The middle class, by J. Rosett

Preface

We are the contemporaries of a great tragedy: an entire social class — the middle class — is becoming submerged. The tragic phase of this phenomenon is all the more intense because the class which is thus doomed to annihilation occupies the highest intellectual plane in our society.

A drowning man is the most immoral person. He will scramble over the heads of his fellows without a thought; and he will drag down to death the hand which is extended to save him. It is in this circumstance that the gross immoralties of Adams, Jones and Anderson, as well as the gentler transgressions of Mrs. Bensal and Mrs. Jones, find their extenuation. But the same shipwreck which brings into play the primeval instincts of man, also offers the opportunity for the manifestation of his social spirit — hence Beacon, Bensal and others.

The discerning reader will find that the keynote to the plot of the play is borrowed from the biblical Job. See with what facility Dr. Beacon picks up his friend from the quiet and isolation of the laboratory and hurls him into the social whirlpool, there to struggle with the wreckage of the middle class, from which he finally consents to release him — all this not in the spirit of mere wantonness characteristic of a secondrate devil, but with a high purpose in view — and you will discover in Beacon the sublime Satan. Of course.

IV

Satan has here been thoroughly modernized and made to fit Twentieth Century conditions; compared, however, to what Satan has already suffered at the hands of man, his treatment in this play will be found rather mild.

In the same manner I have taken advantage of the plasticity of old Job to make of him Dr. Bensal. Like Job, Bensal receives the harbingers of evil one after another in rapid succession, and with each message finds himself bereft of part of his possessions. Unlike Job, however, the possessions of Dr. Bensal are not material possessions, for he is a poor man, in the worldly sense. Like Job, after having lost all, he finds himself richer and happier than he had been.

The few friends, who have seen the play in manuscript, have uniformly protested against Dr. Bensal when he adjures Miss Clemens: "Stand on your head if you can do no better!" But for the Hfe of me I cannot imagine Dr. Bensal in any other mood at the time.

"What is Mr. White, with his kaleidoscopic psychology?" I was asked. My answer is: He is the Mayor, at the head of a reform administration ; and it is due to this very capacity of rapidly changing his moods that he is at all enabled to maintain himself amid the surrounding wreckage.

To the question: "What are Beacon and Bensal really going to do at last?" I can only answer: We shall see.

J. ROSETT.

Baltimore, 1912.

THE MIDDLE CLASS

Act I

A modern physician's office with only a slight streak of the quack about it. The latter feature finds expression in the somewhat overdone display of the appurtenances and paraphernalia of the specialist: a large electro-static machine in the background; a glass instrument case containing a number of instruments; several glass tables on which are a variety of instruments, lamps, tubes and beaker glasses, filled with liquids of various colors, neatly covered over with white saucers. On one of the glass tables, near a window, is a microscope. In one corner is an examining table, in the other a wash-stand vtnth a number of towels. Near the wash-stand is a sterilizer and a thermostat. In front is a desk, on one side of which is a revolving chair and on the other a large arm-chair. There is a telephone on the desk. In convenient places about the room are several revolving bookcases, full of books; the latter show unmistakable signs of handling. There are pictures on the walls, whose subjects appertain to the profession — expensive black prints, which testify to the good taste and capacious pockets of the doctor.

The room has two doors, on opposite sides. One

Opens into the doctor's private apartments, the other into the patients' reception room.

The opening scene finds Dr. George Beacon at the wash-stand, polishing vigorously an instrument with n towel. A patient is leaving by the reception-room door.

Dr. Beacon is a young fellow near forty. He is dressed in surgeon's white. He neither appeal's nor behaves in the least in a manner becoming a physician who has been practicing successfully a specialty for ten years.

THE PATIENT. Good-night, Doctor.

DR. BEACON. Good-night, sir ; good-night.

Dr. Beacon accompanies the patient as far as the door, closes it behind him, then walks to the opposite door, opens it, and, holding the instrument betzveen the tips of his forefinger and thumb, claps his palms and zvhistles.

MRS. BEACON'S VOICE. May I come in now?

DR. BEACON. You may.

Enter Mrs. Beacon. She is a little over thirty — a girl with a rosy, strong and jovial face, and a rather slender but lithe body. For a mother of three children the amount of dignity in her bearing is far belozv the standard degree.

