best pound ever I had be in this place +to-day. + +FARDY. I don't know what you are talking about. + +HYACINTH. To have left Carrow, if it was a poor place, where I had my +comrades, and an odd spree, and a game of cards--and a coursing-match +coming on, and I promised a new greyhound from the city of Cork. I'll +die in this place, the way I am, I'll be too much closed in. + +FARDY. Sure it mightn't be as bad as what you think. + +HYACINTH. Will you tell me, I ask you, what way can I undo it? + +FARDY. What is it you are wanting to undo? + +HYACINTH. Will you tell me what way can I get rid of my character? + +FARDY. To get rid of it, is it? + +HYACINTH. That is what I said. Aren't you after hearing the great +character they are after putting on me? + +FARDY. That is a good thing to have. + +HYACINTH. It is not. It's the worst in the world. If I hadn't it, I +wouldn't be like a prize marigold at a show, with every person praising +me. + +FARDY. If I had it, I wouldn't be like a head in a barrel, with every +person making hits at me. + +HYACINTH. If I hadn't it, I wouldn't be shoved into a room with all the +clergy watching me and the police in the back yard. + +FARDY. If I had it, I wouldn't be but a message-carrier now, and a +clapper scaring birds in the summer-time. + +HYACINTH. If I hadn't it, I wouldn't be wearing this button and brought +up for an example at the meeting. + +FARDY. [_Whistles._] Maybe you're not so, what those papers make you out +to be? + +HYACINTH. How would I be what they make me out to be? Was there ever any +person of that sort since the world was a world, unless it might be +Saint Antony of Padua looking down from the chapel wall? If it is like +that I was, isn't it in Mount Melleray I would be, or with the friars at +Esker? Why would I be living in the world at all, or doing the world's +work? + +FARDY. [_Taking up parcel._] Who would think, now, there would be so +much lies in a small place like Carrow? + +HYACINTH. It was my mother's cousin did it. He said I was not reared for +laboring--he gave me a new suit and bid me never to come back again. I +daren't go back to face him--the neighbors knew my mother had a long +family--bad luck to them the day they gave me these. [_Tears letters and +scatters them._] I'm done with testimonials. They won't be here to bear +witness against me. + +FARDY. The sergeant thought them to be great. Sure he has the samples of +them in his pocket. There's not one in the town but will know before +morning that you are the next thing to an earthly saint. + +HYACINTH. [_Stamping._] I'll stop their mouths. I'll show them I can be +a terror for badness. I'll do some injury. I'll commit some crime. The +first thing I'll do I'll go and get drunk. If I never did it before I'll +do it now. I'll get drunk--then I'll make an assault--I tell you I'd +think as little of taking a life as of blowing out a candle. + +FARDY. If you get drunk you are done for. Sure that will be held up +after as an excuse for any breaking of the law. + +HYACINTH. I will break the law. Drunk or sober, I'll break it. I'll do +something that will have no excuse. What would you say is the worst +crime that any man can do? + +FARDY. I don't know. I heard the sergeant saying one time it was to +obstruct the police in the discharge of their duty---- + +HYACINTH. That won't do. It's a patriot I would be then, worse than +before, with my picture in the weeklies. It's a red crime I must commit +that will make all respectable people quit minding me. What can I do? +Search your mind now. + +FARDY. It's what I heard the old people saying there could be no worse +crime than to steal a sheep---- + +HYACINTH. I'll steal a sheep--or a cow--or a horse--if that will leave +me the way I was before. + +FARDY. It's maybe in jail it will leave you. + +HYACINTH. I don't care--I'll confess--I'll tell why I did it--I give you +my word I would as soon be picking oakum or breaking stones as to be +perched in the daylight the same as that bird, and all the town +chirruping to me or bidding me chirrup---- + +FARDY. There is reason in that, now. + +HYACINTH. Help me, will you? + +FARDY. Well, if it is to steal a sheep you want, you haven't far to go. + +HYACINTH. [_Looking around wildly._] Where is it? I see no sheep. + +FARDY. Look around you. + +HYACINTH. I see no living thing but that thrush---- + +FARDY. Did I say it was living? What is that hanging on Quirke's rack? + +HYACINTH. It's [_fingers it_] a sheep, sure enough---- + +FARDY. Well, what ails you that you can't bring it away? + +HYACINTH. It's a dead one---- + +FARDY. What matter if it is? + +HYACINTH. If it was living I could drive it before me---- + +FARDY. You could. Is it to your own lodging you would drive it? Sure +every one would take it to be a pet you brought from Carrow. + +HYACINTH. I suppose they might. + +FARDY. Miss Joyce sending in for news of it and it bleating behind the +bed. + +HYACINTH. [_Distracted._] Stop! stop! + +MRS. DELANE. [_From upper window._] Fardy! Are you there, Fardy Farrell? + +FARDY. I am, ma'am. + +MRS. DELANE. [_From window._] Look and tell me is that the telegraph I +hear ticking? + +FARDY. [_Looking in at door._] It is, ma'am. + +MRS. DELANE. Then botheration to it, and I not dressed or undressed. +Wouldn't you say, now, it's to annoy me it is calling me down. I'm +coming! I'm coming! [_Disappears._ + +FARDY. Hurry on, now! Hurry! She'll be coming out on you. If you are +going to do it, do it, and if you are not, let it alone. + +HYACINTH. I'll do it! I'll do it! + +FARDY. [_Lifting the sheep on his back._] I'll give you a hand with it. + +HYACINTH. [_Goes a step or two and turns round._] You told me no place +where I could hide it. + +FARDY. You needn't go far. There is the church beyond at the side of the +square. Go round to the ditch behind the wall--there's nettles in it. + +HYACINTH. That'll do. + +FARDY. She's coming out--run! run! + +HYACINTH. [_Runs a step or two._] It's slipping! + +FARDY. Hoist it up. I'll give it a hoist! + +[HALVEY _runs out_. + +MRS. DELANE. [_Calling out._] What are you doing, Fardy Farrell? Is it +idling you are? + +FARDY. Waiting I am, ma'am, for the message---- + +MRS. DELANE. Never mind the message yet. Who said it was ready? [_Going +to door._] Go ask for the loan of--no, but ask news of--Here, now go +bring that bag of Mr. Halvey's to the lodging Miss Joyce has taken---- + +FARDY. I will, ma'am. [_Takes bag and goes out._ + +MRS. DELANE. [_Coming out with a telegram in her hand._] Nobody here? +[_Looks round and calls cautiously._] Mr. Quirke! Mr. Quirke! James +Quirke! + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Looking out of his upper window, with soap-suddy face._] +What is it, Mrs. Delane? + +MRS. DELANE. [_Beckoning._] Come down here till I tell you. + +MR. QUIRKE. I cannot do that. I'm not fully shaved. + +MRS. DELANE. You'd come if you knew the news I have. + +MR. QUIRKE. Tell it to me now. I'm not so supple as I was. + +MRS. DELANE. Whisper now, have you an enemy in any place? + +MR. QUIRKE. It's likely I may have. A man in business---- + +MRS. DELANE. I was thinking you had one. + +MR. QUIRKE. Why would you think that at this time more than any other +time? + +MRS. DELANE. If you could know what is in this envelope you would know +that, James Quirke. + +MR. QUIRKE. Is that so? And what, now, is there in it? + +MRS. DELANE. Who do you think now is it addressed to? + +MR. QUIRKE. How would I know that, and I not seeing it? + +MRS. DELANE. That is true. Well, it is a message from Dublin Castle to +the sergeant of police! + +MR. QUIRKE. To Sergeant Carden, is it? + +MRS. DELANE. It is. And it concerns yourself. + +MR. QUIRKE. Myself, is it? What accusation can they be bringing against +me? I'm a peaceable man. + +MRS. DELANE. Wait till you hear. + +MR. QUIRKE. Maybe they think I was in that moonlighting case---- + +MRS. DELANE. That is not it---- + +MR. QUIRKE. I was not in it--I was but in the neighboring field--cutting +up a dead cow, that those never had a hand in---- + +MRS. DELANE. You're out of it---- + +MR. QUIRKE. They had their faces blackened. There is no man can say I +recognized them. + +MRS. DELANE. That's not what they're saying---- + +MR. QUIRKE. I'll swear I did not hear their voices or know them if I did +hear them. + +MRS. DELANE. I tell you it has nothing to do with that. It might be +better for you if it had. + +MR. QUIRKE. What is it, so? + +MRS. DELANE. It is an order to the sergeant, bidding him immediately to +seize all suspicious meat in your house. There is an officer coming +down. There are complaints from the Shannon Fort Barracks. + +MR. QUIRKE. I'll engage it was that pork. + +MRS. DELANE. What ailed it for them to find fault? + +MR. QUIRKE. People are so hard to please nowadays, and I recommended +them to salt it. + +MRS. DELANE. They had a right to have minded your advice. + +MR. QUIRKE. There was nothing on that pig at all but that it went mad on +poor O'Grady that owned it. + +MRS. DELANE. So I heard, and went killing all before it. + +MR. QUIRKE. Sure it's only in the brain madness can be. I heard the +doctor saying that. + +MRS. DELANE. He should know. + +MR. QUIRKE. I give you my word I cut the head off it. I went to the loss +of it, throwing it to the eels in the river. If they had salted the +meat, as I advised them, what harm would it have done to any person on +earth? + +MRS. DELANE. I hope no harm will come on poor Mrs. Quirke and the +family. + +MR. QUIRKE. Maybe it wasn't that but some other thing---- + +MRS. DELANE. Here is Fardy. I must send the message to the sergeant. +Well, Mr. Quirke, I'm glad I had the time to give you a warning. + +MR. QUIRKE. I'm obliged to you, indeed. You were always very +neighborly, Mrs. Delane. Don't be too quick now sending the message. +There is just one article I would like to put away out of the house +before the sergeant will come. + + [_Enter_ FARDY. + +MRS. DELANE. Here now, Fardy--that's not the way you're going to the +barracks. Any one would think you were scaring birds yet. Put on your +uniform. + + [FARDY _goes into office_. + +MRS. DELANE. You have this message to bring to the sergeant of police. +Get your cap now; it's under the counter. + + [FARDY _reappears, and she gives him telegram_. + +FARDY. I'll bring it to the station. It's there he was going. + +MRS. DELANE. You will not, but to the barracks. It can wait for him +there. + + [FARDY _goes off_. MR. QUIRKE _has appeared at door_. + +MR. QUIRKE. It was indeed a very neighborly act, Mrs. Delane, and I'm +obliged to you. There is just _one_ article to put out of the way. The +sergeant may look about him then and welcome. It's well I cleared the +premises on yesterday. A consignment to Birmingham I sent. The Lord be +praised, isn't England a terrible country, with all it consumes? + +MRS. DELANE. Indeed, you always treat the neighbors very decent, Mr. +Quirke, not asking them to buy from you. + +MR. QUIRKE. Just one article. [_Turns to rack._] That sheep I brought in +last night. It was for a charity, indeed, I bought it from the widow +woman at Kiltartan Cross. Where would the poor make a profit out of +their dead meat without me? Where now is it? Well, now, I could have +swore that that sheep was hanging there on the rack when I went in---- + +MRS. DELANE. You must have put it in some other place. + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Going in and searching and coming out._] I did not; there +is no other place for me to put it. Is it gone blind I am, or is it not +in it, it is? + +MRS. DELANE. It's not there now, anyway. + +MR. QUIRKE. Didn't you take notice of it there, yourself, this morning? + +MRS. DELANE. I have it in my mind that I did; but it's not there now. + +MR. QUIRKE. There was no one here could bring it away? + +MRS. DELANE. Is it me, myself, you suspect of taking it, James Quirke? + +MR. QUIRKE. Where is it at all? It is certain it was not of itself it +walked away. It was dead, and very dead, the time I bought it. + +MRS. DELANE. I have a pleasant neighbor, indeed, that accuses me that I +took his sheep. I wonder, indeed, you to say a thing like that! I to +steal your sheep or your rack or anything that belongs to you or to your +trade! Thank you, James Quirke. I am much obliged to you, indeed. + +MR. QUIRKE. Ah, be quiet, woman; be quiet---- + +MRS. DELANE. And let me tell you, James Quirke, that I would sooner +starve and see every one belonging to me starve than to eat the size of +a thimble of any joint that ever was on your rack or that ever will be +on it, whatever the soldiers may eat that have no other thing to get, or +the English, that devour all sorts, or the poor ravenous people that's +down by the sea! + + [_She turns to go into shop._ + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Stopping her._] Don't be talking foolishness, woman. Who +said you took my meat? Give heed to me now. There must some other +message have come. The sergeant must have got some other message. + +MRS. DELANE. [_Sulkily._] If there is any way for a message to come that +is quicker than to come by the wires, tell me what it is, and I'll be +obliged to you. + +MR. QUIRKE. The sergeant was up here, making an excuse he was sticking +up that notice. What was he doing here, I ask you? + +MRS. DELANE. How would I know what brought him? + +MR. QUIRKE. It is what he did; he made as if to go away--he turned back +again and I shaving--he brought away the sheep--he will have it for +evidence against me---- + +MRS. DELANE. [_Interested._] That might be so. + +MR. QUIRKE. I would sooner it to have been any other beast nearly ever I +had upon the rack. + +MRS. DELANE. Is that so? + +MR. QUIRKE. I bade the Widow Early to kill it a fortnight ago--but she +would not, she was that covetous! + +MRS. DELANE. What was on it? + +MR. QUIRKE. How would I know what was on it? Whatever was on it, it was +the will of God put it upon it--wasted it was, and shivering and +refusing its share. + +MRS. DELANE. The poor thing. + +MR. QUIRKE. Gone all to nothing--wore away like a flock of thread. It +did not weigh as much as a lamb of two months. + +MRS. DELANE. It is likely the inspector will bring it to Dublin? + +MR. QUIRKE. The ribs of it streaky with the dint of patent medicines---- + +MRS. DELANE. I wonder is it to the Petty Sessions you'll be brought or +is it to the Assizes? + +MR. QUIRKE. I'll speak up to them. I'll make my defense. What can the +army expect at fippence a pound? + +MRS. DELANE. It is likely there will be no bail allowed? + +MR. QUIRKE. Would they be wanting me to give them good quality meat out +of my own pocket? Is it to encourage them to fight the poor Indians and +Africans they would have me? It's the Anti-Enlisting Societies should +pay the fine for me. + +MRS. DELANE. It's not a fine will be put on you, I'm afraid. It's five +years in jail you will be apt to be getting. Well, I'll try and be a +good neighbor to poor Mrs. Quirke. + + [MR. QUIRKE, _who has been stamping up and down, sits down and + weeps_. HALVEY _comes in and stands on one side_. + +MR. QUIRKE. Hadn't I heart-scalding enough before, striving to rear five +weak children? + +MRS. DELANE. I suppose they will be sent to the Industrial Schools? + +MR. QUIRKE. My poor wife---- + +MRS. DELANE. I'm afraid the workhouse---- + +MR. QUIRKE. And she out in an ass-car at this minute, helping me to +follow my trade. + +MRS. DELANE. I hope they will not arrest her along with you. + +MR. QUIRKE. I'll give myself up to justice. I'll plead guilty! I'll be +recommended to mercy! + +MRS. DELANE. It might be best for you. + +MR. QUIRKE. Who would think so great a misfortune could come upon a +family through the bringing away of one sheep! + +HYACINTH. [_Coming forward._] Let you make yourself easy. + +MR. QUIRKE. Easy! It's easy to say let you make yourself easy. + +HYACINTH. I can tell you where it is. + +MR. QUIRKE. Where what is? + +HYACINTH. The sheep you are fretting after. + +MR. QUIRKE. What do you know about it? + +HYACINTH. I know everything about it. + +MR. QUIRKE. I suppose the sergeant told you? + +HYACINTH. He told me nothing. + +MR. QUIRKE. I suppose the whole town knows it, so? + +HYACINTH. No one knows it, as yet. + +MR. QUIRKE. And the sergeant didn't see it? + +HYACINTH. No one saw it or brought it away but myself. + +MR. QUIRKE. Where did you put it at all? + +HYACINTH. In the ditch behind the church wall. In among the nettles it +is. Look at the way they have me stung. [_Holds out hands._ + +MR. QUIRKE. In the ditch! The best hiding-place in the town. + +HYACINTH. I never thought it would bring such great trouble upon you. +You can't say, anyway, I did not tell you. + +MR. QUIRKE. You, yourself, that brought it away and that hid it! I +suppose it was coming in the train you got information about the message +to the police. + +HYACINTH. What now do you say to me? + +MR. QUIRKE. Say! I say I am as glad to hear what you said as if it was +the Lord telling me I'd be in heaven this minute. + +HYACINTH. What are you going to do to me? + +MR. QUIRKE. Do, is it? [_Grasps his hand._] Any earthly thing you would +wish me to do, I will do it. + +HYACINTH. I suppose you will tell---- + +MR. QUIRKE. Tell! It's I that will tell when all is quiet. It is I will +give you the good name through the town! + +HYACINTH. I don't well understand. + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Embracing him._] The man that preserved me! + +HYACINTH. That preserved you? + +MR. QUIRKE. That kept me from ruin! + +HYACINTH. From ruin? + +MR. QUIRKE. That saved me from disgrace! + +HYACINTH. [_To_ MRS. DELANE.] What is he saying at all? + +MR. QUIRKE. From the inspector! + +HYACINTH. What is he talking about? + +MR. QUIRKE. From the magistrates! + +HYACINTH. He is making some mistake. + +MR. QUIRKE. From the Winter Assizes! + +HYACINTH. Is he out of his wits? + +MR. QUIRKE. Five years in jail! + +HYACINTH. Hasn't he the queer talk? + +MR. QUIRKE. The loss of the contract! + +HYACINTH. Are my own wits gone astray? + +MR. QUIRKE. What way can I repay you? + +HYACINTH. [_Shouting._] I tell you I took the sheep---- + +MR. QUIRKE. You did, God reward you! + +HYACINTH. I stole away with it---- + +MR. QUIRKE. The blessing of the poor on you! + +HYACINTH. I put it out of sight---- + +MR. QUIRKE. The blessing of my five children---- + +HYACINTH. I may as well say nothing---- + +MRS. DELANE. Let you be quiet now, Quirke. Here's the sergeant coming to +search the shop---- + + [SERGEANT _comes in_. QUIRKE _leaves go of_ HALVEY, _who arranges + his hat, etc._ + +SERGEANT. The department to blazes! + +MRS. DELANE. What is it is putting you out? + +SERGEANT. To go to the train to meet the lecturer, and there to get a +message through the guard that he was unavoidably detained in the South, +holding an inquest on the remains of a drake. + +MRS. DELANE. The lecturer, is it? + +SERGEANT. To be sure. What else would I be talking of? The lecturer has +failed me, and where am I to go looking for a person that I would think +fitting to take his place? + +MRS. DELANE. And that's all? And you didn't get any message but the one? + +SERGEANT. Is that all? I am surprised at you, Mrs. Delane. Isn't it +enough to upset a man, within three-quarters of an hour of the time of +the meeting? Where, I would ask you, am I to find a man that has +education enough and wit enough and character enough to put up speaking +on the platform on the minute? + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Jumps up._] It is I, myself, will tell you that. + +SERGEANT. You! + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Slapping_ HALVEY _on the back_.] Look at here, Sergeant. +There is not one word was said in all those papers about this young man +before you but it is true. And there could be no good thing said of him +that would be too good for him. + +SERGEANT. It might not be a bad idea. + +MR. QUIRKE. Whatever the paper said about him, Sergeant, I can say more +again. It has come to my knowledge--by chance--that since he came to +this town that young man has saved a whole family from destruction. + +SERGEANT. That is much to his credit--helping the rural classes---- + +MR. QUIRKE. A family and a long family, big and little, like sods of +turf--and they depending on a--on one that might be on his way to dark +trouble at this minute if it was not for his assistance. Believe me, he +is the most sensible man, and the wittiest, and the kindest, and the +best helper of the poor that ever stood before you in this square. Is +not that so, Mrs. Delane? + +MRS. DELANE. It is true, indeed. Where he gets his wisdom and his wit +and his information from I don't know, unless it might be that he is +gifted from above. + +SERGEANT.. Well, Mrs. Delane, I think we have settled that question. Mr. +Halvey, you will be the speaker at the meeting. The lecturer sent these +notes--you can lengthen them into a speech. You can call to the people +of Cloon to stand out, to begin the building of their character. I saw a +lecturer do it one time at Dundrum. "Come up here," he said; "Dare to be +a Daniel," he said---- + +HYACINTH. I can't--I won't---- + +SERGEANT. [_Looking at papers and thrusting them into his hand._] You +will find it quite easy. I will conduct you to the platform--these +papers before you and a glass of water--that's settled. [_Turns to go._] +Follow me on to the court-house in half an hour--I must go to the +barracks first--I heard there was a telegram--[_Calls back as he goes._] +Don't be late, Mrs. Delane. Mind, Quirke, you promised to come. + +MRS. DELANE. Well, it's time for me to make an end of settling +myself--and, indeed, Mr. Quirke, you'd best do the same. + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Rubbing his cheek._] I suppose so. I had best keep on good +terms with him for the present. [_Turns._] Well, now, I had a great +escape this day. + + [_Both go in as_ FARDY _reappears, whistling_. + +HYACINTH. [_Sitting down._] I don't know in the world what has come upon +the world that the half of the people of it should be cracked! + +FARDY. Weren't you found out yet? + +HYACINTH. Found out, is it? I don't know what you mean by being found +out. + +FARDY. Didn't he miss the sheep? + +HYACINTH. He did, and I told him it was I took it--and what happened I +declare to goodness I don't know--Will you look at these? [_Holds out +notes._ + +FARDY. Papers! Are they more testimonials? + +HYACINTH. They are what is worse. [_Gives a hoarse laugh._] Will you +come and see me on the platform--these in my hand--and I +speaking--giving out advice. [FARDY _whistles_.] Why didn't you tell me, +the time you advised me to steal a sheep, that in this town it would +qualify a man to go preaching, and the priest in the chair looking on? + +FARDY. The time I took a few apples that had fallen off a stall, they +did not ask me to hold a meeting. They welted me well. + +HYACINTH. [_Looking round._] I would take apples if I could see them. I +wish I had broke my neck before I left Carrow, and I'd be better off! I +wish I had got six months the time I was caught setting snares--I wish I +had robbed a church. + +FARDY. Would a Protestant church do? + +HYACINTH. I suppose it wouldn't be so great a sin. + +FARDY. It's likely the sergeant would think worse of it. Anyway, if you +want to rob one, it's the Protestant church is the handiest. + +HYACINTH. [_Getting up._] Show me what way to do it? + +FARDY. [_Pointing._] I was going around it a few minutes ago, to see +might there be e'er a dog scenting the sheep, and I noticed the window +being out. + +HYACINTH. Out, out and out? + +FARDY. It was, where they are putting colored glass in it for the +distiller---- + +HYACINTH. What good does that do me? + +FARDY. Every good. You could go in by that window if you had some person +to give you a hoist. Whatever riches there is to get in it then, you'll +get them. + +HYACINTH. I don't want riches. I'll give you all I will find if you will +come and hoist me. + +FARDY. Here is Miss Joyce coming to bring you to your lodging. Sure I +brought your bag to it, the time you were away with the sheep---- + +HYACINTH. Run! Run! + + [_They go off._ _Enter_ MISS JOYCE. + +MISS JOYCE. Are you here, Mrs. Delane? Where, can you tell me, is Mr. +Halvey? + +MRS. DELANE. [_Coming out dressed._] It's likely he is gone on to the +court-house. Did you hear he is to be in the chair and to make an +address to the meeting? + +MISS JOYCE. He is getting on fast. His reverence says he will be a good +help in the parish. Who would think, now, there would be such a godly +young man in a little place like Carrow! + + [_Enter_ SERGEANT _in a hurry, with telegram_. + +SERGEANT. What time did this telegram arrive, Mrs. Delane? + +MRS. DELANE. I couldn't be rightly sure, Sergeant. But sure it's marked +on it, unless the clock I have is gone wrong. + +SERGEANT. It is marked on it. And I have the time I got it marked on my +own watch. + +MRS. DELANE. Well, now, I wonder none of the police would have followed +you with it from the barracks--and they with so little to do---- + +SERGEANT. [_Looking in at_ QUIRKE'S _shop_.] Well, I am sorry to do what +I have to do, but duty is duty. + + [_He ransacks shop._ MRS. DELANE _looks on_. MR. QUIRKE _puts his + head out of window_. + +MR. QUIRKE. What is that going on inside? [_No answer._] Is there any +one inside, I ask? [_No answer._] It must be that dog of Tannian's--wait +till I get at him. + +MRS. DELANE. It is Sergeant Carden, Mr. Quirke. He would seem to be +looking for something---- + + [MR. QUIRKE _appears in shop_. SERGEANT _comes out, makes another + dive, taking up sacks, etc._ + +MR. QUIRKE. I'm greatly afraid I am just out of meat, Sergeant--and I'm +sorry now to disoblige you, and you not being in the habit of dealing +with me---- + +SERGEANT. I should think not, indeed. + +MR. QUIRKE. Looking for a tender little bit of lamb, I suppose you are, +for Mrs. Carden and the youngsters? + +SERGEANT. I am not. + +MR. QUIRKE. If I had it now, I'd be proud to offer it to you, and make +no charge. I'll be killing a good kid to-morrow. Mrs Carden might fancy +a bit of it---- + +SERGEANT. I have had orders to search your establishment for unwholesome +meat, and I am come here to do it. + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Sitting down with a smile._] Is that so? Well, isn't it a +wonder the schemers does be in the world. + +SERGEANT. It is not the first time there have been complaints. + +MR. QUIRKE. I suppose not. Well, it is on their own head it will fall at +the last! + +SERGEANT. I have found nothing so far. + +MR. QUIRKE. I suppose not, indeed. What is there you could find, and it +not in it? + +SERGEANT. Have you no meat at all upon the premises? + +MR. QUIRKE. I have, indeed, a nice barrel of bacon. + +SERGEANT. What way did it die? + +MR. QUIRKE. It would be hard for me to say that. American it is. How +would I know what way they do be killing the pigs out there? Machinery, +I suppose, they have--steam-hammers---- + +SERGEANT. Is there nothing else here at all? + +MR. QUIRKE. I give you my word, there is no meat, living or dead, in +this place, but yourself and myself and that bird above in the cage. + +SERGEANT. Well, I must tell the inspector I could find nothing. But mind +yourself for the future. + +MR. QUIRKE. Thank you, Sergeant. I will do that. + + [_Enter_ FARDY. _He stops short._ + +SERGEANT. It was you delayed that message to me, I suppose? You'd best +mend your ways or I'll have something to say to you. [_Seizes and shakes +him._ + +FARDY. That's the way every one does be faulting me. [_Whimpers._ + + [_The_ SERGEANT _gives him another shake. A half-crown falls out of + his pocket._ + +MISS JOYCE. [_Picking it up._] A half-a-crown! Where, now, did you get +that much, Fardy? + +FARDY. Where did I get it, is it? + +MISS JOYCE. I'll engage it was in no honest way you got it. + +FARDY. I picked it up in the street---- + +MISS JOYCE. If you did, why didn't you bring it to the sergeant or to +his reverence? + +MRS. DELANE. And some poor person, maybe, being at the loss of it. + +MISS JOYCE. I'd best bring it to his reverence. Come with me, Fardy, +till he will question you about it. + +FARDY. It was not altogether in the street I found it---- + +MISS JOYCE. There, now! I knew you got it in no good way! Tell me, now. + + +FARDY. It was playing pitch and toss I won it---- + +MISS JOYCE. And who would play for half-crowns with the like of you, +Fardy Farrell? Who was it, now? + +FARDY. It was--a stranger---- + +MISS JOYCE. Do you hear that? A stranger! Did you see e'er a stranger in +this town, Mrs. Delane, or Sergeant Carden, or Mr. Quirke? + +MR. QUIRKE. Not a one. + +SERGEANT. There was no stranger here. + +MRS. DELANE. There could not be one here without me knowing it. + +FARDY. I tell you there was. + +MISS JOYCE. Come on, then, and tell who was he to his reverence. + +SERGEANT. [_Taking other arm._] Or to the bench. + +FARDY. I did get it, I tell you, from a stranger. + +SERGEANT. Where is he, so? + +FARDY. He's in some place--not far away. + +SERGEANT. Bring me to him. + +FARDY. He'll be coming here. + +SERGEANT. Tell me the truth and it will be better for you. + +FARDY. [_Weeping._] Let me go and I will. + +SERGEANT. [_Letting go._] Now--who did you get it from? + +FARDY. From that young chap came to-day, Mr. Halvey. + +ALL. Mr. Halvey! + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Indignantly._] What are you saying, you young ruffian, +you? Hyacinth Halvey to be playing pitch and toss with the like of you! + +FARDY. I didn't say that. + +MISS JOYCE. You did say it. You said it now. + +MR. QUIRKE. Hyacinth Halvey! The best man that ever came into this town! + +MISS JOYCE. Well, what lies he has! + +MR. QUIRKE. It's my belief the half-crown is a bad one. Maybe it's to +pass it off it was given to him. There were tinkers in the town at the +time of the fair. Give it here to me. [_Bites it._] No, indeed, it's +sound enough. Here, Sergeant, it's best for you take it. [_Gives it to_ +SERGEANT, _who examines it_. + +SERGEANT. Can it be? Can it be what I think it to be? + +MR. QUIRKE. What is it? What do you take it to be? + +SERGEANT. It is, it is. I know it, I know this half-crown---- + +MR. QUIRKE. That is a queer thing, now. + +SERGEANT. I know it well. I have been handling it in the church for the +last twelvemonth---- + +MR. QUIRKE. Is that so? + +SERGEANT. It is the nest-egg half-crown we hand round in the +collection-plate every Sunday morning. I know it by the dint on the +Queen's temples and the crooked scratch under her nose. + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Examining it._] So there is, too. + +SERGEANT. This is a bad business. It has been stolen from the church. + +ALL. Oh! Oh! Oh! + +SERGEANT. [_Seizing_ FARDY.] You have robbed the church! + +FARDY. [_Terrified._] I tell you I never did! + +SERGEANT. I have the proof of it. + +FARDY. Say what you like! I never put a foot in it! + +SERGEANT. How did you get this, so? + +MISS JOYCE. I suppose from the _stranger_? + +MRS. DELANE. I suppose it was Hyacinth Halvey gave it to you, now? + +FARDY. It was so. + +SERGEANT. I suppose it was he robbed the church? + +FARDY. [_Sobs._] You will not believe me if I say it. + +MR. QUIRKE. Oh! the young vagabond! Let me get at him! + +MRS. DELANE. Here he is himself now! + +[HYACINTH _comes in_. FARDY _releases himself and creeps behind him_. + +MRS. DELANE. It is time you to come, Mr. Halvey, and shut the mouth of +this young schemer. + +MISS JOYCE. I would like you to hear what he says of you, Mr. Halvey. +Pitch and toss, he says. + +MR. QUIRKE. Robbery, he says. + +MRS. DELANE. Robbery of a church. + +SERGEANT. He has had a bad name long enough. Let him go to a reformatory +now. + +FARDY. [_Clinging to_ HYACINTH.] Save me, save me! I'm a poor boy trying +to knock out a way of living; I'll be destroyed if I go to a +reformatory. [_Kneels and clings to_ HYACINTH'S _knees_. + +HYACINTH. I'll save you easy enough. + +FARDY. Don't let me be jailed! + +HYACINTH. I am going to tell them. + +FARDY. I'm a poor orphan---- + +HYACINTH. Will you let me speak? + +FARDY. I'll get no more chance in the world---- + +HYACINTH. Sure I'm trying to free you---- + +FARDY. It will be tasked to me always. + +HYACINTH. Be quiet, can't you? + +FARDY. Don't you desert me! + +HYACINTH. Will you be silent? + +FARDY. Take it on yourself. + +HYACINTH. I will if you'll let me. + +FARDY. Tell them you did it. + +HYACINTH. I am going to do that. + +FARDY. Tell them it was you got in at the window. + +HYACINTH. I will! I will! + +FARDY. Say it was you robbed the box. + +HYACINTH. I'll say it! I'll say it! + +FARDY. It being open! + +HYACINTH. Let me tell, let me tell. + +FARDY. Of all that was in it. + +HYACINTH. I'll tell them that. + +FARDY. And gave it to me. + +HYACINTH. [_Putting hand on his mouth and dragging him up._] Will you +stop and let me speak? + +SERGEANT. We can't be wasting time. Give him here to me. + +HYACINTH. I can't do that. He must be let alone. + +SERGEANT. [_Seizing him._] He'll be let alone in the lock-up. + +HYACINTH. He must not be brought there. + +SERGEANT. I'll let no man get him off. + +HYACINTH. I will get him off. + +SERGEANT. You will not! + +HYACINTH. I will. + +SERGEANT. Do you think to buy him off? + +HYACINTH. I will buy him off with my own confession. + +SERGEANT. And what will that be? + +HYACINTH. It was I robbed the church. + +SERGEANT. That is likely indeed! + +HYACINTH. Let him go, and take me. I tell you I did it. + +SERGEANT. It would take witnesses to prove that. + +HYACINTH. [_Pointing to_ FARDY.] He will be witness. + +FARDY. Oh, Mr. Halvey, I would not wish to do that. Get me off and I +will say nothing. + +HYACINTH. Sure you must. You will be put on oath in the court. + +FARDY. I will not! I will not! All the world knows I don't understand +the nature of an oath! + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Coming forward._] Is it blind ye all are? + +MRS. DELANE. What are you talking about? + +MR. QUIRKE. Is it fools ye all are? + +MISS JOYCE. Speak for yourself. + +MR. QUIRKE. Is it idiots ye all are? + +SERGEANT. Mind who you're talking to. + +MR. QUIRKE. [_Seizing_ HYACINTH'S _hands_.] Can't you see? Can't you +hear? Where are your wits? Was ever such a thing seen in this town? + +MRS. DELANE. Say out what you have to say. + +MR. QUIRKE. A walking saint he is! + +MRS. DELANE. Maybe so. + +MR. QUIRKE. The preserver of the poor! Talk of the holy martyrs! They +are nothing at all to what he is! Will you look at him! To save that +poor boy he is going! To take the blame on himself he is going! To say +he, himself, did the robbery he is going! Before the magistrate he is +going! To jail he is going! Taking the blame on his own head! Putting +the sin on his own shoulders! Letting on to have done a robbery! Telling +a lie--that it may be forgiven him--to his own injury! Doing all that, I +tell you, to save the character of a miserable slack lad, that rose in +poverty. + + [_Murmur of admiration from all._ + +MR. QUIRKE. Now, what do you say? + +SERGEANT. [_Pressing his hand._] Mr. Halvey, you have given us all a +lesson. To please you, I will make no information against the boy, +[_Shakes him and helps him up._] I will put back the half-crown in the +poor-box next Sunday. [_To_ FARDY.] What have you to say to your +benefactor? + +FARDY. I'm obliged to you, Mr. Halvey. You behaved very decent to me, +very decent indeed. I'll never let a word be said against you if I live +to be a hundred years. + +SERGEANT. [_Wiping eyes with a blue handkerchief._] I will tell it at +the meeting. It will be a great encouragement to them to build up their +character. I'll tell it to the priest and he taking the chair---- + +HYACINTH. Oh, stop, will you---- + +MR. QUIRKE. The chair. It's in the chair he, himself, should be. It's in +a chair we will put him now. It's to chair him through the streets we +will. Sure he'll be an example and a blessing to the whole of the town. +[_Seizes_ HALVEY _and seats him in chair_.] Now, Sergeant, give a hand. +Here. Fardy. + + [_They all lift the chair with_ HALVEY _in it, wildly protesting_. + +MR. QUIRKE. Come along now to the court-house. Three cheers for Hyacinth +Halvey! Hip! hip! hoora! + + [_Cheers heard in the distance as the curtain drops._ + + + + +THE GAZING GLOBE + +BY + +EUGENE PILLOT + + +_The Gazing Globe_ is reprinted by special permission of Eugene Pillot. +All rights are retained by the author. This play is protected by +copyright and must not be used without the permission of and payment of +royalty to Eugene Pillot, who may be reached through The 47 Workshop, +Cambridge, Massachusetts. + + +EUGENE PILLOT + +Eugene Pillot, one of the well-known contemporary writers of one-act +plays, was born in Houston, Texas. He was educated in the New York +School of Fine and Applied Arts, at the University of Texas, at Cornell +University, and at Harvard University. While at Harvard, he participated +in the activities of The 47 Workshop. + +Mr. Pillot's one-act plays are always characterized by excellent and +well-sustained technic. Among his best-known one-act plays are _The +Gazing Globe_, _Two Crooks and a Lady_, _Telephone Number One_ (a prize +play), _Hunger_, and _My Lady Dreams_. Mr. Pillot's plays have been +produced frequently in schools and Little Theatres of America. + +_The Gazing Globe_ originally appeared in _The Stratford Journal_, and +was first produced by the Boston Community Players, February 26, 1920, +with the following cast: ZAMA, Rosalie Manning; OHANO, Beulah Auerbach; +and NIJO, Eugene Pillot. _The Gazing Globe_ has unusually sustained +tone and dramatic suspense. + + +CHARACTERS + + ZAMA + OHANO + NIJO + + + + +THE GAZING GLOBE[F] + + + SCENE: _A soft cream-colored room, bare walled and unfurnished + except for dull-blue grass mats on the floor and brilliant + cushions. In the centre of rear wall is a great circular window + with a dais before it, so that it may be used as a doorway. A + gathered shade of soft blue silk covers the opening of the window._ + +PLACE: _An island in a southern sea._ + +TIME: _Not so long ago._ + + [_The curtain rises on an empty stage._ ZAMA, _an old servant woman + dressed in dull purples and grays, hurries in from the right. She + stops at centre stage and glances about searchingly, then calls in + a weazen voice._ + +ZAMA. Ohano--Ohano! Where do you be, child? + + [_Listens, looks about, sees drawn shade at the rear, and sighs as + she goes to it and starts to raise it._ + + [_As the shade rolls out of sight we see through the open window a + bit of quaint cliff garden that overlooks a sea of green. The rocks + are higher on the left, near the window, where a purple-pink vine + in full blossom has started to climb. At the right the rocks slope + down to the sea. At centre, stone steps lead up to a slender stone + pedestal that holds a gazing globe, now a brilliant gold in the + late afternoon sunlight._ OHANO, _with hands clasped round the + globe, is gazing at it. She is a woman of the early twenties, + beautiful and gowned in a flowing kimono-like robe of green with + embroideries of white and blue._ + +ZAMA. [_In a chiding, motherly way._] Ohano, my child, you must not be +so much at that evil ball! How many times be I not telling you it is an +_enchanted_ ball? + +OHANO. Yes, Zama, I hope it is enchanted. I've tried every other means +to gain the way to my heart's desire--and they've all failed me. The +story these islanders have woven round this gazing globe may be but a +myth--but if it shows me the way to my freedom, I shall not have looked +at it in vain. + +ZAMA. Be you forgetting, child, 'tis said that evil ball shows only the +way to destruction! + +OHANO. Yes, these island people will create any myth, go any length, to +keep one thinking, living in their narrow way. You are destined for evil +if you try to follow the urge of your own heart--oh, yes, I know. + +ZAMA. But _your_ heart, child, should only be wanting the love of Nijo. + +OHANO. Nijo--I am hoping that he will be big enough to help me--but my +lover has been away so long---- + +ZAMA. But to-day he be coming back--I came to tell you I think I saw his +boat---- + +OHANO. Nijo's boat? Where? + +ZAMA. It be near the edge of the island just where---- + +OHANO. Why didn't you tell me before? + +ZAMA. I came to--but I be forgetting when I see you at that evil ball +again. + +OHANO. [_All eagerness._] Perhaps we can see him land--from here on the +rocks--come, Zama, I hear the sound of voices down near the sea--come! +[_They climb to the highest rock._] Look, Zama, the boat is there! +Already there in the green water against the shore! + +ZAMA. It do seem to be so. [_Peers toward right._ + +OHANO. And _there_--is Nijo! + +ZAMA. Where, where, child? + +OHANO. There--see, he's just coming ashore--oh, Nijo! And look, Zama, +look what the people crowding round him have done--look! + +ZAMA. What? My poor eyes be yet uncertain. What do they be doing to your +lover? + +OHANO. They have put upon him the Robe of Flame--to greet him with the +highest honor of the island. + +ZAMA. So they be. The robe they say the gods themselves did wear when +time did first begin. Nijo must come back a great warrior now--a great +warrior! + +OHANO. Oh, how wonderful to return from the wars like that! Zama, I want +to--I _must_ go out into the world and do great things too, like Nijo. + +ZAMA. Nijo be coming back, child. That do be enough. Look, what is it +that glitters so in the sun? + +OHANO. Why, they are giving something to my red god--something that's +long as a serpent moon--see, he holds it out in admiration, before him. +Just what can it be? + +ZAMA. In faith I do believe they have given your hero--a sword! + +OHANO. A marvellous sword--look, its jewels flash with the shifting +lights, warm as the colored rifts of sunset! + +ZAMA. Such gems do be a tribute to his greatness, Ohano, they do. + +OHANO. How gladly would I have the way I seek without such tribute--how +willingly! + +ZAMA. And now the crowd do be parting--he leaves the boat and he looks +this way, Ohano--he looks! + +OHANO. Nijo, my red wonder of the world! + +ZAMA. See, he mounts his steed--he waves to you! + +OHANO. Nijo! Nijo! + +ZAMA. And now he rides off to come to you here. It is better we be +waiting inside for him--when he brings back his love to his promised +bride. + +OHANO. [_As they enter room._] Ah, Zama, he must bring me more than love +this time--much more. Yes, your little Ohano must have more in her life +to-day than just love--and Nijo must show her the way to that realm +where she may stretch her soul and _live_! + +ZAMA. The love of so great a man do be enough for any woman, child. + +OHANO. Oh, no--oh, no---- + +ZAMA. But it do be; and evil will fall, I know, if you do be asking more +than love! + +OHANO. But I tell you, Nijo's love is not enough. I must have a bigger, +greater thing! + +ZAMA. The gods do know of none that be more than love. + +OHANO. But there must be, else why would I feel the rush of its pulse +within my veins? Why would my whole being cry out for action and the +glory of doing big things in the lands across the sea? Why, tell me why, +I would feel those things if they were not so? + +ZAMA. It be not for me to say, child; but I do be thinking you moon at +that evil ball too much. It do make your sight grow red! It be not wise +to know an enchanted thing so well. + +OHANO. If that gazing globe in the garden would only show me the way to +my heart's desire, how gladly would I be the victim of its enchantment! + +ZAMA. Nijo's kiss do be your enchantment, child. One touch of his lips +and you do be forgetting all else. + +OHANO. If Nijo's kiss can make me forget this fever within me, I want +his kiss as I shall never want anything else in all of this life. I want +it!! + + [_Approaching horse's hoofs are heard from off right._ + +ZAMA. Listen--the horse! Ohano, your lover do be coming! + +OHANO. [_Running to the window._] Already? He must have taken the short +way through the cliffs. + +ZAMA. Ah, child, do you not be excited as a bird in a storm-wind's +blow? + +OHANO. [_Superbly, as she leans against window._] Yes, I await my hero! + +ZAMA. He's stopped, child! He do be here! At last he comes back to my +little Ohano! + +OHANO. My hope comes! [_With outstretched arms to right._] My Nijo!! +Oh----! + + [_She had impulsively started to greet_ NIJO, _but suddenly shrinks + back_. + +ZAMA. What do be wrong--what? + +OHANO. He's so different--so changed--oh, here he is--ssh! + + [NIJO _appears at the window, where he pauses for a moment. He is a + tall, brunette man, scarcely thirty--a handsome, well-knit southern + island type, wearing a flowing robe of flame, with a flaring collar + of old-gold brocade. A peaked hat completes the costume. A curved + sword, with a hilt thickly studded with large jewels and incased in + gold, hangs at his belt. He seems worldly weary and sad as he + advances into the room._ + +OHANO. Nijo! + +NIJO. [_Unimpassioned._] Ohano. + +OHANO. [_Eagerly._] You have come back! + +NIJO. Yes--and the season of the heat has been gracious to your health, +I hope? + +OHANO. Yes--and yours, Nijo? + +NIJO. The same. + +OHANO. Oh, I am glad--glad as tree-blossoms for the kiss of spring. And +Zama here shares my welcome, don't you? + +NIJO. [_Recognizing_ ZAMA.] Ah, Zama. + +ZAMA. [_Bowing before him._] The gods do be kind to bring back a hero to +us. + +NIJO. Thank you. + +ZAMA. Now I do be going for refreshments for your weariness; great it +must be after so long a voyage. [_Exits right._ + +OHANO. Shall we not sit here? + +NIJO. As you will. + + [OHANO _and_ NIJO _sit upon mats near the window, partly facing + each other_. + +OHANO. They--they gave you a sword at the boat. + +NIJO. [_Wearily._] Oh, yes. + +OHANO. Even from up here we could see its jewels flash. + +NIJO. [_Without interest._] Yes, it is cunningly conceived. + +OHANO. How wonderful it must be. Perhaps--I may see it? + +NIJO. [_Still wearily._] If you so desire. + + [_Unbuckles sword and holds it before himself for her to examine. + She leans over it admiringly, touching the jewels as she speaks of + them._ + +OHANO. Magnificent! Rubies and emeralds and sapphires! And here are +moonstones and diamonds. How you must prize it. + +NIJO. [_Wearily._] Of course, one must. + +OHANO. And the very people who tried to stop you from going across the +sea to win your glory have given it to you. + +NIJO. That is the way of the world. + +OHANO. Show me the way to glory, Nijo. + +NIJO. And why? + +OHANO. I would travel it too. + +NIJO. You--a simple island maiden? + +OHANO. I'm not simple. I've grown beyond the people here. + +NIJO. But there is glory in the work women must do at home. + +OHANO. And I have done my share of it. I want bigger work now--out in +the world. + +NIJO. But the simple tasks must be done. + +OHANO. I am sick unto death of doing them! + +NIJO. But you can't go into the battles of the world. You are an island +woman. + +OHANO. This last war has made all women free. If the other island women +cling to the everlasting tradition that woman should not go beyond her +native hearth, let them cling. I shall reach the summit of things and +know the glory of doing big things in the world! + +NIJO. But you--sheltered, protected all your life--how can you do it? + +OHANO. That's what troubles me. But you were fettered by this island +life and you broke through the bars of convention. How did _you_ do it? + +NIJO. [_Sadly._] Ohano, I would not spoil your life by telling you. + +OHANO. Spoil it? What do you think is happening to it now? Oh, Nijo, +can't you understand I'm stagnating--_dying_ in this commonplace island +life. + +NIJO. I thought that about myself, too, when I started my climb to +glory; but scarcely a moon had passed before I realized the loneliness +of great heights. + +OHANO. [_Tigerishly._] Are you trying to turn me from my wish--to have +all the island's glory for yourself? + +NIJO. No, but only the valley people enjoy the sublimity of a mountain. + +OHANO. [_Scornfully._] Ha! + +NIJO. Those who reach the top have lost their perspective. All they see +are the lonely tops of other