The flower shop; a play in three acts

Front matter

A PLAT

Marion Craig-Wentworth

Class

Act I

Scene: A white spacious room of a flower shop in an inland American city. It is filled with a profusion of growing green things; bay trees, ferns, box, high over-arching palms massed in groups; ivy plants, asparagus, and delicate, feathery sprays of green hanging from the walls and ceiling, with here and there a plaster cast of a Greek god looking through the leaves; gay blossoming shrubs and bushes banked in tiers on the floor, — azaleas, white lilacs, Easter lilies, red and pink rambler roses. Great jars of cut flowers stand on the long worktable against the wall at the right.

Large doors at the back, guarded by stone Japanese temple posts, lead into the salesroom, where may be seen a bit of the counter, the street door and the show window, another tangle of plants and flowers. A carved stone bench brought from some old Italian garden is in the center of the stage under a tall palm, and another, quite similar, stands near the massive table on the left — a few chairs of quaint design

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 9

are conveniently placed. Side doors to left and right, one leading to the street, the other to a conservatory. A window in the wall to the left at the back.

Time: early afternoon.

Discovered: Lena, Polly, and Mary working at floral decorations. Lena, a tall, thin, wornlooking girl, is making a wreath, while the other two are filling in a wedding bell. Mary is slight and pale, with a delicate beauty of her own. Polly is plump and pretty, with a merry, care-free, childish face. She carries on an innocent flirtation with Dave, a stalwart, curly-headed young man who is passing in and out of the conservatory with plants.

Polly. [Humming a bit from the Lohengrin wedding march] Oh, dear! I'd like to be the bride !

Mary. [Smiling at her] Not really, Polly .'^

Polly. Yes, I would! and get married, instead of having to work for a living.

Lena. Don't let Miss Margaret hear you talk like that.

Polly. Why not?

Lena. She'd think you were fooHsh.

Polly. Foolish to want to be married? Why, every girl wants that.

Lena. Not Miss Margaret. She doesn't believe in getting married.

Polly. I don't care what she believes; she'd like to be in love just as much as I would. Isn't she a woman?

[They laugh at her.]

Lena. I wonder what she would do if she were in love; what would become of her ideas.

Polly. I can tell you. They'd all go ke — smash ! [Gesture.]

Lena. Or if she got tired — good and tired.

Mary. Would you marry a man simply because you were tired of working, Lena?

Lena stares at Mary as she moves to the table for more flowers with evident intent to cut her.

Polly. Would you, Lena?

Lena. [Sharply] Certainly, if he was a good man.

Polly. You don't care about being in love? Why, I think that is the whole thing!

Lena. That's because you are so hopelessly young, Polly. What would it matter, if he gave me a good home?

Mary. [Still hurt by Lena's stare] Then you are no better than I am, Lena Shrieves, though

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 11

you will not speak to me. I was more than tired when Miss Margaret saved me from the life I was being dragged into. I was hungry — hungry — do you understand? You don't know what it means to live on three or four dollars a week in a miserable little room for five years, and never know what it is to have your body warm in winter or your hunger satisfied.

Lena. [With virtuous sharpness] I'd keep respectable!

Mary. [Passionately] You wouldn't! You couldn't! You'd get more tired than you are now; you'd get so sick of it all and so desperate you'd take the first offer you had for just one square meal and some warm underwear to stop the shivers !

[There is the noise of some one entering] Polly. Here she is, girls.

Enter Margaret, a beautiful womaUy of tall,

noble build, gracious and winning of

manner. She is followed by Joseph

Ten Eyck. The girls quietly withdraw.

Margaret. It is quite as I say, Ten Eyck.

Ten Eyck. Then it is useless to speak of it

further.

Margaret. Yes. My voice is entirely gone. I faced the fact that I should never sing again some time ago.

Ten Eyck. [Sympathetically] Too bad — too bad! By the way, what has become of Louise? How you did sing — both of you that last night !