Dr. Beacon zvalks to the desk and sits down upon it.

Mrs. Beacon gets into the revolving chair, which she

tortures zvith a zvantonness that zvould justify the

* establishment of a Society for the Prevention of

: Cruelty to Things.

DR. BEACON. You say, then, you Hked it? Well, it was a merry sight. But it wasn't what I expected. They missed the point ; missed it deplorably.

ACT I THE MIDDLE CLASS 3

MRS. BEACON. Come now, George. Of course it was a merry sight. A glorious thing ! What do you know about dancing anyway? Do you remember the first time you danced with me? Ha! ha! ha! It was tlie funniest thing in the world. Haven't I taught you whatever little you know about dancing? I — I, capital I! How dare you contradict your professor?

DR. BEACON. Seriously, it was a terrible failure. Just to think of it! What a nice, perfectly proper and respectable thing they've made of it! During those passages of deep, black despair; those passages which sound an abyss of bitterness, of hopelessness — during those passages they rested and posed before a stupid, a shallow

MRS. BEACON. Hush now, hush !

DR. BEACON. And to the wild merriment, that hysterical, maddening storm of merriment which suddenly bursts from the abyss of bitterness — why, they danced to those notes in a nice, slow, deliberate and perfectly respectable manner. And the masses of protoplasm which filled the auditorium applauded wildly. Oh, venerable shade of Liszt!

MRS. BEACON. Don't worry about the shades, boy.

She approaches her husband, reaches out for his face zvith her hands and kisses him on the forehead. She then notices a little pile of paper money on the desk, which she grabs with mock eagerness.

MRS. BEACON. Oh, you pirate ! I've caught you red-handed this time. {She scrutinizes the bills.) What a lot of money ! I fear you've robbed some one.

DR. BEACON. Do not fear. My profession protects me. Had it not been for that, you might have

4 THE MIDDLE CLASS ACT X.

had good reason to fear.— in this particular instance, at least ; because it was a pirate I robbed.

MRS. BEACON (with a sigh of relief) . A pirate ! Well, that's not so bad then — in the eyes of the law, at least.

DR. BEACON. What? My dear, Fll not stand for that! I say I'll not stand for that! (Walks to the instrument case and puts away the instrument.) Such a flagrant insult against the law of our land ! As a patriotic citizen I protest against it! Our law is bigger than you think, my dear. It protects the innocent man in his innocence, and the robber in his robbery. Don't speak lightly of our law !

MRS. BEACON. You have a grand conception of our law, no doubt. But tell me, dear, had you been what they call an — an ethical practitioner, would this fee be larger or smaller?

DR. BEACON. In my case it would be the same.

MRS. BEACON. Then why should you rob at all? Rather charge an ethical fee.

DR. BEACON. Because my patients would consider it robbery all the same. And this is sufficient reason for me to keep away from the ethical fraternity. If I can do no better, I shall, at least, make an honorable business of it. I say to my patients : "Here I am; you see me swaggering in my top boots, with my pistols dangling by my side. Take warning; be on your guard. Know with whom you are dealing." The result is, of course, the same — they cannot escape; only it looks a bit more honorable. But you haven't told me about the Bensals. How are they ?

MRS. BEACON. Dr. Bensal wasn't in. He is seldom at home now during the day. He spends all

ACT I. THE MIDDLE CLASS. 5

of his time in the University. Mrs. Bensal complained bitterly.

DR. BEACON. About his being away from home?

MRS. BEACON. No ; she takes that good-naturedly enough, but

DR. BEACON. What, then?

MRS. BEACON. They are in debt. You know^ his salary is only $1,500 a year.

DR. BEACON. The proper compensation for a university professor, a mad enthusiast of science, an original investigator, a man highly esteemed by the ethical fraternity. Still, Mrs. Bensal is very economical, and they have no children.

MRS. BEACON. Yes; but his researches—.—

DR. BEACON. Is he still searching for the bacterium of infantile diarrhoea?

MRS. BEACON. Whatever it may be ; he spends a large part of his salary in those researches. The University is poor — < —

DR. BEACON. Oh, I see.

MRS. BEACON. They promised to be here this, evening. I expect them every minute.

DR. BEACON. I thought you said he wasn't in?'