mountains. + +OHANO. [_Sublimely._] But they've had the joy of the climb! + +NIJO. And worth what--no more than the mist of the sea. + +OHANO. Do you think that satisfies me? I want to find out for myself! I +only want you to tell me the way to use this spirit that boils within my +blood, thirsts for action! + +NIJO. That I never will. + +OHANO. Oh, what shall I do? I've even implored the sun and the moon! +[_Looks toward sea._] Now I _must_ listen to my dreams--my dreams that +cry and cry: "Look in the gazing globe! Look in the gazing globe! It +will show you the way!" And if it ever does, I'll take that path _no +matter where it leads_. + +NIJO. My journey only made me want to come back to the haven of your +love, Ohano. The amber cup of glory left me athirst to be wrapped in the +mantle of your boundless love and warmed with the glow of your heart. + +OHANO. [_Surprised._] Your journey has really led you back to me? + +NIJO. [_Sadly._] You're my only hope. I've been as mad for you as the +sea for the moonlight. + +OHANO. [_Disturbed._] But you had fire and impulse when you went away; +and now--well, you do still yearn for me? + +NIJO. [_Quietly, without passion._] The hope for your love has been the +light of my brain, changing from life to dream, from earth to star. + +OHANO. My thirst for glory has been that way; but Zama tells me it is as +nothing in the kiss of love. If love has that power, I am willing to +forget all else. Kiss me, Nijo! + +NIJO. At last my lips will press yours, as the sun flames to an immortal +moment when it meets the sky. + + [_Kneeling opposite each other, their lips meet._ OHANO _instantly + gives a piercing scream and recoils from him_. NIJO _sinks into a + heap_. + +OHANO. [_Rising and turning toward the sea, weeping._] Oh, oh, oh! + +ZAMA. [_Rushing in from right._] What is it? What is it, Ohano? + +OHANO. [_Still weeping._] Oh--ooh. + +ZAMA. What do it be, my little Ohano? + +OHANO. [_Turning._] His kiss--Nijo's kiss! + +ZAMA. Yes? + +OHANO. Cold as white marble--_cold_! + +ZAMA. Cold as white marble? + +OHANO. Oh, Nijo, why do you kiss me like a thing of stone? + +NIJO. [_As he looks up, pitifully._] Into that kiss I tried to put all +the love I've thought these many years. + +OHANO. The love you've _thought_? + +NIJO. [_Despondently._] Yes, I've only thought it--_thought_ it! + +OHANO. But your heart----? + +NIJO. [_Rising._] My heart feels no more! Only my head thinks. + +ZAMA. You love no more? + +NIJO. Only with my head, it seems. I see things, know things, understand +things; but I no longer feel anything. And my thirst for glory has done +it all--killed my love of life and turned my very kiss to stone. Oh, +glory, why do men give the essence of their lives to you--you who last +no longer than the glow of gold above the place of sunset! + +OHANO. [_Superbly._] Because glory gives you the world--everything! + +NIJO. It takes everything away--strips you--and leaves you nothing to +believe. Oh, I could have become a common soldier here, marching +shoulder to shoulder with the island men going out to war--but no--I +must be a great warrior, a hero in position. Had I known then what I +know now, how gladly would I have gone as one of the thousands who are +known as--just soldiers. They are the ones who know the throb of life +and love! + +OHANO. You bring back such a message to me? You who have climbed and +climbed to heights till I have believed you to be as constant in your +quest as the light that shines upon the gazing globe? + +NIJO. I--a light? + +OHANO. Why not? I've always likened your feet unto the disks of two +luminaries, lighting the way for all the world to follow. [_Looks at +gazing globe, which is now a ball of gold against the black sea and +sky._] And now you tell me I was wrong. Perhaps the light upon the +gazing globe itself is the only one to follow. + +NIJO. I--a light? Why, Ohano, if I'm anything, I'm a gazing globe! + +OHANO. What do you mean--you a gazing globe? + +NIJO. That without I'm all fair, all wonderful--but within I'm empty as +a gazing globe. + +OHANO. [_Scornfully._] But a gazing globe shows men the way to their +heart's desire. + +NIJO. It reflects to men what they see into it. So does glory. + +OHANO. I can't believe that--now. + +NIJO. Behold what it has done to me! Already as a child I gazed at that +globe, longing to grasp the glory of which it was a symbol. It filled me +with a red madness, surged with an unbearable music, giving me a riotous +pain! Oh, it made me drunk for the wine of glory! + +OHANO. I know! I know! Now you talk as the man I thought you were. + +NIJO. I'm not a man. I'm dead. + +OHANO. But you have known the glory of life. Shall I never know the way +to it? [_Appealingly, to the globe._] The way--the way is what I seek! + +ZAMA. Look not so upon the evil ball, child. It do be enchanted for one +thousand years! [OHANO _moves nearer the globe_.] Go not so near, child! +Evil will fall--and you will be enslaved! + +OHANO. What care I, if it shows me the way? [_Hands outstretched to the +globe._ + +ZAMA. [_Appealingly to_ NIJO.] Sir, I pray you do be stopping her. She +do be always gazing at that golden ball; and slowly it do be drawing her +within its enchanted grasp. And it do be an enchanted ball! + +NIJO. Perhaps there's more to its enchantment than I thought. It claimed +me for a victim--and now it's freezing her life's warmth to the +falseness of Orient pearl. + +OHANO. [_Murmuring to the globe._] The way--the way! I must have the +way! + +NIJO. [_Swiftly drawing his sword._] I will not show you--but I'll save +you! [_Starts toward the gazing globe._ + +ZAMA. [_Barring his path._] Nijo, sir, what do you be doing? + +NIJO. [_With a flourish of his sword._] I kill the thing that freezes +another heart! + +ZAMA. That do mean ruin! It be an enchanted ball! + +NIJO. [_Brushing past_ ZAMA.] It will enchant no longer!! + +OHANO. No! No, Nijo! + +NIJO. [_Running up pedestal steps._] Yes!! + + [_With a mighty blow he strikes the gazing globe with his sword. + Frightened_, OHANO _shrinks to one side, facing right, as a + thunder-like crash follows the blow, and pieces of the globe tumble + to the ground--all but one piece that remains upon the pedestal. + Then from a moon off stage right shines a straight golden path + across the sea to the bit of gazing globe on the pedestal._ + +OHANO. [_Triumphantly._] The moon--The way! At last the way! From the +gazing globe--the golden path to the moon of glory. Now I am free! + + [_Rushes wildly down the moonlight path to the sea._ + +ZAMA. Stop her! + +NIJO. No, it is better to let her go. + +ZAMA. But the path do lead into the sea. It is death! Stop her!! +[_Starts forward._ + +NIJO. [_Restraining_ ZAMA.] No! In death her soul has found the only +way! + +CURTAIN + + + + +THE BOOR + +BY + +ANTON TCHEKOV + + +_The Boor_ is reprinted by special permission of Barrett H. Clark and of +Samuel French, publisher, New York City. All rights reserved. For +permission to perform, address Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, +New York City. + + +ANTON TCHEKOV + +Anton Tchekov, considered the foremost of contemporary Russian +dramatists, was born in 1860 at Taganrog, Russia. In 1880 he was +graduated from the Medical School of the University of Moscow. Ill +health soon compelled him to abandon his practice of medicine, and in +1887 he sought the south. In 1904, the year of the successful appearance +of his _Cherry Orchard_, he died in a village of the Black Forest in +Germany. + +As a dramatist, Tchekov has with deliberate intent cast off much of the +conventionalities of dramatic technic. In his longer plays especially, +like _The Sea Gull_, _Uncle Vanya_, and _Cherry Orchard_, he somewhat +avoids obvious struggles, time-worn commonplaces, well-prepared +climaxes, and seeks rather to spread out a panoramic canvas for our +contemplation. His chief aim is to show us humanity as he sees it. It is +his interest in humanity that gives him so high rank as a dramatist. + +His one-act plays, a form of drama unusually apt for certain intimate +aspects of Russian peasant life, are more regular in their technic than +his longer plays. Among the five or six shorter plays that Tchekov +wrote, _The Boor_ and _A Marriage Proposal_ are his best. In these plays +he shows the lighter side of Russian country life, infusing some of the +spirit of the great Gogol into his broad and somewhat farcical character +portrayals. With rare good grace, in these plays he appears to be asking +us to throw aside our restraint and laugh with him at the stupidity and +naivete, as well as good-heartedness, of the Russian people he knew so +well. + +_The Boor_ is a remarkably well-constructed one-act play, and is +probably the finest one-act play of the Russian school of drama. + + +PERSONS IN THE PLAY + + HELENA IVANOVNA POPOV, _a young widow, mistress of a country estate_ + GRIGORI STEPANOVITCH SMIRNOV, _proprietor of a country estate_ + LUKA, _servant of_ MRS. POPOV + + _A gardener._ _A coachman._ _Several workmen._ + + + + +THE BOOR + +TIME: _The present._ + + SCENE: _A well-furnished reception-room in_ MRS. POPOV'S _home_. + MRS. POPOV _is 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. 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. 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 receive no 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. The regiment is stationed in +Riblov--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, 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 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 so. Do +you understand? Oh, that his departed soul may see how I love him! I +know, it's no secret to you; he was often unjust toward me, cruel, +and--he wasn't faithful, but I shall be faithful to the grave and prove +to him how _I_ can 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 madam, what is it? In Heaven's name! + +MRS. POPOV. He loved Tobby so! He always drove him to the Kortschagins +or the Vlassovs. What a wonderful horse-man 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? I am at home to no one. + +LUKA. Yes, ma'am. [_He goes out, centre._ + +MRS. POPOV. [_Gazing at the photograph._] You shall see, Nikolai, 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 death, and you--you--you're not ashamed of yourself, +my dear monster! You quarrelled 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 it is a pressing matter. + +MRS. POPOV. I receive 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. The impudent----! + + [LUKA _goes out, centre_. + +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 enter a +convent. [_Meditatively._] Yes, a convent. + + [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, Grigori Stepanovitch Smirnov! I'm compelled 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 +roubles. Inasmuch as I have to pay 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 bought oats from me. + +MRS. POPOV. [_With a sigh, to_ LUKA.] Don't forget to give Tobby an +extra measure of oats. + + [LUKA _goes out_. + +MRS. POPOV. [_To_ SMIRNOV.] If Nikolai Michailovitch is indebted to you, +I shall, of course, pay you, but I am sorry, I haven't the money to-day. +To-morrow my manager will return 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 a 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 seize 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. [_He shrugs his shoulders._] And they expect me to +stand for all that. The toll-gatherer just now met me in the road and +asked me why I was always worrying. 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 not used to such language or 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! Do I have to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, have +I to pay the interest or not? The husband is dead and all that; the +manager is--the devil with him!--travelling somewhere. Now, tell me, +what am I to do? Shall I run away from my creditors in a balloon? Or +knock my head against a stone wall? If I call on Grusdev he chooses to +be "not at home," Iroschevitch has simply hidden himself, I have +quarrelled with Kurzin and came near throwing him out of the window, +Masutov is ill and this woman has--moods! Not one of them will pay up! +And all because I've spoiled them, because I'm an old whiner, dish-rag! +I'm too tender-hearted with them. But wait! I allow nobody to play +tricks with me, the devil with 'em all! I'll stay here and not budge +until she pays! Brr! How angry I am, how terribly angry I am! Every +tendon is trembling with anger, and I can hardly breathe! 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 on the point of +hanging himself, and she won't pay because she isn't in the mood to +discuss money matters. Woman's logic! That's why I never liked to talk +to women, and why I dislike doing 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 need only to see such a romantic creature +from a 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 my witness, +I'll get the 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 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. Something to 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 a guest. I'm a creditor. And there is no special costume +for creditors. + +LUKA. [_Entering with glass._] You take great 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 you, please to +cease disturbing my rest. + +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 at hand; wait until day after to-morrow. + +SMIRNOV. And I also had 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 if I haven't the money? + +SMIRNOV. So you are not going to pay immediately? You're not? + +MRS. POPOV. I cannot. + +SMIRNOV. Then I'll sit here until I get the money. [_He sits down._] 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 talking about stables, I'm asking you whether I have to +pay that interest to-morrow or not? + +MRS. POPOV. You have no idea how to treat a lady. + +SMIRNOV. Oh, yes, I have. + +MRS. POPOV. No, you have not. You are an ill-bred, vulgar person! +Respectable people don't speak so to ladies. + +SMIRNOV. How remarkable! How do you want one to speak to you? In French, +perhaps! Madame, je vous prie! Pardon me for having disturbed you. What +beautiful weather we are having to-day! And how this mourning becomes +you! [_He makes a low bow with mock ceremony._ + +MRS. POPOV. Not at all funny! I think it 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 have I fought +duels for women, twelve I jilted and nine jilted me. There was a time +when I played the fool, used honeyed language, bowed and scraped. I +loved, suffered, sighed to the moon, melted in love's torments. I loved +passionately, I loved to madness, loved 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 +kopeck! I am not speaking of present company, but of women in general; +from the tiniest to the greatest, they are 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 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 it is a masterpiece of +creation, 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 swings her train about and +tries to lead him by the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman, +and naturally you know woman's nature; tell me on your honor, have you +ever in your life seen a woman who was really true and faithful? Never! +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 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 sarcastically._] The man true and +faithful in love! Well, that is something _new_! [_Bitterly._] How can +you make such a statement? Men true and faithful! So long as we have +gone thus far, 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 worshipped him like a heathen. And what happened? +This best of men betrayed me in every possible way. After his death I +found his desk filled with love-letters. While he was alive he left me +alone for months--it is horrible even to 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 everything 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. Such a secret! So romantic! +Some knight will pass the castle, 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 so? + +SMIRNOV. Don't scream at me, please; I'm not the manager. Allow me to +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 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! + +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. What 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. What of it? Do you think I am afraid of you? + +SMIRNOV. And you think that because you are a romantic creature you can +insult me without being punished? I challenge you! + +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 I +am afraid of you? + +SMIRNOV. 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 the 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, 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 +one 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! + +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. +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 roubles. 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 well to shoot inside; let's go into the garden. + +SMIRNOV. Yes. I'll tell you now, I am going to shoot into the air. + +MRS. POPOV. That is too much! Why? + +SMIRNOV. Because--because. That's my business. + +MRS. POPOV. You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h, No, no, my dear sir, no +flinching! Please follow me. I won't rest until I've made a hole in that +head 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 he +likes me! [_She points to the door._] Go. + +SMIRNOV. [_Laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and +starts. At the door he stops a moment, gazing at her silently, then he +approaches her, hesitating._] 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._] Now, is it my +fault that you owe me money? [_Grasps the back of the chair, 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._] I'll 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 jilted, nine jilted 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 quickly to the door._ + +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 on to 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._] Why are you going? 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! Fall in love +like a schoolboy, throw 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 axe, the gardener with a rake, the coachman + with a pitchfork, and 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 + + + + +THE LAST STRAW + +BY + +BOSWORTH CROCKER + + +_The Last Straw_ is reprinted by special permission of Bosworth Crocker. +All rights reserved. For permission to perform, address the author, care +Society of American Dramatists and Composers, 148 West 45th Street, +New York City. + + +BOSWORTH CROCKER + +Bosworth Crocker was born March 2, 1882, in Surrey, England. While still +a child he was brought to the United States. He lives in New York City +and may be reached in care of the Society of American Dramatists and +Composers, 148 West 45th Street. + +In addition to _Pawns of War_ and _Stone Walls_, he has written a number +of one-act plays, _The Dog_, _The First Time_, _The Cost of a Hat_, _The +Hour Before_, _The Baby Carriage_, and _The Last Straw_. + +_The Last Straw_, produced by the Washington Square Players in New York +City, is an excellent one-act tragedy, based upon the psychological law +of suggestion. + + +CAST + + + FRIEDRICH BAUER, _janitor of the Bryn Mawr_ + MIENE, _his wife_ + KARL, _elder son, aged ten_ + FRITZI, _younger son, aged seven_ + JIM LANE, _a grocer boy_ + + + + +THE LAST STRAW[G] + + TIME: _The present day._ + + SCENE: _The basement of a large apartment-house in New York City._ + + SCENE: _The kitchen of the Bauer flat in the basement of the Bryn + Mawr. A window at the side gives on an area and shows the walk + above and the houses across the street. Opposite the windows is a + door to an inner room. Through the outer door, in the centre of the + back wall, a dumb-waiter and whistles to tenants can be seen. A + broken milk-bottle lies in a puddle of milk on the cement floor in + front of the dumb-waiter. To the right of the outer door, a + telephone; gas-range on which there are flat-irons heating and + vegetables cooking. To the left of the outer door is an old + sideboard; over it hangs a picture of Schiller. Near the centre of + the room, a little to the right, stands a kitchen table with four + chairs around it. Ironing-board is placed between the kitchen table + and the sink, a basket of dampened clothes under it. A large + calendar on the wall. An alarm-clock on the window-sill. Time: a + little before noon. The telephone rings_; MRS. BAUER _leaves her + ironing and goes to answer it_. + + +MRS. BAUER. No, Mr. Bauer's out yet. [_She listens through the +transmitter._] Thank you, Mrs. Mohler. [_Another pause._] I'll tell him +just so soon he comes in--yes, ma'am. + + [MRS. BAUER _goes back to her ironing. Grocer boy rushes into + basement, whistling; he puts down his basket, goes up to_ MRS. + BAUER'S _door and looks in_. + + +LANE. Say--where's the boss? + +MRS. BAUER. He'll be home soon, I--hope--Jim. What you want? + + [_He stands looking at her with growing sympathy._ + +LANE. Nothin'. Got a rag 'round here? Dumb-waiter's all wet.... Lot of +groceries for Sawyers. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Without lifting her eyes, mechanically hands him a mop +which hangs beside the door._] Here. + +LANE. What's the matter? + +MRS. BAUER. [_Dully._] Huh? + +LANE. [_Significantly._] Oh, I know. + +MRS. BAUER. What you know? + +LANE. About the boss. [MRS. BAUER _looks distressed_.] Heard your +friends across the street talkin'. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Bitterly._] Friends! + +LANE. Rotten trick to play on the boss, all right, puttin' that old maid +up to get him pinched. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Absently._] Was she an old maid? + +LANE. The cruelty-to-animals woman over there [_waves his +hand_]--regular old crank. Nies[H] put her up to it all right. + +MRS. BAUER. I guess it was his old woman. Nies ain't so bad. She's the +one. Because my two boys dress up a little on Sunday, she don't like it. + +LANE. Yes, she's sore because the boys told her the boss kicks their +dog. + +MRS. BAUER. He don't do nothin' of the sort--jus' drives it 'way from +the garbage-pails--that's all. We coulda had that dog took up long +ago--they ain't got no license. But Fritz--he's so easy--he jus' takes +it out chasin' the dog and hollerin'. + +LANE. That ain't no way. He ought to make the dog holler--good and +hard--once; then it'd keep out of here. + +MRS. BAUER. Don't you go to talkin' like that 'round my man. Look at all +this trouble we're in on account of a stray cat. + +LANE. I better get busy. They'll be callin' up the store in a minute. +That woman's the limit.... Send up the groceries in that slop, she'd +send them down again. High-toned people like her ought to keep maids. + + [_He mops out the lower shelf of the dumb-waiter, then looks at the + broken bottle and the puddle of milk inquiringly._ + +MRS. BAUER. [_Taking the mop away from him._] I'll clean that up. I +forgot--in all this trouble. + +LANE. Whose milk? + +MRS. BAUER. The Mohlers'. That's how it all happened. Somebody upset +their milk on the dumb-waiter and the cat was on the shelf lickin' it +up; my man, not noticin', starts the waiter up and the cat tries to jump +out; the bottle rolls off and breaks. The cat was hurt awful--caught in +the shaft. I don't see how it coulda run after that, but it did--right +into the street, right into that woman--Fritz after it. Then it fell +over. "You did that?" she says to Fritz. "Yes," he says, "I did that." +He didn't say no more, jus' went off, and then after a while they came +for him and---- [_She begins to cry softly._ + +LANE. Brace up; they ain't goin' to do anything to him.... [_Comes into +kitchen. Hesitatingly._] Say!... He didn't kick the cat--did he? + +MRS. BAUER. Who said so? + +LANE. Mrs. Nies--says she saw him from her window. + +MRS. BAUER. [_As though to herself._] I dunno. [_Excitedly._] Of course +he didn't kick that cat. [_Again, as though to herself._] Fritz is so +quick-tempered he mighta kicked it 'fore he knew what he was about. No +one'd ever know how good Fritz is unless they lived with him. He never +hurt no one and nothing except himself. + +LANE. Oh, I'm on to the boss. I never mind his hollerin'. + +MRS. BAUER. If you get a chance, bring me some butter for dinner--a +pound. + +LANE. All right. I'll run over with it in ten or fifteen minutes, soon +as I get rid of these orders out here in the wagon. + +MRS. BAUER. That'll do. + + [_She moves about apathetically, lays the cloth on the kitchen + table and begins to set it._ LANE _goes to the dumb-waiter, + whistles up the tube, puts the basket of groceries on the shelf of + the dumb-waiter, pulls rope and sends waiter up_. MRS. BAUER + _continues to set the table. Boys from the street suddenly swoop + into the basement and yell_. + +CHORUS OF BOYS' VOICES. Who killed the cat! Who killed the cat! + +LANE. [_Letting the rope go and making a dive for the boys._] I'll show +you, you---- + + [_They rush out_, MRS. BAUER _stands despairingly in the doorway + shaking her clasped hands_. + +MRS. BAUER. Those are Nies's boys. + +LANE. Regular toughs! Call the cop and have 'em pinched if they don't +stop it. + +MRS. BAUER. If my man hears them--you know--there'll be more trouble. + +LANE. The boss ought to make it hot for them. + +MRS. BAUER. Such trouble! + +LANE. [_Starts to go._] Well--luck to the boss. + +MRS. BAUER. There ain't no such thing as luck for us. + +LANE. Aw, come on.... + +MRS. BAUER. Everything's against us. First Fritz's mother dies. We named +the baby after her--Trude.... Then we lost Trude. That finished Fritz. +After that he began this hollerin' business. And now this here +trouble--just when things was goin' half-ways decent for the first time. +[_She pushes past him and goes to her ironing._ + +LANE. [_Shakes his head sympathetically and takes up his basket._] A +pound, you said? + +MRS. BAUER. Yes. + +LANE. All right. [_He starts off and then rushes back._] Here's the +boss comin', Mrs. Bauer. [_Rushes off again._ + +LANE'S VOICE. [_Cheerfully._] Hello, there! + +BAUER'S VOICE. [_Dull and strained._] Hello! + + [BAUER _comes in. His-naturally bright blue eyes are tired and + lustreless; his strung frame seems to have lost all vigor and + alertness; there in a look of utter despondency on his face._ + +MRS. BAUER. [_Closing the door after him._] They let you off? + +BAUER. [_With a hard little laugh._] Yes, they let me off--they let me +off with a fine all right. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Aghast._] They think you did it then. + +BAUER. [_Harshly._] The judge fined me, I tell you. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Unable to express her poignant sympathy._] Fined you!... +Oh, Fritz! [_She lays her hand on his shoulder._ + +BAUER. [_Roughly, to keep himself from, going to pieces._] That slop out +there ain't cleaned up yet. + +MRS. BAUER. I've been so worried. + +BAUER. [_With sudden desperation._] I can't stand it, I tell you. + +MRS. BAUER. Well, it's all over now, Fritz. + +BAUER. Yes, it's all over.... it's all up with me. + +MRS. BAUER. Fritz! + +BAUER. That's one sure thing. + +MRS. BAUER. You oughtn't to give up like this. + +BAUER. [_Pounding on the table._] I tell you I can't hold up my head +again. + +MRS. BAUER. Why, Fritz? + +BAUER. They've made me out guilty. The judge fined me. Fined me, Miene! +How is that? Can a man stand for that? The woman said I told her +myself--right out--that I did it. + +MRS. BAUER. The woman that had you--[_he winces as she hesitates_] took? + +BAUER. Damned---- + +MRS. BAUER. [_Putting her hand over his mouth._] Hush, Fritz. + +BAUER. Why will I hush, Miene? She said I was proud of the job. +[_Passionately raising his voice._] The damned interferin'---- + +MRS. BAUER. Don't holler, Fritz. It's your hollerin' that's made all +this trouble. + +BAUER. [_Penetrated by her words more and more._] My hollerin'!.... + + [The telephone rings; she answers it. + +MRS. BAUER. Yes, Mrs. Mohler, he's come in now.--Yes.--Won't after +dinner do?--All right.--Thank you, Mrs. Mohler. [_She hangs up the +receiver._] Mrs. Mohler wants you to fix her sink right after dinner. + +BAUER. I'm not goin' to do any more fixin' around here. + +MRS. BAUER. You hold on to yourself, Fritz; that's no way to talk; Mrs. +Mohler's a nice woman. + +BAUER. I don't want to see no more nice women. [_After a pause._] +Hollerin'!--that's what's the matter with me--hollerin', eh? Well, I've +took it all out in hollerin'. + +MRS. BAUER. They hear you and they think you've got no feelings. + +BAUER. [_In utter amazement at the irony of the situation._] And I was +goin' after the damned cat to take care of it. + +MRS. BAUER. Why didn't you tell the judge all about it? + +BAUER. They got me rattled among them. The lady was so soft and +pleasant--"He must be made to understand, your honor," she said to the +judge, "that dumb animals has feelin's, too, just as well as human +beings"--_Me_, Miene--made to understand that! I couldn't say nothin'. +My voice just stuck in my throat. + +MRS. BAUER. What's the matter with you! You oughta spoke up and told the +judge just how it all happened. + +BAUER. I said to myself; I'll go home and put a bullet through my +head--that's the best thing for me now. + +MRS. BAUER. [_With impatient unbelief._] Ach, Fritz, Fritz! + + [_Clatter of feet._ + +CHORUS OF VOICES. [_At the outer door._] Who killed the cat! Who killed +the cat! + + [BAUER _jumps up, pale and shaken with strange rage; she pushes him + gently back into his chair, opens the door, steps out for a moment, + then comes in and leaves the door open behind her_. + +BAUER. You see?... Even the kids ... I'm disgraced all over the place. + +MRS. BAUER. So long as you didn't hurt the cat---- + +BAUER. What's the difference? Everybody believes it. + +MRS. BAUER. No, they don't, Fritz. + +BAUER. You can't fool me, Miene. I see it in their eyes. They looked +away from me when I was comin' 'round the corner. Some of them kinder +smiled like--[_passes his hand over his head_]. Even the cop says to me +on the way over, yesterday: "Don't you put your foot in it any more'n +you have to." You see? He thought I did it all right. Everybody believes +it. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Putting towels away._] Well, then _let_ them believe +it.... The agent don't believe it. + +BAUER. I dunno. He'da paid my fine anyhow. + +MRS. BAUER. He gave you a good name. + +BAUER. [_With indignant derision._] He gave me a good name!... Haven't I +always kept this place all right since we been here? Afterward he said +to me: "I'm surprised at this business, Bauer, very much surprised." +That shows what he thinks. I told him it ain't true, I didn't mean to +hurt it. I saw by his eyes he didn't believe me. + +MRS. BAUER. Well, don't you worry any more now. + +BAUER. [_To himself._] Hollerin'! + +MRS. BAUER. [_Shuts the door._] Well, now, holler a little if it does +you good. + +BAUER. Nothin's goin' to do me good. + +MRS. BAUER. You just put it out of your mind. [_The telephone rings. She +answers it._] Yes, but he can't come now, Mrs. McAllister. He'll be up +this afternoon. + + [_She hangs up the receiver._ + +BAUER. And I ain't goin' this afternoon--nowhere. + +MRS. BAUER. It's Mrs. McAllister. Somethin's wrong with her +refrigerator--the water won't run off, she says. + +BAUER. They can clean out their own drain-pipes. + +MRS. BAUER. You go to work and get your mind off this here business. + +BAUER. [_Staring straight ahead of him._] I ain't goin' 'round among the +people in this house ... to have them lookin' at me ... disgraced like +this. + +MRS. BAUER. You want to hold up your head and act as if nothin's +happened. + +BAUER. Nobody spoke to me at the dumb-waiter when I took off the garbage +and paper this morning. Mrs. Mohler always says something pleasant. + +MRS. BAUER. You just think that because you're all upset. [_The +telephone rings; she goes to it and listens._] Yes, ma'am, I'll see. +Fritz, have you any fine wire? Mrs. McAllister thinks she might try and +fix the drain with it--till you come up. + +BAUER. I got no wire. + +MRS. BAUER. Mr. Bauer'll fix it--right after dinner, Mrs. McAllister. +[_Impatiently._] He can't find the wire this minute--soon's he eats his +dinner. + +BAUER. [_Doggedly._] You'll see.... + +MRS. BAUER. [_Soothingly._] Come now, Fritz, give me your hat. [_She +takes his hat from him._ + +VOICES IN THE STREET. [_Receding from the front area._] Who killed the +cat! Who killed the cat! + + [BAUER _rushes toward the window in a fury of excitement_. + +BAUER. [_Shouting at the top of his voice._] _Verdammte_ loafers! +_Schweine!_ + +MRS. BAUER. [_Goes up to him._] Fritz! Fritz! + +BAUER. [_Collapses and drops into chair._] You hear 'em. + +MRS. BAUER. Don't pay no attention, then they'll get tired. + +BAUER. Miene, we must go away. I can't stand it here no longer. + +MRS. BAUER. But there's not such another good place, Fritz--and the +movin'.... + +BAUER. I say I can't stand it. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Desperately._] It ... it would be just the same any other +place. + +BAUER. Just the same? + +MRS. BAUER. Yes, something'd go wrong anyhow. + +BAUER. You think I'm a regular Jonah. + + [_He shakes his head repeatedly in the affirmative, as though + wholly embracing her point of view._ + +MRS. BAUER. Folks don't get to know you. They hear you hollerin' 'round +and they think you beat the children and kick the dogs and cats. + +BAUER. Do I ever lick the children when they don't need it? + +MRS. BAUER. Not Fritzi. + +BAUER. You want to spoil Karl. I just touch him with the strap once, a +little--like this [_illustrates with a gesture_] to scare him, and he +howls like hell. + +MRS. BAUER. Yes, and then he don't mind you no more because he knows you +don't mean it. + +BAUER. [_To himself._] That's the way it goes ... a man's own wife and +children ... + +MRS. BAUER. [_Attending to the dinner. Irritably._] Fritz, if you would +clean that up out there--and Mrs. Carroll wants her waste-basket. You +musta forgot to send it up again. + +BAUER. All right. + + [_He goes out and leaves the door open. She stands her flat-iron on + the ledge of the range to cool and puts her ironing-board away, + watching him at the dumb-waiter while he picks up the glass and + cleans up the milk on the cement floor. He disappears for a moment, + then he comes in again, goes to a drawer and takes out rags and a + bottle of polish._ + +MRS. BAUER. [_Pushing the clothes-basket out of the way._] This ain't +cleanin' day, Fritz. + +BAUER. [_Dully, putting the polish back into the drawer._] That's so. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Comforting him._] You've got to eat a good dinner and then +go up-stairs and fix that sink for Mrs. Mohler and the drain for Mrs. +McAllister. + +BAUER. [_In a tense voice._] I tell you I can't stand it.... I tell you, +Miene.... + +MRS. BAUER. What now, Fritz? + +BAUER. People laugh in my face. [_Nods in the direction of the street._] +Frazer's boy standin' on the stoop calls his dog away when it runs up to +me like it always does. + +MRS. BAUER. Dogs know better'n men who's good to them. + +BAUER. He acted like he thought I'd kick it. + +MRS. BAUER. You've got all kinds of foolishness in your head now.... You +sent up Carroll's basket? + +BAUER. No. + +MRS. BAUER. Well---- [_She checks herself._ + +BAUER. All right. [_He gets up._ + +MRS. BAUER. It's settin' right beside the other dumb-waiter, [_He goes +out._] Oh, Gott!--Oh, Gott!--Oh, Gott! + + [_Enter_ KARL, _and_ FRITZI. FRITZI _is crying_. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Running to them._] What's the matter? + + [_She hushes them and carefully closes the door._ + +KARL. The boys make fun of us; they mock us. + +FRITZI. They mock us--"Miau! Miau!" they cry, and then they go like +this---- + + [FRITZI _imitates kicking and breaks out crying afresh_. + +MRS. BAUER. Hush, Fritzi, you mustn't let your father hear. + +FRITZI. He'd make them shut up. + +KARL. I don't want to go to school this afternoon. + + [_He doubles his fists._ + +MRS. BAUER. [_Turning on him fiercely._] Why not? [_In an undertone._] +You talk that way before your little brother.--Have you no sense? + +FRITZI. [_Beginning to whimper._] I d-d-d-on't want to go to school this +afternoon. + +MRS. BAUER. You just go 'long to school and mind your own business. + +KARL _and_ FRITZI. [_Together._] But the boys.... + +MRS. BAUER. They ain't a-goin' to keep it up forever. Don't you answer +them. Just go 'long together and pay no attention. + +KARL. Then they get fresher and fresher. + +FRITZI. [_Echoing_ KARL.] Yes, then they get fresher and fresher. + + [MRS. BAUER _begins to take up the dinner. The sound of footfalls + just outside the door is heard._ + +MRS. BAUER. Go on now, hang up your caps and get ready for your dinners. + +FRITZI. I'm going to tell my papa. [_Goes to inner door._ + +MRS. BAUER. For God's sake, Fritzi, shut up. You mustn't tell no one. +Papa'd be disgraced all over. + +KARL. [_Coming up to her._] Disgraced? + +MRS. BAUER. Hush! + +KARL. Why disgraced? + +MRS. BAUER. Because there's liars, low-down, snoopin' liars in the +world. + +KARL. Who's lied, mama? + +MRS. BAUER. The janitress across the street. + +KARL. Mrs. Nies? + +FRITZI. [_Calling out._] Henny Nies is a tough. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Looking toward the outer door anxiously and shaking her +head threateningly at_ FRITZI.] I give you somethin' if you don't stop +hollerin' out like that. + +KARL. Who'd she lie to? + +MRS. BAUER. Never mind. Go 'long now. It's time you begin to eat. + +KARL. What'd she lie about? + +MRS. BAUER. [_Warningly._] S-s-sh! Papa'll be comin' in now in a minute. + +KARL. It was Henny Nies set the gang on to us. I coulda licked them all +if I hadn't had to take care of Fritzi. + +MRS. BAUER. You'll get a lickin' all right if you don't keep away from +Henny Nies. + +KARL. Well--if they call me names--and say _my_ father's been to the +station-house for killing a cat...? + +FRITZI. Miau! Miau! Miau! + +MRS. BAUER. Hold your mouth. + +FRITZI. [_Swaggering._] My father never was in jail--was he, mama? + +KARL. Course not. + +MRS. BAUER. [_To_ FRITZI.] Go, wash your hands, Fritzi. + + [_She steers him to the door of the inner room. He exits._ + +MRS. BAUER. [_Distressed._] Karl ... + +KARL. [_Turning to his mother._] Was he, mama? + +MRS. BAUER. Papa don't act like he used to. Sometimes I wonder what's +come over him. Of course it's enough to ruin any man's temper, all the +trouble we've had. + +CHORUS OF VOICES. [_From the area by the window._] Who killed the cat! +Who killed the cat! + + [_Sound of feet clattering up the area steps._ FRITZI _rushes in, + flourishing a revolver_. + +FRITZI. I shoot them, mama. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Grabbing the revolver._] _Mein Gott!_ Fritzi! Papa's +pistol! [_She examines it carefully._] You ever touch that again and +I'll ... [_She menaces him._ + +FRITZI. [_Sulkily._] I'll save up my money and buy me one. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Smiling a little to herself._] I see you buyin' one. +[_Carries revolver into inner room._ + +FRITZI. [_In a loud, voice and as though shooting at_ KARL.] Bang! Bang! +Bang! + + [KARL _strikes at_ FRITZI; FRITZI _dodges_. + +KARL. [_To his mother as she re-enters._] Trouble with Fritzi is he +don't mind me any more. + +MRS. BAUER. You wash your dirty hands and face this minute--d'you hear +me, Fritzi! + +FRITZI. [_Looking at his hands._] That's ink-stains. I got the highest +mark in spelling to-day. Capital H-e-n-n-y, capital N-i-e-s--Henny Nies, +a bum. + + [MRS. BAUER _makes a rush at him, and he runs back into the inner + room_. + +KARL. [_Sitting down beside the table._] Do we have to go to school this +afternoon? + +MRS. BAUER. You have to do what you always do. + +KARL. Can't we stay home?... + +MRS. BAUER. [_Fiercely._] Why? Why? + +KARL. [_Sheepishly._] I ain't feelin' well. + +MRS. BAUER. Karlchen!... _schaem dich!_ + +KARL. Till the boys forget.... + +MRS. BAUER. Papa'd know somethin' was wrong right away. That'd be the +end. You mustn't act as if anything was different from always. + +KARL. [_Indignantly._] Sayin' _my_ father's been to jail! + +MRS. BAUER. Karl.... + +KARL. Papa'd make them stop. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Panic-stricken._] Karl, don't you tell papa nothing. + +KARL. Not tell papa? + +MRS. BAUER. No. + +KARL. Why not tell papa? + +MRS. BAUER. Because---- + +KARL. Yes, mama? + +MRS. BAUER. Because he was arrested yesterday. + +KARL. [SHOCKED.] What for, mama? Why was he---- + +MRS. BAUER. For nothing.... It was all a lie. + +KARL. Well--what was it, mama? + +MRS. BAUER. The cat got hurt in the dumb-waiter--papa didn't mean +to--then they saw papa chasin' it--then it died. + +KARL. Why did papa chase it? + +MRS. BAUER. To see how it hurt itself. + +KARL. Whose cat? + +MRS. BAUER. The stray cat. + +KARL. The little black cat? Is Blacky dead? + +MRS. BAUER. Yes, he died on the sidewalk. + +KARL. Where was we? + +MRS. BAUER. You was at school. + +KARL. Papa didn't want us to keep Blacky. + +MRS. BAUER. So many cats and dogs around.... + +FRITZI. [_Wailing at the door._] Blacky was my cat. + +MRS. BAUER. S-s-h! What do you know about Blacky? + +FRITZI. I was listening. Why did papa kill Blacky? + +MRS. BAUER. Hush! + +FRITZI. Why was papa took to jail? + +MRS. BAUER. Fritzi! If papa was to hear.... + + [MRS. BAUER _goes out_. + +FRITZI. [_Sidling up to_ KARL.] Miau! Miau! + +KARL. You shut up that. Didn't mama tell you? + +FRITZI. When I'm a man I'm going to get arrested. I'll shoot Henny Nies. + +KARL. [_Contemptuously._] Yes, you'll do a lot of shooting. + + [FRITZI _punches_ KARL _in back_. + +KARL. [_Striking at_ FRITZI.] You're as big a tough as Henny Nies. + +FRITZI. [_Proud of this alleged likeness._] I'm going to be a man just +like my father; I'll holler and make them stand around. + +KARL. [_With conviction._] What you need is a good licking. + + [_Telephone rings_; KARL _goes to it_. + +KARL. No, ma'am, we're just going to eat now. + +FRITZI. [_Sits down beside the table._] Blacky was a nice cat; she +purred just like a steam-engine. + +KARL. Mama told you not to bring her in. + +FRITZI. Papa said I could. + + [_There is the sound of footfalls._ BAUER _and his wife come in and + close the door behind them_. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Putting the dinner on the table._] Come, children. [_To_ +BAUER.] Sit down, Fritz. + + [_She serves the dinner._ KARL _pulls_ FRITZI _out of his father's + chair and pushes him into his own; then he takes his place next to + his mother_. + +MRS. BAUER. [_To_ BAUER, _who sits looking at his food_.] Eat somethin', +Friedrich. [_She sits down._ + +BAUER. I can't eat nothin'. I'm full up to here. + + [_He touches his throat._ + +MRS. BAUER. If you haven't done nothin' wrong, why do you let it worry +you so? + + [_Children are absorbed in eating._ + +FRITZI. [_Suddenly._] Gee, didn't Blacky like liver! + + [MRS. BAUER _and_ KARL _look at him warningly_. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Fiercely._] You eat your dinner. + +BAUER. [_Affectionately, laying his hand on_ FRITZI'S _arm_.] Fritzi. + +FRITZI. [_Points toward the inner room._] I'm going to have a gun, too, +when I'm a man. + + [BAUER _follows_ FRITZI'S _gesture and falls to musing. There is a + look of brooding misery on his face._ KARL _nudges_ FRITZI + _warningly and watches his father furtively_. BAUER _sits + motionless, staring straight ahead of him_. + + +MRS. BAUER. [_To_ BAUER.] Now drink your coffee. + +BAUER. Don't you see, Miene, don't you see?... Nothing makes it right +now; no one believes me--no one believes--no one. + +MRS. BAUER. What do you care, if you didn't do it? + +BAUER. I care like hell. + +MRS. BAUER. [_With a searching took at her husband._] Fritzi, when you +go on like this, people won't believe you didn't do it. You ought to act +like you don't care.... [_She fixes him with a beseeching glance._] If +you _didn't_ do it. + + [BAUER _looks at his wife as though a hidden meaning to her words + had suddenly bitten into his mind_. + +BAUER. [_As though to himself._] A man can't stand that. I've gone +hungry ... I've been in the hospital ... I've worked when I couldn't +stand up hardly.... + +MRS. BAUER. [_Coaxingly._] Drink your coffee, drink it now, Fritz, while +it's hot. + + [_He tries to swallow a little coffee and then puts down the cup._ + +BAUER. I've never asked favors of no man. + +MRS. BAUER. Well, an' if you did ... + +BAUER. I've always kept my good name ... + +MRS. BAUER. If a man hasn't done nothin' wrong it don't matter. Just go +ahead like always--if---- + +BAUER. [_Muttering._] If--if---- + +MRS. BAUER. [_To the boys._] Get your caps now, it's time to go to +school. + + [KARL _gets up, passes behind his father and beckons to_ FRITZI _to + follow him_. + +FRITZI. [_Keeping his seat._] Do we have to go to school? + +BAUER. [_Suddenly alert._] Why, what's the matter? + +FRITZI. The boys---- + +MRS. BAUER. [_Breaking in._] Fritzi! + + [_The boys go into the inner room._ BAUER _collapses again_. + +MRS. BAUER. [_Looking at him strangely._] Fritzi--if you didn't---- + +BAUER. I can't prove nothing--and no one believes me. [_A pause. She is +silent under his gaze._] No one! [_He waits for her to speak. She sits +with averted face. He sinks into a dull misery. The expression in his +eyes changes from beseeching to despair as her silence continues, and he +cries out hoarsely._] No one! Even if you kill a cat--what's a cat +against a man's life! + +MRS. BAUER. [_Tensely, her eyes fastened on his._] But you _didn't_ kill +it? + + [_A pause._ + +MRS. BAUER. [_In a low, appealing voice._] Did you? Fritz? Did you? + + [BAUER _gets up slowly. He stands very still and stares at his + wife._ + +KARL'S VOICE. Mama, Fritzi's fooling with papa's gun. + + [_Both children rush into the room._ + +KARL. You oughta lock it up. + +MRS. BAUER. [_To_ FRITZI.] Bad boy! [_To_ KARL.] Fritzi wants to kill +himself--that's what. Go on to school. + + [_Boys run past area._ + +VOICES. Who killed the cat! Who killed the cat! + + [_At the sound of the voices the boys start back. Instinctively_ + MRS. BAUER _lays a protecting hand on each. She looks around at her + husband with a sudden anxiety which she tries to conceal from the + children, who whisper together._ BAUER _rises heavily to his feet + and walks staggeringly toward the inner room_. + +MRS. BAUER. [_In a worried tone, as the pushes the children out._] Go on +to school. + + [_At the threshold of the inner room_ BAUER _stops, half turns back + with distorted features, and then hurries in. The door slams behind + him._ MRS. BAUER _closes the outer door, turns, takes a step as + though to follow_ BAUER, _hesitates, then crosses to the kitchen + table and starts to clear up the dishes. The report of a revolver + sounds from the inner room. Terror-stricken_, MRS. BAUER _rushes + in_. + +MRS. BAUER'S VOICE. Fritz! Fritz! Speak to me! Look at me, Fritz! You +didn't do it, Fritz! I know you didn't do it! + + [_Sound of low sobbing.... After a few seconds the telephone + bell.... It rings continuously while the Curtain slowly falls._ + + + + +MANIKIN AND MINIKIN + +(A BISQUE-PLAY) + +BY + +ALFRED KREYMBORG + + +_Manikin and Minikin_ is reprinted by special permission of Alfred +Kreymborg. All rights reserved. For permission to perform, address +Norman Lee Swartout, Summit, New Jersey. + + +ALFRED KREYMBORG + +Alfred Kreymborg, one of the foremost advocates of free-verse rhythmical +drama, was born in New York City, 1883. He founded and edited _The +Globe_ while it was in existence; and under its auspices issued the +first anthology of imagist verse (Ezra Pound's Collection, 1914). In +July, 1915, he founded _Others, a Magazine of the New Verse_, and _The +Other Players_ in March, 1918, an organization devoted exclusively to +American plays in poetic form. At present Mr. Kreymborg is in Italy, +launching a new international magazine, _The Broom_. + +Mr. Kreymborg has been active in both poetry and drama. He has edited +several anthologies of free verse, and has published his own free verse +as _Mushrooms_ and _The Blood of Things_. His volume of plays, all in +free rhythmical verse, is _Plays for Poem--Mimes_. The most popular +plays in this volume are _Lima Beans_, and _Manikin and Minikin_. + +_Manikin and Minikin_ aptly exemplifies Mr. Kreymborg's idea of +rhythmical, pantomimic drama. It is a semi-puppet play in which there +are dancing automatons to an accompaniment of rhythmic lines in place of +music. Mr. Kreymborg is a skilled musician and he composes his lines +with musical rhythm in mind. His lines should be read accordingly. + + + + +MANIKIN AND MINIKIN + +(A BISQUE-PLAY) + + + _Seen through an oval frame, one of the walls of a parlor. The + wall-paper is a conventionalized pattern. Only the shelf of the + mantelpiece shows. At each end, seated on pedestals turned slightly + away from one another, two aristocratic bisque figures, a boy in + delicate cerise and a girl in cornflower blue. Their shadows join + in a grotesque silhouette. In the centre, an ancient clock whose + tick acts as the metronome for the sound of their high voices. + Presently the mouths of the figures open and shut, after the mode + of ordinary conversation._ + +SHE. Manikin! + +HE. Minikin? + +SHE. That fool of a servant has done it again. + +HE. I should say, she's more than a fool. + +SHE. A meddlesome busybody---- + +HE. A brittle-fingered noddy! + +SHE. Which way are you looking? What do you see? + +HE. The everlasting armchair, +the everlasting tiger-skin, +the everlasting yellow, green, and purple books, +the everlasting portrait of milord---- + +SHE. Oh, these Yankees!