Scene VIII

Scene VIII

[Adolf appears on the right, deadly pale, a streak of blood on his left cheek, a fixed expression in his eyes, white foam on his mouth.]

GUSTAV [moves back]. No, here he is--settle with him now! See if he'll be as generous to you as I was. Good-by.

[He turns to the left, stops after a few steps, and remains standing.]

THEKLA [goes toward Adolf with outstretched arms]. Adolf! [Adolf sinks down in his chair by the table on the left. Thekla throws herself over him and caresses him.] Adolf! My darling child, are you alive? Speak! Speak! Forgive your wicked Thekla! Forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive me! Little brother must answer. Does he hear? My God, he doesn't hear me! He's dead! Good God! O my God! Help! Help us!

GUSTAV. Quite true, she loves him as well--poor creature!

[Curtain.]

AUTUMN FIRES

A COMEDY

BY GUSTAV WIED TRANSLATED BY BENJAMIN F. GLAZER.

Copyright, 1920, by Benjamin F. Glazer. All rights reserved.

PERSONS

HELMS, } KRAKAU, } HANSEN, } JOHNSTON, } [Old Men, inmates of an old men's home]. HAMMER, } BUFFE, } BOLLING, } KNUT [An eighteen-year-old boy].

The professional and amateur stage rights are reserved by the translator, Mr. Benjamin F. Glazer, Editorial Department, The Press, Philadelphia, Pa., to whom all requests for permission to produce the play should be made.

AUTUMN FIRES

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT BY GUSTAV WIED

[The room of Helms and Krakau in the Old Men's Home. The time is afternoon of a late September day. There is a window at right looking out on the street and another at left overlooking a courtyard. There is a single door back center which opens into a corridor on both sides of which are similar doors in long regular rows and at the end of which is a stairway from the lower floors.

An imaginary line divides the room into two equal parts. Helms lives on the street side and Krakau on the side nearest the courtyard. In each division there is a bed, chiffonier, a cupboard, a table, a sofa and several chairs. The stove is on Krakau's side, but by way of compensation Helms has an upholstered arm chair with a tall back. A lamp hangs in the exact center of the ceiling.

Though there is a low screen which can be used as partial partition between the two divisions it is now folded and standing against the back wall, and the two tables are placed down center, end to end, so that the place is for all present purposes a single room.

Helms' side is conspicuously ill kept and in disorder; Krakau's side is spick and span. On Helms' table there is a vase filled with flowers and near it a pair of gray woolen socks and a pair of heavy mittens. There is also a photograph of a boy in a polished nickel standing-frame.

Helms, his spectacles on his nose, sits in his great arm chair at the table and reads a newspaper.

Krakau sits next to him working out a problem on a chess board.

There is a short pause after the curtain rises.]

KRAKAU. There, I've done it again.

HELMS [without looking up from his paper]. It's easy enough if one cheats.

KRAKAU. Who cheats?

HELMS. Well, year after year you work out the same problem. Anybody can do that.

KRAKAU [rearranging the chessmen]. You can't.

HELMS. Just try another problem once, then see how smart you are.

KRAKAU. I'm quite satisfied with this one. [Moves a piece.] Going to have chocolate to-day?

HELMS [contemptuously]. Chocolate! What for?

KRAKAU. I thought on account of it being your birthday--

HELMS. Chocolate! That's a drink for women. On my birthday I serve wine.

KRAKAU. Hmmm! Wine, eh? Who's coming?

HELMS. Just one floor.

KRAKAU. Bolling too?

HELMS. I suppose Buffe will bring him along.

KRAKAU. And he won't have a word to say.

HELMS. He never has a word to say.

KRAKAU. No, never.

HELMS. Must you rattle those pieces like that?

KRAKAU. Can I help it if they are heavy? [Moves them more carefully.] You are always complaining about noise. You only do it to remind me how well you can hear.

HELMS. Your hearing has gotten a good deal worse this year, hasn't it? Hansen says so, too.

KRAKAU. Hansen! A lot he knows! [Moves a piece.] Is there anything about you in the paper?

HELMS. Nonsense! What should there be?

KRAKAU. Your eightieth birthday. They put all kinds of foolishness in the papers these days.

HELMS. Didn't you hear what I said? There is nothing.

KRAKAU. I heard you.

HELMS [regards him distrustfully over his spectacles]. Have you been reading this paper while I was out?

KRAKAU [loftily]. I always read the paper at night, you know. Newspaper ought to be read by lamplight.

HELMS. Boasting about your eyesight again.

KRAKAU. Yes, I have excellent eyes. [Knocks solemnly on wood.]

HELMS. Did you read the "personal notes"?

KRAKAU [indignantly]. I told you I haven't touched your old paper.

HELMS. My son-in-law has been appointed postal inspector.

KRAKAU. Postal Inspector! That's not a very high office. I suppose that is why Knut hasn't turned up to-day.

HELMS [resentfully]. You haven't congratulated me.

KRAKAU. Because he's a postal inspector? Hump! Congratulations. [Pushes aside the chessboard and rises.]

HELMS [ironically]. Thanks. Ah, if my daughter had lived, she would be proud.

KRAKAU [over his shoulder]. If Mary's gray cat had been a horse she could have gone riding in the park.

HELMS [regarding him sharply over his glasses]. Do you know what I have noticed, Krakau? [Krakau does not answer.] I have noticed that whenever I mention my son-in-law you get mad.

KRAKAU. So?

HELMS [querulously]. Yes you do. I noticed it long ago. I don't see what you've got against him. His son Knut is your godson, too.

KRAKAU. We'll not talk about that, Helms.

HELMS. But I want to talk about it. We have been friends for sixty years, you and me, and--

KRAKAU [suddenly]. Why didn't Knut send regards to me in his birthday letter?

HELMS. Ha, you're jealous, that's what you are. After all, it's my birthday, not yours.

KRAKAU. He never forgot to send regards to you on my birthday.

HELMS [beating his breast]. Well, he's my grandson and he's only your godson.

KRAKAU [incredulously]. So--e?

HELMS. Well, isn't he your godson?

KRAKAU. Yes.

HELMS. Then why do you say so--e like that?

KRAKAU [restraining himself]. We'd better not talk about that. I told you so before.

HELMS. But, damn it, I insist upon talking about it. I want to know what you mean.

KRAKAU. That's all right.

HELMS. It isn't the first time you've made the same stupid remark.... Do you mean to insinuate that he isn't my grandson? Is that what you're driving at?

KRAKAU. For the third time, let's drop the subject. [Down in the courtyard a hand organ begins to play.] There's the old organ grinder.... This is Thursday.

HELMS. You needn't tell me. I can hear for myself.

KRAKAU. It's your turn to give him something.

HELMS. I have no small change. Lay it out for me.

KRAKAU. Remember you owe me for the pack of matches.

HELMS. This will make seventeen.

KRAKAU. [Wraps a coin in a bit of paper.] I just want to make sure you've got it right. You always argue about it afterwards.

HELMS. Hmm!

KRAKAU. [Opens the window, throws out the coin. The music plays more vigorously, then suddenly stops.] The porter is chasing him away.... I suppose it's because Larsen is sick downstairs.

HELMS [laughs angrily]. Huh! You were in an awful hurry about throwing that money down, weren't you? Well, I won't pay you for that.

KRAKAU [hastily closing the window]. What kind of a way is that?

HELMS. You should have waited until he'd played a few tunes.

KRAKAU. How was I going to know the porter would chase him away?

HELMS. That's your lookout. You should have waited, then you would have seen, I won't pay you back.

KRAKAU. You're a damned old swindler, Helms, and you always were. [Turns away and pulls out his pipe.]

HELMS [sees the pipe]. I can't bear tobacco smoke to-day; my throat's too bad.

KRAKAU. Let me tell you something; I take no orders from you.

HELMS. I'll complain to the superintendent. Smoke hurts my throat, and you know it.

KRAKAU. Huh! Won't you complain to your postal clerk son-in-law, too?

HELMS. No, but I'll tell Knut when he comes. I don't see why I let you be his godfather anyway. They wanted some one else, but I said: "No, let's ask Krakau; it will please him." I was a fool.

KRAKAU. You asked me because you knew I'd give him a handsome present. Old miser that you are!

HELMS. But you've always been jealous because I am his grandfather while you are only his godfather.

KRAKAU. So--!

HELMS [furious]. Don't you dare to smoke, do you hear!

KRAKAU. Who's smoking? [Puts the pipe back in his pocket.]

HELMS. You needn't pretend you are not jealous. Why, when my daughter was alive and came to visit me here you used to crawl over to your own side and hide your envious face.

KRAKAU. She didn't come to see me.

HELMS. Well, you might at least have been polite.... But you were always a false friend. You never forgave me for having a wife and family while you were a lonely old bachelor.

KRAKAU. So--e!

HELMS. Don't make that nasty noise! It's true; you know it's true. To this day I remember how angry you were when Andrea was born. For two years you didn't set foot in my house. You said you couldn't bear children about.... But if she had been your own child--

KRAKAU. Can't you talk about anything else?

HELMS. And you wouldn't come to my wife's funeral either. I shall never forgive you that, Krakau,--the wife of your best friend--and now you want to smoke though you know I have a weak throat.

KRAKAU. Why will you talk like an idiot? Don't you see the pipe is in my pocket.

HELMS. Well, you were going to smoke, weren't you? And there's another thing: It never occurred to you to congratulate me when I told you my son-in-law had been made a postal clerk.

KRAKAU [ironically]. I do congratulate you. But you needn't be so stuck up about it. He's not the only postal inspector in the world.

HELMS. Who's stuck up? Not a bit of it! I was thinking of Knut. He'll be better provided for now his father has a good position. Isn't it natural for me to think of Knut's welfare? I am his grandfather.

KRAKAU. So--o?

HELMS. There you go again with your So--o! My daughter's son is my grandson. Any fool knows that.

KRAKAU. Many a fool has believed he was a daughter's father--and wasn't.

HELMS. What's that? My daughter...? You are an idiot.

KRAKAU. Do you remember what happened to Adam Harbee?

HELMS. That has nothing to do with the case. My wife was not that sort of a woman. You'll concede that.

KRAKAU. Ye-es.

HELMS. Well, then--but what can an innocent old bachelor like you know of such things.

KRAKAU. Are you going to talk stuck up again, Helms?

HELMS. Sure I will: I am too stuck up to let an ignorant bachelor like you teach me what's what about married life. What do you know about it? Virgin!

KRAKAU [infuriated]. I'll tell you what I know about it. You are not Andrea's father at all.

HELMS [laughs incredulously]. Ain't I? Well, if I may take the liberty to ask, who is her father?

KRAKAU. That's all right. We'll not talk about it any more.

HELMS. Oh yes, we will! Who is her father, if I am not?

KRAKAU. That's all right.

HELMS. Just empty talk, eh? I might have known it. You just say such things because I owe you seventeen pfennig.

KRAKAU. Twenty-seven! I laid out ten for cake last Friday.

HELMS. Twenty-seven, then. And that's why you make up these stories to annoy me.

KRAKAU.. Have it your way.

HELMS [whimpering]. Why don't you speak out, then? If I am not Andrea's father, who is? You can't leave it like this. Who is the man you accuse, eh? Was it Axel?

KRAKAU [scornfully]. No.

HELMS. Or Summensen?

KRAKAU. Do you suppose Caroline would mix up with a couple of swine like that?

HELMS. Of course I don't. It's you that's been putting such things in my head. You don't know what you are talking about.

KRAKAU. I know what I know.

HELMS [pounds on the table]. Who was he then? Speak up or admit that you are a filthy liar.

KRAKAU [with sudden determination]. I was her father. Now you know it.

HELMS [derisively]. You!... Ha, ha, ha!... You! God knows how you hit on that idea. Do tell us about it.

KRAKAU [savagely; he is on his own side of the room now]. Yes, I'll tell you about it.... With pleasure, my dear Helms!... I had made up my mind to carry the secret with me to the grave ... but I can't stand your overbearing ways any more.... Now it comes out.... And thank God for it.... You were a devil to your wife and you have been a devil to me, Helms, all the fifteen years we have lived in this room.

HELMS. Ha, ha! So I've been a devil, eh? The things one lives and learns!

KRAKAU. Yes, a devil--a devil on wheels. You whine and crow and fuss and scold ... nothing suits you ... no matter how hard I try ... and you are mean and niggardly.... Every pfennig must be pulled out of you like a tooth.

HELMS. I don't throw my money in the street.

KRAKAU. Nobody throws his money in the street, but you can't get along without spending money, can you?

HELMS. No.

KRAKAU. No, but you expected Caroline to. Instead of money you gave her compliments. Naturally she came to me for help. She had to have pin money and clothes.

HELMS. And you gave her money.

KRAKAU. Of course I did.

HELMS. Yes, what then?

KRAKAU. Of course it was humiliating to her. She was very unhappy. I did my best to console her.

HELMS. And then Andrea was born.

KRAKAU. Yes.

HELMS [bitterly]. That was ... that was powerful consolation, Krakau, I must say.... But tell me how you are so sure that Andrea was your daughter.

KRAKAU. Caroline told me herself. Besides, didn't I know that she had lived with you ten years before and never had a child.

HELMS [pathetically]. No. [With a flash of anger.] Why didn't you tell me this before?

KRAKAU [who is half sorry now]. Why should I have told you?

HELMS [without heeding him; mumbles half to himself, shaking his head]. And if she was your daughter, then Knut is your grandson and you are also his godfather ... and to me he is nothing [bows his head]. I am eighty years old to-day, Krakau.... It is hard to be told such a thing when you are eighty....

KRAKAU [has gone over to him, sympathetically touching his shoulder]. I'm sorry, Helms. I wish I hadn't told you. But you made me so angry it just popped out.... But don't worry ... everything will be just the same as before--

HELMS [shakes his head mournfully]. No.

KRAKAU. But yes! I don't want him all for myself. We can share him, can't we?

HELMS. Share him?

KRAKAU. Of course. Instead of being your grandson Knut will be our grandson, that's all.

HELMS [sits up proudly]. Knut is nothing to me.

KRAKAU. But nobody knows that.

HELMS. He is a perfect stranger.

KRAKAU. But nobody knows it except you and me--don't you see?

HELMS. You would throw it up to me every day.

KRAKAU. Never! We should be equal partners. And oh, the long talks we could have about him!... Before it was different ... you were so stuck up about your grandson, I couldn't bear it any longer.... But now we can both be stuck up.

HELMS [hotly]. No.... Go over on your own side. I don't want you here.... I want to be alone.

KRAKAU. Helms....

HELMS. Get out of here, I say.... And take your flowers with you. I accept no presents from the like of you.

KRAKAU. The flowers--?

HELMS. Yes, take them away. And take [chokes over the word] take Knut's picture, too, and the stockings his father sent.... I guess they're yours by right.

KRAKAU [indignantly]. I'll do nothing of the kind. My name's not Carl Helms.

HELMS. Well, take the flowers then.

KRAKAU [takes the flowers]. I can do that, all right.

HELMS. And see that you don't come on my side again without asking permission.

KRAKAU [walks a few paces; turns around]. Hadn't I better straighten up a bit before your guests come?

HELMS. You leave my things alone ... and mind your business.

[Krakau goes with the flowers to his own side.]

HELMS. You've got the best of everything anyhow. The stove is on your side and the morning sun. Wouldn't you like to take my arm chair too, and my pictures? Don't mind me, you know.

[Krakau does not answer. There is a pause. A clock outside strikes five.]

KRAKAU. The clock's striking five.

HELMS. Let it strike.

[There is another pause. A knock on the door is heard. Neither answers it. There is a louder knock.]

KRAKAU. [Impatiently.] Why don't you answer the door?

HELMS. I'm not in the humor for company.

KRAKAU. But some one is knocking.

HELMS. What's that to me? [There is a third knock.]

KRAKAU. Obstinate old fool. [Loudly.] Come in.

[Hansen and Johnston enter. Behind them in the hallway Buffe can be seen with Bolling on his arm. Farther back Hammer is seen.

[Krakau rises, goes to the window and stands there, looking gloomily out into the courtyard.]

HANSEN [leaving the door open]. The others are coming. Well, congratulations, Helms.

HELMS. Thank you.

JOHNSTON. Many happy returns. [They shake hands.]

BUFFE [entering with Bolling]. I'll have to put him in your arm chair.

HELMS. Right over there.

BUFFE. [Helping Bolling to the chair.] Our heartiest congratulations, eh, Bolling?

BOLLING. Hey?

BUFFE [speaking close to his ear]. I say we congratulate Helms on his birthday.

BOLLING. No. It's nothing to boast about.

HAMMER [entering]. Congratulations!

HANSEN. Now we're all here.

HELMS. Make yourselves comfortable. [They all take seats.]

[Bolling sits rigid in the arm chair absently twirling his fingers.

Krakau, who has once or twice shown the impulse to go over to Helms, stirs uneasily but turns his back to his window.

A silence falls.

Suddenly Hansen begins to whistle, a tuneless mournful strain.]

JOHNSTON [whispering confidentially]. My dear Peter, one doesn't whistle at a birthday party.

HANSEN [mocking him]. My dear Henry, mind your own affairs.

JOHNSTON. You have the soul of a greengrocer.

HANSEN. You have the manners of a barber.

BUFFE [laughing]. Those boys are always fighting.

HAMMER. But they can't live without each other.

BUFFE [to Hammer]. Aren't you lonely since Kruger died?

HAMMER. It is lonesome sometimes, but I have more room now.

BUFFE. My wrists are so full of rheumatism I can hardly bend them any more.

HAMMER. There's something the matter with all of us. How is your throat, Helms?

HELMS. Pretty good. [There is silence again.]

HANSEN. Fine weather to-day.

JOHNSTON. Regular birthday weather.

HAMMER. On my birthday it always rains.

HANSEN [points to the window]. You can see the sun from here.

BUFFE. I read in the papers about your son-in-law's appointment.

HELMS [shortly]. Yes?

JOHNSTON. Yes, we must congratulate you over again.

HANSEN. Helms is the luckiest man in the place.

HAMMER. Has your grandson been here yet?

HELMS. No.

BUFFE. Of course he's coming.

HELMS. I don't know.

JOHNSTON. Of course he'll come on your birthday. He's a fine young fellow.

HANSEN. Yes, indeed, Helms, you should be proud of him.

HAMMER [sees Knut's portrait]. There he is. [All except Helms and Bolling look at the picture.]

HANSEN. Looks something like his grandfather.

JOHNSTON. Yes, it's a striking resemblance.

HAMMER. The nose.

JOHNSTON. And the eyes--look at the eyes.

HANSEN. Yes.

BUFFE. We are looking at his grandson's picture, Bolling.

[Bolling stares indifferently. Helms casts apprehensive glances at Krakau.]

HAMMER. Look at the gifts.

HANSEN. He's a lucky man.

JOHNSTON [with a sigh]. Ah yes, when you have your family--

BUFFE [showing the stockings]. Helms got some wonderful birthday presents, Bolling.

BOLLING [feeling them]. Good wool.

HANSEN [suddenly]. What is Krakau doing over there?

HELMS [angrily]. Yes, why don't you stop skulking over there like a homeless dog.

BUFFE [to Hammer]. They have quarreled.

HAMMER. I guess so. [To Hansen.] Have they had a fight?

HANSEN. I don't know.

JOHNSTON. That's right, be sociable, Krakau.

HELMS [irritably]. Why don't you get the wine, Krakau?

KRAKAU. How should I know--

HELMS [interrupts]. You know it is in the closet. [Krakau takes bottle and glasses from the cupboard.]

HAMMER [delighted]. Did you say wine?

BUFFE. Wine! Did you hear?

HANSEN. You might think Helms was a postal inspector himself.

JOHNSTON. More than that! He's a millionaire in disguise. Krakau can tell you--he has stockings full of good red gold.

[Krakau pours the wine. All watch with eager eyes. The sun now shines full in the room.]

KRAKAU. Hadn't we better push the tables together.

HELMS [petulantly]. No. It's my birthday. And we can do very well without your table.

HAMMER. There'd be more room with both tables.

BUFFE. We can't all sit around one table.

HELMS. All right--push them together. [They do so.]

JOHNSTON. We must fix our tables this way, too, Peter.

HANSEN. All right.

BUFFE [to Bolling]. Come over to the table; we are going to have wine.

[Bolling stands up. They move his chair to the table. He sits again.]

HANSEN. Why are you so quiet, Bolling?

BOLLING. Everything there is to say has been said.

JOHNSTON. He's a smart man. [Nods admiringly.]

HANSEN. Ha, ha, ha!

BOLLING [suddenly to Krakau]. What's that you are pouring?

KRAKAU. Sherry.

BOLLING [angrily]. I can't stand port wine.

KRAKAU. Yes, but this is sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

HAMMER. But this is sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

BUFFE. Yes, Bolling; but this is sherry; it won't hurt you.

BOLLING. Poison--port wine is.

JOHNSTON [raising his glass.] Many happy returns!

HAMMER. Many future birthdays!

HANSEN. Happy ones!

BUFFE. Bolling, we are drinking to Helms.

BOLLING. It isn't port wine, is it?

BUFFE. No, indeed,--sherry.

BOLLING. I da'sn't drink port.

BUFFE. It's a toast to Helms.

BOLLING. Why?

BUFFE. He's eighty years old to-day.

BOLLING. I am ninety-two. That's nothing to be glad about.

[All except Bolling raise their glasses. They utter cheery exclamations and drink.]

HELMS. Thanks; thank you!

BOLLING [raising his glass]. Congratulations, Helms. I hope you never get as old as me.

HAMMER [angrily]. That's no way to talk, Bolling.

HANSEN. He's spoiling the whole party.

BUFFE [apologetically]. Bolling's tired of living.

JOHNSTON. You're joking.

BUFFE. No; really he is. He wants to die.

JOHNSTON. Nonsense! How can any one want to die? It's against human nature.

KRAKAU [who has taken cigars from the cupboard]. Who wants to smoke?

HANSEN [with delight.] Cigars too!

[Krakau passes the cigars. Hansen, Hammer and Johnston each take one. The sun now shines on the table and men.]

BUFFE. The sun is as red as wine.

HANSEN [with a sigh]. Autumn is coming.

HANSEN. We've had Autumn weather for two weeks past.

HELMS. Unseasonable weather! I hate it. [During the entire scene he has been ill at ease, casting frequent apprehensive glances at Krakau, who avoids his gaze.]

BUFFE. It isn't like it used to be.

HAMMER. No. When the calendar said Summer we had Summer.

BOLLING [apropos of nothing]. I am ninety-two.

BUFFE [explaining apologetically]. He always says that. It's on his mind.

KRAKAU. I hear that the nurse downstairs is engaged to be married.

HANSEN. Yes, with the doctor.

JOHNSTON. The hospital doctor?

KRAKAU. Yes; he's a sick man himself.

HAMMER. Then it's a good thing she's a nurse.

HELMS. Every young woman ought to be trained as a nurse.

BUFFE [to Bolling]. The nurse in the hospital is going to marry the doctor.

BOLLING. I was married, too.

HELMS. Fill the glasses, Krakau. [Krakau does.]

BUFFE. How is Larsen's brain fever getting along?

HANSEN. He must be worse. The porter chased the organ grinder away.

HAMMER. I thought I heard the organ. Is this Thursday?

KRAKAU. Thursday, September twentieth.

HELMS [testily]. Don't show off, Krakau.

JOHNSTON [raises his glass]. Here's health. Splendid sherry.

KRAKAU [to Buffe]. Why aren't you drinking?

BUFFE. Thanks. I never take more than one glass. This sunshine warms you as much as wine.

HAMMER. I have the morning sun in my window.

HANSEN. So have I. It wakes me up every morning. It's supposed to be healthy.

HELMS. Krakau stole it from me.

KRAKAU. You know very well that--

HELMS. Yes you did. And the stove, too.

KRAKAU. The stove--

HELMS. Isn't the morning sun on your side?

KRAKAU. Yes, but--

HELMS. And the stove, too?

KRAKAU. Didn't you--

HELMS. Nothing of the kind. You live on the east side, and the morning sun is healthiest.

KRAKAU. We can change, for my part.

HELMS. Do you hear that? Now he wants to steal my view of the street, too?

HAMMER. What do you old friends want to quarrel for?

JOHNSTON. And on your birthday.

HELMS. Who is quarreling?

BUFFE. You may be well satisfied with the afternoon sun, Helms. See how beautifully it shines in the window. Look at the sun, Bolling.

BOLLING. I've seen it before.

BUFFE [explaining with pride]. Bolling used to be a carpenter, you know. He traveled all over the world.

BOLLING. I have seen everything.

[There is a rap at the door. Silence. Krakau opens it, Knut enters.]

KNUT [to Krakau]. Hello, Grandpop! [To Helms, shaking his hand.] Congratulations, grandfather. [To the others.] Hello, everybody.

[The old men nod their heads, delighted. Buffe whispers to Bolling.]

BUFFE. It's Knut. The son of Helms' daughter.

BOLLING. I had a son.

HELMS. I'm glad you came my--my son [glares at Krakau defiantly.]

KNUT. I can only stay a minute. Have you heard about father's appointment?

JOHNSTON. He's been bragging to us about it, sonny.

HAMMER. And treated us to sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

HANSEN. And cigars.

KNUT. Not really!

HELMS. Why don't you hang up your cap?

KNUT. I must be off in a minute. Back to school. I had only an hour's leave, and it takes half an hour to ride each way.

BUFFE. How old are you, my boy?

KNUT. Seventeen.

BUFFE. It's sixty-one years since I was that young. He's only seventeen, Bolling.

BOLLING. I was seventeen--once. Now I'm ninety-two.

HAMMER. I am seventy-three.

KNUT. Let's add up the number of years in this room.

HELMS. There's too many. It can't be done.

KNUT [with a laugh]. Let's try. [Rapidly.] Mr. Bolling is 92 and grandfather is 80; that's 172.

HELMS. There's quick counting for you!

KNUT. How old are you, Mr. Buffe?

BUFFE. Seventy-eight.

KNUT. That's 250.

HAMMER [in wonderment]. Two hundred and fifty!

KNUT. And you, grandpop?

KRAKAU. Seventy.

KNUT. 320. And you, Mr. Hammer?

HAMMER. Seventy-three.

KNUT. 393.

JOHNSTON. Think of that!

KNUT. And Mr. Hansen?

[All the old people except Bolling and Hansen, snigger. Hansen turns away, offended.]

KNUT. Don't you know how old you are, sir?

HANSEN. Of course, I know.

HELMS. He's ashamed to tell you. Ha, ha!

BUFFE. He's afraid. Ha, ha!

HANSEN. Who's afraid? [Reluctantly.] I'm only sixty.

THE OLD PEOPLE. "Only a boy." "Not dry behind the ears." "He'll grow." "Poor child."

KNUT. That makes 453.

JOHNSTON [beats his chest]. I am seventy-five.

KNUT. That gives us 528 altogether.

HAMMER. Five hundred and twenty-eight! What a head the boy has on him.

BUFFE [to Bolling]. All together we are 528 years old.

BOLLING. What does it matter?

HELMS. We'd be older still if there weren't a boy among us.

JOHNSTON. Yes, Hansen spoils it by being so young.

KRAKAU. You'll have to hurry, Hansen.

HAMMER. Yes, so you will.

BUFFE. Why don't you take something to make you grow?

HANSEN. Oh, let me alone!

KNUT. Well, I must be going.

THE OLD PEOPLE. "What a pity." "Can't you be late for once?" "The teacher won't mind."

KNUT. I really must. Good-by, grandfather.... Hope you live eighty years more.... Good-by, grandpop.... Good-by, everybody. Good luck! [He exits.]

HAMMER. You can see him go from here. [Goes to the window.]

HANSEN. Can you? [Joins him.]

[All go to the window except Bolling, who sits stiff and abstracted in his chair.]

HELMS. Open it. [He helps Johnston do so.]

JOHNSTON. There he goes.

KRAKAU. He is waving to us. [All wave back.]

BUFFE. What a fine lad!

KRAKAU. Good-by. [All shout good-by. Bolling does not stir.]

BUFFE [turning away from the window, with a sigh]. He's gone.

HANSEN [low]. Yes, he's gone.

JOHNSTON. It's nice to have young people around once in a while.

BUFFE [nods sadly]. Yes.

JOHNSTON. You have a fine young grandson, Helms.

HELMS [with an uneasy glance at Krakau]. Yes, I can't complain of him.

BUFFE. It's good to have a family that look after you.

HANSEN. It's good to have a family at all. Many people haven't.

HAMMER. No.

BOLLING. No. They die.

HELMS [sharply]. Close the window, Krakau. There's a draught. [Krakau closes the window.]

HAMMER. Yes, the sun is down.

BUFFE. Yes.

HANSEN. Isn't it time we were going?

JOHNSTON. These young people should be early to bed. [Laughter.]

BUFFE. It really is time to go. Thank you, Helms. It was a nice party.

HELMS. Going already? [Glances uneasily at Krakau.]

BUFFE. It's near supper time, you know. We are going, Bolling.

HAMMER. Then we'll go too.... We enjoyed your party, Helms.

HELMS. The pleasure was mine.

JOHNSTON. Good night, Helms. Next time it's my party.

HELMS. When?

JOHNSTON. October 23rd.

HANSEN. Good-by--and many thanks.

HELMS. Not at all, not at all.

BUFFE. Are you ready, Bolling?

BOLLING. Hum! [He rises.]

BUFFE. Good-by, everybody. [To Bolling.] Say good-by.

BOLLING. Good-by.

[_Krakau holds open the door. The guests file out talking gayly. He closes the door and their voices are faintly heard outside._]

[Helms bustles about uneasily.]

KRAKAU [on his own side]. Well, it went off very nicely.

HELMS. Yes, very well--very well.

KRAKAU. Want me to help you straighten up?

HELMS. No--I can do it myself.

[There is a pause. Krakau takes back his chairs.]

KRAKAU. We'll want to move my table back.

HELMS [seizing one end of it]. Well, come on! Where are you?

KRAKAU [taking the other end hastily]. Coming, coming!

[The table moved, there is another pause. Each is on his own side. Helms potters helplessly with the bottles and glasses.]

KRAKAU. Need any help?

HELMS. You stand there doing nothing and you ask me-- [The rest is a sullen growl.]

[Krakau takes the glasses, puts them on a tray and carries them across to left.]

HELMS. Where are you going with my glasses?

KRAKAU [stops]. I was going to wash them.

HELMS. Well, don't forget whom they belong to.

KRAKAU. Don't worry. [Puts the glasses on the wash stand.] Shall I light the lamp?

HELMS. You can't see in the dark, can you?

KRAKAU [lighting the hanging lamp]. Knut behaved very nicely, didn't he?

HELMS [moodily]. Yes.

KRAKAU. He made everybody happy with his high spirits.

HELMS. Not me.

KRAKAU [hastily changing the subject]. It's funny about old Bolling. How he's changed in the last year! He never talks any more.

HELMS. When you get to be ninety-two and not a relation in the world--[His voice breaks in self-pity.]

KRAKAU [finished with the lamp, makes a little solicitous gesture behind his friend's back, but immediately busies himself with putting things to right]. Where do you want these things to go?

HELMS. On the chiffonier ... next to the other.... Bolling is so old he feels superfluous.... I am getting like that--

KRAKAU [hastily]. Where do these stockings and things go?

HELMS. Next to the last drawer.

KRAKAU. I guess you are all fixed now.... There's nothing else? [Turns from the chiffonier, having closed the drawer, and starts for his own side of the room.]

HELMS [suddenly]. It's a terrible thing you've done to me, Krakau!

KRAKAU [in surprise]. What now?

HELMS [his voice trembling]. You have made my dead wife a strumpet and my dead daughter a bastard. [Krakau bridles and turns to him with clenched fists. Helms continues pitifully.] And you have robbed me in my old age of a grandson ... all I have in the world. [Querulously musing.] When men are young they see red and kill for that sort of thing ... yes ... they kill.... But when you are old it's different.... I can't even be very angry with you, Krakau.... Isn't it queer?... It's all so far back ... in the past ... impersonal ... and blurred like a half-remembered dream.

KRAKAU [with contrition]. I shouldn't have told you.

HELMS. You shouldn't have told me.... No ... but you did ... and I can't be angry with you.... I am an old fool.... After all ... honor ... fidelity ... marriage vows ... what do they matter when there is nothing to do but to sit and count the days until you die?

KRAKAU [chokingly]. Helms!

HELMS [with a flash of anger]. But Knut matters. He is my grandson ... in spite of you.... You shan't take him away from me.

KRAKAU. I don't want to take him away from you.

HELMS. Your blood ... perhaps ... but my grandson--

KRAKAU [eagerly]. Of course, he is, Helms. We can share him between us. Don't you see? He need never know. No one need know ... just you and I.... We can have him together ... our own little secret.

HELMS [looks at him]. Nobody else will know?

KRAKAU [solemnly]. Not a soul. I swear it.

HELMS. Nobody?

KRAKAU. Nobody.

HELMS [a faint smile dispels his frown]. And when we talk about Knut you won't say "So-o" any more?

KRAKAU. Never ... for hereafter he'll be our Knut ... just as if you were his father and I his mother.

HELMS [the idea pleases him, considers it, then gives his assent like a child playing a game]. No, I'll be the mother. And we can quarrel about him ... of course, in a friendly way.