MRS. BEACON. Yes ; but Mrs. Bensal called him up by the telephone, and he promised to come.

DR. BEACON. You know, he is rather shy of coming here. The ethical fraternity, you see. Poor fellow ! The search for bacteria and the ethical fraternity are taking all of his time and thought and keeping him in a rut.

MRS. BEACON. Science is a rut? Do you deny^ the utility of searching after the truth?

O THE MIDDLE CLASS. ACT I.

DR. BEACON. Searching after the truth? There arc so many truths. A pin hidden in a haystack is also a truth. To search for the pin may be fine sport but bad economy.

MRS. BEACON. For shame, George. Do you mean to deny the value of searching for the truth in the abstract? Don't you know that (she quotes, emphasising the zvords with her forefinger) "the modern art of navigation is an unforeseen emanation from the purely speculative, and apparently merely curious inquiry, by the mathematicians of Alexandria, into the properties of three curves formed by the intersection of a plane surface with a cone?"

DR. BEACON. Yes; it cannot be denied that in certain instances people, in searching for a pin in a haystack, have found diamonds.

MRS. BEACON. But Dr .Bensal's researches are not of an abstract nature. He is doing very practical work. He is searching for the germ of a disease which decimates the children of the poor.

DR. BEACON. Poverty is a haystack that has very many pins in it, my dear; and to search for one particular pin appears to me like a "merely curious

inquiry" and an injustice to the cattle {the tele-

phone hell rings). Hello! Oh, yes, of course. There will be some people here, but I do not expect any patients. You may come. I shall attend to that. Perfectly safe. In a taxi? I shall have my porter wait for you. Very well. Good by !

MRS. BEACON {significantly). Another sinner.

Dr. Beacon does not reply. He paces across the room twice or thrice. Mrs. Beacon follows him with

ACT I. THE MIDDLE CLASS. 7

her eyes. He opens the reception-room door and calls for the porter, who enters.

PORTER. Yes, sir.

DR. BEACON. Wait outside for a gentleman in a taxi. He'd been here before. You know whom I mean. Take care that no one sees him.

PORTER. Very well, sir. {Exit.)

Voices from the private apartments.

MRS. BEACON. Here they are. {She runs t<y the door and opens it.) Here, here. Come straight in here.

DR. BEACON. Here, Charlie ; come right in.

Enter Dr. and Mrs. Bensal. Dr. Bensal is under forty, and rather looks like a professor. Notwithstanding that he is handsome. His face and body show unmistakably that he has been guilty of the sin of neglect of his flesh. His large, dark beard and dark hair strongly accentuate the paleness of his face. And that, together with a moderate degree of emaciation, lends him a pensive shade, which disappears when he speaks. But he has the frame for a powerful body; his bones are large, and the lower part of his face speaks of a great pozver of will. His movements are not quick and abrupt, like those of Dr. Beacon, but are expressive of far greater certainty and determination.

Mrs. Bensal is about the same age as her husband. Her culinary art has Iiad the effect of making her entirely too pulmp, in the estimation of people with ordinary ideas of comfort.

EVERYBODY. Good evening, good evening. {They all shake hands.)

MRS. BENSAL. I must tell on him. {To Dr. Bensal.) I told you I vvould, and I shall.

8 TH£ MIDDLE CLASS. ACT I.

MRS. BEACON. Tell, oh, do tell, Mrs BensaL

MRS. BENSAL. My dear, you were present. Hasn't he promised faithfully this afternoon that he would come here?

MRS. BEACON. Of course he has.

MRS. BE^^^AL. I was all dressed to go, excq)t my hat. And do you know what he said?

MRS. BEACON. What?

MRS. BENSAL. I won't repeat it; but I can tdl you he was going to dodge his promise.

MRS. BEACON. He was! Dr. Bensal! Well, it's no use. This is the way with the men. You had b^- tcr come with me, Mrs Bensal. I'll show you the baby, and we'll have some real nice tea. Oh, I have cakes, you ought to see {Takes Mrs. Bensal around the waist). Gentlemen {howing with mock politeness) , Dr. Bensal, Dr. Beacon, you are cordially invited to join us — on the fourth or fifth cup; rather the fifth than the fourth. We shall then be happy to entertain you at tea. {She marches off with Mrs. Bensal info the private apartments.)

