Scene VII
The Music The Pantomime, etc.
String music Princess and Shepherd dance across followed by the Goat, who is playing on the Shepherd's pipe Princess and Shepherd, behind the drop take their places on the platform
Cymbal crash Lights out [The drop is lifted]
Cymbal crash Lights on [The Wazir's garden with the middle section of the drop lifted to show the "Distance"]
String music Shepherd and Princess discovered in the "Distance" posed in a kiss
Cymbal crash Lights out [The drop is lowered]
Cymbal crash Lights on The Maker of Sounds rises, yawns cavernously, bows very slightly and exits
[Curtain.]
BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE
A PLAY
BY HARRY KEMP
Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Co. All rights reserved.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
FLORIO [a poet]. OLIVIA [Florio's mistress]. VIOLANTE [a Florentine noblewoman]. LIZZIA [Florio's serving-woman]. DIONEO [a member of Boccaccio's party]. ONE VOICE. ANOTHER VOICE. VARIOUS PROCESSIONS BEARING THE DEAD.
TIME: The year of the Great Plague, A. D. 1348. PLACE: Florence.
Published by permission of and special arrangement with Harry Kemp. Applications for the right of performing BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE must be made to Mr. Harry Kemp, in care of Brentano's, New York.
BOCCACCIO'S UNTOLD TALE
A PLAY BY HARRY KEMP
[SCENE: A lower room in Florio's house. It is wide and simply furnished.
In the center, at back, is a large doorway, hung with great black arras. In the right-hand extreme corner is a small altar to the Virgin.
In wall, at back, high up on left, a small window.
A smaller doorway, hung with arras of black, is on the left, well toward the front. This doorway gives on the study of the poet.
At rise of curtain the stage is lit with the uncertain light of tapers.
Lizzia, the old servant, is discovered kneeling at the altar.
Soon she rises, crossing herself devoutly.
Demurringly and with deprecating shakes of the head, she begins hanging wreaths about the walls of the room.
After the hanging of each wreath she crosses herself, and, with agitated piety verging on superstition, she bends the knee briefly before altar.
Now the wreaths are all in place.... Through the small window the grayness that comes before dawn begins to glimmer in.
One by one Lizzia snuffs out the tapers.
For a moment everything is left in the gray half-darkness.
But now Lizzia draws aside the large black arras in the back. There is revealed a magnificent panoramic view of medieval Florence, flushing gradually from pearl-gray to soft, delicate rose, then to the full gold of accomplished sunrise.
Again the old woman kneels at the altar.
Enter, through the open doorway at back, Violante--rather tall, good-looking, quite dark.
Violante stands silent for a moment. One can see that it is in her thought to wait till Lizzia finishes her devotions ... then she becomes impatient and breaks in on them.]
VIOLANTE
Lizzia, where bides your master, Florio? I sped a servant hither yesterday, To bid him come to me, and now, this morning, I come myself.
LIZZIA
For three days he has looked upon no one. Even I, who wait upon him, have not seen him.
VIOLANTE
Where keeps he, then?
LIZZIA [indicating the small doorway].
Yonder, within that arras.
VIOLANTE
Summon him forth! Say the Lady Violante waits his presence.
LIZZIA
He will grow wroth with me--nor will he greet you.
VIOLANTE
Fears he, then, the Plague so? Is he too such As dare not walk abroad nor breathe the air Lest he should drink infection?
LIZZIA
Not so, Lady, but he--
VIOLANTE
Tell him, then, Our friend Boccaccio, the story-teller, Has shaped a brave device against the Plague.... Before the sun climbs higher into day And the night's Dead are heaped up in the streets For buriers and priests to draw away, A group of goodly ladies and gentlemen Go forth to a sequestered country place Remote from Florence and invisible Death. There, in green gardens full of birds and leaves, The blue, cloud-wandering heaven spread above, We shall beguile the time with merriment, Music and song and telling of many tales, Trusting that Death, glutted with multitudes, Will pass us by.... We need but Florio To bring our perfect pleasure to the brim.
LIZZIA [obstinately]
But he will see no one, Lady, not even you. He is--he is--
VIOLANTE
Not smitten by the Plague?
LIZZIA [hesitating]
Nay, he has taken a vow of close seclusion.
VIOLANTE [confidently]
But he knows not I am here--the Lady Violante! [A pause.] [Impetuously] Go, tell him it is I,-- Nor take upon yourself such high command!
LIZZIA [somewhat resentfully]
I am a servant, I only do as he commanded me.... [Barring way.]
VIOLANTE [distractedly]
Strange that he should so change in ten days' space. [With passionate abandonment] Old woman, go this instant--summon him! I will abide your crabbed ways no longer.
LIZZIA [stung to retaliation]
Lady, he would not look upon your face If you made him ruler of the world for it.
VIOLANTE [flaming]
What new freak of his is this? He is as full of moods as any woman.... But I had never thought-- [Determined] I will go to him!
LIZZIA [again barring way]
I could tell you many things, But I would spare you.
VIOLANTE
Spare me!... you insolent, presumptuous old woman, What have I, I, the Lady Violante Ugolini, To do with your good master, Florio, Beyond a fostering friendship for his song! Else he were nothing to me.... You are presuming on your age and service-- He shall rebuke you for this....
LIZZIA
Very well, Lady, if you must know-- He has sworn that he will look upon no one Till he behold--Olivia!
VIOLANTE [startled]
Olivia!... who is Olivia?
LIZZIA
She is a girl who came from Padua Hither, to flee the Plague ... and fled in vain. He has loved her just ten days ... since first she came.... She came to him, a stranger, singing songs-- His songs!
VIOLANTE
And flattering him so--he loved her!
LIZZIA
Nay, she was beautiful, my noble lady,-- Surpassing wonderful.... "His shining dream Of ivory and gold," he called her....
VIOLANTE [coldly]
What has all this to do with me? [Relapsing into forgetful eagerness.] Tell me, where, then, is his Olivia now?
LIZZIA
The Plague! He gave her to a doctor's care, Beggaring himself therefor, as one who loves!
VIOLANTE
And now he shuts himself away for grief Because she died!... But, if she be dead, Wherefore these garlands?-- Or does he think she will come back, alive?
LIZZIA
The learned doctor swears if she survives Three days, she shall not die.
VIOLANTE
Not die, in sooth! Who is this man who resurrects the Dead? Why, folk whose nerves and sinews sing with life Sicken, fall down, and seethe with death and worms Within an hour, and they, the few who live, Living, curse God because they did not die.... He would best think of the Living, and forget The Dead.
LIZZIA
Half-crazed with love, he dreams she will return.... This is the morning after the third day-- This is the very hour she would return. Suppose the learned doctor keep his word?-- Hence have I hung these garlands.
[The sounds of a funeral procession heard approaching.... The procession passes the large doorway, going by, along the street, without. The people bear candles.... They pass slowly by the open door ... bodies being carried in shrouds.]
ONE VOICE
We bore the son ... and now we bear the father....
ANOTHER VOICE
And I or you, mayhap, will be the next.
LIZZIA [continuing]
These wreaths, they seem a mockery of Heaven. I pray that God will smite me not--I do What I am bid!...
VIOLANTE [half to herself]
She will not come!... [To Lizzia] Is there nothing will cure his madness?
LIZZIA
Even if she die they are to bring her hither....
VIOLANTE
Hither? And all corrupt? Then Death will strike you both!
LIZZIA
Lady, I am so old I'd rather sleep Than walk this sinful, weary world; and be-- He will unshroud her, kiss her lips, and die!
VIOLANTE [with great bitterness]
Fie, this our Florio--he has loved before, And he will love again, and yet again.... Women's beauty he loves, not any woman!
LIZZIA
What you have said were true ten days ago-- Do I not know him, Lady?... But a change Has come upon him that I marvel at-- So great a change in such a little while.... Ah, looked you on them when they were together, Saw you how he is caught up in her face And all the beauty of her, you would say "Here is a love, at last, that climbs from earth to heaven!"
VIOLANTE [laughing harshly]
It is her beauty he loved; not she The thing he loved! A poet, he!... [A pause.] It were as well you tore these garlands down: If, by a miracle, she should return, The Plague will have marked her with such ugliness That even you will shine like Helen of Troy beside her! Much will he care, then, if she sing his songs! Had she a voice like a garden of nightingales He could not listen to her without loathing....
[Sounds of approach of another funeral procession.]
VIOLANTE [continuing]
Pray draw the arras, Lizzia, and close out The things that they bring by.... They have begun To move the night's innumerable Dead.
[Lizzia draws the large arras.... From now on, till the very last, just before climax, sound and murmur of processions are continually heard.]
VIOLANTE [persistently]
I think she will not come-- But, if she does, she should be spared the cruelty Of his heart's change, And he, her marred, plague-broken face! Stand aside--let me pass....
LIZZIA [barring way again]
He took his oath Before that altar, to the most high God! You shall not break his vow....
VIOLANTE
Let me go to him--here are my jewels!
FLORIO [calling from within]
Who is it speaks without? Whose voice is this Wrangling and breaking in upon my peace?
LIZZIA
The Lady Violante Ugolini!
FLORIO
To-day, of all days, must I be alone....
[Florio pushes out arras from small doorway and stands before it, so that he remains unseen to Violante and Lizzia.]
FLORIO [to Lizzia]
Go, Lizzia, I will speak with the Lady.... Have you the wreaths hung, Lizzia?
LIZZIA
Aye, master Florio!
FLORIO
Have you the table heaped with delicacies In the green space by the fountain-shaken pool?
LIZZIA
I go to set the viands now, my master.
[Lizzia goes out.]
FLORIO
Violante, if you would speak with me, Stay where you are--I cannot look upon you.
VIOLANTE
Not look upon me?
FLORIO
Nor must you look on me.... I have vowed a vow!
VIOLANTE
How strange you are!... I had thought to rush into your arms!... Have you forgotten so soon the oaths you took?
[She starts toward him.]
FLORIO [hearing the rustle of her garment.]
Move one step further and I draw the arras!
VIOLANTE [halting and hesitating]
Have you forgotten the first time you saw my face And sent a sonnet to me?... It seems but a day Since you were awed by my nobility.... And when I let you press your burning lips Against my hand, you swore it made you God! [Sadly] From that time it was not far to my mouth.... And, after that, what with the shining moon, And nightingales beginning in the dusk, And songs and music that you made for me-- In a little while I was entirely yours!...
FLORIO
Remember that young nobleman who died For love of you?... I was your pastime, merely that! And so I sipped what honey came my way. But why do you come now? Did you not leave me without a word?
VIOLANTE
My father.... [Sombrely] My father whom the Pestilence has smitten--
FLORIO [quickly]
You sent me no message.
VIOLANTE
Every door was watched ... he might have had you slain.... He bore me off to Rome....
FLORIO
You loved me, then?
VIOLANTE
And did not you love me?
FLORIO
I could have sworn I did.
VIOLANTE
O Florio!... Where is my pride of rank, my woman's shame. That I should come like this to you!
FLORIO
Speak not so, Violante--I pray you go!
VIOLANTE
You love another, then?
FLORIO [ecstatically]
I have loved beauty, beauty all my life!
VIOLANTE
We are not metaphors and pale abstractions, We women ... nor would we be prized alone For smooth perfections.... [Low and intense] Say that you loved a woman Smitten with the Plague, say, further, that she lived-- One among ten thousand--that she came back to you, [The one thing sure] hideous and marred--
FLORIO
You try me sorely! Violante, I pray you, go!
VIOLANTE [persistently]
I have come hither To bid you come away with me.
FLORIO
It may not be.
VIOLANTE [slowly]
The other one--there is another one!-- I pity her!
FLORIO
You need not.
VIOLANTE
Ah, then, there is another?
FLORIO
Have you no pride, my Lady Violante?
VIOLANTE
That I have not, For shameless is the heart that loves.
FLORIO
Then shamelessly I love Another face, another heart and body, Another soul, unto eternity-- She is all beauty to me, and all life-- So shall she be forever!
VIOLANTE
Forever? That is what you swore to me.
FLORIO
I have not sworn a single oath to her, And yet she made earth heaven in a day, And earth continues heaven.... Go, noble Lady!
VIOLANTE
You have no pity on me?... You see How humbly I've become....
FLORIO
To pity you, Lady, would be cruel to her!... In a month you will be glad.
VIOLANTE
You have slain me, Florio!
FLORIO
Farewell, Violante!
[Violante affects to go. But she stops quickly at large door in back and reenters on tiptoe. Florio withdraws to his study again, after listening for a moment.]
LIZZIA [reentering]
You have not gone, my Lady Violante?
VIOLANTE
I will not go Till I have looked upon this woman's face!
[As she finishes these words, the great black arras in the back is listed and a hooded and veiled woman enters. She stands regarding the two other women in silence.]
VIOLANTE
Ah!
LIZZIA
The miracle has come to pass!
[Crosses herself.]
VIOLANTE
Do they call you Olivia? Speak, woman!
OLIVIA
Yea, I am she--but where is Florio?
[Violante straightens, proud and erect, as if she had been struck an invisible blow.]
LIZZIA
He waits for you within.
OLIVIA
So he had faith I would not die?
LIZZIA
He had these garlands hung for your return. He has lived beneath a holy vow, the days You were not here: shut in his room, Yours must be the first face He sees, on his return to light and life. He must have fallen asleep from weariness Or he had heard your voice. [To Violante.] Now, Lady Violante, you must go!
VIOLANTE [indignant]
How? I must go?
LIZZIA
You would not stay?
VIOLANTE
Yea, I would stay to see this love grow dark And shrink to hate.
OLIVIA [astonished]
And shrink to hate?
VIOLANTE
When you remove your veil Behind which ugliness that beggars hell Lies hidden--
OLIVIA [dazed]
Ugliness?
VIOLANTE
Cast by your veil!... Well may you shrink from your own hideousness Since the foul plague has withered up your face And seared it till you die.... There shines your mirror, wrought of polished brass-- How many hours you have dallied at it Only the beauty that you once possessed Can tell. You will no longer find a use for it.
OLIVIA [recovering herself]
I trust I shall!
LIZZIA [to Olivia]
Alas, dear God! And is it true, Olivia?
OLIVIA [to Lizzia]
Would he not love me still if it were true?
LIZZIA [to Olivia]
I am old and wretched and full of woe. I have known life too long.
VIOLANTE [to Olivia]
He whose one cry is beauty! How could that be?
OLIVIA [almost singing in speech]
Then, God be praised, I need not try him thus! For God has wrought two miracles with me: I live, and I am beautiful!
VIOLANTE
Unveil your face, then--give yourself to sight.
OLIVIA
His must be the first eyes that look on me.
VIOLANTE
Ah, so you trust that you, with fond deceit, May find some magic way to cozen him?
LIZZIA [with great emotion]
Go, Lady--I see darkness in the air, I thrill to some strange horror, yet unguessed.... Go, Lady Violante, I pray you, go!
[Lizzia lifts arras in back for Violante's exit. Violante does not move from where she stands.]
VIOLANTE [persistently, to Olivia]
Woman it is your beauty that he loved, And that alone ... just as he loves a flower Or sunset.... That gone, lo, his love is gone!
OLIVIA
Strange woman, there is evil in your voice! And yet I know he loves me for myself, Taking my beauty, none the less, in gladness Like any transitory gift from God.
VIOLANTE
And yet you dare not put him to the test?
OLIVIA
What test?
VIOLANTE
To make him first believe That you are ugly!
OLIVIA
I would not toy with such a splendid gift As a man's love.
VIOLANTE [mocking]
Ah ... in sooth?
OLIVIA
How strange you look ... yet stranger is your speech.
VIOLANTE
Before you came--whom loved he then?
OLIVIA
I do not think he was like other men.
VIOLANTE
Like other men he took and tossed aside, Deceived and lied and went from heart to heart Reaping the richness of each woman's soul.
OLIVIA
Go, lest I strike you!
VIOLANTE
Poor, fond, believing child-- Now I would not have you test his love!
OLIVIA [stirred]
By all the saints, I'll put him to the test!... [As Violante steps closer to her] Nay, I'll not let you look upon my face.... He must, as I have vowed, look on it first, Nor will I break that vow--[Her vanity conquering] But lift yon mirror And you shall look in it and see me there Reflected!...
[Violante lifts mirror so she and Lizzia can see reflection.]
OLIVIA [with simplicity]
Keep your backs so! [Unveiling briefly, then drawing veil again.] There! Have I lied?
VIOLANTE
He always worshiped beauty.... You are fair!
OLIVIA
Soon will you know our love has mighty wings Outsoaring time into eternity!
VIOLANTE
I'll have him forth--are you ready for the trial?
OLIVIA
Do you persuade him of my ugliness.... If he loves me not I shall go forth and die-- Then life will be far too like death to live!
LIZZIA [agonized]
My little children, you must not do this thing! Love is too high a gift to play with so. God only has the right to put the heart Of man to trial!
VIOLANTE [to Lizzia]
Will you be quiet, old woman!
OLIVIA [to Lizzia]
I would not hold him if he only loved My beauty, and not me. The test is just....
VIOLANTE [to Lizzia]
Go you, inform him of her return.... But tell him that that flower which was her face Is shriveled up and lean as any hag's.
LIZZIA
Now God forbid I should deceive him so!
VIOLANTE
Not even for gold?
LIZZIA
Have you no fear of God?
[A stir is heard within.]
VIOLANTE
Hush!... I will do it, then. [Going up to small arras over study door, she calls.] Florio!... Florio!...
FLORIO [from within, after a brief space]
Who is it calls me?
VIOLANTE
It is I, Violante!
FLORIO
Why have you come again?
VIOLANTE
I have returned, Florio, In strange times, bearing strange news.
FLORIO
My soul is full of death--I pray you go!
VIOLANTE
It could not be--aye, it is passing strange!-- She said her name was "Olivia."
FLORIO
Olivia, ah, she lives!
VIOLANTE
Then, it is true? You love this shriveled woman?
FLORIO
Shriveled woman?
VIOLANTE
Ugly and bent and gray--a woman Who says in as few words she is your mistress.
FLORIO
Has she come? Is she here?... Go, Violante-- Go, leave us two alone!
VIOLANTE
She walked as one bewitched in a dream. She seemed to fear.... I bade her wait without.... Florio, could it be true you loved this woman?
FLORIO
Has all the brightness fallen from her eyes, The glory and the wonder from her face?
VIOLANTE
She lives! How few have had the plague and lived!
FLORIO
Alas, woe, woe is me!
VIOLANTE [triumphantly, to Olivia]
You heard? [To Florio.] Come forth--she's at the threshold.
FLORIO
Bid her wait. Give me space for thought ... a little space.... This is almost as horrible as her death....
[Long silence. The women wait.... Groaning within. Olivia starts forward to go to Florio.]
VIOLANTE [to Olivia]
Do you flinch now? I knew you would not dare!
[Olivia stops. Proudly she remains still.]
VIOLANTE [as arras stirs]
Now bear your part--continue the deceit.
OLIVIA [in a frightened voice]
I know he loves me. Yet a little while And I will draw my veil! [Another groan. Olivia starts forward again.] Oh, I cannot!
VIOLANTE [mocking]
I knew you would not dare!
[Again Olivia stops still. Now, after a long pause, during which death processions are heard to pass, the arras over the smaller doorway is slowly put aside. Florio enters, swaying. He holds his cloak about his brow.]
FLORIO
Where is Olivia?
OLIVIA [feigning with an effort]
Florio, God pity you and me-- I had rather died!...
FLORIO
Oh, speak not so!
OLIVIA
My "beauty clean and golden as the sun," As once you sang it, has become so gross And fearful, that I veil it, broken with shame, From eyes of men.... [A pause.] 'Tis well you cloak your eyes, For should I drop my veil through which I glance--[Another pause.] Shall I go?
FLORIO [breathing heavily]
No ... for I love you ... bide with me.... [With great effort] ... Though you be foul, Olivia!
[As he still stands muffled, Olivia grows more and more frightened at what she is doing, and now, in complete surrender to terror, gives over the deceit and speaks the truth.]
OLIVIA
Florio, my Florio--draw down your arm.... No longer need you fear to look on me-- It was a test, my love, a cruel test!
[She draws aside her veil, the other women in back of her, Florio obliquely in front. Her face is seen to be one of surpassing loveliness.
Florio, groaning, keeps his face cloaked and does not speak.]
OLIVIA
Look, my beloved, or I shall go mad!
[Olivia tugs at his arm. He lowers it. He exposes a sightless face.]
LIZZIA [breaking in on the awful pause].
Self-blinded, my poor master!
VIOLANTE
Oh, Florio, what is this that I have done!
[Olivia has dropped slowly back, stricken dumb with voiceless terror. Her throat works convulsively with a scream which now rushes forth.
Florio falls to his knees, again covering his face and bowing his head. Olivia comes and kneels, grief-stricken, beside him, putting one arm about him in support.]
OLIVIA [sobbing]
There is ... no one ... that's ... uglier ... than I!
FLORIO [convulsively]
You were the glory of the world, Olivia!... And now ... your beauty ... that is ... dead ... will always be ... to me ... The glory of ... the world!... forever and forever!...
OLIVIA
Oh, if you could but see my ugliness-- I think there's nothing like it in the world! O God, why did I not die an hour ago!
VIOLANTE [crazed anew with jealousy]
Florio, Florio--Olivia lies! Her beauty floods the very room with light-- You are deceived most horribly!
OLIVIA
Command that woman hence; She is the source and cause of all our ill.
FLORIO
What does this mean? My soul is sick to death!
VIOLANTE
I tell you, Florio, that she lies to you.
[To Lizzia.]
Tell him the truth, old woman, and beware, As you have fear of Hell, belief in God, And hope of Heaven, to perjure not your soul!
LIZZIA [at first frightened and irresolute, then quietly determined.]
God help me--she is surpassingly--ugly!
[Returning Violante glare for glare.]
Her ugliness--!
[Breaking down, she goes to altar and drops on knees before it.]
FLORIO
Go, Violante!
VIOLANTE
I could curse God for this!
[Violante staggers toward the great black curtain in doorway, where she supports herself by clinging to it.]
FLORIO
Olivia, come back to me from the great Dark-- All life is but a ghost. Where are you, Olivia?
OLIVIA
I am here--close to you, Florio!
FLORIO
What have you women done to me! [To Olivia.] Your face! An evil dream is in my heart!
[He gropes, catches her quickly on each side of the head with both hands. He draws her down to him. He runs his fingers flickeringly over the smooth, rosy beauty of her face....
Then, with an eyeless, uplifted countenance which reveals complete understanding and an abyss of horror and madness, he slowly pushes Olivia away....
He lifts his fingers up grotesquely in the air, each distinct and widespread--painfully, as if fire spurted out of the ends of them. Olivia weeps....
Lizzia intones prayers....
Violante holds herself erect and triumphant, clinging to the great arras in back, struggling for strength to go out.
At this moment another death-procession passes.... A Miserere is chanted....
A dawn of horror breaks over Violante's face ... she shrinks inward from the passing procession, feeling the huge horror of the Pestilence.
Olivia gathers Florio's unresisting head to her bosom....
The sound of the Miserere dies off....
Into this tableau breaks Dioneo. Slowly he parts the arras.]
DIONEO [grimacing, and seeing, at first, only Lizzia at the altar.]
Bestir yourself, old woman-- Where is your master, Florio, And Lady Violante Ugolini?... This is no time for lovers' dallying.... Tell them that Seignior Boccaccio Sends word through me that we must wait no longer. And, furthermore, he bids me say--that
[Violante falls in a faint across his feet. Dioneo sees all. Shrinking back.]
Merciful God!...
[Curtain.]
ANOTHER WAY OUT
A COMEDY
BY LAWRENCE LANGNER
Copyright, 1916, by Lawrence Langner. All rights reserved.
ANOTHER WAY OUT was originally produced by the Washington Square Players at the Comedy Theatre, New York, on November 13th, 1916, with the following cast:
MARGARET MARSHALL Gwladys Wynne. MRS. ABBEY Jean Robb. POMEROY PENDLETON Jose Ruben. BARONESS DE MEAUVILLE Helen Westley. CHARLES P. K. FENTON Robert Strange.
TIME: The Present.
Produced under the direction of MR. PHILLIP MOELLER.
Reprinted from "Plays of the Washington Square Players," published by Frank Shay, by permission of Mr. Lawrence Langner. Applications for permission to perform ANOTHER WAY OUT must be made to Lawrence Langner, 55 Liberty Street, New York.
ANOTHER WAY OUT
A COMEDY BY LAWRENCE LANGNER
[SCENE: The studio in Pendleton's apartment. A large room, with sky-light in center wall, doors right and left, table set for breakfast; a vase with red flowers decorates the table. Center back stage, in front of sky-light, modeling stand upon which is placed a rough statuette, covered by cloth. To one side of this is a large screen. The furnishings are many hued, the cushions a flare of color, and the pictures fantastically futuristic.
At Rise: Mrs. Abbey, a benevolent looking, middle-aged woman, in neat clothes and apron, is arranging some dishes on the table. Margaret, a very modern young woman, is exercising vigorously. She is decidedly good-looking. Her eyes are direct, her complexion fresh, and her movements free. Her brown hair is "bobbed," and she wears a picturesque Grecian robe.]
MRS. ABBEY. Breakfast is ready, ma'am.
[Margaret sits at table and helps herself. Exit Mrs. Abbey, left.]
MARGARET [calling]. Pommy dear. Breakfast is on the table.
PENDLETON [from without]. I'll be there in a moment.
[Margaret glances through paper; Pendleton enters, door right. He is tall and thin, and of aesthetic appearance. His long blond hair is brushed loosely over his forehead and he is dressed in a helitrope-colored dressing gown. He lights a cigarette.]
MARGARET. I thought you were going to stop smoking before breakfast.
PENDLETON. My dear, I can't possibly stand the taste of tooth paste in my mouth all day.
[Pendleton sits at table. Enters Mrs. Abbey with tray. Pendleton helps himself, then drops his knife and fork with a clang. Mrs. Abbey and Margaret are startled.]
MRS. ABBEY. Anything the matter, sir?
PENDLETON. Dear, dear! My breakfast is quite spoiled again.
MRS. ABBEY [concerned]. Spoiled, sir?
PENDLETON [pointing to red flowers on breakfast table]. Look at those flowers, Mrs. Abbey. Not only are they quite out of harmony with the color scheme in this room, but they're positively red, and you know I have a perfect horror of red.
MRS. ABBEY. But you like them that color sometimes, sir. What am I to do when you're so temperamental about 'em.
MARGARET. Temperamental. I should say bad-tempered.
MRS. ABBEY [soothingly]. Oh no, ma'am. It isn't bad temper. I understand Mr. Pendleton. It's just another bad night he's had, that's what it is.
PENDLETON [sarcastically polite]. Mrs. Abbey, you appear to have an intimate knowledge of how I pass the nights. It's becoming quite embarrassing.
MRS. ABBEY. You mustn't mind an old woman like me, sir.
[The sound of a piano hopelessly out of tune, in the apartment upstairs, is heard, the player banging out Mendelssohn's Wedding March with unusual insistence.]
PENDLETON. There! That confounded piano again!
MARGARET. And they always play the Wedding March. There must be an old maid living there.
MRS. ABBEY. They're doing that for a reason.
MARGARET. What reason?
MRS. ABBEY. Their cook tole me yesterday that her missus thinks if she keeps on a-playing of the Wedding March, p'raps it'll give you an' Mr. Pendleton the idea of getting married. She don't believe in couples livin' to-gether, like you an' Mr. Pendleton.
MARGARET. No?
MRS. ABBEY. And I just said you an' Mr. Pendleton had been living together so long, it was my opinion you might just as well be married an' done with it.
MARGARET [angrily]. Your opinion is quite uncalled for, Mrs. Abbey.
PENDLETON. Why shouldn't Mrs. Abbey give us her opinion? It may be valuable. Look at her experiences in matrimony.
MRS. ABBEY. In matrimony, and out of it, too.
MARGARET [sitting]. But Mrs. Abbey has no right to discuss our affairs with other people's maids.
MRS. ABBEY. I'll be glad to quit if I don't suit the mistress.
MARGARET [angrily]. There! Mistress again! How often have I asked you not to refer to me as the mistress?
MRS. ABBEY. No offense, ma'am.
PENDLETON. You'd better see if there's any mail, Mrs. Abbey, and take those flowers away with you.
MRS. ABBEY. Very well, sir.
[Exit Mrs. Abbey door center.]
MARGARET. What an old-fashioned point of view Mrs. Abbey has.
[Pendleton takes up paper and commences to read.]
MARGARET. Pommy, why do you stoop so?
PENDLETON. Am I stooping?
MARGARET. I'm tired of telling you. You ought to take more exercise.
[Pendleton continues to read.]
MARGARET. One reason why the Greeks were the greatest of artists was because they cultivated the body as carefully as the mind.
PENDLETON. Oh! Hang the Greeks!
[Enter Mrs. Abbey right, with letters.]
MRS. ABBEY. There are your letters, sir. [Coldly.] And these are yours, ma'am.
[Exit Mrs. Abbey left.]
MARGARET [who has opened her letters meanwhile]. How delightful! Tom Del Valli has asked us to a party at his studio next Friday.
PENDLETON [opening his letters]. Both of us?
MARGARET [giving him letter]. Yes, and Helen Marsden wants us for Saturday.
PENDLETON. Both of us?
MARGARET [picking up another letter]. Yes, and here's one from Bobby Watson for Sunday.
PENDLETON. Both of us?
MARGARET. Yes.
PENDLETON. Really, Margaret, this is becoming exasperating. [Holds up letters.] Here are four more, I suppose for both of us. People keep on inviting us out together time after time as though we were the most conventional married couple on God's earth.
MARGARET. Do you object to going out with me?
PENDLETON [doubtfully]. No, it isn't that. But we're having too much of a good thing. And I've come to the conclusion that it's your fault.
MARGARET [indignantly]. Oh! it's my fault? Of course you'd blame me. Why?
PENDLETON. Because you have such an absurd habit of boasting to people of your devotion for me, when we're out.
MARGARET. You surely don't expect me to quarrel with you in public?
PENDLETON. It isn't necessary to go to that extent. But then everybody believes that we're utterly, almost stupidly in love with one another, what can you expect?
MARGARET. You said once you never wanted me to suppress anything.
PENDLETON. That was before we began to live together.
MARGARET. What could I have done?
PENDLETON [up right]. Anything just so we could have a little more freedom instead of being tied to one another the way we are. Never a moment when we're not together, never a day when I'm not interviewed by special article writers from almost every paper and magazine in the country, as the only successful exponent of the theory that love can be so perfect that the marriage contract degrades it. I put it to you, Margaret, if this is a free union it is simply intolerable!
MARGARET. But aren't we living together so as to have more freedom? Think of what it might be if we were married. Didn't you once write that "When marriage comes in at the door, freedom flies out at the window"?
PENDLETON. Are we any better off, with everybody treating us as though we were living together to prove a principle?
MARGARET. Well, aren't we incidently? You said so yourself. We can be a beautiful example to other people, and show them how to lead the pure natural lives of the later Greeks?
PENDLETON. Damn the later Greeks! Why do you always throw those confounded later Greeks in my face? We've got to look at it from our standpoint. This situation must come to an end.
MARGARET. What can we do?
PENDLETON. It rests with you.
MARGARET. With me?
PENDLETON. You can compromise yourself with somebody publicly. That'll put an end to everything.
MARGARET. How will that end it?
PENDLETON. It'll break down the morally sanctified atmosphere in which we're living. Then perhaps, people will regard us as immoral and treat us like decent human beings again.
MARGARET. But I don't want to compromise myself.
PENDLETON. If you believe in your own ideas, you must.
MARGARET. But why should I have to do it?
PENDLETON. It will be so easy for you.
MARGARET. Why can't we both be compromised? That would be better still.
PENDLETON. I should find it a bore. You, unless my memory fails me, would enjoy it.
MARGARET. You needn't be cynical. Even if you don't enjoy it, you can work it into a novel.
PENDLETON. It's less exertion to imagine an affair of that sort, and the result would probably be more saleable. Besides I have no interest whatsoever in women, at least, in the women we know.
MARGARET. For that matter, I don't know any eligible men.
PENDLETON. What about Bob Lockwood?
MARGARET. But he's your best friend!
PENDLETON. Exactly--no man ever really trusts his best friend. He'll probably compromise you without compunction.
MARGARET. I'm afraid he'd be too dangerous--he tells you all his secrets. Whom will you choose?
PENDLETON. It's a matter of complete indifference to me.
MARGARET. I've heard a lot of queer stories about Jean Roberts. How would she do?
PENDLETON [firmly]. Margaret, I don't mind being party to a flirtation--but I draw the line at being the victim of a seduction.
MARGARET. Why not leave it to chance? Let it be the next interesting woman you meet.
PENDLETON. That might be amusing. But there must be an age limit. And how about you?
MARGARET [takes cloth off statuette and discloses figure of Apollo in rough modeling clay]. Me! Why not the new model who is coming to-day to pose for my Apollo?
PENDLETON. Well, if he's anything like that, you ought to be able to create a sensation. Then, perhaps, we shall have some real freedom.
MARGARET. Pommy, do you still love me as much as you did?
PENDLETON. How you sentimentalize! Do you think I'd be willing to enter into a flirtation with a strange woman, if I didn't want to keep on living with you?
MARGARET. And we won't have to break up our little home, will we?
PENDLETON. No, anything to save the home. [Catches himself.] My God! If any of my readers should hear me say that! To think that I, Pomeroy Pendleton, should be trying to save my own home. And yet, how characteristically paradoxical.
MARGARET [interrupting]. You are going to philosophize! Give me a kiss.
[She goes to him, sits on his lap, and places her arm on his shoulder; he takes out cigarette, she lights it for him.]
PENDLETON [brought back to reality]. I have some work to do--I must go.
MARGARET. A kiss!
PENDLETON [kisses her carelessly]. There let me go.
MARGARET. I want a real kiss.
PENDLETON. Don't be silly, dear, I can't play this morning. I've simply got to finish my last chapter.
[A bell rings, Mrs. Abbey enters and goes to door.]
MRS. ABBEY. There's a lady to see Mr. Pendleton.
MARGARET. Tell her to come in!
PENDLETON. But, Margaret!
MARGARET. Remember! [Significantly.] The first woman you meet!
[_Exit Margaret. Mrs. Abbey enters with Baroness de Meauville. Exit Mrs. Abbey._]
BARONESS DE MEAUVILLE [speaking with a pronounced English accent]. Good morning, Mr. Pendleton, I'm the Baroness de Meauville!
PENDLETON [recalling her name]. Baroness de Meauville? Ah, the costumiere?
BARONESS. Not a costumiere, Mr. Pendleton, I am an artist, an artist in modern attire. A woman is to me what a canvas is to a painter.
PENDLETON. Excuse me for receiving you in my dressing gown. I was at work.
BARONESS. I like to see men in dressing gowns--yours is charming.
PENDLETON [flattered and pleased]. Do you like it? I designed it myself.
BARONESS [looking seductively into his eyes]. How few really creative artists there are in America.
PENDLETON [modestly]. You flatter me.
BARONESS. Not at all. You must know that I'm a great admirer of yours, Mr. Pendleton. I've read every one of your books. I feel I know you as an old friend.
PENDLETON. That's very nice of you!
[The Baroness reclines on couch; takes jeweled cigarette case from reticule and offers Pendleton a cigarette.]
BARONESS. Will you smoke?
PENDLETON. Thanks.
[Pendleton lights her cigarette, then his own. He draws his chair up to the couch. An atmosphere of mutual interest is established.]
BARONESS. Mr. Pendleton, I have a mission in life. It is to make the American woman the best dressed woman in the world. I came here to-day because I want you to help me.
PENDLETON. But I have no ambitions in that direction.
BARONESS. Why should you have ambitions? Only the bourgeoisie have ambitions. We artists have inspirations. I want to breathe into you the spirit of my great undertaking. Already I have opened my place in the smartest part of the Avenue. Already I have drawn my assistants from all parts of the world. Nothing is lacking to complete my plans but you.
PENDLETON. Me? Why me?
BARONESS [endearingly]. Are you not considered one of the foremost men of letters in America?
PENDLETON [modestly]. Didn't you say you had read all my books?
BARONESS. Are you not the only writer who has successfully portrayed the emotional side of American life?
PENDLETON [decidedly]. Yes.
BARONESS. Exactly. That is why I have chosen you to write my advertisements.
PENDLETON [aghast]. But, Baroness!
BARONESS. You're not going to say that. It's so ordinary.
PENDLETON. But, but, you want me to write advertisements!
BARONESS. Please don't disappoint me.
PENDLETON. Yes, I suppose that's so. But one has a sense of pride.
BARONESS. Art comes before Pride. Consider my feelings, an aristocrat, coming here to America and engaging in commerce, and advertising, and other dreadful things, and all for the sake of Art!
PENDLETON. But you make money out of it!
BARONESS. Only incidentally. Just as you, in writing my advertisements, would make, say ten thousand or so, as a sort of accident. But don't let us talk of money. It's perfectly revolting, isn't it? Art is Life, and I believe in Life for Art's sake. That's why I'm a success.
PENDLETON. Indeed? How interesting. Please go on.
BARONESS. When a woman comes to me for a gown, I don't measure body, why should I? I measure her mind. I find her color harmony. In a moment I can tell whether she ought to wear scarlet, mauve, taupe, magenta, or any other color, so as to fall into her proper rhythm. Every one has a rhythm, you know. [Pendleton sits on sofa.] But I don't have to explain all this to you, Mr. Pendleton. You understand it intuitively. This heliotrope you are wearing shows me at once that you are in rhythm.
PENDLETON [thinks of Margaret]. I'm not so sure that I am. What you say interests me. May I ask you a question?
BARONESS. Yes, but I may not answer it.
PENDLETON. Why do you wear heliotrope and the same shade as mine?
BARONESS [with mock mystery]. You mustn't ask me that.
PENDLETON. I'm all curiosity.
BARONESS. Curiosity is dangerous.
PENDLETON. Supposing I try to find out?
BARONESS. That may be even more dangerous.
PENDLETON. I'm fond of that kind of danger.
BARONESS. Take care! I'm very fragile.
PENDLETON. Isn't heliotrope in rhythm with the faint reflection of passion?
BARONESS. How brutal of you to have said it.
PENDLETON [coming closer to her]. I, too, am in rhythm with heliotrope.
BARONESS [with joy]. How glad I am. Thank God you've no desire to kiss my lips.
PENDLETON. Only your finger-tips.
[They exchange kisses on finger-tips.]
PENDLETON. Your fingers are like soft, pale, waxen tapers!
BARONESS. Your kisses are the breathings that light them into quivering flame!
PENDLETON. Exquisite--exquisite!
BARONESS [withdrawing her hands]. That was a moment!
PENDLETON. We must have many such.
BARONESS. Many? That's too near too much.
PENDLETON [feverishly]. We shall, dear lady.
BARONESS. How I adore your writings! They have made me realize the beauty of an ideal union, the love of one man for one woman at a time. Let us have such a union, you and me.
PENDLETON [taken back]. But I live in such a union already.
BARONESS [rising in amazement]. And only a moment ago you kissed me!
PENDLETON. Well--what of it?
BARONESS. Don't you see what we've done? You are living in one of those wonderful unions you describe in your books--and I've let you kiss me. I've committed a sacrilege.
PENDLETON. You're mistaken. It isn't a sacrilege. It's an opportunity.
BARONESS [dramatically]. How can you say that--you whose words have inspired my deepest intimacies. No, I must go. [Makes for the door.] I--must--go.
PENDLETON. You don't understand. I exaggerated everything so in my confounded books.
BARONESS. Please ask her to forgive me. Please tell her I thought you were married, otherwise, never, never, would I have permitted you to kiss me.
PENDLETON. What made you think I was married?
BARONESS. One often believes what one hopes.
PENDLETON. You take it too seriously. Let me explain.
BARONESS. What is there to explain? Our experience has been complete. Why spoil it by anti-climax?
PENDLETON. Am I never to see you again?
BARONESS. Who knows? If your present union should end, and some day your soul needs--some one?
[Exit door center, her manner full of promise.]
PENDLETON [with feeling]. Good-by--long, pale fingers.
[Enter Margaret, door right.]
MARGARET. Did you get a good start with the scandal?
PENDLETON. Not exactly. I may as well admit it was a failure through no fault of mine, of course. And now, I simply must finish that last chapter.
[He exits. Margaret rings. Mrs. Abby enters.]
MARGARET. You may clear, Mrs. Abbey.
MRS. ABBEY. Very well, ma'am.
[She attends to clearing the table.]
MARGARET. Mrs. Abbey, have you worked for many people living together, like Mr. Pendleton and myself?
MRS. ABBEY. Lor', Ma'am, yes. I've worked in nearly every house on the south side of Washington Square.
MARGARET. Mr. Pendleton says I'm as domestic as any wife could be. Were the others like me?
MRS. ABBEY. Most of them, ma'am, but some was regular hussies; not only a-livin' with their fellers--but havin' a good time, too. That's what I call real immoral.
[Bell rings. Mrs. Abbey opens door center and passes out. Conversation with Fenton without is heard. Mrs. Abbey comes back.]
MRS. ABBEY. A young man wants to see you, ma'am.
MARGARET. That's the new model. I'll get my working apron.
[Exit Margaret, door right. Mrs. Abbey calls through door center.]
MRS. ABBEY. You c'n come in.
[Enter door left, Charles P. K. Fenton, dictionary salesman. He is a strikingly handsome young man, offensively smartly dressed in a black and white check suit, gaudy tie, and white socks. His hair is brushed back from his forehead like a glossy sheath. He carries a black bag. His manner is distinctly "male."]
MRS. ABBEY [points to screen]. You can undress behind there.
FENTON. Undress? Say, what's this? A Turkish bath?
MRS. ABBEY. Did you expect to have a private room all to yourself?
FENTON [looking around]. What am I to undress for?
MRS. ABBEY. The missus will be here in a minute.
FENTON. Good night! I'm goin'.
[Makes for door.]
MRS. ABBEY. What's the matter? Ain't you the Missus' new model?
FENTON. A model! Ha! Ha! You've sure got the wrong number this time. I'm in the dictionary line, ma'am.
MRS. ABBEY. Well, of all the impudence! You a book agent, and a-walkin' in here.
FENTON. Well, you asked me in, didn't you? Can't I see the missus, jest for a minute?
MRS. ABBEY [good-naturedly]. Very well. Here she is. [Confidentially.] And I advise you to remove that Spearmint from your mouth, if you want to sell any dictionaries in this house.