KRAKAU. Always friendly.

HELMS. And just think--we shall have something to talk about all the time.

KRAKAU. Especially at night ... after supper ... under the lamp.

HELMS. And when we are in bed in the dark and cannot sleep.

KRAKAU. Always about our Knut.

HELMS. Ha, ha.... Do you know, Krakau, I think you should have told me long ago.

KRAKAU. I was afraid.

HELMS. Afraid! Absurd. What was there to be afraid about? You can see for yourself that we are better friends since you told me. [Goes to the chiffonier and gets the photograph.] He does look something like you.

KRAKAU [magnanimously]. Oh, no! He's your wife's son all over.

HELMS [with equal magnanimity]. He looks a good deal like you just the same.... Don't you want to borrow this for a few days?

KRAKAU. Why, you only got it this morning.

HELMS. Never mind. Take it.... Saturday I'll get it back from you. Then in a few days I'll lend it to you again.

KRAKAU. Thanks. [Takes the photograph]. Can I borrow the paper, too?

HELMS. Sure, take it with you.... And lend me your chess men, will you?

KRAKAU [with animation]. I'll get it for you. [Goes to his own chiffonier for it.]

HELMS. We might as well move the tables together. It's more comfortable that way.

KRAKAU. Certainly. [Comes down with the chessboard and helps move the tables.]

HELMS. Now you take my arm chair and read your paper. I'll play over here.

KRAKAU. I wouldn't think of taking your chair.

HELMS. You do as you are told. [Sits on an ordinary chair.] I can reach better from one of these anyway.

KRAKAU. Oh, well. [Sits in the arm chair and unfolds the newspaper. There is a pause.]

HELMS. Why don't you light your pipe?

KRAKAU. Your throat--

HELMS. My throat is all right. Go on and smoke.

KRAKAU [comfortably lights his pipe, relaxes]. Well, now we'll see how good you are at working out problems.

HELMS. I don't think I can do it.

KRAKAU [reading]. Sure you can.

HELMS. Look here. Would you check with the bishop?

KRAKAU [studies the board]. No ... that loses you the queen.... Hum ... you've sort of mixed it up.... Back with that rook.

HELMS. How's that?

KRAKAU. Brilliant!

HELMS. Knut is back at school by this time.

KRAKAU. Yes, probably studying his lessons.

HELMS. He's a boy.

KRAKAU. None better.

HELMS. Isn't it nice to talk about him like this ... calm and friendly?... You have no cause to be jealous any more, ha, ha!

KRAKAU. And you needn't be stuck up any more, ha, ha!

HELMS. No, ha, ha! There, I've muddled it again.

KRAKAU. No, you haven't.... Just move here ... and here.

HELMS [suddenly takes out his purse]. By the way, I owe you twenty-seven pfennig.

KRAKAU. There's no hurry.

HELMS. Take it!

KRAKAU. All right. [He rises.]

HELMS. Where are you going?

KRAKAU [at the chiffonier]. We forgot the flowers.

HELMS. Oh, yes!

KRAKAU. They smell so fragrant. [Puts them on the table.]

HELMS [takes a flower and puts it in Krakau's buttonhole]. You must wear one.

KRAKAU [overcome]. Thank you, Helms, thank you. [They bend over the chessboard again.]

HELMS [rubs his hands with delight]. Now white moves.

KRAKAU [considering]. White moves.... I should say ... there ... that pawn ... I'd sacrifice it.

HELMS [picks it up with playful tenderness]. Poor little white pawn! [Places it on the board.]

[They study the next move absorbedly as the curtain falls.]

[Curtain.]

BROTHERS

A SARDONIC COMEDY

BY LEWIS BEACH

Copyright, 1920, by Frank Shay. All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

SETH. LON. PA.

BROTHERS was first presented by the Provincetown Players, New York.

Applications for permission to produce BROTHERS should be addressed to Frank Shay, Four Christopher Street, New York City. No performance may take place without his consent.

BROTHERS

A SARDONIC COMEDY BY LEWIS BEACH

[SCENE: A very small room in a tar-papered shanty, reeking poverty. The entrance is center-back,--a few boards nailed together for a door. A similar door, opening into the bedroom of the shack, upstage right. Downstage left, a broken window. Left center, a rusty cooking stove. Above it, a series of shelves holding a few dishes and cooking utensils. Rough board table in the center of the room. A kitchen chair at the right of the table. A large wooden rocker near the stove; rope and wire hold it together. An arm-chair, below the bedroom door is full of newspapers. Several heterogeneous colored prints culled from out-of-date newspapers and calendars are tacked on the rain-stained walls. When the entrance door is open we see a cleared, sandy spot with a background of scrub oaks and jack pines.

The curtain rises on the late afternoon of a spring day.

A man of forty enters, leaving the bedroom door open behind him. His small head and childish face, on a tall, thin, and extremely erect body, resemble those of a species of putty-like rubber doll whose head may be reshaped by the hand. He wears a winter cap, blue flannel shirt, well-worn trousers with suspenders, and sneakers that were once white. Outside shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow; undershirt sleeves are not. His shoes make no noise; nevertheless, he comes on tiptoe, his eyes fixed on the shelves. For a moment he stops and glances into the room he has just quitted. Satisfied, he squats before the shelves. He hesitates, then quickly lifts from a lower shelf an inverted cooking vessel, and grasps a small tin box which was hidden under it. He inspects the box, trying to decide whether he can pry open its lock.]

[The voice of an old, infirm man in the adjoining room]: Seth?

SETH [alarmed; starts to return the box to the shelf]. Yes, Pa? [His voice is pitched high.]

PA [querulously]. What yuh doin'?

SETH. Jest settin'.

PA. Don't yuh go near my tin box 'til I'm dead.

[Seth makes no answer.]

PA. D'yuh hear?

SETH. I hear.

PA. I won't heve no one know nothin' 'bout my last will an' testament 'til I'm dead.

[There is a pause. Seth is regarding the box intently.]

PA. Seth?

SETH [peevishly]. What d'yuh want?

PA. Bring me a drink.

SETH. There ain't no more water in the pail.

PA. There's lots in the well this spring.

[A pause. Seth continues his scrutiny of the lock.]

PA. My throat's burnin' up.

SETH. Well, maybe I kin find a drop. [Puts the box on the shelf and re-covers it; in doing so makes a slight noise.]

PA. What's that noise?

SETH. I'm gettin' yuh a drink!

[Seth strolls to the stove, lifts the top from the kettle, and looks inside. He finds a tin cup and fills it with water. Looking into the kettle again, he sees there is little water left. Why make a trip to the pump necessary? Back into the kettle goes some of the water. Cup in hand, he moves toward the bedroom. He reaches the door when a sagging bellied man enters from the yard. It is Lon, the elder, shorter brother. His face has become molded into an expressionless stare, and his every movement seems to be made with an effort. An abused man, Lon, the most ill-treated fellow in the world. At least, so he is ever at pains to have all understand. He wears an old felt hat, cotton shirt, badly patched trousers, suspenders attached to the buttons of his trousers with string, and shoes that are almost soleless. His shirt, stained with sweat, is opened at the throat, revealing red flannel underwear. When Seth sees Lon he immediately closes the bedroom door, silently turns the key in the lock, and puts the key in his pocket. For a moment the men stand looking at each other, reminding one of two roosters. Then Seth strolls to the stove, pours the water into the kettle, and planks himself down in the rocker. Lon glances once or twice at the bedroom door, but moves not to it. He watches Seth suspiciously. Finally he speaks.]

LON [in an expressionless drawl]. I hear Pa's dyin'.

SETH. Yuh hear right.

LON [with a motion of his head toward the bedroom]. Is he in there?

SETH. Yes.

[Lon hesitates, then moves slowly toward Pa's room. An idea strikes Seth suddenly and he interrupts Lon's progress.]

SETH. He's asleep.

[Lon stops. Seth fills his pipe and lights it. Lon takes his corncob from his pocket and coughs meaningly. Seth looks at Lon, sees what he wants, but does not offer him tobacco. Lon puts his pipe back in his pocket, moves to the table, sits, and sighs. He crosses his right foot so Seth sees what was once the sole of his shoe.]

SETH. What did yuh come here fur?

LON. 'Cause Pa's dyin'.

SETH. Yuh never come when he was about.

LON. Wall, no one ever seed yuh a settin' here much.

SETH [fleeringly]. Suppose yuh want t' know what he's left yuh.

LON. Wall, ... it warn't comfortable comin' three miles an' a quarter on a day like this un.

SETH [cackles]. Sand's hot on yer bare naked feet, ain't it?

LON [moves his feet]. Yuh kin talk about my holey boots. If I didn't heve no mouths but my own t' feed I guess I could buy new ones too. So there, Seth Polland!

SETH. Jacobs offered yuh a job at the fisheries same as me.

LON. It's too fur t' hoof it twict a day.

SETH. Yuh could sleep at the fisheries.

LON. I got t' look after my kids.

SETH [grins]. 'Tain't my fault yuh've kids.

LON [threateningly]. Don't yuh talk 'bout that! [Pause.] Yer woman had t' leave yuh. [Laughs.] Yuh didn't give her 'nough t' eat.

SETH [indifferently]. She warn't no good.

LON. She had t' leave yuh same as Ma left Pa twenty years ago. Pa's dyin' fur sure?

SETH. Who told yuh?

LON. Ma.

SETH [greatly surprised]. Ma? [suspiciously.] What you got t' do with her?

LON. I was passin' her place this mornin'. Furst time I spoke t' her in a year.

SETH. I ain't in two.

LON [in despair]. Seth, she's cut twenty cords o' wood t' sell.

SETH [shaking his head]. An' me without a roof o' my own.

LON. Me an' the kids wonder sometimes where our next meal's comin' from.

SETH [as though there were something better in store for him]. Oh, wall.

LON [pricks up his ears; coughs]. If I had this house I could work at the fisheries.

SETH. But yuh ain't a goin' t' git it.

LON [alarmed]. Pa ain't gone an' left it t' yuh?

SETH. Pa deeded this t' Doc last winter.

LON [amazed and angered]. He did?

SETH. Doc said he could live here 'till he died. But it's Doc's.

LON. It warn't right.

SETH. Wall, he had t' pay fur his physics some way. He told me yuh wouldn't help him out.

LON. And Pa told me yuh wouldn't. An' yuh ain't got two kids t' feed. [Pause.] There's Pa's old shanty down the road. If I had that I could work at the fisheries.

[Seth's smile is his only response.]

Pa still owns it, don't he?

SETH. There warn't no call fur him t' make his last will an' testament if he don't.

LON [brightens]. He's left his last will an' testament?

SETH. Yes. I'm figgerin' on sellin' the place t' Doc.

LON [emphatically]. Pa ain't a left it t' yuh!

SETH. Doc'll want it.

LON [forcefully]. Where's the will an' testament?

SETH [with a gesture]. In the tin box under that there kittle.

[Lon hurries to the shelves, picks up the dish, and grasps the box.]

LON [disappointed]. It's locked.

SETH. An' the key's round Pa's neck.

LON. Let's git it.

SETH. Pa won't give it t' us.

LON. Yuh said he was sleepin'.

SETH. I mean--he might wake up.

[Lon inspects the box further.]

LON. I think I could open it.

SETH. Pa might ask t' see it.

LON. Hell. [Puts the box back on the shelf.]

SETH. Doc'll want the place seein' as how it's right next t' this un.

[Lon is very nervous.]

Yuh might jest as wall go home.

LON. No, yuh don't! Yuh can't make me believe Pa's left it t' yuh. [Takes off his hat and mops his brow with his sleeve. The top of his head is very bald.]

SETH. Then what yuh gettin' so excited 'bout?

LON. I ain't excited. [Puts his hat on.] It jest makes me mad 'cause yuh say Pa's left it t' yuh, an' I know he ain't. See? There warn't no call fur him t' heve willed an' testamented it t' yuh. Yuh've only yerself t' look after an' I've two motherless kids.

SETH. Every one knows how much Pa thought o' them.

LON. It warn't my fault if they thumbed their noses at him.

SETH. Yuh could o' basted 'em.

LON. They's like their Ma. Bastin' never done her no good, God rest her soul. All the same, Pa knowd how hard it is fur me t' keep their bellies full. Why, when we heve bread Alexander never wants less than half the loaf! An' all the work I gits t' do is what the city folks who come t' the Beach in the summer gives me.

SETH. Huh! Jest as though I didn't know 'bout yuh. Mr. Breckenridge told me yuh wouldn't even contract t' chop his wood fur him. An' there yuh sits all winter long in that God-fursaken shanty o' yourn, with trees all round yuh, an' yuh won't put an ax t' one 'til yer own fires dies out.

LON. My back ain't never been strong. Choppin' puts the kinks in it. Yuh kin talk, yuh kin, Seth Polland, with a soft job at the fisheries an' three squares a day which yuh don't heve t' cook yourself. Nothin' t' do all winter but walk round them cottages an' see that no one broke in. An' I'm the one who knows how often yuh walk round them cottages. I wish I hed yer snap. [Sits.] But I ain't never had no luck.

SETH [defending himself]. I walk round them cottages jest as often as I need t' walk round them cottages.

LON. Huh! I could tell a tale. Who was it set with his feet in the oven last winter, an' let Jack Tompkins break into them cottages--with keys? [Seth does not answer.] I could tell, I could. But I ain't a goin' t' 'til they put me on the witness-stand. [Pause.] But the furst initials o' his name is Seth Polland.

SETH [rising instantly]. Lon Polland, yuh ever tell an' I'll skin yuh alive.

LON. Huh!

SETH. Skin yuh like a pole-cat.

LON. Huh!

[Seth turns, knocks the ashes from his pipe into the stove. Lon rises; takes Seth's chair and rocks vigorously.]

SETH. Yuh know what I got on yuh.

[Lon's bravado is short-lived. He rocks less strenuously.]

SETH. Yuh thought I didn't see yuh, but I was right on the spot when yuh set fire t' Mr. Rogers' bath-house.

[Lon stops rocking.]

SETH. Right behind a jack pine I was an' seed yuh do it. An' yuh done it 'cause Mr. Rogers leaved Jessup paint the house when yuh thought yuh ought t' had the job.

LON [rises]. I got t' be a gettin' home a fore dark an' tend t' my stock.

SETH. Stock? [Cackles. Pulls out his tobacco-pouch and fills his pipe. Lon shows his pipe again.] A blind mare an' a rooster. [Drops pouch on the table as he lights his pipe.]

LON. Rooster's dead. [Moves stealthily toward the table.]

SETH. What of?

LON. Pip.

SETH. Starvation.

LON. I would a killed him this long time, but Victoria howled so when I threatened. The fowl used t' wake me in winter same as summer with his crowin'.

[As Lon finishes his speech he reaches for the pouch. But Seth's hand is quicker. Seth moves to the rocker and sits, dangling the pouch temptingly by one finger. Lon puts his pipe in his pocket.]

SETH. Should think yuh'd want t' set round 'til Pa dies, bein' as yer so sure he's left yuh his property.

LON. He oughter a left it t' me.

SETH. Well, I'm a tellin' yuh it's mine.

LON. Yuh ain't got no right t' it. [Mops his head again.] Pa begged yuh t' come an' live with him, offered yuh this fine roof over yer head, an' yuh was too cussed even t' do that fur him. An' now yuh expect he's made yuh his heir.

SETH. I've treated him righter 'an yuh.

LON. Yuh ain't.

[Suddenly something seems to snap in Seth's brain. He looks as though he were in intense pain.]

SETH [gasping]. Maybe he's left it t' the two o' us!

LON. What?

SETH. Maybe he's divided the place a 'tween us.

LON [shakes his head]. Oh, he wouldn't be so unhuman as that.

SETH. He would. He was always settin' one agin' t' other.

LON. He used t' tell me I had t' figger how t' git the best o' yuh or he'd baste me.

SETH. He was all the time whettin' us on when we was kids.

LON. It was him showed me how t' shake my old clock so it'd run fur five minutes, an' then you'd swop that pail yuh found fur it.

SETH. Huh! He give me his gum t' stop up the hole in that pail. Yuh wouldn't know it leaked an' we could laugh at yuh when you had t' carry water in it.

LON [pathetically]. There warn't never more 'an a pint left when I got t' the house. An' Pa always hed such a thirst.

SETH. He'd like t' laugh at us in his grave.

LON. It jest tickled him t' raise hell a 'tween us.

SETH [rises]. I'll take my oath he's divided the old shanty an' the two acres a 'tween us. [Drops into his chair like a condemned man.] An' I figgered I'd be sellin' them t' Doc t'morrow.

LON. Me an' the kids was a goin' t' heve a garden on the cleared spot.

SETH. A garden in that sand?

LON. Radishes an' rutabagas.

SETH [persuasively; his manner becomes kind]. Lon, what yuh need is the shanty.

LON [droning]. The shanty ain't no good t' me without I hes the ground fur it t' set on.

SETH. Yuh can tear it down an' use the lumber t' mend yer old leaky one.

LON. I want the shanty t' live in so I kin git a soft job at the fisheries. [Sympathetically.] You ought t' have a shanty, Seth. Supposin' yuh was t' take sick. They wouldn't keep yuh at the fisheries then. Yuh take my place an' give me Pa's.

SETH [flashing into anger]. I want the two acres t' sell Doc. Yer old place leaks like a net! [Then, fearing he has been too disparaging:] But yuh could make it real comfortable with the lumber in--

LON [cutting in]. I'll make a bargain. I'll leave yuh a bed-stead an' a table if yuh'll take my place.

SETH. I don't want it! I want Pa's old place.

LON. An' I want it. I'm older 'an yuh.

SETH. I got the best claim t' it.

LON. Yuh ain't. We with three mouths t' feed. Yer a swindler, yuh are. Yuh always tried t' cheat me.

SETH. No one kin say that t' me. I'm an honest man. But I'm a goin' 't heve the two acres if I heve t' go t' law.

LON. Wall, yuh ain't a goin' t' wreck me.

SETH [calmly; philosophically again]. Maybe yer right, Lon, when yuh say I ought t' have a roof. I'll tell yuh what I'll do, seein' as how yer my brother. Yuh give me the ground an' the house on it, an' I'll make yuh a present o' twenty-five dollars.

LON. That's a lie! Yuh ain't got twenty-five dollars t' yer name.

SETH. Yuh think so.

LON. Every one in these parts knows yuh owes Hawkins forty-three dollars an twenty-nine cents he kin't collect. Give me the house an' ground, an' I'll give yuh my own house an' my note fur twenty-five dollars.

SETH. Yer note! I'm a goin' t' heve Pa's old place.

LON. An' I say that yuh or no swindler like yuh is a goin' t' cheat me out o' it.

SETH. I ain't a swindler, yuh wall-eyed son--

LON [advancing]. Take it back. Don't yuh call me dissipated names.

SETH. I'll never take it back!

[Lon doubles his fists and strikes; but the blow lands in the air as Seth grabs Lon. They fight furiously and in dead earnest, though there is no ethics to the struggle. The rickety furniture trembles as they advance and retreat. Seth is quicker and lighter and less easily winded; but Lon's bulk is not readily moved, and, despite his "weak back," he can still wield his arms. It looks like a fight to the finish. Isn't their future at stake? And they are giving vent to a hatred bred by their father. But suddenly Pa's voice is heard, calling wildly to Seth. The men do not move: the voice seems to have paralyzed their muscles. For a moment they stand dazed. Then consciousness comes to them: they realize that the waiting is over. They tear to the bedroom. A silence follows. They must be fascinated by the ghost of the old man.]

SETH [in the bedroom; quietly]. He's gone, Lon.

LON [in the bedroom]. Yer right, Seth.

[Then their voices rise in dispute.]

Don't yuh take it!

SETH. I've got it!

LON. It's mine!

SETH. It ain't!

LON. Yuh kin't--

SETH. Shut up!

[They rush into the kitchen, Seth in advance, Lon close on his heels. The younger throws the cooking-dish to the floor, grabs the box, and hurries to the table. As though they were about to discover a world's secret, they unlock the box, each as near to it as possible, his arms tense, fingers itching, ready to ward off a blow or seize the treasure. From the box, Seth takes an old tobacco-pouch, a jack-knife, a bit of heavy cord, a couple of letters. These are contemptuously thrown on the table. The will lies at the bottom of the box. Lon snatches it. Seth would take it from him.]

LON. Hold off! I'm jest a goin' t' read it.

[Seth curbs his impatience. Lon opens the document and reads, slowly and haltingly.]

"I, Nathaniel Polland, o' Sandy Point in the County o' Rhodes an' State o' Michigan, bein' o' sound mind an' memory, do make, publish, an' declare this t' be my last Will an' Testament in manner followin', viz--." What does "viz" mean?

[Unable to bear the suspense longer, Seth seizes the paper. He scans it until his eyes catch the all-important paragraph.]

SETH. "--Bequeath all my earthly possessions to my wife, Jennie Polland."

[Their thunderbolt has descended. They stand like two men suddenly deprived of thought and motion. Medusa's victims could not have been more pitiable. They have been hurled from their El Dorado, which, at the worst, was to have been their common property.

Then Seth's voice comes to him, and sufficient strength to drop into a chair.]

SETH. The damned old critter.

LON. I'll be swaned.

SETH [blazing out]. That's gratitude.

LON. After all we done fur him.

SETH [pathetically]. An' me a plannin' these last five years on gettin' that house an' ground.

LON. My kids are packin' our furniture this afternoon, gettin' ready t' move in.

SETH [with supreme disgust]. Leavin' it t' Ma.

LON. Her who he ain't hardly spoke t' in twenty years.

SETH. Jest as though yuh an' me wasn't alive.

LON. We'd a given him our last pipeful.

SETH. His own flesh an' blood.

LON. Why, he told me more 'an a thousand times he hated Ma.

SETH. She don't need it.

LON. She's ready fur the grave-yard.

SETH. She's that stingy, cuttin' an' choppin' wood, sellin it t' the city folks. We might a knowd.

LON. An' me a comin' all the three miles an' a quarter t' see him a fore he died.

SETH. I been settin' here two days a waitin'.

LON. An' then t' treat us like that. [Wipes his mouth.] Why, the hull place ain't worth a damn!

SETH. A cavin'-in shanty an' two acres yuh couldn't grow weeds on.

LON. A pile o' sand.

SETH [rising; bursting into fire like an apparently dead rocket]. She ain't a goin' t' heve it!

LON. What?

SETH. I won't let Ma heve it!

LON. But how yuh goin' t' stop her? 'Twon't do no good t' tear up the will an' testament. It's rec-ord-ed.

SETH. Don't make no difference. She ain't a goin' t' heve that place.

LON [eagerly]. But how yuh goin'--?

SETH. I don't know. But I'm a goin' t'.

LON. It ain't hers by rights.

SETH. Didn't she leave him twenty years ago?

LON. Why, she ain't even expectin' it!

SETH. She'll never miss it if she don't git it.

LON [shaking his head]. Me an' the kids packed up, ready t' move in.

[There is a silence. Lon deep in his disappointment, Seth making his brain work as it has never worked before. And he is rewarded for his diligence. A suggestion of his sneering smile comes to his face.]

SETH. Lon?

LON. Yes?

SETH [looks about, making sure that only his brother is listening]. Yuh 'member what yuh done t' Rogers when he didn't leave yuh paint his bath-house?

LON [his eyes open wide]. Burn it?

SETH. Sh!

LON. Oh, no!

SETH. Yuh don't want Ma t' heve it, does yuh?

LON. When I burned that bath-house I didn't sleep good fur a couple o' nights. I dreamed o' the sheriff.

SETH. Nobody knows but me. An' nobody'll know yuh an' me set fire t' Pa's old place.

LON. Yuh swear yuh won't never tell?

SETH [raising his right hand]. I swear.

LON. Yuh won't never try an' make out I done it next time we run agin each other fur district school-inspector?

SETH [raising his right hand]. I swear. 'Cause if I kin't have Pa's old place, no one kin.

LON. Got matches?

SETH. Yes. An' Pa's kerosene-can's got 'bout a pint in it. [Takes the can from the bottom shelf.]

LON. I may as wall take these papers along with me. [Picks up the newspapers.]

[Seth moves to the table. Begins to fill his pipe. Lon takes his corncob from his pocket and coughs. Seth looks at Lon, meditates, then speaks.]

SETH. Heve a smoke, Lon?

LON. Maybe I will.

[Lon fills his pipe.--Seth strikes a match, lights his own pipe first, then hands the match to Lon.]

SETH. We're brothers.

LON. The same flesh an' blood has got t' treat each other right.

[Lon starts to put Seth's tobacco-pouch in his pocket, but Seth stops him.]

SETH. An' we wouldn't be treatin' each other right if we let Pa's property come into Ma's hands.

[Seth carries the kerosene, Lon the papers. They go out the back door and disappear. Thus, in disgust and rage, the brothers are united. Then Seth's voice is heard.]

SETH [in the yard]. Wait a minute, Lon.

[Seth returns. He picks up Pa's tobacco-pouch, knife and scissors, glances toward the door to see that Lon isn't watching, and sticks them into his pocket.]

LON [in the yard]. What yuh doin', Seth? [Appears at the door.]

SETH. I thought I left somethin' valuable. But I ain't. [He leaves.]

[Lon and Seth pass out of sight.]

[Curtain.]

IN THE MORGUE

A PLAY

BY SADA COWAN

Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.

IN THE MORGUE is reprinted from "The Forum" by special permission of Miss Sada Cowan. Application for right of performing IN THE MORGUE must be made to Miss Sada Cowan, The Authors' League, New York City.

IN THE MORGUE

A PLAY BY SADA COWAN

[PLACE: In the morgue of a foreign city.]

[SCENE: A small almost empty room with the rear wall of glass. Before this glass black curtains are drawn. An old man ... Caren ... sits at a low table, well forward, sorting and arranging papers, writing from time to time. A lamp upon the table, is so shaded as to concentrate the light and throws Caren's wicked face into sharp relief. The room conveys a feeling of unfriendliness, coldness and gloom. Caren is old, so old he is somewhat decrepit ... hard, shrill and tottering. His features are sharp, his fingers are as talons. He seems almost as a vulture ... perhaps for hovering too long among the unbeloved dead.]

CAREN [calling to some one behind the black curtain]. What was the number of that last one?

HELPER [putting out his head]. Thirteen. [He disappears.]

CAREN [writes and repeats]. Thirteen....

VOICES [are heard, rough and harsh, from in back of the curtains]. Shove that stiff up! He's got more room than what's coming to him.

CAREN [calling, without rising]. Who is it you're moving?

VOICE. Thirteen. Any reason why he should sprawl?

CAREN. Not a bit. Shove him along.

[The curtains part. There is a swift vision of brilliant light within, and bodies laid out upon tables of ice.]

KRAIG [a man, scarcely more than a boy, over-wrought and hysterical, with his hands pressed close to his throbbing temples, bursts out]. Oh.... Oh! Let me stay here just a moment away from that horror.

CAREN [glancing up from his writing and smiles]. You're all the same the first day.

KRAIG. Oh.... Oh!

CAREN. That last one got you ... eh?

KRAIG [bitterly]. So young ... so young!

CAREN. Must have been a good looker. Much as you can tell the way his face is banged up. I'll bet his own mother wouldn't know him.

KRAIG [turning aside]. Don't!

CAREN [titters]. He ... he ... he! Number thirteen...! I hope he ain't superstitious.

KRAIG. He has nothing more to fear.

CAREN [with dread]. There's no tellin'.

KRAIG. He's dead.... [Enviously.] ... Dead!

CAREN [angry]. Fool!

KRAIG [watching through the glass at the placid figure, enviously]. Dead!

CAREN [exasperated]. Bah!

KRAIG [suddenly has a hideous thought and turns swiftly to Caren]. You think it was fair...? He went of his own free will?

CAREN. Eh...? What put that into your head?

KRAIG. No clothes ... naked!

CAREN. A lot of them do that when they take the plunge. It ain't so easy to identify them. It saves a lot of bother, too. We stick 'em on the slabs a while and then....

KRAIG [shuddering]. Don't! It makes me cold ... cold! [Again he parts the curtains and looks through the glass.] He's so calm ... so still. I wonder if he suffered first! [With a clutch of hatred in his voice.] I wonder if--he starved!

CAREN. That soft white kitten? Not much. Did you get a squint at his hands? He's never even tied his own tie.

KRAIG [laughs]. And he's here!

CAREN [looking at Kraig]. This is a funny job for a kid like you to pick.

KRAIG [turning away]. I'm not as young as I look. I've got three little ones already. [With deep anguish.] And another on the way.

CAREN. It's a queer hang out for a kid like you, just the same.

KRAIG [hysterically, almost beside himself]. I tell you ... there's another on the way.

CAREN. What do you mean by that?

KRAIG. Nothing! [A pause, then bitterly.] Oh there's one joy down here. You can burrow and hide like a rat from it all. The damn carriages don't roll by before your eyes. The women don't!... Oh, those women, how I hate them. Their silks, their jewels, their soft white skins. Fed! Clothed! Housed!... [Clenching his fists.] While Martha starves! Oh, God! They drive by laughing and I could choke them! Listen what happened. [He comes closer to Caren and speaks fanatically.] Yesterday in the park I stood there ... shivering ... wondering! And all at once the mad hate came into my heart and I felt that I could kill. [Caren looks alarmed.] And then.... Ha ... ha ... ha! Then.... The King.... The King drove by. [Laughing bitterly, and with a great flourish.] And off came my hat! [Making fun of himself.] My hat came off my head, Old Man, and I bowed and cringed [vehemently] WITH THE HATE IN MY HEART. I could have torn the warm furs from his throat and wrapped my fingers in their place [his hands clench spasmodically]. Ugh!

CAREN [thoroughly alarmed]. Hush.... Hush! You mustn't talk so of our King. A nice young boy he is.

KRAIG. Oh the hate ... the hate. Perhaps it will leave me here in this hall of the dead. [Glancing about.] It all seems so level here. So level.

CAREN [with the first faint touch of sympathy]. You're right. Here's the one spot on earth where you get fair play. That's what I like. There ain't no rich and there ain't no poor. And there ain't no class nor nothing. Every man gets a square deal here ... a square deal.

KRAIG. Perhaps that's worth dying for--a square deal.

CAREN. Dying ... bah! Wait until you've seen a few more of them slung on the slabs. You'll lose your longing for death. I'm an old man, but....

KRAIG. If only I can see more of it. If only I can bear it.

CAREN. The pay's not bad?

KRAIG. It would be bad at any price.

CAREN [shaking his finger childishly]. Tut ... tut! We're fair here ... fair. There ain't no flowers ... he ... he ... he ... and there ain't no song [he chuckles], but....

KRAIG [with intense passion, pacing to and fro, and never pausing, while he speaks very rapidly]. If only the living could have what is spent on the dead. All the waste ... the hateful waste. Flowers wilting in dead hands. Stones weighing down dead hearts. While living bodies famish and living eyes burn for the sight of beauty. Oh, I wonder the dead don't scream out at our madness. I wonder the graves don't burst with the pain of it all.

CAREN. Have they shut me up with a maniac? Have you gone stark out of your mind?

[There is a loud knocking on the door, to the right.]

CAREN [opens it a crack and peeps out cautiously]. What do you want?

VOICE. Let me in.

CAREN. Get away.

VOICE [piteously, clamoring]. Let me look once ... just once.

CAREN [harshly]. Got a pass?

VOICE. No ... no. Oh, let me in.

CAREN [bangs the door shut]. Get away.

VOICE [brokenly]. Let me look once ... just once. [Caren opens the door a crack.] Are there any ... women?

CAREN. Women? Of course, there's women ... always women. What is it you've craving? The sight of the beauties or the smell of their stinking flesh? Go on ... get out. This isn't a bawdy house. [He slams the door to and walks away.]

KRAIG. What is it he wants?

CAREN. A peep at the stiffs. Probably looking for his girl. [He passes out of sight, behind the black curtain.]

KRAIG. Oh! [Cautiously he peeps after Caren, then opens the door a crack and calls in a whisper]. Man!... You can see the new ones through the panel there. Lift up the curtain. There's two. A blond haired girl and a boy. [He turns swiftly as the curtains part and Caren reenters. Softly he shuts the door, then stands watching into the hallway through a glass partition.] Poor soul!

CAREN [mumbles as he returns]. There's something queer about that last young stiff.

KRAIG. Number thirteen?

CAREN. Yes, number thirteen. You may have been right after all. Perhaps it wasn't fair play to put him in the river. There's some mystery ... something wrong. [Tittering.] He ... he ... he! Not number thirteen for nothing.

KRAIG [watching outside]. How do you know there's anything wrong?

CAREN. That's telling, Sonny. [With deep meaning.] But you get wise quick ... looking at the dead.

KRAIG. Ugh!

CAREN. People are telephoning and messengers are on the way. Pah ... things like this are a nuisance. They keep one late. What are you watching?

KRAIG. That man who was here at the door. He doesn't go away. I wonder what keeps him here.

CAREN. Conscience! Scared to death he'll find his girl. Afraid not to look for her.

KRAIG. You mean?...

CAREN. Oh, there's just two things drives people into the water. The men ... 'cause they've got too little inside 'em.... The women....

KRAIG [furious]. Stop!

CAREN [alarmed, yet brazen ... scratching his head]. He ... he ... he! Pretty clever little joke. He ... he!

