The two paths; a play in four acts ...

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PS 2677 .T8 Copy 1

A Play in Four Acts

Act I

Scene. Roger Reed's Reception Room in an Apartment House. Among other things, it should contain a sofa on which one can lie dozvn with a rising end or a pillow to support the head; a small table near it on which is a lighted lamp, and a ladys fan, at the Left is a room in which, on a waiter, is a bottle containing wine and two glasses. Entrances by doors at the Back Center and at the Left. The rising curtain reveals Faith, the Professor and Donald, all in outdoor costume just entering from the Back Center.

Professor. These rooms are his?

Donald. They are.

Professor. This is a world where we must judge of most things,

as of souls, by their surroundings. The surroundings here would

argue for success.

Faith. Of course, they would; is just what we expected, is it not? Professor. In one way, yes. But Roger yet is young and inexperienced. What seems to one success, to others may mean mere

escape from failure.

Faith. But to make almost a fortune, and all in two short years !— Donald. What he has made no man would deem a fortune in

New York; and, if he put off marrying till he gets one, I fear

that he may marry late in life.

Professor. With all that he has made, I have my doubts about his

acting wisely.

Donald. I have few about his acting foolishly. Faith. You think that any soul can ever see what lies inside

another?

Donald. No ; not if it lies. It ought to stand up to be seen. _ Faith. But if you fail to see it rightly, then you never can judge

it rightly.

Donald. There are some things clear.

Faith. And some things only seem clear, like the water inside a

glass, because our own dull sight fails to detect the microbes

peopling it.

Donald. In college, all his aims were literary; and here his work

is all commercial.

Faith. Yes ; but when he makes a fortune —

6 The Tzvo Paths.

Donald. When a man makes anything, he moulds not only it, but moulds, as well, the tool with which he makes it. The sharpest blade was never keen enough to keep its own edge, was it? — nor so dull but that a constant grind might sharpen it? It is the same with minds. The scholar's tools are fashioned to untie, for human thought, the knots that bind what life has parcelled for us. If business friction make these tools too sharp they never will untie what can be cut. No men who once form habits of not thinking except when thought is absolutely needed can take delight in thinking as a life-work. Ah, here he comes.

Enter — Left — Roger. (He is wearing a dress-suit.)

Prof, and Faith (to Roger). Good day.

Roger. Good day — are welcome. You seem to fill the whole room with a draft of your own mountain air. How well you look! (aside to Faith). Why, Faith, but you remind me of the fruit we watch in summer, growing rosier the longer we delay in plucking it ! Its time is coming, though. What men term fortune grows like a snow-ball, slowly at the start, but gathers faster as its weight gets greater.

Prof, (to Roger). Well, that professorship is waiting for you.

Roger. I know; but just now I am making money — much more, I guess, than you can make by teaching.

Donald. But where are your ideals?

Roger. They are where they always were — beyond me in the future.

Donald. And you are aimed for them?

Roger. In my own way. While you trudge off on foot, and get tired out, I build my motor-car, and, by-and-by, may hurry on and reach the summit first.

Donald. I fear that, by-and-by, you may become a mere machinist, mesmerized by watching mere wheels that whiz and whirl till you forget the work that they should further. We men talk of leading such and such a life, but life is far too large for any man to lead. He binds himself to it, and it leads him.

Roger. What literary men need most is leisure; and what brings leisure in the world is wealth. Had I the wealth for it, I should endow, not colleges, but rather college men, and hope that, when relieved from outside pressure, their inward promptings would reveal themselves.

Donald. Why so?

Roger. Because these promptings are the sources in souls of almost everything on earth that changes what is base because of soil, to what is beautiful, because of spirit.

Donald. But you might make your fortune just as well, perhaps, while teaching as while working.

Roger. How so ?

Donald. By doing college work at stated hours, and writing, at your desk, at times not stated. How many mornings would it take to make a book? How many books a reputation? And how much reputation to fulfill your own ideals as well as fill your purse?