FENTON [placing hand to mouth]. Where shall I put it?
MRS. ABBEY. You'd better swallow it!
[Fenton tries to do so, chokes, turns red, and places his hand to mouth.]
MARGARET [to Fenton]. I'm so glad to see you.
[Fenton is most embarrassed. Mrs. Abbey, in surprise, attempts to explain situation.]
MRS. ABBEY. But, ma'am--
MARGARET. You may go, Mrs. Abbey.
MRS. ABBEY. But, but, ma'am--
MARGARET [severely]. You may go, Mrs. Abbey. [Exit Mrs. Abbey in a huff.] I'm so glad they sent you up to see me. Won't you sit down?
[Fenton finds it a difficult matter to handle the situation. He adopts his usual formula for an "opening," but his speech is mechanical and without conviction. Margaret adds to the embarrassment by stepping around him and examining him with professional interest.]
FENTON. Madam, I represent the Globe Advertising Publishing Sales Co., the largest publishers of dictionaries in the world.
MARGARET [continuing to appraise him]. Then you're not the new model?
FENTON. No, ma'am.
MARGARET. What a pity! Never mind, go on.
FENTON. As I was saying, ma'am, I represent the Advertising Globe Publishing--I mean the Globe Publishing Sales Publishing Co., the largest publishers of dictionaries in the world. For some time past we have felt there was a demand for a new Encyclopaedic Dictionary, madam, one that would not only fill up a good deal of space in the bookshelf, making an attractive addition to the home, but also containing the most complete collection of words in the English language.
MARGARET [who has taken a pencil and is measuring Fenton while he speaks; Fenton's discomfort is obvious. He attempts to rearrange his tie and coat, thinking she is examining him.] Please go on talking, it's so interesting.
FENTON. Statistics show that the Woman of Average Education in America, Madam, has command of but fifteen hundred words. This new dictionary, Madam, [Produces book from bag.] will give you command of over eight hundred and fifty thousand.
MARGARET [archly]. So you are a dealer in words--how perfectly romantic.
FENTON [warming]. Most of these words, madam, are not used more than a dozen times a year. They are our Heritage from the Past. And all these words, to say nothing of the fact that the dictionary fills five inches in a bookshelf, making an attractive addition to the library, being handsomely bound in half-cloth--all these are yours, ma'am, for the price of one dollar.
[He places dictionary in her hand. She examines it.]
FENTON. If you have a son, madam, the possession of this dictionary will give him an opportunity of acquiring that knowledge of our language which made Abraham Lincoln the Father of our Country. Madam, opportunity knocks at the door only once and This is your opportunity at one dollar.
MARGARET [meaningly]. Yes, this is my opportunity! I'll buy the dictionary and now [sweetly] won't you tell me your name?
FENTON [pocketing dollar]. My name is Charles P. K. Fenton.
MARGARET. Mr. Fenton, would you mind doing me a favor?
FENTON [looking dubiously towards the screen]. Why, I guess not, ma'am.
MARGARET. I want you to take off your coat.
FENTON [puzzled]. You're not trying to kid me, ma'am?
MARGARET. I just want to see your development. Do you mind?
FENTON [removes coat]. Why, no, ma'am, if that's all you want.
MARGARET. Now, bring your arm up, tighten the muscles. [Fenton does as she bids; Margaret thumps his arm approvingly.] Splendid! You must take lots of exercise, Mr. Fenton.
FENTON. Not me, ma'am. I never had no time for exercise; I got that workin' in a freight yard.
Margaret. I suppose you think me rather peculiar, Mr. Fenton.
FENTON. You said it, Miss.
MARGARET. You see I'm a sculptress. [Points to statuette.] This is my work.
FENTON. You made that? Gee! that's great. [Examines statuette.] Just like them statues at the Metropolitan.
MARGARET. That figure is Apollo, Mr. Fenton.
FENTON. Oh, Apollo.
MARGARET. I was to engage a professional model for it, but I could never hope to get a professional as fine a type as you. Will you pose for it?
FENTON [aghast]. Me? That feller there without any clothes. [Dubiously.] Well, I don't know. It's kind of chilly here.
MARGARET. If I draped you, it would spoil some of your lines. [Seeing his hesitation.] But I will if you like.
FENTON [relieved]. Ah, now you're talking.
MARGARET. So, you'll really come?
FENTON. How about this evening?
MARGARET. Splendid! Sit down. [Fenton does so.] Mr. Fenton, you've quite aroused my curiosity. I know so few business men. Is your work interesting?
FENTON. Well, I can't say it was, until I started selling around this neighborhood.
MARGARET. Is it difficult?
FENTON. Not if you've got personality, Miss. That's the thing, personality. If a feller hasn't got personality, he can't sell goods, that's sure.
MARGARET. What do you mean by personality, Mr. Fenton.
FENTON. Well, it's what sells the goods. I don't know how else to explain it exactly. I'll look it up in the dictionary. [Takes dictionary and turns pages.] Here it is, ma'am. Per--per--why, it isn't in here. I guess they don't put in words that everybody knows. We all know what personality means. It's what sells the goods.
MARGARET. I adore a strong, virile, masculine personality.
FENTON. I don't quite get you, madam.
MARGARET. The men I know have so much of the feminine in them.
FENTON. Oh, "Cissies"!
MARGARET [flirtingly]. They lack the magnetic forcefulness which I like so much in you.
FENTON. I believe you are kidding me. Does that mean you like me?
MARGARET. That's rather an embarrassing question.
FENTON. You must or you wouldn't let me speak to you this way.
MARGARET [archly]. Never mind whether I like you. Tell me whether you like me?
FENTON [feeling more at home]. Gee! I didn't get on to you at first. Sure I like you.
MARGARET. Then we're going to be good friends.
FENTON. You just bet we are. Say, got a date for to-morrow evening?
MARGARET. No.
FENTON. How about the movies? There's a fine feature film at the Strand. Theda Bara in "The Lonesome Vampire," five reels. They say it's got "Gloria's Romance" beat a mile.
MARGARET. I don't know that I'd care to go there.
FENTON. How about a run down to Coney?
MARGARET. Coney! I've always wanted to do wild Pagan things.
FENTON. Say, you'll tell me your name, won't you?
MARGARET. Margaret Marshall.
FENTON. Do you mind if I call you Margie?
MARGARET. If you do, I must call you--
FENTON. Charley. Gee, I like the name of Margie. Some class to that.
MARGARET. I'm glad you like it.
FENTON [moving nearer]. And some class to you!
MARGARET [coyly]. So you really like me?
FENTON. You bet. Say, before I go, you've got to give me a kiss, Margie.
MARGARET. Well, I don't know. Aren't you rather "rushing" me?
FENTON. Say, you are a kidder.
[He draws her up from her chair, and kisses her warmly on the lips.]
MARGARET [ecstatically]. You have the true Greek spirit! [They kiss again.] If only Pommy would kiss me that way!
FENTON. Pommy? Who's Pommy?
MARGARET. Pommy is the man I live with.
FENTON. Your husband!
MARGARET. No, we just live together. You see, we don't believe in marriage.
FENTON [pushing her away in horror]. I thought there was something queer about all this. Does he live here?
MARGARET. Yes. [Points to door.] He's in there now.
FENTON [excitedly]. Good night! I'm goin'.
[Looks for hat.]
MARGARET [speaking with real anguish]. You're surely not going just on that account.
FENTON [taking hat and bag]. Isn't that enough?
MARGARET [emotionally]. Please don't go. Listen, I can't suppress my feeling for you; I never do with anybody. I liked you the moment I saw you, I want you as a friend, a good friend. You can't go now, just when everything's about to begin.
FENTON [severely]. Fair's fair, Miss. If he's keeping you, you can't be taking up with me at the same time. That puts the finish on it.
MARGARET. But he doesn't keep me. I keep myself.
FENTON. Wait a minute. You support yourself, and live with him of your own free will. Then you've got no excuse for being immoral; 'tisn't like you had to make your living at it. [At door.] Good-by.
MARGARET. But I can explain everything.
FENTON. It's no use, Miss. Even though I am a salesman, I've got a sense of honor. I sized you up as a married woman when I came in just now, or I never would have made love to you at all.
MARGARET. Oh--wait! Supposing I should want to buy some more dictionaries.
FENTON [returning]. You've got my card, Miss. The 'phone number is on it. Bryant 4253. [Sees Margaret hang her head.] Don't feel hurt, Miss. You'll get over these queer ideas some day, and when you do, well, you've got my number. So long, kid.
[Exit Fenton, door, center.]
MARGARET [taking his card from table and placing it to her lips soulfully]. My Apollo, Bryant 4253!
PENDLETON. Did you get a good start with your scandal. [Margaret hangs her head.] It's no use; I'm convinced we're in a hopeless muddle.
MARGARET. I heartily agree with you.
PENDLETON. You've changed your mind very suddenly.
MARGARET. I have my reasons.
PENDLETON. The fact is, Margaret, that so long as we live together we're public figures, with everybody else as our jury.
MARGARET. But lots of people read your books and respect us.
PENDLETON. The people that respect us are worse than the people that don't.
MARGARET. If they wouldn't always be bothering about our morals!
PENDLETON. If we continue living together, we shall simply be giving up our freedom to prove we are free.
MARGARET [faltering]. I suppose we ought to separate.
PENDLETON. I believe we should.
MARGARET. We'll have to give up the studio.
PENDLETON [regretfully]. Yes.
MARGARET. It's taken a long time to make the place homelike.
PENDLETON. We've been very comfortable here.
MARGARET. I shall miss you at meals.
PENDLETON. I shall have to start eating at clubs and restaurants again, no more good home cooking.
MARGARET. We're kind of used to one another, aren't we?
PENDLETON. It isn't an easy matter to break, after five years.
MARGARET. And there are mighty few studios with as good a light as this; I don't want to separate if you don't.
PENDLETON. But, Margaret. [Piano starts playing wedding march.] There, that confounded piano again. [Seized with an idea.] Margaret, there's another way out!
MARGARET [with same idea]. You mean, we ought to marry!
PENDLETON. Yes, marry, and do it at once. That'll end everything.
MARGARET. Let's do it right away and get it over with; I simply must finish my Apollo.
PENDLETON. I'm going to buy you a new gown to get married in, a wedding present from Baroness de Meauville's.
MARGARET. I don't know that I want a De Meauville gown.
PENDLETON. Please let me. I want to give you something to symbolize our new life together.
MARGARET. Very well. And in return, I'll buy you a dictionary, so that I won't have to keep on correcting your spelling.
[Exit Pendleton. Margaret goes to 'phone, and consults Fenton's card.]
MARGARET. Bryant 4253? Can I speak to Mr. Fenton? [Enter Mrs. Abbey.] Mrs. Abbey. What do you think? We're going to get married!
MRS. ABBEY. Well, bless my soul! That's right. You can take it from me, ma'am, you'll find that respectability pays.
MARGARET [at 'phone]. Bryant 4253? [Sweetly.] Is that Mr. Fenton? [Pause.] Hello, Charley!
[Curtain.]
ARIA DA CAPO
A PLAY
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
Copyright, 1920, by Edna St. Vincent Millay. All rights reserved.
PERSONS
PIERROT. COLUMBINE. COTHURNUS [masque of tragedy]. THYRSIS [shepherd]. CORYDON [shepherd].
First printed in "Reedy's Mirror," St. Louis. Application to produce this play should be made to Edna St. Vincent Millay, in care of the Provincetown Players, 133 Macdougal Street, New York.
ARIA DA CAPO
A PLAY BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
[SCENE: A Stage. The curtain rises on a stage set for a Harlequinade, a merry black and white interior. Directly behind the footlights, and running parallel with them, is a long table, covered with a gay black and white cloth, on which is spread a banquet. At the opposite ends of this table, seated on delicate thin-legged chairs with high backs, are Pierrot and Columbine, dressed according to the tradition, excepting that Pierrot is in lilac, and Columbine in pink. They are dining.]
COLU. Pierrot, a macaroon! I cannot live Without a macaroon!
PIER. My only love, You are so intense.... It is Tuesday, Columbine?---- I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday.
COLU. It is Wednesday, If you must know.... Is this my artichoke, Or yours?
PIER. Ah, Columbine,--as if it mattered! Wednesday.... Will it be Tuesday, then, to-morrow, By any chance?
COLU. To-morrow will be--Pierrot, That isn't funny!
PIER. I thought it rather nice. Well, let us drink some wine and lose our heads And love each other.
COLU. Pierrot, don't you love Me now?
PIER. La, what a woman!--How should I know? Pour me some wine: I'll tell you presently.
COLU. Pierrot, do you know, I think you drink too much.
PIER. Yes, I dare say I do.... Or else too little. It's hard to tell. You see, I am always wanting A little more than what I have,--or else A little less. There's something wrong. My dear, How many fingers have you?
COLU. La, indeed, How should I know?--It always takes me one hand To count the other with. It's too confusing. Why?
PIER. Why?--I am a student, Columbine; And search into all matters.
COLU. La, indeed?-- Count them yourself, then!
PIER. No. Or, rather, nay. 'Tis of no consequence.... I am become A painter, suddenly,--and you impress me-- Ah, yes!--six orange bull's-eyes, four green pin-wheels, And one magenta jelly-roll,--the title As follows: Woman Taking In Cheese From Fire-Escape.
COLU. Well, I like that! So that is all I've meant To you!
PIER. Hush! All at once I am become A pianist. I will image you in sound,... On a new scale ... without tonality.... Vivace senza tempo senza tutto.... Title: Uptown Express at Six O'Clock. Pour me a drink.
COLU. Pierrot, you work too hard. You need a rest. Come on out into the garden, And sing me something sad.
PIER. Don't stand so near me! I am become a socialist. I love Humanity; but I hate people. Columbine, Put on your mittens, child; your hands are cold.
COLU. My hands are not cold.
PIER. Oh, I am sure they are. And you must have a shawl to wrap about you, And sit by the fire.
COLU. Why, I'll do no such thing! I'm hot as a spoon in a tea-cup!
PIER. Columbine, I'm a philanthropist. I know I am, Because I feel so restless. Do not scream, Or it will be the worse for you!
COLU. Pierrot, My vinaigrette: I cannot live without My vinaigrette!
PIER. My only love, you are So fundamental!... How would you like to be An actress, Columbine?--I am become Your manager.
COLU. Why, Pierrot, I can't act.
PIER. Can't act! Can't act! La, listen to the woman! What's that to do with the price of furs?--You're blonde, Are you not?--You have no education, have you?-- Can't act! You under-rate yourself, my dear!
COLU. Yes, I suppose I do.
PIER. As for the rest, I'll teach you how to cry, and how to die, And other little tricks; and the house will love you. You'll be a star by five o'clock.... That is, If you will let me pay for your apartment.
COLU. Let you?--well, that's a good one! Ha! Ha! Ha! But why?
PIER. But why?--well, as to that, my dear, I cannot say. It's just a matter of form.
COLU. Pierrot, I'm getting tired of caviar And peacocks' livers. Isn't there something else That people eat?--some humble vegetable, That grows in the ground?
PIER. Well, there are mushrooms.
COLU. Mushrooms! That's so! I had forgotten ... mushrooms ... mushrooms.... I cannot live with.... How do you like this gown?
PIER. Not much. I'm tired of gowns that have the waist-line About the waist, and the hem around the bottom,-- And women with their breasts in front of them!-- Zut and ehe! Where does one go from here!
COLU. Here's a persimmon, love. You always liked them.
PIER. I am become a critic; there is nothing I can enjoy.... However, set it aside; I'll eat it between meals.
COLU. Pierrot, do you know, Sometimes I think you're making fun of me.
PIER. My love, by yon black moon, you wrong us both.
COLU. There isn't a sign of a moon, Pierrot.
PIER. Of course not. There never was. "Moon's" just a word to swear by, "Mutton!"--now there's a thing you can lay the hands on, And set the tooth in! Listen, Columbine: I always lied about the moon and you. Food is my only lust.
COLU. Well, eat it, then, For heaven's sake, and stop your silly noise! I haven't heard the clock tick for an hour.
PIER. It's ticking all the same. If you were a fly, You would be dead by now. And if I were a parrot, I could be talking for a thousand years!
[Enters Cothurnus.]
PIER. Hello, what's this, for God's sake?--What's the matter? Say, whadda you mean?--get off the stage, my friend, And pinch yourself,--you're walking in your sleep!
COTH. I never sleep.
PIER. Well, anyhow, clear out. You don't belong on here. Wait for your own scene! Whadda you think this is,--a dress-rehearsal?
COTH. Sir, I am tired of waiting. I will wait No longer.
PIER. Well, but what are you going to do? The scene is set for me!
COTH. True, sir; yet I Can play the scene.
PIER. Your scene is down for later!
COTH. That, too, is true, sir; but I play it now.
PIER. Oh, very well!--Anyway, I am tired Of black and white. At least, I think I am. [Exit Columbine.] Yes, I am sure I am. I know what I'll do!-- I'll go and strum the moon, that's what I'll do.... Unless, perhaps, ... you never can tell ... I may be, You know, tired of the moon. Well, anyway, I'll go find Columbine.... And when I find her, I will address her thus: "Ehe Pierrette!"-- There's something in that.
[Exit Pierrot.]
COTH. You, Thyrsis! Corydon! Where are you?
THYR. Sir, we are in our dressing-room!
COTH. Come out and do the scene.
CORY. You are mocking us!-- The scene is down for later.
COTH. That is true; But we will play it now. I am the scene.
[Seats himself on high place in back of stage. Enter Corydon and Thyrsis.]
CORY. Sir, we were counting on this little hour. We said, "Here is an hour,--in which to think A mighty thought, and sing a trifling song, And look at nothing."--And, behold! the hour, Even as we spoke, was over, and the act begun, Under our feet!
THYR. Sir, we are not in the fancy To play the play. We had thought to play it later.
CORY. Besides, this is the setting for a farce. Our scene requires a wall; we cannot build A wall of tissue-paper!
THYR. We cannot act A tragedy with comic properties!
COTH. Try it and see. I think you'll find you can. One wall is like another. And regarding The matter of your insufficient wood, The important thing is that you speak the lines, And make the gestures. Wherefore I shall remain Throughout, and hold the prompt-book. Are you ready?
CORY.-THYR. [sorrowfully]. Sir, we are always ready.
COTH. Play the play!
[Corydon and Thyrsis move the table and chairs to one side out of the way, and seat themselves in a half-reclining position on the floor, left of the center of the stage, propped up by crepe paper pillows and bolsters, in place of rocks.]
THYR. How gently in the silence, Corydon, Our sheep go up the bank. They crop a grass That's yellow where the sun is out, and black Where the clouds drag their shadows. Have you noticed How steadily, yet with what a slanting eye They graze?
CORY. As if they thought of other things. What say you, Thyrsis, do they only question Where next to pull?--Or do their far minds draw them Thus vaguely north of west and south of east?
THYR. One cannot say.... The black lamb wears its burdocks As if they were a garland,--have you noticed?-- Purple and white--and drinks the bitten grass As if it were a wine.
CORY. I've noticed that. What say you, Thyrsis, shall we make a song About a lamb that thought himself a shepherd?
THYR. Why, yes!--that is, why,--no. (I have forgotten My line.)
CORY. [prompting]. "I know a game worth two of that."
THYR. Oh, yes.... I know a game worth two of that: Let's gather rocks, and build a wall between us; And say that over there belongs to me, And over here to you!
CORY. Why,--very well. And say you may not come upon my side Unless I say you may!
THYR. Nor you on mine! And if you should, 'twould be the worse for you!
[They weave a wall of colored crepe paper ribbons from the center front to the center back of the stage, fastening the ends to Columbine's chair in front and to Pierrot's chair in the back.]
CORY. Now there's a wall a man may see across, But not attempt to scale.
THYR. An excellent wall.
CORY. Come, let us separate, and sit alone A little while, and lay a plot whereby We may outdo each other.
[They seat themselves on opposite sides of the wall.]
PIER. [off stage]. Ehe Pierrette!
COLU. [off stage]. My name is Columbine! Leave me alone!
THYR. [coming up to the wall]. Corydon, after all, and in spite of the fact I started it myself, I do not like this So very much. What is the sense of saying I do not want you on my side the wall? It is a silly game. I'd much prefer Making the little song you spoke of making, About the lamb, you know, that thought himself A shepherd!--what do you say?
[Pause.]
CORY. [at wall]. (I have forgotten The line)
COTH. [prompting]. "How do I know this isn't a trick"
CORY. Oh, yes.... How do I know this isn't a trick To get upon my land?
THYR. Oh, Corydon, You know it's not a trick. I do not like The game, that's all. Come over here, or let me Come over there.
CORY. It is a clever trick To get upon my land.
[Seats himself as before.]
THYR. Oh, very well! [Seats himself as before] [To himself.] I think I never knew a sillier game.
CORY. [coming to wall]. Oh, Thyrsis, just a minute!--all the water Is on your side the wall, and the sheep are thirsty. I hadn't thought of that.
THYR. Oh, hadn't you?
CORY. Why, what do you mean?
THYR. What do I mean?--I mean That I can play a game as well as you can. And if the pool is on my side, it's on My side, that's all.
CORY. You mean you'd let the sheep Go thirsty?
THYR. Well, they're not my sheep. My sheep Have water enough.
CORY. Your sheep! You are mad, to call them. Yours--mine--they are all one flock! Thyrsis, you can't mean To keep the water from them, just because They happened to be grazing over here Instead of over there, when we set the wall up?
THYR. Oh, can't I?--wait and see!--and if you try To lead them over here, you'll wish you hadn't!
CORY. I wonder how it happens all the water Is on your side.... I'll say you had an eye out For lots of little things, my innocent friend, When I said, "Let us make a song," and you said, "I know a game worth two of that!"
COLU. [off stage].
D'you know, I think you must be getting old, Or fat, or something,--stupid, anyway!-- Can't you put on some other kind of collar?
THYR. You know as well as I do, Corydon, I never thought of anything of the kind. Don't you?
CORY. I do not.
THYR. Don't you?
CORY. Oh, I suppose so. Thyrsis, let's drop this,--what do you say?--it's only A game, you know ... we seem to be forgetting It's only a game ... a pretty serious game It's getting to be, when one of us is willing To let the sheep go thirsty, for the sake of it.
THYR. I know it, Corydon.
[They reach out their arms to each other across the wall.]
COTH. [prompting]. "But how do I know?"
THYR. Oh, yes.... But how do I know this isn't a trick To water your sheep, and get the laugh on me?
CORY. You can't know, that's the difficult thing about it, Of course,--you can't be sure. You have to take My word for it. And I know just how you feel. But one of us has to take a risk, or else, Why don't you see?--the game goes on forever-- It's terrible, when you stop to think of it.... Oh, Thyrsis, now for the first time I feel This wall is actually a wall, a thing Come up between us, shutting me away From you.... I do not know you any more!
THYR. No, don't say that! Oh, Corydon, I'm willing To drop it all, if you will! Come on over And water your sheep! It is an ugly game. I hate it from the first.... How did it start?
CORY. I do not know.... I do not know.... I think I am afraid of you!--you are a stranger! I never set eyes on you before! "Come over And water my sheep," indeed!--They'll be more thirsty Then they are now, before I bring them over Into your land, and have you mixing them up With yours, and calling them yours, and trying to keep them!
[Enter Columbine.]
COLU. [to Cothurnus]. Glummy, I want my hat.
THYR. Take it, and go.
COLU. Take it and go, indeed! Is it my hat, Or isn't it? Is this my scene, or not? Take it and go! Really, you know, you two Are awfully funny!
[Exit Columbine.]
THYR. Corydon, my friend, I'm going to leave you now, and whittle me A pipe, or sing a song, or go to sleep. When you have come to your senses, let me know.
[Goes back to where he has been sitting, lies down and sleeps.]
[Corydon, in going back to where he has been sitting, stumbles over bowl, of colored confetti and colored paper ribbons.]
CORY. Why, what is this?--Red stones--and purple stones-- And stones stuck full of gold!--The ground is full Of gold and colored stones!... I'm glad the wall Was up before I found them!--Otherwise, I should have had to share them. As it is, They all belong to me.... Unless--
[He goes to wall and digs up and down the length of it, to see if there are jewels on the other side.]
None here-- None here--none here--They all belong to me!
[Sits.]
THYR. [awakening]. How curious! I thought the little black lamb Came up and licked my hair! I saw the wool About its neck as plain as anything! It must have been a dream. The little black lamb Is on the other side of the wall, I'm sure.
[Goes to wall and looks over. Corydon is seated on the ground, tossing the confetti up into the air and catching it.]
Hello, what's that you've got there, Corydon?
CORY. Jewels.
THYR. Jewels?--And where did you ever get them?
CORY. Oh, over here.
THYR. You mean to say you found them, By digging around in the ground for them?
CORY. [unpleasantly]. No, Thyrsis. By digging down for water for my sheep.
THYR. Corydon, come to the wall a minute, will you? I want to talk to you.
CORY. I haven't time. I'm making me a necklace of red stones.
THYR. I'll give you all the water that you want, For one of those red stones,--if it's a good one.
CORY. Water?--what for?--what do I want of water?
THYR. Why, for your sheep.
CORY. My sheep?--I'm not a shepherd!
THYR. Your sheep are dying of thirst.
CORY. Man, haven't I told you I can't be bothered with a few untidy Brown sheep all full of burdocks?--I'm a merchant, That's what I am!--And I set my mind to it, I dare say I could be an emperor! [To himself.] Wouldn't I be a fool to spend my time Watching a flock of sheep go up a hill, When I have these to play with--when I have these To think about?--I can't make up my mind Whether to buy a city, and have a thousand Beautiful girls to bathe me, and be happy Until I die, or build a bridge, and name it The Bridge of Corydon,--and be remembered After I'm dead.
THYR. Corydon, come to the wall, Won't you?--I want to tell you something.
CORY. Hush! Be off! Be off! Go finish your nap, I tell you!
THYR. Corydon, listen: If you don't want your sheep, Give them to me.
CORY. Be off. Go finish your nap. A red one--and a blue one--and a red one-- And a purple one--give you my sheep, did you say?-- Come, come! What do you take me for, a fool? I've a lot of thinking to do,--and while I'm thinking, The sheep might just as well be over here As over there.... A blue one--and a red one--
THYR. But they will die!
CORY. And a green one--and a couple Of white ones, for a change.
THYR. Maybe I have Some jewels on my side.
CORY. And another green one-- Maybe, but I don't think so. You see, this rock Isn't so very wide. It stops before It gets to the wall. It seems to go quite deep, However.
THYR. [with hatred]. I see.
COLU. [off stage]. Look, Pierrot, there's the moon!
PIER. [off stage]. Nonsense!
THYR. I see.
COLU. [off stage]. Sing me an old song, Pierrot,-- Something I can remember.
PIER. [off stage]. Columbine, Your mind is made of crumbs,--like an escallop Of oysters,--first a layer of crumbs, and then An oystery taste, and then a layer of crumbs.
THYR. I find no jewels ... but I wonder what The root of this black weed would do to a man If he should taste it.... I have seen a sheep die, With half the stalk still drooling from its mouth. 'Twould be a speedy remedy, I should think, For a festered pride and a feverish ambition. It has a curious root. I think I'll hack it In little pieces.... First I'll get me a drink; And then I'll hack that root in little pieces As small as dust, and see what the color is Inside. [Goes to bowl on floor.] The pool is very clear. I see A shepherd standing on the brink, with a red cloak About him, and a black weed in his hand.... 'Tis I. [Kneels and drinks.]
CORY. [Coming to wall]. Hello, what are you doing, Thyrsis?
THYR. Digging for gold.
CORY. I'll give you all the gold You want, if you'll give me a bowl of water. If you don't want too much, that is to say.
THYR. Ho, so you've changed your mind?--It's different, Isn't it, when you want a drink yourself?
CORY. Of course it is.
THYR. Well, let me see ... a bowl Of water,--come back in an hour, Corydon. I'm busy now.
CORY. Oh, Thyrsis, give me a bowl Of water!--and I'll find the bowl with jewels, And bring it back!
THYR. Be off, I'm busy now.
[He catches sight of the weed, picks it up and looks at it, unseen by Corydon.]
Wait!--Pick me out the finest stones you have.... I'll bring you a drink of water presently.
CORY. [goes back and sits down, with the jewels before him].
A bowl of jewels is a lot of jewels.
THYR. [chopping up the weed]. I wonder if it has a bitter taste?
CORY. There's sure to be a stone or two among them I have grown fond of, pouring them from one hand Into the other.
THYR. I hope it doesn't taste Too bitter, just at first.
CORY. A bowl of jewels Is far too many jewels to give away.... And not get back again.
THYR. I don't believe He'll notice. He's thirsty. He'll gulp it down And never notice.
CORY. There ought to be some way To get them back again.... I could give him a necklace, And snatch it back, after I'd drunk the water, I suppose ... why, as for that, of course, a necklace....
[He puts two or three of the colored tapes together and tries their strength by pulling them, after which he puts them around his neck and pulls them, gently, nodding to himself. He gets up and goes to the wall, with the colored tapes in his hands.
Thyrsis in the meantime has poured the powdered root--black confetti--into the pot which contains the flower and filled it up with wine from the punch-bowl on the floor. He comes to the wall at the same time, holding the bowl of poison.]
THYR. Come and get your bowl of water, Corydon.
CORY. Ah, very good!--and for such a gift as that I'll give you more than a bowl of unset stones. I'll give you three long necklaces, my friend. Come closer. Here they are.
[Puts the ribbons about Thyrsis' neck.]
THYR. [putting bowl to Corydon's mouth]. I'll hold the bowl Until you've drunk it all.
CORY. Then hold it steady. For every drop you spill I'll have a stone back Out of this chain.
THYR. I shall not spill a drop.
[Corydon drinks, meanwhile beginning to strangle Thyrsis.]
THYR. Don't pull the string so tight.
CORY. You're spilling the water.
THYR. You've had enough--you've had enough--stop pulling The string so tight!
CORY. Why, that's not tight at all.... How's this?
THYR. [drops bowl]. You're strangling me! Oh, Corydon! It's only a game!--and you are strangling me!
CORY. It's only a game, is it?--Yet I believe You've poisoned me in earnest!
[_Writhes and pulls the strings tighter, winding them about Thyrsis' neck._]
THYR. Corydon! [Dies.]
CORY. You've poisoned me in earnest.... I feel so cold.... So cold ... this is a very silly game.... Why do we play it?--let's not play this game A minute more ... let's make a little song About a lamb.... I'm coming over the wall, No matter what you say,--I want to be near you....
[Groping his way, with arms wide before him, he strides through the frail papers of the wall without knowing it, and continues seeking for the wall straight across the stage.]
Where is the wall?
[Gropes his way back, and stands very near Thyrsis without knowing it; he speaks slowly.]
There isn't any wall, I think.
[Takes a step forward, his foot touches Thyrsis' body, and he falls down beside him.]
Thyrsis, where is your cloak?--just give me A little bit of your cloak!...
[Draws corner of Thyrsis' cloak over his shoulders, falls across Thyrsis' body, and dies.
Cothurnus closes the prompt-book with a bang, arises matter-of-factly, comes down stage, and places the table over the two bodies, drawing down the cover so that they are hidden from any actors on the stage, but visible to the audience, pushing in their feet and hands with his boot. He then turns his back to the audience, and claps his hands twice.]
COTH. Strike the scene!
[Exit Cothurnus. Enter Pierrot and Columbine.]
PIER. Don't puff so, Columbine!
COLU. Lord, what a mess This set is in! If there's one thing I hate Above everything else,--even more than getting my feet wet-- It's clutter!--He might at least have left the scene The way he found it.... don't you say so, Pierrot?
[She picks up punch bowl. They arrange chairs as before at ends of table.]
PIER. Well, I don't know. I think it rather diverting The way it is. [Yawns, picks up confetti bowl.] Shall we begin?
COLU. [screams]. My God! What's that there under the table?
PIER. It is the bodies Of the two shepherds from the other play.
COLU. [slowly]. How curious to strangle him like that, With colored paper ribbons!
PIER. Yes, and yet I dare say he is just as dead. [Pause. Calls Cothurnus.] Come drag these bodies out of here! We can't Sit down and eat with two dead bodies lying Under the table!... The audience wouldn't stand for it!
COTH. [off stage]. What makes you think so?--Pull down the tablecloth On the other play, and hide them from the house, And play the farce. The audience will forget.
PIER. That's so. Give me a hand there, Columbine.
[Pierrot and Columbine pull down the table cover in such a way that the two bodies are hidden from the house, then merrily set their bowls back on the table, draw up their chairs, and begin the play exactly as before, speaking even more rapidly and artificially.]
COLU. Pierrot, a macaroon,--I cannot live Without a macaroon!
PIER. My only love, You are so intense!... Is it Tuesday, Columbine?-- I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday.
[Curtains begin to close slowly.]
COLU. It is Wednesday, If you must know.... Is this my artichoke, Or yours?
PIER. Ah, Columbine, as if it mattered! Wednesday.... Will it be Tuesday, then to-morrow, By any chance?
[Curtain.]
HELENA'S HUSBAND
AN HISTORICAL COMEDY
BY PHILIP MOELLER
Copyright, 1915, by Philip Moeller. Copyright, 1916, by Doubleday, Page & Co. All rights reserved.
CHARACTERS
HELENA, the Queen. TSUMU, a black woman, slave to Helena. MENELAUS, the King. ANALYTIKOS, the King's librarian. PARIS, a shepherd.
HELENA'S HUSBAND was first produced by the Washington Square Players, under the direction of Mr. Moeller, at the Bandbox Theatre, New York, on the night of October 4, 1915, with the following cast:
HELENA [Queen of Sparta] Noel Haddon. TSUMU [the slave] Helen Westley. MENELAUS [the King] Frank Conroy. ANALYTIKOS [his librarian] Walter Frankl. PARIS [a shepherd] Harold Meltzer.
The scene was designed by Paul T. Frankl and the costumes by Robert Locker.
Reprinted from "Five Somewhat Historical Plays" published by Alfred A. Knopf, by special permission of Mr. Moeller. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. Philip Moeller, care Alfred A. Knopf, 220 West 42nd Street, New York.
HELENA'S HUSBAND
AN HISTORICAL COMEDY BY PHILIP MOELLER
[SCENE is that archaeological mystery, a Greek interior. A door on the right leads to the King's library, one on the left to the apartment of the Queen. Back right is the main entrance leading to the palace. Next this, running the full length of the wall, is a window with a platform, built out over the main court. Beyond is a view of hills bright with lemon groves, and in the far distance shimmers the sea. On the wall near the Queen's room hangs an old shield rusty with disuse. A bust of Zeus stands on a pedestal against the right wall. There are low coffers about the room from which hang the ends of vivid colored robes. The scene is bathed in intense sunlight. Tsumu is massaging the Queen.]
HELENA. There's no doubt about it.
TSUMU. Analytikos says there is much doubt about all things.
HELENA. Never mind what he says. I envy you your complexion.
TSUMU [falling prostrate before Helena]. Whom the Queen envies should beware.
HELENA [annoyed]. Get up, Tsumu. You make me nervous tumbling about like that.
TSUMU [still on floor]. Why does the great Queen envy Tsumu?
HELENA. Get up, you silly. [She kicks her.] I envy you because you can run about and never worry about getting sunburnt.
TSUMU [on her knees]. The radiant beauty of the Queen is unspoilable.
HELENA. That's just what's worrying me, Tsumu. When beauty is so perfect the slightest jar may mean a jolt. [She goes over and looks at her reflection in the shield.] I can't see myself as well as I would like to. The King's shield is tarnished. Menelaus has been too long out of battle.
TSUMU [handing her a hand mirror]. The Gods will keep Sparta free from strife.
HELENA. I'll have you beaten if you assume that prophetic tone with me. There's one thing I can't stand, and that's a know-all.
[Flinging the hand mirror to the floor.]
TSUMU [in alarm]. Gods grant you haven't bent it.
HELENA. These little mirrors are useless. His shield is the only thing in which I can see myself full-length. If he only went to war, he'd have to have it cleaned.
TSUMU [putting the mirror on a table near the Queen]. The King is a lover of peace.
HELENA. The King is a lover of comfort. Have you noticed that he spends more time than he used to in the library?
TSUMU. He is busy with questions of State.
HELENA. You know perfectly well that when anything's the matter with the Government it's always straightened out at the other end of the palace. Finish my shoulder. [She examines her arm.] I doubt if there is a finer skin than this in Sparta.
[Tsumu begins to massage the Queen's shoulder.]
HELENA [taking up a mirror]. That touch of deep carmine right here in the center of my lips was quite an idea.
TSUMU [busily pounding the Queen]. An inspiration of the Gods!
HELENA. The Gods have nothing to do with it. I copied it from a low woman I saw at the circus. I can't understand how these bad women have such good ideas.
[Helen twists about.]
TSUMU. If your majesty doesn't sit still, I may pinch you.
HELENA [boxing her ears]. None of your tricks, you ebony fiend!
TSUMU [crouching]. Descendant of paradise, forgive me.
HELENA. If you bruise my perfect flesh, the King will kill you. My beauty is his religion. He can sit for hours, as if at prayer, just examining the arch of my foot. Tsumu, you may kiss my foot.
TSUMU [prostrate]. May the Gods make me worthy of your kindness!
HELENA. That's enough. Tsumu, are you married?
TSUMU [getting up]. I've been so busy having babies I never had time to get married.
HELENA. It's a great disillusionment.
TSUMU [agast]. What!
HELENA. I'm not complaining. Moo Moo is the best of husbands, but sometimes being adored too much is trying. [She sighs deeply.] I think I'll wear my heliotrope this afternoon.
[A trumpet sounds below in the courtyard. Tsumu goes to the window.]
TSUMU. They are changing the guards at the gates of the palace. It's almost time for your bath.
[She begins scraping the massage ointment back into the box.]
HELENA. You're as careful with that ointment as Moo Moo is with me.
TSUMU. Precious things need precious guarding.
HELENA. It's very short-sighted on Moo Moo's part to send everybody to the galleys who dares lift a head when I pass by--and all these nice-looking soldiers! Why--the only men I ever see besides Moo Moo are Analytikos and a lot of useless eunuchs.
TSUMU. Oh, those eunuchs!
HELENA [as she sits dreaming]. I wish, I wish--
[She stops short.]
TSUMU. You have but to speak your desire to the King.
HELENA [shocked]. Tsumu! How can you think of such a thing? I'm not a bad woman.
TSUMU. He would die for you.
HELENA [relieved]. Ah! Do you think so, Tsumu?
TSUMU. All Sparta knows that His Majesty is a lover of peace, and yet he would rush into battle to save you.
HELENA. I should love to have men fighting for me.
TSUMU [in high alarm]. May Zeus turn a deaf ear to your voice.
HELENA. Don't be impertinent, Tsumu. I've got to have some sort of amusement.
TSUMU. You've only to wait till next week, and you can see another of the priestesses sacrificed to Diana.
HELENA. That doesn't interest me any longer. The girls are positively beginning to like it. No! My mind is set on war.
TSUMU [terrified]. I have five fathers of my children to lose.
HELENA. War, or--or--
TSUMU [hopefully]. Have I been so long your slave that I no longer know your wish?
HELENA [very simply]. Well, I should like to have a lover.
TSUMU [springs up and rushes over in horror to draw the curtains across the door of the library. All of a tremble]. Gods grant they didn't hear you.
HELENA. Don't be alarmed, Tsumu. Analytikos is over eighty.
[She bursts into a loud peal of laughter and Menelaus rushes into the room.]
MENELAUS [in high irritation]. I wish you wouldn't make so much noise in here. A King might at least expect quiet in his own palace.
HELENA. Tsumu, see if my bath is ready. [Tsumu exits.] You used not speak like that to me, Moo Moo.
MENELAUS [in a temper]. How many times must I tell you that my name is Menelaus and that it isn't "Moo Moo"?
HELENA [sweetly]. I'll never do it again, Moo Moo. [She giggles.]
MENELAUS. Your laugh gets on my nerves. It's louder than it used to be.
HELENA. If you wish it, I'll never, never laugh again.
MENELAUS. You've promised that too often.
HELENA [sadly]. Things are not as they used to be.
MENELAUS. Are you going to start that again?
HELENA [with a tinge of melancholy]. I suppose you'd like me to be still and sad.
MENELAUS [bitterly]. Is it too much to hope that you might be still and happy?
HELENA [speaking very quickly and tragically]. Don't treat me cruelly, Moo Moo. You don't understand me. No man ever really understands a woman. There are terrible depths to my nature. I had a long talk with Dr. AEsculapius only last week, and he told me I'm too introspective. It's the curse of us emotional women. I'm really quite worried, but much you care, much you care. [A note of tears comes into her voice.] I'm sure you don't love me any more, Moo Moo. No! No! Don't answer me! If you did you couldn't speak to me the way you do. I've never wronged you in deed or in thought. No, never--never. I've given up my hopes and aspirations, because I knew you wanted me around you. And now, NOW--[She can contain the tears no longer.] Because I have neglected my beauty and because I am old and ugly, you regret that Ulysses or Agamemnon didn't marry me when you all wanted me, and I know you curse the day you ever saw me.
[She is breathless.]
MENELAUS [fuming]. Well! Have you done?
HELENA. No. I could say a great deal more, but I'm not a talkative woman.
[Analytikos comes in from the library.]
ANALYTIKOS. Your Majesty, are we to read no longer to-day?
HELENA. I have something to say to the King.
[Analytikos goes toward the library. Menelaus anxiously stops him.]
MENELAUS. No. Stay here. You are a wise man and well understand the wisdom of the Queen.
ANALYTIKOS [bowing to Helena]. Helena is wise as she is beautiful.
MENELAUS. She is attempting to prove to me in a thousand words that she's a silent woman.
ANALYTIKOS. Women are seldom silent. [Helen resents this.] Their beauty is forever speaking for them.
HELENA. The years have, indeed, taught you wisdom.
[Tsumu enters.]
TSUMU. The almond water awaits your majesty.
HELENA. I hope you haven't forgotten the chiropodist.
TSUMU. He has been commanded but he's always late. He's so busy.
HELENA [in a purring tone to Menelaus]. Moo Moo.
[Menelaus, bored, turns away.]
HELENA [to Tsumu]. I think after all I'll wear my Sicily blue.
[She and Tsumu go into the Queen's apartment.]
ANALYTIKOS. Shall we go back to the library?
MENELAUS. My mind is unhinged again--that woman with her endless protestations.
