The city; a modern play of American life in three acts

Front matter

PS

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT.

A MODERN PLAY OF AMERICAN LIFE IN THREE ACTS

ACT III. The Same. A Few Hours Later

THE PERSONS IN THE PLAY

George D. Rand.

George D. Rand, Jr.

Mrs. Rand.

Teresa Rand,

Cicely Rand.

Albert F. Vorhees.

Eleanor Vorhees.

George Frederick Hannock.

Donald Van Vranken.

Susan. Maidservant in Middleburg.

John. The coachman in Middleburg,

Foot. Butler in New York.

Originally produced at the Lyric Theatre, New York, December 22, 1909, with the following cast :

George D. Rand . , A. H. Stuart

George D. Rand, Jr Walter Hampden

Mrs. Rand Eva Vincent

Teresa Rand Lucile Watson

Cicely Rand Mary Nash

Eleanor Vorhees Helen Holmes

Donald Van Vranken Edward Emery

Susan Jane Gail

John John Jex

Foot Fred Courtenay

Act I

Scene : At the Rands'. The library of a substantial house in Middleburg. Front doors open out into the "front hall^ It is furnished in a " seV^ of rosewood furniture, upholstered in brown and red figured velvet. The walls are covered with dark maroon wall-paper, with framed photographs of Thorwaldsen's "Four Seasons,'^ and over the mantel there is an engraving of "Washington Crossing the Delaware.^' A rocking-chair and an armchair are in front of the grate fire. Lace curtains and heavy curtains are draped back from two French windows that look out on a covered piazza. There are a desk, a bookcase with glass doors, a "centre

4SI table" on which stands a double, green-shaded ''Studenfs lamp,'' a few novels, and some magazines. Near the bookcase is a stand holding a ''Rogers' Group." There are jars and bowls filled with flowers everywhere. Rand enters with the New York evening papers, The Post, The Sun; he half yawns, half sighs with fatigue. He starts to make his armchair ready before the fire; stops and goes over to his desk, where he finds a letter which he dislikes, recognizing the handwriting.

Rand. [Angry.] Yes, still keeping it up, the young blackguard !

[He tears the letter in two, and throws it into the fire without reading it. He watches it burn a second, lighting a cigar; then takes his papers, makes himself comfortable in his chair before the fire, and starts to read.

After a second, Mrs. Rand and Cicely,

a very pretty girl of about seventeen, enter.

Mrs. Rand carries a pitcher of water,

scissors, and a newspaper. Cicely has her

arms full of yellow tulips and a big bowl.

Mrs. Rand. Why, father ! Aren't you home

early? Teresa's train won't be in for an hour or

so yet.

[Mrs. Rand, filling the bowl with water, spreads

the newspaper on the table; then cuts of the

stems, and hands the flowers one by one to

Cicely, who arranges them.

Rand. I felt tired to-day, Molly. My head

bothers me !

Mrs. Rand. [Going to him with affection and solicitude.] Why don't you lie down? [She lays her hand on his head.] You haven't any fever. [She kisses his forehead.] You're just overtired ! [He pats her hand ajfcctionately, and holds it.] When are you going to give up business entirely, darling, and leave it all to George?

Rand. Never, I'm afraid, dear. [Letting go her hand.] I've tried to face the idea, but the idleness appalls me.

Cicely. Mother, have you the scissors?

Mrs. Rand. Yes, dear.

[Joins her, and continues with the flowers.

Rand. Besides, George is too restless, too discontented yet, for me to trust him with my two banks ! He's got the New York bee in his bonnet.

Cicely. [Glances at her mother before she speaks.] Oh ! We all have that, father, — except you.

Rand. And mother !

Cicely. Humph ! Mother's just as bad as the rest of us. Only she's afraid to say so.

[Smiling.] Go on, mother, own up you've got villiageitis and cityphobia !

Mrs. Rand. [Smiling.] I dare, only I don't want to bother your father !

Rand. That's the effect of George, — and Teresa. I've noticed all the innuendos in her letters home. Europe's spoiled the girl ! The New York school started the idea, but I hoped travel would cure her, and instead — !