[Kraig begins to pace the room, his hands pressed to his temples.]

CAREN. I must tell that to the boys inside. [He starts to go.] Pretty clever little joke!...

KRAIG [watching, excitedly]. There's something wrong with the fellow. I'd better see.

CAREN [pausing]. You'd better shut your eyes and see nothing.

KRAIG. He is staggering.

CAREN. Let him stagger.

KRAIG. He may be ill. He may be--starving.

CAREN. He's come to a good place to lose his appetite.

KRAIG. Oh, let me see what's wrong with him ... please.

CAREN. You go out that door and you don't come back. [A pause.] I guess you'll stay.

KRAIG [looks his hatred]. Just as you say.

[Outside the door there is a short, sharp scream.]

VOICE. Maria!

KRAIG. He's fallen.

CAREN. He'll get up.

KRAIG. I wonder what happened.

CAREN. Perhaps he got a peep at the new blonde. [There is now a violent banging on the door.]

KRAIG. He's here.

[Caren opens the door cautiously a crack.]

VOICE [outside]. My woman!... Maria!

CAREN. If you can identify her shut up your racket. Go to the first door at the right and make arrangements to take her away.

VOICE [crushed and broken]. Maria.

CAREN. Shut up! Bottle the tears until you get home. The first door to the right.

VOICE [pleading]. Cover her. For the love of the Lord ... cover her. Don't let her lie like that.

CAREN. Ain't she covered enough to suit you?

VOICE. Cover her ... cover her.

CAREN. Afraid she'll catch cold? Go on ... get out! [He slams the door.]

KRAIG [walks to the black curtains and parts them slightly]. His woman ... his LOVE. [Sighing and glancing towards the door.] Poor devil!

CAREN. What's the matter with you, Softy?

KRAIG. Nothing. I was just thinking.

CAREN. Don't be a fool.

KRAIG [again walking back and looking at the woman]. Couldn't we cover her just a little? The sheet seems to have slipped.

CAREN. And no harm done. Meat's meat.

KRAIG [dreamily]. Her hair would cover her like a mantle. How soft and white she is. And how happy she seems. I wonder just when that look came into her face. It surely wasn't there when she plunged into the river.

CAREN [annoyed]. You ought to be nurse maid to a doll baby. What are you anyway?

KRAIG [indifferently]. A dreamer ... a creator ... a starver!

CAREN. Well, you're the wrong sort for in here. This is one place where you get down to facts; truth. No lies, no frills, no dreams. Dreams don't count [banging his fist for emphasis]. Money don't count. Power don't count ... beauty don't count. Nothing counts.

KRAIG [hotly]. Then it's not truth if beauty and dreams don't count. That's what we starved for, Martha and I.

CAREN [softening a little]. Well, you won't starve here. It's a fair place ... fair. The King himself wouldn't be treated no different than a beggar. The man with brains and the man without.... [The curtains part and a helper enters.]

HELPER. Some one wants to blink at number thirteen. He's got two swell dames with him. Can they go in?

CAREN. If their permit's all right. Yes. Bring them in.

HELPER. They won't come in here. They want to go in the private way.

CAREN. I know there's some mystery about number thirteen....

HELPER. Yes, there is. He's a swell ... a big one. I shouldn't wonder if....

CAREN. Go on. Get out. [The helper goes.]

KRAIG. Aren't you going to cover the boy before you let them enter?

CAREN. If they can't see him how are they going to know him? He ain't a tailor's dummy.

KRAIG. It all seems horrible.

CAREN. I guess you'll never see a second day at this.

KRAIG. Oh.... Oh, I don't know.

CAREN. You think I'm going to tuck on a few extras just because he's a swell. [Yelling.] Don't I keep telling you 'til there's not a breath left in my body, that there ain't no class here? [The helper reenters and hears the last words. He stands breathless.] Tramp or gentleman, they're all alike. Now get that into your head and let it grow.

HELPER [has been stammering trying to speak]. I oughtn't to tell. They'd kill me if they knew. It's to be kept a secret, but....

CAREN. What's the matter?

HELPER. Number thirteen.... [Stammering.] He ... he....

CAREN. Well, what about him?

HELPER. He ain't a loafer. He ain't a tramp. He ain't even a gentleman. He....

CAREN. Who is he? Quick!

HELPER. Our.... [Exultantly.] Our King!

CAREN [open-mouthed, aghast]. Our ... King!

KRAIG [laughing triumphantly]. Ha ... ha ... ha ... ha--HERE! [He clasps his hands together.]

CAREN [excited]. Are you mad, Boy, mad? Our King! Oh!

[Kraig laughs. Both men stare at him horrified.]

HELPER [to Caren]. Ain't you got a flag or something ... some little mark of respect to cover his nibs?

CAREN [to Kraig]. Run upstairs and get that big silk flag that.... [as Kraig does not move]. Go.

KRAIG [immovable, abruptly ceasing to laugh]. No.

CAREN [threateningly]. What do you mean? No?

KRAIG [hysterically]. This is one place in the world where all are treated fair. Dreams don't count. POWER don't count. There's no rich, no poor....

CAREN. Shut up and get that flag.

KRAIG. You're going to cover him ... but she.... Oh! [Both men disappear behind the curtains, cringing and bowing to people within. Caren, with his back to the curtains, does not realize that he is alone.] Even death can't level. No ... not even death. [For a second he stares ahead of him piercingly into space, standing taut and rigid. Then commences to laugh in pure hysteria as

[The Curtain Slowly Falls.]

A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT

A PLAY

BY GEORGE W. CRONYN

Copyright, 1919, by Shadowland. Copyright, 1920, by George W. Cronyn.

All rights reserved.

Reprinted from Shadowland, a magazine, by permission of the publishers and the author. The professional and amateur stage rights of this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Frank Shay, Care Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

SCENE: In the great Far West, i. e., far from the "Movie" West.

CHARACTERS

HANK [proprietor of the Good Hope Roadhouse]. LON PURDY [about whom the play is concerned]. MIZPAH [his wife, called "Padie"]. THE STAGE DRIVER. THE GHOST OF HARVEY MACE. THE GHOST OF THE OTHER MAN.

THE TIME is the present, about 11 P. M.

This is not a Bret Harte play, nor is it designed for W. S. Hart. And it should be performed with none of that customary and specious braggadoccio of western plays.

A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT

A PLAY BY GEORGE W. CRONYN

[THE SCENE is laid in the so-called dining-room of one of those forlorn hostelries of the great Plains, which goes by the name of Mace's Good Hope Roadhouse, a derisive title evidently intended to signify the traveler's hope of early escape from its desiccated hospitality.

This room is sometimes reluctantly frequented by a rare guest, usually a passenger on his way via auto stage, to some place else, whom delays en route have reduced to this last extremity of lodging for the night. The room is a kind of lumber yard of disused cheap hotel furniture.

Nothing can be drearier.

Most of this junk is heaped along the left (stage) wall, and it has a settled look of confusion which the processes of gradual decay will, apparently, never disturb. Tables tip crazily against the plaster of the greasy wall. Chairs upturned on these, project thin legs, like the bones of desert places, toward a ceiling fantastically stained. One table smaller than the rest, sees occasional use, for it stands somewhat out of the debris and has about it three chairs reasonably intact. A pack of cards and several dirty glasses adorn the top.

A stairway rises along the right wall, beginning at the rear, and attaining to a rickety landing, supported by a single post of doubtful strength, to which is affixed a glass lamp in a bracket. (Inasmuch as the stairway is turned away from the audience, those who ascend are completely hidden until their heads top the last riser.) At the right front, between the landing and the proscenium, a door (now shut) leads to the Bar, the one spot of brightness in this lump, the shining crack at its sill bespeaking the good cheer beyond. And that crack is the only illumination to this morgue of defunct appetites, for the moonlight, which enters by way of a small window at the right, is rather an obscuration, inasmuch as it heightens the barren mystery of the room's entombing shadows.

Double doors center of rear wall lead to the outside. A window on either side of the door.

So much for the melancholy set.

From the Bar percolates the lubricated melodiousness of the few regular customers who constitute the population of Fever Flat, with the exception of three worn-out women folks, two haggard cows and three hundred or so variegated dogs. The female element are to home, the dogs, astray and astir, with lamentable choruses.

Sounds from the Bar, samples only.]

A JOLLY SOUL [hoarsely]. Pitch into her, boys! Tune up your gullets! [With quavering pathos.] "She was born in old Kentucky"--

ANOTHER SUCH [with peeve]. Aw, shet up, that's moldy! Giv's that Tennessee warble, Hank!

VOICE OF HANK [rather rich and fine].

"When your heart was mine, true love, And your head lay on my breast, You could make me believe By the falling of your arm That the sun rose up in the west--"

[There is a momentary pause, filled in by--

A VOICE. Y'oughter go courtin' with that throat o' yourn, Hank.

Mace [as if misanthrope]. Aw, women--

[During the laugh that follows, an auto horn blares outside and a bright shaft is visible through the rear windows.]

VOICES. Stage's come! Stage's come!

[There are sounds indicating the rapid evacuation of the Bar, and a moment later one of the rear doors is jerked open and the Stage Driver enters, dragging in two heavy suitcases which he deposits near the small table with appropriate grunts, meanwhile encouraging the passengers to enter.]

STAGE DRIVER. Uh! perty lumpy bags--come in, folks, come in! Seems like you might be carryin' all your b'longings.

[The two passengers enter; the man, quickly, nervously, almost furtively; the woman, with that weariness which ignores everything except its own condition.]

STAGE DRIVER. Come in and set, lady; don't be skeered. Looks a little spooky, but Hank'll have a glim fer ye in two shakes. [Places a chair for her.] Here, I know you're plumb tuckered. Make y'self t'home. [Looking around at the drear surroundings.] 'S fer 's yer able.

THE MAN. I thought the stage went through to Hollow Eye to-night?

DRIVER. Well, sir, she do, but this time she don't. I've been havin' to run ten miles on low already and I jest don't dast take her across that thirty miles of sand the way she is. She'll drink water like a thusty hoss and like as not lay down and die on us half way out. Then where'd we be? No sir; you folks'll just have to camp here at Fever Flat till I kin do a tinkerin' job to-morrow mornin'. So I'll step into the Bar and tell Hank you're here. [At the door to the Bar.] Hank'll do the best he kin fer ye. He's a squ'ar man. Good-night to ye! [Goes out, leaving the door half open.]

THE MAN [briefly]. Good-night. [Looking about.] What a hole! Like somebody died here and they'd gone off and left it all stand just the way it was. [He goes to the open door at the rear and stares at the naked moonlit buttes.] Them hills gits my goat. They're nothin' but blitherin skeletons, and this bunch of shacks they call Fever Flat looks like no more'n a damn bone yard to me. [Shutting the door.] Ugh! it's cold in here. Feel like I was sittin' on my own grave's edge.

THE WOMAN [scarcely raising her head, and speaking with no emotion, in a dead dry voice.] You didn't use to be so pernickety, when you was punchin' on the range, Lon.

LON [waspishly]. And you didn't use to look like a hag, neither, Padie.

PADIE [with a momentary flash]. Drink's poisoning your tongue, too.

LON [viciously]. Who's drinking? Cain't I take a thimbleful now'n then without all this jawin'?

PADIE. You ain't takin' thimblefuls. You're just soakin' it up. You'll be gettin' snakes if you keep on. 'n then, what'll I do? [Resuming her air of weary indifference.] Not that I care so much what you do with yourself--or what becomes of me. Nothing matters.

LON [petulent and aggrieved]. There you go, actin' abused. How 'bout my rights 'n pleasures? Ain't got none, I s'pose.

PADIE. Oh, shut up, you make me sick.

[Hank enters; a ruddy, vigorous, young man, strangely out of place among all this rubbish. He wears a barkeeper's apron and speaks cordially.]

HANK. Howdyedo, folks! Howdye do! Well, this is a kinda rough lay-out fer you-all. Y'see the Stage is due here at five, and stops fer grub, then makes Hollow Eye by about nine, but here 'tis ... [pulls out watch] half an hour of midnight an' I s'pose you ain't et, yet, eh? [Lights the glass lamp.]

PADIE. Thanks. We've had sandwiches, but maybe my husband'd like something.

LON [significantly]. Wet.

[Padie shrugs indifferently, and fixes her hair. As she turns toward Hank, the light for the first time falls full on his face. Padie stares fixedly at him, and half rises, with a little cry.]

LON [with a quick, startled glance at Hank, speaks to her in a sharp, threatening voice]. Padie! Sit down! Are you gittin' plumb loco drivin' out so late in autymobiles? [To Hank, apologetically.] You kinda flustered us, mister, cause you have a little the look a friend of ourn that died suddint. Mournful case. Pardner o'mine. No, you're not much like. He was tall, heavy-built and lighter complected. Must a been consid'ble older, too.

PADIE [almost in a whisper]. No.

LON. Older, I say. My wife's kinda wrought up by this here little spell of travelin'.

HANK [sympathetically]. Oh, you're not used to it, eh?

PADIE [slowly and deliberately]. We've been at it--[draws out the word into a burden] years.

LON [impatiently]. That is, off'n on, m'dear. Only off'n on.

PADIE [monotonously]. All the time.

HANK [trying to be a little jocose to break the oppressive atmosphere]. Should think you might hanker after yer own nest, lady.

PADIE [rising rudely]. Well, just keep your thoughts!

HANK [completely abashed]. Yes, ma'am. Your room is just at the top of the landin'. I'll make ye a light. [He hustles away upstairs to cover his embarrassment, taking the suitcases with him.]

LON [irritably]. You're always tryin' to belittle me in public. Is that any way fer a wife to act? I wanta know.

PADIE. What do you always lie so fer?

LON [with rising voice]. That's my business. I'll do as I damn please. And don't you go too fer, crossin' me. I won't stand it. Some day I'll up, an--

PADIE [contemptuously]. Beat me. That's all that's left to you, wife-beater.

[Lon raises his hand as though to strike her, but lets it fall as Hank reappears on the landing.]

HANK. Excuse me, m'am. Have you your own towels by you? Ourn is pretty scaly. It's been so long since we've had in women folks, at least, ladies.

PADIE [moving toward the stair]. Thanks, we have some.

[Lon to Padie as Hank, hidden from audience, descends.]

LON. You might as well be decent, Padie. You ain't got none other but me.

PADIE [bitterly]. Yes, you've took me from 'em. We've been trapsin and trapsin till I'm plumb sick. Yes, I'm--

[Her voice breaks and she runs blindly toward the stair, almost into the arms of Hank, which further increases his consternation.]

HANK [holding her off]. Stidy, stidy. There's the ladder, m'am. Can't I fetch you somethin'? Toddy?

[Padie shakes her head, runs up, and slams her door.]

HANK [to Lon in friendly fashion]. Women folks is cur'us, cur'us.

LON [surlily]. Take my advice and keep free from 'em.

HANK. It was a woman did fer my brother.

LON [with increased interest]. Oh, you've got a brother, eh?

HANK [simply]. Had.

LON. Where is he?

HANK. Down at Laguna Madre, Arizony.

LON [leaning forward and gripping the edge of the table]. Ranchin'?

HANK. Buried.

LON [haltingly]. How--what were you saying--about a woman?

HANK. A woman done fer him. That's what they said, I don't know. I didn't git there fer a long time. There was a mix-up.

LON. Well, well. That's strange.

HANK [eagerly]. I s'pose you heard of it? It was in all the papers. It even got as fer as Denver.

LON. No, I don't remember. But I've read of similar cases.

HANK. You've been to Arizony, I s'pose.

LON. No, not quite. I've been all around them parts, but never Arizony.

HANK. 'Tain't what you'd call a perty country, but it's mighty satisfyin'. Too blame cold up here.

LON. Why don't you move?

HANK. I'm agoin' to, but you see my brother had half interest in this here tavern and there was some litigation about it. Case's just finished. I been here three years, ever since he went. But I'm pullin' my stakes, you bet. I wouldn't be buried here! Would you?

LON [dryly]. I'd rather not.

HANK. So she took me fer a friend that'd croaked, eh? That's cur'us.

LON. Eh? What's that? Who?

HANK. Your wife.

LON. Oh, yes. Well, he was a good ten years older. And dark-complected.

HANK. Thought you said he was light.

LON. Mebbe I did. Well, he mought have been a trifle lighten'n you, but then, size him up by the average, he was dark. Let's fergit him. Bring us a bottle of your best--and see that the glass is clean.

HANK. To be sure. [Goes out.]

[_Lon sits with his head between his hands, brooding. The voice of Hank rises from the Bar, rendering the second verse of the Tennessee "warble."_]

HANK [in the Bar].

There's many a girl can go all round about And hear the small birds sing. And many a girl that stays at home alone, And rocks the cradle and spins.

[As the song ends, the door at the rear opens soundlessly, revealing the vast expanse of moonlit plains and desolate buttes. Lon shivers and turns up his coat collar, finally facing about to discover the cause of the chill. Observing the open door, he goes to it, closes and locks it, the click of the key being distinctly audible. He then returns and sits as before, and again the song comes.]

HANK [in the Bar].

There's many a star shall jangle in the west; There's many a leaf below. There's many a damn that will light upon the man For treating a poor girl so.

[Now both of the double doors swing open, without sound. Lon shivers, then, looking over his shoulder, suddenly gets up, glares about him and makes hastily for the door to the Bar, where he almost collides with Hank entering with bottle and glass.]

HANK. Here, mister, I was just comin'.

LON. What the devil's the matter with your doors?

HANK. Them? Oh, the lock's no good. When the wind's southwest they fly right open. Got to be wedged with a shingle.

[He goes over to the doors, slams them shut, picks up a shingle from the floor and inserts firmly between them.]

LON [relieved]. H'm. Well, that's all right.

HANK. Now it's blame cur'us the way old places gits. You'll hear these floor boards creak at times like as if som'un was sneakin' over 'em b'ar-foot. Feller told me onct it was made by contrapshun and temper'ture. Mebbe so, but I reckon [knowingly] there's more goes on around than we give credit fer.

[Hank dusts off the table and puts bottle and glass down. Lon seizes them eagerly and begins drinking.]

LON [after a couple of glasses]. You mean--spirits?

HANK. Well, I dunno as you'd call 'em that. But it's a fact, there's more liquor goes over the Bar than gits paid for. 'Tain't stole either. It just goes.... As old Pete Gunderson used to say, "I'm a hell of a th'usty p'uson, and when I croak I'll be a hell of a th'usty spirit." I sometimes wonder--

[Padie appears above, in a loose dressing sack, her hair hanging in a great wavy mass, and holding a pitcher.]

PADIE. Lon, please fetch some water.

LON [not moving]. I don't dast go out in the night. I've caught a kind of chill from to-day's drive.

HANK [going up the stairs]. I'll fetch it you, m'am.

[She comes down to meet him and the two are momentarily hidden from the audience. Lon continues to drink steadily, pouring down one glass after another. Hank reappears, treading with a certain gayety, and goes out rear, whistling the Tennessee "warble."]

PADIE [leaning out of the shadow of the stairway toward her husband]. Ain't you comin' up soon, Lon?

LON [ignoring the query]. Scarcely no resemblance whatever.

PADIE [with sudden fierceness]. You lie!

[She ascends to the top of the landing. Outside a pump cranks dismally.]

PADIE [relenting a little]. You'll be seein' things, Lon, if you keep it up.

LON [rising, perfectly steady]. Mind your business. Wish to hell I had a newspaper.

[He goes out through the door to the Bar, while Padie runs a comb reflectively through the exuberant tumult of her dark hair. Hank enters and stops a moment, half blinded by the light, then looks up, and shading his eyes, smiles.]

PADIE [coyly]. Is it the light in your eyes, mister?

HANK [daringly]. It's you, ma'am, are blinding them. [He runs up the stairs with the pitcher.]

PADIE [bending toward him as he comes near the top steps]. You'd better reach it to me. Maybe the landing'll not hold the two of us.

HANK. It'll hold two that have such light hearts as we.

PADIE. Ah, you don't know mine, mister.

HANK [reaching her the pitcher]. There, the clumsy mut I am! Spillt the cold water on your pretty bare toes!

[As she leans over to take the pitcher her hair falls suddenly about his head, almost covering his face.]

PADIE [drawing it back, with a deft twirl]. I've most smothered you!

HANK. I wouldn't want a sweeter death.

PADIE [looking down into his eyes]. Indeed, you're the picture of--an old lover of mine.

HANK. I'd rather be the picture of the new.

[He makes as if to clasp her about the ankles, but she puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently back.]

PADIE. You've been very kind to a wanderer--from Arizony. Don't spoil it. Good-night!

HANK [turning about, mutters]. Good-night.

[He clatters loudly down the stairs as Lon reenters, studying a newspaper. Lon seats himself, still absorbed. Hank favors him with a glare of positive hatred.]

HANK [with a sneer]. All fixed fer the night, eh?

LON [grunting]. G'night.

HANK. Well, I hope you like this country better'n Arizony.

LON [starting out of the news]. The hell you say!

HANK. Your wife was wishing herself back there.

LON [settling back to his paper and bottle]. Well, that's where she come from. I don't. Women allus want what they ain't got.

HANK [retiring].

When your heart was mine, true love, And your head lay on my breast,

[He goes out, closing the door.]

You could make me believe by the falling of your arm That the sun rose in the west.

[During the singing of this last stanza, the double doors swing wide as before, revealing a Figure standing motionless outside, bathed in moonlight. At the same time the flame in the glass lamp begins to flicker and wane. Lon holds the paper closer to his face, finally almost buries his nose in it, as if conscious of the Presence, but stubbornly resolved to ignore it. The Figure moves, and as it crosses the threshold the feeble light expires. Lon, however, still sits, as if absorbed in the newspaper, pretending to sip from the glass. The Figure in a thin mocking voice, echoes the song of the other, standing just behind Lon's chair.]

THE FIGURE [a thin echo].

You could make me believe by the falling of your arm That the sun rose up in the west.--

[Lon picks up the soiled pack of cards from the table and begins to shuffle them mechanically, nor does he once turn toward the apparition.]

LON [in a hoarse whisper]. And what'r you doin' here?

[The Figure sits down nonchalantly in a chair a little to one side of Lon's. He is dressed in the western style, that is, without style, corduroys, heavy boots, flannel shirt. In fact, he looks almost natural. But there is a curious dark mark in the center of his forehead--or is it a round, dark hole?]

LON [petulantly]. Cain't you stay where you was put--with a heap o' rocks on top o' ye?

THE FIGURE [thinly ironical]. Can't seem to give up the old habits, y' know.

LON [thickly, tossing the pack down]. What's the hell's a corpse got to do with habits?

GHOST [unmoved]. You pore fool, you'll learn when you come over.

LON [huskily]. Come over--wh'ar?

GHOST [significantly]. Where I am. [Sings in a quavering voice.]

There's many a girl can go all round about And hear the small birds sing--

LON [snarling]. Dry up on them corpse tunes o' yourn, Harvey Mace.

GHOST [leering]. Oh, you recognize me, eh? You recognize your old friend and pardner, do you, Lon Purdy?

LON [sullenly]. I knowed you'd come.

GHOST [triumphantly]. And you believe in me, eh? Well, that's good, too.

LON [stubbornly]. Believe? Well! I knowed I'd be seein' things soon, what with the booze. I knowed it'd be the snakes or you. Padie told me I'd be seein' things.

GHOST [maliciously]. So you believe in her, anyway. Well, how's Padie--and the children?

LON. You know damn well we ain't had none.

GHOST. What, no children! How unfortunate! The house of love not to be graced with fruit ... sterile, sterile.

LON [belligerently]. Er you referrin' to me?

GHOST. To your spiritual union only, my friend. Physically, I know, nothing was wanting for a perfect match,--female form divine to mate with big blond beast. A race of superpeople!

LON. What the hell 'r' you gabbin'? You allus had a lot of talky-talk. That's what made a hit with Padie, before, before--

GHOST. Before the Other Man came along and cut us both out. [Sings.]

And many a girl that stays at home alone And rocks the cradle and spins.

GHOST [reflectively]. Yes, I'm afraid we both stood up pretty poorly alongside him. I had the words, the brain, the idea. I could charm her, tantalize her, quicken her mind, arouse her imagination. That's why I cut you out with her.

LON [sneeringly]. Gab!

GHOST. Yes, gab. It was one better to her than mere brute--guts! You personified strength. You didn't have nerves enough to be afraid of anything. You had endurance, cheek, deviltry, and a kind of raw good nature. These took with the gay, immature girl she was, until I came. You had--Guts; I had--Gab.

LON. And the Other Feller?

GHOST. He had the Gift.

LON. What you mean?

GHOST. He was a full man. His personality exuded from him like incense. It wrapped and enfolded you and warmed you, and yet it was not a grain feminine, but deeply, proudly masculine. You tolerated him, I--loved him. I had the fine passion for Padie, but when I first saw the two of them together I knew she was his, or [with a keen, stern look at Lon] ought to be ... and she has been, always.

LON [jumping to his feet, and knocking over his chair]. You lie like hell! She's mine! She's been mine all these three years! I won her and I own her! What little of love she ever had fer you or him is buried down in Laguna Madre with the bones of both of ye! And all hell can't take her from me!

GHOST [rising tall and pale]. He kin, and he's done it! You thought you'd got her. But he's had her, or rather, she's had him in her heart ever since they took the rope from his neck and pronounced him legally dead, and justice vindicated, and laid him away in the desert. All that time since, he's belonged to her. When you laid by her side nights, it was his arm she felt about her waist, not yours; his breath was on her cheek, and his heart was beating against hers. Oh you poor, poor fool!

LON [throwing his glass straight at the ghost]. You lyin' pup!

GHOST [bursting into a gale of eerie laughter]. Ha! ha! ha! you poor fool! Now you believe in me!

[Lon whips out his revolver and aims at the ghost, then slowly returns it to the holster, as he realizes the futility of the move.]

GHOST. Go on, my boy! Let's have another one here. [He points to the dark hole in his forehead.]

[Lon, wiping his own face with the back of his hand, and shuddering, slumps down into his seat and stares vacantly at the table.]

GHOST. Another one, just like the last--for your friend and pardner. [He stresses the words with intense irony.] Do you remember the last time you pulled that trick? What a foxy one it was! How astutely planned! Planned, my friend. I remember when we two went up the canyon together, just such a shining night as this, I asked you why you had borrowed--the Other Man's horse, and you said, yours was a little lame. Oh! excellent dissembler! Most crafty of liars! You stole that horse. You stole that horse to put a rope around the Other Man's neck! You knew the pinto was shod different from any pony in those parts. You knew where they'd track him to, when they found the job you'd done. Then we sat down to smokes and cards. And I remember the curious glitter in your eyes. I was dealing. [The Ghost shuffles the cards on the table, then lays down the pack in front of Lon.] Cut!

[Lon mechanically obeys.]

GHOST [dealing]. And after several hands, you brought up the subject of Padie. And I told you I was out of the race--and that you'd better get out too, because the best man already had her. And then--and then I sensed you were going to draw, and when I had my gun out, it was empty. Clever boy! You had it fixed right. And so you plugged me square. And the moon and stars went out for me and I dropped into the black gulf.

[Lon, throwing his hand down, buries his face in his hands, groaning.]

GHOST [pitilessly]. You left me with my face to the stars for the coyotes to find. Then, very coolly, you turned the Other Man's horse toward home and sent him off cracking. And you jumped to a pinon log that led off to a ledge of lava where your footprints wouldn't show. And you turned up in half an hour with the boys in town. Then you inquired casually where the Other Man was. You knew, you devil! You knew they'd never get an alibi from him for that night, 'cause--Padie was with him. Padie had her dear arms about his neck while you, clever dog! were out fixing to put a rope there. And you done it, too! Won her? Yes, you did--like hell! After the trial was all over, and the dead buried, me and him, you passed a dirty whisper around town about her, and then married her, to save her good name. That's how you won her.

[There is an immense silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of Lon, which comes in rattling gasps.]

GHOST [sings].

There's many a star shall jangle in the west, There's many a leaf below, There's many a damn that will light upon the man For treating a poor girl so.

GHOST. But I ain't forgot all you done for me. Neither has the Other Man, [with deep solemnity] and he's come--to settle too--

LON [staggering up]. No! I don't believe in you! You're nothin' at all! There ain't no--

[Lon sways and catches at the table; as he swings around, the figure of Another stands outside the door, a tall figure with something white twisted about its neck. Lon with a cry of horror puts out his arms as if to ward off the apparition and backs slowly toward the left wall.]

FIRST GHOST [coming toward him]. Murderer! betrayer! We've come to settle!

LON [screaming]. No! no! no! I don't believe--

[He falls, and the pile of rubbishy furniture topples over on to him with a crash. The two apparitions vanish. The door to the bar is flung open and Hank leaps in, at the same moment that Padie appears above, whitely clad.]

PADIE. Lon! Lon! What's the matter?

HANK [going toward the pile of stuff]. Go back! It's something terrible.

[He heaves the heavy pieces from the body and drags it out, as Padie, with a long cry, flies down the stairs. He feels the breast quickly and rises before Padie reaches the table.]

HANK. I'm afraid he's done for.

PADIE [drawing a deep quivering breath]. Oh.

HANK. He must 'a' fell.

PADIE. I knew--drink'd do fer him.

HANK. Did you--love him--so much?

PADIE [very low]. Once--a little. [With sudden, fierce joy.] I don't care! Now--I kin--live!

HANK [looking out over the desert where the dawn begins to show]. Both of us.

[Curtain.]

THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES

AN ALLEGORY

BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES

Copyright, 1918, by Egmont Arens. All rights reserved.

Reprinted from No. 6, of the "Flying Stag Plays," published by Egmont Arens, by special permission of Miss Davies. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Egmont Arens, 17 West 8th Street, New York.

THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES was first produced in New York City by the Provincetown Players, on January 25th, 1918, with the following cast:

LIFE, THE SLAVE Ida Rauh. FIRST GIRL Blanche Hays. SECOND GIRL Dorothy Upjohn. A WOMAN Alice MacDougal. A MAN O. K. Liveright. A YOUNG MAN Hutchinson Collins. A WORKMAN O. K. Liveright. And Others.

Scene designed by Norman Jacobsen. Produced under the direction of Nina Moise. Incidental music written by Alfred Kreymborg.

THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES

AN ALLEGORY BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES

[THE SCENE is a wood through which runs a path. Wild rose bushes and other wood-things border it. On opposite sides of the path stand two girls waiting. They have not looked at each other. The girls wear that useful sort of gown which, with the addition of a crown, makes a queen--without, makes a peasant. The first girl wears a crown. The second carries one carelessly in her hand.]

FIRST GIRL [looking across at the other]. For whom are you waiting?

SECOND GIRL. I am waiting for Life.

FIRST GIRL. I am waiting for Life also.

SECOND GIRL. They said that he would pass this way. Do you believe that he will pass this way?

FIRST GIRL. He passes all ways.

SECOND GIRL [still breathing quickly]. I ran to meet Life.

FIRST GIRL. Are you not afraid of him?

SECOND GIRL. Yes. That is why I ran to meet him.

FIRST GIRL [to herself]. I, too, ran to meet him.

SECOND GIRL. Ah! he is coming!

FIRST GIRL. No. It is only the little quarreling words of the leaves, and the winds that are always urging them to go away.

SECOND GIRL. The leaves do not go.

FIRST GIRL. Some day they will go. And that the wind knows.

FIRST GIRL. Why are you not wearing your crown?

SECOND GIRL. Why should we wear crowns? [She places the crown upon her head.]

FIRST GIRL. Do you not know?

SECOND GIRL. No.

FIRST GIRL. That is all of wisdom--the wearing of crowns before the eyes of Life.

SECOND GIRL. I do not understand you.

FIRST GIRL. Few understand wisdom--even those who need it most--

SECOND GIRL. He is coming! I heard a sound.

FIRST GIRL. It was only the sound of a petal dreaming that it had fallen from the rose-tree.

SECOND GIRL. I have waited--

FIRST GIRL. We all long for him. We cry out to him. When he comes, he hurts us, he tortures us. He kills us, unless we know the secret.

SECOND GIRL. What is the secret?

FIRST GIRL. That he is a slave. He pretends! He pretends! But always he knows in his heart that he is a slave. Only of those who have learned his secret is he afraid.

SECOND GIRL. Tell me more!

FIRST GIRL. Over those who are afraid of him he is a tyrant. He obeys--Kings and Queens!

SECOND GIRL. Then that--

FIRST GIRL. --Is why we must never let him see us without our crowns!

SECOND GIRL. How do you know these things?

FIRST GIRL. They were told me by an old wise man, who sits outside the gate of our town.

SECOND GIRL. How did he know? Because he was one of those who are kings?

FIRST GIRL. No. Because he was one of those who are afraid.

SECOND GIRL [dreamily]. I have heard that Life is very beautiful. Is he so? I have heard also that he is supremely ugly; that his mouth is wide and grinning, that his eyes slant, and his nostrils are thick. Is he so?--or is he--very beautiful?

FIRST GIRL. Perhaps you will see--for yourself--Ah!

SECOND GIRL.

[As Life saunters into view at the farthest bend of the path. He walks like a conqueror. But there is something ugly in his appearance. Life sees the girls just as a sudden sun-ray catches the jewels of their crowns. He cringes and walks like a hunchback slave. He is beautiful now.]