Margaret. Yes, we were in high spirits. We never dreamed of the swift, terrible illness so soon to shut out the light and leave the two song birds in the dark. I don't know where she is. Doubtless it has been with her as with me. She has probably never recovered her voice, although at the time the doctors said there was more hope for her than for me. They thought a long rest might do it.

Ten Eyck. I suppose she is married .^^

Margaret. Very likely.

Ten Eyck. And you? How does it happen you have never married, Margaret — you, of all women? I should have expected

Margaret [Lightly] Oh no!

Ten Eyck. You had any number of admirers to choose from. I don't like to see you doing this — it goes against the grain somehow — a woman like you! You needn't, you know.

Margaret [Smiling] I am quite able to take care of myself.

Ten Eyck. Oh, I know — but Margaret Kendall in the commercial world — running a business — no, no! the thing is preposterous. You really ought to marry and have a husband.

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 13

Margaret [Laughing] That is amusing, coming from you, Ten Eyck. How you used to rail against husbands. Didn't you always say they were a bother?

Ten Eyck. For a star, yes; or a woman with a career — you can't expect a man to marry his wife's career. An artist hasn't any business to have a husband.

Margaret. There you go !

Ten Eyck. But it is different with you now, Margaret — in your present circumstances. I remember I did make rather a fuss about your marrying William Ramsey — I was afraid you would take him, and if you had it would have been all up with you as a singer. He had his ideas on the subject.

Margaret. Yes, that is what made the trouble between us.

Ten Eyck. Still, if you had taken him you wouldn't have been in this state

Margaret [Amused] What state?

Ten Eyck. Working for your living, like any ordinary woman.

Margaret. [With amused reminiscence] I wouldn't have married William Ramsey for the world — not after I found him out. A splendid man — oh, yes — but it came to be *' when Greek meets Greek" with us. We never met without the flash and smoke of battle. So we ended it. It was a lucky thing the fatal words were not spoken over William Ramsey and me, or — something would certainly have happened. As for working for my living, I am very proud of that, you know. It is a beautiful work, too. I love the flowers. Best of all, I am free. So don't worry about me, Ten Eyck, and my not having a husband. [Lightly] What should I want of one?

Ten Eyck. It's not reasonable, Margaret. I can't believe that a woman like you must go through life without some one to love her and look out for her. [Looking at her keenly.]

Margaret. [Trying to hide a pain in her voice] Not now — not for me — neither love nor music.

Ten Eyck. [Sympathetically] Well, that's your secret. Anyway, you are a brave girl, Margaret. [Shaking hands] I must go. I must find some one to take the place of our star. She can't hold out. You won't let me hear — let me judge of your voice?

Margaret. [Shaking her head sadly] I can't sing a note.

Ten Eyck. Come and see us to-night. I will leave seats for you. Good-bye. [Turns] I can't help thinking, though, you would be happier with a husband. Yes, even William Ramsey would be better than none at all!

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 15

[He goes out to Margaret's laughing protest. She turns to arrange some flowers,]

Polly. [Announcing] A gentleman to see you, Miss Margaret. A stranger. Mr. Ramsey.

Enter William Ramsey, a man of bold

but attractive strength, rather heavily

choleric eye. Magnetic, conscious of his

power, but not disagreeably so.

Margaret. [Astonished, lets fall to the table

the flowers in her hands and turns to face him]

William ! You !

Ramsey. Well, haven't you a word for me after all these years .^

Margaret. Why, yes — you surprised me — won't you sit down? I spoke your name but a moment ago.

Ramsey. Ah, I am pleased I am not forgotten. Margaret. How did you find me out? Ramsey. We are on our way to New York. My wife told me you were here — under an assumed name — so I couldn't resist coming to see you. I hope you don't mind.

Margaret. Your wife, you say. Then you are married.

Ramsey. Yes.

Margaret. \With gentle amusement] She is sufficiently docile, I suppose.

Ramsey. [Bristling] She is my ideal of a wife.

Margaret. Perfectly domestic and of course no yearnings for a public career.

Ramsey. I should quickly nip them in the bud if she had. Thank goodness, I have nothing of that kind to disturb my happiness. She is a true woman.

