The easiest way; an American play concerning a peculiar phase of New York life, in four acts and four scenes

Front matter

11908

i

Copy 2 r

Act IV

The same as Act. III.

Time: The same afternoon.

Description of Characters

LAURA MURDOCK, twenty-five years of age, is a type that is not uncommon to the theatrical life in New York, and which has grown in importance in relation to the profession since the business of giving public entertainments has been so utterly reduced to a commercial basis.

At an early age she came from Australia and settled in San Francisco. She was gifted with considerable beauty and an aptitude for theatrical accomplishment that soon raised her in a position of more or less importance in a local stock company playing in that city.

A woman of intense superficial emotions; her imagination is without any enduring depths, but for the passing time she can place herself in an attitude of great affection and devotion. Sensually, the woman had marked characteristics, and with the flattery that surrounded her she soon becam.e a favorite in the select circles who made such places as ''The Poodle Dog" and "Zincand's" famous.

In the matter of general dissipation she was always careful not in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her physical attractiveness, or for one moment diminish her sense of keen worldly calculation.

In time she married. It was, of course, a failure. Her vacillating nature was such that she could not be absolutely true tO' the man to whom she had given her life, and after several bitter experiences, she had the horror of seeing him kill himself in front of her. There was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of remorse, and then peculiar recuperation of spirits, beauty and attractiveness that so marks this type of woman. She was deceived by other men in many various ways, and finally came to that stage of life that is known in theatrical circles as being "wised up."

At the early age of 19 she married again with equally disastrous results, and later the attention of a prominent theatrical manager being called to her, she took an important part in a unique

New York production and immediately gained considerable reputation. The fact of her two marriages and that she had gone through, before reaching the age of womanhood, more escapades than most women do when they are about to depart life after having lived it to the full, was not generally known in New York, and there was not a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism that betrayed it. She was soft-voiced, very pretty, very girlish. Her keen sense of wordly calculation led her to believe that in order to progress in her theatrical career she must have some other influence outside of her art and dramatic accomplishment, so she attempted to infatuate, with no little success, a hard-headed, blunt and supposedly invincible theatrical manager, who, in his cold, stolid way, gave her what love there was in him. This, however, not satisfying the woman, she played two ends against the middle, and finding a young man of wealth and position who could give her in his youth, the exuberance and joy utterly apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she adopted him and for a while lived with him. Exhausting his money she cast him aside, always spending a certain part of the time with the theatrical manager. The young man became crazed, and at a restaurant tried to murder all of them.

From that time up to the opening of the play her career was a succession of brilliant coups in the matter of gaining the confidence and love, not to say some money, of men of all ages and all works in life. Her fascination was as undeniable as her insincerity of purpose. She had never made an honest effort to be an honest woman, although she had imagined herself always persecuted, the victim of circumstances, and was always ready to excuse any viciousness of character which led her into her peculiar difficulties.

An unsci*upulous aunt was adopted to act as a shield for her moral transgressions, and while acknowledged to be a mistress of her business — that of acting — from a purely technical point of view, her lack of sympathy, her abuse of her dramatic temperament in her private affairs had been such as to make it impossible for her to sincerely impress audiences with real emotional power, and, therefore, without the said influences, which she always had at band, she remained a mediocre artist.

At the time of the opening of our play she has played a summer engagement with a stock company in Denver, which has just been terminated. She has met there John Madison, a man of about twenty-seven years of age, whose position was that of a dramatic critic on one of the local papers. Laura Murdock, with her usual wisdom, started in to fascinate John Madison, but found, for once in her life, she had met her match.

John Madison was good to look at, frank, verile, but a man of broad experience, and not to be hoodwinked. For the first time Laura Murdock felt that the shoe was pinching on the other foot, and without any possible indication of reciprocal affection she was slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly and decently in love with him.

She had for the past two years been the special favorite and mistress of Willard Brocton. The understanding was one of pure friendship. He was a man who had a varied taste in the matter of selecting his women, was honest in a general way, and perfectly frank about his amours. He had been most generous to Laura Murdock, and his close relations with several very prominent theatrical managers made it possible for him to always secure her desirable engagements, generally in New York.