FIRST GIRL. He has seen our crowns!

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. Remember! You are only safe--as long as you remain his master. Never forget that he is a slave, and that you are a queen.

SECOND GIRL [to herself]. I must never let him see me without my crown.

FIRST GIRL. Hush! He is coming!

SECOND GIRL. He is very beautiful--

FIRST GIRL. While he is a slave.

SECOND GIRL [not hearing]. He is--very beautiful--

FIRST GIRL. Life!

[Life bows to the ground at her feet.]

SECOND GIRL [in delight]. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. Life, I would have opals on a platter.

[Life bows in assent.]

SECOND GIRL. Oh-h!

FIRST GIRL. And pearls!

[Life bows.]

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. And a little castle set within a hedge.

[Life bows.]

SECOND GIRL. Yes--

FIRST GIRL. I would have a fair prince to think tinkling words about me. And I would have a strawberry tart, with little flutings in the crust. Go, see that these things are made ready for me.

[Life bows in assent and turns to go.]

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. See? It is so that one must act. It is thus one must manage him. So and not otherwise it is done. Now--do you try. [She plucks a rose from a bush beside her, and twirls it in her fingers.]

SECOND GIRL. Life! [Life kneels.] I have a wish for a gown of gold. [Life bows.]

FIRST GIRL. Yes!

[And over his bowed head, the two laugh gayly at the ease of his subjection.]

SECOND GIRL. And a little garden where I may walk and think of trumpets blowing.

[Life bows.]

SECOND GIRL. It is a good rule.

FIRST GIRL [calling slave back as he is leaving]. I have a wish for a gray steed. [Life bows.] Bring me a little page, too. With golden hair. And with a dimple.

[Life acquiesces, and starts to leave.]

FIRST GIRL [calling him back with a gesture]. Life! [An important afterthought.] With two dimples!

SECOND GIRL. And an amber necklace! Bring me an amber necklace!

FIRST GIRL [tossing away the rose she has just plucked]. And a fresh rose.

[Life bows; turns to obey. The two are convulsed with mirth at the adventure and its success.]

FIRST GIRL. Life!

[Life halts.]

SECOND GIRL. What are you going to do?

FIRST GIRL. Come here!

[Life comes to her. With a quick movement she snatches one of the gold chains from about his neck.]

SECOND GIRL [frightened]. How can you dare?

FIRST GIRL. What you see you must take. [She seizes his wrist and pulls from it a bracelet.]

SECOND GIRL [frightened]. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. Go!

[Exit Life.]

SECOND GIRL. But why--

FIRST GIRL. He does not like beggars, Life. You see, he is a slave himself.

SECOND GIRL. He is so beautiful.

FIRST GIRL. Do not forget that he is your slave.... This rosebush [touches it] is a queen who forgot.

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL [pointing to bones that seemed part of bushes along roadside]. Those are the bones of others who forgot.

SECOND GIRL. But he is beautiful!

FIRST GIRL. Only so long as you are his master.

SECOND GIRL. But he is kind!

FIRST GIRL. Only so long as you are not afraid of him.

SECOND GIRL. But you snatched--

FIRST GIRL. Life is the only person to whom one should be rude.

[They hear sounds of moaning and cries and a harsh voice menacing some unseen crowd.]

SECOND GIRL. What is that?

FIRST GIRL. Come! We must not be seen! [Pulls her companion behind bush at side of stage.]

SECOND GIRL. What will be done to us?

FIRST GIRL. Hush! If he should see you! He is always watching for the first sign of fear.

SECOND GIRL. What is the first sign of fear?

FIRST GIRL. It is a thought--

SECOND GIRL. But can he see one's thoughts--

FIRST GIRL. Only thoughts of fear.

SECOND GIRL. If one hides them well even from oneself?

FIRST GIRL. Even then. But words are more dangerous still. If we say we are afraid we will be more afraid, because whatever we make into words makes itself into our bodies.

VOICES OFF STAGE. Oh, master! Mercy, master!

FIRST GIRL. It spoils him, this cringing. It spoils a good servant. As long as he is kept in his place--

[A man enters and kneels, looking at Life off stage, in fear.]

FIRST GIRL [steals to man and says]. But he is only a slave. Do you not see that he is a slave?

MAN. How can you say that? Look at his terrible face. Who that has seen his face can doubt that he is a master, and a cruel one?

FIRST GIRL. He cannot be a master unless you make him so.

MAN. What is this that you are saying? Is it true?

FIRST GIRL. Yes, it is true. Even though it can be put into words it is true.

MAN [starts to rise, sinks to knees again]. Yes. I see that it is true. But go away.

FIRST GIRL [crouching behind bush again]. Ah!

[Life crosses the stage, with a whip of many thongs driving a huddled throng of half crouching men and women. They kneel and kiss his robe. His mouth is wide and grinning, his eyes slant, his nostrils are thick. He is hideous.]

LIFE. You! Give me your ideals. Three ideals! Is that all you have?

YOUNG MAN. Life has robbed me of my ideals.

WORKMAN. He robbed me too.

YOUNG MAN. But I had so few.

WORKMAN. When you have toiled to possess more, he will take those from you also.

LIFE [to an old woman]. For twelve hours you shall toil at what you hate. For an hour you shall work at what you love, to keep the wound fresh, to make the torture keener.

OLD MAN. Ah, pity! Do not be so cruel! Let me forget the work I love!

LIFE. Dog! Take what I give you! It is not by begging that you may win anything from me!

A VOICE. Give me a dream! A dream to strengthen my hands!

ANOTHER VOICE. A little love to make the day less terrible!

THIRD VOICE. Only rest, a little rest! Time to think of the sea, and of grasses blowing in the wind.

A WOMAN. Master!

[Life lashes her with his whip. The woman screams. Life draws back from them, and dances a mocking dance, dancing himself into greater fury, laughing terribly, he lashes out at them. Several fall dead. He chokes a cripple with his hands. Finally he drives them off the stage before him, several furtively dragging the bodies with them.]

SECOND GIRL [as the two emerge from their hiding place]. Oh! I wish never to see his face as they saw it!

FIRST GIRL. You will not, unless you kneel--never kneel, little queen.

SECOND GIRL. I shall never kneel to Life. I shall stand upright, as you have taught me, and I shall say, "Bring me another necklace, Life--"

FIRST GIRL. I must go now for a little while. I shall come back. Do not forget. [She goes out.]

SECOND GIRL. I shall say--

[Life's voice is heard off stage. Second Girl cowers. Life enters.]

SECOND GIRL. Slave! I would have the chain with the red stone! [As Life submissively approaches, she snatches it from his neck.] And this!

[Snatching at his hand and pulling the ring from a finger. The slave bows. She happens to look toward the spot where the bodies were, and shivers.]

LIFE [raising his head in time to see the look of horror. From this moment his aspect gradually changes until from the slave he becomes a tyrant]. Are you afraid of me?

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE. There are many who are afraid of me.

SECOND GIRL. You are a slave.

LIFE. There are many who are afraid.

SECOND GIRL. You are only a slave.

LIFE. A slave may become a master.

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE. I may become--

SECOND GIRL. You are my slave.

LIFE. If I were your master--

SECOND GIRL. You are a slave.

LIFE. If I were your master, I would be kind to you. You are beautiful.

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

LIFE. You are very beautiful.

SECOND GIRL. It is my crown that makes me beautiful.

LIFE. If you should take your crown from your head, you would still be beautiful.

SECOND GIRL. That I will not do.

LIFE. You are beautiful as the slight burning of the apple-petal's cheek when the sun glances at the great flowers near it. You are beautiful as the little pool far in the forest which holds lily-buds in its hands. You are beautiful--

SECOND GIRL [aside]. I think he wants me to be afraid, so I will say it. I have heard that men are like that. I am not afraid, but I will say it to please him.

LIFE. Are you afraid of me?

SECOND GIRL. Yes.

LIFE. Are you afraid?

SECOND GIRL. Yes, I am afraid.

LIFE. Ah, that pleases me.

SECOND GIRL [aside]. I knew that I would be able to please him! Whatever I make into words makes itself into my body, she said, like fear--but she does not know everything! It is impossible that she should know everything! And it is so pleasant to please him--And so easy! I am not afraid of him. I have only said that I am afraid.

LIFE. Will you not take your crown from your head?

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE. There is nothing so beautiful as a woman's hair flying in the wind. I can see your hair beneath your crown. Your hair would be beautiful flying in the wind.

SECOND GIRL [removes crown]. It is only for a moment.

LIFE. Yes, you are beautiful.

SECOND GIRL [to herself]. It may be that I was not wise--

LIFE. You are like a new flower opening, and dazzling a passing bird with sudden color.

SECOND GIRL. She said that I must not--

LIFE. You are like the bird that passes. Your hair lifts like winks in the sun.

SECOND GIRL. He has not harmed me.

LIFE. Your crown is like jewels gathered from old galleons beneath the sea. May I see your crown?

SECOND GIRL [holds it out cautiously toward him, then changes her mind]. No--

LIFE. Let me hold it in my fingers. I shall give it back to you.

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE. I shall give it back.

SECOND GIRL. If you will surely give it back to me--

LIFE [takes crown]. But your hair is lovelier without a crown. [Flings it from him.]

SECOND GIRL. What have you done?

LIFE. It was only in jest.

SECOND GIRL. But you promised--

LIFE. In jest.

SECOND GIRL. But--

LIFE. Ho-ho! Laugh with me. What a jest!

SECOND GIRL [laughs, then shivers].

LIFE [in high good humor with himself]. Dance for me. You are young. You are happy. Dance!

SECOND GIRL. What shall my dance say?

LIFE. That it is Spring, and that there are brooks flowing, newly awakened and mad to be with the sea. That there is a white bud widening under the moon, and in a curtained room a young girl sleeping. That the sun has wakened her--

SECOND GIRL [dances these things. At first she is afraid of him, then she forgets and dances with abandon]. And now give me back my crown.

LIFE. You do not need a crown, pretty one.

SECOND GIRL. I am afraid of you!

LIFE. Afraid of me! What have I done?

SECOND GIRL. I do not know.

LIFE. Do not be afraid.

SECOND GIRL. I am afraid.

LIFE. I shall be a kind master to you.

SECOND GIRL. Master?

LIFE. A kind master.

SECOND GIRL. You are my slave.

LIFE. I shall never be your slave again.

SECOND GIRL. And if she were right? If it is true?

LIFE. What are you saying?

SECOND GIRL. Nothing--

LIFE. You must call me master.

SECOND GIRL. No. That I will not do.

LIFE [leering at her]. Call me master. Then I shall be kind to you.

SECOND GIRL. No. I can not.

LIFE [picks up his whip from the path, toying with the whip but laughing at her]. Then I shall be kind.

SECOND GIRL. Master--

LIFE. It has a good sound.

SECOND GIRL. You will give me--

LIFE. Greedy one! Be grateful that I do not punish you.

SECOND GIRL. You would not strike me?

LIFE. If you do not obey--

SECOND GIRL [whispering]. You would not strike--

LIFE. You must kneel.

SECOND GIRL [repeating]. Never kneel, little queen--

LIFE. You must kneel to me.

SECOND GIRL. No.

LIFE [raising the whip as if to strike]. On your knees! Slave!

SECOND GIRL. You were kind! Life, you were kind! You said beautiful words to me.

LIFE. Kneel.

SECOND GIRL. You would be always kind, you said--

LIFE. Will you obey?

SECOND GIRL. I shall never--

[Life curls his whip around her shoulders.]

SECOND GIRL [screams]. Do not flog me. I will kneel. [Kneels.]

LIFE. So? In that way I can win obedience.

SECOND GIRL. Master!

LIFE. It has a good sound.

SECOND GIRL. Pity! Have pity!

LIFE. Do not whine. [Kicks her.]

SECOND GIRL [rises staggering]. Spare me!

LIFE. I shall beat you, for the cries of those who fear me are sweet in my ears. [Beats her.]

SECOND GIRL. Master!

LIFE [flinging aside whip]. But sweeter yet are stilled cries--[He seizes her, they struggle.]

SECOND GIRL. He is too strong--I can struggle no longer!

[They struggle. Life chokes her to death and flings her body from him. Then laughing horribly he goes off the stage.]

FIRST GIRL [enters skipping merrily. Singing].

Heigho, in April, Heigho, heigho, All the town in April Is gay, is gay!

[She plucks rose from bush.]

Heigho, in April, In merry, merry April, Love came a-riding And of a sunny day I met him on the way! Heigho, in April, Heigho, heigho--

[Suddenly seeing the body, she breaks the song, and stares without moving. Then she goes very slowly toward it, smooths down the dead girl's dress, and kneels beside the body. Whispers.]

She was young ... he was cruel.... [Touches the body.] She also was a queen. She snatched his trinkets. See, there on her dead neck is his chain with the red fire caught in gold. And on her finger his ring. But he was too strong ... too strong.... [She stands, trembles, cowering in terror.] Life has broken her.... Life has broken them all.... Some day.... I am afraid....

[Life enters, still the ugly tyrant. She remains cowering. His eyes rove slowly over the stage, but she sees him a second before he discovers her. She straightens up just in time to be her scornful self before his eyes light upon her. As she speaks Life becomes the slave again.]

FIRST GIRL [carelessly flings rose down without seeing that it has fallen upon the body]. Life! Bring me a fresh rose!

[The slave bows abjectly and goes to do her bidding.]

[Curtain.]

THE SLUMP

A PLAY

BY FREDERIC L. DAY

Copyright, 1920, by Frederic L. Day. All rights reserved.

The Slump was first produced February 5, 1920, by "The 47 Workshop" with the following cast:

FLORENCE MADDEN Miss Ruth Chorpenning. JAMES MADDEN Mr. Walton Butterfield. EDWARD MIX Mr. W. B. Leach, Jr.

Permission to reprint, or for amateur or professional performances of any kind must first be obtained from "The 47 Workshop," Harvard College, Cambridge, Mass. Moving picture rights reserved.

TIME: The Present. About four o'clock on a Saturday afternoon in December.

THE SLUMP

A PLAY BY FREDERIC L. DAY

[SCENE: A dingy room showing the very worst of contemporary lower middle-class American taste. The dining table in the center is of "golden oak"; and a sideboard at the left, a morris chair at the right and front, and three dining-room chairs (one of which is in the left rear corner, the others at the table) are all of this same finish. The paper on the walls is at once tawdry and faded. A tarnished imitation brass gas jet is suspended from the right wall, just over the morris chair. In the back wall and to the left is a door leading outside. Another door, in the left wall, leads to the rest of the house. A low, rather dirty window in the back wall, to the right of the center, looks out on a muddy river with the dispiriting houses of a small, grimy manufacturing city beyond. On the back wall are one or two old-fashioned engravings with sentimental subjects, and several highly-colored photographs of moving picture stars, each of them somewhat askew. A few pictures on the other walls are mostly cheap prints cut out of the rotogravure section of the Sunday paper. In the right-hand rear corner is an air-tight stove. The whole room has an appearance of hopeless untidiness and slovenliness. Close by the morris chair, at its right, is a phonograph on a stand. Outside it is a dull gray day. The afternoon light is already beginning to wane.

As the curtain rises, James Madden is sitting behind the table in the center of the room. He is a rather small man of thirty-five, his hair just beginning to turn gray at the temples. Spectacles, a peering manner, and the sallow pallor of his face all suggest the man of a sedentary mode of life. His clothes are faded and of a poor cut, but brushed and neat. There is something ineffectual but distinctly appealing about the little man. Madden is working on a pile of bills which are strewn over the top of the table. He picks up a bill, looks at it, and draws in his under lip with an expression of dismay. He writes down the amount of the bill on a piece of paper, below six or seven other rows of figures. He looks at another bill, and his expression becomes even more distracted.]

MADDEN [with exasperation]. Oh!

[He brings his fist down on the table with a limp whack, then turns and looks helplessly toward the door at the left. After a moment this door starts to open. Madden turns quickly to the front, trying to compose his face and busying himself with the bills. The door continues to open, and Mrs. Madden now issues from it lazily. She is thirty-two years old, and a good half head taller than her husband. Where he is thin and bony, she has already begun to lose her figure. Her yellow hair, the color of molasses kisses, is at once greasy and untidy, and seems ready to come to pieces. Her face is beginning to lose its contour--the uninspired face of a lower middle-class woman who has once been pretty in a rather cheap way. She is sloppily dressed in showy purple silk. Her skirt is short, and she wears brand new, high, shiny, mahogany-colored boots. She has powdered her nose.]

MRS. MADDEN [uninterestedly, in a slow, flat, nasal voice]. How long y' been home? Yer pretty late f'r Sat'rdy.

MADDEN [still looking down and trying to control his feelings]. The head bookkeeper kept me, checkin' up the mill pay roll. I been here [consulting his watch] just seven minutes.

MRS. MADDEN [yawning]. Thanks. Yer s' darn acc'rate, Jim. I didn' really wanta know.

[He looks at another bill and writes down the amount on the same piece of paper as before, keeping his head averted so that she may not see his face.]

MRS. MADDEN. Jim. [With lazy self-satisfaction.] Look up an' glimpse yer wifey in 'r new boots. [She draws up her skirts sufficiently to show the boots.]

[He looks up unwillingly and makes a movement of exasperation.]

MADDEN. Oh, Florrie!

MRS. MADDEN. W'at's a matter? Don'choo like 'em?

MADDEN. You didn't need another pair, Florrie.

MRS. MADDEN [on the defensive]. Y' wouldn' have me look worse 'n one o' these furriners, would y'? There's Mrs. Montanio nex' door; she's jus' got a pair o' mahogany ones an' a pair o' lemon colored ones. An' her husban's on'y a "slasher."

MADDEN. Slashers get a big sight more pay than under bookkeepers these days, Florrie.

MRS. MADDEN [persuasively]. Got 'em at a bargain, anyways. Jus' think, Jim. On'y twelve, an' they was sixteen. [Madden groans audibly. She changes the subject hastily.] W'at's a news down town?

MADDEN [seriously]. Florrie-- [He hesitates and then seems to change his mind. He relaxes and speaks wearily, trying to affect an off-hand manner.] Nothin' much. [Struck by an unpleasant recollection.] Comin' home by Market Wharf I saw 'em pull a woman out o' the river.

MRS. MADDEN [interested]. Y' don' say, Jim. Was she dead?

MADDEN [nervously]. I ... I don't know. I didn't stop. [He passes his hand across his face with a sudden gesture of horror.] You know, Florrie, I hate things like that!

MRS. MADDEN. Well--y' poor boob! Not t' find out if she was dead!

[She gives an impatient shrug of the shoulders and passes behind him, going over to the back window and looking out aimlessly. Madden picks up another bill, regarding it malevolently. After a moment she turns carelessly toward him.]

MRS. MADDEN. Jim. [He does not look up.] Say, Jim. I'm awful tired o' cookin'. There ain't a thing t' eat in th' house. Le's go down t' Horseman's f'r a lobster supper t'night, an' then take in a real show. Mrs. Montanio's tol' me--

MADDEN [interrupting very gravely]. Florrie. [He rises to his feet.]

MRS. MADDEN [continuing without a pause]. There's an awful comical show down t' th' Hyperion. Regal'r scream, they say. Mrs. Montanio--

MADDEN [breaking in]. Florrie, there's somethin' I got to say to you.

MRS. MADDEN [a little sulky]. I got lots I'd like t' say t' you. On'y I ain't sayin' it.

MADDEN [more quietly]. I wasn't goin' to say it now ... not 'till I finished goin' through these. [He makes a gesture toward the bills.] But when I saw your new shoes, an' specially when you spoke o' goin' out to-night....

MRS. MADDEN. Well, why shouldn' I? I got t' have some fun.

MADDEN [keeping his self-control]. Look here, Florrie. D'you know what I was doin' when you came in?

MRS. MADDEN. I didn't notice. Figgerin' somethin', I s'pose. Y' always are.

MADDEN. This mornin' at the office I got called to the phone. The Excelsior Shoe Comp'ny said you cashed a check there yesterday for fifteen dollars. Said you bought a pair o' shoes ... those, I suppose [He looks at her feet. She turns away sulkily.] ... an' had some money left over. Check came back to 'em this mornin' from the bank.--"No funds."

MRS. MADDEN [with righteous but lazy indignation]. How'd I know there wasn't no money in th' bank?

MADDEN. If you kept your check book up to date you'd know.

MRS. MADDEN. W'at right they got not t' cash my check?

MADDEN [still controlling himself]. The bank don't let you overdraw any more. [He glances back at the bills.] D'you know, I'm wonderin' why you didn't charge those boots.

MRS. MADDEN. I ain't got any account at th' Excelsior.

MADDEN. I guess it's the only place in town you haven't got one.--You don't seem to remember what salary I get.

MRS. MADDEN. Sure--I know. Ninety-five a month. Y' know mighty well I'm ashamed o' you f'r not gettin' more. Mrs. Montanio's husban'--

MADDEN [breaking in]. Hang the Montanios! [More quietly.] Don't you see what I'm gettin' at? Here it is the twelfth o' December; you know my pay don't come in till the end o' the month; an' here you go an' draw all our money out o' the bank ... an' more. [Turning toward the table.] An' look at these bills!

MRS. MADDEN. James Madden, I like t' know w'at right you got t' talk t' me like that.

MADDEN [thoughtfully]. I've always argued it's the woman's job to run the house. [He walks around the table from front to rear, passing to its left, and looking down at the bills. With conviction.] It's no use!--I don't just see how we're goin' to get out of this mess; but I do know one thing. [Advancing toward her from the rear of the table.] After this I'm goin' to spend our money, even if I have to buy your dresses.

MRS. MADDEN [with rising anger]. If you say I've been extrav'gant, James Madden, yer a plain liar!

MADDEN [biting his lip and stepping back a pace]. Easy, Florrie!--I know you don't mean that, or--

MRS. MADDEN [interrupting viciously]. I do!

MADDEN [persuasively]. Look here, Florrie. We got to work this out together. There's no use gettin' mad. Prob'ly you aren't extravagant--really. Just considerin' the size o' my salary.

MRS. MADDEN. A pig couldn' live decent on your salary!

MADDEN. Other folks seem to get on, even in these times. What would you do if we had kids?

MRS. MADDEN. Thank the Lord we ain't got them t' think about.

MADDEN [shocked]. Florence!

MRS. MADDEN. Well, I guess anybody'd be glad not t' have kids with you f'r a husban'. Y' don't earn enough money t' keep a cat--let alone kids! An' jus' t' think they'd be like you!

MADDEN [more surprised than angry]. Florence--you're talking like a street woman.

MRS. MADDEN. Oh, I am, am I? Well, I guess you treat me like a street woman. Y' don' deserve t' have a wife.

MADDEN. Well, I don't guess I do. Not one like you!

MRS. MADDEN. That's right! That's right! You don' know how t' treat a lady.

MADDEN [controlling himself]. Look here, Florrie. Don't let's get all het up over this.

MRS. MADDEN. Who's gettin' het up? [Bursting past him toward the door at the left.] I wish t' God you was a gen'leman!

MADDEN. Florrie--don't!

MRS. MADDEN [turning on him from the other side of the table]. W'y don't y' go out an' dig in th' ditch? Y'd earn a damn sight more money th'n--

MADDEN [with angry impatience]. You know I'm not strong enough.

MRS. MADDEN. Bony little shrimp! Not even pep enough t' have kids!

MADDEN [beside himself]. Florence! [Going toward her.] I'm goin' to tell you some things I never thought I would. You're just a plain, common, selfish, vulgar woman! You don't care one penny for anybody except yourself. You an' your clothes an' your movies an' your sodas an' your candy! [Mrs. Madden is glowering at him across the table. She is beginning to weep with rage.--Two or three times she opens her mouth as if to speak, but each time he cuts her short.] Look at the way you been leavin' this house lately. [He makes an inclusive gesture toward the room.] The four years I've lived with you would drive a saint to Hell! [Mrs. Madden marches furiously by him and over to her hat and coat, which are hanging from pegs at the right, just in front of the stove.] I wish I'd never seen you!

MRS. MADDEN [getting her coat and hat]. D' y' think I'm goin' t' stay in this house t' be talked to like that? [Putting on her hat viciously.] D' y' think I'm goin' t' stand that kind of a thing? [Putting on her coat.--Sobbing angrily.] I guess ... you'll be ... pretty sorry when I've ... gone. [Coming closer to him on her way to the outside door.] If ... if I did somethin' ... if somethin' ... happened t' me ... I guess you ... you wouldn't never ... f'give yerself! [She is at the door.]

MADDEN. I don't worry about you. [She turns on him at the door.] You wouldn't do anything like that. You're too yellow!

MRS. MADDEN [at the door. Sobbing, in a fury]. You'll ... see!

[With one last glare at him, she turns, opens the door and goes outside, slamming the door behind her. Madden stares after her, almost beside himself. He takes several steps across the room, then crosses and recrosses it, trying to regain control of himself. Little by little his anger fades; the energy goes out of his pacing, and finally he approaches the table and sits down in his old place with a hopeless droop of the shoulders. He takes up another bill and looks at its amount helplessly, finally writing it down on the same piece of paper as before. He starts to add up the total of the bills he has already set down on the piece of paper. His hand moves mechanically. Suddenly a shadow crosses his face, as an idea begins to form itself in his mind. He looks straight ahead, his eyes opening wide with horror. With a sudden movement he springs up from the table and goes quickly to the window, where he looks out anxiously at the river. He turns back into the room, and passes his hand across his face with the same gesture of horror he used earlier in speaking to Mrs. Madden of the woman who had fallen into the river.]

MADDEN. Ugh!

[He returns to the table, his face dark with the fear that has seized him. At the table, he stands a moment, thinking. Once again he passes his hand across his forehead with the same gesture of horrified fear. He drops into the chair behind the table, still thoughtful. After a moment his face clears, and he shakes his head with an expression of disbelief. He bends again over the bills, and once more takes up his work of going over them. From outside comes the faint sound of some one whistling "Tell Me." Gradually the whistle grows louder and louder, as if the whistler were coming nearer up the street. There is a sharp rap at the door. Madden starts violently, and, jumping up, he goes quickly to the door. He opens it eagerly and slumps with obvious disappointment as Edgar Mix enters breezily. Mix is about twenty-five; a loosely put together, thin faced youth in a new suit of readymade clothes which are of too blatant a pattern and much too extreme a cut to be in really good taste. He is whistling the refrain of "Tell Me."]

MIX [as he passes]. H'llo, James. [Without stopping for an answer, he crosses the room and starts to remove his hat and coat.] Where's the sister?

MADDEN [he has closed the door. Dully.] She's gone out.

[As if struck by an idea, Madden reopens the door and goes outside. He can be seen, looking first to the left, then to the right, and finally down at the river before him. Mix finishes taking off his outer garments, which he hangs with a flourish on pegs near the stove. He is still whistling the same refrain.]

MIX. W'at's a matter with you? Tryin' t' freeze me out? [His voice has the same flat quality as his sister's, but it is full of energy.]

[Madden does not appear to hear him. He now comes back into the house, shutting the door behind him. His face is anxious, a fact he tries to hide.]

MADDEN. Did you want to see Florence? [Mix pauses in his whistling.]

MIX. Sure. Nothin' important, though. Just about a little party she said you an' she was goin' t' take me on t'night. [He commences whistling cheerily the opening bars of his refrain.]

MADDEN [dully]. Sorry. I don't know anythin' about it.

[Mix stops whistling suddenly and looks down with dismay. Then, with his hands in his pockets, he slowly whistles the four descending notes at the end of the third bar and the beginning of the fourth. He stops and shakes his head, then slowly whistles a few more bars of the refrain, starting where he just left off, and letting himself drop into the morris chair on the descending note in the fifth bar. After another brief silence he finishes the refrain, but with a sudden return of the same quick, light mood in which he entered. The refrain over, he begins again at the beginning and whistles two or three more bars. Madden has meanwhile sat down at the table and is again going over the bills.]

MIX. Jim--ever get a piece runnin' in yer head so y' can't get it out? [Madden is looking vacantly down at the bills.] I s'pose I been w'istlin' that tune steady f'r three whole weeks. [He whistles three or four more bars of the same refrain.] Like it? [Madden does not appear to have heard him.] P'raps Florrie's got th' record f'r that on th' phornograph. Has she, Jim? It ain't been out long.

MADDEN [impatiently]. Oh, I don't know, Ed.

MIX [after whistling very softly a bar or two more]. I see some girl fell in the river.

MADDEN [startled]. What?

MIX. Yep. They was tryin' t' make her come to. No use. She was a goner all right.

MADDEN [rising from his chair. Trying to control himself.] Where was this?

MIX. Oh, not s' far below here. Saw her m'self, I did.

MADDEN [with increasing fear. Taking a step or two toward Mix.] Did you see her face?

MIX. Nope. Somethin' 'd struck her face. Y'd hardly know she was a woman, 'cept f'r her clothes.

MADDEN [wildly. Coming closer]. How long ago?

MIX. W'at y' gettin' s' het up about? [Madden is almost frantic.] Oh ... 'bout 'n hour.

[Madden relaxes suddenly. The reaction is almost too much for him. He slowly goes back to the table.]

MADDEN [nervously]. Oh ... down by Market Wharf?

MIX. Sure. Did y' see her? [Madden sits down heavily.]

MADDEN. Uhuh.

[For a second or two there is silence. Madden rearranges the bills in front of him. Mix lolls in the armchair, whistling very softly.]

MADDEN. Ed.

MIX. Uhuh.

MADDEN. Would you call Florrie a ... a ... well one o' them high-strung girls?

MIX. Gosh, no!

MADDEN. You don't think she'd be the sort to fly off the handle an' do ... well, somethin' desp'rate?

MIX. Come off. You know's well's I do, Florrie's nothin' but a big jelly fish.

MADDEN. Ed--I don't want you to talk that way about Florrie. You don't 'preciate her.

MIX. Well, w'at's bitin' you? W'at y' askin' all these questions f'r, anyways?

MADDEN [dully]. Oh, nothin'.

[Madden looks down uneasily at the bills, but without giving them any real attention. Mix yawns and lazily shifts his position in the armchair.]

MADDEN. Ed--I do want to ask you somethin'.

MIX [indifferently]. Shoot.

MADDEN. I want you to tell the truth about this, Ed. Even if you think it will hurt my feelings. It won't.

MIX. Spit it out.

MADDEN. Just what sort of a chap do you think I am?

MIX [considering]. Huh! That's easy. D' y' really wanta know w'at I think?

MADDEN [gravely]. I cert'nly do.

MIX. Well--if you really wanta know, I think yer a damn good kid [Madden looks suddenly grateful] ... but a bit weak on th' pep.

MADDEN [a trifle dubiously]. Thanks. [Thoughtfully.] You don't think I'm unfair?

MIX. Unfair? Why, no. How d' y' mean?

MADDEN. Well ... here in the house, f'r instance.

MIX. Lord, no, Jim! Yer s' easy goin' it'd be a holy shame f'r any one t' slip anythin' over on y'. [After a short pause. Suspiciously.] W'at y' askin' all these questions f'r, anyways?

MADDEN. Oh--nothin'.

MIX [struck with an idea.--Starting up from his chair]. I know w'at's bitin' you. You an' Florrie's had a row. [He walks up to Madden and taps his arm familiarly with the back of his hand.] Come on. Own up! [He passes around behind Madden until he stands behind the chair at the left of the table.]

MADDEN. Well ... we did have a ... a sort of a ... disagreement.

MIX. I bet y' did. Look here, Jim. W'at's a use o' takin' it s' hard?

MADDEN [gravely]. The trouble is----[He breaks off] I guess I was mostly in the wrong.

MIX [sitting down vehemently]. Tell that to a poodle! I know you an' I know Florrie. I guess I know who'd be in the wrong, all right. She was bad enough w'en y' firs' got sweet on 'r--jus' a lazy fool, ev'n if she did have a pretty face. Gee, how you did fall f'r her face! Moonin' round an' sayin' how wonderful she was! [He chuckles.] An' Florrie twenty-eight years old ... an' jus' waitin' t' fall into yer arms.

MADDEN. Ed--don't say things like that, even in fun.

MIX. Hell! It's the truth.... But lately Florrie's jus' plain slumped. She's nothin' now but a selfish, lazy pig.

MADDEN [angrily]. I won't have you talk that way about Florrie. She's made me a good wife ... on the whole. She don't go trapesin' off like some o' your fly by nights. She's affection'te ... an' good tempered ... an'----[Mix is grinning incredulously.]

MIX. Rats! Yer havin' a damn hard time t' say anythin' real nice about 'r. I wouldn' stretch th' truth s' far 's that [snapping his fingers.] f'r her, ev'n if she is m' sister.

MADDEN [vehemently]. Ed--if you can't talk decently about a nice girl like Florrie, I guess you better get out.

MIX [slowly rising from his chair]. Well I'll be damned! All right, I will go.... Yer crazy, Jim!

MADDEN [rising and putting a restraining arm on Mix's shoulder. Nervously]. Don't mind me, Ed. I didn't really mean what I said. I'm all upset.

MIX. Sh'd think y' were. [After a slight hesitation, he sits down again.] W'at y' quarrelin' 'bout? Money?

MADDEN [sitting down again]. Uhuh.

MIX. Huh! Thought as much.... As I was sayin', I know Florrie.