--And I see +the everlasting rattan rocker, +the everlasting samovar, +the everlasting noisy piano, +the everlasting portrait of milady---- + + +HE. Simpering spectacle! + +SHE. What does she want, always dusting? + +HE. I should say--that is, I'd consider the thought---- + +SHE. You'd consider a lie--oh, Manikin--you're trying to defend her! + +HE. I'm not defending her---- + +SHE. You're trying to---- + +HE. I'm not trying to---- + +SHE. Then, what are you trying to---- + +HE. Well, I'd venture to say, if she'd only stay away some morning---- + +SHE. That's what I say in my dreams! + +HE. She and her broom---- + +SHE. Her everlasting broom---- + +HE. She wouldn't be sweeping---- + +SHE. Every corner, every cranny, every crevice---- + +HE. And the dust wouldn't move---- + +SHE. Wouldn't crawl, wouldn't rise, wouldn't fly---- + +HE. And cover us all over---- + +SHE. Like a spider-web--ugh! + +HE. Everlasting dust has been most of our life---- + +SHE. Everlasting years and years of dust! + +HE. You on your lovely blue gown---- + +SHE. And you on your manly pink cloak. + +HE. If she didn't sweep, we wouldn't need dusting---- + +SHE. Nor need taking down, I should say---- + +HE. With her stupid, clumsy hands---- + +SHE. Her crooked, monkey paws---- + +HE. And we wouldn't need putting back---- + +SHE. I with my back to you---- + +HE. I with my back to you. + +SHE. It's been hours, days, weeks---- +by the sound of that everlasting clock---- +and the coming of day and the going of day---- +since I saw you last! + +HE. What's the use of the sun +with its butterfly wings of light-- +what's the use of a sun made to see by-- +if I can't see you! + +SHE. Manikin! + +HE. Minikin? + +SHE. Say that again! + +HE. Why should I say it again--don't you know? + +SHE. I know, but sometimes I doubt---- + +HE. Why do you, what do you doubt? + +SHE. Please say it again! + +HE. What's the use of a sun---- + +SHE. What's the use of a sun? + +HE. That was made to see by---- + +SHE. That was made to see by? + +HE. If I can't see you! + +SHE. Oh, Manikin! + +HE. Minikin? + +SHE. If you hadn't said that again, my doubt would have filled a +balloon. + +HE. Your doubt--which doubt, what doubt? + +SHE. And although I can't move, although I can't move unless somebody +shoves me, one of these days when the sun isn't here, I would have +slipped over the edge of this everlasting shelf---- + +HE. Minikin! + +SHE. And fallen to that everlasting floor into so many fragments, they'd +never paste Minikin together again! + +HE. Minikin, Minikin! + +SHE. They'd have to set another here--some Minikin, I'm assured! + +HE. Why do you chatter so, prattle so? + +SHE. Because of my doubt--because I'm as positive as I am that I sit +here with my knees in a knot--that that human creature--loves you. + +HE. Loves me? + +SHE. And you her! + +HE. Minikin! + +SHE. When she takes us down she holds you much longer. + +HE. Minikin! + +SHE. I'm sufficiently feminine--and certainly old enough--I and my +hundred and seventy years--I can see, I can feel by her manner of +touching me and her flicking me with her mop--the creature hates +me--she'd like to drop me, that's what she would! + +HE. Minikin! + +SHE. Don't you venture defending her! Booby--you don't know live women! +When I'm in the right position I can note how she fondles you, pets you +like a parrot with her finger-tip, blows a pinch of dust from your eye +with her softest breath, holds you off at arm's length and fixes you +with her spider look, actually holds you against her cheek--her +rose-tinted cheek--before she releases you! If she didn't turn us apart +so often, I wouldn't charge her with insinuation; but now I know she +loves you--she's as jealous as I am--and poor dead me in her live power! +Manikin? */ + +HE. Minikin? + +SHE. If you could see me--the way you see her---- + +HE. But I see you--see you always--see only you! + +SHE. If you could see me the way you see her, you'd still love me, you'd +love me the way you do her! Who made me what I am? Who dreamed me in +motionless clay? + +HE. Minikin? + +SHE. Manikin? + +HE. Will you listen to me? + +SHE. No! + +HE. Will you listen to me? + +SHE. No. + +HE. Will you listen to me? + +SHE. Yes. + +HE. I love you---- + +SHE. No! + +HE. I've always loved you---- + +SHE. No. + +HE. You doubt that? + +SHE. Yes! + +HE. You doubt that? + +SHE. Yes. + +HE. You doubt that? + +SHE. No. You've always loved me--yes--but you don't love me now--no--not +since that rose-face encountered your glance--no. + +HE. Minikin! + +SHE. If I could move about the way she can-- +if I had feet-- +dainty white feet which could twinkle and twirl-- +I'd dance you so prettily +you'd think me a sun butterfly-- +if I could let down my hair +and prove you it's longer than larch hair-- +if I could raise my black brows +or shrug my narrow shoulders, +like a queen or a countess-- +if I could turn my head, tilt my head, +this way and that, like a swan-- +ogle my eyes, like a peacock, +till you'd marvel, +they're green, nay, violet, nay, yellow, nay, gold-- +if I could move, only move +just the moment of an inch-- +you would see what I could be! +It's a change, it's a change, +you men ask of women! + +HE. A change? + +SHE. You're eye-sick, heart-sick +of seeing the same foolish porcelain thing, +a hundred years old, +a hundred and fifty, +and sixty, and seventy-- +I don't know how old I am! + +HE. Not an exhalation older than I--not an inhalation younger! Minikin? + +SHE. Manikin? + +HE. Will you listen to me? + +SHE. No! + +HE. Will you listen to me? + +SHE. No! + +HE. Will you listen to me? + +SHE. Yes. + +HE. I don't love that creature---- + +SHE. You do. + +HE. I can't love that creature---- + +SHE. You can. + +HE. Will you listen to me? + +SHE. Yes-- +if you'll tell me-- +if you'll prove me-- +so my last particle of dust-- +the tiniest speck of a molecule-- +the merest electron---- + +HE. Are you listening? + +SHE. Yes! + +HE. To begin with-- +I dislike, suspect, deplore-- +I had best say, feel compassion +for what is called humanity-- +or the animate, as opposed to the inanimate---- + +SHE. You say that so wisely-- +you're such a philosopher-- +say it again! + +HE. That which is able to move +can never be steadfast, you understand? +Let us consider the creature at hand +to whom you have referred +with an undue excess of admiration +adulterated with an undue excess of envy---- + +SHE. Say that again! + +HE. To begin with-- +I can only see part of her at once. +She moves into my vision; +she moves out of my vision; +she is doomed to be wayward. + +SHE. Yes, but that which you see of her---- + +HE. Is ugly, commonplace, unsightly. +Her face a rose-face? +It's veined with blood and the skin of it wrinkles-- +her eyes are ever so near to a hen's-- +her movements, +if one would pay such a gait with regard-- +her gait is unspeakably ungainly-- +her hair---- + +SHE. Her hair? + +HE. Luckily I've never seen it down-- +I dare say it comes down in the dark, +when it looks, most assuredly, like tangled weeds. + +SHE. Again, Manikin, that dulcet phrase! + +HE. Even were she beautiful, +she were never so beautiful as thou! + +SHE. Now you're a poet, Manikin! + +HE. Even were she so beautiful as thou--lending her your eyes, and the +exquisite head which holds them--like a cup two last beads of wine, like +a stone two last drops of rain, green, nay, violet, nay, yellow, nay, +gold---- + +SHE. Faster, Manikin! + +HE. I can't, Minikin! +Words were never given to man +to phrase such a one as you are-- +inanimate symbols +can never embrace, embody, hold +the animate dream that you are-- +I must cease. + +SHE. Manikin! + +HE. And even were she so beautiful as thou, +she couldn't stay beautiful. + +SHE. Stay beautiful? + +HE. Humans change with each going moment. +That is a gray-haired platitude. +Just as I can see that creature +only when she touches my vision, +so I could only see her once, were she beautiful-- +at best, twice or thrice-- +you're more precious than when you came! + +SHE. And you! + +HE. Human pathos penetrates still deeper +when one determines their inner life, +as we've pondered their outer. +Their inner changes far more desperately. + +SHE. How so, wise Manikin? + +HE. They have what philosophy terms moods, +and moods are more pervious to modulation +than pools to idle breezes. +These people may say, to begin with-- +I love you. +This may be true, I'm assured-- +as true as when _we_ say, I love you. +But they can only say, +I love you, +so long as the mood breathes, +so long as the breezes blow, +so long as water remains wet. +They are honest-- +they mean what they say-- +passionately, tenaciously, tragically-- +but when the mood languishes, +they have to say, +if it be they are honest-- +I do not love you. +Or they have to say, +I love you, +to somebody else. + +SHE. To somebody else? + +HE. Now, you and I-- +we've said that to each other-- +we've had to say it +for a hundred and seventy years-- +and we'll have to say it always. + +SHE. Say always again! + +HE. The life of an animate-- + +SHE. Say always again! + +HE. Always! +The life of an animate +is a procession of deaths +with but a secret sorrowing candle, +guttering lower and lower, +on the path to the grave-- +the life of an inanimate +is as serenely enduring-- +as all still things are. + +SHE. Still things? + +HE. Recall our childhood in the English museum-- +ere we were moved, +from place to place, +to this dreadful Yankee salon-- +do you remember +that little old Greek tanagra +of the girl with a head like a bud-- +that little old Roman medallion +of the girl with a head like a---- + +SHE. Manikin, Manikin-- +were they so beautiful as I-- +did you love them, too-- +why do you bring them back? + +HE. They were not so beautiful as thou-- +I spoke of them-- +recalled, designated them-- +well, because they were ages old-- +and--and---- + +SHE. And--and? + +HE. And we might live as long as they-- +as they did and do! +I hinted their existence +because they're not so beautiful as thou, +so that by contrast and deduction---- + +SHE. And deduction? + +HE. You know what I'd say---- + +SHE. But say it again! + +HE. I love you. + +SHE. Manikin? + +HE. Minikin? + +SHE. Then even though that creature has turned us +apart, +can you see me? + +HE. I can see you. + +SHE. Even though you haven't seen me +for hours, days, weeks-- +with your dear blue eyes-- +you can see me-- +with your hidden ones? + +HE. I can see you. + +SHE. Even though you are still, +and calm, and smooth, +and lovely outside-- +you aren't still and calm +and smooth and lovely inside? + +HE. Lovely, yes--but not still and calm and smooth! + +SHE. Which way are you looking? What do you see? + +HE. I look at you. I see you. + +SHE. And if that fool of a servant--oh, Manikin--suppose she should +break the future--our great, happy centuries ahead--by dropping me, +throwing me down? + +HE. I should take an immediate step off this everlasting shelf-- + +SHE. But you cannot move! + +HE. The good wind would give me a blow! + +SHE. Now you're a punster! And what would your fragments do? + +HE. They would do what Manikin did. + +SHE. Say that again! + +HE. They'd do what Manikin did.... + +SHE. Manikin? + +HE. Minikin? + +SHE. Shall I tell you something? + +HE. Tell me something. + +SHE. Are you listening? + +HE. With my inner ears. + +SHE. I wasn't jealous of that woman---- + +HE. You weren't jealous? + +SHE. I wanted to hear you talk---- + +HE. You wanted to hear me talk? + +SHE. You talk so wonderfully! + +HE. Do I, indeed? What a booby I am! + +SHE. And I wanted to hear you say---- + +HE. You cheat, you idler, you---- + +SHE. Woman---- + +HE. Dissembler! + +SHE. Manikin? + +HE. Minikin? + +SHE. Everlastingly? + +HE. Everlastingly. + +SHE. Say it again! + +HE. I refuse---- + +SHE. You refuse? + +HE. Well---- + +SHE. Well? + +HE. You have ears outside your head--I'll say that for you--but they'll +never hear--what your other ears hear! + +SHE. Say it--down one of the ears--outside my head? + +HE. I refuse. + +SHE. You refuse? + +HE. Leave me alone. + +SHE. Manikin? + +HE. I can't say it! + +SHE. Manikin! */ + + [_The clock goes on ticking for a moment. Its mellow chimes strike + the hour._ + +CURTAIN + + + + +WHITE DRESSES + +(A TRAGEDY OF NEGRO LIFE) + +BY + +PAUL GREENE + + +_White Dresses_ is reprinted by special permission of Professor +Frederick H. Koch. Copyrighted by the Carolina Playmakers, Inc., Chapel +Hill, North Carolina. For permission to produce, address Frederick H. +Koch, director. + + +PAUL GREENE + +Paul Greene, one of the most promising of the University of North +Carolina Playmakers, was born in 1894 on a farm near Lillington, North +Carolina. He has received his education at Buies Creek Academy and at +the University of North Carolina, from which he received his bachelor's +degree in 1921. He saw service with the A. E. F. in France, with the +105th United States Engineers. + +In addition to _White Dresses_, Mr. Greene has written a number of +one-act plays: _The Last of the Lowries_ (to be included in a +forthcoming volume of Carolina Folk-Plays, published by Henry Holt & +Company), _The Miser_, _The Old Man of Edenton_, _The Lord's Will_, +_Wreck P'int_, _Granny Boling_ (in _The Drama_ for August-September, +1921). The first three plays named above were produced originally by the +Carolina Playmakers at Chapel Hill. + +_White Dresses_ is an excellent example of folk-play of North Carolina. +This play was written in English 31, the course in dramatic composition +at the University of North Carolina conducted by Professor Frederick H. +Koch. "The Aim of the Carolina Playmakers," says Professor Koch, "is to +build up a genuinely native drama, a fresh expression of the folk-life +in North Carolina, drawn from the rich background of local tradition and +from the vigorous new life of the present day. In these simple plays we +hope to contribute something of lasting value in the making of a new +folk-theatre and a new folk-literature." + +Out of the many conflicts of American life, past and present, Mr. Greene +sees possibilities for a great native drama. _White Dresses_ presents a +fundamental aspect of the race problem in America. + + +CHARACTERS + + CANDACE MCLEAN, _an old negro woman_, MARY'S _aunt_ + MARY MCLEAN, _a quadroon girl, niece of_ CANDACE + JIM MATTHEWS, _Mary's lover_ + HENRY MORGAN, _the landlord, a white man_ + + + + +WHITE DRESSES + + TIME: _The evening before Christmas, 1900_. + + SCENE: _The scene is laid in a negro cabin, the home of_ CANDACE + _and_ MARY MCLEAN, _in eastern North Carolina_. + + _In the right corner of the room is a rough bed covered with a + ragged counterpane. In the centre at the rear is an old bureau with + a cracked mirror, to the left of it a door opening to the outside. + In the left wall is a window with red curtains. A large chest + stands near the front on this side, and above it hang the family + clothes, several ragged dresses, an old bonnet, and a cape. At the + right, toward the front, is a fireplace, in which a small fire is + burning. Above and at the sides of the fireplace hang several pots + and pans, neatly arranged. Above these is a mantel, covered with a + lambrequin of dingy red crape paper. On the mantel are bottles and + a clock. A picture of "Daniel in the Lion's Den" hangs above the + mantel. The walls are covered with newspapers, to which are pinned + several illustrations clipped from popular magazines. A rough table + is in the centre of the room. A lamp without a chimney is on it. + Several chairs are about the room. A rocking-chair with a rag + pillow in it stands near the fire. There is an air of cleanliness + and poverty about the whole room._ + + _The rising of the curtain discloses the empty room. The fire is + burning dimly._ AUNT CANDACE _enters at the rear, carrying several + sticks of firewood under one arm. She walks with a stick, and is + bent with rheumatism. She is dressed in a slat bonnet, which hides + her face in its shadow, brogan shoes, a man's ragged coat, a + checkered apron, a dark-colored dress. She mumbles to herself and + shakes her head as she comes in. With great difficulty she puts the + wood on the fire, and then takes the poker and examines some + potatoes that are cooking in the ashes. She takes out her snuff-box + and puts snuff in her lip. As she does this her bonnet is pushed + back, and in the firelight her features are discernible--sunken + eyes, high cheek-bones, and big, flat nose. Upon her forehead she + wears a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles._ + + _She sits down in a rocking-chair, now and then putting her hand to + her head, and groaning as if in pain. She turns and looks + expectantly toward the door. After a moment she hobbles to the + chest on the right and takes out an old red crocheted fascinator. + Shivering she wraps it around her neck and stands looking down in + the chest. She lifts out a little black box and starts to unfasten + it, when the door suddenly opens and_ MARY MCLEAN _comes in_. AUNT + CANDACE _puts the box hastily back into the chest, and hurries to + the fire_. + + MARY MCLEAN _has a "turn" of collards in one arm and a paper bundle + in the other. She lays the collards on the floor near the window + and puts her shawl on the bed. She is a quadroon girl about + eighteen years old, with an oval face and a mass of fine dark hair, + neatly done up. There is something in her bearing that suggests a + sort of refinement. Her dress is pitifully shabby, her shoes + ragged. But even this cannot hide the lines of an almost perfect + figure. For a negro she is pretty. As she comes up to the fire her + pinched lips and the tired expression on her face are plainly + visible. Only her eyes betray any signs of excitement._ + +AUNT CANDACE. Honey, I's been a-waitin' foh you de las' two hours. My +haid's been bad off. Chile, whah you been? Miss Mawgin must a had a +pow'ful washin' up at de big house. + + [MARY _opens her hand and shows her a five-dollar bill_. + +AUNT CANDACE. De Lawd help my life, chile! + +MARY. An' look here what Mr. Henry sent you, too. [_She undoes the +bundle, revealing several cooked sweet potatoes, sausages, spareribs, +and some boiled ham._] He said as 'twas Christmas time he sent you this +with the collards there. + + [_She points toward the collards at the window._ AUNT CANDACE _pays + little attention to the food as_ MARY _places it in her lap, but + continues to look straight into_ MARY'S _face. The girl starts to + give her the money, but she pushes her away._ + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Excitedly._] Whah'd you git dat, honey? Whah'd you git +it? Mr. Henry ain't never been dat kind befo'. Dey ain't no past +Christmas times he was so free wid 'is money. He ain't de kind o' man +foh dat. An' he a-havin' 'is washin' done on Christmas Eve. [_Her look +is direct and troubled._] Chile, Mr. Hugh didn't give you dat money, did +he? + +MARY. [_Still looking in the fire._] Aunty, I ain't said Mr. Henry sent +you this money. Yes'm, Mr. Hugh sent it to you. I done some washin' for +him. I washed his socks and some shirts--pure silk they was. [_She +smiles at the remembrance._] An' he give me the money an' tole me to +give it to you--said he wished he could give you somethin' more. + + [_She hands the money to_ AUNT CANDACE, _who takes it quickly_. + +AUNT CANDACE. Help my soul an' body! De boy said dat! Bless 'is soul! He +ain't fo'got 'is ol' aunty, even if he ain't been to see 'er since he +come back from school way out yander. De Lawd bless 'im! Allus was a +good boy, an' he ain't changed since he growed up nuther. When I useter +nuss 'im he'd never whimper, no suh. Bring me de tin box, honey. An' +don't notice what I's been sayin'. I spects I's too perticler 'bout you. +I dunno. + + [MARY _goes to the bureau and gets a tin box. She puts the money + in it, returns it, and lights the lamp._ AUNT CANDACE _takes off + her bonnet and hangs it behind her on the rocking-chair. Then she + begins to eat greedily, now and then licking the grease off her + fingers. Suddenly she utters a low scream, putting her hands to her + head and rocking to and fro. She grasps her stick and begins + beating about her as if striking at something, crying out in a loud + voice._ + +AUNT CANDACE. Ah-hah, I'll git you! I'll git you! + + [MARY _goes to her and pats her on the cheek_. + +MARY. It's your poor head, ain't it, aunty? You rest easy, I'll take +care of you. [_She continues to rub her cheek and forehead until the +spell passes._] Set still till I git in a turn of light-wood. It's goin' +to be a terrible cold night an' looks like snow. + + [_After a moment_ AUNT CANDACE _quiets down and begins eating + again_. MARY _goes out and brings in an armful of wood which she + throws into the box. She takes a bottle and spoon from the mantel, + and starts to pour out some medicine._ + +AUNT CANDACE. I's better now, honey. Put it back up. I ain't gwine take +none now. D'ain't no use ... d'ain't no use in dat. I ain't long foh dis +world, ain't long. I's done my las' washin' an' choppin' an' weighed up +my las' cotton. Medicine ain't no mo' good. + +MARY. You're allus talkin' like that, aunty. You're goin' to live to be +a hundred. An' this medicine---- + +AUNT CANDACE. I ain't gwine take it, I say. No, suh, ain't gwine be +long. I's done deef. I's ol' an' hipshot now. No, suh, I don't want no +medicine. [_Childishly._] I's got a taste o' dese heah spareribs an' +sausages, an' I ain't gwine take no medicine. [MARY _puts the bottle and +spoon back on the mantel and sits down_. AUNT CANDACE _stops eating and +looks at_ MARY'S _dreaming face_.] Honey, what makes you look like dat? +[_Excitedly._] Mr. Henry ain't said ... he ain't said no mo' 'bout us +havin' to leave, has he? + +MARY. [_Looking up confusedly._] No'm, he ... no'm, he said ... he said +to-day that he'd 'bout decided to let us stay right on as long as we +please. + +AUNT CANDACE. Huh, what's dat? + +MARY. He said it might be so we could stay right on as long as we +please. + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Joyously._] Thank de Lawd! Thank de Lawd! I knowed he's +gwine do it. I knowed. But I's been pow'ful feared, chile, he's gwine +run us off. An' he ain't never liked Mr. Hugh's takin' up foh us. But +now I c'n rest in peace. Thank de Lawd, I's gwine rest my bones rat whah +I loves to stay till dey calls foh me up yander. [_Stopping._] Has you +et? + +MARY. Yes'm, I et up at Mr. Henry's. Mr. Hugh ... [_hesitating_] he said +'twas a shame for me to come off without eatin' nothin' an' so I et. + + [AUNT CANDACE _becomes absorbed in her eating_. MARY _goes to the + chest, opens it, and takes out a faded cloak and puts it on. Then + she goes to the bureau, takes out a piece of white ribbon, and ties + it on her hair. For a moment she looks at her reflection in the + mirror. She goes to the chest and stands looking down in it. She + makes a movement to close it. The lid falls with a bang._ AUNT + CANDACE _turns quickly around_. + +AUNT CANDACE. What you want, gal? You ain't botherin' de li'l box, is +you? + +MARY. [_Coming back to the fire._] Botherin' that box! Lord, no, I don't +worry about it no more ... I'm just dressin' up a little. + +AUNT CANDACE. Ah-hah, but you better not be messin' 'round de chist too +much. You quit puttin' you' clothes in dere. I done tol' you. What you +dressin' up foh? Is Jim comin' round to-night? + + [_She wraps up the remainder of her supper and puts it in the + chimney corner._ + +MARY. [_Not noticing the question._] Aunty, don't I look a little bit +like a white person? + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Taking out her snuff-box._] Huh, what's dat? + +MARY. I don't look like a common nigger, do I? + +AUNT CANDACE. Lawd bless you, chile, you's purty, you is. You's jes' as +purty as any white folks. You's lak yo' mammy what's dead an' gone. +Yessuh, you's her very spit an' image, 'ceptin' you's whiter. [_Lowering +her voice._] Yes, suh, 'ceptin' you's whiter. [_They both look in the +fire._] 'Bout time foh Jim to be comin', ain't it? + +MARY. Yes'm, he'll be comin', I reckon. They ain't no gittin' away from +him an' his guitar. + +AUNT CANDACE. _What_ you got agin Jim? Dey ain't no better nigger'n Jim. +He's gwine treat you white, an' it's time you's gittin' married. I's +done nussin' my fust chile at yo' age, my li'l Tom 'twas. Useter sing to +'im. [_Pausing._] Useter sing to 'im de sweetest kin' o' chunes, jes' +lak you, honey, jes' lak you. He's done daid an' gone do'. All my babies +is. De Marster he call an' tuck 'em. An' 'druther'n let 'em labor an' +sweat below, he gi'n 'em a harp an' crown up dere. Tuck my ol' man from +'is toil an' trouble, too, an' I's left heah alone now. Ain't gwine be +long do', ain't gwine be long. [_Her voice trails off into silence. All +is quiet save for the ticking of the clock._ AUNT CANDACE _brushes her +hand across her face, as if breaking the spell of her revery_.] Yessuh, +I wants you to git married, honey. I told you, an' told you. We's lived +long enough by ourselves. I's lak to nuss yo' li'l uns an' sing to 'em +fo' I go. Mind me o' de ol' times. + +MARY. [_Lost in abstraction, apparently has not been listening._] Aunty, +you ought to see him now. He's better to me than he ever was. He's as +kind as he can be. An' he wears the finest clothes! [_She stares in the +fire._ + +AUNT CANDACE. Dat he do. Dey ain't no 'sputin' of it. I allus said he's +de best-lookin' nigger in de country. An' dey ain't nobody kinder'n Jim. +No, suh. + +MARY. An' to-day he said 'twas a pity I had to work an' wash like a +slave for a livin'. He don' treat me like I was a nigger. He acts like +I'm white folks. Aunty, you reckon ... + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Gazing at her with a troubled look of astonishment._] I +knows it, honey, I knows it. Course dey ain't no better nigger'n Jim an' +I wants you to marry Jim. He's awaitin' an' ... + +MARY. [_Vehemently._] I ain't talkin' 'bout Jim. What's Jim? He ain't +nothin'. + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Guessing at the truth, half rises from her seat._] What +you mean? Huh! What you talkin' 'bout? + +MARY. [_Wearily sitting down._] Nothin', aunty, jes' talkin'. + +AUNT CANDACE. Jes' talkin'? Chile ... chile ... + +MARY. Aunty, did you ever wish you was white? + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Troubled._] Laws a mercy! Huh! White! Wish I's white? +Lawdy, no! What I want to be white foh? I's born a nigger, an' I's gwine +die a nigger. I ain't one to tear up de work o' de Lawd. He made me an' +I ain't gwine try to change it. What's in yo' haid, chile? [_Sadly._] +Po' thing, don't do dat. Yo' po' mammy useter talk lak dat ... one +reason she ain't livin' to-day. An' I ain't done prayin' foh 'er nuther. +Chile, you git such notions ra't out'n yo' haid. [_She shakes her head, +groaning._] Oh, Lawdy! Lawdy! [_Then, screaming, she puts her hands to +her head. She grasps her stick and begins striking about her, +shrieking._] Dey's after me! Dey's after me! [_She continues beating +around her._] Open de do'! Open de do'! + + [MARY _puts her arms around her and tries to soothe her, but she + breaks away from her, fighting with her stick. Then_ MARY _runs and + opens the door, and_ AUNT CANDACE _drives the imaginary devils + out_. + + +MARY. They're gone now, they're gone. + + [_She closes the door and leads her back to her seat._ AUNT CANDACE + _sits down, mumbling and groaning. The spell passes and the wild + look dies from her face._ + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Looking up._] I's had another spell, ain't I, honey? + +MARY. Yes'm, but you're all right now. + + [_She pours out some medicine and gives it to her._ + +AUNT CANDACE. Some dese days I's gwine be carried off by 'em, chile; I's +ol' an' po'ly, ol' an' po'ly now. Dem debbils gwine git me yit. [_She +mumbles._ + +MARY. No, they ain't, aunty. I ain't goin' to let 'em. + + [_There is a knock at the door, and stamping of feet._ + +AUNT CANDACE. What's dat? + +MARY. Nothin'. Somebody at the door. [_The low strumming of guitar is +heard._] That's Jim. Come in! + + [JIM MATTHEWS _enters. He is a young negro about twenty-two years + old, and as black as his African ancestors. He carries a guitar + slung over his shoulders, wears an old derby hat, tan shirt with a + dark tie, well-worn blue suit, the coat of which comes to his + knees, and tan shoes, slashed along the sides to make room for his + feet. As he comes in he pulls off his hat and smiles genially, + showing his white teeth. With better clothes he might call himself + a spo't._ + +JIM. Good even', ladies. [_He lays his derby an the bed._ + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Turning around in her chair._] What does he say? + +MARY. He says good evenin'. + +AUNT CANDACE. _Ah_-hah! Good even', Jim. Take a seat. I's sho glad you +come. Mary's been talkin' 'bout you. [_He smiles complacently._] We's +sho glad you come. + + [_He takes a seat between_ AUNT CANDACE _and_ MARY. + +JIM. Yes'm. An' I's sho glad to be wid you all. I's allus glad to be wid +de ladies. + +AUNT CANDACE. What's he say? + +JIM. [_Louder._] I's glad to be wid you all. + +AUNT CANDACE. Ah-hah! [JIM _pulls out a large checkered handkerchief +from his breast-pocket, wipes his forehead, and then flips the dust from +his shoes. He folds it carefully and puts it back in his pocket._] Any +news, Jim? + +JIM. No'm, none 'tall. Any wid you? + +AUNT CANDACE. Hah? No, nothin' 'tall, 'ceptin' Mr. Henry done said ... +said ... + + [_Here she groans sharply and puts her hand to her head._ + +JIM. What's that she's sayin'? [_As_ AUNT CANDACE _continues groaning_.] +Still havin' them spells, is she, Miss Mary? + +MARY. Yes, she has 'em about every night. + +[_Making a movement as if to go to_ AUNT CANDACE. _She stops and stares +in the fire._ + +AUNT CANDACE. Ne' min' me. I's all right now. An' you chillun go on wid +yo' cou'tin'. I's gwine peel my 'taters. + + [_Raking the potatoes from the ashes, she begins peeling them. Then + she takes a piece of sausage from the package in the corner._ JIM + _smiles sheepishly and strums his guitar once or twice. He moves + his chair nearer to_ MARY. _She moves mechanically from him, still + gazing in the fire._ + +JIM. Er ... Miss Mary, you's lookin' 'ceedin' snatchin' wid dat white +ribbon an' new cloak. I's glad to see you thought I's comin' 'round. +Yes'm, I tells all de gals you got 'em beat a mile. [_He stops._ MARY +_pays no attention to him_.] From here slam to France an' back, I ain't +seed no gals lak you. Yes'm, dat's what I tells 'em all, an' I oughta +know, kaze I's an ol' road nigger. I's seen de world, I has. But I's +tired of 'tall, an' I wants to settle down ... an' ... you knows me.... +[_He stops and fidgets in his chair, strums his guitar, feels of his +necktie, takes out his handkerchief and wipes his forehead._] Miss Mary, +I's ... + +MARY. Jim, I done tol' you, you needn't come messin' 'round here. I +ain't lovin' you. I ain't goin' to marry--nobody, never! + +JIM. [_Taken aback._] Now, Miss Mary ... er ... honey. I knows jas' how +you feels. It's kaze I been a rounder, but you'll hadder forgive me. An' +I's gwine 'form, I is. I's quit all dem tother gals, near 'bout broke +dey hearts, but I hadder do it. Dey's only one foh me, you know. To-day +I's talkin' to dat young feller, Hugh Mawgin, an' ... + +MARY. Hugh what! What you sayin', Jim Matthews! Mr. Hugh, you mean. + +JIM. [_Hurriedly._] Yes'm, I said "Mr. Hugh." Didn't you hear me, Miss +Mary? + +MARY. What'd you say to him? + +JIM. I told 'im I's callin' 'round here 'casionally, an' he said ... he +... + +MARY. [_Looking straight at_ JIM.] He said what? + +JIM. He axed me if I's a-courtin', an' I told 'im I mought ... er ... be +... + +MARY. Go on; tell me. Did he say I ought to marry you? + +JIM. [_Eagerly._] Yes'm.... [MARY _gasps_.] No'm, not ezzactly.... He +said as how it was a pity you had nobody to take care o' you, an' had to +work so hard lak a slave every day. An' he said you's most too purty an' +good to do it. An' I tuck from 'is talk dat he meant he thought you's +good enough foh me, an' wanted me to take care o' you, so's you wouldn't +hadder work. + +MARY. _Oh!..._ Yes, I reckon so. [_She is silent._ + +JIM. He's a eddicated boy, an' he knows. Dey teaches 'im how to know +everything out yander at dat college place. He sees my worf', he does. +Co'se I ain't braggin', but de gals all do say ... oh, you know what dey +says. + +MARY. [_Jumping up from her chair._] Jim Matthews, you think I'd marry a +... oh, I'd ... + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Turning around._] What's you sayin', gal? + +MARY. [_Sittin' down._] Oh, aunty! I ... I ... was just askin' Jim to +play a piece. [_To_ JIM _in a lower voice_.] For the Lord's sake play +somethin'.... + + [_She hides her face in her apron._ + +AUNT CANDACE. Ah-hah.... Play us a piece on yo' box, Jim. + + [JIM, _at a loss as to the meaning of_ MARY'S _tears, but feeling + that they are somehow a further proof of his power with the ladies, + smiles knowingly, tunes his guitar, and begins strumming a chord. + After playing a few bars, he starts singing in a clear voice, with + "Ohs" and "Ahs" thrown in._ + +JIM. Oh, whah you gwine, my lover? +Gwine on down de road. +Oh, whah you gwine, my lover? +Gwine on down de road. +(_Bass_) Gwine ... on ... gwine on down de road. + +She th'owed her arms aroun' me +An' cast me silver an' gold. +Said, "Whah you gwine, my lover?" +Gwine on down de road. +(_Bass_) Oh, Lawd! ... Oh, Lawd! + Gwine ... on ... down ... de ... road. + + [MARY _still leans forward, with her face in her hands_. JIM _stops + playing and speaks softly_. + +JIM. Miss Mary, I's sho' sorry I made you cry. Honey, I don't want you +to cry 'bout me lak dat ... + + [_She remains silent. He smiles in self-gratulation, but utters a + mournful sigh for her benefit. Pulling his guitar further up on his + lap, he takes out his pocket-knife, fits it between his fingers in + imitation of the Hawaiians, clears his throat and strikes another + chord._ + + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Noticing the silence, looks at_ MARY.] What's de trouble +wid you, gal? What's de trouble, chile? Oh, Lawdy me! [_Passing her hand +across her forehead._ + +MARY. [_Raising her head._] Nothin', nothin'. I'm tickled at Jim. [_To_ +JIM.] Go on, play her piece about the hearse. Play it! + +JIM. [_Strums his guitar, tunes it, and begins._] + + Hearse done carried somebody to de graveyard. + Lawd, I know my time ain't long. + Hearse done carried somebody to de graveyard. + Lawd, I know my time ain't long. + + [_He sings louder, syncopating with his feet._] + + Preacher keeps a-preachin' an' people keep a-dyin'. + Lawd, I know my time ain't long. + + [AUNT CANDACE _begins swaying rhythmically with the music, clapping + her hands, and now and then exclaiming_. + +AUNT CANDACE. Jesus! Lawdy, my Lawd! + + [_She and_ JIM _begin to sing alternately, she the first verse and_ + JIM _the refrain. While this is going on_ MARY, _unobserved, goes + to the window, pulls open the curtain and looks out, stretching her + clenched hands above her head. She turns to the mirror, smooths + back her heavy hair, shakes her head, snatches off the ribbon and + throws it on the floor. Then she pulls off her cloak and lays it on + the bed. She picks up the ribbon and puts it in the bureau. + Meanwhile the music has continued._ + +Hammer keep ringin' on somebody's coffin. + +JIM. _Lawd_, I know my time ain't long. + + [_They repeat these lines._ + +AUNT CANDACE. _Gwine_ roll 'em up lak leaves in de judgment. + +JIM. Lawd, I know my time ain't long. + + [_After these lines have been repeated_, JIM, _noticing_ MARY'S + _absence from his side, stops and looks around_. AUNT CANDACE + _keeps on singing a verse or two. She stops and looks around, seas_ + MARY _standing in an attitude of despair_. JIM _speaks_. + +JIM. Miss Mary! + +AUNT CANDACE. What is it, honey? + + [_There is a stamping of feet outside._ MARY _raises her head with + an expectant look an her face. She runs to the door and opens it. + Her expression changes to one of disappointment and fear as_ HENRY + MORGAN _enters. He is a man of powerful build, about fifty years + old, rough and overbearing. A week's growth of grizzled beard + darkens his face. He wears a felt hat, long black overcoat, ripped + at the pockets and buttoned up to his chin, big laced boots, and + yarn mittens. In his hand he carries a package, which he throws + contemptuously on the bed. He keeps his hat on._ MARY _closes the + door and stands with her back to it, clasping the latch-string_. + AUNT CANDACE _and_ JIM _offer their seats_. JIM'S _look is one of + servile respect, that of Aunt Candace one of troubled expectancy_. + +MORGAN. [_In a booming voice._] Dad burn you, Jim. Still a-courtin', eh? +Set down, Candace. I ain't goin't to stay long. + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Querulously._] What's he say? + +MARY. [_Coming to the centre of the room._] He says for you to set down. +He ain't goin' to stay long. + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Sitting down._] Ah-hah ... Oh, Lawdy! Lawdy! + +MORGAN. [_Coming closer to_ AUNT CANDACE.] How you gettin' 'long now, +Candace? + +AUNT CANDACE. Po'ly, po'ly, Mr. Mawgin. Ain't got much longer down here, +ain't much longer. + +MORGAN. [_Laughing._] Aw come on, Candace, cut out your foolin'. You +ain't half as bad off as you make out. [JIM _moves his chair to the +corner and sits down_.] I understand you. If you'd git up from there an' +go to work you'd be well in a week. + +AUNT CANDACE. Oh, Lawd, Mr. Mawgin, I sho' is po'ly! I hopes you'll +never have to suffer lak me. + + [_Mumbling, she shakes her head, rocks to and fro without taking + her feet from the floor, punctuating her movements by tapping with + her stick._ MORGAN _sees_ MARY _looking at the package_. + +MORGAN. That's for Mary. I was comin' down this way an' caught up with +John. He said he was comin' here to bring it. An' so I took an' brought +it, though he acted sort of queer about it, like he didn't want me even +to save him a long walk. Wonder what that nigger can be givin' you. +[MARY _starts toward the bed_.] No, you ain't goin' to see it now, gal. +We got a little business to 'tend to first. Did you tell Candace what I +said? + +MARY. Mr. Morgan, how could I?... I couldn't do it, not to-night. + +MORGAN. Uh-huh ... I knowed it. Knowed I'd better come down here an' +make sure of it. Durn me, you been cryin', ain't you? [_His voice +softens._] What's the trouble, gal? + +MARY. Nothin', nothin'. I ... I been tickled at Jim. + +JIM. Tickled at Jim? + +AUNT CANDACE. What does he say? + +MORGAN. [_Turning to her._] Keep quiet, can't you, Candace; I got a +little business with Mary. [AUNT CANDACE _becomes silent and begins +watching the package. She half starts from her chair, then settles back, +staring hard at the bundle._ MORGAN _speaks to_ MARY.] You ain't been +cryin' about what I told you this evenin', have you? + +MARY. No, sir. I was tickled at Jim. It wan't nothin', honest it wan't. + +MORGAN. Well, go on lyin' if you want to. + +MARY. Mr. Morgan, I was jes' ... + +MORGAN. No matter. [_Brusquely._] Well, what you goin' to do about what +I said? [_He looks at her squarely._ JIM _watches them both with open +mouth_. AUNT CANDACE _keeps staring at the bundle on the bed, and now +and then glancing around to see if any one is watching her. She is +oblivious of the conversation._ MARY _stands with bowed head_.] Well, +what about it? I've done told you you got to get out at the first o' the +year if you ain't a mind to marry Jim. [JIM _straightens up_.] At least +you've got to marry somebody that can come here and work. I told you to +tell Candace to look out for it. Why didn't you tell her like I said? + +MARY. I couldn't do it. It'd kill her to leave here. You know it. She's +been good to me all my life. Oh, I can't do it. + + [AUNT CANDACE _stealthily slips across the room and picks up the + package from the bed, unseen by any one but_ JIM. + +MORGAN. Can't do it? Well, what you want me to do? Lose money on you +till the end of time! You ain't earned enough to keep you in clothes for +the last three years since Candace got down, an' ... + + [_A terrible cry rings out._ AUNT CANDACE _stands by the bed, + holding a white dress up before her_. MORGAN _looks perplexed. + Suddenly he starts back in astonishment._ + +MARY. [_Starting forward._] It's for me! [_Joyously._] It's mine! + +MORGAN. [_Catching_ MARY _by the arm_.] What--what is it?... Heigh! +Don't you move, gal! Wait a minute! + + [_He pulls her back._ AUNT CANDACE _looks at_ MORGAN. _Gradually he + lowers his head._ + +AUNT CANDACE. I's a-feared on it. I knowed it ... I knowed it. [_She +throws the dress back on the bed and hobbles to the fire, groaning._] +Oh, Lawdy! Oh, Lawdy! My po' li'l gal! My po' li'l gal! + + [_She rocks to and fro._ MORGAN'S _hand falls from_ MARY'S + _shoulder, and she runs to the bed_. + +MARY. He sent it to me! He sent it to me! I knowed he wouldn't forget. +[_She hugs the dress to her._ + +MORGAN. [_Turning to her._] Well, and what nigger's sending you presents +now? [_With suspicion fully aroused._] Who give you that, Mary! + +MARY. He did! + +MORGAN. [_Sternly._] Who? + +MARY. [_Impetuously._] It was him! An' I don't care if you do know it! + +MORGAN. Who? You don't mean ... + +MARY. I do too--an' ... + +MORGAN. God a'mighty, my ... it can't be so. + + [MARY _goes to the window and holds the dress in front of her_. + +MARY. It is, too. Mr. Hugh sent it to me. [MORGAN _groans_.] He told me +to-day he's sorry for me. I knowed he'd remember me; I knowed it. An', +after all, I ain't been workin' the whole year for nothin'. He's got a +heart if nobody else ain't. + +MORGAN. What in the devil! I wonder ... Lord! + + [AUNT CANDACE _still looks in the fire. For a moment_ MORGAN + _stands lost in abstraction, then he speaks fiercely_. + +MORGAN. Mary, put them damned things up. Put 'em up, I say. [_He goes +toward her. She shrinks back; holding the dress to her. He snatches it +from her and throws it on the bed, then he pushes her out in the middle +of the floor. She wipes the tears from her eyes with her apron._] You +listen here, gal. We're goin' to settle it right here and now, once and +for all. You're goin' to marry Jim? + +MARY. Mr. Morgan ... oh ... I can't marry him. I can't! I won't! Let me +stay. Don't drive her out; she'll die. I'll work, I'll hoe an' wash, day +an' night. I'll do anything, I'll ... + +MORGAN. [_Fiercely._] You've tole me that a thousand times, an' you've +got to say one or the other right now. Right now! Do you hear! Marry +Jim, I tell you, and it'll be all right. He's smart and he'll take care +of you ... + +MARY. I can't do it, I tell you. I can't! I'd rather die. Look at me. +Ain't I almost white? Look at him. He's black and I hate him. I can't +marry no nigger. Oh, don't make me do it. + +MORGAN. White! What's that got to do with your marryin'? Ain't you a...? +You don't think you can marry a white man, do you? I tell you you've got +to decide to-night. I've been after you now for two years and, gal, +you've got to do it! + +MARY. Don't make me do it! I hate him. I ain't black. Oh, Lord!... + +MORGAN. [_Desperately._] Candace! + +MARY. [_Clutching at his arm._] Don't tell her. I ain't goin' to see her +drove out in the cold from her home. Don't tell her. + + [AUNT CANDACE _still looks in the fire_. JIM _sits lost in + amazement, idly strumming his guitar_. + +MORGAN. Well? + +MARY. [_Looking wildly around, as if seeking help._] Oh!... + +MORGAN. [_Wiping his face._] Gal, I don't want to be too hard on you. +But use common sense. I've been good to you. They ain't another man in +the county that would have kept you for the last three years, an' losin' +money on you every year. I'm done of it, gal, I'm done. Marry Jim. + +MARY. He wouldn't let you do it if he was here. He wouldn't. + +MORGAN. Who? Who you talkin' about? + +MARY. Mr. Hugh, your boy. He's got feelin's, he has. If he was here ... + +MORGAN. [_Hoarsely._] I know it. I know it. Don't you see? He's all I +got. I can't run the risk of his ... Oh, Mary, I can't tell you. For +God's sake, marry Jim. Can't you see? You've got to marry him! Hugh's +gone off for a week, an' I'm goin' to settle it before he ever gets +back. And when he gets back, you and Candace will be clean out of this +country, if you don't marry Jim. They ain't nobody else 'round here +will take you in, and keep you like I have. + +MARY. Where ... where's he gone? + +MORGAN. He's gone to see his gal. The one he's going to marry. And by +God, you've got to marry Jim. + +MARY. [_Half sobbing._] They ain't no use tryin' to change it. I've +tried and tried, but they ain't no use. I jus' as well do it. Yes, yes, +I'll marry him. I'll marry him. They ain't no way to be white. I got to +be a nigger. I'll marry him, yes. I'll marry him, an' work an' hoe an' +wash an' raise more children to go through it all like me, maybe other +children that'll want to be white an' can't. They ain't nobody can help +me. But look at him. [_Pointing to_ JIM.] He's a nigger an' ... yes ... +I'm a nigger too. + + [_She throws her arms out, letting them fall at her side._ + +MORGAN. [_Almost gently._] All right, Mary ... I'll send for the +preacher and the license in the morning and have him marry you and Jim +right here. You needn't think about leavin' any more. And you and Jim +can live here as long as you please. Is that all right, Jim? + +JIM. [_Uncertainly._] Yes-suh, yes-suh, Mr. Mawgin! An' I thanks you +'specially. + +MORGAN. [_Going up to_ AUNT CANDACE.] Mary and Jim are going to be +married to-morrow, Candace. It'll be a lucky day for you. [_She makes no +answer, but continues her trancelike stare in the fire._ MORGAN _comes +to_ MARY _and offers his hand. She fails to see it._] Child, what I've +had to do to-night has hurt me a whole lot worse'n you.... Good-night, +Mary. + + [_He stands a moment looking at the floor, then goes out quietly._ + +JIM. [_Coming up to_ MARY.] Miss Mary, don't look lak dat. I's gwine do +better, I's.... [MARY _keeps her head muffled in her apron_.] Honey, I's +sho' gwine make you a good man. + + [MARY _pays no attention to him. In his embarrassment he strums his + guitar, clears his throat, props his foot up on a chair rung, and + begins singing in a low voice._] + + JIM. Lyin' in the jail house, + A-peepin' th'ough de bars.... + +AUNT CANDACE. [_Waking from her reverie._] Bring me de li'l black box, +gal. Bring me de box! [MARY _drops her apron and stares dully at the +floor_.] Bring me de box! [_Half-screaming._] Bring me de box, I say! +[_Trembling and groaning, she stands up._ MARY _goes to the chest and +brings her the black box_. AUNT CANDACE _drops her stick and clutches +it_.] I's gwine tell you de secret o' dis li'l box. Yo' mammy told me to +tell you if de time ever come, an' it's come. She seed trouble an' our +mammy befo' us. [_She takes a key, tied by a string around her neck, and +unlocks the box, pulling out a wrinkled white dress, yellowed with age, +of the style of the last generation._ JIM _sits down, overcome with +astonishment, staring at the old woman with open mouth_.] Look heah, +chile. I's gwine tell you now. Nineteen yeahs ago come dis Christmas +dey's a white man gi'n your mammy dis heah, an' dat white man is kin to +you, an' he don't live fur off nuther. Gimme dat dress dere on de bed. +[MARY _gets it and holds it tightly to her breast_. AUNT CANDACE +_snatches at it, but_ MARY _clings to it_.] Gimme dat dress! + +MARY. It's mine! + +AUNT CANDACE. Gimme! [_She jerks the dress from_ MARY. _Hobbling to the +fireplace, she lays both of them carefully on the flames._ JIM _makes a +movement as if to save them, but she waves him back with her stick_.] +Git back, nigger! Git back! Dis night I's gwine wipe out some o' de +traces o' sin. [MARY _sits in her chair, sobbing. As the dresses burn_ +AUNT CANDACE _comes to her and lays her hand upon her head_.] I knows +yo' feelin's, chile. But yo's got to smother 'em in. Yo's got to smother +'em in. + +CURTAIN + + + + +MOONSHINE + +BY + +ARTHUR HOPKINS + + +_Moonshine_ is reprinted by special permission of Arthur Hopkins, +Plymouth Theatre, New York City. All rights reserved. For permission +to perform, address the author. + + +ARTHUR HOPKINS + +Arthur Hopkins, one of the well-known men of the practical theatre of +to-day, was born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1878. He completed his academic +training at Western Reserve University, Cleveland, Ohio. At present he +is the manager of Plymouth Theatre, New York City. + +Mr. Hopkins's entire life has been given to the theatre, which is his +hobby. In the midst of his various activities as a manager he has found +time to do some dramatic writing. Among his one-act plays are _Thunder +God_, _Broadway Love_, and _Moonshine_, which appeared in the _Theatre +Acts Magazine_ for January, 1919. + +_Moonshine_ is an excellent play of situation that has grown out of the +reaction of character on character. + + +CHARACTERS + + LUKE HAZY, _Moonshiner_ + A REVENUE OFFICER + + + + +MOONSHINE + + + SCENE: _Hut of a moonshiner in the mountain wilds of North + Carolina. Door back left. Window back right centre. Old deal table + right centre. Kitchen chair at either side of table, not close to + it. Old cupboard in left corner. Rude stone fireplace left side. On + back wall near door is a rough pencil sketch of a man hanging from + a tree._ + + _At rise of curtain a commotion is heard outside of hut._ + +LUKE. [_Off stage._] It's all right, boys.... Jist leave him to me.... +Git in there, Mister Revenue. + + [REVENUE, _a Northerner in city attire, without hat, clothes dusty, + is pushed through doorway_. LUKE, _a lanky, ill-dressed Southerner, + following, closes door_. REVENUE'S _hands are tied behind him_. + +LUKE. You must excuse the boys for makin' a demonstration over you, +Mister Revenue, but you see they don't come across you fellers very +frequent, and they allus gits excited. + +REVENUE. I appreciate that I'm welcome. + +LUKE. 