With all her past experiences, tragic and otherwise, Laura Murdock found no equal to this sudden, this slowly increasing love for the young Western man. At first she attempted to deceive him. Her baby face, her masterful assumption of innocence and childlike devotion made an impression upon him. He let her know in no uncertain way that he knew her record from the day she stepped on American soil in San Francisco, to the time when she had come to Denver, but still he liked her. And at the beginning of this play we find both these people thoroughly understanding each other and believing in each other's love.

John Madison is a peculiar type of the Western man. Up to the time of his meeting Laura he had always been employed either in the mines or on a newspaper west of the Mississippi River. He was one of those itinerant reporters, to-day you might find him in Seattle, to-morrow in Butte, the next week in Denver, and then possibly he would make the circuit from Los Angeles to Frisco, and then all around again. He drank his whiskey straight, played his faro fairly, and was not particular about the women with whom he went.

He started in life in the Western country at an early age. His natural talents, both for literature and general adaptability to all conditions of life, were early exemplified, but his alma mater was the barroom, and the faculty of that college, the bartenders and gamblers and general habitues who characterized them.

He seldom had social engagements outside of certain disreputable establishments, where a genial personality or an overburdened pocketbook gives entree, and where the rules of conventionality have never even been whispered. His love affairs were confined to this class of women and seldom lasted more than a week or ten days.

His editors knew him as a brilliant genius, irresponsible, unreliable, but at times inestimably valuable. He cared little for personal appearance beyond a certain degree of neatness, and was quick on the trigger, in a time of over-heated argument could go some distance with his fists, and his whole career is best described as "happy-go-lucky/'

He realized fully his ability, that he could do almost anything fairly well and some things especially well, but he never tried to accomplish an}1;hing beyond the earning of a comfortable living. Twenty-five or thirty dollars a week was all he needed ; with that he could buy his liquor, treat his women, some times play a little faro, sit up all night and sleep all day, and in general lead a life of good-natured vagabondage that had always pleased him and which he had chosen as a career.

The objection of safer and saner friends to this form of livelihood was always met by him with a slap on the back and a laugh, "Don't you worry about me, partner, if I'm going to hell I'm going there with bells on," was always his rejoinder, and yet when called upon to cover some great big news story, or report some tremendously vital event, he settled down to his work with a steely determination and a grim joy that resulted in work which classified him as almost a genius. Any great mental effort of this character, any jLisuaL achievement along these lines would be immediately followed by a protracted debauch that would upset him physically and m.entally for weeks at a time, but he always recovered and landed on his feet, and with the same laugh and smile again went at his work.

If there had been opportunities to meet decent women of good social standing he had always thrown them aside with the declaration that they bored him to death, and there never had entered into his heart a feeling or idea of real affection until he met Laura. He fell for a moment under the spirit of her fascination, and then, with that cold logic he analyzed her, and found out that exteriorly she had every sign of girlhood, ingenuousness, sweetness of character and possibility of aft'ection, but that spiritually and mentally she was nothing more than a moral wreck. He observed keenly her efforts to win him and her disappointment at her failure, not that she cared so much for him personally, but that it hurt her vanity not to be successful with this good-for-nothing, good-natured vagabond, when she had met men of wealth and position whom she made kneel at her feet. He slowly observed her changing point of view and from her kittenish ingenuousness she became serious, womanly, really sincere, he knew that he had awakened in her her first decent affection, and he knew that she was awakening in him his first desire to do things and be big and worth while, and together these two drifted toward a path of decent dealing, decent ambition, decent thought, and decent love until at last they both found themselves and acknowledged all the wickedness of what had been and planned for all the virtue and goodness of what was to be, and it is at this point that our first act begins

Elfie St. Clair is a type of a Tenderloin grafter in New York, who, after all, has been more sinned against than sinning, but who, having been imposed upon, deceived, ill-treated and bulldozed by the type of men who prey on women in New York, had turned the tables and with her charm and her beauty gone out to make the same slaughter on the other sex as she suffered with ma^iy of her sisters.

She is a woman without a moral conscience, whose entire life is dictated by a small mental operation. Coming to New York as a beautiful girl she entered the chorus. She became famous for her beauty. On every hand were the rich and despicable stagedoor vultures ready to give her any thing that a woman's heart could desire, from clothes, to horses, carriages, money and what not, but Elfie St. Clair, at this time, with a girl-like instinct, fell in love w-ith a man connected with the company, and during all the time that she might have profited and become a rich woman by the attentions of these outsiders, she remained true to this man until finally her fame as the beauty of the city waned The years told on her to a certain extent, and there were the others coming as young as she had been, and as good to look at, and where before the automobile of the millionaire was at hand for her, she found that through her trust ill her lover that it was there for some one else, but she was content with her joys until finally the man deliberately jilted her and left her alone.