Margaret. Not a singer, I assume.

Ramsey. No, indeed. That is, not now. She was once.

Margaret. Ah! You made her give up her voice for you.^

Ramsey. No, I met her after she had lost it. By the way, she says you were in the same epidemic — you must have sung together.

Margaret. Not Louise Van Anden.^

Ramsey. Yes.

Margaret. Really ! [Pauses] Then her voice never came back.

Ramsey. No. She has said nothing about it for some time, so I think she has quite forgotten.

Margaret. Forgotten! Where is she? Isn't she coming to see me.^^

Ramsey. Yes, later. I slipped away, for I wanted to see you alone. I wanted to see how you were getting on — if you had changed since the old days — what you were doing and thinking.

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 17

Margaret. So you married Louise, my old singing mate! Well, well! I suppose if she had kept her voice it would have meant no more to you than mine did.

Ramsey. Your voice meant everything to me, Margaret. It was you. It was the magic that first drew me to you.

Margaret. Yet you would have murdered it.

Ramsey. How do you mean?

Margaret. You demanded I give it up on the day of our marriage.

Ramsey. Of course. You know how strongly I felt on that point. I didn't want you to appear in public — to make the treasure common. How would it have looked? You could have gone on singing.

Margaret. For you, alone? In the chimney corner? With my voice?

Ramsey. For friends, for charity, — in a private way. That seems far more beautiful to me. If you had loved me you would have done it.

Margaret. [Shakes her head] If you had loved me you would have been glad and proud

Ramsey. To have you sing in public? As a professional star? Never, not as my wife. Of course, if you hadn't insisted on marriage we might have had our love in secret, — you could have kept on in your career; but you would have marriage, so very naturally I demanded you retire from the public gaze.

Margaret. And then the battle was on! A royal one, too, — wasn't it, William.^

Ramsey. Yes, I admit we were pretty evenly matched.

Margaret. You didn't conquer me.

Ramsey. No, nor you me.

Margaret. Yet that struggle was the lesson of my life.

Ramsey. What do you mean?

Margaret. I wanted to be both the artist and the wife.

Ramsey. Well, you saw that was impossible — I taught you that.

Margaret. You taught me the value of freedom.

Ramsey. [Irritably] What do you mean? — freedom !

Margaret. To be one's self — to grow each in his own way, the woman as well as the man. If marriage can't do that

Ramsey. Well?

Margaret. Remain alone. For me, there can be no real or lasting happiness without freedom — of that I am sure.

Ramsey. [Looks about the flower shop contemptuously] Is this what you call freedom? or

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 19

happiness? Humph! If you had married me you might not have been happy, but at least you would not have come to this — to be forced to support yourself and battle with the business world. I could have protected you from that.

Mabgaret. I think better of marriage than that it is merely an escape from the responsibility of taking care of one's self. I want to earn my own way in the world. I mean always to do it, whether I marry or not. [Leaning across the table and speaking in a low^ earnest voice] My flower shop takes the place of my voice. I couldn't begin to tell you all that it means to me. Years ago you roused the rebel in me. It was for myself alone. Now I am a rebel for other women too. If I failed with my voice I shall not fail with my flower shop.

Ramsey. What do you mean?

Margaret. It is the symbol of a new freedom for woman.

Ramsey. You don't mean votes — you haven't gone off on that craze?

Margaret. A greater freedom than that, — economic freedom.

Polly. [Announcing] There are some customers here, Miss Margaret.

Margaret. I will see them.

Ramsey. Must I go?

Margaret. [Indicating a stone bench screened by plants] No, sit here. You said you wanted to know what I am thinking and doing — you shall see. It is one of my women, doubtless. [Confidentially] Since I have been in this work I have been allowed to look intimately into the lives of scores of women. Sometimes I think my flower shop is a temple — this room a confessional, and I the priestess — so many hearts have been opened to me here. They seem like a lot of frightened slaves — the women — and the husbands masters and owners by right of the household purse, — if only that could be abolished !