'Deed you is, and I'm just agoin' to untie your hands long nuff +fer you to take a sociable drink. [_Goes to stranger, feels in +all-pockets for weapons._] Reckon yer travellin' peaceable. [_Unties +hands._] Won't yer sit down? + +REVENUE. [_Drawing over chair and sitting._] Thank you. [_Rubs wrists to +get back circulation._] + +LUKE. [_Going over to cupboard and taking out jug._] Yessa, Mister, the +boys ain't seen one o' you fellers fer near two years. Began to think +you wus goin' to neglect us. I wus hopin' you might be Jim Dunn. Have a +drink? + +REVENUE. [_Starts slightly at mention of_ JIM DUNN.] No, thank you, your +make is too strong for me. + +LUKE. It hain't no luck to drink alone when you git company. Better have +some. + +REVENUE. Very well, my friend, I suffer willingly. + + [_Drinks a little and chokes._ + +LUKE. [_Draining cup._] I reckon ye all don't like the flavor of liquor +that hain't been stamped. + +REVENUE. It's not so bad. + +LUKE. The last Revenue that sit in that chair got drunk on my make. + +REVENUE. That wouldn't be difficult. + +LUKE. No, but it wuz awkward. + +REVENUE. Why? + +LUKE. I had to wait till he sobered up before I give him his ticker. I +didn't feel like sendin' him to heaven drunk. He'd a found it awkward +climbin' that golden ladder. + +REVENUE. Thoughtful executioner. + +LUKE. So you see mebbe you kin delay things a little by dallyin' with +the licker. + +REVENUE. [_Picking up cup, getting it as far as his lips, slowly puts it +down._] The price is too great. + +LUKE. I'm mighty sorry you ain't Jim Dunn. But I reckon you ain't. You +don't answer his likeness. + +REVENUE. Who's Jim Dunn? + +LUKE. You ought to know who Jim Dunn is. He's just about the worst one +of your revenue critters that ever hit these parts. He's got four of the +boys in jail. We got a little reception all ready for him. See that? + + [_Pointing to sketch on back wall._ + +REVENUE. [_Looking at sketch._] Yes. + +LUKE. That's Jim Dunn. + +REVENUE. [_Rising, examining picture._] Doesn't look much like any one. + + +LUKE. Well, that's what Jim Dunn'll look like when we git 'im. I'm +mighty sorry you hain't Jim Dunn. + +REVENUE. I'm sorry to disappoint you. + +LUKE. [_Turning to cupboard and filling pipe._] Oh, it's all right. I +reckon one Revenue's about as good as another, after all. + +REVENUE. Are you sure I'm a revenue officer? + +LUKE. [_Rising._] Well, since we ketched ye climin' trees an' snoopin' +round the stills, I reckon we won't take no chances that you hain't. + +REVENUE. Oh. + +LUKE. Say, mebbe you'd like a seggar. Here's one I been savin' fer quite +a spell back, thinkin' mebbe I'd have company some day. [_Brings out +dried-up cigar, hands it to him._ + +REVENUE. No, thank you. + +LUKE. It hain't no luck to smoke alone when ye got company. [_Striking +match and holding it to_ REVENUE.] Ye better smoke. [REVENUE _bites off +end and mouth is filled with dust, spits out dust_. LUKE _holds match to +cigar. With difficulty_ REVENUE _lights it_.] That's as good a five-cent +cigar as ye can git in Henderson. + +REVENUE. [_After two puffs, makes wry face, throws cigar on table._] You +make death very easy, Mister. + +LUKE. Luke's my name. Yer kin call me Luke. Make you feel as though you +had a friend near you at the end--Luke Hazy. + +REVENUE. [_Starting as though interested, rising._] Not the Luke Hazy +that cleaned out the Crosby family? + +LUKE. [_Startled._] How'd you hear about it? + +REVENUE. Hear about it? Why, your name's been in every newspaper in the +United States. Every time you killed another Crosby the whole feud was +told all over again. Why, I've seen your picture in the papers twenty +times. + +LUKE. Hain't never had one took. + +REVENUE. That don't stop them from printing it. Don't you ever read the +newspapers? + +LUKE. Me read? I hain't read nothin' fer thirty years. Reckon I couldn't +read two lines in a hour. + +REVENUE. You've missed a lot of information about yourself. + +LUKE. How many Crosbys did they say I killed? + +REVENUE. I think the last report said you had just removed the twelfth. + +LUKE. It's a lie! I only killed six ... that's all they wuz--growed up. +I'm a-waitin' fer one now that's only thirteen. + +REVENUE. When'll he be ripe? + +LUKE. Jes as soon as he comes a-lookin' fer me. + +REVENUE. Will he come? + +LUKE. He'll come if he's a Crosby. + +REVENUE. A brave family? + +LUKE. They don't make 'em any braver--they'd be first-rate folks if they +wuzn't Crosbys. + +REVENUE. If you feel that way why did you start fighting them? + +LUKE. I never started no fight. My granddad had some misunderstandin' +with their granddad. I don't know jes what it wuz about, but I reckon my +granddad wuz right, and I'll see it through. + +REVENUE. You must think a lot of your grandfather. + +LUKE. Never seen 'im, but it ain't no luck goin' agin yer own kin. Won't +ye have a drink? + +REVENUE. No--no--thank you. + +LUKE. Well, Mr. Revenue, I reckon we might as well have this over. + +REVENUE. What? + +LUKE. Well, you won't get drunk, and I can't be put to the trouble o' +havin' somebody guard you. + +REVENUE. That'll not be necessary. + +LUKE. Oh, I know yer like this yer place now, but this evenin' you +might take it into yer head to walk out. + +REVENUE. I'll not walk out unless you make me. + +LUKE. Tain't like I'll let yer, but I wouldn't blame yer none if yu +tried. + +REVENUE. But I'll not. + +LUKE. [_Rising._] Say, Mistah Revenue, I wonder if you know what you're +up against? + +REVENUE. What do you mean? + +LUKE. I mean I gotta kill you. + +REVENUE. [_Rising, pauses._] Well, that lets me out. + +LUKE. What do yu mean? + +REVENUE. I mean that I've been trying to commit suicide for the last two +months, but I haven't had the nerve. + +LUKE. [_Startled._] Suicide? + +REVENUE. Yes. Now that you're willing to kill me, the problem is solved. + +LUKE. Why, what d'ye want to commit suicide fer? + +REVENUE. I just want to stop living, that's all. + +LUKE. Well, yu must have a reason. + +REVENUE. No special reason--I find life dull and I'd like to get out of +it. + +LUKE. Dull? + +REVENUE. Yes--I hate to go to bed--I hate to get up--I don't care for +food--I can't drink liquor--I find people either malicious or dull--I +see by the fate of my acquaintances, both men and women, that love is a +farce. I have seen fame and preference come to those who least deserved +them, while the whole world kicked and cuffed the worthy ones. The +craftier schemer gets the most money and glory, while the fair-minded +dealer is humiliated in the bankruptcy court. In the name of the law +every crime is committed; in the name of religion every vice is +indulged; in the name of education greatest ignorance is rampant. + +LUKE. I don't git all of that, but I reckon you're some put out. + +REVENUE. I am. The world's a failure ... what's more, it's a farce. I +don't like it but I can't change it, so I'm just aching for a chance to +get out of it.... [_Approaching_ LUKE.] And you, my dear friend, are +going to present me the opportunity. + +LUKE. Yes, I reckon you'll get your wish now. + +REVENUE. Good ... if you only knew how I've tried to get killed. + +LUKE. Well, why didn't you kill yerself? + +REVENUE. I was afraid. + +LUKE. Afreed o' what--hurtin' yourself? + +REVENUE. No, afraid of the consequences. + +LUKE. Whad d'ye mean? + +REVENUE. Do you believe in another life after this one? + +LUKE. I kan't say ez I ever give it much thought. + +REVENUE. Well, don't--because if you do you'll never kill another Crosby +... not even a revenue officer. + +LUKE. 'Tain't that bad, is it? + +REVENUE. Worse. Twenty times I've had a revolver to my head--crazy to +die--and then as my finger pressed the trigger I'd get a terrible +dread--a dread that I was plunging into worse terrors than this world +ever knew. If killing were the end it would be easy, but what if it's +only the beginning of something worse? + +LUKE. Well, you gotta take some chances. + +REVENUE. I'll not take that one. You know, Mr. Luke, life was given to +us by some one who probably never intended that we should take it, and +that some one has something ready for people who destroy his property. +That's what frightens me. + +LUKE. You do too much worryin' to be a regular suicide. + +REVENUE. Yes, I do. That's why I changed my plan. + +LUKE. What plan? + +REVENUE. My plan for dying. + +LUKE. Oh, then you didn't give up the idea? + +REVENUE. No, indeed--I'm still determined to die, but I'm going to make +some one else responsible. + +LUKE. Oh--so you hain't willing to pay fer yer own funeral music? + +REVENUE. No, sir. I'll furnish the passenger, but some one else must buy +the ticket. You see, when I finally decided I'd be killed, I immediately +exposed myself to every danger I knew. + +LUKE. How? + +REVENUE. In a thousand ways.... [_Pause._] Did you ever see an +automobile? + +LUKE. No. + +REVENUE. They go faster than steam engines, and they don't _stay_ on +tracks. Did you ever hear of Fifth Avenue, New York? + +LUKE. No. + +REVENUE. Fifth Avenue is jammed with automobiles, eight deep all day +long. People being killed every day. I crossed Fifth Avenue a thousand +times a day, every day for weeks, never once trying to get out of the +way, and always praying I'd be hit. + +LUKE. And couldn't yu git hit? + +REVENUE. [_In disgust._] No. Automobiles only hit people who try to get +out of the way. [_Pause._] When that failed, I frequented the lowest +dives on the Bowery, flashing a roll of money and wearing diamonds, +hoping they'd kill me for them. They stole the money and diamonds, but +never touched me. + +LUKE. Couldn't you pick a fight? + +REVENUE. I'm coming to that. You know up North they believe that a man +can be killed in the South for calling another man a liar. + +LUKE. That's right. + +REVENUE. It is, is it? Well, I've called men liars from Washington to +Atlanta, and I'm here to tell you about it. + +LUKE. They must a took pity on ye. + +REVENUE. Do you know Two Gun Jake that keeps the dive down in Henderson? + +LUKE. I should think I do.... Jake's killed enough of 'em. + +REVENUE. He's a bad man, ain't he? + +LUKE. He's no trifler. + +REVENUE. I wound up in Jake's place two nights ago, pretending to be +drunk. Jake was cursing niggers. + +LUKE. He's allus doin' that. + +REVENUE. So I elbowed my way up to the bar and announced that I was an +expert in the discovery of nigger blood ... could tell a nigger who was +63-64ths white. + +LUKE. Ye kin? + +REVENUE. No, I can't, but I made them believe it. I then offered to look +them over and tell them if they had any nigger blood in them. A few of +them sneaked away, but the rest stood for it. I passed them all until I +got to Two Gun Jake. I examined his eyeballs, looked at his +finger-nails, and said, "You're a nigger." + +LUKE. An' what did Jake do? + +REVENUE. He turned pale, took me into the back room. He said: "Honest to +God, mister, can ye see nigger blood in me?" I said: "Yes." "There's no +mistake about it?" "Not a bit," I answered. "Good God," he said, "I +always suspected it." Then he pulled out his gun-- + +LUKE. Eh ... eh? + +REVENUE. And shot _himself_. + +LUKE. Jake shot hisself!... Is he dead? + +REVENUE. I don't know--I was too disgusted to wait. I wandered around +until I thought of you moonshiners ... scrambled around in the mountains +until I found your still. I _sat_ on it and waited until you boys showed +up, and here I am, and you're going to kill me. + +LUKE. [_Pause._] Ah, so ye want us to do yer killin' fer ye, do ye? + +REVENUE. You're my last hope. If I fail this time I may as well give it +up. + +LUKE. [_Takes out revolver, turns sidewise and secretly removes +cartridges from chamber. Rises._] What wuz that noise? + + [_Lays revolver on table and steps outside of door._ REVENUE _looks + at revolver, apparently without interest_. + + [LUKE _cautiously enters doorway and expresses surprise at seeing_ + REVENUE _making no attempt to secure revolver. Feigning excitement, + goes to table, picks up gun._ + +LUKE. I reckon I'm gettin' careless, leavin' a gun layin' around here +that-a-way. Didn't you see it? + +REVENUE. Yes. + +LUKE. Well, why didn't ye grab it? + +REVENUE. What for? + +LUKE. To git the drop on me. + +REVENUE. Can't you understand what I've been telling you, mister? I +don't _want_ the drop on you. + +LUKE. Well, doggone if I don't believe yer tellin' me the truth. Thought +I'd just see what ye'd do. Ye see, I emptied it first. + + [_Opens up gun._ + +REVENUE. That wasn't necessary. + +LUKE. Well, I reckon ye better git along out o' here, mister. + +REVENUE. You don't mean you're weakening? + +LUKE. I ain't got no call to do your killin' fer you. If ye hain't sport +enough to do it yerself, I reckon ye kin go on sufferin'. + +REVENUE. But I told you why I don't want to do it. One murder more or +less means nothing to you. You don't care anything about the hereafter. + +LUKE. Mebbe I don't, but there ain't no use my takin' any more chances +than I have to. And what's more, mister, from what you been tellin' me I +reckon there's a charm on you, and I ain't goin' to take no chances +goin' agin charms. + +REVENUE. So _you're_ going to go back on me? + +LUKE. Yes, siree. + +REVENUE. Well, maybe some of the other boys will be willing. I'll wait +till they come. + +LUKE. The other boys ain't goin' to see you. You're a leavin' this yer +place right now--now! It won't do no good. You may as well go peaceable; +ye ain't got no right to expect us to bear yer burdens. + +REVENUE. Damn it all! I've spoiled it again. + +LUKE. I reckon you better make up yer mind to go on livin'. + +REVENUE. That looks like the only way out. + +LUKE. Come on, I'll let you ride my horse to town. It's the only one we +got, so yu can leave it at Two Gun Jake's, and one o' the boys'll go git +it, or I reckon I'll go over myself and see if Jake made a job of it. + +REVENUE. I suppose it's no use arguing with you. + +LUKE. Not a bit. Come on, you. + +REVENUE. Well, I'd like to leave my address so if you ever come to New +York you can look me up. + +LUKE. 'Tain't likely I'll ever come to New York. + +REVENUE. Well, I'll leave it, anyhow. Have you a piece of paper? + +LUKE. Paper what you write on? Never had none, mister. + +REVENUE. [_Looking about room, sees_ JIM DUNN's _picture on wall, goes +to it, takes it down_.] If you don't mind, I'll put it on the back of +Jim Dunn's picture. [_Placing picture on table, begins to print._] I'll +print it for you, so it'll be easy to read. My address is here, so if +you change your mind you can send for me. + +LUKE. 'Tain't likely--come on. [_Both go to doorway_--LUKE _extends +hand_, REVENUE _takes it_.] Good-by, mister--cheer up ... there's the +horse. + +REVENUE. Good-by. [_Shaking_ LUKE'S _hand_. + +LUKE. Don't be so glum, mister. Lemme hear you laff jist onct before yu +go. [REVENUE _begins to laugh weakly_.] Aw, come on, laff out with it +hearty. [REVENUE _laughs louder_.] Heartier yit. + + [REVENUE _is now shouting his laughter, and is heard laughing until + hoof-beats of his horse die down in the distance_. + + [LUKE _watches for a moment, then returns to table--takes a + drink--picks up picture--turns it around several times before + getting it right--then begins to study. In attempting to make out + the name he slowly traces in the air with his index finger a + capital "J"--then mutters "J-J-J," then describes a letter + "I"--mutters "I-I-I," then a letter "M"--muttering "M-M-M, + J-I-M--J-I-M--JIM." In the same way describes and mutters D-U-N-N._ + +LUKE. Jim Dunn! By God! [_He rushes to corner, grabs shot-gun, runs to +doorway, raises gun in direction stranger has gone--looks intently--then +slowly lets gun fall to his side, and scans the distance with his hand +shadowing his eyes--steps inside--slowly puts gun in corner--seats +himself at table._] Jim Dunn!--and he begged me to kill 'im!! + + + + +MODESTY + +BY + +PAUL HERVIEU + + +_Modesty_ is reprinted by special permission of Barrett H. Clark, the +translator of the play from the French, and of Samuel French, publisher, +New York City. All rights reserved. For permission to perform, address +Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City. + + +PAUL HERVIEU + +Paul Hervieu, one of the foremost of contemporary French dramatists, was +born in 1857 at Neuilly, near Paris. Although he prepared for the bar, +having passed the examination at twenty, and practised his profession +for a few years, he soon set to writing short stories and novels which +appeared in the early eighties. _The Nippers_, in 1890, established his +reputation as a dramatist. The remainder of his life was given to +writing for the stage. In 1900 he was elected to the French Academy. He +died October 15, 1915. + +In addition to _The Nippers_, Hervieu's best-known long plays are _The +Passing of the Torch_, _The Labyrinth_, and _Know Thyself_. + +_Modesty_ is his well-known one-act play. In subtlety of technic and in +delicacy of touch it is one of the finest examples of French one-act +plays. Its humor and light, graceful satire are noteworthy. + + +PERSONS IN THE PLAY + + HENRIETTE + JACQUES + ALBERT + + + + +MODESTY + + + TIME: _The present._ + + SCENE: _A drawing-room. Entrance_, C; _sofa, chairs, writing-desk._ + JACQUES _and_ HENRIETTE _enter_ C, _from dinner_. HENRIETTE _in + ball costume_, JACQUES _in evening dress. They come down_ C. + +HENRIETTE. What is it? Is it so terribly embarrassing? + +JACQUES. You can easily guess. + +HENRIETTE. You're so long-winded. You make me weary--come to the point. + +JACQUES. I'll risk all at a stroke--My dear Henriette, we are cousins. I +am unmarried, you--a widow. Will you--will you be my wife? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, my dear Jacques, what _are_ you thinking of? We were such +good friends! And now you're going to be angry. + +JACQUES. Why? + +HENRIETTE. Because I'm not going to give you the sort of answer you'd +like. + +JACQUES. You don't--you don't think I'd make a good husband? + +HENRIETTE. Frankly, no. + +JACQUES. I don't please you? + +HENRIETTE. As a cousin you are charming; as a husband you would be quite +impossible. + +JACQUES. What have you against me? + +HENRIETTE. Nothing that you're to blame for. It is merely the fault of +my character; _that_ forces me to refuse you. + +JACQUES. But I can't see why you----? + +HENRIETTE. [_With an air of great importance._] A great change is taking +place in the hearts of us women. We have resolved henceforward not to be +treated as dolls, but as creatures of reason. As for me, I am most +unfortunate, for nobody ever did anything but flatter me. I have always +been too self-satisfied, too---- + +JACQUES. You have always been the most charming of women, the most---- + +HENRIETTE. Stop! It's exactly that sort of exaggeration that's begun to +make me so unsure of myself. I want you to understand once for all, +Jacques, I have a conscience, and, furthermore, it is beginning to +develop. I have taken some important resolutions. + +JACQUES. What _do_ you mean? + +HENRIETTE. I have resolved to better myself, to raise my moral and +intellectual standards, and to do that I must be guided, criticised---- + +JACQUES. But you already possess every imaginable quality! You are +charitable, cultured, refined---- + +HENRIETTE. [_Annoyed._] Please! + + [_Turns away and sits on settee._ JACQUES _addresses her from + behind chair_. + +JACQUES. You are discreet, witty---- + +HENRIETTE. The same old compliments! Everybody tells me that. I want to +be preached to, contradicted, scolded---- + +JACQUES. You could never stand _that_. + +HENRIETTE. Yes, I could. I should be happy to profit by the criticism. +It would inspire me. + +JACQUES. I'd like to see the man who has the audacity to criticise you +to your face---- + +HENRIETTE. That is enough! I trust you are aware that you are not the +person fit to exercise this influence over me? + +JACQUES. How could I? Everything about you pleases me. It can never be +otherwise. + +HENRIETTE. How interesting! That's the very reason I rejected your +proposal. I sha'n't marry until I am certain that I shall not be +continually pestered with compliments and flattery and submission. The +man who marries me shall make it his business to remind me of my +shortcomings, to correct all my mistakes. He must give me the assurance +that I am continually bettering myself. + +JACQUES. And this--husband--have you found him already? + +HENRIETTE. What--? Oh, who knows? + +JACQUES. Perhaps it's--Albert? + +HENRIETTE. Perhaps it is--what of it? + +JACQUES. Really! + +HENRIETTE. You want me to speak frankly? + +JACQUES. Of course. + +HENRIETTE. Then--you wouldn't be annoyed if I said something nice about +Albert? + + [JACQUES _brings down_ C. _chair which is by desk, facing_ + HENRIETTE. + +JACQUES. Why, he's your friend! + +HENRIETTE. Oh! So you, too, have a good opinion of him? + +JACQUES. Certainly. + +HENRIETTE. Well, what would you say of him? + +JACQUES. [_Trying to be fair._] I'd trust him with money--I've never +heard he was a thief. + +HENRIETTE. But in other ways? + +JACQUES. [_Still conscientious._] I believe him to be +somewhat--somewhat---- + +HENRIETTE. Wilful? Headstrong? + +JACQUES. Um--uncultured, let us say. + +HENRIETTE. As you like--but for my part, I find that that air of his +inspires absolute confidence. He knows how to be severe at times---- + +JACQUES. You're mistaken about that; that's only simple brute force. Go +to the Zoo: the ostrich, the boa constrictor, the rhinoceros, all +produce the same effect on you as your Albert---- + +HENRIETTE. My Albert? My Albert? Oh, I don't appropriate him so quickly +as all that. His qualifications as censor are not yet entirely +demonstrated. + + [JACQUES _rises and approaches_ HENRIETTE, _who maintains an air of + cold dignity_. + +JACQUES. For heaven's sake, Henriette, stop this nonsense! + +HENRIETTE. What nonsense? + +JACQUES. Tell me you are only playing with me. That you only wanted to +put my love to the test! To make me jealous! To torture me! You have +succeeded. Stop it, for heaven's sake---- + +HENRIETTE. My dear friend, I'm very sorry for you. I wish I could help +you, but I cannot. I have given you a perfect description of the husband +I want, and I am heart-broken that you bear so remote a resemblance to +him. + +JACQUES. Only promise you will think over your decision. + +HENRIETTE. It is better to stop right now. + +JACQUES. Don't send me away like this. Don't---- + +HENRIETTE. I might give you false hopes. I have only to tell you that I +shall never consent to be the wife of a man who cannot be the severest +of censors. + +JACQUES. [_Kneeling._] I beg you! + +HENRIETTE. No, no, no, Jacques! Spare me that. [_A telephone rings in +the next room._] There's the 'phone---- + +JACQUES. Don't go! + + [HENRIETTE _rises hastily and goes to door_. JACQUES _tries for a + moment to stop her_. + +HENRIETTE. I must go. Go away, I tell you. I'll be furious if I find you +here when I come back. + +JACQUES. Henriette! + +HENRIETTE. [_Coming down_ L. _to table_.] Not now! Please, Jacques. +[_Exit._] + +JACQUES. I can't leave it that way. I am the husband who will make her +happy. But how? That is the question. [_Pause._] Ah, Albert! + + [_Enter_ ALBERT. _He shakes hands with_ JACQUES. + +ALBERT. How are you, rival? + +JACQUES. [_Gravely._] My friend, we are no longer rivals. + +ALBERT. How's that? + +JACQUES. I have just had a talk with Henriette; she refuses to marry +either one of us. + +ALBERT. Did she mention me? + +JACQUES. Casually. + + [_Both sit down_, ALBERT _on sofa_, JACQUES _on chair near it_. + +ALBERT. What did she say? + +JACQUES. Oh, I wouldn't repeat it; it wouldn't be friendly. + +ALBERT. I _must_ know. + +JACQUES. Very well, then--she said that you had not succeeded--nor had +I--to find the way to her heart. Between you and me, we've got a +high-minded woman to deal with, a philosopher who detests flattery. It +seems you have been in the habit of paying her compliments---- + +ALBERT. I never pay compliments. + +JACQUES. Whatever you did, she didn't like it. Moreover--since you want +the whole truth--you seem to her a bit--ridiculous. + +ALBERT. Pardon? + +JACQUES. The very word: ridiculous. She wants a husband who will act as +a sort of conscience pilot. Evidently, you haven't appealed to her in +that capacity. + +ALBERT. Sometimes I used to be rather sharp with her---- + +JACQUES. You did it too daintily, perhaps; you lacked severity. I'll +wager you smiled, instead of scowled--that would have been fatal! + +ALBERT. I don't understand. + +JACQUES. Henriette is a singular woman; to get her, you have to tell her +that you don't like her--her pride demands it. Tell her all her bad +qualities, straight from the shoulder. + +ALBERT. [_Feeling himself equal to the task._] Don't worry about that! +[_Rises and walks about._] I know women love to be told things straight +out. + +JACQUES. I'm not the man for that; nor are you, I suppose? + +ALBERT. No? Jacques, I'm awfully obliged to you; you've done me a good +turn---- + +JACQUES, Don't mention it---- + +ALBERT. You want to do me one more favor? + +JACQUES. [_Devotedly._] Anything you like! + +ALBERT. Promise me you'll never let Henrietta know that you told me +this? + +JACQUES. I promise; but why? + +ALBERT. You know she has to understand that my behavior toward her is in +character. Natural, you see. + +JACQUES. Oh, you're going at it strenuously. + +ALBERT. I am. + +JACQUES. Your decision honors you. + +ALBERT. Let's not have Henriette find us together. Would you mind +disappearing? + +JACQUES. With pleasure. I'll look in later and get the news. + + [JACQUES _rises_. + +ALBERT. Thanks, Jacques. + +JACQUES. Good-by, Albert. + + [_Exits after shaking hands cordially with_ ALBERT. + +HENRIETTE. [_Re-entering as_ ALBERT _assumes a rather severe attitude_.] +How are you? [_Pause._] Have you seen Jacques? + +ALBERT. [_With a determined air._] No, Henriette. Thank God! + +HENRIETTE. Why? + +ALBERT. Because it pains me to see men in your presence whom you care +nothing for. + +HENRIETTE. [_Delighted._] You don't like that? + + [_Sitting down on sofa._ + +ALBERT. No, I don't. And I'd like to tell you---- + +HENRIETTE. About my relations with Jacques? + +ALBERT. Oh, he's not the only one. + +HENRIETTE. Heaps of others, I suppose? + +ALBERT. [_Sits on chair near sofa._] You suppose correctly; heaps. + +HENRIETTE. Really? + +ALBERT. You are a coquette. + +HENRIETTE. You think so? + +ALBERT. I am positive. + +HENRIETTE. I suppose I displease you in other ways, too? + +ALBERT. In a great many other ways. + +HENRIETTE. [_Really delighted._] How confidently you say that! + +ALBERT. So much the worse if you don't like it! + +HENRIETTE. Quite the contrary, my dear Albert; you can't imagine how you +please me when you talk like that. It's perfectly adorable. + +ALBERT. It makes very little difference to me whether I please you or +not. I speak according to my temperament. Perhaps it is a bit +authoritative, but I can't help _that_. + +HENRIETTE. You are superb. + +ALBERT. Oh, no. I'm just myself. + +HENRIETTE. Oh, if you were only the---- + +ALBERT. I haven't the slightest idea what you were about to say, but +I'll guarantee that there's not a more inflexible temper than mine in +Paris. + +HENRIETTE. I can easily believe it. [_Pause._] Now tell me in what way +you think I'm coquettish. + + [_Sitting on edge of sofa in an interested attitude._ ALBERT _takes + out cigarette, lights and smokes it_. + +ALBERT. That's easy; for instance, when you go to the theatre, to a +reception, to the races. As soon as you arrive the men flock about in +dozens; those who don't know you come to be introduced. You're the +talking-stock of society. Now I should be greatly obliged if you would +tell me to what you attribute this notoriety? + +HENRIETTE. [_Modestly._] Well, I should attribute it to the fact that I +am--agreeable, and pleasant---- + +ALBERT. There are many women no less so. + +HENRIETTE. [_Summoning up all her modesty to reply._] You force me to +recognize the fact---- + +ALBERT. And I know many women fully as pleasant as you who don't flaunt +their favors in the face of everybody; _they_ preserve some semblance of +dignity, a certain air of aloof distinction that it would do you no harm +to acquire. + +HENRIETTE. [_With a gratitude that is conscious of its bounds._] Thanks, +thanks so much. [_Drawing back to a corner of the sofa._] I am deeply +obliged to you---- + +ALBERT. Not at all. + +HENRIETTE. In the future I shall try to behave more decorously. + +ALBERT. Another thing---- + +HENRIETTE. [_The first signs of impatience begin to appear._] What? +Another thing to criticise? + +ALBERT. A thousand! [_Settling himself comfortably._ + +HENRIETTE. Well, hurry up. + +ALBERT. You must rid yourself of your excessive and ridiculous +school-girl sentimentality. + +HENRIETTE. I wonder just on what you base your statement. Would you +oblige me so far as to explain that? + +ALBERT. With pleasure. I remember one day in the country you were in +tears because a _poor_ little mouse had fallen into the claws of a +_wretched_ cat; two minutes later you were sobbing because the _poor_ +cat choked in swallowing the _wretched_ little mouse. + +HENRIETTE. That was only my kindness to dumb animals. Is it wrong to be +kind to dumb animals? + + [_She is about to rise when_ ALBERT _stops her with a gesture_. + +ALBERT. That would be of no consequence, if it weren't that you were of +so contradictory a nature that you engage in the emptiest, most +frivolous conversations, the most---- + +HENRIETTE. [_Slightly disdainful._] Ah, you are going too far! You make +me doubt your power of analysis. I am interested only in noble and high +things---- + +ALBERT. And yet as soon as the conversation takes a serious turn, it's +appalling to see you; you yawn and look bored to extinction. + +HENRIETTE. There you are right--partly. + +ALBERT. You see! + +HENRIETTE. [_Sharp and even antagonistic._] Yes, I have that unfortunate +gift of understanding things before people have finished explaining +them. While the others are waiting for the explanation, I can't wait, +and I fly on miles ahead---- + +ALBERT. Hm--that sounds probable; I sha'n't say anything more about that +just now. But while I'm on the subject, I have more than once noticed +that you are guilty of the worst vice woman ever possessed---- + +HENRIETTE. And what, if you please? + +ALBERT. Vanity. + +HENRIETTE. I vain? Oh, you're going too far! + +ALBERT. [_Unruffled._] Not a word! Every time I tell you a fault, you +twist it round to your own advantage. Whereas you are really worse---- + +HENRIETTE. [_Rising and gathering her skirts about her with virtuous +indignation._] You are rude! I suppose you would find fault with me if I +considered myself more polite than the person whom I have the honor to +address? + +ALBERT. I hope you don't intend that remark as personal. + +HENRIETTE. I certainly do. + + [_She crosses to the other side of the stage and sits down._ ALBERT + _rises and goes up to her_. + +ALBERT. Henriette! No! [_Laughing._] I see your trick. + +HENRIETTE. What do you mean? + +ALBERT. You can't deceive me by pretending to be angry. You wanted to +see whether I could withstand your temper. Let us now proceed to the +next chapter: your manner of dressing. + +HENRIETTE. [_Now really outraged._] My manner of dressing? You dare! + + [HENRIETTE _crosses_ L. _Front_, ALBERT _following her_. + +ALBERT. Yes, that will be enough for to-day---- + +HENRIETTE. And then you'll begin again to-morrow! + +ALBERT. Yes. + +HENRIETTE. And do you think for one minute that I'll listen to you while +you insult me to my face? _You_ are the vain one, to think you can come +to that! _You_ are the frivolous one, _you_ are the---- + +ALBERT. [_Slightly perturbed._] Be careful what you say! + +HENRIETTE. I'll take care of that. Let me tell you that you are a +detestable cynic. You are disgustingly personal; always dwelling on +details, on the least---- + +ALBERT. Which is as much as calling me a fool? + +HENRIETTE. Just about. You would be if you didn't read your morning +paper regularly; so regularly that I know in advance exactly what you +are going to say to me during the day. + +ALBERT. Why not call me a parrot? + +HENRIETTE. That would flatter you, for you don't speak as well as a +parrot; a parrot's memory never gets clouded, a parrot has at least the +common politeness to---- + +ALBERT. [_Between his teeth._] I won't stand for this. I wonder how you +could have endured me so long if you thought me such a fool. + +HENRIETTE. I believed you harmless. + +ALBERT. Are you aware that you have wounded me cruelly? + +HENRIETTE. _You_ have wounded _me_. Thank heaven, though, we had this +discussion! Now I'll know how to conduct myself toward you in the +future. + +ALBERT. Thank heaven for the same thing! It was high time! I grieve to +think that only last night I had fully made up my mind to ask you to be +my wife! + +HENRIETTE. My dear friend, if you ever do so, I shall show you the door +immediately. + + [_Enter_ JACQUES _hurriedly_. HENRIETTE _runs to him as for + protection_. + +JACQUES. What's all this noise? What's the matter? + +HENRIETTE. Oh, Jacques--I'm so glad you've come. + +ALBERT. Just in time! You put an end to our pleasant little tete-a-tete. + +JACQUES. But what's happened? + +HENRIETTE. Well, monsieur here---- + +ALBERT. No, it was mademoiselle who---- + + [HENRIETTE _and_ ALBERT _each take an arm of_ JACQUES _and bring + him down-stage_ C. _His attention is constantly shifting from one + to the other, as they address him in turn._ + +HENRIETTE. Just think, Jacques---- + +ALBERT. Jacques, she had the audacity to---- + +HENRIETTE. Stop! I'm going to tell him first---- + +JACQUES. You're both too excited to explain anything. Albert, you take a +little stroll and cool off. + +ALBERT. [_Retreating toward the door._] Charmed. + +HENRIETTE. Then I can draw a free breath. + +JACQUES. [_To_ ALBERT.] I'll fix up things while you're away. + +ALBERT. [_To both._] I won't give in. + +HENRIETTE. Neither will I. + +JACQUES. Tut, tut! + +ALBERT. Good-day, mademoiselle. + +HENRIETTE. Good-day. + +JACQUES. Good-day, Albert. + + [_Exit_ ALBERT. + +HENRIETTE. Thank goodness, we're rid of him! + +JACQUES. [_Sympathetically._] Tell me all about it. + +HENRIETTE. [_Sits down on sofa, inviting_ JACQUES _by a gesture to do +the same. He sits beside her._] That man invented the most abominable +things about me; criticised me to my face! + +JACQUES. He did! + +HENRIETTE. It was so ridiculous--makes me sick to think about it. + +JACQUES. My dear Henriette, don't think about it. Albert must have +behaved like a brute to make you so angry. + +HENRIETTE. Yes, don't you think so? _You_ think I'm right? + +JACQUES. [_Loyally._] Of course I do. + +HENRIETTE. [_At her ease once more._] You encourage me, Jacques. + +JACQUES. When I saw you were angry I said to myself at once: "Henriette +is right." + +HENRIETTE. Really? + +JACQUES. I said it because I knew you were by nature peace-loving and +considerate---- + +HENRIETTE. [_With profound conviction._] Well, I think that's the least +that could be said of me. + +JACQUES. In any event, you are always tactful, you always---- + +HENRIETTE. _You_ know me, Jacques! + +JACQUES. I flatter myself. I felt instinctively you couldn't be wrong. +You have always been so admirably poised, so unfailingly considerate. + +HENRIETTE. [_With perfect simplicity._] Frankly now, do I ever lose my +temper with you? + +JACQUES. [_In good faith._] Never. With me you are always patient, +gracious, modest---- + +HENRIETTE. But I remember, a little while ago, I made you suffer---- + +JACQUES. Yes, I was unhappy. But "if after every storm comes such a +calm"---- + +HENRIETTE. It was all my fault. You understand me; you are truly a +friend. + +JACQUES. Nothing more? + + [_Rising, but standing near her._ HENRIETTE _blushingly looks down + at her shoe_. + +HENRIETTE. Oh---- + +JACQUES. Prove that you mean that sincerely. + +HENRIETTE. What have I to do? [_Same business._ + +JACQUES. Place your future in my hands; marry me. + +HENRIETTE. [_With downcast eyes._] I was just thinking about it. [_Same +business, but with repressed joy._ + +JACQUES. [_About to embrace her._] Ah! + +HENRIETTE. Wait! + + [_Complete metamorphosis. Her joy is still present, but it has + taken on a playful, serio-comic aspect. Rising and putting her hand + in his._ + +JACQUES. Why do you hesitate? + +HENRIETTE. Jacques, do you remember what I told you not long ago? + +JACQUES. Yes. + +HENRIETTE. In spite of that, are you quite sure that I am not vain or +coquettish? + +JACQUES. I am certain. + +HENRIETTE. You are also firmly resolved to be my moral guide, critic, +helper? + +JACQUES. [_Stolid as ever._] I am. + +HENRIETTE. I make one condition. + +JACQUES. Name it. + +HENRIETTE. On your word of honor? + +JACQUES. On my word of honor. Tell me. + +HENRIETTE. Will you swear to tell me, without pity, every time you find +me at fault? Swear. + +JACQUES. I swear. + +HENRIETTE. Then you have my promise. + +JACQUES. [_As they embrace._] Dearest! + +CURTAIN + + + + +THE DEACON'S HAT + +BY + +JEANNETTE MARKS + + +_The Deacon's Hat_ is reprinted by special arrangement with Miss +Jeannette Marks and with Little, Brown and Company, Boston, the +publisher of _Three Welsh Plays_, from which this play is taken. All +rights reserved. For permission to perform address the author in care +of the publisher. + + +JEANNETTE MARKS + +Jeannette Marks, well-known essayist, poet, and playwright, was born in +1875 at Chattanooga, Tennessee, but spent her early life in +Philadelphia, where her father, the late William Dennis Marks, was +professor of dynamics in the University of Pennsylvania and president of +the Edison Electric Light Company. She attended school in Dresden, and +in 1900 was graduated from Wellesley College. She obtained her master's +degree from Wellesley in 1903. Her graduate studies were continued at +the Bodleian Library and at the British Museum. Since 1901 she has been +on the staff of the English Department at Mount Holyoke College, South +Hadley, Massachusetts. Her chief courses are Nineteenth Century Poetry +and Play-writing. + +Miss Marks's interest in Welsh life is the result of her hiking several +summers among the Welsh hills and valleys. She became intimately +acquainted with Welsh peasant life. It is said that Edward Knobloch, +well-known dramatist, on one of her homeward voyages from one of her +summer outings in Wales, pointed out to Miss Marks the dramatic +possibilities of the material she had thus acquired. _Three Welsh Plays_ +was the result. Two of these plays, without the author's knowledge, were +entered in 1911 for the Welsh National Theatre prize contest. To her +credit, the plays won the prize. The complete volume appeared in 1917. + +_The Deacon's Hat_ is a fine study of the life of the common folk of +Wales. + + +CHARACTERS + + + DEACON ROBERTS, _a stout, oldish Welshman_ + HUGH WILLIAMS, _an earnest, visionary young man who owns Y Gegin_ + NELI WILLIAMS, _his capable wife_ + MRS. JONES, _the Wash, a stout, kindly woman who wishes to buy soap_ + MRS. JENKINS, _the Midwife, after pins for her latest baby_ + TOM MORRIS, _the Sheep, who comes to buy tobacco and remains to pray_ + + + + +THE DEACON'S HAT[I] + + + SCENE: _A little shop called Y Gegin (The Kitchen), in Bala, North + Wales._ + + TIME: _Monday morning at half-past eleven._ + + _To the right is the counter of Y Gegin, set out with a bountiful + supply of groceries; behind the counter are grocery-stocked + shelves. Upon the counter is a good-sized enamel-ware bowl filled + with herring pickled in brine and leek, also a basket of fresh + eggs, a jar of pickles, some packages of codfish, a half dozen + loaves of bread, a big round cheese, several pounds of butter + wrapped in print paper, etc., etc._ + + _To the left are a cheerful glowing fire and ingle._ + + _At the back center is a door; between the door and the fire stands + a grandfather's clock with a shining brass face. Between the clock + and the door, back centre, is a small tridarn [Welsh dresser] and a + chair. From the rafters hang flitches of bacon, hams, bunches of + onions, herbs, etc. On either side of the fireplace are latticed + windows, showing a glimpse of the street. Before the fire is a + small, round, three-legged table; beside it a tall, straight-backed + chair._ + + _Between the table and left is a door which is the entrance to Y + Gegin and from which, on a metal elbow, dangles a large bell._ + + _At rise of curtain Hugh Williams enters at back centre, absorbed + in reading a volume of Welsh theological essays. He is dressed in a + brightly striped vest, a short, heavy cloth coat, cut away in + front and with lapels trimmed with brass buttons, swallowtails + behind, also trimmed with brass buttons, stock wound around his + neck, and tight trousers down to his boot-tops._ + + _Neli Williams, his wife, a comely, capable young woman, busy with + her knitting every instant she talks, is clad in her market + costume, a scarlet cloak, and a tall black Welsh beaver. Over her + arm is an immense basket._ + +NELI. [_Commandingly._] Hughie, put down that book! + +HUGH. [_Still going on reading._] Haven't I just said a man is his own +master, whatever! + +NELI. Hughie, ye're to mind the shop while I'm gone! + +HUGH. [_Patiently._] Yiss, yiss. + +NELI. I don't think ye hear a word I am sayin' whatever. + +HUGH. Yiss, I hear every word ye're sayin'. + +NELI. What is it, then? + +HUGH. [_Weakly._] 'Tis all about--about--the--the weather whatever! + +NELI. Ye've not heard a word, an' ye're plannin' to read that book from +cover to cover, I can see. + +HUGH. [_A little too quickly._] Nay, I have no plans.... + + [_He tucks book away in back coat pocket over-hastily._ + +NELI. Hugh! + +HUGH. [_Weakly._] Nay, I _have_ no plans whatever! + +NELI. [_Reproachfully._] Hugh--_ie_! 'Twould be the end of sellin' +anythin' to anybody if I leave ye with a book whatever! Give me that +book! + +HUGH. [_Obstinately._] Nay, I'll no read the book. + +NELI. Give me that book! + +HUGH. [_Rising a little._] Nay. I say a man is his own master whatever! + +NELI. [_Finding the book hidden in his coat-tail pocket._] Is he? Well, +I'll no leave ye with any masterful temptations to be readin'. + +HUGH. Ye've no cause to take this book away from me. + +NELI. [_Opens book and starts with delight._] 'Tis Deacon Roberts's new +book on "The Flamin' Wickedness of Babylon." Where did ye get it? + +HUGH. [_Reassured by her interest._] He lent it to me this morning. + +NELI. [_Resolutely._] Well, I will take it away from ye this noon till I +am home again whatever! + +HUGH. [_Sulkily._] Sellin' groceries is not salvation. They sold +groceries in Babylon; Deacon Roberts says so. + +NELI. [_Looking at book with ill-disguised eagerness._] I dunno as +anybody ever found salvation by givin' away all he had for nothin'! 