Roger. That sounds well, Donald. But I hardly think fulfilling one's ideal the surest way of filling, too, one's purse. Who want ideals? You ask our merchants; every one will say the finest wares find fewest purchasers. Why not the finest writings fewest readers ? You think men weigh in metal got from mire a fair exchange for what is got from mind? One represents the extractioning of greed, the other something given by the spirit.

Professor (to Roger). My wife enjoined me, when I came to see you, to ask advice about investments for us. In thirty years of college life, we two have saved in all some fifteen thousand dollars. She thinks that you might help us to increase it.

Roger. I know, but there are risks here.

Professor. Yes, of course; but I mean such investments as you wrote to Faith about. I mean the copper stock, so sure to double.

Roger. I should hardly like to sell you that.

Professor. Why not?

Roger. You have so little. It seems too much like placing all your eggs in one frail basket.

Professor. But you sold some stock to Brown, our neighbor, yesterday. He told me you said the stock would double — might tomorrow. I have my check-book. I can buy today, so why not let me have it now?

Roger. Oh, no ; is after business hours !

Professor. He said he knew you kept it here; and for a friend —

Roger. Oh, no!

Professor (aside to Faith). I fail to understand him. Why should he refuse to help a friend? Humph! Business hours!

Faith. It may be owing to the ways they have of doing things here.

Professor. Yes, perhaps it is.

Enter — Back Center — Mrs. Pitkin, smoking a cigarette.

Mrs. Pitkin. Come, Roger, all of us are waiting for you.

Roger (to Mrs. Pitkin). Excuse me. I have friends, you see.

(Introducing her) Miss Elder, Professor Elder, my friend Dexter — this is Madam Pitkin.

Mrs. Pitkin (to the visitors). Ah, I did not see you. Your pardon — but, you know, he promised us a hand at bridge tonight. Well, we can wait! (To Roger.) Will it be long before you can be free ?

Roger. I fear it will be — not at all, tonight.

The Two Paths.

Mrs. Pitkin. Am sorry. {To the visitors) Will excuse me — au revoir !

Exit — Back Center — Mrs. Pitkin.

Professor (to Roger). Is that a friend of yours?

Roger. A neighbor — has the next apartment to me.

Professor. Humph, she has ! Strange people, you must meet here

in New York ! She looks as if she came up from below ; and

liked the smell of smoke that she was used to. And you play

cards with her, and play for stakes?

Roger. I have to be polite. She is a friend of my employer ; and

the wife, as well, of his chief confidential agent. Professor. That the sort that your employer here confides in?

A man who flings away or risks at night the fortune he has

tried to wrest by day?

Roger. But really now, the stakes are very small. Professor. So, when they start, are movements of the logs that

slide down icy mountain sides in winter.

Roger. But I — I do not know them very well. You would not

have me rude?

Faith. It seemed to me that she was quite familiar with you,

Roger.

Roger. That is the New York manner.

Professor. Yes, you know, the roudy, genteel manner of New

York. Our students have it, Faith — I mean our Sophomores. Roger. They always from New York.

Professor. They always are — those that we have to question.

They were there the night before. But now we must be going.

Good evening, Roger (turning toward the door at Back Center). Donald (following the Professor and speaking to him). Shall I

help you down?

Faith (to the Professor). A moment — I will overtake you,

father.

Roger bows to the Professor and Donald.

Exeunt — Back Center — the Professor and Donald.

Faith (to Roger). You do not really like that woman, Roger?

Roger. You are not jealous of her?

Faith. Not of her, I am of you, that you should go with her. You know in life, at times, the fairest hues and sweetest tones, if once brought side by side with others hostile to them, lose their charms and only seem the factors of a discord.

Roger. The city is to blame for that. You hear discordant whistles from the factories ; you see discordant costumes on the streets ; you feel discordant spirits all about you ; but yet, unless you want to be a hermit, you have to go with those that you find near you.