ANALYTIKOS. I am sorry the poets no longer divert you.
MENELAUS. A little poetry is always too much.
ANALYTIKOS. To-morrow we will try the historians.
MENELAUS. No! Not the historians. I want the truth for a change.
ANALYTIKOS. The truth!
MENELAUS. Where in books can I find escape from the grim reality of being hitched for life to such a wife? Bah!
ANALYTIKOS. Philosophy teaches--
MENELAUS. Why have the Gods made woman necessary to man, and made them fools?
ANALYTIKOS. For seventy years I have been resolving the problem of woman and even at my age--
MENELAUS. Give it up, old man. The answer is--don't.
ANALYTIKOS. Such endless variety, and yet--
MENELAUS [with the conviction of finality]. There are only two sorts of women! Those who are failures and those who realize it.
ANALYTIKOS. Is not Penelope, the model wife of your cousin Ulysses, an exception?
MENELAUS. Duty is the refuge of the unbeautiful. She is as commonplace as she is ugly. [And then with deep bitterness.] Why didn't he marry Helen when we all wanted her? He was too wise for that. He is the only man I've ever known who seems able to direct destiny.
ANALYTIKOS. You should not blame the Gods for a lack of will.
MENELAUS [shouting]. Will! Heaven knows I do not lack the will to rid myself of this painted puppet, but where is the instrument ready to my hand?
[At this moment a Shepherd of Apollonian beauty leaps across the rail of the balcony and bounds into the room. Menelaus and Analytikos start back in amazement.]
ANALYTIKOS. Who are you?
PARIS. An adventurer.
ANALYTIKOS. Then you have reached the end of your story. In a moment you will die.
PARIS. I have no faith in prophets.
ANALYTIKOS. The soldiers of the King will give you faith. Don't you know that it means death for any man to enter the apartments of the Queen?
PARIS [looking from one to the other]. Oh! So you're a couple of eunuchs.
[Though nearly eighty this is too much for Analytikos to bear. He rushes to call the guard, but Menelaus stops him.]
PARIS [to Analytikos]. Thanks.
ANALYTIKOS. You thank me for telling you your doom?
PARIS. No--for convincing me that I'm where I want to be. It's taken me a long while, but I knew I'd get here. [And then very intimately to Menelaus.] Where's the Queen?
MENELAUS. Where do you come from?
PARIS. From the hills. I had come down into the market-place to sell my sheep. I had my hood filled with apples. They were golden-red like a thousand sunsets.
MENELAUS [annoyed]. You might skip those bucolic details.
PARIS. At the fair I met three ancient gypsies.
MENELAUS. What have they to do with you coming here?
PARIS. You don't seem very patient. Can't I tell my story in my own way? They asked me for the apple I was eating and I asked them what they'd give for it.
MENELAUS. I'm not interested in market quotations.
PARIS. You take everything so literally. I'm sure you're easily bored.
MENELAUS [with meaning]. I am.
PARIS [going on cheerfully]. The first was to give me all the money she could beg, and the second was to tell me all the truth she could learn by listening, and the third promised me a pretty girl. So I chose--
[He hesitates.]
ANALYTIKOS. You cannot escape by spinning out your tale.
PARIS. Death is the end of one story and the beginning of another.
MENELAUS. Well! Well! Come to the point. Which did you choose?
PARIS [smiling]. Well, you see I'd been in the hills for a long while, so I picked the girl.
ANALYTIKOS. It would have been better for you if you had chosen wisdom.
PARIS. I knew you'd say that.
ANALYTIKOS. I have spoken truly. In a moment you will die.
PARIS. It is because the old have forgotten life that they preach wisdom.
MENELAUS. So you chose the girl? Well, go on.
PARIS. This made the other cronies angry, and when I tossed her the apple one of the others yelped at me: "You may as well seek the Queen of Sparta: she is the fairest of women." And as I turned away I heard their laughter, but the words had set my heart aflame and though it cost me my life, I'll follow the adventure.
ANALYTIKOS [scandalized]. Haven't we heard enough of this?
MENELAUS [deeply]. No! I want to hear how the story ends. It may amuse the King.
[He makes a sign to Analytikos.]
PARIS. And on the ship at night I looked long at the stars and dreamed of possessing Helen.
[Analytikos makes an involuntary movement toward the balcony, but Menelaus stops him.]
PARIS. Desire has been my guiding Mercury; the Fates are with me, and here I am.
ANALYTIKOS. The wrath of the King will show you no mercy.
PARIS [nonchalantly]. I'm not afraid of the King. He's fat, and--a fool.
ANALYTIKOS. Shall I call the guards?
[Menelaus stops him.]
MENELAUS [very significantly]. So you would give your life for a glimpse of the Queen?
PARIS [swiftly]. Yes! My immortal soul, and if the fables tell the truth, the sight will be worth the forfeit.
MENELAUS [suddenly jumping up]. It shall be as you wish!
PARIS [buoyantly]. Venus has smiled on me.
MENELAUS. In there beyond the library you will find a room with a bath. Wait there till I call you.
PARIS. Is this some trick to catch me?
MENELAUS. A Spartan cannot lie.
PARIS. What will happen to you if the King hears of this?
MENELAUS. I will answer for the king. Go.
[Paris exits into the library.]
ANALYTIKOS [rubbing his hands]. Shall I order the boiling oil?
MENELAUS [surprised]. Oil?
ANALYTIKOS. Now that he is being cleaned for the sacrifice.
MENELAUS. His torture will be greater than being boiled alive.
ANALYTIKOS [eagerly]. You'll have him hurled from the wall of the palace to a forest of waiting spears below?
MENELAUS. None is so blind as he who sees too much.
ANALYTIKOS. Your majesty is subtle in his cruelty.
MENELAUS. Haven't the years taught you the cheapness of revenge?
ANALYTIKOS [mystified]. You do not intend to alter destiny.
MENELAUS. Never before has destiny been so clear to me.
ANALYTIKOS. Then the boy must die.
MENELAUS [with slow determination]. No! He has been sent by the Gods to save me!
ANALYTIKOS. Your majesty!
[He is trembling with apprehension.]
MENELAUS [with unbudgeable conviction]. Helena must elope with him!
ANALYTIKOS [falling into a seat]. Ye Gods!
MENELAUS [quietly]. I couldn't divorce the Queen. That would set a bad example.
ANALYTIKOS. Yes, very.
MENELAUS. I couldn't desert her. That would be beneath my honor.
ANALYTIKOS [deeply]. Was there no other way?
MENELAUS [pompously]. The King can do no wrong, and besides I hate the smell of blood. Are you a prophet as well as a scholar? Will she go?
ANALYTIKOS. To-night I will read the stars.
MENELAUS [meaningfully]. By to-night I'll not need you to tell me. [Analytikos sits deep in thought.] Well?
ANALYTIKOS. Ethics cite no precedent.
MENELAUS. Do you mean to say I'm not justified?
ANALYTIKOS [cogitating]. Who can establish the punctilious ratio between necessity and desire?
MENELAUS [beginning to fume]. This is no time for language. Just put yourself in my place.
ANALYTIKOS. Being you, how can I judge as I?
MENELAUS [losing control]. May you choke on your dialectics! Zeus himself could have stood it no longer.
ANALYTIKOS. Have you given her soul a chance to grow?
MENELAUS. Her soul, indeed! It's shut in her rouge pot. [He has been strutting about. Suddenly he sits down crushing a roll of papyrus. He takes it up and in utter disgust reads.] "The perfect hip, its development and permanence." Bah! [He flings it to the floor.] I've done what I had to do, and Gods grant the bait may be sweet enough to catch the Queen.
ANALYTIKOS. If you had diverted yourself with a war or two you might have forgotten your troubles at home.
MENELAUS [frightened]. I detest dissension of any kind--my dream was perpetual peace in comfortable domesticity with a womanly woman to warm my sandals.
ANALYTIKOS. Is not the Queen--?
MENELAUS. No! No! The whole world is but her mirror. And I'm expected to face that woman every morning at breakfast for the rest of my life, and by Venus that's more than even a King can bear!
ANALYTIKOS. Even a King cannot alter destiny. I warn you, whom the Gods have joined together--
MENELAUS [in an outburst]. Is for man to break asunder!
ANALYTIKOS [deeply shocked]. You talk like an atheist.
MENELAUS. I never allow religion to interfere with life. Go call the victim and see that he be left alone with the Queen.
[Menelaus exits and Analytikos goes over to the door of the library and summons Paris, who enters clad in a gorgeous robe.]
PARIS. I found this in there. It looks rather well, doesn't it? Ah! So you're alone. I suppose that stupid friend of yours has gone to tell the King. When do I see the Queen?
ANALYTIKOS. At once.
[He goes to the door of the Queen's apartment and claps his hand. Tsumu enters and at the sight of her Paris recoils the full length of the room.]
PARIS. I thought the Queen was a blonde!
ANALYTIKOS. Tell Her Majesty a stranger awaits her here.
[Tsumu exits, her eyes wide on Paris.]
You should thank the Gods for this moment.
PARIS [his eyes on the door]. You do it for me. I can never remember all their names.
[Helena enters clad in her Sicily blue, crowned with a garland of golden flowers. She and Paris stand riveted, looking at each other. Their attitude might be described as fantastic. Analytikos watches them for a moment and then with hands and head lifted to heaven he goes into the library.]
PARIS [quivering with emotion]. I have the most strange sensation of having seen you before. Something I can't explain--
HELENA [quite practically]. Please don't bother about all sorts of fine distinctions. Under the influence of Analytikos and my husband, life has become a mess of indecision. I'm a simple, direct woman and I expect you to say just what you think.
PARIS. Do you? Very well, then--[He comes a step nearer to her.] Fate is impelling me toward you.
HELENA. Yes. That's much better. So you're a fatalist. It's very Greek. I don't see what our dramatists would do without it.
PARIS. In my country there are no dramatists. We are too busy with reality.
HELENA. Your people must be uncivilized barbarians.
PARIS. My people are a genuine people. There is but one thing we worship.
HELENA. Don't tell me it's money.
PARIS. It's--
HELENA. Analytikos says if there weren't any money, there wouldn't be any of those ridiculous socialists.
PARIS. It isn't money. It's sincerity.
HELENA. I, too, believe in sincerity. It's the loveliest thing in the world.
PARIS. And the most dangerous.
HELENA. The truth is never dangerous.
PARIS. Except when told.
HELENA [making room on the couch for him to sit next to her]. You mustn't say wicked things to me.
PARIS. Can your theories survive a test?
HELENA [beautifully]. Truth is eternal and survives all tests.
PARIS. No. Perhaps, after all, your soul is not ready for the supremest heights.
HELENA. Do you mean to say I'm not religious? Religion teaches the meaning of love.
PARIS. Has it taught you to love your husband?
HELENA [starting up and immediately sitting down again]. How dare you speak to me like that?
PARIS. You see. I was right.
[He goes toward the balcony.]
HELENA [stopping him]. Whatever made you think so?
PARIS. I've heard people talk of the King. You could never love a man like that.
HELENA [beautifully]. A woman's first duty is to love her husband.
PARIS. There is a higher right than duty.
HELENA [with conviction]. Right is right.
PARIS [with admiration]. The world has libeled you.
HELENA. Me! The Queen?
PARIS. You are as wise as you are beautiful.
HELENA [smiling coyly]. Why, you hardly know me.
PARIS. I know you! I, better than all men.
HELENA. You?
PARIS [rapturously]. Human law has given you to Menelaus, but divine law makes you mine.
HELENA [in amazement]. What!
PARIS. I alone appreciate your beauty. I alone can reach your soul.
HELENA. Ah!
PARIS. You hate your husband!
HELENA [drawing back]. Why do you look at me like that?
PARIS. To see if there's one woman in the world who dares tell the truth.
HELENA. My husband doesn't understand me.
PARIS [with conviction]. I knew you detested him.
HELENA. He never listens to my aspirations.
PARIS. Egoist.
HELENA [assuming an irresistible pose]. I'm tired of being only lovely. He doesn't realize the meaning of spiritual intercourse, of soul communion.
PARIS. Fool!
HELENA. You dare call Moo Moo a fool?
PARIS. Has he not been too blind to see that your soul outshines your beauty? [Then, very dramatically.] You're stifling!
HELENA [clearing her throat]. I--I--
PARIS. He has made you sit upon your wings. [Helena, jumping up, shifts her position.] You are groping in the darkness.
HELENA. Don't be silly. It's very light in here.
PARIS [undisturbed]. You are stumbling, and I have come to lead you.
[He steps toward her.]
HELENA. Stop right there! [Paris stops.] No man but the King can come within ten feet of me. It's a court tradition.
PARIS. Necessity knows no tradition. [He falls on his knees before her.] I shall come close to you, though the flame of your beauty consume me.
HELENA. You'd better be careful what you say to me. Remember I'm the Queen.
PARIS. No man weighs his words who has but a moment to live.
HELENA. You said that exactly like an actor. [He leans very close to her.] What are you doing now?
PARIS. I am looking into you. You are the clear glass in which I read the secret of the universe.
HELENA. The secret of the universe. Ah! Perhaps you could understand me.
PARIS. First you must understand yourself.
HELENA [instinctively taking up a mirror]. How?
PARIS. You must break with all this prose. [With an unconscious gesture he sweeps a tray of toilet articles from the table. Helena emits a little shriek.]
HELENA. The ointment!
PARIS [rushing to the window and pointing to the distance]. And climb to infinite poesie!
HELENA [catching his enthusiasm, says very blandly]. There is nothing in the world like poetry.
PARIS [lyrically]. Have you ever heard the poignant breathing of the stars?
HELENA. No. I don't believe in astrology.
PARIS. Have you ever smelt the powdery mists of the sun?
HELENA. I should sneeze myself to death.
PARIS. Have you ever listened to the sapphire soul of the sea?
HELENA. Has the sea a soul? But please don't stop talking. You do it so beautifully.
PARIS. Deeds are sweeter than words. Shall we go hand in hand to meet eternity?
HELENA [not comprehending him]. That's very pretty. Say it again.
PARIS [passionately]. There's but a moment of life left me. I shall stifle it in ecstasy. Helena, Helena, I adore you!
HELENA [jumping up in high surprise]. You're not making love to me, you naughty boy?
PARIS. Helena.
HELENA. You've spoken to me so little, and already you dare to do that.
PARIS [impetuously]. I am a lover of life. I skip the inessentials.
HELENA. Remember who I am.
PARIS. I have not forgotten, Daughter of Heaven. [Suddenly he leaps to his feet.] Listen!
HELENA. Shhh! That's the King and Analytikos in the library.
PARIS. No! No! Don't you hear the flutter of wings?
HELENA. Wings?
PARIS [ecstatically]. Venus, mother of Love!
HELENA [alarmed]. What is it?
PARIS. She has sent her messenger. I hear the patter of little feet.
HELENA. Those little feet are the soldiers below in the courtyard.
[A trumpet sounds.]
PARIS [the truth of the situation breaking through his emotion]. In a moment I shall be killed.
HELENA. Killed?
PARIS. Save me and save yourself!
HELENA. Myself?
PARIS. I shall rescue you and lead you on to life.
HELENA. No one has even spoken to me like that before.
PARIS. This is the first time your ears have heard the truth.
HELENA. Was it of you I've been dreaming?
PARIS. Your dream was but your unrealized desire.
HELENA. Menelaus has never made me feel like this. [And then with a sudden shriek.] Oh! I'm a wicked woman!
PARIS. No! No!
HELENA. For years I've been living with a man I didn't love.
PARIS. Yes! Yes!
HELENA. I'm lost!
PARIS [at a loss]. No! Yes! Yes! No!
HELENA. It was a profanation of the most holy.
PARIS. The holiest awaits you, Helena! Our love will lighten the Plutonian realms.
HELENA. Menelaus never spoke to me like that.
PARIS. 'Tis but the first whisper of my adoration.
HELENA. I can't face him every morning at breakfast for the rest of my life. That's even more than a Queen can bear.
PARIS. I am waiting to release you.
HELENA. I've stood it for seven years.
PARIS. I've been coming to you since the beginning of time.
HELENA. There is something urging me to go with you, something I do not understand.
PARIS. Quick! There is but a moment left us.
[He takes her rapturously in his arms. There is a passionate embrace in the midst of which Tsumu enters.]
TSUMU. The chiropodist has come.
HELENA. Bring me my outer garment and my purse.
[Tsumu exits, her eyes wide on Paris.]
PARIS. Helena! Helena!
[Helena looks about her and takes up the papyrus that Menelaus has flung to the floor.]
HELENA. A last word to the King. [She looks at the papyrus.] No, this won't do; I shall have to take this with me.
PARIS. What is it?
HELENA. Maskanda's discourse on the hip.
[A trumpet sounds below in the courtyard.]
PARIS [excitedly]. Leave it--or your hip may cost me my head. We haven't a minute to spare. Hurry! Hurry!
[Helena takes up an eyebrow pencil and writes on the back of the papyrus. She looks for a place to put it and seeing the shield she smears it with some of the ointment and sticks the papyrus to it.]
PARIS [watching her in ecstasy]. You are the fairest of all fair women and your name will blaze as a symbol throughout eternity.
[Tsumu enters with the purse and the Queen's outer robe.]
HELENA [tossing the purse to Paris]. Here, we may need this.
PARIS [throwing it back to Tsumu]. This for your silence, daughter of darkness. A prince has no need of purses.
TSUMU [looking at him]. A prince!
HELENA [gloriously]. My prince of poetry. My deliverer!
PARIS [divinely]. My queen of love!
[They go out, Tsumu looking after them in speechless amazement. Suddenly she sees the papyrus on the shield, runs over and reads it and then rushes to the door of the library.]
TSUMU [calling]. Analytikos.
[She hides the purse in her bosom. Analytikos enters, scroll in hand.]
ANALYTIKOS. Has the Queen summoned me?
TSUMU [mysteriously]. A terrible thing has happened.
ANALYTIKOS. What's the matter?
TSUMU. Where's the King?
ANALYTIKOS. In the library.
TSUMU. I have news more precious than the gold of Midas.
ANALYTIKOS [giving her a purse]. Well! What is it?
TSUMU [speaking very dramatically and watching the effect of her words]. The Queen has deserted Menelaus.
ANALYTIKOS [receiving the shock philosophically]. Swift are the ways of Nature. The Gods have smiled upon him.
TSUMU. The Gods have forsaken the King to smile upon a prince.
ANALYTIKOS. What?
TSUMU. He was a prince.
ANALYTIKOS [apprehensively]. Why do you say that?
TSUMU [clutching her bosom]. I have a good reason to know. [There is a sound of voices below in the courtyard. Menelaus rushes in expectantly. Tsumu falls prostrate before him.] Oh, King, in thy bottomless agony blame not a blameless negress. The Queen has fled!
MENELAUS [in his delight forgetting himself and flinging her a purse]. Is it true?
TSUMU. Woe! Woe is me!
MENELAUS [storming]. Out of my sight, you eyeless Argus!
ANALYTIKOS [to Tsumu]. Quick, send a messenger. Find out who he was.
[Tsumu sticks the third purse in her bosom and runs out.]
MENELAUS [with radiant happiness, kneeling before the bust of Zeus]. Ye Gods, I thank ye. Peace and a happy life at last.
[The shouts in the courtyard grow louder.]
ANALYTIKOS. The news has spread through the palace.
MENELAUS [in trepidation, springing up]. No one would dare stop the progress of the Queen.
TSUMU [rushes in and prostrates herself before the King]. Woe is me! They have gone by the road to the harbor.
MENELAUS [anxiously]. Yes! Yes!
TSUMU. By the King's orders no man has dared gaze upon Her Majesty. They all fell prostrate before her.
MENELAUS. Good! Good! [Attempting to cover his delight.] Go! Go! You garrulous dog.
[Tsumu gets up and points to shield. Analytikos and the King look toward it. Analytikos tears off the papyrus and brings it to Menelaus. Tsumu, watching them, exits.]
MENELAUS [reading]. "I am not a bad woman. I did what I had to do." How Greek to blame fate for what one wants to do.
[Tsumu again comes tumbling in.]
TSUMU [again prostrate before the King]. A rumor flies through the city. He--he--
ANALYTIKOS [anxiously]. Well? Well?
TSUMU. He--he--
MENELAUS [furiously to Analytikos]. Rid me of this croaking raven.
TSUMU. Evil has fallen on Sparta. He--
ANALYTIKOS. Yes--yes--
MENELAUS [in a rage]. Out of my sight, perfidious Nubian.
[Sounds of confusion in the courtyard. Suddenly she springs to her feet and yells at the top of her voice.]
TSUMU. He was Paris, Prince of Troy!
[They all start back. Analytikos stumbles into a seat. Menelaus turns pale. Tsumu leers like a black Nemesis.]
ANALYTIKOS [very ominously]. Who can read the secret of the Fates?
MENELAUS [frightened]. What do you mean?
ANALYTIKOS. He is the son of Priam, King of Troy.
TSUMU [adding fuel]. And of Hecuba, Queen of the Trojans.
[She rushes out to spread the news.]
ANALYTIKOS. That makes the matter international.
MENELAUS [quickly]. But we have treaties with Troy.
ANALYTIKOS. Circumstances alter treaties. They will mean nothing.
MENELAUS. Nothing?
ANALYTIKOS. No more than a scrap of papyrus. Sparta will fight to regain her Queen.
MENELAUS. But I don't want her back.
ANALYTIKOS. Can you tell that to Sparta? Remember, the King can do no wrong. Last night I dreamed of war.
MENELAUS. No! No! Don't say that. After the scandal I can't be expected to fight to get her back.
ANALYTIKOS. Sparta will see with the eyes of chivalry.
MENELAUS [fuming]. But I don't believe in war.
ANALYTIKOS [still obdurate]. Have you forgotten the oath pledged of old, with Ulysses and Agamemnon? They have sworn, if ever the time came, to fight and defend the Queen.
MENELAUS [bitterly]. I didn't think of the triple alliance.
ANALYTIKOS. Can Sparta ask less of her King?
MENELAUS. Let's hear the other side. We can perhaps arbitrate. Peace at any price.
ANALYTIKOS. Some bargains are too cheap.
MENELAUS [hopelessly]. But I am a pacifist.
ANALYTIKOS. You are Menelaus of Sparta, and Sparta's a nation of soldiers.
MENELAUS [desperately]. I am too proud to fight!
ANALYTIKOS. Here, put on your shield. [A great clamor comes up from the courtyard, Analytikos steps out on the balcony and is greeted with shouts of "The King! The King!" Addressing the crowd.] People of Sparta, this calamity has been forced upon us. [Menelaus winces.] We are a peaceful people. But thanks to our unparalleled efficiency, the military system of Sparta is the most powerful in all Greece and we can mobilize in half an hour.
[Loud acclaims from the people. Menelaus, the papyrus still in hand, crawls over and attempts to stop Analytikos.]
ANALYTIKOS [not noticing him]. In the midst of connubial and communal peace the thunderbolt has fallen on the King. [Menelaus tugs at Analytikos' robe.] Broken in spirit as he is, he is already pawing the ground like a battle steed. Never will we lay down our arms! We and Jupiter! [Cheers.] Never until the Queen is restored to Menelaus. Never, even if it takes ten years. [Menelaus squirms. A loud cheer.] Even now the King is buckling on his shield. [More cheers. Analytikos steps farther forward and then with bursting eloquence.] One hate we have and one alone! [Yells from below.]
Hate by water and hate by land, Hate of the head and hate of the hand, Hate of Paris and hate of Troy That has broken the Queen for a moment's toy.
[The yells grow fiercer.]
Zeus' thunder will shatter the Trojan throne. We have one hate and one alone!
[Menelaus sits on the floor dejectedly looking at the papyrus. A thunder of voices from the people.]
We have one hate and one alone. Troy! Troy!
[Helmets and swords are thrown into the air. The cheers grow tumultuous, trumpets are blown, and the
Curtain falls.]
THE SHADOWED STAR
BY MARY MACMILLAN
Copyright, 1913, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.
CAST
A WOMAN, the mother. AN OLD WOMAN, the grandmother. TWO GIRLS, the daughters. A MESSENGER BOY. A NEIGHBOR. ANOTHER NEIGHBOR.
THE SHADOWED STAR is reprinted from "Short Plays" by Mary MacMillan by permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. The acting rights of this play are reserved by the author. Address all correspondence to the author in regard to production.
THE SHADOWED STAR
BY MARY MACMILLAN
[A very bare room in a tenement house, uncarpeted, the boards being much worn, and from the walls the bluish whitewash has scaled away; in the front on one side is a cooking-stove, and farther back on the same side a window; on the opposite side is a door opening into a hallway; in the middle of the room there is a round, worn dining-room table, on which stands a stunted, scraggly bit of an evergreen-tree; at the back of the room, near the window, stands an old-fashioned safe with perforated tin front; next it a door opening into an inner room, and next it in the corner a bed, on which lies a pallid woman; another woman, very old, sits in a rocking-chair in front of the stove and rocks. There is silence for a long space, the old woman rocking and the woman on the bed giving an occasional low sigh or groan. At last the old woman speaks.]
THE OLD WOMAN. David an' Michael might be kapin' the Christmas wid us to-morrow night if we hadn't left the ould counthry. They'd never be crossin' the sea--all the many weary miles o' wetness an' fog an' cold to be kapin' it wid us here in this great house o' brick walls in a place full o' strange souls. They would never be for crossin' all that weary, cold, green wather, groanin' an' tossin' like it was the grave o' sivin thousan' divils. Ah, but it would be a black night at sea! [She remains silent for a few minutes, staring at the stove and rocking slowly.] If they hadn't to cross that wet, cold sea they'd maybe come. But wouldn't they be afeard o' this great city, an' would they iver find us here? Six floors up, an' they niver off the ground in their lives. What would ye be thinkin'? [The other woman does not answer her. She then speaks petulantly.] What would ye be thinkin'? Mary, have ye gone clane to slape? [Turns her chair and peers around the back of it at the pallid woman on the bed, who sighs and answers.]
THE WOMAN. No, I on'y wisht I could. Maybe they'll come--I don't know, but father an' Michael wasn't much for thravel. [After a pause and very wearily.] Maybe they'll not come, yet [slowly], maybe I'll be kapin' the Christmas wid them there. [The Old Woman seems not to notice this, wandering from her question back to her memories.]
THE OLD WOMAN. No, they'll niver be lavin' the ould land, the green land, the home land. I'm wishing I was there wid thim. [Another pause, while she stares at the stove.] Maybe we'd have a duck an' potatoes, an' maybe something to drink to kape us warm against the cold. An' the boys would all be dancin' an' the girls have rosy cheeks. [There is another pause, and then a knock at the door. "Come in," the two women call, in reedy, weak voices, and a thin, slatternly Irish woman enters.]
THE NEIGHBOR. God avnin' to ye; I came in to ask if I might borrow the loan o' a bit o' tay, not havin' a leaf of it left.
THE WOMAN. We have a little left, just enough we was savin' for ourselves to-night, but you're welcome to it--maybe the girls will bring some. Will ye get it for her, mother? Or she can help herself--it's in the safe. It's on the lower shelf among the cups an' saucers an' plates. [The Old Woman and Neighbor go to the safe and hunt for the tea, and do not find it readily. The safe has little in it but a few cracked and broken dishes.]
THE NEIGHBOR [holding up a tiny paper bag with an ounce perhaps of tea in it.] It's just a scrap!
THE OLD WOMAN. To be sure! We use so much tay! We're that exthravagant!
THE NEIGHBOR. It hurts me to take it from ye--maybe I'd better not.
THE OLD WOMAN. The girls will bring more. We always have a cupboard full o' things. We're always able to lend to our neighbors.
THE NEIGHBOR. It's in great luck, ye are. For some of us be so poor we don't know where the next bite's comin' from. An' this winter whin iverything's so high an' wages not raised, a woman can't find enough to cook for her man's dinner. It isn't that ye don't see things--oh, they're in the markets an' the shops, an' it makes yer mouth wather as ye walk along the sthrates this day before the Christmas to see the turkeys an' the ducks ye'll niver ate, an' the little pigs an' the or'nges an' bananies an' cranberries an' the cakes an' nuts an'--it's worse, I'm thinkin', to see thim whin there's no money to buy than it was in the ould counthry, where there was nothing to buy wid the money ye didn't have.
THE WOMAN. It's all one to us poor folk whether there be things to buy or not. [She speaks gaspingly, as one who is short of breath.] I'm on'y thinkin' o' the clane air at home--if I could have a mornin' o' fresh sunshine--these fogs an' smoke choke me so. The girls would take me out to the counthry if they had time an' I'd get well. But they haven't time. [She falls into a fit of coughing.]
THE OLD WOMAN. But it's like to be bright on Christmas Day. It wouldn't iver be cloudy on Christmas Day, an' maybe even now the stars would be crapin' out an' the air all clear an' cold an' the moon a-shinin' an' iverything so sthill an' quiet an' bleamin' an' breathless [her voice falls almost to a whisper], awaitin' on the Blessed Virgin. [She goes to the window, lifts the blind, and peers out, then throws up the sash and leans far out. After a moment she pulls the sash down again and the blind and turns to those in the room with the look of pathetic disappointment in little things, of the aged.] No, there's not a sthar, not one little twinklin' sthar, an' how'll the shepherds find their way? Iverything's dull an' black an' the clouds are hangin' down heavy an' sthill. How'll the shepherds find their way without the sthar to guide thim? [Then almost whimpering.] An' David an' Michael will niver be crossin' that wet, black sea! An' the girls--how'll they find their way home? They'll be lost somewhere along by the hedges. Ohone, ohone!
THE NEIGHBOR. Now, grannie, what would ye be sayin'? There's niver a hedge anywhere but granite blocks an' electric light poles an' plenty o' light in the city for thim to see all their way home. [Then to the woman.] Ain't they late?
THE WOMAN. They're always late, an' they kape gettin' lather an' lather.
THE NEIGHBOR. Yis, av coorse, the sthores is all open in the avnin's before Christmas.
THE WOMAN. They go so early in the mornin' an' get home so late at night, an' they're so tired.
THE NEIGHBOR [whiningly]. They're lucky to be young enough to work an' not be married. I've got to go home to the childer an' give thim their tay. Pat's gone to the saloon again, an' to-morrow bein' Christmas I misdoubt he'll be terrible dhrunk again, an' me on'y jist well from the blow in the shoulder the last time. [She wipes her eyes and moves towards the door.]
THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay an' kape Christmas wid us. We're goin' to have our celebratin' to-night on Christmas Eve, the way folks do here. I like it best on Christmas Day, the way 'tis in the ould counthry, but here 'tis Christmas Eve they kape. We're waitin' for the girls to come home to start things--they knowin' how--Mary an' me on'y know how to kape Christmas Day as 'tis at home. But the girls'll soon be here, an' they'll have the three an' do the cookin' an' all, an' we'll kape up the jollity way into the night.
THE NEIGHBOR [looks questioningly and surprised at the Woman, whose eyes are on the mother.] Nay, if Pat came home dhrunk an' didn't find me, he'd kill me. We have all to be movin' on to our own throubles. [She goes out, and the old woman leaves the Christmas-tree which she has been fingering and admiring, and sits down in the rocking-chair again. After a while she croons to herself in a high, broken voice. This lasts some time, when there is the noise of a slamming door and then of footsteps approaching.]
THE WOMAN. If I could on'y be in the counthry!
THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe that would be the girls! [She starts tremblingly to her feet, but the steps come up to the door and go by.] If David and Michael was to come now an' go by--there bein' no sthar to guide thim!
THE WOMAN. Nay, mother, 'twas the shepherds that was guided by the sthar an' to the bed o' the Blessed Babe.
THE OLD WOMAN. Aye, so 'twas. What be I thinkin' of? The little Blessed Babe! [She smiles and sits staring at the stove again for a little.] But they could not find Him to-night. 'Tis so dark an' no sthars shinin.' [After another pause.] An' what would shepherds do in a ghreat city? 'Twould be lost they'd be, quicker than in any bog. Think ye, Mary, that the boys would be hootin' thim an' the p'lice, maybe, would want to be aristin' thim for loitherin'. They'd niver find the Blessed Babe, an' they'd have to be movin' on. [Another pause, and then there is the sound of approaching footsteps again. The Old Woman grasps the arms of her chair and leans forward, intently listening.]--That would sure be the girls this time! [But again the footsteps go by. The Old Woman sighs.] Ah, but 'tis weary waitin'! [There is another long pause.] 'Twas on that day that David an' me was plighted--a brave Christmas Day wid a shinin' sun an' a sky o' blue wid fair, white clouds. An' David an' me met at the early mass in the dark o' the frosty mornin' afore the sun rose--an' there was all day good times an' a duck for dinner and puddin's an' a party at the O'Brady's in the evenin', whin David an' me danced. Ah, but he was a beautiful dancer, an' me, too--I was as light on my feet as a fairy. [She begins to croon an old dance tune and hobbles to her feet, and, keeping time with her head, tries a grotesque and feeble sort of dancing. Her eyes brighten and she smiles proudly.] Aye, but I danced like a fairy, an' there was not another couple so sprightly an' handsome in all the country. [She tires, and, looking pitiful and disappointed, hobbles back to her chair, and drops into it again.] Ah, but I be old now, and the strength fails me. [She falls into silence for a few minutes.] 'Twas the day before the little man, the little white dove, my next Christmas that Michael was born--little son! [There is a moment's pause, and then the pallid woman on the bed has a violent fit of coughing.]
THE WOMAN. Mother, could ye get me a cup o' wather? If the girls was here to get me a bite to ate, maybe it would kape the breath in me the night.
THE OLD WOMAN [starts and stares at her daughter, as if she hardly comprehended the present reality. She gets up and goes over to the window under which there is a pail full of water. She dips some out in a tin cup and carries it to her bed.] Ye should thry to get up an' move about some, so ye can enjoy the Christmas threat. 'Tis bad bein' sick on Christmas. Thry, now, Mary, to sit up a bit. The girls'll be wantin' ye to be merry wid the rest av us.
THE WOMAN [looking at her mother with a sad wistfulness]. I wouldn't spoil things for the girls if I could help. Maybe, mother, if ye'd lift me a little I could sit up. [The Old Woman tugs at her, and she herself tries hard to get into a sitting posture, but after some effort and panting for breath, she falls back again. After a pause for rest, she speaks gaspingly.] Maybe I'll feel sthronger lather whin the girls come home--they could help me--[with the plaint of longing in her voice] they be so late! [After another pause.] Maybe I'll be sthrong again in the mornin'--if I'd had a cup of coffee.--Maybe I could get up--an' walk about--an' do the cookin'. [There is a knock at the door, and again they call, "Come in," in reedy, weak voices. There enters a little messenger boy in a ragged overcoat that reaches almost to his heels. His eyes are large and bright, his face pale and dirty, and he is fearfully tired and worn.]
THE WOMAN. Why, Tim, boy, come in. Sit ye down an' rest, ye're lookin' weary.
THE OLD WOMAN. Come to the stove, Timmie, man, an' warm yourself. We always kape a warm room an' a bright fire for visitors.
THE BOY. I was awful cold an' hungry an' I come home to get somethin' to eat before. I started out on another trip, but my sisters ain't home from the store yit, an' the fire's gone out in the stove, an' the room's cold as outside. I thought maybe ye'd let me come in here an' git warm.
THE OLD WOMAN. Poor orphan! Poor lamb! To be shure ye shall get warm by our sthove.
THE BOY. The cars are so beastly col' an' so crowded a feller mostly has to stand on the back platform. [The Old Woman takes him by the shoulder and pushes him toward the stove, but he resists.]
THE BOY. No, thank ye--I don't want to go so near yet; my feet's all numb an' they allays hurt so when they warms up fast.
THE OLD WOMAN. Thin sit ye down off from the sthove. [Moves the rocking-chair farther away from the stove for him.]
THE BOY. If ye don't mind I'd rather stand on 'em 'til they gets a little used to it. They been numb off an' on mos' all day.
THE WOMAN. Soon as yer sisters come, Timmie, ye'd betther go to bed--'tis the best place to get warm.
THE BOY. I can't--I got most a three-hour trip yet. I won't get home any 'fore midnight if I don't get lost, and maybe I'll get lost--I did once out there. I've got to take a box o' 'Merican Beauty roses to a place eight mile out, an' the house ain't on the car track, but nearly a mile off, the boss said. I wisht they could wait till mornin', but the orders was they just got to get the roses to-night. You see, out there they don' have no gas goin' nights when there's a moon, an' there'd ought to be a moon to-night, on'y the clouds is so thick there ain't no light gets through.
THE OLD WOMAN. There's no sthar shinin' to-night, Tim. [She shakes her head ominously. She goes to the window for the second time, opens it as before, and looks out. Shutting the window, she comes back and speaks slowly and sadly.] Niver a sthar. An' the shepherds will be havin' a hard time, Tim, like you, findin' their way.
THE BOY. Shepherds? In town? What shepherds?
THE WOMAN. She means the shepherds on Christmas Eve that wint to find the Blessed Babe, Jesus.
THE OLD WOMAN. 'Tis Christmas Eve, Timmie; ye haven't forgot that, have ye?
THE BOY. You bet I ain't. I know pretty well when Christmas is comin', by the way I got to hustle, an' the size of the boxes I got to carry. Seems as if my legs an' me would like to break up pardnership. I got to work till midnight every night, an' I'm so sleepy I drop off in the cars whenever I get a seat. An' the girls is at the store so early an' late they don't get time to cook me nothin' to eat.
THE WOMAN. Be ye hungry, Timmie?
THE BOY [diffidently and looking at the floor]. No, I ain't hungry now.
THE WOMAN. Be ye shure, Timmie?
THE BOY. Oh, I kin go till I git home.
THE WOMAN. Mother, can't you find something for him to eat?
THE OLD WOMAN. To be shure, to be shure. [Bustling about.] We always kapes a full cupboard to thrate our neighbors wid whin they comes in. [She goes to the empty safe and fusses in it to find something. She pretends to be very busy, and then glances around at the boy with a sly look and a smile.] Ah, Timmie, lad, what would ye like to be havin', now? If you had the wish o' yer heart for yer Christmas dinner an' a good fairy to set it all afore ye? Ye'd be wishin' maybe, for a fine roast duck, to begin wid, in its own gravies an' some apple sauce to go wid it; an' ye'd be thinkin' o' a little bit o' pig nicely browned an' a plate of potaties; an' the little fairy woman would be bringin' yer puddin's an' nuts an' apples an' a dish o' the swatest tay. [The Boy smiles rather ruefully.]
THE WOMAN. But, mother, you're not gettin' Tim something to ate.
THE BOY. She's makin' me mouth water all right. [The Old Woman goes back to her search, but again turns about with a cunning look, and says to the boy:]
THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe ye'll meet that little fairy woman out there in the counthry road where ye're takin' the roses! [Nods her head knowingly, turning to the safe again.] Here's salt an' here's pepper an' here's mustard an' a crock full o' sugar, an', oh! Tim, here's some fine cold bacon--fine, fat, cold bacon--an' here's half a loaf o' white wheat bread! Why, Timmie, lad, that's just the food to make boys fat! Ye'll grow famously on it. 'Tis a supper, whin ye add to it a dhrop o' iligant milk, that's fit for a king. [She bustles about with great show of being busy and having much to prepare. Puts the plate of cold bacon upon the table where stands the stunted bit of an evergreen-tree, then brings the half-loaf of bread and cuts it into slices, laying pieces of bacon on the slices of bread. Then she pours out a glass of milk from a dilapidated and broken pitcher in the safe and brings it to the table, the Boy all the while watching her hungrily. At last he says rather apologetically to the woman.]
THE BOY. I ain't had nothin' since a wienerwurst at eleven o'clock.
THE OLD WOMAN. Now, dhraw up, Timmie, boy, an' ate yer fill; ye're more thin welcome. [The boy does not sit down, but stands by the table and eats a slice of bread and bacon, drinking from the glass of milk occasionally.]
THE WOMAN. Don't they niver give ye nothin' to ate at the gran' houses when ye'd be takin' the roses?
THE BOY. Not them. They'd as soon think o' feedin' a telephone or an automobile as me.
THE WOMAN. But don't they ask ye in to get warm whin ye've maybe come so far?
THE BOY. No, they don't seem to look at me 'zacly like a caller. They generally steps out long enough to sign the receipt-book an' shut the front door behin' 'em so as not to let the house get col' the length o' time I'm standin' there. Well, I'm awful much obleeged to ye. Now, I got to be movin' on.
THE OLD WOMAN. Sthop an' cilibrate the Christmas wid us. We ain't started to do nothin' yet because the girls haven't come--they know how [nodding her head]--an' they're goin' to bring things--all kinds o' good things to ate an' a branch of rowan berries--ah, boy, a great branch o' rowan wid scarlet berries shinin' [gesticulating and with gleaming eyes], an' we'll all be merry an' kape it up late into the night.
THE BOY [in a little fear of her]. I guess it's pretty late now. I got to make that trip an' I guess when I get home I'll be so sleepy I'll jus' tumble in. Ye've been awful good to me, an' it's the first time I been warm to-day. Good-by. [He starts toward the door, but the Old Woman follows him and speaks to him coaxingly.]
THE OLD WOMAN. Ah, don't ye go, Michael, lad! Now, bide wid us a bit. [The Boy, surprised at the name, looks queerly at the Old Woman, who then stretches out her arms to him, and says beseechingly:] Ah, boy, ah, Mike, bide wid us, now ye've come! We've been that lonesome widout ye!
THE BOY [frightened and shaking his head]. I've got to be movin'.
THE OLD WOMAN. No, Michael, little lamb, no!
THE BOY [almost terrified, watching her with staring eyes, and backing out]. I got to go! [The Boy goes out, and the Old Woman breaks into weeping, totters over to her old rocking-chair and drops into it, rocks to and fro, wailing to herself.]
THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, to have him come an' go again, my little Michael, my own little lad!
THE WOMAN. Don't ye, dearie; now, then, don't ye! 'Twas not Michael, but just our little neighbor boy, Tim. Ye know, poor lamb, now if ye'll thry to remember, that father an' Michael is gone to the betther land an' us is left.
THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, nay, 'tis the fairies that took thim an' have thim now, kapin' thim an' will not ever give thim back.
THE WOMAN. Whisht, mother! Spake not of the little folk on the Holy Night! [Crosses herself.] Have ye forgot the time o' all the year it is? Now, dhry yer eyes, dearie, an' thry to be cheerful like 'fore the girls be comin' home. [A noise is heard, the banging of a door and footsteps.] Thim be the girls now, shure they be comin' at last. [But the sound of footsteps dies away.] But they'll be comin' soon. [Wearily, but with the inveterate hope.]