What had gone of her beauty had been replaced by a keen knowledge of human nature and of men, so she determined to give herself up entirely to a life of gain. She knew just how much champagne should be drunk without injuring one's health; she knew just what physical necessities should be indulged in to preserve to the greatest degree her remaining beauty. There was no trick of the hair-dresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or any one of the legion of people who devote their time to aiding the physical fascinations of women, which she did not know. She knew exactly what perfumes to use, what stockings to wear, how she should live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation, and all this she determined to devote to profit.

She knew that as an actress, per se, she had no future ; that the time of a woman's beauty was limited ; she was conscious of the fact that already she had lost the youthful litheness of figure that had made her so fascinating in the past, so she laid aside every Sentiment, physical and spiritual, and determined to choose a man as her companion who had the biggest bankroll and the most liberal intention. His age, his station in life, the fact whether she Hked or disliked him should not enter into this scheme at all, she figured that she had been made a fool of by men and there was only one revenge, the accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of them once and for all.

There were, of course, certain likes and dislikes that she enjoyed, and in a way she indulged them. There were men whose company she cared for, but their association was practically sexless and had come down to a point of mere good fellowship.

WiLLARD Brockton, a New York broker, was an honest sensualist, and when one says an honest sensualist, the meaning is a man who had none of the cad in his character, who took advantage of no one, and allowed no one to take advantage of him. He honestly detested any man who took advantage of a pure woman. He detested any man who deceived a woman. He believed that there was only one way to go through life, and that was to be frank with those with whom one dealt; although he was a master hand in stock manipulation and the questionable practices of Wall Street, he realized that he had to play his cunning and craft against the cunning and craft of others in the deep game of speculation. He was not at all in sympathy with this mode of living, but he thought it was the only method by which he could succeed in life, and he measured success in life by the accumulation of money, and he considered his business career as a thing apart from his private existence.

He never associated, to any great extent, in what is known as Society of Fifth Avenue. He kept in touch with it simply to maintain his business position. There is always an inter-relationship among the rich in business and private life, and he gave such entertainments as were necessary to the members of New York's exclusive set, simply to make certain his relative position with other successful Wall Street men.

As far as women were concerned, the certain type of actress, such as Laura Murdock and Elfie St.. Clair, appealed to him ; he liked their good fellowship. He loved to be with a gay party at night in a cafe, he liked the rather looseness of living, which did not quite approximate the disreputable, and, in fact, his was a Bohemian nature. Behind all this, however, was a rather high-sense of honor, he detested and despised the average stagedoor Johnny, and he loathed the type of man who sought to take young girls out of theatrical companies and accomplish their ruin.

His girl friends were as wise as himself. When they entered into an agreement with him there was no deception. In tlie first place he wanted to like them, in the second place he wanted them to like him, and lastly, he wanted to fix the amount of their living at a definite figure and have them stand by it. He wanted them to understand that he reserved the right at any time to withdraw his support or transfer it to some other woman, and he gave them the same privilege.

He was always ready to help anyone who was unfortunate, and he always hoped that some of these girls whom he knew would finally come across the right man, marry and settle down, but he insisted that such an arrangement could only be possible by the honest admission on the woman's part of what she had done and been, and the thorough understanding of all these things by the man involved.

He was gruff in his manner, determined in his purposes, honest in his point of view. He was a brute, almost a savage, but he was a thoroughly good brute, and a pretty decent savage.

At the time of the opening of this play he and Laura Murdock had been friends for two years. He knew exactly what she was and what she had been, and their relations were those of pals. She had finished her season in Denver and he had come out there for the purpose of accompanying her home.

He had always told her that whenever she felt it inconsistent with her happiness to continue her relations with him it was her privilege to quit, and he had reserved the same condition.