DR. BEACON. Well, Charlie, how are you getting on with the bacteria of infantile gastro-enteritis? Have you cornered any?

DR. BENSAL. Pretty nigh. It takes time, you know. But I am in a fair way to isolate the bacterium.

DR. BEACON. And when you have isolated it, what then?

DR. BENSAL. Then, as soor as a pure culture can be obtained, the medical laboratories of the world will be set in motion in search of an antitoxin or, perhaps, a vaccine.

ACT I. THE MIDDLE CLASS. 9

DR. BEACON. And when that is discovered, what then?

DR. BEN SAL. Then! Then, of course, the medical practitioner will have an easy way of curing or preventing the awful malady. It will be a revolution. Just think! The artificially fed children of the poor almost all suffer, at one time or another, from the disease. The mother is kept back from work. Both, mother and child, become to a greater or less extent public charges. Think what a revolution an antitoxin will bring about!

DR. BEACON. A profound revolution indeed. The children of the poor can then be fed with impunity on any old thing, and their mothers be ground in the mills and canning houses without the tremendous trouble to which society is put today of dealing with the problem of their hand-fed children.

DR. BENSAL. You are a cynic.

DR. BEACON. How you have changed, Charles! And to think that you had had a scientific mind only a few years ago. I remember in Berlin — let me see, was it in Berlin or in Paris? In Berlin, to be sure — you remember? You dared question the Nebular Hypothesis. You asked questions then. Your view of things was broad. How one will change! There was a man for whom at twenty-five the world wasn't large enough; see him at not quite forty — he lives within the tube of a microscope, and his field of vision is one-sixteenth of an inch!

DR. BENSAL. Indeed! How a man will change! There was a man who, at thirty, had scruples about handing a visiting card with M. D. appended to his name. See him at not quite forty — he advertises a specialty in widely circulated newspapers !

DR. BEACON. Charlie, everybody advertises — I mean every physician who makes a living by his practice. I advertise in the most direct and open manner; your ethicals do so under cover, cunningly, cringingly. How many of the articles in our medical periodicals are pure advertisement! The young practitioner who unsophistically reads that stuff for only the hundredth time, and consequently has not yet been nauseated by it, is left with the impression that Dr. So-and- So, member of So-and-So Association, visiting physician to Such-and-Such hospital, etc., etc., must be a great man. Upon this great man the young chap will shift the responsibility for his patients. To him will he send the pitiable creatures who demand of the physician that he cither take their money or their lives. To be sure, the great man is not above their money, and is far above their lives.

DR. BENSAL. Nonsense. Of course, the older man has had the greater experience.

DR. BEACON. Greater experience in dealing with the psychology of his patients, and, what is more to the point, that of the patients' relatives and friends. Charlie, how can I believe that you do not know these things? I believe you are simply in a rut from which you are unwilling to prod yourself out. Your business is to teach young men medicine, and to keep them meanwhile under the impression that all they have to do in order to practice it successfully — to relieve suffering and to ward off death — is to become well versed in its art and science.

DR. BENSAL. What else can we do? We try

ACT I. THE MIDDLE CLASS. II

our best to teach them medicine. As to the practitioner's success in his business, that he must achieve for himself.

DR. BEACON. Beautiful! But have you ever viewed the wonderful results of your efforts? After having labored over a young man for some years, you at last come to the conclusion that he is sufficiently trained in the art and science of medicine to repay society for the immense amount of trouble it had taken with his education. Consequently, you kick him out of a fine morning into the world, with instructions to wait till he is wanted. He must not advertise his business. He must be good. He is good, anyway. To his immense surprise he finds that the world into which he had been kicked is not at all peopled with men and women, as he had expected and been taught. He finds it peopled with a problematic race, which might be martians, for all he knows of them. He finds that he is not wanted. The older practitioners confront him with a polite hostility, which freezes the poor chap's heart. They know well that the young fellow knows medicine, while they have forgotten every vestige of it; and they feel it in their bones that he will not be long in catching on to their own ways. Poor youngsters; they have stomachs, and frequently girls. Under the steady pressure of these factors the young man's ideals begin to fade. He learns that success in the practice of medicine depends not at all upon the effective treatment of the sick, but upon the skillful maneuvering of their relatives and friends. After a long and bitter experience, he at last learns the subtle art of ethical advertisement; he becomes calloused in its humiliating practice ; he abandons your

12 THE MIDDLE CLASS. ACT 1.

medicine and multiplies his patients. Those are the fruits of your labors.