[The two women relapse into silence again, which is undisturbed for a few minutes. Then there is a knock at the door, and together in quavering, reedy voices, they call, "Come in," as before. There enters a tall, big, broad-shouldered woman with a cold, discontented, hard look upon the face that might have been handsome some years back; still, in her eyes, as she looks at the pallid woman on the bed, there is something that denotes a softness underneath it all.]
THE OLD WOMAN. Good avnin' to ye! We're that pleased to see our neighbors!
THE NEIGHBOR [without paying any attention to the Old Woman, but entirely addressing the woman on the bed.] How's yer cough?
THE WOMAN. Oh, it's jist the same--maybe a little betther. If I could on'y get to the counthry! But the girls must be workin'--they haven't time to take me. Sit down, won't ye? [The Neighbor goes to the bed and sits down on the foot of it.]
THE NEIGHBOR. I'm most dead, I'm so tired. I did two washin's to-day--went out and did one this mornin' and then my own after I come home this afternoon. I jus' got through sprinklin' it an' I'll iron to-morrow.
THE WOMAN. Not on Christmas Day!
THE NEIGHBOR [with a sneer]. Christmas Day! Did ye hear 'bout the Beckers? Well, they was all put out on the sidewalk this afternoon. Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid his rent an' his wife's got a two weeks' old baby. It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't move, an' nobody couldn't do nothin' with her. But they ain't the only ones has bad luck--Smith, the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. They took him to the hospital, but it wasn't no use--his head was all mashed in. His wife's got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, though he warn't a drinkin' man. It's a good thing Smith's children is boys--they can make their livin' easier!
THE WOMAN [smiling faintly]. Ain't ye got no cheerful news to tell? It's Christmas Eve, ye know.
THE NEIGHBOR. Christmas Eve don't seem to prevent people from dyin' an' bein' turned out o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the dipthery is? They say as how if it gits much worse they'll have to close the school in our ward. Two o' the Homan children's dead with it. The first one wasn't sick but two days, an' they say his face all turned black 'fore he died. But it's a good thing they're gone, for the Homans ain't got enough to feed the other six. Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin' again? Swore off for two months, an' then took to it harder'n ever--perty near killed the baby one night.
THE WOMAN [with a wan, beseeching smile]. Won't you please not tell me any more? It just breaks me heart.
THE NEIGHBOR [grimly]. I ain't got no other kind o' news to tell. I s'pose I might's well go home.
THE WOMAN. No, don't ye go. I like to have ye here when ye're kinder.
THE NEIGHBOR [fingering the bed clothes and smoothing them over the woman]. Well, it's gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep.
THE WOMAN. Oh, no, I won't go to slape till the girls come. They'll bring me somethin' to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon.
THE NEIGHBOR. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til they git home?
THE OLD WOMAN. That we are. We're kapin' the cilebratin' till they come.
THE NEIGHBOR. What celebratin'?
THE OLD WOMAN. Why, the Christmas, to be shure. We're goin' to have high jinks to-night. In the ould counthry 'tis always Christmas Day, but here 'tis begun on Christmas Eve, an' we're on'y waitin' for the girls, because they know how to fix things betther nor Mary an' me.
THE NEIGHBOR [staring]. But ain't they workin' in the store?
THE OLD WOMAN. Yes, but they're comin' home early to-night.
THE NEIGHBOR [laughing ironically]. Don't ye fool yerselves. Why, they've got to work harder to-night than any in the whole year.
THE WOMAN [wistfully]. But they did say they'd thry to come home early.
THE NEIGHBOR. The store's all crowded to-night. Folks 'at's got money to spend never remembers it till the last minute. If they didn't have none they'd be thinkin' 'bout it long ahead. Well, I got to be movin'. I wouldn't stay awake, if I was you.
THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay and kape the Christmas wid us! We'll be havin' high jinks by an' by. Sthay, now, an' help us wid our jollity!
THE NEIGHBOR. Nay, I left my children in bed, an' I got to go back to 'em. An' I got to get some rest myself--I got that ironin' ahead o' me in the mornin'. You folks better get yer own rest. [She rises and walks to the door.]
THE OLD WOMAN [beamingly]. David an' Michael's comin'. [The Neighbor stands with her back against the door and her hand on the knob, staring at the Old Woman.]
THE OLD WOMAN [smiling rapturously]. Yis, we're goin' to have a gran' time. [The Neighbor looks puzzled and fearful and troubled, first at the Woman and then at the Old Woman. Finally, without a word, she opens the door and goes out.]
THE OLD WOMAN [going about in a tottering sort of dance]. David an' Michael's comin' an' the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the way.
THE WOMAN. If the girls would on'y come! If they'd give me somethin' so as I wouldn't be so tired!
THE OLD WOMAN. There's niver a sthar an' there's nobody to give thim a kind word an' the counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got the little folk to guide thim! An' whin they reach the city--the poor, lonesome shepherds from the hills!--they'll find naught but coldness an' hardness an' hurry. [Questioningly.] Will the fairies show thim the way? Fairies' eyes be used to darkness, but can they see where it is black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light in another? [She goes to the window for the third time, opens it and leans far out for a long time, then turns about and goes on in her monotone, closing the window.--She seems by this time quite to have forgotten the presence of the pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her eyes, and lies like one dead.]
THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, there's niver a sthar, an' the clouds are hangin' heavier an' lower an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little folk guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' thim by the hand so gently because there's no others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to the manger o' the Blessed Babe. [She comes over to her rocking-chair and again sits down in it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in time to the motion.] Poor little mite of a babe, so cold an' unwelcome an' forgotten save by the silly ould shepherds from the hills! The silly ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, who are comin' through the darkness in the lead o' the little folk! [She speaks slower and lower, and finally drops into a quiet crooning--it stops and the Old Woman has fallen asleep.]
[Curtain.]
[While the curtain is down the pallid, sick woman upon the bed dies, the Old Woman being asleep does not notice the slight struggle with death. The fire has gone out in the stove, and the light in the lamp, and the stage is in complete darkness when the two girls come stumbling in. They are too tired to speak, too weary to show surprise that the occupants of the room are not awake. They fumble about, trying to find matches in the darkness, and finally discover them and a candle in the safe. They light the candle and place it upon the table by the scraggy little evergreen-tree. They turn about and discern their grandmother asleep in the rocking-chair. Hurriedly they turn to the bed and discover their mother lying there dead. For a full minute they stand gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, misery increasing in their faces; then with screams they run to the bed, throw themselves on their knees and bury their faces, sobbing, in the bedclothes at the Woman's feet.]
[Curtain.]
ILE
A PLAY
BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL
All rights reserved.
CHARACTERS
BEN [the cabin boy]. THE STEWARD. CAPTAIN KEENEY. SLOCUM [second mate]. MRS. KEENEY. JOE [a harpooner]. Members of the crew of the Atlantic Queen.
ILE was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, on the night of November 30th, 1917, with the following cast:
BEN [the cabin boy] Harold Conley. THE STEWARD Robert Edwards. CAPTAIN KEENEY H. Collins. MR. SLOCUM [second mate] Ira Remsen. MRS. KEENEY Clara Savage. JOE [the harpooner] Lewis B. Ell.
Produced under the direction of MISS NINA MOISE. Scenery by MR. LEWIS B. ELL.
Reprinted from "The Moon of the Caribbees and Six Other Plays of the Sea" by special permission of Eugene O'Neill. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr. Eugene G. O'Neill, Provincetown, Mass.
ILE
A PLAY BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL
[SCENE: Captain Keeney's cabin on board the steam whaling ship Atlantic Queen--a small, square compartment about eight feet high with a skylight in the center looking out on the poop deck. On the left (the stern of the ship) a long bench with rough cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench a table. Over the bench, several curtained port-holes.
In the rear left, a door leading to the captain's sleeping quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, looking as if it were brand new, is placed against the wall.
On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped sideboard. On the sideboard, a woman's sewing basket. Farther forward, a doorway leading to the companion-way, and past the officers' quarters to the main deck.
In the center of the room, a stove. From the middle of the ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are painted white.
There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes through the sky-light is sickly and faint, indicating one of those gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence is unbroken except for the measured tread of some one walking up and down on the poop deck overhead.
It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day in the year 1895.
* * * * *
At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. Then The Steward enters and commences to clear the table of the few dishes which still remain on it after the Captain's dinner. He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and a woolen cap with ear flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes his face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise from the doorway on the right and he darts back to the table.
Ben enters. He is an over-grown gawky boy with a long, pinched face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove where he stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping them against his sides, on the verge of crying.]
THE STEWARD [in relieved tones--seeing who it is]. Oh, 'tis you, is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'.
BEN. It's c-c-cold. [Trying to control his chattering teeth--derisively.] Who d'ye think it were--the Old Man?
THE STEWARD [makes a threatening move--Ben shrinks away]. None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. [More kindly.] Where was it ye've been all o' the time--the fo'c's'tle?
BEN. Yes.
THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkeyshinin' with the hands and ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a hurry.
BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. [A trace of awe in his tones--he glances upward.] He jest walks up and down like he didn't notice nobody--and stares at the ice to the no'the'ard.
THE STEWARD [the same tone of awe creeping into his voice]. He's always starin' at the ice. [In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the skylight.] Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' us in for nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it like a fly in molasses!
BEN [apprehensively]. Ssshh! He'll hear ye.
THE STEWARD [raging]. Aye, damn, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn this rotten whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on it! [Subsiding as if realizing the uselessness of this outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep conviction.] He's a hard man--as hard a man as ever sailed the seas.
BEN [solemnly]. Aye.
THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this day! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in the fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin' low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for home! [Bitterly.] Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on land again. [Excitedly.] What is it he thinks he's goin' to do? Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'tle?
BEN [going over to him--in a half whisper]. They said if he don't put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny.
THE STEWARD [with grim satisfaction]. Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's treated them--'s if they weren't no better nor dogs.
BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'ard. They's clear water s'far 's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back for home, the men says.
THE STEWARD [bitterly]. He won't look nowheres but no'the'ard where they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. All he thinks on is gettin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he ain't had good luck with the whales. [Shaking his head.] I think the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses.
BEN [awed]. D'you really think he's crazy?
THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye ever hear of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? [Pointing to the door in rear.] Who but a man that's mad would take his woman--and as sweet a woman as ever was--on a rotten whalin' ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the ice for nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever--for it's sure she'll never be the same again.
BEN [sadly]. She useter be awful nice to me before--[His eyes grow wide and frightened.] she got--like she is.
THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'Twould have been hell on board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard man--a driver if there ever was one. [With a grim laugh.] I hope he's satisfied now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. And who could blame her? 'Tis a God's wonder we're not a ship full of crazed people--with the ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice.
BEN [with a frightened glance toward the door on right]. She don't never speak to me no more--jest looks at me 's if she didn't know me.
THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to him--when she does talk--right enough.
BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her.
THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back.
BEN [tiptoes over to the door and listens]. She's cryin' now.
THE STEWARD [furiously--shaking his fist]. God send his soul to hell for the devil he is!
[There is the noise of some one coming slowly down the companion-way stairs. The Steward hurries to his stacked-up dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top one which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, trembling with dread. Ben is violently rubbing off the organ with a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket. Captain Keeney appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin, removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty, around five-ten in height but looking much shorter on account of the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak hardness, and a tightly-clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots. He is followed into the cabin by the Second Mate, a rangy six-footer with a lean weather-beaten face. The Mate is dressed about the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so.]
KEENEY [comes toward The Steward with a stern look on his face. The Steward is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes rattles in his trembling hands. Keeney draws back his fist and The Steward shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and Keeney speaks slowly]. 'Twould be like hitting a worm. It is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet.
THE STEWARD [stammering]. Y-y-yes, sir.
KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here gossipin' old women's talk with that boy. [To Ben, fiercely.] Get out o' this you! Clean up the chart room. [Ben darts past the Mate to the open doorway.] Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward!
THE STEWARD [doing so with difficulty]. Yes, sir.
KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the Behring Sea at the end of a rope.
THE STEWARD [trembling]. Yes, sir.
[He hurries out. The Second Mate walks slowly over to the Captain.]
MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below.
KEENEY [impatiently]. Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.
MATE [unconsciously lowering his voice]. I'm afeared there'll be trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two years they signed up for is up to-day.
KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me something new, Mr. Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?
[The door in rear is opened and Mrs. Keeney stands in the doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman, primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at her.]
KEENEY [with rough tenderness]. Well, Annie?
MRS. KEENEY [as if awakening from a dream]. David, I--
[She is silent. The Mate starts for the doorway.]
KEENEY [turning to him--sharply]. Wait!
MATE. Yes, sir.
KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?
MRS. KEENEY [after a pause during which she seems to be endeavoring to collect her thoughts]. I thought maybe--I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.
[She stands humbly awaiting his permission. He and The Mate exchange a significant glance.]
KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below. There's nothing to look at on deck--but ice.
MRS. KEENEY [monotonously]. I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing to see down here but these walls.
[She makes a gesture of loathing.]
KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY [dully]. I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home.
KEENEY [a touch of resentment in his voice]. I got it jest for you!
MRS. KEENEY [dully]. I know. [She turns away from them and walks slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy.] Ah, water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these months of ice! [She turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy.] Ah, now I must go up on deck and look at it, David!
KEENEY [frowning]. Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when the sun shines.
MRS. KEENEY [desperately]. But the sun never shines in this terrible place.
KEENEY [a tone of command in his voice]. Best not to-day, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY [crumbling before this command--abjectly]. Very well, David.
[She stands there, staring straight before her as if in a daze.--The two men look at her uneasily.]
KEENEY [sharply]. Annie!
MRS. KEENEY [dully]. Yes, David.
KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's business.
MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.
[She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three-quarters shut behind her.]
KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble.
MATE. Yes, sir.
KEENEY. And trouble they's going to be. I feel it in my bones. [Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it.] Got your'n?
MATE. Yes, sir.
KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed of dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. [Grimly.] I ain't never been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by sea s'long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I reckon.
MATE [hesitatingly]. Then you ain't goin'--to turn back?
KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold?
MATE [hastily]. But the grub's gittin' low.
KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with it; and they's plenty of water.
MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble for you in the courts when we git home.
KEENEY. Let them make what law trouble they kin! I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! [Glancing sharply at the Mate.] You ain't turnin' no sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?
MATE [flushing]. Not by a hell of a sight, sir.
KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep them in chewin' terbacco.
MATE [slowly]. They wants to git back to their old folks an' things, I s'pose.
KEENEY [looking at him searchingly]. 'N you want to turn back too. [The Mate looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze.] Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. [With grim sarcasm.] I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.
MATE [indignantly]. That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.
KEENEY [with satisfaction]. I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one.
MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I mean. [Desperately.] But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't jest satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad luck an' the ice an' all.
KEENEY [his face clouding--rebukingly, but not severely]. That's my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' that. [A pause.] The ice'll break up soon to no'the'ard. I could see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun Annie'll pick up. [Another pause--then he bursts forth.] It ain't the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days without a full ship. Ain't that true?
MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'--
KEENEY [scornfully]. And d'you s'pose any of 'em would believe that--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots n' Harris n' Simms and the rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney, what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, comin' back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile!" [The thought of this drives him into a frenzy and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the sideboard.] I got to git the ile, I tell you! How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad before in the thirty year I been acomin' here. And now it's breakin' up. In a couple o' days it'll be all gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all hell, and by God, I ain't agoin' home till I do git it!
[There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then Keeney goes over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he were going to enter--then closes the door softly. Joe, the harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, enters from right and stands waiting for the Captain to notice him.]
KEENEY [turning and seeing him]. Don't be standin' there like a hawk, Harpooner. Speak up!
JOE [confusedly]. We want--the men, sir--they wants to send a depitation aft to have a word with you.
KEENEY [furiously]. Tell 'em to go to--[Checks himself and continues grimly.] Tell 'em to come. I'll see 'em.
JOE. Aye, aye, sir.
[He goes out.]
KEENEY [with a grim smile]. Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such things at the start than let them make headway.
MATE [worriedly]. Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might need their help.
KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, Mr. Slocum.
[There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the crew crowd into the cabin, led by Joe. All are dressed alike--sweaters, sea boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the Captain, twirling their fur caps in their hands.]
KEENEY [after a pause]. Well? Who's to speak fur ye?
JOE [stepping forward with an air of bravado]. I be.
KEENEY [eyeing him up and down coldly]. So you be. Then speak your say and be quick about it.
JOE [trying not to wilt before the Captain's glance and avoiding his eyes]. The time we signed up for is done to-day.
KEENEY [icily]. You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.
JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far s'we kin see.
KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile.
JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice before ye.
KEENEY. The ice is breaking up.
JOE [after a slight pause, during which the others mumble angrily to one another]. The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.
KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten worse.
[There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd.]
JOE [encouraged by this support]. We ain't agoin' to work no more less you puts back for home.
KEENEY [fiercely]. You ain't, ain't you?
JOE. No; and the law courts'll say we was right.
KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm the law on this ship! [Edging up toward the harpooner.] And every mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons.
[There are more angry exclamations from the crew. Mrs. Keeney appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. None of the men notice her.]
JOE [with bravado]. Then we're agoin' to mutiny and take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?
[As he turns his head to look at the others, Keeney's fist shoots out to the side of his jaw. Joe goes down in a heap and lies there. Mrs. Keeney gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers of Keeney and the Mate.]
KEENEY [his eyes and voice snapping]. Hold still! [The men stand huddled together in a sullen silence. Keeney's voice is full of mockery.] You's found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and--[He gives Joe's body a contemptuous kick.] drag him with you. And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! [The men leave in cowed silence, carrying Joe with them. Keeney turns to the Mate with a short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket.] Best get up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I know 'em.
MATE. Yes, sir.
[He goes out, right. Keeney hears his wife's hysterical weeping and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her side.]
KEENEY [putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff tenderness]. There, there, Annie. Don't be feared. It's all past and gone.
MRS. KEENEY [shrinking away from him]. Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it any longer!
KEENEY [gently]. Can't bear what, Annie?
MRS. KEENEY [hysterically]. All this horrible brutality, and these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence.
[After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her handkerchief.]
KEENEY [after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown]. Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I didn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've been doing these last six years since we were married--waiting, and watching, and fearing--with nothing to keep my mind occupied--not able to go back teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead [Her voice grows tremulous] all I find is ice and cold--and brutality! [Her voice breaks.]
KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home where you've got all your woman's comforts." [Shaking his head.] But you was so set on it.
MRS. KEENEY [wearily]. Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in the story books and I thought you were one of them.
KEENEY [protestingly]. I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. [Mrs. Keeney looks around her in wild scorn.] I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was dull like.
MRS. KEENEY [wearily]. Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. [She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out--then suddenly bursts forth]: I won't stand it--I can't stand it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. [She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders.] Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home!
KEENEY [holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously]. Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before.
MRS. KEENEY [laughing hysterically]. It's the ice and the cold and the silence--they'd make any one look strange.
KEENEY [soothingly]. In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything she'll stand and p'int for home.
MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all you've got to turn back.
KEENEY [harshly]. I can't, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?
KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason.
MRS. KEENEY [wildly]. Because it's a stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to live up to your silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it.
KEENEY [his jaw set stubbornly]. It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what any one'd say--but--[He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning] you see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem right not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and--don't you see my meanin', Annie? [He glances at her. She is not looking at him, but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying.] Annie! [She comes to herself with a start.] Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You ain't well.
MRS. KEENEY [resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear]. David! Won't you please turn back?
KEENEY [gently]. I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile.
MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty.
KEENEY [impatiently]. It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think I'm as mean as that?
MRS. KEENEY [dully]. No--I don't know--I can't understand. [Intensely.] Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more, and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back.
KEENEY [worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes.] Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.
MRS. KEENEY [not appearing to hear him]. I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine, free life you must be leading. [She gives a laugh which is half a sob.] I used to love the sea then. [She pauses; then continues with slow intensity.] But now--I don't ever want to see the sea again.
KEENEY [thinking to humor her]. 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye.
MRS. KEENEY [after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness]. How long would it take us to reach home--if we started now?
KEENEY [frowning]. 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck.
MRS. KEENEY [counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt smile]. That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it?
KEENEY [trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him--gruffly]. Don't you remember?
MRS. KEENEY [vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes]. My memory is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. [A pause--then she smiles dreamily.] It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard--and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the house--they're budding--
[She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to sob.]
KEENEY [disturbed]. Go in and rest, Annie. You're all worn out cryin' over what can't be helped.
MRS. KEENEY [suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him]. You love me, don't you, David?
KEENEY [in amazed embarrassment at this outburst]. Love you? Why d'you ask me such a question, Annie?
MRS. KEENEY [shaking him fiercely]. But you do, don't you, David? Tell me!
KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be aught but love between us after all these years?
MRS. KEENEY [shaking him again--still more fiercely]. Then you do love me. Say it!
KEENEY [simply]. I do, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY [gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her sides. Keeney regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and murmurs half to herself]: I sometimes think if we could only have had a child--[Keeney turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face her--intensely.] And I've always been a good wife to you, haven't I, David?
KEENEY [his voice betraying his emotion]. No man has ever had a better, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have I?
KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY [wildly]. Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can't bear the silence threatening me--day after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. [Sobbing.] I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me home!
[She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens as he looks at her tear-stained face.]
KEENEY [dragging out the words with an effort]. I'll do it, Annie--for your sake--if you say it's needful for ye.
MRS. KEENEY [with wild joy--kissing him]. God bless you for that, David!
[He turns away from her silently and walks toward the companion-way. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and the Second Mate enters the cabin.]
MATE [excitedly]. The ice is breakin' up to no'the'ard, sir. There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout says.
[_Keeney straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance. Mrs. Keeney looks at the Mate with terrified eyes._]
KEENEY [dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts]. A clear passage? To no'the'ard?
MATE. Yes, sir.
KEENEY [his voice suddenly grim with determination]. Then get her ready and we'll drive her through.
MATE. Aye, aye, sir.
MRS. KEENEY [appealingly]. David! David!
KEENEY [not heeding her]. Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag 'em out?
MATE. They'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs.
KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. [With grim determination.] They's whale t'other side o' this floe and we're agoin' to git 'em.
MATE. Aye, aye, sir.
[He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of scuffling feet from the deck outside and the Mate's voice shouting orders.]
KEENEY [speaking aloud to himself--derisively]. And I was agoin' home like a yaller dog!
MRS. KEENEY [imploringly]. David!
KEENEY [sternly]. Woman, you ain't adoin' right when you meddle in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git the ile, I tell ye.
MRS. KEENEY [supplicatingly]. David! Aren't you going home?
KEENEY [ignoring this question--commandingly]. You ain't well. Go and lay down a mite. [He starts for the door.] I got to git on deck.
[He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to play wildly an old hymn, "There is rest for the weary." Keeney reenters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder.]
KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? [She laughs wildly and he starts back from her in alarm.] Annie! What is it? [She doesn't answer him. Keeney's voice trembles.] Don't you know me, Annie?
[He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, and she commences softly to play the organ again.]
KEENEY [swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty in speaking]. You said--you was agoin' mad--God!
[A long wail is heard from the deck above, "Ah, bl-o-o-o-ow!" A moment later the Mate's face appears through the skylight. He cannot see Mrs. Keeney.]
MATE [in great excitement]. Whales, sir--a whole school of 'em--off the star-b'd quarter 'bout five miles away--big ones!
KEENEY [galvanized into action]. Are you lowerin' the boats?
MATE. Yes, sir.
KEENEY [with grim decision]. I'm acomin' with ye.
MATE. Aye, aye, sir. [Jubilantly.] You'll git the ile now right enough, sir.
[His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders.]
KEENEY [turning to his wife]. Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the ile. [She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard laugh which is almost a groan.] I know you're foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind--[Anxiously.] be you? I'll git the ile now right enough--jest a little while longer, Annie--then we'll turn home'ard. I can't turn back now, you see that, don't you? I've got to git the ile. [In sudden terror.] Answer me! You ain't mad, be you?
[She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The Mate's face appears again through the skylight.]
MATE. All ready, sir.
[Keeney turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway, where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, fighting to control his feelings.]
MATE. Comin', sir?
KEENEY [his face suddenly grows hard with determination]. Aye.
[He turns abruptly and goes out. Mrs. Keeney does not appear to notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centered in the organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as the
Curtain falls.]
THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN
A MIRACLE PLAY
BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS
Based on a story by Vernon Lee. Copyright, 1920, by Thomas Wood Stevens. All rights reserved.
THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN was first produced by the School of the Drama, Carnegie Institute of Technology, Pittsburgh, Pa., on the night of November 14, 1919, with the following cast:
SISTER BENVENUTA Hazel Beck. SISTER GRIMANA Alicia S. Guthrie. SISTER ROSALBA Grey McAuley. THE ABBESS Dorothy Rubinstein. THE SISTER SACRISTAN Inez D. R. Hazel. ATALANTA BADOER [a novice] Carolyn McCampbell. ABBE FILOSI Wm. R. Dean. THE PUPPET MAN Lawrence Paquin. BEELZEBUBB SATANASSO James S. Church.
SCENE I: The Chapter-Room of the Convent of Our Lady of the Rosebush, Cividale. SCENE II: Benvenuta's cell. SCENE III: The Chapter-Room.
TIME: Early in the eighteenth century. Some days elapse between scenes.
Stage settings and properties by ALEXANDER WYCKOFF and DAVID S. GAITHER.
Lightning by ARLEIGH B. WILLIAMSON.
Costumes by SARA E. BENNETT and LELA MAY AULTMAN.
Music by CHARLES PEARSON.
The amateur and professional stage rights to THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN are reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be addressed to Frank Shay, Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. No performance may be given without his consent.
THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN
A MIRACLE PLAY BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS
[SCENE I: Atalanta, the novice, sits, rebellious and sullen, on the steps of the Mother Superior's dais. From time to time nuns and novices pass across the stage to the left, on their way to the refectory. Sister Grimana, an old nun, comes down to Atalanta purposefully.]
GRIMANA. Sulking again, are you? Waiting for Sister Benvenuta, are you?
[Atalanta is silent.]
Remembering things that are really no concern of yours; and thinking they concern you because you remember them--doubtless quite inaccurately. I know. It's a way of the Badoer family--and of the Loredani, too, for that matter. When you were a child there was confiture with the bread--and you threw away the crust; and they let you do it, and now you can't find your vocation.
[She taps her foot impatiently.]
Well--well--will you come?
[Atalanta is still silent, her face hard with resolution.]
I might mention it to the Sister Sacristan. She'd fetch you.
[Atalanta gives her a look of scornful disgust.]
It's as well you didn't say that in so many words, Sister.
[Atalanta looks straight before her, a statue of silence.]
Perhaps there is some one you would prefer to have me call, before the Sister Sacristan comes to fetch you? Sister Rosalba?
[No response.]
So it must be Sister Benvenuta, must it?
ATALANTA. I would speak with her.
GRIMANA. Oho! You would speak with her! And so you shall--for the love I bore your mother when we were children together. But what good she can do you, with her chatter and laughing--childish laughing and chatter--I can't see. I'll send her to you. And meantime, count your buttons. That's my advice. Count your buttons.
[She comes close and speaks more confidentially.]
That helps greatly--it did when I was your age.
[Grimana goes off. Atalanta mechanically runs her fingers over the buttons of her novice's cape; as she arrives at the end of the row, she mutters.]
ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta!
[At the second word she rises abruptly, her hands on the veil.]
Heaven forgive me!
[She tears off the veil just as Benvenuta enters from the left. Benvenuta limps down around the Mother Superior's throne, and on seeing Atalanta with her veil off, bursts into laughter.]
ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta! What amuses you so?
BENVENUTA. It's your hair. It's so funny--it's so long since I've seen your hair, Atalanta, dear.
ATALANTA [sullenly]. It's not that I want to talk to you about. You needn't have laughed.
BENVENUTA. I know, dear. I shouldn't have laughed, but I always do. I'm so unworthy. I can't seem to help it, though I tell myself, often and often, that it's trifling and worldly to laugh so much, and undignified, too, before the children and novices. I will try not to laugh, Atalanta. Sister Grimana said you wanted me. What is it, dear?
[She looks at Atalanta and smothers another laugh.]
Put on your veil, child.
ATALANTA. Don't call me child--I'm only three years younger than you, and I'm taller.
[She puts on the veil again, still sullen.]
BENVENUTA. You're only a novice and I call you a child--very properly, too. And if you want me to talk to you, you must listen--like a good child.
[A step is heard approaching and a rattle of keys; Atalanta pulls at Benvenuta's dress as if to draw her down beside her.]
ATALANTA. It's the Sister Sacristan. Now she'll make me go, and there's something you must tell me--you must--I beg of you.
[The Sister Sacristan comes in and goes straight to Atalanta, ignoring Benvenuta. Her keys are audible as she walks.]
THE SISTER SACRISTAN. Well, Mistress Perverse and Disobedient? Not come to reason yet?
BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan, pardon her. Let me speak with her a little while--only a little while. Her tasks can wait--
SISTER SACRISTAN. Her tasks! Praise the Blessed Mother, in this noble house we need not depend on the novices for anything. It's not that--it's the discipline in the pigeon cot. The Mother Abbess will be displeased--
BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan. This novice has asked of me some spiritual admonition. She is my kinswoman, and I cannot refuse it. So I ask you for a little time with her, to speak to her of spiritual things, and perhaps bring her some comfort, to the end that her holy vocation may the sooner come. I ask it in humility, Sister Sacristan.
SISTER SACRISTAN [crossing to the closet, which she unlocks]. Admonition, eh?
[She takes out some vestments, which she hangs over her arm, closing the door.]
BENVENUTA. I ask you to remember, Sister, that last Thursday I took upon myself the vexed matter of the hair of the two new novices, and that it throve in my charge.
SISTER SACRISTAN. Yes--throve. You so coddled them that they cried for you each night after, and are more trouble to the lay sisters than ever. But since she's your kinswoman--have it as you will. I look for little effect from your admonitions, I may as well tell you.
[She removes her keys and goes out, without locking the closet.]
ATALANTA. That was good of you, Benvenuta. Now, listen to me. I am unworthy. I am unhappy. I feel no call. Tell me--tell me about the world, Sister Benvenuta--I beg you, tell me--
BENVENUTA. I will tell you of God's love, and of this holy life--
ATALANTA [leading her to the stairway, where she sits down]. Yes--I know. But first, tell me about the world.
BENVENUTA. I only tell you by way of admonition--that you may see how hollow is the world, and full of delusion--
ATALANTA. I understand you. Go on.
[She draws Benvenuta down beside her.]
BENVENUTA. You must know then, that I--even I, Sister Benvenuta, was a most worldly little girl. I can remember so clearly how I used to run madly through the gardens, and roll on the grass like--like a wild puppy, and bury my face in the roses--till they scratched my nose and the warm scent made me dizzy. And then I would climb on the wall and watch the barges go by, with the strong men sculling them, and the women under the awnings sorting crabs and prawns.
ATALANTA. Tell me about the barge people.
BENVENUTA. That was all I saw of them. And then they would take me to my lady mother, of a forenoon, while she was having her hair powdered and curled; and there would be a black page bringing her chocolate, and her serving cavalier would be leaning beside her mirror taking snuff.
ATALANTA. Yes--tell me about the cavalier servant.
BENVENUTA. That was all I ever saw of him. But he was very worldly, I am sure.
ATALANTA. I wish you had seen more of him. And your mother? Did she have little children?
BENVENUTA. You know well I was the youngest of our family. That was why I was destined for the benefice we possessed in this high born convent.
ATALANTA. Tell me about your father?
BENVENUTA. I used only to see him once in a month, and I was much frightened of him--he was so noble and so just.
ATALANTA. Oh, he was a father of that sort, was he?
BENVENUTA. And when he did receive me, he had a handkerchief like a turban around his head, and horn spectacles on his nose, and he would be making gold with an astrologer, or putting devils in retorts. That was what he said he was doing, but I know now that he deceived me; he was a very worldly man, though he was so noble and just.
ATALANTA. Tell me, Benvenuta, when you were in the world, did you ever see mothers and babies--tiny babies--not old at all?
BENVENUTA. The only one was in the picture in our chapel--the panel in the center with the Blessed Mother and the little Child Christ. He was so sweet, and his eyes were as if they would open in a moment and then I should know what color of eyes they were.
ATALANTA [glancing toward the Sacristy closet]. And that's why you so love the Bambino they keep in the Sacristy closet?
BENVENUTA. Yes.
ATALANTA [more passionately]. And was it easy for you, Benvenuta--always easy in your heart, to give up the world?
BENVENUTA. I was destined for this, dear.
ATALANTA [rising]. I am not sure. I was not destined. I am--
BENVENUTA. Ssh! Dear Atalanta. Be quiet. Be calm. Yes, I was worldly, and I gave it up willingly--
ATALANTA. Yes, it was easy for you, and so you think it should be for me. You never even saw a little baby with her mother. You were destined, and you were the youngest--
BENVENUTA. It was for the best. I was unworthy, but I gave up the world willingly--
ATALANTA [bitterly]. Willingly--you were lame, and--
[She stops, biting her lips. There is a pause.]
BENVENUTA. Yes. I was a little lame. But I was a worldly little girl.
ATALANTA. Forgive me, dear sister. I meant no hurt.
BENVENUTA. You did not hurt me. [Another pause.]
ATALANTA. Dear Benvenuta, one thing I must tell you. I must. It happened just before I came here.
[Benvenuta looks at her soberly.]
BENVENUTA. Are you sure it is to me you should tell it?
ATALANTA. It is not a sin--not something I could confess, dear. It was this. Just as you looked over the wall at the barges, it was. In our gardens there was a time when the old gardener brought a vinedresser to help him. And the vinedresser's wife came with his dinner and their baby. And I came on them eating under the ilex trees, very secretly, of course. And the baby was clambering over her. She was no older than I am now--the vinedresser's wife. And she fed the baby at her breast in the deep shade under the ilexes. And I talked to her. Then the old gardener came, and of course I walked away, very haughtily, as became a daughter of the house. But hear me, sister. I cannot forget her, the vinedresser's wife with the baby clambering over her, under the shade of the ilex trees, I cannot put her out of my thoughts.
BENVENUTA. I understand you, dear. I cannot put out of my thoughts the poor little Bambino in the Sacristy closet all the year around, shut up with the saint's bones and the spare vestments, and he with only a piece of stiff purple and gold stuff around his middle.
ATALANTA. I cannot think that the same. The vinedresser's baby was alive--so alive.
BENVENUTA. It is much the same, I think.
ATALANTA. Anyway, I am glad I told you, Benvenuta. Why can I not forget about it?
BENVENUTA [laying her hand on Atalanta's head]. It would be better if you could forget it, Atalanta. You must go now.
ATALANTA. One moment--don't take your hand away. I had to tell somebody.
[Both look off in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, thinking of the two babies. Grimana enters again. Atalanta rises.]
ATALANTA. I am full of thankfulness, Sister Benvenuta. I will go to my task.
[Atalanta bows her head and follows Grimana out. A muffled droning chorus is heard from the chapel. Benvenuta watches the others go off, and then speaks to the Bambino through the door of the Sacristy closet.]
BENVENUTA. My dear--my dear little Great One, can you hear my voice through the door? Dear little child Christ, I am so sorry for you, alone for days and days in the closet with the holy relics and the wax lights. And at night it must be very cold for you. I wish I might touch you, dear little Great One, with my hands.
[She tries the door and, finding it unfastened, draws back from it a moment.]
It is open; the Sister Sacristan has left it unlocked. For this I am thankful, for I am sure you put it into her mind to leave it so--or that you by your divine power and foresight put it out of her mind to lock it as she intended.
[She opens the door and looks in.]
If only I could get appointed Sacristan! But I am too young and being lame would prevent my getting on to the step-ladders, as a Sacristan must. But I would never leave you alone among the relics in their cotton-wool, little Great One. And now--just for a moment lest the Sister Sacristan come back--I will take you out of the closet.
[She brings out the Bambino.]
I will show you the chapter room, for while you have seen all places, and the high heavens and all the hells, it will be pleasant to you to see the chapter room, after so long in the closet. See, yonder is the seat of the Mother Abbess. She is very great, and very holy, and of the high house of the Morosini. And that way is to the refectory and the work room. And that way is to the chapel--up the stairs. And up that way are our cells, where I sleep and where I pray to dream of you, little Great One. Touch my cheek, I pray you.... How cold your hands are!... Touch my cheek as she said the vinedresser's babe touched his mother's--
[She stops suddenly, and then reverently returns the Bambino to his place. She kneels before the open door.]
Forgive me, dear little Child Christ. I spoke not in vain glory. But all my life I have waited, not knowing for what ... but happy ... dreaming that sometime.... If it be a sin I will confess it--I will.
[Again the rattle of keys is heard. Benvenuta stands up hurriedly and speaks in a half whisper.]
She is coming back to lock the closet. But I will get you a coat for the cold nights. Your hands were so cold. I will get you a warm coat--that I promise, dear little Great One.
[She closes the door and stands before it looking consciously innocent, as the Sister Sacristan enters. The Sister Sacristan is not deceived, however.]
SISTER SACRISTAN. By your leave, Sister Benvenuta.
[She ostentatiously locks the closed door.]
BENVENUTA. Sister Sacristan, I trust the novice you left in my charge has returned to her task.
SISTER SACRISTAN. I trust she has.
BENVENUTA [after a pause]. I wish I might help you with your duties sometimes, Sister.
SISTER SACRISTAN. I do not need you, little sister.
BENVENUTA. I am sorry.
[Mechanically she counts her buttons.]
[Enter the Abbess.]
THE ABBESS [to the Sacristan]. Sister, go into the chapel and tell the Reverend Father that the Bolognese puppet man is waiting, and say that I wish to see him here; and bid the Reverend Father bring the manuscript of his poem for Shrove Tuesday.
[The Sister Sacristan goes out. Benvenuta remains, waiting patiently for a word from the Abbess.]
Well, my little sister?
BENVENUTA. I pray you, Mother.
ABBESS. I listen, little sister.
BENVENUTA. It is about the little Child Christ. I pray you that a coat may be made for him--a warm coat of soft silk; for at Christmas he lies out in the draughty manger before the altar, and even at other times he is very cold at night here in the Sacristy closet. And I pray you, Mother?
ABBESS. I listen.
[Reenter the Sister Sacristan.]
BENVENUTA. That I may help with the making of the coat, for all that I sew so badly.
ABBESS [smiling]. Truly, our little sister Benvenuta Loredan was born to be the nursery-maid of Heaven.
SISTER SACRISTAN. Is it for me to know also, Mother?
ABBESS. Our little sister wishes that a coat of warm silk be made for the little Bambino, against next Christmas in the cold of the chapel.
SISTER SACRISTAN. I suspected something of that kind.
ABBESS. You do not approve, sister?
SISTER SACRISTAN. No, mother. It would be taking the time and money from the redressing of the skeleton of Saint Prosdoscimus, which is a most creditable relic, of unquestioned authenticity, with real diamond loops in his eye holes; this skeleton ought to be made fit to exhibit for veneration. And besides, this Bambino never had any clothes, and so far as I know never wanted any. The purple sash is only for modesty's sake. And as for such a new-fangled proposal coming from Sister Benvenuta--that alone--
ABBESS. That will do. Fie, fie, little sister. The Sacred Bambino is not your serving Cavalier, that you should wish to cover him with silk and velvet. Is the Reverend Father coming?
SISTER SACRISTAN. Immediately, mother. He only stayed to gather his manuscript.
ABBESS. Call in the man with the puppets.
[Exit Sister Sacristan.]
And now, little sister, you may go. You see it is not wise, ... your thought for the Bambino.
BENVENUTA. No, mother. I see it is not wise.
[Benvenuta goes up the staircase and off at the left.--The Abbess seats herself in the chair of State. The Father Confessor comes in from the Chapel.]
ABBESS. You are welcome, Father.
ABBE FILOSI [bowing very low]. Happy greetings, Reverendissima.
ABBESS. I have sent for you because the puppet man, the Bolognese one you sent for, has come to make his bargain for the Shrove-tide play, and I wished you to be present, lest he fail to serve your inspiration worthily.
ABBE FILOSI. I am grateful for your care in the matter, Reverendissima.
[Enter Sister Sacristan.]
ABBESS. The fellow is waiting?
[The Sister Sacristan bows.]
Show him in.
[The Sister Sacristan goes out.]
And now, Father, I pray that you will make terms for your play, as you please.
ABBE FILOSI. Perhaps I had better not do that, Reverendissima. Poets are proverbially improvident--
ABBESS. That does not matter in the least. Whatever he charges, I shall beat him down.
[The Sister Sacristan brings in the Puppet Man, who carries a bag of his puppets on his arm. He bows extravagantly to the Abbess.]
PUPPET MAN. Excellenza Reverendissima, my prayers shall in the future be lightened by the memory of your presence. Reverend Father, I am humbly your servant.
[The Abbess nods to Father Filosi.]
ABBE FILOSI. You have been summoned here, sir, with regard to the Shrove Tuesday play which her Excellenza condescends to give for the edification of the friends of this noble convent. She has commissioned me to write the poem, and she graciously proposes to allow you to perform it with your puppets.
PUPPET MAN. I am honored, and in me all my craft is honored.
ABBE FILOSI. I have here the manuscript of my poor device.
PUPPET MAN. I cannot have so excellent a work so slightly spoken of.
ABBE FILOSI. A trifle ... a trifle. But I trust, when you have done your part, it may amuse the novices and the ladies--noble guests of Our Lady of the Rosebush.
PUPPET MAN. Is it from the gospels, or a saint's story?
ABBE FILOSI. Humbly, it is the story of Judith.
PUPPET MAN. Humbly, as an artist, I am filled with delight. And I have for it just the figures you could wish. A Judith, lovely beyond the power of song, and a Prince, heavy with gold, and a cavalier for the lady--
ABBE FILOSI. That will not serve. In my play she goes with only her maid-servant to the tent of the Holophernes.
PUPPET MAN. It is not usual, in Venice. Will it not be deemed strange by the ladies present?
ABBE FILOSI. Better so, than its author be deemed ignorant by the learned Reverendissima, who will grace your performance personally.
PUPPET MAN [stiffly]. I bow to your learning, Reverend Father.