Act I

Scene. The scene is that of the summer coinniry ran^h house of Mrs. Williams, a friend of Laura Murdock's, and a prominent society woman of Denver, on th-e side of Ute Pass, near Colorado Springs. On each side of the stage are the parts of the house, nearly all the stage being devoted to the peculiar sort of court that is built in these country homes and covered by a peaked roof. Up stage where this end^ is siipposed to be the part of the porch overlooking the canyon, a sheer drop of 2,000 feet, while over the roof and through the porch one can see the rolling foothills and lofty peaks of the Rockies iwith Pike's Peak in the distance, snow-capped and colossal. The porch is strewn until rugs and willozv furnitme. There is a curtain at the back of the porch or court, by zi^hich the sun can be shut off , but this is noiv dran^n. A tea service is on a table and everything has the appearance of luxury and zi^ealth. It is late in the afternoon and as the scene progresses the quick tzvilight of a canyon, beautiful in its tints of purple and amber, becomes later pitch black, and the curtain goes dozvn on an absolutely black stage. The cyclorama or semi-cyclorama must give the perspective of greater distances, and be so painted that the various tints of tzmlight may be shozvn. The entrances are R and L in tzvo being doors zvhich open into each side of the ranch house. The doorzvay is half concealed by Japanese hangings of bamboo and bead curtains.

At Rise. [Laura Murdock is seen up R stage leaning a bit over the balustrade of the porch and shielding her eyes zinth her hand from the late afternoon sun as she seemingly looks up the Pass to the L as if in expectation' of discovering the approach of some one. Her gozim- is simple, girlish and attractive, and made of thai summery, filmy stuff zuhich zvomen utilize so effectively. Her hair is done up in the simplest fashion zmth a part in the centre, and there is about her every indication of an effort to assume that girlishness of demeanor zvhich has bee^i her greatest asset through life. Willard Brockton enters from L; he is a man six feet or more in height, stocky in build, clean shaven and immaculately dressed. He is smoking a cigar, aH^d upon [entering takes one step forzvard and looks over' tozvard Laura in a semi-meditative manner.]

Will. Blue?

Laura. No.

Will What's up?

Laura. Nothing.

Will. A little preoccupied, if you ask me.

Laura. Perhaps.

Will. What's up that way.

Laura. Which way?

Will. The way you are looking.

Laura. The road from Manitou Springs. They call it the trail out here.

Will. I know that. You know I've done a lot of business west of the Missouri.

Laura \With a half -sigh.] No, I didn't know it.

Will. Oh, yes; south of here in the San Juan country. Spent a couple of years there once.

Laura. [Still zvithout turmiig.] That's interesting.

Will. It was then. I made some money there. It's always interesting when vou make money and it's mighty dull when you don't. Still- ^ ^ -

Laura. [Still leaning in an ahsent-tninded attitude.'] Still what?

Will. Can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that road — or excuse me — trail. Expect some one ?

Will. One of Mrs. William's friends, eh?

Laura. Yes.

Will. Yours too?

Laura. Yes.

Will. Man?

Laura. Yes, a real man.

Will. [Catches the significance of this speech. He carelessly throws the cigar over the balustrade. Moving for the first time he comes down C and sits in a chair with his back to Laura; she has not moved more than to place her left hand on a cusfvion and lean her head rather zvearily againsi it, looking steadfastly up the Pass.] a real man. By that you mean

Laura. Just that — a real man

Will. Any difference from the many you have known ?

Laura. Yes, from all I have known.

Will. So that is why you didn't come into Denver to meet me to-day, but left word for me to come out here?

Laura. Yes.

Will. I thought that I was pretty decent to take a dusty ride halfway across the continent in order to keep you company on your way back to New York and welcome you to our home, but maybe I had the wrong idea.

Laura. Yes, I think you had the wrong idea.

Will. In love, eh?

Laura. Yes. In love.

Will. A new sensation.

Laura. No; the first conviction.

Will. You have had that idea before. Every woman's love is the real one when it comes. Do you make a distinction in this case, young lady?

Laura. Yes.

Will. For instance, what ?

Laura. This man is poor ; absolutely broke ; he hasn't even got a good job. You know, Will, all the rest, including yourself, gen-- erally had some material inducement.

Will. What's his business?

Laura. He's a newspaper man.

Will. H-m-m. Romance?

Laura. Yes, if you want to call it that — Romance. Will. Do I know him ?

Laura. How could you, you only came from New York to-day and he has never been there.

[She turns and comes down and sits near him. He regards her with a rather amused, indulgent, almost paternal expression. In contrast to his big, bluff physical personality, zmth his iron-grey hair and his bulldog expression, Laura looks more girlish than ever. This is imperative in order to thoroughly understand the character.] Will. How old is he?