MADDEN. It really wasn't her fault.

MIX [slowly and emphatically]. Well, you are sappy. Ever'body knows Florrie spends more money th'n you an' all my family put t'gether.

MADDEN. You wouldn't have me deny her ev'rythin'?... She's got to have some fun.

MIX. But, Lord, man, y' don't earn th' income of a John D. Rockefeller.

MADDEN [somberly]. I know.... I ought to do much better. But that isn't her fault. Besides, she's learned her lesson.

MIX. Well, I'll be damned! T' hear you talk this way. O' course, y' kep' yer mouth pretty well shut. But we all figgered you was havin' th' devil's own time with Florrie!

MADDEN [rising from his seat. With deep feeling]. Ed----[He turns and goes over to the window, looks out and then faces around]. I never knew ... till just now ... how fond I was of her.

[Mix regards him with a puzzled expression. Madden begins to walk up and down the floor, at first slowly and thoughtfully, then more and more nervously. The light outside begins to fade.]

MIX [after a pause. Looking up at Madden]. Jim. Y' never c'n tell w'at these women 're goin' t' do--can yer?

MADDEN [stopping abruptly. Intensely]. I s'pose not, Ed. [He goes on a few steps and then stops again.] Even ... even when they're not ... high strung.

[Madden continues his nervous pacing of the floor. Mix watches him with increasing annoyance.]

MADDEN [suddenly]. Was that a footstep?

[Mix shakes his head. Madden goes quickly to the window and looks out. From there he rushes to the door and peers out, first to one side and then to the other. He shuts the door, and with a hopeless look on his face comes back into the room. Outside the light is steadily fading.]

MIX [slowly rising from his chair, a look of still greater annoyance on his face]. I guess Florrie ain't comin' f'r some time. I'll be goin'. [He goes over toward his coat and hat.]

MADDEN [nervously]. Why don't you drop into Smith's soda parlor? That's where she always is, this time o' the afternoon.

MIX. She ain't there, I don't guess.... I jus' come from there m'self.

MADDEN [intensely]. You did?

MIX. Sure.

MADDEN [wildly]. Ed--I can't stand this waitin' f'r her any more. [He goes quickly and gets his hat and coat from a peg near the stove.] I'm goin' out.

[Madden goes swiftly across the room to the door at the back and goes out. He is seen to pass outside in front of the back window. Mix takes a few involuntary steps after him toward the door, then stops and gives a low whistle of astonishment. After a moment he turns and starts back toward his hat and coat.]

MIX [half aloud]. Poor ol' Jim.

[He gets his hat and coat, and puts them on. In the course of a few seconds the reflective look has gone from his face; he begins to whistle softly the same refrain as before. From his pocket he produces a cigarette, which he places in his mouth. He is preparing to light it when a thought strikes him. He goes quickly over to the phonograph and, bending down, takes a record and examines it. It has become so dark that he is unable to read the title; so he lights the neighboring gas jet. He then examines two or three records in quick succession, finally producing one which causes a smile to spread over his face.]

MIX. Ah!

[He places his find on the phonograph, winds the machine, and starts his record playing. The tune is the same one he has been whistling the whole afternoon. With an expression of great pleasure he hears the record start, at the same time producing a huge nickel watch from his pocket and glancing at it casually. As he sees the time, his whole expression changes.]

MIX [throwing his cigarette impatiently on the floor]. Hell!

[He stops the phonograph and tilts back the playing arm. He buttons up his overcoat, turns up his collar and adjusts his hat. Then, his whistle suddenly breaking out again loudly into his favorite refrain, he marches quickly across the room to the door at the back, and goes out. He is seen to pass by the window, and his whistling is heard to die away gradually down the street.

Stillness has hardly fallen when the door at the back opens, and Mrs. Madden enters. She appears a trifle chilly, but seems otherwise to have recovered her composure. Closing the door behind her, she comes forward lazily to the table. She looks down at the piles of bills before her with a perfectly vacant stare, and taking from her pocket a pound box of candy she tosses it down on the papers. She opens the cover and extracts a large chocolate cream, which she eats indolently and with evident pleasure. Next, she removes her hat and coat, throwing them carelessly on the table beside the candy. She walks, with a lazy, flat-footed step, over to the gas jet at the right, and turns up the gas sufficiently for reading. Looking down, she notices the record left on the phonograph.]

MRS. MADDEN [with slow pleasure]. Hm!

[Without bothering to find out whether or not the phonograph is wound up, she starts it going and places the playing arm with apparent carelessness so that the record begins playing about a third of the way through. She listens to the music for three or four seconds with an expression of indolent appreciation, then she crosses the floor to the door at the left, always moving with the same flat-footed walk. Opening the door, she peers through it.]

MRS. MADDEN [calling, her flat voice rising above the sound of the phonograph]. Oh Ji--im!

[She listens a moment for an answer; but as there is none, she closes the door and turns around. Once again the music catches and holds her attention. She listens for an instant and then goes back to the table, making a heavy attempt at a dance step or two. From the pocket of her overcoat she extracts a new cheap novel, whose content is well advertised by a lurid colored cover. This she takes over to the morris chair. Another thought strikes her; she tosses the novel into the chair and goes back to the table, where she gets five or six chocolate creams from the candy box, depositing them in a row on the right arm of the morris chair. Then she takes up her book and sits down. For a moment she tries to read, but all is not comfortable yet. She changes her position two or three times in the chair. At last she rises, heaving a disgusted sigh. Dropping her book into the chair she walks with flat, heavy steps across the room and out of the door at the left, leaving it open. She returns almost instantly, dragging two greasy looking sofa pillows after her. She kicks the door to, and crosses to the morris chair. Here she places one of the pillows on the ground for her feet, the other at the back of the chair. Picking up her book once more, she settles back into the chair with an expression of perfect animal contentment. She puts another chocolate cream in her mouth, and finds her place in the book. Then the music again engages her attention; she leans back with a foolish smile on her face as she listens. Constantly chewing the piece of candy, she hums a bar or two of the tune which is still being played by the phonograph. Then she settles down to her reading, eating candy as she feels inclined. The phonograph reaches the end of the record and makes that annoying clicking noise which shows it should be shut off. For two or three seconds Mrs. Madden pays no attention to it. Finally she raises herself in the chair, and without getting up she reaches over and switches off the phonograph, then settles back again to her reading.

Some one goes swiftly by the window outside. After a moment the door at the back opens, and Madden stands in the doorway.]

MADDEN [in the doorway, catching sight of Mrs. Madden. With pathetic eagerness]. Florrie! [He closes the door.]

MRS. MADDEN [without looking up. In lazy, matter of fact tones]. 'Lo, Jim.

MADDEN [coming forward toward his wife]. Are you really safe, Florrie?

[She looks up with a glance of feeble annoyance.]

MRS. MADDEN. Sure. I'm all right. [She looks down again.]

MADDEN [coming still closer]. Oh, I'm so thankful!... I ... I been lookin' for you, Florrie.--Where you been?

MRS. MADDEN [without looking up]. Wat d' y' say?

MADDEN. Where you been, Florrie? [With even greater anxiety.] You didn't go down by the river?

MRS. MADDEN [looking up]. Lord no! W'atev'r made y' think that? [She takes up a chocolate cream and bites off half of it.] I jus' took Mrs. Montanio over t' Brailey's new place f'r a couple o' ice cream sodas. [She looks down again.]

MADDEN [softly]. Oh. [A shadow passes over his face and vanishes.] Florrie. [He sits down on the left arm of the morris chair and puts his arm affectionately about her shoulders.] I didn't know what I was sayin'.

MRS. MADDEN [puzzled. Without looking up]. W'at y' talkin' 'bout?

MADDEN [pathetically]. I guess I ought not to ask you to forgive me.

MRS. MADDEN [looking up]. F'give y'? [Remembering.] Oh, yes--y' did call me some darn hard names.

MADDEN. I know. [Slowly. Looking into her face.] D' you think you could forgive me?

MRS. MADDEN [lazily]. Sure. I guess so. Glad t' see y' got over yer pet.

[He smiles a pathetic, eager smile, and takes her left hand, which is lying in her lap. With an impatient movement, she stretches her left arm out and back, carrying his left hand with it and forcing him off the arm of the chair.]

MRS. MADDEN. Say, Jim--look w'at's on th' table.

[Madden sighs softly and takes a few steps toward the table. He sees the candy box; a darker shadow appears on his face for a second or two, and is gone.]

MRS. MADDEN. Have a chocklick, Jim.

[She herself picks one up from the arm of the chair; then she looks down again at her book, eating the candy as she reads.]

MADDEN [unheeding.--Taking a step or two back toward her from the table. With deep feeling]. Florrie. I got somethin' I want to tell you. [She does not look up. He takes another step toward her.] After you'd gone out, I kept thinkin' ... thinkin' what mighta happened to you.

MRS. MADDEN [with a short chuckle]. Y' poor boob!

MADDEN. Florrie--look at me. [She looks up with an expression of lazy annoyance.] Out there--[He gestures toward the door] the river looked so cold an' black--An' I couldn't find you-- ... I knew all of a sudden I ... I hadn't really meant what I said to you.

MRS. MADDEN [impatiently]. That's all right. [She looks down again at her book.]

MADDEN [with increasing emotion. Going to the arm chair and looking down at her tenderly from behind it]. I kept thinkin' ... thinkin' how pretty an' how ... how good natured you are. [With some embarrassment.] I thought how we used to walk ... down by the river. Four years ago ... you know--just before we was married.

MRS. MADDEN [with growing annoyance]. Don' choo want 'nuther choclick, Jim?

MADDEN [unheeding]. Florrie--d'you remember that time ... the first time you let me hold your hand?

MRS. MADDEN [looking up impatiently]. W'at's bitin' you? Don't y' see I'm readin'? [He steps back and to the left a pace or two. She looks down again.]

MADDEN [humbly]. Scuse me, Florrie. I just wanted to tell you. [With great earnestness.] You know, I'd forgotten.... I mean I didn't realize ... till just now--[Awkwardly.] how fond ... how much I ... I love you.

MRS. MADDEN [thickly, through a chocolate cream which she is eating. Without looking up.] Tha's ... nice.

[He looks at her pathetically, waiting, hoping that she will look up. His face is intense with longing. After a short interval he gives it up. He turns sadly and goes toward the door at the left, passing in back of the table.]

MRS. MADDEN [taking another chocolate and looking after him. He has almost reached the door]. Jim. [He stops and turns eagerly.] You ain't such a bad ol' boy. [His face is suddenly radiant. He takes several steps back toward her, bringing him behind the table. She has looked down at her book again. Coaxingly.] Goin' t' take me t' Horseman's t'night f'r lobster?

[All the eagerness, the radiance, vanishes from his face.--He sits down heavily in the chair behind the table. He looks at her, uncomprehending, hurt, disillusionized.]

MRS. MADDEN [without looking up]. An' say--[She puts another chocolate in her mouth. Speaking through it thickly.] I'm jus' dyin' t' see a real ... comical ... show.

[Madden's head droops. He looks at his wife dumbly, then back at the table. His left hand goes out toward the bills; then he drops both elbows limply on the table, resting his weight on them. Mrs. Madden does not look up, but continues to read and munch a chocolate cream. Madden stares in front of him miserably, hopelessly as

The Curtain Falls.]

MANSIONS

A PLAY

BY HILDEGARDE FLANNER

Copyright, 1920, by Hildegarde Flanner. All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

HARRIET WILDE. LYDIA WILDE [her niece]. JOE WILDE [her nephew].

TIME: Yesterday.

MANSIONS is an original play. The editors are indebted to Mr. Sam Hume for permission to include it in this volume. Applications for permission to produce this play must be made to Frank Shay, care Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

MANSIONS

A PLAY BY HILDEGARDE FLANNER

[In a small town on the southern border of a Middle-Western state, stands an old brick house. The town is sufficiently near the Mason and Dixon line to gather about its ankles the rustle of ancient petticoats of family pride and to step softly lest the delicate sounds should be lost in a too noisy world. Even this old brick house seems reticent of the present, and gazing aloofly from its arched windows, barely suffers the main street to run past its gate. Many of the blinds are drawn, as if the dwelling and its inhabitants preferred to hug to themselves the old strength of the past rather than to admit the untried things of the present.

The scene of the play is laid in the living-room. At the back is a wide door leading into the hallway beyond. At the left are French doors opening upon steps which might descend into the garden. At the right side of the room, and opposite the French doors, is a marble fireplace, while on either side of the fireplace and a little distant from it, is a tall window. To the left of the main door is a lounge upholstered in dark flowered tapestry, and to the right of the door is a mahogany secretary. Before the secretary and away from the hearth, an old-fashioned grand piano is placed diagonally, so that any one seated at the instrument would be partially facing the audience. To the left of the French doors is a lyre table, on which stands a bowl of flowers. Above the rear door hangs the portrait of a man.

When the curtain rises Harriet Wilde is discovered standing precisely in the middle of her great-grandfather's carpet which is precisely in the middle of the floor. To Harriet, ancestors are a passion, the future an imposition. Added to this, she is in her way, intelligent. Therefore even before she speaks, you who are observant know that she is a formidable person. Her voice is low, even, and--what is the adjective? Christian. Yes, Harriet is a good woman. But don't let that mislead you.]

HARRIET [calling]. Lydia!

[Lydia comes into the room from the garden. In fact, she has been coming and going for more than fifteen years at the word of her aunt, although she is now twenty-seven. Her hands appear sensitive and in some way, deprived and restless. She is dressed in a slim black gown which could be worn gracefully by no one else, although Lydia is not aware of this fact. In one hand she carries a pair of garden shears with handles painted scarlet; in the other, a bright spray of portulaca; while over her wrist is slung a garden hat. During their conversation Lydia moves fitfully about the room. Her manner changes from bitter drollery to a lonely timidness and from timidness to something akin to sulkiness. Harriet, whether seated or standing, gives the impression of having been for a long hour with dignity in the same position. She has no sympathy for Lydia nor any understanding of her. There is a wall of mistrust between the two. Both stoop to pick up stones, not to throw, but to build the wall even higher. Lydia employs by turns an attitude of cheerful cynicism and one of indifference, both planned to annoy her aunt, though without real malice. But this has become a habit.]

HARRIET. What are you doing, Lydia?

LYDIA. I had been trimming the rose hedge along the south garden, Aunt Harriet.

HARRIET. But surely you can find something better to do than that, my dear. [She cannot help calling people "my dear." It is because she is so superior.] Some one might see in if you trim it too much. We want a bit of privacy in these inquisitive times.

LYDIA. The young plants on the edge of the walk needed sun.

HARRIET. Move the young plants. Don't sacrifice the rose hedge. [Pausing as she straightens the candle in an old brass candlestick on the mantel.] I--it seems to me that the furniture has been disarranged.

LYDIA. I was changing it a little this morning.

HARRIET. May I ask why?

LYDIA [eagerly]. Oh, just--just to be changing. Don't you think it is an improvement?

HARRIET [coldly]. It does very well. But I prefer it as it was. You know yourself that this room has never been changed since your grandfather died. [Piously.] And as long as I am mistress in this house, it shall remain exactly as he liked it.

[Lydia looks spitefully at the portrait over the rear door.]

HARRIET [stepping to the window to the left of the fire-place and lowering the curtain to the middle of the frame.] The court house will be done before your brother is well enough to come downstairs, Lydia. How astonished he will be to see it completed.

LYDIA. Yes. But he would much rather watch while it is being done.

HARRIET. Well naturally. But from upstairs you can't see through the leaves of the maple tree. Why, Lydia, there isn't another tree for miles around with such marvelous foliage. Great-grandfather Wilde did not know, when he set out a sapling, that the county court house was to be built--almost in its very shadow.

LYDIA. You always did admire any kind of a family tree.

HARRIET [as if speaking to an unruly child]. If Great-grandfather Wilde heard you say that--

LYDIA [with a sudden flash of spirit which dies almost before she ceases to speak]. If Great-grandfather Wilde heard me say that. It may be he would have the excellent sense to come back and chop off a limb or two, so that Joe could have sunlight in that little dark room up there, and see out.

HARRIET [lifting her left hand and letting it sink upon her knee with the air of one who has suffered much, but can suffer more]. Lydia, my dear child, I am not responsible for your disposition this lovely morning. Moreover, this is a fruitless--

LYDIA. Fruitless, fruitless! Why couldn't he have planted an apple tree? [Throwing her head back slightly.] With blossoms in the spring and fruit in the summer--

HARRIET. I beg your pardon?

LYDIA [wearily]. With blossoms in the spring and fruit in the summer. [Slowly and gazing toward the window.] Sounds rather pretty, doesn't it?

HARRIET [unsympathetically]. I do not understand what you are talking about.

LYDIA [shortly]. No.

HARRIET. It is always a source of sorrow to me, Lydia, that you show so little pride in any of the really noble men in the Wilde family.

LYDIA. I never knew them.

HARRIET. But you could at least reverence what I tell you.

LYDIA [cheerfully]. Well, I do think great-great-grandfather must have been a gay old person.

HARRIET. Gay old person!

LYDIA. Yes. The portulaca blooms so brightly on his grave. It's really not bad, having your family buried in the front yard, if its dust inspires a flower like this.

HARRIET. I don't see why you insist upon picking those. They wilt immediately.

LYDIA [looking appealingly at her aunt]. Oh, but they're so bright and gay! I can't keep my hands from them.

HARRIET [scornfully smoothing her lace cuff]. Really?

LYDIA [for the moment a trifle lonely]. Aunt Harriet, tell me why these dead old men mean so much to you?

HARRIET [breathlessly]. Dead--old--men--? Why, Lydia? The Wildes came up from Virginia and were among the very first pioneers, in this section. They practically made this town and there is no better known name here in the southern part of the state than ours. We--

LYDIA. Oh, yes. Of course, I've heard all that ever since I can remember. [Assuming an attitude of pride.] We have the oldest and most aristocratic-looking house for miles around; the rose-hedge has bloomed for fifty years--it's very nearly dead, too; General Someone drank out of our well, or General Some-One-Else drowned in it, I always forget which.

HARRIET. Lydia!

LYDIA [soothingly]. Oh, it doesn't make much difference which. That doesn't worry me. But what does, is how you manage to put a halo around all your fathers and grandfathers and--

HARRIET [piously]. Because they represent the noble traditions of a noble past.

LYDIA. What about the noble present?

HARRIET [looking vaguely about the room]. I have not seen it.

LYDIA [bitterly]. No, you have not seen it. [Turning to go.]

HARRIET. Just one moment, Lydia. I want to speak to you about your brother.

LYDIA [quickly]. Did the doctor say that Joe is worse?

HARRIET. No. In fact, the doctor won't tell me anything. He and Joe seem to have a secret. I can get nothing definite from the doctor at all. But what I feel it my duty to ask you, Lydia, is this: Tell me truthfully. Have you been speaking to Joe about--Heaven?

LYDIA. No. What a dreadful thing to even mention to a sick boy.

HARRIET. My dear, you are quite wrong. But some one has been misinforming him.

LYDIA. Really?

HARRIET. Lydia, I am very distressed. [Slowly.] Your young brother holds the most unusual and sacrilegious ideas of immortality.

LYDIA [indifferently]. So?

HARRIET. No member of the Wilde family has ever held such ideas. It is quite irregular.

LYDIA. What does he think?

HARRIET. I don't know that I can tell you clearly. It is all so distasteful to me. But he declares--even in contradiction to my explanation--that after death we continue our earthly occupations,--that is, our studies, our ambitions--

LYDIA. That is a wonderful idea.

HARRIET [not noticing]. That if we die before accomplishing anything on earth, we have a chance in the after-life to work. Work! Imagine! In fact he pictures Heaven as a place where people are--doing things.

LYDIA [lifting her head and smiling]. Oh, that is beautiful--I mean, what did you tell him?

HARRIET [reverently]. I explained very carefully that Heaven is peace, peace. That the first thing we do when a dear one dies, is to pray for the eternal rest of his soul.

LYDIA [dully]. Oh.

HARRIET. Yes, Lydia, I am glad to see that you share my distress. Why--he desecrates the conception of Heaven with workmen, artists, inventors, musicians--anything but angels.

LYDIA. Anything but angels. [Smiles.] That is quite new, is it not? At least in this little town. Does Joe see himself building houses in Heaven?

HARRIET. That is the worst of it. Why, Lydia, even after I told him patiently that there were no such things as architects in Heaven, he still insists that if he dies, he is going to be one.

LYDIA [startled]. If he should die?

HARRIET [decidedly]. That is simply another foolish fancy. He has been confined so long, that he gets restless and imagines these strange things.

LYDIA. Poor Joe.

HARRIET. Don't sympathize with him, please. I can't possibly allow him to become an architect.

LYDIA. Why not?

HARRIET. When the men in our family have been clergymen for four generations?

LYDIA. Yes, but they're dead now.

HARRIET. All the more reason for continuing the tradition.

LYDIA. There isn't one bit of money in it.

HARRIET [proudly]. When was a Wilde ever slave to money?

LYDIA [sulkily]. Certainly not since my day, and for a very, very good reason.

HARRIET. Well, at least we have sufficient to send Joe to college--and as a divinity student. And some day we will hear him preach in the house of the Lord.

LYDIA. He would rather build houses himself.

HARRIET. Simply a boyish whim. He's too young to really have a mind of his own. [Confidently.] He will do what I tell him to.

LYDIA. He is very nearly nineteen, Aunt Harriet. Didn't you have a mind of your own when you were nineteen?

HARRIET. Certainly not. Yes, of course.

[Lydia laughs.]

HARRIET [the hem of her skirt bellowing with dignity.] This is entirely different. If you can't be polite, Lydia, you might at least stop laughing.

LYDIA [still laughing]. Oh, no--oh, no--I take after my great-great-grandfather. I've just discovered it. At last I'm interested in the noble men of the Wilde family. I know he liked to laugh. Look at the pertness of that! [Holding up the portulaca.]

HARRIET [ignoring the flower]. Please give me your sun-hat, Lydia.

LYDIA [demurely]. Oh, are you going to look at the portulaca?

HARRIET. No. I am going to see what you have done to the rose-hedge. [Going out through the French door.]

LYDIA [suddenly furious]. Go look at your decrepit old rose-hedge! Go look at it! And I hope you get hurt on a thorn and bleed, yes, bleed--the way you make me bleed. I did cut a hole in it. I don't care who sees in--I want to see out! [Looking toward the portrait and throwing the flowers on the floor.] Take your stupid flowers--take them. They don't do me any good. They're withering, they're withering!

[She goes to lean against the window and look toward the court house. As she stands there, the door opens slowly and Joe, with blankets wrapped about him and trailing from his shoulders, comes unsteadily into the room. He carries paper and drawing materials. He is an eager boy, who seems always afraid of being overtaken. Lydia turns suddenly and starts toward the door. She stops in surprise as she sees her brother.]

LYDIA. Joe! My goodness! Whatever made you come downstairs? Aunt Harriet will be angry. Why this might be awfully dangerous for you, Joe. How did you come to do such a thing?

[She helps him toward the lounge and arranges a cushion for him.]

JOE [sinking back, but facing the window]. I wanted to see how the court house was getting on. I can't see out of my window, you know.

LYDIA. Well, you see [Raising the blind.] they will soon have it done.

JOE [delightedly]. Yes, won't they, though. Look at those white pillars! That's worth something, I tell you. I'm glad I saw it.

LYDIA. What do you mean?

JOE. Just what I said.

LYDIA. Yes, but, Joe--coming down stairs this way, when you have been really ill--

JOE. Oh, don't argue, Lydia. I have just been arguing with Aunt Harriet.

LYDIA. You'd better rest then. You will have to, anyway, before you go back to your room. I see you plan to draw.

JOE. Yes, I've been lazy for so long. It's driving me crazy, never doing anything. I thought I'd copy some Greek columns this morning. Could you give me a large book to work on?

LYDIA. I'll look for one. [Hunting.] Joe, what were you and Aunt Harriet arguing about?

JOE. Oh, nothing.

LYDIA. Yes, I've heard her do that before. But won't you tell me?

JOE. It wasn't anything, Lydia.

LYDIA. Here is what you want.

[She brings a large bound volume from the piano and places it upon his knees.]

JOE. Thank you. [Settling himself to draw.] Where is she, by the way?

LYDIA. Out looking at the rose-hedge, where I cut a hole in it.

JOE. A hole in the sacred rose-hedge! Where did you suddenly get the courage? I've heard you talk about doing such things before, but you never really did them.

LYDIA [timidly]. I don't know, Joe, where I got my courage. I think it's leaving me, too.

[She puts out her hand as if trying to detain some one.]

JOE [cheerfully]. Come stand by me. I have--I have a great deal of courage this morning.

[Lydia stands behind Joe and looks over his shoulder.]

JOE [turning to her affectionately]. It's good I have you, Lydia. Aunt Harriet has a fit every time she sees me doing this.

LYDIA. Having them is part of her religion.

JOE. Well, this is mine. What is yours, Lydia? I don't believe I ever heard you say.

LYDIA [shortly]. I haven't any.

JOE. Sure enough?

LYDIA [nodding, then speaking quite slowly]. I never did anything for any one out of love, and I was never allowed to do anything I wanted to for joy. So I know that I have no religion.

JOE [embarrassed]. Never mind. Perhaps that will all come to you some day. [Joe suddenly sits erect and looks first toward the French door and then toward the window.] I wonder what you will do when I go?

LYDIA [following the direction of his gaze]. Where?

JOE. Oh--to college.

LYDIA. Perhaps when you go to college I'll do something Aunt Harriet doesn't think is regular.

JOE. What will it be?

LYDIA. How can I know now? How should I want to know?

[Joe looks over his shoulder toward the rear door of the room.]

LYDIA [nervously]. What do you see?

JOE. Nothing--nothing.

LYDIA. Then please stop looking at it.

JOE [meeting her eyes for the fraction of a moment and then holding up the sheet of paper.] I am actually getting some form into this column. If I could only learn to design beautiful buildings--

[He puts his hand to his side in sudden pain.]

LYDIA [not noting his action]. Why, of course you will some day.

JOE. I don't know. Sometimes I'm afraid I won't get the chance.

LYDIA. Oh, you'll be a man. You can ride over Aunt Harriet.

[Joe looks at his copy and crumples it savagely. Suddenly he holds up his hand and listens.]

JOE. What was that bell?

LYDIA. I did not hear any.

JOE. I did.

LYDIA. It must have been the side door. Some one will answer it.

JOE. Do people often come by the side door?

LYDIA. Why, Joe, you know very well that the delivery boy always comes there.

JOE. Delivery?--I wonder--will it be delivery?

LYDIA. Joe, you're even odder than I am. Stop it. It doesn't do to have two in the family.

JOE [laughing]. Oh, just as you say. [Looking at the book on his knee.] What is this big book?

LYDIA. Music.

JOE [opening the book]. Why, it has your name in it.

LYDIA. It is my book.

JOE [in surprise]. Did you ever play the piano?

LYDIA [turning aside]. Yes.

JOE [his face lighting up]. Play something now, please.

LYDIA. That piano has been locked for fifteen years.

JOE. Ever since mother died and you and I came here to live?

LYDIA. Yes. Haven't you ever wondered why it was never open?

JOE. I certainly have. But Aunt Harriet always avoided the subject and I could never get you to say anything about it.

LYDIA. By the time I had tried it for two years, I knew better.

JOE. But why is it locked?

LYDIA. Because I neglected my duties. I played the piano when I should have been studying, and I played when I should have been hemming linen, and I played when I should have been learning psalms.

JOE. But surely when you grew older--when you were through school--

LYDIA. No. I lied to her once about it. She made me promise not to touch the piano, and left it open on purpose to see what I would do. And I played and she heard me. So when I denied it--[Shrugging her shoulders.] You see, after that, to have let me go on, playing and undisciplined--why, it would have meant the loss of my soul. [Very pleasantly.] It would have meant hell, at least, Joe dear, and I don't know what else. Aunt Harriet has always been so careful about what I learned.

JOE [angrily]. But surely you are old enough now to do what you want to! I'll ask her myself if--

LYDIA [alarmed]. Oh, no, Joe! Please, please don't do that. I should be frightened, really. It is a matter of religion with her.

JOE. And don't you know how to play any longer?

LYDIA. Yes, some. I sneak into the church when no one is there and play on that piano. [She walks to the instrument, and sitting down before it, rubs her palms lovingly across the closed lid.] When you were away six months ago, this was opened to be tuned for those young cousins of hers who visited. They were lively young girls, and the first thing they did every morning was to go to the piano. They would have asked questions if it had been locked, and Aunt Harriet hates inquisitiveness like poison.

JOE. Where is the key?

LYDIA. I don't know where it is now. She has probably thrown it away. It would be just like her to do it. [Changing her manner suddenly and rising.] Joe, wouldn't you like a cup of tea?

JOE [earnestly]. No, I wouldn't. Sit down, Lydia.

[Lydia sits down again. Joe starts to speak, but stops to look about the room.]

LYDIA. Joe, what are you looking for?

JOE [slowly and reluctantly]. I can't get over the feeling that I am expecting some one.

LYDIA. Who is it?

JOE [evasively]. I don't know. Some one I never saw before.

LYDIA [laughing]. An unknown visitor knocks before he comes in the door.

JOE. I'm not sure that this one will.

[He closes his eyes wearily and puts his palms before them.]

LYDIA [gently]. Joe, you're tired. Please go upstairs.

JOE. Not quite yet. [Eagerly.] Lydia, you know what Aunt Harriet and I were arguing about. I saw it in your eyes.

LYDIA. Of course. It's a beautiful idea.

JOE [excitedly]. Then you think I'm right.

LYDIA [looking at the piano]. I hope to Heaven you are.

JOE [pleading]. Then do something for me, Lydia, please.

LYDIA. What?

JOE. I've been so worried lately to think--how awful it is if a person dies without accomplishing anything.

LYDIA. I wish you wouldn't talk like that.

JOE [hastily]. I wasn't speaking for myself. I meant, just generally, you know. But what I have been figuring out, is this--so long as you believe that you can go on working after you leave here, it's all right, isn't it?

LYDIA [hesitant]. Yes.

JOE [thoughtfully and as though on unaccustomed ground]. But when you first go over, you are rather weak--

LYDIA. You mean your soul?

JOE [speaking hurriedly]. Yes, that's it. And you mustn't be worried by grief or any force working against you from the people you've left behind.

LYDIA. Yes, I follow you. Where did you learn all this?

JOE. In a book at the library.

LYDIA [uncertainly]. I think I have heard of some theory--

JOE [impatiently]. I'm not bothering about theories. I haven't got time for them. In fact, I'd almost forgotten about the whole idea until the other day. Something the doctor told me set me thinking. He is really a splendid man, Lydia.

LYDIA [indifferently]. Yes, I've always thought so. But what is it you want me to do for you, Joe? Aunt Harriet may come in any moment.

JOE [looking at Lydia very fixedly and speaking slowly]. Just this. When I die, don't let Aunt Harriet pray for my soul.

LYDIA. Joe!

JOE. Yes, I mean it. She has a powerful mind. And she would pray for my eternal rest and I might not be strong enough to stand against her.

LYDIA [starting toward the rear door]. I won't listen to you any longer. It is wrong to talk and think about death.

JOE. Lydia, please! It means so much to me. Listen just one second. I know I'm not very good, but Aunt Harriet would be sure to try to make an angel out of me. And if I thought I had to sit on those everlasting gold steps and twang an everlasting gold harp forever and forever--Lydia, I'd go crazy, I'd go crazy!

[His voice rises to a scream and he sinks back gasping.]

LYDIA [rushing to his side]. I promise anything. Only don't excite yourself this way. For Heaven's sake, Joe, be quiet.

JOE [insisting]. But don't let her pray. And make her give you the key to the piano, and you play something so I can go out in harmony.--Harmony--do you understand that, Lydia? Harmony. That's the word they used so often in the book. Do you promise surely?

LYDIA [tearfully]. Yes, but, Joe, you're not going to die. You're not! The doctor would have told us something about it.

JOE. Of course, I'm not going to. Not until I get good and ready. Don't be silly. But remember, when it does happen, you must not cry. That is very hard on souls that are just starting out.

LYDIA. I--I can see how it might be.

JOE. You won't forget to smile?

LYDIA. No.

JOE. But smile now, for practice.

LYDIA [trying to smile, but failing]. Oh, I can smile for you easily enough; but don't frighten me like that again.

JOE. I'll try not to.

LYDIA [suddenly facing him]. Do you expect Aunt Harriet to live as long as you do?

JOE [with a second's hesitation]. Yes, I'm quite sure she will. The Wildes have the habit of living long, you know.

LYDIA. But why shouldn't you live longer than she, since you are younger?

JOE. Oh, I don't know. I'd rather like to get ahead of her in something, though.

LYDIA. Well, you do believe in preparation. I can't see why you are being so beforehanded, but if it gives you any pleasure to scare me to death----

JOE. It certainly does, Lydia. And just one thing more, I want of you.

LYDIA. What?

JOE [rather shyly]. Take the Bible and read something to bind the promise. Just any verse.

LYDIA. This is becoming too solemn. I don't care for it.

[She approaches the lyre table, upon which, of course, is a Bible, and opens the book.]

JOE. Then I'll be ready to go.

LYDIA [looking at him sharply]. Go?

JOE. Upstairs.