ABBE FILOSI. My poem will require of you some artistry, and not all of the stale and accustomed sort.
[The Puppet Man bows.]
I shall require, for example, that the head of the Holophernes be actually and visibly severed.
PUPPET MAN. I will undertake it, and moreover, I will promise a goodly flow of red blood from the corpus of the Holophernes.
ABBE FILOSI. Excellent. Further, there is required a Triumph of Judith, in a car of state, and a figure of Time, speaking, and a Religion, out of the clouds, who speaks some verse in praise of the Reverendissima and of the noble house of the Morosini. All this must be carried out precisely.
PUPPET MAN. All this I undertake, seeing how famous is this convent, and of how illustrious a house is its Abbessa. Suffer me to inquire if the entire poem is of a lofty and tragic nature.
ABBE FILOSI. Certainly.
PUPPET MAN. This is a great honor to me, but a ruinous one as well. For I see I shall have no opportunity to bring on my most potent figures--my Harlequino with the seven wires, and--
ABBE FILOSI. Harlequino does not appear in the poem.
PUPPET MAN. But might he not appear in an interlude? Let me suggest, in all humility, that I might perform an interlude between the Harlequino and the serving-wench of Judith, after the death of the Holophernes?
ABBE FILOSI. Dio, dio--what a profanation!
ABBESS. Come, come, your Reverence, I see no profanation in it. We must not be too severe--too lofty. Think of our guests, and of the novices, mere children in heart--who will be witnessing our play. Let there be something in it for the liking of all, I should say.
ABBE FILOSI. But, Reverendissima--
PUPPET MAN. I could assure you of the success of the poem, if you would permit it.
ABBESS. I am sure it will be permitted. And now, sir, there are some other matters to be settled. First, we shall require that you bring here your puppets, in advance of the play, for our inspection, lest there be anything ungodly and unfit about them.
PUPPET MAN. It is the custom. I have brought some; and you shall have the others when I have conned the reverend Father's poem, and know which ones shall be required.
[Opens his bag and takes out puppets.]
Here is a lady who might serve for Judith. And here a Prince, though I have a richer one, better perhaps for the Holophernes. And here a devil--a Satanasso, and here--
ABBESS. Leave them all on the table. I will have them examined at leisure. Now, sir, tell me what you expect to be paid for this performance?
PUPPET MAN [fingering his manuscript]. Reverendissima, considering the difficulties of the poem, and the Holophernes to be visibly beheaded, and the great fame of this convent, that is said to require of every novice sixteen quarterings to her crest and a thousand ducats of dowry, and considering the illustrious family of which the Abbessa herself descends--I will perform the poem in the best manner for twelve ducats.
ABBESS. Considering just the matters you mention, and the honor to you to bring your puppets into this convent at all, you shall have five ducats.
PUPPET MAN. Five ducats--Reverendissima, I cannot have heard you aright--five ducats.
ABBESS. Five ducats.
PUPPET MAN. Mercy of the Saints! Five ducats for Shrove Tuesday, and a Holophernes to be visibly beheaded--in a most illustrious convent, too. It is ruin to me, Reverendissima--black ruin.
ABBESS. Five ducats you shall have.
PUPPET MAN [starting to put his puppets back in the bag]. It is not possible, Reverendissima. No one of my craft could do it--even the worst of them would ask more than I have. Mere jugglers and bunglers from Padua would ask twenty ducats. And the fame of this convent! I see I have been deceived,--
ABBESS. Be silent, sir. You cannot trifle with me. Put down your trinkets. Do you know who I am, and of what family in the world? Well, sir?
PUPPET MAN [slowly putting down his puppets again]. Maybe it will profit me in the sight of the Saints--
ABBESS. I need not warn you further. Be prepared for the performance in the best style against Shrove Tuesday. And if all goes well, I may add a ducat to your fee.
[She taps a gong on the table, and the Sister Sacristan enters. The Puppet Man, dismissed, bows himself out, clutching the manuscript to his breast. The Sacristan follows him out, returning at once.]
Now, Father, since the play is yours, it shall also be yours to pass on the propriety of the figures.
ABBE FILOSI. I do not seek the responsibility, Reverendissima. Will you not excuse me?
ABBESS. You have some intention in this, Father?
ABBE FILOSI. Will you not excuse me?
ABBESS [smiling]. Certainly not. What troubles you about it?
ABBE FILOSI. Reverendissima, I would gladly have passed it in silence. Your wisdom in matters of the world--and of the Church--is greater than mine. But look you now. This Judith I think shows more of her bosom than is seemly.
ABBESS [with asperity]. I will instruct you. By the laws on the serene Republic, a Venetian lady may show one-half of her bosom and no more, and there is no immodesty in the proceeding. This law the lady Judith obeys.
ABBE FILOSI. I do not dissent from your wisdom, nor from the law of Venice. Still, it seems to me there would be more propriety in it if we were to have a collarette of tissue pinned about her--the eyes of all the novices, remember--
ABBESS. I remember also our guests, many of them ladies of the first houses, who would certainly take it amiss, and as a reflection upon themselves--
ABBE FILOSI. I wish with all my heart, Reverendissima, you had excused me.
ABBESS [turning to Sister Sacristan]. I will ask the Sisters Grimana Emo and Rosalba Foscarini to examine the puppets.
[The Sister Sacristan goes out.]
Their learning in theology may not be profound, but they know the world's judgment, coming as they do of the first families.
[The Abbe Filosi bows low.]
ABBE FILOSI. I shall be at your service, Reverendissima.
ABBESS. I thank you enough for the poem. Farewell.
[He bows himself out, at right, as Sister Grimana and Sister Rosalba enter left.]
GRIMANA. You have sent for us, Mother?
ABBESS. In the matter of the Shrove Tuesday play--yes. The puppets will be brought in advance, as usual. These few the show-man has already left.
GRIMANA. You wish them to be looked over, as usual?
ABBESS. Not quite as usual. This year they are to appear in a play or poem which the Father Confessor has written for us--dealing with the story of Judith. Now the good Abbe, though a man of great learning and a graceful poet withal, has not the advantage of family that some of our sisters--
GRIMANA. And some of our guests--
ROSALBA. I remember once, at a fete in the gardens of my uncle, the Doge--
ABBESS. I need instruct you no further. I do not wish anything ungodly or unfit to appear; nor do I wish anything in the play to suggest that there is any impropriety in the illustrious audience.
GRIMANA. I understand, Mother. It is chiefly a question of the dressing of the ladies.
ABBESS. Precisely. I shall leave it in your charge. Remembering, Sister Grimana, the laws of Venice and the customs of the house of your father, the most illustrious Admiral, and you Sister Rosalba, the fetes in the gardens of your uncle, the Doge--surely it will be properly cared for.
[Exit the Abbess.]
GRIMANA. All this because we have been given a bourgeois Confessor--
ROSALBA. No matter for that, Sister. I love puppets. We had once a puppet festival, when they played the whole history of the Serene Republic, and there were great ships with puppet sailors--
[They begin to separate the puppets with their wires and strings. Enter Sister Benvenuta.]
BENVENUTA. Oh, the joy! Are these for the Shrove Tuesday play? If only we could show them to--
[She glances toward the Sacristy closet, stops, and goes on.]
Sister Rosalba, can you make them dance?
GRIMANA. Dance, forsooth--to what music, sister?
ROSALBA. You might sing for them, Sister.
GRIMANA. Aye, so I might.--Time was when I knew tunes enough.
BENVENUTA. There is a lute in the cloister--left from the musical mass. And my cousin Atalanta can play it--I should like to hear some music here.
[She glances at the closet.]
I'll fetch her.
[She goes off to find Atalanta.]
GRIMANA. What personages have we here? This lady for Judith?
ROSALBA. That can scarcely be, Judith was black haired.
GRIMANA. Nothing of the sort. She had hair of a dark red--a smoldering color.
ROSALBA. Was she not of the tribe?--
GRIMANA. What matters the tribe? In her picture by Titian, in the great hall of my father's house--
ROSALBA. We had a Judith also--by Jacopo Bellini. He was Titian's master. Her hair was black.
GRIMANA. You may be right. In our picture by Titian, now I remember it, the head was so covered with a wonderful jeweled crown that we could see little of the hair.
[Rosalba is somewhat put down by the splendor of Grimana's Titian. Benvenuta comes back with Atalanta, who carries a lute. As she appears Grimana untangles and holds up another puppet--the Beelzebubb.]
GRIMANA. Here's a personage of terror.
[She turns the figure and moves it threateningly toward Benvenuta, who looks at Beelzebubb and is instantly seized with a wild fit of laughter.]
Saint Mark preserve us! You are queerly pleased, Sister. It's not many that laugh at this figure.
ROSALBA [reading the figure's label]. He's Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils.
BENVENUTA. I pray your pardon. I could not keep from laughing. I can never look at a devil without laughing. He seems so anxious to understand, and so important with the responsibility of being Prince of all Devils.
ROSALBA. You may laugh if you like, but you should remember how ready he is to slip away with the unwary souls of people who laugh at him. How he is always in wait, by day and by night, for a wavering thought or a rift in one's faith--
GRIMANA. See here the pouch he carries to put your soul in. Truly, Sister, he might pluck you off like a cherry.
ATALANTA [shuddering]. Dear Sister Grimana--I beg of you--
GRIMANA. And he comes at the call of the secret thought--that's what makes him look so anxious--lest he should not be listening when you call him, and the Saints come to your soul first, and warn it--
ATALANTA. Sister Grimana!
BENVENUTA. Still, I can never look at him without laughing. He is droll. Atalanta, the lute.
[Atalanta brings forward the lute and tries the strings. Rosalba takes up the puppet of the lady.]
I saw the show-man. He was a most ill-favored man. Sister Rosalba, do you think he was excommunicate.
ROSALBA. Of course not. And if he were, that would not make his puppets excommunicate.
GRIMANA. What if it did? A noble convent has privileges. It would not matter to us.
ATALANTA. What shall I play?
GRIMANA. Can you play? [She sings]:
Go visto una colomba el cielo andare Che la svolava su per un giardino In mezzo 'l peto la gavea do ale E in boca la tegniva un zenzamino!
ATALANTA. I do not know the air. But I can play a furlana.
BENVENUTA. That will be gay, Atalanta. Play a furlana, I beg you.
GRIMANA. That will serve, Sister Rosalba, your prince.
[As Atalanta plays, Grimana manipulates the Judith and Rosalba the Prince. They are unskillful and the puppets dance crudely, but Benvenuta looks on in ecstasy, falling slowly back until she stands by the door of the closet. As she does so two or three more nuns and novices come furtively in at the back and stand watching the performance. As the dance of the puppets grows more animated the Abbess enters with the Sister Sacristan. For a moment the others do not see her, and the play continues. Then she speaks coldly and evenly.]
ABBESS. Sisters, is this the solemn judgment I bespoke on these trinkets? Sister Grimana!
[Grimana lays down the puppets and comes forward.]
Sister Rosalba!
[Rosalba also comes forward.]
I will consider this, and will give out the penances in chapter.
GRIMANA. Yes, Mother.
[Rosalba stands with her head bowed and her fingers run along the buttons of her cape.]
ABBESS. There has been too much playing of lutes, too much worldly anticipation and imagining among us. So I have decided that all the holy relics shall be re-furbished, and all the vestments mended and cleaned, against Shrove Tuesday. And all other work, whether of embroidery or of whatever nature, shall wait till this be done. Sister Sacristan, let the tasks be set at once.
[The sisters bow their heads and go out, the Sister Sacristan following Rosalba and Grimana off. Benvenuta stands still in an attitude of deep humility.]
Well, little Sister?
BENVENUTA. Holy Mother, I am waiting for my penance.
ABBESS. Your penance, Benvenuta?
BENVENUTA. The fault was mine. I brought Atalanta with her lute. I was to blame for it all. I am heedless, and unworthy, and stained with worldliness, Mother.
ABBESS. There, there, my child. I will overlook it.
[Benvenuta turns away, weeping furtively.]
Come here, little Sister. Why should you weep? I have said I will overlook it.
BENVENUTA. I weep because I am unworthy to be penanced. I am nothing.
ABBESS. You are nothing? Is not this the very essence of humility? Little Sister, when I forgave you your fault, did you doubt my wisdom?
BENVENUTA. Yes, holy Mother. Oh, I have sinned in vain glory. I doubted. But I did not mean to doubt.
ABBESS [smiling]. Come hither, little Sister. If I must set you a penance, what would you have it be?
BENVENUTA. I would have it ... no....
[She hesitates.]
ABBESS. Speak, Sister.
BENVENUTA. I would have you set me to the making of a coat for the Holy Bambino, as I asked of you before.
ABBESS. That would hardly be a penance. And, besides, you sew so badly.
BENVENUTA. Yes, Mother. I sew badly. And it would not really be a penance.
[The Sister Sacristan comes in and takes from the closet some cloth and a reliquary or two. She lays them on the table, preparing them for work.]
ABBESS. I will speak of this another time. Another time, little Sister.
[Benvenuta stands very still. The Abbess turns to the Sister Sacristan.]
What have you there?
SISTER SACRISTAN. The fine lawn for the surplices for His Eminence.
ABBESS. That can wait. I do not think it wise to leave the workroom alone while the relics are being done over.
[She stands in the doorway. The Sister Sacristan is about to follow, but notices Benvenuta and goes over ostentatiously to lock the closet; then she goes out after the Abbess. Benvenuta stands still and her eyes go from the closet to the cloth and takes up a piece of lawn, and carries it with her to the closet door.]
BENVENUTA. Dear little Great One, I see no way but this to keep my promise. I do not understand what the Holy Mother means. But I will do my penance when she determines it. I do sew very badly, dear little Great One, but I will make the stitches slowly, night by night in my cell, and every one of them, no matter how far askew, shall have all the love of my heart drawn tight in it. I have promised you a coat, little Great One, and I will surely keep my promise.
[She steals upstairs in the gathering darkness. The organ in the chapel is heard, faintly at first, then swelling in exultation. Slowly, after she disappears, the door of the closet opens of itself, and from within a golden light glows across the room and up the stair. The Curtain Falls.]
[SCENE II. In her white-walled cell, with its one high window looking over the tree tops into the night sky, Benvenuta sits alone, sewing, with great labor and difficulty, by the light of a candle. There is a soft knock, and Atalanta slips in, bringing something concealed under her cape.]
BENVENUTA. Have you brought it, dear?
ATALANTA. I've got the coat of the gardener's child, but I fear it is not what you wanted.
BENVENUTA. I'm sure it will serve. Why do you fear for it?
ATALANTA. Because it's the little girl's coat. The boy's I could not get, for he has but the one, and the nights are so cold.
BENVENUTA. So they are--and we wouldn't have the poor lad shivering. Perhaps the girl's will serve. Did you get the thread of gold?
ATALANTA. Yes, dear.
[There is a pause.]
You wouldn't be happier telling me all about it? Or letting me help you, perhaps?
BENVENUTA. What good were there in that? You sew as badly as I do, child.
ATALANTA. It's not kind of you to say so.
BENVENUTA. I'm sorry, Atalanta, dear. And it's most ungrateful of me--for you are helping me--helping me very much. And as for my telling you--it's a great secret, and you should be content to know as much as you do of it.
ATALANTA. I'm afraid I know too much of it now. I'm afraid I ought to be confessing what I know already.
BENVENUTA. Confessing it. Oh, no; Atalanta, dear--
ATALANTA. I'm afraid I ought--unless you tell me more.
BENVENUTA. Oh, I see. Now, listen, my child. This matter is one concerning my devotions--a private matter surely, and needing no confessions from you.
ATALANTA. Then why these secret messages, and the gold thread, and the gardener's child's coat to be got by stealth?
BENVENUTA. For what I am doing, I would call for help from you--or from any one--from the Evil One himself, if it would serve. But it is surely no sin--though it might get you into trouble to help me with it, Atalanta, dear.
ATALANTA. Prt! That's not what I mind.
BENVENUTA. You--you love me enough to be troubled for my sake, a little, dear?
ATALANTA [breaking out]. I would flout the Mother Abbess to her face for you, Benvenuta. It's that you try to keep me in the dark that I mind about it. I'm going.
[Atalanta turns sharply and goes. Benvenuta lays out the little coat of the gardener's child, and lays her lawn, already cut, upon it. She seems discouraged, turns it over, and tries again. Then with an air of resolution, she takes it up and sews fiercely, pricking her fingers, stopping to put them to her mouth, and going on doggedly.]
BENVENUTA. I promised it, dear little Great One, and I would give my soul to keep my promise, but I fear me it will never comfort you.
[She sews for a minute in silence. Then lifts her head with a sudden thought, and says aloud with a firm resolution]:
I would give my soul.
[She waits. After a moment there is a light tapping of footsteps; then a marked rapping, as of hoofs on a pavement; she shivers, and starts up in sudden terror, as Beelzebubb Satanasso confronts her. He is like the Devil Puppet in every respect, but the size of a small man. He bows low in a mechanical sort of way as if jointed. She gazes at him in wonder, laughs nervously and suppresses her laughter.]
BEELZEBUBB [in a voice like a Jews' harp]. Sister Benvenuta, did I hear you call for me, or wish for me to come?
BENVENUTA. Yes, I called you.
BEELZEBUBB. You wished me to help you?
BENVENUTA. Yes.
BEELZEBUBB. You know who I am.
[He points to his label.]
BENVENUTA. I know. You are Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils.
[She suppresses a laugh.]
BEELZEBUBB. You have made a promise, and you cannot keep it, so you call for help. I come, for I am always ready. Now tell me precisely what it is you want.
BENVENUTA. I have promised a coat to the little Child--
BEELZEBUBB. That will do. It were better not to speak the name. What sort of a coat do you wish?
BENVENUTA. May I have just what I like?
BEELZEBUBB. Certainly you may, my dear--if you are ready to pay for it.
BENVENUTA. I am ready. And I should like a little coat like the one on the second of the Magi in the Adoration by Bellini that is over the altar in our chapel at home--in the house of the Duke Loredano.
BEELZEBUBB. Let me understand exactly. The coat is to be like the coat on the second figure to the left from the center of the picture?
BENVENUTA. Yes--no, there's a Saint Joseph also at the back. He would be the third--from the Holy--
BEELZEBUBB. I pray you, keep the names of these people out of it.
BENVENUTA. These people!
[Benvenuta's hand moves as if she were about to cross herself.]
BEELZEBUBB. And let your hand fall. You were about to make--to make some sort of sign with it. These practices are very distasteful to me. I cannot help you--or even stay for an interview--if you persist in them.
BENVENUTA. I beg your forgiveness. I had no intention--
BEELZEBUBB. I believe that--it is merely a habit you have learned--but it is distasteful to me.
BENVENUTA. I will not offend you again.
BEELZEBUBB. Now to business. You wish of me a coat, a rich coat like that on the third figure from the center of the picture that is in your father's chapel at Venice. And the size--
BENVENUTA. To fit the little Child--
BEELZEBUBB [interrupting sharply]. I beg of you! I understand. The coat is of what color?
BENVENUTA. It is the coat of the second of the Magi--
[He puts up his hand, and she checks herself.]
It is of carmine silk damask with gold thread, and the inner vest is of white lawn. I wish it precisely like the picture, since you promise so much.
BEELZEBUBB. It shall be so. I will undertake to bring you the coat. And in exchange I ask only that you sign your name here.
[He takes out a parchment contract, with a great red seal on it.]
I regret that ink will not do. You must prick one of your fingers. I am very sorry, but there is no other way.
BENVENUTA. Prick my finger? Once?
BEELZEBUBB. Only once, to secure the drop of blood. I am sorry to ask it, but--
BENVENUTA. As though it never happened to me before!
[She pricks her finger and squeezes out a drop of Blood. He whips out a quill pen, and deftly wets it with the blood.]
BEELZEBUBB. You will sign here.
BENVENUTA. And what does it say? I should be loath to sign anything unworthy of my family, or of this noble convent--
BEELZEBUBB. There is nothing novel about it--the form is quite usual, and has been signed, I assure you, by many of the highest families in Venice. It merely binds me at once to furnish you the rich coat, and you to give me your little flame of a soul--when I come for it. That is all.
BENVENUTA. Give me the pen.
[She signs the contract. He passes his hand thrice across the pouch and then takes from it the coat, and lays it across her lap. He steps back and bows stiffly, folding the contract and smiling.]
BEELZEBUBB. My dear young lady--my dear little sister.
[He bows again, and vanishes; again the organ is heard, and Benvenuta is left, her face glowing in ecstasy, the carmine coat across her knees.]
[Curtain.]
[SCENE III: The Chapter Room. Night. The Abbess giving orders to Grimana, Rosalba, the Sister Sacristan and others, about the midnight office.]
ABBESS. All are to be present. None are to be indulged. I beg you, so inform the sisters.
[Rosalba goes out.]
And the novices are all to be in their places. I know the hour is late for them, and many are young, but this is an exceptional night. Stay.--The novice Atalanta Badoer--I shall require her apart from the others. She will be needed with her lute.
GRIMANA. I will look to it, Reverend Mother.
[She sets about to gather her embroidery.]
ABBESS. Now in the matter of the relics and vestments?
SISTER SACRISTAN. The relics are all re-furbished and repacked in new cotton-wool, Reverend Mother.
ABBESS. And the vestments?
SISTER SACRISTAN. The vestments are all in order--
[She is about to mention something about the vestments, but stops herself.]
ABBESS. Go on.
SISTER SACRISTAN. I must report, as a matter of duty, Reverend Mother, that certain goods--a piece of fine lawn--cannot be found. It was laid out here to be used for the new surplice for His Eminence.
ABBESS. I do not like this. Tell me what you know of it.
SISTER SACRISTAN. This is all I know. Except that when I returned here, the door to the Sacristy Closet was open--
ABBESS. Who was here at the time?
SISTER SACRISTAN. Sister Benvenuta was left here. When I returned she was gone, and the closet was open, and the lawn--
GRIMANA [interceding]. I beg you, Reverend Mother--
ABBESS. Sister Grimana, I have given you your task. Be about it.
[Grimana touches the buttons of her cape one by one, and then turns and goes out.]
Sister, remember that the Sister Benvenuta comes of the noble house of the Loredani. Guard your tongue.
[The Sister Sacristan stands gloomily biting her lips.]
If she has removed the cloth to some other place, it does not matter. Remember who she is, and that she is after all a child in mind, in heart. We will speak no more of this.
SISTER SACRISTAN. No, Reverend Mother.
ABBESS. Send Sister Rosalba to me.
SISTER SACRISTAN. She is coming now, Reverend Mother.
[Rosalba comes in and the Sister Sacristan goes out.]
ABBESS. I wish to speak with Benvenuta, Sister.
ROSALBA. I will fetch her, Reverend Mother.
ABBESS. One moment. You have observed her of late?
ROSALBA. Yes, Mother.
ABBESS. She seems pale, and not so strong as she was. And her mind--but then she was always a simple child.
ROSALBA. Of course, I do not know the cause of her pallor. Perhaps a penance she is undergoing secretly.
[The suggestion is half a question as are those of the Abbess as well.]
She is still very young, Reverend Mother.
ABBESS. She has confided nothing to you, nor to Grimana?
ROSALBA. Not to me, Mother. Shall I call Sister Grimana?
ABBESS. No. Send Benvenuta to me. And ask Grimana to send the novice Atalanta also--a little later.
[Rosalba goes out. The Abbess goes over and examines the Sacristy Closet door, tries the lock, finds it fast, and returns to her chair. Benvenuta enters. She is more pale than before, and looks frailer, and her limp is more apparent, but her eyes are wide, and rove about the room, and her expression is of one who has found her happiness. The Abbess speaks to her kindly.]
ABBESS. My child, I have called you to me because you have seemed so pale, and I fear you have burdened yourself beyond your strength.
BENVENUTA. No, Reverend Mother. I am not burdened.
ABBESS. You are not performing any secret penance?
BENVENUTA. None, Mother.
ABBESS. Answer me truly, Benvenuta. You have not been contemplating some penance, and so been filled with anxiety.
BENVENUTA. I look for no penance in this life, Reverend Mother, beyond such as may be imposed upon me.
ABBESS. Nothing beyond your strength will be imposed. If you have need of more sleep, I would be willing to relax for you, for a time.
BENVENUTA. I do not need it, Reverend Mother.
[Atalanta enters, sees the Abbess, and stands waiting.]
ABBESS. If you should find yourself overburdened, little Sister, come to me. That will do. Atalanta, one moment.
[Atalanta steps forward. Benvenuta starts to go, but lingers.]
I shall need your help with the lute to-night. I know you play it well. The best lute player among the lay sisters is ill. You can play from notes?
ATALANTA. If it be not too difficult, Reverend Mother.
ABBESS. It is simple. But I will have them give you the music, against the time when you will be needed.
[The Abbess goes out toward the Chapel. Benvenuta comes down to Atalanta.]
BENVENUTA. Atalanta, dear!
ATALANTA. Yes, Benvenuta.
BENVENUTA. There is something I must talk to you about. I have put it off because I have been deep in my own thoughts. You told me not so long ago that you could not find your call, that the world still beckoned you.
ATALANTA. Yes, it did. But I have been calmer since we spoke of it. There was a thing in my heart that had to be spoken out--
BENVENUTA. Yes.
ATALANTA. I spoke it out to you, and since then it has not troubled me.
BENVENUTA. It was about the vinedresser's baby in your father's garden?
ATALANTA. Yes.
BENVENUTA. You told me about it here--in this room, was it not?
ATALANTA. Yes. Surely it was here. How strangely you speak, Benvenuta. Have you forgotten? It was after that you asked me to get the gold thread, and the child's coat.
BENVENUTA. So I did. I had almost forgotten it.
ATALANTA. It was a great comfort to me to tell you, Sister--and to serve you. Why have you asked nothing more of me?
BENVENUTA. I have all the help I need, now.
[A pause. Atalanta looks at Benvenuta wonderingly.]
The vinedresser's baby--did you ever hold him in your arms?
ATALANTA. No.
BENVENUTA. Nor ever felt his lips soft and moist against your cheek, nor his fingers warm on your neck?
ATALANTA. No. I only saw the child, as I told you.
BENVENUTA. I remember now. You only saw him.
[Another pause. Benvenuta is looking toward the Sacristy closet.]
Atalanta, dear, do you know that we can only be happy by pleasing those we love most--that is what people live for, I think. And dear, remember this: the happiness you saw on the face of the vinedresser's wife was as torment beside the joy that is glowing in me.
[Her eyes meet Atalanta's for a moment.]
Don't, dear--don't think it too strange. Everything is strange, after all.
ATALANTA. Your face was like hers, then.
BENVENUTA. Please don't say that, dear. It's--it's foolish--isn't it? But I told you once I was waiting for something--all my life waiting. And now--and now!
[She touches Atalanta's head, lightly, and goes off upstairs toward her cell. Atalanta is left looking after her. Grimana comes in.]
GRIMANA. Well, mistress. Prideful over not sitting with the novices this night, eh? The lute-playing comes in well at last, does it?
ATALANTA. Oh, Sister Grimana, I--
[She stops, confused.]
GRIMANA. What is it, child?
ATALANTA. It's Benvenuta. Have you seen her? Have you?--
GRIMANA. Yes, dear, I've seen. She's young. These times come to all of us, I suppose. But they pass. Calm, child. Count your buttons.
ATALANTA. I was frightened, Sister Grimana.
GRIMANA. Aye, you'll frighten the novices just so in your turn. But just the same, I wish she wouldn't--
[The Abbess reenters, as a bell strikes from the chapel. Rosalba comes on from the left, with two or three sisters.]
ABBESS. It is time. Let us all proceed to the chapel.
[The Sister Sacristan carrying the lute and some music, enters from the chapel.]
Are all the sisters assembled?
SISTER SACRISTAN. All save those who are here, and Sister Benvenuta.
ABBESS. Please you, Sister Grimana, go for Benvenuta.
[Grimana goes up the stairs.]
SISTER SACRISTAN. Here is the lute, Atalanta Badoer. The notes are clear, and the times you are to play them are written there.
ATALANTA. My hands tremble so. I'm afraid I shall fail in it.
ABBESS. Courage, child. I know it is the first time, but you will do well--I am sure you will do well. Come, let us take our places.
[Grimana enters on the steps, in great trouble of mind. She carries in her hand the puppet of the Beelzebubb, twisted and shattered and singed with fire.]
GRIMANA. Reverend Mother, forgive me. I have seen--I have seen--
[She clasps and unclasps her hands, unable to speak.]
ABBESS. What was it, Grimana?
GRIMANA. I scarcely know, Mother. Mary be my shield!
ABBESS. Speak, Sister.
GRIMANA. There was a great light through every crevice of the door of her cell. And music in the air--like harps and viols d'amour. And on the floor outside I found this--shattered and half burnt--this puppet. And from within, sounds--
ABBESS. Tell me all, Sister.
GRIMANA [her fingers on the buttons of her cape]. Sounds as of a mother and her babe, cooing and kissing and caressing each other.
ABBESS. Call the Father Confessor.
[The Sister Sacristan goes out toward the chapel.]
We must look to this. If her mind have broken under some penance--
ATALANTA. Let me go--
ABBESS. No. She was so pale--
[The Sister Sacristan returns with the Abbe Filosi.]
Reverend Father, the little sister of the house of Loredan--
[Then, the upper corridor is filled with a growing light--the same radiant gold that streamed from the Sacristy closet. The sisters bless themselves and most of them fall on their knees. In the light Benvenuta appears walking erect, her lameness gone, and holding before her the Christ Child, in a wondrous robe of carmine silk damask. She laughs softly with the babe as she passes, and when she has passed off toward the chapel, whence the organ is again heard, the light fades.]
ABBE FILOSI [in a hushed voice]. A miracle!
ABBESS. She is healed! A miracle of the Holy Child. Blessed Mother--thy Holy Child in our house.
[Atalanta goes swiftly up the steps and off after Benvenuta.]
ABBE FILOSI. Let there be a special service of thanksgiving.
ABBESS. Let all hearts be uplifted!
[Atalanta returns, trailing her lute behind her, and sinks down at the head of the stairway, sobbing.]
[Curtain.]
THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE
A PLAY
BY WALLACE STEVENS
Copyright, 1916, by Wallace Stevens.
All rights reserved.
Reprinted from "Poetry" (Chicago) by permission of Mr. Wallace Stevens and Miss Harriet Monroe. Applications for permission to produce this play should be addressed to Mr. Wallace Stevens, 125 Trumbull Street, Hartford, Conn.
THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE
A PLAY BY WALLACE STEVENS
[The characters are three Chinese, two negroes and a girl.
The scene represents a forest of heavy trees on a hilltop in eastern Pennsylvania. To the right is a road, obscured by bushes. It is about four o'clock of a morning in August, at the present time.
When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. The limb of a tree creaks. A negro carrying a lantern passes along the road. The sound is repeated. The negro comes through the bushes, raises his lantern and looks through the trees. Discerning a dark object among the branches, he shrinks back, crosses stage, and goes out through the wood to the left.
A second negro comes through the bushes to the right. He carries two large baskets, which he places on the ground just inside of the bushes. Enter three Chinese, one of whom carries a lantern. They pause on the road,]
SECOND CHINESE. All you need, To find poetry, Is to look for it with a lantern. [_The Chinese laugh._]
THIRD CHINESE. I could find it without, On an August night, If I saw no more Then the dew on the barns.
[The Second Negro makes a sound to attract their attention. The three Chinese come through the bushes. The first is short, fat, quizzical, and of middle age. The second is of middle height, thin and turning gray; a man of sense and sympathy. The third is a young man, intent, detached. They wear European clothes.]
SECOND CHINESE [glancing at the baskets]. Dew is water to see, Not water to drink: We have forgotten water to drink. Yet I am content Just to see sunrise again. I have not seen it Since the day we left Pekin. It filled my doorway, Like whispering women.
FIRST CHINESE. And I have never seen it. If we have no water, Do find a melon for me In the baskets.
[The Second Negro, who has been opening the baskets, hands the First Chinese a melon.]
FIRST CHINESE. Is there no spring?
[The negro takes a water bottle of red porcelain from one of the baskets and places it near the Third Chinese.]
SECOND CHINESE [to Third Chinese]. Your porcelain water bottle.
[One of the baskets contains costumes of silk, red, blue and green. During the following speeches, the Chinese put on these costumes, with the assistance of the negro, and seat themselves on the ground.]
THIRD CHINESE. This fetches its own water.
[Takes the bottle and places it on the ground in the center of the stage.]
I drink from it, dry as it is, As you from maxims, [To Second Chinese.] Or you from melons. [To First Chinese.]
FIRST CHINESE. Not as I, from melons. Be sure of that.
SECOND CHINESE. Well, it is true of maxims.
[He finds a book in the pocket of his costume, and reads from it.]
"The court had known poverty and wretchedness; humanity had invaded its seclusion, with its suffering and its pity."
[The limb of the tree creaks.]
Yes: it is true of maxims, Just as it is true of poets, Or wise men, or nobles, Or jade.
FIRST CHINESE. Drink from wise men? From jade? Is there no spring?
[Turning to the negro, who has taken a jug from one of the baskets.]
Fill it and return.
[The negro removes a large candle from one of the baskets and hands it to the First Chinese; then takes the jug and the lantern and enters the trees to the left. The First Chinese lights the candle and places it on the ground near the water bottle.]
THIRD CHINESE. There is a seclusion of porcelain That humanity never invades.
FIRST CHINESE [with sarcasm]. Porcelain!
THIRD CHINESE. It is like the seclusion of sunrise, Before it shines on any house.
FIRST CHINESE. Pooh!
SECOND CHINESE. This candle is the sun; This bottle is earth: It is an illustration Used by generations of hermits. The point of difference from reality Is this: That, in this illustration, The earth remains of one color-- It remains red, It remains what it is. But when the sun shines on the earth, In reality It does not shine on a thing that remains What it was yesterday. The sun rises On whatever the earth happens to be.
THIRD CHINESE. And there are indeterminate moments Before it rises, Like this, [With a backward gesture.] Before one can tell What the bottle is going to be-- Porcelain, Venetian glass, Egyptian ... Well, there are moments When the candle, sputtering up, Finds itself in seclusion, [He raises the candle in the air.] And shines, perhaps, for the beauty of shining. That is the seclusion of sunrise Before it shines on any house. [Replacing the candle.]
FIRST CHINESE [wagging his head]. As abstract as porcelain.
SECOND CHINESE. Such seclusion knows beauty As the court knew it. The court woke In its windless pavilions, And gazed on chosen mornings, As it gazed On chosen porcelain. What the court saw was always of the same color, And well shaped, And seen in a clear light. [He points to the candle.] It never woke to see, And never knew, The flawed jars, The weak colors, The contorted glass. It never knew The poor lights. [He opens his book significantly.] When the court knew beauty only, And in seclusion, It had neither love nor wisdom. These came through poverty And wretchedness, Through suffering and pity. [He pauses.] It is the invasion of humanity That counts.
[The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese turns, for a moment, in the direction of the sound.]
FIRST CHINESE [thoughtfully]. The light of the most tranquil candle Would shudder on a bloody salver.
SECOND CHINESE [with a gesture of disregard]. It is the invasion That counts. If it be supposed that we are three figures Painted on porcelain As we sit here, That we are painted on this very bottle, The hermit of the place, Holding this candle to us, Would wonder; But if it be supposed That we are painted as warriors, The candle would tremble in his hands; Or if it be supposed, for example, That we are painted as three dead men, He could not see the steadiest light, For sorrow. It would be true If an emperor himself Held the candle. He would forget the porcelain For the figures painted on it.
THIRD CHINESE [shrugging his shoulders]. Let the candle shine for the beauty of shining. I dislike the invasion And long for the windless pavilions. And yet it may be true That nothing is beautiful Except with reference to ourselves, Nor ugly, Nor high, [Pointing to the sky.] Nor low. [Pointing to the candle.] No: not even sunrise. Can you play of this [Mockingly to First Chinese.] For us? [He stands up.]
FIRST CHINESE [hesitatingly]. I have a song Called Mistress and Maid. It is of no interest to hermits Or emperors, Yet it has a bearing; For if we affect sunrise, We affect all things.
THIRD CHINESE. It is a pity it is of women. Sing it.
[He takes an instrument from one of the baskets and hands it to the First Chinese, who sings the following song, accompanying himself, somewhat tunelessly, on the instrument. The Third Chinese takes various things out of the basket for tea. He arranges fruit. The First Chinese watches him while he plays. The Second Chinese gazes at the ground. The sky shows the first signs of morning.]
FIRST CHINESE. The mistress says, in a harsh voice, "He will be thinking in strange countries Of the white stones near my door, And I--I am tired of him." She says sharply, to her maid, "Sing to yourself no more."
Then the maid says, to herself, "He will be thinking in strange countries Of the white stones near her door; But it is me he will see At the window, as before.
"He will be thinking in strange countries Of the green gown I wore. He was saying good-by to her." The maid drops her eyes and says to her mistress, "I shall sing to myself no more."
THIRD CHINESE. That affects the white stones, To be sure. [They laugh.]
FIRST CHINESE. And it affects the green gown.
SECOND CHINESE. Here comes our black man.
[The Second Negro returns, somewhat agitated, with water but without his lantern. He hands the jug to the Third Chinese. The First Chinese from time to time strikes the instrument. The Third Chinese, who faces the left, peers in the direction from which the negro has come.]
THIRD CHINESE. You have left your lantern behind you. It shines, among the trees, Like evening Venus in a cloud-top.
[The Second Negro grins but makes no explanation. He seats himself behind the Chinese to the right.]
FIRST CHINESE. Or like a ripe strawberry Among its leaves. [They laugh.] I heard to-night That they are searching the hill For an Italian. He disappeared with his neighbor's daughter.
SECOND CHINESE [confidently]. I am sure you heard The first eloping footfall, And the drum Of pursuing feet.
FIRST CHINESE [amusedly]. It was not an elopement. The young gentleman was seen To climb the hill, In the manner of a tragedian Who sweats. Such things happen in the evening. He was Un miserable.
SECOND CHINESE. Reach the lady quickly.
[The First Chinese strikes the instrument twice as a prelude to his narrative.]
FIRST CHINESE. There are as many points of view From which to regard her As there are sides to a round bottle.
[Pointing to the water bottle.]
She was represented to me As beautiful.
[They laugh. The First Chinese strikes the instrument, and looks at the Third Chinese, who yawns.]
FIRST CHINESE [reciting]. She was as beautiful as a porcelain water bottle.
[He strikes the instrument in an insinuating manner.]
FIRST CHINESE. She was represented to me As young. Therefore my song should go Of the color of blood.
[He strikes the instrument. The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese notices it and puts his hand on the knee of the Second Chinese, who is seated between him and the Third Chinese, to call attention to the sound. They are all seated so that they do not face the spot from which the sound comes. A dark object, hanging to the limb of the tree, becomes a dim silhouette. The sky grows constantly brighter. No color is to be seen until the end of the play.]
SECOND CHINESE [to First Chinese]. It is only a tree Creaking in the night wind.
THIRD CHINESE [shrugging his shoulders]. There would be no creaking In the windless pavilions.
FIRST CHINESE [resuming]. So far the lady of the present ballad Would have been studied By the hermit and his candle With much philosophy; And possibly the emperor would have cried, "More light!" But it is a way with ballads That the more pleasing they are The worse end they come to; For here it was also represented That the lady was poor-- The hermit's candle would have thrown Alarming shadows, And the emperor would have held The porcelain in one hand ... She was represented as clinging To that sweaty tragedian, And weeping up the hill.
SECOND CHINESE [with a grimace]. It does not sound like an elopement.
FIRST CHINESE. It is a doleful ballad, Fit for keyholes.
THIRD CHINESE. Shall we hear more?
SECOND CHINESE. Why not?
THIRD CHINESE. We came for isolation, To rest in sunrise.
SECOND CHINESE [raising his book slightly]. But this will be a part of sunrise, And can you tell how it will end?-- Venetian, Egyptian, Contorted glass ...
[He turns toward the light in the sky to the right, darkening the candle with his hands.]
In the meantime, the candle shines, [Indicating the sunrise.] As you say, [To the Third Chinese.] For the beauty of shining.
FIRST CHINESE [sympathetically]. Oh! it will end badly. The lady's father Came clapping behind them To the foot of the hill. He came crying, "Anna, Anna, Anna!" [Imitating.] He was alone without her, Just as the young gentleman Was alone without her: Three beggars, you see, Begging for one another.
[The First Negro, carrying two lanterns, approaches cautiously through the trees. At the sight of him, the Second Negro, seated near the Chinese, jumps to his feet. The Chinese get up in alarm. The Second Negro goes around the Chinese toward the First Negro. All see the body of a man hanging to the limb of the tree. They gather together, keeping their eyes fixed on it. The First Negro comes out of the trees and places the lanterns on the ground. He looks at the group and then at the body.]
First Chinese [moved]. The young gentleman of the ballad.
THIRD CHINESE [slowly, approaching the body]. And the end of the ballad. Take away the bushes.
[The negroes commence to pull away the bushes.]
SECOND CHINESE. Death, the hermit, Needs no candle In his hermitage.
[The Second Chinese snuffs out the candle. The First Chinese puts out the lanterns. As the bushes are pulled away, the figure of a girl, sitting half stupefied under the tree, suddenly becomes apparent to the Second Chinese and then to the Third Chinese. They step back. The negroes move to the left. When the First Chinese sees the girl, the instrument slips from his hands and falls noisily to the ground. The girl stirs.]
SECOND CHINESE [to the girl]. Is that you, Anna?
[The girl starts. She raises her head, looks around slowly, leaps to her feet and screams.]
SECOND CHINESE [gently]. Is that you, Anna?
[She turns quickly toward the body, looks at it fixedly and totters up the stage.]
ANNA [bitterly]. Go. Tell my father: He is dead.
[The Second and Third Chinese support her. The First Negro whispers to the First Chinese, then takes the lanterns and goes through the opening to the road, where he disappears in the direction of the valley.]
FIRST CHINESE [to Second Chinese]. Bring up fresh water From the spring.
[The Second Negro takes the jug and enters the trees to the left. The girl comes gradually to herself. She looks at the Chinese and at the sky. She turns her back toward the body, shuddering, and does not look at it again.]
ANNA. It will soon be sunrise.
SECOND CHINESE. One candle replaces Another.
[The First Chinese walks toward the bushes to the right. He stands by the roadside, as if to attract the attention of any one passing.]