Faith. One's finer senses might grow numb and tough in touch with so much hardness.

Roger. Yes, they might, did other things not serve to keep them still alive and thrilling. But, my gentle Faith, I yet have you.

Faith. Not when I am not here.

Roger. You little dear, I wish you always were here. But yet you know, I have to work too hard; and move about with folks of every sort. How could you lead with me the life you like?

Faith. The only life I feel that I should like would be a life with you and for you.

Roger. That, my Faith, would be a very troubled life — of restlessness, uncertainty and risk. I might be called away — you left alone, for days and weeks. I might be snared in traps. I might lose all my money in an hour.

Faith. Why, Roger, I thought everything so sure !

Roger. I hope so, but, you know, we follow here the rule of nothing venture, nothing have ; and if you once were bound to me, my sinking would drag you down with me.

Faith. But I am bound to you already.

Roger. Not by law.

Faith. By love, and that is better. Since I gave myself to you, why, I belong to you, not so? Do you suppose a thing can harm the form to which my soul belongs, and not harm me?

Roger. But if you were not with me?

Faith. I should feel your trouble doubly if I could not share it.

Roger. You precious darling! Do you know the wish that comes to me, while you are talking this way.

Faith. What is it?

Roger. Why, to leave this business and every hope of gaining any fortune, except the fortune I should own in you !

Faith. Oh, no ; you should not think of doing that !

Roger. You want the money, then ?

Faith. No ; I want you ; and you are what you are, and think and plan. You are my sun, my source of light and life, and I your satellite, attending you; you bless me most when you are most yourself.

Roger. Whatever I may do?

Faith. Whatever, yes.

Roger. Were it my worst?

Faith. Your worst might be my best. A spirit's best is always done just where its love has placed it. Mine has long been placed where it must work for you.

Roger. A faith like yours,I half believe, could make a very fiend turn god. But Donald is returning.

Faith. Yes,

Roger and Faith bid good-bye. ,

Enter — Back Center — Donald.

Exit— Back Center — Faith.

Donald. Am sorry for you, Roger ; pretty hard ! Too bad they saw her !

Roger. Whom? You mean that woman?

Donald. That woman, yes.

Roger. Oh, she is not so bad !

Donald. Will seem so, though, to them. She smokes, she paints, she gambles. They, you know, are from the country.

Roger. But one must be polite for policy.

Donald. Oh, that is it ! What was it made you shy the old man's offer for the copper stock?

Roger. Why, he might lose.

Donald. If he, then others, too.

Roger. But they are mostly brokers, — know their trade. The dealers pour their stock here on the market. Its prices rise and fall; and, like a tide, they mainly float to profit those who watch it. To make success in plunging anywhere, a man must first learn how to swim, or sinks.

Donald. But what about the brokers' customers? Suppose they lose, who is responsible? Suppose Professor Elder here, because of tales that you have told to some one else, invests and loses, will he blame himself, his broker, or the tales that came from you? How much commission do you get for selling?

Roger. Get five per cent.

Donald. Your profits all have come from these commissions?

Roger. These, and syndicates.

Donald. And what do they do?

Roger. Buy up corporations, and merge them into one.

Donald. What for?

Roger. To make the one worth more than were the many.

Donald. How?

Roger. In every place where all have offices, by using one for many offices. And so with mills, at times. This lessens cost and brings more gain.

Donald. In fact and fancy both — not so? And gives the new stock fancy prices. But how can one join syndicates that buy rich corporations when he has no money?

Roger. Wherever gains depend the most on brains, to know may make men richer than to have. One sitting here, where all the^ buyers meet, may know — at least may make a knowing guess. This much is to be bought and that much sold. So I subscribe my hundred thousand dollars. I buy the old; I sell the new; I get my ten per cent on what I have subscribed.