[Lydia turns the leaves of the Bible.]

JOE. This will be our secret, Lydia. [He leans forward and looks out the French door, then turns to her impatiently.] What are you waiting for?

LYDIA. Yes, Joe, our secret. Let me see. Mother was always very fond of John. [Joe makes a movement of pain, which Lydia does not see.] Oh, I have the very thing to read you. How strange! It sounds like a prophecy for you.

JOE. Read it. [Steps are heard in the garden. Joe looks up in alarm.] Who is that coming?

LYDIA. Only Aunt Harriet.

[Harriet Wilde comes in through the French door.]

HARRIET. I managed, Lydia, to some extent, to repair the damage which you----[Seeing Joe, she stops in surprise.] Actually, Joe downstairs! But I felt certain this morning, my dear, when you were arguing in that unheard-of fashion, that you must be better.

LYDIA [hastily]. I don't think it has hurt him to come down, Aunt Harriet.

HARRIET. On the contrary, I think it has done him good.

JOE. I should say it did, Aunt Harriet,--you don't know how much. [Again he looks toward the rear door.]

HARRIET. What is it, Joe dear? Is the doctor coming again?

JOE. No, I hardly think the doctor will need to come again.

HARRIET. Why, how gratifying. I am so glad.

[Joe closes his eyes wearily.]

LYDIA. Aunt Harriet, Joe was just about to go up to his room, but he asked me to read something to him from the Bible first. I opened to this passage. Won't you read it to him?

HARRIET. Yes, I will indeed. It gives me great happiness, Joe, to see you really showing a desire for the holy word of the Scripture.

[Harriet takes the Bible from Lydia and stands in the light by the French door. She faces slightly away from Joe. Lydia walks to the rear door and stands directly beneath the portrait. She conceals a smile and looks expectantly toward her aunt.]

[Reading]: Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I----

JOE [sitting erect and interrupting]. Many mansions--many mansions--Lydia, Aunt Harriet--who said I couldn't build hou--houses--in----

[He sinks back. Harriet does not look at him, but shuts the Bible with displeasure and moves forward to place it on the table.]

HARRIET [coldly]. That is positive sacrilege, Joe.

[Lydia laughs triumphantly and steps to Joe's side, walking on her tip-toes and pretending to dance, pleased at her aunt's discomfiture.]

LYDIA [stopping by Joe and bending over him]. Didn't I say it was a prophecy?

[Joe does not answer nor open his eyes. Lydia takes his hand and then drops it in fear.]

LYDIA. Aunt Harriet, come here quickly!

[Harriet comes swiftly and stoops over Joe. She feels of his pulse and lays her hand against his heart.]

HARRIET. Joe, Joe!

LYDIA [moving distractedly toward the door]. I'll call the doctor.

HARRIET [standing very straight and twisting her handkerchief]. It will do no good, Lydia. Joe has gone. This is the way your father went and your grandfather--all the men in the Wilde family. But this is irregular. They never died so young.

[Lydia covers her face with her hands.]

HARRIET. And he seems so well. Why didn't the doctor--Lydia! This was their secret--this is what they wouldn't tell me!

LYDIA. Secret? Which secret?

[She looks at Joe and clasps her hands in anguish. Harriet kneels by the lounge and begins to pray.]

HARRIET. Dear Lord, I do beseech thee to grant peace and eternal rest to thy child come home to thee. Grant that he may forever sit in thy presence----

[Lydia, slowly realizing what her aunt is saying, runs to her side and makes her rise.]

LYDIA. Stop that! Stop it, I say! You worried him enough when he was alive. Now that he's dead, let him do what he wants to.

HARRIET. Lydia! You have lost your senses. Be calm, be calm. [Harriet crosses to the table and picks up the Bible.] Come. We will read a few verses and have faith that--

LYDIA [snatching the Bible from her aunt]. No you shan't! Let him alone. Oh, Joe, Joe, I'm trying. Be brave! You knew, all along. You were watching, you were expecting. Why didn't you tell me? [Lydia looks from Joe to the piano and back to Joe. She composes herself and puts her hands on her aunt's shoulders.] Where is the key to the piano?

HARRIET [horrified]. You wouldn't touch the piano in the presence of death!

LYDIA. Where is the key?

HARRIET [unable to fathom Lydia's strange demand]. It is gone. I don't know where it is.

LYDIA. Don't you? Don't you? [Sliding her hands toward her aunt's throat and turning toward Joe.] Be brave, Joe. [Speaking to her aunt.] Then if the key is gone, I shall have to take the fire-tongs.

[Lydia steps toward the fire-place.]

HARRIET. Lydia! Don't touch them! What are you about?

LYDIA [coming again to her aunt and placing her hands on her shoulders]. I want--that--key. And I want it quickly.

[They look squarely into one another's eyes.]

HARRIET [uncertainly]. I can't give it to you now. I will never give it to you.

LYDIA. No? [Almost breaking down.] Joe, why didn't you tell me? [Walking toward the hearth.] Very well, Aunt Harriet.

HARRIET [passing her hand over her eyes in terror]. Wait! Look in that old vase on the mantel. No--the one that we never use--with the crack in it--

[Lydia takes down the vase and tilts it. A key falls on the hearth with a ringing sound. She picks it up and quickly opens the piano.]

HARRIET. To think that this should happen in my house. Lord, what have I done to deserve it?

LYDIA [seating herself at the piano]. Joe, this sounds like wind blowing through willow trees. [She plays softly.] Good-by, Joe, good-by, dear. Good luck!

HARRIET [pulling down the blinds on either side of the fire-place]. Lydia, have you no religion?

LYDIA [controlling her agitation]. Yes--I have.

HARRIET [looking from Lydia to Joe]. I can't understand. Joe, poor Joe.

LYDIA. Let not your heart be troubled.... [Continuing to play.] I'm smiling, Joe. I'm laughing, Joe! Be strong....

[Harriet is stupefied. She starts toward Lydia, but stops. She lifts the Bible from the table, but replaces it hastily, as Lydia looks across at her.]

LYDIA [dreamily]. In my Father's house are many mansions.

[Harriet looks to the portrait above the door, as if for help.]

LYDIA. If it were not so--I would have told you--

[And Lydia looks mystically out into space and continues to play while

The Curtain Falls.]

TRIFLES

A PLAY

BY SUSAN GLASPELL

Copyright, 1920, by Small, Maynard & Company. All rights reserved.

TRIFLES was first produced by the Provincetown Players, at the Wharf Theatre, Provincetown, Mass., on August 8th, 1916, with the following cast:

GEORGE HENDERSON Robert Rogers. HENRY PETERS Robert Conville. LEWIS HALE George Cram Cook. MRS. PETERS Alice Hall. MRS. HALE Susan Glaspell.

It was later produced by the Washington Square Players at the Comedy Theatre, New York City, on the night of November 15th, 1916, with the following cast:

GEORGE HENDERSON T. W. Gibson. HENRY PETERS Arthur E. Hohl. LEWIS HALE John King. MRS. PETERS Marjorie Vonnegut. MRS. HALE Elinor M. Cox.

Reprinted from "Plays" by Susan Glaspell, published by Small, Maynard & Company, by permission of Miss Susan Glaspell and Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play must be made to Miss Susan Glaspell, care of Small, Maynard & Company, 41 Mt. Vernon Street, Boston, Mass.

TRIFLES

A PLAY BY SUSAN GLASPELL

[SCENE: The kitchen in the now abandoned farm-house of John Wright, a gloomy kitchen, and left without having been put in order--unwashed pans under the sink, a loaf of bread outside the bread-box, a dish-towel on the table--other signs of incompleted work. At the rear the outer door opens and the Sheriff comes in followed by the County Attorney and Hale. The Sheriff and Hale are men in middle life, the County Attorney is a young man; all are much bundled up and go at once to the stove. They are followed by the two women--the Sheriff's wife first; she is a slight wiry woman, a thin nervous face. Mrs. Hale is larger and would ordinarily be called more comfortable looking, but she is disturbed now and looks fearfully about as she enters. The women have come in slowly, and stand close together near the door.]

COUNTY ATTORNEY [rubbing his hands]. This feels good. Come up to the fire, ladies.

MRS. PETERS [after taking a step forward]. I'm not--cold.

SHERIFF [unbuttoning his overcoat and stepping away from the stove as if to mark the beginning of official business]. Now, Mr. Hale, before we move things about, you explain to Mr. Henderson just what you saw when you came here yesterday morning.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. By the way, has anything been moved? Are things just as you left them yesterday?

SHERIFF [looking about]. It's just the same. When it dropped below zero last night I thought I'd better send Frank out this morning to make a fire for us--no use getting pneumonia with a big case on, but I told him not to touch anything except the stove--and you know Frank.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Somebody should have been left here yesterday.

SHERIFF. Oh--yesterday. When I had to send Frank to Morris Center for that man who went crazy--I want you to know I had my hands full yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by to-day and as long as I went over everything here myself--

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Well, Mr. Hale, tell just what happened when you came here yesterday morning.

HALE. Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes. We came along the road from my place and as I got here I said, "I'm going to see if I can't get John Wright to go in with me on a party telephone." I spoke to Wright about it once before and he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet--I guess you know about how much he talked himself; but I thought maybe if I went to the house and talked about it before his wife, though I said to Harry that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to John--

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Let's talk about that later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about that, but tell now just what happened when you got to the house.

HALE. I didn't hear or see anything; I knocked at the door, and still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up, it was past eight o'clock. So I knocked again, and I thought I heard somebody say "Come in." I wasn't sure, I'm not sure yet, but I opened the door--this door [indicating the door by which the two women are still standing] and there in that rocker--[pointing to it] sat Mrs. Wright.

[They all look at the rocker.]

COUNTY ATTORNEY. What--was she doing?

HALE. She was rockin' back and forth. She had her apron in her hand and was kind of--pleating it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. And how did she--look?

HALE. Well, she looked queer.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. How do you mean--queer?

HALE. Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next. And kind of done up.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. How did she seem to feel about your coming?

HALE. Why, I don't think she minded--one way or other. She didn't pay much attention. I said, "How do, Mrs. Wright, it's cold, ain't it?" And she said "Is it?"--and went on kind of pleating at her apron. Well, I was surprised; she didn't ask me to come up to the stove, or to set down, but just sat there, not even looking at me, so I said, "I want to see John." And then she--laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh. I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said a little sharp: "Can't I see John?" "No," she says, kind o' dull like. "Ain't he home?" says I. "Yes," says she, "he's home." "Then why can't I see him?" I asked her, out of patience. "'Cause he's dead," says she. "Dead?" says I. She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin' back and forth. "Why--where is he?" says I, not knowing what to say. She just pointed upstairs--like that [himself pointing to the room above]. I got up, with the idea of going up there. I walked from there to here--then I says, "Why, what did he die of?" "He died of a rope round his neck," says she, and just went on pleatin' at her apron. Well, I went out and called Harry. I thought I might--need help. We went upstairs and there he was lyin'----

COUNTY ATTORNEY. I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs, where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story.

HALE. Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked.... [Stops, his face twitches.] ... but Harry, he went up to him, and he said, "No, he's dead all right, and we'd better not touch anything." So we went back down stairs. She was still sitting that same way. "Has anybody been notified?" I asked. "No," says he, unconcerned. "Who did this, Mrs. Wright?" said Harry. He said it business-like--and she stopped pleatin' of her apron. "I don't know," she says. "You don't know?" says Harry. "No," says she. "Weren't you sleepin' in the bed with him?" says Harry. "Yes," says she, "but I was on the inside." "Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him and you didn't wake up?" says Harry. "I didn't wake up," she said after him. We must 'a looked as if we didn't see how that could be, for after a minute she said, "I sleep sound." Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner, or the sheriff, so Harry went fast as he could to Rivers' place, where there's a telephone.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. And what did Mrs. Wright do when she knew that you had gone for the coroner?

HALE. She moved from that chair to this over here.... [Pointing to a small chair in the corner.] ... and just sat there with her hands held together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a telephone, and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me--scared. [The County Attorney, who has had his notebook out, makes a note.] I dunno, maybe it wasn't scared. I wouldn't like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't.

COUNTY ATTORNEY [looking around]. I guess we'll go upstairs first--and then out to the barn and around there. [To the Sheriff.] You're convinced that there was nothing important here--nothing that would point to any motive?

SHERIFF. Nothing here but kitchen things.

[The County Attorney, after again looking around the kitchen, opens the door of a cupboard closet. He gets up on a chair and looks on a shelf. Pulls his hand away, sticky.]

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Here's a nice mess.

[The women draw nearer.]

MRS. PETERS [to the other woman]. Oh, her fruit; it did freeze. [To the Lawyer.] She worried about that when it turned so cold. She said the fire'd go out and her jars would break.

SHERIFF. Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder and worryin' about her preserves.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. I guess before we're through she may have something more serious than preserves to worry about.

HALE. Well, women are used to worrying over trifles.

[The two women move a little closer together.]

COUNTY ATTORNEY [with the gallantry of a young politician]. And yet, for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies? [The women do not unbend. He goes to the sink, takes a dipperful of water from the pail and pouring it into a basin, washes his hands. Starts to wipe them on the roller-towel, turns it for a cleaner place.] Dirty towels! [Kicks his foot against the pans under the sink.] Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies?

MRS. HALE [stiffly]. There's a great deal of work to be done on a farm.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. To be sure. And yet.... [With a little bow to her.] ... I know there are some Dickson county farmhouses which do not have such roller towels.

[He gives it a pull to expose its full length again.]

MRS. HALE. Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always as clean as they might be.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Ah, loyal to your sex, I see. But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too.

MRS. HALE [shaking her head]. I've not seen much of her of late years. I've not been in this house--it's more than a year.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. And why was that? You didn't like her?

MRS. HALE. I liked her all well enough. Farmers' wives have their hands full, Mr. Henderson. And then--

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Yes--?

MRS. HALE [looking about]. It never seemed a very cheerful place.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. No--it's not cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the homemaking instinct.

MRS. HALE. Well, I don't know as Wright had, either.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. You mean that they didn't get on very well?

MRS. HALE. No, I don't mean anything. But I don't think a place'd be any cheerful for John Wright's being in it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. I'd like to talk more of that a little later. I want to get the lay of things upstairs now.

[He goes to the left, where three steps lead to a stair door.]

SHERIFF. I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does'll be all right. She was to take in some clothes for her, you know, and a few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Yes, but I would like to see what you take, Mrs. Peters, and keep an eye out for anything that might be of use to us.

MRS. PETERS. Yes, Mr. Henderson.

[The women listen to the men's steps on the stairs, then look about the kitchen.]

MRS. HALE. I'd hate to have men coming into my kitchen, snooping around and criticizing.

[She arranges the pans under sink which the Lawyer had shoved out of place.]

MRS. PETERS. Of course it's no more than their duty.

MRS. HALE. Duty's all right, but I guess that deputy sheriff that came out to make the fire might have got a little of this on. [Gives the roller towel a pull.] Wish I'd thought of that sooner. Seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up when she had to come away in such a hurry.

MRS. PETERS [who has gone to a small table in the left rear corner of the room, and lifted one end of a towel that covers a pan]. She had bread set. [Stands still.]

MRS. HALE [eyes fixed on a loaf of bread beside the bread-box, which is on a low shelf at the other side of the room. Moves slowly toward it.] She was going to put this in there. [Picks up loaf, then abruptly drops it. In a manner of returning to familiar things.] It's a shame about her fruit. I wonder if it's all gone. [Gets up on the chair and looks.] I think there's some here that's all right, Mrs. Peters. Yes--here; [Holding it toward the window.] this is cherries, too. [Looking again.] I declare I believe that's the only one. [Gets down, bottle in her hand. Goes to the sink and wipes it off on the outside.] She'll feel awful bad after all her hard work in the hot weather. I remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer.

[She puts the bottle on the big kitchen table, center of the room, front table. With a sigh, is about to sit down in the rocking-chair. Before she is seated realizes what chair it is; with a slow look at it, steps back. The chair which she has touched rocks back and forth.]

MRS. PETERS. Well, I must get those things from the front room closet. [She goes to the door at the right, but after looking into the other room, steps back.] You coming with me, Mrs. Hale? You could help me carry them.

[They go in the other room; reappear, Mrs. Peters carrying a dress and skirt, Mrs. Hale following with a pair of shoes.]

MRS. PETERS. My, it's cold in there.

[She puts the cloth on the big table, and hurries to the stove.]

MRS. HALE [examining the skirt]. Wright was close. I think maybe that's why she kept so much to herself. She didn't even belong to the Ladies' Aid. I suppose she felt she couldn't do her part, and then you don't enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes and be lively, when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls singing in the choir. But that--oh, that was thirty years ago. This all you was to take in?

MRS. PETERS. She said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to want, for there isn't much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose just to make her feel more natural. She said they was in the top drawer in this cupboard. Yes, here. And then her little shawl that always hung behind the door. [Opens stair door and looks.] Yes, here it is.

[Quickly shuts door leading upstairs.]

MRS. HALE [abruptly moving toward her]. Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS. Yes, Mrs. Hale?

MRS. HALE. Do you think she did it?

MRS. PETERS [in a frightened voice]. Oh, I don't know.

MRS. HALE. Well, I don't think she did. Asking for an apron and her little shawl. Worrying about her fruit.

MRS. PETERS [starts to speak, glances up, where footsteps are heard in the room above. In a low voice]. Mr. Peters says it looks bad for her. Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech and he'll make fun of her sayin' she didn't wake up.

MRS. HALE. Well, I guess John Wright didn't wake when they was slipping that rope under his neck.

MRS. PETERS. No, it's strange. It must have been done awful crafty and still. They say it was such a--funny way to kill a man, rigging it all up like that.

MRS. HALE. That's just what Mr. Hale said. There was a gun in the house. He says that's what he can't understand.

MRS. PETERS. Mr. Henderson said coming out that what was needed for the case was a motive; something to show anger, or--sudden feeling.

MRS. HALE [who is standing by the table]. Well, I don't see any signs of anger around here. [She puts her hand on the dish towel which lies on the table, stands looking down at table, one half of which is clean, the other half messy.] It's wiped here. [Makes a move as if to finish work, then turns and looks at loaf of bread outside the bread-box. Drops towel. In that voice of coming back to familiar things.] Wonder how they are finding things upstairs? I hope she had it a little more red-up up there. You know, it seems kind of sneaking. Locking her up in town and then coming out here and trying to get her own house to turn against her!

MRS. PETERS. But, Mrs. Hale, the law is the law.

MRS. HALE. I s'pose 'tis. [Unbuttoning her coat.] Better loosen up your things, Mrs. Peters. You won't feel them when you go out.

[Mrs. Peters takes off her fur tippet, goes to hang it on hook at back of room, stands looking at the under part of the small corner table.]

MRS. PETERS. She was piecing a quilt.

[She brings the large sewing basket and they look at the bright pieces.]

MRS. HALE. It's log cabin pattern. Pretty, isn't it? I wonder if she was goin' to quilt it or just knot it?

[Footsteps have been heard coming down the stairs. The Sheriff enters, followed by Hale and the County Attorney.]

SHERIFF. They wonder if she was going to quilt it or just knot it.

[The men laugh, the women look abashed.]

COUNTY ATTORNEY [rubbing his hands over the stove]. Frank's fire didn't do much up there, did it? Well, let's go out to the barn and get that cleared up.

[The men go outside.]

MRS. HALE [resentfully]. I don't know as there's anything so strange, our takin' up our time with little things while we're waiting for them to get the evidence. [She sits down at the big table smoothing out a block of decision.] I don't see as it's anything to laugh about.

MRS. PETERS [apologetically]. Of course they've got awful important things on their minds.

[Pulls up a chair and joins Mrs. Hale at the table.]

MRS. HALE [examining another block]. Mrs. Peters, look at this one. Here, this is the one she was working on, and look at the sewing! All the rest of it has been so nice and even. And look at this! It's all over the place! Why, it looks as if she didn't know what she was about!

[After she has said this they look at each other, then start to glance back at the door. After an instant Mrs. Hale has pulled at a knot and ripped the sewing.]

MRS. PETERS. Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?

MRS. HALE [mildly]. Just pulling out a stitch or two that's not sewed very good. [Threading a needle.] Bad sewing always made me fidgety.

MRS. PETERS [nervously]. I don't think we ought to touch things.

MRS. HALE. I'll just finish up this end. [Suddenly stopping and leaning forward.] Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS. Yes, Mrs. Hale?

MRS. HALE. What do you suppose she was so nervous about?

MRS. PETERS. Oh--I don't know. I don't know as she was nervous. I sometimes sew awful queer when I'm just tired. [Mrs. Hale starts to say something, looks at Mrs. Peters, then goes on sewing.] Well, I must get these things wrapped up. They may be through sooner than we think. [Putting apron and other things together.] I wonder where I can find a piece of paper, and string.

MRS. HALE. In that cupboard, maybe.

MRS. PETERS [looking in cupboard]. Why, here's a bird-cage. [Holds it up.] Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?

MRS. HALE. Why, I don't know whether she did or not--I've not been here for so long. There was a man around last year selling canaries cheap, but I don't know as she took one; maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty herself.

MRS. PETERS [glancing around]. Seems funny to think of a bird here. But she must have had one, or why should she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it?

MRS. HALE. I s'pose maybe the cat got it.

MRS. PETERS. No, she didn't have a cat. She's got that feeling some people have about cats--being afraid of them. My cat got in her room and she was real upset and asked me to take it out.

MRS. HALE. My sister Bessie was like that. Queer, ain't it?

MRS. PETERS [examining the cage]. Why, look at this door. It's broke. One hinge is pulled apart.

MRS. HALE [looking too]. Looks as if some one must have been rough with it.

MRS. PETERS. Why, yes.

[She brings the cage forward and puts it on the table.]

MRS. HALE. I wish if they're going to find any evidence they'd be about it. I don't like this place.

MRS. PETERS. But I'm awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale. It would be lonesome for me sitting here alone.

MRS. HALE. It would, wouldn't it? [Dropping her sewing.] But I tell you what I do wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over some times when she was here. I--[Looking around the room.]--wish I had.

MRS. PETERS. But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale--your house and your children.

MRS. HALE. I could've come. I stayed away because it weren't cheerful--and that's why I ought to have come. I--I've never liked this place. Maybe because it's down in a hollow and you don't see the road. I dunno what it is, but it's a lonesome place and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now--

[Shakes her head.]

MRS. PETERS. Well, you mustn't reproach yourself, Mrs. Hale. Somehow we just don't see how it is with other folks until--something comes up.

MRS. HALE. Not having children makes less work--but it makes a quiet house, and Wright out to work all day, and no company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS. Not to know him; I've seen him in town. They say he was a good man.

MRS. HALE. Yes--good; he didn't drink, and kept his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him. [Shivers.] Like a raw wind that gets to the bone. [Pauses, her eye falling on the cage.] I should think she would 'a wanted a bird. But what do you suppose went with it?

MRS. PETERS. I don't know, unless it got sick and died.

[She reaches over and swings the broken door, swings it again, both women watch it.]

MRS. HALE. You weren't raised round here, were you? [Mrs. Peters shakes her head.] You didn't know--her?

MRS. PETERS. Not till they brought her yesterday.

MRS. HALE. She--come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself--real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and--fluttery. How--she--did--change. [Silence; then as if struck by a happy thought and relieved to get back to every day things.] Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind.

MRS. PETERS. Why, I think that's a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale. There couldn't possibly be any objection to it, could there? Now, just what would I take? I wonder if her patches are in here--and her things.

[They look in the sewing basket.]

MRS. HALE. Here's some red. I expect this has got sewing things in it. [Brings out a fancy box.] What a pretty box. Looks like something somebody would give you. Maybe her scissors are in here. [Opens box. Suddenly puts her hand to her nose.] Why--[Mrs. Peters bends nearer, then turns her face away.] There's something wrapped up in this piece of silk.

MRS. PETERS. Why, this isn't her scissors.

MRS. HALE [lifting the silk]. Oh, Mrs. Peters--it's--

[Mrs. Peters bends closer.]

MRS. PETERS. It's the bird.

MRS. HALE [jumping up]. But, Mrs. Peters--look at it. Its neck! Look at its neck! It's all--other side to.

MRS. PETERS. Somebody--wrung--its neck.

[Their eyes met. A look of growing comprehension of horror. Steps are heard outside. Mrs. Hale slips box under quilt pieces, and sinks into her chair. Enter Sheriff and County Attorney. Mrs. Peters rises.]

COUNTY ATTORNEY [as one turning from serious things to little pleasantries]. Well, ladies, have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?

MRS. PETERS. We think she was going to--knot it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Well, that's interesting, I'm sure. [Seeing the bird-cage.] Has the bird flown?

MRS. HALE [putting more quilt pieces over the box]. We think the--cat got it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY [preoccupied]. Is there a cat?

[Mrs. Hale glances in a quick covert way at Mrs. Peters.]

MRS. PETERS. Well, not now. They're superstitious, you know. They leave.

COUNTY ATTORNEY [to Sheriff Peters, continuing an interrupted conversation]. No sign at all of any one having come from the outside. Their own rope. Now let's go up again and go over it piece by piece. [They start upstairs.] It would have to have been some one who knew just the----

[Mrs. Peters sits down. The two women sit there not looking at one another, but as if peering into something and at the same time holding back. When they talk now it is in the manner of feeling their way over strange ground, as if afraid of what they are saying, but as if they can not help saying it.]

MRS. HALE. She liked the bird. She was going to bury it in that pretty box.

MRS. PETERS [in a whisper]. When I was a girl--my kitten--there was a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes--and before I could get there----[Covers her face an instant.] If they hadn't held me back I would have--[Catches herself, looks upstairs where steps are heard, falters weakly]--hurt him.

MRS. HALE [with a slow look around her]. I wonder how it would seem never to have had any children around. [Pause.] No, Wright wouldn't like the bird--a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that, too.

MRS. PETERS [moving uneasily]. We don't know who killed the bird.

MRS. HALE. I knew John Wright.

MRS. PETERS. It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs. Hale. Killing a man while he slept, slipping a rope around his neck that choked the life out of him.

MRS. HALE. His neck. Choked the life out of him.

[Her hand goes out and rests on the bird-cage.]

MRS. PETERS [with rising voice]. We don't know who killed him. We don't know.

MRS. HALE [her own feeling not interrupted]. If there'd been years and years of nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful--still, after the bird was still.

MRS. PETERS [something within her speaking]. I know what stillness is. When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died--after he was two years old, and me with no other then----

MRS. HALE [moving]. How soon do you suppose they'll be through, looking for the evidence?

MRS. PETERS. I know what stillness is. [Pulling herself back.] The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale.

MRS. HALE [not as if answering that]. I wish you'd seen Minnie Foster when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons and stood up there in the choir and sang. [A look around the room.] Oh, I wish I'd come over here once in a while? That was a crime! That was a crime! Who's going to punish that?

MRS. PETERS [looking upstairs]. We mustn't--take on.

MRS. HALE. I might have known she needed help! I know how things can be--for women. I tell you, it's queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close together and we live far apart. We all go through the same things--it's all just a different kind of the same thing. [Brushes her eyes, noticing the bottle of fruit, reaches out for it.] If I was you I wouldn't tell her her fruit was gone. Tell her it ain't. Tell her it's all right. Take this in to prove it to her. She--she may never know whether it was broke or not.

MRS. PETERS [takes the bottle, looks about for something to wrap it in; takes petticoat from the clothes brought from the other room, very nervously begins winding this around the bottle. In a false voice]. My, it's a good thing the men couldn't hear us. Wouldn't they just laugh! Getting all stirred up over a little thing like a--dead canary. As if that could have anything to do with--with--wouldn't they laugh!

[The men are heard coming down stairs.]

MRS. HALE [under her breath]. Maybe they would--maybe they wouldn't.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. No, Peters, it's all perfectly clear except a reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some definite thing. Something to show--something to make a story about--a thing that would connect up with this strange way of doing it.

[The women's eyes meet for an instant. Enter Hale from outer door.]

HALE. Well, I've got the team around. Pretty cold out there.

COUNTY ATTORNEY. I'm going to stay here a while by myself. [To the Sheriff.] You can send Frank out for me, can't you? I want to go over everything. I'm not satisfied that we can't do better.

SHERIFF. Do you want to see what Mrs. Peters is going to take in?

[The Lawyer goes to the table, picks up the apron, laughs.]

COUNTY ATTORNEY. Oh, I guess they're not very dangerous things the ladies have picked out. [Moves a few things about, disturbing the quilt pieces which cover the box. Steps back.] No, Mrs. Peters doesn't need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff's wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS. Not--just that way.

SHERIFF [chuckling]. Married to the law. [Moves toward the other room.] I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows.

COUNTY ATTORNEY [scoffingly]. Oh, windows!

SHERIFF. We'll be right out, Mr. Hale.

[Hale goes outside. The Sheriff follows the County Attorney into the other room. Then Mrs. Hale rises, hands tight together, looking intensely at Mrs. Peters, whose eyes make a slow turn, finally meeting Mrs. Hale's. A moment Mrs. Hale holds her, then her own eyes point the way to where the box is concealed. Suddenly Mrs. Peters throws back quilt pieces and tries to put the box in the bag she is wearing. It is too big. She opens box, starts to take bird out, cannot touch it, goes to pieces, stands there helpless. Sound of a knob turning in the other room. Mrs. Hale snatches the box and puts it in the pocket of her big coat. Enter County Attorney and Sheriff.

COUNTY ATTORNEY [facetiously]. Well, Henry, at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to--what is it you call it, ladies?

MRS. HALE [her hand against her pocket]. We call it--knot it, Mr. Henderson.

[Curtain.]

THE POT BOILER

A SATIRE

BY ALICE GERSTENBERG

Copyright, 1916, by Alice Gerstenberg. All rights reserved.

THE POT BOILER was first produced by the Players' Workshop, Chicago, Ill., on the night of November 20th, 1916, with the following cast:

THOMAS PINIKLES SUD [the playwright] William Ziegler Nourse. WOULDBY [the novice] Morton Howard, Jr. MR. IVORY [the financier] Henry Ryan. MR. RULER [the hero] Donovan Yeuell. MISS IVORY [the heroine] Caroline Kohl. MR. INKWELL [the villain] H. C. Swartz. MRS. PENCIL [the woman] Anna Buxton.

THE POT BOILER is published for the first time. The editors are indebted to Miss Gerstenberg for permission to include it in this volume. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications from amateurs to produce the play should be addressed to Norman Lee Swartout, 24 Blackburn Road, Summit, N. J. Professionals should address Miss Alice Gerstenberg, 539 Deming Place, Chicago, Ill.

THE POT BOILER

A SATIRE BY ALICE GERSTENBERG

[SCENE: A stage only half set for a morning rehearsal and dimly lighted. Sud, a successful playwright, enters in a hurry carrying a leather bag of manuscripts.]

STAGE HAND. Good morning, Mr. Sud.

SUD. Good morning, Gus. Just set two doors; that'll be all I'll need this morning. We're rehearsing for lines. [Steps down stage and calls front.] Joe, I'm expecting a young man, it's all right, let him in.

WOULDBY [from auditorium back]. I'm here now, Mr. Sud.

SUD. Come up, Mr. Wouldby. Some more border lights, please.

WOULDBY. It's very good of you to let me in.

SUD. I was fond of your father. I am glad to see his son.

WOULDBY. I have written a play, too.

SUD. Too bad, too bad, you make the price of paper go up.

WOULDBY. It must be wonderful to be the master playwright of our day. Everybody knows Mr. Thomas Pinikles Sud.

SUD [setting stage]. Yes, it is a privilege to be a friend of mine!

WOULDBY [pursuing Sud]. Will you read my manuscript, sir?

SUD. Never roll a manuscript. I see very well you don't even know the first principles.

WOULDBY. How can I learn the first principles? No one will tell me.

SUD. Wait, I will do a great thing for you, let you stay and see a dress rehearsal of my latest play, "The Pot Boiler." In it I have used all dramatic principles.

WOULDBY. What are they?

SUD. Well, for instance, this pencil is the woman in the case.

WOULDBY. Pencil!

SUD. This inkwell is the villain, although that's really too dark for him. Deep-eyed villains are out of fashion.

WOULDBY. Inkwell!

SUD. The heroine is Miss Ivory paper cutter.

WOULDBY. Ivory!

SUD. Mr. Ruler is the hero.

WOULDBY. Ruler!

[Other characters enter from stage door.]

SUD. I haven't finished writing it, but we're going through it this morning as far as I have written, then I shall see how to go on. Here are the players now. Line up, please, and let me see your costumes. [He studies them.] Now to work--[Rubbing his hands.] to work--clear the stage!

[_Mrs. Pencil and Ruler go out left; Mr. and Miss Ivory and Inkwell go out right and close the door._]

SUD. Mr. Wouldby, if you sit down here with me, we'll be out of the way. [Sud and Wouldby sit on two stools way down right.] You must imagine that this room is the library in Mr. Ivory's house. [Sud claps his hands and calls.] Ready.

[There is a pause, then the door up left opens and Mrs. Pencil comes in; her pantomime is as Sud explains it to Wouldby.]

SUD [in stage whisper to Wouldby]. The adventuress--she comes in--she has been cut--she is worried--that nervous twitching of lips and narrowing of eyes are always full of suspense--she takes off her gloves, her hat--that's good business. A door opens--she starts--by starting she shows you she is guilty of something--

MISS IVORY [without hat or gloves enters from right]. Oh, there you are, Mrs. Pencil.