Laura. 2y, you're 45.

Will. No, 46.

Laura. Shall I tell you about him?

Will. That depends.

Laura. On what?

Will. Yourself.

Laura. In what way?

Will. H it will interfere in the least with the plans I have made for you and for me.

Laura. And have you made any particular plans for me that have anything particularly to do with you?

Will. Yes, I have given up the lease of our apartment on West End Avenue, and I've got a house on Riverside Drive. Everything will be quiet and decent, and it'll be more comfortable for you. There's a stable nearby and your horses and car can be kept over there. You'll be your own mistress and besides I've fixed you up for a new part.

Laura. What kind of a part?

Will. One of Charlie Burgess' shows, translated from some French fellow. It's been running over in Paris, Berlin and Vienna, and all those places for a year or more, and appears to be an awful hit. It's going to cost a lot of money. I told Charlie he could put me down for a half interest, and I'd give the money providing you got the leading role. Great part, I'm told. Kind of a cross between a musical comedy and an opera. Looks as if it might stay in New York all season. So that's the change of plan. How does it strike you?

Laura. T don't know.

Will. Feel like quitting?

Laura. I can't tell.

Will. It's the new^spaper man, eh?

Laura. That would be the only reason.

Will. YouVe been on the square with me this summer, haven't you ?

Laura. What do you mean by ''on the square"?

Will. Don't evade, there's only one meaning when I say that, and you know it. I'm pretty liberal, but I draw the line in one place. You've not jumped that, have you, Laura ?

Laura. No, this has been such a wonderful summer, such a wonderfully different summer. Can you understand what I mean by that when I say "wonderfully different summer" ?

Will. Well, he's 27 and broke, and you're 25 and pretty, and he evidently being a newspaper man has that peculiar gift of gab that we call romantic expression, so I guess I'm not blind and you both think you've fallen in love. That it?

Laura. Yes, I think that's about it ; only I don't subscribe to the ''gift of gab" and the "romantic" end of it. He's a man and I'm a woman, and we both have had our experiences. I don't think, Will, that there can be much of that element of what some folks call hallucination.

Will. Then the Riverside Drive proposition and Burgess' show is off, eh?

Laura. I didn't say that.

M^ill. And if you go back on the Overland Limited day after to-morrow, you'd just as soon I'd go to-morrow or wait until the day after you leave?

Laura. I didn't say that, either.

Will. What's the game?

Laura. J can't tell you now.

Will. Waiting for him to come?

Laura. Exactly.

Wilf. Think he is going to make a proposition, eh?

Laura. I know he is.

Will. Marriage?

Laura. Possibly.

Will. You've tried that twice and took the wrong end. Are you going to play the same game again?

Laura. Yes, but with a different card.

Will. What's this young man's name?

Laura. Madison — John Madison.

IVill. And his job?

Laura. Reporter.

Will. Fine matrimonial timber. I suppose you think you'll live on the extra editions.

Laura. No, we're young, there's plenty of time; I can work in the meantime and so can he, and then with his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible.

Will. Sounds well — a year off.

Laura. If I thought you were going to make fun of me, Will, I shouldn't have talked to you.

Will. I don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that after two years it isn't an easy thing to be dumped with so little ceremony. I know you have never given me any credit for possessing the slightest feeling, but even I can receive shocks from other sources than a break in the market.

Laura. It isn't easy for me to do this. You've been awfully kind, awfully considerate, but when I went to you it was just with the understanding that we were to be pals. You reserved the right then to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same privilege. Now, if some girl came along who really captivated you in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little — maybe a lot — for after all a woman has her vanity, but I should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' notice clause, like people have in contracts.

Will. [Gets up. He is evidently very much moved. Walks over and looks over the canyon. Laura looks after him. Will has his hack to the audience and Laura, who is seated unth hands clasped in her lap, evidently suffering from some emotion herself.] I'm not hedging, Laura. If that's the way you want it to be, I'll stand by just exactly what I said, but I'm fond of you, a damn sight fonder than I thought I was, now that I find you slipping away, but if this young fellow is on the square and he has youth and ability, and you've been on the square with him, why all right. Your life hasn't had much in it to help you get a diploma from any celestial college, and if you can start out now and be a good girl, have a good husband, and maybe some day good children, why I'm not going to stand in the way, only I don't want you to make any of those mistakes that you made before.