Donald. Humph ! Tried on those who walk by sight, not insight, presumption may do better than possession. You think it honest — promising to pay what you could not pay?

Roger. They all do it here.

Donald. But that was not my question. One must look within, not out, for promptings of his conscience. Suppose that no one buy the new stock, then the buyers of the old stock — those like you — would all be bankrupt, with no bank account.

Roger. Some would, and pass through bankruptcy, and start anew.

Donald. And your employer risks all that?

Roger. Not he ! His companies — he is director in half a dozen — have big surpluses. And he could borrow at a low percentage, and so get time to settle ; but meanwhile his half a dozen other syndicates would, more than likely, give him, too, the money.

Donald. I see. You may forget the golden rule down here; but other rules — eh? — you fulfill — like this: To him that hath it shall be given. You even emphasize that last word given. You fix it so you do not have to work yourselves for what you get ; no, you work others. But I must go.

Roger. Now, pardon me, but, Donald, I hardly like your attitude tonight.

Donald. To tell the truth, I hardly like your own. I saw the look of fear and of discredit you gave to Faith here when you faced the smoke and powder of your other friend.

Roger. Why I —

Donald. You told me once Faith seemed to you an angel. This woman seemed to me an angle worm; and wriggling, too, like bait upon a hook.

Enter — Back Center — Pitkin.

Donald bows to Roger.

Exit — Back Center — Donald.

Roger (to Pitkin). Oh, Pitkin! Had not heard you had returned.

Pitkin. Just came — is Noel home?

Roger. In Providence.

Pitkin. I have to sail tonight for Georgia. He wanted my report — shall have to leave it. You will receipt for it, of course.

Roger (sitting at his desk and writing a receipt). Of course. I hope the mine proved satisfactory.

Pitkin. Well, scarcely so. He ought to know at once. I find the copper there will only last about three years.

Roger. And then?

Pitkin. Will be exhausted. So he must hurry up and sell it out.

Roger. You mean to say? — We have been promising a dividend of twelve per cent.

Pitkin. Of course. It pays that now.

Roger. But we shall have to stop it.

Pitkin. More likely, just at present, to increase it. That is, till

we ourselves sell out; and then — Roger. But I am selling it, myself, and saying— Pitkin. Of course, what your employers bid you say. You have

to — you must earn your salary.

Roger. But if they bid me say what's not the truth? Pitkin. Why that is their fault.

Roger. Not if I, too, know it.

Pitkin. Why should you know it?

Roger. Do I look like one who can be made a tool unconsciously? Pitkin. You look like one in need of work. You may look more

so if you keep on questioning. Why make yourself so lonesome

here in Wall Street?

Roger. Good God !

Pitkin. Of course some people might be ugly; but then the firm

would help you out. We all together were deceived, you know.

Besides our courts here court the public sentiment. Wall Street

does not approve recrimination.

Roger. Suppose they held me to my promises. No clerk like me

could ever pay them back.

Pitkin. And if you could, by just what you had lost you would

be richer in experience. No man can be an expert without that.

Well, you will act upon the information?

Roger (giving Pitkin the receipt). I will. Pitkin (giving Roger the report). Good night. I have to go.

(Exit — Back Center — Pitkin.)

Roger, apparently in great distress, Exits at the Left, then Enters at the Left, bringing a server containing a bottle and two glasses and places it on the table near the sofa; then he drinks heavily, and throws himself on the sofa, after a little, turning down the light that is burning on the table. When all is darkness, there is a rapping at the door at the Back Center. Roger rises, turns on the light, and opens the door.

Enter — Back Center — Mrs. Pitkin.

Mrs. Pitkin. I think I left my fan here.

Roger. I will see. Oh, yes (taking a fan from the tabic) ! Enjoy your bridge?

Mrs. Pitkin. You broke it up. A bridge will always break without its keystone. They left for more obliging company.

Roger. Your husband too?