'Tis +certain Deacon Roberts has not followed that way. + +HUGH. [_Still sulkily._] A man is his own master, I say. + +NELI. [_Absent-mindedly, her nose in the book._] Is he? Well, indeed! + +HUGH. [_Crossly._] Aye, he is. [_Pointedly._] An' I was not plannin' to +give away the book whatever. + +NELI. [_Closing volume with a little sigh, as for stolen delights, and +speaking hastily._] An' I am not talkin' about acceptin' books, but +about butter an' eggs an' cheese an' all the other groceries! + +HUGH. Aye, ye'll get no blessin' from such worldliness. + +NELI. [_Absent-mindedly._] Maybe not, but ye will get a dinner from that +unblessed worldliness an' find no fault, I'm thinkin'. [_Her hand +lingering on the book, which she opens._] But such wonderful theology! +An' such eloquence! Such an understandin' of sin! Such glowin' pictures +of Babylon! + +HUGH. Aye, hot! I tell ye, Neli, there's no man in the parish has such a +gift of eloquence as Deacon Roberts or such theology. In all Wales ye'll +not find stronger theology than his. + +NELI. Ye have no need to tell me that! [_Looking for a place in which to +hide the book until she returns._] Have I not a deep an' proper +admiration for theology? Have I not had one minister an' five deacons +an' a revivalist in my family, to say nothin' at all of one composer of +hymns? + +HUGH. Yiss, yiss. Aye, 'tis a celebrated family. I am no sayin' anythin' +against your family. + +NELI. Then what? + +HUGH. [_Pleadingly._] Deacon Roberts has great fire with which to save +souls. We're needin' that book on Babylon's wickedness. Give it back to +me, Neli! + +NELI. Oh, aye! [_Looks at husband._] I'm not sayin' but that ye are +wicked, Hugh, an' needin' these essays, for ye have no ministers and +deacons and hymn composers among your kin. + +HUGH. [_Triumphantly._] Aye, aye, that's it! That's it! An' the more +need have I to read till my nostrils are full of the smoke of--of +Babylon. + +NELI. [_Absent-mindedly tucking book away on shelf as she talks._] Aye, +but there has been some smoke about Deacon Roberts's reputation which +has come from some fire less far away than Babylon. + +HUGH. What smoke? + +NELI. [_Evasively._] Well, I am thinkin' about my eggs which vanished +one week ago to-day. There was no one in that mornin' but Deacon +Roberts. Mrs. Jones the Wash had come for her soap an' gone before I +filled that basket with eggs. + +HUGH. [_Watching her covertly, standing on tiptoe and craning his neck +as she stows away book._] Yiss, yiss! + +NELI. [_Slyly._] Ask Deacon Roberts if cats steal eggs whatever? + +HUGH. [_Repeating._] If cats steal eggs, if cats steal eggs. + +NELI. Aye, not if eggs steal cats. + +HUGH. [_Craning neck._] Yiss, yiss, if eggs steal cats! + +NELI. Hugh--_ie_! Now ye'll never get it correct again! 'Tis if cats +steal eggs. + +HUGH. [_Sulkily._] Well, I'm no carin' about cats with heaven starin' +me in the face. + + [NELI _turns about swiftly with the quick, sudden motions + characteristic of her, and_ HUGH _shrinks into himself. She shakes + her finger at him and goes over to kiss him._ + +NELI. Hughie, lad, ye're not to touch the book while I am gone to +market. + +HUGH. Nay, nay, certainly not! + +NELI. And ye're to be on the lookout for Mrs. Jones the Wash, for Mrs. +Jenkins the Midwife--Jane Elin has a new baby, an' it'll be needin' +somethin'. [_Pointing to counter._] Here is everythin' plainly marked. +Ye're no to undersell or give away anythin.' D'ye hear? + +HUGH. Aye, I hear! + +NELI. An' remember where the tobacco is, for this is the day Tom Morris +the Sheep comes in. + +HUGH. Aye, in the glass jar. + +NELI. Good-by. I will return soon. + +HUGH. [_Indifferently._] Good-by. + + [NELI _leaves by door at back centre. Immediately_ HUGH _steals + toward the shelves where she hid the book_. + +NELI. [_Thrusting head back in._] Mind, Hughie lad, no readin'--nay, not +even any theology! + +HUGH. [_Stepping quickly away from shelves and repeating parrotlike._] +Nay, nay, no readin', no sermons, not even any theology! + +NELI. An' no salvation till I come back! + + [_She smiles, withdraws head, and is gone._ HUGH _starts forward, + collides clumsily with the counter in his eagerness, knocks the + basket of eggs with his elbow, upsetting it. Several eggs break. He + shakes his head ruefully at the mess and as ruefully at the + counter. He finds book and hugs it greedily to him._ + +HUGH. [_Mournfully._] Look at this! What did I say but that there was no +salvation sellin' groceries! If Neli could but see those eggs! [_He +goes behind counter and gets out a box of eggs, from which he refills +the basket. The broken eggs he leaves untouched upon the floor. He opens +his volume of sermons and seats himself by a little three-legged table +near the fire. He sighs in happy anticipation. Hearing a slight noise, +he looks suspiciously at door, gets up, tiptoes across floor to street +door, and locks it quietly. An expression of triumph overspreads his +face._] Da, if customers come, they will think no one is at home +whatever, an' I can read on! [_He seats himself at little three-legged +table, opens volume, smooths over its pages lovingly, and begins to read +slowly and halting over syllables._] The smoke of Ba-by-lon was +hot--scorchin' hot. An' 'twas filled with Ba-ba-ba-baal stones, slimy +an' scorchin' hot also---- + + [_There is the sound of feet coming up the shop steps, followed by + a hand trying the door-knob._ HUGH _looks up from his sermons, an + expression of innocent triumph on his face. The door-knob is tried + again, the door rattled._ + + [_Then some one rings the shop door-bell._ + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Calling._] Mrs. Williams, mum, have ye any soap? +[_No answer. Calling._] Mrs. Williams! Mrs. Williams! + + [HUGH _nods approvingly and lifts his volume to read_. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. Where are they all whatever? I will just look in at +the window, [_A large, kindly face is anxiously flattened against the +window. At that_ HUGH _drops in consternation under the three-legged +table_.] Uch, what's that shadow skippin' under the table? No doubt a +rat after the groceries. Mrs. Williams, mum, Mrs. Williams! Well, +indeed, they're out. + + [_She pounds once more on the door with a heavy fist, rings, and + then goes. Suddenly the door back centre opens, and_ NELI WILLIAMS + _appears_. + +NELI. [_She does not see_ HUGH _and peers around for him_.] What is all +that bell-ringing about? + + [HUGH _crawls out from under the table_. + + +HUGH. Hush, she's gone! + +NELI. [_Amazed, and whispering to herself._] Under the table! + +HUGH. [_Rising and putting up his hand as a sign for her to keep +silent._] Nay, 'twas Mrs. Jones the Wash come to buy her soap whatever! + +NELI. Aye, well, why didn't she come in whatever? + +HUGH. [_Whispering._] I locked the door, Neli, so I could finish readin' +those essays whatever! An' then she looked in at the window, an' I had +to get under the table. + +NELI. [_Indignantly._] Locked the door against a customer, an' after all +I said! An' crawled under a table! Hugh Williams, your wits are goin' +quite on the downfall! + +HUGH. [_In a whisper._] Aye, but Neli, those essays--an' I thought ye +had gone to market. + +NELI. I had started, but I came back for my purse. Put down that book! + +HUGH. Aye, but, Neli---- + +NELI. [_Angrily._] Much less of heaven an' much more of earth is what I +need in a husband! Ye have sent away a customer; very like Mrs. Jones +the Wash after soap will go elsewhere. + +HUGH. Aye, but Neli.... + + [_Steps are heard approaching._ + +NELI. Get up! Some one is coming. + + [HUGH _gets up very unwillingly_. + +HUGH. [_Whispering still._] Aye, but Neli.... + +NELI. [_Angrily._] Put down that book, I say! [_She crunches over some +eggshells._] Eggs? Broken? + +HUGH. [_Putting down book._] Aye, Neli, my elbow an' the eggs in +Babylon.... + +NELI. [_Sarcastically._] Aye, I see beasts in Babylon here +together--doleful creatures smearin' one an' sixpence worth of eggs all +over the floor. An' a half-dozen eggs gone last week. [_Wiping up +eggs._] An' I'm to suppose Babylon had something to do with that +half-dozen eggs, too? They were put in the basket after Mrs. Jones the +Wash had left whatever, an' before Deacon Roberts came. + +HUGH. Neli, I did not say---- + +NELI. [_Still angrily._] Well, indeed, unlock that door! + +HUGH. [_Going to unlock door._] But, Neli.... + +NELI. [_Disappearing through door back centre._] Not a word! Your mind +has gone quite on the downfall--lockin' doors against your own bread and +butter an' soap. + +HUGH. [_Unlocking door sullenly._] But, Neli, salvation an' soap.... + +NELI. [_Snappily._] Salvation an' soap are as thick as thieves. + +HUGH. But, Neli, a man is his own master. + +NELI. Yiss, I see he is! + + [NELI _goes out, slamming door noisily_. + +HUGH. Dear anwyl, she seems angry! + + [HUGH _opens street door left just as_ NELI _goes out through + kitchen, by door back centre_. DEACON ROBERTS _enters the door_ + HUGH _has unlocked. He looks at_ HUGH, _smiles, and goes over to + counter in a businesslike way. He is a stout man, dressed in a + black broadcloth cutaway coat, tight trousers, a drab vest, high + collar and stock, woollen gloves, a muffler wound about his neck + and face, and a tall Welsh beaver hat. Under his arm he carries a + book._ + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Speaking affectionately, pulling off his gloves, +putting down book on counter, and beginning eagerly to touch the various +groceries._] Essays on Babylon to-day, Hughie lad? + +HUGH. [_Looking about for_ NELI _and speaking fretfully_.] Nay. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Unwinding his muffler._] Ye look as if ye had been in +spiritual struggle. + +HUGH. [_Drearily._] I have. + +DEACON ROBERTS. Well, indeed, Hughie, 'tis neither the angel nor the +archfiend here now, nor for me any struggle except the struggle to both +live an' eat well--ho! ho! _an'_ eat well, I say--in Bala. [_Laughs +jovially._] Ho! ho! not bad, Hughie lad--live _an'_ eat in Bala! + +HUGH. [_Patiently._] With that muffler around your head, deacon, ye are +enough to frighten the devil out of Babylon. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Unwinding last lap of muffler._] Yiss, yiss, Hughie +lad. But I dunno but ye will understand better if I call myself, let us +say the angel with the sickle--ho! ho!--not the angel of fire, Hughie, +but the angel with the sharp sickle gatherin' the clusters of the vines +of the earth. [_Sudden change of subject._] Where is Neli? + +HUGH. [_Vacantly._] I dunno--yiss, yiss, at market. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Chuckling._] Dear, dear, at market--a fine day for +marketing! An' my essays on the Flamin' Wickedness of Babylon, Hughie +lad, how are they? Have ye finished them? + +HUGH. Nay, not yet. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Looking over counter, touching one article after +another as he mentions it._] Pickled herrin'--grand but wet! +Pickles--dear me, yiss, Neli's--an' good! Butter from +Hafod-y-Porth--sweet as honey! [_He picks up a pat of butter and sniffs +it, drawing in his breath loudly. He smiles with delight and lays down +the butter. He takes off his hat and dusts it out inside. He puts his +hat back on his head, smiles, chuckles, picks up butter, taps it +thoughtfully with two fingers, smells it and puts down the pat +lingeringly. He lifts up a loaf of_ NELI WILLIAMS'S _bread, glancing +from it to the butter_.] Bread! Dear me! [_His eyes glance on to +codfish._] American codfish [_picks up package and smacks his lips +loudly_], dear _anwyl_, with potatoes--[_reads_] "Gloucester." [_Reaches +out and touches eggs affectionately._] Eggs--are they fresh, Hugh? + +HUGH. [_Dreamily._] I dunno. But I broke some of them. They might be! +[_Looks at floor._ + +DEACON ROBERTS. _Were_ they fresh? + +HUGH. I dunno. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Sharply._] Dunno? About _eggs_? + + [_Picks up egg._ + +HUGH. [_Troubled._] Neli's hens laid them. + +DEACON ROBERTS. I see, Neli's hens laid 'em, an' you broke 'em! +Admirable arrangement! [_Putting down the egg and turning toward the +cheese, speaks on impatiently._] Well, indeed then, were the hens fresh? + +HUGH. [_More cheerful._] Yiss, I think. Last week the basket was grand +an' full of fresh eggs, but they disappeared, aye, they did indeed. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Starts._] Where did they go to? + +HUGH. [_Injured._] How can I say? I was here, an' I would have told her +if I had seen, but I did not whatever. Neli reproves me for too great +attention to visions an' too little to the groceries. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Chuckling._] Aye, Hughie lad, such is married life! +Let a man marry his thoughts or a wife, for he cannot have both. I have +chosen my thoughts. + +HUGH. But the cat---- + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Briskly._] Aye, a man can keep a cat without risk. + +HUGH. Nay, nay, I mean the cat took 'em. I dunno. That's +it--{SPACE}[HUGH _clutches his head, trying to recall something_.] Uch, +that's it! Neli told me to remember to ask ye if ye thought eggs could +steal a cat whatever. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Puzzled._] Eggs steal a cat? + +HUGH. [_Troubled._] Nay, nay, cats steal an egg? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Startled and looking suspiciously at_ HUGH.] Cats? +What cats? + +HUGH. [_With solemnity._] Aye, but I told Neli I'm no carin' about cats +with heaven starin' me in the face. Deacon Roberts, those essays are +grand an' wonderful. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Relieved._] Yiss, yiss! Hughie lad, theology is a +means to salvation an' sometimes to other ends, too. But there's no +money in theology. [_Sighs._] And a man must live! [_Points to corroded +dish of pickled herring, sniffing greedily._] Dear people, what +beautiful herrin'! [_Wipes moisture away from corners of his mouth and +picks up a fish from dish, holding it, dripping, by tail._] Pickled? + +HUGH. [_Looking at corroded dish._] Tuppence. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Shortly._] Dear to-day. + +HUGH. [_Eyeing dish dreamily._] I dunno. Neli---- + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Eyes glittering, cutting straight through sentence and +pointing to cheese._] Cheese? + +HUGH. A shillin', I'm thinkin'. + +DEACON ROBERTS. A shillin', Hugh? [DEACON ROBERTS _lifts knife and drops +it lightly on edge of cheese. The leaf it pares off he picks up and +thrusts into his mouth, greedily pushing in the crumbs. Then he pauses +and looks slyly at_ HUGH.] Was it sixpence ye said, Hugh? + +HUGH. [_Gazing toward the fire and the volume of essays._] Yiss, +sixpence, I think. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Sarcastically._] Still too dear, Hugh! + +HUGH. [_Sighing._] I dunno, it might be dear. [_With more animation._] +Deacon, when Babylon fell---- + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Wipes his mouth and, interrupting_ HUGH, _speaks +decisively_.] No cheese. [_He removes his tall Welsh beaver hat, mops +off his bald white head, and, pointing up to the shelves, begins to dust +out inside of hatband again, but with a deliberate air of preparation._] +What is that up there, Hughie lad? + +HUGH. [_Trying to follow the direction of the big red wavering +forefinger._] Ye mean that? A B C In-fants' Food, I think. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Giving his hat a final wipe._] Nay, nay, not for me, +Hughie lad! Come, come, brush the smoke of burnin' Babylon from your +eyes! In a minute I must be goin' back to my study, whatever. An' I have +need of food! + + [HUGH _takes a chair and mounts it. The_ DEACON _looks at_ HUGH'S + _back, puts his hand down on the counter, and picks up an egg from + the basket. He holds it to the light and squints through it to see + whether it is fresh. Then he turns it lovingly over in his fat + palm, makes a dexterous backward motion and slides it into his + coat-tail pocket. This he follows with two more eggs for same + coat-tail and three for other--in all half a dozen._ + +HUGH. [_Dreamily pointing to tin._] Is it Yankee corn? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_To Hugh's back, and slipping in second egg._] Nay, +nay, not that, Hughie lad, that tin above! + +HUGH. [_Absent-mindedly touching tin._] Is it ox tongue? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Slipping in third egg and not even looking up._] Ox +tongue, lad? Nay, nuthin' so large as that. + +HUGH. [_Dreamily reaching up higher._] American condensed m-m-milk? +Yiss, that's what it is. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Slipping in fourth egg._] Condensed milk, Hughie? Back +to infants' food again. + +HUGH. [_Stretching up almost to his full length and holding down tin +with tips of long white finger._] Kippert herrin'? Is it that? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Slipping in fifth egg._] Nay, nay, a little further +up, if you please. + +HUGH. [_Gasping, but still reaching up and reading._] Uto--U-to-pi-an +Tinned Sausage. Is it that? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Slipping in sixth egg with an air of finality and +triumph, and lifting his hat from the counter._] Nay, nay, not that, +Hughie lad. Why do ye not begin by askin' me what I want? Ye've no gift +for sellin' groceries whatever. + +HUGH. [_Surprised._] Did I not ask ye? + +DEACON ROBERTS. Nay. + +HUGH. What would Neli say whatever? She would never forgive me. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Amiably._] Well, I forgive ye, Hughie lad. 'Tis a +relish I'm needin'! + +HUGH. [_Relieved._] Well, indeed, a relish! We have relishes on that +shelf above, I think. [_Reaches up but pauses helplessly._] I must tell +Neli that these shelves are not straight. + + [_Dizzy and clinging to the shelves, his back to the_ DEACON. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Picking up a pound of butter wrapped in print paper._] +Is it up there? + +HUGH. No, I think, an' the shelves are not fast whatever. I must tell +Neli. They go up like wings. [_Trying to reach to a bottle just above +him._] Was it English or American? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Putting the pound of butter in his hat and his hat on +his head._] American, Hughie lad. + + [_At that instant there is a noise from the inner kitchen, and_ + NELI WILLIAMS _opens the door. The_ DEACON _turns, and their + glances meet and cross. Each understands perfectly what the other + has seen._ NELI WILLIAMS _has thrown off her red cloak and taken + off her Welsh beaver hat. She is dressed in a short full skirt, + white stockings, clogs on her feet, a striped apron, tight bodice, + fichu, short sleeves, and white cap on dark hair._ + +NELI. [_Slowly._] Uch! The deacon has what he came for whatever! + +HUGH. [_Turning to contradict his wife._] Nay, Neli--{SPACE}[_Losing his +balance on chair, tumbles off, and, with arm flung out to save himself, +strikes dish of pickled herring. The herring and brine fly in every +direction, spraying the_ DEACON _and_ HUGHIE; _the bowl spins madly, +dipping and revolving on the floor. For a few seconds nothing is audible +except the bowl revolving on the flagstones and_ HUGHIE _picking himself +up and sneezing behind the counter_.] Achoo! Achoo! Dear me, +Neli--Achoo! + +NELI. [_Going quickly to husband and beginning to wipe brine from +husband's forehead and cheeks; at the same time has her back to the_ +DEACON _and forming soundless letters with her lips, she jerks her head +toward the_ DEACON.] B-U-T-T-E-R! + +HUGH. [_Drearily._] Better? Aye, I'm better. It did not hurt me +whatever. + +NELI. [_Jerking head backwards toward_ DEACON ROBERTS _and again forming +letters with lips_.] B-U-T-T-E-R! + +HUGH. What, water? Nay, I don't want any water. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Coughing, ill at ease and glancing suspiciously at +bowl that has come to rest near his leg._] Ahem! 'Tis cold here, Mrs. +Williams, mum, an' I must be movin' on. + +NELI. [_Savagely to_ DEACON.] Stay where ye are whatever! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Unaccustomed to being spoken to this way by a woman._] +Well, indeed, mum, I could stay, but I'm thinkin' 'tis cold an'--I'd +better go. + +NELI. [_Again savagely._] Nay, stay! Stay for--for what ye came for +whatever! + + [NELI _looks challengingly at the_ DEACON. _Then she goes on wiping + brine carefully from husband's hair and from behind his ears. The_ + DEACON _coughs and pushes bowl away with the toe of his boot_. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Smiling._] 'Tis unnecessary to remain then, mum. + +NELI. [_To_ HUGH.] What did he get? + +HUGH. [_Sneezing._] N--n--Achoo!--nothin'! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_With sudden interest, looking at the floor._] Well, +indeed! + +NELI. [_Suspiciously._] What is it? + + [_He reaches down with difficulty to a small thick puddle on the + floor just beneath his left coat-tail. He aims a red forefinger at + it, lifts himself, and sucks fingertip._ + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Smiling._] Ahem, Mrs. Williams, mum, 'tis excellent +herrin' brine! [_From the basket on the counter he picks up an egg, +which he tosses lightly and replaces in basket._] A beautiful fresh egg, +Mrs. Williams, mum. I must be steppin' homewards. + +HUGH. [_Struggling to speak just as_ NELI _reaches his nose, wringing it +vigorously at she wipes it_.] Aye, but Neli, I was just tellin' ye when +I fell that I could not find the deacon's relish--uch, achoo! achoo! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_With finality, tossing the egg in air, catching it and +putting it back in basket._] Well, indeed, mum, I must be steppin' +homewards now. + + [NELI'S _glance rests on fire burning on other side of room_. _She + puts down wet cloth. She turns squarely on the_ DEACON. + +NELI. What is your haste, Mr. Roberts? Please to go to the fire an' +wait! I can find the relish. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Hastily._] Nay, nay, mum. I have no need any +more--[_Coughs._] Excellent herrin' brine. + + [_Goes toward door._ + +NELI. [_To_ HUGH.] Take him to the fire, Hugh. 'Tis a cold day whatever! +[_Insinuatingly to_ DEACON.] Have ye a reason for wantin' to go, Mr. +Roberts? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Going._] Nay, nay, mum, none at all! But, I must not +trouble ye. 'Tis too much to ask, an' I have no time to spare an'---- + +NELI. [_Interrupting and not without acerbity._] Indeed, Mr. Roberts, +sellin' what we _can_ is our profit. [_To_ HUGH, _who obediently takes_ +DEACON _by arm and pulls him toward fire_.] Take him to the fire, lad. +[_To_ DEACON.] What kind of a relish was it, did ye say, Mr. Roberts? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Having a tug of war with_ HUGH.] 'Tis an Indian +relish, mum, but I cannot wait. + +HUGH. [_Pulling harder._] American, ye said. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Hastily._] Yiss, yiss, American Indian relish, that +is. + +NELI. Tut, 'tis our specialty, these American Indian relishes! We have +several. Sit down by the fire while I look them up. [_Wickedly._] As ye +said. Mr. Roberts, 'tis cold here this morning. + +DEACON ROBERTS. There, Hughie lad, I must not trouble ye. [_Looks at +clock._] 'Tis ten minutes before twelve, an' my dinner will be ready at +twelve. [_Pulls harder._ + +NELI. [_To_ HUGH.] Keep him by the fire, lad. + +DEACON ROBERTS. There, Hughie lad, let me go! + + [_But_ HUGH _holds on, and the_ DEACON'S _coat begins to come off_. + +NELI. [_Sarcastically._] The relish--American Indian, ye said, I +think--will make your dinner taste fine and grand! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Finding that without leaving his coat behind he is +unable to go, he glowers at_ HUGH _and speaks sweetly to_ NELI.] 'Tis a +beautiful clock, Mrs. Williams, mum. But I haven't five minutes to +spare. + +NELI. [_Keeping a sharp lookout on the rim of the_ DEACON'S _hat_.] +Well, indeed, I can find the relish in just one minute. An' ye'll have +abundance of time left. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Trapped, and gazing at clock with fine air of +indifference._] 'Tis a clever, shinin' lookin' clock whatever, Mrs. +Williams, mum. + +NELI. Have ye any recollection of the name of the maker of the relish, +Mr. Roberts? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Putting his hands behind him anxiously and parting his +freighted coat-tails with care; then, revolving, presenting his back and +one large, well-set, bright-colored patch to the fire._] Nay, I have +forgotten it, Mrs. Williams, mum. + +NELI. Too bad, but I'm sure to find it. [_She mounts upon chair. At this +moment the shop door-bell rings violently, and there enters_ MRS. JONES +THE WASH, _very fat and very jolly. She is dressed in short skirt, very +full, clogs on her feet, a bodice made of striped Welsh flannel, a +shabby kerchief, a cap on her head, and over this a shawl._ NELI _turns +her head a little_.] Aye, Mrs. Jones the Wash, in a minute, if you +please. Sit down until I find Deacon Roberts's relish whatever. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Sits down on chair by door back centre and folds +her hands over her stomach._] Yiss, yiss, mum, thank you. I've come for +soap. I came once before, but no one was in. + +NELI. Too bad! + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. An' I looked in at the window an' saw nothin' but a +skippin' shadow looked like a rat. Have ye any rats, Mrs. Williams, mum, +do ye think? + +NELI. Have I any rats? Well, indeed, 'tis that I'm wantin' to know, Mrs. +Jones the Wash! + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. Well, I came back, for the water is eatin' the soap +to-day as if 'twere sweets--aye, 'tis a very meltin' day for soap! +[_Laughs._ + +DEACON ROBERTS. 'Tis sweet to be clean, Mrs. Jones the Wash. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Laughing._] Yiss, yiss, Deacon Roberts, there has +many a chapel been built out of a washtub, an' many a prayer risen up +from the suds! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Solemnly._] Aye, Mrs. Jones the Wash, 'tis holy work, +washin' is very holy work. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Touched._] Yiss, yiss, I thank ye, Deacon +Roberts. + +DEACON ROBERTS. Well, I must be steppin' homeward now. + +NELI. [_Firmly._] Nay, Mr. Roberts. I am searchin' on the shelf where I +think that American Indian relish is. Ye act as if ye had some cause to +hurry, Mr. Roberts. Wait a moment, if you please. + +DEACON ROBERTS. Well, indeed, but I am keepin' Mrs. Jones the Wash +waitin'! + +NELI. [_To_ MRS. JONES.] Ye are in no haste? + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Thoroughly comfortable and happy._] Nay, mum, no +haste at all. I am havin' a rest, an' 'tis grand an' warm here whatever. + +NELI. [_Maliciously to_ DEACON.] Does it feel hot by the fire? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Experiencing novel sensations on the crown of his bald +head._] Mrs. Williams, mum, 'tis hot in Y Gegin, but as with Llanycil +Churchyard, Y Gegin is only the portal to a hotter an' a bigger place +where scorchin' flames burn forever an' forever. Proverbs saith, "Hell +an' destruction are never full." What, then, shall be the fate of women +who have no wisdom, Mrs. Williams, mum? + +NELI. [_Searching for relish._] Aye, what? Well, indeed, the men must +know. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Nodding her head appreciatively at_ HUGH.] Such +eloquence, Mr. Williams! Aye, who in chapel has such grand theology as +Deacon Roberts! + + [_She sighs. The bell rings violently again, and_ TOM MORRIS THE + SHEEP _enters. He is dressed in gaiters, a shepherd's cloak, etc., + etc. He carries a crook in his hand. He is a grizzle-haired, + rosy-faced old man, raw-boned, strong, and awkward, with a + half-earnest, half-foolish look._ + +NELI. [_Looking around._] Aye, Tom Morris the Sheep, come in an' sit +down. I am lookin' out an American Indian relish for the deacon. + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Yiss, mum. I am wantin' to buy a little tobacco, +mum. 'Tis lonely upon the hillsides with the sheep, whatever. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Hastily._] I must go now, Mrs. Williams, mum, an' ye +can wait on Tom Morris. + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Nay, nay, Mr. Roberts, sir, there is no haste. + +NELI. [_To_ TOM MORRIS.] Sit down there by the door, if you please. + + [TOM MORRIS _seats himself on other side of door by back centre_. + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Yiss, mum. [_Touches his forelock to_ MRS. JONES +THE WASH.] A grand day for the clothes, Mrs. Jones, mum. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. Yiss, yiss, an' as I was just sayin' 'tis a meltin' +day for the soap! + +NELI. [_Significantly._] An' perhaps 'tis a meltin' day for somethin' +besides soap! [_She looks at_ DEACON. + +HUGH. [_Earnestly._] Yiss, yiss, for souls, meltin' for souls, I am +hopin'. [_Picking up the book from the little three-legged table, and +speaking to the_ DEACON.] They are enlargin' the burial ground in +Llanycil Churchyard--achoo! achoo! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Slyly moving a step away from fire._] They're only +enlargin' hell, Hughie lad, an' in that place they always make room for +all. [_He casts a stabbing look at_ NELI. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Nodding head._] True, true, room for all! +[_Chuckling._] But 'twould be a grand place to dry the clothes in! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Severely._] Mrs. Jones, mum, hell is paved with words +of lightness. + +HUGH. [_Looking up from book, his face expressing delight._] Deacon +Roberts, I have searched for the place of hell, but one book sayeth one +thing, an' another another. Where is hell? + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Aye, where is hell? + + [_The bell rings violently. All start except_ NELI. MRS. JENKINS + THE MIDWIFE _enters. She is an old woman, white-haired, and with a + commanding, somewhat disagreeable expression on her face. She wears + a cloak and black Welsh beaver and walks with a stick._ + +NELI. Yiss, yiss, Mrs. Jenkins the Midwife, I am just lookin' out a +relish for the Deacon. Sit down by the fire, please. + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [_Seating herself on other side of fire._] +Aye, mum, I've come for pins; I'm in no haste. + +NELI. is it Jane Elin's baby? + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Aye, Jane Elin's, an' 'tis my sixth hundredth +birth. + +HUGH. We're discussing the place of hell, Mrs. Jenkins, mum. + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Well, indeed, I have seen the place of hell +six hundred times then. [_Coughs and nods her head up and down over +stick._] Heaven an' hell I'm thinkin' we have with us here. + +HUGH. Nay, nay, how could that be? Tell us where is the place of hell, +Deacon Roberts. + + [_All listen with the most intense interest._ + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Nodding._] Aye, the place of hell-- [_stopping +suddenly, a terrified look on his face, as the butter slides against the +forward rim of his hat, almost knocking it off, then going on with neck +rigid and head straight up_] to me is known where is that place--their +way is dark an' slippery; they go down into the depths, an' their soul +is melted because of trouble. + +NELI. [_Pausing sceptically._] Aye, 'tis my idea of hell whatever with +souls meltin', Mr. Roberts! + +HUGH. [_Tense with expectation._] Tell us where is that place! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Neck rigid, head unmoved, and voice querulous._] Yiss, +yiss. [_Putting his hand up and letting it down quickly._] Ahem! Ye +believe that it rains in Bala? + +HUGH. [_Eyes on_ DEACON, _in childlike faith_.] I do. + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Yiss, yiss, before an' after every birth +whatever! + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. Yiss, yiss, who would know better than I that it +rains in Bala? + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Aye, amen, it rains in Bala upon the hills an' in +the valleys. + +DEACON ROBERTS. Ye believe that it can rain in Bala both when the moon +is full an' when 'tis new? + +HUGH. [_Earnestly._] I do. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Wearily._] Yiss, any time. + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Aye, all the time. + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE.. Yiss, yiss, it rains ever an' forever! + +NELI. [_Forgetting the relish search._] Well, indeed, 'tis true it can +rain in Bala at any time an' at all times. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Paying no attention to Neli._] Ye believe that +Tomen-y-Bala is Ararat? + +HUGH. [_Clutching his book more tightly and speaking in a whisper._] +Yiss. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. Aye, 'tis true. + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE.. Yiss, the Hill of Bala is Ararat. + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Yiss, I have driven the sheep over it whatever +more than a hundred times. + +NELI. [_Both hands on counter, leaning forward, listening to_ DEACON'S +_words_.] Aye, Charles-y-Bala said so. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Still ignoring_ NELI _and lowering his coat-tails +carefully_.] Ye believe, good people, that the Druids called Noah +"Tegid," an' that those who were saved were cast up on Tomen-y-Bala? + +HUGH. Amen, I do! + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [_Nodding her old head._] Aye, 'tis true. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. Yiss, yiss. + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Amen, 'tis so. + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Moving a few steps away from the fire, standing +sidewise, and lifting hand to head, checking it in midair._] An' ye know +that Bala has been a lake, an' Bala will become a lake? + +HUGH. Amen, I do! + +NELI. [_Assenting for the first time._] Yiss, 'tis true--that is. + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. Dear anwyl, yiss! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_With warning gesture toward window._] Hell is out +there--movin' beneath Bala Lake to meet all at their comin'. [_Raises +his voice suddenly._] Red-hot Baal stones will fall upon your +heads--Baal stones. Howl ye! [_Shouting loudly._] Meltin' stones +smellin' of the bullocks. Howl, ye sinners! [_Clasping his hands +together desperately._] Scorchin' hot--Oo--o--o--Howl ye!--howl ye! +[_The_ DEACON'S _hat sways, and he jams it down more tightly on his +head. Unclasping his hands and as if stirring up the contents of a +pudding-dish._] 'Round an' round like this! Howl, ye sinners, howl! + + [_All moan and sway to and fro except_ NELI. + +NELI. [_Sceptically._] What is there to fear? + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [_Groaning._] Nay, but what is there not to +fear? + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. Aye, outermost darkness. Och! Och! + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Have mercy! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Shouting again._] Get ready! Lift up your eyes! +[_Welsh beaver almost falls off and is set straight in a twinkling._] +Beg for mercy before the stones of darkness burn thee, an' there is no +water to cool thy tongue, an' a great gulf is fixed between thee an' +those who might help thee! + +NELI. [_Spellbound by the_ DEACON'S _eloquence and now oblivious to hat, +etc._] Yiss, yiss, 'tis true, 'tis very true! + + [_She steps down from chair and places hands on counter._ + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_His face convulsed, shouting directly at her._] +Sister, hast thou two eyes to be cast into hell fire? + +NELI. [_Terrified and swept along by his eloquence._] Two eyes to be +burned? + + [_All lower their heads, groaning and rocking to and fro._ + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_The butter trickling down his face, yelling with +sudden violence._] Hell is here an' now. Here in Bala, here in Y Gegin, +here with us! Howl ye! Howl, ye sinners! + + [_All moan together._ + +HUGH. [_Whispering._] Uch, here! + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Yiss, here! + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. Yiss. + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. [_Terrified._] Aye. Amen! Yiss! + +NELI. [_Whispering._] Here in Y Gegin! + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Clapping his hands to his face._] Stones of Baal, +stones of darkness, slimy with ooze, red-hot ooze, thick vapors! Howl +ye, howl, ye sinners! [_All moan and groan. Takes a glance at clock, +passes hand over face and runs on madly, neck rigid, eyes staring, fat +red cheeks turning to purple._] Midday, not midnight, is the hour of +hell; its sun never sets! But who knows when comes that hour of hell? + +NELI. [_Taking hands from counter and crossing them as she whispers._] +Who knows? + +ALL. [_Groaning._] Who knows? + +HUGH. [_Voice quavering and lifting his Welsh essays._] Who knows? + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Big yellow drops pouring down his face, his voice full +of anguish._] I will tell ye when is the hour of hell. [_He points to +the clock._] Is one the hour of hell? Nay. Two? Nay. Three? No, not +three. Four? Four might be the hour of hell, but 'tis not. Five? Nor +five, indeed. Six? Nay. Seven? Is seven the hour, the awful hour? Nay, +not yet. Eight? Is eight the hour--an hour bright as this bright hour? +Nay, eight is not. [_The_ DEACON _shouts in a mighty voice and points +with a red finger at the clock_.] 'Tis comin'! 'Tis comin', I say! Howl +ye, howl! Only one minute more! Sinners, sinners, lift up your eyes! Cry +for mercy! [_All groan._] Cry for mercy! When the clock strikes twelve, +'twill be the hour of hell! Fix your eyes upon the clock! Watch! Count! +Listen! 'Tis strikin'. The stroke! The hour is here! + + [_All dropped on their knees and turned toward the clock, their + backs to the street door, are awaiting the awful stroke. The book + has fallen from_ HUGH'S _hands_. NELI'S _hands are clenched_. MRS. + JENKINS THE MIDWIFE _is nodding her old head_. MRS. JONES THE WASH + _on her knees, her face upturned to the clock, is rubbing up and + down her thighs, as if at the business of washing_. TOM MORRIS THE + SHEEP _is prostrate and making a strange buzzing sound between his + lips. The wheels of the clever old timepiece whir and turn. Then in + the silent noonday the harsh striking begins: One, Two, Three, + Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve._ + +DEACON ROBERTS. [_Yelling suddenly in a loud and terrible voice._] Hell +let loose! Howl ye! Howl, ye sinners! [_All cover their eyes. All groan +or moan. The clock ticks, the flame in the grate flutters_, NELI'S +_bosom rises and falls heavily_.] Lest worse happen to ye, sin no more! + + [_The_ DEACON _looks at them all quietly. Then he lifts his hands + in sign of blessing, smiles and vanishes silently through street + door. All remain stationary in their terror. Nothing happens. But + at last_ NELI _fearfully, still spellbound by the_ DEACON'S + _eloquence, lifts her eyes to the clock. Then cautiously she turns + a little toward the fire and the place of_ DEACON ROBERTS. + +NELI. Uch! [_She stands on her feet and cries out._] The Deacon is gone! + +HUGH. [_Raising his eyes._] Uch, what is it? Babylon---- + +NELI. Babylon nothing! [_She wrings her hands._ + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [_Groaning._] Is he dead? Is he dead? + +NELI. [_With sudden plunge toward the door._] Uch, ye old hypocrite, ye +villain! Uch, my butter an' my eggs, my butter an' my eggs! + + [NELI _throws open the door and slams it to after her as she + pursues the_ DEACON _out into the bright midday sunshine_. + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Well, indeed, what is it? Has she been taken? + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Getting up heavily._] Such movin' eloquence! A +saintly man is Deacon Roberts! + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Aye, a saintly man is Deacon Roberts! + +HUGH. [_Picking up his book and speaking slowly._] Aye, eloquence that +knoweth the place of hell even better than it knoweth Bala whatever! + +MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [_Very businesslike._] Aye, 'twas a treat--a +rare treat! But where's my pins now? + +MRS. JONES THE WASH. [_Very businesslike._] Yiss, yiss, 'twas a grand +an' fine treat. But I'm wantin' my soap now. + +TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Have ye any tobacco, Hughie lad? + +CURTAIN + + + + +WHERE BUT IN AMERICA + +BY + +OSCAR M. WOLFF + + +_Where But In America_ is reprinted by special permission of the author +and of the _Smart Set Magazine_, in which this play was first printed. +For permission to perform address the author at Room 1211, 105 Monroe +Street, Chicago, Illinois. + + +OSCAR M. WOLFF + +Oscar M. Wolff was born July 13, 1876. After graduation from Cornell +University he completed his law course in the University of Chicago. In +addition to his interest in law, which he has practised and taught, he +has done considerable writing and editing. He has published a legal +text-book, and his articles on legal subjects have appeared both in law +journals and in magazines of general interest. During the war he was +connected with the United States Food Administration at Washington. At +present he lives in Chicago, Illinois. + +In addition to some stories, he has written several one-act plays: +_Where But in America_, _The Claim for Exemption_, and _The +Money-Lenders_. + +_Where But in America_ is an excellent play of situation, as well as a +delicate satire on a certain aspect of American social life. + + +CAST + + MRS. ESPENHAYNE + MR. ESPENHAYNE + HILDA + + + + +WHERE BUT IN AMERICA[J] + + + SCENE: _The Espenhayne dining-room._ + + _The curtain rises on the Espenhayne dining-room. It is furnished + with modest taste and refinement. There is a door, centre, leading + to the living-room, and a swinging door, left, leading to the + kitchen._ + + _The table is set, and_ ROBERT _and_ MOLLIE ESPENHAYNE _are + discovered at their evening meal. They are educated, well-bred + young Americans._ ROBERT _is a pleasing, energetic business man of + thirty_; MOLLIE _an attractive woman of twenty-five. The bouillon + cups are before them as the curtain rises._ + +BOB. Mollie, I heard from the man who owns that house in Kenilworth. He +wants to sell the house. He won't rent. + +MOLLIE. I really don't care, Bob. That house was too far from the +station, and it had only one sleeping-porch, and you know I want +white-enamelled woodwork in the bedrooms. But, Bob, I've been terribly +stupid! + +BOB. How so, Mollie? + +MOLLIE. You remember the Russells moved to Highland Park last spring? + +BOB. Yes; Ed Russell rented a house that had just been built. + +MOLLIE. A perfectly darling little house! And Fanny Russell once told me +that the man who built it will put up a house for any one who will take +a five-year lease. And she says that the man is very competent and they +are simply delighted with their place. + +BOB. Why don't we get in touch with the man? + +MOLLIE. Wasn't it stupid of me not to think about it? It just flashed +into my mind this morning, and I sat down at once and sent a +special-delivery letter to Fanny Russell. I asked her to tell me his +name at once, and where we can find him. + +BOB. Good! You ought to have an answer by to-morrow or Thursday and +we'll go up north and have a talk with him on Saturday. + +MOLLIE. [_With enthusiasm._] Wouldn't it be wonderful if he'd build just +what we want! Fanny Russell says every detail of their house is perfect. +Even the garage; they use it---- + +BOB. [_Interrupting._] Mollie, that's the one thing I'm afraid of about +the North Shore plan. I've said repeatedly that I don't want to buy a +car for another year or two. But here you are, talking about a garage +already. + +MOLLIE. But you didn't let me finish what I was saying. The Russells +have fitted up their garage as a playroom for the children. If we had a +garage we could do the same thing. + +BOB. Well, let's keep temptation behind us and not even talk to the man +about a garage. If we move up north it must be on an economy basis for a +few years; just a half-way step between the apartment and the house we +used to plan. You mustn't get your heart set on a car. + +MOLLIE. I haven't even thought of one, dear. [BOB _and_ MOLLIE _have now +both finished the bouillon course and lay down their spoons. Reaching +out her hand to touch the table button, and at the same time leaning +across the table and speaking very impressively._] Bob, I'm about to +ring for Hilda! + +BOB. What of it? + +MOLLIE. [_Decidedly and with a touch of impatience._] You know very +well, what of it. I don't want Hilda to hear us say one word about +moving away from the South Side! + +BOB. [_Protesting._] But Mollie---- + +MOLLIE. [_Interrupting hurriedly and holding her finger to her lips in +warning._] Psst! + + [_The next instant_ HILDA _enters, left. She is a tall, blonde + Swedish girl, about twenty-five years old. She is very pretty and + carries herself well and looks particularly charming in a maid's + dress, with white collars and cuffs and a dainty waitress's apron. + Every detail of her dress is immaculate._ + +MOLLIE. [_Speaking the instant that_ HILDA _appears and talking very +rapidly all the time that_ HILDA _remains in the room. While she speaks_ +MOLLIE _watches_ HILDA _rather than_ ROBERT, _whom she pretends to be +addressing_.] In the last game Gert Jones was my partner. It was frame +apiece and I dealt and I bid one no trump. I had a very weak no trump. +I'll admit that, but I didn't want them to win the rubber. Mrs. Stone +bid two spades and Gert Jones doubled her. Mrs. Green passed and I +simply couldn't go to three of anything. Mrs. Stone played two spades, +doubled, and she made them. Of course, that put them out and gave them +the rubber. I think that was a very foolish double of Gert Jones, and +then she said it was my fault, because I bid one no trump. + + [_As_ MOLLIE _begins her flow of words_ BOB _first looks at her in + open-mouthed astonishment. Then as he gradually comprehends that_ + MOLLIE _is merely talking against time he too turns his eyes to_ + HILDA _and watches her closely in her movements around the table. + Meanwhile_ HILDA _moves quietly and quickly and pays no attention + to anything except the work she has in hand. She carries a small + serving-tray, and, as_ MOLLIE _speaks_, HILDA _first takes the + bouillon cups from the table, then brings the carving-knife and + fork from the sideboard and places them before_ ROBERT, _and then, + with the empty bouillon cups, exits left_. BOB _and_ MOLLIE _are + both watching_ HILDA _as she goes out. The instant the door swings + shut behind her_, MOLLIE _relaxes with a sigh, and_ ROBERT _leans + across the table to speak_. + +BOB. Mollie, why not be sensible about this thing! Have a talk with +Hilda and find out if she will move north with us. + +MOLLIE. That's just like a man! Then we might not find a house to please +us and Hilda would be dissatisfied and suspicious. She might even leave. +[_Thoughtfully._] Of course, I must speak to her before we sign a lease, +because I really don't know what I'd do if Hilda refused to leave the +South side. [_More cheerfully._] But there, we won't think about the +disagreeable things until everything is settled. + +BOB. That's good American doctrine. + +MOLLIE. [_Warningly and again touching her finger to her lips._] Psst! + + [HILDA _enters, left, carrying the meat plates, with a heavy napkin + under them_. + +MOLLIE. [_Immediately resuming her monologue._] I think my last year's +hat will do very nicely. You know it rained all last summer and I really +only wore the hat a half a dozen times. Perhaps not that often. I can +make a few changes on it; put on some new ribbons, you know, and it will +do very nicely for another year. You remember that hat, don't you dear? + + [BOB _starts to answer, but_ MOLLIE _rushes right on_. + +Of course you do, you remember you said it was so becoming. That's +another reason why I want to wear it this summer. + + [HILDA, _meanwhile, puts the plates on the table in front of_ BOB, + _and goes out, left_. MOLLIE _at once stops speaking_. + +BOB. [_Holding his hands over the plates as over a fire and rubbing them +together in genial warmth._] Ah, the good hot plates! She never forgets +them. She _is_ a gem, Mollie. + +MOLLIE. [_In great self-satisfaction._] If you are finally convinced of +that, after three years, I wish you would be a little bit more careful +what you say the next time Hilda comes in the room. + +BOB. [_In open-mouthed astonishment._] What! + +MOLLIE. Well, I don't want Hilda to think we are making