Mrs. Rand. Wait till you see her. Remember, in spite of letters, what a year may have done for her. Oh, I'm so eager to see her ! What a long hour this is !

[The telephone bell rings out in the hall. Mrs. Rand goes out and is heard saying, ''Hello! Yes, who is it ? Oh, is it you, Katherine ? "

Rand. [Reading his paper.] Who's that talking to your mother?

Cicely. One of Middleburg's Social Queens, Mrs. Mulholland — known in our society as the lady who can wear a decollete gown, cut in accordance with the Middleburg limit, and not look as if she'd dressed in a hurry and forgotten her collar !

[Rand laughs.

Mrs. Rand. [Of stage.] Really! I should think she was much too old to be so advanced in the styles as that !

Cicely. The flowers are lovely all over the house. Father, you ought to see them ! They came from a New York florist. [Mrs. Rand of stage: "Good-by. See you at five."] Our man here hadn't anything but ferns and aniline-dyed pinks.

Mrs. Rand. [Reenters.] Kate Mulholland called up to tell me Mary Carterson's mother-inlaw is visiting her from South Norwalk, and went down street this niorning wearing one of those new washtub hats, — and she's sixty, if she isn't over! She was born in 1846, — at least she used to be !

Rand. [Still reading.] When do you expect your crowd to come this afternoon?

Cicely. Crowd? [She laughs derisively.] The only thing that can get a crowd in Middleburg is a fire or a funeral 1

Mrs. Rand. As we expect Teresa at four, I asked everybody to come in at five. But you know, father, ''everybody'' in Middleburg isn't many !

Cicely. Not many — nor much !

Rand. You have the best the town affords, and it's good old stock !

Cicely. I'm afraid Tess'll think it's rather tame for a girl who has been presented at two European courts !

Mrs. Rand. Yes, I'm afraid she'll find it awfully dull. Don't you think, father, we could go to New York, if only for the winter months?

Rand. Don't tell me you're ambitious, too?

Mrs. Rand. Well, I've done all, in a social way, a woman can in Middleburg, and I want to do more.

Cicely. You can't tell the difference in Middleburg between a smart afternoon tea and a Mother's Meeting, or a Sunday-school teacher's conclave, or a Lenten Sewing Circle, or a Fair for the Orphan Asylum, or any other like "Event" ! It's always the same old people and the same old thing ! Oh, Lord, we live in a cemetery !

Rand. Molly, wouldn't you rather be it in Middleburg — than nit in the City ?

Mrs. Rand. But with your influence and our friends, — we'd take letters, — I would soon have the position your -^lio. was entitled to in the City, too.

Cicely. I don't care a darn about the position, if I can only have something to do, and son^ething to see ! Who wants to smell newmown hay, if he can breathe in gasolene on Fifth Avenue instead ! Think of the theatres ! the crowds ! Think of being able to go out on the street and see some one you didnH know even by sight ! !

Rand. [Laughs, amused.] Molly ! How can you deceive yourself? A banker from a small country town would give you about as much position as he could afford to pay for on the West Side, above Fifty-ninth Street.

Mrs. Rand. But, George said you'd been asked to join a big corporation in New York, which would make the family's everlasting fortune, and social position beside.

Rand. [Looks up, angry.] George had no right telling you that. I told him only in confidence. What is this anyway, — a family conspiracy ?

Cicely. No, it is the American legation shut up in Peking, longing for a chance to escape from social starvation.

Rand. [Thoroughly irritated.] Now listen! This has got to stop, once and for all ! So long as I'm the head of this family, it's going to keep ifs head and not lose it ! And our home is here, and will be here, if to hold it I have to die in harness.

Mrs. Rand. [Going to him a^ectionately .] Father, don't be angry ! You know your will is law with all of us. And so long as you want it, we'll stay right here.

Cicely. Giving teas to the wallflower brigade, and dinners to the Bible class! And our cotillion favors will be articles appropriate for the missionaries' boxes ! Oh, Lord !

Rand. Mother, Cicely has convinced me of one thing.