Mrs. Pitkin. He just came in a minute; and now has gone again. The stakes he wants are always far away — from me, at least. Well, I suppose if they be far away, they must be big ones, or he could not see them. Who were your country cousins?

Roger. Think them that?

Mrs. Pitkin. We never let such people hang around if not our

cousins, do we? What a gawk the girl was? Roger. Think so?

Mrs. Pitkin. No; it tires the brain to think when one can see. Roger. Reason why some call you thoughtless? Mrs. Pitkin. Yes — have seen too much. Why do you keep me

standing?

Roger, {motioning toward the sofa.) Humph! Sit down. Mrs. Pitkin {sitting on the sofa, and lifting the decanter from

the table). You got this out to treat your cousins? Roger {sitting on one of the chairs). No. Mrs. Pitkin. For me, then?

Roger {pouring some of the wine into a glass). Will you have

some?

Mrs. Pitkin. Yes, if you will.

Roger. No ; I have had enough.

Mrs. Pitkin. For you, not me.

Roger. How much would be enough for that? Mrs. Pitkin. Enough to make me feel that you and I were doing

exactly the same thing.

Roger. The sentiment is good. The thing is rather little, though,

to represent the spirit you suggest.

Mrs. Pitkin. It represents the spirit that is in me. I know it is

there, for I put it there {taking a sip of the wine). Roger. And may you always be the better for it {filling a glass

for himself and lifting it). Your health, my lady, may you live

as long — Mrs. Pitkin. Pray, do not mention it. To live my life today is

all I want.

Roger. But brimming full.

Mrs. Pitkin. And brimming over sometimes, too — not so? {Lifting her foot.) Why see, my shoe has been unbuttoned. Roger {looking at the shoe but sitting still). Yes; you take me

for a shoe shop's clerk?

Mrs. Pitkin. I take you for one who wants to rise in life. You

know is nothing like beginning at the foot. Roger. But some that do it, stay there. I have heard that women

like to keep men at their feet.

Mrs. Pitkin. And I have heard that some men like to be there.

The two things go together — men and women. Roger. Yes, sometimes ! Sometimes, though, they keep apart. Mrs. Pitkin {looking at Roger). What makes a man like you

so good?

Roger. So good?

Mrs. Pitkin. So good. We like those that seem good to us. Roger. And what if not good?

Mrs. Pitkin. We may like them too. Then they seem like ourselves.

Roger. I seem like you?

Mrs. Pitkin. I said that you were good.

Roger. And you are not?

Mrs. Pitkin. What did your country cousins think about me?

Roger. What did you come in here for?

Mrs. Pitkin. Company. You ought to know. You live here in New York.

Roger. You think that in this crowded city, then, men are in special need of company?

Mrs. Pitkin. I do. They get so used to it — in case they get in touch once with society.

Enter — Back Center — Pitkin.

Pitkin. By the eternal ! Humph ! I thought as much ! (Pulls out a pistol and points it alternately at Mrs. Pitkin and Roger. Both rise as if in great alarm.) Pitkin continues to Mrs. Pitkin.) You wriggling wench! Keep still! No use in screaming! You play your part through. Serpents never scream. They merely hiss. Keep quiet. One sound here may rouse the neighbors like a cry of fire; and that — eh? — would it bring the crowd you want? You think that I should fear it? I would not dare to kill you, if it saw me ? Ho, ho, ho ; you have forgotten our unwritten law — that men seem heroes here who show their hearts ! It is the knave that brings the brain-storm on, who bears the blame for lightning when it strikes. Yes, yes, down on your knees ; get near the floor ! Your corpses, when they fall, will make less noise !

Mrs. Pitkin. But yet, you know —

Pitkin. Oh, yes, yes, I know all.

Mrs. Pitkin. I had not been in her five minutes yet.