plans behind her +back. + +BOB. [_Reflectively._] "A man's home is his castle." [_Pauses._] It's +very evident that the Englishman who first said that didn't keep any +servants. + + [_Telephone bell rings off stage._ + +MOLLIE. Answer that, Bob. + +BOB. Won't Hilda answer it? + +MOLLIE. [_Standing up quickly and speaking impatiently._] Very well, I +shall answer it myself. I can't ask Hilda to run to the telephone while +she is serving the meal. + +BOB. [_Sullenly, as he gets up._] All right! All right! + + [BOB _exits, centre. As he does so_ HILDA _appears at the door, + left, hurrying to answer the telephone_. + +MOLLIE. Mr. Espenhayne will answer it, Hilda. + + [HILDA _makes the slightest possible bow of acquiescence, withdraws + left, and in a moment reappears with vegetable dishes and small + side dishes, which she puts before_ MRS. ESPENHAYNE. _She is + arranging these when_ BOB _re-enters, centre_. + +BOB. Somebody for you, Hilda. + +HILDA. [_Surprised._] For me? Oh! But I cannot answer eet now. Please +ask the party to call later. + + [HILDA _speaks excellent English, but with some Swedish accent. The + noticeable feature of her speech is the precision and great care + with which she enunciates every syllable._ + +MOLLIE. Just take the number yourself, Hilda, and tell the party you +will call back after dinner. + +HILDA. Thank you, Messes Aispenhayne. + + [HILDA _exits, centre_. BOB _stands watching_ HILDA, _as she leaves + the room, and then turns and looks at_ MOLLIE _with a bewildered + expression_. + +BOB. [_Standing at his chair._] But I thought Hilda couldn't be running +to the telephone while she serves the dinner? + +MOLLIE. But this call is for Hilda, herself. That's quite different, you +see. + +BOB. [_Slowly and thoughtfully._] Oh, yes! Of course; I see! [_Sits down +in his chair._] That is--I don't quite see! + +MOLLIE. [_Immediately leaning across the table and speaking in a +cautious whisper._] Do you know who it is? + + [BOB _closes his lips very tightly and nods yes in a very important + manner_. + +MOLLIE. [_In the same whisper and very impatiently._] Who? + +BOB. [_Looking around the room as if to see if any one is in hiding, and +then putting his hand to his mouth and exaggerating the whisper._] The +Terrible Swede. + +MOLLIE. [_In her ordinary tone and very much exasperated._] Robert, I've +told you a hundred times that you shouldn't refer to--to--the man in +that way. + +BOB. And I've told you a hundred times to ask Hilda his name. If I knew +his name I'd announce him with as much ceremony as if he were the +Swedish Ambassador. + +MOLLIE. [_Disgusted._] Oh, don't try to be funny! Suppose some day Hilda +hears you speak of him in that manner? + +BOB. You know that's mild compared to what you think of him. Suppose +some day Hilda learns what you think of him? + +MOLLIE. I think very well of him and you know it. Of course, I dread the +time when she marries him, but I wouldn't for the world have her think +that we speak disrespectfully of her or her friends. + +BOB. "A man's home is his castle." + + [MOLLIE'S _only answer is a gesture of impatience_. MOLLIE _and_ + BOB _sit back in their chairs to await_ HILDA'S _return. Both sit + with fingers interlaced, hands resting on the edge of the table in + the attitude of school children at attention. A long pause._ MOLLIE + _unclasps her hands and shifts uneasily_. ROBERT _does the same_. + MOLLIE, _seeing this, hastily resumes her former attitude of quiet + waiting_. ROBERT, _however, grows increasingly restless. His + restlessness makes_ MOLLIE _nervous and she watches_ ROBERT, _and + when he is not observing her she darts quick, anxious glances at + the door, centre_. BOB _drains and refills his glass_. + +MOLLIE. [_She has been watching_ ROBERT _and every time he shifts or +moves she unconsciously does the same, and finally she breaks out +nervously_.] I don't understand this at all! Isn't to-day Tuesday? + +BOB. What of it? + +MOLLIE. He usually calls up on Wednesdays and comes to see her on +Saturdays. + +BOB. And takes her to the theatre on Thursdays and to dances on Sundays. +He's merely extending his line of attack. + + [_Another long pause--then Bob begins to experiment to learn + whether the plates are still hot. He gingerly touches the edges of + the upper plate in two or three places. It seems safe to handle. He + takes hold of upper and lower plates boldly, muttering, as he does + so, "Cold as--" Drops the plates with a clatter and a smothered + oath. Shakes his fingers and blows on them. Meanwhile_ MOLLIE _is + sitting very rigid, regarding_ BOB _with a fixed stare and beating + a vigorous tattoo on the tablecloth with her fingers. Bob catches + her eye and cringes under her gaze. He drains and refills his + glass. He studies the walls and the ceiling of the room, meanwhile + still nursing his fingers._ BOB _steals a sidelong glance at_ + MOLLIE. _She is still staring at him. He turns to his water goblet. + Picks it up and holds it to the light. He rolls the stem between + his fingers, squinting at the light through the water. Reciting + slowly as he continues to gaze at the light._ + +BOB. Starlight! Starbright! Will Hilda talk to him all night! + +MOLLIE. [_In utter disgust._] Oh, stop that singing. + + [BOB _puts down his glass, then drinks the water and refills the + glass. He then turns his attention to the silverware and cutlery + before him. He examines it critically, then lays a teaspoon + carefully on the cloth before him, and attempts the trick of + picking it up with the first finger in the bowl and the thumb at + the point of the handle. After one or two attempts the spoon shoots + on the floor, far behind him._ MOLLIE _jumps at the noise_. BOB + _turns slowly and looks at the spoon with an injured air, then + turns back to_ MOLLIE _with a silly, vacuous smile. He now lays all + the remaining cutlery in a straight row before him._ + +BOB. [_Slowly counting the cutlery and silver, back and forth._] Eeny, +meeny, miney, mo. Catch a--[_Stops suddenly as an idea comes to him. +Gazes thoughtfully at_ MOLLIE _for a moment, then begins to count over +again_.] Eeny, meeny, miney, mo; Hilda's talking to her beau. If we +holler, she may go. Eeny, mee---- + +MOLLIE. [_Interrupting and exasperated to the verge of tears._] Bob, if +you don't stop all that nonsense, I shall scream! [_In a very tense +tone._] I believe I'm going to have one of my sick headaches! [_Puts her +hand to her forehead._] I know it; I can feel it coming on! + +BOB. [_In a soothing tone._] Hunger, my dear, hunger! When you have a +good warm meal you'll feel better. + +MOLLIE. [_In despair._] What do you suppose I ought to do? + +BOB. Go out in the kitchen and fry a couple of eggs. + +MOLLIE. Oh! be serious! I'm at my wits' end! Hilda never did anything +like this before. + +BOB. [_Suddenly quite serious._] What does that fellow do for a living, +anyhow? + +MOLLIE. How should I know? + +BOB. Didn't you ever ask Hilda? + +MOLLIE. Certainly not. Hilda doesn't ask me about your business; why +should I pry into her affairs? + +BOB. [_Taking out his cigarette case and lighting a cigarette._] Mollie, +I see you're strong for the Constitution of the United States. + +MOLLIE. [_Suspiciously._] What do you mean by that? + +BOB. The Constitution says: "Whereas it is a self-evident truth that all +men are born equal"--[_With a wave of the hand._] Hilda and you, and the +Terrible Swede and I and---- + +MOLLIE. [_Interrupting._] Bob, you're such a _heathen_! _That's not in +the Constitution._ That's in the Bible! + +BOB. Well, wherever it is, until this evening I never realized what a +personage Hilda is. + +MOLLIE. You can make fun of me all you please, but I know what's right! +Your remarks don't influence me in the least--not in the least! + +BOB. [_Murmurs thoughtfully and feelingly._] How true! [_Abruptly._] Why +don't they get married? Do you know that? + +MOLLIE. All I know is that they are waiting until his business is +entirely successful, so that Hilda won't have to work. + +BOB. Well, the Swedes are pretty careful of their money. The chances are +Hilda has a neat little nest-egg laid by. + +MOLLIE. [_Hesitating and doubtfully._] That's one thing that worries me +a little. I think Hilda puts money--into--into--into the young man's +business. + +BOB. [_Indignantly._] Do you mean to tell me that this girl gives her +money to that fellow and you don't try to find out a thing about him? +Who he is or what he does? I suppose she supports the loafer. + +MOLLIE. [_With dignity._] He's not a loafer. I've seen him and I've +talked with him, and I know he's a gentleman. + +BOB. Mollie, I'm getting tired of all that kind of drivel. I believe +nowadays women give a good deal more thought to pleasing their maids +than they do to pleasing their husbands. + +MOLLIE. [_Demurely._] Well, you know, Bob, your maid can leave you much +easier than your husband can--[_pauses thoughtfully_] and I'm sure she's +much harder to replace. + +BOB. [_Very angry, looking at his watch, throwing his napkin on the +table and standing up._] Mollie, our dinner has been interrupted for +fifteen minutes while Hilda entertains her [_with sarcasm_] gentleman +friend. If you won't stop it, I will. + + [_Steps toward the door, centre._ + +MOLLIE. [_Sternly, pointing to_ BOB'S _chair_.] Robert, sit down! + + [BOB _pauses, momentarily, and at the instant_ HILDA _enters, + centre, meeting_ BOB, _face to face. Both are startled._ BOB, _in a + surly manner, walks back to his place at the table_. HILDA + _follows, excited and eager_. BOB _sits down and_ HILDA _stands for + a moment at the table, smiling from one to the other and evidently + anxious to say something_. BOB _and_ MOLLIE _are severe and + unfriendly. They gaze at_ HILDA _coldly. Slowly_ HILDA'S + _enthusiasm cools, and she becomes again the impassive servant_. + +HILDA. Aixcuse me, Meeses Aispenhayne, I am very sorry. I bring the +dinner right in. [_Hilda exits left._ + +BOB. It's all nonsense. [_Touches the plates again, but this time even +more cautiously than before. This time he finds they are entirely safe +to handle._] These plates are stone cold now. + + [HILDA _enters, left, with meat platter. Places it before_ BOB. _He + serves the meat and_ MOLLIE _starts to serve the vegetables_. HILDA + _hands_ MOLLIE _her meat plate_. + +MOLLIE. Vegetables? [BOB _is chewing on his meat and does not answer_. +MOLLIE _looks at him inquiringly. But his eyes are on his plate. +Repeating._] Vegetables? [_Still no answer from_ BOB. _Very softly, +under her breath._] H'mm. + + [MOLLIE _helps herself to vegetables and then dishes out a portion + which she hands to_ HILDA, _who in turn places the dish beside_ + BOB. _When both are served_ HILDA _stands for a moment back of the + table. She clasps and unclasps her hands in a nervous manner, seems + about to speak, but as_ BOB _and_ MOLLIE _pay no attention to her + she slowly and reluctantly turns, and exits left_. MOLLIE _takes + one or two bites of the meat and then gives a quick glance at_ BOB. + _He is busy chewing at his meat, and_ MOLLIE _quietly lays down her + knife and fork and turns to the vegetables_. + +BOB. [_Chewing desperately on his meat._] Tenderloin, I believe? + +MOLLIE. [_Sweetly._] Yes, dear. + +BOB. [_Imitating_ MOLLIE _a moment back_.] H'mm! [_He takes one or two +more hard bites._] Mollie, I have an idea. + +MOLLIE. I'm relieved. + +BOB. [_Savagely._] Yes, you will be when you hear it. When we get that +builder's name from Fanny Russell, we'll tell him that instead of a +garage, which we don't need, he can build a special telephone booth off +the kitchen. Then while Hilda serves the dinner---- + + [BOB _stops short, as_ HILDA _bursts in abruptly, left, and comes + to the table_. + +HILDA. Aixcuse me, Meeses Aispenhayne, I am so excited. + +MOLLIE. [_Anxiously._] Is anything wrong, Hilda? + +HILDA. [_Explosively._] Meeses Aispenhayne, Meester Leendquist he say +you want to move to Highland Park. + + [BOB _and_ MOLLIE _simultaneously drop their knives and forks and + look at_ HILDA _in astonishment and wonder_. + +MOLLIE. What? + +BOB. Who? + +HILDA. [_Repeats very rapidly._] Meester Leendquist, he say you look for +house on North Shore! + +MOLLIE. [_Utterly overcome at_ HILDA'S _knowledge and at a loss for +words of denial_.] We move to the North Shore? How ridiculous! Hilda, +where did you get such an idea? [_Turns to_ ROBERT.] Robert, did you +ever hear anything so laughable? [_She forces a strained laugh._] Ha! +Ha! Ha! [ROBERT _has been looking at_ HILDA _in dumb wonder. At_ +MOLLIE'S _question he turns to her in startled surprise. He starts to +answer, gulps, swallows hard, and then coughs violently. Very sharply, +after waiting a moment for_ BOB _to answer_.] Robert Espenhayne, will +you stop that coughing and answer me! + +BOB. [_Between coughs, and drinking a glass of water._] Egh! Egh! Excuse +me! Something, eh! egh! stuck in my throat. + +MOLLIE. [_Turning to_ HILDA.] Some day we might want to move north, +Hilda, but not now! Oh, no, not now! + +BOB. Who told you that, Hilda? + +HILDA. Meester Leendquist. + +MOLLIE. [_Puzzled._] Who is Mr. Lindquist? + +HILDA. [_Surprised._] Meester Leendquist--[_Pauses, a trifle +embarrassed._] Meester Leendquist ees young man who just speak to me on +telephone. He come to see me every Saturday. + +BOB. Oh, Mr. Lindquist, the--the--Ter---- + +MOLLIE. [_Interrupting frantically, and waving her hands at_ BOB.] Yes, +yes, of course. You know--Mr. Lindquist! [BOB _catches himself just in +time and_ MOLLIE _settles back with a sigh of relief, then turns to_ +HILDA _with a puzzled air_.] But where did Mr. Lindquist get such an +idea? + +HILDA. Mrs. Russell tell heem so. + +MOLLIE. [_Now entirely bewildered._] What Mrs. Russell? + +HILDA. Meeses Russell--your friend. + +MOLLIE. [_More and more at sea._] Mrs. Edwin Russell, who comes to see +me--every now and then? + +HILDA. Yes. + +MOLLIE. But how does Mrs. Russell know Mr. Lindquist and why should she +tell Mr. Lindquist that we expected to move to the North Shore? + +HILDA. Meester Leendquist, he build Meeses Russell's house. That ees +hees business. He build houses on North Shore and he sell them and rent +them. + + [BOB _and_ MOLLIE _look at each other and at_ HILDA, _in wonder and + astonishment as the situation slowly filters into their brains. A + long pause._] + +BOB. [_In awe and astonishment._] You mean that Mr. Lindquist, the young +man who comes to see you every--every--every now and then--is the same +man who put up the Russell house? + +HILDA. Yes, Meester Aispenhayne. + +BOB. [_Slowly._] And when Mrs. Espenhayne [_points to_ MOLLIE] wrote to +Mrs. Russell [_jerks his thumb to indicate the north_], Mrs. Russell +told Mr. Lindquist [_jerks his thumb in opposite direction_] and Mr. +Lindquist telephoned to you? + + [_Points to_ HILDA. + +HILDA. Yes, Meester Aispenhayne. [_Nodding._ + +BOB. [_Very thoughtfully and slowly._] H'mm! [_Then slowly resuming his +meal and speaking in mock seriousness, in subtle jest at_ MOLLIE, _and +imitating her tone of a moment or two back_.] But of course, you +understand, Hilda, we don't want to move to the North Shore now! Oh, no, +not now! + +HILDA. [_Somewhat crestfallen._] Yes, Meester Aispenhayne. + +BOB. [_Reflectively._] But, of course, if Mr. Lindquist builds houses, +we might look. Yes, we might look. + +HILDA. [_In growing confidence and enthusiasm._] Yes, Meester +Aispenhayne, and he build such beautiful houses and so cheap. He do so +much heemself. Hees father was carpenter and he work hees way through +Uneeversity of Mennesota and study architecture and then he go to +Uneeversity of Eelenois and study landscape gardening and now he been in +business for heemself sex years. And oh, Meeses Aispenhayne, you must +see hees own home! You will love eet, eet ees so beautiful. A little +house, far back from the road. You can hardly see eet for the trees and +the shrubs, and een the summer the roses grow all around eet. Eet is +just like the picture book! + +MOLLIE. [_In the most perfunctory tone, utterly without interest or +enthusiasm._] How charming! [_Pauses thoughtfully, then turns to_ HILDA, +_anxiously_.] Then I suppose, Hilda, if we should decide to move up to +the North Shore you would go with us? + +HILDA. [_Hesitatingly._] Yes, Meeses Aispenhayne. [_Pauses._] But I +theenk I must tell you thees spring Meester Leendquist and I aixpect to +get married. Meester Leendquist's business ees very good. [_With a quick +smile and a glance from one to the other._] You know, I am partner with +heem. I put all my money een Meester Leendquist's business too. + + [MOLLIE _and_ BOB _gaze at each other in complete resignation and + surrender_. + +BOB. [_Quite seriously after a long pause._] Hilda, I don't know whether +we will move north or not, but the next time Mr. Lindquist comes here I +want you to introduce me to him. I'd like to know him. You ought to be +very proud of a man like that. + +HILDA. [_Radiant with pleasure._] Thank you, Meester Aispenhayne. + +MOLLIE. Yes, indeed, Hilda, Mr. Espenhayne has often said what a fine +young man Mr. Lindquist seems to be. We want to meet him, and Mr. +Espenhayne and I will talk about the house, and then we will speak to +Mr. Lindquist. [_Then weakly._] Of course, we didn't expect to move +north for a long time, but, of course, if you expect to get married, and +Mr. Lindquist builds houses---- [_Her voice dies out. Long pause._ + +HILDA. Thank you, Meeses Aispenhayne, I tell Mr. Leendquist. + + [HILDA _stands at the table a moment longer, then slowly turns and + moves toward door, left_. BOB _and_ MOLLIE _watch her and as she + moves away from the table_ BOB _turns to_ MOLLIE. _At this moment_ + HILDA _stops, turns suddenly and returns to the table_. + +HILDA. Oh, Meeses Aispenhayne, I forget one theeng! + +MOLLIE. What now, Hilda? + +HILDA. Meester Leendquist say eef you and Meester Aispenhayne want to +look at property on North Shore, I shall let heem know and he meet you +at station weeth hees automobile. + +CURTAIN + + + + +A DOLLAR + +BY + +DAVID PINSKI + + +_A Dollar_ is reprinted by special permission of David Pinski and of +B. W. Huebach, New York City, the publisher of David Pinski's _Ten +Plays_, from which this play is taken. All rights reserved. For +permission to perform address the publisher. + + +DAVID PINSKI + +David Pinski, perhaps the most notable dramatist of the Yiddish Theatre, +was born of Jewish parentage April 5, 1872, in Mohilev, on the Dnieper, +White Russia. Because his parents had rabbinical aspirations for him he +was well educated in Hebrew studies (Bible and Talmud) by his fourteenth +year, when he moved to Moscow, where he was further trained in classical +and secular studies. In 1891 he planned to study medicine in Vienna, but +soon returned to Warsaw, where he began his literary work as a +short-story writer. In 1896 he took up the study of philosophy and +literature, and in 1899 wrote his first plays. In 1899 he came to New +York City, where he is now editor of the Jewish daily, _Die Zeit_. In +1911 he revisited Germany to see a production of his well-known comedy, +_The Treasure_, by Max Reinhart. + +Mr. Pinski is zealous in his interests in literature, drama, socialism, +and Zionism. Drama is to him an interpretation of life, and a guide and +leader, as were the words of the old poets and prophets. "The dramatic +technique," says he, "changes with each plot, as each plot brings with +it its own technique. One thing, however, must be common to all the +different forms of the dramatic technique--avoidance of tediousness." + +Mr. Pinski has written a goodly number of plays, most of which are on +Yiddish themes. _Forgotten Souls_, _The Stranger_, _Sufferings_, _The +Treasure_, _The Phonograph_, and _A Dollar_ may be mentioned. Most of +his plays have been produced many times; _The Stranger_ played the third +season in Moscow. + +"I wrote _A Dollar_," says he, "in the summer of 1913, when I was hard +pressed financially. I relieved myself of my feelings by a hearty laugh +at the almighty dollar and the race for it. Just as I did many summers +before, in 1906, when I entertained myself by ridiculing the mad money +joy in the bigger comedy, _The Treasure_." + + +PERSONS + +The Characters are given in the order of their appearance. + + THE COMEDIAN + THE VILLAIN + THE TRAGEDIAN + ACTOR _who plays_ "OLD MAN" _role_ + THE HEROINE + THE INGENUE + ACTRESS _who plays_ "OLD WOMAN" _role_ + THE STRANGER + + + + +A DOLLAR + + + _A cross-roads at the edge of a forest. One road extends from left + to right; the other crosses the first diagonally, disappearing into + the forest. The roadside is bordered with grass. On the right, at + the crossing, stands a sign-post, to which are nailed two boards, + giving directions and distances._ + + _The afternoon of a summer day. A troupe of stranded strolling + players enters from the left. They are ragged and weary. The_ + COMEDIAN _walks first, holding a valise in each hand, followed by + the_ VILLAIN _carrying over his arms two huge bundles wrapped in + bed-sheets. Immediately behind these the_ TRAGEDIAN _and the_ "OLD + MAN" _carrying together a large, heavy trunk_. + +COMEDIAN. [_Stepping toward the sign-post, reading the directions on the +boards, and explaining to the approaching fellow-actors._] That way +[_pointing to right and swinging the valise to indicate the direction_] +is thirty miles. This way [_pointing to left_] is forty-five--and that +way it is thirty-six. Now choose for yourself the town that you'll never +reach to-day. The nearest way for us is back to where we came from, +whence we were escorted with the most splendid catcalls that ever +crowned our histrionic successes. + +VILLAIN. [_Exhausted._] Who will lend me a hand to wipe off my +perspiration? It has a nasty way of streaming into my mouth. + +COMEDIAN. Stand on your head, then, and let your perspiration water a +more fruitful soil. + +VILLAIN. Oh! + + [_He drops his arms, the bundles fall down. He then sinks down onto + one of them and wipes off the perspiration, moving his hand wearily + over his face. The_ TRAGEDIAN _and the_ "OLD MAN" _approach the + post and read the signs_. + +TRAGEDIAN. [_In a deep, dramatic voice._] It's hopeless! It's hopeless! +[_He lets go his end of the trunk._ + +"OLD MAN." [_Lets go his end of the trunk._] Mm. Another stop. + + [TRAGEDIAN _sits himself down on the trunk in a tragico-heroic + pose, knees wide apart, right elbow on right knee, left hand on + left leg, head slightly bent toward the right_. COMEDIAN _puts down + the valises and rolls a cigarette_. The "OLD MAN" _also sits down + upon the trunk, head sunk upon his breast_. + +VILLAIN. Thirty miles to the nearest town! Thirty miles! + +COMEDIAN. It's an outrage how far people move their towns away from us. + +VILLAIN. We won't strike a town until the day after to-morrow. + +COMEDIAN. Hurrah! That's luck for you! There's yet a day-after-to-morrow +for us. + +VILLAIN. And the old women are still far behind us. Crawling! + +"OLD MAN." They want the vote and they can't even walk. + +COMEDIAN. We won't give them votes, that's settled. Down with votes for +women! + +VILLAIN. It seems the devil himself can't take you! Neither your tongue +nor your feet ever get tired. You get on my nerves. Sit down and shut up +for a moment. + +COMEDIAN. _Me?_ Ha--ha! I'm going back there to the lady of my heart. +I'll meet her and fetch her hither in my arms. + + [_He spits on his hands, turns up his sleeves, and strides rapidly + off toward the left._ + +VILLAIN. Clown! + +"OLD MAN." How can he laugh and play his pranks even now? We haven't a +cent to our souls, our supply of food is running low and our shoes are +dilapidated. + +TRAGEDIAN. [_With an outburst._] Stop it! No reckoning! The number of +our sins is great and the tale of our misfortunes is even greater. Holy +Father! Our flasks are empty; I'd give what is left of our soles +[_displaying his ragged shoes_] for just a smell of whiskey. + + [_From the left is heard the laughter of a woman. Enter the_ + COMEDIAN _carrying in his arms the_ HEROINE, _who has her hands + around his neck and holds a satchel in both hands behind his back_. + +COMEDIAN. [_Letting his burden down upon the grass._] Sit down, my love, +and rest up. We go no further to-day. Your feet, your tender little feet +must ache you. How unhappy that makes me! At the first opportunity I +shall buy you an automobile. + +HEROINE. And in the meantime you may carry me oftener. + +COMEDIAN. The beast of burden hears and obeys. + + [_Enter the_ INGENUE _and the_ "OLD WOMAN," _each carrying a small + satchel_. + +INGENUE. [_Weary and pouting._] Ah! No one carried _me_. + + [_She sits on the grass to the right of the_ HEROINE. + +VILLAIN. We have only one ass with us. + + [COMEDIAN _stretches himself out at the feet of the_ HEROINE _and + emits the bray of a donkey_. "OLD WOMAN" _sits down on the grass to + the left of the_ HEROINE. + +"OLD WOMAN." And are we to pass the night here? + +"OLD MAN." No, we shall stop at "Hotel Neverwas." + +COMEDIAN. Don't you like our night's lodgings? [_Turning over toward +the_ "OLD WOMAN."] See, the bed is broad and wide, and certainly +without vermin. Just feel the high grass. Such a soft bed you never +slept in. And you shall have a cover embroidered with the moon and +stars, a cover such as no royal bride ever possessed. + +"OLD WOMAN." You're laughing, and I feel like crying. + +COMEDIAN. Crying? You should be ashamed of the sun which favors you with +its setting splendor. Look, and be inspired! + +VILLAIN. Yes, look and expire. + +COMEDIAN. Look, and shout with ecstasy! + +"OLD MAN." Look, and burst! + + [INGENUE _starts sobbing_. TRAGEDIAN _laughs heavily_. + +COMEDIAN. [_Turning over to the_ INGENUE.] What! You are crying? Aren't +you ashamed of yourself? + +INGENUE. I'm sad. + +"OLD WOMAN." [_Sniffling._] I can't stand it any longer. + +HEROINE. Stop it! Or I'll start bawling, too. + + [COMEDIAN _springs to his knees and looks quickly from one woman to + the other_. + +VILLAIN. Ha--ha! Cheer them up, clown! + +COMEDIAN. [_Jumps up abruptly without the aid of his hands._] Ladies and +gentlemen, I have it! [_In a measured and singing voice._] Ladies and +gentlemen, I have it! + +HEROINE. What have you? + +COMEDIAN. Cheerfulness. + +VILLAIN. Go bury yourself, clown. + +TRAGEDIAN. [_As before._] Ho-ho-ho! + +"OLD MAN." P-o-o-h! + + [_The women weep all the louder._ + +COMEDIAN. I have--a bottle of whiskey! + + [_General commotion. The women stop crying and look up to the_ + COMEDIAN _in amazement; the_ TRAGEDIAN _straightens himself out and + casts a surprised look at the_ COMEDIAN; the "OLD MAN," _rubbing + his hands, jumps to his feet; the_ VILLAIN _looks suspiciously at + the_ COMEDIAN. + +TRAGEDIAN. A bottle of whiskey? + +"OLD MAN." He-he-he--A bottle of whiskey. + +VILLAIN. Hum--whiskey. + +COMEDIAN. You bet! A bottle of whiskey, hidden and preserved for such +moments as this, a moment of masculine depression and feminine tears. + + [_Taking the flask from his hip pocket. The expression on the faces + of all changes from hope to disappointment._ + +VILLAIN. You call that a bottle. I call it a flask. + +TRAGEDIAN. [_Explosively._] A thimble! + +"OLD MAN." A dropper! + +"OLD WOMAN." For seven of us! Oh! + +COMEDIAN. [_Letting the flash sparkle in the sun._] But it's whiskey, my +children. [_Opening the flask and smelling it._] U--u--u--m! That's +whiskey for you. The saloonkeeper from whom I hooked it will become a +teetotaler from sheer despair. + + [TRAGEDIAN _rising heavily and slowly proceeding toward the flask_. + VILLAIN _still skeptical and rising as if unwilling. The_ "OLD MAN" + _chuckling and rubbing his hands. The_ "OLD WOMAN" _getting up + indifferently and moving apathetically toward the flask. The_ + HEROINE _and_ INGENUE _hold each other by the hand and take ballet + steps in waltz time. All approach the_ COMEDIAN _with necks eagerly + stretched out and smell the flask, which the_ COMEDIAN _holds + firmly in both hands_. + +TRAGEDIAN. Ho--ho--ho--Fine! + +"OLD MAN." He--he--Small quantity, but excellent quality! + +VILLAIN. Seems to be good whiskey. + +HEROINE. [_Dancing and singing._] My comedian, my comedian. His head is +in the right place. But why didn't you nab a larger bottle? + +COMEDIAN. My beloved one, I had to take in consideration both the +quality of the whiskey and the size of my pocket. + +"OLD WOMAN." If only there's enough of it to go round. + +INGENUE. Oh, I'm feeling sad again. + +COMEDIAN. Cheer up, there will be enough for us all. Cheer up. Here, +smell it again. + + [_They smell again and cheerfulness reappears. They join hands and + dance and sing, forming a circle, the_ COMEDIAN _applauding_. + +COMEDIAN. Good! If you are so cheered after a mere smell of it, what +won't you feel like after a drink. Wait, I'll join you. [_He hides the +whiskey flask in his pocket._] I'll show you a new roundel which we will +perform in our next presentation of Hamlet, to the great edification of +our esteemed audience. [_Kicking the_ VILLAIN'S _bundles out of the +way_.] The place is clear, now for dance and play. Join hands and form a +circle, but you, Villain, stay on the outside of it. You are to try to +get in and we dance and are not to let you in, without getting out of +step. Understand? Now then! + + [_The circle is formed in the following order_--COMEDIAN, HEROINE, + TRAGEDIAN, "OLD WOMAN," "OLD MAN," INGENUE. + +COMEDIAN. [_Singing._] + + To be or not to be, that is the question. + That is the question, that is the question. + He who would enter in, + Climb he must over us, + If over he cannot, + He must get under us. + +REFRAIN + + Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, + Over us, under us. + Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, + Under us, over us. + Now we are jolly, jolly are we. + + [_The_ COMEDIAN _sings the refrain alone at first and the others + repeat it together with him_. + +COMEDIAN. + + To be or not to be, that is the question, + That is the question, that is the question. + In life to win success, + Elbow your way through, + Jostle the next one, + Else _you_ will be jostled. + +REFRAIN + +[_Same as before._] + + [_On the last word of the refrain they flop as if dumbfounded, and + stand transfixed, with eyes directed on one spot inside of the + ring. The_ VILLAIN _leans over the arms of the_ COMEDIAN _and the_ + HEROINE; _gradually the circle draws closer till their heads almost + touch. They attempt to free their handy but each holds on to the + other and all seven whisper in great astonishment._ + +ALL. A dollar! + + [_The circle opens up again, they look each at the other and shout + in wonder._ + +ALL. A dollar! + + [_Once more they close in and the struggle to free their hands + grows wilder; the_ VILLAIN _tries to climb over and then under the + hands into the circle and stretches out his hand toward the dollar, + but instinctively he is stopped by the couple he tries to pass + between, even when he is not seen but only felt. Again all lean + their heads over the dollar, quite lost in the contemplation of it, + and whispering, enraptured._ + +ALL. A dollar! + + [_Separating once again they look at each other with exultation and + at the same time try to free their hands, once more exclaiming in + ecstasy._ + +ALL. A dollar! + + [_Then the struggle to get free grows wilder and wilder. The hand + that is perchance freed is quickly grasped again by the one who + held it._ + +INGENUE. [_In pain._] Oh, my hands, my hands! You'll break them. Let go +of my hands! + +"OLD WOMAN." If you don't let go of my hands I'll bite. + + [_Attempting to bite the hands of the_ TRAGEDIAN _and the_ "OLD + MAN," _while they try to prevent it_. + +"OLD MAN." [_Trying to free his hands from the hold of the_ HEROINE _and +the_ "OLD WOMAN."] Let go of me. [_Pulling at both his hands._] These +women's hands that--seem so frail, just look at them now. + +HEROINE. [_To_ COMEDIAN.] But you let go my hands. + +COMEDIAN. I think it's you who are holding fast to mine. + +HEROINE. Why should I be holding you? If you pick up the dollar, what is +yours is mine, you know. + +COMEDIAN. Then let go of my hand and I'll pick it up. + +HEROINE. No, I'd rather pick it up myself. + +COMEDIAN. I expected something like that from you. + +HEROINE. [_Angrily._] Let go of my hands, that's all. + +COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha--It's a huge joke. [_In a tone of command._] Be +quiet. [_They become still._] We must contemplate the dollar with +religious reverence. [_Commotion._] Keep quiet, I say! A dollar is +spread out before us. A real dollar in the midst of our circle, and +everything within us draws us toward it, draws us on irresistibly. Be +quiet! Remember you are before the Ruler, before the Almighty. On your +knees before him and pray. On your knees. + + [_Sinks down on his knees and drags with him the_ HEROINE _and_ + INGENUE. "OLD MAN" _dropping on his knees and dragging the_ "OLD + WOMAN" _with him_. + +"OLD MAN." He-he-he! + +TRAGEDIAN. Ho-ho-ho, clown! + +COMEDIAN. [_To_ TRAGEDIAN.] You are not worthy of the serious mask you +wear. You don't appreciate true Divine Majesty. On your knees, or you'll +get no whiskey. [TRAGEDIAN _sinks heavily on his knees_.] O holy dollar, +O almighty ruler of the universe, before thee we kneel in the dust and +send toward thee our most tearful and heartfelt prayers. Our hands are +bound, but our hearts strive toward thee and our souls yearn for thee. O +great king of kings, thou who bringest together those who are separated, +and separatest those who are near, thou who---- + + [_The_ VILLAIN, _who is standing aside, takes a full jump, clears + the_ INGENUE _and grasps the dollar. All let go of one another and + fall upon him, shouting, screaming, pushing, and fighting. Finally + the_ VILLAIN _manages to free himself, holding the dollar in his + right fist. The others follow him with clenched fists, glaring + eyes, and foaming mouths, wildly shouting._ + +ALL. The dollar! The dollar! The dollar! Return the dollar! + +VILLAIN. [_Retreating._] You can't take it away from me; it's mine. It +was lying under my bundle. + +ALL. Give up the dollar! Give up the dollar! + +VILLAIN. [_In great rage._] No, no. [_A moment during which the opposing +sides look at each other in hatred. Quietly but with malice._] Moreover, +whom should I give it to? To you--you--you--you? + +COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha-ha! He is right, the dollar is his. He has it, +therefore it is his. Ha-ha-ha-ha, and I wanted to crawl on my knees +toward the dollar and pick it up with my teeth. Ha-ha-ha-ha, but he got +ahead of me. Ha-ha-ha-ha. + +HEROINE. [_Whispering in rage._] That's because you would not let go of +me. + +COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha-ha! + +TRAGEDIAN. [_Shaking his fist in the face of the_ VILLAIN.] Heaven and +hell, I feel like crushing you! + + [_He steps aside toward the trunk and sits down in his former + pose._ INGENUE, _lying down on the grass, starts to cry_. + +COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha! Now we will drink, and the first drink is the +Villain's. + + [_His proposition is accepted in gloom; the_ INGENUE, _however, + stops crying; the_ "OLD MAN" _and the_ "OLD WOMAN" _have been + standing by the_ VILLAIN _looking at the dollar in his hand as if + waiting for the proper moment to snatch it from, him. Finally the_ + "OLD WOMAN" _makes a contemptuous gesture and both turn aside from + the_ VILLAIN. _The latter, left in peace, smooths out the dollar, + with a serious expression on his face. The_ COMEDIAN _hands him a + small glass of whiskey_. + +COMEDIAN. Drink, lucky one. + + [_The_ VILLAIN, _shutting the dollar in his fist, takes the whiskey + glass gravely and quickly drinks the contents, returning the glass. + He then starts to smooth and caress the dollar again. The_ + COMEDIAN, _still laughing, passes the whiskey glass from one to the + other of the company, who drink sullenly. The whiskey fails to + cheer them. After drinking, the_ INGENUE _begins to sob again. The_ + HEROINE, _who is served last, throws the empty whiskey glass toward + the_ COMEDIAN. + +COMEDIAN. Good shot. Now I'll drink up all that's left in the bottle. + + [_He puts the flask to his lips and drinks. The_ HEROINE _tries to + knock it away from him, but he skilfully evades her. The_ VILLAIN + _continues to smooth and caress the dollar_. + +VILLAIN. Ha-ha-ha!... [_Singing and dancing._ + + He who would enter in, + _Jump_ he must over us. + +Ho-ho-ho! O Holy Dollar! O Almighty Ruler of the World!... O King of +Kings! Ha-ha-ha!... Don't you all think if I have the dollar and you +have it not that I partake a bit of its majesty? That means that I am +now a part of its majesty. That means that I am the Almighty Dollar's +plenipotentiary, and therefore I am the Almighty Ruler himself. On your +knees before me!... He-he-he!... + +COMEDIAN. [_After throwing away the empty flask, lies down on the +grass._] Well roared, lion, but you forgot to hide your jack-ass's ears. + +VILLAIN. It is one's consciousness of power. He-he-he. I know and you +know that if I have the money I have the say. Remember, none of you has +a cent to his name. The whiskey is gone. [_Picking up the flask and +examining it._ + +COMEDIAN. I did my job well. Drank it to the last drop. + +VILLAIN. Yes, to the last drop. This evening you shall have bread and +sausage. Very small portions, too, for to-morrow is another day. +[INGENUE _sobbing more frequently_.] Not till the day after to-morrow +shall we reach town, and that doesn't mean that you get anything to eat +there, either, but I--I--I--he-he-he. O Holy Dollar, Almighty Dollar! +[_Gravely._] He who does my bidding shall not be without food. + +COMEDIAN. [_With wide-open eyes._] What? Ha-ha-ha! + + [INGENUE _gets up and throws herself on the_ VILLAIN'S _bosom_. + +INGENUE. Oh, my dear beloved one. + +VILLAIN. Ha-ha, my power already makes itself felt. + +HEROINE. [_Pushing the_ INGENUE _away_.] Let go of him, you. He sought +my love for a long time and now he shall have it. + +COMEDIAN. What? You! + +HEROINE. [_To_ COMEDIAN.] I hate you, traitor. [_To the_ VILLAIN.] I +have always loved--genius. You are now the wisest of the wise. I adore +you. + +VILLAIN. [_Holding_ INGENUE _in one arm_.] Come into my other arm. + + [HEROINE, _throwing herself into his arms, kissing and embracing + him_. + +COMEDIAN. [_Half rising on his knees._] Stop, I protest. [_Throwing +himself on the grass._] "O frailty, thy name is woman." + +"OLD WOMAN." [_Approaching the_ VILLAIN _from behind and embracing +him_.] Find a little spot on your bosom for me. I play the "Old Woman," +but you know I'm not really old. + +VILLAIN. Now I have all of power and all of love. + +COMEDIAN. Don't call it love. Call it servility. + +VILLAIN. [_Freeing himself from the women._] But now I have something +more important to carry out. My vassals--I mean you all--I have decided +we will not stay here over night. We will proceed further. + +WOMEN. How so? + +VILLAIN. We go forward to-night. + +COMEDIAN. You have so decided? + +VILLAIN. I have so decided, and that in itself should be enough for you; +but due to an old habit I shall explain to you why I have so decided. + +COMEDIAN. Keep your explanation to yourself and better not disturb my +contemplation of the sunset. + +VILLAIN. I'll put you down on the blacklist. It will go ill with you for +your speeches against me. Now, then, _without_ an explanation, we will +go--and at once. [_Nobody stirs._] Very well, then, I go alone. + +WOMEN. No, no. + +VILLAIN. What do you mean? + +INGENUE. I go with you. + +HEROINE. And I. + +"OLD WOMAN." And I. + +VILLAIN. Your loyalty gratifies me very much. + +"OLD MAN." [_Who is sitting apathetically upon the trunk._] What the +deuce is urging you to go? + +VILLAIN. I wanted to explain to you, but now no more. I owe you no +explanations. I have decided--I wish to go, and that is sufficient. + +COMEDIAN. He plays his comedy wonderfully. Would you ever have suspected +that there was so much wit in his cabbage head? + +WOMEN. [_Making love to the_ VILLAIN.] Oh, you darling. + +TRAGEDIAN. [_Majestically._] I wouldn't give him even a single glance. + +VILLAIN. Still another on the blacklist. I'll tell you this much--I have +decided---- + +COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha! How long will you keep this up? + +VILLAIN. We start at once, but if I am to pay for your food I will not +carry any baggage. You shall divide my bundles among you and of course +those who are on the blacklist will get the heaviest share. You heard +me. Now move on. I'm going now. We will proceed to the nearest town, +which is thirty miles away. Now, then, I am off. + +COMEDIAN. Bon voyage. + +VILLAIN. And with me fares His Majesty the Dollar and your meals for +to-morrow. + +WOMEN. We are coming, we are coming. + +"OLD MAN." I'll go along. + +TRAGEDIAN. [_To the_ VILLAIN.] You're a scoundrel and a mean fellow. + +VILLAIN. I am no fellow of yours. I am master and bread-giver. + +TRAGEDIAN. I'll crush you in a moment. + +VILLAIN. What? You threaten me! Let's go. + + [_Turns to right. The women take their satchels and follow him._ + +"OLD MAN." [_To the_ TRAGEDIAN.] Get up and take the trunk. We will +settle the score with him some other time. It is he who has the dollar +now. + +TRAGEDIAN. [_Rising and shaking his fist._] I'll get him yet. + + [_He takes his side of the trunk._ + +VILLAIN. [_To_ TRAGEDIAN.] First put one of my bundles on your back. + +TRAGEDIAN. [_In rage._] One of your bundles on my back? + +VILLAIN. Oh, for all I care you can put it on your head, or between your +teeth. + +"OLD MAN." We will put the bundle on the trunk. + +COMEDIAN. [_Sitting up._] Look here, are you joking or are you in +earnest? + +VILLAIN. [_Contemptuously._] I never joke. + +COMEDIAN. Then you are in earnest? + +VILLAIN. I'll make no explanations. + +COMEDIAN. Do you really think that because you have the dollar---- + +VILLAIN. The holy dollar, the almighty dollar, the king of kings. + +COMEDIAN. [_Continuing._] That therefore you are the master---- + +VILLAIN. Bread-giver and provider. + +COMEDIAN. And that we must---- + +VILLAIN. Do what I bid you to. + +COMEDIAN. So you are in earnest? + +VILLAIN. You must get up, take the baggage and follow me. + +COMEDIAN. [_Rising._] Then I declare a revolution. + +VILLAIN. What? A revolution! + +COMEDIAN. A bloody one, if need be. + +TRAGEDIAN. [_Dropping his end of the trunk and advancing with a +bellicose attitude toward the_ VILLAIN.] And I shall be the first to let +your blood, you scoundrel. + +VILLAIN. If that's the case I have nothing to say to you. Those who +wish, come along. + +COMEDIAN. [_Getting in his way._] No, you shall not go until you give up +the dollar. + +VILLAIN. Ha-ha. It is to laugh! + +COMEDIAN. The dollar, please, or---- + +VILLAIN. He-he-he! + +COMEDIAN. Then let there be blood. [_Turns up his sleeves._ + +TRAGEDIAN. [_Taking off his coat._] Ah! Blood, blood! + +"OLD MAN." [_Dropping his end of the trunk._] I'm not going to keep out +of a fight. + +WOMEN. [_Dropping his satchels._] Nor we. Nor we. + +VILLAIN. [_Shouting._] To whom shall I give up the dollar? +You--you--you--you? + +COMEDIAN. This argument will not work any more. You are to give the +dollar up to all of us. At the first opportunity we'll get change and +divide it into equal parts. + +WOMEN. Hurrah, hurrah! Divide it, divide it! + +COMEDIAN. [_To_ VILLAIN.] And I will even be so good as to give you a +share. + +TRAGEDIAN. I'd rather give him a sound thrashing. + +COMEDIAN. It shall be as I say. Give up the dollar. + +HEROINE. [_Throwing herself on the_ COMEDIAN'S _breast_.] My comedian! +My comedian! + +INGENUE. [_To the_ VILLAIN.] I'm sick of you. Give up the dollar. + +COMEDIAN. [_Pushing the_ HEROINE _aside_.] You better step aside or else +you may get the punch I aim at the master and bread-giver. [_To the_ +VILLAIN.] Come up with the dollar! + +TRAGEDIAN. Give up the dollar to him, do you hear? + +ALL. The dollar, the dollar! + +VILLAIN. I'll tear it to pieces. + +COMEDIAN. Then we shall tear out what little hair you have left on your +head. The dollar, quick! + + [_They surround the_ VILLAIN; _the women pull his hair; the_ + TRAGEDIAN _grabs him by the collar and shakes him; the_ "OLD MAN" + _strikes him on his bald pate; the_ COMEDIAN _struggles with him + and finally grasps the dollar_. + +COMEDIAN. [_Holding up the dollar._] I have it! + + [_The women dance and sing._ + +VILLAIN. Bandits! Thieves! + +TRAGEDIAN. Silence, or I'll shut your mouth. + + [_Goes back to the trunk and assumes his heroic pose._ + +COMEDIAN. [_Putting the dollar into his pocket._] That's what I call a +successful and a bloodless revolution, except for a little fright and +heart palpitation on the part of the late master and bread-giver. +Listen, some one is coming. Perhaps he'll be able to change the dollar +and then we can divide it at once. + +"OLD MAN." I am puzzled how we can change it into equal parts. + + [_Starts to calculate with the_ INGENUE _and the_ "OLD WOMAN." + +HEROINE. [_Tenderly attentive to the_ COMEDIAN.] You are angry with me, +but I was only playing with him so as to wheedle the dollar out of him. + +COMEDIAN. And now you want to trick me out of my share of it. + +"OLD MAN." It is impossible to divide it into equal parts. It is +absolutely impossible. If it were ninety-eight cents or one hundred and +five cents or---- + + [_The_ STRANGER _enters from the right, perceives the company, + greets it, and continues his way to left_. COMEDIAN _stops him_. + +COMEDIAN. I beg your pardon, sir; perhaps you have change of a dollar in +dimes, nickels, and pennies. + + [_Showing the dollar. The_ "OLD MAN" _and women step forward_. + +STRANGER. [_Getting slightly nervous, starts somewhat, makes a quick +movement for his pistol-pocket, looks at the_ COMEDIAN _and the others +and says slowly_.] Change of a dollar? [_Moving from the circle to +left._] I believe I have. + +WOMEN. Hurrah! + +STRANGER. [_Turns so that no one is behind him and pulls his revolver._] +Hands up! + +COMEDIAN. [_In a gentle tone of voice._] My dear sir, we are altogether +peaceful folk. + +STRANGER. [_Takes the dollar from the_ COMEDIAN'S _hand and walks +backwards to left with the pistol pointed at the group_.] Good-night, +everybody. + + [_He disappears, the actors remain dumb with fear, with their hands + up, mouths wide open, and staring into space._ + +COMEDIAN. [_Finally breaks out into thunderous laughter._] +Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! + +CURTAIN + + + + +THE DIABOLICAL CIRCLE + +BY + +BEULAH BORNSTEAD + + + +_The Diabolical Circle_ is reprinted by special permission of Professor +Franz Rickaby, in whose course in dramatic composition (English 36) in +the University of North Dakota this play was written. For permission to +perform, address Professor Franz Rickaby, University of North Dakota, +University, North Dakota. + + +BEULAH BORNSTEAD + +Beulah Bornstead, one of the promising young playwrights of the +Northwest, was born in Grand Forks, North Dakota, May 5, 1896. She has +had her academic training at the University of North Dakota, from which +she received her B.A. in 1921. At present Miss Bornstead is principal of +the Cavalier High School, North Dakota. Before attempting drama she +tried her hand at journalism and at short-story writing. + +Miss Bornstead was introduced into playwriting by Professor Franz +Rickaby, in whose course in dramatic composition at the University of +North Dakota _The Diabolical Circle_ was written. In speaking of this +play Miss Bornstead writes: "_The Diabolical Circle_ is the first play I +have ever written. I never enjoyed doing anything so much in my life. +The characters were so real to me that if I had bumped into one going +round the corner I should not have been surprised in the least. BETTY +and CHARLES and ADONIJAH and even COTTON MATHER himself worked that play +out. All the humble author did was to set it down on paper." _The +Diabolical Circle_ was produced May 5, 1921, by the Dakota Playmakers in +their Little Theatre at the University of North Dakota. + +_The Diabolical Circle_ is one of the best contemporary plays dealing +with American historical material. Its characterization is one of its +noteworthy elements. + + +CHARACTERS + + COTTON MATHER + BETTY, _his daughter_ + ADONIJAH WIGGLESWORTH, _a suitor, and_ COTTON'S _choice_ + CHARLES MANNING, _likewise a suitor, but_ BETTY'S _choice_ + THE CLOCK + + + + +THE DIABOLICAL CIRCLE + + + SCENE: _The living-room in the Mather home in Boston._ + + TIME: _About 1700, an evening in early autumn._ + + _The stage represents the living-room of the Mather home. A large + colonial fireplace is seen down-stage left, within which stand huge + brass andirons. To one side hangs the bellows, with the tongs near + by, while above, underneath the mantelpiece, is suspended an old + flint-lock rifle. On both ends of the mantel are brass + candlesticks, and hanging directly above is an old-fashioned + portrait of Betty's mother. There are two doors, one leading into + the hall at centre left, the other, communicating with the rest of + the house, up-stage right. A straight high-backed settee is + down-stage right, while in the centre back towers an old + grandfather's clock.