ANNA [simply]. When he was in his fields, I worked in ours-- Wore purple to see; And when I was in his garden I wore gold ear-rings. Last evening I met him on the road. He asked me to walk with him To the top of the hill. I felt the evil, But he wanted nothing. He hanged himself in front of me.
[She looks for support. The Second and Third Chinese help her toward the road.--At the roadside, the First Chinese takes the place of the Third Chinese. The girl and the two Chinese go through the bushes and disappear down the road. The stage is empty except for the Third Chinese. He walks slowly across the stage, pushing the instrument out of his way with his foot. It reverberates. He looks at the water bottle.]
THIRD CHINESE. Of the color of blood ... Seclusion of porcelain ... Seclusion of sunrise ...
[He picks up the water bottle.]
The candle of the sun Will shine soon On this hermit earth. [Indicating the bottle.] It will shine soon Upon the trees, And find a new thing [Indicating the body.] Painted on this porcelain, [Indicating the trees.] But not on this. [Indicating the bottle.]
[He places the bottle on the ground. A narrow cloud over the valley becomes red. He turns toward it, then walks to the right. He finds the book of the Second Chinese lying on the ground, picks it up and turns over the leaves.]
Red is not only The color of blood, Or [Indicating the body.] Of a man's eyes, Or [Pointedly.] Of a girl's. And as the red of the sun Is one thing to me And one thing to another, So it is the green of one tree [Indicating.] And the green of another, Which without it would all be black. Sunrise is multiplied, Like the earth on which it shines, By the eyes that open on it, Even dead eyes, As red is multiplied by the leaves of trees.
[Toward the end of this speech, the Second Negro comes from the trees to the left, without being seen. The Third Chinese, whose back is turned toward the negro, walks through the bushes to the right and disappears on the road. The negro looks around at the object on the stage. He sees the instrument, seats himself before it and strikes it several times, listening to the sound. One or two birds twitter. A voice, urging a horse, is heard at a distance. There is the crack of a whip. The negro stands up, walks to the right and remains at the side of the road.]
[The Curtain Falls Slowly.]
SHAM
A SOCIAL SATIRE
BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS
Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Co. All rights reserved.
THREE PEOPLE
CHARLES, the Householder. CLARA, his Wife. THE THIEF.
Originally produced by Sam Hume as the dedicatory piece of the new Arts & Crafts Theater, Detroit, and by Maurice Browne of the Chicago Art Theater.
Reprinted from "The Stewart-Kidd Modern Plays," edited by Frank Shay. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Mr. Frank Shay, care Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, U. S. A.
SHAM
A SOCIAL SATIRE BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS
[SCENE: A darkened room. After a moment the door opens, admitting a streak of light. A man peers in cautiously. As soon as he is sure that the room is unoccupied, he steps inside and feels along the wall until he finds the switch which floods the room with light. He is dressed in impeccable taste--evidently a man of culture. From time to time he bites appreciatively on a ham sandwich as he looks about him, apparently viewing the room for the first time. Nothing pleases him until a vase over the mantel catches his eye. He picks it up, looks at the bottom, puts it down hard, and mutters, "Imitation." Other articles receive the same disdainful verdict. The whole room is beneath his notice. He starts to sit down before the fire and enjoy his sandwich. Suddenly he pauses to listen, looks about him hurriedly for some place to hide, thinks better of it, and takes his stand opposite the door, smiling pleasantly and expectantly. The door opens and a young woman enters with a man at her heels. As she sees the thief she stifles a scream and retreats, backing the man out behind her. The thief smiles and waits. Soon the door opens again, and the man enters with the woman clinging to him. They stand opposite the thief and stare at him, not sure what they ought to say or do.]
THIEF [pleasantly]. Good evening! [Pause.] Good evening, good evening. You surprised me. Can't say I expected you home so soon. Was the play an awful bore? [Pause.] We-e-ell, can't one of you speak. I CAN carry on a conversation alone, but the question-and-answer method is usually preferred. If one of you will ask me how I do, we might get a step farther.
CLARA [breathlessly]. You--you--[With growing conviction.] You're a thief!
THIEF. Exactly. And you, madame? The mistress of the house, I presume. Or are you another thief? The traditional one that it takes to catch the first?
CLARA. This--this is OUR house. Charles, why don't you do something? Don't stand there like a--Make him go away! Tell him he mustn't take anything. [Advancing toward the thief and speaking all in one sentence.] What have you taken? Give it to me instantly. How dare you! Charles, take it away from him.
CHARLES [apparently not afraid, a little amused, but uncertain what to do, finally adopting the bullying tone.] I say, old man, you'd better clear out. We've come home. You know you can't--come now, give it up. Be sensible. I don't want to use force--
THIEF. I don't want you to.
CHARLES. If you've got anything of ours--We aren't helpless, you know. [_He starts to draw something black and shiny from his overcoat pocket. It might be a pistol, but he does not reveal its shape._]
THIEF. Let's see those glasses. Give them here. [Takes them from the uncertain Charles.] Perhaps they're better than mine. Fine cases. [Tries them.] Humph! Window glass! Take them back. You're not armed, you know. I threw your revolver down the cold-air shaft. Never carry one myself--in business hours. Yours was in the bottom of your bureau drawer. Bad shape, those bureau drawers were in. Nice and neat on top; rat's nest below. Shows up your character in great shape, old man. Always tell your man by his bureau drawers. Didn't it ever occur to you that a thief might drop in on you some night? What would he think of you?
CHARLES. I don't think--
THIEF. You should. I said to myself when I opened that drawer: "They put up a great surface, but they're shams. Probably streak that runs through everything they do." You ought to begin with real neatness. This other sort of thing is just a form of dishonesty.
CLARA. You! Talking to US about honesty--in our house!
THIEF. Just the place for honesty. Begin at home. Let's--
CLARA. Charles, I won't stand this? Grab hold of him. Search him. You hold him. I'll telephone.
THIEF. You can't.
CLARA. You've cut the wires.
THIEF. Didn't have to. Your telephone service has been cut off by the company. I found that out before I came. I suspect you neglected the bill. You ought not to, makes no end of trouble. Inconvenienced me this evening. Better get it put in right away.
CLARA. Charles, do I have to stand here and be insulted?
THIEF. Sit down. Won't you, please! This is your last ham-sandwich, so I can't offer you any, but there's plenty of beer in the cellar, if you care for it. I don't recommend it, but perhaps you're used to it.
CLARA [almost crying]. Charles, are you going to let him preach to us all night! I won't have it. Being lectured by a thief!
CHARLES. You can't stop a man's talking, my dear, especially this sort of man. Can't you see he's a born preacher? Old man, while advice is going round, let me tell you that you've missed your calling. Why don't you go in for reform? Ought to go big.
CLARA. Oh, Charles! Don't talk to him. You're a good deal bigger than he is.
THIEF. Maybe I'll jiu-jitsu him.
CLARA. He's insulting you now, Charles. Please try. I'll hold his feet.
THIEF. No doubt you would. But that wouldn't stop my talking. You'd be taking an unfair advantage, too; I couldn't kick a lady, could I? Besides, there are two of you. You leave it to Charles and me. Let's have fair play, at least.
CLARA. Fair play? I'd like to know--
THIEF. Ple-e-ase, don't screech! My head aches and your voice pierces so. Let's sit down quietly and discuss the situation like well-bred people, and when we've come to some understanding, I'll go.
CLARA. Yes, after you've taken everything in the house and criticized everything else you can't take, our manners and our morals.
CHARLES. But he isn't taking anything now, is he? Let the poor chap criticize, can't you? I don't suppose he often meets his--er--customers socially. He's just dying for a good old visit. Lonesome profession, isn't it, old man?
CLARA. If you WON'T do anything, I'll call the neighbors.
THIEF. No neighbors to call. Nearest one a block away, and he isn't at home. That comes of living in a fashionable suburb. Don't believe you can afford it, either. WON'T you sit down, madame? I can't till you do. Well, then I shall have to stand, and I've been on my feet all day. It's hardly considerate [plaintively]. I don't talk so well on my feet, either. It will take me much longer this way. [Clara bounces into a chair, meaningfully.] Thank you, that's better [sighs with relief as he sinks into the easy chair]. I knew I could appeal to your better nature. Have a cigarette? [Charles accepts one from his beautiful case.] And you, madame?
CLARA [puts out her hand, but withdraws it quickly]. Thank you, I don't care to smoke--with a thief.
THIEF. Right. Better not smoke, anyway. I'm so old-fashioned, I hate to see women smoke. None of the women in my family do it. Perhaps we're too conventional--
CLARA. I don't know that I care to be like the women of your family. I will have one, if you please. No doubt you get them from a man of taste.
THIEF. Your next-door neighbor. This is--was--his case. Exquisite taste. Seen this case often, I suppose? [He eyes them closely.] Great friends? Or perhaps you don't move in the same circles. [Clara glares at him.] Pardon me. Tactless of me, but how could I guess? Well, here's your chance to get acquainted with his cigarettes. Will you have one now?
CLARA. I don't receive stolen goods.
THIEF. That's a little hard on Charles, isn't it? He seems to be enjoying his.
CHARLES. Bully cigarette. Hempsted's a connoisseur. Truth is--we don't know the Hempsteds. They've never called.
THIEF. That's right, Charles. Tell the truth and shame [with a jerk of his head toward Clara]--you know who.
CLARA. Charles, there isn't any reason, I'm sure--
THIEF. Quietly, please. Remember my head. I'm sorry, but I must decline to discuss your social prospects with you, and also your neighbors' shortcomings, much as we should all enjoy it. There isn't time for that. Let's get down to business. The question we've got to decide and decide very quickly is, What would you like to have me take?
CLARA [aghast]. What would we--what would we like to have you take? Why--why--you can't take anything now; we're here. Of all the nerve! What would we like--
THIEF. It gains by repetition, doesn't it?
CHARLES. You've got me, old man. You'll have to come again. I may be slow, but I don't for the moment see the necessity for your taking anything.
THIEF. I was afraid of this. I'll have to begin farther back. Look here now, just suppose I go away and don't take anything [with an air of triumph]. How would you like that?
CHARLES. Suits me to a "T." How about you, my dear? Think you can be firm and bear up under it?
THIEF. Don't be sarcastic. You're too big. Only women and little men should be sarcastic. Besides, it isn't fair to me, when I'm trying to help you. Here am I, trying to get you out of a mighty ticklish situation, and you go and get funny. It isn't right.
CHARLES. Beg pardon, old man. Try us in words of one syllable. You see this is a new situation for us. But we're anxious to learn.
THIEF. Listen, then. See if you can follow this. Now there's nothing in your house that I want; nothing that I could for a moment contemplate keeping without a good deal of pain to myself.
CLARA. We're trying to spare you. But if you care to know, we had the advice of Elsie de Wolfe.
THIEF [wonderingly]. Elsie de Wolfe? Elsie, how could you! Now, if you had asked me to guess, I should have said--the Pullman Company. I shudder to think of owning any of this bric-a-brac myself. But it must be done. Here am I offering to burden myself with something I don't want, wouldn't keep for worlds, and couldn't sell. [Growing a little oratorical.] Why do I do this?
CHARLES. Yes, why do you?
CLARA. Hush, Charles; it's a rhetorical question; he wants to answer it himself.
THIEF. I do it to accommodate you. Must I be even plainer? Imagine that I go away, refusing to take anything in spite of your protests. Imagine it's to-morrow. The police and the reporters have caught wind of the story. Something has been taken from every house in Sargent Road--except one. The nature of the articles shows that the thief is a man of rare discrimination. To be quite frank--a connoisseur.
CLARA. A connoisseur of what? Humph!
THIEF. And a connoisseur of such judgment that to have him pass your Rubens by is to cast doubt upon its authenticity. I do not exaggerate. Let me tell you that from the Hempsteds--[Clara leans forward, all interest.]--but that would take too long. [She leans back.] The public immediately asks, Why did the thief take nothing from 2819 Sargent Road? The answer is too obvious: There is nothing worth taking at 2819 Sargent Road.
CHARLES [comprehendingly]. Um-hu-m!
THIEF. The public laughs. Worse still, the neighbors laugh. What becomes of social pretensions after that? It's a serious thing, laughter is. It puts anybody's case out of court. And it's a serious thing to have a thief pass you by. People have been socially marooned for less than that. Have I made myself clear? Are you ready for the question? What would you like to have me take?
CHARLES. Now, old man, I say that's neat. Sure you aren't a lawyer?
THIEF. I have studied the law--but not from that side.
CLARA. It's all bosh. Why couldn't we claim we'd lost something very valuable, something we'd never had?
THIEF [solemnly]. That's the most shameless proposal I've ever heard. Yes, you could lie about it. I can't conceal from you what I think of your moral standards.
CHARLES. I can't imagine you concealing anything unpleasant.
CLARA. It's no worse than--
THIEF. Your moral sense is blunted. But I can't attend to that now. Think of this: Suppose, as I said, I should take nothing and you should publish that bare-faced lie, and then I should get caught. Would I shield you? Never. Or suppose I shouldn't get caught. Has no one entered your house since you have been here? Doesn't your maid know what you have? Can you trust her not to talk? No, no, it isn't worth the risk. It isn't even common sense, to say nothing of the moral aspects of the case. Why do people never stop to think of the practical advantages of having things stolen! Endless possibilities! Why, a woman loses a $5 brooch and it's immediately worth $15. The longer it stays lost, the more diamonds it had in it, until she prays God every night that it won't be found. Look at the advertising she gets out of it. And does she learn anything from it? Never. Let a harmless thief appear in her room and she yells like a hyena instead of saying to him, like a sensible woman: "Hands up; I've got you right where I want you; you take those imitation pearls off my dresser and get to hell out of here. If I ever see you or those pearls around here again, I'll hand you over to the police." That's what she ought to say. It's the chance of her life. But unless she's an actress, she misses it absolutely. A thief doesn't expect gratitude, but it seems to me he might at least expect understanding and intelligent cooeperation. Here are you facing disgrace, and here am I willing to save you. And what do I get? Sarcasm, cheap sarcasm!
CHARLES. I beg your pardon, old man. I'm truly sorry. You're just too advanced for us. Clara, there's an idea in it. What do you think?
CLARA. It has its possibilities. Now if he'll let me choose--Isn't there a joker in it somewhere? Let me think. We might let you have something. What do you want?
THIEF [indignantly]. What do I want? I--don't want--anything. Can't you see that? The question is, What do you want me to have? And please be a little considerate. Don't ask me to take the pianola or the ice-box. Can't you make up your minds? Let me help you. Haven't you got some old wedding gifts? Everybody has. Regular white elephants, yet you don't dare get rid of them for fear the donors will come to see you and miss them. A discriminating thief is a godsend. All you have to do is write: "Dear Maude and Fred: Last night our house was broken into, and of course the first thing that was taken was that lovely Roycroft chair you gave us." Or choose what you like. Here's opportunity knocking at your door. Make it something ugly as you please, but something genuine. I hate sham.
CLARA. Charles, it's our chance. There's that lovely, hand-carved--
THIEF. Stop! I saw it [shuddering]. It has the marks of the machine all over it. Not that. I can't take that.
CLARA. Beggars shouldn't be--
THIEF. Where's my coat? That settles it.
CLARA. Oh, don't go! I didn't mean it. Honestly I didn't. It just slipped out. You mustn't leave us like this--
THIEF. I don't have to put up with such--
CLARA. Oh, please stay, and take something! Haven't we anything you want? Charles, hold him; don't let him go. No, that won't do any good. Talk to him--
CHARLES. Don't be so sensitive, old man. She didn't mean it. You know how those old sayings slip out--just say themselves. She only called you a little beggar anyway. You ought to hear what she calls me sometimes.
THIEF. I don't want to. I'm not her husband. And I don't believe she does it in the same way, either. But I'm not going to be mean about this. I'll give you another chance. Trot out your curios.
CHARLES. How about this? Old luster set of Clara's grandmother's. I'm no judge of such things myself, but if you could use it, take it. Granddad gave it to her when they were sweethearts, didn't he, Clara?
THIEF. That! Old luster? That jug won't be four years old its next birthday. Don't lay such things to your grandmother. Have some respect for the dead. If you gave more than $3.98 for it, they saw you coming.
CLARA. You don't know anything about it. You're just trying to humiliate us because you know you have the upper hand.
THIEF. All right. Go ahead. Take your own risks.
CLARA. There's this Sheffield tray?
THIEF. No.
CHARLES. Do you like Wedgewood?
THIEF. Yes, where is it? [Looks at it.] No.
CLARA. This darling hawthorne vase--
THIEF. Please take it away. It isn't hawthorne.
CHARLES. I suppose Cloisonne--
THIEF. If they were any of them what you call them. But they aren't.
CHARLES. Well, if you'd consider burnt wood. That's a genuine burn.
THIEF. Nothing short of cremation would do it justice. Of course I've got to take one of them, if they're all you've got. But honestly, there isn't one genuine thing in this house, except Charles--and--and the ham sandwich.
CLARA [takes miniature from cabinet]. I wonder if you would treasure this as I do. It's very dear to me. It's grandmother--
THIEF [suspiciously]. Grandmother again?
CLARA. As a little girl. Painted on ivory. See that quaint old coral necklace. And those adorable yellow curls. And the pink circle comb. Would you like it?
THIEF. Trying to appeal to my sympathy. I've a good notion to take it to punish you. I wonder if it IS your grandmother. There isn't the slightest family resemblance. Look here!--it is!--it's a copy of the Selby miniature! Woman, do you know who that IS? It's Harriet Beecher Stowe at twelve. What have you done with my overcoat?
CHARLES. I give up. Here it is. Clara, that was too bad.
CLARA. I wanted to see if he'd know.
CHARLES. There's no use trying to save us after this. We'll just have to bear the disgrace.
THIEF. Charles, you're a trump! I'll even take that old daub for YOU. Give it to me.
CHARLES. Wait a minute. You won't have to. Say, Clara, where is that old picture of Cousin Paul? It's just as bad as it pretends to be, if genuineness is all you want.
THIEF [suspiciously]. Who is Cousin Paul? Don't try to ring in Daniel Webster on me.
CHARLES. Cousin of mine. Lives on a farm near Madison, Wisconsin.
THIEF. You don't claim the picture is by Sargent or Whistler?
CLARA. It couldn't be--
THIEF [ignoring her pointedly]. Do you, Charles?
CHARLES. Certainly not. It's a water color of the purest water, and almost a speaking likeness.
THIEF. I'll take Cousin Paul. Probably he has human interest.
CHARLES. That's the last thing I should have thought of in connection with Cousin Paul.
THIEF. Bring him, but wrapped, please. My courage might fail me if I saw him face to face.
CHARLES [leaving room for picture]. Mine always does.
THIEF. While Charles is wrapping up the picture, I want to know how you got back so early. Your maid said you were going to the Garrick.
CLARA. We told her so. But we went to the moving pictures.
THIEF. You ought not to go to the movies. It will destroy your literary taste and weaken your minds.
CLARA. I don't care for them myself, but Charles won't see anything else.
THIEF. You ought to make him. Men only go to the theater anyway because their wives take them. They'd rather stay at home or play billiards. You have a chance right there. Charles will go where you take him. By and by he will begin to like it. Now to-night there was a Granville Barker show at the Garrick, and you went to the movies to see a woman whose idea of cuteness is to act as if she had a case of arrested mental development.
CHARLES [entering, doing up picture]. Silly old films, anyway. But Clara will go. Goes afternoons when I'm not here, and then drags me off again in the evening. Here's your picture, as soon as I get it tied up. Can't tell you how grateful we are. Shall we make it unanimous, Clara?
CLARA. I haven't the vote, you know. Clumsy! give me the picture.
THIEF. Don't try to thank me. If you'll give up this shamming I'll feel repaid for my time and trouble [looking at watch]. By Jove! it's far too much time. I must make tracks this minute. I'll feel repaid if you'll take my advice about the theater for one thing, and--why don't you bundle all this imitation junk together and sell it and get one genuine good thing?
[Clara leaves, apparently for more string.]
CHARLES. Who'd buy them?
THIEF. There must be other people in the world with taste as infallibly bad as yours.
CHARLES. Call that honest?
THIEF. Certainly. I'm not telling you to sell them as relics. You couldn't in the first place, except to a home for the aged and indigent blind. But I know a man who needs them. They'd rejoice his heart. They'd be things of beauty to him. I wish I could help you pick out something with your money. But I don't dare risk seeing you again.
CLARA [reentering, with the picture tied]. Why not? There's honor among thieves.
THIEF. There is. If you were thieves, I'd know just how far to trust you. Now, I'd be willing to trust Charles as man to man. Gentleman's agreement. But [looking at Clara] I don't know--
CHARLES. Clara is just as honest as we are--with her own class. But your profession puts you outside the pale with her; you're her natural enemy. You haven't any rights. But you've been a liberal education for us both.
THIEF. I've been liberal. You meet me--listen!--there are footsteps on the porch. I--I've waited too long. Here I've stood talking--
CHARLES. Well, stop it now, can't you? I don't see how you've ever got anywhere. Hide!
THIEF. No, it can't be done. If you'll play fair, I'm safe enough here in this room, safer than anywhere else. Pretend I'm a friend of yours. You will? Gentleman's agreement? [He shakes hands with Charles.]
CHARLES. Gentleman's agreement. My word of honor.
CLARA [offers her hand as Charles starts for the door]. Gentleman's agreement, but only in this. I haven't forgiven you for what you've said. If I ever get you in a tight place--look out.
THIEF [taking her hand]. Don't tell more than one necessary lie. It's so easy to get started in that sort of thing. Stick to it that I'm a friend of the family and that I've been spending the evening. God knows I have!
CLARA. I'll try to stick to that. But can't I improvise a little? It's such fun!
THIEF. Not a bit. Not one little white lie.
CHARLES [entering with a young man behind him]. It's a man from the News. He says he was out here on another story and he's got a big scoop. There's been some artistic burglary in the neighborhood and he's run onto it. I told him we hadn't lost anything and that we don't want to get into the papers; but he wants us to answer a few questions.
REPORTER. Please do. I need some stuff about the neighborhood.
CLARA. I don't know, Charles, but that it's our duty. [She smiles wickedly at the thief.] Something we say may help catch the thieves. Perhaps we owe it to law and order.
REPORTER. That's right. Would you object if I used your name?
[Charles and the thief motion to Clara to keep still, but throughout the rest of the conversation she disregards their frantic signals, and sails serenely on.]
CLARA. I don't know that we should mind if you mention us nicely. Will the Hempsteds be in? I shan't mind it, if they don't.
REPORTER. Good for you. Now, have you--
CLARA. We have missed something. We haven't had time to look thoroughly, but we do know that one of our pictures is gone.
[The men are motioning to her, but she goes on sweetly.]
REPORTER. A-a-ah! Valuable picture. He hasn't taken anything that wasn't best of its class. Remarkable chap. Must be the same one that rifled the Pierpont collection of illuminated manuscripts. Culled the finest pieces without a mistake.
THIEF [interested]. He made one big mistake. He--[stops short].
REPORTER. Know the Pierponts?
THIEF. Er--ye-es. I've been in their house. [Retires from the conversation. Clara smiles.]
REPORTER. Well, believe me, if he's taken anything, your reputation as collectors is made. Picture, eh? Old master, I suppose?
CLARA. A family portrait. We treasured it for that. Associations, you know.
REPORTER. Must have been valuable, all right. Depend on him to know. He doesn't run away with any junk. Who was the artist?
CLARA. We don't know--definitely.
REPORTER. Never heard it attributed to anybody?
CLARA. We don't care to make any point of such things. But there have been people who have thought--it was not--a--a Gilbert Stuart.
CHARLES. Clara!
CLARA. I don't know much about such things myself. But our friend [nods toward the thief], Mr.--Mr. Hibbard--who has some reputation as a collector, has always said that it was--not. In spite of that fact, he had offered to take it off our hands.
CHARLES. Clara, you're going too far--
REPORTER. She's quite right. You're wrong, Mr. Hibbard. You may be good, but this fellow KNOWS. Too bad you didn't take it while the taking was good. This fellow never sells. Of course he can't exhibit. Just loves beautiful things. No, sir, it was real.
THIEF [between his teeth]. It wasn't. Of all the--
CLARA [smiling]. You take your beating so ungracefully, Mr. Hibbard. The case, you see, is all against you.
THIEF. Be careful. The picture may be found at any minute. Don't go too far.
CLARA. I hardly think it will be found unless the thief is caught. And I have such perfect confidence in his good sense that I don't expect that.
REPORTER. Lots of time for a getaway. When was he here?
CLARA. He was gone when we came from the theater. But we must almost have caught him. Some of our finest things were gathered together here on the table ready for his flight. How he must have hated to leave them, all the miniatures and the cloisonne. I almost feel sorry for him.
CHARLES. I do.
CLARA. You see, we went to the Garrick for the Granville Barker show. Mr. Hibbard took us [she smiles sweetly at him]. I'm devoted to the best in drama and I always insist that Charles and Mr. Hibbard shall take me only to the finest things. And now we come home to find our--you're sure it was a Gilbert Stuart?--gone.
THIEF. I've got to be getting out of here! Can't stay a minute longer! Charles, I wish you luck in that reform we were speaking of, but I haven't much hope [looking at Clara]. There is such a thing as total depravity. Oh, here! [taking package from under his arm]. What am I thinking of? I was running away with your package [hands it to Clara].
CLARA [refusing it]. Oh, but it's yours, Mr. Hibbard. I couldn't think of taking it. Really, you must keep it to remember us by. Put it among your art treasures at home, next to your lovely illuminated manuscripts, and whenever you look at it remember us and this delightful evening, from which we are all taking away so much. You must keep it--that's part of the bargain, isn't it? And now are we even?
THIEF. Even? Far from it. I yield you your woman's right to the last word, and I admit it's the best [stoops and kisses her hand]. Good-night, Clara. [To the reporter.] May I give you a lift back to town?
REPORTER. Thanks. As far as the Hempsteds' corner. Good-night. Thank you for this much help. [Exeunt.]
CHARLES. Thank goodness, they've gone. What relief! That pace is too rapid for me. You had me running round in circles. But he's got the picture, and we're safe at last. But don't you think, Clara, you took some awful risks. You goaded him pretty far.
CLARA. I had to. Did you hear him call me Clara?
CHARLES [chuckling]. He doesn't know our name. But he wasn't a bad fellow, was he? I couldn't help liking him in spite of his impudence.
CLARA. You showed it. You took sides with him against me all the time the reporter was here. But, you know, he was right about our house. It's all wrong. The Hempsteds would see it in a minute. I believe I'll clear out this cabinet and have this room done over in mahogany.
CHARLES. Too expensive this winter.
CLARA. Birch will do just as well--nobody knows the difference. Listen! is he coming back?
REPORTER [in the doorway]. Excuse me--listen. Mr. Hibbard says you've given him the wrong package. He says you need this to go with the picture of your grandmother. And he says, sir, that you need to get wise to your own family. He's waiting for me. Good-night! [Exit.]
CHARLES [angrily]. Get wise to my own family? He may know all about art [undoing the picture], but I guess I know my own relatives. [Holds up picture so that audience can see it, but he can't.] And if that isn't a picture of my own cousin Paul, I'll eat--[sees Clara laughing]. What the devil! [Looks at picture, which represents George Washington.] Clara! you did that! [laughs uproariously]. You little cheat!
[Curtain.]
THE MEDICINE SHOW
A COMEDY
BY STUART WALKER
Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.
THE MEDICINE SHOW was first produced by Stuart Walker's Portmanteau Theatre, with the following cast:
LUT'ER Williard Webster. GIZ Edgar Stehli. DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER Lew Medbury.
CHARACTERS
LUT'ER. GIZ. DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER.
THE SCENE is on the south bank of the Ohio River. An old soap box, a log and a large stone are visible. The river is supposed to flow between the stage and the audience. In the background, at the lop of the "grade," is the village of Rock Springs.
Reprinted from "Portmanteau Plays" published by Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio, by special permission of Stewart and Kidd. The professional and amateur stage rights are strictly reserved by Mr. Stuart Walker.
THE MEDICINE SHOW
A COMEDY BY STUART WALKER
[PROLOGUE: This is only a quarter of a play. Its faults are many. Come, glory in them with us.
You are a little boy once more lying on your rounded belly on the cool, damp sands beside the beautiful river. You are still young enough to see the wonder that everywhere touches the world; and men are in the world--all sorts of men. But you can still look upon them with the shining eyes of brotherhood. You can still feel the mystery that is true understanding. Everywhere about you men and things are reaching for the infinite, each in his own way, be it big or little, be it the moon or a medicine show; and you yourself are not yet decided whether to reach for the stars or go a-fishing. Brother!
Lut'er enters or rather oozes in.
He is a tall, expressionless, uncooerdinated person who might be called filthy were it not for the fact that the dirt on his skin and on his clothes seems an inherent part of him. He has a wan smile that--what there is of it--is not displeasing. Strangely enough, his face is always smooth-shaven. He carries a fishing pole made from a tree twig and equipped with a thread knotted frequently and a bent pin for hook.
Lut'er looks about and his eyes light on the stone. He attempts to move it with his bare foot to the water's edge, but it is too heavy for him. Next he looks at the log, raises his foot to move it, then abandons the attempt because his eyes rest on the lighter soap box. This he puts in position, never deigning to touch it with his hands. Then he sits calmly and drawing a fishing worm from the pocket of his shirt fastens it on the pin-hook and casts his line into the water. Thereafter he takes no apparent interest in fishing.
After a moment Giz enters.
Giz is somewhat dirtier than Lut'er but the dirt is less assimilated and consequently less to be condoned. Besides he is fuzzy with a beard of long standing. He may have been shaved some Saturdays ago--but quite ago.
Giz doesn't speak to Lut'er and Lut'er doesn't speak to Giz, but Lut'er suggests life by continued chewing and he acknowledges the proximity of Giz by spitting and wiping his lips with his hand. Giz having tried the log and the rock finally chooses the rock and acknowledges Lut'er's salivary greeting by spitting also; but he wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
After a moment he reaches forward with his bare foot and touches the water.]
GIZ. 'Tis warm as fresh milk.
[Lut'er, not to be wholly unresponsive, spits. A fresh silence falls upon them.]
GIZ. 'S Hattie Brown came in?
[Lut'er spits and almost shakes his head negatively.]
She's a mighty good little steam-boat.
LUT'ER. She's water-logged.
GIZ. She ain't water-logged.
LUT'ER. She is.
GIZ. She ain't.
LUT'ER. She is.
GIZ. She ain't.
[The argument dies of malnutrition. After a moment of silence Giz speaks.]
GIZ. 'S river raisin'?
LUT'ER. Nup!
[Silence.]
GIZ. Fallin'?
LUT'ER. Nup!
GIZ. Standin' still?
LUT'ER. Uh!
[The conversation might continue if Giz did not catch a mosquito on his leg.]
GIZ. Gosh! A galler-nipper at noonday!
[Lut'er scratches back of his ear warily.]
GIZ. An' look at the whelp!
[Giz scratches actively, examines the wound and anoints it with tobacco juice.
The Play would be ended at this moment for lack of varied action if Dr. Stev'n Vandexter did not enter.
He is an eager, healthy-looking man with a whitish beard that long washing in Ohio River water has turned yellowish. He wears spectacles and his clothes and general appearance are somewhat an improvement upon Lut'er and Giz. Furthermore he wears what were shoes and both supports of his suspenders are fairly intact. He is whittling a piece of white pine with a large jack-knife.
Seeing Lut'er and Giz he draws the log between them and sits.
After a moment in which three cuds are audibly chewed, Dr. Stev'n speaks.]
DOCTOR. What gits me is how they done it.
[For the first time Lut'er turns his head as admission that some one is there. Giz looks up with a dawn of interest under his beard. Silence.]
DOCTOR. I traded a two-pound catfish for a box of that salve: an' I don't see how they done it.
[Lut'er having turned his head keeps it turned. Evidently Dr. Stev'n always has something of interest to say.]
GIZ. Kickapoo?
DOCTOR. Ye'. Kickapoo Indian Salve. I don't think no Indian never seen it.
[He looks at Giz for acquiescence.]
GIZ. Y'ain't never sure about nothin' these days.
[Dr. Stev'n looks at Lut'er for acquiescence also, and Lut'er approving turns his head forward and spits assent.]
DOCTOR. I smelled it an' it smelled like ker'sene. I biled it an' it biled over an' burnt up like ker'sene.... I don't think it was nothin' but ker'sene an' lard.
GIZ. Reckon 't wuz common ker'sene?
DOCTOR. I don't know whether 't wuz common ker'sene but I know 't wuz ker'sene.... An' I bet ker'sene'll cure heaps o' troubles if yer use it right.
GIZ. That air doctor said the salve ud cure most anything.
LUT'ER [as though a voice from the grave, long forgotten]. Which doctor?
GIZ. The man doctor--him with the p'inted musstash.
LUT'ER. I seen him take a egg outer Jimmie Weldon's ear--an' Jimmie swore he didn't have no hen in his head.
DOCTOR. But the lady doctor said it warn't so good--effie-cacious she called it--withouten you took two bottles o' the buildin' up medicine, a box o' the liver pills an' a bottle o' the hair fluid.
GIZ. She knowed a lot. She told me just how I felt an' she said she hated to trouble me but I had a internal ailment. An' she said I needed all their medicine jus' like the Indians used it. But I told her I didn't have no money so she said maybe the box o' liver pills would do if I'd bring 'em some corn for their supper.
DOCTOR. Y' got the liver pills?
GIZ. Uh-huh.
LUT'ER. Took any?
GIZ. Nup, I'm savin' 'em.
LUT'ER. What fur?
GIZ. Till I'm feelin' sicker'n I am now.
DOCTOR. Where are they?
GIZ. In m' pocket.
[They chew in silence for a minute.]
DOCTOR. Yes, sir! It smelled like ker'sene ter me--and ker'sene 't wuz.... Ker'sene'll cure heaps o' things if you use it right.
[He punctuates his talk with covert glances at Giz. His thoughts are on the pills.]
DOCTOR. Which pocket yer pills in, Giz?
GIZ [discouragingly]. M' hip pocket.
[Again they chew.]
DOCTOR. The Family Medicine Book where I learned ter be a doctor said camphor an' ker'sene an' lard rubbed on flannel an' put on the chest 'ud cure tizic, maybe. [He looks at Giz.]
DOCTOR. An' what ud cure tizic ought ter cure anything, I think.... I'd 'a' cured m' second wife if the winder hadn't blowed out an' she got kivered with snow. Atter that she jus' wheezed until she couldn't wheeze no longer. An' so when I went courtin' m' third wife, I took a stitch in time an' told her about the camphor an' ker'sene an' lard. [Ruefully.] She's a tur'ble healthy woman. [His feelings and his curiosity having overcome his tact, he blurts out.] Giz, why'n th' hell don't yer show us yer pills!
GIZ. Well--if yer wanner see 'em--here they air.
[He takes the dirty, mashed box out of his hip pocket and hands it to the Doctor. The Doctor opens the box and smells the pills.]
DOCTOR. Ker'sene.... Smell 'em, Lut'er. [He holds the box close to Luter's nose.]
LUT'ER [with the least possible expenditure of energy]. Uh!
DOCTOR. Ker'sene!... Well, I guess it's good for the liver, too.... Gimme one, Giz?
GIZ. I ain't got so many I can be givin' 'em ter everybody.
DOCTOR. Jus' one, Giz.
GIZ. She said I ought ter take 'em all fer a cure.
LUT'ER. What yer got, Giz? [Calling a man by name is a great effort for Lut'er.]
GIZ. Mostly a tired feelin' an' sometimes a crick in th' back. [Lut'er displays a sympathy undreamed of.]
LUT'ER. Gimme one, Giz.
GIZ. Gosh! You want th' whole box, don't yer?
LUT'ER. Keep yer pills. [He spits.]
DOCTOR. What's ailin' you, Lut'er?
LUT'ER. Oh, a tired feelin'. [There is a long moment of suspended animation, but the Doctor knows that the mills of the gods grind slowly--and he waits for Lut'er to continue.] An' a crick in m' back.
DOCTOR. I'll cure yer, Lut'er. [Lut'er just looks.] If that Kickapoo doctor with the p'inted muss-tash kin cure yer, I guess I can.
GIZ [who has been thinking pretty hard]. Got any terbaccer, Doc?
DOCTOR. Yep.
GIZ. Well, here's a pill fer a chaw. [He and the Doctor rise.]
[Giz takes a pill out of the box and the Doctor takes his tobacco from his pocket, reaches out his hand for the pill and holds out the tobacco, placing his thumb definitely on the plug so that Giz can bite off so much and no more. Giz bites and the Doctor takes over the pill. Lut'er not to be outdone takes a battered plug of tobacco from his pocket and bites of an unlimited "chaw." The Doctor takes his knife from his pocket and cuts the pill, smelling it.]
DOCTOR. Ker'sene! [He tastes it.] Ker'sene! Now I been thinkin' things over, Lut'er and Giz.... [He tastes the pill again.] Ker'sene, sure! [He sits down on the log once more, spits carefully and crosses his legs.] I got a business proposition to make. [Silence. Lut'er spits and crosses his legs, and Giz just spits.]
DOCTOR. There ain't enough home industry here in Rock Springs. We got a canning fact'ry and a stea'mill; but here comes a medicine show from Ioway--a Kickapoo Indian Medicine Show from Ioway! Now--what we need in Rock Springs is a medicine show! [He waits for the effect upon his audience.]
LUT'ER [after a pause]. How yer goin' ter git it?
DOCTOR. Well, here's my proposition. Ain't we got as much horse sense as them Ioway Indians?
LUT'ER. A damn sight more. [That is the evident answer to the Doctor, but Lut'er develops a further idea.] We got the country from the Indians.
GIZ [after a moment of accumulating admiration]. By Golly, Lut'er, yer right.
DOCTOR. Now, I got some medicine science. I'd 'a' cured my second wife if it hadn't been for that busted winder.
GIZ. Yeh, but what come o' yer first wife?
DOCTOR. I could 'a' cured her, too, only I hadn't found the Family Medicine Book then.
LUT'ER. Well, what I wanter know is--what's yer proposition.... I'm in a hurry.... Here comes the Hattie Brown.
[The Hattie Brown and the whistle of the steam-mill indicate noon. Lut'er takes in the line--removes the fishing worm and puts it in his pocket.]
DOCTOR. Well, I'll make the salve an' do the talkin'; Giz'll sort o' whoop things up a bit and Lut'er'll git cured.
LUT'ER. What'll I get cured of?
DOCTOR. Oh, lumbago an' tired feelin' ... crick in the back and tizic.
LUT'ER. But who'll take a egg out o' somebody's ear?
DOCTOR. Giz'll learn that.
LUT'ER [with a wan smile that memory illuminates.] An' who'll play the pianny?
DOCTOR. Besteena, my daughter.
LUT'ER. Where we goin'?
DOCTOR. We'll go ter Lavanny first.
LUT'ER. How'll we git there?
DOCTOR. Walk--unless somebody give us a tote.
GIZ. We kin go in my John-boat.
LUT'ER. Who'll row? [There is fear in his voice.]
GIZ. We'll take turns. [Lut'er looks with terror upon Giz.]
LUT'ER. How fur is it?
DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile.... Will you go, Lut'er?
LUT'ER [evidently thinking deeply]. How fur is it?
GIZ. Three an' a half mile.
DOCTOR. Will yer go, Lut'er?
LUT'ER. Uh-h.
DOCTOR. Huh?
GIZ. He said, uh-huh.
[Lut'er chews in silence.]
DOCTOR. I thought he said uh-uh.
GIZ. He said uh-huh.
DOCTOR. He didn't say nothin' o' the sort--he said uh-uh.
[They turn to Lut'er questioningly. He is chewing intensely.]
LUT'ER [after a pause]. How fur did yer say it wuz?
DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile.
[Silence.]
GIZ. We'll each take a oar.
[Silence. A stentorian voice is heard calling "Stee'vun." The Doctor rises, hastily.]
DOCTOR. What d'yer say, Lut'er?
LUT'ER. It's three an' a half mile ter Lavanny--an' three an' a half mile back.... Pretty fur.
DOCTOR. We kin come back on the current.
LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile air three an' a half mile--current or no current.
[Again the masterful female voice calls "Stee'vun." There is no mistaking its meaning. The Doctor is torn between home and business. Lut'er takes up his rod, rebaits the hook with the fishing-worm from his pocket and casts his line into the river.]
LUT'ER. I'll think it over ... but I ain't givin' yuh no hope.... Three an' a half mile one way air pretty fur ... but two ways--it's turruble.
DOCTOR. Come on, Giz. We'll talk it over.
[The Doctor and Giz leave Lut'er to his problem. Lut'er is undecided. He is at a crisis in his life. He spits thoughtfully and looks after the retreating Doctor and Giz.]
LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile.... [He takes in his line and removes the fishing-worm. He rises and looks again after the Doctor and Giz. He hesitates.] ... two ways.... [He starts in the opposite direction, as he justifies himself to his inner self.] Rock Springs is fur enough fur me! [When he disappears the play is over.]
[Curtain.]
FOR ALL TIME
A PLAY
BY RITA WELLMAN
Copyright, 1918, by Rita Wellman. All rights reserved.
CHARACTERS
MONSIEUR ROBERT. NANETTE. DIANE BERTRAL. MADAME LE BARGY.
TIME: France, 1915.
Dedicated to MAURICE MAETERLINCK,
Whose essay in "The Wrack of the Storm" inspired this play.
Application for the right of performing FOR ALL TIME must be made to Rita Wellman, 142 East 18th Street, New York.
FOR ALL TIME
A PLAY BY RITA WELLMAN
[SCENE: Sitting room in the house of Madame le Bargy. Furnished in excellent taste. Main entrance center, this leads into a hall. Another entrance left, back. French window right near back, near this stands a large wing chair. Couch left, well forward. Chairs near this. Nanette comes from the entrance left as Monsieur Robert comes into the room from entrance center. Nanette is a European old maid. Her dark eyes are full of fire and her lips are bitter. She speaks quickly and sharply and is always on the defensive. Monsieur Robert is well groomed, gentle, weak and likable. Nanette is in deep mourning. Monsieur Robert carries a small bunch of flowers which he holds awkwardly and fussily as if they embarrassed him.]
NANETTE. Monsieur Robert....
ROBERT [coming forward]. Nanette.... How are you, Nanette! You look thinner.
NANETTE. Yes, it's the mourning. It's unbecoming.
ROBERT. I shouldn't say that, Nanette. How is Madame? Tell me. [Nanette gives an eloquent shrug.] I haven't dared to come before. You know how I hate anything--anything like a scene.