Cicely. [Delighted.] Not really! Good! What?

Rand. You go to no finishing school in New York ! You get finished all you're going to, right here in Middleburg. New York would completely turn your head !

Cicely. Well, don't w^orry; Middleburg will ''finish'' me all right! Good and strong! Maybe New York would turn your head, but Middleburg turns my —

[She is going to say ^^ stomach, ^^ hut her mother interrupts.

Mrs. Rand. Cicely!

[Enter George. He is a handsome, clean-cut young American, of about twenty-seven,

George. Hello, everybody !

Rand. [Surprised.] Hello, George ! What's the matter ? It's only half past four ! Nothing happened in the office?

George. Nothing! All day ! That's why I am here. I thought I'd be in good time for Tess ; and, so far as missing anything really doing in the office is concerned, I could have left at ten this morning — [adds half aside] or almost any morning, in this — our city !

Cicely. Look out! The word ^' city'' is a red rag to a bull with father, to-day ! And it's for good in the graveyard ! I'm going to dress.

Thank the Lord, I've actually got somebody new to look smart for, if it's only my sister !

[Yawns and starts to go.

Rand. Who's coming to your tea party ?

Cicely. [As she goes out. \ All the names are on the tombstones in the two churchyards, plus Miss Carterson's mother-in-law from South Norwalk !

Mrs. Rand. I must dress, too. [Going over to Rand.] Dear, aren't you going to change your coat, and help me?

Rand. Oh, Molly, don't ask me to bore myself with your old frumps !

Mrs. Rand. I have to! And I don't know that I take any more interest than you do in what sort of a hat Mary Carterson's mother is w^earing ! But if it were in New York —

Rand. [Sneers.] Stop ! I meant what I said — let's drop that !

Mrs. Rand. All right, — I didn't say anything !

George. Look here, father, — mother's right.

Rand. [Interrupting.] No, you do the "looking,'' George, — and straight w w}' eyes! [He does so.] Your mother's wrong, but it isn't her fault, — it's you children.

Mrs. Rand. [Remonstrating.] Now, father —

George. But we're not children, and that's the mistake you make ! Pm twenty-seven.

Mrs. Rand. Yes, father, you forget, — George is twenty-seven !

George. I'm no longer a boy I

Rand. Then why did you tell your mother about this offer I had from New York, when I told you it was absolutely confidential I And a man in business knows what the word "confidential'' means.

THE CITY 46s

Mrs. Rand. It was my fault; / wormed it out of George !

George. Nonsense, mother ! [To his father.] I told, because I thought you needed a good, big hump, and I believed, if all of us put our shoulders to it, we could move you.

Rand. Out of Middleburg?

George. Yes !

Rand. Into New York?

George. Yes !

Rand. Listen, George, —

George. [Going on.] What position is there for a fellow like me in a hole like this ?

[Rand tries to interrupt,

Mrs. Rand. [Stops him.] No, father, let George have his say out !

Rand. All right ! Come on, George, we'll have it out now, — but this must settle it I

George. You grew up with this town. You and Middleburg reached your prime together,

— so she's good enough for you. Besides, you are part oj it, so you haven't any point of view,

— you're too close !

Rand. What's good enough for your father ought to be good enough for you.

Mrs. Rand. That's true, George.

George. Grandfather Rand was a real estate dealer in East Middleburg, with an income of about two thousand a year. I notice your father^ s limit wasn't good enough for you !

Rand. No, but my father turned me loose, without a cent, to make my own way ! Your father will leave you the richest man in your town^

— with the best established name, with two banks as safe as Gibraltar behind you !

George. But, I tell you, Middleburg and her banks are just as picayune to me, in comparison with the City and a big career there, as East Middleburg and real estate were to you in 1S60!

Rand. Good God, how Httle you know of the struggle and fight / went through !

George. No, sir ! Good God —

Rand. [Interrupting.] Don't swear before your father. I don't Uke it !