DR. BENSAL. This is not our fault. It is true^ the ultimate results are not as satisfactory, perhaps, as they might have been. But this is due to the peculiar structure of our society.

DR. BEACON. Aha! You acknowledge that the bucket has no bottom. And yet, for all that, you insist upon pouring water into it. And this is what you call doing your best. (Enter the porter.) What is it?

PORTER. The gentleman

DR. BEACON. I have a patient here, Charlie. Won't you go to the women for a few minutes? I'll join you directly.

DR. BENSAL. Certainly.

Dr. Bensal leaves for the private apartments. Dr. Beacon accompanies him to the door, holts it, and then turns to the porter.

DR. BEACON. Let him in. {Exit porter.)

Enter the Mayor. He is a solid looking man, a little above middle age, with a full, florid face and a hearty disposition.

DR. BEACON. Good evening, Mayor. Let me congratulate you. {They shake hands.)

THE MAYOR. For God's sake, don't mention that word here. {Looks about him cautiously.) Thank you, good evening.

DR. BEACON. That's all right. There isn't anyone here. Won't you take your coat off and sit down ?

The Mayor takes off his coat and swings it across the back of the arm-chair, in which he composes himself. Dr, Beacon takes his seat in the revolving chair.

ACT I. THE MIDDLE CLASS. Ij

DR. BEACON. What is the good news? How have you been ?

THE MAYOR. Fine; only a little here; can you see it? (Points with his finger to his forehead, close under the hair.)

DR. BEACON {examining the spot carefully). This little splotch of dull copper. It does not trouble you in any way?

THE MAYOR. No ; except, of course, that it does not look well.

DR. BEACON. Any trouble about the mouth?

THE MAYOR. No ; everything is all right except this.

DR. BEACON. A small matter; it can hardly be seen. I don't expect it to spread. Well, there isn't much else to do but to continue along the same line. I am going to give you a slightly higher dose. {Takes a little bottle from the drawer in the desk.) Little pills, about the same as the others. One, three times a day, after meals. How is Mrs. White ?

Mayor White waves the question away with an impatient movement of his hand, heaves a sigh, and heats a tattoo on the desk. A few seconds of uncomfortable silence. Suddenly he assumes a different attitude.)

THE MAYOR. She's all right, thank you. Don't you know, I have been wondering. — does she suspect

DR. BEACON. You are trying to pump me. However, there is no reason at all why I shan't tell you. She knows everything, and I can assure you she takes the matter with a great deal of resignation.

THE MAYOR. She does? Ha! ha! ha! But you are an unsophisticated fellow. Dr. Beacon. To

:U4 THE MIDDLE CLASS. ACT I.

: tiiink that my wife — ha! ha! ha! takes her fate with I T€signation ! Ha ! ha ! ha !

DR. BEACON. What are you laughing about?

-THE MAYOR. She takes it with resignation ! Ha! Iia! ha! Dr. Beacon, wives do not take such things with resignation.

DR. BEACON. Your wife does.

THE MAYOR. She lies.

DR. BEACON. You mean to imply that she pretends so only before me, while at home she nags half the life out of you? Well, in that case, it is your part to take it with resignation. Remember, she is the inmocent sufferer of your indiscretions ; it is

THE MAYOR. Hold on. Not so fast. Dr. Beacon. Here, don't you see, the fun of this business is that she does not nag the life out of me. On the contrary, she accepts her misfortune with an immense .amount of resignation, as you call it, as behooves a de- -woted wife and a patient martyr.

DR. BEACON. Where, then, is the fun?

THE MAYOR. Huge fun. To see her labor un- "3€r the impression that I am deceived by her sham attitude; to see her cast at me those long, innocent ;glances, which speak : "I do not reproach you ; I leave you to your conscience." Oh, the hypocrite !

DR. BEACON. What do you mean?