NANETTE [sitting left]. Sit down, Monsieur Robert. [He sits in a chair forward right.] It was cowardly of you not to come to see Madame.
ROBERT. Yes, I know. I am such a coward. I cannot imagine how I came to be such a coward, Nanette. I am afraid to do anything any more. Yet my mind keeps so active. How do you account for that? It's my imagination. It seems to run ahead and do things in my place. In these times I am all over the world at once. Nanette, will you believe it, that I suffer actually with every man in the trenches?
NANETTE [contemptuously]. Oh, I daresay.
ROBERT. You don't understand my case. I am fifty-five. I have lived for my work always. Why should I give it up now that the world has gone mad? Some one must stay behind and keep things together. Some one must conduct the dull march of everyday life. We can't all be heroes.
NANETTE. Your work!
ROBERT. Well, to be at the head of a big charity. That is something. Countless lives, numberless families are in my care. I am sort of a father to them all, Nanette.
NANETTE. They could have a mother as well.
ROBERT [with pained eagerness]. Do you really think that?
NANETTE. I know it. There are many women as well fitted for your post as you--better fitted, in fact.
ROBERT. Oh, surely not. I have had the experience of years. I love my work so. I love my little people.
NANETTE. You have made a pleasure out of what should be only your duty. It isn't the poor who couldn't get along without you, Monsieur Robert. It's you who couldn't get along without the poor.
ROBERT. Well, are we all to live merely to do our duty? Is that what the Germans are going to teach us--to be machines like themselves?
NANETTE. I suppose after all, you are better off where you are.
ROBERT. How do you mean, Nanette?
NANETTE. You are more of a woman than a man after all.
ROBERT. You were always bitter against me, Nanette.
NANETTE. You were always superior with me, because I was not beautiful like Madame nor young like Maurice.
ROBERT. How did you say she was, Nanette?
NANETTE. You will find her greatly changed.
ROBERT. I wanted to come to her as soon as she came, from Aix les Bains. When she went to recover the body.
NANETTE [in a tone of deep feeling]. Yes, when we went hoping to find Maurice.
ROBERT [softly]. Tell me about his death.
NANETTE. There were terrible days in which we could learn nothing certain. Several times they gave up hope. What hope! It only made certainty more unbearable.
ROBERT. They found him at last.
NANETTE. Yes, they found Maurice.
ROBERT. The French. That was good.
NANETTE. No, the Germans.
ROBERT. But Madame wrote me....
NANETTE. That was a lie she told you. The Germans found him. It was they who had the privilege of putting him away to his final rest. He had just won his cross.
ROBERT. He won the cross!
NANETTE. Yes, didn't you hear? That very week. [Almost overcome with emotion she rises.] We have it now. [She goes out back a moment and returns with a small black box which she opens reverently.] Here is all that we have left of Maurice. [She hands him a picture post card.] This was taken only the day before.... [She hands him a letter.] This was the last letter ... you can see the date.... He was never so confident or full of life.... There is even a joke about me. He was always making fun of me. I don't know why. [She hands him a revolver.] Here is his revolver. [She takes out the small box with the cross of war and hesitates to give it to him.] This--this is what we have left in place of Maurice. [With a violent look she opens the box and then suddenly hands it to him.]
ROBERT. You mustn't look on it in that way, Nanette.
NANETTE. I can't help it.
ROBERT [reading]. Maurice Paul le Bargy. Little Maurice! He was never meant for action either. Do you remember how we used to tease him? He hated to make any decision. He loved life's dreams and nuances.
NANETTE. He was nothing but a dreamer. Madame and I were talking only yesterday of his garden--did we ever tell you of the garden he had when he was a boy?
ROBERT [handing her the box very carefully]. No. Tell me about the garden.
NANETTE. He made himself a garden, everything in it was arranged as if for people only an inch high.
ROBERT. But there are no such people.
NANETTE. Of course not. That is why every one made fun of him. But he went on building it just the same. It was scaled so that he was a giant in it. There were little houses and little walks and little boats sailing on lakes two feet across. The geraniums were great trees, his pet turtle was like a prehistoric monster, and the hollyhocks pierced heaven itself. When people told him that no one could really enjoy such a garden he said that the ants could, and they ought to appreciate a little beauty because they were always so busy.
ROBERT. That was like Maurice. How vast the sky must have seemed to him who loved minute shadowy things!
NANETTE. He was always timid. Everything violent frightened him. They made him positively ill. And how he dreaded the sea! Do you remember how Madame tried to get him to swim?
ROBERT. But he did learn to swim finally.
NANETTE. Yes. But he told me one day--"Nanette, when I hear the surf my whole body shakes with fear. I feel as if some terrible giant were calling me. I hate the great sea."
ROBERT. And he fell into the sea, didn't he?
NANETTE. Two thousand feet.
ROBERT. What he must have endured all alone!
NANETTE. No one can know.
[After a pause.]
ROBERT. You say Madame has changed?
NANETTE [looking toward left before speaking]. Yes.
ROBERT. Why do you look around like that? Is there anything wrong?
NANETTE. Yes, there is.
ROBERT. What do you mean? Is Madame very ill?
NANETTE. There has been a change.
ROBERT. What kind of a change?
NANETTE. Madame has changed. You wouldn't know her, Monsieur Robert.
ROBERT. You mean she has grown old? Madame was always so beautiful. Has her hair turned white?
NANETTE. No, it isn't that.
ROBERT. You mean she is so stricken she can't talk with me? She won't see me?
NANETTE. She will see you. But for your own peace of mind I advise you to go away. I will tell her that you came. That will be the best way.
ROBERT. A change, you say? You mean she has altered so....
NANETTE. Yes. The truth is, it is Madame's mind.
ROBERT. Her mind! No, no, don't tell me that. That is the worst of all. Do you mean that she is not clear in her mind? She wouldn't know me? She wouldn't be able to remember? Nanette, I can't believe it. I can't believe that this great and beautiful woman could give in like that. Everywhere you see the small ones breaking down. But the great spirits like hers--oh they must keep up. What else is there left for us if they give up, too?
NANETTE. If you could hear her talk, Monsieur Robert. The things she says.... Sometimes I have to run away and lock my door. I am afraid of her.
ROBERT. I cannot stay now, Nanette. I couldn't bear it. It was hard enough for me before. What can I say to her, Nanette, when my own grief finds no comfort? Maurice was like my own son. He was the fruit of my own soul. Into him went all the spiritual love I had for Madame, the love which for fourteen years....
NANETTE. Monsieur Robert!
ROBERT. Oh, Nanette, forget your piety for once and let me speak my heart out.
NANETTE [with her strange, bitter coldness]. No, Monsieur Robert, I can never forget what you call my--piety.
ROBERT. No, you never can. That is why I have never been able to talk to you. Your heart is closed to all but Maurice.
NANETTE. Yes, that is true. My heart has been like one of those vases of domestic use which the ancients buried with the dead in their tombs. All that was warm and beautiful in me is closed away forever with Maurice. Although I was never more to him than a familiar object which was a part of his everyday life. Only his old nurse.
ROBERT. How did he come to inspire such love in every one who came near him?
NANETTE. Because he was young and beautiful.
ROBERT. But that is simply a temporary state.
NANETTE. Maurice would always have been young and beautiful.
ROBERT. Yes, he made you believe that. When he talked with you you felt glad and young as if you'd heard music.
NANETTE. He loved life.
ROBERT. Yet he was a coward.
NANETTE. But he always dared to do what he was afraid to do.
ROBERT. Yes, that is where he was different from me. That is what I have never been able to do--to dare as far as I could imagine.
[He goes slowly toward the back.]
NANETTE [rising]. You are going?
ROBERT. Yes. I can't see her. You see the state I am in. What could I say to her? I had better go.
NANETTE. Yes, it is the best way for you both.
[Robert hesitates at the chair right. He tentatively puts a hand out to touch the arm of it, and regards it curiously.]
NANETTE [unsteadily]. What are you doing?
ROBERT. It is strange.... [Suddenly he falls into the chair and buries his head in the cushions, sobbing and calling.] Maurice! Maurice!
NANETTE [hoarsely]. Monsieur Robert. [As he does not answer--sharply and frightened.] Monsieur Robert!
ROBERT [rises slowly, a little dazed, but calm]. Yes, yes, I know. I am trying your nerves. Forgive me. I am going now, Nanette. Here--I was forgetting--The flowers I brought for Madame. You will give them to her, Nanette.
NANETTE. Monsieur Robert, why did you act in that way just now? Why did you go to that chair?
ROBERT. I don't know.
NANETTE. When we came home from Aix les Bains I thought Madame would go wild. She tore her clothes. She went striding about the house from room to room calling at the top of her voice--Maurice, Maurice. She went into all the rooms, into his room, looking into the closets--everywhere--Then she came running down here. She went back into the back sitting room where she is now--then back into this room. At last she came to that chair.
ROBERT. To that chair, Nanette? Are you sure?
NANETTE. To that very chair. Then she flung herself down into it and cried. That was the first time she had cried. I went away. When I came back she was still there. And then this strange and terrible change came over her.
ROBERT. How do you mean?
NANETTE. A peculiar quiet, an awful calm like death--only more terrible.
ROBERT. Yes, that is how I felt.
NANETTE. Just now in that chair?
ROBERT. Yes, just now.
NANETTE. A calm, you say?
ROBERT. Yes, like a hand pressed over my heart.
NANETTE. But you seemed happier, Monsieur Robert.
ROBERT. I am happier, Nanette. [He goes toward back.] I am going.
[He goes out at center. Nanette watches him dumbfounded. She then gets the black box, carefully puts away her keepsakes, and takes the box out center, returning almost at the same time that Diane Bertral enters. Diane Bertral is a beautiful woman of about twenty-eight. She is nervous and ill at ease, almost hysterical.]
DIANE. Does Madame le Bargy live here?
NANETTE. Yes, she does. Where can Julie be? Did the maid let you in?
DIANE. No, the gentleman who just went out ... he left the door open for me. He evidently thought I was a friend.
NANETTE. Did you want to see Madame le Bargy?
DIANE. Yes, very much. Could I see her, do you think?
NANETTE. She is back in her own sitting room. She isn't to be disturbed.
DIANE. No, I suppose not. I shouldn't have come.
NANETTE. If you wished to speak with her about anything important I can take the message.
DIANE [absently]. No--no....
NANETTE [regarding her suspiciously]. You know Madame le Bargy personally?
DIANE. No, no, I don't.
NANETTE. I thought not.
[Sitting.]
DIANE. May I sit down here for a moment? I am so tired. I have walked all the way, or rather I have run most of it. I am all out of breath.
NANETTE. If you will let me know your message at once.... Otherwise there is a seat down at the concierge. I am very busy.
[She goes toward back, with her lips set.]
DIANE [rising]. The truth is.... I can't tell you. It is something personal.
NANETTE. Something personal? Perhaps you are mistaken in the Madame le Bargy ... this is Madame Jeanne le Bargy--the writer....
DIANE. Yes, yes, I know. Mightn't I speak with her for a moment?
NANETTE. That is impossible. Since the death of her son Madame le Bargy has seen no one. No one at all.
DIANE. I might have known. Let me think. My mind has been so confused lately. I have been in such a state of mind--I don't know what to do. I came running here without any idea in my head. I felt that I would be all right if I could only see Madame le Bargy.
NANETTE [tersely]. Perhaps Mademoiselle had better see the doctor. At the end of the street--number 27--you will find an excellent physician.
DIANE. No physician on earth can cure me.
NANETTE [after giving her an uneasy, distrustful look]. Well, since you cannot see Madame le Bargy, and since you have no message for her, I must ask you please to excuse me. I am busy.
[She stands waiting for Diane to go, regarding her with undisguised hostility.]
DIANE. Yes, I will go. Why did I ever come? It was a mad idea. I see now that the things which seem so simple and easy in the heat of your own mind are the hardest of all to accomplish when you meet the coldness of other minds. Don't trouble about me. I am going. I didn't come to harm you or Madame in any way.
[As she goes toward the door she passes the chair at right and stops. She goes toward it curiously, then hopefully. Finally she flings herself into it as Robert has done, and sobs the name--"Maurice! Maurice!"]
NANETTE [horrified]. Mademoiselle!
[Diane rises slowly, looking about her in a dazed way. Then she suddenly leaves the chair.]
DIANE [quietly]. Forgive me. I will go quietly now.
NANETTE [trembling]. Mademoiselle. Just now--you spoke a name....
DIANE. Yes.
NANETTE. Was it--Maurice?
DIANE. Yes.
NANETTE [drawing away, her face going black]. I see.
DIANE [going up to her curiously]. Who are you?
NANETTE [drawing herself up, showing the utmost contempt, hatred and fear of Diane]. Who are you?
DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral.
NANETTE. Who are you?
DIANE. Just that.
NANETTE [as before]. I see.
DIANE [passionately]. Madame, listen to me....
NANETTE. Mademoiselle....
DIANE. Mademoiselle--are you--Nanette?
NANETTE [who seems to grow small with dread]. Those who know me well call me that.
DIANE. He often spoke of you. He told me of you. You were his old nurse. You were very dear to him. He always said he was the only person to reach your heart. [Seizing Nanette's hand.] Nanette! Let me call you Nanette! Let me touch you. Let me know that heart which he could waken. I am so in need of help. I am so in need of love.
NANETTE [drawing away]. Mademoiselle!
DIANE. You have lost Maurice. You know what I feel. Only you can know. Help me. Let us help each other! We can never be strangers for our hearts bear the same sorrow.
NANETTE. I don't understand. [Growing stern with the realization.] Maurice! Can it be that Maurice.... No, that is impossible. He was not like that.
DIANE. Nanette. I loved Maurice. He loved me.
NANETTE [recoiling as if at a great obscenity]. Oh!
DIANE. Why do you speak like that? What could there be in our love for each other that was wrong? If you only knew what we were to each other. If you only knew, Nanette....
NANETTE [hoarsely]. Maurice.... I can scarcely believe it.
DIANE. Let me talk to you about him. Let me tell you about us. [She sits on the couch left, and feverishly begins to talk.] I am an actress. We met at a supper party after the theater. You know how shy Maurice was. He was afraid of most people. I saw that. I drew him to one side and got him to talk. He was like a child when any one took a real interest in him. He told me all about himself at once, about you, and about Madame le Bargy....
NANETTE [passionately]. Oh, keep still!
DIANE [not noticing Nanette's hostility]. And about your house in the country, and his garden and books and his piano and all the things he loved. Then he went on and told me about his work, and how he wanted to be a great writer, how he wanted to carry on what was best in the French theater. He promised to show me his play.
NANETTE. His play!
DIANE. I told him to come to my house and read it to me. He came the next day. It was the twenty-first of March. I remember the date perfectly.
NANETTE. We always left town on that day, but we could not get Maurice to go, so we had to leave him behind. Now I understand.
DIANE. Yes. He stayed to lunch with me, and that afternoon I had him read his play to me. Do you remember how beautiful his voice was? It started in a sort of sing song, like a child singing itself to sleep, but as he went on his voice grew deeper and stronger, all your senses melted into his voice and he carried you along as if on a great wave of emotion, of ecstasy. Monsieur Laugier came later. He was my manager then. I had Maurice read the play to him. And later some other people came, and every one urged Monsieur Laugier to take the play. I begged him to read it. I will never forget it. It seemed to me the most important thing in the world. Well, as you know, Monsieur Laugier did produce Maurice's play. And, although they wouldn't let me be in it, I always considered it my play, too.
NANETTE. Then the story he told us of his meeting with Monsieur Laugier--that wasn't true?
DIANE. No. I invented that for him to tell you.
NANETTE. He lied to us!
DIANE. You would never have understood.
NANETTE. Let me think--Maurice's play was produced in September, 1913. That is two years ago. Two years.... Maurice lived here with us--day after day--saying nothing--telling us nothing--We never suspected. We never dreamed that he would deceive us.
DIANE. He did not deceive you. Not even the closest hearts can reveal everything.
NANETTE. But to continue to see you ... all that time! It is unthinkable.
DIANE. How could he explain what he didn't understand himself? How could he tell you of what was a mystery to him? From the first moment we met we lived and thought and felt as one being.
NANETTE [vehemently]. No! With us he was like that! He was like that with us.
DIANE. With me!
NANETTE. To think of it! A common actress!
DIANE [jumping up]. How could you?
NANETTE. If I had known of this affair I would have gone straight to you.
DIANE. And what could you have done?
NANETTE [significantly]. I could have found a way.
DIANE. You are a terrible old woman.
NANETTE. Am I terrible? I had to fight my way when I was your age--because I was not pretty. I had the choice of being a free drudge or some man's slave. So I chose to toil alone. In order to get along alone I had to stifle every drop of humanity in my being. I had to bind up my human instincts as they bind up the breasts of mothers who flow too bounteously with life-blood long after their babes have need of it. I had to become sharp and bitter because sweetness and softness get crushed under in the battle to live. I learned to fight and I forgot to feel. Then, when I was used up and hard I met Madame le Bargy and she took me into her house because I had one valuable thing left. I had learned that it is wiser to be honest. I was there when Maurice was born.
DIANE. You were with him from the very beginning then.
NANETTE. I was an old maid of thirty-five. I had always lived alone. I hadn't ever had a dog to care for. Then all at once I had this baby, this little baby. I had his baby cries to call me. I had his tiny hands to kiss. I used to press my lips against his throbbing head, against the soft fissure where life and death meet, and I would say to myself, "Here, with one pressure I can crush away life. Here, with one pressure is where immortal life must have entered."
DIANE. Then later--when he grew up....
NANETTE. Day by day I watched over him. Madame was busy. Even after her husband died she was in the world. She had her writing. She had her friends. Her heart was fed in a hundred different ways. While I--I had only Maurice.
DIANE. I understand.
NANETTE. I lived only for Maurice. When I saw that it was raining I thought of Maurice. When I saw that the sun shone I thought of Maurice. If I was awakened suddenly in the night his name was on my lips. It seemed to me I could not take a deep breath for fear of disturbing his image against my heart.
DIANE. Nanette! Can you believe that I have felt that way too?
NANETTE. You!
DIANE. Yes, yes, I have. Nanette, when he was little, when he was a boy growing up, did you never think of me?
NANETTE. Of you!
DIANE. Yes, of the woman who would eventually take your place. Didn't you think of what she would be like, didn't you plan her, didn't you pray that she might be fine and great and beautiful? I know you did. You must have! Well, I tried to mold myself that way. I tried to be worthy of every dream you could have had for him, that his mother could have had. That is how I loved him.
NANETTE. Do you know what I thought of when the idea of a woman for Maurice came into my mind? I thought that when she came--if she ever did--
[She pauses, looking ahead of her.]
DIANE. Yes?
NANETTE [turning and looking at Diane vindictively]. I would kill her!
DIANE. Nanette, I would have killed myself rather than harm Maurice.
NANETTE. Then why did you allow him to throw himself away?
DIANE. Throw himself away! Nanette, I never knew what love was until Maurice came. I was older than he. I knew life better. I knew myself better. I had struggled. You say that you had to struggle because you weren't pretty. I had to struggle because I was. You can't know what it is to have every other man you meet want to possess you, not because he loves you, but because your face suggests love to him and he hasn't learned to know the difference. He finds that out later, and then he reproaches you for being beautiful.
NANETTE. To think that Maurice should fall so low!
DIANE. But I came to know things. I was determined to find love. From man to man, Nanette, I climbed up and up, picking my way, falling and getting up again. Only the truly educated can love. I loved Maurice with all the wisdom I had accumulated in years of suffering. I gave him a perfect gift I had molded in pain.
NANETTE. You! What had you to give?
DIANE. Then the war broke out.
NANETTE. Yes, the war. Maurice was one of the first. He made up his mind at once.
DIANE. No, he did not make up his mind at once.
NANETTE [with a dreadful realization]. Then it was....
DIANE. I made up his mind for him.
NANETTE [vehemently]. You did it! It was you then! You sent Maurice to war. After they excused him! After they gave him a post at home! You sent him to his death. Oh, I hated you before, but now....
DIANE. His mother and you clung to him. There was one excuse after the other. You made him believe that he was too delicate and sensitive. You used all of your influence. Madame le Bargy tried in every way to keep him. She even testified officially that Maurice was weak from birth and had dizzy spells and an unaccountable fear of the sea. And you testified under oath to a long and dangerous illness he had had in childhood.
NANETTE. I did that. And it was all a lie.
DIANE. But all the time I was urging him to go. We three women fought for mastery. But you see who won! I did! When he came to me at nights--in the country--to my little house where we had been so happy, there, there, in the very room where we were nearest, then I persuaded him. With my kisses, Nanette, with my arms, with all the power I had over him--then was when I thrust him away.
NANETTE [triumphantly]. You didn't love him then!
DIANE [passionately]. Could I love Maurice and see him stay behind? Could I really want him to save his body for me when thousands were giving theirs for France?
NANETTE. For France.... But what of us?
DIANE. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved!
NANETTE. Never loved! How can you say that I have never loved?
DIANE. What can you know of my loss? Your love was a habit. It was the love you could have lavished on a dog, or a horse or anything. But with me--now that he is gone, I have lost everything. I have no place to turn. I haven't even memory, as you have. Your love always took on the color of memory, but mine was a living, flaming thing, necessary as food and drink--as life itself!
NANETTE [white with passion]. But my love was pure and yours was not. [She crosses the room.] Good God, to think that this thing should ever have happened to us in this house! [She covers her face with her hands and runs out back.]
[After a moment Madame le Bargy enters, left. She is a handsome woman of fifty or more. She wears a long loose gown of white silk. Her voice is perfectly modulated and beautiful. There is about her a gentleness and nobility of perfect spiritual strength. She looks at Diane curiously for a moment, and then goes to her with hand outstretched. During the following the day is fast becoming dark, and the sun's setting is seen from the French window.]
MADAME LE BARGY. I heard Nanette's voice. She has a habit of keeping people from me, although I am always glad to see any one. May I know your name?
DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral.
MADAME LE BARGY. Diane Bertral. I have never heard of you.
DIANE. No. I am an actress. But I am not so very well known. Are you Madame le Bargy?
MADAME LE BARGY. Yes. Won't you sit down on the couch there? Why did you come to see me, Mademoiselle?
[She sits at right forward.]
DIANE [embarrassed]. I came.... I don't know why I came, Madame le Bargy.
MADAME LE BARGY. You know some one I know, perhaps--some friend of us both.
DIANE. Yes, that is it. Some one we have both--lost.
MADAME LE BARGY [with a quick look at Diane]. A dear friend?
DIANE. Yes, a very dear friend.
MADAME LE BARGY. Do you mean--Maurice?
DIANE. Yes.
MADAME LE BARGY. You knew him well?
DIANE. I loved him.
MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, I know.
DIANE [astonished]. You know!
MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, Maurice has told me.
DIANE. No, no; that I am sure of. I am sure he never has. He has never told a soul. That was our agreement. We were to keep it secret and sacred. Not even you were to know, not as long as we lived.
MADAME LE BARGY [gently]. But after...?
DIANE [puzzled]. After?
MADAME LE BARGY. How long did you know Maurice?
DIANE. It would be two years this March.
MADAME LE BARGY. You loved each other all that time?
DIANE. From the very first. We never had any of those preliminaries in which people have a chance to deceive each other. We came together directly and frankly and we never regretted it.
MADAME LE BARGY. Maurice was very young.
DIANE. He was twenty-four. He was eager for life. But you two had kept him back. You had warmed his heart with your kind of love until he had begun to think it was the only love which is worthy.
MADAME LE BARGY. And you believe that that isn't so?
DIANE [simply]. I believe that there can be no flame like the love between two young people who are one.
MADAME LE BARGY [going to Diane and putting a hand on her shoulder]. Poor little woman.
DIANE [astounded]. Madame!
MADAME LE BARGY. You have been suffering a great deal, Diane.
DIANE [bursting into wild weeping]. Oh, Madame, how good you are, how kind you are! [Grasping Madame's arms, she trembles and sobs.] Oh, how can I ever tell you? Thank you, thank you! [She jumps up and paces about the room.] What am I going to do with myself? How can I go on? I simply can't stand it. If I had only died with Maurice! If I could only have died in his place! Oh, the cruelty of it! Why did they have to pick out my lover? Surely there are thousands of others. Why did it have to be just mine? Mine--when I needed him so! He might have been spared a little longer, to give me time to get used to it. That would have been better. But now! Just as he was beginning to be of service, too. Why he hadn't been there a year yet. Not even a year! [Beating her hips violently.] I could tear myself to pieces. I hate myself for going on living. I detest myself for being alive when he is dead.
MADAME LE BARGY [who has watched Diane with infinite pity--softly]. Diane, do you think that I loved my son?
DIANE [in surprise]. Why, yes, Madame, I believe that you loved Maurice.
MADAME LE BARGY. You think that my love was not as great as yours?
DIANE. No, I don't think so. You had had your life. Maurice and I were only beginning ours.
MADAME LE BARGY. Which do you think is the greater love, Diane, the love which endures for the moment, or the love which endures for all time?
DIANE [puzzled]. For all time...?
MADAME LE BARGY. For all time.
DIANE. We have the dear lips to kiss, the dear head to caress, but when these are gone there is only memory--and that is torture.
MADAME LE BARGY. What if I should tell you that Maurice still lives, Diane?
DIANE [rushing to her]. Madame! My God, is this true?
MADAME LE BARGY [gently]. Maurice still lives, Diane. He talks with me every day.
DIANE [slowly]. He talks with you....
MADAME LE BARGY [holding her gaze]. Yes, Diane, he talks with me.
DIANE [the hope dies out of her face and she turns away]. I understand.
MADAME LE BARGY. You see, you did not love Maurice.
DIANE. How can you tell me that--that I didn't love him?
MADAME LE BARGY. Because you don't continue to do so.
DIANE. But how can I love what no longer exists?
MADAME LE BARGY. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved!
DIANE. That is what I said to Nanette--and now you say the same thing to me.
MADAME LE BARGY. Diane, when I knew for certain that Maurice had fallen into the sea, that they had recovered his body, that he was buried in German soil, then I felt that I should never live another moment. I felt as you have felt. I wanted to die. I could not bear it. I came here to this house. I was mad for the sight of him, for the things that he had touched and loved. I flew into his room and dragged his clothes from the pegs and crushed them to me, but even the odor and touch of his personal belongings was not enough to calm me. I came into this room. Then I drew near that chair. Something--I don't know what--drove me to sit in it. I flung myself into it as if it were into his arms, and I wept out all my grief. Then, all at once, a great calm came over me. I looked upon my solemn black dress in amazement and distaste. I looked into my solemn and black heart with surprise and shame. I felt that Maurice was alive, that he was not dead, Diane. Then I remembered, as I sat there, that it was in this chair that he had sat when he came to say good-by. There he had sat talking happily and confidently--he had seemed filled with radiance. And so he has talked to me again and again. Every day, at the same time, at twilight, I have sat there and felt myself with Maurice. We have talked together, just as we always did. There is nothing weird or supernatural about it, Diane. He is just as we knew him, as we knew him in those swift, strange moments when, in a flash, the body seems to slip aside and spirit rushes out to meet spirit. That is all. People see me cheerful and smiling and they say that I am mad. The few to whom I have told of these talks pity me and are sure that I have lost my reason. Perhaps, in a worldly sense, I am mad. But I know this, Diane, that Maurice lives as usual, more truly, than he did six weeks ago. I know that his youth has not been sacrificed in vain. As the dead plant enriches the soil from which it grew and into which it finally falls, so will this young soul in all its bloom enrich the life out of which it sprang and from which it can never entirely disappear.
DIANE [after a pause--rising]. That is beautiful, but I cannot do it. [Stretching out her arms.] My arms are aching with emptiness.
MADAME LE BARGY. You see that you did not really love, Diane.
DIANE. Perhaps not. But it was the greatest I was capable of.
[She gets a scarf she has dropped and goes toward the back.]
MADAME LE BARGY [softly]. This is the time, Diane.
DIANE. When you talk with him?
MADAME LE BARGY. Yes.
[Diane goes slowly and sinks into the chair wearily. Suddenly she flings her arms out, crying "Maurice, Maurice." Madame le Bargy rises and goes to her.]
DIANE. Maurice, come back to me! Dear God, give him back to me!
[Nanette enters at back with her black box. She sees Diane in the chair. Suddenly she takes out the revolver and shoots Diane.]
NANETTE. Maurice! Forgive me!
MADAME LE BARGY. Nanette! Child! My child! [She rushes to take Diane in her arms.] Nanette, what have you done, what have you done?
NANETTE. I have rid Maurice of a stain.
DIANE [calling softly]. Maurice, Maurice.... Oh, I knew you couldn't stay away. I knew you would come back to me. Now we will never be separated. We will be together like this for always--for all time.
MADAME LE BARGY [softly]. For all time, Diane.
NANETTE [kneeling beside Diane--crossing herself]. For all time.
[Curtain.]
THE FINGER OF GOD
A PLAY
BY PERCIVAL WILDE
Copyright, 1915, by Percival Wilde. Professional stage and motion picture rights reserved.
THE FINGER OF GOD was produced by the Wisconsin Players at the Wisconsin Little Theatre, Milwaukee, Wis., March 28, 1916, and subsequently, with the following cast:
STRICKLAND Frederick Irving Deakin. BENSON Harry V. Meissner. A GIRL Marjorie Frances Hollis.
Under the direction of FREDERIC IRVING DEAKIN.
Reprinted from "Dawn, and Other One-Act Plays of Life To-day" by permission of, and special arrangement with, Mr. Wilde. The acting rights in this play are strictly reserved. Performances may be given by amateurs upon payment to the author of a royalty of five dollars ($5.00) for each performance. Production by professional actors, without the written consent of the author, is forbidden. Persons who wish to produce this play should apply to Mr. Percival Wilde, in care of Walter H. Baker & Co., 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass.
THE FINGER OF GOD
A PLAY BY PERCIVAL WILDE
[The living room of Strickland's apartment. At the rear, a doorway, heavily curtained, leads into another room. At the left of the doorway, a bay window, also heavily curtained, is set into the diagonal wall. Near the center, an ornate writing desk, upon which is a telephone. At the right, the main entrance. The furnishings, in general, are luxurious and costly.
As the curtain rises Strickland, kneeling, is burning papers in a grate near the main door. Benson, his valet, is packing a suitcase which lies open on the writing desk. It is ten-thirty; a bitterly cold night in winter.]
STRICKLAND. Benson!
BENSON. Yes, sir.
STRICKLAND. Close the window: it's cold.
BENSON [goes to the window]. The window is closed, sir. It's been closed all evening.
STRICKLAND [shivers and buttons his coat tightly]. Benson.
BENSON. Yes, sir?
STRICKLAND. Don't forget a heavy overcoat.
BENSON. I've put it in already, sir.
STRICKLAND. Plenty of fresh linen?
BENSON. Yes, sir.
STRICKLAND. Collars and ties?
BENSON. I've looked out for everything, sir.
STRICKLAND [after a pause]. You sent off the trunks this afternoon?
BENSON. Yes, sir.
STRICKLAND. You're sure they can't be traced?
BENSON. I had one wagon take them to a vacant lot, and another wagon take them to the station.
STRICKLAND. Good!
BENSON. I checked them through to Chicago. Here are the checks. [He hands them over.] What train do we take, sir?
STRICKLAND. I take the midnight. You follow me some time next week. We mustn't be seen leaving town together.
BENSON. How will I find you in Chicago?
STRICKLAND. You won't. You'll take rooms somewheres, and I'll take rooms somewheres else till it's all blown over. When I want you I'll put an ad in the "Tribune."
BENSON. You don't know when that will be, sir?
STRICKLAND. As soon as I think it is safe. It may be two weeks. It may be a couple of months. But you will stay in Chicago till you hear from me one way or the other. You understand?
BENSON. Yes, sir.
STRICKLAND. Have you plenty of money?
BENSON. Not enough to last a couple of months.
STRICKLAND [producing a large pocketbook]. How much do you want?
BENSON. Five or six hundred.
STRICKLAND [takes out a few bills. Stops]. Wait a minute! I left that much in my bureau drawer.
[He goes toward the door.]
BENSON. Mr. Strickland?
STRICKLAND. Yes?
BENSON. It's the midnight train for Chicago, isn't it?
STRICKLAND. Yes.
[He goes into the next room.]
BENSON [waits an instant. Then he lifts the telephone receiver, and speaks very quietly]. Hello. Murray Hill 3500.... Hello. This Finley? This is Benson.... He's going to take the midnight train for Chicago. Pennsylvania. You had better arrest him at the station. If he once gets to Chicago you'll never find him. And, Finley, you won't forget me, will you?... I want five thousand dollars for it. Yes, five thousand. That's little enough. He's got almost three hundred thousand on him, and you won't turn in all of that to Headquarters. Yes, it's cash. Large bills. [Strickland's step is heard.] Midnight for Chicago.
[Benson hangs up the receiver and is busy with the suitcase as Strickland enters.]
STRICKLAND. Here's your money, Benson. Count it.
BENSON [after counting]. Six hundred dollars, thank you, sir. [He picks up the closed suitcase.] Shall I go now?
STRICKLAND. No. Wait a minute. [He goes to the telephone.] Hello, Madison Square 7900 ... Pennsylvania? I want a stateroom for Chicago, midnight train. Yes, to-night.
BENSON. Don't give your own name, sir.
STRICKLAND. No. The name is Stevens.... Oh, you have one reserved in that name already? Well, this is Alfred Stevens.... You have it reserved in that name? Then give me another stateroom.... What? You haven't any other? [He pauses in an instant's thought. Then, decisively]: Never mind, then. Good-by. [He turns to Benson.] Benson, go right down to the Pennsylvania, and get the stateroom that is reserved for Alfred Stevens. You've got to get there before he does. Wait for me at the train gate.
BENSON. Yes, sir.
STRICKLAND. Don't waste any time. I'll see you later.
BENSON. Very well, sir.
[He takes up the suitcase, and goes.]
STRICKLAND [left alone, opens drawer after drawer of the desk systematically, dumping what few papers are still left into the fire. Outside a wintry gale whistles, and shakes the locked window. Suddenly there is a knock at the door. He pauses, very much startled. A little wait, and then the knock, a single knock, is repeated. He rises, goes to the door, opens it.] Who's there?
A GIRL. I, sir.
[She enters. She is young: certainly under thirty: perhaps under twenty-five: possibly still younger. A somewhat shabby boa of some dark fur encircles her neck, and makes her pallid face stand out with startling distinctness from beneath a mass of lustrous brown hair. And as she steps over the threshold she gives a little shiver of comfort, for it is cold outside, and her thin shoulders have been shielded from the driving snow by a threadbare coat. She enters the warm room gracefully, and little rivulets of melted ice trickle to the floor from her inadequate clothing. Her lips are blue. Her hands tremble in their worn white gloves. A seat before a blazing fire, or perhaps, a sip of some strong cordial--this is what she needs. But Strickland has no time for such things. He greets her with a volley of questions.]
STRICKLAND. Who are you?
THE GIRL. Who, don't you remember me, sir?
STRICKLAND. No.
THE GIRL. I'm from the office, sir.
STRICKLAND. The office?
THE GIRL. Your office. I'm one of your personal stenographers, sir.
STRICKLAND. Oh. I suppose I didn't recognize you on account of the hat. What do you want?
THE GIRL. There were some letters which came late this afternoon--
STRICKLAND [interrupting harshly]. And you're bothering me with them now? [He crosses to the door, and holds it open.] I've got no time. Good night.
THE GIRL [timidly]. I thought you'd want to see these letters.
STRICKLAND. Plenty of time to-morrow.
THE GIRL. But you won't be here to-morrow, will you?
STRICKLAND [starting violently]. Won't be here? What do you mean?
THE GIRL. You're taking the train to Chicago to-night.
STRICKLAND. How did you know--[He stops himself. Then, with forced ease.] Taking a train to Chicago? Of course not! What put that in your head?
THE GIRL. Why, you told me, sir.
STRICKLAND. I told you?
THE GIRL. You said so this afternoon.
STRICKLAND [harshly]. I didn't see you this afternoon!
THE GIRL [without contradicting him]. No, sir? [She produces a time-table.] Then I found this time-table.
[She holds it out. He snatches it.]
STRICKLAND. Where did you find it?
THE GIRL. On your desk, sir.
STRICKLAND. On my desk?
THE GIRL. Yes, sir.
STRICKLAND [suddenly and directly]. You're lying!
THE GIRL. Why, Mr. Strickland!
STRICKLAND. That time-table never reached my desk! I lost it between the railroad station and my office.
THE GIRL. Did you, sir? But it's the same time-table: you see, you checked the midnight train. [He looks at her suspiciously.] I reserved a stateroom for you.
STRICKLAND [astonished]. You reserved a stateroom?
THE GIRL [smiling]. I knew you'd forget it. You have your head so full of other things. So I telephoned as soon as you left the office.
STRICKLAND [biting his lip angrily]. I suppose you made the reservation in my own name?
THE GIRL. No, sir.
STRICKLAND [immensely surprised]. What?
THE GIRL. I thought you'd prefer some other name: you didn't want your trip to be known.
STRICKLAND. No, I didn't. [A good deal startled, he looks at her as if he were about to ask, "How did you know that?" She returns his gaze unflinchingly. The question remains unasked. But a sudden thought strikes him.] What name did you give?
THE GIRL. Stevens, sir.
STRICKLAND [thunderstruck]. Stevens?
THE GIRL. Alfred Stevens.
STRICKLAND [gasping]. What made you choose that name?
THE GIRL. I don't know, sir.
STRICKLAND. You don't know?
THE GIRL. No, sir. It was just the first name that popped into my head. I said "Stevens," and when the clerk asked for the first name, I said "Alfred."
STRICKLAND [after a pause]. Have you ever known anybody of that name?
THE GIRL. No, sir.
STRICKLAND [with curious insistence]. You are sure you never knew anybody of that name?
THE GIRL. How can I be sure? I may have; I don't remember it.
STRICKLAND [abruptly]. How old are you? [He gives her no time to answer.] You're not twenty, are you?
THE GIRL [smiling]. Do you think so?
STRICKLAND [continuing the current of his thoughts]. And I'm forty-seven. It was more than twenty-five years ago.... You couldn't have known.
THE GIRL [after a pause]. No, sir.
STRICKLAND [looking at her with something of fear in his eye]. What is your name?
THE GIRL. Does it matter? You didn't recognize my face a few minutes ago; my name can't mean much to you. I'm just one of the office force: I'm the girl who answers when you push the button three times. [She opens a handbag.] These are the letters I brought with me.
STRICKLAND [not offering to take them]. What are they about?
THE GIRL [opening the first]. This is from a woman who wants to invest some money.
STRICKLAND. How much?
THE GIRL. Only a thousand dollars.
STRICKLAND. Why didn't you turn it over to the clerks?
THE GIRL. The savings of a lifetime, she writes.
STRICKLAND. What of it?
THE GIRL. She wrote that she had confidence in you. She says that she wants you to invest it for her yourself.
STRICKLAND. You shouldn't have bothered me with that. [He pauses.] Did she inclose the money?
THE GIRL. Yes. A certified check.
[She hands it over to him.]
STRICKLAND [taking the check, and putting it in his pocketbook]. Write her--oh, you know what to write: that I will give the matter my personal attention.
THE GIRL. Yes, sir. She says she doesn't want a big return on her investment. She wants something that will be perfectly safe, and she knows you will take care of her.
STRICKLAND. Yes. Of course. What else have you?
THE GIRL. A dozen other letters like it.
STRICKLAND. All from old women?
THE GIRL [seriously]. Some of them. Here is one from a young man who has saved a little money. He says that when he gets a little more he's going to open a store, and go into business for himself. Here is another from a girl whose father was an ironworker. He was killed accidentally, and she wants you to invest the insurance. Here is another from--but they're all pretty much alike.
STRICKLAND. Why did you bring them here?
THE GIRL. Every one of these letters asks you to do the investing yourself.
STRICKLAND. Oh!
THE GIRL. And you're leaving town to-night. Here are the checks. [She passes them over.] Every one of them is made out to you personally; not to the firm.
STRICKLAND [after a pause]. You shouldn't have come here.... I haven't time to bother with that sort of thing. Every man who has five dollars to invest asks the head of the firm to attend to it himself. It means nothing. I get hundreds of letters like those.
THE GIRL. Still--
STRICKLAND. What?
THE GIRL. You must do something to deserve such letters or they wouldn't keep on coming in. [She smiles.] It's a wonderful thing to inspire such confidence in people?
STRICKLAND. Do you think so?
THE GIRL. It is more than wonderful! It is magnificent! These people don't know you from Adam. Not one in a hundred has seen you: not one in a thousand calls you by your first name. But they've all heard of you: you're as real to them as if you were a member of their family. And what is even more real than you is your reputation! Something in which they rest their absolute confidence: something in which they place their implicit trust!
STRICKLAND [slowly]. So you think there are few honest men?
THE GIRL. No: there are many of them. But there is something about you that is different: something in the tone of your voice: something in the way you shake hands: something in the look of your eye, that is reassuring. There is never a doubt--never a question about you. Oh, it's splendid! Simply splendid! [She pauses.] What a satisfaction it must be to you to walk along the street and know that every one you meet must say to himself, "There goes an honest man!" It's been such an inspiration to me!
STRICKLAND. To you?
THE GIRL. Oh, I know that I'm just one of the office force to you. You don't even know my name. But you don't imagine that any one can see you as I have seen you, can work with you as I have worked with you, without there being some kind of an effect? You know, in my own troubles--
STRICKLAND [interrupting]. So you have troubles?
THE GIRL. You don't pay me a very big salary, and there are others whom I must help. But I'm not complaining. [She smiles.] I--I used to be like the other girls. I used to watch the clock. I used to count the hours and the minutes till the day's work was over. But it's different now.
STRICKLAND [slowly]. How--different?
THE GIRL. I thought it over, and I made up my mind that it wasn't right to count the minutes you worked for an honest man. [Strickland turns away.] And there is a new pleasure in my work: I do my best--that's all I can do, but you do your best, and it's the least I can do.
STRICKLAND [after a pause]. Are you sure--I do my best? Are you sure I am an honest man?
THE GIRL. Don't you know it yourself, Mr. Strickland?
STRICKLAND [after another pause]. You remember--a few minutes ago, you spoke the name of Alfred Stevens?
THE GIRL. Yes.