George. Well, — what you don't realize is that / am just starving after a big fight and a big struggle — for even bigger stakes than you fought for ! I'm my father's own son — [Going up to him with a sudden impulse of pride and affection, and putting his arm about his shoulder.] Accept this great city chance, father! There's miUions in it, and no fight ! They're offering the position to you on a gold plate. All I'll ask of you afterward is to launch me. Give me a start ; the rest will be up to me ! All I'll ask you to do then is watch.

Rand. No, I'm too old now.

Mrs. Rand. Now / must join in ! It's ridiculous you calling yourself too old. Besides, it reflects on me ! [Smiling.] Men and women of our age in the City dress and act just as young as their children, more or less. Old age has gone out of fashion ! There's no such thing, except in dull little country towns !

George. Exactly! That's just what stagnation in the small place does for you. Come to the City, father ! It'll give you a new lease of life1

Rand. No, I donH want to!

George. I wouldn't have the selfish courage to go on persuading you, if I didn't feel you'd be glad of it in the end. And besides, you're one against all the rest of us, — Mother, Teresa,

Cicely — we're all choking here, dying of exasperation, dry-rotting for not enough to do I

Rand. Not at all ! It's only amusement and excitement you children are after, and you've inoculated your mother with the germ.

Mrs. Rand. No! If I'm restless and dissatisfied here, it's my own fault. I sympathize with Teresa having to come back to this, after New York and all Europe. I'm tired, myself, of our humdrum, empty existence. I'm tired of being the leading woman in a society where there's nobody to lead ! I'm tired of the narrow point of view here ! I'm tired of living to-day on yesterday's news, and wearing styles adapted to what Middleburg will stand for ! I sympathize with Cicely. I want her to have a chance with the real world — not our expurgated edition ! I know what she means when she says the quiet of the country gets on her nerves ! that the birds keep her awake ! that she longs for the rest of a cable-car and the lullaby of a motor-bus ! Yes, I want the City for myself, but even more for my children, and most of all for George to make a name and career for himself !

Rand. You've all got an exaggerated idea of the importance of the City. This country isn't made or run by New York or its half dozen sisters ! It's in the smaller towns, — • and spread all over the country, — that you find the bone and sinew of the United States !

George. But for a young man to make a career for himself — I don't mean in business only, — in politics, in —

Rand. [Interrupting.] You don't need the City! What's the matter with here?

George. Look at what Bert Vorhees has done, going to New York ! He's going to be District Attorney, they say. And how long has he been there ? Five or six years ! I had a long talk with Eleanor Vorhees when she was here last month ; it's wonderful what Bert's accomplished ! And look at Eleanor herself ! By George, she's the finest girl I've ever seen !

Rand. Still, did Lincoln need New^ York? Did Grant? Did a metropolis turn out Mc- Kinley, or have anything to do with forming the character and career of Grover Cleveland? You're cheating yourself, if you're honest in your talk with me ! All you want of the City is what you can get out of it, — not what you can do for it !

George. No, you judge from your own point of view ! Middleburg makes you look through the wrong end of the opera-glass. You canH judge from my point of view.

Rand. When you're my age, if you've kept as abreast of the times as I have, you'll be lucky. But if you're in New York, you won't have had time. There, you'll know one thing to perfection — but only one — where your interests are centred ! All city men specialize — they have to get success, and keep it ! Every walk in life, there, is a marathon ! But the worst of it is, the goal isn't stationary. It's like the horizon, — no man can reach it !

George. But why blame the City?

Rand. Because the City turns ambition into selfish greed ! There, no matter what you get, you w^ant more ! And when you've got more, at God knows what price sometimes, it's not enough ! There's no such thing as being satisfied ! First, you want to catch up with your neighbor ; then you want to pass him ; and then you die disappointed if you haven't left him out of sight !

Mrs. Rand. I'm afraid your father's determined. And forty years w^ith him has taught me two things, — first, when he is determined, you might just as well realize it in the beginning; and second, in the end you're sure to he glad he was!

Rand. Thank you, Molly. And I was never more determined than I am this time.

Mrs. Rand. \With a sigh of half-amused resignation.] Then I'll go and put on the dress I got in New York, which the dressmaker said I'd made her spoil in order that my neighbors at home shouldn't say I'd gone out of my senses.