THE MAYOR. Ah, you know very well what I !2ii:ean. Of course, it is your business to keep your -^patients' secrets sacred. Still, you ought not to pretend ignorance before a friend. You know very well that she takes the matter with resignation not in spite of what she pretends to be the truth, but because of rnvbat she knows is the truth.

ACT I. THE MIDDLE CLASS. I5

DR. BEACON. What do you mean? Come, now^. don't beat about the bush ! What do you mean ?

THE MAYOR. Dr. Beacon, you are a friend of mine. You have done me favors which I can never fully repay. I only hope that the opportunity will one day present itself when I am in a position to repay you at least in part. I feel that it would be unfair to - deceive you any longer about the truth of this unfortunate business. Three years ago we had been almost strangers, and the truth of this matter could not possibly affect the treatment. And to a stranger the truth was too ugly to be told. Consequently, I chose to take the blame and to parade my wife as the victim. Ah, now you are beginning to understand her attitude.- of resignation!

DR. BEACON. I see. You are the innocent man;:, the victim of your wife's — ■ —

THE MAYOR. Now you have it. Now you under^^ stand who takes it with resignation.

DR. BEACON. But why do you? Out of a sheer spirit of Christian forbearance and forgiveness?

THE MAYOR. That mainly. Of course, my posi^ tion in society. By the way, Beacon, your wife knows nothing ?

DR. BEACON. You may be at ease on that score,..

THE Mx\YOR (looks intently at the doctor}^ W^hat's the matter?

DR. BEACON. Oh, nothing. Ho ! ho ! ho! Ha! ha ! ha ! But it's so funny, so very funny ! Don't worry, Mr. White. The Mayor's reputation is perfectly safe. Even if by any possible chance the secret: of this affair should leak out l6 THE MIDDLE CLASS. ACT I.

THE MAYOR (much agitated). What? Is it possible for such a thing to happen ?

DR. BEACON. No! no! no! Compose yourself. Not unless I become a raving maniac, and that I don't anticipate in your lifetime. But even if I should become raving mad, and take it into my head to ruin myself by disclosing my patients' secrets, it could not possibly hurt you. The people will not blame their good Mayor for the sins of his wife.

THE MAYOR. Now you are talking sense. Ah, my friend, we all must exercise forbearance toward the weaknesses, the errors, and frequently even the vices, of our neighbors.

DR. BEACON. Come away, Mr. White! Stop that! Stop that, I tell you! What sort of a game are you trying to work off on me ? Ha ! ha ! How funny you are ! Oh, you old hypocrite !

THE MAYOR. Dr. Beacon

DR. BEACON. Stop! stop! stop! I say stop that ! Enough ! You better tell me about the election. Wasn't it interesting, though? According to the newspapers, you had the easiest time of it. It was^

THE MAYOR. A walk. The merest walk. Anybody tells you I ran for the office, don't believe him.

DR. BEACON. Remarkable!

THE MAYOR. There is nothing at all remarkable about it, if you take into consideration that I have spent half a lifetime in the effort to advance the various philanthropic, moral and religious movements in this city. The spirit which actuates the various societies engaged in these noble pursuits has asserted, I am happy to say, its ascendancy over the powers of corruption.

ytCTI. THE MIDDLE CLASS. I^jT

DR. BEACON. By electing you as chief executive of the city ?

THE MAYOR. Precisely. It was, in fact, the conviction that as chief executive I should be in a position to accomplish much more in that direction than I have been able to as mere alderman, that at all induced me to undertake the onerous duties of the mayoralty. Of course, there was the general consideration of the people's welfare.

DR. BEACON. Still, how does that explain your election ?

THE MAYOR. The simplest thing in the world. You take, for instance, the Society for the Improvement of the Condition of the Poor; or the Society for the Suppression of Immorality Among the Lower Classes, of which I have been president for years; or you take the Association for the Prevention of Infant Mortality, of which Dt. Anderson is the leading spirit ; or the Amalgamated Charities ; or the Association for the Cultivation of the Religious Sense; or the others, too numerous to recount; they comprise thousands upon thousands of the most intelligent, the most active and sincere men and women of our large city. Doesn't that explain it easily? I am proud to say that it was thanks to the influence of the best elements, the intellectual, benevolent, moral and religious circles, that your friend stands before you as the chief executive of our large city. {Shakes Dr. Beacon's hand.)