MRS. PENCIL. Yes, I'm back.

MISS IVORY. I thought I should have to drink my tea without you.

[_They sit down to tea--Miss Ivory back of table center. Mrs. Pencil left of table._]

SUD [in stage whisper to Wouldby]. That tells the audience what time of the day it is; besides, drinking afternoon tea shows Miss Ivory is in society.

MRS. PENCIL. Isn't your father going to join us?

SUD [aside]. That's merely to show the girl has a father.

MISS IVORY. No, he is talking business with Mr. Inkwell.

MRS. PENCIL [starting]. Inkwell!

MISS IVORY. Yes, do you know him?

MRS. PENCIL [evasively]. I? Oh--no.

MISS IVORY. You've heard of him?

MRS. PENCIL. Yes--of course----

SUD [aside]. Do you catch it? Do you see how her nervousness and her few words at once suggest that there is a link between Mrs. Pencil and Inkwell? That's where I show my technique.

WOULDBY [scratching his head]. Technique! How can I learn it?

SUD. It is the secret that every playwright locks in his breast. Keep the young ones out! Mum is the word!

MISS IVORY. I am so sorry father has all this trouble with the brick-layers. They shouldn't have gone on a strike--just now--when you are visiting us.

SUD [to Wouldby]. That tells that Mrs. Pencil is a guest in Miss Ivory's house.

MISS IVORY. When you were here last year my mother----

SUD [aside]. The girl hesitates--they both look sorrowful; we had to cut down the cast, so I killed off her mother.

MRS. PENCIL [sadly, with foreign accent]. Ah, my dear--we were such close friends--since my arrival in this country----

SUD [aside]. You see, I had to make her a foreigner. A villainess always talks with a foreign accent.

MRS. PENCIL. I haven't had much time to read particulars about the strike. Does your father still refuse to arbitrate?

MISS IVORY [haughtily]. What right have brick-layers to make rules for my father? He would show his weakness if he gave in--I have faith that what he does is right.

SUD [to Wouldby]. The innocent heroine, so cool and pure and white.

[The right door opens and Inkwell enters--he starts as he sees Mrs. Pencil; there is a straight look of recognition between them which Miss Ivory does not see.]

SUD [aside]. That's a dramatic scene. Doesn't it thrill your spine?

MISS IVORY. Mrs. Pencil, may I introduce Mr. Inkwell--[Inkwell and Mrs. Pencil bow slightly.] Will you have a dish of tea?

SUD. Cup, cup of tea.

MISS IVORY. Dish; dish of tea, or I quit. [Pause.] Which is it?

SUD. Oh, very well, dish if you like.

[Sud's manner indicates he gives in simply to let the rehearsal progress, but that he will settle with Miss Ivory later.]

MISS IVORY. Please tell me that you have ordered the strikers to come to father's terms?

MR. INKWELL [at right of table]. He is looking through his safe for more papers so he asked me to wait in here.

SUD. That's an explanation why he came in.

MISS IVORY [offering cup]. How many lumps?

SUD [aside]. That question of the number of lumps is very important; it gives a natural air to the scene.

MISS IVORY. I am going to the dining-room to get some arrack for your tea.

MR. INKWELL [nervously]. Oh, please don't trouble----

MISS IVORY. No trouble at all.

[Exit right.]

SUD. When you want to get a character out, you've got to get 'em out.

MR. INKWELL [at right of table, to Mrs. Pencil]. You here!

MRS. PENCIL [at left of table]. Sch! I had to come! I couldn't live without you any longer----

INKWELL. But in this house?

MRS. PENCIL. I was her mother's friend.

INKWELL. You are indiscreet----

MRS. PENCIL. I was desperate for you! You kept putting me off--when I read about this strike I had to come.

SUD. Mrs. Pencil is the dreadful woman! A play can't exist without her----

WOULDBY. You mean she was his----

SUD [seriously]. Oh, yes--the more fuss we make about her the better.

MRS. PENCIL. Oh! Clem! You aren't glad to see me! Oh! that I have lived for this!!!

[She tears around the stage waving her hands in grief--making faces of agony. Sud rises in astonishment and follows her left.]

SUD [shrieks in anger]. Idiot! Can't you talk! Do you think I write lines to be cut? How dare you cut my lines!!!

MRS. PENCIL. I've done just what it says. [She takes her part from table, reads from it and shows it to him.] "Mrs. Pencil shows extreme despair and passionately----"

SUD. That's not the play! That's the moving picture version!!! Come here.

[He fumbles with his papers. Takes blue pencil to her part, changes his mind and uses red pencil--and puts them back of different ears.]

WOULDBY. Oh! Have you the same play ready for the movies?

SUD. I write in columns--alongside of each other. Dramatic version, moving picture, novelization--for magazines--newspapers and books.

WOULDBY. All at once!

SUD. Yes!

WOULDBY. What are all the pins for?

SUD. When I cut out a line one place--I keep it until I find a place somewhere else to patch it in.

[Hands new lines to Mrs. Pencil, who is back of table center.]

WOULDBY. A great playwright has to be economical with his great ideas!

SUD. Yes, if he wants a yacht.

MRS. PENCIL [studying her book]. Now I see, now I see--Mr. Sud. Shall I go on?

SUD. Yes, go on!

[Sud comes down right to Wouldby.]

MRS. PENCIL. Oh! Clem--I was so frightened when I heard about the strikers. Even if you are their leader now, they might turn and murder you.

[Mrs. Pencil and Inkwell play center, front of table.]

INKWELL. Nonsense, I control the strikers, they come to me for orders. I'll stop this strike as soon as old Ivory gives me my price.

MRS. PENCIL. What do the brick-layers want?

INKWELL. They want shorter hours, more pay, better light--better air----

[Inkwell stops and looks at Sud.]

SUD. Go on--go on--don't glare at me!

INKWELL. Pardon me, Mr. Sud--but you have me say the brick-layers want better air. It doesn't sound right. You see brick-layers work out of doors and the air there is--I beg your pardon--it's in no way of criticism, sir----

SUD. Come here. [He cuts the line, using wrong colored pencil first.] Leave out "light and air." That's a confusion from bad typing in the serial version. Go on, Mr. Inkwell.

INKWELL [sits right of table and Mrs. Pencil left]. See here, Kate, you keep out of this business--I'm not going to be spied on by any woman.

MRS. PENCIL [in whisper]. Who is spying on you?

INKWELL [in whisper]. You!!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

SUD [smacks his lips]. Now we are coming to a big scene! There is nothing so effective as the repetition of the same words brought up to a climax. Begin again, Mrs. Pencil. "Who is spying on you?"

MRS. PENCIL. Who is spying on you?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

SUD [tearing his hair--going to them]. Parrots! Nothing but parrots! Increase the stress--build up the scene--build--build!

INKWELL. How can we build when you don't give us any lines?

SUD. What do you call yourselves actors for if you can't supply acting when the playwright uses dashes!--This is the biggest scene in the play. [Crosses to lower left.] The very fact that I don't give you a lot of literary lines puts me in the class of the most forceful dramatists of the day! My plays are not wishy-washy lines! They are full of action--red-blood--of flesh and blood! Now you do your part--bing-bang stuff!--shake them in their chairs out there--make shivers run up their spines! Make 'em feel you! Compel their applause! Now go to it! Go to it!!!

[Sud sets the tempo, repeating their words.]

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

SUD [shouts]. Get it over! Get it over!

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

SUD [shouts]. Get it over! Mr. Wouldby, is it getting over?

WOULDBY [looks at footlights]. I don't see anything get over.

SUD. He doesn't see it! You hear? He doesn't see it! Begin again! And please, please, please--get it over--over!!

[He motions violently with his arms during following scene as if to help them raise the vitality of the scene. Sud sets tempo again.]

MRS. PENCIL. Who is spying on you?

INKWELL. You!

MRS. PENCIL. I?

INKWELL. You!!

MRS. PENCIL. I??

INKWELL. You!!!

MRS. PENCIL. I???

INKWELL. You!!!!!

MRS. PENCIL. I??????

INKWELL [fiercely]. You!!!!!!!

MRS. PENCIL. I???????

INKWELL. What do you call it then, coming here after me like this?

MRS. PENCIL. What do you mean--like this?

SUD [shrieks--beside himself]. Like what?

MRS. PENCIL. Like this?

SUD. Accent it--stress it--increase it! Like what?

MRS. PENCIL. Like this!

SUD. Like what?

MRS. PENCIL. Like this!

SUD [rushes around circuit of stage and ends near Wouldby]. The best scene in the play--ruined--ruined! I'm noted for my strong, laconic scenes and you make me suffer like this. Perfectly hopeless--I say increase--you decrease; nothing but animal sounds! Nothing but a machine! Oh! What's the use! Go on, go on--now you see, Mr. Wouldby, how actors can make plays fail--

MRS. PENCIL. If you'd write us a decent play once we might--

SUD. No back-talk, madam! I haven't engaged you yet. If you can't play it any better, I'll let you out! Show us what you can do with the rest of the scene! By Heaven--if you can't pound his chest right the box office will lose money on you!

WOULDBY [his eyes popping]. Oh! Must she pound him?

SUD. Seeing a woman pounding a man's chest and hearing her scream is worth two dollars to anybody. Go on, Mrs. Pencil.

MRS. PENCIL. You are keeping something from me? You have deceived me! You dog! Tell me! Tell me! Who is she? Where is she? You are keeping something from me!

[She pounds Inkwell in a rage.]

WOULDBY [in innocent wonderment]. Is she trying to yank it out of his chest?

SUD. Pound! Pound! Get it over! [Sud rushes back between Mrs. Pencil and Inkwell, pushes her down left, drags Inkwell to center, grasps his coat lapel, shakes him violently and shouts her lines: "You are keeping something from me." and pushes Inkwell to right. Sud turns quickly to left and shows her his manuscript.] I wrote "applause" here. You've got to get applause here--so pound!

INKWELL. Would you mind skipping the scene to-day? I'll wear a foot-ball suit to-morrow.

SUD [in scorn]. Just like an actor to have a personal prejudice against a part.

INKWELL. I'm not "suited" to it yet--but with the proper costume--

SUD [in scorn]. You must not rely on costume! Think of your art!

WOULDBY. But why must she pound him so hard?

SUD [down left]. Because he is the villain and the audience likes to see him get it.

MRS. PENCIL [at right and Inkwell to her left]. Who is she? You are keeping something from me!

WOULDBY. What has he done to make him the villain?

SUD. I didn't want an explanation here, so I had to interrupt them--sch--here comes Miss Ivory.

[Miss Ivory enters.]

SUD. Such interruptions reek with dramatic intensity.

MISS IVORY. Here is the arrack for you, Mr. Inkwell--

INKWELL [accepting it]. Thank you.

MRS. PENCIL [nervously]. I think I'll take my hat to my room--

[Inkwell gives her her hat. She goes out.]

SUD [aside]. Not a bad excuse, the hat! Eh? I had to get her out.

WOULDBY. Very natural--yes--indeed--

MISS IVORY [seated at right of table. Inkwell stands back of table--center]. Well, Mr. Inkwell, I hope we may yet succeed in claiming you as a friend--instead of coddling you as an enemy.

INKWELL. If you treat all your enemies so well--what must you do for your friends?

MISS IVORY. We abuse those we love.

SUD [nudging Wouldby--aside]. Quite epigrammatic, eh?

INKWELL. Even abuse at such fair hands could only please.

SUD [aside]. Did you catch the subtlety of that line?

MISS IVORY [nervously]. Wi--wi--will you have some more tea?

INKWELL [coming left of table--to be opposite her--catching her hand.] I don't want tea--I want you! I love you!

SUD. Wait a moment! That's too abrupt! I've some more lines here somewhere. [Looks through slips pinned in manuscript.] I cut some out of the beginning of the act. When the first curtain went up and the maid was discovered dusting the room I had the Irish butler make love to her. [To Wouldby.] [Handing Inkwell a paragraph.] There, Inkwell, are the love lines I was looking for. Proceed, please.

MISS IVORY. Shall I go back?

INKWELL. To tea.

MISS IVORY. Wi--will--will you have some m--more--t--tea?

INKWELL [catching her hand and bringing her forward, he gives speech with Irish accent]. I don't want tea--I want you! I love you! Oh! My darlint, it is a terrible sensation I'ave for you, I'ave--'and me your little 'and in moine, for the loikes of you I never--[As all look dazed and Inkwell has trouble twisting his tongue.] I beg pardon, Mr. Sud, but this is a butler making love--I am playing the part of a gentleman--

SUD [has dropped from his stool and retired in tears and rage up right]. Haven't you any brains of your own? If a musician can transpose music by sight, can't you do the same to dialogue?

INKWELL. But a gentleman doesn't make love like a--

SUD [goes up stage again--ends at his stool by Wouldby]. He means the same--now go on--I can't stand these arguments. They will give me apoplexy!

MISS IVORY. Oh! Come on, Robert, say anything.

[They sit at table again.]

INKWELL. Ahem!

MISS IVORY. Wi--wi--will you have some more t--tea?

INKWELL. I don't want tea! I want you! I love you! Oh! My darling--it is a wonderful feeling--this one--that--which I have for you--indeed--that one which I have for you--put your hand in mine--for a woman like you never before fr--fr--never before have I seen a woman such as you--

[Again he has brought Miss Ivory down center.]

SUD. My stars! Leave out the h's. That--which--such!--Get it clear for to-morrow's rehearsal.

INKWELL [puts paragraph in his pocket--hesitatingly, doubtfully, sarcastically]. I ought to have my name on the program as co-author.

[Exit left.]

SUD [jumps forward]. You ought to have it cut out of the program when you forget to act! [Raps on floor and cries out.] Mr. Ruler--Mr. Ruler--Pay some attention to your cues, please!--

[Sud goes off stage center over bridge into pit.]

RULER [pokes head in from left]. Beg pardon, sir--I didn't hear my cue!

SUD [at right of center]. It's your business to listen for it.

RULER. But they didn't give me the cue!

SUD. Well, what is your cue?

RULER [not seen]. What is it?

SUD. I asked you what your cue was?

RULER [appears]. What is it?

SUD. Is your hearing perfectly clear?

RULER. Perfectly.

SUD. Then will you kindly tell me what your cue is?

RULER. What is it?

SUD. I shall go mad! I'm dealing with lunatics! Lunatics--Once again I ask you, Mr. Ruler--if you can hear--[Yells.] Kindly read from your book and tell me what your cue is--

RULER [yells furiously and is now down stage]. I've been trying to tell you my cue is "WHAT IS IT!"

[During this scene all the other players come in to see the fight and grin.]

SUD [wipes perspiration from brow]. Heart disease! Heart disease--I shall die of it! That line was cut long ago!!! [Sud walks back and forth across the pit.] The trouble with you actors is you can't forget. Oh! If you could only forget!

WOULDBY [meekly]. I always thought actors had to remember.

SUD. Any fool can remember--

RULER. See here, Mr. Sud--I don't take abuse! In fact, it's my first experience taking it from authors. In all the other companies I've been in the manager kept the playwright out. He wouldn't have him meddling about!

[Sud stops short during this speech--turns--straightens up--buttons coat--adjusts tie--faces Ruler.]

SUD. Mr. Ruler, I am backing the show. I haven't engaged you because you can act, but because you were born good-looking, which is scarcely a compliment to your own efforts. [Other players retire now laughing at Ruler.] If you please we will proceed. I'll find a line here somewhere in my treasure note books.

[He goes upstairs and stands near border lights aside to hunt through many books he has in his pockets. Ruler sits left of table to rest and smoke. Mr. Ivory and Mrs. Pencil play cards out of character up stage.]

MISS IVORY [talks out of character and gets light from Ruler for her cigarette]. Did you see the advance notices in the paper this morning, Jack--saying the Pot-Boiler is sold out three weeks in advance?

RULER. Bill told me there's a steady line outside of the box office.

MISS IVORY. I have visions of rehearsing all night outside the night before the opening.

RULER. I'm used to doing that, my dear. What gets me is the story of the plot the Sunday edition printed. How can the newspaper know the plot before the playwright does?

MISS IVORY. Doesn't Mr. Sud know his own plot?

RULER. Why! No, my part's not written after the second act.

MISS IVORY. My part isn't either, but it doesn't worry me. These authors--[She points to her forehead.] I don't memorize until dress rehearsal night. What's the use. They don't know themselves by that time what lines they told you to keep in or put in or take out. The next morning the critics re-write it anyway for the manager--I don't begin to memorize really--until we're settled for a run.

RULER [worried]. You'll throw me all out if you give wrong cues--

MISS IVORY [rises and strolls about]. Oh! When I can't use my tongue, I let my eyes talk. The public doesn't know the difference. I don't have to act, just be myself. They engage me for my eyes.

SUD. Ah! Here's a precious line [Goes up to Ruler.], take it down, Mr. Ruler. "I was in the neighborhood looking for some real estate." [All the players suppress a laugh.] Now, Mr. Ruler, you enter in time--[Sud goes down the stairs again.] You enter in time to interrupt Mr. Inkwell's declaration of love to Miss Ivory. They spring apart--spring! Mr. Inkwell! [Inkwell springs.] No, the house is not on fire!--I didn't say jump.

INKWELL. Spring is the same as jump!

[Ruler enters from left. Inkwell goes right, Miss Ivory comes center.]

SUD. There is no time to discuss synonyms. Go on, Miss Ivory.

MISS IVORY. Oh! Jack--hello!--where'd you come from?

RULER. I was in the neighborhood looking at some real estate--Hello, Inkwell--how's the strike?

[Miss Ivory and Ruler cross to give Ruler the center.]

INKWELL. If you could persuade Mr. Ivory to--

RULER. No--Inkwell--I'm not converted to your view! I have my own theories!

SUD [at left speaks across in delight to Wouldby]. Now we are coming to the kernel of the play's success. The new viewpoint--Use all the stock character and situations you want, but add a new twist.

WOULDBY. What does Ruler think?

SUD. Listen.

RULER. I believe sternly in justice--righteous expiation of sin--only in that way can we progress to higher things.

SUD. Forms, not things.

RULER. Beg pardon, forms--the position I hold to-day is the result of my desires in my previous life--when the trumpet calls me into the next--there I shall reap the harvest of what I have sown here. Why should we help the brick-layers?

[Miss Ivory interrupts, "Mr. Sud."]

SUD [waves her silent]. Sch!

RULER. If they chose in their past life to be born brick-layers here, have we the right--

[Miss Ivory interrupts several times. Miss Ivory is on stage left.]

SUD. Sch!!

RULER. I ask you--have we the right to tear down the building they designed when they were here before? Have we the right to say to them how they shall lay the bricks in the foundation for their next life? Have we the right--

MISS IVORY. Mr. Sudd!!!

SUD [at last in desperation]. Well, what is it, Miss Ivory?

MISS IVORY. Excuse me, Mr. Sud--but all this time--while Ruler is talking--I don't know what to do with my hands! Couldn't you cut his lines?

RULER. I protest! Mr. Sud, I would resent having a part shortened on me because the leading lady doesn't know what to do with her hands. I really think in this speech of mine you have shown your talent. To cut one word of it would do you a great injustice!

SUD [smiles at Ruler]. Thank you! Quite so! Quite so! Miss Ivory, during this scene you might be--you might be--be--fanning yourself--to keep yourself the heroine, cool and white.

WOULDBY. How well you understand human nature. The play is really more important than the players--isn't it?

SUD [aside. Goes back on stage and sits next to Wouldby]. Of course, but actors are so superbly conceited.

WOULDBY. I know--poor things!

SUD. Mr. Ivory's entrance.

WOULDBY. The girl's father?

IVORY [enters]. I could not find the papers in the safe, Inkwell. Ah--how-do-you-do, Jack.

POSITIONS

Inkwell Miss Ivory Mr. Ivory Ruler

[Ivory has crossed to Ruler and is between Miss Ivory and Ruler.]

RULER. Good morning, Mr. Ivory.

IVORY. Daughter, dear--do you know anything about the papers in the safe?

SUD. Keep up the suspense--Inkwell.

INKWELL. I have no lines here.

SUD. A villain should sustain the suggestion of villainy whether he has lines or not. Look uneasy--tremble--

[Inkwell looks uneasy and trembles.]

IVORY. But if I see him tremble, Mr. Sud, wouldn't I ask him if he had a chill?

SUD. It's not your business to be looking his way just then. Again, Inkwell.

[Inkwell trembles, etc.]

SUD [yells to Ivory]. Don't catch his eye!

IVORY [to Inkwell]. Will you tremble again please?

[Inkwell does so patiently.]

SUD. Count five for the tremble. Again please, "Daughter dear, do you know anything about the papers in the safe?"

IVORY. Daughter, dear, do you know anything about the papers in the safe?

SUD [excitedly]. Everybody look away. Tremble, Inkwell--Now, Inkwell, count five--now look at Inkwell--Again, please.

IVORY. Daughter, dear, do you know anything about the papers in the safe?

SUD [claps his hands]. One--two--three--four--five--

IVORY. Those valuable papers!

SUD. That's it, go ahead!

MISS IVORY. I don't even know the combination, father. Could they have been stolen?

WOULDBY. Did Inkwell really take them?

SUD. He's the villain, isn't he? I couldn't let the hero do it.

IVORY. What shall I do? Where shall I look? Where, oh where?

[Ivory goes up stage back of Miss Ivory to table and knocks off a revolver.]

MISS IVORY. Oh! Revolvers!

RULER. Let me, sir. [Picks them up.]

MISS IVORY [in terror]. Where did they come from?

WOULDBY [hands to ears]. Are they going to use them?

SUD. Of course. I had to show the audience the revolvers are there, so Ivory had to knock them down.

IVORY [is up stage. Places one revolver on table]. I have to have these near by when a strike is on, one never knows what to expect.

RULER [places other revolver on table]. Even I have one in my pocket.

INKWELL [slaps his side pocket]. And I in mine--

MISS IVORY. Oh! dear, how dreadful! Suppose one of them should go off! Oh! Do be careful!

INKWELL [insinuatingly]. Have you changed your mind, Mr. Ivory? Have you decided to accept my proposition?

MISS IVORY. What is your proposition, Mr. Inkwell?

INKWELL [goes left to Ruler]. I believe your father wishes to discuss it with you. Mr. Ruler, will you have a smoke with me in the orangerie?

SUD [corrects him with great disgust]. Orangerie!!!

[Inkwell and Ruler exeunt right.]

MISS IVORY [crosses right--anxiously]. What does he want to know--

IVORY [almost breaking down. Sinks into chair left of table]. Oh! My daughter--how can I tell you--how can I--I am ruined--ruined!

[Sud rises, and beats time in rhythm like a conductor to their "Ohs."]

MISS IVORY [a little up and left of table]. You--ruined--Oh!--

IVORY. Oh!

MISS IVORY. Oh!

SUD [turning to Wouldby and whispering audibly]. When you are hard up for conversation use Oh's--

[Sits quickly.]

IVORY. We have lived beyond our means--Oh!--my child--I have only brought you misery--

MISS IVORY [goes to father, stands back of his chair and caresses him]. Poor father--don't take it that way--I love you--we must live differently--anything you say--

WOULDBY [to Sud]. How sweet and sacrificial!

SUD [enthusiastically]. Ah! She's pure Ivory--a chip off the old block!

IVORY. That is not all. Inkwell represents the brick-layers; he will continue the strike unless I can buy him off.

[Sud goes up right, to be behind them. Faces them. Follows every line in his manuscript.]

MISS IVORY. And you can't raise the money?

IVORY. He doesn't want money. He wants to marry you! He will stop at nothing to get me into prison--any place to crush me--he has power. I have cause to fear him.

[Ivory at right.]

MISS IVORY [at left. In distress]. Oh! Oh!--How terrible--how terrible--what am I to say! Oh--father--and I can save you? And I hesitate? Yes--yes--I will--father!

[Rushes to Ivory's arms.]

IVORY. Oh! My daughter! My child! My child!

MISS IVORY. Yes, father, I will, cost me what it may. I will.

[She reads last line flatly.]

SUD. Miss Ivory! Show some feeling! Think how you feel when you read those lines!

MISS IVORY. I know how I feel [impudently. Then with some feeling.] Yes, father, I will. Cost me what it may, I will, Mr. Inkwell!

SUD. Abandonment, Miss Ivory--abandonment--

MISS IVORY [nods intelligently]. Mr. Inkwell! Mr. Ink--we--all--!

IVORY [rushing after Miss Ivory]. Wait--think--consider--

[Inkwell and Ruler enter right.]

INKWELL [takes her hand]. Ah, My dear!

IVORY [with bowed head]. Oh!

RULER [in alarm, to Miss Ivory]. My dear--what is it?

SUD. Now, there's your line of "what is it?" I tucked it in there.

MISS IVORY [goes left to Mr. Ruler. Ivory is up center. Inkwell is right]. I can't keep my promise to you--Mr. Ruler--please don't ask for an explanation.

RULER [excited, rushing up to Mr. Ivory]. What is it, Mr. Ivory?

IVORY [in despair, taking Ruler's arm for support]. Oh--I--am broken-hearted--she is going to marry Inkwell!

RULER. No!--no!--not while I live!

IVORY. It must be! Come with me--I'll tell you--alone!

RULER. Not while I live!

SUD [excitedly]. Mr. Ruler! Mr. Ruler! You go out too easily! Wait! I remember a precious line I cut out of one of my last year's plays. It is perfectly fresh! No novelty worn off and incontestably original! "I am coming back."

RULER [deferentially Ruler writes the line]. I am coming back--yes, sir. I am coming back.

SUD. There is no, "yes, sir," in it.

RULER. No, sir.

SUD. Do you wish to retire for a few minutes and commit to memory? [Ruler repeats the line.] Now that we are reaching the climax I want as few interruptions and references to the book as possible--

RULER. I think I have it. [All resume former positions. Sud climbs on his stool.] Cue please, Mr. Ivory.

IVORY [drags Ruler across to go out right]. Come with me--I'll tell you!--alone!

RULER. Not while I live! I am coming back! I am coming back!!!--I am coming back!

[Exeunt Ivory and Ruler right. Sud tiptoes up center to make sure Mrs. Pencil is ready for her cue.]

INKWELL [to Miss Ivory]. Now that they have left us alone--my darling--let me tell you how I have waited for this moment--

MISS IVORY [in despair and tears she tries to rush by to right, but he catches her]. No, let me pass--now, now. I have said yes, let it go at that--I cannot talk now--not now--

[Exit right weeping.]

MRS. PENCIL [in fury of jealousy opens door and enters in rage]. Coward! Villain!--I have been listening behind that door--all your false vows to me!

INKWELL [he tries to choke her]. Don't yell so!

MRS. PENCIL [in ordinary tone]. I will yell!

SUD [delighted]. Of course, she will! Shriek good, Mrs. Pencil.

MRS. PENCIL [shrieks]. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

INKWELL [they struggle. Grabs Mrs. Pencil to put his hand over her mouth]. Stop--! Stop!

SUD. Tussle! Tussle! The audience loves it!

[They fight.]

WOULDBY. But what did Inkwell do?

SUD [talks fast over shoulder to Wouldby like a man in a fast auto talks to another passing]. Can't you tell. Haven't decided yet! Explanation in last act. No time now. Reaching climax of play. Keep it up! Keep it up!

MRS. PENCIL [yelling]. Oh! The treachery--perjury--You are not fit to live! I'll have my revenge--Revenge! Bing! Bang! [She grabs revolver from table and shoots Inkwell. He falls back and obligingly lies upon the table.] I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

MISS IVORY [having heard the shot and shrieks, runs in from the wing]. Oh--who's hurt?

MRS. PENCIL [turning and aiming revolver at Miss Ivory]. Don't come near him or I'll shoot you!

RULER [enters from right]. What's the matter?

MISS IVORY [screams at Ruler]. Don't move or she'll shoot you.

RULER [taking a revolver out of his pocket aims it at Mrs. Pencil]. Harm her and I'll shoot you!

INKWELL [who has come to in the meantime, manages to get his own revolver out of his pocket, he half raises himself from his lying position on the table and aims at Ruler, crying hoarsely]. You thought you could be my rival--the girl said she would be mine! If you shoot the woman she'll kill the girl. I'm going to save the girl. Shoot and I'll kill YOU!

MR. IVORY [he enters from right and, hearing these desperate words--takes revolver from his pocket and aims at Inkwell! Screams in fear and rage]. Stop! Save him or I'll shoot to kill! I'll shoot to kill! I'll shoot to kill!

WOULDBY [thrilled and excited, cries out]. Who shoots?

SUD [overcome with sudden realization, jumps up, grabs his forehead]. My God! It's a deadlock!!! I don't know who shoots!

OTHERS. Oh! Shoot the AUTHOR!!

[Curtain.]

ENTER THE HERO

A COMEDY

BY THERESA HELBURN

Copyright, 1916, by Theresa Helburn. Copyright, 1918, by Egmont Arens.

All rights reserved.

ENTER THE HERO was first produced in San Francisco by the St. Francis Little Theater Players, on January 16th, 1918, with the following cast:

RUTH CAREY Ruth Hammond. ANNE CAREY Helene Sullivan. HAROLD LAWSON Arthur Maitland. MRS. CAREY Julia Deane.

Reprinted from No. 4, of the "Flying Stag Plays," published by Egmont Arens, by special permission of Miss Helburn. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Egmont Arens, 17 West 8th St., New York.

ENTER THE HERO

A COMEDY BY THERESA HELBURN

[The scene presents an upstairs sitting room in a comfortable house in a small city. The wall on the spectator's left is broken by a fireplace, and beyond that a door leading into the hall. At the back of the stage is a deep bay window from which one may have a view up and down the street. A door in the right wall leads to Anne Carey's bedroom. The sitting room, being Anne's particular property, is femininely furnished in chintz. A table desk with several drawers occupies an important place in the room, which is conspicuously rich in flowers.

The curtain rises on an empty stage. Ruth Carey, a pretty girl of eighteen years, enters hurriedly, carrying a large box; she wears a hat and coat.]

RUTH. Oh, Anne, here's another box of flowers! Anne, where are you?

VOICE FROM ANNE'S BEDROOM. In here. I thought you had gone out.

RUTH [opening door left]. I was just going when the expressman left these--and I wanted to see them. [Looking into the bedroom.] Oh, how pretty your dress is. Turn round. Just adorable! May I open these?

THE VOICE. Yes, but hurry. It's late.

RUTH [throwing her sister a kiss]. You dear! It's almost like having a fiance of my own. Three boxes in two days! He's adorably extravagant. Oh, Anne, exquisite white roses! Come, look!

[Anne Carey appears in the bedroom door. She is a girl of twenty-two. Her manner in this scene shows nervousness and suppressed excitement.]

ANNE. Yes, lovely. Get a bowl, Ruth. Quickly.

RUTH. I will. Here's a card. [She hands Anne an envelope, goes to the door, then stops.] What does he say, Anne? May I see?

[Anne, who has read the card quickly with a curious little smile, hands it back to her without turning.]

RUTH [reading]:

"The red rose whispers of passion And the white rose breathes of love; Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.

"But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips, For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

Oh, how beautiful! Did he make that up, do you suppose? I didn't know he was a real poet.

ANNE [who has been pinning some of the roses on her dress]. Any one in love is a poet.

RUTH. It's perfectly beautiful! [She takes a pencil and little notebook out of her pocket.] May I copy it in my "Harold Notebook"?

ANNE. Your what?

RUTH. I call it my "Harold Notebook." I've put down bits of his letters that you read me, the lovely bits that are too beautiful to forget. Do you mind?

ANNE. You silly child!

RUTH. Here, you may see it.... That's from the second letter he wrote you from Rio Janeiro. I just couldn't get over that letter. You know I made you read it to me three times. It was so--so delicate. I remembered this passage--see. "A young girl seems to me as exquisite and frail as a flower, and I feel myself a vandal in desiring to pluck and possess one. Yet, Anne, your face is always before me, and I know now what I was too stupid to realize before, that it was you and you only, who made life bearable for me last winter when I was a stranger and alone." Oh, Anne--[Sighing rapturously.] that's the sort of love letters I've dreamed of getting. I don't suppose I ever shall.

ANNE. [still looking over the notebook with her odd smile]. Have you shown this to any one?

RUTH. Only to Caroline--in confidence. [Pauses to see how Anne will take it.] But really, Anne, every one knows about Harold. You've told Madge and Eleanor, and I'm sure they've told the others. They don't say anything to us, but they do to Caroline and she tells me. [Watching Anne's face.] You're not angry, are you, Anne?

ANNE. Yes, rather. [Then eagerly.] What do they say?

RUTH. Oh, all sorts of things. Some of them horrid, of course! You can't blame them for being jealous. Here you are having just the sort of experience that any one of them would give their eye teeth to have. I'd be jealous if you weren't my sister. As it is, I seem to get some of the glory myself.

ANNE [pleads, but disparaging]. But every girl has this experience sooner or later.

RUTH. Oh, not in this way. Everything that Harold does is beautiful, ideal. Jane Fenwick showed me some of Bob's letters. They were so dull, so prosaic! All about his salary and the corn crop. I was disgusted with them. So was she, I think, when she saw Harold's letters.

ANNE. Oh, you showed them to Jane, too?