Enter airily Mrs. Summers, a pretty^ fashionable little woman.

Margaret. [Advancing to her] Ah, Mrs. Summers.

Mrs. Summers. Oh, Miss Bell, I am in a bit of a hurry — may I speak with you a moment .^^ I have a piece of good news. I may get my conservatory after all! [Speaks in a low voice] I am working hard — I have him almost twisted round my finger — one more little twist — then the check — victory — my conservatory at last !

Margaret. How have you managed him.?

Mrs. Summers. [With gay irresponsibility] I waited each time before speaking until he was

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 21

pleased and good natured over something — sometimes it was a special dinner — then I would sit on the arm of his chair, and pet him a little, and casually drop a hint or two to get him used to the idea, you know, until now he is quite interested — really. Oh, one more dinner will do it I am sure — [with a quick change, loyally] oh, you mustn't think Mr. Summers isn't perfectly generous, he is — he's a love — but of course I have to be careful and not ask at the wrong time — that would never do — when he's in an ill humor or when his dyspepsia's bad.

Margaret. Do you have to wait long.^^ Mrs. Summers. [Lightly] Oh, sometimes it has been a whole week, and I have been so embarrassed — oh frightfully — but he always makes up for it, he is really so generous. Of course he does scold me once in a while — says he slaves for his money. So he does, poor dear — he is getting awfully bald — he calls me frivolous — says I spend in a day what it takes him weeks to earn. Still, what can I do, with our position to maintain?

Margaret. You see, if you earned your own money, Mrs. Summers, and struggled and worried as your husband has to, you would realize his point of view. You should work for your living as I do.

Mrs. Summers. [ShocJced] But I am married!

Margaret. That makes no difference — you are a human being. He couldn't call you frivolous then, nor scold — nor have to be wheedled.

Mrs. Summers. Oh, well — he likes it. Besides, I don't know what being married would be like without our little scenes. It is really great fun to see how much of a manager one can be. Next time I come I shall surely order the conservatory. Good-bye. Oh, you take things too seriously, Miss Margaret. The men like us all the better for it. Don't you know that? Really !

[Exit]

Ramsey. [Who has been observing though pretending to read a magazine] Hasn't that woman freedom.^

Margaret. License — not freedom. She is one of the dependent spendthrifts. Honest work, that is what she needs. Why, there isn't a married woman with any pride or self-respect who doesn't envy me the independence of my flower shop — not one who doesn't long to have a work and income of her own — not one who doesn't feel the humiliation of having to ask the man she loves for money, no matter how generous he may be. If he has a hard struggle himself it is all the more painful for her.

Ramsey. [Emphatically] It ought not to be.

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 23

Margaret. But it is!

Ramsey. [Positively] The woman ought to be supported by the man. It is a law of nature. Do you mean to say you would not give up this flower shop for the man you love — if he asked it?

Margaret. [Shaking her head] I couldn't be dependent upon any one — least of all the man I might love.

Ramsey. Absurd !

Margaret. It is bad for a man, why not a woman?

Ramsey. Nonsense ! Ridiculous !

Margaret. [Serenely] I shall always be my own mistress because I have my own work, my own pocket-book. I can come and go as I like — play or sing (if I had the voice) in public without asking leave of my lord or running the risk of offending his masculine pride. I am an individual. I am free. I have my flower shop. So I say to the women who sometimes weep on my shoulder, "Follow my example. Go get one of your own."

Ramsey. You have followers then?

Margaret. Yes, — thirty. [With sudden eager impetuosity] Don't you see, William? It isn't only because I want women to be free. I want them to grow, to be larger, nobler, more beautiful — I want them to care for other children as well as their own — for the common life, for justice, for big ideas. That is it, William. I want them to care, and they can't until they take part in the life outside their four walls. They've been amateurs so long

Polly. [Announcing] Mrs. Knight, Miss Margaret.

Enter Mrs. Knight, a crushed and frightened looking woman, who would like to he "perky'' but doesn't quite dare. She is dressed in deep mourning.