Pitkin. And cheeks aglow ! and eyes all sparkling, eh ! It takes time, time to set a fire a-blazing. How long has yours been kindling — days or weeks? (To Roger.) And you, you dressed up for a target, did you? Oh, give me white to shoot at! Bless that bosom ! How pretty it will look when decorated with flaring fresh red stars ! — the first time ever that anything that stirred inside your heart, has been brought out, and shown outside of it. Yon canting hypocrite! You spring aleak! — Unconsciously weretnade a tool of, eh? Well, tools that will not bend may sometimes break. That is the way with you — sweet candy-stick, that women love to suck at! Ah, I have it. The dressings fit for candy-sticks are stripes; ay, prison stripes. But 'splicing trembling fear with them would be too merciful for you — or me ! Now watch me, you shall see me turn your coward shaking into chronic ague. See here {taking a paper from his pocket and shaking it), in signing this receipt to-night, you fool, you never read it. Ha, the date is five weeks back, since which your own hand proves you knew the fraud in that which you were selling.

Roger. You mean ? —

Pitkin. Just what I say.

Roger. You surely would —

Pitkin. Would kill you if I had my way. But that might bring expense, discomfort, even prison. What then? One need not turn from what he seeks, because of dangers, if he can but dodge them. The very pack of howling sea winds loosed to drive the skilful pilot from his course he harnesses to his own purposes by turning, twisting, bracing, while he yields, — by not attacking what he thwarts, but tacking. So, too, a man can meet opposing forces with what the world terms tact. This weilds the wit that, like a fine Damascus blade, cuts through the jointing of pretentious mail like yours — Its maker was your own stupidity. Ah, next to deviltry, the devil himself likes nothing better than stupidity.

Roger. But you — you gave me that report today.

Pitkin. Well, prove it, fool. Where is the writing proves it?

Mrs. Pitkin. You are not right in your suspicions, Pitkin ; and this poor gentleman — why, there are ways to harm him, and, the same time, help yourself.

Pitkin. You mean?

Mrs. Pitkin. You know 1 .

Pitkin. Oh, no, not I.

Mrs. Pitkin. You do; you are a business man.

Pitkin. You skirted trap, you think all men will tumble when you trip them? You want to free this fox, eh, for the fun of catching him again? You want to play your game of hell? A sinner saved, you think, may fall once more?

Mrs. Pitkin. Be fool then, if you wish it. You know that all I have here comes from you. If you get more, then you have more to give me. He wants the paper that you hold; and he — you think that he has nothing he would swop? (To Roger.) You would, not so?

Roger. Depends on what he wants.

Pitkin (shaking the paper). Think what this means to me, — an implement of safe revenge !

Roger. For what I swear was not a real offense.

Pitkin. Was not a real offense?

Roger. The whole thing was imagined, nothing more.

Pitkin. Well, come to terms. What will you give for it? Be quick about it. I go south tonight; and you can settle now and here — I know it.

Roger. How much would you require?

Pitkin. Say, twenty thousand.

Roger. Impossible ! Why that would ruin me.

Pitkin. Then take your ruin in the other way.

Roger. Suppose I give you all that I have with me (motioning

toward Left) inside my safe.

Pitkin. How much will that be, then?

Roger. Will go and see.

Exit — Left — Roger.

Pitkin (to Mrs. Pitkin, laughing). An easy sheep to fleece! Mrs. Pitkin. And though we take his dust away from him, you

made him sweat so, to himself, at least, he never will seem quite

so clean again.

Enter — Left — Roger.

Roger. I find that I have these securities; together they will make

about ten thousand.

Pitkin. Is much too little.

Roger. Then I can do nothing.

Mrs. Pitkin. I think that I would take it, Pitkin. Pitkin (looking at securities Roger holds in hand). Humph! Pitkin and Roger exchange papers.

Roger. You leave me empty as a bankrupt bank, and, of the things

you leave me, scarce one trait remains to help me get them

back again — alertness, caution or integrity. Exit — Back Center — Pitkin and Mrs. Pitkin.

curtain.