RUTH [a bit frightened]. No, really I didn't. Caroline did. I lent her my notebook once overnight, and she gave Jane a peek--in the strictest confidence. Jane really needed it. She was getting so cocky about Bob. Girls are funny things, aren't they?

ANNE [who has been keenly interested in all of Ruth's gossip]. What do you mean?

RUTH. It isn't so much the man, as the idea of a man--some one to dream about, and to talk about. When I think of getting engaged--I suppose I shall get engaged some day--I never think of being really, really kissed by a man--

ANNE. What do you think of?

RUTH. I always think of telling Caroline about it, showing my ring to her and to Madge. Oh, Madge is green with envy. I believe she thought Harold sort of liked her. [Anne turns away.] She was so excited when she saw him in New York. She said she would have got off the bus and chased him, but he went into a house.... Anne, why didn't you tell us--me, at least--that Harold was back from South America, before we heard it from Madge?

ANNE. Just because.... I wanted to avoid all this.... It was hard enough to have him within a few hours' distance and know he could not get to me. But it was easier when no one else knew. Don't you understand?

RUTH. Yes, dear, of course I do--but still--

ANNE [impatiently]. Now, Ruth, it's quarter past four. You promised--

RUTH. I'm going ... right straight off ... unless--Oh, Anne, mayn't I stay and have just one peek. I won't let him see me, and then I'll run straight away?

ANNE. Oh, for heaven's sake, don't be naughty and silly! Clear out now, quickly, or--[Changing her tone suddenly.] Ruth, dear, put yourself in my place. Think how you would feel if you were going to see the man you loved for the first time. That's what it really is. Think of it! Two years ago when he went away we were just the merest friends--and now--

RUTH. And now you're engaged to be married! Oh, isn't it the most romantic thing! Of course you want to be alone. Forgive me. Oh, Anne, how excited you must be!

ANNE [with rather histrionic intensity]. No, I'm strangely calm. And yet, Ruth, I'm afraid, terribly afraid.

RUTH. Why, what of?

ANNE [acting]. I don't know ... of everything ... of the unknown. All this has been so wonderful, if anything should happen I don't think I could bear it. I think I should die.

RUTH. Nonsense, dear, what can happen? You're just on edge. Well, I'll be off. I'll join Mother at Aunt Nellie's. Give my love to Harold. You know I've never called him anything but Mr. Lawson to his face. Isn't that funny? Good-by, dear. [Throwing Anne a kiss.] You look so sweet.

ANNE [her hands on Ruth's shoulders for an impressive moment]. Good-by, Ruth. Good-by.

[They kiss. Ruth goes. Left alone, a complete change comes over Anne. She drops the romantic attitude. She is nervously determined. She quickly arranges the flowers, takes out the box, etc., straightens the room, and surveys herself rapidly in the mirror. There is a sound of wheels outside. Anne goes to the bay window and looks out. Then she stands erect in the grip of an emotion that is more like terror than anticipation. Hearing the sound of footsteps on the stair she is panic-stricken and about to bolt, but at the sound of voices she pulls herself together and stands motionless.]

MAN'S VOICE [outside]. In here? All right!

[Harold Lawson enters, a well set up, bronzed, rather commonplace young man of about twenty-eight. He sees no one on his entry, but as he advances into the room, Anne comes down from the bay window.]

HAROLD. Hello, Miss Carey, how are you? Splendid to see you again, after all this time. [Anne looks at him without speaking, which slightly embarrasses him.] You're looking fine. How's your mother--and little Ruth?

ANNE [slowly]. Welcome home.

HAROLD. Oh, thanks. It's rather nice to be back in God's country. But it's not for long this time.

ANNE. Are you going away again?

HAROLD. Yes. I've another appointment. This one in India, some big salt mines. Not bad, eh? I made pretty good in Brazil, they tell me.

ANNE [nervously]. Sit down.

HAROLD. Thanks. Hot for September, isn't it? Though I ought to be used to heat by this time. Sometimes the thermometer would run a hundred and eight for a week on end. Not much fun, that.

ANNE. No, indeed.

HAROLD [settling back comfortably to talk about himself]. You know I loathed it down there at first. What with all the foreigners and the rotten weather and the bugs--thought I'd never get into the swing. Wanted to chuck engineering for any old job that was cool, but after a while--

ANNE. How long have you been home?

HAROLD. About three weeks. I'd really been meaning to come out here and have a look round my old haunts, but there was business in New York, and I had to go South and see my family--you know how time flies. Then your note came. It was mighty jolly of you to ask me out here. By the way, how did you know I was back?

ANNE [after a pause]. Madge Kennedy caught sight of you in New York.

HAROLD. Did she really? How is little Madge? And that odd brother of hers. Is he just as much of a fool as ever? I remember once he said to me--

ANNE. Oh, I didn't ask you here to talk about Madge Kennedy's family.

HAROLD [taken aback]. No ... no, of course, not. I--I've been wondering just why you did ask me. You said you wanted to talk to me about something.

ANNE [gently]. Weren't you glad to come?

HAROLD. Why, of course I was. Of course. And then your note fired my curiosity--your asking me to come straight to you before seeing any one else.

ANNE. Aren't you glad to be here with me?

HAROLD. Why surely, of course, but--[Pause.]

ANNE. You see, people seemed to expect you would come to see me first of all. I rather expected it myself. Don't you understand?

HAROLD [very uncomfortably]. No.... I'm afraid I don't....

ANNE. From the way you acted before you went away I thought you, yourself, would want to see me first of all.

HAROLD. Before I went away? What do you mean?

ANNE. You know well enough what I mean. The parties those last weeks--the theater we went to--the beautiful flowers you sent Mother--the letter--

HAROLD. But--but--why, I was going away. You and your people had been awfully nice to me, a perfect stranger in town. I was simply trying to do the decent thing. Good Lord! You don't mean to say you thought--

ANNE [watching him very closely]. Yes, it's true, I thought--and every one else thought--I've been waiting these two years for you to come back.

[She drops her face into her hands. Her shoulders shake.]

HAROLD [jumping up]. Great Heavens! I never imagined--Why, Miss Carey, I--oh, I'm terribly sorry! [She continues to sob.] Please don't do that--please! I'd better go away--I'll clear out--I'll go straight off to India--I'll never bother you again.

[He seized his hat, and is making, in a bewildered way, for the door, when she intercepts him.]

ANNE. No. You mustn't go away!

HAROLD. But what can I do?

ANNE [striking a tragic attitude]. You mean to say you don't care at all--that you have never cared?

HAROLD. Really, Miss Carey, I--

ANNE. For heaven's sake, don't call me Miss Carey. Call me Anne.

HAROLD. Miss Carey.... Anne.... I.... Oh, you'd better let me go--let me get away before any one knows I'm here--before they think--

ANNE. It's too late. They think already.

HAROLD. Think what? What do you mean?

ANNE. Oh, this is terrible! Sit down, Harold, and listen to me. [She pushes him into a chair and begins to talk very rapidly, watching intently the effect of her words upon him.] You see, when you went away, people began to say things about us--you and me--about your caring. I let them go on. In fact I believed them. I suppose it was because I wanted so much to believe them. Oh, what a fool I've been! What a fool!

[She covers her face with her hands. He gets up intending vaguely to comfort her, but she thinks he is making another move to go, and jumps to her feet.]

ANNE. And now you want to clear out like a thief in the night, and leave me to be laughed at! No, no, you can't do that! You must help me. You've hurt me to the very soul. You mustn't humiliate me before the world.

HAROLD. I'll do anything I can, Miss Carey.

ANNE. Anne!

HAROLD. Anne, I mean. But how?

ANNE [after a moment's thought, as if the idea had just come to her]. You must stay here. You must pretend for a few days--for a week at most, that we're engaged.

HAROLD. I can't do that, you know. Really, I can't.

ANNE [going to him]. Why not? Only a little while. Then you'll go away to India. We'll find it's been a mistake. I'll break it off,--it will only be a pretense, of course, but at least no one will know what a fool I've been.

HAROLD [after a moment's hesitation]. Miss Carey--Anne, I mean, I'll do anything I can, but not that! A man can't do that. You see, there's a girl, an English girl, down in Brazil, I--

ANNE. Oh, a girl! Another! Well, after all, what does that matter? Brazil is a long way off. She need never know.

HAROLD. She might hear. You can't keep things like this hid. No. I wouldn't risk that. You'd better let me clear out before your family gets home. No one need ever know I've been here.

[Again he makes a move toward the door. Anne stands motionless.]

ANNE. You can't go. You can't. It's more serious than you imagine.

HAROLD. Serious? What do you mean?

ANNE. Come here. [He obeys. She sits in a big chair, but avoids looking at him. There is a delicate imitation of a tragic actress in the way she tells her story.] I wonder if I can make you understand? It means so much to me that you should--so much! Harold, you know how dull life is here in this little town. You were glad enough to get away after a year of it, weren't you? Well, it's worse for a girl, with nothing to do but sit at home--and dream--of you. Yes, that's what I did, until, at last, when I couldn't stand it any longer, I wrote you.

HAROLD [quickly]. I never got the letter, Miss Carey. Honor bright, I didn't.

ANNE. Perhaps not, but you answered it.

HAROLD. Answered it? What are you talking about?

ANNE. Would you like to see your answer? [She goes to the desk, takes a packet of letters out of a drawer, selects one, and hands it to him.] Here it is--your answer. You see it's post-marked Rio Janeiro.

HAROLD [taking it wonderingly]. This does look like my writing. [Reads.] "Anne, my darling--" I say, what does this mean?

ANNE. Go on.

HAROLD [reading]. "I have your wonderful letter. It came to me like rain in the desert. Can it be true, Anne, that you do care? I ask myself a hundred times what I have done to deserve this. A young girl seems to me as exquisite and frail as a flower--" Great Scott! You don't think I could have written such stuff! What in the world!

ANNE [handing over another letter]. Here's the next letter you wrote me, from the mine. It's a beautiful one. Read it.

HAROLD [tears it open angrily, and reads]. "I have been out in the night under the stars. Oh, that you were here, my beloved! It is easy to stand the dust and the turmoil of the mine without you, but beauty that I cannot share with you hurts me like a pain--"

[He throws the letter on the table and turns toward her, speechless.]

ANNE [inexorably]. Yes, that's an exceptionally beautiful one. But there are more--lots more. Would you like to see them?

HAROLD. But I tell you, I never wrote them. These aren't my letters.

ANNE. Whose are they, then?

HAROLD [walking up and down furiously]. God knows! This is some outrageous trick. You've been duped, you poor child. But we'll get to the bottom of this. Just leave it to me. I'll get detectives. I'll find out who's back of it! I'll--

[He comes face to face with her and finds her looking quietly at him with something akin to critical interest.]

HAROLD. Good Lord. What's the matter with me! You don't believe those letters. You couldn't think I wrote them, or you wouldn't have met me as you did, quite naturally, as an old friend. You understand! For heaven's sake, make it clear to me!

ANNE. I am trying to.... I told you there had to be ... answers.... I was afraid to send my letters to you, but there had to be answers. [Harold stares at her.] So I wrote them myself.

HAROLD. You wrote them yourself?!?

ANNE. Yes.

HAROLD. These? These very letters?

ANNE. Yes. I had to.

HAROLD. Good God! [He gazes at the litter of letters on the desk in stupefied silence.] But the handwriting.

ANNE. Oh, that was easy. I had the letter you wrote to Mother.

HAROLD. And you learned to imitate my handwriting?

ANNE [politely]. It was very good writing.

HAROLD [in sudden apprehension]. No one has seen these things,--have they?

ANNE. They arrived by mail.

HAROLD. You mean people saw the envelopes. Yes, that's bad enough.... But you haven't shown them to any one? [At her silence he turns furiously upon her.] Have you?... Have you?

ANNE [who enjoys her answer and its effect upon him]. Only parts--never a whole letter. But it was such a pleasure to be able to talk about you to some one. My only pleasure.

HAROLD. Good heavens! You told people I wrote these letters? That we were engaged?

ANNE. I didn't mean to, Harold. Really, I didn't. But I couldn't keep it dark. There were your telegrams.

HAROLD. My telegrams?!?

[She goes to desk and produces a bundle of dispatches.]

ANNE [brazen in her sincerity]. You used to wire me every time you changed your address. You were very thoughtful, Harold. But, of course, I couldn't keep those secret like your letters.

HAROLD [standing helplessly, with the telegrams loose in his fingers]. My telegrams! Good Lord! [He opens one and reads.] "Leaving Rio for fortnight of inspection in interior. Address care Senor Miguel--" My telegrams!

[He flings the packet violently on the table, thereby almost upsetting a bowl of roses which he hastens to preserve.]

ANNE. And then there were your flowers. I see you are admiring them.

[Harold withdraws as if the flowers were charged with electricity.]

HAROLD. What flowers?

ANNE. These--these--all of them. You sent me flowers every week while you were gone.

HAROLD [overcome]. Good God!

[He has now reached the apex of his amazement and becomes sardonic.]

ANNE. Yes. You were extravagant with flowers, Harold. Of course I love them, but I had to scold you about spending so much money.

HAROLD. Spending so much money? And what did I say when you scolded me?

ANNE [taken aback only for a moment by his changed attitude]. You sent me a bigger bunch than ever before--and--wait a minute--here's the card you put in it.

[She goes to the same fatal desk and produces a package of florists' cards.]

HAROLD. Are all those my cards too?

ANNE. Yes.

HAROLD [laughing a bit wildly]. I'm afraid I was a bit extravagant!

ANNE. Here's the one! You wrote: "If all that I have, and all that I am, is too little to lay before you, how can these poor flowers be much?"

HAROLD. I wrote that? Very pretty--very. I'd forgotten I had any such knack at sentiments.

ANNE. And then, right away, you sent me the ring.

HAROLD [jumps, startled out of his sardonic pose]. Ring! What ring?

ANNE. My engagement ring. You really were very extravagant that time, Harold.

HAROLD [looking fearfully at her hands]. But I don't see.... You're not wearing...?

ANNE. Not there--here, next to my heart. [She takes out a ring which hangs on a chain inside her frock and presses it to her lips. Looking at him deeply.] I adore sapphires, Harold.

[A new fear comes into Harold's eyes. He begins to humor her.]

HAROLD. Yes. Yes. Of course. Everyone likes sapphires, Anne. It is a beauty. Yes. [He comes very close to her, and speaks very gently, as if to a child.] You haven't shown your ring to any one, have you, Anne?

ANNE. Only to a few people--One or two.

HAROLD. A few people! Good heavens! [Then he controls himself, takes her hands gently in his, and continues speaking, as if to a child.] Sit down, Anne; we must talk this over a little,--very quietly, you understand, very quietly. Now to begin with, when did you first--

ANNE [breaks away from him with a little laugh]. No, I'm not crazy. Don't be worried. I'm perfectly sane. I had to tell you all this to show how serious it was. Now you know. What are you going to do?

HAROLD. Do? [He slowly straightens up as if the knowledge of her sanity had relieved him of a heavy load.] I'm going to take the next train back to New York.

ANNE. And leave me to get out of this before people all alone?

HAROLD. You got into it without my assistance, didn't you? Great Scott, you forged those letters in cold blood--

ANNE. Not in cold blood, Harold. Remember, I cared.

HAROLD. I don't believe it. [Accusingly.] You enjoyed writing those letters!

ANNE. Of course I enjoyed it. It meant thinking of you, talking of--

HAROLD. Rot! Not of me, really. You didn't think I am really the sort of person who could write that--that drivel!

ANNE [hurt]. Oh, I don't know. After a while I suppose you and my dream got confused.

HAROLD. But it was the rankest--

ANNE. Oh, I'm not so different from other girls. We're all like that. [Repeating Ruth's phrase reminiscently.] We must have some one to dream about--to talk about. I suppose it's because we haven't enough to do. And then we don't have any--any real adventures like--shop girls.

HAROLD [surprised at this bit of reality]. That's a funny thing to say!

ANNE. Well, it's true. I know I went rather far. After I got started I couldn't stop. I didn't want to, either. It took hold of me. So I went on and on and let people think whatever they wanted. But if you go now and people find out what I've done, they'll think I'm really mad--or something worse. Life will be impossible for me here, don't you see--impossible. [Harold is silent.] But if you stay, it will be so easy. Just a day or two. Then you will have to go to India. Is that much to ask? [Acting.] And you save me from disgrace, from ruin!

[Harold remains silent, troubled.]

ANNE [becoming impassioned]. You must help me. You must. After I've been so frank with you, you can't go back on me now. I've never in my life talked to any one like this--so openly. You can't go back on me! If you leave me here to be laughed at, mocked at by every one, I don't know what I shall do. I shan't be responsible. If you have any kindness, any chivalry.... Oh, for God's sake, Harold, help me, help me!

[Kneels at his feet.]

HAROLD. I don't know.... I'm horribly muddled.... All right, I'll stay!

ANNE. Good! Good! Oh, you are fine! I knew you would be. Now everything will be so simple. [The vista opens before her.] We will be very quiet here for a couple of days. We won't see many people, for of course it isn't announced. And then you will go ... and I will write you a letter....

HAROLD [disagreeably struck by the phrase]. Write me a letter? What for?

ANNE [ingenuously]. Telling you that I have been mistaken. Releasing you from the engagement ... and you will write me an answer ... sad but manly ... reluctantly accepting my decision....

HAROLD. Oh, I am to write an answer, sad but manly--Good God! Suppose you don't release me after all.

ANNE. Don't be silly, Harold. I promise. Can't you trust me?

HAROLD. Trust you? [His eyes travel quickly from the table littered with letters and dispatches to the flowers that ornament the room, back to the table and finally to the ring that now hangs conspicuously on her breast. She follows the look and instinctively puts her hand to the ring.] Trust you? By Jove, no, I don't trust you! This is absurd, I don't stay another moment. Say what you will to people. I'm off. This is final.

ANNE [who has stepped to the window]. You can't go now. I hear Mother and Ruth coming.

HAROLD. All the more reason. [He finds his hat.] I bolt.

ANNE [blocking the door]. You can't go, Harold! Don't corner me. I'll fight like a wildcat if you do.

HAROLD. Fight?

ANNE. Yes. A pretty figure you'll cut if you bolt now. They'll think you a cad--an out and out cad! Haven't they seen your letters come week by week, and your presents? And you have written to Mother, too--I have your letter. There won't be anything bad enough to say about you. They'll say you jilted me for that English girl in Brazil. It will be true, too. And it will get about. She'll hear of it, I'll see to that--and then--

HAROLD. But it's a complete lie! I can explain--

ANNE. You'll have a hard time explaining your letters and your presents--and your ring. There's a deal of evidence against you--

HAROLD. See here, are you trying to blackmail me? Oh, this is too ridiculous!

ANNE. They're coming! I hear them on the stairs! What are you going to tell them?

HAROLD. The truth. I must get clear of all this. I tell you--

ANNE [suddenly clinging to him]. No, no, Harold! Forgive me, I was just testing you. I will get you out of this. Leave it to me.

HAROLD [struggling with her]. No, I won't leave anything to you, ever.

ANNE [still clinging tightly]. Harold, remember I am a woman--and I love you.

[This brings him up short a moment to wonder, and in this moment there is a knock at the door.]

ANNE [abandoning Harold]. Come in. [There is a discreet pause.]

MRS. CAREY'S VOICE [off stage]. May we come in?

ANNE [angrily]. Yes!

[Harold, who has moved toward the door, meets Mrs. Carey as she enters. She throws her arms about his neck and kisses him warmly. She is followed by Ruth.]

MRS. CAREY. Harold! My door boy!

RUTH [clutching his arm]. Hello, Harold. I am so glad.

[Harold, temporarily overwhelmed by the onslaught of the two women, is about to speak, when Anne interrupts dramatically.]

ANNE. Wait a moment, Mother. Before you say anything more I must tell you that Harold and I are no longer engaged!

[Mrs. Carey and Ruth draw away from Harold in horror-struck surprise.]

MRS. CAREY. No longer engaged? Why.... What...?

HAROLD. Really, Mrs. Carey, I--

ANNE [interrupts, going to her mother]. Mother, dear, be patient with me, trust me, I beg of you--and please, please don't ask me any questions. Harold and I have had a very hard--a very painful hour together. I don't think I can stand any more.

[She is visibly very much exhausted, gasping for breath.]

MRS. CAREY. Oh, my poor child, what is it? What has he done?

[She supports Anne on one side while Ruth hurries to the other.]

HAROLD. Really, Mrs. Carey, I think I can explain.

ANNE. No, Harold, there's no use trying to explain. There are some things a woman feels, about which she cannot reason. I know I am doing right.

HAROLD [desperately]. Mrs. Carey, I assure you--

ANNE [as if on the verge of a nervous crisis]. Oh, please, please, Harold, don't protest any more. I am not blaming you. Understand, Mother, I am not blaming him. But my decision is irrevocable. I thought you understood. I beg you to go away. You have just time to catch the afternoon express.

HAROLD. Nonsense, Anne, you must let me--

ANNE [wildly]. No, no, Harold, it is finished! Don't you understand? Finished! [She abandons the support of her mother and Ruth and goes to the table.] See, here are your letters. I am going to burn them. [She throws the packet into the fire.] All your letters--[She throws the dispatches into the fire.] Don't, please, continue this unendurable situation any longer. Go, I beg of you, go!

[She is almost hysterical.]

HAROLD. But I tell you I must--

ANNE [falling back in her mother's arms]. Make him go, Mother! Make him go!

MRS. CAREY. Yes, go! Go, sir! Don't you see you are torturing the child. I insist upon your going.

RUTH. Yes, she is in a dreadful state.

[Here Mrs. Carey and Ruth fall into simultaneous urgings.]

HAROLD [who has tried in vain to make himself heard]. All right, I'm going, I give up!

[He seizes his hat and rushes out, banging the door behind him. Anne breaks away from her mother and sister, totters rapidly to the door and calls down gently.]

ANNE. Not in anger, I beg of you, Harold! I am not blaming you. Good-by.

[The street door is heard to bang. Anne collapses in approved tragedy style.]

ANNE [gasping]. Get some water, Ruth. I shall be all right in a moment.

[Ruth rushes into the bedroom.]

MRS. CAREY. Oh, my dear child, calm yourself. Mother is here, dear. She will take care of you. Tell me, dear, tell me.

[Ruth returns with the water. Anne sips a little.]

ANNE. I will, Mother--I will ... everything ... later. [She drinks.] But now I must be alone. Please, dear, go away ... for a little while. I must be alone [Rising and moving to the fire.] with the ruin of my dreams.

[She puts her arms on the chimney shelf and drops her head on them.]

RUTH. Come, Mother! Come away!

MRS. CAREY. Yes, I am coming. We shall be in the next room, Annie, when you want us. Right here.

ANNE [as they go out, raises her head and murmurs]. Dust and ashes! Dust and ashes!

[As soon as they have gone, Anne straightens up slowly. She pulls herself together after the physical strain of her acting. Then she looks at the watch on her wrist and sighs a long triumphant sigh. Her eye falls on the desk and she sees the package of florists' cards still there. She picks them up, returns with them to the fire and is about to throw them in, when her eye is caught by the writing on one. She takes it out and reads it. Then she takes another--and another. She stops and looks away dreamily. Then slowly, she moves back to the desk, drops the cards into a drawer and locks it. She sits brooding at the desk and the open paper before her seems to fascinate her. As if in a dream she picks up a pencil. A creative look comes into her eyes. Resting her chin on her left arm, she begins slowly to write, murmuring to herself.]

ANNE [reading as she writes]. "Anne, my dearest.... I am on the train ... broken, shattered.... Why have you done this to me ... why have you darkened the sun ... and put out the stars ... put out the stars?... Give me another chance, Anne.... I will make good.... I promise you.... For God's sake, Anne, don't shut me out of your life utterly.... I cannot bear it.... I...."

[The Curtain has fallen slowly as she writes.]

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE

A PANTOMIME

BY HOLLAND HUDSON

Copyright, 1920, by Frank Shay. All rights reserved.

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE was first produced by the Washington Square Players, at the Bandbox Theatre, New York City, on the night of March 26, 1915, with the following cast:

THE PRINCESS Frances Paine. THE ATTENDANT Beatrice Savelli. THE SHEPHERD Robert Locher. THE WAZIR Arvid Paulson. THE VIZIER John Alan Houghton. GHURRI-WURRI [the Beggar} Harry Day. THE GOAT E. J. Ballantine. SLAVES OF THE PRINCESS { Josephine Niveson. { Edwina Behre. THE MAKER OF SOUNDS Robert Edwards.

Produced under the direction of William Pennington. Scenes and costumes designed by Robert Locker.

PROGRAM

THE PERSONS:

THE PRINCESS. THE ATTENDANT. THE SLAVES. THE WAZIR [her guardian]. THE VIZIER. THE NUBIAN. THE SHEPHERD. THE GOAT. GHURRI-WURRI. THE MAKER OF SOUNDS.

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE is published for the first time. The editors are indebted to Mr. Holland Hudson for permission to include it in this volume. The professional and amateur stage rights on this pantomime are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the pantomime should be made to Frank Shay, Care Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

THE ACTION:

I. The Princess beholds The Shepherd in the Distance and goes in quest of him. II. Ghurri-Wurri, enraged by the Princess' meager alms, swears vengeance. III. He reveals her destination to the Wazir. IV. Pursuit ensues. V. The Princess meets The Shepherd in the Distance. Her capture is averted by the faithful Goat. VI. The Goat's long head evolves a means of rescuing The Shepherd from the cruel Wazir. VII. The Princess joins The Shepherd in the Distance.

THE STORY.[1]

Of the Princess, we know only that she was fair and slender as the lily, that somehow the fat and stupid Wazir became her guardian, and that he neglected her utterly and played chess eternally in the garden with his almost-equally-stupid Vizier. Is it any wonder she was bored?

One afternoon the Princess called for her ivory telescope, and, placing it to her eye, sought relief from the deadly ennui which her guardian caused. In the Distance she discerned a Shepherd, playing upon his pipe for the dancing of his favorite Goat. While he played the Princess marveled at his comeliness. She had never seen before a man so pleasing in face and person. At the end of his tune it seemed to her that the Shepherd turned and beckoned to her. She dared watch him no longer, lest her guardian observe her.

When the Wazir, the Vizier and the Nubian were deep in their afternoon siesta, the Princess stole out of the garden with her personal retinue and her small, but precious hope chests, and set forth toward the Distance.

Now on the highway between the foreground and the Distance lived a wretched and worthless beggar who had even lost his name and was called Ghurri-Wurri because he looked absolutely as miserable as that. He pretended to be blind and wore dark spectacles. The greatest affliction of his life was that his dark spectacles prevented him from inspecting the coins that fell in his palm, and he received more than his share of leaden counterfeits.

When Ghurri-Wurri observed the approach of the Princess and her retinue he reasoned from the richness of their attire that alms would be plentiful and large and he fawned and groveled before them. The Princess was generous, but she was also in haste, so bade her attendant give him the first coin that came to hand, and hurried on.

Ghurri-Wurri's rage knew no bounds. He wept, he stamped, he shook his fists, he railed, and he cursed. Then, perceiving the Princess' destination, he made haste to notify her guardian. The Wazir would not believe him at first and the beggar would have lost his head if he had not happened on the Princess' telescope and placed it in the Wazir's hand.

Gazing toward the Distance, the Wazir saw the Princess and her retinue nearing their destination. He lost his temper and did all of the undignified things which Ghurri-Wurri had done. Then, with the Vizier and the Nubian, he set forth in pursuit, forcing the reluctant Ghurri-Wurri to guide them. They ran like the wind, till the beggar gasped and staggered, only to be jerked to his feet and forced on by the implacable Vizier, who was cruel as well as stupid.

Meanwhile the Princess arrived in the Distance. The Shepherd, who was as wise as he was comely, had proper regard for her rank and danced in her honor to his own piping. They had scarcely spoken to each other when the faithful Goat warned them of the furious approach of the raging Wazir. The Goat carried the Princess to a place of safety on his back while the Shepherd stayed to delay her pursuers. Of the Nubian he made short work indeed, but the Vizier overcame him with his great scimiter and they led him captive to the garden, leaving Ghurri-Wurri cursing on the sands.

Arrived at the garden, the Wazir ordered the Shepherd bound in chains and went on with his chess game. The Shepherd, in a gesture of despair, came upon the Princess' telescope and, seeking some ray of hope, gazed into the Distance. Here he saw the Princess and his faithful Goat, who, he perceived, had invented a plan for his deliverance.

Soon the Princess returned to the garden, disguised as a wandering dancer. She danced before the Wazir and pleased him so much that he bade her come nearer. She did so, and bound the Vizier's arms with a scarf, which so amused the Wazir that he laughed loud and long. Then she bound the Wazir's arms in the same manner and it was the Vizier's turn to laugh. Into their laughing mouths she thrust two poisoned pills so that in another instant they fell over, quite dead, amongst the chessmen.

The omnivorous Goat delivered the Shepherd from his chains with his strong teeth and they all returned to the Distance, where they still dwell in more-than-perfect bliss and may be discerned through an ivory telescope any fine afternoon.

[1] A synopsis for readers only.

CONCERNING THE SCENERY.

In the original production by The Washington Square Players, THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE was played in front of backgrounds of black velvet. The garden scene consisted of a black velvet drop about half-way between the curtain and back-wall, upon which a decorative white design merely suggesting the garden and its gate was appliqued. This drop was made in three sections, the middle one hung on a separate set of lines so that it could be raised to show the "Distance" (as seen through the telescope) without disturbing the rest of the scene.

The "Distance" consisted of a velvet drop hung slightly behind the middle section of the garden scene, on the middle of which two large, white concentric circles were appliqued around a circular opening about five feet in diameter. The bottom of the opening was about eighteen inches above the stage. Behind this stood a platform just large enough to hold four characters at one time. Black masking drapes were provided at both sides of the stage and behind the platform.

The Prologue, Scenes II, IV, V, the first part of Scene VII and the Epilogue were all played before a plain velvet drop hung a few feet upstage of the curtain line.

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE has also been produced in colors very effectively by the Hollywood Community Theatre, at Hollywood, California. There is no reason why any highly decorative treatment of scenery and costuming will not enhance the production if it be well planned and consistent throughout.

IMPORTANT PROPERTIES.

The properties consist principally of a small chess table with most of the chessmen glued on, two stools, a telescope, a balloon and papier mache chain which are employed as a ball and chain, a very large Chinese crash cymbal for the stage manager's use, and such personal properties as occur in the text.

COSTUMES AND MAKE-UP.

Whatever scheme is selected for the scenery, the costumes and make-up should be consistent with it. In the original production, all of the characters but the Nubian were made up completely with clown white or "Plexo," the eyebrows and eyes outlined in black and mouths rouged but slightly. No unwhitened flesh was visible at all.

The Princess wore a white satin pseudo-Oriental costume with stiff ruffs at the collar, wrists and knees, the trousers not gathered at the ankles, a flat close-fitting turban with a number of ornaments and a hanging veil, and white slippers. In the dance in Scene VI she used a long black gauze scarf and a white one. Her attendant wore a similar costume of cheaper material, an unornamented turban and black slippers. Her slaves were also similarly garbed, in cotton, but with bulkier turbans, and baggy trousers, gathered at the ankles.

The Wazir, armed with a preposterous "corporation," wore baggy white trousers, gathered at the ankles, a sleeveless vest with wide, horizontal black-and-white stripes, a white cloak hanging from his shoulders which terminated in a large black tassel, a turban, a beard made of several lengths of black portiere cord sewed to white gauze, and white pointed shoes. His bare arms were whitened, his eyebrows were short, thick and high up on his forehead, and he carried a black snuff-box.

The Vizier's white trousers were not so full as the Wazir's; his tight white vest had tight white sleeves; his cloak was shorter and without a tassel. His white turban, however, was decorated with antennae of white milliner's wire. He affected high arching eyebrows, a long pointed nose, a drooping mustache, a disdainful mouth, carried a white wooden scimiter about four feet long with a black handle and wore bells on his pointed white shoes.

The Nubian wore black tights and shirt, black slippers and a white skull cap and breech-clout. The rest of him, excepting his eyes and mouth, which were whitened, was a symphony in burnt cork.

The Shepherd wore white, knee-length trunks, frayed at the ends, a little drapery about the upper man, slippers and a cap. His body was whitened profusely and he carried a tiny flute.

The Goat wore a white furry skin, horns, and foot and hand coverings resembling hoofs. His make-up approached the animal's face as nearly as possible.

Ghurri-Wurri wore tattered white baggy trousers, vest and cloak, a turban and black goggles.

The Maker of Sounds was garbed in an all-enveloping white burnous and a white skull cap.

A FEW STAGE DIRECTIONS.

Left and right, in this text, refer to the actor's, not the spectator's, point of view. The action of the piece is meant to be two-dimensional; the actors are to perform in profile as far as possible; except when registry of facial expression is important the action should be parallel with the back drop.

The entire action must be rhythmical and the rhythms should be used as definite themes, one for the Princess and her retinue, another for the Wazir, etc. The performance should be extremely rapid and must never drag. The cast should direct special attention to the comic features, and the director to the pictorial elements of the piece. The director may consider the performance as an animated poster which moves rapidly from design to design.

THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE

A PANTOMIME BY HOLLAND HUDSON

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