Margaret. Ah, Mrs. Knight, — what can I do for you?

Mrs. Knight. I have come to pay my bills. Miss Bell. The funeral was lovely. Mr. Knight would have been pleased if he could have sat up in his coffin and seen all those flowers! [With a large satisfied sigh] My, what a fine showing they made! ahem! I mean he would have been pleased if he hadn't known what they cost. [Stage whisper] My, what a scolding I've escaped. You see, poor old Hezekiah — he couldn't bear to spend his money; that is, I mean he couldn't bear to have me spend it, though he was a good provider — specially a good table provider. I must say that for him. He was fond of good eating, Hezekiah was, and he had plenty of money. There, my dear — [she counts out some bills and fingers them lovingly] I hate to give them up. It feels so good to handle

ACT I THE FLO^VER SHOP 25

a little money after all these years. You don't know what that means, Miss Bell. I have often envied you. You can spend your own money.

Margaret. And earn it, too, — which is better still, Mrs. Knight.

Mrs. Knight. But think of me, my dear. Hezekiah never let me spend a cent myself — why, it seemed as if he couldn't bear to — even five cents for a spool of thread. He always wanted to put it down on the counter himself. It was so mortifying sometimes, Miss Bell. [Sheds a few tears] ^Vhy, I've been no better than a slave. [Awed warning] Don't ever marry, Miss Bell. Don't ever give up your own money. My! how good it feels to have a pocketbook of one's own. I feel like a free woman. [Chuckling timidly] He has only been dead a month and I have spent in that time [whispers in Margaret's ear] — there! [Gets quite chipper and gay] I don't dare say it out loud or Hezekiah would rise in his grave. [She starts to go out then comes back, catching herself cautiously looking around as if to see if her husband's ghost were ready to reprimand her for her extravagance and what she is about to do] I think I'll have more flowers. Aren't they for the living as well as the dead? I never could buy any when Hezekiah was alive because he wouldn't spend the money, but now — now — what's to hinder? I have always loved flowers — I'll take that whole bunch of roses.

Polly. There are three dozen here, Mrs. Knight.

[Polly puts them in a box.]

Mrs. Knight. I don't care. Send them up. The whole three dozen! I think I'll have flowers every day in the year. Why shouldn't I.f^ Who's to stop me? [Looks fearfully over her shoulder again] I will spend one hundred dollars a month, Miss Bell — cut flowers every day — yes, one hundred dollars a month — that is an order. Write it down quick. I'll come and pay you myself every month — in cash — the dear dollars — I love to feel them and they are mine too — mine — there's a beginning. [Puts bills on the table] Ho, ho, Hezekiah! Flowers every day! One hundred dollars a month! Now I'll get even, Hezekiah — I'll get even!

Chuckling to herself Mrs. Knight goes out.

Margaret. The pity is, there are more Mrs. Knights in the world than one dreams of — and not all in mourning, either.

Polly. [Catching sight of Dave in the conservatory] All men are not like Hezekiah Knight.

Margaret. Why no, dear, of course not.

Polly. Some are generous and kind.

Margaret. Certainly, child. It is the sys-

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 27

tern that is wrong. I have nothing against men, Ramsey. God knows they have a hard enough struggle.

Margaret. I know the same struggle — the wear and tear — the anxiety.

Polly. Then I don't see why you talk as you do.

Margaret. Don't you see — I would rather face it myself than ask a man to do it for me.

Polly. It is a man's 'place. I wouldn't marry a man if he wasn't glad to take care of me — excuse me, Miss Margaret. I am forgetting myself. [Runs of.\

Ramsey. You have not made much impression upon your own girls, I must say. [ Throwing magazine upon table] The child is right. You lead a lorn hope. Ha, ha ! [Laughs at her]

Polly. [Announcing at the door] Oh, Miss Margaret, the bride's coming. And the bridegroom, too. She wants to see her wedding bell I know.

Enter Cornelia von Schlegel and Mr. Charles Dunn. She is an exquisite creature, picturesque but capable. He is a man of the world, faultlessly attired. He lingers in the outer shop to buy violets for Cornelia and a boutoniere for himself.