[K] To the left of the clock is the window, + cross-barred and draped with flowered chintz. An old-fashioned + table occupies the corner between the window and the hall door. + Here and there are various straight-backed chairs of Dutch origin. + Rag rugs cover the floor._ + + _As the curtain rises_ COTTON MATHER _is seated in a large armchair + by the fire, with_ BETTY _on a stool at his feet, with her + knitting_. + + COTTON, _his hair already touched with the whitening frost of many + a severe New England winter, is grave and sedate. Very much + exercised with the perils of this life, and serenely contemplative + of the life to come, he takes himself and the world about him very + seriously._ + + _Not so with_ MISTRESS BETTY. _Outwardly demure, yet inwardly + rebellious against the straitened conventions of the times, she + dimples over with roguish merriment upon the slightest + provocation._ + + _As we first see them_ COTTON _is giving_ BETTY _some timely + advice_. + +COTTON. But you must understand that marriage, my daughter, is a most +reverend and serious matter which should be approached in a manner +fittingly considerate of its grave responsibility. + +BETTY. [_Thoughtfully._] Truly reverend and most serious, father +[_looking up roguishly_], but I like not so much of the grave about it. + +COTTON. [_Continuing._] I fear thou lookest upon the matter too lightly. +It is not seemly to treat such a momentous occasion thus flippantly. + +BETTY. [_Protesting._] Nay, father, why consider it at all? Marriage is +yet a great way off. Mayhap I shall never leave thee. + +COTTON. Thou little thinkest that I may be suddenly called on to leave +_thee_. The Good Word cautions us to boast not ourselves of the morrow, +for we know not what a day may bring forth. + +BETTY. [_Dropping her knitting._] Father, thou art not feeling well. +Perhaps---- + +COTTON. Nay, child, be not alarmed. 'Tis but a most necessary lesson to +be learned and laid up in the heart. I will not always be with thee and +I would like to be comfortably assured of thy future welfare before I +go. + +BETTY. [_Picking her knitting up._] Be comfortably assured, then, I +prithee; I have no fears. + +COTTON. [_Bringing his arm down forcibly on the arm of the chair._] Aye! +There it is. Thou hast no fears. Would that thou had'st some! [_Looks up +at the portrait._] Had thy prudent and virtuous mother only lived to +point the way, I might be spared this anxiety; but, beset by diverse +difficulties in establishing the kingdom of God in this country, and +sorely harassed by many hardships and by evil men, I fear me I have not +propounded to thee much that I ought. + +BETTY. In what then is mine education lacking? Have I not all that is +fitting and proper for a maiden to know? + +COTTON. [_Perplexed._] I know not. I have done my best, but thou hast +not the proper attitude of mind befitting a maiden about to enter the +married estate. + +BETTY. [_Protesting._] Nay, but I am not about to enter the married +estate. + +COTTON. It is time. + +BETTY. [_Mockingly pleading._] Entreat me not to leave thee, father, nor +forsake thee; for whither thou goest I will go, and whither---- + +COTTON. [_Interrupting sternly._] Betty! It ill befitteth a daughter of +mine to quote the Scriptures with such seeming irreverence.--I would not +be parted from thee, yet I would that thou wert promised to some godly +and upright soul that would guide thee yet more surely in the paths of +righteousness. There be many such. + +BETTY. Yea, too many. + +COTTON. What meanest thou? + +BETTY. One were one too many when I would have none. + +COTTON. [_Shaking his head._] Ah. Betty, Betty! When wilt thou be +serious? There is a goodly youth among the friends surrounding thee whom +I have often marked, both on account of his godly demeanor and simple +wisdom. + +BETTY. [_Nodding._] Yea, simple. + +COTTON. I speak of Adonijah Wigglesworth, a most estimable young +gentleman, an acquaintance whom thou would'st do well to cultivate. + +BETTY. Yea, cultivate. + +COTTON. What thinkest thou? + +BETTY. A sod too dense for any ploughshare. My wit would break in the +turning. + +COTTON. His is a strong nature, born to drive and not be driven. There +is not such another, nay, not in the whole of Boston. + +BETTY. Nay. I have lately heard there be many such! + +COTTON. [_Testily._] Mayhap thou wouldst name a few. + +BETTY. [_Musingly, holds up her left hand with fingers outspread._] Aye, +that I can. [_Checks off one on the little finger._] There be Marcus +Ainslee---- + +COTTON. A goodly youth that hath an eye for books. + +BETTY. One eye, sayest thou? Nay, four; and since I am neither morocco +bound nor edged with gilt, let us consign him to the shelf wherein he +findeth fullest compensation. + +COTTON. How now? A man of action, then, should appeal to thy brash +tastes. What sayest thou to Jeremiah Wadsworth? + +BETTY. Too brash and rash for me [_checking off that candidate on the +next finger_], and I'll have none of him. There's Percy Wayne. + +COTTON. Of the bluest blood in Boston. + +BETTY. Yet that be not everything [_checks off another finger_]--and +Jonas Appleby---- + +COTTON. He hath an eye to worldly goods---- + +BETTY. [_Quickly._] Especially the larder. To marry him would be an +everlasting round between the tankard and the kettle. [_Checks him +off._] Nay, let me look yet farther--James Endicott. [_Checking._] + +COTTON. Aye, there might be a lad for thee; birth, breeding, a +well-favored countenance, and most agreeable. + +BETTY. Yea, most agreeable--unto himself. 'Twere a pity to disturb such +unanimity. Therefore, let us pass on. Take Charles Manning, an you +please---- + +COTTON. It pleaseth me not! I know the ilk; his father before him a +devoted servant of the devil and King Charles. With others of his kind +he hath brought dissension among the young men of Harvard, many of whom +are dedicated to the service of the Lord, with his wicked apparel and +ungodly fashion of wearing long hair after the manner of Russians and +barbarous Indians. Many there be with him brought up in such pride as +doth in no ways become the service of the Lord. The devil himself hath +laid hold on our young men, so that they do evaporate senseless, +useless, noisy impertinency wherever they may be; and now it has e'en +got out in the pulpits of the land, to the great grief and fear of many +godly hearts. + + [_He starts to his feet and paces the floor._ + +BETTY. [_Standing upright._] But Charles---- + +COTTON. [_Interrupting._] Mention not that scapegrace in my hearing. + +BETTY. [_Still persisting._] But, father, truly thou knowest not---- + +COTTON. [_Almost savagely, while_ BETTY _retreats to a safe distance_.] +Name him not. I will not have it. Compared with Adonijah he is a reed +shaken in the winds, whereas Adonijah resembleth a tree planted by the +river of waters. + +BETTY. [_Who has been looking out of the window._] Converse of the devil +and thou wilt behold his horns. Even now he approacheth the knocker. + + [_The knocker sounds._ + +COTTON. [_Sternly._] Betake thyself to thine own chamber with thine +unseemly tongue, which so ill befitteth a maid. + + [BETTY _is very demure, with head slightly bent and downcast eyes; + but the moment_ COTTON _turns she glances roguishly after his + retreating form; then while her glance revolves about the room, she + starts slightly as her gaze falls upon the clock. A smile of + mischievous delight flits over her countenance as she tiptoes in_ + COTTON'S _wake until the clock is reached_. COTTON, _unsuspecting, + meanwhile, proceeds to do his duty as host, with never a backward + glance. While he is out in the hall_ BETTY, _with a lingering smile + of triumph, climbs into the clock and cautiously peeks forth as her + father opens the door and ushers in_ ADONIJAH, _whereupon the door + softly closes_. + +ADONIJAH. Good-morrow, reverend sir. + +COTTON. Enter, and doubly welcome. + +ADONIJAH. I would inquire whether thy daughter Betty is within. + +COTTON. We were but speaking of thee as thy knock sounded. Betty will be +here presently; she hath but retired for the moment. Remove thy wraps +and make thyself in comfort. + + [ADONIJAH _is a lean, lank, lantern-jawed individual, clad in the + conventional sober gray of the Puritan, with high-crowned hat, and + a fur tippet wound about his neck up to his ears. He removes the + hat and tippet and hands them to_ COTTON, _who carefully places + them upon the table; meanwhile_ ADONIJAH _looks appraisingly about + him and judiciously selects the armchair by the fire. He pauses a + moment to rub his hands before the blaze, and then gingerly relaxes + into the depths of the armchair, as though fearful his comfort + would give way ere fully attained._ COTTON _places a chair on the + other side of_ ADONIJAH _and is seated_. + +COTTON. And how is it with thee since I have seen thee last? + +ADONIJAH. My business prospereth [_mournfully_], but not so finely as it +might well do. + + [_The clock strikes four, but is unnoticed by the two men._ + +COTTON. Thou hast suffered some great loss? + +ADONIJAH. But yes--and no--this matter of lending money hath many and +grievous complications, not the least of which is the duplicity of the +borrower. I but insist on the thirty pounds to the hundred as my due +recompense, and when I demand it they respond not, but let my kindness +lie under the clods of ingratitude. [_Straightening up, and speaking +with conviction._] They shall come before the council. I will have what +is mine own. + +COTTON. [_Righteously._] And it is not unbecoming of thee to demand it. +I wist not what the present generation is coming to. + +ADONIJAH. They have no sense of the value of money. They know not how to +demean themselves properly in due proportion to their worldly goods, as +the Lord hath prospered them. There be many that have nothing and do +hold their heads above us that be worthy of our possessions. + +COTTON. The wicked stand in slippery places. It will not always be thus. +Judgment shall come upon them. + +ADONIJAH. Aye, let them fall. I for one have upheld them too far. They +squander their means in riotous living, and walk not in the ways of +their fathers. + +COTTON. There be many such--many such--but thou, my lad, thou art not +one of the multitude. As I have often observed to my Betty, thou +standest out as a most upright and God-fearing young man. + +ADONIJAH. [_Brimming over with self-satisfaction._] That have I ever +sought to be. + +COTTON. An example that others would do well to imitate. + +ADONIJAH. [_All puffed up._] Nay, others value it not. They be envious +of my good fortune. + +COTTON. A most prudent young man! Nay, be not so over-blushingly timid. +Thou'rt too modest. + +ADONIJAH. [_His face falling._] But Betty--doth she regard me thus? + +COTTON. The ways of a maid are past finding out; but despair not. I +think she hath thee much to heart, but, as the perverse heart of woman +dictateth, behaveth much to the contrary. + +ADONIJAH. [_Brightening up as one with new hopes._] Thou thinkest---- + +COTTON. [_Interrupting._] Nay, lad, I am sure of it. Betty was ever a +dutiful daughter. + + [_All unseen_, BETTY _peeks out mischievously_. + +ADONIJAH. But I mistrust me her heart is elsewhere. + +COTTON. Thou referr'st to young Manning without doubt. It can never be. +'Tis but a passing fancy. + +ADONIJAH. Nay, but I fear Charles thinketh not so. I have been told in +secret [_leaning forward confidentially_] by one that hath every +opportunity to know, that he hath enjoined Goodman Shrewsbury to send +for--[_impressively_] a ring! + +COTTON. [_Angered._] A ring, sayest thou? + +ADONIJAH. [_Nodding._] Aye, even so. + +COTTON. But he hath not signified such intention here to me. + +ADONIJAH. Then there are no grounds for his rash presumption? + +COTTON. Humph! Grounds! For a ring! Aye, there'll be no diabolical +circle here for the devil to daunce in. I will question Betty thereon. +[_Rises._] Do thou remain here and I will send her to thee. Oh, that he +should offer daughter of mine a ring! + + [COTTON _leaves the room_. ADONIJAH _leans back in his chair in + supreme contentment at the turn affairs have taken. The clamorous + knocker arouses him from his reverie. He gazes stupidly around. The + continued imperious tattoo on the knocker finally brings him to his + feet. He goes into the hall and opens the door. His voice is + heard._ + +ADONIJAH. [_Frostily._] Good-afternoon, Sir Charles, mine host is +absent. + +CHARLES. [_Stepping in._] My mission has rather to do with Mistress +Betty. Is she in? + +ADONIJAH. [_Closing the hall door, and turning to_ CHARLES, _replies in +grandiose hauteur_.] Mistress Betty is otherwise engaged, I would have +thee know. + +CHARLES. Engaged? [_Bowing._] Your humble servant, I trust, hath the +supreme pleasure of that engagement. + + [_He glances inquiringly about the room, and places the hat on the + table beside that of_ ADONIJAH. _The two hats are as different as + the two men_: ADONIJAH'S _prim, Puritanic, severe_; CHARLES'S + _three-cornered, with a flowing plume_. + + [CHARLES _is a handsome chap of goodly proportions, with a + straightforward air and a pleasant smile. He is dressed more after + the fashion of the cavaliers of Virginia, and wears a long wig with + flowing curls. The two men size each other up._ + +ADONIJAH. [_Meaningly._] Her father will shortly arrive. + +CHARLES. [_Impatiently striding forth._] Devil take her father. 'Tis +Mistress Betty I would see. Where is she? + + [CHARLES _continues pacing the floor_. ADONIJAH, _shocked beyond + measure, turns his back on the offending_ CHARLES, _and with folded + arms and bowed head stands aside in profound meditation. The clock + door slowly opens and_ BETTY _cautiously peeks out_. CHARLES _stops + short and is about to begin a decided demonstration, when_ BETTY, + _with a warning glance toward_ ADONIJAH, _checks him with upraised + hand. The clock door closes and_ CHARLES _subsides into the + armchair with a comprehending grin of delight_. ADONIJAH _slowly + turns and faces_ CHARLES _with a melancholy air_. + +CHARLES. Prithee, why so sad? + + [_The grin becomes a chuckle._ + + +ADONIJAH. I do discern no cause for such unrighteous merriment. + +CHARLES. 'Tis none the less for all of that. I take life as I find it, +and for that matter so do they all, even thou. The difference be in the +finding. [_Whistles._ + +ADONIJAH. [_Uneasily._] It is time her father did arrive. + +CHARLES. Where then hath he been? + +ADONIJAH. He but went in search of Betty. + +CHARLES. Ah, then we'll wait. + + [_He whistles, while_ ADONIJAH _moves uneasily about the room, + glancing every now and then at this disturbing element of his + peace, as if he would send him to kingdom come, if he only could_. + +ADONIJAH. [_After considerable toleration._] Waiting may avail thee +naught. + +CHARLES. And thee? Nevertheless we'll wait. [_Whistles._ + +ADONIJAH. [_Takes another turn or two and fetches up a counterfeit +sigh._] Methinks, her father's quest be fruitless. + +CHARLES. [_Starting up._] Ah, then, let us go. + + [ADONIJAH., _visibly relieved, sits down in the chair opposite_. + +CHARLES. [_Amused._] Nay? [_Sits down and relaxes._] Ah, then, we'll +wait. [_Whistles._ + +ADONIJAH. [_Troubled._] 'Tis certain Mistress Betty be not here. + +CHARLES. Nay, if she be not here, then I am neither here nor there. I +would wager ten pounds to a farthing she be revealed in time if she but +will it. Wilt take me up? + +ADONIJAH. It be not seemly so to stake thy fortune on a woman's whim. + +CHARLES. [_Laughs._] Thou'rt right on it. If she will, say I, for if she +will she won't, and if she won't she will. + +ADONIJAH. False jargon! A woman has no will but e'en her father's as a +maid, her husband's later still. + + [_Enter_ COTTON, _who stops short on seeing_ CHARLES, _rallies + quickly, and proceeds_. + +COTTON. [_Stiffly._] Good-day to you, sir. + +CHARLES. [_Bowing; he has risen._] And to you, sire. + +COTTON. [_To_ ADONIJAH.] I am deeply grieved to report that Mistress +Betty is not to be found. + + [ADONIJAH. _steals a sly look of triumph at_ CHARLES. + +CHARLES. [_In mock solemnity._] I prithee present my deep regrets to +Mistress Betty. I will call again. + +COTTON. God speed thee! [_And as_ CHARLES _takes his leave_ COTTON +_places his hand affectionately upon_ ADONIJAH'S _shoulder, saying +reassuringly_.] Come again, my son; Betty may not be afar off. I fain +would have her soon persuaded of thy worth. Improve thy time. + +ADONIJAH. [_Beaming._] Good morrow, sir; I will. + + [_As the door closes behind them_ COTTON _slowly walks toward the + fire, where he stands in complete revery. Still absorbed in thought + he walks slowly out the door at the right._ BETTY _peeks cautiously + out, but hearing footsteps quickly withdraws_. COTTON _re-enters + with hat on. He is talking to himself, reflectively._ + +COTTON. Where can she be? Mayhap at Neighbor Ainslee's. + + [_He goes hurriedly out through the hall door. The banging of the + outside door is heard. The clock door once more slowly opens and_ + BETTY _peers forth, listening. The sound of a door opening causes + her to draw back. As the noise is further emphasized by approaching + footsteps, she pulls the clock door quickly to._ CHARLES _enters. + He looks inquiringly about, tosses his hat on the table, and goes + for the clock. He opens it with a gay laugh._ BETTY _steps forth + out of the clock, very much assisted by_ CHARLES. + +CHARLES. Blessed relief! Thou art in very truth, then, flesh and blood? + +BETTY. And what else should I be, forsooth? + +CHARLES. [_Laughing._] I marked thee for a mummy there entombed. + +BETTY. [_Disengaging her hand._] What? Darest thou? + +CHARLES. A lively mummy now thou art come to, whilst I [_sighs_]--I +waited through the ages! + +BETTY. [_Laughingly._] A veritable monument of patient grief. + +CHARLES. And Adonijah---- + +BETTY. Yea, verily, old Father Time but come to life. [_Mimics._] Thy +waiting may avail thee naught. + +CHARLES. In truth, it may avail me naught; thy father may be back at any +time, while I have much to say, sweet Betty---- + +BETTY. [_Interrupting._] Nay, sweet Betty call me not. + +CHARLES. Dear Betty, then, the dearest---- + +BETTY. [_Quickly._] Yea, call me dearest mummy, Hottentot, or what you +will, just so it be not _sweet_, like Adonijah. It sickens me beyond +expressing. + +CHARLES. Then, _sweet_ Betty thou art _not_, say rather sour Betty, +cross Betty, mean Betty, bad Betty, mad Betty, sad Betty. + +BETTY. [_Suddenly dimpling._] Nay, glad Betty! + +CHARLES. Art then so glad? Wilt tell me why? In sooth, I know not +whither to be glad, or sad, or mad. Sometimes I am but one, sometimes I +am all three. + +BETTY. Wilt tell me why? + +CHARLES. [_Stepping closer and imprisoning her left hand._] Thou wilt +not now escape it, for I will tell thee why, and mayhap this will aid +me. [_Slips ring, which he has had concealed in his pocket, on her +finger._] Hath this no meaning for thee? + +BETTY. [_Her eyes sparkling with mischief._] Aye, 'tis a diabolical +circle for the devil to daunce in! + +CHARLES. [_In astonishment._] A what? + +BETTY. [_Slowly._] A diabolical circle for the devil to daunce in--so +father saith. Likewise Adonijah. + +CHARLES. [_Weakly endeavoring to comprehend._] A diabolical circle--but +what!--say it again, Betty. + +BETTY. [_Repeats slowly, emphasizing it with pointed finger._] A +diabolical circle for the devil to daunce in. + +CHARLES. [_Throws back his head and laughs._] May I be the devil! + +BETTY. [_Shaking her finger at him._] Then daunce! + + [_They take position, as though for a minuet. The knocker sounds._ + BETTY _runs to the window_. + +BETTY. Aye, there's ADONIJAH at the knocker. Into the clock--hie +thee--quick, quick! + +CHARLES. [_Reproachfully._] And would'st thou incarcerate me through the +ages? [_Turns to the clock._] O timely sarcophagus! + + [CHARLES _is smuggled into the clock, and_ BETTY _has barely enough + time to make a dash for the hat and conceal it behind her before + the door opens and in stalks_ ADONIJAH. _He looks about + suspiciously._ BETTY _faces him with the hat held behind her. He + removes his hat and tippet and lays them on the table._ + +ADONIJAH. Methought I heard a sound of many feet. + +BETTY. [_Looking down._] Two feet have I; no more, no less. + +ADONIJAH. [_Dryly._] Aye, two be quite sufficient. + +BETTY. An thou sayest the word, they yet can beat as loud a retreat as +an whole regiment. + +ADONIJAH. Thou dost my meaning misconstrue. + +BETTY. Construe it then, I prithee. + +ADONIJAH. I came not here to vex---- + +BETTY. Then get thee hence. [_He steps forward._ BETTY _steps back_.] +But not behind me, Satan. + +ADONIJAH. [_Coming closer._] And yet thou driv'st me to it. + +BETTY. [_Backing off._] Indeed, thou hast a nature born to _drive_ and +not be driven. + +ADONIJAH. [_Highly complimented._] So be it, yet I scarce had hoped that +thou would'st notice. [_Advancing._] Born to drive, thou sayest, not be +driven. + +BETTY. [_Retreating._] Thou hast said it, born to _drive_. But what to +drive I have not said. That knowledge hath my father yet concealed. + +ADONIJAH. [_Eagerly._] Thy father, then, hath told thee---- + +BETTY. [_Who is retreating steadily across the room._] Thou wert born to +_drive_! + + [_Strikes settee and goes down on the hat._ ADONIJAH _seats himself + beside_ BETTY. BETTY _is of necessity forced to remain--on the + hat_. ADONIJAH _slides arm along the back of the settee. The clock + door strikes erratically. He jerks his arm back and gazes in the + direction of the clock. The clock hands wigwag._ ADONIJAH _stares + abstractedly and passes his hand over his forehead in a dazed + manner_. + +BETTY. [_Solicitously._] What aileth thee? + +ADONIJAH. [_Still staring._] The time! + +BETTY. [_Stifles a yawn._] It doth grow late. + +ADONIJAH. But not consistently; it changeth. + +BETTY. 'Twas ever so with time. + +ADONIJAH. [_Reminiscently._] Of a certainty they moved. + +BETTY. Yea, verily, 'tis not uncommon. + +ADONIJAH. But backwards! + +BETTY. [_Joyfully._] Why, then, my prayers are answered. How often I +have prayed them thus to move! Yet hath it never come to pass. + +ADONIJAH. Nay, had'st thou seen---- + +BETTY. Prithee calm thyself. Thou'rt ill. + +ADONIJAH. [_Steals his arm along the back of the settee and moves over +closer._] Sweet Betty! [BETTY _looks away with a wry face_.] Thy +indifference in no wise blinds me to thy conception of my true value. +[BETTY _sits up, round-eyed_.] There was a time when I despaired--[_The +clock again strikes wildly. The hands drop and rise as before._ ADONIJAH +_excitedly points at the clock_.] Again! Did'st mark it? Something doth +ail the clock! + +BETTY. Yea, truly thou art ill. The clock behaveth much more to the +point than thou. + +ADONIJAH. [_Tearing his gaze from the clock._] As I was on the point of +saying--[_glances at the clock_] thy father hath given--[_another +glance_] me to understand--[_with eye on the clock he hitches up +closer_] that thou art not averse to mine affections---- + + [_As he attempts to put his arm around_ BETTY _the clock strikes a + tattoo and startles him excitedly to his feet, as the hands travel + all the way round_. + +ADONIJAH. [_Pointing._] Now look! Mark the time! + + [COTTON _enters_. + +COTTON. Tarry yet awhile, my son, the time doth not prevent thee. + +ADONIJAH. Tarry? Time doth not prevent? Little knowest thou! [_Gazes +abstractedly about. Sights the ring on_ BETTY'S _finger, who in +excitement has forgotten to keep her hands behind her back_.] Aye, there +it is, the diabolical circle. It is a charm. It harms her not, while all +about me is askew. Whence came she here? [_Points at_ BETTY.] She +neither came nor went, and yet she was not there and now she is. A manly +form did enter. Yet hath vanished into thin air. Yea, verily, it was +none other than the devil himself in one of his divers forms, of which +he hath aplenty. The very clock indulgeth in unseemly pranks. A strange +influence hangs over me. I cannot now abide. I must depart from hence. +My conscience bids me go. + +COTTON. [_Striving to detain him._] Hold! Thou'rt mad! + +BETTY. Nay, father, he is ill. + +ADONIJAH. [_Wildly._] Aye, if I be mad, thy daughter be to blame. The +spell did come upon me. I have seen strange things. + +COTTON. What meanest thou? + +ADONIJAH. [_Pointing at_ BETTY, _who regards him wonderingly_.] Thy +daughter is a witch! + +BETTY. [_Runs to_ COTTON.] Oh, father! + +COTTON. [_Consoles_ BETTY; _thunders at_ ADONIJAH.] What? Darest thou to +being forth such an accusation? + +ADONIJAH. Aye, while I yet have strength to order mine own will. We +shall see what we shall see when the fires leap round the stake. All the +diabolical circles the devil may invent or his helpmeets acquire will be +of small avail when the leaping tongues of flame curl round you, false +servant of the devil. I can delay no longer. I will repair to the +council at once, and report what I have seen. + + [BETTY _faints away_. COTTON _is at once all paternal solicitude_. + ADONIJAH _gazes in stupefaction. All unobserved_ CHARLES _slips out + of the clock. Finally_ ADONIJAH, _as_ BETTY _shows signs of + reviving, turns himself away, only to find himself face to face + with_ CHARLES. ADONIJAH _stops dead in his tracks, absolutely + nonplussed_. + +CHARLES. Thou goest to the council? Thou lackest evidence. Behold the +devil an' thou wilt. + + [ADONIJAH'S _jaw drops. He stares unbelievingly._ COTTON _looks up + in surprise as_ CHARLES _continues_. + +CHARLES. An' thou goest to the council with such a message, the devil +will dog thy very footsteps. And match word of thine with word of truth +in such a light that thine own words shall imprison thee in the stocks +over Sunday. + + [ADONIJAH _recovers from his temporary abstraction, and seizing his + hat and tippet, tears out the door as if a whole legion of imps + were in full pursuit_. CHARLES _contemptuously turns on his heel + and goes over to_ BETTY, _who is now clinging to her father's arm_. + +BETTY. [_Faintly._] They will not burn me for a witch? + +CHARLES. [_Savagely._] Aye, let them try it an they will. + +COTTON. [_Hotly._] Aye--let them! [_Then starting suddenly with a new +thought._] But how cam'st thou here? Yea, verily, it seemeth to me thou +did'st materialize out of thin air. + + [_Surveys_ CHARLES _with piercing scrutiny_. + +CHARLES. Nay, see through me an thou can'st. Thou wilt find me a most +material shadow, the like of which no eye hath ever pierced. 'Twas not +out of the air, but out of yonder clock that I materialized. + +BETTY. Yea, father, I put him there. + +COTTON. [_Going to the clock and opening it._] Of a truth, the evidence, +all told, is here. Thou wert of a certainty in the clock. [_Takes out +the detached pendulum. Steps back and surveys the timepiece, whose hands +clearly indicate a time long passed or not yet come._] And as far as +pendulums are concerned [_looking ruefully at the one in his hand_], +thou certainly wert no improve---- + +CHARLES. Aye, that I'll warrant. And may I never more be called to +fulfil such position; the requirements be far too exacting for one of my +build and constitution. + +COTTON. But what extremity hath induced thee to take up thine abode in +such a place? + + [_Lays the pendulum aside and gives_ CHARLES _his entire + attention_. + +CHARLES. Why, that came all in the course of events as I take it. When I +returned a short time ago, hard upon mine heels came Adonijah; and, +being loath either to leave the field or share it, I hid within the +clock. Once there, the temptation to help time in covering its course +grew strong upon me in the hope that Adonijah, misled by the lateness of +the hour, would soon depart. Only I looked not for such a departure. +Judge me not too harshly, sire, for I love thy daughter, and if thou +wilt give thy consent to our marriage I will do all that becometh a man +to deserve such treasure. + +COTTON. I like not thy frivolous manner of wearing hair that is not +thine own; it becomes thee not. And I strongly mistrust thine attitude +toward the more serious things of life. + +CHARLES. If my wig standeth between me and my heart's desire, why, I'll +have no wig at all. [_He pulls the wig off and tosses it aside._ BETTY, +_with a little cry, picks it up and smooths its disarranged curls_.] And +as for mine outlook on life, I promise thee that hath but matched the +outer trappings, and can be doffed as quickly. I am as serious beneath +all outward levity as any sober-minded judge, and can act accordingly. + +COTTON. See to it that thou suit the action to those words. My heart is +strangely moved toward thee, yet I would ponder the matter more deeply. +[_Turns to_ BETTY, _who has been absent-mindedly twirling the curls on +the wig_.] And where is thy voice, my daughter? Thou art strangely +silent--[_as an afterthought_] for the once. But it is of small wonder, +since thou hast had enough excitement for one evening. Methinks that +scoundrel, Adonijah, needeth following up. Do thou remain with Betty, +Charles, and I will hasten after him. + +CHARLES. Nay, thou need'st not trouble thyself regarding Adonijah. He +hath much too wholesome a regard for the ducking-stool to cause further +mischief. + +COTTON. Nevertheless, I will away to the council and make sure. [_He +plants his hat on his head and departs._ + +CHARLES. [_Turning to_ BETTY, _who has dropped the wig on the settee, +and who is now gazing demurely at the floor_.] And now to finish up +where we left off. The devil hath led us a merrier dance than we +suspected. Thou hast not truly given answer to the question I have asked +of thee. + +BETTY. What more of an answer would'st thou yet require? + +CHARLES. Why, I have yet had none at all. + +BETTY. Must tell thee further? + +CHARLES. [_Gravely._] Thou must. + +BETTY. [_Mischievously._] Then--put the question once again. + +CHARLES. Thou knowest the question, an thou wilt. + +BETTY. An' thou knowest the answer. + + [CHARLES _takes her in his arms_. + + +BETTY. [_Holding up her hand so that the ring sparkles._] Look, +Charles--the diabolical circle! + +CURTAIN + + + + +THE FAR-AWAY PRINCESS + +BY + +HERMANN SUDERMANN + + +_The Far-Away Princess_ is reprinted by special arrangement with Charles +Scribner's Sons, the publishers of _Roses_, from which this play is +taken. For permission to perform address the publishers. + + +HERMANN SUDERMANN + +Hermann Sudermann, one of the foremost of the Continental European +dramatists, was born at Matziken, in East Prussia, Germany, September +30, 1857. He attended school at Elbing and Tilsit, and then at fourteen +became a druggist's apprentice. He received his university training at +Koenigsberg and Berlin. Soon he devoted his energies to literary work. + +His greatest literary work is in the field of the drama, in which he +became successful almost instantly. His strength is not in poetic beauty +and in deep insight into human character, as in the instance of a number +of other German dramatists. He is essentially a man of the theatre, a +dramatist, and a technician by instinct. He is a dramatic craftsman of +the first order. + +His chief one-act plays are in two volumes: _Morituri_, which contains +_Teja_, _Fritchen_, and _The Eternal Masculine_; and _Roses_, which +contains _Streaks of Light_, _Margot_, _The Last Visit_, and _The +Far-Away Princess_. + +_The Far-Away Princess_ is one of the most subtle and most delicate of +Sudermann's plays. Its technic is exemplary. + + +CHARACTERS + + THE PRINCESS VON GELDERN + BARONESS VON BROOK, _her maid of honor_ + FRAU VON HALLDORF + LIDDY } _her daughters_ + MILLY } + FRITZ STRUeBEL, _a student_ + FRAU LINDEMANN + ROSA, _a waitress_ + A LACKEY + + + + +THE FAR-AWAY PRINCESS[L] + + + THE PRESENT DAY: _The scene is laid at an inn situated above a + watering-place in central Germany._ + + _The veranda of an inn. The right side of the stage and half of the + background represent a framework of glass enclosing the veranda. + The left side and the other half of the background represent the + stone walls of the house. To the left, in the foreground, a door; + another door in the background, at the left. On the left, back, a + buffet and serving-table. Neat little tables and small iron chairs + for visitors are placed about the veranda. On the right, in the + centre, a large telescope, standing on a tripod, is directed + through an open window._ ROSA, _dressed in the costume of the + country, is arranging flowers on the small tables_. FRAU LINDEMANN, + _a handsome, stoutish woman in the thirties, hurries in excitedly + from the left_. + +FRAU LINDEMANN. There! Now she can come--curtains, bedding--everything +fresh and clean as new! No, this honor, this unexpected honor--! Barons +and counts have been here often enough. Even the Russian princes +sometimes come up from the Springs. I don't bother my head about +them--they're just like--that!--But a princess--a real princess! + +ROSA. Perhaps it isn't a real princess after all. + +FRAU LINDEMANN. [_Indignantly._] What? What do you mean by that! + +ROSA. I was only thinking that a real princess wouldn't be coming to an +inn like this. Real princesses won't lie on anything but silks and +velvets. You just wait and see; it's a trick! + +FRAU LINDEMANN. Are you going to pretend that the letter isn't genuine; +that the letter is a forgery? + +ROSA. Maybe one of the regular customers is playing a joke. That +student, Herr Struebel, he's always joking. [_Giggles._ + +FRAU LINDEMANN. When Herr Struebel makes a joke he makes a decent joke, a +real, genuine joke. Oh, of course one has to pretend to be angry +sometimes--but as for writing a forged letter--My land!--a letter with a +gold crown on it--there! [_She takes a letter from her waist and +reads._] "This afternoon Her Highness, the Princess von Geldern, will +stop at the Fairview Inn, to rest an hour or so before making the +descent to the Springs. You are requested to have ready a quiet and +comfortable room, to guard Her Highness from any annoying advances, and, +above all, to maintain the strictest secrecy regarding this event, as +otherwise the royal visit will not be repeated. Baroness von Brook, maid +of honor to Her Highness." Now, what have you got to say? + +ROSA. Herr Struebel lent me a book once. A maid of honor came into that, +too. I'm sure it's a trick! + +FRAU LINDEMANN. [_Looking out toward the back._] Dear, dear, isn't that +Herr Struebel now, coming up the hill? To-day of all days! What on earth +does he always want up here? + +ROSA. [_Pointedly._] He's in such favor at the Inn. He won't be leaving +here all day. + +FRAU LINDEMANN. That won't do at all. He's got to be sent off. If I only +knew how I could--Oh, ho! I'll be disagreeable to him--that's the only +way to manage it! + + [STRUeBEL _enters. He is a handsome young fellow without much + polish, but cheerful, unaffected, entirely at his ease, and + invariably good-natured._ + +STRUeBEL. Good day, everybody. + +FRAU LINDEMANN. [_Sarcastically._] Charming day. + +STRUeBEL. [_Surprised at her coolness._] I say! What's up? Who's been +rubbing you the wrong way? May I have a glass of beer, anyway? Glass of +beer, if you please! Several glasses of beer, if you please. [_Sits +down._] Pestiferously hot this afternoon. + +FRAU LINDEMANN. [_After a pause._] H'm, H'm. + +STRUeBEL. Landlady Linda, dear, why so quiet to-day? + +FRAU LINDEMANN. In the first place, Herr Struebel, I would have you know +that my name is Frau Lindemann. + +STRUeBEL. Just so. + +FRAU LINDEMANN. And, secondly, if you don't stop your familiarity---- + +STRUeBEL. [_Singing, as_ ROSA _brings him a glass of beer_.] +"Beer--beer!"--Heavens and earth, how hot it is! [_Drinks._ + +FRAU LINDEMANN. If you find it so hot, why don't you stay quietly down +there at the Springs? + +STRUeBEL. Ah, my soul thirsts for the heights--my soul thirsts for the +heights every afternoon. Just as soon as ever my sallow-faced pupil has +thrown himself down on the couch to give his red corpuscles a chance to +grow, "I gayly grasp my Alpine staff and mount to my beloved." + +FRAU LINDEMANN. [_Scornfully._] Bah! + +STRUeBEL. Oh, you're thinking that _you_ are my beloved? No, dearest; my +beloved stays down there. But to get nearer to her, I have to come up +here--up to your telescope. With the aid of your telescope I can look +right into her window--see? + +ROSA. [_Laughing._] Oh, so that's why---- + +FRAU LINDEMANN. Perhaps you think I'm interested in all that? Besides, +I've no more time for you. Moreover, I'm going to have this place +cleaned right away. Good-by, Herr Struebel. [_Goes out._ + +STRUeBEL. [_Laughing._] I certainly caught it that time! See here, Rosa, +what's got into her head? + +ROSA. [_Mysteriously._] Ahem, there are crowned heads and other +heads--and--ahem--there are letters _with_ crowns and letters _without_ +crowns. + +STRUeBEL. Letters--? Are you----? + +ROSA. There are maids of honor--and other maids! [_Giggles._ + +STRUeBEL. Permit me. [_Tapping her forehead lightly with his finger._] +Ow! Ow! + +ROSA. What's the matter? + +STRUeBEL. Why, your head's on fire. Blow! Blow! And while you are getting +some salve for my burns, I'll just---- + + [_Goes to the telescope._ + + [_Enter_ FRAU VON HALLDORF, LIDDY, _and_ MILLY. FRAU VON HALLDORF + _is an aristocratic woman, somewhat supercilious and affected_. + +LIDDY. Here's the telescope, mother. Now you can see for yourself. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. What a pity that it's in use just now. + +STRUeBEL. [_Stepping back._] Oh, I beg of you, ladies--I have plenty of +time. I can wait. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. [_Condescendingly._] Ah, thanks so much. [_She goes up +to the telescope, while_ STRUeBEL _returns to his former place_.] +Waitress! Bring us three glasses of milk. + +LIDDY. [_As_ MILLY _languidly drops into a chair_.] Beyond to the right +is the road, mother. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Oh, I have found the road, but I see no +carriage--neither a royal carriage nor any other sort. + +LIDDY. Let me look. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Please do. + +LIDDY. It has disappeared now. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Are you quite sure that it was a royal carriage? + +LIDDY. Oh, one has an instinct for that sort of thing, mother. It comes +to one in the cradle. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. [_As_ MILLY _yawns and sighs aloud_.] Are you sleepy, +dear? + +MILLY. No, only tired. I'm always tired. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Well, that's just why we are at the Springs. Do as the +princess does: take the waters religiously. + +MILLY. The princess oughtn't to be climbing up such a steep hill either +on a hot day like this. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. [_More softly._] Well, you know why we are taking all +this trouble. If, by good luck, we should happen to meet the +princess---- + +LIDDY. [_Who has been looking through the telescope._] Oh, there it is +again! + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. [_Eagerly._] Where? Where? + + [_Takes_ LIDDY'S _place_. + +LIDDY. It's just coming around the turn at the top. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Oh, now I see it! Why, there's no one inside! + +LIDDY. Well, then she's coming up on foot. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. [_To_ MILLY.] See, the princess is coming up on foot, +too. And she is just as anaemic as you are. + +MILLY. If I were going to marry a grand-duke, and if I could have my own +carriage driven along beside me, I wouldn't complain of having to walk +either. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. I can't see a thing now. + +LIDDY. You have to turn the screw, mother. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. I have been turning it right along, but the telescope +won't move. + +LIDDY. Let me try. + +STRUeBEL. [_Who has been throwing little wads of paper at_ ROSA _during +the preceding conversation_.] What are they up to? + +LIDDY. It seems to me that you've turned the screw too far, mother. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Well, what shall we do about it? + +STRUeBEL. [_Rising._] Permit me to come to your aid, ladies. I've had +some experience with these old screws. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Very kind--indeed. + + [STRUeBEL _busies himself with the instrument_. + +LIDDY. Listen, mother. If the carriage has almost reached the top the +princess can't be far off. Wouldn't it be best, then, to watch for them +on the road? + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Certainly, if you think that would be best, dear +Liddy. + +STRUeBEL. This is not only an old screw, but it's a regular perverted old +screw. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Ah, really? [_Aside to her daughters._] And if she +should actually speak to us at this accidental meeting--and if we could +present ourselves as the subjects of her noble fiance, and tell her that +we live at her future home--just imagine what an advantage that would +give us over the other women of the court! + +STRUeBEL. There, ladies! We have now rescued the useful instrument to +which the far-sightedness of mankind is indebted. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. Thanks, so much. Pardon me, sir, but have you heard +anything about the report that the princess is going to make the journey +up here to-day? + +STRUeBEL. The princess? The princess of the Springs? The princess of the +lonely villa? The princess who is expected at the iron spring every +morning, but who has never been seen by a living soul? Why, I am +enormously interested. You wouldn't believe how much interested I am! + +LIDDY. [_Who has looked out, back._] There--there--there--it is! + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. The carriage? + +LIDDY. It's reached the top already. It is stopping over there at the +edge of the woods. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. She will surely enter it there, then. Come quickly, my +dear children, so that it will look quite accidental. Here is your +money. [_She throws a coin to_ ROSA _and unwraps a small package done up +in tissue-paper, which she has brought with her_.] Here is a bouquet for +you--and here's one for you. You are to present these to the princess. + +MILLY. So that it will look quite accidental--oh, yes! + + [_All three go out._ + +STRUeBEL. Good heavens! Could I--? I don't believe it! Surely she +sits--well, I'll make sure right away--[_Goes up to the telescope and +stops._] Oh, I'll go along with them, anyhow. + + [_Exit after them._ + +FRAU LINDEMANN. [_Entering._] Have they all gone--all of them? + +ROSA. All of them. + +FRAU LINDEMANN. [_Looking toward the right._] There--there--two ladies +and a lackey are coming up the footpath. Mercy me! How my heart is +beating!--If I had only had the sofa recovered last spring!--What am I +going to say to them?--Rosa, don't you know a poem by heart which you +could speak to the princess? [ROSA _shrugs her shoulders_.] They're +coming through the court now!--Stop putting your arms under your apron +that way, you stupid thing!--oh dear, oh dear---- + + [_The door opens._ A LACKEY _in plain black livery enters, and + remains standing at the door. He precedes_ THE PRINCESS _and_ FRAU + V. BROOK. THE PRINCESS _is a pale, sickly, unassuming young girl, + wearing a very simple walking costume and a medium-sized leghorn + hat trimmed with roses_. FRAU V. BROOK _is a handsome, stately, + stern-looking woman, in the thirties. She is well-dressed, but in + accordance with the simple tastes of the North German nobility._ + +FRAU V. BROOK. Who is the proprietor of this place? + +FRAU LINDEMANN. At your command, your Highness. + +FRAU V. BROOK. [_Reprovingly._] I am the maid of honor. Where is the +room that has been ordered? + +FRAU LINDEMANN. [_Opens the door, left._] Here--at the head of the +stairs--my lady. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Would your Highness care to remain here for a few +moments? + +THE PRINCESS Very much, dear Frau von Brook. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Edward, order what is needed for Her Highness, and see +that a room next to Her Highness is prepared for me. I may assume that +these are Your Highness's wishes? + +THE PRINCESS. Why certainly, dear Frau von Brook. + +[THE LACKEY, _who is carrying shawls and pillows, goes out with_ ROSA, +_left_. + +THE PRINCESS. Mais puisque je te dis, Eugenie, que je n'ai pas sommeil. +M'envoyer coucher comme une enfant, c'est abominable. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Mais je t'implore, cherie, sois sage! Tu sais, que c'est +le medecin, qui---- + +THE PRINCESS. Ah, ton medecin! Toujours cette corvee. Et si je te +dis---- + +FRAU V. BROOK. Chut! My dear woman, wouldn't it be best for you to +superintend the preparations? + +FRAU LINDEMANN. I am entirely at your service. + + [_About to go out, left._ + +FRAU V. BROOK. One thing more. This veranda, leading from the house to +the grounds--would it be possible to close it to the public? + +FRAU LINDEMANN. Oh, certainly. The guests as often as not sit out under +the trees. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Very well, then do so, please. [FRAU LINDEMANN _locks the +door_.] We may be assured that no one will enter this place? + +FRAU LINDEMANN. If it is desired, none of us belonging to the house will +come in here either. + +FRAU V. BROOK. We should like that. + +FRAU LINDEMANN. Very well. [_Exit._ + +FRAU V. BROOK. Really, you must be more careful, darling. If that woman +had understood French--{SPACE}You must be careful! + +THE PRINCESS. What would have been so dreadful about it? + +FRAU V. BROOK. Oh, my dear child! This mood of yours, which is due to +nothing but your illness--that reminds me, you haven't taken your +peptonized milk yet--this is a secret which we must keep from every one, +above all from your fiance. If the Grand Duke should discover---- + +THE PRINCESS. [_Shrugging her shoulders._] Well, what of it? + +FRAU V. BROOK. A bride's duty is to be a happy bride. Otherwise---- + +THE PRINCESS. Otherwise? + +FRAU V. BROOK. She will be a lonely and an unloved woman. + +THE PRINCESS. [_With a little smile of resignation._] Ah! + +FRAU V. BROOK. What is it, dear? [THE PRINCESS _shakes her head_.] And +then think of the strain of those formal presentations awaiting you in +the autumn! You must grow strong. Remember that you must be equal to the +most exacting demands of life. + +THE PRINCESS. Of life? Whose life? + +FRAU V. BROOK. What do you mean by that? + +THE PRINCESS. Ah, what good does it do to talk about it? + +FRAU V. BROOK. Yes, you are right. In my soul, too, there are unhappy +and unholy thoughts that I would rather not utter. From my own +experience I know that it is best to keep strictly within the narrow +path of duty. + +THE PRINCESS. And to go to sleep. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Ah, it isn't only that. + +THE PRINCESS. Look out there! See the woods! Ah, to lie down on the +moss, to cover oneself with leaves, to watch the clouds pass by high +above---- + +FRAU V. BROOK. [_Softening._] We can do that, too, some-time. + +THE PRINCESS. [_Laughing aloud._] Sometime! + +[THE LACKEY _appears at the door_. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Is everything ready? + + [THE LACKEY _bows_. + +THE PRINCESS. [_Aside to_ FRAU V. BROOK.] But I simply cannot sleep. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Try to, for my sake. [_Aloud._] Does Your Highness +command---- + +THE PRINCESS. [_Smiling and sighing._] Yes, I command. + + [_They go out, left._ + + [_The stage remains empty for several moments. Then_ STRUeBEL _is + heard trying the latch of the back door_. + +STRUeBEL'S VOICE. Hullo! What's up! Why is this locked all of a sudden? +Rosa! Open up! I've got to look through the telescope! Rosa! Won't you? +Oh, well, I know how to help myself. [_He is seen walking outside of the +glass-covered veranda. Then he puts his head through the open window at +the right._] Not a soul inside? [_Climbs over._] Well, here we are. What +on earth has happened to these people? [_Unlocks the back door and looks +out._] Everything deserted. Well, it's all the same to me. [_Locks the +door again._] But let's find out right away what the carriage has to do +with the case. + + [_Prepares to look through the telescope._ THE PRINCESS _enters + cautiously through the door at the left, her hat in her hand. + Without noticing_ STRUeBEL, _who is standing motionless before the + telescope, she goes hurriedly to the door at the back and unlocks + it_. + +STRUeBEL. [_Startled at the sound of the key, turns around._] Why, how do +you do? [THE PRINCESS, _not venturing to move, glances back at the door +through which she has entered_.] Wouldn't you like to look through the +telescope a while? Please do. [THE PRINCESS, _undecided as to whether or +not she should answer him, takes a few steps back toward the door at the +left_.] Why are you going away? I won't do anything to you. + +THE PRINCESS. [_Reassured._] Oh, I'm not going away. + +STRUeBEL. That's right. But--where have you come from? The door was +locked. Surely you didn't climb through the window as I did? + +THE PRINCESS. [_Frightened._] What? You came--through the window?---- + +STRUeBEL. Of course I did. + +THE PRINCESS. [_Frightened anew._] Then I had rather---- + + [_About to go back._ + +STRUeBEL. Oh, my dear young lady, you just stay right here. Why, before +I'd drive you away I'd pitch myself headlong over a precipice! + +THE PRINCESS. [_Smiling, reassured._] I only wanted to go out into the +woods for half an hour. + +STRUeBEL. Oh, then you're a regular guest here at the Inn? + +THE PRINCESS. [_Quickly._] Yes--yes, of course. + +STRUeBEL. And of course you drink the waters down below? + +THE PRINCESS. [_In a friendly way._] Oh, yes, I drink the waters. And +I'm taking the baths, too. + +STRUeBEL. Two hundred metres up and down every time! Isn't that very hard +on you? Heavens! And you look so pale! See here, my dear young lady, +don't you do it. It would be better for you to go down there--that +is--{SPACE}Oh, forgive me! I've been talking without thinking. Of +course, you have your own reasons--{SPACE}It's decidedly cheaper up +here. _I_ know how to value a thing of that sort. I've never had any +money in all my life! + +THE PRINCESS. [_Trying to seem practical._] But when one comes to a +watering-place, one must have money. + +STRUeBEL. [_Slapping himself on the chest._] Do I look to you as if I +drank iron? Thank Heaven, I can't afford such luxuries! No; I'm only a +poor fellow who earns his miserable pittance during vacation by acting +as a private tutor--that's to say, "miserable" is only a figure of +speech, for in the morning I lie abed until nine, at noon I eat five and +at night seven courses; and as for work, I really haven't a thing to do! +My pupil is so anaemic--why, compared to him, _you're_ fit for a circus +rider! + +THE PRINCESS. [_Laughing unrestrainedly._] Oh, well, I'm rather glad I'm +not one. + +STRUeBEL. Dear me, it's a business like any other. + +THE PRINCESS. Like any other? Really, I didn't think that. + +STRUeBEL. And pray, what did you think then? + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, I thought that they were--an entirely different sort +of people. + +STRUeBEL. My dear young lady, all people are "an entirely different +sort." Of course _we_ two aren't. We get along real well together, don't +we? As poor as church mice, both of us! + +THE PRINCESS. [_Smiling reflectively._] Who knows? Perhaps that's true. + +STRUeBEL. [_Kindly._] Do you know what? If you want to stay down +there--I'll tell you how one can live cheaply. I have a friend, a +student like myself. He's here to mend up as you are. I feed him up at +the house where I'm staying. [_Frightened at a peculiar look of_ THE +PRINCESS'S.] Oh, but you mustn't be--No, I shouldn't have said it. It +wasn't decent of me. Only, let me tell you, I'm so glad to be able to +help the poor fellow out of my unexpected earnings, that I'd like to be +shouting it from the housetops all the time! Of course, you understand +that, don't you? + +THE PRINCESS. You like to help people, then? + +STRUeBEL. Surely--don't you? + +THE PRINCESS. [_Reflecting._] No. There's always so much talk about it, +and the whole thing immediately appears in the newspapers. + +STRUeBEL. What? If you help some one, that appears----? + +THE PRINCESS. [_Quietly correcting herself._] I only mean if one takes +part in entertainments for charity---- + +STRUeBEL. Oh, yes, naturally. In those things they always get some woman +of rank to act as patroness, if they can, and she sees to it, you may be +sure, that the newspapers make a fuss over it. + +THE PRINCESS. [_Demurely._] Oh, not every---- + +STRUeBEL. Just try to teach me something I don't know about these titled +women! Besides, my dear young lady, where is your home--in one of the +large cities, or----? + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, no. In quite a small town--really more like the +country. + +STRUeBEL. Then I'm going to show you something that you probably never +saw before in all your life. + +THE PRINCESS. Oh do! What is it? + +STRUeBEL. A princess! H'm--not a make-believe, but a real, true-blue +princess! + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, really? + +STRUeBEL. Yes. Our Princess of the Springs. + +THE PRINCESS. And who may that be? + +STRUeBEL. Why, Princess Marie Louise. + +THE PRINCESS. Of Geldern? + +STRUeBEL. Of course. + +THE PRINCESS. Do you know her? + +STRUeBEL. Why, certainly. + +THE PRINCESS. Really? I thought that she lived in great retirement. + +STRUeBEL. Well, that doesn't do her any good. Not a bit of it. And +because you are such a jolly good fellow I'm going to tell you my +secret. I'm in love with this princess! + +THE PRINCESS. Oh! + +STRUeBEL. You can't imagine what a comfort it is. The fact is, every +young poet has got to have a princess to love. + +THE PRINCESS. Are you a poet? + +STRUeBEL. Can't you tell that by looking at me? + +THE PRINCESS. I never saw a poet before. + +STRUeBEL. Never saw a poet--never saw a princess! Why, you're learning a +heap of things to-day! + +THE PRINCESS. [_Assenting._] H'm--and have you written poems to her? + +STRUeBEL. Why, that goes without saying! Quantities of 'em! + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, please recite some little thing--won't you? + +STRUeBEL. No, not yet. Everything at the proper time. + +THE PRINCESS. Ah, yes, first I should like to see the princess. + +STRUeBEL. No, first I am going to tell you the whole story. + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, yes, yes. Please do. [_Sits down._ + +STRUeBEL. Well, then--I had hardly heard that she was here before I was +dead in love with her. It was just as quick as a shot, I tell you. Just +as if I had waited all my life long to fall in love with her. Besides, I +also heard about her beauty--and her sorrow. You see, she had an early +love affair. + +THE PRINCESS. [_Disconcerted._] What? Are they saying that? + +STRUeBEL. Yes. It was a young officer who went to Africa because of +her--and died there. + +THE PRINCESS. And they know that, too? + +STRUeBEL. What don't they know? But that's a mere detail--it doesn't +concern me. Even the fact that in six months she will become the bride +of a grand-duke--even that can make no difference to me. For the present +she is _my_ princess. But you're not listening to me! + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, yes, I am! + +STRUeBEL. Do you know what that means--_my_ princess! I'll not give up +_my_ princess--not for anything in all the world! + +THE PRINCESS. But--if you don't even know her----? + +STRUeBEL. I don't know her? Why, I know her as well as I know myself! + +THE PRINCESS. Have you ever met her, then? + +STRUeBEL. I don't know of any one who has ever met her. And there's not a +soul that can tell what she looks like. It is said that there were +pictures of her in the shop-windows when she first came, but they were +removed immediately. In the morning a great many people are always +lurking around the Springs trying to catch a glimpse of her. I, myself, +have gotten up at six o'clock a couple of times--on the same errand--and +if you knew me better, you'd realize what that meant. But not a sign of +her! Either she has the stuff brought to her house or she has the power +of making herself invisible. [THE PRINCESS _turns aside to conceal a +smile_.] After that, I used to hang around her garden--every day, for +hours at a time. Until one day the policeman, whom the managers of the +Springs have stationed at the gates, came up to me and asked me what on +earth I was doing there. Well, that was the end of those methods of +approach! Suddenly, however, a happy thought struck me. Now I can see +her and have her near to me as often as I wish. + +THE PRINCESS. Why, that's very interesting. How? + +STRUeBEL. Yes, that's just the point. H'm, should I risk it? Should I +take you into my confidence? + +THE PRINCESS. You promised me some time ago that you would show her to +me. + +STRUeBEL. Wait a second. [_Looks through the telescope._] There she is. +Please look for yourself. + +THE PRINCESS. But I am--[_She, too, looks through the telescope._] +Actually, there is the garden as plain as if one were in it. + +STRUeBEL. And at the corner window on the left--with the +embroidery-frame--that's she. + +THE PRINCESS. Are you absolutely certain that that is the princess? + +STRUeBEL. Why, who else could it be? + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, 'round about a princess like that--there are such a +lot of people. For instance, there is her waiting-woman, there's the +seamstress and her assistants, there's---- + +STRUeBEL. But, my dear young lady, if you only understood anything about +these matters, you would have been certain at the very first glance that +it was she--and no one else. Observe the nobility in every motion--the +queenly grace with which she bends over the embroidery-frame---- + +THE PRINCESS. How do you know that it's an embroidery-frame? + +STRUeBEL. Why, what should a princess be bending over if not an +embroidery-frame? Do you expect her to be darning stockings? + +THE PRINCESS. It wouldn't hurt her at all! + +STRUeBEL. Now, that's just one of those petty, bourgeois notions which we +ought to suppress. It's not enough that _we_ have to stick in this +misery, but we'd like to drag her down, too--that being far above all +earthly care---- + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, dear me! + +STRUeBEL. What are you sighing about so terribly? + +THE PRINCESS. Tell me, wouldn't you like to have a closer acquaintance +with your princess, some time? + +STRUeBEL. Closer? Why should I? Isn't she close enough to me, my far-away +princess?--for that's what I call her when I talk to myself about her. +And to have her _still_ closer? + +THE PRINCESS. Why, so that you could talk to her and know what she +really was like? + +STRUeBEL. [_Terrified._] Talk to her! Heaven forbid! Goodness gracious, +no! Just see here--how am I to face a princess? I'm an ordinary fellow, +the son of poor folks. I haven't polished manners--I haven't even a +decent tailor. A lady like that--why, she'd measure me from top to toe +in one glance. I've had my lessons in the fine houses where I've applied +as tutor. A glance from boots to cravat--and you're dismissed! + +THE PRINCESS. And you think that I--[_correcting herself_] that this +girl is as superficial as that? + +STRUeBEL. "This girl"! Dear me, how that sounds! But, how should I ever +succeed in showing her my real self? And even if I should, what would +she care? Oh, yes, if she were like you--so nice and simple--and with +such a kindhearted, roguish little twinkle in her eye----! + +THE PRINCESS. Roguish--I? Why so? + +STRUeBEL. Because you are laughing at me in your sleeve. And really I +deserve nothing better. + +THE PRINCESS. But your princess deserves something better than your +opinion of her. + +STRUeBEL. How do you know that? + +THE PRINCESS. You really ought to try to become acquainted with her some +time. + +STRUeBEL. No, no, no--and again no! As long as she remains my far-away +princess she is everything that I want her to be--modest, gracious, +loving. She smiles upon me dreamily. Yes, she even listens when I recite +my poems to her--and that can't be said of many people! And as soon as I +have finished she sighs, takes a rose from her breast, and casts it down +to the poet. I wrote a few verses yesterday about that rose, that flower +which represents the pinnacle of my desires, as it were. + +THE PRINCESS. [_Eagerly._] Oh, yes. Oh, please, please! + +STRUeBEL. Well, then, here goes. H'm---- + + "Twenty roses nestling close----" + +THE PRINCESS. What? Are there twenty now? + +STRUeBEL. [_Severely._] My princess would not have interrupted me. + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, please--forgive me. + +STRUeBEL. I shall begin again. + + "Twenty roses nestling close + Gleam upon thy breast, + Twenty years of rose-red love + Upon thy fair cheeks rest. + + "Twenty years would I gladly give + Out of life's brief reign, + Could I but ask a rose of thee + And ask it not in vain. + + "Twenty roses thou dost not need-- + Why, pearls and rubies are thine! + With nineteen thou'dst be just as fair, + And _one_ would then be _mine_! + + "And twenty years of rose-wreathed joy + Would spring to life for me-- + Yet twenty years could ne'er suffice + To worship it--and thee!" + +THE PRINCESS. How nice that is! I've never had any verses written to me +b---- + +STRUeBEL. Ah, my dear young lady, ordinary folks like us have to do their +own verse-making! + +THE PRINCESS. And all for one rose! Dear me, how soon it fades! And then +what is left you? + +STRUeBEL. No, my dear friend, a rose like that never fades--even as my +love for the gracious giver can never die. + +THE PRINCESS. But you haven't even got it yet! + +STRUeBEL. That makes no difference in the end. I'm entirely independent +of such externals. When some day I shall be explaining Ovid to the +beginners, or perhaps even reading Horace with the more advanced +classes--no, it's better for the present not to think of reaching any +such dizzy heights of greatness--well, then I shall always be saying to +myself with a smile of satisfaction: "You, too, were one of those +confounded artist fellows--why, you once went so far as to love a +princess!" + +THE PRINCESS. And that will make you happy? + +STRUeBEL. Enormously! For what makes us happy, after all? A bit of +happiness? Great heavens, no! Happiness wears out like an old glove. + +THE PRINCESS. Well, then, what does? + +STRUeBEL. Ah, how should I know! Any kind of a dream--a fancy--a wish +unfulfilled--a sorrow that we coddle--some nothing which suddenly +becomes everything to us. I shall always say to my pupils: "Young men, +if you want to be happy as long as you live, create gods for yourselves +in your own image; these gods will take care of your happiness." + +The Princess. And what would the god be like that you would create? + +STRUeBEL. _Would be?_ _Is_, my dear young lady, _is!_ A man of the world, +a gentleman, well-bred, smiling, enjoying life--who looks out upon +mankind from under bushy eyebrows, who knows Nietzsche and Stendhal by +heart, and--[_pointing to his shoes_] who isn't down at the heels--a +god, in short, worthy of my princess. I know perfectly well that all my +life long I shall never do anything but crawl around on the ground like +an industrious ant, but I know, too, that the god of my fancy will +always take me by the collar when the proper moment comes and pull me up +again into the clouds. Yes, up there I'm safe. And your god, or rather +your goddess--what would she look like? + +THE PRINCESS. [_Thoughtfully._] That's not easy to say. My goddess would +be--a quiet, peaceful woman who would treasure a secret little joy like +the apple of her eye, who would know nothing of the world except what +she wanted to know, and who would have the strength to make her own +choice when it pleased her. + +STRUeBEL. But that doesn't seem to me a particularly lofty aspiration, my +dear young lady. + +THE PRINCESS. Lofty as the heavens, my friend. + +STRUeBEL. My princess would be of a different opinion. + +THE PRINCESS. Do you think so? + +STRUeBEL. For that's merely the ideal of every little country girl. + +THE PRINCESS. Not her ideal--her daily life which she counts as naught. +It is my ideal because I can never attain it. + +STRUeBEL. Oh, I say, my dear young girl! It can't be as bad as that! A +young girl like you--so charming and--I don't want to be forward, but if +I could only help you a bit! + +THE PRINCESS. Have you got to be helping all the time? Before, it was +only a cheap lunch, now it's actually---- + +STRUeBEL. Yes, yes, I'm an awful donkey, I know, but---- + +THE PRINCESS. [_Smiling._] Don't say any more about it, dear friend! I +like you that way. + +STRUeBEL. [_Feeling oppressed by her superiority._] Really, you are an +awfully strange person! There's something about you that--that---- + +THE PRINCESS. Well? + +STRUeBEL. I can't exactly define it. Tell me, weren't you wanting to go +into the woods before? It's so--so oppressive in here. + +THE PRINCESS. Oppressive? I don't find it so at all--quite the contrary. + +STRUeBEL. No, no--I'm restless. I don't know what--at all events, may I +not escort you--? One can chat more freely, one can express himself more +openly--if one---- + + [_Takes a deep breath._ + +THE PRINCESS. [_Smiling._] And you are leaving your far-away princess +with such a light heart? + +STRUeBEL. [_Carelessly._] Oh, she! She won't run away. She'll be sitting +there to-morrow again--and the day after, too! + +THE PRINCESS. And so that is your great, undying love? + +STRUeBEL. Yes, but when a girl like you comes across one's path---- + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. [_Hurrying in and then drawing back in feigned +astonishment._] Oh! + +LIDDY AND MILLY. [_Similarly._] Oh! + +STRUeBEL. Well, ladies, didn't I tell you that you wouldn't find her? +Princesses don't grow along the roadside like weeds! + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. [_Disregarding him--ceremoniously._] The infinite +happiness with which this glorious event fills our hearts must excuse in +some measure the extraordinary breach of good manners which we are +committing in daring to address Your Highness. But, as the fortunate +subjects of Your Highness's most noble fiance, we could not refrain +from---- + +STRUeBEL. Well, well! What's all this? + +FRAU V. HALLDORF.--from offering to our eagerly awaited sovereign a +slight token of our future loyalty. Liddy! Milly! [LIDDY _and_ MILLY +_come forward, and, with low court bows, offer their bouquets_.] My +daughters respectfully present these few flowers to the illustrious +princess---- + +STRUeBEL. I beg your pardon, but who is doing the joking here, you +or----? + + [FRAU V. BROOK _enters_. THE PRINCESS, _taken unawares, has + retreated more and more helplessly toward the door at the left, + undecided whether to take flight or remain. She greets the arrival + of_ FRAU V. BROOK _with a happy sigh of relief_. + +FRAU V. BROOK. [_Severely._] Pardon me, ladies. Apparently you have not +taken the proper steps toward being presented to Her Highness. In +matters of this sort one must first apply to me. I may be addressed +every morning from eleven to twelve, and I shall be happy to consider +your desires. + +FRAU V. HALLDORF. [_With dignity._] I and my children, madame, were +aware of the fact that we were acting contrary to the usual procedure; +but the impulse of loyal hearts is guided by no rule. I shall be glad to +avail myself of your--very kind invitation. + + [_All three go out with low curtsies to_ THE PRINCESS. + +FRAU V. BROOK. What forwardness! But how could you come down without me? +And what is that young man over there doing? Does he belong to those +people? + + [THE PRINCESS _shakes her head_. STRUeBEL, _without a word, goes to + get his hat, which has been lying on a chair, bows abruptly, and is + about to leave_. + +THE PRINCESS. Oh, no! That wouldn't be nice. Not that way---- + +FRAU V. BROOK. [_Amazed._] What? What! Why, Your Highness----! + +THE PRINCESS. Let me be, Eugenie. This young man and I have become far +too good friends to part in such an unfriendly, yes, almost hostile +fashion. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Your Highness, I am _very_ much---- + +THE PRINCESS. [_To_ STRUeBEL.] You and I will certainly remember this +hour with great pleasure, and I thank you for it with all my heart. If I +only had a rose with me, so as to give you your dear wish! Eugenie, +haven't we any roses with us? + +FRAU V. BROOK. Your Highness, I am _very_ much---- + +THE PRINCESS. [_Examining herself and searching among the vases._] Well, +how are we going to manage it? + +STRUeBEL. I most humbly thank--your Highness--for the kind intention. + +THE PRINCESS. No, no--wait! [_Her glance falls upon the hat which she is +holding in her hand--with a sudden thought._] I have it! But don't think +that I'm joking. And we'll have to do without scissors! [_She tears one +of the roses from the hat._] I don't know whether there are just +twenty--[_Holding out one of the roses to him._] Well? This rose has the +merit of being just as real as the sentiment of which we were speaking +before--and just as unfading. + +STRUeBEL. Is this--to be--my punishment? [THE PRINCESS _smilingly shakes +her head_.] Or does your Highness mean by it that only the Unreal never +fades? + +THE PRINCESS. That's exactly what I mean--because the Unreal must always +dwell in the imagination. + +STRUeBEL. So that's it! Just as it is only the _far-away_ princesses who +are always near to us. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Permit me to remark, Your Highness--that it is _high_ +time---- + +THE PRINCESS. As you see, those who are near must hurry away. [_Offering +him the rose again._] Well? + +STRUeBEL. [_Is about to take it, but lets his hand fall._] With the +far-away princess there--[_pointing down_] it would have been in +harmony, but with the--[_Shakes his head, then softly and with +emotion._] No, thanks--I'd rather not. + +[_He bows and goes out._ + +THE PRINCESS. [_Smiling pensively, throws away the artificial flower._] +I'm going to ask my fiance to let me send him a rose. + +FRAU V. BROOK. Your Highness, I am _very_ much--surprised! + +THE PRINCESS. Well, I told you that I wasn't sleepy. + +CURTAIN + + + + +THE STRONGER + +BY + +AUGUST STRINDBERG + + +AUGUST STRINDBERG + +August Strindberg, Sweden's foremost dramatist, was born at Stockholm in +1849. He attended the University of Upsala but did not graduate. In 1872 +he wrote _Master Olaf_, which was for six years steadily refused by +managers. When it did appear it inaugurated the Swedish dramatic +renascence. By turns Strindberg was schoolmaster, journalist, dramatist, +writer of scientific and political treatises, and writer of short +stories. In 1883 he left Sweden and travelled extensively in Denmark, +Germany, France, and Italy. He died in 1912. + +As a dramatist Strindberg's chief strength lies not so much in dramatic +technique as it does in his trenchant and searching power of analysis of +the human mind. His chief plays are very exact and narrow views of the +feminine soul. Some of his own domestic bitterness finds expression in +the feminine studies in his plays. He is very fond of showing the power +of one character over another. + +His important one-act plays are _The Outlaw_, _Countess Julie_, +_Creditors_, _Pariah_, _Facing Death_, and _The Stronger_. _The +Stronger_ has a dramatic intensity that few plays possess. Though but +one character speaks, the souls of three are skilfully laid bare. + + +PERSONS + + MRS. X., _an actress, married_ + MISS Y., _an actress, unmarried_ + + + + +THE STRONGER[M] + + + SCENE: _A corner of a ladies' restaurant; two small tables of + cast-iron, a sofa covered with red plush, and a few chairs._ + + MRS. X. _enters, dressed in hat and winter coat, and carrying a + pretty Japanese basket on her arm_. + + MISS Y. _has in front of her a partly emptied bottle of beer; she + is reading an illustrated weekly, and every now and then, she + exchanges it for a new one_. + +MRS. X. Well, how do, Millie! Here you are sitting on Christmas Eve, as +lonely as a poor bachelor. + + [MISS Y. _looks up from the paper for a moment, nods, and resumes + her reading_.] + +MRS. X. Really, I feel sorry to find you like this--alone--alone in a +restaurant, and on Christmas Eve of all times. It makes me as sad as +when I saw a wedding party at Paris once in a restaurant--the bride was +reading a comic paper and the groom was playing billiards with the +witnesses. Ugh, when it begins that way, I thought, how will it end? +Think of it, playing billiards on his wedding day! Yes, and you're going +to say that she was reading a comic paper--- that's a different case, my +dear. + + [_A waitress brings a cup of chocolate, places it before_ MRS. X., + _and disappears again_. + +MRS. X. [_Sips a few spoonfuls; opens the basket and displays a number +of Christmas presents._] See what I've bought for my tots. [_Picks up a +doll._] What do you think of this? Lisa is to have it. She can roll her +eyes and twist her head, do you see? Fine, is it not? And here's a cork +pistol for Carl. + + [_Loads the pistol and pops it at_ MISS Y. MISS Y. _starts as if + frightened_. + +MRS. X. Did I scare you? Why, you didn't fear I was going to shoot you, +did you? Really, I didn't think you could believe that of me. If you +were to shoot _me_--well, that wouldn't surprise me the least. I've got +in your way once, and I know you'll never forget it--but I couldn't help +it. You still think I intrigued you away from the Royal Theatre, and I +didn't do anything of the kind--although you think so. But it doesn't +matter what I say, of course--you believe it was I just the same. +[_Pulls out a pair of embroidered slippers._] Well, these are for my +hubby--tulips--I've embroidered them myself. H'm!--I hate tulips--and he +must have them on everything. + + [MISS Y. _looks up from the paper with an expression of mingled + sarcasm and curiosity_. + +MRS. X. [_Puts a hand in each slipper._] Just see what small feet Bob +has. See? And you should see him walk--elegant! Of course, you've never +seen him in slippers. + + [MISS Y. _laughs aloud_. + +MRS. X. Look here--here he comes. + + [_Makes the slippers walk across the table._ MISS Y. _laughs + again_. + +MRS. X. Then he gets angry, and he stamps his foot just like this: +"Blame that cook who can't learn how to make coffee." Or: "The +idiot--now that girl has forgotten to fix my study lamp again." Then +there is a draught through the floor and his feet get cold. "Gee, but +it's freezing, and those blanked idiots don't even know enough to keep +the house warm." + + [_She rubs the sole of one slipper against the instep of the + other._ MISS Y. _breaks into prolonged laughter_. + +MRS. X. And then he comes home and has to hunt for his slippers--Mary +has pushed them under the bureau. Well, perhaps it is not right to be +making fun of one's own husband. He's pretty good for all that--a real +dear little hubby, that's what he is. You should have such a +husband--what are you laughing at? Can't you tell? Then, you see, I know +he is faithful. Yes, I know, for he has told me himself--what in the +world makes you giggle like that? That nasty Betty tried to get him away +from me while I was on the road. Can you think of anything more +infamous? [_Pause._] But I'd have scratched the eyes out of her face, +that's what I'd have done, if I had been at home when she tried it. +[_Pause._] I'm glad Bob told me all about it, so I didn't have to hear +it first from somebody else. [_Pause._] And, just think of it, Betty was +not the only one! I don't know why it is, but all women seem to be crazy +after my husband. It must be because they imagine his government +position gives him something to say about the engagements. Perhaps +you've tried it yourself--you may have set your traps for him, too? Yes, +I don't trust you very far--but I know he never cared for you--and then +I have been thinking you rather had a grudge against him. + + [_Pause. They look at each other in an embarrassed manner._ + +MRS. X. Amelia, spend the evening with us, won't you? Just to show that +you are not angry--not with me, at least. I cannot tell exactly why, but +it seems so awfully unpleasant to have you--you--for an enemy. Perhaps +because I got in your way that time [_rallentando_] or--I don't +know--really, I don't know at all---- + + [_Pause._ MISS Y. _gazes searchingly at_ MRS. X. + +MRS. X. [_Thoughtfully._] It was so peculiar, the way our +acquaintance--why, I was afraid of you when I first met you; so afraid +that I did not dare to let you out of sight. It didn't matter where I +tried to go--I always found myself near you. I didn't have the courage +to be your enemy--and so I became your friend. But there was always +something discordant in the air when you called at our home, for I saw +that my husband didn't like you--and it annoyed me--just as it does when +a dress won't fit. I've tried my very best to make him appear friendly +to you at least, but I couldn't move him--not until you were engaged. +Then you two became such fast friends that it almost looked as if you +had not dared to show your real feelings before, when it was not +safe--and later--let me see, now! I didn't get jealous--strange, was it +not? And I remember the baptism--you were acting as godmother, and I +made him kiss you--and he did, but both of you looked terribly +embarrassed--that is, I didn't think of it then--or afterwards, even--I +never thought of it--till--_now_! [_Rises impulsively._] Why don't you +say something? You have not uttered a single word all this time. You've +just let me go on talking. You've been sitting there staring at me only, +and your eyes have drawn out of me all these thoughts which were lying +in me like silk in a cocoon--thoughts--bad thoughts maybe--let me think. +Why did you break your engagement? Why have you never called on us +afterward? Why don't you want to be with us to-night? + + [MISS Y. _makes a motion as if intending to speak_. + +MRS. X. No, you don't need to say anything at all. All is clear to me +now. So, that's the reason of it all. Yes, yes! Everything fits together +now. Shame on you! I don't want to sit at the same table with you. +[_Moves her things to another table._] That's why I must put those +hateful tulips on his slippers--because you love them. [_Throws the +slippers on the floor._] That's why we have to spend the summer in the +mountains--because you can't bear the salt smell of the ocean; that's +why my boy had to be called Eskil--because that was your father's name; +that's why I had to wear your color, and read your books, and eat your +favorite dishes, and drink your drinks--this chocolate, for instance; +that's why--great heavens!--it's terrible to think of it--it's terrible! +Everything was forced on me by you--even your passions. Your soul bored +itself into mine as a worm into an apple, and it ate and ate and +burrowed and burrowed, till nothing was left but the outside shell and a +little black dust. I wanted to run away from you, but I couldn't. You +were always on hand like a snake, with your black eyes, to charm me--I +felt how my wings beat the air only to drag me down--I was in the water +with my feet tied together, and the harder I worked with my arms, the +further down I went--down, down, till I sank to the bottom, where you +lay in wait like a monster crab to catch me with your claws--and now I'm +there! Shame on you! How I hate you, hate you, hate you! But you, you +just sit there, silent and calm and indifferent, whether the moon is new +or full; whether it's Christmas or mid-summer; whether other people are +happy or unhappy. You are incapable of hatred and you don't know how to +love. As a cat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there. You +can't drag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, but you can outwait +it. Here you sit in this comer--do you know they've nicknamed it "the +mousetrap" on your account? Here you read the papers to see if anybody +is in trouble, or if anybody is about to be discharged from the theatre. +Here you watch your victims and calculate your chances and take your +tributes. Poor Amelia! Do you know, I pity you all the same, for I know +you are unhappy--unhappy as one who has been wounded, and malicious +because you are wounded. I ought to be angry with you, but really I +can't--you are so small, after all--and as to Bob, why, that does not +bother me in the least. What does it matter to me, anyhow? If you or +somebody else taught me to drink chocolate--what of that? [_Takes a +spoonful of chocolate; then, sententiously._] They say chocolate is very +wholesome. And if I have learned from you how to dress--_tant +mieux!_--it has only given me a stronger hold on my husband--and you +have lost where I have gained. Yes, judging by several signs, I think +you have lost him already. Of course, you meant me to break with him--as +you did, and as you are now regretting--but, you see, _I_ never would do +that. It wouldn't do to be narrow-minded, you know. And why should I +take only what nobody else wants? Perhaps, after all, I am the stronger +now. You never got anything from me; you merely gave--and thus happened +to me what happened to the thief--I had what you missed when you woke +up. How explain in any other way that, in your hand, everything proved +worthless and useless? You were never able to keep a man's love, in +spite of your tulips and your passions--and I could; you could never +learn the art of living from the books--as I learned it; you bore no +little Eskil, although that was your father's name. And why do you keep +silent always and everywhere--silent, ever silent? I used to think it +was because you were so strong; and maybe the simple truth was you never +had anything to say--because you were unable to think! [_Rises and picks +up the slippers._] I'm going home now--I'll take the tulips with +me--your tulips. You couldn't learn anything from others; you couldn't +bend--and so you broke like a dry stem--and I didn't. Thank you, +Amelia, for all your instructions. I thank you that you have taught me +how to love my husband. Now I'm going home--to him! [_Exit._ + +CURTAIN + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHIES + + + + +COLLECTIONS OF ONE-ACT PLAYS + + _The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays._ The Atlantic Monthly Press, + Boston, 1921. + + Baker, Geo. Pierce. _Plays of the 47 Workship_ (two volumes) and + _Plays of the Harvard Dramatic Club_ (two volumes). Brentano's, New + York City, 1918-20. + + Clark, Barrett H., _Representative One-Act Plays by British and + Irish Authors_. Little, Brown and Company, Boston, 1921. + + Cohen, Helen Louise, _One-Act Plays by Modern Authors_. Harcourt, + Brace and Company, New York, 1921. + + Eliot, Samuel A., _Little Theatre Classics_, one-act versions of + standard plays from the modern and the classic plays. Four volumes + now issued. Little, Brown and Company, Boston, 1918. + + Mayorga, Margaret Gardner, _Representative One-Act Plays by + American Authors_. Little, Brown and Company, Boston, 1919. + + Moses, Montrose J., _Representative One-Act Plays by Continental + European Authors_. Little, Brown and Company, Boston, 1922. + + Shay, Frank, and Loving, Pierre, _Fifty Contemporary One-Act + Plays_. Stewart and Kidd Company, Cincinnati, 1920. + + _Wisconsin Plays_, First and Second Series. B. W. Huebsch, New York + City, 1914, 1918. + + Smith, Alice M., _Short Plays by Representative Authors_. The + Macmillan Company, New York City, 1921. + + _A Volume of Plays from the Drama_, 59 East Van Buren Street, + Chicago, is announced for 1922. + + _A Volume of One-Act Plays_ from the work of Professor Franz + Rickaby, of the University of North Dakota, is under way. + + _A Volume of One-Act Plays_, from the work of Professor Frederick + H. Koch, of the University of North Carolina, is under way. + + + + +LISTS OF ONE-ACT PLAYS + + _Bibliography of Published Plays Available in English._ World Drama + Promoters, La Jolla, California. + + Cheney, Sheldon, _The Art Theatre_. (Appendix: _Plays Produced at + the Arts and Crafts Theatre, Detroit_.) Alfred A. Knopf, New York, + 1917. + + Clapp, John Mantel, _Plays for Amateurs_. _Bulletin of The Drama + League of America_, Chicago, 1915. + + Clark, Barrett Harper, _How to Produce Amateur Plays_. Little, + Brown and Company, Boston, 1917. + + Dickinson, Thomas H., _The Insurgent Theatre_. (Appendix: _List of + Plays Produced by Little Theatres_.) B. W. Huebsch, New York, 1917. + + Drummond, Alex. M., _Fifty One-Act Plays_. _Quarterly Journal of + Public Speaking_, Vol. I, p. 234, 1915. + + Drummond, Alex. M., _One-Act Plays for Schools and Colleges_. + _Education_, Vol. 4, p. 372, 1918. + + Faxon, F. W., _Dramatic Index_. Published from year to year, + Boston. + + French, Samuel, _Guide to Selecting Plays_. Catalogues, etc. Samuel + French, publisher, New York. + + Johnson, Gertrude, _Choosing a Play_. Lists of various types of + one-act plays in the Appendix. The Century Company, New York, 1920. + + Kaplan, Samuel, _Actable One-Act Plays_. Chicago Public Library, + Chicago, 1916. + + Koch, Frederick H., _Community Drama Service_. A select list of + one-act plays. Extension Series, Number 36, in _University of North + Carolina Record_, Chapel Hill, North Carolina, 1920. + + Lewis, B. Roland, _The Technique of the One-Act Play_ (Appendix: + _Contemporary One-Act Plays_). John W. Luce and Company, Boston, + 1918. + + Lewis, B. Roland, _The One-Act Play in Colleges and High Schools_. + A select list of fifty one-act plays. _Bulletin of Extension + Division of University of Utah_, Series No. 2, Vol. 10, No. 16, + Salt Lake City, 1920. + + Lewis, B. Roland, _One Hundred Representative One-Act Plays_, in + _The Drama_, April, 1921, Vol. 11, No. 7, Chicago. + + Lewis, B. Roland. _Bulletin on the One-Act Play_, prepared for The + Drama League of America. Contains a selected list of one hundred + and fifty one-act plays, with analyses, etc. The Drama League of + America, Chicago, Illinois, 1921. + + McFadden, E. A., _Selected List of Plays for Amateurs_, 113 Lake + View Avenue, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1920. + + Mackay, Constance D'Arcy, _The Little Theatre in the United States_ + (Appendix: _List of Plays Produced in Little Theatres_). Henry Holt + & Company, New York, 1917. + + Mayorga, Margaret Gardner, _Representative One-Act Plays by + American Authors_ (Appendix: _Selective List of One-Act Plays by + American Authors_). Little, Brown & Company, Boston, 1919. + + Merry, Glenn Newton, _College Plays_. University of Iowa, Iowa + City, Iowa, 1919. + + Riley, Alice C. D., _The One-Act Play--Study Course_. Three issues + (February, March, April) of _The Drama League Bulletin_, 1918, + Washington, D. C. + + Riley, Ruth, _Plays and Recitations, Extension Division Record_, + Vol. 2, No. 2, November, 1920. University of Florida, Gainesville, + Florida. + + _Selected List of Christmas Plays._ Drama League Calendar, November + 15, 1918, New York. + + _Selected List of Patriotic Plays and Pageants Suitable for + Amateurs._ Drama League Calendar, October 1, 1918, New York. + + _Selected List of Plays for Amateurs._ The Drama League, Boston. + Also Doubleday, Page & Company, New York, 1917. + + Shay, Frank, _Play List, Winter, 1921._ Frank Shay, 4 Christopher + Street, New York. + + Shay, Frank, and Loving, Pierre, _Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays_ + (Appendix: _The Plays of the Little Theatre_). Stewart & Kidd + Company, Cincinnati, 1920. + + Stratton, Clarence, _Two Hundred Plays Suitable for Amateurs_. One + hundred of them are one-act plays. St. Louis, Missouri, 1920. The + Drama Shop, 7 East 42d Street, New York. + + Stratton, Clarence, _Producing in Little Theatres_ (Appendix + contains a revised list of one-act plays). Henry Holt & Company, + New York City, 1921. + + Swartout, Norman Lee, _One Hundred and One Good Plays_. Summit, New + Jersey, 1920. + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY OF REFERENCE ON THE ONE-ACT PLAY + + Andrews, Charlton, _The Technique of Play Writing_, Chapter XVIII. + Home Correspondence School, Springfield, Massachusetts. + + Cannon, Fanny, _Writing and Selling a Play_, Chapter XXII. Henry + Holt & Company, New York, 1915. + + Cohen, Helen Louise, _One-Act Plays by Modern Authors_, + Introduction. Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York, 1921. + + Corbin, John, _The One-Act Play_, in the New York _Times_, May, + 1918. Vol. IV, p. 8, col. 1. + + Eaton, Walter P., _Washington Square Plays_, Introduction. + Doubleday, Page & Company, Garden City, New York, 1917. + + Gibbs, Clayton E., _The One-Act Play_, in _The Theatre_, Vol. + XXIII, pp. 143-156, March, 1916. + + Goodman, Edward, _Why the One-Act Play_?, in _The Theatre_, Vol. + XXV, p. 327, June, 1917. + + Gregory, Lady Augusta, _Our Irish Theatre_. G. P. Putnam's Sons, + New York, 1913. + + Hamilton, Clayton, _The One-Act Play in America_, in _The Bookman_, + April, 1913. Appears as Chapter XXII in _Studies in Stagecraft_, + Henry Holt & Company, New York, 1914. + + Johnson, Gertrude, _Choosing a Play_, Chapter III, _Why the One-Act + Play?_?The Century Company, New York, 1920. + + Lewis, B. Roland, _The Technique of the One-Act Play_. John W. Luce + & Company, Boston, 1918. + + Lewis, B. Roland, _The One-Act Play in Colleges and High Schools, + Bulletin of the University of Utah_, Extension Series No. 2, Vol. + X, No. 16, 1920. Extension Division, University of Utah, Salt Lake + City. + + Mackay, Constance D'Arcy, _The Little Theatre in the United + States_, some interesting comments on various one-act plays. Henry + Holt & Company, New York, 1917. + + Middleton, George, _Tradition and Other One-Act Plays_, + Introduction, 1913; _Embers, Etc._, Introduction, 1911; + _Possession, Etc._, Introduction, 1915. All published by Henry + Holt & Company, New York. + + Middleton, George, _The Neglected One-Act Play_, in _The Dramatic + Mirror_, January 31, 1913, pp. 13-14, New York. + + Moses, Montrose J., _The American Dramatist_, comment on the + one-act play. Little, Brown & Company, Boston, 1917. + + Neal, Robert Wilson, _Short Stories in the Making_, Chapter I. + Oxford University Press, New York, 1914. + + Page, Brett, _Writing for Vaudeville_. Home Correspondence School, + Springfield, Massachusetts, 1915. + + _Poole's Index_, for articles on the one-act play in the magazines. + + _The Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature_ for articles on the + one-act play in the magazines. + + Schitzler, Arthur, _Comedies of Words_, Introduction by Pierre + Loving. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, 1917. + + Underhill, John Garrett, _The One-Art Play in Spain_, in _The + Drama: A Quarterly Review_, February, 1917. + + Wilde, Percival, _Confessional, and Other One-Act Plays_, Preface. + Henry Holt & Company, New York, 1916. + + The several volumes dealing with the short story are suggested as + collateral study: Pitkin, Neal, Williams, Grabo, Baker, Esenwein, + Notestein and Dunn, Canby, Albright, Smith, Cross, Barrett, + Mathews, Pain, Gerwig. + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY ON HOW TO PRODUCE PLAYS + + Beegle, Mary Porter, and Crawford, Jack, _Community Drama and + Pageantry_. The Appendices in this volume contain excellent + bibliographies on almost every aspect of dramatic production. It is + a most valuable work. Yale University Press, New Haven, 1917. + + Chubb, Percival, _Festivals and Plays_. Harper and Brothers, New + York, 1912. + + Clark, Barrett H., _How to Produce Amateur Plays_. Little, Brown & + Company, Boston, 1917. + + Crampton, C. Ward, _Folk Dance Book_. A. S. Barnes & Company, New + York, 1909. + + Hughes, Talbot, _Dress Designs_. The Macmillan Company, New York, + 1913. + + Johnson, Gertrude, _Choosing a Play_. The Century Company, New + York, 1920. + + Mackay, Constance D'Arcy, _Costumes and Scenery for Amateurs_. + Henry Holt & Company, New York, 1915. + + Mackay, Constance D'Arcy, _How to Produce Children's Plays_. Henry + Holt & Company, New York, 1915. + + Rath, Emil, _Esthetic Dancing_. A. S. Barnes & Company, New York, + 1914. + + Rhead, G. N., _Chats on Costume, or Treatment of Draperies in Art_. + F. A. Stokes Company, New York, 1906. + + Stratton, Clarence, _Producing in the Little Theatres_. Henry Holt + & Company, New York, 1921. + + Stratton, Clarence, _Public Speaking_, has a chapter on Dramatics. + Henry Holt & Company, New York, 1920. + + Taylor, Emerson, _Practical Stage Directing for Amateurs_. E. P. + Dutton & Company, New York, 1916. + + Waugh, Frank A., _Outdoor Theatres_. Richard G. Badger, Boston, + 1917. + + Young, James, _Making Up_. M. Witmark & Sons, 114 West 37th Street, + New York. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[A] Copyright, 1914, by Charles Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved. + +[B] Copyright, 1913, by George Middleton. All rights reserved. + +[C] Copyright, 1921. All rights reserved. + +[D] Copyright, 1912, 1921, by Percy Mackaye. All rights reserved. + +[E] The head and face of the Figure are partly hidden by a beak-shaped +cowl. Momentarily, however, when his head is turned toward the fire, +enough of the face is discernible to reveal his narrow iron-gray beard, +shaven upper lip, aquiline nose, and eyes that twinkle in the dimness. + +[F] Copyright, 1919, by _The Stratford Journal_. + +[G] Copyright, 1914, by Bosworth Crocker. All rights reserved. + +[H] Pronounced _niece_. + +[I] Copyright, 1917, by Little, Brown & Co. All rights reserved. + +[J] Copyright, 1917, by Oscar M. Wolff. All rights reserved. + +[K] Plans for this clock may be had by addressing Professor N. B. Knapp, +of the Manual Training Department, University of North Dakota, +University, North Dakota. + +Copyright, 1922, by the Dakota Playmakers. + +[L] Copyright, 1909, by Charles Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved. + +[M] Copyright, 1912, by Charles Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Contemporary One-Act Plays, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 37970.txt or 37970.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/9/7/37970/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from scanned images of public domain material +from the Google Print project.) + + +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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