STRICKLAND. Suppose I told you that there once was an Alfred Stevens? [The girl does not answer.] Suppose I told you that Stevens, whom I knew, stole money--stole it when there was no excuse for it--when he didn't need it. His people had plenty, and they gave him plenty. But the chance came, and he couldn't resist the temptation.... He was eighteen years old then.
THE GIRL [gently]. Only a boy.
STRICKLAND. Only a boy, yes, but he had the dishonest streak in him! Other boys passed by the same opportunity. Stevens didn't even know what to do with the money when he had stolen it. They caught him in less than twenty-four hours. It was almost funny.
THE GIRL. He was punished.
STRICKLAND [nodding]. He served a year in jail. God! What a year! His folks wouldn't do a thing for him: they said such a thing had never happened in the family. And they let him take the consequences. [He pauses.] When he got out--[stopping to correct himself]--when he was let out, his family offered him help. But he was too proud to accept the help: it hadn't been offered when he needed it most. He told his family that he never wanted to see them again. He changed his name so they couldn't find him. He left his home town. He came here.
THE GIRL. And he has been honest ever since!
STRICKLAND. Ever since: for twenty-eight years! It was hard at times, terribly hard! In the beginning, when he had to go hungry and cold, when he saw other men riding around in carriages, he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake. He had knocked about a good deal; he had learnt a lot, and he wouldn't have been caught so easily the second time. It was almost worth taking the chance! It was almost worth getting a foot of lead pipe, and waiting in some dark street, waiting, waiting for some sleek honest man with his pockets full of money! It would have been so simple! And he knew how! I don't know why he didn't do it.
THE GIRL. Tell me more.
STRICKLAND. He managed to live. It wasn't pleasant living. But he stayed alive! I don't like to think of what he did to stay alive: it was humiliating; it was shameful, because he hadn't been brought up to do that kind of thing, but it was honest. Honest, and when he walked home from his work at six o'clock, walked home to save the nickel, his betters never crowded him because they didn't want to soil their clothes with his honest dirt! He had thought the year in jail was terrible. The first year he was free was worse. He had never been hungry in jail.
THE GIRL. Then his chance came.
STRICKLAND. Yes, it was a chance. He found a purse in the gutter, and he returned it to the owner before he had made up his mind whether to keep it or not. So they said he was honest! He knew he wasn't! He knew that he had returned it because there was so much money in it that he was afraid to keep it, but he never told them that. And when the man who owned the purse gave him a job, he worked--worked because he was afraid not to work--worked so that he wouldn't have any time to think, because he knew that if he began to think, he would begin to steal! Then they said he was a hard worker, and they promoted him: they made him manager. That gave him more chances to steal, but there were so many men watching him, so many men anxious for him to make a slip so that they might climb over him, that he didn't dare.
[He pauses.]
THE GIRL. And then?
STRICKLAND. The rest was easy. Nothing succeeds like a good reputation, and he didn't steal because he knew they'd catch him. [He pauses again.] But he wasn't honest at bottom! The rotten streak was still there! After twenty-eight years things began to be bad. He speculated: lost all the money he could call his own, and he made up his mind to take other money that wasn't his own, all he could lay his hands on, and run off with it! It was wrong! It was the work of a lifetime gone to hell! But it was the rottenness in him coming to the surface! It was the thief he thought dead coming to life again!
THE GIRL [after a pause]. What a pity!
STRICKLAND. He had been honest so long--he had made other people think that he was honest so long, that he had made himself think that he was honest!
THE GIRL. Was he wrong, Mr. Strickland?
STRICKLAND [looking into her eyes; very quietly]. Stevens, please. [There is a long pause.] I don't know what sent you: who sent you: but you've come here to-night as I am running away. You're too late. You can't stop me. Not even the finger of God Himself could stop me! I've gone too far. [He goes on in a voice which is low, but terrible in its earnestness.] Here is money! [He pulls out his pocketbook.] Hundreds of thousands of it, not a cent of it mine! And I'm stealing it, do you understand me? Stealing it! To-morrow the firm will be bankrupt, and there'll be a reward out for me. [He smiles grimly, and bows.] Here, if you please, is your honest man! What have you to say to him?
THE GIRL [very quietly]. The man who has been honest so long that he has made himself think that he is honest can't steal!
STRICKLAND [hoarsely]. You believe that?
THE GIRL [opening her bag again]. I was left a little money this week: only a few hundred dollars, hardly enough to bother you with. Will you take care of it for me--Alfred Stevens?
STRICKLAND. Good God!
[And utterly unnerved he collapses to a chair. There is a long pause.]
THE GIRL [crossing slowly to the window, and drawing aside the curtain]. Look! What a beautiful night! The thousands of sleeping houses! The millions of shining stars! And the lights beneath! And in the distance, how the stars and the lights meet! So that one cannot say: "Here Gods ends; Here Man begins."
[The telephone rings, harshly, and shrilly. Strickland goes to the receiver.]
STRICKLAND [quietly]. Yes?... You're afraid I'm going to miss the train?... Yes? Well, I'm going to miss the train!... I'm going to stay and face the music! [Hysterically.] I'm an honest man, d'ye hear me? I'm an honest man. [And furiously, he pitches the telephone to the floor, and stands panting, shivering, on the spot. From the window a soft radiance beckons, and trembling in every limb, putting out his hands as if to ward off some unseen obstacle, he moves there slowly.] Did you hear what I told him? I'm going to make good. I'm going to face the music! Because I'm an honest man! An honest man!
[He gasps, stops abruptly, and in a sudden panic-stricken movement, tears the curtains down. The window is closed--has never been opened--but the girl has vanished. And as Strickland, burying his face in his hands, drops to his knees in awe,
The Curtain Falls.]
NIGHT
A PLAY
BY SHOLOM ASCH
Translated by Jack Robbins. Copyright, 1920, by Sholom Asch. All rights reserved.
NIGHT was originally produced by the East-West Players, at the Berkeley Theatre, New York City, April 7, 1916, with the following cast:
THE OUTCAST [prostitute] Miriam Reinhardt. THE DRUNKARD Mark Hoffman. THE BEGGAR Maxim Vodianoy. THE BASTARD Jack Dickler. THE FOOL Max Lieberman. THE THIEF Gustav Blum. HELENKA Elizabeth Meltzer. THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE Bryna Zaranov.
Produced under the direction of GUSTAV BLUM.
Applications for permission to produce NIGHT must be addressed to Mr. Sholom Asch, 3 Bank Street, New York.
NIGHT
A PLAY BY SHOLOM ASCH
[Night in a market place. A small fire burns near a well. On a bench near it sleeps the Beggar. The old Prostitute is warming herself. There is the sound of dogs barking in the distance. Vast shadows move about the market-place. The Drunkard emerges from the gloom of the night.]
DRUNKARD. Good evening, Madam Prostitute. [Listens to the dogs.] Why are the dogs whining like this to-night?
PROSTITUTE. They must be seeing things.
DRUNKARD. Yes, your black soul. Perhaps they think you a devil. That's why they chase all over the butchers' stalls. No wonder. They've reason to be afraid.
BEGGAR [in his sleep]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.
PROSTITUTE. A drunkard and a prostitute are the same thing. None of us is clean of sin.
BEGGAR [sleepily]. Don't take me for a "pal."
[Sleeps on.]
DRUNKARD. Leave him alone. He sings hymns the whole day long.
BEGGAR. Poverty is no sin.
DRUNKARD. Don't mix in. [To the Prostitute.] What do dogs see at night?
PROSTITUTE. They say that on the first of May the Holy Mother walks through the market place, and gathers all the stray souls.
DRUNKARD. What have the dogs got to do with it?
PROSTITUTE. They are people laden with sins. People who died without the Holy Sacrament, and who were buried outside of the fence. At night they roam about the market in the shape of dogs. They run about in the stalls of the butchers. The devil, too, stays there, but when the first of May comes and the prayers begin, the Holy Mother walks through the market-place. The souls of the damned cling to her dress, and she takes them with her to Heaven.
[Pause for a minute.]
BEGGAR [turning in his sleep]. Strong vinegar bursts the cask. Her soul must be black indeed.
DRUNKARD. It's awful to look into it. You'll be among them yet....
PROSTITUTE. I'm not afraid of that. The mercy of God is great. It will reach even me. But all of you will be among the dogs too. Those who live in the street come back to the street after death.
BEGGAR. The street is the home of the beggar. Poverty is no sin.
[Stretches himself and sleeps on. There is a pause. The Fool comes out of the darkness. He is tall, with a vacant, good-humored face, dressed in a soldier's hat, with a wooden toy-sword in his girdle. He grins kindly.]
DRUNKARD. Ah, good evening, Napoleon. [He salutes the Fool.] Where do you hail from?
FOOL [grins and chuckles]. From Turkey. I have driven out the Turk.
DRUNKARD. And where is your army?
FOOL. I have left it on the Vistula.
DRUNKARD. And when will you drive the Russians out of there?
FOOL. I have given my orders already.
DRUNKARD. Are they being carried out?
FOOL. I only need to draw my sword.
DRUNKARD. Your sword?
FOOL. Napoleon gave it to me.
PROSTITUTE. Leave him be. Every one is crazy in his way. [To the fool.] You are cold. Come to the fire. He wanders about the hollows the whole night long.
FOOL [smiles]. I've quartered all of my soldiers, but I have no place for myself to sleep in.
PROSTITUTE. A fool, and yet he knows what he says. [Gives him bread.] Do you want to eat?
FOOL. I get my dinner from the tables of Kings.
BEGGAR [awaking]. You've brought the fool here too? He's got the whole market place to be crazy in, and he comes here, where honest people sleep.
[Takes his stick and tries to reach the Fool.]
PROSTITUTE [defending the Fool]. Leave him alone I tell you. Crazy though he be, he still wants to be among people. Like aches for like.
BEGGAR. Let him go to the graveyard, and yell his craziness out among the graves;--and not disturb honest men in their sleep. The street is the beggar's home, and I don't want to share it with madmen. All that the people throw out of their homes, wanders into the street.
[He chases the Fool away, and lies down.]
DRUNKARD. Who made you boss here? The street belongs to all. Lie down in the city hall, in the mayor's bed, if you want to have rest.
PROSTITUTE. Keep still. He has a right to the place. He's had it long enough.
DRUNKARD. What kind of a right? Are you a newcomer? How long have you been here?
PROSTITUTE. All my life. I was born in the street, there, behind the fence near the church. My mother pointed out the place to me. I have never known any other home, but the street. In the daytime it belongs to all. When people open their shops, and peasants come in their wagons, and trade begins, I feel a stranger here, and I hide in the fields near the cemetery. But when night comes, and people retire into their holes, then the street is mine. I know every nook and corner of the market place. It is my home.
DRUNKARD. You've said it well. In that house there, I have a home, a bed, and a wife. In the daytime I work there. I sit among boots, and drive nails into heels and soles. And I bear my wife's nagging and cursing patiently.... But when night comes I can't stand it any longer. The house becomes too small for me. Something draws me into the street.
PROSTITUTE. It is the curse of the street that rests on you as it does on the howling dogs. All of us are damned, and we are punished here for our sins. And we will not be delivered, till the Holy Mother will come, and we will take hold of her dress, and our souls will be freed.
BEGGAR [in his sleep]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.
DRUNKARD [becomes sad, bows his head]. In the daytime I don't mind it. Then I am like other people. I work like all do. But when night comes....
PROSTITUTE. It's the curse of the street. Don't worry. God will pity all of us. His mercy is great.
[The cry of a child comes from the distance. It resembles the howling of a dog.]
DRUNKARD. What's that?
PROSTITUTE. That's Manka's bastard. He strays the street. He wants to come near the fire.
DRUNKARD. Call him here.
PROSTITUTE. Keep still. [She points to the Beggar.] He will chase the boy away. They believe the boy is born of the Devil.
DRUNKARD. Who made him boss here? All of us are children of the Devil. [He calls to the boy as one calls to a dog.] Come here, you.
[A dumb boy, all in rags, drags himself near. He makes noises like a little beast. He trembles with cold. The Prostitute tries to quiet him.]
PROSTITUTE. He lies the whole night behind his mother's doorstep. She is afraid of her husband. Sometimes she gives him a piece of bread, when no one looks. Thus he crawls like a worm in the street--human flesh and blood.
DRUNKARD. Let him come near the fire--so. [He pushes the boy nearer to the fire.] Give him a piece of bread. I'll take care of any one who tries to hurt him.
BEGGAR [awaking]. No. That's too much. Who brought this here? You know that the Devil is in him?
[Tries to chase the boy away.]
PROSTITUTE [hiding the boy in her shawl]. Have pity.
BEGGAR. You're the Devil's wife. That's why you pity his child.
[Tries to reach the boy.]
DRUNKARD [tears the stick from the Beggar's hand]. We're all the children of the Devil. You've no more on your hide than he has.
BEGGAR. Don't you start anything. I am a Christian, and believe in God. I've no home. That's why I sleep on the street. Every dog finds his hole. But I won't live together with the Devil. And I won't be the neighbor of a harlot either. Nor was a drunkard ever a friend of mine. [He gathers his belongings.] What are you running after me for? This whole street belongs to the Devil. Why are you trying to stop me?
[He tries to go away.]
PROSTITUTE [detaining him]. Don't leave us. Let him only warm himself. He'll go away.
BEGGAR. It does me little honor to be with folk like you anyway.
[He goes away.]
DRUNKARD. Why do you hold him back? Let him go if he thinks us below his dignity.
PROSTITUTE. And do you really think it an honor for one to remain with you? That man is decent at least.
DRUNKARD. Ah, you grow pious as you grow old.
PROSTITUTE. I have always wanted to be in decent company.
[As the Beggar disappears, strange figures begin to show themselves in the darkness. Most of them are half-naked. The Fool also comes back. A dog comes wandering into the crowd.]
PROSTITUTE [looking around in terror]. It's awful to be with so many sick people. Not one amongst them who is of sound mind. Not one who has a clean conscience. The Beggar has gone away.
DRUNKARD [with fear]. The dogs have also come to the fire.
PROSTITUTE. Even they are drawn to people.
[There is a short pause. The Bastard begins to wail.]
DRUNKARD. What's the trouble with him? Take him away.
PROSTITUTE. That's the Devil in him crying--see him gazing at something.
[The day begins to grow gray in the east. Strange, awful light falls over all. Now one, now another corner of the street appears and disappears. All is covered with shadows as in twilight.]
DRUNKARD. Praised be God. The dawn.
PROSTITUTE. How different the light is to-day.
[The dogs begin to howl.]
DRUNKARD. What are the dogs howling about? Chase them away from the fire.
PROSTITUTE. They are looking somewheres. They sniff at the air. They must see something now.
[In the distance is heard the sound of beating against tin plates. The dogs howl with fright.]
PROSTITUTE. Something is coming near to us.
[The Fool laughs.]
DRUNKARD. What is the Fool laughing at? What is he gazing at? Chase him away from the fire.
PROSTITUTE. They all see more clearly than we.
[The dogs howl again, and gather in one group. Footsteps approach.]
DRUNKARD [frightened]. Something is coming near to us.
[A minute's pause. All waiting in fear. The Thief appears. He carries a woman on his shoulders. The woman has a child in her arms. They are followed by small, poorly clad boys who hold trumpets and kettles in their hands, and make as much noise as they can.]
THIEF [thunders]. Fall on your knees. Draw off your hats! Do you see who is coming? The queen! The queen! [All grow pale, and move aside. The Thief walks into their midst.] Who is there? Ah, the Fool. Well, how are your armies getting along? Hold them in readiness. Hold them in readiness. The Drunkard! Ah, the right man for the game. [He bows.] With awe do I kiss the little hand of Madame Prostitute. [To the Bastard]: And your little heir is here also? [To the woman]: Take them with you, oh, Queen. They too are dogs like us, thrown into the street. Let them come with us, We have room for many, many.
WOMAN. Take them with us, my man. We will all go together.
THIEF [letting the Woman down]. Our company is growing big. Come with us.
DRUNKARD [awaking from his torpor and looking at the Thief]. So you are the thief they let out of prison not long ago. And I was afraid of you a little while ago. [He spits.] That's a fine joke. Always at your play. Who's the woman, and the children? Where did you get them?
THIEF. Brother, this is not play. [He points to the Woman.] She is a queen. [He points to the children.] And they are princes. Every one a prince. At your knees before her! Take off your hat.
DRUNKARD. I know this gentleman quite well. He likes to joke.
[The Thief comes close to him.]
THIEF. To-night is the night when the dogs are delivered. Look at her. [He points at the Woman.] Look at us. We were locked in, and we have come out. We are all one family--dogs. We wander on the street. Men have shut their doors in our faces. Come, dogs. We will unite to-day. Throw off your chains, and shake yourself as if you were shaking dust from your shoulders. You are men after all. I have known you from childhood. I knew your mother.
DRUNKARD [wondering]. I don't know what you mean.
THIEF. Look at yourself. What have they made of you? You walk the street all night like an outcast. Your children are afraid of you. They hide when they see you drunk on the street, and weep for you. Are you to blame for it? You were made one with a mass of flesh you hate. You sit bent over your boots the whole day long, and curses and blows are hurled at your head. And when night comes you crawl in the gutter, and you will crawl there till you will be freed from shame.
DRUNKARD. What are you telling me this for?
THIEF. And are you to blame for this? Have you had one minute of happiness in your whole life? Who took care of you? You were raised by your stepfather's cane. Show me the scars on your body. They beat you from childhood on; first your stepfather, then your "step-wife." No one ever spoke to you as to a friend. No one ever comforted you in your grief.
[The Drunkard falls to the ground and weeps.]
THIEF [to the Woman]. And he is an honest man. I know him. We went to the same school. He had an honest mother. She loved him only as a mother can. [Whispering to the Woman.] She brought him bread behind his stepfather's back.
DRUNKARD. I will never drink again. I give my word of honor.
[He weeps.]
THIEF. Don't cry, brother. We are all dogs of the street. But we unite to-day. Come with us, come. We will care for you. We will all be together. Take the Prostitute, and come with us.
[The old Prostitute rises and looks amazed.]
PROSTITUTE. Me?
THIEF [taking her hand]. We will not turn you, nor avoid you. We know what you are. You are not to blame. Who brought you up? Who was your mother? You were born in the street like a goat. Every stone, every hole in the earth caresses you like a mother. You were thrown into the street at birth, and men ran from you as from a leper. Any wonder that this is what became of you? You lay in the street like an old, dirty rag.
PROSTITUTE [half-crying]. I am not worthy of such comforting words by a gentleman.
THIEF. You are worthy. You are like all of us. Your skin is dirty, but your soul is clean. Wash your sins away, throw the curse from off your shoulders, and you will become a human being like all of us. You too long for people. I know you. You are good, you love humanity. It is they who have cursed you so. You were always a clean child. Wait. Wait. [He takes water from the well, and pours it on her.] I wash your head, and you are a human being like the rest of us. The curse is removed from you. Look around yourself. Spring is here. Its fragrance is everywhere. You are a girl yet, a mere child. You know no wickedness. You are in your father's garden. Your mother sits near the window and looks at you. You are walking with your beloved.
[_He takes the Drunkard, puts him side by side with the Prostitute, joins their hands, and leads them back and forth._]
PROSTITUTE [smiles]. Don't talk to me like that.
THIEF. You are being married now. Virgins come and bring you your bridal dress, your veil, your myrtle wreath. You are chaste. They lead you to the altar. Your mother lays her hand on your head and blesses you. Sweet harp music is heard. Your bridegroom takes his place beside you.
[The Prostitute breaks out into tears.]
DRUNKARD [excited]. I will be together with her. I will defend her. I will not let them insult her. She is my sister. I will work for her.
THIEF. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. [He takes the Bastard in his arms and kisses him on the forehead.] And, he, too, is our child. All of us are dogs of the street. All of us unite to-day.
DRUNKARD [takes the boy from the Thief]. He is our child. He will be with us. [He takes the arm of the Prostitute.] Come, we will go together. I will work for you. You will bring him up, and he will be our child. [He takes the shawl from the Prostitute, and wraps himself and the boy in it.] What? You do not hear? Listen. I mean it with my whole heart.
[The Prostitute does not hear. She looks with awe at the Woman.]
THIEF. That's the way. That's the way. That's the way. To-day we unite. We go together. We will be one with the dogs. [He caresses all he finds on the street.] Blow the trumpets, boys. Beat the drums. We choose a queen to-day. [To the Fool.] The army waits for you, with swords in their hands, with spears ready. Do you see the cannon all trained? All wait for your command. Do you see the foe around you? [He points to the street with a broad majestic gesture.] Here stands the army.
FOOL [happily]. Yes, yes.
THIEF. Give your order, Napoleon. You are our general. Draw the sword, and command!
FOOL [draws his wooden sword and cries loudly as if he saw an army in the market-place]. Present arms!
THIEF [loudly]. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. All will unite. We choose a queen to-day. [He points to the Woman.] She is worthy of wearing the crown of the street. Come, queen. Mount to your throne. [He bends his back.] Boys, blow your trumpets. Beat your drums. At your knees. All hats off. The queen comes. The queen comes. So will we go to our land.
[It is grown lighter. The face of the Woman has grown young and beautiful, and begins to look like the face of the Holy Mother.]
PROSTITUTE [who has looked at the Woman with awe, recognizes her in the gray light, as she sits on the Thief's shoulders with the child in her arms. She falls to her knees before her, and cries in an unearthly voice]. Oh, see, see. It is the Holy Mother. Look at her--her face. She has come from the church. Oh, it is the holy picture before which I always pray. I know her. Our Holy Mother in her very flesh. [She gives a great cry, and falls prostrate before the Woman.] Oh, Mother, Mother, take me under Thy protection. [She falls prostrate, unable to talk any more. The others are infected with the spirit of her words. They look with fear at the Woman's face. They recognize the Madonna. They bend half-ways on their knees. The Thief, who has let her down from his shoulders, takes off his hat and kneels with the rest. All prostrate themselves. There is the sound of a church-bell. It is day. From the open window of a house across the way, leans out the wife of the Drunkard, and yells.] Ah, ah, what are you doing there. Come into the house. There is work to be done.
DRUNKARD [roused from his ecstasy, tears his hand away from that of the Prostitute, and looks at the Woman with the Thief.] Ha-ha-ha. That's Helenka, Andrey the Plasterer's wife. Ha-ha-ha. He's cracked a good joke.
[He runs away. The others awake as if from sleep. The Prostitute suddenly rises. Helenka tries to escape from the Thief's hands.]
HELENKA. Why did you drag me into the street?
THIEF [holding her hand.] Come with me. Remember what we said. Come to another land with me.
HELENKA [weeping]. What does he want with me? Why did he drag me into the street? Come home, children.
[All run from him.]
THIEF [stands near the well, and thunders after them]. Dogs, where are you running?... You dogs, you damned dogs.... [Townspeople come to the well with pails, grumbling.] Get out of the way....
[Curtain.]
FORGOTTEN SOULS
A PLAY
BY DAVID PINSKI TRANSLATED AND EDITED BY ISAAC GOLDBERG, PH.D.
Copyright, 1916, by L. E. Bassett. All rights reserved.
PERSONS
FANNY SEGAL [owner of a tailoring establishment]. LIZZIE EHRLICH [a pianist], } [Miss Segal's boarders]. HINDES [a teacher], }
PLACE: A Russian Provincial Town. TIME: 1916.
Reprinted from "Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre" by permission of, and special arrangements with, Dr. Isaac Goldberg and David Pinski.
FORGOTTEN SOULS
A PLAY BY DAVID PINSKI
[SCENE: Workroom at Fanny Segal's. A door to the left of the spectator, another in the back. A large table, covered with various materials; at each side of the table a sewing machine. On the wall to the right, a three-panelled mirror; in the corner, a large wardrobe. Not far from the wardrobe two dressmaker's forms, covered with cloaks. In the middle a broad armchair. Evening.]
FANNY [runs out through the rear door and soon returns with a letter in her hand. She tears it nervously open and is absorbed in reading. Suddenly she gives a scream of delight]. Oh!--Oh! [Passes her hand over her face and through her hair, looks at the letter, cries out anew, breathing with difficulty. Looks at the letter once more, and exclaims heavily.] You! My love! My love! [She is lost for a moment in thought, then calls.] Lizzie! Lizzie! Lizzie!
LIZZIE [enters, dressed up as if for a ball, sticking a pin in her hat. Mocks Fanny's tone.] What's up? What's up? What's up?
FANNY. Read this! Quickly! It's from Berman!
LIZZIE [takes the letter]. Why see! We've just been talking about him. And they really accepted his drama?
[Looks at the letter.]
FANNY [looks on, too, in great excitement].
LIZZIE [as she reads]. That's fine! [Turns over a page and continues reading.] Why! This is an actual proposal of marriage, Fanny, my dear!
FANNY [her breath short from delight]. Did you understand it that way, too?
LIZZIE [still looking at the letter]. How can it be interpreted otherwise? [About to read the letter aloud.] Ahem! [Reads with a certain solemnity.] "My drama has been accepted and will be produced this very winter. The conditions of the contract are first-rate, and the director promises me a great success, and incidentally a great reputation." [Reads over some passages in an indistinct nasal monotone, then continues.] "My! You ought to see me now.--I've sung and danced so much that it'll be a wonder to me if I'm not asked to move. I feel so strong. And now to write, to create, to do things!" [Reads again in a nasal monotone, and soon with greater solemnity than before, and a certain tenderness.] "And now, I hope, better days are in store for us, happiness of such a nature that you cannot be indifferent to it." [Stops reading.] That's a bit veiled, but it's plain talk just the same. [Gives Fanny the letter. Speaks lovingly.] Lucky woman! My darling Fanny! [Embraces her.] You dear! [Kisses her.]
FANNY. So that's the way you understand it, too? [Speaks in gasps, trembling all over.] Oh! Oh!
[Covers her face with the letter, takes it to her lips and breathes with difficulty. She takes from her right sleeve a handkerchief and wipes her eyes.]
LIZZIE [moved, embracing her with both arms]. My dear Fanny! How happy I am! You dear, you! [Dreamily.] Now I know how I'll play at the Ginsbergs' to-night! I'll put my whole soul into the music, and it will be the merriest, cheeriest soul that ever lived in the world.
FANNY [bends down and kisses her forehead]. My faithful friend!
LIZZIE. At last! My dream's come true!
FANNY [drops into the armchair]. Your dream?
LIZZIE [takes a piece of cloth from the table, spreads it out on the floor, and kneels before Fanny]. Listen. I dreamed for you a hero before whom the world, even before seeing him, would bare its head. I dreamed for you a triumphal march of powerful harmonies, a genius, a superman, such as only you deserve.
FANNY. Sh! Sh! Don't talk like that!
LIZZIE. No, no. You can't take that away from me. As long as I shall live I'll never cease admiring you. There aren't many sisters in the world like you. Why, you never have given a thought to yourself, never a look, but have worked with might and main to make a somebody out of your sister. I'll tell you the truth. I've often had the most unfriendly feelings toward your sister Olga. She takes it so easy there in Petrograd, while you--
FANNY [tenderly]. You're a naughty girl.
LIZZIE. I simply couldn't see how things went on,--how you were working yourself to death.
FANNY. But that was my happiness, and now I am amply repaid for it, to see Olga placed upon an independent footing, with a great future before her as a painter.
LIZZIE. That kind of happiness did not appeal very much to me. I wanted, for you, a different kind of happiness,--the happiness of being a wife, of being a mother, of loving and being loved.
FANNY [in a reverie]. I had already weaned my thoughts away from love and family life as the only happiness.
LIZZIE. You poor soul!
FANNY. When my mother died, my road was clearly mapped out for me: to be to my sister, who is eight years younger than I, both a father and a mother. That purpose was great and holy to me. I never thought of anything else. Only in the early twenties, between twenty-two and twenty-five, a longing for something else came to me. Not that my sister became a burden to me, God forbid, but I wanted something more, a full life, happiness and--love. At that time I used to cry very much, and wet my pillow with my tears, and I was very unhappy. And I was easily angered then, too, so you see I was far from an angel.
LIZZIE [draws Fanny nearer, and kisses her]. You darling, you!
FANNY. But later the longing left me, as if it had been charmed away. Olga grew older, and her talents began to ripen. Then I forgot myself altogether, and she became again my sole concern.
LIZZIE. And is that all?
FANNY. What else can there be? Of course, when my sister went to Petrograd she was no longer under my immediate care and I was left all alone. The old longing re-awoke in my bosom but I told myself that one of my years had no right to expect happiness and love? So I determined to tear out, to uproot from my heart every longing. I tried to convince myself that my goal in life had already been attained--that I had placed a helpless child securely upon her feet--
LIZZIE. But you loved Berman all the time, didn't you?
FANNY. Yes, I loved him all the time, but I fought my feelings. Life had taught me to restrain and to suppress my desires. I argued: He is too far above me--
LIZZIE. Too far above you?
FANNY [continuing]. And I am too worn-out for him. And furthermore, I tried to make myself believe that his daily visits here were accidental, that they were not intended for me at all, but for his friend and nephew Hindes, who happens to board with me.
LIZZIE. But how could you help perceiving that he was something more than indifference to you? You must have been able to read it in his eyes.
FANNY [smiling]. Well, you see how it is! And perhaps for the very reason that I had abandoned all ideas of love, and had sought to deceive myself into believing that I was a dried-up twig on the tree of live--
LIZZIE [jumping up]. My! How you sinned against yourself!
FANNY [rising]. But now the sap and the strength flow again within me,--now I am young once more.--Ah! Life, life!--To enjoy it, to drink it down in copious draughts, to feel it in every pulse-beat--Oh, Lizzie, play me a triumphal march, a song of joy, of jubilation....
LIZZIE. So that the very walls will dance and the heavens join in the chorus. [Goes to the door at the left, singing.] "Joy, thou goddess, fair, immortal, daughter of Elysium, Mad with rapture--" [Suddenly stops.] Sh! Hindes is coming!
[Listens.]
FANNY [she has been standing as if entranced; her whole body trembles as she awakens to her surroundings. She puts her finger to her nose, warningly.] Don't say a word to him about it.
LIZZIE. I will! He must know it, he must be happy over it, too. And if he truly loves you, he will be happy to learn it. And then, once for all he'll get rid of his notions about winning you.
FANNY. Don't be so inconsiderate.
LIZZIE. Leave it to me!... Hindes! Hindes!
FANNY. It's high time you left for the Ginsbergs'.
LIZZIE. I've a few minutes yet.... Hindes! Hindes!
HINDES [appears at the rear door. He wears spectacles; under his left arm a crutch, under his right arm books, and in his hands various bags of food].
FANNY [steals out through the door at the left].
HINDES. Good evening. What's the news?
LIZZIE. Come here! Quick! Fa--
HINDES. Won't you give me time to carry my parcels into my room?
LIZZIE. Not even a second! Fanny has--
HINDES [taking an apple from a bag]. Have an apple.
LIZZIE [refusing it]. Let me speak, won't you! Fa--
HINDES. May I at least sit down?
LIZZIE [loudly]. Fanny has received a letter from Berman!
HINDES [taking a seat]. Saying that his drama has been accepted. I, too, have received a letter from Berman.
LIZZIE. That's nothing. The point is that he is seeking to make a match with her. He has practically proposed to her.
HINDES [astonished]. Practically proposed? To Fanny?
LIZZIE. Yes, and when Fanny comes back you just see to it that you wish her a right friendly congratulation, and that you make no--[Stops suddenly.] Hm! I came near saying something silly.--Oh, I'm so happy, and I'd just have the whole world happy with me. Do you hear? You must help her celebrate, do you hear? And now, good night to you, for I must run along to the Ginsbergs'.
[Turns to the door at the left singing: "Joy, thou goddess, fair, immortal...."]
HINDES [calling after her]. But--the devil. Miss Ehrlich!
LIZZIE [at the door]. I haven't a single moment to spare for the devil.
[She disappears.]
HINDES [grunts angrily, throws his crutch to the ground, places his books and his packages on a chair, and mumbles]. What mockery is this!
[Takes out a letter from his inside pocket and reads it over several times. Grunts again. Rests his head heavily upon his hands, and looks vacantly forward, as if deeply puzzled.]
FANNY [enters, embarrassed]. Good evening, Hindes!
HINDES [mumbles, without changing his position]. Good evening!
FANNY [looks at him in embarrassment, and begins to busy herself with the cloaks on the forms.]
HINDES [still in the same position. He taps his foot nervously. He soon ceases this, and speaks without looking at Fanny]. Miss Segal, will you permit me to see Berman's letter?
FANNY [with a nervous laugh]. That's a bit indiscreet--not at all like a cavalier.
HINDES [same position and same tone]. Will you permit me to see Berman's letter?
FANNY [with a laugh of embarrassment, throws him the letter, which she has been holding in her sleeve]. Read it, if that's how you feel.
HINDES [bends slowly down, gets the letter, commences to read it, and then to grumble]. H'm! So! [He lets the letter fall to his knee, and stares vacantly before him. He shakes his foot nervously and mumbles as if to himself.] To be such an idiot!
FANNY [regards him with astonishment].
HINDES [somewhat more softly]. To be such an idiot!
FANNY [laughing, still embarrassed]. Who?
HINDES. Not I.
[Picks up his crutch, the books and the parcels, arises, and gives the letter to Fanny.]
FANNY [beseechingly]. Hindes, don't take it so badly. You make me very sad.
HINDES. I'm going to my room, so you won't see me.
FANNY [as before]. Don't speak to me like that, Hindes. Be my good friend, as you always were. [In a lower tone, embarrassed.] And be good to Berman. For you know, between us, between you and me, there could never have been anything more than friendship.
HINDES. There is no need of your telling me that. I know what I know and have no fault to find with you.
FANNY. Then why are you so upset, and why do you reproach yourself?
HINDES. Because....
FANNY. Because what?
HINDES [after an inner struggle, stormily]. Because I am in a rage! To think of a chap writing such a veiled, ambiguous, absolutely botched sentence, and cooking up such a mess!
FANNY. What do you mean by all this?
HINDES. You know, Miss Segal, what my feelings are toward you, and you know that I wish you all happiness. I assure you that I would bury deep within me all my grief and all my longing, and would rejoice with a full heart--if things were as you understood them from Berman's letter.
FANNY. As I understood them from Berman's letter?
HINDES. --And what rouses my anger and makes me hesitate is that it should have had to happen to you and that I must be the surgeon to cut the cataract from your eye.
FANNY [astounded]. Drop your rhetorical figures. End your work. Cut away, since you've begun the cutting.
HINDES [without looking at her, deeply stirred]. Berman did not mean you.
FANNY. Not me?
HINDES. Not you, but your sister.
FANNY [with an outcry]. Oh!--
HINDES. He writes me that his first meeting with her was as if the splendor of God had suddenly shone down upon him,--that gradually he was inflamed by a fiery passion, and that he hopes his love is returned, that....
FANNY [falls upon a chair, her face turned toward the table. She breaks into moaning]. She has taken from me everything!
[In deepest despair, with cries from her innermost being, she tears at her hair.]
HINDES [drops his books and packages to the floor. Limps over to Fanny, and removes her hands from her head]. You have good reason to weep, but not to harm yourself.
FANNY [hysterically]. She has taken from me everything! My ambition to study, my youth, my fondest hopes, and now....
HINDES. And now?--Nothing. As you see, Berman never loved you. If it hadn't been for that unfortunate, ambiguous, absolutely botched, simply idiotic sentence....
FANNY [softly]. Hindes, I feel that I no longer care to live.
HINDES. Folly!
FANNY. I feel as if my heart had been torn in two. My soul is empty, desolate ... as if an abyss had opened before me.... What have I now in life for? I can live no longer!
HINDES. Folly! Nonsense!
FANNY. I have already lived my life....
HINDES. Absurd!
FANNY [resolutely]. I know what I'm talking about, and I know what to do.
[Silence.]
HINDES [regarding her closely. With blunt emphasis]. You're thinking now over what death you shall choose.
FANNY [motionless].
HINDES [taking a seat]. Let me tell you a story. There was once upon a time a man who--not through doubt and misfortune, but rather through good times and pleasures, came to the conclusion that life wasn't worth living. So he went off to buy a revolver. On his way a great clamor arose in the street. A house had caught fire and in a moment was in flames. Suddenly, at one of the windows in the top story there appeared a woman. The firemen had placed their highest ladders against the building and a man began to climb up. That man was none other than our candidate for suicide. He took the woman out of the window, gave her to the firemen who had followed him up, and then went through the window into the house. The surrounding crowd trembled with fear lest the house should cave in at the very last moment. Flames already appeared at the window, and people were sure that the hero had been burned to death inside. But he had not been burned; he soon appeared on the roof, with a small child in his arms. The ladders could not reach to this height, so the firemen threw him a rope. He tied the rope about the child and lowered it to the firemen. But he himself was beyond rescue. He folded his hands over his heart, and tears trickled from his eyes. He, who but a moment before had sought death, now desired not to die. No, he wanted to live, for in that moment he had found a purpose: to live and to do good.
FANNY [angrily]. To do good! I'm tired of doing good!
HINDES. Don't sin against yourself, Fanny!
FANNY. Do good! I have done good; I have lived for others, not myself; and now you can see for yourself that I have not fulfilled my life. I feel as wretched as the most miserable, as the most wicked, and I long for death even as the most unhappy!
HINDES [looking at her from under his spectacles]. Does Olga know of your feelings toward Berman?
FANNY [angrily]. I don't know what she knows.
HINDES. Can't you give me any better reply than that?
FANNY. What can I know? I used to write her letters just full of Berman.
HINDES. Could Olga have gathered from them that you were not indifferently disposed toward him?
FANNY. What do you mean by this cross-examination?
HINDES. I have a notion that if you were to do what you have in your mind at present,--a thing I cannot bring myself to name,--then Olga would not accept Berman's love. Rather she would take her own life, since she would look upon herself as the cause of your death.
FANNY. What's this you've thought up?
HINDES. Just what you heard.
FANNY. And you mean--?
HINDES. --That you know your sister and ought to realize what she's liable to do.
FANNY [in a fit of anger]. First she takes away my life, and now she will not let me die!
[Her head sinks to the table.]
HINDES. There spoke the true Fanny, the Fanny of yore.
FANNY [weeps bitterly].
HINDES. Well may you weep. Weep, Fanny, weep until the tears come no more. But when that is over, then dry your eyes and never weep again. Dry forever the source of all your tears. That's exactly what I did, do you understand? Such people as you and I, robbed of personal happiness, must either weep forever, or never weep at all. I chose the latter course. Harden yourself, Fanny, and then fold your arms on your breast and look fearlessly forward into life, fulfilling it as your heart dictates.
FANNY [continues weeping].
HINDES [noticing Berman's letter on the table, takes it up and throws it down angrily]. Such a botched, idiotic sentence! And he's a poet!
FANNY [raising her head]. If things are as you say, then Olga will in any case reject Berman. She will imagine that she is taking him away from me, and such a thing she would never do.
HINDES. Perhaps. [Suddenly, bluntly.] And what will be the effect of all this upon you?
FANNY [brokenly]. Who's thinking of self? I mean that I want her to have him.
HINDES. There's the old Fanny again!
FANNY. Ah! Enough of that! Better help me with some suggestion.
HINDES. Some suggestion? Be her matchmaker.
FANNY. And suppose she should turn the tables and want to be my matchmaker?
HINDES. We've got to think that over.
[Silence.]
FANNY [brokenly]. Hindes!
HINDES. What?
FANNY. I have an idea.
HINDES. Good.
FANNY. But I need your aid.
HINDES. Count on me, if I'm able.
FANNY. Do you promise?
HINDES. Blindly?
FANNY. Blindly.
HINDES [looks at her]. Why must I promise you blindly? If I'm able, you may be sure I'll help.
FANNY [brokenly, yet in embarrassment]. Take me.... Marry me.
HINDES [for a moment he looks at her, then picks up his crutch, his books and the packages].
FANNY [beseechingly]. Hindes! If I should marry, Olga wouldn't have any obstacle in her way.
HINDES. Miss Segal, I have loved you, and still do. But I refuse to be the altar upon which you shall sacrifice yourself.
FANNY. But a moment ago you dissuaded me from death. Will you now drive me back to it?
HINDES. Your sister will be able to find happiness without Berman.
FANNY. But if she loves him?--
HINDES. Then she'll suffer, just as we do.
FANNY. No! Olga must not suffer! Do you hear! I'll not have it!
HINDES. That is very nice of you.
FANNY [through her tears]. Hindes, I no longer know you.
HINDES [turns toward the door]. Good night.
FANNY [is overcome by sobbing].
HINDES [limps to the door, then stops. Looks downwards, then raises his eyes toward Fanny]. Miss Segal, why is it that during all the time that I have boarded with you I have made no declaration of love, that I have never proposed marriage?
FANNY [weeps].
HINDES. I'll tell you. Wasn't it because I knew that you didn't love me, and because I wanted your love, not merely your respect?
FANNY [firmly]. No. You didn't do it simply because you knew that I would refuse you.
HINDES. And suppose I expected "Yes" from you?
FANNY. Then you would have proposed.
HINDES. And married you without your love?
FANNY. Yes.
HINDES. But then I didn't know that you loved another.
FANNY [brokenly]. The other no longer exists for me.
HINDES [looks again at the floor. Silence].
FANNY. Hindes!
HINDES. Yes?
FANNY. Come nearer to me.
HINDES. I am lame.
FANNY. Put all your bundles aside.
HINDES [hesitates for a moment, then puts down his books and packages].
FANNY [as if in embarrassment]. Everything.... Everything....
HINDES [bluntly]. Don't be ashamed. Say just what you mean: Lay aside the crutch, too.
[He lays aside the crutch.]
FANNY [arises, takes his hand]. Hindes, you know my attitude toward you. You know how highly I esteem you, how happy I've always been to possess in you a good, true friend.... [Nestles her head against him, coyly.] Embrace me, and give me a kiss, a hot, passionate kiss. Put into it your whole love, make it express your whole true soul. [Brokenly, and in tears.] I tell you, our life will be--happy. We souls, forgotten by happiness, will yet find it--in our own way--as best we can. [Less tearfully.] You'll see how it'll soon be. Lizzie will come home and she'll play us a march of jubilation, a march of joy.... [Brokenly.] She owes it to me!... I'll dance, I tell you; I'll dance for two. You'll see. And I'll sing. I'll turn things upside down. Hindes, kiss me, hotly, hotly.
HINDES [passionately, through tears]. You.... You....
[He gives her a long kiss, as if entranced.]
[Slow Curtain.]
* * * * *
BIBLIOGRAPHY
OF THE LITTLE THEATRE