Cornelia. How are you, Margaret?

[They greet one another.]

Margaret. I have your orange blossoms.

[Producing a hox.]

Cornelia. [Glancing at them and half caressing the wedding bell] They are lovely. I am so happy and yet — I am troubled about something. Tell me, Margaret, would you really keep your flower shop — if you were married .^^

Margaret. Yes. Why should I give it up?

Cornelia. [Hesitating — in a low voice^ drawing her to one side, out of the hearing of Ramsey] But if — if — Stephen Hartwell should ask it?

Margaret. [With a catch in her voice] Stephen Hartwell! Don't speak of him.

Cornelia. But supposing he should come — and should ask you — to give it up — what then?

Margaret. You mustn't suppose what is perfectly impossible, Cornelia.

Cornelia. You love him. He will hear the call of it and come some day, and then what?

Margaret. You forget — he doesn't love me.

Cornelia. You never gave him a chance to tell you.

Margaret. I wrote him. He did not answer.

Cornelia. The letter may have been lost.

Margaret. It is not likely. But why do you

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 29

ask me this? I have my work. I believe in it. I couldn't give it up.

Cornelia. I wanted you to see how hard it is for me

Margaret. [Surprised into a louder tone] Cornelia, you are not going to give up your studio?

Cornelia. Yes, I have to.

Margaret. I am sorry. Will you be happy without your work?

Cornelia. No, but Charles feels so strongly about it. He says he is not interested in miniature painting. I think he is even now a little jealous of my work. He wants me all to himself. He loves me so much, I feel as if I must do as he wishes, don't you think I ought?

Margaret. No. You shouldn't give up your work.

Charles. [Drawing near] What's this?

Cornelia. Miss Bell thinks I ought not to give up my studio.

Charles. [Uncomprehending] What? Oh, how absurd! Come, my dear. The car is waiting. [Hands her the violets.]

Cornelia. Oh, thank you. [He goes. She follows to the door and then comes hastily back] You see he is most thoughtful, Margaret. I can't bear to oppose him now. I know you are right, dear; but after a while I am sure he will see it our way and let me have my studio.

Margaret. [Half smiling] Never again ! You are lost — hopelessly lost.

Cornelia and Charles go out.

Ramsey. So this is Margaret! I might have known it. [He goes up to her, his manner very masterful] I will tell you what is the matter with you. You need to be in love — thoroughly,madly, desperately in love.

Margaret . Why ?

Ramsey. Then you would see the utter futility — and nonsense of all these notions of yours.

Margaret. Notions ! They are the actuating principles of my life.

Ramsey. Nonsense, I say. There is only one actuating principle of a woman's life. The need to love and be loved.

Margaret. Yes, under right conditions.

Ramsey. Conditions! Ha, ha! Don't you know a woman who loves — with a love that is at all worthy of the name — never makes conditions? No, I tell you it is all false, this talk of freedom. Wait till you find yourself in the grip of the mighty forces of nature; wait till a live passion takes hold of your heart; your ideas will vanish like smoke.

ACT I THE FLOWER SHOP 31

Margaret. I am not so weak as you think.

R.iMSEY. Weak? You strong women are weaker than the weakest when you love.

Margaret. Indeed we are not.

Ramsey. You are. Shall I tell you why.^ Because of your very strength — you have more love to give. You were unyielding in your opposition to me years ago because you really did not love me.

Margaret. I thought I did at the time.

Ramsey. But you didn't. That is a proof of it. You will give all — a rich all and without question — to the man you love.

Margaret. I shall never yield a principle.

Ramsey. You will, I say.

Margaret. Why do you think that?

Ramsey. [Masterfully] You are a woman^ like the rest. I know women. Once we get our hands on your hearts we can mould you to our will. We can do what we please with you — we are your masters — eternally your masters. That's another law of nature. It has nothing to do with the pocketbook, either. [Looks her square in the eye.] Do j^ou mean to say you don't know I am right?