[She exits.

George. Well, father, if yoii won't -leave, let me go away ! Let me go to the City on my own account. Bert Vorhees has been urging me to come for over a year. He says politics in the City are crying for just such new, clean men as me. He wants me to help him; that, in itself, is a big opening. I won't ask for any help from you. Just let me go, as your father let you go, to work out, myself, my own salvation !

Rand. Your own damnation it would be ! No, sir, you stay here as long as I live and have any power over or influence with you.

George. Suppose Vm stubborn as you are, and go, even if it has to be against your will.

Rand. Look here, boy ! You're trained in my methods, for my job. Those methods are all right for Middleburg, where I'm known and respected. No one has been to this town more, in a civic way, than I have. The Park Street Congregational Church couldn't have been built, nor halfway supported as it has been, without my help ; and I could go on for some length, if I liked, in much the same sort of strain. What / do in this town is right. But the public libraries of Middleburg wouldn't help me in the City, nor the Park Street Church be a sufficient guarantee for my banking methods, to let me risk myself in the hornet's nest New York is at present.

George. [Almost laughing at the idea.] You don't mean you would be afraid of any investigation — ?

Rand. Here, no ! I've always kept to the right side of the line, but I've kept very close, and the line may be drawn differently here. My conscience is clear, George, but my common sense is a good watch-dog.

[The Maidservant enters.

Maidservant. Here's a man says he has an appointment with you, sir.

Rand. [Startled and a little angry.] No one has an appointment with me !

Maidservant. Well, I didn't know!

[Enter Hannock, during the speech. The Maidservant looks a little alarmed at what she has done, as she goes out.

Hannock. [Very hard.] I told you, in the letter I sent here to-day, I was going to call this afternoon.

Rand. I destroyed that letter without reading it, — as I have the last half dozen you've sent me.

Hannock. That's what made it necessary for me to call in person !

[George looks from one to the other, dumfounded.

George. Father?

Rand. [To Hannock, referring to George.] This is my son. I'm glad he is here, to be a witness. Go ahead ! I take it, as you seem to be in the business, you've made yourself acquainted with the law of blackmail!

Hannock. I know what you've already told me — but I don't give a damn ! I've got nothing to lose, and nothing to get, e:^cept money, from you. You wonH jail me, anyway, for you know a trial here would ruin you, no matter what happened to me !

George. Here, you — !

Rand. [Taking a step forward.] No, George ! Keep your temper. This man says I ruined his mother — [In great shame and emotion.

George. [To Haxnock.] You liar !

IL\NNOCK. Then why did he give her a regular allowance till she died? and why did he keep on giving to me ? — for a while !

R-\XD. George, I feel badly. Get me some whiskey and water. [George, hurries out. Rand, in rising anger:] I kept on giving to you, till I found out you were a sot and a -degenerate blackguard — a drug fiend and a moral criminal. I kept on helping you after three houses of correction had handled you, and one prison ! Then I stopped ! WTiat was the use, — money was only helping you on I

Hannock. Still, for my mother's sake, you can't let me starve! You oughtn't to have torn up those letters ; then you'd have had the blackmail in writing. I told you, if you didn't give me what I want, I'd print your letters to my mother right here in this town. The anti-saloon paper, that hates you for not joining its movement, would be glad to get them and show you up for a God damn whited sepulchre !

Rand. [Quiet, controlling himself by a terrific efort.] And suppose that didn't frighten me !

Hannock. I've just got on to something bigger yet, I can use by way of a lever! The two years you had me working in the bank, I kept my eyes open. If it hadn't been for the yellow streak in me, I guess I'd have made a banker, all right. I liked it, and I seem to catch on to things sorter by instinct. You were the hig thing, and I watched and studied your methods to make 'em mine !

Rand. Well?

Hannock. Yes! "Well," by God! I guess you realize just as plain as I do that those very methods in New York, that have been raising hell with the insurance companies and all sorts of corporations, aren't a patch on some of your deals I know of ! And I tell you, if there should be a State investigation in Middleburg, you'd go under as sure as I stand here ; and if I had to go to prison, I'd stand a sure chance of passing you in the yard some day — wearing the same old stripes yourself.

Rand. [In a paroxysm of rage.] It's a lie ! It's a lie ! Just to get money out of me ! I told you, before you began, you'd come to blackmail 1

[He chokes.

Hannock. Well, you know how to prove it ! Have me arrested ; charge me with it ; and let the whole thing he thrashed out I [A second'' s pause.] Aw — you don't dare. You know you don't !

[Enter Cicely, looking girlishly lovely in a

fresh white dress and corn-colored sash. Cicely. Father, aren't you going to dress — and help us?

[Hannock looks at Cicely, admiring her. Rand. Excuse me, Cicely, I'm engaged just now.

Cicely. I beg your pardon.

[She goes out.

Hannock. [Following her with his eyes.] She's growing into a lovely girl, your daughter ! It would be a pity —

[He speaks in broken sentences. Rand. [Giving in.] How much do you want? Hannock. I want two thousand dollars. Rand. For how long?

Hannock. For as long as it lasts! Rand. [With a reaction.] No, I won't do it !

You'll gamble, or squander this in some low way, and be back before the week's out ! What's the use ! I can't keep this up for ever !

Hannock. [Bringing a pistol out of Ms pocket, quickly.] Do you see that?

[He puts it on the desk.

Rand. [Greatly frightened.] Good God !

Hannock. Don't be frightened ! It's not for you. I'm no murderer ! It's for myself.

Rand. [Suffering from shock.] How do you mean?

Hannock. [Taking up the pistol, and handling it almost affectionately.] I'm never without it. And when I can't get anything more out of you, when I'm clean empty, — not a crust, or drink, or drug to be had, — then I'll take this friend to my heart, so —

[Placing pistol over his heart.

Rand. [Frightened, calls feebly:] George!

Hannock. Oh, not yet ! [Taking pistol from Us chest.] I'm not ready yet. But remember, when you've signed your last check for me, you will he responsible for this.

[He touches the pistol; then hides it quickly in his pocket, as George enters with whiskey and water.

George. I'm sorry to take so long, but I had to persuade mother not to come with me, when she heard you were faint. And I thought you wouldn't want —

Rand. Yes, quite right —

George. [To Hannock.] You can see my father is ill; surely, ordinary human feeling will make you realize to-day is no time for you to —

Rand. [Interrupting.] It's all right, George. Hannock and I have had it out while you were gone. [Writing a check.] We understand each other now !

Hannock. I've made my position quite clear to your father.

Rand. [Giving Hannock the check.] Here — and for God's sake try to behave yourself ! [Looking at him intently, with a strange, almost yearning look, as if he really cared whether Hannock behaved himself or not.] Try to do right !

Hannock. Thanks for your advice and money ! [To George.] Good-by!

Rand. Good-by !

[George only nods his head, looking at Hannock with unconcealed dislike. Hannock goes out. Rand sinks on his arms, his head falling on the table. George goes to him in alarm.

THE CITY 48s

George. Father !

Rand. I'm not ^Yell. I've felt dizzy all day. It was more than I could stand !

George. I don't approve of your giving him monev '. Till you once take a firm stand, there'll never be any let up.

Rand. But I owe it to him, George ! I owe it to him.

George. Nonsense! What sort of a woman was his mother ?

Rand. She was a dressmaker in East Middleburg; hadn't a very good reputation. I doubt verv much if what he says is true.

George. Well then?

Raxd. Yes, but more than he knows is true ! — and worse !

George. How do you mean ?

Rand. Yes, the whole thing is more than I can carry any longer ! I'm too old ! Your younger shoulders must help me bear it, George. It breaks my heart to tell you, and shames me, George, but I must unburden myself. Besides, I need help — I need advice ! And besides, you'll see how you can't go away and leave me alone here ! [He rises in fear and excitement. \ I'm your father, and you've got to stand by me and help me ! I can't stand alone any longer !

George. Father !

[He goes to him.

Rand. Promise me, George, promise me you won't leave me here ! You'll stand by me !